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SCIENTIA
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VERITAS
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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
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1846
THE M A Y FLOWER;
OR,
SKETCHES
OF
SCENES AND CHARACTERS
AMONG THE DESCENDANTS OF
THE PILGRIMS.
BY MRS. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
NEW-YORK.
II ARPER & BROTHERS, 82 CLIFF-STREET.
1846.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1843, by
HAEPER & BROTHERS,
in the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of New York.
IN DE X.
.
HCJ 8-7-47
.
.
Reclass,
Love versus Law
The Tea-rose
Trials of a Housekeeper
Little Edward .
Let every Man mind his own Business
Cousin William
Uncle Tim
Aunt Mary
Frankness
The Sabbath
So many Calls
The Canal-boat
Feeling
The Sempstress
Old Father Morris
Pages
19
80
91
101
111
146
165
210
222
230
271
. 276
288
296
313
.
:
.
.
11? 610
1
PREFACE.
If the plea of “ being solicited” is of any
avail in securing a favourable reception for
a literary production, the writer of these
sketches might make out a triple claim.
For most of them were written by a young
mother and housekeeper, in the first years
of her novitiate, amid alternate demands
from an ever dissolving “ kitchen cabinet,"
and from the two, three, and four occupants
of her nursery.
During this period, the entreaty of some
friend to “write just a page or two" for
her literary soirée, or the request of some
editor with the offer of a douceur that might
eke out a domestic accommodation, backed
by the occasional offer of friends to act as
substitutes in domestic concerns while secu-
ring the fulfilment of such requests, elicited
most of these articles; which, at the request
A 2
vi
PREFACE.
of a publisher, have been collected and pre-
pared by the author of this preface.
Being thus, to some extent, responsible
for the matter contained in this volume, the
writer of the preface takes the opportunity
to offer a few remarks on this particular
kind of literature, with which the press is
now teeming. The time was when, to the
greater part of the religious world, novel
reading was almost as much an interdicted
amusement as dancing and card-playing.
But since the writings of Miss Edgeworth
and Sir Walter Scott have produced so great
a change in the character of novels, there
has been a corresponding change in prac-
tice, even among the most scrupulous, till
now we can find novels as a part of the cler-
gyman's library, and novel writers publicly
eulogized by some of the most influential
among our clergy and theological profess-
>
ors.
At the same time, there has been a most
enormous multiplication of sketches, tales,
novels, and romances, of all sorts and sizes,
which, by the agency of cheap magazines
and mammoth sheets, have been showered
PREFACE.
vii
>
into every hamlet in our land. They are
found not only in the library of the rich or
the literary, but on the counter, in the work.
shop, in the tavern, in the canal-boat, and
the railroad car. And the greatest evil in
all this is, that there is little or no discrimi-
nation in the selection of this food for the
imagination. The worst stands about an
equal chance with the best.
The powerful effect of this kind of lit-
erature on the public mind has recently
been strongly indicated by the oblations
paid to an amiable and interesting foreign
novelist, whose advent has called forth dem-
onstrations rarely accorded to the greatest
benefactors of mankind. And what are his
claims to this homage, and what will be the
probable result ? True it is, that the vivid
delineations of character and scenes in his
writings, their democratic tendency, the
kindliness of heart displayed in them, the
pleasing vein of humour that runs through
them, and their comparative freedom from
what is licentious and unprincipled, are just
claims to public favour. And there is some
real occasion for patriotic pleasure in so un-
common a popular ovation to merit that is
viii
PREFACE.
so purely intellectual. But, on the other
hand, what false views of human nature
are presented in these so popular and wide-
spread writings; as if such pure, elevated,
refined characters could grow up under the
most baleful influences, without parental
influence, without education, and without
religion: as if it made little or no differ-
ence with the human mind whether it were
trained right or wrong, or not trained at all.
And what a low standard of virtue is pre-
sented! as if the truths and hopes of reli-
gion had nothing to do with virtue or mo-
rality, or noble and refined sentiment. And
what sad familiarity is induced with the most
depraved, the most degraded, and the most
vulgar of mankind! And with what care-
less and mirthful levity are the crimes and
vices of our fellow-creatures held up to view!
And what is there in these writings to coun-
teract such unfortunate influences ? And
what can be hoped from the unbounded
popularity thus gained, but the flooding of
our land by competitors, both at home and
abroad, who probably will sink below their
model of imitation in these respects ?
PREFACE.
ix
a
It is such considerations as these that
seem to call on both the writers and read.
ers of works of imagination, to pause and
look about for the landmarks. And it is
by these considerations that the writer, in
aiding to add another volume to this kind
of literature, has felt called upon to present
some of her own views on this subject.
What, then, is to be done? Shall persons
professing to be regulated by religious prin-
ciple, attempt to revert to former strictness,
and banish all novel-reading as
a sinful
practice, at all times to be shunned ?
In reply to this, it may be remarked, that
this mode of remedying the difficulty is ut-
terly impracticable. For, in the first place,
there is no foundation for drawing any line
of exclusion. A novel—what is it?
Is it
merely the highly-wrought tale contained
in two volumes, and called a novel? But
what are many of the highly-wrought tales
in our juvenile libraries but little novels for
children? And what are the highly-wrought
love-stories in Mrs. Sherwood's Lady of the
Manor, which figure in our Sunday schools,
and are conned over by the children of min-
х
PREFACE.
ister and people, and often in the hours of
sanctuary service, but a collection of little
novels, with a bit of the catechism at the
beginning, and a prayer at the end of each?
There is no possibility, then, of making rules
to exclude novels, because there is no mode
of deciding what a novel is. The question,
therefore, is much more general ; for we
are led to inquire, by what methods are we
to regulate and properly restrain the read.
ing of works of imagination? In determin-
ing this, we cannot assume that all “ ficti-
tious narratives” shall be excluded, for this
would shut out, not only much of the most
profitable religious reading, but even the
parables and allegories of Scripture.
In meeting the matter fairly, it is to be
conceded that there are many advantages
to be gained by reading works of this class,
if properly selected. The imagination and
taste are gifts of God, which are to be cul-
tivated and developed, and their proper ex•
ercise is conducive to the health both of body
and mind. Now that the laws of our phys-
ical nature are beginning to be better un-
derstood, it is extensively conceded that it
PREFACE.
xi
is not only right, but that it is a duty, at
certain intervals, to release the intellect and
feelings from care and effort, and devote a
certain portion of time to mere recreation
and amusement. And the most elevating
and refining of all amusements is the exer-
cise of the imagination in contemplating the
pictures drawn by the sculptor, painter, poet,
and novelist. These amusements, if prop-
erly regulated, have a tendency to improve
the manners by an acquaintance with the
refinements of polished society, to increase
a knowledge of the world by vivid pictures
of men and things, to cultivate the taste by
exhibitions of the beautiful, correct, and
pure, to elevate the sentiments, to expand
the generous and benevolent sympathies,
and to cherish religious principles and pious
aspirations. For never do self-denying vir-
tue and heaven-born piety appear more in-
teresting and inviting than when appropri-
ately portrayed in works of imagination.!
But every good has its attendant dangers,
and, ordinarily, the greater the blessing, the
greater are the evils involved in its perver-
sion.
xii
PREFACE.
Works of imagination might be made the
most powerful of all human agencies in
promoting virtue and religion; and yet,
through perversion, they are often the chan-
nel for conveying the most widespread and
pernicious poisons. And the most danger-
ous part of these evils is their insidious and
unmarked operation. The havoc they often
make in tastes, feelings, habits, and princi-
ples, is ordinarily as silent and unnoticed
as the invisible miasma, whose presence is
never realized until pale cheeks and decay-
ing forms tell of its fatal power.
The lassitude of spirits and vis inertiæ
of intellect that often result from over-ex-
citement of the imagination—the distaste
for solid mental nutriment thus induced
the waste of time and energies—the false
and mawkish taste—the wrong views of
life and its trials, awakening hopes and
wishes that can end only in disappointment
and disgust--the false estimate of charac-
ter, induced by adorning with the charms
of fancy heroes and heroines destitute of the
grand qualifications alike indispensable to
our present and our eternal well-being—the
PREFACE.
xiii
false standard of right and wrong presente
ed-and still more fatal and insidious, those
dangerous pictures, that tempt the imagina-
tion to guilty indulgences, destructive alike
to health, character, and virtue : all these
evils come unawares upon
the
young
and
unwary, while no guardian is near to save
from the evil, or spread the alarm to the
yet unharmed.
What, then, should be attempted by those
who feel, or fear these evil tendencies, in
order to stay the contaminating influence
now pervading our intellectual and moral
atmosphere?
The writer may at least suggest what
could be done.
In the first place, parents might be as
watchful for the safety of their children in
regard to the slow poisons that corrupt the
taste, and principle, and feelings, as they are
to save from poisonous food. The practi-
cability of this the writer has seen exempli.
fied in families, where the mother keeps a
careful inspection of all books, newspapers,
and magazines that enter the house, and
where the rule of the family is, that no book
B
xiv
PREFACE.
or paper shall be read without parental per-
mission. The father co-operates, and leaves
his office, counting-room, or study, to spend
his evenings with his family, and at such
times the carefully-selected works of fiction'
are read aloud for coinmon entertainment.
Thus the parents and children are united in
their pleasures, while parents have an op-
portunity to counteract any bad influence
that might otherwise be exerted.
In the second place, teachers of schools
and officers of all institutions for educating
the young, could make it a definite object
to instruct those under their care in the
dangers to which they are exposed, and to
point out the works that should be avoided,
and those which may safely be read.
In the third place, the editors of our mag-
azines and newspapers might exert a most
healthful influence in presenting appropri-
ately to the minds of their readers the
dangers and evils involved in the promis-
cuous reading of works of imagination, in
drawing attention to works that are safe and
valuable, and in giving warning whenever
PREFACE.
XV
a work issues from the press that is perni-
cious in its tendencies.
Lastly, the ministers of religion may, in
their pulpit discourses, instruct their people
in their duties as individuals and as parents
on this subject. They can most appropri-
ately point out how intimately the proper
control and training of the imagination is
connected with all devotional and practical
duties-how much the power of regulating
this unruly principle depends on the course
of reading adopted-how much the tastes
and principles of the young are modified by
works of imagination-how responsible pa-
rents, and teachers, and guardians are for the
proper protection of the young from these in-
sidious and multiplying dangers—and how
proper domestic regulations may avail to se-
cure all desirable advantages without the at-
tending evils.
If these fountains of influence would thus
exert even a small moiety of their power for
the public safety, the baleful missives that
are now spreading poison with every breeze
would soon be supplanted by those verdant
leaves that bloom by the waters of life, and
xvi
PREFACE.
are shed abroad " for the healing of the na-
tions."
When this is attempted, those who cater
for the public taste will find it for their in-
terest to select only the safe and good.
And then, too, genius will no longer de.
base itself in providing aliment for a vi-
cious public taste, but, pluming its wings.
for a nobler flight, will roam through ce-
lestial regions, combining only the bright,
the elevated, the right and pure, and thus
“ allure to brighter worlds, and lead the
way.”
Such considerations have inspired the
conviction that a person who has the taste,
invention, sprightliness, humour, and com-
mand of diction that qualifies for a success-
ful novelist, by employing these talents ap-
propriately, may become one of the great-
est of public benefactors, by skilfully pro-
viding the healthful aliment that may be
employed in supplanting the pernicious
leaven.
Whether the writer of these sketches has
the qualifications that warrant her to aim at
any such effort, the public can more fairly
PREFACE.
xvii
judge, than one who must be biased, not
only by the partialities of a sister, but by
the deep interest felt in the nascent efforts
of a mind trained from childhood under her
care.
CATHARINE E. BEECHER.
Ť
.
SCENES AND CHARACTERS.
LOVE versus LAW.
How many kinds of beauty there are! How
many even in the human form! There is the
bloom and motion of childhood, the freshness
and ripe perfection of youth, the dignity of man-
hood, the softness of woman-all different, yet
each in its kind perfect.
But there is none so peculiar, none that bears
more the image of the heavenly, than the beau-
ty of Christian old age. It is like the loveliness
of those calm autumn days, when the heats of
summer are past, when the harvest is gathered
into the garner, and the sun shines over the
placid fields and fading woods, which stand
waiting for their last change. It is a beauty
more strictly moral, more belonging to the
soul, than that of any other period of life. Po-
etic fiction always paints the old man as a
Christian ; nor is there any period where the
virtues of Christianity seem to find a more har.
monious development. The aged man, who
20
LOVE versus LAW.
has outlived the hurry of passion—who has
withstood the urgency of temptation—who has
concentrated the religious impulses of youth
into habits of obedience and love—who, having
served his generation by the will of God, now
leans in helplessness on Him whom once he
served, is, perhaps, one of the most faultless
representations of the beauty of holiness that
this world affords.
Thoughts something like these arose in my
mind as I slowly turned my footsteps from the
Ι
graveyard of my native village, where I had
been wandering after years of absence. It was
a lovely spota soft slope of ground close by
a little stream, that ran sparkling through the
cedars and junipers beyond it, while on the
other side arose a green hill, with the white
village laid like a necklace of pearls upon its
bosom.
There is no feature of the landscape more
picturesque and peculiar than that of the grave.
yard--that “ city of the silent," as it is beauti.
fully expressed by the Orientals—standing amid
the bloom and rejoicing of Nature, its white
stones glittering in the sun, a memorial of de-
cay, a link between the living and the dead.
As I moved slowly from mound to mound,
and read the inscriptions, which purported that
LOVE versus LAW.
21
many a money-saving man, and many a busy,
anxious housewife, and many a prattling, half-
blossomed child, had done with care or mirth,
I was struck with a plain slab, bearing the in-
scription, “ To the memory of Deacon Enos Dud-
ley, who died in his hundredth year.” My eye
was caught by this inscription, for in other
years
I had well known the person it recorded.
At this instant, his mild and venerable form
arose before me as erst it used to rise from the
deacon's seat, a straight, close slip just below
the pulpit. I recollect his quiet and lowly
coming into meeting, precisely ten minutes be-
fore the time, every Sunday-his tall form a
little stooping-his best suit of butternut-col-
oured Sunday clothes, with long flaps and wide
cuffs, on one of which two pins were always to
be seen stuck in with the most reverent precis-
ion. When seated, the top of the pew came
just to his chin, so that his silvery, placid head
rose above it like the moon above the horizon.
His head was one that might have been sketch-
ed for a St. John-bald at the top, and around
the temples adorned with a soft flow of bright
fine hair,
"That down his shoulders reverently spread,
As hoary frost with spangles doth attire
The naked branches of an oak half dead."
22
LOVE versus LAW.
He was then of great age,
and
every
line of his
patient face seemed to say, “And now, Lord,
what wait I for ?" Yet still, year after year,
was he to be seen in the same place, with the
same dutiful punctuality.
The services he offered to his God were all
given with the exactness of an ancient Israelite.
No words could have persuaded him of the pro-
priety of meditating when the choir was sing-
ing, or of sitting down, even through infirmity,
before the close of the longest prayer that ever
was offered. A mighty contrast was he to his
fellow-officer, Deacon Abrams, a tight, little,
tripping, well-to-do man, who used to sit be-
side him with his hair brushed straight up like
a little blaze, his coat buttoned up trig and
close, his psalm-book in hand, and his quick
gray eyes turned first on one side of the broad
aisle, and then on the other, and then up into
the gallery, like a man who came to church on
business, and felt responsible for everything
that was going on in the house.
A great hinderance was the business talent of
this good little man to the enjoyments of us
youngsters, who, perched along in a row on a
low seat in front of the pulpit, attempted occa-
sionally to diversify the long hour of sermon
by sundry small exercises of our own, such as
LOVE versus LAW.
23
making our handkerchiefs into rabbits, or ex-
hibiting, in a sly way, the apples and ginger-
bread we had brought for a Sunday dinner, or
pulling the ears of some discreet meeting-go
ing dog, who now and then would soberly pit
a-pat through the broad aisle. But wo be to
us during our contraband sports if we saw
Deacon Abrams's sleek head dodging up from
behind the top of the deacon's seat. Instantly
all the apples, gingerbread, and handkerchiefs
vanished, and we all set with our hands folded,
looking as demure as if we understood every
word of the sermon, and more too.
There was a great contrast between these
two deacons in their services and prayers,
when, as was often the case, the absence of
the pastor devolved on them the burden of con-
ducting the duties of the sanctuary. That God
was great and good, and that we all were sin-
ners, were truths that seemed to have melted
into the heart of Deacon Enos, so that his very
soul and spirit were bowed down with them
With Deacon Abrams it was an undisputed fact.
which he had settled long ago, and concerning
which he felt that there could be no reasonable
doubt, and his bustling way of dealing with the
matter seemed to say that he knew that and a
great many things besides,
24
LOVE versus LAW.
Deacon Enos was known far and near as a
very proverb for peacefulness of demeanour
and unbounded charitableness in covering and
excusing the faults of others. As long as there
was any doubt in a case of alleged evil-doing,
Deacon Enos guessed “the man did not mean
any harm, after all;" and when transgression
became too barefaced for this excuse, he al-
ways guessed "it wa'n't best to say much about
it ; nobody could tell what they might be left
to.”
Some incidents in his life will show more
clearly these traits. A certain shrewd land-
holder, by the name of Jones, who was not well
reported of in the matter of honesty, sold to
Deacon Enos a valuable lot of land, and re-
ceived the money for it; but, under various
pretences, deferred giving the deed. Soon af-
ter, he died; and, to the deacon's amazement,
the deed was nowhere to be found, while this
very lot of land was left by will to one of his
daughters.
The deacon said " it was very extraor'nary :
he always knew that Seth Jones was consider-
ably sharp about money, but he did not think
he would do such a right up-and-down wicked
thing.” So the old man repaired to Squire
Abel to state the case and see if there was any
LOVE versus LAW.
25
}
7
6
say much
redress. “I kinder hate to tell of it,” said he;
“but, Squire Abel, you know Mr. Jones was-
was—what he was, even if he is dead and gone !"
This was the nearest approach the old gentle-
man could make to specifying a heavy charge
against the dead. On being told that the case
admitted of no redress, Deacon Enos comfort-
ed himself with half soliloquizing, “Well, at
any rate, the land has gone to those two girls,
poor lone critters—I hope it will do them some
good. There is Silence-we won't
about her ; but Sukey is a nice, pretty girl.”
And so the old man departed, leaving it as his
opinion that, since the matter could not be
mended, it was just as well not to say anything
about it.
Now the two girls here mentioned (to wit,
Silence and Sukey) were the eldest and the
youngest of a numerous family, the offspring
of three wives of Seth Jones, of whom these
two were the sole survivers. The elder, Si-
lence, was a tall, strong, black-eyed, hard-fea-
tured girl, verging upon forty, with a good,
loud, resolute voice, and what the Irishman
would call “ a dacent notion of using it." Why
she was called Silence was a standing problem
to the neighbourhood, for she had more facul.
ty and inclination for making a noise than any
С
26
LOVE versus LAW.
а
person in the whole township. Miss Silence
was one of those persons who have no dispo-
sition to yield any of their own rights. She
marched up to all controverted matters, faced
down all opposition, held her way lustily and
with good courage, making men, women, and
children turn out for her, as they would for
a mailstage. So evident was her innate de-
termination to be free and independent, that,
though she was the daughter of a rich man, and
well portioned, only one swain was ever heard
of who ventured to solicit her hand in marriage,
and he was sent off with the assurance that, if
he ever showed his face about the house again,
she would set the dogs on him.
But Susan Jones was as different from her
sister as the little graceful convolvulus from the
great rough stick that supports it. At the time
of which we speak she was just eighteen, a
modest, slender, blushing girl, as timid and
shrinking as her sister was bold and hardy.
Indeed, the education of poor Susan had cost
Miss Silence much painstaking and trouble, and,
after all, she said the girl would make a fool
of herself ; she never could teach her to be up
and down with people, as she was.
When the report came to Miss Silence's ears
that Deacon Enos considered himself as ago
66
9
LOVE versus LAW.
27
grieved by her father's will, she held forth
upon the subject with great strength of cour-
age and of lungs. “Deacon Enos might be in
better business than in trying to cheat orphans
out of their rights—she hoped he would go to
law about it, and see what good he would get
by it-a pretty church member and deacon, to
be sure! getting up such a story about her poor
father, dead and gone !"
“ But, Silence,” said Susan, “Deacon Enos
is a good man: I do not think he means to
injure any one; there must be some mistake
about it.”
Susan, you are a little fool, as I have al-
ways told you," replied Silence ; " you would
be cheated out of your eye-teeth if you had not
me to take care of you.”
But subsequent events brought the affairs of
these two damsels in closer connexion with
those of Deacon Enos, as we shall proceed to
show.
It happened that the next-door neighbour of
Deacon Enos was a certain old farmer, whose
crabbedness of demeanour had procured for
him the name of Uncle Jaw. This agreeable
surname accorded very well with the general
characteristics both of the person and manner
of its possessor. He was tall and hard-favour-
28
LOVE versus LAW.
of suc-
ed, with an expression of countenance much
resembling a northeast rain-storm-a drizzling,
settled sulkiness, that seemed to defy all pros-
pect of clearing off, and to take comfort in its
own disagreeableness. His voice seemed to
have taken lessons of his face, in such admira-
ble keeping was its sawing, deliberate growl
with the pleasing physiognomy before indicated.
By nature he was endowed with one of those
active, acute, hair-splitting minds, which can
raise forty questions for dispute on any point
of the compass; and had he been an educated
man, he might have proved as clever a meta-
physician as ever threw dust in the
eyes
ceeding generations. But, being deprived of
these advantages, he nevertheless exerted him-
self to quite as useful a purpose in puzzling and
mystifying whomsoever came in his way. But
his activity particularly exercised itself in the
line of the law, as it was his meat, and drink, and
daily meditation, either to find something to go
to law about, or to go to law about something he
had found. There was always some question
about an old rail fence that used to run
tle more to the left hand,” or that was built up
a leetle more to the right hand,” and so cut off
a strip of his “medder land,” or else there was
some outrage of Peter Somebody's turkeys,
a lee-
LOVE versus LAW.
29
says he's and
getting into his mowing, or Squire Moses's
geese were to be shut up in the town pound,
or something equally important kept him busy
from year's end to year's end. Now, as a mat-
ter of private amusement, this might have an-
swered
very well ; but then Uncle Jaw was not
satisfied to fight his own battles, but must needs
go from house to house, narrating the whole
length and breadth of the case, with all the
says I's, and the I tell’d him's and
he telld me's, which do either accompany or
flow therefrom. Moreover, he had such a
marvellous facility of finding out matters to
quarrel about, and of letting every one else
know where they, too, could muster a quarrel,
that he generally succeeded in keeping the
whole neighbourhood by the ears.
And as good Deacon Enos assumed the of-
fice of peacemaker for the village, Uncle Jaw's
efficiency rendered it no sinecure. The dea-
con always followed the steps of Uncle Jaw,
smoothing, hushing up, and putting matters
aright with an assiduity that was truly won-
derful.
Uncle Jaw himself had a great respect for
the good man, and, in common with all the
neighbourhood, sought unto him for counsel,
though, like other seekers of advice, he appro-
C 2
30
LOVE versus LAW.
priated only so much as seemed good in his
own eyes.
Still he took a kind of pleasure in dropping
in of an evening to Deacon Enos's fire; to re-
count the various matters which he had taken
or was to take in hand; at one time to narrate
“how he had been over the mill-dam, telling
old Granny Clark that she could get the law
of Seth Scran about that pasture lot,” or else
“how he had told Ziah Bacon's widow that she
had a right to shut up Bill Scranton's pig every
time she caught him in front of her house."
But the grand “matter of matters," and the
one that took up the most of Uncle Jaw's spare
time, lay in a dispute between him and Squire
Jones, the father of Susan and Silence ; for it
so happened that his lands and those of Uncle
Jaw were contiguous. Now the matter of dis-
pute was on this wise : on Squire Jones's land
there was a mill, which mill Uncle Jaw averred
was “always a flooding his medder land.” As
Uncle Jaw's “medder land” was by nature half
bog and bulrushes, and therefore liable to be
found in a wet condition, there was always a
happy obscurity where the water came from,
and whether there was at any time more there
than belonged to his share. So, when all other
subject matters of dispute failed, Uncle Jaw
LOVE versus LAW.
31
recreated himself with getting up a lawsuit about
his “medder land," and one of these cases was in
pendency when, by the death of the squire, the es-
tate was left to Susan and Silence, his daughters.
When, therefore, the report reached him that Dea-
con Enos had been cheated out of his dues, Uncle
Jaw prepared forthwith to
go
and
compare
notes.
Therefore, one evening, as Deacon Enos was sit.
ting quietly by the fire, musing and reading with
his big Bible open before him, he heard the pre-
monitory symptoms of a visitation from Uncle Jaw
on his door scraper, and soon the man made his
appearance. After seating himself directly in
front of the fire, with his elbows on his knees, and
his hands spread out over the coals, he looked up
in Deacon Enos's mild face with his little inquis.
itive gray eyes, and remarked, by way of opening
the subject, “ Well, Deacon, old Squire Jones is
gone at last. I wonder how much good all his
land will do him now ?”
“ Yes,” replied Deacon Enos, “it just shows
how all these things are not worth striving after.
We brought nothing into the world, and it is cer-
tain we can carry nothing out.”
Why, yes,” replied Uncle Jaw," that's all very
right, Deacon, but it was strange how that old
Squire Jones did hang on to things. Now that
mill of his, that was always soaking off water into
32
LOVE versus LAW.
these medders of mine, I took and tellid Squire
Jones just how it was, pretty nigh twenty times,
and yet he would keep it just so; and now he's
dead and gone, there is that old gal Silence is full
as bad, and makes more noise ; and she and Suke
have got the land ; but, you see, I mean to work
it yet !”
Here Uncle Jaw paused to see whether he had
produced any sympathetic excitement in Deacon
Enos; but the old man sat without the least emo.
tion, quietly contemplating the top of the long kitch-
en shovel. Uncle Jaw fidgeted in his chair, and
changed his mode of attack for one more direct.
• I heard 'em tell, Deacon Enos, that the Squire
served you something of an unhandy sort of trick
about that 'ere lot of land.”
Still Deacon Enos made no reply; but Uncle
Jaw's perseverance was not so to be put off, and
he recommenced. Squire Abel, you see, he telld
me how the matter was, and he said he did not see
as it could be mended; but I took and telld him,
Squire Abel,' says I, I'd bet pretty nigh’most any-
thing, if Deacon Enos would tell the matter to me,
that I could find a hole for him to creep out at;
for,' says I, “I've seen daylight through more twisti.
cal cases than that afore now.'"
Still Deacon Enos remained mute; and Uncle
Jaw, after waiting a while, recommenced with,
66
LOVE versus LAW.
33
>
66
“But, railly, Deacon, I should like to hear the
particulars !"
“I have made up my mind not to say anything
more about that business," said Deacon Enos, in a
tone which, though mild, was so exceedingly defi.
nite, that Uncle Jaw felt that the case was hope-
less in that quarter; he therefore betook himself
to the statement of his own grievances.
Why, you see, Deacon,” he began, at the
same time taking the tongs, and picking up all the
little brands, and disposing them in the middle of the
fire, " you see, two days arter the funeral (for I
didn't railly like to go any sooner), I stepped up to
hash over the matter with old Silence ; for as to
Sukey, she ha'n't no more to do with such things
than our white kitten. Now, you see, Squire Jones,
just afore he died, he took away an old rail fence
of his'n that lay between his land and mine, and
began to build a new stone wall, and when I come
to measure, I found he had took and put a’most
the whole width of the stone wall on to my land,
when there ought not to have been more than half
of it come there. Now, you see, I could not say a
word to Squire Jones, because, jest before I found it
out, he took and died; and so I thought I'd speak to
old Silence, and see if she meant to do anything about
it, 'cause I knew pretty well she wouldn't ; and I
tell you, if she didn't put it on me! we had a reg.
34
LOVE versus LAW.
ular pitched battle -- the old gal, I thought she
would 'a screamed herself to death! I don't know
but she would, but just then poor Sukey came in, and
looked so frightened and scarey-Sukey is a pret-
ty gal, and looks so trembling and delicate, that it's
kinder a shame to plague her, and so I took and
come away for that time.”
Here Uncle Jaw perceived a brightening in the
face of the good deacon, and felt exceedingly com-
forted that at last he was about to interest him in
his story.
But all this while the deacon had been in a pro.
found meditation concerning the ways and means
of putting a stop to a quarrel that had been his tor.
ment from time immemorial, and just at this mo.
ment a plan had struck his mind which our story
will proceed to unfold.
The mode of settling differences which had oc-
curred to the good man was one which has been
considered a specific in reconciling contending sov.
ereigns and states from early antiquity, and the
deacon hoped it might have a pacifying influence
even in so unpromising a case as that of Miss Si.
lence and Uncle Jaw.
In former days, Deacon Enos had kept the dis.
trict school for several successive winters, and
among his scholars was the gentle Susan Jones,
then a plump, rosy little girl, with blue eyes, curly
LOVE versus LAW.
35
a
hair, and the sweetest disposition in the world.
There was also little Joseph Adams, the only son
of Uncle Jaw, a fine, healthy, robust boy, who used
to spell the longest words, make the best snowballs
and poplar whistles, and read the loudest and fast-
est in the Columbian Orator of any boy at school.
Little Joe inherited all his father's sharpness,
with a double share of good-humour, so that, though
he was forever effervescing in the way of one fun.
ny trick or another, he was a universal favourite,
not only with the deacon, but with the whole
school.
Master Joseph always took little Susan Jones
under his especial protection, drew her to school on
his sled, helped her out with all the long sums in
her arithmetic, saw to it that nobody pillaged her
dinner-basket or knocked down her bonnet, and
resolutely whipped or snowballed any other boy
who attempted the same gallantries. Years passed
on, and Uncle Jaw had sent his son to college.
He sent him because, as he said, he had “a right
to send him ; just as good a right as Squire Abel
or Deacon Abrams to send their boys, and so he
would send him." It was the remembrance of his
old favourite Joseph, and his little pet Susan, that
came across the mind of Deacon Enos, and which
seemed to open a gleam of light in regard to the
future. So, when Uncle Jaw had finished his pre.
a
36
LOVE versus LAW.
9
lection, the deacon, after some meditation, came
out with,
“ Railly, they say that your son is going to
have the valedictory in college."
Though somewhat startled at the abrupt transi-
tion, Uncle Jaw found the suggestion too flatter.
ing to his pride to be dropped ; so, with a counte.
nance grimly expressive of his satisfaction, he re-
plied,
Why yes-yes—I don't see no reason why a
poor
man's son ha'n't as much right as any one to
be at the top, if he can get there."
“Just so,” replied Deacon Enos.
“He was always the boy for larning, and for
nothing else,” continued Uncle Jaw; “put him to
farming, couldn't make nothing of him. If I set
him to hoeing corn or hilling potatoes, I'd always
find him stopping to chase hoptoads, or off after
chip-squirrels. But set him down to a book, and
there he was ! That boy larnt reading the quickest
of any boy that ever I saw: it wasn't a month af.
ter he began his a b, abs, before he could read in
the · Fox and the Brambles,' and in a month more
he could clatter off his chapter in the Testament
as fast as any of them; and you see, in college, it's
jest so—he has ris right up to be first."
“ And he is coming home week after next," said
the Deacon, meditatively.
1
>
0
LOVE versus LAW
37
.
The next morning, as Deacon Enos was eating
his breakfast, he quietly remarked to his wife, “Sal-
ly, I believe it was week after next you were
meaning to have your quilting ?".
Why, I never told you so : what alive makes
you think that, Deacon Dudley ?”
“I thought that was your calculation," said the
good man, quietly.
Why no-to be sure, I can have it, and maybe
it's the best of any time, if we can get Black Dinah
to come and help about the cakes and pies. I
guess we will, finally."
“I think it's likely you had better," replied the
Deacon, “and we will have all the young folks.
here."
And now let us pass over all the intermediate
pounding, and grinding, and chopping, which for
the next week foretold approaching festivity in the
kitchen of the Deacon. Let us forbear to provoke
the appetite of a hungry reader by setting in order
before him the minced pies, the cranberry tarts,
the pumpkin pies, the dough-nuts, the cookies, and
other sweet cakes of every description, that sprung
into being at the magic touch of Black Dinah, the
village priestess on all these solemnities. Suffice
it to say that the day had arrived, and the auspi-
cious quilt was spread.
The invitation had not failed to include the Miss.
D
f
38
LOVE versus LAW.
es Silence and Susan Jones-nay, the good deacon
had pressed gallantry into the matter so far as to
be the bearer of the message himself; for which
he was duly rewarded by a broadside from Miss
Silence, giving him what she termed a piece of her
mind in the matter of the rights of widows and
orphans; to all which the good old man listened
with great benignity from the beginning to the
end, and replied with,
• Well, well, Miss Silence, I expect you will
think better of this before long; there had best
not be any hard words about it.” So saying, he
took
up
his hat and walked off, while Miss Silence,
who felt extremely relieved by having blown off
steam, declared that “ It was of no more use to
hector old Deacon Enos than to fire a gun at a
bag of cotton-wool. For all that, though, she
shouldn't go to the quilting ; nor, more, should
Susan.”
“ But, sister, why not ?" said the little maiden ;
* I think I shall go.” And Susan said this in a
tone so mildly positive that Silence was amazed.
“ What upon 'arth ails you, Susan ?" said she,
opening her eyes with. astonishment ; " haven't you
any more spirit than to go to Deacon Enos's when
he is doing all he can to ruin us ?”
“ I like Deacon Enos,” replied Susan ; "he was
always kind to me when I was a little girl, and
LOVE versus LAW.
39
I am not going to believe that he is a bad man
now.”
When a young lady states that she is not going
to believe a thing, good judges of human nature
generally give up the case ; but Miss Silence, to
whom the language of opposition and argument
was entirely new, could scarcely give her ears
credit for veracity in the case ; she therefore re.
peated over exactly what she said before, only in
a much louder tone of voice, and with much more
vehement forms of asseveration : a mode of rea.
soning which, if not strictly logical, has at least
the sanction of very respectable authorities among
the enlightened and learned.
“Silence,” replied Susan, when the storm had
spent itself, “ if it did not look like being angry
with Deacon Enos, I would stay away to oblige
you; but it would seem to every one to be taking
sides in a quarrel, and I never did, and never will,
have any part or lot in such things."
· Then you'll just be trod and trampled on all
your days, Susan," replied Silence; “but, howev-
er, if you choose to make a fool of yourself, I don't ;"
and so saying, she flounced out of the room in
great wrath. It so happened, however, that Miss
Silence was one of those who have so little econo.
my in disposing of a fit of anger, that it was all
used up before the time of execution arrived. It
a
40
.
LOVE versus LAW.
followed, of consequence, that, having unburdened
her mind freely both to Deacon Enos and to Su-
san, she began to feel very much more comforta-
ble and good-natured; and consequent upon that
came divers reflections upon the many gossiping
opportunities and comforts of a quilting; and then
the intrusive little reflection, " What if she should
go-after all, what harm would be done ?" and then
the inquiry, “ Whether it was not her duty to go
and look after Susan, poor child, who had no moth.
er to watch over her ?" In short, before the time
of preparation arrived, Miss Silence had fully
worked herself up to the magnanimous determina-
tion of going to the quilting. Accordingly, the
next day, while Susan was standing before her
mirror, braiding up her pretty hair, she was start-
led by the apparition of Miss Silence coming into
the room as stiff as a changeable silk and a high
horn comb could make her; and “grimly deter.
mined was her look.”.
“ Well, Susan," said she, “ if you will go to the
,
quilting this afternoon, I think it is my duty to go
and see to you.”
What would people do if this convenient shelter
of duty did not afford them a retreat in cases when
they are disposed to change their minds ? Susan
suppressed the arch smile that, in spite of herself,
laughed out at the corners of her eyes, and told
LOVE versuS LAW.
41
her sister, that she was much obliged to her for her
care. So off they went together.
Silence in the mean time held forth largely on
the importance of standing up for one's rights, and
not letting one's self be trampled on.
The afternoon passed on, the elderly ladies quilt.
ed and talked scandal, and the younger ones dis-
cussed the merits of the various beaux who were
expected to give vivacity to the evening entertain-
ment. Among these, the newly-arrived Joseph
Adams, just from college, with all his literary hon.
ours thick about him, became a prominent subject
of conversation.
It was duly canvassed whether the young gen.
tleman might be called handsome, and the affirma.
tive was carried by a large majority, although
there were some variations and exceptions; one
of the party declaring his whiskers to be in too
high a state of cultivation, another maintaining
that they were in the exact line of beauty, while a
third vigorously disputed the point whether he
wore whiskers at all. It was allowed by all, how.
ever, that he had been a great beau in the town
where he had passed his college days. It was
also inquired into whether he were matrimonially
engaged; and the negative being understood, they
diverted themselves with predicting to one another
the capture of such a prize ; each prophecy being
D 2
42
LOVE versus LAW.
received with such disclaimers as “Come now !"
“ Do be still !” “ Hush your nonsense !" and the
like.
At length the long-wished-for hour arrived, and
one by one the lords of the creation began to make
their appearance, and one of the last was this
much-admired youth.
6 That is Joe Adams !” 6 That is he !" was the
busy whisper, as a tall, well-looking young man
came into the room, with the easy air of one who
had seen several things before, and was not to be
abashed by the combined blaze of all the village
.beauties.
In truth, our friend Joseph had made the most
of his residence in N- -, paying his court no less
to the Graces than the Muses. His fine. person,
his frank, manly air, his ready conversation, and
his faculty of universal adaptation, had made his
society much coveted among the beau monde of
N-, and though the place was small, he had
become familiar with much good society.
We hardly know whether we may venture to
tell our fair readers the whole truth in regard to
our hero.
We will merely hint, in the gentlest
manner in the world, that Mr. Joseph Adams, be-
ing undeniably first in the classics and first in the
drawing-room, having been gravely commended in
bis class by his venerable president, and gayly flat-
LOVE versus LAW.
43
tered in the drawing-room by the elegant Miss
This and That, was rather inclining to the opinion
that he was an uncommonly fine fellow, and even
had the assurance to think that, under present cir.
cumstances, he could please without making any
great effort ; a thing which, however true it were
in point of fact, is obviously improper to be thought
of by a young man. Be that as it may, he moved
about from one to another, shaking hands with all
the old ladies, and listening with the greatest affa.
bility to the various comments on his growth and
personal appearance, his points of resemblance to
his father, mother, grandfather, and grandmother,
which are always detected by the superior acumen
of elderly females.
Among the younger ones, he at once, and with
full frankness, recognised old schoolmates, and
partners in various whortleberry, chestnut, and
strawberry excursions, and thus called out an
abundant flow of conversation. Nevertheless, his
eye wandered occasionally around the room, as if
in search of something not there. What could it
be? It kindled, however, with an expression of
sudden brightness as he perceived the tall and
spare figure of Miss Silence; whether owing to
the personal fascinations of that lady, or to other
causes, we leave the reader to determine.
Miss Silence had predetermined never to speak a
'44
LOVE versus LAW.
66
word again to Uncle Jaw or any of his race; but she
was taken by surprise at the frank, extended hand,
and friendly “how d'ye do ?” It was not in woman
to resist so cordial an address from a handsome
young man, and Miss Silence gave her hand and
replied with a graciousness that amazed herself.
At this moment, also, certain soft blue eyes peeped
forth from a corner, just " to see if he looked as he
used to do.” Yes, there he was ! the same dark,
mirthful eyes that used to peer on her from behind
the corners of the spelling-book at the district
school ; and Susan Jones gave a half sigh to those
times, and then wondered why she happened to
think of such nonsense.
“How is your sister, little Miss Susan ?" said
Joseph.
• Why, she is here—have you not seen her ?”
said Silence; “ there she is, in that corner.”
Joseph looked, but could scarcely recognise her.
There stood a tall, slender, blooming girl, that
might have been selected as a specimen of that
union of perfect health with delicate fairness so
characteristic of the young New-England beauty.
She was engaged in telling some merry story to
a knot of young girls, and the rich colour that,
like a bright spirit, constantly went and came in
her cheeks ; the dimples, quick and varying as
those of a little brook; the clear, mild eye; the
66
LOVE versus LAW.
45
clustering curls, and, above all, the happy, rejoicing
smile, and the transparent frankness and simplicity
of expression which beamed like sunshine about
her, all formed a combination of charms that took
our hero quite by surprise ; and when Silence, who
had a remarkable degree of directness in all her
dealings, called out, “ Here, Susan, is Joe Adams,
inquiring after you !" our practised young gentle.
man felt himself colour to the roots of his hair,
and for a moment he could scarce recollect that
first rudiment of manners, “ to make his bow like
a good boy." Susan coloured also; but, perceiv.
ing the confusion of our hero, her countenance as.
sumed an expression of mischievous drollery, which,
helped on by the titter of her companions, added
not a little to his confusion.
“ Deuse take it !" thought he," what's the mat.
ter with me ?" and, calling up his courage, he dash.
ed into the formidable circle of fair ones, and be.
gan chattering with one and another, calling by
name with or without introduction, remembering
things that never happened with a freedom that was
perfectly fascinating.
“Really, how handsome he has grown!" thought
Susan; and she coloured deeply when once or
twice the dark
of our hero made the same ob.
servation with regard to herself, in that quick, in-
telligible dialect which eyes alone can speak. And
eyes
46
LOVE versus LAW.
when the little party dispersed, as they did very
punctually at nine o'clock, our hero requested of
Miss Silence the honour of attending her home, an
evidence of discriminating taste which materially
raised him in the estimation of that lady. It was
true, to be sure, that Susan walked on the other
side of him, her little white hand just within his
arm; and there was something in that light touch
that puzzled him unaccountably, as might be infer.
red from the frequency with which Miss Silence
was obliged to bring up the ends of conversation
with, “ What did you say ?” “What were you
going to say ?" and other persevering forms of in-
quiry, with which a regular-trained matter-of-fact
talker will hunt down a poor fellow-mortal who is
in danger of sinking into a comfortable revery.
When they parted at the gate, however, Silence
gave our hero a hearty invitation to come and see
them any time,” which he mentally regarded as
more to the point than anything else that had been
said.
As Joseph soberly retraced his way homeward,
his thoughts, by some unaccountable association,
began to revert to such topics as the loneliness of
man by himself, the need of kindred spirits, the sol.
aces of sympathy, and other like matters.
