ALDERBROOK: 
 
 A COLLECTION OF 
 
 FANNY FORESTER'S 
 
 VILLAGE SKETCHES, POEMS, ETC. 
 
 BY 
 
 MISS EMILY CHUBBUCK. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. n. 
 
 FOURTH EDITION. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 WILLIAM D. TICKNOR AND COMPANY 
 
 M DCCC XLVII.
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by 
 
 WILLIAM D. TICKNOR AND COMPANY, 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. 
 
 8t.rtolyp.rt by 
 GEORGE A. CURTIS;
 
 FS 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF THE SECOND VOLUME 
 
 THE UNUSEFUL, 5 
 
 NORA MAYLIE, v 15 
 
 GRANDFATHER BRAY, 35 
 
 SONNET TO WINTER, 49 
 
 " LIGHTS AND SHADES, 49 
 
 " THE BUDS OF THE SARANAC, 50 
 
 BORN TO WEAR A CORONET, . . 51 
 
 WILLARD LAWSON, . . -.- 63 
 
 A CASE OF LUNACY NOT UNCOMMON, 85 
 
 THE GREAT MARCH HOLYDAY, 94 
 
 NOT A POET, 107 
 
 Two NIGHTS IN THE " NIEUW NEDERLANDTS," 109 
 
 LUCY BUTTON, 121 
 
 MYSTERY, 128 
 
 THE PRIEST'S SOLILOQUY, 130 
 
 AUNT ALICE, 133 
 
 MY FIRST GRIEF, 136 
 
 THE MIGNIONETTE, (A Fable,) 138 
 
 MINISTERING ANGELS, 141 
 
 THE RAIN A THOUGHT-MAKER, 143 
 
 GENIUS, 152
 
 iv CONTENTS. 
 
 LILIAS FANE, 157 
 
 TUB Two FLOWERS, ^ ,176 
 
 RUG RAFFLES, 178 
 
 THE FRENCH EMIGRANTS, 198 
 
 IDA RAVELIN, (A Fantasy,) 20(5 
 
 To SPRING, 242 
 
 THE POETESS, (An Allegory,) 244 
 
 DORA', 247 
 
 THE DISSATISFIED SPIRIT, 256 
 
 FAREWBTI, TO ALDERBROOX, 260
 
 ALDER BROOK 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 THE UNUSEFUL. 
 
 MAN is a born equestrian ; and from the time when mother 
 Eve fixed her anxious heart on improving her condition, and 
 crushed a world at a single bound, to this present writing, he 
 has never lacked a hobby whereon to exercise to his heart's 
 content. And it is no tame, gentle exercise ; for, whatever 
 the hobby may be, and whether well-mounted or otherwise, 
 he not only rides tantivy, but hesitates not to " run through a 
 troop and leap over a wall." We have innumerable hobbies 
 now-a-days ; and many of them (to our credit be it said) are 
 of an excellent character. But, poor things ! they are ridden 
 down most savagely. 
 
 You may have seen, among these poor, jaded, spavined, 
 wind-galled, would-be-racers of beasts of burden, a huge mam- 
 moth, with a back like a continent, and legs like those of Mark 
 Antony in Cleopatra's dream. This is a universal hobby that 
 men have named USEFULNESS ; and such strong claims has it 
 to the suffrages of all but the butterflies, that whoever eschews 
 the wing of the idler, must needs accept a seat. There is no 
 medium, no spot of terra firma on which we may stand and 
 labor in quiet, sober earnest ; one must either flutter in the air 
 a giddy thing, or gallop away almost as madly on the back of 
 this irresistible hobby. But we do, verily, constitute a goodly 
 array; and so uncompromisingly do we ride down every- 
 thing that is elegant and beautiful, and indolently lovely, that 
 
 VOL. n. 1*
 
 8 THE UNUSEFUL. 
 
 anomaly. At four, she took patch-work to school ; but poor 
 Nora ! she could n't see into the philosophy of over-and-over 
 seams. She would rather spread the pretty calicoes on her 
 knee, and admire their bright coloring, or twist them up into 
 dolls with paper heads, and closely-pinned drapery. Then 
 she was particularly given to losing thimbles, and knotting 
 thread ; and her needle, however clumsy, was always bent or 
 broken at the point, the legitimate result of her devotion to 
 badly cracked hickory nuts. And then such stitches ! Why 
 the little girls laughed till the tears came into their eyes from 
 very merriment at the sight ; but when they saw the big drops 
 standing in hers, they all patted her velvet cheeks lovingly, 
 and smoothed her hanging hair ; and if they found her incon- 
 solable, made a chair with their crossed hands and bore her 
 away in triumph to the play-ground. In their wise, confiden- 
 tial talks, they used to say that Nora Maylie was just the 
 dearest little creature in the world, but it was a great pity she 
 could not sew. As some compensation for my little friend's 
 deficiencies, I should like to be able to say that she was a good 
 scholar ; but no assertion could have less truth in it, she 
 was just no scholar at all. And yet I am not certain but a 
 careful observer of human nature, even though less shrewd 
 than the worldly-minded mother, might have detected, in this 
 very backwardness, this refusal to trammel the mind with 
 that which seemed in no wise calculated to enrich it, the 
 germ of a higher order of intellect than common minds ap- 
 preciate. As it was, however, there was no one near to raise 
 the one fold of ignorance from the beautifying soul beneath ; 
 and so Nora was judged by her non-attainments. How heart- 
 ily she hated the monotonous a, b, c, and the smart, flippant 
 a b ab, e b eb, i b ib, that made her companions' tongues re- 
 semble so many mill-clappers. When, by dint of constant 
 dinging, she could make out the words of a few easy sen- 
 tences, such as " no man may put off* the law 
 of God," she still evinced the same dead level of intellect, 
 and hated her books, and hated (as poor Mrs. Maylie often 
 despairingly observed) everything that was useful. But Nora
 
 THE UNUSEFUL. 9 
 
 did not hate to follow her mother through the routine of her 
 day's labor ; to run for the spoon or carving-knife when it 
 was wanted, and anticipate the thousand little wants that 
 occasion a careful housewife so many steps. She learned 
 this readily, for her heart was her teacher. Neither did she 
 hate the arrant idlers of which I 'have before spoken: the dal- 
 lying breezes, the sleepy flowers, the chatty brooks, and the 
 slow-sailing clouds. Oh no ! they were too like her dear 
 little self, too natural and graceful, ay ! and too idle withal, 
 to be anything but friends to their free and careless playmate. 
 Oh ! Nora ! Nora ! thou wert a sore trial to thy poor mother's 
 heart ! but what a pity that our first mother could not have 
 remained contented in her ignorance then we might all 
 have been like thee. Dear, darling Nora ! We cannot re- 
 spect thee, as the dictionaries define respect, but we can take 
 thee to our hearts and hold thee there forever. 
 
 Years passed, and Nora had seen a dozen summers. She 
 had retrieved her character at school, in a degree, but yet she 
 had never mastered the multiplication table. Every word of 
 a little book of fairy tales, the daily object of Mrs. Maylie's 
 animadversions, was as familiar to her as the robin's song 
 trilled forth every morning beneath her window, or the splash 
 of the spotted trout, that made its home in the brook at the 
 hill's foot ; Watts' dear, delightful children's melodies, from 
 " How doth the little busy bee," to the end of the catalogue 
 were on her tongue's tip, to say nothing of the " Children of 
 the Wood," and other ballads, for whose loss no modern rhym- 
 ster can compensate ; but Nora could not repeat a rule from 
 Lindley Murray. When not engaged in homely acts of love 
 within doors, she would wander from field to field, through 
 meadow and copse, over hills and into deep, solemn dingles, 
 until the tangled masses of hair shaded her face like a veil 
 woven of golden threads, and her joyous eyes looked out 
 wonderingly from their sunny ambush, like two renegade 
 stars that had leaped from their azure mounting and set up 
 for themselves in the amber shades of an October wilderness. 
 There she would lie, hours, beneath a shady tree, her straw
 
 10 THE UNUSBFUL. 
 
 bonnet by her side, wild flowers scattered around her, and a 
 bar of sunlight resting on her feet, gazing into the sky with 
 those large chamelion eyes all bathed in light, and with an 
 intensity belonging only to idle dreamers like herself. 
 
 Time still went on, and Nora was obliged, like her sisters, 
 to choose a profession. She said she did not care ; they 
 might bind her to whatever they chose ; though she intimated 
 that if they could provide her with a little spade and a little 
 hoe, she should by all means prefer horticulture. Such an 
 enchanting spot as she would make of the old kitchen-garden ! 
 The beans, and cabbages, and onions should be uprooted at 
 once. The peas might remain though she would have all 
 sweetpeas but all the other weeds should give place to the 
 beautiful violets, and tiarelals, and fringe-wort that she would 
 bring from the woods. And Nora May lie really grew ani- 
 mated at her own foolish plans. 
 
 If truth must be told, Mrs. Maylie was more troubled 
 about the perverseness of her youngest daughter than if it 
 had been any of the others ; for never had a mother's ambition 
 a more beautiful corner-stone for the erection of its castles 
 than this. She had first conceived Nora to be a genius, but 
 she had waited long and vainly for what she considered 
 genius-like developments. Nora was unambitious and una.- 
 suming, and all the puffing and pushing in the world could 
 not make her other than what she was. Disappointed in her 
 first hopes, Mrs. Maylie had set her heart on making a teacher 
 of Nora, but alas ! Nora's head was not of the right stuff". 
 She loved books dearly, but such books ! Why there was not, 
 if we allow Mrs. Maylie to be the judge, a useful one amons? 
 them all ! She revelled in the enchanting luxuries of literary 
 flower-gatherers: they were the mirrors to reflect her own 
 heart, and the glorious world about her, and her own imag- 
 inings. But what science for a school-teacher ! Mrs. Maylie 
 was in a dilemma. She hesitated a while, and then, with 
 praiseworthy decision, seized it by the only horn to hang a 
 hope upon. It was decided'that Nora Maylie, in view of her 
 tastefulness and lack of intellectuality, should be a milliner ;
 
 THE UNUSEFUL. 11 
 
 and she was forthwith sent to her sister's shop. Matilda was 
 an accomplished business-woman, giving a sharp eye to all 
 the ways and means of trade, and she perceived at once that 
 the beautiful face of her young sister would be a great orna- 
 ment to her front shop. Nora was, therefore, placed by the 
 side of the forewoman, for the express purpose of fascinating 
 customers ; but human calculations are often fallacious. I 
 have intimated before (or, if I have not, I should have done 
 so) that my friend Nora had an unusual share of artless good- 
 nature, kind consideration for everybody except herself, of 
 whom she never thought a moment ; and hence she was ill- 
 fitted for the sphere in which she seemed destined to act. 
 The very first day of her appearance as a tradeswoman, she 
 was foolish enough to tell a sallow-complexioned lady that a 
 pea-green hat, which she was on the point of purchasing, was 
 unbecoming; and so the sale was lost. Another bonnet 
 she thought too heavily laden with ornaments, and so the 
 purchaser ordered a large cluster of artificial flowers, on 
 which Matilda had resolved to speculate a little, taken from 
 the crown. Matilda expostulated and reasoned, but as the 
 simple sister only opened wide her beautiful eyes in astonish- 
 ment, and seemed utterly incapable of appreciating the argu- 
 ments, and, moreover, as a week's trial gave no symptoms 
 of reformation, she was removed to the back shop. But here 
 it was but little better ; for though she knotted ribands and 
 arranged flowers with exquisite taste, she had a way of soft- 
 ening the drudgery of the business, not at all pleasing to an 
 inhabitant of Dollar-land. If she had been satisfied to play 
 the idler herself, it might have been endured ; but Nora could 
 not bear to see those half-dozen necks bent with painful im- 
 movableness over bits of silk and stiffened muslin ; and those 
 eight times half-dozen fingers ply, ply, plying the needle con- 
 stantly, as though the whole of existence was comprised within 
 the contracted space enclosed by those four walls. And so 
 she bewildered the little coterie with the things she had seen 
 in her dreams ; the rounded periods falling from her bulbous 
 lips slowly and with a delicious quietude that bewitched while
 
 12 THE UNUSEFUL. 
 
 it lulled the senses. There was an interested uplifting of eye- 
 brows, and a relaxing of fingers when she spoke ; and smiles 
 became more frequent and stitches less, until the; detrimental 
 influence of the unuseful sister became strikingly apparent. 
 The prudent Matilda again resorted to argument; but as 
 Nora's strange obtuseness on these subjects seemed uncon- 
 conquerable, she was, at last, obliged to discharge her thought- 
 less apprentice to save her establishment from ruin. Poor 
 Nora ! she was deeply pained at the distress her friends 
 evinced on her account; and she begged to be taken home, 
 promising to do anything and everything there, that should 
 be required of her. But this, as has been already seen, was 
 no part of Mrs. Maylie's plan. She had disposed of all her 
 daughters as she desired, and if she had manoeuvred less than 
 mammas who seek for a life-establishment, she did not take 
 to herself less credit for her successful management. But in 
 the case of her youngest daughter she had entirely failed. 
 She had resolved to make Nora a star, but Nora would not 
 shine. Indeed, it would have been impossible to make her 
 think about herself long enough to know whether she shone 
 or not ; and the idea of supporting a character, even for five 
 minutes, would have been oppressive to her. Slowly she 
 moved about the large, old farm-house, with a step as noise- 
 less as 
 
 " That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, 
 Whom mortals call the moon," 
 
 cheerful, and kind, and loving; but as characterless as the 
 pet-lamb which she led about the garden by its grass-woven 
 collar. Yet rare beauties, rare for such beauty-scorning peo- 
 ple as the Maylies, sprang up beneath her touch wherever she 
 turned. Her very presence seemed to infuse into everything 
 about her a calm, quiet loveliness ; and there was a soft re- 
 pose in her manner, that made her influence felt by the most 
 bustling of the working-bees in that busiest of all busy hives. 
 Even Mrs. Maylie looked on, and wondered that everybody 
 should yield to Nora; and wondered that with her lazy \v;.\-
 
 THE UNTTSEFUL. 13 
 
 she could accomplish so much ; and then sighed that what 
 was accomplished was of so little use. To be sure, Nora 
 brought the easy-chair to her father, when he came in tired 
 from the field ; and smoothed his hair and kissed his cheek ; 
 and then supported the basin on his knee, while the old man 
 bathed his heated brow with the cold water she had dipped 
 from the spring ; but old farmer Maylie had been his life-long 
 accustomed to waiting on himself, and this was an unpar- 
 donable waste of time. And Nora carried flowers, fresh, 
 fragrant flowers, into her mother's little bed-room, and re- 
 arranged the simple furniture, and put a snowy muslin curtain 
 in place of the soiled paper one, at the window ; and, in short, 
 wrought such an entire change, that even Mrs. Maylie her- 
 self smiled involuntarily whenever she opened the door, 
 though she was always heard to lament, immediately after, 
 that such wondrous talent should be wasted on such trivial 
 pursuits. But it was with her brothers that Nora Maylie was 
 the all-in-all. Hers was the only woman's influence that they 
 had ever felt ; for their mother and elder sisters were too 
 much like themselves pushing, elbowing, jostling, calculat- 
 ing, hurrying, eating, and sleeping both of those last in a 
 greater hurry than any of the others. But coming into Nora's 
 presence was like entering a new atmosphere. There was 
 something superior something pure, serene, refining, calcu- 
 lated to suppress turbulent passions, and noisy tones, in her 
 soft, yielding manner, and low, musical voice, that no one 
 could resist. The bare, gloomy parlor, which was never 
 opened but to company, Nora won her mother into giving up 
 to her direction, and soon it was entirely metamorphosed, and 
 made a delightful withdrawing-room for the family in the cool 
 of the day. And there Nora sat with her brothers : her lux- 
 uriously developed figure so simply, yet so tastefully draped) 
 as to lead one to believe that the addition of a single fold 
 would mar its symmetry ; the pearly whiteness of her skin, 
 with the most delicate rose-tint on dewy lip and downy cheek, 
 contrasting strikingly with their bronzed labor-stained faces ; 
 her massy volumes of hair, folding plainly around a head 
 VOL. n. 2
 
 14 THE UNUSEFCL. 
 
 whose beauty would have mocked the chisel of Pygmalion, 
 and gathered into a magnificent knot behind ; her full, white, 
 exquisitely moulded hands folded over a manly shoulder, or 
 wandering like lost snow-flakes among dark, stubby clusters 
 of hair ; her breathing lips parted, and sounds wandering 
 thence at dreamy intervals, the messengers of a heart all 
 goodness, all simplicity, all love. And sometimes she would 
 bring books, the books she delighted in; and though the 
 brothers never glanced their eyes over such pages themselves, 
 Nora's soulful voice, with its bird-like tones and eloquent ca- 
 dences, was the interpreter between the poet's heart and theirs. 
 The Masters Maylie used to boast of their business-like sis- 
 ters ; asserting that nobody could drive bargains like Rachel 
 and Matilda ; and nobody could maintain order among the 
 rebellious spirits of the school-room like Susan and Mary ; 
 but their hearts always fell back upon the unuseful Nora, and 
 they declared, with softened faces and gentler voices, that she 
 was good for nothing but to love. But there they were wrong. 
 She cheered, she encouraged, she smoothed difficulties, she 
 soothed peevishness, and softened heartlessness ; her loving 
 spirit stealing unobserved on all, and distilling its own dews 
 over the whole household. None resisted her power, for 
 there was nothing in it to resist. It was impalpable, undis- 
 coverable, and yet most deliciously felt, most unhesitatingly 
 acknowledged. Was it a matter of regret that Nora Maylie 
 was an unuseful woman ? 
 
 [I did not promise you a tale, dear reader, (did I ?) when I 
 commenced this sketch. If you expected one, you were mis- 
 led by your own imagination, for I thought only of dashing 
 off, with a few simple strokes, the character of a friend, who, 
 whatever her faults, you will acknowledge has some virtues. 
 If, however, you have become sufficiently interested in gentle 
 Nora Maylie, to desire to hear more, I may resume the thread 
 of my narrative at some future period.]
 
 NORA MAYLIE. 
 
 " Do ! " 
 
 Tell more of Nora Maylie ? Ah yes ! with pleasure ; I 
 love dearly to think of her. 
 
 Please vacate that ottoman, 'Bel, and betake yourself to the 
 sofa. My first sketch was written on that, and I have a kind 
 of fondness for it; "by the same token," as an Irish woman 
 would say, that we love the haunts of our childhood. Be- 
 sides, it is just the right height ; allowing head, neck, and a 
 very small portion of the shoulder to rise above the table. 
 That will oblige me to sit straight. 
 
 High-shouldered ? Oh no ! see how easily the thing is 
 done, and without the possibility of lounging. 
 
 Then I have another reason for affecting this ottoman. 
 Geniuses have queer notions, (as well as other spoiled chil- 
 dren,) and the world pets and indulges them, and encourages 
 their eccentricities, till oddity becomes the universal badge of 
 the tribe, and men reason something on this wise : 
 
 All geniuses have queer notions ; 
 A has queer notions ; 
 Therefore A is a genius. 
 
 Or au contraire : 
 
 All geniuses have queer notions ; 
 A has no queer notions ; 
 Therefore A is not a genius. 
 
 Now I have set my heart on playing make-believe, since 1 
 am not a genius ; and so I must contrive up some little pecu- 
 liarity. Burns wrote his first things on the air, while saun- 
 tering over the " banks and braes of bonny Doon ;" and, seal- 
 ing the light-winged scrip to his memory, he carried it home 
 18
 
 IB NORA MAYLIK. 
 
 to copy from at leisure. It was a very odd thing of the Doon 
 man ! Any common individual would have written better in 
 a quiet room, with the most convenient of standishes, a half- 
 dozen nicely nibbed pens, and a quire of foolscap cut and 
 paged, all spread invitingly before him. (And, between our 
 two selves, 'Bel, I think / should prefer such a room, genius 
 or no genius.) But here is another case, quite in point. The 
 whilome proprietary of Glenmary found the shadow of a 
 bridge, a wall impregnable to truant thoughts ; and he has 
 made the spot, seldom looked upon but by rafters and cross- 
 beams, and the little winged people that go among them to 
 find summer-lodgings, classic ground. That bridge at Glen- 
 mary ! What a scrambling there will be to see it one of these 
 days! 
 
 And this ottoman ! it is a very trivial thing, to be sure, but 
 that is what makes it important ; and I shall take pains to let 
 it be known that this is my own peculiar property, leaving it 
 to be inferred that I could not possibly write anywhere else. 
 Then think of your great-grandchildren, 'Bel, exhibiting this 
 same pretty ottoman the cover so faded that you could not 
 recognize it, and the hair peeping through a thousand crev- 
 ices think of their exhibiting it to their gaping little ones 
 as I can no more, 'Bel; for, even while these light words 
 are on my tongue, there comes a grave between my eye and 
 the point it would settle on. 
 
 Wheel around the sofa, dear, and sit close beside me; 
 for the ugly vision has got upon my heart, and you must wile 
 it away, while I tell, whomever chooses to read, something 
 more of Nora Maylie. 
 
 'St, cousin ! 'st ! The public is my audience now, and will 
 care no more for that point-lace of yours than they would for 
 so much " Lisle thread." 
 
 Dear reader, how left we Nora Maylie? Indolent and 
 good-natured, was she not? Disliking anything like bustle, 
 and resisting every attempt to be made something of, with an 
 invisible strenuousness that made wise people marvel mightily, 
 whether her nature were of wax or adamant ? I think we so
 
 NORA MAYLIE. 17 
 
 left her, and so we find her ; as like what she was as yon sun 
 will be' to its present self, when we, who now glory in its 
 light, are shut away from it by the coffin-lid. Few changes 
 come upon such characters as that of the fair Nora. They 
 appear before us quietly and without ostentation, as the bright- 
 eyed pansy unfolds its petals in the spring-time ; and, like 
 that loveliest of lovely things, they live on, smiling in the 
 sunshine, and bending to the storm with a pliant gracefulness 
 which mars not their beauty. And yet those who looked 
 only at outward circumstances would have said that Nora 
 Maylie was changed most entirely. You will recollect that 
 at sixteen poor Nora was considered unfit to become a milliner 
 even, and sent home in disgrace to do nothing. At eighteen 
 she was altogether above the necessity of doing anything. 
 
 Mrs. Maylie chanced to have a sister, who married a for- 
 tune, together with an aged and gouty metropolitan ; and this 
 lady chanced to get a glimpse of our fair Nora. Instantly 
 Mrs. Maylie was made to understand that she had mistaken 
 her daughter's vocation ; and so the young beauty was be- 
 jewelled, be-flounced, and bedizened, till it was proved by 
 every possible experiment, that, adorned or unadorned, she 
 was all the same, and transferred to a fashionable drawing- 
 room. Everybody said that Nora Maylie was a very lucky 
 individual, and many a pretty maiden sighed with envy as 
 the proud mother recounted her darling's triumphs. But 
 what thought the young lady herself? Alas ! the perverse- 
 ness of human nature ! Nora longed for the green woods 
 where she had first dreamed over the gorgeous creations of 
 minds as dreamy and as idle as her own ; the silver-toned 
 voice arising from the little trout-stream at the foot of the hill 
 was forever in her ear, and she was sure no man-made music 
 could compare with it ; and there were birds and flowers, and 
 shall I tell you ? Those were very homely tastes of Nora 
 Maylie's. The tame rabbits, peaking their ears at every 
 sound ; old Mooly, with her crumpled horns and sober, sensi- 
 ble face ; the doves that used to fly from the barn-top to her 
 bosom ; the hens, with their domestic, motherly ways ; and 
 
 VOL. II. 2*
 
 19 NORA MAYLJE. 
 
 the geese, with their pretty necks and tea-party voices all 
 these were to poor Nora as so many lost friends, whose places 
 could not be supplied by the simpering things in stays and 
 broadcloth that flocked to do her homage. 
 
 And were there any other home attractions for Nora than 
 these, and her own kin ? Anything for which she would 
 have resigned her envied position, with all the eagerness of a 
 pent-up stream leaping every barrier, and bounding away to 
 the ocean's bosom ? 
 
 You may never have heard of Will Waters, a handsome, 
 dark-eyed, roguish-looking, care-for-naught sort of a fellow, 
 who would rake up more hay in four hours than anybody else 
 could between twilight and twilight, and give the rest of his 
 time to rod or gun, or some other heathenish amusement. 
 Was there a dance, Will Waters was in the midst, leading 
 out the brightest of the blushing damsels ; was there a husk- 
 ing, it was an entire failure without Will Waters' songs ; and 
 at fourth-of-July orations and stump speeches, and other move- 
 ments for the public good, nobody could hold a candle to clever 
 Will Waters. Yet (great men will have their failings) Will 
 was a wild fellow, very wild ; and people said he was not to 
 be depended upon in the least. Nobody could tell what bad 
 things he had done or was in danger of doing ; and everybody 
 loved him for his frank heartsomeness, his ready wit, and his 
 gay good-nature ; but still, it was the general impression that 
 Will Waters, though a " very promising young man," would 
 somehow manage to seduce his nature into breaking its 
 promise. 
 
 There was a village between Mr. Waters' farm and Mr. 
 Maylie's ; and Will's handsome face was no stranger to tho 
 village beauties, who had wasted more smiles on him than 
 often burnish a coat of country finish ; but Will had somehow 
 dodged the whole artillery and passed on. Away in the 
 woods, skirting fair fields of pale green maize and dancing 
 flax, so proud of its light-poised gem of blue, Will Waters 
 was destined to another trial ; and this time the weapon was 
 nointed by a more celebrated marksman than himself.
 
 NORA MAYLIE. 19 
 
 The sun was just scattering his last grains of gold-dust 
 upon the spotted alders that leaned over the trout-stream at 
 the foot of " the Maylie hill," when Will Waters, his fowl- 
 ing-piece over his shoulder, and his dog by his side, leaped 
 the chattering brook; and, making a great crackling and 
 crashing among the underbush, landed headlong upon a vel- 
 vety bank, hemmed in by witch-hazel, blackberry bushes, and 
 the white-flowering dog-wood. The rude entree was occa- 
 sioned by an officious grape-vine that had taken a fancy to put 
 its arms around the young man's foot, coarse-booted though it 
 was ; but Will Waters was in a very proper position, consider- 
 ing all things. Beneath the deep shade of a broad-leaved 
 bass-wood, whose peculiar perfume made the air around 
 heavy with richness, appeared, in wondering amazement, the 
 mistress of this sylvan drawing-room. A bob-o'link had 
 come up from his home among the sedges over the brook, 
 and was perking his pretty bill, and smoothing his plumage 
 with a knowing impudence, directly before her face ; but 
 quick was the exit of Master Robert when wild Will Waters 
 became an actor in the scene. A scarce adult mouser, fast 
 asleep on its mistress' knee, opened its yellow eyes in affright, 
 and scampered off as fast as its velvet feet would carry it ; and 
 a crow that had lighted on a limb above, and sat in silence, 
 hopefully civilized by the nearness of the white-browed divi- 
 nity, spread his black wings and rushed skyward with a caw ! 
 caw ! which threw Madam Echo into an ecstasy of noisy fear. 
 But the fair human joined not at all in the commotion. True, 
 she rose to her feet, but not with that twitch and jerk which 
 many another would have adopted ; she rose with the aston- 
 ished dignity of one who intends to say by the movement, " I 
 am quite superior to being annoyed by you, but I should like 
 to know how far your impudence will carry you ;" and her 
 large, changeable eyes were opened to their greatest width. 
 
 " The position could have been no more appropriate had it 
 been of my own choosing, O fairest thou of witching Syl- 
 vans!" exclaimed the youth, springing to his knee, and re- 
 peating the salaam.
 
 20 NORA MAYL1E. 
 
 The lady blushed a little, and looked as though not quite 
 sure of what she ought to do in such a case, and so she did 
 nothing; though her face grew talkative with its declaration 
 of amused curiosity. 
 
 " Is it not enough that you have snares at your door-way, 
 nymph most beautiful," continued wild Will, " but must he 
 who enters your charmed circle find the chains rivetted about 
 him forever ? " 
 
 " Nay," returned the lady with a delicious smile, that be- 
 lied her mocking words, " nay, poor youth, I pity thy mishap, 
 and release thee without a ransom ; depart in peace ! " 
 
 " Bid the poor charmed thing be free, that is beneath the 
 eye of the basilisk," exclaimed Will in a tone of mock mourn- 
 fulness. 
 
 " Be free !" repeated the lady ; " the basilisk withdraws his 
 gaze ;" and she gathered up her scattered implements and with 
 a slight curtsey, was turning away. 
 
 " Nay, lady," exclaimed the hunter in an altered tone, 
 springing to his feet and shouldering his fowling-piece, " I 
 intruded unwittingly upon your sanctum ; and though, by your 
 leave, I cannot regret the accident, you must not abandon it ; 
 for see ! I am gone." 
 
 As he spoke, Will stepped back a few paces ; but how he 
 could consider himself gone, is a query in my mind to this 
 day ; for there was a good yard of the golden-hued moss 
 between him and the blackberry bushes and Co., which pali- 
 saded the pretty retreat. The lady, however, must have 
 believed him, for she turned round very quietly, and fixed her 
 eye on pussy, which was peeping her little head from a clump 
 of thorns that threatened to disfigure her coat most sadly. 
 Will Waters retreated slowly, until the folded leaf of the 
 dog- wood touched the hem of his hunting-frock; and then, 
 with an air of the most respectful deference, he ventured a 
 remark on the beauty of the wood-land scene. The lady, in 
 common civility, could but answer ; and Will replied ; and 
 then the lady's voice gave out a bar of music, which Will 
 Waters could not allow to close the interview, and so
 
 NORA MAYLIE. 21 
 
 I should not like to tell you how much time passed, dear 
 reader, for it was shockingly imprudent in NORA MAYLIE to 
 allow herself to be so beguiled. Will Waters, however, un- 
 derstood his cue well enough to lean upon his fowling-piece ; 
 and Nora turned her back upon the bass-wood tree, and em- 
 ployed her fingers in making baskets of its leaves. The 
 twilight was putting on its grayest hue, when Nora recol- 
 lected that she should be returning home; and though the 
 youth did not venture to accompany her in person, his eyes 
 followed her every step across the fields. 
 
 Will Waters made two or three ineffectual attempts to get 
 up a whistle on his way homeward that evening ; and once he 
 struck out into a song very clamorously ; but he was so ab- 
 sent-minded as to break off in the middle of a word, which 
 word is waiting for its other half to this day. 
 
 The very next evening Nora Maylie was again surprised 
 in her rustic bower ; but, as the young hunter came in a dif- 
 ferent manner, and, moreover, as he made a very character- 
 istic apology (prettily impudent) for coming at all, the lady 
 did not consider it necessary to rise from her rich cushions. 
 Neither did the bob-'link fly away instead, he gave out a 
 glorious gush of music; pussy opened her eyes lazily and 
 immediately closed them again ; and a good-natured little 
 thrush, that saw fit to make itself quite at home there, went 
 hopping along on the ground, and never once turned its eye 
 to inquire whether the intruder came for it or its neighbors. 
 Very well might humble browny manifest such indifference ; 
 for wild Will's step had an exceedingly innocent sound to it, 
 scarce rustling a leaf, much less presuming on the entertain- 
 ment which, by the aid of the grape-vine, he had furnished for 
 woodland edification the day previous. I know not how it 
 was, but Nora Maylie took the intrusion something in the 
 spirit of Mrs. Thrush, whose back of plebeian brownness 
 never ruffled a feather ; and so wild Will Waters leaned his 
 gun against the bass-wood, and placed himself at the lady's 
 feet without the ceremony of asking. Will Waters had a 
 dashing way of talking which Nora had never heard before,
 
 22 NOBA MAYL1E. 
 
 and so she decided in her own mind that it was dramatic, 
 Shaksperian, or something of that sort ; while Nora's voice 
 reminded the young hunter of the whisper of the south-wind, 
 dallying with the silver-lined blades of grass, on whose wav- 
 ing tips he had often been borne away to the land of dreams. 
 
 That our young friends were mutually pleased with each 
 other, was very certain ; and that their friends would be mu- 
 tually displeased, should the acquaintance chance to ripen into 
 anything more than common friendship, was quite as certain. 
 As far as farmer May lie was known, it was thought that his 
 handsome daughter would make an unprofitable wife ; and 
 Mrs. Maylie would have been struck with consternation at the 
 thought of committing her poor child, with her lamentable 
 deficiencies, to the keeping of such a dashing, careless fellow, 
 as wild Will Waters. But young people never will fall in 
 love prudently, and this second interview decided the fate of 
 Will and Nora. To be sure, they did not meet then nor af- 
 terwards as lovers, but they did meet, nevertheless ; and two 
 young people do not go every day to the same spot, and listen 
 to each other's voices, and look into each other's faces, and 
 read from each other's hearts to no purpose. No, no ! the 
 temple that God made, the solemn old wood, is a dangerous 
 place for beauty and manliness, that should not love, to meet 
 in. There is so much of love in every wind-moved pulse 
 which beats there, that the heart must own a triple crust of 
 worldliness to brave its influence. 
 
 At last Mrs. May lie's eyes became opened to the truth, but 
 she was saved the trouble of expostulation by the timely in- 
 terference of her wealthy sister ; and so Nora was borne away 
 to other scenes. Before she went, however, the moon wit- 
 nessed a very solemn meeting between herself and Will 
 Waters ; there were vows, and tears, and comforting words, 
 and baseless castle-building enough to occupy long hours ; and 
 then, with promises, the fiftieth time repeated, and other words 
 whose meaning was derived from the breath that bore them, 
 the lovers parted. 
 
 " Forever ? " 
 
 We shall see.
 
 NORA MAYLIE. 
 
 23 
 
 Was it strange, then, that Nora May lie did not love the 
 city ? that her aunt's splendid drawing-room was a prison to 
 her, and the mustachioed things, caught in the trap the sharp 
 lady was setting for her benefit, a living annoyance ? There 
 was one thing in Nora's favor ; she had an inexhaustible fund 
 of good feeling. She could never bear to see even her enemy 
 (Nora was not conscious of having one. however) unhappy, 
 and so she could not be thoroughly unhappy herself. While 
 we feel an interest in a single living being, we are many a 
 good league from misery. Nora felt an interest in a great 
 many. Her aunt treated her with habitual kindness, and for 
 her she had gratitude ; her gouty uncle was more like a bear 
 than a human being, and for him she had pity ; a great many 
 persons showed her infinite respect, for which she returned an 
 overflowing measure of the same with a mingling of some- 
 thing warmer ; and the few that loved her she loved with all 
 her heart. Oh no ! Nora was not miserable, but she was sad 
 sometimes very sad ; for her thoughts, in gayety or lone- 
 liness, were full of Will Waters and her own quiet home. 
 Nora was still determined not to be made anything of. 
 
 And Will? What of him? 
 
 He turned from Nora Maylie on the evening of their last 
 meeting; and, standing beneath the bass-wood where he had 
 first met her, he spread open his heart and character to his 
 own inspection. Long and serious was the examination ; and 
 then, with the centred light of his proud eye mocking the 
 stars above him, his fine face full of animation, and his head 
 elevated with a consciousness of his own powers, he bounded 
 from the love-charmed circle, leaped the creek, and bent his 
 way homeward. Determination was in his firm step, and 
 hope glanced from every lineament of his face. Mr. Waters 
 had measured off an elder son's portion a few years previous, 
 and why might not Will hope the same favor ? The next 
 morning he asked, and was refused. Moreover, he was made 
 to understand that if he married " that shiftless Maylie girl," 
 he should not have a cent " to the longest day he lived." 
 
 It was very impolitic as well as d-srespectful in Will
 
 5M NORA MAYUE. 
 
 Waters to make the answer he did; and, for one, I do not 
 blame the old gentleman for snubbing him for it. But Will 
 had never been used to such things, and he had no idea of 
 being made a little boy of, in his three-and-twentieth summer ; 
 and so, after a few more words hotly peppered with anger, he 
 turned on his heel and walked away. 
 
 " A year and a half have I worked on this farm since I 
 might have been doing for myself, and all for nothing," mut- 
 tered Will, as his eye wandered over the closely-shaven mea- 
 dows, and the fields of grain, with their upright sheaves, 
 many of which had been bound by his own hand. 
 
 " Well, I have you yet," and he stretched out his strong 
 arm, and regarded it for a moment very affectionately ; then 
 reaching it above his head, he twisted off a heavy bough and 
 lodged it far away in the meadow. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! " laughed Will, regarding his own feat with the 
 most decided approbation, and clapping his hands together, 
 " shall I beg of an old man, whose acres are his all, with such 
 things as these to carve out a fortune with ? No, no ! Will 
 Waters is not a beggar yet ;" and he trudged on right manfully. 
 
 That winter there was one axe rang from the woods from 
 dawn till nine in the morning, and from four till darkness 
 made the trees almost invisible ; and the remaining hours the 
 axe was sheltered beneath a little wood-shed beside the vil- 
 lage school-house, while its owner presided within. Every- 
 body remarked that a wonderful change had come over Will 
 Waters. And what was to be his reward ? How was fair 
 Nora Maylie ? Did she stand the winter's test of gayety ? At 
 first, though surrounded by a crowd of admirers, she seemed 
 to have no preference ; all passed alike before her ; but, ere 
 winter set in, Nora had grown partial. One by one, her 
 suitors stood back for the favorite, till Nora scarce ever ap- 
 peared with anybody but young Horace Dacre. It was said 
 that there was an engagement in the case, that the seal of tho 
 ring would soon be appended ; and Nora took no pains to 
 deny the charge. Neither did Nora's aunt. On the receipt 
 of a letter from her sister, Mrs. Maylie looked up her best
 
 NORA MAYLIE. 2O 
 
 cap, and went into the extravagance of a new silk gown. The 
 next she heard was that Dacre was married, and that her 
 daughter had had a very narrow escape she was a bride's 
 maid. How angry aunt, and mother, and Rachel, and Matilda, 
 and Susan, and Mary were with Nora ! and how Nora, and 
 the sly bridegroom, and shy bride, congratulated themselves 
 on the success of their provoking ruse $ amour. Oh ! there 
 must have been a spice of evil about Nora, notwithstanding 
 her quiet ways. Two thirds of the winter had gone, when 
 the astonishing denouement took place ; and there was a most 
 glorious Asking-season well-nigh lost through this silliest of 
 girlish freaks. Nothing daunted, however, the manoeuvrer 
 resolved to gather up the scattered fragments of time still left 
 her ; and, to prevent imposition, she took the cards into her 
 own hands ; and she played so adroitly that a fortune soon 
 lay at Nora's feet. Nora would have put it beneath her feet, 
 had she consulted only her own feelings on the occasion 
 not that she had any particular dislike for a fortune, but there 
 was a certain incumbrance upon it that she did not like. So 
 Nora, like the foolish girl that she was, refused the whole. 
 
 But as fast as Nora said no, Nora's aunt said yes ; and as 
 the affirmative could boast superiority in years, Mr. Lever 
 (the lady's principal objection to the fortune) was inclined to 
 think that the affirmative had it. Still Nora was obstinate, 
 and her aunt was obstinate, and Mr. Lever was obstinate ; so 
 it was thought proper to have Mrs. Maylie's counsel. 
 
 Early in the spring, the dressmaker, the milliner, and the 
 two school-mistresses, were called home to put the farm-house 
 in order for the reception of important guests. It was reported 
 far and wide, that Nora May lie had come home to be mar- 
 ried ; a version of matters in which popular gossip invented 
 less than the lady's own friends. When they told Will 
 Waters, he smiled contemptuously ; and when they told his 
 father, he smiled too, and said he hoped his son would re- 
 turn to reason now. When, however, Nora came home, 
 accompanied by her aunt and Mr. Lever, the face of Will 
 Waters grew anxious, and his smile lost its complacency. 
 
 VOL. n. 3
 
 26 NORA MAVLIE. 
 
 And now Mr. Lever had plenty of assistants in his wooing, 
 and things would have gone on swimmingly, had not Nora 
 possessed the most provoking of pliable natures. Had she 
 only stormed, and declared that she would sooner die, that they 
 might kill her, but she would never commit such horrid per- 
 jury, there would have been some hope ; but when Nora, with 
 her sweet, low voice, repeated every day, " it cannot be. 
 mother," Mrs. Maylie's heart grew faint, and she was almost 
 tempted to give up the contest. Her sister, however, was 
 more persevering ; and, finally, affairs were brought to a crisis. 
 The father was called in, and, being urged on all sides, he at 
 last resorted to authority. 
 
 " Obey ! or you are no child of mine ! " was the stern pa- 
 rental injunction. 
 
 Poor Nora ! Should she accept the splendor that was daz- 
 zling all eyes but hers, and buy the favor of those she loved 
 most dearly ? or should she go forth upon the world an out- 
 cast, orphaned by worse than death, friendless and penny- 
 
 " You shall have my answer to-morrow," was all that Nora 
 said. 
 
 The sun had just looked his last good-night, and many a 
 bright cluster of golden rays was loitering in its way heaven- 
 ward, when Nora Maylie, attired in her simplest muslin, and 
 with the little straw hat she had worn the summer previous 
 tied under her chin, stole from the seclusion of her own cham- 
 ber, and glided like a spirit across the fields. When she had 
 reached the old trysting-spot, hedged in by the blackberries 
 and witch-hazel, she pushed aside the bushes, and knelt upon 
 the roots of the now budding bass-wood. Then she arose and 
 passed on. She crossed the brook on the stepping stones, 
 and hurried over the springy ground beyond, until her feet 
 were bathed in the cold draught held by the deceitful soil ; 
 and on she went, still more hurriedly, until her father's broad 
 lands all lay behind her. Climbing a fence, Nora was just 
 losing herself among the stately patriarchs of the forest, when 
 she heard her own name pronounced, in tones more of won-
 
 NORA MAYLIE. 27 
 
 der than gladness, and she stood face to face with Will 
 Waters. 
 
 ' I was was going to the village," remarked the lady, 
 her large eyes turning doubtfully to her lover's, and veiling 
 themselves in alarmed perplexity at the coldness they en- 
 countered. 
 
 Nora did not know how many tongues had been busy with 
 the ear of Will Waters. 
 
 " I will not detain you," was the answer, and with an iron- 
 ical smile and a low bow the young man vacated the path. 
 
 " But I hoped to to meet you there." Nora stam- 
 mered excessively, and the color went and came upon her 
 cheek with strange precipitancy. 
 
 "Me!" 
 
 " Is it so very strange, then ? I have gone down to the 
 knoll by the brook many a time to meet you, Will." 
 
 " Ay ; but then you were " 
 
 " Then I was happy in home and friends now I have 
 neither you have taught me not one" 
 
 " Nora ? " 
 
 \ l You may as well know it, Will though it matters but 
 little now. I came out to tell you that, without your protec- 
 tion, I have nowhere to go! I came to ask your advice 
 your your " 
 
 "Without my protection, Nora? I do not well see how 
 that can be ; but, were you ten times dyed in falsehood, you 
 should not ask it in vain ;" and the young man's arms were 
 extended, as though, if their shelter could yet be accepted, 
 they should be a shield that none of the ills of life could pene- 
 trate. 
 
 Nora did not draw back, nor yet advance, for she was 
 stricken to the heart by this suspicion, where she had ex- 
 pected the confidence and sympathy so much needed. The 
 large, round tears broke from their dark-fringed enclosure, and 
 followed each other silently, gemming her palpitating bod- 
 dice ; while the lady answered, almost in a whisper, " I do 
 not ask it now, Will ! Oh ! you are so, so changed ! "
 
 S NORA MAYLIE. 
 
 " It is not /, Nora look into your own heart if you would 
 know where the change lies. But, perhaps perhaps " 
 and now there was a strange eagerness in the tones of Will 
 Waters " if there should be a mistake, Nora ! if they have 
 belied you ! if " 
 
 A sudden flash of joy lighted up the face of the young man. 
 His supposition became at once reality. He had been a fool, 
 and she he did not say what ; but his arms were a little 
 farther advanced and folded over, and Nora Maylie lay within 
 them. Not a word of explanation was necessary now, for 
 heart was beating against heart, and they told their own true 
 story. But words were spoken, nevertheless, so low that the 
 light-winged zephyr sitting upon the lip could scarcely hear 
 them ; yet they proved, beyond a doubt, that Will Waters 
 and Nora Maylie were both unchanged. And so and so 
 
 We are intruders, dear reader; let these foolish lovers have 
 the next hour to themselves. 
 
 The hour is passed, and Will Waters and Nora are beneath 
 the bass-wood. 
 
 " And if you cannot effect this most cruel compromise, dear 
 Nora, you will meet me here at ten to-morrow ? " 
 
 " I will." 
 
 " Do not promise them too much, Nora ; do not quite cut 
 off all hope. You are right, I suppose ; I know you must be ; 
 but it is a hard thing for me to consent to. I would not have 
 believed that I ever could." 
 
 " You would not but that it is right, Will." 
 
 See that touchingly sweet smile accompanying the lady's 
 words ! Will Waters cannot resist it, and he acknowledges, 
 with almost idolatrous zeal, who taught him right ; and so, 
 with mutual blessings, they part. 
 
 The compromise ? 
 
 Nora had decided that her friends had no right to force her 
 into a marriage which her heart did not sanction, and there- 
 fore that she ought to resist it firmly. On the other side, as 
 the bestowal of her hand on Will Waters involved no point 
 of conscience, obedience was her first duty. This may sound
 
 NORA MAYLIE. 29 
 
 like cold reasoning; but it was arranged with many tears, 
 even with sobs, there in the little chamber, and it was whis- 
 pered with anything but coldness in those dear old woods. 
 And, strange enough, the gentleman consented ! Notwith- 
 standing wild Will had quarrelled with his own father, and 
 for six months had been in the neighborhood of his home 
 without once stepping his foot over the threshold, he could 
 not but consent to a measure which seemed so much a matter 
 of course to Nora, that he was ashamed to offer more than a 
 score of objections. 
 
 The next morning, while yet the clock was on the stroke 
 of ten, Nora Maylie pushed aside the witch-hazel and dog- 
 wood, and placed her hand within that of Will Waters ; a 
 mute acknowledgment that he was her last and only friend, 
 and Will accepted the sacred gift as a man should do. Care- 
 fully he led her down to the roadside, where a carriage stood 
 waiting them, lifted her to a seat, and they drove away to the 
 village. 
 
 There were tears in the eyes of the fair bride who stood in 
 parson Lee's little parlor that morning ; and a proud, happy 
 resoluteness in the whole air and manner of the bridegroom, 
 softened and subdued by an appreciation of the touching 
 trustfulness that had possessed him of that quivering hand. 
 And so they went forth, they two. with but the rewards of 
 his winter's toil to buy them bread, and with scarce a voice 
 to cheer them tm their way. How everybody laughed when 
 it was reported that Will Waters had borne his unuseful 
 bride to the wilds of the far west ! As though Will Waters, 
 with his strong arm and strong spirit, and his sweet Nora, with 
 her loving heart, could not make a pathway for themselves 
 in the wilderness ! 
 
 Please make me another pen, 'Bel; this story drags 
 shockingly. 
 
 Not finish it, did you say ? Why, people will think they 
 starved there in the woods, or the wolves ate them up, or, at 
 least, that they encountered the ague and fever. 
 
 " Which is not true ?" 
 
 VOL. II. 3*
 
 d" NORA MAYLIE. 
 
 Which is not true. I have called Nora Maylie my friend 
 and so she is, though we did not quite grow up together 
 The first time that I ever saw her was on the morning of her 
 marriage. The holy man had just put the "amen" to his 
 prayer, when one whom we both love, 'Bel, sent me to the 
 village with a pretty bridal bouquet, and I had the honor of 
 presenting it myself. The kiss on my cheek, and the light 
 touch of that soft hand upon my head, was quite enough to 
 secure my little heart forever, even though I had not loved 
 Will Waters as children usually love those who pet them 
 most. My mother took the young couple into the family, 
 sympathized with and advised them, and wafted many a 
 prayer westward after they had gone. 
 
 We never heard that any bad luck happened to Will Wa- 
 ters, but somehow no news came of his having planted a city, 
 or given his name to a village, or of having gained emolument 
 to himself; and so it was generally supposed that the young 
 couple were having plenty of time to repent their folly. 
 
 It was eight years last spring since Will and Nora were 
 married, and a year this summer since I saw them. I never 
 forgot Nora's sweet bridal face ; and when, by the aid of a 
 dashing steamer, I had measured nearly all the links in the 
 great northern chain of waters, you may be assured that I 
 was quite willing to look upon a person that I had seen be- 
 fore. And after jolting all day in a big, springless wagon, 
 and sleeping at night in a villanous garret, lighted by four 
 panes of glass, that would not shove, sharing my breathing, 
 stuff with a dozen others pah! I will never subject myseli 
 to such things again, 'Bel ! 
 
 "Ah?" 
 
 Perhaps I would for a sight of those glorious old woods, 
 and magnificent prairies nothing short. But, as I was 
 saying, after all this, you may well suppose that I would be 
 grateful for any corner, however small, where the fresh air 1 
 revelled in by day, might not be wholly shut from me at 
 night. 
 
 We expected to find our friends in rather low circumstances,
 
 NORA MAYLIE. Jl 
 
 and so we inquired at every tog hovel for Mr. Waters, and 
 every time were answered, " farther on." Everybody seemed 
 familiar with the name. We had left the last of these west- 
 ern edifices about five miles behind, when suddenly our road 
 changed its character ; and from having " two wheels in the 
 gutter and two in the air," our clumsy vehicle righted itself, 
 and jogged along on all fours with very decent sobriety. At 
 the same time, we foand ourselves in a fine clearing. A robe 
 of variegated gold and green, flounced by a fold of silver in 
 the shape of a creek, with here and there groups of trees 
 looking into it, was spread out to our view ; and we turned 
 questioning glances on each other, wondering if this could be 
 the possession of Will Waters. There was an air of thrift 
 about it that said nay ; while many a little tasteful arrange- 
 ment shade trees left standing where they should be, the 
 brook made to show its bright, mischievous face at bewitching 
 intervals, a beautiful grove on a rise of ground beyond, which 
 looked as though it was intended to be made something yet 
 more beautiful, with a thousand other proofs of a care for 
 something less important than clearing the land and raising 
 good crops, made us waver in our opinion. There was a 
 clump of green that we could not make out in advance of us ; 
 and as we drew near, we called on the driver to slacken his 
 pace while we endeavored to satisfy our curiosity. And what 
 think you it was ? Why, a magnificent avenue, fenced in by 
 stately old elm trees, and leading up to the most charming 
 little bird's nest that ever nursed such wee witching things as 
 we saw frolicking among the vines over-arching the door-way. 
 
 Curiosity stood on tip-toe, and J went up the avenue to 
 
 repeat the inquiry we had so often made before. We saw 
 him tap at the door, and caught a glimpse of a white dress 
 through a crevice. In a moment he turned back, accompa- 
 nied by a charming woman, who glided over the hard path- 
 way with singular gracefulness. We knew our old friend 
 Nora at a glance, and we did not allow her to reach the end 
 of the avenue before we had her in our arms. She was 
 scarcely changed. There was the same warm, soul-full ex-
 
 32 NORA MAYLIE. 
 
 pression in the varying eye; the same loving smile upon the 
 lip ; with a deeper happiness portrayed in every lineament of 
 her eloquent face ; a richer hue of health upon her cheek ; 
 and a feeling in every glance and movement. J whis- 
 pered me that there was soul in the very touch of that foot, 
 as it kissed the earth ; and a more careless observer than 
 
 J would have detected the soul in the turn of the white 
 
 neck, and the carriage of the classic head. 
 
 And the bright creatures at the door ? The young mother 
 presented them to us with all a mother's love and pride, and 
 we were not inclined to undervalue her jewels. 
 
 The house was built of logs, carefully caulked, and was 
 white-washed inside and out. Very simple and unpretending 
 was it, with its low walls buried by the clinging grape-vines 
 which had been brought thither from the wood. And there 
 were marks in the pretty garden-patch of Nora's " little spade 
 and little hoe," as well as of implements wielded by a heavier 
 hand. The lady, doubtless, found more beautiful flowers in 
 the woods of Iowa, than those which had received her irirli.-h 
 homage in New York. It was a very pleasant room into 
 which we were ushered ; but simply enough furnished for the 
 cell of a hermit. A piece of furniture answering to a bureau 
 stood against the wall, surmounted by a small, well-filled 
 book-case ; beneath a window, shaded by a snowy muslin 
 curtain, was a couch, evidently an article of home manufac- 
 ture, cushioned with a pretty calico ; and beyond this, directly 
 beneath a plain, cherry-framed mirror, stood something like a 
 dressing-table, so completely covered by its simple cloth, that 
 eyes less curious than ours might not have discovered the 
 white pine feet below, and so judged it to be the work of the 
 couch's artisan. Mrs. Waters had indulged in one luxury ; 
 those handsome porcelain vases on either corner of her dress- 
 ing-table were not rtseful things, for they could have been 
 purchased for no earthly purpose but to hold the flowers 
 which were now making the air of the apartment rich with 
 their perfume. Possibly, however, they were a present from 
 her husband, made sometime after encountering unusual luck
 
 NORA MAYL1E. 33 
 
 in trading off his grain. On the same table stood a willow 
 work-basket, with the hem of a little cambric apron lying up 
 against its rim ; and chairs of basket-work, and a very pretty 
 carpet, evidently a recent purchase, completed the furniture 
 of the apartment. Not quite, however. There was another 
 table, now occupying the centre, with a snow-white cloth 
 spread over it, and upon that a simple repast, lacking but the 
 smoking tea-urn ; and the cakes which, from the peculiar fla- 
 vor emanating from the room beyond, we knew to be in a 
 course of preparation. My eyes (I must acknowledge it, 
 though I be set down as a table-lover from this day forth) 
 turned from the golden-hued butter, and the delicious straw- 
 berries peeping their dainty crimson heads from the sweet 
 cream in which they nestled so provokingly, to the promising 
 kitchen, and back again, with wondrous eagerness; when lo! 
 a scream of delight from the little watchers in the door-way, 
 and a new comer was introduced among us. 
 That wild Will Waters ! 
 
 Wild enough to be sure he seemed then, with his heartily- 
 expressed joy at seeing us ; but how came he by that unstud- 
 ied polish, that courteous manner, that je ne sais quoi which 
 marks the gentleman how came he by it here in the wil- 
 derness, where his whole business must needs be felling trees 
 and ploughing land ? So did not Will Waters leave us. He 
 was bold and blunt then, and notwithstanding his many en 
 gaging qualities, had but little more refinement than his 
 neighbors ; but now, though his manliness had not suffered 
 by it, you would have believed that he had been a metropoli- 
 tan for a life-time. It was strange, unaccountable ah no! 
 not unaccountable. We turned to the sunny face of the wife ; 
 we marked her singularly quiet air, the choice words and 
 delicate sentiments that she uttered ; then the sweet, carefully- 
 dressed and carefully-taught children, and the neatly-furnished 
 apartment ; and the riddle was unfolded. We saw for whom 
 that pure white dress had been donned in the close of the day, 
 for whom the little muslin collar had been taken from the 
 drawer probably half an hour before, and for whom the glossy 
 braids of hair were so carefully adjusted about the fine head
 
 04 NORA MAYLIE. 
 
 Blessings on sweet Nora Maylie ! True, she was no ge- 
 nius ; and she could not become a teacher, nor a milliner, 
 even ; neither was she of the material to be moulded into a 
 woman of fashion ; but she was a most charming wife and 
 mother. We found her a charming hostess, too, and linger- 
 ingly did we turn from her sunlit door. 
 
 When a poet again inquires, " Where is happiness ?" I will 
 point him to a little log cottage, nestled among wild grape- 
 vines, in the far-off woods of Iowa.
 
 35 
 
 GRANDFATHER BRAY. 
 
 DEAR lady thou that reclinest so gracefully upon yon 
 sofa, I mean lady, for a moment close thine eyes upon that 
 handsome volume, though its dress of gilded morocco was 
 certainly invented on purpose to be pressed by thy dainty 
 fingers, and the printed words may make thy heart palpitate 
 almost as much as did the whispered ones of the giver. Nay, 
 turn them not upon the brilliant chandeliers, nor the volumin- 
 ous folds of crimson that shut in the rich, warm light, fleck- 
 ing the heavy drapery with changing gold and purple ; nor 
 let them fall upon the soft, yielding carpet, almost yielding 
 enough to bury up thy tiny, slippered foot. No, no ; shut 
 out for a moment all these things ; I would turn thine eyes to 
 a lonelier quarter. Dost see that comfortable old farm-house, 
 lady that with the generous court-yard, broad kitchen gar- 
 den and ample out houses ? How trig and nice everything 
 is about it, although the season of verdure is quite passed ! 
 Look at the ricks of hay, raising their conical heads down in 
 the meadow, and the neat stone wall that surrounds the or- 
 chard speak they not of thrift ? Ay, that they do ; but they 
 speak of a thing that is passed, so far as the owners of the 
 farm-house are concerned. Yet we will not dwell upon that 
 now. That lofty well-sweep, resting its tip against the lower 
 horn of the moon, is certainly one of the most aspiring of its 
 kind ; but it lias labored faithfully in the cause of temperance 
 for many a long year. This is one of the finest wells in all 
 the country round. Wouldst test it ? Close within the curb 
 rests the gray old bucket, and it is a right merry feat to fill it 
 o the brim with the clear, sparkling fluid that mossy brim, 
 that when the October sun shone was as soft as thine own 
 lip, lady.
 
 36 GRANDFATHER BRAY. 
 
 It is a cold, frosty night, so let us take a peep within the 
 farm-house. The stranger's foot was ever welcomed here. 
 The crackling wood fire blazes brightly in the huge fire-place, 
 and sends its cheering rays to the farthest extremity of the 
 room, quite overpowering the light of the mould candle that 
 stands upon the oaken chest of drawers. The cross beams 
 overhead are set off with festoons of dried fruit, interspersed 
 with bunches of herbs ; and a swing shelf, suspended by bits 
 of leather attached to the ends, is loaded down with useful 
 books and waste newspapers. The axe has been brought 
 from the wood -shed, and leans against the wall behind the 
 door ; above this hangs a hand-saw parallel with the top of a 
 broom-handle ; and, higher still, an old musket, with its rusty 
 barrel and broken lock, rests in honored peace from the labors 
 of '76. Articles of wearing apparel, varying from the heavy 
 lion-skin overcoat to the red flannel blanket, to suit the wants 
 of different members of the family, range along the walls, ap- 
 propriating the goodly number of nails and pegs with which 
 every prominent piece of timber is garnished. Cherry tables 
 and wooden chairs occupy a due space. A large house-dog, 
 under one of the former, rests his nose on his two fore paws, 
 and looks about him very knowingly, and three or four com- 
 placent cats occupy as many of the latter as they can conve- 
 niently appropriate. The floor is bare, but it is scarcely less 
 white than the carefully scoured churn, from which a girl of 
 sixteen is pouring the bubbling milk, that but a few moments 
 since mingled with the flakes of golden-hued butter, now 
 transferred to the snowy bowl. That old lady in the corner 
 opposite, with the grey yarn knitting, and muslin cap, is 
 granny Bray. She is a good deal bent with atre ; time has 
 ploughed deep furrows in her brow and taken all the round- 
 ness from her cheek; but what a sweet, holy expression is 
 left instead ! Love speaks from the midst of wrinkles and 
 paleness and decay; her energies have gone, her vigor is 
 wasted, but love is in her heart such love as angels feel. 
 A girl of eight is close beside her, knitting too. She has 
 knotted up her yarn and is " trying a race " with granny.
 
