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Introduction to JavaScript Programming Test Bank Chapter 6
with XML and PHP
Test Bank for Chapter 6
MULTIPLE CHOICE
1. Where are <form></form> tags placed?
a. Directly after the opening <body> tag b. Anywhere in the HTML document
and must be closed right before the
closing </body> tag
c. Anywhere in the body of a web page d. In the <head> section
ANS: C
2. Buttons that can be automatically created using the type attribute are:
a. submit b. reset
c. hidden d. (a) and (b) only e. (a), (b), and (c)
ANS: E
3. Which of the following are ways to submit form data?
a. By email b. to a JavaScript program
c. to a server d. (b) and (c) only e. (a), (b), and (c)
ANS: E
4. When using a set of radio buttons, which attribute must be the same for all buttons in the set
a. name b. value
c. id d. selected
ANS: A
5. Which line of code should be used to make the following code snippet work?
var longString = "Great day, isn't it?";
var shortString = _____???_______
document.write("It's going ton rain to" + shortString);
a. shortString = longString.substr(20, 7);
b. shortString = longString.substr(6, 3);
c. shortString = substr(longString, 6, 3);
d. shortString = longString.substr(7, 3);
ANS: B
© 2014 Pearson Education 1
Introduction to JavaScript Programming Test Bank Chapter 6
with XML and PHP
6. Which of the following will send form results from a form named “importantInfo” to the email
address [email protected] with the subject “Read this!”
a. <form name=“info” method=“post” id=“important info” action =
[email protected]?subject = Read this!” enctype=“plain/text”>
b. <form name=“importantInfo” method=“post” id=“info” action=
“mailto:[email protected]?subject=Read this!” enctype=“plain/text”>
c. <form name=“importantInfo” method=“email” id=“info” action =
mailto:[email protected] “subject=Read this!” enctype=“plain/text”>
d. <form name=“importantInfo” method=post id=info action =
“mailto:[email protected] ? subject=Read this!” enctype=text/plain>
ANS: B
7. Which line of code will check if any character in the string variable pword is the letter X and
return true for the variable check?
var check = false;
for (i = 0; i < pword.length; i++)
{
_____???_______
check = true;
}
a. if (var charX == "X");
b. if (var charX == charX.charAt[i]);
c. if (var charX.charAt[i] == "X");
d. if (var charX.charCodeAt[i] == "X");
ANS: C
8. Given the following line of code, what does the this keyword refer to?
<input type = "button" name = "murgatroyd" id = "Mortimer"
onclick = "doSomething(this.id)" />
© 2014 Pearson Education 2
Introduction to JavaScript Programming Test Bank Chapter 6
with XML and PHP
a. the button type b. the name attribute
c. the id attribute d. the onclick() event
ANS: C
9. Which of the following will check to see if a password contains a # sign, given that the
character code for "#" is 37? The password is 8 characters long and is stored in a variable named
pword.
a. var check = false;
for (j = 1; j < 7; j++)
{
if (pword.charCodeAt[j] == 37);
check = true;
}
b. var check = false;
for (j = 0; j < 8; j++)
{
if (pword.charCodeAt(j) == 37)
check = true;
c. var check = false;
for (j = 0; j <= 8; j++)
{
if (pword.charCodeAt()== 37)
check = true;
}
d. var check = true;
for (j = 1; j < 9; j++)
{
if (pword.charCodeAt(37)== "#")
check = true;
}
ANS: B
10. Which of the following sets or changes the tab order of form controls?
a. tab b. tab = 0; c. tab index d. index
ANS: C
© 2014 Pearson Education 3
Introduction to JavaScript Programming Test Bank Chapter 6
with XML and PHP
11. Which of the following will substitute an image named redButton.jpg that is stored in the same
place as the web page for a generic button? The doStuff() function is called when the button is
clicked.
a. button type="image" src=redButton.jpg onclick="doStuff()" /></button>
b. <a href="Javascript:doStuff()"> <img src = "redButton.jpg"> </a>
c. <button type="image" onclick="doStuff()"><img src="redButton.jpg" />
d. <a href=:Javascript:doStuff()" src ="redButton.jpg" type="button" />
ANS: B
12. Which of the following will call a function named setBlue() when a text box with id =
"blue" gets the focus?
a. onfocus = "blue" onclick = ("setBlue()");
b. onfocus.blue = setBlue()
c. id = "blue" onclick = setBlue()
d. onfocus = "setBlue('blue')"
ANS: D
13. Which of the following is the correct way to set a background color of blue to an HTML element with
id = "color_change"?
a. document.getElementById("color_change").style.background = "blue";
b. document.getElementById("color_change").innerHTML = "blue";
c. document.getElementById("color_change").style = blue(this.id);
d. document.getElementById("color_change").this.id = background("blue");
ANS: A
14. Which of the following checks if the sixth character of a string variable named myMail is the @ sign
using a Boolean variable named atSign set to true if this is true?