That night Joseph dreamed of trotting along
with his dinner-basket to the old brown school.
a
"
LOVE versus LAW.
47
house, and vainly endeavouring to overtake Susan
Jones, whom he saw with her little pasteboard sun-
bonnet a few yards in front of him; then he was
tetering with her on a long board, her bright little
face glancing up and down, while every curl around
it seemed to be living with delight; and then he
was snowballing Tom Williams for knocking down
Susan's doll's house, or he sat by her on a bench,
helping her out with a long sum in arithmetic; but,
with the mischievous fatality of dreams, the more
he ciphered and expounded, the longer and more
hopeless grew
the sum;
and he awoke in the morn.
ing pshawing at his ill luck, after having done a
sum over half a dozen times, while Susan seemed
to be looking on with the same air of arch drol.
lery that he saw on her face the evening before.
“ Joseph," said Uncle Jaw, the next morning at
breakfast, " I s'pose Squire Jones's daughters were
not at the quilting ?”
Yes, sir, they were,” said our hero ; " they
were both there."
Why, you don't say so ?"
“ They certainly were," persisted the son.
"Well, I thought the old gal had too much spunk
for that: you see there is a quarrel between the
deacon and those gals."
“ Indeed !” said Joseph. “ I thought the deacon
never quarrelled with anybody."
66
66
9
48
LOVE versus LAW.
66
“ But, you see, old Silence there, she will quar-
rel with him : railly, that creatur' is a tough one;"
and Uncle Jaw leaned back in his chair, and con.
templated the quarrelsome propensities of Miss Sie
lence with the satisfaction of a kindred spirit.
“But I'll fix her yet," he continued; “I see how
to work it."
Indeed, father, I did not know that you had
anything to do with their affairs."
“ Ha’n't I? I should like to know if I ha'n't !"
replied Uncle Jaw, triumphantly. “Now see here,
Joseph : you see I mean you shall be a lawyer :
I'm pretty considerable of a lawyer myself-tbat
is, for one not college larn't, and I'll tell
you
how
it is"--and thereupon Uncle Jaw launched forth
into the case of the medder land and the mill, and
concluded with, “ Now, Joseph, this 'ere is a kind.
er whetstone for you to hone up your wits on.”
In pursuance, therefore, of this plan of sharpen.
ing his wits in the manner aforesaid, our hero, af.
ter breakfast, went, like a dutiful son, directly to.
wards Squire Jones's, doubtless for the purpose of
taking ocular survey of the meadow land, mill, and
stone wall; but, by some unaccountable mistake,
lost his way, and found himself standing before the
door of Squire Jones's house.
The old 'squire had been among the aristocracy
of the village, and his house had been the ultimate
a
LOVE versus LAW.
49
standard of comparison in all matters of style and
garniture. Their big front room, instead of being
strewn with lumps of sand, duly streaked over
twice a week, was resplendent with a carpet of red,
yellow, and black stripes, while a towering pair of
long-legged brass andirons, scoured to a silvery
white, gave an air of magnificence to the chimney,
which was materially increased by the tall brass-
headed shovel and tongs, which, like a decorous,
starched married couple, stood bolt upright in their
places on either side. The sanctity of the place
was still farther maintained by keeping the win.
dow-shutters always closed, admitting only so much
light as could come in by a round hole at the top
of the shutter, and it was only on occasions of ex-
traordinary magnificence that the room was thrown
open to profane eyes.
Our hero was surprised, therefore, to find both
the doors and windows of this apartment open, and
symptoms evident of its being in daily occupation
The furniture still retained its massive, clumsy
stiffness, but there were various tokens that lighter
fingers had been at work there since the notable
days of good Dame Jones. There was a vase
of flowers on the table, two or three books of poe.
try, and a little fairy work-basket, from which peep-
ed forth the edges of some worked ruffling ; there
was a small writing-desk, and last, not least, in a
E
a
50
LOVE versus LAW.
>
lady's collection, an album, with leaves of every
colour of the rainbow, containing inscriptions, in
sundry strong masculine hands, “ 'To Susan,” indi-
cating that other people had had their eyes open as
well as Mr. Joseph Adams. " So,” said he to him-
self, “ this quiet little beauty has had admirers after
all ;” and consequent upon this came another ques.
tion (which was none of his concern, to be sure),
whether the little lady were or were not engaged ;
and from these speculations he was aroused by a
light footstep, and anon the neat form of Susan made
its
appearance.
Good-morning, Miss Jones," said he, bowing.
Now there is something very comical in the
feeling when little boys and girls, who have always
known each other as plain Susan or Joseph, first
meet as “ Mr.” or “ Miss” So.and.So. Each one
feels half disposed, half afraid, to return to the old
familiar form, and awkwardly fettered by the recol.
lection that they are no longer children. Both par.
ties had felt this the evening before, when they met
in company, but, now that they were alone togeth.
er, the feeling became still stronger; and when
Susan had requested Mr. Adams to take a chair,
and Mr. Adams had inquired after Miss Susan's
health, there ensued a pause, which, the longer it
continued, seemed the more difficult to break, and
during which Susan's pretty face slowly assumed
LOVE versus LAW.
51
an expression of the ludicrous, till she was as near
laughing as propriety would admit; and Mr. Ad-
ams, having looked out at the window, and up at
the mantelpiece, and down at the carpet, at last
looked at Susan ; their eyes met: the effect was
electrical; they both smiled, and then laughed out-
right, after which the whole difficulty of conversa.
tion vanished.
“Susan,” said Joseph, " do you remember the
old schoolhouse ?"
“ I thought that was what you were thinking of,”
said Susan ; " but, really, you have grown and al-
tered so that I could hardly believe my eyes last
night.”
“ Nor I mine," said Joseph, with a glance that
gave a very complimentary turn to the expression.
Our readers may imagine that after this the con-
versation proceeded to grow increasingly confiden-
tial and interesting; that, from the account of ear.
ly life, each proceeded to let the other know some.
thing of intervening history, in the course of which
each discovered a number of new and admirable
traits in the other, such things being matters of
very common occurrence. In the course of the con-
versation, Joseph discovered that it was necessary
that Susan should have two or three books then in
his possession, and, as promptitude is a great mat-
ter in such cases, he promised to bring them “to.
morrow.”
1
52
LOVE versus LAW!
66
For some time our young friends pursued their
acquaintance, without a distinct consciousness of
anything except that it was a very pleasant thing
to be together. During the long, still afternoons,
they rambled among the fading woods, now illumi.
nated with the radiance of the dying year, and sen.
timentalized and quoted poetry; and almost every
evening Joseph found some errand to bring him to
the house ; a book for Miss Susan, or a bevy of
roots and herbs for Miss Silence, or some remark.
ably fine yarn for her to knit; attentions which re.
tained our hero in the good graces of the latter
lady, and gained him the credit of being “a young
man that knew how to behave himself.” As Susan
was a leading member in the village choir, our hero
was directly attacked with a violent passion for sa.
cred music, which brought him punctually to the
singing.school, where the young people came to-
gether to sing anthems and fuguing tunes, and to
eat apples and chestnuts.
It cannot be supposed that all these things pass.
ed unnoticed by those wakeful eyes that are ever
upon the motions of such“ bright particular stars,"
and, as is usual in such cases, many things were
known to a certainty which were not yet known to
the parties themselves. The young belles and
beaux whispered and tittered, and passed the ori.
ginal jokes and witticisms common in such cases,
LOVE versus LAW.
53
be a
66
while the old ladies soberly took the matter in
hand when they went out with their knitting to
make afternoon visits, considering how much mon-
ey Uncle Jaw had, how much his son would have,
and how much Susan would have, and what all to-
gether would come to, and whether Joseph would
smart man,” and Susan a good housekeep-
er, with all the “ifs, ands, and buts” of married
life.
But the most fearful wonders and prognostics
crowded around the point " what Uncle Jaw would
have to say to the matter.” His lawsuit with the
sisters being well understood, as there was every
reason it should be, it was surmised what two such
vigorous belligerents as himself and Miss Silence
would say to the prospect of a matrimonial con-
junction. It was also reported that Deacon Enos
Dudley had a claim to the land which constituted
the finest part of Susan's portion, the loss of which
would render the consent of Uncle Jaw still more
doubtful. But all this while Miss Silence knew
nothing of the matter, for her habit of considering
and treating Susan as a child seemed to gain
strength with time, Susan was always to be seen
to, and watched, and instructed, and taught ; and
Miss Silence could not conceive that one who could
not even make pickles without her to oversee, could
think of such a matter as setting up housekeeping
E 2
54
LOVE versus LAW.
a
>
herself. To be sure, she began to observe an ex.
traordinary change in her sister ; remarked that
lately Susan seemed to be getting sort o' crazy.
headed ; that she seemed not to have any “ facul.
ty” for anything; that she had made gingerbread
twice, and forgot the ginger one time, and put in
mustard the other; that she took the saltcellar out
in the tablecloth, and let the cat into the pantry
half a dozen times ; and that, when scolded for
these sins of omission or commission, she had a fit
of crying, and did a little worse than before. Si-
lence was of opinion that Susan was getting to be
“weakly and narvy,” and actually concocted an un-
merciful pitcher of wormwood and boneset, which
she said was to keep off the “shaking weakness"
that was coming over her. In vain poor Susan
protested that she was well enough-Miss Silence
knew better ; and one evening she entertained Mr.
Joseph Adams with a long statement of the case in
all its bearings, and ended with demanding his opin.
ion, as a candid listener, whether the wormwood and
boneset sentence should not be executed.
Poor Susan had that very afternoon parted from
a knot of young friends who had teased her most
unmercifully on the score of attentions received,
till she began to think the very leaves and stones
were so many eyes to pry into her secret feelings,
and then to have the whole case set in order be.
LOVE versus LAW.
55
fore the very person, too, whom she most dreaded.
Certainly he would think she was acting like a
fool; perhaps he did not mean anything more than
friendship, after all, and she would not, for the
world, have him suppose that she cared a copper
more for him than for any other friend, or that she
was in love, of all things.” So she sat very busy
with her knitting-work, scarcely knowing what she
was about, till Silence called out,
“Why, Susan, what a piece of work you are
making of that stocking heel! What in the world
are you doing to it?"
Susan dropped her knitting, and, making some
pettish answer, escaped out of the room.
“Now did you ever !” said Silence, laying down
the seam she had been cross-stitching ; "what is
the matter with her, Mr. Adams ?”
“ Miss Susan is certainly indisposed," replied
our hero, gravely ; “I must get her to take your
advice, Miss Silence.”
Our hero followed Susan to the front door, where
she stood looking out at the moon, and begged to
know what distressed her.
Of course it was “nothing," the young lady's
usual complaint when in low spirits ; and to show
that she was perfectly easy, she began an unspa-
ring attack on a white rosebush near by.
“Susan !” said Joseph, laying his hand on hers,
56
LOVE versus LAW.
and in a tone that made her start. She shook
back her curls, and looked up to him with such an
innocent, confiding face-
Ah, my good reader, you may go on with this
part of the story for yourself. We are principled
against unveiling the “sacred mysteries," the
“ thoughts that breathe and words that burn,” in
such little moonlight interviews as these. You
may fancy all that followed ; and we can only as.
sure all who are doubtful, that, under judicious
management, cases of this kind may be disposed
of without wormwood or boneset. Our hero and
heroine were called to sublunary realities by the
voice of Miss Silence, who came into the passage
to see what upon earth they were doing. That
lady was satisfied by the representations of so
friendly and learned a young man as Joseph, that
nothing immediately alarming was to be appre-
hended in the case of Susan, and she retired.
From that evening Susan stepped about with a
heart many pounds lighter than before.
“I'll tell you what, Joseph," said Uncle Jaw,
“ I'll tell you what, now, I hear 'em tell that you've
took and courted that 'ere Susan Jones. Now I
jest want to know if it's true ?"
There was an explicitness about this mode of
inquiry that took our hero quite by surprise, so
that he could only reply,
LOVE versus LAW.
57
»
can tell
« Why, sir, supposing I had, would there be any
objection to it in your mind ?".
“Don't talk to me," said Uncle Jaw; “I jest
want to know if it's true ?"
Our hero put his hands in his pockets, walked
to the window, and whistled.
“ 'Cause if you have," said Uncle Jaw, "you
may jest uncourt as fast as you can; for Squire
Jones's daughter won't get a single cent of my
money,
I
you
that."
Why, father, Susan Jones is not to blame for
anything that her father did, and I'm sure she is a
pretty girl enough.”
“ I don't care if she is pretty ; what's that to me?
I've got you through college, Joseph, and a hard
time I've had of it, a delvin and slaving, and here
you come, and the very first thing you do, you
must take and court that ’ere Squire Jones's daugh.
ter, who was always putting himself up above me;
besides, I mean to have the law on that estate yet,
and Deacon Dudley, he will have the law too, and
it will cut off the best piece of land the girl has ;
and when you get married, I mean you shall have
something. It's jest a trick of them gals at me;
but I
guess
with 'em yet. I'm just a
goin' down to have a regular hash' with old Si.
lence, to let her know she can't come round me that
way.'
I'll come up
6
58
LOVE versus LAW.
“ Silence,” said Susan, drawing her head into the
window and looking apprehensive, “ there is Mr.
Adams coming here."
“ What, Joe Adams? Well, and what if he is ?”
“ No, no, sister, but it is his father--it is Uncle
Jaw.”
“ Well, s'pose 'tis, child—what scares you ?
s'pose I'm afraid of him ? If he wants more than
I gave him last time, I'll put it on." So saying,
Miss Silence took her knitting work and marched
down into the sitting-room, and sat herself bolt up-
right in an attitude of defiance, while poor Susan,
feeling her heart beat unaccountably fast, glided
out of the room.
“ Well, good-morning, Miss Silence," said Uncle
Jaw, after having scraped his feet on the scraper,
and scrubbed them on the mat nearly ten minutes
in silent deliberation.
“ Morning, sir," said Silence, abbreviating the
“ good.”
Uncle Jaw helped himself to a chair directly in
front of the enemy, dropped his hat on the floor, and
surveyed Miss Silence with a dogged air of satis.
faction, like one who is sitting down to a regular,
comfortable quarrel, and means to make the most
of it.
Miss Silence tossed her head disdainfully, but
scorned to commence hostilities.
LOVE versus LAW.
59
“So, Miss Silence,” said Uncle Jaw, deliberate-
ly, "you don't think you'll do anything about that
'ere matter."
6 What matter ?" said Silence, with an intonation
resembling that of a roasted chestnut when it bursts
from the fire.
“I railly thought, Miss Silence, in that 'ere talk
I had with you about Squire Jones's cheatin' about
that 'ere"
“ Mr. Adams,” said Silence, “ I tell you, to begin
with, I'm not a going to be sauced in this 'ere way
by you. You ha'n't got common decency, nor
common sense, nor common anything else, to talk
so to me about my father : I won't bear it, I tell
.
you."
66
Why, Miss Jones,” said Uncle Jaw,“ how you
talk! Well, to be sure, Squire Jones is dead and
gone, and it's as well not to call it cheatin', as I was
tellin' Deacon Enos when he was talking about that
'ere lot—that 'ere lot, you know, that he sold the
deacon, and never let him have the deed on't.”
“ That's a lie,” said Silence, starting on her feet;
" that's an up and down black lie! I tell you that,
now, before you say another word.”
“ Miss Silence, railly, you seem to be getting
touchy,” said Uncle Jaw; “ well, to be sure, if the
deacon can let that
pass,
other folks
can, may-
be the deacon will, because Squire Jones was a
and
60
LOVE versus LAW.
church member, and the deacon is 'inazin' tender
about bringing out anything against professors; but
railly, now, Miss Silence, I didn't think you and
Susan were going to work it so cunning in this here
way.”
“ I don't know what you mean, and, what's more,
I don't care," said Silence, resuming her work, and
calling back the bolt, upright dignity with which
she began.
There was a pause of some moments, during
which the features of Silence worked with suppress.
ed rage, which was contemplated by Uncle Jaw
with undisguised satisfaction.
“ You see, I s'pose, I shouldn't a minded your
Susan's setting out to court up my Joe, if it hadn't
a been for those things.”
“Courting your son! Mr. Adams, I should like
to know what you mean by that. I'm sure nobody
wants your son, though he's a civil, likely fellow
enough; yet with such an old dragon for a father,
I'll warrant he won't get anybody to court him, nor
be courted by him neither.”
Railly, Miss Silence, you a’n’t hardly civil,
now."
“ Civil! I should like to know who could be civil ?
You know, now, as well as I do, that you are say.
ing all this out of clear, sheer ugliness ; and that's
what you keep a doing all round the neighbour.
hood."
a
LOVE versus LAW.
61
“ Miss Silence,” said Uncle Jaw, " I don't want
no hard words with you. It's pretty much known
round the neighbourhood that your Susan thinks
she'll get my Joe, and I s'pose you was thinking
that perhaps it would be the best way of settling
up matters ; but you see, now, I took and telld my
son I railly didn't see as I could afford it ; I took
and telld him that young folks must have some-
thing considerable to start with ; and that, if Susan
lost that 'ere piece of ground, as is likely she will,
it would be cutting off quite too much of a piece ;
so, you see, I don't want you to take no encourage.
ment about that.”
“ Well, I think this is pretty well !” exclaimed
Silence, provoked beyond measure or endurance ;
“you old torment! think I don't know what you're
at? I and Susan courting your son? I wonder
if you a'n't ashamed of yourself, now! I should
like to know what I or she have done, now, to get
that notion into your head ?"
“I didn't s'pose you 'spected to get him your.
self,” said Uncle Jaw, “ for I guess by this time
you've pretty much gin up trying, ha'n't ye? But
Susan does, I'm pretty sure."
" Here, Susan! Susan! you come down !" call.
ed Miss Silence, in great wrath, throwing open the
chamber door. “ Mr. Adams wants to speak with
you.” Susan, fluttering and agitated, slowly de•
F
>
62
LOVE versus LAW.
a
scended into the room, where she stopped, and
looked hesitatingly, first at Uncle Jaw and then at
her sister, who, without ceremony, proposed the
subject-matter of the interview as follows:
“ Now, Susan, here's this man pretends to say
that you've been a courting and snaring to get his
son, and I just want you to tell him that you ha'n't
never had no thought of him, and that you won't
have, neither."
This considerate way of announcing the subject
had the effect of bringing the burning colour into
Susan's face, as she stood like a convicted culprit,
with her eyes bent on the floor.
Uncle Jaw, savage as he was, was always moved
by female loveliness, as wild beasts are said to be
mysteriously swayed by music, and looked on the
beautiful, downcast face with more softening than
Miss Silence, who, provoked that Susan did not im.
mediately respond to the question, seized her by the
arm and eagerly reiterated,
“Susan ! why don't you speak, child ?”
Gathering desperate courage, Susan shook off
the hand of Silence, and straightened herself up
with as much dignity as some little flower lifts up,
its head when it has been bent down by rain-drops.
“Silence,” she said, “ I never would have come
down if I had thought it was to hear such things as
this. Mr. Adams, all I have to say to you is, that
9
LOVE versus LAW.
63
your son has sought me, and not I your son. If
you wish to know any more, he can tell
you
better
than I.”
6 Well, I vow! she is a pretty girl," said Uncle
Jaw, as Susan shut the door.
This exclamation was involuntary ; then recol.
lecting himself, he picked up his hat, and saying,
“ Well, I guess I may as well get along hum," he
I
began to depart; but, turning round before he shut
the door, he said, “ Miss Silence, if you
should con.
clude to do anything about that 'ere fence, just send
word over and let me know."
Silence, without deigning any reply, marched up
into Susan's little chamber, where our heroine was
treating resolution to a good fit of crying.
Susan, I did not think you had been such a
fool,” said the lady. “I do want to know, now, if
you've railly been thinking of getting married, and
to that Joe Adams of all folks!”
Poor Susan! such an interlude in all her pretty
romantic little dreams about kindred feelings and a
hundred other delightful ideas, that flutter like sing.
ing-birds through the fairy-land of first love. Such
an interlude ! to be called on by gruff human voices
to give up all the cherished secrets that she had
trembled to whisper even to herself. She felt as
if love itself had been defiled by the coarse, rough
hands that had been meddling with it; so to her
66
64
LOVE versus LAW.
a
66
»
sister's soothing address Susan made no answer,
only to cry and sob still more bitterly than before.'
Miss Silence, if she had a great stout heart, had
no less a kind one, and seeing Susan take the
matter so bitterly to heart, she began gradually to
subside.
“ Susan, you poor little fool, you,” said she, at the
same time giving her a hearty slap, as expressive
of earnest sympathy, “ I really do feel for you; that
good-for-nothing fellow has been a cheatin' you, I
do believe."
Oh, don't talk any more about it, for mercy's
sake," said Susan; “I am sick of the whole of it.”
“ That's you, Susan! Glad to hear you say so !
I'll stand up for you, Susan; if I catch Joe Adams
coming here again with his palavering face, I'll let
him know !"
“No! no! Don't, for mercy's sake, say anything
to Mr. Adams-don't !"
“ Well, child, don't claw hold of a body so!
Well, at any rate, I'll just let Joe Adams know that
we ha'n't nothing more to say to him.”
“ But I don't wish to say that--that is I don't
know-indeed, sister Silence, don't say anything
about it."
- Why not? You a’n't such a natural, now, as to
want to marry him after all, hey?"
6 I don't know what I want nor what I don't
65
LOVE versus LAW.
65
66
want; only, Silence, do now, if you love me, do
promise not to say anything at all to Mr. Adams-
don't."
“ Well, then, I won't,” said Silence ; " but, Su•
san, if you railly was in love all this while, why
ha'n't you been and told me? Don't you know that
I'm as much as a mother to you, and you ought to
have told me in the beginning ?"
“ I don't know, Silence! I couldn't I don't want
to talk about it."
Well, Susan, you a'n't a bit like me,” said Si-
lence; a remark evincing great discrimination,
certainly, and with which the conversation termi.
nated.
That very evening our friend Joseph walked
down towards the dwelling of the sisters, not with-
out some anxiety for the result, for he knew by his
father's satisfied appearance had been de
clared. He walked into the family room, and found
nobody there but Miss Silence, who was sitting,
grim as an Egyptian sphinx, stitching very vigor.
ously on a meal-bag, in which interesting employ.
ment she thought proper to be so much engaged as
not to remark the entrance of our hero. To Jo.
seph's accustomed "Good-evening, Miss Silence,"
she replied merely by looking up with a cold nod,
and went on with her sewing. It appeared that she
that war
F 2
66
LOVE versus LAW.
1
had determined on a literal version of her promise
not to say anything to Mr. Adams.
Our hero, as we have before stated, was familiar
with the crooks and turns of the female mind, and
mentally resolved to put a bold face on the matter,
and give Miss Silence no encouragement in her at.
tempt to make him feel himself unwelcome. It was
rather a frosty autumnal evening, and the fire on
the hearth was decaying. Mr. Joseph bustled about
most energetically, throwing down the tongs, and
shovel, and bellows, while he pulled the fire to pie-
ces,' raked out ashes and brands, and then, in a
twinkling, was at the woodpile, from whence he se-
lected a massive backlog and forestick, with ac-
companiments, which were soon roaring and crack-
ling in the chimney.
“There, now, that does look something like com-
fort,” said our hero ; and drawing forward the big
rocking-chair, he seated himself in it, and rubbed
his hands with an air of great complacency. Miss
Silence looked not up, but stitched so much the fast-
er, so that one might distinctly hear the crack of
the needle and the whistle of the thread all over the
apartment.
“ Have you a headache to.night, Miss Silence ?"
“ No !" was the gruff answer.
“ Are you in a hurry about those bags ?" said he,
LOVE versus LAW.
67
glancing at a pile of unmade ones which lay by her
side.
No reply. “ Hang it all !” said our hero to him-
self, “ I'll make her speak.”
Miss Silence's needle-book and brown thread lay
on a chair beside her. Our friend helped himself
to a needle and thread, and taking one of the bags,
planted himself bolt upright opposite to Miss Si.
lence, and pinning his work to his knee, commen.
ced stitching at a rate fully equal to her own.
Miss Silence looked up and fidgeted, but went on
with her work faster than before ; but the faster
she worked, the faster and steadier worked our
hero, all in “marvellous silence." There began
to be an odd twitching about the muscles of Miss
Silence's face ; our hero took no notice, having
pursed his features into an expression of unexam.
pled gravity, which only grew more intense as he
perceived, by certain uneasy movements, that the
adversary was beginning to waver.
As they were sitting, stitching away, their nee.
dles whizzing at each other like a couple of loco.
motives engaged in conversation, Susan opened the
door.
The poor child had been crying for the greater
part of her spare time during the day, and was in
no very merry humour; but the moment that her
astonished eyes comprehended the scene, she burst
68
LOVE versuS LAW.
into a fit of almost inextinguishable merriment,
while Silence laid down her needle, and looked half
amused and half angry. Our hero, however, con.
tinued his business with inflexible perseverance, un-
pinning his work and moving the seam along, and
going on with increased velocity.
Poor Miss Silence was at length vanquished, and
joined in the loud laugh which seemed to convulse
her sister. Whereupon our hero unpinned his
work, and folding it up, looked up at her with all
the assurance of impudence triumphant, and re.
marked to Susan,
“ Your sister had such a pile of these pillow.ca.
ses to make, that she was quite discouraged, and
engaged me to do half a dozen of them : when I
first came in she was so busy she could not even
speak to me.”
“ Well, if you a’n't the beater for impudence !"
said Miss Silence.
“ The beater for industry—so I thought,” rejoin.
ed our hero.
Susan, who had been in a highly tragical state
of mind all day, and who was meditating on nothing
less sublime than an eternal separation from her
lover, which she had imagined, with all the affect.
ing attendants and consequents, was entirely revo.
lutionized by the unexpected turn thus given to her
ideas, while our hero pursued the opportunity he
LOVE versus LAW.
69
had made for himself, and exerted his powers of en.
tertainment to the utmost, till Miss Silence, decla.
ring that if she had been washing all day she should
not have been more tired than she was with laugh.
ing, took up her candle, and good-naturedly left our
young people to settle matters between themselves.
There was a grave pause of some length when she
had departed, which was broken by our hero, who,
seating himself by Susan, inquired very seriously
if his father had made proposals of marriage to
Miss Silence that morning.
“ No, you provoking creature !" said Susan, at
the same time laughing at the absurdity of the idea.
“ Well, now, don't draw on your long face again,
Susan," said Joseph ; " you have been trying to
lengthen it down all the evening, if I would have
let you. Seriously, now, I know that something
painful passed between my father and you this
morning, but I shall not inquire what it was. I I
only tell you, frankly, that he has expressed his
disapprobation of our engagement, forbidden me to
go on with it, and"
" And, consequently, I release you from all en-
gagements and obligations to me, even before you
ask it,” said Susan.
“ You are extremely accommodating," replied
Joseph ; " but I cannot promise to be as obliging in
giving up certain promises made to me, unless, in-
70
LOVE versus LAW.
"
"
a
deed, the feelings that dictated them should have
changed."
" Oh, no-no, indeed,” said Susan, earnestly ;
“ you know it is not that; but if your father objects
to me"
“If my father objects to you, he is welcome not
to marry you,” said Joseph.
Now, Joseph, do be serious,” said Susan.
“Well, then, seriously, Susan, I know my obli.
gation to my father, and in all that relates to his
comfort I will ever be dutiful and submissive, for I
have no college-boy pride on the subject of sub-
mission ; but in a matter so individually my own
as the choice of a wife-in a matter that will most
likely affect my happiness years and years after he
has ceased to be, I hold that I have a right to con.
sult my own inclinations, and, by your leave, my
dear little lady, I shall take that liberty."
“ But, then, if your father is made angry, you
know what sort of a man he is; and how could I
stand in the way of all your prospects ?”
Why, my dear Susan, do you think I count
myself dependant upon my father, like the heir of
an English estate, who has nothing to do but sit
still and wait for money to come to him ? No! I
have energy and education to start with, and if I
cannot take care of myself, and you too, then cast
me off and welcome;" and, as Joseph spoke, his
LOVE versus LAW.
71
un.
fine face glowed with a conscious power, which
fettered youth never feels so fully as in America.
He paused a moment, and resumed : “Nevertheless,
Susan, I respect my father ; whatever others may
say of him, I shall never forget that I owe to his
hard earnings the education that enables me to do'
or be anything, and I shall not wantonly or rudely
cross him. I do not despair of gaining his con.
sent; my father has a great partiality for pretty
girls, and if his love of contradiction is not kept
awake by open argument, I will trust to time and,
you to bring him round; but, whatever comes, rest
assured, my dearest one, I have chosen for life, and
cannot change.”
The conversation, after this, took a turn which
may readily be imagined by all who have been in
the same situation, and will, therefore, need no
farther illustration.
Well, Deacon, railly I don't know what to
think now: there's my Joe, he's took and been a
courting that 'ere Susan,” said Uncle Jaw.
This was the introduction to one of Uncle Jaw's
periodical visits to Deacon Enos, who was sitting,
with his usual air of mild abstraction, looking into
the coals of a bright November fire, while his busy
helpmate was industriously rattling her knitting-
needles by his side.
A close observer might have suspected that this
66
72
LOVE versus LAW.
a
was no news to the good deacon, who had given a
great deal of good advice, in private, to Master
Joseph of late ; but he only relaxed his features
into a quiet smile, and ejaculated, “I want to
know !"
“ Yes; and railly, Deacon, that 'ere gal is a rail
pretty un. I was a tellin' my folks that our new
minister's wife was a fool to her.”
“And so your son is going to marry her ?” said
the good lady; "I knew that long ago."
" Well-no-not so fast; ye see there's two to
that bargain yet. You see, Joe, he never said a
word to me, but took and courted the gal out of
his own head; and when I come to know, says I,
Joe,' says I, 'that 'ere gal won't do for me ;' and
I took and tellid him, then, about that 'ere old fence,
and all about that old mill, and them medders of
mine; and I tellid him, too, about that 'ere lot of
Susan's; and I should like to know, now, Deacon,
how that lot business is a going to turn out."
“ Judge Smith and Squire Moseley say that my
claim to it will stand," said the deacon.
“ They do ?” said Uncle Jaw, with much satis-
faction; "s'pose, then, you'll sue, won't you ?”
"I don't know," replied the deacon, medita-
tively.
Uncle Jaw was thoroughly amazed; that any one
should have doubts about entering suit for a fine
6
>
LOVE versus LAW.
73
piece of land, when sure of obtaining it, was a prob.
lem quite beyond his powers of solving.
“ You say your son has courted the girl,” said
the deacon, after a long pause ; " that strip of land
is the best part of Susan's share; I paid down five
hundred dollars on the nail for it; I've got papers
here that Judge Smith and Squire Moseley say
will stand good in any court of law."
Uncle Jaw pricked up his ears and was all at.
tention, eying with eager looks the packet; but,
to his disappointment, the deacon deliberately laid
it into his desk, shut and locked it, and resumed
his seat.
“Now, railly,” said Uncle Jaw, "I should like
to know the particulars."
“Well, well,” said the deacon, “ the lawyers
will be at my house to.morrow evening, and if you
have any concern about it, you may as well come
along."
Uncle Jaw wondered all the way home at what
he could have done to get himself into the confi.
dence of the old deacon, who, he rejoiced to think,
was a going to “take” and go to law like other
folks.
The next day there was an appearance of some
bustle and preparation about the deacon's house;
the best room was opened and aired; an ovenful
of cake was baked, and our friend Joseph, with a
G
74
LOVE versus LAW.
face full of business, was seen passing to and fro,
in and out of the house, from various closetings
with the deacon. The deacon's lady bustled about
the house with an air of wonderful mystery, and
even gave her directions about eggs and raisins in
a whisper, lest they should possibly let out some
eventful secret.
The afternoon of that day Joseph appeared at
the house of the sisters, stating that there was to
be company at the deacon's that evening, and he
was sent to invite them.
“Why, what's got into the deacon's folks lately,"
said Silence, “to have company so often? Joe
Adams, this ’ere is some cut up' of yours. Come,
what are you up to now ?"
“Come, come, dress yourselves and get ready,”
said Joseph; and, stepping up to Susan, as she was
following Silence out of the room, he whispered
something into her ear, at which she stopped short
and coloured violently.
Why, Joseph, what do you mean ?"
“ It is so," said he.
“No, no, Joseph ; no, I can't, indeed I can't.”
“ But you can, Susan.”
“ Oh, Joseph, don't."
“Oh, Susan, do.”
“Why, how strange, Joseph !"
“Come, come, my dear, you keep me waiting.
66
LOVE versus LAW.
75
If you have any objections on the score of propriety,
we will talk about them to-morrow;" and our hero
looked so saucy and so resolute that there was no
disputing farther; so, after a little more lingering
and blushing on Susan's part, and a few kisses and
persuasions on the part of the suiter, Miss Susan
seemed to be brought to a state of resignation.
At a table in the middle of Uncle Enos's north
front room were seated the two lawyers, whose
legal opinion was that evening to be fully made up.
The
younger of these, Squire Moseley, was a rosy,
portly, laughing little bachelor, who boasted that he
had offered himself, in rotation, to every pretty girl
within twenty miles round, and, among others, to
Susan Jones, notwithstanding which he still remain.
ed a bachelor, with a fair prospect of being an old
one; but none of these things disturbed the bound.
less flow of good-nature and complacency with
which he seemed at all times full to overflowing.
On the present occasion he seemed to be particu.
larly in his element, as if he had some law business
in hand remarkably suited to his turn of mind; for,
on finishing the inspection of the papers, he started
up, slapped his graver brother on the back, made
two or three flourishes round the room, and then
seizing the old deacon's hand, shook it violently,
exclaiming,
“ All's right, Deacon, all's right! Go it! go it!
hurrah!"
76
LOVE versuS LAW.
>
a
When Uncle Jaw entered, the deacon, without
preface, handed him a chair and the papers, saying,
“ These papers are what you wanted to see. I
just wish
you
would read them over.”
Uncle Jaw read them deliberately over. “Didn't
I tell ye so, Deacon? The case is as clear as a bell:
now ye will go to law, won't you ?"
“ Look here, Mr. Adams; now you have seen
these papers, and heard what's to be said, I'll
make you an offer. Let your son marry Susan
Jones, and I'll burn these papers and say no
more about it, and there won't be a girl in the
parish with a finer portion."
Uncle Jaw opened his eyes with amazement,
and looked at the old man, his mouth gradually
expanding wider and wider, as if he hoped, in time,
to swallow the idea.
“Well, now, I swan!" at length he ejaculated.
“I mean just as I say,” said the deacon.
Why, that's the same as giving the gal five
hundred dollars out of your own pocket, and she
a'n't no relation neither."
“I know it,” said the deacon; 66 but I have said
I will do it.”
“ What upon 'arth for?” said Uncle Jaw.
“ To make peace,” said the deacon, “and to let
you know that when I say it is better to give up
one's rights than to quarrel, I mean so. I am an
LOVE versuS LAW.
77
66
old man; my children are dead”-his voice fal.
tered—“my treasures are laid
up in heaven; if I
can make the children happy, why, I will. When
I thought I had lost the land, I made up my mind
to lose it, and so I can now.”
Uncle Jaw looked fixedly on the old deacon and
said,
Well, Deacon, I believe you. I vow, if you
ha'n't got something ahead in t'other world, I'd
like to know who has, that's all; so, if Joe has no
objections, and I rather guess he won't have—"
6. The short of the matter is,” said the squire,
“ we'll have a wedding; so come on;" and with
that he threw open the parlour door, where stood
Susan and Joseph in a recess by the window, while
Silence and the Rev. Mr. Bissel were drawn up by
the fire, and the deacon's lady was sweeping up
the hearth, as she had been doing ever since the
party arrived.
Instantly Joseph took the hand of Susan, and led
her to the middle of the room; the merry squire
seized the hand of Miss Silence and placed her as
bridesmaid, and before any one could open their
mouths, the ceremony was in actual progress, and
the minister, having been previously instructed,
made the two one with extraordinary celerity.
What! what! what !” said uncle Jaw.
seph! Deacon!"
66 Jo.
G2
78
LOVE versus LAW.
“Fair bargain, sir," said the squire. “Hand
66
over your papers, Deacon.”
The deacon handed them, and the squire, having
read them aloud, proceeded, with much ceremony,
to throw them into the fire ; after which, in a
mock solemn oration, he gave a statement of the
whole affair, and concluded with a grave exhorta-
tion to the new couple on the duties of wedlock,
which unbent the risibles even of the minister him-
self.
Uncle Jaw looked at his pretty daughter-in-law,
who stood half smiling, half blushing, receiving the
congratulations of the party, and then at Miss Si.
lence, who appeared full as much taken by surprise
as himself.
Well, well, Miss Silence, these 'ere young folks
have come round us slick enough," said he. “I
don't see but we must shake hands upon it.” And
the warlike powers shook hands accordingly, which
was a signal for general merriment.
As the company were dispersing, Miss Silence
Jaid hold of the good deacon, and by main strength
dragged him aside : “ Deacon," said she, “ I take
”
back all that 'ere I said about you, every word
on't.”
“Don't say any more about it, Miss Silence,"
said the good man; “ it's gone by, and let it go."
“ Joseph !" said his father, the next morning, as
9
LOVE versus LAW.
79
he was sitting at breakfast with Joseph and Susan,
“ I calculate I shall feel kinder proud of this 'ere
gal! and I'll tell you what, I'll jest give you that
nice little delicate Stanton place that I took on
Stanton's mortgage : it's a nice little place, with
green blinds, and flowers, and all them things, just
right for Susan.”
And, accordingly, many happy years flew over
the heads of the young couple in the Stanton place,
long after the hoary hairs of their kind benefactor,
the deacon, were laid with reverence in the dust.
Uncle Jaw was so far wrought upon by the mag.
nanimity of the good old man as to be very mate-
rially changed for the better. Instead of quarrel.
ling in real earnest all around the neighbourhood,
he confined himself merely to battling the
battling the opposite
side of every question with his son, which, as the
latter was somewhat of a logician, afforded a pret.
ty good field for the exercise of his powers ; and
he was heard to declare at the funeral of the old
deacon, that, “after all, a man got as much, and
maybe more, to go along as the deacon did, than to
be all the time fisting and jawing ; though I tell
you what it is,” said he, afterward, “ 'taint every
one that has the deacon's faculty, any how.”
THE TEA ROSE.
1
THERE it stood, in its little green vase, on a light
ebony stand, in the window of the drawing-room.
The rich satin curtains, with their costly fringes,
swept down on either side of it, and around it glit-
tered every rare and fanciful trifle which wealth can
offer to luxury, and yet that simple rose was the
fairest of them all. So pure it looked, its white
leaves just touched with that delicious creamy tint
peculiar to its kind ; its cup so full, so perfect; its
1
head bending as if it were sinking and melting
away in its own richness-oh! when did ever man
make anything to equal the living, perfect flower!
But the sunlight that streamed through the win.
dow revealed something fairer than the rose. Re.
clined on an ottoman, in a deep recess, and intent-
ly engaged with a book, rested what seemed the
counterpart of that so lovely flower. That cheek
so pale, that fair forehead so spiritual, that counte.
nance so full of high thought, those long, downcast
lashes, and the expression of the beautiful mouth,
sorrowful, yet subdued and sweet—it seemed like
the picture of a dream.
THE TEA ROSE.
81
Turn your
« Florence ! Florence !" echoed a merry and mu-
sical voice, in a sweet, impatient tone.
head, reader, and you will see a light and sparkling
maiden, the very model of some little wilful elf, born
of mischief and motion, with a dancing eye, a foot
that scarcely seems to touch the carpet, and a
smile so multiplied by dimples that it seems like
a thousand smiles at once. “Come, Florence, I
say,” said the little sprite, "put down that wise,
good, and excellent volume, and descend from your
cloud, and talk with a poor little mortal.”
The fair apparition, thus adjured, obeyed; and,
looking up, revealed just such eyes as you expect-
ed to see beneath such lids-eyes deep, pathetic,
and rich as a strain of sad music.
“ I say, cousin,” said the “ light ladye,” “ I have
been thinking what you are to do with your pet rose
when you go to New York, as, to our consterna.
tion, you are determined to do ; you know it would
be a sad pity to leave it with such a scatterbrain as
I am. I do love flowers, that is a fact; that is, I
like a regular bouquet, cut off and tied up, to carry
to a party ; but as to all this tending and fussing,
which is needful to keep them growing, I have no.
gifts in that line.”
“ Make yourself easy as to that, Kate,” said Flor-
ence, with a smile ; “ I have no intention of call.
ing upon your talents; I have an asylum in view
for my favourite."
"
a
82
THE TEA ROSE.
“Oh, then you know just what I was going to
say. Mrs. Marshall, I presume, has been speaking
to you; she was here yesterday, and I was quite
pathetic upon the subject, telling her the loss your
favourite would sustain, and so forth; and she said
how delighted she would be to have it in her green-
house, it is in such a fine state now, so full of buds.
I told her I knew you would like to give it to her,
you are so fond of Mrs. Marshall, you know."
“Now, Kate, I am sorry, but I have otherwise
engaged it.”
“ Who can it be to? you have so few intimates
here."
« Oh, it is only one of my odd fancies.”
“ But do tell me, Flore
“Well, cousin, you know the little pale girl to
whom we give sewing."
“What! little Mary Stephens ? How absurd !
Florence, this is just another of your motherly, old-
maidish ways--dressing dolls for poor children, ma-
king bonnets and knitting socks for all the little
dirty babies in the region round about. I do be.
lieve
you have made more calls in those two vile,
ill-smelling alleys back of our house, than ever you
have in Chestnut-street, though you know every-
body is half dying to see you; and now, to crown
all, you must give this choice little bijou to a semp-
stress-girl, when one of your most intimate friends,
THE TEA ROSE.
83
in your own class, would value it so highly. What
in the world can people in their circumstances want
of flowers ?”
“ Just the same as I do,” replied Florence, calm.
ly. “ Have you not noticed that the little girl
never comes here without looking wistfully at the
opening buds ? And, don't you remember, the oth-
er morning she asked me so prettily if I would let
her mother come and see it, she was so fond of
flowers ?”
“ But, Florence, only think of this rare flower
standing on a table with ham, eggs, cheese, and
flour, and stifled in that close little room where
Mrs. Stephens and her daughter manage to wash,
iron, cook, and nobody knows what besides."
“ Well, Kate, and if I were obliged to live in one
coarse room, and wash, and iron, and cook, as you
say—if I had to spend every moment of my time
in toil, with no prospect from my window but a brick
wall and dirty lane, such a flower as this would be
untold enjoyment to me."