 GRANDFATHER BRAY. 37 
 
 By the table, a boy and girl of ten and twelve are busy at a 
 game of checkers ; and the father, that stout-built, honest-faced 
 man with a newspaper, now and then glances from its col- 
 umns to the kernels of red and yellow corn " jumping " about 
 the board. The remainder of the group are grandfather Bray, 
 Mrs. Hunter, the mother of the young folks, and her little son 
 Neddy, grandfather's little pet. Grandfather, though the 
 crown of his head is quite bare, and the sides decorated with 
 fleecy locks, is as erect as a grenadier ; and, if we may judge 
 by present appearances, more to be feared than any son of 
 Mars that ever trod the field. He is in a violent passion, a 
 perfect rage. Mrs. Hunter has probably asked some great 
 favor, and the old man is angered at her assurance. 
 
 " No ! no ! no ! " 
 
 " But, father " 
 
 " Silence ! I command you, Mary Hunter ! Another word, 
 and you are no child of mine ! I have said and will abide by 
 it ! James Bray shall never step over this threshold till he 
 comes to look upon his foolish old father's corpse ; you may . 
 let him see that, Mary." 
 
 See ! the fine figure of the matron cowers, and she raises 
 her clasped hands, as if deprecating her father's anger. Now 
 she sinks back upon her chair, rocks to and fro, and tries to 
 stifle her sobs in the folds of her neat, checked apron. Mr. 
 Hunter seems to have lost his interest in the newspaper and 
 the game too ; a cloud comes over his bluff, good-humored 
 face, and he springs to his feet with an angry exclamation. 
 He checks himself, however, and stalks across the room in 
 dogged silence. The faces of the young people grow anx- 
 ious, even to paleness, and the beautiful child standing at his 
 grandfather's knee retreats behind him, looking out from the 
 shelter of the high-backed arm chair, with distended eyes and 
 parted lips. Granny Bray alone dares speak. With her 
 shaking, withered hand, she draws a pair of silver-mounted 
 spectacles from eyes meek, soft and dove-like, though the 
 haze of age has almost obscured their brilliancy, and her 
 
 VOL. n. 4
 
 JO GRANDFATHER BRAY. 
 
 gentle, tremulous tones cannot fail to remind us of the " still, 
 small voice " hushing the tempest. 
 
 " Jacob, the sin of anger leads to other sins ; you are unjust 
 to your own flesh and blood. Poor Mary has been an obedi- 
 ent child to us for more than thirty years, and it is ungrateful 
 to treat her so." 
 
 " Then why does she fret me ? " And the old man, as he 
 speaks, flings a relenting glance upon the matron. " I am 
 sure I think as much of Mary as you do. Eh, Neddy?" 
 He is sorry that there is any cause for disagreement, and that 
 is why he stoops to caress the little fellow, who, reassured by 
 the natural tone of his voice, is already tugging at his coat- 
 tail. " Don't grandpapa love mother, Ned ? " 
 
 " Yes, but you don't love uncle James, grandpapa, you 
 know you don't ; and that is just as wicked as ever it can be." 
 
 The old man starts as though a wasp had stung the hand 
 laid upon the boy's head. How his voice is changed ! " Go 
 to your mother, sirrah ! " 
 
 But the brave little fellow is not quite ready to obey ; he 
 has not had his say out. His clear grey eye does not blench, 
 as it is fixed on the face of the angry old man, and his voice 
 rings out like a silver bell. There is a touch of the grand- 
 father's own spirit. 
 
 " Do you hate me, too, grandpapa, because I look like uncle 
 James ? " 
 
 "Neddy, Neddy ! " exclaims the mother in consternation, 
 " you are a very naughty boy, Neddy ; come, come away to 
 bed!" 
 
 The old man answers not, but his heavy tramp, as he stalks 
 about the room, betokens a gathering storm. Only one can 
 stay its fury, and that is the faithful being, chosen in rosy 
 youth from a bright throng ; his soother in adversity, his nurse 
 in sickness, his counsellor in perplexities, his companion and 
 
 ver-failing friend through all the vicissitudes of a long life. 
 She now drops her knitting upon the table, quite forgetting 
 that she is not in the seam-needle, and hobbling forward, places 
 her hand upon his arm.
 
 GRANDFATHER BRAY. 39 
 
 " Take down your Bible, Jacob ; consult that ; your own 
 heart is deceitful." 
 
 " They teach even their children to taunt me, Ann;" but 
 the old man's manner is comparatively gentle. 
 
 " No, no, Jacob ; there you are wrong again. Children 
 will be children, and Hunter and Mary are not to blame if 
 Neddy is now and then saucy to you. You play with him 
 so much that you ought to expect it." 
 
 " I ought to expect it from the face he carries ! " 
 
 " Poor James was the most dutiful of sons." The old lady 
 sighs, as though the involuntary tribute came from a full heart. 
 
 " Dutiful ! " 
 
 " Father," says Mary, " you have often told us that brother 
 James was the kindest and best child you ever had. Don't 
 you recollect how he nursed you through that long fever, 
 and " 
 
 " And how he wheedled me out of all my hard earnings and 
 made me a beggar in my old age, owing the roof that shelters 
 me to the charity of strangers, and dependent for my bread 
 on one who has not a drop of my blood in his veins ! What 
 do you say to that, Mary ? Thank God, I have yet a roof 
 above me ! He would have turned me into the streets, but 
 strangers thank God that I have a roof ! and, that, I swear 
 by-" 
 
 " Jacob, Jacob ! " interposes the mild voice of granny Bray, 
 " say nothing you will be sorry for ; you are in a passion. 
 Jacob, and no good comes of anger." 
 
 " Father," this is the deep bass of Hunter, who has till 
 now remained silent. " Father, just now you spoke of being 
 dependent ; you know Mary and I are glad to be with you 
 and right proud to make you comfortable." 
 
 " Dear heart ! " What a grateful glance accompanies the 
 old lady's exclamation. " Jacob, we have the best children 
 in the world ! " 
 
 " All but one, all but one." This is not all the old man 
 mutters between his teeth ; but perhaps it is as well that we 
 do not hear the rest.
 
 4U GRANDFATHER BRAY. 
 
 " And he is good, too. Nay, Jacob, listen ; James is out 
 first-born ; he was our pride in the days of our strength, before 
 we knew how foolish and sinful it was to lay up our trca.-nr'- 
 upon earth. He has taken care of us, and comforted and 
 watched over us ; to be sure we leaned upon a broken reed, 
 but that was our own fault ; a better child never lived. He 
 has met with misfortunes, and you cannot forgive him for it ; 
 how can you expect to be forgiven ? " 
 
 " I do forgive him ; I told minister Dean so ; but I never 
 will see him never, while I have strength to shut the door 
 against him ! " 
 
 " It does strike me, sir, that this spirit is not befitting a 
 man of your years and profession," interposed the bass voice 
 bluntly. 
 
 " It is not for you to call me to account, John Hunter, unless, 
 indeed " 
 
 " Do not say it ; do not say it, father," whispered Mary, 
 crouching on the floor beside him, and folding her arms over 
 his knees; " Hunter is a lion when he is aroused, and you and 
 he must be kind to each other." 
 
 ' For your sake, Moll ; you are a good girl, and I must 
 humor you, if only because you are the baby." 
 
 Peace seems to be restored, and we will retire, lady, while 
 I explain in a few words the scene. 
 
 Grandfather Bray was now verging on his eightieth winter, 
 and his son James (himself a grandfather) was scarce twenty- 
 five years his junior. When James first married, he lived at 
 the homestead and cultivated the farm, and as one after 
 another of the children made for themselves homes in the 
 neighboring towns, his situation only seemed the more per- 
 manent. At last, Mary, the youngest child, left the parental 
 roof, and James and his kind family were more necessary to 
 the old people than ever. The farm yielded a comfortable 
 support for all, and there was no reason why it should not 
 continue to do so ; but the demon of speculation entered the 
 honest, sensible heau of James Bray. The title-deed of the 
 farm had been his for several years ; he rashly risked it, and
 
 GRANDFATHEK I5KAY. 41 
 
 lost. Through the generosity of creditors, his father received 
 a life-lease of the house and garden ; but what was this to the 
 sturdy old farmer, who had all his life long gloried in fertile 
 fields and overflowing granaries ? His very mind was nar- 
 rowed down his faculties cramped by thinking upon his 
 diminished fortunes, and they burst forth in anger. While 
 the old lady raised her eyes meekly and wondered what her 
 poor grandchildren would do, he only raised his voice to ani- 
 madvert on what had been done. He declared that he was 
 cajoled, cheated, swindled, and he would not bear it. The 
 more unreasonable his anger became, the more fire it gathered, 
 for indignation always increases in inverse ratio to its right- 
 eousness. It was soon found necessary for James to seek 
 another dwelling, and this was a much sorer trial to poor 
 granny Bray, than the loss of property. James had more of 
 his mother's spirit than his father's, and it was a sorrowful 
 thing for him to part in anger from his beloved sire. When 
 Mary Hunter took her place by the sacred old hearth-stone, 
 he whispered in her ear, " Never cease persuading till 
 you have made peace ; my conscience tells me that I have 
 been foolish and imprudent, wickedly greedy and covetous of 
 this world's goods ; and my father's anger will weigh heavily 
 upon me until it is withdrawn." And so Mary's pleading 
 voice was often heard ; but it only increased the old man's 
 irritability. This was the night before Thanksgiving, and, as 
 usual, the children and grandchildren were to join in the 
 Thanksgiving merry-making at the dear old homestead. And 
 Mary pleaded and pleaded, and cried as though her heart 
 would break, when she found her pleadings in vain. Thanks- 
 giving came and went, but heavily passed the day at the farm- 
 house. Granny Bray said the like had never been known 
 since the funeral of poor little Jemmy the bravest and fairest, 
 she had ever since declared, of all her grandchildren. The 
 Hunters had done their best to make the festival joyous, but 
 no joy was there. Even the young children missed the famil- 
 iar faces of their young cousins, and looked thoughtful in the 
 midst of their amusement. 
 
 VOL. II. 4*
 
 42 GRANDFATHER BRAY. 
 
 The feast was spread, and it had never been more sumptu- 
 ous ; but nothing seemed as in former times ; the soul of the 
 feast was wanting. The love, the unity of feeling, that had 
 consecrated it since the now outcast son sat on his father's 
 knee, a baby, had been rudely jarred, and the house of feast- 
 ing was turned to one of mourning. 
 
 Weeks passed by, and grandfather Bray was as positive 
 and unyielding as ever. It was in vain that the sweet, trem- 
 ulous tones of his wife preached the duty of forgiveness. 
 
 " I have forgiven him," was the uniform reply, " but I never 
 will forget." 
 
 Still the old man's stubborness made him miserable, and 
 granny Bray, in kindness (whether judiciously or not is 
 another matter) ceased not to tell him of it every day. 
 
 As New- Year's day approached, a feeling exceedingly un- 
 comfortable seemed to pervade the atmosphere of the old 
 farm-house. It was a festival that had been almost as reli- 
 giously observed as Thanksgiving ; and, should it now be neg- 
 lected ? Grandfather Bray wished that it might, and looked 
 about him for a reason, but none presented itself. As the 
 merry anniversary drew near, even the very clouds and sun- 
 shine seemed to have an inkling of the old man's state of 
 mind, and to conspire against him. There was a heavy fall 
 of snow on the night of the twenty-eighth ; on the twenty- 
 ninth the roads were somewhat blocked up, and grandfather 
 was inclined to think them quite impassable ; indeed, he more 
 than hinted that none but madmen would venture out for at 
 least a week to come. On the thirtieth, however, sleighs 
 flitted here and there like fairy boats on a sea of foam ; and 
 such a day as the thirty-first was an era in the life of pleasure- 
 lovers. The sleighing was a perfect marvel. Oh, how the 
 horses pranced ! And such a jingling of bells ! It was enough 
 to turn the whole world of young folks into Robin Goodfellows, 
 ;ind make the most withered heart dance within the bosom. 
 And hearts did dance, and were mirrored in dancing eyes, 
 and sat upon warm, loving lips, and rang out in glad young 
 voices ; ay, winter though it was, the earth was radiant with
 
 GRANDFATHER BUAV. 43 
 
 beauty, and the air vocal with a music far more joyous than 
 the gush of melody from a summer woodland. The last sun 
 of the old year set in a flood of golden light, and grandfather 
 Bray's heart sank within him. That bevy of try-to-be happy 
 faces haunted him ; he was sure he could not endure another 
 day like the gloomy Thanksgiving ; yet not even a cold had 
 he been able to muster, to confine him to his room. The old 
 man's face grew longer as the evening deepened ; but as no 
 one appeared to observe him, he had no excuse for being surly, 
 arid was only sad. 
 
 What a bright morning was that of the New Year ! the air 
 was pure and bracing, and a gay dazzling sunlight played 
 many pranks with inclined snow flakes and pendent icicles, 
 and decked old, withered trees in a gayer garniture than that 
 of spring. Granny Bray, with her usual placid smile, deco- 
 rated herself with her newest muslin cap, and folded her 
 whitest 'kerchief across her bosom, and then sat down to her 
 knitting in the corner. Mr. Hunter went about his usual 
 morning avocations, but with unusual alacrity ; his wife took 
 another look at the pies of pumpkin and mince-meat, the 
 dough-nuts and cookies and gingerbread, and then turned to 
 a whole table full of featherless bipeds, waiting to be roasted ; 
 while the children busied themselves in making ready, in 
 their own way, for a whole troop of expected cousins. Grand- 
 father Bray stumped about the house and barn, and up and 
 down the nice path cut through the snow to the road, then 
 drew on his Sunday coat, and made a desperate attempt at 
 cheerfulness. But all would not do ; his heart was troubled. 
 Just as the clock was on the stroke of nine, a pretty pony 
 dashed up to the door with a light vehicle of a somewhat 
 unique pattern, the self-same little jumper that grandfather 
 had assisted the two boys of his banished son in contriving 
 and making. The reins were held by his own favorite grand- 
 son ; and, by Charley's side, all hooded and cloaked, sat his 
 young sister Lucy, ready to spring from the sleigh the moment 
 it stopped. 
 
 " Cousin Lucy ! cousin Lucy ! " shouted the noisy children ;
 
 44 GRANDFATHER BRAY. 
 
 and before she reached the gate they were all around her, and 
 little Eddy had half precipitated her into the snow-drift in the 
 attempt to jump astride her neck. 
 
 " How glad we are to see you, cousin Lucy ! " and " Did 
 grandfather invite you to New Year's, cozzy?" and "Is uncle 
 James coming?" were among the questions and exclamations 
 poured upon the little maiden, as she proceeded to the house. 
 
 Even Charley, who kept his station in the sleigh, was for 
 the moment forgotten, but it was only a moment. Eddy turned 
 back to him, and, with a delighted scream, accomplished the 
 feat he attempted with Lucy ; and the children, attracted by 
 the noise, gathered round the funny little jumper, leaving 
 Lucy with her eldest cousin on the threshold. 
 
 " Does grandfather love me yet ? " she whispered in Julia's 
 ear. 
 
 " I don't know," and Julia shook her head, as though she 
 would have added, " you would n't think he did." 
 
 " Then he never speaks of me ? " inquired the child, in a 
 still softer tone. 
 
 "Poor grandfather!" sighed Julia Hunter; and "Poor 
 grandfather!" echoed Lucy Bray; "poor dear grandfather! 
 It must make him unhappy, not to love everybody; he was 
 always so good." 
 
 By this time the door turned on its hinges and Lucy step- 
 ped into the capacious kitchen, where you and I went, lady, 
 the night before Thanksgiving. Grandfather was trying to 
 busy himself over a newspaper, but Lucy's quick eye at once 
 detected the failure, for it was upside down. " A happy New 
 Year, grandfather ! " she said, in a cheerful tone ; and the old 
 man, though he raised his hand, and drew back his head, 
 could not prevent the dewy, red lips from meeting his. 
 
 " You are cold, Lucy," he attempted to say in an indiffer- 
 ent tone ; but his voice sounded husky and unnatural, and he 
 was ashamed to trust it. 
 
 The meeting between granny Bray and her little grand- 
 daughter was a loving one ; but the child soon turned away
 
 GKANDFATHER BRAY. 45 
 
 from the dear old lady, to one who, notwithstanding his faults, 
 was none the less dear. 
 
 " I did n't come to stay, grandfather, for I know that it would 
 spoil your New Year's to have anybody here that you don't 
 love ; but I did want to bring you some of my socks and mit- 
 tens, you liked them so much last winter. Don't you remem- 
 ber, grandfather, that first pair of mittens ? how they twisted, 
 and the stripes went all askew ? and then how you laughed 
 at me, and put both my hands into one and tied them fast ? 
 But the next pair was done to a charm don't you recollect? 
 Now, look here, grandfather ! " and Lucy began to display the 
 contents of her basket. 
 
 Grandfather, however, did not look. There was a slight 
 redness about his eyes, and a nervous twitching at the corners 
 of his mouth ; but what principally prevented him from look- 
 ing was the extreme difficulty he had in finding his way into 
 his pocket, though his only object seemed to be to force an 
 entrance, for when he once accomplished the feat he withdrew 
 his fingers and tried again. In the mean time, Lucy had pro- 
 duced from her basket a neat muslin cap, and granny Brav's 
 snowy head was bared to try the effect of her pretty present. 
 For thirty years her caps had been made by the same hand, 
 and she was sure that no one could suit her but the elder 
 Lucy. 
 
 " Tell your mother," said the old lady, " that it was very 
 kind in her to think of us ; and especially to-day, when we 
 have done the same as to shut the door upon her. Your 
 mother is a good woman, Lucy, and you are a good child." 
 
 " Her mother's child," said the old man, struggling with a 
 whole throatful of emotion. 
 
 Lucy turned her full eyes upon him ; then they brimmed 
 over, and, twining her arms around the old man's neck, she 
 buried her face in his bosom and sobbed, " My father's child, 
 and yours, dear grandfather ; you cannot cast me off! " 
 
 The shaking arms closed around her, as if declaring they 
 did not wish to cast her off, and the old man threw a troubled 
 glance upon the floor. It was not the place to gain firmness ;
 
 40 GRANDFATHER BRAY. 
 
 for there stood the basket, with the hose and mittens that 
 nobody but Lucy and her mother could knit just right ; and 
 upon the top lay a pair of cloth slippers, so comfortable that 
 his feet felt a strong inclination to creep into them at once. 
 How he had wanted just such a pair of slippers ! and how 
 granny, and Mary, and Mary's daughter, Julia, had fretted 
 over them, and at last succeeded in producing a pair that 
 would fit the hoofed foot of of anything that has such feet, 
 much better than the pedal extremities of any human being. 
 But there was one thing about them that troubled the old 
 gentleman more than all the rest. 
 
 The soling was the handiwork of James. There could be 
 no mistake about it ; James was ingenious and economical, 
 and he had always done such things. Grandfather Bray 
 drew the back of his horny hand two or three times across 
 his eyes ; and his aged partner knitted away very earnestly, 
 having not the tact, oh, no, the old lady was far from being 
 celebrated for skill in that line but the genuine kindness of 
 heart, to forbear speaking. Prying eyes overthrow a vast 
 amount of good in this world. Honest hearts do not like to 
 be looked into, and spied out, and commented upon, much 
 better than dishonest ones. Emotion of all kinds is a sacred 
 thing, and the man who loves to display it has only the coun- 
 terfeit. Grandfather Bray never counterfeited ; it was unne- 
 cessary, for he was in possession of the true coin. All he 
 did was done bluntly and honestly. For a moment he held 
 his breath and winked back the moisture from his eyes ; but 
 the mute evidences of love and carefulness looked up plead- 
 ingly from the child's little basket, and told of by-gone days ; 
 and the precious burden within his arms, quivering all over 
 with emotion, was too close to his heart not to exert a soften- 
 ing influence upon it. 
 
 "God bless you, Lucy!" at last the old man broke forth. 
 " Hush your sobbing, child ; hush ! There, there, my little 
 puss, be quiet now, and you shall have everything your own 
 way. Children are so wilful now-a-days ! Do you hear, 
 pussy ? everything your own way."
 
 GRANDFATHER BRAY. 47 
 
 " Grandfather ! my do you mean " 
 
 "Mean! to be sure I do; mean a great many things! 
 Hop down from my knee. Crying children should never 
 kiss; you've sprinkled my face all over with your tears;" 
 and grandfather, thinking he had, by this last remark, proved 
 the impossibility of any of the tears belonging exclusively to 
 himself, rolled the bewildered child from his arm and hurried 
 to the door. 
 
 " Hunter ! John Hunter ! How d'ye do, Charley ? come 
 here, my boy ! we are to have grand times to-day, and you 
 and I must do the little odd jobs, you know. Hunter, harness 
 the horses to the big sleigh, and hem! and go over to the 
 corners and bring ahem ! bring James Bray, and all the 
 family all of them, remember, Hunter ; down to the cat, if 
 Billy has a notion." 
 
 Off started the overjoyed son-in-law with a skip-hop-and- 
 jump-step, that made the children send up a merry peal of 
 laughter exactly suited to the gayety of the morning ; and 
 grandfather Bray joined in the merriment, though very far 
 from certain that it was not at his expense. Lucy had heard 
 the command ; and she now had both hands clasped about 
 her grandfather's arm, with her sweet, sunny face upturned 
 and looking into his ; while Charley expressed his joy by 
 leaping over the fence and back again three times succes- 
 sively. 
 
 Lady, if you could have looked in at grandfather Bray's 
 that day ! if you could have heard the stale joke applauded, as 
 though that moment coined ! and seen the mirthful faces (to 
 say nothing of the steaming meats and smoking gravies) and 
 heard the long, loud peal that shook the rafters, mingling 
 with the silvery tones of childhood ! If you could have seen 
 and heard all this, I do not say that you would have envied 
 that joyous party, but you would have wondered all the rest 
 of the world did not envy them. And Lucy clapped her 
 small, dimpled hands, and skipped and frisked about like a 
 little kitten ; and Neddy declared that grandfather only hug- 
 ged him the closer when they all said he looked like uncle
 
 49 GRANDFATHER BRAY. 
 
 James. Not a word was said of forgiveness, on either side, 
 for when the heart has done its work words are weak things ; 
 but nevertheless words did pass ; words of care and considera- 
 tion, and they were appreciated. 
 
 You will wonder, lady, that I have taken you to such a com- 
 mon place, and told you such a very common story ; and I can 
 hardly answer why. It must be that you have kept all home 
 feelings pure and sacred; the chain of love that passes around 
 your hearth-stone can never have been tarnished by the breath 
 of an unjust or unforgiving spirit. La.dy, pardon me ; my 
 story was intended for unreasonable old men like grandfather 
 Bray, and resentful people wwlike his son James ; and I am 
 sorry to have detained you so long. Of course, the fire on 
 your domestic altar never burns dim ; and you are too gentle 
 and loving to stand up in unbending coldness, because you 
 happen to be in the right. Would that all were like you, 
 lady!
 
 49 
 
 SONNET TO WINTER. 
 
 THY brow is girt, thy robe with gems inwove ; 
 And palaces of frost-work, on the eye, 
 Flash out, and gleam in every gorgeous dye, 
 
 The pencil, dipped in glorious things above, 
 Can bring to earth. Oh, thou art passing fair ! 
 
 But cold and cheerless as the heart of death, 
 
 Without one warm, free pulse, one softening breath, 
 One soothing whisper for the ear of Care. 
 
 Fortune too has her Winter. In the Spring, 
 We watch the bud of promise ; and the flower 
 Looks out upon us at the Summer hour ; 
 
 And Autumn days the blessed harvest bring ; 
 Then comes the reign of jewels rare, and gold, 
 When brows flash light, but hearts grow strangely cold. 
 
 LIGHTS AND SHADES-A SONNET. 
 
 IF there be light upon my being's cloud, 
 
 I '11 cast o'er other hearts its cheering ray ; 
 
 'T will add new brightness to my toilsome way. 
 But when my spirit's sadness doth enshroud 
 
 Hope's coruscations, pleasure's meteor gleam, 
 And darkness settles down upon my heart, 
 And care exerts her blighting, cankering art, 
 
 Then, then, what I am not I '11 strive to seem ; 
 Woe has no right her burden to divide, 
 To cast her shadows o'er a sunny soul ;
 
 So, though my bark rock on the troubled tide, 
 Or lie, half wrecked, upon the hidden shoal, 
 The flowers of hope shall garland it the while, 
 Though plucked from out her urn in death to smile. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 THE BUDS OF THE SARANAC.* 
 
 AN angel breathed upon a budding flower, 
 
 And on that breath the bud went up to heaven, 
 Yet left a fragrance in the little bower 
 
 To which its first warm blushes had been given ; 
 And, by that fragrance nursed, another grew, 
 
 And so they both had being in the last, 
 And on this one distilled heaven's choicest dew, 
 
 And rays of glorious light were on it cast, 
 Until the floweret claimed a higher birth, 
 
 And would not open on a scene so drear, 
 For it was more of Paradise than earth, 
 
 And strains from thence came ever floating near ; 
 And so it passed, and long ere noontide's hour, 
 The buds of earth had oped, a heaven-born flower. 
 
 *Lucretia and Margaret Davidson.
 
 51 
 
 BORN TO WEAR A CORONET. 
 
 SOME people are born to wear a coronet, no doubt ; but 
 why such, thing's happen on this side of the Atlantic, where 
 plain, simple, republican blood alone is allowed to pass cur- 
 rent, I cannot imagine. Yet that such things do actually occur 
 here, I am certain, and so would you be, dear reader of mine, 
 if you had ever seen Rosina Brown. Well do I remember 
 her a tall, dark-haired maiden, in the first half of her teens, 
 with a form remarkably well developed, an easy air, and a 
 very peculiar manner of carrying a head which was in reality 
 a very fine head, when it was not thrown back so far as to 
 destroy the equilibrium of the figure. In school-girl phrase, 
 she was a magnificent creature, with hair like the raven's 
 wing, and eyes to match, features of nature's most exquisite 
 workmanship, a queen-like figure, and a step like Juno's. 
 People less enthusiastic would have said that she was a very 
 fine girl, who, if she did not spoil herself by disagreeable airs, 
 might become a useful and accomplished woman. We were 
 not so tame and common-place, however ; and, from the digni- 
 fied Miss Martin, who had come to Alderbrook " merely to 
 review her studies," down to us lisping Peter Parleyites, we 
 all regarded such equivocal encomiums with the contempt 
 they merited. Oh ! how we did lament the vulgarity of 
 American society, and deprecate the debasing sentiment which 
 is the corner-stone of our government. But for those " rusty- 
 fusty old men," who put their heads together, as old men are 
 forever doing, to destroy all the dear, delightful romance of 
 life, by making believe that all the people in the world are 
 born free and equal, our splendid beauty might have been at 
 loast a countess. 
 " The head of Zenobia ! " Miss Martin would sigh, and,
 
 52 BORN TO WEAR A CORONET. 
 
 " Such a head ! " came the echo from lip after lip, with a half- 
 lisped finis from the baby-pet, Fanny Forester. 
 
 Alas ! that Nature, who it is generally believed may be im- 
 plicitly trusted in matters touching pedigree, should, on this 
 occasion, so far forget herself as to send a model for a princess 
 of the blood royal across the water, where women are expected 
 to wash their own dishes and scrub their own floors ! 
 
 It must have been some awkward mistake, and I have since 
 come to the conclusion that Miss Rosina Brown was intended 
 for the Queen of England, and the more simple Victoria for 
 Miss Rosina Brown. Be that as it may, many were the 
 fresh-hearted, simple-souled little damsels who threw up their 
 pretty hands in ecstasy at every sentiment she uttered, and 
 heard her animadvert on fashion, refinement, and, above all, 
 aristocracy, with staring eyes and gaping mouths. Among 
 these did Miss Rosina move a queen, though deprived of any 
 other court. We understood the contraction of her brow, the 
 drawing up of her neck, and the curl of her lip perfectly well ; 
 and unfortunate indeed was the stranger who, by some pecu- 
 liarity of voice or manner, or the display of some article of 
 dress not precisely in accordance with our sovereign's taste, 
 called down upon herself these unequivocal marks of disap- 
 probation. But Miss Brown, (if her title must needs be simple 
 Miss, pray why could n't it have been Neville or Montfort, or 
 something that had at least a shadow of nobility about it ?) 
 Miss Brown, with all her holdings forth on aristocracy, could 
 not have defined the word any better than two thirds of the 
 brilliant misses and ambitious mammas that have so well nigh 
 exhausted the theme by their continual harpings, both before 
 her day and since her settlement. She knew that aristocrats 
 were a touch above the vulgar, that they lost caste by making 
 themselves useful, that they should not come in contact with 
 with well, even I, her pet pupil, have forgotten whom ; 
 but it is a class whose traits it is given them to understand 
 intuitively. That aristocracy is a shadowy word to me yet ; 
 for it is enveloped in the misty veil of Miss Brown's explana- 
 tions. I think it conveyed the idea of some exclusive privi-
 
 BORN TO WEAR A CORONET. 53 
 
 leges, I do not recollect what, and a particular way of bowing 
 and curtsying, I have forgotten how ; whether it had anything 
 to do with the curl of the hair, or bend in the bridge of the 
 nose, I cannot say ; but it certainly had with the curvature of 
 the lips, for I recollect one sweet little girl was voted plebeian 
 by Miss Brown's court, because, after numerous lessons, she 
 could not throw up the comers of her pretty mouth, as my 
 Zikka does when angered by the bit. Neither do I know 
 whether high birth had part or parcel in the matter of making 
 an aristocrat, but I half suspect in theory it had ; for I remem- 
 ber one young lady who was considered an unfit associate, 
 because her father was a " vile mechanic ;" and Miss Brown 
 carefully concealed from us the fact, that her dear papa was 
 the same Adam Brown, the flower of his profession, who had 
 graced so well the character of " mine host," proud, rather 
 than ashamed, of the gilt letters emblazoned on the swinging 
 sign before his door. Adam Brown was a worthy, pains- 
 taking man, kind and affable, and very much of a gentleman 
 withal, having not the slightest suspicion that his business 
 was incompatible with the maintenance of that character. 
 Neither was his fair daughter troubled with any qualms about 
 the matter ; but she flitted like the gladsome thing that she 
 was among the numerous visitors, laid the snowy cloth, served 
 the tea, and performed the thousand other offices that none 
 can grace so well as a sweet little girl, flashing with spirit 
 and dimpling with good humor. Indeed, though afraid of 
 scandalizing myself by the expression of such a sentiment, I 
 do more than half suspect that much of Miss Brown's Zeno- 
 bian grace was picked up in this very manner. If she did 
 not owe the shape of her head to the duties of the hostel, she 
 certainly did the carriage of it ; and not a coroneted brow in 
 Christendom could bear its honors more proudly than she the 
 clustering wealth of her own black tresses. But things were 
 not desdned to continue long in such an even course. Adam 
 Brown died, lamented as men who "act well their parts" 
 always will be, and left his daughter an heiress. 
 
 Of such stuff as this are American aristocrats made they 
 
 VOL. n. 5*
 
 54 BORN TO WEAR A COKONET. 
 
 lay the parent who has toiled for them in his grave, and rear 
 the fabric of their miserable, degrading glory on his ashes. 
 Their fathers are honest laborers, they are spendthrifts and 
 mountebanks, and their children, if no worse, are beggars. 
 (Dear reader ! a word in your ear. From the dash a couple 
 of sentences back, not a word of all this rant is mine ; but, 
 unluckily, there is leaning over my shoulder a Democratic 
 monomaniac a genuine JefFersonian Polk-and-Texas-man, 
 as he calls himself, and I must needs submit, now and then, 
 to an interpolation.) 
 
 It was a sad day when our clique of exclusives was broken 
 up by the loss of the nucleus round which Ave gathered ; but 
 we all promised never, never to forget Rosina Brown, and 
 kept the promise as well as school-girls usually do. In a 
 short time rumor brought to our ears something, I scarce 
 know what, about her marriage ; and, one by one, most of 
 us followed in her wake, till scarce a heart in our little band 
 but beat the echo to another's throbbings. Then we were 
 scattered widely ; none but us " little ones " remaining at 
 Alderbrook, and we were of course so fluttered at the idea of 
 growing up into womanhood as to forget our a-b-c days en- 
 tirely. Even our little keepsakes found their way into the 
 ashes, or at best some old bag or oaken chest in the garret ; 
 and scarce a trace remains to tell of by-gone days, except, 
 now and then, a faded flower within the heart, which the 
 dews of memory cannot soften into life. Thus lasting are the 
 friendships founded on a momentary fancy, and nourished by 
 flattery. Sometimes I felt some interest not curiosity, oh, 
 no ! in the fate of my dear Rosina; but I always quieted 
 myself with the reflection that she must be the star of some 
 proud circle ; and, if truth must be told, I had become so in 
 love with the quiet, simple beauties of our darling Underbill, 
 that I valued her estate but lightly, however high it might be. 
 But of its elevation I doubted not; and when fame conde- 
 scended, now and then, to waft the name of some beautiful 
 lady, one who was the cynosure of all eyes in her own land,
 
 BOKN TO WEAR A CORONET. 55 
 
 across the Atlantic, I involuntarily inquired if she were noi 
 American born. 
 
 More than a dozen years had passed when I took a journey 
 to the far west. Oh ! those wild, luxuriant woods ! Every 
 pulse within me dances at the remembrance of them, and 
 even yet my heart flutters like a caged bird in sight of its own 
 free heaven. How I clapped my hands, and laughed, and 
 shouted in baby-like glee, until the old woods rang with 
 ten thousand answering echoes. Then how I sat and 
 dreamed, till fancy transported me to gay Sherwood, and I 
 detected among the changing foliage the Lincoln green, and 
 started at every leaf that rustled, expecting to see peering out 
 upon me the face of bold Robin Hood, or some one of his 
 merry foresters. Oh ! beautiful wild, wild west ! I love 
 thee, not " despite thy faults," but, as rare Elia did things 
 scarce more loveable, " faults and all." I love even thy cor- 
 duroy roads, mud and underbrush, log houses without win- 
 dows, quizzing inhabitants, and gruff, bragging hosts, who 
 think it very strange that people can have any objection to 
 sleeping a dozen in a room, particularly if it be summer, and 
 that room has no air-hole but a chink in the wall, made for 
 the especial benefit of beetles and musquitoes. 
 
 We had left Will Waters' fine farm away in the distance, 
 and commenced our return home. Oh, such roads ! Our 
 ample wagon was like a miniature ark of particularly clumsy 
 make, now rising on the tip-top of a billow, and suddenly sink- 
 ing almost out of sight. Then we had an over-turn, and that 
 was the climax of the day's enjoyment ; for nobody was hurt, 
 and everybody laughed, and perpetrated stale witticisms and 
 laughed at them again ; till the birds were no doubt convinced 
 that upsetting a big travelling-wagon is one of the rarest sport* 
 we humans engage in. Next the horses, panting as though 
 worn out by their own strong will, set their forward feet stub- 
 bornly down, refusing to part company with the turf even for 
 an instant ; the driver flourished his whip and swore roundly ; 
 the gentlemen coaxed the horses, soothed the driver, and 
 laughed with us, who, with comical glances, half of mirth half
 
 56 BORN TO WEAR A CORONET. 
 
 of anxiety, nibbled the tips of our kid gloves and wondered 
 what we should do. Then all at once one prying fellow of 
 our party announced that a spring was broken, a pin lost, 01 
 something of that sort had occurred, which women are sure 
 to get wrong if they mention it afterwards ; to which the pro- 
 voking driver responded that a horse had lost a shoe. And 
 so, as in duty bound, we all laughed again, not heartilv, as 
 before, but a nervous, hysterical laugh. The gentlemen 
 looked perplexed ; we cast sidelong glances at the woods, as 
 though the wolves had already smelt out our discomfiture, and 
 were only hiding behind the nearest trees till night-fall ; and 
 the driver used harder words than ever. A consultation was 
 now held, rather short to be sure, as consultations are apt to 
 be when there remains but one path to choose ; and then each 
 gentleman tucked his lady under his arm, and on we jogged 
 as merrily as before. It might be five miles, indeed it might 
 be twenty, to any human habitation, but no it was only one. 
 A neat log cabin, situated in the very centre of a Paradisal 
 bower, its white-washed walls nearly concealed by woodbine 
 and eglantine, loomed up from an expanse of cleared land ; 
 and, all at once, our rejoiced party discovered that we were 
 very tired, and could not have lived to walk farther than this 
 one mile. Beautiful dark-eyed children, in neat, coarse 
 dresses, were playing about the cottage, and interrupting with 
 the cry "Oh! look here, father!" "Father! Robin has 
 hit the target!" a tall, sun-embrowned, intellectual looking 
 man, who was reading in the doorway. We were cordially 
 welcomed by this man, and shown into a little room full of 
 flowers and green bushes, through the leaves of which the 
 hot air, made heavy by the weight of the sunshine, cooled 
 itself and dallied lovingly with the flowers, then came to play 
 about us who knew so well how to appreciate both its fresh- 
 ness and its perfume. 
 
 " A little paradise ! " whispered I. 
 
 " Almost equal to the nestling-place of your friend Nora," 
 returned J , in the same tone.
 
 BORN TO WEAR A CORONET. 57 
 
 " A pretty good house-keeper for the woods, I imagine," 
 added another of our party. 
 
 " House-keeper, indeed ! Who would think of a house- 
 keeper's arranging all this ? It was undoubtedly some little 
 sprite with taste enough to prefer such a bright spot to fairy- 
 land ! " And I tossed my head in make-believe playfulness ; 
 but, in reality, feeling quite resentful that any one should 
 think of such prosaic things as house-keeping in a place like 
 this. 
 
 So I looked about among the foliage for my sylvan deity, 
 but nothing was there more fairy-like than a domesticated 
 robin, which, perched on a fresh bough that waved above the 
 snowy pine mantel, was practising a little duet with its part- 
 ner in the fragrant bass-wood, just beyond the court-yard 
 fence. But we had no more time for observation or remark. 
 Our hostess, a young woman of dignified, matronly air, as 
 unlike a fairy as anything you can imagine, came in to wel- 
 come us ; and, shortly after, we were seated around a plenti- 
 ful board, smoking with hot corn cakes, and the most fragrant 
 imperial, and oh! didn't we do justice to these same? 
 And did the fresh cream, and the strawberries, and the snowy 
 cold bread for those who preferred it, and the raspberry jam, 
 or any of the other nice things, suffer from neglect ? During 
 the repast the fine eyes of our hostess frequently turned on 
 me, and there was such a peculiar attraction in their deep 
 darkness, that mine invariably met them. Then there was a 
 little blushing, a little confusion on both sides, and a resolu- 
 tion on my part not to be so rude and stare so again. After 
 tea we repaired to the little embowered parlor, while our 
 hostess was " putting things to rights," and in less than a half 
 hour were joined by her and her husband. They kept up an 
 interesting conversation, but I was silent and perplexed. 
 There was something in the face, air, and manner of this 
 woodland lady that was familiar ; and at the same time I was 
 sure that I had never seen any one so dignified, so self-pos- 
 sessed, and yet so simple and unaffected in every word and
 
 58 BORN TO WEAR A CORONET. 
 
 movement. I ran over my list of acquaintances that had 
 " married and gone west ;" but no, it was none of these. 
 
 " Fanny!" exclaimed J., somewhat impatiently, "are you 
 dreaming ? I have spoken to you three times without getting 
 an answer. Our host tells me that his wife spent some of 
 her school-days at Alderbrook." 
 
 "At Alderbrook?" 
 
 It came like a flash of light. 
 
 " Rosina Brown ! " 
 
 " My little Fanny ! " and we were locked fast in each oth- 
 er's arms. 
 
 My countess, my queen, here in the wilderness, actually 
 washing her own dishes, and sweeping the floor of her own 
 log-house, and " not always with a civilized broom either," as 
 she laughingly asserted. Only think of it ! Of course I was 
 astounded ; and no wonder that I did n't venture on asking a 
 single question, while she overpowered me with a whole vol- 
 ley. But at midnight, when all were asleep within, and the 
 stars alone kept watch without, (Rosina assured me that there 
 was not a wolf in the whole neighborhood,) we stole away, 
 and beneath the silent trees renewed our former intimacy. 
 
 " And so you wonder," said Rosina, " at my being hero. 
 Well, so do I sometimes ; but oftener I wonder why I am so 
 happy, so contented, so willingly circumscribed in my Avants 
 and desires, and yet so free in soul and fancy. Believe me, 
 Fanny, I never before knew a single day of such pure, unal- 
 loyed happiness as I have enjoyed every day since we shel- 
 tered our pretty birds within this forest nook. Don't you 
 think they are pretty, Fanny ? They stole their red cheeks 
 from the dewy flowers, and their bright eyes have grown 
 brighter by looking on the beautiful things about them. Then 
 these stately old trees have made them thoughtful and deep- 
 hearted ; and they are little musicians, too, vying with the 
 woodland minstrels in melody." 
 
 " Perfect cherubs and so happy and healthful !" 
 
 " Yes happy, and healthful, and frolicsome, as the young 
 colts you must have passed when you wound around the bend
 
 BORN TO WEAR A CORONET. 59 
 
 in the creek. They used often to be sick, and I watched 
 beside them until all the color was gone from my cheek, and I 
 acquired this stoop in my shoulders see! I never shall be 
 straight again ! " 
 
 "Oh! I should n't observe it at all it is very slight in- 
 deed, and you will soon overcome it. But do tell me how it 
 happened that you, of all others, should marry a farmer, and 
 and" 
 
 " A poor man, you would say. I did not." 
 
 And then I listened to a story, of which I should never 
 have dreamed that Rosina Brown could be the subject. 
 
 Rosina had met Richard Merrival several times before she 
 came to Alderbrook, and their acquaintance was renewed 
 every vacation. So when she had " finished," and he threw 
 off the student and was admitted to the bar, it was no great 
 wonder that he pleaded his first cause in the queenly presence 
 of Rosina Brown. It were a pity, indoed, if such a handsome 
 young barrister should plead in vain ; and so Merrival en- 
 snared his lady-bird, and bore her away to town ; and there, 
 in an elegant mansion, surrounded by every luxury, their 
 chief study seemed to be how to make everything about them 
 more luxurious still. At length their means failed, and Mer- 
 rival applied to his father. But this fountain of wealth 
 was dry. Failure had followed up the old man's golden 
 schemes, and Richard Merrival and his father were beggars. 
 Rosina saw herself falling ; she knew that the magic circle of 
 which she had been the brightest star was shutting her with- 
 out its pale ; the glittering bubble, which, in her girlish days, 
 she believed it the chief aim of her life to grasp closely, was 
 crushed within her hand. All that was bright, all that was 
 gladsome, all that was worthy of possession in this world 
 every meteor that for long years she had gazed upon and 
 believed a sun all the roses that had clustered so luxuriantly 
 about her path all receded now, and the world lay stretched 
 out before her, a wilderness. And yet, an old friend came, 
 one who had loved her when a little girl in the inn by the 
 way-side, and she would not know him. No! come poverty,
 
 50 BOHN TO WEAB A CORONET. 
 
 come beggary, come starvation even, these should not bow 
 her spirit to go back to things she had despised. She could 
 suffer, but she would not bend. And so the old friend went 
 away, and Rosina wondered where she should find bread for 
 her children. 
 
 But Merrival, though he had spent years in idleness, was 
 gifted and eloquent. He knew that his profession was a for- 
 tune in itself, and he gathered strength, as manliness ever 
 does when struggling with obstacles. With a heart some- 
 what lightened, he sat down by his humble fireside at evening, 
 to gain sympathy from the loved ones. But discontent and 
 misery were there. His wife complained; his pampered 
 children missed their accustomed luxuries, and they com- 
 plained also ; recrimination followed between the husband and 
 the wife, and they lay down to rest with hearts full of bitter- 
 ness toward each other. When the whole world is the object 
 of bitterness the individual is never spared. 
 
 Weeks passed, and Richard Merrival grew gay again ; but 
 it was over the cup of death. His laugh was long and loud, 
 and his eye had a fearful sparkle to it a flash that every one 
 knew was but the kindling of pent-up misery. The little cot- 
 tage grew dark and darker, the loving heart grew desolate ; 
 but on the top wave of anguish rode always the harrowing 
 thought " Bread ! bread for the little ones whom God has 
 given me ! " 
 
 Months years went by, and Rosina was a drunkard's 
 wife! Not a tithe of the degradation of such a lot was 
 abated ; but the bitterness of her spirit was drowned in sor- 
 row. She had watched day and night by the bed-side of 
 innocence, and she grew gentle in such an atmosphere. Then 
 she laid two of her sweet nurslings in the grave, and so a link 
 was forged between her heart and heaven. 
 
 A change came over Merrival. Poverty had taken up its 
 abode by his fireside ; suffering and sorrow were there, but 
 none of these had driven him thence. It was the bitterness 
 of crushed pride ; and that was a guest there no longer. He 
 laid his hand upon the icy forehead of his dead child, his first-
 
 BORN TO WEAR A CORONET. 61 
 
 born darling boy, and took upon his soul a vow, and that vow 
 never was broken. And now behold them, pale and weary, 
 but calm and hopeful, wending their way to the far west, 
 where they might forget their vain dreams and their degrada- 
 tion together. 
 
 " We are yet poor in gold and lands," continued Rosina, 
 " but are rich in health and peace, in our children, and in 
 each other. And now, my dear Fanny," she added, as we 
 turned toward the house, " I am as aristocratic as ever. We 
 lord it over the ndtives of these wilds, the birds and beasts, as 
 though we were peers of the realm Nature's realm and 
 claim the exclusive privilege of making each other happy, and 
 of offering our humble roof to the stranger benighted in these 
 woods, privileges which not a living thing about us ventures 
 to exercise." 
 
 " But do you never long for society, Rosina ?" 
 
 " Society?" 
 
 She led me to a couch where two living rose-buds, two 
 bright-lipped sleeping Hebes, lay nestling in each other's 
 arms, and throwing back rich clusters of golden curls, kissed 
 cheek, and lip, and forehead, a gentle, loving pressure, so 
 mother-like that a tear sprang to my eye, for I seemed again 
 lying in my own little cot at Alderbrook. 
 
 " Look at these, Fanny ; and my two noble boys ! What 
 more society could I desire, unless it be his ! I wish you 
 knew my husband, Fanny. I used to boast that he was a 
 perfect gentleman, and so he was ; but that is an abused term, 
 and now I know the highest praise that I can offer is that he 
 is a man! in heart, and soul, and intellect, a man full of 
 integrity, and courage, and strength, and truth in short, my 
 . little Fanny, he is, as I suppose every loving wife thinks of 
 her lucky Benedict the one man in the world ! " 
 
 It was almost morning when Mrs. Merrival and myself 
 gave the good-night kiss, and turned away to dream of our 
 .school-days at Alderbrook. 
 
 When the sun arose, and the discovery was made that we 
 should IK- detained a whole day and night longer in our par- 
 
 VOL. 11. 6
 
 62 BORN TO WEAR A CORONET. 
 
 lor-bower, my resignation on the occasion entitled me to become 
 pattern-woman for the whole party ; and our hostess looked 
 anything but sad at our discomfiture. It was a happy day ; 
 and, when evening came again, I no longer wondered that 
 Rosina was satisfied with her society. In the course of the 
 day I took a peep into the little library, composed of a few 
 choice volumes, to which the Merrivals had clung in weal and 
 woe; walked into the garden and viewed, not only the wall 
 flowers and sweet peas, but the beans and cabbages ; and then 
 went to the log barn across the creek, and brought in our 
 own hands the fresh eggs that were served up for dinner. 1 
 learned, also, that Master Robert Merrival, the active little 
 fellow who had just " hit the target," on our arrival, mounted 
 the pony Roger every Saturday, and rode off fifteen miles, to 
 the nearest post-office, whence he returned well laden with 
 papers and letters. 
 
 Another morning came, and we turned with reluctance 
 from our parlor-bower, and with still more reluctance from the 
 dear ones who had constructed it, to pursue our journey. 
 The adieus, the prayers and prophecies, the clasping of hands 
 and kissing of lips, I will not attempt to describe ; neither the 
 heart-swell that it took so many miles to calm ; for I would 
 not leave a tear here at the close of my tale. So we parted, 
 the Alderbrook Zenobia and her little worshipper. A strange 
 throne that of rare Rosina Brown's ! her hut away in the 
 
 green wilderness. And yet and yet, I do believe 
 
 Well ! I will not brave a straight-jacket for the sake of having 
 my say ; but whatever mistake Fortune may have made in 
 the execution of her plan, of one thing I am certain, my 
 . proud-browed friend was at least born to wear a coronet. J. 
 says I am mistaken ; that I must be thinking of her husband's
 
 63 
 
 WILLARD LAWSON. 
 
 CHAPTER I. LEAVING HOME. 
 
 " You will be sorry for it, Willard." 
 
 " Sorry ! I tell you, Sophy, I have been in leading strings 
 long enough ; and I will go where I can, now and then, do as 
 I choose ! " 
 
 " You will be back in less than three days." 
 
 " No, not in less than three years. Come, tell me what 
 I shall bring you from over the seas ; they have all sorts of 
 girncracks in the Indies, and, maybe, I shall go to China, 
 or " 
 
 " Or take a peep into Symm's hole, or a ride on the roc's 
 back. Bring me a pair of slippers from Lilliput." 
 
 " I will bring you a pair so small that you cannot wear 
 them, if that is what you like ; and a rare India shawl, to beat 
 cousin Meg's." 
 
 " I hope you will get your purse well replenished ; I dare 
 say you will find them in New York." 
 
 " New York ! " 
 
 " Don't speak so contemptuously of our mammoth city, 
 Will ; there will be a little fading out of those handsome curls, 
 I dare say, before you will see a larger." 
 
 " I tell you, Sophy, I am going to sea. What part of the 
 world I may visit, I don't know ; but it will be many a long 
 year before you will see me again." 
 
 " Nonsense, Will, think of scrambling up ropes and perch- 
 ing in the air like a monkey ! You have always had a taste 
 that way, I know, but try it in a gale, and you would soon 
 come to the conclusion that you had a little too much of it. 
 Come, this freak of yours is all nonsense ; be obedient, and 
 father will be kind to you, but you know it was wrong for you 
 to go "
 
 04 W1LLARD LAWSON. 
 
 " I know it was not wrong, Sophy, and I am glad I went. 
 I should like to know what right anybody has to hinder me 
 from speaking to a school-fellow now and then, or even from 
 shaking my toe in a dance, if I choose. Wondrous good 
 some people are, indeed ! I wish they would tell me how 
 much worse dancing is than anger ; and did n't you see how 
 pale he turned? James turned pale, too, for I believe he 
 thought I would get knocked down. I almost wish he had 
 done it." 
 
 "Willard!" 
 
 " He drives me to it, Sophy." 
 
 " If you go away with these bad feelings, I am afraid you 
 never will come back again." 
 
 "Maybe but yes, I shall of course I shall. I shall 
 want to see you, and and all. Oh, I shall come back some- 
 time." 
 
 " I am afraid not, Willard." 
 
 The observation seemed to induce a new train of thought, 
 for the boy's excited countenance assumed an unusual sober- 
 ness ; a tear crept to his eye and twinkled on the upraised 
 lash, but he brushed it hastily away, and with a " never fear 
 for that, Sophy," sprang to the door, as though afraid to trust 
 his voice with another word. The sister waited awhile for his 
 return, thinking that he would at least bid her a good-night ; 
 but when she perceived that he was not coming, she began to 
 persuade herself that he was ashamed of his folly and would 
 be in better temper in the morning, or that her father would 
 abate some of his sternness ; at any rate, somehow, the diffi- 
 culty would be settled, as others had been before ; and so she 
 went to sleep. These troubles were nothing new to her. 
 Judge Lawson was a noble-minded, upright man, who exer- 
 cised a kind of patriarchal sway, not only in his family, but 
 over the whole neighborhood. He was a good father and a 
 kind neighbor in the main, but stern and self-willed ; all 
 suavity and gentleness when obeyed, but woe to the luckless 
 one who dared to oppose his plans or wishes ! To such, 
 if the truth must be owned, Judge Lawson was a tyrant. He
 
 \VILLARD LAWSOJS. 65 
 
 had managed, however, without unpleasant bickerings, to 
 bring up his family in the strictest integrity ; and they were 
 now about him, doing honor to his gray hairs. They had 
 yielded to him; he had led them wisely, and now they 
 honored him with all their hearts. Sons and sons-in-law 
 looked up to him with reverence ; all but a bold, daring boy, 
 his youngest child, the handsomest and the bravest, but, alas ! 
 50 full of faults ! Willard had talents, but he did not like the 
 trouble of cultivating them ; like many another, he was so 
 well satisfied with his natural acuteness, that he could see no 
 necessity for bestowing labor on the mental soil. Mistaken 
 Willard ! Mistaken thousands ! He was spirited as a young 
 colt that spurns the bit, and grew restive under his father's 
 control before he had reached a dozen summers. Now he had 
 grown into a tall stripling, and considered himself very nearly 
 a man, and was he to be led about like a baby? I think I 
 do not know but I really think that if Judge Lawson had 
 not been quite so authoritative and unbending, his son Willard 
 would have been more manageable ; but yet I must admit that 
 the Judge never required anything of him which was not 
 right. Then Willard was frank and joyous, with a heart full 
 of generous sentiments and brimming over with sympathy and 
 kindness ; and it must be owned that there was something 
 which shut down over his spirit like a lid whenever he entered 
 his father's house. He had felt it when a little boy playing in 
 the sunshine on the lawn ; and used to think, when called in 
 at evening, of the atmosphere of a damp, dark cellar in the 
 spring-time ; but the uncomfortable feeling had increased as 
 he grew older, and now Willard Lawson did not love his 
 home. It was a rare good place for his intellect, but there 
 was no room there for his heart to expand. All were kind, 
 his sister Sophia especially so, but it was a kindness which 
 was always smooth, and even, and cold ; no bubbling, no sud- 
 den gushes, like the spring which lures the travel-stained 
 wanderer from the way-side, or the fountain leaping up at the 
 kiss of the breezes and the glance of the san-light ; but a quiet, 
 calm, lifeless sort of kindness, that seemed to lack that uni- 
 VOL. n. 6*
 
 66 WILLARD LAWSON. 
 
 versal inspiration love. So he went away from home for 
 society, not always selecting the best, for how could the boy 
 know how to choose rightly? He found more sympathy 
 without doors than within, and so Willard Lawson, yomr_ r ;r; 
 he was, had set both feet resolutely in a most dangerous? path. 
 Beware, Willard ! Nay, but he will not beware ; he has 
 " been in leading strings long enough," and he has resolved 
 on emancipation. 
 
 How much Willard Lawson slept that night I will not 
 attempt to say ; how many misgivings visited his heart in the 
 lone darkness, or how much dearer his home became as he 
 thought upon the words of his sister : " If you leave us with 
 these bad feelings, I am afraid you never will come back 
 again." The thoughts and emotions were his own, his own 
 to brood over, his own to bury; forget he probably never 
 would. Morning dawned at last, and by the first faint glim- 
 mer Willard rose and dressed himself. He then walked 
 about the little room as though taking a farewell of every 
 article of furniture, and looked from the window, and walked 
 again, till a tear, actually a big round tear, rolled from his 
 eyes like a red-hot bullet, and dropped upon his hand. He 
 was alone now, and so it was no shame to weep; and Willard 
 did not even put a hand to his eyes while the liquid sorrow 
 rained down over his cheeks in torrents. Poor boy ! It is a 
 pitiful thing to forsake the roof which sheltered us in our 
 helplessness ; where the only real love the wide earth knows 
 beamed on our infant eyes ; where tenderness and purity and 
 truth bud and blossom in the sunshine of kindness and the 
 dew of innocence ; the dear hallowed hearth-stone, circled 
 round with sacred affections, pitiful to leave it, and for 
 what? Thank God for the gilded veil behind which the 
 Protean .future is allowed to conceal her features ! Who 
 would look into the book of fate and read at a glance his own 
 destiny? Willard Lawson had no very bright hopes this 
 morning ; for the false star glittering but yesterday before his 
 eyes, had set in darkness, been extinguished in tears. He 
 had laughed and sported in that room, he had slept there
 
 WILLAHD J.AWSON. 67 
 
 while angels guarded him, he had lisped his first prayers 
 there, arid there too had he almost forgotten the duty. He 
 was still but a boy, and yet he was very much changed ; and 
 he thought upon this change with sadness. What an inno- 
 cent little fellow he was when he went to sleep hugging his 
 first top to his bosom, 'and thinking what a dear good papa 
 his was to bring such an invaluable present from the town ! 
 And how often, in his childish reverence, had he thought of 
 that same father, and wondered if his Heavenly Father could 
 be any better or any wiser ! And how disobedient he had 
 been of late, and self-willed, and disrespectful ; in actions 
 rather than words, and in thoughts more than either. Dost 
 thou relent, Willard ? Is there not a softening in thy heart ? 
 Are not thy lips moving to the words, " I will arise and go 
 unto my father ? " Ah ! stay thee, rash youth ! Gently, 
 gently ! There is a balm in penitential tears ! I already see 
 the rainbow arching thy heart. It is a precious moment, 
 Willard ; beware ! Nay, all is lost ! That movement below, 
 followed by the whistle of Bluff Bill, the man-of-all-work, has 
 sent other thoughts into the head of the stripling, and the 
 scale is turned. The tears are brushed away, and in quiet, 
 but hurriedly, the room is left without a tenant. 
 
 Willard stood in the yard, beneath the dear old trees where 
 he had sported in childhood. The large, long-limbed butter- 
 nut had never seemed so beautiful as now, since the day when, 
 an urchin in petticoats, he had scrambled up its jagged trunk 
 to get a peep into the snug little home of Madam Redbreast, 
 and came down again amid huzzas and chidings ; and as for 
 the elm trees, he had pruned them himself many a time, and 
 he had watched them year after year, till he knew the position 
 of every graceful branch against the sky, as he knew the 
 places of the children at his father's table. There was a 
 locust precisely his own age, and the circumstance had been 
 so often mentioned, that he felt as though somehow that tree 
 belonged to him was linked to his life was a part of him- 
 self, which he ought to carry away, or rather which he ought 
 to stay and cherish. He cast a glance around to see that no
 
 00 WILLARD LAWSON. 
 
 one was near ; and then he threw his arms about the dear old 
 tree, and pressed his lips to the rough, dew-spangled bark, as 
 though it had been a living object of love. This done, he 
 looked back upon the house hurriedly, and passed on. In the 
 stable stood gay Larry, the fine young saddle-horse, which 
 turned at the sound of his voice, and laid his finely arched 
 neck over his shoulder, with all the affection of a child ; and 
 he patted the animal and passed his hand over his smooth 
 glossy skin, and then buried his face in the flowing mane 
 and wept unrestrainedly. Poor Willard ! Larry was an old 
 playmate, and that Larry loved him was clear, for to no other 
 one was he so gentle and obedient. Oh, if Larry could but 
 go with him! Our hearts warm toward thee, dear Willard, 
 more than they did a half-hour since, when the careless 
 whistle of Bill awakened thee to all thy stubbornness ; for there 
 is that in thy spirit which the angels know to be priceless. 
 Thou art even as mettlesome as thy pet Larry ; but thou art 
 good and noble, too, for thou lovest the poor dumb animals 
 which look up to thee for care and protection, even as thou 
 shouldst look to Heaven. Mayst thou never lose the manly 
 softness, young Willard ! The lad found as he passed on 
 that he had bestowed more love on Lawson farm than ho had 
 imagined. The cows one in particular, which had always 
 been called his looked into his face with a kind of pleading 
 mournfulness a sad, beseeching expression, that seemed to 
 him made up of love and censure; and then they came 
 lowing after him, as though they would yet entreat his return. 
 Even the fowls gathered about his feet familiarly, and raised 
 a chorus of sounds which it was not difficult for him to inter- 
 pret. " Sir Chaunticlere" shook his long parti-colored plumes 
 ominously, and sent out a shrill, high-ringing warning ; the 
 hens, cackling, flocked before him, like a swarm of butterflies 
 in August ; and a dove flew from its perch to his shoulder, 
 and then nestled in his bosom, looking up to him, with its 
 warm, melting eyes swimming in love as his were in tears. 
 There is yet time to retract, Willard. Take back those dan- 
 gerous steps, and no one will know they have been trodden.
 