a. for (k = 0; k < myMail.length; k++)
{
if(myMail.charAt(k) == @)
atSign = true;
}
b. atSign = "@";
for (k = 0; k < 7; k++)
{
if(myMail.charAt(k) == atSign)
flag = true;
}
c. if(myMail.substr(5, 1) == "@")
atSign = true;
d. if(myMail.substr(1, 5) == "@")
© 2014 Pearson Education 4
Introduction to JavaScript Programming Test Bank Chapter 6
with XML and PHP
atSign = true;
ANS: C
15. Which of the following checks to see if the number of characters in a given string named myName is
greater than 2 and less than 11?
a. if(myName.length > 2 && myName.length < 11)
b. if(myName.length > 2 || myName.length < 11)
c. if(myName.length > 1 && myName.length <= 10)
d. if(myName.length >= 2 || myName.length <= 11)
ANS: A
TRUE/FALSE
1. True/False: Radio buttons are used to allow users to select several options at one time.
ANS: F
2. True/False: A form using the <form></form> tag pair can be placed anywhere within a web page.
ANS: T
3. True/False: When a form is enhanced with JavaScript, an event handler must be used to evoke the
JavaScript code.
ANS: T
4. True/False: The Common Gateway Interface (CGI) allows web pages to be generated as executable
files.
ANS: T
5. True/False: CGI scripts are normally saved in a folder named cgi-bin that exists on every client's
hard drive.
ANS: F
6. True/False: The property of each radio button in a group of radio buttons that must be the same for
each button is the id property.
ANS: F
7. True/False: The checked property can be used to return the state of a checkbox to a JavaScript
function.
ANS: T
8. True/False: The properties that determine the size of a text box are cols and rows.
ANS: F
© 2014 Pearson Education 5
Introduction to JavaScript Programming Test Bank Chapter 6
with XML and PHP
9. True/False: If the information entered into a textarea box exceeds the number of rows originally set,
a scroll bar is created.
ANS: T
10. True/False: The two types of buttons that display masked text (such as *'s or #'s) to hide what a user
enters are "hidden" and "password".
ANS: F
© 2014 Pearson Education 6
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
them; and though I am telling a true story, it does not follow that
the whole truth must be told; so let me pass on to the following
Monday, which dawned without a cloud.
There was an earlier stirring than usual in the village, particularly
among the farmers’ wives, who must needs get their week’s-washing
out of the way as soon as possible, that preparations might
commence for the anticipated visit, which was to take place on
Wednesday. The city-reader may not be aware that it is a custom in
country villages throughout many of the older states, to atone
somewhat for the meagre salaries allotted to the ministerial
department, by donations from those whose hearts are opened to
give of such things as they have, to him who breaks the “Bread of
Life” to their souls. Furthermore, it is so arranged by the considerate
deacons’ wives, that these donations shall be sweetened on the part
of the donors, by a social cup of tea at the parsonage; which
certainly cannot be considered as among “The multitude of Sins”
which need the mantle of charity for a covering.
By the hasty moving to and fro of the villagers through Monday
and Tuesday, it was evident that until their memories were jogged
by deacon Gravely, they had thought nothing of, nor made any
reservations for the annual gathering: but to their credit be it said,
that they were not slow to act on this occasion, and designed having
everything in “apple-pie order.” The farmer unlocked the rich
treasures of his granary, corn-crib and fruitery: wheat in “good
measures, pressed down” and overflowing, was laid aside; the best
of the yellow corn was selected; the golden pippins packed
systematically, and even the more solid wealth of the pork barrel
gave of its abundance to complete the New Year’s offering. The axe
too of the woodman resounded through the neighboring forests, and
many a sturdy hickory and oak bowed the willing head, at the bright
promise of adding cheerfulness and comfort to the parsonage
hearth. Nor was the ambitious house-wife to be out-done by her
lord: from the “wool and the flax,” which she had sought and worked
“willingly with her hands,” a worthy portion was chosen for the
pastor’s wife and her nursery-flock. And the store-room held out its
donation of butter and cheese; not forgetting that weightier matter
of economy, ycleped “black-butter”—so indispensable to the farmer’s
table! (being a mixture of quinces and apples, boiled down to sauce
in sweet cider, and eaten on bread by the children, instead of
butter.) Nor was this all: Doughnuts and twisted cakes were soon
dancing merrily over the fire, plumcakes swelling in the oven, and
many a little delicacy contrived by the inventive geniuses that were
busy on the occasion;—for it is understood that these gatherings are
to be no source of trouble or expense to the minister’s wife. One of
the neighboring house-wives is appointed to the high office of
mistress of ceremonies, and some half dozen others move at her
beck and call through the parsonage-house, making all needful
arrangements, while the lady herself is but an admiring spectator of
the scene, and has only to dress and receive her profitable visiters.
The farmers were not alone in their “labors of love,” for the
enterprising shop-keepers were as busy on their part in preparation.
“Dry-goods and Groceries,” read their signs, and “the signs of the
times,” were read in the liberal offerings that were made ready for
the day, each having the savor of their trade withal.
