[figure description] Page 137.[end figure description]

The ball which our visitors were invited to attend,
was given at the public hotel, the room appropriated to
this amusement being always designated “the hall.”

This hall, a spacious room, in the estimation of the
company, had been splendidly fitted up for the occasion.
Branches of pine, and spruce, and festoons formed of a
species of evergreen called ground laurel, ornamented
with artificial roses, were disposed around the apartment,
which was lighted by a handsome chandelier, depending
from the middle of the vaulted roof, and numerous lamps,
tastefully arranged among the evergreens around the
room. At one side of the apartment, and on seats raised
several steps from the floor, sat the musicians. These
were three in number, two playing the violin, the other
the clarionet.

The ball had been opened before the arrival of our
party, and the dancers were jigging with spirit. The
strangers were met at the street door by one of the
managers, conducted up stairs, ushered to the head of
the hall, and seated in a convenient place to reconnoitre
the company. Dr. Perkins was immediately beside
them.

“I had got to the bottom,” said he, striving to recover
breath, “but I would have left the middle of the dance
to welcome you. Mr. Frankford, I hope you will have
no reason to regret the honor you do us by joining our

[figure description] Page 138.[end figure description]

party to-night;—for my friend Romilly here, I presume
he will be unhappy when I inform him I have arranged
for his dancing the next figure with Annie Redington.”

Mr. Frankford, bowing, made the usual compliment
of the happiness it gave him to witness theirs; and Sidney
inquired why he was thus supposed predetermined
to be wretched.

“Because,” replied Perkins, “I cannot doubt but your
affections are already engaged. With your advantages
of person and fortune, you must have excited the sensibility
of some fair creature; and with your warm heart,
she would certainly have met a return: it must be so,”
he continued, while a half stifled sigh and a whole blush,
swelled the heart and crimsoned the cheek of Sidney;
“and now how can you help feeling miserable when
dancing with such a beautiful girl, whom you cannot
but admire, and yet know you have not a heart to give
her?”

“And why is he considered the only susceptible man?”
inquired the Englishman: “do you think me wholly
formed of ice?”

“I suppose your heart is impenetrable here,” answered
the doctor; “not by nature—heaven forbid I should
ever think so ill of the countryman of Byron—but by—
prejudice. Pardon the word, sir, I could not soften it.”

“And so I have been, I confess, doctor; but my armor
is fast dissolving. A few days spent in your hospitable
society have taught me how to appreciate your character
better than would an age of study; and I shall certainly
regret to leave your country, although to visit my own.”

The doctor listened to this compliment with a smile
of more than pleasure—it was pride. There is no people
whose good opinion is more gratifying to Americans than
that of the English; and although we shall never fawn
or stoop to obtain it, we justly appreciate it when generously
offered.

But the doctor was prevented from replying, by a
summons to his place, and Mr. Frankford continued
silent and attentive till the dance was finished. The

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doctor then again appeared, and inquired of him if he
would join in the next dance.

“Not now,” replied the other; “and indeed my health
ought to excuse me for the whole evening; yet, perhaps,
before its close, inclination will overcome prudence.”

“And remember,” said the gay doctor, laying his hand
familiarly and kindly on the shoulder of the Englishman,
“should bad effects ensue, I am in the commission of
health here, and shall claim the privilege of attending
you.”

Then taking Sidney's arm he led him to another part
of the hall and presented him to Miss Redington, communicating,
at the same time, the request of the managers,
that they would call the figure.

After some demurring and excuses, such as usually
occur, this was finally assented to; and then, seeing the
floor filled and the dance commenced, Perkins returned
and seated himself by the Englishman.

The history of Annie Redington, now the partner of
our hero, has been briefly, yet perhaps sufficiently
sketched; but the influence her rather singular fortune
had had on her mind and disposition, may not be uninteresting
to those who like to have a reason rendered
for every appearance, and a cause ascribed for every
effect.