 WILLAKD LAWSON. 69 
 
 No, this is not among things possible to the boy. The part- 
 ing is taking the very life from the innermost core of his 
 heart, tearing* away the threads Avhich invisible fingers have 
 been braiding within, ever since his baby foot first tottered on 
 the threshold of being : but who ever suspected Willard Law- 
 son of wavering or fickleness ? Why, we might as soon 
 expect the judge himself to change his mind and reverse a 
 decision ! Willard, boy as he is, will never hesitate and falter 
 after he has resolved ; but it is no part of his philosophy to 
 dispense with feeling. Perhaps I am not sure how strong 
 the sense of right may be in his bosom but, perhaps, if he 
 were thoroughly convinced that he was taking a wrong step, 
 one which he would regret in all after life, he might yet be 
 induced to go back and nestle again, more lovingly than ever, 
 among the dear old associations which are clustering around 
 him, striving to entangle for good his erring feet. But 
 Willard, with his bold, free spirit swelling in his bosom, will 
 never stay with Larry and the other dumb things that love 
 him, at what his boyish inexperience deems a sacrifice of his 
 yet unbearded manliness. 
 
 Willard passed from the barnyard without venturing to 
 look upon the garden patch, for he had had chiding enough 
 without listening to the gentle murmurs of the green things 
 that the morning breeze was dallying with ; and leaping the 
 stile, he took his way across a rich field of clover, which the 
 little spirits of the night and the messenger sun-rays had 
 decked out in matchless diadems. Sometimes a little sheet 
 of gossamer, fastened to shafts of emerald, gleamed with all 
 the colors of the rainbow, here and there breaking from its 
 fastenings, as highly gifted spirits sometimes sink beneath the 
 weight of tfieir own wealth. Spires of grass bent beneath 
 clusters of the same jewels ; and the fragrant clover-heads and 
 nodding butter-cups flashed and sparkled like the coronet of a 
 duchess. Birds, sweet, glad little creatures, with wings and 
 voices but too familiar, carolled from the tree-tops, or wheeled 
 and careered in mid-air, mad with exultant happiness, (blessed 
 spirits of the air !) and the bee, in his glossy black coat, with
 
 70 W1LLAK1) LAWSON. 
 
 more gold than even a gay courtier of the olden time would 
 have cared to deck his mantle with, sped beneath the soft 
 clouds like an arrow, and plunged headlong among the luxu- 
 riant svveets of the fragrant clover blossoms. How all these 
 glad things contrasted with the heavy spirit of the young 
 wanderer ! A stream went dancing and bubbling by, right 
 merrily ; and close beside the rustic bridge was a deep place, 
 where he had angled for trout for many a summer. Willard 
 glanced at it and seemed inclined to stop, then passed on 
 returned again, and kneeling down, bent his head far ovrr 
 and peered earnestly down into the water. A fin swept by, 
 with a thin layer of silver over it ; and he caught a glimpse 
 of a mottled back, crimson and amber, and a pale, soft azure 
 in a setting of gray. Another followed, and then came a troop 
 of little silver things, hurrying after each other, as though on 
 their way to a fairy wedding, scarce rippling the water as they 
 went. Willard caught by a branch of the birch tree that grew 
 there when he first opened his eyes on the landscape, and 
 swung himself to the bank. His seat was as soft as the rich- 
 est carpet, woven of glossy brown and gold ; and as he again 
 bent over the stream, he scooped up handfuls of the cold water 
 and dashed them over his burning face, jewelling his wavy 
 hair and the luxurious bank together. Along the borders of 
 the stream grew clumps of willows, their narrow leaves trem- 
 bling on the breath of the morning, and now and then a wild 
 elm, shagged with green away down to the earth, or a round- 
 topped maple, or a silver-coated beech ; and at their roots 
 sprang troops of flowers, bending their blue and crimson cups 
 to the water, while in the spots of light breaking through their 
 branches swarmed clans of bright-hued insects, dipping their 
 gay wings in the liquid gold of morning, and warming thoir 
 bloodless limbs at the heart of nature. It was beautiful, and 
 Willard had often thought so ; but now his heart yearned to- 
 ward the familiar scene, and he would have taken the whole 
 to .his bosom and folded his arms about it as tenderly as a 
 mother clasps the child she dotes upon. Again the tears 
 rushed to his eyes, and again he dashed the cool water upon
 
 WILLARD LAWSON. 71 
 
 his face ; and, without turning for another glance, hurried on. 
 The sheep were speckling the green of the neighboring pas- 
 tures, and the horses were bounding and tossing their manes 
 in play, or quietly cropping the grass at their feet ; but Wil- 
 lard had grown wiser and did not trust himself among them. 
 He sprang over the fence and proceeded resolutely along the 
 roadside. But his trials were not yet over. With a cry of 
 joy, that seemed almost human, a dog rushed over the banks 
 among the thorny bushes, scattering down a shower of rain- 
 drops, bounded over the fence, and leaped, quivering all over 
 with gladness, to the shoulders of his young master. 
 
 " Good dog ! good Rover ! " exclaimed the boy, in a husky, 
 broken voice, patting the head and smoothing the neck of his 
 favorite. " Good fellow ! I did not want to scold you, and 
 so Bill should have known better than to set you free. 
 But I must take nothing, not even my own dog, from the 
 farm. Go back, Rover, go back ! " 
 
 The dog seemed to understand the words, though they 
 were spoken low and sorrowfully and without a gesture, and 
 he looked up with his large meek eyes into the boy's face 
 oh, so pleadingly ! Poor Willard's heart had been swelling 
 until his bosom seemed hardly large enough to contain it, but 
 this last appeal was too much ; and, with uncontrollable sob- 
 bings, he threw himself upon the neck of his dumb favorite, 
 and clung to him as though he had no other associate or friend 
 on earth. And he had no other now. Poor Willard ! For 
 awhile the wanderer sobbed on in utter abandonment ; the 
 dog now thrusting his nose into his bosom, now licking his 
 hands and face, and striving by such mute eloquence to win 
 him from his grief, whatever might have occasioned it. At 
 last the youth mastered the emotion, and with trembling lip 
 and swimming eye stood again upon his feet. 
 
 "Go home, Rover go! Go, Rover! Rascal! down! 
 down ! go home ! " 
 
 The dog, at the first command, given falteringly, had 
 sprung again to his master's shoulders, wagging his tail, as 
 though to congratulate him on his restored calmness. But at
 
 72 WIU.AKD LAWSON. 
 
 the last words, spoken authoritatively, he crouched at his feet, 
 whining piteously, and looking up to his face with the most 
 beseeching fondness. If the eyes be the mirror of the soul, 
 what a soul some brute animals must have ! Willard turned 
 his head from their chidnig, appealing gaze, and choked down 
 the heart that was springing to his throat, while, in a louder 
 and still more commanding tone, he exclaimed, pointing with 
 his finger and stamping with his foot, " Back, Rover ! Go 
 home ! " 
 
 The dog only lowered his head quite to the dust, and 
 whined more piteously than before. Perhaps Willard was 
 afraid to trust his voice again, but he certainly was resolved 
 on making the animal obey him. Taking a knife from his 
 pocket, he proceeded, not very deliberately, to a tree which 
 drooped its heavy branches over the stone wall by the way- 
 side. The dog did not move, but his large, pitiful eyes fol- 
 lowed his young master to the tree, and watched him with a 
 look of meek sorrow while he cut a limb from it and hastily 
 trimmed away the leaves. But as he returned ! Willard 
 was within a yard of his mutely eloquent friend, when the 
 dog seemed of a sudden to comprehend his intent; and with 
 a sharp, piercing cry, made up of more emotions than often 
 swell in a human bosom a cry of intense, heart-crushing 
 anguish he leaped the fence and bounded away. Willard 
 watched him ; not with tears now, for there was something 
 horrifying in what he had done, but with a kind of awe- 
 stricken fear, until he reached the little bridge which had been 
 thrown over the creek in the pasture. Here the dog .for tin- !ir-t 
 time relaxed his speed, turned about, and stretching his neck, 
 ominously, in the direction in which Willard stood, sent forth 
 a long, dismal howl. Howl after howl howl after howl 
 prolonged terrible! And the boy, putting his fin 
 his ears, ran with all his speed, till he had left the hill between 
 himself and his home. Pause once more, and bethink thee, 
 Willard ! Perchance, that far-off howl, dying now in the dis- 
 tance, is warning thee of coming evil. Pause, and think ! 
 
 As Willard hurried on, though he pussed familiar farm-
 
 WILLARD LAWSON. 73 
 
 houses, bidding adieu to the scenes of boyhood, perhaps for- 
 ever, a change gradually came over him ; for the clear, fresh 
 air of morning brushed his cheek and cooled his forehead, 
 giving courage to his heart ; and the brisk motion quickened 
 his blood and took some of the pain from his pulse-throbs. 
 By degrees his thoughts passed over from the things he was 
 leaving, to the future ; and he went on, whistling " A life on 
 the ocean wave," and carelessly switching the thistles and 
 May-blossoms with the stick which he had cut for Rover. 
 
 CHAPTER II. A STRANGER. 
 
 Willard had been wandering by the wharf all day, passing 
 from one vessel to another, talking with seamen and laying 
 plans for the future with apparent boldness ; but, spite of all 
 this, there was a desolate feeling at his heart, which was fast 
 writing itself in unboyish characters of thought upon his face. 
 He still had with him the stick which he brought from Law- 
 son farm ; and carried suspended from it a small bundle of 
 things which he had taken the forethought to tie up in a 
 pocket handkerchief on the morning he left home. This, 
 with a very scanty purse, was all he had on earth ; neither 
 money, nor goods, nor friends. But he possessed that which 
 was worse for him, unguided as he was, than his wants a 
 bold, impulsive nature, self-confidence and an undoubting 
 trust in others, warmth and energy and gayety, and a desire 
 to see everything and test everything ; while, just at this 
 moment, when he most needed it, a hinge was loosened in his 
 strong heart. He wandered alone to a back street, dark, nar- 
 row and filthy, for he was taking his first lesson in economy, 
 and seated himself on a bench at the door of an alehouse. 
 Strange beings were passing by. The drunkard and the 
 pauper, the undisguised miserable and the degraded mirthful in 
 their misery, the needy beggar and the beggar by profession, 
 all went trooping on ; varied only now and then by a face 
 which had some tokens of decency in it, to break up the dis- 
 gusting monotony. After awhile men began to gather in the 
 
 VOL. n. 7
 
 74 \V 1 1, LARD LAWSON. 
 
 alehouse, for night came creeping on. And suck men ! Wil- 
 lard had never dreamed of their like before. There were 
 oaths and blasphemies rind brutal jests and coarse loud peals 
 of laughter, and wrangling, with now and then an expostula- 
 tion that had but little gentleness about it ; and as Willard 
 listened, he moved uneasily on his bench and looked about 
 him with some auxin v, tor his prospects for the night were 
 anything but a^reoabk 1 . But should he be coward enough to 
 change his quarters? Willard was but a boy, and boys have 
 some super-refined notions of courage. He stretched him- 
 self upon the bench, placing his little bundle under his head, 
 lie had not been in this position long when his attention was 
 attracted by another new-comer. The stranger was tall and 
 broad-shouldered magnificently made; and as he slept into 
 the light beyond the doorway, Willard raised his head and 
 looked after him admiringly. Was it some brigand chief, 
 some proud and powerful sea-robber, or could it be a mere 
 common man like the others there, smoking and drink- 
 ing and swearing? He could not be a good man, for Wil- 
 lard knew that this was no place for the good. And yet he 
 did not look like one given to vicious habits or evil passions. 
 His rich, wavy hair was slightly grizzled, but it had evidently 
 been touched by no pencil more objectionable than Time car- 
 ries ; his complexion was pale and delicate, quite unlike that 
 of a sea-robber ; and his soft blue eye was full of mildness 
 and love. He wore a stiff, military-looking coat, buttoned 
 closely to the chin, displaying his strong muscular propor- 
 tions to the best advantage, and carried in his hand a heavy 
 walking-stick, headed with silver. Willard could not di*ro\vr 
 in what the stranger's peculiarity either of dress or manner 
 consisted, and yet there was a peculiarity which attracted the 
 attention of all the bar-room loungers. He spoke a word or 
 two to those nearest him on entering, in a voice of singular 
 richness and energy ; and then drawing back a little from the 
 company, placed himself upon a settle, just inside the door. 
 He was evidently a stranger to the rest of the company ns to 
 Willard ; and although he seemed disinclined to join in their
 
 \V1LLAK1J LAWSON. 75 
 
 mirth, his eye wandered from one to another with an inter- 
 ested kind of curiosity, which puzzled our young friend not a 
 little. Was there any affinity existing between the spirit of 
 the stranger and a scene like this ? There was a nobleness in 
 his countenance and a majesty in his air, which belonged to 
 no common person an arch-angel fallen, perhaps, for, if 
 not fallen, why should he be there among the vicious and 
 degraded? Willard watched him wonderingly, and as he 
 watched, the heads within began to dance together, the night- 
 lamps joined them, and finally the stars, and at last the boy's 
 dull eyes closed entirely, and his chin rested upon his shirt- 
 collar. Willard was tired and sleepy that night. How long 
 he gave himself up to the dream-spirits he did not know; but 
 when he awoke, a voice of singular kindness, close to his ear, 
 remarked, " You have slept soundly, my son." 
 
 " I have had an unusual pillow," returned Willard, smiling, 
 and raising his head from the shoulder where it had rested, 
 " I trust I may not have hugged it too long for its owner's 
 convenience." 
 
 " That is its owner's care. It was presented unasked, and 
 might have been reclaimed at any moment. But, surely," 
 added the stranger, in a lower tone, " you are not in the habit 
 of resorting to such a place as this ? " 
 
 " I might return the compliment," answered Willard, laugh- 
 ing, " for I take your remark as something of a compliment ; 
 I wondered myself to sleep upon the subject." 
 
 " And what did you decide ?" 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " I have met with better success in my study. You are a 
 stranger." 
 
 " Not quite a companion for men like those ? thank 
 you." 
 
 " You are far from home, for the first time ? " 
 
 " The first time," returned Willard, with a sigh. 
 
 " You have not always been happy in that home ? " 
 
 " There 's no great skill in that who has ?" 
 
 " You left it in anger."
 
 76 WU.LAKU LAW60N. 
 
 " Go on, wizard." 
 
 " You know you have taken a false step, and feel much 
 regret; but you are too proud to return." 
 
 " No, no, I am not sorry I have done it. I am not sorry 
 I wouldn't go back for the world !" 
 
 " Rover misses you." 
 
 Willard started, and turned slightly pale. 
 
 " And your sister Sophy " 
 
 " Ha ! I believe you are the deuce, man." 
 
 " Not quite, my son ; your guess has even less courtesy in 
 it than mine, when I dub you runaway." 
 
 " Who and what are you that you should know so much 
 of me know the names of Sophy and Rover ?" 
 
 " I can tell you more you have a desire to go to sea." 
 
 " Right, but you must have dealings with his black ma- 
 jesty." 
 
 " And more." Here the stranger took the youth's hand 
 affectionately in his, and looked into his face with solemn 
 earnestness. " I can tell you more, my son ; and I am no 
 magician to discover it. I see it written upon your forehead ; 
 I see it beaming in your eye. God has done that for you 
 which may make you among men like yonder star among 
 these feeble lamp-lights. He has gifted you with a quick, 
 powerful intellect, and a warm, earnest heart ; but that power 
 may be degraded and spend itself on trifles ; that warmth may 
 be perverted. The gallant craft you are about to launch upon 
 the broad ocean of the world, (pardon me, my son,) with tender 
 sails and warped rudder, is a thing too noble to subject to 
 such a risk. If you were an older sailor you would make 
 better preparations for your voyage. No, I am laying no 
 unusual weakness to your charge. I see the fire in your eye ; 
 I read strength of purpose on that bold brow, and I know what 
 a strong will may enable you to do. But beware, my son ! 
 as noble vessels as yours have been wrecked ; as strong minds 
 have yielded the jewel of intellect integrity, unswerving 
 principle ; hearts as true as yours have blackened under the 
 finger of pollution. What talisman have you to bear you
 
 WILLARD L.UVSON. 77 
 
 safely through? There was a time, I think there must 
 have been a time when you prayed, ' lead us not into tempta- 
 tion ;' and now you are voluntarily walking in the way of it. 
 Do I not tell you truth, my son ? " 
 
 " What am I to do?" asked Willard, with a quivering hp. 
 
 " First sit down and tell me all your troubles and your 
 plans." 
 
 " You seem to be pretty well informed on that subject 
 already." 
 
 " I never saw you, nor heard of you till this evening." 
 
 " How, then, do you know so much about me ? " 
 
 " Your face is just now strangely full of thought you look 
 innocent you are respectably clad you carry a bundle on 
 your walking-stick you are in a place given up to the vicious 
 you go to sleep unsuspectingly where any but a stranger 
 would be pretty sure of having his pocket picked you mur- 
 mur names in your sleep your speech on awaking is intelli- 
 gent ; am I a wizard ? " 
 
 " You are observing." 
 
 " I came here to observe ; and shall be but too happy if I 
 cart be of service to you." 
 
 " I thank you, but I believe my path is pretty plain before 
 me. I have had conversation with a shipmaster to-day, and 
 have very nearly enlisted as a sailor. You are very kind ; 
 but, notwithstanding your warning, I have a fancy that he 
 who cannot preserve purity of mind and morals on the water, 
 would scarce do it on the land." 
 
 " Very true, my son. Is it your intention to go out as a 
 common sailor?" 
 
 " Yes, I begin at the bottom of the hill. I have no friends 
 to help me to a better berth." 
 
 " Your associates then must necessarily be men who, if not 
 vicious, are ignorant you will have no change of companion- 
 ship, nothing to elevate your thoughts and feelings all a 
 dark, degraded level about you, and you must be more than 
 human not to sink to it. You are young, too, and do not yet 
 
 VOL. n. 7*
 
 78 W1LLARD LAWSON. 
 
 understand your capabilities, because you have not tested 
 them. You should be thoroughly educated " 
 
 " I do not like study, sir." 
 
 " Scarce an excuse for a man, my son. If the bird should 
 chance not to like the air, we might give it to some little girl 
 to enslave, or if the fish should find the water disagreeable, 
 we should scarce take the trouble to reason with it let the 
 foolish thing die ; but the immortal mind is not a bird or a 
 fish, to be granted its whim and perish. The question is not 
 what you fancy, but what you need. Nothing worth having 
 flies to you and alights upon your hand ; you must seek, dig, 
 dig, dig, and the ' hid treasure,' when found, will be worth a 
 thousand worlds to you. There is something glorious, too, in 
 the labor. You commence in this world a process which is 
 to be carried on hereafter under the eyes of angels which 
 is to make the bliss of eternity. Think of the great, undying, 
 God-like mind within you, lying all uncultivated, its capaci- 
 ties undeveloped, its powers unimproved, its affinity to the 
 Deity unrecognized benefiting no one, influencing no one, 
 lost like rubbish among the things that perish a chasm in 
 the great intellectual unity, a monster of ingratitude to the 
 God who endowed it, and a curse to itself. You cannot walk 
 through the world as the fool walks, and be happy ; for there 
 is that within you which demands your life-long care, and if 
 you neglect it listen to me, my son, believe me, for I have 
 seen more years and more men than you have, and I have 
 made natures like yours my study if you neglect it, you 
 may almost as well turn at once to yonder bar and find your 
 associates there. You cannot satisfy the yearning of the cleat h- 
 fess spirit for the food it covets, with husks ; it will not bp toyed 
 with ; and when, starved, enslaved, trampled on, its sharp cry 
 comes to your ear, you will drown it as those men drown it. 
 Look ! that one with the scar across the brow, and the fright- 
 iul scowl had has no common mind you will discover it 
 for yourself if you watch his actions and his words. On the 
 table yonder, degrading himself lower than any mountebank,
 
 W1LLAKD LAWSON. 79 
 
 is one made to love beauty and harmony a poet by nature, 
 a harlequin by prostitution.'' 
 
 " You seem to know them well," remarked Willard, throw- 
 ing a scrutinizing glance on his monitor. 
 
 " As I know you ; I have never met them before." 
 
 " I had been looking at them before you came in, and I 
 thought them either fools or madmen ; there seems to be no 
 reason either in their actions or words." 
 
 " They are both ; but not half as mad as you are now to run 
 violently into the same danger." 
 
 Willard drew himself up. " I have reason to be highly 
 flattered, sir, with your opinion of my strength of character 
 and purity of principle." 
 
 The stranger laid his hand soothingly on the shoulders of 
 the half-angry youth, which lowered beneath its magnetic 
 touch, until he stood smiling beside him as before. " Have 
 you more than human strength, my son ? There is an angel 
 hovering over your heart I know ; but is there one standing at 
 its door with a flaming sword to keep out evil ? Is it chained 
 fast that it cannot go into error ? Are you stronger than the 
 Son of the Morning, and purer than he, that you cannot fall ? 
 Does none of the original sin of our ruined natures cleave to 
 you, and have you added nothing thereto ? A Redeemer died 
 for you ; but did he make it impossible for you to sin ? or was 
 it not this same Holy One who said, ' Watch and pray, lest 
 you enter into temptation ?' Think of the indignant exclama- 
 tion of one as pure-hearted and unsuspecting as you are : 
 ' What ! dost thou think thy servant a dog that he should do 
 this great thing ? ' And what things did he not do ? What 
 crime too black for him afterwards ? There was a time, I 
 doubt not, when yonder harlequin would have been indignant 
 had his present degradation but been hinted at. But listen to 
 him now. That was a beautiful sentiment to drop from such 
 'ips but how distorted and finished with an oath hear 
 him. There .was a time when he was innocent and self-con- 
 fident, and I am sure not many years ago. Wait me here 
 while I recall those days. If I can but lay my finger on the
 
 80 WILLARD LAWSON. 
 
 right chord, I may produce a vibration which will call up 
 some well-nigh forgotten strain of better days, and do him 
 good." 
 
 The stranger stepped to the table, where a light-haired, fair- 
 faced, lithe young man was dancing and singing songs, and 
 performing various feats of buffoonery for the amusement of 
 the boisterous company about him." 
 
 " Henry Crayton, I believe ! " 
 
 " Ah ! * what 's in a name ? ' Avoid ye ! get thee behind 
 me ! ' ' Do you squinny at me ? ' 
 
 ' When the wine-cup is smiling before us, 
 And we pledge round to hearts that are true, boys, true, 
 Remember your part 's to encore us ; 
 So here 's for a hulabuloo loo, loo, loo, 
 So here 's for here 's for ' 
 
 Where are your voices, boys ? Oh, there is the big shadow 
 yet out with it, man ! " 
 
 " I have a message for you." 
 
 " Then deliver thyself, an' thou art not breathless with the 
 weighty matter, my little foot-page. Speak on ; these are all 
 our right loyal subjects, and we have no secrets from their 
 ears." 
 
 " I had better wait your leisure," replied the stranger, turn- 
 ing away. 
 
 " Leisure ! here 's for you, then. I come I come ! " and, 
 plunging from the table, young Crayton alighted on his hands, 
 turned a somerset, cleared himself of the applauding crowd, 
 and joined the tall stranger on the portico. 
 
 " Perhaps I should apologize for interrupting your agreeable 
 amusement," Willard heard his new friend remark. 
 
 " Agreeable ! Well, there is laughing and the hours go 
 by yes, it is agreeable. You had an errand." 
 
 " My message was a petition." 
 
 " You had better have presented it then while I was on mv 
 throne. Ha, ha ! " 
 
 " It is a solemn one."
 
 WILLAKIJ LAWSON. 81 
 
 " Well, speak, though I have no liking for solemn things," 
 answered the half-sobered youth, 
 
 1 Let 's laugh and be merry, 
 For old Charon's ferry, 
 It ' 
 
 I beg your pardon, speak on." 
 
 " An angel once dwelt in your heart, and he would fain 
 come back again. Innocence is the lost one's name oh, 
 take her to your bosom, and with her she will bring a sister 
 Peace." Willard did not hear the reply, but he thought it 
 was a scoff, and he wondered if it were possible for him ever 
 to become so degraded. The two men still pursued their 
 walk up and down the portico, their voices gradually growing 
 lower and more earnest, till not a single word could be dis- 
 tinguished. At last they parted. The younger walked away 
 in the darkness, and the stranger monitor returned to the 
 waiting Willard. 
 
 " Poor fellow ! He is very miserable, for he is as sensitive 
 concerning his degradation as though it were not his own 
 work. He was not sorry to find sympathy and encourage- 
 ment, and I have left him with an arrow in his heart which 
 he may turn to balm. Heaven help him ! He has promised 
 to come to me in the morning for employment. If he should, 
 I will do the best I can for him, and I think some friends that 
 I have in town would second my endeavors." 
 
 " Do you believe that he will keep his promise ? " 
 
 " It is doubtful. He might reform, but it is hard to retread 
 steps of darkness and bitterness ; better commence aright, my 
 son." 
 
 Willard wished himself at home again , and almost thought 
 that he would submit to his father's control, (tyranny he named 
 it,) in order to avoid the fearful hazard of his present position. 
 
 " I would commence aright," he began, falteringly, " I would 
 commence aright but I cannot go back to Lawson farm. 
 There is no one to guide me here, no one to advise me ; what 
 shall I do?"
 
 O2 WILLARD LAWSON. 
 
 " And why not go back, my son ? " 
 
 " I am not happy there I cannot be. If there were any 
 one to talk to me as you do, to awaken me to a consciousness 
 of my own powers, and teach me to cultivate and improve 
 them, I might find pleasure in that ; but I shall go away and 
 forget what you have told me, and I cannot do right when I 
 am unhappy. No, I never will go back to Lawson farm." 
 
 " Go with me then, will you not?" 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "To to complete your education, to fit yourself for use- 
 fulness in the sphere which to-day you may choose ; to-mor- 
 row will be lost to you. Go with me, my son, and you never 
 will regret this most important decision of your life." 
 
 " How can I go ? I am but one remove from beggary, 
 though I decline the profession, in favor of the ' bounding bil- 
 low.' Here is my wardrobe in this pocket-handkerchief, and 
 here my purse just eighty-nine cents in it a weighty cap- 
 ital with my expectations ! I have nothing else in the wide 
 world." 
 
 " You have a strong hand and a strong intellect. Improve 
 well what you have, and I will make the rest easy for you." 
 
 " Who then are you ? " 
 
 The stranger pulled a card from his pocket and put it in 
 the hand of the youth, who stepped nearer the light to read it. 
 In a moment he returned, his eye moist and his voice tremu- 
 lous. 
 
 " I have heard of you. You have been very kind to reason 
 so with my waywardness, and I commit myself, without ques- 
 tion, to your guidance; for your voice has reached to my 
 inmost spirit, and roused aspirations which might have slum- 
 bered forever." 
 
 " You will go with me, then?" 
 
 " I will. I dare not refuse. It almost seems to me that 
 you have been sent here, in this hour of danger, by my dead 
 mother." 
 
 " Perhaps ; the spirits that have gone home before do watch 
 over us, my son."
 
 WILLARD LAWSON. 83 
 
 CHAPTER IU. THE ORATOR. 
 
 AN immense concourse of the proudest intellects our state 
 
 can boast, had assembled at . There was a hush like 
 
 the pulseless silence of the tomb; for the inspiration of a 
 mighty spirit had passed over them ; and each rapt listener 
 suspended his breathing, lest even that should drown some 
 tone replete with the eloquence of the mighty indwelling 
 spirit. The voice of the speaker was one well known in the 
 council-hall, one to which senators had listened with rever- 
 ence, one which wisdom honored and philanthropy had cause 
 to bless. And he now spoke eloquently and feelingly upon a 
 subject, which it was evident interested him beyond measure 
 the dispersion of the clouds from the intellectual horizon 
 of the human race ; and the full, steady light, flooding every- 
 thing in its way, which was spreading itself from zenith to 
 nadir. He spoke of the might of mind even in its clay prison ; 
 of the man of the wise thought beside the man of the strong 
 arm ; of the little voice which comes up from the lone phi- 
 losopher's cell to shake the broad earth with its thunders ; and 
 of the foolish one, who goes out among his fellows, never 
 knowing nor making it known that he carries more than the 
 wealth of an empire in his bosom. He went back to the 
 earth's midnight, and plunged into the closet of the alchymist 
 and the cell of the monk, where genius wrestled with supersti- 
 tion, in the dense darkness, and where knowledge long hid 
 her mourning head ; and he brought up from each a libation 
 to pour upon the altar of intellectual democracy. He pointed 
 to the lone stars that formerly glittered, wonders to gaze at, 
 in the wide heaven of literary fame ; and then he suddenly 
 unrolled a new firmament, all spangled over with orbs full of 
 brilliancy and beauty, but so lost in the universal light as to 
 be scarce discoverable. And with what heart-felt eloquence 
 he hailed the glorious morning ! Ah ! he must have been 
 standing beneath a sun of his own, to be so enraptured with 
 the spirit-warming effulgence ; for there are those who even 
 now see nothing but feeble rush-lights, glimmering in the
 
 84 W1LLARD LAWSON. 
 
 darkness ; who long for the olden time, when but one star 
 blazed aloft to light a century, and after its exit the world 
 slumbered on, till another came, darting its wild coruscations 
 athwart the gloom with startling fitfulness. He was not a 
 mere orator, he was an artist, a pygmalion, and his creations 
 breathed glowed burned ; his Promethean hand had stolen 
 the sacred fire, and he scattered it with a wild profusion, which 
 left a spark on every heart not to kindle passion, but to 
 burn away the dross, and leave the godlike spirit unalloyed, 
 in unshackled freedom. He ceased, and that vast concourse 
 arose and walked away in subdued silence. Each mind, 
 however deeply buried in frivolities, flung open its portals to 
 thought, and thought is the angel which, once admitted, rec- 
 tifies and renovates the whole inner being. 
 
 Among those who listened to the thrilling eloquence of the 
 gifted orator was a noble-browed, mild-eyed old man, with 
 locks of snow, and a face whose expression combined benevo- 
 lence with native dignity. His broad chest heaved with emo- 
 tion while he listened ; and, when the eyes of others kindled 
 with enthusiasm, his closed over the warm tears which 
 gushed up from a fountain stirred in his bosom only ; for he 
 knew that from a little seed which he once held between his 
 own fingers, sprang all those sentiments so fraught with life, 
 so redolent with wisdom and purity. In a few minutes they 
 had grasped hands the noble old man, and the son of his 
 better nature. They met not with outward caressings, but 
 with a close clasping of the spirit which is sometimes granted 
 on this side of bliss, and a more than womanly gush of ten- 
 derness quivering in either voice ; for it 4s a gross wisdom 
 which claims not love for its twin. 
 
 Go on, Willard Lawson ! gather thy jewels about thee, as 
 thou art gathering them now ; make thine own setting one of 
 unsurpassed glory ; for soon a brow thou lovest will turn from 
 earth to be adorned in heaven; and on that noble brow the 
 jewel of thine own bright spirit will glitter.
 
 85 
 
 A CASE OF LUNACY NOT UNCOMMON. 
 
 " WHERE AWAY, Jem?" 
 
 " Up country." 
 
 " Aha ! What 's in the wind ? " 
 
 " A raise." 
 
 "As how?" 
 
 "Honor bright?" 
 
 " Honor bright." 
 
 "Fact is, Tom, the New Yorkers are purse-proud no 
 money to be had for love, even. All wrong money buys 
 love, why not love money ? A'n't I a philosopher, Tom ? " 
 
 " Very good for a beginning." 
 
 " Well, I must practise a little, you see nothing like 
 practice ; and no knowing how soon I may be drawn out. 
 Country belles, I've heard say, are the deuce-and-all at phi- 
 losophy." 
 
 " And who is to have the honor of buying the ninety-ninth 
 part of some hitherto hidden corner of Jem Fletcher's heart, 
 (all there is left,) and what's the bid?" ' 
 
 " No funning, Tom ; I 'm in sober earnest this time. That 
 is, what with the billet-doux from trades-people, and the lack 
 of them from heiresses, I am getting feeble , very. Pulse low, 
 (alias purse,) no rest, (worried by bills a mile long every day,) 
 can't sleep o' nights, (for want of a bed,) appetite shockingly 
 irregular, (ravenous when somebody else foots the bill,) 
 tell ye what it is, Tom, I'm a case, that's clear. Nothing 
 will do but change of scene country air, and country exer- 
 cise the doctors would recommend it, I know. If I don't 
 get better, they'll smother me with duns I shall be regu- 
 larly Burked chopped into minced meat for the benefit of 
 Shears & Co. Sad, is n't it ?" 
 
 " Very. Poor Jem Fletcher ! " 
 
 VOL. n. 8
 
 86 A CASE OF LUNACY NOT UNCOMMON. 
 
 " Tho' the soul of ye would melt a little. But don't quite 
 break your heart ; I shall take a dose of the country and come 
 out new. The worst of it is, I must serve an apprenticeship, 
 and my Laban will outdo his prototype ; he will make me 
 spin every thought that is in me into gold threads to match the 
 yellow-boys in his eel-skin purse." 
 
 " That will be oppressive." 
 
 " So it will, but I must submit." 
 
 " And for lack of the gold, substitute the labor of gilding, 
 eh?" 
 
 " Ah ! you understand, Tom ; you know all about it. A 
 fortune in your eye, my boy ! " 
 
 " Something in that way, you know." 
 
 " Ah, yes ! 'waiting for dead men's shoes;' but take my 
 word for it, Tom, there 's nothing like this plan o' mine. 
 Catch a bird with a piece of money in her mouth, and you 
 have birdie and all." 
 
 " Ay, catch the bird." 
 
 "Oh! that's nothing. She's as good as caught, now. 
 I've got a fortieth cousin up there in the woods, (Alderbrook 
 they call the settlement,) and he 's a great man among them 
 justice of the peace, town clerk, or something or other. 
 Well, I believe he has an inkling of the state of my affairs ; 
 and having done pretty well in the matrimonial-money- 
 making line himself, he just takes it upon himself to advise 
 me. Let me see I have a mem. somewhere. Deacon 
 Deacon Palmer, (I believe it is,) a hundred thousand 
 one pretty daughter, very pretty, and sole heiress about 
 sixteen, bright eyes, dark hair, given to curling tall hands 
 and feet (dang it ! not a word about them ! all right, though, 
 I dare say,) loves to queen it a little blue, and wilful as 
 Zantippe ! What say to that, eh ! Tom ?" 
 
 " No pulling hair, I hope." 
 
 " Do you think I had better go to the barber, Tom, by way 
 of a preventive ? " 
 
 " Time enough. You told of an apprenticeship." 
 
 ' Oh, ah ! that's the bitter pill, the drop too much, the great
 
 A CASE OF LUNACY NOT UNCOMMON. 87 
 
 sacrifice that's to make a martyr of me, Tom. It seems they 
 have got an academy of learning up there. (When I am 
 president, I'll have all such ruinous institutions levelled.) 
 James Fletcher, A. B., your servant, sir, was graduated at old 
 Harvard, and he purposes assuming the duties and responsi- 
 bilities of principal of that most excellent institution thp 
 academy at Alderbrook, I mean." 
 
 " Capital, Jem ! But no ! Why not dash out, play high, 
 and take the fortress by glitter? No danger of an indictment 
 for swindling." 
 
 " There 's a papa in the way, with an eye like a hawk. 
 No ; sober and intellectual is my cue not moneyed, but 
 evidently ' a rising young man.' Dang it ! won't I rise ?" 
 
 " If you can. But see ! the steamer is ready for putting 
 off. Success to ye, Jem Good-by. v 
 
 " Good-by. Better try my prescription, eh ? Think on 't 
 do!" 
 
 Oh ! what a sensation there was in our village, when it 
 was reported that James Fletcher, Esq., of New York city, a 
 young gentleman of very brilliant parts, and highly-finished 
 education, was coming to take charge of our academy ! 
 There was much sympathy for him, too ; for it was rumored 
 that the exigences of the times had deprived him of a very 
 fine fortune ; and, moreover, that he came to us for the sake 
 of giving his mind the opportunity to recover its usual tone 
 and vigor, after having been nearly shattered by adversity. 
 Mr. Fletcher arrived late of a Saturday evening ; but in the 
 ten minutes that elapsed before he disappeared in one of the 
 upper chambers of the " Sheaf and Sickle," he had been seen 
 by half the men of the village. The next morning there was 
 a great rush to church, which must have been anticipated by 
 the parson ; for the elder part of the congregation did not fail 
 to observe that he had taken unwonted pains with his dis- 
 course. Adeline Palmer called at our door, and, as we 
 walked to church together, I had a full description of Mr. 
 Fletcher eyes, hair, complexion, bearing, character, and 
 even feelings. The picture was rather " taking," I must
 
 88 A CASE OF LUNACY NOT UNCOMMON. 
 
 own ; but my muslin and straw were " as good as new, 
 then ; so I only readjusted the precious morsel of paste glit- 
 tering in my breast-knot, and carried my parasol as daintily 
 as possible. But it was of no use. Ada Palmer was the 
 belle of Alderbrook ; and, though it is impossible, in any case, 
 to resist the desire to look one's prettiest* the vainest of us 
 never dreamed of being seen when beside her. Worse still, I 
 was informed that Mr. Fletcher was particularly anxious to 
 board at Deacon Palmer's, for the reason that his love of 
 retirement and quiet might be better gratified there than at 
 any other house in the village. 
 
 " And will he ?" I inquired, with quite enough interest. 
 
 " If we can get papa to consent." 
 
 " To think of your having a boarder ! " 
 
 " You pity us, I dare say, Fan," whispered Ada, with a 
 very roguish twinkle of the eye, and a knowing look about the 
 corners of the mouth, that was particularly provoking. 
 
 " Rather impertinent, Miss Deacon's daughter," thought I ; 
 " I shall treasure that up to measure back to you one of these 
 days ;" but there was no chance to reply, for we had entered 
 the church porch ; and so, with a mutual smile, and a nod of 
 good-natured defiance, we parted. I soon discovered Mr. 
 Fletcher, for his was the only strange face there ; and he 
 evidently soon discovered Ada Palmer. Oh ! Ada icas a lit- 
 tle queen, and she never looked so beautiful as on that day. 
 It was impossible not to concede to her her winnings ; and 
 when, in a fortnight after, Mr. Fletcher was reckoned unfail- 
 ingly among them, I do not believe there was a belle in the 
 whole village but thought it was her due, and yielded the 
 conquest to her with a good grace. But we did have rare 
 times, making Ada blush, and (did you ever observe that 
 awkward right-angle which bashful consciousness puts in the 
 corner where the two lips meet ?) make square mouths. Rare 
 times had we ; and it was as good revenge as need be. 
 
 But poor Jem Fletcher ! he was right when he anticipated 
 a severe apprenticeship, for the deacon was " a marvel of a 
 good man." Deacon Palmer's right hand, holding his purse 

 
 A CASE OP LUX AC Y NOT UNCOMMON. ti\) 
 
 within it, was given to every good enterprise, whether for the 
 advancement of religion and morality, or intended to promote 
 the secondary interests of the village which acknowledged him 
 its head. So poor Jem was not only obliged to attend church 
 three times every Sabbath, and lectures of various kinds dur- 
 ing the week, but he must needs listen, with at least pretended 
 interest, to a thousand plans for ameliorating the condition of 
 the human race ; from which weighty matters, he hoped, as 
 he listened, at some future day to relieve his intended father- 
 in-law, by taking the helm into his own hand. The more 
 Jem saw of the old gentleman's generosity, the more sanguine 
 became his hopes ; and bright was the picture his fancy 
 painted, of the time when good Deacon Palmer would no 
 longer be obliged to look after wealth which he did not know 
 how to use. But Jem's hardest apprenticeship was not to 
 Laban it was to^ Rachel herself. Oh ! such a sprite as was 
 Ada Palmer ! Proud as Juno, and mischievous as a whole 
 troop of those small people they call fairies, headed by bright 
 Titania's own jester. An 
 
 " Airy, fairy Lilian, 
 Flitting, fairy Lilian" 
 
 was she, with the same " crimson-threaded lips," and the " silver 
 trebled laughter" on them ; but as dignified as a lady duchess, 
 when she chose. Oh ! there was no bringing Ada to terms 
 till she was ready to come ; and sometimes I used to doubt 
 whether Jem Fletcher, though he trained his eyes, and trained 
 his tongue, and tuned his voice to the tone of a harp with a 
 die-away air on its strings, would be able to accomplish it. 
 Ada was un-read-able, even by us. Jem, however, hoped on, 
 and with good reason, for it was evident that he had the right 
 ear of both parents. 
 
 There was to be a meeting of the " Alderbrook Young 
 Ladies' Temperance Society," and Mr. Fletcher was unani- 
 mously declared " the very one " to deliver a fitting lecture on 
 the occasion. Jem Fletcher lecture on temperance ! But no 
 matter; he had embarked, and must push forward at all 
 
 VOL. II. 8*
 
 90 A CASE OF LUMACY MOT UNCOMMON. 
 
 hazards. Besides, what better opportunity could a lover wish 
 for the display of his eloquence ? What delicate compliments 
 might he pay to one under cover of the whole ! How charm- 
 ingly would he angelize all the fair teens at Alderbrook, while 
 Ada would be thinking within herself, " if he holds all of us 
 in such high estimation, what would his idolatry be when 
 concentrated ? " Mr. Fletcher delighted the ladies by consent- 
 ing to address them ; but, in the mean time, he begged a week's 
 delay, as he would not presume to rise before such an assem- 
 bly of wit, and beauty, and talent, without due preparation. 
 The delay was granted, and poor Jem Fletcher sat down 
 determinedly and perseveringly to his severe task. Such 
 havoc as was made among the goose quills and foolscap ! 
 Jem's organ of destructiveness had never accomplished so 
 much since the days of his babyhood, when newspapers had 
 been given him as playthings. But he succeeded. Even his 
 own fastidious taste was fully satisfied. And what might not 
 be expected of those bright beings on the look-out for beauties ? 
 Jem was in raptures. He read, and re-read his address ; and 
 each time it grew more strikingly brilliant, more witty, more 
 sweetly sentimental, more gracefully insinuating in short, 
 more decidedly the precise thing to bait the hook dropped 
 through a lady's ear into her heart. We all expected won- 
 ders of Mr. Fletcher ; and curiosity, pushed back like a bois- 
 terous beggar till the latest moment, was ready for a rush. 
 
 " Ada, go up to Mr. Fletcher's room and get the newspaper," 
 said the deacon, after the young lady had donned bonnet and 
 shawl to go to the lecture. 
 
 Ada seized my hand. " Come with me, Fan ; Mr. Fletcher 
 is down taking tea with mamma. He stayed out late to-night 
 conning his speech, I dare say," she added, in a whisper. 
 
 The deacon rang for lights, and away went Ada and I for 
 the newspaper. Mr. Fletcher's hat, with his gloves beside it, 
 was upon the table ; and upon a folded handkerchief, like the 
 driven snow in whiteness, lay a little manuscript book. 
 
 " Look ! the lecture, Fanny ! " said Ada, taking one cor- 
 ner between the tips of her fingers, and elevating it above
 
 A CASE OF LUNACY NOT UNCOMMON. 91 
 
 her head. " Now what would you give to see the inside 
 of it?" 
 
 " A bound to the top of the staircase ; I never could bear 
 to read a manuscript. But what a very nice man this Mr. 
 Fletcher of yours must be ! See how carefully that bit of 
 blue riband is knotted." 
 
 " The very same that he stole from my work-basket this 
 morning ! Saucy, is n't it ? I have half a mind to punish 
 that impudence. Besides, (between our two selves, Fan,) 
 this very correct Mr. Fletcher is an arrant hypocrite I see 
 it in his eyes and hear it in his voice. He would be far more 
 at home, I dare say, singing 
 
 ' Blame not the bowl the fruitful bowl, 1 
 
 than saying pretty things for the edification of us cold-water- 
 ites. Let 's punish his knavery. Here, come to the window 
 while I untie this knot." 
 
 Ada Palmer's fingers shook as though shocked at their own 
 naughty doings, while she loosened the blue riband ; and then 
 she slipped the inner sheet from it, and slid it down behind 
 the sofa. 
 
 " Now, if I only had some queer thing to substitute. Look ! 
 there 's a sheet of note-paper on the table ! He has just writ- 
 ten down a page, and the ink is hardly dry on it. Bring it, 
 Fanny it is just the size of this some love-note, I dare 
 say ; and we shall get a blush from him, at any rate, Avhen he 
 opens to it. Think of making him blush in public ! but we 
 must be very demure it would not do for us to smile even, 
 or we should be detected." 
 
 By the time Ada had finished her caution, the sheet of 
 note-paper was fastened snugly in the middle, and the book 
 returned to its resting-place on the handkerchief. 
 
 A more mellow, rich-toned voice, than Jem Fletcher's, I 
 never heard ; and, on that evening, it was modulated to its 
 utmost capacity for melody- I had entirely forgotten Ada's 
 mischievous prank, and so had she, I doubt not, before he had 
 turned over three leaves. The sentiments, too, and the happy
 
 92 A CASE OF LUNACY NOT UNCOMMON. 
 
 mode of adorning them ! Oh ! Jem Fletcher deserved success 
 for his industry, if not for his honesty ! Suddenly, while 
 Fletcher's tongue was thrilling beneath a whole tide of elo- 
 quence, and hearts were beating, and eyes flashing before him, 
 he made an abrupt pause. Placing his right hand upon the 
 page, he raised the other to his eyes hastily, as though brush- 
 ing away some intruding vision but no, it was there yet. 
 Jem tried his handkerchief, but it did no good. Something 
 had evidently planted itself before him that he did not wish 
 to see. He turned over leaf after leaf confusedly, and back 
 again, while the red blood seemed ready to burst from his 
 forehead, and we could almost fancy that we saw his hair 
 raising itself in consternation above. 
 
 " I did not mean to embarrass him so much," whispered 
 Ada in my ear. 
 
 At that moment, Fletcher's eye fell upon us, and such an 
 eye ! Mortification, distress, anger everything painful was 
 there ; and no doubt our blazing faces, with the attempt at a 
 smile, which we both of us instinctively made, betrayed the 
 whole. Fletcher gave but one glance at us, one at the curious 
 audience, now in a buzz of wonder ; and, snatching his hat 
 from the seat behind him, he bounded for the door. The con- 
 gregation was astounded ; and poor Ada and I trembled like 
 two leaves in a storm. Slowly, and one by one, the people 
 went out ; and that night a light was kept burning in every 
 house for fear of the mad tutor. 
 
 " Do you know what was the matter with Mr. Fletcher last 
 evening ? " inquired Deacon Palmer of his daughter, while at 
 the breakfast-table. Ada's face took on the hue of a full- 
 blown peony. " Then you have seen this before ? " and the 
 deacon pulled from his pocket the little book tied with the 
 blue riband. 
 
 " I am sorry, papa ; indeed, I am very sorry. I did not 
 intend to mortify Mr. Fletcher so much I only slipped in 
 that paper for a frolic ;" and poor Ada actually burst into 
 tears. 
 
 " Then you have not read it ?"
 
 A CASE CF LUNACY NOT UNCOMMON. 93 
 
 " Oh, no, papa ! you could not think I would be so mean ? " 
 
 " Well, Mr. Fletcher thought you had. I found this by 
 the church-door, where he dropped it. If you do not know 
 what paper you slipped in for a frolic, you may read it now." 
 
 Ada's eyes grew larger and larger as she perused the precious 
 document which had turned Jem Fletcher into a madman ; 
 and such a volley of laughter as she closed it with, had never 
 before burst even from her merry heart. 
 
 No wonder that poor Jem was mortified past redemption ; 
 for the note, which he supposed Ada had perused, gave a full 
 account of his plans and prospects to his friend Tom ; and 
 closed with a characteristic eulogium on pretty damsels in 
 general, and moneyed pretty ones in particular. 
 
 Jem Fletcher has never been heard of since at Alderbrook ; 
 and many a good lady> to this day, often expresses the hope, 
 that the poor dear young man has. found shelter in some 
 lunatic asylum.
 
 94 
 
 THE GREAT MARCH HOLIDAY. 
 
 THE boisterous, bustling, blowing, chilling month of March ! 
 Ugh ! it makes me shiver to think of it ! Even its smiles are 
 undesirable ^-mud-producers as they are. But yet it brings, 
 like every other part of the year, its own peculiar pleasures. 
 It is, indeed, a season of the utmost interest and importance to 
 a large class, quite as likely to supply us with future states- 
 men as college walls or city boundaries. It is strange how 
 much, and yet how little, we are indebted to position and edu- 
 cation for what we afterward become. The pale student, with 
 his classic face, soul-beaming eye, and graceful step, bows 
 himself from our presence on commencement day ; while our 
 hopes and good wishes follow him on what we believe will 
 be a bright career ; and we never hear of him again. The 
 awkward, square-shouldered country lad comes trudging into 
 town with his grain, perhaps, and at evening slips away to the 
 .ecture-roem. We observe neither his coming nor his going, 
 but if we did we could scarce see the strong intellect burst- 
 ing its rough kernel. Years pass, and suddenly a great 
 man rises before us a kind of intellectual miracle. The dis- 
 trict school was the nursery of this intellect ; a country news- 
 paper lent its aid to foster it ; books, old dry books, that those 
 acquainted with modern literature would never think of read- 
 ing, hedged it round with common sense ; occasional visiters 
 and occasional visits added to the fund of information which 
 the newspaper supplied ; thought, driven to feed upon itself 
 for want of other food, wrought itself into a giant ; and so the 
 wonder grew. 
 
 So the district school is a very important thing ; and hence 
 we aie not disposed to undervalue the holyday at its close
 
 THE GREAT MARCH HOLYDAY. 95 
 
 a great and important day, not to be surpassed by Fourth-of- 
 July independence or Christmas feasting and frolic. The 
 close of the winter school is very much like the breaking up 
 of a half-tamed menagerie. As some cf the more loving sort 
 of animals linger around their keeper, for old affection's sake, 
 so Lucy or Tommy hang, finger in mouth, upon the door- 
 latch, or creep, pussy-like, near the desk, half-ashamed, yet 
 loath to go without the farewell smile. Others stand undis- 
 turbed and unmoved, like sturdy bruin or Moses Meecham ; 
 while a few of the wildest, including the whole catalogue of 
 apes, enter upon some mischievous prank, as Zeke Brown re- 
 moves the door-step, or Fred Lightbody purloins the school- 
 master's spectacles, and kindly adjusts his wig on one side of 
 his head. But by far the greater part of these freed prisoners 
 (from both menageries) scamper as though for dear life ; and 
 scarce knowing whether their feet are in the air or on the 
 ground, give such an idea of Babel as your imagination never 
 conjured up. Oh, those are very desperate hopefuls that in 
 March break from the bondage of the district school ! 
 
 I once had the pleasure of spending a winter where sleigh- 
 ride's and apple-bees, and spelling schools and grammar schools, 
 constituted a very delightful complement of the useful and or- 
 namental, and made the weeks and months go by with the 
 rapidity of a season in town, with the advantage of coming 
 from the winter's dissipation with added freshness and vigor. 
 Our school-house was a little square box of a thing, tucked 
 down at one corner of a piece of woodland not for the ad- 
 vantage of shade oh no ! All the trees that would be likely 
 to keep off the broiling sun in summer, or in winter prevent 
 the snow from drifting eave-high before the door, were care- 
 fully cut down and cleared away. It must be owned that this 
 was not the best situation for the school-house, but Squire 
 Jones wanted it in the eastern part of the district, and Doctor 
 White was determined that it should be in the western ; so, 
 to settle the difficulty, the puzzled managers, who were ex- 
 pecting nearly all the funds from these two titled personages, 
 decided on what they considered a central position, measuring
 
 96 THE GREAT MAHCH HOLYDAY. 
 
 off equal distances from each hearth-stone. The result was, 
 both great men were offended, and refused to relax their in- 
 sulted purse strings. But the school-house was built at last 
 a little " teenty taunty " nut-shell of a " concarn," the roof 
 making a rather steep inclined plane from ridge-pole to eaves, 
 which latter just overtopped an ample row of good-sized, well- 
 glazed windows. People seem to have discovered an intimate 
 connexion between physical and intellectual light, imagining 
 probably that there is some kind of a filter in the brain, by 
 which the eye-blinding stream is converted into a yet more 
 subtle fluid -the inner light, that it is shockingly transcen- 
 dental to furnish with a name. Our school-house, which was 
 fifteen feet square, was furnished with eleven full-grown win- 
 dows ; from some one of which a pane of glass was always 
 broken, and its place supplied by hat or shawl. Between two 
 of these windows was the mouth of the little den, and, all around 
 it, the walls were ornamented with carved work, displaying the 
 artistic developments of many a youthful master of the jack- 
 knife. 
 
 You must not imagine that none but very small children 
 attend the district school ; for the winter brings together a 
 motley assemblage of all ages, from the sturdy little chap in 
 his linsey-woolsey and checked apron, to the merry maiden 
 of sixteen, who decorates the parlor of a Sunday evening for 
 the reception of a lover, and the comely youth whose strong 
 arm in summer guides the plough and swings the scythe. It 
 is a happy place, that district school ; overflowing with the 
 genuine cream of fun ; gay, busy, mischief-hatching, and 
 gloriously mischief-executing. A very happy place is it ; and 
 I cannot imagine what creates the undefinable longing for the 
 " last day," which seems to be the prevalent feeling among 
 the young tyros, any more than I can imagine why, in our 
 highest state of happiness, we are ever looking forward to the 
 morrow. Whatever may be the reason, the arrival of the 
 " last day " is carefully watched for ; and, despite the old 
 adage, it comes at last; while, with smoothed aprons and 
 cleaned faces, and all bedecked in holyday finery, the future
 
 THE GREAT MARCH HOLYDAY. 97 
 
 statesmen and (provided success attend some of the reformers 
 of the present day) stateswomen, sally forth to the place of 
 action. 
 
 I have hitherto neglected to describe the interior of the 
 Maple Bush school-house; but while the young belles are 
 peeping at each other over the tops of their books to see which 
 is best dressed, the beaux penning their last doggerels, and 
 the younger lads and lasses alternately sitting bolt upright, 
 toes to the crack and arms twisted on the breast, like a Hol- 
 land dough-nut, and lolling half over to the floor in forgetful 
 laziness, we may get time for a glance. 
 
 Yet, now that I think again, you will not need a descrip- 
 tion, for I am on an old theme ; and the ranges of seats, the 
 schoolmaster's throne, with its "might-makes-right" corner, 
 appropriated to crumbled ginger-bread, half-eaten apples, bro- 
 ken jack-knives, strings, whip-lashes, tops, and spring-colored 
 love-letters, the pine floor which is scrubbed twice a year, the 
 evergreens, the ferule, and the rod are no new things to you, 
 particularly if you have ever happened to meet with " The 
 District School as it Was." One thing, however, has been 
 changed since those days. The old-fashioned fire-place, 
 which formerly yawned on one side beneath the stick chim- 
 ney, has within the last dozen years been superseded by a 
 rusty, smoking stove, on the top of which the children roast 
 the apples and cheese for their dessert. You would wonder, 
 if you were acquainted in the Maple Bush district, how such 
 an innovation was ever admitted into a place where all are 
 such sticklers for ancient customs. It was done, as most 
 things are in this world, whether good or bad, from a spirit 
 of opposition. Nobody had a stove, or dreamed of having 
 one, until an old man of our vicinity, who had been paying a 
 visit in town, happened to get into a rage one day about 
 "these new-fangled notions for picking honest folks' pockets." 
 Then, as in duty bound, to prevent a man's storming for 
 naught, and wasting his eloquence on the empty air, there 
 rose up a number of his neighbors to oppose, and thereby test, 
 his opinions. It became, therefore, absolutely necessary for 
 
 VOL. n. 9
 
 98 THE GREAT MARCH HOLYDAY. 
 
 every man of the stove party to be in possession of the artjcle 
 in question ; and so absolutely did these men bear sway, that 
 at last the offensive stove found its way even to the very 
 school-house. Never was there a greater warfare about old 
 and new measures than was carried on in this case ; but the 
 stove men had strong limbs and powerful voices, and, above 
 all, their chief speakers had, if not full purses, full granaries ; 
 so they came off victorious. The result was, the anti-stoveites 
 gave due notice that they should withdraw their patronage 
 from the school ; kept their word ; and, in process of time, 
 removed to some more congenial neighborhood, where, if they 
 were obliged to look now and then upon a stove, nobody would 
 know that the sight was at all offensive. 
 
 Well do I remember my last day at the Maple Bush school. 
 The grand event had been anticipated for a long time previous ; 
 and, for a whole month, scarce anything had been talked of but 
 the last day, and what would be fitting and proper for it. We 
 had conned the spelling-book, grammar, and geography, till the 
 contents of our juvenile works were at our tongues' ends, and 
 could be rattled off as a pedler rattles over his assortment of 
 " pins, needles, scissors, thimbles, gloves, silks, laces, black 
 ladies' hose, shoe-strings," &c., &c. Not that we pretended 
 to know the meaning of the words which rolled over our pout- 
 ing lips so glibly : we had never dreamed that written words 
 were " signs of ideas." A class of young mathematicians had 
 managed, without the aid of the now essential black-board, to 
 show a passable acquaintance with Daboll's Rules ; (rules, by 
 the way, not intended to explain the after process, but set up 
 to be explained when practice had made their meaning dedu- 
 cible ;) the " first class" had read for the twentieth time, "Ad- 
 dress to the Young," and " Oh, solitude, romantic maid ! " 
 from the English Reader; and the principal spelling-class 
 had practised on " Michilimackinac," " phthysic," and the 
 changes of " ail-to-be-troubled-table," until quite out of breath. 
 But Jack Winslow and Peter Quim ! ah, they were the boast 
 of the school, and to their histrionic powers the proud heart 
 of Mr. Linkum owed its highest swellings. Nothing could
 
 THE GREAT MARCH HOLYDAY. VV 
 
 equal the grace with which they flourished hands and feet, or 
 the grenadier style of their strut, as they paraded up and down 
 the little corner which had been allotted to their scenic per- 
 formances. To be sure it was a very small corner, but then 
 it required fewer blankets to partition it off, and much less 
 time and talent to decorate it with proper scenery. Never 
 was a school better prepared for the final ordeal ; and never 
 was a teacher better satisfied with the success of his drilling 
 than our honored Mr. Linkum. 
 
 Fond of mental display as we were, it is not to be expected 
 that we should neglect every other kind ; and, for more than 
 a week, we had employed every leisure moment in decorating 
 the walls with evergreens, consulting with each other how our 
 simple furniture should be arranged, and practising bows and 
 courtesies. Anxiously had we watched the clouds for many 
 days, fearful of a March storm ; but with what joyous heart- 
 boundings did we hail the morning of our gala-day. The air 
 had that rich, pleasing softness, which, although it makes the 
 earth seem about to melt away beneath our feet, we welcome 
 so gratefully, loving to feel its delicious kiss on cheek and 
 forehead. Here and there the snow had melted off, exposing 
 little patches of faded green, where nestled the spicy blossoms 
 of the trailing arbutis, amid piles of withered leaves, blown 
 together by the winds of the preceding autumn. Then, on 
 one knoll peculiarly favored by the sun, the little pink-eyed 
 daytonias had actually congregated in tribes, and amid the 
 moss in the centre no, I was not mistaken the kepatica 
 itself! That snowy white, variegated by the faintest tints of 
 pink, and blue, and purple, was more familiar than the alpha, 
 bet ; for it was in that fragrant alphabet that I had taken my 
 first life-lesson. Oh, that bright, rich March morning ! 
 Gladness was in the sky, and on the air, and upspringing 
 from the earth. And those were light hearts, indeed, which 
 came out to welcome it. 
 
