Y OF CALIFORNIA 
 DAVIS 
 
 
LELIA STEWART; 
 
 * 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE HEART UNVEILED. 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM G. CAMBRIDGE, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "THE PARISH FARM." 
 
 The brave do never shun the light : 
 
 Just are Iheir thoughts, and open are their tempers ; 
 
 Truly without disguise they love or hate : 
 
 Still are they found in the fair face of day, 
 
 Arid Heaven and men are judges of their actions." 
 
 BOSTON: 
 HIQGrlNS & BRADLEY, 
 
 20 WASHINGTON STREET. 
 
 1857. 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 DAVIS 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, 
 
 BY WILLIAM O. CAMBRIDGE, 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts, 
 
 STEREOTYPED BT 
 
 HOBART & ROBBINS, 
 
 MEW ENGLAND TYPE AND STEREOTYPE FOCNDER7, 
 BOSTON. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 READER, my little book is before you, and I would fain 
 believe that I have not toiled in vain to make it, in some 
 degree at least, interesting and worthy of your approval. 
 I am painfully conscious of its imperfections, and yet I 
 venture to hope that it has some excellences which will not 
 be entirely overlooked, even though you find many defects 
 and blemishes. What though there are broken and mended 
 threads, and parts which are rough and unfinished ; they do 
 not, I trust, mar the whole fabric, although they affect its 
 beauty and perfection. The mechanism of the brain is not 
 always in good condition; and the rushing blood, which 
 turns the great wheel of thought, and keeps the machinery 
 in motion, sometimes gets low and sluggish in its course, so 
 that the woof-threads of the mind are not shot through the 
 warp with the quickness and uniformity which insure 
 Emdothness and perfection. Again, the stream rises and 
 daspes on impetuously, and the machinery is uneven in its 
 movements, quick or slow ; and then threads are broken or 
 but loosely drawn, and the work is not well done. It is 
 well, at such times, to shut down the gates, and let the 
 machinery rest ; but the poor artisan may not always feel at 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 liberty to do so, even though his heart aches and his body is 
 full of pain. 
 
 Some may inquire if the things here narrated are true, 
 and 4he characters real. Such questions are frequently 
 addressed to an author; but it is doubtful whether they 
 should be, for his book may contain much truth beneath a 
 " thin veil of fiction," and yet he may not choose to say so. 
 Whether the personages in my, book are fictitious or other 
 wise, they seem real to me. So long have I been on familiar 
 terms with them, that it is difficult to persuade myself that 
 they are only the shadowy creations of the mind. 
 
 In the construction of my work I may have used matter 
 which was not my own ; but I trust my sins in this respect 
 are few and far between. Fine figures and beautiful thoughts, 
 which others may rightly claim, may be used unconsciously. 
 The trees of light and knowledge are full of golden leaves, 
 and the winds waft them to us, and, with gratitude in our 
 hearts, we gather them up with care, and drink in their 
 beauty ; and it would not be strange if we sometimes felt 
 and used it as though it were our own. For all the materials 
 I have used which belong to other authors, I offer, it being 
 the very best I can do, my most unfeigned thanks. And, as 
 the author of " Richard Edney " has said, " If those from 
 whom I have borrowed dislike anything of theirs in this con 
 nection, they will withdraw it ; should they chance to like 
 anything of ours, they have full permission to use it." 
 
 I have written this book with the very best intentions, 
 hoping that it might do good, and receive a welcome in 
 many homes. The character of the mother of Henri may 
 
PREFACE. V 
 
 be considered as overdrawn and unnatural, but J know that 
 it is .'not an impossible character. Some may wish that the 
 scenes of strife and contention had been left out. I highly 
 respect the motives of such, and would have done so if I had 
 deemed it consistent with my plan, and with the characters 
 described. No one disapproves of such scenes more than 
 the author of this book; and if anything here described 
 should lead to quarrelling and discord, it would be a source 
 of lasting regret. 
 
 I designed the work to be reformatory in its character ; 
 and so I have advanced ideas which are unpopular, and by 
 some considered Utopian, and by others in advance of the 
 age. But it mattered not with me what others might say or 
 think ; for I cared more for the good that might be wrought 
 than for the approving smiles of those who ever walk with 
 their backs to the sun, and their faces to the past. 
 
 So much by way of preface ; and here I will stop, for it 
 is not needful that I say more. Let the book be read, and 
 dealt with according to its merits. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 THE RESCUE, : 25 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 SICKNESS. OUR FAMILY. DISAPPOINTMENT, 42 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 THE DEACON FOILED, 59 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 MY MOTHER AND DEACON WEBBER, 71 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 SEVERE SICKNESS. GOOD NEWS, 79 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 VISIT TO MY UNCLE'S, 95 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 THB VICTORY, 101 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 THE IMPENDING DOOM, 114 
 
VIII CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 THE MARRIAGE AND ITS RESULTS, 120 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 NEWS FROM HOME, 127 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 AN OLD ENEMY : 132 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 WELCOME VISITORS MRS. STEWART'S STORY, ,139 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 DEATH OP LITTLE KATY, 153 
 
 CHAPTER X*1V. 
 NEW SCENES AND NEW THOUGHTS, 161 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 A MEDLEY, 171 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 THE BETROTHAL, 178 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 A WALK IN THE PARK. EAVES-DROPPING 191 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 ERNEST BROWN, 203 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 MR. DINNEFORD. MUTUAL LOVE, .224 
 
CONTENTS. IX 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 DEATH or MY MOTHER, 233 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 THE HEART UNTEILED, 249 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 HOPES NOT REALIZED, 276 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 TWICE REJECTED, 290 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 NEW LEBANON. THE SHAKERS, 824 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 HELEN MEANS AND MYSELF 853 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 WONDERFUL DISCOVERY, 374 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 THE WEBBER FAMILY, 392 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 MY FATHER'S DIARY, 401 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 OLD ACQUAINTANCE, ..." . . 417 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 CONCLUSION, 426 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE RESCUE. 
 
 AT half past three, p. M. 5 the School Teacher informed 
 me that I was at liberty to return home, as my mother had 
 sent a request that I might be dismissed at that time. I 
 knew that two of my cousins were expected at our house 
 that afternoon, and surmised that was the reason why my 
 presence was desired. 
 
 The weather was exceedingly beautiful, and all nature 
 looked so inviting that I could not find it in my heart to 
 hasten home, even though my cousins were waiting for me. 
 From my early childhood, I have felt such an absorbing 
 love for those beautiful creations which are so manifestly 
 God's, that at times it has been beyond the power of man, 
 or the cares and conflicts of the world, to draw me from 
 their communion, or break the spell which held me so 
 lovingly in their soul-purifying embrace. 
 
 I walked along, very leisurely, frequently stopping to 
 examine the wings of a beautiful butterfly, or cull a sweet 
 
26 THE RESCUE. 
 
 flower growing by the wayside. And when I came to a 
 dark, swiftly-running stream, I looked into a deep hole, 
 and saw beautiful fish, with tints bright as gold. How 
 they darted when they saw me. so quickly that those bright 
 spots seemed to emit a stream of light ! 
 
 My age was then fifteen, and it was not often that I 
 enjoyed the luxury of walking home alone ; and when I 
 did, I improved the time well. I examined everything 
 that pleased me, and went through a course of reasoning, 
 in my own mind, in relation to them. I queried if the 
 butterfly was not made to teach man of a higher and bet 
 ter life than this. The worm that crawls upon the earth, 
 I thought, might represent man in his present state ; the 
 butterfly that floats on zephyrs with golden wings, his im 
 mortal and glorious state. The worm weaves its own 
 winding-sheet, and, in due time, the cerements are thrown 
 off or burst asunder, but the worm is not there. A bright 
 and beautiful creature springs forth, sailing away as on 
 the wings of light. Now, its sphere may be termed spir 
 itual, for it is a renewed and higher state. It no longer 
 grovels in the dust, but soars in the air like a bird, visit 
 ing, at its will, green fields and delightful gardens, and 
 when weary, finding a fitting resting-place in the soft 
 bosom of a flower, 
 
 Man's state, in some respects, is not dissimilar; too 
 often vicious and degraded, he plods on his way, burdened 
 with sin and disease, so that he despises himself when- 
 
THE RESCUE. 27 
 
 ever he looks within, and sees the dark spots upon his own 
 soul. But the time comes when he goes through a change 
 analogous to that of the worm. The body is cast off, and 
 the inner life, the spirit, comes forth, clothed with glory 
 and beauty, and, like the butterfly that shakes its bright 
 wings close to the crawling worm, unperceived by it, so 
 the spirits of the departed are ever near us, though we 
 perceive them not. Floating on wings of ethereal bright-^ 
 ness, they comfort with happy thoughts and bless with 
 hopeful aspirations those they love. 
 
 While such reflections were passing through my mind, 
 I thought of my father, who had been dead six years, and 
 of my little brother, the youngest of the family, who had 
 died two years after. I wondered if they were as much 
 exalted above their former sphere as the butterfly, and 
 whether they were not hovering near me, their wings flash 
 ing in golden light ! "When a soft breath of air fanned 
 my hot cheeks, I half fancied that it was caused by the 
 sweep of their beautiful wings. The fancy did not startle 
 me in the least ; but I wished they might be ever near, to 
 watch over, bless and guard me. 
 
 I do not believe that the idea of spirits returning to 
 earth, or hovering ever near the creatures of their love, 
 is naturally frightful to children ; but it is made so by fear 
 ful stories of ghosts and goblins, some with skeleton heads, 
 and others with the red blood gushing from ghastly wounds. 
 These horrid creatures ever come on dark, dreary nights, 
 
28 THE RESCUE. 
 
 on errands of revenge and mischief. They are represented 
 as something to be dreaded, being the emissaries of hell ! 
 I know not why we should so much fear the departed. 
 Are they not better and holier than earth's children? 
 The Bible tells us that they manifested themselves in olden 
 times, but ever for a good purpose. Should they visit us 
 now, they would be messengers of truth and love, seeking 
 the salvation and happiness of friends dear and cherished. 
 Welcome, then, to spirit messengers, if the good God sees 
 fit to send them to us ! 
 
 I had accomplished but a part of my walk home, when 
 I heard the cry of a child, which seemed like the voice 
 of a young girl, in distress. It came from a field near 
 by. I quickly mounted the wall, and saw a boy, some 
 two years my senior, holding in his arms a little girl, who 
 was, struggling for release. He covered her mouth with 
 one of his hands to stop her' screams. I made all haste 
 to learn the cause of these proceedings. When he saw 
 me, he quickly let her go. I perceived that she was 
 greatly frightened, for she trembled violently. 
 
 " What does this mean? " I inquired. 
 
 "None of your business, sir." 
 
 "Then I will make it my business," I answered, some 
 what sharply. 
 
 " You will, hey ? Start yourself sir ! make tracks, 
 or I will break every bone in your body ! " 
 
THE RESCUE. 29 
 
 " Don't be in such a hurry ! I have but just come, and 
 shall not leave till I please." 
 
 " Yes, you will, or get an almighty thrashing, one of 
 the six!" 
 
 " I care but little for your threats ; so do not think to 
 frighten me, sir." 
 
 " Well, don't meddle with my affairs, and there will be 
 no trouble. Go about your business ! " 
 
 " And leave this poor thing in your hands 1 " 
 
 11 If you please, sir. An't she a beauty ? I 'in in love 
 with her. Just see how clean and nice she is ! " 
 
 I looked at her, and saw that she was dirty and ragged, 
 fearfully so. " Who is she '? " I inquired. 
 
 " She is Deacon Webber's drudge. The old Pharisee 
 has given her his robe of righteousness to clothe her with." 
 
 " But why do you abuse her, why detain her against 
 her will?" 
 
 " That is my business, and don't you interfere ! If you 
 do, I '11 thrash you till you can't stand." The sweet blue 
 eyes of the poor child were now fixed upon me, implor 
 ing rny assistance. 
 
 _" Don't you meddle with her again ! " I said, giving 
 him a look of defiance. 
 
 " I was always famous for obeying my superiors," he 
 replied, contemptuously, at the same time taking hold of 
 her hands, and pulling her along in the direction of the 
 woods. 
 
30 THE RESCUE. 
 
 " Let her go," said I, " or, by heaven, I '11 make you 
 sorry ! " 
 
 " What a brave little man ! Talk away, but this beauty 
 must go with me. Come along, Sukey ; I will not hurt 
 you." Singing, " Come, Sukey, you must go with me." 
 
 My blood boiled now, and, leaping upon him, I caught 
 him by the hair of his head, and laid him upon his back. 
 He sprung up in a moment, and, with a well-directed blow, 
 knocked me down and jumped upon me, beating me in the 
 face until I was covered with blood. I fought with all 
 the strength I had ; but he was too much for me. lie 
 might have killed me on the spot, if the girl had not 
 picked up a stone and given him a blow upon the head, 
 which made him roar with pain. Another blow from the 
 same weapon, in concert with a well-directed blow from 
 my fist, laid him senseless. Taking her hand in one of 
 mine, and her basket of dandelions in the other, I led her 
 from the spot. 
 
 On our way home, I learned that the name of the one 
 I had rescued was Helen Means. It was true, as that 
 young rascal had said, she lived with Deacon Webber. 
 Good Heavens ! how my heart swelled within me as I 
 looked at her clothes, if such they might be called, more 
 attentively. I had never seen a child clad so meanly. A 
 mere batch of dirty rags hung upon her fragile form, and 
 upon her head was an old straw bonnet, full of holes, 
 
THE RESCUE. 31 
 
 through which peeped her auburn hair, beautiful and 
 glossy, even though no care was taken of it. 
 
 Had I lived in a city, I might have seen children clad 
 even more meanly, if it were possible, than Helen Means; 
 but then I had never visited the city. In our beautiful 
 country town there were but few poor people. I have 
 since seen enough to make my heart sick, and to convince 
 me that there must be something radically wrong in society. 
 What more sorrowful sight than to see little children, all 
 ragged and filthy, with faces looking old and sad, search 
 ing the gutters for orange-peel and apples half decayed, 
 eating them when found with a ravenous appetite? I 
 can conceive of a state of society so true and divine that 
 such things could not be ; where children would be ever 
 cared for, fed, clothed and educated, even if their parents 
 should forsake them entirely. A state of society where 
 there should be "Freedom, Equality, and Fraternity;" 
 where the good, the welfare of one should be the welfare 
 of all, and where one could not be left to suffer without 
 causing all the rest to suffer with it. 
 
 In my holiest moments, I look through the dim vista 
 before me, and behold harmonial unions springing up all 
 over the world; from year to year the work goes on, 
 until all men are gathered into the great fold of love and 
 truth, dwelling together in peace, a divine order of 
 society, where antagonisms, and wrongs, and slaveries, 
 can never enter. The reader may smile at this, and per- 
 
32 THE RESCUE. 
 
 chance silence the author by merely whispering the word 
 Utopia. 
 
 As I looked at this poor girl, I thought to myself, " Can 
 it be possible she lives with a pious deacon, one who is a 
 burning and shining light in the church ? No one 
 exhorts the people to repent more constantly than he; 
 no one warns them more frequently not even the 
 minister of the danger to which the sinner is exposed, 
 the awful danger of unrepented wrong." With these 
 reflections, I thought religion must be a great farce or a> 
 tragedy, and perhaps both. How often had my mother 
 spoken of the pious deacon, as worthy of all imitation ! 
 of the money he had contributed to send the gospel to 
 the heathen ; and how he prayed twice every day with his 
 family ; while he was a terrible enemy of all evil-doers. 
 He was truly one of the great pillars in the church. 
 at least, in her estimation. I asked Helen a number of 
 questions, which she answered in such a plain, artless 
 manner, as to win my admiration, as repulsive as was her 
 appearance, to a mind closely allied to the bright and 
 beautiful. 
 
 " Let us go to the brook and wash the blood off your 
 face," said she, as we left our fallen foe. " I fear you 
 are very much hurt. I am sorry you got hurt so much 
 on my account." 
 
 " I am not sorry in the least," I replied, " as I was 
 instrumental in delivering you from the hands of that 
 
THE RESCUE. . 83 
 
 vile boy. But, let us not stop at this brook, for he may 
 recover and attack us again." 
 
 1 ' I think we could master him, if he should. But 
 there is another brook on beyond, and you can wash your 
 face there." 
 
 " How long have you lived with Deacon Webber ? " I 
 inquired. 
 
 " Six months, next Saturday." 
 
 " Where did you live before ? " 
 
 " At home, in the city of Boston." 
 
 " Do you like to live with Deacon Webber ? " 
 
 " Should you think so, by my looks?" she said, with 
 a sad voice. 
 
 " I should think you would hate him, and all the family. 
 I would not stay there one day, if I were you, to be kept 
 so ragged and filthy." 
 
 " I cannot help it. I have nowhere else to go ! 
 Boston is fifty miles from here, and my parents don't 
 know but that I am used well ! " 
 
 " Why don't you write and tell them ? " 
 
 "I never learned to write much; besides, I have no 
 pens, ink and paper. If I should write, my parents are 
 so poor they could not come after me." 
 
 " Poor girl! But don't you despise the deacon, and 
 all that belongs to him?" 
 
 " I do sometimes, for I cannot help it when he beats 
 me so ; and then I think it may be wrong to hate and 
 
34 THE RESCUE. 
 
 despise anybody. I fear I have hurt that boy very badly, 
 but I could not help it. Had we not better return and 
 see to him ? I am afraid he will die ! " 
 
 11 He is an ugly fellow, and I have not the courage to 
 go near him again ; he might kill us both. There he is, 
 coming now ; let us run. Hark ! he is threatening ven 
 geance." 
 
 Just then a large team came in sight, and we felt no 
 longer afraid. When our enemy saw that aid was near, 
 he hesitated a moment, then turned and fled towards the 
 woods. At a little singing brooklet the blood was soon 
 washed from my face and hands. 
 
 " You are hurt badly," she exclaimed, " very badly. 
 What -a brute that boy is ! I believe he had just as lief 
 killed you as not." 
 
 " Never mind, Helen, I shall get over it; though my 
 head is very painful, and I have a severe pain in my side, 
 where he kicked me." * 
 
 " You look very pale. I think you must be faint. 
 Lie down upon the grass, and I will bathe your head with 
 water." 
 
 I was very faint indeed, and so I laid down upon the 
 soft grass, while she brought water in her hands and 
 bathed my burning temples. I was delighted with the 
 gentle and affectionate manner in which she performed 
 the part of a nurse, and felt more indignant with the 
 deacon, who treated her so shamefully. When I had 
 
THE RESCUE. 85 
 
 sufficiently recovered, we resumed our walk and conversa 
 tion. 
 
 " Did you say that the deacon is in the .habit of beat 
 ing you?" 
 
 " Yes, he beats me every day, and his children knock 
 me about when they please." 
 
 " What do they treat you so for ? " 
 
 " They accuse me of lying, and say that I am a thief. 
 If any sugar, pie or cake, is missing, it is laid to me ; and 
 if I deny it, I am accused of falsehood. I have never 
 taken anything but once, and then I was so hungry that 
 I could not help it. I took a quarter of a pie, and ate it ; 
 and I believe that I should have done so, if I had known 
 they would have killed me." 
 
 " What miserable wretches they are ! -I shall never 
 take any more comfort while you stay there. I will 
 write and inform your parents." 
 
 " It will do no good, they are so poor. Father is in 
 temperate, and does nothing for the family. Mother 
 provides everything by taking in washing." 
 
 " How many brothers and sisters have you ? " 
 
 11 Five. All younger than I am, but one. Caroline 
 is twelve, and two years older than I am." 
 
 " Your mother ought to know of this ; it is a burning 
 shame. Do they give you a good bed to sleep on ? " 
 
 " They let me have a pretty good one, at first, but now 
 
86 THE RESCUE. 
 
 I sleep on some rags in the attic. I never take off my 
 
 clothes when I lie down." 
 
 " Is it possible ? Do you ever go to school ? " 
 
 " I went some when I was in Boston, but now I do 
 
 not go at all. Mr. Webber says that poor children do 
 
 not need learning, and so he keeps all the books and 
 
 papers out of my reach. One day I looked into a book, 
 
 and he punished me for it If I could get books, I would 
 
 read, if he did beat me." 
 
 " Don't your parents wish you sent to school ? " 
 
 " Yes, and the deacon promised that I should go four 
 
 months every year." 
 
 " How long are you to stay there ? " 
 
 " Until I am eighteen, if I live so long." 
 
 " You will not stay one year, if I can prevent it. 
 
 Seven long years to be abused by a soulless pack of 
 
 wretches ! No, you shall be removed by some means. 
 
 I wish my father was alive ; the work would be done 
 
 quick, and ii shall be done now ! " 
 
 11 ! if you can help me get away from them, and 
 
 find me a good place to live, I shall be so grateful, and 
 
 I know God will bless you." 
 
 " I will see what can be done. Don't despair, and all 
 
 will work right. You must not tell a single person of 
 
 our intentions." 
 
 " And do you think that you can get me away ? " 
 "I will, if I live." 
 
THE RESCUE. 87 
 
 We had now arrived at the place where we must sepa 
 rate. I stood and watched her until I saw her enter the 
 house of Deacon Webber ; I then walked slowly home. 
 When I entered the door, my mother met me in the 
 entry, and seeing that I was injured, she exclaimed, 
 
 " What have you been doing, Henri ? Fighting, 
 wicked boy ! Have you so soon forgotten what Deacon 
 Webber said to the children, last Sunday, about quarrel- 
 ling?" 
 
 11 Don't say anything about that old villain ! I can't 
 bear the sound of his name ! " 
 
 She seemed astonished, and she said, "Why do you 
 speak so of Deacon Webber ? What can you mean ? " 
 
 " I meant what I said, mother. He is the greatest 
 rascal in the whole town, and cruel as the grave ! " 
 
 "I am astounded, Henri, to hear you," she said. 
 "Are you crazy? Deacon Webber is as holy as the 
 ministers of the gospel ! " 
 
 " Then the ministers ought to be hanged ! " I replied, 
 quietly. 
 
 " What vile and insolent talk ! So young, and yet so 
 wicked and heaven-daring ; how like his father ! " 
 
 "-Do not speak evil of my father; for I know that he 
 was a good man, and he is now among the blest ; and 
 sometimes I fancy that his beautiful spirit, with white 
 wings, is flitting near me." We had now entered the sit 
 ting-room, and my mother had taken her accustomed seat. 
 4 
 
38 THE RESCUE. 
 
 *' For mercy's sake, Henri, do not speak in that way ! 
 Your father cherished a fatal error, and there is little 
 hope for him, for he held on to it unto the last. You 
 were too young then to understand the fearful nature of 
 such things ; but you are old enough now. Deacon Web 
 ber has often alluded to your father, and warned others, 
 lest they too should turn their eyes from the light, and 
 imbibe an error so false and pernicious. Have you never 
 heard him?" 
 
 "No, mother, and it is well I have not; for I would 
 have told him to his face that he was a base slanderer ; 
 for I know that my father is one of the brightest spirits 
 that ever was crowned with life eternal." 
 
 " You shall not talk in that way, Henri, for I cannot 
 hear it; 'tis too awful." 
 
 " Don't be afraid of the truth, for it will not harm 
 you, mother. And as to Deacon "Webber, I despise him, 
 the wretch ! A pretty man he is to warn others, he 
 had better begin at home ! Look at Helen Means, his 
 little servant, treated in the most shameful manner, 
 clothed in rags and filth, half fed, sleeping in the attic 
 alone on a pile of dirty rags ; whipped and knocked about 
 every day ; never allowed to read, study or go to school ! " 
 
 "Who told you this?" 
 
 " She told me, herself. As I was coming from school, 
 I heard a cry of distress. " I hastened to learn the cause. 
 It proved to be Helen Means ; and a great boy was 
 
THE RESCUE. 39 
 
 abusing her, and he seemed to think that he had a perfect 
 right to, a3 she was clothed with what he called Deacon 
 Webber's righteousness." 
 
 " What did he mean by talking in that way ? " 
 
 " The miserable rags which he gives he/ to wear, in 
 stead of decent clothes. I suppose you understand that ? " 
 
 " What depravity ! " 
 
 "Never mind the depravity, but hear the rest of my 
 story. The boy would not let the girl alone, and I fought 
 with him. He would have killed me, I fear, if it had not 
 been for her ; for she hit his head with a stone, and knocked 
 him senseless. We walked home together, and she told 
 me how the deacon and the whole family abused her." 
 
 " A nice business to be engaged in, truly ! two boys 
 and a girl fighting !. Your cousins have been here to see 
 you, and have gone home. Deacon Webber came to me 
 to have a talk about that child ; and after he had told me 
 how wicked she was, I advised the present course of treat 
 ment, that she might be saved as by fire." . 
 
 " You did, mother? " I said, springing out of my chair. 
 11 You advised such treatment as she receives ? Who 
 ever advises or justifies such treatment as that is an 
 unfeeling monster ! " 
 
 After I had uttered these words, I thought they were 
 rery severe, spoken to a parent, and hardly justifiable ; 
 but I was not sorry, for I felt that any being who would 
 counsel such wicked abuse of a little child was a wretch, 
 
40 THE RESCUE. 
 
 and though the guilty one held the endearing relation of 
 mother, it did not alter the fact. Shame upon those who 
 neglect and trample upon poor and orphan children ! If 
 those who have the care of them abuse and neglect them, 
 others will ask no better license. 
 
 My mother was very much startled and surprised at 
 my language and manner. She gave me a violent push 
 with her hand, which sent me to the floor, and strik 
 ing my head, the blood streamed forth anew. I was 
 weak from the loss of it, or I should not have fallen. 
 
 " I will teach you," she said, " to talk in that way to 
 your mother ! What do you think of yourself, you wicked 
 boy ? " She now stopped and regarded me with a strange, 
 unearthly look, as I stood before her, tha blood running 
 down my face. 
 
 After a few minutes I replied, in great bitterness, 
 " You call me wicked ; and it would be strange if I were 
 not, when my own mother counsels the most savage abuse 
 of a little child." 
 
 " Keep your insolent tongue still, or I will chastise 
 you severely ! " 
 
 " I care not if you do, but I will speak ! I will write 
 to Helen Means' parents, and tell them how Deacon 
 Webber abuses her ; and I will tell everybody else that 
 you advised it." 
 
 I had never talked in this manner before, and I could 
 not then, if I had not been in the highest state of excite- 
 
THE RESCUE. 41 
 
 merit. For more than one reason, I had but little filial 
 affection for mother ; and when she spoke so complimentary 
 of the deacon, and so unkindly of my father, and then 
 confessed her participation in the wrongs of that poor 
 child, my whole nature was aroused with indignation. I 
 was faint when I entered the house, and it was only the 
 intense excitement which kept me up. At the close of 
 my last speech I fainted, and knew no more until I found 
 myself lying in my own bed. 
 4* 
 
.. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 SICKNESS. OUR FAMILY. DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 WHEN I opened my eyes, my sister Jane sat near me. 
 
 " How do you feel now, Henri ? " she said. 
 
 11 My head is painful, and everything seems strange. 
 How came I here?" 
 
 " You fainted, and Thomas and I brought you here." 
 
 " Did I ? 0, yes, I remember that I was faint, and 
 I feel weak and faint now." 
 
 " You will soon be better, I hope ; so keep very quiet." 
 
 It was soon night, and I tried in vain to compose 
 myself to sleep. Strange feelings, and sensations of a 
 frightful character, came crowding upon me, until my 
 poor brain was half crazed. By and by, whole troops of 
 the strangest and most ghastly looking creatures that ever 
 mortal beheld stood all around my bed and hovered over 
 me, and placed their sunken faces close to mine, and 
 looked at me with their hollow eyes. At first I saw 
 them when I became drowsy and shut my eyes ; and when 
 I resolved that I would keep my eyes open, they soon 
 marshalled their forces as before, and then they came in 
 such numbers that I wondered how so many could get 
 
SICKNESS. OUR FAMILY. DISAPPOINTMENT. 43 
 
 into the room, and why tl^ey should go through such 
 strange and antic evolutions. Sometimes I would fall 
 partly asleep, and a hideous heing would come close to 
 me, and I would awake with a start ; and just as I opened 
 my eyes, this hideous-looking object would take the form 
 and face of the boy from whom I rescued Helen, and, 
 with his eyes fixed upon mine, he would move swiftly 
 backward, until he receded from my sight. Again, the 
 object of terror resembled Deacon Webber, and at the 
 same time it resembled my mother ; and the pale face of 
 Helen Means was looking tearfully into mine. At times 
 I screamed out in the agony of fear and terror, and the 
 creatures would vanish away, but only to return in greater 
 numbers and more horrible shapes. At last I lost all 
 consciousness, and when I regained it the pain in my 
 head was mostly gone, the strange sensations had taken 
 their departure, and with them the ghastly crowd. I 
 perceived that it was night, for a light was burning in 
 my room. I was alone, but in a moment Jane came in, 
 and I thought she had watched with me, and that it must 
 be near morning. 
 
 When I attempted to move, I found that I was almost 
 entirely helpless. 
 
 u What time is it ? " I inquired, in a feeble voice. 
 
 " Half-past ten," she answered. 
 
 " So early ! Why, I thought it almost morning." 
 
 "Do you feel better now?" 
 
44 SICKNESS. OUK FAMILY. DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 "Yes, only I am so weak.^ What makes me so weak?" 
 
 " You have been very sick." 
 
 " I know it, but how could I get so helpless in a few 
 hours ? " 
 
 " Why, you poor child ! you have been sick three 
 weeks." 
 
 " Three weeks ! " 
 
 " Yes ; and very sick, too 
 
 <{ How strange ! " 
 
 " You have not had your senses since the evening you 
 were taken sick, and we were fearful you would never 
 have them again. But you must not talk more now. 
 Here is some medicine which the doctor left for you to 
 take as soon as you regained your senses ; and he charg 
 ed me to be sure and administer it. There, go to sleep 
 now, and to-morrow you will be able to talk longer, I 
 hope." 
 
 I soon fell into a refreshing slumber, and I was not again 
 conscious until morning, though I was told that I took 
 medicine, talked, and opened my eyes two or three times. 
 During the day I grew better and stronger, and the events 
 which transpired on the day I Avas taken ill came back to 
 me, causing very sad feelings. What would poor Helen 
 think that I had forgotten the forsaken child 'I I did 
 not mean that she should have staid there another week. 
 But sickness had defeated my hastily formed plans. 
 
 During the weeks that I was confined to the house, 
 
SICKNESS. OUR FAMILY. DISAPPOINTMENT. 45 
 
 after I began to grow better, my mother visited me fre 
 quently ; but we were both cold and distant, and I was 
 always glad when she took her departure, for I kept 
 thinking of Helen. I prayed for strength ; for I wanted 
 to take her out of the hands of Deacon Webber. 
 
 How ardently I longed to see her once more, and tell 
 her that I had not forgotten my promise, and as soon as I 
 was well I would have her removed to a good home, where 
 she should always be very happy, and where I would 
 come to see her sometimes, and ask her how she liked, 
 and if she was contented, and whether she was not very 
 glad that she had escaped from Deacon Webber so nicely, 
 to live in such a pleasant, quiet home. All this, and 
 much more, I thought over a thousand times, during those 
 helpless days. A number of fine things I would say to 
 her, to cheer her up and make her smile with bright 
 hope ; very wise things, no doubt, but, alas ! like the 
 beautifully formed speeches of a lover, they were never 
 spoken. In three weeks from the time I regained my 
 senses, I was able to leave my room, and soon after I 
 was gratified with an interview with Helen. 
 
 One delightful morning I walked in the direction of 
 the forage-ground owned by Deacon Webber, as I had 
 learned that Helen drove the cattle to pasture every 
 morning. I hoped that I might be so fortunate as to 
 meet her on the way, that we might form a plan for her 
 
46 SICKNESS. OUR FAMILY. DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 
 
 escape. I was not disappointed, for I soon saw her com 
 ing towards me. 
 
 When we met, I took her hand, and asked if she was 
 well. What a look of sorrow and grief she gave me, in 
 reply ! There was no necessity for her to speak, to say 
 to me that the greatest indignities and wrongs were daily 
 heaped upon her, for I could read in her face a world 
 of meaning. Her eyes were like a book of sorrows, every 
 page blotted with tears ! I saw that she was thinner 
 and paler, and, if possible, she had a more weary and for 
 saken look. The poor girl tried to speak; but could not, 
 but commenced crying bitterly. The sight of her and 
 her distress made me wish that I had Deacon Webber in 
 my power. I just then thought that I should like to tor 
 ture him until I wrung agony and bitter repentance from 
 his hard and wicked heart. 
 
 " You look wretched and sickly," I remarked. "Have 
 you been sick?" 
 
 Half choking with grief, she answered, " I am sick of 
 such a weary, cruel life." 
 
 " Poor child ! Then they continue their savage abuse? " 
 
 " 0, yes, and worse than ever ! " 
 
 11 Is it possible ? What can the wretches mean? " 
 
 " I know not; for I do as well as I can. I would work 
 every day, and never complain, if they would only leave 
 off whipping and starving me. The deacon learned by 
 some means that I had told you how badly I was treated. 
 
SICKNESS. OUR FAMILY. DISAPPOINTMENT. 47 
 
 He was awful angry when he came home ; and he dragged 
 me into the cellar, and stripped off my clothes, and whipped 
 me until I could not stand." 
 
 " 'I will teach you,' said he, ' to go tattling and lying 
 to bad boys ! I understand your case, and know how to 
 make the application; and I think, Miss, that I shall 
 effect a cure. Say another word about me or your treat 
 ment, and I will whip you worse next time, you lying 
 wench ! Sneaking round after bad boys, are you ? ' And 
 then he struck me with his hand on the side of my head 
 so hard that I was almost stunned. , - 
 
 " When he had done whipping me, he washed off the 
 blood, and then put on my clothes and carried me into the 
 garret, and left me there until the next day, before I had 
 anything to eat. ! how I suffered that night ' I 
 prayed to God that I might die, that he would take me 
 home to heaven, that I might be delivered from that 
 awful, cruel man. As we were going up stairs, we met 
 Mrs. Webber, and I noticed that she was weeping, but I 
 don't know what for. 
 
 "Since my severe whipping, the deacon tells everybody 
 who comes into the house what a vile creature I am. If 
 he should see yoi*, he would make you hate me." 
 
 "No! no! By heaven, he would not!" I said, trem 
 bling with excitement and indignation. "Pardon me, 
 Helen, for I have been the indirect cause of this outrage. 
 
48 SICKNESS. OUR FAMILY. DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 . 
 
 I told mother, and she musir have informed the deacon, 
 for I have not mentioned it to any one else. Shame upon 
 her!" 
 
 " What ! your mother ! But do not speak harshly of 
 her, for the deacon has lied to her, no doubt, and made 
 her think that I am very wicked. What makes you look 
 so pale and feeble and poor ? Have you been sick ? " 
 
 "Yes; very sick, or you should have escaped before 
 this. But cheer up, Helen, for deliverance shall come." 
 
 " Do you think so?" 
 
 " I know so ; and it will come soon, too." 
 
 " I believe you; so I will try and be patient until I am 
 free. When shall I see you again? " 
 
 " In a few days, at this very place. But we must not 
 be seen together, or our plans will be defeated. We will 
 part now ; so good-by, Helen." 
 
 " Good-by," she said; and, with hope beaming on her 
 pale face, she walked hurriedly away. 
 
 The reader may have queried, er^this, why there should 
 be so much bitterness between my mother and me. The 
 truth is, though I did not know why then, I had never 
 been a favorite child with her ; but I knew that I was 
 dearly loved by my father. The words of a modern song, 
 although they place the mother in a somewhat unnatural 
 position, yet they are true of some mothers ; but I am 
 happy to say they are the exceptions. I know they were 
 true of mine. 
 
SICKNESS. OVR FAMILY.- DISAPPOINTMENT. 49 
 
 ** I never was 
 
 My mother never smiled 
 
 On me with half the tenderness 
 
 That blessed her fairer child." 
 
 "Can a mother forget her sucking child? Yea 3 she 
 may forget." More than once did I, in my younger 
 days, read Byron's "Deformed Trans funned," and fancy 
 that my case was in some respects like his ; and I wished 
 for that wonderful poet's genius, that I might paint a 
 picture more strange and startling than his. 
 
 It is true, perchance, that it was my own fault, in a 
 measure, that I was not more beloved by my mother and 
 brothers and sisters ; for, with the exception of little Her 
 bert, to whom I alluded in the first chapter, there was 
 in my early days but little love for me. Herbert's love 
 for father and me was most intense. I well knew that he 
 loved his mother, and all his brothers and sisters ; but it 
 was with an affection lessWleep and absorbing ; and after 
 his death I was deeply afflicted, for I felt so lonely. My 
 dearest treasures were in the grave, my father and dar 
 ling Herbert. The passionate, headstrong boy often bent 
 over their graves, and gave vent to his agony in burning 
 tears. 
 
 At the time my story commences, I had two brothers 
 
 and three sisters, Thomas, Jane, Lizzy, George and 
 
 Charlotte. Thomas, Jane and Lizzy, were older than I; 
 
 and George and Charlotte, younger. A woman by tb' 
 
 5 
 
50 SICKNESS. OUR FAMILY. DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 name of Stewart lived with us, and had done so for a 
 number of years. She was a widow, and, though one of 
 the excellent of the earth, at times very sad, when she 
 would talk of her husband, and her darling lost Lelia, 
 her only child, and, as she frequently said, her angel child, 
 for she was in heaven, with her dear father. 
 
 My father was one of the best men who ever lived ; 
 so it seems to me, from what I recollect of him. ! how 
 much he loved me ! But, although so good, I was 
 well aware, after I had come to years of discretion, that 
 mother had but little affection for him. He left us in good 
 circumstances ; for he owned an extensive, well-cultivated 
 farm, and had some ten thousand dollars at interest. We 
 chose for our guardian a man by the name of Edgar ton, 
 a jolly, good-hearted, fat old farmer, who lived near by. 
 His early education had been somewhat neglected, but we 
 selected him because we knew that he loved justice and 
 peace. The buildings on the*farm, at this time, were 
 mostly new, and so arranged as to form a fine country- 
 seat. The house was elegant for the country, and em 
 bowered with trees. The school which we attended was 
 about a mile from our home, and the scenery by way 
 was very beautiful. On every hand were highly culti 
 vated farms, fine orchards and lovely groves, with here 
 and there a babbling, singing brook. Far away were hills 
 and valleys covered with trees, which looked glorious to 
 
SICKNESS.- OUR FAMILY. DISAPPOINTMENT. 51 
 
 me, as they waved their proud heads, green with leaves 
 and golden with sunlight ! 
 
 My father had but one brother living, and his residence 
 was in a neighboring town. I had seen him enough 
 to know that he .was a very excellent man ; and, as I 
 thought, very mueh like* my father. After giving the 
 subject due consideration, I resolved to write to him, and 
 ask his aid ; which, I felt, would be cheerfully given. In 
 accordance with this resolution, I penned him the follow 
 ing note : 
 
 " DEAR UNCLE : I want your counsel and assistance. 
 " A poor girl, eleven years old, is living with a most 
 ' unmerciful tyrant. She is starved, beaten, and clothed 
 "with rags; kept from school, and shut out from every 
 " privilege. My heart aches for her, she is such a good 
 " child. I wish you would come and carry her home. 
 " I will have her dressed in a suit of my cast-off clothes, 
 " which are too small for me. Thus dressed, she will 
 " pass for a boy. Appoint your time and place, and she 
 " shall be ready. Yours, &c., 
 
 " HENRI EATON." 
 
 In three days I received the following letter in reply : 
 
 " MY DEAR NEPHEW : I was somewhat surprised at 
 (< the contents of your note, but am highly pleased with 
 
52 SICKNESS. OUR FAMILY. DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 " the idea of rescuing the little girl. You must proceed 
 " very cautiously, or it will prove a failure. I will meet 
 " you in the woods to-morrow evening, this side of the 
 " village, near the Cold Spring. If you can so manage as 
 " to have her there, dressed like a boy, all will be well. 
 " Proceed with due caution, and* tell the little girl not to 
 " breathe a word to any one. 
 
 " Thy affectionate uncle,' 
 
 " THOMAS EATON." 
 
 I was overjoyed when I read this note. The next 
 morning I saw Helen a few minutes, and told her our 
 plans. I pointed out the spot where she would find the 
 clothes, and directed her, after she had put them on, to 
 conceal herself near by until I came for her. With a 
 beating heart I saw her pass by, when nearly sunset, 
 going in the direction of Deacon Webber's pasture. I 
 watched her until she went to the gate where the cattle 
 were let in and out, and after opening it she passed on 
 toward the woods. I followed her soon after, and found 
 her dressed as directed. She made a very pretty boy j 
 looking better than I had ever seen her before. We 
 passed through the woods, then across a large field, and 
 came to the Cold Spring, where we were to meet my 
 uncle. We waited until dark, but he did not come. 
 
 The reader will surmise what my feelings were when 
 the truth forced itself upon me that, from some cause, my 
 
SICKNESS. OUR FAMILY. DISAPPOINTMENT. 53 
 
 undo was prevented from fulfilling his promise. What 
 should be done now ? As to Helen's returning to Deacon 
 Webber's, that was not to be- thought of for a moment ; 
 for, as she had not driven up the cows in due season, 
 she would be most cruelly whipped. She trembled like 
 a leaf, and began to sob as though her' heart would break. 
 A few moments before so hopeful, now how changed ! 
 
 " What shall I do now? " she exclaimed. " I cannot 
 return to the deacon's ; he would kill me. I would 
 rather die here." 
 
 "It is strange that uncle does not come," said I; 
 "but do not despair; he may come yet it is not late. 
 Some accident may have detained him. We will wait 
 a while longe;v /- 
 
 We sat down in sadness, scarcely venturing to speak a 
 word aloud, and anxiously waited his coming, but waited 
 in vain. We then went, at my suggestion, and got her 
 old clothes and carried them some distance into the 
 woods, and threw them into a hole, which was made when 
 a large tree was overturned by the wind, and covered 
 them up with pieces of wood and stumps, and whatever 
 we could conveniently lay hold of. We did this because 
 I suggested that she might have to stay in town a num 
 ber of days ; and, if her clothes were found, the attention 
 of the people would the more readily be turned to the 
 strange boy, and perchance lead to detection. After we 
 had taken this precaution, we returned to the Spring ; but, 
 5* 
 
54 SICKNESS. OUR FAMILY. DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 as we found no one there, we immediately formed our 
 plans for the night. I knew that I must go home with 
 out delay, or I should be suspected at once. But Helen 
 must not be left in the woods alone. After much per 
 suasion, she consented to come to the house and knock, 
 and request a night's lodging, which she would most 
 likely obtain, for I would ask Mrs. Stewart to intercede 
 for her, if it was necessary. 
 
 Avoiding the road and walking fast, we soon reached 
 the orchard adjoining the buildings. Helen was to 
 wait there until I learned that it would be safe for her to 
 come to the house. We were afraid that Deacon Web 
 ber was there, or had been there, in search of the run 
 away. If I did not return soon, she would fcnow that the 
 way was clear. 
 
 Mrs. Stewart sat in the kitchen, sewing, when I went 
 in ; and merely remarked that she missed me at tea, but, 
 if I had not been to supper, she would get me some. 
 
 Nearly an hour elapsed before I heard anything of the 
 fugitive. I was thankful when a faint rapping was heard 
 at the door. Mrs. Stewart arose and opened it. 
 
 " Will you let me stay here to-night? I am a poor, 
 little boy, with no home to go to," said a soft, trembling 
 voice. 
 
 Mrs. Stewart had a heart brim-full of kindness, and 
 she said, " Come in, dear, and I will see. I guess 
 
SICKNESS. OUR FAMILY. DISAPPOINTMENT. 55 
 
 we can keep you, my little "wanderer." Helen obeyed, 
 looking very much frightened. 
 
 11 Don't tremble, poor boy ! Nobody shall hurt you, 
 here," said Mrs. Stewart. " What is your name?" 
 
 "Edward Bailey," was the answer, the name I had 
 suggested. 
 
 " Well, Edward, have you got lost, and so want to 
 stay here to-night 1 " 
 
 "No, ma'am; I have no home anywhere." 
 
 " That is strange. Are you telling the truth ? " 
 
 "Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " But how does it happen that a little boy like you 
 should be seeking a place to lodge, at this time ? Have 
 you run away?" 
 
 "Yes, ma'am:" 
 
 " What did you run away for? " 
 
 " Because I was not well used." 
 
 "I should judge so, by your appearance. You are 
 pale and poor. How strange that people will abuse such 
 little children ! How old are you, my poor little 
 fellow?" 
 
 "Eleven, last month." 
 
 "You do not look to be more than eight. You are 
 very small of your age. In what part of the country 
 did you live, and what was your master's name ? " 
 
 "I don't want to tell." 
 
 " Well, no matter. You are afraid that I should 
 
56 "SICKNESS. oun FAMILY. DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 betray you ; but I would not, for the world. My religion 
 teaches me to 'hide the outcast,' and shelter the fugitive, 
 whether white or black. Deacon Webber says that we 
 cannot fulfil our moral and' constitutional obligations, 
 unless we deliver the fugitive to his master. A pretty 
 Christian he is, to talk in that way ! Simple humanity 
 teaches a holier doctrine. Man is greater than all the 
 constitutions in the world ; and, when he is wronged, the 
 true Christian will help him, if he can. Have you been 
 to supper, Edward ? " 
 
 " No, thank you; but I do not wish for any supper." 
 
 "You should not say that you do not want any sup 
 per ; for you do, and you shall have a good warm one," 
 approaching her, and taking off the cap. "You look 
 hungry and faint, and I am sure you are. I think Henri 
 has not had anything to eat to-night ; and so you shall 
 sup together." 
 
 Helen looked up, with a grateful smile. As soon as 
 Mrs. Stewart caught her eyes, she gave a sudden start, 
 which frightened us both very much for a moment. We 
 were fearful that she had seen Helen, and now recog 
 nized her. But we soon learned that there was no cause 
 for alarm. 
 
 " Just such eyes ! " she said, fixing a searching look 
 upon Helen. 
 
 " To whom do you refer ? " I inquired. 
 
 " To one who died some years since. This boy re- 
 
I 
 SICKNESS. OUR FAMILY. DISAPPOINTMENT. 57 
 
 minds me of her very much. He has eyes of the same 
 color and expression, only they are sadder, and I think 
 his hair must have been of the same color when no 
 older," smoothing it with her hand. " How barbarously 
 they have cut it, shearing it close to your head ! " The 
 deacon had cut it off, as a punishment for the information 
 she had given me. The simple truth, to him, was wicked 
 
 tying- 
 
 "If you were my boy," Mrs. Stewart continued, "I 
 should let it grow long, and hang in beautiful ringlets all 
 'round your neck." 
 
 Supper was soon ready, and I relished it better than I 
 had a meal of victuals since my sickness. I was so 
 happy in seeing Helen partaking of good substantial food 
 of which there was an abundance before her, instead of 
 the miserable slops which the deacon gave her, that it 
 revived my appetite. Mrs. Stewart said that the bo/ 
 might stay over night, although Mrs. Eaton was absent 
 I was thankful to hear that mother was away. " Where 
 is she ? " I inquired. 
 
 " Gone to your uncle's, in ." 
 
 I was surprised. Here, then, was the secret explained. 
 I felt greatly relieved. 
 
 " When did she go ?" I asked. 
 
 "At three o'clock, taking your brothers and sisters 
 with her. They are to stay until the painting is done." 
 
 " I feel rather slighted." 
 
58 SICKNESS. OUR FAMILY. DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 " You have reason to feel slighted, Henri. But it is 
 all for the best. . I have been informed that you talked 
 very saucy to your mother, previous to your sickness, 
 which she has never forgiven. She thinks you are a 
 very wicked boy. I cannot think you intentionally bad, 
 though you have a quick temper. Children should never 
 be saucy to their parents." 
 
 "I had good cause for what I said and did ; but let 
 that pass. I am heartily glad that she saw fit to leave 
 me at home ; for I shall be happier here. At some future 
 time I shall pay uncle a visit, and I prefer to go alone." 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE DEACON FOILED. 
 
 ON the day ensuing, I received another letter from my 
 uncle, which ran as follows : 
 
 cc MY DEAR HENRI : I hope you were not much disap- 
 " pointed, last evening ; for you must have known that it 
 " would be impracticable for me to come after the girl while 
 " your mother was here. I was nearly ready to start when 
 " her carriage drove up to the door. She does not speak 
 " so complimentary of you as I could wish. I know not 
 " what to think. She says that you are ver^ saucy and 
 " disobedient, and too intimate for your own good with- a 
 " bad child, a girl living with Deacon Webber, whom the 
 " good man has great difficulty in managing at all. The 
 " deacon has informed her that the girl is a liar and thief, 
 " and, although only eleven years old, * prone to evil as the 
 " sparks fly upward.' I hope, Henri, these things are not 
 " so ; for I have always loved you, you seemed so much 
 " like your lamented father. I hope your mother is mis- 
 " taken, and, I would fain believe, honestly so. She may 
 
60 THE DEACON FOILED. 
 
 " have too much faith in Deacon Webber, and you may 
 " have said what a child should not say to a parent. 
 " People capable of cherishing such strong resentment as 
 " your mother, would be very likely to magnify faults, and 
 " see things in a false light. Be careful, in future, Henri ; 
 " for you both have hot blood. 
 
 " Your mother will return one week from to-day, and 
 " I shall go with her, and will take the girl home with me. 
 " if you wish. But, if she is the depraved thing your 
 "mother has described, I cannot keep her, unless we cun 
 " reform her; and I am in hopes that your good aunt will 
 " be able to do so, for she is so kind that her influence 
 " with the depraved is very great. . Write immediately, 
 " Henri, and then I can determine what to do. 
 " Thy affectionate uncle, 
 
 " THOMAS EATON." 
 
 By the Sime I had finished this letter, my heart was 
 very full of bitterness. " Would to God," I exclaimed, 
 "that I had a mother worthy of the name ! " I felt 
 that she was unworthy of love or respect. 
 
 It is fearful for a child to feel thus towards a parent ; 
 but I could not help it. I thought that she was wantonly 
 trifling with the character of her own child, and fearfully 
 wronging a little, helpless girl, who had already suffered 
 most shameful abuse. When I read the letter to Helen, 
 and gave loose rein to some of my bitter thoughts, she 
 
THE DEACON FOILED. 61 
 
 chided me, in her childljjfe way, for cherishing such feel 
 ings to wauls my mother. u Well, you ought to hate 
 her," I said, in reply. 
 
 "0, no, I can never hate your mother ! " 
 
 u You never can ! But you ought to hate and des 
 pise any being who causes you such suffering. Let any 
 one treat me so, and I should hate like a demon ! " 
 
 "I would rather forgive." 
 
 " What ! forgive those who abuse you so? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " That is strange and unnatural. If I was a man, I 
 should think it unmanly." 
 
 " Jesus always forgave ; was he unmanly 1 " 
 
 " I suppose not; but I cannot pardon those who wan 
 tonly abuse me, and I don't see how anybody can. But 
 I must go and rejfly to my dear, kind uncle." I went 
 to my room and immediately wrote this letter : 
 
 " DEAR UNCLE : I was shocked when I read the con- 
 " tents of your note. I tell you plainly that what my 
 '' mother has told you is almost entirely false ! I will not 
 " say that I have not been saucy to mother ; but then I 
 " could not help it, and I don't think you would have 
 " blamed me. The girl whom she describes I suppose to 
 "be Helen Means, the one I want you to take home. The 
 " poor thing has received such foul abuse that it makes my 
 ' ' blood boil as I write ; and yet she has the best, the kind- 
 6 
 
62 THE DEACON FOILED. 
 
 " est, the most forgiving disposition in the world. Deacon 
 " Webber is a detestable hypocrite, and a monger ! 
 
 " I was sadly disappointed, last night, in not finding 
 " you at the Cold Spring. I knew not what to think. 
 "My mother went away without informing me that she 
 " was to be absent for any length of time, or that she 
 " was to visit you. 
 
 " The poor child was in the greatest distress when she 
 " was obliged to give up all hope of seeing you that night. 
 " She did not dare to return to Deacon Webber's, for she 
 " knew that she would be most unmercifully beaten. She 
 " is now at our house, and I have persuaded Mrs. Stewart, 
 " who is a kind, good body, to let her stay until mother 
 li returns. She wears a suit of my clothes, which I wore 
 " some years since; and they fit her very well. The 
 " thought never occurred to us, until this morning, that the 
 11 clothes might be known ; but, as Mrs. Stewart, who is 
 " near-sighted, is the only one who would be likely to 
 " remember them, we feel less anxious. We must not let 
 u mother see her ; for she would know the clothes, at once. 
 " Be sure and return with mother, and Helen Means will 
 " be ready to accompany you home. We will meet you 
 " at the Cold Spring, at sunset. Till then, adieu. 
 " Yours, affectionately, 
 
 "HENRI EATON." 
 
 The five succeeding days passed very pleasantly ; 
 
THE DEACON FOILED. 63 
 
 Helen and I were constant companions, and I never was 
 happier. Mrs. Stewart manifested the greatest anxiety 
 for Helen's welfare, and was as kind to her as though 
 she had been her own child. On the sixth day, we were 
 in a field near the road for the first time, 'having hitherto 
 avoided the streets, and every place where she would be 
 likely to be seen and recognized. 
 
 But we had followed a large red butterfly, without 
 thinking where it was leading us. Just as we were about 
 to get over the fence, Deacon Webber came along in his 
 carriage. When he saw us, he stopped his horse. He 
 had been suspicious of me, and he quickly surmised that 
 the seeming boy was the runaway girl. He looked at 
 us a few moments ; and then, addressing me, he said, 
 
 11 Whose little boy is that with you ? " 
 
 " Do you wish to know his name, Deacon ? " I inquired, 
 rather maliciously. 
 
 " His name, or his father's name, I am not particu 
 lar which." 
 
 " Very well, Deacon, I am not disposed to tell you 
 either. You might as well drive along," was my very 
 imprudent answer. 
 
 " Not quite so fast, you young imp of Satan ! I want 
 to know who that boy is ; and, what 's more, I will 
 know ! " 
 
 " We are neither of us Satan's imps, so we do not 
 belong to Deacon Webber ; and you had better not give 
 
64 THE DEACON FOILED. 
 
 yourself any further trouble as to who my young friend 
 is; for you cannot know, Deacon." 
 
 " What is your name, little boy ? " he said, coaxingly. 
 She stood trembling with fear. "" I thought so," he con 
 tinued. "I must come and be introduced, for I feel 
 ui^lccountably interested." .*: 
 
 As he leaped from his wagon, I caught up a stone ; but 
 Helen fled like a frightened fawn. The deacon ran after 
 her, andj as I saw that he was gaining upon her, I threw 
 the stone at his hdrse, which started him off at full speed. 
 The deacon heard the noise of the carriage, and, turning 
 round, bawled, lustily, "Stop that horse! stop that 
 horse ! " As he had a heavy bass voice. I thought that 
 a tenor accompaniment would add to the effect ; so I joined 
 in singing the same tune, but on a different key, with 
 variations. He pursued Helen no further, but went after 
 his horse with all the power of locomotion he possessed, 
 muttering and grumbling that he would have her yet, 
 and promising to bring down any amount of judgments 
 on my offendisg head. I listened to his threatenings with 
 the most intense satisfaction, and was wicked enough to 
 hope that his carriage would get essentially used up, and 
 that it might be some hours before he would overtake his 
 runaway horse. Watching him until out of sight, I 
 went in search of Helen. 
 
 I expected to find her in the woods, which were not 
 far off. It was astonishing how she ran. Had there 
 
THE DEACON FOILED. 65 
 
 been a wild beast in pursuit of her, she could not have 
 fled with greater speed. Ah ! she knew but too well 
 that a worse than wild beast was on l&r track. I would 
 rather have a child of mine given over to the tender 
 mercies of a hungry wolf than to put her into such hands 
 as Deacon Webber's; and I have always felt that to 
 uphold a system which gives such wretches the entire 
 control of thousands of helpless children was not only 
 unchristian, but monstrous. 
 
 I was disappointed in my expectations of finding Helen. 
 I searched the woods until dark, in vain. I shouted 
 her name in every part of them, but only the echoes 
 answered me. When conscious that it was useless to 
 search longer, I turned my steps homeward. As I entered 
 the house, I met Mrs. Stewart. 
 
 "What does it mean ?" she inquired. "Deacon Web 
 ber has been here to see your mother ; and he says 
 that you have enticed away his little servant-girl, and 
 dressed her like a boy ! Is this true, Henri ? " 
 
 " True as the gospel/'' I replied. "Edward Bailey 
 was Helen Means, and nobody else, and Deacon Webber's 
 slave ! " 
 
 " The deacon's slave ! Did he abuse her ? " 
 
 " Yes, he did. You would have been indignant, if 
 you had seen those soiled rags which she wore day and 
 night. He gave her rags to wear, and rags to sleep on, 
 and he whipped her without mercy ! " 
 
66 THE DEACON FOILED. 
 
 " I fear what you say is all too true. I never liked 
 that man. I am afraid that he will get her into his 
 clutches again. Inhere is she ? " 
 
 " I know not. But, if he gets her, he shall not keep 
 her. He may murder her, but she shall never stay there 
 alive." 
 
 " He says that she is an awful wicked child." 
 
 "He lies, Mrs. Stewart! There is not a better 
 child in the wide world. Was your lost one a sweet and 
 gentle child ? So is Helen Means. She forgives injuries 
 like an angel ! " 
 
 " I am glad to hear you say it. But where can she 
 be, poor thing 1 ! an awful account have they to 
 render, who abuse children. A thousand prayers a day 
 won't save them. The deacon accused me of being in 
 the plot ; and when I denied it, he very coolly told me 
 that he hoped I might be able to clear myself. How 
 insulting, after I had denied that I knew anything about 
 the matter ! " 
 
 " He is so false himself, that he thinks everybody else 
 the same. He will accuse me, I doubt not ; and I shall 
 be proud to plead guilty." 
 
 " You must be careful, Henri, for your mother and 
 the deacon are great friends. You know what a fearful 
 temper your mother has, when it is roused ! Do not, I 
 beseech you, stir up a whirlwind of passion ; for God only 
 knows where it would end ! " 
 
THE DEACON FOILED. 67 
 
 cc And I do not care much. I have but little anxiety 
 for myself, but for that poor child it is agony ! ! 
 Mrs. Stewart, how would you feel if she were your own 
 child, but eleven years old, and in the woods alone on such 
 a dark night as this ? What must be her feelings now ? 
 Terribly will she suffer to-night ; but she will feel safer 
 in the woods alone than she would in the hands of those 
 pious tigers. I wish I had the deacon and his family in 
 my power ; I 'd give them what they deserve ! I hate 
 and despise them all ! " 
 
 " Tut, tut, Henri ! Do not talk so. It is not Chris 
 tian to cherish a revengeful spirit. Let us hope that all 
 will yet be well. It seems a terrible thing for a little 
 girl to be in the woods alone at night ; but God will pro 
 tect her, Henri." 
 
 " Amen ! " I responded. " A blissful thought has 
 just come into my mind ; and ! it is as welcome as 
 the balmy breath of flowers." 
 
 "What is it, Henri?" 
 
 " It is believed by many that the spirits of the dead 
 those who are worthy watch over and guard the living. 
 Perhaps my own dear father will be her guardian angel 
 to-night, and while she sleeps drop a tear of sympathy 
 upon her pale cheeks." 
 
 " A happy thought, truly, Henri. I love to think of 
 the spirits of the departed hovering around us. The 
 
68 THE DEACON FOILED. 
 
 blessed God sends them, to cheer and comfort the chil 
 dren of his love." 
 
 " May he send them to watch over poor Helen, to 
 night." 
 
 " Amen ! Amen ! " 
 
 It was late when I retired to rest, A number of 
 times I went out, to see if I could find Helen. Fre 
 quently I fancied that I heard her footsteps, but it was 
 ever an illusion. At twelve o'clock I sought my bed, 
 and ere many moments I fell asleep, being greatly 
 fatigued. I had not yet recovered my health, and could 
 endure but little. The reader will not be surprised when 
 I inform him that I dreamed of Helen. 
 
 I fancied mys'elf in the woods, where I had never been 
 before. The rain was pouring down in torrents, and I 
 was soon drenched to my skin. 
 
 I wandered on in search of some object, but it puzzled 
 me exceedingly to make out what it was. At last I 
 stopped, for I could go no further. Suddenly a being 
 approached me, so beautiful that I was entranced. Its 
 wings were whiter than snow, and softer than the petals 
 of a rose ; and its eyes were gentle, and beaming with love. 
 It beckoned me to follow. I obeyed, and was led to the 
 base of a large tree, where I beheld a pale-faced child, 
 sleeping as quietly as an infant on its mother's bosom. 
 
 " Dost know her ? " said the spirit. 
 
 u It is Helen Means ! " I replied. 
 
THE DEACON FOILED. 69 
 
 "Listen," said the spirit. 
 
 She changed her position slightly, murmured Henri, 
 and smiled. The rain was beating upon her, and she 
 was very wet, all but her face. Her head being sheltered 
 by a large limb of the tree, not a drop had fallen upon it. 
 I could have wept to see her thus; but the spirit said, 
 " Fear not ; I will guard her/ 7 
 
 At that moment I awoke, and I was somewhat startled ; 
 for it seemed that the words were spoken in my room. 
 Had some one been there, and uttered them, that very 
 instant, I should not have heard their enunciation any 
 more distinctly. I listened ; the rain was falling, as 
 though the flood-gates of heaven were opened. " Poor 
 Helen ! " I said ; " you have need of guardian spirits at 
 such a trying time as this." 
 
 It was some time before I again fell asleep, and then 
 only to find myself in the same woods, and to pass 
 through the same scene. Helen looked so natural, as 
 she lay there, with the rain beating upon her, that it 
 seemed more like a reality than a dream. The third time 
 was the vision repeated, and when I awoke it was morn 
 ing. The rain was still pouring down, and the wind wag 
 sobbing and moaning around the buildings, and shrieking 
 in the trees near by, and then went sweeping far away, 
 howling dismally when it reached "the woods. I shud 
 dered when I thought that mother would not be able to 
 return, and, if I should find Helen, she could not make 
 
70 THE DEACON FOILED. 
 
 her escape that day, and secure a sweet resting-place at 
 my uncle's, which she so much needed. 
 
 But I was happily disappointed. At eleven o'clock 
 the clouds broke away, and the sun came out warm and 
 golden. How thankful I was ! I spent the day in search 
 ing for Helen ; but all in vain. With a sad heart, I met 
 my uncle at the appointed time and place, alone. When 
 he heard my story, I saw the large tears roll down his 
 face. I could not weep, for my eyes were dry and 
 burning. 
 
 " Let us hope for the best, Henri," said my uncle. " If 
 you find her, do not fail to let me know it, and I will 
 come for her without delay. I now regret that I had 
 not met you at this spot at the time first appointed." 
 
 With heavy hearts we separated. I went home, and, 
 without seeing my mother, brothers or sisters, went to 
 bed, but not to rest. A few snatches of sleep were all 
 that I could get through a long night. The thought of 
 the lost one haunted me, and I courted the sleepy god in 
 vain. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 
 
 MY MOTHER AND DEACON WEBBER. 
 
 LIKE the preceding day, I wandered in search of Hel 
 en. I passed through one piece ou woods after another, 
 until I came to a lot of wood-land, some three miles from 
 home. Here the scenery seemed natural, as if I had 
 lately been there ; and yet I had no recollection of ver 
 being there before. I was positive that this was the first 
 time. Presently I came in sight of a noble-looking tree, 
 unusually large ; and then I remembered my dream. The 
 tree was the same, and at its base incredible as it may 
 seem the form of a child was impressed upon the earth, 
 as though it had lain there for hours. The spot where her 
 head had rested was precisely the same ; a large limb of 
 the tree was directly over it. I was now satisfied that Helen 
 had slept there on the night she had fled from her enemy. 
 She might, I thought, be still in the woods. I rambled 
 through every part of them, and often shouted her name ; 
 but, like the preceding day, echoes were my only reply. 
 When nearly sunset, faint and weary, I returned home. 
 
 On the morning following, I received a message from 
 my mother, commanding my immediate presence in the 
 
72 MY MOTHER AND DEACON WEBBER. 
 
 sitting-room. I knew what I might expect, but I did 
 not care in the least. Despair had nerved me for any 
 thing. I entered the room without flinching, and saw, 
 sitting upon the sofa, my mother and Deacon Webber. 
 Their faces darkened, when their eyes fell upon me, like a 
 thunder-cloud ; but this did not alarm me*in'the least. I 
 just then liked it, and was willing that the lightning and 
 thunder should follow. " Take a seat," said my mother, 
 without altering a muscle of her face. I mechanically 
 obeyed, and sat myself down in front of my accusers. 
 They looked at me sternly, but without producing the- 
 effect they intended. Mother trembled, and I knew the 
 storm was coming. 
 
 " How have you spent your time, during my absence, 
 Henri ? " she inquired. 
 
 " In doing good, I hope, mother," I replied. 
 
 " Wicked boy ! Do not tell me so ; for I know better." 
 
 " If you knew all about it, why did you ask me ? " 
 
 " To see if you would speak the truth." 
 
 " A worthy motive, truly ! " 
 
 " The crimes which you have been guilty of, during 
 my brief absence, are startling, and almost unaccountable, 
 in one so young ! " 
 
 " That 's news to me ! Who are my accusers ? " 
 
 She pointed to the deacon. . A 
 
 " Very well," I said, regarding him contemptuously j 
 1 go on ! " 
 
MY MOTHER AND DEACON WEBBER. 73 
 
 " He has informed me that you have enticed away his 
 little servant-girl, Helen Means ! " 
 
 " Is that the biggest crime in the dark catalogue, I 
 wonder?" 
 
