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The period at which Sidney Romilly was, for the first
time in his life, to commence business for himself, arrived—
a cold, boisterous December morning, for the
winter had now commenced with extreme severity; and
while he listened to the howling blast that came sweeping
over the bleak hills, and shook the chamber in which
he lay, while the frozen snow rattled against the windows,
his blood almost froze in his veins as he thought
of braving the tempestuous weather. He could not but
moralize—it was an excellent time for moralizing—on
the bitter change in his own prospects.

But a little time before, and he was sporting in the
summer of prosperity; but the blight had fallen, the
blast had swept, and he was now stripped of all, and
could, in the language of the sweet but unfortunate poet
whose lines adorn this chapter, exclaim,—

He arose and looked abroad, but the scenery was not
at all calculated to raise his drooping spirits. Every object
around was covered with a white shroud, even the
evergreens on the mountains were loaded with snow, and

SYDNEY AS A YANKEE SCHOOLMASTER. [figure description] Illustration Page. Image of man sitting at a table with seven children engaged in various activites around him. He has his arm around one boy and a book in his other hand.[end figure description]

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nature wore that cold, cheerless, monotonous appearance
that chills the heart, and sends the warm affections and
fancies, which love to revel amid the buds of spring and
roses of summer, back to the social hearth for smiles, and
beauty, and pleasures.

And in the kindred circle of the Romillys, warm affections
and sunny looks were kindling and radiant the
whole year round. Winter came not to chill the feelings
of their kind and happy hearts, and Sidney, while witnessing
their cheerful industry and the alacrity with which
the younger members of the family prepared for school,
and saw how lightly and joyously they bounded over the
high snow-drifts, felt ashamed of his own effeminacy in
thus shrinking at obstacles his little brothers were fearlessly
braving.

The snow had fallen several feet during the night, and
all the men in the neighborhood went abroad at an early
hour to break the paths. This they effected by means
of their sleds and what is called a drag, drawn by oxen,
and using a shovel where the snow was piled the highest,
and so thoroughly they performed their work, that Sidney
found a tolerable road as he bent his steps towards
his school-house. On his way he was frequently passed
by some of his scholars, cunning, laughing urchins, who
just paused to bow lowly to their master, and then sprung
away like deer through the snow-wreaths, shouting with
delight as they often purposely fell and rolled among the
light, feathery particles.

Sidney smiled at their sports, while memory transported
him back to the days and scenes of his own
childish amusements, and he thought how little was
requisite to constitute happiness when the mind was only
contented to enjoy it; and before he reached the school-house,
he had firmly resolved to be contented.

When he entered the house where the scholars had
nearly all assembled and taken their seats, he found a
comfortable room, warm fire, and smiling faces to welcome
him; and a sensation of pleasure, hitherto unknown,
swelled his bosom when he saw them all waiting his nod,

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and attentive to execute his commands, and discovered
that although they were legitimate born and thorough
bred republicans, yet they were very easily subjected to
the monarchical authority of their rightful master. But
Sidney Romilly was not one of those who, “drest in a
little brief authority,” appear like an angry ape, and pelt
all subjected to their sway; his own kind feelings had
taught him that kindness was the master key to the
human heart, and so well did he manage to obtain the
love of his pupils, and yet impress them with the fear of
offending him, that his wishes were very soon all the
laws he needed, and to express them was to insure their
cheerful performance.

The duties of an instructor are always perplexing and
often irksome, yet there are many agreeable passages in
hours spent in imparting knowledge to the young and
ductile understanding; and the exertions the employment
required, were necessary to occupy Sidney's mind,
and prevent him from indulging in useless regret, or
yielding to consuming ennui. When his daily task was
concluded, how dearly he enjoyed the tranquil domestic
bliss that brightened his father's hearth; or the lively,
intelligent, though sometimes whimsical gaiety that characterized
the abode of his friend Perkins.

