UC-NRLF B 3 i^^ t^ao .-^^: .^*' ® :^y^y: ■.'•JV*" r^ .1^-- ^ :/ '^^/f kk? J » » ^» * » » • • » » » / *, ' • ^ • » '. ■» ' » '>' » » » » » , > » J » ' » > ' > > J i » > > so iLflTU (P il THE GIFT OF AFFECTION: \\ CHRISTMAS AND NEW-YEAR'S > » . > ) > I 1 > ••• • r- » <^ NEW YORK: PUBLISHED BY LEAVITT & ALLEN, G 5^ < t « , » « ♦ « », « . « < c a ft • ' . '• « * » * »• • 1 . • • • . • . CONTENTS Friendship, .... The Capucin, Grace Brown, . • • A Slight Comparison, . . Life's Last Flower, . . . The Village Amanuensis, . The Pawnee's Ransom, . To a Very Young House- wife, .... • • The Country Tavern, . . "WTiite Thome Farm, . . The Postman's Knock, The Welcome Back, . . The Dream, Forgive and Forget, . . Rich and Poor, . . Anticipation, Labor, The Brighton Coach, . . The Stolen Piece of Linen, Serenade, The Change, Anonymous, . . Mrs Romer, . Mrs. D. Clarke^ . B. Bernal, . . 3Iiss Savage, . 31. R. Mitford, Georgina C. Munro, Bernard Barton, . James T. Fields, . Agnes Strickland, Miss Power, . . Eliza Cook, . . Alex. Baljjur, Esq., Page 11 12 25 , 35 . 36 . 37 52 . 81 . 83 85 . 11 . 137 . 138 3Iartin F. Tupper, Esq., 139 Anonymous, . . Mrs. Embury, John Patch, Esq , Tlieodore Hook, . S.A., .... C. P. Houseman, Anonymous, . . 141 17 172 174 203 22S» 223 mG 4 ,Q mi CONTENTS. The Station, an Irish Sketch, The Guitar, The Rustic Toilet, . . . The Farewell, .... The Widow's Daughter, . The Silent Toast, . . . The Dead Watch, . . . Georgiana, The Widow of Antwerp, . A Winter Thought, . . . Thomas Keightkj/, Esq., 224 John Patch, Esq., . . 242 31. R. Mitford, . . .244 L. E. London, . . . 267 Eliza Walker, . . .270 Alaric A. Watts, . . 286 Elizabeth Youatt, . . 287 3Irs. C. W. Hunt, . . 310 Selected, 316 Mrs. Ahdy, , . .323 ) > J > , ^ :, ' ■ J , ' ■> J 1 ' THE GIFT. FRIENDSHIP. Friendship, thou gem of the sea, for there Echoeth thy gladness as everywhere ! Thou art not dependent on place or time, But free forever in every clime : Let the billows rage in their loftiest pride, — Say, shall their waves thee from thine divide ? Let the dreary calm spread her gloom around, The vessel is stopped ; but is friendship bound ? Oh ! wingeth it rather its ceaseless flight To the scenes of day from the clouds of night, Or pauseth a while o'er some valued friend, Whose hope knows no sleeping, whose love no end ; But yet, though given to wander far. And welcome on earth as the morning star, Thou wilt sometimes hide from the world's cold gaze, Which will not be warmed by thy gentle rays : For thou, like the pearl of the sea, a while Veiling the joyfulness of thy smile. In the innermost shrine of the heart dost lie, Deep in the depths of her secrecy ! < t « t! « < « ••• • I • • • • • • • • • « THE CAPUCIN BY MRS. ROMER. 'What is he whose grief bears such an emphasis V* Haulet. Religious processions, which had been alto- gether suppressed in France at the first revolu- tion, and had been reestablished at the restora- tion of the Bourbons, have again nearly disap- peared. The Corpus Domini, or Fete Dieu, which was observed with such pomp and splen- dor in Paris during the reigns of Louis the Eighteenth and Charles the Tenth, and which the royal family attended in the most unbounded spirit of devotion, is never now heard of in the capital, and if at all observed in France, it is only in some of the remote southern provinces, where the priesthood still hold considerable sway over the minds and hearts of the people. Not so in Italy. Never for a moment has the poetry of religion lost its empire over the imagi- nations of the Italians; and even where its sacred precepts do not reach the heart or influ- ence the actions, its outward ceremonies are THE CAPUCIN. 13 scrupulously observed. Thus the most reckless and rapacious bandit will prostrate himself at the sound of the Angelus, and with sanctified fer^'or kneel down should a procession bearing the via- ticum to some departing spirit cross his path, even though that path is leading him to plunder and violence — the hand with which he had crossed himself with pious devotion would in the next moment, without scruple, resume its merci- less hold of the assassin's dagger. On my way from Rome to Venice, in the year IS — , I arrived at Ravenna on the day of the Fete Dieu, and. although my only m.otive for haltino- there had been to visit Dante's tomb, and the " haunted wood," which was the theatre of Drj^den's spectral hunt, I was mduced to join the throng in the streets in order to witness the fun- zione, which is there enacted with a magnifi- cence that characterizes all sacred ceremonies throughout the papal dominions. Military pomp lends its aid to heighten the effect of religious enthusiasm; the streets are lined with troops, and as the procession passes through them, the soldiers kneel down and present arms. It must be owned that the soldiers of the pope are not remarkable for their military appearance ; but at the period to which I allude, the legations were occupied by Austrian troops, and the martial aspect of the Hungarian grenadiers, who look aa 2 14 THE CAPUCIN. if they had come into the world ready drilled and accoutred, made up for the deficiencies of his holiness' armed force. The cardinal legate, the archbishop of Ravenna, and innumerable monsi- gnori, prelati, and ecclesiastics of all grades, walked bareheaded in the procession, which, commencing at the domo or cathedral, wound through all the principal streets, and after about three hours' circuit, again returned to the metro- politan church, having in its passage made pauses at the various 7'eposoirs, or temporary altars, which had been set up in prominent parts of the different parishes, in order to receive the homage of the parochial clergy, who there joined the pro- cession, and proceeded with it to the cathedral. I had taken up my position under the portico of one of those vast palaces with which Ravenna abounds, and whose splendors recall its ancient importance, and contrast so forcibly with its pres- ent decayed and deserted appearance. The spot where I stood was immediately oppo- site to one of the altars, where a temporary halt was made, so that I was enabled to see the cere- mony in all its details, and to notice the remark- able individuals and various confraternities of which it was composed. Amongst the almost mterminable line of mendicant friars, who walked two and two, their arms crossed and their heads sunk upon their bosom, my attention was sud* THE CAPUCIN. 15 denly arrested by one among them, who, altliougri wearing the coarse brown habit of his order, the sandals and the simple cord for a girdle, differed as completely from the rest of his brethren in air and appearance, as though he had been dressed in the garb of fashion. Unlike the slouching figures and unwashed faces among which he mmgled, his form was tall and erect, his counte- nance of a noble and delicate caste of beauty, and his hands of that aristocratical form and color, which are one of the few unerring eviden- ces of gentle blood. In short, there was a dis tinction in his whole person and air in strange discordance with the Capucin habit worn by him .—a habit which is invariably the badge of all that is most squalid and unclean, and (if such an expression may be applied) most plebeian among religious confraternities. The palace under the portico of which I had placed myself, differed from every other mansion in that street, inasmuch as that its windows were closed, and that none of those gawdy draperies, which on similar occasions are usually displayed even in the humblest habitations, were suspended from its deserted balconies. When th-e young Capaucin paused before the altar opposite to it, he cast a furtive glance towards the desolate pile, and the livid hue that suddenly overspread his countenance betrayed the fierce internal emotion i6 THE CAPUCIN. which its aspect had called forth. At the samfc moment a voice, proceeding from behind me, struck me by the melancholy interest with which it pronounced the words, " Povero Damaso!" and on turning round I observed that the speak- er's eyes were fixed upon the young friar who had so forcibly arrested my own attention. Ad- dressing a lady who was leaning on his arm, he continued — "Alas! what a melancholy contrast does his situation now exhibit to that in which we beheld him last year at this ceremony, when, in all the pride of youth and birth and station, he stood in that balcony by the side of the object of his love, in the security of privileged and requi- ted affection ! Who could have foreseen before a year expired he would have exchanged the palace of his noble ancestors for a Capucin'? cell ? " I felt so convinced that the foregoing word? referred to the identical person upon whom my own attention was fixed, that I could not repress* an impulse of curiosity, which induced me to inquire of the young man who had uttered them- whether the melancholy-looking Capucin was the subject of his observations, and whether his hav- mg assumed the monastic habit was the result of any misfortune. He replied that my conjectures were right, and that the history of the Capucin involved a calum' THE CAPUCIN. 17 ity that was known to all Ravenna, but which could possess but little interest for those who were strangers to the persons most painfully con- nected with it. " I think you said his name was Damaso ? " I observed, in the hope that I might imperceptibly lead him on to a recital which -had considerably stimulated my curiosity. " Yes, the Marquis Damaso P , one of the noblest and richest individuals in Ravenna, now Fra Damaso, of the poorest order of mendicant friars." " What could have determined so extraordi- nary a vocation ? " I inquired. " Love and jealousy," he answered. " Have you noticed the palace before which we are standing, with its closed windows and deserted balconies? It is the paternal mansion of the Contessina Olimpia M , one of the most charming persons in Ravenna, beautiful enough to be remarked wherever she went, and yet gen- tle and unpretending, as though unconscious of her superiority over all others. Often have I paused to observe her standing in that balcony, in the midst of the flowers that filled it, herself the fairest flower of all; and but a few days before the catastrophe, which I am about to relate, I saw her there with the Marquis Da- maso, then the gayest of the gay, the happiest of 2=^ 18 THE CAPUCIN. the happy, for he was at the summit of his hopes and wishes, he was the betrothed lover of the beautiful Contessina Olimpia. " Damaso's love was like that of a madman, for although certain of his passion being returned, he was jealous of all who looked upon Olimpia, and would even have wished that every one but himself could have been blind to her perfections. He feared a rival in every casual acquaintance that approached her, and his distrust occasion- ally assumed so violent a character that Count M , fearing that his daughter's happiness would be compromised by this infirmity of dispo- sition, hesitated to give his consent to the mar- riage. The young lady herself, however, only laughed at the jealous fancies of her lover, and, instead of being offended by them, looked upon them as evidences of his all-engrossing passion, nor appeared to apprehend that the susceptibility which was to a certain degree gratifying in the lover, would become intolerable in the husband. " It appears that Damaso having one day ab- sented himself from Ravenna to go to a villa at some leagues distance, returned late in the even- ing, but not too late to repair to the palazzo M . As he approached it from the opposite street, he beheld his betrothed advance to the window, pluck one of the roses that clustered around it, and after gazing forth for a moment, THE CAPUCm. 19 retreat. Quickening his steps, he reached the window she had just left, and saw her seated on the sofa of her boudoir, while a young man, who occupied a place by her side, familiarly held both her hands clasped in one of his, while the other held the flower she had so lately gathered. " At this sight Damaso stood transfixed to the spot, as though he had been changed into a statue of stone, his eyes fascinated towards the fatal window. The young lady rose, spoke with great animation for a few moments to the young man, then embraced him tenderly, and disap- peared. In a" few seconds the lamps of the boudoir were extinguished, and almost in the same instant Damaso saw the young man, who had been the companion of Olimpia, and the object of her endearments, issue from the gate of the palazzo, pass before him, and turn round the corner into the next street. The Marquis Da- maso, who had hitherto been paralyzed by emo tion, suddenly recovered his powers of volition, and rushing, like a maniac, after the unknown, he speedily overtook him. " ' Stop ! ' he cried, grasping him by the collar. " The young man immediately paused. " ' Wretch ! ' continued Damaso, ' defend your- self ! ' and carried away by the vehemence of his passion he shook him violently. " The youth, astonished at this unforeseen 20 • THE CAPUCIN. attack, started back, and drawing from his bosom a knife which he carried there, called upon Da- maso to unhand him, or that he would not be answerable for the consequences. But Damaso's only answer was a renewed attack, in which he contrived to make himself master of the weapon, and in the struggle that ensued for its recovery, its ill-fated owner received a wound which stretched him lifeless at the feet of Damaso. " The murderer, suddenly recalled to his senses by the fatal termination of the affray, stooped down, and laying his hand upon the heart of his victim, ascertained that its pulsations had ceased forever ; but at that moment the sound of approaching footsteps warned him to think of his own safety, and hastily rising he fled from the scene. " Scarcely had he proceeded two hundred paces ere he began to reflect coolly upon all that had happened. He did not regret the deed, for it was a rival — a beloved rival — whom he had destroyed ; but he felt assured that on the mor- row all Ravenna would be ringing with the event, and he felt the necessity of averting suspicion from himself. As it was known that he had left the city early in the morning to proceed to his country-house, he repaired immediately to his palace, and desiring his servant who admitted him not to mention to any person his momentary THE CAPUCIN. 2] return to Ravenna, he caused his fleetest horse to be saddled, and immediately retraced his steps to the Villa, where he remained three days, which, to his disturbed and anxious mind, ap- peared three mortal ages. " AVTien the Marquis Damaso felt that he was sufficiently master of himself to allow no traces to appear in his countenance of that which was passing within his mind, he ventured to Ravenna, and determined, notwithstanding the terrible emotion that must assail him, to go to the house of Count M , as though nothing had hap- pened. It was- a trial which required all his courage to encounter, for how could he find him- self in the presence of Olimpia without betraying the indignation with which her supposed perfidy had filled him ? He nerved himself for the meet- ing, however, and repaired to the Palazzo M " Damaso found the whole household in con- sternation, tears were in every eye, grief im- printed upon every countenance, but he was too much absorbed in his own emotions to inquire the reason ; and hurrying up the staircase, en- tered the private apartment of the Count. There he found the father and daughter seated together, clad in the deepest mourning ; an expression of profound sorrow had overcast their countenances, and traces of tears were still wet upon their cheeks. Damaso stopped upon ths threshold. 22 THE CAPUCIN. unnerved by the picture of woe that met his eyes, and a dreadful presentiment caused the blood to freeze in his veins. The mourners were too deeply absorbed in their grief to be aware of his approach, and for the moment he dared neither to advance nor to speak, such was the mysterious dread that assailed him ; at last, unable to endure a further suspense, he uttered in tremblinof accents — 'In the name of Heaven what has happened ? ' " At the sound of his voice, Olimpia, without changing her position, burst into an agony of tears. The Count alone raised his head, and, in a voice broken by emotion, said — ' Damaso, the ways of God are inscrutable, but most cruel sometimes, and hard to bear.' " Damaso scarcely breathed, while the old gen- tleman, beckoning him to seat himself by his side, continued — ' You are aware, my dear friend, that I have been separated from my son for the last four years ; I have too often spoken to you of the unhappy difference of opinion that existed between us, and which had induced him to leave home and become a traveller in foreign countries. My poor son ! suddenly, and without having apprized us, he arrived here three days ago — the very day on which you went into the country; weary of living amongst strangers he came to «;9ek a reconciliation with me, and THE CAPUCIN. 