It has already been said she was beautiful, and I think
personal appearance has a decided influence on female
character. Yet, let not the lady who has a fair face look
up with an exulting smile, thinking the palm of excellence
is to be awarded to beauty; neither let her of
homely features heave a sigh, while reflecting on the inferiority
to which nature has doomed her.

They would both mistake my meaning.

The eye is delighted with fair proportions: symmetry,
delicacy, and grace, have a charm over the senses of the
beholder, directly communicating with the heart, and
often imposing on the understanding.

“There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple,” is a

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suggestion involuntarily arising when we first gaze on a
being whom nature has delighted to honor. And were
such impressions realized—were beauty of person always
an index of mental excellence—the hard-favored and illfeatured
ones would indeed be in a sad predicament.

But nature is not thus partial in the distribution of
her favors. To those who boast but little of her fashioning
skill without, is often imparted as much symmetry
of mind—I will hazard the expression—as much delicacy
and beauty of soul, as ever went to the formation
of a Helen or a Rosamond; and the chances for the improvement
of those spiritual graces are certainly in her
favor. She has not the admiration of the world to seduce
her attention from her studies or duties; the syren
voice of the flatterer does not arrest her progress while
striving for perfection, by whispering she is already an
angel. She soon learns the necessity of being useful if
she would be respected, and good if she would be loved;
and thus, to the desire of obtaining the approbation of
heaven and the applause of her own conscience, is added
the powerful motive of obtaining the favor of men to
accelerate her proficiency in those qualifications which
must ultimately fix the standard of her excellence in
both worlds.

A fair face does not long retain its fairness; and there
are few beings more unhappy or contemptible than the
antiquated belle or coquette, with no charm of mind to
prevent the beholder from dwelling on the alteration of
her person, and no loveliness of heart to repair the ravages
of time or disease.

It is the bane of beautiful women to trust in their
beauty; yet while they are continually receiving homage
for their charms, how difficult it is to convince them it
will not always be thus! Nothing, under such circumstances,
except the most watchful discretion and assiduous
care on the part of those entrusted with her education,
or the grace which cometh from on high, can prevent
such a lady from becoming vain.

Vanity and envy are the besetting sins of women.

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The handsome are inclined to the former, the plain to the
latter. Vanity sullies the charms of the person, and envy
withers the excellences of the mind; but as the plain are
necessarily obliged to be more assiduous in cultivating
their understandings and regulating their tempers, there
is more hope that they will correct those errors and foibles
which are common to humanity.

To sum the whole, as in the library of the student, the
books he most values are usually the plainest bound; so
in the female world, excellence, and merit, and talents,
are oftenest found beneath a plain covering; yet when the
pure page is enclosed in a beautiful binding, it is then
most perfect.

And Annie Redington was such a one. Circumstances
beyond human control or agency had undoubtedly contributed
to this result; yet worth is not the less to be
prized because it has been formed by culture.

Few are born with such happy dispositions as make
discipline unnecessary. And Annie certainly was not;
but she had that docile temper which lends a willing ear
to instruction, and endeavors to profit by the lessons of
wisdom and experience.

The death of her father, and the consequent indigence
of her mother, prevented her childhood from being indulged
in the supineness and selfishness which so often
injure the children of the rich; while the elegance of
her mother's manners, and the refinement of her sentiments,
equally removed her from the contagion of vulgarity
and meanness, to which the poor are exposed.

Her mother was the magnet of her young heart and
affections. To imitate her example, and contribute to
her happiness, were the first wishes she formed. And
if sometimes, with the thoughtlessness of the child, she
enumerated the pretty playthings and costly ornaments
of her little mates, and asked for like indulgences, her
mother had but to say—“Annie, you have no father to
provide for you, and are you not contented to live as your
mother must?”

Then the sweet girl, throwing her arms around her

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mother's neck, and kissing the tears from the face she so
much loved, would declare she had enough, all she
wanted, and was sorry she had asked for a single thing.

Thus early was taught the lesson of self-control. And
from pitying her mother, she felt the desire, and formed
the resolution to assist her; happy under every task imposed,
and asking only to beguile it, that her mother
would talk about her father.

