THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA.
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“Spirit, who waftest me where'er I will,
And seest, with finer eyes, what infants see,
Feeling all lovely truth,
With the wise health of everlasting youth,
Beyond the motes of bigotry's sick eye,
Or the blind feel of false philosophy—
O Spirit, O Muse of mine,
Frank, and quick-dimpled to all social glee,
And yet most sylvan of the earnest Nine—
O take me now, and let me stand
On some such lovely land,
Where I may feel me as I please,
In dells among the trees.”
In very ancient times there dwelt, among the Phrygian
hills, an old shepherd and shepherdess, named
Mygdomus and Arisba. From youth they had tended
flocks and herds on the Idean mountains. Their only
child, a blooming boy of six years, had been killed by
falling from a precipice. Arisba's heart overflowed
with maternal instinct, which she yearned inexpressibly
to lavish on some object; but though they laid
many offerings on the altars of the gods, with fervent
supplications, there came to them no other child.
Thus years passed in loneliness, until one day,
when Mygdomus searched for his scattered flock
among the hills, he found a babe sleeping under the
shadow of a plane tree. The grass bore no marks of
footsteps, and how long he had lain there it was
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impossible to conjecture. The shepherd shouted aloud,
but heard only echoes in the solitude of the mountains.
He took the child tenderly in his arms, and conveyed
it to Arisba, who received it gladly, as an answer to
her prayers. They nurtured him with goat's milk,
and brought him up among the breezes of the hills,
and the boy grew in strength and beauty. Arisba
cherished him with exceeding love, but still her heart
was not quite satisfied.
“If he had but a sister to play with him,” said she,
“it would be so pleasant here under the trees.”
The boy was three years old, and beautiful as a
morning in spring, when his foster-parents carried him
down to the plains, to a great festival of Bacchus, held
during the vintage. It was a scene of riot and confusion;
but the shepherd loved thus to vary the loneliness
of his mountain life, and Arisba fondly desired
to show her handsome boy, with his profusion of dark
glossy curls bound in a fillet of ivy and grape leaves.
Her pride was abundantly satisfied; for everywhere
among the crowd the child attracted attention. When
the story was told of his being found in the mountain
forest, the women said he must have been born of
Apollo and Aurora, for only they could produce such
beauty. This gossip reached the ears of an old woman,
who came hobbling on her crutch, to look at the
infant prodigy.
“By the Adorable! he is a handsome boy,” said
she; “but come with me, and I too will show you
something for the Mother of Love to smile upon.”
She led the way to her daughter, who, seated under a
tree, apart from the multitude, tended a sleeping babe.
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“By the honey sweet! isn't she pretty, too?” exclaimed
the old woman, pointing to the lovely infant,
whose rosy lips were slowly moving, as if she suckled
in her dreams. “My son, who hunts among the hills,
found her on the banks of the Cebrenus, with one
little foot dipped in the stream. Methinks the good
Mountain Mother scatters children on our Phrygian
hills, as abundant as the hyacinths.”
“Then she is not your own?” eagerly inquired
Arisba.
“No; and, pretty as she is, I do not want her, for
I have ten. But what can I do? One must not leave
babes to be devoured by wild beasts.”
“Oh, give her to me,” cried Arisba: “My boy so
needs a playmate.”
The transfer was readily made; and the child-loving
matron, rejoicing in her new treasure, soon after
left the revellers, and slowly wended her way back to
the silent hills.
A cradle of bark and lichen, suspended between two
young olive trees, held the babe, while Arisba, seated
on a rock, sung as she plied the distaff. The boy at
her side built small altars of stones, or lay at full length
on the grass, listening to the gurgling brook, or watching
the shadows at their play. Thus peacefully grew
these little ones, amid all harmonies of sight and
sound; and the undisturbed beauty of nature, like a
pervading soul, fashioned their outward growth into
fair proportions and a gliding grace.
For a long time they had no names. They were
like unrecorded wild flowers, known at sight, on
which the heart heaps all sweet epithets. Their
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foster-parents spoke of them to strangers as the Forest-found,
and the River-child. A lovelier picture could
not be imagined, than these fair children, wreathing
their favourite kid with garlands, under the shadow
of the trees, or splashing about, like infant Naiades,
in the mountain brook. On the hill side, near their
rustic home, was a goat's head and horns, bleached by
sun and winds. It had been placed on a pole to scare
the crows; and as it stood there many a year, the
myrtle had grown round it, and the clematis wreathed
it with flowery festoons, like the architectural ornaments
of a temple. A thrush had built her nest between
the horns; and a little rill gushed from the
rock, in a cleft of which the pole was fastened. Here
the boy loved to scoop up water for his little playmate
to drink from his hand; and as they stood thus under
the vines, they seemed like children of the gods. But
the most beautiful sight was to see them kneeling hand
in hand before the altar of Cybele, in the grove, with
wreaths about their heads and garlands in their hands,
while the setting sun sprinkled gold among the shadow-foliage
on the pure white marble. Always they were
together. When the boy was strong enough to bend
a bow, the girl ran ever by his side to carry his arrows;
and then she had a smaller arrow for herself,
with which she would shoot the flowers from their
stems, as skilfully as Cupid himself.
As they grew older, they came under the law of
utility; but this likewise received a poetic charm from
their free and simple mode of life. While the lad
tended the flocks, the maiden sat on a rock at his feet,
spinning busily while she sang summer melodies to
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the warblings of his flute. Sometimes, when each
tended flocks on separate hills, they relieved the weary
hours by love messages sent through the air on the
wings of music. His Phrygian flute questioned her
with bold bright voice, and sweetly answered her
Lydian pipe, in mellow tones, taking their rest in
plaintive cadences. Sometimes they jested sportively
with each other; asking mischievous questions in
fragments of musical phrases, the language of which
could be interpreted only by themselves. But more
frequently they spoke to each other deeper things than
either of them comprehended; struggling aspirations
towards the infinite, rising and lowering like tongues
of flame; half uttered, impassioned prophecies of emotions
not yet born; and the wailing voice of sorrows
as yet unknown.
In the maiden especially was the vague but intense
expression of music observable. In fact, her whole
being was vivacious and impressible in the extreme;
and so transparent were her senses, that the separation
between earthly and spiritual existence seemed to
be of the thinnest and clearest crystal. All noises
were louder to her than to others, and images invisible
to them were often painted before her on the air,
with a most perfect distinctness of outline and brilliancy
of colouring. This kind of spirit-life was indicated
in her face and form. Her exquisitely beautiful
countenance was remarkably lucid, and her deep blue
eyes, shaded with very long dark fringes, had an intense
expression, as if some spirit from the inner shrine
looked through them. Her voice was wonderfully full
of melodious inflexions, but even in its happiest
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utterance had a constant tendency to slide into sad modulations.
The outline of her slight figure swayed
gracefully to every motion, like a young birch tree to
the breath of gentle winds; and its undulations might
easily suggest the idea of beauty born of the waves.
Her companion had the perfection of physical beauty.
A figure slender but vigorous; a free, proud carriage
of the head, glowing complexion; sparkling
eyes, voluptuous mouth, and a pervading expression
of self-satisfaction and joy in his own existence. A
nature thus strong and ardent, of course exercised a
powerful influence over her higher but more ethereal
and susceptible life. Then, too, the constant communion
of glances and sounds, and the subtle influence
of atmosphere and scenery, had so intertwined their
souls, that emotions in the stronger were felt by the
weaker, in vibrations audible as a voice. Near or distant,
the maiden felt whether her companion's mood
were gay or sad; and she divined his thoughts with a
clearness that sometimes made him more than half
afraid.
Of course they loved each other long before they
knew what love was; and with them innocence had
no need of virtue. Placed in outward circumstances
so harmonious with nature, they were drawn toward
each other by an attraction as pure and unconscious
as the flowers. They had no secrets from their good
foster-mother; and she, being reverent towards the
gods, told them that their union must be preceded by
offerings to Juno, and solemnized by mutual promises.
She made a marriage feast for them, in her humble
way, and crowned the door-posts with garlands. Life
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passed blissfully there, in the bosom of the deeply
wooded hills. Two souls that are sufficient to each
other; sentiments, affections, passions, thoughts, all
blending in love's harmony, are earth's most perfect
medium of heaven. Through them the angels come
and go continually, on missions of love to all the lower
forms of creation. It is the halo of these heavenly
visitors that veils the earth in such a golden glory,
and makes every little flower smile its blessing upon
lovers. And these innocent ones were in such harmony
with nature in her peaceful spring time! The
young kids, browsing on the almond blossoms, stopped
and listened to their flutes, and came ever nearer, till
they looked in the eyes of the wedded ones. And
when the sweet sounds died away into silence, the
birds took up the strain and sang their salutation to
the marriage principle of the universe.
Thus months passed on, and neither heart felt an
unsatisfied want. They were known to each other
by many endearing names, but the foster-parents usually
called them Corythus and Œnone. These names
were everywhere cut into the rocks, and carved upon
the trees. Sometimes, the child-like girl would ask,
nothing doubting of the answer, “Will you love me
thus when I am as old as our good Arisba?” And he
would twine flowers in the rich braids of her golden
hair, as he fondly answered, “May the Scamander
flow back to its source, if ever I cease to love my
Œnone.” That there were other passions in the
world than love, they neither of them dreamed. But
one day Corythus went down into the plains in search
of a milk-white bull, that had strayed from the herd.
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He was returning with the animal, when he encountered
a troop of hunters, from the city on the other
side of the river. The tramp of their horses and the
glitter of their spears frightened the bull, and he
plunged madly into the waves of the Scamander.
The uncommon beauty of the powerful beast, and his
fiery strength, attracted attention. Some of the hunters
dismounted to assist in bringing him out of the
river, and with many praises, inquired to whom he
belonged. The shepherd answered their questions
with a graceful diffidence, that drew some admiration
upon himself. As the troop rode away, he heard one
of them say, “By Apollo's quiver! that magnificent
bull must be the one in which Jupiter disguised himself
to carry off Europa.”
“Yes,” replied another, “and that handsome rustic
might be Ganymede in disguise.”
A glow of pleasure mantled the cheeks of Corythus.
He stood for a moment proudly caressing the neck
and head of the superb animal, and gazed earnestly
after the hunters. The adventure made a strong impression
on his mind; for by the brazen helmets and
shields, richly embossed with silver, he rightly conjectured
that they who had spoken thus of him were
princes of Ilium. From that day he dressed himself
more carefully, and often looked at the reflection of
himself in the mountain pool. Instead of hastening
to Œnone, when they had by any chance been separated
for a few hours, he often lingered long, to gaze
at the distant towers of Ilium, glittering in the setting
sun. The scene was indeed surpassingly fair. The
Scamander flowed silverly through a verdant valley
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girdled by an amphitheatre of richly wooded mountains.
Europe and Asia smiled at each other across
the bright waters of the Ægean, while the lovely islands
of Imbros and Tenedos slept at their feet. But
it was not the beauty of the scene which chiefly attracted
his youthful imagination. The spark of ambition
had fallen into his breast, and his shepherd
life now seemed unmanly and dull. Œnone soon
felt this; for the usually quick perception of love
was rendered still more keen by her peculiar impressibility
to spiritual influence. For the first time, in
her innocent and happy life, came conscious sadness
without a defined reason, and unsatisfied feelings that
took no name. She gave out the whole of her soul,
and not being all received, the backward stroke of unabsorbed
affection struck on her heart with mournful
echoes. It made her uneasy, she knew not why, to
hear Corythus talk of the princes of Ilium, with their
dazzling crests and richly embroidered girdles. It
seemed as if these princes, somehow or other, came
between her and her love. She had always been
remarkable for the dreaming power, and in her present
state of mind this mysterious gift increased.
Her senses, too, became more acute. A nerve seemed
to be thrust out at every pore. She started at the
slightest sound, and often, when others saw nothing,
she would exclaim—
“Look at that beautiful bird, with feathers like the
rainbow!”
The kind foster-mother laid all these things to her
heart. Something of reverence, tinged with fear
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mixed with her love for this dear child of her adoption.
She said to her husband—
“Perhaps she is the daughter of Apollo, and he
will endow her with the gift of prophecy, as they say
he has the beautiful princess Cassandra, in the royal
halls of Ilium.”
The attention of Corythus was quite otherwise employed.
All his leisure moments were spent in making
clubs and arrows. He often went down into
the plains, to join the young men in wrestling
matches, running, leaping, throwing of quoits. In
all games of agility or strength, he soon proved his
superiority so decidedly that they ceased to excite
him. Then he joined hunting parties, and in contests
with wild beasts he signalized himself by such extraordinary
boldness and skill, that in all the country
round he came to be known by the name of Alexander,
or the Defender.
The echo of his fame flattered the pride of his
foster-father, who often predicted for him a career of
greatness; but poor Œnone wept at these periods of
absence, which became more and more frequent.
She concealed her tears from him, however, and
eagerly seized every little moment of sunshine to
renew their old happiness. But of all the sad tasks
of poor humanity, it is the most sorrowful to welcome
ghosts of those living joys that once embraced us with
the warmest welcome. To an earnest and passionate
nature it seems almost better to be hated, than to be
less beloved. Œnone would not believe that the
sympathy between them was less perfect than it bad
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been; but the anxious inquiry and the struggling hope
were gradually weakening her delicate frame; and an
event occurred which completely deranged her nervous
organization. One day they had both been tending
flocks on the hills, and had fallen asleep in the shade
of a gigantic oak. When they awoke, the flock had
wandered away, and they went in search of them.
Twilight drew her cloud-curtain earlier than usual,
and only a solitary star was here and there visible.
Bewildered by the uncertain light, they lost their way,
and were obliged to trust to the sagacity of their dog.
The sky, through the thickly interlacing boughs of
gigantic trees, looked down upon them solemnly;
bushes here and there started forth, like spectral shadows,
across their path; and their faithful dog now
and then uttered a long howl, as if he felt the vicinity
of some evil beast. Œnone was overcome with exceeding
fear. The wind among the trees distressed
her with its wailing song; and her acute senses detected
other sounds in the distance, long before they
reached the ear of her companion.
“Ha! what is that?” she exclaimed, clinging more
closely to his arm.
“ 'Tis only the evening wind,” he replied.
“Don't you hear it?” she said: “It is a horrible
noise, like the roar of lions. Ah, dear Corythus, the
wild beasts will devour us.”
He stood and listened intently.
“I hear nothing,” said he, “but the Dryads
whispering among the trees, and pulling green garlands
from the boughs. Your ears deceive you,
dearest.”
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There was silence for a few moments; and then,
with a faint shriek, she exclaimed:
“Oh, did'nt you hear that frightful clash? The
dog heard it. Hark! how he growls.”
For some time, Corythus insisted that there were no
other sounds than those common to evening. But at
last a deep roar, mingled with howls, came through
the air too distinctly to be mistaken. Œnone trembled
in every joint, and the perspiration stood in large
drops on her lips and forehead. The sounds grew
louder and louder. Booming timbrels were answered
with the sharp clash of cymbals, and at every pause
of the rolling drums the Phrygian pipe moaned on the
winds. The roars, shrieks and howls of a furious
multitude rent the air with fierce discords, and the
earth shook as with the tramp of an army. As they
passed by, the glare of their torches came up from
below, and cast fantastic gleams on the dark foliage
of the firs.
“The gods be praised,” said Corythus, “these are
no wild beasts; but the Corybantes on their way to
the temple of Cybele. The sounds are awful indeed;
but the Mountain Mother has been kind to us, dear
Œnone; for by the route they have taken I see that
the good dog has guided us right, and we are not far
from our home.”
He received no answer and could hear no breathing.
He felt the arm that clutched him so convulsively,
and found it cold and rigid. Fitful flashes of lurid
light gleamed ever and anon in the distance; the hills
echoed the roar of Cybele's lions, and the passionate
clang of cymbals pierced into the ear of night. There
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was no hope of making his voice heard through the
uproar; so he tenderly lifted his fair burthen and bore
it vigorously down the steep hill, pausing now and
then to take breath. At last, his eyes were greeted
by the welcome sight of Mygdomus with a torch,
anxiously looking out for them. Œnone's terror, and
its consequences, were briefly explained, and quickly
as possible they carried her into the dwelling.
The swoon continued so long, that it seemed like
death; but at last she opened her eyes, gazed around
with an unconscious stare, and soon fell into a deep
sleep. The next morning she appeared exceedingly
weak, and there was a strange expression about her
eyes. She so earnestly besought Corythus not to
leave her, that the old shepherd and his wife proposed
to go forth with the flocks; and it was agreed to call
them, in case of need, by a shrill summons on the
pipe. But Œnone, though much exhausted, and nervously
sensitive to light and sound, slept most of the
time quietly. Corythus had in his hand a branch of
laurel; and to amuse her waking moments, he wove
a garland of the leaves and playfully wreathed it
round her head. Her eyes lighted up with a singular
inward radiance, and she exclaimed joyfully, “I like
that. It makes me feel strong.”
Corythus gazed anxiously into her eyes, and a
superstitious fear crossed his mind that she had in
some way offended the dread goddess Cybele, and
been punished with insanity. But she smiled so
sweetly on him, and spoke so coherently, that he
soon dismissed the fear. An insect buzzed about her
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head, and he moved his hand slowly up and down,
to keep it away. When he paused, she said:
`Do that again. It is soothing and pleasant.”
He continued the motion, and with a delighted
smile, she said:
“Ah, the laurel bough has golden edges, and there
are rays about your head, like a shining crown.”
The smile was still on her lips, when she sunk into
a profound slumber. But when he rose and attempted
to go out, she said, imploringly:
“Oh, don't leave me!”
Yet she still seemed in the deepest possible sleep.
“Œnone, do you see me?” he asked.
“Yes, I see you on a hill where there is a marble
temple. There are three very beautiful women, and
they all beckon to you.”
“What do they ask of me?” said he.
“They ask of you to say which is the fairest. One
offers you a king's crown if you decide for her; another
holds forth a glittering spear, and says she will
make you the most renowned warrior in the world;
the other offers a myrtle wreath, and says, `Decide in
my favour, and you shall marry the most beautiful
princess in the world.' ”
“I choose the myrtle,” said Corythus; “but this
is an odd dream.”
“It is not a dream,” replied Œnone.
“Are you not asleep, then?”
“Yes, I am asleep; the motion of your hands put
me to sleep, and if you move that hazel twig over my
face, it will wake me.”
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He waved the twig, and her eyes opened immediately;
but when questioned, she said she had seen
no marble temple, and no beautiful women.
This incident made an indelible impression on the
mind of Corythus. He merely told the foster-parents
that she had talked in her sleep, and had at times
looked very strangely. But, within himself, he pondered
much upon what she had said concerning the
beautiful princess. Some days after, when he and
Œnone were out on the hill-side, he told her what she
had said of the motion of his hands, and the effect of
the hazel twig; but an undefined feeling led him to
forbear mentioning her prophecy that he would marry
the most beautiful princess in the world.
She answered, playfully:
“Move your hands over my head again, and see if
I shall fall asleep.”
He did so, and in a few minutes, she said:
“Ah, all the leaves on the trees now wear a golden
edge, the flowers radiate light, there is a shining
crown around your head, and from your fingers dart
lines of fire. Dear Corythus, this is like what the
minstrel sung of the Argonauts, when they were benighted,
and Apollo's bow cast bright gleams along
the shore, and sparkled on the waves.”
She continued to talk of the beautiful appearance
more and more drowsily, and in a few minutes sunk
into slumber. Corythus watched the statue-like stillness
of her features, and the singularly impressive
beauty of their expression. It was unlike anything
he had ever seen. A glorious light beamed from the
countenance, but it shone through, not on it; like a
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rose-coloured lamp within a vase of alabaster. For a
few moments, he was too much awed to interrupt the
silence. There was something divine in her loveliness,
as she lay there peacefully under the whispering
foliage, while the breezes gently raised her golden
ringlets. But curiosity was too powerful to be long
subdued by reverence; and Corythus at last asked:
“Œnone, where is the beautiful princess whom I
shall marry?”
After a pause, she replied:
“In a fair city girdled by verdant hills, far south
from here, toward the setting sun.”
“Do you see her?” he asked.
“Yes. She is in a magnificent palace, the walls
of which are ivory inlaid with golden vines, and
grapes of amber. Beneath her feet is spread a rich
green cloth, embroidered with flowers. A handmaid
is kneeling before her, with a shining silver vase,
twined round with golden serpents, and heaped with
fine purple wool. Another sits at her feet, with the
infant princess in her arms.”
“She is married, then?”
“She is the famous Helena, of whose many lovers
the minstrels sing, and who was married to Menelaus,
king of Laconia.”
“How does she look?”
“Majestic as Juno, and beautiful as Venus. She
has large dark glowing eyes, a proud but very beautiful
mouth, and neck and shoulders as white as ivory.
Her glossy brown hair is bound round the forehead
with a golden fillet, and falls in waves almost to her
feet. She is very beautiful, and very vain of her beauty.”
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“How then is it that she will consent to marry me,
a poor shepherd?”
“You are the son of a king; and when she sees
you, she will think you the most beautiful of men.”
“I the son of a king! Dearest Œnone, tell me of
what king?”
“Of Priam, king of Troy.”
“How then came I on Mount Ida?”
“The night you were born, your mother dreamed
of a torch that set all Ilium on fire. The dream
troubled her, and she told it to the king, her husband.
He summoned the soothsayers, and they told him
that the babe which was born would cause the destruction
of the city. While your mother slept, the king
gave you to his favourite slave, Archelaus, with
orders to strangle you. But he had not the heart to
do it, and so he left you under a plane tree on Mount
Ida, and prayed the gods to send some one to save
you.”
“Shall I be happy with the beautiful princess?”
“You shall have joy, but much, much more sorrow.
She will bring destruction on you; and you
will come to Œnone to die.”
Being further questioned, she said she knew the
healing virtues of all herbs, and the antidotes for all
poisons.
Corythus walked slowly back and forth, with folded
arms, revolving all that had been uttered. Could
it be that those handsome princes of Ilium were his
brothers? And the lovely Helena, the renown of
whose beauty had even reached the ears of shepherds
on these distant hills, could she ever be his wife?
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He paused and gazed on Œnone, and compared in
his mind her innocent spiritual beauty with the voluptuous
picture she had given of Helena; and there
arose within him a vague longing for the unknown
one.
“Wake me! wake me!” exclaimed the sleeper:
“there is a strange pain in my heart.”
Marvelling much, and blushing at his own thoughts,
he hastily woke her. He felt an unwillingness to
reveal what she had uttered; and she was satisfied
when told that she had talked incoherently of the
splendours of a palace. From that day he often tried
the experiment, and was never satisfied with hearing
of her visions.
It was a sad task of this fair prophetess, thus unconsciously
to paint the image of a rival in the heart
of him she loved. And though there remained in the
waking state no remembrance of the revelations made,
yet the effect of them gave a more plaintive tone to
her whole existence. The angelic depth of expression
increased in her beautiful eyes, and evermore looked
out through a transparent veil of melancholy; for she
felt the estrangement of her beloved Corythus, though
she knew it not. In fact, his wayward behaviour attracted
the attention of even good old Arisba. Moody
and silent, or irritable and impetuous, he no longer
seemed like the loving and happy youth, whom she
had doated on from his infancy. Sometimes he would
hurl the heaviest stones, with might and main, down
the sides of the mountain, or wrench the smaller trees
up by the roots. He was consumed by a feverish
restlessness, that could find no sufficient outward
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expression; a fiery energy that knew not how to expend
itself. Into the smallest occasions of play or labour he
threw such vehemence and volcanic force, that Arisba
jestingly said, “We will call you no more Corythus,
but Cœculus, who is said to have been born of a spark
from Vulcan's forge.”
To Œnone, his conduct was wayward in the extreme.
Sometimes he seemed to forget that she was
in existence; and then, as if reproaching himself, he
treated her with a lavishness of love that laid her
weeping on his bosom. Then she would look up,
smiling through her tears, and say, “You do love me,
still? I know not what to make of you, dear Corythus.
Your love seems like the Scamander, that has
two sources, one warm and the other cold. But you
do love me; do you not?”
The allusion to two sources brought a faint flush
to his cheek; and when he kissed her, and said “I do,”
her listening spirit heard a broken echo in the answer.
Thus was life passing with them, when a messenger
from king Priam came to obtain the white bull,
which had been so much admired by the hunters.
There was to be a gladiatorial contest in Ilium, and
the king had promised to the victor the most beautiful
bull that could be found on Mount Ida. Corythus
proudly replied that he would not give up the noble
animal, unless he were allowed to enter the lists for
the prize. Mygdomus, fearing the royal displeasure,
remonstrated with him, and reminded him that the
contest was for princes and great men, and not for
shepherds and rustics. But Corythus persisted that
on such terms only would he send away the pride of
-- 028 --
[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
their herds. The courier departed, and returned next
day with a message from the king, saying he liked
the bold spirit of the youth, and would gladly admit
into the lists one so famous for courage and skill.
Poor Œnone could not overcome her reluctance to
have him go. There had always been in her mind
an uncomfortable feeling with regard to those princes
of Ilium; and now it returned with redoubled force.
But, alas, in those mysterious sleeps she prophesied
victory and glory, and thus kindled higher than ever
the flame of ambition within his breast.
At last the important day arrived; and with throbbing
hearts the shepherd-family saw their young
gladiator depart for the contest. He drew Œnone to
his heart and kissed her affectionately; but when they
parted, he did not stop to look back, as he used to do
in those blissful days when their souls were fused into
one. With vigorous, joyful leaps, he went bounding
down the sides of the mountain. Œnone watched his
graceful figure as he swung lightly from the trunk of
a young olive tree, down into the plain below. When
she could no longer see even a moving speck in the
distance, she retired tearfully, to tend the flocks alone.
All that day her eyes were fixed sadly on the towers
of Ilium, and the thought ever present was, “He did
not look back upon me, when we parted.”
He promised to return on the third day; but the
fourth, and the fifth, and the sixth passed, and still he
came not. Mournfully, mournfully, wailed Œnone's
pipe, and there came no answer now, but sad echoes
from the hills.
“What can have become of him?” said Arisba,
-- 029 --
[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
when the evening of the fourth day closed. “Surely,
if harm had happened to him, they would send a
messenger.”
“He is either dead, or he has tasted the waters of
Argyra, which make people forget those they love,”
said Œnone; and as she spoke, hot tears fell on the
thread she spun.
* * * * * * * *
How had it fared meanwhile with Corythus?
Victor in all the games, his beauty and his strength
called forth shouts of applause. One after another
of the king's sons were obliged to yield to his superior
vigour and skill. At last came the athletic and
hitherto unconquered Hector. After a fierce protracted
struggle, the shepherd of Ida overthrew him also.
Enraged at being conquered by a youth of such inferior
birth, he started on his feet and rushed after him,
in a paroxysm of wrath. Corythus, to elude his fury,
passed through a gate which led into the inner court
of the palace. It chanced that queen Hecuba and her
daughter Cassandra were there, when he rushed in,
and panting threw himself upon the altar of Jupiter
for protection. Hecuba flung her mantle over him,
and summoned a slave to bring him water. Cassandra,
gazing earnestly at the youthful stranger, exclaimed,
“How like he is to my mother, as I first remember
her!”
The queen inquired his age, and Cassandra, listening
to his answer, said,
“If my brother Paris had lived, such also would
have been his years.”
“Fair Princess,” replied Corythus, “an oracle has
-- 030 --
[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
told me that I am he. Is Archelaus yet alive? If so,
I pray you let him be summoned, and inquire of him
whether he destroyed the infant Paris.”
The old slave, being questioned, fell on his knees
and confessed that he had left the babe under a plane
tree, on Mount Ida, and that he had afterward seen
him in the hut of Mygdomus. With a cry of joy,
Hecuba threw herself into the arms of her beautiful,
her long-lost son. Slaves brought water for his feet
and spread rich carpets before him. They clothed
him in royal robes, and there was feasting and rejoicing,
and magnificent processions to the temples, and
costly sacrifices to the gods. Brothers and sisters
caressed him, and he was attended by beautiful bond-women,
whose duty it was to obey his every wish.
Electra, a handsome Greek girl, with glowing cheeks
and eyes of fire, brought water for his hands in vases
of silver; while Artaynta, a graceful Persian, with
kiss-inviting lips, and sleepy oriental eyes, always halfveiled
by their long silken fringes, knelt to pour perfumes
on his feet. Thus surrounded by love and
splendour, the dazzled youth forgot Œnone. It was
not until the fourth day of his residence in the palace,
that the new prince began to think how anxious must
be the humble hearts that loved him on Mount Ida.
Should he raise Œnone to his own royal rank? She
was unquestionably lovely enough to grace a throne;
but the famous Spartan queen had taken possession
of his imagination, and he was already devising some
excuse to visit the court of Menelaus. He had not
courage to reveal these feelings to Œnone; and a
selfish wish to screen himself from embarrassment and
-- 031 --
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pain induced him to send Archelaus to convey the news,
with munificent presents to his foster-parents and his
wife, and a promise that he would come hereafter.
When Œnone heard the unexpected tidings, she
fell into a swoon more deadly than the one she had
experienced on the night of Cybele's procession. She
knew that her feelings could not have changed toward
Corythus, had the Fates offered her the throne of the
world; but she felt that it might be otherwise with
him. Weary weeks passed, and still he came not.
Œnone, wakeful and nervous, at last asked the foster-mother
to try to soothe her into sleep, as Corythus
had formerly done. Under this influence all the objects
around her again radiated light; and when the
mysterious slumber veiled her senses, she entered the
royal palace of Priam, and saw her beloved. Sometimes
she described him as reclining on a crimson
couch, while Electra brought him wine in golden
goblets. At other times, Artaynta knelt before him
and played on her harp, while he twined the long
ringlets of her glossy hair. At last she said he was
fitting out a fleet, and would soon sail away.
When Arisba asked where he would go, she answered:
“He says he is going to Salamis to redeem the
Princess Hesione, who was carried away prisoner by
the Greeks; but his real object is to visit the beautiful
queen of Sparta, whom I told him he would marry.”
“Poor child,” thought Arisba, “then it was thou
thyself that kindled strange fires in his bosom. What
wrong hast thou done, in thy innocent life, that the
gods should thus punish thee?”
-- 032 --
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In her waking hours, Œnone asked eager questions
concerning all she had said in her state of inner consciousness.
“Oh, if I could only see him again!” she would
exclaim with mournful impatience. “To have these
painted visions, and to retain no memory of them—
this is worse than the doom of Tantalus. Oh, how
could he forget me so easily? We who have slept in
the same cradle, and so often folded each other in
mutual love. I could not thus have forgotten him.”
She invented many projects of going to Ilium in
disguise, that she might at least look upon him once
more. But timidity and pride restrained her.
“The haughty ones will scorn a poor shepherd
girl,” she said; “and he will be ashamed to call me
his wife. I will not follow him who wishes to leave
me. It would break my heart to see him caressing
another's beauty. Yet if I could only see him, even
with another folded to his heart! Oh, ye gods, if I
could only see him again!”
Arisba listened to these ravings with deep compassion.
“Poor child,” she would say, “when thou wert
born, the Loves sneezed to thee from the unlucky side.”
Œnone would fain have been in her mysterious
sleep half the time; so eager was she to receive tidings
from Corythus. But Arisba had not the leisure
to spare, nor did she think such constant excitement
favourable to the health of her darling child. Already
her thin form was much attenuated, and her complexion
had the pale transparency of a spirit. But
the restlessness, induced by hearing no news of her
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
beloved, had a worse effect upon her nerves than the
excitement caused by her visions. So day by day,
Arisba tried to soothe her wretchedness, by producing
the sleep, and afterward repeating to her what she
had said. In this strange way, all that occurred at
the palace in Ilium was known in the hut on Mount
Ida. The departure of the young prince for Salamis,
the gorgeous fleet, with gay streamers and gilded
prows, the crowd about the shores waving garlands,
were all described in the liveliest manner. But
Œnone's sadness was not deepened by this event.
Corythus had been previously separated from her,
more completely than if he had already passed into the
world of spirits. One only hope consoled her misery;
her own prophecy that he would come to her to die.
Arisba was rejoiced to discover that her darling
would soon become a mother. She trusted this would
resuscitate withering affections, by creating a visible
link between her desolate heart and the being she so
fondly loved. And the first glance of the young mother
upon her innocent babe did seem to renew the
fountains of her life. She named the boy Corythus,
and eagerly watched his growing beauty, to catch
some likeness of his father. But the child had been
born under influences too sad to inherit his father's
vigorous frame, or his bounding, joyous, volatile spirit.
His nature was deep and loving, like his mother's,
and he had her plaintive, prophetic eyes. But his
rosy mouth, the very bow of Cupid, was the image
of his father's. And oh, with what a passionate mixture
of maternal fondness and early romantic love, did
poor Œnone press it to her own pale lips!
-- 034 --
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
Less frequently now she sought the relief of super-natural
sleep; and when she did, it was not always
followed by visions. But at various times she saw
her beloved in Sparta, weaving garlands for the beautiful
queen, or playing upon his flute while he reclined
at her feet.
“She loves him not,” said the sleeper; “but his
beauty and his flattery please her, and she will return
with him. It will prove a fatal day for him, and for
Ilium.”
When little Corythus was a year old, the fleet returned
from Greece, bearing Paris and his beautiful
Spartan queen. Œnone was, of course, aware of
this event, long before the rumour was reported to Mygdomus
by neighbouring shepherds. A feverish excitement
returned upon her; the old intense desire to see
the loved one. But still she was restrained by fear
and womanly pride. She made unseen visits to the
palace, as before, and told of Paris forever at the feet
of his queenly bride, playing upon his silver lyre,
while she decorated his curling tresses with garlands.
Again and again, the question rose in Œnone's
mind, whether the forgetful one would love her fair
child, if he could see him; and month by month, the
wish grew stronger to show him this son of their love.
Little Corythus was about two years old, when she
foretold immediate war with the Grecian states, enraged
at the abduction of queen Helena. When this
was repeated to her, she said to herself,
“If I go not soon, the plain will be filled with warriors,
and it will be dangerous to venture there.”
She kept her purpose secret; but one morning,
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
when she and the little one were out alone upon the
hills, she disguised herself in some of Arisba's old
robes, and went forth to Ilium, hoping to gain entrance
to the palace under the pretence of having herbs to
sell. But when she came within sight of the stately
edifice, her resolution almost failed. A slave, who
was harnessing two superb white horses to a glittering
chariot, demanded what she wanted; and when she
timidly told her errand, he showed her an inner quadrangular
court, and pointed out the apartments of the
women. As she stood hesitating, gazing on the magnificent
marble columns and gilded lattices, Paris
himself came down the steps, encircling Helen with
his arm. It was the first time she had looked upon
him since he left her, in rustic garb, without pausing
to look back upon her. Now, he wore sparkling sandals,
and a mantle of Tyrian purple, with large clasps
of gold. His bride was clothed in embroidered Sidonian
garments, of the richest fashion, and a long
flowing veil, of shining texture, was fastened about
her head by a broad band of embossed gold. Poor
Œnone slunk away, abashed and confounded in the
presence of their regal beauty; and her heart sank
within her, when she saw those well-remembered eyes
gazing so fondly upon her splendid rival. But when
the slave brought the chariot to the gate, she tried to
rouse her courage and come forward with the child.
Paris carefully lifted his bride into the chariot, and
leaped in, to seat himself by her side. In the agony
of her feelings, the suffering mother made a convulsive
movement, and with a shrill hysteric shriek, exclaimed,
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
“Oh Corythus, do look once upon our child!”
The frightened horses reared and plunged. The
chariot, turning rapidly, struck Œnone and she fell.
The wheels merely grazed her garments, but passed
over the body of the child. Paris being occupied with
soothing Helen's alarm, was not aware of this dreadful
accident. The slave reined in the startled horses
with a strong hand, and drove rapidly forward. Œnone
was left alone outside the gates, with the lifeless body
of her babe.
It was evening when she returned weary and heart-broken
to Arisba. A compassionate rustic accompanied
her, bearing her melancholy burden. The sad
story was told in a few wild words; and the old shepherds
bowed down their heads and sobbed in agony-
Œnone's grief was the more fearful, because it was so
still. It seemed as if the fountains of feeling were
dried up within her heart.
There was a painfully intense glare about her eyes,
and she remained wakeful late into the night. At
last, the good foster-mother composed her into an artificial
sleep. She talked less than usual in such slumbers,
and evinced an unwillingness to be disturbed.
But, in answer to Arisba's question, she said,
“He did not know a child was killed, nor did he
see us. In the confusion he thought only of Helen,
and did not recognise Œnone's voice. His sister Cassandra,
who sees hidden things by the same light that
I do, has told him that the child killed at the gates was
his own. But Helen and her handmaids are dancing
round him, laughing and throwing perfumes as they
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
go, and he thinks not of us. He would have loved
our little Corythus, if he had known him.”
“Thank the gods for that,” said Arisba within herself;
“for I would not like to hate the nursling I reared
so fondly.”
They buried the child in the shade of a gigantic
oak, on which, in happier days, had been carved, with
the point of an arrow, the united names of Corythus
and Œnone. A beautiful Arum lily held its large
white cup over the grave; and the sorrowing mother
covered the broken soil with anemonies and the delicate
blossoms of the crocus. There she would sit
hours together, gazing on the towers of Ilium. But
her desire to visit the palace, visibly or invisibly, seemed
to have subsided entirely. No feeling of resentment
against Corythus came into her gentle heart;
but her patient love seemed to have sunk into utter
hopelessness. Sometimes, indeed, she would look up
in Arisba's face, with a heart-touching expression in
her deep mournful eyes, and say, in tones of the saddest
resignation,
“He will come to me to die.”
Thus years passed on. War raged in all its fury
in the plains below. Their flocks and herds were all
seized by the rapacious soldiery, and the rushing of
many chariots echoed like thunder among the hills.
The nervous wakefulness of Œnone was still occasionally
soothed by supernatural sleep; though she
never sought it now from curiosity. At such times,
she often gave graphic accounts of the two contending
armies; but these violent scenes pained her in her
sleep, and left her waking strength extremely
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
exhausted. Sometimes she described Paris in the battle-field,
in shining armour, over which a panther's skin was
gracefully thrown, with a quiver of arrows at his
shoulder, and a glittering spear balanced in his hand,
brave and beautiful as the god of day. But more frequently
she saw him at Helen's feet, playing on harp
or flute, while she wove her gay embroidery. In the
latter time, she often spoke of his handsome brother
Deiphobus, standing near them, exchanging stolen
amorous glances with the vain and treacherous Spartan.
“She is false to him,” murmured the sleeper, mournfully.
“But he will come to Œnone to die.”
At last, the predicted hour arrived. The towers of
Ilium were all in flames, and the whole atmosphere
was filled with lurid light, as the magnificent city sank
into her fiery grave. The wretched inhabitants were
flying in all directions, pursued by the avenging foe.
In the confusion, Paris was wounded by a poisoned
arrow. In this hour of agony, he remembered the
faithful, the long-forgotten one, and what she had said
of her skill in medicine. In gasping tones, he cried
out,
“Carry me to Œnone!”
His terrified slaves lifted him on a litter of boughs,
and hastened to obey his orders.
Œnone sat by the grave of her child, watching the
blazing towers of Ilium, when they laid Corythus at
her feet. She sprang forward, exclaiming,
“Dear, dear Corythus, you have come to me at
last!”
Bending over him, she kissed the lips, which, cold
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
as marble, returned no answer to the fond caress. She
gazed wildly on the pale countenance for an instant—
placed her trembling hand upon his heart—and then
springing upward convulsively, as if shot by an arrow,
she uttered one long shrill shriek, that startled all the
echoes, and fell lifeless on the body of him she loved
so well.
The weeping foster-parents dug a wide grave by
the side of little Corythus, and placed them in each
other's arms, under the shadow of the great oak, whose
Dryad had so often heard the pure whisperings of
their early love.
-- 040 -- p048-045
THE YOUTHFUL EMIGRANT. A True Story of the Early Settlement of New Jersey.
A being breathing thoughtful breath;
A traveller betwixt life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength and skill.
A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel light.
—Wordsworth.
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
The latter part of the seventeenth century saw rapid
accessions to the Society of Friends, called Quakers.
The strong humility, the indwelling life, which then
characterised that peculiar sect, attracted large numbers,
even of the wealthy, to its unworldly doctrines.
Among these were John Haddon and his wife Elizabeth,
well-educated and genteel people, in the city of
London. Like William Penn, and other proselytes
from the higher classes, they encountered much ridicule
and opposition from relatives, and the grossest
misrepresentations from the public. But this, as
usual, only made the unpopular faith more dear to
those who had embraced it for conscience' sake.
The three daughters of John Haddon received the
best education then bestowed on gentlewomen, with
the exception of ornamental accomplishments. The
spinnet and mandolin, on which their mother had
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
played with considerable skill, were of course banished;
and her gay embroidery was burned, lest it should
tempt others to a like expenditure of time. The house
was amply furnished, but with the simplest patterns
and the plainest colours. An atmosphere of kindness
pervaded the whole establishment, from father and
mother down to the little errand-boy; a spirit of perfect
gentleness, unbroken by any freaks of temper, or
outbursts of glee; as mild and placid as perpetual
moonlight.
The children, in their daily habits, reflected an image
of home, as children always do. They were
quiet, demure, and orderly, with a touch of quaintness
in dress and behaviour. Their play things were so well
preserved, that they might pass in good condition to
the third generation; no dogs' ears were turned in
their books, and the moment they came from school,
they carefully covered their little plain bonnets from
dust and flies. To these subduing influences, was
added the early consciousness of being pointed at as
peculiar; of having a cross to bear, a sacred cause to
sustain.
Elizabeth, the oldest daughter, was by nature strong,
earnest, and energetic, with warm affections, uncommon
powers of intellect, and a lively imagination.
The exact equal pressure on all sides, in strict Quaker
families, is apt to produce too much uniformity of
character; as the equal pressure of the air makes one
globule of shot just like another. But in this rich
young soul, the full stream, which under other circumstances
might have overleaped safe barriers, being
gently hemmed in by high banks, quietly made for
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
itself a deeper and wider channel, and flowed on in all
its fulness. Her countenance in some measure indicated
this. Her large clear blue eye “looked out honest
and friendly into the world,” and there was an
earnest seriousness about her mouth, very unusual in
childhood. She was not handsome; but there was
something extremely pleasing in her fresh healthy
complexion, her bright intelligent expression, and her
firm elastic motions.
She early attracted attention, as a very peculiar child.
In her usual proceedings, her remarks, and even in her
play, there was a certain individuality. It was evident
that she never intended to do anything strange. She
was original merely because she unconsciously acted
out her own noble nature, in her own free and quiet
way. It was a spontaneous impulse with her to relieve
all manner of distress. One day, she brought home
a little half-blind kitten in her bosom, which her gentle
eloquence rescued from cruel boys, who had cut
off a portion of its ears. At another time, she asked
to have a large cake baked for her, because she wanted
to invite some little girls. All her small funds
were expended for oranges and candy on this occasion.
When the time arrived, her father and mother were
much surprised to see her lead in six little ragged beggars.
They were, however, too sincerely humble and
religious to express any surprise. They treated the
forlorn little ones very tenderly, and freely granted
their daughter's request to give them some of her
books and playthings at parting. When they had
gone, the good mother quietly said, “Elizabeth, why
didst thou invite strangers, instead of thy schoolmates?”
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
There was a heavenly expression in her eye, as she
looked up earnestly, and answered, “Mother, I wanted
to invite them, they looked so poor.”
The judicious parents made no circumstance of it,
lest it should create a diseased love of being praised
for kindness. But they gave each other an expressive
glance, and their eyes filled with tears; for this simple
and natural action of their child seemed to them
full of Christian beauty.
Under such an education, all good principles and
genial impulses grew freely and took vigorous root;
but the only opening for her active imagination to
spread its wings, was in the marvellous accounts she
heard of America and the Indians. When she was
five or six years old, William Penn visited her father's
house, and described some of his adventures in the
wilderness, and his interviews with red men. The intelligent
child eagerly devoured every word, and kept
drawing nearer and nearer, till she laid her head upon
his knees, and gazed into his face. Amused by her
intense curiosity, the good man took her in his lap,
and told her how the squaws made baskets and embroidered
moccasons; how they called a baby a pappoos,
and put him in a birch-bark cradle, which they
swung on the boughs of trees. The little girl's eyes
sparkled, as she inquired, “And didst thou ever see a
pappoos-baby thyself? And hast thou got a moccason-shoe?”
“I have seen them myself, and I will send thee a
moccason,” he replied; “but thou mayst go to thy
mother now, for I have other things to speak of.”
That night, the usually sedate child scampered
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
across the bed-room with but one sleeve of her nightgown
on, and tossed up her shoe, shouting, “Ho, ho!
Friend Penn is going to send me an Indian moccason!
Mother, art thou glad? Hannah, art thou glad?”
This unwonted ebullition was not rebuked in words,
but it soon subsided under the invisible influence of
unvarying calmness.