23 to fix himself once more in his native city, and that very night, as he left my house, he was murdered in the street ! My son, my dear son, fell by the hand of an unknown assassin ! ' and the unfortunate father, overcome by the dreadful words he had uttered, hid his face in his hands and sobbed aloud. " You can, perhaps, imagine what passed in. the head and heart of Damaso after this revela- tion had been made to him, but words would be inadequate to express the desolation and despair that assailed him, for, notwithstanding the vio- lence of his character, he possessed a noble and generous soul. " ' Your son,' he exclaimed, ' your son — mur- aered— three days ago. Oh God! oh God!' and, with hands wildly clasped together, he sank to the ground upon his knees. " The count stretched out his hand to him, for, little suspecting the part which Damaso had taken in the dreadful tragedy, he felt grateful to him for the sympathy he evinced in his sorrow. But the unhappy Damaso dared not touch the hand that was tendered to him ; and rising, with- out venturing to turn his ej^es towards Olimpia or her father, he rushed trom the room, noi stopped until he reached his own dwelling, where he shut himself up and forbade any of his house- hold to approach him. 24 THE CAPUCIN. " The next day Count M received a letter containing these words : " * We have met for the last time, nor will this announcement astonish you when you hear that my fatal jealousy has caused all your anguish and all your despair ; that I, the guilty and mis- taken Damaso, am the murderer of your son. Death, which ends all sufferings, would be too great a boon for so very a wretch as I have become. I shall live to expiate in tears and remorse the crime into which I was hurried by my blind, ungovernable passions. May God pity and pardon the wretched Damaso P .' " On the same day he entered a convent of mendicant friars, and, during the year of his no- viciate, which has just expired, he has never been seen beyond its walls. Some of his friends have endeavored to obtain an interview with him, but without success ; his days are spent in the most rigid observances of his religious duties, and his nights in acts of the severest penance. " This is the first time he has been seen since the horrible event which has caused his seclusion from the world, and so much is he changed by all that he has suffered, that I had at first some difficulty in recognizing him." "And Count M ■," I inquired, "and the Contessina Olimpia?" " They quitted Ravenna at the period of the fatal discovery, and have never since returned home." 25 GRACE BROWN. A SKETCH FOR MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS. BY MRS. D. CLARKE Grace Brown was the pet of the village — pretty, lively, and, like all other pets, very self- willed ; but the effects of this latter quality were softened down and rendered quite loveable by her open, generous disposition, which would not al- low her to injure another, even to gratify that ruling passion. Some said that Grace thought herself sufficiently handsome, and termed it vanity. True, perhaps, when each Sabbath morning found her ready decked for the sunny walk to the parish church on the hill-side, or the week day's evening saw her in her little chamber window plying her needle— yes, perhaps then, as she caught a side-long glance at herself in the little mirror, she might think it no such great wonder that the young men gazed as they passed her, or that they looked so curiously at the bow- pots and flowering geraniums perched on the sill of her casement— perhaps, too, she might think they cast a glance beyond. But was this vanity? No ; Grace was as free of that hateful quality as 3 26 GRACE BROWN. the bird which carolled so joyously in his brighi cage on the cottage wall. Vanity cannot be just y attributed to those who are only conscious of pos- sessing the qualities which are theirs in reality, but to those alone who boast to themselves of per- fections which they can never hope to possess. Such was the case with those who termed Grace vain. One fine autumn evemng she sat, as usual, be- side her geraniums, over which was hung her little bird Pet ; but the leaves of the former hung droopingly, as though to ask of their sweet mis- tress the usual drop of spring water, and poor Pet chirruped and hopped from perch to perch, and ruffled his yellow feathers to attract her at- tention, but in vain. No cooling drop greeted the sickly leaf — no tiny fingers placed a bit of sugar between Pet's cage wires. And how was this ? Was Grace ill? No; but her thoughts were wandering, and although her eyes were fixed full on poor Pet and his companion plants, she neither saw one nor the other. And whither were her thoughts Avandering? Only into a neighboring lane, up which she strolled when the sun was beginning to dip his bright head beneath the bhie tops of the neighboring hill. It was a very plea- sant lane, but as its sides were bounded by high hawthorn and wild rose-bushes, it may be sup- posed Grace did not go there for the sake of any i-njiBJS (^t^cl'C^^. GRACE BROWN. 27 beautiful prospect, for her whole height was not more than the top of the banks on which the bushes grew. For what, then, could it be ? In truth it was that there generally accompanied lier thither a very pleasant companion — not her mo- ther— not one of the neighbors' daughters. No : but a young man, the son of a farmer not far distant. Yes, the truth may as well be told. Grace had given, or thought she had given, her little heart to this companion of her strolls ; and, in- deed, any one, to look on him, might imagine a better choice could hot be made. Tall, handsome, and athletic he was, and his eye beamed when he looked on her. But they who knew him better than Grace, said that he was wild and fickle. Neither did they scruple to warn her of that knowledge. But Grace would not believe. How could she, when she saw that, although they spoke against him, they were always ready to welcome him to their own homes ? Besides, there was an eloquence far more powerful to the heart and understanding of Grace— more elo- quent, more easily believed than aught they could utter. Yes, tiie eye and tongue of William Clivcly were the monitors most eagerly sought, and most willingly listened to when found. How could she think he was deceiving her ? There W9S UP f?lsehood in his deep gaze on her — no 28 GRACE BROWP(r. harshness in his soft voice. But there was one who did not like him, to whom Grace had ever yet heen accustomed to pay the most profound submission, because that humility had never been forced, but ever won from her by love. That beins: was her mother ! She had now been sitting in this deep reverie some ten minutes, from which she was roused by a licfht hand beinof laid on her shoulder. The blood mounted to her temples and cheek, for she knew, v/ithout raising her eyes, that it was her mother, and she felt conscious that that mother's eye was reading her innermost heart. She also knew that she had nought to fear, for though at this moment her little heart had been rebelling, her parent's chiding was ever one of gentleness. " Grace, love," spoke the mother, gently plac- ing her hand on the half downcast head, " why do you not go forth this evening? See, the sun has almost lost his last bit of crimson in the deep gre^. Come, love; you have been sewing all day. Just throw your scarf around you and walk in our garden." " I would rather not, mamma," answered Grace in a low tone, turning her head still more from her parent, and then, for the first time, casting her eyes on the drooping plants and now Bulky little Pet. But she quickly addea, " I wil GRACE BROWN. 29 water my trees and chirrup to Pet a little, for he seems quite to have the mopes." " And how comes it that he has the mopes, love ? " again spoke her mamma. " Ah ! I see, mamma," returned the now half- tearful, half-smiling maiden ; " I see you have been reading my heart, and that it is useless to keep anything from you. But though j^ou have seen part that was passing there, you cannot tell all ! " " But I can guess, Grace ; and that, perchance, will do as well. I doubt not you thought me very cruel — very inconsiderate in not allowing you to have quite your own way ; and I doubt not that yoir thought I knew very little about it ; but sit do"wn, love, and I will tell you a little pas- sage in my own life, and after that 1 shall leave you to judge for yourself, only first assuring you that I have every proof that William Clively is very wild, and his father quite unable to support him in his present extravagance. See here, love, I have brought my knitting ; so take up your work from the window sill, and thus, while we are quite industrious, I will proceed to tell you that my sketch commences when I was about a twelvemonth older than you are now\ At that time, Grace, I was circumstanced, too, somewhat as you are. You understand me love ? " Grace blushed and smiled. " I had a rebellious heart. 3# 30 GRACE BROWN. too ; and there was one for whom it was rebels lious — one whom it had set up as the idol of its idolatry, and one whom, unfortunately, neither of my parents approved. But yet, Grace, I own that I thought my knowledge of his habits far exceeded theirs ; and all I knev/ of him was fair and open. Things continued thus for above eighteen months, at the end of which time my eyes were fearfully opened to his vices — he com- mitted a forgery and absconded; though it is probable, had he staid, no injury would have awaited him, for his friends, who were wealthy and powerful, made up the sum for which he had risked so much, and paid it. Grace, it was some time, even then, before I could perfectly win my heart from its idolatry ; but it had seen its error, and my mind was made up to overcome such perversity, and I did. Yes, Grace ; I knew what it was to feel cherished affections warring against my own convictions of right. You will perhaps say that he had deserted me, and it might be that pride rose superior to neglect and slight ; but not so. He did not desert me — he did not slight me ; for though all others were ignorant of his destination, I knew whither he had fled, and from thence received a letter full of affection and repentance for past follies. But, Grace, had I forgiven, or rather overlooked his vice, (for I did forgive,) I never could have placed confidence in GRACE BROWN. 31 him again ; sol wrote him once, but that once was to discard him forever. From that time I busied myself in work, in tending my garden, in assisting my neighbors, and, indeed, in various ways of which I had not thought before. I saw that people approved my conduct, too ; every eye greeted me, every tongue welcomed me in joy- ous tones ; and in time my own heart grew joy- ous, and felt a lightness it had never known till then, even in its wildest moments of affection for the now unworthy. But I did not know the ful- ness of the happiness I was to reap from that one era of my life till five years had elapsed. Dur- ing that period, love, your dear father had wooed me, and knowing from all that he was beloved and respected, he won me, although not a fiftieth part so handsome or engaging in his manner as he of whom I have been speaking. But he soon taught me to love him — I do not mean with the girlish wildness I had loved before — but with an affection which might last through sorrow, sick- ness, death ! as it has done, dear Grace ! " The tears started to the sweet eyes of Grace, and fell thickly upon the little border on which she was so busily plying her needle, as the thought of her fond father passed across her heart, and smote it for its rebellion against her will to whose care he had so solemnly entrusted 32 GRACE BROWN. her on his death-bed. The mother was also silent for a few moments. " Well, love," she at length resumed, " you were but a few months old when, one day, I was sitting with you in a small arbor in the o-arden of the dwelling where we then resided. On a sudden I heard the latch of the garden gate raised, and a poor emaciated looking man toiled up the sunny walk. He appeared in the last stage of wretchedness, and sickness seemed to add its heavy load of miser}?- where there already appeared to be an accumulation of ills. I rose with an intention of inquiring into his condition, and relieving him as far as my means would permit ; and, taking you in my arms, I stood be- fore him. But, Grace, I suppose that time had not so changed me as it had done him, for he instantly ejaculated my maiden name ! Yes, love, you may well drop your work and raise your eyes. It v/as indeed he whom I had ioved, and persisted in loving, in opposition to my parents' judgment. At that moment your father appeared at the door, and when I looked on you and him, contrasted with the wretched mass of filth that shrunk before me, my heart leaped with gratitude to God for teaching- me to subdue my own evil passions. Your father had known, be- fore our marriage, all the circumstances concern- ing him and myself, so that a few words made GRACE BROWN. 33 known *o > im the cause of the surprise pictured m both ouf countenances ; and to make me love and rer^rence him still more, that good man relieved his present wants and f rovided for his future ones. Yes, Grace, your father fed, clothed, snd lodged that repentant creature in a neighbor- 'oo- cottasre till he recovered health and strength —nay, more, he concealed his name from all inquiring ears, and not an eye which had once known could now recognize George May ! " " George May, mother ? " "Yes, love; George May! The same who used to pay us the yearly visit from London, to evince his gratitude for your father's kindness. The same who died in our village of decline seven years after, leaving you the Bible and Prayer-book as the only legacy which could be bestowed by poor, but repentant George May! But now, dear, it is growing quite dark, I vWll go and see our evening meal prepared, and when we have taken that, pray to your Maker, and then retire to your pillow." And so Grace did; and the next morning, when she entered the breakfast- room, she threw her arms around her mother's neck, and whispered that she had gained the victory ; she, too, would try if her mind might not overcome the erring inclinations of her heart. Yes, and Grace succeeded ; and twenty years after, when she saw a daughter of her own grow- 34 GRACE BROWN. Ing up, she remembered how mildly her own mother had won her from her folly ; and she felt that, to be obeyed by that daughter, she must remember that herseli' had once been a wild and wilful being, and that it is only by placing our own hearts in the situation of others, that we can hope to influence them by our precepts. 35 A SLIGHT COMPARISON BY R. BERXAL. A lover's days are quickly past In sighing and entreating ; A husband's years don't run so fast While from his vows retreating. A lover's oath the impre.^^ wears Of soft and kind affeciion ; The stronn^er oath a husband swears Is more of rude complexion. [n courtship, hearts forever scout The notion of deceiving ! In marriage, minds begin to doubt The prudence of believing. Attentions which a lover pays Are always new and pleasing ; But those the married man displays Are mostly stale and teasing. Change as they will, the maid — the wife, May each secure in reason, Within the almanac of life, A spring and winter season. I '11 pause, dear girls — lest I should find That one of you might falter, Who had but half made up her mind To kneel at Hymen's altar 36 LIFE'S LAST FLOWER. BT MISS SAVAaE. A. TANGLED, thomy path I trod alone, Where flowers were few, and sunshine rarely shone. I watched amid the untrimmed garden spring One little rose, a fair, a blooming thing. I loved it! — as the blind man loves to hear The lark's sweet song, whose fearless wing draws near Unto his well-known hand, and memory seems Stealing upon my soul, as moonlight gleams Upon the deep, dark waters — but to show Rocks, though the buried pearl may sleep below Low lies the stem where once the blossom hung Hushed is the strain the sky-born minstrel sung The blind man's bird hath fled to brighter skies The flower I loved blooms now in Paradise ! 37 THE VILLAGE AMANUENSIS. BY M. R. MITFORD. " Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid." Pops Tap ! went a modest, timid, shy-sounding knock against the okl-fashioned oaken door of William Marshall's domicile, in the brief twilight of a September evenmg— the hour of all others in which a pretty young woman might, with the least risk of observation, pay a visit to a hand- some bachelor— the best hour to shield her from the attacks of village gossipry, or to cover her ovm confusion, should her errand be such as to challenge something like a jest on the part of her host. Tap! tap! again went the slender forefinger; but although tie reiterated summons was a thought louder than the first nearly audible de- mand for admittance, it was equally unsuccessful in arousing the attention of the master of the dwelling. . For this abstraction there was a reason whicH the young and tender-hearted will admit to be 4 38 THE VILLAGE AMANUENSIS. valid: the poor youth was in love, and to enhance that calamity he had quarrelled with the mistress of his affections. William Marshall, at the time of which I write, schoolmaster of Aberleigh, the only son of one of the poorest widows in the parish, was a person of great merit. Some quickness and much in- dustry had given him a degree of information and refinement unusual in his station, and his excellent conduct and character had secured the friends whom his talents had attracted. In short he was one of those instances — more frequent than the grumblers of the world are willing to admit — which prove that even in this life desert is pretty certain to meet its reward. The ancient pedagogue of the village, a man of some learning, who availed himself of the large and airy schoolhouse to add boarders, who aspired to the accomplishments of mathematics and the classics, to the sturdy country lads, whom, by the will of the founder, he was bound to instruct in reading and writing, declared that this his darling scholar caught up, untaught and unflogged, all that he painfully endeavored to instil, by book and birch, into the fortunate pupils whose fathers were rich enough to pay for teach- ing and whipping; and he followed up this declaration not only by installing him. at the early age of seventeen, into the post of his assist* THE VILLAGE AMANUENSIS. 