This was a theme on which Mrs. Redington could
dwell with that fond melancholy which the joys that are
past inspire. Her husband she had loved with that deep,
devoted, confiding affection, which merit only inspires
and virtue only feels; and to trace his character and impress
his sentiments on the heart of their child, was the
dearest earthly pleasure her widowed soul could enjoy.
It encouraged her piety when reflecting on his, and she
was reconciled to endure the crosses of earth when confiding
in hope that she should shortly meet him in heaven
to part no more.

Thus the pleasures of the world never obtained a prominence
in any picture of future felicity which Mrs.
Redington presented before her darling child. She was
taught that our earth is what all will find it—a place
where much may be enjoyed, and also a place where
much must be suffered; and her fortitude was strengthened
by the lessons of patience, prudence, resignation,
and self-denial which her mother's example always exhibited—
a much more efficient method of impressing
truths on the human mind, than the most eloquent or
elaborate lectures.

Yet they did not dwell in a state of melancholy seclusion
from the world, or in peevish repining at their own
situation. Annie's temperament was gay as the birds
when first welcoming the spring flowers; and Mrs. Redington,
naturally of a cheerful disposition, did not wish
to depress that happy buoyancy of spirit which sits so
gracefully on youth and innocence. She only carefully
watched, lest gaiety should approach levity; and by
awakening her reason, and sometimes by gentle

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expostulations, she directed to the performance of her duties,
those energies which are often allowed to expend themselves
on frivolous fashions or selfish gratifications.

Whenever the art of education can make duties pleasures,
the grand obstacle in the path of human improvement
is removed.

But her mother died; and to Annie's young heart the
world then appeared as wide and lonely as it did to our
first parents when driven from Eden.

Yet there is One who careth for all; and in Him the
dying Christian trusted. She committed, in faith, the
care of her destitute child to her God, and He did provide.
The hearts of all who knew the little orphan were
softened to pity; and the lady who finally adopted, and
for six years treated her with all the tenderness of a
mother, was a woman capable of performing the duties
she had thus voluntarily assumed. Beneath her forming
care, the fair child grew a lovely, intelligent, and accomplished
young lady, realizing those expectations her docility
and early industry had inspired.

There can be no excellence attained without industry.
The mind of the idle, like the garden of the slothful,
will be overgrown with briars and weeds; and indolence,
under whatever fashionable name it may assume, sensibility
or nervous affections, delicacy or dyspepsia, is a
more dangerous enemy to practical goodness, and to
moral and intellectual improvement, than even dissipation
or luxury. Those who tread a devious path, may
possibly retrace their steps, or by a circuitous route
finally reach the goal; but those who never stir, how
can they win the race!

It is a good thing to have habits of industry formed early,
and to be able to connect our first exertions with the happiness
or benefit they imparted to those we loved. This Annie
Redington could do, and the pleasure it gave her made
employment, ever after, a privilege instead of a burden;
and when she was released from the necessity of labor,
she was still ready to receive every order, and attentive
to fulfill every wish of her benefactress. Her warm and

[figure description] Page 144.[end figure description]

grateful heart would indeed have incited her to do all
this, but she could now perform it with dexterity and
satisfaction to herself; and Mrs. Eaton, to the pleasure
of having protected the destitute, soon found she might
add the convenience of having obtained an excellent
assistant. And she soon loved Annie better, for the
useful must combine with the agreeable, in the character
of one whom we love well and love long. Accomplishments
are like costly apparel, elegant, but sometimes
cumbrous or useless appendages; while usefulness, like
a plain suit, is always becoming and often indispensable.

To a superficial observer, Annie might have been
thought to owe her education entirely to Mrs. Eaton;
but it was her mother who bent the twig to the right inclination—
whose lessons imparted perseverance and
energy to genius and delicacy, and infused patience and
fortitude in a bosom naturally possessing the keenest and
most trembling sensibility.