From that time, a new character was given to all
her plays. Her doll was named Pocahontas, and she
swung her kitten in a bit of leather, and called it a
pappoos. If she could find a green bough, she stuck
it in the ground for a tree, placed an earthen image
under it for William Penn, and sticks with feathers on
them for Indian chiefs. Then, with amusing gravity
of manner, she would unfold a bit of newspaper and
read what she called Friend Penn's treaty with the red
men. Her sisters, who were a of far less adventurous
spirit, often said, “We are tired of always playing Indian.
Why not play keep school, or go to see grandfather?”
But Elizabeth would answer, “No; let us play
that we all go settle in America. Well, now suppose
we are in the woods, with great, great, big trees all
round us, and squirrels running up and down, and
wolves growling.”
“I don't like wolves,” said little Hannah, “they
will bite thee. Father says they will bite.”
“I shouldn't be afraid,” replied the elder sister; “I
would run into the house and shut the door, when
they came near enough for me to see their eyes. Here
are plenty of sticks. Let us build a house; a wigwam,
I mean. Oh, dear me, how I should love to go
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
to America! There must be such grand great woods
to run about in; and I should love to swing the little
pappooses in the trees.”
When Elizabeth was eleven years old, she went
with her parents to Yearly Meeting, and heard, among
other preachers, a young man seventeen years of age,
named John Estaugh. He was a new proselyte,
come from Essex county, to join the annual assembly
of the Friends. Something in his preaching arrested
the child's attention, and made a strong impression on
her active mind. She often quoted his words afterwards,
and began to read religious books with great
diligence. John Haddon invited the youth home to
dine, but as there was no room at the table for the
children, Elizabeth did not see him. Her father afterward
showed her an ear of Indian corn, which John
Estaugh had given him. He had received several
from an uncle settled in New England, and he brought
some with him to London as curiosities. When the
little girl was informed that the magnificent plant grew
taller than herself, and had very large waving green
leaves, and long silken tassels, she exclaimed, with
renewed eagerness, “Oh, how I do wish I could go
to America!”
Years passed on, and as the child had been, so was
the maiden; modest, gentle and kind, but always
earnest and full of life. Surrounding influences naturally
guided her busy intellect into inquiries concerning
the right principles of human action, and the
rationality of customary usages. At seventeen, she
professed to have adopted, from her own serious conviction,
the religious opinions in which she had been
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
educated. There was little observable change in outward
manner; for the fresh spontaneousness of her
character had been early chastened by habitual calmness
and sobriety. But her views of life gradually
became tinged with a larger and deeper thoughtfulness.
She often spoke of the freedom of life away from
cities, and alone with nature; of mutual helpfulness
in such a state of society, and increased means of
doing good.
Perhaps her influence, more than anything else, induced
her father to purchase a tract of land in New
Jersey, with the view of removing thither. Mechanics
were sent out to build a suitable house and barns, and
the family were to be transplanted to the New World
as soon as the necessary arrangements were completed.
In the meantime, however, circumstances occurred
which led the good man to consider it his duty to remain
in England. The younger daughters were well
pleased to have it so; but Elizabeth, though she acquiesced
cheerfully in her father's decision, evidently
had a weight upon her mind. She was more silent
than usual, and more frequently retired to her chamber
for hours of quiet communion with herself. Sometimes,
when asked what she had upon her mind, she
replied, in the concise solemn manner of Friends, “It
is a great thing to be a humble waiter upon the Lord;
to stand in readiness to follow wheresoever He leads
the way.”
One day, some friends, who were at the house, spoke
of the New Jersey tract, and of the reasons which
had prevented a removal to America. Her father replied,
that he was unwilling to have any property
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lying useless, and he believed he should offer the tract
to any of his relatives who would go and settle upon
it. His friends answered, “Thy relatives are too
comfortably established in England, to wish to emigrate
to the wilds of America.”
That evening, when the family were about to separate
for the night, Elizabeth begged them to remain a
while, as she had something of importance to say.
“Dear parents and sisters,” said she, “it is now a long
time since I have had a strong impression on my mind
that it is my duty to go to America. My feelings
have been greatly drawn toward the poor brethren and
sisters there. It has even been clearly pointed out to
me what I am to do. It has been lately signified
that a sign would be given when the way was opened;
and to-night when I heard thy proposition to give the
house and land to whoever would occupy it, I felt at
once that thy words were the promised sign.”
Her parents, having always taught their children to
attend to inward revealings, were afraid to oppose
what she so strongly felt to be a duty. Her mother,
with a slight trembling in her voice, asked if she had
reflected well on all the difficulties of the undertaking,
and how arduous a task it was for a young woman to
manage a farm of unbroken land in a new country.
Elizabeth replied, “Young women have governed
kingdoms; and surely it requires less wisdom to
manage a farm. But let not that trouble us, dear
mother. He that feedeth the ravens will guide me in
the work whereunto he has called me. It is not to
cultivate the farm, but to be a friend and physician to
the people in that region, that I am called.”
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Her father answered, “Doubt not, my child, that
we shall be willing to give thee up to the Lord's disposings,
however hard the trial may be. But when
thou wert a very little girl, thy imagination was much
excited concerning America; therefore, thou must be
very careful that no desire for new adventures, founded
in the will of the creature, mislead thee from the
true light in this matter. I advise thee for three
months to make it a subject of solid meditation and
prayer. Then, if our lives be spared, we will talk
further concerning it.”
During the prescribed time, no allusion was made to
the subject, though it was in the thoughts of all; for
this highly conscientious family were unwilling to
confuse inward perceptions by any expression of feeling
or opinion. With simple undoubting faith, they
sought merely to ascertain whether the Lord required
this sacrifice. That their daughter's views remained
the same, they partly judged by her increased tenderness
toward all the family. She was not sad, but
thoughtful and ever-wakeful, as toward friends from
whom she was about to separate. It was likewise observable
that she redoubled her diligence in obtaining
knowledge of household affairs, of agriculture, and
the cure of common diseases. When the three
months had expired, she declared that the light shone
with undiminished clearness, and she felt, more strongly
than ever, that it was her appointed mission to comfort
and strengthen the Lord's people in the New
World.
Accordingly, early in the spring of 1700, arrangements
were made for her departure, and all things
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were provided that the abundance of wealth, or the
ingenuity of affection, could devise. A poor widow of
good sense and discretion accompanied her, as friend
and housekeeper, and two trusty men servants, members
of the Society of Friends. Among the many
singular manifestations of strong faith and religious
zeal, connected with the settlement of this country,
few are more remarkable than the voluntary separation
of this girl of eighteen years old from a wealthy
home and all the pleasant associations of childhood,
to go to a distant and thinly inhabited country, to
fulfil what she considered a religious duty. And the
humble, self-sacrificing faith of the parents, in giving
up their beloved child, with such reverend tenderness
for the promptings of her own conscience, has in it
something sublimely beautiful, if we look at it in its
own pure light. The parting took place with more
love than words can express, and yet without a tear
on either side. Even during the long and tedious
voyage, Elizabeth never wept. She preserved a martyr-like
cheerfulness and serenity to the end.
The house prepared for her reception stood in a
clearing of the forest, three miles from any other
dwelling. She arrived in June, when the landscape
was smiling in youthful beauty; and it seemed to her
as if the arch of heaven was never before so clear and
bright, the carpet of the earth never so verdant. As
she sat at her window and saw evening close in upon
her in that broad forest home, and heard, for the first
time, the mournful notes of the whippo-wil and the
harsh scream of the jay in the distant woods, she was
oppressed with a sense of vastness, of infinity, which
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she never before experienced, not even on the ocean.
She remained long in prayer, and when she lay down
to sleep beside her matron friend, no words were
spoken between them. The elder, overcome with fatigue,
soon sank into a peaceful slumber; but the
young enthusiastic spirit lay long awake, listening to
the lone voice of the whippo-wil complaining to the
night. Yet notwithstanding this prolonged wakefulness,
she rose early and looked out upon the lovely
landscape. The rising sun pointed to the tallest trees
with his golden finger, and was welcomed with a gush
of song from a thousand warblers. The poetry in
Elizabeth's soul, repressed by the severe plainness
of her education, gushed up like a fountain. She
dropped on her knees, and with an outburst of prayer
exclaimed fervently, “Oh, Father, very beautiful hast
thou made this earth! How bountiful are thy gifts,
O Lord!”
To a spirit less meek and brave, the darker shades
of the picture would have obscured these cheerful
gleams; for the situation was lonely and the inconveniences
innumerable. But Elizabeth easily triumphed
over all obstacles, by her practical good sense
and the quick promptings of her ingenuity. She
was one of those clear strong natures, who always
have a definite aim in view, and who see at once the
means best suited to the end. Her first inquiry was,
what grain was best adapted to the soil of her farm;
and being informed that rye would yield best, “Then
I shall eat rye bread,” was her answer. The ear of
Indian corn, so long treasured in her juvenile museum,
had travelled with her across the Atlantic, to
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be planted in American soil. When she saw fields
of this superb plant, she acknowledged that it more
than realized the picture of her childish imagination.
But when winter came, and the gleaming snow
spread its unbroken silence over hill and plain, was
it not dreary then? It would have been dreary indeed
to one who entered upon this mode of life from
mere love of novelty, or a vain desire to do something
extraordinary. But the idea of extended usefulness,
which had first lured this remarkable girl into a path
so unusual, sustained her through all its trials. She
was too busy to be sad, and she leaned too trustingly
on her Father's hand to be doubtful of her way.
The neighbouring Indians soon loved her as a friend,
for they found her always truthful, just, and kind.
From their teachings, she added much to her knowledge
of simple medicines. So efficient was her
skill and so prompt her sympathy, that for many miles
round, if man, woman, or child were alarmingly ill,
they were sure to send for Elizabeth Haddon; and
wherever she went, her observing mind gathered some
new hint for the improvement of farm or dairy. Her
house and heart were both large; and as her residence
was on the way to the Quaker meeting-house
in Newtown, it became a place of universal resort to
Friends from all parts of the country travelling that
road, as well as an asylum for benighted wanderers.
When Elizabeth was asked if she were not sometimes
afraid of wayfarers, she quietly replied, “Perfect love
casteth out fear.” And true it was that she, who
was so bountiful and kind to all, found none to injure
her.
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The winter was drawing to a close, when late one
evening, the sound of sleigh-bells was heard, and the
crunching of snow beneath the hoofs of horses, as
they passed into the barn-yard gate. The arrival of
travellers was too common an occurrence to excite or
disturb the well-ordered family. Elizabeth quietly
continued her knitting, merely saying to one of the
men, “Joseph, wilt thou put more wood on the fire?
These friends, whoever they may be, will doubtless
be cold; for I observed at nightfall a chilly feeling,
as of more snow in the air.”
Great logs were piled in the capacious chimney,
and the flames blazed up with a crackling warmth,
when two strangers entered. In the younger, Elizabeth
instantly recognised John Estaugh, whose
preaching had so deeply impressed her at eleven years
of age. This was almost like a glimpse of home—
her dear old English home! She stepped forward
with more than usual cordiality, saying:
“Thou art welcome, Friend Estaugh; the more so
for being entirely unexpected.”
“And I am glad to see thee, Elizabeth,” he replied,
with a friendly shake of the hand. “It was not until
after I landed in America, that I heard the Lord had
called thee hither before me; but I remember thy
father told me how often thou hadst played the settler
in the woods, when thou wast quite a little girl.”
“I am but a child still,” she replied, smiling.
“I trust thou art,” he rejoined; “and as for these
strong impressions in childhood, I have heard of
many cases where they seemed to be prophecies sent
of the Lord. When I saw thy father in London, I
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had even then an indistinct idea that I might sometime
be sent to America on a religious visit.”
“And hast thou forgotten, Friend John, the ear of
Indian corn which my father begged of thee for me?
I can show it to thee now. Since then I have seen
this grain in perfect growth; and a goodly plant it
is, I assure thee. See,” she continued, pointing to
many bunches of ripe corn, which hung in their
braided husks against the walls of the ample kitchen:
“all that, and more, came from a single ear, no bigger
than the one thou didst give my father. May the
seed sown by thy ministry be as fruitful!”
“Amen,” replied both the guests; and for a few
moments no one interrupted the silence. Then they
talked much of England. John Estaugh had not
seen any of the Haddon family for several years; but
he brought letters from them, which came by the
same ship, and he had information to give of many
whose names were familiar as household words.
The next morning, it was discovered that snow had
fallen during the night in heavy drifts, and the roads
were impassable. Elizabeth, according to her usual
custom, sent out men, oxen and sledges, to open
pathways for several poor families, and for households
whose inmates were visited by illness. In this
duty, John Estaugh and his friend joined heartily,
and none of the labourers worked harder than they.
When he returned, glowing from this exercise, she
could not but observe that the excellent youth had a
goodly countenance. It was not physical beauty; for
of that he had little. It was that cheerful, child-like,
out-beaming honesty of expression, which we not
-- 054 --
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unfrequently see in Germans, who. above all nations,
look as if they carried a crystal heart within their
manly bosoms.
Two days after, when Elizabeth went to visit her
patients, with a sled-load of medicines and provisions,
John asked permission to accompany her. There, by
the bedside of the aged and the suffering, she saw the
clear sincerity of his countenance warmed up with
rays of love, while he spoke to them words of kindness
and consolation; and there she heard his pleasant
voice modulate itself into deeper tenderness of
expression, when he took little children in his arms.
The next First Day, which we call the Sabbath,
the whole family, as usual, attended Newtown meeting;
and there John Estaugh was gifted with an outpouring
of the spirit in his ministry, which sank deep
into the hearts of those who listened to him. Elizabeth
found it so marvellously applicable to the trials
and temptations of her own soul, that she almost
deemed it was spoken on purpose for her. She said
nothing of this, but she pondered upon it deeply.
Thus did a few days of united duties make them
more thoroughly acquainted with each other, than
they could have been by years of fashionable intercourse.
The young preacher soon after bade farewell, to
visit other meetings in Pennsylvania and New Jersey.
Elizabeth saw him no more until the May following,
when he stopped at her house to lodge, with
numerous other Friends, on their way to the Quarterly
Meeting at Salem. In the morning, quite a
cavalcade started from her hospitable door, on
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horseback; for wagons were then unknown in Jersey.
John Estaugh, always kindly in his impulses, busied
himself with helping a lame and very ugly old woman,
and left his hostess to mount her horse as she
could. Most young women would have felt slighted;
but in Elizabeth's noble soul the quiet deep tide of
feeling rippled with an inward joy. “He is always
kindest to the poor and the neglected,” thought she;
“verily he is a good youth.” She was leaning over
the side of her horse, to adjust the buckle of the girth,
when he came up on horseback, and inquired if anything
was out of order. She thanked him, with
slight confusion of manner, and a voice less calm than
her usual utterance. He assisted her to mount, and
they trotted along leisurely behind the procession of
guests, speaking of the soil and climate of this new
country, and how wonderfully the Lord had here
provided a home for his chosen people. Presently
the girth began to slip, and the saddle turned so much
on one side, that Elizabeth was obliged to dismount.
It took some time to re-adjust it, and when they
again started, the company were out of sight. There
was brighter colour than usual in the maiden's cheeks,
and unwonted radiance in her mild deep eyes. After
a short silence, she said, in a voice slightly tremulous,
“Friend John, I have a subject of great importance
on my mind, and one which nearly interests
thee. I am strongly impressed that the Lord has
sent thee to me as a partner for life. I tell thee my
impression frankly, but not without calm and deep
reflection; for matrimony is a holy relation, and
should be entered into with all sobriety. If thou
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hast no light on the subject, wilt thou gather into the
stillness, and reverently listen to thy own inward revealings?
Thou art to leave this part of the country
to-morrow, and not knowing when I should see thee
again, I felt moved to tell thee what lay upon my
mind.”
The young man was taken by surprise. Though
accustomed to that suppression of emotion, which
characterizes his religious sect, the colour went and
came rapidly in his face, for a moment; but he soon
became calmer, and replied, “This thought is new to
me, Elizabeth; and I have no light thereon. Thy
company has been right pleasant to me, and thy
countenance ever reminds me of William Penn's title-page,
`Innocency with her open face.' I have seen
thy kindness to the poor, and the wise management
of thy household. I have observed, too, that thy
warm-heartedness is tempered by a most excellent
discretion, and that thy speech is ever sincere. Assuredly,
such is the maiden I would ask of the Lord,
as a most precious gift; but I never thought of this
connexion with thee. I came to this country solely
on a religious visit, and it might distract my mind to
entertain this subject at present. When I have discharged
the duties of my mission, we will speak
further.”
“It is best so,” rejoined the maiden; “but there is
one thing disturbs my conscience. Thou hast spoken
of my true speech; and yet, Friend John, I have
deceived thee a little, even now, while we conferred
together on a subject so serious. I know not from what
weakness the temptation came; but I will not hide it
-- 057 --
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from thee. I allowed thee to suppose, just now, that
I was fastening the girth of my horse securely; but, in
plain truth, I was loosening the girth, John, that the
saddle might slip, and give me an excuse to fall behind
our friends; for I thought thou wouldst be kind
enough to come and ask if I needed thy services.”
This pure transparency of motive seemed less
wonderful to John Estaugh, than it would to a man
more accustomed to worldly ways, or less familiar with
the simplicity of primitive Quakers. Nevertheless,
the perfect guilelessness of the maiden endeared her to
his honest heart, and he found it difficult to banish
from his thoughts the important subject she had suggested.
It was observable in this singular courtship,
that no mention was made of wordly substance. John
did not say, “I am poor, and thou art rich;” he did
not even think of it. And it had entered Elizabeth's
mind only in the form of thankfulness to God that she
was provided with a home large enough for both.
They spoke no further concerning their union; but
when he returned to England, in July, he pressed her
hand affectionately, as he said, “Farewell, Elizabeth.
If it be the Lord's will, I shall return to thee soon.”
He lingered, and their hands trembled in each other's
clasp; then drawing her gently toward him, he imprinted
a kiss on her open innocent forehead. She
looked modestly into his clear honest eyes, and replied
in the kindest tones, “Farewell, Friend John; may
the Lord bless thee and guide thee.”
In October, he returned to America, and they were
soon after married, at Newtown meeting, according to
the simple form of the Society of Friends. Neither
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of them made any change of dress for the occasion, and
there was no wedding feast. Without the aid of priest
or magistrate, they took each other by the hand, and, in
the presence of witnesses, calmly and solemly promised
to be kind and faithful to each other. Their mutual
promises were recorded in the church books, and the
wedded pair quietly returned to their happy home,
with none to intrude upon those sacred hours of human
life, when the heart most needs to be left alone
with its own deep emotions.
During the long period of their union, she three
times crossed the Atlantic, to visit her aged parents,
and he occasionally left her for a season, when called
abroad to preach. These temporary separations were
felt as a cross, but the strong-hearted woman always
cheerfully gave him up to follow his own convictions
of duty. In 1742, he parted from her, to go on a
religious visit to Tortola, in the West Indies. He
died there, in the sixty-seventh year of his age. A
friend, in a letter informing her of the event, says:
“A shivering fit, followed by fever, seized him on the
first day of the tenth month. He took great notice
that it ended forty years since his marriage with thee;
that during that time you had lived in much love, and
had parted in the same; and that leaving thee was
his greatest concern of all outward enjoyments. On
the sixth day of the tenth month, about six o'clock at
night, he went away like a lamb.” She published a
religious tract of his, to which is prefixed a preface,
entitled “Elizabeth Estaugh's testimony concerning
her beloved husband, John Estaugh.” In this preface,
she says, “Since it pleased Divine Providence so high
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ly to favour me, with being the near companion of this
dear worthy, I must give some small account of him.
Few, if any, in a married state, ever lived in sweeter
harmony than we did. He was a pattern of moderation
in all things; not lifted up with any enjoyments,
nor cast down at disappointments. A man endowed
with many good gifts, which rendered him very agreeable
to his friends, and much more to me, his wife, to
whom his memory is most dear and precious.”
Elizabeth survived her excellent husband twenty
years, useful and honoured to the last. The Monthly
Meeting of Haddonfield, in a published testimonial,
speak of her thus: “She was endowed with great
natural abilities, which, being sanctified by the spirit
of Christ, were much improved; whereby she became
qualified to act in the affairs of the church, and was
a serviceable member, having been clerk to the
women's meeting nearly fifty years, greatly to their
satisfaction. She was a sincere sympathiser with the
afflicted, of a benevolent disposition, and in distributing
to the poor, was desirous to do it in a way most
profitable and durable to them, and if possible not to
let the right hand know what the left did. Though
in a state of affluence as to this world's wealth, she
was an example of plainness and moderation. Her
heart and house were open to her friends, whom to
entertain seemed one of her greatest pleasures. Prudently
cheerful, and well knowing the value of friendship,
she was careful not to wound it herself, nor to
encourage others in whispering supposed failings or
weaknesses. Her last illness brought great bodily
pain, which she bore with much calmness of mind
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and sweetness of spirit. She departed this life as one
falling asleep, full of days, like unto a shock of corn,
fully ripe.”
The town of Haddonfield, in New-Jersey, took its
name from her; and the tradition concerning her
courtship is often repeated by some patriarch among
the Quakers. She laid out an extensive garden in
rear of the house, which during her day was much
celebrated for its herbs, vegetables and fruits, liberally
distributed all round the neighbourhood. The house
was burned down years ago; but some fine old yew
trees, which she brought from England, are still
pointed out on the site where the noble garden once
flourished. Her medical skill is so well remembered,
that the old nurses of New-Jersey still recommend
Elizabeth Estaugh's salve as the “sovereignest thing
on earth.”
The brick tomb in which John Estaugh was buried
at Tortola, is still pointed out to Quaker travellers;
one of whom recently writes, “By a circuitous path,
through a dense thicket, we came to the spot where
Friends once had a meeting-house, and where are
buried the remains of several of our valued ministers,
who visited this island about a century ago, from a
sense of gospellove. Time has made his ravages upon
these mansions of the dead. The acacia spreads thickly
its thorny branches over them, and near them the
century-blooming aloe is luxuriantly growing.”
-- 061 -- p048-066
THE QUADROONS.
“I promised thee a sister tale,
Of man's perfidious cruelty:
Come then and hear what cruel wrong
Befell the dark Ladie.”
Coleridge
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Not far from Augusta, Georgia, there is a pleasant
place called Sand-Hills, appropriated almost exclusively
to summer residences for the wealthy inhabitants
of the neighbouring city. Among the beautiful
cottages that adorn it was one far retired from the public
roads, and almost hidden among the trees. It was
a perfect model of rural beauty. The piazzas that
surrounded it were wreathed with Clematis and Passion
Flower. Magnificent Magnolias, and the superb
Pride of India, threw shadows around it, and filled
the air with fragrance. Flowers peeped out from
every nook, and nodded to you in bye-places, with a
most unexpected welcome. The tasteful hand of Art
had not learned to imitate the lavish beauty and harmonious
disorder of Nature, but they lived together in
loving unity, and spoke in according tones. The gateway
rose in a Gothic arch, with graceful tracery in
iron-work, surmounted by a Cross, around which fluttered
and played the Mountain Fringe, that lightest
and most fragile of vines.
The inhabitan's of this cottage remained in it all
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[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
the year round, and peculiarly enjoyed the season
that left them without neighbours. To one of the
parties, indeed, the fashionable summer residents, that
came and went with the butterflies, were merely neighbours-in-law.
The edicts of society had built up a
wall of separation between her and them; for she was
a quadroon. Conventional laws could not be reversed
in her favour, though she was the daughter of a wealthy
merchant, was highly cultivated in mind and manners,
graceful as an antelope, and beautiful as the evening
star. She had early attracted the attention of a
handsome and wealthy young Georgian; and as their
acquaintance increased, the purity and bright intelligence
of her mind, inspired him with far deeper interest
than is ever excited by mere passion. It was
genuine love; that mysterious union of soul and sense,
in which the lowliest dew-drop reflects the image of
the highest star.
The tenderness of Rosalie's conscience required an
outward form of marriage; though she well knew
that a union with her proscribed race was unrecognised
by law, and therefore the ceremony gave her no
legal hold on Edward's constancy. But her high
poetic nature regarded the reality, rather than the semblance
of things; and when he playfully asked how
she could keep him if he wished to run away, she replied,
“Let the church that my mother loved sanction
our union, and my own soul will be satisfied, without
the protection of the state. If your affections fall from
me, I would not, if I could, hold you by a legal fetter.”
It was a marriage sanctioned by Heaven, though
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unrecognised on earth. The picturesque cotiage at
Sand-Hills was built for the young bride under her
own direction; and there they passed ten as happy
years as ever blessed the heart of mortals. It was
Edward's fancy to name their eldest child Xarifa; in
commemoration of a quaint old Spanish ballad, which
had first conveyed to his ears the sweet tones of her
mother's voice. Her flexile form and nimble motions
were in harmony with the breezy sound of the name;
and its Moorish origin was most appropriate to one so
emphatically “a child of the sun.” Her complexion,
of a still lighter brown than Rosalie's, was rich and
glowing as an autumnal leaf. The iris of her large,
dark eye had the melting, mezzotinto outline, which
remains the last vestige of African ancestry, and gives
that plaintive expression, so often observed, and so appropriate
to that docile and injured race.
Xarifa learned no lessons of humility or shame,
within her own happy home; for she grew up in the
warm atmosphere of father's and mother's love, like a
flower open to the sunshine, and sheltered from the
winds. But in summer walks with her beautiful
mother, her young cheek often mantled at the rude
gaze of the young men, and her dark eye flashed fire,
when some contemptuous epithet met her ear, as
white ladies passed them by, in scornful pride and illconcealed
envy.
Happy as Rosalie was in Edward's love, and surrounded
by an outward environment of beauty, so well
adapted to her poetic spirit, she felt these incidents
with inexpressible pain. For herself, she cared but
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[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
little; for she had found a sheltered home in Edward's
heart, which the world might ridicule, but had no
power to profane. But when she looked at her beloved
Xarifa, and reflected upon the unavoidable and
dangerous position which the tyranny of society had
awarded her, her soul was filled with anguish. The
rare loveliness of the child increased daily, and was
evidently ripening into most marvellous beauty. The
father rejoiced in it with unmingled pride; but in the
deep tenderness of the mother's eye there was an indwelling
sadness, that spoke of anxious thoughts and
fearful forebodings.
When Xarifa entered her ninth year, these uneasy
feelings found utterance in earnest solicitations that
Edward would remove to France, or England. This
request excited but little opposition, and was so attractive
to his imagination, that he might have overcome
all intervening obstacles, had not “a change come
o'er the spirit of his dream.” He still loved Rosalie,
but he was now twenty-eight years old, and, unconsciously
to himself, ambition had for some time been
slowly gaining an ascendency over his other feelings.
The contagion of example had led him into the arena
where so much American strength is wasted; he had
thrown himself into political excitement, with all the
honest fervour of youthful feeling. His motives had
been unmixed with selfishness, nor could he ever define
to himself when or how sincere patriotism took
the form of personal ambition. But so it was, that at
twenty-eight years old, he found himself an ambitious
man, involved in movements which his frank nature
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[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
would have once abhorred, and watching the doubtful
game of mutual cunning with all the fierce excitement
of a gambler.
Among those on whom his political success most
depended, was a very popular and wealthy man, who
had an only daughter. His visits to the house were
at first of a purely political nature; but the young
lady was pleasing, and he fancied he discovered in
her a sort of timid preference for himself. This excited
his vanity, and awakened thoughts of the great
worldly advantages connected with a union. Reminiscences
of his first love kept these vague ideas in
check for several months; but Rosalie's image at last
became an unwelcome intruder; for with it was associated
the idea of restraint. Moreover Charlotte,
though inferior in beauty, was yet a pretty contrast
to her rival. Her light hair fell in silken profusion,
her blue eyes were gentle, though inexpressive, and
her delicate cheeks were like blush-rose-buds.
He had already become accustomed to the dangerous
experiment of resisting his own inward convictions;
and this new impulse to ambition, combined
with the strong temptation of variety in love, met the
ardent young man weakened in moral principle, and
unfettered by laws of the land. The change wrought
upon him was soon noticed by Rosalie.
“In many ways does the full heart reveal
The presence of the love it would conceal;
But in far more the estranged heart lets know
The absence of the love, which yet it fain would show.”
At length the news of his approaching marriage
met her ear. Her head grew dizzy, and her heart
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
fainted within her; but, with a strong effort at composure,
she inquired all the particulars; and her pure
mind at once took its resolution. Edward came that
evening, and though she would have fain met him as
usual, her heart was too full not to throw a deep sadness
over her looks and tones. She had never complained
of his decreasing tenderness, or of her own
lonely hours; but he felt that the mute appeal of her
heart-broken looks was more terrible than words. He
kissed the hand she offered, and with a countenance
almost as sad as her own, led her to a window in the
recess, shadowed by a luxuriant Passion Flower. It
was the same seat where they had spent the first
evening in this beautiful cottage, consecrated to their
youthful loves. The same calm, clear moonlight
looked in through the trellis. The vine then planted
had now a luxuriant growth; and many a time had
Edward fondly twined its sacred blossoms with the
glossy ringlets of her raven hair. The rush of memory
almost overpowered poor Rosalie; and Edward
felt too much oppressed and ashamed to break the
long, deep silence. At length, in words scarcely audible,
Rosalie said, “Tell me, dear Edward, are you
to be married next week?” He dropped her hand, as
if a rifle-ball had struck him; and it was not until
after long hesitation, that he began to make some reply
about the necessity of circumstances. Mildly,
but earnestly, the poor girl begged him to spare apologies.
It was enough that he no longer loved her,
and that they must bid farewell. Trusting to the
yielding tenderness of her character, he ventured, in
the most soothing accents, to suggest that as he still
-- 067 --
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loved her better than all the world, she would ever be
his real wife, and they might see each other frequently.
He was not prepared for the storm of indignant
emotion his words excited. Hers was a passion too
absorbing to admit of partnership; and her spirit was
too pure and kind to enter into a selfish league against
the happiness of the innocent young bride.
At length this painful interview came to an end.
They stood together by the Gothic gate, where they
had so often met and parted in the moonlight. Old
remembrances melted their souls. “Farewell, dearest
Edward,” said Rosalie. “Give me a parting
kiss.” Her voice was choked for utterance, and the
tears flowed freely, as she bent her lips toward him.
He folded her convulsively in his arms, and imprinted
a long, impassioned kiss on that mouth, which had
never spoken to him but in love and blessing.
With effort like a death-pang, she at length
raised her head from his heaving bosom, and turning
from him with bitter sobs, she said, “It is our last.
God bless you. I would not have you so miserable
as I am. Farewell. A last farewell.” “The last!”
exclaimed he, with a wild shriek. “Oh, Rosalie, do
not say that!” and covering his face with his hands,
he wept like a child.
Recovering from his emotion, he found himself
alone. The moon looked down upon him mild, but
very sorrowful; as the Madonna seems to gaze on
her worshipping children, bowed down with consciousness
of sin. At that moment he would have given
worlds to have disengaged himself from Charlotte;
but he had gone so far, that blame, disgrace, and duels
-- 068 --
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with angry relatives, would now attend any effort to
obtain his freedom. Oh, how the moonlight oppressed
him with its friendly sadness! It was like the
plaintive eye of his forsaken one; like the music of
sorrow echoed from an unseen world.
Long and earnestly he gazed at that dwelling,
where he had so long known earth's purest foretaste
of heavenly bliss. Slowly he walked away; then
turned again to look on that charmed spot, the nestling-place
of his young affections. He caught a
glimpse of Rosalie, weeping beside a magnolia, which
commanded a long view of the path leading to the
public road. He would have sprung toward her, but
she darted from him, and entered the cottage. That
graceful figure, weeping in the moonlight, haunted
him for years. It stood before his closing eyes, and
greeted him with the morning dawn.
Poor Charlotte! had she known all, what a dreary
lot would hers have been; but fortunately, she could
not miss the impassioned tenderness she had never
experienced; and Edward was the more careful in his
kindness, because he was deficient in love. Once or
twice she heard him murmur, “dear Rosalie,” in his
sleep; but the playful charge she brought was playfully
answered, and the incident gave her o real uneasiness.
The summer after their marriage, she proposed
a residence at Sand-Hills; little aware what a
whirlwind of emotion she excited in her husband's
heart. The reasons he gave for rejecting the proposition
appeared satisfactory; but she could not quite
understand why he was never willing that their afternoon
drives should be in the direction of those plea
-- 069 --
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sant rural residences, which she had heard him praise
so much. One day, as their barouche rolled along a
winding road that skirted Sand-Hills, her attention
was suddenly attracted by two figures among the trees
by the way-side; and touching Edward's arm, she exclaimed,
“Do look at that beautiful child!” He turned,
and saw Rosalie and Xarifa. His lips quivered, and
his face became deadly pale. His young wife looked
at him intently, but said nothing. There were points
of resemblance in the child, that seemed to account
for his sudden emotion. Suspicion was awakened,
and she soon learned that the mother of that lovely
girl bore the name of Rosalie; with this information
came recollections of the “dear Rosalie,” murmured
in uneasy slumbers. From gossiping tongues she
soon learned more than she wished to know. She
wept, but not as poor Rosalie had done; for she never
had loved, and been beloved, like her, and her nature
was more proud. Henceforth a change came over
her feelings and her manners; and Edward had no further
occasion to assume a tenderness in return for hers.
Changed as he was by ambition, he felt the wintry
chill of her polite propriety, and sometimes in agony
of heart, compared it with the gushing love of her
who was indeed his wife.
But these, and all his emotions, were a sealed book
to Rosalie, of which she could only guess the contents.
With remittances for her and her child's support,
there sometimes came earnest pleadings that she
would consent to see him again; but these she
never answered, though her heart yearned to do so.
She pitied his fair young bride, and would not be
-- 070 --
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tempted to bring sorrow into their household by any
fault of hers. Her earnest prayer was that she might
never know of her existence. She had not looked on
Edward since she watched him under the shadow of
the magnolia, until his barouche passed her in her
rambles some months after. She saw the deadly
paleness of his countenance, and had he dared to look
back, he would have seen her tottering with faintness.
Xarifa brought water from a little rivulet, and sprinkled
her face. When she revived, she clasped the beloved
child to her heart with a vehemence that made
her scream. Soothingly she kissed away her fears,
and gazed into her beautiful eyes with a deep, deep
sadness of expression, which Xarifa never forgot.
Wild were the thoughts that pressed around her aching
heart, and almost maddened her poor brain;
thoughts which had almost driven her to suicide the
night of that last farewell. For her child's sake she
conquered the fierce temptation then; and for her
sake, she struggled with it now. But the gloomy
atmosphere of their once happy home overclouded the
morning of Xarifa's life.
“She from her mother learnt the trick of grief,
And sighed among her playthings.”
Rosalie perceived this; and it gave her gentle heart
unutterable pain. At last, the conflicts of her spirit
proved too strong for the beautiful frame in which it
dwelt. About a year after Edward's marriage, she
was found dead in her bed, one bright autumnal
morning. She had often expressed to her daughter
a wish to be buried under a spreading oak, that
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shaded a rustic garden-chair, in which she and Edward
had spent many happy evenings. And there she was
buried; with a small white cross at her head, twined
with the cypress vine. Edward came to the funeral,
and wept long, very long, at the grave. Hours after
midnight, he sat in the recess-window, with Xarifa
folded to his heart. The poor child sobbed herself to
sleep on his bosom; and the convicted murderer had
small reason to envy that wretched man, as he gazed
on the lovely countenance, which so strongly reminded
him of his early and his only love.
From that time, Xarifa was the central point of all
his warmest affections. He hired an excellent old
negress to take charge of the cottage, from which he
promised his darling child that she should never be
removed. He employed a music master, and dancing
master, to attend upon her; and a week never passed
without a visit from him, and a present of books, pictures,
or flowers. To hear her play upon the harp,
or repeat some favourite poem in her mother's earnest
accents and melodious tones, or to see her pliant
figure float in the garland-dance, seemed to be the
highest enjoyment of his life. Yet was the pleasure
mixed with bitter thoughts. What would be the destiny
of this fascinating young creature, so radiant with
life and beauty? She belonged to a proscribed race;
and though the brown colour on her soft cheek was
scarcely deeper than the sunny side of a golden pear,
yet was it sufficient to exclude her from virtuous society.
He thought of Rosalie's wish to carry her to
France: and he would have fulfilled it, had he been
unmarried. As it was, he inwardly resolved to make
-- 072 --
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some arrangement to effect it in a few years, even if
it involved separation from his darling child.
But alas for the calculations of man! From the
time of Rosalie's death, Edward had sought relief for
his wretched feelings in the free use of wine. Xarifa
was scarcely fifteen, when her father was found dead
by the road-side; having fallen from his horse, on his
way to visit her. He left no will; but his wife, with
kindness of heart worthy of a happier domestic fate,
expressed a decided reluctance to change any of the
plans he had made for the beautiful child at SandHills.
Xarifa mourned her indulgent father; but not as
one utterly desolate. True, she had lived “like a
flower deep hid in rocky cleft;” but the sunshine of
love had already peeped in upon her. Her teacher
on the harp was a handsome and agreeable young
man of twenty, the only son of an English widow.
Perhaps Edward had not been altogether unmindful
of the result, when he first invited him to the flowery
cottage. Certain it is, he had more than once thought
what a pleasant thing it would be, if English freedom
from prejudice should lead him to offer legal protection
to his graceful and winning child. Being thus
encouraged, rather than checked, in his admiration,
George Elliot could not be otherwise than strongly
attracted toward his beautiful pupil. The lonely and
unprotected state in which her father's death left her,
deepened this feeling into tenderness. And lucky
was it for her enthusiastic and affectionate nature; for
she could not live without an atmosphere of love. In
her innocence, she knew nothing of the dangers in
-- 073 --
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her path; and she trusted George with an undoubting
simplicity, that rendered her sacred to his noble
and generous soul. It seemed as if that flower-embosomed
nest was consecrated by the Fates to Love.
The French have well named it La Belle Passion;
for without it life were “a year without spring, or a
spring without roses.” Except the loveliness of infancy,
what does earth offer so much like Heaven, as
the happiness of two young, pure, and beautiful beings,
living in each other's hearts?
Xarifa inherited her mother's poetic and impassioned
temperament; and to her, above others, the first
consciousness of these sweet emotions was like a
golden sunrise on the sleeping flowers.
“Thus stood she at the threshold of the scene
Of busy life. * * * *
How fair it lay in solemn shade and sheen!
And he beside her, like some angel, posted
To lead her out of childhood's fairy land,
On to life's glancing summit, hand in hand.”
Alas, the tempest was brooding over their young
heads. Rosalie, though she knew it not, had been
the daughter of a slave, whose wealthy master,
though he remained attached to her to the end of her
days, yet carelessly omitted to have papers of manumission
recorded. His heirs had lately failed, under
circumstances which greatly exasperated their creditors;
and in an unlucky hour, they discovered their
claim on Angelique's grand-child.
The gentle girl, happy as the birds in spring-time,
accustomed to the fondest indulgence, surrounded by
all the refinements of life, timid as a fawn, and with
-- 074 --
[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
a soul full of romance, was ruthlessly seized by a
sheriff, and placed on the public auction-stand in Savannah.
There she stood, trembling, blushing, and
weeping; compelled to listen to the grossest language,
and shrinking from the rude hands that examined the
graceful proportions of her beautiful frame. “Stop
that!” exclaimed a stern voice. “I bid two thousand
dollars for her, without asking any of their d—d questions.”
The speaker was probably about forty years
of age, with handsome features, but a fierce and proud
expression. An older man, who stood behind him,
bid two thousand five hundred. The first bid higher;
then a third, a dashing young man, bid three thousand;
and thus they went on, with the keen excitement
of gamblers, until the first speaker obtained the
prize, for the moderate sum of five thousand dollars.
And where was George, during this dreadful scene?
He was absent on a visit to his mother, at Mobile.
But, had he been at Sand-Hills, he could not have
saved his beloved from the wealthy profligate, who
was determined to obtain her at any price. A letter
of agonized entreaty from her brought him home on
the wings of the wind. But what could he do? How
could he ever obtain a sight of her, locked up as she
was in the princely mansion of her master? At last,
by bribing one of the slaves, he conveyed a letter to
her, and received one in return. As yet, her purchaser
treated her with respectful gentleness, and
sought to win her favour, by flattery and presents; but
she dreaded every moment, lest the scene should
change, and trembled at the sound of every footfall.
A plan was laid for escape. The slave agreed to
-- 075 --
[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
drug his master's wine; a ladder of ropes was prepared,
and a swift boat was in readiness. But the
slave, to obtain a double reward, was treacherous.
Xarifa had scarcely given an answering signal to the
low cautious whistle of her lover, when the sharp
sound of a rifle was followed by a deep groan, and a
heavy fall on the pavement of the court-yard. With
frenzied eagerness she swung herself down by the
ladder of ropes, and, by the glancing light of lanthorns,
saw George, bleeding and lifeless at her feet. One
wild shriek, that pierced the brains of those who heard
it, and she fell senseless by his side.
For many days she had a confused consciousness
of some great agony, but knew not where she was,
or by whom she was surrounded. The slow recovery
of her reason settled into the most intense melancholy,
which moved the compassion even of her cruel purchaser.
The beautiful eyes, always pensive in expression,
were now so heart-piercing in their sadness,
that he could not endure to look upon them. For
some months, he sought to win her smiles by lavish
presents, and delicate attentions. He bought glittering
chains of gold, and costly bands of pearl. His
victim scarcely glanced at them, and her attendant
slave laid them away, unheeded and forgotten. He
purchased the furniture of the Cottage at Sand-Hills,
and one morning Xarifa found her harp at the bedside,
and the room filled with her own books, pictures,
and flowers. She gazed upon them with a pang unutterable,
and burst into an agony of tears; but she
gave her master no thanks, and her gloom deepened.
At last his patience was exhausted. He grew
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[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]
weary of her obstinacy, as he was pleased to term it;
and threats took the place of persuasion.
* * * * * * *
In a few months more, poor Xarifa was a raving
maniac. That pure temple was desecrated; that
loving heart was broken; and that beautiful head
fractured against the wall in the frenzy of despair.
Her master cursed the useless expense she had cost
him; the slaves buried her; and no one wept at the
grave of her who had been so carefully cherished, and
so tenderly beloved.
-- 077 -- p048-082
THE IRISH HEART. A True Story.
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
It was a pleasant sight to look on James and Nora
in their carly childhood; their cheeks were so rosy,
their hair so sunny, and their clear blue eyes so mild
and innocent. They were the youngest of a cabin-full
of children; and though they did now and then
get a cuff from the elder ones, with the hasty words,
“Get out of the way, you spalpeen,” they were the
pets and playmates of them all. Their love for each
other was extreme; and though James, early in his
boyhood, evinced the Irish predilection for giving
knocks, he was never known to raise his hand against
his little sister. When she could first toddle about, it
was his delight to gather the Maygowans that grew
about the well, and put them in Nora's curly hair;
and then he would sit before her, with his little hands
resting on his knees, contemplating her with the greatest
satisfaction. When they were older, they might
be seen weeding the “pathies”[1] side by side, or hand
in hand gathering berries among the hawthorn bushes.
The greatest difference between them seemed to
be, that James was all fun and frolic, while Nora was
ever serious and earnest.
When the young maiden was milking the cows, her
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[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
soft low voice might usually be heard, warbling some
of the mournful melodies of Ireland. But plaintive
tones were rarely heard from James. He came home
from his daily labour whistling like a black-bird,
mocking the cuckoo, or singing, at the top of his clear
ringing voice, the merry jingle of St. Patrick's Day in
the Morning, or the facetious air of Paudeen O'Rafferty.
At dancing, too, he excelled all the lads of the
neighbourhood. He could dance Irish jigs, three-part
reel, four-part reel, or rowly-powly, to the tune of
The Dusty Miller, or The Rakes of Bally-shanny,
with such a quick ear for the music, that all the lassies
declared they could “see the tune upon his feet.”
He was a comely lad, too, and at weddings and
Christmas carousals, none of the rustic dandies looked
more genteel than he, with his buff-coloured vest, his
knot of ribbons at each knee, and his caubeen,[2] set
jauntily on one side of his head. Being good-natured
and mirthful, he was a great favourite at wakes
and dances, and festivities of all sorts; and he might
have been in danger of becoming dissipated, had it
not been for the happy consciousness of belonging to
an honest industrious family, and being the pride and
darling of Nora's heart.
Notwithstanding the natural gayety of his disposition,
he had a spirit of enterprise, and a love of earning
money. This tendency led him early to think of
emigrating to America, the Eldorado of Irish imagination.
Nora resisted the first suggestion with many
tears. But James drew fine pictures of a farm of his
own in the new country, and cows and horses, and a
-- 079 --
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
pleasant jaunting car; and in the farm-house and the
jaunting car, Nora was ever by his side; for with the
very first guineas that crossed his hand, sure he would
send for her. The affectionate sister, accustomed to
sympathise with all his plans, soon began to help him
to build his castles in America; and every penny that
she could earn at her spinning-wheel was laid away
for passage money. But when the time actually arrived
for him to go to Dublin, it was a day of sorrow.