“ Pshaw! Florence-all sentiment : poor people
have no time to be sentimental. Besides, I don't
believe it will grow with them ; it is a greenhouse
flower, and used to delicate living."
“Oh, as to that, a flower never inquires whether
its owner is rich or poor; and Mrs. Stephens,
whatever else she has not, has sunshine of as good
a
a
>
a
84
THE TEA ROSE.
66
quality as this that streams through our window.
The beautiful things that God makes are his gift
to all alike. You will see that my fair rose will
be as well and cheerful in Mrs. Stephens's room as
in ours."
“ Well, after all, how odd! When one gives to
poor people, one wants to give them something
useful—a bushel of potatoes, a ham, and such
things.”
Why, certainly, potatoes and ham must be sup.
plied ; but, having ministered to the first and most
craving wants, why not add any other little please
ures or gratifications we may have it in our power
to bestow? I know there are many of the poor
who have fine feeling and a keen sense of the beau-
tiful, which rusts out and dies because they are too
hard pressed to procure it any gratification. Poor
Mrs. Stephens, for example : I know she would en.
joy birds, and flowers, and music as much as I do.
I have seen her eye light up as she looked on these
things in our drawing.room, and yet not one beau.
tiful thing can she command. From necessity, her
room, her clothing, all she has, must be coarse and
plain. You should have seen the almost rapture
she and Mary felt when I offered them my rose.”
“Dear me! all this may be true, but I never
thought of it before. I never thought that these
hard-working people had any ideas of taste!"
1
85
THE TEA ROSE.
“ Then why do you see the geranium or rose so
carefully nursed in the old cracked teapot in the
poorest room, or the morning-glory planted in a box
and twined about the window. Do not these show
that the human heart yearns for the beautiful in all
ranks of life? You remember, Kate, how our
washerwoman sat up a whole night, after a hard
day's work, to make her first baby a pretty dress
to be baptized in."
“ Yes, and I remember how I laughed at you for
making such a tasteful little
cap
for it.”
" Well, Katy, I think the look of perfect delight
with which the poor mother regarded her baby in
its new dress and cap, was something quite worth
creating : I do believe she could not have felt more
grateful if I had sent her a barrel of flour."
“Well, I never thought before of giving anything
to the poor but what they really needed, and I have
always been willing to do that when I could with-
out going far out of my way."
“ Well, cousin, if our heavenly Father gave to
us after this mode, we should have only coarse,
shapeless piles of provisions lying about the world,
instead of all this beautiful variety of trees, and
fruits, and flowers.”
“ Well, well, cousin, I suppose you are right-
but have mercy on my poor head; it is too small
to hold so many new ideas all at once-so go on
H
86
THE TEA ROSE.
your own way." And the little lady began prac•
tising a waltzing step before the glass with great
satisfaction.
a
It was a very small room, lighted by only one
window. There was no carpet on the floor; there
was a clean, but coarsely-covered bed in one cor-
ner ; a cupboard, with a few dishes and plates, in the
other; a chest of drawers; and before the window
stood a small cherry stand, quite new, and, indeed,
it was the only article in the room that seemed so.
A pale, sickly-looking woman of about forty was
leaning back in her rocking.chair, her eyes closed
and her lips compressed as if in pain. She rocked
backward and forward a few minutes, pressed her
hand hard upon her eyes, and then languidly re.
sumed her fine stitching, on which she had been
busy since morning. The door opened, and a slen.
der little girl of about twelve years of age entered,
her large blue eyes dilated and radiant with de.
light as she bore in the vase with the rose-tree in it.
“Oh! see, mother, see! Here is one in full
bloom, and two more half out, and ever so many
more pretty buds peeping out of the green leaves.
The poor woman's face brightened as she looked,
first on the rose and then on her sickly child, on
whose face she had not seen so bright a colour for
months.
THE TEA ROSE.
87
a
“God bless her !” she exclaimed, unconsciously.
“Miss Florence--yes, I knew you would feel so,
mother. Does it not make your head feel better
to see such a beautiful flower ? Now
you
will not
look so longingly at the flowers in the market, for
we have a rose that is handsomer than any of them.
Why, it seems to me it is worth as much to us as
our whole little garden used to be. Only see how
many buds there are ! Just count them, and only
smell the flower! Now where shall we set it up ?”
And Mary skipped about, placing her flower first
in one position and then in another, and walking
off to see the effect, till her mother gently remind.
ed her that the rose-tree could not preserve its
beauty without sunlight.
“Oh yes, truly,” said Mary;" well, then, it must
stand here on our new stand. How glad I am
that we have such a handsome new stand for it;
it will look so much better.” And Mrs. Stephens
laid down her work, and folded a piece of news-
paper, on which the treasure was duly deposited.
“ There," said Mary, watching the arrangement
eagerly, " that will do-no, for it does not show
both the opening buds; a little farther around-a
little more; there, that is right;" and then Mary
walked around to view the rose in various posi.
tions, after which she urged her mother to go with
her to the outside, and see how it looked there.
88
THE TEA ROSE.
66
“ How kind it was in Miss Florence to think of
giving this to us !” said Mary; " though she had
done so much for us, and given us so many things,
yet this seems the best of all, because it seems as
if she thought of us, and knew just how we felt;
and so few do that, you know, mother."
What a bright afternoon that little gift made in
that little room. How much faster Mary's fingers
flew the livelong day as she sat sewing by her
mother; and Mrs. Stephens, in the happiness of her
child, almost forgot that she had a headache, and
thought, as she sipped her evening cup of tea, that
she felt stronger than she had done for some time.
That rose ! its sweet influence died not with the
first day. Through all the long cold winter, the
watching, tending, cherishing that flower awakened
a thousand pleasant trains of thought, that beguiled
the sameness and weariness of their life. Every
day the fair, growing thing put forth some fresh
beauty-a leaf, a bud, a new shoot, and constantly
awakened fresh enjoyment in its possessors. As it
stood in the window, the passer-by would some-
times stop and gaze, attracted by its beauty, and
then proud and happy was Mary; nor did even the
serious and careworn widow notice with indifference
this tribute to the beauty of their favourite.
But little did Florence think, when she bestowed
the gift, that there twined about it an invisible
THE TEA ROSE.
89
>
thread that reached far and brightly into the web
of her destiny.
One cold afternoon in early spring, a tall and
graceful gentleman called at the lowly room to pay
for the making of some linen by the inmates. He
was a stranger and wayfarer, recommended through
the charity of some of Mrs. Stephens's patrons. As
he turned to go, his eye rested admiringly on the
rose-tree, and he stopped to gaze at it.
“ How beautiful !” said he.
“ Yes," said little Mary," and it was given to
us by a lady as sweet and beautiful as that is.'
“Ah," said the stranger, turning upon her a pair
of bright dark eyes, pleased and rather struck by
the communication; "and how came she to give it
to you, my little girl ?"
“Oh, because we are poor, and mother is sick,
and we never can have anything pretty. We used
to have a garden once, and we loved flowers so
much, and Miss Florence found it out, and so she
gave us this."
“ Florence !" echoed the stranger.
“ Yes-Miss Florence l'Estrange a beautiful
lady. They say she was from foreign parts; but
she speaks English just like other ladies, only
sweeter.”
“ Is she here now? Is she in this city ?" said the
gentleman, eagerly.
H 2
90
THE TEA ROSE.
66
“ No; she left some months ago," said the
widow, noticing the shade of disappointment on his
face; " but,” said she, "you can find out all about
her at her aunt's, Mrs. Carlysle's, No. 10
street.”
A short time after, Florence received a letter in
a handwriting that made her tremble. During the
many early years of her life spent in France, she
had well learned to know that writing—had loved as
a woman like her loves only once ; but there had
been obstacles of parents and friends, long sep-
aration, long suspense, till, after anxious years,
she had believed the ocean had closed over that
hand and heart; and it was this that had touched
with such pensive sorrow the lines in her lovely
face.
But this letter told that he was living, that he
had traced her, even as a hidden streamlet may be
traced, by the freshness, the verdure of heart,
which her deeds of kindness had left wherever she
had passed. Thus much said, our readers need
no help in finishing my story for themselves.
.
TRIALS OF A HOUSEKEEPER.
91
TRIALS OF A HOUSEKEEPER.
I HAVE a detail of very homely grievances to
present, but such as they are, many a heart will
feel them to be heavy-the trials of a housekeeper.
“ Poh !" says one of the lords of creation, taking
his cigar out of his mouth, and twirling it between
his two first fingers, “what a fuss these women do
make of this simple matter of managing a family!
I can't see, for my life, as there is anything so ex.
traordinary to be done in this matter of house.
keeping: only three meals a day to be got and
cleared off, and it really seems to take up the whole
of their mind from morning till night. I could
keep house without so much of a flurry, I know.”
Now prithee, good brother, listen to my story,
and see how much you know about it. I came to
this enlightened West about a year since, and was
duly established in a comfortable country residence
within a mile and a half of the city, and there com.
menced the enjoyment of domestic felicity. I had
been married about three months, and had been
previously in love in the most approved romantic
way, with all the proprieties of moonlight walks,
a
a
92
TRIALS OF A HOUSEKEEPER.
serenades, sentimental billet-doux, and everlasting
attachment.
After having been allowed, as I said, about three
months to get over this sort of thing, and to pre-
pare for realities, I was located for life as afore.
said. My family consisted of myself and husband,
a female friend as a visiter, and two brothers of
my good man, who were engaged with him in bu.
siness.
I pass over the two or three first days spent in
that process of hammering boxes, breaking crock.
ery, knocking things down and picking them up
again, which is commonly called getting to house-
keeping. As usual, carpets were sewed and
stretched, laid down, and taken up to be sewed
over; things were reformed, transformed, and con-
formed, till at last a settled order began to appear.
But now came up the great point of all. During our
confusion, we had cooked and eaten our meals in a
very miscellaneous and pastoral manner, eating now
from the top of a barrel, and now from a fireboard
laid on two chairs, and drinking, some from tea.
cups, and some from saucers, and some from tum-
blers, and some from a pitcher big enough to be
drowned in, and sleeping, some on sofas, and some
on straggling beds and mattresses, thrown down
here and there, wherever there was room. All
these pleasant barbarities were now at an end :
TRIALS OF A HOUSEKEEPER.
93
was
the house was in order; the dishes put up in their
places; three regular meals were to be adminis-
tered in one day, all in an orderly, civilized form;
beds were to be made; rooms swept and dusted ;
dishes washed; knives scoured, and all the et cet-
era to'be attended to. Now for getting "help,”
as Mrs. Trollope says; and where and how were
we to get it? We knew very few persons in the
city, and how were we to accomplish the matter?
At length the "house of employment” was mention.
ed, and my husband was despatched thither regu.
larly every day for a week, while I, in the mean
time, was very nearly despatched by the abundance
of work at home: At length, one evening, as
I
sitting completely exhausted, thinking of resorting
to the last feminine expedient for supporting life,
viz., a good fit of crying, my husband made his ap-
pearance, with a most triumphant air, at the door:
There, Margaret, I have got you a couple at last
-cook and chambermaid !" So saying, he flour-
ished open the door, and gave to my view the pic.
.
ture of a little, dry, snuffy.looking old woman, and
a great staring Dutch girl in a green 'bonnet with
red ribands-mouth wide open, and hands and feet
that would have made a Greek sculptor open his
mouth too. I addressed forthwith a few words of
encouragement to each of this cultivated-looking
couple, and proceeded to ask their names, and
66
a
94
TRIALS OF A HOUSEKEEPER.
66
forthwith the old woman began to snuffle and to
wipe her face with what was left of an old silk
pocket-handkerchief preparatory to speaking, while
the young lady opened her mouth wider, and look-
ed around with a frightened air, as if meditating
escape. After some preliminaries, however, I found
out that
my old woman was Mrs. Tibbins, and my
Hebe's name was Kotterin ; also, that she knew
much more Dutch than English, and not any too
much of either. The old lady was the cook. I
ventured a few inquiries : “ Had she ever cooked ?”
Yes, ma'am, sártin; she had lived at two or
three places in the city.”
“ I suspect, my dear,” said my husband, confi-
dently, “ that she is an experienced cook, and so
your troubles are over ;” and he went to reading
newspaper. I said no more, but determined to
wait till morning. The breakfast, to be sure, did
not do much honour to the talents of my official; but
it was the first time, and the place was new to her.
After breakfast was cleared away, I proceeded to
I
give directions for dinner: it was merely a plain
joint of meat, I said, to be roasted in the tin oven.
The experienced cook looked at me with a stare of
entire vacuity : “ the tin oven," I repeated, “ stands
there," pointing to it.
She walked up to it, and touched it with such
an appearance of suspicion as if it had been an
his
.
TRIALS OF A HOUSEKEEPER.
95
electrical battery, and then looked round at me with
a look of such helpless ignorance that my soul was
moved : “I never see one of them things before,”
said she.
“ Never saw a tin oven !" I exclaimed. “I
thought you said you had cooked in two or three
families."
They does not have such things as them,
though,” rejoined my old lady. Nothing was to be
done, of course, but to instruct her into the philos.
ophy of the case ; and, having spitted the joint, and
given numberless directions, I walked off to my
room to superintend the operations of Kotterin, to
whom I had committed the making of my bed and
the sweeping of my room, it never having come into
my head that there could be a wrong way of ma.
king a bed, and to this day it is a marvel to me how
any one could arrange pillows and quilts to make
such a nondescript appearance as mine now pre-
sented. One glance showed me that Kotterin also
was “just caught,” and that I had as much to do in
her department as in that of my old lady.
Just then the door-bell rang : “Oh, there is the
door-bell !" I exclaimed; “run, Kotterin, and show
them into the parlour."
Kotterin started to run, as directed, and then
stopped, and stood looking round on all the doors,
and on me with a wofully puzzled air: “ The
96
TRIALS OF A HOUSEKEEPER.
street-door,” said I, pointing towards the entry.
Kotterin blundered into the entry, and stood gazing
with a look of stupid wonder at the bell ringing
without hands, while I went to the door and let in
the
company
before she could be fairly made to un.
derstand the connexion between the ringing and the
phenomenon of admission.
As dinner-time approached, I sent word into my
kitchen to have it set on; but, recollecting the
state of the heads of department there, I soon fol-
lowed my own orders. I found the tin oven stand.
ing out in the middle of the kitchen, and my cook
seated à la Turk in front of it, contemplating the
roast meat with full as puzzled an air as in the
morning. I once more explained the mystery of
taking it off, and assisted her to get it on to the
platter, though somewhat cooled by having been so
long set out for inspection. I was standing hold.
ing the spit in my hands, when Kotterin, who had
heard the door-bell ring, and was determined this
time to be in season, ran into the hall, and soon
returning, opened the kitchen door, and politely
ushered in three or four fashionable-looking ladies,
exclaiming, “ Here she is." As these were stran- :
gers from the city, who had come to make their
first call, this introduction was far from proving an
eligible one the look of thunderstruck astonish-
ment with which I greeted their first appearance,
66
TRIALS OF A HOUSEKEEPER.
97
as I stood brandishing the spit, and the terrified
snuffling and staring of poor Mrs. Tibbins, who
again had recourse to her old pocket-handkerchief,
almost entirely vanquished their gravity, and it was
evident that they were on the point of a broad
laugh ; m, recovering my self-possession, I apolo.
gized, and led the way to the parlour.
Let these few incidents be a specimen of the four
mortal weeks that I spent with these “
helps," du.
ring which time I did almost as much work, with
twice as much anxiety, as when there was nobody
there ; and yet everything went wrong besides.
The young gentlemen complained of the patches
of starch grimed to their collars, and the streaks
of black coal ironed into their dickies, while one
week every pocket-handkerchief in the house wa
starched so stiff that you might as well have car.
ried an earthen plate in your pocket; the tumblers
looked muddy; the plates were never washed clean
or wiped dry unless I attended to each one; and
as to eating and drinking, we experienced a varie.
ty that we had not before considered possible.
At length the old woman vanished from the
stage, and was succeeded by a knowing, active, ca.
pable damsel, with a temper like a steel-trap, who
remained with me.just one week, and then went off
in a fit of spite. To her succeeded a rosy, good.
natured, merry lass, who broke the crockery, burn.
I
98
TRIALS OF A HOUSEKEEPER.
ed the dinner, tore the clothes in ironing, and
knocked down everything that stood in her way
about the house, without at all discomposing her.
self about the matter. One night she took the
stopper from a barrel of molasses, and came sing-
ing off up stairs, while the molasses ran soberly
out into the cellar-bottom all night, till by morning
it was in a state of universal emancipation. Hav-
ing done this, and also despatched an entire set of
tea-things by letting the waiter fall, she one day
made her disappearance.
Then, for a wonder, there fell to my lot a tidy,
efficient-trained English girl; pretty, and genteel,
and neat, and knowing how to do everything, and
with the sweetest temper in the world. “Now,"
said I to myself, “ I shall rest from my labours."
Everything about the house began to go right, and
looked as clean and genteel as Mary's own pretty
self. But, alas! this period of repose was interrupt.
ed by the vision of a clever, trim-looking young
man, who for some weeks could be heard scraping
his boots at the kitchen door every Sunday night;
and at last Miss Mary, with some smiling and
blushing, gave me to understand that she must leave
in two weeks.
“Why, Mary,” said I, feeling a little mischiev.
ous, “ don't you like the place ?”
“Oh, yes, ma'am.”
TRIALS OF A HOUSEKEEPER.
99
66
66
“ Then why do you look for another ?"
* I am not going to another place.”
* What, Mary, are you going to learn a trade ?"
No, ma'am.”
Why, then, what do you mean to do ?”
" I expect to keep house myself, ma'am," said
she, laughing and blushing.
• Oh ho !” said I, “ that is it ;" and so, in two
weeks, I lost the best little girl in the world : peac'.
to her memory.
After this came an interregnum, which put me in
mind of the chapter in Chronicles that I used to
read with great delight when a child, where Basha,
and Elah, and Tibni, and Zimri, and Omri, one af-
ter the other came on to the throne of Israel, all in
the compass of half a dozen verses.
We had one
old woman who stayed a week, and went away with
the misery in her tooth; one young woman who
ran away and got married; one cook, who came at
night and went off before light in the morning; one
very clever girl, who stayed a month, and then went
away because her mother was sick; another, who
stayed six weeks, and was taken with the fever her.
self; and during all this time, who can speak the
damage and destruction wrought in the domestic
paraphernalia by passing through these multiplied
hands?
What shall we do? Shall we go for slavery, or
100
TRIALS OF A HOUSEKEEPER.
shall we give up houses, have no furniture to take
care of, keep merely a bag of meal, a porridge-
pot, and a pudding-stick, and sit in our tent door
in real patriarchal independence? What shall
we do?
LITTLE EDWARD.
WERE any of you born in New-England, in
the good old catechising, church-going, school-
going, orderly times? If so, you may have
seen my Uncle Abel; the most perpendicular,
rectangular, upright, downright good man that
ever laboured six days and rested on the sev-
enth.
You remember his hard, weather-beaten
countenance, where every line seemed drawn
with “a pen of iron and the point of a dia-
mond ;" his considerate gray eyes, that moved
over objects as if it were not best to be in a
hurry about seeing ; the circumspect opening
and shutting of his mouth; his down-sitting
and up-rising, all performed with conviction
aforethought-in short, the whole ordering of
his life and conversation, which was, according
to the tenour of the military order," to the right
about face-forward, march !"
Now if you supposed, from all this triangu-
larism of exterior, that this good man had no-
thing kindly within, you were much mistaken.
I 2
102
LITTLE EDWARD.
You often find the greenest grass under a snow-
drift; and though my uncle's mind was not ex-
actly of the flower-garden kind, still there was
an abundance of wholesome and kindly vegeta-
tion there.
It is true, he seldom laughed, and never joked
himself, but no man had a more serious and
weighty conviction of what a good joke was in
another; and when some exceeding witticism
was dispensed in his presence, you might see
Uncle Abel's face slowly relax into an expres-
sion of solemn satisfaction, and he would look
at the author with a sort of quiet wonder, as if
it was past his comprehension how such a thing
could ever come into a man's head.
Uncle Abel, too, had some relish for the fine
arts; in proof of which, I might adduce the
pleasure with which he gazed at the plates in his
family Bible, the likeness whereof is neither in
Heaven, nor on earth, nor under the earth.
And he was also such an eminent musician, that
he could go through the singing-book at one
sitting without the least fatigue, beating time
like a windmill all the way.
He had, too, a liberal hand, though his liber-
ality was all by the rule of three. He did to
his neighbour exactly as he would be done by ;
he loved some things in this world very sincere-
LITTLE EDWARD.
103
ly: he loved his God much, but he honoured
and feared him more; he was exact with oth-
ers, he was more exact with himself, and he ex-
pected his God to be more exact still.
Everything in Uncle Abel's house was in the
same time, place, manner, and form, from year's
end to year's end. There was old Master Bose,
a dog after my uncle's own heart, who always
walked as if he were studying the multiplica-
tion-table. There was the old clock, forever
ticking in the kitchen corner, with a picture on
its face of the sun, forever setting behind a per-
pendicular row of poplar trees. There was the
never-failing supply of red-peppers and onions
hanging over the chimney. There, too, were
the yearly hollyhocks and morning - glories
blooming about the windows. There was the
“best room,” with its sanded floor, the cupboard
in one corner with its glass doors, the ever-
green asparagus-bushes in the chimney, and
there was the stand with the Bible and almanac
on it in another corner. There, too, was Aunt
Betsey, who never looked any older, because
she always looked as old as she could; who al-
ways dried her catnip and wormwood the last
of September, and began to clean house the first
of May. In short, this was the land of contin-
Old Time never took it into his head to
uance.
104
LITTLE EDWARD.
practise either addition, or subtraction, or mul-
tiplication on its sum total.
This Aunt Betsey aforenamed was the neat-
est and most efficient piece of human machin-
ery that ever operated in forty places at once.
She was always everywhere, predominating
over, and seeing to everything; and though
my uncle had been twice married, Aunt Bet-
sey's rule and authority had never been broken.
She reigned over his wives when living, and
reigned after them when dead, and so seemed
likely to reign on to the end of the chapter.
But my uncle's latest wife left Aunt Betsey a
much less tractable subject than ever before had
falen to her lot. Little Edward was the child
of my uncle's old age, and a brighter, merrier
little blossom never grew on the verge of an
avalanche. He had been committed to the
nursing of his grandmamma till he had arrived
at the age of indiscretion, and then my old un-
cle's heart so yearned for him that he was sent
for home.
His introduction into the family excited a ter-
rible sensation. Never was there such a con-
temner of dignities, such a violator of high pla-
ces and sanctities as this very Master Edward.
It was all in vain to try to teach him decorum.
He was the most outrageously merry elf that
LITTLE EDWARD.
105
ever shook a head of curls; and it was all the
а
same to him whether it was “ Sabba' day” or any
other day. He laughed and frolicked with ev-
erybody and everything that came in his way,
not even excepting his solemn old father; and
:
when you saw him, with his fair arms around
the old man's neck, and his bright blue eyes
and blooming cheek peering out beside the
bleak face of Uncle Abel, you might fancy you
saw Spring caressing Winter. Uncle Abel's
metaphysics were sorely puzzled by this spark-
ling, dancing compound of spirit and matter;
nor could he devise any method of bringing it
into any reasonable shape, for he did mischief
with an energy
and
perseverance that was truly
astonishing. Once he scoured the floor with
Aunt Betsey's very Scotch snuff; once he wash-
ed up the hearth with Uncle Abel's most im-
maculate clothes-brush; and once he was found
trying to make Bose wear his father's specta-
cles. In short, there was no use, except the
right one, to which he did not put everything
that came in his way.
But Uncle Abel was most of all puzzled to
know what to do with him on the Sabbath, for
on that day Master Edward seemed to exert
himself to be particularly diligent and enter.
taining
106
LITTLE EDWARD.
“ Edward ! Edward must not play Sunday !"
his father would call out; and then Edward
would hold up his curly head, and look as grave
as the catechism ; but in three minutes you
would see “pussy” scampering through the
“best room,” with Edward at her heels, to the
entire discomposure of all devotion in Aunt
Betsey and all others in authority.
At length my uncle came to the conclusion
that “it wasn't in natur' to teach him any bet-
ter,” and that “he could no more keep Sunday
than the brook down in the lot.” My poor un.
cle! he did not know what was the matter with
his heart, but certain it was, he lost all faculty
of scolding when little Edward was in the case,
and he would rub his spectacles a quarter of an
hour longer than common when Aunt Betsey
was detailing his witticisms and clever doings.
In process of time our hero had compassed
his third year, and arrived at the dignity of go-
ing to school. He went illustriously through
the spelling-book, and then attacked the cate-
chism ; went from "man's chief end” to the
“ requirin's and forbiddin’s” in a fortnight, and
at last came home inordinately merry, to tell
his father that he had got to “ Amen.” After
this, he made a regular business of saying over
the whole every Sunday evening, standing with
LITTLE EDWARD.
107
:
worse.
his hands folded in front and his checked apron
folded down, occasionally glancing round to see
if pussy gave proper attention. And, being of
a practically benevolent turn of mind, he made
several commendable efforts to teach Bose the
catechism, in which he succeeded as well as
might be expected. In short, without farther
detail, Master Edward bade fair to become a
literary wonder.
But alas for poor little Edward ! his merry
dance was soon over. A day came when he
sickened. Aunt Betsey tried her whole herba-
rium, but in vain : he grew rapidly worse and
His father sickened in heart, but said
nothing ; he only stayed by his bedside day and
night, trying all means to save, with affecting
pertinacity.
“Can't you think of anything more, doctor ?"
said he to the physician, when all had been tried
in vain.
“Nothing," answered the physician.
A momentary convulsion passed over my un-
cle's face. " The will of the Lord be done,”
said he, almost with a groan of anguish.
1
Just at that moment a ray of the setting sun
pierced the checked curtains, and gleamed like
an angel's smile across the face of the little suf
ferer. He woke from troubled sleep.
108
LITTLE EDWARD.
room.
up
“Oh, dear! I am so sick !” he gasped, feebly.
His father raised him in his arms; he breathed
easier, and looked up with a grateful smile.
Just then his old playmate, the cat, crossed the
“There goes pussy,” said he ; "oh,
,'
dear! I shall never play with pussy any more.
At that moment a deadly change passed over
his face. He looked up in his father's face with
an imploring expression, and put out his hand
as if for help. There was one moment of ago-
ny, and then the sweet features all settled into
a smile of peace, and“ mortality was swallowed
of life.”
My uncle laid him down, and looked one mo-
ment at his beautiful face. It was too much for
his principles, too much for, his consistency,
and “he lifted up his voice and wept.”
The next morning was the Sabbath—the fu-
neral day—and it rose with “ breath all incense
and with cheek all bloom.” Uncle Abel was as
calm and collected as ever, but in his face there
was a sorrow-stricken appearance touching to
behold. I remember him at family prayers, as
he bent over the great Bible and began the
psalm, “Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place
in all generations.” Apparently he was touched
by the melancholy splendour of the poetry, for
after reading a few verses he stopped. There
2
LITTLE EDWARD.
109
was a dead silence, interrupted only by the tick
of the clock. He cleared his voice repeatedly,
and tried to go on, but in vain. He closed the
book; and kneeled down to prayer. The ener-
gy of sorrow broke through his usual formal
reverence, and his language flowed forth with
a deep and sorrowful pathos which I shall nev-
er forget. The God so much reverenced, so
much' feared, seemed to draw near to him as a
friend and comforter, his refuge and strength,
“a very present help in time of trouble.”
My uncle rose, and I saw him walk to the
room of the departed one. He uncovered the
face. It was set with the seal of death, but oh!
how surpassingly lovely! The brilliancy of life
was gone, but that pure, transparent face was
touched with a mysterious, triumphant bright-
ness, which seemed like the dawning of Heaven.
My uncle looked long and earnestly. He felt
the beauty of what he gazed on; his heart was
softened, but he had no words for his feelings.
He left the room unconsciously, and stood in
the front door. The morning was bright, the
bells were ringing for church, the birds were
singing merrily, and the pet squirrel of little Ed.
ward was frolicking about the door. My uncle
watched him as he ran first up one tree, and
then down and up another, and then over the
K
110
LITTLE EDWARD.
fence, whisking his brush and chattering just
as if nothing was the matter.
With a deep sigh Uncle Abel broke forth :
“ How happy that cretur' is! Well, the Lord's
will be done !”
That day the dust was committed to dust,
amid the lamentations of all who had known
little Edward. Years have passed since then,
and all that is mortal of my uncle has long since
been gathered to his fathers, but his just and
upright spirit has entered the glorious liberty
of the sons of God. Yes; the good man may
have had opinions which the philosophical scorn,
weaknesses at which the thoughtless smile; but
death shall change him into all that is enlight-
ened, wise, and refined ; for he shall awake in
“ His” likeness, and “be satisfied.”
LET EVERY MAN MIND HIS OWN
BUSINESS.
a
“AND so you will not sign this paper ?” said
Alfred Melton to his cousin, a fine-looking
young man, who was lounging by the centre-
table.
“Not I, indeed. What in life have I to do
with these decidedly vulgar temperance pledg.
es ? Pshaw! they have a relish of whiskey in
their very essence !"
“Come, come, Cousin Melton,” said a brill-
iant, dark-eyed girl, who had been lolling on the
sofa during the conference, “I beg of you to
give over attempting to evangelize Edward.
You see, as Falstaff has it, he is little better
than one of the wicked. You must not waste
such valuable temperance documents on him.”
“But, seriously, Melton, my good fellow,"
resumed Edward, “this signing, and sealing,
and pledging is altogether an unnecessary af
fair for me. My past and present habits, my
,
situation in life-in short, everything that can
112
LET EVERY MAN
be mentioned with regard to me, goes against
the supposition of my ever becoming the slave
of a vice so debasing ; and this pledging myself
to avoid it is something altogether needless
-nay, by implication, it is degrading. As to
what you say of my influence, I am inclined to
the opinion, that if every man will look to him-
self, every man will be looked to. This modern
notion of tacking the whole responsibility of so-
ciety on to every individual, is one I am not at
all inclined to adopt ; for, first, I know it is a
troublesome doctrine; and, secondly, I doubt
if it be a true one.
For both which reasons, I
shall decline extending it my patronage."
“Well, positively,” exclaimed the lady,“ you
gentlemen have the gift of continuance in
uncommon degree. You have discussed this
matter backward and forward till I am ready
to perish. I will take the matter in hand my-
self, and sign a temperance pledge for Edward,
and see that he gets into none of those naugh-
ty courses upon which you have been so pa-
thetic.”
“ I dare say," said Melton, glancing on her
brilliant face with evident admiration, that you
will be the best temperance pledge he could
have. But every man, cousin, may not be so
fortunate.”
>
MIND HIS OWN BUSINESS.
113
“But, Melton,” said Edward, “ seeing my
steady habits are so well provided for, you must
carry your logic and eloquence to some poor
fellow less favoured.” And thus the conference
ended.
“What a good, disinterested fellow Melton
is !” said Edward, after he had left.
“Yes, good as the day is long," said Augus-
ta, “ but rather prosy, after all. This tiresome
temperance business! One never hears the
end of it nowadays. Temperance papers —
temperance tracts—temperance hotels—tem-
perance this, that, and the other thing, even
down to temperance pocket-handkerchiefs for
little boys! Really, the world is getting intem-
perately temperate.”
“Ah, well! with the security you have of..
fered, Augusta, I shall dread no temptation.”
Though there was nothing peculiar in these
words, yet there was a certain earnestness of
tone that called the colour into the face of
Augusta, and set her to sewing with uncom-
mon assiduity. And thereupon Edward pro-
ceeded with some remark about “ guardian an-
.
gels,” together with many other things of the
kind, which, though they contain no more that
is new than a temperance lecture, always seem
to have a peculiar freshness to people in cer-
2
K 2
114.
LET EVERY MAN
tain circumstances. In fact, before the hour
was at an end, Edward and Augusta had for-
gotten where they began, and had wandered
far into that land of anticipations and bright
dreams, which surrounds the young and lov-
ing before they eat of the tree of experience,
and gain the fatal knowledge of good and evil.
But here, stopping our sketching pencil, let
us throw in a little back ground and perspect-
ive that will enable our readers to perceive
more readily the entire picture.
Edward Howard was a young man whose
brilliant talents and captivating manners had
placed him first in the society in which he
moved. Though without property or weight
of family connexions, he had become a leader
in the circles where these appendages are most
considered, and there were none of their im-
munities and privileges that were not freely at
his disposal.
Augusta Elmore was conspicuous in all that
lies within the sphere of feminine attainment.
She was an orphan, and accustomed from a
: very early age to the free enjoyment and con-
trol of an independent property. This cir
cumstance, doubtless, added to the magic of
her personal graces in procuring for her that
flattering deference which beauty and wealth
seorire.
MIND HIS OWN BUSINESS.
115
Her mental powers were naturally superior,
although, from want of motive, they had receiv-
ed no development, except such as would se-
cure success in society. Native good sense,
with great strength of feeling and independ-
ence of mind, had saved her from becoming
heartless and frivolous. She was better fitted
to lead and to influence than to be influenced
or led. And hence, though not swayed by any
habitual sense of moral responsibility, the tone
of her character seemed altogether more ele-
vated than the average of fashionable society.
General expectation had united the destiny of
two persons who seemed every way fitted for
each other, and for once general expectation
did not err.
A few months after the interview
mentioned were witnessed the festivities and
congratulations of their brilliant and happy
marriage.
Never did two young persons commence life
under happier auspices.
" What an exact
match !” “What a beautiful couple!” said all
the gossips. “They seem made for each oth-
er,” said every one ; and so thought the happy
lovers themselves.
Love, which with persons of strong charac-
ter is always an earnest and sobering princi-
ple, had made them thoughtful and consider-
116
LET EVERY MAN
ate, and as they looked forward to future life,
and talked of the days before them, their plans
and ideas were as rational as any plans can be,
when formed entirely with reference to this
life, without any regard to another.
For a while their absorbing attachment to
each other tended to withdraw them from the
temptations and allurements of company, and
many a long winter evening passed delightfully
in the elegant quietude of home, as they read,
and sang, and talked of the past, and dreamed
of the future in each other's society. But, con-
tradictory as it may appear to the theory of
the sentimentalist, it is nevertheless a fact,
that two persons cannot always find sufficient
excitement in talking to each other merely ;
and this is especially true of those to whom
high excitement has been a necessary of life.
After a while, the young couple, though loving
each other none the less, began to respond to
the many calls which invited them again into
society, and the pride they felt in each other
added zest to the pleasures of their return.
As the gaze of admiration followed the
grace-
ful motions of the beautiful wife, and the whis-
pered tribute went round the circle whenever
she entered, Edward felt a pride beyond all that
flattery, addressed to himself, had ever excited ;
MIND HIS OWN BUSINESS.
1
117
and Augusta, when told of the convivial talents
and powers of entertainment which distinguish-
ed her husband, could not resist the temptation
of urging him into society even oftener than
his own wishes would have led him.
Alas! neither of them knew the perils of
constant excitement, nor supposed that, in thus
alienating themselves from the pure and sim-
ple pleasures of home, they were risking their
whole capital of happiness. It is in indulging
the first desire for extra stimulus that the first
and deepest danger to domestic peace lies. Let
that stimulus be either bodily or mental, its ef-
fects are alike to be dreaded.
The man or the woman to whom habitual ex-
citement of any kind has become essential, has
taken the first step towards ruin. In the case
of a woman, it leads to discontent, fretfulness,
and dissatisfaction with the quiet duties of do-
mestic life ; in the case of a man, it leads al-
most invariably to animal stimulus, ruinous
alike to the powers of body and mind.
Augusta, fondly trusting to the virtue of her
husband, saw no danger in the constant round
of engagements which were gradually drawing
his attention from the graver cares of business,
from the pursuit of self-improvement, and from
the love of herself. Already there was in her
118
LET EVERY MAN
horizon the cloud " as big as a man's hand”-
the precursor of future darkness and tempest ;
but, too confident and buoyant, she saw it not.
It was not until the cares and duties of a
mother began to confine her at home, that she
first felt, with a startling sensation of fear, that
there was an alteration in her husband, though
even then the change was so shadowy and in-
definite that it could not be defined by words.
It was known by that quick, prophetic sense,
which reveals to the heart of woman the first
variation in the pulse of affection, though it be
so slight that no other touch can detect it.
Edward was still fond, affectionate, admiring;
and when he tendered her all the little atten-
tions demanded by her situation, or caressed
and praised his beautiful son, she felt satisfied
and happy. But when she saw that, even with-
out her, the convivial circle had its attractions,
and that he could leave her to join it, she
sighed, she scarce knew why. “Surely," she
said, “I am not so selfish as to wish to rob him
of pleasure because I cannot enjoy it with him.
But yet, once he told me there was no pleasure
where I was not. Alas! is it true, what I have
so often heard, that such feelings cannot always
last ?"
Poor Augusta! she knew not how deep rea-
MIND HIS OWN BUSINESS.
119
son she had to fear. She saw not the tempta-
tions that surrounded her husband in the cir-
cles where, to all the stimulus of wit and intel.
lect was often added the zest of wine, used far
too freely for safety.
Already had Edward become familiar with a
degree of physical excitement which touches
the very verge of intoxication ; yet, strong in
self-confidence, and deluded by the customs of
society, he dreamed not of danger. The trav-
eller who has passed above the rapids of Niag-
ara may have noticed the spot where the first
white sparkling ripple announces the downward
tendency of the waters. All here is brilliancy
and beauty; and as the waters ripple and dance
in the sunbeam, they seem only as if inspired
by a spirit of new life, and not as hastening to
a dreadful fall. So the first approach to intem-
perance, that ruins both body and soul, seems
only like the buoyancy and exulting freshness
of a new life, and the unconscious voyager
feels his bark undulating with a thrill of de-
light, ignorant of the inexorable hurry, the tre-
mendous sweep, with which the laughing wa-
ters urge him on beyond the reach of hope or
recovery.
It was at this period in the life of Edward
that one judicious and manly friend, who
120
LET EVERY MAN
C6
would have had the courage to point out to
him the danger that every one else perceived,
might have saved him. But among the circle
of his acquaintances there was none such.
“ Let every man mind his own business" was
their universal maxim. True, heads were
gravely shaken, and Mr. A. regretted to Mr.
B. that so promising a young man seemed
about to ruin himself. But one was
no rela-
tion" of Edward's, and the other “felt a delica-
cy in speaking on such a subject,” and there-
fore, according to a very ancient precedent,
they "passed by on the other side." Yet it
was at Mr. A.'s sideboard, always sparkling
with the choicest wine, that he had felt the
first excitement of extra stimulus ; it was at
Mr. B.'s house that the convivial club began to
hold their meetings, which, after a time, found
a more appropriate place in a public hotel. It
is thus that the sober, the regular, and the dis-
creet, whose constitution saves them from lia.
bilities to excess, will accompany the ardent
and excitable to the very verge of danger, and
then wonder at their want of self-control.
It was a cold winter evening, and the wind
whistled drearily around the closed shutters
of the parlour in which Augusta was sitting.
Everything around her bore the marks of ele-
gance and comfort.
MIND HIS OWN BUSINESS.
121
Splendid books and engravings lay about in
every direction. Vases of rare and costly flow-
ers exhaled perfume, and magnificent mirrors
multiplied every object. All spoke of luxury
and repose, save the anxious and sad counte-
nance of its mistress.
It was late, and she had watched anxiously
for her husband for many long hours. She
drew out her gold and diamond repeater, and
looked at it. It was long past midnight. She
sighed as she remembered the pleasant even-
ings they had passed together, as her eye fell
on the books they had read together, and on
her piano and harp, now silent, and thought of
all he had said and looked in those days when
each was all to the other.
She was aroused from this melancholy rev.
ery by a loud knocking at the street door. She
hastened to open it, but started back at the
sight it disclosed-her husband borne by four
men.
“ Dead! is he dead ?" she screamed, in ag-
ony.
“ No, ma'am,” said one of the men, “ but he
might as well be dead as in such a fix as this.”
The whole truth, in all its degradation, flashed
on the mind of Augusta. Without a question
or comment, she motioned to the sofa in the
L
122
LET EVERY MAN
a
parlour, and her husband was laid there. She
locked the street door, and when the last re-
treating footstep had died away, she turned to
the sofa, and stood gazing in fixed and almost
stupified silence on the face of her senseless
husband.
At once she realized the whole of her fearful
lot. She saw before her the blight of her own
affections, the ruin of her helpless children, the
disgrace and misery of her husband. She look-
ed around her in helpless despair, for she well
knew the power of the vice whose deadly seal
was set upon her husband. As one who is
struggling and sinking in the waters casts a last
dizzy glance at the green sunny banks and dis-
tant trees which seem sliding from his view, so
did all the scenes of her happy days pass in a
moment before her, and she groaned aloud in
bitterness of spirit. “Great God! help me-
help me!" she prayed.
“ Save him-oh, save
my husband !”
Augusta was a woman of no common energy
of spirit, and when the first wild burst of an-
guish was over, she resolved not to be wanting
to her husband and children in a crisis so dread-
ful.
“ When he wakes,” she mentally exclaimed,
“I will warn and implore ; I will pour out my
a
MIND HIS OWN BUSINESS.
123
whole soul to save him. My poor husband, you
have been misled—betrayed. But you are too
good-too generous—too noble to be sacrificed
without a struggle.”
It was late the next morning before the stu-
por in which Edward was plunged began to pass
off. He slowly opened his eyes, started up
wildly, gazed hurriedly around the room, till his
eye met the fixed and sorrowful gaze of his
wife. The past instantly flashed upon him, and
a deep flush passed over his countenance.
There was a dead, a solemn silence, until Au•
gusta, yielding to her agony, threw herself into
his arms, and wept.
" Then you do not hate me, Augusta ?" said
he, sorrowfully.
“Hate you-never! but oh, Edward-Ed-
ward, what has beguiled you ?"
“My wife--you once promised to be my
guardian in virtue—such you are, and will be.
Oh, Augusta! you have looked on what you
shall never see again-never-never-so help
me God !” said he, looking up with solemn
earnestness.
And Augusta, as she gazed on the noble face,
the ardent expression of sincerity and remorse,
could not doubt that her husband was saved.