 " What'have you to say to this charge? " 
 
 " I will tell you, in a few words. It is false ! 
 nothing can be more so." 
 
 " Be careful how you speak, Henri ! Don't be too 
 hasty. Do you charge Deacon Webber with falsehood? " 
 
 " It 's a matter of very little consequence to me." 
 
 The deaeon arose, in a passion. 
 
 " Boy ! " he said, "such insults cannot be allowed. 
 Beware, sir, what you say, or you may be guilty of still 
 greater crimes ! I am an anointed vessel in the holy 
 churcb, a member of Christ's glorious body." 
 
 " I was not awarevof that fact. Do you really believe 
 that you are a member of Christ's glorious body, an 
 anointed vessel in his church ? " 
 
 " Blessed be his holy name, I do! I know, for I have 
 the evidence within me." 
 
 "I hope we shall see the fruits, then." 
 
 " You would, if you were not so blinded by sin and 
 wicked works. Since I became a member of that mysti 
 cal body, I trust that I have let my light shine upon a 
 darkened world. When you speak against me, you speak 
 against one of the elect, and you do it at your peril." 
 7 
 
74 MY MOTHER AND DEACON WEBBER. 
 
 My mother gave a deep sigh. 
 
 " Those filthy rags," said I, " worn by Helen Means, 
 are an evidence of your holiness and purity, I suppose. " 
 
 " I see that you are terribly depraved," replied the 
 deacon ; " and only the most severe chastisements will 
 save you. Helen Means is a vicious child, like yourself. 
 I knew that a solemn responsibility was resting upon me, 
 and I resolved to be faithful. I did not mean that her 
 blood should cling to the skirts of my garments. I had 
 commenced a course of discipline which would, I doubt 
 not, if you had not thwarted my plans, have proved effect 
 ual. I gave her poor clothes, because I wished to teach 
 her humility. I let her go filthy and ragged, that she 
 might learn how full of all uncleanness was her own 
 heart, and how it was torn by the unresisted temptations 
 of the devil. I chastised her severely, that she might 
 think of the fearful chastisements which God would 
 inflict upon her, if she did not repent of her sins, her 
 wicked lying and stealing, and other sinful deeds. I 
 often told her of all this ; and, previous to her acquaint 
 ance with you, the remedies were working admirably for 
 the cleansing and purification of the sin-sick soul. And 
 now, if she sinks into utter ruin, the hideous curse, burn 
 ing and blasting the soul, will fall upon you ! " 
 
 This sublime bombast, and hypocritical nonsense and 
 wickedness, caused my mother to draw a long breath, 
 while she seemed to shake as though cold chills were 
 
MY MOTHER AND DEACON WEBBER. 75 
 
 creeping over her. I was tempted to ask her if she did 
 not think she was going into an ague-fit. But, knowing 
 that she was my mother, I restrained my wicked propen 
 sity for somewhat wicked jokes. 
 
 "You can now see, Heiiri," she said, " how fearfully 
 wicked you have been. Repent, before it is too late ! 
 Restore that sinful child to the arms of her faithful 
 guardian, and go and sin no more ! " 
 
 " You ask of me an impossibility," said I, with a 
 calmness that surprised me. " If it were in my power, I 
 would not do it. Bad as you represent me, I am not 
 capable of a deed so monstrous. Should I be left to do 
 so wicked a thing, I should never have the courage to 
 ask God for mercy and pardon." Deacon Webber says 
 that Helen Means is vicious, like myself. She is not 
 vicious or depraved, whatever I may be ; though she 
 would, have been made so, if she had not been so pure and 
 truthful. Helen is an angel, all love, truth and good 
 ness. It is a shame to abuse any one as she has been 
 abused. Such is not the religion of the New Testa 
 ment. I wish that some in your church, who are what 
 they profess to be, followers of Jesus, could know what 
 I know ! They are too pure to ever receive the bread 
 and wine from such unholy and polluted hands. You 
 seek to frighten me by denunciations, by appealing to 
 my fears ; but your labor is vain and useless. If I have 
 
76 MY MOTHER AND DEACON WEBBER. 
 
 done anything to benefit that poor child, I rejoice at it, 
 and I know that God will bless me." 
 
 " Shocking blasphemy ! " exclaimed the deacon. 
 
 " I am astonished ! " said my mother. 
 
 " Who ever heard of a boy, fifteen years old, talking 
 in that manner before ? The devil must help him," said 
 the deacon. 
 
 "You are mistaken," I replied. "The devil never 
 gets divided against himself." 
 
 { { Hold your tongue, Henri ! I will not have you talk 
 ing so saucy. I am your mother, and I have a right to 
 command you, and it is your duty to obey." 
 
 " If you wish me to hold my tongue, you should not 
 ask me questions, and -Deacon Webber should leave off 
 making false charges." 
 
 Here my mother gave me a severe blow on the side of 
 my head. 
 
 " Well done ! " said the deacon. " He deserves 
 harder knocks than that, to make him know his place." 
 
 "Blows upon my head, and excitement, caused very 
 severe sickness, not long since ; and the same agencies 
 may produce the same effect again, and death may be the 
 result, and that would be murder." 
 
 " Then obey me ! " said my mother. " Do not speak 
 again without my permission." 
 
 ' ' You are my mother, I well know ; but when you 
 are leagued with a villain, for the vilest of purposes, and 
 

 MY MOTHER AND DEACON WEBBER. 77 
 
 through his influence abuse your own child, I feel it no 
 sin to disobey." 
 
 " Have I not told you to hold your tongue ?" 
 
 11 You have, mother ; but, though you kill me, in such 
 a cause as this I will speak. You may attempt to cover 
 up the most cruel wrongs with the stolen garb of piety ; 
 it will not do. I see through it all, and know what your 
 motives are." When I had said this, I started to leave 
 the room. 
 
 " Stay," said my mother, " and hear the other charges 
 against you. You are accused, in conjunction with Mrs. 
 Stewart, of enticing away Helen Means, in clothing her 
 like a boy, giving her shelter ; and, when her master was 
 about to regain her, you frightened his horse, causing it 
 to run away, demolishing his carriage, and maiming the 
 beast for life. Is not this all true ? " 
 
 " I have already told you that I did not entice Helen 
 away. She needed no enticement. The most wicked 
 abuse drove her away, and that we all know. Mrs. Stew 
 art had no part nor lot in the matter, and did not know 
 of it until informed by her accuser. I shall not deny 
 but that I gave Helen clothes, and boy's clothes too; 
 for I wished her to escape, if possible. As to the last 
 charge, it being of a serious nature, I shall let the deacon 
 prove it, if he can. I am sorry for the poor beast, but I 
 do not pity the owner." 
 
 " You have said enough," remarked my mother, "and 
 7* 
 
78 MY MOTHER AND DEACON WEBBER. 
 
 you ought to expect a punishment in accordance "with 
 your transgressions." 
 
 "I should like that, above all things," I replied. 
 
 " There is but one way for you to escape," she said. 
 " If you will give the information requisite to enable the 
 deacon to recover the child, you shall be pardoned." 
 
 " Is that all I am required to do ? I could not pos 
 sibly comply ; for either of you know where she is as 
 well as I do. She may be dead, and she may not be ; 
 but, whether living or. dead, I know not where she is. 
 And, if I did, I would have my tongue cut out of my 
 head before I would tell you ! " 
 
 "It is well for you," she said, " that you do not know; 
 for if you did, and refused to tell us, we would tie you 
 up and whip you until you revealed the truth." 
 
 "And you should beat me to death, and be no wiser; 
 for I would die before I would tell you." 
 
 " You may go now," said my mother. " Your offences 
 are of such an extraordinary nature that we require time 
 to select suitable punishments." 
 
 I bowed very low, and left the room, well satisfied with 
 the part I had acted, only regretting that I had confessed 
 to furnishing Helen with boys' clothes, fearful that it 
 might be the means of her recapture. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 i 
 
 SEVERE SICKNESS. GOOD NEWS. 
 
 THE reader will say that such scenes between mother 
 and child are deplorable. I will not deny it. But, 
 constituted as I was, with a deadly hatred of every spe 
 cies of injustice, and with an impetuous disposition, how 
 could I do otherwise than act the part I did ? I do not 
 now justify all I said to my mother ; but the circumstances 
 were peculiar, and I do not know that I should have said 
 less, if my life had paid the penalty of my rashness. I 
 was surprised that I governed myself so well. 
 
 As I went into the front entry, where I had left my 
 cap, I saw Mrs. Stewart, who looked pale and anxious. 
 We retired to the kitchen, where I gave her a brief history 
 of the last hour's transactions. 
 
 " What will be the end of this ? " she exclaimed, lay 
 ing her hand upon my forehead. " Your head is as hot 
 as fire. You must go and lay down, and I will bathe it 
 with camphor." 
 
 " My head does feel strangely; but I cannot lie down 
 now. I must have one more search for the lost child." 
 
80 SEVERE SICKNESS, GOOD NEWS. 
 
 The most of the day I spent in the fields and woods, but 
 with the success of -other days. When night came, I 
 returned home, with my head burning and painful. A 
 number of times I was obliged to stop, and think which 
 way I must go. Sometimes I could not see, for there 
 was a blur before my eyes. I reached home, at last, and 
 hastened to bed, but not to rest ; for I passed through 
 scenes more distressing than those of my previous sick 
 ness. How long was that night ! It seemed to me, in 
 my lucid moments, that morning would never come again. 
 Sometimes I thought I must be with the damned, where 
 night has no morning, pain no cessation, and the fire that 
 was consuming me would never go out. ! how ago 
 nizing were my shrieks, which awoke me from my dream 
 of horror ! Then again I was wandering far, far away, 
 in swamps and dark woods, in search of a lost child, whom 
 I was doomed to seek after until found. Now I sunk into 
 the mire, and struggled fearfully to get out ; then I tore 
 my clothes and flesh with thorns and briers, or in the 
 deep, dark woods at night, where the wild beasts were 
 prowling, and the dismal howl of hungry wolves made 
 me tremble with fear and horror : and in a large tree over 
 my head a tiger was about to spring upon me, and he 
 showed his teeth and licked his chops, and glared at me 
 with his great eyes, which looked like balls of fire. Just 
 as he was ready to leap upon his prey, I sprang from the 
 bed, in the wildest frenzy of alarm. Mrs. Stewart and 
 
SEVERE SICKNESS. GOOD NEWS. 81 
 
 Jane caught hold of me ; but I kept my eyes upon the 
 tiger, and was surprised and delighted to see the tree upon 
 which he sat wave to and fro with increasing violence, 
 until he was thrown some distance into a lake, and sunk 
 beneath the waves forever ! Then I clapped my hands, 
 and shouted ia triumph. Sometimes I would see my 
 mother, with distorted features and evil-looking eyes, aim 
 ing a blow at my head ; while a creature who seemed like 
 the devil, with the face of Deacon Webber, stood grinning 
 aftd chuckling behind her. I caught a glass tumbler from 
 the lightstand and aimed it 4t his head, and was awoke 
 from my delirium by its going plump through the 
 window. 
 
 Days and weeks passed away before I rerovered from 
 this most dangerous sickness. My head was shaved and 
 blistered ; and many times I heard it said, in a low whis 
 per, " He cannot long survive." Mrs. Stewart and Jane 
 attended me with the most loving faithfulness. Sometimes 
 mother came and looked at me with great anxiety, and 
 once I saw tears coursing down her cheeks. After many 
 weary days, I was considered out of danger, and began 
 slowly to regain health and strength. / 
 
 As soon as I was able to think at all, my thoughts 
 turned to Helen. I was rejoiced to learn that the search 
 of Deacon Webber had been as fruitless as my own. No 
 one had heard from her. For many days I felt that 
 there was something which I wished to call to mind : but 
 
82 SEVERE SICKNESS. GOOD NEWS. 
 
 what it was I could not make out. At last I thought I 
 had bee\i to the post-office, previous to my sickness, and 
 requested that all letters directed to me should be kept at 
 the office until I called for them. 
 
 I had now been sick four weeks, and I felt that there 
 must be letters for me at the office. I despatched Mrs. 
 Stewart with an order that they should be delivered to 
 her. She speedily returned with three letters, and b^ 
 their superscriptions I knew that they were all from Uncle 
 Eaton. I requested Mrs. Stewart to break the seals, and 
 read them to me. The reader will be glad to peruse 
 them entire. 
 
 " DEAR HENRI : I have good and bad news for you. 
 lc Helen Means is here, but. she is very sick. Come and 
 "see her, if you can, immediately; if not, write on the 
 tf receipt of this. In haste, yours, 
 
 "THOMAS EATON." 
 
 ! how anxious I was for the contents of the next let 
 ter. But I did not get them until I had doubly and 
 trebly promised to be calm. The second was no more 
 satisfactory. It was dated two weeks later. 
 
 " Why have you not written, Henri? Have you lost 
 "your interest in Helen, now that she has found a home? 
 " She is dangerously sick with a fever, but we hope for 
 
SEVERE SICKNESS. GOOD NEWS. 83 
 
 " the best. In her delirium she often calls for you, 
 " for you to save her, so piteously that I cannot refrain 
 "from shedding tears, when I hear her. If you have 
 " any regard for us or for her, hasten hither. Do not 
 " delay one moment. Thy uncle, 
 
 "THOMAS EATON." 
 
 I now trembled with excessive agitation, buij happily I 
 was soon relieved of my fears. The third note was dated 
 only five days later. I never listened to the reading of 
 a letter with more intense satisfaction. It was like good 
 news from a far country, or like water to the thirsty 
 soul. I had been fearful that her great sufferings would 
 be too much for her, and that she would sink in death 
 under their accumulated weight, and I should never see 
 her again. 
 
 "DEAR HENRI: Twice 'have I written to you, and 
 "have received no answer. We are anxious on your 
 " account. We are fearful that you are sick, or some 
 " mishap has befallen you. Possibly the letters have got 
 " miscarried, or some one has taken them out of the office 
 " without your knowledge. I shall wait a few days for 
 " an answer to this letter, and if I do not receive one, I 
 " shall come to find out the cause of your silence. Helen 
 " is convalescent. She is rapidly recovering. What a 
 " sweet child she is ! I never saw a little sufferer so 
 
84 SEVERE SICKNESS. GOOD NEWS. 
 
 " patient. Your aunt is delighted with her ; and, as we 
 11 have no children, she seems already like our own, and 
 " no inducement could be held out strong enough to make 
 " us willing to part with her. We love her better every 
 " day. I hope that you will soon be with us, for Helen 
 " wishes very much to see you. She sends her love to 
 " her friend Henri. Your aunt wishes to be remembered. 
 " If you are able, I want you to write without delay. 
 " From your uncle, 
 
 "THOMAS EATON." 
 
 11 Good ! good ! " I cried, clapping my hands. " Now 
 I shall get well. Bring the writing materials, and an 
 answer shall be on its way soon." 
 
 Mrs. Stewart objected, but I was determined to write 
 then ; and at last she brought pen, ink and paper, I 
 promising not to write but a few lines. I penned my 
 uncle a brief note, informing him of my severe sickness, 
 and that I had just received his letters. I requested him 
 to write and inform me where he found Helen, and where 
 she went to after she fled from Deacon Webber. 
 
 In relation to the last item I was somewhat particular ; 
 for my dreams, with subsequent events, had made a deep 
 impression upon my mind. I was more than half convinced 
 that my spirit, while the body was at rest, left its earthly 
 home, and went in search of the lost child ; and was 
 guided to her by the guardian spirit of my father, and 
 
SEVERE SICKNESS. GOOD NEWS. 85 
 
 that he would henceforth take us both under his angel- 
 care, and that was the reason why Helen went to 
 the place where my uncle found her, which ended her 
 wanderings, and blessed her with a dear, sweet home, 
 where kind ones would watch over her in sickness, and 
 take care of her in health. 
 
 A few days brought a reply, which I was able to read 
 myself. It was all interesting to me, and I hope it may 
 prove equally so to my readers. 
 
 " DEAR HENRI : Your brief note made us all very sad, 
 " for we were fearful that you had been subjected to a 
 " course of treatment which had again brought on the 
 " brain fever. Helen, the dear child, was very unhappy ; 
 i: for she said that you had endured all these sufferings for 
 " her sake. She thought you must wish you had never 
 " seen her. I told her that you would have no regrets, 
 " as you had been instrumental in delivering her from 
 " the hand of the tormentors ; that you would glory in 
 " the suffering which had wrought so great a good. 
 
 " How could that fiend for I have no softer name to 
 " apply to Deacon Webber so wickedly abuse such a 
 " sweet and gentle child ? I have listened to her simple 
 " story with astonishment and indignation. You know 
 " that I am a peace-man, Henri ; and yet I feel that if 
 "the villain were here, I should with difficulty restrain 
 11 myself from giving him what he so richly deserves 
 
 8 
 
86 SEVERE SICKNESS. GOOD NEWS. 
 
 "But that would be wrong in me, I well know. He 
 "will get his punishment yet. I repeat what I. said in 
 "my last letter, never was there a better child. How 
 " she could have sprung from the source she did, and 
 "have so much refinement, and true womanly sense, I 
 "cannot understand. She informs me that her father is 
 " a drunkard ; and I should think, from what she has 
 " told me, that her mother has but little education and 
 "refinement. Now for the information you desire. 
 
 "You remember that we parted at the Cold Spring 
 " with sad hearts. I never was more unhappy tnan when 
 '' I turned my horse towards home. I felt deeply afflicted 
 c for the little wanderer, and accused myself of neglect 
 Cit of duty, for not coming after her the week before, and 
 " placing her in some secure asylum, until your mother 
 "had returned. 
 
 " Some four miles from where I left you, as my horse 
 " was walking slowly up a steep hill, when nearly at the 
 "top I heard a slight noise in some bushes, at the side of 
 " the road. Presently a small boy, or what I took to be 
 " one, came out, and ran with great speed down the hill. 
 " ' Who goes there ? ' I asked, which quickened his 
 " pace. Just at this moment, it occurred to me that it 
 " might be the lost one, Helen Means. I called her by 
 " name, saying that I was Henri's uncle. She stopped, 
 "and seemed to hesitate. 'Don't be afraid,' I said; 
 " ' Henri has been looking for you all day ; come and go 
 
SEVERE SICKNESS. GOOD NEWS. 87 
 
 " home with me, poor child ! ' She now came quickly 
 " towards me. 
 
 " ' Are you Helen Means ? ' I inquired. 
 
 " ' Yes sir/ she answered, ' and if you are Henri's 
 " uncle, I shall be glad to go home with you ; for I have 
 " nowhere to stay to-night.' 
 
 " ' Poor thing ! I will give you a home, and a good 
 " home, too,' I replied; and I placed her in my carriage, 
 " and drove rapidly homeward. 
 
 " ' Where did you stay last night ? ' I inquired. 
 
 " ' In the woods. 7 
 
 " < Were you not afraid ? ' 
 
 '"I was afraid, at first ; but I thought that God would 
 " watch over me, and so I laid down under a tree and 
 " went to sleep.' 
 
 " l Did you rest well?' 
 
 " ' Yes sir; pretty well, for I was very tired, having 
 " run a long ways to escape from Deacon Webber.' 
 
 " ' It was rainy, last night ; I suppose you got very 
 ''wet?' 
 
 " ' I was wet to my skin when I awoke ; soaked through 
 f and through, it seemed to me. My clothes were real 
 "heavy. My head was not wet much, though, just a 
 " little.' 
 
 11 { I should have thought you would have been cold.' 
 
 " ' I felt pretty chilly, and so once in a while I would 
 11 run as fast as I could, and then I would get under a 
 
88 SEVERE SICKNESS. GOOD NEWS. 
 
 P 
 
 "great tree when the rain came down so fast this fore- 
 " noon. After the sun came out, I took off my clothes 
 " and wrung them out, and then put them on ; and they 
 " are nice and dry now.' 
 
 " ' I hope you had pleasant dreams, last night' 
 
 " 'They were very pleasant. I thought I was lying 
 " asleep in the woods at night, and that I was afraid to 
 " sleep there. I wished that Henri Eaton would come 
 "and stay with me; and I opened my eyes., and there he 
 "was, close to me. Then I was not afraid any more. 
 " When he saw that I was getting so wet, he looked very 
 " sorrowful. I spoke to him, and he left me in a moment, 
 " He came twice more during the night, and so I thought 
 " he might be near me all the time, and that I could 
 "talk to him in the morning; and so I slept nicely.' 
 
 "'Under such peculiar circumstances, it was a very 
 " happy dream. Have you had anything to eat ? ' 
 
 " 1 1 found a few berries, but they were not good for 
 "much.' 
 
 " * You must be very hungry and faint ? ' 
 
 " ' Yes, sir ; but I have been without food a great deal 
 " longer than this.' 
 
 " 'Where, at Deacon Webber's ?' 
 
 "'Yes, sir.' 
 
 " ' Too bad ! but he will get his pay yet. What made 
 "you run so, when I spoke to you?' 
 
* 
 
 SEVERE SICKNESS. GOOD NEWS. 89 
 
 " ' I did not know but you were Deacon "Webber, or 
 ' would carry me back to him.' 
 
 ' ' ' Should you rather stay in the woods than live with 
 "him?' 
 
 " c 0, yes ; for he would half kill me, if he should get 
 " me again.' 
 
 " Thus we conversed until we arrived at home. Helen 
 " could take but little refreshment, and soon retired. In 
 " the morning she was in a high fever, and delirious. For 
 " a number of days she was in a very critical condition. 
 " She lived over and over again the past, especially the 
 11 last few days. She would cry out, 'He is coming! 
 " Let me go ! Henri, save me ! ' Then she would cling 
 " to the bed-clothes with frantic energy. Thankful were 
 11 we when the fever abated and reason returned. She is 
 " almost well now, and is attending school. Never did 
 "you see a happier creature. You have done well, 
 " Henri ; and the thought of it will be an unfailing 
 11 source of satisfaction, as long as you live. 
 
 " We shall expect you to visit us soon. Helen will be 
 " overjoyed to see you, and so shall we all. Good-by, my 
 " dear nephew. THOMAS EATON." 
 
 " Thank God ! " I exclaimed, as I finished this inter 
 esting letter. " Helen is now safe. The deacon's wrath 
 may now be visited upon me, but I care not." I knew 
 8* 
 

 90 SEVERE SICKNESS. GOOD NEWS. 
 
 that I had not suffered in vain, and I was content. There 
 was nothing to regret, for my object was accomplished. 
 
 I found, in the contents of this epistle, abundant food 
 for thought and reflection. How singular that Helen's 
 dream should be so/ similar to mine ! Three times she 
 fancied that she saw me ; but did not see the guardian 
 angel who led me to her, who hffl such beautiful white 
 wings, and such sweet, loving eyes. I wished that she 
 could have seen him too. But, after all, there was only 
 a slight difference. How were the coincidences in our 
 dreams to be accounted for ? Would the peculiar cir 
 cumstances by- which we were surrounded solve the 
 enigma 1 Perhaps so ; but it did not seem to me that 
 such strange coincidences could be accounted for on the 
 supposition that dreams are always the disturbed fancies 
 of the brain, caused by the action upon it of various 
 external circumstances, which have been or are taking 
 place. -It seems more reasonable to suppose that 
 man has interior senses, which may be awakened, or 
 called into action, when the exterior are sealed, or in a 
 state analogous to death. It may be that the soul, or 
 the inner life, the immortal spirit, has the power, 
 when the exterior senses are closed, of leaving the body 
 for a time, for the purpose of doing good to a suffering 
 friend, to relieve distress, and comfort the sorrowing 
 with happy thoughts. 
 
 I fancied that my spirit had wandered in search of 
 
SEVERE SICKNESS. GOOD NEWS. 91 
 
 Helen, and was enabled to find her through the aid of a 
 guardian spirit ; and so her fears were removed, and she 
 slept sweetly, though the earth was her only bed, and the 
 storm was beating in fury upon her. Whether this idea 
 will bear the test of enlightened criticism or not, it does 
 not alter the facts. I learned, by some means or other, 
 that Helen was in the woods where I had never been ; 
 and I was not only made aware of that fact, but of the 
 other things connected with it. 
 
 Notwithstanding all this good news, and the best of 
 nursing, I was a long time in acquiring sufficient strength 
 to leave'my room. 
 
 One afternoon, when my sister Jane came in to .see 
 me, I spoke to her of my brothers and sisters with some 
 severity, because they did not more frequently visit me. 
 
 "I am sorry they feel as they do," she said; "but 
 you know that they and you never agreed very well, and 
 now they believe you very saucy and abusive to mother ; 
 and they are so indignant about it, that they do not come 
 in often to see you, for fear of getting into a dispute with 
 you while you are so unwell." 
 
 " I am very thankful for so much kind forethought. I 
 hope they will not lose their reward." 
 
 "You should not doubt their motives, for they are 
 good. You are all hot-tempered, and a dispute now 
 would injure you very much." 
 
92 SEVERE SICKNESS. GOOD NEWS. 
 
 " I wish they could see an inch beyond their noses ! 
 But where is mother, this afternoon?" 
 
 "She has gone to Mrs. Webber's funeral." 
 
 " Mrs. Webber's funeral ! What Webber ? " 
 
 " Deacon Webber's wife. Do you not know that she 
 is dead ? " 
 
 "No; I had not heard of her sickness. When did 
 she die?" 
 
 "Yesterday morning. She has left a young child. 
 It is sad to have a little child left without a mother." 
 
 "If she were my mother, I should not weep much. 
 What a pity the deacon don't die too ! " 
 
 "Why, Henri! you should not talk so; it is very 
 wrong." 
 
 " He is a villain, Jane ; and, if he was dead, the world 
 would have reason to rejoice ! " 
 
 " He, is your enemy, Henri, but you should not be so 
 bitter against him. Let him live as long as God is wil 
 ling. We should love our enemies, and forgive them." 
 
 " You might as well ask me to love old clump-foot 
 himself as Deacon Webber. If Milton has pictured out 
 the devil correctly, I have more of a fancy for him than 
 for the deacon. There is something sublime about the 
 old fellow. When cast out of heaven and utterly de 
 feated, he stood up proudly in the midst of his sufferings, 
 and declared that he would rather 
 
 Rule in hell than serve in heaven I ' 
 
- 
 
 SEVERE SICKNESS- GOOD NEWS. 93 
 
 Now, I like that; but these mean, savage, hypocritical 
 creatures, like Deacon Webber, I do despise and detest ! " 
 
 " You are a strange boy, Henri. H it were impos 
 sible for us to forgive and love our enemies, we should not 
 be so commanded. If we rightly govern our spirits, we 
 shall learn to love even our most bitter foes." 
 
 " I don't believe it, Jane." 
 ;. f f Why not?" 
 
 " For a very good reason. It is said that the devil, 
 who is man's worst foe, will take delight in tormenting 
 all he gets into his clutches. Will it be their duty to 
 love him ? If so, I will try to love the deacon ; but I 
 think it a very hopeless case." 
 
 " You may feel differently , some day ; but let that pass. 
 I fear you do not love me, Henri." 
 
 " Not so intensely as I might, perhaps. But, do you 
 cherish much regard for your brother Henri 1 " 
 
 " Certainly, I do. But why do you ask ? " 
 
 " I have never witnessed any particular manifestations 
 of it." 
 
 "I grant that there has been more of coldness 
 between us, in days past, than there should be between 
 brother and sister ; but I would have it so no more. In 
 many respects you are different from the rest of us. 
 Sometimes you are too bitter ; but you have a kind 
 heart. You are liable to be misunderstood. The better 
 I understand you, the more am I drawn towards you. 
 
94 SEVERE SICKNESS. GOOD NEWS. 
 
 Henri, I would have you confide in your sister Jane, 
 and you shall always receive a return of confidence and 
 love." 
 
 The kind-hearted girl almost wept as she spoke, and I 
 wound my arms around her neck and imprinted a kiss 
 upon her lips. She pressed me to her heart, and wept. 
 This was happiness to me ; for now there was one in our 
 family who truly loved me. Mrs. Stewart came in, and 
 was greatly delighted, calling us her dear children. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 VISIT TO MY UNCLE'S. 
 
 WHEN I was considered strong enough for the journey, 
 I resolved, if not absolutely forbidden, to visit Uncle 
 Eaton's ; for I had a strong desire to see Helen Means. 
 I often queried with myself as to how she would look and 
 appear. I knew that I should not see her in rags or 
 boys' clothes, but dressed with taste and neatness, 
 for my aunt was a paragon in such things. I thought it 
 best to ask mother if I could have the privilege of making 
 Uncle Thomas a visit ; but I felt wicked enough to go, 
 if she should refuse. I suppose my course would hardly 
 be considered justifiable, but the part I was acting did 
 not trouble me at all. A feeling of intense bitterness had 
 .sprung up in my young heart, and I spoke the endearing 
 name of mother with great reluctance. 
 
 Was I to blame for this ? I acknowledge the sacred- 
 ness of the tie that binds parents and children. But it is 
 possible to weaken the cord, or break it. Let the parent 
 be false to the claims of humanity, ay, doubly false by 
 heaping abuse upon a child for doing good to a suffering 
 
96 VISIT TO MY UNCLE'S. 
 
 one, and that parent should not complain, if the child 
 loves and respects no more. The mere tie of relationship 
 is not enough, and I thank God that it is not ! 
 
 My mother readily consented to my request ; so, one 
 bright Saturday afternoon, I got into a coach and rode to 
 my uncle's. My reception was all that I could wish. 
 As I was very faint, and had rode too far for my 
 strength, my uncle took me in his arms, and carried me 
 into the house and laid me on a bed, which looked so 
 nice that it seemed to be almost a luxury to be sick with 
 such a bed to lie in. The coverlet was as white as snow, 
 and adjusted with taste, and an eye to comfort. My aunt 
 soon made her appearance, with a strengthening cordial, 
 which quickly revived me. 
 
 As my uncle and aunt stood over me, I gazed into 
 their benevolent faces, and thought how good they 
 looked, and what a happy home Helen Means must have. 
 My uncle looked very much like my father, and had the 
 same warm heart; and Aunt Eaton was every way 
 worthy of him. She was one of the good-natured, whole- 
 souled women, who wanted to relieve all the world. No 
 one ever left her door hungry, and she had a kind word 
 for the most unworthy ; and so her influence was purify 
 ing and ennobling. She was truly a preacher of right 
 eousness, good deeds, like twin-sisters, went hand in 
 hand with good words. Alas ! how often are they sep 
 arated, as wide as the poles ! Good words are dog-cheap ; 
 
VISIT TO MY UNCLE'S. 97 
 
 but good works are far too dear, even for the elelct. In 
 a brief period, I arose and walked into tbe sitting-room, 
 and sat down upon the sofa, where I was soon joined by my 
 uncle ; who came in with such a good, self-satisfied look, 
 that it made me happy to behold it. He was leading a lovely 
 little girl, so lovely that for a moment it was difficult to 
 realize that it was Helen. And yet it was she. The 
 poor, forsaken, foully- wronged child stood before me. But 
 0, how changed ! Her skin was now very white, lips red 
 as crimson, and her cheeks slightly flushed. Her sweet 
 blue eyes were radiant with hope and joy. Her dress of 
 the purest white, with a blue ribbon around her neck and 
 waist, composed a wardrobe well adapted to her form and 
 complexion. A better could not have been chosen, to make 
 her appear interesting and lovely. I gazed with surprise 
 and admiration, and thought I had never seen such a 
 beautiful child. 
 
 She colored deeply when she saw me, and I felt the 
 blood rush to my face. How different were our feelings 
 now from what they were when I frequently saw her 
 a little ragged, dirty child. I pitied her then, now 
 she seemed like something sacred and holy. It may be 
 that those who complain that their children are slighted 
 are themselves the cause of it. Nothing under God's 
 heaven is so well fitted to gain the admiration and love 
 of human beings as a little child. It needs but to be 
 treated like a human being, kept tidy and dressed neatly j 
 9 
 
98 VISIT TO MY UNCLE'S. 
 
 and for (he latter ye may pattern of the birds, or -flowers, 
 or the trees. Examine every leaf, and you will find 
 all fashioned after the beautiful. Nature is a great 
 teacher ; heed ye her lessons well. I would not encourage 
 extravagance ; no, that is not required ; but rather 
 faithfulness to the teachings of nature. The inner often 
 takes its coloring from the outer. Perhaps it may be 
 said they daguerreotype each other. 
 
 My uncle regarded us a moment with a benignant face, 
 and then, as he would have treated older children, turned 
 and left us alone. Helen regained her courage in a 
 degree, and came timidly forward, and threw her arms 
 around my neck and kissed me. I returned her caresses. 
 She was the first to speak. 
 
 " You look sick, Henri," she said. " Are you sick ? " 
 
 " I am not very well," I replied. " I have been sick 
 a long time, and I am very weak now." 
 
 " You must not go home again until you are well," she 
 said, taking her seat by my side. 
 
 " Is this a good place for sick folks ? " 
 
 " 0, yes, Henri. I was very sick, but your uncle 
 and aunt now my father and mother were so good 
 to me, and took such good care of me, that I soon got 
 well. I was very happy to be with such good people 
 when I was sick ; and now that I am well, I am happy 
 every day, happy as an angel, Henri ! " 
 
VISIT TO MY UNCLE'S. 99 
 
 " Then our sufferings have not been in vain. I told 
 you, Helen, that deliverance should come. Thank God ! " 
 
 " But how you have suffered, Henri ! I cannot tell 
 you how grateful I am. I cannot tell you how how 
 impossible it seems to ever pay you so great a debt ! " 
 
 "It is all paid now*. You are saved and happy, and 
 the knowledge of this fills my heart with such pure joy, 
 that I would not part with it for the world." 
 
 " But it has caused you so much pain,, and made your 
 mother hate you ! " 
 
 " A fig for the pain ! Who would not suffer a little 
 inconvenience for the good of another, especially when it 
 fills his own cup with joy ? In a world where there is 
 so much sin and wrong, there must be some to suffer for 
 the good of others. And surely my sufferings have been 
 but as a drop in the bucket." 
 
 " Say not so, Henri. It is not a little thing to be 
 brought nigh unto death twice, for the good of another. 
 You have been beaten and spurned from the presence of 
 your mother ; and you suffer now, Henri ; you look pale 
 and sickly." 
 
 " That will do, Helen. I shall soon fancy that I am 
 quite a martyr, if you say much more." 
 
 " And so you are, Henri ; for you have barely escaped 
 death." 
 
 Here my uncle and aunt came in, which interrupted 
 our conversation. The latter wept when she realized 
 
100 VISIT TO MY UNCLE'S. 
 
 how sickly I was. How I thanked her in my heart for 
 those tears ! Blessings upon all those who have such 
 warm, kind hearts ! 
 
 " Well, well," said my uncle, " dry your tears, Emma ; 
 for you and Helen will soon make him better, I'll 
 warrant." 
 
 " I hope so," said my aunt. " The poor child must 
 have been very sick ! " She now went out, and returned 
 in a few minutes with a nice bowl of gruel. Reader, if 
 you were ever sick, and took a long ride after you were 
 convalescent, and had brought to you, on your return, by 
 loving hands, a bowl of nicely-seasoned gruel or milk-por 
 ridge, you will not doubt when I tell you that I never in 
 my life tasted of any kind of food more agreeable to the 
 palate than that bowl of gruel. 
 
 I remained at my uncle's for two months, and my 
 health rapidly improved. How could it be otherwise, 
 when so much love and kindness were lavished upon me ? 
 I heard from home twice ; Jane wrote, and Mrs. Stewart. 
 They said that mother had inquired for my health, but said 
 nothing in relation to my return. I felt very sure that 
 she had no particular anxiety to see me, and that I could 
 return the compliment. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE VICTORY. 
 
 " WELCOME home again ! " said Mrs. Stewart, as I 
 leaped from the coach. " How you haJife improved ! I 
 never expected to see you so well again. Bless you, 
 dear ! " and she embraced me with all the affection of the 
 most loving of mothers. She had a long story to tell 
 me of what had taken place during my absence. What 
 grieved me most was the very frequent calls of Deacon 
 Webber. It did not look right, but very suspicious. I 
 felt that it would result in no good, and Mrs. Stewart 
 was also very much troubled. 
 
 Sister Jane now made her appearance, and seemed very 
 glad to see me, and we greeted each other with true broth 
 erly and sisterly love. I soon saw mother and the rest 
 of the family, and shook hands with them all. The 
 greeting was not very cordial, but it was as much so as 
 could have been expected, under the circumstances. 
 
 I had been at home but a few days, when I received a 
 message from my mother, commanding my immediate 
 presence. 
 
 I obeyed the summons, and ' found her and Deacon 
 9* 
 
102 THE VICTORY. 
 
 Webber sitting precisely as I last saw them. I was 
 severely tempted to say something very insulting ; but, 
 on second thought, concluded that I had better not. 
 
 My mother asked me to be seated, and then the deacon 
 arose very pompously, as though he was about to say 
 something of great importance, looking all the time so 
 very pious, the old wolf ! 
 
 " Young man," said he, " have you repented of your 
 past transgresses ? " 
 
 " Who put you in inquisitor general ? " I asked. 
 
 " None of your insolence, sir ! " he replied. " If you 
 do not humble yourself, and answer me respectfully, the 
 greater will be your punishment." 
 
 This talk almost made me furious. " Deacon Webber," 
 I said, " no more of your hypocritical cant, and rascally 
 nonsense ! and as to your insulting questions, I will not 
 answer one of them ! " 
 
 He trembled and sprang towards me ; and I caught tip 
 a chair, and stood on the defensive, ready to strike if he 
 should but lay his hand upon me. It would have pleased 
 me well, just then, to have hit the deacon, and hit him 
 hard. I expected that he would attempt to take the chair 
 from me, but he did not ; and when I thought how young 
 I was, I despised him for his cowardice. 
 
 " Put down that chair ! " said my mother. 
 
 " I will," I replied, " when the deacon occupies a less 
 threatening attitude." 
 
THE VICTORY. 103 
 
 " Henri, your conduct is strange and unaccountable ! 
 Are you crazy ? " she said, bursting into tears. 
 
 " I don't think I am crazy ; but I am bound to defend 
 myself!" 
 
 The deacon stood and surveyed me, as if he was some 
 what uncertain whether I was a human being or some 
 thing more. I fancied he thought me his evil genius. 
 He really seemed to be afraid of me, and I was not sorry; 
 for I knew well enough that he really ached to get hold 
 of me, and manifest his. good- will by giving me a few of 
 his impressive arguments. But I had made up my mind 
 that, if he offered to lay his hand upon me, he would find 
 me very much inclined to defend myself. Though but 
 a boy, he would have found me an earnest one, when 
 thus roused. Just at that time, a blow upon the head, 
 from the weapon I held in my hands, might have been 
 rather serious. I know that I was rash ; but I had the 
 utmost abhorrence of the deacon. My hatred was bitter 
 and intense ; and, if he had touched me, even with the 
 approval of my mother, every drop of blood in my veins 
 would have cried out revenge, and perchance not in vain. 
 
 In due time he became convinced that I was not dis 
 posed to yield the floor ; so he sat down. I followed his 
 example, casting upon him looks of hatred and contempt. 
 
 My mother seemed to tremble with passion and indig 
 nation at my conduct. But I thought she felt afraid of 
 me, and that gave me renewed courage. I do not sup- 
 
104 THE VICTORY. 
 
 _/ 
 
 pose that she wanted the deacon to do me any lasting 
 injury ; but she was particularly anxious that I should 
 treat him with a great deal of deference, and be very 
 humble, and answer his questions in a repentant spirit, 
 and quietly acquiesce in the decision they had made con 
 cerning my great sins, which were so severely felt by the 
 deacon. She had hoped that the previous interview, my 
 subsequent sickness, and some manifestations of kindness, 
 might have weakened and subdued me. But she found 
 me more determined than ever ; and this was extremely 
 mortifying. 
 
 Taking my eyes from the deacon, I fixed them boldly 
 upon her. " You have sent for me," said I, " giving me 
 to understand that business of importance demanded my 
 attention. If you have anything to say to me of an im 
 portant nature, it is my duty to hear it, I suppose ; but 
 what has Deacon Webber to do about it 7 " 
 
 " The crime was committed against him, and he should 
 have some voice in relation to the punishment which you 
 are to receive." 
 
 Very convincing, truly ! But I should think it 
 necessary to prove that he has suffered wrong, before he 
 inflicts punishment." 
 
 "He knows that." 
 
 " I don't believe it, for I know that he has suffered no 
 wrong at my hands." 
 
THE VICTORY. 105 
 
 " Where is my horse, my -wagon and my little serv 
 ant ? " said the deacon. 
 
 " I am not their keeper, deacon ; so I cannot inform 
 you," I replied. 
 
 " He has grievously suffered at your hands, Henri, 
 and restitution should be made, as far as in your power," 
 remarked my mother ; " and your punishment should be 
 in accordance .with the deeds of wrong." 
 
 " I have not wronged him at all ; but he has wronged 
 me, and so haveyou ; and Helen Means was shamefully 
 abused by you both ! " 
 
 " This is scandalous ! " said the deacon. 
 
 " More than that," I replied ; "it was outrageous ! " 
 
 " I am surprised, Henri," said my mother, " that you 
 should look and talk so strangely. Have you forgotten 
 that you are but fifteen 1 " 
 
 " And ' I am surprised that you should look and talk 
 so strangely.' No, mother, I have not forgotten that; 
 and I remember something equally important." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 " That I shall be sixteen in a few weeks. But what 
 has this to do with the important subject to which I am 
 to listen?" 
 
 " Nothing ; only, when you talk to those who are so 
 much older, you should be more respectful." 
 
 " I am respectful, when they deserve it." 
 
106 THE VICTORY. 
 
 " Any one would suppose you to be twenty-five, instead 
 of fifteen, to hear you talk." 
 
 " I thank you for the compliment. If I were twenty- 
 five, things would be different from what they are now. 
 Some folks would be careful what they did, and where 
 they icent, and how long they stayed! " 
 
 Here the deacon arose, looking very angry, and said 
 he would not bear these insults any longer, and took his 
 hat and marched out of the house. While I stood at the 
 window, watching his retreating footsteps, mother said, 
 
 " I beg of you not to talk any more as you have done, 
 or I shall think you insane. Do be more reasonable." 
 
 " I try to adapt myself to the company I am in ; and, 
 under present circumstances, it* is the best I can do. 
 Have you anything more that you wish to say ? " 
 
 " Yes, but I have been waiting for you to grow calm, 
 BO that I could talk to you in relation to the subject 
 which has been so long under consideration. We have 
 con " 
 
 " Who 's we ? " I inquired, interrupting her. 
 
 11 Deacon Webber and myself." 
 
 " I thought it very probable ; but go on, if you 
 please." 
 
 " I could not well do otherwise than consult Deacon 
 Webber ; for, through your instrumentality, he has been 
 a great sufferer. Why you have done as you have, I 
 cannot tell ; but I hope that you have not been so bad as 
 
THE VICTORY. 107 
 
 your actions-would indicate. We have chosen the mildest 
 punishment which the circumstances would admit of, a 
 punishment which may seem severe now, but, in the end, 
 it may place you in a position honorable to yourself 
 and family. You are to go into the navy, as a midship 
 man." 
 
 " I have no taste for the navy, mother; and I shall 
 consult my guardian before I assent to that arrange 
 ment." 
 
 "I don't want the least opposition from you to this 
 plan. It will be best for you to submit. Come, be a 
 good boy once!" 
 
 " This, you say, is my punishment ; and I have only 
 done good ! " 
 
 " Don't call such conduct good ; for you are sinful 
 enough already. I am your mother, and it is your duty 
 to obey me." 
 
 " Not in such a case as this. I abhor such baseness. 
 Did you and the deacon hatch that out, after setting 
 three months? Quite a bantling !" 
 
 " Do not anger me, Henri, or I may say and do what I 
 shall be sorry for." 
 
 " I do not wish to excite you, or put you in a passion; 
 but I have no inclination for the life you have chosen for 
 me." 
 
 " Why not?" 
 
 " I have already told you that I have no taste for it; 
 
108 THE VICTORY. 
 
 and, if I had, I should not be willing to enter the navy, 
 if I was sent there to punish me for performing a good 
 act. I have already suffered severely, and you ought to 
 be satisfied. " 
 
 "It is blasphemy, Henri, to call wickedness and 
 wrong goodness." 
 
 " That may all be true; so some people had better be 
 careful what they say. I aided in the escape of Helen 
 Means, and God knows that I did well ; and, had I died 
 for it, the thought would have made my last moments 
 sweet ! " 
 
 " Then there is no repentance ? " 
 
 " Repentance ! Do you think that I could be so base 
 as to repent of that ? When I repent of such a deed, 
 may the good Lord visit me with his wrath ! " 
 
 " Be careful, Henri, or he will. The evil one has 
 blinded you, that he may drag your soul down to 
 perdition." 
 
 " I don't believe it, mother. God will not punish me 
 for a deed like that, unless he is a monster. I have but 
 imitated the example of his Son, and suffered for doing 
 good; so don't be frightened, if I claim that, in so far as 
 the deed is concerned that you wish to punish me for, I 
 am like his Son." 
 
 " Why Henri ! how you do talk ! You make my blood 
 run cold. For a human being to compare himself to 
 
THE VICTORY. 109 
 
 Christ is blasphemy. If you go on in this way, you will 
 be left to commit the sin which can never be forgiven." 
 
 " I don't fear that, in the least. Deacon Webber 
 would be glad to shut me out of heaven, I doubt not ; but 
 he has not the power. He don't happen to have the key. 
 God only punishes for evil deeds, but ^ never for good 
 ones.' 7 
 
 " Well, let that pass. If you will obey me in this, we 
 shall have no further trouble. In a few weeks every 
 thing will be ready for your departure." 
 
 " You had better make up your mind that I shall not 
 enter the navy. I shall not, if I can help it, submit to 
 any punishment for the good I have done. I am very 
 sure that my guardian will not allow^ one cent of my 
 share of the property to be used for the object you and 
 the deacon have in view ; and Uncle Thomas would never 
 consent that I should be forced to adopt that to which I 
 am so much opposed." 
 
 11 Your uncle has nothing to do about it, and it will 
 not be well for him to interfere. I shall consult your 
 guardian at once." 
 
 " So shall I ; and, if need be, Uncle Thomas will con 
 sult him too. It is better for all concerned that this mat 
 ter should be left where it is ; for I know that its further 
 agitation is useless, and can result in no good." 
 
 "If you were not a vile, ungrateful boy," said my 
 10 
 
110 THE VICTORY. 
 
 mother, bursting into tears, " you would do as I desire. 
 You were always a wicked, disobedient child ! " 
 
 So saying, she left the room. I went, without delay, to 
 consult with my guardian ; and when I had told him what 
 my mother had said, he replied, 
 
 "The deuce take it! You enter the navy! You be 
 a midshipman ! What can the old lady be thinking 
 about, to wish to make a midshipman of you ? That old, 
 black fellow, Webber, is at the bottom of it, I '11 warrant 
 you. Well, well, what say, how would you like it? " 
 
 " Mr. Edgarton," said I, " I should not like it at all." 
 
 11 Just so, just so. I knew you would not ; no place 
 for you. Better be a farmer, most independent life 
 there is, healthiest, too. Did you tell your mother that 
 you did not wish to enter the navy ? " 
 
 " I did ; and, what 's more, I told her plainly that I 
 WQuld not do it ! " 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha, ha ! Square as a brick ! What said 
 she to that?" 
 
 " She said that I should do as she wished, that I 
 must obey, and she would immediately consult you." 
 
 " Consult me ! What will she consult me for, does 
 she suppose that I shall take my horsewhip and drive you 
 there?" 
 
 " No, but she wants you to hand over a little cash, 
 one or two cool hundreds, that 's all." 
 
.THE VICTORY. Ill 
 
 " Not a cent for any such purpose ! not one cent ! 
 So she may set her heart at rest." 
 
 "You are very kind," I replied. 
 
 " Not a bit of it, duty, that 's all. But how do you 
 and the deacon get along ? He told me that he had a 
 long bill against you." 
 
 " And I intend to settle it, one of these days, at 
 least, to my satisfaction." 
 
 " Don't be rash, boy, have a care. Have you seen 
 him lately?" 
 
 "I have just had a little skirmish with him." 
 
 " You have, how 's that? " 
 
 " He said that I was very insulting ; and so he came at 
 me with the intention of teaching me to be a little more 
 respectful to my superiors ! " 
 
 4 'What did you do run?" 
 
 " Not I, Mr. Edgarton; I caught up a chair, and he 
 did not dare to touch me ! " 
 
 " You did ! Bravo ! You caught up a chair, ha, 
 ha, ha ! Meant to hit him, give him a smash hey ? 
 ha, ha, ha ! What an old fool, to be afraid of such a little 
 pale-face as you ! " 
 
 " I tell you what it is, Mr. Edgarton, I am pretty 
 strong and gritty, and he knew he would catch it." 
 
 11 0, you little fighting-cock, you! I guess you will 
 do for the navy, after all. I shall shell out about five 
 hundred." 
 
112 THE VICTORY.. 
 
 " If you do, I will fight you, if ever I get large 
 enougli ! I '11 give you one gun, a realrouser, and I will 
 blow you up now ! " 
 
 *" 1 am so large that you cannot blow me up very 
 high ; so I don't tremble a bit. If you had a chair, I 
 might be frightened, ha, ha, ha ! " 
 
 " I hope not, I am sure." 
 
 " But you scared the deacon good ! I like you all 
 the better for it. I like to see a little spunk. The old 
 fool, to be frightened at a boy with a chair ! ha. ha, ha, 
 ha ! what a coward ! He says that you are a terrible 
 wicked chap ' prone to evil as the sparks fly upwards.' 
 Don't you think he feels badly, because you are so 
 wicked hey ? Won't he pray for you before he goes 
 to bed to-night ? ha, ha, ha ! " and he gave me two or 
 three nudges and punches in my sides, as he went on 
 talking and laughing. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Edgarton, I want a true friend, just now ; 
 and you must stand by me." 
 
 11 Never fear never fear! I '11 put you through 
 safe. But don't go yet. You han't been into the house. 
 I '11 tell ye what, you shall stop to dinner, and I will kill 
 one of my best chickens, so walk in." 
 
 I could not say no to such a warm-hearted invitation, 
 and I remained till after dinner.- We had a merry time; 
 for, every little while, Mr. Edgarton would burst out 
 about the chair and the deacon, and laugh as hearty as 
 
THE VICTORY. 113 
 
 tjver. He said it was no wonder that my mother wanted 
 to put me into the navy, when I could frighten a big, 
 )ld, black deacon with a chair ! 
 
 After some more useless controversy and hard talk 
 with my mother about the navy, the whole matter was 
 dropped, greatly to my satisfaction ; for I had won the 
 victory, and for the future had little to fear. 
 10* 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 
 
 THE IMPENDING DOOM. 
 
 I WAS still comparatively weak, and my health far 
 from good. My system had received a severe shock, and 
 I had taken too many poisonous medicines to allow me 
 to cherish any reasonable hope of being well at present. 
 After a few weeks devoted to work and play, I returned 
 to my books and school. 
 
 The deacon still visited my mother, and his calls 
 became more frequent and protracted, They were 
 together every day and evening. This was alarming, , 
 but what could I do ? At last, Jane, much to my satis 
 faction, broached the subject to me, and expressed her 
 fears that it was their intention to marry soon. She 
 thought the children ought to use their influence to pre 
 vent it, if possible. She informed me that the other 
 children were very anxious to escape a calamity so much 
 to be dreaded. 
 
 As much as they had clung to mother and blamed me, 
 they could not bear the idea that Deacon Webber should 
 everTiold the relation of a father-in-law to them. They 
 
 
THE IMPENDING DOOM. 115 
 
 had no more confidence in him than I. There had 
 been more cordiality between them and me, of late ; for 
 Jane and Mrs. Stewart labored to show them how mat 
 ters stood, and that I was not so much to blame as 
 they had supposed, having only heard one side of the 
 question. It was at length decided that we should con 
 sult together as to the best means to be used to accom 
 plish the object in view, the prevention of a great evil. I 
 found them all determined to oppose the marriage, if one 
 was intended, and not at all inclined to own the deacon a 
 relative of theirs. Here was union, for once ; and we 
 resolved to remonstrate with mother on the impropriety, 
 folly, ay, madness of uniting her destiny with his. 
 
 Our meeting was not entirely in vain, for a mutual 
 reconciliation took place. I heartily rejoiced at this, for 
 I knew that we should all be better and happier. My 
 heart yearned, when not embittered by contention, for 
 their sympathy and love. I had often felt that our feel 
 ings and treatment of each other were unnatural and 
 wicked. It was always painful to Mrs. Stewart, and she 
 labored hard to remove the evil. 
 
 During our interview, Thomas expressed a wish, which 
 was seconded by the rest, that I should give them all the 
 facts in relation to Helen Means. I complied with their 
 request, and gave them the whole story, and the part I 
 had acted in it. When they had heard me through, they 
 bitterly regretted the course they had taken. I was 
 
116 THE IMPENDING DOOM. 
 
 rejoiced to find that they were better at heart than I 
 anticipated, and they were pleased to learn that I was 
 worthy of confidence and love. 
 
 They now felt more keenly than ever the utter impos 
 sibility of any other result but misery, deep and lasting, 
 from a union between the deacon and mother. 
 
 The next day, the presence of my mother was requested 
 in the same room where I had twice been summoned. Our 
 relative positions had changed, for I had now summoned 
 her. She started and became very pale when she saw who 
 were present. I read her thoughts at a glance, and she 
 probably read ours. Lizzy handed her a chair, and asked 
 her to sit down. 
 
 " This is a strange proceeding," she remarked; " a for 
 mal summons from my own children. What does this 
 mean 7" 
 
 " We think," said Thomas, with some hesitation, " that 
 we have something of deep and vital importance to say to 
 you, important to your welfare, and vitally important 
 to ours!" 
 
 "I should suppose so by your looks," she replied. 
 " What can be the nature of it? for your course is unu 
 sual and strange." 
 
 " The mystery will soon be solved, mother. We wish 
 to talk with you of Deacon Webber and yourself," 
 Thomas continued. 
 
 " I am ready to hear all you have to offer," she replied. 
 
THE IMPENDING DOOM. 117 
 
 " The intimacy between you and Deacon Webber has 
 caused us to feel much anxiety for the welfare of the fam 
 ily. Since Mrs. Webber's death, he has called to see you 
 almost every day or- evening. What his object is we 
 know not ; but we think it must be of a serious character, 
 for of late nearly half of his time is spent with you." 
 
 " What is that to you ?" she said, biting her lips. 
 
 " We wish to know whether rumor tells the truth, that 
 you have engaged to marry Deacon Webber." 
 
 " Well, supposing I have, what then ? " 
 
 "If it is so, mother, or you have any such thought or 
 intention, we beg of you, if not for your own welfare, for 
 the welfare of your children and friends, to pause and 
 reflect. The step once taken, can never be recalled." 
 
 " I shall not ask my children whether I shall marry or 
 not. I *,hink I know as well what my own welfare is as 
 you. I think I know as well what is for your good. I 
 am old enough to take care of myself, and regulate my 
 own affairs ; and when I wish for advice, especially from 
 my children, I will let them know it." 
 
 " But we beseech you to hear us, and not act hastily in 
 this matter. We do not know that it 's your intention to 
 marry Deacon Webber ; but, if it is, we feel called upon 
 to utter our most solemn protest against it. We cannot 
 but regard such a step with the deepest abhorrence." 
 
 " Pretty children, you are ! to talk thus to your 
 
 
118 THE IMPENDING DOOM. 
 
 mother. I expected nothing better from Henri, for he 
 has ever thwarted my wishes when in his power. But 
 I did expect different treatment from the rest of you. 
 You are now united to drive me from my purpose ; but 
 you shall not succeed. I shall do my duty, in spite of 
 your threats. The salvation of this house may depend 
 on this union." 
 
 " I should think that the word ruin would convey the 
 idea better," I remarked. 
 
 "Keep your evil tongue still, Henri! I have had 
 enough of your impudence already ! " 
 
 " I merely made the suggestion, thinking that the mis 
 take would be very natural, under the circumstances. We 
 are sure that utter ruin would be the result. We cannot 
 say less than this." 
 
 " I shall hear no more from any of you. You are all an 
 ungrateful set ; and, instead of giving heed to your wishes, 
 I shall consult my own happiness, and the welfare of those 
 who are leagued against me. Go about your business, 
 every one of ,you, and don't mention the subject to me 
 again ! " 
 
 " We have not said a tithe of what we wish to say," 
 remarked Thomas. 
 
 "You have said too much, already, and I'll hear no 
 more ! " She now left us, shutting the door after her with 
 great violence. Thus it was made plain to us that she had 
 
THE IMPENDING DOOM. 119 
 
 determined to marry Deacon Webber, and naught that we 
 could do or say would alter her fatal resolution. We all 
 thought it best, after consulting our guardian, to remain 
 at home, for the sake of George and Charlotte, who were 
 too young to leave it. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE MARRIAGE AND ITS RESULTS. 
 
 THANKSGIVING days in past years had been days of 
 pleasure to us. A number of relatives usually gathered 
 at our house; so that, with good company and good cheer, 
 we regarded the day as our annual jubilee. How different 
 were our feelings this year, as Thanksgiving day ap 
 proached ! It seemed to be shrouded in gloom and misery. 
 I need not tell you that it was the appointed time for the 
 marriage of mother and Deacon Webber. A large company 
 assembled, on the evening of that day, to witness what 
 seemed to me a horrible farce. For a brief period, all 
 went well ; but in a few months our home, bad enough be 
 fore, became a place scarcely endurable. How gloomy, 
 how dark, were those long winter months ! It seemed as 
 though they would last forever. At least, our home, I 
 thought, will never know spring-time and summer again. 
 
 The deacon came to our house, with his whole family 
 consisting of two sons and three daughters; and they 
 were worthy of their sire, with the exception of the babe, 
 
THE MARRIAGE AND ITS RESULTS. 121 
 
 who grew every day more beautiful, and Mrs. Stewart, 
 having the whole care of her, loved her dearly. And we 
 all loved little Katy, notwithstanding the hatred we boro 
 her father. His other children were too much like himself 
 to merit our regard, or win our affection and esteem. The 
 elder brother and sister were professors of religion, and 
 as wicked as they were pious. They kept the Sabbath 
 strictly, attended all the religious meetings, and made 
 great pretensions to godliness ; but that was as far as 
 their piety went. As to practical religion, and Christ- 
 like goodness, they knew nothing about them, and cared 
 less. Their idea of Christianity was this, to live so as 
 to escape the miseries of hell and gain the bliss and glory 
 of heaven; an idea not one whit in advance of the 
 heathen. They would have called St. James' exposition 
 of pure and undefiled religion, before God the Father, 
 mere morality, scarcely worthy of the notice of Christians. 
 
 It is bad enough, always, to bring together in this way 
 two sets of children ; but in our case it was madness. 
 Sometimes we had a regular pitched battle, beginning in 
 words and ending in blows. These conflicts were not con 
 fined alone to me. 
 
 In the summer following the marriage, Mrs. Stewart, 
 at the request of my mother, made^ rich cake for Rose 
 Webber, the youngest but one of the deacon's children, 
 to carry to a children's pic-nic. But she, being a very 
 greedy child, and having never been accustomed to rich 
 11 
 
122 THE MARRIAGE AND ITS RESULTS. 
 
 cake, cut off a slice and ate it. Soon after, feeling hun 
 gry, I went to the cupboard for a luncheon ; and seeing 
 the cake, and not knowing for whom it was made, I very 
 carelessly took it up and broke off a piece, that did not 
 look as though it came from the hands of a mother-in-law. 
 "With the cake, and a generous slice of cheese, I sat down 
 to regale myself at my leisure, when in came Rose, after 
 her cake. She was furious when she saw what I had 
 done. She sprang at me like a young tigress, snatching 
 the cake from my hand and throwing it upon the floor. 
 "Thief! Thief!" she cried. 
 
 " Don't call me a thief," said I, " or I will teach you 
 better manners ! " v 
 
 " You are a thief, old Hen Eaton, and I will tell my 
 father of you ! " So saying, she snatched the cake from 
 the floor, and threw it in my face. 
 
 I was exasperated beyond endurance. I caught her, 
 and boxed her ears until she promised better fashions. 
 But I soon had the whole pack upon me, and a regular 
 fight ensued, when I should have got most roughly han 
 dled, if brother Thomas had not come to my relief. After 
 some hard knocks, we were separated by Mrs. Stewart. 
 
 She was the same good soul, amid all tlys din arid con 
 fusion. But, if it had not been for her- great love for me, 
 and her attachment to little Katy, who seemed to regard 
 her as a mother, and a promise to my father, she would 
 
THE MARRIAGE AND ITS RESULTS. 123 
 
 have left us; for her whole soul abhorred this miserable 
 strife and confusion. 
 
 Whatever might be said of my mother in other respects, 
 she was never mean arid close. She spent her money 
 freely for everything that was really needful; and as 
 many of the luxuries of life were provided for herself and 
 family as were desirable. She freely gave for purposes 
 of charity, for the support of the gospel, and she was 
 ever anxious to fully remunerate those who toiled for her 
 or hers. 
 
 The deacon was the reverse of this, with the exception 
 of what he gave for religious purposes. In matters of 
 religion he seemed to be very liberal. With a soul so 
 little, a disposition so mean, he could not patiently sub 
 mit to our manner of life. He was ever fretting about 
 our useless extravagance. "Every day," he said, "a 
 large amount is wasted, which ought to be used for 
 pious purposes, to send the gospel to the heathen, and 
 furnish the poor with Bibles." If he had seen a man 
 starving, I think he would have prescribed a Bible or a 
 religious tract, instead of giving him something to eat. 
 If people complained of destitution, they must trust in the 
 Lord. All tlxis was mortifying to mother ; for she began 
 to realize that he was not that perfect pattern she had 
 supposed him to be. I sometimes thought she despised 
 his mean, niggard soul. 
 
 She witnessed some of his diabolical temper, not only 
 
124 THE MARRIAGE AND ITS RESULTS. 
 
 with his own children, but with hers also. I felt that she 
 would soon get enough of him ; at least, I hoped so. 
 
 Soon after he had taken up his abode with us, with his 
 Ishmaelitish tribe, he and Job, his youngest son, were 
 engaged in chopping wood at the door. Job was cutting 
 small, round wood. While thus engaged, a stick which he 
 had struck rather carelessly flew and hit his father on 
 the head, and almost knocked him down. The deacon was 
 enraged ; he caught up the stick of wood, and laid it over 
 poor Job in a most savage manner, and he did not stop 
 until mother interfered. As it was, Job was laid up for 
 nearly a week. He once gave my sister Charlotte a blow 
 which sent her reeling to the floor, because she did not 
 fill his filthy black pipe as he desired it to be done. I 
 was not at home at the time ; but it created a great uproar, 
 nevertheless. My brothers threatened, and my sisters wept ; 
 while Hezekiah and Hannah stood by and mocked them, 
 the unfeeling wretches ! 
 
 The deacon had cautioned us all to be careful and lock 
 the stable-doors at night ; for a number of horses had been 
 stolen, of late, in our town and the towns adjoining. My 
 youngest brother, George, accidentally left the door un 
 locked, and the deacon's best horse was stolen. 
 
 The first time Thomas and myself were absent, the 
 deacon took him down cellar, and beat him in a most hor 
 rible manner. I returned, soon after, and found Mrs. 
 Stewart in tears. I asked the cause. She led me to 
 
THE MARRIAGE AND ITS RESULTS. 125 
 
 George, who lay groaning in his bed. When I looked at 
 his bleeding back, I swore revenge. Mrs. Stewart begged 
 me to desist, but I would not listen. I armed myself 
 with a cowhide, and rushed into the room where the dea 
 con was sitting with my mother, explaining to her .the 
 necessity of what he called a severe chastisement. I gave 
 him blow after blow, in rapid succession, until I felled him 
 to the floor. My mother screamed, and in rushed Job 
 and Hannah. " Assassin ! " said Job, and he and Han 
 nah collared me, and attempted to take the cowhide from 
 me. I struck Job with it in such a manner that he was 
 glad to let go his hold. They both left the room in ter 
 ror, as if they thought me mad, and it was dangerous to 
 remain in my presence. I was horror-struck at what I 
 had done, and I caught my hat and fled. I met Mrs. 
 Stewart as I rushed from the house, who inquired, in a 
 tone of agony, what, was the matter. I did not answer, 
 but ran for dear life, without slackening my pace, until I 
 had gone more than a mile, when I sank down, from sheer 
 exhaustion. 
 
 As I lay upon the ground, I had ample time for reflec 
 tion. Not very pleasant thoughts thronged my mind. 
 What if I had killed Deacon Webber ? How horrible it 
 would be to die for such a scoundrel ! Then I thought it 
 could not be possible that I had killed him. I hoped not, 
 at least. What would be the result of this, if he lived ? 
 What would they do to me ? I fancied I did not care 
 
126 THE MARRIAGE AND ITS RESULTS. 
 
 much. The deacon needed a lesson long ago, and he had 
 received it at last. Mr. Edgarton would say now that I 
 had settled that "long bill." 
 
 But what should I do, under such unfortunate circum 
 stances ? I must not return home, that I decided at 
 once ; and yet it was almost night. I resolved to go to 
 my uncle's immediately, as quickly as my feet would 
 carry me there. Night soon came on, and often was I 
 obliged to stop and inquire my way. It was very dark, 
 and twice I mistook the road, and went some distance in 
 a wrong direction. It seemed cruel to be obliged to 
 retrace my steps. 
 