All the married sisters, with their little ones, and
neighbours from far and near, came to bid him farewell,
and give their parting blessing. The good
mother was busy to the last, storing away some little
comfort in his sea-box. Nora, with the big tears in
her eyes, repeated, for the thousandth time, “And
Jimmy, mavourneen,[3] if you grow grand there in the
new country, you'll not be after forgetting me? You
will send for your own Nora soon?”
“Forget you!” exclaimed James, while he pressed
her warmly to his bosom: “When the blessed sun
forgets to rise over the green earth, maybe I'll forget
you, mavourneen dheelish.Ӡ
Amid oft repeated words of love and blessing, he
parted from them. Their mutual sorrow was a little
softened by distant visions of a final reunion of them
all in America. But there was a fearful uncertainty
about this. The big sea might swallow him up, he
might sicken and die among strangers, or bad examples
might lead him into evil paths worse than death.
To this last suggestion, made by an elder sister,
Nora replied with indignant earnestness. “Led into
-- 080 --
[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
evil coorses, indade!” she exclaimed; “Shame be on
you for spaking that same! and he the dacentest and
best behaved boy in all the county Longford. You
don't know the heart of him, as I do, or you'd never
be after spaking of him in that fashion. It's a shame
on you, and indade it is. But och, wurrah dheelish,[4]
let him not sicken and die there in the strange country,
and the sister not there to do for him!” And,
overcome by the picture her own imagination had
drawn, she burst into a passionate flood of tears.
In a few weeks, came a brief letter from James,
written on board the ship in which he sailed from Dublin.
About seven months later, came a letter, dated
New York, saying he had obtained work at good
wages, and, by God's blessing, should soon be enabled
to send for his dear sister. He added a hint that one
of these days, when he had a house of his own, perhaps
the father and mother would be after coming
over. Proud were they in the Irish cabin, when this
letter was read aloud to all who came to inquire after
the young emigrant. All his old cronies answered,
“Throth, and he'd do well anywhere. He was always
a dacent, clane, spirited boy, as there was widin
a great ways of him. Divil a man in the ten parishes
could dance the Baltihorum jig wid him, any how.”
Time passed on, and no other letter came from
James. Month after month, poor Nora watched with
feverish anxiety to catch sight of her father when he
returned from the distant post-office; for he promised,
if he found a letter, to wave his hand high above his
head, as soon as he came to the top of the hill
-- 081 --
[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
fronting the house. But no letter came; and at last Nora
fully believed that her darling brother was dead.
After writing again and again, and receiving no answer,
she at last wrote to the son of a neighbour,
who had emigrated to America, and begged of him,
for the love of heaven, to ascertain whether James
was dead or alive, and send them word as soon as
possible. The Irishman to whom this urgent epistle
was addressed, was at work on a distant rail-road,
and had no fixed place of residence; and so it happened
that Nora received no answer to her anxious
inquiries, for more than a year and a half after they
were written. At last, there came a crumpled square
of soiled paper, containing these words:
“Dear Frinds:
—Black and hevy is my hart for
the news I have to tell you. James is in prison, concarnin
a bit of paper, that he passed for money.
Sorra a one of the nabors but will be lettin down the
tears, when they hear o' the same. I don't know the
rights of the case; but I will never believe he was a
boy to disgrace an honest family. Perhaps some
other man's sin is upon him. It may be some comfort
to you to know that his time will be out in a year
and a half, any how. I have not seen James sense I
come to Ameriky; but I heern tell of what I have
writ. The blessed Mother of Heaven keep your harts
from sinkin down with this hevy sorrow. Your
frind and nabor,
Mike Murphy.”
Deep indeed was the grief in that honest family,
when these sad tidings were read. Poor Nora buried
her face in her hands, and sobbed aloud. The old
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[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
mother rocked violently to and fro, with her apron at
her eyes; and the father, though he tried hard to conceal
his emotion, could not restrain the big tears from
rolling down his weather-beaten face. “Och, wo is
the day,” said he, “that ever we let him go from us.
Such a dacent lad, and belonging to a family that
never did a dishonest action. And sure all hearts
were upon him, and we all so proud out of him.”
“Father,” said the weeping Nora, “I know the
heart of him better nor any of you does; and I know
he never had intintion to do anything that would bring
to the blush the mother that bore him, and the sister
that slept in his arms, when we were both weeny
things. I'll go to Ameriky, and find out all about it,
and write you word.”
“You go to Ameriky!” exclaimed her mother.
“Sure you're crazed with the big grief that's upon
you, coleen macree,[5] or you'd niver spake thim
words.”
“And wouldn't he follow me to the ends of the earth,
if the black trouble was on me?” replied Nora, with
passionate earnestness. “There was always kindness
in him for all human crathurs; but he loved me
better nor all the world. Never a one had a bad word
agin him, but nobody knew the heart of him as I did.
Proud was I out of him, and lonesome is my heart
widout him. And is it I will lave him alone wid
his trouble? Troth, not if there was ten oceans
atween us.”
This vehemence subsided after awhile, and they
talked more calmly of how they should hide their
-- 083 --
[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
disgrace from the neighbourhood. That their hearts
were sad they could not conceal. Day after day, their
frugal meals were removed almost untasted, and every
one stepped about silently, as after a funeral. The
very cows came slowly and disconsolately, as if they
heard grief in the voice of their young mistress, when
she called them to be milked. And the good old
mother no longer crooned at her spinning wheel the
song she had sung over the cradle of her darling boy.
Nora at first persisted in her plan of crossing the Atlantic;
but her father forbade it, and she said no more.
But her heart grew more and more impatient. She
spoke less and less of James, but she sighed heavily
at her work, and her eyes were often red with weeping.
At last, she resolved to depart unknown to any
one. She rose stealthily at midnight, tied up a small
bundle of clothing, placed a little bag of money in her
bosom, paused and gazed lovingly on her sleeping
parents, hastily brushed away the gathering tears, and
stept out into the moonlight. She stood for a few moments
and gazed on the old familiar hills and fields,
on the potato patch, where she and James had worked
together many a day, on the old well, by the side
of which the Maygowans grew, and on the clear
white cabin, where the dear old ones slept. She passed
into the little shed, that served as a stable for the
animals, and threw her arms about the donkey's neck,
and kissed the cow, that knew her voice as well as
her own mother did. She came forth weeping, and
gazed on the old homestead, as she would gaze on the
face of a dying friend. The clustering memories
were too much for her loving heart. Dropping on her
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[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
knees, she prayed, in agony of sorrow: “If it be a
sin to go away from the good old father and mother,
perhaps niver to see them agin, till the judgment day,
thou oh! Father in heaven, wilt forgive me; for thou
seest I can not lave him alone wid his great trouble.”
Then crossing herself, and looking toward the beloved
home of her childhood, she said, in a stifled
voice, “The Mother of Glory be wid ye, and bless
and keep ye all.”
Half blinded with tears, she wended her way over
the moonlighted hills, and when her favourite cow
called as usual for her milking pail, in the first blush
of the morning, she was already far on her way to
Dublin.
* * * * * * * *
And had James been criminal? In the eye of the
law he had been; but his sister was right, when she
said he had no intention to do a wicked thing. Not
long after his arrival in America, he was one day
walking along the street, in a respectable suit of
Sunday clothes, when a stranger came up, and entered
into conversation with him. After asking some
indifferent questions, he inquired what his coat cost.
“Sixteen dollars,” was the answer.
I will give you twenty for it,” said the stranger;
“for I am going away in a hurry, and have no time
to get one made.”
James was as unsuspecting as a child. He thought
this was an excellent opportunity to make four dollars,
to send to his darling sister; so he readily agreed to
the bargain.
“I want a watch, too,” said the stranger; “but
-- 085 --
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perhaps you would not be willing to sell yours for
ten dollars?”
James frankly confessed that it was two dollars
more than he gave for it, and very willingly consented
to the transfer. Some weeks after, when he attempted
to pass the money the stranger had given
him, he found, to his dismay, that it was counterfeit.
After brooding over his disappointment for some time,
he came to a conclusion at which better educated men
than himself have sometimes arrived. He thought to
himself—“It is hard for a poor man to lose so much,
by no fault of his own. Since it was put off upon
me, I will just put if off upon somebody else. Maybe
it will keep going the rounds, or somebody will
lose it that can better afford it than I can.”
It certainly was a wrong conclusion; but it was a
bewilderment of the reasoning powers in the mind of
an ignorant man, and did not involve wickedness of
intention. He passed the money, and was soon after
arrested for forgery. He told his story plainly; but,
as he admitted that he knew the money was counterfeit
when he passed it, the legal construction of his
crime was forgery in the second degree. He had
passed three bills, and had the penalty of the law
been enforced with its utmost rigour, he might have
been sentenced to the state-prison for fifteen years;
but appearances were so much in his favour, that the
court sentenced him but for five years.
Five years taken away from the young life of a
labouring man, spent in silent toil, in shame and sorrow
for a blighted reputation, was, indeed, a heavy
penalty for confused notions of right and wrong, con
-- 086 --
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cerning bits of paper, stamped with a nominal value.
But law, in its wisest and kindest administration, cannot
always make nice distinctions between thoughtless
errors and wilful crimes.
It is probable James never felt the degree of compunction,
that it is supposed every convict ought to
feel; for the idea was ever with him, that if he had
sinned against government, he did not mean to sin
against God. That he had disgraced himself, he
knew full well and felt keenly. The thoughts of
what Nora and his good mother would suffer, if they
could see him driven to hard labour with thieves and
murderers, tore his soul with anguish. He could not
bring his mind to write to them, or send them any tidings
of his fate. He thought it was better that they
should suppose him dead, than know of his disgrace.
Thus the weary months passed silently away. The
laugh of his eye and the bound of his step were gone.
Day by day he grew more disconsolate and stupid.
He had been in prison about four years, when one
of the keepers told him that a young woman had
come to visit him, and he had received permission to
see her. He followed silently, wondering who it
could be; and a moment after, he was locked in his
sister's arms. For some time, nothing but sobs were
audible. They looked mournfully in each other's faces;
then fell on each other's necks, and wept again.
“And so you know me, mavourneen?” said Nora,
at last, trying to smile through her tears.
“Know you!” he replied, folding her more closely
to his breast. “A cushla machree,[6] and wouldn't I
-- 087 --
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know your shadow on the wall, in the darkest cellar
they could put me in? But who came wid you, mavourneen?”
“Troth, and it was alone I come. I run away in
the night. I hope it wasn't wrong to lave the good
father and mother, when they had spoke agin my
coming. I wouldn't like to do any thing displasing
to God. But Jimmy, machree, my heart was breakin'
widout you; and I couldn't lave you alone wid your
great trouble. Sure it's long ago I would have been
wid you, if you had let us know of your misfortin.”
The poor fellow wept afresh at these assurances of
his sister's affection. When he was calmer, he told
her circumstantially how the great trouble had come
upon him.
“God be praised for the words you spake,” replied
Nora. “It will take a load off of hearts at home,
when they hear of the same. I always said there was
no sin in your heart; for who should know that better
nor me, who slept in the same cradle? A blessing be
wid you, mavourneen. The music's in my heart to
hear the sound of your voice agin. And proud will I
be out of you, as I used to be when all eyes, young
and old, brightened on you in warm old Ireland.”
“But Nora, dheelish, the disgrace is on me,” said
the young man, looking down. “They will say I
am a convict.”
“Sorra a fig I care for what they say,” replied the
warm-hearted girl. “Don't I know the heart that is
in you? Didn't I say there was no sin in your intintions,
though you was shut up in this bad place?
And if there had been—if the black murder had
been widin you, is it Nora would be after laving you
-- 088 --
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
alone wid your sin and your shame? Troth, I would
weary the saints in heaven wid prayers, till they
made you a better man, for the sake of your sister's
love. But there was no sin in your heart; and proud
I am out of you, a suillish machree;[7] and bad luck to
the rogue that brought you into this trouble.”
The keeper reminded them that the time allowed
for their interview was nearly spent.
“You will come agin?” said James, imploringly.
“You will come to me agin, acushla machree?”
“I had to beg hard to see you once,” replied Nora.
“They said it was agin the rules. But when I told
them how I come alone across the big ocean to be wid
you in your trouble, because I knew the heart that
was in you, they said I might come in. It is a heavy
sorrow that we cannot spake together. But it will be
a comfort, mavourneen, to be where I can look on
these stone walls. The kind man here they call the
chaplain says I may stay wid his family; and sure
not an hour in the day but I will think of you, a villish.
† The same moon shines here, that used to
shine on us when we had our May dances on the
green, in dear old Ireland; and when they let you
get a glimpse of her bright face, you can think maybe
Nora is looking up at it, as she used to do when she
was your own weeny darlint, wid the shamrock and
gowan in her hair. I will work, and lay by money
for you; and when you come out of this bad place,
it's Nora will stand by you; and proud will I be out
of you, a suillish machree.”
The young man smiled as he had not smiled for
-- 089 --
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years. He kissed his sister tenderly, as he answered,
“Ah, Nora, mavourneen, it's yourself that was always
too good to me. God's blessing be wid you, acushla
machree. It will go hard wid me, but I will make
some return for such goodness.”
“And sure it's no goodness at all,” replied Nora.
“Is it yourself would be after laving me alone, and
I in the great trouble? Hut, tut, Jimmy, avick.
Sure it's nothing at all. Any body would do it.
You're as dacent and clever a lad as iver you was.
Sing that to your heart, mavourneen. It's Nora will
stand by you, all the world over.”
With a smile that she meant should be a brave one,
but with eyes streaming with tears, she bade her beloved
brother farewell. He embraced her with vehement
tenderness, and, with a deep sigh, returned to
his silent labour. But the weight was taken off his
heart, and his step was lighter; for
“Hope's sunshine lingered on his prison wall,
And Love looked in upon his solitude.”
Nora remained with the kind-hearted chaplain, ever
watching the gloomy walls of Sing Sing. When
her brother's term expired, she was at the prison door
to welcome him, and lead him forth into the blessed
sunshine and free air. The chaplain received them
into his house, cheered and strengthened their hearts
by kind words and judicious counsel, and sent them
to the office of the Prison Association, No. 13 Pine-street,
New-York. As James brought certificates of
good conduct while in prison, the Association lent
him tools, to be paid for if he should ever be able to
do so, and recommended him to a worthy mechanic.
-- 090 --
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At this place he would have remained, had not his
employer needed a journeyman thoroughly versed in
his trade. It is the policy at Sing Sing not to allow
the prisoners to learn all branches of any business,
lest they should come into competition with mechanics
out of the prison. What James had been accustomed
to do, he did with great industry and expertness; but
he could not do all his employer required, and was
therefore kindly and honourably dismissed.
Had he been dishonest, he might have gone off with
the tools; but he went to the office of the Association,
to ask whether they were willing he should keep
them till he could obtain work elsewhere, and earn
enough to pay for them. They consented very cordially,
and told him to remember them as friends in
need, so long as he behaved well. His sister was
with him, like his shadow, and their earnest expressions
of gratitude were truly affecting.
Her good-natured honest countenance, and industrious
habits, attracted the attention of a thriving
young farmer, who succeeded in obtaining the treasure
of her warm and generous heart. She who made
so good a sister, can scarcely fail to be an excellent
wife. James continues to do well, and loves her with
superabounding love. The blessing of our Father be
with them! They are two of the kindest hearts, and
most transparent souls, among that reverent, loving,
confiding, and impulsive people, who, in their virtues
and their defects, deserve to be called the little children
of the nations.
eaf048.n1[1] Pet of my heart.
eaf048.n2[2] Pulse of my heart.
eaf048.n3[3] Light of my heart.
eaf048.dag1† Dear.
eaf048.n4[4] Potatoes.
eaf048.n5[5] Cap.
eaf048.n6[6] Darling.
eaf048.dag2† Sweet darling.
eaf048.n7[7] Sweet Virgin.
-- 091 -- p048-096
A LEGEND OF THE APOSTLE JOHN. Suggested by a well known Anecdote in the Ecolesiastical History of Eusebius.
[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
Morning rose bright and clear on Ephesus, that
beautiful city of the Ancients, which Pliny calls the
Light of Asia. From the jutting points of lofty rocks
on the mountain sides rose the massive and majestic
pillars of Doric temples, embowered in verdant foliage,
while the lighter and more elegant Ionian shafts shot
up from the plain below, like graceful architectural
flowers. Brilliant sunbeams streamed tremulously
through the porticos, and reflected themselves in golden
gleams on a forest of marble columns. The airy
summits of the mountains smiled in serene glory beneath
the lucid firmament. Troops of graceful swans
and beautiful white sea-doves floated on the sparkling
waters of the Cayster, running joyfully into the bright
bosom of the Ægean. Maidens bearing Etruscan
vases on their heads, went and came from the fountains,
gliding majestically erect among the crowd of
merchants, or the long processions of priests and worshippers.
Here and there, a Roman soldier rode
through the busy streets, his steel trappings and glittering
harness shining in the distance like points of fire.
Strong and deep rolled the sonorous chant of bass
voices from a Jewish synagogue, mingled with the
-- 092 --
[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
sound of sackbut and harp. From the magnificent
temple of Diana came up a plaintive strain, a modulated
murmur, as of distant waves rippling to music;
slowly swelling, slowly falling away, floating off in
sweet echoes among the hills. There was a farewell
sadness in this choral hymn, as of a religion passing
away in its calm intellectual beauty, conscious that it
had no adequate voice for the yearnings and aspirations
of the human heart.
And then, as ever, when the want of a more spiritual
faith began to be widely felt, it was already in
existence. From the solemn shadows of Judaism,
the mild form of Christianity had risen, and the Grecian
mind was already preparing to encircle it with
the mystic halo of a golden Platonism.
In the court of an artificer of Ephesus, there met
that day an assembly of converts to the new and despised
faith. Under the shadow of an awning, made
by Paul the tent-maker, they talked together of Jesus,
the holiness of his example, and the wide significance
of his doctrines. It was a season of peculiar interest
to the infant Church; for John, the disciple whom
Jesus especially loved, had just returned from banishment.
He was a man of ninety years, with hair and
beard of silvery whiteness. His serious countenance
beamed with resignation and love; but his high forehead,
earnest eye, and energetic motions, showed
plainly enough that his was not the serenity of a languid
and quiet temperament. Through conflict he
had attained humility and peace. His voice told the
same story; for it was strong, deep, and restrained,
though sweetly toned, and full of musical inflections.
-- 093 --
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
His once erect figure was slightly bent; the effect of
digging in the mines of Patmos. Many eyes were
moistened with tears, as they gazed on his beloved
and venerated countenance; for it brought sad memories
of the hardships he had endured by the cruel orders
of Domitian. He made no allusion to privations
or sufferings, but spoke only of the heavenly
visions, and the indwelling glory, that had been with
him in the Isle of Patmos; how in the darkest mines
the heavens opened, and in the narrowest prisons
angels came and moved the stone walls afar off, so
that he saw them not; and this he urged as proof how
little power man has over a spirit at peace with God.
Of those who hung upon his words, the emotions
of two were especially visible. One was a young
maiden, who sat on a divan at his feet, and leaning on
one arm gazed upwards in his face. She was closely
veiled, but the outlines of her figure, imperfectly revealed
through the ample folds of her rich dress, gave
indication of personal grace. As she bent earnestly
forward, her drapery had fallen back, and showed an
arm of exquisite proportions, its clear soft olive tint
beautifully contrasted by a broad bracelet of gold.
She reclined partially on the shoulder of her old
nurse, who was seated behind her on the same divan.
Both ran great risk in visiting that Christian assembly;
for Miriam's father was the wealthiest Jew in
Ephesus; his was the highest place in the synagogue,
and few of her thousand merchants could count so
many ships. Narrow and bigoted in his own adherence
to forms and traditions, he was the last man on
earth to permit a woman to question them. But the
-- 094 --
[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]
earnest and truthful soul of his daughter early felt
how little life there was in his solemn observances.
Her nurse, a Galilean by birth, had told marvellous
stories of the holy Nazarene, who had cured her father
of blindness. With strict injunctions of secrecy, she
lent her a copy of St. John's Gospel; and in this the
young enthusiastic girl at once recognised the deeper
and more spiritual teachings for which her sould had
yearned. And so it came that the daughter of a
wealthy house in Ephesus sat at the feet of the apostle,
in the despised assembly of the Christians.
The other person who seemed most remarkably
moved by the inspired eloquence of John, was a young
Greek of superb beauty. His form was vigorous and
finely proportioned. The carriage of his head was
free and proud, and there was intense light in his large
dark eyes, indicating a soul of fire. Indeed his whole
countenance was remarkable for transparency and
mobility of expression. When indignant at tyranny
or insult, he looked like a young war-horse rushing
to battle; but at the voice of tenderness, the dilated
nostril subsided, and the flashing eye was dimmed
with tears.
This constant revelation of soul particularly attracted
the attention of the venerable apostle; for he saw
in it a nature liable to the greatest dangers, and capable
of the highest good. After he had dismissed the
assembly, with his usual paternal benediction, “Little
children, love one another,” he stepped forward, and
laying his hand affectionately on the head of the
young Greek, said, “And thou, my son, art thou too
a Christian?” With emphasis full of feeling, the
-- 095 --
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
young man replied, “I would I were a Christian.”
Pleased with the earnest humility of this answer, the
apostle drew his arm within his own, and they retired
to an inner apartment to converse together. During
this confidential conversation, the young man made a
full and free revelation of his soul, in all its strength
and weakness. At times, his daring and fiery words
startled the more subdued nature of the meek disciple;
but at the same moment, the crystalline frankness of
his heart excited the warmest and most confiding
affection. From that time, it was observable that the
apostle treated him with more marked tenderness than
he evinced toward any other of his converts. A few
months after, feeling that duty required him to take a
long journey to comfort and strengthen the surrounding
churches of Asia, he called his flock together, and
bade them an affectionate farewell. At parting, he
placed the hand of the young Greek within the hand
of the presiding elder, and said solemnly, “To thy
care I consign my precious, my beloved son, Antiorus.
In the Epicurean gardens he has learned that pleasure
is the only good; from Christians let him learn that
good is the only pleasure. Be to him a father; for
at my return I shall require his soul at thy hands.”
The bishop promised, and the young man wept as he
kissed his venerable friend.
The apostle was gathering his robe about him, and
fastening his girdle, preparing to walk forth, when
Miriam glided timidly before him, saying in a tremulous
tone, “My father, bless me before you go.” She
removed her veil, and stooped to kiss his hand. The
veil dropped again instantly, but the sudden action
-- 096 --
[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]
had revealed to Antiorus a countenance of surpassing
beauty. He had no time to analyze the features; but
he saw that her contour was noble, and that her large
almond-shaped eyes, of the darkest brown, were singularly
brilliant, yet deep and serene in their expression.
The tones of her voice, too, thrilled through
his soul; for they were like a silver bell, softening
language into music. For an instant, she caught the
beaming glance of his eye, and an electric spark fell
from it into her heart. Henceforth, each observed the
other's motions, and each was indistinctly conscious
of pervading the other's being. The customs of the
times, combined with her maidenly reserve, rendered
it difficult to form a personal acquaintance. But
Antiorus had a Greek friend, whose dwelling adjoined
the gardens of Miriam's father; and the house of
this friend became singularly attractive to him. Here
he could sometimes catch the sound of her voice, accompanied
by her harp, as she sang to her father the
psalms of David. At last, he ventured to speak to
her, as they left the assembly of the Christians. He
timidly asked her if she would play, on the next Sabbath
evening, the same psalm he had heard on the
preceding Sabbath. She started, and made no answer.
The crimson suffusion of her face he could
not see. But when the Sabbath came, softly on the
evening air arose his favourite psalm, with a deeper
expression, a more sweet solemnity than ever. While
the strings yet vibrated, his Phrygian flute gently answered,
in a simple Grecian air, the utterance of a
soul tender and sad. Tear-drops fell slowly on the
strings of Miriam's harp; but she alone knew that
-- 097 --
[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]
the spirit of the beautiful Greek had thus entered invisibly
into the sanctuary of the Jewish maiden. How
dear was now her harp, since his soul had kissed the
winged messengers it sent from hers! Again and
again, harp and flute responded to each other. Their
young hearts were overflowing with new and heavenly
emotions, which music alone could utter. For
music is among the arts what love is among the passions;
a divine mediator between spirit and matter; a
flowery spiral, descending from the highest sanctuary
of the soul into the outer court of the senses, returning
again from the senses to the soul, twining them
together in perpetual bloom and fragrance.
But music has the vagueness of all things infinite;
and they who talked together in tones, earnestly
desired to speak in words. At the Christian
assemblies too strict decorum was observed, to admit
of conversation between them. Into her father's
house he could not gain entrance; or if he did, she
would be carefully secluded from the gaze of a Gentile.
And so at last, by help of the over-indulgent
nurse, there came meetings in the garden, while all
the household slept. Under the dim light of the stars,
they talked of the new faith, which had brought them
together. He loved to disclose to her mind the
moonlight glory of Plato, showing a world of marvelous
beautv in shadowy outline, but fully revealing
nothing. While she, in soft serious tones, spoke of
the Hebrew prophets, complaining that they seemed
like an infinite glow, forever expressing a want they
never satisfied. Beautiful and majestic was their
utterance, but it was not high and deep enough to
-- 098 --
[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]
satisfy the aspirations of her soul; therefore she
clung to the sublime all-embracing doctrines of Christ.
From these high themes, they came gradually to
speak of their affection for each other. There was
no desecration in this mingling of emotions; for genuine
love is as holy as religion; and all round the
circling horizon of our mysterious being, heaven and
earth do kiss each other.
One night, their stolen interview in the garden was
interrupted by a noise on the house-top; and fearing
they were suspected or observed, they resolved to be
more prudent. Weeks passed, therefore, and they
saw each other only at the meetings of the Christians,
rendered doubly precious by the obstacles which elsewhere
separated them. There was another reason
why they thought more of each other's presence, than
they would have done had the good apostle John been
with them. As a deep rich musical voice will sometimes
join itself to a company of timid and wavering
singers, and gradually raise the whole chorus to its
own power and clearness, so the influence of his holy
and living soul elevated the character of every assembly
he joined. With him, something of unction and
fervour had departed from the Christian meetings, and
still more of calm assured faith. More fear of the
world was visible, more anxiety to build up a respectable
name. The lovers felt this, though they had not
distinctly defined it; and being less elevated by the
religious services, their thoughts were more consciously
occupied with each other. But their mutual absorption
passed unobserved; for Miriam was always
closely veiled, and if she dropped a rose, or Antiorus
-- 099 --
[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
a sprig of myrtle, it seemed mere accident to all but
the watchful and sympathizing nurse. These silent
manifestations of course made the concealed flame
burn all the more fervently. Perpetual separation
was so wearisome, that at last Miriam, in the plenitude
of her love and confidence, granted his urgent
entreaty to walk with him once, only once, in disguise,
when all were sleeping. He had a proposition to
make, he said, and he must have an opportunity to
talk freely with her. In the garb of Greek peasants
they joined each other, and passing through the least
frequented streets, sought the mountains by a solitary
path. In a concealed nook of rock, under the shadow
of broad-leaved trees, they spoke together in agitation
and tears. Love is ever a troubled joy; a semi-tone
changes its brightest strains into plaintive modulations.
Miriam wept, as she told her beloved that they must
part forever. She had come only to tell him so, and
bid him farewell. As yet she had not courage to
confess that she was promised to a wealthy kinsman,
a stern old Pharisee; but her father had told her, that
day, that immediate preparations must be made for
the wedding. The enamoured Greek spoke with fiery
indignation, that her father should dare thus to seal
up the treasures of her large warm gushing heart,
for the sake of preserving wealth in the family. To
her timid suggestion that obedience was due to parents,
he insisted upon a higher obedience to the divine
law in the soul. In such a union as she spoke of, he
said there was positive pollution, which no law or
custom could cleanse; for the heart alone could sanctify
the senses. The maiden bent her head, and felt
-- 100 --
[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]
her cheeks burning; for she was conscious of a painful
sense of degradation whenever the odious marriage
was forced upon her thoughts. He took her hand,
and it trembled within his, while he spoke to her of
flight, of secret marriage, and a hidden home of love
in some far-off Grecian isle. He drew her gently
toward him, and for the first time her lovely head
rested on his bosom. As she looked up fondly and
tearfully in his face, he stooped to kiss her beautiful
lips, which trembling gave an almost imperceptible
pressure in return. Faint and timid as was this first
maiden kiss, it rushed through his system like a
stream of fire. The earthly portion of love proclaimed
ascendency over the soul, and tried him with a
fierce temptation. She loved him, and they were
alone in the midnight. Should he ever be able to
marry her? Might not this stolen and troubled interview
be, as she said, the last? He breathed with
difficulty, his whole frame shook like a tree in the
storm; but she lay on his bosom, as ignorant of the
struggle, as if she had been a sleeping babe. Rebuked
by her unconscious innocence, he said inwardly
to the tempting spirit, “Get thee behind me! Why
strivest thou to lead me into evil?” But the spirit
answered, “The sin is wholly of man's making.
These Christians are too ascetic. The Epicurean
philosophy better agrees with nature.”
The scene seemed to have entered into a league
with the tempting spirit. Nothing interrupted the
drowsy moon-stillness, save the pattering of a little
rill that trickled from the rocks, the amorous cooing
of two ring-doves awake in their nests among the
-- 101 --
[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]
shrubbery above, and the flute of some distant lover
conversing passionately with the moon. The maiden
herself, saddened by a presentiment, that this bliss
was too perfect to last, and melted into unusual tenderness
by the silent beauty of the night, and the
presence of the beloved one, folded her arm more
caressingly about his waist, till he felt the beating of
her heart. With frantic energy, he pressed his hand
against his throbbing brow, and gazed earnestly into
the clear arch of heaven, as if imploring strength to
aid his higher nature. Again the tempter said, “Thy
Epicurean philosophy was more in harmony with
nature. Pleasure is the only good.” Then he remembered
the parting words of St. John, “Good is
the only pleasure.” A better influence glided into
his soul, and a still small voice within him whispered,
“Thou hast no need to compare philosophies and
creeds, to know whether it be good to dishonour her
who trusts thee, or by thy selfishness to bring a stain
on the pure and persecuted faith of the Christians.
Restore the maiden to her home.” The tempter veiled
his face and turned away, for he felt that the young
man was listening to an angel.
With a calm sad voice, spoke the tempted one, as he
gently and reverently removed the beloved head from
his breast. Taking Miriam by the hand, he led her
out from the deep shadow of the trees, to the little rill
that gurgled near by, and gathering water in his hands,
he offered her to drink. As she stood there in the
moonlight, drinking from his hand, the shadow of the
vines danced across her face, and fluttered gracefully
over the folds of her white dress. At that moment,
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[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]
when the thought of danger was far from them both,
an arrow whizzed throgh the air, and with a groan
the maiden fell backward on the arm that was hastily
extended to save her from falling.
They were standing near a portion of Mt. Prion,
whence marble had been dug for the numerous edifices
of the city. It was full of grottoes, with winding
mazes blocked up with fragments of stone. The first
thought of Antiorus was to retreat hastily from the
moonlight that had made them visible, and the next
was to conceal his senseless burden within the recesses
of the grotto, here and there made luminous by fissures
in the rocks. Carefully he drew the arrow from
the wound, and bound it tightly with his mantle. He
gathered water from the dripping cavern, and dashed
it in her face. But his efforts to restore life were unavailing.
Regardless of his own safety, he would
have rushed back to the city and roused his friends,
but he dared not thus compromise the fair fame of
her who had loved him so purely, though so tenderly.
Perhaps the person who aimed the arrow might have
mistaken them for others; at all events, they could
not have been positively known. In a state of agonized
indecision, he stepped to the entrance of the
grotto, and looked and listened. All was still, save
the pattering of water-drops. Presently he heard a
sound, as of feet descending the path from the mountains.
With long strides, he bounded up to meet the
advancing stranger, and with energetic brevity begged
for assistance to convey a wounded maiden to some
place of safety, away from the city. The stranger
said he had companies, who would bring a litter from
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the mountains, and he turned back to summon them.
The minutes seemed hours to Antiorus, till his return;
for though all hope of restoring the precious life was
well nigh extinct, he felt continual dread of being discovered
by the unseen foe, who had aimed the fatal
arrow. At last, the promised assistance came, and
they slowly ascended the mountain with their mournful
burden. After pursuing a winding rugged path
for some distance, they entered a spacious cavern. A
lamp was burning on a table of rock, and several men
were stretched on the ground sleeping. The litter
was gently lowered, and Antiorus bent in agony over
the senseless form so lately full of life and love. Not
until every means had been tried that ingenuity could
devise, would he believe that her pure and gentle
spirit had passed from its beautiful earthly frame forever.
But when the last ray of hope departed, he
gave himself up to grief so frightfully stormy, that
the rude dwellers in the cave covered their eyes, that
they might not witness the terrible anguish of his
sensitive and powerful soul. In his desperate grief,
he heaped upon himself all manner of reproaches.
Why had he sought her love, when it was almost
sure to end unhappily? Why had he so selfishly
availed himself of her tenderness, when the world
would judge so harshly of the concessions she had
made to love? Then, in the bitterness of his heart,
he cursed the world for its false relations, its barriers
built on selfishness and pride. But soon, in the prostration
of deep humility, he forgave all men, and
blamed only his own over-leaping nature. Through
all his changes of mood, ran the intensely mournful
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strain, “Oh, my beloved, would to God I had died
for thee!”
But it is kindly ordered that human nature cannot
long remain under the influence of extreme
anguish; its very intensity stupifies the soul. When
Antiorus became calm from exhaustion, the man who
had guided him to the mountain spoke in low tones
of the necessity of burial. The mourner listened
with a visible shudder. While he could gaze on her
beautiful face, so placid in the sleep of death, it seemed
as if something remained to him; but when that
should be covered from his gaze forever, oh how fearfully
lonely the earth would seem! By degrees,
however, he was brought to admit the necessity of
separation. He himself gathered green branches for
the litter, and covered it with the fairest flowers. He
cut a braid of her glossy hair, and his tears fell on it
like the spring rain. In a green level space among
the trees, they dug a deep grave, and reverently laid
her within it, in her peasant robes. The doves cooed
in the branches, and a pleasant sound of murmuring
waters came up from the dell below. The mourner
fashioned a large cross, and planted it strongly at the
head of the grave. He sought for the most beautiful
vines, and removing them in large sods, twined them
about the cross. He sobbed himself to sleep on the
mound, and when his companions brought him food,
he ate as though he tasted it not.
The strong ardent nature of the young Greek, his
noble beauty and majestic figure, commanded their
involuntary respect, while the intensity of his sorrow
moved even their slow sympathies. But when
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several days had elapsed, their leader began to question
him concerning his future prospects and intentions.
The subject thus forced upon his reluctant thoughts
was a painful one. He dared not return openly to
Ephesus; for whether his secret interviews with Miriam
had been suspected by her family, or not, her
sudden disappearance, connected with his own, must
of course have given rise to the most unfavourable
rumours. Of the effect on the little community of
Christians, already so unpopular, he thought with exceeding
pain. And these dark suspicious-looking men,
that dwelt in caverns, who were they?
They soon resolved his doubts on this subject; for
their leader said boldly, “We are robbers. You are
in some way implicated in the death of this young
woman, and you dare not return to Ephesus. Remain
with us. We have seen your strength, and we like
your temper. Stay with us, and you shall be our
leader.”
The proposition startled him with its strangeness,
and filled his soul with loathing. He, on whose fair
integrity no stain had ever rested, he become a robber!
He, who had so lately sat at the feet of the holy apostle,
and felt in his inmost heart the blessed influence
of the words, “Love your enemies, do good to them
that hate you”—was it proposed to him to arm himself
against unoffending brethren? Concealing his
abhorrence, by a strong effort, he thanked the robber
for the kindness he had shown him in his great distress,
and promised to repay him for it; but he told
him mildly that his habits and his feelings alike unfitted
him for a life like theirs. He would return to
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Ephesus, and consult with friends concerning his future
plans. The men seemed dissatisfied with their
leader's courtesy to the stranger, and grumbled something
about his going to guide the magistrates to their
cavern in the mountains. Antiorus turned proudly
toward them, and with strong convincing earnestness
replied, “You cannot deem me base enough thus to
recompense your kindness.” His voice became lower
and deeper with emotion, as he added, “Reverently
and tenderly you have treated her who sleeps; and
the secret that thus came to my knowledge shall never
be revealed. I would die rather than divulge it.”
The men stood silent, awed by the dignity of his bearing
and the clear truthfulness of his words. After a
slight pause, their leader said, “We believe you; but
there are doubtless those in Ephesus who would pay
a handsome sum to gain tidings from you. You may
keep your secret, if you like; but it cannot be concealed
that you and the beautiful maiden were no
peasants. What if we put the magistrates on your
track?”
Looking him openly and fearlessly in the eye, Antiorus
replied, “Because you have not so lost your
manly nature. A voice within you would forbid you
to persecute one already so crushed and heart-broken.
You will not do it, because I am in your power, and
because I trust you.” This appeal to the manliness
that remained within them, controlled their rough natures,
and the bold frankness of his eyes kindled their
admiration. Clasping his hand with rough cordiality,
the leader said, “We will not inform against you, and
we will trust you to go to Ephesus.” “Let him seal
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his promise by an oath to Hecate and the Furies,”
murmured several voices. The leader folded his arms
across his breast, and answered slowly and proudly,
“The simple word of such a man is more sacred to
him than the most terrible oaths.” The countenance
of the impetuous young Greek became at once illuminated.
Seizing the hand of the robber-captain, he
said, “My friend, you are worthy of a better occupation.”
“Perhaps so,” replied the other, with a deep
sigh; “at least, I thought so once.”
* * * * * * *
Under the shadow of evening, and disguised in
dress, Antiorus ventured to return to Ephesus. The
first house he entered was the one adjoining the gardens,
where he had so often listened to Miriam's
harp. The moment he was recognised, all eyes looked
coldly on him. “Why hast thou come hither?”
said his once friendly host. “Already my house has
been searched for thee, and I am suspected of aiding
thy designs by bringing thee within hearing of the
gardens. Curse on thy imprudence! Were there not
women enough in the streets of Ephesus, that thou
must needs dishonour one of its wealthiest families?”
In former times, the sensitive young man would
have flashed fire at these insulting words; but now
he meekly replied, “You judge me wrongfully. I
loved her purely and reverently.” His friend answered
sarcastically, “Perhaps you learned this smooth
hypocrisy at the meetings of the Christians; for there,
I understand, to my great surprise, it has been your
habit to attend. What name they give to such transactions
I do not care to know. It is enough to say
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that you are no longer a welcome guest in my house.”
For a moment a deep flush went over the young
man's expressive countenance, and his eye kindled;
but he turned away, and silently departed; lingering
for a moment with fond reluctance, on the steps of the
terrace he had so often mounted rapidly, buoyant with
love and hope.
With a sorrowful heart, he sought the dwelling of
the Christian elder, to whom St. John had so affectionately
confided him, at parting. As soon as he
made himself known, a severe frown clouded the face
of the bishop. “What impudence has brought thee
hither?” he exclaimed. “Hast thou not sufficiently
disgraced the Church by thy wickedness, without presuming
to disgrace it further by thy presence?”
“You judge me too harshly,” replied the young man,
meekly. “Imprudent I have been, but not wicked.”
“Where hast thou hidden thy paramour?” said the
bishop impatiently. The eyes of the young Greek
glowed like coals of fire, his nostrils expanded, his
lips quivered, his breast heaved, and his hand strongly
clenched the staff on which he leaned. But he constrained
himself, and answered with mournful calmness,
“I have no paramour. She on whose innocent
name you have breathed an epithet so undeserved, has
passed from earth to heaven, pure as the angels who
received her.”
In answer to further inquiries, he frankly repeated
the whole story, not concealing the temptation, which
had so nearly conquered him. In reply, the bishop
informed him that suspicion had been awakened previous
to their imprudent midnight ramble. The
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attendance of Miriam and her nurse at the Christian
meetings had been discovered; her absence on that
fatal night had been detected; the nurse fled in terror;
the betrothed husband of Miriam went forth madly
into the streets, vowing revenge; her father believed
he had traced the fugitives on board a ship bound to
Athens, whither he had sent spies to discover them.
Whether the Jewish lover had fired the arrow or not,
it was impossible to tell; but should it be known that
Miriam was dead, her death would unquestionably be
charged on Antiorus, and the effect would be to renew
the popular hatred against the Christians, with
redoubled vigour. At present, believing her to be in
Athens, it was the policy of her family to keep the affair
from the public, as much as possible.
Antiorus expressed the utmost contrition for his
imprudence, but averred most solemnly that he had in
no way violated his conscience, or his Christian obligations.
He begged the bishop for credentials to some
distant Christian Church, where by a life of humility
and prayer, he might make himself ready to rejoin
his beloved Miriam.
The bishop, vexed at an affair so likely to bring
discredit on his own watchfulness, listened coldly, and
replied, “For the prosperity of the Church, it is very
necessary to obtain and preserve a good name. We
must avoid the appearance of evil. Appearances are
very much against you. You are young and of fiery
blood. You have been an Epicurean, whose doctrines
favour unbridled pleasure. You say that your
love for this maiden was pure; but what proof have
we, save your own word?” Antiorus raised his head
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proudly, and with a clear bold glance replied, “What
more is needed? Have I ever spoken falsely to
friend or foe?” “I know not,” answered the bishop.
“Young men do not usually decoy maidens into hidden
grottoes, at midnight, for purposes as pure as the
angels.”
Alas, for his less noble nature! He knew not the
value of the warm heart he was thus turning to gall.
The young man bent upon him a most intense and
searching gaze. He thought of that fearfully strong
temptation in the lonely midnight hour; of his extreme
reluctance to bring suspicion on the character
of the Christian Church; of his conquest over himself;
of his reverential love for the pure maiden; of
his virtuous resolutions, and his holy aspirations. He
had opened his whole heart to this father of the
Church, and thus it had been received! Would
Christ have thus weighed the respectability of the
Church against the salvation of a human soul? Were
these beautiful doctrines of love and forgiveness mere
idle theories? Mere texts for fine speeches and eloquent
epistles? A disbelief in all principles, a distrust
of all men, took possession of him. With a deep
sigh, he gathered his robe about him and departed.
He walked hastily, as if to run away from his own
mad thoughts. Ascending an eminence, he paused
and looked back on the city, its white columns dimly
visible in the starlight. “There is no one there to
love me,” said he. “I am an orphan; no mother or
sister to comfort my aching heart. I have had great
projects, great hopes, sublime aspirations; but that is
all over now. No matter what becomes of me. I
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will go to the robbers. I have no other friends; and
they at least believed me.”
He was received in the mountain cavern with an
uproarious burst of joy. They drank wine and caroused,
and with loud acclamations proclaimed him
king of their band. His heart was sick within him,
but with wild desperation, he drank to their pledge.
That night, when all the riotous crew were sleeping,
he stole forth into the midnight, and stood alone on
the mountain side, gazing mournfully upon the stars,
that looked down upon him with solemn love. Then
tossing his arms wildly above his head, he threw himself
on the ground with a mighty sob, exclaiming,
“Oh, if she had but lived, her pure and gentle spirit
would have saved me!”
Hark! Is that a faint whispering of music in the
air? Or is it memory's echo of Miriam's psalm?
Now it dies away in so sad a cadence—and now it
rises, full of victory. It has passed into his heart;
and spite of recklessness and sin, it will keep there a
nestling-place for holiness and love.
* * * * *
When the apostle John returned to Ephesus, his
first inquiry of the bishop was, “Where is the beloved
son I committed to thy charge?” The elder, looking
down, replied, with some embarrassment, “He is
dead!” “Dead!” exclaimed the apostle, “How did
he die?” The elder answered with a sigh, “He is
dead in trespasses and sins. He became dissolute,
was led away by evil companions, and it is said he is
now captain of a band of robbers in yonder mountains.”
With a voice full of sorrowful reproach, the
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apostle said, “And is it thus, my brother, thou hast
cared for the precious soul that Christ and I committed
to thy charge? Bring me a horse and a guide to
the mountains. I will go to my erring son.” “I pray
you do not attempt it,” exclaimed the elder. “You
will be seized by the robbers and perhaps murdered.”
“Hinder me not,” replied the venerable man. “If
need be, I will gladly die to save his soul, even as
Christ died for us. I will go to my son; perchance
he will listen to me.”
They brought him a horse, and he rode to the
mountains. While searching for the cavern, one of
the robbers came up and seized him rudely, exclaiming,
“Who art thou, old man? Come before our
captain, and declare thy business.”
“For that purpose I came hither,” replied the
apostle. “Bring me to your captain.”
Antiorus, hearing the sound of voices, stepped
forth from the mouth of the cavern; but when he
saw John, he covered his face and turned quickly
away. The apostle ran toward him with outstretched
arms, exclaiming, “Why dost thou fly from me, my
son? From me, an old unarmed man? Thou art
dear to me, my son. I will pray for thee. If need
be, I will die for thee. Oh, trust to me; for Christ
has sent me to thee, to speak of hope, forgiveness,
and salvation.”
Antiorus stood with his face covered, and his strong
frame shook in his armour. But when he heard the
words forgiveness and hope, he fell on the ground,
embraced the old man's knees, and wept like a child.