It was this disciplined disposition which made her so
soon and so easily conform to the simple arrangements
of her uncle's family. She was never once heard to repine
at her altered style of living, nor ridicule the inconvenient
house and old fashioned furniture, nor squeamishly
affect a distaste for her aunt's plain cookery; but
she exerted herself to please and serve them in every
way she could devise, and was, by her own desire, very
soon initiated in all the mysteries of the dairy, and even
learned of her cousin Priscilla to spin!

Perhaps it would gratify those who do not delight in
perfect characters, if I tell them Annie did weep and
even fret a little at the necessity of parting with her beloved
piano. But her uncle would not be persuaded to
allow the “rattling thing,” as he called it, “to enter his
sober dwelling.” He had no ear for the concord of sweet
sounds, and told Annie “he hoped she would find something
better to do than to be flourishing and twiddling
away at sich a rate; any way, Priscilla would not have
time to listen.”

So the sweet girl played her farewell air, kissed the

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instrument which had so often afforded her ecstatic delight,
wiped her eyes, and with a smile followed her
uncle to his carriage.

She did not think, because her uncle had offered to
protect her, he was therefore bound to gratify all her
whims or wishes; and she was never heard to complain
of the cruelty which had separated her from her piano;
nor indeed did she name the instrument at all, till when
learning to spin she one day told Priscilla the noise of
the wheel reminded her of the music of that instrument.

But the wheel did that for Annie which the harp of
Apollo would never have effected. It entirely removed
the pain in her side, from which she formerly suffered,
and restored the circulation of her blood to its original
briskness; and when she was introduced to Sidney, the
glow and animation of perfect health, joined with youth,
beauty, and intelligence, to complete a picture of loveliness
rarely surpassed. And the person who could have
gazed on her finely rounded form and expressive face,
where every grace seemed united, and thought her less
delicately attractive because she owed the bloom on her
cheek, and the happy gayety of her manner, mostly to
the health and cheerfulness which industrious exercise
bestows, must have been fastidious indeed.

As Sidney gazed, his heart acknowledged she was
worthy to be loved; yet he did not fall in love. There
is a kind of credulous fervency, a glow of the imagination,
which can make deities of mortals and heaven of
earth, necessary to constitute a lover at first sight;—this
glow, like April sunshine, is bright and brief, and when
it has once been clouded, it rarely burns again with its
original warmth or intensity. The cloud had passed
over Sidney, and he was “a sadder and a wiser man;”
but here is no place to relate his history.

Annie Redington, however, was more susceptible. She
had never before beheld a man who at all realized the
idea she had formed of her father. Mrs. Redington
would often describe him to her child, and when the
affectionate creature would simply ask if he was as

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handsome as her mother, she always received an answer in
the spirit, if not in the words, of Lady Randolph's affecting
language to her son:

And thus Annie, from her mother's description and
her own imagination had formed an ideal picture of perfection—
“where every god did seem to set his seal,”
and with which every man who approached her had to
be compared. And no wonder they should suffer by
such a comparison! Even the merits of George Cranfield
were obscured, and although Annie esteemed him,
and felt she could love him dearly if he were her brother,
yet she would never for a moment admit the idea
of marrying him.

But Sidney Romilly was a very different being; he
had such a very striking and noble countenance, was so
graceful in his manners, so polite and attentive, and
spoke so kindly, she thought he must be like her father,
and while listening to him was almost tempted to wish
with poor Desdemona, “that heaven had made her such
a man;” or rather that she might appear as amiable in
his eyes as he did in hers.

Had he been an utter stranger, the timid delicacy of
her nature would have shrunk from his attentions, but
his family were her best and most valued friends, and she
had so often heard him described and extolled that she
thought his merit undoubted, and in conversing with
him felt all the freedom which approved worth and intimate
acquaintance inspire.