39 ant, but by recommending him so warmly tc the trustees as his successor, that at his death, which occurred about six years after, William Marshall, in spite of his youth, was unanimously elected to fill the place of his old master, and took possession of the pretty house upon School Green, with its two noble elms in front, as well as the large gar- den, orchard and meadow, which the brook, after crossing the green, and being in turn crossed by the road and the old ivied bridge, went cranking round so merrily, clear, bright, and rapid as ever rolled rivulet. Now this, besides its pleasantness as a resi- dence, formed a position whirh, considering the difference of the age and times, might be reck- oned, for our modest scholar, full as good as the magnificent proffer of the green gown, cow's grass, and four merks a-year, made by the good Abbot Boniface to Halbert Glendinning,=^ and by the said Halbert Glendinning, to the unspeakable astonishment and scandal of the assistants, uncer- emoniously rejected; since, in addition to the stipend paid regularly as quarter-day came round, and the prospect of as many boarders as the house would hold, was the probable contingency of the tax-gathering and rate-collecting, the tim- ber-valuing and land measuring, which usually * Vide " The Monastery, » 40 THE VILLAGE AMANUENSIS. falls to the share of the schoolmaster, together with the reversion of the office of parish clerk, provided always, that for a " master of schol- lars,"* who taught Latin and Greek and took boarders, such office were not held i7ifra dig. William Marshall's humble wishes were grati- fied. He was a happy man ; for, in addition to the comfort of having a respectable home for the infirm mother to whom he had always been a most exemplary son, he had the gratification (so at least said the gossips of Aberleigh) of prepar- ing a suitable abode for one of the best and pret- tiest of our villao^e maidens. Ever since the days of Pyramus and Thisbe proximity has been known for the friend of love ; and such was probably the case in the present instance, since Lucy Wilmot, the object of Wil- liam Marshall's passion, was his next neighbor, the brook of which we have made honorable mention being the sole barrier by which her father's meadows were divided from the garden and orchard of the school. A more beautiful boundary was never seen than that clear babbling stream, which went wandering in and out, at " its own sweet will," with such infinite variety of margin : now fringed with alders, now tufted with hawthorn and hazel, ♦ " A scholar, sir ! I was a master of scholars." — Ldngo, in the Agreeable Surprise. THE VILLAGE AMANUENSIS. 4^ now rising into a steep bank cro\vned with t. giant oak, flinging its broad arms across the waters, the reflection of its rich indented foliage broken by the frequent dropping of a smooth acorn from its dimpled cup ; now sloping gently down into a verdant bay enameled with flowers cf all hues, the intensely blue forget-me-not half- hidden under the light yellow clusters of the cross-leaved bedstraw, while the purple spikes of the willow-herb waved amidst the golden chali- ces of the loosestrife, and large patches of the feathery meadow-sweet, the heliotrope of the fields, spread its almond-like fragrance and its pale and feathery beauty to the very centre of the stream, overhanging the sno\V}^ blossoms of the water-lily as they rose from their deep-green leaves, and mingling with that most remarkable of the many sedges that border our English streams, whose flowers, placed so regularly on either side of their tall stalks, resemble balls of ebony thickly set with ivory spikes. Certainly, of all possible methods of dividing or uniting per- sons and property, this bright and cheerful stream seemed the most propitious to social intercourse, as William and Lucy found by experience. The green in front of the school-house formed a commodious natural playground for the chil- dren, sufficiently near for safety, and yet wide enough for all their sports, the noble game of 4# 4S THE VILLAGE AMANUENSIS. rricket. included: so that those sharp little eyes wliich love so dearly to pry into the weaknesses of their elders, especially when those elders assume the double relation of example and pre- ceptor, were, during the intervals of tuition, hap- pily engaged elsewhe-e ; and really nobody, ex- cept perhaps a lover, would believe how attentive William Marshall became to the cow which was tethered in the orchard, how punctual in culling himself all the fruit and vegetables needed from the garden, how assiduous, above all, in watering his mother's Httle flower-plot sloping down to the stream ; whilst on her part it was at least equally remarkable how often Lucy Wilmot found cause to fill her pail at the brook, or to feed the ducks, geese, chickens, and turkeys, which she had dis- lodjred from their old home, the farm-yard, to establish by the water-side. Never were poultry so zealously looked after. It happened to be a dry oummer ; and it stands upon record at the Brook Farm that Lucy volunteered to fetch all the water wanted for domestic use by the whole family. " To be sure," as their sisters would laughingly observe, " they had sometimes to wait for it, especially if it were towards dinner-time, or before breakfast, or after school broke up. ' And then Lucy would blush, and declare that she tvould never go near the place again ; and then, by way of keeping her word, she would take up THE VILLAGE AMANUENSIS. 43 her little basket of barley, and run across the meadow to feed her chickens. Halcyon days were these. What a charm- ing spot for a rural flirtation was that mirror-like stream! What tender words floated across it! AVhat smiles and blushes looked brighdy down into the bright waters ! And of how many of .he small gifts, the graceful homages in which love delights, was that clear brook the witness ! From the earliest violet to the latest rose, from the first blushing cherry to the Katherine pear, rich and ruddy as Lucy's own round healthful cheek, not an oflTering escaped the assiduity of the devoted lover. Halcyon days were these to our friend William, when an affliction befell him in the very scene of his happiness — a shadow fell across the sunshine of his love, so hidious and gloomy as to darken his whole future pros- pects, to sadden and embitter his very life. Like many other swift and sudden poisons, nothing could be more innocent in appearance than this implement of mischief, which wore the quiet and unoffending form of an unopened letter. Hovering one day by the side of the stream, waiting with a basket of -'filberts, "brown as the squirrel whose teeth crack them," as Fletcher ha^ it— filberts firm, juicy and fragrant, the first of the season— waiting until the close of evening should bring his Lucy to tend her poultry undei 44 THE VILLAGE AMANUENSIS. the great oak — he saw a letter on the grass, and springing from bank to bank on a spot a little higher up, where the brook was sufficiently narrow to admit of this sort of lover's leap, he stooped for the paper, suspecting sooth to say, that i\ might be some billet-doux of his own, with the design of returning it to the fair owner. His it was not. On the contrary, the epistle was sealed with a pretty device of doves drinking from the same shallow bowl — an imitation of the exquis- ite doves of the Vatican — which he himself had given to Lucy, his first pledge of love, and directed in her well-known hand to Mr. Willatts, at the Red Boot, Bristol Street, Belford. Well did William Marshall know this Mr. Willatts ! Well did he know and heartily did he despise this dandy of the Red Boot, who — slim, civil, and simpering, all rings and chains, smirks and grimaces, curls and essences — skipped about in his secondhand coxcombry, as if the vending of earthly boots and shoes were too gross for so ethereal a personage, and glass- slipper maker to Cinderella were his fitting desig- nation ! William always had disliked him, in vir- ue of the strong antipathy which opposite holds to opposite ; and now to see a letter to him directed THE VILLAGE A^LANUENSIS. 45 by Lucy — his Lucy — sealed too with that seal! " But she would explain it ! of course she would ! she must, she should explain what motive she could have for writing to such a creature as that, after confessing: her love for him, after all had been arranged between her father and himself, and ever^nhing was prepared for their marriage before the ensuing Christmas. He had a right to demand an explanation, and ought not to be con- tent with anything short of the most ample and satisfactory account of the whole matter." Just as he had worked himself up to the very climax of angry suspicion, his fair mistress, with her eyes cast dov\Ti upon the grass, evidently in search of the lost letter, advanced slowly towards the spot. She started when she saw him, and when he presented the epistle, with a greet- ing in the true spirit of the above soliloquy, in which a stern and peremptory demand for ex- planation was mingled with an ironical and con- temptuous congTatulation upon the correspon- dent whom she had chosen, her answer, between confusion at the discovery, indignation at the jealousy so openly avowed, and astonishment at the his^h tone taken bv one who had hitherto shown nothing but the gentlest tenderness, dis- played so much displeasure, vexation and embar- rassment, that the dialogue grew rapidly into a quarrel, and ended in a formal separation betweei? 46 THE VILLAGE AMANUENSIS. the lovers. Each party returned home an^n? and grieved. William most angry, if we may judge from his sending the unlucky filberts, bas- ket and all, floating down the stream ; Lucy most grieved, if the crumpled letter and defaced address, so nearly washed out by her tears that it required all the skill and experience of the Belford postmaster to decipher the legend, may be accepted as evidence. In spite, however, of this token of her fond relenting, the first tidings that William Marshall heard of Lucy were that she had gone on a visit to her godmother twenty miles off. William, on .his part, staid at home instructing his pupils as well as he could. In spite of lovers' quarrels the work of the world goes on. To be sure the poor boys wondered why their master, usually so even-tempered, was so difficult to satisfy ; and his fond mother could not comprehend why, when she spoke to him, her son, always so mind- ful of his only remaining parent, answered at cross purposes. But William, although a lover, was a strong-minded man ; and before a week had elapsed he had discovered his own infirmity and had determined to correct it. Accordingly, he opened his desk, took out the map of an estate which he had just finished measuring before the unlucky adventure of the hero of the Red Boot, and having compared his own mensuration of the THE VILLAGii AMANUENSIS. 47 diiferent fields with the estimated extent, and completed the necessary calculations, had just relapsed into a reverie when the interruption occurred which formed the beginning of our little stcry. Tap ! tap ! tap ! sounded once again, and this time a little impatiently. Tap ! tap ! tap ! " Ah, my good cousin Kate ! " said William, at last admitting the poor damsel, who had waited this unmerciful while at the door, of which detention our lover had, one hardly know^s how, a glimmering consciousness ; " I hope you have not been long detained ! Why did not you .knock louder ? Do you want my mother ? No ; or you would not have come to the door of my little room. You want me, Kate, I see. So tell me at once what I can do for you." And smiling, blushing, and hesitating, Kate confessed " that she did warn her cousin Wil- liam; that she had a letter " (William started and winced at the very sound,) — "a letter to write ; and she was such a poor scholar, and the friend w^ho used to write her letters wa.s away ; so she had come to trouble cousin Wil- liam." " No trouble at all, dear Kate !" rephed Wil- liam, recovering from his confusion, and too much occupied with the recollections awakened by the very name of a letter to observe the em« 48 THE VILLAGE AMANUENSIS. barrassment of his pretty visitor ; " no trouble at all. Here is my paper ready. Now begin. Is it to your brother in London ? " " Oh, no ! " replied the blushing damsel * ' not to my brother : to a friend." " Very well ! " said William. " The" days draw in so fast that it will soon be dark. Begin, dear Kate ! " And after a little hesitation, and playing with a folded letter she held in her hand, Kate, in a very low, hesitating voice, began to dictate * " Dear Francis " " Dear Francis," echoed her amanuensis, un- suspectingly, in a still lower tone ; then pausing, and looking up as expecting her to proceed. •' Stop ! " said Kate ; " only that it is wrong to give you the trouble to begin again — but that sounds so formal ! " " I think it does," replied William, dashing his pen rapidly through the words ; and the abbreviation is so pretty, too. " There," con- tinued he ; " Dear Fanny ! — that sounds as well again ! " " Fanny ! " exclaimed Kate, half laughing in the midst of her blushes. " Fanny, indeed Why, cousin William ! " i And cousin William, awaking immediately to the perception of the true state of the case, dashed out the second beginning as rapidly as he THE VILLAGE AMANUENSIS. 49 had done the first, and laughing with a very good grace at his own stupidity, wrote this time in full assurance of being right, — * Dear Frank ! " " Fanny, forsooth ! " repeated Kate still laugh*' " Well but, Kate, remember that I had never heard of this friend of yours. To be sure it was very, very stupid. But now shall we go on with the letter? or may I ask who this Frank" " Fanny," interposed Kate archly. " Well ! who this Francis is ? Does my good aunt know, dear Kate ? or " " O yes, dear William ! Mother knows, and father knows, and both like him so much ! It has been kept a secret till now, because his friends are so much better to do in the world than mine ; for he is a tradesman, William, going into partnership with his late master : they are so much richer and grander than father, that we thought they might not like their eldest son to marry a poor working girl. But he said they would only look to good char- acter, and so they say in this letter, and they have consented ; and he told them how you, my own cousin, had got on by your good con- duct, William, and how proud he was of know ing you " 50 THE VILLAGE AMANUENSIS. "I know him, then!" inierrupted William with pleased curiosity. " Yes, to be sure ! Don't you remember out all drinking tea together at Farmer Wilmot's last Sunday was three weeks ? Lucy knew it all along." " Frank ! Frank Willatts ? " inquired William eagerly. " Was it for you, then, that Lucy wrote that letter ? " " To be sure she did. And were you jealous of her, William ? And was that why she went away ? Oh, William, William I to be jealous of dear, good Lucy, because she kept my secret! Oh, cousin William ! " But William Avas too happy to be very peni- tent, and Kate was too pleased and too busy to dilate upon his offences. She had her letter to dictate, and, with a little help from her willing amanuensis, a very pretty letter it was ; and so completely in charity with all the world, espe- cially with the Franks of the world, was this amanuensis, that, before he had finished Kate's epistle, he had written himself into such feelings of good will towards her correspondent as to add a most friendly and cousinly postscript on his own account. What were the contents of the far more ardent and eloquent letter which William Marshall afterwards wTote, and whether he did or did no THE VILLAGF AMANUENSIS. 5 obtain his mistress' pardon for his jealousy and its fruits, we leave to the imagination of our fair readers. We, for our part, knowing the clemency of the sex, incline to think that he did. 52 THE PAWNEE'S RANSOM. BY GEORGINA C. M TJ N R O , AUTHOK OF THE "VOYAGE OF LIFE," HTC. Moonlight was sleeping on the deep waters of Ontario ; the birds of day had long sought the shelter of the trees where they were wont to rest, and the squirrel and the deer crouched in their forest homes, awakening but to tremble if the rustling of foliage near, or stealthy step of wan- dering foot, told of the owl or the panther being abroad in quest of prey. Yet the fire still burned brightly before the lodge of Shengooeysh, and while a female, withered in premature old age, sat at the entrance, her weather-beaten counte- nance revealed in the full glare of the blazing wood, a young girl, graceful as the fawn which reposed in the shadow of the lodge, and blooming as the wild rose of her native forests, stood near the verge of the lake, gazing afar into the dis- tance. All was quiet, save when the melancholy cry of the loon came over the lake like the waihng of a mournful spirit, or when the glancing waters broke with low murmurs on the strand. It was THE pawnee's ransom. 