The apostle laid his hand affectionately on that noble
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head, and said, with a heavenly smile, “Ah, now
thou art baptized again, my dear son—baptized in thy
tears. The Lord bless thee and keep thee. The
Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee
peace.”
After speaking together for a few moments, they
retired to Miriam's grave, and there the young man
laid open all his sinning and suffering heart. In conclusion,
he said, “There seems ever to be within me
two natures; one for good, and one for evil.” “It is
even thus with us all,” replied the apostle. “But
thou, my father,” rejoined Antiorus, “thou canst not
imagine how I have sinned, or what I have resisted.
Thy blood flows so calmly. Thou art too pure and
holy to be tempted as I have been.”
“Hush, hush, I pray thee, my son,” replied the
apostle. “How I have struggled is known only to
Him who seeth all the secrets of the heart. Because
my blood has not always flowed so calmly, therefore,
my son, have I been peculiarly drawn toward thee in
the bonds of pity and of sympathy. Thy wild ambition,
thy impetuous anger, are no strangers in my
own experience; and that midnight temptation so
brought back a scene of my youth, that it seemed
almost like a page of my own history.” “Of thine!”
exclaimed the young man, with an accent of strong
surprise. In a voice low and tender, he added, “Then
thou hast loved?” The white-haired man bowed his
head upon his hands, and with strong emotion answered,
“Oh, how deeply, how tenderly.”
There was silence for some moments, interrupted
only by the quiet lullaby of the waters, rippling in the
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dell below. Pressing the apostle's hand, Antiorus
said, in a low reverential tone, “Does love end here,
my father? Shall we know our loved ones among
the angels of heaven? Do they witness our conflicts?
Do they rejoice over our victories?”
Hark! Is that music in the air? Or is it a memory
of the psalm? How distinctly it swells forth in joy,
how sweetly it breathes of love and peace! The listener
smiles; for he seems to hear a harp in the heavens.
The two beautiful ones, the young and the old, stand
with clasped hands, looking upward into the sky.
The countenance of the apostle was radiant with
spiritual light, as he said, “Let us believe and hope.”
They knelt down, embracing each other, and offered
a silent prayer, in the name of him who had brought
immortality to light.
Antiorus bade his wild comrades farewell, with exhortations,
to which the apostle added words that were
blessed in their gentleness; for the former leader of
the band turned from the evil of his ways, and became
a zealous Christian. The young Greek went to the
church in Corinth, bearing affectionate credentials from
the beloved apostle. Many years after, hearing that
the family of Miriam had gone to a Syrian city, he
returned to Ephesus. The cross had been removed
from the mountain, but he planted another on the well-remembered
spot. Near by, he built a little cabin of
boughs, where an opening in the thick groves gave
glimpses of the marble columns of Ephesus, and the
harbour of Panormous sparkling in the sun. Many
came to talk with him concerning the doctrines of
Plato, and the new truths taught by Jesus. He received
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them all with humility and love; but otherwise he
mixed not with the world, except to visit the sick and
suffering, or to meet with the increasing band of Christians
in the plain below. He was an old man when
he died. The name of Miriam had not passed his lips
for many years; but when they buried him beside the
mountain cross, they found a ringlet of black hair in
a little ivory casement next his heart.
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THE BELOVED TUNE. Fragments of a Life, in Small Pictures
A child, a friend, a wife, whose soft heart sings
In unison with ours, breeding its future wings.
—Leigh Hunt.
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In a pleasant English garden, on a rustic chair of
intertwisted boughs, are seated two happy human
beings. Beds of violets perfume the air, and the
verdant hedge-rows stand sleepily in the moonlight.
A guitar lies on the greensward, but it is silent now,
for all is hushed in the deep stillness of the heart.
That youthful pair are whispering their first acknowledgment
of mutual love. With them is now unfolding
life's best and brightest blossom, so beautiful and
so transient, but leaving, as it passes into fruit, a fragrance
through all the paths of memory.
And now the garden is alone in the moonlight.
The rustic bench, and the whispering foliage of the
tree, tell each other no tales of those still kisses, those
gentle claspings, and all the fervent language of the
heart. But the young man has carried them away
in his soul; and as he sits alone at his chamber window,
gazing in the mild face of the moon, he feels,
as all do who love and are beloved, that he is a better
man, and will henceforth be a wiser and a purer one.
The worlds within and without are veiled in transfigured
glory, and breathe together in perfect harmony.
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For all these high aspirations, this deep tide of tenderness,
this fulness of beauty, there is but one utterance;
the yearning heart must overflow in music.
Faint and uncertain come the first tones of the guitar,
breathing as softly as if they responded to the mere
touch of the moonbeams. But now the rich manly
voice has united with them, and a clear spiritual
melody flows forth, plaintive and impassioned, the
modulated breath of indwelling life and love. All
the secrets of the garden, secrets that painting and
poetry had no power to reveal, have passed into the
song.
At first, the young musician scarcely noticed the
exceeding beauty of the air he was composing. But
a passage that came from the deepest of the heart, returned
to the heart again, and filled it with its own
sweet echoes. He lighted a lamp, and rapidly transferred
the sounds to paper. Thus has he embodied
the floating essence of his soul, and life's brightest
inspiration cannot pass away with the moonlight and
the violet-fragrance that veiled its birth.
But obstacles arise in the path of love. Dora's
father has an aversion to foreigners, and Alessandro
is of mingled Italian and German parentage. He
thinks of worldly substance, as fathers are wont to
do; and Alessandro is simply leader of an orchestra,
and a popular composer of guitar music. There is a
richer lover in question, and the poor musician is sad
with hope deferred, though he leans ever trustfully on
Dora's true heart. He labours diligently in his vocation,
gives lessons day by day, and listens with all
patience to the learner's trip-hammer measurement of
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time, while the soul within him yearns to pour itself
forth in floods of improvised melody. He composes
music industriously, too; but it is for the market, and
slowly and reluctantly the offended tones take their
places per order. Not thus came they in that inspired
song, where love first breathed its bright but timid
joy over vanished doubts and fears. The manuscript
of that melody is laid away, and seldom can the anxious
lover bear its voice.
But two years of patient effort secures his prize.
The loved one has come to his humble home, with
her bridal wreath of jessamine and orange-buds. He
sits at the same window, and the same moon shines
on him; but he is no longer alone. A beautiful head
leans on his breast, and a loving voice says, “Dearest
Alessandro, sing me a song of thine own composing.”
He was at that moment thinking of the rustic seat in
her father's garden, of violets breathing to the moonlight,
of Dora's first bashful confession of love; and
smiling with a happy consciousness, he sought for
the written voice of that blissful hour. But he will
not tell her when it was composed, lest it should not
say so much to her heart, as it does to his. He begins
by singing other songs, which drawing-room
misses love for their tinkling sweetness. Dora listens
well pleased, and sometimes says, “That is pretty,
Alessandro; play it again.” But now comes the
voice of melting, mingling souls. That melody, so
like sunshine, and rainbows, and bird-warbling, after
a summer shower, with rain drops from the guitar at
intervals, and all subsiding into blissful, dreamy moonlight.
Dora leans forward, gazing earnestly in his
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face, and with beaming tearful eyes, exclaims, “Oh,
that is very beautiful! That is my tune.” “Yes, it
is indeed thy tune,” replied the happy husband; and
when she had heard its history, she knew why it had
seemed so like echoes of her own deepest heart.
Time has passed, and Alessandro sits by Dora's
bed-side, their eyes looking into each other through
happy tears. Their love is crowned with life's deepest,
purest joy, its most heavenly emotion. Their
united lives have re-appeared in a new existence;
and they feel that without this rich experience the
human heart can never know one half its wealth of
love. Long sat the father in that happy stillness, and
wist not that angels near by smiled when he touched
the soft down of the infant's arm, or twined its little
finger over his, and looked his joyful tenderness
into the mother's eyes. The tear-dew glistened on
those long dark fringes, when he took up his guitar
and played the beloved tune. He had spoken no word
to his child. These tones were the first sounds with
which he welcomed her into the world.
A few months glide away, and the little Fioretta
knows the tune for herself. She claps her hands and
crows at sight of the guitar, and all changing emotions
show themselves in her dark melancholy eyes,
and on her little tremulous lips. Play not too sadly,
thou fond musician; for this little soul is a portion of
thine own sensitive being, more delicately tuned. Ah,
see now the grieved lip, and the eyes swimming in
tears! Change, change to a gayer measure! for the
little heart is swelling too big for its bosom. There,
now she laughs and crows again! Yet plaintive
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music is her choice, and especially the beloved tune. As
soon as she can toddle across the room, she welcomes
papa with a shout, and runs to bring the guitar, which
mother must help her carry, lest she break it in her
zeal. If father mischievously tries other tunes than
her favourites, she shakes her little curly head, and
trots her feet impatiently. But when he touches the
first notes he ever played to her, she smiles and listens
seriously, as if she heard her own being prophesied
in music. As she grows older, the little lady
evinces a taste right royal; for she must needs eat her
supper to the accompaniment of sweet sounds. It is
beautiful to see her in her night-gown, seated demurely
in her small arm-chair, one little naked foot unconsciously
beating time to the tune. But if the music
speaks too plaintively, the big tears roll silently down,
and the porringer of milk, all unheeded, pours its
treasures on the floor. Then come smothering kisses
from the happy father and mother, and love-claspings
with her little soft arms. As the three sit thus intertwined,
the musician says playfully, “Ah, this is the
perfect chord!”
Three years pass away, and the scene is changed.
There is discord now where such sweet harmony prevailed.
The light of Dora's eyes is dim with weeping,
and Fioretta “has caught the trick of grief, and
sighs amid her playthings.” Once, when she had
waited long for the beloved father, she ran to him
with the guitar, and he pushed her away, saying angrily,
“Go to bed; why did your mother keep you up
so long?” The sensitive little being, so easily repulsed,
went to her pillow in tears; and after that,
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she no more ran to him with music in her hand, in
her eye, and in her voice. Hushed now is the beloved
tune. To the unhappy wife it seems a mockery to
ask for it; and Alessandro seldom touches his guitar;
he says he is obliged to play enough for his bread,
without playing for his family at home. At the gleeclub
the bright wine has tempted him, and he is slowly
burying heart and soul in the sepulchre of the body.
Is there no way to save this beautiful son of genius
and feeling? Dora at first pleads with him tenderly;
but made nervous with anxiety and sorrow, she at last
speaks words that would have seemed impossible to
her when she was so happy, seated on the rustic
chair, in the moonlighted garden; and then comes
the sharp sorrow, which a generous heart always feels
when it has so spoken to a cherished friend. In such
moments of contrition, memory turns with fond sadness
to the beloved tune. Fioretta, whose little fingers
must stretch wide to reach an octave, is taught to
play it on the piano, while mother sings to her accompaniment,
in their lonely hours. After such seasons,
a tenderer reception always greets the wayward husband;
but his eyes, dulled by dissipation, no longer
perceive the delicate shadings of love in those home
pictures, once so dear to him. The child is afraid of
her father, and this vexes him; so a strangeness has
grown up between the two playmates, and casts a
shadow over all their attempts at joy. One day Alessandro
came home as twilight was passing into evening.
Fioretta had eaten her supper, and sat on her
mother's lap, chatting merrily; but the little clear
voice hushed, as soon as father's step was heard
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approaching. He entered with flushed cheek and unsteady
motions, and threw himself full length on the
sofa, grumbling that it was devilish dismal there.
Dora answered hastily, “When a man has made his
home dismal, if he don't like it, he had better stay
where he finds more pleasure.” The next moment
she would have given worlds if she had not spoken
such words. Her impulse was to go and fall on his
neck, and ask forgiveness; but he kicked over Fioretta's
little chair with such violence, that the kindly impulse
turned back, and hid itself in her widowed
heart. There sat they silently in the twilight, and
Dora's tears fell on the little head that rested on her
bosom. I know not what spirit guided the child;
perhaps in her busy little heart she remembered how
her favourite sounds used to heighten all love, and
cheer all sorrow: perhaps angels came and took her
by the hand. But so it was, she slipped down from
mother's lap, and scrambling up on the music-stool,
began to play the tune which had been taught her in
private hours, and which the father had not heard for
many months. Wonderfully the little creature touched
the keys with her tiny fingers, and ever and anon her
weak but flexible voice chimed in with a pleasant
harmony. Alessandro raised his head, and looked
and listened. “God bless her dear little soul!” he
exclaimed; “can she play it? God bless her! God
bless her!” He clasped the darling to his breast, and
kissed her again and again. Then seeing the little
overturned chair, once so sacred to his heart, he
caught it up, kissed it vehemently, and burst into a
flood of tears. Dora threw her arms round him, and
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said softly, “Dear Alessandro, forgive me that I spoke
so unkindly.” He pressed her hand, and answered
in a stifled voice, “Forgive me, Dora. God bless the
little angel! Never again will father push away her
little chair.” As they stand weeping on each other's
necks, two little soft arms encircle their knees, and a
small voice says, “Kiss Fietta.” They raise her up,
and fold her in long embraces. Alessandro carries
her to her bed, as in times of old, and says cheerfully,
“No more wine, dear Dora; no more wine. Our
child has saved me.”
But when discord once enters a domestic paradise,
it is not easily dispelled. Alessandro occasionally
feels the want of the stimulus to which he has become
accustomed, and the corroding appetite sometimes
makes him gloomy and petulant. Dora does not
make sufficient allowance for this, and her own nature
being quick and sensitive, she sometimes gives
abrupt answers, or betrays impatience by hasty motions.
Meanwhile Alessandro is busy, with some secret
work. The door of his room is often locked, and
Dora is half displeased that he will not tell her why;
but all her questions he answers only with a kiss and
a smile. And now the Christmas morning comes,
and Fioretta rises bright and early to see what Santa
Claus has put in her stocking. She comes running
with her apron full, and gives mother a package, on
which is written, “A merry Christmas and a Happy
New Year to my beloved wife.” She opens it, and
reads “Dearest Dora, I have made thee a music-box.
When I speak hastily to my loved ones, I pray thee
wind it up; and when I see the spark kindling in thy
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eyes, I will do the same. Thus, dearest, let memory
teach patience unto love.” Dora winds up the musicbox,
and lo, a spirit sits within, playing the beloved
tune! She puts her hand within her husband's, and
they look at each other with affectionate humility.
But neither of them speak the resolution they form,
while the voice of their early love falls on their ears,
like the sounds of a fairy guitar.
Memory, thus aided, does teach patience unto love.
No slackened string now sends discord through the
domestic tune. Fioretta is passing into maidenhood,
beautiful as an opening flower. She practises
on the guitar, while the dear good father sits with
his arm across her chair, singing from a manuscript
tune of her own composing. In his eyes, this first effort
of her genius cannot seem otherwise than beautiful.
Ever and anon certain notes occur, and they
look at each other and smile, and Dora smiles also.
“Fioretta could not help bringing in that theme,” she
says, “for it was sung to her in her cradle.” The
father replies, “But the variations are extremely pretty
and tasteful;” and a flush of delight goes over the
expressive face of his child. The setting sun glances
across the guitar, and just touches a rose in the maiden's
bosom. The happy mother watches the dear
group earnestly, and sketches rapidly on the paper
before her. And now she, too, works privately in her
own room, and has a secret to keep. On Fioretta's
fifteenth birth-day, she sends by her hands, a covered
present to the father. He opens it and finds a lovely
picture of himself and daughter, the rose and the
guitar. The sunlight glances across them in a bright
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shower of fine soft rays, and touches on the manuscript,
as with a golden finger, the few beloved notes,
which had made them smile. As the father shrined
within his divine art the memory of their first hour
of mutual love, so the mother has embalmed in her
beautiful art the first musical echo from the heart of
their child.
But now the tune of life passes into a sadder mode.
Dora, pale and emaciated, lies propped up with pillows,
her hand clasped within Fioretta's, her head
resting on her husband's shoulder.
All is still—still. Their souls are kneeling reverently
before the Angel of Death. Heavy sunset
guns from a neighbouring fort, boom through the air.
The vibrations shake the music-box, and it starts up
like a spirit, and plays the cherished tune. Dora
presses her daughter's hand, and she, with a faint
smile, warbles the words they have so often sung.
The dying one looks up to Alessandro, with a deep
expression of unearthly tenderness. Gazing thus,
with one long-drawn sigh, her affectionate soul floats
away on the wings of that ethereal song. The memory
that taught endurance unto love leaves a luminous
expression, a farewell glory, on the lifeless
countenance. Attendant angels smile, and their
blessing falls on the mourners' hearts, like dew from
heaven. Fioretta remains to the widowed one, the
graceful blossom of his lonely life, the incarnation
of his beloved tune.
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ELIZABETH WILSON.
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The following story is founded upon facts which occurred during the
latter part of the eighteenth century. The leading incidents are still in the
memory of many of the inhabitants of Chester county, Pennsylvania.
Elizabeth Wilson was of humble, though respectable
parentage. From infancy she was remarked for
beauty, and a delicate nervous organization. Her
brother William, two years older, was likewise a
handsome child, with a more sturdy and vigorous
frame. He had a gentle, loving heart, which expended
its affections most lavishly on his mother and little
sister. In their early years, Lizzy was his constant
shadow. If he went to the barn to hunt for eggs,
the little one was sure to run prattling along with
him, hand in hand. If he pelted walnuts from the
tree, she was sure to be there with her little basket,
to pick them up. They sat on the same blue bench
to eat their bread and milk, and with the first jack-knife
he ever owned, the affectionate boy carved on it
the letters W. and E. for William and Elizabeth.
The sister lavishly returned his love. If a pie was
baked for her, she would never break it till Willie
came to share; and she would never go to sleep unless
her arms were about his neck.
Their mother, a woman of tender heart and yielding
temper, took great delight in her handsome
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children. Often, when she went out to gather chips or
brush, she stopped to look in upon them, as they sat
on the blue bench, feeding each other from their little
porringers of bread and milk. The cross-lights from
side-window threw on them a reflection of the lilac
ushes, so that they seemed seated in a flowering
grove. It was the only picture the poor woman had;
but none of the old masters could have equalled its
beauty.
The earliest and strongest development of Lizzy's
character was love. She was always caressing her
kitten, or twining her arms about Willie's neck, or
leaning on her mother's lap, begging for a kiss. A
dozen times a day she would look earnestly into her
mother's eyes, and inquire, most beseechingly, “Does
you love your little Lizzy?” And if the fond answer
did not come as promptly as usual, her beautiful eyes,
always plaintive in their expression, would begin to
swim with tears. This “strong necessity of loving,”
which so pervades the nature of woman, the fair child
inherited from her gentle mother; and from her, too,
inherited a deficiency of firmness, of which such natures
have double need. To be every thing, and do
every thing, for those she loved, was the paramount
law of her existence.
Such a being was of course born for sorrow. Even
in infancy, the discerning eye might already see its
prophetic shadow resting on her expressive countenance.
The first great affliction of her life was the
death of her mother, when she was ten years old.
Her delicate nerves were shattered by the blow, and
were never after fully restored to health. The dead
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body of her beloved mother, with large coins on the
eye-lids, was so awfully impressed on her imagination,
that the image followed her everywhere, even into her
dreams. As she slept, tears often dropped from her
tremulous eye-lashes, and nightmare visions made her
start and scream. There was no gentle voice near to
soothe her perturbed spirit; none to throw an angel's
shining robe over the hideous spectre, that lay so cold
and stiff in the halls of memory. Her father fed and
clothed his children, and caused them to be taught to
read and write. It did not occur to him that anything
more was included in parental duty. Of clothing for
the mind, or food for the heart, he knew nothing; for
his own had never been clothed and fed. He came
home weary from daily toil, ate his supper, dozed in
his chair awhile, and then sent the children to bed.
A few times, after the death of his wife, he kissed
his daughter; but she never ventured to look into his
eyes, and ask, “Does you love your little Lizzy?”
Willie was her only consolation; and all he could do
was to weep passionately with her, at everything which
reminded them of their mother.
Nature, as usual, reflected back the image of the
soul that gazed upon her. To Lizzy's excited mind,
everything appeared mysterious and awful, and all
sounds seemed to wail and sigh. The rustling of the
trees in the evening wind went through her, like the
voice of a spirit; and when the nights were bright,
she would hide her head in her brother's bosom, and
whisper, “Willie, dear, I wish the moon would not
keep looking at me. She seems to say something to
me; and it makes me afraid.”
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All susceptible souls have felt thus; particularly
when under the influence of grief.
“The snow of deepest silence
O'er everything doth fall,
So beautiful and quiet,
And yet so like a pall—
As if all life were ended,
And rest were come to all.”
Such a state of feeling, long indulged, could not be
otherwise than injurious to a bodily frame originally
delicate. The sensitive child soon became subject to
fits, the severity of which at times threatencd her life.
On coming out of these spasms, with piteous tones
and bewildered looks, she would ask, “Where is my
mother?”
At the end of a year, an important change came
over the lonely household. A strong active step-mother
was introduced. Her loud voice and energetic
tread, so different from her own quiet and timid mother,
frightened poor Lizzy. Her heart more than ever
turned back upon itself, and listened to the echoes of
its own yearnings. Willie, being old enough to work
on the farm, was now absent most of the day; and
the fair girl, so richly endowed by nature with all
deep feelings and beautiful capacities, so lavish of her
affections, so accustomed to free outpourings of love,
became reserved, and apparently cold and stupid.
When the step-mother gave birth to an infant, the
fountain of feeling was again unsealed. It was her
delight to watch the babe, and minister to its wants.
But this development of the affections was likewise
destined to be nipped in the bud. The step-mother,
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though by no means hard-hearted, was economical
and worldly-wise. She deemed it most profitable to
employ a healthy, stout niece of her own, somewhat
older than Elizabeth, and to have her step-daughter
bound out in some family where she could do light
labour. It was also determined that William should
go to service; and his place of destination was fifty
miles from that of his sister.
The news of this arrangement was very bitter to
the children. Both answered their father, very meekly,
that they were willing to go; but their voices
were deep, sad, and almost inaudible. Without
saying another word, the boy put on his hat, and the
girl her sun-bonnet, and taking each other by the
hand, they went forth, and roamed silently to their
mother's grave. There they stood for a long time,
in silence, and their tears dropped fast on the green
sod. At last, Elizabeth sobbed out, “Oh, if dear
mother was alive, Willie, we should not have to go
away from home.” But Willie could only answer by
a fresh outburst of grief. A little clump of wild
flowers nodded over the edge of the mound. The
affectionate boy cut two of them, and said, “Let us
keep these, Lizzy, to remember mother by.”
The flowers were carefully pressed between the
leaves of Lizzy's Testament, and when the sorrowful
day of parting came, one was nicely folded in a paper
for Willie. “Now, dear sis, give me that nice little
curl,” said he, putting his finger on a soft, golden-brown
ringlet, that nestled close to her ear, and lay
caressingly on her downy cheek. She glanced in the
fragment of a glass, which served them for a mirror, and
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with eyes brimful of tears she answered, “Oh, Willie,
I cannot give you that. Don't you remember how
dear mother used to wet my head all over with cold
water, to make my hair curl? She used to laugh
when I shook my head, and made the curls go all
over my forehead; and she would kiss that little curl
in particular. She said it was such a darling little
curl.” Thus childishly did the innocent ones speak
together. The brother twisted the favorite curl round
his finger, and kissed it, and a bright tear fell on it,
and glittered in the sunshine.
William left home a few days earlier than his sister,
and bitterly did the lonely one sob herself to sleep
that night. She shuddered in the dark, and when
the moon looked in at the window, its glance seemed
more mournful than ever. The next morning, she
fell from the breakfast table in a fit more severe than
usual. But as she soon recovered, and as these
spasms now occurred only at distant intervals, her
step-mother thought she had better be in readiness to
depart at the appointed time.
The wagon was brought to the door, and the father
said to her, “Lizzy, put on your bonnet, and bring
your bundle. It is time to go.” Oh, how the poor
child lingered in her little bed-room, where she and
Willie slept in their infant days, and where the mother
used to hear them say their prayers, and kiss them
both, as they lay folded in each other's arms. To
the strong step-mother she easily said good bye; but
she paused long over the cradle of her baby-brother,
and kissed each of his little fingers, and fondly turned
a little wave of sunny hair on his pure white forehead.
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Her heart swelled, and she had to swallow hard to keep
down the sobs; for it was her cradle, and she was
thinking how her mother used to sing her to sleep.
Her father spoke to her in a tone of unusual tenderness,
as if he too remembered her infancy, and the gentle
one who used to rock her in that cradle. “Come,
Lizzy,” said he, “it is time to go. You shall come
back and see the baby before long.” With blinded
eyes she stumbled into the wagon, and turned and
looked back as long as she could see the old elm-tree
by her bed-room window, where all the summers of
her young life she had watched the swallows come
and go.
It is a dreary fate for a loving and sensitive child
to be bound out at service among strangers, even if
they are kind-hearted. The good woman of the house
received Lizzy in a very friendly manner, and told
her to make herself at home. But the word only sent
a mournful echo through her heart. For a few days,
she went about in a state of abstraction, that seemed
like absolute stupidity. Her step-mother had prepared
them for this, by telling them there was something
strange about Lizzy, and that many people
thought her fits affected her mind. Being of coarser
and stronger natures, they could none of them imagine
that the slow stagnation of the heart might easily dim
the light of intellect in a creature so keenly susceptible.
But by degrees the duties required of her roused
her faculties into greater activity; and when night
came, she was fortunately too weary to lie awake and
weep. Sometimes she dreamed of Willie, and her
dreams of him were always bright and pleasant; but
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her mother sometimes fondled her with looks of love,
and sometimes came as the pale cold spectre. Thus
the months passed slowly away. Her father came to
see her at distant intervals, and once in a great while,
a letter came from Willie, in a large stiff hand. Unaccustomed
to writing, he could not, through that medium,
tell much that was passing in his heart. That
he wanted badly to see his sister, and often kissed the
flower they plucked from the dear mother's grave,
was the substance of all his epistles.
In the mean time, Lizzy was passing into womanhood.
Childhood and youth kissed each other, with
new and glowing beauty. Her delicate cheeks mantled
with a richer colour, and her deep blue eyes,
shaded with long fringes of the darkest brown, looked
out upon life with a more earnest and expressive longing.
Plain and scanty garments could not conceal
the graceful outline of her figure, and her motions
were like a willow in the breeze. She was not aware
of her uncommon loveliness, though she found it pleasant
to look in the glass, and had sometimes heard
strangers say to each other, “See that pretty girl!”
There were no young men in the immediate neighbourhood,
and she had not been invited to any of the
rustic dances or quilting frolics. One bashful lad in
the vicinity always contrived to drive his cows past
the house where she lived, and eagerly kept watch
for a glimpse of her, as she went to the barn with her
milking pails. But if she happened to pass near
enough to nod and smile, his cheeks grew red, and his
voice forsook him. She could not know, or guess,
that he would lie awake long that night, and dream of
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her smile, and resolve that some time or other he
would have courage to tell her how handsome she
was, and how the sight of her made his heart throb.
She did not yet know that she could love anybody
better than she had loved Willie. She had seen her
darling brother but twice, during their three years of
separation; but his image was ever fresh and bright
in memory. When he came to see her, she felt completely
happy. While he gazed upon her with delighted
eyes, her affectionate nature was satisfied with
love: for it had not yet been revealed to her in the
melting glance of passion. Yet the insidious power
already began to foreshadow itself in vague restlessness
and romantic musings. For she was at an age,
“To feel a want, yet scarce know what it is;
To seek one nature that is always new,
Whose glance is warmer than another's kiss;
Such longing instinct fills the mighty scope
Of the young heart with one mysterious hope.”
At last, an important event occurred in Lizzy's
monotonous existence. A young girl in the village
was to be married, and she was invited to the quilting
party. It was the first invitation of the kind she had
ever received, and of course it occupied her thoughts
day and night. Could she have foreseen how this
simple occurrence would affect her whole future destiny,
she would have pondered over it still more
deeply. The bridegroom brought a friend with him
to the party, a handsome dark-eyed young man, clerk
of a store in a neighbouring town. Aware of his
personal attractions, he dressed himself with peculiar
care. Elizabeth had never seen anything so elegant;
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and the moment his eye glanced on her, he decided
that he had never seen anything half so beautiful.
He devoted himself to her in a manner sufficiently
marked to excite envy; and some of the rich farmers'
daughters made critical remarks about her dress,
which they concluded was passably genteel, for a girl
who lived out at service. However, Lizzy was queen
of the evening, by virtue of nature's own impress of
royalty. When the quilt was finished, romping
games were introduced according to the fashion of the
times; and the young men took care that the forfeits
paid by the pretty girls should generally involve kissing
some of their own number. Among the forfeits
required of the dark-eyed stranger, he was ordered to
beg on his knees for the identical little curl that Willie
had asked of his sister. In the midst of her mirthfulness,
this brought a shadow over her countenance,
and she could not answer playfully. However, this
emotion passed away with the moment, and she became
the gayest of the gay. Never before had she
been half so handsome, for never before had she been
half so happy. The joyful consciousness of pleasing
everybody, and the attractive young stranger in particular,
made her eyes sparkle, and her whole countenance
absolutely radiant with beauty. When the
party were about to separate, the young man was
very assiduous about placing her shawl, and begged
permission to accompany her home. Little was said
during this walk; yet enough to afford entrance into
both hearts for that unquiet passion, which tangles the
web of human life more than all the other sentiments
and instincts of our mysterious being. At parting, he
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took her hand, to say good night. He continued to
hold it, and leaning against the gate, they stood for a
few moments, gazing at the clear, silvery orb of night.
Ah, how different the moon seemed to Lizzy now!
Earth's spectral robe had changed to a veil of glory.
Her bonnet had fallen back, and the evening breeze
played gently with her ringlets. In soft insinuating
tones, the young man said, “Will you not give me
that little curl I asked for?” She blushed deeply
and answered, in her child-like way, “I cannot give
you that, because my mother used to kiss it so often.”
“No wonder she kissed it,” he replied; “it looks so
roguish, lying there on your pretty cheek.” And before
she was aware of it, he had kissed it too. Trembling
and confused, she turned to open the gate, but
he held it fast, until she had promised that the next
time he came she would give him one of her curls.
Poor Lizzy went to bed that night with an intoxicated
heart. When she braided her hair at the glass,
next morning, she smiled and blushed, as she twined
the favourite ringlet more carefully than ever. She
was so childishly happy with her pretty little curl!
The next Sunday evening, as she sat at the window,
she heard the sound of a flute. He had promised to
bring his flute; and he had not forgotten her. She
listened—it came nearer and nearer, through the wood.
Her heart beat audibly, for it was indeed the handsome
dark-eyed stranger.
All summer long, he came every Sunday afternoon;
and with him came moonlight walks, and flute-warblings,
and tender whisperings, and glances, such as
steal away a woman's heart. This was the fairy-land
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of her young life. She had somebody now into whose
eyes she could gaze, with all the deep tenderness of
her soul, and ask, “Do you love your own Lizzy?”
The young man did love, but not as she loved him;
for hers was a richer nature, and gave more than he
could return. He accompanied her to her father's,
and they were generally understood to be betrothed.
He had not seen brother William, but he was told a
thousand affectionate anecdotes of his kind good heart.
When they returned from the visit to the homestead,
they brought with them the little blue bench marked
W. and E. Lizzy was proud of her genteel lover; and
the only drop which it now seemed possible to add to
her cup of happiness was to introduce him to William.
But her brother was far off; and when the autumn
came, her betrothed announced the necessity of going
to a distant city, to establish himself in business. It
was a bitter, bitter parting to both. The warmest
letters were but a cold substitute for those happy
hours of mutual confidence; and after awhile, his
letters became more brief and cool. The fact was,
the young man was too vain to feel deeply; and
among his new acquaintance in the city was a young
good-looking widow, with a small fortune, who early
evinced a preference for him. To be obviously, and
at the same time modestly preferred, by a woman of
any agreeable qualities, is what few men, even of the
strongest character, can withstand. It is the knowledge
of this fact, and experience with regard to the most
delicate and acceptable mode of expressing preference,
which, as Samuel Weller declares, makes “a widow
equal to twenty-five other women.” Lizzy's lover was
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not a strong character, and he was vain and selfish. It
is no wonder, therefore, that his letters to the pretty
girl, who lived out at service, should become more
cool and infrequent. She was very slow to believe it
thus; and when, at last, news reached her that he
was positively engaged to be married to another, she
refused to listen to it. But he came not to vindicate
himself, and he ceased to answer her letters. The
poor deluded girl awoke to a full consciousness of her
misery, and suffered such intensity of wretchedness as
only keenly sensitive natures can suffer. William
had promised to come and see her the latter part of
the winter, and her heart had been filled with pleasant
and triumphant anticipations of introducing to him her
handsome lover. But now the pride of her heart was
humbled, and its joy turned into mourning. She was
cast off, forsaken; and, alas, that was not the worst.
As she sobbed on the neck of her faithful brother, she
felt, for the first time, that there was something she
could not tell him. The keenest of her wretched
feelings she dared not avow. He pitied and consoled
her, as well as he could; but to her it seemed as if there
was no consolation but in death. Most earnestly did
he wish that he had a home to shelter her, where he
could fold her round with the soft wings of brotherly
love. But they were both poor, and poverty fetters
the impulses of the heart. And so they must part
again, he guessing but half of her great sorrow. If
the farewell was sad to him, what must it have been
to her, who now felt so utterly alone in the wide
world? Her health sank under the conflict, and the
fits returned upon her with increased violence. In her
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state of gloomy abstraction and indifference, she hardly
noticed the significant glances and busy whispers
of neighbours and acquaintance. With her, the
agony of death was past. The world seemed too
spectral for her to dread its censure. At last she gave
birth to a dead infant, and for a long time her own
life trembled in the balance. She recovered in a state
of confirmed melancholy, and with visible indications
of intellect, more impaired than ever.
“A shadow seemed to rise
From out her thoughts, and turned to dreariness
All blissful hopes and sunny memories.”
She was no longer invited to visit with the young
people of the neighbourhood; and the envy excited by
her uncommon beauty showed itself in triumph over
her blighted reputation. Her father thought it a duty
to reprove her for sin, and her step-mother said some
cutting words about the disgrace her conduct had
brought upon the family. But no kind Christian
heart strengthened her with the assurance that one
false step in life might be forgiven and retrieved.
Thus was the lily broken in its budding beauty, and
its delicate petals blighted by harsh winds.
Poor Lizzy felt this depressing atmosphere of neglect
and scorn; but fortunately with less keenness
than she would have done, before brain was stultified,
and heart congealed by shame and sorrow. She no
longer showed much feeling about anything, except
the little blue bench marked W. and E. Every moment
that she could steal from household labours, she
would retire to her little room, and, seated on this
bench, would read over William's letters, and those
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other letters, which had crushed her loving heart.
She would not allow any person to remove the bench
from her bedside, or to place a foot upon it. To such
inanimate objects does the poor human heart cling in
its desolation.
Years passed away monotonously with Elizabeth;
years of loneliness and labour. Some young men,
attracted by her beauty, and emboldened by a knowledge
of her weakness, approached her with familiarity,
which they intended for flattery. But their profligacy
was too thinly disguised to be dangerous to a
nature like hers. She turned coldly from them all,
with feelings of disgust and weariness.
When she was about twenty-three years old, she
went to Philadelphia to do household work for a family
that wished to hire her. Important events followed
this change, but a veil of obscurity rests over the causes
that produced them. After some months residence in
the city, her health failed more and more, and she returned
to the country. She was still competent to
discharge the lighter duties of household labour, but
she seemed to perform them all mechanically, and
with a dull stupor. After a time, it became obvious
that she would again be a mother. When questioned,
her answers were incoherent and contradictory. Some
said she must be a very base low creature to commit
this second fault; but more kindly natures said,
“She was always soft-hearted and yielding, from childhood;
and she is hardly a responsible being; for
trouble and continual fits have made her almost an
idiot.” At last she gave birth to twins. She wept
when she saw them; but they seemed to have no
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power to withdraw her mind from its disconsolate
wanderings. When they were a few moths old, she
expressed a wish to return to Philadelphia; and a
lad, belonging to the family where she had remained
during her illness, agreed to convey her part of the
way in a wagon. When they came into the public
road, she told him she could walk the rest of the way,
and begged him to return. He left her seated on a
rock, near a thick grove, nursing her babes. She
was calm and gentle, but sad and abstracted as usual.
That was in the morning. Where or how she spent
the day was never known. Toward night she arrived in
Philadelphia, at the house where she had formerly lived.
She seemed very haggard and miserable; what few
words she said were abrupt and unmeaning; and
her attitudes and motions had the sluggish apathy of
an insane person.
The next day, there was a rumour afloat that two
strangled infants had been found in a grove on the
road from Chester. Of course this circumstance soon
became connected with her name. When she was
arrested, she gave herself up with the same gloomy
indifference that marked all her actions. She denied
having committed the murder: but when asked who
she supposed had done it, she sometimes shuddered
and said nothing, sometimes said she did not know,
and sometimes answered the children were still living.
When conveyed to prison, she asked for pen and ink,
and in a short letter, rudely penned, she begged William
to come to her, and to bring from her bed-room
the little blue bench they used to sit upon in the happy
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days of childhood. He came at once, and long did
the affectionate couple stand locked in each other's
arms, sobbing, and without the power to speak. It
was not until the second interview, that her brother
could summon courage to ask whether she really
committed the crime of which she was accused.
“Oh no, William,” she replied, “you could not
suppose I did.”
“You must indeed have been dreadfully changed,
dear Lizzy,” said he; “for you used to have a heart
that could not hurt a kitten.”
“I am dreadfully changed,” she answered, “but I
never wanted to harm anything.”
He took her hand, played sadly with the emaciated
fingers, and after a strong effort to control his emotions,
he said, in a subdued voice, “Lizzy, dear, can
you tell me who did do it?”
She stared at him with a wild intense gaze, that
made him shudder. Then looking fearfully toward
the door, she said, in a strange muffled whisper, “Did
what?” Poor William bowed his head over the hand
that he held in his own, and wept like a child.
During various successive interviews, he could
obtain no satisfactory answer to the important question.
Sometimes she merely gazed at him with a
vacant inane expression; sometimes she faintly answered
that she did not know; and sometimes she said
she believed the babes were still alive. She gradually
became more quiet and rational under her brother's
soothing influence; and one day, when he had repeatedly
assured her that she could safely trust her
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secrets to his faithful heart, she said with a suppressed
whisper, as if she feared the sound of her own
voice, “He did it.”
“Who is he?” asked the brother, gently.
“The father,” she replied.
“Did you know he meant to do it?”
“No. He told me he would meet me and give
me some money. But when I asked him for something
to support the children, he was angry, and
choked them. I was frightened, and felt faint. I
don't know what I did. I woke up and found myself
on the ground alone, and the babies lying among the
bushes.”
“What is his name, and where does he live?” inquired
the brother.
She gave him a wild look of distress, and said—
“Oh, don't ask me. I ought not to have done so.
I am a poor sinner—a poor sinner. But everybody
deserted me; the world was very cold; I had nobody
to love; and he was very kind to me.”
“But tell me his name,” urged the brother.
She burst into a strange mad laugh, picked nervously
at the handkerchief she held in her hand, and repeated,
idiotically, “Name? name? I guess the babies are
alive now. I don't know—I don't know; but I guess
they are.”
To the lawyer she would say nothing, except to
deny that she committed the murder. All their exertions
could wring from her nothing more distinct
than the story she had briefly told her brother. During
her trial, the expression of her countenance was
stupid and vacant. At times, she would drum on the
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railing before her, and stare round on the crowd with
a bewildered look, as if unconscious where she was.
The deranged state of her mind was strongty urged
by her lawyer; but his opponent replied that all this
might be assumed. To the story she had told in prison,
it was answered that her not telling of the murder at
the time made her an accomplice. After the usual
display of legal ingenuity on both sides, the jury
brought her in guilty of murder, and the poor forlorn
demented creature was sentenced to be hung at
Chester.
The wretched brother was so stunned by the blow,
that at first he could not collect his thoughts. But it
soon occurred to him that the terrible doom might
still be arrested, if the case could be brought suitably
before the governor. A petition was accordingly
drawn up, setting forth the alienation of mind to which
she had been subject, in consequence of fits, and the
extreme doubtfulness whether she committed the murder.
Her youth, her beauty, the severe sorrows of
her life, and the obviously impaired state of her reason,
touched many hearts, and the petition was rapidly
signed. When William went to her cell to bid her
adieu, he tried to cheer her with the hope of pardon.
She listened with listless apathy. But when he pressed
her hand, and with a mournful smile said, “Good-bye,
dear Lizzy, I shall come back soon; and I hope
with good news,” she pointed tearfully to the little
blue bench and said, “Let what will happen, Willie,
take care of that, for my sake.” He answered with a
choked voice; and as he turned away, the tears flowed
fast down his manly cheeks. She listened to the
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echoes of his steps, and when she could hear them no
longer, she threw herself on the floor, laid her head
down on the little blue bench, kissed the letters carved
upon it, and sobbed as she had not sobbed since she
was first deserted by her false lover. When the jailor
went in to carry her supper, he found her asleep thus.
Rich masses of her glossy brown hair fell over her
pale, but still lovely face, on which rested a serene
smile, as if she were happy in her dreams. He stood
and gazed upon her, and his hard hand brushed away a
tear. Some motion that he made disturbed her slumber.
She opened her eyes, from which there beamed
for a moment a rational and happy expression, as she
said, “I was out in the woods, behind the house,
holding my little apron to catch the nuts that Willie
threw down. Mother smiled at me from a blue place
between two clouds, and said, `Come to me, my
child.' ”
The next day a clergyman came to see her. He
spoke of the penalty for sin, and the duty of being resigned
to the demands of justice. She heard his
words, as a mother hears street sounds when she is
watching a dying babe. They conveyed to her no import.
When asked if she repented of her sins, she
said she had been a weak erring creature, and she
hoped that she was penitent; but that she never committed
the murder.
“Are you resigned to die, if a pardon should not
be obtained?” he asked.
“Oh yes,” she replied, “I want to die.”
He prayed with her in the spirit of real human love;
and this soothed her heart. She spoke seldom, after
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her brother's departure; and often she did not appear
to hear when she was spoken to. She sat on the
little blue bench, gazing vacantly on the floor, like
one already out of the body.
In those days, there was briefer interval between
sentence and execution, than at present. The atal
day and hour soon arrived, and still no tidings from
the governor. Men came to lead her to the gallows.
She seemed to understand what they said to her, and
turned meekly to obey their orders. But she stopped
suddenly, gazed on the little blue bench, and said in a
gasping tone, “Has William come?” When they told
her no, a shudder seemed to go over her, and her pale
face became still paler. A bit of looking-glass hung on
the wall in front of her; and as she raised her head,
she saw the little curl, that had received her mother's
caresses, and the first kiss of love. With a look of
the most intense agony, she gave a loud groan, and
burying her face in her hands, fell forward on the
shoulder of the sheriff.
* * * * *
Poor William had worked with the desperate energy
of despair, and the governor, after brief delay,
granted a pardon. But in those days, the facilities
for travelling were few; and it happened that the
country was inundated with heavy rains, which everywhere
impeded his progress. He stopped neither for
food nor rest; but everywhere the floods and broken
roads hindered him. When he came to Darby
Creek, which was usually fordable, it was swollen
too high to be crossed, and it was sometime before a
boat could be obtained. In agony of mind he pressed
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onward, till his horse fell dead under him. Half
frantic, he begged for another at any price, mounted,
and rode furiously. From the top of a hill, he saw a
crowd assembled round the place of execution. He
waved his handkerchief, he shouted, he screamed.
But in the excitement of the moment he was not
heard or noticed. All eyes were fastened on the gallows;
and soon the awful object came within his own
vision. Father of mercies! There are a woman's
garments floating in the air. There is a struggling,
a quivering—and all is still.
With a shriek that pierced the ears of the multitude,
the desperate rider plunged forward; his
horse fell under him, and shouting, “A pardon! A
pardon!” he rolled senseless on the ground. He
came too late. The unhappy Elizabeth was dead.
The poor young creature, guilty of too much heart,
and too little brain to guide it, had been murdered by
law, and men called it justice.
Pale as a ghost, with hair suddenly whitened by
excess of anguish, the wretched brother bent over the
corpse of that beautiful sister, whom he had loved so
well. They spoke to him of resignation to God's
will. He answered not; for it was not clear to him
that the cruelty of man is the will of God. Reverently
and tenderly, he cut from that fair brow the favourite
little curl, twined about with so many sacred memories,
and once a source of girlish innocent joy to the
yearning heart, that slept so calmly now. He took
the little bench from its cold corner in the prison, and
gathering together his small personal property, he
retired to a lonely cave in Dauphin county. He
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shunned all intercourse with his fellow men, and
when spoken to, answered briefly and solemnly.
There he died a few years ago, at an advanced age.
He is well remembered in the region round about, as
William the Hermit.
-- 149 -- p048-154
THE NEIGHBOUR-IN-LAW.
Who blesses others in his daily deeds,
Will find the healing that his spirit needs;
For every flower in others' pathway strewn,
Confers its fragrant beauty on our own.