But there was one house whose attractions, although
he did not, even to his own heart, dare to acknowledge
the extent of their power, possessed a charm of tenderness
more exquisite still. Yet it was not the conversation
of the Deacon, although he always welcomed the
school-master, and exerted himself to entertain him by
proving the orthodox validity of his own faith, and attempting
to convince his auditor of his utter sinfulness
and ruin if he did not embrace the same religious tenets.
These observations were generally introduced in the preamble
that now was an excellent time for Mr. Sidney
Romilly to examine himself, as he was released from the
temptations of great wealth, and must have seen the folly
of trusting in an arm of flesh; and they were always
concluded by a libation from his pitcher of cider, which

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Mr. Sidney was heartily invited to participate. Then
the old gentleman usually retired to his own room to
smoke his pipe and plan his business for the next day.

After he and his woman, as he commonly called his
wife, had withdrawn, Silas Romilly, and his wife were
assiduous in offering every attention, and promoting
every amusement they thought would contribute to their
brother's happiness, and, assisted by Annie, seldom were
they unsuccessful. Her acquaintance with polished society
and the forms of fashionable life, gave him an
opportunity of displaying his taste and sentiments on
subjects with which he was most familiar, but which no
other person in the village, except Annie, would have
comprehended. Their favorite authors were the same,
and thus their sentiments were every day more closely
assimilating their feelings, and their intercourse and
friendship ripening into intimacy and affection.

Annie sung, perhaps, like an angel, but that is, to us,
an uncertain comparison; certainly, however, with one
of the sweetest of human voices. Neither did she, by
capricious refusals, endeavor to enhance the value of her
condescension; but almost always complied with Sidney's
first request for a song with such winning grace, that even
an indifferent execution would have delighted. How,
then, could he fail to be enchanted by her harmony?
Even the timid reserve that often stole over her in their
gayest moments, and her occasional evenings of silence,
were not unpleasing to Sidney. He well remembered
what Perkins had told him, and though the universe
would not have tempted him to have wounded her delicacy
by betraying a consciousness that he was beloved,
yet it was bliss to hope it. He had not formed any distinct
purpose why he hoped it—it was like a sweet vision
which he feared to dissipate by any attempt to ascertain
its reality.

But the weeks passed rapidly away, and nothing occurred
to mar the winter's enjoyment. George Cranfield
came not by his melancholy to cast a shade over their
happiness; his name, whenever spoken by Annie, was

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always mentioned with respect, and Sidney never heard
an allusion escape her lips which hinted in any manner
her rejection of that amiable young man.

Ephraim Skinner now seldom intruded his busy and
important face among the cheerful group at the deacon's.
In particular, he avoided meeting Mr. Romilly there;
and though the old deacon always stoutly vindicated
him, saying he believed him an experienced man—meaning
pious—and that he only wanted his own, and that
Mr. Sidney would find it necessary to look out a little
sharper before he ever acquired any property; yet he
never could, in his own family, make any converts to his
opinion, nor was he much more successful in the neighborhood.

Benevolence is a passport to most hearts, and Sidney's
generous sympathy for the misfortunes of the poor debtor,
had created a lively interest for his fate in the minds of
that unsophisticated people, which his subsequent losses,
by reducing him nearer their own level, had contributed
to increase. He was the magnet of the village. A school
master in the country is always a personage of consequence;
his relation as instructor of their children giving
him a vast importance with the parents, and he was
accordingly invited to all the dwellings in the district,
and numerous parties and sleigh rides were contrived to
amuse him, and testify their deep sense of his merits and
services. At these parties the schoolmaster and Miss
Redington were almost always associated; the good folks
seeming, by common consent, to agree, that no lady,
except the deacon's niece from Boston, was a fitting
partner for the southern bred gentleman; and proud were
they that they had amongst them so lovely and amiable
a being to grace their drawing rooms and be the queen
of their festivities.