 The sun had crept up the sky but a little way before we 
 were congregated about the door of the school-house at the 
 corner of the woods ; and the commingling of merry voices,
 
 100 THE GREAT MARCH HOLYDAY. 
 
 if not quite as musical as that of the summer birds, was cer- 
 tainly as glad. And what was the source of all this gladness? 
 We loved dearly to be together, loved our good Mr. Linkum, 
 loved our sports, and some of us loved our books and we 
 had come together for the purpose of parting. How could we 
 be glad ? Oh, a bright day was before us, and it was quite 
 too early to begin to grieve. Surely children, with their de- 
 termined joyousness, in the face of shadows, and tears, and 
 death itself, are the true philosophers of this world. A kind 
 Providence has so mingled our cup that the sweet is always 
 beside the bitter ; the wise man sips at the bitter, and mur- 
 murs constantly ; the child drinks down the sweet, and never 
 looks at the other. 
 
 The " last day" passed pleasantly with us all. Fathers and 
 mothers, older sisters and brothers, fond, chuckling grand- 
 papas, and aunties still more fond, came crowding in, and 
 listened with rapt attention to the doings of the youthful 
 prodigies. Then two grave gentlemen rose slowly from their 
 seats and made some flattering remarks ; suggesting, however, 
 as ballast for their praise, that the girls might have read a little 
 louder, and the boys a little slower, and that by the copy-books 
 they had discovered a prevailing propensity for crooked-backed 
 t's, and finger-prints done in ink. This accomplished, the 
 company retired, and then the grand treasure was unlocked. 
 Did you ever, dear reader, did you ever stand on the tip-toe 
 of expectation , the blood tingling in your veins away down to 
 the tips of your fingers, and your eyes sparkling with the 
 brimmings of a heart crowded with pleasure, while the blue, 
 and red, and green, and yellow treasures were scattered 
 among your companions? Then, when your own turn came, 
 and the bow and " thank you, sir," were given with shame- 
 faced exultation, and you had lifted the cover and found pre- 
 cisely the thing you were hoping for ! " Little Red Riding 
 Hood," perhaps; or maybe the " Children in the Wood," all 
 done in the quaintest of rhymes, with the quaintest of cuts to 
 illustrate them ah ! do you recollect that day ? and do you 
 ever expect or wish to be happier ?
 
 THE GREAT MARCH HOLYDAY. 101 
 
 In addition to the gifts usually made on such occasions, it 
 had been the practice of teachers at the Maple Bush to award 
 a prize to the pupil who had made the greatest proficiency. 
 This plan is doubtless ill-judged, being productive of many 
 evil consequences ; but it was formerly extensively practised, 
 and may be none the less so now. The result of the harmful 
 spirit of rivalry thus excited, is usually a period of contention, 
 and finally a settled dislike, which strengthens into hatred, for 
 the successful candidate. This hatred is often too deeply 
 rooted to yield to the influence of time ; and with some it 
 mingles as a bitter ingredient in the cup of their after life. 
 It was not, however, so at the Maple Bush ; though justice 
 and equity had but little to do with keeping off the evil. We 
 very well understood (no disrespect to our half-year monarch, 
 whose taste and judgment cannot be too highly commended) 
 that the prize was not awarded to literary merit for some- 
 how the good schoolmaster, by a process of reasoning un- 
 known to some of us then, though we are all wiser now, con- 
 trived to have some favorite bear away the prize. I say the 
 process was unknown to us then ; for we had not learned how 
 strangely a pretty face (or even a face that is not pretty, if one 
 can only imagine it is) distorts the mental vision, and invests 
 those favored with our partiality with all the qualities we wish 
 them to possess. 
 
 Dolly Foster, a dark-eyed, roguish-lipped, merry-hearted 
 specimen of bright sixteen, with more mischief in her than 
 erudition, and more of kindness than either, had so often won 
 the prize at the hands of admiring schoolmasters, that it had 
 become quite a matter of course ; and certainly no one had 
 reason to suspect a failure on the part of the belle of the Maple 
 Bush this season. 
 
 " I wonder what the prize will be something nice, of 
 course." 
 
 "Ah, catch Mr. Linkum giving anything not nice eh, 
 Dolly?" 
 
 And then Dolly would blush; and then such a shout! 
 Laughing is healthful ; and I have no doubt but the founda- 
 
 VOL. n. 9*
 
 102 THE UREAT MARCH HOLYDAY. 
 
 tion for many a good constitution was laid in that school-house 
 at the Maple Bush. 
 
 The winks and inuendoes by which pretty Dolly Foster 
 was so nearly demolished, were not altogethei the result of a 
 love of teasing. There was something to tease " little cherry- 
 cheeks" for. Every girl and every boy in our school remem- 
 bered how, on one occasion, a whole party of disobedient sliders 
 had been most unexpectedly forgiven ; and when, in a state 
 of pleased wonderment, they looked about them for the cause, 
 there stood Miss Dolly, the foremost of the transgressors, close 
 by the soft-hearted Mr. Linkum, looking up, oh so pleadingly ! 
 and he, the drollest combination of would-be severity and em- 
 barrassed relenting that ever was seen. The little community 
 said nothing ; but there was an instantaneous illumination of 
 countenance, as though an idea worth having had flashed in 
 upon them ; and henceforth Miss Dolly became a sort of scape- 
 goat for the whole. 
 
 Then, on another occasion ah! Dolly had dared too 
 much then; it was an act of downright disobedience, and 
 could not be tolerated. She took her stand beside the mas- 
 ter's desk with a kind of abashed sauciness ; confident, yet 
 timid ; evidently a little sorry that there was quite so much 
 roguery nestled in the curve of that pretty lip of hers, or 
 that being there it could not keep its niche without creep- 
 ing down to the naughty little fingers, and at the same 
 time pleased with the opportunity of testing her power. At 
 first she called to her aid her ever-ready wit, and endeavored 
 to turn the whole affair into ridicule ; then she pouted, trotted 
 her little foot in anger, and looked sulky ; but Mr. Linkum, 
 though evidently distressed, was not to be thus baffled. My 
 readers must remember that some dozen years ago, " govern- 
 ment by moral suasion" was not so fashionable as at the pres- 
 ent day ; and no age or sex was exempt from birchen-rod or 
 cherry ferule. Dolly could go a little further than anybody else ; 
 but there were bounds even to her liberty, or the dignity of 
 the schoolmaster would be sadly compromised. Dolly must 
 be punished, that was certain and neither laughing nor
 
 THE GREAT MARCH HOLYDAY. 103 
 
 pouting could save her. The poor schoolmaster, the greater 
 sufferer by far, was not the only one in the room who would 
 have taken a hundred blows to save her pretty hand one ; and, 
 as we saw him eyeing his huge ferine with evidently murder- 
 ous intent, a strange silence reigned throughout the circle. 
 Even the girls, after slightly fluttering the leaves of their 
 books, and shuffling their feet carelessly, as much as to say, 
 " Who cares ? What better is her slim little contrivance of a 
 hand than ours ? " seemed to partake of the general interest. 
 Mr. Linkum eyed the ferule sternly a kind of desperate 
 sternness like that the timid sheriff feels when he adjusts the 
 fatal knot ; then seized it resolutely, and petrified us all by the 
 low, terrible words " Give me your hand ! " All were petri- 
 fied but Dolly herself; she, poor child, was meekly, hopelessly 
 heart-broken. Timidly the pretty hand was extended; but 
 there was a heart-throb in every dear little finger, which poor 
 Mr. Linkum must have been insane to think of withstanding. 
 Oh, there is a witchery in a hand, in some hands ; and the 
 soft, beseeching touch of Dolly's, all quivering as it was with 
 agitation, Went (I cannot say precisely how, but doubtless 
 Neurologists might tell) to Mr. Linkum's heart. He sudden- 
 ly turned very red, as though that delicate touch had pressed 
 all the blood from his heart ; then very pale, as though it had 
 called home the crimson tide and buried it there and the 
 hand clasping the raised ferule dropped helplessly by his side. 
 Sweet little Dolly (her head had been drooping on her bosom 
 for the last half minute) raised her soft blue eyes pleadingly to 
 the master's face, and the next moment they overflowed 
 the big tear-drops gushed from their sunny fountain and fell 
 in a sudden shower upon her own hand and his. Poor Mr. 
 Linkum ! what a savage he felt himself ! It was too, too 
 much. 
 
 The poor fellow turned suddenly to his desk Dolly, among 
 the dozen seats which were offered her, sought tfie nearest, 
 and hid her burning face in a neighbor's apron, while a sim- 
 ultaneous titter went around the room ; and there was a gen- 
 eral tossing of pretty heads and ominous shakes of would-be-
 
 104 THE GREAT MARCH HOLYDAY. 
 
 wise ones. Fred Lightbody (but then Fred was a wag, and 
 was seldom more than half believed) asserted that when Mr. 
 Linkum turned from the desk, where he stood for several min- 
 utes intently examining a book which chanced to be open at a 
 blank page, his eye had a singular dewiness about it, and we 
 all observed a tremulous faltering in his voice when he ordered 
 us to our books. We remarked, too, that he did not look at 
 Dolly again that day and that unusual flashes of red spread 
 now and then across his face, as though his anger were quite 
 uncontrollable. 
 
 That was the last time Dolly Foster ever transgressed. 
 She was just as mischievous, just as full of fun and frolicking 
 as ever; and at the spelling-schools, singing-schools and 
 apple-bees, she played off a thousand pranks on wise, sober 
 Mr. Linkum but in the day school pretty Dolly was as 
 demure as a kitten. 
 
 All these things were called to memory on the morning of 
 the " last day ;" and who of us could doubt but Dolly Foster 
 would receive the prize ? She had won it before, when there 
 were not half as many indications of partiality. ' 
 
 " I wonder what the prize will be ? " 
 
 The same wonder had been expressed a hundred times that 
 winter. 
 
 " Something handsome, of course." 
 
 " Oh yes, of course." And then a merry burst of laughter 
 went the rounds. 
 
 " What can make Dolly Foster so late ?" 
 
 " What can make Dolly Foster so late ? " was echoed and 
 reechoed, as the hour of nine drew near. We knowing ones 
 were of the opinion that she was detained by some toilet diffi- 
 culties ; that her beautiful hair had taken a fancy just now, 
 when it should have been most pliable, not to curl, or that the 
 mantuamaker had ruined her dress. But these were trifles 
 to Dolly Foster, and we were confident that they would not 
 keep her away from school. What, then, was our disappoint- 
 ment, our consternation, nay, our vexation, (people are always 
 vejced when they guess wrong,) when not only on the morn-
 
 THE GREAT MARCH HOLYDAY. 105 
 
 ing but afternoon of the last day, it was found that Miss Dolly 
 had absented herself. It was perfectly unaccountable. She 
 was not ill, for she had been seen flying from one part of the 
 spacious farm-house to another, by those who had passed 
 there, as blithe and happy as a bee ; and when her brother 
 Dick was questioned about the matter, he laughed and looked 
 at the master, while the master blushed and looked out of the 
 window. 
 
 As I have said before, the last day passed off finely, except 
 that Mr. Linkum made some mistakes, such as calling Fred 
 Lightbody Dolly and when he was asked the time, saying 
 eight o'clock instead of three. And, as I have not said before, 
 the prize was this time really a reward for application. It 
 was won by Abraham Nelson, the great awkward but perse- 
 veringly studious son of Nelson, the day -laborer ; and Abra- 
 ham Nelson was persecuted forever after. It was not strange. 
 Vanity is undoubtedly everywhere the same reprehensible 
 thing ; but the vanity of a pretty girl has something rather 
 fascinating in it, while that of a great lubberly boy is unen- 
 durable. Abraham Nelson's vanity took on the most disa- 
 greeable form, and so both parties were sufferers. 
 
 Mr. Linkum was a general favorite, notwithstanding his 
 partiality in a particular case, and I believe the " big boys " 
 of our school (that is, all the hopefuls between fourteen and 
 twenty-one) never felt more inclined to be sadly serious than 
 as the hour of four drew near on that long-expected, long- 
 desired March holyday. They gathered around the master 
 each one dreading to give the good-bye shake of the hand 
 and I remember that for one I felt exceedingly vexed by 
 his seeming indifference. He was evidently embarrassed ; he 
 half wished to appear serious, as became the dignity of his 
 station ; and yet there was a look of mirthful exultation sur- 
 mounting all, which made the expression of his face irresisti- 
 bly comical. He saw that all were imbibing his spirit, and 
 finally he broke away from the circle with a " Never mind, 
 boys, we will have fine times yet ;" and jumping upon a pass- 
 ing sleigh, he was carried out of sight. Mr. Linkum did not 
 promise without cause.
 
 106 THE GREAT MARCH HOLYDAY. 
 
 There was a wedding at the Maple Bush that evening a 
 quiet, cozy, family affair ; and the pretty belle of the district, 
 though quite as pretty and quite at mischievously attractive, 
 was a belle no longer. Bright, witching Dolly Foster ! what 
 a dear little neighborhood blessing she had always been, with 
 her sunny face and sunny heart and open hand ! And what 
 a charming little bride of a Madam Linkum she made ! How 
 everybody loved her ! How the old ladies praised her docility 
 and teachableness ! and how the young ladies doted on 
 her as a model of taste and socialness ! Oh, Dolly Foster 
 was the flower of the Maple Bush; but bewitching Mrs. 
 Linkum was its gem its lamp its star. 

 
 107 
 
 NOT A POET. 
 
 I AM a little maiden, 
 
 Who fain would touch the lyre ; 
 But my poor fingers ever 
 
 Bring discord from the wire. 
 'T is strange I 'm not a poet ; 
 
 There 's music in my heart ; 
 Some mystery must linger 
 
 About this magic art. 
 
 I 'm told that joyous spirits, 
 
 Untouched by grief or care, 
 In mystery so holy 
 
 Are all too light to share. 
 My heart is very gladsome ; 
 
 But there 's a corner deep, 
 Where many a shadow nestles, 
 
 And future sorrows sleep. 
 
 I hope they '11 not awaken 
 
 As yet for many a year ; 
 There 's not on earth a jewel, 
 
 That 's worth one grief-torn tear. 
 Long may the harp be silent, 
 
 If Sorrow's touch alone, 
 Upon the chords descending, 
 
 Has power to wake its tone. 
 
 I 'd never be a poet, 
 
 My bounding heart to hush 
 And lay down at the altar 
 
 For Sorrow's foot to crush.
 
 08 NOT A POET. 
 
 Ah, no ! I '11 gather sunshine 
 For coming evening's hours ; 
 
 And while the spring-time lingers, 
 I '11 garner up its flowers, 
 
 I fain would learn the music 
 
 Of those who dwell in heaven ; 
 For woe-tuned harp was never 
 
 To seraph fingers given. 
 But I will strive no longer 
 
 To waste my heart-felt mirth ; 
 I will mind me that the gifted 
 
 Are the stricken ones of earth.
 
 lOt) 
 
 TWO NIGHTS IN THE "NIEUW 
 NEDERLANDTS." 
 
 IT was on the night of the 25th of February, 1643, that a 
 middle-aged man, with an honest, frank, sun-browned face 
 and a powerful frame, sat and warmed himself by the kitchen 
 fire in the Governor's house at Fort Amsterdam. He was 
 singularly uneasy ; every now and then clenching his fist and 
 moving his nervous arm as in angry gesticulation ; while his 
 fine eye turned from one object to another with a kind of 
 eager dread, and his naturally clear, open countenance was 
 drawn into a scowl compounded of various strong emotions. 
 He was alone, and bore himself much as though belonging to 
 the household ; for he certainly could not have been greatly 
 inferior to its master in point of dignity. All within doors 
 was perfectly silent painfully so, it seemed to the stern 
 watcher and within, the heavy, monotonous tread of a sen- 
 tinel, at a little distance, gave the only evidence that the pulse 
 of the young city had not ceased its breathings. At last the 
 man drew from his pocket a massive " Nuremburg egg" and 
 held it up to the light. 
 
 " Twelve o'clock five almost ten minutes past ! Thank 
 God, if their hellish plan has miscarried ! " 
 
 A long, loud, terrible shriek, as of a multitude of voices 
 combining their agony, came up from the distance even as 
 he spoke ; and, dropping the watch upon the stone hearth, the 
 listener sprang with an exclamation of horror to his feet. 
 
 " God forgive me, if I curse my race and nation ! It is a 
 deed worthy of the devil and they call themselves men and 
 Christians ! " 
 
 He strode up and down the long kitchen, his brows knit 
 and his hand on the hilt of his sword, muttering as he went, 
 
 VOL. n. 10
 
 110 TWO NIGHTS IN THE 
 
 " Without the consent of the committee ! in the face of my 
 protestation as its head ! the bloody-minded littleness of the 
 assassin! creeping upon the defenceless at midnight ! why, 
 their savage doings at Swanendael and Staten Island were 
 Christian deeds to this ! If evil come, if evil come of it, 
 Wilhelm Kieft, thou shall be the first sufferer, if there be 
 strength in the hand of Pieterszen de Vries to push thee from 
 thy kennel. Dog ! base dog ! Nay ; I belie the brute to 
 name thee so, cowardly blood-sucker that thou art ! " 
 
 He opened the door, and, walking forth, mounted the para- 
 pets. The cries of suffering and terror had entirely ceased ; 
 but the noise of fire-arms came from Pavonia, and gleams of 
 light flashed from the opposite shore and gilded the waters of 
 the bay. 
 
 " A mighty feat, indeed ! ' worthy the heroes of old Rome ! ' 
 Noble Kieft ! thy employers shall have a full account of these 
 brave doings." 
 
 The speaker felt a hand upon his shoulder. 
 
 " Ha, De Heer ! I am glad to see you." 
 
 " But you should have slept, my good Lilier ; you will 
 have cause to think lightly enough of your adopted home, 
 without seeing this." 
 
 " What means it, De Vries ? " 
 
 " Our gallant Director is desirous of making himself fa- 
 mous ; and so has concocted a piece of villany that no bucca- 
 neer captain on the high seas would stain his honor withal." 
 
 " I thought an enemy had been surprised, and " 
 
 " An enemy ! no, Lilier, a friend ! Let us go in the air 
 smells of murder, and I cannot bear it." 
 
 " I do not understand you. What is it ?" 
 
 " Treachery. More than one hundred of our friends and 
 neighbors, Indians from Tappaen and Wickquaesgeck, lay 
 down in sight of the fort to-night, never dreaming of harm ; 
 and they have all been murdered in their sleep." 
 
 " Not by white men ? " 
 
 " By Kief's soldiers." 
 
 " Dastardly ! Such things should not be suffered."
 
 NIEUW NEDEELANDTS. Ill 
 
 " How are they to be avoided ? The Company care but 
 little for our interests, farther than our prosperity has a bear- 
 ing on their commercial enterprises." 
 
 " They ought to be made to listen ; for if a better and more 
 prudent man be not selected to take charge of the colonies, the 
 abuses of Van Twiller, as you used to recount them to me 
 in Holland, will find more than a parallel." 
 
 " Wouter Van Twiller was a thrice sodden fool ; yet he 
 had a man's heart in his bosom, and his errors were the result 
 of weakness, not vice ; he had no taste for lapping up human 
 blood. We have men to govern us in the East Indies, but 
 here they give us nothing but blockheads and serpents." 
 
 By this time the two men had gained the kitchen fire, and 
 the light was shining full upon their faces. The companion 
 of the patroon was a very young man, of slight figure and 
 delicate features, and withal a high-bred air, which denoted 
 his patrician origin. His leading characteristic seemed to be 
 extreme gentleness ; and certainly there was nothing in the 
 large blue eyes and bright golden curls that fell about his 
 neck, instead of being gathered into a queue after the fashion 
 of tHe Hollanders, (if the observer could but shut his eyes on 
 an occasional drawing in of. the lip and swell of the nostril,) 
 indicative of superior manliness. Yet, (and the bold voyager 
 knew it and loved him for it,) in that very bosom slept mate- 
 rials for a hero. So might have looked the voluptuous king 
 who dallied away his time among fountains and flowers and 
 singing girls ; but became a lion in the hour of peril, and, 
 building his own funeral pile, clung to his throne till both 
 were ashes. Yet the comparison is not a fair one, for Lilier, 
 if gentle as a girl when there was no cause for the exercise 
 of deeper qualities, was also as pure. With a spirit deeply 
 imbued with religious feeling, he had early embraced the sen- 
 timents of the Huguenots ; and when a mere boy had turned 
 to Holland, the asylum of the persecuted of all creeds and 
 nations. There he had met with De Vries, then master of 
 artillery in the service of the United Provinces, and after- 
 wards the hardy voyager and discreet colonist. There was
 
 112 TWO NIGHTS IN THE 
 
 something in the bold chivalrous character of this enterprising 
 man, to whom, as the historian Bancroft has it, Delaware 
 owes its existence, that made him a kind of lion-hearted 
 Richard to the Frenchman. Hence a warm friendship 
 sprang up between them ; for which the impulsive romance 
 of the one and the steady sternness of the other, offered 
 ample materials. De Vries seemed ever ready to regard his 
 young friend with the affectionate interest of a parent ; while, 
 at the same time, particularly in the presence of strangers, he 
 preserved towards him a deference of manner which men 
 were ready enough to set down to the account of high birth. 
 
 The Hollander had spread open his broad, tough palm to 
 the genial blaze, and was watching in gloomy silence the 
 flickering light coquetting with the rafters above his head, 
 apparently without a thought of his companion, who leaned 
 pensively against the pictorial tiles in the chimney, when the 
 door was suddenly pushed open, and two persons sprang into 
 the centre of the kitchen. The first was a tall savage, nearly 
 naked, his face painted with colors of red and black, a snake- 
 skin bound around his forehead, a tuft of coarse plumes on 
 his head, and tomahawk in hand ; the other was a female. 
 She cast a timid glance about her as she entered, and glided 
 quietly into the shadow of the chimney, as though shrinking 
 from the bold glare of the light. Not so the man. Recog- 
 nizing the patroon, he planted himself at once before him and 
 unhesitatingly claimed his protection. They had come from 
 beyond the Tappaen, he said, he and his brother warriors, 
 with their women and children, and encamped at Pavonia ; 
 but the Maquas, their enemies from fort Orange, had come 
 upon them in the night, and murdered all while sleeping. 
 
 " No ! by heaven, Lickquequa," exclaimed the honest 
 patroon, " you shall not so belie the Maquas. The fort is no 
 place for a skin of the color that you wear ; you have run 
 your neck into the trapper's noose. It is the Swannekins 
 themselves that have murdered your warriors." 
 
 The Indian laid his hand upon his tomahawk, and his eyes 
 glittered.
 
 NIEUW NEDERLANDTS. 113 
 
 " Do you understand me ? Your enemies are here 
 within these very walls they will send you to a better hunt- 
 ing-ground than Wickquaesgeck." 
 
 " Lickquequa will take a scalp with him," said the Indian, 
 with a grim smile. 
 
 " Ay, take it ! " answered the patroon, lifting a mass of 
 grizzled hair from his forehead, and showing a tempting line 
 of white that presented quite a contrast to the bronzed com- 
 plexion below, " take it, and avenge the foul wrong you have 
 suffered to-night." 
 
 The muscles in the face of the Indian relaxed just suffi- 
 ciently to evince his admiration, without compromising his 
 reputation for dignified indifference ; but Lilier had too little 
 knowledge of Indian character to read the emotion correctly. 
 
 " You are mad, De Heer," he exclaimed earnestly ; " you 
 never consented to this murder ; you are the Indian's friend, 
 and will get this man in safety from the fort. Come, we will 
 convey him through the back door, and along " 
 
 " We will convey him openly. Lickquequa is my neigh- 
 bor, and entitled to my protection. I will not skulk and 
 creep about for fear of Kieft and his blood-hounds ; I will go 
 out openly, with this man beside me ; and, if any one attempts 
 to interfere, I will shoot him." 
 
 The Frenchman saw that it would be useless to dispute 
 the point, for De Vries' blood was heated ; and he followed 
 the two men in silence. As they passed out, and were about 
 closing the door, the woman who had escaped with Lickque- 
 qua, slid silently through the opening and crept along in the 
 shadow cast upon the ground by the group before her. The 
 young man beckoned her to draw nearer, for it was prudent 
 to make the party as small as possible ; and, shrinkingly, the 
 woman obeyed. That was a beautiful face which raised 
 itself beaming with gratitude to Lilier's, but in the next 
 moment it was nearly hidden in the embroidered mantle 
 folded over her bosom; for the Indian maiden was either 
 very modest or very timid. The gate was unguarded, and 
 they passed on without a challenge. 
 
 VOL. n. 10*
 
 114 TWO NIGHTS IN THE 
 
 Lilier's sympathies had at first been strongly enlisted in 
 the cause of humanity ; and now that cause was scarce 
 likely to lose anything by uniting youth and beauty with it. 
 There was a deep cast of romance in his character, and this 
 incident had sufficient romantic interest in it, to combine with 
 the witching hour and the glittering moonlight in giving to 
 his thoughts a color which he would have been ashamed to 
 show De Vries. Thus it was that his manner to the fugitive 
 Indian girl, while studiously attentive, yet put on a delicate 
 reserve, which would have been peculiarly appropriate had an 
 honorable cavalier suddenly found himself the escort and pro- 
 tector of one of the fairest dames of Europe. Human nature 
 is everywhere the same, of whatever hue the cheek may be ; 
 and understands the language addressed to it, though the 
 tongue may use a strange jargon ; but it was difficult to dis- 
 cover whether the courtly manners of the young Frenchman 
 were in this instance appreciated. 
 
 When they had crossed a corner of the woods and set 
 their fugitives safely on their way to Tappaen, De Vries pro- 
 posed taking leave of them and returning to the fort. 
 
 " Go," said Lickquequa, coldly. 
 
 The maiden raised again her finely-sculptured head, and as 
 she did so, a bright moonbeam came glancing downwards, 
 revealing the rich complexion, the large, mournful eyes, the 
 finely-arched brows, and the luxurious lips. It was imme- 
 diately lowered again, and she followed in the track of Lick- 
 quequa. 
 
 ' She must not go alone, so unprotected," exclaimed 
 Lilier, looking at De Vries for approbation. 
 
 The patroon smiled. 
 
 " She is a ivoman, and the Indian takes no notice of her." 
 
 " She does not want his notice, nor ours. She is in her 
 own palace now, and is growing quite the queen. Look ! 
 see how freely and proudly she steps. She does not crouch 
 now, and would laugh at the very word protection. See ! her 
 path leads away from Lickquequa's. God grant that she has 
 no father's, or brother's, or lover's death to avenge ; for,
 
 NIEUW NEDERLANDTS. 115 
 
 Lilier, it is proud blood that flows in those veins, and, if she 
 would, she might light a train with it that Nieuw Neder- 
 landts would feel to its centre. I know by her dress that she 
 is the daughter of one of their sagamores." 
 
 " But woman's words have no weight in the council." 
 " Certainly not. These people, however, have such broad 
 ears when the cry is for vengeance, that a word whispered in 
 the wigwam may call into action a thousand tomahawks." 
 
 Lilier looked after the retreating figure of the Indian mai- 
 den, and thought of Zenobia ; then he remembered the 
 glimpses he had of her face, and he Avalked back to the fort 
 by the side of De Vries without speaking a word. 
 
 The treachery of the whites, as might have been antici- 
 pated, met with a deadly vengeance. The exasperated sava- 
 ges scoured the whole country from Nieuw Amsterdam 
 nearly to fort Orange ; and houses, barns and haystacks 
 made merry bonfires for them in the dead of winter. Grain 
 and cattle were destroyed ; men stripped of their scalps and 
 left bleeding at their hearth-stones ; and women and children 
 dragged, shrieking, from the ruins of their homes and the 
 corses of the slain, to encounter cold, fatigue, and not unfre- 
 quently death, with their unfeeling captors. In this state of 
 things, De Vries applied to the governor for soldiers to pro- 
 tect his estate, but received only a promise. 
 
 " I will go myself," said the indignant patroon to his 
 friend ; " one arm without dishonor is worth more than a 
 score of these paid murderers ; and though they only obeyed 
 orders, poor fellows ! I believe an honest man's hearth is 
 better without them. Come with me, Lilier, in God's name, 
 and we two shall be enough for Vriesendael." 
 
 A long and unsatisfactory conversation with the governor 
 delayed the departure of De Vries beyond the appointed hour ; 
 but, at last, all was arranged, and the two friends set off in a 
 little boat together. The sun was brightly beautiful, winter 
 though it was. The trees, all decked out in trappings of crys- 
 tal, set off with brilliants of every hue, leaned over the bank
 
 116 TWO NIGHTS IN THE 
 
 to see themselves in the mirror below ; and pencils of light, 
 seemingly splintered by contact with the cold air, scattered 
 showers of scintillations on the sheets of ice that bordered the 
 little sea, on the shivering water, and the snow-covered shore. 
 Evening came on, and the boat, notwithstanding a floating 
 block of ice that now and then threatened to upset it, shot like 
 a winged bird over the crisp water. A dip, a glimmer of sil- 
 ver as the moonlight came to kiss the uplifted pinion, a broken 
 chain of pearls and down again went the disappointed 
 wing, to bear up with it the same shattered treasures, and 
 again and again to seek them, till that little boat, with its 
 steadily plying oars, became a struggling, living thing, bear- 
 ing within it a restless human spirit. On sped they thus, till, 
 about the time of midnight's coming, they shot into the swifter 
 current formed by the mingling of the waters. Rounding a 
 miniature cape covered with gigantic trees, they came sud- 
 denly in sight of Vriesendael. 
 
 " Good God ! " burst from the lips of the patroon ; and, 
 leaping from the boat, he dashed through the water, and 
 sprang, sword in hand, upon the bank. Lilier was scarce a 
 step behind him. 
 
 "Hold, De Vries ! stay! listen listen to reason, De 
 Heer!" 
 
 " Reason ! and my property on fire, my people murdered, 
 and perhaps my own family ! Curses on the blood} policy 
 of Wilhelm Kieft! It is his own hand that has set fire 
 to Vriesendael." 
 
 A fearful conflagration was indeed sweeping over the little 
 valley. The houses of the tenants, barns, haystacks every- 
 thing combustible was now in a broad blaze ; and, with the 
 crackling of the flames, the crash of falling timbers, and the 
 occasional discharge of fire-arms, mingled the triumphant yell 
 of the maddened and revengeful savages. The first impulse 
 of De Vries lasted but a moment, and then he collected all the 
 energies of his powerful mind, and looked upon the scene with 
 the eye of a brave man accustomed to danger, and prepared 
 to meet just such a crisis as this. The fury of the savages
 
 N1ETTW NEDERLANDTS. 117 
 
 was now all directed towards his own dwelling, a strong 
 block house with embrasures ; and, from the firing, it was 
 evident that some of his people had taken refuge there. If 
 this could be reached, under his direction the vengeance of 
 the foe might be baffled ; and to reach it unobserved, and 
 effect an entrance, became now the all-important object. 
 Keeping within the shadow of the woods, they crept along, 
 nearer and nearer the glaring light, and nearer the yelling 
 savages, treading down the frozen snow and snapping the 
 brittle twigs fearlessly ; for it must have been a heavy sound 
 indeed that would have attracted attention at that terrible 
 hour. As they passed a jagged rock, casting a deep shadow 
 on the ground, a light tread, scarce heavier than that of a 
 squirrel, attracted the attention of De Vries ; and, at the same 
 moment, he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder. 
 
 " White chief, stay ! no no go ! Lickquequa he save ; 
 stay stay ! " 
 
 There was plenty of light to see the beautiful face of the 
 Indian girl, as these words with difficulty broke from her 
 lips ; her \varm, dark eye, with all its pleading earnestness, 
 turning from one face to the other ; timidity, everything but 
 the touching interest of a grateful heart, entirely banished ; 
 and her \vhole countenance eloquent with truth and nobleness 
 of purpose. De Vries half paused to answer ; but as he did 
 so, a shriek rang out from his own dwelling a woman's 
 voice. In the same instant a glittering tomahawk glanced 
 past him ; there came a savage yell, and two dark forms 
 sprang into the red glare cast at his feet by the burning build- 
 ings. He heard the wild, terrified scream of the Indian girl, 
 a groan, and a crackling of the underbrush as of something 
 falling ; and then with two or three bounds he left the whole 
 group far behind him. That other shriek ! the voice was 
 dearly familiar, and it drowned, for the moment, every thought 
 of the mere friend. 
 
 The tomahawk, that had caught the eye of De Vries, struck 
 the temple of Lilier. He reeled, clutched with both hands at 
 the vacant air, and plunged into the crusted snow, stunned
 
 118 TWO NIGHTS IN THB 
 
 and bleeding. In a moment his foes were upon him in all 
 their savage fury ; but the heart of a friend is quicker and 
 stronger than the vengeful hand of an enemy, even though 
 there be a broadsword in it. The arms of the grateful Indian 
 girl were thrown about him a beautiful defence ; and her 
 cheek, crimsoned with his blood, rested protectingly upon his 
 forehead. How earnestly simple was the tale she told, her 
 soul-full face looking up from the hair all matted with the red 
 gore ! And how eloquently she pleaded for her saviour ! 
 The savages paused, with their hands uplifted, clutching fast 
 the instruments of death ; and bestowing a single glance on 
 the girl, turned in astonishment towards the block-house. 
 The firing had entirely ceased, and not a single savage yell 
 was to be heard. In his own opened door stood, strongly 
 relieved by the full light, the herculean figure of the hardy 
 and courageous patroon ; and before him, within arm's reach, 
 an Indian, seemingly engaged in a parley. The strange 
 silence also arrested the attention of the girl. She raised her 
 head, and a cry of joy broke from the lips, and left them 
 parted with a bright smile. 
 
 " Go ! " she said in her own musical tongue, " go ! it is 
 Lickquequa, and the white men are saved." 
 
 She was right. The Indian, whom De Vries had led from 
 the fort on the night of the massacre, had represented the 
 patroon as a friendly chief, who loved his red neighbors ; and 
 the Indians had already slung their bows over their shoulders, 
 and lowered their tomahawks by their sides. The two sav- 
 ages looked again on the scalp of the wounded man greedily ; 
 but it was half-sheltered by the beautiful person of his pro- 
 tectress ; and they turned away and joined silently the dark 
 body retreating from the besieged house. 
 -As soon as they were gone, the girl bent tenderly over her 
 charge, putting her cheek close down to his lips, to see if she 
 could catch a breath upon it, and trying to win, by the pressure 
 of her slight fingers, a single answering flutter of the heart. 
 It came at last a light, faint tremor ; and radiant was the 
 flash of joy that lighted up her face, radiant, and yet half-sub-
 
 NIEUW NEDERLANDTS. 119 
 
 dued, as though the breath of a smile might be too strong for 
 the faltering wing of the half-reluctant spirit just poising 
 itself upon the outer verge of life. Hastily she unbuckled the 
 sword at his side, slid his head from her knees, and stole up 
 the hill-side, among jagged rocks and broken wood and 
 crusted snow, till her practised eye recognized the spot she 
 sought. Then kneeling down and digging with her unwonted 
 weapon into the bank, she labored patiently until she reached 
 the ground. It was covered with green leaves ; and snatch- 
 ing a handful hastily, she hurried back with them to her 
 charge. Again raising his head to her bosom, she washed 
 the wound with the soft snow gathered from beneath the 
 crust ; and, warming the leaves between her hands, laid them 
 gently upon it, and bound them with her own girdle of wam- 
 pum. Then removing the mantle from her shoulders, she 
 folded it softly about his ; and now clasping his icy hands, 
 now watching the uncertain breath that seemed every moment 
 ready to flit from his lip, she bent over him as tenderly as a 
 mother over the cradle of her first-born. And her care was 
 rewarded ; for, long before De Vries could leave his alarmed 
 family and go out in search of the corse of his friend, the 
 languid eyes of the awakened Frenchman had turned help- 
 lessly to the dark, tearful ones watching his slumbers ; and he 
 had closed them again, more than content with his resting- 
 place. He slept, to dream of that same beautiful face ; and 
 she looked upon his closed lids and dreamed too ; such dreams 
 as our first mother must have had when she opened her eyes 
 on Eden. It was not an easy thing for the poor girl to resign 
 her charge when the white men came and took him from her ; 
 for she felt as though she had a claim upon that life which 
 her tenderness had won back to earth after the last cord was 
 loosened and the spirit's wing lifted heavenwards. 
 
 Two centuries have passed, and the colors of by-gone events 
 are so blinded and dimmed, and in some instances glossed 
 over by modern falsehood, that little more than the crimson 
 may be recognized. The heart of truth, the eye of love, and
 
 120 TWO NIGHTS IN THE NIEUW NEDERLANDTS. 
 
 the brow of beauty, are things that fade from the earth, to write 
 their names on the pages of heaven. So is a holy lesson 
 lost ; for though truth and purity yet dwell with us, there is 
 a poison in the breath of the world that keeps them forever 
 hidden. Thus two beings who lived long 
 
 " 'Mid trees and flowers and waterfalls, 
 
 And fountains bubbling from the moss, 
 And leaves that quiver with delight, 
 As from their shade the warbler calls," 
 
 who lived and loved in a luxurious wilderness, and passed in 
 the golden autumn of their days, like the beautiful, rich things 
 about them, can find no historian. Let their memories rest 
 with them the halo has fallen on some heart. Yet would 
 any look upon a quiet, simple picture, let them spend a day 
 among the Helderburgs. I have seen there a doting old lady, 
 who loves to talk of the flowery dell where she was born, and 
 the happy generations that have moved among those flowers. 
 If you could induce her to pass down the river with you, she 
 would point you to an ancient tree, beneath whose young 
 shade a French Huguenot, of high birth and higher virtues, 
 plighted his faith to the daughter of a proud Sagamore living 
 among the hills. And the old lady loves well to boast of the 
 French and Indian blood in her veins.
 
 121 
 
 LUCY BUTTON. 
 
 IT was an October morning, warm and sunny, but with 
 even its sunshine subdued into a mournful softness, and its 
 gorgeous drapery chastened by a touch of the dreamy atmos- 
 phere into a sympathy with sorrow. And there was a sor- 
 rowing one who needed sympathy on that still, holy morning 
 the sympathy of the great Heart which beats in Nature's 
 bosom for she could hope no other. Poor Lucy Dutton ! 
 
 There was a funeral that morning a stranger would have 
 judged by the gathering that the great man of the village was 
 dead, and all that crowd had come out to do his ashes honor 
 but it was not so. Yet the little, old-fashioned church was 
 filled to overflowing. Some there were that turned their eyes 
 devoutly to the holy man that occupied the sacred desk, receiv- 
 ing from his lips the words of life ; some looked upon the 
 little coffin that stood, covered with its black pall, upon a table 
 directly below him, and perhaps thought of their own mortal- 
 ity, or that of their bright little ones ; while many, very many, 
 gazed with cold curiosity at the solitary mourner occupying 
 the front pew. This was a young creature, in the very spring- 
 time of life, a frail, erring being, whose only hope was in Him 
 who said, " Neither do I condemn thee go, and sin no more." 
 There was a weight of shame upon her head, and woe upon 
 her heart, that together made the bereaved young mother cower 
 almost to the earth before the prying eyes that came to look 
 upon her in her distressing humiliation. Oh ! it was a piti- 
 ful sight ! that crushed, helpless creature's agony. 
 
 But the year before, and this same lone mourner was con- 
 sidered a sweet, beautiful child, whom everybody was bound 
 to protect and love ; because, but that she was the pet lamb 
 of a doting old woman, she was without friend and protector. 
 
 VOL. u. 11
 
 122 LUCY DTTTTON. 
 
 Lucy Dutton was the last blossom on a tree which had boasted 
 many fair ones. When the grave opened to one after another 
 of that doomed family, till none but this bright, beautiful bud 
 was left, she became the all in all, and with the doting affec- 
 tion of age was she cherished. When poverty came to Granny 
 Dutton's threshold, she drew her one priceless jewel to her 
 heart, and laughed at poverty. When sorrows of every kind 
 compassed her about, and the sun went down in her heaven 
 of hope, another rose in a holier heaven of love ; and Lucy 
 Dutton was this fountain of love-born light. The old lady 
 and her pretty darling occupied a small, neat cottage, at the 
 foot of the hill, with a garden attached to it, in which the child 
 flitted all day long, like a glad spirit among the flowers. And, 
 next to her child-idol, the simple-hearted old lady loved those 
 flowers, with a love which pure natures ever bear to the beau- 
 tiful. It was by these, and the fruit produced by the little 
 garden, that the twain lived. Many a fine carriage drew up 
 before the door of the humble cottage, and bright ladies and 
 dashing gentlemen sauntered beneath the shade, while the 
 rosy fingers of Lucy adjusted bouquets for them, her bright 
 lips wreathed with smiles, and her sunny eye turning to her 
 grandmother at the placing of every stem, as though for appro- 
 bation of her taste. Not a child in all the neigborhood was 
 so happy as Lucy. Not a child in all the neighborhood was 
 so beautiful, so gentle, and so good. And nobody ever thought 
 of her as anything but a child. Though she grew to the 
 height of her tallest geranium, and her form assumed womanly 
 proportions, nobody, not even the rustic beaux around her, 
 thought of her as anything but a child. Lucy was so artless, 
 and loved her dear old grandmother so truly, that the two 
 were somehow connected in people's minds, and it seemed as 
 impossible that the girl should grow older, as that the old lady 
 should grow younger. 
 
 Lucy was just booked for fifteen, with the seal of innocence 
 upon her heart, and a rose-leaf on her cheek, when " the 
 Herman property," a fine summer residence that had been for 
 years unoccupied, was purchased by a widow lady from the
 
 LUCY DUTTON. 123 
 
 metropolis. She came to Alderbrook early in the spring, 
 accompanied by her only son, to visit her new possessions, 
 and finding the spot exceedingly pleasant, she determined to 
 remain there. And so Lucy met the young metropolitan; 
 and Lucy was beautiful, and trusting, and thoughtless ; and 
 he was gay, selfish, and profligate. Needs the story to be 
 told? 
 
 When the Howards went away, Lucy awoke from her 
 dream. She looked about her, and upon herself, with the 
 veil taken from her eyes ; and then she turned from all she 
 had ever loved ; for, in the breaking up of those dreams, was 
 broken poor Lucy's heart. 
 
 Nay, censor, Lucy was a child consider how very young, 
 how very untaught oh ! her innocence was no match for 
 the sophistry of a gay city youth ! And young Howard stole 
 her unthinking heart the first day he looked in to purchase a 
 bouquet. Poor, poor Lucy ! 
 
 Before the autumn leaves fell, Granny Button's bright pet 
 knelt in her little chamber, and upon her mother's grave, and 
 down by the river-side, where she had last, met Justin Howard, 
 and prayed for death. Sweet, joyous Lucy Dutton, asking 
 to lay her bright head in the grave ! Spring came, and shame 
 was stamped upon the cottage at the foot of the hill. Lucy 
 bowed her head upon her bosom, and refused to look upon any- 
 thing but her baby ; and the old lady shrunk, like a shrivelled 
 leaf, before this last and greatest of her troubles. The neigh- 
 borhood had its usual gossip. There were taunts, and sneers, 
 and coarse jests, and remarks severely true; but only a little, 
 a very little, pity. Lucy bore all this well, for she knew that 
 it was deserved ; but she had worse than this to bear. Every 
 day she knelt by the bed of the one being who had doted upon 
 her from infancy, and begged her blessing, but in vain. 
 
 " Oh ! that I had laid you in the coffin, with your dead 
 mother, when all around me said that the breath had passed 
 from you !" was the unvarying reply ; " then my gray hairs 
 might have gone down to the grave without dishonor from the
 
 124 LtlCT BUTTON. 
 
 child that I took from the gate of death, and bore for years 
 upon my bosom. Would you had died, Lucy ! " 
 
 And Lucy would turn away her head, and, in the bitterness 
 of her heart, echo, " Ay ! would that I had died ! " Then 
 she would take her baby in her arms, and, while the scalding 
 tears bathed its unconscious face, pray God to forgive the 
 wicked wish, and preserve her life for the sake of this sinless 
 heir to shame. And sometimes Lucy would smile not that 
 calm, holy smile which usually lingers about an infant's cradle, 
 but a faint, sicklied play of the love-light within, as though 
 the mother's fond heart were ashamed of its own throbbings. 
 But, before the autumn passed, Lucy Dutton was fearfully 
 stricken. Death came ! She laid her last comfort from her 
 bosom into the coffin, and they were now bearing it to the 
 grave, she, the only mourner. It mattered but little that 
 the grandmother's forgiveness and blessing came now ; Lucy 
 scarce knew the difference between these words and those last 
 spoken ; and most earnestly did she answer, " Would, would 
 that I had died ! " Poor, poor Lucy ! 
 
 She sat all through the sermon, and the singing, and the 
 prayer, with her head bowed upon the side of the pew ; and 
 when at last they bore the coffin to the door, and the congre- 
 gation began to move forward, she did not raise it until the 
 kind clergyman came and led her out to take a last look at 
 her dead boy. Then she laid her thin, pale face against his 
 within the coffin, and sobbed aloud. And now some began 
 to pity the stricken girl, and whisper to their neighbors that 
 she was more sinned against than sinning. Still none came 
 forward to whisper the little word which might have brought 
 healing, but the holy man whose duty it was. He took her 
 almost forcibly from the infant clay, and strove to calm her, 
 while careless eyes came to look upon that dearer to her than 
 her own heart's blood. Finally, curiosity was satisfied ; they 
 closed the coffin, screwed down the lid, spread the black cloth 
 over it, and the procession began to form. Minister Green 
 left the side of the mourner, and took his station in advance, 
 accompanied by some half dozen others ; then four men fol-
 
 LUCY DUTTON. 125 
 
 lowed, 'bearing the light coffin in their hands, and all eyes 
 were turned upon the mourner. She did not move. 
 
 " Pass on, madam," said Squire Field, who always acted 
 the part of marshal on such occasions ; and, though little 
 given to the weakness of feeling, he now softened his voice 
 as much as it would bear softening. " This way right be- 
 hind the the pass on!" 
 
 Lucy hesitated a moment, and many a generous one longed 
 to step forward and give her an arm; but selfish prudence for- 
 bade. One bright girl, who had been Lucy's playmate from 
 the cradle, but had not seen her face for many months, drew 
 impulsively towards her ; but she met a reproving eye from 
 the crowd, and only whispering, " I do pity you, Lucy ! " she 
 shrunk back, and sobbed almost as loud as her erring friend. 
 Lucy started at the words, and, gazing wildly round her, tot- 
 tered on after the coffin. 
 
 Loud, and slow, and fearfully solemn, stroke after stroke, 
 the old church-bell doled forth its tale; and slowly and 
 solemnly the crowd moved on with a measured tread, though 
 there was many a careless eye and many a smiling lip, turn- 
 ing to other eyes and other lips, with something like a jest 
 between them. On moved the crowd after the mourner; 
 while she, with irregular, labored step, her arms crossed on 
 her bosom, and her head bent to the same resting-place, just 
 kept pace with the body of her dead boy. Winding through 
 the opened gate into the church-yard, they went trailing slow- 
 ly through the long, dead grass, while some of the children 
 crept slily from the procession, to pick up the tufts of scarlet 
 and yellow leaves, which made this place of graves strangely 
 gay ; and several young people wandered off, arm in arm, 
 pausing as they went, to read the rude inscriptions lettered on 
 the stones. On went the procession, away to the farthermost 
 corner, where slept the stranger and the vagabond. Here a 
 little grave had been dug, and the coffin was now set down 
 beside it, while the long procession circled slowly round. 
 Several went up and looked into the dark, damp cradle of the 
 dead child ; one observed to his neighbor that it was very 
 
 VOL. u. 11*
 
 126 LUCY DUTTO.N. 
 
 shallow ; and another said that Tom Jones always slighted his 
 work when there was nobody to see to it ; anyhow, it was not 
 much matter, the child would stay buried ; and another let 
 drop a jest, a hard, but not very witty one, though it was fol- 
 lowed by a smothered laugh. All this passed quietly ; noth- 
 ing was spoken above a low murmur ; but Lucy heard it all ; 
 and, as she heard and remembered, what a repulsive thing 
 seemed to her the human heart ! Poor Lucy Dutton ! 
 
 Minister Green stood at the head of the grave and said a 
 prayer, while Lucy leaned against a sickly-looking tree, alone, 
 and pressed her cold hands against her temples, and wondered 
 if she should ever pray again if God would hear her if she 
 should. Then they laid the little coffin upon ropes, and 
 gently lowered it. The grave was too short, or the men were 
 careless, for there was a harsh grating against the hard earth, 
 which made Lucy start and extend her arms ; but she instant- 
 ly recollected herself, and, clasping her hands tightly over her 
 mouth, lest her agony should make itself heard, she tried to 
 stand calmly. Then a handful of straw was thrown upon the 
 coffin, and immediately a shovelful of earth followed. Oh ! 
 that first sinking of the cold clod upon the bosom we have 
 loved ! What a fearful, shivering sensation, does it send to 
 the heart and along the veins ! And then the benumbing 
 faintness which follows, as though our own breath were strug- 
 gling up through that damp covering of earth ! Lucy gasped 
 and staggered, and then she twined her arm about the body 
 of the little tree, and laid her cheek against its rough bark, 
 and strove hard to keep herself from falling. 
 
 Some thought the men were very long in filling up the 
 grave, but Lucy thought nothing about it. She did not, after 
 that first shovelful, hear the earth as it fell ; and when, after 
 all was done and the sods of withered grass had been laid on, 
 Minister Green came to tell her, she did not hear his voice. 
 When she did, she pushed back the hair from her hollowed 
 temples, looked vacantly into his face, and shook her head. 
 Others came up to her a good-natured man who had been 
 kind to her grandmother ; then the deacon's wife, followed by
 
 LUCY DUTTON. 127 
 
 two or three other women ; but Lucy only smiled and shook 
 her head. Glances full of troubled mystery passed from one 
 to another ; there was an alarmed look on many faces, which 
 those more distant seemed to comprehend; and still others 
 came to speak to Lucy. It was useless she could find no 
 meaning in their words the star of intellect had gone out 
 the temple was darkened. Poor, poor Lucy Dutton ! 
 
 They bore her home for she was passive and helpless 
 home to the sick old grandmother, who laid her withered 
 hand on those bright locks, and kissed the cold cheek, and 
 took her to her bosom, as though she had been an infant. 
 And Lucy smiled, and talked of playing by the brook, and 
 chasing the runaway bees, and of toys for her baby -house, 
 and wondered why they were all weeping, particularly dear 
 grandmamma, who ought to be so happy. But this lasted 
 only a few days, and then another grave was made, and yet 
 another, in the poor's corner ; and the grandmother and her 
 shattered idol slept together. The grave is a blessed couch 
 and Dillow to the wretched. Rest thee there, poor Lucy !
 
 123 
 
 MYSTERY. 
 
 LIFE is all a mystery. The drawing of the breath, the 
 beating of the pulse, the flowing of the blood, none can com- 
 prehend. We know that we are sentient beings, gifted with 
 strange powers, both intellectual and physical; capable of act- 
 ing, thinking, feeling, comparing, reasoning, and judging; 
 but we do not know by what means we perform these differ- 
 ent functions, not even so much as to comprehend how the 
 simplest thought is originated. The mind of an idiot of 
 one of the lower animals even is a study too deep for us. 
 " The goings forth of the wind," the " balancing of the clouds," 
 the living leaf bursting from the dead brown stem, all pro- 
 cesses of nature however common or simple, are beyond the 
 grasp of human intellect. Each of us is a mystery to self 
 and to the friends that look upon us. We raise an arm, and 
 we know that in that simple movement a thousand little 
 assistants are required ; but we do not fully understand the 
 philosophy of their application ; and we are totally ignorant 
 of the grand principle, without which they are cold, unfeeling 
 clay. Our friends, too, are complete mysteries to us. They 
 are always acting as we were sure they would not ; and they 
 move about complete embodiments of mystery ; with hearts 
 almost wholly unexplored, heads full of strange theories, and 
 natures subject to incomprehensible impulses and caprices. 
 Within, without, around, we can comprehend nothing ; we 
 cannot solve even the simplest thesis of nature, whether writ- 
 ten on the human constitution, or this earth builded by the 
 great Architect for our use. The past to us is chaos ; the 
 present is a waking dream, in which " seeing we see not, and 
 hearing we hear not ;" and the future is wrapped in the deep- 
 est, the most impenetrable obscurity. We know neither how
 
 MYSTERY. 129 
 
 nor for \yhat purpose we exist ; nor what is to be the destiny 
 of that principle within us which every heart-throb proclaims 
 to be eternal. When we pause to think, our own shadows 
 may well alarm us ; and when we turn our dim, weak eyes 
 on our own ignorance, even to our partial selves so palpable, 
 we shall not dare to sneer at the wildest vagary that the hu- 
 man mind has ever engendered. Sneer ! why, what know 
 we, poor, puny, imbecile creatures that we are ! of truth or 
 falsehood, save that moral truth which stamps us the offspring 
 of the Eternal; that unswerving trust which is our only 
 safety our anchor while drifting on these dark, unknown 
 waters ? There is none to solve the deep mystery of the things 
 about us ; but we feel in the darkness the clasp of a strong 
 Hand. Oh, may we never strive to cast that Hand from us ! 
 In the far, far distance burns one Star. Oh, may we never raise 
 a cloud between its light and our bewildered eyes ! May we 
 never, never forget, in the midst of the mystery by which we 
 are encompassed, that " we are not our own," that we are not 
 gifted with the power of guiding ourselves ; and may we 
 yield the trust of childhood to the sure foot, the strong arm, 
 and the all-seeing eye of Him who made us what we are, 
 and is leading us to the place where we may learn what we 
 have been and shall be.
 
 130 
 
 THE PRIEST'S SOLILOQUY. 
 
 AN EXTRACT. 
 
 IT is even so, thought the good old man, as the door closed 
 behind the misguided misanthrope ; this is a beautiful world 
 of ours, but it is the gilded cage of many a fluttering spirit 
 that, nevertheless, would shrink from freedom if it were 
 offered. Keyling is miserable, more miserable than the poor 
 wretch crouching amid rags, and filth, and loathsomeness, 
 (for such suffering can bear no comparison with mental ago- 
 ny,) and yet he knows not why. What matters it to him 
 that the earth is green, and the heavens surpassingly magnifi- 
 cent ? He knows that the impress of his foot will ere long 
 disappear from the one, and his eye close upon the other. 
 He knows that the flowers will bloom, the birds sing ; that 
 summer will flush the fields, and winter bring in turn its 
 peculiar attractions, when his heart is pulseless and his tongue 
 mute ; but he does not know that in the dissevering of the sil- 
 ver cord is gained the freedom for which the spirit pants. This 
 world is too narrow for his soul to expand in, and he feels 
 cramped and chained ; yet, if the door of his cage were flung 
 open, he would tremble at sight of the unknown space beyond, 
 and would not venture out, but cling to the gilded wires until 
 torn away by the resistless hand of death. Earth never sat- 
 isfied an immortal mind ; the " living soul," which is nothing 
 less than the breathing of Deity himself, can be satisfied but 
 with infinity infinity of life, action, and knowledge. Its 
 own feeble glimmer is enough for the fire-fly ; and its wing 
 and voice, with the free heavens and beautiful earth, for the 
 bird ; they were formed by the Almighty's hand, but their 
 life is not an emanation of his life, and their little spirits " go 
 downward to the earth." But what can satisfy the deathless
 
 THE PRIEST'S SOLILOQUY. 131 
 
 soul immured in a clay prison, with but clouded views of the 
 finite beauties around it, and wholly unconscious of its divine 
 origin and final destiny ? No wonder Keyling is miserable ; 
 for he is blinder than the untutored savage who " sees God 
 in clouds and hears him in the wind." For years he has 
 been struggling for a meteor ; while it receded, he never 
 paused or wearied ; but, when his hand closed over it and he 
 grasped a shadow, the truth dawned upon his spirit ; and, in 
 the bitterness of its first perception, he cursed himself and 
 cursed his destiny. He hates the world, and himself and 
 mankind, and talks madly of the death-damps, the grave, and 
 the slimy earth-worm, as though superior to their horrors ; 
 but yet he is in love with life, as much as the veriest devotee 
 of pleasure in existence. It is this panting for immortality, 
 this longing for a wider range, that makes him sometimes 
 imagine, in his impatience, that he is anxious to lie down to 
 his eternal rest and never wake. If his spirit could but 
 understand its heavenward destiny, if he would learn to look 
 beyond these narrow boundaries, if, in despising the worth- 
 less, he would properly estimate the high and imperishable, 
 poor Keyling would find that even on earth there are inex- 
 haustible sources of happiness. Alas for the weakness of 
 human nature ! What a very wreck a man becomes when 
 left to his own blindness and folly ! The loftier the intellect, 
 the higher its aspirations, and the more comprehensive its 
 faculties, the lower does it descend in darkness, if the torch 
 of religion has never been lighted within. It is misery to 
 feel the soul capable of infinite expansion, and allow it a 
 range no wider than this fading, ever-changing earth ; to taste 
 the bliss of life, mingled with the bitter draught of death ; to 
 love the high and holy, and never look toward the fountain 
 of holiness deep, deep, and mingling in its pure tide the 
 richness of all wisdom and knowledge. Oh, how depressing 
 must be the loneliness of such souls ! How awful the deso- 
 lation ! Too high for earth and knowing naught of heaven ! 
 Even the good in their natures is perverted, and adds to the 
 chaos of darkness within. When they see the strong oppress
 
 132 THE PHIEST'S SOLILOQUY. 
 
 the weak, vice triumph over virtue, innocence borne down by 
 care and poverty, and guilt elevated to a throne, they say 
 this is enough to know of Him who holds the reins of such 
 a government ; and, in their folly, deem themselves more 
 merciful than the Father of mercies. Making this world the 
 theatre of life, and the years of man its sum, they fix upon 
 this inconceivably small point in comparison with the whole ; 
 and, from such a limited view, dare to tax the Ruler of the 
 universe with injustice. Unable to comprehend the policy 
 of the divine government, and misapprehending the object 
 and tendency of earthly suffering, they lose themselves in the 
 mazes of sophistry, and become entangled in the net their own 
 hands have spread. 
 
 Poor Keyling ! he has drunk of the poisonous tide of infi- 
 delity, and every thought is contaminated the moment it 
 springs up into the heart. This gives its coloring to the 
 earth and sky, to life and death. It breaks the chain that 
 binds the world of nature to its Creator, dissolves the strong- 
 est fascination of the beautiful things around us, and renders 
 meaningless the lessons traced by the finger of God upon 
 everything he has made. It removes the prop from the bend- 
 ing reed, and the sunlight from the heart ; it binds down the 
 wing of hope, and turns the upraised eye earthward ; it offers 
 only " the worm, the canker, and the grief," and points the 
 fluttering soul to a grave of darkness and oblivion.
 
 133 
 
 AUNT ALICE. 
 
 To people who look on one side of Aunt Alice's character, 
 she appears a saint ; sinless as those who have gone home to 
 heaven ; a ministering angel of light. To people who look 
 on the reverse of the picture, and see spots of this shining 
 through, all distorted by the unhappy medium, she is a 
 miserable, canting hypocrite. Both are wrong ; Aunt Alice 
 is neither, though much nearer saintship. A third class of 
 people, having a wholesome contempt for extremes, and 
 intending to be very generous in their estimate, call Aunt 
 Alice a singular character; and, moreover, affirm that she 
 loves to be singular, and pursues her somewhat eccentric 
 course more for the sake of attracting attention and exciting 
 remark, than from a love of it. They, too, are wide of the 
 mark. That Aunt Alice performs a vast amount of good is 
 not to be denied ; and that she goes about, her left hand often 
 destroying her right hand's work, is equally certain. 
 