But their apparent satisfaction with each other did not
pass unnoticed; many significant smiles were seen, and
some knowing winks exchanged, yet none seemed to
disapprove, or be jealous of their intimacy, except one
little pert looking fellow, who kept continually hovering
around Annie, watching every movement and

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endeavoring to catch every syllable of their conversation. His
impertinence in following them to their seat when the
figure was ended, and crowding as near as possible, did
not escape the notice of Dr. Perkins, who remarked to
Mr. Frankford “that there was a fellow he heartily
wished was in Constantinople.”

“For what reason?” inquired the Englishman.

“Because he would immediately turn Turk and then
might possibly go to Mahomet's paradise—to the christian's
heaven he never will.”

“Are his sins unpardonable by your creed?”

“Why, sir,” replied Perkins, “he is a compound of
meanness, selfishness, and hypocrisy; one of those characters
who deserve a prison daily for violations of humanity,
honesty, and decency; and yet he calculates so
warily that the law can have no hold on him, and he
gains property so fast he has his adherents and flatterers
even among the respectable and well-meaning. But
I hope,” added he, eyeing the little gentleman who appeared
to be edging still closer to Sidney and Annie, “I
hope, if he offer an insult to Romilly he will have to
answer it;—I should like to be Sidney's second on such
an occasion.”

A movement among the company prevented farther
explanation; and the floor was soon occupied for another
dance.

Perkins again asked the stranger if he wished to join;
he declined for that time, but added, “Don't let me detain
you, doctor; I shall be well entertained by seeing
your performance.”

“No,” said Perkins, “I am not in a humor for jigging
to-night. My wife is not here, and I can never enjoy
such a scene without her to partake it. She was detained
at home by the sudden illness of our babe, and I
should have staid with her, had I not expected to meet
you and Romilly.”

The Englishman received this domestic intelligence
with a kind of comical stare; and he could not help
thinking how such a speech, delivered as this was, in the

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perfectly natural tone of native feeling, would be greeted
by the fashionable husbands of his own fashionable
metropolis.

The figure now called was an intricate but very graceful
one when well executed, and the dancers acquitted
themselves handsomely. After regarding their movements
for some time with earnest and silent attention,
Mr. Frankford suddenly burst into a laugh which appeared
wholly involuntary.

Dr. Perkins started, and a slight embarrassment, half
ludicrous, half alarmed, might be perceived shading his
good humored countenance, as he turned his eyes on the
Englishman with a look which demanded explanation.

Frankford, the moment he could speak, explained the
whole by saying,

“Excuse me, doctor, I was not laughing at your countrymen,
but at my own. I was thinking of the ridiculous
prejudices the English as a nation, have imbibed
respecting America. There are individuals, and
honorable ones too, who do you ample justice; and to
such should I describe the scene I am now witnessing,
they would credit me, and rejoice in your happiness and
social refinement. But the mass of my countrymen
would account it as much a fable as the discoveries of
Gulliver. They think you half savage, wholly selfish,
and possessing nothing which assimilates you to Englishmen
except the tatters of their language. Should
I tell them that, in the interior of New Hampshire, I attended
a ball, where the ladies and gentlemen were dressed
in the same materials (I don't say as rich,) and, nearly
in the same fashions as would be found in a London
assembly; that the music was tolerable, (though I think
it the worst part of the performance,) and all the arrangements
conducted with civility, good taste, and even
elegance, why they would think me either jesting or
dreaming; either intending to deceive them, or laboring
under a deception myself. It was the wonder my narrative
would create that caused my mirth.”

“Then you intend to do us justice,” said the doctor,

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with a little trepidation, yet affecting to look unconcerned.

“Yes, indeed, I do,” returned the other, “you need not
fear my travels being a second edition of the scoundrel
Faux. But he described what he wished to find, and
what he knew would be acceptable to his employers.
We have not, sir, quite forgiven you the sin of acquiring
your independence. It galls our pride, it mortifies our
self-love;—but we are becoming better acquainted with
your character, and shall in time surmount our prejudices.”

“And we shall gladly meet you half way. We have
never forgotten our ancestors were Englishmen; and we
trust the time will come when even your proud Islanders
shall acknowledge we do not shame the stock from whence
we sprung.”