And the day at length arrived! A New Year’s sun enlivened the
spirits of the villagers, (albeit, they knew nothing of fashionable
“calls” on Time’s natal day,) and threw open the gates of the
parsonage. At an early hour might be seen gliding over the polished
surface of a late fallen snow, the farmer’s sled, bearing its ponderous
load of wood; here and there, wheel-barrows and hand-barrows,
groaning with the burden of such variety as would puzzle any head
to remember, all wending their way to the pastor’s dwelling. Two
o’clock, P. M. found the elder portion of his congregation, having
sent their gifts as a passport, preparing to appear in person before
their minister. For once, the “Sunday suit” of true blue and shining
gilt, was put in requisition on a work-day; and the buxom dame
came forth from her toilet in her “best” gown and cap, and when in
addition, the “meeting-bonnet” and hat were donned, away trudged
the farmer and his “better half,” leaving the care of the homestead
to the young folks, who were to take their turn at candle-light; when
it was understood that the old folks were to return, and give them a
chance by themselves.
Ye who love the cheerful, unostentatious scene, peep with me in
imagination into the minister’s parlor:—see that weather-beaten
group of farmers in the corner, animated by the light of each other’s
countenances, while the crops of the late season are compared, and
the improvements in modern husbandry denounced as “innovations,”
and hostile to the wisdom and practice of their respected fore-
fathers. Or if you would hear of broken banks and money-matters in
general, listen to that trio, which comprises the chief of the village
merchants: and then pass to those social wives and spinsters who
are rocking, knitting and gossiping, all most industriously at the
same moment. The latter accomplishment they evidently excel in; as
can be proved by their remarks on the domestic qualifications of
Mrs. Tidifield; the lax government of Mrs. Gadabroad; the inferior
household management of Mrs. Carelittle, and the “high notions” of
Mrs. Citybred, (a late comer among them,) which they “guess will
have to come down, after she has lived in the country awhile,” &c.
&c. But as these industrious ladies had no ill meaning in this species
of detraction, and would do “a good turn” for any of their erring
neighbors before mentioned, we must attribute this propensity for
scandal, to the “original sin” which is inherent to their sex. The tea
“goes off” in old presbyterian style, and each discovers something of
her own handiwork amid the variety spread before them. * * * But
alas! all earthly pleasures must terminate. As the evening shades
gather without, there is a breaking up of the gathering within, and
the afternoon visiters disperse to the “quickstep” of “Homeward
bound.”
The first light that gleamed through the parsonage-windows was
a signal, that seemed well understood by the belles and beaux of
the village; who light of heart and light of step, hurried in blooming
clusters to the evening gathering, evidently reckoning on a merry-
making of no common order. But after the excitement of arriving
was over, and the last guest had been ushered into the presence of
the company, there arose a question in the minds of some, as to
what they had met together for; and in sooth no one seemed exactly
to know. On one side of the ample apartment, in bright array, were
seated all the fair of the neighborhood, in blushing, simpering
silence! While opposite, in formidable rows, sat the young farmers
and shop-keepers of the village, as “slick” as pomatum and starch
could make them, twisting their thumbs one way for lack of thought,
and the other way, for lack of talk; but not daring to cross the
dividing-line, into “fairer realms beyond.”
“The awful pause” was at length broken by a proposition which
came from some unknown source, to “get up a play,” and many
were the bright smiles that responded to it. Every one knows, that
when the young folks of a village once throw off the stiffness of
distance, and mingle in the unrestrained mirth of a rustic game, they
are the happiest of the happy! On this New Year’s evening, they
would have had a regular “jollification,” but for the timely caution of
deacon Gravely, who remained to sustain the dignity of his office, by
keeping the lambs of the flock within due bounds; reminding them
that they were at the minister’s house: a fact which they seemed
quite willing to forget.
The deacon’s notice proved something of a damper upon their
gaiety; but after all was far less effectual than that given on the
preceding Sunday; as many a chasing for the kiss which was to
redeem a pawn, and loud bursts of merriment testified; much to the
discomfiture of the deacon. But there were at the party two who
kept themselves aloof from the festivities of the evening, and were
observed to sit in a corner together, engaged in conversation and
apparently unconscious of the merry scenes around them. They
were none other than the daughter of Mrs. Citybred, and the
intelligent young physician of the village. It was evident that they
had been accustomed to the refinements of education and good
society, and were for the first time in their lives at a parsonage
gathering. Many were the sly jokes and whisperings interchanged by
the company touching these exclusives; but of none effect on the
doctor and his unsuspecting companion.
What they conversed about is none of our business; but certain it
was that the lady’s countenance glowed with pleasure; and it was
observed by all that the doctor never looked happier before. On the
breaking up of the party, it did not escape observation nor remark,
that the doctor waited on Mrs. Citybred’s daughter home.
What the effect of such an agreeable meeting was, none could
say decidedly; but as they were afterward seen riding together
several times in a very exclusive looking vehicle; and as the doctor
has never before been known to ride out with a lady alone, since he
settled in the village, of course there were rumors of a wedding to
take place before the next gathering, and much commiseration
wasted on the doctor in anticipation of his “extravagant wife.” But as
the next New Year’s day found him still a bachelor, it yet affords
matter for gossip and conjecture among the villagers whether the Dr.
and Mrs. Citybred’s daughter will ever be married or not.