 Aunt Alice is a widow ; and, all her children being mar- 
 ried, she has nothing to detain her from what she considers 
 her duties. Is there a sick bed in all the neighborhood, she 
 is there. Her own hand administers the cordial ; her own 
 bosom supports the sufferer's head ; her own lips whisper con- 
 solation, and breathe balm upon the wounded spirit. Then, 
 Aunt Alice is a ministering angel ; and, to see her untiring 
 devotion, her ready self-sacrifice, and her humble piety> you 
 would wonder that she was left upon the earth where she had 
 not a sister spirit. She holds the dying infant in her arms, 
 receives its last sigh, wraps it in its little shroud, and lays it in 
 the coffin. Then she turns to the bereaved mother, and tells 
 her that her cherished bud is only transplanted to be better 
 watched over and cared for ; and Aunt Alice never goes away 
 until she sees a clear light breaking through the tears in tho 
 
 VOL. n. 12
 
 134 AUNT ALICE. 
 
 mourner's eye, and knows that the stricken spirit has learned 
 to love the Hand that but bore its treasure before it to Para 
 disc. But it is only to the poor the wretchedly, miserably 
 poor that Aunt Alice goes thus. It is only to them that her 
 hand is extended, and her purse and heart opened. The rich 
 have many friends ; she knows they do not need her, and she 
 cannot waste her precious time upon mere civilities. So 
 deeply is this impressed upon the mind of Aunt Alice, that 
 she too often neglects the lesser charities of life the ready 
 smile, the encouraging word, and the kindly glance, so 
 expressive of sympathetic interest and thus incurs distrust, 
 and builds up a high wall for her own influence to pass over 
 before it can reach the heart of the worldling. Moreover, she 
 has seen so much of real suffering that which tears the 
 heart, shrivels up the muscles, and withers the spirit within 
 the bosom that the sorrow which cannot be traced back to a 
 cause, and an adequate one, (some real, palpable cause, whose 
 length, breadth, and entire bearing she can measure,) meets 
 no sympathy from her. She feels a contempt for those minor 
 ills born of delicacy and nursed in the lap of luxury. She 
 does not know how deeply the cankering iron may eat into 
 the spirit, when she cannot see it protruding beyond ; she does 
 not know that the Angel of Woe has a seat which he same- 
 times occupies by every hearth-stone, and that his visitation is 
 always heaviest when he comes disguised. So Aunt Alice 
 never pities those who cannot write down some fearful calam- 
 ity ; never even does she pity those who can, and are not wil- 
 ling to deserve her pity by opening to her its most secret fold. 
 Sensitiveness she calls pride, and pride is one of the faults 
 which she never forgives. Yet, Aunt Alice is very forgiving ; 
 her charity, indeed, " covereth a multitude of sins." The 
 most sinful, those who have widest erred the poor, forsaken 
 victim of shame and misery and guilt, she ever takes by the 
 hand, whispering kindly, " This is the way j walk ye in it." 
 Among those whom crime has made outcasts from society she 
 labors unceasingly ; and many rescued ones can point to her 
 as the parent of their better natures. Yet there is no one so
 
 AUNT ALICE. 135 
 
 severe on foibles as Aunt Alice. Does her neighbor wear a 
 gayer bonnet than pleases her taste ; is any one so dazzled by 
 the fascinations of society as to err in world-loving ; are men 
 entangled in the net of pleasure and lured to sin, instead of 
 being pushed into it by want and woe ; for them Aunt Alice 
 has no sympathy. 
 
 Yet, again, a current saying among the poor is, that the 
 good lady has no clasp upon her purse ; it is told by others 
 that she has a hard and griping hand. In truth, Aunt Alice 
 values money highly ; but she values it only so far as it gives 
 her the means to benefit her fellow-men. From every penny 
 appropriated to another purpose she parts grudgingly. She 
 studies economy for the sake of the suffering ; and, not con- 
 tent with economizing herself, she endeavors to compel those 
 with whom she has dealings to do so also. Aunt Alice will 
 bandy words a half hour with a tradesman for the sake of a 
 few shillings ; and, turning round, she will double those shil- 
 lings in charity. It is not that she prefers generosity to jus- 
 tice, but her view of things is contracted. Her errors are of 
 judgment, not feeling. 
 
 I do not wonder that people call Aunt Alice a hypocrite 
 but I do wish that they could look into the bosom where rests 
 the meek and quiet spirit which they falsify. Oh ! Aunt 
 Alice has a true and generous heart a heart panting to be 
 like His who loved the 'sinner, while hating all sin. A gen- 
 erous heart has she ! Pity that it should be curbed, half its 
 fervor checked, and many of its best pulsations hushed, by the 
 narrow mind which is its guide and governor !
 
 136 
 
 MY FIRST GRIEF. 
 
 AN EXTHACT. 
 
 I LAUGHED and crowed above this water, when I was a 
 baby, and, therefore, I love it. I played beside it, when the 
 days were years of summer-time, and the summers were 
 young eternities of brightness, and, therefore, I love it. It 
 was the scene of my first grief, too. Shall I tell you? 
 There is not much to tell, but I have a notion that there are 
 people above us, up in the air, and behind the clouds, that 
 consider little girls' doings about as important as those of 
 men and women. The birds and the angels are great level- 
 lers. 
 
 It was a dry season; the brook was low, and a gay -trout, 
 in a coat of golden brown, dotted over with crimson, and a 
 silver pinafore, lay, weather-bound, on the half-dry stones, all 
 heated and panting, with about a tea-spoonful of lukewarm 
 water, turning lazily from its head, and creeping down its 
 back at too slow a pace to afford the sufferer hope of emanci- 
 pation. My- sympathies- little girls, you must know, are 
 made up of love,, and"" sympathy, and such like follies, which 
 afterwards contract into rfimporte! I was saying, my 
 sympathies were aroused ; and, quite forgetting that water 
 would take the gloss from my new red morocco shoes, I 
 picked my way along, and laying hold of my fine gentleman 
 in limbo, succeeded in burying him, wet face and all, in the 
 folds of my white apron! But suck an uneasy prisoner! 
 More than one frightened toss did he get into the grass, and 
 then I had an infinite deal of trouble to secure him again. 
 His gratitude was very like that of human's, when you do 
 them unasked service.
 
 MY FIRST GRIEF. 137 
 
 When I had reached a cool, shaded, deep spot, far adown, 
 where the, spotted alders lean, like so many self-enamored 
 narcissuses, over the ripple-faced mirror, I dropped my apron, 
 and let go my prize. ' Ah ! he was grateful then ! He must 
 have been ! How he (Jived, and sprang to the surface, and 
 spread out his little wings of dark-ribbed gossamer, and 
 frisked about, kee'ping all the time a cool, thin sheet of sil- 
 ver between his back and the. sun-sick air ! I loved that 
 pretty fish, -for I had been kind to it; and I thought it would 
 love me, too, and stay there, and be a play-fellow for me ; so 
 I went every day and watched for it, and watched~ until my 
 little eyes ached ; but I never saw it again. That was my 
 first grief; what is there, in years to make a heart ache 
 heavier ? That first will be -longer remembered than the last, 
 I dare say. 
 
 VOL. n. 12*
 
 138 
 
 THE MIGNIONETTE. 
 
 I KNOW there is an angel in some bosoms an angel 
 which the Redeemer leaves to guard his own peculiar jewels 
 which will touch most delicately the keys of love and 
 truthfulness, whatever nets the world without may be weav- 
 ing to cripple its pure wings. But, in generd, we are imita- 
 tive creatures, and we copy from our surroundings. We 
 catch the tricks of the leaves, and the breezes, and the flower- 
 buds, when we make our homes among them ; and, when 
 we congregate on hot pavements, the air we breathe is sear- 
 ing to the spirit, however you may tell us it affects the spirit's 
 casket. It is better to be a " God-make" than a " man-make," 
 as the little deaf mute, Jack, would say ; and men will re- 
 fashion God's doings, even in our own natures, if we do not 
 prevent them. For this reason, it seems to me not only 
 peculiarly silly, but wicked, to transplant the early spring 
 violet from the brook-side to your conservatory. A gay. 
 fashionable man, with a touch of poetry, and more of worldli- 
 ness about him, attempted it a few years ago ; but he spoiled 
 his flower. Poor Minna Gray ! She was a pure, gentle 
 creature ; but when she was removed from the influences of 
 home, with so much to attract, so much to wonder at and 
 bewilder, was it strange that her young heart should grow 
 stagnant to any but the thrilling touch of the magic world 
 that accorded so well with her dreams of fairy-land ? No ; 
 if the world-weary man would have the wild violet in its fra- 
 grance, and freshness, and purity, he must go and live beside 
 it ; it is well worth the sacrifice, and will droop in any other 
 soil. We have a strange notion in this strange world, of 
 fashioning pure things to our own hands, instead of fashion- 
 ing ourselves to them.
 
 THE MIGNIONETTE. 139 
 
 In the days when all the moveless dumb things on the 
 earth talked and walked about, a Thistle grew down in the 
 corner of a neglected garden, in the midst of other Thistles, all 
 proud of their purple blossoms and brave defences. But 
 there was one thing about the porcupine-like armor of the 
 Thistle family, which did not quite please this gallant 
 knight. They were all bristling with prickles; and they 
 could not draw near each other with the loving confidence 
 displayed by the little bed of Mignionette close by ; so, in 
 the midst of kindred and friends, the Thistle felt alone. Per- 
 haps, if he had cast off his own armor, and wheedled from the 
 air some of the sweetness it had rifled from his fragrant neigh- 
 bors, the others might have imitated him ; but, instead of 
 that, like many a poet of the present day, he stood up in all 
 his exclusiveness ; and, from dawn to dew-fall, sighed for 
 companionship. At last he began to throw loving glances 
 towards the Mignionette ; and one little, fragrant, dewy blos- 
 som saw him, and blushed, hiding her meek head behind her 
 companions. From that day the knight resolved to woo the 
 little trembler, and fashion her beautiful spirit for his own 
 happiness. " She shall grow close beside me," he said to 
 himself; " her roots shall twine with mine down in the dark 
 earth, and her slender, delicate stem I will support and train 
 upwards, and she will cling lovingly to me forever." So he 
 expended a few more tender glances, and sent some gallant 
 speeches by the little wind-messengers ; and at last pretty 
 Mignon stept from the midst of her sisters, and laid her fra- 
 grant head on the bosom of her mettlesome wooer. For a 
 little time, whose life so bright as that of Knight Thistle ? 
 But sometimes the sharp thorns in his armor wounded his 
 gentle bride, and then came tears and chidings ; sometimes, 
 when he bent his head to touch her bright lip, there seemed 
 a strong scent of the Thistle in her breath, instead of the fra- 
 grance which had made the whole garden rich ; and some- 
 times, at midnight, when the wind was a little noisier than 
 usual, and the tall Thistle-heads hissed a response, he fan- 
 cied that another hiss arose close beside him, and he did not
 
 140 THE MIGWONETTE. 
 
 love his Mignon more for growing so like himself. Finally, 
 after a year or two had passed, the Thistle found, to his dis- 
 may, that the roots of the Mignionette were so interwoven 
 with those of her stout neighbors, that they were in no wise 
 distinguishable ; then thorns grew from her sides, and wounded 
 as his had done ; she put a purple crown upon her head, and 
 became a Thistle. It was not very strange, for she had lain 
 upon his heart, and its throbbings were not good for her ; she 
 had listened to his whispers, and in them had forgotten the 
 pure, sweet converse of her sisters, though her fainting 
 spirit longed for it ; and she had breathed the air that the 
 Thistles breathed, until her whole nature was contaminated. 
 
 But from that day to this, the whole family of Thistles 
 (which has since become very numerous, and does not 
 always wear the purple) declare the modest little Mignionette 
 to be no purer, no gentler, no sweeter or more loving than 
 themselves j and they firmly believe th,at there are no such 
 virtues as these in the wide world, and those who seem most 
 to practise them, are only the most adroit deceivers. 
 
 Ah! pretty Mignionettes, sweet Violets, bright Minna 
 Grays; beware of the world nestle in your seclusion 
 guard well your simple, trustful hearts ; your innocence is no 
 match for the strong continual influence which always enters 
 by the purest door of your natures to desecrate your trea- 
 sures.
 
 141 
 
 MINISTERING ANGELS. 
 
 MOTHER, has the dove that nestled 
 
 Lovingly upon thy breast, 
 Folded up its little pinion, 
 
 And in darkness gone to rest? 
 Nay ; the grave is dark and dreary, 
 
 But the lost one is not there ; 
 Hear'st thou not its gentle whisper, 
 
 Floating on the ambient air ? 
 It is near thee, gentle mother, 
 
 Near thee at the evening hour ; 
 Its soft ldss> is in the zephyr, 
 
 It looks up from every flower. 
 And when, Night's dark shadows fleeing, 
 
 Low thou bendest thee in prayer, 
 And thy heart feels nearest heaven, 
 
 Then thy angel babe is there. 
 
 Maiden, has thy noble brother, 
 
 On whose manly form thine eye 
 Loved full oft in pride to linger, 
 
 On whose heart thou couldst rely, 
 Though all other hearts deceived thee, 
 
 All proved hollow, earth grew drear, 
 Whose protection, ever o'er thee, 
 
 Hid thee from the cold world's sneer, 
 Has he left thee here to struggle, 
 
 All unaided on thy way ? 
 Nay ; he still can guide and guard thee, 
 
 Still thy faltering steps can stay : 
 Still, when danger hovers o'er thee, 
 
 He than danger is more near ;
 
 142 MINISTERING ANGELS. 
 
 When in grief thou 'si none to pity, 
 He, the sainted, marks each tear. 
 
 Lover, is-the light extinguished, 
 
 Of the gem that, in thy heart 
 Hidden deeply, to thy being 
 
 All its sunshine could impart? 
 Look above ! 't is burning brighter 
 
 Than the very stars in heaven ; 
 And to light thy dangerous pathway, 
 
 All its new-found glory 's given. 
 With the sons of earth commingling, 
 
 Thou the loved one mayst forget ; 
 Bright eyes flashing, tresses waving, 
 
 May have power to win thee yet ; 
 But e'en then that guardian spirit 
 
 Oft will whisper in thine ear, 
 And in silence, and at midnight, 
 
 Thou wilt know she hovers near. 
 
 Orphan, thou most sorely stricken 
 
 Of the mourners thronging earth, 
 Clouds half veil thy brightest sunshine, 
 
 Sadness mingles with thy mirth. 
 Yet, although that gentle bosom, 
 
 Which has pillowed oft thy head, 
 Now is cold, thy mother's spirit 
 
 Cannot rest among the dead. 
 Still her watchful eye is o'er thee 
 
 Through the day, and still at night 
 Hers the eye that guards thy slumber, 
 
 Making thy young dreams so bright. 
 O ! the friends, the friends we Ve cherished, 
 
 How we weep to see them die ! 
 All unthinking they 're the angels 
 
 That will guide us to the sky !
 
 143 
 
 THE RAIN A THOUGHT-MAKER. - 
 
 WOULD you believe it, " Bel" that there is poetry in a 
 woodpile genuine, unmitigated poetry, dipped up from the 
 very heart of Helicon ? Would you believe it ? Well, there 
 is ; and, what is better still, it is not a moth born of the sun- 
 shine ; but a genuine bird of Parnassus, dashing rain-diamonds 
 from its wings, and weaving rainbows, and turning rain-clouds 
 into whatever you choose the friar's cowl and gown, or 
 the ermine and velvet of St. James, as your taste suggests. 
 But it is a Niobe ; or rather a Venus bathing in an upper sea ; 
 for the muse of the woodpile, you must know, is a rain-divin- 
 ity. To illustrate. We have had a week O, such a week ! 
 If I possessed any mechanical skill it would have made a 
 Noah of me, six days ago. Drizzle, drizzle ! patter, patter ! 
 from darkness to darkness ; for the day is one continued twi- 
 light', the damp light coming in and going out at its usual 
 hours, as though it acted only from a sense of duty sick 
 and dizzy enough, meanwhile, to prefer being alone. The 
 night, too but nights never hang heavily on my hands, 
 thanks to the little people from Dreamland. 
 
 Did you ever spend a rainy day in the country, " Bel ? " 
 You will say, yes ; for now I have asked, I recollect one or 
 two when you were with us. But Walter was here then ; 
 so, of course, your sun shone. Once imagine those rainy 
 days without a lover, " Bella ;" and then think of seven of 
 them all in a row, so near alike that you cannot distinguish 
 one from its twin ; and you must keep an almanac in your 
 hand to prove to yourself that yesterday has not come back 
 again to cheat you into living a stale day. By the way, what 
 a fresh life we have of it; forever using new time, moments 
 just coined from stray fragments of eternity, soiled by nobody's 
 breath, and thrown by as soon as tarnished or embalmed by
 
 144 THE BAIN A THOUGHT-MAKES. 
 
 ours. Not quite thrown by, either. They are following after 
 us, a line of strange things strangely broidered over, to buoy 
 us heavenward, like the tail of a kite, or drag us down, a chain 
 of lead. " Revenons a nos moutons" 
 
 The woodpile. There it stands, with the water drip, drip- 
 ping from it all motionless, and meek as Mooly " midway 
 in the marshy pool;" (you admire musical sounds, "Bel;" 
 and there is alliteration for you, worthy of the fair Laura 
 Matilda herself.) Drip ! drip ! there 's something chiding in 
 that woodpile a dumb reverence for what is, which makes 
 me ashamed of wishing for the ninety-ninth time, as I was on 
 the point of doing, that the rain "would be over and gone." 
 Resigned to the decrees of Providence ! O, it is a hard thing, 
 " Bel." Think of our hopes, as they are first formed, with a 
 heart-throb in every tiny bud ; then think of them as they 
 begin to expand, blushing, brightening, bursting out from the 
 envious green, fresh and glorious our gay, gorgeous hopes; 
 think of them in their glad beauty, and watch the coming 
 of the rain-storm. How they strive to stand, poor perishable 
 things ! How they wave, and quiver, and wrestle ! and then 
 see their bright petals swept downward and scattered, gem- 
 ming the wet ground, before one sun-ray had given them a 
 baptismal kiss. Lost before named ! Poor hopes ! Pitiable 
 hopers ! 
 
 Not poetry, did you say ? Well, it is philosophy, then ; 
 and I am by no means sure that there is the difference of a 
 maple and an elm stick between the two. I am inclined to 
 believe that the same divinity presides over both. To be 
 sure, poetry shows the dimpled foot, mantled only by the hem 
 of a lady's robe ; while philosophy strides off in buskin and 
 hosen ; but you may see them step behind the scenes at any 
 moment, and exchange attire. 
 
 I have gained quite an affection for that woodpile, since I 
 have had nothing else to look at ; and it went to my heart 
 this morning to have a heavy armful transferred to my room, 
 for the purpose of correcting the dampness of the atmosphere. 
 I felt as though committing a kind of sacrilege ; worse still,
 
 THE RAIN A THCT-GHT-BIAKER. 145 
 
 burning my monitor, because perhaps its teachings chid me. 
 And then, when the wild flames were all raving around it, 
 how could I help, " Bel ; " unclasping a clasp, and looking 
 into the morrow of a little trembler, who would fain cling 
 a life-long to the present ? My life has been one track of 
 roses ; I have imbibed their freshness, and drunk their per- 
 fume ; my smiles have been heart-born, and every tear has 
 had a rainbow in it. I have led a happy, happy life, " Bel" 
 thank God ! who has granted every blessing to a hoping 
 mother's prayers. But a wiser than the hoping has said, " If 
 a man live many years, and rejoice in them all, yet let him 
 remember the days of darkness ; for they shall be many." 
 Not entire darkness, " Bel ; " for I know of stars that will al- 
 ways sparkle, of lamps that will always burn ; but still there 
 are days of trial awaiting me perhaps in the distance, per- 
 haps very near, even at the door. I cannot die till my lip 
 has pressed the bitter. Heaven help me, then ! and not me 
 alone, but all of us. 
 
 I wish you could sit by me this morning, and see my fire 
 burn. There is John Rogers himself, with his picket fence 
 of .little people, to keep him from running away, just as he 
 stands in the primer ; and there is the veritable hero, Jack- 
 the-giant-killer, if I am to judge by the enormous club he 
 carries, three times the size of himself; and there there, as 
 I live, is your own Broadway, the genuine article, the shops 
 all tricked out in finery, and the passers-by in the same way 
 bedizened all walking show-cases. And now the fire-scene 
 changes, and I look into a magnificent palace, my foot is 
 aching just to press that gorgeous carpet, and there, a stick 
 has rolled down upon it, and my palace is in the condition of 
 many another one that I have builded. That big stick of 
 maple seems to me like a martyr, suffering for opinion's sake. 
 Certainly it is the very stick that I saw yesterday turning its 
 bleached face heavenward with a submissiveness which had 
 no sigh in it j and, with its last year's green for a text, it 
 preached me a long sermon. It was not a very agreeable one, 
 however. Shall I tell you a few things it wrote on my heart * 
 
 VOL. n. 13
 
 146 THE HAIN A THOUGHT-MAKER. 
 
 I never afflicted myself much at the decay of empires 
 never gave half as many tears to the downfall of all the mighty 
 mourning places of the old world combined, as I shed over the 
 grave I dug in childhood for a poor broken-winged robin I 
 had striven to win back to life. My heart is not big enough 
 for that kind of sympathy ; and there is no use in trying to 
 convince me that there is a place in the world of quite as 
 much consequence as Alderbrook. If I should wake some of 
 these mornings, and find the houses all turned into stacks of 
 chimneys, (we have few Grecian pillars, and such like un- 
 necessaries, so our ruins would not be very romantic,) and the 
 direction of the only nice street we have, such a disputable 
 thing that the antiquarians of Cro'w-kill would wrangle about 
 it forever after ; I say, if I should awake and find changes 
 like these, I should probably weep a few such tears as have, 
 during the lapse of centuries, bathed the ruins that claim the 
 world for mourners. But, after all, it would be nothing in 
 comparison with seeing a new grave dug over the white stile 
 yonder, among the cypresses. The decay of life, the extin- 
 guishing of the lamp lighted by the hand of God, O, there 
 is something in that which I can feel ! I do not know what 
 kind of life there was in that maple-tree last summer how 
 high, how glorious, how much like this which is now swel- 
 ling in my veins and bubbling at my heart but I do 
 know that there was life in it. And life, of whatever kind, is 
 a mysterious, a fearfully mysterious thing. But it is gone 
 now ; and the living tree, which gloried in the sunlight, and 
 wrestled with the winds of heaven that had veins and arte- 
 ries, through which the life-current wandered as through mine, 
 is degraded to the impassiveness of the stone below the stone 
 in its early perishableness, as the human frame is below that 
 in a more revolting dissolution. Sometimes I fancy, as the 
 stick lies smouldering in that crust of gray ashes, that the 
 principle of life has not yet departed from it ; for, the unwil- 
 ling yielding to the flame, the occasional brightening up, as 
 though a hoping soul looked through it, the half-mirthful 
 crackle, and the low, mournful song, like its own requiem, all
 
 THE RAIN A THOUGHT-MAKER. 147 
 
 seem to speak of an inner life, which the axe of the woodman 
 failed to reach. I observe, too, as I watch it, fragments 
 crumbling back into ashes ; while, above, floats oft' a blue 
 wreath, waving and curling winging its way heavenward 
 with all the gladness of an emancipated spirit. Will you be- 
 lieve with me, " Bella," that this is the same spirit which ani- 
 mated the living leaves of the maple tree, when they coquet- 
 ted with the summer sun-light, and folded the wind genii in 
 their green arms, and whispered, with their fresh lips, of 
 things, which, I suppose, the birds know more about than we. 
 Why should it not be ? I have no objection to the Indian's plan 
 of taking dogs, and horses, and other lovable things, to hea- 
 ven ; though I am not sure 'that I should like to see him chase 
 the " spotted Fomen," or put a veto on the nourish of bright 
 wings ; but I think all these will be a study for us there. Our 
 natures have become contracted in this cramped-up breathing- 
 place, where we are hustled about, and jostled against each 
 other, till self-protection self, self-everyihiug is the one 
 chord vibrating to our every breath. We have arranged a 
 book of nature, and put ourselves in as a frontispiece ; (the 
 picture other living things, only the border;) but the whole 
 may be reversed in heaven. 
 
 " Just as short of reason he may fall, 
 
 Who thinks all made for one, as one for all." 
 
 And what egotism to believe our own the only deathless 
 spirits to pass from this bright earth to a brighter Paradise ! 
 Ourselves alone gifted with the true life all things else 
 cursed with a mockery, a semblance, like the iris-hued bubble 
 to the sun. 
 
 But, "Bell," I do hope this maple stick is as insensible as it 
 seemed on the wood-pile yesterday ; for I have no great fancy 
 for playing the executioner, though it did teach me an ugly 
 lesson. What that lesson was, I have only hinted at yet ; it 
 is scarce a thing to repeat to one so bright and joyous as you 
 are. Perhaps you never think of the dark phantoms that 
 trouble the existence of other mortals but 0, " Bell," death 
 is a thing to dread ! And then it is such an ever-present thing ;
 
 148 THE RAIN A THOUGHT-MAKER. 
 
 we are so reminded of it every moment of our lives ! There 
 is no hour so sacred, no place so secure, but we cast a look 
 over the shoulder at the fearful shape following us. At dawn 
 and at dew-fall, at noon-tide blaze, and in the star-broidered 
 midnight, it is all the same. 
 
 When day is (lying in the west, 
 
 Each flickering ray of crimson light, 
 The sky, in gold and purple dressed, 
 
 The cloud, with glory all bedight, 
 
 And every shade that ushers night, 
 And each cool breeze that comes to weave 
 Its dampness with my curls all leave 
 A lesson sad. 
 
 Last night I plucked a half-shut flower, 
 Which blushed and nodded on its stem ; 
 
 A thing to grace a Peri's bower ; 
 It seemed to me some priceless gem, 
 Dropped from an angel's diadem ; 
 
 But soon the blossom drooping lay, 
 
 And, as it withered, seemed to say, 
 
 We 're passing all! 
 
 I loved a fair-haired, gentle boy, 
 
 (A bud of brightness ah, too rare !) 
 I loved him, and I saw with joy 
 
 Heaven's purity all centred there ; 
 
 But he went up, that heaven to share ; 
 And, as his spirit from him stole, 
 His last look graved upon my soul, 
 
 Learn thus to die ! 
 
 I 've seen the star that glowed in heaven, 
 When other stars seemed half asleep, 
 
 As though from its proud station driven, 
 Go rushing down the azure steep, 
 Through space unmeasured, dark, and deep ; 
 
 And, as it vanished far in night, 
 
 I read by its departing light, 
 
 Thus perish all ! 
 
 I've, in its dotage, seen the year, 
 
 Worn out and weary, struggling on, 
 Till falling prostrate on its bier, 
 
 Time marked another cycle gone ; 
 
 And, as I heard the dying moan,
 
 THE RAIN A THOUGHT-MAKER. 149 
 
 Upon my trembling heart, there fell 
 The awful words, as by a spell, 
 
 Death death to all ! 
 
 They come on every breath of air, 
 
 Which sighs its feeble life away ; 
 They 're whispered by each blossom fair, 
 
 Which folds a lid at close of day ; 
 
 There 's nought of earth, or sad or gay, 
 There 's nought below the star-lit skies, 
 But leaves one lesson as it flies 
 
 Thou too must die ! 
 
 And numberless those silvery chords, 
 
 Dissevered by the spoiler's hand, 
 But each in breaking still affords 
 
 A tone to say we all are banned ; 
 
 And on each brow by death-damps spanned, 
 The pall, the slowly moving hearse, 
 Is traced the burden of my verse, 
 
 Death death to man! 
 
 Ah ! the strong, the mighty may well turn pale, and quake, 
 and shrivel, and mewl, even as an infant in its swaddlings, 
 with that skeleton finger stealthily winding itself among the 
 warm, bloodful veins, turning them to ice as it goes. With 
 that dark sovereign of a darksome hour looking into his eyes 
 and counting through these faithful mirrors the pulsations of 
 the heart below ; scattering, one by one, the sands from his 
 glass, and stealing, drop by drop, the life from its fountain, the 
 brave, strong-souled man may measure courage with the timid 
 maiden, and never blush to find an equal in heroism. To 
 have those who have loved, caressed, and watched over us 
 with sleepless attention, turn loathingly from us and hustle us 
 into the earth, among the stones and festering germs of poi- 
 sonous weeds, with the frozen clods upon our bosoms, to 
 moulder in darkness and gloom, to be trod upon and forgotten ; 
 while beautiful beings that we could love, O, so dearly ! are 
 flitting above us ; and the light is glancing ; and birds, drunk 
 with joyousness, wheeling and careering in the sunbeam ; and 
 all the world going on merrily, as when our hearts went with 
 it Oh ! what has man's courage, man's strength, man's stern 
 self-control, to offer against such an overwhelming certainty ! 
 
 VOL. II. 13*
 
 150 THE RAIN A THOUGHT-MAKER. 
 
 There is so much in this dear, beautiful world, too, for the 
 heart to cling to ! What is there in the sad catalogue of 
 human suffering like wrenching away 
 
 That holy link which first 
 
 Within the soul's rich mine was moulded ; 
 When life awoke, and love's pure wing 
 Another nestling close enfolded ? 
 
 We turn to the hearth-stone in the hour of pain, and nestle 
 back upon a mother's bosom ; and we say, we cannot leave it 
 we cannot die ! A father's proud eye is on us ambition 
 blossoms in our hearts beneath it ; and then, how stiflingly 
 steal over us thoughts of the coffin and the grave ! How can 
 we die in the dew of our morning, with all those glowing vis- 
 ions unrealized ! How can we pass in age, when the thousand 
 chains which we have been our life-long forging, are all 
 linked to the bright, beautiful things here, which we can but 
 love ! Father in heaven, teach me trust in Thee ! As 
 these chords, which Thou hast strung, lose tone, and canker 
 against thy cunning workmanship, gather them into thine own 
 hand, and attune them anew to accord with the harps of 
 angels. Teach me trust in Thee ; that when the coffin-lid 
 shuts out the sunshine, and the green-bladed grass springs 
 between my breast and the feet of the living, I may still be in 
 the midst of light, and joy, and love love measureless as 
 eternity. 
 
 I had quite forgotten that I was writing a letter, " Bel," and 
 have jotted down the thoughts as they came tumbling to the 
 point of my pen, with a merciless lack of consideration for 
 you, who are probably basking in the mirth-giving brightness 
 of a sunny morning. But by this you will discover that a 
 rainy day in the country is not without its uses. It gives us 
 thinking-time, and that lengthens our lives ; none live so 
 fast and have so few way-marks as the butterflies. Besides, 
 thought is the father of action so, to that great sheet of mist, 
 and the dripping rain, and the beaded grass, and the streets, 
 many a good deed may owe its parentage. But now my stick 
 of maple is nearly charred, and my eyes are trying to hide
 
 THE RAIN A THOUGHT-MAKER. 151 
 
 themselves behind pairs of fringes which are nearing each 
 other for an embrace. I will to sleep, " Bel," with a looking- 
 glass in the window, to give me intelligence of the first strip 
 of blue that disengages itself from the prisoning clouds. 
 Adieu, my bright cousin ! All good attend you, and no more 
 rain visit New York than may be needed as a thought-maker.
 
 GENIUS. 
 
 THEEE is a melancholy pleasure in turning over the records 
 of genius, and familiarizing ourselves with the secret workings 
 of those minds that have, from time to time, made memorable 
 the ages in which they lived, and ennobled the several na- 
 tions which gave them birth. But it is not the indulgence of 
 this feeling which makes such a study peculiarly profitable to 
 us : from these records we may learn much of the philosophy 
 of the human mind in its most luxurious developments. 
 Genius seems to be confined to no soil, no government, no 
 age or nation, and no rank in society. When men lived in 
 wandering tribes, and could boast no literature, the bright 
 flame burned among them, although wild and often deadly its 
 ray ; and the foot of oppression, which crushes all else, has 
 failed to extinguish it. Hence it has rashly been inferred 
 that this peculiar gift, possessed by the favored few, may be 
 perfected without any exertion on their part, and is subject to 
 none of the rules which in all other cases govern intellect ; 
 but that, uncontrolled and uncontrollable, it must burst forth 
 when and where it will, and be burned up in the blaze of its 
 own glory, leaving but the halo of its former brightness 
 upon the historic page. This inference, however, is alike 
 erroneous and dangerous. Though genius be an unsought 
 gift, a peculiar emanation from the Divine Mind, it was not 
 originally intended as a glorious curse, to crush the spirit 
 which it elevates. Perchance the pent-up stream within the 
 soul must find an avenue ; but he who bears the gift may 
 choose that avenue, may direct, control and divert ; he may 
 scatter the living waters on a thousand objects, or pour their 
 whole force upon one ; he may calm and purify them, by this 
 means rendering them none the less deep, or he may allow
 
 GENIUS. 153 
 
 them to dash and foam until, however they sparkle, the dark 
 sediments of vice and misery thus made to mingle, may be 
 found in every gem. 
 
 Let us turn to the oft-quoted names of Byron and Burns 
 names that can scarcely be mentioned by the admirers of 
 genius without a thrill of pain. To the poor ploughman on 
 the banks of the Doon was sent the glorious talisman, and 
 with it he unlocked the portals of nature, and read truths even 
 in the flower overturned by his ploughshare, unseen by com- 
 mon eyes. But mark his veering course ; think of his (com- 
 paratively) wasted energies. He could love the wild flowers 
 in the braes and the sunlight on the banks of his " bonny 
 Doon;" he could, at least at one time, smile at his lowly lot; 
 and he ever contended against fortune with a strong and 
 fearless hand. But while the polished society of Edinburgh 
 owned his power, and he swayed the hearts of lads and lass- 
 es of his own degree at will, he could not control himself; 
 and many of those light songs, which are now on gladsome 
 lips, might, could we enter into the secrets of the poor bard, 
 be but the sad way-marks of the aching heart, as it grew each 
 day' heavier till it sank into the grave. Burns, the light- 
 hearted lover of his " Highland Mary," and Burns, the care- 
 worn exciseman, were very different persons; but neither 
 outward circumstances nor the genius that characterized both 
 alike, was the cause. The world has been blamed in his case ; 
 but the world, after it first noticed, could have done nothing 
 to save. The poet, had he known his moral strength and 
 cared to exert it, could have saved himself, as his superiority 
 to many of the foibles and prejudices of human nature and 
 his manly independence on many occasions evinced. 
 
 Byron, like his own archangel ruined guiding a fallen son 
 of clay in his search after mysteries, has delved among hidden 
 treasures and spread before us the richest gems of Helicon ; 
 but scarce one of these but is dark in its glory, and, although 
 burning with all the fire of heaven-born poesy, sends forth a 
 mingled and dangerous ray. But had a mother whispered 
 her pious counsels in his ear in boyhood ; had a friendly finger
 
 154 GENIUS. 
 
 pointed out a nobler revenge when that first cutting satire was 
 penned ; and had a better*, u. holier sentiment than the mean 
 passion of revenge urged him on to action and governed his 
 after aspirations, think you that the archangel of earth would 
 have stood less glorious? No. Byron's spirit had a self- 
 rectifying power, and he could have used it, but he did not ; 
 and, although he has well won the laurel, a poison more bit- 
 ter than death is dropping from every leaf. 
 
 It was not an ungrateful public that spread the death-couch 
 of Savage in a debtor's prison, or dug the suicidal grave of 
 " Bristol's wondrous boy." They were themselves ungrate- 
 ful ; they guarded not well the gift they bore, and fell victims 
 to their own misdirected powers. 
 
 The common mind, never tempted, may wonder at the way- 
 wardness of genius and despise the weakness of its possessor ; 
 and the generous one that sees the struggle and mourns the 
 wreck, may pity and apologize ; and both are in some degree 
 right. While we admire and pity, we must wonder at the 
 weakness of the strength that, subduing all else, failed beneath 
 its own weight. We know that the gifted ones of earth often 
 have stronger passions, more irresistible wills, and quicker 
 and more dangerous impulses than other men ; and for this 
 very reason should they cultivate more assiduously the noble 
 powers by which these passions and impulses are governed. 
 Each individual possesses them ; but they must le cultivated. 
 
 It is our conception of the mysteries of this gift which leads 
 us to look back with such peculiar interest upon the infancy 
 of a man of genius, expecting there to discover at least some 
 flashes of the divine ray which lighted up his after life. The 
 dusty memories of nurses and village oracles are ransacked 
 for anecdotes, which oftentimes neither the additions sug- 
 gested by pride and partial affection, nor the transforming 
 medium of the past, through which they are viewed, can swell 
 into anything like superiority to the sayings and doings of 
 other children. He who will watch an intelligent child 
 through one day, will be astonished at the bright flashes of 
 untaught intellect which, could they be abstracted from the
 
 GENIUS. 155 
 
 childish notions in which they are almost entirely buried, 
 would be thought, by any but him who found them in such 
 amusing vicinity, the sure precursors of greatness. 
 
 True, real genius often shows itself in childhood ; but that 
 it always does, or that such a development is desirable, may be 
 seriously questioned. The child who writes verses at six, or 
 gives other indications of a genius surpassing his years, may 
 be wondered at and admired as a prodigy; but the parent 
 ought to tremble to observe the premature fruit bursting 
 through the petals of the not yet unfolded bud. There is an 
 evidence of disease in this, which, in one way or another, 
 almost always proves fatal. This unnatural power wears out 
 itself or the frame of its possessor ; either the mind or the 
 body must fail under such a rapid development. 
 
 The village pedagogue in his old age may look about him 
 wonderingly ; for it is not unlikely that the least promising of 
 all his flock takes the highest stand, while his bright, ever- 
 ready favorite, that he was sure would become a great man, 
 does not rise above mediocrity. There is nothing strange or 
 capricious in this. It is the sure result of natural causes, and 
 has- its counterpart in all the works of nature even in the 
 human frame. Rapid growth produces weakness in the bones 
 and sinews ; and, in some cases, this growth has been so rapid 
 as to become an actual disease, and carry its victim to the 
 grave. Many are the instances of intellectual growth so 
 rapid as to weaken the mind and sink it even below medioc- 
 rity, or, on the other hand, to produce premature death. For 
 examples of this last result we must not go to the tombs of 
 the early dead in the old world, nor is it necessary to visit 
 the banks of Saranac, where drooped the fairest buds that 
 ever shed the fragrance of heaven upon earth. We can find 
 them in our own midst. Many are the gifted little beings, 
 who, after basking in the sunshine and rejoicing among the 
 flowers for a few short summers, pass away all unknown to 
 the world leaving only the frail memorials of their early 
 genius to soothe, yet sadden even in the moment of soothing, 
 the hearts that cherished them.
 
 156 GENIUS. 
 
 It would be going too far to censure those who have the 
 guidance of sucli minds ; but it would save worlds of disap- 
 pointment, did they know that such promises are deceitful 
 and deserving of but little confidence. And sometimes, 
 doubtless, the poor victim might be saved years of pain and 
 disease, and, perchance, be spared to the world through a 
 long life, were not the powers of the mind forced by unnatural 
 means to expand too soon before either the mind or body 
 had acquired the strength and hardiness necessary to its own 
 healthy existence. Many have seen this evil, and endeavored 
 to remedy it by checking such unnatural growth ; but this is 
 perhaps the most fatal error that could be committed. The 
 mind, when it first becomes conscious of its own capabilities, 
 puts no limits to them, and will only be urged onward by each 
 barrier thrown in its way ; but a judicious hand may direct 
 its course, calm its turbulence, soothe its sensitiveness, and 
 teach it to be its own supporter, without endangering in the 
 least degree its freshness and originality. The power of con- 
 trolling its own impulses does not render a nature tame; but 
 as it is necessary to every person, how much more so to him 
 who has a strong, high spirit, that cannot be subdued by oth- 
 ers ; that, spurning the control of him who should be its mas 
 ter, over-masters him, and is left unprotected.
 
 157 
 
 LILIAS FANE. 
 
 ABOUT five miles from Alderbrook there is a handsome red 
 school-house, with a portico in front, shaded by an immense 
 butternut ; white window-shutters, to keep out rogues at night, 
 but of no use at all during the day ; and a handsome cupola, 
 in which is a bell of sufficient power to be heard, particularly 
 on still days, all over the district. This specimen of architec- 
 ture, being intended to serve the double purpose of church and 
 school-house, is the pride of the little community ; and, indeed, 
 it well may be, for there is not its equal in the whole country 
 round. When the school-house was first built, the neighbors 
 all resolved to support a " first-rate school ;" and, for many 
 years, they employed teachers who came well recommended, 
 and claimed a large salary. Squire Mason said no pains were 
 spared, everything was done that man could do ; yet, some- 
 how, no teacher seemed to give general satisfaction ; and so 
 many left, either in indignation or disgrace, that " the Mason 
 school " gained the reputation of being the most ungovernable 
 in the county. If truth must be told, this was not without 
 reason; for people who build new school-houses must, of course, 
 listen to new doctrines, and most of the families in " the Mason 
 district " had imbibed somewhat extensively the notions preva- 
 lent among reformers of the present day, who think that Sol- 
 omon was only joking when he recommended the rod. At 
 last, after some renegade youngsters had summarily dismissed, 
 with a broken head, a dark, square-shouldered, piratical look- 
 ing man, who, in a fit of desperation, had been chosen for his 
 enormous strength, people became quite discouraged, and the 
 principal men of the district, old Farmer Westborn, Deacon 
 Martin, and Squire Mason, called a meeting to discuss affairs. 
 Some proposed whipping all the boys round, and commencing 
 
 VOL. II. 14
 
 15S LtLIAS FANE. 
 
 a new school ; others thought it best to shut up the house 
 entirely, and set the young rebels to cutting wood; while 
 Deacon Martin was of the opinion that if some of the " worst 
 ones" could be kept at home, there would be no difficulty 
 with the rest. Upon this hint others spake ; and the meeting 
 at last decided on obtaining a female teacher to take charge 
 of the little ones, the "big boys" being entirely voted out. 
 Squire Mason himself had a son who was considered a 
 " rollicking blade," up to all sorts of mischief; and of the half- 
 dozen shock-headed Westborns, there was not one that had 
 failed to give the former master blow for blow. Affairs were, 
 however, now to assume a calmer aspect ; and the meeting 
 proceeded forthwith to appoint a school-committee, consisting 
 of Deacon Martin, who had no children of his own, and was 
 consequently expected to take a great interest in those of his 
 neighbors; Mr. Fielding, a quiet bachelor of thirty-five or 
 thereabout ; and one or two others, who were selected for the 
 sake of making the numbers strong, and not for anything 
 that they were expected to do. The principal duty of the act- 
 ing part of the committee was to obtain a teacher ; but they 
 were also to manage all other affairs thereunto pertaining. 
 
 Luckily, a lady had been recommended to Deacon Martin, 
 during the preceding autumn, as a perfect prodigy ; and, as 
 our school-committee men were quiet sort of people, who did 
 not like to make unnecessary trouble, a letter, superscribed 
 " Miss Lilias Fane" was thrown into the post-office box, which, 
 in due time, brought as favorable an answer as could be 
 desired. 
 
 It was a cold, stormy morning in December, when the pub- 
 lic stage-coach set down the new schoolmistress at the door 
 of Deacon Martin's house. A bundle of cloaks and blankets 
 rolled from the opened door into the hands of the good deacon, 
 who was obliged to support, indeed almost to carry, an invis- 
 ible form into the house, where his good dame stood ready to 
 divest it of all unnecessary incumbrances. At first, a large 
 blanket was removed, then muff and cloak, and yet shawl, 
 hood, and veil remained ; and Mrs. Martin could not help
 
 LILUS FANE. 159 
 
 conjecturing how precious must be the nut which was blessed 
 with so much shell. The task of untying strings and remov- 
 ing pins being accomplished, a volume of flaxen ringlets 
 descended over a pair of tiny white shoulders, and a soft blue 
 eye stole timidly from its silken ambush up to the face of Mrs. 
 Martin ; but meeting no sympathy there, it retreated behind 
 the drooping lid j and little Miss Fane, blushing up to the 
 pretty flaxen waves that just shaded her forehead, smiled, and 
 courtsied, and then crouched by the blazing fire like a petted 
 kitten. Mrs. Martin retreated involuntarily ; and the deacon 
 parted his lips, drew up his eye-brows, and shrugged his 
 shoulders, between astonishment and contempt. What ! that 
 child assume the duties and responsibilities of a school teacher, 
 and, above all, in such a school ! Why, Susan Harman could 
 put her out of the door with one hand, and the very littlest boy 
 overmaster her. There sat the new schoolmistress, and there 
 stood the deacon and his dame, gazing at her, perfectly speech- 
 less, when Mr. Fielding drove up to the door ; it being con- 
 sidered his especial duty to introduce new teachers, and 
 particularly lady teachers, to the school-house. Now the 
 bachelor had some very fine notions of tall, elegant figures, 
 and dignified manners ; indeed, he had a rule for everything, 
 stepping, looking, and even thinking ; and, consequently, he 
 was taken quite by surprise when his eye first lighted on the 
 unpretending little school-mistress. Her figure was slight, and 
 exceedingly fragile, and her face the very perfection of infan- 
 tile sweetness. This was all that Mr. Fielding had an oppor- 
 tunity to observe, as she stood before him in graceful confusion, 
 replying to his very formal salutation, and answering his still 
 more formal questions about the weather, the state of the roads, 
 and the time of her arrival. The bachelor, however, was con- 
 fident that Miss Fane was a very incompetent school-teacher ; 
 and Miss Fane was quite as confident that the bachelor was 
 a very incompetent beau. First, he gave her what the little 
 lady considered an impertinent stare, as a school-committee- 
 man has a right to do ; then he npde a great many common- 
 place remarks, as a man that wishes to appear very dignified
 
 160 LILIAS FANE. 
 
 will do ; and then he desired to see Deacon Martin in private, 
 as a man when he wishes to let you know that he is about to 
 discuss your character should do. Poor Lilias Fane ! with 
 all her simplicity she was not deficient in discernment, and 
 she felt piqued at the manners of the people, particularly Mr. 
 Fielding, whose real superiority she instantly detected, despite 
 of the clumsy awkwardness behind which he managed to hide 
 himself. So, tossing back her sunny curls, and calling for 
 hood and shawl, in spite of all Mrs. Martin's entreaties to the 
 contrary, she was half-way to the school-house before the gen- 
 tlemen decided that they could do nothing less than give her 
 a trial. It was with the utmost surprise that the bachelor 
 heard of the flight of his bonny bird ; for he was the greatest 
 man in the district, and every one was but too much delighted 
 to gain his notice. He owned a fine cottage close by the Maple 
 Grove, with beautiful grounds about it, and every elegance 
 that wealth could command and taste dictate within ; and there 
 he resided, with his mother and a little nephew, in very envi- 
 able quiet. It was evident that his knowledge of the world 
 was thorough, and he had, probably, at some period of his life, 
 taken a part in its tumult ; but the retirement of private life 
 best suited him, and he had for several years buried the most 
 perfect specimen of a gentleman of the old school extant among 
 the rural luxuries of Grove Cottage. Here, however, none of 
 the punctilios, on which he set so high a value, were omitted, 
 for he was too thoroughly a gentleman to throw aside the 
 character when behind the scenes ; and all honored him for 
 his strict integrity, as well as intellectual superiority. Mr. 
 Fielding had not a particle of misanthropy in his composition ; 
 so, notwithstanding a secret touch of exclusive feeling, arising 
 probably from a consciousness of possessing but little in com- 
 mon with those around him, he mingled with the people of 
 the neighborhood as though nothing but a certain degree of 
 coldness and personal dignity prevented him from being on a 
 perfect equality with them ; and he exhibited so much rea 
 interest in all that concern*! their welfare, thnt he possessed 
 their entire confidence.
 
 LILIAS FANE. 161 
 
 When Mr. Fielding learned that the little lady had gone 
 away alone, he looked surprised ; but, recollecting how bashful 
 she had appeared when standing in his august presence, he 
 at once saw the matter in a more pleasing light ; so, calling 
 on Deacon Martin to bestow his burly corpus in the seat 
 intended for pretty Lilias Fane, the two committee-men pro- 
 ceeded leisurely toward the school-house. 
 
 In the mean time poor Lilias was trudging through the snow, 
 her nether lip pouting after the most approved style of angry 
 beauties, and her little heart throbbing with a variety of con- 
 tending emotions, none of which were actually pleasurable, 
 except the one excited by a little pile of silver which she saw 
 in prospect the fruit of her own labor. At thought of this, 
 she brushed away the tear that sparkled on her lashes, and, 
 drawing up her slight figure with an air of determination, 
 stepped boldly and decidedly into the portico and placed her 
 hand on the latch of the door. This done, she paused ; the 
 little heart, but a moment before so resolute, fluttered tumul- 
 tuously, the head drooped, the eyes brimmed over, and the 
 fingers extended so firmly, now quivered with agitation. Poor 
 Lilias Fane ! what would she not have given to feel her 
 mother's arms about her, and weep on her sympathizing 
 bosom. 
 
 Farmer Westborn, and Squire Mason, and the rest of the 
 school-meeting men, were in earnest when they decided that 
 the "big boys" should not be allowed to attend school; but 
 they had been in earnest a great many times before ; so the 
 boys knew perfectly well what it meant, and were now on 
 hand, preparing for the reception of the new teacher. Little 
 did poor Lilias Fane imagine what stout hearts awaited her 
 entrance, or her courage would not have been prompt to return ; 
 but the thought of home, her widowed mother, and helpless 
 little brothers and sisters, in connection with the all-important 
 salary, nerved her up. Again she erected her head and wiped 
 away the tears ; then, throwing open the door, she walked 
 quietly and firmly into the room. What a spectacle ! children 
 of all sizes, from the little aproned chap, hardly yet from the
 
 162 LIUAS FANE. 
 
 cradle, up to the height of the new schoolmistress, and youths 
 towering far above her, in almost the pride of manhood, turned 
 their faces toward the door, and stood gaping in silent aston- 
 ishment. There were Susan Harman, and Sally Jones, and 
 Nabby Woods, all older than the schoolmistress, and several 
 others who were larger ; and at the extremity of the room 
 stood Alfred Mason, a man in size if not in form, surrounded 
 by the six shock-headed Westborns, Bill Blount, Philip Clute, 
 and Nehemiah Strong, all school rowdies of the first water. 
 Well might they stare, for such a vision never met their eyes 
 before; and we'll might bright Lilias smile at the looks of 
 wonder that greeted her at every turn. A smile, if it is a 
 perfectly natural one, full of mirthfulness, and slightly spiced 
 with mischief, is the best of all passports to a young heart ; 
 and not a face was there in the whole room but caught the 
 infection, and answered with a bashful grin the twinkle of the 
 little maiden's eye and the curl of her lip. Oh ! sadly did 
 naughty Lilias compromise the dignity of the schoolmistress ; 
 but what she lost in one respect was more than made up in 
 another. Nabby Woods went about brushing the slippery 
 dried peas from the floor, lest the smiling fairy of a new school- 
 dame should be made their victim, as had been duly planned 
 for a week beforehand ; and Philip Clute, first glancing at 
 Alfred Mason for approbation, stepped awkwardly forward and 
 put a whole chair in the place of the broken one that had been 
 stationed before the desk for the benefit of the new teacher ; 
 thus making himself the first to receive her cheerful salutation. 
 Philip had never been known to shrink before birchen rod or 
 cherry ferule ; but Lilias Fane, with her merry blue eye and 
 face full of kindness and gentleness, half-hidden in the mirthful 
 dimples which played over it sweet Lilias Fane was a dif- 
 ferent thing. She could not be looked upon with indifference, 
 and poor Philip twisted himself into as many shapes as a 
 cloud-wreath in a tempest, or a captured eel, and turned as 
 red as the blood-beets in his father's cellar. On passed the 
 bright-faced Lilias around the room, nodding to one, smiling 
 to another, and addressing some cheerful remark to those who
 
 LILIAS FANE. 163 
 
 seemed a little afraid of her, until she reached the group over 
 which the redoubtable Mason presided. By this time she had 
 gained all 'hearts ; for had n't she said we when talking to the 
 "big girls," as though she didn't feel herself a bit above 
 them? and hadn't she patted the heads of the younger ones 
 with her pretty little hand, in a way which proved beyond the 
 possibility of a doubt, that she was a decided enemy to hair- 
 pulling ? Alfred Mason had seen it all, and, to prove to the 
 new schoolmistress that he was a little superior to the West- 
 borns & Co., he advanced three steps and made a bow as 
 much like Mr. Fielding's as he could. This done, he passed 
 his fingers through his shining black hair, twitched his shirt- 
 collar, and elevated head and shoulders after a very manly 
 fashion, as though silently resolving not to be afraid of any- 
 thing this side of fairy land, though appearing in the shape of 
 Titania herself. But bewitching, roguish, naughty Miss 
 Fane did bewilder him notwithstanding ; for, having always 
 considered himself a rascally scape-grace - of a boy, bound to 
 do as much mischief as he could, he suddenly found himself 
 transformed into a man ; and a beautiful creature, with a child's 
 blushes and a woman's smiles, asking him questions in the 
 most respectful tone, hoping that she should be seconded by 
 the young gentlemen before her in all her efforts, and insinu- 
 ating, very gracefully and very sweetly, how much she relied 
 upon them for success in her present undertaking. The 
 smile, the tone of voice, the manner, combined with the flat- 
 tering address, were perfectly irresistible ; and Alfred Mason, 
 after perpetrating another bow, addressed a few whispered 
 words to his companions, and walked away to a seat. His 
 example was immediately followed by the whole school, and 
 Miss Fane was left standing in the midst of subjects as loyal 
 as any sovereign would care to reign over. At this agreeable 
 crisis the door opened, and it may well be believed that in 
 every dimple of Lilias Fane's young face lurked a roguish 
 smile, as her eye lighted on Mr. Fielding and Deacon Martin. 
 The bachelor observed it, and he was " the least bit in the 
 world" disconcerted, while the deacon raised his eye-brows
 
 164 LILIAS FANE. 
 
 and shrugged his shoulders more emphatically than ever, but 
 not contemptuously. If the two committee-men had been 
 astonished before, they were doubly so now ; and it was with 
 a much more respectful air than he had at first assumed, that 
 Mr. Fielding saluted the little lady, and apologized for his pre- 
 vious neglect. 
 
 " You have undertaken a very heavy task, Miss Fane," he 
 remarked, in a tone which, from the proximity of the audience 
 on the seats, was necessarily low, and thus seemingly confi- 
 dential. 
 
 Thoughtless Lilias ! she shook her head and smiled. " It 
 is a dreadful responsible station," chimed in the deacon. 
 
 A shade of seriousness flitted over the face of Lilias, and 
 then she smiled again. 
 
 " Our school is considered a very difficult one," observed 
 the bachelor. 
 
 " I apprehend no difficulty at all," Lilias replied, in a tone 
 of gayety. 
 
 " But, Miss Fane," persisted the deacon, " it is my duty to 
 undeceive you as to the character of our school." 
 
 Still the little lady smiled confidently. 
 
 " Very difficult to manage, I can assure you," added the 
 bachelor. 
 
 Lilias glanced around the room with a triumphant, incred- 
 ulous air, as much as to say, " It seems to me just the easiest 
 thing in the world," (the saucy little gypsy !) but she did not 
 say it. Her only reply was to beg the privilege of consulting 
 two such able advisers, should she chance to meet with unex- 
 pected difficulties. The deacon received the compliment gra- 
 ciously, not probably observing a touch of sarcasm, more dis- 
 coverable in the dancing blue eye than in the voice ; but Mr. 
 Fielding looked displeased, bowed stiffly, and, after a few 
 formal words, took his leave, followed by the worthy deacon. 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder," remarked Deacon Martin, after they 
 were seated in the sleigh, "I shouldn't wonder if this little 
 Miss Fane made a pretty good teacher after all. It's won- 
 derful that the children should be so orderly this morning."
 
 LILIAS FANE. 165 
 
 Mr. Fielding gave his head a twitch, something between a 
 shake and a nod, and looked knowing. It was evident that 
 he could say a great deal if he chose. This non-committal 
 movement is Wisdom's favorite cloak ; and so much in vogue 
 is it, that it sometimes even passes current when the cloaked 
 is missing. 
 
 For that day at least Lilias Fane was happy. She smiled 
 and was smiled upon. And she began to think it was just 
 the pleasantest thing in the world to be the presiding genius 
 of such a place, exercising uncontrolled power, dispensing 
 smiles and sunshine at will, beloved and loving. But her day 
 of darkness was to come. Scarce a week had passed before 
 there were indications of a revolt among some of her subjects ; 
 and she was alarmed to find that there were difficulties 
 which a smile and a loving word could not heal. At home, 
 her dear delightful home, she had been taught to believe them 
 a universal balm oil for the wildest wave, a hush for the 
 deadliest tempest. But yet, never was schoolmistress idol- 
 ized like darling Lilias Fane. Even the hearts of the West- 
 borns began to melt beneath the glances of her beaming eye, 
 and Alfred Mason was her never-failing friend and champion. 
 Poor Alf Mason ! Sad was the reputation he bore in the 
 district ; and nobody would believe he was in earnest when 
 he behaved properly ; but he was in reality more given to 
 mirth than malice, fonder of fun than real mischief and he 
 could see no fun at all in annoying sweet Miss Fane. But 
 she was annoyed nevertheless, not so much by her pupils, as 
 by remarks which were constantly reaching her concerning 
 her youth, inexperience, and consequent inefficiency. It was 
 said that she was a child among the children ; and so she was, 
 but how could she help it the bright pet Lilias ! Scarce 
 sixteen summers had burnished her fair locks, and her heart 
 was full of childish impulses. It was said that she had no 
 dignity of manner, and stood among her pupils as one of them 
 faults which she was but too conscious of possessing. As 
 well might you look for dignity in a humming-bird, or a favvn, 
 as in Lilias Fane the darling ! She loved her pupils
 
 166 L1LIAS FANE. 
 
 dearly, and could not but betray her interest. She had too 
 many sympathies in common with them to stand aloof in joy 
 or sorrow j and in the loved and the loving were merged the 
 teacher and the taught. It was even said that her voice had 
 been known to mingle in the merry shout that sometimes 
 arose from the school-room ; and there must have been some 
 truth in the report ; for her pupils could not have had the 
 heart to laugh when she was serious. In truth, Lilias Fane 
 was a strange teacher ; though she may have taught the lore 
 most needed those heart-lessons, richer than all the theories 
 of all the schools united. In her other lessons she was capri- 
 cious. She taught what she loved, and that she made her 
 pupils love ; but what was dry and difficult she passed over, 
 as in studying she had been allowed to do by her too indul- 
 gent governess. Yet she was unwearied in her efforts, and 
 never thought of self when the good of her pupils was con- 
 cerned ; and so, despite the faults in her system of education, 
 her school made rapid improvement. But no degree of 
 improvement was sufficient to satisfy those who detected these 
 faults ; and soon the war of words ran high for and against 
 the poor schoolmistress, whose only offences were too much 
 beauty, too immature youth, and a too kind heart. These 
 things could not occur without Miss Fane's knowledge ; for 
 her young friends, in their mistaken zeal, repeated every word 
 to her, and she (poor simple-hearted child !) was undignified 
 enough to listen to their representations, and receive their 
 expressions of sympathy. They were all the friends she had. 
 Thus passed one third of Lilias Fane's term of service, in 
 alternate storm and sunshine, till at last Farmer Westborn 
 took a decided step; and, in spite of young shock-heads' 
 remonstrances, removed all of his six children from school. 
 Sad was the face poor Lilias Fane exhibited on this occasion ; 
 and all of her flock were sad from sympathy. Looks, some 
 of sorrow and some of indignation, were exchanged among 
 the elder pupils ; and the younger ones gazed in silent won- 
 der on the flushed face and tearful eye of her, who, neverthe- 
 less, would now and then give them a smile, from sheer habit.
 