Among those who insisted on, at least, a call from
Sidney, was his protogee Merrill. When his family had
nearly recovered, and he could go abroad without fearing
for their safety, he came to visit and make his acknowledgments
to his benefactor. He found Sidney at Deacon

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Jones' and there poured out his gratitude in the strong,
simple language of native feeling. His appearance was
so altered that Sidney, at first, hardly recollected him.
When he saw him before, his long black beard gave an
almost savage look to his countenance; while the fatigue
and anxiety he had undergone made his eyes appear
sunken and his complexion sallow, and his neglected and
even ragged apparel, affixed to his image, in the mind of
Sidney, an idea of wretchedness which he never liked to
remember.

But now he came arrayed in a neat and comfortable
suit of home made; his beard was closely shaven, and his
brisk eye and animated countenance had taken at least
ten years of age from his former appearance; and there
needed not the affirmation he gave of his present happiness
to satisfy his hearers of its reality.

While he was, with tears of joy swelling in his eyes,
relating that his family had nearly recovered, and how
happy they were, and that every thing seemed now to go
right with him, as he expressed it; and thanking Sidney
again and again for his assistance, Annie wept unrestrainedly,
and the old deacon wiped his nose often,
which he afterwards ascribed to a violent cold; but which
was undoubtedly the thawings of sympathy, so long congealed
that the passages to his eyes were closed, and
therefore it took another course.

Merrill knew of Sidney's present embarrassments, but
delicacy forbade him to allude to them, except by telling
the arrangements he was making to refund the money his
benefactor had advanced.

“My wife and I are talking it over every day,” said
he, “and I will endeavor to pay it now, if you say so,
though I sell all my stock, oxen and all. I can part
with my oxen now better than I could a month ago, for
I have been hauling up a pretty good mess of wood—I
am determined never to be short of wood again.”

Sidney told him he did not wish him to distress himself
to refund the money; that was not the idea under
which he had received it, adding,

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“My assistance would be no kindness at all should I
insist on payment now; you might just as well have
satisfied the execution of Mr. Skinner.”

“O! no,” replied Merrill, “not by a great sight. My
family are now nearly well, and there is a great deal of
difference in our feelings about paying it to you, sir, or
having it forced from us by the cruelty of that villain.
But, Mr. Sidney Romilly, you must come up and see us—
my wife will never rest easy till she sees you, and our
baby, poor boy, is'nt well enough yet for her to go out,
or she would have called and thanked you before now.
Then my boys all want to see you. Do come up next
week, and bring Miss Redington here, she's been as kind
as an angel too. And your brother and his wife must
come, and Dr. Perkins—the doctor has promised me
already. Now won't you come up all together?”

Annie blushed and smiled, while Sidney gaily inquired
if she would ride with him and call on Mr.
Merrill; and finally the visit was settled for the Thursday
evening following.

And a beautiful evening it proved, only very cold;
but wrapped in buffaloes, and with good horses, they
cared little for the “nipping and eager air,” while the
jingle of the sleigh-bells formed a concert by no means
unpleasant, and quite appropriate with their rapid motion.

They soon arrived at the dwelling of Merrill, a small
one-story house, the color of the wood, and only lighted
by two glass windows, the apertures for the remaining
ones being closed with boards. There was, however, a
large, well finished barn and sheds a few steps distant,
and Perkins remarked he always noted down the farmer
as a thriving, industrious, economical man, who had a
barn larger than his house.

A bright fire shone through the small windows and
open door as they drove up, where Merrill waited to
receive them; and, after shaking hands with every individual,
and bidding them welcome, he ushered them
into the only finished room, which served for every

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occasion, introduced them to his wife, and then went out
to take care of the horses.

His wife instantly offered chairs, and assisted them to
disencumber themselves of their bonnets and overcoats,
and then they formed a circle around a fire that literally
blazed like a furnace. Mr. Merrill, thinking one essential
rite of hospitality in such a cold night, was to provide a
good fire for his guests, had contrived, by placing a
maple log, nearly three feet in diameter, at the back of
his capacious fire-place, and then piling small wood
almost to the mantel-piece, to have, on their arrival, what
might very well represent a bonfire. The strong light
displayed the neat room and furniture, bought for use
not show, to the best advantage, every article looking as
clean as if it were under the superintendence of those
fairies who of yore presided over the department of the
tidy housewife.