But Edward's plan of reformation had one grand
124
LET EVERY MAN
defect. It was merely modification and re-
trenchment, and not entire abandonment. He
could not feel it necessary to cut himself off
entirely from the scenes and associations where
temptation had met him. He considered not
that, when the temperate flow of the blood and
the even balance of the nerves have once been
destroyed, there is, ever after, a double and
fourfold liability, which often makes a man the
sport of the first untoward chance.
He still contrived to stimulate sufficiently to
prevent the return of a calm and healthy state
of the mind and body, and to make constant
self-control and watchfulness necessary.
It is a great mistake to call nothing intem-
perance but that degree of physical excitement
which completely overthrows the mental pow.
There is a state of nervous excitability,
resulting from what is often called moderate
stimulation, which often long precedes this, and
is, in regard to it, like the premonitory warn-
ings of the fatal cholera, an unsuspected draught
on the vital powers, from which, at any moment,
they may sink into irremediable collapse.
It is in this state, often, that the spirit of gam-
bling or of wild speculation is induced by the
morbid cravings of an over-stimulated system.
Unsatisfied with the healthy and regular routine
ers.
MIND HIS OWN BUSINESS.
125
of business, and the laws of gradual and solid
prosperity, the excited and unsteady imagina-
tion leads its subjects to daring risks, with the
alternative of unbounded gain on the one side,
or of utter ruin on the other. And when, as is
too often the case, that ruin comes, unrestrain-
ed and desperate intemperance is the wretched
resort to allay the ravings of disappointment
and despair.
Such was the case with Edward. He had
lost his interest in his regular business, and he
embarked the bulk of his property in a brilliant
scheme then in vogue; and when he found a
crisis coming, threatening ruin and beggary, he
had recourse to the fatal stimulus, which, alas !
he had never wholly abandoned.
At this time he spent some months in a dis-
tant city, separated from his wife and family,
while the insidious power of temptation daily
increased, as he kept up, by artificial stimulus,
the flagging vigour of his mind and nervous
system.
It came at last the blow which shattered
alike his brilliant dreams and his real pros-
perity. The large fortune brought by his wife
vanished in a moment, so that scarcely a pit-
tance remained in his hands. From the distant
city where he had been to superintend his
-
L 2
126
LET EVERY MAN
>
schemes, he thus wrote to his too confiding
wife:
“ Augusta, all is over! expect no more from
your
husband-believe no more of his promises
-for he is lost to you and to him. Augusta,
our property is gone ; your property, which I
have blindly risked, is all swallowed up. But
is that the worst? No, no, Augusta, I am lost
-lost, body and soul, and as irretrievably as
the perishing riches I have squandered. Once
I had energy-health-nerve-resolution ; but
all are gone : yes, yes, I have yielded—I do
yield daily to what is at once my tormentor
and my temporary refuge from intolerable
misery. You remember the sad hour you first
knew your husband was a drunkard. Your
look on that morning of misery-shall I ever
forget it! Yet, blind and confiding as you were,
how soon did your ill-judged confidence in me
return. Vain hopes! I was even then past re.
covery-even then sealed over to blackness of
darkness forever.
“Alas! my wife, my peerless wife, why am
I your husband? why the father of such children
as you have given me? Is there nothing in
your unequalled loveliness-nothing in the in-
nocence of our helpless babes, that is powerful
enough to recall me?-no, there is not.
MIND HIS OWN BUSINESS.
127
« Augusta, you know not the dreadful gnaw.
ing, the intolerable agony of this master pas.
sion. I walk the floor—I think of my own dear
home, my high hopes, my proud expectations,
my children, my treasured wife, my own im-
mortal spirit-I feel that I am sacrificing all-
feel it till I am withered with agony ; but the
hour comes-the burning hour, and all is in
vain. I shall return to you no more, Augusta.
All the little wreck I have saved, I send: you
have friends, relatives-above all, you have an
energy of mind, a capacity of resolute action,
beyond that of ordinary women, and you shall
never be bound—the living to the dead. True,
you will suffer, thus to burst the bonds that
unite us; but be resolute, for you will suffer
more to watch from day to day the slow work-
ings of death and ruin in your husband. Would
you stay with me, to see every vestige of what
you once loved passing away ; to endure the
caprice, the moroseness, the delirious anger of
one no longer master of himself? Would you
make
your
children victims and fellow-sufferers
with you? No! dark and dreadful is my path!
I will walk it alone : no one shall go with me.
“In some peaceful retirement you may con.
centrate your strong feelings upon your chil.
dren, and bring them up to fill a place in your
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LET EVERY MAN
а
heart which a worthless husband has abandoned.
If I leave you now, you will remember me as I
have been-you will love me and weep for me
when dead; but if you stay with me, your love
will be worn out; I shall become the object of
disgust and loathing. Therefore farewell, my
wife-my first, best love, farewell! with you I
part with hope,
And, with hope, farewell fear,
Farewell remorse: all good to me is lost:
Evil, be thou my good.'
This is a wild strain, but fit for me: do not seek
for me, do not write : nothing can save me.
Thus abruptly began and ended the letter that
conveyed to Augusta the death - doom of her
hopes. There are moments of agony when the
most worldly heart is pressed upward to God,
even as a weight will force upward the reluctant
water. Augusta had been a generous, a high-
minded, an affectionate woman, but she had
lived entirely for this world. Her chief good
had been her husband and her children. These
had been her pride, her reliance, her depend-
ance. Strong in her own resources, she had
never felt the need of looking to a higher power
for assistance and happiness. But when this let-
ter fell from her trembling hand, her heart died
within her at its wild and reckless bitterness.
MIND HIS OWN BUSINESS.
129
In her desperation she looked up to God.
$6 What have I to live for now ?" was the first
feeling of her heart.
But she repressed this inquiry of selfish agony,
and besought Almighty assistance to nerve her
weakness; and here first began that practical
acquaintance with the truths and hopes of reli-
gion which changed her whole character.
The possibility of blind, confiding idolatry of
any earthly object was swept away by the fall
of her husband, and with the full energy of a
decided and desolate spirit, she threw herself
on the protection of an Almighty helper. She
followed her husband to the city whither he
had gone, found him, and vainly attempted to
save.
There were the usual alternations of short-
lived reformations, exciting hopes only to be
destroyed. There was the gradual sinking of
the body, the decay of moral feeling and prin-
ciple—the slow but sure approach of disgusting
animalism, which marks the progress of the
drunkard.
It was some years after that a small and
partly ruinous tenement in the outskirts of
A received a new family. The group con-
sisted of four children, whose wan and wistful
countenances, and still, unchildlike deportment,
>
130
LET EVERY MAN
testified an early acquaintance with want and
sorrow. There was the mother, faded and care-
worn, whose dark and melancholy eyes, pale
cheeks and compressed lips, told of years of
anxiety and endurance. There was the father,
with haggard face, unsteady step, and that cal-
lous, reckless air, that betrayed long familiarity
with degradation and crime. Who that had
seen Edward Howard in the morning and fresh-
ness of his days, could have recognised him in
this miserable husband and father; or who, in
this worn and wo-stricken woman, would have
known the beautiful, brilliant, and accomplished
Augusta ? Yet such changes are not fancy, as
many a bitter and broken heart can testify.
Augusta had followed her guilty husband
through many a change and many a weary wan-
dering. All hope of reformation had gradually
faded
away.
Her own eyes
had seen,
had heard, all those disgusting details, too re-
volting to be portrayed ; for in drunkenness
there is no royal road—no salvo for greatness
of mind, refinement of taste, or tenderness of
feeling. All alike are merged in the corruption
of a moral death.
The traveller, who met Edward reeling by
the roadside, was sometimes startled to hear
the fragments of classical lore, or wild bursts
a
her ears
a
MIND HIS OWN BUSINESS.
131
of half-remembered poetry, mixing strangely
with the imbecile merriment of intoxication.
But when he stopped to gaze, there was no far-
ther mark on his face or in his eye by which
he could be distinguished from the loathsome
and lowest drunkard.
Augusta had come with her husband to a city
where they were wholly unknown, that she
might at least escape the degradation of their
lot in the presence of those who had known
them in better days. The long and dreadful
struggle that annihilated the hopes of this life,
had raised her feelings to rest upon the next,
and the habit of communion with God, induced
by sorrows which nothing else could console,
had given a tender dignity to her character
such as nothing else could bestow.
It is true, she deeply loved her children, but
it was with a holy, chastened love, such as in
spired the sentiment once breathed by Him
“ who was made perfect through sufferings.”
“For their sakes I sanctify myself, that they
also may be sanctified.”
Poverty, deep poverty, had followed their
steps, but yet she had not fainted. Talents
which in her happier days had been nourished
merely as luxuries, were now stretched to the
utmost to furnish a support; while from the
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LET EVERY MAN
66
resources of her own reading she drew that
which laid the foundation for early mental cul-
ture in her children.
Augusta had been here but a few weeks be-
fore her footsteps were traced by her only
brother, who had lately discovered her situa-
tion, and urged her to forsake her unworthy
husband and find refuge with him.
“Augusta, my sister, I have found you !” he
exclaimed, as he suddenly entered one day,
while she was busied with the work of her
family.
Henry, my dear brother!" There was a
momentary illumination of countenance accom-
panying these words, which soon faded into a
mournful quietness as she cast her eyes around
on the scanty accommodations and mean apart-
ment.
“I see how it is, Augusta; step by step, you
are sinking-dragged down by a vain sense of
duty to one no longer worthy. I cannot bear
it any longer; I have come to take you away."
Augusta turned from him, and looked ab-
stractedly out of the window. Her features
settled in thought. Their expression gradually
deepened from their usual tone of mild, resign-
ed sorrow to one of keen anguish.
“Henry,” said she, turning towards him,“nev
MIND HIS OWN BUSINESS.
133
er was mortal woman so blessed in another as
I once was in him. How can I forget it? Who
knew him in those days that did not admire
and love him? They tempted and ensnared
him, and even I urged him into the path of
danger. He fell, and there was none to help.
I urged reformation, and he again and again
promised, resolved, and began. But again they
,
tempted him-even his very best friends; yes,
and that, too, when they knew his danger. They
led him on as far as it was safe for them to go,
and when the sweep of his more excitable tem-
perament took him past the point of safety and
decency, they stood by and coolly wondered
and lamented. How often was he led on by
such heartless friends to humiliating falls, and
then driven to desperation by the cold look,
averted faces, and cruel sneers of those whose
medium temperament and cooler blood saved
them from the snares which they saw were en-
slaving him. What if I had forsaken him then ?
What account should I have rendered to God?
Every time a friend has been alienated by his
comrades, it has seemed to seal him with an-
other seal. I am his wife-and mine will be
the last. Henry, when I leave him, I know his
eternal ruin is sealed. I cannot do it now; a
little longer--a little longer; the hour, I see,
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134
LET EVERY MAN
must come. I know my duty to my children
forbids me to keep them here; take them—they
are my last earthly comforts, Henry—but you
must take them away. It
may
be-0 God
perhaps it must be, that I shall soon follow; but
not till I have tried once more. What is this
present life to one who has suffered as I have ?
Nothing. But eternity! Oh, Henry ! eternity
--how can I abandon him to everlasting despair!
Under the breaking of my heart I have borne up.
I have borne up under all that can try a woman;
but this thought” She stopped, and seemed
struggling with herself; but at last, borne down
by a tide of agony, she leaned her head on her
hands; the tears streamed through her fingers,
and her whole frame shook with convulsive
sobs.
Her brother wept with her; nor dared he
again to touch the point so solemnly guarded.
The next day Augusta parted from her children,
hoping something from feelings that, possibly,
might be stirred by their absence in the bosom
of their father.
It was about a week after this that Augustal
one evening presented herself at the door of a
rich Mr. L- whose princely mansion was
one of the ornaments of the city of A-It
was not till she reached the sumptuous drawing-
MIND HIS OWN BUSINESS.
135
one
room that she recognised in Mr. L-
whom she and her husband had frequently met
in the gay circles of their early life. Altered
as she was, Mr. L- did not recognise her,
but compassionately handed her a chair, and re-
quested her to wait the return of his lady, who
was out; and then turning, he resumed his con-
versation with another gentleman.
“Now, Dallas," said he, "you are altogether
excessive and intemperate in this matter. So-
ciety is not to be reformed by every man di-
recting his efforts towards his neighbour, but
by every man taking care of himself. It is you
and I, my dear sir, who must begin with our-
selves, and every other man must do the same ;
and then society will be effectually reformed.
Now this modern way, by which every man con-
siders it his duty to attend to the spiritual mat-
ters of his next-door neighbour, is taking the
business at the wrong end altogether. It makes
a vast deal of appearance, but it does very
lit-
tle good."
“But suppose your neighbour feels no dispo-
sition to attend to his own improvement--what
then ?”
Why, then it is his own concern, and not
mine. What my Maker requires is, that I do
my duty, and not fret about my neighbour's."
9
136
LET EVERY MAN
“But, my friend, that is the very question.
What is the duty your Maker requires ? Does
it not include some regard to your neighbour,
some care and thought for his interest and im-
provement ?"
"Well, well, I do that by setting a good ex-
ample. I do not mean by example what you
do--that is, that I am to stop drinking wine be-
cause it
may
lead him to drink brandy, any more
than that I must stop eating because he may
eat too much and become a dyspeptic-but that
I am to use my wine, and everything else, tem-
perately and decently, and thus set him a good
example."
The conversation was here interrupted by the
return of Mrs. L-
It recalled, in all its
freshness, to the mind of Augusta the days
when both she and her husband had thus spo-
ken and thought.
Ah, how did these sentiments appear to her
now, lonely, helpless, forlorn-the wife of a ru-
ined husband--the mother of more than orphan
children. How different from what they seem-
ed, when, secure in ease, in wealth, in gratified
affections, she thoughtlessly echoed the com-
mon phraseology, " Why must people concern
themselves so much in their neighbours' affairs ?
Let every man mind his own business.”
MIND HIS OWN BUSINESS.
137
Augusta received in silence from Mrs. L-
the fine sewing for which she came, and left the
room.
>
Ellen," said Mr. L - to his wife, “ that
poor woman must be in trouble of some kind
or other. You must go some time, and see if
anything can be done for her.”
“How singular!" said Mrs. L-; "she re-
minds me all the time of Augusta Howard. You
remember her, my dear ?"
“Yes, poor thing! and her husband too.
That was a shocking affair of Edward How-
ard's. I hear that he became an intemperate,
worthless fellow. Who could have thought it !"
“But you recollect, my dear,” said Mrs.
L- “I predicted it six months before it
was talked of. You remember, at the wine-
party which you gave after Mary's wedding, he
was so excited that he was hardly decent. I
mentioned then that he was getting into dan-
gerous ways. But he was such an excitable
creature, that two or three glasses would put
him quite beside himself. And there is George
Eldon, who takes off his ten or twelve glasses,
and no one suspects it."
“Well, it was a great pity," replied Mr.
L
; “Howard was worth a dozen George
Eldons.”
>
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LET EVERY MAN
“Do you suppose," said Dallas, who had lise
tened thus far in silence, “that if he had moved
in a circle where it was the universal custom
to banish all stimulating drinks, he would thus
have fallen ?"
“I cannot say," said Mr. L- ; "perhaps
I
-
not."
men.
Mr. Dallas was a gentleman of fortune and
leisure, and of an ardent and enthusiastic tem-
perament. Whatever engaged him absorbed
his whole soul; and of late years, his mind
had become deeply engaged in schemes of phil-
anthropy for the improvement of his fellow-
He had, in his benevolent ministrations,
often passed the dwelling of Edward, and was
deeply interested in the pale and patient wife
and mother. He made acquaintance with her
through the aid of her children, and, in one way
and another, learned particulars of their history
that awakened the deepest interest and concern.
None but a mind as sanguine as his would have
dreamed of attempting to remedy such hope-
less misery by the reformation of him who was
its cause.
But such a plan had actually oc-
curred to him. The remarks of Mr. and Mrs.
L— recalled the idea, and he soon found that
his projected protegée was the very Edward
Howard whose early history was thus disclo-
a
MIND HIS OWN BUSINESS.
139
sed. He learned all the minutiæ from these his
early associates without disclosing his aim, and
left them still more resolved upon his benevo-
lent plan.
He watched his opportunity when Edward
was free from the influence of stimulus, and it
was just after the loss of his children had call.
ed forth some remains of his better nature.
Gradually and kindly he tried to touch the
springs of his mind, and awaken some of its
buried sensibilities.
"It is in vain, Mr. Dallas, to talk thus to me,”
said Edward, when one day, with the strong
eloquence of excited feeling, he painted the mo-
tives for attempting reformation; "you might
as well try to reclaim the lost in hell. Do
you think,” he continued, in a wild, determined
manner,
do
you
think I do not know all you
can tell me? I have it all by heart, sir ; no one
;
can preach such discourses as I can on this sub-
ject: I know all-believe all as the devils be-
lieve and tremble."
“Ay, but,” said Dallas," to you there is hope ;
you are not to ruin yourself forever.”
" And who the devil are you, to speak to me
in this way?" said Edward, looking up from his
sullen despair with a gleam of curiosity, if not
of hope.
C
"
140
LET EVERY MAN
1
“God's messenger to you, Edward Howard,"
said Dallas, fixing his keen eye upon him sol-
emnly; “to you, Edward Howard, who have
thrown away talents, hope, and health-who
have blasted the heart of your wife, and beg-
gared your suffering children. To you I am
the
messenger
of
your God-by me he offers
health, and hope, and self-respect, and the re-
gard of your fellow-men. You may heal the
broken heart of your wife, and give back a fa-
ther to your helpless children. Think of it,
Howard: what if it were possible ? only sup-
pose it. What would it be again to feel your-
self a man, beloved and respected as you once
were, with a happy home, a cheerful wife, and
smiling little ones? Think how you could re-
pay your poor wife for all her tears! What
hinders you from gaining all this?"
“ Just what hindered the rich man in hell-
between us there is a great gulf fixed ;' it lies
between me and all that is good; my wife, my
children, my hope of heaven, are all on the oth-
er side.”
“Ay, but this gulf can be passed : Howard,
what would you give to be a temperate man ?"
“What would I give ?” said Howard - he
thought for a moment, and burst into tears.
“Ah, I see how it is,” said Dallas; “you
need a friend, and God has sent you one.”
MIND HIS OWN BUSINESS.
141
.
“What can you do for me, Mr. Dallas ?” said
Edward, in a tone of wonder at the confidence
of his assurances.
“I will tell you what I can do: I can take
you to my house, and give you a room, and
watch over you until the strongest temptations
are past I can give you business again. I can
do all for you that needs to be done, if you
will give yourself to my care."
“Oh God of mercy!” exclaimed the unhappy,
man,
" is there hope for me? I cannot believe
it possible ; but take me where you choose-I
will follow and obey."
A few hours witnessed the transfer of the
lost husband to one of the retired apartments
in the elegant mansion of Dallas, where he
found his anxious and grateful wife still station-
ed as his watchful guardian.
Medical treatment, healthful exercise, useful
employment, simple food, and pure water, were
connected with a personal supervision by Dal-
las, which, while gently and politely sustained,
at first amounted to actual imprisonment.
For a time the reaction from the sudden sus-
pension of habitual stimulus was dreadful, and
even with tears did the unhappy man entreat
to be permitted to abandon the undertaking.
But the resolute steadiness of Dallas and the
142
LET EVERY MAN
a
tender entreaties of his wife prevailed. It is
true that he might be said to be saved “ so as
by fire ;" for a fever, and a long and fierce de-
lirium, wasted him almost to the borders of the
grave.
But, at length, the struggle between life and
death was over, and though it left him stretched
on the bed of sickness, emaciated and weak,
yet he was restored to his right mind, and was
conscious of returning health. Let any one
who has laid a friend in the grave, and known
what it is to have the heart fail with longing
for them day by day, imagine the dreamy
and unreal joy of Augusta when she began
again to see in Edward the husband so long
lost to her. It was as if the
grave
had given
back the dead !
“ Augusta !” said he, faintly, as, after a long
and quiet sleep, he awoke free from delirium.
She bent over him. " Augusta, I am redeem.
ed I am saved - I feel in myself that I
made whole.”
The high heart of Augusta melted at these
words. She trembled and wept. Her husband
wept also, and after a pause he continued :
“It is more than being restored to this life-
I feel that it is the beginning of eternal life.
It is the Saviour who sought me out, and I know
that he is able to keep me from falling."
-
am
MIND IIS OWN BUSINESS.
143
a
i
But we will draw a veil over a scene which
words have little power to paint.
“Pray, Dallas," said Mr. L- one day,
“ who is that fine-looking young man whom I
met in your office this morning ? I thought;
his face seemed familiar.”
“ It is a Mr. Howard—a young lawyer whom
I have lately taken into business with me.”
“Strange! Impossible !” said Mr. L-
“Surely this cannot be the Howard that I once
knew ?”
“I believe he is,” said Mr. Dallas.
Why, I thought he was gone-dead and
I
done over, long ago, with intemperance."
“ He was so ; few have ever sunk lower; but
he now promises even to outdo' all that was
hoped of him."
Strange! Why, Dallas, what did bring
about this change ?"
“I feel a delicacy in mentioning how it came
about, to you, Mr. L-as there undoubted-
ly was a great deal of interference with other
men's matters' in the business. In short, the
young man fell in the way of one of those!
meddlesome fellows, "who go prowling about,
distributing tracts, forming temperance socie-
ties, and all that sort of stuff.”
« Come, come, Dallas," said Mr. L-, smi
ling, “I must hear the story, for all that."
*
>
144
LET EVERY MAN
"
“ First call with me at this house,” said Dal.
las, stopping before the door of a neat little
mansion. They were soon in the parlour. The
first sight that met their eyes was Edward
Howard, who, with a cheek glowing with ex-
ercise, was tossing aloft a blooming boy, while
Augusta was watching his motions, her face
radiant with smiles.
“Mr. and Mrs. Howard, this is Mr. L-
an old acquaintance, I believe."
There was a moment of mutual embarrass.
ment and surprise, soon dispelled, however, by
the frank cordiality of Edward. Mr.L-sat
down, but could scarce withdraw his
eyes
from
the countenance of Augusta, in whose eloquent
face he recognised a beauty of a higher cast
than even in her earlier days.
He glanced about the apartment.
simply, but tastefully furnished, and wore an
air of retired, domestic comfort. There were
books, engravings, and musical instruments.
Above all, there were four happy, healthy-look-
ing children, pursuing studies or sports at the
farther end of the room.
After a short call they regained the street.
Dallas, you are a happy man,” said Mr.
L-; "that family will be a mine of jewels
to you."
It was
.
MIND HIS OWN BUSINESS.
145
He was right. Every soul saved from pollu-
tion and ruin is a jewel to him that reclaims
it, whose lustre only eternity can disclose ; and
therefore it is written, “ They that be wise
shall shine as the brightness of the firmament,
and they that turn many to righteousness, as
the stars forever and ever."
N
COUSIN WILLIAM.
In a stately red house, in one of the villages
of New-England, lived the heroine of our story.
She had every advantage of rank and wealth, for
her father was a deacon of the church, and
owned sheep, and oxen, and exceeding much
substance. There was an appearance of respect.
ability and opulence about all the demesnes.
The house stood almost concealed amid a forest
of apple-trees, in spring blushing with blossoms,
and in autumn golden with fruit; and near by
might be seen the garden, surrounded by a red
picket-fence, enclosing all sorts of magnifi-
There, in autumn, might be seen abun-
dant squash-vines, which seemed puzzled for
room where to bestow themselves, and bright
golden squashes, and full-orbed yellow pump-
kins, looking as satisfied as the evening sun
when he has just had his face washed in a
shower, and is sinking soberly to bed. There
were superannuated seed-cucumbers, enjoying
the pleasures of a contemplative old age; and
cence.
COUSIN WILLIAM
147
ear.
a
Indian corn, nicely done up in green silk, with
a specimen tassel hanging at the end of each
The beams of the summer sun darted
through rows of crimson currants, abounding
on bushes by the fence, while a sulky black cur- .
rant-bush sat scowling in one corner, a sort of
garden curiosity.
But time would fail us were we to enumerate
all the wealth of Deacon Enos Taylor. He
himself belonged to that necessary class of
beings who, though remarkable for nothing
at all, are very useful in filling up the links of
society. Far otherwise was his sister-in-law,
Mrs. Abigail Evetts, who, on the demise of the
deacon's wife, had assumed the reins of govern.
ment in the household.
This lady was of the same opinion that has
animated many illustrious philosophers, name-
ly, that the affairs of this world need a great
deal of seeing to in order to have them go on
prosperously; and, although she did not, like
them, engage in the supervision of the universe,
she made amends by unremitting diligence in
the department under her care. In her mind
there was an evident necessity that every one
should be up and doing : Monday, because it
was washing-day; Tuesday, because it was iron-
ing-day; Wednesday, because it was baking-
148
COUSIN WILLIAM.
а
day ; Thursday, because to-morrow was Friday,
and so on to the end of the week. Then she
had the care of reminding all in the house of
everything each was to do from week's end to
week's end ; and she was so faithful in this re-
spect, that scarcely an original act of volition
took place in the family. The poor deacon was
reminded when he went out and when he came
in, when he sat down and when he rose up, so
that an act of omission could only have been
committed through sheer malice prepense.
But the supervision of a whole family of chil-
dren afforded, to a lady of her active turn of
mind, more abundant matter of exertion. To
see that their faces were washed, their clothes
mended, and their catechism learned; to see that
they did not pick the flowers, nor throw stones
at the chickens, nor sophisticate the great house-
dog, was an accumulation of care that devolved
almost entirely on Mrs. Abigail, so that, by her
own account, she lived and throve by a perpet-
ual miracle.
The eldest of her charge, at the time this sto-
ry begins, was a girl just arrived at young-lady-
hood, and her name was Mary. Now we know
that people very seldom have stories written
about them, who have not sylph-like forms, and
glorious eyes, or, at least, “acertain inexpressi-
COUSIN WILLIAM.
149
ble charm diffused over their whole person."
But stories have of late so much abounded, that
they actually seem to have used up all the eyes,
hair, teeth, lips, and forms necessary for a her-
oine, so that no one can now pretend to find
an original collection wherewith to set one
forth. These things considered, I regard it as
I
fortunate that my heroine was not a beauty.
She looked neither like a sylph, nor an oread,
nor a fairy; she had neither “ l'air distingue”
nor “ l'air magnifique,” but bore a great resem-
blance to a real mortal girl, such as you might
pass a dozen of without any particular com-
ment; one of those appearances which, though
common as water, may, like that, be coloured
any way by the associations you connect with
it. Accordingly, a faultless taste in dress, a
perfect ease and gayety of manner, a constant
flow of kindly feeling, seemed, in her case, to
produce all the effect of beauty. Her manners
had just dignity enough to repel impertinence,
without destroying the careless freedom and
sprightliness in which she commonly indulged.
No
person had
a merrier run of stories, songs,
and village traditions, and all those odds and
ends of character which form the materials for
animated conversation.
She had read, too,
everything she could find : Rollin's History,
N 2
150
COUSIN WILLIAM.
1
and Scott's Family Bible, that stood in the
glass bookcase in the best room, and an odd
volume of Shakspeare, and now and then one
of Scott's novels, borrowed from a somewhat
literary family in the neighbourhood. She also
kept an album to write her thoughts in, and
was in a constant habit of cutting out all the
pretty poetry from the corners of the newspa-
pers, besides drying a number of forget-me-
nots and rosebuds, in memory of different par-
ticular friends, with a number of other little
sentimental practices to which young ladies
of sixteen and thereabout are addicted. She
was also endowed with great constructiveness;
so that, in this day of ladies' fairs, there was
nothing, from bellows needle-books down to
web-footed pincushions, to which she could
not turn her hand. Her sewing certainly was
extraordinary (we think too little is made of
this in the accomplishments of heroines), her
stitching was like rows of pearls, and her cross-
stitching was fairy-like; and for sewing over-
and-over, as the village school ma'am hath it,
she had not her equal. And what shall we say
of her pies and puddings! They would have
converted the most reprobate old bachelor in
the world. And then her sweeping and dust-
ing! “Many daughters have done virtuously,
but thou excellest them all !”
COUSIN WILLIAM.
151
And now, what do you suppose is coming
next? Why, a young gentleman, of course;
for about this time comes to settle in the vil.
lage, and take charge of the academy, a certain
William Barton. Now, if you wish to know
more particularly who he was, we only wish
we could refer you to Mrs. Abigail, who was
most accomplished in genealogies and old
wives' fables, and she would have told
you
that
“ her gran'ther, Ike Evetts, married a wife who
was second cousin to Peter Scranton, who was
great uncle to Polly Mosely, whose daughter
Mary married William Barton's father, just
about the time old Squire Peter's house was
burned down.” And then would follow an ac-
count of the domestic history of all branches
of the family since they came over from Eng-
land. Be that as it may, it is certain that Mrs.
Abigail denominated him cousin, and that he
came to the deacon's to board ; and he had not
been there more than a week, and made sundry
observations on Miss Mary, before he deter-
mined to call her cousin too, which he accom-
plished in the most natural way in the world.
Mary was at first somewhat afraid of him, be-
cause she had heard that he had studied through
all that was to be studied in Greek, and Latin,
German too; and she saw a library of books
and
152
COUSIN WILLIAM.
in his room, that made her sigh every time she
looked at them, to think how much there was
to be learned of which she was ignorant. But
all this wore away, and presently they were the
best friends in the world. He
her books
to read, and he gave her lessons in French, no.
thing puzzled by that troublesome verb which
must be first conjugated, whether in French,
Latin, or English. Then he gave her a deal of
good advice about the cultivation of her mind
and the formation of her character, all of which
was very improving, and tended greatly to con-
solidate their friendship. But, unfortunately
for Mary, William made quite as favourable an
impression on the female community generally
as he did on her, having distinguished himself
on certain public occasions, such as delivering
lectures on botany, and also, at the earnest re-
quest of the Fourth of July Committee, pro-
nounced an oration which covered him with
glory. He had been known, also, to write poe-
try, and had a retired and romantic air greatly
bewitching to those who read Bulwer's novels.
In short, it was morally certain, according to
all rules of evidence, that if he had chosen to
pay any lady of the village a dozen visits a week,
she would have considered it as her duty to en-
tertain him.
gave
COUSIN WILLIAM.
153
” said
William did visit; for, like many studious
people, he found a need for the excitement of
society ; but, whether it was party or singing-
school, he walked home with Mary, of course,
in as steady and domestic a manner as any man
who has been married a twelvemonth. His air
in conversing with her was inevitably more
confidential than with any other one, and this
was cause for envy in many a gentle breast,
and an interesting diversity of reports with re-
gard to her manner of treating the young gen-
tleman went forth into the village.
“I wonder Mary Taylor will laugh and joke
so much with William Barton in company,
“ Her manners are altogether too free,”
said another. “It is evident she has designs
upon him,” remarked a third ; " and she cannot
l
even conceal it,” pursued a fourth.
Some sayings of this kind at length reached
the ears of Mrs. Abigail, who had the best heart
in the world, and was so indignant that it might
have done your heart good to see her. Still,
she thought it showed that “the girl needed
advising,” and “ she should talk to Mary about
the matter."
But she first concluded to advise with Wil.
liam on the subject, and therefore, after dinner,
the same day, while he was looking over a trea-
one.
a
154
COUSIN WILLIAM.
>
tise on trigonometry or conic sections, she
commenced upon him :
“Our Mary is growing up a fine girl.”
William was intent on solving a problem, and
only understanding that something had been
said, mechanically answered “Yes.”
" A little wild or so," said Mrs. Abigail.
“I know it,” said William, fixing his eyes
earnestly on E, F, B, C.
“Perhaps you think her a little too talkative
and free with you sometimes; you know girls
do not always think what they do."
“ Čertainly,” said William, going on with his
problem.
“I think you had better speak to her about
it,” said Mrs. Abigail.
“I think so too,” said William, musing over
his completed work, till at length he arose,
put it in his pocket, and went to school.
Oh, this unlucky concentrativeness ! How
many shocking things a man may endorse by
the simple habit of saying “Yes” and “No,”
when he is not hearing what is said to him.
The next morning, when William was gone
to the academy, and Mary was washing the
breakfast things, Aunt Abigail introduced the
subject with great tact and delicacy by remark-
ing,
COUSIN WILLIAM.
155
do
mean
“ Mary, I guess you had better be rather less
free with William than you have been.”
“ Free !” said Mary, starting and nearly drop-
ping the cup from her hand ; “why, aunt, what
you
?”
“Why, Mary, you must not always be around,
so free in talking with him, at home, and in
company, and everywhere. It won't do." The
colour started into Mary's cheek, and mounted
even to her forehead, as she answered with a
dignified air,
“ I have not been too free--I know what is
right and proper-I have not been doing any-
thing that was improper.”
Now, when one is going to give advice, it
is very troublesome to have its necessity thus
called in question, and Mrs. Abigail, who was
fond of her own opinion, felt called upon to de-
fend it.
“Why, yes you have, Mary; everybody in
the village notices it."
“I don't care what everybody in the village
says—I shall always do what I think proper,"
retorted the young lady; “I know cousin Wil-
liam does not think so.”
“Well, I think he does from some things I
have heard him say.”
“Oh, aunt! what have you heard him say?"
156
COUSIN WILLIAM.
said Mary, nearly upsetting a chair in the ea-
gerness with which she turned to her aunt.
“Mercy on us ! you need not knock the house
down, Mary; I don't remember exactly about
it, only that his way of speaking made me think
80,"
“Oh, aunt, do tell me what it was, and all
about it,” said Mary, following her aunt, who
went around dusting the furniture.
Mrs. Abigail, like most obstinate people, who
feel that they have gone too far, and yet are
ashamed to go back, took refuge in an obstinate
generalization, and only asserted that she had
heard him say things, as if he did not quite like
her
ways.
This is the most consoling of all methods in
which to leave a matter of this kind for a per-
son of active imagination. Of course, in five
minutes, Mary had settled in her mind a string
of remarks that would have been suited to any
of her village companions, as coming from her
cousin. All the improbability of the thing van-
ished in the absorbing consideration of its pos.
sibility; and, after a moment's reflection, she
pressed her lips together in a very firm way,
and remarked that “Mr. Barton would have no
occasion to say such things again.”
It was very evident, from her heightened col.
COUSIN WILLIAM.
157
a
our and dignified air, that her state of mind was
very heroical. As for poor Aunt Abigail, she
felt sorry she had vexed her, and addressed
herself most earnestly to her consolation, re-
marking, “Mary, I don't suppose William
meant anything. He knows you don't mean
anything wrong."
“Don't mean anything wrong !” said Mary,
indignantly.
“Why, child, he thinks you don't know
much about folks and things, and if you have
been a little"
“But I have not been. It was he that talk-
ed with me first ; it was he that did every-
thing first ; he called me cousin--and he is my
cousin.”
“No, child, you are mistaken; for you re-
member his grandfather was—
“I don't care who his grandfather was; he
has no right to think of me as he does.”
“Now, Mary, don't go to quarrelling with
him; he can't help his thoughts, you know."
”
3
“I don't care what he thinks," said Mary,
flinging out of the room with tears in her
eyes.
Now when a young lady is in such a state
of affliction, the first thing to be done is to sit
down and cry for two hours or more, which
0
"
158
COUSIN WILLIAM.
Mary accomplished in the most thorough man-
ner; in the mean while making many reflec-
tions on the instability of human friendships,
and resolving never to trust any one again as
long as she lived, and thinking that this was a
cold and hollow-hearted world, together with
many other things she had read in books, but
never realized so forcibly as at present. But
what was to be done? Of course, she did not
wish to speak a word to William again, and
wished he did not board there; and, finally, she
put on her bonnet, and determined to go over
to her other aunt's in the neighbourhood, and
spend the day, so that she might not see him
at dinner.
But it so happened that Mr. William, on com-
ing home to dinner, found himself unaccount-
ably lonesome during school recess for dinner,
and hearing where Mary was, determined to
call after school at night at her aunt's, and at-
tend her home.
Accordingly, in the afternoon, as Mary was
sitting in the parlour with two or three cous-
ins, Mr. William entered.
Mary was so anxious to look just as if no-
thing was the matter, that she turned away her
head and began to look out of the window just
as the young gentleman came up to speak to
COUSIN WILLIAM.
159
a
her. So, after he had twice inquired after her
health, she drew up very coolly and said,
“Did you speak to me, sir ?"
William looked a little surprised at first, but
seating himself by her, “ To be sure,” said he ;
6 and I came to know why you ran away with-
out leaving any message for me ?"
“ It did not occur to me,” said Mary, in the
dry tone which, in a lady, means “I will excuse
you from any farther conversation, if you
please.” William felt as if there was something
different from common in all this, but thought
that perhaps he was mistaken, and so contin-
ued :
“What a pity, now, that you should be so
careless of me, when I was so thoughtful of you!
I have come all this distance to see how you
do.”
“I am sorry to have given you the trouble,"
said Mary.
“ Cousin, are you unwell to-day ?" said Wil-
liam.
“No, sir," said Mary, going on with her sew-
ing
There was something so marked and decisive
in all this, that William could scarcely believe
his ears.
He turned away, and commenced a
conversation with a young lady; and Mary, to
>
160
COUSIN WILLIAM.
show that she could talk if she chose, commen-
ced relating a story to her cousins, and present-
ly they were all in a loud laugh.
a
“Mary has been full of her knick-knacks to-
day," said her old uncle, joining them.
William looked at her: she never seen
emed
brighter or in better spirits, and he began to
think that even Cousin Mary might puzzle a man
sometimes.
He turned away, and began a conversation
with old Mr. Zacary Coan on the raising of
buckwheat, a subject which evidently required
profound thought, for he never looked more
grave, not to say melancholy.
Mary glanced that way, and was struck with
the sad and almost severe expression with
which he was listening to the details of Mr.
Zacary, and was convinced that he was no
more thinking of buckwheat than she was.
“I never thought of hurting his feelings so
much," said she, relenting ; “after all, he has
been
very
kind to me. But he might have told
me about it, and not somebody else.” And
hereupon she cast another glance towards him.
William was not talking, but sat with his
eyes fixed on the snuffer-tray, with an intense
gravity of gaze that quite troubled her, and she
could not help again blaming herself.
COUSIN WILLIAM.
161
“ To be sure! Aunt was right; he could
not help his thoughts. I will try to forget it,”
thought she.
Now you must not think Mary was sitting
still and gazing during this soliloquy. No, she
was talking and laughing, apparently the most
unconcerned spectator in the room. So passed
the evening till the little company broke up.
“I am ready to attend you home," said Wil-
liam, in a tone of cold and almost haughty def-
erence.
“I am obliged to you,” said the young lady,
in a similar tone, “but I shall stay all night;
then, suddenly changing her tone, she said,
“No, I cannot keep it up any longer. I will
go
home with
you,
Cousin William.”
Keep up what ?" said William, with sur-
prise.
Mary was gone for her bonnet. She came
out, took his arm, and walked on a little way.
“ You have advised me always to be frank,
cousin,” said Mary, “and I must and will be ;
so I shall tell you all, though I dare say it is
not according to rule.”
6 All what ?" said William.
“Cousin,” said she, not at all regarding what
he said, “I was very much vexed this after
noon."
02
162
COUSIN WILLIAM.
“So I perceived, Mary.”
“ Well, it is vexatious," she continued,
“though, after all, we cannot expect people to
think us perfect; but I did not think it quite
fair in you not to tell me.'
“ Tell you what, Mary ?"
Here they came to a place where the road
turned through a small patch of woods. It was
green and shady, and enlivened by a lively
chatterbox of a brook. There was a mossy
trunk of a tree that had fallen beside it, and
made a pretty seat. The moonlight lay in lit-
tle patches upon it, as it streamed down through
the branches of the trees. It was a fairy-look-
ing place, and Mary stopped and sat down, as
if to collect her thoughts. After picking up a
stick, and playing a moment in the water, she
began :
“ After all, cousin, it was very natural in you
to say so, if you thought so; though I should
not have supposed you would think so.”
“Well, I should be glad if I could know
what it is," said William, in a tone of patient
resignation.
“Oh, I forgot that I had not told you,” said
she, pushing back her hat, and speaking like
one determined to go through with the thing.
“Why, cousin, I have been told that you spoke
COUSIN WILLIAM.
163
of my manners towards yourself as being
freer--more-obtrusive than they should be.
And now," said she, her eyes flashing, “ you
see it was not a very easy thing to tell you,
but I began with being frank, and I will be so,
for the sake of satisfying myself.”
To this William simply replied, “Who told
you this, Mary ?"
My aunt.”
“ Did she say I said it to her ?”
“ Yes; and I do not so much object to your
saying it as to your thinking it, for you know I
did not force myself on your notice; it was you
who sought my acquaintance and won my con-
fidence; and that you, above all others, should
think of me in this way!”
“I never did think so, Mary,” said William,
quietly.
“Nor ever said so ?”
“Never. I should think you might have
known it, Mary."
“But,” said Mary.
“But,” said William, firmly, "Aunt Abigail
is certainly mistaken.”
“Well, I am glad of it,” said Mary, looking
relieved, and gazing in the brook. Then look-
ing up with warmth, "and, cousin, you never
must think so. I am ardent, and I express my-
164
COUSIN WILLIAM.
self freely; but I never meant, I am sure I
never should mean, anything more than a sister
might say.”
“And are you sure you never could, if all my
happiness depended on it, Mary?”
She turned and looked up in his face, and
saw a look that brought conviction. She rose
to go on, and her hand was taken and drawn
into the arm of her cousin, and that was the
end of the first and the last difficulty that ever
arose between them.
&
UNCLE TIM.
for me.
AND so I am to write a story—but of what and
where ? Shall it be radiant with the sky of Italy,
or eloquent with the beau ideal of Greece ? Shall
it breathe odour and languor from the orient, or
chivalry from the occident? or gayety from France,
or vigour from England ? No, no: these are all too
old—100 romance like—too obviously picturesque
No: let me turn to my own land my
own New England; the land of bright fires and
strong hearts; the land of deeds and not of words ;
the land of fruits and not of flowers ; the land oft-
en spoken against, yet always respected; "the
latchet of whose shoes the nations of the earth are
not worthy to unloose."
Now, from this very heroic apostrophe, you may
suppose that I have something very heroic to tell.
By no means. It is merely a little introductory
breeze of patriotism, such as occasionally brushes
over every mind, bearing on its wings the remem.
brance of all we ever loved or cherished in the land
of our early years; and if it should seem to be rhod.
omontade to any people on the other side of the
166
UNCLE TIM.
mountains, let them only imagine it to be said about
“ Old Kentuck," or any other corner of the world
in which they happened to be born, and they will
find it quite rational.