 It was one o'clock when I reached my uncle's house. 
 ! how glad I was, for I was weary, hungry and cold. 
 They were all fast locked in the arms of sleep ; but I 
 quickly aroused them. Greatly surprised were they to 
 see me at that hour of the night ; and more surprised 
 still, when they learned that I had come on foot and 
 alone. After partaking of a substantial supper, I told 
 them my story. They rather blamed me, and Helen chided 
 not a little. True, they were shocked at the horrid 
 brutality of the deacon ; but they would not justify me 
 for being brutal also. It was decided that I must not 
 return home, at least, for the present. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 NEWS FROM HOME. 
 
 AFTER I had been at my uncle's two weeks, and not 
 hearing a word from home, I wrote to Jane ; and received 
 the following letter in reply : 
 
 " 0, Henri ! how glad I was to hear from you ! We 
 ' c were very anxious on your account ; for we knew not 
 " what had become of you, but were in hopes you had 
 " gone to uncle's. How glad I am that you have a place 
 " to flee to, where you can find a good home ; for you 
 " cannot return 'here again ! Why did mother ever marry 
 11 that terrible man ? I will answer your inquiries as well 
 " as I am able. 
 
 "The deacon's head was badly hurt; but he revived in 
 " a few minutes after you left, and rushed out in search 
 " of you, looking like a wild maniac. He said that he 
 " would have your heart's blood, and send your black 
 "soul shrieking down to hell! It was terrible to see 
 " him rave. Mother tried to pacify Jiim ; but he thrust 
 " her from him with great violence, while his eyes shot 
 " gleams of bitter hatred. When he found that you had 
 
128 NEWS FROM HOME. 
 
 " fled beyond his reach, he raved still more. I will not 
 " repeat his horrible words, for the thought of them 
 " makes me sick. At last he sank down exhausted, and 
 " mother washed and dressed his head, all of the time 
 " weeping bitterly. George is>getting well fast. He was 
 " most shamefully whipped. In his sleep he often lives 
 <{ over again that fearful scene in the cellar. First he 
 "prays for mercy; then curses his tormentor, and 
 " threatens terrible vengeance. Your suggestion, that 
 " our damnation would be the result of this marriage, has 
 " proved true; for it has been, so far, and the future is 
 li all dark. I shudder to think what kind of dispositions 
 " we shall have, if this state of things continues. I won- 
 " der not that you thought of vengeance, when you looked 
 " upon the many wounds and bruises of your poor 
 " brother ; and yet I cannot justify you in taking suck 
 11 vengeance. 0, Henri ! it is horrible ! Only think, 
 11 your mother's husband ! 
 
 " Job was not much hurt, but considerably frightened. 
 " What strength you have when angry, and what a 
 " temper you have ! You are too passionate. You must 
 " learn to govern your temper, and curb your passions, 
 t: or you will some day rush headlong to destruction. 
 " Begin now, dear brother ; now, before it is too late ! 
 
 " The tumult had subsided when Thomas returned. 
 " He was greatly excited when told what had taken place. 
 " He said that hanging would be too good for the deacon; 
 
NEWS FROM HOME. 129 
 
 "for no punishment was bad enough for such a brutal 
 " wretch ! 
 
 "If George had purposely left the door open or un- 
 " locked, it would have been different. I fear that boys 
 " often buffer severely for doing what every one is liable 
 "to do. George turned the key, he says, and thought 
 11 the door was locked ; and most likely it was, for a false 
 "key might have been used. The deacon was deterred 
 " from sending an officer after you by the' threats of 
 " Thomas ; who told him that if he moved an inch in the 
 " matter, he would bring the whole subject before the 
 " church, and also make him feel the full force of the 
 " law for his abuse of George. He is a miserable coward, 
 " and fears the loss of his rep'utation for piety and godli- 
 " ness ! I don't think that he would feel his soul at all 
 " safe out of the church. They say he talked beautifully 
 "last night at the pray er- meeting ; and I suppose he 
 "might have said .some good things, for it is not a very 
 " difficult matter. The devil, it is said, can change him- 
 " self into an angel of light. The deacon has been a 
 " hypocrite so long, that he truly -thinks himself a good 
 " man, and one of the elect. I do not wish that he should 
 " be cast into the pit ; but, in spite of my peculiar views, 
 "I sometimes think it a fitting place for him. Wicked, 
 " am I not 1 Such thoughts do not stay long in my.head, 
 " and my heart always rejects them. 
 
 " Mrs. Stewart sends her love to her dear Henri, and 
 
130 NEWS FROM HOME. 
 
 "hopes he will become a better boy, and not allow his 
 " passions to rage so fearfully. She says that you have 
 " one of the best of hearts; but your passions are so vio- 
 " lent that one can hardly feel safe in your presence ! 
 " She hopes that you will never return here again ; at 
 " least, while Deacon Webber lives ; for she is fearful that 
 " blood would be shed, should you meet again. I tell 
 " her that some blood was shed when you last met. Mrs. 
 " Stewart would leave here now, I think, if it were not 
 " for little Katy. She is rather imaginative, and she 
 " will have it that Katy looks like her lost Lelia. She 
 "is always talking of Lelia and you. Poor woman, I 
 " pity her ! 
 
 " You will not be surprised to learn that the Eatons 
 " and Webbers detest each other more than ever now. 
 " The pious Hezekiah and Hannah are getting to be 
 " more pious and more wicked. Chips of the old block ! 
 " you would say. 0, what a beautiful life we lead ! 
 " The deacon makes longer prayers than ever, and says 
 " grace at every meal ! If he should go to that wicked 
 " place, to which you, of course, are doomed, I think 
 " he would say his prayers even there. 
 
 " I want to see Helen Means very much. I can 
 " realize now how fearfully she must have suffered ; and 
 " I thank you, from my heart, for rescuing her from the 
 " monster who held her in his grasp. That was a noble 
 "deed, and Heaven will bless you for it. 
 
NEWS FROM HOME. 131 
 
 " Mr. Edgarton has" been to see the deacon ; and he 
 " says that he gave him a piece of his mind, and told 
 " him not to strike an Eaton again. ' That Henri,' said 
 "he, ' is the spunkiest little chap that I ever laid my 
 11 eyes on ! Why, the little rascal said that he meant to 
 " settle the deacon's long bill to his own satisfaction ; ha ! 
 " ha, ha ! and, by hokie, he 's done it ! ' But my sheet 
 
 " is full. Good-by. JANE/' 
 
 i 
 
 My dear, good sister ! how I thanked her for this letter ! 
 I will try to reform my habits, for your sake, thought I ; 
 and for the sake of all the dear ones who love me ! 
 
 I was better satisfied with the contents of the letter than 
 I expected to be. They were certainly bad enough, but 
 I was thankful they were no worse. I resolved to remain 
 where I was for the present. My uncle and aunt were 
 very obliging and kind ; they could not have been more 
 faithful in their care and attention to a dear child than 
 they were to me. They delighted to do good, and make 
 everybody around them happy. As for Helen, she was 
 becoming every day more interesting. We attended the 
 same school, and at home pursued our studies in company. 
 And thus the^cold days of winter passed pleasantly and 
 Vapidly away. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 AN OLD ENEMY. 
 
 WHEN spring came, Helen and I often rambled in the 
 fields gathering flowers, and when weary resting under 
 some beautiful shady tree. I never had been so happy 
 before. I was with those who loved me, and whom I 
 loved, in return, with all the warm ardor "of my impetuous 
 nature. I did not live now in the midst of jarring dis 
 cords, but of beautiful harmony. I should have been 
 quite happy, if it had not been for thoughts of home and 
 the past. I knew that, while I was so richly blest, my 
 brothers and sisters were miserable. 
 
 One summer evening, after a heavy thunder-shower, 
 Helen and I were taking one of our accustomed rambles, 
 delighted with the thousand beautiful things which' greeted 
 us on every hand. It had not rained for many days 
 before, and the earth was dry and parched with heat, the 
 trees were dusty, and the air oppressive. After* two hours' 
 rain, what a change ! The air was sweet and fresh, the 
 leaves and grass clean and beautiful. The little rivulets, 
 which had almost dried up, leaped forth again, seeking 
 their old haunts among the flowers, laughing and singing 
 
AN OLD ENEMY. 133 
 
 as they went on their way. All nature looked refreshed 
 and joyous, and the birds sang most sweetly their evening 
 songs. 
 
 As we were walking along, drinEing in the harmony 
 and beauty so lavishly spread around us, we unexpect 
 edly encountered the villain from whom I rescued Helen 
 the first time I ever saw her. His looks showed that he 
 had continued the downward course of sin ; for his ap 
 pearance was repulsive, and his whole aspect forbidding. 
 
 " Ha ! my old friend, Mr. Eaton ! " he said. " Glad 
 to see you, boy. We have an account to settle, and 
 
 ' Now 's the day, and now 's the hour.' 
 
 Come, my young gentleman, you may get ready for such 
 a licking as you never had before ! " 
 
 I expostulated, and Helen begged of him to go peace 
 fully away, and allow us to do the same. He gave a 
 coarse laugh, said that she was a beauty, and he liked 
 her, and then made a most insulting, and brutal proposal, 
 as the only condition of my escape. This threw me into 
 a violent passion, and my blood was up in a moment. 
 
 "You vile wretch, begone!" I cried, "or you will 
 fare worse than you did before." 
 
 " I know it," he said, and he gave another brutal 
 
 laugh, and sprang at me with tiger-like ferocity. After 
 
 I had received one or two blows, and struck him as many, 
 
 by a lucky hit I laid him at my feet. He arose quickly, 
 
 12 
 
134 AN OLD ENEMY. 
 
 somewhat weakened, and came at me once more, when I 
 again knocked him down and sprang upon him ; but, as 
 he promised better fashions, ~I desisted, and he arose and 
 hastened away, frequently looking back, as though he 
 was strongly inclined to try his hand once more. 
 
 I now turned to Helen, and she was deathly pale, and 
 she gladly leaned on me for support. This was a diver 
 sion which we had not looked for, and which seemed not 
 exactly appropriate for the occasion. It interrupted a 
 very pleasant train of thought and conversation, sev 
 ered a golden chain, which could not then well be 
 reunited ; so we turned our course towards home. 
 
 "You tremble, Helen," said I, "but you need not 
 fear." 
 
 " I was afraid you would be killed. Are you not 
 badly hurt?" 
 
 " Not very, just a little bruised, that's all." 
 
 " I hope we shall never see him again. How brutal he 
 is! " 
 
 " He seems to be perfectly abandoned." 
 
 " How strange that he should act so ! " 
 
 "I did not know but that I should require your help, 
 as of yore." 
 
 " I am glad you did not." 
 
 "Why so? Would it hurt your feelings to take a 
 stone and pound his head? " 
 
AN OLD ENEMY. 135 
 
 " Yes, very much. I don't think that I should have 
 hurt him much." 
 
 "I suppose not; but you hit him hard, the other 
 time." 
 
 " I know I did ; but it would be more difficult now." 
 
 " Well, Helen, I am' glad it is so. I am sorry thatJE 
 was obliged to strike him with such fury, but he would 
 have it so. He won't care about another fight with me." 
 
 " But he may seek some means to be revenged upon 
 you." 
 
 " I hope not, for I do not wish him harm." 
 
 In due time we arrived at hoine ; when it was found, 
 on examination, that I had some superfluous bumps, but 
 the skin was not broken, and I was not much injured. 
 
 We saw our foe after that under different circum 
 stances, and learned his name and history. He was the 
 only child of a Mr. Austin, of whom the reader will 
 learn more, by and by. At the time we saw him, he was 
 in prison, awaiting his trial for highway robbery and 
 murder. He was convicted and executed. We visited him 
 before and after his conviction, and then my enmity had 
 ceased, and we did all that was in our power to smooth his 
 pathway to the grave. He was melted by our kindness, 
 and wished us to pardon him. When I told him that 
 Helen was the little ragged girl who oi.ce lived with 
 Deacon Webber, and whom I delivered out of his hands, 
 he was greatly astonished. When we last saw him he 
 
136 AN OLD ENEMY. 
 
 looked very miserable, but said that he felt resigned to 
 his fate, and trusted in the mercy of God. He was 
 weeping when we bade him a final farewell, and clung to 
 our hands, as though we had the power to save him. My 
 interviews with him had a beneficial influence upon me, 
 and I resolved to curb my passions, and keep them in 
 their place. 
 
 During this time, I frequently received letters from 
 home, and things went on pretty much as they did before 
 
 I left it. I will not pain the reader by relating the scenes 
 which there transpired, but will close this chapter with a 
 letter from brother Thomas. If there are expressions in 
 
 ' Jane's or Thomas' letters which manifest a bad spirit, 
 let the reader remember the circumstances by which they 
 were surrounded. Circumstances . will account for a 
 lack of parental respect, and unchristian thought and 
 allusions. 
 
 " I have a little bit of news for you, Henri, which, I 
 " think, will remind you of old times, and please you into 
 " the bargain. You know that we children formed the 
 "determination not to be drudges to the deacon, and I 
 " made bold to tell him so. Some -two months since, he 
 
 II brought home a little girl, whom he took from the poor- 
 " house in a neighboring town. She looked bad enough, 
 " when she came ; but the saintly deacon must make her 
 " look worse, if possible. Mrs. Stewart was sadly in his 
 
AN OLD ENEMY. 137 
 
 " way ; for she would be feeding and clothing her, making 
 " her garments out of her old ones, and always keeping 
 " her looking tidy and decent. What a kind and chari- 
 " table woman she is, always doing good ! Mrs. Stew- 
 " art's care did not save the poor child from cruel abuse. 
 " If she did anything wrong, or the deacon imagined she 
 " had done wrong (and^ his imagination in that line is 
 " remarkably powerful), a brutal whipping was sure to 
 " follow. Mother thought the whippings were too severe, 
 " but he told her they were vitally requisite to the 
 "child's welfare. The fact is, he must have something 
 " to beat and mangle, it is his nature, as much so as it 
 " is the nature of the wolf to bite. We determined, 
 " however, that this should not last long. The deacon 
 " liked it too well, and we knew what was sport to 
 " him was death to the child. A most brutal exhibition 
 "of his diabolical passion and cruelty decided us to put 
 " our plan into execution at once. Mary Flinn is awk- 
 " ward and clumsy. She had the misfortune to fall with 
 \ " a waiter of crockery, proving herself a decided piece- 
 ] " maker, but one who did not receive a blessing to be 
 "coveted. The deacon was in the house at the time; 
 <{ and when he saw the broken dishes, he beat her fear- 
 " fully. He cut and bruised her most shamefully. Mrs. 
 " Stewart, Jane and Lizzy, begged of him to stop; but it 
 " only inflamed the passions of this fiend still more. 
 " Mother interfered, at last, and saved the poor thing 
 12* 
 
138 AN OLD ENEMY. 
 
 " from further outrage. If I had been there, I know not 
 " what I should have done. It was well for the deacon 
 " that you were not present. Would n't there haye been 
 " an uproar? 
 
 " I had corresponded with a friend who was in search 
 "of a little girl, and I wrote him in relation to the 
 
 I 'late horrible affair, requesting him to meet me at a 
 
 II given time and place, and take Mary home with him. 
 " She is now twenty-five miles from here, and has a good 
 " home. What a time we had, when the deacon learned 
 " that she was gone ! His rage was beautiful. It would 
 " have done you good to have seen him. He threatened 
 11 to turn us all out of doors ; but the old interloper can't 
 " do it, and he knows it. 
 
 " I am happy to inform you that Hannah Webber is 
 " married. Hezekiah is to be married soon, and is to 
 "live on the old place. It would please me better if he 
 " would remove to his ' own place? Jane is engaged to 
 " a gentleman every way worthy of her. Mother's 
 "health is very poor, she looks pale and miserable. 
 " She stands in great fear of her charming husband, and 
 "I really believe despises him. Good! good! don't 
 " you say so? I suppose my letter is sufficiently long ; 
 " so, good-by. When the deacon is dead I will give you 
 " an invitation to come home. 
 
 " THOMAS EATON." 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 WELCOME VISITORS. MRS. STEWART'S STORT. 
 
 Two years passed away, and I*had not seen any of the 
 members of our family, excepting my brothers. One 
 . summer afternoon, the stage stopped at the door of my 
 uncle's, when out jumped Mrs. .Stewart and my sister 
 Jane. 0, how glad I was to see them ! I rushed into 
 their arms, and kissed them again and again, with 'passion 
 ate delight. The joy seemed mutual. They expressed 
 surprise in seeing me look so healthy, and remarked that 
 I had grown very large and handsome. This flattery, or 
 praise, sounded pleasantly enough in my ears j for, I am 
 not ashamed to confess it, that I ever had a strong desire 
 for true manly beauty. It is fashionable, I know, in the 
 pulpit and out of it, to preach about the vanity of such 
 things ; and yet the preachers both pulpit and lay 
 are as well pleased with the flattering words, which some-, 
 times greet their ears, as the bright-eyed blooming girl, 
 whom everybody styles the beauty of her native village. 
 
 Mrs. Stewart looked more careworn than I had ever 
 seen her before, while sister Jane had grown more inter 
 esting ; but over her face passed frequently an expression 
 
140 WELCOME VISITORS. MRS. STEWART'S STORY. 
 
 of sadness, reminding one of a spring day, when the 
 clouds ever and anon pass^ over the face of the sun, hiding 
 its beaming smiles, which make the world look so glad 
 and golden. But, nevertheless, her appearance was 
 decidedly interesting. You could read in her aspect the 
 dear, good-hearted girl, whose presence would always 
 cause more sunshine than shadow. 
 
 Helen was absent wUen they arrived; she came home 
 soon after, and I was proud to introduce her as the 6*ne I 
 had rescued from Deacon Webber's tyranny. Mrs. Stew 
 art started when she took her hand and gazed into her 
 beautiful face, which at that moment brightened with 
 child-like reverence and admiration. I washed myself in 
 their places, when she and Jane pressed her to their 
 hearts, and imprinted warm kisses upon her red lips. A 
 strong friendship immediately sprang up between the 
 parties, which was a source of happiness to us all. I felt 
 proud of my sister, who was a number of years Helen's 
 senior, when I saw how well they loved each other. 
 Many pleasant rambles did we enjoy during their fort 
 night's "visit, and the time passed rapidly and pleasantly 
 away. 
 
 They gave us a history of home affairs, which had 
 undergone no improvement since I left. It was interest 
 ing, but sad. Little Katy was still the same dear, affec 
 tionate creature, though her father had used every means 
 in his power to spoil her. His treatment of her had been 
 
WELCOME VISITORS. MRS. STEWART'S STORY. 141 
 
 such that there was no living being she feared so much. 
 He frequently commanded her to bring something to him, 
 some article which he might or might not want. She 
 would have obeyed him with alacrity, if she had not been 
 afraid of him : and because she did not, he would whip her, 
 and make her still more fearful. She must be trained, he 
 said, and disciplined while young, or she would be ruined 
 for this world and for the next. When abused by her 
 father, she would ever fly to Mrs. Stewart, from whom 
 she received so much sympathy and kindness jthat the 
 evil effect of her father's brutal treatment was, in a 
 measure, neutralized. 
 
 Finally, the deacon, after correcting her, would shut 
 her up, lest she should run to Mrs. Stewart, and the good 
 effects of her chastisement be destroyed. 
 
 " Poor little Katy ! " said Jane ; " doomed to be brut 
 alized or die. Such abuse is too much for a sensitive, 
 gentle creature, like her." 
 
 This brutality, to an affectionate little child, was 
 almost enough to break the heart of Mrs. Stewart. The 
 deacon thought it best not to interfere with my brothers 
 and sisters in any other way than by fretting and scold 
 ing. My mother, who brought the great evil upon her 
 self and children, was every day becoming more sickly 
 and sad. She wished, by this time, so thought Mrs. 
 Stewart, that she had hearkened to their warnings. I 
 
142 WELCOME VISITORS. MRS. STEWART'S STORY. 
 
 felt, as I listened, that she was to be pitied, doomed to 
 spend her life with such a detestable wretch. 
 
 Uncle took his carriage, and carried Mrs. Stewart and 
 sister Jane home, and when he returned George and 
 Charlotte came with him. While they were with us, we 
 received a letter from Jane, stating that Deacon Webber 
 had talked so insultingly to Mrs. Stewart, that she had 
 left the house, and was boarding in the neighborhood. 
 Uncle and aunt, very much to my satisfaction, resolved 
 to offer her a home. He returned with George and 
 Charlotte, and brought back Mrs. Stewart. She was 
 affected to tears at her whole-hearted reception. 
 
 " Here," said my aunt, "you shall have a home as 
 long as you live ; and we will all try to make it a happy 
 home." % 
 
 " It is a happy home," said Helen, " always pleasant, 
 always joyful." 
 
 " A paradise," I observed. 
 
 ( ' With at least one angel in it, in your estimation," 
 remarked my uncle. 
 
 " And two, in yours," I replied. 
 
 " Mrs. Stewart ought to be satisfied," said my aunt, 
 " if your description is true. A happy, pleasant, joyful 
 home, a paradise with angels." 
 
 " I thank you all," she replied. " If poor little Katy 
 were here, I should be very happy." 
 
WELCOME VISITORS. MRS. STEWART'S STORY. 143 
 
 "Why did the old rascal turn you out of doors ? " I 
 inquired. 
 
 " Do not speak in that manner, Henri," said Mrs. 
 Stewart. " It is wrong,' even about your enemies." 
 
 " It is no more than the truth," I replied. 
 
 " But the truth is not to be spoken at all times," 
 observed my uncle. 
 
 "Very true," replied Mrs. Stewart. " The deacon is 
 the worst man I ever knew ; but it is not well to call hard 
 names. He was whipping Katy in an unmerciful man 
 ner, for a most trivial offence. I looked on until I could 
 bear it no longer, when I snatched her up in my arms 
 and ran to my room, shut the door, and locked it. The 
 deacon followed, and threatened to burst it open, if I did 
 not unfasten it. ^After some parleying, I unlocked it, and 
 he walked in. Little Katy clung to me, and he did not 
 offer to touch her, but heaped upon me abuse without 
 measure, and ended by informing me that my room in 
 the house was more desirable than my company. Know 
 ing that Jane would befriend Katy as much as I could, I 
 immediately left and went to one of the neighbors, where I 
 remained until Mr. Eaton came after me. 
 
 " Poor little Katy ! she will not trouble them many 
 years. She is a delicate, sensitive child, and with such 
 usage as she receives she cannot live long. How strange 
 that a man should so abuse his own child ! " 
 
 " Not very strange," I remarked ; "for persons like 
 
144 WELCOME VISITORS. MRS. STEWART'S STORY. 
 
 him must have somebody's child to abuse; and, as he is so 
 very unfortunate in relation to those who are not his own, 
 as a matter of course he must expend his cruelty upon 
 his own children." * 
 
 "I think he would like her better, if she had more of 
 the Webber in her," said Mrs. Stewart. " She is entirely 
 different from his. other children. They are rough, hard 
 hearted, brutal ; but she is gentle and affectionate. I 
 often held her to my heart, and thought of my lost Lelia. 
 ! if the deacon would give her to me, to be all my own, 
 the deep yearning in my heart for the lost one would be 
 in a measure satisfied. But that wound, I fear, will not 
 be healed until I am laid in my grave." Mrs. Stewart 
 was here so overcome by her strong emotion that she 
 burst into tears. '"Let the thought console you," said 
 my aunt, " that you will meet the dear child in heaven." 
 
 "It does console me," she replied, "and I thank my 
 God for the glorious hope." We all responded amen, 
 and Mrs. Stewart's face beamed with the smile of recon 
 ciliation. 
 
 A brief period now passed away, and not a word was 
 spoken. I was the first to break silence. " You made 
 me a promise, long ago," I said, "to tell me the story 
 of your husband and Lelia' s death. Uncle, aunt and 
 Helen, would all be glad to hear it ; and, if it would not 
 be asking too much, I wish you would- tell it now." 
 
 "Not now, Henri," said my uncle. "You are not 
 
WELCOME VISITORS. MRS. STEWART'S STORY. 145 
 
 considerate at all. Better postpone it, Mrs. Stewart, and 
 not harrow up your feelings again at present." 
 
 "It is a painful story," said Mrs Stewart, "and really 
 frightful. It is true tha? I have promised to tell it to 
 Henri; and I would rather do it now, than to put it off 
 any longer. When you have heard it, you will not be 
 surprised that I sometimes weep." 
 
 She now sat some minutes, as if in deep thought, her 
 head upon her hand, while we kept perfect silence. In 
 due time, she began her startling narrative : 
 
 " When I was twenty years old, I married Mr. Stewart, 
 the man of my choice, the only one I ever loved. I 
 was not disappointed in him ; for he loved me faithfully, 
 and so our home was happy, though humble. We both 
 endeavored to do our whole duty, and our reward was 
 peace and quiet happiness. We had but one child, and 
 she was born four years after our marriage. ! what a 
 sweet little girl she was, with the softest flaxen hair, and 
 lips and cheeks as red as roses ! How much I loved that 
 gentle child ! 
 
 " How welcome was her tender embrace, and how sweet 
 the kiss which she so often impressed upon my lips ! 
 Sweeter than music was her childish prattle to me, and 
 brighter than sunshine her angel presence. . 
 
 " My first great grief was when my husband died. It 
 was a fearful blow; and I should have been stricken 
 to the earth, if it had not Been for my angel child. 
 13 
 
146 WELCOME VISITOR MRS. STEWART'S STORY. 
 
 She was now my support, and more dear than ever. 
 Alas ! I was doomed to lose her, and in a way overwhelm 
 ingly crushing to a mother's heart. Mr. Stewart had 
 been dead but three months, wten Lelia was lost to me 
 forever in this world. I sent her to a neighbor's, on an 
 errand, and she never returned. The alarm was quickly 
 given, and, though the whole neighborhood was aroused, 
 and the woods searched over and over again, still, she 
 could not be found, and not a trace of her was discovered. 
 My God ! what were my feelings when I knew that I 
 must give up all hope ! I prayed for death. In my ter 
 rible anguish, I felt to curse my Maker, hoping that in 
 his anger He might strike me dead ! 
 
 " Six months had passed away, and I had grown 
 calm, and felt willing to drink the bitter cup which had 
 been prepared for me. On such an evening as this, I sat 
 alone in my little cottage, once so cheerful, now so dreary 
 and lonely. As I sat listening to the moan of the winds, 
 suddenly I saw the outlines of a man. I knew that he 
 could not have come in at the door, and I covered my 
 eyes, quaking with fear. I had no light but that which 
 was emitted by a few coals that lay upon the hearth. 
 When I uncovered my face, my husband stood before me, 
 looking pale and sorrowful. I trembled violently, for I 
 knew it was his ghost ! 
 
 " My blood ran cold in my veins. I could not stir. J 
 seemed glued to the chair, and my eyes were fixed on his, 
 
WELCOME VISITORS. MRS. STEWART'S STORY. 147 
 
 and in vain I tried to turn them away. Although I was 
 greatly frightened, I saw that he looked as if he wished 
 to make known some important secret. He continued to 
 gaze upon me for some moments, when, laying his 'hand 
 upon his heart, he vanished from my sight. 
 
 "After his departure, I queried with myself whether I 
 had been dreaming. But I knew that I had not been 
 asleep. I was as wide awake as I ever was, and I had 
 seen James Stewart as plainly as I ever saw him in my 
 life. My blood had almost frozen in my veins as I looked 
 upon him. It could not be a dream. I sat some moments 
 as motionless as a statue. At last I shrieked and fainted. 
 When I came out of my fainting fit, I was stiff and 
 cold. I arose and staggered to my bed, crawled in, and 
 soon fell asleep. The sun was high up in the heavens 
 when I awoke. I arose, and, after taking some refresh 
 ments, walked out to reflect upon the fearful event of the 
 last evening. 
 
 " Directly to the east of my cottage, hid behind a hill, 
 was the house of Philip Austin, a man who. previous to 
 my acquaintance with my husband, sought my hand in 
 marriage. I rejected his suit at once, but he continued 
 to urge it for a number of months. When my husband 
 began to visit me, and he saw that I encouraged his atten 
 tions, he was furious. He cursed me, in the bitter 
 ness of his heart, and swore that he would not die 
 without revenge. He was married soon after we were, 
 
148 WELCOME VISITORS. MRS. STEWART'S STORY. 
 
 gp 
 
 and, I supposed, he had forgotten his oath. I had 
 noticed that, for some time past, he had studiously 
 avoided me. Only once had he entered my house since 
 my husband's death. When my child was missing, no 
 one manifested so much zeal, seemingly, in trying to 
 learn her fate, as he. I could not now keep him and his 
 oath out of my mind. What could it mean ? Had he 
 revenged himself by murdering my child ? I now recol 
 lected that he watched with Mr. Stewart on the night of 
 his death. 
 
 " I walked in the direction of Austin's house, and soon 
 saw him coming towards me. When he saw who I was, 
 he halted, as though disposed to turn back ; then, as if 
 ashamed of his cowardice, he came boldly forward, appar 
 ently as unconcerned as an innocent man. When we met, 
 I looked him steadily in the face, as though I would read 
 his soul. He quailed before me. His shrinking before 
 the gaze of a timid woman emboldened me, and I said, 
 
 "' Philip Austin! what have you done with my 
 child ? ' 
 
 " What a change came over him, at these words ! His 
 dark eyes glared with fearful hate, and his face became 
 black with fury. He foamed at the mouth, so great was 
 his rage. 
 
 " l By all the powers of hell ! ' he exclaimed, ' you shall 
 pay dearly for this damnable charge ! ' 
 
 "He sprang to the wall, and took off a stone, as though 
 
WEJ00A1E VISITORS. MRS. STEWART'S STORY. 149 
 
 he would murder me on the spot. But it suddenly 
 dropped from his hands, and he fell upon his knees, 
 trembling with fear. 
 
 " ' God ! ' he cried, c all bloody, as when I killed her ! 
 Go away, don't come near me ! See ! there is her 
 father, looking as pale as when I gave him the poison ! ' 
 
 "He arose, quaking in every limb, and foamed and 
 ground his teeth like a madman. 
 
 " c Ha, ha ! * he cried ; they are coming nearer, see 
 them ! Look at that head where I beat it ! She is 
 coming to lay it against my face. Away ! Don't touch 
 me ! "Mercy ! Good God ! Mercy ! mercy ! They 
 are gone now. I did but dream. What did I say, 
 Laura ? I did not mean it. I I was driven to frenzy 
 by your words ; but think no more of it. Ha ! they 
 are coming again ! Keep them .off! keep them off, for 
 God's sake ! 0, Stewart ! Stewart ! forgive me. He 
 points .to you. Yes yes I will ! I will tell her 
 all!' 
 
 " He now sank upon the ground from exhaustion, 
 overcome with terror. When he had sufficiently recov 
 ered, he told his fearful story. He never allowed the 
 thought of revenge to escape from him for a single 
 moment. As my husband was dangerously ill, he 
 thought it the best time to accomplish his purpose. To 
 murder Mr. Stewart and escape suspicion, he proposed to 
 watch with him when his recovery was considered doubt- 
 13* 
 
150 WELCOME VISITORS. MRS. STEWART'S 
 
 ful. The doctor expected a change before morning^ 
 During the night he administered a deadly poison. 
 Learning that I was happy with my child, that she 
 was a universal favorite, he had decoyed her into the 
 woods and killed her, and made her grave near the spot 
 where he wrought the awful deed of blood. When he 
 had finished his tale of horror, I turned from him with 
 fearful loathing ; but he begged me not to leave him. 
 
 " ' See ! there they come again ! ' he cried. ' 0, God ! 
 that bloody head ! It is coming close to me ! No, no ! 
 do not touch me ! There, there! go away, child, go 
 away, now ! Poor thing ! will the blood never stop ? 
 Will it always gush out so ? Laura ! my God ! No, no ! 
 God has forsaken me, long ago. Laura ! do, do keep him 
 off! Don't you see him? Tell him to go, he will 
 mind you ! ' 
 
 " Thus he raved on, the poor wreteh, foaming with 
 anguish the most terrible. Notwithstanding the evil he 
 had wrought me, I pitied him. I accompanied him 
 home, and he immediately took his bed, to leave it but 
 once more. After lingering a few days in mortal agony, 
 he died. 0, how fearful it was for him, and how terrible 
 it was for me ! He told us, as well as he could, where 
 he had buried her body ; but we could never discover the 
 spot. But no matter, she is not there. ! if 
 if - 
 
 She was now so overcome that she could go no further j 
 
WELCOME VISITORS. MRS. STEWART'S STORY. 151 
 
 but wept, and wrung her hands in agony. We all wept 
 in sympathy, and Helen arose and went to her, and 
 threw her arms, around her neck, and said, while the 
 glittering drops rolled down her cheeks, 
 
 " I will be your child, your own dear child ! " 
 
 " Then you are not to be our child any more," said my 
 aunt, a good deal affected. 
 
 Helen now left Mrs. Stewart, and went to Aunt 
 Eaton, and, embracing her fondly, said, 
 
 " I will be daughter to you both, love you all, for 
 you are^ll so good." 
 
 " Spoken like my own brave girl ! " said Uncle 
 Eaton. " You shall love Mrs. Stewart as much as you 
 wish, and be a daughter to her, and we will not be jeal 
 ous of your affection. She needs consolation more than 
 we do, for she has lost all she had." 
 
 "And Henri," said Helen, "shall be your son,' 1 
 placing my hand in Mrs. Stewart's. 
 
 " I am happy to have you for a mother," I said. " I 
 have often wished that you held that endearing relation 
 to me ; for I have always yearned for a mother's whole 
 hearted love. I know that you love me ; and I will always 
 love you, and try to make you so happy that you will ever 
 look forward with hope, and not backward with grief." 
 
 " That 's right ! " said my aunt ; " and, in seeking to 
 make her happy, you will fill your own cup with joy." 
 
 "I knew you would say so," remarked my uncle; 
 
152 WELCOME VISITORS. MRS. STEWART'S STORY. 
 
 1 ' for you know by experience it is the way to be happy 
 in this world. Those who are so selfish that they never 
 wish to do good to others, should not expect to taste the 
 highest enjoyment. Grod has so ordered that those who 
 strive, without selfishness, to help others, shall, at the 
 same time, help themselves." 
 
 Mrs. Stewart embraced us both, and now shed tears of 
 joy. " God bless you, my dear children ! " she said, fer 
 vently; "and, with your love, I will try to forget the 
 anguish and sorrows of the past." 
 
 We spent the remainder of the evening in pleasant 
 and profitable conversation ; and when I retired to my 
 bed, that night, I felt that I had great. reason to be thank 
 ful, in spite of the thick gloom which had hitherto 
 enshrouded my life. 0, that there were more faithful 
 and loving hearts in this beautiful world of ours ! Where 
 truth and love dwell there is pure joy. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE DEATH OF LITTLE KATY. 
 
 MRS. STEWART had been with us but a few months, 
 when I received a letter from sister Jane, announcing the 
 death of little Katy. Here is the letter : 
 
 | 
 
 " DEAR HENRI : I have sad news for Mrs. Stewart. 
 " Little Katy is dead ! The poor, dear thing always had 
 " a sad look ; but, qjter Mrs. Stewart left us, she seemed 
 " sadder than ever. I tried to comfort the little mourner, 
 " and cheer her drooping spirits ; but all in vain. She 
 " would nestle close to my heart, and seem to feel safe 
 "there; but, at the same time, large tears would roll 
 " down her pale cheeks. She never seemed like other 
 " children; and how different she was from her brothers 
 " and sisters ! She always shrank from them, as if they 
 " were her mortal enemies. Her father's presence 
 " became so insupportable that she almost went into fits 
 " when she heard him approaching. Day after day she 
 " grew sadder and weaker ; and she clung so closely to me 
 " that I loved her as though she had been my own sister. 
 " 0, how affectionate she was ! { Can it be,' I thought, 
 
154 THE DEATH OF LITTLE KATY. 
 
 " ' that she is the child of Deacon Webber ? How unlike 
 " him, how unlike the rest of the family ! ' I have 
 " since learned that Mrs. Webber was a kind-hearted and 
 " affectionate woman; but she had very little energy, and 
 " she stood in great fear of her husband. The education 
 "which her children received, the treatment of children 
 " who lived there, broke her heart ; and, when death 
 " came, she welcomed it as a messenger of mercy, only 
 "regretting that she must leave little Katy behind, to the 
 " tender mercies of her unfeeling father. Well might 
 11 she regret, well might she pray to live ! But she felt 
 " that to live would be in vain ; for Katy's mind and 
 " heart must be moulded by other hands than her own. 
 lt Like her other children, she woul^nly live to see her 
 " warm affections chilled, her genue nature hardened. 
 " Must an unregenerate woman be left to guide the foot- 
 11 steps of a child of one of the elect ? No, no ! fond 
 " mother, you would jeopardize your child's soul ! 
 
 " When the deacon saw how pale and sickly little Katy 
 " looked, he blamed himself for having negHcted her so 
 " long. { Mrs. Stewart,' said he, { has ruined the child, 
 " soul and body ! She shall not be made a fool of any 
 " longer. She must have exercise, and good, strong, 
 " wholesome food. Salt pork, beef, cabbage, potatoes 
 " and coarse bread, will make her strong and well.' I 
 11 was forced to stand and look on, and see him attempt 
 " to apply his remedies. Before sunrise in the morning 
 
THE DEATH OF LITTLE KATY. 155 
 
 " he would make her leave her bed and take a long walk, 
 " even when the cold easterly winds chilled her through 
 "and through. At such times, she would return shaking 
 " with cold, her face wet with the burning tears of intense 
 "suffering; even then, she must not go to the fire, for 
 " it was not wholesome. The deacon threatened in vain ; 
 "the tears would flow. At breakfast, he would try to 
 " force her to eat a hearty meal of detestable salt pork, 
 " fat beef, or something, if possible, equally repugnant to 
 11 a sick child. With all the terror which he inspired, 
 " he could make her eat but little. In vain she tried to 
 "force it down; her poor, weak stomach would not receive 
 " it. After breakfast he would set her to sweeping, and 
 " the dust, with his tobacco-smoke, would bring on a 
 " violent fit of coughing. That, he said, was good for 
 " her, as it would start the phlegm from the lungs. 
 
 " After Mrs. Stewart left, she slept with me, until her 
 ct father had taken her under his especial care ; then he 
 " would not permit it, and for a time she slept alone. 
 " You will not be surprised to learn, that after all this 
 " had been done, she failed faster than ever. One morn- 
 ' ' ing, she was unable to leave her bed, and I took her in 
 " my arms and carried her and laid her in my own. The 
 " deacon was incensed when he learned what I had done ; 
 " but when he came into the room, she so screamed with 
 " affright, and clung with such tenacity to my neck, that 
 " he thought it best to leave her to my care, muttering, as 
 
 
156 THE DEATH OF LITTLE KATY. 
 
 " he departed, that the child was ruined. I now had the 
 " sole care of her ; and so affectionate and so grateful was 
 " the dear little thing, that I was as loth to leave her bed- 
 " side as she was to have me. One evening she looked 
 " at me very earnestly, and said, 
 
 " ' Jane, I shall die before many days ! ' 
 
 " i I hope not,' I replied. ' But what makes you 
 "think you shall die?' 
 
 11 i Because I have been sick so long.' After a short 
 <c pause, she continued, ' I dreamed, just now, that I died, 
 " and my body was put in the ground, but my soul went 
 " to heaven ; and I felt very happy, for I saw my mamma, 
 " that you told me of last night ! ' 
 
 " ' You must not think that you will die, because you 
 " dreamed that you were dead. People often dream that 
 " they are dead, and live many years after.' 
 
 " 'Yes, but I shall not. I shall never be well again.' 
 
 " { Do you wish to die?' 
 
 " * Yes ; if I can go to heaven, where dear mamma is.' 
 
 " ' Do you wish to leave me ? ' 
 
 " ' No, dear Jane ! ' she replied, placing her arms 
 11 around my neck, ' but father ! ' and she looked around 
 " as though she feared he might be listening, ' I want to 
 {C die, and go away from him ! 0, I hope he won't come 
 11 to heaven ! ' 
 
 " ' You should not hope so, Katy ; for, if he goes to 
 " heaven, he will be better than he is now.' 
 
THE DEATH OF LITTLE KATY. 157 
 
 " { Is God in heaven, Jane ? ' 
 
 " ' God is everywhere.' 
 
 " ' And do you think he is good; and will he Jove 
 " such a wicked child as I am, when I am dead ? ' 
 
 " c He loves all his creatures ; and little children will 
 " all be cared for by the Saviour. You are so good, that 
 11 the angels must love you ! What makes you think that 
 
 I c you are wicked 1 ' 
 
 " ' Father says I am ; and says, if I should die now, I 
 
 II should go to a bad place and there I should have to stay 
 " forever ! But I am sure God will not send me there, 
 " if he is good, will he, Jane ? ' 
 
 " ' No, dearest. Do not be afraid of God; for he is 
 " good to all. If you die, angels will take you and carry 
 " you to a happier world ! ' 
 
 " l What is an angel, Jane ? ' 
 
 " ' Your mother is one, I trust. Angels are the spirits 
 "of the departed.' 
 
 " ' 0, I hope mother will come after me ! I shall be 
 11 so happy to go with her ! I wish you and Mrs. Stewart 
 " could go too, Jane ! ' 
 
 11 1 now told her that she must not talk any more ; and 
 " she soon fell asleep. The physician who was called 
 " said her disease baffled his skill, and he was fearful that 
 " his prescriptions would be in vain. 
 
 " Three days after, she died. When her father was 
 " told that his child was dying, he hastened to my room ; 
 14 
 
158 THE DEATH OF LITTLE KATY. 
 
 " but she seemed fearful of him, even then. She 
 " whispered to me, ' I must go ; mother is waiting for 
 " me. Do not let him keep me ! 0, there are beautiful 
 11 beings there, and I shall not be sick any more, I shall 
 " be so happy ! ' 
 
 " Her breath soon grew shorter, and ere long she was 
 " dead, looking as though she had fallen into a quiet, 
 " happy sleep. What a beautiful smile rested upon her 
 " marble face ! Dear, dear child, she is now in heaven ! 
 "I heard the deacon whisper to mother, as they turned 
 " away from the bed of death, that he was sorry that she 
 " had not given some evidence of the salvation of her soul ; 
 "he feared she was lost, for she had always been a 
 " stubborn child ! 
 
 " Lost ! the dear angel ! heaven has not a purer spirit ! 
 " What a creed is his, and what a heart he must 
 ' ' have to believe it ! Heaven deliver me from such a 
 u creed as that ! 
 
 " It was a beautiful spring day when we laid her in the 
 " silent grave, by the side of her mother. A willow 
 " droops over the spot where she sleeps ; the grass grows 
 11 green by her side, and the flowers are springing all 
 " around her. Over her head the birds sing their sweetest 
 " songs. Twice have I been to her little grave, and 
 " bedewed it with my tears. But, thank God, she is 
 " better off than to be here ! She has now found her 
 " mother. 0, the joy of a clear and beautiful hope in a 
 
THE DEATH OF LITTLE KATY. 159 
 
 "glorious immortality! 'There the wicked cease from 
 ' troubling, and the weary are at rest.' 
 
 " Our dear little Katy has bid us farewell, 
 " And gone home to heaven, where bright spirits dwell ; 
 '* Her mourning is over, and hushed all her sighs, 
 On the wings of a seraph she soared to the skies. 
 
 " Thy life, little Katy, was saddened with grief, 
 *' And tender affection could not bring relief ; 
 " Thou' hast found it in heaven, with angels so mild, 
 " The soft, loving bosom now pillows its child. 
 
 " We weep not, dear Katy ! though brief was thy stay, 
 " Thy Saviour has won thee, and called thee away ; 
 " Thy mother enfolds thee, in love, as of yore, 
 * Thy sorrows are ended, thy trials are o'er. 
 
 "0, darling ! we miss thee, thou dear little dove, 
 " But sweet is thy memory, embalmed in our love ; 
 *' Good-by, then, dear Katy, so blest in the skies, 
 ".'Enraptured in glory, with joy and surprise ! 
 
 " Things remain very much the same here, excepting 
 " that Hezekiah Webber is married, and moved on to his 
 " father's place ; for which we, are very thankful, all but 
 " the deacon, who did not like to part with his hopeful 
 " son. I wish he had gone further off, for now he has 
 " to call every day. Mother's health is failing quite fast. 
 " I do not think she has many years to stay in this world. 
 The deacon is as ugly and repulsive as ever, but I will 
 '* not pain you with a recital of his brutal deeds. 
 
160 THE DEATH OF LITTLE KATY. 
 
 " This letter would be unpardonably lo;n if it did not 
 " contain matter of interest to you and Mrs. Stewart. 
 " I have been particular in giving the little incidents, 
 11 because I knew that Mrs. Stewart would want to know 
 " all. I would have sent for you both, but I did not 
 " think it best. JANE." 
 
 When I read this letter to Mrs. Stewart, she wept very 
 freely ; but she felt reconciled, for Katy was free from her 
 tormentor. She knew that the dear child was now in a 
 brighter and better world. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 NEW SCENES AND NEW THOUGHTS. 
 
 IT was now time that I should turn my attention to 
 business ; for I was twenty years old, and I had not yet 
 fully determined what I had better do in order to gain an 
 honest livelihood. I fancied that I should like to be a 
 merchant ; so, through the assistance of my uncle, I was 
 engaged, in the capacity of a clerk, to a merchant by 
 the name of Dinneford, in the city of New York. As 
 his business was not large, he employed but two clerks. 
 When the arrangements had all been made for my de 
 parture, I bade my friends a warm adieu, and started for 
 
 my new home. I noticed that Helen was much affected 
 
 m 
 when we parted ; for, when she let go my hands, which 
 
 she had held tightly in hers, she turned her head to hide 
 the tears. 
 
 I arrived in New York in due season, and was kindly 
 received by Mr. Dinneford. I was immediately intro 
 duced to a young man by the name of Ernest Brown, 
 who had been some years in his employ. I found him to 
 be an honest-hearted fellow, but reserved, and seemingly 
 cold, and very bashful. In society his diffidence was a 
 14* 
 
162 NEW SCENES AND NEW THOUGHTS. 
 
 sore annoyance to him, but it did not interfere with his 
 duties in the shop. He would wait upon customers with 
 as much grace and blandness of manner as the average 
 run of clerks. I was soon after made acquainted with 
 Mrs. Dinneford and two daughters, Agnes and Irene. 
 Agnes was twenty-one, and Irene nineteen. The 
 former looked like a good-hearted girl, but there was 
 nothing very striking in her appearance. Not so with 
 the latter ; she was the most beautiful creature I had ever 
 seen. Her form, I thought, was perfect, and her face 
 charming. 
 
 By a perfect form, I do not mean a waist like a wasp's, 
 which fools and fops so much admire ; and neither do I 
 refer to the charming face, which generally accompanies the 
 wasp waist, with features as tame and void of expression as 
 a painted doll. Irene's form and face were such as God gave 
 to women. She had a full chest and a generous waist, 
 giving the lungs and othe^ organs a chance to expand and 
 grow strong and healthy. Irene's bust had that rounded 
 fulness which gives one a little of the voluptuous look, 
 and attracts the attention of every lover of the beautiful. 
 Her face was more beautiful, if possible, than her form. 
 A white, clear skin, dark, expressive eyes, red lips and 
 slightly flushed cheeks. She had a high forehead, and 
 hair of a dark brown, of a soft, silky appearance. Some 
 times her eyes wore a half-dreamy expression ; but when 
 aroused by any subject of interest, they glowed with a 
 
HEW SCENES AND NEW THOUGHTS. 163 
 
 brightness that was enchanting. I had thought Helen 
 Means beautiful ; but how much more so was Irene Din- 
 neford ! She took my hand cordially, and after a few 
 commonplace words had passed between us, she turned 
 away, and spoke to Mr. Brown. He seemed ill at ease in 
 her presence, replying to her in monosyllables, inter 
 spersed with hems. She remained in the shop some 
 time, busying herself in looking at the newest patterns, 
 and asking Ernest various questions about the goods, to 
 which he gave the shortest possible replies, in a rather awk 
 ward manner. Sometimes I caught him looking at her 
 very earnestly, with much of soul in his naturally hand 
 some eyes. But, as soon as his glance met hers, his eyes 
 would drop, while she would continue to gaze, as though 
 she wished that he would look at her once more with the 
 same admiring glance. I felt that he was smitten as 
 much as I was ; but I questioned whether he would ever 
 summon courage enough to tell her of his love, did he 
 love never so well. 
 
 My time now passed rather pleasantly, although I was 
 not so well pleased with the business as I expected to be. 
 I supposed that I could sell goods to advantage, and 
 please customers, without using deception or falsehood. 
 But I found it an almost utter impossibility. Customers 
 did not seem satisfied with the simple, honest truth. I 
 had a great abhorrence of falsehood, from a child, a liar 
 I despised. Lying seemed so ineffably mean, that I 
 
164 NEW SCENES AND NEW THOUGHTS. 
 
 heartily despised him or her who was guilty of it. It 
 was one of the many faults of the Webbers. Mr. Diime- 
 ford was as honest a trader as I had ever known. He 
 was, at least, as honest as he could afford to be ; and, the 
 majority would say, a little more so. But even he felt 
 obliged to use deception sometimes ; and so did Ernest, 
 who was naturally upright and conscientious. I was in 
 the business but one year ; and I now feel, as I look back 
 to that period, that I often violated my principles. The 
 business soon became distasteful to me, because it was so 
 difficult to be strictly honest and truthful. Purchasers 
 were accustomed to tell so many falsehoods, and use so 
 much deception, that we sometimes became vexed, and 
 turned their own weapons against themselves. The worst 
 class to trade with are the Irish ; and they are enough to 
 irritate a saint. From what experience I had with 
 them, I should judge they thought it perfectly right to 
 lie, when making a trade ; and as they do it almost uni 
 versally, they will not believe a word the seller says. 
 You might as well talk to the wind as to an Irishman, 
 and the women are worse than the men. But the 
 fault is not all on the side of the buyers, for it is not an 
 unusual thing for traders to lie and deceive. Merchants 
 everywhere should adopt the one-price system, and adhere 
 to it. This is a reform that is greatly demanded ; for it 
 would save the telling of a million of lies a day, even in 
 our own country. Let a convention of merchants be 
 
i NEW SCENES AND NEW THOUGHTS. 165 
 
 called, and the subject discussed in all its bearings, and 
 tlfen they will see the importance of adopting at once the 
 one-price system. There was a class of purchasers who 
 would not believe the simple truth, but the most ridicu 
 lous and improbable stories were readily swallowed. I 
 was thankful that all were not of this caste. Many were 
 intelligent andv honest, and seemed to know as by 
 instinct when the truth was told. There was another 
 class who would not believe a word you said, and I do 
 not now refer to the Irish. All remonstrance with them 
 was in vain. Such persons were not usually very well 
 informed, or remarkably cunning ; but they fancied they 
 were. They were very conceited, self-confident, exceed 
 ingly selfish, without principle or a love of justice ; and 
 they believed that everybody would lie when they could 
 gain anything by it, because that was the rule by which 
 they were governed themselves. 
 
 I had not been many months in the business before I 
 relinquished the long-cherished idea of being a merchant. 
 I had bargained with Mr. Dinneford for one year ; I 
 resolved that I would remain with him during that 
 period, and then quit the mercantile business forever, 
 unless I could continue it without being troubled with the 
 stings of conscience. 
 
 New York was a good school for me ; for I learned a 
 thousand things, which I had not dreamed of in the 
 country. I learned of its riches and its poverty ; of its 
 
166 NEW SCENES AND NEW THOUGHTS. 
 
 overgrown wealth and its squalid wretchedness ; of its 
 virtues and its vices. I saw its fine churches and cosfly 
 temples ; but beneath their very shadows were starvation 
 and crime. I learned that many were driven, from abso 
 lute want, to a life of infamy ; and even their infamy 
 was made a source of profit to the rich and bloated church. 
 I do not include all churches and religious societies in 
 this condemnation ; but there are, even now, in the mid 
 dle of this boasted nineteenth century, societies which 
 obtain a part of their vast income by renting buildings 
 for the vilest purposes. 
 
 I had previously thought a city a very fine place. 
 But, alas ! when I had an opportunity to witness its 
 wretchedness, crime and injustice, I sighed for the 
 country again, the country, with its green fields and 
 running brooks and rivers, its flowers and groves, the 
 melody of birds and pure air ! More beautiful to me 
 were the hills and valleys around my country home 
 than the parks and batteries in the city. I felt very 
 miserable, when I wandered through some of the streets, 
 and found nothing but poverty, wretchedness and crime. 
 Filth, intemperance, and all other vices, seemed to have 
 a habitation in every house. The inmates were steeped 
 in corruption and wickedness ; and little children, who 
 have naturally so much love for the pure, the innocent 
 and the beautiful, seemed at home in the midst of all this 
 filth and beastliness. What coarse and bloated faces 
 
NEW SCENES AND NEW THOUGHTS. 167 
 
 looked out of' the doors and windows ! How old and 
 strange were the faces of the little children ! What an 
 effect did all this abandoned wickedness produce upon the 
 very buildings in which the poor wretches lived ! How 
 dingy and fikhy they looked, prematurely old, and fast 
 going to decay. Crime, poverty, filth, debauchery, starv 
 ation and death, seemed to stare at you from every win 
 dow, and to breathe out darkness, horror and disease, from 
 every hole and crevice. How awful it is to see male and 
 female, black and white, old and young, all living to 
 gether in the same dark cellar, and all reeking with the 
 vilest corruption ! From such plague-spots, from these 
 vice-altars, arises the foul incense of death, like the smoke 
 of the bottomless pit, for ever and ever ! 
 
 ! could we realize how many diseases have their ori 
 gin in such places, diseases which carry desolation to 
 thousands of hearts, whether rich or poor, we should not 
 cease to cry out, in agony, until a remedy was found. 
 The church would awake from its slumber of death, and 
 seek to save men here deliver them from the lowest 
 hell ! What a stigma upon Christianity and civilization, 
 that such a place should exist under the very droppings 
 of the sanctuary, that children should be educated for 
 the penitentiary and the gibbet. And yet thousands are 
 thus educated, every year. They grow up, hating God 
 and hating man ; without love, purity or hope. Inured to 
 crime, suffering, hunger and poverty, every heart shut 
 
* 
 
 168 NEW SCENES AND NEW THOUGHTS. 
 
 against them, every ear deaf to their cries, every eye 
 turned from them with loathing and disgust, is it any 
 wonder that, Ishmael-like, their hands are raised against 
 every man ? Who teaches them love and truth ? Who 
 sheds the tear of sympathy over their woes and wrongs ? 
 Who gives them kind looks, or kind words ? Alas ! they 
 read only scorn and contempt, hatred and loathing, in the 
 eyes of those they meet by the way ! They feel that the 
 Christian and the man of God wish they were dead, as 
 vile as they are. Why marvel that their hearts are harc^ 
 
 that hatret! and revenge mingle with all the red blood 
 that courses through their veins? From infancy till 
 death, all their finer feelings, their nobler aspirations, 
 their better emotions, when they would gush forth, are 
 met with such a freezing reception, that they are sent, 
 trembling and cold, back upon the heart ! God pity 
 them, for the world despises and mocks ! Surely there 
 must be a great wrong somewhere, or these things would 
 not be. Can society be right, when such things exist ? 
 
 the vice, the crime, the corruption continually increas 
 ing ! Is not a radical change in society called for ? If 
 not, where is the antidote ? 
 
 I learned, too, the fearful inequality which exists in 
 this republican land ! Near the rich man's palace was 
 the dwelling of the poor, the former groaning with 
 luxury, the latter pinched with hungry want. One 
 suffering with the superabundance of the good things of 
 
NEW SCENES AND NEW THOUGHTS. 169 
 
 earth ; the other suffering for the want of them. The 
 inmates of the palace often leading a weary life for the 
 want of something to do ; the inmates of damp cellars, 
 close rooms and cold attics, pining for rest. One party 
 is too genteel to work ; the other must work or die 
 work day and night. 
 
 That .pale, hollow-eyed, sunken-cheeked woman, sit 
 ting sewing so late, night after night, by a dim light, 
 must earn the bread for herself and three children. She 
 has once seen' better days ; but her husband is dead, and 
 now she makes shirts for six cents apiece ! At one 
 o'clock, stiff and cold, she will blow out her "dim light 
 and lie down with her children. Every night it is" so. 
 Alas ! she will soon lie down in the grave ! And then, 
 her children ! We will not pursue the painful subject. 
 
 In New York one sees society in all its various 
 aspects ; and the more he sees, and the more he reflects 
 and studies, the more he is convinced that society, in its 
 present state, is wrong. It is built on a wrong founda 
 tion, and i^must be overturned and made new. The rights 
 of the laborer must be looked to, the antagonisms done 
 away with. Now the jarring discord is ever heard, 
 almost drowning, with its terrible noise and confusion, all 
 the sweeter harmonies of the universe. The battle ever 
 rages ; the conflict still goes on. The multitude rush on, 
 in eager haste, all seeking to grasp the glittering prize ; 
 15 
 
170 NEW SCENES AND NEW THOUGHTS. 
 
 not stopping to heed the cries and groans of the weak 
 and powerless, who are trodden under their feet. 
 
 The reader will pardon me for these prolonged reflec 
 tions, because of their importance. Let him not pass 
 them idly by, but give them earnest thought, and then he 
 may lend a hand to hasten on the " good time coming." 
 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A MEDLEY. 
 
 I MET frequently with Irene Dinneford, both at her 
 home and at the store. I spent many of my evenings 
 with her. Sometimes we went to the theatre, the opera, 
 or to a concert, or evening lecture. I found her very 
 intelligent and interesting. We discussed the merits of 
 plays, actors and books. She was well versed in history, 
 poetry and romance. Of all the poets, she liked Byron 
 best. I preferred Shelley and Shakspeare. She was 
 enraptured with the grandeur of Milton, the beauty of 
 Thomson, the affection of Burns and the melody of Moore. 
 I also admired them, but my feelings were not so intense 
 as hers. Our tastes were similar in relation to literature, 
 music and painting. She had a passionate love for the 
 drama, but regretted that actors did not more respect 
 themselves. " If they would be temperate and virtuous," 
 she thought, " the strong prejudice against them would 
 gradually wear away." She was right ; for it is lament 
 able they should so often degrade themselves, and create 
 injurious prejudice. 
 
 People sometimes express their surprise that play- 
 
172 A MEDLEY. 
 
 actors should be so poor ; but it is not any marvel, when 
 they are continually visiting hotels and gr^g-shops, drink 
 ing, carousing, day after day. It is not because they 
 receive so little, but they spend so much foolishly. It 
 is folly to attempt to kill the drama, or do away with 
 theatres. People will have amusements ; and the drama 
 should be made, not only a source of amusement, but of 
 instruction and improvement. Improper language, such 
 as is unfit and would corrupt the social circle, should not 
 be uttered upon the stage. True wit is not coarse or 
 vulgar. Words of vile import, indecent hints, etc., may 
 please the low and depraved, but the more refined and 
 virtuous will turn away in disgust. In this respect a 
 reform is loudly called for, and stage-managers will do 
 well to heed it. 
 
 Our favorite actor was the elder Booth, who has within 
 a brief period " shuffled off this mortal coil." He was 
 then in his prime ; and very seldom, if ever, has he been 
 excelled in his ability to delineate character. It mattered 
 not that his face and form were not in accordance with 
 your ideas of the character he personated, for you soon 
 forgot all about them; you forgot Booth, for you saw 
 only Hamlet. So of Richard the Third, the hunch-back 
 king and assassin, he was "himself again." That plotting 
 devil, lago, wadked the stage of life once more ; and old, 
 garrulous, demented King Lear made you sad when you 
 looked into his sorrow-stricken face, and heard him pour 
 
A MEDLEY. 173 
 
 forth, in broken words, the griefs of his heart. Poor 
 Booth ! what a checkered life was thine ! " Peace to thy 
 ashes ! " 
 
 " After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well." 
 
 " Thou knowest it is common, all that live must die, 
 Passing through nature to eternity." 
 
 " Close up his eyes, and draw the curtain close, 
 And let us all to meditation." 
 
 Our tastes being so similar, it was no marvel that we 
 should seek each other's society, and feel happy when we 
 were together ; but still there was ever something lacking. 
 There was not that freedom and ease that I could have 
 wished. Something stood between us, to keep us apart. 
 Half ravished with her beautiful form and face, her soul- 
 lit eyes, charmed with her conversation, I sometimes 
 thought of asking her to become mine. But her manner 
 was never sufficiently cordial to give me the required 
 assurance that I should not meet with a repulse. And 
 ever, when I thought of offering myself in marriage to 
 her, I would think of Helen, of the rescue, the 
 happy hours I had spent in her presence, our pleasant 
 rambles, gathering flowers, chasing butterflies, reading 
 out of the same book, while sitting under a green, shady 
 tree. How many hours has she read to me, in her clear, 
 sweet tones ! And then I was happy. 
 15* 
 
174 A MEDLEY. 
 
 " ! sweet as the lapse of water at noon 
 
 O'er the mossy roots of some forest tree, 
 The sigh of the wind in the woods of June, 
 Or sound of flutes o'er a moonlight sea, 
 Or the low, soft music, perchance, which seems 
 To float through the slumbering singer's dreams, 
 
 '* So sweet, so dear is the silvery tone 
 
 Of her in whose features I sometimes look, 
 As I sit at eve by her side alone, 
 
 And we read by turns from the self-same book 
 Some tale perhaps of the olden time, 
 Some lover's romance, or quaint old rhyme. 
 
 " Then, when the story is one of woe, 
 
 Some prisoner's plaint through his dungeon bar, 
 Her blue eye glistens with tears, and low 
 
 Her voice sinks down like a moan afar ; 
 And I seem to hear the prisoner's wail, 
 And his face looks on me, worn and pale. 
 
 " And when she reads some merrier song, 
 
 Her voice is glad as an April bird's ; 
 And when the tale is of war and wrong, 
 
 A trumpet's summons is in her words, 
 And the rush of the hosts I seem to hear, 
 And see the tossing of plume and spear ! " * 
 
 Irene Dinneford was good, intelligent and accom 
 plished, and more beautiful than Helen ; but then, I ever 
 shrank from doing what would separate me forever from 
 the one who had been so long a dear companion and 
 
 * Wbittier. 
 
A MEDLEY. 175 
 
 faithful friend. I did not love Helen, and I knew not 
 what were her feelings in reference to me ; but I felt that 
 the relation of brother and sister would not do for us. 
 A nearer tie must bind us, or our dear friendship must 
 be broken. We might remain friendly in a certain sense, 
 visit each other, and ever be affable and courteous ; 
 but that joy which was mutual that blending of soul, 
 heart, and life could be ours no more. Hitherto, 
 each had shared the other's joys and sorrows, hopes 
 and fears ; but now I felt that the links of the golden 
 chain which encircled us were broken, and my hand 
 had done it. Henceforth, there was a breach between 
 us. The thought made me scflprful. But I did not 
 attempt to retrace my steps. Helen wrote to me often, 
 and her letters ever breathed sweet sisterly affection. 
 She was anxious to see me, and said that her dear home 
 was lonely without me. I occasionally heard from the 
 home that was once mine, but not often. It is useless to 
 remark that it was the same dreary, unhappy place. 
 Beautiful was the scenery all around it, but within that 
 large, elegant house, embowered in trees, was dreariness 
 and decay. Without, the birds sang in the trees, and 
 the summer winds whispered sweetest music. Flowers 
 lifted their heads and held up their bright faces, blushing 
 as they received the warm kisses of the zephyrs and sun 
 beams. Within was harsh discord, ever-darkening shad- 
 
176 A MEDLEY. 
 
 ows, and no sun-light. How like man, smiling when his 
 heart is full of bitterness ! 
 
 ** For smiles will linger on the face, 
 Long after they have left the heart.'* 
 
 Ernest became still more reserved, and in vain I tried 
 to read his feelings. I could not understand him. He 
 was never rude, and jet I was always repulsed when I 
 would have been his friend. This lack of cordiality on 
 his part did not cause me to dislike him. I felt that he 
 was true at heart ; and I respected him, in spite of his 
 coldness. I thought there must be a good and sufficient 
 reason for his want ofljrdiality. 
 
 I sometimes met him at Mr. Dinneford's. His appear 
 ance there was less pleasing than elsewhere, more awk 
 ward and reserved. He seemed anxious to join in the 
 conversation, and yet lacked the power. When Irene 
 sang, accompanied by the piano, which she played most 
 beautifully, Ernest gazed enraptured, and his whole soul 
 seemed to look out of his dark eyes, and settle in intense 
 admiration upon her. When she caught his glance, there 
 was a wild light in her eyes, which glowed full upon him, 
 causing him to shrink back within himself. That noble, 
 inspiring look, which had for a moment lighted up his 
 countenance, vanished, like the meteor's flash in an eve 
 ning sky. I sometimes thought that Irene must be more 
 than half a coquette. 
 
A MEDLEY. 177 
 
 He would generally retire early, leaving me tete-a-tete 
 with Irene, which was just what I desired. She would 
 occasionally ask my opinion of Ernest ; but not often, for 
 I had nothing new to tell her. I told her that he was 
 different from most other young men ; and that I could 
 know but little of him, for I had failed to gain his confi 
 dence. Her opinion coincided with mine. She wished 
 he was more frank, and less reserved, would be glad 
 to be better acquainted with him. I thought she was 
 quite interested ; but then, as she was a girl of fine feel 
 ings and large sympathies, I very naturally supposed 
 that, as he appeared gloomy and unhappy, she was anxious 
 to disperse the clouds, and let the bright sunlight shine 
 resplendent upon him. 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE BETROTHAL. 
 