53 an hour for dreams, whether of joy or of saaness to arise upon the mind, as imagination wanderea back to the past, or pressed onward to the future ; it was an hour for hopes and fears to gather round the heart, making it bright by their smiles, or chilling it with the shadowing darkness of their wings. The young Indian felt its influ- ence; and while eye and ear were intent to catch the slightest indication of approaching sound or object, pleasant visions filled her heart vvith brightness, and glad anticipations cast sun- shine on her thoughts. At length a sound stole on her ear : she started, and, turning, assumed an attitude of yet more earnest and marked attention ; it was not the dash of the paddle, for which she had been watching, which struck upon her sharpened sense, but a distant footstep, unexpected and unwonted. She listened — it was a mocassin that touched the ground, yet the acute facukies of her race told her the tread was other than an Indian's. In another instant a form was seen moving in the shade of a clump of cedars, not an arrow's flight from the Jodge, and Sebeganonshee left the lake- shore immediately and advanced to meet it. When within a few paces of meeting, the young Indian paused and awaited the stranger's ap- proach : she had recognized him. already, for, though he was still a s^ransfer. it was but a sin- 5* 64 THE pawnee's ransom. gle moon since ihey had p-^rted, and the ligh which now shone around them had beamed as brightly on the night after he left the solitary lodge, when, with others of his race and two hunters of her own, he had lingered three days, hunting and fishing in the neighborhood. But now he was alone ; what could have brought him back so soon ? — to shores whereon the pale faces had as yet no dwellings, and where the subjects of either the French or English mon- arch rarely wandered, unless journeying on their business as fur-traders, or with companions and guides from among the red-men, who still re- tained possession of this portion of their ancient heritage. " You are welcome ! " said the maiden courte- ously ; " the lodge of Shengooeysh is open to tlie pale-face. Let him enter and rest ; an Indian girl will stay to greet his friends." Perhaps this last remark was not made with- out intention ; at all events, the stranger hesitated as he replied, " No friends were with him — he was alone." " My father is ever glad to see the faces of many friends ; but a single star is welcome in the sky," was the girl's sole response, as, in obe- dience to a gesture, the white man walked on towards the lodge beside her. The old woman had already arisen, and was THE PAWNEE S RANSOM. 56 expecting their approach : she evinced ivo sur- prise at the scdden return of her recent guest, nor, whatever they feU, did either she or the girl betray the slightest incredulity as to the truth of the somewhat awkward story he related about his having been accidentally separated from his com- panions, and unable to find them again, or toll where he was, until, after several days of lonely wandering, certain well-remembered land-marks had that morning given him the welcome intima- tion of being near the dwelling of those who had treated his party so hospitably but a little while before. The Englishman was considerably em- barrassed while rendering this account of his movements, and at its conclusion scarcely dared to look at either of his listeners. But their fea- tures were calm ; no change of expression betoken- ing more than that polite interest in the speaker's affairs which Indian courtesy required ; and when the tale was finished, the elder merely repeated the welcome she had already given ; and, with- out any comment, proceeded to make preparations for the stranger's repast, while the younger stood by in silence, as though no observation from hci were needed. " But Shengooeysh, is he absent?" asked thr. Encrlishman : " it is late for him to be from home." « We look for him," said the maiden ; " the 56 THE pawnee's ransom. step of the pale face drew Sebeganonshee from the shore ; but she will return and wait until the moon shows the canoe of Shengooeysh like a wild-duck on the lake." The Englishman rose immediately. " I will share your watch," said he eagerly. The girl was already on her way towards the beach, and did not affect to hear : but, after a few words to his hostess, declining the discussion of broiled venison and Indian-corn cakes until the arrival of her husband, he followed with a rapid step, and by the time Sebeganonshee reached the strand, he stood again beside her. " My father has walked all day ; he will be weary," observed the youthful Indian, pointing to a large stone near at hand, but without the least indication of either surprise or displeasure at his attendance ; though Crauford knew not whether there were not some intentional quaintness in the tone which addressed him by a term of relation- ship commonly used in the intercourse between the aborigines and Europeans, however whimsi- cal it mif^ht sound to his ears under existinof cir- cumstances. " Not so fatigued as to rest while you are standing," replied Crauford, endeavoring to make his language at once easy of comprehension, and capable of expressing a little of the gallantry which he would h^v^t been delighted to displav. THE pawnee's ransom. 57 « Let Sebeganonshee show the way, a wandering stranger will be glad to follow." The Indian girl complied without hesitation or remark, then, turning her eyes once more towards the lake, bent their gaze on the water as fixedly as though forgetful of her companion's vicinity ; while he, on his part, regarded her with a look whose intense interest would have betrayed his feelings to any observant glance. The silvery moonlight beaming on her revealed the countenance of Sebeganonshee as distinctly almost as though the eye of day had looked upon it ; and well that countenance indicated the story with which Crauford was already acquainted. She was not the daughter of the withered female who ruled her father's household affairs, for the Owl had been the first of the three wives of Shengooeysh, and had long outlived her fairer and subsequently-wooed companions. Sebega- nonshee, on the contrary, was not of unmixed In- dian descent, her mother having been the child of Europeans, carried away in some inroad of savage warfare, when a village was made deso- late ; and, after passing from the hands of one nation to another during their internal contests, had become, at length, an adopted daughter of his tribe, and eventually the youngest and best- beloved wife of Shengooeysh. The Ermine had retained no remembrance of the home of her in- 68 THE pawnee's ransom. fancy or the customs of her fathers, to impart to the imagination of her child ; nor could she seek to awake in the young heart an affection which she had herself forgotten ; hut she had bequeathed much of her own fairness of complexion and soft- ness of feature to arrest a passing glance, by sus- picion of her origin, and give a more attractive character to the beauty which Indian females fre- quently possess in girlhood. Motionless as a statue sat the maiden on the shore, nor once turned her look in the direction of the Englishman, until, at length, he asked, — " Has Sebeganonshee no eyes but for the lake? — no ears but for the murmuring of its waves ? " " She heard the voice of the ever-w^akeful loon and the wind sighing through the hemlock boughs," replied the low silvery tones of the Indian maiden ; " there was no other sound until the pale-face spoke." " But she will listen if he speaks?" demanded Crauford, eagerly. " My white father knows that the ears of his daughter are ever open to his voice," responded the girl, and s.gain Crauford doubted whether she had not purposely chosen that mode of addressing him : — certainly although he was at the age when romance has not withdrawn ita golden mists from the imagination of youth, and THE pawnee's ransom. 59 by no means without a justly favorable opinion of his own appearance, the manner of Sebega- nonshee caused him to feel considerable embar* rassment while introducing the subject which at present occupied his thoughts. This he sought to accomplish with somewhat of the simplicity of Indian manners, with which frequent wanderings to the villages, and amid the hunting-grounds of various tribes, had occasioned his being in some degree acquainted. With this view he began to speak of his distant home, of that island which the salt waves encircled on every side, and on whose shores those of every tongue and every color were secure both of 'welcome and protection. The hues with which he painted all were bright, and over the picture was cast the rich glow of an enthusiastic mind's partiality for the country of its birth. " The land of the pale-faces'mustbe a pleasant land ; I wonder its children travel so far to see the setting sun," the girl dryly remarked, during a pause which appeared to demand some obser- vation on her part. Crauford felt the sarcasm, and hastily replied, " Does my sister not know why ? Has she not seen the bees, when their nation has become too large for their dwelling, send forth the young to seek another habitation ? It is thus my fathers acted. They said to their young meA / 60 THE pawnee's ransom. * We have grown too many for the land whicf* the Great Spirit who rules the earth and sky has ^ven us : go, find a country where there shail be room ! ' Then said their children, ' The red- men have lands which they are too few to till, and deer which they have not time to hunt : let us aid them — the Great Spirit meant not that the land should be so empty ; there is room for both ; and when He sees that they are brothers, He will smile alike upon his red children and his white.'" Sebeganonshee bowed her head in silence, as though, if not satisfied with the explanation, she had no desire of prolonging the discussion : then the Englishman proceeded, — " But there are some for whom their fathers have made room, even in the island where their eyes first opened to the light — that island which Sebeganonshee, if she saw, would not scorn ii as she does. In that isle there are trees, beneath whose shade the children of the same family have played for more than twenty generations ; there are lakes as beap.tiful as this, quiet lakeSj on whose shores an Indian girl might dream that the deep waters of her native clime were glitter- ing before her ; tall forests, where the deer lie hidden from the eyes of men ; and lonely glens as wild as ever tempted the red-man's foot to lin- ger in its depths ; and lodges are there also not THE pawnee's ransom. 61 formed of boughs and bark, but built of rocks, which the anger of men could hardly overthrow, and which the tempests of many winters cannot shake ; stately dwelUngs of the great and hon- ored, chiefs whose wisdom and bravery have made them respected and powerful in their na- tion : and, let the ears which hear me listen !" — here the voice of the Englishman sunk to an impressive whisper, and his words were uttered more slowly — " among these dwellings there is one where Sebeganonshee would be loved and honored as the fairest bird which could rest with- in its bov.'ers." " The Wax-wing is content to fold her pinions beside the waters of Ontario," the maiden at once replied ; " why should she bend her flight to other shores ? " In an instant the Englishman had started to his feet and stood beside her. " Daughter of Shengooeysh ! " he exclaimed, " it is not by such words that love like mine must be answered ! Those eyes which shrink from my gaze to the sands at your feet, I know that they have looked into my heart, I know that they have seen what my tongue would not have skill to tell. It is not foolishness which my voice has breathed into the ears of Sebeganonshee — the home of the wanderer is fair to look on, but he will return to it with a heav)'' heart if an Indian 6 62 THE pawnee's ransom. girl says he must dwell there alone Hear me Sebeganonshee ! more than the mother who has left you, or the father who remains, will the pale- face be to you ! he will love you better than the life which the Great Spirit has given him, he will guard you as the manito-mukwaw^ guards her cubs from injury, and watch ever}^ change in your mind as the Ontario watches the passing of each cloud that darkens the I'ace of heaven : the butterfly that sports from flower to flower has not a ha).pier life than shall be yours, nor is the bee, who is obeyed by all her tribe, more honored than Sebesfanonshee shall be as the wife of the island-chief." He was silent : there was an interval of many seconds, and then the sweet tones of the maiden came like plaintive music on the air, — " Son of the stranger ! the heart of Sebega- nonshee is with her nation. It is enough ! " " With her nation ! " repeated Crauford. " Child of the Ermine ! have you forgotten that in that isle, around which the salt lake's waves axe murmurmg, the graves of j^our mother's fathers lie beside the last resting-places of mine own ? that her brothers dwell there yet ? and that her people were as mine ? Has Sebeganonshee forgotten how like an eagle the red-man swooped * The Sfrizzly bear THE pawnee's ransom. 63 and bore away the Ermine, that she speaks thus cf her nation ? " The girl raised her head, and even that pallid moonlight showed the deep color rushing to her brow, as she replied with a haughty gesture and energetic lone, — " There may be snow in the veins of Sebega- nonshee, but her heart is all red ; and the Manitn has given to her the soul of her fathers. Let the son of many chiefs fmd a wife among the maid- ens of his own color. It is night, and an Indian girl is not able to see him." " But the night will soon pass and day will come," said Crauford, gently. " What does my sister mean ? " The maiden's haughtiness had already faded to an air of dignified humility: her glance had again sunk to the sands, but she looked up timJdly as her low voice murmured softly, — " An Indian cfirl has but one heart, and that is with her nation ! " Crauford could no longer doubt the express significance of this reply. It was evident that another had won the girl's affections ere he had met her. Yet he strove to dazzle her imagina- tion by pictures of the world she had not seen, and to shake her fidelity to his unknown rival by descriptions of scenes, perhaps too utterly unlike all she hnd bpheld. to possess a fair chance of 64 THE PAWNEE S RANSOM. temptation. But, had it been even otherwise, had she been capable of appreciating all the charms of the splendor he depicted, and of com- prehending the full force of the ideas which could find no echo in her mind, Sebeganonshee would have still been true to the attachment she had acknovdedged, and as firmly as now resisted every attempt to win her thoughts from her In- dian lover, or excite one feeling of curiosity to behold scenes in which he would never be Bn actor. She listened to the Englishman, at first with indiflerence, but after a while he was morti- fied at perceiving that it was with contempt. Meanwhile her vigilant glance still kept watch on the gently undulating waters gleaming like a lake of liquid silver in the moonbeams ; and, had the training of her Indian nature been less imper- ative as to the suppression of emotion, the anxi- ety which filled her mind would have been ^vrit- ten on her countenance. At length, with an exclamation of pleasure, the girl suddenly rose to her feet ; but in an instant the bright expression passed from her features, and she folded her hands on her bosom with an air of sadness and disappointment. " Shengooeysh is not coming?" inquire:' Crauford, who, though he also looked across the 'aife, observed nothing. " He will soon be here," <5aid che maiden THE tawnee's ransom. 65 calmly, poii.ang to a dark speck on the m on- lit waters ; " there is his canoe ; my father is alone." " And you expected to see another with him ? " asked Crauford, quickly. Sebeganonshee bent her head, and, without reply, moved with a noiseless step across the sands to the extreme verge of the lake. Crau- ford followed ; but not a word more was spoken bv either until the canoe had touched the beach. The sincrle hunter it contained uttered the cus- tomary greeting and welcome to his former guest on comprehending that he had returned to claim his hospitality again, and bestowed a kind look and smils on his daughter as he sprang to the shore ; yet Crauford fancied that the countenance of Shengooeysh was more grave, and his air more serious, than they had used to be. Not a question was asked by either the Owl or the Wax-winsT as to the reason of the Indian's protracted absence, and but for the inquiring look which Crauford observed the younger ever and anon to cast on her father's impenetrable counte- nance, one might have deemed they had not a thought or an interest beyond the diligent pie- paration of the supper so unusually delayed. The meal was at length in readiness, venison and the wild blue pigeon, dried bear's meat, salmon- trout, and sturofeon soup, smoked in and upon 6#^ 66 THE pawnee's ransom. wooden bowls and platters, and whatever fault might be found with the cookery, there was none in the quality of the principal articles employed. Crauford had seen too much of Indian life to shudder at the knife which Shengooeysh pro- duced to carve his food, or to heed the shape or dimensions of the brilliant shells which supplied the place of spoons, or any other little eccentrici- ties in the supper equipage ; but the occurrences of that evening had deprived him of ail inclina- tion to profit either by forest luxuries or by the grave and formal conversation of his host. He was besides stro.ngly disposed to pierce the mys- tery which he felt Sebeganonshee was eager to penetrate, not, it must be acknowledged, so much to calm the maiden's anxiety, as because it seemed to him that the discovery might tend to his own advantage. Though the Owl had retreated, and now sat by the fire at some distance, her step-daughter remained standing near Shengooeysh, to all ap- pearance n waiting to obey his commands, but in reality tarrying to mark if any word fell from his lips respecting the subject on which she .onged to question him. But Crauford was no Indian, and could not long imitate their conventional air of indifference. " Shengooeysh was late upon the lake to- Dight," he observed ; " I thought he had met THE PAWNEE S RANSOM. 