But, as touching our story, it is time to begin.
Did you ever see the little village of Newbury, in
New-England ? I dare say you never did; for it
was just one of those out-of-the-way places where
nobody ever came unless they came on purpose :
a green little hollow, wedged like a bird's nest be.
tween half a dozen high hills, that kept off the
wind and kept out foreigners; so that the little
place was as straitly “sui generis" as if there
were not another in the world. The inhabitants
were all of that respectable old standfast family
who make it a point to be born, bred, married, die,
and be buried all in the selfsame spot. There
were just so many houses, and just so many people
lived in them; and nobody ever seemed to be sick,
or to die either—at least while I was there. The
natives grew old till they could not grow any older,
and then they stood still, and lasted from genera.
tion to generation. There was, too, an unchange-
ability about all the externals of Newbury. Here
was a red house, and there was a brown house,
and across the way was a yellow house ; and there
was a straggling rail fence or a tribe of mullen
stalks between. The parson lived here, and Squira
UNCLE TIM.
167
3
Moses lived there, and Deacon Hart lived under
the hill, and Messrs. Nadab and Abihu Peters
lived by the crossroad, and the old " widder”
“ "
Smith lived by the meeting-house, and Ebenezer
Camp kept a shoemaker's shop on one side, and
Patience Mosely kept a milliner's shop in front;
and there was old Comfort Scran, who kept store for
the whole town, and sold axe-heads, brass thimbles,
liquorice ball, fancy handkerchiefs, and everything
else you can think of. Here, too, was the general
postoffice, where you might see letters marvel-
lously folded, directed wrong side upward, stamped
with a thimble, and superscribed to some of the
Dollys, or Pollys, or Peters, or Moseses afore.
named or not named.
For the rest, as to manners, morals, arts, and
sciences, the people in Newbury always went to
their parties at three o'clock in the afternoon, and
came home before dark; always stopped all work
the minute the sun was down on Saturday night ;
always went to meeting on Sunday, had a school.
horise with all the ordinary inconveniences; were
in neighbourly charity with each other; read their
Bibles, feared their God, and were content with |
such things as they had the best philosophy, after
all. Such was the place into which Master James
Benton made an irruption in the year eighteen
hundred and no matter what. Now this James is
168
UNCLE TIM.
to be our hero, and he is just the hero for a sen.
sation—at least so you would have thought, if you
had been in Newbury the week after his arrival.
Master James was one of those whole-hearted, ener.
getic Yankees, who rise in the world as naturally as
cork does in water. He possessed a great share
of that characteristic national trait so happily de.
nominated "cuteness," which signifies an ability
to do everything without trying, and to know ev.
erything without learning, and to make more use
of one's ignorance ihan other people do of their
knowledge. This quality in James was mingled
with an elasticity of animal spirits, a buoyant
cheerfulness of mind, which, though found in the
New-England character perhaps as often as any.
where else, is not ordinarily regarded as one of its
distinguishing traits.
As to the personal appearance of our hero, we
have not much to say of it-not half so much as
the girls in Newbury found it necessary to remark,
the first Sabbath that he shone out in the meeting.
house. There was a saucy frankness of counte.
nance, a knowing roguery of eye, a joviality and
prankishness of demeanour, that was wonderfully
captivating, especially to the ladies.
It is true that Master James had an uncommon.
ly comfortable opinion of himself, a full faith that
there was nothing in creation that he could not
UNCLE TIM.
169
learn and could not do; and this faith was main.
tained with an abounding and triumphant joyful.
ness, that fairly carried your sympathies along with
him, and made you feel quite as much delighted
with his qualifications and prospects as he felt him.
self. There are two kinds of self-sufficiency; one
is amusing, and the other is provoking. His was
the amusing kind. It seemed, in truth, to be only
the buoyancy and overflow of a vivacious mind,
delighted with everything that is delightful, in him.
self or others. He was always ready to magnify
his own praise, but quite as ready to exalt his
neighbour, if the channel of discourse ran that
way: his own perfections being more complete.
ly within his knowledge, he rejoiced in them
more constantly; but, if those of any one else
came within the same range, he was quite as
much astonished and edified as if they had been
his own.
Master James, at the time of his transit to the
town of Newbury, was only eighteen years of age,
so that it was difficult to say which predominated
in him most, the boy or the man. The belief
that he could, and the determination that he would
be something in the world, had caused him to aban.
don his home, and, with all his worldly effects tied
'in a blue cotton pocket-handkerchief, to proceed to
seek his fortune in Newbury. And never did stran.
P
170
UNCLE TIM.
ger in Yankee village rise to promotion with more
unparalleled rapidity, or boast a greater plurality of
employment. He figured as schoolmaster all the
week, and as chorister on Sundays, and taught sing.
ing and reading in the evenings, besides studying
Latin and Greek with the minister, nobody knew
when; thus fitting for college, while he seemed
to be doing everything else in the world besides.
James understood every art and craft of popu.
larity, and made himself mightily at home in all
the chimney corners of the region round about ;
knew the geography of everybody's cider-barrel
and apple-bin, helping himself and every one else
therefrom with all bountifulness ; rejoicing in the
good things of this life, devouring the old ladies'
doughnuts and pumpkin pies with most flattering
appetite, and appearing equally to relish every body
and thing that came in his way.
The degree and versatility of his acquirements
were truly wonderful. He knew all about arithme.
tic and history, and all about catching squirrels
and planting corn; made poetry and hoe handles
with equal celerity ; wound yarn and took out
grease spots for old ladies, and made nosegays
and knick-knacks for young ones; caught trout
Saturday afternoons, and discussed doctrines on
Sundays, with equal adroitness and effect.
short, Mr. James moved on through the place
UNCLE TIM.
171
“ Victorious,
Happy and glorious,”
welcomed and privileged by everybody in every
place; and when he had told his last ghost-story,
and fairly flourished himself out of doors at the
close of a long winter's evening, you might see the
hard face of the good man of the house still phos-
phorescent with his departing radiance, and hear
him exclaim, in a paroxysm of admiration, that
" Jemeses talk re'ely did beat all that he was sar-
tinly most a miraculous cre'tur !"
It was wonderfully contrary to the buoyant ac-
tivity of Master James's mind to keep a school.
He had, moreover, so much of the boy and the
rogue in his composition, that he could not be
strict with the iniquities of the curly pates under
his charge ; and when he saw how determinately
every little heart was boiling over with mischief
and motion, he felt in his soul more disposed to join
in and help them to a frolic, than to lay justice to
the line, as was meet. This would have made a
sad case, had it not been that the activity of the
master's mind communicated itself to his charge,
just as the reaction of one brisk little spring will
fill a manufactory with motion ; so that there was
more of an impulse towards study in the golden
good-natured day of James Benton, than in the time
of all that went before or came after him.
172
UNCLE TIM.
a
But, when “school was out," James's spirits
foamed over as naturally as a tumbler of soda-wa
ter, and he could jump over benches and burst out'
of doors with as much rapture as the veriest little
elf in his company. Then you might have seen
him stepping homeward with a most felicitous ex.
pression of countenance, occasionally reaching his
hand through the fence for a bunch of currants, or
over it after a flower, or bursting into some back
yard to help an old lady empty her wash-tub, or
stopping to pay his devoirs to Aunt This or Mis.
tress That--for James well knew the importance
of the “powers that be," and always kept the sun.
ny side of the old ladies.
We shall not answer for James's general flirta.
tions, which were sundry and manifold; for he had
just the kindly heart that fell in love with every-
thing in feminine shape that came in his way,
and
if he had not been blessed with an equal faculty for
falling out again, we do not know what ever would
have become of him. But at length he came into
an abiding captivity, and it is quite time that he
should ; for, having devoted thus much space to the
illustration of our hero, it is fit we should do some.
thing in behalf of our heroine ; and, therefore, we
must beg the reader's attention while we draw a
diagram or two that will assist him in gaining a
right idea of her.
UNCLE TIM.
173
Do you see yonder brown house, with its broad
roof sloping almost to the ground on one side, and
a great, unsupported, sun-bonnet of a piazza shoot-
ing out over the front door? You must often have
noticed it; you have seen its tall well-sweep, re-
lieved against the clear evening sky, or observed
the feather beds and bolsters lounging out of its
chamber-windows on a still summer morning ; you
recollect its gate, that swung with a chain and a
great stone; its pantry-window, latticed with little
brown slabs, and looking out upon a forest of bean.
poles. You remember the zephyrs that used to
play among its pea-brush, and shake the long tas-
sels of its corn-patch, and how vainly any zephyr
might essay to perform similar flirtations with the
considerate cabbages that were solemnly vegetating
near by. Then there was the whole neighbour-
hood of purple-leaved beets and feathery parsnips;
there were the billows of gooseberry bushes rolled
up by the fence, interspersed with rows of quince-
trees; and far off in one corner was one little
patch penuriously devoted to ornament, which fla-
med with marigolds, poppies, snappers, and four.
o'clocks. Then there was a little box by itself
with one rose geranium in it, which seemed to look
around the garden as much like a stranger as a
French dancing-master in a Yankee meeting.
house.
P 2
174
UNCLE TIM.
That is the dwelling of Uncle Timothy Griswold.
Uncle Tim, as he was commonly called, had a
character that a painter would sketch for its lights
and contrasts rather than its symmetry. He was
a chestnut burr, abounding with briers without and
with substantial goodness within. He had the
strong -grained practical sense, the calculating
worldly wisdom of his class of people in New-Eng.
land: he had, too, a kindly heart, but the whole
strata of his character was crossed by a vein of
surly petulance, that, half way between joke and
earnest, coloured everything that he said and did.
If you asked a favour of Uncle Tim, he general.
ly kept you arguing half an hour, to prove that you
really needed it, and to tell you that he could not
all the while be troubled with helping one body or
another, all which time you might observe him
regularly making his preparations to grant your
request, and see, by an odd glimmer of his eye,
that he was preparing to let you hear the conclu.
sion of the whole matter," which was, “Well, well-
I guess—I'll go on the hull-I 'spose I must, at
least ;" so off he would go and work while the day
lasted, and then wind up with a farewell exhorta.
tion“ not to be a callin' on your neighbours when
you could get along without." If any of Uncle
Tim's neighbours were in any trouble, he was al.
ways at hand to tell them that they shouldn't a'
66
UNCLE TIM.
175
?
done so;" that "it was strange they couldn't had
more sense ;" and then to close his exhortations by
labouring more diligently than any to bring them
out of their difficulties, groaning in spirit, mean.
while, that folks would make people so much trou.
ble.
“ Uncle Tim, father wants to know if
you
will
lend him your hoe to-day ?" says a little boy, ma•
king his way across a cornfield.
Why don't
your
father use his own hoe ?"
“ Ours is broke.”
6 Broke! How came it broke ?"
“ I broke it yesterday, trying to hit a squirrel.”
“ What business had you to be hittin' squirrels
with a hoe? say !”
6 But father wants to borrow yours.”
“ Why don't he have that mended ? It's a great
pester to have everybody usin' a body's things.”
6 Well, I can borrow one somewhere else, I sup-
pose," says the suppliant. After the boy has stum.
bled across the ploughed ground and is fairly over
the fence, Uncle Tim calls,
“ Halloo, there, you little rascal! what are you
goin' off without the hoe for ?”
“ I didn't know as you meant to lend it.”
“I didn't say I wouldn't, did I? Here, come and
take it-stay, I'll bring it; and do tell your father
not to be a lettin' you hunt squirrels with his hoes
next time."
a
66
a
176
UNCLE TIM.
She was
+
Uncle Tim's household consisted of Aunt Sally
his wife, and an only son and daughter; the former,
at the time our story begins, was at a neighbouring
literary institution. Aunt Sally was precisely as
clever, as easy to be entreated, and kindly in exter.
nals, as her helpmate was the reverse.
one of those respectable, pleasant old ladies whom
you might often have met on the way to church on
a Sunday, equipped with a great fan and a psalm.
book, and carrying some dried orange peel or a
stalk of fennel, to give to the children if they were
sleepy in meeting. She was as cheerful and do.
mestic as the teakettle that sung by her kitchen
fire, and slipped along among Uncle Tim's angles
and peculiarities as if there never was anything the
matter in the world ; and the same mantle of sun-
shine seemed to have fallen on Miss Grace, her
only daughter.
Pretty in her person and pleasant in her ways,
endowed with native self-possession and address,
lively and chatty, having a mind and a will of her
own, yet good-humoured withal, Miss Grace was a
universal favourite. It would have puzzled a city
lady to understand how Grace, who never was out
of Newbury in her life, knew the way to speak, and
act, and behave, on all occasions, exactly as if she
had been taught how. She was just one of those
wild flowers which you may sometimes see waving
a
3
UNCLE TIM.
177
its little head in the woods, and looking so civilized
and garden-like, that you wonder if it really did
come up
and
grow there by nature. She was an
adept in all household concerns, and there was
something amazingly pretty in her energetic way
of bustling about, and “ putting things to rights."
Like most Yankee damsels, she had a longing af.
ter the tree of knowledge, and, having exhausted
the literary fountains of a district school, she fell
to reading whatsoever came in her way. True,
she had but little to read; but what she perused
she had her own thoughts upon, so that a person
of information, in talking with her, would feel a
constant wondering pleasure to find that she had
so much more to say of this, that, and the other
thing than he expected.
Uncle Tim, like every one else, felt the magical
brightness of his daughter, and was delighted with
her praises, as might be discerned by his often
finding occasion to remark that “ he didn't see
why the boys need to be all the time a' comin' to
see Grace, for she was nothing so extror'nary,
after all.” About all matters and things at home
she generally had her own way, while Uncle Tim
would scold and give up with a regular good
grace that was quite creditable.
Father,” says Grace, “I want to have a party
next week.”
178
UNCLE TIM.
“ You sha'n't go to havin' your parties, Grace.
I always have to eat bits and ends a fortnight after
you have one, and I won't have it so." And so
Uncle Tim walked out, and Aunt Sally and Miss
Grace proceeded to make the cake and pies for
the party
When Uncle Tim came home, he saw a long
array of pies and rows of cakes on the kitchen
table.
“Grace-GraceGrace, I say! What is all
this here flummery for ?"
Why, it is to eat, father,” said Grace, with a
good-natured look of consciousness.
Uncle Tim tried his best to look sour; but his
visage began to wax comical as he looked at his
merry daughter, so he said nothing, but quietly sat
down to his dinner.
“Father,” said Grace, after dinner,
want two more candlesticks next week.”
“Why can't you have your party with what
you've got ?"
“ No, father, we want two more.”
“I can't afford it, Grace-there's no sort of use
on't--and
you sha'n't have
“Oh, father, now do," said Grace.
"I won't, neither," said Uncle Tim, as he sal.
lied out of the house, and took the road to Comfort
Scran's store.
66
we shall
any."
>
UNCLE TIM.
179
66
a
In half an hour he returned again, and fumbling
in his pocket, and drawing forth a candlestick, lev.
elled it at Grace.
“ There's your candlestick."
But, father, I said I wanted two."
“ Why ! can't you make one do ?”
“ No, I can't; I must have two."
“Well, then, there's t'other; and here's a fol.de.
rol for you to tie round your neck.” So saying,
he bolted for the door, and took himself off with all
speed. It was much after this fashion that matters
commonly went on in the brown house.
But, having tarried long on the way, we must
proceed with the main story.
James thought Miss Grace was a glorious girl,
and as to what Miss Grace thought of Master
James, perhaps it would not have been developed,
had she not been called to stand on the defensive
for him with Uncle Tim. For, from the time that
the whole village of Newbury began to be wholly
given unto the praise of Master James, Uncle Tim
set his face as a flint against him, from the lauda-
ble fear of following the multitude. He therefore
made conscience of stoutly gainsaying everything
that was said in his favour, which, as James was
in high favour with Aunt Sally, he had frequent
opportunities to do.
So, when Miss Grace perceived that Uncle Tim
180
UNCLE TIM.
did not like our hero as much as he ought to do,
she, of course, was bound to like him well enough
to make up for it. Certain it is that they were
remarkably happy in finding opportunities of being
acquainted; that James waited on her, as a matter
of course, from singing.school ; that he volunteered
making a new box for her geranium on an improved
plan; and, above all, that he was remarkably par-
ticular in his attentions to Aunt Sally, a stroke of
policy which showed that James had a natural
genius for this sort of matters.
Even when emer-
ging from the meeting-house in full glory, with
flute and psalm-book under his arm, he would stop
to ask her how she did ; and if it was cold weather,
he would carry her foot-stove all the way home
from meeting, discoursing upon the sermon and
other serious matters, as Aunt Sally observed, “in
the pleasantest, prettiest way that ever ye see.
This flute was one of the crying sins of James in
the eyes of Uncle Tim. James was particularly
fond of it, because he had learned to play on it by
intuition, and on the decease of the old pitchpipe,
which was slain by a fall from the gallery, he took
the liberty to introduce the flute in its place. For
this and other sins, and for the good reasons above
named, Uncle Tim's countenance was not towards
James, neither could he be moved to him-ward by
any manner of means.
UNCLE TIM.
181
To all Aunt Sally's good words and kind speech.
es, he had only to say that “ he didn't like him;
that he hated to see him a' manifesting and glori-
fying there in the front gallery Sundays, and a'act-
ing everywhere as if he was master of all; he
didn't like it, and he wouldn't.” But our hero was
no whit cast down or discomfited by the malcon.
tent aspect of Uncle Tim. On the contrary, when
report was made to him of divers of his hard
speeches, he only shrugged his shoulders with a
very satisfied air, and remarked that " he knew a
thing or two, for all that."
“Why, James,” said his companion and chief
counsellor, " do you think Grace likes you ?"
“ I don't know,” said our hero, with a comfort.
able appearance of certainty.
“But you can't get her, James, if Uncle Tim is
cross about it.”
“ Fudge! I can make Uncle Tim like me, if I
have a mind to try.”
“Well, then, Jim, you'll have to give up that
fute of yours, I tell you,
now.”
“ Faw, sol, law-I can make him like me, and
my flute too."
“Why, how will you do it ?”
“Oh, I'll work it,” said our hero.
“Well, Jim, I tell you, now, you don't know Uncle
Q
182
UNCLE TIM.
6
Tim if you say so; for he's just the settest crittur
in his way that ever you saw.”
• I do know Uncle Tim, though, better than most
folks ; he is no more cross than I am; and as to
his being set, you have nothing to do but make him
think he is in his own way when he is in yours-
that is all."
• Well,” said the other, “but, you see, I don't be-
lieve it.”
“And I'll bet you a gray squirrel that I'll go
there this very evening, and get him to like me
and my flute both,” said James.
Accordingly, the late sunshine of that afternoon
shone full on the yellow buttons of James as he
proceeded to the place of conflict. It was a bright,
beautiful evening. A thunder-storm had just clear.
ed away, and the silver clouds lay rolled up
in masses
around the setting sun; the rain-drops were spark-
ling and winking to each other over the ends of
the leaves, and all the bluebirds and robins, break.
ing forth into song, made the little green valley as
merry as a musical box.
James's soul was always overflowing with that
kind of poetry which consists in feeling unspeak.
ably happy; and it is not to be wondered at, con-
sidering where he was going, that he should feel
in a double ecstasy on the present occasion. He
stepped gayly along, occasionally springing over a
UNCLE TIM.
183
fence to the right, to see whether the rain had swol.
len the trout-brook, or to the left, to notice the
ripening of Mr. Somebody's watermelons --- for
James always had an eye on all his neighbours'
matters as well as his own.
In this way he proceeded till he arrived at the
picket-fence that marked the commencement of
Uncle Tim's ground. Here he stopped to con-
sider. Just then, four or five sheep walked up,
and began also to consider a loose picket, which
was hanging just ready to drop off; and James
began to look at the sheep. “Well, mister," said
he, as he observed the leader judiciously drawing
himself through the gap, “ in with you—just what
I wanted;" and, having waited a moment, to ascer-
tain that all the company were likely to follow, he
ran with all haste towards the house, and swinging
open the gate, pressed all breathless to the door.
“ Uncle Tim, there are four or five sheep in
your garden." Uncle Tim dropped his whetstone
and scythe.
“ I'll drive them out,” said our hero; and with
that, he ran down the garden alley, and made a
furious descent on the enemy; bestirring himself,
as Bunyan says, “lustily and with good courage,"
till every sheep had skipped out much quicker than
it skipped in; and then, springing over the fence,
he seized a great stone, and nailed on the picket so
184
UNCLE TIM.
а
effectually that no sheep could possibly encourage
the hope of getting in again. This was all the
work of a minute ; and he was back again, but so
;
exceedingly out of breath that it was necessary
for
him to stop a moment and rest himself. Uncle
Tim looked ungraciously satisfied.
“ What under the canopy set you to scampering
so ?" said he ; “I could a' driv' out them critturs
myself !”
“ If you are at all particular about driving them
out yourself, I can let them in again,” said James.
Uncle Tim looked at him with an odd sort of
twinkle in the corner of his eye.
“ 'Spose I must ask you to walk in,” said he.
“Much obliged,” said James, “ but I am in a
great hurry." So saying, he started in very busi.
ness-like fashion towards the gate.
“ You'd better jest stop a minute."
“Can't stay a minute."
“ I don't see what possesses you to be all the
while in sich a hurry; a body would think you
had all creation on your shoulders !"
“Just my situation, Uncle Tim," said James,
swinging open the gate.
“Well, at any rate, have a drink of cider, can't
ye?” said Uncle Tim, who was now quite engaged
to have his own way in the case.
James found it convenient to accept this invita •
UNCLE TIM.
185
$
tion, and Uncle Tim was twice as good-natured as
if he had stayed in the first of the matter.
Once fairly forced into the premises, James
thought fit to forget his long walk and excess of
business, especially as about that moment Aunt
Sally and Miss Grace returned from an afternoon
call. You
may be sure that the last thing these
respectable ladies looked for was to find Uncle Tim
and Master James tête-à-tête over a pitcher of ci.
der; and when, as they entered, our hero looked
up with something of a mischievous air, Miss
Grace, in particular, was so puzzled that it took
her at least a quarter of an hour to untie her bon.
net strings. But James stayed and acted the
agreeable to perfection. First he must needs go
down into the garden to look at Uncle Tim's won.
derful cabbages, and then he promenaded all around
the corn-patch, stopping every few moments and
looking up with an appearance of great gratifica-
tion, as if he had never seen such corn in his life;
and then he examined Uncle Tim's favourite apple.
tree with an expression of wonderful interest.
“I never!” he broke forth, having stationed him-
velf against the fence opposite to it; “what kind of
an apple-tree is that ?"
6 It's a bell-flower, or somethin' another,” said
Uncle Tim.
• Why, where did you get it?
I never saw
Q2
186
UNCLE TIM.
such apples !" said our hero, with his eyes still fix.
ed on the tree.
Uncle Tim pulled up a stalk or two of weeds
and threw them over the fence, just to show that he
did not care anything about the matter, and then
he came up and stood by James.
“ Nothin'.so remarkable, as I know on,” said he.
Just then, Grace came to say that supper was
ready. Once seated at table, it was astonishing
to see the perfect and smiling assurance with which
our hero continued his addresses to Uncle Tim.
It sometimes goes a great way towards making
people like us, to take it for granted that they do
already, and upon this principle James proceeded.
He talked, laughed, told stories, and joked with
the most fearless assurance, occasionally second-
ing his words by looking Uncle Tim in the face
with a countenance so full of good-will as would
have melted any snow-drift of prejudices in the
world.
James also had one natural accomplishment,
more courtier-like than all the diplomacy in Eu-
rope, and that was, the gift of feeling a real inter-
est for anybody in five minutes ; so that if he be-
gan to please in jest, he generally ended in earnest.
With great simplicity of mind, he had a natural
tact for seeing into others, and watched their mo-
tions with the same delight with which a child
1
UNCLE TIM.
187
see
"
a
gazes at the wheels and springs of a watch, to
what it will do.”
The rough exterior and latent kindness of Uncle
Tim were quite a spirit-stirring study; and when
tea was over, as he and Grace happened to be
standing together in the front door, he broke forth,
“I do really like your father, Grace !"
“Do you ?” said Grace.
“ Yes, I do. He has something in him, and I
like him all the better for having to fish it out."
“ Well, I hope you will make him like you," said
Grace, unconsciously; and then she stopped, and
looked a little abashed.
James was too well bred to see this, or look as
if Grace meant any more than she said—a kind of
breeding not always attendant on more fashionable
polish-so he only answered,
“ I think I shall, Grace ! though I doubt whether I
can get him to own it.”
“ He is the kindest man that ever was,” said
Grace ; " and he always acts as if he was ashamed
of it.”
James turned a little away, and looked at the
bright evening sky, which was glowing like a calm
golden sea; and over it was the silver new moon,
with one little star to hold the candle for her. He
shook some bright drops off from a rosebush near
by, and watched to see them shine as they fell,
"
>
188
UNCLE TIM.
while Grace stood very quietly waiting for him to
speak again.
“ Grace,” said he, at last, “ I am going to college
this fall.”
“So you told me yesterday," said Grace
James stooped down over Grace's geranium,
and began to busy himself with pulling off all the
dead leaves, remarking in the mean while,
“ And if I do get him to like me, Grace, will you
like me too ?”
“I like you now very well,” said Grace.
“ Come, Grace, you know what I mean," said
James, looking steadfastly at the top of the apple.
tree.
“Well, I wish, then, you would understand what
I mean, without my saying any more about it,” said
Grace.
“Oh! to be sure I will,” said our hero, looking
up with a very intelligent air; and so, as Aunt
Sally would say, the matter was settled, with 6
words about it.”
Now shall we narrate how our hero, as he saw
Uncle Tim approaching the door, had the impu.
dence to take out his flute, and put the parts to-
gether, screwing it round and fixing it with great
composure ?
“Uncle Tim," said he, looking up," this is the
best flute that ever I saw."
no
UNCLE TIM.
189
“ I hate them tooting critturs," said Uncle Tim,
snappishly.
“I declare! I wonder how you can!” said
James, " for I do think they exceed—”
So saying, he put the flute to his mouth, and ran
up and down a long flourish.
“ There! what think you of that ?" said he,
looking in Uncle Tim's face with much delight.
Uncle Tim turned and marched into the house,
but soon faced to the right about and came out
again, for James was fingering “ Yankee Doodle"-
that appropriate national air for the descendants
of the Puritans.
Uncle Tim's patriotism began to bestir itself ;
and now, if it had been anything, as he said, but
6 that 'ere flute”.
-as it was, he looked more than
once at James's fingers.
“ How under the sun could you learn to do that ?"
said he.
“Oh, it's easy enough,” said James, proceeding
with another tune; and, having played it through,
he stopped a moment to examine the joints of his
flute, and in the mean time addressed Uncle Tim :
“ You can't think how grand this is for pitching
tunes~I always pitch the tunes Sunday with it.”
“ Yes; but I don't think it's a right and fit instru.
ment for the Lord's house," said Uncle Tim.
" Why not? It is only a kind of a long pitch-
190
UNCLE TIM.
pipe, you see,” said James ; " and, seeing the old
one is broken, and this will answer, I don't see why
it is not better than nothing."
“Why, yes, it may be better than nothing," said
Uncle Tim ; " but, as I always tell Grace and my
wife, it 'aint the right kind of instrument, after all;
it 'aint solemn."
“Solemn!” said James ; " that is according as
you work it: see here, now.”
So saying, he struck up Old Hundred, and pro-
ceeded through it with great perseverance.
4. There, now !” said he.
“ Well, well, I don't know but it is," said Uncle
Tim; “ but, as I said at first, I don't like the look
of it in meetin'.'
“ But yet you really think it is better than no.
thing,” said James, " for you see I couldn't pitch
my tunes without it.”.
Maybe 'tis," said Uncle Tim; “but that isn't
Bayin' much.”
This, however, was enough for Master James,
who soon after departed, with his flute in his pock.
et, and Grace's last words in his heart ; soliloqui.
zing as he shut the gate, " There, now, I hope Aunt
Sally won't go to praising me ; for, just so sure as
she does, I shall have it all to do over again.”
James was right in his apprehension. Uncle
Tim could be privately converted, but not brought
>
UNCLE TIM.
191
to open confession; and when, the next morning,
Aunt Sally remarked, in the kindness of her heart,
“ Well, I always knew you would come to like
James," Uncle Tim only responded, “Who said I
did like him ?”
“ But I'm sure you seemed to like him last night.”
“ Why, I couldn't turn him out o' doors, could
I? I don't think nothin' of him but what I always
did.”
But it was to be remarked that Uncle Tim con.
tented himself at this time with the mere general
avowal, without running it into particulars, as was
formerly his wont. It was evident that the ice
had begun to melt, but it might have been a long
time in dissolving, had not collateral incidents, as.
sisted.
It so happened that, about this time, George
Griswold, the only son before referred to, returned
to his native village, after having completed his
theological studies at a neighbouring institution.
It is interesting to mark the gradual development
of mind and heart, from the time that the white-
headed, bashful boy quits the country village for
college, to the period when he returns, a formed
and matured man, to notice how gradually the rust
of early prejudices begins to cleave from him-how
his opinions, like his handwriting, pass from the
cramped and limited forms of a country school into
192
UNCLE TIM.
that confirmed and characteristic style which is to
mark the man for life. In George this change
was remarkably striking. He was endowed by
nature with uncommon acuteness of feeling and
fondness for reflection : qualities as likely as any
to render a child backward and uninteresting in
early life.
When he left Newbury for college, he was a
taciturn and apparently phlegmatic boy, only evin-
cing sensibility by blushing, and looking particu-
larly stupified whenever anybody spoke to him.
Vacation after vacation passed, and he returned
more and more an altered being; and he who once
shrunk from the eye of the deacon, and was ready
to sink if he met the minister, now moved about
among the dignitaries of the place with all the
composure of a superior being.
It was only to be regretted that, while the mind
improved, the physical energies declined, and that
every visit to his home found him paler, thinner,
and less prepared in body for the sacred profes.
sion to which he had devoted himself. But now
he was returned, a minister-a real minister, with
a right to stand in the pulpit and preach; and
what a joy and glory to Aunt Sally—and to Uncle
Tim, if he were not ashamed to own it.
The first Sunday after he came, it was known
far and near that George Griswold was to preach;
UNCLE TIM.
193
and never was a more ready and expectant audi-
ence.
As the time for reading the first psalm approach.
ed, you might see the white-headed men turning
their faces attentively towards the pulpit; the
anxious and expectant old women, with their little
black bonnets, bent forward to see him rise. There
were the children looking, because everybody else
looked ; there was Uncle Tim in the front pew,
his face considerately adjusted; there was Aunt
Sally, seeming as pleased as a mother could seem ;
and Miss Grace, lifting her sweet face to her broth.
er, like a flower to the sun; there was our friend
James in the front gallery, his joyous countenance
a little touched with sobriety and expectation; in
short, a more embarrassingly attentive audience
never greeted the first effort of a young minister.
Under these circumstances, there was something
touching in the fervent self-forgetfulness which
characterized the first exercises of this morning-
something which moved every one in the house.
The devout poetry of his prayer, rich with the
orientalism of Scripture, and eloquent with the ex-
pression of strong yet chastened emotion, breathed
over his audience like music, hushing every one to
silence, and beguiling every one to feeling. In the
sermon there was the strong intellectual nerve, the
constant occurrence of argument and statement,
R
194
UNCLE TIM.
which distinguishes a New-England discourse ; but
it was touched with life by the intense, yet half-
subdued feeling with which he seemed to utter it.
Like the rays of the sun, it enlightened and melted
at the same moment.
The strong peculiarities of New-England doc.
trine, involving, as they do, all the hidden machinery
of mind, all the mystery of its divine relations and
future progression, and all the tremendous uncer,
tainties of its eternal good or ill, seemed to have
dwelt in his mind, to have burned in his thoughts,
to have wrestled with his powers, and they gave to
his manner the fervency almost of another world;
while the exceeding paleness of his countenance,
and a tremulousness of voice that seemed to spring
from bodily weakness, touched the strong work.
ings of his mind with a pathetic interest, as if the
being so early absorbed in another world could
not be long for this.
When the services were over, the congregation
dispersed with the air of people who had felt rather
than heard ; and all the criticism that followed
was similar to that of old Deacon Hartman up-
right, shrewd man--who, as he lingered a moment
at the church door, turned and gazed with unwont-
ed feeling at the young preacher.
“ He's a blessed cre'tur !” said he, the tears ac.
tually making their way to his eyes ; “I han't
UNCLB TIM.
195
been so near heaven this many a day. He's a
blessed cre'tur of the Lord—that's my mind about
him!”
As for our friend James, he was at first sobered,
then deeply moved, and at last wholly absorbed
by the discourse ; and it was only when meeting
was over that he began to think where he really
was.
With all his versatile activity, James had a great-
er depth of mental capacity than he was himself
aware of, and he began to feel a sort of electric
affinity for the mind that had touched him in a way
so new; and when he saw the mild minister stand-
ing at the foot of the pulpit stairs, he made directly
towards him.
“ I do want to hear more from you,” said he,
with a face full of earnestness ; “may I walk home
with you ?"
“ It is a long and warm walk,” said the young
minister, smiling
“Oh, I don't care for that, if it does not trouble
you," said James; and leave being gained, you
might have seen them slowly passing along under
the trees, James pouring forth all the floods of in.
quiry which the sudden impulse of his mind had
brought out, and supplying his guide with more
questions and problems for solution than he could
have gone through with in a month.
196
UNCLE TIM.
a
“ I cannot answer all your questions now,” said
he, as they stopped at Uncle Tim's gate.
“Well, then, when will you ?” said James, eager-
ly. “Let me come home with you to-night ?”
The minister smiled assent, and James departed
so full of new thoughts, that he passed Grace with-
out even seeing her. From that time a friendship
commenced between the two, which was a beauti.
ful illustration of the affinities of opposites. It was
like a friendship between morning and evening-all
freshness and sunshine on one side, and all gentle.
ness and peace on the other.
The young minister, worn by long-continued ill
health, by the fervency of his own feelings, and the
gravity of his own reasonings, found pleasure in the
healthful buoyancy of a youthful, unexhausted mind,
while James felt himself sobered and made better by
the moonlight tranquillity of his friend. It is one
mark of a superior mind to understand and be in-
fluenced by the superiority of others, and this was
the case with James. The ascendency which his
new friend acquired over him was unlimited, and
did more in a month towards consolidating and
developing his character, than all the four years
course of a college. Our religious habits are likely
always to retain the impression of the first seal
which stamped them, and in this case it was a pe.
culiarly happy one. The calmness, the settled
UNCLE TIM.
197
purpose, the mild devotion of his friend, formed a
just alloy to the energetic and reckless buoyancy
of James's character, and awakened in him a set of
feelings without which the most vigorous mind
must be incomplete.
The effect of the ministrations of the young pas.
tor, in awaking attention to the subjects of his call.
ing in the village, was marked, and of a kind
which brought pleasure to his own heart. But, like
all other excitement, it tends to exhaustion, and it
was not long before he sensibly felt the decline of
the powers of life. To the best-regulated mind
there is something bitter in the relinquishment of
projects for which we have been long and laborious-
ly preparing, and there is something far more bit.
ter in crossing the long.cherished expectations of
friends. All this George felt. He could not bear
to look on his mother, hanging on his words and
following his steps with eyes of almost childish de.
light-on his singular father, whose whole earthly
ambition was bound up in his success, and think
how soon the “candle of their old age” must be
When he returned from a successful ef.
fort, it was painful to see the old man, so evidently
delighted, and so anxious to conceal his triumph,
as he would seat himself in his chair, and begin
with,
“ George, that 'ere doctrine is rather of a puz-
put out.
R2
198
UNCLE TIM.
zler ; but you seem to think you've got the run on't.
I should re’ly like to know what business you have
to think you know better than other folks about
it;" and, though he would cavil most courageously
at all George's explanations, yet you might per.
ceive, through all, that he was inly uplifted to hear
how his boy could talk.
If George was engaged in argument with any
one else, he would sit by, with his head bowed
down, looking out from under his shaggy eye-
brows with a shamefaced satisfaction very unusual
with him. Expressions of affection from the natu.
rally gentle are not half so touching as those which
are forced out from the hard-favoured and severe;
and George was affected, even to pain, by the evi.
dent pride and regard of his father.
“ He never said so much to anybody before,”
thought he, “and what will he do if I die ?”
In such thoughts as these Grace found her broth.
er engaged one still autumn morning, as he stood
leaning against the garden fence.
“ What are you solemnizing here for, this bright
day, brother George ?” said she, as she bounded
down the alley.
The young man turned and looked on her happy
face with a sort of twilight smile.
“How happy you are, Grace !” said he.
“ To be sure I am! and you ought to be too,
because you are better.”
UNCLE TIM.
199
66
“ I am happy, Grace-that is, I hope I shall be.”
“ You are sick, I know you are,” said Grace;
“ you look worn out! Oh, I wish your heart could
spring once, as mine does."
“ I am not well, dear Grace, and I fear I never
shall be,” said he, turning away, and fixing his eyes
on the fading trees opposite.
“Oh, George! dear George ! don't, don't say
that ; you'll break all our hearts,” said Grace,
with tears in her own eyes.
“ Yes, but it is true, sister: I do not feel it on
my own account so much as-However,” he ad-
ded, " it will all be the same in heaven.”
It was but a week after this that a violent cold
hastened the progress of debility into a confirmed
malady. He sunk very fast. Aunt Sally, with
the self-deceit of a fond and cheerful heart, thought
every day that “he would be better," and Uncle
Tim resisted conviction with all the obstinate per.
tinacity of his character, while the sick man felt
that he had not the heart to undeceive them.
James was now at the house every day, exhaust.
ing all his energy and invention in the case of his
friend; and any one who had seen him in his hours
of recklessness and glee, could scarcely recognise
him as the being whose step was so careful, whose
eye so watchful, whose voice and touch were so
gentle, as he moved around the sick.bed. But the
a
200
UNCLE TIM.
game quickness which makes a mind buoyant in
gladness, often makes it gentlest and most sympa.
thetic in sorrow.
It was now nearly morning in the sick-room.
George had been restless and feverish all night,
but towards day he fell into a light slumber, and
James sat by his side, almost holding his breath
lest he should waken him. It was yet dusk, but
the sky was brightening with a solemn glow, and
the stars were beginning to disappear; all, save
the bright and morning one, which, standing alone
in the east, looked tenderly through the casement,
like the eye of our heavenly Father, watching over
us when all earthly friendships are fading.
George awoke with a placid expression of coun.
tenance, and fixing his eyes on the brightening sky,
murmured faintly,
“ The sweet, immortal morning sheds
Its blushes round the spheres."
A moment after, a shade passed over his face;
he pressed his fingers over his eyes, and the tears
dropped silently on his pillow.
“George ! dear George !” said James, bending
over him.
“It's my friends--it's my father-my mother,"
said he, faintly.
“ Jesus Christ will watch over them,” said James,
soothingly.
UNCLE TIM.
201
“Oh, yes, I know he will; for He loved his own
;
which were in the world; he loved them unto the
end. But I am dying-and before I have done any
good.”
Oh, do not say so,” said James; “think, think
what you have done, if only for me! God bless
you for it! God will bless you for it; it will fol-
low you to heaven; it will bring me there. Yes,
I will do as you have taught me! I will give my
life, my soul, my whole strength to it; and then
you will not have lived in vain."
George smiled and looked upward; “his face
was as that of an angel ;” and James, in his warmth,
continued :
“ It is not I alone who can say this: we all
bless you; every one in this place blesses you ;
you will be had in everlasting remembrance by
some hearts here, I know.”
“ Bless God!” said George.
“ We do,” said James. “ I bless him that I ever
knew you; we all bless him, and we love you, and
shall forever."
The glow that had kindled over the pale face of
the invalid again faded as he said,
“ But, James, I must, I ought to tell my father
and mother; I ought to, and how can I ?”
At that moment the door opened, and Uncle Tim
made his appearance. He seemed struck with the
202
UNCLE TIM.
paleness of George's face; and, coming to the side
of the bed, he felt his pulse, and laid his hand anx-
iously on his forehead, and clearing his voice sev.
eral times, inquired" if he didn't feel a little better.”
“ No, father,” said George; then taking his
hand, he looked anxiously in his face, and seemed
to hesitate a moment: “Father,” he began, “ you
know that we ought to submit to God.”
There was something in his expression at this
moment which flashed the truth into the old man's
mind; he dropped his son's hand with an excla.
mation of agony, and turning quickly, left the
66
room.
“ Father! father!” said Grace, trying to rouse
him, as he stood with his arms folded by the kitchen
window.
“ Get away, child !” said he, roughly.
“ Father, mother says breakfast is ready."
“ I don't want any breakfast,” said he, turning
short about. “Sally, what are you fixing in that
'ere porringer ?"
“Oh, it's only a little tea for George: 'twill
comfort him up, and make him feel better, poor
fellow.”
“ You won't make him feel better-he's gone,"
said Uncle Tim, hoarsely.
“Oh, dear heart! no !” said Aunt Sally.
“Be still a contradicting me; I won't be con.
>
UNCLE TIM.
203
a
tradicted all the time by nobody! The short of
the case is, that George is goin' to die just as we've
got him ready to be a minister and all; and I wish
to pity I was in my grave myself, and so- -” said
Uncle Tim, as he plunged out of the door and shut
it after him.
It is well for man that there is one Being who
sees the suffering heart as it is, and not as it man.
ifests itself through the repellancies of outward in-
firmity, and who, perhaps, feels more for the stern
and wayward, than for those whose gentler feel-
ings win for them human sympathy. With all his
singularities, there was in the heart of Uncle Tim
a depth of religious sincerity ; but there are few
characters where religion does anything more than
struggle with natural defect, and modify what would
else be far worse.
In this hour of trial, all the native obstinacy and
pertinacity of the old man's character rose, and
while he felt the necessity of submission, it seemed
impossible to submit; and thus, reproaching him-
self, struggling in vain to repress the murmurs of
nature, repulsing from him all external sympathy,
his mind was " tempest-toss'd and not comforted."