On low stools, by one corner of the fire-place, sat the
four boys, their chubby cheeks well attesting their complete
recovery from the sickness they had suffered; and
looking like pictures of innocent happiness as their
roguish eyes from time to time glanced on the good
gentleman their father had told them they must love,
and then turned significantly smiling on each other.

A cradle stood beside Mrs. Merrill, in which lay her
babe, whose illness had been protracted by a fever-sore
that now threatened to destroy the use of its limbs, and
the history of which furnished her first topic of discourse,
as it certainly was the one on which she had been pondering
most intently.

Over the mantel-piece, suspended on a wire hook, hung
a file of newspapers, and beside them an almanac, and
Sidney, as he remarked it, could not but relate the anecdote
of Zeb, and the mirth of Frankford.

When their host returned, he was accompanied by a
stripling whom Sidney immediately recollected as the
“Captain Luther” of the squirrel hunt, and whom the
elder Merrill said was his brother, and that he had come

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there that evening just to see Mr. Sidney Romilly, and
thank him for his kindness.

“But thanks are poor pay for what we all owe you,”
said Mrs. Merrill, the tears filling her mild blue eyes.

“I intend to be paying him something more substantial,
by-and-by,” said her husband, briskly. “I
and my boys shall work like Jehus next summer. I
have a good farm and a good wife, and if we only have
good health, I'll soon get out of debt, and then we shall
be independent, and I wouldn't swap with a kind. Yet,
we shall never forget who were out friends in the hour
of trouble. Come here, boys, and make your bows to
this gentleman.”

The children all came forward, hanging their heads
and looking rather silly; yet the pleasure their parents
enjoyed while relating how well they could read and
work, and what they intended to make of them, was so
heartfelt that no one could witness it without sympathizing
in the happiness that appeared so sincere and so
virtuous.

“Now here's my John,” said the exulting father, nodding
significantly to Sidney, and pulling his boy closely
towards him; “he is but twelve, and has never had a
very good chance to school, but he'll read anything right
off as fast as a lawyer. If I can only get out of debt, I
believe I shall try and send him to college. I always
take the papers, for I think every man who has the
privilege of voting, ought to know what is doing in the
world, so I take 'em, and John reads 'em all; and some
of them congress speeches are plaguy long-winded, you
know. I'm so tired when I've done work I don't read
'em half; but John, if he can get a book or paper, is
never tired. But there's a good many hard words in
them are speeches, and I couldn't tell John the meaning,
for I didn't know, and he teased me till I bought him a
dixonary last winter. John, bring the book here and
show it to the gentlemen.”

The boy obeyed with alacrity, and soon rummaged out
his dictionary from a pile of school books, that together

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with a large Bible, were the ornament of an old fashioned
desk.

“Now,” continued his father, taking it from him and
presenting it to Sidney,—“now see how nice he's kept
it; and he's studied it too, more, I'm afraid, than his
Bible, and his mother is pretty particular to make him
read in that every day. Well, when Skinner sued me,
I felt so poor I told John I guessed I mustn't take the
papers any longer, and I must turn out his dixonary to
the sheriff, and the boy cried in a minute. And he
hadn't shed a tear in all his sickness, and had taken all
his med'son without saying a word, but when I told him
I must sell his books, he cried like a baby. And he
said I might sell his new hat and welcome, if I'd only
let him keep his dixonary. Then I thought I should
never save enough by skrimping the children's books,
and stopping the papers to make me rich; and I told
my wife I'd work a little harder, or drink a little less
rum in haying time, and I don't drink much now, before
I'd make 'em cry so about their books. And then,
Mr. Sidney, you were good enough to help me; so John
keeps his dixonary, and reads the papers every week,
and I don't think you can hardly pick out a word but
what he'll tell you the meaning.”