67 friends whose talk was so pleasant that it wciula keep him with them until morning." " We met friends," said the Indian, " but their talk was like the thunder that growls when the storm clouds are meeting in the sky; like the howling wind that tells on shore that waves have swept over the canoe which the tempest found upon the lake." " Their speech has been sad ; I trust it has not made my brother sorrowful," was the instant re- mark of Crauford. " The Eagle loves to hear of war, but he likes not if a chance arrow strikes the children that he loves," replied the hunter. Sebeo-anonshee started, and bent forward to listen more intensely, as her father continued, — " The Mohawks have danced the war-dance and raised the tomahawk against the Pawnee Loups, their young men are near the waters of the Great Fall, and a chief of the Pawnees will sing his death-song before the sun has set again." " And this chief is the friend of Shengooeysh ? " the Englishman observed, inquiringly. " It is so ; my brother has said truly : the Mink thought to have seen the Pav,Tiee rest beside his fire to-night ; but as the :hief hunted in the forests of the lakes, and had not sat in the war-council of his tribe, the Mohawks came upon him as a panther spriiigs on the deer amid the ■68 THE pawnee's ransom. darkness, and the arrow has fallen from tho quiver of the Pawnees ! " A low hysterical cry escaped the Wax- wing's lips. Her father turned instantly, and for a mo- ment the muscles of his face quivered slightly ; but all was calm again as he addressed the weep- ing girl with a coldness which the presence of the Englishman alone occasioned. " Tears are for women ; an Indian girl should know how to let them fall in silence. Why does she mourn ? flowers fade but once ; Leksho will die like a warrior, and his people will regret him." But the anguish of Sebeganonshee defied the restraints of Indian stoicism ; and while the hunter looked on with a countenance, whose very immobility of expression indicated the exist- ence of emotions he was fearful of betraying, Crauford's heart was touched by her distress, though he knew it to be occasioned by his unfor- tunate rival's fearful doom. " And where are these Mohawks ? " he at length inquired. " Beyond Niaga-ra, where the sound of his voice is like never-dying thunder. The Eagle shief who leads them waits for his young men from the south to see a Pawnee die." " The Eagle ! " repeated Crauford ; and he mused on. while Shengooeysh explained how THE pawnee's ransom. 69 ihis particular band of the Aganuschion=^ had no been on the war-path when they had accidentally surrounded and captured Leksho, who was igno- rant of hostilhies existing between his tribe and any of their nations. Crauford reflected a considerable tirae ni silence ; then, leaving the hunter, he approached ^\-here the maiden sat weeping apart. "Let Sebeganonshee open her ears!" he be- gan. " Would she be glad that Leksho lived ?" The girl started and looked up with a painful dee:ree of emotion. " Why does the pale-face come with words to torture the soul of Sebeganonshee ? " she de- manded. "What wish can stay a falling stone ? " " But a ready hand may catch it. If an Indian girl desires, it shall be done." " Is the pale-face a Manito ? Then he may do it. But who is he that tears his prey from the talons of the Eagle?" " The pale-face will try," said Crauford, fiercely. " What would my sister do to save the Pawnee's life ? " " She would give her own ! " exclaimed the maiden, eagerly ; " she would give her head lo .he scalping-knife of the Mohawk, and herse J to the torture." * Collective name of the Five Nations. 70 THE pawnee's ransom. " Would she leave the forest of Ontario for the island of the great salt lake ? " asked Crauford, pointedly. " If she will hear the voice of the stranger it may be done." The girl rose to her feet, and, folding her hands, gazed on him in silence, though inquir- ing]}'. In a few seconds the Englishman's voice was heard again, and in yet more urgent terms he asked whether she would dwell among her mother's people as his wife, if by his means the Pawnee chief were set at liberty ? There Avas a violent struggle in the maiden's feelings, but it soon passed by, as the weaker of meeting currents is borne down by the stronger ; in a tone low as the murmur of distant waves, she answered, — " Let the Arrow stand on this shore as free as the wind which bears the words of Sebesfanon- shee afar to the graves and hunting-grounds of her nation, and an Indian girl will forsake all, and follow the stranger whither he will Sebe- ganonshee has spoken. It is enough ! " She cast herself on the earth again, and the Englishr.ian forbore to intrude further on her sorrow. He returned to Shengooeysh, and, ex- plaining that he had some influence with the Mohawk chief, which might be exerted for the benefit of Leksho, expressed his intention of set* ting out for the Eagle's camp without delay THE pawnee's ransom. 7i The Mink, so the old warrior was named, accom- panied Crauford on the long and fatiguing lar'' journey thus suddenly undertaken, from the southern shore of Lake Ontario to beyond the never-silent Niagara, and when, with the dawn, the roaring cataract and long rapids ab( ve it were passed by, the Indian produced a can le, hidden for such exigence beneath a fallen beech, ready to bear them over the waters. It was on the right bank of Lake Erie, where the wild beast and the red man still held undis- puted sway, that the sun, of noon looked on a scene which is every day becoming less frequent on that continent, where a flag has since arisen which was as then unthought of, and whence a snowy ensign vanished, which is already a thing unseen, although remembered. There was a circular space free from wigwams in the centre of the Mohawk encampment, and already the entire party were assem.bled, the cap- tive bound to the stake, and every preparation which savage ingenuity could suggest had been made for the satisfactory prosecution of the fiend- ish art of torture. But why proceed to particu- larize ? It could not be a pleasant subject for any pen, and who that has ever perused the horrible details of Indian barbarity would desire to en- counter any portion of such again ? But the savage work had not as yet begun ; all was in 72 THE pawnee's ransom. readiness ; the signal to commence alone was wanting, and was awaited with fierce impatience by even the women and children of the band; whose eagerness proved the love of cruelty to be inherent in their nature, and shared equahy oy every age ; perhaps, had the truth been known, none were more impatient for the looked-for sig- nal than the silent and haughty captive, who stood prepared to meet unshrinkingly his fate. A stern and dignified chief, with a war-plume of eagle's feathers, and painted hideously, stood surrounded by a group of his bravest warriors. Already his arm was raised, and the words were on his lips, when a movement was observed among the outer ranks, and a sentinel or scout entered the circle, accompanied by a stranger. The keen eye of the chief recognized the Eng- lishman at once, and he advanced immediately to greet him. " My young brother is very welcome," sa'd the Mohawk ; " will he see the games of the sons of the Aganuschion ? " " Those of my nation do not love to look on them," answered Crauford ; " the pale-face strikes his foes in battle, but when it is over they are his brothers. But the birds of the dark woods whis- pered in my ear that the Arrow of the Pawnees had been struck dowTi by the Eagle of the Mo- THE pawnee's ransom. 73 hawks ; and I came to ask the chief if his eyes had ever looked upon my face before ? " The warrior pointed towards the waters which might be seen afar glowing in the sunshine as he replied, — " The mind of the Mohawk is not like the lake, which changes with every breath which the Manitoag^^ blows upon it : the Eagle never for- gets." " Then the chief has not forgotten how the flowers which faded before the last snows had fallen, saw a stranger fight by his side on the distant banks of Oh-ey-o ? " " No ! " exclaimed the Mohawk chief, with en- ergy ; "he has not forgotten how, when the Eaffle was as a rush bruised and trodden under foot, and his wings were crushed and broken, and he heard the voice of his father calling him to the spirits' land, the pale-face fought as it had been a Manito against the Shawnees, casting them do\\m as the moose breaks down the young branches from the trees ; and how he saved the scalp of the Mohawk from the knife of his ene- mies ! The Eagle does not forget ; nor how the young pale-face became a medicine in his need, and watched him as a dove watches her young ones, until Waneyot gave him strength, and the * The Manitoag are the genii of Indian fairy-lore. tThe Spa a. 7 74 THE pawnee's ransom. Eagle could again flap his wings above the war path." " And then the chief said " here Crauford hesitated. " That he owed the white warrior a life, and would give when he should ask it," proceeded the chief, in tones of softness widely contrasting with his terrific appearance. " Has my young brother come to ask the Eagle's? — it is his if he will take it." Crauford almost laughed. " No, no," he said, hastily ; " but, chief of the Eagle-spirit, and dauntless heart, I have come as a beggar to your camp — I have come as a trader to tell you of former debts ; but give me the Arrow's life, and the white warrior will tell his nation that the Eagle's heart is true, and his hand is always open." The brow of the chief grew dark as the sur- face of the Huron when a storm breaks upon its waters. " The Pawnee belongs to my young men," said he, coldly ; " they must not be disap- pointed." A feather lay upon the ground, Crauford lifted and blew it from his hand. " I shall remember that, like this, a Mohawk's word is blown aside ; that his promises are like the snow, which in a few moons melts and is no THE pawnee's RAJSfSOM. 75 ionger seen ! I go to my people to think of what the red man has showm me of his heart, I go, unless the Eagle has already forgotten that the stranger's path should be left open." Crauford spoke in great indignation and excite- ment, and, without any further leave-taking, he turned angrily away ; the crowd opened at his approach, and he had proceeded several steps before the Eagle's voice arrested him. " My brother is not wise," said the chief; " his feet are like the wind which tarries not, though we call on it to stay. What is a Pawnee that he should make my brother's face look dark towards us ? Many of his tribe will feed the death-fires of the Mohawks, ere the tomahawk be buried, — my young men will not miss one. Son of the Long Knives, take the Arrow, he is yours ! " We will pass over the acknowledgments of Crauford, who thanked the Eagle warmly, while the warriors unbound their captive, who, with lofty demeanor and haughty, unchanging counte- nance, had heard every word of the dialogue in which he was so deeply interested. It was be- neath the dignity of an Indian brave to evmce any great curiosity as to the cause of the stran- ger's interposition in his favor, or to betray lively pleasure at the success of his efforts, yet, in the grasp of friendship with which Leksho pressed his hand, as at length they stood alone beyond 76 THE pawnee's ransom. the boundaries of the Mohawk camp, Cran- ford recognized the gratitude of a generous and gallant spirit, and his heart almost smote him when he remembered wherefore that deed of kindness had been done. Noontide beamed again on the deep lakes and dark forests of the West, and the waters of Onta- rio were glowing brightly in the sunshine, when ■-.he sound of footsteps was heard from beyond the tall cedars .which frowned near the lodge of Shengooeysh. Their tread was light, but the quick ear of Sebeganonshee caught the signal of their approach, and, with breathless anxiety, she gazed in the direction whence it came ; another moment, and her father, the English stranger, and the Pawnee, stood before her. The Owl instantly raised a joyful cry at their appearance, but Sebeganonshee stood with clasped hands, the image of gratitude rather than of de- light. " My sister sees how the pale-face has kept his promise," said Crauford, triumphantly. " The Arrow is free again to carry death among his enemies." The maiden bowed her head in silence : Lek- sho little dreamed of the emotions that downcast Dok might have revealed. An hour had passed, ind still the maiden had scarcely spoken, and at .ength her Indian lover observed, when none THE pawnee's ransom. 77 were within hearing except the Enghshman, who, reclining on the grass beneath the lengthen- ing shadow of a walnut-tree, appeared asleep, — " Did the night- winds bear away the voice of Sebeganonshee, that it is silent when a Paw- nee should be welcomed, and a white warrior be thanked ? " The soft voice of the maiden trembled percep tibly as she replied, — " Let the Arrow pause in its flight to hear the foolish words of an Indian girl : a panther sprang upon a fawn which a dove loved very dearly, and bore it off to his lair to be food for his little ones ; the dove wept, for the fawn was dearer to her than all the beasts of the forest, and the fox who saw them fall asked the meaning of her tears ; he was a brave beast and a cunning, and he bade the dove mourn no more, for he could rescue the fawn she loved from the teeth of the panther; the dove listened, and the fawn was free to sport beneath the trees where his life had passed away; but the dove folded her wings, and fell mto the mouth of the fox. How should she be glad, though her heart is full of grati- tude?" " My sister's meaning is too dark : there is a mist before the Pawnee's eyes, and he cannot see," replied the warrior. * I have spoken," said the girl ; " the pale-face 7# 78 THE pawnee's ransom. needs no thanks ; but Sebeganonshee must turn her face towards another land." By this time Crauford had risen, and stood before the astonished Indian. " It is so, Leksho," said he, firmly ; " this maiden goes to be my wife in the villages of my people. A Pawnee chief would not rob a stran- ger of that which he has fairly bought ? " Leksho threw open his mantle. •' Son of the stranger," said he, earnestly, " strike ! Take the life which thou has given, to be a torment greater than the Mohawk had dreamed of to try the courage of a warrior. Strike ! thy knife is better in an Indian's heart than the words thou hast spoken in his ears ! It was the voice of the mocldng-bird which called on Leksho to live ! " Crauford turned away, but in another moment he addressed the maiden. " Sebeganonshee will not deceive me," he ob- served ; " she will not shrink from looking upon the country of her mother ? " " Stranger, I have said it, — I am thine !" re- plied the maiden, sadly, but firmly. " Sebega- nonshee will obey thy voice, although her heart must tarry in the land of her fathers. Warrior of a mighty nation," she continued, addressing th>5 Pawnee, " an Indian girl leaves thee for a THE pawnee's ransom 79 shore whence the voice of the Wacondah"^ alone can summon her ; but, though she dwells with those of another color, her soul will be glad when it shall greet thine own in the happy land of spirits ! Why should we talk ? The fate of man is like the rush of Niagara, — who can turn it?" The maiden spoke of resignation, but, when she had concluded, she bent her face upon her hands, and the quickly-falling tears forced their way between her fingers. Leksho looked for a minute on her anguish, then, fearing, perchance, that the firmness of an Indian warrior might be compromised, he folded his arms across his chest and gazed in silence on the ground. Crauford regarded them with feelings of but little satisfaction : the selfishness which, mingled with romance, had hitherto borne him on, was waninof. He had thousrht that the life which he had preservced to the Pawnee would overbalance the loss of the bride of which he robbed him; and he had flattered himself that, however averse at first, Sebeganonshee must in time be happier with him than she could be as the companion of a savage. But doubts were now obtruding, the game was in his own hands ; he might do all as he had planned, but he felt that the happiness of * The Great Spirit. 80 THE pawnee's ransom. two of his fellow-creatures would be the sacri fice. Silence hung for a time like a perceptible weight on the atmosphere ; it was first broken by the Englishman, who, taking her unresisting hand, led the maiden to the Pawnee. " I give her back," he said : " Leksho, she is thine. But let not Sebeganonshee forget the stranger when he ha>. left these woods forever ' " 81 TO A VERY YOUNG HOUSEWIFE, BY BERNARD BARTON. To write a book of Household Song, Without one verse to thee, Whom I have known and loved so long, Were all unworthy me. Have 1 not seen thy needle plied With as much ready glee, As if it were thy greatest pi'ide A seamstress famed to be ? Have I not ate pies, puddings, tarts, And bread — thy hands had kneaded iVll excellent — as if those arts Were all that thou hadst heeded ? Have I not seen thy cheerful smile, And heard thy voice — as gay As if such household cares, the whiJe, To thee were sport and play ? Yet can thy pencil copy well Landscape, or flower, or face ; And thou canst waken music's spell With simple, natural grace. 