It was on the still afternoon of the following Sab.
bath that he was sent for, in haste, to the cham.
ber of his son. He entered, and saw that the hour
was come. The family were all there; Grace
204
UNCLE TIM.
her apron,
and James, side by side, bent over the dying one,
and his mother sat afar off, with her face hid in
" that she might not see the death of the
child." The aged minister was there, and the
Bible lay open before him. The father walked to
the side of the bed. He stood still, and gazed on
the face now brightening with “ life and immortal-
ity.” The son lifted up his eyes : he saw his fa.
ther, smiled, and put out his hand. “I am glad
you are come,” said he.
“ Oh, George, to the pity,
don't! don't smile on me so! I know what is
coming; I have tried and tried, and I can't, I can't
have it so ;" and his frame shook, and he sobbed
audibly. The room was still as death; there was
none that seemed able to comfort him. At last
the son repeated, in a sweet but interrupted voice,
those words of man's best Friend : “Let not your
heart be troubled ; in my Father's house are many
mansions."
“ Yes, but I can't help being troubled ; I suppose
the Lord's will must be done, but it'll kill me."
“Oh, father, don't, don't break my heart,” said
the son, much agitated. “I shall see you again in
heaven, and you shall see me again ; and then
'your heart shall rejoice, and your joy no man
taketh from you.''
“I never shall get to heaven, if I feel as I do
now," said the old man. 6. I cannot have it so."
66
?
66
UNCLE TIM.
205
>
The mild face of the sufferer was overcast. “]
wish he saw all that I do," said he, in a low voice;
then looking towards the minister, he articulated,
“ Pray for us.
They knelt in prayer. It was soothing, as real
prayer always must be ; and when they rose, every
one seemed more calm. But the sufferer was ex.
hausted; his countenance changed; he looked on
his friends; there was a faint whisper, “ Peace I
leave with you,” and he was in heaven.
We need not dwell on what followed. The seed
sown by the righteous often blossoms over their
grave; and so was it with this good man: the
words of peace which he spake unto his friends
while he was yet with them, came into remem-
brance after he was gone; and though he was laid
in the grave with many tears, yet it was with soft-
ened and submissive hearts.
“ The Lord bless him !” said Uncle Tim, as he
and James were standing, last of all, over the grave.
“ I believe my heart is gone to heaven with him ;
and I think the Lord really did know what was
best, after all.”
Our friend James seemed now to become the
support of the family, and the bereaved old man
unconsciously began to transfer to him the affec-
tions that had been left vacant.
" James," said he to him one day, “ I suppose
S
206
UNCLE TIM.
you know that you are about the same to me as a
son.”
“I hope so," said James, kindly.
“Well, well, you'll go to college next week, and
none o' y'r keepin' school to get along. I've got
enough to bring you safe out--that is, if you'll be
car'ful and stiddy."
James knew the heart too well to refuse a fa-
vour in which the poor old man's mind was com.
forting itself; he had the self-command to abstain
from any extraordinary expressions of gratitude,
but took it kindly, as a matter of course.
“Dear Grace,” said he to her, the last evening
before he left home, “ I am changed; we both are
altered since we first knew each other; and now
I am going to be gone a long time, but I am
sure-
He stopped to arrange his thoughts.
“ Yes, you may be sure of all those things that
you wish to say, and cannot,” said Grace.
“ Thank you,” said James; then, looking
thoughtfully, he added,
“God help me. I believe I have mind enough
to be what I mean to; but whatever I am or have
shall be given to God and my fellow-men; and
then, Grace, your brother in heaven will rejoice
over me."
“I believe he does now," said Grace. « God
UNCLE TIM.
207
bless you, James; I don't know what would have
become of us if you had not been here."
“ Yes, you will live to be like him, and to do
even more good,” she added, her face brightening
as she spoke, till James thought she really must be
right.
*
*
*
It was
five
years
after this that James was spo.
ken of as an eloquent and successful minister in
the State of C-, and was settled in one of its
most influential villages. Late one autumn even.
ing, a tall, bony, hard-favoured man was observed
making his way into the outskirts of the place.
" Halloa, there!” he called to a man over the
other side of a fence ; “what town is this 'ere ?"
“ It's Farmington, sir."
“ Well, I want to know if
you know anything of
a boy of mine that lives here?”
“ A boy of yours—who ?”
Why, I've got a boy here, that's livin' on the
town, and I thought I'd jest look him up."
“I don't know any boy that is living on the
town; what's his name?"
“ Why," said the old man, pushing his hat off
from his forehead, "I believe they call him James
Benton."
“ James Benton! why, that is our minister's
name."
208
UNCLE TIM.
“Oh, wal, I believe he is the minister, come to
think on't. He's a boy o' mine, though. Where
does he live ?”
“ In that white house that you see set back
from the road there, with all those trees round it.”
At this instant a tall, manly-looking person ap-
proached from behind. Have we not seen that
face before ? It is a touch graver than of old, and
its lines have a more thoughtful significance; but
all the vivacity of James Benton sparkles in that
quick smile as his
eye
falls on the old man.
“I thought you could not keep away from us
long," said he, with the prompt cheerfulness of his
boyhood, and laying hold of both of Uncle Tim's
hard hands.
They approached the gate ; a bright face glan-
ces past the window, and in a moment Grace is at
the door.
“ Father! dear father !"
6 You'd better make believe be so glad,” said
Uncle Tim, his eyes glistening as he spoke.
“ Come, come, father, I have authority in these
days,” said Grace, drawing him towards the house,
"so no disrespectful speeches; away with your hat
and coat, and sit down in this great chair.”
“So, ho! Miss Grace,” said Uncle Tim, “you
are at your old tricks, ordering round as usual.
Well, if I must, I must ;" so down he sat.
66
UNCLE TIM.
209
66
Father,” said Grace, as he was leaving them,
after a few days' stay, “it is Thanksgiving-day next
month, and you and mother must come and stay
with us."
Accordingly, the following month found Aunt
Sally and Uncle Tim by the minister's fireside,
delighted witnesses of the Thanksgiving presents
which a willing people were pouring in, and the
next day they had once more the pleasure of see-
ing a son of theirs in the sacred desk, and hearing
a sermon that everybody said was the “best he
ever preached ;” and it is to be remarked, by-the-
by, that this was the standing commentary on all
James's discourses, so that it was evident that he
was “ going on unto perfection.”
“ There's a great deal that's worth havin' in
this 'ere life, after all," said Uncle Tim, as he sat
musing over the coals of the bright evening fire
of that day; "that is, if we'd only take it when the
Lord lays it in our way."
“ Yes," said James ; " and let us only take it as
we should, and this life will be cheerfulness, and
the next fulness of joy."
S2
66
"
AUNT MARY.
SINCE sketching character is the mode, I too
take up my pencil, not to make you laugh,
though peradventure it may be—to get you to
sleep.
I am now a tolerably old gentleman-an old
bachelor, moreover-and, what is more to the
point, an unpretending and sober-minded one.
Lest, however, any of the ladies should take
exceptions against me in the very outset, I will
merely remark, en passant, that a man can some-
times become an old bachelor because he has
too much heart as well as too little.
Years ago-before any of
my
readers were
born I was a little good-for-naught of a boy,
of precisely that unlucky kind who are always
in everybody's way, and always in mischief. I
had, to watch over my uprearing, a father and
mother, and a whole army of older brothers and
sisters. My relatives bore a very great resem-
blance to other human beings, neither good
angels nor the opposite class, but, as mathema-
ticians
say, “in the mean proportion.”
AUNT MARY.
211
As I have before insinuated, I was a sort of
family scapegrace among them, and one on
whose head all the domestic trespasses were
regularly visited, either by real actual desert
or by imputation.
For this order of things, there was, I confess,
a very solid and serious foundation, in the con-
stitution of
my
mind. Whether I was born un-
der some cross-eyed planet, or whether I was
fairy-smitten in my cradle, certain it is that I
was, from the dawn of existence, a sort of “Mu-
rad the Unlucky;" an out-of-time, out-of-place,
out-of-form sort of a boy, with whom nothing
prospered.
Who always left open
doors in cold weather?
it was Henry. Who was sure to upset his cof-
fee-cup at breakfast, or to knock over his tum-
bler at dinner, or to prostrate salt-cellar, pep-
per-box, and mustard-pot, if he only happened
to move his arm ? why, Henry. Who was
plate-breaker general for the family? it was
Henry. Who tangled mamma's silks and cot-
tons, and tore up the last newspaper
for papa,
or threw down old Phabe's clothes'-horse, with
all her clean ironing thereupon? why, Henry.
Now all this was no “malice prepense” in
me, for I solemnly believe that I was the best-
naturen boy in the world ; but something was
212
AUNT MARY,
а
the matter with the attraction of cohesion, or
the attraction of gravitation--with the general
dispensation of matter around me, that, let me
do what I would, things would fall down, and
break, or be torn and damaged, if I only came
near them; and my unluckiness seemed in exact
proportion to my carefulness in any matter.
If anybody in the room with me had a head-
ache, or any manner of nervous irritability,
which made it particularly necessary for others
to be quiet, and if I was in an especial desire
unto the same, I was sure, while stepping
around on tiptoe, to fall headlong over a chair,
which would give an introductory push to the
shovel, which would fall upon the tongs, which
would animate the poker, and all together would
set in action two or three sticks of wood, and
down they would come, with just that hearty,
sociable sort of racket, which showed that they
were disposed to make as much of the oppor-
tunity as possible.
In the same manner, everything that came
into my hand, or was at all connected with me,
was sure to lose by it. If I rejoiced in a clean
apron in the morning, I was sure to make a
full-length prostration thereupon on my way to
school, and come home nothing better, but
rather worse. If I was sent on an errand, I
а
AUNT MARY.
213
was sure either to lose my money in going, or
my purchases in returning; and on these occa-
sions my mother would often comfort me with
the reflection, that it was well that my ears
were fastened to my head, or I should lose
them too. Of course, I was a fair mark for the
exhortatory powers, not only of my parents,
but of all my aunts, uncles, and cousins, to the
third and fourth generation, who ceased not
to reprove, rebuke, and exhort with all long-
suffering and doctrine.
All this would have been very well if Nature
had not gifted me with a very unnecessary and
uncomfortable capacity of feeling, which, like
a refined ear for music, is undesirable, because,
in this world, one meets with discord ninety-
nine times where it meets with harmony once.
Much, therefore, as I furnished occasion to be
scolded at, I never became used to scolding, so
Ι
that I was just as much galled by it the forty-
first time as the first. There was no such thing
as philosophy in me: I had just that unreason-
able heart which is not conformed unto the na-
ture of things, neither indeed can be. I was
timid, and shrinking, and proud; I was nothing
to any one around me but an awkward, un-
lucky boy ; nothing to my parents but one of
half a dozen children, whose faces were to be
214
AUNT MARY.
washed and stockings mended on Saturday af-
ternoon. If I was very sick, I had medicine
and the doctor ; if I was a little sick, I was ex-
horted unto patience; and if I was sick at
Heart, I was left to prescribe for myself.
Now all this was very well : what should a
child need but meat, and drink, and room
play, and a school to teach him reading and
writing, and somebody to take care of him
when sick ? certainly, nothing.
But the feelings of grown-up children exist,
in the mind of little ones oftener than is sup-
posed ; and I had, even at this early day, the
same keen sense of all that touched the heart
wrong; the same longing for something which
should touch it aright; the same discontent
with latent, matter-of-course affection, and the
same craving for sympathy, which has been
the unprofitable fashion of this world in all
ages. And no human being possessing such
constitutionals has a better chance of being
made unhappy by them than the backward, un-
interesting, wrong-doing child. We can all
sympathize, to some extent, with men and wom-
en; but how few can go back to the sympa-
thies of childhood; can understand the deso-
late insignificance of not being one of the
grown-up people; of being sent to bed, to be
AUNT MARY.
215
out of the way in the evening, and to school, to
be out of the way in the morning; of manifold
similar grievances and distresses, which the
child has no elocution to set forth, and the
grown person no imagination to conceive.
When I was seven years old, I was told one
morning, with considerable domestic acclama-
tion, that Aunt Mary was coming to make us a
visit ; and so, when the carriage that brought
her stopped at our door, I pulled off my dirty
apron,
and ran in
among the crowd of brothers
and sisters to see what was coming. I shall
not describe her first appearance, for, as I think
of her, I begin to grow somewhat sentimental,
in spite of my spectacles, and might, perhaps,
talk a little nonsense.
Perhaps every man, whether married or un.
married, who has lived to the age of fifty or
thereabout, has seen some woman who, in his
mind, is the woman in distinction from all oth-
She may not have been a relative; she
may not have been a wife; she may simply
have shone on him from afar; she may
membered in the distance of years as a star
that is set, as music that is hushed, as beauty
and loveliness faded forever ; but remembered
she is with interest, with fervour, with enthu-
siasm ; with all that heart can feel, and more
than words can tell.
a
ers.
be re-
216
AUNT MARY.
To me there has been but one such, and that
is she whom I describe. Was she beautiful?
you
ask. "I also will ask you one question :"
If an angel from heaven should dwell in human
form, and animate any human face, would not
that face be lovely? It might not be beautiful,
but would it not be lovely? She was not
beautiful except after this fashion.
How well I remember her, as she used some-
times to sit thinking, with her head resting on
her hand, her face mild and placid, with a quiet
October sunshine in her blue eyes, and an ever-
present smile over her whole countenance. I
remember the sudden sweetness of look when
any one spoke to her; the prompt attention,
the quick comprehension of things before you
uttered them; the obliging readiness to leave
for
you
whatever she was doing.
To those who mistake occasional pensiveness
for melancholy, it might seem strange to say
that my Aunt Mary was always happy. Yet
she was so. Her spirits never rose to buoyancy,
and never sunk to despondency. I know that
it is an article in the sentimental confession
of faith that such a character cannot be inter-
esting. For this impression there is some
ground. The placidity of a medium common-
place mind is uninteresting, but the placidity of
AUNT MARY.
217
a strong and well-governed one borders on the
sublime. Mutability of emotion characterizes
inferior orders of being ; but he who combines
all interest, all excitement, all perfection, is
“the same yesterday, to-day, and forever.”
And if there be anything sublime in the idea
of an Almighty mind, in perfect peace itself,
and, therefore, at leisure to bestow all its ener-
gies on the wants of others, there is at least a
reflection of the same sublimity in the character
of that human being who has so quieted and
governed the world within, that nothing is left
to absorb sympathy or distract attention from
those around.
Such a woman was my Aunt Mary. Her pla-
cidity was not so much the result of temperar
ment as of choice. She had every susceptibil-
ity of suffering incident to the noblest and most
delicate construction of mind; but they had
been so directed, that, instead of concentrating
thought on self, they had prepared her to un-
derstand and feel for others.
She was, beyond all things else, a sympa-
thetic person, and her character, like the green
in a landscape, was less remarkable for what it
was in itself than for its perfect and beautiful
harmony with all the colouring and shading
around it.
T
218
AUNT MARY,
Other women have had talents, others have
been good; but no woman that ever I knew
possessed goodness and talent in union with
such an intuitive perception of feelings, and
such a faculty of instantaneous adaptation to
them. The most troublesome thing in this
world is to be condemned to the society of a
person who can never understand anything you
say without you say the whole of it, making
your commas and periods as you go along;
and the most desirable thing in the world is to
live with a person who saves you all the trouble
of talking, by knowing just what you mean to
say before you begin.
Something of this kind of talent I began to
feel, to my great relief, when Aunt Mary came
into the family. I remember the very first
evening, as she sat by the hearth, surrounded
by all the family, her eye glanced on me with
an expression that let me know she saw me;
and when the clock struck eight, and my moth-
er proclaimed that it was my bedtime, my
countenance fell as I moved sorrowfully from
the back of her rocking-chair, and thought how
many beautiful stories Aunt Mary would tell
after I was gone to bed. She turned towards
me with such a look of real understanding,
such an evident insight into the case, that I
.
AUNT MARY.
219
went into banishment with a lighter heart than
ever I did before. How very contrary, is the
obstinate estimate of the heart to the rational
estimate of worldly wisdom. Are there not
some who can remember when one word, one
look, or even the withholding of a word, has
drawn their heart more to a person than all
the substantial favours in the world ? By or-
dinary acceptation, substantial kindness re-
spects the necessaries of animal existence;
while those wants which are peculiar to mind,
and will exist with it forever, by equally cor-
rect classification, are designated as sentiment-
al ones, the supply of which, though it will
excite more gratitude in fact, ought not to in
theory. Before Aunt Mary had lived with us
a month, I loved her beyond anybody in the
world, and a utilitarian would have been amu,
sed in ciphering out the amount of favours
which produced this result. It was a look-a
word--a smile: it was that she seemed pleas-
ed with my new kite; that she rejoiced with
me when I learned to spin a top; that she
alone seemed to estimate my proficiency in
playing ball and marbles'; that she never look-
ed at all vexed when I upset her workbox
upon
the floor ; that she received all my awk.
ward gallantry and mal-adroit helpfulness as if
220
AUNT MARY.
it had been in the best taste in the world ; that
when she was sick, she insisted on letting me
wait on her, though I made my customary hav-
oc among the pitchers and tumblers of her
room, and displayed, through my zeal to please,
a more than ordinary share of insufficiency for
the station. She also was the only person that
ever I conversed with, and I used to wonder
how anybody who could talk all about mat-
ters and things with grown-up persons, could
talk so sensibly about marbles, and hoops, and
skates, and all sorts of little-boy matters; and
I will say, by-the-by, that the same sort of
speculation has often occurred to the minds of
older people in connexion with her. She knew
the value of varied information in making a
woman, not a pedant, but a sympathetic, com-
panionable being, and such she was to almost
every class of mind.
She had, too, the faculty of drawing others
up to her level in conversation, so that I would
often find myself going on in most profound
style while talking with her, and would won-
der, when I was through, whether I was really
a little boy still.
When she had enlightened us many months,
the time came for her to take leave, and she
besought my mother to give me to her for
1
AUNT MARY.
221
company. All the family wondered what she
could find to like in Henry; but if she did like
me, it was no matter, and so was the case dis-
posed of.
From that time I lived with her—and there
are some persons who can make the word live
signify much more than it commonly does-and
she wrought on my character all those mira-
cles which benevolent genius can work. She
quieted my heart, directed my feelings, unfold-
ed my mind, and educated me, not harshly or
by force, but as the blessed sunshine educates
the flower, into full and perfect life ; and when
all that was mortal of her died to this world,
her words and deeds of unutterable love shed
a twilight around her memory that will fade
only in the brightness of heaven.
T2
FRANKNESS.
THERE is one kind of frankness, which is the
result of perfect unsuspiciousness, and which
requires a measure of ignorance of the world
and of life : this kind appeals to our generosity
and tenderness. There is another, which is the
frankness of a strong but pure mind, acquainted
with life, clear in its discrimination and upright
in its intention, yet above disguise or conceal-
ment: this kind excites respect.
The first
seems to proceed simply from impulse, the sec-
ond from impulse and reflection united; the
first proceeds, in a measure, from ignorance,
the second from knowledge; the first is born
from an undoubting confidence in others, the
second from a virtuous and well-grounded reli-
ance on one's self.
Now if you suppose that this is the begin-
ning of a sermon or of a Fourth of July oration,
you are very much mistaken, though, I must
confess, it hath rather an uncertain sound. I
merely prefaced it to a little sketch of charac-
a
a
FRANKNESS.
223
ter, which you may look at if you please, though
I am not sure you will like it.
It was said of Alice H- that she had the
mind of a man, the heart of a woman, and the
face of an angel: a combination that all my
readers will think peculiarly happy.
There never was a woman who was so unlike
the mass of society in her modes of thinking
and acting, yet so generally popular. But the
most remarkable thing about her was her proud
superiority to all disguise, in thought, word, and
deed. She pleased you; for she spoke out a hun-
dred things that you would conceal, and spoke
them with a dignified assurance that made you
wonder that
you
had ever hesitated to say them
yourself. Nor did this unreserve appear like
the weakness of one who could not conceal, or
like a determination to make war on the forms
of society. It was rather a calm, well-guided
integrity, regulated by a just sense of proprie-
ty; knowing when to be silent, but speaking
the truth when it spoke at all.
Her extraordinary frankness often beguiled
superficial observers into supposing themselves
fully acquainted with her real character long
before they were, as the beautiful transparency
of some lakes is said to deceive the eye as to
their depth; yet the longer you knew her, the
224
FRANKNESS.
more variety and compass of character appear-
ed through the same transparent medium. But
you may just visit Miss Alice for half an hour
to-night, and judge for yourselves. You may
walk into this little parlour. There sits Miss
Alice on that sofa, sewing a pair of lace sleeves
into a satin dress, in which peculiarly angelic
employment she may persevere till we have fin-
ished another sketch.
Do you see that pretty little lady, with spark-
ling eyes, elastic form, and beautiful hand and
foot, that is sitting opposite to her? She is a
belle : the character is written in her face-it
sparkles from her eye--it dimples in her smile,
and pervades the whole woman.
But there-Alice has risen, and is gone to the
mirror, and is arranging the finest auburn hair
in the world in the most tasteful manner. The
little lady watches every motion as comically
as a kitten watches & pin-ball.
“It is all in vain to deny it, Alice--you are
really anxious to look pretty this evening,” said
she.
“I certainly am,” said Alice, quietly.
“Ay, and you hope you shall please Mr. A.
and Mr. B.," said the little accusing angel.
“Certainly I do," said Alice, as she twisted
her fingers in a beautiful curl.
FRANKNESS.
225
“ Well, I would not tell of it, Alice, if I did.”
“ Then you should not ask me,” said Alice.
" I declare! Alice !"
“And what do you declare ?"
“I never saw such a girl as you are !"
“ Very likely,” said Alice, stooping to pick
up a pin.
“Well, for my part,” said the little lady, "I
never would take any pains to make anybody
like me-particularly a gentleman.”
“I would," said Alice, “if they would not
like me without.'
Why, Alice! I should not think
you were
so fond of admiration."
“ I like to be admired very much,” said Alice,
returning to the sofa, “and I suppose everybody
else does.”
“ I don't care about admiration,” said the lit-
tle lady. “I would be as well satisfied that
people shouldn't like me as that they should."
« Then, cousin, I think it's a pity we all like
you so well,” said Alice, with a good-humoured
smile. If Miss Alice had penetration, she nev-
er made a severe use of it.
“But really, cousin,” said the little lady, “I
should not think such a girl as you would think
anything about dress, or admiration, and all
that.”
226
FRANKNESS.
“1 don't know what sort of a girl you think
I am,” said Alice, “but, for my own part, I only
pretend to be a common human being, and am
not ashamed of common human feelings. If
God has made us so that we love admiration,
why should we not honestly say so. I love it
I
-you love it—everybody loves it; and why
should not everybody say it?"
“Why, yes," said the little lady, “I suppose
everybody has a-has a-a general love for ad.
miration. I am willing to acknowledge that I
have; but”
“ But you have no love for it in particular,"
said Alice, “I suppose you mean to say ; that
is just the way the matter is commonly dispo-
sed of. Everybody is willing to acknowledge
a general wish for the good opinion of others,
but half the world are ashamed to own it when
it comes to a particular case.
Now I have
made up my mind, that if it is correct in gen,
eral, it is correct in particular, and I mean to
own it both ways."
“ But, somehow, it seems mean !” said the
little lady.
" It is mean to live for it, to be selfishly en-
grossed in it, but not mean to enjoy it when it
comes, or even to seek it, if we neglect no
higher interest in doing so. All that God made
FRANKNESS.
227
us to feel is dignified and pure, unless we per-
vert it.”
“But, Alice, I never heard any person speak
out so frankly as you do."
« Almost all that is innocent and natural may
be spoken out ; and as for that which is not in.
nocent and natural, it ought not even to be
thought."
But can everything be spoken that may be
thought ?" said the lady.
"No; we have an instinct which teaches us
to be silent sometimes: but, if we speak at all,
let it be in simplicity and sincerity."
“Now, for instance, Alice," said the lady,
“it is very innocent and natural, as you say,
to think this, that, and the other good thing of
yourself, especially when everybody is telling
you of it; now would you speak the truth if
any one asked you on this point ?"
“ If it were a person who had a right to ask,
and if it were a proper time and place, I would,"
said Alice.
** Well, then," said the bright lady, “ I ask
you, Alice, in this very proper time and place,
do
you
think that
you are handsome ?"
“Now I suppose you expect me to make a
courtesy to every chair in the room before I
answer," said Alice; “but, dispensing with
G
228
FRANKNESS.
that ceremony, I will tell you fairly, I think I
am."
“Do you think that you are good ?"
“Not entirely," said Alice.
“ Well, but don't you think you are better
than most people ?"
“ As far as I can tell, I think I am better than
some people ; but really, cousin, I don't trust
my own judgment in this matter,” said Alice.
"Well, Alice, one more question. Do you
think James Martyrs likes you or me best ?"
"I do not know," said Alice.
“I did not ask you what you knew, but what
you thought,” said the lady; "you must have
some thought about it."
“Well, then, I think he likes me best," said
Alice.
Just then the door opened, and in walked the
identical James Martyrs. Alice blushed, look-
ed a little comical, and went on with her sew-
ing, while the little lady began,
“Really, Mr. James, I wish you had come a
minute sooner, to hear Alice's confessions."
6 What has she confessed ?" said James.
“Why, that she is handsomer and better than
most folks.”
“ That's nothing to be ashamed of," said
James.
>
FRANKNESS.
229
“Oh, that's not all; she wants to look pret-
ty, and loves to be admired, and all—"
" It sounds very much like her,” said James,
looking at Alice.
“Oh, but, besides that," said the lady, "she
has been preaching a discourse in justification
of vanity and self-love-"
“And next time you shall take notes when I
preach,” said Alice, “for I don't think your
memory is remarkably happy."
“You see, James," said the lady," that Alice
makes it a point to say exactly the truth when
she speaks at all, and I've been puzzling her
with questions. I really wish you would ask
her some, and see what she will say. But,
mercy! there is Uncle C. come to take me to
ride. I must run.” And off flew the little hum.
ming-bird, leaving James and Alice tête-à-tête.
“There really is one question,” said James,
clearing his voice.
Alice looked up.
“ There is one question, Alice, which I wish
you would answer."
Alice did not inquire what the question was,
but began to look very solemn; and just then
the door was shut-and so I never knew what
it was that Alice's friend James wanted to be
enlightened about.
U
THE SABBATH.
SKETCHES FROM A NOTE-BOOK OF AN ELDERLY
GENTLEMAN.
The Puritan Sabbath—is there such a thing
existing now, or has it gone with the things
that were, to be looked at as a curiosity in the
museum of the past ? Can any one, in memo-
ry, take himself back to the unbroken stillness
of that day, and recall the sense of religious
awe which seemed to brood in the very atmo-
sphere, checking the merry laugh of childhood,
and chaining in unwonted stillness the tongue
of volatile youth, and imparting even to the
sunshine of heaven, and the unconscious notes
of animals, a tone of its own gravity and res.
pose ? If you cannot remember these things,
go back with me to the verge of early boy-
hood, and live with me one of the Sabbaths
that I have spent beneath the roof of my uncle,
Phineas Fletcher.
Imagine the long sunny hours of a Saturday
afternoon insensibly slipping away, as we
youngsters are exploring the length and breadth
THE SABBATH.
231
of a trout-stream, or chasing gray squirrels, or
building mud milldams in the brook. The sun
sinks lower and lower, but we still think it
does not want half an hour to sundown. At
last, he so evidently is really going down, that
there is nu room for skepticism or latitude of
opinion on the subject; and with many a lin-
gering regret, we began to put away our fish-
hooks, and hang our hoops over our arm, pre-
paratory to trudging homeward.
“Oh, Henry, don't you wish that Saturday
afternoons lasted longer ?" said little John to
me.
“I do,” says Cousin Bill, who was never the
boy to mince matters in giving his sentiments;
6 and I wouldn't care if Sunday didn't come
but once a year.”
“Oh, Bill, that's wicked, I'm afraid,” says
little conscientious Susan, who, with her doll
in hand, was coming home from a Saturday af-
ternoon visit.
“ Can't help it,” says Bill, catching Susan's
bag, and tossing it in the air; “I never did like
to sit still, and that's why I hate Sundays."
“ Hate Sundays! oh, Bill! Why, Aunt Kezzy
says Heaven is an eternal Sabbath-only think
of that!”
“ Well, I know I must be pretty different
232
THE SABBATH.
from what I am now before I could sit still for-
ever,” said Bill, in a lower and somewhat dis-
concerted tone, as if admitting the force of the
consideration.
The rest of us began to look very grave, and
to think that we must get to liking Sunday
some time or other, or it would be a very bad
thing for us. As we drew near the dwelling,
the compact and business-like form of Aunt
Kezzy was seen emerging from the house to
hasten our approach.
“ How often have I told you, young ones,
not to stay out after sundown on Saturday
night? Don't you know it's the same as Sun-
day, you wicked children, you? Come right
into the house, every one of you, and never
let me hear of such a thing again."
This was Aunt Kezzy's regular exordium ev-
ery Saturday night, for we children, being blind-
ed, as she supposed, by natural depravity, al-
ways made strange mistakes in reckoning time
on Saturday afternoons. After being duly sup-
pered and scrubbed, we were enjoined to go to
bed, and remember that to-morrow was Sunday,
and that we must not laugh and play in the
morning. With many a sorrowful look did Su-
san deposite her doll in the chest, and give one
lingering look at the patchwork she was pie
THE SABBATH.
233
sing for dolly's bod, while William, John, and
myself emptied our pockets of all superfluous
fish-hooks, bits of twine, pop-guns, slices of po-
tato, marbles, and all the various items of boy
property, which, to keep us from temptation,
were taken into Aunt Kezzy's safe keeping
over Sunday,
My Uncle Phineas was a man of great ex-
actness, and Sunday was the centre of his
whole worldly and religious system. Every-
thing with regard to his worldly business was
so arranged that by Saturday noon it seemed
to come to a close of itself. All his accounts
were looked over, his workmen paid, all bor-
rowed things returned, and lent things sent af-
ter, and every tool and article belonging to the
farm was returned to its own place at exactly
such an hour every Saturday afternoon, and an
hour before sundown every item of prepara.
tion, even to the blacking of his Sunday shoes
and the brushing of his Sunday coat, was en-
tirely concluded ; and at the going down of the
l
sun, the stillness of the Sabbath seemed to set.
tle down over the whole dwelling.
And now it is Sunday morning ; and though
;
all without is fragrance, and motion, and beauty,
the dewdrops are twinkling, butterflies flutter-
ing, and merry birds carolling and racketing as
U 2
234
THE SABBATH.
1
if they never could sing loud or fast enough, yet
within there is such a stillness that the tick of
the tall mahogany clock is audible through the
whole house, and the buzz of the blue flies, as
they whiz along up and down the window panes,
is a distinct item of hearing. Look into the
best front room, and you may see the upright
form of my Uncle Phineas, in his immaculate
Sunday clothes, with his Bible spread open on
the little stand before him, and even a deeper
than usual gravity settling down over his toil-
worn features. Alongside, in well-brushed
Sunday clothes, with clean faces and smooth
hair, sat the whole of us younger people, each
drawn
up
in a chair, with hat and handkerchief
ready for the first stroke of the bell, while
Aunt Kezzy, all trimmed, and primmed, and
made ready for meeting, sat reading her psalm.
book, only looking up occasionally to give
additional jerk to some shirt-collar, or the fif-
teenth pull to Susan's frock, or to repress any
straggling looks that might be wandering about
“ beholding vanity!"
A stranger, in glancing at Uncle Phineas as
he sat intent on his Sunday reading, might have
seen that the Sabbath was in his heart—there
was no mistake about it. It was plain that he
had put by all worldly thoughts when he shut
THE SABBATH.
235
up his account-book, and that his mind was as
free from every earthly association as his Sun
day coat was from dust. The slave of worldli.
ness, who is driven, by perplexing business or
adventurous speculation, through the hours of
a half-kept Sabbath to the fatigues of another
week, might envy the unbroken quiet, the sun-
ny tranquillity which hallowed the weekly rest
of
my
uncle.
The Sabbath of the Puritan Christian was the
golden day, and all its associations, and all its
thoughts, words, and deeds, were so entirely
distinct from the ordinary material of life, that
it was to him a sort of weekly translation-a
quitting of this world to sojourn a day in a bet-
and
year
after year, as each Sabbath set its
seal on the completed labours of a week, the pil-
grim felt that one more stage of his earthly jour-
ney was completed, and that he was one week
nearer to his eternal rest. And as years, with
their changes, came on, and the strong man grew
old, and missed, one after another, familiar forms
that had risen around his earlier years, the face
of the Sabbath became like that of an old and
tried friend, carrying him back to the scenes of
his youth, and connecting him with scenes long
gone by, restoring to him the dew and fresh-
ness of brighter and more buoyant days.
ter;
236
THE SABBATH.
Viewed simply as an institution for a Chris-
tian and mature mind, nothing could be more
perfect than the Puritan Sabbath : if it had any
failing, it was in the want of adaptation to chil-
dren, and to those not interested in its peculiar
duties. If you had been in the dwelling of my
uncle of a Sabbath morning, you must have
found the unbroken stillness delightful; the
calm and quiet must have soothed and disposed
you for contemplation, and the evident appear.
ance of single-hearted devotion to the duties of
the day in the elder part of the family must
have been a striking addition to the picture.
But, then, if your eye had watched attentively
the motions of us juveniles, you might have
seen that what was so very invigorating to the
disciplined Christian was a weariness to young
flesh and bones. Then there was not, as now,
the intellectual relaxation afforded by the Sun-
day-school, with its various forms of religious
exercise, its thousand modes of interesting and
useful information. Our whole stock in this
line was the Bible and primer, and these were
our main dependance for whiling away the te-
dious hours between our early breakfast and
the signal for meeting. How often was our in-
vention stretched to find wherewithal to keep
up our stock of excitement in a line with the
THE SABBATH.
237
a
duties of the day. For the first half hour, per-
haps, a story in the Bible answered our purpose
very well; but, having despatched the history
of Joseph, or the story of the ten plagues, we
then took to the primer : and then there was,
first, the looking over the system of theological
and ethical truth, commencing, “In Adam's fall
we sinned all," and extending through three or
four pages of pictorial and poetic embellish-
ment. Next was the death of John Rogers,
who was burned at Smithfield ; and for a while
we could entertain ourselves with counting all
his “ nine children and one at the breast," as in
the picture they stand in a regular row, like a
pair of stairs. These being done, came miscel.
laneous exercises of our own invention, such as
counting all the psalms in the psalm-book back-
ward and forward, to and from the Doxology,
or numbering the books in the Bible, or some
other such device as we deemed within the pale
of religious employments. When all these
failed, and it still wanted an hour of meeting.
time, we looked up at the ceiling, and down at
the floor, and all around into every corner, to
see what we could do next; and happy was he
who could spy a pin gleaming in some distant
crack, and forthwith muster an occasion for gets,
ting down to pick it up. Then there was the
238
THE SABBATH.
; or
infallible recollection that we wanted a drink of
water, as an excuse to get out to the well
else we heard some strange noise among the
chickens, and insisted that it was essential that
we should see what was the matter; or else
pussy would jump on to the table, when all of
us would spring to drive her down ; while there
was a most assiduous watching of the clock to
see when the first bell would ring. Happy was
it for us, in the interim, if we did not begin to
look at each other and make up faces, or slyly
slip off and on our shoes, or some other incipi-
ent attempts at roguery, which would gradually
so undermine our gravity that there would be
some sudden explosion of merriment, whereat
Uncle Phineas would look up and say “tut,
tut," and Aunt Kezzy would make a speech
about wicked children breaking the Sabbath
day. I remember once how my
cousin Bill got
into deep disgrace one Sunday by a roguish
trick. He was just about to close his Bible with
all sobriety, when snap came a grasshopper
through an open window, and alighted in the
middle of the page. 'Bill instantly kidnapped
the intruder, for so important an auxiliary in the
way of employment was not to be despised.
Presently we children looked towards Bill, and
there he sat, very demurely reading his Bible,
13
THE SABBATH.
239
a
with the grasshopper hanging by one leg from
the corner of his mouth, kicking and sprawling,
without in the least disturbing Master William's
gravity. We all burst into an uproarious laugh.
But it came to be rather a serious affair for Bill,
as his good father was in the practice of enfor-
cing truth and duty by certain modes of mor-
al suasion much recommended by Solomon,
though fallen into disrepute at the present day.
This morning picture may rive a good spe-
cimen of the whole livelong Sunday, which pre-
sented only an alternation of similar scenes
until sunset, when a universal unchaining of
tongues and a general scamper proclaimed
that the “ sun was down.”
But, it may be asked, what was the result of
all this strictness? Did it not disgust you with
the Sabbath and with religion ? No, it did
not. It did not, because it was the result of no
unkindly feeling, but of consistent principle ; and
consistency of principle is what even children
learn to appreciate and revere. The law of
obedience and of reverence for the Sabbath
was constraining so equally on the young and
the old, that its claims came to be regarded
like those immutable laws of nature, which no
one thinks of being out of patience with, though
they sometimes bear hard on personal conve-
240
THE SABBATII.
nience. The effect of the system was to in-
grain into our character a veneration for the
Sabbath which no friction of after life would
ever efface. I have lived to wander in many
climates and foreign lands, where the Sabbath
is an unknown name, or where it is only recog-
nised by noisy mirth; but never has the day
returned without bringing with it a breathing of
religious awe, and even a yearning for the un-
broken stillness, the placid repose, and the sim-
ple devotion of the Puritan Sabbath
ANOTHER SCENE.
“How late we are this morning," said Mrs.
Roberts to her husband, glancing hurriedly at
the clock, as they were sitting down to break-
fast on a Sabbath morning. “Really, it is a
shame to us to be so late Sundays. I wonder
John and Henry are not up yet: Hannah, did
you speak to them ?"
“ Yes, ma'am, but I could not make them
mind; they said it was Sunday, and that we al-
ways have breakfast later Sundays."
“Well, it is a shame to us, I must say,” said
Mrs. Roberts, sitting down to the table. "I
never lie late myself unless something in par-
ticular happens. Last night I was out very late,
and Sabbath before last I had a bad headache."
а
a
THE SABBATH.
241
“ Well, well, my dear,” said Mr. Roberts, " it
is not worth while to worry yourself about it;
Sunday is a day of rest; everybody indulges a
little of a Sunday morning—it is so very natural,
you know ; one's work done up, one feels like ta-
king a little rest.”
“ Well, I must say, it was not the way my
mother brought me up," said Mrs. Roberts,
“and I really can't feel it to be right.”
This last part of the discourse had been lis-
tened to by two sleepy-looking boys, who had,
meanwhile, taken their seat at table with that
listless air which is the result of late sleeping.
“Oh, by-the-by, my dear, what did you give
for those hams, Saturday ?" said Mr. Roberts.
“ Eleven cents a pound, I believe," replied
Mrs. Roberts; “but Stephens & Philips have
some much nicer, canvass and all, for ten cents.
I think we had better get our things at Stephens
& Philips's in future, my dear."
“Why, are they much cheaper ?"
“Oh, a great deal; but I forget-it is Sunday.
We ought to be thinking of other things. Boys,
have you looked over your Sunday-school les.
son?”
No, ma'am.”
“Now, how strange! and here it wants only
half an hour of the time, and you are not dress.
X
242
THE SABBATH.
ed either. Now see the bad effects of not be-
ing up in time.”
The boys looked sullen, and said “ they were
up as soon as any one else in the house."
“ Well, your father and I had some excuse,
because we were out late last night: you ought
to have been
up
full three hours ago, and to have
been all ready, with your lessons learned. Now
what do you suppose you shall do ?"
“Oh, mother, do let us stay at home this one
morning; we don't know the lesson, and it won't
do any good for us to go.”
“No, indeed, I shall not. You must go, and
get along as well as you can.
It is all your own
fault. Now go up stairs and hurry. We shall
not find time for prayers this morning."
The boys took themselves up stairs to “hur-
ry,” as directed, and soon one of them called
from the top of the stairs, “Mother! mother!
the buttons are off this vest, so I can't wear it ;"
and “mother! here is a long rip in my
best
coat,” said another.
• Why did you not tell me of it before ?" said
Mrs. Roberts, coming up stairs.
"I forgot it," said the boy.
“Well, well, stand still; I must catch it to-
gether somehow, if it is Sunday. There ! there
is the bell! Stand still a minute !" and Mrs.
THE SABBATH.
243
Roberts plied needle and thread and scissors;
“there, that will do for to-day. Dear me, how
confused everything is to-day!”
“ It is always just so, Sundays,” said John,
flinging up his book and catching it again as he
ran down stairs.
“It is always just so, Sundays.” The words
struck rather unpleasantly on Mrs. Roberts's
conscience, for something told her that, what-
ever the reason might be, it was just so.
On
Sunday everything was later and more irregu-
lar than any other day in the week.
“ Hannah, you must boil that piece of beef
for dinner to-day."
“I thought you told me you did not have
cooking done on Sunday.”
“No, I do not, generally. I am very sorry
Mr. Roberts would get that piece of meat yes-
terday; we did not need it ; but here it is on
our hands ; the weather is too hot to keep it.
:
It won't do to let it spoil; so I must have it
boiled, for aught I see."
Hannah had lived four Sabbaths with Mrs.
Roberts, and on two of them she had been re-
quired to cook from similar reasoning. “ For
once” is apt, in such cases, to become a word
of very extensive signification.
“ It really worries me to have things go on
244
THE SABBATH.
so as they do on Sundays," said Mrs. Roberts
to her husband; “I never do feel as if we kept
Sunday as we ought."
My dear, you have been saying so ever
since we were married, and I do not see what
you are going to do about it. For my part, I
do not see why we do not do as well as people
in general. We do not visit, nor receive com-
pany, nor read improper books. We go to
church, and send the children to Sunday-school,
and so the greater part of the day is spent in a
religious way. Then out of church we have
the children's Sunday-school books, and one or
two religious newspapers: I think that is quite
enough.”
“But, somehow, when I was a child, my
, ,
mother-” said Mrs. Roberts, hesitating.
Oh, my dear, your mother must not be con-
sidered an exact pattern for these days. Peo-
ple were too strict in your mother's time; they
carried the thing too far altogether; everybody
allows it now.”
Mrs. Roberts was silenced, but not satisfied.
A strict religious education had left just con-
science enough on this subject to make her un.
easy
These worthy people had a sort of general
idea that Sunday ought to be kept, and they
>
1
THE SABBATH.