 ONE cool and bright morning in October, as I was 
 crossing Broadway. I noticed a commotion down the 
 street ; I looked to discover the cause, and saw a horse 
 attached to a buggy chaise running at full speed. As 
 the carriage came nearer, I saw it contained only a 
 female ; and knowing that it must inevitably come in con 
 tact with a large wagon just beyond me, I resolved to 
 attempt to save her, at all hazards. When the horse was 
 nearly opposite, I sprang and caught him by the bit, and 
 succeeded in bringing him to, barely in season to save 
 the carriage from being dashed to pieces, and its inmate, 
 most probably, from serious injury. In doing this, I 
 was not a little bruised ; for I was taken from my feet, 
 and dragged some rods. Still, my injuries were not of a 
 very serious nature. 
 
 How great was my surprise, when I arose to my feet, 
 to find that the young lady in the carriage was Irene 
 Dinneford ! She looked pale and much frightened ; but a 
 bright flush sprang to her cheeks, and her eyes lighted up 
 
THE BETROTHAL. 179 
 
 with an unwonted brilliancy, when she saw who was her 
 preserver. She sprang from the carriage and warmly 
 grasped my hand, thanking me, not in words, but in 
 looks, a thousand times. She said, " Henri, you must 
 go home with me." I readily assented, and we got into 
 a hack and were quickly driven to Mr. Dinneford's. She 
 informed me. on the way, that she had rode out with her 
 father ; that he left the horse for a moment, to deliver a 
 letter intrusted to his care. Some water thrown from a 
 window near by, just at that moment, frightened the horse. 
 She* had the presence of mind to grasp the reins, and 
 was enabled, it being early in the morning, when com 
 paratively few carriages were stirring, to keep clear of 
 them. She saw, as she approached the large wagon, that 
 to pass it without coining in contact was almost impossi 
 ble ; and she felt that she had not long to live. 
 
 Soon after we had arrived at her home, Mr. Dinneford 
 came in, all out of breath, and looking as pale as death. 
 When he found that his darling Irene was safe, he was 
 overjoyed, aud the pearly tears glistened in his eyes. I 
 had the satisfaction of receiving the congratulations of 
 the whole family, and among the happy I was the 
 happiest. On account of my bruises, they said I must 
 remain where I was for the present. Although I was 
 not much hurt, I willingly consented to remain. Where 
 else could I be so happy as in the company of Irene 
 Dinneford ? 
 
180 THE BETROTHAL. 
 
 The day passed away pleasantly, and I never felt bet 
 ter satisfied with myself and all around me. Irene and I 
 were, for the most of the time, alone. She seemed nearer 
 and dearer to rae than ever ; that something which had 
 stood between us, like a cloud between the sun and the 
 earth, had departed, the spectre had vanished, leaving 
 but a slight shadow -behind, even as the shadows of night 
 still linger after the morning has dawned. Irene looked 
 radiantly hnppy, and sat by my side, with one hand clasped 
 in mine, her passionate eyes fixed earnestly upon me, as 
 though they would say, "Our happiness is now complete ! " 
 The window where we sat commanded a full view of the 
 western sky, in which reposed vast piles of fleecy clouds, 
 in an atmosphere of gold. The sun was just descending, 
 and ever and anon it hid its face behind a white cloud, 
 making it to look red and bright, like the fiery eyes behind 
 it. Then again the cloud was removed, and a flood of 
 glory swept through the world, like the breath of the 
 storm-god over the great waters. In the distance, the 
 landscape smiled like a radiant bride, the face of the 
 waters brightened, and the domes and spires of the city 
 gleamed with golden light. Again its face was hid, and 
 now those mountains of snowy clouds shone with fiery 
 grandeur and beauty, as though vast flames were glowing 
 in their bosoms. Soon the day-king had descended to 
 his bed, and the curtains of his golden couch were drawn 
 closely around him, and we saw his face no more. Now 
 
THE BETROTHAL. 181 
 
 shadows rested upon the landscape, played upon the face 
 of the waters, and caine in troops into the streets and 
 lanes of the city. 
 
 I turned to Irene ; tears trickled down her cheeks, and 
 I asked her why she wept if she was unhappy. 
 
 " It was too much for me/'.she replied. <; ! what a 
 beautiful sunset! Nay % radiantly glorious ! Is heaven, 
 think you, more beautiful ? " 
 
 " I know not," I replied ; " but there, we trust, no jar 
 ring discords can come between us and such celestial 
 harmonies." 
 
 " True, true. But do not mar our present joy by 
 inviting them hither now." 
 
 " I will not, dearest. But, lest they shoulcf come, you 
 must sing, and then they will seek to enter in vain." 
 
 She arose, and opened the piano, and sang, in clear, 
 sweet tones, Burns' " Sweet Afton." I had never heard 
 it before, and the words fell upon my ears like the sweet 
 breathings of flute-like music, when they steal on har 
 mony's soft wings across a quiet stream. Jne then sang 
 a livelier song, which I have frequently heard since, but 
 oftener murdered than sung. I was charmed with the 
 singing of a part of the chorus. Here are the wprds : 
 
 " Dearest for thee, thee only, 
 
 These mountain wilds are sweet to me; 
 Each crag and valley lonely 
 Are blessed because 't is loved by thee.'* 
 
 16 
 
182 THE BETROTHAL. 
 
 She then played a wild, touching air, in which were 
 mingled strains of thrilling sweetness, soft as the whis 
 pered music of zephyrs when playing among the petals 
 of roses. 
 
 She now closed the piano, and came and sat down by 
 my side. It was still light, and I could see that her face 
 was radiant and happy. 
 
 li Henri," she said, earnestly, * c ' how shall I ever cancel 
 the debt I owe you ? " 
 
 " What debt, Irene?" 
 
 " When in the greatest peril, you delivered me, arid, I 
 believe, saved my life, at the risk of your own. I know 
 not how to pay such a debt as that." 
 
 "I did "not know it was you, Irene; so you are not 
 particularly in debt." 
 
 " That does not alter the case. I must insist upon it 
 that I owe a debt which I can never pay." 
 
 " Since you insist upon it, I will tell you how it may 
 be cancelled." 
 
 " Do BOjWshe said, quickly, " and it shall be done. 
 What shall it be, Henri?" 
 
 I put my arms around her neck, and drew her towards 
 me. " Give me the right to call you mine, only mine," 
 I said, passionately. She leaned her head upon my bosom, 
 and I folded her to my heart. 
 
 " You are mine, mine only," I whispered. 
 
 " Yes, dearest," she said, and mutual kisses sealed the 
 
THE BETROTHAL. 183 
 
 contract. Our bliss was short, for she suddenly sprang 
 from my arms, like a frightened fawn. 
 
 " What ! " I cried, " do you repent so soon ? " 
 
 " ! no, Henri ; but, pardon me ! My nature is so 
 impetuous that I had forgotten what propriety required." 
 
 U I don't think so. These rules of propriety are like 
 icebergs, decidedly chilling. Must the warmest and most 
 generous feelings of the heart be all chained or crushed, 
 whenever they would leap into life?" 
 
 " I would that mine might be chained, sometimes." 
 
 " I shall disagree with you. Would you bind the 
 winds, and chain the lightning?" 
 
 " Yes, both, when they are likely to do mischief. Your 
 simile pleases me, and I will seek to profit by it." 
 
 ( ' Very well, but give me the assurance that you love 
 me that I shall have the right to call you my own 
 Irene." 
 
 She gave me her hand, and whispered, " I am thine!" 
 We were here interrupted by the ringing of the tea-bell, 
 and our blissful tete-a-tete was ended. 
 
 That night I had a strange dream, leaving an impression 
 which I could not shake off. I thought that a spirit came 
 and stood by my bed, and gazed upon me with a mild, 
 reproving look. Its face resembled Helen Means'. It 
 did not speak, and yet I felt that I must go with it. I 
 hastily arose, and was surprised to find how quickly I had 
 recovered from my injuries. In a brief period I was at 
 
184 THE BETROTHAL. 
 
 my boyhood's home. Once more the humid hills and 
 valleys and green woodlands were smiling and rejoicing 
 all around me. The flowers were again blushing, as they 
 frolicked with the zephyrs; and the butterflies were danc 
 ing gayly through the soft and balmy atmosphere, as 
 though a world of happiness filled their little hearts. 
 Once more I stood by that dark stream of water, and saw 
 the golden-tinted fish. Then I was startled by a loud 
 cry of distress ; and I hastened, with my usual impetuosity, 
 
 deliver a little girl from the brutal hands into which 
 she had fallen. The child was poor and pale, and her cloth 
 ing ragged and dirty. " I know you," thought I ; " you 
 are Helen Means." 
 
 In a moment, as it were, the scene had^ changed. I 
 was walking in a dark and unknown wood ; the rain was 
 beating down in torrents, and the wind was shaking the 
 tall forest trees in great wrath, and howling, and moan 
 ing, and shrieking, as though the woods were filled with 
 the ghosts of the damned. The spirit was still with me. 
 It led me to a large tree, and beneath it reposed, in soft 
 sleep, although the storm was beating upon it, a little 
 child. A sweet smile played upon its pale face ; and, as 
 I gazed in wonder upon so strange a sight, I thought, 
 " And you, too, are Helen Means." 
 
 Again the scene had changed, and I was. in the dearest 
 spot to me on earth, for there had I spent my happiest 
 days. It seemed a calm, star-light night, cool but beau- 
 
THE BETROTHAL. 185 
 
 tiful. I could hear the soft, liquid notes of a laughing 
 stream, whose meandering course I had often followed, 
 while by my side had walked or ran a gentle being, a 
 happy, blue-eyed girl, pure and truthful as an angel. In 
 the distance, on yonder hill-side, the limbs of the trees 
 were waving in the night-breeze, as if they welcomed me 
 home again. I gazed with silent and breathless joy upon 
 the calm scene around me. I was alone, but in a moment, 
 the spirit was again at my side. I knew that I must follow 
 it. Close to us was the house of my uncle ; we entered 
 the front door and walked up the stairs, and rny gm&e 
 led me to the bedside of a beautiful girl, who seemed to be 
 in a troubled sleep. The spirit gazed upon her stead 
 fastly, with eyes of love ; and then turned to me and said, 
 though not a sound escaped its lips, " Her dreams are 
 sad ; thou mayst know their import." I now read her 
 thoughts as plainly as I ever read in a book. She was 
 dreaming of me that I had forgotten her, and given my 
 heart to another. Pearly tears started from their invisi 
 ble founts, and slowly rolled down her pale cheeks. She 
 awoke and murmured, " Cruel, cruel Henri ! " I was 
 immeasurably distressed, and was about to speak, when I 
 awoke. Just as I opened my eyes, I fancied I heard her 
 say, " Thank heaven, it is all a dream ! " I could with 
 difficulty persuade myself that I had not heard her voice. 
 The words seemed to have been spoken in my room. I, 
 too, was glad to find it all a dream. I was in a deep 
 16* 
 
186 THE BETROTHAL. 
 
 perspiration, and my cheeks were wet with my tears. 
 "Strange," thought I, " that a dream should affect me 
 thus ! " I did not sleep again, for my thoughts were so 
 troubled that I could not. I courted the sleepy god in 
 vain. I succeeded, at last, in driving away the thoughts 
 that oppressed me, by the consideration, which I eagerly 
 sought to impress upon my mind, that I had but passed 
 through a troubled dream, caused, perhaps, by the pre 
 vious day's excitement, and the injuries from which I was 
 suffering. 
 
 & arose and dressed myself with difficulty, for my 
 limbs were stiff and sore, and there was a severe pain in 
 my side. When the family saw my haggard appearance, 
 they expressed much solicitude, and were fearful that my 
 injuries were more severe than I had supposed them to 
 be. I told them that I had not rested well, but there 
 were no alarming symptoms. I read so much pure sym 
 pathy and concern in the sweet face of Irene, that the 
 effects of my dream soon departed, and my spirits were 
 again buoyant and happy. By the application of such 
 remedies as were requisite, I was soon relieved from all 
 my unpleasant symptoms. I felt that I should recover, 
 for I had an angel for a nurse. 
 
 In the afternoon Ernest came to see me. His coun 
 tenance looked more dejected than ever. He expressed a 
 desire that Irene should sing. She complied, and sang, 
 
THE BETROTHAL. 187 
 
 ' 0, give me a cot in the valley I love, 
 A tent in the green-wood, a home in the grove." 
 
 And, at my request, 
 
 " I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls." 
 
 Ernest stood and gazed upon her with that same enrap 
 tured expression "which, more than once before, I had 
 seen light up and make beautiful a usually tame and 
 inexpressive countenance. Irene caught his glance, and 
 a troubled look came over her, and just then I was a bit 
 jealous. But it soon passed away, for I fancied she 
 might be thinking of his joyless life. 
 
 The next day I wrote to my uncle, informing him of 
 my engagement to Irene Dinneford, and the circum 
 stances attending it, craving his blessing, also my 
 aunt's, Mrs. Stewart's and Helen's. A pang shot 
 through my heart, as I wrote the dear name of Helen, 
 and ray strange dream was again vividly before me. But 
 I finished my letter, and, with a heart half sad, half joy 
 ous, delivered it into the hands of a servant, to be taken 
 to the office. 
 
 In a few days I had returned to the store, having, in 
 the mean time, entirely altered my plans for the future. 
 Mr. Dinneford had offered me a partnership in his busi 
 ness, which I had agreed to accept. The first day of 
 January was fixed as the time when I should com 
 mence business ; till then I was to remain a clerk, as I 
 
188 THE BETROTHAL. 
 
 had been. On that day I was to lead Irene to the altar. 
 When Ernest learned of this arrangement, he signified 
 his wish to close his services as clerk immediately ; but 
 Mr. Dinneford would not consent until his time expired, 
 the last day of December. In due season a letter 
 arrived from my uncle. It was brief, and, I thought, 
 cold. It commenced by expressing surprise that they 
 were to lose me so soon, hoped I might be very happy, 
 and that they should have the pleasure, ere long, of see 
 ing me and my affianced bride. Helen's name was not 
 mentioned, and I felt a little piqued. 
 
 The days and weeks now passed away swiftly and 
 pleasantly, for they floated on the rosy wings of love. 
 Irene and I were much together, and we felt that to be 
 near each other was happiness. Not that our bliss was 
 unalloyed, for tlfere were moments when neither seemed 
 at ease. I knew not what were the thoughts that made 
 her unhappy, but I well knew my own. That myste 
 rious dream often troubled me, and the thought that 
 Helen was lost to me forever made me at times wretched. 
 A long time had passed, and she had not answered my 
 last letter. My uncle had written that she was indis 
 posed, and unable to write. I thought of going to her, 
 that I might comfort her in her hour of sorrow ; but 
 something held me back. A few months before, and I 
 should have flown on the swift win^s of love. 
 
 o 
 
 It pained me not a little to realize that the nearer the 
 
THE BETROTHAL. 189 
 
 day approached for our marriage, the less there was of 
 mutual love and sympathy between us. Instead of that 
 oneness of feeling and sentiment, that melting and 
 mingling of two beings into one, which is so requisite to 
 secure happiness in married life, there was a mutual 
 shrinking away, as though we dreaded the hour when the 
 law should declare us husband and wife. The old 
 shadow had returned, and stood, with a stern glance, to 
 frighten us back, like the lions in the path of the pilgrim, 
 whenever we would approach the*goal of happiness. I 
 was often thinking of Helen, arid Irene was thinking of 
 I knew not what. She once expressed to me her 
 fears that we should never be happy. I asked her why 
 she thought so. She said she did not know, but she 
 could not drive the troubling thought from her heart. I 
 threw my arms around her, and, as her head rested upon 
 my bosom, I whispered, "All will yet be well," though 
 I but half felt it. 
 
 We do not always know the import of our own words. 
 The seer tells of things which are yet to come to pass, 
 but does not understand them. He is often a medium 
 of truth to the world, the importance of which he has no 
 conception. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 A WALK IN THE PARK. EAVES-DROPPIXG. 
 
 IT was the second week in December, and the nuptial 
 day was rapidly approaching. One evening, just as the 
 sun had set, I calleuat Mr. Dinneford's. It was warm, 
 like summer, and not a flake of snow had yet fallen. I 
 inquired for Irene, and was told that a cousin had ar 
 rived from the country that afternoon, arid that she, Mr. 
 Dinneford and Irene, had gone to a walk in the Park. I 
 walked leisurely there, and soon encountered Mr. Din 
 neford, who was alone. I asked for the girls, and he 
 pointed them out. some distance off, walking very slowly, 
 as though engaged in deep conversation. 
 
 " I let them stray," said Mr. Dinneford, " for they 
 are old cronies, and I was well aware, by their actions, 
 that they had a number of young girls' secrets to dis 
 close to each other. And now, as you have come, I shall 
 take myself off, being of no further use." 
 
 I did not immediately follow them, but let them con 
 tinue their conversation, until it had become dark. As 
 I approached them, they took a seat, without noticing 
 me, so much were they engrossed with the subject that 
 
A WALK IN THE PARK. EAVES-DROPPING. 191 
 
 engaged their attention. I thought I would step up 
 behind them, and give them a sudden start. When I was 
 nearly to them, I heard her cousin say, 
 
 II And so you are engaged to marry, and yet you are 
 fearful that you do not love him." 
 
 "I know that I do not love him as he deserves to be 
 loved, or as his nature requires," was the answer. 
 
 I was now deeply interested, and I could not resist the 
 temptation to hear more. 
 
 " And shall you marry him, if you cannot love him ? " 
 
 " I suppose I must, now, it has gone so far." 
 
 " But you must not do anything of the kind. What 
 right have you to go to the altar, if you do not love ? " 
 
 "I sometimes feel it to be wrong; but I highly 
 respect him, and almost love him ; and our minister says 
 that respect is, on the whole, better than love, for there 
 is something to found love upon after marriage." 
 
 " Your minister is a fool ! I have no patience with 
 many of the clergy of the present day ; they don't seem 
 to be more than half human." 
 
 " Why, how you talk of the clergy ! Mother would 
 think you a heathen, to hear you." 
 
 " What I say is true, nevertheless. Tell about re 
 spect being better than love ! What constitutes marriage 
 but mutual love ? " 
 
 II 1 feel that you are right ; but I will marry Henri, 
 and I shall love him, he is so noble and generous." 
 
192 A WALK IN THE PARK. EAVES-DROPPING. . 
 
 " Why do you think you shall love him after mar 
 riage, if you cannot before ? " 
 
 " Because I almost love him now ; and sometimes I 
 have felt that I love him with my whole heart. ! how 
 often have I prayed that it might be so always ! " 
 
 "And yet your prayer is not answered. Irene, it is 
 not right that it should be. Your love for him is that 
 of a sister for a dear brother, rather than a husband." 
 
 " I am fearful that it is so, but I hope not. After we 
 are married, I shall feel that we must be all in all to 
 each other ; and he is so good, .1 doubt not I shall love 
 him dearly." 
 
 " Irene, the girl who gives her hand to a man she 
 does not love, perils her own happiness and the happiness 
 of her husband, and commits a great wrong. You will 
 not marry Henri ! " 
 
 " Do not say that, Mary. Henri saved me in the 
 hour of peril, and I have promised to marry him. My 
 parents have given their consent and their blessing. 
 The day is rapidly approaching. It is too late now." 
 
 "No, it is not too late, you are not yet married. 
 There is yet time, if you only act as a woman should." 
 
 "But can I do him so great a wrong, when he has 
 done so much for me? And what would my parents 
 say?" 
 
 "The greatest wrong you can do Mr. Eaton is to 
 
A WALK IN THE PARK. EAVES-DROPPING. 193 
 
 marry him, when you cannot give him your whole 
 heart." 
 
 " 0, but he shaUg^ever know it. It is too late to think 
 of breaking our engagement now. I will marry him ! " 
 
 " Irene, be candid with me. Is there not some other 
 being in the world whom you love more ? " 
 
 " I do not know, Mary." 
 
 " You do not know! But you do know, and you 
 cannot hide the truth from your own heart. Tell me 
 who it is, and why you are separated." 
 
 " You are a strange girl, Mary, and seem determined 
 to bring all my hidden thoughts to light. To tell the 
 truth, there is one whom I have often fancied that I 
 could love, if he would love me ; and I thought so before 
 I ever saw Henri." 
 
 " I guessed as much. Who is the gentleman ? " 
 
 " The bashftdM^erk to whom I introduced you, when 
 you were here last." 
 
 " I cannot say that I admire your taste. I should 
 prefer Mr. Eaton ; but we do not all think alike. But 
 does he know anything, is he intelligent? He ap 
 peared to me very dull and stupid, and entirely devoid 
 of language, excepting no and yes, and frequent hems." 
 
 " He is very diffident, and often stupid ; but I know he 
 
 has a soul true and noble. One who lacks intelligence 
 
 and goodness could not look as I have seen him. I have 
 
 seen his countenance lit up, as it were, by inspiration ; 
 
 17 
 
194 A WALK IN THE PARK. EAVES-DROPPING. 
 
 and 0, how noble it looked ! And his eyes how full 
 of passion they were, and how entrancing was their 
 expression! " 
 
 u I think he would feel flattered to hear you now. 1 
 see plainly enough that you love him. But have you 
 any evidence that this feeling is mutual'?" 
 
 " I have thought so, when his eyes were fixed upon 
 me so passionately, and seemingly so full of admiration ; 
 and, besides, he is so much more sorrowful since he 
 learned my engagement with Henri." 
 
 11 Irene, you shall marry Ernest, and not Henri ! " 
 
 " O 3 no ! it may not be. I do not know that I should 
 like Ernest at all, if better acquainted. In three weeks 
 I shall be married, and then Ernest will, be nothing to 
 me. But you must never mention this to a single 
 soul." 
 
 " No, dear, I will not. You know tirat you can trust 
 me ; but do you think Mr. Eaton woulcHnarry you, if he 
 knew what your feelings are '? " 
 
 " I do not believe he would. I sometimes think that 
 he does not love me. He is very different, at times," 
 
 " Another reason why you should not marry. It must 
 not be, Irene." 
 
 " I have told you that it is too late to retreat. I know 
 what my father would say. I never had a cross look or 
 an angry word from him in my life, and I could not bear 
 them now." 
 
A WALK IN THE PARK. EAVES-DROPPING. 195 
 
 By this time I had heard enough, and I walked softly 
 away, and went quite a distance from them, and came 
 up in a different direction, that they might not mistrust 
 that I had heard their conversation. 
 
 And does the reader ask what were my thoughts and 
 emotions, while I listened to this revelation ? They were 
 peculiar, as might well be supposed. At first, I was not 
 a little mortified. It was not very pleasing to learn that 
 another was preferred to me, when our wedding-day was 
 so near at hand. For a few minutes the green-eyed 
 monster had such power over me, that I trembled with 
 emotion. I soon got the mastery of this unmanly feeling, 
 for I knew that to give way to it was foolish and wrong; 
 and then my thoughts were not at all painful. In fact, a 
 burden seemed to be removed and a weight taken from 
 my heart. In a brief period I had formed my plan of 
 action ; and I walked rapidly to where they Isat, apprizing 
 them of my approach by a loud hem. They seemed a 
 little embarrassed when they saw me, but my manner 
 quickly reassured them. Irene introduced me to Mary 
 Dinneford, her cousin, from New Jersey. I had seen 
 her before, but had not received an introduction. 
 
 I told them that I had met Mr. Dinneford, and he 
 had commissioned me to attend them home. They arose, 
 and I offered an arm to each, and we walked leisurely 
 homeward. The evening was spent in agreeable conversa 
 tion. When the clock had struck ten, I signified to Irene 
 
196 A WALK IN THE PARK. EAVES-DROPPING. 
 
 that I wished a private interview. She looked surprised, 
 as it was the first evening of her cousin's visit, and we 
 had spent the previous evening togej^er. Probably they 
 intended to have -had a confidential conversation, after 
 they retired. 
 
 " Will it be long? " she inquired, hesitatingly. 
 
 " Most likely," I replied. " But why do you ask? " 
 
 " Excuse me," she answered. " I asked because it 
 interfered with a previous arrangement. But I will make 
 it all right." 
 
 She crossed the room to her cousin, and they continued 
 to whisper together for some time. During their conver 
 sation her parents withdrew. Soon after, Agnes followed, 
 accompanied by Mary. We were now alone. I confess 
 I never felt so much embarrassed before, and Irene 
 seemed as much so as I was. I asked her to sing. She 
 complied, and sang a beautiful air, with words which, I 
 thought, very appropriate for the occasion. She now took 
 a seat by my side on the sofa, where we had spent many 
 happy hours. I took her hand, and informed her that I 
 had a long story to tell her, with which I thought she 
 would be interested. She looked a good deal puzzled, 
 and I commenced. My story was of Helen Means and 
 myself. I gave her an account of our first acquaintance, 
 the measures I took to get her out of Deacon Webber's 
 hands, her dressing in boys' clothes, sleeping in the woods, 
 and, finally, being found by my uncle and carried to his 
 
A WALK IN THE PARK. EAVES-DROPPING. 197 
 
 home. I also gave an account of her sickness, and my 
 subsequent removal to my uncle's ; the happy days we 
 had spent together; and I closed with my strange dream. 
 In giving this history, I dwelt much upon the merits of 
 Helen, her loving and forgiving spirit, her tender and 
 truthful heart. 
 
 She listened with deep attention ; and when I had fin 
 ished my narrative, she remarked that it was an interest 
 ing and touching story. 
 
 " But why," she asked, " have you chosen this hour 
 to tell it to me?" 
 
 " Can you not surmise the reason?" 
 
 She looked at nWnquiringly, but did not speak. 
 
 11 Irene," I said, " I will be candid with you. I am 
 afraid that I love Helen better than I do you." 
 
 " I now understand you." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " You wish the engagement between us should close." 
 
 11 Would it not be best?" 
 
 " Certainly, if you do not love me." 
 
 " Is it not in accordance with your wishes ? " 
 
 " I should not wish to marry you, if you loved 
 another." 
 
 " No. but would you wish to marry me, if I loved you 
 only?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 17* 
 
198 A WALK IN THE PARK. EAVES-DROPPING. 
 
 * " Be candid, Irene. Is it the sincere desire of your 
 heart, your whole heart? " 
 
 " Henri, why do you tisk such questions ? " 
 
 " Because I have often noticed, that when we were 
 together, and should have been happy, your thoughts 
 were elsewhere." 
 
 " The same thing I have 'noticed in you." 
 
 " I was thinking of Helen Means." 
 
 II Yes." I 
 
 " And where were your thoughts, Irene ? " 
 She was silent. 
 
 " Irene, I have been guilty of a breach of etiquette, 
 which, I fear, you will not pardon.'* 
 
 II 1 can tell better when I know what it is." 
 "Certainly." 
 
 " Will you inform me ? Nothing very bad, I hope." 
 
 cc You shall know. I listened to your conversation, 
 to-night, in the Park." 
 
 She sprang to her feet, and her eyes flashed. 
 
 " Is it possible, Henri? I would not have believed 
 you capable of it ! " 
 
 " Sit down," I said, " and hear my justification." 
 
 She mechanically obeyed. 
 
 "As I approached you, I heard your cousin say, 'And 
 yet you are fearful that you do not love him ? ' Do you 
 wonder that I stopped to hear the reply 7" 
 
 "No." 
 
A WALK IN THE PARK. EAVES-DROPPING. 199 
 
 
 
 11 You are aware what followed. I despise an eaves 
 dropper as heartily as you can. But, had you been in 
 my place, would you have acted differently ? " 
 
 " I think not." 
 
 11 Then I am forgiven." 
 
 " You are." 
 
 " Thank you. Now Iet0s come to an understanding. 
 The feeling must be mutual, that our engagement shall be 
 broken off." 
 
 She nodded^assent. 
 
 "Irene," I continued, somewhat affected, " you will 
 yet be happy. I believe that Ernest loves you." 
 
 She seemed to a*wake suddenly from a painful revery. 
 
 "0, do not tell him what you heard me say ! I beg 
 of you, Henri ! " 
 
 " I will do as you wish," I replied. 
 
 " Now tell me." said she, looking at me earnestly; 
 " is not Helen Means a creature of the imagination ? " 
 
 "Why do you ask?" 
 
 "I have never heard you speak of her before; and 
 I have thought, now that I am aware you heard our 
 conversation to-night, that you might have invented this 
 Helen, to show that our intended marriage was as dis 
 tasteful to you as to me." 
 
 " You are mistaken, I have told you but the truth." 
 
 " I am very thankful that it is so. But, ! how sad 
 
200 A WALK IN THE PARK. EAVES-DROPPING. 
 
 
 
 I feel ! As I know that you are never to be my hus 
 band, a sense of dreary loneliness steals over me." 
 
 "I, too, feel sadly; but the shadows will not remain 
 long, the morning sun will chase them away." 
 
 " What will my poor father say ? It will almost break 
 his heart." 
 
 "Leave it to me. I kmj? it will be a serious dis 
 appointment to him ; but it will come out right in the 
 end." 
 
 " I fear his displeasure." 
 
 "You need not, if you will let me manage the whole 
 affair. No blame shall fall on you." 
 
 "You are ever generous. But can I consent to let 
 you suffer for me 7 No, no, Henri ! You once perilled 
 your own life to save mine ; and, when I think of that 
 noble act, I feel that I would marry you, did I love 
 another with my whole heart ! " 
 
 " There you are wrong. I simply did what you would 
 do, if you had the opportunity." 
 
 " Perhaps so. But I will go to my father, this night, 
 and tell him" all! " 
 
 " That you must not do. Your father is, most likely, 
 in a sound sleep now, and he would not thank you for 
 waking him at this time of night to hear a romantic 
 love-story, I shall insist upon taking the matter into my 
 own hands." 
 
 " Do as you think best ; for your will is stronger than 
 
A WALK IN THE PARK. EAVES- CROPPING. 201 
 
 mine. 0, Henri ! you would have thought, by my words 
 in the Park to-night, that this scene would have relieved 
 me of a burden, and made my heart light; and so I 
 thought,. but it was never so sad before. My hopes have 
 so long centred in you, that now I feel alone ! " 
 
 " Do not indulge in such feelings. Think of Er 
 nest ! " * 
 
 "0, do flbt mention him ! He does not love me." 
 
 " I believe he does, and you will soon learn the fact. 
 Hereafter, we shall be as brother and sister to each 
 other." 
 
 "I cannot comprehend it." 
 
 " You will, ere long; so think of the happy days in 
 store for you." 
 
 I arose to depart. She looked at me with earnest, 
 tearful eyes, and then sprang into my arms, with all the 
 impetuosity of her nature, and hung weeping upon my 
 neck. My tears were mingled with hers. That last 
 love embrace was long and painful, in which were mingled 
 sighs, tears and kisses. It was with difficulty that we 
 tore ourselves apart. All our old feelings seemed to have 
 concentrated into that moment, with three-fold power. I 
 now wonder that we did not pledge ourselves anew. Had 
 either mentioned it. I doubt not we should have done 
 so. It was well that we did not. I felt the danger we 
 were in, two such impulsive natures as ours, and I 
 
202 A WALK IN THE PARK. EAVES-DROPPING. 
 
 my hat and hastily fled from the house, leaving Irene 
 weeping upon the sofa. 
 
 After I had retired to my bed, I had time to collect 
 my thoughts ; and I felt that we had done right, and soon 
 every vestige of regret had fled, and I fell into a calm 
 and refreshing slumber. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 ERNEST BROWN. 
 
 THE ensuing morning, when I went into the shop, I 
 found Ernest looking pale and dejected. When^lbade 
 him good-morning, in a light and happy tone of voice, he 
 regarded me for a moment with a glance of bitter hatred. 
 
 I fixed my eyes upon him with a searching look, desir 
 ing to read his heart. If it was capable of harboring a 
 mean and contemptible spirit of hatred towards one who 
 had never sought to injure him, I did not wish Irene to 
 become his bride. He quailed beneath my glance, his 
 eyes cast upon the floor, as if ashamed of himself. At 
 last he spoke. 
 
 " Your thoughts, in relation to me, Mr. Eaton, are 
 not very complimentary, just now." 
 
 II Very true." 
 
 " You are candid, and I like you all the better for it. 
 I fear I have given you some reason to doubt the sincerity 
 of my friendship ; so I shall not complain." 
 
 " I am glad you are sensible of it, and have the cour 
 age and manliness to confess it. I think better of you 
 
204 ERNEST BROWN. 
 
 " Thank you, and I will try never to give you cause 
 to think evil of me again." 
 
 " Why did you give me such a look of scorn and 
 contempt, when I greeted you with such a whole-hearted 
 good-morning ? " 
 
 " I cannot tell you." 
 
 " Why not?" 
 
 " 0, Henri ! you can never know how intensely I 
 suffe^ For many months before you came to New 
 York,. I had a blissful waking dream, which now can 
 never be realized ! " 
 
 " Tell me the dream, for perchance I may interpret it." 
 
 " Tlje dream, and the radiant hopes it inspired me with 
 so long, are locked in my own heart ; and there shall they 
 sleep undisturbed forever ! " 
 
 These words were spoken slowly, in a low but passion 
 ate tone ; 'his countenance clearly indicating the wild 
 tumult which raged within his breast. I knew that sleep 
 was not there. Hence I said, 
 
 " Sleep undisturbed " 
 
 "No, no! I would to God they would sleep, die ! 
 but they will not ! " 
 
 "It is possible," I said, " that I may have the key 
 which will unlock that heart, and bring the dream to the 
 light of day, and the hopes it inspired you with." 
 
 " Do not taunt me," he said, fiercely, " or I may do 
 what I shall be sorry for to the end of my life ! " 
 
ERNEST BROWN. 205 
 
 I was somewhat nettled by his look, and the manner 
 in which he uttered those words, and I answered, 
 
 " Most likely I shall say what I please; and violent 
 threats will not deter me in the least." 
 
 " Beware how you speak, Mr. Eaton, or I shall make 
 you repent in^ytterness, though the curse of the act 
 should follow me to my grave ! " 
 
 " That would be very unwise, to say the least. You 
 know me, Ernest, or you would not talk in that 
 ion. I fear you as I do the wind ! " 
 
 " Do you defy me? " 
 
 " Just as you please." 
 
 He came fiercely towards me, but suddenly stop; 
 and looked earnestly in my face. 
 
 "You are not a coward?" I said, half laughing. 
 "'Lay on, Macduff.' " 
 
 His eyes flashed. 
 
 " I was about to do a foolish act," he said, " and if 
 you believe me to be a coward " 
 
 " Well, what would you do?" 
 
 " I know not." 
 
 " I do not believe it, Ernest. We are both fools." 
 
 "I did not know that we were so much alike, Henri. 
 Give me your hand ! " 
 
 I grasped it cordially. 
 
 " We are reconciled now," he remarked. " Let us be 
 friends." 
 
 18 
 
206 ERNEST BROWN. 
 
 " Amen," I responded, earnestly. 
 , " We are alike ! " he said. " But I have suffered all 
 my days, while you have lived happily. Dark clouds 
 have ever lowered over my path, while your sky has 
 been clear and beautiful, and your way smooth and 
 pleasant." 49 
 
 11 You are mistaken, Ernest. I too have suffered 
 bitterly." 
 
 "Is it possible?. But your prospects are bright nqa| 
 your hopes golden, while I am in the lowest hell oT 
 despair ! " 
 
 "Will you not confide your 'sorrows to me, as to a 
 
 nd ? I may have- the power to alleviate them ; I am 
 ? I wish you well." 
 
 " I do not doubt it ; but it is not in your power, not 
 in the power of man ! " 
 
 He was now fast relapsing into his usual state of weary 
 dulness. I was determined to arouse him ; and after I 
 had left him a sufficient time to commune with his own 
 thoughts, having, -in the mean time, entered some accounts 
 on the leger, I returned to him, and remarked, carelessly, 
 
 " You are aware, Ernest, that I am to be married 
 soon?" 
 
 "lam." 
 
 " Will you and Miss Dinneford act as groomsman and 
 bridesmaid ? " 
 
 " No." 
 

 
 ERNEST BROWN. 207 
 
 " Why not?" 
 
 lie hesitated. 
 
 " How do I know that it would be agreeable to 
 Agnes?" 
 
 11 Mary Dinneford is here. I think it would be agree 
 able to her, or Agnes either." 
 
 " But it would not td me." 
 
 " Will you give me yo^r reason ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Your answer is to the point, but cold and bitter. 
 You don't talk much like a friend." 
 
 " I know it ; but forgive me ! " 
 
 " I will, if you consent to my wishes." 
 
 " I cannot ! Request me to do anything else but 
 that, and you shall be gratified." 
 
 " Come, come, Ernest; I begin to think that you envy 
 me Irene. 
 
 ' Curse your insolence ! " 
 
 " Yeu forget we are friends." 
 
 "And so do you." 
 
 "You and Miss Dinneford shall comply with my 
 request! " 
 
 " She may; but I will not, so help me God ! You 
 
 have your answer now." 
 
 J 9 
 
 :i You have promised to comply with any other request 
 but that." 
 
 " And so I will, if it is reasonable." 
 
208 EKNBST BROWN. 
 
 "Always an if in the way! My request is simple, 
 and not hard to be complied with. All I ask of you is 
 to marry Irene yourself! " 
 
 He started to his feet, and seemed to wrestle with 
 contending emotions. 
 
 "Henri ! " he said, with forced calmness, "why tor 
 ture me thus? If you were serious in desiring my 
 esteem, my friendship, why sdlk to wound my feelings, 
 and make me hate you ? " 
 
 " I do not seek either, nor wish it. Would you not 
 like to marry Irene? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " I don't believe you." 
 
 " It 's a matter of perfect indifference, sir ! " 
 
 " Of course. But I have news for you. The engage 
 ment is broken off between Irene Dinneford and your 
 humble servant, Henri Eaton." 
 
 When I uttered these words, he sprang towards me, 
 exclaiming, 
 
 " Is it so ? You do not mean what you say ! I would 
 to God it were true ! But no, it is only renewed tor 
 ture ! Why do I make a fool of myself ? She is 
 nothing to me." * 
 
 " It is true, nevertheless." 
 
 He now came to me, and took my hand and held it 
 like a vice, and said, 
 
 " Can this be so ? Are you sincere in what you say ? " 
 
ERNEST BROWN. 209 
 
 " I am ; but what is it to you ? Why are you so 
 interested ? You have just said you had no desire to 
 marry her." 
 
 " Neither was I willing to have her become your wife." 
 
 " You speak the truth now. But, as she is nothing to 
 you, as you do not wish to make a wife of her, why 
 should you feel so much interested ? " 
 
 He did not seem to fancy this provoking raillery, and 
 he regarded me some time in silence. At last he said, 
 
 " Henri, I believe you know my heart as well as 
 know it myself." 
 
 " On one point I know it well. You love Irene Din- 
 neford." 
 
 " I do ! " 
 
 " Very frank. If she returned your love, you would 
 gladly make her your wife." 
 
 " Yes, and wish for no brighter heaven ! " 
 
 " That would be foolish; but you have learned to speak 
 the truth at last, so I see there is some hopes of you. 
 Now set about winning the heart of Irene ; for there is no 
 obstacle in the way." 
 
 " But how did it happen ? What was the cause of it ? 
 Why are you so ready to resign her to me ? Do you 
 not love her does she not love you " 
 
 " That will do," said I, interrupting him. " You are 
 famous for asking questions. If you ask any more, I 
 shall not remember half of them." 
 18* 
 
210 ERNEST BROWN. 
 
 " You never truly loved Irene, or you could not talk 
 as you do. ! could I but win her heart, I should be 
 
 - half wild with joy ! " 
 
 " A very easy matter, I should suppose." 
 
 " Do you think so? What has she said? Does she 
 
 ever speak of me ? " 
 
 ' i Another long string of queries ! I see you can 
 
 ask questions, if you cannot talk so glibly as some ; and 
 ^the best way for you to get an answer to them all is to 
 
 * go and ask Irene if she will give you her heart and hand, 
 and accept yours in exchange." 
 
 " You have no mercy, Henri ! But I will do as you 
 say, and if I am rejected I shall not be more miserable 
 than I have been. But will her father consent ? " 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Her father is in easy circumstances, and I know that 
 he wishes his daughters to marry men of property. Not 
 that he is particular about their being very rich ; but he 
 would have them in the possession of a few thousands to 
 begin life with, and I have nothing ! " 
 
 " But you have a salary of seven hundred dollars a 
 year ; and, as economical as you are, you must at least 
 save half of it." 
 
 " I do not save one cent ! " 
 
 " That is strange. What can you do with it ? " 
 
 " First tell me why it is that this engagement, made 
 
ERNEST BROWN. 211 
 
 under such favorable circumstances, should have ended 
 so suddenly." 
 
 " I will do as you wish, Ernest, for it is right that 
 you should know." I briefly narrated to him the facts, 
 with which the reader is already sufficiently familiar, 
 leaving out what was said in relation to him. He list 
 ened with deep interest, and as though he expected that, 
 if Irene loved him, in such a conversation she would at 
 least have mentioned his name. 
 
 I 
 
 When I had finished, h^ippeared disappointed. " You 
 look dissatisfied," I remarked; " do not matters stand 
 as you would have them ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but she said nothing in relation to me. If she 
 had a preference for me, she would have said something 
 about it." 
 
 " Perhaps so, and perhaps not ; but you must remem 
 ber the proverb. ' A faint heart never won a fair lady ! ' " 
 
 c< I will remember it. Now, if you will listen patiently, 
 I will give you a brief history of my unhappy life, ,and 
 then you will cease to wonder at my sad dulness, and 
 foolish diffidence. 
 
 " I ain now twenty-eight years old, and my recollec 
 tion extends back to the time when I had seen but three 
 years. I was but three years old when my sister Adellah 
 died, who was two years older than I. I remember her 
 as being a child of a sweet disposition, who never tired 
 of playing with me, and seeking to make me happy. 
 
212 BKNEST BROWN. 
 
 She c suddenly ; and I recollect well that my father 
 had struck her a severe blow a few days before, but why 
 I knew not. Alas, I but too soon learned the cause ! I 
 looked at her as she lay in her little coffin, and her face 
 was like marble ; the rose had fled from her cheeks, the 
 flaxen hair was combed smoothly back, and the laughing 
 blue eyes were closed. Her fat, dimpled hands were 
 folded upon her breast ; I thought she looked sweetly, as 
 she lay there, so still, in that spotless white dress. Alas ! 
 I did not know that it was tta shroud of death. I put 
 my hand upon her face, andWwas cold as ice ! I could 
 not comprehend it. When they laid her in the grave, 
 I was sorrowful and lonely; they told me she was in 
 Heaven, but I wanted her here. Why should God take 
 her there 7 She was not necessary to His happiness, 
 but she was to mine. 
 
 "At this time we lived in a large, well-furnished 
 house, and all our outward wants were abundantly sup 
 plied. My mother was a weakly woman, and, I fancied, 
 very unhappy. We lived in a country village, and my 
 father kept store. I soon began to notice that he was 
 very different at times : to-day, good-natured, speaking 
 kindly to mother, and bestowing a kiss on me ; to-mor 
 row, moody and cross. The dinner was not half cooked, 
 and the supper spoiled. I was afraid to go near him ; 
 for he sometimes struck me, or pushed me roughly on 
 to the floor. When he would leave the house, my mother 
 
ERNEST BROWN. 213 
 
 would sit down and weep, as though her heart would 
 break. How often have I put my hands around her 
 neck, and begged her to tell me why she cried ! She 
 would kiss me, and say, c Poor Ernest ! don't ask me 
 now ; you are too young yet. Alas ! that you should 
 ever know.' 
 
 " Adellah had been dead but a few months, when a 
 little tiny thing was brought to me, one morning, as I 
 lay in my bed, and I was told that God had sent me an 
 other sister. How thankful I was ! My young heart 
 was brimfull of joy ; now I should be happy again. 
 That young dream was never fulfilled ; for the horrid 
 truth soon forced itself upon me, that my father was a 
 drunkard ! I but half realized my misfortune then ; 
 but, to my deeply sensitive nature, it was enough to 
 make the world, bright and lovely as it is, look dark. 
 It would have darkened paradise ! 
 
 *vPut your hand upon my head ; you see I have but 
 little reverence. The reason why veneration is so small, 
 is because I never loved and reverenced a father. I 
 could not love him, for he was not always kind and 
 gentle to his children, as a father should be ; he abused 
 my mother, and almost broke her heart, ere the calamity 
 happened which stripped us of all we possessed. Parents 
 complain of the want of reverence in their children ; who 
 is to blame? Let them conduct themselves in such a 
 manner that their children cannot help loving and vener- 
 
214 ERNEST BROWN. 
 
 ating them, and then will they reverence the aged, God, 
 and all good. How could I have reverence for men or 
 God, when my father was intemperate 'I The little child 
 sees his heavenly Father through his earthly parent, as 
 we look through nature up to nature's God, But I am 
 moralizing ; and it is no wonder, when I have so suffered 
 from the eifects of intemperance, and have seen so much 
 ruin caused by the accursed vice. Hours and hours 
 have I dwelt upon this theme, and thought how different 
 would have been my life, if my father had not been a 
 drunkard, how different I should have been, how 
 much misery I should have escaped, and happiness en 
 joyed/' 
 
 "It is not well," I remarked, "to let your mind 
 dwell upon such painful subjects." 
 
 " You are right, and I have done it too long; but I 
 will briefly tell you all, and try to think less of them 
 hereafter. When I was five years old another child was 
 born, a little girl, who afterwards resembled Adeilah ; 
 but she was a pale, weakly thing, and she remained 
 with us but a few years. Soon after her birth, I was 
 told, by my weeping mother, that my father had failed ; 
 I did not know what failing meant, but I was certain 
 that a great calamity had befallen us. We soon after 
 removed to an unclapboarded house, containing only 
 three small and unfinished rooms ; our carpets, our nice 
 chairs, our best beds and looking-glasses, were all gone. 
 
ERNEST BROWN. 215 
 
 0; how desolate ailpgloomy seemed that old house ! I 
 shall never forget, to my dying day, how woe- begone my 
 mother looked, as she entered that building, with little 
 Laura in her arms. ' my God ! ' she cried, ' little 
 did I dream that I should ever come to this ! ' We had 
 but few comforts now, and the world looked drear 
 enough. 
 
 " My father, instead of forsaking his cups, and trying 
 to retrieve his fallen fortunes, sank rapidly to the lowest 
 depths of the detestable inebriate ; he worked at different 
 places, spending part of his earnings for rum, and with 
 the rest buying the cheapest and coarsest articles of food. 
 My mother, who was keenly sensitive and high-spirited, 
 labored bard to keep her children looking clean and 
 decent. Two other children were afterwards added to 
 our family, both boys. Father became bloated and 
 ragged, and as selfish as sin ; intemperance bloated and 
 swelled his body, but shrivelled up his soul. He wanted 
 so much money for rum, that he was ever anxious that 
 his children should not consume any more food than 
 nature required. This, arid other things, made us as 
 voracious as swine ; and we* all became selfish and mean, 
 each one striving to get the largest share o^he poor food 
 provided for us. 
 
 "I tremble to think what we might have been, if we 
 had not hjid a good mother, who carefully looked after our 
 welfare, and sought to instil good principles into our 
 
216 ERNEST BROWN. 
 
 minds. Our home was, neverthelS, often the scene of 
 bitter altercations, and mutual upbraidings, until I came 
 to dread my father's approach ; the dull echo of his 
 heavy footsteps fell upon my young heart like the death- 
 knell to happiness. How horrid is the thought that a 
 father should so conduct himself as to make his presence 
 hateful to his children ! 
 
 " I soon learned, and to my sorrow, that the sins of 
 the father were visited upon his children in a way tha,t 
 made my life a still greater burden ; my play-mates and 
 school-mates looked down upon me. 0, heavens ! I 
 knew they regarded me as a drunkard's child; I felt 
 that the finger of scorn was pointed at me, and it 
 burnt into my heart as though it had been fire ! I 
 quailed beneath it, and could no longer hold up my head. 
 The more I bent under the heavy weight that was laid 
 upon me, the more was I scorned. You have a nature 
 keenly sensitive, Henri, and you may judge what I suf 
 fered. I was naturally very fond of the beautiful ; every 
 flower talked to me, and every tree waved me a welcome, 
 and looked compassionately upon me, as if bending in 
 benediction. I gazed into the blue sky by day and by 
 night, and l<^ed it ; for all its starry eyes beamed with 
 holy smiles. I delighted to quench my spirit's thirst 
 with the airy waters which floated in light and beauty 
 in the limitless ocean above me. But I could not live 
 on these alone ; what little child can ? I craved the love, 
 
ERNEST BROWN. 217 
 
 I 
 
 and sympathy, and respect, of my fellow-beings; I 
 wanted to be on an equality with children of my own 
 age. But of what avail was this wish in my young and 
 bleeding heart ? How could I be considered equal, when 
 I was so poor, and my father a drunkard ? I could not 
 dress like them, I had not books, as they had. Curse 
 them ! They have spit upon me, to show their con 
 tempt ! How often have I wished for a lightning-bolt, 
 that I might crush th^pa, and be revenged ! Had I been 
 made of sterner stuff, and possessed a less sensitive 
 nature, I might have escaped much of this, and returned 
 scorn for scorn, insult for insult, and blow for blow ; but, 
 as it was, I suffered with an intensity corresponding with 
 my sensitiveness. The poisonous tooth of scorn eat 
 into my heart's core, and the fountain of life was made 
 bitter as gall. God ! the time came when not a star 
 smiled for me, not a spire of grass sprung up to carpet 
 my rough and uneven way, not a flower tossed to me 
 a fragrant kiss with its rosy fingers, and the bow in the 
 clouds, with its seven beautiful colors, embracing the 
 earth, as the seven attributes of the Almighty encircle 
 the children of His love, had no attractive loveliness for 
 me ; all was dark, dismal, and black as death ! The 
 light which had shone for me, when a little child, had 
 grown fainter and fainter, until the flickering blaze had 
 expired. 
 
 "When my sister Laura died I shed no tears, for I 
 19 
 
218 ERNEST BROWN. 
 
 | 
 
 never wept now ; yet still I mourned her loss, but at 
 the same time I thought how much better it was for her 
 than to live, and suffer as I did. One of the most 
 harrowing thoughts which contiriually beset me was, that 
 people looked upon me as little better than a fool ; I fan 
 cied they regarded me as a half-witted boy. So much 
 did I dwell upon this, that there were times when 
 I thought they were right. ' Surely,' thought I, ' I 
 am not like other children. I a^n imposed upon daily. 
 Why should I be, if I am not a fool ? ' 0, what 
 thoughts were these ! How they racked my brain, and 
 lay like lead upon my heart ! 
 
 " All this time there were deep feelings in my breast, 
 intense as the burning rays of the meridian sun, in 
 July's hottest days. There were passions sleeping like 
 lava fires, and sympathies w.arm and truthful, which had 
 often broken the icy wall around them, and leaped forth, 
 like the torrent down the mountain-side ; but so cold, so 
 freezing, was their reception, that they were ever sent 
 back, quivering and gasping, upon my heart ! My 
 mother still loved me, and labored for my good; and 
 this was one bright spot in my dark life. What should 
 I not have become, if it had not been for her ? I ain 
 mistaken ! The world was " not all dark, all sorrow, all 
 gloom. One star did shine for me ! 
 
 " When I was twelve I was sent away from home to 
 live with those who had no sympathy for me, nor I for 
 
ERNEST BROWN. 219 
 
 them. I could not please them, for they did not under 
 stand my nature. They treated me decently well, and 
 worked me beyond my strength. It was torture to me, 
 for I had no heart in it. My father's career was still 
 downward, and his family continued to suifer more and 
 more. One after another of the children died, until none 
 were left but Mary and me ; she was the one born soon 
 after the death of Adellah. When I was sixteen, my 
 father died ; I did not wish him to die, and yet I was 
 not sorry when the cold earth shut him from my sight 
 forever ! 
 
 " The support of my mother and sister now devolved 
 upon me. I did not shrink from the Hsponsibility, but 
 removed them far away from the harrowing scenes 
 through which we had passed, and commenced, as it were, 
 a new life. My mother's health was completely broken 
 down, and God knows why she lived through so much 
 trouble. Mary nursed her with a daughter's affection 
 ate care, and the fruit of my labors brought us a decent 
 support. I began once more to hold up my head ; but a 
 diffidence and reserve hung about me, which I could not 
 shake off, and I never have to this day. I am sorrowful, 
 but I never weep ; I am joyful, yet there is still bitter 
 ness. Nature has once more opened her stores of beauty, 
 and she -has bid me select the richest gems, without 
 money and without price. The heavens look down upon 
 
220 ERNEST BKOWN. 
 
 me in love, the flowers spring up smiling at my feet, and 
 every little child gives me a kindly glance. 
 
 " I loved Irene Dinneford, the first time I saw her ; and 
 when I thought that she was lost to me forever, I was 
 fearful that thick gloom would once more shroud the uni 
 verse. Could I but have the assurance that she loves me 
 with that absorbing passion with which I love her, I 
 believe I should be a different being ; the long pent-up 
 emotions would gush forth, the ice around my heart 
 would melt, and I should joy to weep once more. 
 
 " You wonder why I did not declare my love. I could 
 not. I thought of my poverty, of those who were 
 depending upon fne for support, and I felt that I should 
 'be rejected. I would rather dream on. I would not 
 darken so fair a heaven. I knew that a respectable young 
 man had offered his hand to Agnes, and her father had 
 persuaded her to reject him on account of his poverty. 
 What could I expect ? " 
 
 " He could not so persuade Irene," I remarked. 
 
 " I have often thought so, but I had not sufficient self- 
 confidence. You may judge, Henri, what were my feel 
 ings, when I learned that you were engaged to her. I 
 cursed you, in the bitterness of my heart. Then I felt 
 how unjust I was, and what mean thoughts were festering 
 and cankering in my breast. I watched you closely, and 
 I soon convinced myself that you did not love Irene with 
 that intense devotion of which a nature like yours or mine 
 
ERNEST BROWN. 221 
 
 IB capable. That your regard for her was what the world 
 would call love, I had no doubt ; but that it was not true 
 conjugal affection, 1 was well persuaded. I speculated 
 much as to what her feelings were for you ; but I ever 
 felt there was more of respect than love. 0, how 
 ardently I wished that I could have been the one to have 
 saved her, when her life was in peril ! Then bitter 
 thoughts would canker in my heart again, and I would 
 curse my unhappy fate. I sometimes wished that you 
 might prove to be a villain, seeking her ruin, and I 
 might be made the instrument to save her from your 
 hands ! I acknowledge the meanness, the baseness and 
 the depravity, of these thoughts ; but they would spring 
 up in my breast, like noxious weeds in a bed of flowers, 
 I could not keep them down. My mother has now 
 almost entirely regained her health, and Mary is to be 
 married in a few weeks. When I visit my mother, she 
 looks so well, so contented and happy. I feel that my life 
 has not been in vain. There is one bright spot. A 
 retrospective glance is painful ; but that one green spot 
 is beautiful to the eyes of my ever weary spirit, even 
 though it be enriched with tears that fall only from the 
 heart ! " 
 
 " Give me your hand, Ernest." I said, greatly affected 
 by this narrative, by which a bleeding heart was laid bare 
 before my eyes ; " and forgive me for the words which I 
 19* 
 
222 ERNEST BROWN. 
 
 uttered just now, when half angry. I knew you not, or 
 I should not have spoken as I did." 
 
 " I have as much reason to ask forgiveness as you." 
 
 11 1 think not; for my object was to irritate you, and 
 then cancel my wickedness by telling you good news. I 
 also suffered in my younger days, and keenly too, or I 
 should not be so passionate as I am. Ernest, you will 
 yet be happy." 
 
 " Thank you for the prophecy ; but it seems almost 
 impossible. My life has hitherto been so dark, so hope 
 less, it is difficulfc to persuade myself that the future shall 
 be bright. But, were I convinced that Irene loved me, 
 I should doubt no more." 
 
 " What if her parents should prove to be an obstacle 
 in the way ? " 
 
 " That would be a misfortune ; but it would not destroy 
 my felicity, for I should still have her love, and, with 
 that, I would defy the darkest storms of adversity ! I 
 should no more be alone ; but my heart, long estranged, 
 would have something to cling to. They might separate 
 us, the ocean might roll between us, but I should still 
 be conscious that I was not alone! Our spirits would 
 meet, our thoughts leap over the wide ocean, as light 
 leaps from star to star ! I do not believe it possible to 
 separate those who love ; death cannot do it ! " 
 
 " You are more eloquent than I supposed it possible 
 for you to be. You remind me of rain, after a drouth ; 
 
ERNEST BROWN. 223 
 
 when it once begins to fall, there is little cessation, until 
 the earth is watered and the springs all full. I see that 
 the ice is breaking up, and sweet spring is coming. But 
 you nave a curious theory in relation to lovers. Accord 
 ing to your idea, they cannot be separated. Place oceans 
 between you and those you love, and you would feel 
 differently." 
 
 " Can you make the flowers look unlovely ? Can you 
 darken the eyes of the stars ? Can you steal away the 
 tints of the rainbow ? Can you sever the chain that links 
 humanity to its God ? No ! And you cannot separate 
 the spirits of those whose beings are one. They bid 
 defiance to time, space, eternity ! " 
 
 Our conversation was here interrupted by the entrance 
 of customers. Mr. Dinneford came soon . after, and we 
 did not resume it again. 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 MR. DINNEFORD. MUTUAL LOVE. 
 
 IN the afternoon, I asked Mr. Dinneford if he would 
 take a walk on the Battery. He readily assented, and 
 thither we directed our steps. It was a lovely day, and 
 many had walked out to enjoy it, and breathe the fresh 
 air, and let it beattfcll and strong against their cheeks, 
 pale and sallow from long confinement in doors. The 
 children, rolling' their hoops and running and shouting, 
 seemed the happiest of the happy. 
 
 As soon as I could summon sufficient courage, I 
 broached the subject on my mind. 
 
 " I have invitedr you here," I said, " to speak on a 
 subject which, under the circumstances, must be painful 
 to us both." 
 
 " What can it be ? Is the partnership business dis 
 tasteful to you?" 
 
 " It is." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 "J Apt like the mercantile business, and I have 
 determined to leave it." 
 
 " You ought to have known that a month ago." 
 
ME. DINNEFORD. MUTUAL LOVE. 225 
 
 11 1 did know it; and the reason why I consented to 
 this partnership was because I expected to to 
 marry Irene." 
 
 "You expected! And do you not expect to marry 
 her now, pray? " 
 
 " To be candid with you, Mr. Dinneford, I do not." 
 
 " Are you joking, Henri, or do you say what you 
 mean ? " 
 
 " I mean what I have said." 
 
 '" I am astonished! But why is this? What has 
 happened, to change your mind, after the day was set? " 
 
 " We made the discovery that we did not love each 
 other." 
 
 " A wonderful discovery, truly ! It is all Greek to 
 me. Are you sure that Irene does not love you ? " 
 
 " I know she does not." 
 
 " A very ridiculous affair ! A courtship commenced 
 under the most romantic circumstances, the day set for the 
 wedding, and a partnership entered into with the father ; 
 and, after all, the parties do not love each othen^. Very 
 strange, very incomprehensible ! " 
 
 " And yet, I trust, you believe it." 
 
 11 1 suppose I must, since you say so. But, if you 
 have not loved each other, you are both consummate 
 hypocrites ! " 
 
 " A harsh judgment." 
 
 " Not a whit too harsh. Have n't you been billing 
 
226 MR. DINNEFOED. MUTUAL LOVE. 
 
 and cooing, these two or three months, never satisfied 
 unless together? Why should you both manifest so 
 much love, if you did not possess it? " 
 
 " We tried to love, but could not." 
 
 " Most likely I shall believe you, two young people 
 so well fitted for each other ! There is some mystery 
 about this sudden freak. I don't understand it at all." 
 
 " It does look strange, I acknowledge, but no ir.ore 
 strange than true. My affections are placed upon another, 
 and so are Irene's." 
 
 " Well, I suppose the mystery will be cleared up, some 
 time ; but it looks dark now, and will be a severe disap 
 pointment to me and my family." 
 
 11 That is what we both most regretted." 
 
 " Did Irene speak of that ?' " 
 
 "Yes, and she feared that you would chide her 
 angrily, and the thought made her very unhappy ; for 
 she said that an angry word she had never heard you 
 
 a good girl, and I will not be angry with her. 
 In losing her, Henri, you lose a treasure, worth more 
 
 " I know her worth well. You have reason to be 
 proud of her." 
 
 " And yet you give her up without one regret ! " 
 " No, no ! but I I am attached to another." 
 " Who is the favored one ? I think I ought to know." 
 
MR. DINNEFORD. MUTUAL LOVE. 227 
 
 " A young girl whom I delivered from a brutal mas 
 ter, by stratagem. She was but eleven years old then." 
 
 " Your first love, I suppose. I wish you had found it 
 out before. Perhaps you may find one or two more you 
 have benefited in a similar way ; if so, woe to the one 
 who has your affections now ! " 
 
 11 You are not candid. I can never love another as I 
 love her." 
 
 " I hope you will be very sure of it before you again 
 set the day to be married, or form another partnership." 
 
 "I shall." 
 
 " Did you say Irene had formed an^attachment for 
 some one ? " 
 
 " I did." 
 
 " Are you at liberty to give me his name ? " 
 
 "Yes no, but I Suppose I may, without doing 
 wrong. It is Ernest Brown." 
 
 " Ernest Brown ! I am surprised more and more. Are 
 you certain of what you say ? " 
 
 " I am." 
 
 " It does not look likely to me that she would prefer 
 him to you ; but there is no accounting for tastes." 
 
 " Love will go where it is sent, you know." 
 
 " So I should think. What are his feelings towards 
 her?" 
 
 " The same as hers towards him." 
 
 " This state of things I regret. Ernest is well 
 
228 MR. DINNEFORD. MUTUAL LOVE. 
 
 enough ; but he is not such a man as I should have 
 chosen for Irene, he would do better for Agnes. " 
 
 "You are mistaken, sir; you don't know Ernest." 
 
 " You may be right, but he is very poor." 
 
 ." He has a noble mind and soul ; and I hope you will 
 not withhold your approval on account of his poverty." 
 
 " I would like to know what he does with his salary." 
 
 "Supports a sick mother, and a sister who takes care 
 of her ; what nobler use could he make of it ? " 
 
 " I will inquire into this matter ; and, if what you say 
 is true, I will not be an obstacle in the way of their hap 
 piness. If Erlftst has been the dutiful son you have 
 represented him to be, I shall be proud to own him as my 
 daughter's husband. Far, better that she should marry 
 a virtuous poor man than a vicious rich one." 
 
 We here fell in with a gent^nan of Mr. Dinneford's 
 acquaintance, and they having some business matters to 
 talk over, I went to the shop. There were no custom 
 ers in, and I told Mr. Brown that he might be as expedi 
 tious, as he pleased, for all things were favorable, so he 
 had better strike while the iron was hot. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " he inquired. 
 
 " What do I mean ? Why, how dull you are, Ernest ! 
 Are you not aware that the heaven, which you would not 
 have any brighter, if you could, can now be gained by a 
 little effort ?" 
 
 " You are real heartless, to joke in that way." 
 
MB. DINNEFORD. MUTUAL LOVE. 229 
 
 c : I am not joking ; but I want you to take time by the 
 fore-lock, that is all." * 
 
 " Please explain yourself." 
 
 "Well, some folks are stupid. What I mean is simply 
 this : you must go and see Irene, and declare your love." 
 
 " Don't call me stupid, for I am rather sensitive on 
 that point. The joke has too much truth in it. But 
 when must I, most excellent master, do the thing which 
 you require at my hands?" 
 
 " To-night ; this very evening." 
 
 " I shall not obey." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "It was. but last evening that your engagement termi 
 nated. She would not wish to form another so soon. 
 Nor would she suppose that I knew anything about it, and 
 she would think me very 'presumptuous. It would show a 
 lack of delicacy, on my part, to broach the subject now." 
 
 " Well, do as you think best ; but I should not wait." 
 
 " You always go on the high-pressure principle ; but I 
 cannot." 
 
 In a few days after this, I wrote to Helen Means, 
 informing her that my engagement with Irene had come 
 to an end. and that I should soon return home. 
 
 One morning, about two weeks from the time we held 
 our last conversation, when Ernest came into the shop I 
 could but gaze upon him with surprise. I was looking 
 20 
 
230 MR. DINNEFORD. MUTUAL LOVE. 
 
 for a change sometime, but not one so great as his coun 
 tenance indicated. 4* 
 
 His pale cheeks were flushed, and his dull eyes flashed 
 with a radiant brightness. They seemed to be illumined 
 by a wild light, softened by the presence of pure joy and 
 unalloyed happiness. As I looked at his beaming coun 
 tenance, I felt that the long imprisoned spirit had been 
 released from its bondage. ! what agpower there is in 
 love to make the darkest skies bright, the -most hopeless 
 lot beautiful as a smiling landscape on a summer's morn ! 
 Those who truly love are invincible. This solidarity of 
 hearts renders them impervious to the world's scorn or 
 hate. Rather, I should say, renders it; for the two make 
 but one. Separate and alone, we are fractions, exposed to 
 many temptations and adversities ; we are weak, and 
 when the storms of life beat upon us we bend beneath 
 them in bitter agony, unable to stand up and face them 
 manfully. United, we become entire, the two make 
 one, and the weakness becomes power ; like a three-fold 
 cord, it cannot be broken. The strength of the two 
 becomes the strength of the one ; their pow r ers melt arid 
 mingle together and consolidate, and, though soft as the 
 petals of a rose, they are harder than the rock. Soft to 
 humanity's touch, but to the cold fingers of misfortune 
 and injustice hard as flint. 
 