“And with such a sample before me, I shall not hesitate
to acknowledge it now. Your ladies, sir, have more
symmetry of form, and nearly as much delicacy of complexion
as our own. And what is more remarkable,
yours cannot owe these advantages to the delicacy of their
education; for I suppose but few now before me are exempted
by their wealth or station from industry.”

“No, not one,” returned Perkins; “but their labor is
entirely domestic. I presume you will not find, should
you travel throughout the United States, scarcely a single
female engaged in the labors of the field, or any kind
of out-door work, as it is called. And the manner in
which women are treated is allowed to be a good criterion
by which to judge of the character and civilization of a
people. Wherever they are oppressed, confined, or made
to perform the drudgery, we may be sure the men are
barbarians. But I do not believe there is now or ever
was a nation which treated their women with such kind
ness and consideration, tenderness and respect, as we
Americans do ours. Here they are educated to command
esteem, and considered as they deserve to be, the guardians
of domestic honor and happiness, friends and companions
of man. `And to study household good,' and

[figure description] Page 150.[end figure description]

rear and educate their children, is all the labor we wish
them to perform. But see, the dance is ended, and by
the bustle of the managers, I think we may expect supper;
you shall eat in peace, sir; I will not trouble you
with as long an eulogium on our cake as I have on our
ladies.”

The supper tables were spread in a long dining-hall
below stairs, and covered with every dainty and delicacy
the season afforded, or the occasion would justify. And
Frankford, while partaking the plentiful and excellent
entertainment, asked Perkins, by whom he was seated,
if the Thanksgiving feast lasted as many days as the
Passover.

“You shall be feasted as many days,” replied the Doctor,
“and more, if you will spend them in our society.”

“I should not need the promise of a feast to induce
me to prolong my visit; but my evil genius will, I suppose,
drive me hence on Monday.”

“What! so soon? Then you must come to my house
to-morrow.”

This Frankford said he should be happy to do, if Sidney
Romilly's engagements permitted.

When they returned to the ball-room, at his own request,
he led the dance with Sophia Romilly. That the
Englishman did not acquit himself entirely to his own
satisfaction, nor fulfil the expectations of superior grace
and elegance of movements, the Yankees had expected,
was ascribed by him to the musicians, and by them to
his illness; so he sat down with as much credit, though
not entirely as happy as he would have felt could he have
flattered himself he had excelled.

After enjoying the festivity till about one o'clock, the
Romillys, among whom were included Frankford and
Annie Redington, retired; leaving the company, who
were expected to prolong their pleasure till nearly morning.
The carriage called at Deacon Jones' house, and
Sidney had the honor of handing Annie out, but had
also to undergo the penance of being unmercifully rallied
the remainder of his ride. Even after they had retired

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to their chambers, Frankford did not desist, till Sidney
almost angrily declared, there was not a woman on earth
to whom he would offer his hand.

“Then the proposal will come from the fair lady,” said
Frankford, looking very grave, “for I know you will
marry her. I have spent some time in studying the laws
of fate, and if you two are not made for each other, I
will forswear my art.”

“Are the designs of fate always fulfilled?”

“Always; so make up your mind for the noose.”

“Not to-night,” replied Sidney, enveloping himself in
the ample bed-clothes. “I shall sleep soundly, without
once dreaming of Miss Redington.”

Whether he did sleep as soundly as he would have
done had Annie never crossed his path, the lover's muse
hath never recorded; but certainly the fair lady did not.
Again and again Sidney's image, combined with the
imaginary likeness of her father, arose before Annie;
every word of his conversation was recalled, and when
she thought of his riches and the style in which he had
been educated, she sighed deeply that he should see her
thus, a poor, dependent orphan.

It was the first time poverty had drawn a sigh from
her happy heart; but she checked all repining at her destiny,
and folding her hands on her innocent bosom,
meekly murmured,—“Father in heaven, thy will be
done,” and sunk calmly to repose.

p561-157

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