245
intended to keep it, but they had never taken
the trouble to investigate or inquire as to the
most proper way, nor was it so much an object
of interest that their weekly arrangements were
planned with any reference to it. Mr. Roberts
would often engage in business at the close of
the week, which he knew would so fatigue him
that he would be weary and listless on Sunday ;
and Mrs. Roberts would allow her family cares
to accumulate in the same way, so that she was
either wearied with efforts to accomplish it be-
fore the Sabbath, or perplexed and worried by
finding everything at loose ends on that day.
They had the idea that Sunday was to be kept
when it was perfectly convenient, and did not
demand any sacrifice of time or money. But
if stopping to keep the Sabbath in a journey
would risk passage-money or a seat in the
stage; or, in housekeeping, if it would involve
any considerable inconvenience or expense, it
was deemed a providential intimation that it
was "a work of necessity and mercy" to at-
tend to secular matters. To their minds the
fourth command read thus: “Remember the
Sabbath day, to keep it holy when it comes
convenient, and costs neither time nor money.”
As to the effects of this on the children, there
was neither enough of strictness to make them
X 2
246
THE SABBATH.
respect the Sabbath, nor of religious interest to
make them love it ; of course, the little re-
straint there was proved just enough to lead
them to dislike and despise it.
Children soon
perceive the course of their parents' feelings,
and it was evident enough to the children of
this family that their father and mother gener-
ally found themselves hurried into the Sabbath
with hearts and minds full of this world, and
their conversation and thoughts were so con-
stantly turning to worldly things, and so awk.
wardly drawn back by a sense of religious ob-
ligation, that the Sabbath appeared more obvi.
ously a clog and a fetter, than it did under the
strictest régime of Puritan days.
SKETCH SECOND.
The little quiet village of Camden stands un-
der the brow of a rugged hill, in one of the
most picturesque parts of New-England, and
its regular, honest, and industrious villagers
were not a little surprised and pleased that
Mr. James, a rich man, and pleasant spoken
withal, had concluded to take up his residence
among them. He brought with him a pretly,
genteel wife, and a group of rosy, romping,
but amiable children; and there was so much
of good-nature and kindness about the manners
THE SABBATH.
247
your.
of every member of the family, that the whole
neighbourhood were prepossessed in their fa-
Mr. James was a man of somewhat vis-
ionary and theoretical turn of mind, and very
much in the habit of following out his own
ideas of right and wrong, without troubling
himself particularly as to the appearance his
course might make in the eyes of others. He
was a supporter of the ordinances of religion,
and always ready to give both time and money
to promote any benevolent object; and though
he had never made any public profession of re-
ligion, nor connected himself with any particu-
lar set of Christians, still he seemed to possess
great reverence for God, and to worship him in
spirit and in truth, and he professed to make
the Bible the guide of his life. Mr. James had
been brought up under a system of injudicious
religious restraint. He had determined, in ed-
ucating his children, to adopt an exactly oppo-
site course, and to make religion and all its
institutions sources of enjoyment. His aim,
doubtless, was an appropriate one, but his meth-
od of carrying it out, to say the least, was one
which was not a safe model for general imita-
tion. In regard to the Sabbath, for example,
he considered that, although the plan of going
to church twice a day, and keeping all the fam-
248
THE SABBATH.
ily quiet within doors the rest of the time, was
good, other methods would be much better.
Accordingly, after the morning service, which
he and his whole family regularly attended, he
would spend the rest of the day with his chil-
dren. In bad weather he would instruct them
in natural history, show them pictures, and
read them various accounts of the works of
God, combining all with such religious instruc-
tion and influence as a devotional mind might
furnish. When the weather permitted, he would
range with them through the fields, collecting
minerals and plants, or sail with them on the
lake, meanwhile directing the thoughts of his
young listeners upward to God, by the many
beautiful traces of his presence and agency,
which superior knowledge and observation en-
abled him to discover and point out. These
Sunday strolls were seasons of most delightful
enjoyment to the children. Though it was with
some difficulty that their father could restrain
them from loud and noisy demonstrations of
delight, he saw, with some regret, that the
mere animal excitement of the stroll seemed to
draw the attention too much from religious
considerations, and, in particular, to make the
exercises of the morning seem like a prepara-
tory penance to the enjoyments of the after.
THE SABBATH.
249
noon. Nevertheless, when Mr. James looked
back to his own boyhood, and remembered the
frigid restraint, the entire want of any kind of
mental or bodily excitement, which had made
the Sabbath so much a weariness to him, he
could not but congratulate himself when he
perceived his children looking forward to Sun-
day as a day of delight, and found himself on
that day continually surrounded by a circle of
smiling and cheerful faces. His talent of im-
parting religious instruction in a simple and
interesting form was remarkably happy, and it
is probable that there was among his children
an uncommon degree of real thought and feel.
ing on religious subjects as the result.
The good people of Camden, however, knew
not what to think of a course that appeared to
them an entire violation of all the requirements
of the Sabbath. The first impulse of human
nature is to condemn at once all who vary from
what has been commonly regarded as the right
way; and, accordingly, Mr. James was unspa-
ringly denounced, by many good people, as a
Sabbath-breaker, an infidel, and an opposer to
religion.
Such was the character heard of him by Mr.
Richards, a young clergyman, who, shortly af-
ter Mr. James fixed his residence in Camden,
250
THE SABBATH.
6
accepted the pastoral charge of the village. It
happened that Mr. Richards had known Mr.
James in college, and, remembering him as a
remarkably serious, amiable, and conscientious
man, he resolved to ascertain from himself the
views which had led him to the course of con-
duct so offensive to the good people of the
neighbourhood.
“ This is all very well, my good friend,” said
he, after he had listened to Mr. James's eloquent
account of his own system of religious instruc-
tion, and its effects upon his family ; “I do
not doubt that this system does very well for
yourself and family; but there are other things
to be taken into consideration besides personal
and family improvement. Do you not know,
Mr. James, that the most worthless and care-
less part of my congregation quote your exam-
ple as a respectable precedent for allowing their
families to violate the order of the Sabbath ?
You and your children sail about on the lake,
with minds and hearts, I doubt not, elevated
and tranquillized by its quiet repose ; but Ben
Dakes, and his idle, profane army of children,
consider themselves as doing very much the
same thing when they lie lolling about, sunning
themselves on its shore, or skipping stones
over its surface the whole of a Sunday after-
noon."
THE SABBATH.
251
1
“Let every one answer to his own con-
science," replied Mr. James. "If I keep the
Sabbath conscientiously, I am approved of God;
if another transgresses his conscience, to his
own master he standeth or falleth.' I am not
responsible for all the abuses that idle or evil-
disposed persons may fall into, in consequence
of my doing what is right.”
“ Let me quote an answer from the same
chapter," said Mr. Richards.
6. Let no man
put a stumbling-block, or an occasion to fall, in
his brother's way: let not your good be evil
spoken of. It is good neither to eat flesh nor
drink wine, nor anything whereby thy brother stum-
bleth, or is offended, or made weak.' Now, my
good friend, you happen to be endowed with a
certain tone of mind which enables you to car-
ry through your mode of keeping the Sabbath
with little comparative evil, and much good, so
far as your family is concerned; but how many
persons in this neighbourhood, do you suppose,
would succeed equally well if they were to at-
tempt it? If it were the common custom for
families to absent themselves from public wor-
ship in the afternoon, and to stroll about the
fields, or ride, or sail, how many parents, do you
suppose, would have the dexterity and talent to
check all that was inconsistent with the duties
252
THE SABBATH.
:
of the day? Is it not your ready command of
language, your uncommon tact in simplifying
and illustrating, your knowledge of natural his-
tory and of biblical literature, that enables you
to accomplish the results that you do? And is
there parent in a hundred that could do
the same? Now, just imagine our neighbour,
Squire Hart, with his ten boys and girls, turned
out into the fields on a Sunday afternoon, to
profit withal: you know he can never finish a
sentence without stopping to begin it again half
a dozen times. What progress would he make
in instructing them? And so of a dozen others
I could name along this very street here. Now
you men of cultivated minds must give your
countenance to courses which would be best
for society at large, or, as the sentiment was ex-
pressed by St. Paul, “We that are strong ought
to bear the infirmities of the weak, and not to
please ourselves, for even Christ pleased not him-
self.' Think, my dear sir, if our Saviour had
gone only on the principle of avoiding what
might be injurious to his own improvement,
how unsafe his example might have proved to
less elevated minds. Doubtless he might have
made a Sabbath-day fishing excursion an occa
sion of much elevated and impressive instruc
tion; but, although he declared himself Lord
a
THE SABBATH.
253
>
of the Sabbath-day,' and at liberty to suspend its
obligation at his own discretion, yet he never
violated the received method of observing it,
except in cases where superstitious tradition
trenched directly on those interests which the
Sabbath was given to promote. He asserted
the right to relieve pressing bodily wants, and
to administer to the necessities of others on
the Sabbath, but beyond that he allowed him-
self in no deviation from established custom."
Mr. James looked thoughtful. “I have not
reflected on the subject in this view," he re-
plied. “But, my dear sir, considering how lit-
tle of the public services of the Sabbath is on
a level with the capacity of younger children,
it seems to me almost a pity to take them to
church the whole of the day.”
“I have thought of that myself,” replied Mr.
Richards, “and have sometimes thought that,
could persons be found to conduct such a thing,
it would be desirable to conduct a separate ser-
vice for children, in which the exercises should
be particularly adapted to them."
" I should like to be minister to a congrega-
tion of chillren,” said Mr. James, warmly.
“Well,” replied Mr. Richards, "give our
good people time to get acquainted with you,
and do away the prejudices which your extra.
Y
6
254
THE SABBATH.
ordinary mode of proceeding has induced, and
I think I could easily assemble such a company
for you every Sabbath.”
After this, much to the surprise of the vil-
lage, Mr. James and his family were regular
attendants at both the services of the Sabbath,
Mr. Richards explained to the good people of
his congregation the motives which had led
their neighbour to the adoption of what, to
them, seemed so unchristian a course ; and,
upon reflection, they came to the perception of
the truth, that a man may depart very widely
from the received standard of right for other
reasons than being an infidel or an opposer of
religion. A ready return of cordial feeling was
the result; and as Mr. James found himself
treated with respect and confidence, he began
to feel, notwithstanding his fastidiousness, that
there were strong points of congeniality be-
tween all real and warm-hearted Christians,
however different might be their intellectual
culture, and in all simplicity united himself
with the little church of Camden. A
year
from
the time of his first residence there, every Sab-
bath afternoon saw him surrounded by a con-
gregation of young children, for whose benefit
he had, at his own expense, provided a room,
fitted up with maps, scriptural pictures, and ev.
,
THE SABBATH.
255
ery convenience for the illustration of biblical
knowledge ; and the parents or guardians who
from time to time attended their children du.
ring these exercises, often confessed them.
selves as much interested and benefited as any
of their youthful companions.
SKETCH THIRD.
>
It was near the close of a pleasant Saturday
afternoon that I drew up my weary horse in
front of a neat little dwelling in the village of
N- This, as near as I could gather from
description, was the house of my cousin, Wil-
liam Fletcher, the identical rogue of a Bill
Fletcher of whom we have aforetime spoken.
Bill had always been a thriving, push-ahead sort
of a character, and during the course of my
rambling life I had improved every occasional
opportunity of keeping up our early acquaint-
The last time that I returned to my na-
tive country, after some years of absence, I
heard of him as married and settled in the vil-
lage of N-, where he was conducting a very
a
prosperous course of business, and shortly af-
ter received a pressing invitation to visit him
at his own home. Now, as I had gathered
from experience the fact that it is of very little
use to rap one's knuckles off on the front door
ance.
256
THE SABBATH.
6
of a country house without any knocker, I
therefore made the best of my way along a lit-
tle path, bordered with marigolds and balsams,
that led to the back part of the dwelling. The
sound of a number of childish voices made me
stop, and, looking through the bushes, I saw
the very image of my cousin Bill Fletcher, as
he used to be twenty years ago ; the same
bold forehead, the same dark eyes, the same
smart, saucy mouth, and the same
who-cares-
for-that” toss to his head. “There, now," ex-
claimed the boy, setting down a pair of shoes
that he had been blacking, and arranging them
at the head of a long row of all sizes and sorts,
from those which might have fitted a two year
old foot upward, “there, I've blacked every
single one of them, and made them shine too,
and done it all in twenty minutes ; if anybody
thinks they can do it quicker than that, I'd just
like to have them try, that's all.”
“I know they couldn't, though,” said a fair-
haired little girl, who stood admiring the sight,
evidently impressed with the utmost reverence
for her brother's ability ; "and, Bill, I've been
putting up all the playthings in the big chest,
and I want you to come and turn the lock-the
key hurts my fingers."
“ Poh! I can turn it easier than that,” said
THE SABBATH.
257
the boy, snapping his fingers ; “ have you got
them all in ?"
“Yes, all; only I left out the soft bales, and
the string of red beads, and the great rag baby
for Fanny to play with-you know mother says
babies must have their playthings Sunday.”
“Oh, to be sure,” said the brother, very con-
siderately; “babies can't read, you know, as we
can, nor hear Bible stories, nor look at pic-
tures.” At this moment I stepped forward, for
the spell of former times was so powerfully on
me, that I was on the very point of springing
forward with a “halloo, there, Bill!" as I used
to meet the father in old times; but the look of
surprise that greeted my appearance brought
me to myself.
“ Is your father at home ?" said I.
“ Father and mother are both gone out, but
I guess, sir, they will be home in a few mo-
ments : won't you walk in ?"
I accepted the invitation, and the little girl
showed me into a small and very prettily fur-
nished parlour. There was a piano with music
books on one side of the room, some fine pic-
tures hung about the walls, and a little, neat
centre-table was plentifully strewn with books.
Besides this, the two recesses on each side of
Y 2
258
THE SABBATH.
the fireplace contained each a bookcase with a
glass locked door.
The little girl offered me a chair, and then
lingered a moment, as if she felt some disposi-
tion to entertain me if she could only think of
something to say, and at last, looking up in my
face, she said, in a confidential tone, “Mother
says she left Willie and me to keep house this
afternoon while she was gone, and we are put-
ting up all the things for Sunday, so as to get
everything done before she comes home. Wil-
lie has gone to put away the playthings, and
I'm going to put up the books." So saying,
she opened the doors of one of the bookcases,
and began busily carrying the books from the
centre-table to deposite them on the shelves,
in which employment she was soon assisted by
Willie, who took the matter in hand in a very
masterly manner, showing his sister what were
and what were not " Sunday books” with the
air of a person entirely at home in the business.
Robinson Crusoe and the many-volumed Peter
Parley were put by without hesitation ; there
was, however, a short demurring over a North
American Review, because Willie said he was
sure his father read something one Sunday out
of one of them, while Susan averred that he did
not commonly read in it, and only read in it
THE SABBATH.
259
then because the piece was something about
the Bible ; but as nothing could be settled de-
finitively on the point, the review was “laid on
the table,” like knotty questions in Congress.
Then followed a long discussion over an ex-
tract book, which, as usual, contained all sorts,
both sacred, serious, comic, and profane, and
at last Willie, with much gravity, decided to
lock it up, on the principle that it was best to
be on the safe side, in support of which he ap-
pealed to me. I was saved from deciding the
question by the entrance of the father and
mother. My old friend knew me at once,
and
presented his pretty wife to me with the same
look of exultation with which he used to hold
up a string of trout, or an uncommonly fine
perch of his own catching for my admiration,
and then looking round on his fine family of
children, two more of which he had brought
home with him, seemed to say to me,
“ There!
what do you think of that, now?"
And, in truth, a very pretty sight it was~
enough to make any one's old bachelor coat
sit very uneasily on him. Indeed, there is no-
thing that gives one such a startling idea of the
tricks that old Father Time has been playing
on us, as to meet some boyish or girlish com-
panions with half a dozen or so of thriving chil-
260
THE SABBATH.
after tea,
dren about them. My old friend, I found, was
in essence just what the boy had been. There
was the same upright bearing, the same confi-
dent, cheerful tone to his voice, and the same
fire in his eye; only that the hand of manhood
had slightly touched some of the lines of his
face, giving them a staidness of expression be-
coming the man and the father.
“Very well, my children,” said Mrs. Fletch-
er, as,
William and Susan finished re-
counting to her the various matters that they
had set in order that afternoon;“I believe now
we can say that our week's work is finished,
and that we have nothing to do but rest and
enjoy ourselves.”
“Oh, and papa will show us the pictures in
those great books that he brought home for us
last Monday, will he not ?" said little Robert.
“And, mother, you will tell us some more
about Solomon's Temple and his palaces, won't
you ?” said Susan.
" And I should like to know if father has
found out the answer to that hard question I
gave him last Sunday ?" said Willie.
“ All will come in good time,” said Mrs.
Fletcher. “But tell me, my dear children, are
you sure that you are quite ready for the Sab.
bath? You say you have put away the books
THE SABBATH.
261
and the playthings; have you put away, too,
all wrong and unkind feelings? Do you feel
kindly and pleasantly towards everybody ?"
“ Yes, mother,” said Willie, who appeared
to have taken a great part of this speech to
himself; I went over to Tom Walters this
very morning to ask him about that chicken of
mine, and he said that he did not mean to hit
it, and did not know he had till I told him of
it; and so we made all up again, and I am glad
I went."
“I am inclined to think, Willie,” said his
father," that if everybody would make it a rule
to settle up all their differences before Sunday,
that there would be very few long quarrels and
lawsuits. In about half the cases, a quarrel is
founded on some misunderstanding that would
be got over in five minutes if one would
go
di-
rectly to the person for explanation."
“I suppose I need not ask you,” said Mrs.
Fletcher," whether you have fully learned your
Sunday-school lessons ?"
« Oh, to be sure,” said William. “You know,
mother, that Susan and I were busy about them
through Monday and Tuesday, and then this
afternoon we looked them over again, and wrote
down some questions."
" And I heard Robert say his all through, and
>
262
THE SABBATH.
I
showed him all the places on the Bible Atlas,"
said Susan.
« Well, then,” said my friend, “ if everything
is done, let us begin Sunday with some music.'
Thanks to the recent improvements in the
musical instruction of the young, every family
can now form a domestic concert, with words
and tunes adapted to the capacity and the voi-
ces of children ; and while these little ones, full
of animation, pressed round their mother as she
sat at the piano, and accompanied her music with
the words of some beautiful hymns, I thought
that, though I might have heard finer music, I
had never listened to any that answered the
purpose of music so well.
It was a custom at my friend's to retire at an
early hour on Saturday evening, in order that
there might be abundant time for rest, and no
excuse for late rising on the Sabbath ; and, ac-
cordingly, when the children had done singing,
after a short season of family devotion, we all
betook ourselves to our chambers, and I, for
one, fell asleep with the impression of having
finished the week most agreeably, and with an-
ticipations of very great pleasure on the more
row.
Early in the morning I was roused from my
sleep by the sound of little voices singing with
THE SABBATH.
263
great animation in the room next to mine, and,
listening, I caught the following words:
“Awake! awake! your bed forsake,
To God your praises pay ;
The morning sun is clear and bright,
With joy we hail his cheerful light.
In songs of love
Praise God above-
It is the Sabbath day!"
The last words were repeated, and prolongo
ed most vehemently by a voice that I knew for
Master William's.
“Now, Willie, I like the other one best,” said
the soft voice of little Susan ; and immediately
she began,
“How sweet is the day,
When, leaving our play,
The Saviour we seek;
The fair morning glows
When Jesus arose-
The best in the week."
Master William helped along with great spir.
it in the singing of this tune, though I heard
him observing, at the end of the first verse, that
he liked the other one better, because “ it seem-
ed to step off so kind o' lively;" and his accom-
modating sister followed him as he began sing-
ing it again with redoubled animation.
It was a beautiful summer morning, and the
264
THE SABBATH.
voices of the children within accorded well
with the notes of birds and bleating flocks with.
out-a cheerful, yet Sabbath-like and quieting
sound.
“ Blessed be children's music !” said I to
myself ; “how much better this is than the
solitary tic-tic of old Uncle Fletcher's tall ma-
hogany clock !”
The family bell summoned us to the break-
fast-room just as the children had finished their
hymn. The little breakfast-parlour had been
swept and garnished expressly for the day, and
a vase of beautiful flowers, which the children
had the day before collected from their gardens,
adorned the centre-table. The door of one of
the bookcases by the fireplace was thrown
open, presenting to view a collection of pretti-
ly bound books, over the top of which appear-
ed in gilt letters the inscription, “ Sabbath Li-
brary.” The windows were thrown open to let
in the invigorating breath of the early morn-
ing, and the birds that flitted among the rose-
bushes without seemed scarcely lighter and
more buoyant than did the children as they en-
tered the room. It was legibly written on ev-
ery face in the house, that the happiest day in
the week had arrived, and each one seemed to
enter into its duties with a whole soul. It was
>
THE SABBATH.
265
still early when the breakfast and the season
of family devotion was over, and the children
eagerly gathered round the table to get a sight
of the pictures in the new books which their
father had purchased in New York the week
before, and which had been reserved as a Sun-
day's treat. They were a beautiful edition of
Calmet's Dictionary, in several large volumes,
with very superior engravings.
" It seems to me that this work must be
very
expensive," I remarked to my friend, as we
were turning the leaves.
“ Indeed, it is so,” he replied ; “ but here is
one place where I am less withheld by consider-
ations of expense than in other. In all that
concerns making a show in the world, I am per-
fectly ready to economize. I can do very well
without expensive clothing or fashionable furni-
ture, and am willing that we should be looked on
as very plain sort of people in all such matters;
but in all that relates to the cultivation of the
mind, and the improvement of the hearts of my
children, I am willing to go to the extent of my
ability. Whatever will give my children a
better knowledge of, or deeper interest, in the
Bible, or enable them to spend a Sabbath profit-
ably and without weariness, stands first on my
list among things to be purchased. I have
Z
any
266
THE SABBATH.
spent in this way one third as much as the fur.
nishing of my house costs me.
.." On looking
over the shelves of the Sabbath library, I per-
ceived that my friend had been at no small
pains in the selection. It comprised all the
popular standard works for the illustration of
the Bible, together with the best of the modern
religious publications adapted to the capacity
of young children. Two large drawers below
were filled with maps and seriptural engra-
vings, some of them of a very superior char-
acter.
“ We have been collecting these things grad-
ually ever since we have been at housekeep-
ing,” said my friend; "the children take an
interest in this library, as something more par.
ticularly belonging to them, and some of the
books are donations from their little earnings.”
“ Yes,” said Willie, “I bought Helon's Pil.
grimage with my egg-money, and Susan bought
the Life of David, and little Robert is going to
buy one, too, next Newyear.”
“But,” said I, “ would not the Sunday school li-
brary answer all the purpose of this ?"
“ 'The Sabbath-school library is an admirable
thing,” said my friend; “but this does more fully
and perfectly what that was intended to do. It
makes a sort of central attraction at home on the
THE SABBATH.
267
.
Sabbath, and makes the acquisition of religious
knowledge and the proper observance of the Sab-
bath a sort of family enterprise. You know," he
added, smiling, “that people always feel interest-
ed for an object in which they have invested
money."
The sound of the first Sabbath-school bell put an
end to this conversation. The children promptly
made themselves ready, and, as their father was the
superintendent of the school, and their mother one
of the teachers, it was quite a family party.
One part of every Sabbath at my friend's was
spent by one or both parents, with the children, in
a sort of review of the week. The attention of the
little ones was directed to their own characters, the
various defects or improvements of the past week
were pointed out, and they were stimulated to be on
their guard in the time to come, and the whole
was closed by earnest prayer for such heavenly aid
as the temptations and faults of each particular one
might need. After church in the evening, while
the children were thus withdrawn to their mother's
apartment, I could not forbear reminding my friend
of old times, and of the rather anti-Sabbatical turn
of his mind in our boyish days.
“Now, William,” said I, “ do
you
know that you
were the last boy of whom such an enterprise in
Sabbath-keeping as this was to have been expect-
268
THE SABBATH.
ed ? I suppose you remember Sunday at the old
place ? »
66
• Nay, now, I think I was the very one,” said he,
smiling," for I had sense enough to see, as I
grew
up that the day must be kept thoroughly or not at
all, and I had enough blood and motion in my com-
position to see that something must be done to en.
liven and make it interesting ; so I set myself about
it. It was one of the first of our housekeeping
resolutions, that the Sabbath should be made a
pleasant day, and yet be as inviolably kept as in the
strictest times of our good father; and we have
brought things to run in that channel so long, that
it seems to be the natural order."
“I have always supposed," said I," that it re.
quired a peculiar talent, and more than common
information in a parent, to accomplish this to any
extent.”
“ It requires nothing,” replied my friend, “but
common sense, and a strong determination to do it.
Parents who make a definite object of the religious
instruction of their children, if they have common
sense, can very soon see what is necessary in order
to interest them; and, if they find themselves want-
ing in the requisite information, they can, in these
days, very readily acquire it. The sources of re.
ligious knowledge are so numerous, and so popular
in their form, that all can avail themselves of them.
66
THE SABBATH.
269
The only difficulty, after all, is, that the keeping of
the Sabbath and the imparting of religious instruc.
tion is not made enough of a home object. Parents
pass off the responsibility on to the Sunday-school
teacher, and suppose, of course, if they send their
children to Sunday-school, they do the best they
can for them. Now I am satisfied, from my expe-
rience as a Sabbath-school teacher, that the best
religious instruction imparted abroad still stands in
need of the co-operation of a systematic plan of re.
ligious discipline and instruction at home; for, af.
ter all, God gives a power to the efforts of a parent
that can never be transferred to other hands.”
“But do you suppose," said I," that the common
class of minds, with ordinary advantages, can do
what
you
have done ?"
“ I think, in most cases, they could, if they begin
right. But when both parents and children have
formed habits, it is more difficult to change than to
begin right at first. However, I think all might
accomplish a great deal if they would give time,
money, and effort towards it. It is because the ob.
ject is regarded of so little value, compared with
other things of a worldly nature, that so little is
done.”
My friend was here interrupted by the entrance
of Mrs. Fletcher with the children. Mrs. Fletcher
sat down to the piano, and the Sabbath was closed
Z2
270
THE SABBATH.
with the happy songs of the little ones ; nor could I
notice a single anxious eye turning to the window
to see if the sun was not almost down. The ten.
der and softened expression of each countenance
bore witness to the subduing power of those instruc.
tions which had hallowed the last hour, and their
sweet, bird-like voices harmonized well with the
beautiful words,
“How sweet the light of Sabbath eve,
How soft the sunbeam lingering there;
Those holy hours this low earth leave,
And rise on wings of faith and prayer.”
SO MANY CALLS.
A SKETCH.
It was a brisk, clear evening in the latter part
of December, when Mr. A— returned from his
counting-house to the comforts of a bright coal fire
and warm arm-chair in his parlour at home. He
changed his heavy boots for slippers, drew around
him the folds of his evening gown, and then, loun-
ging back in the chair, looked up to the ceiling and
about with an air of satisfaction. Still there was a
cloud on his brow : what could be the matter with
Mr. A-? To tell the truth, he had that after-
noon received in his counting-room the agent of
one of the principal religious charities of the day,
and had been warmly urged to double his last
year's subscription, and the urging had been press-
ed by statements and arguments to which he did
not know well how to reply. “People think,” so.
liloquized he to himself, “ that I am made of money,
I believe; this is the fourth object this year for
which I have been requested to double my sub-
scription, and this year has been one of heavy fam-
ily expenses—building and fitting up this house-
carpets, curtains-no end to the new things to be
272
SO MANY CALLS.
a
bought I really do not see how I am to give a cent
more in charity ; then there are the bills for the
girls and the boys—they all say that they must have
twice as much now as before we came into this
house : wonder if I did right in building it?" And
Mr. A— glanced up and down the ceiling, and
around on the costly furniture, and looked into the
fire in silence. He was tired, harassed, and drow-
sy; his head began to swim, and his eyes closed-
he was asleep. In his sleep he thought he heard a
tap at the door; he opened it, and there stood a
plain, poor-looking man, who, in a voice singularly
low and sweet, asked for a few moments' conversa.
tion with him. Mr. A asked him into the
parlour, and drew him a chair near the fire. The
stranger looked attentively around, and then, turn.
ing to Mr. Am, presented him with a paper.
“ It is your last year's subscription to Missions,”
said he ; "you know all of the wants of that cause
that can be told you; I called to see if you had
anything more to add to it."
This was said in the same low and quiet voice
as before ; but, for some reason unaccountable to
himself, Mr. A—was more embarrassed by the
plain, poor, unpretending man, than he had been in
the presence of any one before. He was for some
moments silent before he could reply at all, and
then, in a hurried and embarrassed manner, he be.
SO MANY CALLS.
273
gan the same excuses which had appeared so sat-
isfactory to him the afternoon before—the hard.
ness of the times, the difficulty of collecting money,
family expenses, &c.
The stranger quietly surveyed the spacious
apartment, with its many elegances and luxuries,
and without any comment took from the merchant
the paper he had given, but immediately presented
him with another.
“ This is your subscription to the Tract Society:
have you anything to add to it; you know how
much it has been doing, and how much more it
now desires to do, if Christians would only furnish
means : do you not feel called upon to add some.
thing to it?"
Mr. A was very uneasy under this appeal,
but there was something in the mild manner of the
stranger that restrained him ; but he answered that,
although he regretted it exceedingly, his circum-
stances were such that he could not this year con.
veniently add to any of his charities.
The stranger received back the paper without
any reply, but immediately presented in its place
the subscription to the Bible Society, and in a few
clear and forcible words, reminded him of its well.
known claims, and again requested him to add
something to his donations. Mr. A- became
impatient.
274
SO MANY CALLS.
“ Have I not said,” he replied, “ that I can do
nothing more for any charity than I did last year ?
There seems to be no end to the calls upon us in
these days. At first there were only three or four
objects presented, and the sums required were mod.
erate; now the objects increase every day; all call
upon us for money, and all, after we give once,
want us to double and treble our subscriptions ;
there is no end to the thing; we may as well stop
in one place as another.”
The stranger took back the paper, rose, and, fix.
ing his eye on his companion, said in a voice that
thrilled to his soul,
“ One year ago to-night you thought that your
daughter lay dying ; you could not sleep for ag.
ony: upon whom did you call all that night ?"
The merchant started and looked up; there
seemed a change to have passed over the whole
form of his visiter, whose eye was fixed on him with
a calm, intense, penetrating expression, that awed
and subdued him; he drew back, covered his face,
and made no reply.
“ Five years ago," said the stranger," when you
lay at the brink of the grave, and thought that if
you died then you should leave a family of helpless
children entirely unprovided for, do you remember
how you prayed? who saved you then?”
The stranger paused for an answer, but there
,
SO MANY CALLS.
275
a
was a dead silence. The merchant only bent for.
ward as one entirely overcome, and rested his head
on the seat before him.
The stranger drew yet nearer, and said, in a still
lower and more impressive lone, “Do you remem.
ber, fifteen years since, that time when you felt
yourself so lost, so helpless, so hopeless ; when you
spent days and nights in prayer; when you thought
you would give the whole world for one hour's as.
surance that your sins were forgiven you ?-who
listened to you then ?"
“ It was my God and Saviour !” said the mer.
chant, with a sudden burst of remorseful feeling ;
“oh, yes, it was he."
“ And has He ever complained of being called on
too often," inquired the stranger, in a voice of re-
proachful sweetness ; " say,” he added, “are you
willing to begin this night, and ask no more of Him,
if he, from this night, will ask no more from you ?”
“Oh, never, never !” said the merchant, throwing
himself at his feet ; but, as he spake these words,
the figure seemed to vanish, and he awoke with his
whole soul stirred within him.
Oh, my Saviour! what have I been saying?
what have I been doing ?” he exclaimed. “Take
all, take everything! what is all that I have to
what thou hast done for me !"
THE CANAL-BOAT.
Of all the ways of travelling which obtain
among our locomotive nation, this said vehicle,
the canal-boat, is the most absolutely prosaic
and inglorious. There is something pictu-
resque, nay, almost sublime, in the lordly march
of your well-built, high-bred steamboat. Go
take your stand on some overhanging bluff,
where the blue Ohio winds its thread of silver,
or the sturdy Mississippi makes its path through
unbroken forests, and it will do your heart good
to see the gallant boat walking the waters with
unbroken and powerful tread, and, like some fa-
bled monster of the wave, breathing fire, and
making the shores resound with its deep respi-
rations. Then there is something mysterious,
even awful, in the
of steam. See it curl-
ing up against a blue sky some rosy morning-
graceful, fleeting, intangible, and to all appear-
ance the softest and gentlest of all spiritual
things—and then think that it is this fairy spirit
that keeps all the world alive and hot with mo-
power
THE CANAL-BOAT.
277
>
tion; think how excellent a servant it is, doing
all sorts of gigantic works, like the genii of
old; and yet, if you let slip the talisman only for
a moment, what terrible advantage it will take
of you! and you will confess that steam has
some claims both to the beautiful and the ter
rible. For our own part, when we are down
among the machinery of a steamboat in full
play, we conduct ourself very reverently, for we
consider it as a very serious neighbourhood; and
every time the steam whizzes with such red-hot
determination from the
escape valve, we start as
if some of the spirits were after us. But in a
canal-boat there is no power, no mystery, no
danger; one cannot blow up, one cannot be
drowned, unless by some special effort : one
sees clearly all there is in the case-a horse, a
rope, and a muddy strip of water--and that is
all.
Did you ever try it, reader? If not, take an
imaginary trip with us, just for experiment.
“ There's the boat !” exclaims a passenger in the
omnibus, as we are rolling down from the Pitts-
burg Mansion House to the canal. “Where ?"
exclaim a dozen of voices, and forthwith a doz-
en heads go out of the window. “Why, down
there, under that bridge ; don't you see those
lights ?” “What! that little thing ?” exclaims
AA
5
278
THE CANAL-BOAT.
man.
an inexperienced traveller; “ dear me! we
can't half of us get into it !” " We! indeed,"
says some old hand in the business ; "I think
you'll find it will hold us and a dozen more
loads like us." Impossible !” say some.
“ You'll see,” say the initiated ; and, as soon as
you get out, you do see, and hear too, what
seems like a general breaking loose from the
Tower of Babel, amid a perfect hailstorm of
trunks, boxes, valises, carpet-bags, and every
describable and indescribable form of what a
Westerner calls “plunder."
“ That's my trunk !" barks out a big, round
“ That's
my
bandbox !" screams a heart-
stricken old lady, in terror for her immaculate
Sunday caps.
“ Where's my little red box?
I had two carpet-bags and a—My trunk had
a scarle-Halloo! where are you going with
that portmanteau ? Husband ! husband ! do
see after the large basket and the little hair
trunk oh! and the baby's little chair !"
“Go below--go below, for mercy's sake, my
dear; I'll see to the baggage.” At last, the
feminine part of creation perceiving that, ini
this particular instance, they gain nothing by
public speaking, are content to be led quietly
under hatches, and amusing is the look of dis-
may which each new.comer gives to the con-
THE CANAL-BOAT.
279
a
fined quarters that present themselves. Those
who were so ignorant of the power of compres-
sion as to suppose the boat scarce large enough
to contain them and theirs, find, with dismay, a
respectable colony of old ladies, babies, moth-
ers, big baskets, and carpet-bags already estab-
lished. • Mercy on us !” says one, after sur-
veying the little room, about ten feet long and
six high,“ where are we all to sleep to-night ?"
“O me! what a sight of children !” says a young
lady, in a despairing tone. “Poh!" says an in-
itiated traveller ; “children! scarce any here;
let's see: one—the woman in the corner, two-
that child with the bread and butter, three--and
then there's that other woman with two-really,
it's quite moderate for a canal-boat: however,
we can't tell till they have all come.”
“All! for mercy's sake, you don't say
there are any more coming !” exclaim two or
three in a breath ; " they can't come ; there is not
room!”
Notwithstanding the impressive utterance of
this sentence, the contrary is immediately de-
monstrated by the appearance of a very corpu.
lent elderly lady, with three well-grown daugh.
ters, who come down looking about them most
complacently, entirely regardless of the un-
christian looks of the company. What a mer.
a
280
THE CANAL-BOAT.
cy it is that fat people are always good-na-
tured!
After this follows an indiscriminate raining
down of all shapes, sizes, sexes, and ages--men,
, ,
women, children, babies, and nurses. The state
of feeling becomes perfectly desperate. Dark-
ness gathers on all faces. 66 We shall be smoth-
ered! we shall be crowded to death! we can't
stay here !” are heard faintly from one and an-
other; and yet, though the boat grows no wi-
der, the walls no higher, they do live, and do
bear it, in spite of repeated protestations to the
contrary. Truly, as Sam Slick says, “there's
a sight of wear in human natur'.”
But, meanwhile, the children grow sleepy,
and divers interesting little duets and trios
arise from one part or another of the cabin.
Hush, Johnny! be a good boy,” says a pale,
nursing mamma, to a great, bristling, white-
headed phenomenon, who is kicking very much
at large in her lap.
“I won't be a good boy, neither,” responds
Johnny, with interesting explicitness; “I want
to go to bed, and so.0.0-0!" and Johnny makes
up a mouth as big as a teacup, and roars with
good courage, and his mamma asks him " if he
ever saw pa do so," and tells him that he is
mamma's dear, good little boy, and must not
THE CANAL-BOAT.
281
make a noise,” with various observations of the
kind, which are so strikingly efficacious in such
cases. Meanwhile, the domestic concert in oth-
er quarters proceeds with vigour. “Mamma,
I'm tired !” bawls a child. " Where's the ba-
by's night-gown ?" calls a nurse. “ Do take
Peter up in your lap, and keep him still.” “Pray
get out some biscuits to stop their mouths.”
Meanwhile, sundry babies strike in “con spir-
ito,” as the music-books have it, and execute
various flourishes; the disconsolate mothers
sigh, and look as if all was over with them; and
the young ladies appear extremely disgusted,
,
and wonder what business women have to be
travelling round with babies!"
To these troubles succeeds the turning-out
scene, when the whole caravan is ejected into
the gentlemen's cabin, that the beds may be
made. The red curtains are put down, and in
solemn silence all, the last mysterious prepar-
ations begin. At length it is announced that
all is ready. Forthwith the whole company
rush back, and find the walls embellished by a
series of little shelves, about a foot wide, each
furnished with a mattress and bedding, and
hooked to the ceiling by a very suspiciously
slender cord. Direful are the ruminations and
exclamations of inexperienced travellers, par-
AA2
282
THE CANAL-BOAT.
a
ticularly young ones, as they eye these very
equivocal accommodations. “What! sleep up
.
there! I won't sleep on one of those top
shelves, I know.
The cords will certainly
break.” The chambermaid here takes up the
conversation, and solemnly assures them that
such an accident is not to be thought of at all ;
that it is a natural impossibility-a thing that
,
could not happen without an actual miracle ;
and since it becomes increasingly evident that
thirty ladies cannot all sleep on the lowest
shelf, there is some effort made to exercise
faith in this doctrine; nevertheless, all look on
their neighbours with fear and trembling; and
when the stout lady talks of taking a shelf, she
is most urgently pressed to change places with
her alarmed neighbour below. Points of loca-
tion being after a while adjusted, comes the
last struggle. Everybody wants to take off
their bonnet, to look for their shawl, to find
their cloak, to get their carpet-bag, and all set
about it with such zeal that nothing can be
done. “Ma'am, you're on my foot!” says one.
!
“Will you please to move, ma'am ?" says some-
body, who is gasping and struggling behind you.
“ Move !" you echo. “Indeed, I should be very
glad to, but I don't see much prospect of it.”
“ Chambermaid !" calls a lady, who is struggling
THE CANAL-BOAT.
283
among a heap of carpet-bags and children at
one end of the cabin. “ Ma'am !” echoes the
poor chambermaid, who is wedged fast, in a
similar situation, at the other. “Where's my
cloak, chambermaid ?” “I'd find it, ma'am, if
I could move.” “Chambermaid, my basket!"
“Chambermaid, my parasol!” “Chambermaid,
my carpet-bag!” “Mamma, they push me so !"
Hush, child; crawl under there, and lie still
till I can undress you.” At last, however, the
various distresses are over, the babies sink to
sleep, and even that much-enduring being, the
chambermaid, seeks out some corner for re-
pose.
Tired and drowsy, you are just sink-
ing into a doze, when bang ! goes the boat
against the sides of a lock, ropes scrape, men
run and shout, and up fly the heads of all the
top shelf-ites, who are generally the more ju-
venile and airy part of the company.
“ What's that! what's that !” flies from
mouth to mouth; and forthwith they proceed to
awaken their respective relations. 6. Mother!
Aunt Hannah! do wake up; what is this awful
noise ?” "
“Oh, only a lock !” “Pray be still,”
groan out the sleepy members from below.
“A lock !” exclaim the vivacious creatures,
ever on the alert for information ; “and what is
a lock, pray ?"
284
THE CANAL-BOAT.
“Don't you know what a lock is, you silly
creatures ? Do lie down and go to sleep.”
“But say, there ain't any danger in a lock, is
there ?" respond the querists. “Danger!” ex-
claims a deaf old lady, poking up her head,
what's the matter ? There ha'n't nothin'
burst, has there ?” “No, no, no !” exclaim the
provoked and despairing opposition party, who
find that there is no such thing as going to
sleep till they have made the old lady below
and the young ladies above understand exactly
the philosophy of a lock. After a while the
conversation again subsides; again all is still ;
you hear only the trampling of horses and the
rippling of the rope in the water, and sleep
again is stealing over you. You doze, you
dream, and all of a sudden you are started by
“Chambermaid ! wake up the lady that
wants to be set ashore.” Up jumps chamber.
maid, and up jumps the lady and two children,
and forthwith form a committee of inquiry as
to ways and means. Where's
my
bonnet ?"
says the lady, half awake, and fumbling among
the various articles of that name. “I thought
I hung it up behind the door.” 6 Can't
you
find
it?" says poor chambermaid, yawning and rub-
bing her eyes. “Oh, yes, here it is,” says the
lady; and then the cloak, the shawl, the gloves
a cry,
66
THE CANAL-BOAT.
285
9
the shoes, receive each a separate discussion..
At last all seems ready, and they begin to
move off, when, lo! Peter's cap is missing.
“Now where can it be?” soliloquizes the lady.
"I put it right here by the table-leg; maybe it
got into some of the berths.” At this sugges-
tion, the chambermaid takes the candle, and
goes round deliberately to every berth, poking
the light directly in the face of every sleeper.
“Here it is,” she exclaims, pulling at some-
thing black under one pillow. “No, indeed,
those are my shoes,” says the vexed sleeper.