Liberty, Pa. April, 1841.
TO AN OLD ROCK.
———
BY G. G. FOSTER.
———
Well! hands of friends have all been pressed—
My mother’s kiss is on my cheek—
My father’s hands and eyes have blessed
His first-born—though he could not speak!
And now I break the ties that bind
Me to the last of my own kind.
But yet, to thee, my old grey rock,
I hasten as in days of yore;
And memories sweet and pleasant flock
In throngs around me, as I pour
My last heart-gushes over thee,
Friend of my wayward infancy!
For oft ere yet my tongue expressed
The wild emotions of my soul,
And strange, proud feelings heaved my breast,
Like tides beneath the moon’s control,
I’ve wandered to this cool retreat,
The Spirit of the place to meet.
And often in the solemn night,
While kissing winds slept on the lake
Which murmurs at thy base, and light
And starry music kept awake
The thronging fires of thought within,
I’ve stolen to thee an hour to win
From all the carking care which rushed
Over my untamed spirit’s mood,
And leaned on thee, like infant hushed,
And felt, as thus secure I stood,
The god whose shrine was in my brain,
Return to his old haunts again!
And when the friends of youth grew cold,
And loving eyes were turned away,
And even Hope was growing old,
And all my heart-flowers withered—aye,
I turned to thee, my firm old rock,
And learned, like thee, to bear the shock.
But now, I go—Old Rock, farewell!
And thou my tiny lake, adieu!
Proud Hope my wandering steps impel
O’er yonder mountain calm and blue.
When fame is won and withered too,
Old friends! I will return to you.
TO THE “BLUE-EYED LASSIE.”
———
BY THE LATE J. G. BROOKS.[2]
———
They tell me thine eyes are blue, lassie,
They tell me thy cheek is fair.
May grief never spoil its hue, lassie,
Nor give its bloom to the air.
The world lies before thee now, lassie,
And when time rolls a few more years
Its troubles may blight thy brow, lassie,
And dim thy blue eyes with tears.
Thou art come to a stormy life, lassie,
Where often the hurricanes lower—
Where wild are the waves of strife, lassie,
And strong is affliction’s power.
Where flowers soon fade away, lassie,
And strew their leaves to the blast—
Where one moment the sky is gay, lassie,
The next with clouds overcast.
Thou art the new-born rose of spring, lassie,
As soft, as fair, and as frail—
The hands of the storm oft fling, lassie,
The rose of spring to the gale.
May that hand never fall on thee, lassie,
To blight thy rose in its pride,
Mayst thou glide o’er a sunny sea, lassie,
On a calm and gentle tide.
May the cup of thy life never cloy, lassie,
May thy heart e’er be light and gay;
Mayst thou meet with the smile of joy, lassie,
And a blest, and a cloudless day.
[2] Through the kindness of the mother of the poet,
(the well-known and lamented Florio) we are
enabled to present our readers with the above
sweet little poem—one of his earliest compositions,
and certainly not one of his worst. By mere accident
it has hitherto remained unpublished.—Eds.
LEAVES FROM A LAWYER’S PORT-FOLIO.
THE ROBBERY AND MURDER.
Macd. O, horror! horror! horror! tongue, nor heart,
Cannot conceive nor name thee!
Macbeth.
“James,” said a mild but feeble voice, “cheer up, God will yet send
us relief. Has he not said that he heareth even the young raven’s cry,
and think you that he will suffer us to starve? Oh! no,” continued the
sick wife, forgetting her own sufferings in those of her husband,
“believe it not. Succor will yet come: we shall once more see happy
days—”
“Ay!” answered the husband, bitterly, “when we are in our
graves. Ay! when want has driven the nails in our coffins: but not till
then. My God!” he exclaimed suddenly, with the fierceness of
despair, “was it for this I was sent into the world?”
“Oh! James,” said the meek wife, bursting into tears, “I can bear
all except such terrible repinings. Father,” she continued, raising her
streaming eyes to heaven, “forgive him, for he knows not what he
says.”
The husband was moved. He turned his head away from his wife,
perhaps to hide a tear; but if so, his weakness vanished as he gazed
upon the ruinous and desolate apartment to which poverty had
driven them, while all the bitterness of his soul once more lowered
on his face.
The room was a low garret, black with age, and tottering to ruin.
