Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXV, No. 4, October 1849

There was once in the city of Philadelphia a poor author whom chilling disappointments and the biting stings of adversity had brought nigh the grave—whose high hopes, ardent ambition, and glowing aspirations for fame, were all quenched and broken beneath the pressure of penury and wo. The wife, too, of his bosom had passed on to the shadowy land before him, and now beckoned him to that blissful home beyond the grave where sorrow and trouble are unknown. One fond tie still bound him to life. He was a father. No other guide—no other friend had that fair young girl, over whose innocent head scarce sixteen summers had flown, and for her sake he still clung to a world whose charms else had long ceased to attract.

And there was an old man whom the world called unfeeling and miserly, who day by day passed by the humble home of the author. And day by day as he passed along, saw at the window a pale young face bent over the endless seam, and a small white hand never tiring busily plying the needle. Or sometimes marked the child’s own feeble strength tasked to support the tottering steps of suffering manhood to the open window, that the air of heaven might revive that languid frame, while the hollow, racking cough, and the fever spot on the cheek, like a rose rooted in the grave and blossoming in beauty above, told too plainly consumption had made its victim sure.

And then one day when the window was darkened, and he missed the pale young face, the heart of the old man smote him as he passed along, and turning he gently sought admittance, and from that time over the bed of the sufferer the thin, white locks of the old man mingled with the golden ringlets of Florence.

Heaven surely had first softened his heart, and then guided his footsteps thither, for, like a ministering angel he came to the house of sorrow to soothe the last moments of the dying man, and protect the fatherless child.

Cheered once more by the voice of kindness—his feeble frame invigorated by healthful nourishment—surrounded by comforts long unknown, or remembered but as a dream in the dark night of poverty he had passed through—what wonder the sick man rallied, and for a time gave way to the flattering hope that he might yet leave a bright legacy to his child—a name crowned with imperishable fame. His mind, long shattered by sickness, caught back something of the fire of youth, and once more his trembling hand seized the pen as the powerful instrument through which riches and honor were to flow in upon him. But, as the meteor which for an instant shoots over the wave in sparkling beauty, and then sinks in the darkness of the fathomless gulf below, was the momentary out-flashing of that once brilliant mind, ere the darkness of the grave encompassed it.

When he felt the power of death too surely pressing upon him, he took the hand of the old man and placed it on the head of his kneeling child with a look pleading for kindness and protection. The heart of old Abel May answered to this silent appeal, and stooping down he imprinted a kiss upon the brow of Florence, solemnly promising never to forsake her. The dying man raised his eyes in gratitude to heaven, and with a last effort clasping his beloved child to his breast, expired.

The sad duties left for the living to perform over the venerated dust of those we have loved, were ended with tears and lamentation—and now in the wide world had Florence no friend but old Abel May.

“Florence,” said the old man, “I have long since buried the ties of kindred—they could not survive ingratitude and distrust. I had but one left to love—but one whom selfishness and sordid expectations did not bind to me—and now he too has gone. I am now as much alone, my child, as you—I in the winter of age, you in spring’s freshest bloom. You shall be to me as the dearest of daughters, as pure and precious in my eyes as God’s sacred word—although as my wife the world only must know you. Then, Florence, will you give yourself to me; will you look upon me in the light of that beloved parent whose loss you now deplore—will you confide yourself to me in your loneliness and helplessness?”

And the innocent girl, lifting her meek blue eyes to the furrowed countenance of the old man, threw herself confidingly upon his bosom, and wept her thanks.

They were married; and then, as some priceless jewel committed to his charge, which to guard and cherish was henceforth to be his pride and happiness did Abel May bear home the young orphan.

For many years he had occupied a large mansion near the outskirts of the city, whose dark granite front and heavy wooden shutters kept constantly closed, imparted an air of chilliness and gloom to the neighborhood of flashy brick houses and light airy cottages by which it was environed. Abel May lived alone, keeping no domestics, and either preparing his own meals, or partaking of them at a restaurateur’s. Occasionally the woman whom he employed to do his washing was admitted to sweep and arrange his sleeping room and the little parlor adjoining. The other apartments were always locked, baffling all the curiosity of which no doubt the good woman partook with others.

Various opinions and rumors were afloat concerning him in the neighborhood, through which however the old man steered steadily and regardlessly.