[figure description] Page 149.[end figure description]
“So you are going to live in the same building with
Hetty Turnpenny,” said Mrs. Lane to Mrs. Fairweather,
“You will find nobody to envy you. If her
temper does not prove too much even for your good-nature,
it will surprise all who know her. We lived
there a year, and that is as long as anybody ever
tried it.”
“Poor Hetty!” replied Mrs. Fairweather, “She
has had much to harden her. Her mother died too
early for her to remember; her father was very severe
with her, and the only lover she ever had, borrowed
the savings of her years of toil, and spent them in dissipation.
But Hetty, notwithstanding her sharp features,
and sharper words, certainly has a kind heart.
In the midst of her greatest poverty, many were the
stockings she knit, and the warm waistcoats she made,
for the poor drunken lover, whom she had too much
good sense to marry. Then you know she feeds and
clothes her brother's orphan child.”
“If you call it feeding and clothing,” replied Mrs.
Lane. “The poor child looks cold, and pinched, and
frightened all the time, as if she were chased by the
East wind. I used to tell Miss Turnpenny she ought
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to be ashamed of herself, to keep the poor little thing at
work all the time, without one minute to play. If
she does but look at the cat, as it runs by the window,
Aunt Hetty gives her a rap over the knuckles. I
used to tell her she would make the girl just such
another sour old crab as herself.”
“That must have been very improving to her disposition,”
replied Mrs. Fairweather, with a good-humoured
smile. “But in justice to poor Aunt Hetty,
you ought to remember that she had just such a cheerless
childhood herself. Flowers grow where there is
sunshine.”
“I know you think everybody ought to live in the
sunshine,” rejoined Mrs. Lane; “and it must be confessed
that you carry it with you wherever you go.
If Miss Turnpenny has a heart, I dare say you will
find it out, though I never could, and I never heard of
any one else that could. All the families within hearing
of her tongue call her the neighbour-in-law.”
Certainly the prospect was not very encouraging;
for the house Mrs. Fairweather proposed to occupy,
was not only under the same roof with Miss Turnpenny,
but the buildings had one common yard in the
rear, and one common space for a garden in front.
The very first day she took possession of her new
habitation, she called on the neighbour-in-law. Aunt
Hetty had taken the precaution to extinguish the fire,
lest the new neighbour should want hot water, before
her own wood and coal arrived. Her first salutation
was, “If you want any cold water, there's a pump
across the street; I don't like to have my house slopped
all over.”
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“I am glad you are so tidy, neighbour Turnpenny,”
replied Mrs. Fairweather; “It is extremely pleasant
to have neat neighbours. I will try to keep everything
as bright as a new five cent piece, for I see that will
please you. I came in merely to say good morning,
and to ask if you could spare little Peggy to run up and
down stairs for me, while I am getting my furniture
in order. I will pay her sixpence an hour.”
Aunt Hetty had begun to purse up her mouth for a
refusal; but the promise of sixpence an hour relaxed
her features at once. Little Peggy sat knitting a
stocking very diligently, with a rod lying on the table
beside her. She looked up with timid wistfulness, as
if the prospect of any change was like a release from
prison. When she heard consent given, a bright
colour flushed her cheeks. She was evidently of an
impressible temperament, for good or evil. “Now
mind and behave yourself,” said Aunt Hetty; “and
see that you keep at work the whole time. If I hear
one word of complaint, you know what you'll get
when you come home.” The rose-colour subsided
from Peggy's pale face, and she answered, “Yes,
ma'am,” very meekly.
In the neighbour's house all went quite otherwise.
No switch lay on the table, and instead of, “mind
how you do that. If you don't I'll punish you,” she
heard the gentle words, “There, dear, see how carefully
you can carry that up stairs. Why, what a
nice handy little girl you are!” Under this enlivening
influence, Peggy worked like a bee, and soon began
to hum much more agreeably than a bee. Aunt Hetty
was always in the habit of saying, “Stop your noise,
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and mind your work.” But the new friend patted her
on the head, and said, “What a pleasant voice the
little girl has. It is like the birds in the fields. By
and by, you shall hear my music-box.” This opened
wide the windows of the poor little shut-up heart, so
that the sunshine could stream in, and the birds fly in
and out, carolling. The happy child tuned up like a
lark, as she tripped lightly up and down stairs, on
various household errands. But though she took
heed to observe all the directions given her, her head
was all the time filled with conjectures what sort of a
thing a music-box might be. She was a little afraid
the kind lady would forget to show it to her. She
kept at work, however, and asked no questions; she
only looked very curiously at everything that resembled
a box. At last Mrs. Fairweather said, “I think
your little feet must be tired, by this time. We will
rest awhile, and eat some gingerbread.” The child
took the offered cake, with a humble little courtesy,
and carefully held out her apron to prevent any crumbs
from falling on the floor. But suddenly the apron
dropped, and the crumbs were all strewn about.
“Is that a little bird?” she exclaimed eagerly.
“Where is he? Is he in this room?” The new
friend smiled, and told her that was the music-box;
and after awhile she opened it, and explained what
made the sounds. Then she took out a pile of books
from one of the baskets of goods, and told Peggy she
might look at the pictures, till she called her. The
little girl stepped forward eagerly to take them, and
then drew back, as if afraid. “What is the matter?”
asked Mrs. Fairweather; “I am very willing to trust
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you with the books. I keep them on purpose to
amuse children.” Peggy looked down with her finger
on her lip, and answered in a constrained voice,
“Aunt Turnpenny won't like it if I play.” “Don't
trouble yourself about that. I will make it all right
with Aunt Hetty,” replied the friendly one. Thus
assured, she gave herself up to the full enjoyment of
the picture books; and when she was summoned to
her work, she obeyed with a cheerful alacrity that
would have astonished her stern relative. When the
labours of the day were concluded, Mrs. Fairweather
accompanied her home, paid for all the hours she had
been absent, and warmly praised her docility and diligence.
“It is lucky for her that she behaved so well,”
replied Aunt Hetty; “if I had heard any complaint,
I should have given her a whipping, and sent her to
bed without her supper.”
Poor little Peggy went to sleep that night with a
lighter heart than she had ever felt, since she had been
an orphan. Her first thought in the morning was
whether the new neighbour would want her service
again during the day. Her desire that it should be
so, soon became obvious to Aunt Hetty, and excited an
undefined jealousy and dislike of a person who so easily
made herself beloved. Without exactly acknowledging
to herself what were her own motives, she ordered
Peggy to gather all the sweepings of the kitchen and
court into a small pile, and leave it on the frontier
line of her neighbour's premises. Peggy ventured to
ask timidly whether the wind would not blow it about,
and she received a box on the ear for her impertinence.
It chanced that Mrs. Fairweather, quite
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unintentionally, heard the words and the blow. She gave Aunt
Hetty's anger time enough to cool, then stepped out
into the court, and after arranging divers little matters,
she called aloud to her domestic, “Sally, how came
you to leave this pile of dirt here? Didn't I tell you
Miss Turnpenny was very neat? Pray make haste
and sweep it up. I wouldn't have her see it on any
account. I told her I would try to keep everything
nice about the premises. She is so particular herself,
and it is a comfort to have tidy neighbours.” The
girl, who had been previously instructed, smiled as she
came out with brush and dust-pan, and swept quietly
away the pile, that was intended as a declaration of
border war.
But another source of annoyance presented itself,
which could not so easily be disposed of. Aunt Hetty
had a cat, a lean scraggy animal, that looked as if
she were often kicked and seldom fed; and Mrs.
Fairweather had a fat, frisky little dog, always ready
for a caper. He took a distaste to poor poverty-stricken
Tab, the first time he saw her; and no coaxing
could induce him to alter his opinion. His name
was Pink, but he was anything but a piak of behaviour
in his neighbourly relations. Poor Tab
could never set foot out of doors without being saluted
with a growl, and a short sharp bark, that frightened
her out of her senses, and made her run into the
house, with her fur all on end. If she even ventured
to doze a little on her own door step, the enemy was
on the watch, and the moment her eyes closed, he
would wake her with a bark and a box on the ear,
and off he would run. Aunt Hetty vowed she would
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scald him. It was a burning shame, she said, for
folks to keep dogs to worry their neighbours' cats.
Mrs. Fairweather invited Tabby to dine, and made
much of her, and patiently endeavoured to teach her
dog to eat from the same plate. But Pink sturdily
resolved he would be scalded first; that he would.
He could not have been more obstinate in his opposition,
if he and Tab had belonged to different sects in
Christianity. While his mistress was patting Tab
on the head, and reasoning the point with him, he
would at times manifest a degree of indifference,
amounting to toleration; but the moment he was left
to his own free will, he would give the invited guest
a hearty cuff with his paw, and send her home spitting
like a small steam engine. Aunt Hetty considered
it her own peculiar privilege to cuff the poor animal,
and it was too much for her patience to see Pink undertake
to assist in making Tab unhappy. On one
of these occasions, she rushed into her neighbour's
apartments, and faced Mrs. Fairweather, with one
hand resting on her hip, and the forefinger of the other
making very wrathful gesticulations. “I tell you
what, madam, I wont put up with such treatment
much longer,” said she; “I'll poison that dog; see if
I don't; and I shan't wait long, either, I can tell you.
What you keep such an impudent little beast for, I
don't know, without you do it on purpose to plague
your neighbours.”
“I am really sorry he behaves so,” replied Mrs.
Fairweather, mildly. “Poor Tab!”
“Poor Tab!” screamed Miss Turnpenny; “What
do you mean by calling her poor? Do you mean to
-- 156 --
[figure description] Page 156.[end figure description]
fling it up to me that my cat don't have enough to
eat?”
“I didn't think of such a thing,” replied Mrs. Fairweather.
“I called her poor Tab, because Pink
plagues her so, that she has no peace of her life. I
agree with you, neighbour Turnpenny; it is not right
to keep a dog that disturbs the neighbourhood. I am
attached to poor little Pink, because he belongs to
my son, who has gone to sea. I was in hopes he
would soon leave off quarrelling with the cat; but if
he won't be neighbourly, I will send him out in the
country to board. Sally, will you bring me one of the
pies we baked this morning? I should like to have
Miss Turnpenny taste of them.”
The crabbed neighbour was helped abundantly;
and while she was eating the pie, the friendly matron
edged in many a kind word concerning little Peggy,
whom she praised as a remarkably capable, industrious
child.
“I am glad you find her so,” rejoined Aunt Hetty:
“I should get precious little work out of her, if I
didn't keep a switch in sight.”
“I manage children pretty much as the man did
the donkey,” replied Mrs. Fairweather. “Not an
inch would the poor beast stir, for all his master's
beating and thumping. But a neighbour tied some
fresh turnips to a stick, and fastened them so that
they swung directly before the donkey's nose, and
off he set on a brisk trot, in hopes of overtaking
them.”
Aunt Hetty, without observing how very closely
the comparison applied to her own management of
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Peggy, said, “That will do very well for folks that
have plenty of turnips to spare.”
“For the matter of that,” answered Mrs. Fairweather,
“whips cost something, as well as turnips;
and since one makes the donkey stand still, and the
other makes him trot, it is easy to decide which is the
most economical. But, neighbour Turnpenny, since
you like my pies so well, pray take one home with
you. I am afraid they will mould before we can
eat them up.”
Aunt Hetty had come in for a quarrel, and she was
astonished to find herself going out with a pie. “Well,
Mrs. Fairweather,” said she, “you are a neighbour.
I thank you a thousand times.” When she reached
her own door, she hesitated for an instant, then turned
back, pie in hand, to say, “Neighbour Fairweather,
you needn't trouble yourself about sending Pink away.
It's natural you should like the little creature, seeing
he belongs to your son. I'll try to keep Tab in doors,
and perhaps after awhile they will agree better.”
“I hope they will,” replied the friendly matron:
“We will try them awhile longer, and if they persist
in quarreling, I will send the dog into the country.”
Pink, who was sleeping in a chair, stretched
himself and gaped. His kind mistress patted him on
the head, “Ah, you foolish little beast,” said she,
“what's the use of plaguing poor Tab?”
“Well, I do say,” observed Sally, smiling, “you
are a master woman for stopping a quarrel.”
“I learned a good lesson when I was a little girl,”
rejoined Mrs. Fairweather. “One frosty morning, I
was looking out of the window into my father's
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barnyard, where stood many cows, oxen, and horses,
waiting to drink. It was one of those cold snapping
mornings, when a slight thing irritates both man and
beast. The cattle all stood very still and meek, till
one of the cows attempted to turn round. In making
the attempt, she happened to hit her next neighbour;
whereupon the neighbour kicked and hit another. In
five minutes, the whole herd were kicking and booking
each other, with all fury. Some lay sprawling
on the ice, others were slipping about, with their hind
heels reared in the air. My mother laughed, and
said, `See what comes of kicking when you're hit.
Just so I've seen one cross word set a whole family
by the ears, some frosty morning.' Afterward, if my
brothers or myself were a little irritable, she would
say, `Take care, children. Remember how the fight
in the barn-yard began. Never give a kick for a hit,
and you will save yourself and others a deal of
trouble.”'
That same afternoon, the sunshiny dame stepped
into Aunt Hetty's rooms, where she found Peggy
sewing, as usual, with the eternal switch on the table
beside her. “I am obliged to go to Harlem, on business,”
said she: “I feel rather lonely without company,
and I always like to have a child with me. If
you will oblige me by letting Peggy go, I will pay
her fare in the omnibus.”
“She has her spelling lesson to get before night,”
replied Aunt Hetty. “I don't approve of young
folks going a pleasuring, and neglecting their education.”
“Neither do I,” rejoined her neighbour; “but I
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think there is a great deal of education that is not
found in books. The fresh air will make Peggy grow
stout and active. I prophesy that she will do great
credit to your bringing up.” The sugared words,
and the remembrance of the sugared pie, touched the
soft place in Miss Turnpenny's heart, and she told
the astonished Peggy that she might go and put on
her best gown and bonnet. The poor child began to
think that this new neighbour was certainly one of
the good fairies she read about in the picture books.
The excursion was enjoyed as only a city child can
enjoy the country. The world seems such a pleasant
place, when the fetters are off, and Nature folds the
young heart lovingly on her bosom! A flock of real
birds and two living butterflies put the little orphan in
a perfect ecstasy. She ran and skipped. One could
see that she might be graceful, if she were only free.
She pointed to the fields covered with dandelious, and
said, “See how pretty! It looks as if the stars had
come down to lie on the grass.” Ah, our little stinted
Peggy has poetry in her, though Aunt Hetty never
found it out. Every human soul has the germ of
some flowers within, and they would open, if they
could only find sunshine and free air to expand in.
Mrs. Fairweather was a practical philosopher, in
her own small way. She observed that Miss Turnpenny
really liked a pleasant tune; and when Winter
came, she tried to persuade her that singing would
be excellent for Peggy's lungs, and perhaps keep her
from going into a consumption.
“My nephew, James Fairweather, keeps a singing
school,” said she; “and he says he will teach her
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gratis. You need not feel under great obligation;
for her voice will lead the whole school, and her ear
is so quick, it will be no trouble at all to teach her.
Perhaps you would go with us sometimes, neighbour
Turnpenny? It is very pleasant to hear the children's
voices.”
The cordage of Aunt Hetty's mouth relaxed into a
smile. She accepted the invitation, and was so much
pleased, that she went every Sunday evening. The
simple tunes, and the sweet young voices, fell like
dew on her dried-up heart, and greatly aided the
genial influence of her neighbour's example. The
rod silently disappeared from the table. If Peggy
was disposed to be idle, it was only necessary to say,
“When you have finished your work, you may go
and ask whether Mrs. Fairweather wants any errands
done.” Bless me, how the fingers flew! Aunt Hetty
had learned to use turnips instead of the cudgel.
When Spring came, Mrs. Fairweather busied herself
with planting roses and vines. Miss Turnpenny
readily consented that Peggy should help her, and
even refused to take any pay from such a good neighbour.
But she maintained her own opinion that it
was a mere waste of time to cultivate flowers. The
cheerful philosopher never disputed the point; but
she would sometimes say, “I have no room to plant
this rose-bush. Neighbour Turnpenny, would you
be willing to let me set it on your side of the yard?
It will take very little room, and will need no care.”
At another time, she would say, “Well, really my
ground is too full. Here is a root of Lady's-delight.
How bright and pert it looks. It seems a pity to
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tnrow it away. If you are willing, I will let Peggy
plant it in what she calls her garden. It will grow
of itself, without any care, and scatter seeds, that will
come up and blossom in all the chinks of the bricks.
I love it. It is such a bright good-natured little
thing.” Thus by degrees, the crabbed maiden found
herself surrounded by flowers; and she even declared,
of her own accord, that they did look pretty.
One day, when Mrs. Lane called upon Mrs. Fairweather,
she found the old weed-grown yard bright
and blooming. Tab, quite fat and sleek, was asleep,
in the sunshine, with her paw on Pink's neck, and
little Peggy was singing at her work, as blithe as a
bird.
“How cheerful you look here,” said Mrs. Lane.
“And so you have really taken the house for another
year. Pray, how do you manage to get on with the
neighbour-in-law?”
“I find her a very kind, obliging neighbour,” replied
Mrs. Fairweather.
“Well, this is a miracle!” exclaimed Mrs. Lane,
“Nobody but you would have undertaken to thaw
out Aunt Hetty's heart.”
“That is probably the reason why it was never
thawed,” rejoined her friend. “I always told you,
that not having enough of sunshine was what ailed
the world. Make people happy, and there will not be
half the quarrelling, or a tenth part of the wickedness,
there is.”
From this gospel of joy preached and practised,
nobody derived so much benefit as little Peggy. Her
nature, which was fast growing crooked and knotty,
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under the malign influence of constraint and fear,
straightened up, budded and blossomed, in the genial
atmosphere of cheerful kindness.
Her affections and faculties were kept in such
pleasant exercise, that constant lightness of heart
made her almost handsome. The young musicteacher
thought her more than almost handsome; for
her affectionate soul shone more beamingly on him
than on others, and love makes all things beautiful.
When the orphan removed to her pleasant little
cottage, on her wedding-day, she threw her arms
round the blessed missionary of sunshine, and said,
“Ah, thou dear good Aunt, it is thou who hast made
my life Fairweather.”
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SHE WAITS IN THE SPIRIT LAND. A Romance founded on an Indian Tradition.
A bard of many breathings
Is the wind in sylvan wreathings,
O'er mountain tops and through the woodland groves
Now fifing and now drumming,
Now howling and now humming,
As it roves.
Though the wind a strange tone waketh
In every home it maketh,
And the maple tree responds not as the lareh,
Yet harmony is playing
Round all the green arms swaying
Neath heaven's arch.
Oh, what can be the teaching
Of these forest voices preaching?
'Tis that a brother's creed, though not like mine,
May blend about God's altar,
And help to till the psalter,
That's divine.
Eliza Cook
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Pu-kee-she-no-qua was famous among her tribe for
her eloquent manner of relating stories. She treasured
up all the old traditions, and though she repeated
them truly, they came from her mouth in brighter
pictures than from others, because she tipped all the
edges with her own golden fancy. One might easily
conjecture that there was poetry in the souls of her
ancestry also; for they had given her a name which
signifies, “I light from flying.” At fourteen years
old, she was shut up in a hut by herself, to fast and
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dream, according to the custom of the Indians. She
dreamed that the Morning Star came down and nestled
in her bosom, like a bird; therefore she chose it for
the Manitou, or Protecting Spirit of her life, and
named her first-born son Wah-bu-nung-o, an Indian
word for the Morning Star. The boy was handsome,
brave and gentle; and his childhood gave early indications
that he inherited the spiritual and poetic tendencies
of his mother. At the threshold of his young
life, he too was set apart to fast and dream. He
dreamed of a wild rose bush, in full bloom, and heard
a voice saying, “She will wait for thee in the spiritland.
Do not forsake her.” The Wild Rose was
accordingly adopted as his Manitou.
In a neighbouring wigwam, was a girl named
O-ge-bu-no-qua, which signifies the Wild Rose.
When she, at twelve years old, was sent into retirement
to fast and dream, she dreamed of a Star; but
she could tell nothing about it, only that it was mild,
and looked at her. She was a charming child, and
grew into beautiful maidenhood. Her dark cheek looked
like a rich brown autumn leaf, faintly tinged with
crimson. Her large eyes, shaded with deep black
fringe, had a shy and somewhat mournful tenderness
of expression. Her voice seemed but the echo of her
glance, it was so low and musical in tone, so plaintive
in its cadences. Her well-rounded figure was pliant
and graceful, and her motions were like those of some
pretty, timid animal, that has always stepped to
sylvan sounds.
The handsome boy was but two years older than
the beautiful girl. In childhood, they swung together
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in the same boughs, hand in hand they clambered the
rocks, and gathered the flowers and berries of the
woods. Living in such playful familiarity with the
deer and the birds, the young blood flowed fresh and
strong, their forms were vigorous, and their motions
flexile and free. The large dark eyes of Wah-bu-nung-o
were tender and sad, and had a peculiarly
deep, spiritual, inward-looking expression, as if he
were the destined poet and prophet of his tribe. But
the lofty carriage of his head, the Apollo curve of his
parted lips, and his aquiline nose, with open well-defined
nostrils, expressed the pride and daring of a
hunter and a warrior.
It was very natural that the maiden should sometimes
think it a beautiful coincidence that a Star was
her guardian spirit, and this handsome friend of her
childhood was named the Morning Star. And when
he told her of the Wild Rose of his dream, had he not
likewise some prophetic thoughts? Fortunately for
the free and beautiful growth of their love, they lived
out of the pale of civilization. There was no Mrs.
Smith to remark how they looked at each other, and
no Mrs. Brown to question the propriety of their
rambles in the woods. The simple philosophy of the
Indians had never taught that nature was a sin, and
therefore nature was troubled with no sinful consciousness.
When Wah-bu-nung-o hunted squirrels, O-ge-bu-no-qua
thought it no harm to gather basket-stuff in
the same woods. There was a lovely crescent-shaped
island opposite the village, profusely covered with
trees and vines, and carpeted with rich grasses and
mosses, strewn with flowers. Clumps of young
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birches shone among the dark shrubbery, like slender
columns of silver, and willows stooped so low to look
in the mirror of the waters, that their graceful tresses
touched the stream. Here, above all other places, did
the maiden love to go to gather twigs for baskets, and
the young man to select wood for his bows and arrows.
Often, when day was declining, and the calm river
reflected the Western sky, glowing with amber light,
and fleckered with little fleecy rose-coloured clouds,
his canoe might be seen gliding across the waters.
Sometimes O-ge-bu-no-qua was waiting for him on
the island, and sometimes he steered the boat for the
grove of willows, while she urged it forward with the
light swift stroke of her paddle.
Civilized man is little to be trusted under such circumstances;
but nature, subjected to no false restraints,
manifests her innate modesty, and even in
her child-like abandonment to impulse, rebukes by her
innocence the unclean self-consciousness of artificial
society. With a quiet grave tenderness, the young
Indian assisted his beautiful companion in her tasks,
or spoke to her from time to time, as they met by
brook or grove, in the pursuit of their different avocations.
Her Manitou, the Morning Star of the sky,
could not have been more truly her protecting spirit.
It was on her sixteenth birth day, that they, for the
first time, lingered on the island after twilight. The
Indians, with an untaught poetry of modesty, never
talk of love under the bright staring gaze of day.
Only amid the silent shadows do they yield to its
gentle influence. O-ge-bu-no-qua was born with the
roses; therefore this birth-night of their acknowledged
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love was in that beautiful month, named by the Indians
“the Moon of Flowers.” It was a lovely evening, and
surpassingly fair was the scene around them. The picturesque
little village of wigwams, on the other side of
the river, gave a smiling answer to the sun's farewell.
The abrupt heights beyond were robed in the richest
foliage, through which the departing rays streamed
like a golden shower. In the limitless forest, the
tall trees were of noble proportions, because they had
room enough to grow upward and outward, with a
strong free grace. In the flowery glades of the islands,
flocks of pigeons, and other smaller birds, cooed and
chirped. Soon all subsided into moon-silence, and
the elysian stillness was interrupted only by the faint
ripple of the sparkling river, the lone cry of the whippowill,
or the occasional plash of some restless bullfrog.
The lovers sat side by side on a grassy knoll.
An evening breeze gave them a gentle kiss as it passed,
and brought them a love-token of fragrance from
a rose-bush that grew at their feet. Wah-bu-nung-o
gathered one of the blossoms, by the dim silvery light,
and placing it in the hand of O-ge-bu-no-qua, he said,
in a voice tender and bashful as a young girl's,
“Thou knowest the Great Spirit has given me the
wild rose for a Manitou. I have told thee my dream;
but I have never told thee, thou sweet rose of my life,
how sadly I interpret it.”
She nestled closer in his bosom, and gazing earnestly
on a bright star in the heavens, the Manitou
of her own existence, she murmured almost inaudibly,
“How dost thou?” His brave strong arm encircled
her in a closer embrace, as he answered with
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gentle solemnity, “The Rose will go to the spirit-land,
and leave her Star to mourn alone.” The maiden's
eyes filled with tears, as she replied, “But the Rose
will wait for her Star. Thus said the voice of the
dream.”
They sat silently leaning on each other, till Wah-bu-nung-o
took up the pipe, that lay beside him, and
began to play. Birds sing only during their mating
season; their twin-born love and music pass away
together, with the roses; and the Indian plays on his
pipe only while he is courting. It is a rude kind of
flute, with two or three stops, and very limited variety
of tone. The life of a savage would not be fitly expressed
in rich harmonies; and life in any form never
fashions to itself instruments beyond the wants of the
soul. But the sounds of this pipe, with its perpetual
return of sweet simple chords, and its wild flourishes,
like the closing strain of a bob o'link, was in pleasing
accord with the primeval beauty of the scene. When
the pipe paused for awhile, O-ge-bu-no-qua warbled a
wild plaintive little air, which her mother used to sing
to her, when she swung from the boughs in her queer
little birch-bark cradle. Indian music, like the voices
of inanimate nature, the wind, the forest, and the sea,
is almost invariably in the minor mode; and breathed
as it now was to the silent moon, and with the shadow
of the dream interpretation still resting on their souls,
it was oppressive in its mournfulness. The song
hushed; and O-ge-bu-no-qua, clinging closer to her
lover's arm, whispered in tones of superstitious
fear, “Does it not seem to you as if the Great Spirit
was looking at us?” “Yes, and see how he smiles,”
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replied Wah-bu-nung-o, in bolder and more cheerful
accents, as he pointed to the sparkling waters: “The
deer and the birds are not sad; let us be like them.”
He spoke of love; of the new wigwam he would
build for his bride, and the game he would bring
down with his arrow. These home-pictures roused
emotions too strong for words. Stolid and imperturbable
as the Indian race seem in the presence of spectators,
in these lonely hours with the beloved one,
they too learn that love is the glowing wine, the exhilarating
“fire-water” of the soul.
* * * * * * *
When they returned, no one questioned them. It
was the most natural thing in the world that they
should love each other; and natural politeness respected
the freedom of their young hearts. No marriage
settlements, no precautions of the law, were necessary.
There was no person to object, whenever he chose to
lead her into his wigwam, and by that simple circumstance
she became his wife. The next day, as O-ge-bu-no-qua
sat under the shadow of an elm, busily
braiding mats, Wah-bu-nung-o passed by, carrying
poles, which he had just cut in the woods. He stopped
and spoke to her, and the glance of her wild melancholy
eye met his with a beautiful expression of
timid fondness. The next moment, she looked down
and blushed very deeply. The poles were for the
new wigwam, and so were the mats she was braiding;
and she had promised her lover that as soon as the
wigwam was finished, she would come and live with
him. He conjectured her thoughts; but he did not
smile, neither did he tell her that her blush was as
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beautiful as the brilliant flower of the Wickapee; but
that bashful loving glance filled him with an inward
warmth. Its beaming, yet half-veiled tenderness passed
into his soul, and was never afterward forgotten.
That afternoon, all the young men of the tribe went
a few miles up the river to fish. Sad tidings awaited
their return. Ong-pa-tonga, the Big Elk, chief of a
neighbouring tribe, in revenge for some trifling affront,
had attacked the village in their absence, wounded
some of the old warriors, and carried off several of
the women and children. The blooming Wild Rose
was among the captives. Wah-bu-nung-o was frantic
with rage and despair. A demon seemed to have
taken possession of his brave, but usually gentle soul.
He spoke few words, but his eyes gleamed with a
fierce unnatural fire. He painted himself with the
colours of eternal enmity to the tribe of Big Elk, and
secretly gloated over plans of vengeance. An opportunity
soon offered to waylay the transgressors on their
return from a hunting expedition. Several women
accompanied the party, to carry their game and blankets.
One of these, the wife of Big Elk, was killed by
an arrow, and some of the men were wounded. This
slight taste of vengeance made the flames of hatred
burn more intensely. The image of his enemy expiring
by slow tortures was the only thought that
brought pleasure to the soul of Wah-bu-nung-o.
Twice he had him nearly in his power, but was baffled
by cunning. In one of the skirmishes between the
contending tribes, he took captive a woman and her
two children. Being questioned concerning the fate
of O-ge-bu-no-qua, she said that Big Elk, in revenge
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for the loss of his wife, had killed her with his war
club. For a moment, Wah-bu-nung-o stood as if suddenly
changed to stone; then his Indian firmness forsook
him, he tore his hair, and howled in frantic
agony. But in the midst of this whirlwind of grief,
the memory of his dream came like a still small voice,
and whispered, “She waits for thee in the spirit land.
Do not forsake her.” The mad fire of his eye changed
to the mildest and deepest melancholy. He promised
the captive that she and her children should be treated
kindly, and allowed to return to her tribe, if she would
guide him to the maiden's grave.
Leaving her children in his own village, as a security
against treachery, he followed her through the forest,
till they came to a newly-made mound, with a
few stones piled upon it. This she said was O-ge-bu-no-qua's
grave. The young warrior gazed on it
silently, with folded arms. No cry, or groan, escaped
him; though in the depths of his soul was sorrow
more bitter than death. Thus he remained for a long
time. At last, he turned to take a careful inspection
of the scene around him, and marked a tree with the
point of his arrow. Then commanding the woman to
walk before him, he strode homeward in perfect silence.
A monotonous accompaniment of tree-whispering alone
responded to the farewell dirge in his heart. As he
looked on the boundless wilderness, and gazed into its
dark mysterious depths, wild and solemn reveries
came over him; vast shadowy visions of life and death;
but through all the changes of his thought sounded
the ever-recurring strain, “She waits for thee in the
spirit-land.” Then came the dread that Big Elk
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would go there before him, and would persecute his
beloved, as he had done during her life in the body.
An impatient shudder went over him, and he longed
for death; but he had been taught to consider suicide
a cowardly act, and he was awe-stricken before the
great mystery of the soul. The dreadful conflict terminated
in one calm fixed resolution. He determined
to relinquish all his cherished plans of vengeance, and
during the remainder of his life to watch over Big
Elk, and guard him from danger, that he might not
go to the spirit-land till he himself was there to protect
his beloved.
The day after his return home, he told his mother
that he must go away to fulfil a vow, and he knew
not when he should return. He earnestly conjured
his brothers to be kind and reverent to their mother;
then bidding them a calm but solemn farewell, he
stepped into his canoe, and rowed over to the Isle of
Willows. Again he stood by the grassy knoll where
the loved one had lain upon his breast. The rose-bush
was there, tall and vigorous, though the human
Rose had passed away, to return no more. He shed
no tears, but reverently went through his forms of worship
to the tutelary spirit of his life. With measured
dance, and strange monotonous howls, he made a vow
of utter renunciation of everything, even of his hopes
of vengeance, if he might be permitted to protect his
beloved in the spirit-land. He brought water from
the brook in a gourd, from which they had often drunk
together; he washed from his face the emblems of
eternal enmity to Big Elk, and with solemn ceremonial
poured it on the roots of the rose. Then he
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rowed far up the river, and landed near the grave, on
which he kindled a fire, that the dear departed might
be lighted to the spirit-land, according to the faith of
his fathers. He buried the gourd in the mound, saying,
“This I send to thee, my Rose, that thou mayest
drink from it in the spirit-land.” Three nights he
tended the fire, and then returned for the rose-bush,
which he planted at the head of the grave. He built
a wigwam near by, and dwelt there alone. He feared
neither wild beast nor enemies; for he had fulfilled
his duties to the dead, and now his only wish was
to go and meet her. Big Elk and his companions
soon discovered him, and came upon him with their
war-clubs. He stood unarmed, and quietly told them
he had consecrated himself by a vow to the Great
Spirit, and would fight no more. He gazed steadily
in the face of his enemy, and said, if they wanted his
life, they were welcome to take it. The deep, mournful,
supernatural expression of his eyes inspired them
with awe. They thought him insane; and all such
are regarded by the Indians with superstitious fear
and reverence. “He has seen the door of the spiritland
opened,” they said; “the moon has spoken secrets
to him; and the Great Spirit is angry when such
are harmed.” So they left him in peace. But he
sighed as they turned away; for he had hoped to die
by their hands. From that time he followed Big Elk
like his shadow; but always to do him service. At
first, his enemy was uneasy, and on his guard; but
after awhile, he became accustomed to his presence,
and even seemed to be attached to him. At one time,
a fever brought the strong man to the verge of the
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grave. Wah-bu-nung-o watched over him with trembling
anxiety, and through weary days and sleepless
nights tended him as carefully as a mother tends her
suffering babe. Another time, when Big Elk was
wounded by an enemy, he drew out the arrow, sought
medicinal herbs, and healed him. Once, when he
was about to cross a wide deep ditch, bridged by a
single tree, Wah-bu-nung-o perceived a rattle-snake
on the bridge, and just as the venomous reptile was
about to spring, his arrow nailed him to the tree.
Thus weary months passed away. The mourner,
meek and silent, held communion with his Manitou,
the rose-bush, to which he repeated often, “Bid her
look to the Morning Star, and fear nothing. I will
protect her. Tell her we shall meet again in the
spirit-land, as we met in the Isle of Willows.” Sadly
but mildly his eye rested on the murderer of his
beloved, and he tended upon him with patient gentleness,
that seemed almost like affection. Very beautiful
and holy was this triumph of love over hatred,
seeking no reward but death. But the “twin-brother
of sleep” came not where he was so much desired.
Others who clung to life were taken, but the widowed
heart could not find its rest. At last, the constant
prayer of his faithful love was answered. By some
accident, Big Elk became separated from his hunting
companions, late in the afternoon of a winter's day.
There came on a blinding storm of wind and snow
and sleet. The deep drifts were almost impassable,
and the keen air cut the lungs, like particles of sharpened
steel. Night came down in robes of thick darkness.
Nothing interrupted her solemn silence, but
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the crackling of ice from the trees, and the moaning
and screaming of the winds. The very wolves hid
themselves from the fury of the elements. While
light enough remained to choose a shelter, the wanderers
took refuge in a deep cleft screened by projecting
rocks. The morning found them stiff and
hungry, and almost buried in snow. With much difficulty
they made their way out into the forest, completely
bewildered, and guided only by the sun, which
glimmered gloomily through the thick atmosphere.
Two days they wandered without food. Toward
night, Wah-bu-nung-o discovered horns projecting
through the snow; and digging through the drift, he
found a few moose bones, on which the wolves had
left some particles of flesh. He resisted the cravings
of hunger, and gave them all to his famishing enemy.
As twilight closed, they took shelter in a large
hollow tree, near which Wah-bu-nung-o, with the
watchful eye of love and faith, observed a rose-bush,
with a few crimson seed-vessels shining through
the snow. He stripped some trees, and covered
Ong-pa-tonga with the bark; then piling up snow
before the entrance to the tree, to screen him from
the cold, he bade him sleep, while he kept watch.
Ong-pa-tonga asked to be awakened, that he might
watch in his turn; but to this his anxious guardian returned
no answer. The storm had passed away and
left an atmosphere of intense cold. The stars glittered
in the deep blue sky, like points of steel. Weary, faint,
and starving, Wah-bu-nung-o walked slowly back and
forth. When he felt an increasing numbness stealing
over his limbs, a disconsolate smile gleamed on his
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countenance, and he offered thanks to the Manitou bush
by his side. It was the first time he had smiled since
his Wild Rose was taken from him. Presently, the
howl of wolves was heard far off. He kept more
carefully near the tree where his enemy slept, and
listened to ascertain in what direction the ravenous
beasts would come. “They shall eat me first, before
they find their way to him,” he said; “She would be
so frightened to see his spirit, before mine came to
protect her.” But the dismal sounds died away in
the distance, and were heard no more. Panting and
staggering, the patient sufferer fell on the ground, at
the foot of the rose-bush, and prayed imploringly,
“Let not the wild beasts devour him, while I lie here
insensible. Oh, send me to the spirit-land, that I may
protect her!” He gasped for breath, and a film came
over his eyes, so that he could no longer see the stars.
How long he remained thus, no one ever knew.
Suddenly all was light around him. The rose-bush
bloomed, and O-ge-bu-no-qua stood before him,
with the same expression of bashful love he had last
seen in her beautiful eyes. “I have been ever near
thee,” she said; “Hast thou not seen me?”
“Where am I, my beloved?” he exclaimed: “Are
we in the Isle of Willows?”
“We are in the spirit-land,” she answered: “Thy
Rose has waited patiently for the coming of her
Morning Star.”
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A POET'S DREAM OF THE SOUL.
For, as be all bards, he was born of beauty,
And with a natural fitness to draw down
All tones and shades of beauty to his soul,
Even as the rainbow-tinted shell, which lies
Miles deep at bottom of the sea, hath all
Colours of skies and flowers, and gems and plumes.
—Festus.
Forms are like sea-shells on the shore; they show
Where the mind ends, and not how far it has been.
—Ibid.
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Hidden among common stones, in a hill-side of
Germany, an agate reposed in deep tranquillity. The
roots of a violet twined about it, and as they embraced
more and more closely, year by year, there grew up
a silent friendship between the stone and the flower.
In Spring, when the plant moved above the surface of
the earth, it transmitted genial sun-warmth, and carried
dim amethystine light into the dark home of the
mineral. Lovingly it breathed forth the secrets of its
life, but the agate could not understand its speech;
for a lower form of existence has merely a vague feeling
of the presence of the grade above it. But from
circling degrees of vegetable life, spirally, through the
violet, passed a subtle influence into the heart of the
agate. It wanted to grow, to spread, to pass upward
into the light. But the laws of its being girdled it
round like a chain of iron.
A shepherd came and stretched himself fondly by
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the side of the violet, and piped sweet pastoral music,
thinking the while of the fragrant breath and deep
blue eyes of her he loved. The flower recognised the
lones as a portion of its own soul, and breathed forth
perfumes in harmony. Her deeply moved inward
joy was felt by the mineral, and kindled enthusiastic
longing. Under the glow which renders all forms
fluid, the chain of necessity relaxed, and the agate
expressed its aspiration for vegetable life, in the form
of mosses, roots, and leaves. But soon it touched the
wall of limitation; upward it could not grow.
A compounder of medicines and amulets came digging
for roots and minerals. He pounded the mossagate
to dust, and boiled it with the violet. The
souls passed away from the destroyed forms, to enter
again at some perfect union of Thought and Affection,
a marriage between some of the infinitely various
manifestations of this central duality of the universe.
The spirit of the agate floated far, and was finally attracted
toward a broad inland lake in the wilds of
unknown America. The water-lilies were making
love, and it passed into the seed to which their union
gave birth. In the deep tranquillity of the forest, it
lived a snowy lily with a golden heart, gently swayed
on the waters, to the sound of rippling murmurs.
Brightly solemn was the moon-stillness there. It
agitated the breast of the lily; for the mild planet shed
dewy tears on his brow, as he lay sleeping, and seemed
to say mournfully, “I too am of thy kindred, yet
thou dost not know me.”
Soon came the happy days when the lily wooed his
bride. Gracefully she bowed toward him, and a
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delicious languor melted his whole being, as he fondly
veiled her in a golden shower of aroma. Its spiritual
essence pervaded the atmosphere. The birds felt its
influence, though they knew not whence it was. The
wood-pigeons began to coo, and the mocking-bird
poured forth all the loves of the forest. The flowers
thrilled responsive to their extremest roots, and all the
little blossoms wanted to kiss each other.
The remembrance of mineral existence had passed
away from the lily; but with these sounds came vague
reminiscences of kindred vibrations, that wrote the
aspiration of the agate in mossy hieroglyphics on its
bosom. Among the tall trees, a vine was dancing
and laughing in the face of the sun. “It must be a
pleasant life to swing so blithely high up in the air,”
thought the lily: “O, what would I give to be so
much nearer to the stars!” He reared his head, and
tried to imitate the vine; but the waters gently swayed
him backward, and he fell asleep on the bosom of the
lake. A troop of buffaloes came to drink, and in wild
sport they pulled up the lilies, and tossed them on
their horns.
The soul, going forth to enter a new body, arrived
on the southern shores of the Rhone, at the courting
time of blossoms, and became a winged seed, from
which a vine leaped forth. Joyous was its life in that
sunny clime of grapes and olives. Beautiful rainbow-tinted
fairies hovered about it in swarms. They
waltzed on the leaves, and swung from the tendrils,
playing all manner of merry tricks. If a drowsy one
fell asleep in the flower-bells, they tormented him
without mercy, tickling his nose with a butterfly's
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feather, or piping through straws in his ear. Not a
word of love could the vine-blossoms breathe to each
other, but the mischievous fairies were listening; and
with a zephyry laugh of silvery sweetness, they would
sing, “Aha, we hear you!” Then the blossoms
would throw perfumes at them, and they would dance
away, springing from leaf to leaf, still shouting, “Aha,
we heard you!” The next minute, the whole troop
would be back again, making ugly faces from a knot-hole
in the tree, pelting the blossoms with dew-drops,
or disturbing their quiet loves with a serenade of musquito
trumpets, and a grotesque accompaniment of
cricket-rasping. But the blossoms delighted in the
frolicksome little imps; for their copers were very
amusing, and at heart they were real friends to love,
and always ready to carry perfumes, or presents of
golden flower-dust, from one to another, on their tiny
wands. They could not reveal secrets, if they would;
because the flowers and the fairies have no secrets;
but many a graceful song they sang of Moth-feather
kissed by Fly-wing, as she lay pretending to be asleep
in a Fox-glove; or how Star-twinkle serenaded Dewdrop
in the bosom of a Rose.
It was a pleasant life the vine led among the butterflies
and fairies; but the stars seemed just as far
off as when he was a lily; and when he saw the great
trees spread their branches high above him, he wished
that he could grow strong, brave, and self-sustaining,
like them. While such wishes were in his heart,
a traveller passed that way, singing light carols as he
went. With careless gayety he switched the vine, the
stem broke, and it hung fainting from the branches.
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The fairies mourned over the drooping blossoms, and
sang sweet requiems as its spirit passed away.
On the heights of Mount Helicon, oak-blossoms
were tremulous with love when the vine-spirit floated
over them. He entered into an acorn, and became an
oak. Serenely noble was his life, in a grove consecrated
to the Muses. With calm happiness he gazed
upon the silent stars, or watched his own majestic
shadow dancing on the verdant turf, enamelled with
flowers, which filled the whole air with fragrance.
The olive trees, the walnuts, and the almonds, whispered
to him all the stories of their loves; and the zephyrs,
as they flew by, lingered among his branches, to tell
marvellous stories of the winds they had kissed in
foreign climes. The Dryads, as they leaned against
him, and lovingly twined each other with vernal
crowns from his glossy leaves, talked of primal spirits,
veiled in never-ending varieties of form, gliding in
harmonies through the universe. The murmur of
bees, the music of pastoral flutes, and the silvery flow
of little waterfalls, mingled ever with the melodious
chime of these divine voices. Sometimes, long processions
of beautiful youths, crowned with garlands,
and bearing branches of laurel, passed slowly by,
singing choral hymns in worship of the Muses. The
guardian Nymphs of fountains up among the hills
leaned forward on their flowing urns, listening to the
tuneful sounds; and often the flash of Apollo's harp
might be seen among the trees, lightening the forest
with a golden fire.
Amid this quiet grandeur, the oak forgot the prettiness
of his life with the nimble fairies. But when he
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looked down on little streams fringed with oleander
and myrtle, or saw bright-winged butterflies and radiant
little birds sporting in vine-festoons, he felt a
sympathy with the vines and the blossoms, as if they
were somehow allied to his own being. The motion
of the busy little animals excited a vague restlessness;
and when he saw goats skip from rock to rock, or
sheep following the flute of the shepherd far over the
plain, the sap moved more briskly in his veins, and he
began to ask, “How is it beyond those purple hills?
Do trees and Dryads live there? And these moving
things, are their loves more lively and perfect than
ours? Why cannot I also follow that music? Why
must I stand still, and wait for all things to come to
me?” Even the brilliant lizard, when he crawled
over his bark, or twined about his stems, roused within
him a faint desire for motion. And when the
winds and the trees whispered to him their pastoral
romances, he wondered whether the pines, the hazels,
and the zephyrs, there beyond, could tell the story of
love between the moon and the hills, that met so near
them, to bid each other farewell with such a lingering
kiss. There came no answer to these queries; but
the marble statue of Euterpe, in the grove below,
smiled significantly upon him, and the bright warblings
of a flute were heard, which sounded like the
utterance of her smile. A Dryad, crowned with laurel,
and bearing a branch of laurel in her hands, was
inspired by the Muse, and spake prophetically: “That
was the divine voice of Euterpe,” she says; “be patient,
and I will reveal all things.”