In its best days it had been at most but a wretched apartment, for at
its highest part it would scarcely admit of a man standing upright,
while on the opposite side the cracked and leaky ceiling shelved
down until it met the floor. The walls had once been plastered, but
age had long since peeled them nearly bare; and the time-stained
beams of which the building had been constructed—it was a wooden
one—now gaped through many a crevice. In several places even the
weather-boarding without had given way or rotted off, admitting in
copious draughts, the biting wintry blast which roared around the
house. A solitary candle burned in the room, flaring wildly as the
gusts whirled through the apartment. There was no fire-place in the
garret—God knows it was well enough!—for the poverty-stricken
inmates had not wherewithal to purchase food, much less fuel. No
furniture was in the room, except an old chest, a broken cup or two,
and the ricketty bedstead, on which, with a mattress of straw
beneath her, lay that suffering wife. She was pale, emaciated, and
evidently ill, but, amid it all, you could see on her wasted
countenance, traces of the rarest beauty. The marble forehead; the
classic eye-brow; the Grecian contour of face; the finely chiselled
mouth and throat; and above all, the dark blue eye, its chastened
expression lighting up the whole countenance as with an angel’s
purity, told what must have been the loveliness of the sufferer,
before care, or poverty, or woe had driven their iron ploughshares
through her soul. Oh! well might it fill her husband’s heart with
agony to look upon her now, and think of the day when in far
different circumstances, he led her a blushing bride, to his home.
But if such were his feelings when gazing on his angelic wife, how
far more poignant did they become as his eye fell upon the almost
famished babe lying in her arms. Poor little thing! it had fallen asleep
at length, after crying long for that sustenance which its mother had
not to give, although she would have drained her heart’s blood, if, by
so doing, she could have appeased the hunger of her babe. By its
side lay a boy, apparently about four years of age, his little delicate
face worn with hunger and privation, and his thin fingers tightly
grasping the bed-clothes, as though he feared lest some one should
snatch the scanty covering from around his form. Alas! he had been
early introduced to misfortune. Often had he gone supperless to bed
of late, forbearing even to ask for food, because he knew his mother
had it not, and that it would only pain her to refuse him; and often,
too, when her husband being absent in the vain search after
employment, his mother would indulge freely in the tears she
checked in his presence, her little boy would climb upon her knee,
and throwing his wan arms around her neck, kiss her and tell her
not to cry. At such times the mother’s tears would only fall the faster,
and clasping her babes convulsively to her bosom, she would find a
melancholy pleasure in the sympathy of her child. But all these
things were now forgotten by the boy. He lay in the deep sleep of
infancy; and as he slumbered a smile played across his little face.
Perhaps he was dreaming of the angels in heaven.
James Stanhope was a young man of good family, a fine personal
appearance, and the manners of a gentleman. Destitute, however, of
a fortune, he obtained a livelihood by acting as a clerk in a public
office. He moved in good society, and enjoyed a moderate income,
which, by proper economy afforded him, at least once a year, the
means of spending a fortnight at one of those public places of
amusement to which beauty, wealth, and fashion annually resort.
During a visit to one of these summer pleasure haunts he met, and
formed an acquaintance with Miss Howard, a young lady, scarcely
seventeen, a beauty, and an heiress, who was spending a month at
the watering-place, with a maiden cousin for a chaperon. An
intimacy was the result of a casual introduction, which soon ripened
into that most dangerous of all things to two young hearts—an
acknowledged friendship. In one short word, they loved, and loved
as few have done. But Stanhope, while he addressed the younger,
did not neglect the older cousin; and the consequence was that the
simple-hearted spinster fancied that it was her company to which
the handsome young stranger was attracted. She thus shut her eyes
effectually to the increasing intimacy between the young people, and
their love had become not only unconquerable, but so evident as to
be the theme of general remark, before the deluded chaperon,
became aware of Miss Howard’s entanglement. She was then
thunder-struck at her own indiscretion. She was more: she was
enraged at the deception which had been practised upon her, or
rather which she had practised upon herself. Dreading, moreover,
the consequences of Mr. Howard’s displeasure, she determined at
once, by flying from the place, to escape the attentions of Stanhope.
Her carriage was instantly ordered to the door, their baggage hastily
collected, and with scarcely an hour’s warning, Miss Howard was
torn from her lover’s presence, without a moment being afforded her
to communicate with him. She was not able even to wave him a
silent adieu, as he was absent that morning on a ride. Disturbed by
a thousand fears lest her lover should think her faithless, and
compelled to listen to the bitter recriminations of her cousin, when
sympathy was rather needed for her tortured mind, the poor girl lay
back in the corner of the carriage and wept with a bitterness of
heart such as she had never experienced before. Oh! who can
picture the agony of one thus rudely torn from the object of her
love. Life seemed to her to have lost its charm. Death, in those first
moments of crushing anguish would almost have been welcome.
But if such were Miss Howard’s feelings, what were those of her
lover when, on returning from his ride, he learned her sudden
departure! A thousand doubts tortured him. At length, however, he
gleaned enough of the real cause of Miss Howard’s disappearance,
to convince him that her flight did not, as he had at first feared,
originate in herself. Oh! the joy, the bliss of that knowledge. Ellen
still loved him, loved him as warmly as ever. But here another
reflection shot across his mind. With the sanguine temper of youth
he had indulged the hope that his want of fortune would be
overlooked by Mr. Howard, especially as his cousin had suffered the
intimacy between his daughter and Stanhope to continue so long
unopposed; but now—how could he resist the intimation so plainly
given to him? Few can tell the agony of the lover’s feelings who have
not passed through the same terrible ordeal.