 I rallied Ernest on his improved appearance, telling 
 
MR. DINNEFORD. MUTUAL LOVE. 231 
 
 him, however, that he had looked the misanthrope, but 
 now the maniac. 
 
 "I shall not crave your mercy," he replied; " for I 
 have a shield now that will render all your shafts imper 
 vious." 
 
 " The shield of love, perchance. Much good may it 
 do you ! How many hours did you sleep, last night? " 
 
 "I will tell you when you inform me what right you 
 have to ask such questions ? ' ' 
 
 " Of course you understand what right I have. I am 
 your good genius, you know." 
 
 " I had forgotten that fact ; but what right has my good 
 genius to ask saucy questions ? " 
 
 " Saucy questions ! You are improving very fast. I 
 see that people change with circumstances. But how 
 about those tears, was there a ^regular deluge ? I fancy 
 that I can trace the course of the torrents, which rushed 
 with mighty inpetuosity over your face." 
 
 u Come, come, that will do. I am happier than I was, 
 and I believe that .my cup will yet be bfimming with joy." 
 
 " I hope so." 
 
 " Thank you. I thought, soon after you came here, 
 that you would prove a deadly curse to me ; but, instead 
 of that, although your presence has caused me hours of 
 sorrow, it has been all for the 'best, for you have been the 
 means Of doing me great good." 
 
232 MR. DINNEFORD. MUTUAL LOVE. 
 
 {C But greater injury, I fear; but I am willing to square 
 accounts." 
 
 " So am I; and may you be as happy as I now hope to 
 be!" 
 
 " 0, I shall be ; never fear for me ! " 
 
 " You speak with assurance, and I hope you will not 
 be disappointed." 
 
 "I hope so, too. Depend upon it, Ernest, the future 
 has bright skies and sunshine for us both." 
 
 - 
 * 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 DEATH OF MY MOTHER. 
 
 I NOW had the pleasure of meeting Ernest and Irene 
 frequently together. It made me happier and better, to 
 see how happy they were. In feelings, hopes and sympa 
 thies, they were one. I knew that their union, should it 
 ever take place, would be a true one ; for the silbin chain 
 of love had so bound them that death itself could not 
 sever it. They did not manifest so much sickly senti 
 mentality that they might be called, as a quaint writer 
 has expressed it, "a couple of lumps of love; " and yet 
 you could see that love was the attraction that drew them 
 together, and made them one. And therein was union, 
 devotion, self-sacrifice, truth, honor, and JM^ty as joyous 
 as heaven. Marriage without such love,^s but a tragic 
 farce. 
 
 At the request of Mr. Dinneford, Ernest gave him a 
 truthful account of his life, which showed his character 
 in its true light. 
 
 " You have suffered so much," said he, " that God for 
 bid that I should stand in the way of your happiness ! " 
 
 The moody dulness and diffidence of Mr. Brown 
 gradually wore away, as the fogs leave the valleys 
 ^ 20* 
 
234 DEATH OF MY MOTHER. 
 
 when the sun pours its rays down upon them, causing 
 them to creep up their sides, and disappear over the moun 
 tain tops. The sun of love now shone around him, dis 
 persing the shadows of a woful life. 
 
 I now determined to remain in New York until the 
 time had expired for which I had bargained. Ernest, 
 instead of leaving on the first of January, renewed his 
 engagement for another year, his salary being increased 
 two hundred dollars. "When my time had nearly expired, 
 I received the following letter from brother Thomas : 
 - 
 
 "I feel it a duty, my brother, to inform you that 
 " mother is sinking rapidly. She has not long to live 
 " in this world. She does not speak of you ; and yet I 
 " know she would be glad to see you. She has not 
 "set eyes upon you for a number of years, and it 
 1 ' must be a relief to her overburdened heart to see 
 " you once IJjf- Be sure and come. You need not 
 " fear the deacon, for you are a man now. No doubt, 
 " when you see him, you will love him as well as you ever 
 " did. And why should you not love your venerable 
 "father ? The deacon is now sixty years old, but his 
 " hair is black as it ever was. There is a secret con- 
 "nected with this; he colors it once a month. No 
 "vanity in that, of course not! Shall I draw the old 
 "man's portrait? I will do it faithfully ; for I do so 
 " want you to love him, when next you meet ! 
 
DEATH OF MY MOTHER^ 235 
 
 "It is some time since you saw your loving parent ; 
 11 and, as I fear you may have forgotten some of the items, 
 " I will put them all in. He is standing now in front of 
 " the house, and I can see him from where I am writing 
 " (with my mind's eye, I can always see him). There he 
 " is, full six feet high, broad-shouldered, and looking very 
 " black in the face. His ugly, staring eyes have that 
 " same glare as when you were accustomed to see him, 
 "only more so. The high cheek-bones-are more promi- 
 "nent than ever, for the swarthy cheeks have fallen in. 
 "The forehead is wrinkled and Jpiotty, and the great 
 " shaggy eyebrows look savage as a bear. His mouth 
 "is more ugly than ever, and his few remaining teeth 
 " have that yellowish-black appearance which is usually 
 "produced by long acquaintance with a filthy tobacco- 
 "pipe. His whole physiognomy has that same ugly, 
 " pharisaical look as of yore, only it has increased with 
 " age. His temper and disposition have been growing 
 " worse and worse, from year to year, ever since you left 
 "home. His prayers have so increased in length, that 
 " they give you the best idea of an eternity of punish- 
 " ment of anything you can possibly have. He is still 
 " considered a burning and shining light in the church ; 
 " th.it is, by some people. He frets, and scolds, and prays, 
 " and talks of God and eternity, more and more. At 
 " every religious meeting you are sure to find him ; and 
 " who, among all the saints, can sing so loud, talk so elo- 
 
236 ^ DEATH OF MY MOTHER. 
 
 " quently of Christian duty, or pray so long? He ir 
 11 shocked at all kinds of amusements. A ball-room he 
 11 considers a hell upon earth; and to play a simple game 
 "of whist, a sin almost unpardonable. He believes in 
 " the salvation of but a few ; the rest are to be eternally 
 "wretched. I have heard him say that he had no hope 
 "of his former wife, and was doubtful in relation to little 
 "Katy; he was fearful they were forever lost! 
 " In fact, he is a perfect enigma to me ; for he appears to 
 " be sincere. 
 
 "You will think the above remarks entirely out of 
 " place, commencing, as I did, with an account of the ill- 
 * ' ness of mother. But he now treats her so shamefully 
 " that I could not help bringing him before yOu. He 
 "has no little children now to abuse arid trample upon, 
 " and so he heaps all his abuse upon his wife. He tells 
 "her that she is not that pious, devoted woman he sup- 
 " posed her to be when he married her; she has been 
 " worldly-minded, caring more for the things of earth 
 "than for things of the kingdom. He taunts her con- 
 "tinually about her children, whom he calls devils, chil- 
 " dren for the fire. So fiercely does he look, at times, 
 " that he frightens her ; and I should not wonder if she 
 " fancied him to be the arch-fiend himself. 
 
 " It is hard to endure these things ; but what can I do ? 
 " The world's people have no more faith in- him now than 
 " have you or I; but the church sustains him. I prophesy 
 
DEATH OF MY MOTHER.W' 237 
 
 " that it will not, much longer. I suppose that he has 
 " been a hypocrite so many years, it has become a second 
 " nature with him. He is terribly mean' and miserly, and 
 " sometimes I think that his soul is so small he need 
 "not trouble himself as to its fate. He will yet become 
 " a vile, sordid miser, or I am no prophet. 
 
 " Jane would have been married, ere this, but she felt 
 " it her duty to remain with mother. I am glad she has 
 " done so, for mother is better taken care of than she 
 " could have been had she left. Do not delay your com- 
 " ing many days, or it may be too late. Spring is with us 
 "once more, and the showers and sunshine have covered 
 "the earth with verdure, young, fresh, and 'beautiful. 
 " Alas ! fhat when nature is awakening to newness of life, 
 " death should be so near ! THOMAS EATON." 
 
 It was now May, and my engagement had nearly 
 expired. In the mean time I arranged everything for a 
 speedy departure to my long-forsaken home, a home 
 which still had attractions, for all my brothers arid sisters 
 were there, and I had notffbrgotten that it was once the 
 home of my father and my darling Herbert^ and that there 
 they both died, breathing out the most' faithful love for, 
 me. I was going to see my mother, from whom I had 
 long been separated, and for whom I had no filial affec 
 tion ; for but little parental love had she ever manifested 
 for me. My feelings towards her were more akin to hate 
 
238 DEATH OF MY MOTHER. 
 
 than love. But she was on her death-bed now, and it 
 was my duty to see her once more, and bid her spirit 
 depart in "peace. 
 
 When I came in view of my boyhood's home, a thou 
 sand thoughts rushed upon my mind, some pleasing, but 
 more sad and unhappy. I was delighted to behold again 
 those old familiar scenes. There was the old dwelling- 
 htfuse, surrounded with beautiful trees, many of which had 
 grown quite large in my absence ; they were now about 
 clothing themselves with a coat of young and tender 
 leaves, and they looked so beautiful, so inviting, that it 
 was hard to think that in that building which they over 
 shadowed like the wings of a guardian angel was^ so 
 much wrong and suffering. Wi 3' beautiful liftes were 
 brought forcibly to my mind : 
 
 .*' How strikingly the course of nature tells, 
 By its light heed of human suffering, 
 That it was fashioned for a happier world ! " 
 
 The fields all around were brightening with the upspring- 
 ing verdure, and the hills and woods were glad in the 
 smiling sunlight. The earth was beautiful, and the 
 heavens glorious. The sunbeams looked golden on hill 
 and vale and waving forest tree ; the air was soft and 
 warm, and the birds sang in the trees or carolled 
 on the wing, as they flew from bower to bower, from 
 green hills to greener valleys. " And can it be," thought 
 I, "that in the very midst of this loveliness, harmony 
 
DEATH OF MT MOTHER^ - 239 
 
 and beauty, there is sickness and pain, that the one 
 who gave ine birth is nigh, unto the gates of death ? 
 Alas ! it is so. And here, amid this rural scenery, this 
 God-created harmony, this heart-uplifting and soul- 
 inspiring beauty, have lived, from year to year, those 
 created eufcjktle lower than the angels,' and yet foul, 
 dark things in the midst of purity and light, serpents 
 in Paradise, devils in heaven ! Professrag much godli 
 ness, but destitute of love, charity and kindness ; praying 
 often, but never worshipping in spirit and in truth. In 
 the midst of beauty the most ravishing^rfB elightfui, 
 deformed and offonsive.^^lHOU^^gfl , but 
 
 beam, whispered bjl Ineaf, 
 
 breathing from every^ oird- 
 
 note, and smiling from ev<'iy star. 1 -them 
 
 hearts filled with hatred and bittenBP ^Breir thirsty 
 souls never opce drinking in a refreshing draught from 
 this ocean of light and life ! " 
 
 I gazed long and thoughtfully down the road that led 
 to the school-house, which I had often travelled in my 
 younger days, my bitter life refreshed by thoughts which 
 cheered my heart, as though they had been whispered by 
 angels. I could see, far away, a gleam or, two of the dark 
 waters of my favorite stream, where*! had watched the 
 beautjfully-tinted fish, and where my good spirit led mo 
 in my dream. The cattle fed in the pastures near by, as 
 
240 ^DEATH OF MY MOTHER. 
 
 of yore, and the sheep were cropping the grass on the 
 ^ide of a distant hill. How glad I was to feast my eyes 
 upon these old familiar scenes ! I performed the last part 
 of my journey in an open wagon, that I might the better 
 enjoy the scenery through which I should pass. At my 
 request, when approaching my boyhood's J^me, I was 
 driven very slowly ; and hence had time for "observation, 
 thought and rdCection. 
 
 I was met at the door by sister Jane, who expressed 
 
 great thankfulness that I had come in season. As I 
 
 cntereds jjjttwthe deacon, looking darker and more repug- 
 
 M^euJuMy^fore. He was sitting in 
 
 ling his detestable 
 
 HacH IRie arose, and, with 
 
 a look ^i MPiibrings you here?" 
 
 RRnenrst glance. I did not sup- 
 posenc would Know me. A beseeching look from Jane 
 prevented my answering him. She led me to another 
 room, where I could be free from his presence. Here 
 a fire was kindled, and here I soon had the pleasure of 
 seeing my brothers and other sisters; and here, in 
 spite of the deacon's grumbling, we took our meals, 
 undisturbed by him, or any of the hateful tribe. 
 
 In the afternoon I was told that mother would see me. 
 I entered the roonf, and was surprised to witness the 
 change which had taken place since I last saw, her. 
 The full, red cheeks were pale and sunken ; the fierce, 
 
DEATH OF MY MOTHER. 241 
 
 dull and listless ; the red lips white as death ; 
 her hands were white and skinny, her body poor and 
 emaciated. She was but a miserable wreck of the once 
 strong and healthy woman. Her countenance gave evi 
 dence of cruel suffering. I had cherished hatred for my 
 own mother, and so^pbf the bitterness which had sprung 
 up in my heart when a child had lingered still But 
 when I saw her reduced so low, and read of so much 
 anguish in every lineament of her face, every vestige of 
 hate departed forever ; and > though I did not lov^ier, I 
 pitied her from the bottom of my heart, and I would not. 
 for my life, have adc 
 burdened soul, bj| 
 
 
 said, in a faint voice, 
 
 "Is this Henri Eaton?" 
 
 " It is, mother ; do you not know meT' r 
 
 u 0, yes ; I now see your father's looks very plainly. 
 Are you 'well ? " extending her feeble hand. 
 
 I took it and pressed it slightly, replying that I was 
 in very good health, and I was sorry to find her so low. 
 
 " I have not long to live," she answered ; " and I am 
 glad you have come. How you have grown ! I can see 
 more and more of your father's looks. Henri, your 
 father was a good man." 
 
 " I am very glad to hear you say so, mother." 
 
 " I did not know it when he was living ; but I know 
 21 
 
242 DEATH OF MY MOTHER. 
 
 it now. Henri, can you forgive your poor, sick ifbther 
 the wrong she did you when a child ? " 
 
 " Forgive you ? Yes, mother, with all my heart ; and 
 wherein I have done wrong, may you extend to me as 
 free a pardon ! " 
 
 " I did that long ago, Henri; flk felt that you -were 
 but litile to blame. You had your father's active tem 
 perament, and you were more passionate than was ever 
 your mother. But, had I treated you as a mother should, 
 you would have been different. Since I married Deacon 
 Webber, and especially since I have lain upon a sick bed, 
 I have had ample time to thin^^ all these things. I 
 felt that I could n B|til I had the assur 
 
 ance of ^^H? rc so passionate and 
 
 re vengeful %% Py * 1 , for fear you would 
 
 overwhelm me T loitter curses, and bring up again the 
 old scenes of agony through which we had passed. 
 Those scenes caused you much suffering then, but they 
 have caused me more since. Until within a few days, I 
 have seldom mentioned your name ; and when I expressed 
 a wish to see you, I was told that you had been sent for. 
 I was thankful, and yet I dreaded the moment when 
 mother and child would meet again. But the bitterness 
 is past, and I shall now die in peace. I find that you 
 are as ready to forgive as you are to hate; and it is well 
 for you that you are. Cherish this spirit of forgiveness, 
 
DEATH OF MY MOTHER. 243 
 
 for it will do you good. The more I have forgiven, the 
 better I feel, and the more willing am I to die." 
 
 Here a violent fit of coughing came on. which lasted so 
 long that we were not able to resume our conversation 
 until the next day. 
 
 When I visited her again, I was happy to observe that 
 her countenance wore a less troubled expression, was more 
 calm and serene. She smiled when she saw me, and in 
 such a manner as to warm my heart ; for it seemed to me 
 to be the first real motherly smile that I had ever 
 received from her. I was glad to receive it now. 
 
 " We were talking, last night," she said, " in relation 
 to forgiving those who have injured us. I have felt the 
 necessity of pardon from the '. and 
 
 God knows that, whatever my fee J been, I as 
 
 freely forgive those who have injured me, as I 'would 
 have them forgive the wrongs I have inflicted. 
 
 " There is one, Henri, whom I greatly wronged^ and, 
 if she would freely forgive, I could die happy." 
 
 " And will she not, now that you are drawing nigh 
 to the gates of death, now that you have so brief a 
 period to spend in this world 1 " 
 
 " I do not know. But I did not realize then what a 
 terrible sin it was to counsel a cruel man to most 
 cruelly abuse a little child. Reflection and observation 
 have taught me that the injuries she received at my 
 
244 DEATH OF MY MOTHER. 
 
 hands were very great. The worst of cruelty is that 
 which is inflicted upon a child." 
 
 " To whom do you refer?" I inquired, a good deal 
 agitated. 
 
 " To the little girl who, through your aid, escaped from 
 Deacon Webber." 
 
 " And you would have her forgiveness ? " 
 
 " Yes ; for I counselled the deacon to adopt the most 
 rigorous and cruel measures, ;n order to make her obey 
 him in all things ; for, he said, she was very stubborn and 
 disobedient. I now feel that, however much she might 
 have been to blame, even if she were as wicked and 
 abandoned asth&^kacon said she was, the treatment 
 which I ml visi and unjust." 
 
 "lam'giacWP Kryou say so. But Helen Means 
 never deserved ill or harsh treatment at all ; for she was 
 always pure and good. Uncle and aunt will tell you 
 that She is an angel." 
 
 " Does she live with them ? " 
 
 " Yes, and has, ever since she left Deacon Webber." 
 
 " Strange that I have never known she was there ! " 
 
 " I supposed you did. Have neither of the children 
 mentioned her name ? " 
 
 " No, nor I to them. If she is as faultless as you 
 say, she has much to forgive; for her treatment was 
 nothing but absolute cruelty. May God forgive me for 
 being an accessory in so foul 'a crime ! " 
 
DEATH OF MY MOTHER. 245 
 
 " But you thought she was wicked and abandoned." 
 
 ''Yes, and I now see, more clearly than ever, the 
 character of the man to whom I gave my hand in mar 
 riage. 0, bitterly have I repented that fatal step ! Do 
 you think Helen Means would forgive me, when I so 
 have wronged her?" 
 
 " Forgive ! Yes, and fall upon your neck and mingle 
 her tears of sympathy with your tears of suffering. But 
 she has nothing to forgive now." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " She forgave you at the time, and chided me for the 
 hafsh epithets which I freely applied to you. She for 
 gave all her enemies, even Deacon Webber." 
 
 " She must have been a beautiful chile I thought 
 you very wicked then, in aiding her escape ; but I 
 now see that you acted right, and God will reward 
 you." 
 
 " I have already received my re ward; it came in the 
 deed. So happy was I that she had escaped and found a 
 safe asylum, that I could have suffered anything without 
 a. murmur." 
 
 " Happy are those who do good as they have oppor 
 tunity ; for they have joy which the mere pleasure-seeker 
 can never know. My character may have seemed strange 
 to you, Henri, and it would be strange if it had not. 
 Take down the bead bag, that hangs by the window, and 
 21* 
 
246 DEATH OF MY MOTHER. 
 
 in it you will find a key. which will unlock the little 
 drawer in the secretary. In that drawer is a sealed pack 
 age, which I intrust to you, the seal not to be broken 
 until I am in my grave. When the cold earth lies above 
 me; then read it, and think as well of your mother as you 
 can. I hope it may soften the feelings which your treat 
 ment in childhood must have caused. Now leave me ; for 
 I am very weary, and fain would rest." 
 
 My mother lingered but a few days more, and then fell 
 into the peaceful slumber of death. So kind, so gentle 
 was she to me in her last hours, that I wept long when 
 she died. I felt that I had lost my mother. She had so 
 changed, during the last year, that the other children were 
 deeply afflicted. We wept together, happy that we could 
 feel to weep. 
 
 Uncle and Aunt Eaton and Mrs. Stewart came to my 
 mother's funeral ; but they did not bring Helen, as I 
 desired. They said she was well, but chose not to come, 
 and they did not urge her. 
 
 We now made the best arrangements we could for the 
 deacon to leave, and his family. Happy were we to see 
 the house freed from the presence of those we detested. 
 They returned to the old place, and Hezekiah soon after 
 built a house near by. Mrs. Stewart, at our urgent 
 solicitation, consented once more to take up her abode 
 with us. This arrangement was highly gratifying to us 
 all : for we loved Mrs. Stewart when children, and we 
 
DEATH OF MY MOTHER. 247 
 
 felt that, as long as she remained with us, we should not 
 be destitute of a mother. She was as much gratified 
 as were we, although she said. that her stay with my uncle 
 had been the happiest part of her life, excepting when she 
 lived with Ijer husband and child. My uncle and aunt, 
 she said, were like a good brother and sister to her ; and 
 as for Helen, the dear child had been more than a daugh 
 ter. And yet, she was glad to come back to us; for 
 it was returning to old friends and to old scenes. 
 " This," said she, "is, after all, my home." 
 
 It was well for us that she came ; for, if she had not 
 been with us, I fear we should have made sad work of it. 
 There would not have been so much union and peace. 
 "We were all quick-tempered and passionate, with the 
 exception of Jane ; and all but myseffhad lived years with 
 those who would spoil the dispositions of angels. It was 
 no marvel that they had so little government over them 
 selves, after so fatal a training. To my surprise, Mrs. 
 Stewart made me a right-hand man as a peacemaker. I 
 knew that I was unfit for the office ; and that my place 
 should be as a pupil, rather than a teacher. But under 
 her instructions I succeeded admirably. I should have 
 been ashamed to have allowed my passions to triumph 
 over my reason, under such circumstances. I was well 
 aware that more ought to be expected of me than of my 
 brothers and sisters ; for I had been free for some time 
 from the contamination of discord a&d evil examples. But 
 
248 DEATH OF MY MOTHER. 
 
 I soon vacated the office ; and, in due season, the reader 
 will learn the reason why. When everything had been 
 satisfactorily arranged, I determined to visit my uncle's, 
 for I was impatient to see Helen. I now recollected that 
 I had not opened the package which mother had placed in 
 my care. On a warm and beautiful day, I took it and 
 wandered to an old favorite spot ; and, seating myself in 
 the shade of a button wood- tree, broke the seal and read 
 it. The reader will find the contents in the next chapter. 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE HEART UNVEILED. 
 
 " DEAU HE^RI : You may be surprised that I should 
 " address you thus, after our long disaffection and sep- 
 " aration, with no reconciliation. But I feel now, not- 
 " withstanding the unnatural feuds which have existed 
 " between us, that you are nevertheless dear to me, and 
 u so are all my children. It has not been always so ; 
 " but I now see things in a different light ; the scales 
 " are taken from my eyes, and I am no longer blind. 
 "'Time changes all things; and it is sometimes well that 
 " our thoughts, feelings and affections, undergo as great 
 " a change as those things of a more outward nature. 
 " We sometimes think we see, when we are blind; and 
 " hear, when we are deaf. We sometimes hearken to 
 " passion and hatred, when we should listen to conscience 
 " and reason. Circumstances of a varied nature cause 
 "us to assume a wrong position, to take a false step, or 
 ''choose the wrong path; and, when convinced of the 
 " error, pride or self-will forbids us to retrace our steps ; 
 "and so we rush on, shutting our eyes to the conse- 
 " quences which must follow. Injustice, disappointment, 
 
250 THE HEART UNVEILED. 
 
 " the severing of holiest ties and dearest attachments, 
 " dethrone reason, bewilder judgment, overflow the heart 
 " with grief, and make it bitter and hard. Could we 
 " look into the hearts of men, women, and children, 
 11 we should be more charitable than we are. We should 
 " then verify the old proverb, that ' truth is stranger 
 
 "than fiction.' 
 
 
 " In the printed pages of books, we read many won- 
 
 " derful and mysterious things, things that startle and 
 " astound ; but, could we read the human heart, we 
 " should find things there that were never read in books, 
 " and never can be. We read of oppression, of cruelty, 
 " of crime and terrible wrongs, in books, and in the 
 " columns of newspapers ; of scenes so horrible that tears 
 " and blood seem to start from the words which tell the 
 11 awful tale. Could we read the pages which lie folded 
 " within the human breast, the thoughts, the cruelties, 
 " the wrongs which they would reveal, those in books 
 " would be but as a spring zephyr, which plays among 
 " flowers, to the mighty tempest that goes thundering o'er 
 " the main, tossing great ships, as the light wind tosses a 
 " feather. And from the words there inscribed would, 
 11 in very truth, ooze blood and tears ! And those words 
 " would teach us many startling truths, which the wicked 
 cc and abandoned would little care if they were read of 
 " all men ; but many who occupy high stations in church 
 " and state would bleach with shame at the thought. 
 
THE HEART UNVEILED. 251 
 
 " Those pages would solve many dark enigmas, show 
 " the causes that makes us what we are. Henri, I may 
 " never see you again ; and, if I should, I could not tell 
 " you all that I may write. I will place my thoughts 
 " on paper, that when I am dead you may read and 
 " know what they are. The narrative which I leave you, 
 d, and ponder well, and judge of me as ye would be 
 
 " Since I wrote the above, I have sat some time, with 
 " my head upon my hand, looking upon the past; and, 
 " as my thoughts have wandered back, far back, tears 
 " have started from my eyes, and trickled down through 
 " my fingers. I have wandered back to the days of 
 " childhood, when I was a joyous, light-hearted child, 
 " when there seemed so many beautiful things in this 
 " weary, weary, world. How glorious then seemed the 
 " future to me ! so very, very bright; and the laughing 
 "loves stood in flower-crowned pathways, and, with their 
 " white, dimpled hands, tossed me fragrant kisses, and 
 " beckoned me to follow, as though I had just tasted of 
 " the sweets of life, and my good angels would lead me 
 " to where life is perfect : as though I had but drank of 
 " the rippling stream, and the water-spirits would guard 
 " me to the fountain. 0, how overwhelming is the 
 " thought that I should so have changed ! Terrible wag 
 ' it to find the world so full of bitterness, when I ex- 
 " pected sweets ; but more terrible still that I should 
 
252 THE HEART UNVEILED. 
 
 ''have discovered so much bitterness in my own heart. 
 " My poor brain grows wild as I look upon my former self, 
 " as she passes before the eye of the mind, and read her 
 
 ^ 
 
 " heart. How imperfect I was then ! but to what lower 
 " depths have I descended since ! 
 
 " Comparatively speaking, my youthful days were 
 " very happy, the most blessed and beautiful of my life. 
 " I was surrounded with every luxury that heart ciold 
 " wish; and my parents were usually kind, and so were 
 " my brothers and sisters. I stood in awe of no one, but 
 " my father. He was generally indulgent to me ; but 
 " his will was stern and unbending, and mine of a 
 " similar stamp, though strong as iron in the presence 
 " of others, was like wax in the fire, when it came in 
 " contact with his. He had but little control over his 
 "passions, and when any of the family opposed his 
 " wishes he would overwhelm them with a torrent of vile 
 " epithets and vituperation; and it did npt matter at all, 
 " with him, who were the witnesses of his ungentlemanly 
 " and foolish conduct. So many times had he done this, 
 " when our townsmen and friends and strangers were 
 " present, that I would have done almost anything rather 
 "than cross his wishes in the least; for I would not 
 * ' have them know that my father was so reckless, and 
 " had so little consideration for the feelings of his children. 
 " With all his other faults, my father lacked principle 
 
THE HEART UNVEILED. 253 
 
 " sadfy, and I inherited and learned of him more than 
 " was for my good. 
 
 11 The most of the time, during my childhood, I*was 
 " gay and happy ; and should have been so always, if my 
 11 father had had more respect for himself and children, 
 " and I had possessed more principle and less temper. 
 " The latter was often my bane, and a lack of the former 
 " frequently led me into difficulties. 
 
 " I was a good lover, and a good hater. I had a few 
 " friends, whom I loved intensely ; but the majority of 
 " those I frequently met with I regarded with indif- 
 " ference. But I knew the latter had the power to 
 " injure me, and that they justly regarded me as proud ; 
 " and I know not but that I feared my father's out- 
 " breaks of passion in their presence more than in the 
 "presence of my friends. It made but little difference 
 " whether the former or the latter were witnesses ; my 
 " face would ever crimson with shame. There was 
 11 another class of persons whom I despised. -hated, 
 " with as much intensity as I loved those who were near- 
 " est and dearest. I was often a favorite ; for, though 
 {: self-willed and passionate, I was considered unusually 
 " fascinating, and by many as very handsome. A lack 
 " of principle, and an ungovernable temper, were my 
 "greatest imperfections. But, with these even, I should 
 " have been a very different being, if my whole nature 
 " had not been so terribly embittered. 
 22 
 
254 THE HEART UNVEILED. 
 
 " From what I have said you will perceive thaf I was 
 " capable of forming a very strong attachment, of lov- 
 (: ifig with the deepest intensity; and that I should be 
 " very likely to form such an attachment, when I should 
 " meet with the right one, without consulting the wishes 
 " of others. 
 
 " In one thing I differed very much from my father. 
 " He thought too highly of family, and wealthy cdhnec- 
 " tions. All who were rich were worthy of considera- 
 " tion. The poor received but little notice from him, 
 " however talented or meritorious. With these false 
 " notions I had no sympathy; for I had the utmost 
 " contempt for young men of wealthy families, whose 
 " greatest merit consisted in knowing how to squander 
 " money which their parents had earned, and in uttering 
 " soft, meaningless compliments to ladies, as they were 
 11 called, who replied to their namby-pamby remarks in a 
 "similar strain, rendered more ridiculous by the super- 
 u fluous and outrageous abuse of adjectives. Some of 
 " the finest words in our language are continually on 
 "the rack; and they are compelled to associate with 
 " uncongenial company, and do and say very many silly 
 " and contemptible things. You hear of the most gor- 
 " geous wedding-cake, beautiful beef-steak, delightful 
 "doughnuts, splendid pie, elegant puddings, elegant 
 " walking, elegant water, elegant flowers, elegant hair 
 " or whiskers, elegant mouth, and elegant everything. 
 
THE HEART UNVEILED. 255 
 
 " I could not but despise such, both male and female, 
 " and their imitators ; while I respected many young men 
 " who were talented, and their minds well stored with 
 " knowledge. I cherished such feelings when I was not 
 " more than fourteen. I felt a contempt for my father's 
 11 views in relation to these things, and prided myself in 
 "differing from him. 
 
 " At sixteen, I was sent sixty miles from home, to 
 " school. I there formed an .acquaintance with a young 
 " man, which soon ripened into passionate mutual love. 
 tl He was four years older than myself, and was endeavor- 
 " ing to secure an education which would fit him for an 
 " honorable position in society. A brief description of 
 " him will suffice. About the middling height, straight 
 "and slim. His heAwas large, forehead expansive, 
 "eyes black, and glowing with intellectual beauty. When 
 " they were fixed in melting admiration upon me, I was 
 " entranced, bewildered, and I could have died feeling 
 " that their light would lift my soul to heaven ! 
 
 " He was an orphan and poor ; but what cared I? So 
 " passionate was my love, that I would have preferred a 
 " rude cottage with him, rather than a- palace without 
 "him, or with one I could not love. We were often 
 "together; and one autumn evening, when we had wan- 
 " dered far away from our companions, he told me of 
 " his love. With what rapture I listened to his passion- 
 "ate words, so glowing and truthful ! I tried to speak, 
 
256 THE HEART UNVEILED. 
 
 " but could not; my bosom heaved with intense emotion, 
 " and I fell upon his breast and burst into tears. Thus 
 " you see how ungovernable were my feelings,' whether 
 "of love or hatred. My passions were hasty and impul- 
 "sive, and sometimes entirely overpowering me; but not 
 11 always, for I could, at times, manifest the utmost indif- 
 " ference, to the dearest object on earth. I had often 
 " done it to Herbert. But, although I could, and did, 
 " manifest great coldness frequently, yet my attachments 
 "were strong, and when I had once made up my mind 
 " it was inflexible, especially at this period of my life. I 
 "might seem to yield to my stern father, but only from 
 "fear of an outbreak with him, with whom I could not 
 " well contend, and that I might escape the mortification 
 "which his ungovernable tongae^)ukl cause me, and the 
 " more surely gain my object. 
 
 " When Herbert and I were more calm, I told him 
 " that his love was returned, but I feared there was one 
 "almost insurmountable obstacle in the way of our happi- 
 "ness. He anxiously inquired what it was. I informed 
 "him that my father was proud and unyielding, and 
 " that his children must marry only those whom he ap- 
 " proved. Well knowing his character, thoughts, feelings, 
 " wishes, I was very certain that he had determined 
 " upon my marrying a man with at least a respectable 
 " fortune. 
 
 " Herbert (his name was Herbert Bending) was not 
 
THE HEART UNVEILED. 257 
 
 " discouraged by this information, but proposed to write to 
 " my father at once, asking his permission to pay his 
 " addresses to his daughter, as we were already devotedly 
 " attached to each other. This step I opposed, as it might 
 "jeopardize our happiness. I told him that he need not 
 " fear, for he alone should be my husband ; and I cared 
 "not for the wishes of my father, and should not consult 
 " them. I loved him, and that was enough for me ; and I 
 " would swear to wed only him. When I gave utterance 
 " to these sentiments, I fancied I saw a shade of disap 
 pointment upon his face. I thought he regretted to 
 " learn that I had no filial fear for my father ; and was 
 "ready any moment to disobey him, should his wishes 
 " come in contact with mine. He replied to my remarks 
 " by saying that he could not conscientiously consent to 
 "a clandestine engagement, until all other measures had 
 " failed. I was somewhat vexed to hear him say this ; 
 " for, as I was willing to sacrifice everything for his sake, 
 " I thought he should not hesitate to sacrifice what I 
 "regarded as the foolish qualms of conscience. 'No,' 
 " said he, ' I will act honorably, and so gain your father's 
 1 ' approval ; and then I will work like a hero to place 
 " myself in a situation to be worthy of you.' I was 
 "proud to see him so self-confident, although I despaired 
 " of the result. I knew my father too well. 
 
 " The letter was written and sent. He wrote truth- 
 " fully of his poverty, but also of his determined spirit 
 22* 
 

 
 258 THE HEART UNVEILED. 
 
 "and bright hopes. Byliis own unaided efforts he would 
 " hew out for himself a fortune and a name. He desired 
 "my father's approbation and good wishes; and, having 
 
 ."his daughter's love, it would be a great stimulant to 
 " action, to perseverance ; and he would never ask my 
 "hand in marriage until he had placed himself in a 
 "position that my father might well be proud of in a 
 "son-in-law. 
 
 " It was now vacation time, and we were almost con- 
 " stantly together. Sometimes we went with our school- 
 " mates (those who had not returned home) on a fishing 
 " or plumming excursion; or we visited some high hill or 
 " mountain, or passed pleasant afternoons under shady 
 " trees by a beautiful sheet of water. Our growing inti- 
 " macy was not unnoticed ; but no one chided us, or inter- 
 " fered in the least. Herbert was highly respected by 
 " all, and hence we were left unmolested. 
 
 " Those were blissful days, beautiful with sunlight, and 
 "yet not without their shadows. I was ever fearful of 
 " coming trouble, of separation from the one I loved so 
 "dearly. I had what a phrenologist would term large 
 
 ' " secret! veness ; and yet I sometimes advanced sentiments 
 "in the presence of Herbert which he seemed very much 
 " to disapprove. Whenever he detected a lack of princi 
 ple, he would look at me earnestly, as if half doubting 
 " whether I had expressed my real views. If he came to 
 " the conclusion that I had, he would look troubled and 
 
THE HEART UNVEILED. 259 
 
 <( disconcerted, and then suddenly brignten urj, as though 
 " he hoped, in time, to destroy the hateful weed, root 
 " and branch. 0, how much I loved him ! So well, 
 " that every glance he gave me, every expression, every 
 11 change of countenance, are daguerreotyped on my poor 
 " bleeding heart to-day, and they will go with me to my 
 " grave. And shall I see him in a better world ? Alas ! 
 " if I should, what will he think of me 1 Can he look 
 "down low enough to see me? Can I look up high 
 " enough to see him ? In whatever light he may regard 
 " me, whatever may be his thoughts, I wish to see his 
 " beautiful face once more. I would pray for that, even 
 " were he an angel and I a damned spirit. 
 
 "About two weeks after Herbert had written, I was 
 " surprised, one afternoon, to see my father drive up to 
 11 my boarding-house. He met me with a grave and 
 "severe air; and, after we had entered my room, he 
 " bade me get ready to start for home immediately. 
 
 "'Why leave for home so suddenly?' I inquired; 
 " ' are any of the family sick ? ' 
 
 " ' Yes, sick of your conduct. A pretty miss you are, 
 "truly! I sent you here for an education, that when 
 " you were old enough you might not disgrace the gen- 
 " tleman whom I have chosen for your huroand ; but 
 " you are no sooner out of my sight than you are in love 
 " with the first miserable puppy who fawns upon you, 
 " and licks your hand ! Shame on you, Mary ! I hoped 
 
260 THE HEAET UNVEILED. 
 
 "better things of you. Never let it be said again that 
 "you are like your father. If you do not know your 
 ." place better than this, I will keep you under lock and 
 " key until you learn ; do you hear ? But get ready, 
 "girl, for I am in haste; you would have seen me 
 " ere this, if I had been at home when the churl's letter 
 " came.' 
 
 " With a bitter and rebellious heart, I packed my 
 " clothes and books for a speedy departure. When I 
 " was ready I went into the drawing-room, to say good- 
 "by to the family with whom I boarded, and my school 
 -mates who boarded with me. My father called for pen 
 "and ink, and they were immediately placed upon the 
 " table. It is said to be unmannerly to whisper in the 
 "presence of company; my father would never do it; 
 " but he would speak in a tone of voice that no one pres- 
 " ent could understand, excepting the person or persons 
 ' ' to whom he addressed his remarks. I had learned to 
 " converse in the same manner before leaving home. 
 " After I had spent a few minutes in conversation with 
 " the different members of the family, my father, who 
 " was sitting on the opposite side of the room, watching 
 " me closely, beckoned me to a seat by his side. He 
 "held ilitiis hand a. sheet of paper, folded like a letter. 
 " He showed me the back of it ; it was addressed to 
 " Herbert. 
 
 " ' What is that ? ' said I 
 
THE HEART UNVEILED. 261 
 
 " ' A'-letter of dismissal,' he said ; ' and you must put 
 " your name to it.' 
 
 " ' Must put my name to it? ' 
 
 " ' Yes, must. It is time this love-foolery was ended.' 
 
 " ' Let me read it first.' 
 
 " ' Do as I command you, and go to that table and 
 " sign your name ; do you hear ? ' And he gave me a 
 " look so dark and threatening, that I trembled lest he 
 " should give vent to his pent-up wrath in the presence 
 " of my friends, who were all strangers to him. 
 
 " ' Do let me read it,' I said, faintly. 
 
 11 'I swear you shall not! I know what's proper to 
 " be written ; and I am in haste, and will not dally 
 " longer.' 
 
 " 'I beg of you to let me know what it contains ! ' 
 " His face was now growing black with suppressed rage, 
 "and his eyes seemed to burn like hot coals. He knew 
 " his power, and my weakness, but too well ; and, with 
 " the fore-finger of his right hand pointing to me in a 
 "most threatening manner, he said, ' Will you sign 
 " it? 1 
 
 " I now well knew that all the bitterness of his heart 
 11 would be poured upon me in one moment more, if I 
 " longer refused to obey. I took my eyes from his, and 
 { ' looked to see if those who were in the room were 
 " noticing us ; they were all gazing upon us, with sur- 
 
262 f THE HEART UNVEILED. 
 
 " prise and curiosity depicted upon their countenances. 
 "I did not hesitate longer, but went to the table and 
 " wrote my name, and handed the letter back to my 
 " father. If I had been alone with him, I would not 
 " have done it ; but, as it was, I had not the courage to 
 " do otherwise ; would to God that I had !" We started 
 " for home soon after, and I had not seen Herbert, nor 
 " exchanged a word with one of my intimate friends. 
 " On our journey home my father reproached me in the 
 "most cruel and heartless manner, and told me that I 
 " had sent a letter to my lover that would settle the 
 " matter, and there would be no further trouble. When 
 11 he said this I looked him in the face, and saw the 
 " evidence of such diabolical cunning, that I grew sick 
 " and faint, and should have swooned if I had not made 
 "strong efforts to save myself. After a few minutes' 
 11 reflection, I consoled myself with the thought that I 
 "should write % so soon that my imprudence would not 
 " result in any permanent injury. 
 
 " We arrived home the next day, and I immediately 
 " penned a brief note to Herbert. He never received it ; 
 " and, I doubt not, it was intercepted by my father. 
 " I never asked him, but I am well aware that he was 
 " wicked enough to do it. God forgive him the fatal 
 1 ' wrong, and may all who hear my sad story take warn- 
 "ing! Let parents beware how they trifle with the 
 " holiest affections of the human heart. I did not feel to 
 
THE HEART UNVEILED. 263 
 
 
 
 1 forgive my father while he lived, nor for many years 
 " after he died; but now my feelings are changed, and I 
 1 'freely pardon him, as I hope for mercy from God, and 
 " forgiveness, ere I die, from all those whom I have 
 "injured. 
 
 " I requested Herbert to write as soon as he received 
 "my note; but day after day passed away, and I was 
 "kept in suspense, and terrible suffering. 
 
 1 ' I had been at home some two weeks, when a letter 
 "was brought to me by my sister Ellen; its seal was 
 "black. I went to my room, and, with feelings which 
 "can be better conceived of than told, I examined the 
 " superscription, to learn from whom it came. A glance 
 " satisfied me that it was from my dearest friend and 
 " companion at school, Amanda Wingate. With my 
 " breath suppressed, the pulsations of my beart stilled, 
 " with fearful dread and terrible forebodings, I broke 
 "the seal, and read but one dreadful sentence, in which 
 " all the letters seemed darts of fire, leaping to fasten 
 " themselves in my heart. / Herbert is dead ! ' I could 
 "read no more; my brain reeled, my head swam, my 
 " eyes grew dim, end I shrieked in terrible agony, and 
 " fell heavily to the floor. 
 
 " When I came out of my fainting-fit, my mother and 
 " sisters were standing over me, with anxiety and alarm 
 " depicted upon their countenances. I was carried to 
 " my bed, when I soon recovered perfect consciousness. 
 
264 THE HEART UNVEILED. 
 
 " What a horrid calamity,' I thought, { had befallen 
 
 I 'me.' But the reality proved a thousand times greater 
 " than I could have imagined it. I loved Herbert so 
 
 II well, that under his gentle and loving influence I 
 " should have learned the value of principle, and for his 
 " sake loved truth,- and by and by have loved it for its 
 " own sake, and so have escaped the awful doom which, 
 " since I lost him, has been mine. Words are utterly 
 " inadequate to describe the cruel anguish that wrung my 
 " heart, as I lay upon my bed, bathing my pillow with 
 ''tears. What was the world to me now? What were 
 " friends, home, pleasures, life? How earnestly I prayed 
 " for death to come and deliver me from my woes ! 
 
 " As soon as I could gain courage I read the re- 
 " mainder of the letter, which only served to add poig- 
 " nancy to my already intense sufferings ; you will not 
 " be surprised that it should have had that effect. 
 
 " DEAR MARY : Herbert is dead and buried ; he died night before 
 " last, and was buried to-day, at three o'clock. 0, Mary ! how 
 " could you write that terrible letter? Were you mad? I cannot 
 " realize it, it is so like a dark and troubled dream. I thought you 
 ** passionately loved him ; but when I read tfyat fatal letter, I was 
 " bewildered. When Herbert read it, he could scarcely believe his 
 " own eyes ; but there it was before him, and why should he doubt ? 
 " Would to God he had doubted ! That night, he told me, before he 
 " died, was one of fearful agony, in which passion, anger, grief, 
 * hatred, revenge, despair, jealousy, made him their sport, as devils 
 " may be supposed to sport with the spirits of the damned ! In the 
 " morning, so terribly had he changed, that a physician was sent for, 
 
THE HEART UNVEILED. 265 
 
 
 
 "and when he came he said the attack had been so sudden, and the 
 " progress of the disease so rapid, there was but little hope of his 
 " recovery. * * * * 
 
 " In his delirium he called wildly for you, and then reproached 
 " you for your cruelty. I conversed with him in his lucid moments, 
 " but he would talk only of you. He commissioned me to give you 
 "his full and free pardon for the injury" you had done him. 0, 
 ** Mary ! how wildly he loved you, and what a heart you have 
 " lost ! * * * * 
 
 " Did I weep when I read this? No. for I could not 
 " weep. Had tears fallen, they should have been tears 
 " of fire, like those which burnt into my breast, or tears 
 " of blood, such as were falling from my heart ! 
 
 "You have suffered, and suffered bitterly, Henri, I 
 "well know; but you have never known the anguish I 
 " experienced then, and you never can know it. AYith 
 % " few exceptions, man never loves with such fearful in- 
 " tensity as woman ; Herbert was an exception, and that 
 " was one reason why I loved him so well. 
 
 " I wrote to Amanda, to send me the letter ; she 
 " complied without delay. You may judge of my sur- 
 " prise when I found that the writing seemed like my 
 " own ; so much so, that those best acquainted with my 
 "hand would have been deceived. I read the super- 
 " scription when my father held the letter in his hand ; 
 " but I was so much agitated that I did not notice the 
 " character of the writing. I knew at a glance that my 
 "sister Ellen had written it; we had, for a number of 
 23 
 
266 THE HEART UNVEILED. 
 
 
 
 " years, been taught by the same master ; and, observ- 
 " ing how much our hands were alike, we wrote after 
 11 the same copies, until no one but ourselves could detect 
 " the difference. We frequently wrote articles to puzzle 
 " our friends, and had many a hearty lauglj at the mis- 
 " takes they made, when they decided, after a close 
 " scrutiny, which of us was the writer. Alas ! I did 
 " not dream, then, that this innocent deception, which 
 "' served so well for a pleasant pastime, should rob me 
 " of what I held most dear, and be the bane of my life ! 
 " When at school, Ellen and I often wrote in each other's 
 " books, and our teacher did not detect us. She had 
 "written the lefter to Herbert, and I had signed my 
 " name to it. When I subsequently questioned her 
 " about it, she said that my father brought it to her, 
 " and bade her copy it, which she had done, not 
 " knowing who Herbert Bending was, nor what was 
 " the object of the letter ; she thought it a very strange 
 tl affair, but she asked no questions, and did as father 
 "bade her. But you will wish to see the letter; I want 
 " you to see it. Read it, Henri, read it ; and then 
 " marvel, if you can, that it drove me mad ! 
 
 *' SIR : As I am about to return home with my father, it is time 
 " that the farce should end. You have professed to love me, and no 
 *' doubt you do ; but you must have been a weak thing to suppose 
 " that I loved you. Don't call me hard-hearted, now ; for when a 
 " young man, who is little better than a beggar, presumes to love a 
 " gentleman's daughter, it is right that she should teach the puppy 
 
THE HEART UNVEILED. 267 
 
 " his place. You remember the proverb, Bought wit is very good, 
 '* if you do not buy it too dear.' You have paid for what you have 
 " bought, in love ; bah ! so the debt is fully cancelled, and you may 
 '* consider yourself free. 
 
 ** Do you marvel that I could have manifested so much love, and 
 "possessed none, but, instead thereof, contempt? You are older 
 " than I, but, sir, you have less experience. I have seen men, and 
 ** women too, make love in the drama, and the objects to whom they v 
 "offered their adoration they despised. And yet, how -well they 
 " loved, how ardently, passionately ! ' The wise see through it all ; 
 "the/oo/s weep ! My dear sir, to which party do you belong? I 
 " hope not to the latter ! 0, did I not play well the part of the silly, 
 '* love-sick maid ? And you, sir, acted admirably ! From my heart 
 '* I wish you had been wiser ; but you are wiser than you were, or 
 " you will be when you get this. 0, the blissful moments ! Will 
 '* they never return again ? Alas ! my charming Herbert, I fear 
 " they never will. I know you will feel badly, but it cannot be 
 " helped. My husband is already chosen ; and, knowing my true 
 " position in the world, I have not chosen a low churl ! 
 
 " Good-by, sir, and remember to profit by the lesson I have taught 
 " you ! MARY J. FLANDERS. 
 
 " This was the parting adieu to the one I loved better 
 " than life. How I cursed myself for my fatal impru- 
 " dence ! but I did not dream, then, that my father could 
 11 do so foul a thing. The terrible thought now oame 
 " heavy and crushing upon me, that I was Herbert's 
 " murderer ! 0, horror ! I was the assassin of him 
 " whom I loved with a devotion that words cannot ex- 
 " press. The thought palsied my brain, drove the blood 
 " back upon my heart, and made me mad ! My mouth 
 
268 THE HEAET UNVEILED. 
 
 " was parched with burning heat, my eyes seemed fire, 
 "and a tongue of flame was lapping the blood of the 
 " murdered affections ! 
 
 -"'Why was I ever born?' I cried; '0, cursed, 
 " thrice cursed be the hour ! Happiness, peace, joy, 
 " light, farewell ! Go, spirits of beauty, that have min- 
 " istered to me so long ! go, I need you not now ! Grief, 
 " sorrow, remorse, agony, ye shall be my guardian 
 " angels ! Darkness, your great wings, which are as 
 " wide as the universe, they shall shelter me ! Love ! 
 " get ye hence, and never approach me again ! Hatred, 
 " bitterness, revenge, come to me, and ye shall be my 
 "servants, my lo.ving, faithful, obedient servants! 
 " Father, I hate ye ! I hate ye as damned spirits hate 
 "devils! 0, I could see you suffer agony a thousand- 
 " fold greater and more horrid than mine, and laugh, 
 "ay, laugh with joy, wild and unutterable joy ! Sister, 
 "as ye have joined in this plot against me, which has 
 "made shipwreck of all my hopes, leaving life a dark 
 " and troubled sea, without one gleam of light, without 
 " one star to shine upon me, I detest you ! Mother ! 
 " that name once dear ! if ye were in the plot, I 
 " repel you from my presence, as I would a poisonous 
 " reptile ! ' 
 
 " Thus I raved in my agony, until my voice grew so 
 " loud and wild that my mother and sisters rushed to 
 " my room with affright. Their presence called me to 
 
THE HEART UNVEILED. 269 
 
 " myself; my looks were such that they regarded me 
 " with astonishment. When they asked what ailed me, 
 "I pointed them to the letter; it was a relief to learn 
 " that they were not guilty. 
 
 " I have said that this letter drove me mad, and' it was 
 " true ; not that I became a maniac, but I was fearfully 
 " changed. There was ever a strange feeling in my head 
 "and heart, and I was often tempted to put an end to 
 " my miserable existence. I was closely watched, lest I 
 " should do so. My father's presence was agony to me ; 
 "but where could I go to escape it? I could neither 
 " read, write nor study, nor find consolation in society. 
 " Some of the time I was excessively stupid, and again 
 " my brain was intensely active. I then realized, for the 
 "first time, although I did not profit by it, how much 
 " evil a lack of principle may cause, and how much it 
 " had wrought out for me. If I had been as faithful to 
 " truth and right as Herbert ever was, he never would 
 "have believed, for an instant, that that most fiendish 
 " letter came from my brain or heart. I had witnessed 
 " so much of his devotedness to principle, that, had I 
 " received a thousand letters under similar circum- 
 " stances, I could not have believed that they were really 
 " from him. Alas ! he had witnessed so much deception 
 " in me, that it was not strange he believed me capable 
 " of such atrocious conduct. 
 
 1 { He once caught me in a falsehood ; and many times 
 23* 
 
270 THE HEART UNVEILED. 
 
 11 have I thought how painful was the expression that 
 " lingered upon his manly face. I doubt not but that 
 "iiis declaration of love was delayed, through fear that 
 "his happiness would not be safe in my hands. I won- 
 " der*not that he should have had such thoughts. And 
 " there were times though it gives me pain, even now, 
 " to think of them when I took delight in tormenting 
 " him ; and I indulged in them the more, because I 
 " knew that he was deyotedly attached to me. At par- 
 " ties I slighted him, and received marked attentions 
 " from others, when I knew that it caused deep agony in 
 " his heart. But, even then, I loved him better than life. 
 " After his declaration of love I was more careful ; but 
 " I inflicted slight wounds after that, for no other pur- 
 11 pose than to gratify my evil propensities, and to make 
 " him feel my power. I knew that he madly loved me ; 
 " therefore I was not so fearful of losing him as I should 
 " otherwise have been. I doubt not he thought of all 
 cc these things when he read that fatal note. My own 
 " wickedness had caused him to believe a lie, and 
 " destroyed his life and my happiness. 
 
 " Never was the nature of a human being more in- 
 " tensely embittered than was mine by this fatal blow. God 
 " knows that I should have been bad enough, at best, bat 
 " not so wicked as I have been. Under the influence of 
 < Herbert, which was every day increasing in strength, my 
 " impassioned being would have had its energies directed 
 
THE HEART UNVEILED. 271 
 
 " in a different channel, and I should have been a bless- 
 " ing to myself and to others. But, through the atrociouf 
 " baseness of my father, and my own lack of truth, Per- 
 " bert's life was destroyed, and I was left in &rm a 
 i: woman, but in heart a devil ! Every day was spent 
 " in misery, and in sharpening all my senses, that I might 
 " have greater hatred in my heart than I ever could have 
 ' had of love. 
 
 " At last, I was introduced to your father, and told 
 " that he was the man selected for my husband. Under 
 " other circumstances, it is possible that I might have loved 
 " him, though I do not think that we were ever adapted 
 " to each other; but, at least, I could have treated him as 
 1 ' a woman should an honorable man who sues for her 
 ." hand ; but now my first impulse was to reject him, with 
 " scorn. The second thought, that he was the cause of 
 " all my misery, and I would marry him to make him 
 " unhappy. I gave him my hand, while hatred was in 
 " my heart. The result was what I prayed for; he was 
 " wretched, and my father was ashamed of me. When 
 " children were born, I should have loved not only them, 
 " but their father; bat I fancied he had wrought me a 
 " great wrong, and I could not forgive or love. You, 
 " Henri, resembled him most, and the consequence was 
 " I loved you least If I had studied your father's 
 " heart, I should have dearly loved all the children, and 
 " treated him well ; but I did not know it then. I know 
 
272 THE HEART UNVEILED. 
 
 " that I was not in my right mind, or I should not have 
 "been so blind. I supposed he had bargained for me, 
 * as one would bargain for a horse ; and the thought made 
 " me detest him. 
 
 " After he died, I became alarmed, at a protracted 
 11 meeting, as it was called, for my soul's salvation. I 
 ' c supposed your father was lost, and I had no desire to 
 " follow him. Your father believed differently from mo^j 
 li men, and this I thought enaugh to prove his eternal 
 " ruin. He thought that all souls would finally be puri- 
 " fied. That they would suffer here for sin, and suffer 
 ( ' hereafter, but ultimately be" redeemed. 
 
 " Deacon Webber, hearing that I was anxious for my 
 " eternal welfare, called upon me often ; and, instead of 
 " sitting at Jesus' feet, and learning of him, I learned of 
 " Deacon Webber. and you know what a holy woman it 
 " nmde me. After his wife died, he offered his hand in 
 "marriage, saying that it might prove the salvation of 
 " the whole family, who were living without hope and with- 
 " out God in the world. I did not believe that my chil- 
 l ' dren would be benefited ; but Deacon Webber was 
 {J highly honored in the church, and I was about to join 
 : it, and, should I become his wife, I should receive 
 ' marked attention. In spite of the remonstrances of my 
 " children, and to my shame and sorrow, I married him. 
 " I have found him to be a cruel, vile, lascivious, sordid 
 " hypocrite ! I now shudder when I am called Mrs. Web- 
 
THE HEART UNVEILED. 273 
 
 " ber ; but I will not complain, for it is meet that I 
 " should suffer for the wrong which your father received 
 " at my hands. 
 
 " A year ago, I was looking over some things that 
 " were your father's, and I found his diary. I did not 
 " know that he kept one. Curiosity prompted me to 
 " read it. I had not gone through many pages before I 
 " blistered them with my tears. I learned that the man 
 li I had so fearfully injured was a good man, and in 
 " marrying me had acted from the purest motives. He 
 " loved me when he first saw me, and my father had told 
 " him that his love was returned. He waited until I was 
 " eighteen, and offered himself in marriage, -and was 
 " accepted, not doubting but that he had my love. In 
 " one of the library drawers you will find th journal. 
 " Read it. and you will learn how wretched was his 
 " married life. My heart bleeds when I think of 
 " it. Many of the pages are stained with the tears 
 " which dropped upon them while he penned his bur- 
 " dened thoughts. 
 
 " The perusal of those pages caused me renewed suf- 
 " fering, but they did me good. They softened and 
 " purified my hard and blackened heart. They dissi- 
 " pated the mists of error, and. of madness ! Things 
 " appeared, 0, so different ! But, before I found the 
 "journal of your father I had been made to see the 
 " fearful enormities of my life, and I felt deeply sorrow- 
 
274 THE HEART UNVEILED. 
 
 " fill for .my many sins. A sick bed had not been in 
 " vain, neither had the cruel treatment of Beacon Web- 
 " her. I often contrasted his life with that of your 
 "father; and thought how kind the latter would have 
 " been to me, if I had manifested as much regard for him 
 " as I had for the former. The thought of the abuse I 
 " had heaped upon him, the injustice with which I had 
 "treated you, and that poor little girl, Helen Means, 
 " made me very unhappy ; but I felt that it was good for 
 " me that I should suffer thus, and I prayed my God 
 " that he would sanctify these sufferings to my good, and 
 " that, through them and his mercy, I might be regen- 
 " erated. 
 
 "Of all the children, I wronged you the most. The 
 " reason of this was, because you were so hot-tempered ; 
 " and because your father always took your part, and 
 " manifested, I thought, more affection for you than for 
 " the other children ; and because you so much resembled 
 " him. With my changed views and feelings, I know that 
 " I love you dearly. I fear that you despise your 
 " mother ; but still, I want to see you, more than words 
 " can tell. I have often thought of writing, but have not 
 " the courage. I dare not hope that you will ever love 
 " me ; but, when you, read this, your hatred will not 
 " be increased, and you will pity me. My sands are 
 " almost run. and I hope soon to be in a better world. 
 
THE HEART UNVEILED. 275 
 
 . 
 
 " When I am gone, love your brothers and sisters, be 
 " united and happy. Now, my dear boy, receive the 
 " parting blessing of your dying mother. In heaven I 
 " will meet you, where we shall no more hate, but always 
 " love. MARY JANE EATON." 
 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 HOPES NOT REALIZED. 
 
 I BEAD this narrative of wrong and suffering with an 
 interest the most profound. Some parts of it caused tears 
 to start from my eyes, and course rapidly down my cheeks. 
 I was not sorry that she had left me this painful history, 
 for it empowered me, after serious thought, to perceive 
 her character in its true light. As I could see all the 
 influences which had combined so powerfully to make her 
 what she was, I had more charity for her, and. I felt 
 there was more to love or compassionate, and less to 
 censure. Our friends and relatives, when they had 
 heard these confessions, and candidly weighed them in the 
 balance of reason and justice, confessed they could not 
 have come to correct conclusions without them. Their 
 opinions were changed and softened, and pity for her 
 unhappy lot was mingled with feelings of disapproval of 
 her conduct. 
 
 I am aware that the hasty reader may come to a very 
 different conclusion, and not think so well of her as he 
 
 j 
 
 did before reading her confessions ; but this would be 
 unjust. 
 
HOPES NOT REALIZED. 277 
 
 I will briefly place the whole subject, in all its essen 
 tial bearings, clearly and plainly before the reader. My 
 mother inherited from her parents a morally defective 
 organization, and her education made the matter worse. 
 She was naturally wilful and cunning, and could keep 
 her thoughts and intentions to herself; and was inclined 
 to work in secret, when she could best accomplish her 
 object. She was very passionate, and often allowed her 
 temper to triumph over her better judgment. She lacked 
 principle, and her father's example increased the evil. 
 She had an exalted opinion of herself, and esteemed too 
 lightly the opinions of others. Now, as she was not 
 lacking in benevolence, ,and had large intellectual powers, 
 a keen imagination, an intense love of the beautiful and 
 sublime, had she been educated under more favorable 
 influences, she would have been a very different being, 
 she would have been guided, usually, by the superior 
 faculties of her mind, and so her character would have 
 been almost the opposite from what it was. 
 
 Her early training was not conducive to the develop 
 ment of her better nature ; and the outrageous deception, 
 and the fearful blasting of her cherished hopes, embit 
 tered her whole being, called the lower faculties into 
 active exercise, and deadened her nobler impulses. She 
 was left in a state which may be justly considered moral 
 insanity. This view of the subject, though defective, I 
 believe to be substantially correct. Sinful propensities 
 24 
 
278 HOPES NOT REALIZED. 
 
 were inherited, transferred from parent to child, and 
 unpropitious circumstances combined to strengthen and 
 give them the control ; and, though the result is to be 
 deprecated, it could not well have been otherwise. It was 
 these, and similar considerations, which caused us all to 
 change our opinions which we had long held in relation 
 to my mother, and . view her character from a different 
 stand-point. 
 
 I found, in this matter, food for reflection, which I 
 required, and which did me good. I thought my own 
 course would have been very different, if I had known 
 my mother better, known of her sufferings, disappoint 
 ments and wrongs. Could I have seen her heart un 
 veiled, and had a clear understanding of the causes which 
 made it what it was, I should have had more charity. 
 
 I fear that we often heap reproaches upon people, and 
 treat them with insult and contempt, when, could we know 
 all, we should commiserate their unfortunate lot, and 
 strive to make them happier, rather than render them 
 more wretched. Instead of looking, with truth-seeking 
 eyes, to learn the causes of wrong-doing, we jump at con 
 clusions, and judge the offender worthy of naught but 
 stripes and death, forgetting that, had the same circum 
 stances surrounded us, we should have been as bad, and 
 perhaps worse. We show but little mercy to the crimi 
 nal, though he may be the victim of circumstances beyond 
 his control. If society, by laws, manners and customs, 
 
HOPES NOT REALIZED. +' 279 
 
 educates men for crime, we punish them none the* less 
 severely. We feel that justice should be done, " though 
 the heavens fall ; " and yet are guilty of the worst species 
 of injustice ourselves. It is so with society in general ; 
 it is so with individuals. 
 
 My mother's confessions I read to all our friends and 
 relatives, that they might view her character through the 
 clear medium of unvarnished truth. I was happy to find 
 that it changed and softened the opinions and feelings of all. 
 
 It was now the first month in summer, the month of 
 roses, bright days, sweet zephyrs and clear skies. I 
 have always loved June, very, very much. When is the 
 earth so beautiful, the air so fragrant, and the sunbeams 
 so golden and delightful ? What gorgeous robes the trees 
 put on, robes of greenest leaves and brightly-tinted 
 flowers, 
 
 " Till the whole forest stands displayed 
 In full luxuriance to the sighing gales, 
 
 the country far diffused around 
 
 One boundless blush, one white empurpled shower 
 Of mingled blossoms, where the raptured eye 
 Hurries from joy to joy, ." * 
 
 Such is June in New England, and hence it is the 
 most beautiful month in all the year. In this description 
 the latter part of May should be included. 
 
 * Thomson. 
 
280 HOPES NOT REALIZED. 
 
 
 
 More than twelve months had passed since I had parted 
 from Helen Means, leaving her in tears. Since my return, 
 a thousand things had prevented my visiting her. The 
 longer I delayed, the more impatient I grew ; for I was 
 anxious to hear from her own sweet lips that she loved 
 me. 
 
 Everything being now arranged, so that I could spend 
 as much time at my uncle's as I might desire, I set off, 
 with high hopes of speedily winning and wearing the 
 brightest gem which earth or 'heaven contained for me. 
 A few hours' ride brought me to the long-wished-for goal. 
 My feelings now became warm and excited, and I rushed 
 impetuously into the house, supposing, of course, that 
 Helen would fly to my arms, and hold me in a passion 
 ate embrace. I knew she would, if she felt as I did. 
 
 Hearing the piano, I bent my steps to the parlor, and 
 there, as I expected and desired, was Helen, alone. She 
 was playing a beautiful tune, and so absorbed in the 
 music that she did not observe me when I entered the 
 room. I stood for a moment, and gazed upon her in 
 mingled admiration and surprise. One year had changed 
 her very much. She was now a beautiful woman, with 
 her pure, elevated soul looking out of her eyes, beaming 
 from her countenance. 
 
 I thought I would approach her unobserved. She heard 
 my step, looked around and saw me ; but, instead of rush 
 ing into my arms, she arose from her seat very deliber- 
 
HOPES NOT REALIZED. 281 
 
 ately, extending me her hand, bidding me welcome home 
 again. She seemed perfectly calm, except that she 
 became paler, her lip quivered a little, and her hand 
 slightly trembled. She was paler, I noticed, as she sat 
 at the piano, than when I had last seen her, and about 
 her eyes was the sad look of her childhood. It lay there, 
 as the shadow of death lies upon the face of a lovely cherub 
 child, not marring but softening the tints of its light and 
 beauty. 
 
 " Welcome home again, Henri ! " she said ; " I am 
 very happy to see you. Your health is good, I hope." 
 
 I was not prepared for this stoical coolness, and, for 
 the first time in my life, I felt at a loss what to do or say. 
 