Not greater was the surprise of the captive princess in the fairy tale on awakening one morning and finding before her window a sumptuous palace rearing high its golden columns, where alone frowning rocks and dark, turbid waters had before stood, than was the amazement which pervaded the neighborhood, when early one morning they were aroused from slumber by the clink—clink—clink of the busy hammer, the crashing of tiles, and sonorous fall of boards upon the pavements. And behold, every window of that gloomy house was thrown wide to the glare of day—workmen were on the roof—workmen were scaling ladders—workmen were tearing off those clumsy shutters, while within, workmen in paper caps and white aprons were busily wielding the several instruments of their handicraft. Day after day their labors went on, and day after day added to the astonishment of the neighbors. Plate-glass and light Venetian blinds soon supplanted the small window panes and wooden shutters—a tasteful portico and marble slabs supplied the place of the clumsy iron railing and high stone steps so jagged and worn. Carpenters, masons, and painters speedily completed the interior renovation, and then followed heavily laden drays bearing rich furniture—and upholsterers flew from room to room giving the last graceful touch of taste and fashion to the arrangement of the various articles.

Next came the overwhelming announcement that old Abel May was married, and that the sylph-like, graceful form, and sunny ringlets of the fair young girl sometimes seen bending from the window, or leaning on the arm of the old man, like a lily grafted on some withered branch, belonged to no other than the bride—and wonder ceased not, but rather grew with the “food it fed on.”

Not much less was the surprise of Florence at finding herself suddenly the mistress of a home so charming. She had never connected the idea of wealth with the plainly dressed humble old man who had so benevolently administered to the comforts of her dying parent, and cheerfully did she prepare to follow him to a home, no matter how lowly, so that love and kindness were to be found there. When, then, old Abel May, lifting her tenderly from the carriage which bore them from the church wherein the solemn rite making them man and wife had just been pronounced, and led her into apartments so splendid, with all that a refined taste might approve, or a fastidious eye applaud, was it strange that for a moment the young orphan doubted whether all was not, indeed, a dream or a fairy creation, such as the pen of her father had often sketched for her amusement—for never did her waking eyes or her sober senses dwell on aught so rich and beautiful. Yet neither the elegance by which she was surrounded, nor the charms which novelty lent to her new existence, could for a long time withdraw her mind from dwelling on the irreparable loss she had sustained. Happily, youth is not prone to despondency; hope in the bright future buoys them exultingly over the billows of disappointment which engulf so many sorrow-stricken hearts, and therefore as time wore on it made the old man’s soul rejoice to see smiles chasing away the tears from the countenance of this dear child.

The education of Florence had been conducted solely under the careful tuition of her father, and her active mind, regulated and nourished by judicious application. In the French and German languages she was a correct scholar, and had attained some little proficiency in drawing; yet of music or other elegant acquirements she knew nothing.

Hard are the lessons of adversity; and that his humble means precluded his bestowing on his child those accomplishments for which nature had so eminently qualified her, was often a source of deep regret to her fond parent; but now, under the fostering care of the old man, how splendidly did her talents develop themselves. Music and painting opened for her a new world of enjoyment, and no expense did her kind protector withhold to gratify to the fullest extent her eager desire for improvement. He engaged the most eminent masters to attend upon her, nor did the proficiency of the pupil shame their skill.

Very limited was the society which Abel May admitted within his walls, and those only such as he considered worthy of his friendship and confidence. This gave no disquiet to Florence; indeed, company rather pained than pleased her. Her most delightful hours were those in which she could add to the happiness of the old man, by the exercise of those agreeable sources of entertainment owing their origin to him, or when with pencil or book, alone in the beautiful little apartment which the same kind hand had fitted up expressly for her use, the moments flew unheeding in the all absorbing interest they inspired.

Occasionally, at the Opera or Theatres, old Abel May appeared with his beautiful young wife; or perhaps, in the delightful coolness of a summer’s morning, ere yet the noisy din of the city pervaded the air, or the dust of its countless thoroughfares swept over the dewy freshness of night, they sauntered through the silent streets or shady avenues of Washington Square. But more frequently still within the sacred precincts of Laurel Hill were they seen to wander. In one of its most retired spots, where a cluster of drooping willows brushed the dew-drops from the tall, rank grass, and the murmur of the wave below came up sadly yet sweetly upon the ear, a plain monumental stone was planted. “My Father Sleeps,” was the only sign it bore; and to this consecrated spot did their steps most often turn, for well did one fond heart know who slept so peaceful there, and over this hallowed grave the fair form of Florence bent in filial devotion.