“I will follow her,” at length he said, “I will see her once more. To
live without beholding Ellen is more than I can endure,” and having
come to this conclusion the ardent young man set out within a day
to the city which was the residence alike of himself and his mistress.
We will not detail the progress of these two young beings’
passion. As in every like case opposition only fanned their love.
Young, ardent, and uncalculating they had already exchanged those
vows, which are only less lasting and holy than the marriage ones,—
and the pure mind of Miss Howard looked upon it as sacrilege to
break her troth, even had her heart whispered a willing assent
thereto. But, on the contrary, all that was said against her lover, only
increased her admiration of his character, and consequently
heightened her affection. There is nothing like injustice to draw a
woman’s heart closer to that of her lover. In vain they originated
slanders to lower him in her eyes; in vain they even brought
pretended letters to convince her of his infidelity; she remained
inflexible, for every one, who knew Stanhope, joined in asserting his
innocence, and it was impossible to conceal this from her without
secluding her wholly from society. How often does a woman, in
some trying circumstances, rise above herself, and display a sudden
energy of character which those who had known her for years had
thought foreign to her. Thus it was with Miss Howard. How long this
reliance in her lover’s unabated integrity might have continued, if
she had remained without meeting him, we know not; but Stanhope
soon found a means to open a communication with his mistress,
which effectually checked all danger, and deepened incalculably their
mutual love.
Foiled in his attempts to obtain an interview with his mistress,
Stanhope had found out the church which she attended, and thither
he resorted every Sunday, to enjoy the happiness of at least,
beholding, if he could not address her. It was not long before Ellen
detected his presence, and the stolen glances they exchanged
across the church, were mutual assurances of their unabated love.
How Stanhope’s heart fluttered as he saw her enter the church, and
move up the aisle to her father’s splendid pew. And if, perchance,
when the family turned to depart, Ellen could, unobserved, give him
a smile and a nod of recognition, how would he long to clasp the
dear girl to his arms, and thank her for her kindness. Weeks passed
in this manner, however, before the two lovers found an opportunity
for an interview. At length one Sunday morning Ellen came alone. As
Stanhope beheld her enter the door unattended, he could hardly
contain himself in his seat, so great was his joy. The moment the
service was over he hurried down stairs, and amid the crowd in the
vestibule, with a beating heart, awaited her. Her agitation was
scarcely less than his own, as he addressed her. A thousand eyes
seemed to her fancy to be bent upon her, and she turned pale and
trembled by turns. They had proceeded some distance down the
street before either could speak more than the common words of
salutation. At length Stanhope broke the silence.
“Ellen, dear Ellen, do we meet at last?” he said, in a low tone,
“oh! how can I describe the joy of this moment. Since we last parted
what agony have I not endured: doubt, fear, hope, despair have all
succeeded each other in my mind.”
“How could you be so unjust?” said the sweet girl, reproachfully,
“oh!” she thought to herself, “if he only knew what I have suffered
for his sake.”
“Pardon me, dear Ellen, but though I felt convinced of your truth,
yet I knew not what false accusations might be made against me. It
was that which troubled me. I never doubted you, believe me. But
oh! you cannot know how terrible it is to be forever excluded from
your presence. How often have I watched your window at night,
hoping to catch even a glimpse of your shadow, and how long and
hitherto how fruitlessly have I waited for this blessed opportunity, if
only to assure you of my unabated love, and to ask if you are still
my own Ellen. Answer me but once more, dearest: let me hear it
from your own lips again.”
The arm of Ellen trembled within her lover’s during this
passionate address, and, as he continued, her agitation increased so
visibly that when he ceased, and looking up into his face, she
essayed to answer him, for a moment, she could not speak. At
length she murmured brokenly.
“Why do—you ask me—such a cruel question?” and giving her
lover a look of mingled reproach and affection that dissolved him
with tenderness, she continued, “you know I love you!” and
overcome, by her emotions, and even forgetting her public situation,
she burst into tears.
If Stanhope could have that moment clasped her to his arms,
and poured forth upon her bosom his thanks for her renewed
avowal, what would he not have given! But he could only press her
arm as it lay within his own, and murmur his gratitude. Oh! the
ecstacy of that moment: it repayed him for all he had suffered
during the months he had been separated from Ellen.
Their conversation was long and full of moment to their future
lives. Urged passionately by her lover, and half persuaded by her
own heart, Ellen consented at length to meet Stanhope in her
morning walks; and then, bursting afresh into tears, left him at the
corner of the street, not far from her father’s princely dwelling, and
hurried home. It was a hard task for her that day at the dinner table
to conceal her emotion; but she did so. When the meal was over,
she hurried to her room to indulge in her feelings. Had she done
right in thus consenting to meet her lover clandestinely? Her heart
answered yes—her reason no. A fresh flood of tears came to her
relief, and thus tortured by conflicting emotions, she sank toward
morning into a troubled sleep.
