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There are certain conceited moralists, or philosophers,
if so please ye, and certain affected sentimentalists,
who profess to consider life and all
its blessings, a boon not worth receiving, not worth
possessing, and not worth our thanks to the great
Giver. In the pride of fancied superiority, they
pretend to look with calm contempt on the struggles,
the pursuits, the enjoyments of their fellowcreatures,
and to hold themselves aloof from such
a petty warfare for petty objects. They undervalue
the enjoyments, they exaggerate the sufferings
of the human race, and indirectly impeach
the mercy of Providence, in having created countless
millions of human beings only to increase the
sum of misery in this world.

But, for our part, we hold no communion with
such men, whether they are sincere or not; nor
do we believe for one single moment—except,
peradventure, when suffering a twinge of the
tooth-ache—that the good-hearted, well-disposed
inhabitants of this world, take them by and
large, do not on the whole enjoy more than
they suffer even here, where it would seem
from these philosophers and sentimentalists there
is as little distribution of infinite justice as
there is dispensation of infinite mercy. What
though there are intervals of sorrow,

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disappointment, remorse, agony, if you will, mingled
in the cup of existence, that man must be very
wretched indeed who, in looking back upon his
course, cannot count far more hours of enjoyment
than of suffering. We deceive ourselves perpetually,
and there is nothing which we exaggerate
more than the ordinary calamities of others, until
the truth is brought home to ourselves by being
placed in the same situation.

When mankind appear to be plunged in the
very waters of bitterness, without hope or consolation,
they are not, after all, so wretched as might
be imagined by the young and inexperienced.
Melancholy, grief, nay, even despair can find a
strange pleasure in unlimited self-indulgence.
The good Being who gives the wound seems to
have provided a remedy to soften its pangs, by
ordaining that the very grief which dwelleth in
the innermost heart should be mixed with some
rare ingredients that sweeten or allevaite the bitter
draught. In his extremest justice, he seems to
remember mercy; and while he strikes, he spares.
Amid clouds and darkness there is still an unextinguished
light; in storms and tempests there
floats a saving plank; amid the deepest wo there
is a sad luxury in giving way without restraint
to tears; in calling to mind again and again the lost
object of our affections, summing up the extent
of our irretrievable loss, and pouring into our own
wounds the balm of our own pity.

Happiness consists in a quiet series of almost
imperceptible enjoyments that make little impression
on the memory. Every free breath we draw
is an enjoyment; every thing beautiful in nature
or art is a source of enjoyment; memory, hope,
fancy, every faculty of the intellect of man is a

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source of enjoyment; the flowers, the fruits, the
birds, the woods, the waters, the course, the vicissitudes,
and the vast phenomena of nature, created,
regulated, and preserved by the mighty hand
of an omnipotent Being, all are legitimate and
easonable sources of enjoyment, within the reach
of every rational being. Death is indeed the lot
of all, and all should yield a calm obedience to
the law of nature when the hour shall come. But
a fretful impatience or an affected contempt of
life, is as little allied to philosophy as to religion.

Such being our view of the subject, we are rather
inclined to admire than to blame Virginia for
being grateful to Rainsford for the preservation
of a life as yet unstained by guilt or unblighted by
suffering. The gift, and the manner of bestowing
it, touched her to the soul, and, co-operating
with former predispositions in his favour, produced
a feeling so exquisitely tender, that if it
was not love, it certainly was not friendship.
Perhaps it partook of both, and in all probability
it had more of the former than of the latter. As
it was, however, it communicated a touching
character to her speech, her actions, and—shall
we confess it?—to her looks, when she sometimes
watched with a newly-awakened interest those
sudden changes of temper, those wild sallies of
imagination, which she fancied waxed more and
more frequent. The inconsistencies of his conduct
also became every day more marked, and if
he at one time was little less than a lover, he
would at another become little less than rude and
neglectful. Yet with all this, there was more, far
more of the appearance of being irresistibly impelled
by necessity than of acting under the influence
of wanton caprice. It was evident that

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grief, or some feeling allied to it, was at the root
of all his eccentricities.