 " My health is very good. You look pale. Are 
 you not well ? " 
 
 " I am not so healthy as I was a year ago; but hope 
 to be, a year hence." 
 
 " Yes so do I, I mean that I hope you will 
 be well soon." 
 
 " We have beautiful weather now; it was cTelightful 
 when you left us, a year ago. But June is more beauti 
 ful than May." 
 
 " The weather is more beautiful, I think ; but I fear 
 that you we have changed too." 
 
 " Most likely. But do you mean that we have changed 
 for the better ? Was it May then with our hearts, and 
 is it June now? " 
 
 24* 
 
282 HOPES NOT REALIZED. 
 
 " I fear not, unless June is much colder than May. I 
 do not like the change ; for there is more of shadow, and 
 less of sunlight." 
 
 " We can judge more correctly when we learn what 
 effect new scenes have had upon you. New York, I am 
 told, is a bad place for a young man." 
 
 "Helen!" 
 
 " Nay, do .not be alarmed. I think you have too 
 much principle to do anything very vicious ; but we are 
 all liable to err when we are surrounded by temptations." 
 
 " Helen, how you have changed ! " 
 
 " So have you." 
 
 " But not as you have." 
 
 " I suppose not. A year changes us all ; but the 
 change in each one is not general, but individual." 
 
 "I did not mean that." 
 
 " Then you must explain, or I cannot get at your 
 meaning." 
 
 " I will do so. Your friendly regards and feelings for 
 me have' changed." 
 
 "0, no ! they never were stronger than they are at 
 this moment. And when I thought that marriage would 
 end those sweet relations which had existed between us 
 for so many years, I prayed as ardently for your happi 
 ness as I ever had done." 
 
 " But marriage can never end them." 
 
 " Circumstances have already changed them, as you 
 
HOPES NOT REALIZED. 283 
 
 well know; and at some future time marriage may 
 annihilate them." 
 
 " No, no, Helen ! I will never marry, unless I 
 marry " 
 
 " Your uncle and aunt are in the library. Come, let 
 me introduce you to them ; they will be rejoiced to see 
 you." 
 
 " Not now, Helen ; I would talk with you longer. I 
 was about to say " 
 
 "You will stay with us many weeks, I hope, and 
 there will be plenty of time for pleasant chat, come." 
 And she led the way to the library, and I could do no 
 less than follow her. 
 
 This was a reception I had not dreamed of, and it was 
 some days before I could summon sufficient courage to 
 approach again the delicate subject. After repeatedly 
 urgent requests, she consented to take a walk with me to 
 visit our old familiar haunts. It was a beautiful sum 
 mer evening, and the sun- was just sinking to his rest. 
 Not a cloud was in the sky, and everything was hushed 
 into stillness. She provokingly refused to take my arm, 
 preferring, as she said, to walk alone, being so much 
 accustomed to it. We wandered from spot to spot, where 
 we had often been before ; and, as we conversed of those 
 dear old times, reserve and coldness seemed to leave us, 
 and we were to each other what we Ittd been. She was 
 again my own Helen ; and when I took her arm and 
 
284 HOPES NOT REALIZED. 
 
 placed it within mine, she made no resistance, but 
 seemed pleased to have it there. 
 
 We walked on, until we came to the dearest spot of 
 all. It was at the foot of a green hill, where a limpid 
 stream of water flowed down its sides, arid made beautiful 
 all the valley below. Here was a very large rock, some 
 fifty feet high. It was solid granite. At its base, front 
 ing the valky, was a niche, so designed as to make a 
 convenient seat for two. It had the appearance of having 
 been formed by the hand of man. In front of this seat 
 were a number of maple-trees, a few rods apart, in the 
 form of a half-circle. The brook leaped down at one 
 side of the rock, wound around it near its base, also in 
 the form of a circle ; it then turned again, passed by the 
 trees, and formed another circle beyond them. Between 
 the rock and brook, brook and trees, and brook again, 
 was an undulating surface, covered with green grass and 
 beautiful flowers. Here the winds made music in the 
 trees ; here the stream made music as it leaped from 
 the hill and rock; here the flowers smiled, and loaded 
 the frolicsome breezes with fragrance. 
 
 I seated Helen, and took my place by her side. My 
 arm was around her as of yore, and one of her hands 
 was clasped in mine. We talked long of the good old 
 times, when we were seldom apart, and life seemed like 
 a rosy dream. J^e spoke of the time that we were 
 separated, of the events which then transpired. I made 
 
HOPES NOT REALIZED. 285 
 
 bold to speak of Irene Dinneford ; and, at Helen's re 
 quest, described her person, manners,' accomplishments, 
 mind and heart. . I gave her a brief account of our first 
 acquaintance, our succeeding interviews, my rescuing 
 her in the moment of peril, our engagement and it3 
 close. Helen listened attentively, and remarked, when I 
 had done, 
 
 " She must be a beautiful girl, Henri; and I wonder 
 how you could so readily have given her up ! " 
 
 " She did not truly love me, Helen/' I replied; "and 
 I did not love her with that devotion which is requisite 
 for one constituted as I am." 
 
 " I am surprised that you did not love her ! And she 
 is to be married soon, you say ? " 
 
 ' ' Yes, and to one who is worthy of her. They are 
 two noble spirits, and love each other with undying 
 affection." 
 
 " Their life will be happy, then. You ought to be 
 thankful that you found out, before too late, what her 
 true feelings were." 
 
 " I am thankful, Helen; but, if I had not, I do not 
 think I could have married her." 
 
 " Under the circumstances, I cannot see how it could 
 have been prevented. You were solemnly engaged to 
 her, and also engaged in partnership with her father ; 
 and the wedding-day was fixed, and close at hand. When 
 
286 HOPES NOT REALIZED. 
 
 I get entangled thus, I am very sure that it will result 
 in marriage." 
 
 " I should have found some way of escape, for I knew 
 that my whole heart was elsewhere ! " 
 
 " You mean that some one else had won it, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " If you had said that some other person had a part 
 of your heart, I could have believed you ; but, when a 
 young man voluntarily enters into an engagement with a 
 lady, and, on that account, makes business arrangements 
 which are distasteful to him, and not influenced in the 
 least by the expectation of obtaining wealth, I cannot 
 believe that any other being has all his heart." 
 
 " But you do not think that I had given it all to 
 Irene?" 
 
 " 0, no. She had a part, and somebody else a part; 
 and perhaps there was a third or fourth, to share in the 
 coveted treasure ! " 
 
 u Ysu are joking, now." 
 
 " Not by any means ; for I believe every word I have 
 said." 
 
 " Do you not think it possible for a man to love a 
 woman some cherished one very dearly, and not 
 realize it ? And could he not pledge himself to another, 
 whom he greatly admired ; and, after that, for the first 
 time become aware of the fact that the former had his 
 heart, and not the latter ? " 
 
HOPES NOT REALIZED. 287 
 
 " I can imagine such a case, but I cannot appreciate 
 that kind of love. 
 
 " And would not be thankful for its manifestation 1 " 
 
 " Certainly not, for I should wish for something 
 better." 
 
 " If one who loved you should do as I have, how could 
 he satisfy you of whole-souled, devoted love ? " 
 
 " That is a difficult question to answer." 
 
 " I should not suppose it very difficult." 
 
 " Different persons would view the matter in a different 
 light ; but shall we not return ? the evening grows 
 damp." 
 
 "It is not very damp, and it is so warm the falling 
 dew will not prove injurious. Don't let us go yet, for 
 I have not said half that I wish to." 
 
 " We can talk on our way home." 
 
 " But it is very pleasant setting here." 
 
 " Yes, and it is very pleasant rambling about, when 
 the moon shines so beautifully." 
 
 " I would rather sit" still and talk, when the subject so 
 comes home to the heart." 
 
 " And I would not, on such a night as this." 
 
 " You think, then, that one could not gain your love, 
 if he had offered himself to another ? " 
 
 "Perhaps so, and perhaps not," she said, rising from 
 her seat. " I am for having a dance with the brook. 
 
288 HOPES NOT REALIZED. 
 
 * 
 
 How softly it sings and talks ! Maybe it is making love 
 to the flowers." 
 
 " I wish it would teach me to make love." 
 
 " Perhaps it will, if you ask it to." 
 
 " What shall I say to it ?" 
 
 " Say what you please ; I cannot be your teacher." 
 
 " Will you interpret its answers ? " 
 
 0, no ! why should I ? " 
 
 " Because you are better acquainted with its language 
 than I am." 
 
 "How did you learn that fact, admitting it to be 
 one?" 
 
 " I took the privilege of a Yankee, and guessed. 
 Besides, I knew that from a child you loved all things 
 which were beautiful, and understood their language." 
 
 " I am well learned, then. But I am quite anxious to 
 hear you talk to the little sparkling drops that go leap 
 ing and dancing over the rocks. Sometimes I think 
 they clap their hands for joy." 
 
 " Your imagination is active, to-night. But I will try 
 and gratify you. ' Most beautiful water-spirits, ye who 
 coquet all day with the sunbeams, who leap down the hill 
 sides, and move gently through the valleys, who sing so 
 sweetly your evening songs, making love to the flowers, 
 forming yourselves into a mirror for the moon and stars, 
 teach me, ye bright angels, how to gain the heart of 
 the one I love ' " 
 
HOPES NOT REALIZED. 289 
 
 I was here interrupted by a loud laugh from Helen. 
 
 " That was capital," she said, " and so poetical ! The 
 water- spirits ought to feel flattered. But they will not 
 tell you ; for they would be afraid that, by the time you 
 had gained it, you would be in love with somebody else." 
 
 " You are a cruel girl ! " 
 
 " 0, no, Henri ; not a bit cruel. But hark ! the bell 
 is ringing nine ; it is time to go home." 
 
 " I would rather stay longer, but will do as you say." 
 
 On our way home we talked upon various subjects, 
 but I could not gain courage sufficient to offer her my 
 
 hand and heart. 
 
 25 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 TWICE REJECTED. 
 
 WHEN we had arrived at the house, Helen went to 
 her room, and I to the parlor; where I found uncle, 
 aunt, and a young man whom they introduced as Mr. 
 Gray. A few commonplace remarks were made, and 
 we were relapsing into silence, when Helen came in. 
 She appeared very glad to see Mr. Gray, and took a 
 seat by his side ; and they were soon absorbed in a con 
 versation carried on in an undertone that nobody 
 could understand but themselves. I sat and looked on 
 with feelings more easily imagined than described. I 
 was really jealous, and wished Mr. Gray anywhere but 
 there. It was bad enough to find Helen's feelings so 
 different from what I had expected; but to meet with a 
 rival so soon, and be obliged to endure his presence, 
 while he appropriated Helen entirely to himself, was too 
 much. I was as unhappy as I could reasonably be. 
 
 They conversed for some thirty minutes together, and 
 then we entered into a general conversation. I was 
 anxious to find him a fool, for I thought she could not 
 love a man without good sense. His remarks convinced 
 
TWICE REJECTED. 291 
 
 me that he was not a fool, and neither was he very 
 intelligent. I was certain that he was far beneath 
 Helen, and this gave me a vast deal of satisfaction. At 
 his request, Helen played and sang ; and he took the 
 liberty to stand near her, select the music and turn over 
 the leaves, with which she seemed well pleased. When 
 she relinquished her seat, my uncle desired Mr. Gray to 
 occupy it ; and he complied with the request, and played 
 very beautifully. " At least," thought I, " there is one 
 thing about him which will be attractive to Helen, his 
 love of music." 
 
 I remained until after ten o'clock ; and, as Mr. Gray 
 did not manifest any intentions of going, and fearing that 
 my room was preferable to my company, I bade them good 
 night, and went to my chamber. It was between eleven 
 and twelve when he took his departure. I was then too 
 jealous and miserable to expect to sleep, if I sought my 
 bed ; so I remained up long enough to compose the fol 
 lowing lines, which I insert, not because of their poetical 
 merit, but because they serve to show the state of my 
 mind at that time. A very little thing made me jealous, 
 and fearful that Helen had given her heart to another. 
 
 I know a glad and beautiful maiden, 
 
 Who warbles a bird-like glee ; 
 And when my heart is wearily laden, 
 
 She sings her songs to me ; 
 
292 TWICE REJECTED. 
 
 I clasp her hand her eyes meet mine, 
 Till my cheeks with tears are wet ; 
 
 I bask in smiles that seem divine, 
 And her I would forget ! 
 
 By herside I 've sat when fleeting hours 
 
 Were full of heaven to me, 
 And thought the blest in Eden's bowers 
 
 Not half so happy as we ; 
 I never knew such rapturous bliss 
 
 Till thus our souls had met, 
 I wished no greater joy than this, 
 
 And her I would forget ! 
 
 I love this glad and beautiful maiden, 
 
 Who warbles a bird-like glee, 
 And fancy I dwell in blissful Aidenn 
 
 When she sings her songs to me. 
 Her angel-face, bewitching eyes, 
 
 Have all my thoughts beset, 
 More beautiful than starry skies, 
 
 And her I would forget ! 
 
 How long I 've prayed that she might love me ! 
 
 Alas ! my prayers are vain; 
 My lot is dark, like skies above me, 
 
 That lower with storm and rain ; 
 I 've loved her as I 've loved no other, 
 
 'T is useless, sad regret, 
 She loves me not, but loves another, 
 
 And her I would forget ! 
 
 After I had finished the above, I retired ; but it was 
 nearly morning before I fell asleep, and then I dreamed 
 
TWICE REJECTED. 293 
 
 that Helen was married to Mr. Gray. I fancied that I 
 saw her standing at the altar, looking too beautiful to 
 unite her fate to a mortal. While a sweet, angelic smile 
 played upon her countenance, she gave her hand to Mr. 
 Gray, and was lost to me forever. 
 
 My agitation was so great, that I awoke, and I was so 
 happy to find it a dream ! The sun was just rising from 
 his ocean bed, as I arose and dressed myself, and sat 
 down by the open window, to let the. fresh air cool my 
 fevered brow. As I sat surveying the beautiful scene 
 which lay before me. I espied Helen returning from a 
 morning walk, in company with Mr. Gray. 
 
 Reader, you may think it a little thing ; you may 
 think that I was very silly; but the first glance of them 
 caused a pang to shoot through my heart, bitter as death. 
 My suspicions that he was her accepted lover were now 
 confirmed, and the thought was agony. "If it is so," 
 I said, " let me die, for there is no more joy for me !" 
 I tried to despise her for loving one so much her infe 
 rior, and to persuade myself that, were he her equal, I 
 could bear to see her love and marry him. When they 
 had arrived within a few rods of the house, they bade 
 each other good-morning, and he walked hastily towards 
 the village. I went down stairs, and met her at the 
 door. 
 
 "Good-morning," she said, in a sprighfly tone. 
 
 " Good- morning," I replied j " you walk early." 
 
294 TWICE REJECTED. 
 
 "I do, occasionally ; but no earlier than we used to 
 ramble, before you went to New York." 
 
 11 1 suppose your morning walks are more pleasant 
 than they were then." 
 
 " What makes you think so ? " 
 
 " Present appearances." 
 
 " They are not more pleasant, Henri ; and I don't 
 expect them to be, for they were very pleasant then." 
 
 "I am glad to hear you say so. But who is this Mr. 
 Gray, who seems to be so very attentive ? " 
 
 " Why, Mr. Gray, to be sure." 
 
 " I was aware of that fact. But where is he from ? 
 what is his business? how long have you been 
 acquainted with him ? " 
 
 u He is my music-teacher, a distant relative of Mrs. 
 Stewart's ; and came into the country from Boston, early 
 in the spring, for his health." 
 
 " And does he not hold any other relation to you than 
 that of a teacher of music 1 " 
 
 " I trust he does." 
 
 " I thought as much." 
 
 " He is my friend, Henri, and I hope he may be 
 yours." 
 
 " Your lover, you mean." 
 
 "No, not a lover." 
 
 "Bo you speak truly?" 
 
 " He has never formally proposed." 
 
TWICE EEJECTED. 295 
 
 * 
 
 " But will soon? " 
 
 " I do not know." 
 
 "What do you think?" 
 
 " I think he has no such thought or intention." 
 
 " What should you say, if he did 1 " 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "Don't know, Helen?" 
 
 11 How should I, when I do not anticipate any such 
 result ? But what foolish questions you are asking me,, 
 this morning ! I shall not answer any more." 
 
 " I think I shall go home to-day." 
 
 " So soon ? You cannot be in earnest. Why, you 
 have but just arrived. You must not go to-day. Come, 
 look more cheerful, and say that you will stay a good 
 long time." 
 
 " I cannot promise you, Helen ; but, if you wish it, I 
 will not go to-day." 
 
 " Nor to-morrow neither ? " 
 
 " Nor to-morrow." 
 
 " Now you talk like yourself. I shall not let you go 
 at present, I warrant you." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " I cannot spare you." 
 
 "I should suppose you might." 
 
 "And there you are mistaken. Why, you have been 
 absent more than a year ! " 
 
 "0, Helen, I could stay forever, if you bade me ! " 
 
296 TWICE REJECTED. 
 
 
 
 " Then I shall use my authority not to keep you for 
 ever ; for you have other friends, and it would be unjust, 
 but long enough, at least, to learn what effect New 
 York society has had upon you." 
 
 " Don't mention New York, for I hate the sound." 
 
 " Well, I will not, if you so desire. But I fear you 
 have grown irritable in your absence." 
 
 "I fear I shall." 
 
 "But I shall not allow it." 
 
 " You can prevent it." 
 
 " Can I ? Then I shall do so. But I must not stand 
 and talk with you longer now, or you will miss those 
 warm biscuits at breakfast you once liked so much." 
 
 So saying, she darted in to her work, while I went to a 
 walk, to indulge in not very pleasant reflections. 
 
 I thought how different Helen appeared now to what 
 she did when I left her, a year ago. She must have 
 changed more than I. I blamed myself for ever having 
 thought of marrying another, and wondered how I could 
 have been so mad. It was only for a moment that I 
 thought of returning home ; and I had not parted many 
 minutes from Helen, before I was sorry that I had said 
 anything about it. But it was some comfort to have her 
 urge me to stay. It gave me a little bit of hope. 
 
 Mr. Gray cume in the afternoon, and gave her a lesson 
 in music. At her request, I was present. A few days 
 after, he came, stopped to tea, and spent the evening. 
 
TWICE REJECTED. 297 
 
 Helen occupied so much of the time with him in conver 
 sation, that, when I left them, at ten, I was so unhappy, 
 and so jealous, that I could not control my feelings, and 
 walked my chamber, pouring execrations upon the unof 
 fending Gray. They had appeared happy ; but what a 
 wretched evening had it been to me ! I again thought of 
 returning home. Mr. Gray remained but a few moments 
 after I had retired. 
 
 In the morning I was little disposed to take my leave. 
 I could not bear the thought of being away from Helen, 
 lest somebody else should win her. It was happiness to 
 be near her, though she gave me little reason to 
 hope that I might ultimately gain her heart. Every day 
 I had the same feelings, until three weeks had passed 
 away, and I was apparently no nearer the attainment of 
 my wishes than when I first came. She appeared 
 friendly, and manifested a sisterly regard for me, noth 
 ing more. Sometimes I could with difficulty control my 
 feelings. I wanted to clasp her in my arms, and call her 
 my own. 
 
 We frequently spent part of the evening alone, and, 
 more than once, I had made up my mind to ask her to 
 give me her heart and hand ; but, before I could bring 
 sufficient courage to my aid, we were interrupted by the 
 entrance of uncle and aunt, or that hated Gray. 
 
 Many of my readers have been placed in similar cir 
 cumstances, and so they can appreciate my feelings. The 
 
298 TWICE REJECTED. 
 
 one you loved best was near you, and you had summoned 
 sufficient courage to take one of her hands; and, al 
 though it struggled a little for freedom, you held on to 
 it. In this situation you had talked of various things, 
 approaching gradually that subject which interested you 
 most of all ; but. whenever you had come almost to it, 
 when the way was fairly opened for a declaration of love, 
 the whole thing looked so presumptuous and doubtful, 
 that you would sit in silence for a time, and then you 
 would go back and begin again. By such evolutions 
 your courage was at last screwed up to the sticking point, 
 when the door opened, and in walked the father or 
 mother, or some other equally unwelcome visitor. This 
 was exactly my case, for more than once ; but my time 
 came finally. 
 
 On the evening of the fifth of July we were alone, and 
 there was no one to interrupt us. We conversed upon 
 various subjects, but principally of romance and poetry. 
 She had lately read a volume of Motherwell, and was in 
 raptures with it. She handed it to me, and requested me 
 to read aloud. I did so. choosing those pieces which would 
 best convey the passionate emotions of my own heart, 
 such as, " 0, Agony ! Keen Agony ! " " The Night's 
 Song," &c. 
 
 My whole heart was in the sentiment of the author, 
 and I read with feeling and pathos such lines as the 
 following : 
 
TWICE REJECTED. 299 
 
 ' 0, agony ! fierce agony ! 
 For loving heart to brook, 
 In one brief hour, the withering power 
 Of uuimpassioned look ! 
 
 *' 0, agony ! deep agony ! 
 
 For heart that 's proud and high, 
 To learn of fate how desolate 
 It ntay be ere it die ! " 
 
 *' Endearing ! Endearing ! 
 
 Why so endearing 
 Are those dark, lustrous eyes, 
 
 Through their silk fringes peering ? 
 They love me ! they love me ! 
 
 Deeply, sincerely ; 
 And, more than aught else on earth, 
 I love them dearly. 
 
 " Endearing ! endearing ! 
 
 Why so endearing 
 Glows the glad sunny smile, 
 
 On thy soft cheek appearing ? 
 It brightens ! it brightens ! 
 
 As I am near ing ; 
 And 't is thus that thy fond smile 
 
 Is ever endearing." 
 
 As I read on, throwing more of heart and soul into 
 each poem, Helen became wholly swallowed up in the 
 thoughts and feelings expressed. Her eyes glowed with 
 that enrapturing spiritual beauty which partakes more 
 
300 TWICE REJECTED. 
 
 of heaven than earth ; her cheeks were flushed, and her 
 bosom heaved with deep emotion. I paused, and looked 
 at her, spell-bound. We sat some moments motionless 
 as statues, gazing into each other's eyes, which seemed 
 gushing with burning words, while our tongues were 
 paralyzed with hope and fear. Presently she turned her 
 head, and burst into tears. I felt that now was the time 
 to learn my fate ; and I caught hold of her hands, and 
 exclaimed, " 0, Helen, this is too much ! Suspense is 
 agony, and I cannot bear it ! I love you, Helen, I love 
 only you ; and now you cannot, will not, refuse to make 
 me happy ! " 
 
 With a sad expression upon her face, and withdrawing 
 her hands from mine, she said : 
 
 " Henri, I wish I am sorry for this ! If anything 
 that I have done has caused you to ma'ke this declaration, 
 I ask your pardon; I did net intend it, nor wish it." 
 
 "Why are you sorry? It is not right for you to 
 regret it ; and, if you consult your own heart, it will tell 
 you so. I cannot doubt but that its emotions respond to 
 mine." 
 
 " Nay, Henri, you flatter yourself too much ! " 
 " Your words are cruel as the grave ; they cannot be 
 true, for I believe that you love me." 
 " I hope you will rest satisfied, then." 
 " But I would rather hear it from your own lips." 
 " You would not have me utter that which is false 7 " 
 
TWICE REJECTED. 301 
 
 " No ; but you cannot mean that it would be false. 
 0, Helen ! do not keep me in suspense, but tell me at 
 once that you will gratify the dearest and most sacred 
 wishes of my heart ! " 
 
 I paused for a reply, but she uttered not a word ; 
 her head was resting upon her hand, as if in deep 
 thought. 
 
 '' How shall I interpret this silence, Helen? Give 
 me but one word, one look,- one sign that I am beloved, 
 and I will be satisfied ! "' 
 
 She remained silent, and I was about to clasp her to 
 my heart, when she said, 
 
 " Henri, this scene is very painful to me, and I wish, 
 for the happinesp of both, that it had not occurred. 
 Whenever I say to any being * I love you,' those words 
 will be most sacred, most holy, and they will never be 
 recalled ; but, should I say them to you now. I might 
 have cause to take them back." 
 
 " Never, Helen, for you would have my whole heart 
 in exchange for yours ! You do love me, dearest ? " 
 
 11 1 have not told you so, and it is possible for you to 
 be mistaken." 
 
 " No, no ' I cannot be ! I am convinced, by that 
 
 sweet, entrancing glance that was fixed upon me but just 
 
 now, that your heart must be mine for I read its 
 
 thoughts and emotions in your eyes. Then do not con- 
 
 26 
 
TWICE REJECTED. 
 
 tinue my unhappiness, by refusing to confess a truth 
 which will fill my breast with rapture ! " 
 
 "If my heart has made this confession, you need not 
 to learn it again ; spoken language is less expressive 
 than the language of the heart and eye." 
 
 " But tell me if I have read this language aright ? " 
 
 " After what I have already said to you, Henri, you 
 must be your own judge." 
 
 " Helen, can I be satisfied with this ? " 
 
 " You must." 
 
 " I cannot, will not, be satisfied ! But perhaps there 
 is a prior engagement? You love Mr. Gray ! " 
 
 " You have no right to say that ! " 
 
 I was now growing jealous, and my thoughts were 
 very bitter. 
 
 " You love him, I know you do ! " I exclaimed, in 
 an excited lone. " You love one who is not your equal ; 
 and you will marry him, and end our friendship for 
 ever ! " 
 
 "This from you, Henri?" 
 
 " Reject a heart, if you will, that beats only for you; 
 and then be happy, if you can ! Marry Gray, if you are 
 so disposed, and then see how you wiU feel when you 
 learn, as you must, that he is far beneath you ! Do not 
 think to retain my love, friendship or respect, then : for 
 you shall not have them ! " 
 
 I paused, and gazed upon her face ; it was like marble 
 
TWICE REJECTED. 303 
 
 in whiteness, and her eyes were fixed upon me as though 
 astounded by the words I had uttered. Their strange 
 expression caused me to reflect upon the import of my 
 language. She seemed to instinctively recoil from me. 
 I was just ready to apologize, when she arose and said : 
 
 "Mr. Eaton ! " she had never called me Mr. before 
 " I would not have believed you could have talked thus 
 to me ! I have been deceived in you ! Know you that I 
 consider you unworthy of my love ! " 
 
 Those last words made me angry, and my reply only 
 widened the breach. 
 
 " I am equal to Mr. Gray, I think, and I trust I am 
 not inferior to you. I am not surprised, now, that it 
 was so easy a matter for you to reject me ! " 
 
 " Say no more, or I shall lose all my respect for you ; 
 and I would not cease to respect one to whom I owe so 
 much. May your better moments teach you the cruel 
 injustice of this ! " 
 
 The tears were now streaming from her eyes ; and, as 
 she was about to leave me, I sprang and caught her 
 hands, and begged her not to go. 
 
 "Unhand me!" she said, resolutely; "and do not 
 touch me again- ! " 
 
 " But hear me, Helen, I pray you ! " 
 . " I leave you to your own reflections." 
 
 As she went up the stairs which led to her chamber, 
 I heard her sob bitterly. Thus left alone, I seated my- 
 
304 TWICE REJECTED. 
 
 self upon the sofa where she had sat hut a few minutes 
 before, and, burying my head in my hands, gave loose 
 rein to -my own dark thoughts. For a time I fancied 
 that Helen was unjust and cruel; but the mist soon 
 melted away from my vision, and I saw how foolish I 
 had been. I was fearful that I had sealed my fate, and 
 that she was forever lost to me. What a mean thing she 
 must think me ! I had conducted myself as though I 
 had a right to claim her hand, and I had told her that 
 I was convinced she loved me; but that was not 
 enough, I must add insult, and cruelly wound one of the 
 most pure and sensitive beings in the world ! 
 
 " That very hour, when passion, turned to wrath, 
 Resembled hatred most, 
 Made my whole soul a chaos ; in that hour 
 The tempters found me." * 
 
 I could hardly find it in my heart to justify Helen for 
 saying that she did not consider me worthy of her love ; 
 but I felt that, had I been wooing Irene Dinneford, I 
 should have shown more deference, and not have said 
 "You love me, your heart responds to mine," &c. 
 And yet, considering all the circumstances, my demeanor 
 towards Helen should have been more respectful than 
 towards Irene. But my transgression did not end here ; 
 
 * " The Lady of Lyons." 
 
TWICE REJECTED. 305 
 
 I had shown my littleness by getting jealous and angry, 
 and so had foolishly wounded one whom I knew to cher 
 ish the deepest gratitude in her heart toward mflfcr what 
 I had done for her. It is well to confer favors, but low 
 and mean, ay, contemptible, to ever show, by words 
 or actions, in your intercourse with those you have bene 
 fited, that you have not forgotten your good deeds, and 
 look for something in return. That moment the benefac 
 tion is cancelled ; and what was truly a blessing becomes 
 a cankering curse ! 
 
 What frail beings we are, an<J how prone to err ! Pas 
 sion bends us before the might of its power, and sways 
 us to and fro as the heavy winds sway the trees of the 
 forest. Under its influence we say and do a thousand 
 things, which, a moment after, we would give worlds to 
 recall ! The longer I thought of our conversation, the 
 more I condemned myself; and I only found relief by a 
 good, hearty, unmanly cry. I remained in one position 
 until I heard my uncle and aunt drive up to the door, 
 when I sought my bed ; but not to sleep, for disappoint 
 ment and remorse frightened slumber from my pillow. 
 I tossed and tumbled all night long, and was glad when 
 I saw the first approach of day. I arose while it was 
 yet dark, and went out to ramble, I knew not and cared 
 not whither, if I could only get away from my own 
 thoughts. 
 
 Unconsciously I wandered to the spot I have before 
 26* 
 
S06 TWICE BEJECTED. 
 
 described, where was the rock in the valley at the foot 
 of the hill, and the brook and trees forming circles at its 
 base, ^f had been far beyond it, and came up on the side 
 opposite to that approached when going directly from the 
 house. Judge of my surprise to find a female kneeling 
 at the foot of the rock, her head laid in the niche. A 
 nearer view convinced me that it was Helen. I listened, 
 and found that she was weeping bitterly. What should I 
 do now ? Turn and fly, or go to her, and seek to dry her 
 tears and dispel her griefs ? I could not leave her there 
 alone ; and, with a palpitating heart, slowly approached 
 her. I stopped within a few feet of her, for I could go 
 no further. Every sob which fell upon my ear pierced 
 my heart like an arrow. As I looked upon her, my 
 bosom heaved a deep sigh ; she heard it, and sprang to 
 v her feet, and hastily brushed away the tears. 
 
 " Forgive me, Helen," I said; " I knew not that you 
 were here." 
 
 " It is easily forgiven, then," she answered. 
 
 " And cannot you forgive where there is injury, 
 Helen?" 
 
 " It was never a difficult thing for me to forgive 
 injuries." 
 
 " Then pardon me for the unjustifiable language I 
 made use of to you last night." 
 
 " I do, Henri, with all my heart." 
 
 " I thank you, Helen j and may God bless you as you 
 
TWICE REJECTED. 807 
 
 deserve ! Last night I suffered bitterly ; reproaching 
 myself for what I had done, and fearing that I had "lost 
 your friendship forever. I will never offend again/Helen; 
 and I beg of you to restore me to the same place in 
 your affections which I once enjoyed. " 
 
 " I will do so ; for I am glad to find that in your 
 better moments you are what" you always were. You 
 are not bad nor unfeeling, but hasty and passionate." 
 
 " Bless you, my own, dear sister ! I thought your 
 heart had changed ; but I find that it possesses the gentle 
 and forgiving spirit of your childhood." 
 
 " And I would not have it otherwise, Henri ; for, if 
 ever I allow myself to harbor revengeful feelings, then I 
 am most unhappy." 
 
 " I wish that I could forgive as readily as you can ! " 
 
 " If you try, you can." 
 
 "It is very hard to forgive, sometimes." 
 
 " Very true. But the reason why we cannot is 
 because we do not wish it. Your words cut me to the 
 heart, last night, and powered you very much in my 
 opinion; and, had I not wished for a reconciliation, I 
 should not so readily have forgiven you." 
 
 " I was angry and jealous, Helen, or I should not 
 have spoken as I did. But there is time for atonement. 
 Make my case your own, and then judge what my feel 
 ings must have been. I thought you cruel to reject me, 
 and I was fearful that you had given your heart to 
 
308 TWICE REJECTED. 
 
 another. There was a mingling in my feelings of dis 
 appointed love, jealousy, bitterness and despair." 
 
 " Rest assured that I will judge you in the most favor 
 able light. Bu^ Henri, as we are now friends again, 
 permit me to tell you that, if you would live peaceably 
 and happily, you must learn to control your feelings and 
 passions. When you are married, unless you conquer 
 this habit, you may, in a moment of excitement, heap 
 unjustifiable reproaches upon your wife; and, should she 
 possess a delicate, sensitive mind, how her heart would 
 be made to bleed ! " 
 
 " I will heed your admonitions, fair instructress ; and 
 henceforth, when the evil spirit is seeking to bend me to 
 his purpose, I will think of you ; and there shall be a 
 magic in the thought, which shall disarm the demon, and 
 send him powerless away." 
 
 "Look to Heaven; for God is mighty, and mortals 
 are weak." 
 
 " But God makes use of erring mortals to accomplish 
 a good work, even His work ; ^nd you shall be the good 
 angel, to charm away all evil." 
 
 " I am weak, as well as you ; but I will aid you all I 
 can, and that will be but little. You must rely upon 
 yourself, and trust in God." 
 
 " And yet, I would have your aid and sympathy, 
 because I have so much confidence in you. I have felt, 
 for some years, that I was not fitted to stand alone. I 
 
. TWICE REJECTED. 309 
 
 know my own nature so well that I fear cruel disappoint 
 ment." 
 
 " The true soul will be brave in all trials. You can 
 not overcome the faithful." 
 
 " But very few, comparatively, Helen, can stand firm, 
 when the pitiless storm of misfortune is beating upon 
 theft, unless there is some near and dear one to sustain 
 them. You may talk to the old man of the necessity of 
 looking to God for support, when his limbs have become 
 weak, and he is tottering to his grave ; and, though he 
 trusts never so much, fre will need a human arm to lean 
 upon, or a stout cane which the good God has caused to 
 grow for his use and support, when he has no longer 
 strength sufficient to sustain his decaying body." 
 
 " Well, Henri, I believe you are right; and I doubt 
 not that, when you need more strength than you now 
 have, you will find the being who is capable of imparting 
 it to you. As for us, let us be like a good brother and 
 sister, and then we can stfcngthen each other." 
 
 11 1 appreciate your friendship, Helen, and your sis 
 terly love ; and I assure you that I value 'them highly. 
 But I can imagine that the time may come when they 
 would be of nothing worth to me. There have been 
 brothers who have felt very sad to see favorite sisters 
 wholly devoted to others to see them married. And 
 how should I feel to see you a wife ? But is not the 
 
310 TWICE REJECTED. 
 
 relation of brother and sister too cold for us ? And is 
 not friendship, view it as you will, tame and insipid ? " 
 
 " 0, no, Henri ! do not say that ! it is a holy rela 
 tion ! " 
 
 " I know it, but " 
 
 " Nay, I would not have you undervalue friendship, 
 or sisterly regard. But it is time I had returned. 
 Come, let us go; it is not well to tarry longer." 
 
 I mechanically obeyed, somewhat puzzled to under 
 stand Helen. More than once she had manifested for 
 me, by her looks, a regard, I thought, stronger than 
 friendship; and but just now the beautiful expression 
 had flitted a moment upon her face. If she cherished 
 no other feeling but friendship, why was this ? Surely 
 she cannot be a coquette. My thoughts were broken in 
 upon by Helen's remarking that the weather was delight 
 ful. 
 
 " Very beautiful," I replied. "But the most beautiful 
 things in nature sometimes jar >on our feelings." 
 
 " I pray you cease to indulge in such thoughts. 
 Come, you will mar all our happiness. Let us be as 
 we once were." 
 
 ' I fear we never shall be." 
 
 " Be not faithless, but believing." 
 
 " 0, Helen ! " 
 
 "Look at the petals of this pretty flower, Henri. 
 
TWICE REJECTED. 311 
 
 How soft they are, and what bright tints ! Are they 
 not beautiful? Come, you don't look at them." 
 
 " They are very pretty," I replied. 
 
 " Is that all? You ought to talk with your uncle 
 about flowers. He would not call you silly, as he does 
 me." 
 
 " Does he call you so ?" 
 
 " Yes, he does. We go out for a walk, and I find a 
 beautiful flower, and carry it to him, and tell him all 
 about it, showing him all the tinted and downy leaves, 
 and then he will say, ' Well, if you are not a silly girl, 
 to make such a fuss about so insignificant a thing as 
 that ! One would suppose you had found a great hunk 
 of gold ! ' 
 
 " And then I tell him that gold is not half so 
 beautiful as my flower ; and he will laugli at me, and 
 say that ' where ignorance is bliss, 't is folly to be wise,' 
 or some such provoking thing." 
 
 " Uncle likes to have his joke." 
 
 " I know he does, bless him ! But he don't like 
 flowers as well as I do." 
 
 " There are very few who do." 
 
 " That is strange. Why, I loved them when I was 
 a little ragged fright, and gathered dandelions for Deacon 
 Webber. I one day saved all the yellow flowers, and 
 tied a spire of grass around them; but when I went 
 
312 TWICE REJECTED. 
 
 home, the deacon threw them in my face, and boxed my 
 ears soundly for so wasting my time." 
 
 " The brute ! " 
 
 " There, that evil being is getting possession of you 
 again ! I see that you will have to watch and pray, lest 
 you enter into temptation." 
 
 " With you by my side, there would be but little 
 danger of temptation." 
 
 " Do you think so ? Remember last night." 
 
 We had now arrived home, and our conversation 
 ended, I more in love than ever. The reader may 
 think it strange that I should still remain, after such a 
 decided refusal. Under different circumstances, I should 
 most likely have returned home at once. But I had 
 lived years with Helen, and had engaged to marry 
 another in a brief period after I left my uncle's. My 
 aunt had told me, confidentially, that Helen appeared 
 greatly distressed when she learned of my engagement ; 
 and she doubted not that her subsequent ill-health and 
 low spirits were mainly caused by it ; besides, I ss?w 
 many things which convinced me that I was not wholly 
 indifferent to her. I fancied that her affections had 
 received a severe shock, from which they might in time 
 recover. I believed that, if I had offered myself prior to 
 going to New York, she would at once have accepted 
 me. Had I been true to her, one refusal would so have 
 wounded my pride, that it is doubtful whether I should 
 
TWICE REJECTED. 313 
 
 have ever broached the subject again. I knew that, 
 without her, life would be robbed of all its beauty ; with 
 her, I should be happy. I -alone must win the priceless 
 jewel, and wear it next my heart. 
 
 Another week passed away, and though we were much 
 of the time together, I did not approach the subject 
 which interested me most of all. Not that I had less 
 inclination, but I was fearful of jeopardizing privileges 
 which I now enjoyed. Helen had seemed to forget the 
 past, and unreservedly gave me her affection and esteem. 
 Like happy children, we rambled and chatted gayly 
 together. We read from the same book, sitting under 
 shady trees, or at home in the parlor, where we spent 
 the most of our time, rarely interrupted ; for the old 
 folks, so it seemed to me, began to consider us lovers, 
 and thought that, like lovers, we should be happiest when 
 left to ourselves. The arrangement suited me, and I 
 hoped it did Helen. Mr. Gray was no longer in town 
 to trouble me. I was present when he bade them all 
 good-by, saying he should not return until another 
 spring. I saw him depart with infinite satisfaction. I 
 never believed for a moment that Helen would marry 
 him ; and yet, with the consistency of a jealous lover, I 
 was all the time fretting myself lest she should. 
 
 We were in the parlor, one evening, just at dusk. The 
 day had been .exceedingly hot, and the air oppressive; 
 for the earth was parched with heat. In the afternoon, 
 27 
 
314 TWICE REJECTED. 
 
 a cloud had arisen in the west, darkened all the heavens, 
 and, amid heavy winds, loud thunder, and fierce light 
 ning, had poured down the water in torrents, washing the 
 dust from the leaves of the trees, pattering all over the 
 fields, which held up their dusty faces to catch the jew 
 elled drops, which made them look clean and bright 
 again. 
 
 When the shower had passed over, the air was clear 
 and bracing, the birds sang gayly, and everything seemed 
 quickened with renewed life. The leaves on the trees, 
 the spires of grass in the fields, vines and shrubbery, 
 glittered, as the setting sun shone upon them, like robes 
 studded with pearls, and sparkled as though hung with 
 millions of jewels. 
 
 On such an evening we sat alone. We had noted the 
 happy change which nature had so speedily undergone, 
 like a weary traveller, throwing off dusty, soiled robes, 
 and putting on clean and befitting apparel. We watched 
 the sun as it went down in the clear, blue sky, throwing 
 a golden light over hill and valley, and brightening all 
 the scene with its mellow rays. Spell-bound, we gazed 
 at the myriads of starry eyes that looked out from every 
 tree and bower, and smiled and glistened on the face of 
 every green field, hill and dale. The king of day was 
 no longer in view ; the yellow lustre, which lingered for 
 a time, faded gradually away, and the shadows began to 
 gather around. They stole noiselessly into the room 
 
 
TWICE REJECTED. 315 
 
 where we sat, darkening the corners, creeping slyly 
 under the sofas, tables, and chairs. Anon they were 
 taking their places under the trees, by the sides of fences 
 and buildings, gathering in vast numbers in yonder 
 woods, and in due time pouring out and besieging, and 
 darkening all the world. Then Venus, that most beau 
 tiful of the starry hosts, which millions say " is mine," 
 with her sparkling fingers removed the slight blue veil 
 which covered her face, and looked down upon the earth 
 brightly, smilingly, as beautiful as when she first took 
 her place in the soft blue sky. 
 
 " There is my star ! " said Helen. 
 
 " What if I should claim it as mine ? " 
 
 " We shall not quarrel, if you do ; for it is like God's 
 love, all can have it." 
 
 " How long we have sat without speaking ! " 
 
 " With no loss of enjoyment, I hope? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Could we have been as happy, do you think, had we 
 con versed 7" 
 
 " I do not know." 
 
 " There are moments, Henri, when spoken words would 
 diminish, and not add to, our felicity." 
 . " Do you think so?" 
 
 " Ay, truly. When the soul drinks in large draughts 
 of the harmony, beauty, light and glory of the gods, 
 when it feasts on life's holiest, most nutritious aliment, 
 
316 TWICE KEJECTED. 
 
 what power have poor spoken words to add to the sum 
 of our spiritual felicity ? Methinks that at such a time 
 they are but harsh discords ! " 
 
 " You are growing eloquent, Helen ! " 
 
 " It is but the eloquence of truth." 
 
 "I do not doubt it; but the number who ever taste 
 of such pure delights is comparatively small." 
 
 "I fear that what you say is true; but why is it, 
 when there are so many things in the world to beautify 
 and enrapture the soul? " 
 
 " It is because the mind is not sufficiently expanded 
 and elevated ; the affections and thoughts are animal, and 
 not spiritual. The low and depraved find enjoyment in 
 the company of the vile and repulsive ; they are merry, 
 and at home, where the elevated soul would suffer the 
 most cruel agony. The reason of this is obvious; the 
 mind, the heart, the affections, are in harmony with the 
 vice, filth and dark depravity, by which they are sur 
 rounded." 
 
 " 0, when will man rise above these things, and be 
 pure and spiritual? " 
 
 " When truth shajl be brought to bear directly upon 
 his heart ; when a more perfect social state shall take the 
 place of the discordant, unequal, antagonistic, selfish 
 one, which now exists." 
 
 " What do you mean by a more perfect social state ? " 
 
 " Did you never think of the false and selfish relations 
 
TWICE REJECTED. 817 
 
 which now exist in society ? the continual clashing of 
 interests, ever stirring up enmities betwixt man and man, 
 setting brother against brother and friend against friend ; 
 beginning with individuals, and extending from them 
 to neighborhoods, from neighborhoods to towns, from 
 towns to counties-, from counties to states, from states to 
 nations ? It is like the pebble thrown into the water, 
 forming circle after circle, wider and wider, until they 
 reach the surrounding shore." 
 
 " I have often thought of these things ; but where is 
 the remedy? " 
 
 " In a more perfect social state. It is vain to look for 
 harmony, peace and brotherly love, while these false and 
 conflicting relations exist. Now, every man seeketh his 
 own and not his brother's welfare. The few live in 
 idleness and luxury, the many in weary toil and pov 
 erty; and this state of things waxes worse, causing 
 crime, disease, and suffering." 
 
 " And can there be a state which will equalize labor, 
 banish poverty and crime, and cause men to live in 
 peace?" 
 
 " I do not doubt it ; the people should associate to 
 gether, so that their hours of labor may be diminished, 
 and their interests no longer clash. All should do some 
 thing, and do that kind of labor for which they are best 
 adapted. Labor should be made attractive, and then 
 there would be no drones. Men are not naturally averse 
 27* 
 
318 TWICE KEJECTED. 
 
 to labor ; but it is the circumstances by which they are 
 surrounded, or the unsuitable kind of labor, or over- work, 
 which makes them averse to it." 
 
 " Your views are new to me. If there could be a state 
 of society in which every one could be of service to his 
 brother, while serving himself, it would be glorious. 
 Society, then, would be truly divine." 
 
 " A divine order of society is the true order of so 
 ciety. How harmonious are all the laws of nature ! The 
 myriads of planets and suns which move through the in 
 finity of space are so governed by attraction and repul 
 sion, that there is never a discord, no clashing, but 
 perfect harmony. The very stars roll to music ! Na 
 ture, in all her varied aspects, is still harmonious ! Poets 
 tell us of her unwritten music ; and the thought is beau 
 tiful and inspiring, that throughout the great anthem of 
 the universe there is no discord, but delightful harmony 
 running through the whole, sometimes soft, pathetic, 
 low, beautiful, and enrapturing, sometimes mournful, 
 sad, plaintive, or loud, wild, and passionate. The crash 
 of thunders, roar of winds and tempests, are as free from 
 discord as sighs of zephyrs, humming of insects, rustle 
 of leaves, murmuring of brooks, and singing of birds." 
 
 "You, too, are growing eloquent." 
 
 " 1 ought to, upon so glorious a subject as this. I 
 have faith to believe that man has not yet reached his 
 true destiny ; he will learn, by and by, that any wrong 
 
TWICE KEJECTED. 319 
 
 done to one of his fellow-beings affects not only the one 
 who is wronged, but the one "who is guilty of the wrong ; 
 and it does not stop there, but extends abroad, touching, 
 with its wizard fingers, the fortunes of thousands, and 
 blighting wherever it touches ; the fairest flowers of 
 life, peace, joy, happiness, wither in its presence, while 
 the most noxious weeds, hatred, envy, jealousy, grow 
 and flourish greatly." 
 
 11 It is truly so, I doubt not ; but man does not under 
 stand it as yet. Every one is seeking for earthly treas 
 ures ; and with many it is a virtue, rather than advice, to 
 be able to get the best end of the bargain." 
 
 "Honesty is said to be the best policy; but very few 
 really believe the proverb to be true. hence they use any 
 safe means to get rich. The motto is, { Put money in 
 your purse ; ' honestly, if you can ; if not, dishonestly." 
 
 " And every dishonest act, you think, brings with it a 
 train of evils?" 
 
 " It must be so. No one can do wrong without feeling 
 the effect in his own life, or without its having an effect 
 upon his own life ; and the evil, and the effect of it, may 
 run through the world." 
 
 " But do not good deeds also affect the world, and live 
 on forever? " 
 
 " Yes, thank heaven ! and they are more potent than 
 deeds of evil ; and this should encourage us to persevere, 
 knowing that the right and the true shall ultimately 
 
820 TWICE REJECTED. 
 
 triumph. ' The good shall live forever, but the evil shall 
 die.' " 
 
 " I thank you for what you have said, for it is food 
 for thought and reflection. I am always grateful for a 
 new thought, because new thoughts expand the mind and 
 soul." 
 
 During our conversation, I had unconsciously wound 
 my arm around Helen's waist, and clasped both of her 
 hands in mine. I saw that my words had favorably im 
 pressed her, and that she was regarding me with that 
 beautiful expression which glowed on no countenance but 
 hers. " Now is my time," thought I; " one more trial, 
 and, if she rejects me, it shall be the last. It is the time, 
 the hour for bve, and I must succeed ! " 
 
 We sat some time in silence, she seeming as well 
 pleased with her position as I with mine. At length I 
 addressed her thus : 
 
 " Helen, I have been very happy with you to-night; 
 so happy, that the bliss of years seems concentrated into 
 moments. There is but one thing wanting to make my 
 bliss complete." 
 
 "0, Henri, don't! We are happy now, let that 
 suffice." 
 
 " It cannot suffice ! Promise to be mine, and it is all 
 I ask ! " 
 
 "It is not right for you to speak of this again so 
 goon ! Do not say any more, I pray you ! " 
 
TWICE REJECTED. 321 
 
 While saying this, she withdrew her hands from mine, 
 and removed my arm from her waist. 
 
 " I cannot think it wrong, Helen ! You wrong me, 
 and wrong yourself, by repelling me from you ! " 
 
 I now arose, and walked the floor, greatly excited. 
 
 "Becalm, Henri!" 
 
 " No, no ! I cannot, will not be <!alm ! Say that you 
 are mine, now, this moment ! for I cannot wait longer ! " 
 
 I did not wait for an answer, but caught her in my 
 arms, and folded her vehemently to my breast. 
 
 " Henri," she said, " let me go ! " 
 
 "No, I will not until you promise to become my 
 wife ! " 
 
 " I command you ! " 
 
 " And will you not be mine, Helen ? " 
 
 "No, I cannot." 
 
 I now released her, and said, "Helen, this is the 
 last time I shall trouble you. Accept now, for I never 
 will ask you again ! " 
 
 She remained silent. 
 
 "I give you till to-morrow to consider of it; reflect 
 well, and then decide. Think of the depth of my afiec- 
 tions, and that they are all yours ! If then you reject 
 me, I take my immediate departure." 
 
 " You have my answer now; I cannot change it." 
 
 " My determination is fixed, then ; I depart early in 
 the morning." 
 
322 TWICE KEJECTED. 
 
 "I would not have you go ! " 
 
 " But go I shall ; so take your choice, either to be 
 mine, or be separated from me." 
 
 " You will sometimes write me ? " 
 
 " No ! " 
 
 " But you will come and see us again soon? " 
 
 11 Not for a year."* 
 
 "A year!" 
 
 " Yes, and longer, perhaps." 
 
 " You will not forget your friend Helen ? " 
 
 " I will try to forget her." 
 
 11 And I will remember you ; and, if ever I pray in sin 
 cerity and truth, it shall be for your welfare and happi 
 ness." 
 
 " 0, Helen ! " 
 
 11 We may meet again, Henri, when the skies shall be 
 brighter, and the landscapes more beautiful." 
 
 " I dare not hope it now, Helen. The future looks 
 all dark." 
 
 "It will brighten again." 
 
 " Never ! " 
 
 " Look not on the dark side of life ; the light is more 
 hopeful and beautiful." 
 
 " It is all dark for me." 
 
 " Peace and light shall come again." 
 
 She took my hand,- and said, " God bless you ! " 
 
TWICE REJECTED. 823 
 
 looked kindly, but sadly into my face, whispered " Good 
 night, " and hastened to her room. 
 
 After passing a sleepless night, I arose and prepared 
 for my departure, half hoping that Helen might relent. 
 My uncle and aunt were surprised at my sudden resolu 
 tion to leave them ; but, as I told them it was necessary 
 for me to go, they said no more about it. Helen still 
 looked sad, but showed no signs of relenting ; and I was 
 obliged to bid her good-by with no hope of ever having 
 the right to call her my own. When I was about to 
 start, she offered me her hand, which I grasped with 
 fervor, scarcely able to restrain myself from again 
 folding her to my heart. 
 

 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 NEW LEBANON. THE SHAKERS. 
 
 1 FOUND everything going on harmoniously at home, 
 for peace and happiness had returned to a long-deserted 
 roof. Mrs. Stewart was the good angel who watched over 
 the interests of all. She had found the children in a 
 worse state than she left them. They were more fretful 
 and ungovernable ; but the vicious influences, which had 
 so long surrounded them, were removed ; and, for her, 
 it was not a very hard thing to eradicate much of the evil, 
 which had been growing and taking deeper root for so 
 many years. They would frequently let their passions, 
 for some trivial cause, run away with their judgments; 
 but she was ever ready, with her word of peace and look 
 of love and forbearance, to soothe and calm the troubled 
 sea of passion. 
 
 There is a power in goodness which the most aban 
 doned imy be made to feel. It can tame the most fierce, 
 and cause the madman to become as gentle as a little 
 child. The raging passions are calmed and stilled in its 
 presence, even as Jesus calmed the stormy sea, when he 
 said, " Peace, peace, be still." The reason why evil 
 
NEW LEBANON. THE SHAKERS. , 325 
 
 gains so many victories is, because there is so much pro 
 fessed and so little real every-day-life goodness in the 
 world. 
 
 The influence of Mrs. Stewart was just what was 
 wanted to counteract the evils which had so long mingled 
 with the very air which my brothers and sisters inhaled. 
 There is nothing more fatal to a family of children than 
 to live with those who are abusive, overbearing, wicked, 
 self-righteous, fault-finding and quarrelsome. It makes 
 them like those with whom they reside. Many children 
 are passionate, overbearing and quarrelsome, because 
 their parents are so. They inherit bad dispositions from 
 them, and example and practice make them worse. And 
 yet such parents wonder why their children should be so 
 hasty and passionate ! 
 
 While on my visit at uncle's, I had scarcely lifted my 
 hand to do any kind of work ; but now I thought the best 
 thing that I could do was to aid my brothers in their work 
 on the farm. I was suffering from low spirits and ill health, 
 caused by my recent disappointment. I thought labor 
 in the open air would be most conducive "to health, and 
 exert a greater healing power than medicines. A farm 
 is the best place for invalids, especially those of cities and 
 large villages ; for they need the pure country air, and 
 that kind of labor which will call all the powers of the 
 physical system into action. Most of the drugs prescribed 
 for the sick poison and corrupt the blood, while labor 
 28 
 
326 , NEW LEBANON. THE SHAKERS. 
 
 upon a farm, regular hours, good air and wholesome food, 
 remove disease and restore health. 
 
 It took us, with our hired help, till the twentieth of 
 August to finish haying. The exercise was beneficial to 
 me ; but it is vain to expect bodily health when the mind 
 is diseased. 
 
 I have not spoken, for some time, of Deacon Webber. 
 The week previous to my arrival home he met with a sad 
 mishap. He was detected in purloining a part of the 
 money collected at the last communion season. This led 
 to an investigation, which made it very evident that he 
 had done so for years. A church-meeting was imme 
 diately called, when all the facts were laid before it, and 
 he was unanimously expelled. It was not long before 
 everybody found out that he was always a bad man. The 
 members of the church said they never had any con 
 fidence in him. The crime of stealing money collected 
 for church purposes was looked upon by his brethren as 
 almost equal to the unpardonable sin; and some were 
 certain that it was the very sin itself, especially when the 
 deed was done by a deacon. 
 
 When Helen Means lived with him, pale, ragged and 
 dirty, the number was not very large in the church who 
 thought the deacon was guilty of sin in thus treating 
 her like a brute. But there were some who regarded the 
 matter as Christians should ; but they were powerless in 
 numbers and influence. Many others would have con- 
 
NEW LEBANON.- THE SHAKERS. 32f 
 
 demned him, if they had known all the facts. Those 
 who were now loudest in their condemnation then vented 
 their maledictions upon my head, because I had aided the 
 poor girl to escape from one who shamefully abused her. 
 When will people learn that the beings upon whom God 
 has stamped his image, without regard to nation, clime or 
 color, are holier and more sacred than rites, ceremonies, 
 holy days and sacred places ? Better steal from an hun 
 dred churches than wrong one little, helpless child. 
 
 On the first of September, my sister Jane was married 
 to Herbert Mansfield, a young farmer, who lived in a 
 neighboring town. At her wedding I again saw Helen 
 Means. She was cordial as a sister, nothing more. If 
 it had not been for Jane's feelings, and Mrs. Stewart's, I 
 should not have been present. I treated her with more of 
 coldness than I ever manifested towards any being before 
 in whom I had the least interest. My conduct was noticed, 
 and Mrs. Stewart seemed hurt. Helen returned with my 
 uncle and aunt, the next day after Jane's marriage. In 
 spite of my coldness, she urged me to come and pay them 
 another visit soon. I bade her remember what I said 
 the evening of our last interview. 
 
 " Then," said she, " I shall come and see you." 
 
 " Possibly you may," I replied. 
 
 I was not present when she left for home, and this I 
 did not regret ; for it might have been a hard task to have 
 preserved my stoical coolness, and manifested no emotion. 
 
328 NEW LEBANON. *THE SHAKERS. 
 
 It may be asked, where were Helen's parents, during 
 this time ? They were written to repeatedly, without any 
 answer being returned. Then direct search was made 
 for them, but no such family could be found. 
 
 I now resolved to visit New York, and from there go 
 wherever my inclinations might lead me. The visit of 
 Helen had only made me more restless and uneasy, 
 I wanted excitement. I encountered much opposition 
 in my plan, especially from Mrs. Stewart; but go I 
 must. I went to Boston; from there to Providence, 
 and by steamboat to New York city. I found my 
 friends well, happy and prosperous. Ernest and Irene 
 were to be married the first week in November, and I 
 was expected to be present. They both seemed highly 
 delighted to see me, but I was ill at ease in their com 
 pany ; for their mutual happiness made me think still 
 more of my own disappointment. 
 
 I had the pleasure of an introduction to Ernest's 
 mother, who was in New York, on a visit. I found her 
 an intelligent, agreeable lady, who looked as though her 
 experience had been bitter and painful. 
 
 After spending a week in New York, I took a sail up 
 the Hudson, and landed at Albany. In this beautiful 
 city I tarried a number of days. At my hotel I became 
 acquainted with a gentleman and wife and two daughters, 
 who had been to Saratoga Springs and Niagara Falls. 
 The weather was so warm and pleasant that they had 
 
NEW LEBANON. THE SHAKERS. 329 
 
 determined to visit New Lebanon Springs, and remain 
 there as long as the pleasant weather lasted. I gladly 
 accepted an invitation to accompany them, for I found 
 them intelligent and agreeable. We engaged a private 
 carriage to carry us to Lebanon, which landed us, in a 
 few hours, at the Columbia House. 
 
 In this charming spot we remained a number of weeks ; 
 for the weather continued beautiful until the first of 
 November. New Lebanon has many attractions, and for 
 real beauty and variety of scenery it is seldom surpassed. 
 There was but one thing lacking, to make it perfect to my 
 eye, A sheet of water, quietly reposing in the valley, would 
 give it the finishing stroke. It might then be too beauti 
 ful. Early in the morning, it required but little imagin 
 ation to supply this deficiency. Looking down from 
 either of the many eminences which overlook the valley, 
 you behold a white vapor, resting there so calmly that it 
 seems like a lake. I have often climbed those hills at 
 early dawn, and feasted my eyes and soul upon the 
 beauty and grandeur ' which were all around me. The 
 white lake, at the foot of an hundred hills and mountains, 
 would soon depart, when old Sol came up from behind 
 them, and looked down upon it with his eyes of fire. Up 
 the mountain sides the silvery mist would creep, laying 
 hold of the shrubs and trees with its spirit-hands, pulling 
 itself upward until it gained the highest summit ; and 
 then, catching a ray of the sun, it changed to a rosy hue, 
 28* 
 
330 NEW LEBANON. THE SHAKERS. 
 
 and flew away to heaven. As I gazed upon the beauti 
 ful sight, -I thought of the spirits of men, lifted by the 
 rays of the " Sun of righteousness " up to their God. 
 
 Sometimes, in my rambles, I would take the road 
 leading to Pittsfield. In a few minutes I would attain a 
 sufficient elevation to tempt me to tarry, and take a view 
 of the scene. With rapture I would gaze upon the fields 
 running away up to the tops of the mountains, dotted 
 over with trees, burdened with corn, ripening for the 
 harvest. Yonder, in the valley, was a fine growth of 
 wood, the trees waving in the morning breeze. All 
 around it were greenest fields, with an undulating sur 
 face, smiling as the golden sunbeams shot down upon 
 them. Beyond these were still other fields and groves. 
 The hills all around were covered with trees, grass, or 
 ripening grain. In the valley was the little village of 
 Lebanon, reposing as quietly as a beautiful bird in a 
 green tree. 
 
 Walking on some hundred rods further, the scenery 
 was equally beautiful, though its aspect was greatly 
 changed. In an opposite direction, at a certain point, 
 you could take in, with one sweep of vision, miles of the 
 most delightful and sublime scenery. It was difficult to 
 say at what point the view was the best ; for, if you trav 
 elled in a hundred different directions, you would find the 
 scenery different at every point. One moment you would 
 think, "it is the most beautiful here; " and the next, 
 
NEW LEBANON. THE SHAKERS. 331 
 
 having changed your position, the most beautiful there. 
 The surface was so rounding and full in its undulations, 
 wave rising on wave, and there were so many of 
 them, and so different, that you could only say, "it is 
 all beautiful, all glorious ; " reminding one of the changes 
 of countenance with some beautiful woman, each one 
 beautiful, and yet difficult to say which the most beauti 
 ful. It is said that there is but a step from the sublime 
 to the ridiculous ; and in one of my rambles I had an 
 illustration of the fact. At the hotel I had been intro 
 duced to a fat. good-natured gentleman of sixty. He 
 had formerly been a merchant in Boston ; and, having 
 accumulated a large fortune, he retired from business, 
 and purchased a farm some twenty miles from the city. 
 He built him a splendid house and other buildings, and 
 then employed an experienced farmer, and commenced 
 the cultivation of his land. But, contrary to the expect 
 ation of his neighbors and friends, he studied agriculture, 
 not that he might make his home beautiful and attractive 
 to the mind and heart, but so productive that his family 
 would find ample support, without using his vast income 
 from railroad, factory, and bank stock, and rents from 
 buildings, &c. To have flowers growing around his 
 house he thought entirely superfluous; but he entered 
 largely into the cultivation of grapes, because they would 
 sell readily, and at high prices. In front of his house 
 was a large field, nearly level, containing six acres. He 
 
332 NEW LEBANON. THE SHAKERS. 
 
 studied some time how to turn that to the best advantage. 
 He fina% prepared it for an onion-field, and, in due 
 time, it yielded him great profits. 
 
 On one of the most beautiful mornings in Ox;tober, I 
 arose early, and went to the top of a high eminence, to 
 see the sun rise. Not a cloud was in the heavens, and 
 the sky was of the deepest blue, and the green earth was 
 free from mists and fogs. There was a hill covered with 
 woods between me and the sun ; and it was higher than 
 the one upon which I stood, so that I could not see the 
 sun when it first appeared above the horizon. But I 
 was amply repaid for the loss ; for the golden king flashed 
 his burning rays through the trees, and lit up the woods 
 with a strange fire, for they looked red and glowing, and 
 there was no smoke or cinders to obscure the beauty and 
 grandeur of the scene. I was in raptures, and I wanted 
 some dear friend to share my joy. In a few minutes, 
 the sun rose proudly above the hills, and poured his rays 
 down upon the valleys of Lebanon, covering them all 
 over with smiles. I gazed around me, happy and blest, 
 drinking in largely of this soul-reviving nectar of the 
 gods, of which the valleys were brimming. Some two 
 hundred rods from where I stood I saw my fat acquaint 
 ance, gazing about him as though he was enraptured, as 
 well as I. He had chosen his point of observation well, 
 for miles of the most beautiful and varied scenery could 
 be taken in at one view. He saw me, and directed his 
 
NEW LEBANON. THE SHAKERS. 333 
 
 steps towards me ; and I, at the same time, towards him. 
 We soon met, when he said : 
 
 " Good-morning, Mr. Eaton; a fine, breezy morning." 
 
 " Very beautiful," I replied j " and I have enjoyed it 
 richly." 
 
 " Well, so have I; for it is healthy, and gives one a 
 sharp appetite for breakfast. A good breakfast and a 
 ^ood appetite are capital things, Mr. Eaton." 
 
 "Very true; but this scenery is so magnificent and 
 enchanting that the soul may feed upon it." 
 
 "Why, yes, the scenery is well enough, I suppose; 
 but it 's lonesome, rather lonesome, Mr. Eaton, not 
 after my sort, exactly." 
 
 " But don't you think that such a scene as is here 
 spread out before us is eminently adapted to the wants 
 of man's higher and better nature?" 
 
 "Well, I don't know about man's higher and better 
 nature ; I never discovered it yet, and I have had some 
 dealings with the animal in my day ; selfish, all selfish, 
 Mr. Eaton." 
 
 " But you believe in it, do you not? " 
 
 " Can't say as I do. It will do well enough to talk 
 about. It's what they call poetry, I suppose; you 
 have been reading poetry, I make no doubt, Mr. Eaton. 
 I can get enough to feed on, down to the Columbia 
 House ; but this scenery would starve a cat, yes, starve 
 a cat, Mr. Eaton. Ha ! ha ! " 
 
334: ,NEW LEBANON. THE SHAKERS. 
 