Long stood the oak among those Grecian hills.
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The whisperings of the forest became like the voices
of familiar friends. But those grand choral hymns,
accompanied by warblings of Euterpe's flute, with
harmonic vibrations from Erato's silver lyre, and
Apollo's golden harp, remained mysteries profound as
the stars. Yet all his fibres unconsciously moved in
harmony, the unintelligible sounds passed into his
inmost being, and modified his outward growth. In
process of time, a woodcutter felled the magnificent
tree, for pillars to an altar of Jove; and weeping Dryads
threw mosses and green garlands over the decaying
roots.
A beautiful lizard, with bright metallic hues, glided
about on the trees and temples of Herculaneum. He
forgot that he had ever been an oak, nor did he know
that he carried on his back the colours of the fäery
songs he had heard as a vine. He led a pleasant life
under the shadow of the leaves, but when Autumn
was far advanced, he found a hole in the ground,
under one of the pillars of the theatre, and crept into
the crevice of a stone to sleep. A torpor came over
him, at first occasionally startled by the sharp clash
of cymbals, or the deep sonorous voice of trombones,
from within the building. But the wind blew sand
into the crevice, the earth covered him, and the unconscious
lizard was entombed alive. Processions of
drunken Bacchantes, with all their furious uproar, did
not rouse him from his lethargy. Vesuvius roared,
as it poured out rivers of fire, but he heard it not.
Through the lapse of silent centuries, he lay there
within a buried city, in a sepulchre of lava. But not
even that long, long sleep, without a dream, could
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efface the impressions of his past existences. At last,
some workmen, digging for a well, struck upon a
statue, and the lost city was discovered. Breaking
away the lava with pickaxes and hammers, they dashed
in pieces the stone into which the lizard had crept.
He gasped when the fresh air came upon him, and
died instantly. His lizard-life had passed without aspiration,
and long imprisonment had made him averse
to light. He slipped under ground, and became a
mole, blind as when he was an agate. He could not
see the beauty of the flowers, or the glory of the stars.
But music, the universal soul of all things, came to
him also. A lark built her nest on the ground near
by; and when she returned to her little ones, the
joyful trill of her gushing tones was so full of sunlight,
that it warmed the heart of the poor little mole.
He could not see where the lark went, when he
heard her clear notes ascending far into the sky; but
he felt the expression of a life more free and bright
than his own, and he grew weary of darkness and
silence. As he came out oftener to feel the sunshine,
his rich brown glossy fur attracted the attention of a
boy, who caught him in a trap.
The emancipated spirit passed where birds were
mating on the sea shore, and became a halcyon. He
wooed a lady-bird, and she was enamoured of his beauty,
though neither of them knew that the lark's song
was painted in rainbow-tints upon his plumage.
Their favourite resort was a cave in the Isle of Staffa.
Season after season, he and his successive lady-loves
went there to rear their young, in a deep hole of the
rock, where the tide, as it ebbs and flows, makes
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strange wild melody. As the mother brooded over
her nest, he sat patiently by her side, listening to the
measured rhythm of the sea, and the wild crescendo
of the winds. When storms subsided, and rainbows
spanned the rocky island, sirens and mermaids came
riding on the billows, with pearls in their hair, singing
of submarine gardens, where groves of fan-coral
bend like flexile willows, and yellow and crimson seaweeds
float in their fluid element, as gracefully as
banners on the wind. The halcyons, as they glided
above the white wave-wreaths, or sat on the rocks
watching for food, often saw these fantastic creatures
swimming about, merrily pelting each other with pebbles
and shells; and their liquid laughter, mingled
with snatches of song, might be heard afar, as they
went deep down to their grottoes in the sea.
When Winter approached, the happy birds flew to
more Southern climes. During these inland visits,
the halcyon again heard the song of the lark. It
moved him strangely, and he tried to imitate it; but
the sounds came from his throat in harsh twirls, and
refused to echo his tuneful wishes. One day, as the
beautiful bird sat perched on a twig, gazing intently
into the stream, and listening to woodland warbles, a
sportsman pointed his gun at him, and killed him instantly.
The spirit, hovering over Italian shores, went into
the egg of a nightingale, and came forth into an earthly
paradise of soft sunny valleys, and vine-clad hills,
with urns and statues gleaming amid dark groves of
cypress and cedar. When the moon rose above the
hills, with her little one, the evening star, by her side,
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and twilight threw over the lovely landscape a veil of
rose-coloured mist, the bird felt the pervading presence
of the beautiful, and poured forth his soul in
songs of exquisite tenderness. Plaintive were the
tones; for the moon spoke into his heart far more sadly
than when he was a water-lily, and with her solemn
voice was mingled the chime of vesper bells across
the water, the melancholy cry of gondoliers, and the
measured plash of their oars. When the sun came
up in golden splendour, flooding hill and dale with brilliant
light, the nightingale nestled with his lady-love
in cool sequestered groves of cypress and ilex, and
listened in dreamy revery to the trickling of many
fountains. Fairies came there and danced in graceful
undulations, to music of liquid sweetness. In their
wildest mirth, they were not so giddy-paced as the
pretty caperers of the Rhone, and more deeply passionate
were the love-stories they confided to the sympathizing
nightingale. When the solemn swell of the
church organ rose on the breeze, the fairies hid away
timidly under leaves, while human voices chanted
their hymns of praise. The nightingale, too, listened
with awe; the majestic sounds disturbed him, like
echoes of thunder among the hills. His mate had
built her nest in low bushes, on the shore of a broad
lagune, and there he was wont to sing to her at eventide.
The gondolas, as they glided by, with lights
glancing on the water, passed his home more slowly,
that passengers might listen to the flowing song.
One night, a violinist in the gondola responded to his
lay. The nightingale answered with an eager gush.
Again the violin replied, more at length. Sadly, and
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with a lingering sweetness, the nightingale resumed;
but suddenly broke off, and went silent. The musician
stept on shore, and played a long time under the
shadow of the groves, to the ears of his lady-love, who
leaned from her balcony to listen. Wildly throbbed the
pulses of the nightingale. What was this enchaning
voice? It repeated the sky-tone of the lark, the drowsy
contemplations of the water-lily communing with
the moon, the trills of fairies frisking among the vineblossoms,
the whispers of winds, and trees, and streams,
the siren's song, and the mermaid's laugh. With all
these he had unconsciously acquired sympathy, in the
progress of his being; but mingled with them was a
mysterious utterance of something deeper and more
expansive, that thrilled his little bosom with an agony
of aspiration. When the violin was itself a portion of
trees, the music of winds, and leaves, and streams,
and little birds, had passed into its heart. The poet's
soul likewise listens passively to the voices of nature,
and receives them quietly, as a divine influx. The
violin knew by the poet's manner of questioning, that
he could understand her, and she told him all the
things she had ever heard. But by reason of this
divine harmony between them, his human soul breathed
through her, and made her the messenger of joys
and sorrows far deeper than her own. This it was
that troubled the breast of the nightingale. The next
evening he flooded the whole valley with a rich tide
of song. Men said, “Did ever bird sing so divinely?”
But he felt how far inferior it was to those heavenly
tones, which repeated all the things he had ever
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heard, and oppressed him with a prophecy of things
unknown. Evening by evening, his song grew more
sad in its farewell sweetness, and at last was heard
no more. He had pined away and died, longing for
the voice of the violin.
In a happy German home, a young wife leaned
lovingly on the bosom of her chosen mate. They
were not aware that the spirit of a nightingale was
circling round them and would pass into the soul of
their infant son, whom they named Felix Mendelssohn.
The poet-musician, as he grew to manhood, lost all
recollection of his own transmigrations. But often
when his human eyes gazed on lovely scenes for the
first time, Nature looked at him so kindly, and all her
voices spoke so familiarly, that it seemed as if his
soul must have been there before him. The moon
claimed kindred with him, and lulled him into
dreamy revery, as she had done when the undulating
waters cradeled him as a lily. In music, he asked
the fair planet concerning all this, and why she and
the earth always looked into each other's eyes with
such saddened love. Poets, listening to the Concerto,[8]
heard in it the utterance of their souls also; and they
will give it again in painting, sculpture, and verse.
Thus are all forms intertwined by the pervading spirit
which flows through them.
The sleeping flowers wakened vague reminiscences
of tiny radiant forms. Mendelssohn called to them in
music, and the whole faëry troop came dancing on
moon-beams into his “Midsummer Night's Dream.”
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The sight of temples and statues brought shadowy
dreams of Draids, and consecrated groves, of choral
hymns, and the rich vibrations of Apollo's harp.
Serene in classic beauty, these visions float through
the music of “Antigone.”
The booming of waves, and the screaming of gulls,
stirred halcyon recollections. He asked in music
whence they came, and Euterpe answered in the picturesque
sea-wildness of his “Fingal's Cave.”
The song of the nightingale brought dim memories
of a pure brilliant atmosphere, of landscapes tinted
with prismatic splendour, of deep blue lakes dimpled
with sun-flecks; and gracefully glides the gondola,
under the glowing sky of Italy, through the flowing
melody of his “Songs without Words.”
But music is to him as the violin was to the nightingale.
It repeats, with puzzling vagueness, all he
has ever known, and troubles his spirit with prophecies
of the infinite unknown. Imploringly he asks
Euterpe to keep her promise, and reveal to him all
the secrets of the universe. Graciously and confidingly
she answers. But as it was with the nightingale,
so is it with him; the utterance belongs to
powers above the circle of his being, and he cannot
comprehend it now. Through the gate which men
call Death, he will pass into more perfect life, where
speech and tone dwell together forever in a golden
marriage.
eaf048.n8[8] Concerto for the piano, in G Minor.
-- 190 -- p048-195
THE BLACK SAXONS.
Tyrants are but the spawn of ignorance,
Begotten by the slaves they trample on;
Who, could they win a glimmer of the light,
And see that tyranny is always weakness,
Or fear with its own bosom ill at ease,
Would laugh away in scorn the sand-wove chain,
Which their own blindness feigned for adamant.
Wrong ever builds on quicksands; but the Right
To the firm centre lays its moveless base.
—J. R. Lowell.
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Mr. Duncan was sitting alone in his elegantly furnished
parlour, in the vicinity of Charleston, South
Carolina. Before him lay an open volume, Thierry's
History of the Norman Conquest. From the natural
kindliness of his character, and democratic theories
deeply imbibed in childhood, his thoughts dwelt more
with a nation prostrated and kept in base subjection by
the strong arm of violence, than with the renowned
robbers, who seized their rich possesions, and haughtily
trampled on their dearest rights.
“And so that bold and beautiful race became slaves!”
thought he. “The brave and free-souled Harolds,
strong of heart and strong of arm; the fair-haired
Ediths, in their queenly beauty, noble in soul as well
as ancestry; these all sank to the condition of slaves.
They tamely submitted to their lot, till their free,
bright beauty passed under the heavy cloud of animal
dullness, and the contemptuous Norman epithet of
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`base Saxon churls' was but too significantly true.
Yet not without efforts did they thus sink. How often
renewed, or how bravely sustained, we know not;
for Troubadours rarely sing of the defeated, and conquerors
write their own History. That they did not
relinquish freedom without a struggle, is proved by
Robin Hood and his bold followers, floating in dim and
shadowy glory on the outskirts of history; brave outlaws
of the free forest, and the wild mountain-passes,
taking back, in the very teeth of danger, a precarious
subsistence from the rich possessions that were once
their own; and therefore styled thieves and traitors by
the robbers who had beggared them. Doubtless they
had minstrels of their own; unknown in princely
halls, untrumpeted by fame, yet singing of their exploits
in spirit-stirring tones, to hearts burning with a
sense of wrong. Troubled must be the sleep of those
who rule a conquered nation!”
These thoughts were passing through his mind,
when a dark mulatto opened the door, and making a
servile reverence, said, in wheedling tones, “Would
massa be so good as gib a pass to go to Methodist
meeting?”
Mr. Duncan was a proverbially indulgent master;
and he at once replied, “Yes, Jack, you may have a
pass; but you must mind and not stay out all night.”
“Oh, no, massa. Tom neber preach more than
two hours.”
Scarcely was the pass written, before another servant
appeared with a similar request; and presently
another; and yet another. When these interruptions
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ceased, Mr. Duncan resumed his book, and quietly
read of the oppressed Saxons, until the wish for a glass
of water induced him to ring the bell. No servant
obeyed the summons. With an impatient jerk of the
rope, he rang a second time, muttering to himself,
“What a curse it is to be waited upon by slaves! If
I were dying, the lazy loons would take their own
time, and come dragging their heavy heels along, an
hour after I was in the world of spirits. My neighbours
tell me it is because I never flog them. I believe
they are in the right. It is a hard case, too, to
force a man to be a tyrant, whether he will or no.”
A third time he rang the bell more loudly; but
waited in vain for the sound of coming footsteps.
Then it occurred to him that he had given every one
of his slaves a pass to go to the Methodist meeting.
This was instantly followed by the remembrance, that
the same thing had happened a few days before.
We were then at war with Great Britain; and
though Mr. Duncan often boasted the attachment of
his slaves, and declared them to be the most contented
and happy labourers in the world, who would not
take their freedom if they could, yet, by some coincidence
of thought, the frequency of Methodist meetings
immediately suggested the common report that British
troops were near the coast, and about to land in
Charleston. Simultaneously came the remembrance
of Big-boned Dick, who many months before had absconded
from a neighbouring planter, and was suspected
of holding a rendezvous for runaways, in the
swampy depths of some dark forest. The existence
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of such a gang was indicated by the rapid disappearance
of young corn, sweet potatoes, fat hogs, &c.,
from the plantations for many miles round.
“The black rascal!” exclaimed he: “If my boys
are in league with him”—
The coming threat was arrested by a voice within,
which, like a chorus from some invisible choir, all at
once struck up the lively ballad of Robin Hood; and
thus brought Big-boned Dick, like Banquo's Ghost,
unbidden and unwelcome, into incongruous association
with his spontaneous sympathy for Saxon serfs,
his contempt of “base Saxon churls,” who tamely
submitted to their fate, and his admiration of the bold
outlaws, who lived by plunder in the wild freedom of
Saxon forests.
His republican sympathies, and the “system entailed
upon him by his ancestors,” were obviously out
of joint with each other; and the skilfullest soldering
of casuistry could by no means make them adhere together.
Clear as the tones of a cathedral bell above
the hacks and drays of a city, the voice of Reason
rose above all the pretexts of selfishness, and the apologies
of sophistry, and loudly proclaimed that his sympathies
were right, and his practice wrong. Had
there been at his elbow some honest John Woolman,
or fearless Elias Hicks, that hour might perhaps have
seen him a freeman, in giving freedom to his serfs.
But he was alone; and the prejudices of education,
and the habits of his whole life, conjured up a fearful
array of lions in his path; and he wist not that they
were phantoms. The admonitions of awakened conscience
gradually gave place to considerations of
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personal safety, and plans for ascertaining the real extent
of his danger.
The next morning he asked his slaves, with assumed
nonchalance, whether they had a good meeting.
“Oh, yes, massa; bery good meeting.”
“Where did you meet?”
“In the woods behind Birch Grove, massa.”
The newspaper was brought, and found to contain
a renewal of the report that British troops were prowling
about the coast. Mr. Duncan slowly paced the
room for some time, apparently studying the figures
of the carpet, yet utterly unconscious whether he trod
on canvass or the greensward. At length, he ordered
his horse and drove to the next plantation. Seeing a
gang at work in the fields, he stopped; and after some
questions concerning the crop, he said to one of the
most intelligent, “So you had a fine meeting last
night?”
“Oh, yes, massa, bery nice meeting.”
“Where was it?
The slave pointed far east of Birch Grove. The
white man's eye followed the direction of the bondman's
finger, and a deeper cloud gathered on his
brow. Without comment he rode on in another direction,
and with apparent indifference made similar
inquiries of another gang of labourers. They pointed
north of Birch Grove, and replied, “In the Hugonot
woods, massa.”
With increasing disquietude, he slowly turned his
horse toward the city. He endeavoured to conceal
anxiety under a cheerful brow; for he was afraid to
ask counsel, even of his most familiar friends, in a
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[figure description] Page 195.[end figure description]
community so prone to be blinded by insane fury under
the excitement of such suspicions. Having purchased
a complete suit of negro clothes, and a black
mask well fitted to his face, he returned home, and
awaited the next request for passes to a Methodist
meeting.
In a few days, the sable faces again appeared before
him, one after another, asking permission to hear Tom
preach. The passes were promptly given, accompanied
by the cool observation, “It seems to me, boys,
that you are all growing wonderfully religious of
late.”
To which they eagerly replied, “Ah, if massa could
hear Tom preach, it make his hair stand up. Tom
make ebery body tink weder he hab a soul.”
When the last one had departed, the master hastily
assumed his disguise, and hurried after them. Keeping
them within sight, he followed over field and meadow,
through woods and swamps. As he went on,
the number of dark figures, all tending toward the
same point, continually increased. Now and then,
some one spoke to him; but he answered briefly, and
with an effort to disguise his voice. At last, they arrived
at one of those swamp islands, so common at
the South, insulated by a broad, deep belt of water,
and effectually screened from the main-land by a luxuriant
growth of forest trees, matted together by a rich
entanglement of vines and underwood. A large tree
had been felled for a bridge; and over this dusky
forms were swarming, like ants into their new-made
nest.
Mr. Duncan had a large share of that animal
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instinct called physical courage; but his heart throbbed
almost audibly, as he followed that dark multitude.
At the end of a rough and intricate passage, there
opened before him a scene of picturesque and imposing
grandeur. A level space, like a vast saloon, was
enclosed by majestic trees, uniting their boughs over
it, in fantastic resemblance to some Gothic cathedral.
Spanish moss formed a thick matted roof, and floated
in funereal streamers. From the points of arches
hung wild vines in luxuriant profusion, some in heavy
festoons, others lightly and gracefully leaping upward.
The blaze of pine torches threw some into bold relief,
and cast others into a shadowy background. And
here, in this lone sanctuary of Nature, were assembled
many hundreds of swart figures, some seated in
thoughtful attitudes, others scattered in moving groups,
eagerly talking together. As they glanced about,
now sinking into dense shadow, and now emerging
into lurid light, they seemed to the slaveholder's excited
imagination like demons from the pit, come to
claim guilty souls. He had, however, sufficient presence
of mind to observe that each one, as he entered,
prostrated himself, till his forehead touched the ground,
and rising, placed his finger on his mouth. Imitating
this signal, he passed in with the throng, and seated
himself behind the glare of the torches. For some
time, he could make out no connected meaning amid
the confused buzz of voices, and half-suppressed
snatches of songs. But, at last, a tall man mounted
the stump of a decayed tree, nearly in the centre of
the area, and requested silence.
“When we had our last meeting,” said he, “I sup
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pose most all of you know, that we all concluded it
was best for to join the British, if so be we could get
a good chance. But we didn't all agree about our
masters. Some thought we should never be able to
keep our freedom, without we killed our masters, in
the first place; others didn't like the thoughts of that;
so we agreed to have another meeting to talk about
it. And now, boys, if the British land here in Caroliny,
what shall we do with our masters?”
He sat down, and a tall, sinewy mulatto stepped into
his place, exclaiming, with fierce gestures, “Ravish
wives and daughters before their eyes, as they have
done to us! Hunt them with hounds, as they have
hunted us! Shoot them down with rifles, as they
have shot us! Throw their carcasses to the crows,
they have fattened on our bones; and then let the
Devil take them where they never rake up fire o'
nights. Who talks of mercy to our masters?”
“I do,” said an aged black man, who rose up before
the fiery youth, tottering as he leaned both hands on
an oaken staff. “I do;—because the blessed Jesus
always talked of mercy. I know we have been fed
like hogs, and shot at like wild beasts. Myself found
the body of my likeliest boy under the tree where
buckra[9] rifles reached him. But thanks to the
blessed Jesus, I feel it in my poor old heart to forgive
them. I have been member of a Methodist church
these thirty years; and I've heard many preachers,
white and black; and they all tell me Jesus said, Do
good to them that do evil to you, and pray for them
that spite you. Now I say, let us love our enemies;
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let us pray for them; and when our masters flog us,
and sell our piccaninnies, let us break out singing:
“You may beat upon my body,
But you cannot harm my soul;
I shall join the forty thousand by and by.
“You may sell my children to Georgy,
But you cannot harm their soul;
They will join the forty thousand by and bye.
“Come, slave-trader, come in too;
The Lord's got a pardon here for you;
You shall join the forty thousand by and bye.
“Come, poor nigger, come in too;
The Lord's got a pardon here for you;
You shall join the forty thousand by and bye.
“My skin is black, but my soul is white;
And when we get to Heaven we'll all be alike;
We shall join the forty thousand by and bye.
That's the way to glorify the Lord.”
Scarcely had the cracked voice ceased the tremulous
chant in which these words were uttered, when
a loud altercation commenced; some crying out vehemently
for the blood of the white men, others maintaining
that the old man's doctrine was right. The
aged black remained leaning on his staff, and mildly
replied to every outburst of fury, “But Jesus said, do
good for evil.” Loud rose the din of excited voices;
and the disguised slaveholder shrank deeper into the
shadow.
In the midst of the confusion, an athletic, gracefully-proportioned
young man sprang upon the stump, and
throwing off his coarse cotton garments, slowly turned
round and round, before the assembled multitude.
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Immediately all was hushed; for the light of a dozen
torches, eagerly held up by fierce revengeful comrades,
showed his back and shoulders deeply gashed by the
whip, and still oozing with blood. In the midst of
that deep silence, he stopped abruptly, and with stern
brevity exclaimed, “Boys! shall we not murder our
masters?”
“Would you murder all?” inquired a timid voice at
his right hand. “They don't all cruellize their
slaves.”
“There's Mr. Campbell,” pleaded another; “he
never had one of his boys flogged in his life. You
wouldn't murder him, would you?”
“Oh, no, no, no,” shouted many voices; “we
wouldn't murder Mr. Campbell. He's always good
to coloured folks.”
“And I wouldn't murder my master,” said one of
Mr. Duncan's slaves; “and I'd fight anybody that
set out to murder him. I an't a going to work for
him for nothing any longer, if I can help it; but he
shan't be murdered; for he's a good master.”
“Call him a good master, if ye like!” said the
bleeding youth, with a bitter sneer in his look and
tone. “I curse the word. The white men tell us
God made them our masters; I say it was the Devil.
When they don't cut up the backs that bear their burdens;
when they throw us enough of the grain we
have raised, to keep us strong for another harvest;
when they forbear to shoot the limbs, that toil to make
them rich; there are fools who call them good masters.
Why should they sleep on soft beds, under
silken curtains, while we, whose labour bought it all,
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lie on the floor at the threshold, or miserably coiled up
in the dirt of our own cabins? Why should I clothe
my master in broadcloth and fine linen, when he
knows, and I know, that he is my own brother? and
I, meanwhile, have only this coarse rag to cover my
aching shoulders?” He kicked the garment scornfully,
and added, “Down on your knees, if ye like,
and thank them that ye are not flogged and shot.
Of me they'll learn another lesson!”
Mr. Duncan recognised in the speaker, the reputed
son of one of his friends, lately deceased; one of that
numerous class, which southern vice is thoughtlessly
raising up, to be its future scourge and terror.
The high, bold forehead, and flashing eye, indicated
an intellect too active and daring for servitude; while
his fluent speech and appropriate language betrayed
the fact that his highly educated parent, from some
remains of instinctive feeling, had kept him near his
own person, during his lifetime, and thus formed
his conversation on another model than the rude jargon
of slaves.
His poor, ignorant listeners stood spell-bound by the
magic of superior mind; and at first it seemed as if
he might carry the whole meeting in favour of his
views. But the aged man, leaning on his oaken staff,
still mildly spoke of the meek and bleesed Jesus;
and the docility of African temperament responded
to his gentle words.
Then rose a man of middle age, short of stature,
with a quick roguish eye, and a spirit of knowing
drollery lurking about his mouth. Rubbing his head
in uncouth fashion, he began: “I don't know how to
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speak like Bob; for I never had no chance. He says
the Devil made white men our masters. Now dat's
a ting I've thought on a heap. Many a time I've
axed myself how pon arth it was, that jist as sure as
white man and black man come togeder, de white
man sure to git he foot on de black man. Sometimes
I tink one ting, den I tink anoder ting; and dey all
be jumbled up in my head, jest like seed in de cotton,
afore he put in de gin. At last, I find it all out.
White man always git he foot on de black man; no
mistake in dat. But how he do it? I'll show you
how!”
Thrusting his hand into his pocket, he took out a
crumpled piece of printed paper, and smoothing it
carefully on the palm of his hand, he struck it significantly
with his finger, and exclaimed triumphantly,
“Dat's de way dey do it! Dey got de knowledge!
Now, it'll do no more good to rise agin our
masters, dan put de head in de fire and pull him out
agin; and may be you can't pull him out agin.
When I was a boy, I hear an old conjuring woman
say she could conjure de Divil out of anybody. I ask
her why she don't conjure her massa, den; and she
tell me, `Oh, nigger neber conjure buckra—can't do't.'
But I say nigger can conjure buckra. How he do it?
Get de knowledge! Dat de way. We make de
sleeve wide, and fill full of de tea and de sugar, ebery
time we get in missis' closet. If we take half so much
pains to get de knowledge, de white man take he foot
off de black man. Maybe de British land, and maybe
de British no land; but tell you sons to marry de free
woman, dat know how to read and write; and tell
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you gals to marry de free man, dat know how to read
and write; and den, by'm bye, you be de British
yourselves! You want to know how I manage to get
de knowledge? I tell you. I want right bad to
larn to read. My old boss is the most begrudgfullest
massa, and I know he won't let me larn. So, when
I see leetle massa wid he book, (he about six year
old,) I say to him, What you call dat? He tell me
dat is A. Oh, dat is A! So I take old newspaper,
and I ax missis, may I hab dis to rub my brasses? She
say yes. I put it in my pocket, and by'm by, I look to
see I find A; and I look at him till I know him bery
well. Den I ask my young massa, What you call
dat? He say, dat is B. So I find him on my paper,
and look at him, till I know him bery well. Den I ask
my young massa what C A T spell? He tell me
cat. Den, after great long time, I can read de newspaper.
And what you tink I find dere? I read
British going to land! Den I tell all de boys British
going to land; and I say what you do, s'pose British
land? When I stand behind massa's chair, I hear
him talk, and I tell all de boys what he say. Den
Bob say must hab Methodist meeting, and tell massa,
Tom going to preach in de woods. But what you
tink I did toder day? You know Jim, massa Gubernor's
boy? Well, I want mighty bad to let Jim
know British going to land. But he lib ten mile off,
and old boss no let me go. Well, massa Gubernor
he come dine my massa's house; and I bring he
horse to de gate; and I make my bow, and say,
massa Gubernor, how Jim do? He tell me Jim bery
well. Den I ax him, be Jim good boy? He say
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yes. Den I tell him Jim and I leetle boy togeder;
and I want mighty bad send Jim someting. He tell
me Jim hab enough of ebery ting. Oh, yes, massa
Gubernor, I know you bery good massa, and Jim hab
ebery ting he want; but when leetle boy togeder,
dere is always someting here (laying his hand on his
heart). I want to send a leetle backy to Jim. I know
he hab much backy he want; but Jim and I leetle
boy togeder, and I want to send Jim someting. Massa
Gubernor say, bery well, Jack. So I gib him de
backy, done up in de bery bit o' newspaper dat tell
British going to land! And massa Gubernor himself
carry it! And massa Gubernor himself carry it!!”
He clapped his hands, kicked up his heels, and
turned somersets like a harlequin. These demonstrations
were received with loud shouts of merriment;
and it was sometime before sufficient order was restored
to proceed with the question under discussion.
After various scenes of fiery indignation, gentle
expostulation, and boisterous mirth, it was finally decided,
by a considerable majority, that in case the
British landed, they would take their freedom without
murdering their masters; not a few, however, went
away in wrathful mood, muttering curses deep.
With thankfulness to Heaven, Mr. Duncan again
found himself in the open field, alone with the stars.
Their glorious beauty seemed to him, that night,
clothed in new and awful power. Groups of shrubbery
took to themselves startling forms; and the sound
of the wind among the trees was like the unsheathing
of swords. Again he recurred to Saxon history, and
remembered how he had thought that troubled must
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be the sleep of those who rule a conquered people.
A new significance seemed given to Wat Tyler's address
to the insurgent labourers of his day; an emphatic,
and most unwelcome application of his indignant
question why serfs should toil unpaid, in wind and
sun, that lords might sleep on down, and embroider
their garments with pearl.
“And these Robin Hoods, and Wat Tylers, were
my Saxon ancestors,” thought he. “Who shall so
balance effects and causes, as to decide what portion
of my present freedom sprung from their seemingly
defeated efforts? Was the place I saw to-night, in
such wild and fearful beauty, like the haunts of the
Saxon Robin Hoods? Was not the spirit that gleamed
forth as brave as theirs? And who shall calculate what
even such hopeless endeavours may do for the future
freedom of this down-trodden race?”
These cogitations did not, so far as I ever heard,
lead to the emancipation of his bondmen; but they did
prevent his revealing a secret, which would have
brought hundreds to an immediate and violent death.
After a painful conflict between contending feelings
and duties, he contented himself with advising the
magistrates to forbid all meetings whatsoever among
the coloured people until the war was ended.
He visited Boston several years after, and told the
story to a gentleman, who often repeated it in the
circle of his friends. In brief outline it reached my
ears. I have told it truly, with some filling up by
imagination, some additional garniture of language,
and the adoption of fictitious names, because I have
forgotten the real ones.
eaf048.n9[9] Buckra is the negro term for white man.
-- 205 -- p048-210
HILDA SILFVERLING. A Fantasy.
“Thou hast nor youth nor age;
But, as it were, an after dinner's sleep,
Dreaming on both.”
—Measure for Measure.
[figure description] Page 205.[end figure description]
Hilda Gyllenlof was the daughter of a poor Swedish
clergyman. Her mother died before she had
counted five summers. The good father did his best
to supply the loss of maternal tenderness; nor were
kind neighbors wanting, with friendly words, and
many a small gift for the pretty little one. But at the
age of thirteen, Hilda lost her father also, just as she
was receiving rapidly from his affectionate teachings
as much culture as his own education and means
afforded. The unfortunate girl had no other resource
than to go to distant relatives, who were poor, and
could not well conceal that the destitute orphan was a
burden. At the end of a year, Hilda, in sadness and
weariness of spirit, went to Stockholm, to avail herself
of an opportunity to earn her living by her needle,
and some light services about the house.
She was then in the first blush of maidenhood, with
a clear innocent look, and exceedingly fair complexion.
Her beauty soon attracted the attention of Magnus
Andersen, mate of a Danish vessel then lying at the
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[figure description] Page 206.[end figure description]
wharves of Stockholm. He could not be otherwise
than fascinated with her budding loveliness; and alone
as she was in the world, she was naturally prone to
listen to the first words of warm affection she had
heard since her father's death. What followed is the
old story, which will continue to be told as long as
there are human passions and human laws. To do the
young man justice, though selfish, he was not deliberately
unkind; for he did not mean to be treacherous
to the friendless young creature who trusted him.
He sailed from Sweden with the honest intention to
return and make her his wife; but he was lost in a
storm at sea, and the earth saw him no more.
Hilda never heard the sad tidings; but, for another
cause, her heart was soon oppressed with shame and
sorrow. If she had had a mother's bosom on which
to lean her aching head, and confess all her faults and
all her grief, much misery might have been saved.
But there was none to whom she dared to speak of
her anxiety and shame. Her extreme melancholy
attracted the attention of a poor old woman, to whom
she sometimes carried clothes for washing. The good
Virika, after manifesting her sympathy in various
ways, at last ventured to ask outright why one so
young was so very sad. The poor child threw herself
on the friendly bosom, and confessed all her
wretchedness. After that, they had frequent confidential
conversations; and the kind-hearted peasant
did her utmost to console and cheer the desolate orphan.
She said she must soon return to her native
village in the Norwegian valley of Westfjordalen; and
as she was alone in the world, and wanted
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[figure description] Page 207.[end figure description]
something to love, she would gladly take the babe, and
adopt it for her own.
Poor Hilda, thankful for any chance to keep her
disgrace a secret, gratefully accepted the offer. When
the babe was ten days old, she allowed the good Virika
to carry it away; though not without bitter tears,
and the oft-repeated promise that her little one might
be reclaimed, whenever Magnus returned and fulfilled
his promise of marriage.
But though these arrangements were managed
with great caution, the young mother did not escape
suspicion. It chanced, very unfortunately, that soon
after Virika's departure, an infant was found in the
water, strangled with a sash very like one Hilda had
been accustomed to wear. A train of circumstantial
evidence seemed to connect the child with her, and
she was arrested. For some time, she contented herself
with assertions of innocence, and obstinately refused
to tell anything more. But at last, having the
fear of death before her eyes, she acknowledged that
she had given birth to a daughter, which had been
carried away by Virika Gjetter, to her native place, in
the parish of Tind, in the Valley of Westfjordalen.
Inquiries were accordingly made in Norway, but the
answer obtained was that Virika had not been heard
of in her native valley, for many years. Through
weary months, Hilda lingered in prison, waiting in
vain for favourable testimony; and at last, on strong
circumstantial evidence, she was condemned to die.
It chanced there was at that time a very learned
chemist in Stockholm; a man whose thoughts were
all gas, and his hours marked only by combinations
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[figure description] Page 208.[end figure description]
and explosions. He had discovered a process of artificial
cold, by which he could suspend animation in
living creatures, and restore it at any prescribed time.
He had in one apartment of his laboratory a bear that
had been in a torpid state five years, a wolf two years,
and so on. This of course excited a good deal of
attention in the scientific world. A metaphysician
suggested how extremely interesting it would be to
put a human being asleep thus, and watch the reunion
of soul and body, after the lapse of a hundred years.
The chemist was half wild with the magnificence of
this idea; and he forthwith petitioned that Hilda, instead
of being beheaded, might be delivered to him,
to be frozen for a century. He urged that her extreme
youth demanded pity; that his mode of execution
would be a very gentle one, and, being so strictly
private, would be far less painful to the poor young
creature than exposure to the public gaze.
His request, being seconded by several men of
science, was granted by the government; for no one
suggested a doubt of its divine right to freeze human
hearts, instead of chopping off human heads, or choking
human lungs. This change in the mode of
death was much lauded as an act of clemency, and
poor Hilda tried to be as grateful as she was told she
ought to be.
On the day of execution, the chaplain came to pray
with her, but found himself rather embarrassed in
using the customary form. He could not well allude
to her going in a few hours to meet her final judge;
for the chemist said she would come back in a hundred
years, and where her soul would be meantime
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[figure description] Page 209.[end figure description]
was more than theology could teach. Under these
novel circumstances, the old nursery prayer seemed
to be the only appropriate one for her to repeat:
“Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep:
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.”
The subject of this curious experiment was conveyed
in a close carriage from the prison to the laboratory.
A shudder ran through soul and body, as she
entered the apartment assigned her. It was built entirely
of stone, and rendered intensely cold by an artificial
process. The light was dim and spectral, being
admitted from above through a small circle of blue
glass. Around the sides of the room, were tiers of
massive stone shelves, on which reposed various objects
in a torpid state. A huge bear lay on his back,
with paws crossed on his breast, as devoutly as some
pious knight of the fourteenth century. There was
in fact no inconsiderable resemblance in the proceedings
by which both these characters gained their
worldly possessions; they were equally based on the
maxim that “might makes right.” It is true, the
Christian obtained a better name, inasmuch as he paid
a tithe of his gettings to the holy church, which the
bear never had the grace to do. But then it must be
remembered that the bear had no soul to save, and the
Christian knight would have been very unlikely to
pay fees to the ferryman, if he likewise had had nothing
to send over.
The two public functionaries, who had attended the
prisoner, to make sure that justice was not defrauded
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[figure description] Page 210.[end figure description]
of its due, soon begged leave to retire, complaining of
the unearthly cold. The pale face of the maiden became
still paler, as she saw them depart. She seized
the arm of the old chemist, and said, imploringly,
“You will not go away, too, and leave me with these
dreadful creatures?”
He replied, not without some touch of compassion
in his tones, “You will be sound asleep, my dear,
and will not know whether I am here or not. Drink
this; it will soon make you drowsy.”
“But what if that great bear should wake up?”
asked she, trembling.
“Never fear. He cannot wake up,” was the brief
reply.
“And what if I should wake up, all alone here?”
“Don't disturb yourself,” said he, “I tell you that
you will not wake up. Come, my dear, drink quick;
for I am getting chilly myself.”
The poor girl cast another despairing glance round
the tomb-like apartment, and did as she was requested.
“And now,” said the chemist, “let us shake
hands, and say farewell; for you will never see me
again.”
“Why, wont you come to wake me up?” inquired
the prisoner; not reflecting on all the peculiar circumstances
of her condition.
“My great-grandson may,” replied he, with a smile.
“Adieu, my dear. It is a great deal pleasanter than
being beheaded. You will fall asleep as easily as a
babe in his cradle.”
She gazed in his face, with a bewildered drowsy
look, and big tears rolled down her cheeks. “Just
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[figure description] Page 211.[end figure description]
step up here, my poor child,” said he; and he offered
her his hand.
“Oh, don't lay me so near the crocodile!” she exclaimed.
“If he should wake up!”
“You wouldn't know it, if he did,” rejoined the
patient chemist; “but never mind. Step up to this
other shelf, if you like it better.”
He handed her up very politely, gathered her garments
about her feet, crossed her arms below her
breast, and told her to be perfectly still. He then
covered his face with a mask, let some gasses escape
from an apparatus in the centre of the room, and immediately
went out, locking the door after him.
The next day, the public functionaries looked in,
and expressed themselves well satisfied to find the
maiden lying as rigid and motionless as the bear, the
wolf, and the snake. On the edge of the shelf where
she lay was pasted an inscription: “Put to sleep for
infanticide, Feb. 10, 1740, by order of the king. To
be wakened Feb. 10, 1840.”
The earth whirled round on its axis, carrying with
it the Alps and the Andes, the bear, the crocodile,
and the maiden. Summer and winter came and went;
America took place among the nations; Bonaparte
played out his great game, with kingdoms for pawns;
and still the Swedish damsel slept on her stone shelf
with the bear and the crocodile.
When ninety-five years had passed, the bear, having
fulfilled his prescribed century, was waked according
to agreement. The curious flocked round him,
to see him eat, and hear whether he could growl as
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[figure description] Page 212.[end figure description]
well as other bears. Not liking such close observation,
he broke his chain one night, and made off for
the hills. How he seemed to his comrades, and what
mistakes he made in his recollections, there were
never any means of ascertaining. But bears, being
more strictly conservative than men, happily escape
the influence of French revolutions, German philosophy,
Fourier theories, and reforms of all sorts; therefore
Bruin doubtless found less change in his fellow
citizens, than an old knight or viking might have
done, had he chanced to sleep so long.
At last, came the maiden's turn to be resuscitated.
The populace had forgotten her and her story long
ago; but a select scientific few were present at the
ceremony, by special invitation. The old chemist
and his children all “slept the sleep that knows no
waking.” But carefully written orders had been transmitted
from generation to generation; and the duty
finally devolved on a great grandson, himself a chemist
of no mean reputation.
Life returned very slowly; at first by almost imperceptible
degrees, then by a visible shivering through
the nerves. When the eyes opened, it was as if by
the movement of pulleys, and there was something
painfully strange in their marble gaze. But the lamp
within the inner shrine lighted up, and gradually shone
through them, giving assurance of the presence of a
soul. As consciousness returned, she looked in the
faces round her, as if seeking for some one; for her
first dim recollection was of the old chemist. For
several days, there was a general sluggishness of soul
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[figure description] Page 213.[end figure description]
and body; an overpowering inertia, which made all
exertion difficult, and prevented memory from rushing
back in too tumultuous a tide.
For some time, she was very quiet and patient; but
the numbers who came to look at her, their perpetual
questions how things seemed to her, what was the
state of her appetite and her memory, made her restless
and irritable. Still worse was it when she went
into the street. Her numerous visitors pointed her
out to others, who ran to doors and windows to stare
at her, and this soon attracted the attention of boys
and lads. To escape such annoyances, she one day
walked into a little shop, bearing the name of a woman
she had formerly known. It was now kept by
ner grand-daughter, an aged woman, who was evidently
as afraid of Hilda, as if she had been a witch
or a ghost.
This state of things became perfectly unendurable.
After a few weeks, the forlorn being made her escape
from the city, at dawn of day, and with money which
had been given her by charitable people, she obtained
a passage to her native village, under the new name
of Hilda Silfverling. But to stand, in the bloom of
sixteen, among well-remembered hills and streams,
and not recognise a single human face, or know a single
human voice, this was the most mournful of all;
far worse than loneliness in a foreign land; sadder
than sunshine on a ruined city. And all these suffocating
emotions must be crowded back on her own
heart; for if she revealed them to any one, she would
assuredly be considered insane or bewitched.
As the thought became familiar to her that even the
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little children she had known were all dead long ago,
her eyes assumed an indescribably perplexed and
mournful expression, which gave them an appearance
of supernatural depth. She was seized with an inexpressible
longing to go where no one had ever heard
of her, and among scenes she had never looked upon.
Her thoughts often reverted fondly to old Virika Gjetter,
and the babe for whose sake she had suffered so
much; and her heart yearned for Norway. But then
she was chilled by the remembrance that even if her
child had lived to the usual age of mortals, she must
have been long since dead; and if she had left descendants,
what would they know of her? Overwhelmed
by the complete desolation of her lot on earth,
she wept bitterly. But she was never utterly hopeless;
for in the midst of her anguish, something prophetic
seemed to beckon through the clouds, and call
her into Norway.
In Stockholm, there was a white-haired old clergyman,
who had been peculiarly kind, when he came
to see her, after her centennial slumber. She resolved
to go to him, to tell him how oppressively dreary was
her restored existence, and how earnestly she desired
to go, under a new name, to some secluded village in
Norway, where none would be likely to learn her history,
and where there would be nothing to remind her
of the gloomy past. The good old man entered at
once into her feelings, and approved her plan. He
had been in that country himself, and had staid a few
days at the house of a kind old man, named Eystein
Hansen. He furnished Hilda with means for the
journey, and gave her an affectionate letter of
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introduction, in which he described her as a Swedish orphan,
who had suffered much, and would be glad to
earn her living in any honest way that could be pointed
out to her.
It was the middle of June when Hilda arrived at
the house of Eystein Hanson. He was a stout, clumsy,
red-visaged old man, with wide mouth, and big
nose, hooked like an eagle's beak; but there was a
right friendly expression in his large eyes, and when
he had read the letter, he greeted the young stranger
with such cordiality, she felt at once that she had
found a father. She must come in his boat, he said,
and he would take her at once to his island-home,
where his good woman would give her a hearty welcome.
She always loved the friendless; and especially
would she love the Swedish orphan, because
her last and youngest daughter had died the year before.
On his way to the boat, the worthy man introduced
her to several people, and when he told her
story, old men and young maidens took her by the
hand, and spoke as if they thought Heaven had sent
them a daughter and a sister. The good Brenda
received her with open arms, as her husband had said
she would. She was an old weather-beaten woman,
but there was a whole heart full of sunshine in her
honest eyes.
And this new home looked so pleasant under the
light of the summer sky! The house was embowered
in the shrubbery of a small island, in the midst or
a fiord, the steep shores of which were thickly covered
with pine, fir, and juniper, down to the water's edge,
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The fiord went twisting and turning about, from promontory
to promontory, as if the Nereides, dancing
up from the sea, had sportively chased each other
into nooks and corners, now hiding away behind some
bold projection of rock, and now peeping out suddenly,
with a broad sunny smile. Directly in front of the
island, the fiord expanded into a broad bay, on the
shores of which was a little primitive romantic-looking
village. Here and there a sloop was at anchor, and
picturesque little boats tacked off and on from cape to
cape, their white sails glancing in the sun. A range
of lofty blue mountains closed in the distance. One
giant, higher than all the rest, went up perpendicularly
into the clouds, wearing a perpetual crown of
glittering snow.. As the maiden gazed on this sublime
and beautiful scenery, a new and warmer tide
seemed to flow through her stagnant heart. Ah, how
happy might life be here among these mountain
homes, with a people of such patriarchal simplicity,
so brave and free, so hospitable, frank and hearty!
The house of Eystein Hansen was built of pine
logs, neatly white-washed. The roof was covered
with grass, and bore a crop of large bushes. A vine,
tangled among these, fell in heavy festoons that waved
at every touch of the wind. The door was painted
with flowers in gay colours, and surmounted with fantastic
carving. The interior of the dwelling was ornamented
with many little grotesque images, boxes,
bowls, ladles, &c., curiously carved in the closegrained
and beautifully white wood of the Norwegian
fir. This was a common amusement with the
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peasantry, and Eystein being a great favourite among
them, received many such presents during his frequent
visits in the surrounding parishes.