The morning after the fire a messenger was
sent for Colonel Dangerfield, who returned in the
evening. In the warmth of his gratitude for the
preservation of his daughter, he thanked Rainsford
with all his heart, and for a while every vestige
of his former coolness disappeared. But
though his conduct continued such as would have
satisfied a stranger that the young man was a
prime favourite, still Rainsford felt that the colonel
was rather striving to repay an obligation than
giving way to a spontaneous feeling of kindness.
“He has heard or he suspects the secret reason
of my flying from my home,” whispered the apprehensive
conscience of the unfortunate wanderer;
and his first impulse was to rid him of his
presence for ever, by departing as he came. But
still he remained spellbound by an influence which
every day became stronger, and every hour added
something to the burthen he bore.

A few days sufficed for the erection of a new
mansion in the room of that which had been
burnt. The good villagers resorted to what, in
woodland phrase, is called “log-rolling,” which
means a combined effort of many to do that which
is either difficult or impossible to one. They
gathered together and built the colonel a house,
but it was a sad falling off from the other; being
simply constructed of logs, after the manner of a
primitive settlement; where, there being no sawmills,
the only resource is to take the whole tree,
or “go the whole hog,” as they say in “Old Kentuck.”
Nor could they boast much of their furniture,
great part of that in the old house having
been destroyed. But the spring was approaching,

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the colonel had ample funds to build and furnish
a house equal to the one he had lost, and they
were content to wait. Indeed, we have observed,
that not only do people who have the means of any
gratification in their power exhibit less eagerness
for its enjoyment; but it is equally true, that those
who have once possessed the luxuries of wealth,
generally submit to their loss with a much better
grace than people who have never known any
other state, endure the pressure of poverty. The
reason is, that the former have had experience of
how little real value are mere superfluities in the
cup of happiness, while the latter view them
through the exaggerated medium of their imagination.

The family was settled in the new log-palace,
and matters going on in the usual jog-trot
way, when one morning Mrs. Judith Paddock,
having been on the watch for some time, saw the
coast clear, and sallied forth across the way to
pay a visit to Miss Virginia Dangerfield, whom
she found, as she wished, alone. That young lady
did not much covet the society of Mrs. Judith,
but it was a rule of the house never to refuse
either hospitality or politeness to any but the
worthless. The good woman was accordingly
received with due kindness, and invited to sit
down. For some time she talked of matters and
things in general; then she came to particulars;
condoled with Virginia on the burning of the
house; congratulated her on her escape, and
finally uttering a deep sigh, stopped her everlasting
tongue for a moment.

“What is the matter, Mrs. Paddock?” said Virginia.

“Ah!—heigho!—this is a wicked world.”

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“It has indeed rather an indifferent reputation,
but what induced you to make the remark just
now?”

“Ah!—heigho!” And here she smoothed her
white apron. “It's a scandalous world, a very
scandalous world. I could tell such things—but
I'd rather cut out my tongue than scandalize any
human being, not even so much as a nigger.”

Virginia knew the good Mrs. Judith had something
on her mind, but determined not to be
accessary to bringing it forth. Perhaps she knew
enough of her to know that she would hear it
without. Mrs. Judith sighed, and smacked her
lips again.

“Ah! who'd have thought it, who'd have thought
it—such a nice young man!”

“Who, Mrs. Paddock, your husband?” said
Virginia, smiling.

“No, indeed, Miss Phiginny. Ah! he's another
guess sort of a man. But what a shocking
pity it is. Heigho! it's a scandalous, a wicked
world this.”

“Have you just found that out, Mrs. Paddock?”

“No, indeed, I'm not quite such a fool, Miss
Phiginny; but I've found out something else.”

“Ah!” Virginia was just going to ask what,
but checked herself, determined to be innocent of
every thing except listening. Again Mrs. Judith
sighed, and shook her ambrosial curls.

“Ah! what a nice young man that Mr. Rainsford
seems to be. I talk to him sometimes for
hours, and he don't interrupt me a single word.
O! he's a nice young man. But—heigho!—
what a wicked world we live in.”

Virginia began to fidget a little, and it was just

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on the tip of her tongue to inquire what Mrs.
Judith meant. But she only blushed.