 11 But then you think it beautiful, Mr. ? " 
 
 "Tolerably so; but then I don't think it's well 
 managed, this land about here. Now, there 's a fine 
 valley down there ; why, there is as much as ten acres 
 in that ere field, and scarcely a stone in it. Well, sir, 
 plough that up, and manure it well, and plant it with 
 onions, and you could raise, let me see, sixty hundred 
 bushels ; and they would look so green and pleasant, all 
 growing in such beautiful, long, straight rows: there 's 
 nothing like it, sir. When they are ripe, you could take 
 them right to Albany, and put them on board the boat, 
 and send them to New York city, and get your cash ; 
 besides, they are excellent cut up in vinegar for salad, 
 and I like them biled to eat with roast beef. But fried 
 onions, with pork, is the greatest onion dish. Did you 
 ever eat any fixed in that way ? Luscious, sir, luscious ! 
 They make my mouth water to think of them. I wish I 
 kept the hotel, down there. I 'd have them every day." 
 
 " They are rather fragrant," I remarked. 
 
 " I know they are, but I like it; you can smell them 
 a great ways ; and I always feel, when I inhale their 
 fragrance, as though the spirit of my home had come out 
 to welcome me to dinner. I have a fine onion-field in 
 front of my house, it 's magnificent, sir. When I 
 bought the place, I found six acres all in one piece, and 
 precious little was raised on it ; and I ploughed it up and 
 planted- it with onions. And would you believe it, sir ? 
 
NEW LEBANON. THE SHAKERSk 335 
 
 I raised last year forty-five hundred bushels of onions, 
 which brought me, on the spot, twenty-two hundred and 
 fifty dollars ! I have got a new field, this year, which 
 will yield me a thousand bushels more. That 's the way 
 to farm, sir ; turn your land to some profit.''' 
 " Don't you raise anything but onions? " 
 " 0, yes ! I sold forty bushels of grapes last year ; and 
 I raise sweet potatoes and corn, but chiefly onions." 
 " Will sweet potatoes grow in Massachusetts? " 
 " Yes, but they are not very sweet. I raise a few for 
 my own use, and a hundred bushels of the other kind ; 
 but nothing pays like onions." 
 
 This was utilitarian enough, in all conscience ; and, 
 although he had sadly interrupted my train of thought, 
 and introduced one which, under the circumstances, could 
 not have entered my mind, I did not care to continue the 
 conversation ; so I left him to his profound meditations. 
 I wandered some distance before our breakfast-hour, but 
 I could not bring back the feelings which I had before I 
 received my lesson on the virtue, productiveness, and 
 profit of onions. "And such," thought I, "are the 
 emotions of some people when surrounded with those 
 things which are the most magnificent and beautiful." 
 I met my pursy friend again at the breakfast-table, and I 
 can bear ample testimony to the sharpness of his appetite. 
 But, reader, having given you a taste of the ridiculous, I 
 
336 NEW LEBANON. THE SHAKERS. 
 
 will try and take the necessary step, and return once 
 more to the sublime; if, perchance, I had reached that 
 elevated position. 
 
 Some mornings, when I rambled while yet the dawn 
 was but just glimmering in the east, I was transported 
 with the strange melody which the winds played upon 
 the harp-strings of the mountains. A million trees, 
 swept by the invisible fingers of the breeze, vibrated in 
 unison, sending forth a continuous roar of rustling music. 
 At other times the music, or the manner of performing 
 it-, was different. 
 
 On the hill-side a few trees shook and rustled, giving 
 out notes few, but loud and distinct. Then the wanton 
 winds leaped across the valley, and made music there, 
 which was soon joined in by the trees in the valley 
 below ; then a grove in the distance would catch the 
 strain, and would be answered by the trees on the top of 
 the mountain. Anon, the hills, the valleys, and the 
 mountains, all united in one grand chorus. It was like 
 listening to a solo, then a duet, a trio, quartet, and 
 finishing with an anthem, with full chorus. Down the 
 sides of these mountains leaped many babbling streams, 
 and, in their course, they had gulleyed out the hills, 
 making deep ravines and beautiful glens. In these 
 ravines were tall trees, showing that the torrent had 
 done its work many years ago. I often lingered in 
 these glens, where the light was so dim when without 
 
NEW LEBANON. THE SHAKERS. 337 
 
 the world was blushing in sunlight. I lingered and list 
 ened to the liquid notes of the leaping brooks, and queried 
 how many years had passed away since they pushed out 
 those large masses of gravel and slate-stone, forming the 
 deep ravine, which should darken more and more as the 
 trees sprang up, increasing in size and number. All 
 these things were matter of interest and study to me. 
 In the large city I sought for an alleviation of my sor 
 rows in vain. Here there were so many things of inter 
 est, instructive, beautiful, that, at times, I forgot my 
 troubles and disappointments. Here I felt that I could 
 commune with God, and worship Him in the beautiful 
 temples which his hand had erected. 
 
 There are a number of springs at New Lebanon, and 
 their temperature is very different, ranging from warm to 
 very cold. The coldest is but a few degrees above freez 
 ing, in the hottest days of summer ; while the warmest 
 pours out water enough to keep the machinery of a small 
 satinet factory moving the year round. And they are 
 not troubled with ice anywhere about the mill, for the 
 warm water from the spring keeps the stream clear from 
 it. 
 
 I have since been at New Lebanon in the month of 
 December, when it was extremely cold, and the little 
 pond of water below the warm spring was entirely clear 
 from ice, and there was quite a steam arising from its 
 surface. I half-fancied that it was old Nick's wash- 
 29 
 
338 NEW LEBANON. THE SHAKERS. 
 
 kettle, and he had got his fire kindled under it ; and I 
 expected soon to see it boil. I went and put my hands 
 into it, and found a very agreeable contrast between 
 the cold, frosty air and the warm water. 
 
 While at New Lebanon, I frequently visited that 
 strange class of people called Shakers. This was the 
 first settlement formed in the country. Ann Lee, or 
 Mother Ann, with a few devoted followers, pitched their 
 tent here. She met with some persecution. In a two- 
 story red house, about a mile from the Shaker village. 
 she was tried for certain misdemeanors, and the Shakers 
 say that she was dragged down stairs by the hair of her 
 head. She then prophesied the time would come when 
 there would be Shaker worship in that house. The 
 prophecy proved true ; for, many years after her death, 
 the house was offered for sale, and the Shakers bought it, 
 and then they had a glorious time; for they danced, 
 sung, exhorted and prayed, in every room in the build 
 ing, from the attic to the cellar. 
 
 I was pleased with the neatness and taste everywhere 
 displayed about their premises. Their buildings were all 
 in good order, and every room like wax-work. The 
 same care was taken of the out-buildings. Some of their 
 barns were models for the saving of labor and strength. 
 It did one good to go into them, they were so clean ; and 
 then the cattle and horses were in such good condition. 
 They did not look as though they were half-starved, over- 
 

 NEW LEBANON. THE SHAKERS. 339 
 
 worked and shamefully whipped. Evidently the best 
 care was taken of them ; and there are very many people 
 who would do well to copy after the Shakers, and learn 
 to treat with kindness all the creatures of God. 
 
 The Shakers early adopted the community system, and 
 it has succeeded well for them. Everything shows a 
 reasonable degree of prosperity and success. Their fields 
 are well cultivated, and all things seem to move on 
 harmoniously ; and, from all that I saw of them, I con 
 ceived them to be an honest, sincere people. The idea 
 which many entertain, that they are false to their profes 
 sion, I believe to be erroneous. To prevent the passions 
 from being excited, or the awakening of carnal desires, 
 the utmost precaution is observed. The dress of the 
 sexes is so fashioned that the form loses its natural volup 
 tuous appearance; and this is designed that the pas 
 sions may not be excited. The dresses of the women are 
 cut high in the neck and extend to their feet ; the waists 
 are very short and slightly gathered, making the wearer 
 look long, lean and lank, and, like some of Dickens' 
 females, which he so graphically describes, all the way of 
 a bigness. There is no probability of the Bloomer cos 
 tume being adopted by the Shakers. They would regard 
 it as a device of the devil, and would look upon it with 
 all the horror of the many very prudish old maids of both 
 sexes. The Shaker women usually wear neck-cloths, which 
 are closely buttoned up to the chin. They wear white 
 
340 NEW LEBANON. THE SHAKERS. 
 
 caps upon their heads, fitting close and smoothly, and 
 jutting out in front some two inches, concealing a side- 
 view of the face. 
 
 In the summer season, on Sundays, their dresses are 
 white ; and, should they he seen in or near a grave-yard, 
 with their lank faces, pale, sallow complexion, and 
 sunken eyes, they would most likely be taken for a com 
 pany of dead folks, who had come out of their graves to 
 take the air. 
 
 The same caution is observed in the dress of the other 
 sex. The fashion of either is anything but pleasing or 
 beautiful. When nature arrays herself, we always 
 observe that her garments are fashioned in the most pleas 
 ing and delightful manner. We are ever charmed with 
 the simplicity and beauty which smile from every valley, 
 and look down from every tree. In their season her 
 robes are gorgeous, enriched with a thousand colors and 
 beautiful tints. Her appearance is ever lovely, ever 
 inviting. Nature's children love her so well, and believe 
 her so wise and perfect, that they delight to copy after 
 her. The Shakers, living in the continual violation of her 
 laws in relation to the sexes, and the dearest and most 
 holy social relations, must, of necessity, set her example 
 at naught in the fashioning of their apparel. The sexes 
 are not allowed to clasp each other by the hand, or 
 exchange any of those little endearments and courtesies 
 which are so natural and so pleasing. A man is never 
 
NEW LEBANON. THE SHAKER&. 341 
 
 allowed to travel or be alone with one woman ; but he can 
 travel with two, or two men may travel with one of the 
 other sex. The women salute each other with holy kisses ; 
 so also the men. On pleasant days, they hold meetings 
 on the tops of the mountains, and parties, miles apart, 
 toss holy kisses at each other. Their worship consists in 
 marching, dancing, whirling and singing. They will 
 whirl for hours, and at last fall down in what they call a 
 trance. In their jumpings they throw themselves into the 
 most grotesque and surprising shapes. Whirling for a 
 great length of time, and jumping, &c., only occur when 
 they are filled with the spirit, and when they " get up 
 the power." 
 
 In the Shaker Godhead there is a quaternity, instead 
 of a trinity, four persons, instead of three. The first is 
 the efernal Father, and the second Ann Lee, the eternal 
 mother; the third the Son, and the fourth the Holy 
 Ghost. All who have not had an opportunity to hear 
 the Shaker gospel in this world will have it proclaimed to 
 them in the next. Very many of the great men, kings, 
 statesmen, orators, generals, &c., have heard the gospel 
 since they died, and have become believers and leaders in 
 the Shaker bands of the spirit-world. The patriarch 
 Abraham is one of their first and best; so they sing, 
 
 " Father is a leader ; 
 Let us all be true, that 
 
 29* 
 
342 NEW LEBANON. THE SHAKERS. 
 
 We may have a portion 
 
 Of Mother's love and blessing." 
 
 In singing they perform but one part, the air of 
 the tune ; and, as many of the voices are not adapted to 
 the air, and can only reach it with a great deal of effort, 
 the effect is anything but pleasing. They have a sound 
 ing-board overhead, and I heard them sing some tunes 
 which run very high ; and the noise was hideous, more 
 like screeching than singing. Their tunes and songs, in 
 known and unknown tongues, are all given by inspiration. 
 To do them justice, some of their music is excellent ; and, 
 as the Shakers sing it with great spirit, it sounds well, 
 if the voices are not strained up to an unnatural pitch. 
 
 The Shakers are all spiritualists, and they receive con 
 tinually light and instruction from the spirit-land.^ With 
 the exception of Shakerism, they represent the immortal 
 world very much the same as the spiritualists of to-day. 
 Good and evil spirits are there ; and both classes visit 
 this world, the former for benevolent, and the latter for 
 evil purposes. Mother Ann has her wine-press, and she 
 sends wine to the most faithful Shakers, and they 
 actually get drunk on the wine of the spiritual kingdom. 
 According to some modern spiritualists, the spirits in the 
 other world, or in another sphere, who love intoxicating 
 drinks, gratify their appetites by entering the bodies of 
 the intemperate here, or by inhaling the vapor of spirit ; 
 
NEW LEBANON. THE SHAKERS. 343 
 
 and no lock and key can keep them out of wine-cellars, 
 or any place they choose to enter ; so the Maine law will 
 not save them, and legislators who are interested in the 
 welfare of spiritualists should take the matter into consid 
 eration. 
 
 There are only a portion of the Shakers who get drunk 
 on Ann Lee's wine, and they are a class of persons such 
 as may be found everywhere, who are naturally mesmeric 
 subjects, who may be said to be in a negative state or 
 condition, instead of positive, and so they are easily 
 affected, thrown into trances, bewitched, cured of scrofula 
 by seventh sons, and formerly by kings and princes ; 
 they see ghosts, and visit the spirit- world ; they are 
 quickly excited and alarmed ; and men of powerful minds, 
 who are zealous, can excite them to despair, and sway 
 them to and fro, as they please. Meats, cakes and many 
 other things, are sent from the spirit world to the Shak 
 ers ; and a highly-gifted one, called a Visionist, will 
 take them and pass them round to such as are gifted 
 sufficiently to receive them. The pantomime which fol 
 lows is most absurd and ridiculous ; for they go through all 
 the motions of receiving food, and eating and drin^d^ 
 The really gifted are, in truth, the negative or mesmeric. 
 The spirits of all nations, times, states and conditions, 
 visit the Shakers ; and, for some reason, and what it is 
 I know not, it becomes a duty to take in these wan 
 dering spirits. Each Shaker will receive a spirit into his 
 
344 NEW LEBANON. THE SHAKERS. 
 
 body, and then he is under the control of the spirit he 
 has received, and will act as it directs, or as it was in 
 the habit of doing in this world. The effect is ludicrous 
 in the extreme. 
 
 The treatment of dumb animals by the Shakers, their 
 order and neatness, is well worthy of attention and imi 
 tation. Strict abstinence from all sexual pleasures is 
 the main idea of their religion. They are the only 
 people of God ; for they live free from the " lusts of the 
 Jlesh.^ They have " put off the old man which is cor 
 rupt according to the deceitful lusts" and have " put 
 on the new man which after God is created in righteous 
 ness and true holiness." They are the "hundred and 
 forty-four thousand" who are to follow the Lamb, spoken 
 of in the fourteenth chapter of Revelation. 
 
 A number of times I was present, and witnessed their 
 manner of worship. The room in which they held their 
 meetings, was perfectly neat ; the floor white, and it had 
 been scrubbed till it shone. On one side of the room 
 were seats for visitors, those out of the gospel. The seats 
 for the Shakers were light, movable benches ; and when 
 they danced or marched, the benches were moved back. 
 When the male Shakers entered their place of worship, 
 they all took off their coats, and hung them up on wooden 
 pegs; so there were a hundred coats, all made alike, 
 hung on a hundred pegs, exactly even, and at just such 
 a distance from each other. The Shaker women all had 
 
NEW LEBANON. THE SHAKERS. 345 
 
 \ 
 
 neat white folded handkerchiefs in their hands, and thejr 
 held them precisely alike. Part of the room was occu 
 pied by the men, and part by the women, there being 
 about three feet between them. They stood in ranks, 
 the men and women face to face. The tallest Shakers 
 were in the centre ranks, the next tallest in the next 
 rank, and so on to the last. 
 
 Their exercises, dances, songs and exhortations, vary 
 from Sabbath to Sabbath. Sometimes they sit down on 
 the portable benches, and sit perfectly still; and then 
 arise, and, without noise or confusion, move back the 
 benches, resume their places, and as soon as the singers 
 (some six or eight of the brothers and sisters, who stand 
 apart by themselves) strike up a tune or song, they 
 commence a march or dance. The palms of their hands 
 are held towards their faces, and as they dance or march 
 they swing them up and down in perfect time. Their 
 steps in dancing are very simple ; not light and graceful, 
 but the motion might be considered springy walking. 
 They would move towards the centre, and then back, 
 singing, 
 
 " Joyfully we will advance, 
 And in his praises sing and dance ; 
 On the sea of glass we stand, 
 With harps of glory in our hand." 
 
 This was continued some time, and when they stopped 
 one of the elders made a speech, or gave an exhortation. 
 
346 NEW LEBANON. THE SHAKERS. 
 
 
 
 After this they had a march, and then a lively dance, 
 with a shuffle. The words sung were, as well as I can 
 remember, the following : 
 
 " I love to dance, I love to sing, 
 
 I love to be a Shaker ; 
 I never knew the grace of God, 
 Until I was a Shaker," etc. etc. 
 
 When they had danced until they were weary, another 
 elder made a speech, in which he said that Christ re 
 quired the people to become like little children ; and he 
 thought the Shakers were Christ's disciples, because they 
 walked about with the carelessness of little children, 
 instead of being stiff and nicely dressed, and preaching 
 from elegant pulpits. The elder spoke of " starched, 
 stiff ed-up pulpits" but I presume he meant elegant. 
 " Such ministers and people," said he, " are carnal, 
 and not spiritual ; they are in a state of natur, but we 
 are like little children, and have entered the kingdom-, 
 and let us, like them, march on our heavenly way. 
 
 They then commenced a circular march, moving in 
 a manner which would show, in their apprehension, that 
 they were really and truly the little children of the 
 kingdom. Their bodies were inclined forward, their arms 
 at right angles, and as they went swinging,- teetering 
 and springing along, you would have supposed that their 
 joints were all nicely connected with patent elastic 
 springs, so that they could bob up and down without the 
 
NEW LEBANON. THE SHAKERS. 34T 
 
 least inconvenience. All the time they were swinging 
 their hands, as though they were very warm, and were 
 to keep the air in motion. At times I was 
 igly inclined to laugh, the whole thing seemed so 
 much like a solemn burlesque ; but the sharp eyes of 
 some of the sisters were placed upon me in solemn re 
 buke, and I endeavored to keep my countenance, and 
 observe due decorum. 
 
 Old Antichrist frequently troubles the Shakers, and 
 when he seriously interrupts their spiritual communion 
 and worship, they take measures to drive him off; they 
 will all shake and stamp in the most violent and ridicu 
 lous manner, the whole family uniting, old and young. 
 The visionist perceives when he is fairly shaken off and 
 conquered; and then the following song is sung and 
 danced with great animation : 
 
 " Come life, Shaker life ! 
 
 Come life eternal ! 
 Shake, shake out of me 
 
 All that is carnal. 
 I '11 take nimble steps, 
 
 I '11 be a David, 
 I '11 show Michael twice 
 
 How he behaved." 
 
 Here is a specimen of an unknown tongue, which is 
 sung as a chorus to some of their songs : 
 
"348 NEW LEBANON. THE SHAKERS. 
 
 " Vi a lo vi al le, 
 Vi al le a lando, 
 Vi al lo vi al-le 
 Vi al le a lando." 
 
 While this is being sung, they dance what they call 
 the round dance. They run in a measured step, and 
 suddenly stop, and face about and shuffle. This is con 
 tinued as long as the singers have the gift ; or, in other 
 words, until they are weary. 
 
 I could relate many other interesting and absurd 
 things of the Shakers, such as the jerks, dumb devils, 
 mortification gifts, the visits of the devil, the calling 
 in of good spirits, etc. ; but perchance the reader will 
 scarcely pardon the digression I have already made. 
 Part of these things I saw, and part I learned from a 
 man who had lived with the Shakers from a child until 
 he was twenty-five. At that age he left them, but still 
 remained at Lebanon. 
 
 On the first of November I bade farewell to my new 
 acquaintances, and returned to New York city. I did 
 not so much regret leaving New Lebanon Springs as 1 
 might have done at some other season of the year. The 
 frost king had been there, and despoiled the forests of 
 their glory and beauty, and laid the loveliest things low 
 in the dust. The heavy winds went sweeping over the 
 mountains, tearing every leaf from branches which had 
 been clothed in such sweet comeliness; and the trees 
 
NEW LEBANON. THE SHAKERS. 
 
 * &' 
 
 trembled and shook in the frosty blast, as though they 
 stood in great fear of the increasing cold, stripped of 
 their coats of beautifff green ; and they sent forth on the 
 wings of the rushing tempest a mighty wail over their 
 desolation. I had no heart in this ; for it seemed to me 
 that my inner life had come out and daguerreotyped 
 itself upon nature, changing its sweet face, and leaving 
 it in grief and ruin ; so I left all those once enchanting 
 scenes in their desolation, and went to Hudson, where I 
 took the boat and sailed down the North river, landing 
 once more in the great city. 
 
 Ernest and Irene were married at the time appointed 
 and, agreeably to their wishes, but not according to their 
 expectations, Ernest was immediately offered a partner 
 ship with Mr. Dinneford, which he thankfully accepted. 
 He rented, soon after, a neat and commodious house, 
 and took his mother home to live with him. With little 
 inclination to return home, I spent the winter in visiting 
 different cities, staying a few weeks in each. I went to 
 Philadelphia, Baltimore and Washington. At the latter 
 place I remained two months, occupying my time in 
 listening to the debates in Congress, visiting places of 
 interest and amusement, and making new and agreeable 
 acquaintances. In April I returned to New York, where 
 I remained until May, boarding with Mr. Brown. At 
 his house I found a pleasant home ; but I could not enjoy 
 it, for there was a continual yearning in my soul for 
 30 
 
350 NEW LEBANON. THE SUAKERS. 
 
 something purer and Holier than I had yet tasted, for 
 mutual, faithful love. Travel, excitement, amusements, 
 books, interesting scenery and frUbds, would not satisfy 
 the cravings of my nature ; I must have something more. 
 I must love and be loved, or seek for happiness in vain. 
 Sometimes I half envied Ernest, and blamed myself for 
 having given up Irene. She was such a pattern of a 
 wife that to dwell in her family for a brief space would 
 make any bachelor discontented -with his state of single 
 wretchedness. Mr. Dinneford expressed himself well 
 pleased with Ernest ; nevertheless, he said that it was a 
 severe disappointment at the time, for he had set his 
 heart upon having me for a son-in-law, and a partner in 
 business. Ernest and Irene often rallied me on my 
 dejected appearance, but I kept the cause thereof to 
 myself. That they surmised it I half suspected. 
 
 I was so well pleased with the scenery at Lebanon, 
 in the autumn, that I resolved to return in the spring. 
 May I regarded as a fitting season. When I sailed 
 up the Hudson the trees were in blossom, and the 
 young leaves were richly enrobing the branches, where 
 gay birds poured forth gushes of song and glad melody, 
 which made the woods and fields and glens to ring and 
 rejoice with music. When I arrived at the Springs the 
 season was more backward. But the fields were green, 
 and the buds, on a million naked trees, were just ready 
 to open, and clothe them all in robes of virgin purity and 
 
NEW LEBANON. THE SHAKERS. 351 
 
 beauty. But what availed all this beautiful scenery? 
 It did not fill up that aching void. I was as restless as 
 Noah's dove, when she swept over the vast expanse of 
 waters, but could find no rest. I had received letters 
 from home, urging me to cease my wanderings and 
 return to those who would give me a fond welcome. I 
 resolved to go. 
 
 On the twentieth of May I left Lebanon, and travelled 
 to Boston, by the way of Pittsfield, finding much to 
 interest me in old Berkshire, the roughest and healthiest 
 county in the Bay State. In Berkshire the scenery is 
 wild and grand. It was interesting and awe-inspiring to 
 gaze upon those old mountains, which have stood from 
 century to century, resting their heads against the sky, 
 and washing their wild locks in the waters of the storm 
 and thunder-cloud. The air was bracing and strengthen 
 ing. Sweeping down, pure and fresh, from the jagged 
 hills and mountains, it was very refreshing and reviving 
 to one who had spent months in cities. 
 
 At home I received a most cordial welcome. Mrs. 
 Stewart actually wept for joy. Contrary to my expect 
 ations, I there found Helen Means. She was on a visit 
 to Mrs. Stewart, which was to extend to a number of 
 weeks. I was too happy to see her again to feign cold 
 ness; and, had I wished it, I should have found it a 
 difficult task. I could not doubt that she was truly glad 
 to see me, for it was evident that she found it difficult to 
 
352 NEW LEBANON. THE SHAKERS. 
 
 refrain from weeping. Laboring on the farm, and with 
 her society, and that of my brothers and sisters, and 
 Mrs. Stewart's motherly care, my time passed very 
 agreeably. A few weeks spent in the company of 
 Helen convinced me, more and more, how utterly im 
 possible it was to expect happiness in this world unless 
 she became my wife. I might endure life while she re 
 mained single but if she should marry another ! the 
 very thought was madness. But what had I to hope ? 
 She had twice refused me, and I had pledged myself not 
 to urge my suit again ; and yet I could not for a moment 
 forego the idea that I should yet win the priceless jewel. 
 While Helen remained I was measurably contented, 
 but as soon as she was gone I found life a burden. In 
 vain I cultivated the acquaintance of the young ladies in 
 the neighborhood ; in vain I sought relief in interesting 
 books, in procuring the newest and most fashionable 
 novels, all would not do. Previous to Helen's de 
 parture, she asked me if the year was not almost gone, 
 and invited me to visit them very soon. I resolved that 
 I would do so as soon as we should have finished haying. 
 I might have gone before, but my pride held me back. 
 

 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 HELEN MEANS AND MYSELF. 
 
 DURING my absence, Deacon Webber had grown so 
 ugly and miserly that even his own children, such per 
 fect chips of the old block, could not live with him. He 
 now occupied his house alone. I met him, one day, on 
 my way to the village, and I was surprised to see the 
 change which one year had wrought. His form was 
 bent, and his clothes ragged and filthy. He had not cut 
 his gray, stiff beard for months. With his malignant 
 eyes, hollow cheeks, wrinkled forehead, swarthy skin, 
 and long, gray beard, half covering his thin, dry lips, his 
 uncombed hair, and the filth and dirt which clung to his 
 ragged garments, hands and face, he was a horrible 
 sight to look upon. Though his appearance was dis 
 gusting in the extreme, I could but pity the poor wretch. 
 As much as I had hated him, as much as I now de 
 spised him, he had fallen so low that I did not wish to 
 harm a hair of his head. He had become a general 
 object of loathing, and I would sooner have done him a 
 kindness than to have inflicted an injury. 
 30* 
 
354 HELEN MEANS AND MYSELF. 
 
 He recognized me. and a fiend could not have gathered 
 more of hatred and malignity in his countenance. His 
 brow darkened, his eyes gleamed with the fiercest fires 
 of brutal revenge, and his lips seemed ready to spit out 
 venom and spite. Unmoved, except with disgust, I 
 passed by him ; but I could hear him grind his teeth and 
 growl for some time after I had left him. He looked as 
 though he would be glad to spring upon me, and, like a 
 wild beast, tear me limb from limb. And this was the 
 pious, praying deacon; the " burning and shining light." 
 This was the man who had so often doomed his fellow- 
 creatures to inconceivable torments; and now what a 
 doom was his ! All the time he was professing godliness 
 he was a pharisaical hypocrite, and it had given him the 
 heart of a devil ; and he who has such a heart is in the 
 lowest hell, whether in this world or another. 
 
 The deacon's whole object now was to accumulate 
 property. Gold was his god, and all his vows were paid 
 at its altar. He lent money, took mortgages of lands 
 and buildings, and, as his creditors often failed to redeem 
 them, his property rapidly increased. He sold for ready 
 money nearly every article of household furniture, beds, 
 and bedding, and then lived more like a brute than a 
 man. He afterwards rented the house, all but one room. 
 His children continued to show him the respect which is 
 due from a child to a parent, not from love, but that 
 they might inherit his fortune. A number of excuses 
 
HELEN MEANS AND MYSELF. 355 
 
 were given for leaving him, but the true one was kept 
 out of sight. 
 
 In September I again visited my uncle. I was re 
 ceived with that familiarity and kindness which parents 
 bestow upon children. They had always treated me like 
 a child. The only reception which seemed at all cold 
 was from my uncle, on my first return from New York. 
 Some days then passed away before I could feel as easy 
 in his company as formerly. There was no change in 
 my aunt ; and now she expressed much anxiety in re 
 lation to my health, and begged me to stay and let her 
 doctor me, until I should get rid of that pale, languid 
 look, and bring back the color and sprightliness which I 
 once possessed^ I required but little urging to comply, 
 for I could dwell in the presence of one whose attractive 
 loveliness increased with every hour. To be near her 
 was now my greatest happiness. By her side I could sit 
 for hours, though not one word was spoken. To catch 
 one glance of her beautiful eyes, or feel the touch of her 
 hand, which thrilled my whole being, was a pleasure 
 which I sought elsewhere in vain. So intense and all- 
 absorbing was my love, that I could have died for her ; 
 but to live without her was worse than dying. 
 
 In spite of my aunt's motherly care and nursing, my 
 health, instead of improving, was every day growing 
 more precarious. In vain she prepared me strengthening 
 syrups, and labored with a mother's care and anxiety to 
 
356 HELEN MEANS AND MYSELF. 
 
 bring back my lost health and spirits. In the presence 
 of Helen there were moments of intense happiness ; but 
 every moment only made me so much the more anxious 
 to press her to my heart, and hear her whisper the dear 
 words, " I am thine ! " She engaged all my thoughts, 
 all my wishes, and all my hopes ; and yet I was debarred 
 the privilege of asking her to crown my long and ardent 
 devotion with her love. I knew not what to do, and 
 sometimes indulged in bitter thoughts against her who 
 was dearer to me than my own life. Helen seemed to 
 grow restless and uneasy, and I often caught her eyes 
 fixed earnestly upon me. But those eyes had before 
 deceived me, or I was unable to read their language ; 
 and how could I hope to understand tjpm now ? My 
 uncle, too, often regarded me with an inquiring and 
 troubled look. 
 
 After two or three weeks of miserable doubt and sus 
 pense, the most bitter thoughts began to rankle in my 
 heart, and the result was that Helen's society, in a 
 measure, lost its charm. She noticed it, and, as I 
 thought, tried to throw around me a witchery that I 
 could not resist. I thought she must be a coquette, and 
 kept aloof from her as much as possible. When in her 
 society, I was moody and silent. I resolved to return 
 home. I named the day, but, in accordance with my 
 uncle's wishes, postponed the time one week ; but I 
 resolved that Helen should not profit by it, for I would 
 
HELEN MEANS AND MYSELF. 357 
 
 absent myself from her as much as I could conveniently, 
 and when with her talk as little as possible. The con 
 sequences were that I was all repulsion, and she all 
 attraction. An almost irresistible charm hung around 
 her, and it was with extreme difficulty that I could over 
 come its power. She sometimes seemed as though she 
 would be glad to open her heart, and tell me all its 
 desires and hopes ; but I repelled her with all the strength 
 I could muster. " Surely," thought I, " she is a com 
 plete coquette." I often reflected upon the utter impos 
 sibility of Helen Means being a coquette ; but how else 
 could I account for her present conduct ? 
 
 My last week of probation had nearly expired. In 
 two days more I should return home, and remain until 
 the marriage of Thomas and Lizzie, which would take 
 place the next month ; and then I would go I knew not 
 and cared not whither. To get away from myself would 
 be my greatest desire. 0, it is a sad thing for the 
 young heart to be so overburdened that it would gladly 
 escape from its own thoughts, and forget its own identity ! 
 Many a one flies from home, friends, and from all that J s 
 dear, from every object loved, around which memory 
 ings, as the startled fawn flies from the hunter and 
 the hound. He goes out into the great wilderness-world, 
 not to find joy, peace or happiness, but that he may 
 leave the pangs of disappointment and broken hopes far, 
 far behind, or drown them in excitement, and charm 
 
358 HELEN MEANS AND MYSELF. 
 
 them away with new scenes and new faces. I, too, 
 would go, and long years should pass away ere I again 
 returned. The image of her I loved so well I would 
 tear from my heart, and tread it under my feet. The 
 blissful hours and blessed moments which had so cheered 
 us in the bright past, and which now rilled memory's 
 halls with beautiful forms and diviner shapes, should, 
 every one of them, hasten away ; and I would crowd 
 them with delights drawn from new scenes and new 
 hopes. 
 
 Day had once more said good-night to the world, and 
 the evening shadows again marshalled their dusky troops 
 to cover the earth with darkness. Twilight lingered 
 long, as if unwilling to turn away its rosy face from such 
 an enchanting scene. It was glorious; for a gorgeous 
 autumnal sunset had poured upon the world a billowy 
 flood of golden smiles. The great king of light went 
 down encircled with glory, as goes the good man to his 
 rest, when his work on earth is done, and the lingering 
 red of the western sky faded into the clear blue. And 
 now the harvest moon, the lovely queen of night, rode 
 proudly on high, making the white clouds her chariot, 
 and decking it with stars. As she swept through th& 
 skies, she marshalled her armies of light and beauty, and 
 sent them forth on their nightly errand of love and peace 
 to every child of humanity who will but look up and 
 drink in their smiles, and open his ears to the music of 
 
HELEN MEANS AND MYSELF. 859 
 
 the heavenly hosts ! 0, how magnificent were the 
 clouds, sailing through the heavens with the grace and 
 majesty of mighty worlds ! Some were red, rosy and 
 white, and others were blue and orange, and some seemed 
 to catch all the hues of the rainbow, blending them in 
 most wondrous beauty. 
 
 But, although the evening was so delightful and soul- 
 inspiring, I was in no mood to enjoy it. I could not 
 close my eyes to its glories, nor entirely shut out its 
 hallowing influences from my heart; neither could I 
 enter into the fulness of its delights. I was shut out, for 
 a time, from the innermost of nature's sanctuary, from 
 the holy of holies. I love nature at all seasons ; and my 
 way has never yet been so utterly dark but that her 
 light could scatter some of the shadows. There have 
 been times when I have turned away from the faces of 
 men, but never from the benignant face of God, smiling 
 from his works. 
 
 When twilight had entirely disappeared, and night 
 once more reigned over the earth, and the tall trees 
 had daguerreotyped themselves upon the ground which 
 they overshadowed, and were looking down with pride 
 at their forms of beauty, as they reposed in the 
 moonlight, sad and unquiet at heart, and so unfitted 
 for such scenes of beauty, I took a candle and book, 
 and retired to the parlor, to read. After seeking, in 
 vain, to fix my mind upon the subject of the writer, I 
 
360 HELEN MEANS AND MYSELF. 
 
 laid it down, and leaned my head upon my hand, and 
 gave loose rein to my burdened thoughts. While thus 
 employed, a light step approached me. I knew that it 
 was Helen, hut I did not lift my head. She came near 
 me, and laid her hand upon my shoulder, and said, 
 
 " This is a beautiful evening, Henri ! " 
 
 " It is well enough," I replied. 
 
 " Is that all?" 
 
 " As much more as you please." 
 
 She paused a moment, and then said, 
 
 "Is it right to spend such an evening alone, when 
 your friends desire your company ? " 
 
 " That depends upon circumstances. But I have not 
 been alone; would to heaven I had ! " 
 
 " Who were your companions, then? " 
 
 " My own thoughts." 
 
 " They should be pleasant, as you prefer their company 
 to any other." 
 
 " There you mistake, for I am weary of them; they 
 make me ever so wretched." 
 
 " Why harbor them, then ?" 
 
 " For a very simple reason ; I cannot help it." 
 
 " May I know what they are ? " 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "Why not, Henri?" 
 
 " Because I cannot tell you; and if I could 3 I would 
 not ! " 
 
HELEN MEANS AND MYSELF. 361 
 
 She seemed a little disconcerted, and walked to the 
 window a moment, and then returned to my side again, 
 saying, ^ 
 
 " It is very beautiful to-night; will not the morning 
 he pleasant?" 
 
 < 'Most likely.'' 
 
 " We used to ramble, once, at early dawn. Will you 
 walk with me in the morning 1 " 
 
 " I am not very anxious for a walk myself; but, if you 
 particularly desire my company, I will attend you." 
 
 When I uttered these words, she sighed deeply ; and 
 I looked up, for the first time since she came into the 
 room. She was gazing at me, and a sad expression rested 
 upon her countenance. 
 
 " Shall I play and sing to you ? " she inquired. 
 
 " If you wish." 
 
 " Not without you desire it." 
 
 " I 'm fond of music, you know." 
 
 "But not when I make it." 
 
 " That's your own inference." 
 
 0, Henri ! " 
 
 " Say on." 
 
 She now raised her hand and brushed away a bright 
 tear, lingered a moment, seemingly making an effort to 
 speak ; she then arose and opened the piano, swept her 
 fingers across the keys, and played a beautiful but 
 simple air, that she had often sung to me when a child, 
 31 
 
362 HELEN MEANi AND MYSELF. 
 
 She then sung, in touching and thrilling tones, the fol 
 lowing -words : 
 
 Tne heart is cold that 's dear to me, 
 
 The heart I yearn to call my own ; 
 For when I touch the magic key, 
 
 It gives not back an answering tone. 
 
 It turns away from true love's shrine, 
 
 While I in sorrow linger there, 
 
 And long to whisper " Make me thine," 
 But fear to breathe the heartfelt prayer. 
 
 How well I love the bending skies, 
 
 The dimpled waves of golden light, 
 And all the glad and starry eyes 
 
 That pierce the sombre veil of night ! 
 
 The hills and dales with verdure clad, 
 The brooklets leaping through the dell, 
 
 The birds with notes so full and glad, 
 Or soft as evening's vesper-bell ! 
 
 The leafy trees, that charm the eye 
 
 With worlds of gems at early dawn, 
 As though they 'd lift them to the sky, 
 
 To glitter when the night comes on ! 
 
 The rivers winding to the sea, 
 The flowers that blush o'er all the plain, 
 
 'The zephyrs whispering lovingly, 
 To coul the throbbing brow of pain ! 
 
HELEN MEANg AND MYSELF. 363 
 
 Nature is ever bright and fair ; 
 
 And, though I love her passing well, 
 Yet in my heart are lines of care, 
 
 And yearnings that I may not tell. 
 
 0, -what is all thejjrorld to me 
 "Without the heart that should be mine ? 
 
 But one fond look, then trustingly 
 I '11 lay my trembling hand in thine ! 
 
 A few lines were sufficient to call my attention to the 
 thoughts of the singer, and to draakme to her side. 
 When she had finished, she turned her head, and fixed 
 those soul-speaking eyes, with all their light and love, 
 full upon me. For a moment I was charmed and enrap 
 tured, full of great hope, and then a shadowy cloud 
 came and stood between me and the object of my adora 
 tion, shutting off the light of those truthful eyes, which 
 I so much needed to revive and strengthen my fainting 
 heart. I thought of the moments in the past, when I 
 had been so intoxicated with that thrilling and melting 
 glance, that I had almost worshipped the source from 
 whence it sprung. Twice had it caused me to declare 
 my love, and earnestly seek a return of my most devoted 
 aifection, and each time I had been firmly rejected. I 
 again thought she must be a coquette. In my mind I 
 compared her to the serpent that charms but to destroy. 
 
 When these feelings had taken strong possession of 
 my heart, I left her side, and seated myself upon the 
 
364: HELEN MEANS AND MYSELF. 
 
 sofa in moody silence. She seemed irresolute for a 
 moment ; then she arose and came and stood near me, 
 and said, while a sweet, sad smile played around her 
 
 " You think ill of me, Henri ! " 
 
 " Helen," I replied, " I despise an untruth; and, if I 
 did not, it would be in vain to deny what you allege, for 
 actions speak louder than words." 
 
 "Very true; for, had you denied it, I should have 
 doubted even yom word. Now, Henri, you have one 
 duty to perform, which must not be longer .delayed ; you 
 must give me your reasons for this." 
 
 "Is that my duty?" 
 
 "Do you doubt it?" 
 
 "I have not given it sufficient thought to be able to 
 tell." 
 
 " It does not require thought ; a moment's reflection 
 is sufficient. Think of the happy hours of the past, 
 the relations which have existed between us, and which 
 should exist now; of what the future may have in 
 store for us, and then answer to your own conscience if 
 you should not tell me all ! " 
 
 " I will tell you, Helen, since you so much desire it. 
 You remember that twice have I offered you my heart 
 and hand, believing, each time, that you would answer 
 me favorably. When you last rejected me I desired you 
 to take time to consider, telling you that I never should 
 
HELEN MEANS AND MYSELF. 
 
 365 
 
 make you another offer. You wished for no time, but 
 decided at once. That I love you deeply, devotedly, you 
 do not doubt. That I ought to break the cords that bind 
 me in hopeless love, is equally certain. And, though 
 I cannot sever a single shred, nor drive for a moment 
 from my breast the passionate love that is wearing me to 
 the grave, you still keep up that witching spell that first 
 charmed me into love, and which draws the cords still 
 clo'ser around my heart ! " 
 
 " If I do as you say, do you regard it as done inten 
 tionally?" 4P 
 
 " I cannot doubt it ! " 
 
 " And what is your inference ? " 
 
 " That yoiyire a coquette ! " 
 
 " You shall know me better ! " 
 
 " I would gladly do so ! " 
 
 c * You have been very plain with me, Henri, and I 
 will be equally plain with you. Although you have re 
 garded me as a coquette, still you have ever been very dear 
 to me ! I have but few friends, and those I love most 
 dearly ; but you I love more than them all ! You have 
 thought that I could wantonly trifle with your holiest 
 affections ! Do you think that I would knowingly injure 
 your kind uncle and aunt, who have been more than 
 parents to me ; or the good, dear Mrs. Stewart, who has 
 ever been like a mother ? How, then, could I wantonly 
 injure you, when I love you more than they ? " 
 31* 
 
366 HELEN MEANS AND MYSELF 
 
 " Then I have judged you wrongly ! " 
 
 " And you shall have still stronger proofs. As I have 
 twice rejected you, you may now reject me ; but, if ever 
 I am led to the altar, your hand alone "shall lead me ! 
 If ever I give my heart and hand to another, you alone 
 shall receive them ! " 
 
 " 0, Helen ! " I replied to these enrapturing words, 
 " can you mean all this? " 
 
 " Must I repeat it again, in order to convince your 
 unbelieving heart? " 
 
 " I am satisfied, dearest ! " I answered, lolding her to 
 my breast. There was no shrinking away now, no 
 half-suppressed desire to tear herself from my arms. 
 That' long and passionate embrace was mmtual, looking 
 love from eyes humid with their burden of too intense 
 happiness, and breathing out deep sighs, for spoken 
 words would ha?e been but a mockery, and uttering 
 the heart's own language in burning kisses. I cannot 
 describe the thrilling rapture of that moment ! Worlds 
 of joy seemed to come pouring into our hearts, making 
 them like heaven in the intensity of their bliss ! But I 
 must stop here, for words are poor things when used to 
 describe the mightier emotions of the heart, whether they 
 be of joy or sorrow. Perchance the reader will say that 
 I should have drawn the veil of silence over this scene, 
 rather than have exposed it to the gaze of those who can 
 not appreciate it. 
 
HELEN MEANS AND MYSELF. 367 
 
 Not many minutes had passed away, before I was 
 thinking of what might be the real import of the words 
 she had uttered, even while I held her heart beating 
 against my own. But other thoughts, beautiful as morn 
 ing, sweet as the breath of June, and brightly tinted as 
 a rainbow, were stirring the long pent-up emotions of my 
 heart ; and then was no time to talk or seek explanations. 
 Lovers are never in the possession of such heart-full hap 
 piness as when they find no use for words, ancl their 
 utterance would be like harsh discord in the midst of 
 sweet harmony-. She was the first to speak. 
 
 " You would know more, Henri ? " she said. 
 
 "You have read my thoughts," I replied. "You 
 said that, if ever you gave your heart and hand to 
 another, I alone should receive them. Did you mean 
 they should be mine whenever I chose to claim them 7 " 
 
 "Yes, dearest, they are yours now and evermore." 
 
 " Then I am satisfied, and will query no more." 
 
 " Nay, but you should query more and now ; for we 
 should understand each other, that there may be nothing 
 to mar the happiness of the future." 
 
 "You must explain, for I know not to what you 
 refer." 
 
 " Is there nothing in the past that is dark or mys 
 terious? Are there no problems you would have 
 solved?" 
 
 Quickly now came rushing upon me the thought of her 
 
368 HELEN MEANS AND MYSELF. 
 
 twice refusing me, of her intimation that she did not 
 love me ; and I felt that an explanation was needed. 
 
 "Yes, there are, Helen ; and it is well, as you say, that 
 . they should be solved now. Tell me why you twice 
 rejected me, and if you really meant that you did not 
 love me." 
 
 " Do you think that I would be guilty of deception ? " 
 
 " No, and that is what puzzles me." 
 
 * i I lywe thought that, if ever I was guilty of falsehood 
 ind deception in my life, it was when I gave you the 
 impression that I did not love you. But you shall be my 
 judge. Can we truly say that we love, unless we have 
 perfect confidence in the objects of our affection ? Is it 
 love, in its highest and holiest sense, if we are sometimes 
 fearful that they will not always be true to us ? " 
 
 " Under such circumstances, we could not love with 
 that perfect love such as you or I should require." 
 
 " Then I had not perfect love for you ; for I lacked 
 confidence in the strength of your attachment." 
 
 " And I alone was to blame for that." 
 
 " I am glad to hear you say it ; for Ms the truth. 
 When I learned of your engagement to another, I could 
 hardly believe your own words ; for I had felt that our 
 destinies were so linked and intertwined that they could 
 not be separated. You had never breathed of love, but 
 still I hoped that we understood each other. I well 
 knew that I could never love another as I had loved you, 
 
HELEN MEANS AND MYSELF. 369 
 
 and I determined never to marry. I had been very 
 happy, ever since I was blessed, through your instrument 
 ality, with my present peaceful home. The loss of your 
 dear society I deeply regretted ; but I had hoped that our 
 separation might be short. I cannot tell the anguish 
 which your engagement caused me, and I would not 
 dwell upon it now. A load of misery was removed from 
 my heart when that engagement terminated. But soon 
 came the thought that your attachments were weak, and 
 would not last. I could not trust you, as I had before ; 
 and I felt that I did not truly love." 
 
 " That is all natural enough ; but I think the test was 
 too severe, as I had given up Irene entirely for you." 
 
 " You have not yet learned all, and I shall impart to 
 you the information only on one condition." 
 
 " I trust it is not hard." 
 
 1 ' Very simple. You shall promise a full pardon to 
 all concerned." 
 
 " That is easily done. To-night I could pardon, with 
 all my heart, the bitterest enemy I have in the world." 
 
 " You promise, then ? " 
 
 "I do." 
 
 " I will be brief as I can. Your uncle, I think, 
 regretted your engagement with Miss Dinneford nearly 
 as much as I. He was, as he told me afterwards, sadly 
 disappointed. He had fondly hoped to see us united in 
 holy wedlock. When he learned that you were no longer 
 
I 
 370 HELEN MEANS AND MYSELF. 
 
 betrothed to Miss Dinneford, he said that you were so 
 changeable and fickle that you could not be trusted. He 
 should not be surprised if I received an offer of marriage 
 from you ; but, knowing that I had already suffered bit 
 terly, and as he loved me as well as though I was his 
 own child, he wished me to give you no encouragement 
 until there had been sufficient time to test the strength of 
 your attachments. As he had ever been so kind to me. 
 more IJRan a father to the poor outcast, as I knew his 
 heart was brimming with kindness and his head filled with 
 wisdom, I desired to be guided by his wishes, to make 
 them, so far as consistent, my law. I promised him not 
 to give you a favorable answer until I had his permission, 
 unless I thought it a solemn duty to act otherwise. It was 
 not so difficult a matter to make this promise ; for I was 
 as sceptical as he. A few days since, your uncle released 
 me from my bond." 
 
 " The old Shylock ! He must have his 'pound of 
 flesh ! ' " 
 
 " I think he has held on too long ; but he meant well." 
 
 " But there was an if. Why did you not take advan 
 tage of it ? I am almost vexed with you, Helen, that you 
 did not do so long ago ; for I gave you every reason to 
 trust me." 
 
 11 Don't say vexed, Henri. I have been satisfied since 
 your return ; but I was not before. I was fearful that, 
 if easily won, I might be easily cast aside. And your 
 
 - 
 
HELEN MEANS AND MYSELF. 371 
 
 earnestness, after I had refused you, did not change the 
 matter at all ; for I knew that your nature could not 
 brook a defeat, and that it would not, if it were possible 
 to prevent it. Opposition to your wishes, I well knew, 
 would only stimulate you to greater exertions.' 7 
 
 " 0, you little sceptic ! I would not have thought it." 
 
 11 Well, you will learn all about me, by and by." 
 
 " I hope so; and when you know me better, there will 
 be no more doubts. But how much longer should you 
 have held on to that odious promise? I should have 
 thought you would have felt it your duty to have broken 
 it, when I met you at my home." 
 
 " I was placed in a delicate position, for I must be 
 the suitor, and not you ; and, besides, I wished your 
 good uncle's full approval, But, if he had continued 
 stubborn another week, I should have felt it my duty to 
 make known to you that your love was returned, and I 
 would have done so." 
 
 " I believe, yea, I know> that uncle has a kind heart, 
 and that his intentions were good ; so I will cheerfully 
 forgive him. But, like many other well-meaning but 
 mistaken people, he has caused much needless suffering." 
 
 " You spoke of doubts departing when I knew you 
 better ; they are all gone now, never to return." 
 
 " Bless you for those cheering "wo^ls, and may Heaven 
 grant that I may be ever worthy of your confidence and 
 love ! " 
 
372 HELEN MEANS AND MYSELF. 
 
 11 If we are but faithful to the inner light, heaven's 
 choicest blessings will be ours." 
 
 "With your love, dearest, to shield me when the 
 tempter comes, I believe that I can conquer, and nearly 
 all the time be very good." 
 
 " We may strengthen each other, I doubt not." 
 
 " And so be brave and happy. 0, Helen! I never 
 can be too thankful that heaven has blessed me with your 
 dear love." 
 
 " And our mutual constancy, peace and joy, will best 
 manifest our gratitude ! " 
 
 " Then I trust that we may offer up a perpetual sacri 
 fice. But, tell me why you were so decided in your 
 refusals. You acted as though it was a matter of per 
 fect indifference to you." 
 
 " The reason is evident. If I had not been decided, I 
 could not have been faithful to my promise." 
 
 " I am satisfied, Helen. I understand it all. The 
 enigmas are all solved ; and perhaps it is well that we 
 have been subjected to this trial, at least, I will try and 
 think so. My present happiness is abundantly sufficient 
 to compensate for what I have lost in the past. The 
 future, I know, will be joyous as heaven." 
 
 " A perpetual spring-time, a life-long summer of the 
 heart!" * ' 
 
 "And, though we are sometimes visited with afflic- 
 
HELEN MEANS AND MYSELF. 373 
 
 tions, that make sad for a season, may they be like 'dark- 
 eyed autumn,' beautiful even in its sadness ! " 
 
 " Bless you for the thought ! We must all experience 
 some sorrows, and meet with some disappointments. But 
 the faithful need not fear them, for they shall only make 
 them stronger." 
 
 "I would that I were as strong as you are, as free 
 from evil thoughts and evil passions ! " 
 
 " Nay, I am weak, as well as you ; but in God shall 
 
 be our trust! " 
 
 32 
 

 CHAPTER XXVI . 
 
 WONDERFUL DISCOVERY. 
 
 THE next morning, my uncle, with mock gravity, con 
 gratulated me upon my improved appearance ; then 
 turned to Helen, and told her she should have known 
 better than to keep me up so late, for it was a well- 
 estahlished fact that invalids required more rest and 
 sleep than persons who were free from disease. He 
 hoped she would remember this in the future. My aunt, 
 the good soul, laughed, and said, " No matter about 
 established facts ; if a course of treatment produces good 
 results, and restores the patient, that is enough." 
 
 A conversation of a more serious nature succeeded this 
 pleasant raillery. Uncle and aunt proposed that when 
 we were married we should live with them ; and they 
 would make over the farm to us, to be ours at their 
 decease. I objected, on account of Mrs. Stewart ; but 
 they said the house was large enough for all, and 
 that Mrs. Stewart should be welcome whenever she 
 wished to change her home. We made a conditional 
 agreement, which might have been carried into effect, had 
 
WONDERFUL DISCOVERY. 375 
 
 not an event happened which caused us to entirely change 
 our plan. 
 
 At the appointed time, Thomas and Lizzie were mar 
 ried. They immediately left for their future honie. 
 Thomas and Mr. Harvey, the husband of Lizzie, a 
 brother to Thomas' wife, had purchased a paper-mill of 
 Mr. Harvey's father ; and they had formed a partnership 
 with a Mr. Vinton, also a brother-in-law, for the pur 
 pose of manufacturing paper. As I had determined to 
 turn my attention to farming, it was the desire of Thomas 
 and the rest of the family that I should retain the home 
 stead. Mrs. Stewart seemed anxious that I should do 
 so. On the other hand, Helen was desirous that I 
 should comply with uncle's request, though she was wil-| 
 ling to do as I thought best. I was halting between two 
 opinions, when an unexpected development caused me to 
 decide. 
 
 We were married, at my uncle's, in the following Novem 
 ber. A large number of friends came to celebrate the happy 
 event, and to bless us with their smiles and goSd wishes. 
 Among the rest were Ernest and Irene Brown ; or, as 
 she wrote her name, Irene Dinneford Brown. They 
 performed the parts of bridegroom and bridesmaid, as 
 I had promised Ernest when he little suspected my 
 meaning. 
 
 . We returned with them to New York, on a marriage 
 tour. We were in the city, at a hotel, when the start- 
 
376 WONDERFUL DISCOVERY. 
 
 ling revelation was made which rendered our future 
 course perfectly clear. Previous to the development, 
 Helen had related to me a somewhat remarkable vision, 
 or dream. She said that a good and benevolent looking 
 man came to her, and laid his hand upon her head in 
 benediction. His eyes were blue, and looked spiritual 
 and holy, as they were fixed upon her. A smile full 
 of sweetness and satisfaction played upon his benignant 
 face. 
 
 He said, " Do you remember me ? " 
 
 " I have a faint recollection of you," she answered ; 
 11 1 saw you when I was a little child." 
 
 "Who am I?" 
 
 * "My father! But you have long been dead, and I 
 had forgotten you ! " 
 
 "I am your father, my child ! And your mother, 
 would you know of her ? " 
 
 11 My mother ! Where is she with the living or the 
 dead?" 
 
 " She lives, my child, and mourns thy loss ! Go and 
 comfort her ! " 
 
 "Mourns for me? 0, tell me where she is, that I 
 may fly to her arms, and gladden her heart by the sight 
 of her child!" 
 
 " Thy prayer shall be granted ! Follow me ! " 
 
 " He led me into the next room, and pointed me to a 
 pale and sickly looking man, who lay, in a disturbed 
 
I 
 
 WONDERFUL DISCOVERY. 377 
 
 slumber, upon the bed. I looked at him attentively, and 
 I saw*that it "was the melancholy invalid whom we had 
 met at table, and had seen going in and out of the next 
 room. He -who had seemed my father said, ' Be like a 
 child to him, and he shall direct thee to thy mother ! ' 
 I was about to ask her name, when I awoke." 
 
 This dream made a deep impression upon Helen. She 
 said she had often doubted whether those whom she 
 had regarded as her parents were really so. She never 
 recollected of having that love which a child should feel 
 for a parent. And sometimes dim and confused thoughts 
 had come crowding upon her, the cause of which she had 
 sought for in vain. They ever ran upon one subject, 
 a country home, and a lady who seemed very near and 
 dear to her. I tried to persuade her that it was because 
 her parents had not treated her kindly ; and, after placing 
 her at Deacon Webber's, had apparently forgotten her. 
 
 "You are mistaken," she said; "for when I awoke 
 from my dream I immediately travelled back in thought 
 to the time when I was a little child, before I lived 
 with Mr. Means; and I then lived with a dear, good 
 woman, who was my mother. I am sure that it was in 
 the country; I can see the spot now. And, unless I 
 have had a previous existence, according to the faith of 
 some, and had such a home then, it was my home in my 
 early childhood ! " 
 
 32* * 
 
378 WONDERFUL DISCOVERY. 
 
 "Well, Helen," I replied, "as we are to start for 
 home to-day, what can you do for the sick man ? " 
 
 " We must not go to-day ; I dare not ! Do stay one 
 day more ! " 
 
 " It shall be as you say ; and a week, if you wish." 
 
 In the afternoon the sick man was taken bleeding at 
 the lungs. The hemorrhage was so severe that a phy 
 sician who was called said he could not live but a few days, 
 at most. I knew that he was a stranger, and I readily 
 assented to Helen's request, that she should be his nurse. 
 She attended him with all the faithfulness of a wife or 
 daughter, and his gratitude was unbounded. Three days 
 after the hemorrhage had been checked, and, as he had 
 recovered somewhat from the exhaustion which it caused, 
 he expressed a desire to see me alone. With my curi 
 osity very much excited, I obeyed the summons. 
 
 I found him propped up with pillows, and looking pale 
 and ghastly. He addressed me thus : 
 
 " I have learned, from your inestimable lady, that 
 
 your name is Henri Eaton, and that you are from , 
 
 Mass." 
 
 I nodded assent. 
 
 " I feel," he continued, " that I have not long to live; 
 and I wish to confide a sacred trust to you. Are you 
 willing to accept it ? " 
 
 "I am." 
 
 "My nanrc is Edgar Austin. I have neither father, 
 
WONDERFUL DISCOVERY. 379 
 
 mother, brother, sister, wife or child, living. "You see I 
 am alone in the world ; and, therefore, I doubly appre 
 ciate the kindness which you and your lady have shown 
 me. I once had a brother. He was older than I, and 
 of an overbearing, jealous disposition. He was passion 
 ate and unforgiving. Such was his treatment of me, 
 that I had but little love for him, and seldom visited 
 him. Some fifteen years since, as I had not seen him 
 for four years, and as he had married in the time, I re 
 solved to pay him a visit. Not knowing what the recep 
 tion might be, for we had parted in anger, I left my 
 horse at the tavern, about a mile from my brother's, and 
 went the rest of the way on foot. In order to shorten 
 the distance, I concluded to leave the road, and pass 
 through a piece of woodland near my brother's house. I 
 had gone about half-way through, when I discovered, a 
 few rods from me, a man and a little girl. I stopped, to 
 learn if the man was not my brother. In a moment I 
 was satisfied that it was he ; but judge of my surprise 
 and horror, to see him pick up a stone, .and strike the 
 little girl upon the head, which laid her bleeding at his 
 feet ! The monster then knelt down to see if she breathed, 
 laid his hand upon her heart, and felt of her pulse. He 
 then threw her into a hole some three feet deep, which 
 had the appearance of having been dug some months 
 before. He now set to work gathering leaves, and pieces 
 of rotten wood, which he threw on to her. 
 
WONDERFUL DISCOVERY. 
 
 " So astounded was I to behold him commit such an 
 atrocious deed, that the moment he struck the blow I 
 was half paralyzed, so that I did not move. Bat. had 
 he offered to strike her again, I think I should have 
 thrown off my paralysis, and rushed to her rescue. But 
 a moment's reflection taught me that to keep still would 
 be the surest way to save the child. I knew that, if 1 
 met my brother then, a deadly encounter would be the 
 result ; and, as he was much the stronger, I was fearful 
 that I should be overcome, and to save himself he would 
 take my life. 
 
 " When the wretch had completely covered her over, 
 he ran, with great speed, towards his house. When I 
 could no longer hear the sound of his heavy footsteps, I 
 lost not a moment in hastening to where the child lay, 
 and removing the rubbish that covered her. Poor little 
 thing ! how still she lay, and how pale and bloody she 
 was ! for the blood was still running from the deep gash 
 upon her head. 
 
 "Having travelled much, and been an invalid for 
 years, I had paid some attention to medicine, and never 
 went any distance without carrying some with me. I 
 had some drops in my pocket, which I applied to her 
 nose and mouth. While thus employed I heard foot 
 steps, and I rightly surmised that the murderer was 
 returning. As quick as thought I snatched her up, and 
 darted into some thick bushes near by, resolved to fight 
 
WONDERFUL, DISCO VERT. 381 
 
 the monster, if he discovered me. It was a relief to see 
 him commence throwing in the loose gravel, for he 
 brought a spade with him, without looking into the 
 grave. In a brief space he filled up the hole, then lev 
 elled it down, and trod upon it with his feet. He then 
 brought leaves, and decayed vegetable matter, and spread 
 upon the spot, making the ground to look as though it 
 had not lately been stirred. During this time, although 
 he worked in grear haste, he would frequently stop 
 and listen, and, with a half- frightened look, gaze in 
 every direction, as though he was fearful some one was 
 approaching. When, as he thought, he had fully accom 
 plished his diabolical purpose, he returned home. 
 
 " I was now determined to re^wre the child to life, if 
 possible. I poured the drops intoner mouth, chafed her 
 hands, face and stomach, and used every means in my 
 power to restore her. In a brief period I was repaid a 
 thousand times, by beholding signs of returning anima 
 tion. She soon began to moan piteously ; but, removing 
 her still further from the hated spot, and from the house 
 of my brother, lest he might hear her, I laid her down 
 by the side of a little creek, and washed the blood from 
 her head and face, and tied up the wound with my hand 
 kerchief. I then soothed her to skep. It was now 
 quite dark ; and I took her in my arms, and carried her 
 beyond the hotel, and laid her down in a field, near the 
 road. I then hastily returned for my horse, rode to 
 
382 WONDERFUL DISCOVERY. 
 
 where I had. Jeft the child, took her in, and drove rapidly 
 away. 
 
 "i now began to ask myself, seriously, what I should 
 do with* the child. Some fifteen miles from where I 
 then was lived a surgeon, with whom I was intimately 
 acquainted. I resolved to drive to his house with all 
 speed ; for I thought the wound should be dressed with 
 as little delay as possible. I was so fortunate as to find 
 him at home. I told him that I %ad a little girl with 
 me who had fallen out of the chaise and hurt her head 
 badly, but I hoped not fatally. He examined her wound, 
 and dressed it, and said there was no danger if it was 
 properly attended to. I remained there three days, 
 when, with his consent^ carried the little girl to Boston, 
 and, in a short time, ner wound was perfectly healed. 
 
 " It was my desire, now, to restore the child to her 
 parents, if I could find them ; but I did not wish to en 
 danger the life and liberty of my brother, for I feared 
 the disgrace. It might be possible that she had lived 
 with him, he having taken her from the poor-house, or 
 from some destitute family ; or, perchance, she was a child 
 of shame, and, possibly, his own. I met with one diffi 
 culty which I had not anticipated. When I asked the 
 little girl her name, she could not tell me. She seemed 
 to try to think, but, after a while, burst into tears. The 
 blow upon her head had affected her memory. I then 
 resolved to visit the neighborhood where my brother 
 
WONDERFUL DISCOVERY. 383 
 
 resided, and, if any little child was missing, restore her 
 to the parents, and invent some story in relation to her, 
 so as to shield myself and brother. But, as I wa about 
 to start on a foreign tour, and the ship being unexpectedly 
 ready to sail, I could not go without much inconvenience 
 and expense. I then procured a place for her with a 
 poor family, where she could board cheap ; and, paying for 
 her board for one year, set sail for Liverpool. It so 
 happened that business detained me a number of years ; 
 but I continued to make remittances, from year to year, 
 for the support of the child, until I returned to Boston. 
 When I did return, the family was not to be found, and 
 I have sought in vain to trace them. 
 
 " I now feel that it was an unpardonable offence ia 
 consenting to leave Boston, on any consideration, without 
 making an effort to find her parents. You live in the 
 town adjoining where my brother resided. I am ex 
 tremely anxious that the girl, if living, should be found. 
 I have property to the amount of seven thousand five 
 hundred dollars, which I shall give to her. The whole 
 business I must intrust in your hands, and I will make 
 ample provision for your trouble and expense. Five hun 
 dred dollars out of my estate I have reserved for that pur 
 pose, with a provision in the will that more shall be used, 
 if required. You must first learn who were her parents, 
 and then advertise for her until you find her. I should 
 have done it, ere now, but one of my most fatal propensities 
 
384 WONDERFUL DISCOVERY. 
 
 . was to put off sacred duties to a more convenient season. 
 By giving way to this fueling, I have lost many opportu 
 nities of doing good, and have left a burden upon my own 
 heart which now I am little able to bear. My brother is 
 dead, and I have never been to the town where he lived 
 since I learned that in his heart he was a murderer ! " 
 
 " Your story," I remarked, " is a strange one," hardly 
 able to suppress my agitation. " Did you give the child 
 a name?" 
 
 " No, for I thought that in a short time her memory 
 might be restored to her ; and I left orders that, if she 
 ever told her name, search should be made for her 
 parents, and she restored to them. But Means was a 
 poor, shiftless fellow." 
 
 " Means, did you say?" 
 
 " Yes, that was the name of the family where I placed 
 her to board.". 
 
 " It is she ! " I exclaimed, without being aware that I 
 was thinking aloud. "It is my Helen ! God be 
 thanked ! " 
 
 " What are you talking about ? " he inquired, raising 
 his head, quickly. "Of whom do you speak? What 
 Helen do you refer to ? " 
 
 " Calm yourself, my dear sir," I replied, far from 
 being in that state myself. " I have good reasons for 
 believing that the lost child and my wife are the same." 
 
WONDERFUL DISCGVpRY. 385 
 
 "Impossible! What proof have you, sir? ll'or God's 
 sake tell me! : ' 
 
 "I beg of you to be calm, or I cannot proceed. Too 
 much excitement may cause death immediately." 
 
 " Well, you are right. I will be calm * only give me 
 the proof, which you should have, before making such a 
 statement to a dying man. Unless you give me such 
 proof, I shall believe you a villain, seeking, by false pre 
 tensions, to get into your possession the property I have 
 given to another." 
 
 ' ' You are suspicious of me, sir ; but I pardon you. 
 Listen patiently, and you shall know all." 
 