But nothing so much attracted Hilda's attention as
a kind of long trumpet, made of two hollow half cylinders
of wood, bound tightly together with birch
bark. The only instrument of the kind she had ever
seen was in the possession of Virika Gjetter, who called
it a luhr, and said it was used to call the cows
home in her native village, in Upper Tellemarken.
She showed how it was used, and Hilda, having a
quick ear, soon learned to play upon it with considerable
facility.
And here in her new home, this rude instrument
reappeared; forming the only visible link between her
present life and that dreamy past! With strange
feelings, she took up the pipe, and began to play one
of the old tunes. At first, the tones flitted like phantoms
in and out of her brain; but at last, they all came
back, and took their places rank and file. Old Brenda
said it was a pleasant tune, and asked her to play
it again; but to Hilda it seemed awfully solemn, like
a voice warbling from the grave. She would learn
other tunes to please the good mother, she said; but
this she would play no more; it made her too sad, for
she had heard it in her youth.
“Thy youth!” said Brenda, smiling.” One sees
well that must have been a long time ago. To hear
thee talk, one might suppose thou wert an old autumn
leaf, just ready to drop from the bough, like myself.”
Hilda blushed, and said she felt old, because she
had had much trouble.
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“Poor child,” responded the good Brenda: “I hope
thou hast had thy share.”
“I feel as if nothing could trouble me here,” replied
Hilda, with a grateful smile; “all seems so kind
and peaceful.” She breathed a few notes through the
luhr, as she laid it away on the shelf where she had
found it. “But, my good mother,” said she, “how
clear and soft are these tones! The pipe I used to
hear was far more harsh.”
“The wood is very old,” rejoined Brenda: “They
say it is more than a hundred years. Alerik Thorild
gave it to me, to call my good man when he is out in
the boat. Ah, he was such a Berserker[10] of a boy!
and in truth he was not much more sober when he
was here three years ago. But no matter what he
did; one could never help loving him.”
“And who is Alerik?” asked the maiden.
Brenda pointed to an old house, seen in the distance,
on the declivity of one of the opposite hills. It
overlooked the broad bright bay, with its picturesque
little islands, and was sheltered in the rear by a noble
pine forest. A water-fall came down from the hillside,
glancing in and out among the trees; and when
the sun kissed it as he went away, it lighted up with
a smile of rainbows.
“That house,” said Brenda, “was built by Alerik's
grandfather. He was the richest man in the village.
But his only son was away among the wars for a long
time, and the old place has been going to decay. But
they say Alerik is coming back to live among us; and
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he will soon give it a different look. He has been
away to Germany and Paris, and other outlandish
parts, for a long time. Ah! the rogue! there was no
mischief he didn't think of. He was always tying cats
together under the windows, and barking in the middle
of the night, till he set all the dogs in the neighbourhood
a howling. But as long as it was Alerik
that did it, it was all well enough: for everybody
loved him, and he always made one believe just what
he liked. If he wanted to make thee think thy hair
was as black as Noeck's[11] mane, he would make thee
think so.”
Hilda smiled as she glanced at her flaxen hair,
with here and there a gleam of paly gold, where the
sun touched it. “I think it would be hard to prove
this was black,” said she.
“Nevertheless,” rejoined Brenda, “if Alerik undertook
it, he would do it. He always has his say,
and does what he will. One may as well give in to
him first as last.”
This account of the unknown youth carried with it
that species of fascination, which the idea of uncommon
power always has over the human heart. The secluded
maiden seldom touched the luhr without thinking
of the giver; and not unfrequently she found herself
conjecturing when this wonderful Alerik would come
home.
Meanwhile, constant but not excessive labour, the
mountain air, the quiet life, and the kindly hearts
around her, restored to Hilda more than her original
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loveliness. In her large blue eyes, the inward-looking
sadness of experience now mingled in strange
beauty with the out-looking clearness of youth. Her
fair complexion was tinged with the glow of health,
and her motions had the airy buoyancy of the mountain
breeze. When she went to the mainland, to attend
church, or rustic festival, the hearts of young
and old greeted her like a May blossom. Thus with
calm cheerfulness her hours went by, making no noise
in their flight, and leaving no impress. But here was
an unsatisfied want! She sighed for hours that did
leave a mark behind them. She thought of the
Danish youth, who had first spoken to her of love;
and plaintively came the tones from her luhr, as she
gazed on the opposite hills, and wondered whether
the Alerik they talked of so much, was indeed so
very superior to other young men.
Father Hansen often came home at twilight with a
boat full of juniper boughs, to be strewed over the
floors, that they might diffuse a balmy odour, inviting
to sleep. One evening, when Hilda saw him coming
with his verdant load, she hastened down to the water's
edge to take an armful of the fragrant boughs. She
had scarcely appeared in sight, before he called out,
“I do believe Alerik has come! I heard the organ
up in the old house. Somebody was playing on it
like a Northeast storm; and surely, said I, that must
be Alerik.”
“Is there an organ there?” asked the damsel, in
surprise.
“Yes. He built it himself, when he was here
three years ago. He can make anything he chooses.
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An organ, or a basket cut from a cherry stone, is all
one to him.
When Hilda returned to the cottage, she of course
repeated the news to Brenda, who exclaimed joyfully,
“Ah, then we shall see him soon! If he does not
come before, we shall certainly see him at the weddings
in the church to-morrow.
“And plenty of tricks we shall have now,” said
Father Hansen, shaking his head with a good-natured
smile. “There will be no telling which end of the
world is uppermost, while he is here.”
“Oh yes, there will, my friend,” answered Brenda,
laughing; “for it will certainly be whichever end
Alerik stands on. The handsome little Berserker!
How I should like to see him!”
The next day there was a sound of lively music on
the waters; for two young couples from neighbouring
islands were coming up the fiord, to be married at the
church in the opposite village. Their boats were
ornamented with gay little banners, friends and
neighbours accompanied them, playing on musical
instruments, and the rowers had their hats decorated
with garlands. As the rustic band floated thus gayly
over the bright waters, they were joined by Father
Hansen, with Brenda and Hilda in his boat.
Friendly villagers had already decked the simple
little church with ever-greens and flowers, in honour
of the bridal train. As they entered, Father Hansen
observed that two young men stood at the door with
clarinets in their hands. But he thought no more of
it, till, according to immemorial custom, he, as clergy
man's assistant, began to sing the first lines of the
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hymn that was given out. The very first note he
sounded, up struck the clarinets at the door. The
louder they played, the louder the old man bawled;
but the instruments gained the victory. When he
essayed to give out the lines of the next verse, the
merciless clarinets brayed louder than before. His
stentorian voice had become vociferous and rough,
from thirty years of halloing across the water, and
singing of psalms in four village churches. He exerted
it to the utmost, till the perspiration poured down
his rubicund visage; but it was of no use. His
rivals had strong lungs, and they played on clarinets
in F. If the whole village had screamed fire, to the
shrill accompaniment of rail-road whistles, they would
have over-topped them all.
Father Hansen was vexed at heart, and it was plain
enough that he was so. The congregation held down
their heads with suppressed laughter; all except one
tall vigorous young man, who sat up very serious and
dignified, as if he were reverently listening to some
new manifestation of musical genius. When the
people left church, Hilda saw this young stranger approaching
toward them, as fast as numerous handshakings
by the way would permit. She had time to
observe him closely. His noble figure, his vigorous
agile motions, his expressive countenance, hazel eyes
with strongly marked brows, and abundant brown hair,
tossed aside with a careless grace, left no doubt in her
mind that this was the famous Alerik Thorild; but
what made her heart beat more wildly was his strong
resemblance to Magnus the Dane. He went up to
Brenda and kissed her, and threw his arms about
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Father Hansen's neck, with expressions of joyful recognition.
The kind old man, vexed as he was, received
these affectionate demonstrations with great
friendliness. “Ah, Alerik,” said he, after the first
salutations were over, “that was not kind of thee.”
“Me! What!” exclaimed the young man, with
well-feigned astonishment.
“To put up those confounded clarinets to drown my
voice,” rejoined he bluntly. “When a man has led
the singing thirty years in four parishes, I can assure
thee it is not a pleasant joke to be treated in that style.
I know the young men are tired of my voice, and
think they could do things in better fashion, as young
fools always do; but I may thank thee for putting it
into their heads to bring those cursed clarinets.”
“Oh, dear Father Hansen,” replied the young man,
in the most coaxing tones, and with the most caressing
manner, “you couldn't think I would do such a
thing!”
“On the contrary, it is just the thing I think thou
couldst do,” answered the old man: “Thou need not
think to cheat me out of my eye-teeth, this time.
Thou hast often enough made me believe the moon
was made of green cheese. But I know thy tricks.
I shall be on my guard now; and mind thee, I am
not going to be bamboozled by thee again.”
Alerik smiled mischievously; for he, in common
with all the villagers, knew it was the easiest thing in
the world to gull the simple-hearted old man. “Well,
come, Father Hansen,” said he, “shake hands and be
friends. When you come over to the village,
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to-morrow, we will drink a mug of ale together, at the
Wolf's Head.”
“Oh yes, and be played some trick for his pains,”
said Brenda.
“No, no,” answered Alerik, with great gravity;
“he is on his guard now, and I cannot bamboozle him
again.” With a friendly nod and smile, he bounded
off, to greet some one whom he recognised. Hilda
had stepped back to hide herself from observation.
She was a little afraid of the handsome Berserker;
and his resemblance to the Magnus of her youthful
recollections made her sad.
The next afternoon, Alerik met his old friend, and
reminded him of the agreement to drink ale at the
Wolf's head. On the way, he invited several young
companions. The ale was excellent, and Alerik told
stories and sang songs, which filled the little tavern
with roars of laughter. In one of the intervals of
merriment, he turned suddenly to the honest old man,
and said, “Father Hansen, among the many things
I have learned and done in foreign countries, did I
ever tell you I had made a league with the devil, and
am shot-proof?”
“One might easily believe thou hadst made a league
with the devil, before thou wert born,” replied Eystein,
with a grin at his own wit; “but as for being shotproof,
that is another affair.”
“Try and see,” rejoined Alerik. “These friends
are winesses that I tell you it is perfectly safe to try.
Come, I will stand here; fire your pistol, and you
will soon see that the Evil One will keep the bargain he
made with me.”
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“Be done with thy nonsense, Alerik,” rejoined his
old friend.
“Ah, I see how it is,” replied Alerik, turning towards
the young men. “Father Hansen used to be
a famous shot. Nobody was more expert in the bear
or the wolf-hunt than he; but old eyes grow dim,
and old hands will tremble. No wonder he does not
like to have us see how much he fails.”
This was attacking honest Eystein Hansen on his
weak side. He was proud of his strength and skill
in shooting, and he did not like to admit that he was
growing old. “I not hit a mark!” exclaimed he, with
indignation: “When did I ever miss a thing I aimed
at?”
“Never, when you were young,” answered one of
the company; “but it is no wonder you are afraid to
try now.”
“Afraid!” exclaimed the old hunter, impatiently.
“Who the devil said I was afraid?”
Alerik shrugged his shoulders, and replied carelessly,
“It is natural enough that these young men
should think so, when they see you refuse to aim at
me, though I assure you that I am shot proof, and
that I will stand perfectly still.”
“But art thou really shot-proof?” inquired the
guileless old man. “The devil has helped thee to do
so many strange things, that one never knows what
he will help thee to do next.”
“Really, Father Hansen, I speak in earnest. Take
up your pistol and try, and you will soon see with
your own eyes that I am shot-proof.”
Eystein looked round upon the company like one
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perplexed. His wits, never very bright, were somewhat
muddled by the ale. “What shall I do with
this wild fellow?” inquired he. “You see he will
be shot.”
“Try him, try him,” was the general response.
“He has assured you he is shot-proof; what more
do you need?”
The old man hesitated awhile, but after some further
parley, took up his pistol and examined it. “Before
we proceed to business,” said Alerik, “let me
tell you that if you do not shoot me, you shall have a
gallon of the best ale you ever drank in your life.
Come and taste it, Father Hansen, and satisfy yourself
that it is good.”
While they were discussing the merits of the ale,
one of the young men took the ball from the pistol.
“I am ready now,” said Alerik: “Here I stand.
Now don't lose your name for a good marksman.”
The old man fired, and Alerik fell back with a
deadly groan. Poor Eystein stood like a stone image
of terror. His arms adhered rigidly to his sides, his
jaw dropped, and his great eyes seemed starting from
their sockets. “Oh, Father Hansen, how could you
do it!” exclaimed the young men.
The poor horrified dupe stared at them wildly, and
gasping and stammering replied, “Why he said he
was shot-proof; and you all told me to do it.”
“Oh yes,” said they; “but we supposed you would
have sense enough to know it was all in fun. But
don't take it too much to heart. You will probably
forfeit your life; for the government will of course
consider it a poor excuse, when you tell them that
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you fired at a man merely to oblige him, and because
he said he was shot-proof. But don't be too much
cast down, Father Hansen. We must all meet death
in some way; and if worst comes to worst, it will be
a great comfort to you and your good Brenda that you
did not intend to commit murder.”
The poor old man gazed at them with an expression
of such extreme suffering, that they became alarmed,
and said, “Cheer up, cheer up. Come, you must
drink something to make you feel better.” They
took him by the shoulders, but as they led him out,
he continued to look back wistfully on the body.
The instant he left the apartment, Alerik sprang
up and darted out of the opposite door; and when
Father Hansen entered the other room, there he sat,
as composedly as possible, reading a paper, and smoking
his pipe.
“There he is!” shrieked the old man, turning paler
than ever.
“Who is there?” inquired the young men.
“Don't you see Alerik Thorild?” exclaimed he,
pointing, with an expression of intense horror.
They turned to the landlord, and remarked, in a
compassionate tone, “Poor Father Hansen has shot
Alerik Thorild, whom he loved so well; and the
dreadful accident has so affected his brain, that he
imagines he sees him.”
The old man pressed his broad hand hard against
his forehead, and again groaned out, “Oh, don't you
see him?”
The tones indicated such agony, that Alerik had
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not the heart to prolong the scene. He sprang on his
feet, and exclaimed, “Now for your gallon of ale,
Father Hansen! You see the devil did keep his bargain
with me.”
“And are you alive?” shouted the old man.
The mischievous fellow soon convinced him of that,
by a slap on the shoulder, that made his bones ache.
Eystein Hansen capered like a dancing bear. He
hugged Alerik, and jumped about, and clapped his
hands, and was altogether beside himself. He drank
unknown quantities of ale, and this time sang loud
enough to drown a brace of clarinets in F.
The night was far advanced when he went on
board his boat to return to his island home. He pulled
the oars vigorously, and the boat shot swiftly across
the moon-lighted waters. But on arriving at the customary
landing, he could discover no vestige of his
white-washed cottage. Not knowing that Alerik, in
the full tide of his mischief, had sent men to paint the
house with a dark brown wash, he thought he must
have made a mistake in the landing; so he rowed
round to the other side of the island, but with no better
success. Ashamed to return to the mainland, to
inquire for a house that had absconded, and a little
suspicious that the ale had hung some cobwebs in his
brain, he continued to row hither and thither, till his
strong muscular arms fairly ached with exertion. But
the moon was going down, and all the landscape
settling into darkness; and he at last reluctantly concluded
that it was best to go back to the village mn.
Alerik, who had expected this result much sooner,
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had waited there to receive him. When he had kept
him knocking a sufficient time, he put his head out of
the window, and inquired who was there.
“Eystein Hansen,” was the disconsolate reply.
“For the love of mercy let me come in and get a few
minutes sleep, before morning. I have been rowing
about the bay these four hours, and I can't find my
house any where.”
“This is a very bad sign,” replied Alerik, solemnly.
“Houses don't run away, except from drunken
men. Ah, Father Hansen! Father Hansen! what
will the minister say?”
He did not have a chance to persecute the weary
old man much longer; for scarcely had he come under
the shelter of the house, before he was snoring in
a profound sleep.
Early the next day, Alerik sought his old friends in
their brown-washed cottage. He found it not so easy
to conciliate them as usual. They were really grieved;
and Brenda even said she believed he wanted to
be the death of her old man. But he had brought
them presents, which he knew they would like particularly
well; and he kissed their hands, and talked
over his boyish days, till at last he made them laugh.
“Ah now,” said he, “you have forgiven me, my dear
old friends. And you see, father, it was all your own
fault. You put the mischief into me, by boasting before
all those young men that I could never bamboozle
you again.”
“Ah thou incorrigible rogue!” answered the old
man. “I believe thou hast indeed made a league
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with the devil; and he gives thee the power to make
every body love thee, do what thou wilt.”
Alerik's smile seemed to express that he always
had a pleasant consciousness of such power. The
luhr lay on the table beside him, and as he took it up,
he asked, “Who plays on this? Yesterday, when I
was out in my boat, I heard very wild pretty little
variations on some of my old favourite airs.”
Brenda, instead of answering, called, “Hilda! Hilda!”
and the young girl came from the next room,
blushing as she entered. Alerik looked at her with
evident surprise. “Surely, this is not your Gunilda?”
said he.
“No,” replied Brenda, “She is a Swedish orphan,
whom the all-kind Father sent to take the place of
our Gunilda, when she was called hence.”
After some words of friendly greeting, the visitor
asked Hilda if it was she who played so sweetly on
the luhr. She answered timidly, without looking up.
Her heart was throbbing; for the tones of his voice
were like Magnus the Dane.
The acquaintance thus begun, was not likely to
languish on the part of such an admirer of beauty as
was Alerik Thorild. The more he saw of Hilda,
during the long evenings of the following winter, the
more he was charmed with her natural refinement of
look, voice, and manner. There was, as we have
said, a peculiarity in her beauty, which gave it a higher
character than mere rustic loveliness. A deep,
mystic, plaintive expression in her eyes; a sort of
graceful bewilderment in her countenance, and at
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times in the carriage of her head, and the motions of
her body; as if her spirit had lost its way, and was
listening intently. It was not strange that he was
charmed by her spiritual beauty, her simple untutored
modesty. No wonder she was delighted with his
frank strong exterior, his cordial caressing manner,
his expressive eyes, now tender and earnest, and now
sparkling with merriment, and his “smile most musical,”
because always so in harmony with the inward
feeling, whether of sadness, fun, or tenderness. Then
his moods were so bewitchingly various. Now powerful
as the organ, now bright as the flute, now naive
as the oboe. Brenda said every thing he did seemed
to be alive. He carved a wolf's head on her old man's
cane, and she was always afraid it would bite her.
Brenda, in her simplicity, perhaps gave as good a
description of genius as could be given, when she said
everything it did seemed to be alive. Hilda thought
it certainly was so with Alerik's music. Sometimes
all went madly with it, as if fairies danced on the
grass, and ugly gnomes came and made faces at them,
and shrieked, and clutched at their garments; the
fairies pelted them off with flowers, and then all died
away to sleep in the moonlight. Sometimes, when
he played on flute, or violin, the sounds came mournfully
as the midnight wind through ruined towers;
and they stirred up such sorrowful memories of the
past, that Hilda pressed her hand upon her swelling
heart, and said, “Oh, not such strains as that, dear
Alerik.” But when his soul overflowed with love
and happiness, oh, then how the music gushed and
nestled!
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“The lark could scarce get out his notes for joy,
But shook his song together, as he neared
His happy home, the ground.”
The old luhr was a great favourite with Alerik;
not for its musical capabilities, but because it was entwined
with the earliest recollections of his childhood.
“Until I heard thee play upon it,” said he, “I half repented
having given it to the good Brenda. It has
been in our family for several generations, and my
nurse used to play upon it when I was in my cradle.
They tell me my grandmother was a foundling. She
was brought to my great-grandfather's house by an
old peasant woman, on her way to the valley of
Westfjordalen. She died there, leaving the babe and
the luhr in my great-grandmother's keeping. They
could never find out to whom the babe belonged; but
she grew up very beautiful, and my grandfather married
her.”
“What was the old woman's name?” asked Hilda;
and her voice was so deep and suppressed, that it
it made Alerik start.
“Virika Gjetter, they have always told me,” he replied.
“But my dearest one, what is the matter?”
Hilda, pale and fainting, made no answer. But
when he placed her head upon his bosom, and kissed
her forehead, and spoke soothingly, her glazed eyes
softened, and she burst into tears. All his entreaties,
however, could obtain no information at that time.
“Go home now,” she said, in tones of deep despondency.
“To-morrow I will tell thee all. I have had
many unhappy hours; for I have long felt that I ought
to tell thee all my past history; but I was afraid to do
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it, for I thought thou wouldst not love me any more;
and that would be worse than death. But come to-morrow,
and I will tell thee all.”
“Well, dearest Hilda, I will wait,” replied Alerik;
“but what my grandmother, who died long before I
was born, can have to do with my love for thee, is
more than I can imagine.”
The next day, when Hilda saw Alerik coming to
claim the fulfilment of her promise, it seemed almost
like her death-warrant. “He will not love me any
more,” thought she, “he will never again look at me
so tenderly; and then what can I do, but die?”
With much embarrassment, and many delays, she
at last began her strange story. He listened to the
first part very attentively, and with a gathering frown;
but as she went on, the muscles of his face relaxed
into a smile; and when she ended by saying, with the
most melancholy seriousness, “So thou seest, dear
Alerik, we cannot be married; because it is very likely
that I am thy great-grandmother”—he burst into immoderate
peals of laughter.
When his mirth had somewhat subsided, he replied,
“Likely as not thou art my great-grandmother, dear
Hilda; and just as likely I was thy grandfather, in
the first place. A great German scholar[12] teaches
that our souls keep coming back again and again into
new bodies. An old Greek philosopher is said to
have come back for the fourth time, under the name
of Pythagoras. If these things are so, how the deuce
is a man ever to tell whether he marries his grandmother
or not?”
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“But, dearest Alerik, I am not jesting,” rejoined
she. “What I have told thee is really true. They
did put me to sleep for a hundred years.”
“Oh, yes,” answered he, laughing,“ I remember
reading about it in the Swedish papers; and I thought
it a capital joke. I will tell thee how it is with thee,
my precious one. The elves sometimes seize people,
to carry them down into their subterranean caves;
but if the mortals run away from them, they, out of
spite, forever after fill their heads with gloomy insane
notions. A man in Drontheim ran away from them,
and they made him believe he was an earthen coffeepot.
He sat curled up in a corner all the time, for
fear somebody would break his nose off.”
“Nay, now thou art joking, Alerik; but really”—
“No, I tell thee, as thou hast told me, it was no
joke at all,” he replied. “The man himself told me
he was a coffee-pot.”
“But be serious, Alerik,” said she, “and tell me,
dost thou not believe that some learned men can put
people to sleep for a hundred years?”
“I don't doubt some of my college professors could,”
rejoined he; “provided their tongues could hold out
so long.”
“But, Alerik, dost thou not think it possible that
people may be alive, and yet not alive?”
“Of course I do,” he replied; “the greater part of
the world are in that condition.”
“Oh, Alerik, what a tease thou art! I mean, is it
not possible that there are people now living, or staying
somewhere, who were moving about on this earth
ages ago?”
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“Nothing more likely,” answered he; “for instance,
who knows what people there may be under the ice-sea
of Folgefond? They say the cocks are heard
crowing down there, to this day. How a fowl of any
feather got there is a curious question; and what
kind of atmosphere he has to crow in, is another puzzle.
Perhaps they are poor ghosts, without sense of
shame, crowing over the recollections of sins committed
in the human body. The ancient Egyptians
thought the soul was obliged to live three thousand
years, in a succession of different animals, before it could
attain to the regions of the blest. I am pretty sure I
have already been a lion and a nightingale. What I
shall be next, the Egyptians know as well as I do. One
of their sculptors made a stone image, half woman and
half lioness. Doubtless his mother had been a lioness,
and had transmitted to him some dim recollection of
it. But I am glad, dearest, they sent thee back in
the form of a lovely maiden; for if thou hadst come
as a wolf, I might have shot thee; and I shouldn't
like to shoot my—great-grandmother. Or if thou
hadst come as a red herring, Father Hansen might
have eaten thee in his soup; and then I should have
had no Hilda Silfverling.”
Hilda smiled, as she said, half reproachfully, “I
see well that thou dost not believe one word I say.”
“Oh yes, I do, dearest,” rejoined he, very seriously.
“I have no doubt the fairies carried thee off some
summer's night and made thee verily believe thou
hadst slept for a hundred years. They do the strangest
things. Sometimes they change babies in the
cradle; leave an imp, and carry off the human to the
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metal mines, where he hears only clink! clink!
Then the fairies bring him back, and put him in some
other cradle. When he grows up, how he does hurry
skurry after the silver! He is obliged to work all his
life, as if the devil drove him. The poor miser never
knows what is the matter with him; but it is all because
the gnomes brought him up in the mines, and
he could never get the clink out of his head. A more
poetic kind of fairies sometimes carry a babe to Æolian
caves, full of wild dreamy sounds; and when he is
brought back to upper earth, ghosts of sweet echoes
keep beating time in some corner of his brain, to
something which they hear, but which nobody else is
the wiser for. I know that is true; for I was brought
up in those caves myself.”
Hilda remained silent for a few minutes, as he sat
looking in her face with comic gravity. “Thou wilt
do nothing but make fun of me,” at last she said. “I
do wish I could persuade thee to be serious. What I
told thee was no fairy story. It really happened. I
remember it as distinctly as I do our sail round the
islands yesterday. I seem to see that great bear now,
with his paws folded up, on the shelf opposite to me.”
“He must have heen a great bear to have staid
there,” replied Alerik, with eyes full of roguery. “If
I had been in his skin, may I be shot if all the drugs
and gasses in the world would have kept me there,
with my paws folded on my breast.”
Seeing a slight blush pass over her cheek, he added,
more seriously, “After all, I ought to thank that
wicked elf, whoever he was, for turning thee into a
stone image; for otherwise thou wouldst have been
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in the world a hundred years too soon for me, and so
I should have missed my life's best blossom.”
Feeling her tears on his hand, he again started off
into a vein of merriment. “Thy case was not so very
peculiar,” said he. “There was a Greek lady, named
Niobe, who was changed to stone. The Greek gods
changed women into trees, and fountains, and all
manner of things. A man couldn't chop a walking-stick
in those days, without danger of cutting off some
lady's finger. The tree might be—his great-grandmother;
and she of course would take it very unkindly
of him.”
“All these things are like the stories about Odin
and Frigga,” rejoined Hilda. “They are not true,
like the Christian religion. When I tell thee a true
story, why dost thou always meet me with fairies and
fictions?”
“But tell me, best Hilda,” said he, “what the
Christian religion has to do with penning up young
maidens with bears and crocodiles? In its marriage
ceremonies, I grant that it sometimes does things not
very unlike that, only omitting the important part
of freezing the maiden's heart. But since thou hast
mentioned the Christian religion, I may as well give
thee a bit of consolation from that quarter. I have
read in my mother's big Bible, that a man must not
marry his grandmother; but I do not remember that
it said a single word against his marrying his great-
grandmother.”
Hilda laughed, in spite of herself. But after a
pause, she looked at him earnestly, and said, “Dost
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thou indeed think there would be no harm in marrying,
under these circumstances, if I were really thy great-grandmother?
Is it thy earnest? Do be serious for
once, dear Alerik!”
“Certainly there would be no harm,” answered he.
“Physicians have agreed that the body changes entirely
once in seven years. That must be because the
soul outgrows its clothes; which proves that the soul
changes every seven years, also. Therefore, in the
course of one hundred years, thou must have had
fourteen complete changes of soul and body. It is
therefore as plain as daylight, that if thou wert my
great-grandmother when thou fell asleep, thou couldst
not have been my great-grandmother when they
waked thee up.”
“Ah, Alerik,” she replied, “it is as the good Brenda
says, there is no use in talking with thee. One
might as well try to twist a string that is not fastened
at either end.”
He looked up merrily in her face. The wind was
playing with her ringlets, and freshened the colour on
her cheeks. “I only wish I had a mirror to hold
before thee,” said he; “that thou couldst see how very
like thou art to a—great grandmother.”
“Laugh at me as thou wilt,” answered she; “but
I assure thee I have strange thoughts about myself
sometimes. Dost thou know,” added she, almost in a
whisper, “I am not always quite certain that I have
not died, and am now in heaven?”
A ringing shout of laughter burst from the lighthearted
lover. “Oh, I like that! I like that!”
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exclaimed he. “That is good! That a Swede coming
to Norway does not know certainly whether she is in
heaven or not.”
“Do be serious, Alerik,” said she imploringly.
“Don't carry thy jests too far.”
“Serious? I am serious. If Norway is not heaven,
one sees plainly enough that it must have been the
scaling place, where the old giants got up to heaven;
for they have left their ladders standing. Where
else wilt thou find clusters of mountains running up
perpendicularly thousands of feet right into the sky?
If thou wast to see some of them, thou couldst tell
whether Norway is a good climbing place into heaven.”
“Ah, dearest Alerik, thou hast taught me that already,”
she replied, with a glance full of affection;
“so a truce with thy joking. Truly one never knows
how to take thee. Thy talk sets everything in the
world, and above it, and below it, dancing together in
the strangest fashion.”
“Because they all do dance together,” rejoined the
perverse man.
“Oh, be done! be done, Alerik!” she said, putting
her hand playfully over his mouth. “Thou wilt tie
my poor brain all up into knots.”
He seized her hand and kissed it, then busied himself
with braiding the wild spring flowers into a garland
for her fair hair. As she gazed on him earnestly,
her eyes beaming with love and happiness, he drew
her to his breast, and exclaimed fervently, “Oh, thou
art beautiful as an angel; and here or elsewhere, with
thee by my side, it seemeth heaven.”
They spoke no more for a long time. The birds
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now and then serenaded the silent lovers with little
twittering gushes of song. The setting sun, as he
went away over the hills, threw diamonds on the bay,
and a rainbow ribbon across the distant waterfall.
Their hearts were in harmony with the peaceful
beauty of Nature. As he kissed her drowsy eyes,
she murmured, “Oh, it was well worth a hundred
years with bears and crocodiles, to fall asleep thus on
thy heart.”
* * * * *
The next autumn, a year and a half after Hilda's
arrival in Norway, there was another procession of
boats, with banners, music and garlands. The little
church was again decorated with evergreens; but no
clarinet players stood at the door to annoy good Father
Hansen. The worthy man had in fact taken the hint,
though somewhat reluctantly, and had good-naturedly
ceased to disturb modern ears with his clamorous
vociferation of the hymns. He and his kind-hearted
Brenda were happy beyond measure at Hilda's good
fortune. But when she told her husband anything
he did not choose to believe, they could never rightly
make out what he meant by looking at her so slily,
and saying, “Pooh! Pooh! tell that to my—great-grandmother.”
eaf048.n10[10] A warrior famous in the Northern Sagas for his stormy and untamable
character.
eaf048.n11[11] An elfish spirit, which, according to popular tradition in Norway, appears
in the form of a coal black horse.
eaf048.n12[12] Lessing.
-- 241 -- p048-246
ROSENGLORY.
A stranger among strange faces, she drinketh the wormwood of dependence;
She is marked as a child of want; and the world hateth poverty.
She is cared for by none upon earth, and her God seemeth to forsake her.
Then cometh, in fair show, the promise and the feint of affection;
And her heart, long unused to kindness, remembereth her brother, and loveth;
And the traitor hath wrouged her trust, and mocked and flung her from him;
And men point at her and laugh, and women hate her as an outeast;
But elsewhere, far other judgment may seat her among the martyrs.
Proverbial Philosophy.
Oh, moralists, who treat of happiness and self-respect in every sphere of
life, go into the squalid depths of deepest ignorance, the uttermost abyss of
man's neglect, and say can any hopeful plant spring up in air so foul that it
extinguishes the soul's bright torch as soon as it is kindled? Oh, ye Pharisees
of the nineteen hundredth year of Christian knowledge, who soundingly
appeal to human nature, see that it be human first. Take heed that during
your slumber, and the sleep of generations, it has not been transformed into
the nature of the beasts.
—Dickens.
[figure description] Page 241.[end figure description]
Jerry Gray and his sister Susan were the children
of a drunken father, and of a poor woman, who saved
them from starvation by picking up rags in the street,
and washing them for the paper-makers. In youth,
she had been a rustic belle, observable for her neat
and tasteful attire. But she was a weak, yielding
character; and sickness, poverty, and toil, gradually
broke down the little energy with which nature had
endowed her. “What's the use of patching up my
old rags?” she used to say to herself; “there's nobody
now to mind how I look.” But she had a kind,
affectionate heart; and love for her children preserved
her from intemperance, and sustained her in toiling
for their daily bread.
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The delight she took in curling her little daughter's
glossy brown ringlets was the only remaining indication
of early coquetish taste. Though often dirty
and ragged herself, Susan was always clean and tidy.
She was, in fact, an extremely lovely child; and as
she toddled through the streets, holding by her mother's
skirts, Napoleon himself could not have been
more proud of popular homage to his little King of
Rome, than was the poor rag-woman of the smiles
and kisses bestowed on her pretty one. Her large
chestnut-coloured eyes had been saddened in their
expression by the sorrows and privations of her
mother, when the same life-blood sustained them
both; but they were very beautiful; and their long
dark fringes rested on cheeks as richly coloured as a
peach fully ripened in the sunshine. Like her mother,
she had a very moderate share of intellect, and
an extreme love of pretty things. It was a gleam in
their souls of that intense love of the beautiful, which
makes poets and artists of higher natures, under more
favourable circumstances.
A washerwoman, who lived in the next room,
planted a Morning-Glory seed in a broken tea-pot;
and it bore its first blossom the day Susan was three
years old. The sight of it filled her with passionate
joy. She danced, and clapped her hands; she returned
to it again and again, and remained a long
time stooping down, and looking into the very heart
of the flower. When it closed, she called out, impatiently,
“Wake up! wake up, pretty posy!” When
it shrivelled more and more, she cried aloud, and refused
to be comforted. As successive blossoms
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opened day by day, her friendship for the vine increased,
and the conversations she held with it were sometimes
quite poetic, in her small way.
One day, when her mother was hooking up rags
from the dirty gutters of the street, with the little
ones trudging behind her, a gentleman passed with a
large bouquet in his hand. Susan's eyes brightened,
as she exclaimed, “Oh, mammy, look at the pretty
posies!”
The gentleman smiled upon her and said, “Would
you like one, my little girl?”
She eagerly held out her hand, and he gave her a
flower, saying, “There's a rose for you.”
“Thank the good gentleman,” said her mother.
But she was too much occupied to attend to politeness.
Her head was full of her pet Morning-Glory,
the first blossom she had ever looked upon; and she
ran to her brother shouting joyfully, “See my Rosenglory!”
The gentleman laughed, patted her silky curls,
and said, “You are a little Rosenglory yourself; and
I wish you were mine.”
Jerry, who was older by two years, was quite
charmed with the word. “Rosenglory,” repeated
he; “what a funny name! Mammy, the gentleman
called our Susy a Rosenglory.”
From that day, it became a favourite word in the
wretched little household. It sounded there with
mournful beauty, like the few golden rays which at
sunset fell aslant the dingy walls and the broken
crockery. When the weary mother had washed her
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basket of rags, she would bring water for Susan's
hands, and a wooden comb to smooth her hair, and
gazing fondly in that infant face, her only vision of
beauty in a life otherwise all dark and dreary, she
would say, “Now kiss your poor mammy, my little
Rosenglory.” Even the miserable father, when his
senses were not stupified with drink, would take the
pretty little one on his knee, twine her shining ringlets
round his coarse fingers, and sigh deeply as he
said, “Ah, how many a rich man would be proud to
have my little Rosenglory for his own!”
But it was brother Jerry who idolized her most of
all. He could not go to bed on his little bunch of
straw, unless her curly head was nestled on his
bosom. They trudged the streets together, hand in
hand, and if charity offered them an apple or a slice
of bread, the best half was always reserved for her.
A proud boy was he when he received an old tatter-demalion
rocking-horse from the son of a gentleman,
for whom his father was sawing wood. “Now Rosenglory
shall ride,” said he; and when he placed
her on the horse, and watched her swinging back
and forth, his merry shouts of laughter indicated
infinite satisfaction. But these pleasant scenes occurred
but seldom. More frequently, they came
home late and tired, every body was hungry and
cross, and they were glad to steal away in silence to
their little bed. When the father was noisy in his
intoxication, the poor boy guarded his darling with
the thoughtfulness of maturer years. He patiently
warded off the random blows, or received them
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himself; and if harm accidentally came to her, it was affecting
to see his tearful eyes, and hear his grieved
whisper, “Mammy! he struck Rosenglory!”
Poor child! her young life was opening in dark
and narrow places; though, like the vine in the
broken tea-pot, she caught now and then a transient
gleam of sunshine. It would be well if men could
spare time from the din of theological dispute, and
the drowsiness of devotional routine, to reflect whether
such ought to be the portion of any of God's little
ones, in this broad and beautiful earth, which He
created for the good of all.
Many a hungry day, and many a night of pinching
cold, this brother and sister went struggling through
their blighted youth, till the younger was eight years
old. At that period, the father died of delirium tremens,
and the mother fell into a consumption, brought
on by constant hardship and unvarying gloom. The
family were removed to the altushouse, and found it
an improvement in their condition. The coarse food
was as good as that to which they had been accustomed,
there was more air and a wider scope for the
eye to range in. Blessed with youthful impressibility
to the bright and joyous, Jerry and Susan took more
notice of the clear silvery moon and the host of
bright stars, than they did of the deformity, paleness,
and sad looks around them. The angels watch over
childhood, and keep it from understanding the evil
that surrounds it, or retaining the gloom which is its
shadow.
The poor weak mother was daily wasting away,
but they only felt that her tones were more tender,
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her endearments more fond. One night, when they
were going to bed, she held them by the hand longer
than usual. The rough hireling nurse felt the eloquence
of her sad countenance, and had not the heart
to hurry them away. No one knew what deep
thought, what agony of anxious love, was in the soul
of the dying one; but she gazed earnestly and tearfully
into their clear young eyes, and said, with a
troubled voice, “My children, try to be good.” She
kissed them fervently, and spoke no more. The next
day, the nurse told them their mother was dead.
They saw her body laid in a white pine coffin, and
carried away in a cart to the burying ground of the
poor. It was piled upon a hundred other nameless
coffins, in a big hole dug in the sandy hill side. She
was not missed from the jostling crowd; but the orphans
wept bitterly, for she was all the world to them.
In a few days, strangers came to examine them,
with a view to take them into service. Jerry was
bound to a sea-captain, and Susan to a grocer's wife,
who wanted her to wait upon the children. She was,
indeed, bound; for Mrs. Andrews was entirely forgetful
that anything like freedom or enjoyment might be
necessary or useful to servants. All day long she
lugged the heavy baby, and often sat up late at night,
to pacify its fretfulness as she best could, while her
master and mistress were at balls, or the Bowery.
While the babe was sleeping, she was required to
scour knives, or scrub the pavement. No one talked
to her, except to say, “Susy do this;” or “Susy, why
didn't you do as I bade you?”
Now and then she had a visit from Jerry, when his
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master was in port. He was always very affectionate,
and longed for the time when he should be a man,
and able to have his sister live with him. But after a
few years, he came no more; and as neither of them
could write, they had no means of communication.
When Susan grew older, and there were no more
babes to tend, she was mostly confined to the cellar
kitchen, from which she looked out upon stone steps
and a brick wall. Her mistress had decided objections
to her forming acquaintances in the neighbourhood,
and for several years the young girl scarcely
held communion with any human being, except the
old cook. Even her beauty made her less a favourite;
for when company came in, it was by no means
agreeable to Mrs. Andrews to observe that the servant
attracted more attention than her own daughter. Her
husband spent very little of his time at home, and
when there, was usually asleep. But one member of
the family was soon conscious of a growing interest
in the orphan. Master Robert, a year older than herself,
had been a petulant, over-indulged boy, and was
now a selfish, pleasure-seeking lad. In juvenile days,
he had been in the habit of ordering the little servant
to wash his dog, and of scolding at her, if she did not
black his shoes to his liking. But as human nature
developed within him, his manners toward her gradually
softened; for he began to notice that she was
a very handsome girl.
Having obtained from his sister a promise not to
reveal that he had said anything, he represented that
Susy ought to have better clothes, and be allowed to
go to meeting sometimes. He said he was sure the
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neighbours thought she was very meanly clad, and he
had heard that their servants made remarks about it.
He was not mistaken in supposing that his mother
would be influenced by such arguments. She had
never thought of the alms-house child in any other
light than as a machine for her convenience; but if
the neighbours talked about her meanness, it was certainly
necessary to enlarge Susy's privileges. In answer
to her curious inquiries, her daughter repeated
that Mrs. Jones's girl had said so and so, and that
Mrs. Smith, at the next door, had made a similar remark
to Mrs. Dickson. Whether this gossip was, or
was not, invented by Robert, it had the effect he desired.
Susan, now nearly sixteen years of age, obtained
a better dress than she had ever before possessed, and
was occasionally allowed to go to meeting on Sunday
afternoon. As Mrs. Andrews belonged to a very genteel
church, she could not, of course, take a servant
girl with her. But the cook went to a Methodist
meeting, where “the poor had the gospel preached to
them,” and there a seat was hired for Susan also.
Master Robert suddenly became devotional, and was
often seen at the same meeting. He had no deliberately
bad intentions; but he was thoughtless by nature,
and selfish by education. He found pleasant
excitement in watching his increasing power over the
young girl's feelings; and sometimes, when he queried
within himself whether he was doing right to
gain her affections, and what would come of it all, he
had floating visions that he might possibly educate
Susan, and make her his wife. These very vague
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ideas he impressed so definitely on the mind of the
old cook, aided by occasional presents, that she promised
to tell no tales. Week after week, the lovers sat
together in the same pew, and sang from the same
hymn-book. Then came meetings after the family
had retired to rest, to which secresy gave an additional
charm. The concealment was the only thing that
troubled Susan with a consciousness of wrong; and
he easily persuaded her that this was a duty, in order
to screen him from blame. “Was it his fault that he
loved her?” he asked; “he was sure he could not
help it.”
She, on her part, could not help loving him deeply
and fervently. He was very handsome, and she delighted
in his beauty, as naturally as she had done in
the flower, when her heart leaped up and called it a
Rosenglory. Since her brother went away, there was
no other human bosom on which she could rest her
weary head; no other lips spoke lovingly to her, no
other eye-beams sent warmth into her soul. If the
gay, the prosperous, and the flattered find it pleasant
to be loved, how much more so must it be to one
whose life from infancy had been so darkened? Society
reflects its own pollution on feelings which nature
made beautiful, and does cruel injustice to youthful
hearts by the grossness of its interpretations. Thus
it fared with poor Susan. Late one summer's night,
she and Robert were sitting by the open window of
the breakfast-room. All was still in the streets; the
light of the moon shone mildly on them, and hushed
their souls into quiet happiness. The thoughtless
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head of sixteen rested on the impressible heart of
seventeen, and thus they fell asleep.
Mrs. Andrews had occasion for some camphor, in
the course of the night, and it chanced to be in the
closet of that room. When she entered in search of
it, she started back, as if she had heard the report of
a pistol. No suspicion of the existing state of things
had ever crossed her mind; and now that she discovered
it, it never occurred to her that she herself was
much to blame. Her own example, and incidental
remarks not intended as education, but which in fact
were so, had taught her son that the world was made
for him to get as much pleasure in as possible, without
reference to the good of others. She had cautioned
him against the liability of being cheated in money
matters, and had instructed him how to make the
cheapest bargains, in the purchase of clothing or
amusement; but against the most inevitable and most
insidious temptations of his life, he had received no
warning. The sermons he heard were about publicans
and pharisees, who lived eighteen hundred years
ago; none of them met the wants of his own life, none
of them interpreted the secrets of his own heart, or
revealed the rational laws of the senses.
As for Susan, the little fish, floated along by the
tide, were not more ignorant of hydrostatics, than she
was of the hidden dangers and social regulations, in
the midst of which she lived. Robert's love had
bloomed in her dreary monotonous life, like the Morning-Glory
in the dark dismal court; and she welcomed
it, and gazed into it, and rejoiced in it, much
after the same fashion.
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All these thoughts were, however, foreign to the
mind of Mrs. Andrews. She judged the young
couple as if they had her experience of forty years,
and were encased in her own hard crust of worldly
wisdom. The dilemma would have been a trying
one, even for a sensible and judicious mother; and
the management of it required candour and delicacy
altogether beyond her shallow understanding and artificial
views. She wakened them from their dream
with a storm of indignation. Her exaggerated statements
were in no degree adapted to the real measure
of wrong doing, and therefore, instead of producing
humility and sorrow, they roused resentment against
what was felt to be unjust accusation. The poor
heedless neglected child of poverty was treated as if
she were already hardened in depravity. No names
were too base to be bestowed upon her. As the angry
mistress drove her to her garret, the concluding
words were, “You ungrateful, good-for-nothing hussy,
that I took out of the alms-house from charity! You
vile creature, you, thus to reward all my kindness by
trying to ruin and seduce my only son!”