 L1LIAS FANE. 167 
 
 At last the day ended, and sad, and low, and kinder even than 
 usual, were the good-nights of the sympathizing group, as, one 
 by one, they disappeared through the door, till the poor little 
 school-mistress was left alone; and then she covered her face 
 with her hands and wept. 
 
 " I wouldn't mind it, Miss Fane," said a timid, hut sympa- 
 thizing voice close hy her ear. 
 
 " How can I help it, Alfred ? " asked weeping Lilias, with- 
 out raising her head ; " Mr. Westborn must have a sad opinion 
 of me, or he never " 
 
 " Mr. Westborn is a fool ! the meanest man " 
 
 " Alfred !" 
 
 " You don't know him, Miss Fane, or you would say so too. 
 But don't cry any more don't ; come over and see Mary 
 you have true friends, Miss Fane you they " and 
 here Alfred stopped short ; for, although particularly anxious 
 to console Miss Fane, he seemed to be suffering under a most 
 painful embarrassment. The gentle, indeed touching tone of 
 voice was not lost on poor Lilias ; although there seemed to 
 be some reason why she should not listen to it ; for she raised 
 her head, and, with more calmness than she could have been 
 expected to command, replied, " You are very kind, Alfred, 
 and I thank you, but " 
 
 " I understand you, Miss Fane," interrupted the youth, 
 somewhat proudly ; " kindness should not be too obtrusive." 
 
 " No, Alfred, you mistake me. I prize the sympathy of 
 my friends but too highly ; and it is gratifying to know that 
 all my pupils, if no others, are of the number." 
 
 "Yes, they all are yet Miss Miss Fane ," and 
 Alfred stammered on, more embarrassed than ever. 
 
 " I can assure them that their kindness will be remembered 
 most gratefully, and their friendship warmly returned," added 
 Miss Fane, with a gentle dignity, which prevented familiarity, 
 while it soothed. 
 
 Alfred Mason stood for a few moments irresolute, and 
 Lilias resumed. " To you, in particular, Alfred, am I deeply 
 indebted. You have defended me in my absence, assisted
 
 168 LILIAS FANE. 
 
 me in school, both by your example and counsel ; and have 
 performed the thousand little services which have contributed 
 thus far to make my time here among strangers pass so : 
 ably. I shall never forget you, kind, generous friend that you 
 are ! And Mary, too my own brother and sister could not 
 have watched more carefully over my comfort and happiness. 
 I have much to say to you of this, but not now. To-night I 
 have subjects of thought less pleasant, and must be alone." 
 
 " I shouldn't like to trouble you, Miss Fane, but I came to 
 tell you there is to be a school-meeting to-night. Oh, how I 
 wish I were a man ! in influence, I mean, for I know that I 
 have a man's soul, a " 
 
 " What is the school-meeting for, Alfred ? " 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Fielding cross old bachelor ! but I won't tell 
 you anything about it it's too provoking !" 
 
 "I shouldn't expect any good from Mr. Fielding," said 
 Lilias, with an unusual degree of acrimony. Why so exceed- 
 ingly indignant at him, when, if he had not sympathized, he 
 surely had done thee no injury, gentle Lilias ? 
 
 " He ! no danger of his doing good anywhere though he 
 says he 'pities the young lady' pities! But who do you 
 think he wants to get in your place ? " 
 
 Lilias stood aghast, for in all her troubles the thought of 
 losing her situation had not occurred to her ; and now they 
 had actually planned her removal, and were about appointing 
 a successor. " Who, Alfred?" she gasped, tremblingly. 
 
 " Would you believe it, Miss Fane that ugly, cross, vin- 
 egar-faced Miss Digby it is too bad! At any rnte, they 
 will rue the day they get her here. What is the matter, Miss 
 Fane ? you are as pale as death." 
 
 " Nothing go now, Alfred you shall tell me more to- 
 morrow." 
 
 Well might young Lilias Fane turn pale, poor child ! at 
 this intelligence; for at that very moment she held her 
 mother's last letter in her bosom ; and in that letter had the 
 fond, hoping mother rejoiced over the bright pro?portp of her 
 darling, called her the guardian angel of the family, and hoped
 
 LILIAS FANE. 169 
 
 that through her efforts, comfort might again be restored to 
 their little home. And now to be obliged to return in dis- 
 grace, disappoint the expectations of that doting parent, and 
 become a burden where she should be a helper, was too much 
 more than she could bear. Alfred obeyed her, and retired 
 in sorrowful silence ; and poor Lilias, pressing one small hand 
 upon her aching head, paced the floor in a bitterness of spirit 
 that she had never felt before. We may be angels while love 
 makes an Eden for us ; but when we go out among the thorns, 
 we find another spirit rising up, and learn, alas ! that we are 
 not yet all meekness and purity. The disheartening lesson 
 was embittering still more the spirit of Lilias, as she paced up 
 and down her deserted room. But why should Mr. Fielding 
 be so unkind ? how had she offended him ? These questions 
 puzzled her most painfully ; and then, heavily and hopelessly, 
 came thoughts of the future. What should she do ? She 
 was sure of the sympathy of good-natured Mary Mason ; but 
 such a friend' was scarce sufficient for the exigency. There 
 was no one to advise her, no one who, acquainted with all the 
 circumstances of the case, could say what was for the best ; 
 no one even who could be made to comprehend her feelings. 
 And she longed to pour out all her troubles in some friendly 
 bosom. Once the thought of Alfred Mason crossed her mind, 
 but she only muttered, blushing even there, " kind, silly 
 boy !" and again recurred to the one grand question what 
 should she do ? In the midst of these reflections, a footstep 
 sounded on the threshold, and before she had time to wonder 
 who was there, Mr. Fielding stood before her. The surprise 
 seemed mutual ; but Lilias, probably from- her sense of injury, 
 was the first to recover her presence of mind. She crushed a 
 whole shower of bright crystals that were in the act of 
 descending, elevated her head, and with a slight courtesy, was 
 proceeding to adjust her cloak, when Mr. Fielding approached 
 her. 
 
 " Excuse me, Miss Fane, for this intrusion ; I did not 
 expect to find you here, but since I have, perhaps you will 
 favor me with a few moments' conversation." 
 
 VOL. II 15
 
 170 LILIAS FA.NC. 
 
 " With pleasure, sir, in a proper place," said Lilias, keep- 
 ing down her anger with a strong effort. " I presume Deacon 
 Martin will be happy to see you ? " 
 
 " It is you that I wish to see, Miss Fane, and for that, I 
 shall have no good opportunity at Deacon Martin's." 
 
 " Your communication must be of consequence," said 
 Lilias, endeavoring to assume an air of carelessness. 
 
 " You are right it is of some consequence to you, and so, 
 of course, to your friends." 
 
 " Among which, I am well aware, that I have not the honor 
 to reckon Mr. Fielding," said Lilias, provoked beyond endur- 
 ance, by this seeming duplicity. The bachelor was evidently 
 the most imperturbable of mortals. The little maiden's eye 
 flashed, and her cheeks were crimson with indignation ; but 
 not a muscle of his face moved ; he neither looked confused 
 nor angry, but in his usual tone, replied, " I will not contend 
 with you upon that point, Miss Fane, for mere professions are 
 empty things. However, it is my wish to act the part of a 
 friend by you now." 
 
 " You will have an opportunity to exhibit your friendship 
 in the school-meeting, this evening," said Lilias, with a curl- 
 ing lip ; " and, if I am rightly informed, it is your intention to 
 do so." 
 
 Strange to say, Mr. Fielding was not yet demolished, but 
 with increasing sang froid he replied, " If you had received 
 less information from injudicious persons, it might have been 
 better for you, and most assuredly would have saved you 
 much unhappiness." 
 
 The little lady trotted her foot in vexation, for she knew 
 his remark to be true ; meantime, muttering something about 
 even injudicious friends being preferable to the most punctil- 
 ious enemies. 
 
 " There I beg leave to dissent," said Mr. Fielding, with 
 perfect coolness; "lionorable enemies " 
 
 " Excuse me, sir," interrupted Lilias, losing all patience. 
 " I am not in a mood for discussion to-night, and you it is 
 almost time for the school-meeting."
 
 LILIAS FANE. 171 
 
 " The school-meeting has been deferred." 
 
 " Deferred ! " Miss Fane's young face brightened, like the 
 sky with an April sun-flash, for what might not a little more 
 time do for her ? and she extended her hand involuntarily, 
 while a " forgive me" hovered on her smile-wreathed lips. 
 
 " It will not take place till next week ; and in the mean 
 time," continued Mr. Fielding, hesitatingly, " it would if I 
 might if you would but have confidence in my motives, 
 Miss Fane, I would venture a piece of advice." 
 
 " To which I am bound to listen," said Lilias, gayly, and 
 turning upon the adviser a face radiant with happiness ; for 
 the week's respite had quite restored her fallen spirits. 
 
 "Bound?" 
 
 " From choice, I mean," said Lilias, with a smile which 
 made the bachelor quite forget that she had been angry. 
 
 " Then I will talk freely as to a friend a sister," and Mr. 
 Fielding spoke in a low tone, and hurried his words, as 
 though the ice might be beginning to thaw. " Your position 
 must be a very painful one. You have, I know, gained all 
 hearts, but the judgments of many are against you, and the 
 prejudices of more. You have many professed friends, and 
 they do indeed feel kindly toward you ; but each has some 
 petty interest to serve, some feeling of rivalry to gratify, and 
 there is not one among them, in whom you can place implicit 
 confidence." 
 
 " I know it ! I have felt it all, only too deeply, too bitterly ! 
 but what can I do ? Oh, if my mother could be here ! " and, 
 overcome by the sudden revulsion of feeling, Lilias burst into 
 tears. 
 
 " Then go to her, Miss Fane go to-morrow her disin- 
 terestedness you cannot doubt." 
 
 " Nor is there room for doubt in the case of another per- 
 son," retorted Lilias, in a tone of bitterness. " You have at 
 least the merit of dealing openly, Mr. Fielding." 
 
 " You distrust me without cause, Miss Fane," said the 
 bachelor, warmly ; " it is to save you pain, that I recommend 
 this course ; and it was in the hope of inducing you to with-
 
 172 L1L1AS FASE. 
 
 draw, that I persuaded them to defer the meeting. We have 
 coarse natures here, and you must not come in contact with 
 them. Allow me to advise you, and do not enter your school 
 again." 
 
 Poor Lilias Fane ! the net was about her, and flutter as she 
 would, she could not get free. " Then they intend to dismiss 
 me ?" she asked, despondingly. 
 
 " If you give them the opportunity, I fear they will." 
 
 " What have I done, Mr. Fielding, to deserve this ? " 
 
 " Everything that is good and praiseworthy ; hut a district 
 school is not the place for one like you. A school-teacher 
 must not be too sensitive she must know how to endure, to 
 return buffetings." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Fielding, I am sure it is not necessary for a 
 school-teacher to be bad or heartless. I know what unfits me 
 for the place I have too little character too little self- 
 dependence; but I should improve I am sure I should. I 
 cannot leave my school until I am obliged to leave it, as per- 
 haps even you will do me the justice to believe ; I would have 
 undertaken it only from necessity. Even a week is of impor- 
 tance to me." 
 
 "I have not x felt at liberty to inquire your motive, .Mi-s 
 Fane, but I have felt assured that it was no unworthy one, 
 and your partial failure is attended with no disgrace. Indeed," 
 and there was so much sincerity in Mr. Fielding's words, that 
 he did not think how warmly he was praising, "I have 
 watched your patience, your industry, your gentleness and 
 sweetness, with admiration; and it is to the very qualities 
 most admirable, that your want of success may be traced." 
 
 " And so I must go ! " exclaimed Lilias, with a fresh gush 
 of feeling. " My poor, poor mother ! Indeed, Mr. Fielding 
 but you must be my friend, and I will do as you bid 
 me, for there is nobody in the world to say just what I ought 
 to do." 
 
 The bachelor was almost as much agitated as poor Lilias 
 Fane. Fresh interest seemed to be gathering around the 
 little school-mistress, and yet he had loo much delicacy to
 
 LILIAS FANE. 173 
 
 press inquiries, which at any other time would seem imperti- 
 nent. There was, however, a better understanding between 
 the school-committee-man and the lady-teacher ; and so 
 another half hour was passed in conversation without a single 
 angry word, after which, the two emerged from the school- 
 house together, and taking a seat in the sleigh, proceeded 
 toward Deacon Martin's. 
 
 That night, bright young Lilias Fane, for almost the first 
 time in her life, went to her pillow with an aching heart, 
 though caused by a seeming trifle in comparison with her 
 other sources of sorrow. Nurtured in the lap of luxury, made 
 beggars by the death of a husband and father, who was an 
 object of almost idolatry to a loving, helpless group ; visited 
 by disappointment, neglect and sickness, the little family had 
 struggled on and been happy. They had stemmed the tor- 
 rent together. But Mrs. Fane's exertions were wasting life. 
 Lilias was the eldest child, and her only dependence. What 
 could the delicate, fragile young girl do, to be useful ? Plain 
 sewing yielded but slight recompense to fingers too little 
 accustomed to its mysteries, and, in the retirement which Mrs. 
 Fane had chosen, ornamental needle-work found no market. 
 True, Lilias knew something of drawing and music ; but she 
 had never thought of either as a profession, and she felt con- 
 scious that her knowledge of both was too superficial to turn 
 to account. Little did Mrs. Fane or Lilias know of a district 
 school, particularly in the winter ; but they knew that teaching 
 was considered a respectable employment ; so the trial was 
 made, and bitter to Lilias was the result. 
 
 The next morning the children assembled at the school- 
 house as usual, but they were soon dispersed by the sad 
 intelligence that Miss Fane had been called suddenly home ; 
 which information caused quite a sensation throughout the 
 district. Alfred Mason kicked over the breakfast table when 
 he heard the news, declared that it was Mr. Fielding's work, 
 and he ought to be hanged, and chopped wood furiously all 
 the rest of the day. 
 
 Some people thought it quite strange that Miss Fane did 
 
 VOL. n. 15*
 
 174 LI LIAS FANE. 
 
 not go home in the stage-coach, as she came, and there was 
 some little gossiping on the subject ; but Mrs. Martin said 
 Mr. Fielding had convinced her that his sleigh, with the buf- 
 falo robes, was much more comfortable, and warm, and safe, 
 and had talked so much of the inconveniences of stage-coach 
 travelling, that the good dame declared she should " be afearcd 
 of the ugly things all the days of her life." 
 
 In the mean time, the lady and gentleman were pursuing 
 their way very sociably, if not very happily ; and Lilias 
 found, to her infinite astonishment, that Mr. Fielding, when 
 he threw off the school-committee-man, and had no unpleasant 
 point to gain, (such as telling a lady she is mistaken in her 
 vocation,) could be vastly agreeable. He even went so far as 
 to draw a picture of her successor, the vinegar-faced Miss 
 Digby, at which Lilias laughed so heartily that she could not 
 help wondering the next moment what had become of her 
 sadness. Looking for sadness, or any other unwelcome visi- 
 tor, (vide the old adage,) is the very way to bring it to your 
 presence ; and so Mr. Fielding felt himself called upon to play 
 the agreeable to an unusual extent ; and Lilias wondered how 
 she could be so happy, until she was obliged to explain the 
 cause of her misery, just for the sake of refreshing her mem- 
 ory. And then Mr. Fielding was sad too oh, so sad ! And 
 then he said something in a very low tone doubtless to let 
 her know how much he pitied her ; but it must have been 
 awkwardly done, for Lilias blushed a great deal more than 
 when she was angry with him. Mr. Fielding blushed, too, 
 and both looked as though they were quite ready to quarrel 
 again. What a lucky circumstance that they did not arrive 
 at this crisis before, for now Lilias exclaimed, joyously, " Oh, 
 we are home!" and the sleigh drew up before Mrs. Fane's 
 door. 
 
 It would be impossible to say whether Mrs. Fane felt more 
 gladness or surprise at sight of Lilias; and the little ones 
 gathered around her, " all clamorous," not " for bread," but 
 kisses. 
 
 Mr. Fielding glanced from the noisy, happy group to the
 
 LILIAS FANE. 175 
 
 pale, thin face of the mother, and then around upon the scanty 
 furniture ; and, callous old bachelor as he was, he felt as 
 though his heart, swelling in his throat, and the moisture in 
 his eye, made him ashamed of himself. 
 
 Mr. Fielding did not return home that day, for his horse 
 had lost a shoe, which it was necessary should be replaced ; 
 and the next day there came a snow-storm, which only a 
 madman would brave ; then the third day, I do not quite know 
 what detained him, but it must have been something of 
 importance, as he was the last man in the world to exchange 
 the comforts of home for the inconveniences of a village hotel, 
 without sufficient reason. On the fourth day, however, 
 toward night, he was so fortunate as to undertake his home- 
 ward journey ; but, before this, he was closeted a long time 
 with the again radiant Lilias, and afterward, with her mother ; 
 and he finally quitted them, with a face so brimming over 
 with happiness, as to show perhaps how glad he was to 
 get away ! 
 
 Early the ensuing spring, the cottage down by the Maple 
 Grove had a new mistress ; and another, close by, was pur- 
 chased and fitted up tastefully, for a pale, sweet widow and 
 her bright-eyed children ; the eldest of whom, Alfred Mason 
 declares a vast deal prettier than her sister Lilias.
 
 176 
 
 THE TWO FLOWERS. 
 
 A FLOWER peeped out from the folds of green 
 
 Which had long about it lain ; 
 A dainty thing in purple sheen, 
 
 Without a blight or stain. 
 A brighter bud ne'er burst, I ween, 
 
 In bower, on hill, or plain. 
 
 And the breeze came out and kissed its lip, 
 
 And the sun looked in its eye ; 
 And the golden bee, its sweets to sip, 
 
 Kept all day buzzing by ; 
 There chose the grasshopper to skip ; 
 
 There glanced the butterfly. 
 
 A human soul from that young flower 
 
 Seemed glorying in the light ; 
 And when came on the mellow hour, 
 
 The blossom still was bright ; 
 And then there crept around the bower 
 
 A dark and solemn night. 
 
 Gay dawn her portals open flung, 
 
 But the floweret looked not up ; 
 There on its light-poised stem it hung, 
 
 A tear within its cup ; 
 Close to its heart the woe-drop clung ; 
 
 And the floweret looked not up. 
 
 The winning breezes whispered round ; 
 
 Warm sun-rays came a-wooing ; 
 And bright-winged, bliss-born things were found 
 
 Beside its petals suing ; 
 But the flower bent lower to the ground, 
 
 Those petals on it strewing.
 
 THE TWO FLOWERS. 177 
 
 And when I saw the blossom dead, 
 
 Upon the dewy sod, 
 I thought of one whose bright young head 
 
 Is pillowed by the clod ; 
 Who stayed one sorrowing tear to shed, 
 
 Then bore it to her God.
 
 178 
 
 RUG RAFFLES. 
 
 SOVEREIGNS of the olden time had their jesters ; and the 
 " sovereign people" on this side the water have revived the 
 fashion, with several other useful things dug up from the 
 rubbish of the past. Every circle constituting a court, every 
 individual of which is a king, has its " queer genius ;" and 
 every little village has its privileged quizzer, its regularly in- 
 stalled jester. It is this important personage who goes about 
 at night changing signs ; leaving the barber's pole at the door 
 of the merchant most renowned for shaving ; putting " turn- 
 ing" on the county Surrogate's office, and " fancy goods" on 
 the young ladies' seminary. The same enterprising gentle- 
 man pastes a little slip of white paper over the M, when the 
 hand-bills announce that there is to be a mass meeting ; sews 
 up the top of his bed-fellow's hose ; rings door-bells on his 
 way home from a pleasant spree at midnight ; and imitates 
 most successfully the inarticulate language of every animal, 
 from the tremulously vain crow of the novice cock, up to the 
 roar of the infuriated bull ! Oh, what a terror the humor- 
 loving wight is to adventurous children and housemaids in 
 search of recreation ! 
 
 We are not without our jester at Alderbrook, of course ; 
 as well dispense with hot coffee and muffins at breakfast. 
 Ruggles Raffles, the gentleman who officiates in the capacity 
 of mirth-maker general to their majesties the sovereign people 
 of Alderbrook, is a fat, jolly personage, with a peculiarly fun- 
 ny rolling gait when he walks, and a way, quite as peculiar 
 and quite as funny, of putting up his feet or hands when he 
 sits. There is a laugh nestled in every curve of his big, ugly 
 fingers, whether they exercise their muscles in expressive 
 gestures, or lay themselves away to rest on his knee; and the 
 knee itself crooks a little differently from any other mortal
 
 RUG RAFFLES. 179 
 
 knee, so that you mechanically pinch your lips together when 
 you look at it, to prevent an unseemly explosion. Some say 
 Bug- Eaffles never does any harm with his mischief; while 
 others as decidedly declare that such doings never come to 
 good. If our jester really occupies the innocent state of be- 
 tweenity ascribed to him, he is better off than most of us. I 
 do not know whether the sin of neglecting to do good finds a 
 fair offset in the virtue of neglecting to do evil ; but I fancy 
 that it is rather difficult to find a nearer balancing of accounts. 
 Well is it for us all that the balancing is not in the hands of 
 blundering mortals, who, with the wise solemnity of apes, look 
 us in the face, and call evil good and good evil. I think that 
 Rug Raffles, after all, is not a man to be despised, though his 
 calling be not of the highest order. 
 
 If our jester would but confine his pranks to undignified 
 people and to six days, he would be rather more popular with 
 the respectables ; but propriety (or rather tact) is one of the 
 things for which Rug Raffles lacks the genius. So he some- 
 times exposes himself to the severity of Deacon Palmer's men- 
 tal love-pats, which he receives with all due humility. I have 
 in my memory now an occasion of this kind. There was a 
 time when some of us wearied of our good old parson Brown, 
 and desired something more modern than his pious, homely 
 simplicity. Parson Brown exercised the law of love to a great 
 extent ; and this was made to appear a crime by some uneasy 
 spirits, who thought the go-ahead system might be made to 
 operate in the church at Alderbrook as in the church and 
 world elsewhere. So our wisely gentle pastor was pushed 
 out of the place that he had occupied since Alderbrook was a 
 forest, to make room for a successor. A more suitable man, 
 was the first cry ; but, anything for a change, soon became 
 the rule of action, though it was not exactly bodied in words ; 
 so in reality the new pastor owed his entire popularity to 
 being, as Deacon Palmer ventured to whisper, " a new broom." 
 A tall, stiff, formal man, with a loud, monotonous voice, and a 
 manner of mingled pomposity and severity, came among us, 
 to edify our elders with abstruse theories, and throw a shadow
 
 1SU RUG RAFFLES. 
 
 on the hearts of us little children, who had been fed by lessons 
 of love from his predecessor. I do not know how the congre- 
 gation at large looked upon the new pastor ; but the children 
 and the Rug Raffleses clung with all their hearts to the old 
 regime, and hated most cordially " sour parson Lawsley." 
 Besides the Browns were almost broken-hearted at the indig- 
 nity done them; to say nothing of the respectable living which 
 they had lost, thus throwing them unexpectedly upon the 
 slender resources of uninitiated money-makers. And who 
 should pity them, pray, if we did not ? And how should \vc 
 ever expect pardon for our ingratitude, if we could find it in 
 our hearts to take kindly to one we believed their enemy ? 
 We could not, and we would not ; and so there was nothing 
 left us but to wage an uncompromising war with parson 
 Lawsley. To be sure it was little that we children could do 
 but get tired and rustle our dresses and rattle our feet about in 
 church ; but Rug Raffles was a man of means. Many were 
 the lettered strips of board which came to label the parsonage 
 in the night time, now proclaiming there was " pig iron" 
 within, and now " white-washing done" by the master of the 
 mansion ; but still the Rev. Mr. Lawsley walked with the 
 same air of consequence up and down the village side-walk, 
 till Rug Raffles wished himself a fly, and thought very highly 
 of nose-tickling. Sometimes he managed to pin strips of pa- 
 per to the Rev. gentleman's coat, with rather gay scraps of 
 songs upon them ; but these were soon removed, and, strange 
 to say, without an abatement of dignity. 
 
 Our church is an old-fashioned one, with a good fat weath- 
 ercock (that wheezes when the wind blows, as though it had 
 the asthma) upon the belfry, and big, plain glass windows, 
 guiltless of shutters, commanding a view of the whole village 
 and the farm-houses upon its skirts. There is a large gallery 
 extending all around the inside, the front of which is occupied 
 by a very fine-toned organ (purchased in honor of the new 
 pastor) and a half score of vocalists, and the back, just behind 
 the pulpit, by the " boys and loafers." Among this motley 
 company Rug Raffles reigns king. Not that he exactly classes
 
 BUG RAFFLES. 181 
 
 himself with either; but other people do it for him. The 
 respectables call him a loafer, and the boys are very sure he 
 belongs to them. One morning', parson Lawsley walked into 
 the pulpit as usual, read a portion of Scripture and then a 
 hymn, and sat down to examine his notes. Immediately 
 above him, peering over the gallery with a most waggish 
 expression of countenance, leaned Rug Raffles, his fat arms 
 folded beneath his chin, and his round head wagging from 
 side to side, as though there had been a thought in it disin- 
 clined to quiet. There was a striking contrast between the 
 long chin, hollow temples, cadaverous cheeks, and severely 
 serious face below, and the puff-cheeked, peaked-eyed, mirth- 
 slipped visage peering down upon him with a ludicrous ex- 
 pression of mock gravity which sent a smile to many a lip. 
 Soon the hymn was ended, and the preacher rose and leaned 
 upon his cushioned desk to pray. The heads of the more 
 reverent part of the congregation were bowed, while Rug 
 Raffles entertained the rest. He pulled a line from his pock- 
 et, disentangled a fish-hook from his vest, and, attaching it to 
 the line, began to lower it towards the sofa in the pulpit. 
 People stared and smiled, for it was scarce to be expected that 
 Rug Raffles would make a good " fisher of men." But this 
 was not his object. After he had angled for some time on 
 the sofa, his eye suddenly brightened, the corners of his mouth 
 retreated toward his ears, and with a nod and wave of triumph, 
 which very nearly convulsed the waiting congregation with 
 laughter, he suddenly brought his prize to light. He had 
 managed to catch his hook upon a thread, and the Rev. Mr. 
 Lawsley's sermon was fast approaching the gallery. An 
 involuntary titter caused Deacon Palmer and several others to 
 raise their heads; but Rug Raffles was carefully conning his 
 notes, and the cause of the untimely mirth was undiscovera- 
 ble. The prayer ended, another hymn was sung, and the 
 preacher began to look about him for his sermon. He thrust 
 his hands first into one pocket and then in the other, exam- 
 ined the contents of his hat, turned over the leaves of the 
 Bible with irreverent haste, again rummaged his pockets, 
 vol.. n. 16
 
 l&i RUG RAFFLES. 
 
 looked upon the floor, and then paused to wipe the heavy 
 perspiration from his brow, little dreaming that his lost manu- 
 script was far above his head. But if he had turned an eye 
 upward, he would have seen nothing but Rug Raffles gazing 
 down inquiringly upon him, as though wondering if the im- 
 perturbable parson Lawsley had really gone mad. As for the 
 congregation, some were enjoying the joke without compunc- 
 tion, while others, according to their different dispositions, had 
 their sympathies enlisted in behalf of the distressed clergy- 
 man. But both classes found it difficult to restrain their 
 laughter. At last the preacher, in evident despair, opened his 
 Bible, turned over the leaves handful after handful, and, 
 finally, in a strange state of nervous excitement, paused as 
 though to calm his thoughts. Rug Raffles spread the sermon 
 before him, donned a pair of horn-mounted spectacles with the 
 glasses out, and began to look important. Parson Lawsley 
 announced his text, and Rug Raffles nodded approbativcly. 
 The preacher commenced his exordium, and Rug nodded 
 again, with a patronizing air, which said as plainly as words, 
 " Good boy ! good boy ! he has his lesson nicely." In a mo- 
 ment, however, the preacher began to extemporize, and Rug 
 frowned and shook his head violently. It was too much for 
 the gravity of the initiated part of the audience, and there was 
 a half-smothered burst of laughter, which startled even them- 
 selves, and put parson Lawsley to the torture. He was not 
 accustomed to speaking extemporaneously > and he fancied he 
 had excited the laugh by his awkwardness. The preacher 
 went on, hesitatingly and tremblingly; Rug Raffles frowned 
 and shook his head, now and then giving a quick nod of nppro- 
 bation; and the audience was a most irreverently smiling one. 
 At last the strange sermon ended, and the preacher leaned 
 over his desk to pray. Immediately Rug Raffles commenced 
 operations again. He drew a piece of twine from his pocket, 
 and tying it loosely around the pilfered sermon, began lower- 
 ing it toward the sofa. Down, down, slowly and carefully it 
 came ; then there was a sudden jerk, and the disengaged line 
 was gathered up and stowrd away in the pocket of the jester.
 
 RUG RAFFLES. 183 
 
 The clergyman ended his prayer, and turned to the sofa. 
 There lay his lost sermon, in the very spot where he had 
 placed it. He started backward with astonishment, and, un- 
 fortunately being nearer the side of the pulpit than he had 
 imagined, lost his balance on the top stair, and turned a som- 
 erset to the bottom. That parson Lawsley had surely gone 
 mad was the general impression, and the congregation scat- 
 tered, leaving Rug Raffles in the vestibule, chuckling over the 
 success of his feat. After this everybody took occasion to tack 
 a smile to the name of parson Lawsley whenever it was men- 
 tioned, and in six months' time our dear old pastor was rein- 
 stalled in his office and we have never wearied of him since. 
 When Deacon Palmer first heard the truth of the Lawsley 
 story, he gave Rug Raffles a serious reprimand and pre- 
 sented him with a new coat ! This was an era in Rug's life. 
 His seedy, thread-bare habiliments had tried severely the 
 affection between warp and woof; and though he was never 
 weary of caressing the friends that had stood by him through 
 weal and woe, he was in truth far from heart-broken at the 
 thought of a separation from them. 
 
 But the deacon had not thought of one thing that the 
 new coat would need shapeliness and Rug was quite above 
 carrying about with him such tradesman-like things as dol- 
 lars and cents. Besides, there was not a tailor in Alderbrook 
 who would trust him. Nothing daunted, however, our hero 
 shouldered his cloth and marched to every door. It was of 
 no use ; every shop was overstocked with work, and poor 
 Rug was in a quandary. But at last a bright thought came. 
 He would n't have his coat made by a clumsy awkward man, 
 not he. Women's delicate fingers were far nimbler, and there 
 was not a prettier woman within fifty miles of Alderbrook 
 than the pale, sweet creature, who occupied the tiny cottage 
 at the foot of the hill near the toll-gate. 
 
 Beautiful, indeed, was young Nelly Tinsley : more beauti- 
 ful now than when, decked 'in the gayest finery the shops of 
 Alderbrook afforded, she moved among us without a shadow 
 on her brow. Now sad thoughts had drawn lines upon her
 
 184 RUG RAFFLES. 
 
 face painfully intelligible; the blur \< in- crossed her temples 
 with unusual distinctness ; her eyes were dimmed with night- 
 watching, and her small hand had grown thin and half-trans- 
 parent. How had the blithe, ruddy daughter of farmer Bly 
 changed ; Nelly Bly had been a bright, fun-loving girl, \\ho 
 was petted and indulged until she grew wilful and spurned 
 every rein but that of love. She yielded to her father because 
 she loved him ; but when a stronger love came to her heart 
 she forgot her obedience to the first. Young Arthur Tinsley 
 smoothed hack her hair, and told her how dear was every 
 golden thread to him ; pressed her pretty hand between his 
 own ; looked into her eyes until they grew dreamy as his ; 
 kissed the smile from her bright lip ; and finally unlocked a 
 fountain of delicious tears which had till now slumbered deep 
 down in her nature. Who would not grow familiar with tears 
 must never love ; who would not love must barter all the 
 wealth of the measureless depths of the human heart for the 
 bubble which dances on its surface. The bubble went from 
 Nelly's heart, the glitter from her lip ; and up, gushing from 
 the rich depths below, came a fountain never more to be sealed, 
 not even in etemity. Love made the spirit of Nelly Bly 
 meek, but it made it strong too. So when the stubborn old 
 farmer told her that if she became the wife of the beggarly 
 artist, Tinsley, his door should be forever closed against her, 
 she turned, and, with a touching, beautiful faith, added her 
 hand to her heart's gift. What a holy thing is that love 
 which, closing the eyes upon a brilliant future, turns to low- 
 liness and clouds, and whispers to the beloved one " only thee 
 and heaven ! " I know there are men of cold theories who 
 would prove to me that Nelly Bly acted far from right, and I 
 should be speechless before them ; but when they are away 
 with their arguments I cannot remember what they have said ; 
 and so I find myself pronouncing the love of our meek-eyed, 
 white-browed neighbor, a beautiful and a holy thing. 
 
 Farmer Bly had no other child, and so, after Nelly's mar- 
 riage, the great farm-house became a desolate place, and he 
 so surly and ill-natured that children ran and hid themselves
 
 RUG RAFFLES. 185 
 
 at the sound of his voice. At first Nelly Tinsley was very 
 proud of her husband, for she knew well how to appreciate 
 his genius ; and she was delighted to find that she could aid 
 in its development by soothing and encouragement. But soon 
 pride began to lose itself in anxiety. Trials were in the way, 
 and he grew irritable ; trials increased, and he bent beneath 
 them ; still others came, and health and spirits yielded. A 
 strong man could scarce have wrestled with such a fortune ; 
 but Arthur Tinsley had the helpless simplicity of a child and 
 the sensitiveness of a woman. For a while poor Nelly strug- 
 gled on cheerfully and uncomplainingly ; and then, as un- 
 complainingly, but with a heart-ache written in every line of 
 her face, she came with her sick husband and dying child 
 back to Alderbrook. Oh, how changed was that bright young 
 face with the merry heart-glow lighting up either cheek ! 
 Could that pale, fragile creature be Nelly Ely ? The rugged 
 old farmer turned from her despairing cry, and shut the door 
 against her with an oath ; and for an hour did poor Nelly lie, 
 like one dead, at the roots of the white rose-bushes among 
 which she had spent her bird-like hours before she knew sor- 
 row. At last she arose and reeled back to the village ; not 
 quite broken-hearted, for her husband was yet left to her ; and 
 though he was now but the wreck of the impassioned, enthu- 
 siastic, heartful Arthur Tinsley, that shattered wreck was far 
 dearer to her than the noble, scatheless structure. Her heart 
 had grown to him in their humiliation. Was she not his 
 world as he was hers ? Immeasurably blest was young Nelly 
 Tinsley even in her misery; and as she knelt by the sick 
 couch of her husband that night, and soothed his aching head, 
 and listened to his low tones, sometimes querulous, sometimes 
 melting with tenderness, there was not one act of her life 
 toward him she would have recalled. Some people made 
 mention of the fact that there had been no parental blessing 
 on the union, and shook their heads, remarking that " such 
 things were always punished sooner or later ;" but Nelly 
 would have stared at them in bewilderment. Surely there 
 was nothing like punishment in her lot. She had certainly 
 
 VOL. II. 16*
 
 186 HOG UAPFLB8. 
 
 suffered very deeply, but it was with him ; and could all her 
 father's lands buy a single hour of that time made invaluable 
 by love ? Why, there was a blessedness in her very suffer- 
 ings, consecrated as they were to a holy affection ; and while 
 she was wearing out life in poverty and lowliness, she would 
 not have exchanged for a diadem her sacred wealth of heart. 
 Where the shadows rest the violets spring freshest and sweet- 
 est. If the sunlight must needs kiss the perfume from my 
 violets, Heaven keep me ever in the shadow. We are way- 
 ward children, and do not always know what is good for us ; 
 but we have a Father above, who, when he takes from us the 
 dross and tinsel, blesses us with such things as the angels 
 have. When our first mother went out of Eden in sorrow, 
 she carried an Eden in her heart ; there are some who live in 
 an Eden now, but their hearts are barren. 
 
 Nelly Tinsley found a home with an old woman, to whom 
 she had been kind in better days ; and the villagers buried her 
 child ; and then she was comparatively forgotten. Her hus- 
 band sometimes rose from his couch long enough to toy a little 
 with his pencil, but the most trifling efforts were usually repaid 
 by long, dreary days of illness ; then he would become peevish, 
 talk of starving and of doctor's bills, beg them to let him die, 
 for he was all that kept Nelly from wealth and happiness, and 
 bitterly bewail his folly in ever having deprived her of a 
 home. Nelly answered cheeringly every murmur but the 
 last; but that scarce sincere regret was always dis-iputed by 
 her tears. Then came the words of tenderness, which turned 
 Nelly's sad heart into a habitation of subdued, sorrow-shaded 
 bliss. The old woman with whom Nelly had found a home, 
 supported herself by her needle, and so the young wife was 
 soon initiated into the more substantial mysteries. 
 
 Rug Raffles had no hope of inducing dame Gaskill to make 
 his coat, for he was quite aware that his credit was not very 
 high with her ; but Nelly Tinsley probably had many dreary, 
 unoccupied hours ; and he argued, as he wended his way to 
 her humble door, that he should be doing her a great favor 
 by furnishing her with employment.
 
 RUG RAFFLES. 187 
 
 "Nothing like industry to keep trouble away so I've 
 heard say;" soliloquized Rug Raffles, as he trundled his bur- 
 ly corpus over the little strip of tan-bark at the road side. 
 " Industry ! ha ! ha ! That 's why I don't have trouble, I sup- 
 pose. Ha ! ha ! A little job for the squire to-night, just to 
 keep him from sublimating on the top of his big stilts um! 
 only a trifle ;" and Rug Raffles winked and nodded, and 
 looked about him as though he had been making confidants 
 of the fence and bushes. "Well, I am a. philanthropist; 
 there 's no disputing that. Parson Brown is a pretty good 
 a pretty good man but he wouldn't crawl out of his bed of 
 a dark night to benefit the public in the way I do, I reckon. 
 Yes, ihe public that's the word I'm a PUBLIC BENEFAC- 
 TOR, ha ! ha ! They say a laugh is the best medicine. I make 
 everybody laugh, and so I 'm the biggest doctor in Alder- 
 brook. So, so this is the house. Not quite a palace, for 
 sure. Wonder if Miss Nelly Ely don't want to get back into 
 the old farm-house seems to me that was rather more com- 
 fortable." 
 
 When Rug Raffles made known his errand, he found, as he 
 had anticipated, dame Gaskill quite overstocked with work. 
 
 " Can't make it, dame ? " 
 
 " No ; my customers " 
 
 " Rayther queer ! " and Rug regarded the empty table and 
 work-shelf, with an expression peculiarly quizzical. 
 
 " But my customers " 
 
 " Supposing I should wait a week or two?" 
 
 " Oh, it would make no difference ; I have pile on pile of 
 work; and my customers " 
 
 ' Well, now, Dame Gaskill, could you find time to make 
 it next year ? " interrupted Rug, fixing his peaked eyes on 
 her with a kind of mesmeric stare, and puffing out his full 
 cheeks ;" I like your work amazingly, dame, and I am willing 
 to be accommodating, I am." 
 
 " I think I can make it." The words came in soft, tremu- 
 lous tones, from the farther end of the long narrow room, 
 which Rug immediately whispered himself was occupied By
 
 188 
 
 RUG RAFFLES. 
 
 sweet Nelly Ely. The speaker was leaning over a couch, 
 with one ihin hand resting caressingly on a brow even 
 thinner and paler than itself; and, as she turned her face to 
 speak, Rug, careless as he was, discerned the traces of ic-.irs 
 on her now flushed cheek, and knew by her eager tones that 
 his favor was duly esteemed. 
 
 " You ! " exclaimed dame Gaskill. " Why, you never 
 made a coat in your life ! Think of stitching the collar, and 
 working the button-holes, and pressing it off, and all that. 
 No, no ! You can't make it." 
 
 " If if you would show me," began Nelly, hesitatingly, 
 " if you would show me, perhaps " 
 
 " But I can't show you I shall have no time for showing 
 you." 
 
 " I should like to do it, indeed ! " burst from the lips of the 
 poor wife, as she clasped her pale hands helplessly over her 
 face, and the tears gushed like a shower of precious gems 
 less precious they than those pure heart-jewels! from be- 
 tween her attenuated fingers. 
 
 " And you shall do it ! " exclaimed Rug, setting down his 
 foot emphatically. 
 
 A look of gratitude and a sob was the answer. 
 
 " Stitching the collar, " began the unrelenting dame. 
 
 " The collar need n't be stitched. There is no use in 
 spoiling the young woman's eyes stitching collars. Who 
 ever looks at my collar, I should like to know ? " 
 
 " And the button-holes, " continued the pertinacious 
 dame. 
 
 " Don't want button-holes won't have button-holes 
 button-holes always break out and make a great bother. 
 Button-holes are among the ornamentals, and I 'm principled 
 against ornamentals." 
 
 " Lud-a-mercy, Mr. Raffles ! " 
 
 " It 's no use, dame. Right about face ! hands and eyes 
 down ! The young woman shall do it." 
 
 "But, Mr. Raffles" 
 
 ' I tell ye she shall do it ! "
 
 RUG RAFFLES. 189 
 
 " It will never do to give it up so," thought Dame Gaskill ; 
 though, to tell the truth, she had been watching in great anx- 
 iety all the morning for a customer ; and so she rose and 
 joined Nelly at the other end of the room. Rug did not hear 
 the first remarks ; but, after a few moments, enlreatingly and 
 deprecatingly came the words, " Oh, it is necessary it is; 
 and he could n't have the heart to keep back the money from 
 me." 
 
 " Certainly not if he had it ; but Rug Raffles has n't 
 known the color of a coin this many a day, I '11 warrant me.'' 
 
 " It is a solemn fact, dame," whispered Rug to himself, at 
 the same time fumbling in his empty pockets. 
 
 " He will get the money, I am sure he will ; he looks 
 good-natured, and I will trust him ; I am certain he will 
 get it." 
 
 " If he only could, mistress pretty-lips," was the aside of 
 Rug, " but where in the name of old shoes and ragged elbows, 
 is it to come from ? That's what I should just like to know." 
 
 " You will lose it," pursued the dame. 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! and he so ill, and so worried when I 
 take the needle." 
 
 " It is a great pity you should worry him." 
 
 " Oh, I will not. I will do it while he sleeps. He al- 
 ways has a long sleep after midnight." 
 
 " And kill yourself?" 
 
 " Oh no, I am so well and strong ! " 
 
 The dame sighed ; and Rug drew the cuff of his coat 
 across his eyes probably to shade them from the sunlight. 
 
 " But you do not need this money just now ; you paid the 
 doctor's bill yesterday, and there is plenty of arrow-root left 
 for these two or three days yet ; of course there is no danger 
 that you and I will starve. Just wait patiently and some job 
 will come worth having before you need the money." 
 
 Nelly looked around to assure herself that the invalid 
 slept, and then answered softly, " He asked me for paints this 
 morning, and it was a hard thing to deny him. I never have 
 done that before. Medicine may drive the pain away, but he
 
 IW RUO RAFFLES. 
 
 will go wild if poverty keep him from the exercise of his art. 
 The paints are worth more to him than medicines." 
 
 " Why, he couldn't use them, if " 
 
 " No matter for that, he must have them, if I go out into 
 the streets and beg." 
 
 " Nonsense, child ! I have no patience with you. You 
 will kill yourself to indulge his whims. You got this terri- 
 ble cough sitting up in the cold room to earn the money for 
 that canvass ; and then the ungrateful fellow pushed his foot 
 through it just because some of his figurations didn't suit 
 him. There, don't cry, child don't cry ! I didn't mean to 
 hurt your feelings. Sick folks must be indulged, I suppose, 
 and Mr. Tinsely is n't always so ; but I must say you are a 
 nice creature to take his high-handed doings so sweetly, 
 when he is put out. And I must say it is rather hard for 
 you to kill yourself "for a whimsey." 
 
 Rug Raffles had found his chair rather uncomfortable dur- 
 ing the conference of the two women, and particularly since 
 in their earnestness they had allowed their voices to rise to a 
 hearing pitch. He put the right leg over the left knee, then 
 the left leg over the right knee, trotted his foot, drummed 
 with- his hands on the crown of his hat, hitched, fidgetted, 
 whistled, and finally, in the midst of a pathetic remonstrance 
 from Nelly, sprang to his feet outright. 
 
 " I '11 tell you what, young woman ahem ! young woman 
 mistress pretty-speech I tell you, I don't want that coat. 
 I hate new coats ; they always pinch and set a fellow up, 
 like a pound of starch, and I should feel like a gentleman 
 in a new coat, and I object to being a gentleman ; I could n't 
 condescend." 
 
 By the time Rug had delivered himself of his speech he 
 was at the 'door. 
 
 " But the cloth, Mr. Raffles ! Don't go away without the 
 cloth," exclaimed dame Gaskill, following her queer customer 
 with the package. 
 
 " Don't bother me with the cloth, dame. D'ye think I 'm 
 an errand boy to be running about the streets with bundles ? 
 Out of my way, and take the cloth back into the house ! But
 
 RUG RAFFLES. 191 
 
 look'ee, old woman, some folks say I 'm the devil, so look 
 out how you put your fingers inside that bundle. It 's 
 it 's," and by this time Rug Raffles was clambering up the 
 hill, very nearly breathless, " it 's for Nelly Ely to buy paints 
 with." 
 
 " A new coat ! " soliloquized Rug, as he seated himself on 
 the front steps of the nearest grocery : " a new coat must be 
 a terrible bore. I should n't sit down so easy-like in it as I 
 do in you, old friend;" and he hugged his seedy satinet as in 
 all probability he would have hugged a sweet-heart. "How 
 strangely my elbows would feel in a new coat, poor things ! 
 as fixed -up as I used to feel when grandmamma took me 
 a-visiting; and my shoulders, too they are free-born citizens, 
 and never could submit to being put in the stocks, not they. 
 But what a villain old Ely must be ! The girl would actu- 
 ally have got the blind side of me, if I would have let her 
 but then it is n't in the nature of us laughing philosophers 
 to mind much about the weepers. Poor thing ! how pitifully 
 she talks of that rascally husband of hers ; and he leads her a 
 dog's life, I 've no doubt. It 's a fancy some husbands have 
 to beat and bruise about, as though there was nobody in the 
 big world but themselves ; and I 'm glad I 've kept clear of 
 'em. I 'm glad, I mean, that I don't happen to have a wife 
 to tyrannize over ; for I should be a shocking bad fellow in 
 that case, I know I should. Would n't I flourish my shil- 
 lelah, though ? Hurrah ! " 
 
 After making a grand flourish, and explaining to the in- 
 quisitive bystanders that he was only cudgelling Mrs. Rug- 
 gles Raffles that was to be, our hero again seated himself on 
 the steps and immediately fell into a state of profound medi- 
 tation. Rug was apt to be contemplative when he was not 
 uproariously social; and, as the result of his ponderings was 
 sure to follow close on the heels of their indulgence, no one 
 ever offered even a penny for his thoughts. When the half 
 hour was passed, Rug arose and shook himself like Samson. 
 Probably he was satisfied that his strength was with him ; for 
 immediately his face put on all its waggery ; his half-shut
 
 192 BUG RAFFLES. 
 
 pointed eyes looked as though made to pilfer sermons ; his 
 mouth, which grew astonishingly wide, held a merry thought 
 in each corner ; even his large nose had an expression about 
 it which added not a little to the comic drollery of his phiz ; 
 and he alternately rubbed his hands and hugged himself with 
 infinite satisfaction. As soon as his first self-congratulations 
 were over, he began trundling himself along the street, his 
 heavy locomotives seeming to find the utmost difficulty in 
 keeping pace with him. 
 
 Farmer Ely had been more gruff since the return of his 
 daughter than ever. He was obliged to employ men-ser- 
 vants, (or rather gentleman helps,) within doors, for no 
 woman would stay in his kitchen ; and both house and field 
 were often witnesses of desperate quarrels between employer 
 and the employed. On this day he was going his usual 
 rounds among his workmen, when, as he chanced to draw 
 near a forest, his attention was arrested by hearing his own 
 name. 
 
 " I say, uncle, I should like to own this farm of old Ely's." 
 
 " Yes, it is a fine farm ; but little good does it bring to the 
 owner. He is the most miserable old wasp in existence ; for, 
 fool-like, he thought to sting his daughter, but instead of that 
 he stung himself, and has been smarting ever since." 
 
 " But he has a grand farm for all that." 
 
 " Yes, a grand farm ; but what good will it do him ? 
 They'll shovel his old bones into the grave one of these 
 days, and his hard earnings will go to those who will be glad 
 the old pest is out of the way." 
 
 " Probably his pauper daughter will come in for a share 
 then." 
 
 The listener ground his teeth and clenched his fist. Per- 
 haps he was enraged at the thought of his money going to 
 poor Nelly. Perhaps the idea of his daughter's being a pau- 
 per was new to him. 
 
 " Not she," returned the other voice ; " she 's pretty much 
 done with money and pauperism both, I reckon ; and he '11 
 soon have her ghost to worry him out of the world, I can toll
 
 RUG RAFFLES. 193 
 
 you. She won't come near him now though she 's starving, 
 poor thing ! but bones which have been in the grave are not 
 so nice about such matters. She will haunt the old knave, 
 night and day, I '11 warrant me." 
 
 " What a pity the miserable old Jew has n't a grandchild, 
 since he 's resolved to disinherit his daughter." 
 
 " Ay, he might have had. A finer boy never gladdened 
 mother's heart than little Harry." 
 
 Farmer Ely gave a sudden start, and his flee changed to an 
 ashen hue. 
 
 " It was a strange thing enough for her to name him after 
 one who had treated her so shamefully ; but women will have 
 queer notions, and he was the very picture of his rascally 
 grandfather. That was enough to make Nelly hate him ; 
 but instead of that, she only loved him the more. Wolves 
 and tigers take care of their little ones, but old Ely left his to 
 starve. It is well though that the baby died ; for the sooner 
 such a race becomes extinct the better." 
 
 " And do you think Tinsley is really dying?" 
 
 " No doubt of it. Three murders are a pretty heavy load 
 for one man's conscience." 
 
 Farmer Ely unconsciously uttered a groan ; but the con- 
 versationists, who seemed in no wise disturbed by the sound, 
 continued : 
 
 " I have heard that he actually refused his grandson a 
 shroud." 
 
 " It is true ; and I should n't wonder if that very deed con- 
 demned his own bones to rot above ground. Such things do 
 happen sometimes." 
 
 " Think of pretty Nelly Ely's being a beggar in Alder- 
 brook ! There was a time when the Elys carried their heads 
 as high as the highest ; but now they are quite down in the 
 mouth. Only two left; the one disgraced in everybody's 
 eyes by his unnatural hard-hearted ness, and the other a pau- 
 per ! Well, it is one comfort to us poor fellows to know that 
 we all come out about the same in the end. Any way, I 
 would rather be in my grave than old Ely's." 
 
 VOL. II. 17
 
 194 RUG RAFFLES. 
 
 " Old Antoine's would be a palace to that, I fancy." 
 
 " Does Mistress Nelly ever speak of her father ? " 
 
 " Yes; when she hears him called a villain, as everybody 
 does call him, she takes on dreadfully, and says he was a good 
 father to her once, and she will love him now for what he has 
 been. Women are always fools about these matters, you 
 know." 
 
 " And Tinsley ? " 
 
 " Oh, he must- indulge his pretty wife, of course, and would 
 swear that the old rascal was an angel if it would only win a 
 smile from her. They say he even painted a portrait of him, 
 from memory ; and, savage as the old rebel is, made him look 
 quite amiable. They sold everything else when they were 
 starving,~but they wouldn't part with that." 
 
 A loud sob burst from the overcharged bosom of farmer 
 Bly ; he leaned for a moment against a tree, and then hurried 
 forward with almost the bound of a boy. 
 
 " He, he ! ha, ha, ha ! " The laugh was smothered, but it 
 evidently came from a very merry heart. And oh, what a 
 face was that peering above the clump of dog-wood bushes ! 
 Rug Raffles had never looked so entirely convulsed with mirth 
 before. 
 
 " I 've done him ! I 've done him ! The old fox is fast in 
 the trap ! Hurra ! hurra ! Hip, hip, hip, hurra ! The birds 
 don't know anything or they 'd split their throats a-hurraing 
 and a-laughing. A'n't I a public benefactor? no ; this time 
 I 'm a private one ; and should n't have let the right hand 
 know what the left one did, only that they had to talk to each 
 other. I should like to know who could do the thing up 
 neater. Pretty well for you, Rug Raffles. Come to think, 
 Miss Tinsley, I reckon I '11 just take back that coat. You 
 don't seem to need it at all just now. Ha, ha ! ha, ha, ha ! 
 I would n't have believed that he would nibble the bait so 
 soon, the old fox ; though I gave him two or three pretty 
 tough morsels, to be sure. He could n't get round that com- 
 ing down of the family; it hurt his feelings. Ah, that's the 
 dagger that I stabbed him with. That 'went to the witals,'
 
 RUG RAFFLES. 195 
 
 as the saying is. And then I come it over him with the soft. 
 Lucky enough that I heard about that picture ; that was what 
 did him at last hurra! Hurra for fun and Rug Raffles! 
 I '11 trick dame Gaskill into making the coat, I will. As 
 though a rnan was any the worse for an empty pocket ! She 
 to say it too, the old owl ! and she has n't a red cent to her 
 name ! I '11 trick her ! " And down sat generous Rug Raffles 
 to devote an hour of his precious time to the prudent Mrs. 
 Gaskill. 
 
 It was a bright afternoon ; and Arthur Tinsley sat up in 
 his bed, leaning against an inverted chair. His wife, as ever, 
 was by his side, and bending over him with mingled anxiety 
 and tenderness. 
 
 " I should like some paints, Nelly, if you can get them," he 
 said in an earnest tone. 
 
 " I will try, dear ; but you must n't worry if I am two or 
 three days about it. This hand is not very strong, and it must 
 not busy itself too soon. When you are well again, I have 
 a grand scheme for you." 
 
 The invalid smiled faintly, and then, in a tone of touching 
 tenderness, answered, "I shall never be well till the sod is 
 over my bosom, Nelly. I see how all this is to end; I am 
 growing weaker and weaker every day; but there is one thing 
 that I must do I cannot die till it is done. There is but 
 one face for me in the wide universe if the angels in heaven 
 do not have it, I cannot love them. I must paint your face 
 and take it into the grave with me." 
 
 " You will not die, Arthur, you cannot die ! The doctor 
 said you would get well if I could only make you happy. 
 Won't you be happy with me, Arthur?" 
 
 " We will both be happy when we have gone home to 
 heaven, Nelly ; but here, never. Nothing has ever prospered 
 with us since the day of our marriage." 
 
 " We have loved each other." 
 
 " Ay, overwhelmingly. It has been thy curse, my Nelly ; 
 and when I am gone " 
 
 A tremendous knock at the door, and the remainder of the
 
 196 KUG RAFFLES. 
 
 sentence hung suspended on the invalid's tongue, while dame 
 Gaskill's head bobbed out of the window, and was as quickly 
 withdrawn. 
 
 " Old fanner Ely, as I live ! Don't be in a flurry, children ! 
 Oh ! oh ! I 'm a most scared out of my senses. Don't you 
 open the door, Nelly ; I 'm afraid he has come for no good 
 wait a bit, wait a bit, child ; I 'd better open it myself. Lud- 
 a-marcy ! she has no fear of anything." 
 
 Nelly drew the latch-string tremblingly ; her cheek was 
 flushed, but her head erect. The first glance was enough, 
 for the rough, manly face was full of eloquence. 
 
 " My father ! " 
 
 The old man's arms were outspread; and the trembling 
 daughter nestled in them like a wearied dove. 
 
 " The old house is desolate, Nelly ; I cannot live there 
 alone any longer, and you must come back to me. What, 
 tears! you didn't cry, Nelly, when I shut the door in your 
 face to drown what you were saying of your dead baby. But 
 I didn't shut out your voice, I heard it day and night day 
 and night, in the house and in the field I couldn't get rid 
 of it anywhere. Don't cry any more, Nelly don't cry ! 
 your tears make my heart ache. If you had told me that the 
 boy's name was Harry only told me, I might but I don't 
 know, I 'm an old tiger. Will you come and live with me, 
 Nelly?" 
 
 The daughter raised her flushed face from the pillowing 
 bosom and pointed to the bed. 
 
 " Yes, darling ; bring him with you ; the house is big 
 enough for all of us. He stole my only child, but well, it 
 is natural it is natural ! They say he is dying, too, but we 
 will not let him. Money gives skill to the doctors ; and you 
 shall both be well and happy. These pretty cheeks of yours 
 must get some fulness and color. Nelly Bly can't be an 
 invalid, nor nor curses on those who have said it a 
 pauper ! And now, Nelly, darling, bring me the picture that 
 poor Arthur Tinsley painted, and you wouldn't part with 
 when you were starving. Ah, you did love your old father
 
 RUG RAFFLES. 197 
 
 after all, though you left him for a stranger ! That almost 
 broke my heart, and it was the heart-break which made a sav- 
 age of me ; but but you were right, and Arthur Tinsley is 
 a noble fellow. He loved you. when your own flesh and blood 
 cast you off." 
 
 " He, he ! ha, ha, ha ! " No one in dame Gaskill's cottage 
 heard tne laugh, or saw the shaggy round head peering through 
 the open window, with the eyes set corner-wise, and the lips 
 drawn up, displaying an immense gash recognizable by all 
 who had ever seen it, as the mouth of Rug Raffles. 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! Hurra ! hurra for fun and Rug Raffles ! 
 Taste again, old fox ! Two such strawberries don't grow on 
 every stem. Ha, ha ! Mistress pretty-lips, I reckon I '11 just 
 take that coat." 
 
 VOL. n. 17*
 
 193 
 
 THE FRENCH EMIGRANTS. 
 
 " SEE, mother, see ! we are coming nearer and nearer 
 every moment. It is a beautiful town so bright and cheer- 
 ful ! and everything looks so fresh about it ! Oh ! it does 
 one's heart good to see the land again. And that is Fort 
 James, perched on that high point, and looking down as 
 though it were the guardian of the waters. We shall be very 
 happy here, in this charm ing home! You look sad, mother." 
 
 So spake a slight, dark-haired stripling, with the warm hue 
 of a southern sun upon his cheek ; as, leaning over the ves- 
 sel's side, while she rode proudly into the harbor of New 
 York, he fixed his glowing eye upon the long hoped-for asy- 
 lum of the new world. The young queen of western com- 
 merce was indeed bright that morning ; with the pretty fort 
 for a crown, and skirts sweeping back into the green shadow, 
 all jewelled over with happy hearth-stones. Indeed, never 
 was town more finely spread out for a sea-view ; and the yel- 
 low Holland brick, of which many of the buildings were con- 
 structed, and the mingled red and black tiles which covered the 
 roofs of more, with the glow of the sunlight upon them, made 
 it as gay as a sachem's bride. The broad banner waved and 
 flaunted cheerily from the top of the tall flag-staff, seeming to 
 promise protection to the stranger and the defenceless ; and 
 as the ship glided majestically over the just rippling waters, 
 long and loud were the cheers that arose from the multitude 
 collected on the shore ; and the formal salutation from the fort 
 met with a ready response from the hearty crew. All now 
 was confusion on board a glad, joyous confusion; pleased 
 exclamations fell from one lip, only to be snatched up and 
 echoed by another ; and handkerchiefs fluttered in the air, in 
 reply to like signals from waiting friends on the land.
 