 I gave him a clear, simple and distinct account of all 
 the facts in the case. These facts the reader is already 
 acquainted with, but I will briefly allude to them. Mrs. 
 Stewart lived near the brother of the sick man, and her 
 little girl mysteriously disappeared ; and, a few months 
 afterwards, this brother confessed that he was her mur- 
 <}erer. Helen Means had lived in Boston, with her 
 parents, as she supposed, previous to living with Deacon 
 Webber. The night on which Helen came to my moth 
 er's, dressed in a suit of my clothes, Mrs. Stewart was 
 much agitated when Helen gave her a grateful look for 
 the kind words she had spoken to her. Once or twice 
 afterwards the same thing had occurred. Many doubts 
 had crept into the mind of Helen in relation to her 
 parents, and her thoughts went beyond her home in Bos- 
 83 
 
386 WONDERFUL DISCOVERY. 
 
 ton, to a pleasant little home in the country. Mr. Aus 
 tin, our sick friend, saw his brother strike the child, and 
 throw her into a hole intended for her grave. But he 
 saved her, restored her to life, and placed her to board 
 with a family by the name of Means. With this chain 
 of facts there was no room for doubt. When I had 
 finished, he exclaimed, 
 
 " God be praised ! The proof is as clear as light. 
 Now I can die in peace. The mother will again embrace 
 her long-lost child, and my property will be amply suf 
 ficient to make her old age cheerful ; and I shall atone, 
 in a measure, for the wrong I have done." 
 
 " You must remember, my dear sir, that you saved 
 the life of the noble being who is now my wife." 
 
 "I do Remember it; but I only did my duty, and 
 that does not justify my neglect of duty afterwards." 
 
 " It will be well to let that pass out of your mind. We 
 all owe you very much. Helen was restored to life by 
 you, and she is unconsciously doing something to repay 
 the debt she owes you, by smoothing your way to the 
 tomb." 
 
 " She has been very kind, and it brings consola 
 tion to my heart ; for it seems as though God had sent her 
 to me to solace my last hours, and assure me of forgive 
 ness." 
 
 " A beautiful thought, and I am glad that it has come 
 
WONDERFUL DISCOVERY. 387 
 
 to you ; for it will do you good. She Ynust seem like a 
 dear child to you." 
 
 " You are very good. I do not doubt what you have 
 told me, sir ; but I wish to see your wife alone." 
 
 In accordance with his wishes, I rang for Helen, and 
 when she came I left the room. I was recalled in the 
 course of half an hour. I found Helen's face streaming 
 with tears, and yet its expression was the most thankful, 
 heavenly and beautiful, that I ever witnessed. It seemed 
 like a transfiguration, it was so glorious. The sick man 
 gazed upon her as though she had been an angel sent 
 from heaven to guide him through the valley of the 
 shadow of death. 
 
 Helen rejoiced to learn that Mrs. Stewart was her 
 mother, for she knew that the knowledge of the fact 
 would be heaven to her ; and then she loved her so well, 
 and could now love her still more dearly. She was thank 
 ful that it had been so ordered that she should be with 
 her preserver in his last hours, to hear the truth from 
 his own lips, and smooth, with loving hands, the bed of 
 sickness and death. She wept that she must part with 
 him so soon, but they were tears of reconciliation. 
 
 It was beautiful to witness the mutual faith and trust 
 which were now manifested. He called her his child 
 his dear child and wanted her ever near him. She 
 anticipated every want, and held him by the hand, -and 
 
388 , WONDERFUL DISCOVERY. 
 
 gently chafed his forehead, and addressed to him words 
 of affection and filial endearment. 
 
 " Shall I bathe your head, father? " she would ask. 
 
 "Yes, dear child," would be the reply. 
 
 And so it was, all day long, and all night long, 
 except when he slept, or she absented herself for a brief 
 repose. 
 
 After lingering for a few days, he slept the sleep of 
 death, closing his eyes in holy calmness, and bidding us 
 an affectionate farewell. 
 
 " 0, Lelia ! " said he; " sweet and angelic has been 
 your care for me, and on the wings of your beautiful and 
 heavenly love shall my soul be lifted to God! " 
 
 At our request, the families of Mr. Dinneford ancf Mr. 
 Brown united with us in the last sad offices of respect 
 and love. We followed him to his grave, and stood over 
 it and wept ; and when we retraced our steps there were 
 tears in our eyes, but smiles in our hearts. 
 
 We remained in New York a few days longer, keeping 
 perfectly quiet, that Helen might recruit her wasted 
 energies ; and then, with chastened feelings and a larger 
 faith, we started for home. 
 
 Mrs. Stewart received us with the most endearing affec 
 tion ; and, after embracing us both, she said, 
 
 " I hope, my dear children, that you have now 
 decided to make this your home." 
 
 "Yes, dear mother," I answered, "we have. We 
 
WONDERFUL DISCOVERY. 
 
 shall gladly live with you, and beautiful shall be your 
 life with us." 
 
 I uttered these words with the greatest difficulty, and 
 Helen trembled like a leaf, and she leaned heavily upon 
 me for support, and the tears fell rapidly which she 
 struggled in vain to suppress. She would have sprang 
 into her mother's arms, but I gently restrained her. 
 
 "Thank you, my dear boy; and is Helen willing 
 to live here with me 1 She is weeping ; is it for joy 
 or grief?" 
 
 " For joy ! only for joy ; for our Lelia is very "glad 
 to have such a sweet, sweet home as this." 
 
 " Lelia ! Lelia ! 0, gracious Father ! But you 
 made a mistake, Henri, for Lelia is in heaven." 
 
 I could restrain her no longer. She sprang from my 
 arms, and folded her mother to her heart, exclaiming, 
 
 " Mother ! my own mother ! Your child ! Your own 
 child ! Your own lost Lelia ! " 
 
 Mrs. Stewart clasped her arms around her child, and 
 held her tightly for a moment, and then her hands 
 dropped, her face grew white as death, and she would 
 have fallen, if I had not caught her in my arms ; for 
 Helen was too much weakened by the feelings and 
 emotions which shook her frame like a reed. 
 
 In a brief period, by the application of proper remedies, 
 she was restored to consciousness. Helen was bending 
 over her when she opened her eyes. As weak as she 
 33* 
 
390 WONDERFUL DISCOVERY. 
 
 was, she flung her arms around her neck, and kissed her 
 passionately, exclaiming, 
 
 " You are my Lelia ! I know you are ! But, how can 
 it be ? But those eyes ! hair ! expression ! God be 
 praised ! 0, my child ! what a world of happiness you 
 bring to this long desolate heart ! Henri, my son, come 
 and tell me all, tell me how you learned that Helen 
 Means was my own dear child ! " 
 
 I gladly complied with her request ; and when I had 
 finished the strange narrative, she said, "It must be so! 
 The lost is found ! The dead is alive again ! God bless 
 you, my dear children ! What moments, hours, days 
 and years of suffering, have I endured ! But this hour 
 repays it all. With my own dear ones shall I pass tri 
 umphantly and hopefully to my grave ! " 
 
 " You may expect to see many happy years ere that 
 sad hour shall come," I remarked. 
 
 II Blessed years, with your children to comfort you, 
 my mother," said Helen. 
 
 " Ah ! yes, most blessed. I have ever loved you both, 
 but I knew not how near and dear you would one day 
 become. But this is too much joy for me. I would 
 share it with all the world, and then my heart would be 
 full. Send for all of our friends, and let us rejoice 
 together." 
 
 In accordance with her suggestion, we sent invita 
 tions to all of our relatives and friends. They came, 
 
WONDERFUL DISCOVERY. 391 
 
 our brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts, friends and 
 neighbors. After we had partaken of a sumptuous din 
 ner, I gave them the strange narrative. When I had 
 concluded, surprise and wonder were depicted upon every 
 countenance. Expressions like these were heard : " Won 
 derful ! " " A miracle ! " " Stranger than fiction ! " 
 1 c If the proof were not so positive. I could not believe it ! " 
 Then followed showers of congratulations, and a spirit of 
 subdued joy beamed from every face. We were all 
 happy, and the faint light in the east showed that another 
 day was about to dawn upon the world ere our guests 
 had retired or departed for their homes. 
 
CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THE WEBBER FAMILY. 
 
 A DECIDED sensation was produced in our little coun 
 try town when it became known that my beautiful and 
 accomplished bride was the daughter of Mrs. Stewart, 
 and that she was the little pale-faced, ragged child, who 
 once lived with Deacon Webber. These two facts would 
 have furnished abundant material for conversation ; but, 
 adding to them the other facts, it seemed so much like a 
 highly-wrought romance, that the story was in every 
 body's mouth. The day after our happy gathering of 
 friends, Mr. Edgarton went to visit the Webbers. When 
 he returned, he came in to inform us of the result. It 
 was just after dinner. His face was very red, and there 
 was a roguish twinkle in his little round eyes. 
 
 "I have been to see them," said Mr. Edgarton. 
 
 " Been to see who ? " I inquired. 
 
 " The pious ones, to be sure," he replied, laughing. 
 
 Uncle Eaton joined in the laugh, and said, 
 
 " You old rogue you ! I know where you.have been." 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! 0, what a face he did make up ! " 
 
THE WEBBER FAMILY. 
 
 "Why, who do you mean, Mr. Edgarton?" asked 
 Mrs. Stewart. 
 
 "The deacon, to be sure, who else could it be? I 
 went right away, after breakfast, to tell him the news." 
 
 " What ! Deacon Webber ? " 
 
 "Yes, Deacon Webber, and the rest of 'em too." 
 
 " Just to vex and irritate them, I suppose," remarked 
 Lelia. " That is not exactly right, Mr. Edgarton." 
 
 ''Yes 'tis, too; I wanted to see the old gentleman 
 grin, and I did." 
 
 " Rejoice not over an enemy," said Mrs. Stewart. 
 
 " He deserves it, and more too. If he don't get some 
 of his punishment in this world, he will have more than 
 he can manage in the next." 
 
 fc If he gets all he deserves," said I. 
 
 " He who lives a false life, false to his God and false 
 to his race, suffers every day; his whole life is a hell," 
 said my uncle. 
 
 "Right again," said Mr, Edgarton. "I hope the 
 deacon won't find any worse hell than he has already 
 made for himself." 
 
 " A benevolent wish," said Uncle Eaton, " and we 
 can all unite in it. But let us have your story." 
 
 " I went, in the first place," said Mr. Edgarton, "to 
 see Hezekiah Webber. I found him mending his old 
 boots. He sat on his bench, smoking, an exact picture 
 of his father twenty years ago. Such a looking house 
 
394 THE WEBBER FAMILY. 
 
 you never laid your eyes on, and such a looking woman 
 and children. The condition of the house was utterly 
 indescribable, dirt and confusion.' 7 
 
 " She is good-natured, of course," remarked my uncle. 
 
 "A regular termagant! I pity the children. And 
 Hezekiah has his match. I told the news, and left them 
 spitting fire at each other." 
 '"How was that?" said I. 
 
 "When I told Hezekiah that your wife was the little 
 girl that used to live with his father, and that she was 
 the daughter of Mrs. Stewart, his wife said that she had 
 heard of that little girl, and how they all abused her ; 
 and it was just like the Webbers, for they treated every 
 body like savages. Hezekiah was mad in a minute, and 
 when I left them they were calling each other all sorts 
 of appropriate names." 
 
 " You had better not have gone," said Mrs. Stewart. 
 
 " They are used to it, so it won't hurt them any. 
 After I left this interesting couple, I went to pay Job 
 a visit ; who, you know, was married a few weeks since. 
 I there found she that was Hannah Webber. I suppose 
 you have not heard the news about her ? Her husband, 
 who was a decent sort of a man when he married her, 
 took himself off very suddenly a few days since, and 
 about the same time Rose Webber was off too." 
 
 " Worse, and worse," I remarked. 
 
THE WEBBER FAMILY. 895 
 
 " Just so. Job is the most decent one of the lot, and 
 I suppose he may thank you for that." 
 
 "How so?" I asked. 
 
 " Why, didn't you beat it into him? Ha, ha, ha! " 
 
 " I believe I left my mark on him." 
 
 " So you did, so you did ! 0, you are a smart one, 
 only get you fairly started ! Well, Job is none too good, 
 but he '11 do. He went out of town, and was gone a 
 year or two, and it improved him amazingly ; and the 
 wife he brought t>aak with him is quite a woman." 
 
 " Then you should not have gone there," said Lelia. 
 
 " But I wanted to see her; and what 's the good of 
 being partial ? I told them the story, and Hannah looked 
 anything but comfortable ; and when I had finished she 
 said, ' I hope he will get enough of her, for she was a 
 little, ugly, dirty thing.' 
 
 " To my great surprise, Job said it was false, and that 
 when she lived with his father they all abused her, from 
 the oldest to the youngest, excepting his mother. 
 
 " C I am glad to hear you confess the truth,' said his 
 wife. * 
 
 "At this, Hannah caught her bonnet, and, calling 
 them both fools, bolted out of the house, and went 
 straight to see her darling brother Hezekiah. 
 
 " After she had gone, Job and his wife asked me 
 many questions about you, which I answered as well as 
 I could. We spoke of the knocking down scrape, and 
 
396 THE WEBBER FAMILY. 
 
 he said he did not blame you at all. I then called on 
 the deacon. I went in rather suddenly, and I found 
 him bending over a pile of gold. I suppose he had been 
 counting it. He said he wished people would rap when 
 they came in." 
 
 " How did he look ? " inquired my uncle. 
 
 "Worse than a beast! His face and hands were 
 black with dirt and filth. His face and head have not 
 cultivated the acquaintance of a razor or comb for a long 
 time. I '11 warrant you." 
 
 " Was he decently clothed ? " asked Mrs. Stewart. 
 
 11 About as well as he used to clothe your daughter, 
 not a whit better. But the room in which he stays is 
 worse than all the rest. I was glad to get out, and 
 breathe the fresh air again." 
 
 " You did your errand first, did you not?" said my 
 uncle. 
 
 " Certainly, certainly ! I said, l Deacon, I have got 
 some news.' 
 
 " ' What do I care ? ' he growled. 
 
 " ' You ay care a good deal, after you know what 
 it is.' 
 
 " 'After I hear it, I can tell better; so out with it, 
 and don't keep me waiting, old soap-tub ! for my time is 
 precious.' ' 
 
 t When Mr. Edgarton told this, he burst into a loud 
 laugh, in which we all joined. 
 
THE WEBBER FAMILY. 397 
 
 " A pretty good joke," said my uncle. 
 
 " Very good, very good ! The deacon would like to 
 boil me up and make me into soap, I don't doubt. I 
 should not wonder if he had formed a pretty correct 
 estimate of what the soap would bring ! " 
 
 I suggested to Mr. Edgarton that he would make a 
 large quantity. 
 
 " So I should," he said. " Ha, ha ! a very large 
 quantity ! But to return to my visit. ' You remember 
 Henri Eaton, deacon ? ' I remarked. 
 
 " He looked up fiercely and said, 
 
 " ' The villain ! what of him ? ' 
 
 " ' He is married, deacon.' 
 
 " c What's that to me 7' + 
 
 " * Nothing in particular, only he has married that 
 little girl he enticed away from you ; and she is very 
 rich, too ! ' 
 
 " ' Gods ! ' he said, ' I wish I had them in my power. 
 I 'd make them feel my wrath ! ' 
 
 " I continued. l She is the daughter of Mrs. Stewart, 
 and a gentleman has left them thousands ! ' 
 
 " ' How much ? ' he inquired, eagerly. 
 
 " { Thousands upon thousands ! ' I replied. 
 
 " 'I'll have it, if there is any law and justice in the 
 
 land ! ' he said, grinding his teeth, and looking wild and 
 
 fierce. ' She ran away from me, and he helped her 
 
 it was a great loss.- I lost eight years labor, and I'll 
 
 34 
 
398 THE WEBBER FAMILY. 
 
 have the worth in gold, in bright yellow gold, and the 
 interest.' 
 
 " ' The property was willed to her, you know.' 
 
 " ' I don't care if it was, I will have it ! It would have 
 been all mine, if it had not been for that bloody villain, 
 that robber. 0. I should like to tear out his eyes ! I '11 
 break the will, for she is not the daughter of Mrs. 
 Stewart. I can prove that she is Means' child.' 
 
 " I then went on to tell him the whole story, when he 
 growled and raved still more. He ordered me out of the 
 house ; and, not wishing to stay any longer, I came 
 away." 
 
 11 He is a beautiful character," I remarked. 
 
 " Beautiful ! so* is old clump-foot beautiful. Well, 
 well ; the devil will have the picking of his bones, one of 
 these days, that 's some comfort." 
 
 " Why, Mr. Edgarton ! " said my aunt. 
 
 " He is a horrid creatur', Mrs. Eaton, and that 's the 
 truth. I should like to give him one walloping for his 
 abuse of Lelia." 
 
 " Leave him in the hands of his Maker," said Mrs. 
 Stewart. " ' Shall not the Lord of all the earth do 
 right?'" 
 
 The next morning news came that Deacon Webber 
 was crazy. In company with my uncle and Mr. Edgar- 
 ton, I went to see him. He had become so raving in the 
 night that it was necessary to chain him. After being 
 
THE WEBBER FAMILY. 399 
 
 chained, he tore every rag of clothing from his body. I 
 have never seen such a hideous, frightful object, as he 
 was on that morning. 
 
 " It is mine, all, all mine," he said ; " and 1 :11 have 
 it ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! the white silver and the yellow 
 gold is all mine. They thought to rob me of it, did 
 they? They can't do it. I'll have it, I'll have it! 
 Will they keep it all ? No, no ! by the gods. Justice ! 
 justice ! See ! there 's a robber after my gold, my 
 yellow gold. Back ! back with ye, you bloody villain ! 
 Let me get hold of him ! I '11 break his bones, tear his 
 heart out, and let the swine feast upon his flesh ! Let 
 me. go! let me go, I say! they are robbing me! 
 God ! God ! There ! there they are, stealing all my 
 treasures. Stand back ! awaj ! I I know you 
 now. The demons the black demons hold me fast! 
 Don't, don't take it all ! I am a poor old man. I sold 
 my soul for my gold ; it 's all I have. You will not 
 take it all, good people? Leave the old man a little I I 
 pray you, I beg ! I shall starve, if you take it ! Could 
 I but break these chains, I 'd tear ye ! Beware, ye 
 bloody fiends ! ! what is burning at my heart ? 
 Hell is in my bosom ! 0, iny head ! my head ! Don't 
 you see the devils ? Look ! see their red jaws, long 
 teeth, and flaming tongues ! How they hiss ! Down 
 with ye, damned spirits ! down to hell ! Where is my 
 gold ? I know ; I hid it all last night. Ha ! ha ! 
 
400 THE WEBBER FAMILY. 
 
 Search, search for it, ye villains ! but you can't find it, 
 you never can find it. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 " I '11 have him yet. He cannot escape me now. He 
 shall not always baulk me. Let him look to it, look 
 to it, or I '11 tear out his dastard heart ! I '11 bite out 
 his eyes ! Don't take it, the poor old man will starve. 
 I shall die ! Laugh, ye horrid monsters ! Ha ! ha ! 
 ha! ha!" 
 
 In this strain he continued, with scarcely any inter 
 mission ; and before many days had passed away he was a 
 corpse. His property amounted to thirty thousand dollars, 
 and he had willed it, with the exception of two hundred 
 dollars, to Hezekiah and Hannah. After his death, Mr. 
 Edgarton felt some remorse, lest what he said to him had 
 been the cause of it. But I told him that most likely the 
 result would have been the same when the story reached 
 him, and I did not doubt but that he was more than half 
 crazy before. These suggestions were abundantly satis 
 factory to him, and he was as ready to laugh and joke as 
 ever. 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 MY FATHER'S DIARY. 
 
 THE reader will remember that my mother, on her 
 death-bed, requested me to read my father's diary. My 
 mind had been so much occupied with other subjects 
 that I had hitherto neglected to do so. I took it out of 
 the drawer while Uncle and Aunt Eaton were visiting us, 
 and, after reading it to myself, at their request read the 
 most of it to them. Some brief extracts may not prove 
 uninteresting to the reader : 
 
 " It has ever been my boast that I was heart-whole, 
 " but I can utter that boast no more. I was fated, to- 
 ' ' day, to behold a being of such entrancing beauty that 
 ' my heart surrendered at once. One glance from those 
 " killing black eyes, and it was all over with me ; for I 
 " felt as helpless as a captive bird. ' Well, ^Er. Eaton, 
 "what's to be done now?' A pertinent question, and 
 " Mr. Eaton must answer it. I do not know who she is. 
 u I do not even know her name, but I* will learn it, I 
 " make no doubt ; and, what 's more, I '11 learn her heart 
 ' too, and win it to myself, to be all my own, if so be 
 ' the gods but aid me." 
 34* 
 
402 MY FATHER'S DIARY. 
 
 * * * *. * 
 
 i 1 1 am happy and sad to-night ; happy because I have 
 "seen the beautiful angel again, and sad lest I should 
 " fail to win her. But it must not be so. I '11 study 
 " the lexicon of my heart, and, if I find any such word 
 " there as, fail, I will expunge it before I sleep. Mary 
 " Flanders, that 's her name, and it is a good name too ; 
 "but how would it look changed to Mary Eaton? I 
 " like the latter best. I always did think that Mary was 
 " the sweetest name in the universe, and now it is ten 
 ^ " thousand times sweeter than ever. A friend asked me, 
 " to-day, if I thought her handsome. Handsome ! she 
 " is more than that, for she is perfectly beautiful. Every 
 " feature of her face is charming, and her eyes are soul- 
 " full of thought, eloquent, and big with hope, light and 
 "joy. But her form is enravishing, full, round, almost 
 " voluptuous ; but I would not have it other than it is, 
 " for it is perfect." 
 
 ***** 
 
 " 0, this suspense is killing, and I cannot endure it ! 
 ' ' I must see Mary ; see her, ay, I must know her 
 " well. Who is coming to disturb my re very now, I 
 "wonder? The intruder is not welcome. A letter, 
 "no, a note;-*- an invitation to an evening party at 
 
 " Mr. 's. I will go, and may I be so fortunate as to 
 
 " meet her who is so dear to this unquiet heart ! " 
 ***** 
 
MY FATHER'S DIARY. 403 
 
 " It is nearly morning, and here I am, once more, in 
 " my own little room ; but I have no wish to sleep, no 
 " inclination, so I will write. This has been a charming 
 " night, and the moon has swam in the blue ocean above 
 " for many pleasant hours. Her light has departed now, 
 " for yonder black cloud, rolling up in the west with 
 " such dark grandeur, caught her in its huge arms and 
 " smothered her out of sight. And Mary was at the 
 li party ; all that I prayed for has been granted. We 
 " know each other now. I have touched her hand, and, 
 " 0, rapture ! I have pressed my lips to her downy 
 " cheeks and ripe lips, and she has pressed her lips to 
 " mine ! Thanks, thanks for the party, or this could not 
 "have been. I kissed others, did I? Bah! but I 
 " could not help it. I would have kissed a whole army 
 " of women, rather than lost those sweet kisses of 
 " Mary." 
 
 " 0, cruel disappointment ! thou tellest me I am but 
 " mortal. With a friend I called on Mr. Flanders to- 
 " day, but I did not see Mary; she, alas ! was far away, 
 " fifty miles fromJiome, at school. Delays are danger- 
 " ous, I do believe, for I should have gone before. 
 "What shall I do now?" 
 
 ***** 
 
 " The skies look brighter to-night, for I have had an 
 " encouraging word from Mary's father. I called and 
 
404 MY FATHER'S DIARY. 
 
 " was shown into his study; and, after discussing politics, 
 " the weather, and various other things, in which I fell 
 " into most ludicrous mistakes, I made bold to speak of 
 " Mary. He seemed deeply interested, and talked in 
 "such a way as to encourage me to tell him what my 
 " sentiments were. He said that he conceived it an 
 " honor, and hoped I might win his daughter's heart 
 "and hand, for I had his sanction and best wishes. 
 
 " ' You met at Mr. 's party. She spoke of you so 
 
 "often afterwards, that we all told her she was in 
 " love with you ; and I doubt not she was well pleased 
 " with your appearance.' Mr. Flanders invited me to 
 " call again soon. I shall go." 
 
 ***** 
 
 " I have once more seen the father of my darling 
 " Mary; for I feel that she is mine now, or nearly so. 
 " Mr. Flanders says that Mary loves me, but he wishes 
 " the matter should be left where it is, until she returns 
 "from school; for, if I should write or visit her, 
 " he is fearful that her schooling will do her but 
 "little good. She would be thinking of me, and not 
 " of her books. Bless her. I hope she will think of 
 " me ! 0, how enrapturing, to engage all the thoughts 
 " of such a glorious being ! -I have promised to comply 
 " with the wishes of Mr. Flanders. But, in the mean 
 "time, what shall I do ? I cannot stay here, for this 
 " ennui is awful, so I am off." 
 
MY FATHER'S DIARY. 405 
 
 ***** 
 " It was late last night when I returned from my 
 "journey, and so I could not see the one whom I dearly 
 " love. I had but just laid my head upon my pillow, when 
 " the wind began to blow not loud and clear, like that 
 "of the West, which goes on its way with such a grand 
 "sweep, making all the proud old trees do it reverence 
 "as it passes by ; but it had an unpleasant moan, and 
 " sometimes it sobbed as if it had known the bitterness of 
 "great grief. The sounds went to my heart, and caused 
 "it to feel strangely sad ; as though some calamity 
 " was about to draw near, and touch my hopes with the 
 " poison of its lips. Is it superstition, or has the wind a 
 " spirit which warns us of approaching griefs and diaap- 
 "pointments? I know not, but I feel disappointment 
 " to-night. I went this afternoon, with a light heart, 
 " to visit her who will one day be all my own. To my 
 " surprise, I learned that she had been at home some 
 " months. But how she has changed since I saw her ! 
 " What can be the cause of it ? She is pale and listless, 
 " and her face has lost the sprightly, joyous expression. 
 " I fear she has studied too much. Overtax the brain, 
 " and the roses will leave the cheek, and the brightest 
 " eye grow dull. But she seemed not pleased to see me. 
 "Has her nature lost all its glad enthusiasm, its 
 " up-springing, buoyant life ? I hope not ! " 
 
 * * * * * 
 
406 MY FATHER'S DIARY. 
 
 " We are to marry, and yet I am not happy. There 
 " must be trouble somewhere, and I wish I could learn 
 " where and what it is. The sky is cloudy, and the 
 " grief-rain is falling; and will the bow of promise 
 "come out? I love her love her dearly; but, does 
 " she love me ? Shall the golden light of mutual joy 
 " ever gladden our way ? There is a bright star looking 
 " down sweetly at me ; is it an omen of good ? Alas ! 
 " the clouds have shut it from my sight, and again the 
 " wind sobs as it did on the first night of my return. 
 11 0, my God ! grant me but this, that when Mary is all 
 
 " my own, she shall smile again as of yore ! " 
 
 # * * # * 
 
 
 
 "Mary is a wife now my wife, but we are not 
 
 "happy; and my heart, instead of brimming with joy 
 " to-night, is aching with hopes once so fresh and glad, 
 " but now withering for the grave. Only one week, l one 
 "little' week, since we married; and yet, 0, horror! I 
 " almost regret that she is mine. Two or three languid, 
 " miserable smiles, is all the sunshine I have known 
 " since I led her, with loving hands and a faithful 
 " heart, to the altar. She is irritable and unhappy, 
 
 " and I Travel and excitement may produce a 
 
 " change, and bring back the color to her cheeks, and a 
 " smile to her eyes. 0, I would give worlds to see her 
 " once more as she was on that heavenly night when I 
 " first pressed my lips to her beautiful cheek ! 
 
MY FATHER'S DIARY. 407 
 
 " Bright summer glories are all around me, and the 
 " day is clear, balmy and serene. There was a time 
 11 when I should have been happy, most happy, on a day 
 " like this. But 0, I am not happy now, and I may 
 " never be again ; for the bright angel of hope comes not 
 " now to make her home in my heart ! I could not 
 " have believed, upon my wedding-day 3 that in two 
 " short months short, have I said? I should be the 
 ' poor wretch that I am. Mary is not only unhappy 
 "herself, but she is very unkind; and sometimes she 
 " says things to me that I would bear from no other 
 " living being. I have done all that I could to gratify 
 " her. We have visited many interesting places. We 
 " have stood by the sea-side, and viewed the blue expanse 
 " of waters, and heard the great hymn of the waves, and 
 " saw them dash upon the shore as though they would 
 " break through the battlements of God ! We have seen 
 " the mountains, whose snowy summits were capped with 
 " clouds ; and we have stood upon their highest peaks, 
 " and heard the wind rush down their sides, the thunders 
 "rumble and roar, while the lightning leaped from the 
 " dark threatening masses above and around us, and 
 11 covered the mountains with red sheets of flame. We 
 "have seen Niagara, the wonder of the world; her wild, 
 " madly-dashing waters, her billows of foam, her clouds 
 " of mist and spray, and her rainbows, which seemed like 
 " water-spirits dropped down from the clouds. We heard 
 
408 MY FATHER'S DIARY. 
 
 " the mighty cataract, and almost fancied we saw the 
 " lightnings, when the falling waters flashed in the sun- 
 " light. But, merciful God ! all has been in vain. 
 " I have entreated Mary to tell me why she is not happy; 
 " but she will not open her lips." 
 
 ***** 
 
 " Cold winter is rapidly approaching. Alas ! the win- 
 " ter of the heart has already come, cruelly blighting 
 "fresh-budding hopes, cutting down all the flowers of 
 " life, filling the air with frost and snow, and desolating 
 " the world ! Life has become a burden, for all the 
 " leaping fountains of pleasure are fettered with the 
 " chains of cold and frost. Happiness has been stabbed 
 " at the heart, and she lays low in the dust, bleeding, 
 "dying; and the freezing winds are howling around her, 
 " shrieking her requiem." 
 
 ***** 
 
 " What a dream of bliss was mine ! 0, God ! that I 
 1 was doomed to awake to such horrors. Peace, poor 
 ' heart and murmur not, but hope yet. Yea, I will hope. 
 " There must be a change for the better. Mary will yet 
 "love me. When a mother's hopes and joys are hers, 
 " her heart must soften." 
 
 ***** 
 
 " What would be winter with no expectation of gentle 
 "spring? Should we not despair? Such is my lot, 
 " for Mary dearly loves her bright-eyed boy, but 
 
409 
 
 " there is little love for me. He is a beautiful child, 
 " and I have given him the name of my only brother. 
 " May his heart be as noble and good ! " 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 * " Many years have rolled away, and journeyed far into 
 " the past, since my wedding-day, a day so Dig with 
 " hope. I remember, as though it had been but yester- 
 " day. It was when the hills and valleys were spread 
 11 over with the freshness and beauty of spring, and my 
 " heart was light and joyous, almost perfect in its happi- 
 " ness. A few sunny smiles would have made it so. I 
 " then thought I had but just commenced life. Every 
 " eye seemed to rest upon my lovely bride in admiration. 
 " Alas ! she had no beauty of the heart. We have now 
 "four children; and the last, a beautiful boy, I have 
 " named for myself. This does not please his mother. 
 " She wanted his name Herbert, but I would have one 
 " child who should bear my own name. Herbert is a 
 " name which will do well enough; but I see no reason 
 " why she should have insisted upon his having the name. 
 " If she had a friend or relative by the name of Herbert, 
 " I should not think so strange of it." 
 
 ***** 
 
 " What a marvellous thing is this life of ours ! Who 
 
 " can solve its mysteries? Why is it that so many should 
 
 " groan in poverty, doomed to unremitting toil for a 
 
 "pittance so small that it barely keeps soul and body 
 
 35 
 
410 MY FATHER'S DIARY. 
 
 " from parting company? Why is it that a portion of 
 " mankind should live in idle extravagance and waste ? 
 " Why are we doomed to misfortune, sickness, and -the 
 11 thousand ills that flesh is heir to? Such thoughts will 
 " come* crowding upon me at times; and then I should 
 " fall under the weight of my sorrows, if my faith in an 
 " over-ruling Power was not strong and unwavering. 
 " He who permitted evil and suffering to enter the world 
 " will ultimately over-rule them all for good. Let me 
 "believe this, and my heart shall still find rest. That I 
 " must continue to suffer, I well know ; but it would seem 
 " that I should be happy. I have an abundance of what 
 " are called the good things of this world, and a wife and 
 " four beautiful children. Why should I not be happy? 
 " There is but one thing lacking. I was made to love 
 " and to be loved. If Mary loved me truly, and was 
 " ever kind to me and faithful to her children, fulness 
 " of joy would be mine. I had anticipated so much 
 " happiness in the married state, that the cruel disap- 
 " pointment is grievous to be borne. 0, God ! give 
 " me patience, to bear without a murmur my heavy 
 "burden of grief." 
 
 ***** 
 
 11 1 regret that our ideas of governing children are so 
 " different. I would never strike them a blow. Such 
 " punishment is degrading, and should be banished from 
 11 the world. Henri is not a favorite with his mother, 
 
MY FATHER'S DIARY. 411 
 
 "and, on that account, I fear he receives more whip- 
 " pings than he otherwise would." 
 
 # * * # * 
 
 " Trouble, trouble, 
 
 " Fire burn and cauldron bubble.' 
 
 " I do not like to quarrel and wrangle ; and yet I can- 
 "not always avoid it. My wife has just been whipping 
 " Henri, very severely, for a most trivial offence. I 
 "demanded the cause of such harsh treatment, and she 
 " told me to attend to my own business, and she would 
 " take care of hers. She intended to be mistress in the 
 " house, and she had no objection to my being master out 
 "of it. 
 
 " * It will do no good to whip a child so young,' I said. 
 
 " ' He is my child,' she replied, * as much as yours ; 
 "and I will whip him when I think he deserves it ! ' 
 
 " c But you are too severe, and you will ruin him for- 
 " ever, and drive all the love from his heart.' 
 
 " 'He shall mind me, or I will whip him till the blood 
 " runs ! ' 
 
 " These words, and the manner in which she uttered 
 "them, made me angry, and I said, 'By- , you 
 " shan't ! ' 
 
 " * So help me God, I will ! ' she replied. 
 
 " ' You abuse him, Mary, and you know you do. If 
 
412 MY FATHER'S DIARY. 
 
 " you corrected him as a parent should, I would be the 
 " last one to interfere.' 
 
 "'He is the most irritating and the worst- tempered 
 " boy I ever saw; and, when I think that a whipping 
 :1 will do him good, he will be pretty sure to get it, in 
 " spite of your prohibition.' 
 
 " c Be careful, Mary, or you may go beyond the 
 " bounds of endurance. You know, as well as I do, that 
 " Henri is a noble boy, for one so young. If he has a 
 11 quick, passionate temper, such treatment as he receives 
 " at your hands will only make it worse and worse every 
 " day. How can you be so cruel to your own child? ' 
 
 " ' I am all to blame for his bad temper, of course. 
 " He has your disposition, and that is enough to wear 
 " any one to the grave. I wonder that I have lived so 
 "long!' 
 
 11 { So do I, Mary. "We live a most miserable life, 
 " and who is the cause of it ? ' 
 
 " ' Of course, I am the whole cause of it ! That is the 
 " way with you men, the women are all to blame.' 
 
 " c Ask your own heart.' 
 
 " ' I shall not trouble myself.' 
 
 " ' 0, Mary ! ' 
 
 " ' If you are about' to faint, I '11 run for the camphor.' 
 
 " Such scenes are not unfrequent in our home ; and so 
 " peace and happiness have sought in vain to take up 
 " their abode with us. God knows that I hate these matri- 
 
MY FATHER'S DIARY. .413 
 
 " monial conflicts. I witnessed some before I was mar- 
 " ried ; but I little dreamed that I should ever be doomed 
 " to take part in them. Henri is a smart, high-spirited 
 " boy ; and, as his mother does not manifest so much love 
 " and forbearance for him as for the other children, he is 
 " the cause of the most of our bickerings. I did not wish 
 " to have more affection for one child than for another; 
 " but I know well enough that r love Henri best. As 
 " his mother does not treat him so well as she should, his 
 " brothers and sisters seem to think they have the same 
 " privilege ; and the evil has doubly increased since the 
 " birth of George. I fear that Henri's disposition will 
 " be entirely spoiled. If he is not used well, he is ever 
 " ready to fight, whether his opponent is great or small. 
 " I tremble to think what he may be led to do, in a 
 " moment of passion, should he live to be a man ! 
 
 " Mary is one of the strangest women I ever met with. 
 " She has manifested but little affection for me, since she 
 " became my wife. A few times she has seemed to 
 " relent, the love-star would glimmer for a moment, 
 " and then go out in three-fold darkness. When she has 
 " given me but a single ray of love, I have felt that, 
 " would it but continue to shine on, I could forget and 
 " forgive all. Why did she marry me, if she had no love 
 " in her heart? I imagine, sometimes, that there is a 
 " hidden cause for this strange conduct; but what it is 
 " I have sought in vain to learn. I have watched her 
 35* ' 
 
414^ MY FATHER'S DIARY. 
 
 "when she seemed in deep and painful thought; for 
 il she sat in an abstracted mood, and the tears rolled 
 " down her cheeks, which still retain much of the beauty 
 " they possessed when she first won my love. I fancy. 
 " at times, that she is deranged. Would to God I could 
 " believe it ! But no, or if it * be madness, yet there \s 
 " method in it.' 
 
 " Well, well ! repinftg will do no good; so I will try 
 " to suffer on, without murmuring. My life is not in 
 " vain; for I sometimes visit the suffering, and feed the 
 "hungry, and clothe the naked. I have done it to-day. 
 " A poor drunkard's family was in the greatest distress, 
 " and it did my heart good to relieve it. How thankful 
 " they were ! It is a luxury to do good. ' More blessed 
 " to give than to receive.' 
 
 " Heaven has sent us another child, and his name is 
 " Herbert. I wished to call him William, after an old 
 "friend; but I had my way once before, and so his 
 " mother has her way now. But why is she so tenacious 
 " about it? I suppose I shall learn the reason when I 
 " learn a great many other things more mysterious than 
 "this." 
 
 ***** 
 
 " Trouble and grief have at last done their work, and 
 " now I must die. Consumption has poisoned the very 
 "fountain of life, and there is no hope. It has already 
 " deceived me too often. Health and strength will never 
 
415 
 
 " come again. Such is life, and I am reconciled. My 
 " wife is a little more kind, but she loves me riot ; but may 
 11 God pardon her as freely as I do ! I must leave seven 
 " children, with no one to guide them aright. I am 
 " wrong; Mrs. Stewart has promised to be a mother to 
 "them, bear and forbear, and she will be faithful to 
 "her word. She has done much for my children now ; 
 "and her influence with Henri is great, and he dearly 
 "loves her. I would that there was more union among 
 " the children, but wishes are vain. I have never seen a 
 " stronger love between brothers than there is between 
 " Henri and Herbert. This fact seems to vex their 
 " mother not a little, which is another mystery." 
 * * * * * 
 
 " I must leave them all in the hands of God, trusting 
 " that all things shall come out well at last. My wife 
 "has made me one solemn promise, for which I thank 
 " her. Mrs. Stewart is to continue to reside in the fam- 
 "ily until the children shall become men and women. 
 " It is hard to leave them ; but the great King demands 
 " that another victim shall be offered on his dark altar, 
 " and I am ready. I shall depart in peace, trusting in 
 " the mercy of God, and in the redeeming grace of Jesus 
 " Christ. When I shall have entered the spirit-land, may 
 " God grant, even though it bring weary toil and suffer- 
 " ing, that I may be allowed to watch over and guard my 
 "children!" 
 
416 MY FATHER'S DIARY. 
 
 These extracts, -which I have made from the large 
 number of pages of which the journal is composed, are 
 sufficient to show to the reader how unhappy was my 
 father's wedded life. They show, too, that he had a good 
 heart, and that he bore his wrongs with a commendable 
 degree of patience. 
 

 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 WHEN our good uncle and aunt had returned to their 
 home, Mrs. Stewart, Lelia and myself, were left in quiet 
 possession of the dear and pleasant old homestead. I need 
 not to inform the reader that life was now peaceful and 
 joyous ; for how could it be otherwise ? One day, when 
 Lelia had run in to see Mr. Edgarton a few minutes, I 
 noticed that Mrs. Stewart's face wore a very thoughtful 
 expression. 
 
 " You seem to be in a revery," I remarked. 
 
 " I was thinking of old scenes," she replied. 
 
 " I hope your thoughts were pleasant." 
 
 " Yes, dear, more so than they were wont to be in 
 days gone by." 
 
 "lam glad of that, dear mother," I said, kneeling 
 down before her, and taking her hands in mine, looking 
 up to her face with my heart brim-full of love and filial 
 devotion. 
 
 " God bless you, my dear boy ! " she replied, bending 
 down aifft kissing my cheek, while tears of joy glistened 
 in her eyes. 
 
418 <5LD ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 11 He has blessed me, beyond my deserts, in giving me 
 such a sweet wife and good mother. You are happy, 
 -now, I trust." 
 
 " God knows I am, Henri, very, very happy," she 
 said, while the tears fell rapidly from her eyes. ' ' I did 
 not expect that such blessings would be mine in my old 
 I thought Lelia was in her grave, and that she 
 not come to me, but I must go to her. Little did 
 I think, when I took in the poor, pale-faced boy, and gave 
 him a good warm supper, that it was my own child ! 
 How glad I am that I always treated children well ! If I 
 had not, it might have been my punishment to have 
 abused and slighted my own lost one." 
 
 "Your heart was always too merciful to allow you to 
 abuse anything." 
 
 "I can almost return the compliment." 
 
 " Not quite." 
 
 " But you have a good heart, Henri ; and you have 
 done so much for me ! " 
 
 " Not so much as you have for me." 
 
 "I believe you mistaken there, but we will not quar 
 rel, I am glad that the obligations are mutual. I have 
 cause to be thankful for one thing, which I could not 
 reasonably have anticipated, had I known that Lelia was 
 living." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 " She is as innocent and as pure, and more self- 
 
OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 419 
 
 sacrificing, than she could have been, had she always 
 remained with me." -. 
 
 " She has passed through the fire, and come out un 
 scathed." 
 
 "There are but few natures that could endure so 
 much, and remain pure, innocent, and most loving of 
 heart!" 
 
 Here there was a pause, while I continued to hold her 
 hands, and gaze into her face. After sitting in silence 
 for a few minutes, she said, 
 
 " There is one thing, Henri, which would gratify me 
 very much." 
 
 " What is it?" I inquired. 
 
 " To visit, once more, my old home ! " 
 
 " Do you mean Uncle Eaton's? " 
 
 " No, Henri ! The home which was mine before my 
 husband was taken from me, and where I lived when I 
 lost my Lelia ! " 
 
 "Your wish shall be granted, mother; and we will 
 go to-morrow, if the day is pleasant." 
 
 "You must not tell Lelia of our intentions : for she 
 thinks she should know the house, and the scenery 
 around it." 
 
 " I will not ; for I am as anxious to see what the 
 result will be as you are." 
 
 Here Lelia came in; and, seeing my position, she 
 knelt down by my side, looking into the face of each 
 
420 OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 with worlds of affection gushing from her sweet blue eyes. 
 f It was a happy trio, and the purest joy was brimming in 
 all our hearts. 
 
 The next morning the sun rose clear and golden, mak 
 ing the world glad in its great light. At eight o'clock 
 we commenced our short journey. We had but nine 
 miles to go, and the ride was pleasant ; for the road was 
 good, and the scenery varied and pleasing. Mrs. Stew 
 art informed me, by a sign, when we passed the house 
 where Austin, the murderer, had lived. Just beyond 
 we came to some woods ; and then Lelia suddenly started, 
 and turned very pale. I inquired the cause of her emo 
 tion. She said that strange and indistinct thoughts came 
 crowding upon her, as soon as she came in sight of the 
 grove. 
 
 "It must have been there," she said, "where the 
 monster attempted to take my life ! It makes my blood 
 run cold to think of it ! " 
 
 We had gone but a little further, when she clapped 
 her hands with delight. 
 
 " 0, there is my home, I know it is ! There is 
 1 the cot where I was born !' Is n't it, mother ? " pointing 
 to a little cottage. 
 
 " Are you sure that is the place ? " I inquired. 
 
 "0, yes, I know it is ! and there is a brook on be 
 yond it ! " 
 
 " I don't see it," I replied. 
 
OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 421 
 
 " You will when you get to the cottage ! " 
 
 Sure enough, when I stopped the horse in front of the 
 house, a bright little stream met my eyes just beyond. 
 Mrs. Stewart seemed greatly affected. 
 
 " This was our home, was it not, dear mother ? " said 
 Lelia. 
 
 " Yes, my child ! " she answered, almost overcome by 
 old remembrances, which came thronging upon her. 
 Just then we noticed a number of faces at the window. 
 Lelia saw them, and, after looking earnestly, inquired 
 who they were. 
 
 " I never saw either of them before," said her mother. 
 "Have you, Henri?" 
 
 " I should think not," I replied. 
 
 " Where can I have seen them? " said Lelia. 
 
 " Did you ever see them before? " I inquired. 
 
 " Not all of them. Where could it be ? " 
 
 In the mean time, the people in the house, seeing that 
 we were not disposed to go any further, came and opened 
 the door. I briefly informed them that the two ladies I 
 had with me were mother and daughter, and that they 
 lived in the cottage many years ago, and had now come 
 to see it once more. The one who appeared to be the 
 mother now came to the door, and invited us in. The 
 mother and three daughters were binding shoes. Lelia 
 kept moving her eyes from one to another of the inmates, 
 as if she was puzzled to make out who they were. 
 36 
 
422 OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 " What is it ? " I asked, in a whisper. 
 
 " I don't know," she said. " It is so strange ! " 
 
 " What is so strange ?" 
 
 " I have seen them before, I know I have ! " 
 
 I turned to the mother, and inquired how long she 
 had lived in the cottage. - 
 
 " Some eight or ten years," she replied. 
 
 " Where did you live before ? " 
 
 She regarded me a moment as though she thought I 
 was possessed of a large share of inquisitiveness, and then 
 answered, "In Boston, sir." 
 
 Lelia now looked up, as if a new light had broken in 
 upon her. 
 
 " Your name ? " she said. 
 
 "Means," was the reply. 
 
 I made a signal to Lelia to be silent. 
 
 " Did a gentleman ever bring a little girl to your 
 house, to get her boarded ? " I inquired. 
 
 "Yes," replied the woman, looking somewhat guilty. 
 
 " Did he pay you for her board ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " For how long ?" 
 
 "He sent money every year, for a number of years." 
 
 " Did you liot send her away to live with some-one ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "With whom?" 
 
 "Deacon Webber, of ." 
 
OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 423 
 
 " Why did you do that, when her board was paid ? " 
 
 " 0, sir, I pray your mercy ! It was not my fault ; in 
 deed, it was not ! " 
 
 "Whose was it, then?" 
 
 " My husband's." 
 
 "Where is he?" 
 
 "In his grave. He spent the money for drink, and 
 he died seven years ago." 
 
 " What did you call the name of the child ? " 
 
 "Helen Means." 
 
 " Did the deacon know that she was not your child? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Why did you not tell him ? " 
 
 "Mr. Means threatened to kill me, if I told any one. 
 After he got so much money, he abused me most shame 
 fully ; he was drunk half of his time, both day and 
 night. I stood in fear of my life." 
 
 " I trust you are telling the truth ! " 
 
 " It is the truth, sir, the solemn truth ! and I hope 
 you will believe me." 
 
 " You appear honest, and I doubt not you are. Have 
 you heard from the little girl since she went to live with 
 Deacon Webber ?" 
 
 " Only once, and then he sent us word that she ran 
 away. I have had many unhappy hours thinking of that 
 poor child ! " 
 
424 OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 " Have you anything now that belonged to the child 
 when she was first brought to your house ? " 
 
 " Yes, a little locket that she wore around her neck, 
 eontaining some hair." 
 
 " Thank God ! " exclaimed Mrs. Stewart ; " it waa 
 all I had ! " 
 
 " Why did you take it from her neck ? " I asked. 
 
 " For fear my husband should sell it for rum." 
 
 " We would see the locket." 
 
 She went into another room, and soon returned, placing 
 a gold locket in my hand. 
 
 " Is this the one ? " I asked, holding it up. 
 
 11 Yes, yes ! " said Mrs. Stewart, taking it, and kiss 
 ing it again and again. 
 
 Mrs. Means and her daughters looked on in sur 
 prise. Here I arose, and, taking Lelia by the hand, 
 said, 
 
 "Mrs. Means, this is my wife; and her name was 
 once Helen Means ! " 
 
 " What ! the little girl who lived with us? " 
 
 "The very same. And this," said I, pointing to 
 Mrs. Stewart, " is her mother." 
 
 Each member of the family regarded Lelia as though 
 greatly astonished. She went and kissed them all, and 
 seemed well pleased to see them again. Mrs. Means 
 informed us that they left Boston about the time they 
 learned that Helen had run away, and that her husband 
 
OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 425 
 
 9 
 
 died soon after. They had lived ever since in the cot 
 tage, she and her girls binding shoes, and the boys work 
 ing for the neighboring farmers. She had six children ; 
 two boys, and four girls. Having asked and answered 
 all the questions that were desirable on both sides, and 
 visited the little creek, and other places of interest, we- 
 turned our faces homeward. 
 86* 
 
CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 THAT evening, as we sat at the fireside in our happy 
 home, talking in relation to the result of our visit, which 
 we all regarded as somewhat remarkable, we suddenly 
 relapsed into silence. I was the first to speak. 
 
 " I think of buying the cottage," I said, "and making 
 a present of it to Mrs. Means." 
 
 " I was thinking of that," said Mrs. Stewart. 
 
 " So was I," said Lelia. " I hope you will, Henri! 
 Mrs. Means was always kind to me." 
 
 " How would a few acres of land go with it ? " 
 
 " My own dear husband, it is just like you ! How 
 nappy it will make them ! " 
 
 " She has had a hard time, all her life, I should think. 
 But there is much of the woman about her yet. How 
 tidy the house looked ! " 
 
 " I noticed that," said Mrs. Stewart. " Let the cot 
 tage be purchased immediately, and that will save them 
 rent through the cold winter, which is near at hand." 
 
 " And "the land," said Lelia, " will make labor for the 
 
CONCLUSION. 427 
 
 
 
 boys next summer, and \vhat they raise enable the family 
 to get a living, without such severe toil." 
 
 " I like the plan," I replied ; " and, as we can spare a 
 few hundred dollars just as well as not, the thing shall 
 be done forthwith." 
 
 Not long after this, I bought the cottage and ten acres 
 of good land, and made a present of them to Mrs. Means. 
 It relieved her heart of a world of care and anxiety, and 
 she felt no longer obliged to toil fifteen hours per day. 
 The gratitude of the family can be better imagined than 
 described. It is pleasant to do good ; and, could this 
 truth be realized, good works and charities would smile 
 upon us everywhere, as sweetly as the sunlight of God. 
 
 A number of years have passed away since these 
 scenes occurred, and happy years have they been to us. 
 Filial, conjugal and parental love, this holy trinity in 
 unity, have ever filled our hearts with purest joy, and, 
 with their clear, shining light, made glad and beautiful 
 our home, brightening, like a ray from heaven, all the 
 pathway of life. Our number has increased, for we have 
 two children, a girl and boy; and we think they are 
 the sweetest children in the world. When our little girl 
 was born, I claimed the right to give her a name ; and so 
 I called her Helen Means. Lelia named the boy, who 
 is two years younger than Helen, and his name is Henri. 
 
 Mrs. Stewart, our good mother, is attaining unto a 
 blessed old age, and she is one of the best and happiest 
 
428 CONCLUSION. 
 
 old ladies I have ever met with. How dearly she loves 
 little Helen and Henri ! and they think .there is nobody 
 in the world quite equal to Grandmother Stewart. Uncle 
 and Aunt Eaton are frequently with us ; and then our fat 
 neighbor, Mr. Edgarton, will come in. and they will talk 
 over, for the fiftieth time, the life and adventures of 
 Henri Eaton and Helen Means; and, in the evening, 
 Mr. Edgarton and Mother Stewart amuse themselves 
 with a game of backgammon ; or, a few neighbors are 
 invited in, and then Lelia, or some one else, will play the 
 piano, and we have a social dance ; and Mrs. Stewart 
 will join in with us, as young and spry as the best 
 of us. 
 
 Mr. Edgarton will always insist upon dancing in a 
 cotillon, at least once in an evening, with Lelia ; and when 
 "grand right and left" is called for, he is sure to 
 blunder in such a manner as to produce shouts of laugh 
 ter. The old gentleman will shake his sides, and say it 
 does him good and reminds him of old times. 
 
 I should have mentioned before that, on the marriage 
 of Thomas and Lizzie, George went to live with Thomas, 
 and Lizzie with Jane. They have since married, and I 
 am happy to say that all my brothers and sisters are 
 doing well. 
 
 Hezekiah Webber and wife have parted company. 
 They quarrelled so much that he was glad to get rid of 
 her by the sacrifice of five thousand dollars. He retains 
 
CONCLUSION. 429 
 
 all the children but the youngest. Since this occurred, 
 Hezekiah has disposed of all his property in town, and, 
 with his*sister Hannah, has gone to parts unknown. 
 Job is still here, and he and his "wife are generally 
 respected. 
 
 Hezekiah and Hannah were long since expelled from 
 the church which th6y disgraced ; and I am now satisfied 
 that the deacon would not have remained in the church 
 so long, if his true character had been known by a 
 majority of its members. Let no one suppose that I 
 intend his character as a fair sample of any denomination 
 of Christians ; for, although the Pharisee and hypocrite 
 may be found with all, so also the good. There are 
 Deacon Webbers in too many churches ; but I trust there 
 are more like Uncle and Aunt Eaton, and our dear 
 Mother Stewart. Such good souls as the last three 
 are to be found in the church and out of it, and their 
 influence is ennobling upon all who come within its sphere. 
 They make the world better and happier. They are 
 true Christians, whether they belong to this sect or that, 
 or no sect. 
 
 I complain not that wolves in sheep's clothing should 
 be admitted into the church, but that they should so 
 frequently be allowed to remain there, when they are 
 known to be wolves. They are wealthy or influential, 
 and therefore not to be disturbed. If they wrong a little 
 
- 
 
 430 CONCLUSION. 
 
 child, or traffic in the bodies and souls of men, the matter 
 is passed over as though it were of but little consequence. 
 When such things are allowed, the brother * members 
 partake of the guilt. 
 
 There is another grievous fault with many professors, 
 they unite with the strong against the weak ; and it was 
 this which so embittered my heart against the church to 
 which the deacon belonged. I admit that they might 
 have thought the deacon in the right and I in the wrong. 
 But they should have investigated the matter, and so 
 have escaped the guilt of wronging the weak, the inno- 
 lent and the oppressed. If we allow ourselves to judge 
 hastily and unadvisedly, we should not expect to judge 
 righteous judgment, and so live to repent of the evil we 
 have unintentionally been guilty of. The really good, 
 in the church of which the deacon was a member, lived 
 to see their error which they committed in justifying 
 him, and acknowledged it with sorrow. But the hypo 
 critical "had always known and said that the deacon was 
 miserly, pharisaical and wicked;" when the truth was, 
 they had not said one word in condemnation of his course, 
 but justified it to the fullest extent, until he was caught 
 robbing the very church of which he was deacon ; then they 
 were horror-struck, for he had committed the sin of sins ! 
 They had not learned enough of Christ to know that the 
 wrong done to the little child was a thousand times more 
 
CONCLUSION. 431 
 
 offensive in the sight of God and all good and enlightened 
 men. But, as the one who suffered the greatest wrong 
 freely forgave all who participated in it (she who was 
 once called Helen Means), so I, notwithstanding my 
 former bitter hatred, as freely pardon. I have learned 
 that it is better to love than to hate, to forgive rather 
 than seek revenge. 
 
 I need not tell the reader that Lelia is one of the best 
 of wives and mothers, a good neighbor, and a faithful 
 friend. Her Jieart is ever brimming with love for both 
 friends and foes, and the poor and destitute speak her 
 praise in words and looks of love and gratitude. She is 
 a blessed, good woman ; and no other being could so have 
 softened and changed my hasty and impetuous nature. 
 When I look into the mirror of the past, I am surprised 
 to see how many unlovely traits of character I once pos 
 sessed, and I feel that I have reason to be thankful that 
 I am now rid of them. Good fortune smiled upon me 
 in my younger days, or I should have fared worse than 
 I did ; for, as my temper was hasty, violent, and not con 
 trolled by reason, I might have inflicted upon the victims 
 of my anger lasting injury; and perchance, though I 
 shudder to think of it, have taken the life of a fellow- 
 creature. Now my passions are completely under the 
 control of principle ; and it was love, faithful and true, 
 that did the work. 
 
432 CONCLUSION. 
 
 How mighty, how godlike, is love ! Many waters 
 cannot quench, nor floods drown it. Its mission is en 
 nobling; for it softens, purifies and elevates the human 
 heart, even as the sun in the heavens melts the snows 
 and frosts of winter, breaking his chains of ice, awaking 
 wide nature to renewed life, beauty and living joy ! 
 
NOTICES OF THE PEESS. . 
 
 This autobiographical romance, by a new literary aspirant, promising 
 creditable success, is a work of exquisite and oft-thrilling interest, of high 
 moral, progressive tone, and deals in many details and descriptions of lifo 
 and nature, which alternately move, melt and agitate. The experiences 
 of human nature it unfolds will find a deep response in thousands of sym 
 pathetic hearts, and will render the volume one of wide and popular circu 
 lation. It portrays some masterly love-scenes, with touches of genuine 
 taste and purity. If the book has some faults for the blade of criticism, 
 they are more than atoned for by the unaffected philanthropy, the style of 
 simple, natural beauty, the fresh, intense realization of the author, as ho 
 leads the reader through various scenes and plots of absorbing interest. 
 Westchester Gazette, Morrisania, N. Y. 
 
 This book stands among the better class of works of fiction. It has a 
 prominent moral bearing, and preserves its aim well to the last. It is well 
 worth the reading, and must have a most excellent influence. Tlie New 
 Era, 
 
 This volume will be most cordially welcomed by the novel-reading pub- 
 JAfor the interest of which class it is particularly designed. It purports 
 wbe an autobiography, not wholly fictitious, is well arranged, well writ 
 ten, abounding in fine sketches and beautiful paragraphs, and is liberally 
 seasoned with moral reflections and reformatory ideas. Though not 
 designed to illustrate any particular point in ethics, the moral tone of the 
 book is unexceptionable. Trumpet. 
 
 A handsome duodecimo of four hundred and thirty-two page* in clear 
 type. We undertook to form an opinion of this book by a slight examina 
 tion ; failing in this, we sat down and deliberately read the book through in 
 
2 NOTICES OF THE PRESS. 
 
 one night. It is a singular fiction. The author treads in a new path, now 
 strewed with flowers, and now rugged, even terribly rough with huge 
 boulders and jagged precipices, along which he rushes with a steadiness 
 and perseverance surprising. The plot is a good one, and the story is well 
 told; many of the fierce characters being terribly true to nature. South 
 Boston Gazette and Chronicle. 
 
 This is a very readable and interesting work, sparkling .with brilliant 
 passages, and breathes a kind spirit. The preface is a model. Christian 
 Ambassador. 
 
 With very little pretension, tbis is one of the most readable books of the 
 season. It is peculiar in its plot, but more peculiar in the varied power 
 and intensity of its delineation. There is much about it that would hardly 
 bear criticism as a literary effort, while again there are whole pages of 
 description scarcely excelled by any writer for originality of thought, and 
 strength and beauty of expression. The characters are well drawn, and 
 with the scenes of their activity are vividly impressed upon the mind. 
 There is much of truth in its fiction, and, as a whole, it is a production of a 
 marked character. Boston Daily Commonwealth. 
 
 W. G. Cambridge, a gentleman very well known in these parts, the 
 author of some letters published a few years ago in the Christian Freeman, 
 which at that time attracted a good deal of attention, has come out with 
 a novel, published by Messrs. Tompkins and Mussey, entitled " Henri ; or 
 the Web and Woof of Life." The appearance of this book makes quite a 
 sensation among the author's numerous acquaintances. I know not how 
 many have asked me, " Have you read Cambridge's novel 1 " One individ 
 ual told me that some things in it were equal to anything in Dickens. 
 New England Correspondence of the Star in the West. 
 
 It abounds with exalted, comprehensive sentiments, expressed in a novel 
 style, fresh and pure, and is a work of deep and thrilling interest. Hmg 
 ham Journal. 
 
 Our recent notice of the book with the above title (written by W. G. 
 Cambridge, and published by Abel Tompkins) failed to give, as we^P 1 - 
 oeive, on a closer inspection, any adequate idea of the real character and 
 merits of the production. Taken as a whole, we regard it as one of the 
 most remarkable as well as readable books of the season. The author is 
 one of that class who cannot disguise or withhold what he deems an import 
 ant truth, out of regard to popular prejudices ; nor has he considered him 
 self bound to folloAv in the beaten track of canonized taste in the plot or the 
 details the web or the woof of his story. Consequently he will be dif 
 ferently appreciated by different readers ; he will have ardent admirers 
 
NOTICES OF THE PRESS. 3 
 
 and strong dislikers, fast friends and severe enemies. But he stands not 
 alone among authors in this characteristic ; nor can we say that it is an 
 altogether undesirable one. The leading aim of the work seems to be to 
 trace the defects of personal character, and the evils which afflict the social 
 state, to their true sources, and to show the legitimate influence of passion, 
 harshness and avarice, in the parental and domestic relations, upon the 
 dispositions and after lives of those who are coming upon the stage of action. 
 It also finely exhibits the regenerating, moulding, harmonizing power, 
 over these perverted and misdirected minds, of the divine transforming 
 principle of love. The theology of the book is not altogether of the popu 
 lar cast, but its morality is uncompromising, reformatory and unexception 
 able. We are pleased to learn that a second edition is already called for. 
 Boston Pathfinder. 
 
 This is a truly interesting talc, ingenious in its plot, clear in its narra 
 tion, frequently thrilling in its description, and reformatory in its tendency. 
 The author says, " I have written this book with the very best intentions, 
 hoping that it might do good, and receive a welcome in many homes." 
 Such a welcome it deserves ; and into whatever family it may go, it can 
 not fail to affect the feelings and absorb the attention of both old and 
 young. Each of the characters is skilfully drawn : the youthful Henri, 
 impulsive, sanguine, generous and daring ; the young ruffian with whom 
 he had his first encounter in a chivalrous defence" of a poor, ragged child ; 
 Helen Means, the narrative of whose sufferings 4irill draw tears from 
 many a juvenile eye, and whose history will excite the wonder and admir 
 ation of children both of a smaller and " a larger growth ; " the sul 
 phurous, pharisaical, tyrannous and miserly Deacon "Webber ; Mrs. Stew 
 art, the peace-making, benignant, sorrow-stricken ; Irene Dinneford, the 
 fascinating; Ernest Brown, the love-stricken and desponding; the sensible 
 and kind old uncle, <fec. <fec. Boston Liberator. 
 
 It is a work which much pleased us in the perusal. Inwrought into its 
 argument are several reformatory and progressive ideas. Essex County 
 freeman. 
 
 It is one of the most interesting novels. It takes you through checkered 
 scenes ; but his characters are life-like, even the hardest of them ; and he 
 goes straight through all crooked ways with the principle of reform and 
 progress. The terrible evils of a false system of parental government arc 
 thrillingly delineated, and the retributive action of God's laws is placed in 
 an unmistakable light. The plot of the story is good, and the details run 
 in such strange channels, that your interest is on the stretch, and, having 
 begun, you dislike to suspend its reading till you have finished it. Box- 
 ton Christian Freejnan. 
 
4 NOTICES OF THE PRESS. 
 
 This is an autobiographical romance, and smacks of the real, in spirit, if 
 not in letter. The book has plenty of faults, as a work of art, and seems 
 to us to be far from true to nature in some of its scenes and characters, but 
 it contains many passages of true pathos and unmistakable power. There 
 is a sort of Dickens-like flavor in some of the scenes, which touches the 
 heart at once, however much the head may criticize. Phrenological 
 Journal. 
 
 In the conception of the story, the author, for a first attempt, has cer 
 tainly evinced a good degree of artistic skill. In his design to set forth 
 some of the wrong phases which society presents, he has portrayed some 
 very strong cases of hatred and revenge, and shown up the hypocrisy of 
 some pretenders to religion who have used its cloak for their deeds of wick 
 edness and cruelty ; or, as the poet aptly hath it, who have 
 
 "Stolen the livery of heaven 
 To serve the devil in." 
 
 But the result has been the triumph of the right. 
 
 There are many " lights and shadows " of life presented in this book, 
 and many thrilling scenes sketched, though the coloring may seem strong. 
 
 The work is well calculated to show how much may be accomplished, 
 even with the turbulent, by mild and tender treatment ; while it is also 
 shown how harshness ten<Js to sour the disposition, to rouse combativcness, 
 and give strength to pugnacity. 
 
 The work will afford useful hints to parents in the government of their 
 children ; to young people for its truthfulness and purity ; and to all, the 
 book will be worth reading. Dover Gazette. 
 
 This book, as its title imports, is an attempt to unveil the heart in its 
 overy-day manifestations, to exhibit, not a dead, soulless manikin, but a 
 living embodiment of the philosophy of human life. Its incidents have the 
 rare quality and attribute of being true to actualities ; its narratives are 
 simple, unaffected and natural ; and the high moral tone of the book will 
 commend it to quarters where much of the popular reading never finds 
 admission. Lowell Daily Journal and Courier. 
 
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