82 TO A VERY YOUNG HOUSEWIFE. Thus variously to play thy part Before thy teens are spent, Honors far more thy head and heart Than mere accomplishment. So wear the wreath thou well hast won, And be it understood, I frame it not in idle fun For girlish womanhood. But in it may a lesson lurk, Worth teaching now-a-days ; That girls may do all household work, Nor lose a poet's praise ! I t i i i > J J J J o > > , ,> J > > > jj J > , J TIK][E V(S)IISK!(S ^^DIF a*^ THE COUNTRY TAVERN BY JAMES T. FIELDS. " Those who know the road, leave behind them a showy, porticoed tavern, nev/, and carefully divested of all trees and grass, and pull up at the door of the old inn at the place, a low, old-fashioned house, built on a brook-side, and with all the appearance of a comfortable farm-house, save only a leaning and antiquated sign-post." — [Letters from under a Bridge.'^ It is a rare thing, in a hot summer evening, to alicrht before such a country tavern as Willis has described in his admirable " Letters." Yet New England especially abounds in these rural resting places, and many a quiet nook may be discovered with little trouble, not a half day's ride from Bos- ton. We have just at this moment in our mind's eye a delicious tumble-down old house in Ber- wick, " away down east," so cool and refreshing that the most weary traveller cannot fail to recruit his tired limbs inside its honest old walls. We well remember the hot, dusty day which first made us acquainted with this hospitable man- sion. We had ridden many a weary mile, and iust at sun-down came upon a quaint, old-fash- ioned building, with nothing exterior to recom- mend it but the bubbling brook which ran gaily 84 THE COUNTRY TAVERN. along at its side. The door stood wide open, and a huge flag-bottomed chair invited the passer- by to seat himself. Shall we ever forget that trout and those berries, the good-humored face of the landlady, the merry, twinkling eyes of the good man himself, or the low, sanded back room where all these were gathered together ? Let us not forget the cream of that occasion neither, nor the sweet voice of the damsel who brought it, fresh as her own blooming cheeks. It is many a year since that sunny afternoon has been numbered with the days that are past, but we can still hear the waving of the elm trees that shaded that little room, and the sound of the running streamlet is often busy as we sit musing in the twilig-ht of a summer evening^. We know not if this humble dwelling is still in exist- ence. Perhaps it has given place to a more modern edifice, rich in white paint and stylish waiters. But here is the tavern as we saw it ; the same thatched roof and low door-way ; the identical railing in front, over which we leaned, watching the nimble insects as they darted in and out among the bending rushes. On that crazy fence we sat enjoying the night breeze as it swept thither from the hills around, and the whole scene is as vivid this very hour as when we cut our name on the old apple-tree in the valley, and caught our first trout in the brook at the bottom of the orchard. 85 WHITE THORNE FARM. BY MISS AGNES STRICKLAND. Lucy Marlow was the eldest daughter of the wheelwright, whose neat workshops and well- stocked yard occupied an open space at the en« trance of the village. There were seven in the family besides Lucy ; but Isaac Marlow was a thriving mechanic, and his children constituted a part of his wealth ; for his five sons assisted him in the various branches of his craft, which com- prehended not only the construction of wheels, but every description of agricultural carriage, from a wheelbarrow up to a wagon. Isaac Marlow had lost his wife, but her place in the household department was well supplied by the active exertions of his daughter Lucy, who con- ducted the whole of the domestic affairs, assisted by a stout girl of fourteen, who had been appren- ticed to her father from the workhouse. Polly Jones was an awkward, uncivilized creature when she first arrived ; for the children reared in work- houses are seldom instructed either in useful knowledge or decent behavior, which is the rea- son why they are so often harshly treated by the pel sons to whom they are allottea. Such chil- S 86 WHITE THORNE FARM. dren are indeed deeply to be pitied, generally speaking ; but little Polly fell into kind hands , and though at first she was very stupid, and broke many things from not having been accus- tomed to handle glass and crockery ware, Lucy, by the exercise of a little patience and forbear- ance, and some judicious encouragement, suc- ceeded, in the course of a few months, in con- verting her young dependent into a valuable cooperator in her household labors, and in con- sequence gained time to educate her two little sisters. She also bestowed instruction in reading, writing, and sewing, on Polly, of an evening when she had finished her allotted task, and the morning business went on all the better for this indulgence. Polly soon became a brisk, handy, intelUgent girl, and all the neighbors congratu- lated Lucy on her good luck in meeting with such a treasure, not considering the pains Lucy had taken to render her such. Lucy was of a serene and cheerful temper, and the inward sunshine emanating from a mind at peace with itself, and the constant practice of vir- tuous though often laborious duties, gave bright- ness to her eyes, lightness to her step, and a sweetness of expression to her countenance, far more attractive than beauty. Lucy was, how- ever, very prepossessing both in her manners and Dcrson, and her dress was always so exquisitely WHITE TIIORNE FARM. 87 neat, that she was universally admired whep seen, which was but seldom, beyond the precincts of the productive little garden that had been cre- ated partly by her own exertions on a slip of waste land between the dwelling-house and her father's yard. Seldom did any young farmer in want of a wife ride past on his way to Scrapeton corn-market, without pausing and thrusting his own, and of course his horse's, head and neck over Isaac Marlow's gate, as if to contemplate the merits of the carts, rollers, and gaily painted wagons, that were drawn forth in thai yard to tempt the agricultural purchaser ; but, truth to tell, more glances were directed towards the rows of cabbages, lettuces, or it might be the tall lilies and flaunting sun-flowers, that flourished in the trim garden in the background, where Lucy Mariow sometimes might be seen engaged in her horticultural pursuits, assisted by her little sisters Jane and Anne. But, notwithstanding these errant glances, Lucy had attained her twenty- third year without any other token of the power of her charms, and it was the opinion of Lucy's five great brothers that Lucy would be an old maid ; moreover, one of them had the incivility to tell her so. " I hope it will be for the benefit of my family if I am," was Lucy's meek reply; " but, in truth, Hodge, I hardly know what my father and th? 88 WHITE THOKNE FARM. jittle ones would do without me if I were to map ry, of which, as you say, there is at present littla chance," she added. The fact was, Lucy had never given the slisfhtest encouraofement to those who were wil- ling to attract her regard, because her heart had been secretly won by the silent but unmistakable attentions of a young man, who she feared would not be permitted by his friends to consult his affections in the choice of a wife ; for Charles Rushmere was the eldest son of a man of sordid habits, who had amassed a considerable property by farming, and considered the increase of riches as the only duty in life. Old Mr. Rushmere lived in a distant parish, but had purchased a fine farm at Woodfield for Charles to employ himself in cultivating for their mutual profit Charles Rushmere was a young man of excellent morals, benevolent, handsome, spirited, and industrious, farmed in what was considered a good style, rode well, and was reck- oned the agricultural Adonis of the village. All the damsels in his degree were disposed to set their caps at him, and their mothers said, " Poor Mr. Charles Rushmere must lead a very dull life at Whitethorn farm without any one to take care of him except old Sukey Scratchit, his house- keeper, and it would be quite a charity to ask him to tea in a friendly way now and then." Sd WHITE THORNE FARM. S9 poor Ml. Charles Eushmere was charitably in- vited to tea-drinkings in the parish, too numerous lor us to record, and all the '' young ladies," as per courtesy the daughters of the farmers and shopkeepers of Woodfield were called, did their best in turn to make impressions on the heart of the handsome heir of the rich old miser o^ Scrapeton Grange. Between Michaelmas and Christmas, Mr. Charles Eushmere had heard all the jingling- piano-fortes, and assisted in turning over all the blue and pink and orange-colored leaves of all the rival scrap-books in Woodfield, and stared at all the monstrous cupids, pincushion-roses, lap- sided butterflies, and gaudy groups of oriental tmted flowers and bad prints they contained ; also, he had with astonishing want of tact yielded obedience to sundry hypocritical entreaties not to read some halting rhymes to the honor and glory of the respective o\vners of these show-ofl' vol- umes. When Christmas came, Mr. Charles Eushmere was invited to a series of dances both public and private, at which he enjoyed the felicity of exhibiting his locomotive powers with every damsel in Woodford successively, except the only one whom he considered worth a second thought, and that was the meek and modest Lucy Marlow. But Lucy never went to dinces or gay tea-drinkings ; her time was so fully 8* 90 WHITE THORNE FARM. occupied with the duties of her father's house- hold, and the instruction of her young sisters besides taking care of her brothers' linen, that she never had a moment to spare for other recre- ation than the cultivation of the garden, and sometimes a quiet walk in the meadows with her father, sisters, and her little maid, on Sunday evenino^s after church. Charles Rushmere sat in the next pew to that which was occupied by the honest wheelwright and his family, and soon got into a similar habit of rambling in the meadows after they came out of church, " to help him to digest the sermon, and get an appetite for his tea," as he facetiously observed to Isaac Marlow, as if to account for this practice. The wheelwright, who had his eldest daughter, and pride and delight of his heart, on his arm, and had observed that their new neighbor's eyes had been oftener turned on her sweet face than on his prayer-book during the service for many Sundays, had his own ideas on the motives of Charles Rushmere in joining them in their family walk ; but the young man was so respectful and engaging in his manners, and confined his discourse so entirely to himself or the little girls during these rambles, that Isaac Marlow had no pretence for offering an objection to his company on such occasions. One even- mg, when they reached Marlow's gate, Clxirles WHITE THORNE FARM. 9l Rushmere said, " I should consider it a great privilege il I were permitted to make one at your tea-table to-night, Miss Lucy." Lucy looked down and replied, " That it was one of the rules of their family not to admit of Sunday visitors, because the evening of that day was devoted to the religious instruction of the children and the maid." " Perhaps," observed Charles, with some degree of pique, "I should be equally unwelcome on any other evening ? " Lucy blushed and said, " That must depend on what her father thought." " My good sir," said the wheelwright, " we are only members of what may be considered the working class, and you are the son of a rich man, one who is said to make some claim to the rank of a squire, and would probably consider us very much beneath you ; therefore we must decline your company as a visitor at our humble board." After this conversation, Charles Rushmere ceased to join the wheehvright and his family in their Sunday walks. He even went out of church by another door, and for three months looked at his book all prayer time, and at the parson during the sermon, instead of bestowing his devotions on his fair neighbor. Lucy began to think it v^ould have been well if he had never 92 WHITE THORNE FARM. done otherwise, for she considered that Charles Rushmere ought to have respected both her father and herself the more for the motives which led them to decline his overtures ; and so Charles did really, but, like many other lovers, he had anything but an agreeable way of receiving a necessary repulse. Then he got angry and jea- lous on the score of the bachelor agriculturist whom he saw bestowing so much more attention on Isaac Marlow's carts and wagons than he con- sidered at all requisite, and at last took the reso- lution of ordering one of those two-wheeled farm- ing carriages yclept in East- Anglian parlance a tumbril, as an excuse for obtaining admittance into the domicile over which the wheelwright's pretty daughter was the presiding genius. Charles Rushmere chose a Saturday evening, after he had paid his people, ab ihe time for this impor- tant transaction, partly m the hope that he might find Lucy alone, and partly with a half malicious intention of catching the young housekeeper ip that state of confusion with regard to the domes- tic arrangements which in Suflblk is expressly called a muddle. But Lucretia herself, when her excellent housewifery was put to the test by the unexpected visit of her lord and his roy .1 com- panions, appeared not to greater advantage spin- ning and carding among her maidens than did the wheelwright's fair daughter sitting tranquilljr by WHITE THORNE FARM. 9& ihe bright fire and clean hearth of the freshly- swept and garnished stone kitchen, in her neat brown merino dress and plain white collar, super- intending and assisting in darning the hose of the males of the family with her sisters. Any of the "young ladies" of Woodfield would have been ready to faint at the idea of being surprised at such vulgar employment. Lucy certainly blushed, and allowed her ball of blue mottled-yarn to roll from her lap to the other end of the kitchen, but her confusion proceeded from pleasure at the sight of the unexpected visitor, not shame at having been discovered in the performance of one of her duties. Charles instantly rescued the ball from the impertinent playfulness of a sonsy pet kitten that had just pounced upon it, and presented it to Lucy with the air of a Paladin. " You find us very busy," said Lucy, as with a downcast glance she received this little act of attention; "but we ahvays finish the week with our odd jobs." " Lucy," said little Jane, " I do think Hodge always makes such a great hole in the toe of his stocking on purpose. I never can mend this." " Then give it to me, dear, and run the thin place on the foot of Robert's sock. That is easy work for you," returned Lucy. )harles cast an observing glance on Lucy's G] 94 TV'HITE THORNE FARM. proceedings, and thought how differently Sukey Scratchit would have conducted herself if he had presumed to wear holes in his stockings of such provoking magnitude for her Saturday evening's amusement. " Hallo, Lucy ! are you giving the young squire a lesson in darning stockings?" cried Isaacr Marlow, in surprise, as he entered, on per- ceiving Charles Rushmere's curly head peeping over his daughter's shoulder, his lips pursed up, and his round, blue eye intently fixed on the pro- cess of crossing the villanous hole in the toe of Hodge's Sunday hose. It was now Charles' turn to blush, and he did blush-scarlet red as he stammered out, in a gen- uine Suffolk whine, " Mr. Marlow, sir, I hope you will excuse me, but I have come to talk to you about a new tumbril." " Certainly," said Isaac Marlow, rubbing his hands, " that is a very excusable offence ; but why did you not come to the workshop at once where you were sure of finding me ? " It did not suit the young man to explain his reasons ; so he said, " he could go and look in the workshop then, if it suited Mr. Marlow." " No," said Marlow, " we have shut up for the night, and to-morrow is Sunday ; but I shall he very happy to receive your order. Master Charles, WniTi. THORNE FARM. 95 or mayhap I have a tumbril in the yard that may suit you." " I will come and talk farther on the subject on Monday," said Charles, casting a glance of intel- ligence at Lucy. " Then be pleased to come to me in the work- shop or yard, if you do," returned the cautious father, who had detected the telegr^hing between the lovers. " It is not every farmer who enters this house who is willing to order a new tumbril of you, Mr. Marlow," rejoined the young man. " Mine honored customer, there is a time for all things, and a place too in my business for receiv- ing orders, and that is the workshop, where I shall be very proud of waiting on you." Charles was inwardly malcontent at Isaac Marlow's independent way of doing business with him, and half disposed not to give his order at all, especially as he was in no particular need of a new tumbril, and he knew his father would