“ Maybe it's here," she resumes, darting upon
something dark in another berth. “No, that's
my bag," responds the occupant. The cham-
bermaid then proceeds to turn over all the chil-
dren on the floor, to see if it is not under them,
in the course of which process they are most
agreeably waked up and enlivened ; and, when
everybody is broad awake, and most unchari-
tably wishing the cap, and Peter too, at the
bottom of the canal, the good lady exclaims,
“Well, if this isn't lucky! here I had it safe
in my basket all the time !" and she departs
amid the~what shall I say?-execrations !
of the whole company, ladies though they be.
Well, after this follows a hushing up and
wiping up among the juvenile population, and
286
THE CANAL-BOAT.
a series of remarks commences from the va-
rious shelves, of a very edifying and instructive
tendency. One says that the woman did not
seem to know where anything was; another
says that she has waked them all up; a third
adds that she has waked up all the children too;
and the elderly ladies make moral reflections
on the importance of putting your things where
you can find them being always ready; which
observations, being delivered in an exceedingly
doleful and drowsy tone, form a sort of sub-
bass to the lively chattering of the upper shelf-
ites, who declare that they feel quite wide
awake-that they don't think they shall go to
sleep again to-night-and discourse over every-
thing in creation, until you heartily wish you
were enough related to them to give them a
scolding
At last, however, voice after voice drops off;
you fall into a most refreshing slumber; it
seems to you that you sleep about a quarter
of an hour, when the chambermaid pulls you
by the sleeve: “Will you please to get up,
ma'am ; we want to make the beds." You start
and stare. Sure enough, the night is gone.
So much for sleeping on board canal-boats.
Let us not enumerate the manifold perplex-
ities of the morning toilet in a place where
every lady realizes most forcibly the condition
THE CANAL-BOAT.
287
Let us
of the old woman who lived under a broom:
* All she wanted was elbow room.”
not tell how one glass is made to answer for
thirty fair faces, one ewer and vase for thirty
lavations; and, tell it not in Gath! one towel
for a company! Let us not intimate how la.
dies' shoes have, in the night, clandestinely slid
into the gentlemen's cabin, and gentlemen's
boots elbowed, or, rather, toed their way among
lady's gear, nor recite the exclamations after
runaway property that are heard.
"I can't find
nothin' of Johnny's shoe!” “Here's a shoe in
the water pitcher-is this it?". “My side-
combs are gone,” exclaims a nymph with dis-
hevelled curls !” “ Massy! do look at my
bonnet !” exclaims an old lady, elevating an
article crushed into as many angles as there
are pieces in a minced pie. “I never did sleep
so much together in my life," echoes a poor lit-
tle French lady, whom despair has driven into
talking English.
But our shortening paper warns us not to
prolong our catalogue of distresses beyond
reasonable bounds, and therefore we will close!
with advising all our friends who intend to try
this way of travelling for pleasure, to take a
good stock both of patience and clean towels
with them, for we think that they will find
abundant need for both.
a
FEELING.
THERE is one way of studying human nature,
which surveys mankind only as a set of instru.
ments for the accomplishment of personal plans.
There is another, which regards them simply as a
gallery of pictures, to be admired or laughed at as
the caricature or the beau ideal predominates. A
third way regards them as human beings, having
hearts that can suffer and enjoy, that can be im.
proved or be ruined; as those who are linked to
us by mysterious reciprocal influences, by the
common dangers of a present existence, and the
uncertain ties of a future one; as presenting,
wherever we meet them, claims on our sympathy
and assistance.
Those who adopt the last method are interested
in human beings, not so much by present attrac-
tions as by their capabilities as intelligent, immor.
tal beings; by a high belief of what every mind
may attain in an immortal existence; by anxieties
for its temptations and dangers, and often by the
perception of errors and faults which threaten its
ruin. The two first modes are adopted by the
FEELING.
289
-
great mass of society; the last is the office of those
few scattered stars in the sky of life, who look
down on its dark selfishness to remind us that
there is a world of light and love.
To this class did He belong, whose rising and
setting on earth were for “ the healing of the na.
tions ;” and to this class has belonged many a
pure and devoted spirit - like him, shining to
cheer-like him, fading away into the heavens.
To this class many a one wishes to belong, who
has an eye to distinguish the divinity of virtue,
without the resolution to attain it; who, while they
sweep along with the selfish current of society,
still regret that society is not different—that they
themselves are not different. If this train of
thought has no very particular application to what
follows, it was nevertheless suggested by it, and of
its relevancy others must judge.
Look into this schoolroom. It is a warm, sleepy
afternoon in July; there is scarcely air enough to
stir the leaves of the tall buttonwood-tree before
the door, or to lift the loose leaves of the copybook
in the window; the sun has been diligently shining
into those curtainless west windows ever since
three o'clock, upon those blotted and mangled
desks, and those decrepit and tottering benches,
and that great armchair, the high place of au-
thority.
В в
290
FEELING.
You can faintly hear, about the door, the “craw,
craw" of some neighbouring chickens, who have
stepped around to consider the dinner-baskets, and
pick up the crumbs of the noon's repast. For a
marvel, the busy school is still, because, in truth, it
is too warm to stir. You will find nothing to dis.
turb your meditation on character, for you cannot
hear the beat of those little hearts, nor the bustle
of all those busy thoughts.
Now look around. Who of these is the most
interesting? Is it that tall, slender, hazel-eyed
boy, with a glance like a falcon, whose elbows rest
on his book as he gazes out on the great button-
wood-tree, and is calculating how he shall fix his
squirrel-trap when school is out? Or is it that
curly-headed little rogue, who is shaking with re.
pressed laughter at seeing a chicken roll over in a
dinner-basket ? Or is it that arch boy with black
eyelashes, and deep, mischievous dimple in his
cheeks, who is slyly fixing a fishhook to the skirts
of the master's coat, yet looking as abstracted as
Archimedes whenever the good man turns his
head that way? No; these are intelligent, bright,
beautiful, but it is not these.
Perhaps, then, it is that sleepy little girl, with
golden curls and a mouth like a half-blown rose-
bud? See! the small brass thimble has fallen to
the floor, her patchwork drops from her lap, her
FEELING.
291
blue eyes close like two sleepy violets, her little
head is nodding, and she sinks on her sister's
shoulder; surely it is she. No, it is not.
But look in that corner : do you see that boy
with such a gloomy countenance so vacant, yet so
ill-natured ? He is doing nothing, and he very sel-
dom does anything. He is surly and gloomy in
his looks and actions. He never showed any
more aptitude for saying or doing a pretty thing,
than his straight white hair does for curling. He is
regularly blamed and punished every day, and the
more he is blamed and punished, the worse he
grows. None of the boys and girls in school will
play with him, or if they do, they will be sorry for
it. And every day the master assures him that
“ he does not know what to do with him," and that
he “makes him more trouble than any boy in
school,” with similar judicious information, that
has a striking tendency to promote improvement.
That is the boy to whom I apply the title of "the
most interesting one.”
He is interesting because he is not pleasing ; be-
cause he has bad habits ; because he does wrong;
because he is always likely to do wrong. He is
interesting because he has become what he is now
by means of the very temperament which often
makes the noblest virtue. It is feeling, acuteness
292
FEELING.
of feeling, which has given that countenance its ex-
pression, that character its moroseness.
He has no father, and that long-suffering friend,
his mother, is gone too. Yet he has relations,
and kind ones too; and, in the compassionate lan-
guage of worldly charity, it may be said of him,
“ He would have nothing of which to complain, if
he would only behave himself.”
His little sister is always bright, always pleas.
ant and cheerful ; and his friends say, “Why
should not he be so too? he is in exactly the same
circumstances.” No, he is not. In one circum.
stance they differ. He has a mind to feel and re.
member almost everything that can pain him; she
can feel and remember but little. If you blame him,
he is exasperated, gloomy, and cannot forget it.
If you blame her, she can say she has done wrong
in a moment, and all is forgotten. Her mind can
no more be wounded than the little brook where
she loves to play. The bright waters close in a
moment, and smile and prattle as merry as before.
Which is the most desirable temperament ? It
would be hard to say. The power of feeling is
necessary for all that is noble in man, and yet it
involves the greatest risks. They who catch at
happiness on the bright surface of things, secure a
portion, such as it is, with more certainty ; those
who dive for it in the waters of deep feeling, if they
FEELING.
293
He
succeed, will bring up pearls and diamonds, but if
they sink they are lost forever!
But now comes Saturday, and school is just out.
Can any one of my readers remember the raptu.
rous prospect of a long, bright Saturday afternoon?
“ Where are you going ?” “ Will you come and
see me ?” “We are going a fishing !” “ Let us
go a strawberrying !" may be heard rising from
the happy group. But no one comes near the ill.
humoured James, and the little party going to visit
his sister “ wish James was out of the way.”
sees every motion, hears every whisper, knows,
suspects, feels it all, and turns to go home more
sullen and ill-tempered than common.
The world
looks dark-nobody loves him and he is told that
it is "all his own fault,” and that makes the matter
still worse.
When the little party arrive, he is suspicious
and irritable, and, of course, soon excommunicated.
Then, as he stands in disconsolate anger, look.
ing over the garden fence at the gay group ma..
king dandelion chains, and playing baby-house un-
der the trees, he wonders why he is not like other
children. He wishes he were different, and yet he
does not know what to do. He looks around, and
everything is blooming and bright. His little bed
of flowers is even brighter and sweeter than ever
B B 2
294
FEELING.
.
before, and a new rose is just opening on his rose-
bush.
There goes pussy too, racing and scampering,
with little Ellen after her, in among the alleys and
flowers; and the birds are singing in the trees;
and the soft winds brush the blossoms of the sweet.
pea against his cheek; and yet, though all nature
looks on him so kindly, he is wretched.
Let us now change the scene.
Why is that
crowded assembly so attentive-so silent? Who
is speaking ? It is our old friend, the little discon.
solate schoolboy. But his eyes are flashing with
intellect, his face fervent with emotion, his voice
breathes like music, and every mind is enchained.
Again, it is a splendid sunset, and yonder enthusi.
ast meets it face to face, as a friend. He is silent-
rapt-happy. He feels the poetry which God has
written; he is touched by it, as God meant that
the feeling spirit should be touched.
Again, he is watching by the bed of sickness,
and it is blessed to have such a watcher! antici.
pating every want; relieving, not in a cold, unin.
terested way, but with the quick perceptions, the
tenderness, the gentleness of an angel.
Follow him into the circle of friendship, and
why is he so loved and trusted? Why can you
so easily tell to him what you can say to no one
else besides ? Why is it that all around him feed
FEELING.
295
that he can understand, appreciate, be icuched by
all that touches them?
And when Heaven uncloses its doors of light-
when all its knowledge, its purity, its bliss, rises
eye
and
passes into the soul, who then will
be looked on as the one who might be exavied-he
who can, or he who cannot feel ?
on the
THE SEMPSTRESS.
2
“Few, save the poor, feel for the poor;
The rich know not how hard
It is to be of needful food
And needful rest debarr'd.
Their paths are paths of plenteousness,
They sleep on silk and down;
They never think how wearily
The weary head lies down.
They never by the window sit,
And see the gay pass by,
Yet take their weary work again,
And with a mournful eye.”
L. E. L.
HOWEVER fine and elevated, in a sentimental
point of view, may have been the poetry of this
gifted writer, we think we have never seen any-
thing from this source that ought to give a bet-
ter opinion of her than the little ballad from
which the above verses are taken.
They show that the accomplished authoress
possessed, not merely a knowledge of the
dreamy ideal wants of human beings, but the
more pressing and homely ones, which the
fastidious and poetical are often the last to ap-
preciate. The sufferings of poverty are not
confined to those of the common, squalid, ev-
THE SEMPSTRESS.
297
ery-day inured to hardships, and ready, with
open hand, to receive charity, let it come to
them as it will. There is another class on
whom it presses with still heavier power: the
generous, the decent, the self-respecting, who
hare struggled with their lot in silence, “bear-
ing all things, hoping all things," and willing
to endure all things, rather than breathe a word
of complaint, or to acknowledge, even to them-
selves, that their own efforts will not be suffi-
cient for their own necessities.
Pause with me a while at the door of yonder
small room, whose small window overlooks a
little court below. It is inhabited by a widow
and her daughter, dependant entirely on the
labours of the needle, and those other slight
and precarious resources, which are all that re-
main to woman when left to struggle her way
“through this bleak world alone." It contains
all their small earthly store, and there is scarce
an article of its little stock of furniture that has
not been thought of, and toiled for, and its price
calculated over and over again, before every-
thing could come right for its purchase. Every
article is arranged with the utmost neatness
and care ; nor is the most costly furniture of
a fashionable parlour more sedulously guarded
from a scratch or a rub, than is that brightly-
varnished bureau, and that neat cherry tea-ta-
298
THE SEMPSTRESS.
ble and bedstead. The floor, too, boasted once
a carpet ; but old Time has been busy with it,
picking a hole here, and making a thin place
there ; and though the old fellow has been fol.
lowed up by the most indefatigable zeal in
darning, the marks of his mischievous fingers
are too plain to be mistaken. It is true, a kindly
neighbour has given a bit of faded baize, which
has been neatly clipped and bound, and spread
down over an entirely unmanageable hole in
front of the fireplace; and other places have
been repaired with pieces of different colours;
and yet, after all, it is evident that the poor car-
pet is not long for this world.
But the best face is put upon everything.
The little cupboard in the corner, that contains
a few china cups, and one or two antiquated
silver spoons, relics of better days, is arranged
with jealous neatness, and the white muslin
window-curtain, albeit the muslin be old, has
been carefully whitened, and starched, and
smoothly ironed, and put up with exact precis-
ion; and on the bureau, covered by a snowy
cloth, are arranged a few books and other me-
morials of former times, and a faded miniature,
which, though it have little about it to interest
a stranger, is more precious to the poor widow
than everything besides.
Mrs. Ames is seated in her rocking-chair,
THE SEMPSTRESS.
299
a
supported by a pillow, and busy cutting out
work, while her daughter, a slender, sickly-
looking girl, is sitting by the window, intent on
some fine stitching.
Mrs. Ames, in former days, was the wife of a
respectable merchant, and the mother of an af-
fectionate family. But evil fortune had follow-
ed her with a steadiness that seemed like the
stern decree of some adverse fate rather than
the ordinary dealings of a merciful Providence.
First came a heavy run of losses in business ;
then long and expensive sickness in the family,
and the death of children. Then there was the
selling of the large house and elegant furniture,
to retire to a humbler style of living; and, final-
ly, the sale of all the property, with the view of
quitting the shores of a native land, and com-
mencing life again in a new one. But scarcely
had the exiled family found themselves in the
port of a foreign land, when the father was sud-
denly smitten down by the hand of Death, and
his lonely grave made in a land of strangers.
The widow, broken-hearted and discouraged,
had still a wearisome journey before her ere
she could reach any whom she could consider
as her friends. With her two daughters, en-
tirely unattended, and with her finances impov-
erished by detention and sickness, she perform-
ed the tedious journey,
300
THE SEMPSTRESS.
ses.
Arrived at the place of her destination, she
found herself not only without immediate re-
sources, but considerably in debt to one who
had advanced money for her travelling expen-
With silent endurance she met the neces-
sities of her situation. Her daughters, delicate-
ly reared, and hitherto carefully educated, were
placed out to service, and Mrs. Ames sought
for employment as a nurse. The
younger
child
fell sick, and the hard earnings of the mother
were all exhausted in the care of her; and
though she recovered in part, she was declared
by her physician to be the victim of a disease
which would never leave her till it terminated
her life.
As soon, however, as her daughter was so
far restored as not to need her immediate care,
Mrs. Ames resumed her laborious employment.
Scarcely had she been able, in this way, to dis-
charge the debts for her journey and to furnish
the small room we have described, when the
hand of disease was laid heavily on herself.
Too resolute and persevering to give way to
the first attacks of pain and weakness, she still
continued her fatiguing employment till her
system was entirely prostrated. Thus all pos-
sibility of pursuing her business was cut off,
and nothing remained but what could be accom-
plished by her own and her daughter's dexterity
THE SEMPSTRESS.
301
at the needle. It is at this time we ask you to
look in upon the mother and daughter.
Mrs. Ames is sitting up, the first time for a
week, and even to-day she is scarcely fit to do
so; but she remembers that the month is com-
ing round, and her rent will soon be due ; and
even in her feebleness she will stretch every
nerve to meet her engagements with punctil-
igus exactness.
Wearied at length with cutting out, and
measuring, and drawing threads, she leans back
in her.chair, and her eye rests on the pale face
of her daughter, who has been sitting for two
hours intent on her stitching.
“Ellen, my child, your head aches; don't
work so steadily."
“ Oh no, it don't ache much,” said she, too
conscious of looking very much tired. Poor
girl, had she remained in the situation in which
she was born, she would now have been skip-
ping about, and enjoying life as other young
girls of fifteen do; but now there is no choice
of employments for her—no youthful compan-
ions-no visiting-no pleasant walks in the fresh
air. Evening and morning, it is all the same;
headache or sideache, it is all one. She must
hold on the same unvarying task; a wearisome
thing for a girl of fifteen!
Сс
302
THE SEMPSTRESS.
But
see,
the door
opens,
and Mrs. Ames's face
brightens as her other daughter enters. Mary
has become a domestic in a neighbouring fam-
ily, where her faithfulness and kindness of
heart have caused her to be regarded more as
a daughter and a sister than as a servant.
“Here, mother, is your rent-money,” she ex-
claimed, “so do put up your work and rest
a while. I can get enough to pay it next time
before the month comes around again.”
“Dear child! I do wish you would ever
think to get anything for yourself,” said Mrs.
Ames; “I cannot consent to use up all
your
earnings, as I have done lately, and all Ellen's
too.: you must have a new dress this spring,
and that bonnet of yours is not decent any lon-
ger."
“Oh no, mother; I have fixed over my blue
calico, and you would be surprised to see how
well it looks; and my best frock, when it is
washed and darned, will answer some time
longer. And then Mrs. Grant has given me a
riband, and when my bonnet is whitened and
trimmed it will look very well. And so," she
added, “I brought you some wine this after-
noon; you know the doctor says you need
wine."
“ Dear child! I want to see you take some
comfort of your money yourself.”
THE SEMPSTRESS.
303
Well, I do take comfort of it, mother. It
is more comfort to be able to help you than to
wear all the finest dresses in the world.”
Two months from this dialogue found our lit-
tle family still more straitened and perplexed.
Mrs. Ames had been confined all the time with
sickness, and the greater part of Ellen's time
and strength was occupied with attending to
her.
Very little sewing could the poor girl now
do, in the broken intervals that remained to
her; and the wages of Mary were not only used
as fast as she earned, but she anticipated two
months in advance.
Mrs. Ames had been better for a day or two,
and had been sitting up, exerting all her strength
to finish a set of shirts which had been sent in
to make. “The money for them will just pay
our rent,” sighed she; "and if we can do a lit-
tle more this week-"
“Dear mother, you are so tired," said Ellen,
“ do lie down, and not worry any more till I
come back."
Ellen went out and passed on till she came
to the door of an elegant house, whose dam-
ask and muslin window-curtains indicated a
fashionable residence.
Mrs. Elmore was sitting in her splendidly-
а
304
THE SEMPSTRESS.
>
a
furnished parlour, and around her lay various
fancy articles, which two young girls were
busily unrolling. “What a lovely pink scarf !”
said one, throwing it over her shoulders and
skipping before a mirror; while the other ex-
claimed, “Do look at these pocket-handker-
chiefs, mother! what elegant lace !"
“Well, girls," said Mrs. Elmore, “these hand-
kerchiefs are a shameful piece of extravagance.
I wonder you will insist on having such things.”
“ La! mamma, everybody has such now;
Laura Seymour has half a dozen that cost more
than these, and her father is no richer than
ours."
Well,” said Mrs. Elmore, "rich or not rich,
it seems to make very little odds ; we do not
seem to have half as much money to spare as
we did when we lived in the little house in
Spring-street. What with new furnishing the
house, and getting everything you boys and
girls say you must have, we are poorer,
if
anyº
thing, than we were then.”
Ma'am, here is Mrs. Ames's girl come with
some sewing,” said the servant.
“ Show her in,” said Mrs. Elmore.
Ellen entered timidly, and handed her bundle
of work to Mrs. Elmore, who forthwith pro-
ceeded to a minute scrutiny of the articles; for
she prided herself on being very particular as
66
THE SEMPSTRESS.
305
"
to her sewing. But, though the work had been
executed by feeble hands and aching eyes, even
Mrs. Elmore could detect no fault in it.
“Well, it is very prettily done,” said she;
“ what does your mother charge ?"
Ellen handed a neatly-folded bill which she
had drawn for her mother. “I must say, I think
your mother's prices are very high," said Mrs.
Elmore, examining her nearly empty purse;
"everything is getting so dear that one hardly
knows how to live.” Ellen looked at the fan-
cy articles, and glanced around the room with
an air of innocent astonishment. “ Ah !” said
Mrs. Elmore, “I dare say it seems to you as if
persons in our situation had no need of econ-
omy; but, for my part, I feel the need of it more
and more every day.” As she spoke she hand-
ed Ellen the three dollars, which, though it was
not a quarter the price of one of the handker-
chiefs, was all that she and her siek mother
could claim in the world.
“There,” said she; “ tell your mother I like
her work very much, but I do not think I can
afford to employ her, if I can find any one to
work cheaper."
Now Mrs. Elmore was not a hard-hearted
woman, and if Ellen had come as a beggar to
solicit help for her sick mother, Mrs. Elmore
m
Cc 2
306
THE SEMPSTRESS.
would have fitted out a basket of provisions,
and sent a bottle of wine, and a bundle of old
clothes, and all the et cetera of such occasions ;
but the sight of a bill always aroused all the
instinctive sharpness of her business-like edu-
cation. She never had the dawning of an idea
that it was her duty to pay anybody any more
than she could possibly help; nay, she had an
indistinct notion that it was her duty as an econ-
omist to make everybody take as little as pos-
When she and her daughters lived in
Spring-street, to which she had alluded, they
used to spend the greater part of their time at
home, and the family sewing was commonly
done among themselves. But since they had
moved into a large house, and set up a carriage,
and addressed themselves to being genteel, the
girls found that they had altogether too much
to do to attend to their own sewing, much less
to perform any for their father and brothers.
And their mother found her hands abundantly
full in overlooking her large house, in taking
care of expensive furniture, and in superintend-
ing her increased train of servants.
The sew-
ing, therefore, was put out; and Mrs. Elmore felt
it a duty to get it done the cheapest way she
could. Nevertheless, Mrs. Elmore was too no-
table a lady, and her sons and daughters were
altogether too fastidious as to the make and
THE SEMPSTRESS.
307
quality of their clothing, to admit the idea of
its being done in any but the most complete
and perfect manner.
Mrs. Elmore never accused herself of want
of charity for the poor; but she had never con-
sidered that the best class of the poor are those
who never ask charity. She did not consider
that, by paying liberally those who were honest-
ly and independently struggling for themselves,
she was really doing a greater charity than by
giving indiscriminately to a dozen applicants.
“Don't you think, mother, she says we
charge too high for this work!” said Ellen,
when she returned. “ I am sure she did not
know how much work we put in those shirts.
She says she cannot give us any more work;
she must look out for somebody that will do it
cheaper. I do not see how it is that people
who live in such houses, and have so many
beautiful things, can feel that they cannot afford
to
pay
for what costs us so much.”
Well, child, they are more apt to feel so
than people who live plainer.
“Well, I am sure,” said Ellen, “we cannot
afford to spend so much time, as we have over
these shirts, for less money.'
“Never mind, my dear,” said the mother,
soothingly; "here is a bundle of work that an-
other lady has sent in, and if we get it done
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2
a
308
THE SEMPSTRESS.
we shall have enough for our rent, and some.
thing over to buy bread with.”
It is needless to carry our readers over all
the process of cutting and fitting, and gather-
ing and stitching, necessary in making up six
fine shirts. Suffice it to say that on Saturday
evening all but one were finished, and Ellen
proceeded to carry them home, promising to
bring the remaining one on Tuesday morning.
The lady examined the work and gave Ellen the
money ; but on Tuesday, when the child came
with the remaining work, she found her in
great ill-humour. Upon re-examining the shirts,
she had discovered that in some important re.
spects they differed from directions she meant
to have given, and supposed she had given,
and, accordingly, she vented her displeasure on
Ellen.
“Why didn't you make these shirts as I told
you ?" said she, sharply.
“We did," said Ellen, mildly; “mother meas-
ured by the pattern every part, and cut them
herself.”
“ Your mother must be a fool, then, to make
such a piece of work. I wish you would just
take them back, and alter them over;" and the
lady proceeded with the directions, of which
neither Ellen nor her mother, till then, had had
any intimation. Unused to such language, the
THE SEMPSTRESS.
309
а
frightened Ellen took up her work and slowly
walked homeward.
“Oh dear, how my head does ache!” thought
she to herself ; "and poor mother, she said this
morning she was afraid another of her sick
turns was coming on, and we have all this work
to pull out and do over.”
“See here, mother!” said she, with a discon-
solate air, as she entered the room; “Mrs. Rudd
says, take out all the bosoms, and rip off all the
collars, and fix them quite another way. She
says they are not like the pattern she sent; but
she must have forgotten, for here it is. Look,
mother! it is exactly as we made them.”
“Well, my child, carry back the pattern, and
show her that it is so.”
Indeed, mother, she spoke so cross to me,
and looked at me so, that I do not feel as if I
could go back.”
" “I will go for you, then," said the kind Ma-
”
ria Stephens, who had been sitting with Mrs.
Ames while Ellen was out. " I will take the
patterns and shirts, and tell her the exact truth
about it: I am not afraid of her.” Maria Ste-
phens was a tailoress, who rented a room on the
same floor with Mrs. Amesma cheerful, reso-
lute, go-forward little body, and ready always to
give a helping hand to a neighbour in trouble.
310
THE SEMPSTRESS.
So she took the pattern and shirts, and set out
on her mission.
But poor Mrs. Ames, though she professed
to take a right view of the matter, and was very
earnest in showing Ellen why she ought not to
distress herself about it, still felt a shivering
sense of the hardness and unkindness of the
world coming over her. The bitter tears would
spring to her eyes, in spite of every effort to
suppress them, as she sat mournfully gazing on
the little faded miniature before mentioned.
“ When he was alive, I never knew what pover-
ty or trouble was," was the thought that often
passed through her mind; and how many a poor
forlorn one has thought the same!
Poor Mrs. Ames was confined to her bed for
most of that week. The doctor gave absolute
directions that she should do nothing, and keep
entirely quiet. A direction very sensible in-
deed in the chamber of ease and competence,
but hard to be observed in poverty and want.
What pains the kind and dutiful Ellen took
that week to make her mother feel easy. How
often she replied to her anxious questions that
she was quite well, or that her head did not
ache much ;" and by various other evasive ex-
pedients the child tried to persuade herself
that she was speaking the truth. And during
the times her mother slept, in the day or even-
THE SEMPSTRESS.
311
ing, she accomplished one or two pieces of plain
work, with the price of which she expected to
surprise her mother.
It was towards evening when Ellen took her
finished work to the elegant dwelling of Mrs.
Page. “I shall get a dollar for this,” said she ;
"enough to pay for mother's wine and med-
icine."
“ This work is done very neatly,” said Mrs.
Page, “and here is some more I should like to
have finished in the same way.”
Ellen looked up wistfully, hoping Mrs. Page
was going to pay her for the last work. But
Mrs. Page was only searching a drawer for a
pattern, which she put into Ellen's hands, and
after explaining how she wanted her work
done, dismissed her without saying a word
about the expected dollar.
Poor Ellen tried two or three times, as she
was going out, to turn around and ask for it, and
before she could decide what to say she found
herself in the street.
Mrs. Page was an amiable, kind-hearted wom-
an, but one who was so used to large sums
of
money,
that she did not realize how great
an affair a single dollar might seem to other
persons. For this reason, when Ellen had work.
ed incessantly at the new work put into her
hands, that she might get the money for ali to-
312
THE SEMPSTRESS.
gether, she again disappointed her in the
pay“
ment.
“I'll send the money round to-morrow,” said
she, when Ellen at last found courage to ask
for it. But to-morrow came, and Ellen was for
gotten; and it was not till after one or two ap-
plications more that the small sum was paid.
But these sketches are already long enough,
and let us hasten to close them. Mrs. Ames
found liberal friends, who could appreciate and
honour her integrity of principle and loveliness
of character, and by their assistance she was
raised to see more prosperous days; and she,
and the delicate Ellen, and warm-hearted Mary,
were enabled to have a home and fireside of
their own, and to enjoy something like the re-
turn of their former prosperity.
We have given these sketches, drawn from
real life, because we think there is, in general,
too little consideration on the part of those who
give employment to those in situations like the
widow here described. The giving of employ-
ment is a very important branch of charity, in-
asmuch as it assists that class of the
who
are the most deserving. It should be looked
on in this light, and the arrangements of a fam-
ily be so made that a suitable compensation can
be given, and prompt and cheerful payment be
poor
OLD FATHER MORRIS.
313
made, without the dread of transgressing the
rules of economy.
It is better to teach our daughters to do with.
out expensive ornaments or fashionable elegan-
ces; better even to deny ourselves the pleas-
ure of large donations or direct subscriptions
to public charities, rather than to curtail the
small stipend of her whose “candle goeth not
out by night," and who labours with her nee-
dle for herself and the helpless dear ones de-
pendant on her exertions.
OLD FATHER MORRIS.
A SKETCH FROM NATURE.
Of all the marvels that astonished
my
child-
hood, there is none I remember to this day with
so much interest as the old man whose name
forms my caption. When I knew him he was
an aged clergyman, settled over an obscure vil-
lage in New-England. He had enjoyed the ad-
vantages of a liberal education, had a strong
original power of thought, an omnipotent ima-
gination, and much general information; but
so early and so deeply had the habits and asso-
ciations of the plough, the farm, and country
life wrought themselves into his mind, that his
DD
314
OLD FATHER MORRIS.
after acquirements could only mingle with
them, forming an unexampled amalgam, like
unto nothing but itself.
He was an ingrain New-Englander, and what-
ever might have been the source of his infor-,
mation, it came out in Yankee form, with the
strong provinciality of Yankee dialect.
It is in vain to attempt to give a full picture
of such a genuine unique ; but some slight and
imperfect dashes may help the imagination to a
faint idea of what none can fully conceive but
those who have seen and heard old Father Mor-
ris.
Suppose yourself one of half a dozen chil-
dren, and
“ Father Morris is
coming !" You run to the window or door, and
you see a tall, bulky old man, with a pair of sad-
dle-bags on one arm, hitching his old horse with
a fumbling carefulness, and then deliberately
stumping towards the house. You notice his
tranquil, florid, full-moon face, enlightened by
a pair of great, round blue eyes, that roll with
dreamy inattentiveness on all the objects
around, and as he takes off his hat, you see the
white curling wig that sets off his round head.
He comes towards you, and as you stand sta-
ring with all the children around, he deliberate-
ly puts his great hand on your head, and with
deep, rumbling voice inquires,
you
hear the
cry,
FATHER MORRIS.
315
a
"How d'ye do, my darter? Is your daddy at
home?” “My darter" usually makes off as fast
as possible in an unconquerable giggle. Father
Morris
goes into the house, and we watch him
at every turn, as, with the most liberal simplici-
ty, he makes himself at home, takes off his wig,
wipes down his great face with a checked pock-
et-handkerchief, helps himself hither and thith-
er to whatever he wants, and asks for such
things as he cannot lay his hands on, with all
the comfortable easiness of childhood.
I remember to this day how we used to peep
through the crack of the door, or hold it half
ajar and peer in, to watch his motions; and
how mightily diverted we were with his deep,
slow manner of speaking, his heavy, cumbrous
walk, but, above all, with the wonderful faculty
of hemming which he possessed.
His deep, thundering, protracted a-hem-em
was like nothing else that ever I heard; and
when once, as he was in the midst of one of
these performances, the parlour door suddenly
happened to swing open, I heard one of my ro-
guish brothers calling, in a suppressed tone,
" Charles! Charles ! Father Morris has hemmed
the door open !" and then followed the signs of
a long and desperate titter, in which I sincere.
ly sympathized.
But the morrow is Sunday. The old man
316
OLD FATHER MORRIS.
9
rises in the pulpit. He is not now in his own
humble little parish, preaching simply to the
hoers of corn and planters of potatoes, but
there sits Governor D., and there is Judge R.,
and Counsellor P., and Judge G. In short, he
is before a refined and literary audience. But
Father Morris rises; he thinks nothing of this
-he cares nothing—he knows nothing, as he
himself would say, but “ Jesus Christ, and him
crucified." He takes a passage of Scripture to
explain ; perhaps it is the walk to Emmaus, and
the conversation of Jesus with his disciples.
Immediately the whole start out before you,
living and picturesque : the road to Emmaus is
a New England turnpike; you can see its mile-
stones—its mullen-stalks—its toll-gates. Next
the disciples rise, and you have before you all
their anguish, and hesitation, and dismay, talked
out to you in the language of your own fireside.
You smile--you are amused-yet you are touch-
ed, and the illusion grows every moment. You
see the approaching stranger, and the mysteri-
ous conversation grows more and more inter-
esting. Emmaus rises in the distance, in the
likeness of a New England village, with a white
meeting-house and spire. You follow the trav.
ellers—you enter the house with them ; nor do
you wake from your trance until, with stream-
ing eyes, the preacher tells you that “they saw
-
a
a
OLD FATHER MORRIS.
317
it was the Lord Jesus! and what a pity it was
they could not have known it before !"
It was after a sermon on this very chapter of
Scripture history that Governor Griswold, in
passing out of the house, laid hold on the sleeve
of his first acquaintance : “Pray tell me," said
he, “who is this minister ?"
“Why, it is old Father Morris."
“Well, he is an oddity-and a genius too! I
declare !” he continued, “I have been wonder-
ing all the morning how I could have read the
Bible to so little purpose as not to see all these
particulars he has presented."
I once heard him narrate in this picturesque
way the story of Lazarus. The great bustling
city of Jerusalem first rises to view, and you
are told, with great simplicity, how the Lord
Jesus “used to get tired of the noise ;” and
how he was “tired of preaching again and again
to people who would not mind a word he said;"
and how,“ when it came evening, he used to go
out and see his friends in Bethany.” Then he
told about the house of Martha and Mary : “a
little white house among the trees,” he said ;
“you could just see it from Jerusalem.” And
there the Lord Jesus and his disciples used to
go and sit in the evenings, with Martha, and
Mary, and Lazarus.
а
DD 2
318
OLD FATHER MORRIS.
a
Then the narrator went on to tell how Laza-
rus died, describing, with tears and a choking
voice, the distress they were in, and how they
sent a message to the Lord Jesus, and he did
not come, and how they wondered and wonder-
ed; and thus on he went, winding up the in-
terest by the graphic minutiæ of an eyewit-
ness, till he woke you from the dream by his
triumphant joy at the resurrection scene.
On another occasion, as he was sitting at a
tea-table unusually supplied with cakes and
sweetmeats, he found an opportunity to make a
practical allusion to the same family story. He
spoke of Mary as quiet and humble, sitting at
her Saviour's feet to hear his words; but Mar-
tha thought more of what was to be got for tea.
Martha could not find time to listen to Christ:
no; she was 666 cumbered with much serving'
-around the house, frying fritters and making
gingerbread."
Among his own simple people, his style of
Scripture painting was listened to with breath-
less interest. But it was particularly in those
rustic circles, called in New-England “Confer-
ence-meetings," that his whole warm soul un-
folded, and the Bible in his hands became a
gallery of New England paintings.
He particularly loved the Evangelists, follow-
ing the footsteps of Jesus Christ, dwelling upon
OLD FATHER MORRIS.
319
his words, repeating over and over again the
stories of what he did, with all the fond vener-
ation of an old and favoured servant.
Sometimes, too, he would give the narration
an exceedingly practical turn, as one example
will illustrate.
He had noticed a falling off in his little circle
that met for social prayer, and took occasion, the
first time he collected a tolerable audience, to
tell concerning “ the conference-meeting that
the disciples attended” after the resurrection.
“But Thomas was not with them." Thomas
not with them! said the old man, in
ful voice. “Why! what could keep Thomas
away? Perhaps," said he, glancing at some of
his backward auditors, “ Thomas had got cold-
hearted, and was afraid they would ask him to
make the first prayer; or perhaps,” said he,
looking at some of the farmers, “ Thomas was
afraid the roads were bad; or perhaps,” he add-
ed, after a pause, “ Thomas had got proud, and
thought he could not come in his old clothes.”
Thus he went on, significantly summing up the
common excuses of his people; and then, with
great simplicity and emotion, he added, “But
only think what Thomas lost! for in the mid-
dle of the meeting, the Lord Jesus came and
stood among
them! How
a sorrow-
sorry
Thomas must
320
OLD FATHER MORRIS.
have been!" This representation served to fili
the vacant seats for some time to come.
At another time Father Morris gave the de-
tails of the anointing of David to be king. He
told them how Samuel went to Bethlehem, to
Jesse's house, and went in with a “How d'ye
do, Jesse ?" and how, when Jesse asked him to
take a chair, he said he could not stay a minute ;
that the Lord had sent him to anoint one of his
sons for a king; and how, when Jesse called in
the tallest and handsomest, Samuel said “he
would not do ;" and how all the rest passed the
same test; and at last, how Samuel says, “Why,
have not you any more sons, Jesse ?" and Jesse
says, “Why, yes, there is little David down in
,
the lot;' and how, as soon as ever Samuel saw
David, “he slashed the oil right on to him ;” and
how Jesse said he never was so beat in all his
life!”
Father Morris sometimes used his illustrative
talent to very good purpose in the way of re-
buke. He had on his farm a fine orchard of
peaches, from which some of the ten and twelve-
year-old gentlemen helped themselves more lib-
erally than even the old man's kindness thought
expedient.
Accordingly, he took occasion to introduce
into his sermon one Sunday, in his little parish,
an account of a journey he took ; and how he
OLD FATHER MORRIS.
321
"
a
6
was very warm and very dry; and how he saw
a fine orchard of peaches that made his mouth
water to look at them. “So,” says he, “I came
up to the fence and looked all around, for I
would not have touched one of them without
leave for all the world. At last I spied a man,
and says I, “Mister, won't you give me some of
I
your peaches ??
So the man came and gave me
nigh about a hat full. And while I stood there
eating, I said, “Mister, how do you manage to
keep your peaches?' 'Keep them !' said he,
and he stared at' me ; 'what do you mean?'
"Yes, sir,' said I ; don't the boys steal them ??
*Boys steal them!' said he ; no, indeed!
Why, sir,' said I, 'I have a whole lot full of
peaches, and I cannot get half of them'”-here-
the old man's voice grew tremulous—" because
the boys in my parish steal them so.' Why,
sir,' said he, don't their parents teach them
not to steal ?' And I grew all over in a cold
sweat, and I told him ‘I was afeard they didn't.'
• Why, how
you
talk !
says
the man; do tell me
where you live? Then,” said Father Morris,
the tears running over, “I was obliged to tell
him I lived in the town of G.” After this Fa-
ther Morris kept his peaches.
Our old friend was not less original in the
logical than in the illustrative portions of his
6
6
6
322
OLD FATHER MORRIS.
discourses. His logic was of that familiar, col-
loquial kind, which shakes hands with common
sense like an old friend. Sometimes, too, his
great mind and great heart would be poured
out on the vast themes of religion, in language
which, though homely, produced all the effects
of the sublime. He once preached a discourse
on the text, “ the High and Holy One that in-
habiteth eternity ;' and from the beginning to
the end it was a train of lofty and solemn thought.
With his usual simple earnestness, and his great,
rolling voice, he told about “the Great God
the Great Jehovah-and how the people in this
world were flustering and worrying, and afraid
they should not get time to do this, and that,
and t'other." “But,” he added, with full heart-
ed satisfaction, “the Lord is never in a hurry;
he has it all to do, but he has time enough, for
he inhabiteth eternity.” And the grand idea
of infinite leisure and almighty resources was
carried through the sermon with equal strength
and simplicity.
Although the old man never seemed to be
sensible' of anything tending to the ludicrous
in his own mode of expressing himself, yet he
had considerable relish for humour, and some
shrewdness of repartee. One time, as he was
walking through a neighbouring parish, famous
OLD FATHER MORRIS.
323
for its profanity, he was stopped by a whole
flock of the youthful reprobates of the place:
« Father Morris! Father Morris! the devil's
dead !”
“ Is he ?" said the old man, benignly laying
his hand on the head of the nearest urchin,
"you poor fatherless children!"
But the sayings and doings of this good old
man, as reported in the legends of the neigh-
bourhood, are more than can be gathered or re-
ported. He lived far beyond the common age
of man, and continued, when age had impaired
his powers, to tell over and over again the same
Bible stories that he had told so often before,
I recollect hearing of the joy that almost
broke the old man's heart, when, after many
years' diligent watching and nurture of the
good seed in his parisk, it began to spring into
vegetation, sudden and beautiful as that which
answers the patient watching of the husband-
man. Many a hard, worldly-hearted man-
many a sleepy, inattentive hearer-many a list-
less, idle young person, began to give ear to
words that had long fallen unheeded. A neigh.
bouring minister, who had been sent for to see
and rejoice in these results, describes the scene,
when, on entering the little church, he found
an anxious, crowded auditory assembled around
324.
OLD FATHER MORRIS.
"
their venerable teacher, waiting for direction
and instruction. The old man was sitting in
his pulpit, almost choking with fulness of emo-
tion as he gazed around. “Father," said the
.
youthful minister, “I suppose you are ready to
say with old Simeon, Now, Lord, lettest thou
thy servant depart in peace,
for
my eyes
have
seen thy salvation.?” “Sartin, sartin,” said the
old man, while the tears streamed down his
cheeks, and his whole frame shook with emo-
tion.
It was not many years after that this simple
and loving servant of Christ was gathered in
peace unto him whom he loved. His name is
fast passing from remembrance, and in a few
years, his memory, like his humble grave, will
bè entirely grown ever and forgotten among
men, though it will be had in everlasting re-
membrance by Him who "forgetteth not his
servants," and in whose sight the death of his
saints is precious.
>
THE END.
A
.
.
3
THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
GRADUATE LIBRARY
DATE DUE
2004
KOST 11 1972
1984
JUN 1 8 1985
APR 5 1986

UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
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