Well—they met—once—twice—daily. It was a dream of bliss, but
it could not last. Every time they saw each other their love grew
stronger. Yet Ellen, although urged by her lover to elope, was
unwilling to consent to it. Indeed on this point she was inflexible.
With tears she said to herself in the solitude of her chamber, that if
she had erred at first through her inexperience, and allowed her
affections to be placed irrevocably on one whom her parent even
unjustly disapproved of, she would not go farther on the path of
disobedience. She was young, and she hoped. She trusted that time
would make all right. But a bolt was about to fall upon her head,
which, for the honor of human nature, we would gladly escape
recording.
We have said little as yet directly of Mr. Howard, though a
glimmering of his character must have been perceptible in the
foregoing pages. Mean, crafty, purse-proud, haughty, and inflexible
to obstinacy, he had nothing in common with his daughter, except
the tie of relationship. Ellen was like her mother in every thing, but
that mother had been long since dead,—and could the secrets of her
grave have been unfolded, perhaps it might have been seen that she
died of a broken heart. Yes! her husband was her destroyer. But he
did nothing which made him amenable to the law. No. He was
always outwardly respectful to his wife. It was only at home that his
brutality broke forth; and Mrs. Howard was too meek and forgiving
to publish her own sufferings. And thus like too many gentle beings
in our midst she drooped, and sickened, and died; and when they
laid her in her gorgeous coffin, and bore her to her tomb, amid all
the splendor of wealth, how little did they think that she had been
murdered—aye! murdered by her husband’s brutality. God help the
thousands who thus die of a broken heart!
With such a father had Ellen now to do. He had forbidden her all
communication with her lover as soon as he suspected that they
met, threatening to disown her at once if she disobeyed, and Ellen
was returning from a parting interview with Stanhope, in which she
had told him of her father’s commands, and rejecting every proposal
to elope, had signified, with a burst of tears, her determination to
obey her parent, when on reaching the door-step she met Mr.
Howard. He was in a towering passion, though he affected at first to
conceal it.
“Very well, Miss, very well. You’ve seen fit to disobey my orders,”
he commenced, “have you? I’ve watched you, you hussy, myself,” he
continued, following his daughter into the hall, and closing the door,
“what have you to say?”
Ellen made a vain attempt to speak, but her emotions
overpowered her, and looking up imploringly into his face, she burst
into tears.
“By G—, Miss, I’m not to be answered this way,” said Mr. Howard,
not longer affecting to conceal his rage, and brutally seizing his
daughter’s arm he shook it violently, “why don’t you speak? None of
your whining: Answer me!” and again he shook her.
Never before had her parent used her thus. This personal
indignity, added to his brutal language, cut her to the heart, and
brought on a fresh flood of tears, which only increased her father’s
rage. By this time, too, the servants had gathered in the hall, and
were witnesses of the whole of this deplorable scene.
“D—n it,” he said, his face flushing with passion, as he again
shook her violently, “I’ll bring an answer out of you—I will. Ain’t you
going to speak? I told you I’d disown you for this,—and,” here he
muttered an oath I dare not repeat, “I will. You and your beggarly,
upstart paramour”—oh! had that father a heart?—“may go to the
alms-house together. Out of my door this instant. You are no
daughter of mine. Out, I say. Open the door, John.”
The man hesitated an instant. It only increased the rage of Mr.
Howard.
“Open the door, I say. By G— am I to be disobeyed by all of you?
I’ll remember you for this, you villain—you—”
“I’m sure I don’t care,” said the man, almost crying; for he had
lived in the family since Ellen was a babe, and loved her as his own,
“for if you are going to turn my poor dear mistress out of doors the
sooner I follow the better. I’d not live with such a brute,” continued
he, boldly, “for millions.”
“Out of the house, both of you, out, I say,” roared Mr. Howard,
with a volley of curses, for he was now stung to an ungovernable
rage, and cared not what he did, “begone!” and taking his daughter
by the shoulders he pushed her violently toward the door.
Up to this period of the scene, the events of which had passed in
less time than we take to describe them, Ellen, stupefied and
astonished, had been unable to utter a word. Her father’s
unparalleled barbarity called forth continued floods of tears. But she
now spoke.
“Oh! father,” she said, “do not turn me from your doors. You are
my only parent, and I will, I would have told you all. I only went to
bid farewell to him—indeed, indeed I did—”
“You met him, you own to it,” said Mr. Howard, almost choked
with rage, “before my face. This is too much—out I say.”
“Father! Father!” said Ellen, falling on her knees, “do not cast me
off. For the love of heaven do not. I will be all you ask. I will never
see him again; I have parted with him forever—oh! father! father—”
“Yes! you may father, father me now till you are tired; but it’s too
late. Go, and see if your beggar of a clerk can help you. Go, and
God’s and a father’s curse go with you!” and, with the fury of a
madman the brutal parent seized his daughter by the arms, lifted
her up, and pushing her so violently from the door that she went
reeling down the steps, slammed it to after her. Ellen was alone—no!
not alone, for the faithful John, who had sacrificed his place for her
was at her side, and as the innocent outcast looking wildly up at the
portal which was thus forever closed upon her, gave a faint cry, and
fell insensible to the pavement, he caught her in his arms, and
bearing her to a neighboring shop, gave her in charge to the females
there, to restore her.