consider such a purchase a great piece of extrav- agance. However, he recollected that it would afford him a very plausible pretext for loitering in the precincts of Lucy's dwelling, if he were not permitted to enter it. So, on the Monday morn- ing, the order was given, and once a week a« least he put on his smart green shooting-frock and bright-colored leathers, and walked into the 96 WHITE THOKNE FABM. wheelwright's yard with the free and easy air of a person who had now a right to come there, and inquii-ed " how they were getting on with his new tumbril ? " Marlow's sons thought this an exceedingly good joke ; but the wheelwright shook his head, and replied at last, " not the bet- ter for your coining so often to trouble us about it, Master Charles, and we are making all the haste we can to get it ofl'the premises." Charles considered this obserration very un- civil, and in return caused as many artificial delays as he could, by coimnaudino^ a variety of alterations, and changing his mind twice or thrice as to the color he willed it to be painted and all for the sake of standing opposite Lucy's window while he discussed these points, which were considered by Isaac Marlow as very blama- ble innovations in the orthodox plan of building tumbrils. All the farmers who were accustomed to look over Marlow's gate thought so too, and the fancies of youn? Charles Rushmere about his new tumbril became at length the talk of the three adjoining parishes. In due course the re- port reached the ears of Mr. Rushmere senior ; and one bright morning, when Charles, regardless of Isaac Marlow's repeated intimations that his tumbril had long been finished and ought to be removed, entered the yard with the intention of suggesting another alteration, he found his fathei WHITE THORNE FARM. 9? Standing before the said tumbril, and surveying ii with a sarcastic countenance. " I have done myself the honor of coming from Scrapeton Grange this morning," said he, " to look at this precious article, which has afforded a theme for so many flattering remarks on the wisdom of my eldest son." " I hope, sir, that it meets with your approba- tion," returned Charles, endeavoring to assume an air of nonchalance. " No, sir, you don't hope any such thing; for you know me too well to suppose I can approve of such needless folly and extravagance," retorted the old man, with an ireful glance ; " and pray," continued he, " how do you think it is ever to be paid for ?" " I shall pay for it out of my share of the prof- its of White Thorne farm." " Oh, you will, sir ? Then let me tell you that if you turn my liberality to so poor an ac- count, you shall have no farm to gain any profits from another year, but your brother Frank shall come to White Thorne farm, and you shall return home to take the laboring oar at Scrapeton Grange under my own eye." " As you please, sir," said Charles. " No, sir ; it is not as I please, for Sukey Scratchit, whom I sent here to take care of you and your house, tells me that you are tired of her 9 9S WHITE THORKE FARM. and want to bring home a wife to White Thome farm." *' She only tells you the truth, sir," rejoinea the young man. " I have bestowed my affections on the prettiest, the most sensible, and the most industrious girl in the parish, and if you are the good father I have ever had reason to consider you, you will not oppose my wish to make Lucy Marlow my wife." " Very fine talking, but I have not labored all my life to gain wealth that you might throw ^^our- self away on a beggarly wheelwTight's girl," re- plied the elder Rushmere; and taking Charles by the arm, he led him out of Marlow's yard. Charles could have wept with shame and morti- fication at the thought of x such a scene taking place there — within hearing of Lucy's brothers, too ! Fortunately, Isaac Marlow was absent that day purchasing timber, or the taunts of the sordid rich man would not have passed unanswered. There was a cloud on his brow when he sat down to supper that night, for his sons had related the particulars of this annoying affair to him, as they had before done to Lucy. Lucy's eyes were swollen with weeping. Her pride and deli- cacy had been deeply wounded, and she feared ?he had incurred her father's displeasure ; but she had no cause for apprehension. Isaac Mar- low was a just man and a kind parent, and when WHITE THORNE FARM. 9& she came to kiss him before they parted for the night, he patted her cheek affectionately, and said, " Cheer up, my Lucy ; you have been a good girl and a prudent one. No one has been to blame but Charles Rushmere, in playing such boy's tricks about that foolish tumbril, and per- haps I was worse than he for taking his order. However, the tumbril is a good one, and I shall dispose of it to another person ; so that need not trouble old Rushmere." The next day Isaac Marlow wrote word t:. Charles Rushmere, " that, as he understood his father disapproved of the order he had given him, he had sold the article to a fancy farmer from London, and hoped he v/ould have no farther un- easiness about it." " I hope he may dispose of his girl to the fancj farmer from London, as well as the tumbril," was the elder Rushmere's obliging comment on honest Mario w's communication. Charles turned pale with vexation ; for the fancy farmer, who was the son of a rich London mercer, and had recently turned an ancient farm-house into a modern Gothic cottage, with a Grecian portico, orna- mented in the Egyptian style, had created a far greater sensation among the rural nymphs of Woodfield than ever Charles had done, and he feared he might prove a formidable rival in the heart of Lucy during his a isence from the scena iOO WHITE THORNE FARM. The elder Mr. Rushmere insisted on his giving up White Thome farm for the present to his bro- ther, and returning to the Grange. Mr. Eush- mere had cause to repent of this arrangement, for his son Frank, instead of bringing him either rent or profits from the farm, pursued a head- long career of dissipation as soon as he found himself in some degree his own master, formed an intimacy with the fancy farmer from London, ordered his clothes of a Bond street tailor of his recommending, set his father and Sukey Scratchit at defiance, gave convivial parties at his bachelor abode, and at the end of a couple of years deeply involved himself in debt, and finished his career by breaking his neck at a steeple-chase, which, as Sukey Scratchit consolingly observed to his father when she comnmnicatcd the tragical event to him, " was the most sensihlest thing he had done since he cn^-^Q lo live at White Thome farm, and very convenient for his family just at that time, for if he had only lived another week, he was going to marry the sister of the fancy farmer's housekeeper, a very unworthy character as she understood ; and then," pursued she, " all the money you have been scrubbing (Suffolk for scraping) together would have gone, you may guess where ; for poor Master Charles aint likely to want it long, as I guesses by the look of him ; and so, as I say, it 's all as it should be, and you WHITE TIIOKISE FAIJM. 101 . will have plenty of time to look about' yo'a for an heir after poor Master Charles is dead and his finer ol is over." " Does the woman mean to drive me mad by telling me of the death of one of my boys and the funeral of the other in the same breath?" ex- claimed the miserable rich man of Scrapeton Grange. " Why, lauk, sir, don't put yourself out with me, pray, for I 'm sure I meant no offence by just giving you a hint, now we are talking of ihe death of Master Frank, that you ought not to set your mind too much on his brother, for if you have n't noticed his horrid bad looks, and his tisicking cough, all the three parishes have, and they all lay the blame on your shoulders, 'cause they say he is breaking his heart for the love of Lucy Mario w and the loss of White Thorne farm together, and you would have been a happier, and, more than that, a richer man, if you had let him have them both, say I." " Why, you vile old pick-thank, whose fault was it that I ever heard a parcel of tales about my son Charles ? " " Your own, to be sure, sir, for lending an ear to a set of envious serpents who came to set you against your own flesh and blood." " Were not you at the very head of ear-wig ging me, you deceitful old hag?" 9# ,' 1 109 WKJTE THORNE FARBI. "WKat/I, Sir! — well, it is a fine thing to have some one to lay your evil deeds on. As true as I 'm alive, I always said Master Charles was my favorite, and well he might be, for a nicer, quieter young fellow in a house I never waited upon. Always home and in bed by ten o'clock ; always up by five in the morning, and seeing after his men, and worked harder than any of them. We had no harum-scarum doing's with him. He had set his mind on a proper good girl, and that was what kept him so steady, for he bore in mind king Solomon's proverb, ' a virtuous woman is a crown of glory to her husband's head.'" The awful termination of Frank Rushmere's reckless career caused much excitement in the parish of Woodfield, but a more general sensation of sorrow was created by the pale and melancholy appearance of Charles Rushmere at his brother's funeral. Lucy's brothers told her he was certainly in a deep decline, and Lucy, instead of sleeping, bathed her pillow in tears that night. The next day was a beautiful May morning; the sun shone brightly, the bees were humming gaily among the newly-opened flowers in Lucy s little garden, and the birds carolled forth their songs of joy in the white-blossomed cherry-trees, and the old elms that overshadowed the dwelling; WHITE THORNE FARM. 103 her young sisters were playing with their pet lamb on the grass-plot, and the kitten frisking round them. Everythinof seemed cheerful and happy except poor Lucy. " And now," said she to her father, after the rest of the family had gone out from breakfast, " it is worse for me than if I had permitted Charles Rushraere to court me." " Not so, my Lucy ; you have obeyed your father, and your conscience is free from offence," leplied Isaac Marlow. " Have patience, Lucy, and things may even yet work together for your good." " Ah," "said Lucy, " how is it to be if Charles Kushmere dies?" " He is worth many dead men yet," returned her father. Lucy was glad to busy herself in putting away the breakfast things to conceal her tears. While she was thus occupied, her sisters came running in, crying, " Oh, Lucy, Lucy, what do you think! — old Mr. Rushmere has sent the drollest, high- backed, old green shay-cart you ever saw, to fetch you to Scrapeton Grange this morning." " Has he sent it for me ? " exclaimed Lucy, turning pale. " Are you sure of that, Anne ?" " Certainly ; the old man v/ho has come to drive you told us so, and begged that you v/ould ::o'\ie as quickly as possible, for his master did 104 WHITE THOKNE FARM. not wish him to lose half a day's work if it crold be helped." "Father," said Lucy, " may I go ?" " Go, my child," replied her father, '' if it is your wish." Jane had already flown to fetch her sister's Sunday bonnet and shawl, and Lucy, who was always neat, tarried not to make any change in her household garb ; but alm.ost before Mr. Rush- mere's envoy thought she had been made ac- quaiPxted with the nature of his errand, she came forth in readiness to obey the welcome summons. Jonas gave her an approving smile, and nodded to himself as she took her seat in the antiquated vehicle by his side ; and as they jolted and rum- bled together out of the yard, Polly Jones testified her lively sympathy and good will towards her young mistress, by throwing an old shoe after her for luck. Lucy was half way on the road to Scrapeton before she could command her voice to ask old Jonas how Mr. Charles Rushmere was. " Lord love your heart, he '11 do well enough now, I '11 warrant him," W£ls the cheering reply of the sagacious driver. " Then he is not dying ? " " Oh, lauk, no, miss ! nor half so bad as I was when I was crossed in love fifty years ago. I tell you what, miss, I have heard of some yo'jna WHITE THORNE FARBI. 105 women as have fretted themselves to dead for sick like ; but men ar' n't so tender-hearted : for, you see, miss, they has other things to occupy their time and thoughts. Not, miss, but what oui young master have vexed kisself good tidily about you, and so our master thinks, or else he would not have bundled me off so early this morning to fetch you. But our Sukey is partly to be thanked for that, for she put it into his head that Master Charles would have a faver or information of the heart with fretting so about you, miss. Master fared very queer, I promise you, when he heard that on the night after his other son's fineral too. * So,' says he, ' there 's a real physicshin from London now at the Angel, what came to see old my lord, and we '11 hear what he thinks of Mas- ter Charles ; run, Jonas, and tell him to step this way.' So I gived the doctor a bit of a hint as we comed along; and -wdien he had felt our young master's pulse, he looked wherry solemn, and shaked his head. Says he, ' It is all in the heart, which have brought on alarming simpkbis of another natu, for which I must \vi'ite a des- cription.^ Then our master, when he had got the description made out, though he could not read one word of it, was forced to give doctor a golden guinea ; for this was a real physicshin wot was staying at the Angel, you know. Well, the description did our young master no good at all 106 WHITE THORNE FARM. as how should it? Then says old Sukey, says she, ' I can give you the best descriptiofi for Master Charles after all, only ^'■ou won't be ruled by me sir, I s'pose.' ' But,' says master, ' Sukey, I wool, if you are sure it won't be too late.' Then says she to master again, ' While there's life there's hope, and to be sure you won't be a Barbarous Allen to your own son, now he 's like to lie on his young deathbed ? ' " Master took her meaning, and told me to get out the old shay-can, and brush it up a bit, which was only decent for me to do, for it had stood on one side in the cart-shed ever since our mistress' fineral, and the hens had got to roost along the high back of it, so that I had fine work to clean it up, as you may s'pose ; and when I had got it a little tidy, and dusted the cushions, he ordered me to go and fetch you. Miss Lucy, the first thinq- in the morninq-." Jonas had never in all his life met mth an au- ditor who listened to his prosing with the interest the lovelorn Lucy bestowed on his narrative. When Lucy arrived at Scrapeton Grange, she felt some trepidation at the anticipation of an in- terview with the father of her lover, but Jonas, as if guessing her thoughts, said, " Apray, miss don't go to frighten yourself about our master, for 't ain't at all likely you '11 see him.'' '■ How so ? " demanded Lucy, in surprise. WHITE THOENE FARM. 107 " Why, our master is a very queer old fellow out I says nothing." Mrs. Sukey Scratchit now came forth in hei CiSan starched muslin apron and high-crowned cap, to receive and welcome Lucy, and to act as mistress of the ceremonies in ushering her into the presence of her sick lover. Charles Eushmere, when the weeping Lucy approached the old-fashioned s; I'ee on which his emaciated form reclined, drew her gently to him, and whispered, " She came ; his cold hand softly touched, And bathed with many a tear ; Fast falling o'er the primrose pale So morning dews appear." *' Ah, Charles, if you only knew how often 1 have cried over that ballad of late ! " sobbed Lucy, in the fullness of her heart. " If you please. Miss Marlow," interrupted Mistress Sukey, putting her head in at the door, " master desires his compliments to you, and hopes you will excuse his dming at home to-day, if so be as you and Master Charles can make yourselves comfortable to dine together alone on roast fowl, with white bacon and egg-sauce, and a bread pudding, at one o'clock." " Mr. Rushmere is very kind, I am sure," said Lucy. " And remarkably considerate too," added 108 WHITE THORNE FARM. Charles, with a smile. " Tell him we are greatly obliged to him, and shall be very comfortable without him." " Lauk, Master Charles, he knows that well enough ; and that is the reason he goes out to- day," rejoined Mistress Sukey. My readers may imagine how swiftly and happily the hours fled away till six o'clock arrived, when Mistress Sukey again made her appearance to announce that the shay was at the door in readiness to convey Miss Lucy home. A few days afterwards, Charles was sufficiently recovered to be able to ride over to Woodfield to return Lucy's visit, which his father intimated to him would be only a civil thing. At the end of a month, Charles was reinstated in the occu- pation of White Thorne Farm ; and a few days after, Mr. Rushmere called at the wheelwright's house, where he found Lucy very busy kneading bread, while Eolly was heating the oven. The old man condescended to commend Lucy's method of making up her loaves, asked for a mug of beer in order to ascertain her skill in brewing, gave a scrutinizing glance at the general neat appearance of the kitchen, and then walked off to the work- shop, where he abruptly informed Isaac Marlow '•* that his business with him was to hear how soon it would suit him to spare his daughter to DC his son's wife." WHITE THORNE FARM. 109 " If you ask me when it would suit me to spare my Lucy, I should say never," was the reply of the fond parent, " for she is my greatest comfort on earth; but as it is her happiness, not my own, I should think of, I suppose 1 