This was reversing matters strangely. Susan was
sorely tempted to ask for what kindness she was expected
to be grateful; but she did not. She was
ashamed of having practised concealment, as every
generous nature is; but this feeling of self-reproach
was overpowered by a consciousness that she did not
deserve the epithets bestowed upon her, and she
timidly said so. “Hold your tongue,” replied Mrs.
Andrews. “Leave my house to-morrow morning,
and never let me see you again. I always expected
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you'd come to some bad end, since that fool of a painter
came here and asked to take your likeness, sweeping
the side-walk. This comes of setting people up
above their condition.”
After talking the matter over with her husband,
Mrs. Andrews concluded to remain silent about Robert's
adventure, to send him forthwith into the country,
to his uncle the minister, and recommend Susan
to one of her friends, who needed a servant, and had
no sons to be endangered. At parting, she said, “I
shall take away the cloak I gave you last winter.
The time for which you were bound to me isn't up by
two years; and the allowance Mr. Jenkins makes to
me isn't enough to pay for my disappointment in
losing your services just when you are beginning to
be useful, after all the trouble and expense I have had
with you. He has agreed to pay you every month,
enough to get decent clothing; and that's more than
you deserve. You ought to be thankful to me for all
the care I have taken of you, and for concealing your
bad character; but I've done expecting any such thing
as gratitude in this world.” The poor girl wept, but
she said nothing. She did not know what to say.
No fault was found with the orphan in the family
of Mr. Jenkins, the alderman. His wife said she was
capable and industrious; and he himself took a decided
fancy to her. He praised her cooking, he praised
the neatness with which she arranged the table, and
after a few days, he began to praise her glossy hair
and glowing cheeks. All this was very pleasant to
the human nature of the young girl. She thought it
was very kind and fatherly, and took it all in good
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part. She made her best courtesy when he presented
her with a handsome calico gown; and she began to
think she had fallen into the hands of real friends.
But when he chucked her under the chin, and said
such a pretty girl ought to dress well, she blushed
and was confused by the expression of his countenance,
though she was too ignorant of the world to
understand his meaning. But his demonstrations
soon became too open to admit of mistake, and ended
with offers of money. She heard him with surprise
and distress. To sell herself without her affections,
had never been suggested to her by nature, and as yet
she was too little acquainted with the refinements of
high civilization, to acquire familiarity with such an
idea.
Deeming it best to fly from persecutions which she
could not avoid, she told Mrs. Jenkins that she found
the work very hard, and would like to go to another
place as soon as possible. “If you go before your
month is up I shall pay you no wages,” replied the
lady; “but you may go if you choose.” In vain the
poor girl represented her extreme need of a pair of
shoes. The lady was vexed at heart, for she secretly
suspected the cause of her departure; and though she
could not in justice blame the girl, and was willing
enough that she should go, she had a mind to punish
her. But when Susan, to defend herself, hinted that
she had good reasons for wishing to leave, she brought
a storm on her head, at once. “You vain, impertinent
creature!” exclaimed Mrs. Jenkins, “because my
husband gave you a new gown, for shame of the old
duds you brought from Mrs. Andrews, do you
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presume to insinuate that his motives were not honourable?
And he a gentleman of high respectability, an alderman
of the city! Leave my house; the sooner the
better; but don't expect a cent of wages.”
Unfortunately, a purse lay on the work table, near
which Susan was standing. She had no idea of
stealing; but she thought to herself, “Surely I have
a right to a pair of shoes for my three weeks of hard
labour.” She carried off the purse, and went into the
service of a neighbour, who had expressed a wish to
hire. That very evening she was arrested, and was
soon after tried and sentenced to Blackwell's Island.
A very bold and bad woman was sentenced at the
same time, and they went in company. From her
polluting conversation and manners, poor Susan received
a new series of lessons in that strange course
of education, which a Christian community had from
the beginning bestowed upon her. Her residence on
the Island rapidly increased her stock of evil knowledge.
But she had no natural tendencies to vice;
and though her ideas of right and wrong were inevitably
confused by the social whirlpool into which she
was born, she still wished to lead a decent and industrious
life. When released from confinement, she tried
to procure a situation at service; but she had no references
to give, except Mrs. Andrews and Mrs. Jenkins.
When she called a second time, she uniformly
met the cold reply, “I hear you have been on Blackwell's
Island. I never employ people who have lost
their character.”
From the last of these attempts, she was walking
away hungry and disconsolate, doubtful where to
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obtain shelter for the night, when she met the magistrate,
who had sentenced her and the other woman. He
spoke to her kindly, gave her a quarter of a dollar,
and asked her to call upon him that evening. At parting,
he promised to be a friend to her, if she behaved
herself, and then murmured something in a lower
tone of voice. What were his ideas of behaving herself
were doubtless implied by the whisper; for the
girl listened with such a smile as was never seen on
her innocent face, before he sent her to improve her
education on the Island. It is true she knew very
little, and thought still less, about the machinery of
laws, and regulations for social protection; but it puzzled
her poor head, as it does many a wiser one, why
men should be magistrates, when they practise the
same things for which they send women to Blackwell's
Island. She had never read or heard anything
about “Woman's Rights;” otherwise it might have
occurred to her that it was because men made all the
laws, and elected all the magistrates.
The possible effect of magisterial advice and protection
is unknown; for she did not accept the invitation
to call that evening. As she walked away from
the tempter, thinking sadly of Robert Andrews, and
her dear brother Jerry, she happened to meet the
young man who had gained her first youthful love,
unmixed with thoughts of evil. With many tears,
she told him her adventures since they parted. The
account kindled his indignation and excited his sympathy
to a painful degree. Had he lived in a true
and rational state of society, the impulse then given
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to his better feelings might have eventually raised his
nature to noble unselfishness and manly frankness.
But as it was, he fell back upon deception and false
pride. He hired apartments for Susan, and, by some
pretence, wheedled his mother out of the means of
paying for them. Those who deem the poor girl unpardonable
for consenting to this arrangement, would
learn mercy if they were placed under similar circumstances
of poverty, scorn, and utter loneliness.
* * * * *
Ten years passed since Jerry last parted with his
blooming sister, then fourteen years old. He had
been shipwrecked twice, and returned from sea in
total blindness, caused by mismanagement of the small
pox. He gained a few coppers by playing a clarinet
in the street, led by a little ragged boy. Everywhere
he inquired for his sister, but no one could give him
any tidings of her. One day, two women stopped to
listen, and one of them put a shilling into the boy's
hand. “Why, Susy, what possesses you to give so
much to hear that old cracked pipe?” said one.
“He looks a little like somebody I knew when I
was a child,” replied the other; and they passed on.
The voices were without inflexions, rough and
animal in tone, indicating that the speakers led a
merely sensual existence. The piper did not recognise
either of them; but the name of Susy went
through his heart, like a sunbeam through November
clouds. Then she said he looked like somebody she
had known! He inquired of the boy whether the
woman called Susy was handsome.
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He replied, “No. She is lean and pale; her
cheek-bones stand out, and her great staring dark
eyes look crazy.”
The blind man hesitated a moment, and then said,
“Let us walk quick and follow them.” They did go,
but lost sight of the women at the turning of a dirty
alley. For six weeks, the blind piper kept watch in
the neighbourhood, obviously a very bad one. In
many houses he inquired if any one knew a woman
by the name of Susan Gray; but he always received
an answer in the negative. At last an old woman
said that a girl named Susan Andrews boarded with
her for a while; that she was very feeble, and lived
in a street near by. He followed the directions she
gave, and stopped before the house to play. People
came to the door and windows, and in a few minutes
the boy pressed his hand and said, “There is the
woman you want to find.”
He stopped abruptly, and exclaimed, “Susy!”
There was an anxious tenderness in his tones, which
the bystanders heard with loud laughter. They
shouted, “Susy, you are called for! Here's a beau
for you!” and many a ribald jest went round.
But she, in a sadder voice than usual, said, “My
poor fellow, what do you want of me?”
“Did you give me a shilling a few weeks ago?”
he asked.
“Yes, I did; but surely that was no great thing.”
“Had you ever a brother named Jerry?” he inquired.
“Oh, Heavens! tell me if you know any thing of
him!” she exclaimed.
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He fell into her arms, sobbing, “My sister! My
poor sister!”
The laughter hushed instantly, and many eyes
were filled with tears. There were human hearts
there also; and they felt at once the poor piper was
Susy's long-lost brother, and that he had come home
to her blind.
For an instant, she clasped him convulsively to her
heart. Then thrusting him away with a sudden
movement, she said, “Don't touch me, Jerry! Don't
touch me!”
“Why not? dear sister,” he asked. But she only
replied, in a deep, hollow tone of self-loathing, “Don't
touch me!”
Not one of the vicious idlers smiled. Some went
away weeping; others, with affectionate solicitude,
offered refreshments to the poor blind wanderer. Alas,
he would almost have wished for blindness, could he
have seen the haggard spectre that stood before him,
and faintly recognised, in her wild melancholy eyes,
his own beloved Rosenglory.
From that hour, he devoted himself to her with the
most assiduous attention. He felt that her steps trembled
when she leaned on his arm, he observed that her
breath came with difficulty, and he knew that she
spoke truly when she said she had not long to live.
A woman, who visited the house, told him of a charitable
institution in Tenth Avenue, called the Home,
where women who have been prisoners, and sincerely
wish to reform, can find shelter and employment. He
went and besought that his sister might be allowed to
come there and die.
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There, in a well ventilated room, on a clean and
comfortable bed, the weary pilgrim at last reposed in
the midst of true friends. “Oh, if I had only met
with such when my poor mother first died, how different
it might all have been,” she was wont to say.
The blind brother kissed her forehead, and said,
“Don't grieve for that now, dear. It was not your
fault that you had no friends.”
One day, a kind sympathizing lady gave him a
bunch of flowers for his sister. Hitherto an undefined
feeling of delicacy had restrained him, when he
thought of using the pet word of their childhood. But
thinking it might perhaps please her, he stepped into
the room, and said, cheerfully, “Here, Rosenglory!
See what I have brought you!” It was too much for
the poor nervous sufferer. “Oh, don't call me that!”
she said; and she threw herself on his neck, sobbing
violently.
He tried to soothe her; and after awhile, she said
in a subdued voice, “I am bewildered when I think
about myself. They tell me that I am a great sinner:
and so I am. But I never injured any human being; I
never hated any one. Only once, when Robert married
that rich woman, and told me to keep out of his
way, and get my living as others in my situation did—
then for a little while, I hated him; but it was not
long. Dear Jerry, I did not mean to be wicked; I
never wanted to be wicked. But there seemed to be
no place in the world for me. They all wronged me;
and my heart dried up. I was like a withered leaf,
and the winds blew me about just as it happened.”
He pressed her hand to his lips, and hot tears fell
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upon it. “Oh, bless you, for your love!” she said.
“Poor outcast as I am, you do not think I have sinned
beyond forgiveness. Do you?”
Fervently he embraced her, and answered, “I too
have sinned; but God only knows the secret history of
our neglected youth, our wrongs, sufferings, and temptations;
and say what they will, I am sure He will not
judge u so harshly as men have done.”
He knelt down by the bed-side in silent prayer, and
with her hand clasped in his, they both fell asleep.
He dreamed that angels stood by the pillow and smiled
with sad pitying love on the dying one. It was the
last night he watched with her. The next day, her
weary spirit passed away from this world of sin and
suffering. The blind piper was all alone.
As he sat holding her emaciated hand, longing
once more to see that dear face, before the earth
covered it forever, a visitor came in to look at the
corpse. She meant to be kind and sympathizing; but
she did not understand the workings of the human
heart. To the wounded spirit of the mourner, she
seemed to speak with too much condescension of the
possibility of forgiveness even to so great a sinner.
He rose to leave the room, and answered meekly,
“She was a good child. But the paths of her life
were dark and tangled, and she lost her way.”
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A LEGEND OF THE FALLS OF ST. ANTHONY. — Founded on Indian Tradition.
From all its kind
This wasted heart,
This moody mind
Now drifts apart;
It longs to find
The tideless shore,
Where rests the wreck
Of Heretofore—
The great heart-break
Of loves no more.
I drift alone,
For all are gone,
Dearest to me;
And hail the wave
That to the grave
On hurrieth me:
Welcome, thrice welcome, then,
Thy wave, Eternity.
Motherwell.
[figure description] Page 261.[end figure description]
Wee-chush-ta-doo-ta was a powerful Sioux chief.
He numbered many distinguished warriors among his
ancestors, and was as proud of his descent as was
ever feudal noble. His name simply signified The
Red Man; but he was “a great brave,” and the poet
of his tribe, whose war-songs were sung on all great
occasions. In one of the numerous battles of the
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Sioux with their enemies the Chippewas, he took
prisoner a very handsome little girl. A widowed
woman begged to adopt her, to supply the place
of a daughter, who had gone to the spirit-land; and
thus the pretty young creature was saved from the
general massacre of prisoners. As she approached
womanhood, the heart of the poet-chieftain inclined
towards her, and he made her his wife.
Their first-born was a daughter. When she was
two years old, the mother, struck by a peculiarity in
the expression of her eyes, named her Zah-gah-see-ga-quay,
which, in her own language, signified Sunbeams
breaking through a Cloud. As she grew
older, this poetic name became more and more appropriate;
for when she raised her large deeply-shaded
eyes, their bright lucid expression was still more
obviously veiled with timidity and sadness. Her
voice, as usual with young Indian women, was low
and musical, and her laugh was gentle and childlike.
There was a mixed expression in her character, as
in her eyes. She was active, buoyant, and energetic,
in her avocations and amusements; yet from childhood
she was prone to serious moods, and loved to
be alone in sequestered places, watching the golden
gleam of sunset on the green velvet of the hills, till it
passed away, and threw their long twilight-shadows
across the solitude of the prairies.
Her father, proud of her uncommon intelligence
and beauty, resolved to mate her with the most renowned
of warriors, and the most expert of hunters.
In the spring of 1765, when she had just passed her
fourteenth birth-day, she attracted the attention of one
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worthy to claim the prize. Nee-hee-o-ee-woo, The
Wolf of the Hill, was a noble-looking young chief,
belonging to the neighbouring tribe of Shiennes.
He was noted for bold exploits, superb horsemanship,
and the richness of his savage attire. The first time
he saw the beautiful Sioux, he looked at her with
earnest eyes; and he soon after returned, bringing
Wee-chush-ta-doo-ta a valuable present of furs. The
maiden understood very well why his courting-flute
was heard about the wigwam till late into the night,
but the sounds excited no lively emotions in her heart.
The dashing young warrior came too late. The week
previous, a Frenchman, drawn thither by thirst for
new adventures, had arrived with a company of fur
traders from Quebec. He was a handsome man; but
Zah-gah-see-ga-quay was less attracted by his expressive
face and symmetrical figure, than by his graceful
gallantry toward women, to which she had been hitherto
unaccustomed. His power of fascinating was
increased by the marked preference bestowed upon herself.
She received his attentions with childish delight
and pretty bashfulness, like a coy little bird. The
lustrous black hair, which he praised, was braided
more neatly than ever; her dress of soft beaver-skins
was more coquetishly garnished with porcupine quillwork,
and her moccasons were embroidered in gayer
patterns.
The beauty of this forest nymph pleased the
Frenchman's fancy, and his vanity was flattered by
the obvious impression he had made on her youthful
imagination. He was incapable of love. A volatile
temperament, and early dissipation, had taken from
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him that best happiness of human life. But Indian
lands were becoming more and more desirable to his
ambitious nation, and Wee-chush-ta-doo-ta had the
disposal of broad and valuable tracts. He had an
aversion to marriage; but this he knew would be but
the shadow of a fetter; for he could dissolve the bond
at any moment, with as little loss of reputation as if
it were a liaison in Paris. Thus reasoned civilized
man, while the innocent child of the woods was as
unconscious of the possibility of such selfish calculations,
as is a robin in the mating season.
Her father had encountered white men, and was
consequently more on his guard. When Jerome de
Rancé offered rich presents, and asked his daughter
in marriage, he replied, “Zah-gah-see-ga-quay must
mate with a chieftain of her own people. If a paleface
marries an Indian woman, he calls her his wife
while he likes to look upon her, but when he desires
another, he walks away and says she is not his wife.
Such are not the customs of the red men.”
Though Jerome de Rancé had secretly rejoiced
over the illegality of an Indian marriage, being highly
civilized, he of course made the most solemn protestations
of undying love and everlasting good faith.
But the proud chieftain had set his heart upon an alliance
with the magnificent Wolf of the Hill, and he
listened coldly. Obstacles increased the value of the
prize, and the adventurous Frenchman was determined
to win his savage bride at any price. With
the facility of his pliant nation, he accommodated
himself to all the customs of the tribe; he swore to
adopt all their friendships and all their enmities;
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he exercised himself in all performances requiring
strength and skill, and on all possible occasions he
exhibited the most reckless courage. These things
made him very popular, and gained the admiration
of the chief more than was shown by his grave
countenance and indifferent manner. Still he could
not easily overcome a reluctance to mix his proud
race with foreign blood.
De Rancé, considering himself the one who stooped
in the proposed alliance, was piqued by what seemed
to him a ridiculous assumption of superiority. Had
it not been for the tempting Indian lands, of which he
hoped to come in possession, he would have gained
the loving maiden on his own terms, and left her
when he chose, without seeking to conciliate her
father. But the fulfilment of his ambitious schemes
required a longer probation. With affected indifference,
he made arrangements for departure. He intended
to re-appear among them suddenly, in a few
weeks, to test his power over the Clouded Sunbeam;
but he said he was going to traffic with a neighbouring
tribe, and it was doubtful whether he should see
them again, or return to Canada by a different route.
That she would pine for him, he had no doubt; and
he had observed that Wee-chush-ta-doo-ta, though
bitter and implacable to his enemies, was tender-hearted
as a child toward his own family.
He was not mistaken in his calculations. Zah-gah-see-ga-quay
did not venture to dispute the will
of her father; but her sweet voice was no more
heard in songs; the sunbeam in her eyes went more
and more behind the cloud, and the bright healthy
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[figure description] Page 266.[end figure description]
colour of her cheek grew pale. Her listless movements
and languid glance pained her mother's heart,
and the stern father could not endure the mournfulness
of their beseeching looks. He spoke no words, but
called together a few of his companions, and went
forth apparently to hunt in the forest. Before the
moon had traversed half her monthly orbit, he and
Jerome entered the wigwam together. Zah-gar-see-ga-quay
was seated in a dark corner. Her head
leaned despondingly on her hand, and her basket-work
lay tangled beside her. As she looked up, a
quick blush mantled her face, and her eyes shone like
stars. Wee-chush-ta-doo-ta noticed the sudden change,
and, in tones of deep tenderness, said, “My child, go
to the wigwam of the stranger; that your father may
again see you love to look on the rising sun and the
opening flowers.” There was mingled joy and modesty
in the upward glance of The Clouded Sunbeam,
and when she turned away bashfully from his triumphant
gaze, the Frenchman smiled with a consciousness
of unlimited power over her simple heart.
That evening, they rambled alone, under the
friendly light of the moon. When they returned, a
portion of the scarlet paint from her brown cheek was
transferred to the face of her lover. Among his
Parisian acquaintance, this would have given rise to
many a witty jest; but the Indians, with more natural
politeness, observed it silently. A few days after, the
gentle daughter of the Sioux passed into the tent of
the stranger, and became his wife.
Years passed on, and she remained the same devoted,
submissive friend. In all domestic avocations
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[figure description] Page 267.[end figure description]
of the Indians, she was most skilful. No one made
more beautiful matting, or wove into it such pretty
patterns. The beaver skins she dressed were as soft
and pliable as leather could be. She rowed her
canoe with light and vigorous stroke, and the flight
of her arrow was unerring. Her husband loved her
as well as was possible for one of his butterfly temperament
and selfish disposition; but the deferential
courtesy of the European lover gradually subsided
into something like the lordly indifference of the men
around him. He was never harsh; but his affectionate
bride felt the change in his manner, and sometimes
wept in secret. When she nestled at his feet,
and gazed into his countenance with her peculiarly
pleading plaintive look, she sometimes obtained a
glance such as he had given her in former days.
Then her heart would leap like a frolicsome lamb,
and she would live cheerfully on the remembrance of
that smile through wearisome days of silence and
neglect. Her love amounted to passionate idolatry.
If he wished to cross the river, she would ply the oar,
lest he should suffer fatigue. She carried his quiver
and his gun through the forest, and when they returned
at twilight, he lounged indolently on the bottom
of the boat, while she dipped her oars in unison with
her low sweet voice, soothing him with some simple
song, where the same plaintive tones perpetually came,
and went away in lullaby-cadence.
To please him, she named her son and daughter
Felicie and Florimond, in memory of his favourite
brother and sister. On these little ones, she could
lavish her abundant love without disappointment or
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[figure description] Page 268.[end figure description]
fear. The children inherited their parents' beauty;
but Felicie, the eldest, was endowed with a double
portion. She had her mother's large lucid eye, less
deeply shaded with the saddening cloud; but her
other features resembled her handsome father. Her
oval cheeks had just enough of the Indian tint to
give them a rich warm colouring. At thirteen years
old, her tall figure combined the graceful elasticity of
youth, with the rounded fulness of womanhood. She
inherited her father's volatile temperament, and was
always full of fun and frolic. As a huntress, she was
the surest eye, and the fleetest foot; and her pretty
canoe skimmed the waters like a stormy petrel. It
was charming to see this young creature, so full of
life, winding about among the eddies of the river, or
darting forward, her long black hair streaming on the
wind, and her rich red lips parted with eagerness.
She sported with her light canoe, and made it play
all manner of gambols in the water. It dashed and
splashed, and whirled round in pirouettes, like an
opera-dancer; then, in the midst of swift circles, she
would stop at once, and laugh, as she gracefully shook
back the hair from her glowing face. Jerome de
Rancé had never loved anything, as he did this beautiful
child. But something of anxiety and sadness,
mingled with his pride, when he saw her caracoling
on her swift little white horse of the prairies, or leaping
into the chase, or making her canoe caper like a
thing alive. Buoyant and free was her Indian childhood;
but she was approaching the period, when she
would be claimed as a wife; and he could not endure
the thought, that the toilsome life of a squaw, would be
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the portion of his beautiful daughter. He taught her
to dance to his flute, and hired an old Catholic priest
to instruct her in reading and writing. But these
lessons were irksome to the Indian girl, and she was
perpetually eluding her father's vigilance, to hunt
squirrels in the woods, or sport her canoe among the
eddies. He revolved many plans for her future advancement
in life; and sometimes, when he turned
his restless gaze from daughter to mother, the wife
felt troubled, by an expression she did not understand.
In order to advance his ambitious views, it was necessary
to wean Felicie from her woodland home; and
he felt that his Clouded-Sunbeam, though still beautiful,
would be hopelessly out of place in Parisian
saloons. Wee-chush-ta-doo-ta and his wife were
dead, and their relatives were too much occupied with
war and hunting, to take particular notice of the white
man's movements. The acres of forest and prairie,
which he had received, on most advantageous terms,
from his Indian father-in-law, were sold, tract after
tract, and the money deposited in Quebec. Thither,
he intended to convey first his daughter, and then his
son, on pretence of a visit, for the purposes of education,
but in reality, with the intention of deserting his
wife, to return no more.
According to Indian custom, the mother's right to
her offspring amounts to unquestioned law. If her
husband chooses to leave the tribe, the children must
remain with her. It was therefore necessary to proceed
artfully. De Rancé became more than usually
affectionate; and Zah-gah-see-ga-quay, grateful for
such gleams of his old tenderness, granted his earnest
-- 270 --
[figure description] Page 270.[end figure description]
prayer, that Felicie might go to Quebec, for a few
moons only. The Canadian fur-traders made their
annual visit at this juncture, and he resolved to accept
their escort for himself and daughter. His wife begged
hard to accompany them; humbly promising,
that she would not intrude among his white friends,
but would remain with a few of her tribe, hidden in
neighbouring woods, where she could now and then
get a glimpse of their beloved faces. Such an arrangement,
was by no means pleasing to the selfish European.
The second time she ventured to suggest it,
he answered briefly and sternly, and the beautiful
shaded eyes filled with unnoticed tears. Felicie was
the darling of her heart; she so much resembled the
handsome Frenchman, as she had first known him.
When the parting hour came, she clung to her
daughter with a passionate embrace, and then starting
up with convulsive energy, like some gentle animal
when her young is in danger, she exclaimed,
“Felicie is my child, and I will not let her go.” De
Rancé looked at her, as he had never looked before,
and raised his arm to push her away. Frightened at
the angry expression of his eye, she thought he intended
to strike her; and with a deep groan she fell
on the earth, and hid her face in the long grass.
Felicie sobbed, and stretched out her arms imploringly
towards her mother; but quick as a flash, her
father lifted her on the horse, swung himself lightly
into the same saddle, and went off at a swift gallop.
When the poor distracted mother rose from the ground,
they were already far off, a mere speck on the wide
prairie. This rude parting would perhaps have
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[figure description] Page 271.[end figure description]
killed her heart, had it not been for her handsome boy of
seven summers. With a sad countenance, he gravely
seated himself by her side. She spoke no word to
him, but the tears rolled slowly down, as she gazed at
him, and tried to trace a resemblance to his unkind
father.
The promised period of return arrived; but moon
after moon passed away, and nothing was heard from
the absent ones. A feeling that she had been intentionally
deceived gradually grew strong within the
heart of the Indian mother; and the question often
arose, “Will he seek to take my boy away also?”
As time passed on, and suspicion changed into certainty,
she became stern and bitter. She loved young
Florimond intensely; but even this love was tinged
with fierceness, hitherto foreign to her nature. She
scornfully abjured his French name, and called him
Mah-to-chee-ga, The Little Bear. Her strongest
wish seemed to be to make him as hard and proud as
his grandfather had been, and to instil into his bosom
the deadliest hatred of white men. The boy learned
her lessons well. He was the most inveterate little
savage that ever let fly an arrow. Already, he carried
at his belt the scalp of a boy older and bigger
than himself, the son of a chief, with whom his tribe
were at war. The Sioux were proud of his vigour and
his boldness, and considered his reckless courage
almost a sufficient balance to the disadvantage of
mixed blood.
Such was the state of things, when Jerome de
Rancé returned to the shores of the Mississippi, after
an absence of three years. He was mainly induced
-- 272 --
[figure description] Page 272.[end figure description]
to make this visit by a wish to retain some hold upon
his Indian boy, and preserve a good understanding
with the tribe, as an advantage in future speculations.
He had some dread of meeting the Clouded Sunbeam,
and was not without fear that she might have exasperated
her people against him. But he trusted much
to her tenderness for him, and still more to his own
adroitness. He was, however, surprised at the cold
indifference with which she met him. He had expected
deep resentment, but he was not prepared for
such perfect apathy. He told a mournful and highly-wrought
story of Felicie's sudden death, by being
thrown from her horse, in their passage through the
forest; and sought to excuse his long absence, by
talking of his overwhelming grief, and his reluctance
to bring sad tidings. The bereaved mother listened
without emotion; for she did not believe him.
She thought, and thought truly, that Felicie was in
her father's native land, across the wide ocean. All
his kind glances and endearing epithets were received
with the same stolid indifference. Only when he
talked with her Little Bear, did she rouse from this
apparent lethargy. She watched over him like a she-wolf,
when her young are in danger. She hoped
that the hatred of white men, so carefully instilled,
would prove a sufficient shield against all attempts to
seduce him from her. But in the course of a few
weeks, she saw plainly enough that the fascinating
and insidious Frenchman was gaining complete power
over the boy, as he had over her own youthful spirit.
She was maddened with jealousy at her own diminished
influence; and when Mah-to-chee-ga at last
-- 273 --
[figure description] Page 273.[end figure description]
expressed a wish to go to Canada with his father, the
blow was too severe for her deeply lacerated soul.
The one thought that he would be enticed away from
her took complete possession of her mind, and night
and day she brooded over plans of vengeance. More
than once, she nearly nerved her hand to murder the
father of her son. But his features recalled the image
of the handsome young Frenchman, who had carried
her arrows through the woods, and kissed the moccason
he stooped to tie; and she could not kill him.
As the time approached for de Rancé to return to
Canada with the traders, her intense anxiety increased
almost to frenzy. One day, when he had gone to a
neighbouring tribe to traffic for furs, she invited Mah-to-chee-ga
to go up the river with her, to fish. She
decked herself in her most richly embroidered skins,
and selected the gaudiest wampum-belt for her Little
Bear. When the boy asked why they were dressed
so carefully, she replied, “Because we are going to
meet your grandfather, who was a great brave, and a
mighty hunter.” He was puzzled by the answer, but
when he questioned of her meaning, she remained
silent. When they came to the waterside, she paused
and looked back on the forest, where she had spent
her happy childhood, and enjoyed her brief dream of
love. The beautiful past, followed by a long train of
dark shadows, rushed through memory, and there
seemed no relief for her but death.
She entered the boat with a calm countenance, and
began to chant one of those oppressively mournful
songs, which must have been suggested to her people
by the monotonous minor cadences of the rustling
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[figure description] Page 274.[end figure description]
forest. As they approached the Falls of St. Anthony,
and heard more and more plainly the rush of waters,
she gazed on her child with such a wild expression
of vehement love, that the boy was frightened. But
his eye was spell-bound to hers, and he could not escape
its concentrated magnetic power. At length,
his attention was roused by the violent motions of the
boat; and he screamed, “Mother! mother! the canoe
is going over the rapids!”
“We go to the spirit-land together,” she replied:
“he cannot come there to separate us.”
With whirl and splash, the boat plunged down the
cataract. The white foam leaped over it, and it was
seen no more.
The sky soon after darkened, and the big rain fell
in torrents.
The Indians believe that the spirits of the drowned
ones, veiled in a winding-sheet of mist, still hover
over the fatal spot. When they see the vapour rising,
they say, “Let us not hunt to-day; a storm will certainly
come; for Zah-gah-see-ga-quay and her son
are going over the Falls of St. Anthony.”
Felicie was informed of the death of her mother
and brother, and wept for them bitterly, though she
never knew the painful circumstances of their exit.
She married a wealthy Frenchman, and was long
pointed out in society as “La Belle Indienne.”
-- 275 -- p048-280
THE BROTHERS.
Three pure heavens opened, beaming in three pure hearts, and nothing was
in them but God, love, and joy, and the little tear-drop of earth which hangs
upon all our flowers.
—Richter.
[figure description] Page 275.[end figure description]
Few know how to estimate the precious gem of
friendship at its real worth; few guard it with the tender
care which its rarity and excellence deserves.
Love, like the beautiful opal, is a clouded gem, which
carries a spark of fire in its bosom; but true friendship,
like a diamond, radiates steadily from its transparent
heart.
This sentiment was never experienced in greater
depth and purity than by David and Jonathan Trueman,
brothers, of nearly the same age. Their friendship
was not indeed of that exciting and refreshing
character, which is the result of a perfect accord of
very different endowments. It was unison, not harmony.
In person, habits, and manners, they were as
much alike as two leaves of the same tree. They
were both hereditary members of the Society of
Friends, and remained so from choice. They were
acquainted in the same circle, and engaged in similar
pursuits. “Their souls wore exactly the same frock-coat
and morning-dress of life; I mean two bodies
with the same cuffs and collars, of the same colour,
button-holes, trimmings and cut.”
-- 276 --
[figure description] Page 276.[end figure description]
Jonathan was a little less sedate than his older
brother; he indulged a little more in the quiet, elderly
sort of humour of the “Cheeryble Brothers.” But it
was merely the difference between the same lake perfectly
calm, or faintly rippled by the slightest breeze.
They were so constantly seen together, that they
were called the Siamese Twins. Unfortunately, this
similarity extended to a sentiment which does not
admit of partnership. They both loved the same
maiden.
Deborah Winslow was the only daughter of one of
those substantial Quakers, whom a discriminating
observer would know, at first sight, was “well to do in
the world;” for the fine broadcloth coat and glossy
hat spoke that fact with even less certainty than the
perfectly comfortable expression of countenance. His
petted child was like a blossom planted in sunny places,
and shielded from every rude wind. All her
little lady-like whims were indulged. If the drab-coloured
silk was not exactly the right shade, or the
Braithwaite muslin was not sufficiently fine and transparent,
orders must be sent to London, that her daintiness
might be satisfied. Her countenance was a
true index of life passed without strong emotions.
The mouth was like a babe's, the blue eyes were mild
and innocent, and the oval face was unvarying in the
delicate tint of the Sweet Pea blossom. Her hair
never straggled into ringlets, or played with the breeze;
its silky bands were always like molasses-candy,
moulded to yellowish whiteness, and laid in glossy
braids.
There is much to be said in favour of this unvarying
-- 277 --
[figure description] Page 277.[end figure description]
serenity; for it saves a vast amount of suffering. But
all natures cannot thus glide through an unruffled
existence. Deborah's quiet temperament made no
resistance to its uniform environment; but had I been
trained in her exact sect, I should inevitably have
boiled over and melted the moulds.
She had always been acquainted with the Trueman
brothers. They all attended the same school, and
they sat in sight of each other at the same meeting;
though Quaker custom, ever careful to dam up
human nature within safe limits, ordained that they
should be seated on different sides of the house, and
pass out by different doors. They visited the same
neighbours, and walked home in company. She
probably never knew, with positive certainty, which
of the brothers she preferred; she had always been
in the habit of loving them both; but Jonathan happened
to ask first, whether she loved him.
It was during an evening walk, that he first mentioned
the subject to David; and he could not see
how his limbs trembled, and his face flushed. The
emotion, though strong and painful, was soon suppressed;
and in a voice but slightly constrained, he
inquired, “Does Deborah love thee, brother?”
The young man replied that he thought so, and
he intended to ask her, as soon as the way opened.
David likewise thought, that Deborah was attached
to him; and he had invited her to ride the next day,
for the express purpose of ascertaining the point.
Never had his peaceful soul been in such a tumult.
Sometimes he though it would be right and honourable,
to tell Deborah that they both loved her, and
-- 278 --
[figure description] Page 278.[end figure description]
ask her to name her choice. “But then if she
should prefer me,” he said to himself,” it will make
dear Jonathan very unhappy; and if she should
choose him, it will be a damper on their happiness, to
known that I am disappointed. If she accepts him, I
will keep my secret to myself. It is a heavy cross to
take up; but William Penn says, `no cross, no
crown.' In this case, I would be willing to give up
the crown, if could get rid of the cross. But then
if I lay it down, poor Jonathan must bear it. I have
always found that it brought great peace of mind to
conquer selfishness, and I will strive to do so now.
As my brother's wife, she will still be a near and
dear friend; and their children will seem almost like
my own.”
A current of counter thoughts rushed through his
mind. He rose quickly and walked the room, with a
feverish agitation he had never before experienced.
But through all the conflict, the idea of saving his
brother from suffering remained paramount to his own
pain.
The promised ride could not be avoided, but it
proved a temptation almost too strong for the good
unselfish man. Deborah's sweet face looked so
pretty under the shadow of her plain bonnet; her
soft hand remained in his so confidingly, when she
was about to enter the chaise, and turned to speak to
her mother; she smiled on him so affectionately, and
called him Friend David, in such winning tones, that
it required all his strength to avoid uttering the question,
which for ever trembled on his lips: “Dost thou
love me, Deborah?” But always there rose between
-- 279 --
[figure description] Page 279.[end figure description]
them the image of that dear brother, who slept in his
arms in childhood, and shared the same apartment
now. “Let him have the first chance,” he said to
himself. If he is accepted, I will be resigned, and
will be to them both a true friend through life. A
very slight pressure of the hand alone betrayed his
agitation, when he opened the door of her house, and
said, “Farewell, Deborah.”
In a few days, Jonathan informed him that he was
betrothed; and the magnanimous brother wished him
joy with a sincere heart, concealing that it was a sad
one. His first impulse was to go away, that he might
not be daily reminded of what he had lost; but the
fear of marring their happiness enabled him to choose
the wiser part of making at once the effort that must
be made. No one suspected the sacrifice he laid on
the altar of friendship. When the young couple
were married, he taxed his ingenuity to furnish
whatever he thought would please the bride, by its
peculiar neatness and elegance. At first, he found it
very hard to leave them by their cozy pleasant fireside,
and go to his own solitary apartment, where he
never before had dwelt alone; and when the bride
and bridegroom looked at each other tenderly, the
glance went through his heart like an arrow of fire.
But when Deborah, with gentle playfulness, apologized
for having taken his brother away from him,
he replied, with a quiet smile, “Nay, my friend, I
have not lost a brother, I have only gained a sister.”
His self-denial seemed so easy, that the worldly
might have thought it cost him little effort, and deserved
no praise; but the angels loved him for it.
-- 280 --
[figure description] Page 280.[end figure description]
By degrees he resumed his wonted serenity, and
became the almost constant inmate of their house. A
stranger might almost have doubted which was the
husband; so completely were the three united in all
their affections, habits, and pursuits. A little son and
daughter came to strengthen the bond; and the affectionate
uncle found his heart almost as much cheered
by them, as if they had been his own. Many an
agreeable young Friend would have willingly super-intended
a household for David; but there was a natural
refinement in his character, which rendered it
impossible to make a marriage of convenience. He
felt, more deeply than was apparent, that there was
something wanting in his earthly lot; but he could
not marry, unless he found a woman whom he loved
as dearly as he had loved Deborah; and such a one
never again came to him.
Their years flowed on with quiet regularity, disturbed
with few of the ills humanity is heir to. In all
the small daily affairs of life, each preferred the
other's good, and thus secured the happiness of the
whole. Abroad, their benevolence fell with the noiseless
liberality of dew. The brothers both prospered
in business, and Jonathan inherited a large portion of
his father-in-law's handsome property. Never were
a family so pillowed and cushioned on the carriageroad
to heaven. But they were so simply and naturally
virtuous, that the smooth path was less dangerous
to them than to others.
Reverses came at last in Jonathan's affairs. The
failure of others, less careful than himself, involved
him in their disasters. But David was rich, and the
-- 281 --
[figure description] Page 281.[end figure description]
idea of a separate purse was unknown between them;
therefore the gentle Deborah knew no change in her
household comforts and elegancies, and felt no necessity
of diminishing their large liberality to the poor.
At sixty-three years old, the younger brother departed
this life, in the arms of his constant friend.
The window, who had herself counted sixty winters,
had been for some time gradually declining in health.
When the estate was settled, the property was found
insufficient to pay debts. But the kind friend, with
the same delicate disinterestedness which had always
characterized him, carefully concealed this fact. He
settled a handsome fortune upon the widow, which
she always supposed to be a portion of her husband's
estate. Being executor, he managed affairs as he
liked. He borrowed his own capital; and every
quarter, he gravely paid her interest on his own money.
In the refinement of his generosity, he was not satisfied
to support her in the abundance to which she had
been accustomed; he wished to have her totally unconscious
of obligation, and perfectly free to dispose
of the funds as she pleased.
His goodness was not limited to his own household.
If a poor seamstress was declining in health,
for want of exercise and variety of scene, David
Trueman was sure to invite her to Niagara, or the
Springs, as a particular favour to him, because he
needed company. If there was a lone widow, peculiarly
friendless, his carriage was always at her service.
If there was a maiden lady uncommonly homely, his
arm was always ready as an escort to public places.
Without talking at all upon the subject, he
-- 282 --
[figure description] Page 282.[end figure description]
practically devoted himself to the mission of attending upon
the poor, the unattractive, and the neglected.
Thus the good old bachelor prevents his sympathies
from congealing, and his heart from rusting out.
The sunlight was taken away from his landscape of
life; but little birds sleep in their nests, and sweet
flowers breathe their fragrance lovingly through the
bright moonlight of his tranquil existence.
FINIS.
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[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
Back matter
-- --
PUBLISHED BY C. S. FRANCIS & CO. , NEW-YORK. — Writings of L. Maria Child.
[figure description] Advertisement.[end figure description]
PHILOTHEA: A GRECIAN ROMANCE.
A New and Beautiful Edition, Revised and Corrected.
“This novel, as its Litle indicates is an attempt to paint the manners and life of
Grecian Classical times. Mrs. Child has some intellectual traits, which are well
suited to success in this field of literary enterprize. She has a vigorous and exuberant
imagination, and an accurate eye for beauty of form. She understands
the harmonious construction of language, and can describe both nature and society
with liveliness and truth. Her style, in its general character, is rich and eloquent;
abounding in brilliant turns and fanciful illustrations. It is generally simple, energetie,
and impressive; but sometimes it is too dazzling. The time selected by Mrs.
Child is the most brilliant period in the history of Athens.
“We cannot leave the book, without expressing our persuasion that it will take a
prominent place in our elegant literature. Every page of it breathes the inspiration
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First and Second Series.
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enthusiastic as some may pronounce her, and bold to think what the present thinks
itself unprepared for, there is nothing of harsh statement to be found in her expressions.
So far from it, that her mind rather resembles the vine which hangs in graceful
festoons upon the oak; and its visions remind one not of the spiendours of a
thunder-storm with gleams of lightning at night, but of the soft light of the morning,
or the clouds which crowd around the west to see the sun go down. A gentler,
purer, happier spirit, it has not been our fortune to meet with in print.”
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THE MOTHER'S BOOK.
New Edition—Revised and Amended.
The value and usefulness of this little book is well known,—it having passed
through eight editions in this country and twelve in England.
Contents of the Chapters.—I. On the means of developing the bodily senses in earliest
infaney.—II. Early development of the affections.—III. Early cultivation of
intellect.—IV. Management in childhood.—V. Amusements and employments.—
VI. Sunday. Religion. Views of Death. Supernatural appearances.—VII. Advice
concerning books. List of good books for various ages.—VIII. Politeness.—
IX. Beauty. Dress. Gentility.—X. Management during the teens.—XI. Views
of Matrimony.—Concluding observations.
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A Series of volumes in Prose and Verse, for Children of various ages.
“These are flowers which have budded and blossomed for others beside children;
and as none may now look upon the lilies of the field, bowing their heads in pure
effulgence, or in gorgeous luxuriance of show, without remembering a lesson impressed
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while observing that human hearts might be instructed by them, so these little flowers,
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-- --
Mrs. Norton's Poems.
[figure description] Advertisement.[end figure description]
THE DREAM AND OTHER POEMS:
BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON.
“This lady is the Byron of our modern poetesses. She has very much of that in
tense personal passion by which Byron's poetry is distinguished from the large.
grasp and deeper communion of Wordsworth. She has also Byron's beautiful
intervals of tenderness, his strong practical thought, and his foreible expression.
It is not an artificial imitation, but a natural parallel; and we may add, that it is
this, her latest production, which especially induces, and seems to us to justify,
our criticism.
“The Dream is a very beautiful poem, the frame-work of which is simply a
lovely mother watching over a lovely daughter asleep; which daughter dreams,
and when awaked tells her dream; which dream depicts the bliss of a first love
and an early union, and is followed by the mother's admonitory comment, import
ing the many accidents to which wedded happiness is fiable, and exhorting to
moderation of hope, and preparation for severe duties. It is in this latter portion
of the poem that the passion and the interest assume a personal hue; and passages
occur which sound like juvelins hurled by an Amazon.”
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THE CHILD OF THE ISLANDS: A POEM.
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Autumn, and Winter. No connected story binds them together, but a succession
of remarkably pleasing pictures from nature are presented to the mind.”
—Times.
In preparation, and will be shortly issued,
BY THE SAME AUTHOR:
Sorrows of Rosalie, and other Poems.
The Undying One, and other Poems
-- --
[figure description] Advertisement.[end figure description]
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'
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LALLA ROOKH:
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Writings of Orbille Dewep.
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DISCOURSES AND REVIEWS.
Upon Questions in Controversial Theology and Practical Religion.
By Orville Dewey, D. D., Pastor of the Church of
the Messiah, in New-York.
CONTENTS:
THE UNITARIAN BELIEF:—
On the Nature of Religious Belief; with Inferences concerning
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CURSORY OBSERVATIONS ON THE QUESTIONS AT ISSUE BETWEEN
ORTHODOX AND LIBERAL CHRISTIANS.
I. On the Trinity. II. On the Atonement. III. On the Five
Points of Calvinism. IV. On Future Punishment. V. Conclusion;
the modes of attack upon Liberal Christianity, the
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THE ANALOGY OF RELIGION WITH OTHER SUBJECTS CONSIDERED.
DISCOURSES AND REVIEWS:—
I. The Analogy of Religion. II. On Conversion. III. On the
method of obtaining and exhibiting Religious and Virtuous
affections. IV. Causes of indifference and aversion to Religion.
On the original use of the Epistles of the New Testament,
compared with their use and application at the present day.
On Miracles.
The Scriptures considered as the Record of a Revelation.
On the Nature and Extent of Inspiration.
On Faith, and Justification by Faith.
That Errors in Theology have sprung from false principles
of Reasoning.
On the Calvinistic Views of Moral Philosophy.
It is the highest pleasure to meet
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—Christian World.
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Child, Lydia Maria Francis, 1802-1880 [1846], Fact and fiction: a collection of stories (C. S. Francis & Co., New York) [word count] [eaf048].