Shall we pursue the details of this melancholy story? Oh! let us
rather hurry to its close. It terminated as might have been expected.
Thrust from her father’s doors, dreading his brutality even if she
could return, and knowing not where to seek protection in this
sudden emergency, Ellen yielded to the solicitations of her lover, and
was married. Poor girl! though she never looked lovelier than on her
wedding-day, in her pale, sweet face might be seen the traces of
that sorrow which had already begun to darken her life.
From the hour when Mr. Howard so inhumanly turned his
daughter from his doors, he never was heard to make the slightest
enquiry respecting her. He seemed to have discarded her forever
from his mind. He never even mentioned her name; he appeared to
feel no remorse for the deed into which his passion had hurried him.
Not that his conscience never smote him. God knows that would
have displayed a malignity of heart worthy of a fiend. But no one
ever saw these visitings of remorse,—for his pride forbade him to
betray them, as much as it hindered him from re-opening his doors
to his daughter. Yet day by day he grew more irascible. The worm
was at his heart: he felt, though he would not own its sting.
And for awhile the young pair was supremely happy, or if a care
did cloud the young wife’s brow when she thought of her father’s
curse, it was kissed away by her adoring husband. They had enough
to provide them the necessaries, and they cared little for the
superfluities of life. The birth of a charming boy only served to knit
their hearts closer to each other.
The first spring after their marriage Stanhope embarked in
business, for he found his salary insufficient for the wants of a
family. And for three years he seemed to prosper. But then came
reverses. The times were critical; even heavy capitalists could
scarcely weather the storm; and, in a word, Stanhope was
compelled to fail, after having sunk all he had embarked by heavy
losses. Had he been a large trader, and becoming bankrupt, dragged
scores into ruin with him, he would have been universally pitied, and
perhaps his creditors would have yielded up to him from the wreck
of millions a sufficiency for the rest of his life; but as he was only a
poor man his case met no commiseration. He determined, however,
to pay every debt. The endeavor exhausted almost literally his last
dollar. He had barely a sufficiency left to transport his family to the
village of ——, having been offered a situation as a clerk in a store in
that obscure hamlet. Before leaving the city, however, his sweet
wife, believing that under such circumstances her father must relent,
had, without informing her husband of her intention, sought
admittance at her parent’s mansion, determining to fling herself at
his feet, and solicit his forgiveness and aid. But she was repulsed—
my pen shakes as I record it—she was repulsed like a common
beggar from her own father’s door.
Let us hurry on. Have we not often seen how misfortune when it
once begins to lower on a man, will sometimes continue its pitiless
shower without intermission, until it has laid its victim in his grave?
Well! every day beheld Stanhope, in despite of his utmost exertions,
sinking lower and lower into distress. His scanty salary barely
afforded his family the coarsest food, and even this was lost within a
year, and directly after the birth of a daughter, by an illness which
incapacitated him from labor, for so long a period that his employer
was forced to discharge him, and procure a substitute. At length he
recovered; but how fearfully was he in debt! A year’s labor at his late
scanty pittance would scarcely discharge his liabilities. Ellen had
foreseen this, and ventured to write to her father, but the letter was
returned unopened. To add to Stanhope’s distress, after various
efforts to procure steady employment, which only resulted in
constant disappointment, his furniture was sold under a distress, and
his now alarmed creditors falling like vultures on what remained, left
him with nothing but the bedding on which they slept, and the
clothes which they wore, with the few other articles protected by the
law from an execution. These, however, he was soon, forced to
dispose of to gain sustenance for his family. In this strait they had
found shelter in the crumbling garret, where they now were,—and
though a month had elapsed, and every thing they had to part with
was sold, Stanhope was still without employment. His wife, after
bearing up till nature could endure no longer, had for several days
been lying on a bed of sickness; and that night they had—oh! God
can it be true?—gone dinnerless and supperless to bed.
Until within a few days Stanhope had breasted the storm with
unshrinking firmness, although, at times, when he looked upon his
angelic wife and little ones, suffering the full horrors of poverty, his
resolution had almost given way. But even he could not withstand
the accumulated miseries which now beat so bitterly upon his
unsheltered head. Let it not be thought that we exaggerate his
misfortunes. God forbid! Even in our boasted city, and at this day,
too, when charity has become fashionable, more than a dozen die
annually from sheer starvation. Stanhope saw nothing but this
before them. He could not seek employment in other places, for how
would his family subsist in his absence?—nor could he take them
with him, for alas! he had not the money to transport them. Broken
in spirits and maddened with despair, the thoughts which rushed
through his mind as he gazed around the room can be easier
imagined than described. In that moment his whole life passed
before him as in a panorama. He thought of his happy boyhood; of
the bright hopes of his youth; of his first sanguine love for Ellen; of
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