must make up my mind to part with her as soon as one of her sisters is old enough to take her place." " No, no, Mr. Marlow, my son wants his wife home before harvest; and if he can't have her now, I shall make him take some one else, (that is ifl can.) But I had better send him to talk to you about it, for she seems to be the sort of girl to suit us." That very day Charles came and pleaded his cause so movingly to the father of his Lucy, that Isaac Marlow consented to their immediate union. Lucy was loth to leave her father with so young a housekeeper as Anne, who was scarcely twelve years old ; " but then," as she observed, " both Anne and Jane were very handy, and had learned many useful things of her, and Polly was now seventeen, and had got into nice neat ways, and she should herself be living near enough to come and help them on baking days, and any other times when they required assistance or ad- vice." So the matter was settled, and on midsummer 10 110 'A'niTE TlIOR^;E farm. day Anne and Jane officiated as bridesmaids to their happy siL'ter, and Polly Jones, not the least delighted of the party, gained a new gown and while ribbon from the bridegroom. HI THE POSTMAN'S KNOCK BY MISS POWER. " He comes — Yei careless what he brings ; his one concern Is to conduct it to the destined inn ; And, having dropped the expected bag, paaa on, To him indifferent whether grief or joy." COWPER, The postman's knock ! who is there that can aear that seemingly insignificant sound without at least a sensation of curiosity, a vague feeling of expectation, if not a thrill of hope or fear ? Disappointment generally succeeds; either the letter is for some one else in the house, or it is a commonplace note from a commonplace acquaint- ance, or perhaps it is a bill ; and we fling it aside, feeling a little impatient with ourselves for imag- ining it could be anything interesting. This is the general effect of the postman's visit ; but per- haps the letter arrives, and there is something in the seal or in the handwriting of the address, or there may be certain mystical ciphers in the the shape of initials at the corner, that make us tear open the missive with an eager hand and a 112 THE postman's KNOCK. beating heart ; and first devour, then quietly reaa the contents, which call forth smiles of delight, or tears, either of grief or rapture. Little recks the postman, as he trudges on through rain and sun- shine, v/hat a load of joy and woe, and love, and hatred, and indifference, and deceit, he bears about him every day ; at one door he drops the intelli- gence of another human being having entered this world of woe, as it is the approved custom to call it; at the next, he leaves the information of one having quitted it ; but to him it is all the same ; he pur- sues " his beat," alike unconscious and regardless of the burst of delight or the wild outbreak of un- controllable grief, that immediately succeeds his departure; and thus he goes on, day after day, the unwitting messenger of happiness or misery to thousands. At the window of a large and handsome house in^ Square, sat a young girl apparently em- ployed in needle work : we say apparently, be- cause, had you watched her for even a few min- utes, you might have seen that the little white hand ever and anon paused in the middle of a stitch, and the large soft eyes turned from the embroidery frame to the square below, as though her thoughts were far otherwise occupied than in the shading of a rose or the streaking of a tulip. This girl seemed to be about eighteen ; she was no*, what could be strictly called beautiful ; had THE postman's KNOCK. llt^ you examined each feature separately, you would have discovered that the nose was almost verging upon the retrousse, and the mouth not so small as the strict line of heauty prescribed ; yet, who ever thought that such was the case, as they watched the rosy lips breaking into a smile of unutterable sweetness, and displaying a row of teeth white and dazzling as new-fallen snow; her eyes were magnificent, large and soft, of the deepest violet, fringed with lashes below and above, black as night, and so long, that as she looked up or donm they alternately touched the dark and exquisitely penciled brow, or swept the fair cheek below ; her complexion was delicate to a degree, the loveliest pale pink and white, with the blue veins wandering beneath in bea niful distinctness, and her dark hair increasing ^he purity of the coloring ; she was rather petite, with a slight, flexible, gracefully rounded figure ; and hands and feet of fairy dimensions and fault- less proportions. Altogether, Mary Lawrence was a most winning creature, and if any one were stoic enough to resist the witchery of her face, her low silvery voice, her sweet, child-hke laugh, and her half arch, half innocent manner, brought the rebel to her feet at once. She was alone in the spacious and handsomely furnished drawing room, for her mother had gone out to drive and her brother to ride ; and though she .14 THE postman's KNOCK. liked both driving and riding in general, strange to say, she seemed to have taken a distaste to both on this particular day, and preferred sitting at home and occupying herself with what old maids and boarding-school misses call " a piece of work," namely, a square of canvas, on which it is the employment of the said old maids and boarding-school misses to embroider very large red roses, white lilies, striped with grey, [shaded I should say,) and various other flowers, that no botanist, from Linnssus to those of the. present day, ever described ; which clearly proves that thti fair embroiderers have advanced much far- ther in their discoveries than the said botanists. Mary Lawrence did not belong to either of those clas es of society we have mentioned, and she or.y applied herself to this task, so peculiarly appropriated to them, because her mind was very fully occupied just at that time, and she wished not to let her fingers remain in total idleness. And yet the "piece of work" advanced very slowly indeed, and there were many strange mis- takes in the coloring of it ; here the petal of one of the red roses infringed terribly upon a grey and white lily, while the lily, being in conse- quence pressed for room, extended one of its blossoms over half the space alloted to a tulip; and yet Mary worked on, happily unconscious THE postman's KNOCK. 115 of the very disorderly state of her lambswool bouquet. The postman's knock! Mary started to hei feet, the eloquent blood, rushed to her snowy temples, and then receded as fast — her heart beat audibly, but she stood silent and motionles? as a statue— her lips apart— her eyes fixed upon the door, and every sense seemingly resolved into that of hearing; a step sounded on the stairs, and in an instant, with a woman's presence of mind, she was again seated, bending over her embroidery, as if her whole soul was occupied in the shading of one of those anonymous flowers though her glowing cheek and trembling hand belied her seeming composure. The door opened ; it was only a footman, but he brought a letter, which he presented to her ; she waited till he had closed the door, then pressing it passionately to her lips, she tore it open, rushed up to her own room, locked herself in, and throwing herself on ^fauteuil, began to peruse the precious epistle. It was a beautiful study to watch that young, innocent, impassioned creature, as she read the words of glowing tenderness inscribed by the hand— prompted by the heart, w^here eveiy ac- tion and every thought had reference to ner alone; as she traced each sentence, so instinct with fond, earnest, unchanging love, her emotion became too powerful to be suppressed, and burst- 116 THE FOSTMAN's KNOCK. ing" into a passion of tears, she wept with excess of happiness ; then wiping away her tears, she read the letter over and over again, dwelt on each line, each word, pressed it to her lips, her heart, and leaning back in her chair, her face upturned and radiant with an expression of happiness too deep for words, she indulged in a long reverie of blissful thoughts and anticipations. Lord , her lover, to whom she had been for the last two years engaged, was about to return from the continent, where he had occu- pied an important diplomatic post for the last eighteen months. Earnestly had he entreated, before his departure, that Mary should become his wife and accompany him abroad, but her mother (her only surviving parent) was inflexi- ble ; she was too young to be taken into a foreign land, from under that mother's eye, far from all the friends and the scenes of her youth, and Lord was forced, most unwillingly, to take his departure, havmg agreed with his future bride that a constant correspondence should be kept up until he returned to claim her as his own. And now that time had arrived, he was about to embark for England, and ten days, or a fort- night at farthest, would bring him to her once more ; she would see him — she would hear the voice whose lightest tone had the power to thrill THE postman's KNOCK. 117 her with exquisite delight ! and abandoning her* self to the most delicious dreams and anticipations that it is given to mortals to enjoy, she sat, the beloved letter, the messenger of such happiness, pressed to her bosom, until the sound of carriage wheels and the thundering knock at the door, aii- nounced the return of her mother. The postman passed on from the handsome mansion in Square, and saluted with the self-same knock the door of a small, dark, com- fortless looking house in a narrow, gloomy street leading from that he had just quitted ; he waited for a few moments and th§n repeated the knock, and the door was gently opened by a woman of about five-and-twenty, but whose pale, drawii, careworn face, gave her an appearance of being considerably older than. she really was. As she took the letter from the hand of the postman, hope, fear, and expectation crossed her counte- nance in rapid succession, and having softly closed the door, she proceeded with a rapid but noiseless step up the narrow and gloomy stair- case, and entering a small, cheerless but perfectly neat room, silently seated herself by the side of the little crib in which lay a sleeping child, whose thin, pale face, and attenuated hands, proclaimed that sickness had heavily stricken its young life, nay, brought it to the very verge of the grava 118 THE postman's KNOCK. With a beating heart, and a hand trembling with emotion, the mother tore open tlie letter. The handwriting of the direction was familiar to her, but it was not that she expected, and with a thousand conflicting emotions, in which fear, however, was predominant, she began the peru- sal of the epistle. The contents w^ere beyond what she had even ventured io fear; for there are some calamities so frightful that we dare not think of them suffi ciently to dread them : — she was a widow! the appalling stroke came upon her with such a fear- ful weight of agony that she was stupified — par- alyzed by it: — then came the full consciousness of the whole, and dropping the fatal letter she fell back in her chair, with a stifled groan, in a state of insensibility. She was desolate in the wide world, her boy an orplian ; who would watch over him and sruard him when she was ofone ? Parents she had none, nor friends to whom she could confide him. She was well born, but by an imprudent marriage she had, they deemed, lost all claim upon them — it is so easy, when any of our relations commit an indiscretion that brings pov- erty upon them, and when they cannot possibly be of any further use to us, to magnify this indis- cretion into a crime against ourselves, of so deep a dye that no penitence can ever wash it out, and THE postman's KNOCK. 119 we feel the necessity of banishing th(; offender from our hearts and hearths forever ! The postman passed on and knocked at another door in the same street ; a slow and heavy step approached it from the inside, and the locks being carefully unfastened, it opened, and displayed an old man — so old, that as you looked at his bent frame, his palsied head, and trembling hands, you wondered that he had the strength to draw back the ponderous bohs that secured the massive door. Without speaking, he held out the lean and withered hand, into which the postman put the letter, with the laconic demand, " Twopence to pay ;" the old man looked at him for a moment as if not entirely comprehending the meaning of his words; then glancing at the figure "2" on the letter, he muttered, " Twopence ! and where am I to find twopences to pay for all the scribbled papers I get ? a gross imposition on a poor old man that has not a shilling to keep him from starvation ! " Then with a groan he dived to the bottom of the deep pockets of his tattered and threadbare dressing-gown, and at length drawing slowly forth a stained and faded purse, he took from it a penny, then a halfpenny, and looking at them wistfully, he offered them to the post- man, and with a ghastly grin, intended as an in- sinuating smile, he said, " Here, my good man, l?0 THE postman's knock. lake it ; you will not ask more from a poor old man who is hurrying to the grave from starva- tion and misery — take it;" but the postman was inexorable, and the " poor old man," once more drawing out the venerable purse, took from it the other halfpenny, and with an air of desperation he threw it into the postman's hand, and shutting the door after him he once more secured the bolts, and with a feeble step ascended the creak- ing staircase. He entered a wretched apartment, in which the dust of ages seemed indeed to have accumulated; a crazy table, two broken chairs, and a truckle bedstead, formed the furniture of the room ; but beside these articles were one or two well secured boxes ; the walls had once been papered, but now time and damp had done their work, and the tattered fragments hung dowm in melancholy dilapidation ; while now and then a blast of wind, finding an easy passage through the ill-fitting, though firmly barred casements, waved the torn strips slowly to and fro ; in the floor were many holes, at one of which sat watch- ing, with eager eyes,- a large, half-starved, black cat, who, as her master entered, looked at him as though to reproach him for disturbing, with the rounds of his footsteps, her expected prey. The old man slowly seated himself on one of the ricketty chairs, deliberately wiped his spec- tacles^ put them on, and taking up the letter. THE postman's KNOCK. 121 which he had during this operation placed on the table, he carefully examined the superscription, the folding, and the seal, but as the figure " 2 " met his eye, he shook his head, sighed heavily, and then proceeded to open the missive. It was from his nephew, the only child of his only sister: — it stated that he was in poverty and distress, the world had all gone wrong with him, and now he was about to be put under arrest for a debt of five pounds: — in terms the most moving he prayed that this once his uncle would assist him by sending the required sum. The old man threw down the letter with a per- plexed air: — a request for money — for that money amassed through years of toil and misery and voluntary starvation — that money which was dearer to him than all beside: — and five pounds ! he looked again at the sum specified, to be quite certain that such was indeed the amount of the demand ; then with an indignant air he threw the letter aside, and began to resume a calculation which the arrival of the postman had interrupted. But still there was a something in his nephew's epistle that in spite of the covering of selfishness and misanthropy and indifference that had grad ually grown over the miser's heart, touched irre sistiblv on one chord; his sister he had loved better than any being on earth ; he had been the 11 122 THE postman's knock. youngest of three brothers ; they ^vere stiong and healthy and handsome, while he, weakly and puny, and of a reserved and silent disposition, had been despised and neglected by his whole family, with the exception of that sister ; she had preferred him to the other two — she had played with him in their childhood — she had assisted him in his tasks — had screened him from many a harsh word : — she sympathized in his son'ows, and rejoiced in his few pleasures ; and when in after years she entered into society, and became courted and followed and admired from her ex- treme beauty and talents, she had still often left the gay crowd, who came to pay their homage, that she might sit by his side in his solitary chamber, and talk to him of those subjects that she well knew had the most interest for him. The recollection of all this came upon him, though he tried to forget it ; and then he thought of her as he had last seen her, — stretched upon the bed of death, to which she had been brought by that disease which nought on earth can cure — a broken heart. Her husband had fled, a ruined man, to the Continent, taking with him their son — that very boy who, now grown to manhood, petitioned him for what would just save him from a prison — that boy who, in for- mer years, had climbed on his knees — h?d cr^- ressed him, and whom he had If ved so icv.drx];/ THE postman's knoce. ]2t5 'rom his likeness to her who now slept in het cold grave. As these memories, which had (ong been buried in the lapse of years of neglect, and misery and calculation, and avarice, once more awoke in the old man's breast, the bank that had so long dammed up all the softer and iindlier feelings of his nature at length gave