“To be sure, he saved your life, they say. But,
heigho!—mercy knows, if all I heard is true, it
was the least thing he could do to make up for
the life he took.”

“What! woman—Mrs. Paddock—what do you
say? What are you going to say?”

“Ah! its such a scandalous world—heigho!—
such a wicked world, that I'd rather not tell what
I know, if it wasn't that I think it my bounden
duty to you and the colonel.”

Virginia now trembled in spite of herself, and
demanded at once all the woman knew. Mrs.
Paddock drew her chair closer to her side, and
began in an under tone, ever and anon looking
around cautiously.

“You must know, Miss Phiginny, that though
I like to find out what is going on here in the village,
its only that I may keep it a secret from
everybody. Especially, you know it's my business
to know all about people that live in our house,
else they might be horse-thieves or murderers;”—
and she emphasised the word;—“and I be never
the better for it. So I think it my duty to keep
an eye upon them, and if I see or hear any thing
suspicious, why, I follow it up, until, I warrant
you, I ferret it out, somehow or other. Well,”
and here she drew her chair closer to Virginia,
who turned pale at this awful preface. “Well,
I somehow, I hardly can tell how, for I assure
you I never listened at his keyhole, or—or—
peeped in at his window, I often saw Mr. Rainsford,
if his name is indeed Rainsford, in great
distress; and heard him groan late at night,
and walk across the floor. Well, putting odds

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and ends together, says I to myself, says I, “If
that young man hasn't got something on his mind
that hadn't ought to be there, my name isn't Judith
Squires,' that's my maiden-name, Miss. `And,'
says I, `it's my duty to find it out, that I may keep
it a secret from everybody like, you know.”'

“Well, well, go on, Mrs. Paddock. Let me
know the worst.”

“Ah! bad enough in all conscience, Miss Phiginny.
Well, you see, I kindly, you know, turned
the conversation upon different sorts of wickedness,—
ah! this is a wicked world!—just to see
if I could find out something from his looks, or
words, or actions, you know. Well, I talked
about stealing horses; and how the regulators
served a horse-thief once; they tied him to a tree
and whipped him. But I couldn't see any thing
that looked like a guilty conscience; and so another
time I told him of a man that robbed a traveller
who was coming to buy land, and had his
pocket-book full of money, but he looked as innocent-like
as a child. And so I went on, talking of
all sorts of bad things, without stirring his conscience
at all, as I could see. When, one day—
ah! this is a wicked world!—one day, it was
yesterday three weeks, I believe. Yes, it was
yesterday three weeks. I happened to be telling
him about Mrs. Fudgell, poor soul, who, you
know, went mad with religion, the year before
last, and killed her child, you know. Well, if he
didn't jump up as if he had been shot, and he
cried out, `What, murder her own child! Oh
God! Oh God! that ever I was born for such
misery!' and he snatched his hat and ran out
of the room as if the sheriff had been after him.
Now, putting all these things together,—Heigho!

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If this was not such a scandalous world, I should
say that Mr. Rainsford had—”

“What?” shrieked Virginia.

“The weight of blood on his conscience. I
saw a man hanged once for murder that looked
as much like him as two peas.”

The idea was too horrible, and yet there certainly
was something in his conduct, altogether
strange, mysterious, and inexplicable. But Virginia
thrust the grinning fiend suspicion from her
with a mighty effort, and looking, with a pale
countenance of severity at Mrs. Judith, warned
her solemnly against indulging or uttering such
ridiculous slanders. She summoned all her
powers of reasoning to convince her of the utter
improbability of such a man being stained with
such a crime; she held up to her view the cruelty
of imputing such deep guilt to a stranger, whose
conduct since his residence among them had been
kind, benevolent, and praiseworthy, in every respect;
and she drew from Mrs. Judith a promise
that she would never tell to any other human
being what she had just disclosed to her. “As for
me,” cried Virginia, “I would as soon suspect my
father.”

“Yes, and so would I. But ah! heigho!—it's
a very wicked and scandalous world this.”

Mrs. Judith took her leave, and Virginia remained
buried in the gloom of a painful melancholy
revery long after her departure.

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