 THE FRENCH EMIGRANTS. 199 
 
 1 You look sad, mother," repeated the boy, lowering his 
 voice, till its soft tones contrasted strangely with the univer- 
 sal gayety, and turning upon her a glance of tenderly respect- 
 ful inquiry. 
 
 " If I felt so, I should be ungrateful, my son. God has 
 guided us from a land of persecution to the garden which he 
 has planted for his oppressed. But you spoke of home, Fran- 
 ^ois, and I thought of our vine-covered hills, and of the sunny 
 valley, on the banks of the Loire, where I have left sleep- 
 ing all but you." 
 
 " Do not think of it again, my mother." 
 
 The woman pressed her hand for a moment against her 
 forehead, as though stifling, meanwhile, some deep emotion ; 
 then said, in a different tone, " If we only had that lost cas- 
 ket, Francois ! The captain has not always been kind to us, 
 and I dread meeting him now he has almost seemed to 
 doubt the truth of our story. Heaven help us ! but it will be 
 a long time before we can pay this passage money ! " 
 
 " Never fear for that, mother ; money comes almost by the 
 asking, they say, here, and'l shall soon be a man, now. I will 
 bu-ild you a little cabin under the shelter of the trees. The 
 men have told me just how it is done, and I long to be at work 
 this very moment. I will build you a nice cabin, and I will 
 kill game which you shall cook for us two, and we will sit 
 down at evening, just as we used to sit in our pretty cottage 
 in France, before that horrible persecution, and you shall 
 Don't look so troubled, mother ; you are thinking of this ugly 
 affair of the money, now. I can trade in furs, and do I 
 hardly know what, but just what the other settlers do to get 
 rich in a day. You must remember that I am not a little boy, 
 now, but can take care of myself, and you too ; and they tell 
 me that the term Huguenot is an honorable one here. Oh ! 
 we shall be very happy ! think you not so, mother ? " 
 
 " Anywhere, with thee, my noble boy ! " returned the mat- 
 ron, gazing fondly upon the eloquent young face turned so 
 earnestly to hers. " With freedom to worship God as he has 
 bidden, and with thee, my last earthly hope and trust, beside 
 me, what more could I ask or desire ? "
 
 200 THE FRENCH EMIGRANTS. 
 
 The ship had anchored in the bay, and hurriedly the sea- 
 wearied passengers were landing. Many citizens had come 
 on board ; and, on the shore, friend grasped the hand of friend, 
 with such cordial words of greeting as the first heart-bound 
 carried to the lip. Among all glad ones, none were gladder 
 than the enthusiastic French lad. With bared head, and joy- 
 flashing eye, he stood beside his mother watching the happy 
 throng, as though in their happiness he could forget his own 
 exile. But that was not the source of his animation. He 
 was looking to the future his young spirit buoyed up by 
 hopes as yet unintelligible to himself, but brighter for the 
 very veil which covered them ; and his heart beating with the 
 tenderness which was all centred on one human being his 
 widowed, and, but for him, childless mother. 
 
 " Stand here a moment, and I will see where we can be set 
 ashore. I am longing to plant my foot on that spot of green." 
 So saying, the youth mingled in the crowd, and the widow 
 turned her eyes from the view of her new home, to follow, 
 with the fond pride of a mother, his graceful figure as it 
 moved, all unlike the others, about the deck. In a few mo- 
 ments he returned, the masses of raven hair, which had been 
 flung back to allow the fragrant land-breezes to play upon his 
 temples, half-shading his pale cheek, and his white lip quiv- 
 ering with agitation. 
 
 " Francois ! what is it, my son ? speak ! ' 
 
 "Oh! it is too much too much! I shall die here, so 
 near the land ! " and the boy, forgetting his boast of manhood, 
 leaned over the railing and wept passionately. 
 
 The mother placed her hand soothingly upon his glossy curls, 
 which shook as though the throbbing heart below had been in 
 them ; and waited patiently his explanation. 
 
 " We must stay here, mother and I cannot live in this 
 horrid ship another night, I am sure I cannot." 
 
 " We have spent many happy nights and days in it, my 
 son," returned the widow, softly ; " but why must we stay 
 now ? Who detains us ? " 
 
 " We cannot land till the ship charges are paid so they 
 have told me ; and that will be never never."
 
 THE FRENCH EMIGRANTS. 201 
 
 A look of troubled surprise spread itself over the widow's 
 countenance ; but still her spirit was in subjection to the care- 
 ful tenderness of the mother. " I am sorry for your sake, 
 Francois ; but cheer up, my son ! It will do them no good 
 to detain us here, and they will let us go in the morning I 
 am sure they will." 
 
 "If they would set me on the land, I would work like a 
 galley-slave, but they should receive the uttermost farthing." 
 
 " We will tell them so we will tell them so. Cheer up, 
 Francois, and let us look upon the city again. It is but a 
 little while till morning." 
 
 Francois seemed to make an effort for his mother's sake, 
 and raised his head ; but how changed was the expression of 
 those two faces, as they again turned towards the land ! 
 
 Only a few feet from the exiles, had stood, for the last ten 
 minutes, a person who regarded them closely, though by them 
 entirely unnoticed. His mild blue eyes, and fair, good-hu- 
 mored face, bespoke him a Hollander ; and the massive silver 
 buckles at his knees and on his shoes proclaimed him an 
 individual of some consequence, which was farther confirmed 
 by -the deferential manner of those around him. A close 
 observer would have detected a strange mixture of the child 
 and the man in that face. The eye was soft and gentle as a 
 woman's, while the mouth evinced a singular degree of firm- 
 ness and decision ; and, though the very spirit of benevolence 
 rested on the retreating forehead, with its crown of half-silvered 
 hair, the bold determination, with which the broad nostril was 
 now and then expanded, contradicted the bare supposition of 
 weakness. His attention had been attracted by the interest 
 ing foreigners ; he had seen the boy bound, like a freed deer, 
 from the side of his mother, and return drooping and dispirited ; 
 and he had seen that mother stifling some deep emotion for 
 the sake of her boy. It was evident that he did not under- 
 stand their language, for he watched them as though studying 
 out the cause of their sorrow, until they turned away their 
 faces ; and then, with a look of sympathy, he left them, prob
 
 202 THE FRENCH EMIGRANTS. 
 
 ably believing them to be of the number who had crossed the 
 ocean in search of friends, to find them only in their graves. 
 
 Two days passed, and still the lone Huguenot strangers 
 were prisoners in the ship, in sight of the green earth and of 
 cheerful firesides. 
 
 " This," exclaimed the widow, as she crouched in the cabin, 
 desolate and heart-sick, " this is worse than all the rest not 
 for me /could bear it 1 could bear anything alone; but 
 my poor, poor boy ! " 
 
 She was roused by a slow, dragging step, so unlike the 
 elastic spring of her idol, that, but for its lightness, she would 
 not have recognized it. 
 
 " Mother, it is decided I have just learned our fate ;" and 
 the fragile boy sunk, like a crushed blossom, at her feet. 
 
 The widow tried to assume a tone of encouragement. 
 " What is it, Francois ? anything is better than this close 
 ship, with the green earth and shady trees so near us. I can- 
 not bear to see you droop and pine, my love if they would 
 but give you back the strength and pride this sorrow has 
 stolen if I could but see your bright head erect again " 
 
 " It never can be, mother ; better that we both were dead 
 dead in our graves in France ! Oh ! why did we ever 
 come away ? There they would give us nothing worse than 
 a dungeon or a coffin ; here they will not let us so hide our- 
 selves will not let us die. What think you, mother?" 
 and now, the boy, dashing the hair back from his forehead, 
 changed his mournful tone to one of mad energy. " In an 
 hour or two, we are to be exposed in their market-place, in 
 the open street sold like their Holland plough-horses and 
 Utrecht heifers" 
 
 The widow's life might have gone out from her, in that one 
 wild scream of heart-piercing agony. She was prepared for 
 toil for suffering in almost every shape. She could have 
 borne even slavery, herself; but her boy, her proud, high- 
 hearted boy ! the beautiful blossom that God hid given to 
 bless her bereavement! the bird, that, if but an autumn breeze 
 shook the roof-tree rudely, had nestled in her bosom for pro-
 
 THE FRENCH EMIGRANTS. 203 
 
 lection! her frail, but noble boy, so delicate, so gentle to 
 her, yet so spirited ! should he, too, be crushed beneath a 
 foot triple-shod with iron ? Should his fair, polished limbs, 
 through which she had so often traced the flow of the red life- 
 current, which her lip had touched, and her loving eye admired, 
 canker beneath the heavy chain of a life-lasting bondage ? 
 Should that eagle eye grow cold in childhood ? that bright 
 lip forget its smile ? that free, gladsome heart become the 
 grave of all its freshly budding wealth of feeling ? Was there 
 no appeal ? Could she not find, in the crowd which thronged 
 that busy city, a single human heart which she could excite 
 to something like sympathy ? that would be content to crush 
 her to the earth, wring her spirit till every cord should snap 
 asunder, and save her boy ? Alas ! what could be done by a 
 stranger, a lone, feeble woman, confined to her prison in the 
 ship ? If she could be led forth to the haunts of men, and 
 they would listen, those who could understand her language 
 were fugitives like herself, and probably nearly as helpless. 
 So the miserable Frenchwoman crouched upon the low settle 
 in entire helplessness, and moaned as though her spirit would 
 have passed on each breath. Minute after minute, minute 
 after minute of slowly moving time went by ; and still the 
 sobbing boy rested his forehead upon his mother's knees ; and 
 still the mother clasped her hands, and moaned on. 
 
 There was a quick, heavy tread, upon the cabin stairs ; but 
 neither looked up. It came nearer, and paused beside them ; 
 but the woe-laden exiles moved not ; they had no ear for any- 
 thing but their own misery. 
 
 " I have good news for you, madam," commenced a some- 
 what harsh voice, hesitatingly, " good news do you hear 
 me ? can you listen ? " 
 
 The widow raised an alarmed eye to the face of the speaker, 
 and clung, with a desperate grasp, to her son. 
 
 The boy's apprehension was quicker. " Good news ! 
 What ? In God's name, do not mock us ! " 
 
 " I am sent by one, who cannot speak our language, to 
 say"
 
 2U4 THE FRENCH EMIGRANTS. 
 
 The man paused a moment to note the effect of his words. 
 
 " Speak on ! " exclaimed Francois ; " you torture us." 
 
 " To say that your ship charges are paid ; and you are free, 
 free to go wherever you list." 
 
 The widow stared in eager doubt, her hand still grasping 
 firmly the arm of her boy. But Francois ! the drooping blos- 
 som of the moment previous ! How the eloquent blood came 
 rushing to his cheek, and how his dark eye flashed with 
 awakened hope ! Not a single exclamation broke from his 
 lip ; but he stood like a proud young eagle pluming his wings 
 for flight. 
 
 It was several minutes before the exiles were prepared to 
 listen to an explanation of their good fortune. When they 
 did, they were told simply that a benevolent merchant, endeared 
 to the common people of New York for his many virtues, had 
 seen them on the day of their arrival, and had found his sym- 
 pathies deeply enlisted by their evident disappointment, and 
 the sorrow it occasioned. Afterwards, he lost sight of them 
 until the decision of the tribunal, which would have made 
 them slaves ; when, finding his influence insufficient to pre- 
 vent the disgraceful proceedings, he had stepped in with his 
 purse, and discharged the debt. 
 
 " You are now free to go wherever you like," continued 
 the good-natured interpreter, " but you are invited to the house 
 of your benefactor, where you will find friends, and a home 
 until you choose to leave it." 
 
 " God bless the noble merchant ! I will be his slave for- 
 ever ! " exclaimed Francois, his heart swelling with enthusi- 
 astic gratitude. 
 
 The widow's lips moved, and warm tears, for the first time, 
 gushed from her eyes, and rained down over her face ; but 
 her voice was too much broken by emotion to convey the sen- 
 timent she would have uttered. 
 
 By the dock stood, (his heart in his face and that all sun- 
 shine,) a blue-eyed, bright-haired youth, with the merchant's 
 own forehead, and a lip of lighter and more graceful mould. 
 The young Hollander was scarce inferior in beauty, as he
 
 THE FRENCH EMIGRANTS. 205 
 
 waited there to perform his most grateful task, to Francois 
 himself. The merchant had heen too modest to appear as a 
 benefactor in the public street, well known as he was, and he 
 had sent his son to bring home the strangers. A snug little 
 wagon, such as was commonly used by the better sort of Hol- 
 landers, awaited them, and they were soon seated and pro- 
 ceeding on their way. As they neared the market-place, and 
 the merchant's son caught a glimpse of the crowd assembled, 
 (some, uninformed of what had occurred, to witness the sale of 
 the helpless strangers, and some to report and expatiate upon 
 the generous deed of their townsman,) he instantly gave the 
 reins to his horses, and turned his head in an opposite direc- 
 tion. There was at first a slight movement in the crowd, face 
 after face turning toward the street. Then came a low mur- 
 mur, swelling gradually higher and higher, till at last it burst 
 into a mighty and universal shout, " LONG LIVE THE NOBLE 
 LEISLER ! " " LEISLER FOREVER ! " " LEISLER FOREVER !" 
 VOL. u. 18
 
 206 
 
 IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 A FANTASY. 
 
 11 1 SEE nothing peculiar about her." 
 
 Very coolly and complacently dropped the above words from 
 lips which seemed to be totally unaware of the deed of death 
 they were doing ; crushing the rare fancies of love's weaving, 
 with the same indifference that your horse dyes his coarse 
 hoofs in prairie-blossoms, or the followers of the Prophet treat 
 an inconvenient beauty to a coral pillow and a silver coverlet. 
 A heart-swell, deeper than a sigh, a quick flushing over of 
 the cheeks and forehead, then a closing of the slightly parted 
 lips, a drooping of the lids, and a tenderly caressing movement 
 of the hands, followed this confession of short-sightedness. 
 Oh ! what cold, blind, unappreciative beings fathers are ! As 
 though genius never hid itself under a baby-cap ! 
 
 "/see nothing peculiar about her." 
 
 The faithless father, as he repeated his observation, brushed 
 back the hair from his full, mathematical forehead, and, cast- 
 ing on his wife a glance full of pity for her weakness, turned 
 to a huge folio volume spread open on the table beside him, 
 and resumed the business in which he had been interrupted. 
 The mother, however, was not abashed, only silenced. She 
 passed her fingers over the vein-crossed forehead of her sleep- 
 ing child, measuring the distances on it with her lips ; then 
 took the fat little hand in her own, still following the purple 
 current till it terminated in the rosy-tipped fingers. 
 
 " Direct from the heart," she murmured ; " God help thee, 
 my Ida ! " As she spoke, the child opened wide a pair of 
 dark, burning eyes, and fixed them on her face with the far- 
 reaching expression she had often observed, and which 
 seemed to her indicative of something like " second-sight."
 
 IDA RAVELIN. 207 
 
 " There ! " exclaimed the mother triumphantly, yet without 
 venturing to point -a finger ; for it seemed as though the child 
 read her thoughts. 
 
 " Her eyes are certainly very bright ; something like yours, 
 Mary." 
 
 " Oh ! you don't see it you don't see it ' God help her; 
 for genius is a dangerous gift ! " 
 
 " God help her ! " echoed the father with a half sigh. 
 
 He meant his wife. 
 
 And what did bring those two strangely assorted people 
 together ? Certainly not sympathy. It might have been a 
 trick of Dan Cupid's ; but even he, with all his perverse 
 blindness, seldom makes such a blunder as that. Besides, 
 they did not look very much like turtle doves ; and nothing 
 less than entireness of idolatry, the wildest infatuation, could 
 have bidden fate to spread the roof over heads so different. 
 The marble-browed, marble-hearted philosopher, and the 
 Pythoness ! I never saw an improvisatrice ; but I dare say 
 that Mary Ravelin looked more like this wild daughter of 
 passion and poesy than any being since the days of the burn- 
 ing-lipped Corinna. Oh ! a superb creature was Mary Rave- 
 lin, with her dark, regal brow, and sloe-colored eyes, centred 
 by a blazing diamond. And that she, of all peerless ones, 
 should be the wife of the sluggish-hearted Thomas Ravelin ! 
 How did it come to pass ? Enough that the bird of Jove 
 does sometimes consort with the barn-yard fowl I mean 
 when these bipeds are minus the feathers. Plumed things 
 keep up the natural distinctions, which the philosopher's 
 plucked turkey is striving with all his might to destroy. But 
 the most vexatious part of the business was, that Thomas 
 Ravelin never knew that he was the possesser of a double 
 diamond ; and really rated his wife below other women, in 
 proportion as she rose above them. Did Mary submit to the 
 thraldom? Certainly. Like the generality of mankind, she 
 did not know herself. She might, at times, have had a kind 
 of inward consciousness that heaven had stamped her soul 
 with a loftier seal than others ; she certainly knew that she
 
 ZUS IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 felt unlike them ; and there was a depth and intensity in her 
 nature, a tumultuous sea of passion and pathos that sometimes 
 broke over all boundaries, and gave her a momentary power 
 and grandeur, acknowledged by all but one. There was 
 something in the smile between pity and contempt which 
 greeted her at such moments, well calculated to tame the 
 sybil. She feared her husband ; not because he was unkind, 
 but his glance stilled her gushing heart, and cast a strange 
 spell upon her passionate spirit. And Mary Ravelin was far 
 from being happy. No undeveloped nature is happy. The 
 inward stirring, the aimless restlessness of spirit oh! we 
 feel what we are, when we do not know it. Neither can a 
 misplaced nature be happy: cage the sky-lark, or bring the 
 spotted trout to your bower of roses, and see. So, though 
 flashes of her real inner self were every day breaking forth 
 like summer lightning, Mary Ravelin's higher nature was 
 undeveloped ; her wings had been clipped ; she had been 
 borne away out of her native element, and she was conse- 
 quently miserable. Well for her that she had one sustaining, 
 regulating principle. But even her religion was unlike her 
 husband's. It was the deep, impassioned faith, the high- 
 wrought enthusiasm of the martyrs. It was the only field in 
 which her lofty nature might revel uncontrolled ; in which 
 her power of loving might be called into action to its utmost 
 stretch ; where the high and the beautiful all combined, with 
 a harmony to which her own bosom furnished an echo. It 
 was this which subdued the impatient soul of Mary Ravelin ; 
 made her the careful wife I had almost said the uncom- 
 plaining slave of a man who believed himself acting a 
 kindly part when he drew the chain about her spirit. Who 
 dare call this an inferior kind of martyrdom ? 
 
 Ida was romping, still in baby-frock and pinafore, among 
 the vines in the garden now thrusting her white arm among 
 the leaves to grasp the bared shoulders of an elder sister, now 
 shaking the blossoms above her head till they rained down 
 upon her like a shower of colored rain-drops, then creeping 
 away under the deep shadows, as a hare would hide itself,
 
 IDA RAVELIN. 209 
 
 and raising her ringing voice to challenge pursuit. Ida might 
 have been a genius, but she was no mere spirit-child. There 
 was a love of the real, the actual, the earnest, breathing a 
 world of life in every turn of her pliant limbs, and in every 
 glance of her eye. Whatever might have been swelling and 
 shaping itself in the deep recesses of mind, there was a world 
 without that she gloried in, loving it all the more for the key to 
 its wondrous wealth which she bore in her bosom. And so she 
 frolicked on, clapping her hands and laughing, and scamper- 
 ing off on her chubby little feet to plunge headlong into the 
 fragrant thicket, or tumble into the arms of her playmates, 
 with a hearty joyousness truly refreshing. Suddenly she 
 paused in the midst of her wildest play, pressed the tip of a 
 rosy finger against the already fully developed corner of her 
 forehead, and gazed fixedly into the distance. The children 
 frolicked before her, but she did not move a muscle ; they 
 attempted to take her hand, but she uttered a cry, as of pain, 
 and they desisted. 
 
 " There, Thomas ! " 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 '< She sees something." 
 
 " I should think not ; she seems to be gazing on vacancy. " 
 
 " I tell you, Thomas Ravelin, that child has a spirit in her 
 beyond the common. Whether we have cause to weep or 
 rejoice, we are yet to know." 
 
 The husband looked a little interested. " Her tempera- 
 ment certainly differs essentially from Ruth's. She must be 
 carefully educated, her tendencies checked she must be 
 taught self-control " 
 
 " Taught ! checked ! educated ! My poor Ida ! " 
 
 The mother said no more. She seemed to be re-perusing 
 leaves of her own life, long since turned over ; and as she 
 read she trembled. The child's future presented a dismal 
 page, for she saw it by the glooming light of her own sunless 
 past. 
 
 " So unlike other children ! " whispered the mother to her- 
 self, as she stooped among the vines, and took her idol to her 
 
 VOL. n. 18*
 
 210 IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 bosom. The child turned its dark eyes upon her wonderingly, 
 passed its little hand across her throbbing temples, patted her 
 flushed cheek, twined her black tresses for a few moments 
 about its fingers, then nestled in her bosom and slept cer- 
 tainly not unlike other children. 
 
 " Don't teach her any of your romantic notions, Mary," 
 eaid Thomas Ravelin one day, when Ida had again become 
 the subject of conversation. 
 
 " Teach her ! No, Thomas, she is taught of a Higher than 
 I am there is that within which may be shut, locked there, 
 but you cannot take it away. My poor Ida ! " 
 
 " Ruth is now eighteen ; she is well taught and discreet, 
 with a strong judgment " 
 
 " Ruth is my dependence." 
 
 " You have perfect confidence in her judgment ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Sometimes you even go to her for counsel ? " 
 
 " Oh, Ruth has five times the worldly wisdom that I have." 
 
 " Give Ida to her care, then." 
 
 " What ! " 
 
 " There is something in Ida's character out of tune let 
 her have let her assist you in regulating it." 
 
 " She can't she can't ! Ida has more wisdom than all 
 of us." 
 
 " Madam," interposed Thomas Ravelin, sternly, " this is 
 folly. Have done with these fancies, or the ruin of your child 
 will be on your own head. Ida must be curbed and properly 
 trained " 
 
 " Then her mother's hand shall do it," interrupted Mary, 
 with proud dignity. 
 
 " As you will, Mary ; but you well know the fruits of an 
 ill-regulated imagination." 
 
 The mother crossed her arms on her breast, and raised her 
 eyes upward. She was praying God for wisdom. 
 
 "He is right I shall make her as miserable as I have 
 been," was the burden of her reflections that evening ; " but 
 can I give up the budding intellect to another's watchings ?
 
 IDA RAVELIN. 211 
 
 No, no ! the sweet task of guiding and pruning be mine. But 
 I have so many faults. He calls me a creature of impulse, 
 unreasoning, and Ruth is always so correct always in the 
 right I shall need her judgment. Anything for thy sake, 
 my Ida. I have reason to distrust myself, and Ruth shall 
 share the dearest of all duties with me." 
 
 Ruth did share in what should have been altogether a love 
 labor; and little Ida, though seemingly untamable, had a 
 system of thought and action prescribed, which, however in- 
 effective it might have been in the case of an inferior nature, 
 soon began to exhibit quaker-like results. Instead of devel- 
 oping her nature, it was repressed, as an ignorant man would 
 try to extinguish a kindling fire by smothering it in cotton ; 
 she was carefully guarded against little outbreaks of feeling, 
 when, instead, her feelings should have been called out, and 
 directed in proper channels. And so, by degrees, the mother's 
 influence was lost; and she grew afraid to take the child upon 
 her knee, and draw out, as had been her wont, the charming 
 little fancies which form the staple of the thoughts of child- 
 hood. She watched it tenderly and jealously, treasured all 
 its- little sayings in her heart, gazing into its deep eyes with 
 the far-reaching sight of Cassandra; but, like those of 
 Cassandra, her prophecies were unheeded. To all but her 
 mother, Ida was a pretty, frolicksome child ; with nothing to 
 distinguish her from other children, except, perhaps, an unu- 
 sual flow of spirits, and those strange fits of abstraction which 
 even Ruth had not the art to cure. 
 
 " Ida ! Ida ! Ida ! " shouted Phil Ravelin. 
 
 It was useless. Ida sat upon a mossed knoll, her hands 
 clasped over her knee, and her bright face, with its parted 
 lips, and eager, weird eyes, looking out from the dark masses 
 of hair which fell, almost too luxuriantly for childhood, about 
 her beautiful shoulders. 
 
 " Ida, are you asleep ? look here, Ida ! " 
 
 The boy waited a moment, and then shook her by the 
 shoulder. Ida uttered a shriek, as thoxigh in pain.
 
 212 IDA RAVELKV. 
 
 " Ida ! look up, Ida ! I have something to tell you." 
 
 The little girl shook off his hand, and sprang, like a scared 
 gazelle, to the nearest thicket. 
 
 " I won't follow her," muttered the boy, drawing the corner 
 of his jacket across his eyes ; " it is too bad ; and they shan't 
 make me hurt her again indeed, they shall not. Poor little 
 Ida ! " 
 
 Half an hour afterwards Ida had snuggled down in the 
 deep grass with her brother, talking with him most confiden- 
 tially, but not of her strange malady. At last Phil ventured 
 to make mention of it. There had been a long silence, and 
 he forgot that Ida's thoughts did not probably follow in the 
 same channel with his. 
 
 " What makes you do it, Ida ? " 
 
 The little girl was plucking away with tender care the 
 leaves of a buttercup, and she answered, without raising her 
 eyes, " I want to find the angel in it." 
 
 " In what ? " 
 
 " This." 
 
 " Why, angels are away beyond the blue, Ida. To think 
 of an angel, with its great white wings, and may be its big 
 harp, too, coming down from heaven to live in a poor little 
 buttercup ! Whew ! " 
 
 Ida smiled pityingly, as though she knew much more about 
 these things than her brother could know ; but did not care to 
 enlighten his ignorance. 
 
 " But what were you thinking of, Ida, when I came to you 
 a little while ago ? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " You sat looking so ;" and Phil mimicked his sister as well 
 as he could. " What did you see ? " 
 
 " Nothing, I guess." 
 
 " Now, Ida ! " 
 
 The little girl's cheek flushed, and her lips grew tremulous, 
 but she made no answer. 
 
 " Tell 7tie, Ida, dear just me whisper, if you don't want 
 to speak loud. Come, put your lips close. Won't you tell, 
 Ida?"
 
 IDA KAVEL1N. 213 
 
 Ida looked at her brother expressively, and seemed bewil- 
 dered. 
 
 " You are not a good girl and I will never love you 
 any more never because because won't you tell me, 
 Ida?" 
 
 "I I sometimes I see a great world, not like this, and 
 hear love me, Phil, love me; for it hurts me to tell. It is 
 very strange I have been there some time, long, long ago 
 and, Phil, I am not your little Ida there. Don't ask me 
 any more, but you must love me, Phil ! " and the child sank, 
 sobbing with excitement, into the arms of her brother. 
 
 Phil repeated, at home, what his sister had said ; and Ida 
 was pronounced the victim of a temporary insanity. She was 
 carefully watched over, and the subject never mentioned to 
 her again. 
 
 " Not like other children ! " repeated little Ida Ravelin to 
 herself, " I have heard that before. Oh ! now I remember j 
 she used to whisper it over me when I was a baby. I wonder 
 how I differ." Ida carefully examined her feet, her hands, 
 passed her fingers along her full, white arms, bent the elbow, 
 curved the wrist, folded the ringers in the palm, clapped her 
 hands, shook them above her head, walked with her head 
 erect and foot firm, skipped, danced, tried her voice, first in a 
 shout, then in laughter at the returning echoes, then in a gush 
 of bird-like warblings, and, finally, knelt quietly beside a clear 
 pool, which mirrored her bright face. Little Ida might well 
 have been startled at the rare vision in the water. A con- 
 noisseur would not have pronounced her beautiful ; but vet 
 she was exquisitely so ; and she knew it, and smiled at it. 
 A sweet answering smile, like a visible echo, came up from 
 the water, and Ida smiled again. But the innocent vanity 
 lasted only a moment. Her next thought was, " How do I 
 differ? My hair is dark, and glossy, and curling, just like 
 Ruth's ; my nose, and chin, and lips, and cheeks why, they 
 are all like Phil's, only Phil's are a little darker, and not quite 
 so soft ; my forehead is like mamma's, and my eyes are like
 
 214 IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 mamma's, too, not so large and handsome, may be, but I am 
 a little girl yet. 1 wonder how I differ? I can talk, and 
 may be it is the thinking. But I don't think much I piny 
 most of the time. May be it is because I see but she 
 don't know that. Unlike other children ! What can it 
 mean ? " and Ida shook her little head, as though it were 
 oppressed by the weight of a great mystery. The subject did 
 not grow to be less important to the child by constantly pon- 
 dering on it. Her laughing eyes became daily more thought- 
 ful ; but yet, as she had said, she loved her play. 
 
 Ida had crept from her bed, and stood in her night dress, 
 her little figure all bathed in the golden-hued moonlight. 
 How like a spirit she looked, poised so lightly on her tiny feet 
 that she scarce seemed to touch the carpet, her arm half 
 extended, and her lips parted, as though in converse with 
 things invisible ! With a mother's inner sense, Mary Ravelin 
 discovered that her daughter was not sleeping, and left her 
 own couch to hover near her. Drawing toward the door, she 
 lifted the latch, but paused, with suspended breath, on the 
 threshold. Was that a mortal being, shrined so gloriously, or 
 the spirit that nightly came to guard her daughter's pillow ? 
 The moonlight streamed through the open casement, and 
 gathered about her in a flood of radiance, quivering along her 
 white robe, striving to rest, and yet tremulous, as though 
 drunk with its own glorious beauty, or agitated by the prox- 
 imity of a yet more glorious, deathless spirit. Softly crept in 
 the incense-laden breezes, dallying with the curls of the child, 
 and, now and then, casting the shadow of a lifted leaf upon 
 her. Softly and dreamily fell the shadows about the aban- 
 doned pillow ; and, far off, in another corner of the room, lay 
 heavier, darker shadows, which Mary Ravelin hietv were 
 naturally produced, while yet she felt they had a deeper 
 meaning. 
 
 " There is a glory about thee, my child," she whispered, in 
 her throbbing heart, " but the world is a dark, dark place for 
 such as thou. Oh ! my God ! but for a talisman against this
 
 IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 foreshadowed misery ! " A sob of agony accompanied these 
 last words', which called Ida from heaven. She turned, and 
 sprang to the bosom of her mother. 
 
 " Oh, mamma ! I am so glad you have come ! there are 
 things I want to say to you." 
 
 Mary lifted the beautiful head from her bosom, and, hold- 
 ing it between her two hands, gazed long and fixedly into the 
 child's spiritual face. 
 
 " I will tell her what she is," she thought ; " how rarely 
 gifted, how angelic in her nature. I will tell her what she is, 
 and warn her of the future, I will " 
 
 The thread of thought was cut short by remembered words. 
 " Don't teach her any of your romantic notions." Mary 
 shuddered, and her eyelids drooped. She could barely artic- 
 ulate, " What is it, my love ? " 
 
 Ida felt the chill that had fallen on her mother's spirit, 
 though she did not know the cause ; and her voice became 
 low and timid. The inspiration of a moment previous had 
 been scared away. 
 
 " Did I ever, mamma did I ever do we come 
 from-heaven to live here awhile, and then go back to heaven 
 again ? " 
 
 " Come from heaven ! " Mary shook her head. 
 
 " Where then, mamma ? " 
 
 " Men spring from the dust of the earth." 
 
 " The dust we walk on ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Ida mused a few moments. Then, raising her little hand, 
 she pressed back the blood till it looked white and dead ; then 
 turned it downward, and allowed the red current to rush back 
 again ; and then looked up into her mother's face, doubtingly. 
 " It is very strange, mamma." 
 
 " Everything is strange in this world, my darling." 
 
 Ida was still examining the little hand that lay in her 
 mother's. Finally, raising the other, she pressed it against 
 her heart. " Not all of dust, mamma ; what makes us 
 live?"
 
 216 IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 " God gives the spirit." 
 
 " Where does he get it ? " 
 
 "From himself, from " 
 
 "Then," interrupted the child, exultingly, "it came from 
 heaven; it has lived there with Him before, and it was in 
 heaven I saw all those beautiful things! I knew I had been 
 with the angels I knew I had, mamma!" 
 
 Mary clasped the child closely in her arms, and longed to 
 encourage her to be still more communicative; but the 
 charge, " Don't teach her any of your romantic notions," 
 rang in her ears, and she tried to calm her emotion, and act as 
 her husband's superior judgment would have dictated. 
 
 " Ida, my darling, listen to me." Mary's voice was low 
 and faltering, for she was not used to the cold part she was 
 endeavoring to act. " Listen to me, Ida ; for you are a very 
 little girl, and must know that your mamma understands 
 what is for your good better than you can. You must never 
 have such fancies " 
 
 " How can I help it ? " 
 
 " You must not lie awake thinking at night " 
 
 " How can I help it, mamma ? " 
 
 "You must you must. Oh! my Ida, try to be like 
 Ruth. Do as she bids you. Play with the children in the 
 fields" 
 
 " The angels come to me there, mamma." 
 
 " Run in the garden " 
 
 " And there." 
 
 "Play with your dolls fling the shuttlecock skip the 
 rope " 
 
 " Oh ! I do all those things, mamma. I love to play ; but I 
 cannot play all the time nobody does that." 
 
 " Well, talk with your papa and Ruth " 
 
 " Is it wrong to think, mamma ? " 
 
 " It is not best to think, unless " 
 
 Ida waited long for the sentence to be finished ; but Mary 
 knew how incompetent she was to advise, and she scarce 
 knew what to say. The child still gazed into her face, how-
 
 IDA RAVELIN. 217 
 
 ever, as though more than life hung upon her words. 
 " When you are older, my Ida, you will know what thoughts 
 to indulge, and what to repress ; now strive to think only of 
 the things about you what you see " 
 
 " What I see ! Oh, I see everything beautiful, every- 
 thing " 
 
 " What you hear talked of, I mean. Will you try, my 
 darling?" 
 
 Ida looked bewildered. 
 
 " But don't think of it now. Now you must sleep, and 
 to-morrow make yourself busy with your play and your les- 
 sons. Good-night, my love." 
 
 Mary laid the head of her child upon the pillow, pressed 
 kiss after kiss upon her lips and forehead ; and, with pain at 
 her heart, though fully believing that she had acted wisely, 
 went away to her own sleepless couch. As soon as she 
 was gone, a merry, half-smothered laugh burst from the 
 parted rose-bud of a mouth resting against the pillow; and 
 Ida clapped her little hands together and sprang out lightly 
 upon the carpet. 
 
 ". So it was heaven that I came from. I have found it all 
 out now. I am glad I asked mamma. But," and Ida's lips 
 drooped at the corners, " I must n't ask her anything more. 
 I wonder if I was an angel and had wings up there, and if 
 the things I see now I wonder but mamma said I 
 mustn't think of these things. Why must n't I think ? How 
 can I help thinking ? " 
 
 Ida pressed her hand successively on her forehead and 
 against her heart; as though feeling after some secret spring, 
 by the moving of which she might lock away that flood 
 of thought. " How can I help thinking ? " she repeated. 
 " When I am a woman maybe I can, but now the thoughts 
 will come." 
 
 Ah, Ida ! if the little germ fill the heart of childhood with 
 its first swelling, what will it be, in flowering and fruit-bear- 
 ing, to the nature which cherished it ? 
 
 "When I am a woman but why shouldn't I think 
 
 VOL. II. 19
 
 218 IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 now? Is it wrong to think? Perhaps I am very foolish 
 perhaps I don't " Ida's face flushed ; she stood for a moment 
 as though perplexed, stunned, and then crouched by the bod- 
 side and buried her face in the drapery. For a long time 
 she remained motionless; and if not sleeping, she must have 
 been in thought, intense, perhaps painful thought, for mem- 
 ory is a traitor if it deny depth and intensity to the mental 
 emotions of our childhood. At last she arose slowly, and 
 with an expression of sadness which had never before over- 
 shadowed her young face. 
 
 "Unlike others!" she murmured. "I see it all now it 
 must be so. That is why they watch me so closely they 
 are afraid to leave me alone. That is why I must look at 
 other people, and try to think as they talk. This is why 
 everybody is so kind to me, and all that look at me seem to 
 say, poor Ida! they are just so to her. That is why 
 mamma looks at me so sorrowfully, and the tears come into 
 her eyes, and she breathes so hard, as though there was 
 something strange about me, and she had strange thoughts 
 she was shutting in. Now I know why she always said I 
 was unlike other children, and why she seems to love me so 
 much better than she does Phil. I wonder if Phil knows it ? 
 he must oh, yes! he knows all about her. But she 
 can't talk, and I can that is, I think I can. Maybe I don't 
 speak the words ; she makes a sound, and I suppose she calls 
 that talking ; they seem to understand her, too, and sometimes 
 people look at me as though they didn't understand me. 
 Nobody seems very well to understand me but mother and 
 Phil, and Phil not always. Oh, yes! I know it all now 
 all all all ! I am like poor Cicely Doane .'" 
 
 Cicely Doane was an idiot ! 
 
 Poor Ida's unemployed imagination had at last conjured 
 up a phantom which it might be difficult to lay. Was it 
 strange that she should ? Why, the child had suddenly become 
 a philosopher ; and might, by a very simple process of induc- 
 tive reasoning, arrive at the grand theory of Hume himself. 
 She was only a little more modest than he she denied simply
 
 IDA RAVELIN. 219 
 
 the existence of her own mind ; he, of everybody's. So a fal- 
 lacy on which a mighty philosopher could waste years of 
 time, a child of a few summers fished up from her fancy, just 
 between dreams on a moonlit night. And the child would 
 be laughed at had she ventured to name her folly, while the 
 man is followed by crowds of admiring disciples. So much 
 for the boasted wisdom of sages, and the gullibility of their 
 followers ! But there was a difference. The child unfortu- 
 nately believed her theory, and acted on it ; the philosopher 
 treated his as a brave man does the optical illusion which 
 others might deern a supernatural visiter, walking through it. 
 From that night a change came over little Ida Eavelin. 
 If she commenced speaking, she stopped in the middle of a 
 sentence to wonder if she were understood. When with 
 other children, she looked on their amusements with interest, 
 but never ventured to join them, for she was sure that they 
 invited her only from pity. A touchingly sorrowful expres- 
 sion, mingled with traces of premature thought, crept over her 
 face ; and while she was as much in love with life and the 
 things of life as ever, she moved about as a mere spectator. 
 Thomas Ravelin thought the child improving wonderfully, 
 Ruth joyed in the fruit of her somewhat laborious instruc- 
 tions, and even Mary regarded the timid, quiet child with 
 something like a feeling of relief. Little did any one dream 
 of the silent influence that was remoulding a nature which 
 God had fitted for high and noble purposes. To do as 
 others did, became little Ida's constant study. But still her 
 mind was not an imitator ; it refused to learn the lesson. 
 She observed, and formed an independent opinion on every 
 subject, but never dared express it ; and when a different one 
 was given, she relinquished her own, certain that it must be 
 wrong. She still felt, too, with as much freedom as ever. 
 She loved and hated, hoped and desponded, but it seemed to 
 
 Sher that she scarce had a right to feel ; and so everything was 
 shut closely within her own bosom. Little Ida's cheek 
 began to lose its roundness, and her eye its rare brilliancy ; 
 for the actual was receding from her, and she lived only in
 
 220 IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 the ideal. A little world was built up within her bosom, a 
 dear, charming, life-like world, peopled not with fairies and 
 woodland deities, but with real flesh and blood beings, with 
 whom the child held converse every day, when she shrank 
 from the sight of her sister's visiters, with the firm belief that 
 she, poor trembler, was a companion too humble for them. 
 
 " I am unlike them all unlike them," would Ida whisper 
 sadly to herself; and then she would smile and turn to her 
 imaginary world, from which nothing that belongs to human 
 nature was excluded, save the bad turn to that and enact 
 the queen for which she was intended originally. So Ida's 
 mind did not feed upon itself, but grew and expanded ; grew 
 wise and lofty, yet not too much etherealized for the world 
 that lay before her, while she shrank from contact with that 
 world, with a sensitiveness utterly incomprehensible to those 
 who could not take a peep behind the veil. And there the 
 child stood on the threshold of life, rare, glorious in her spirit's 
 beauty, but, alas ! crippled in every limb. So much for trying 
 to amend what God has made perfect, oh ye quacks of the 
 human soul ! 
 
 The windows had been thrown up, and the heavy curtains 
 looped far back to allow free entrance to the fresh, fragrant 
 breezes ; for breath, breath was sorely needed in that house 
 of the dying. The trembling soul still clung to its earthly 
 altar, fanned in the moment of its fainting by the clear summer 
 air, which swept up from its dalliance with the budding things 
 of June, to linger on the lip and give another swell to the 
 heart which had once gloried in its joyous ministrations. 
 Mary Ravelin, like some superb flower broken from its stem, 
 lay withering in her fully expanded beauty. Her eye still 
 flashed and burned with supernatural brilliancy, fully matched 
 by the deep crimson of her cheek and lips ; but the hands, 
 which were folded over the heaving bosom, were long and 
 thin, and tipped with the ice of death. Across her forehead, 
 too, wandered little violet threads, now taking on a dark, un- 
 natural purple, and contrasting fearfully with the deep palor
 
 IDA RAVELIN. 221 
 
 of their resting-place. Her hair had broken from the con- 
 finement of the cap, and lay in rich shining folds of raven 
 blackness about her neck and shoulders ; conspiring with the 
 crimson cheek and dazzling eye to give an intensity, a proud 
 queenliness to her beauty, in strange contrast with the certainty 
 of immediate dissolution. Around her gathered a group of 
 weeping mourners ; but little Ida was not with them. From 
 time to time, at the rustle of a curtain, or some slight noise 
 from without, the eye of the dying woman would turn itself 
 on the door, and then the breath, which struggled up with so 
 much difficulty from its fast benumbing fountain, would falter 
 and quiver in agitation. At last, a light, springing step was 
 heard, in the adjoining apartment, and gently, but eagerly, 
 the latch was raised. 
 
 " My Ida ! " whispered the dying mother. 
 
 Ida had filled her apron with flowers, and gathered up the 
 corners in her hand; the dew-spangled buds peeping out 
 in every direction, eloquent in their young brightness, but 
 strangely eloquent at an hour so fraught with the deep solem- 
 nities of death. The light of love was beaming in her eye, 
 and her thin, childish face glowed with exercise. Beautiful 
 was the child though not so beautiful as when we first knew 
 her beautiful was she, as, with the eagerness of a loving 
 heart, her bright head peered through the opening of the door, 
 and her sweet, dove-like eyes sought the couch of her mother. 
 But the solemnity of the scene startled her ; and she stood 
 thus lightly poised, on the threshold, her lips parted, and her 
 eyes full of eloquent wonder. A woman left the bedside, and 
 taking the child by the hand, beckoned her to throw aside the 
 useless flowers. 
 
 " Nay, bring them to me," said a low, feeble voice from the 
 pillow. 
 
 Ida dropped the hand of her conductor, and sprung to the 
 bosom of her mother, scattering the flowers as she went, and 
 crushing them beneath her little feet, till the apartment was 
 filled with their perfume. One hand of the dying woman 
 closed about an opening rose-bud, as though the death-stricken 
 
 VOL. n. 19*
 
 222 IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 fingers knew so well these beautiful treasures, loved of yore, 
 as to select by instinct the fairest among them ; and the other 
 arm was twined lovingly about her own bud of immortality 
 the strangely gentle being who, year by year, had grown 
 closely to her impassioned heart. 
 
 What she said no one could hear, for the words seemed to 
 be pronounced rather by her struggling heart than by her lips, 
 so faintly and falteringly they fell; but Ida heard every one ; 
 and, as she listened, instead of the sorrow which was deluging 
 other faces, a strange, joyous light beamed in her eyes and 
 played about her mouth. 
 
 " I know it, my mother, I know it," at last she said, eagerly, 
 " but no one ever told me before." 
 
 " Then tread the earth carefully, my darling," whispered 
 the dying mother ; " love the beautiful things which God has 
 made love the beings he has given you for companionship; 
 but, Ida, Ida, shut that rich heart from every eye. Give all its 
 wealth to Heaven the reeds which it would rest upon here 
 will sway and bend beneath it there is no support for a 
 strong, high spirit here. Keep thy treasure close, my darling, 
 and thou wilt be happy ; but once " 
 
 The breath came gaspingly, and there was a short, severe 
 struggle. An attendant interposed, and endeavored to remove 
 the child, but the arm of the dying woman was too firmly 
 about her. 
 
 " Do not let the world know the riches shut in thy bosom, 
 Ida they would be desecrated, stained keep them for thine 
 own self and the angels." 
 
 Mary Ravelin drew the lips of the child to her?, pressed 
 them fondly again and again, but each time more feebly, till 
 finally there came one long, loving pressure, as though the 
 icy lips would grow to the warm living ones, and all was still ! 
 Upon the bosom of the dead lay the fair child, her bright 
 locks mingling with the shining black, one hand pressing the 
 livid cheek, and the other lying, the fairest flower of them all, 
 among the fresh roses yet sparkling with dew : there she lay 
 in her young beauty, without a tear or sigh, but yet the sin-
 
 IDA RAVELIN. 223 
 
 cerest of mourners. At first she would not be separated from 
 the loved clay ; but when they told her that her mother was 
 dead, and she looked into the glazed eyes, and placed her 
 hand upon the hushed heart, and knew that it was so, she 
 suffered herself to be led quietly and uncomplainingly away. 
 
 All that day Ida sat beneath the little clump of locust trees 
 in the garden, and watched the window from which her 
 mother had so often looked ; while thoughts, such as seldom 
 find their origin in the bosom of a child, crowded upon her, 
 and left an impress upon her sweet, sad face. A change had 
 come over Ida Ravelin since the night of the first strange fan- 
 tasy which had sealed up the door of her spirit against com- 
 munion with her kind. The timidity which characterized 
 her during that year had remained and strengthened, but the 
 self-distrust had vanished. She knew there was that within 
 her bosom which those about her could not even comprehend ; 
 she knew of a deep mine of more than earthly wisdom, in 
 which she daily revelled, and the existence of which no one 
 imagined ; but yet she believed herself as much unfitted for 
 companionship with others as though she had been the idiot 
 which she once imagined. 
 
 " I lack something," she would say to herself. " I am not 
 like them ; they never speak of the things I think about, and 
 they find no pleasure in my words. I am not like them ; they 
 cannot be interested in me ; and so I will give my love to the 
 birds and violets." 
 
 Notwithstanding this feeling, none was more truly loved 
 than Ida Ravelin not by strangers, for her serious, thought- 
 ful eyes, and full, intellectual forehead, had too little of the 
 child about them for her years but those who saw her daily, 
 and penetrated beneath the covering of mingled timidity and 
 self-consciousness in which she had enveloped herself, saw 
 the joyous spirit, the simple, artless grace that fashioned all 
 within, and loved her. But even they, her constant compan- 
 ions, did not see all. Sweetness, and love, and truth, were 
 the qualities which attracted them ; they did not see into the 
 depths of mind and heart the intellect and the affections
 
 224 IDA EAVELIW. 
 
 braided closely together, and growing up in rich luxuriance, 
 budding and blossoming for the eyes of angels only. The 
 only expression which Ida Ravelin had ever given to the 
 inspiration lighting up the inner chamber of her soul was in 
 song. And, but for these revealings, even the watchful, anx- 
 ious mother might have been deceived; there was so little 
 without to give a clue to the contents of the casket. Yet, 
 strange to say, through all this Ida had preserved all her 
 world-lovingness, her ready sympathy with whatever inter- 
 ested her friends ; and, on all occasions, she evinced a 
 capability of judging, and a sober common sense, seldom 
 possessed in connection with a rich fancy and ardent imagina- 
 tion. So had Ida grown and expanded, though crippled still, 
 until she reached her thirteenth summer ; and now another 
 change had come over her fortunes a dark, dark change 
 for the eyes that had watched over her timidly and with 
 trembling, but, oh, so lovingly ! had lost their light, and the 
 bosom which had pillowed her head when thought had made 
 it ache, could never be her pillow again. Cold, cold was it, 
 and hushed the heart which had beat in concert with her own, 
 answering every throb with a throb still wilder, even while 
 the lips were striving to belie its earnestness. Ida had been 
 taught of the heart, not the lips, and now was she all alone ; 
 orphaned in a world to which she was a stranger, doubly 
 orphaned in spirit. 
 
 All was still in the house of death. The mourners had 
 gone to their pillows, perhaps with the abandon of real grief, 
 to add the awe of darkness and the solemnity of loneliness to 
 their already weighty sorrows ; perhaps to rest their fatigued 
 senses, but not their aching hearts, in a sleep haunted by 
 dreams scarce less fearful than the waking reality. Two old 
 women sat beside the vines which shaded the open window, 
 talking in broken whispers, the meaning of which was eked 
 out by mysterious nods, and involuntarily drawing nearer 
 each other, as the shadows of the leaves commenced a fresh 
 frolic with the moonbeams which peered through them, paint- 
 ing fantastic figures on the ceiling and carpet.
 
 IDA RAVELIN. 225 
 
 " She has not been a happy woman," whispered one ; and 
 then she gave two distinct nods, and tucked a grey lock be- 
 neath her cap, and passed her fingers across her keen old 
 eyes, which glittered with an intenser light than the moon 
 itself. The other shook her head and sighed, and thanked 
 Heaven that she was not in the place of some hard, stern peo- 
 ple whom she might name ; though, to be sure, Mary Rave- 
 lin had not been just like other women the Lord forgive 
 her for speaking such words of the dead, for she was sure she 
 had always wished the poor creature well. 
 
 " Hark ! " and both old women put their fingers to their 
 lips, and drew themselves upright with a shiver ; for the clock 
 was on the stroke of twelve, and mingling with its tone was 
 another sound. The clock ceased, but the other noise con- 
 tinued. There was a click, like the lifting of a latch ; and 
 then a foot-fall, which struck the frightened watchers as sin- 
 gularly heavy, in the apartment of the dead. They both 
 started to their feet, and seized a light in either hand, and 
 hurried to the door ; and both paused, looked into each oth- 
 er's faces, and went back again. A low, soft murmur, as of 
 a pleading human voice, pressed down by a heavy weight of 
 tears, stole up from the room where lay the shrouded corse, 
 and mingled with the rustling of the leaves and the beating 
 of their own hearts, overshadowing them with awe, till their 
 limbs refused to support them, and their white lips strove in 
 vain to pronounce the words of fear which struggled for 
 utterance. 
 
 Slowly moved the fingers of the clock so slowly that it 
 seemed Time himself had made a pause in fear ; and five 
 minutes passed like a weary period in a night-mare dream. 
 Five minutes more crept by how, the frightened women could 
 not say but it was gone at length ; and then the voice 
 ceased, and a low, soft breathing, though they imagined it 
 singularly heavy and sob-like in their night-time fear, took its 
 place, and filled them still with terror. A half hour had 
 passed since the striking of the clock ; and now that nothing 
 but the monotonous breathing had been for a long time heard, 
 the old women gathered courage, and again proposed looking
 
 226 IDA UAVELIN. 
 
 into the dreaded apartment. They moved timidly, and opened 
 the door with the utmost caution. At first, they started back 
 in alarm ; but then they looked at each other, and one tried 
 to smile, while a tear crept into the cold, age-deadened eye of 
 the other, and fell sparkling to her withered hand. The dead 
 had found loving company. The cloth had been laid back 
 from the face of the corse, and close beside it knelt a fair 
 young girl, her two hands clasped over the rigid neck, and 
 her head resting on the cold, nerveless bosom. A ray of 
 moonlight peering through a crevice in the closed curtains, 
 glanced from her hair to the shoulder of her white night- 
 dress ; and then, breaking and scattering itself, was spread 
 over her like an angel's wing, or the visible promise of the 
 protection given by the redeemed spirit to the child of her 
 almost idolatry. Lightly and reverently crept the two old 
 women to the spot. One of them stepped back and closed 
 the curtain, as though the vision were too heavenly in its rare 
 beauty for earthly eyes to look upon ; but the other opened it 
 again, and the moonlight rushed in gladly, enveloping the 
 sleeping child in a yet more glorious radiance. 
 
 " We must take her away," said one, in a whisper ; " it is 
 a dreadful place to sleep in ugh ! " and a shiver passed over 
 the old woman as she spoke. 
 
 " No, no ; she has chosen her own pillow," said her com- 
 panion, tenderly. " Poor child ! I dare say she will miss it 
 many a time. Well, God help her ! If Mary Ravelin was 
 not the best of wives and I would never say but she was 
 no, no ; she was a devoted mother. Poor Ida sleeps soundly 
 and for the last time in such a place. We will not disturb 
 her." 
 
 Almost tearfully, moved the two old women from the sa- 
 cred spot, and closed the door with care, and left the child to 
 her holy dreams. 
 
 " But for one word one word more ! " sobbed Ida Ravelin, 
 as she laid her head so low within the opened coffin that her 
 brown locks rested in glossy waves upon the pall. " Oh !
 
 IDA RAVELIN. ^ 227 
 
 to be assured that she will still watch by me ! My angel 
 mother ! " 
 
 But neither the anguish of the child, nor the warm pressure 
 of the lips, nor the tears that jewelled over the midnight-col- 
 ored hair, and wetted the white muslin pillow, could win one 
 answering sigh from that cold bosom. 
 
 They took the child from her slumbering parent, and closed 
 the coffin, and lowered it into the earth, and placed green sods 
 upon the little mound they raised, and went away some to 
 mourn, others to forget. 
 
 Night followed the going down of the sun, and the morning 
 came and went the Sabbath dawned and waned, and gayer 
 days rolled into its place soon months were numbered. 
 The golden sheaves stood up in the fields, and the white 
 clover-blossoms and nodding grass-heads, yielding to the scythe 
 of the mower, changed their color, and gave out a dying 
 fragrance. Then the apple-boughs were heavily laden with 
 fruit of various hues; the purple plum, for very ripeness, 
 dropped down at every touch of the wind, and nestled in the 
 fading grass ; and the peach peeped from among the sheltering 
 green, with a radiant blush on one warm cheek, while on the 
 other was a hue more lusciously tempting still the rich, 
 soft, golden tint which seemed melting into the yellow sun- 
 light of a Septemoer sky. Then the trees put on their holy- 
 day suit of gold and scarlet, flaunting proudly in their 
 gorgeousness ; the orchis and the aster bloomed beneath the 
 night-frosts in the garden ; the blood-hued lobelia looked at 
 its face in the sparkling, babbling, tripping brooks ; the violets 
 awoke from their August slumbers, thousands of purple eyes 
 looking up lovingly from deserted garden-plots ; and the year 
 became gay, gayer than in its childhood. The gala-day went 
 by, and the trees put on their russet ; long spires of pallid 
 grass waved to and fro wearily ; the wind awoke with a shiver, 
 and marked its course with sobs and wailings; the brooks 
 grew bluer and chiller ; and the cold white clouds trooped off 
 through fields of pure cerulean, obeying every impulse of the
 
 228 IDA BAVEL1N. 
 
 ice-winged lord of the storm. Another change and me 
 bare trees were wreathed in white ; the brooks lost their sil- 
 very voices, or struggled on with a death-like gurgle, amid 
 barriers of choking ice ; the wind swept freely and roughly 
 over mountain and meadow, yet on wings of melting fleeci- 
 ness ; and the grave of Mary Ravelin, lost beneath the deep 
 snow of winter, was well nigh forgotten by all but the child- 
 mourner. She kept a path well trodden, and her pale, thin 
 face often bent over it tearfully ; for though the momentary 
 doubt had passed, and she knew that the spirit of her lost 
 mother was still by her, still hovered over her in the night- 
 time, and watched her every step in the sunlight, the death 
 mark had been drawn between them. A deep gulf, with a 
 grave at the bottom, must be passed before the two could 
 unite as formerly ; and Ida, notwithstanding her angel guar- 
 dian, was in the world all alone. But it was not always to 
 be thus. There was a change coming, and soon Ida's dark, 
 thoughtful eyes grew lustrous with a strange kind of happi- 
 ness ; and she went about as one in a dream, a blissful, soul- 
 fraught dream, for she had found a friend. By the time the 
 spring violets began to shake off their winter slumbers, and 
 open their bright eyes to the wooing breezes, the world was 
 ringing with the praise of a poet who might have been dropped 
 down from the clouds, so full was he of the inspiration of 
 Heaven. But long before this had Ida Ravelin known the 
 new minstrel well. A scrap of paper had fluttered in her 
 path one day when the wintry winds were blowing keenly, 
 and, as she glanced it over, her eye fell on familiar thoughts. 
 Ida tried to brush the mist from her eyes, for she believed 
 that she saw indistinctly; but still it was the same her 
 own thoughts, her secret heart-thoughts, that she never re- 
 vealed to mortal the riches of her own bosom, which she 
 had hugged to herself more closely since her mother's dying 
 caution spread out upon a paper, in irrevocable print ! And 
 yet she knew well that she had never placed them there. 
 What listening spirit, what winged thing hover ing near, had 
 stolen this honey from its secret lurking-plarc in the deepest
 
 IDA RAVELIN. 229 
 
 recess of the soul-gifted flower, for a careless world to feast 
 upon ? Ah, Ida ! there are other spirits than thine roam- 
 ing' the earth in loneliness ; genius often has its twin. The 
 child believed her thoughts had been stolen ; but the breath- 
 ing language, the harp-like measure, she disclaimed. These 
 were not her own ; and these betrayed not only the inspira- 
 tion of the genius, but the skill of the artist. Ida stood, with 
 her dark spiritual eyes fixed on vacancy, as though reading 
 earnestly from a page invisible to others ; then a smile, a glad, 
 glowing, beautiful smile broke from her lips, and lighted up 
 her pale, sweet face. Ida was no longer alone in the world ; 
 she had found a friend. And here the finger of Fate was 
 irust forward, and some wheels were stopped, and new ones 
 )ut in motion ; for the strange machinery employed in weav- 
 ing the destiny of Ida Ravelin, grew more complicated. The 
 lild did not pause to reason ; but one thing she knew from 
 the day when she found the scrap of paper by the wayside. 
 Her spirit, which could not be entirely prisoned in the little 
 body that claimed it for a season, was not condemned to wing 
 its way up and down the blossoming earth alone. For weal 
 or -woe and Ida could not think of woe in that connection 
 she had found a companion. 
 