The company laughed heartily, and joined in commending
John's perseverance, and predicting his future greatness
and the speeches he would probably make in Congress
some day, when Mrs. Merrill, who felt the mother's
impartial affection for all her children, and could not
bear that one should engross so entirely the attention,
began to dilate on the excellencies of the others. In this
she was soon heartily joined by her husband, and after
they had proved that certainly, in their opinion, their
children inherited every good quality ever bestowed on
mortals, the kind father took up from the cradle his sick
boy, and holding him with the most careful attention,
declared he was the brightest of them all; “and,” continued
he, “though I don't expect he'll ever do a day's
work in the world, I don't care anything about that. If

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he may only live, I'll take care of him, and make him a
minister or a doctor, and then his lameness will never do
him much hurt.”

Mr. Merrill was standing, with his head a little declined
over the pillow on which lay the little sufferer, who feebly
smiled as he met the looks of kindness and sympathy
thus bent upon him. Sidney gazed on the tall, muscular
form of the father, whose large, sinewy hand and strong
arm, that seemed formed for deeds of dexterity and daring,
to heave the huge weight, or hurl the ponderous
weapon, was now clasped around and supporting with all
a woman's tenderness, a sickly infant; while his soul,
that in accordance with the rough, gigantic frame it inhabited,
might have been thought of a stern, rugged, and
unyielding temperament, was all dissolved in sensations
of compassion and love.

“O, these affections of the heart,” thought Sidney,
“how easily they subdue the lofty or the stubborn spirit,
and make bosoms of flint gush with streams of feeling
and charity, till the disposition of the man, proud, bold,
and lion-like, is softened down to the tenderness and constancy
of the meek-eyed dove.”

As he finished his mental soliloquy, his eye rested on
Annie's lovely and intelligent countenance, beaming with
all the benevolence with which his own heart was overflowing;
and at that moment he loved her better than
ever he did Zemira. It was the affection of holy sympathy.

But these deep and engrossing reveries were soon dispelled
by the jollity of Dr. Perkins. He always liked to
see every one merry and sociable, and he related some
of his best anecdotes, and insisted on a song from Annie,
which was given, when assured the noise would not injure
the poor babe.

The sweet and simple air she sung was listened to with
breathless attention, and when she finished, not the encore
of the fashionables at an Italian opera could be more expressive
of approbation than were the smiles of her
auditors; nor could Jenny Lind herself be more gratified

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at the applauses her “Bird Song” elicited, than was Annie
Redington when her lover—he might well at that moment
be called her lover—softly whispered,—“How charming!”

Merrill proferred around his cider with an unsparing
hand, and the little boys followed with fine mellow apples,
and they were careful to point Mr. Romilly and Miss
Redington to the largest and fairest. These, with fried
cakes and gingerbread, both as sweet as maple sugar
could make them, minced pie, pumpkin pie, and cheese,
constituted their treat; and after passing about three
hours, enjoying besides the good cheer, what might well
be called substantial happiness, as it was of a kind which
could forever be reflected on with satisfaction, they prepared
to depart.

Before they went, however, Annie found an opportunity
to inform Mrs. Merrill of an excellent polutice and
embrocation for the limb of her babe, and then kissing
its pale cheek, she gave her hand to Sidney; and, followed
by the good wishes of this grateful family, they
entered their sleighs and were quickly whirled home.

Sidney, in spite of the din of the bells, found an opportunity
to say to Annie, “What pleasure can be compared
to the bliss of such domestic confidence and affections
as we have just witnessed. I am a thorough convert
to the sentiments of the plowman bard.

Annie did not answer, but her audible sigh breathed
warm on the cheek of Sidney, as his face nearly touched
hers, listening for her reply, and assured him she approved,
indeed reciprocated his feelings.

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