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Jane entered upon the duties of her new vocation with more
energy and interest than could have been reasonably expected
from a young lady who had so recently entered into an
engagement of marriage, and one which opened upon her the
most flattering prospects. She already felt the benefits resulting
from the severe discipline she had suffered in her aunt's
family. She had a rare habit of putting self aside; of deferring
her own inclinations to the will, and interests, and
inclinations of others. A superficial survey of the human mind
in all its diversity of conditions, will convince us that it may
be trained to any thing; else, how shall we account for the
proud exultation of a savage amidst the cruellest tortures his
triumphant enemy can inflict; or for any of the wonderful
phenomena of enterprise, of fortitude, of patience, in beings
whose physical natures are so constituted, that they instinctively
shrink from suffering?

Our fair young readers (if any of that class condescend

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to read this unromantic tale) will smile at the idea that Jane
had any farther occasion for the virtues of adversity; but
she was far from being happy; she had not that firm confidence
in the character of her lover that could alone have
inspired the joy of hope, and secured a quiet spirit. Since
her engagement, and even before, and ever since she had
been interested in Erskine, she had not dared to sound the
depths of her heart. Though quite a novice in the experience
of love, she would have been able to detect its subtleties;
she would have been able to ascertain the nature, and
amount of her affection for Erskine, had she not been driven
by his apparent magnanimity, and the oppression of her relations,
to a sudden decision. We appeal then once more to
our fair young readers, and trust their justice will award to
our heroine some praise, for her spirited and patient performance
of her duties to her young pupils, who were very
far from imagining that their kind and gentle teacher had
any thing in the world to trouble her, or to engage her mind,
but their wants and pursuits.

Her disquietude did not escape the quickened vision of
her vigilant friend Mr. Lloyd; he observed the shadows of
anxiety settling on her usually bright and cheerful countenance,
but even he had no conception of the extent of her
busy apprehensions and secret misgivings.

Week after week passed away, and three seemed to be no
prospect that any thing would occur to free Jane from the
very unpleasant situation in which her aunt's accusations had
placed her. Erskine became restless and impatient, derided
all Jane's arguments in favor of delaying their marriage, and
finally affected to distrust her affection for him. If the undefined,
and undefinable sentiment which was compounded
in Jane's heart of youthful preference and gratitude, was not

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love, Jane believed it was, and she at last yielded a reluctant
consent, that the marriage should take place at the end of
three months, even though nothing should occur to release
her from her aunt's power.

It was a few days after this promise had been given, that
as she was one day returning from her school, Erskine joined
her.—“Your friend Robert Lloyd,” said he, “has taken a
mighty fancy to me of late—I cannot conceive what is the
reason of it.”

Jane blushed, for she thought he might have guessed the
reason. “I am glad of it,” she replied, “for he seems to
have withdrawn from me, and you are the only person, Edward,
to whom I should be willing to relinquish any portion
of Mr. Lloyd's regard.”

“Ah, Jane! you need not be alarmed; he and I should
never mix, any more than oil and vinegar.”

“I am sorry for that; but which is the oil, and which is
the vinegar?”

“Oh, he is the oil, soft—neutralizing—rather tasteless;
while I, you know, have a character of my own—am positive—
am—but perhaps it would not be quite modest for me to
finish the parallel. To confess the truth to you, Jane, I
have always had an aversion to Quakers; they are a very
hypocritical sect, depend upon it; pretending, sly, avaricious,
cheating rogues.”

“That's a harsh judgment,” replied Jane, with some
warmth, “and a prejudice, I think: is not Mr. Lloyd the
only Quaker you know?”

“Why—ye—yes, the only one I know much of.”

“And does he justify your opinion?”

“I don't know: it takes a great while to find them out;
and even if Lloyd should be what he would seem, the

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exception only proves the rule. I have always disliked
Quakers. I remember a story my father used to tell, when I
was a child, about his being overreached in a most ingenious,
practised manner, by one of the sly-boots, as he called the
whole race. It was not an affair of any great moment; but
no man likes to be outwitted in a bargain, and my father
used to say it gave him an antipathy to the very name of
a Quaker.”

“I think your father was in fault,” replied Jane, “so
carelessly to implant a prejudice, which, as it seems to have
had very slight ground, I trust has not taken such deep root
that it cannot he eradicated.”

“There is more reason in my judgment than you give me
credit for,” replied Edward pettishly. “If they are an upright,
frank people, why is the world kept in ignorance of
their belief? The Quakers have no creed; and though I have
no great faith in the professors of any sect, yet they ought to
let you know what they do think; it is fair and above board.
You may depend upon it, Jane, the Quakers are a jesuitical
people.”

“Have you ever read any of their books?” inquired Jane.

“I read them!” he replied, laughing; “why, my dear
girl, do you take me for a theologian? No—I never read
the books of any sect; and Quaker books, I believe there are
not. Quaker books!” he continued, still laughing, “no, no—
I shall never addict myself to divinity, till Ann Ratcliffe
writes sermons, and Tom Moore warbles hymns.”