 Spring came. Life began to swell and breathe in the 
 bosoms of the flower-buds, till it seemed as though each had 
 in it a living soul, as full of energy and world-lovingness as 
 Ida's own ; the brooks leaped and sparkled, an Undine laugh- 
 ing from the heart of every bubble ; and the winds murmured 
 their spirit-music among the old trees, and then swept down- 
 ward from their high-communion, and stooped to kiss the fore- 
 head of the child. Everywhere, everywhere, save in the 
 world of living men, she found companions as full of life and 
 joy as was her own fluttering heart. And oh, how that heart 
 fluttered, as the young girl stood thus on the border of woman- 
 hood ! Far before, her poetic imagination spread the broad 
 fields of life; far out in ether gleamed stars innumerable, 
 which were to be her way-marks to immortality ; and beside 
 
 VOL. ii. 20
 
 230 IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 her walked her guide, her inspiration, her sacred spirit-friend ; 
 in the guise of an angel, trod he by her side, invisible to all 
 but her. Glad Ida ! Enviable Ida ! Thy rainbow was set 
 in tears, true ; but it was as a triumphal arch thrown over tne 
 gateway through which thy Destiny was leading thee up to a 
 broader view of life. And the child walked on humbly and 
 lovingly, yet without a fear ; stepping carefully the while lest 
 her foot should crush the little violet or the dew-flower, and 
 kneeling as she went, to mark even the texture of the jewelled 
 gossamer which nimble fingers had spread from green to green 
 in the spirit-freighted night-time. Loved and loving, but all 
 unknown, stepped Ida Ravelin beneath her rainbow arch, and 
 looked with a startled gaze out on the strange world in which 
 she was a stranger. Warm breezes came wooingly, and kissed 
 her cheek, and laid their soft fingers on her forehead, and left 
 a touch of balm upon her ripe lips ; the golden sunshine glowed 
 in her path, or coquetted with cool, fresh shadows which invited . 
 to dreamy repose by the wayside ; a thousand glad voices 
 greeted her from shrub and tree ; flowers blossomed, wings 
 glanced, waters sparkled, and the heart of Ida Ravelin fluttered 
 in its cage like an imprisoned bird. But the cage was strong, 
 and it could not free itself with all its flutterings. The wires * 
 had been woven over it, when it had no wing to- raise in oppo- 
 sition, and now it commanded no resources powerful enough 
 to undo the elaborate fastenings. It had been locked from 
 without, and from without must the relief come. So Ida was 
 still a stranger to those who loved her; for she was loved 
 deeply, and with a reverential tenderness, inspired by her 
 singular purity and guilelessness. So delicate and helpless, 
 too, seemed Ida, that every arm coming within the charmed 
 circle about her, involuntarily extended itself for her support: 
 but she needed them not, for in her helplessness she v^r 
 strong in her lack of worldliness she was wiser than any 
 worldling. Still there was a sadness in the strange, prophet- 
 like eyes of Ida Ravelin, that seemed scarce to belong to one 
 so young; a sadness which had stolen up from the grave 
 where some of their tears had fallen ; and though her heart
 
 IDA RAVELIN. 231 
 
 was now as joyous as the young bird that waved its wing, 
 and wheeled and carolled in the sunlight, the shadow would 
 not go away from her face. 
 
 So, many there were who wondered at the young girl's 
 seriousness, and thought, as they looked upon her, how strange 
 a thing it was that any blighting influence should have fallen 
 upon so young a nature and then turned away and forgot 
 her existence. Ida was quiet and unpretending, to$ simple 
 and timid to live long in the memory of a stranger. Others 
 gave a second look, and these always found something to 
 interest them ; but it was only those who won her confidence, 
 and who appeared as guileless as herself, that were entrusted 
 with even the first key to her nature. These were often star- 
 tled by the stirrings of the free, gladsome spirit shut within, 
 and could scarce think the occasional gush of mirth&ilness, 
 which seemed to have its source in an overflowing fountain 
 down deep in her nature, could be real. But who should be 
 glad, if the pure are not ? Who should be happier than the 
 gifted, holding as they do the key to the bright world, and 
 bearing a second treasure within their own bosoms ? The 
 God-gifted, led by the hand and guided and cherished by 
 Eternal Love, so like the angels as to be counted one of them 
 even while lingering here, throwing their warm sympathy, 
 like a veil woven of balm and sunshine, over the world of 
 suffering men, treading among the flowers of the earth with 
 the light of heaven circling about their heads who should 
 be happier than the gifted? And Ida Ravelin was oh, so 
 happy ! Happy was she in her own genius, in her power of 
 creating inner sunshine happy in the human love which was 
 lavished on her by the few who wondered at, even as they 
 I, the power she exercised over them happy in the 
 
 lutiful, beautiful things of God's creation, which sprang up 
 beneath her feet and hovered over her head but happier 
 still in the fond dream" of her heart's inner chamber the deep, 
 impassioned love which she had lavished so unsparingly upon 
 her spirit's twin. So the child went onward, passed under 
 her triumphal arch to womanhood, and the angel within her
 
 2; IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 was not recognized. So, many an angel " walks the earth 
 unseen," since the close of the gate of Eden. 
 
 Ida Ravelin was still young, but not beautiful. It is said 
 that the spirit's beauty cannot be shut within, as you would 
 shut the diamond in the casket, hiding all its light ; but that 
 the radiance illuminating the inner temple will spread itself 
 over the'face, proclaiming to all who come near, " here dwells 
 an angel." I know that sometimes the angel in the boscm 
 looks out through human eyes, and puts its own impress on 
 human lips ; but this earth has sadly changed since the ladder 
 of the old patriarch's dream was let down from heaven ; and 
 there are things enow in it to make the beautiful spirit oftener 
 veil its sorrowful face with its own pinion, as though thus to 
 wait for the final release. The radiance which would be daz- 
 zling to a mortal eye in heaven, is subdued by the sin-heavy 
 atmosphere of this world into a feeble glimmer ; but it is all 
 there, and waiting only the call homeward to become glorious. 
 But what if the beauty of the spirit should come out before 
 the world and sit upon the brow ? The angel would still be 
 unrecognized ; for men are not gifted with a pure vision, and 
 the gross eye cannot see beyond the handsome shape and the 
 brilliant coloring. When the crowd bows to personal ugli- 
 ness, made beautiful by soul, the fallen Zareph and his fair 
 Nama may spread their wings they are very near to heaven. 
 
 Ida Ravelin was not beautiful ; even those who loved her 
 most did not attempt to say it, and strangers passed her by 
 without a glance. It is true that her slight, delicately moulded 
 figure was faultless ; but there was a shrinking timidity in 
 her step and manner, which effectually shaded this beauty. 
 Her eye had a clear light, but that was timid too. At 
 there was a soft, dove-like expression in it, and again 
 burned from its centre a deep, soul-fraught brilliancy, and its 
 vision seemed prolonged far into eternity ; but it was too full 
 of thought. Her full, round forehead was too severely intel- 
 lectual, and the rich, heavy braids which bound her magnifi- 
 cently formed head could not compensate for its singularly
 
 IDA RAVELIN. 233 
 
 lofty developments. The lower part of the face was of a 
 different mould. Ida had never possessed regular features, 
 although in childhood she was strikingly beautiful. Her 
 mouth had been made lovely by the sweet smiles which 
 habitually clustered around it, rather than by the chiselling 
 of the Architect; but now the character of the smile was 
 changed. Like the one centred in the eye, it was heavily 
 laden with thought. Ida had a bosom full of light and love ; 
 and, in rich, heavy clusters, lay upon her heart the closely- 
 folded blossoms of genius. Upon her heart. That genius 
 would ever build its altar there ! 
 
 But Ida had her hand closely on her bosom's door-, lest 
 these treasures should escape. She had placed it there at the 
 first stirring of the swelling buds, and, as they gradually 
 struggled more for freedom, she pressed her hand down more 
 and more closely, and whispered to herself " Never never 
 never, but in heaven !" And this struggle made itself vis- 
 ible upon her face. The smile was there, but it was thought- 
 ful ; the sweetness had not vanished, but it was usually over- 
 shadowed by reserve ; sometimes there was a soft lovingness 
 flitted to her lip, but it could scarce be recognized before it 
 retreated, as though chilled or scared back by the cold world 
 it looked out upon. It would not have been singular for a 
 stranger to imagine her a gloomy ascetic ; common acquaint- 
 ances considered her merely uninteresting ; but, despite the 
 prisoned genius, with all its swellings, and with all its strag- 
 glings, her friends, those who knew her best, took her to their 
 hearts, and felt that there was an angel there, although they 
 did not see beyond the wires of the cage. Ida was not morose, 
 nor misanthropic, nor sad, nor an enemy to mirth ; she was 
 too thoughtful and too much reserved. It did not mate- 
 affect her intercourse with those she really loved ; for 
 love covers a multitude of shortcomings, and Ida had enough 
 to satisfy common friendship, without encroaching upon her 
 sacred treasure. Few would believe that Ida was happy ; for, 
 though she looked with an interested eye on mirthful doings, 
 she never mingled in them. She had seen but little of the 
 
 VOL. n. 20*
 
 234 
 
 IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 outer world ; and, though she had studied closely the fevr 
 pages within her reach, she was but slightly under its influ- 
 ence, either for joy or sorrow. However dense the clouds 
 above her, the rainbow always spanned her heart. Her world 
 was within ; and, as it was too sacred to be looked upon by 
 other eyes, she shut up with it the bliss it brought, and car- 
 ried everywhere her Eden with her. Oh, Ida was deeply, 
 purely, silently happy. Misery is -not, as worldlings have 
 declared, and the puling sentimentalist labored to establish, 
 the twin gift of genius. It is not so it cannot be ! Let 
 the whole world frown ; let the cloud darken, and the winds 
 rave it is all the same ; the fires of adversity will burn away 
 only the dross, and, in the midst of all, will walk unseen the 
 white-winged angel. And that holy angel spreads its shield 
 over the sensitive bosom, and holds always to the thirsty lips 
 the cup of bliss. Are my true words doubted, because there 
 are so many examples of a different seeming ? Oh ! there 
 are men, drunk with vain-glory, and with ambition, and other 
 earth -distilled draughts, whose lips never touched the cup of 
 inspiration. Men sometimes hear a voice in the air, and mis- 
 take its tone. There are many false angels abroad, and they 
 deceive many. Some, too, have filled their bosoms up with 
 defilements ; and from such the angel turns away to weep, 
 casting her protecting shield at her feet, while the shafts of 
 misery fly thick and fast. Genius cannot bring her accus- 
 tomed blessing to those who would have her dwell apart from 
 purity ; and when her temple grows dark with earthliness, 
 her lamp blazes in the midst, a consuming fire. He who 
 would pollute the wings of his bosom-angel, must needs be 
 miserable. But, the gifted, the God-gifted, do they but 
 recognize their Benefactor, are, in a peculiar manner, th^ 
 little children of this world ; and little children have received 
 at the hands of a Holy One an especial blessing. So the 
 thoughtful-eyed, sober-lipped Ida was supremely happy. 
 
 Their voices those of Ida and the brother-spirit that she 
 had so early recognized had met each other in the upper
 
 IDA RAVELIN. 235 
 
 air, and mingled tones. Long since had the twain linked 
 themselves in a relationship which only the blessed little chil- 
 dren, gifted with spirit-pulses, can understand. Why could 
 not this be enough? Ida thought it was ; and yet, lovers in 
 spirit, in person strangers, they met. 
 
 It was a cold, dark, dismal, cloud-curtained morning, when 
 Ida Ravelin was called to confide her heart-worship to the 
 less romantic eye. She had been conscious of a strange 
 shadow, hanging over her head, for days; and now she 
 whispered, with white lips, " It is falling it is falling ! " and 
 arose to obey the summons. 
 
 Ugh ! how chillingly the hurrying wind swept around the 
 corner ; and what a dismal tone it had, like the midnight 
 howl, which comes to tell, to the invalid, tales of the noisome 
 grave. Heavy was the slow, dragging step of Ida Ravelin, 
 and heavier still her heart. She knew that the eye of curi- 
 osity, the earth-taught tongue, could not link closer together 
 two spirits which had no need of such mediums. One by one, 
 stair after stair, her steps slowly counted ; finally, she poised 
 for one agitating moment on the last, with a foot thrust 
 tremblingly and doubtfully forward, again descended, moved 
 onward mechanically, and laid her hand upon the door. 
 Hast thou but been dreaming, Ida ; and is the vapor which 
 thy heart's censer has caused to envelop thee, to pass off like 
 a smoke-curl in the clear air, leaving thee all disrobed of thy 
 enchantment ? Not so. Ida Ravelin would have known her 
 poet ; for the angel of genius had a glorious temple. But 
 she did not spring forward to meet him ; she did not smile ; 
 even the usual light of her eye was clouded in ; she would 
 have known her poet, but she was not recognized. 
 
 Slowly and chillingly the shadow settled down upon her 
 %eart ; and then came a cold smile, and words as cold ; and 
 the twain sat together, like strangers of different lands, with- 
 out any common sympathies, and spoke of that which inter- 
 ested neither, and mocked each other with hollow compli- 
 ments ; and then, with a cold clasp of the hand, and a formal 
 bow, they parted. Ida's heart had never beat so sluggishly
 
 236 IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 as at that moment, and her lip might have been moulded of 
 iron. 
 
 They met again, and yet again, and again ; and still Ida's 
 voice seemed chilling, her lip severe, and her manner almost 
 repellant. She felt that she was unknown ; arid the entire 
 sunshine and beauty of years of dreamy bliss seemed to her 
 darkened in a moment. Finally, however, the smile upon 
 her lip began to beam with soul ; a dewiness crept to her eye, 
 a softness gathered about her heart, and words were spoken 
 which could never have been addressed to any other. She 
 knew, though he did not say it, that her poet-friend had 
 begun to recognize his beautiful invisible; and the broken 
 spirit-link was melting into itself, and conjoining. There 
 was something, too, in his voice, which went down into her 
 heart, and touched a chord that had never before vibrated. 
 On a sudden, all the hoarded wealth of her nature was stirred. 
 The angel sprang up, and spread a pair of wings gloriously 
 beautiful. The swelling buds burst into full blossom, raising 
 a cloud of perfume. A thousand little harps were tuned, and, 
 at every breath she drew, her bosom quivered with the rich 
 gush of melody. And her hand, and her lip too, quivered, 
 and her voice grew tremulous with strange emotion. The 
 nour of release had come. A finger from without had 
 touched the hidden spring, and the long prisoned spirit of Ida 
 Ravelin was free. But it did not leap forth from its cage 
 exultingly. The atmosphere of earth was an untried element 
 to it ; and there was still a hand striving to hold it back. 
 But Ida Ravelin was no longer mistress of her own nature. 
 The weak hand trembled the tumult increased and the 
 wild flood bounded past the slight barrier. The angel was 
 triumphant! No wonder that Ida was perplexed and over- 
 come with doubt and dread, trembling at the present, an# 
 refusing to look on the future. The low, melodious tones of 
 her poet-friend were full of encouragement and hope, but his 
 eye was earthly. He could not see down into the depths of 
 spirit which his voice had stirred, and understand the cause 
 of the quickened breath and the tremulous lip. Gently, and
 
 IDA RAVELIN. 237 
 
 with patient kindness, hour after hour, he strove with poor 
 Ida's weak timidity, until his words became, for the time, 
 strength to her; and, at last, most confidingly she placed her 
 hand in his to be taught and guided. 
 
 The noble poet and his Ida (his before heaven, though only 
 tne pure above would know how to recognize the tie that 
 bound them) stood in the night air, with clasped hands and 
 clasped spirits. The stars up in heaven looked kindly upon 
 them, and the wind swept by, kissing warm lips, and dallying 
 with curls, and touching with soft wing a brow which bore 
 the Deity's own impress. Far before them stretched the still 
 waters of the most beautiful lake in the wide world, with the 
 lights from the opposite shore twinkling through the trees, 
 and flashing out upon it in sudden gushes, which broke and 
 departed, leaving their places to others; and behind them 
 were the swelling tones of cunning instruments, bearing on 
 their wings of melody the soul-laden voice of a woman. The 
 full moon was far up in heaven, and cast upon the water a 
 broad stream of golden light. A little boat would now and 
 then shoot across this moon-gift, the oars flashing with dia- 
 monds as it went, dragging far after it a long, glittering train ; 
 and then it would steal silently along the shore, and the rough 
 boatmen would rest on their oars, and feast their eyes on 
 beauty and their ears on melody, and perhaps dream of 
 holier things than had ever found a place in their thoughts 
 before. 
 
 " The angels have paved a pathway of light our path of 
 life, dear Ida." 
 
 In a moment a cloud passed over it, a shadow fell, and the 
 path was broken. Ida raised her dark, pensive eyes to the 
 poet's face, but her voice was shut in her heart. 
 
 " It is only for a moment. Some steps must be taken in 
 darkness. \Ve are yet on earth, and earth is a place of shad- 
 ows. But mark the brilliance beyond, as though the portal 
 of Paradise were already thrown open ; and its glory lighted 
 up our way as we draw near our haven of rest. It is a beau- 
 iful path, my Ida!"
 
 JioS IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 " Beautiful." 
 
 Ida Ravelin responded mechanically ; but she rested her 
 cheek in her palm, and silently retraced her own steps all 
 along the emblematic path. It was narrow at first, and bro- 
 ken Dark waves came up and parted the light; then it would 
 rush together again, the bright ripples kissing and com- 
 mingling. Further on were other little breaks, but the bril- 
 liance grew broader and stronger, as she proceeded, until she 
 came to the shadow. 
 
 " It has been a heavy one," thought Ida, " this disappoint- 
 ment and this struggle, but why struggle ? ' Unlike others ! ' 
 it was whispered in my infancy it steals up from the sod 
 every time I kneel beside her grave. My mother ! my angel 
 mother ! I can ' keep my treasures for the eye of heaven,' as 
 thou badest me, but I must be true to my better nature." 
 
 The spirit in her bosom arose and asserted its might. A 
 serene smile sat upon her lip ; a steady light came to her 
 eye ; and her quivering pulse calmed itself and beat with 
 slow, triumphant earnestness. Her companion looked at her 
 and wondered at the change. 
 
 " It has been a heavy one, but now I am free ! " The 
 words passed from her lips in a low murmur, which the ear 
 could not catch; but she felt her heart grow strong; and, as 
 she looked again, the shadow was lifted from the water. 
 
 The next day Ida and her poet friend parted; and, though 
 she did not say it, she knew their next meeting would be in 
 heaven. They had not loved as others do ; it had been a 
 peculiar affection, coined in the innermost recesses of two 
 spirits which had been melted into each other long before a 
 thought had been given to the caskets which contained them 
 pure, and holy, and elevated without a particle of earth- 
 liness commingling a beautiful and a hallowed thing. And 
 they had been brought no nearer by the meeting. The clay 
 was a hindrance to them, and now Ida longed to cast it off. 
 The chain which linked them together could only gather 
 strength in heaven. And yet it was a sorrowful thing to part, 
 with all the sweet remembrances encircling those few blessed
 
 IPA RAVELIN. 239 
 
 days lying in their fresh, pure beauty upon the heart. The 
 tears rushed to the eyes of Ida, but they were shut back again 
 resolutely ; her voice became even more tremulous than on 
 the day previous, and her pale lip quivered with strong emo- 
 tion. Poor Ida ! The cloud had not wholly vanished. 
 
 " If he could but know that the parting is for time," whis- 
 pered the heart of Ida ; and she shaded her eyes with her 
 hand, for the tears would be kept back no longer. For the 
 first time she was guilty of a murmur, and that against the 
 beloved. 
 
 "His heart could not be aching so, and mine not recognize 
 the pain." 
 
 She felt the touch of a hand, the pressure of lips on her 
 bowed forehead, heard a low, sweet word of farewell, that 
 might never be forgotten, a step in the passage that fell on her 
 ear like the toll of a muffled bell, the closing of a door, and 
 she was alone with heaven. Poor Ida ! How she sobbed 
 and wore out the lagging hours with weeping. 
 
 Enviable Ida ! She was awake. The angel in her bosom 
 fluttered no longer behind the prisoning bars; and on the 
 broad earth not a human heart so blest as hers. Intense, 
 earnest thought still made its home in her eye ; but beside it 
 was the light of conscious inner power, and purity, and love, 
 all commingling ; a self-acknowledged affinity to the invisible 
 ones which hovered over her. The harp in her bosom had 
 been attuned to those above, and not an earthly finger had 
 power to produce a discord. Now was Ida Ravelin prepared 
 for the world, and prepared for heaven; for, strangely enough, 
 both require the same preparation. The robe that can be 
 soiled by contact with things below is not the one to glitter 
 among the stars. 
 
 Ida Ravelin was not beautiful, but she had no further need 
 of beauty. The angel which had always been shut within 
 her bosom came out and hovered round her ; and men sought, 
 as though there had been some strange witchery there, the 
 shadow of its wings. The touch of her finger thrilled ; the
 
 240 IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 glance of her eye melted ; the sound of her voice enchanted. 
 It was the magnetism of genius. Now was the path of Ida 
 Ravelin strewed with flowers, and their perfume was grateful 
 to her. The altar of her glorious nature was thronged with 
 worshippers, and, with a childlike trustfulness, Ida gave love 
 for what seemed love. What is there in the world which 
 God has made to look upon with indifference ? What in the 
 natures God has moulded, marred and soiled though they 
 be by the clay they are prisoned in, to regard with coldness ? 
 Oh, a brother's heart, however pitiable its setting, is a holy 
 thing, and woe be to the foot which dares to rest upon it ! A 
 brother's hand ! it may be stained, but there is a pulse in it 
 which is an echo to the stirrings of the soul, and the soul is 
 the breath of God. Who dare refuse the love-clasp to a broth- 
 er's hand ? 
 
 Ida gave love for love, and many revelled in its pure sun- 
 light ; but her soul had an inner chamber, a veiled temple, to 
 which the world was not admitted. It was the trysting place 
 of two spirits which waited to keep a yet holier tryst in heaven. 
 
 The world had stepped between the two friends, and they 
 could meet only in heart. 
 
 There were grey hairs on the temples of Ida Ravelin, but 
 the flowers were yet fresh within, and still fond ones gathered 
 near to taste their perfume. 
 
 Away in a strange land, an old man was dying. Tears 
 wetted his pillow, and warm lips strove with kisses to melt 
 the gathering ice of death. Soft fingers lay upon his temples, 
 an anxious hand pressed against his heart, trembling as its 
 pulsations grew fainter, and mingled voices, made sharp with 
 anguished feeling, went up to heaven most pleadingly ; but 
 the spirit had looked over the bounds of time, and it could not 
 be won back again. The old man smiled, and raised an eye 
 to heaven, whispered a cherished name, and died ! 
 
 Ida Ravelin sat in the midst of a wrapt circle, scattering 
 her buds of thought and feeling with a lavish hand. Sud-
 
 IDA RAVELIN. 241 
 
 denly that veiled inner temple was strangely illuminated. A 
 glorious radiance beamed out upon her ; meltingly it circled 
 round, bathing all within with bliss, and she felt the enfolding 
 clasp of wings invisible. Oh ! that her soul should remain 
 the longest prisoner ! A soft whisper stole down into her 
 heart, and its answer was a struggle. She must be free ! A 
 deep, burning brilliancy sprang to her eye ; the crimson gath- 
 ered hurriedly on her cheek ; the fevered pulse bounded and 
 staggered; the thousand silver chords, which had kept the 
 heavenly prisoner so long in its earth-worn cell, stretched 
 themselves to their utmost tension, and closed over it with a 
 mad, determined energy, then snapped asunder and shrivelled 
 in their uselessness ; and the angel planted a foot upon the 
 shattered fabric, and, raising its white wings heavenward, rose 
 from the earth, never to return again. 
 
 They made a sweet pillow among flowers, and streams, 
 and beautiful singing-birds, and laid a head upon it, and wept 
 long over this mouldering image of clay. But the stone they 
 reared in that beautiful valley spoke falsely. Ida Ravelin 
 was not there ; she had joined the loved in Paradise ! 
 
 VOL. n. 21
 
 242 
 
 TO SPRING. 
 
 A WELCOME, pretty maiden ! 
 
 Dainty-footed spring ! 
 Thou, with the treasures laden 
 
 No other hand can bring. 
 While onward thou art tripping, 
 Children all around are skipping, 
 And the low brown eaves are dripping 
 
 With the gladsomest of tears. 
 
 From mossed old trees are bursting 
 
 The tiny specks of green ; 
 Long have their pores been thirsting 
 
 For the gushing sap, I ween; 
 With scarce a shade molesting, 
 The laughing light is resting 
 On the slender group that 's cresting 
 
 Yon fresh, green hillock's brow. 
 
 At the timid flower it glances, 
 
 Beneath the maple's shade ; 
 And foiled, it lightly dances 
 
 With the bars the boughs have made ; 
 On the waters of the river, 
 Still in a winter's shiver, 
 Its golden streamers quiver, 
 
 O'er-brimmed with lusty life. 
 
 The folded buds are blushing 
 
 On the gnarled apple-tree ; 
 While, the small grass-blades a-crushing, 
 
 Children gather them to see ;
 
 TO SPRING. 243 
 
 And the bee, thus early coming, 
 All around the clusters humming, 
 Upon the bland air thrumming, 
 Plunges to the nectared sweets. 
 
 Life, life, the fields is flushing ! 
 
 Joy springs up from the ground ; 
 And joyous strains are gushing 
 
 From the woodland all around ; 
 From birds on wild wings wheeling, 
 Up from the cottage stealing, 
 From the full-voiced woodman pealing, 
 
 Ring out the tones of joy. 
 
 Thrice welcome, pretty maiden ! 
 
 With thy kiss upon my cheek, 
 Howe'er with care o'erladen, 
 
 Of care I could not speak ; 
 Now, I '11 make a truce with sorrow, 
 And not one cloud will borrow 
 From the dark, unsunned morrow ; 
 
 I will be a child with thee.
 
 244 
 
 THE POETESS. 
 
 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 THERE was an immense lake nestled down in the lap of a 
 hilly country, and fed by a thousand tributaries. Among 
 these was a blithesome little sparkler, which oozed up through 
 the green moss, in the shadow of protecting oaks and elm-trees, 
 and trickled down from the rocks, at the foot of which it 
 gathered up its forces and bounded off, dancing and laughing, 
 to its destination. The genius of this stream was a dear little 
 innocent, dwelling in an amber moss-cup close by, and loving 
 most truly the rosy clouds above her, and the green earth with 
 its jewel- work of flowers and dews beneath. And she was 
 content with these the simple-souled little Undine ! But 
 one day, a luckless day perchance, the water-maiden poised 
 herself upon the golden rim of her Sylvan temple, and gazed 
 earnestly down upon the lake, which lay cradled an the arch 
 of a rainbow. And she thought within herself what a very 
 nice thing it would be just to deck herself in the jewels she 
 was daily pouring into the bosom of the lake, and, canopied 
 by that bright bow, sing to the multitudes of men who came 
 down to drink of the burnished waters. It was but a thought ; 
 and the dear, simple little Undine was on her way. At first 
 she was intoxicated, for everything was new, glowing, glad- 
 some ; and close by her side crept one who whispered sweet 
 things in tones deliciously soft, but oh, how replete with false- 
 hood ! The sun made a bright path for her, and flecked her 
 robe with gold ; the white-blossomed wild shrub showered its 
 tribute of purity and perfume on her feet ; shadows came to 
 kiss her dimpled mouth ; the bird wetted its gay wings, and 
 then turned to fan her face, scattering pearls at every wave ; 
 and the love-eyed deer upon the marge of the stream bent its
 
 THE POETESS. 245 
 
 arched neck, but forgot to drink, because she was there. Oh, 
 she was a fresh, happy spirit, singing and laughing there in 
 the wilderness, loving the cool, deep shadows, and bearing 
 always on her breath the scent of violets ! A fresh, happy 
 spirit was she ; what a pity that she should come out where 
 she must barter her warm, ingenuous, beautiful faith, her 
 simple trustfulness, and, it maybe, her love and truth, for the 
 wisdom which makes the heart barren ! Never was a journey 
 more delightful than that of our bright-lipped little wanderer, 
 until she emerged from the path down the hill-side ; but there 
 she began to meet with countless annoyances, and she wished 
 herself back again, nestling in her golden cradle in the wil- 
 derness. Other water-spirits were there, older than herself 
 and world-wise ; and, at first, they looked disdainfully upon 
 this simple child of the hill. But when they observed her 
 brightness and singular purity, and knew that she would be 
 preferred to themselves, they suddenly assumed great friend- 
 ship, and attempted to unite the waters of their own brooks 
 with hers; and crossed and re-crossed her little thread of 
 silver, making so many provoking entanglements, that the 
 hitherto care-free spirit grew weary, and had scarcely the 
 courage to pursue her way. Still she went on, though with 
 constantly increasing difficulty, till at last she reached the 
 border of the lake. But at every foot of ground she passed 
 over, the disenchanted little spirit felt her enthusiasm ebbing. 
 The meadow, which had looked so green and velvety in the 
 distance, was covered with a coarse stunted grass, half faded ; 
 and the trees were diminutive and unshapely. As for the 
 flowers, the scentless arum grew there, and the blood-red 
 cardinalis, and the deadly water hemlock ; and, now and then, 
 some cold blue blossom bent its poisoned chalice for a 
 draught, and the ominous nightshade nodded among the inter- 
 twisted roots of the cypress at a little distance. Oh, how the 
 little spirit sighed when she thought of the fragrant dog-wood, 
 the meek-eyed violets, and the frail, beautiful tiarella of her 
 native wood ! There were serpents, too, by the lake-side, 
 nestled in the rank sedges, and croaking frogs, half beauty, 
 VOL. n. 21* 

 
 246 THE POETESS. 
 
 half deformity, and a thousand other things which made OUT 
 timid little Undine look with deep regret upon the misty curl 
 of blue which linked her mountain home with the clouds. So 
 she wandered in a strange sadness about the lake, sometimes 
 turning from the barrier raised about it when she might have 
 passed, and sometimes jostled rudely back when she had just 
 resolved to cross, till at last a strong, kind hand was extended 
 to her ; she trembled for a moment above the tide, and then 
 dropped down into the bosom of the lake. How bewildered 
 was she there, and how she shivered and tried to smile, and 
 looked all about her to find some compensation for the dear 
 things she had left the awakened little dreamer ! The cold 
 water-bath had spoiled a heaven for her. 
 
 The waters of the lake did not mingle together. There lay 
 the turbid alongside the clear and pure, the poisoned flood 
 and the stream that had balm in it there was every variety 
 in the great lake, and men might come and drink of which 
 they chose ; and the spirit of the mountain rivulet grew almost 
 happy again, when she saw bright lips bent to her own waters, 
 and brightening still more as they quaffed. But she must 
 have been an angel to deem this sufficient compensation for 
 the thousand vexatious annoyances which no unsophisticated 
 water-spirit, who has never followed her rich gifts to the altar 
 of the world, can understand. And our darling little Undine 
 was not quite an angel ; and might become less angelic still, 
 by standing too long beneath the arch of the rainbow with all 
 her jewels on. Haste, haste thee back, pretty wanderer, 
 before the breath of the dark hemlock has filled thy veins with 
 poison, or the sun kissed the peach-blossom from thy cheek, 
 or the wrangling waters made thy soft voice harsh as their 
 own, or disappointment mildewed thy heart. Haste thee 
 back, simple Undine, and rest thy throbbing head close in the 
 bosom of the golden moss-cup.
 
 247 
 
 DORA V . 
 
 EYES, like a wet violet, nestled among a profusion of the 
 softest-hued Persian fringes, and hair, gathered from the elfin 
 fields of Erin, and combed and twisted into waves by fairy 
 fingers such had Dora'! Then those lips, with their sad 
 sweetness, and the love-thought in each corner ! and the pale, 
 polished cheek, and vein-crossed forehead ! 
 
 Sweet, delicate Dora' ! much do I fear, that such a vision 
 of loveliness will never again appear at Alderbrook. 
 
 It was years and years ago that Dora' moved among our 
 mothers here, with a step like a fawn's, a head erect and 
 earnest, like a wild deer on the look-out for the huntsman, 
 and a face full of half-joyous, half-solemn surprise, such as 
 Eve must have worn when her foot first crushed the dews 
 and flowers of Eden. Beautiful was Dora', as a dream which 
 turns from the daylight to nestle in some young heart, or a 
 thought that refuses to syllable itself in clumsy words ; and 
 yet, beautiful was she never called ; but all paused and looked 
 upon her as she passed by, and smiled, and owned a stronger 
 power, though they knew not what it was, than that of beauty. 
 
 Stand by me, reader, and follow the direction of my finger, 
 over the bend in the brook, and along the white clover- 
 field to the foot of that little knoll with the two elm-trees on 
 its crown. Do you perceive the top of a chimney peeping 
 from the green things piled up there, like a monument to a 
 Sylvan ? You may not discover it, but I, who have looked 
 so many times, know that little speck of reddish brown to be 
 a chimney. Well, beneath is the smallest pattern of a human 
 shelter that your eyes ever lighted on ; now pretty much gone 
 to decay, and grown entirely over with moss and hop-vines. 
 I have heard that a white rose-bush once quite over-topped
 
 248 DORA'. 
 
 the front corner, and sunflowers innumerable peeped their 
 yellow heads above the eaves at the back ; and I have myself 
 a distinct remembrance of stopping to admire the trumpet- 
 honeysuckle, that years ago graced the door-way ; but not u 
 flowering thing opens in that vicinity now. There, all alone, 
 once lived Aunty Evans ; a good, gentle old woman, who, for 
 the want of better things to love, kept always about her 
 a family of kittens, chickens, rabbits, and tame pigeons. 
 Besides this, she. used to make gingerbread for the little 
 people that always looked in, upon their way from school, 
 and supply the whole village with sage, rue, and chamomile, 
 from a garden that would have been no wonder in Lilliput. 
 Aunty Evans could not have been said to be without the 
 means of living, for she fed herself, and not unfrequently her 
 less industrious neighbors, with the proceeds of her busiest 
 of all busy needles. One day, a letter, marked on the out- 
 side, " in haste," was sent her from the village post-office ; 
 and, in an hour after, the fire was extinguished upon her 
 hearth, the latch-string drawn, and Aunty Evans, for the first 
 time in her life, found herself in the stage-coach. In a few 
 days she returned with a pale, sad little girl, all in black, and 
 was invited at once to a grand tea-party, for curiosity's sake. 
 But the old lady had only a short story. A friend had died, 
 and bequeathed her an only child. 
 
 " Has she money?" asked the gossips. 
 
 Aunty Evans said "No;" and then they all shook their 
 heads and looked mysterious; and somehow, in a few minutes, 
 though there could be no connection between it and the other 
 subject, they were all talking about the new and excellent 
 regulations which had been made at the almshouse. Aunty 
 Evans expressed herself very glad that the poor children 
 were to be better cared for; and thereupon sipped her tea 
 without further concern. That subject was immediately 
 abandoned, and the conversation took an unaccountable turn, 
 calculated to overthrow entirely the doctrine of association, for 
 somebody began talking about the price of plain needlework. 
 Most of the ladies were of the opinion. th.Tt a sempstress
 
 DORA'. 249 
 
 could no more than support herself comfortably ; and if by 
 chance -she did accomplish more than that, it was her " boun- 
 den duty " to lay by the surplus for a " rainy day." Aunty 
 Evans appeared to listen to all this very composedly ; but, in 
 reality, her thoughts were a little absent. She was planning 
 the number of shirts she should be obliged to make, in order 
 to send the little orphan, Dora', to the best school in the 
 village. 
 
 Dora' was sent to school; and forthwith, the pale child 
 became as great a favorite as Aunty Evans herself. Dora's 
 voice had a tone to it, like the stroke of a silver bell, reaching 
 us through a medium of tears; and she might always be 
 found, whether under the cherry-tree, at the back of the 
 school-house, or nestled in a rich clover-bed, or seated on the 
 spotted alders by the brook-side, with a group of children 
 about her, singing the little songs that she learned of Aunty 
 Evans. How deliciously sweet was that voice ! And though 
 the words could claim to be of no higher order than 
 
 " Little bird, with bosom red, 
 Welcome to my humble shed :" 
 or, 
 
 " Pretty bee, busy bee, 
 If you 'd but sing to me," 
 
 many a stern old man paused to listen, and many a business 
 woman raised her red bandana to her eyes, as those clear, 
 touching tones fell, despite the crust above it, on her heart. 
 The women did not know why they were thus affected ; but 
 Aunty Evans would have told them there was a shadow 
 within, from which that voice stole its touch of sorrow, and 
 which, later in the day of her life, would fall back upon her 
 heart. 
 
 Aunty Evans might, quite unknown to those about her, 
 have been, a prophetess ; but Dora' went on, year after year, 
 singing all the time more and more sweetly, and with more 
 touching pathos, while the shadow, if any there was, must 
 have been nearly melted by the neighboring sunshine. One
 
 250 DORA'. 
 
 individual, considering himself somewhat wiser than his 
 neighbors, whispered at length to some others, that the pecu- 
 liarity in Dora' Evans's voice was the despairing plaint of 
 prisoned genius; but Alderbrook had no citizen mad enough, 
 even though all had credited the suggestion, to bind the child 
 for this to a lot of splendid misery. Dora's neighbors knew 
 little of raising a God-given power to that point of famous 
 infamy where even its admirers are privileged to jest about 
 it; they were common men, and had never learned that it 
 is the misfortune of genius to consume itself in a bonfire, that 
 others may be amused in its coruscations. So Dora' went on 
 singing every Sabbath in the village choir, singing at the fire- 
 side of Aunty Evans, and singing at the social gatherings in 
 the village ;. always thankful, and rejoicing that she had a 
 power which could make herself and everybody else so happy. 
 Thus passed year after year, until Dora' was fifteen ; and the 
 shadow had as yet settled on neither heart nor brow. 
 
 Dora' sat upon the knoll that I have pointed out under the 
 two elm-trees, circled by a row of young faces, all turned 
 earnestly and lovingly to hers. 
 
 " Sing it again, Dora' ! do ! do ! just once again, dear ! it 
 is so pretty ! " went the pleading round ; and Dora' smiled, and 
 began to sing. 
 
 That morning a stranger had reached Alderbrook by the 
 stage-coach. He was a small man, slightly moulded ; with 
 eager piercing eyes, two wrinkles passing from their inner 
 corners half way up the forehead ; an aquiline nose, sallow 
 cheeks, and thin lips always pressed closely together. Though 
 he could scarcely have attained the middle age, he was slightly 
 bald ; frequent threads of silver mingled in his black hair and 
 beard ; and upon his face there was many a line, the work of 
 a more hasty pencil than time carries. Just as Dora' com- 
 menced her song, this man was hurrying along, with his usual 
 quick step, close beside the fence. As the first strain fell on 
 his ear, he raised his eyes, and cast up to the clouds, and 
 away into the tree-tops, a glance of eager inquiry. Again it
 
 DORA'. 251 
 
 came, and again ; and a smile full of beautiful delight broke 
 over the listener's compressed lips, and a fire was kindled in 
 the centre of his now dilated eye, which seemed burning back 
 into his very soul. 
 
 " Ha ! " he exclaimed, as his glance fell upon the pretty 
 group cresting the green knoll ; and then he crossed his arms 
 upon his breast, lowered his earnest brows, and bent his ear 
 to listen. 
 
 The stranger did not leave Alderbrook that day ; neither 
 did he then continue his walk ; but, returning to the " Sheaf 
 and Sickle," as soon as the little party beneath the elms was 
 broken up, he possessed himself of all his landlady knew con- 
 cerning the rustic songstress. 
 
 " Such a voice ! " he muttered, as he strode up and down 
 the piazza; " such compass ! such delicacy ! such pathos ! she 
 would madden them. It would be a generous deed, too 
 poor orphan ! " 
 
 He passed on, his steps growing every moment quicker and 
 his eyes more eagerly bright. " Ay, ay ! I will do it ! I 
 cannot leave such a diamond in this desert ! " 
 
 That night the artist tapped at the humble door of Aunty 
 Evans; and drawing his chair alongside the old lady, un- 
 folded his plans. She listened coldly. 
 
 " The child is well with her mother she cannot go." 
 
 " But such a gift, madam ! " 
 
 " A gift from God ! it is a sin to tamper with it." 
 
 " Ay, from God !" answered the artist solemnly ; " it is a 
 sin to leave it unimproved." 
 
 An hour was spent in fruitless argument, when the com- 
 poser suddenly inquired, " But what says the young lady 
 herself ? let her speak." 
 
 " Yes, let Dora' answer," returned Aunty Evans, trium- 
 phantly. " Thank God ! I may trust her ! what say you, 
 my child?" 
 
 " What sayest thou, gifted one, to the glorious art ? " 
 
 Dora's face was buried in the folds of muslin that hung 
 about the little window, and at first she did not raise it.
 
 252 DORA'. 
 
 " Speak as you would have it, darling," said the old lady, 
 softly, drawing near, and bending over her idol. 
 
 Such dreams as had been swimming in the young girl's 
 fancy ! Such a consciousness that every word the composer 
 had said of her wondrous power was true ! Such an irre- 
 sistible longing to give utterance to an undefinable something 
 that she had always felt struggling within her ! How could 
 she resist it ? Dora' loved her kind foster-mother ; but now 
 there was a fever at her heart and her brain was in a whirl. 
 She raised her eyes. How changed were they ! the soft, 
 meek dewiness had passed they had grown larger and 
 darker, and wore an intensity of meaning, a depth of feeling 
 and purpose, that made them strange to Aunty Evans. The 
 love-thought had almost vanished from the corners of the 
 mouth; the lips lay apart like two lines of burning crimson, 
 the upper drawn up and knotted in the middle, and a spot of 
 bright red glowed in the centre of each pale cheek. Dora' 
 did not speak. It needed not that she should. 
 
 " The shadow is falling ! " murmured Aunty Evans. " My 
 poor, poor Dora' ! Oh, I have had a fearful watch ! " 
 
 She folded the child in her arms, kissed her hot cheek, 
 placed her hands upon her throbbing temples ; and, saying to 
 the composer, " She will go with you," motioned him to leave 
 them alone. 
 
 Aunty Evans was not so ignorant of worldly things, as to 
 trust her precious charge, without due precaution, to the keep- 
 ing of a stranger. She possessed herself of ample knowledge 
 concerning the character and standing of the composer ; and 
 was very exacting in all her arrangements for the child's wel- 
 fare, evincing a lynx-eyed policy that she had never been 
 supposed to possess. Above all, she insisted on her being 
 allowed to return to her humble home at any moment she 
 should express the wish. So Dora' went away from Alder- 
 brook, and Aunty Evans was left alone. 
 
 Bright Summer passed in her glory melancholy Autumn 
 laid a worn head upon the bosom of Winter, and with sitrhs
 
 DORA'. 263 
 
 yielded up the spirit and Winter came on with his cold 
 breath and blazonry of jewels. Six months had passed away 
 since Dora' sang to her companions on the knoll beneath the 
 two elm- trees. Now she stood in a luxuriously furnished 
 apartment, the soft flaxen ringlets shading her delicate throat 
 as of yore, but with little else to mark her identity with the 
 violet-eyed child that had sung in the fields at Alderbrook. 
 The pale, earnest face of the composer looked out upon her 
 adimringly from a pile of cushions at the other end of the 
 apartment ; and she was aware of the gaze, and seemed bent 
 on gratifying him, for her small hands were clasped with un- 
 wonted energy, and determination burned in her cheek and 
 flashed from her eye. She stood near a piano at which a 
 stranger was seated ; and, after his fingers had passed over 
 the keys, her voice broke forth in all its olden melody. Bat 
 now it was subject to her control; now she knew the feeling 
 that she would express, and her voice became but the wings 
 to bear it out. The prisoned genius had found utterance. 
 Was Dora' happy now ? Out upon such simplicity ! How 
 could it be otherwise ? Was she not about to entrance a 
 world ? What blissful emotions would creep into a thousand 
 hearts at listening ! And would not the enchantress find an 
 all-sufficient reward in the adulation of millions ? Ah ! Dora', 
 Dora' ! bend thy brow to the halo ! tread upon the roses ! 
 Never think how the first may darken ; how the last may 
 shrivel and fall away from the sharp thorns beneath them ! 
 The path has been well trodden and watered pass on ! 
 
 The good composer, Dora's friend, was dead. 
 
 It had been published far and wide, told in the drawing- 
 room and in the coffee-house, in the private parlor and in the 
 public saloon, in hall, alley and shop, lisped in the boudoir 
 and cried in the street everywhere, in all the places where 
 the virtuous* dwell and vicious hide themselves, it had been 
 told that a new star had arisen in the musical horizon ; and 
 those who would never rare for the artiste on account of her 
 
 VOL. TI. 22
 
 254 DOBA'. 
 
 art, were told that she was young and beautiful. What a 
 crowd came out to greet the first appearance of our star ! 
 Should she not have felt honored ? Lights flashed, jewels 
 blazed, plumes waved and nodded, smiles sped to their desti- 
 nation, or lost themselves upon the air, and all for her ? 
 Not one, not one ! Poor Dora' ! even in her triumph, how 
 desolate ! 
 
 A burst of applause greeted her appearance; and, for a 
 moment, her heart bounded, and her eye flashed with grati- 
 fied ambition. Then rows of faces gaped upon her from pit, 
 box, and gallery ; eyes were strained, and glasses levelled, 
 and the young songstress felt the warm blood mounting has- 
 tily to her forehead. Poor Dora' ! even in her triumphs how 
 humiliated ! 
 
 She sang as she had ever sung ; for genius is always con- 
 scious of its own sacredness, and will not be stared down by 
 bold impudence, nor raised up by admiring plaudits. She 
 sang, and garlands fell at her feet, and, all night long, the 
 applauses of that multitude rang, like the idle mockeries that 
 they were, in her ear. Was it for this she had toiled, and 
 hoped, and given her better nature up to a withering ambition ? 
 Was this her temple in the clouds, now dissolving in its own 
 nothingness a thing of vapor, bound together by a chain of 
 gilded water-drops ? The wings were melted, and Icarus was 
 fast approaching the JEgean. What a blessing that mankind 
 so seldom reach the goal of hope ! The chase is glorious 
 in empty, unsatisfying success lies the curse. 
 
 It was the anniversary of the evening on which Dora' had 
 resolved to turn from the bosom of her foster-mother to the 
 world which was beckoning her. A light was burning on the 
 white pine table, and beside it sat Aunty Evans, her Bible on 
 her knees. She appeared older, much older, than on that 
 night twelve-month. Thought had cut strange lines upon her 
 face, and deepened the look of simple good nature, once so 
 conspicuous there, to one of earnest, almost painful solicitude. 
 The door was open, and the fragrance from the honey-suckles
 
 DORA'. 255 
 
 and roses stole into the apartment ; but Aunty Evans thought 
 not a word of the honey-suckles and roses. She was indulg- 
 ing itiost painful reflections. A passing figure rustled the 
 vines, a shadow fell across the door-way, and a light foot 
 pressed the threshold ; yet Aunty Evans looked not up. 
 
 "Mother! mother! I have come home to you I am 
 sick, I am weary ! Give me a place, mother a place to 
 die ! " 
 
 There were sobbings and tears, half joyous, half heart- 
 broken, in the little cottage that night ; and, in the morning, 
 all the villagers gathered to look upon the returned idol. How 
 changed ! Poor Dora' ! it is needless to follow thee to the 
 grave. The spirit that, finding food nowhere on earth, turns 
 and eats into itself, can endure but a little time ; and we will 
 be more thankful for the natural light that again beamed in 
 thine eye, and the natural feeling that slumbered about thy 
 lips, than sorry for thine early loss. Thy rest is among the 
 flowers, where the bees steal their sweets, and the birds 
 spread their wings to the sunlight. 
 
 Sleepest thou not passing well, young Dora' ?
 
 266 
 
 THE DISSATISFIED SPIRIT. 
 
 GOD "bowed the heavens and came down," and breathed 
 upon the earth; and a "living soul" was born. *t was not 
 an angel, to watch over the destinies of man, and interpose its 
 white wing between him and evil ; but it was a thing as 
 lovely ; and so it looked about to find itself a fit dwelling- 
 place. While it paused in doubt, there came fluttering by a 
 gay, beautiful creature, its bright wings woven in the loom 
 from which the Iris sprung, all glittering in gold and crimson, 
 now bathing in the dew and now in the sun-light, brilliant 
 and blithesome, and light as the air on which it balanced. 
 The spirit grew glad at the pretty sight, and as the tiny won- 
 der again swept past, it thought within itself, " What a delight- 
 ful thing to be a butterfly ! " Instantly, a pair of gorgeous 
 wings sprouted from the thought ; and the embodied spirit 
 flew exultingly up and down the earth, careering in the light, 
 and glorying in its new-found beauties. Sometimes it paused 
 to peep into the hearts of the young flowers ; and sipped dain- 
 tily the sweets which dwelt on their fresh lips, and fanned 
 them when they drooped, and bathed in their perfume ; and 
 at night it folded up its wings and made its couch where the 
 moon-beam lay most lovingly. But it could not sleep. That 
 was a breath from heaven, stirring those gorgeous wings, the 
 " living soul " within, swelling and struggling, conscious that 
 it was not performing its mission. There could not be a 
 orighter nor gayer life, and surely the innocent little butterfly 
 was not guilty of doing harm ; but there was a chiding voice 
 came up from within, and the dissatisfied spirit could not 
 sleep. Finally, it grew sorrowful, even in the midst of its 
 light companions, as they poised and reeled in the sunlight, 
 intoxicated by the mere bliss of living. And every day it 
 grew more and more sorrowful, and its wings heavier, till at
 
 THE DISSATISFIED SPIRIT. 257 
 
 last it cried out in sharp anguish. Beautiful and innocent 
 was the life of the gay insect ; but the God-born spirit was 
 not created to waste itself on a sunbeam or a flower ; and 
 those magnificent wings were leaden fetters to it. A bird 
 was carolling on the tree above, and, as the saddened spirit 
 looked up, it thought of the happy hearts which the little 
 songster made, and how it praised God in its light joyousness, 
 and then exclaimed, pantingly, " What a sweet thing to be a 
 bird ! " 
 
 A little child found a dead butterfly at the foot of the red 
 maple tree, that morning ; and as she stooped to pick it up, 
 there came such a gush of melody from the green above, 
 that she started back in pleased astonishment ; and then, 
 clapping her soft hands together, she raised her infantile voice 
 in clear, ringing tones, fraught with the music of a mirthful 
 heart. On the instant, there came a rushing sound from the 
 massive foliage ; a pair of beautiful wings broke thence, and 
 balanced for a moment above; then descended, hovering 
 about the head of the child, as though bestowing some word- 
 less blessing ; and, finally, spread themselves for flight. The 
 bird paused where the laborer rested at noon-tide ; and the 
 eye of the strong man brightened as he wiped the sweat 
 away, and leaned against the rugged bark of the meadow-tree, 
 yielding himself up to the delicious influence of its music. 
 Then it flew to the casement of the invalid, and thence to the 
 roof-tree of the cotter ; and thence it still pursued its way 
 kindly and lovingly, pausing to warble a moment even by the 
 barred window of the criminal. For many a day, the bird- 
 embodied spirit was happy and contented, and believed itself 
 sent upon earth but for the purpose of winning men, by such 
 small, sweet efforts, from sorrow. But, as it nestled one 
 night in the foliage of the forest tree, there came a sad mis- 
 giving, to trouble it. It had heard of a nobler mission than it 
 had yet dared to contemplate; it had looked into a path toil- 
 some, and difficult to walk in, strewn with thorns, and beset 
 with dangers ; but yet glorious in that it had been trodden by 
 a Holy One, who had linked it to heaven. The timid spirit 
 VOL. n. 22*
 
 258 THE DISSATISFIED SPIRIT. 
 
 trembled as it thought, and folded its so!t pinions over its 
 breast, and strove to recollect all the good it had done that 
 day how it had softened the nature of the sinful, and 
 dropped balm into the bosom of the sorrowing ; but it could 
 not shut down the high aspirations which were swelling 
 within it. It knew well that the spirit of the little bird was 
 not, like itself, an emanation from the Deity. When the song 
 was hushed, and the plumage drooped, it would " go down- 
 ward to the earth ;" but the living soul, born of the breath of 
 the Almighty, could not so perish. Should it fling aside its 
 loftier gifts, and take upon itself the mission (sweet and beauti- 
 ful though that mission might be) of the soulless bird ? " Ah, 
 no ! " thought the pretty warbler, while its wings seemed 
 swelling to eagle's pinions; "the air is full of birds the 
 world is ringing with melody it is delightful to swell the 
 care-free chorus; but there is a higher, nobler mission, still." 
 As its breast heaved with these new emotions, a soft sound, 
 as of a lute, stole up from a neighboring grove, and an exqui- 
 sitely modulated voice, with deep earnestness, clothed its 
 secret thoughts in words : 
 
 " I waste no more in idle dreams, my life, my soul away ; 
 I wake to know my better self I wake to watch and pray. 
 Thought, feeling, time, on idols vain I 've lavished all too long ; 
 Henceforth, to holier purposes I pledge myself, my song ! 
 Oh, still within the inner veil, upon the spirit's shrine, 
 Still, unprofaned by evil, burns the one pure spark divine, 
 Which God has kindled in us all, and be it mine to tend 
 Henceforth, with vestal thought and care, the light that lump may lend. 
 
 " I shut mine eyes, in grief and shame, upon the dreary post, 
 My heart, my soul, poured recklessly on dreams that could not last, 
 My bark has drifted down the stream, at will of wind or wave, 
 An idle, light, and fragile thing, that few had cared to save. 
 Henceforth, the tiller Truth shall hold and steer as Conscience tells, 
 And I will brave the storms of fate, though wild the ocean swells. 
 I know my soul is strong and high, if once I give it sway ; 
 I feel a glorious power within, though light I seem, and gay. 
 O, laggard soul ! unclose thine eyes. No more in luxury soft 
 Of joy ideal waste thyself! Awake, and soar aloft! 
 Unfurl, this hour, those falcon wings which tbou dost fold too long; 
 Raise to the skies thy lightning gaze, and sing the loftiest song."* 
 
 * Mrs. Osgood.
 
 THE DISSATISFIED SP1BIT. 259 
 
 The song ceased, and the struggling, God-born spirit, 
 looked down on the cold earth; and, not forgetting toil, and 
 'suffering, and weariness not forgetting the degradation of 
 sin, and the constant wrestling of the higher with the baser 
 nature exclaimed, with deep enthusiasm, " What a sublime 
 thing to be a man ! " 
 
 A songster was missed from the woodland ; and that same 
 day knelt one in prayer ; and then, humble, but strong, and 
 happier far than butterfly or bird, went cheerfully forth on 
 man's great mission TO DO GOOD. % 
 

 
 260 
 
 FAREWELL TO ALDERBROOK. 
 
 " Farewell : 
 I may not dwell 
 'Mid flowers and music ever." 
 
 THE hours of my childhood have gone back to their old 
 obliviousness in eternity ; youth is on the wing, fleeing 
 fleeing fleeing. There is but a narrow shadow lying 
 between my foot and the grave which it seeks a veil of gray 
 mist, that a few to-days will dissolve into what? the 
 sickening perfume of dead flowers, or incense grateful to 
 Heaven ? 
 
 This is a beautiful, bright world, made for pure beings. 
 At its birth angels walked among its cool shadows, bent to 
 its bright waters, and inhaled its perfumes ; and they fled 
 not, those holy ones, till their wings drooped beneath the 
 defiling heaviness of sin. A false breath played upon the 
 brow of man ; heedlessly he opened his bosom to it ; and 
 there it at once nestled, a fatal poison, ever distilling venom. 
 Still the flowers bloomed ; still the waters flashed and 
 sparkled in the warm light; still the breezes waved their 
 censers laden with rich perfume ; still the birds carolled ; the 
 stars smiled ; leaves rustled, kissing each other lovingly ; 
 dews slumbered in lily bells and the hearts of roses, and 
 crept around withering roots, and revived fading petals ; the 
 sun, and the moon, and the silver twilight, each wrought its 
 own peculiar broidery on earth and sky ; but upon the flow- 
 ers, and the fresh leaves, and the waters, and the breezes, 
 the gay, beautiful birds, and the silent dews, on sun, and 
 moon, and stars, on all, everything of earth, rested the taint 
 of sin. In the morning of this little day of time, what more 
 deliciously sweet than to recline among the blossoming luxu-
 
 FAREWELL TO ALDERBROOK. 261 
 
 riance of Eden, and worship God, there, in his own temple ? It 
 was the object of life to enjoy its own blissfulness, and praise 
 Him who gave it. But when, on the whisper of the Tempter, 
 sin came, it brought a change. The poison hid itself among 
 all the beautiful things that we most love, engendering thorns 
 and producing discord : it festered in our hearts, revelled in 
 our veins, and polluted our lips, until the angels veiled their 
 faces in disgust, and man was left with " no eye to pity, no 
 arm to save." Then, from the dense cloud, broke forth a ray 
 of glory; a crowned Head looked out in pity; divine^lips 
 bent to the poisoned wound ; and lost, ruined man found a 
 Saviour. He was heralded by angels ; angels are still whis- 
 pering, " Look ! look ! live ! " that Saviour is standing with 
 love-beaming eyes and arms extended; but men are blind 
 and cannot see his beauty. Shall I sit down among thy 
 flowers, sweet Alderbrook, while my Redeemer is dishonored, 
 and my brethren, the sons of those who walked with God 
 in Eden, die ? 
 
 "Faultless, if blinded." " The just God will not be 
 angry with those who, not knowing, have not loved him." 
 Who has said it ? 
 
 Ah! " The invisible things of Him from the creation of the 
 world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that 
 are made, even his eternal power and Godhead ; so that they 
 are without excuse" The beautiful page of hill and dale 
 and sky is spread open to all. I go to teach my brother how 
 to read it. 
 
 Dear, beautiful Alderbrook ! I have loved thee as I shall 
 never love any other thing that I may not meet after the sun 
 of Time is set. Everything, from the strong old tree that 
 wrestles with the tempest, down to the amber moss-cup 
 cradling the tiny insect at its roots, and the pebble sleeping 
 at the bottom of the brook, everything about thee has been 
 laden with its own peculiar lesson. Thou art a rare book, 
 my Alderbrook, written all over by the Creator's ringer. 
 Dearly do I love the holy truths upon thy pages ; but, " I 
 may not dwell 'mid flowers and music ever ;" and I go
 
 262 FAREWELL TO ALDERBROOK. 
 
 hence, bearing another, choicer book in my hand, and echo- 
 ing the words of the angels, " Look ! look ! livi- ! " 
 
 I stand on the verge of the brook, which seems to me more 
 beautiful than any other brook on earth, and take my last 
 survey of the home of my infancy. The cloud, which has 
 been hovering above the trees on the verge of heaven, opens ; 
 the golden light gushes forth, bathing the hill-top, and stream- 
 ing down its green declivity even to my feet ; and 1 accept 
 the encouraging omen. The angel of Alderbrook, " the min- 
 istering spirit" sent hither by the Almighty, blesses me. 
 Father in heaven, thy blessing, ere I go ! 
 
 Hopes full of glory, and oh, most sweetly sacred ! look out 
 upon me from the future ; but, for a moment, their beauty is 
 clouded. My heart is heavy with sorrow. The cup at my 
 lip is very bitter. Heaven help me ! White hairs are bend- 
 ing in submissive grief, and age-dimmed eyes are made 
 dimmer by the gathering of tears. Young spirits have lost 
 their joyousness, young lips forget to smile, and bounding 
 hearts and bounding feet are stilled. Oh, the rending of ties, 
 knitted, at the first opening of the infant eye and strengthened 
 by numberless acts of love, is a sorrowful thing ! To make 
 the grave the only door to a meeting with those in whose 
 bosoms we nestled, in whose hearts we trusted long before 
 we knew how precious was such love and trust, brings with 
 it an overpowering weight of solemnity. But a grave is 
 yawning for each one of us ; and is it much to choose whether 
 we sever the tie that binds us here, to-day, or lie down on the 
 morrow ? Ah, the " weaver's shuttle " is flying ; the " flower 
 of the grass " is withering ; the span is almost measured ; the 
 tale nearly told ; the dark valley is close before us tread we 
 with care ! 
 
 My mother, we may neither of us close the other's dark- 
 ened eye, and fold the cold hands upon the bosom ; we 
 may neither of us watch the sod greening and withering 
 above the other's ashes ; but there are duties for us even 
 more sacred than these. But a few steps, mother diffi- 
 cult the path may be, but very bright and then wo put
 
 FAREWELL TO ALDERBROOK. 263 
 
 on the robe of immortality, and meet to part nevermore. 
 And we shall not be apart even on earth. There is an elec- 
 tric chain passing from heart to heart through the throne of 
 the Eternal; and we may keep its links all brightly bur- 
 nished by the breath of prayer. Still pray for me, mother, 
 as in days gone by. Thou bidst me go. The smile comes 
 again to thy lip and the light to thine eye, for thou hast plea- 
 sure in the sacrifice. Thy blessing ! Farewell, my mother, 
 and ye loved ones of the same hearth-stone ! 
 
 Bright, beautiful, dear Alderbrook, farewell ! 
 
 FANNY FORESTER. 
 
 June I, 1846. 
 
 END OF VOL. H.
 
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