Jane did not join in his laugh; but replied, “There is a
book, Edward, that contains the creed of the Quakers: a
creed to which they have never presumed to add any thing,
nor have they taken any thing from it; the only creed to
which they think it right to require the assent of man, and

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from which no rational man can dissent—that book is the
Bible! and,” she continued, earnestly, “their faith in this
creed is shown by their works. My dear Edward, examine
their history for their vindication.”

“That I need not, while their cause has so fair a champion.”

“Spare me your sarcasms, Edward, and let me entreat
you to look at the life of their wise and excellent Penn. See
him patiently and firmly enduring persecution, and calumny,
and oppression at home; giving up his time, his fortune, his
liberty, to the cause of suffering humanity, in every mode of
its appeal to his benevolence. Follow him with his colony
to the wilderness, and see him the only one of all the colonial
leaders, (I grieve that I cannot except our fathers, the
pilgrims)* the only one who treated the natives of the land
with justice and mercy. Our fathers, Edward, refused to
acknowledge the image of God in the poor Indian. They
affected to believe they were the children of the evil one,
and hunted them like beasts of prey, calling them `worse
than Seythian wolves;' while Penn, and his peaceful people,
won their confidence, their devotion, by treating them with
even-handed justice, with brotherly kindness; and they had
their reward; they lived unharmed among them, without

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forts, without a weapon of defence. Is it not the Friends that
have been foremost and most active in efforts for the abolition
of slavery? Among what people do we find most reformers
of the prisons—guardians of the poor and the oppressed—
most of those who `remember the forgotten, and attend to
the neglected—who dive into the depths of dungeons, and
plunge into the infection of hospitals?”'

There was a mingled expression of archness and admiration
in Edward's smile as he replied, “My dear Jane, you
are almost fit to speak in meeting. All that your defence
wants in justness, is made up by the eloquence of your eye
and your glowing cheek. I think friendship is a stronger
feeling in your heart than love, Jane,” he continued, with a
penetrating look that certainly did not abate the carnation of
her cheek. “If I, and all my ancestors had gone on crusades
and pilgrimages, the spirit would not have moved you to
such enthusiasm in our cause, as you manifest for the broadbrimmed,
straight-coated brethren of friend Lloyd.”

“Edward, have you yet to learn of me, that I speak least
of what I feel most?”

The gentleness of Jane's manner, and the tenderness of
her voice, soothed her lover; and he replied, “Forgive me,
dear Jane, a little jealousy; you know jealousy argues love.
To confess to you the honest truth, I felt a little more ticklish
than usual, this evening, on the subject of quakerism. I
had just parted with Mr. Lloyd; and he has been earnestly
recommending to me, to undertake a reform in our poorlaws,
by which he thinks, that we should rid ourselves of the
burden of supporting many who are not necessarily dependent
on us, and improve the condition of those who are. The
plan seems to me to be good and feasible.”

“And what then, Edward, provoked your displeasure?”

[figure description] Page 170.[end figure description]

“Why, he wished me to take the whole conduct of it.
He preferred that the plan should appear to originate with
me; that I should head a petition to the Legislature; and
if we succeeded, that I shall superintend the execution of
the plan.”

“Still, dear Edward, I see any thing but offence in all
this.”

“Because your eye-sight is a little dimmed by your partiality.
Do you believe, Jane, that any man would be willing
to transfer to another all the merit and praise of a scheme,
which, if it succeed, will be a most important benefit to the
community; will be felt, and noticed, and applauded by
every body? No—there is some design lurking under this
specious garb of disinterestedness—disinterestedness! it
only exists in the visions of poets, or the Utopian dreams of
youth; or, perhaps, embodied in the fine person of a hero of
romance.”

Oh! my dear Edward, it does exist; it is the principle,
the spirit of the Christian!”

“For example—of your aunt Wilson, and of sundry other
stanch professors I could mention, who,

“Is it fair,” replied Jane, “to condemn a whole class because
some of its members are faithless and disloyal? A
commander does but decimate a mutinous corps; and you
exclude the whole from your confidence, because a few are
treacherous. I allow,” continued Jane, “there are a few,
very few, who are perfectly disinterested; but every Christian,
in proportion to his fidelity to the teachings and

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example of his Master, will be moved and governed by this principle.”

Perhaps Edward felt a passing conviction of the truth of
Jane's assertions; at any rate, he made no reply, and afterwards
he shunned the subject; and even Jane seemed to
shrink from it as one upon which they had no common
feeling.

The day before entering on the duties of her second
school-term, Jane determined to indulge herself in a solitary
walk to the cottage of old John of the Mountain. She had
purchased some comforts for the old people, with a part of
her small earnings, and she knew if she carried them herself
she should double their value. She found the way without
difficulty, for her night-walk had indelibly impressed it on
her memory. On her approach to the cottage, and as she
emerged from the wood, she perceived just on its verge a
slight rising in the form of a grave; a wild rose-bush grew
beside it. Jane paused for a moment, and plucking one of
the flowers, she said, “fragrant and transient, thou art a fit
emblem of the blasted flower below!” As she turned from
the grave, she perceived that a magical change had been
wrought upon John's hut. Instead of a scarcely habitable
dwelling, of decayed logs, filled in with mud, she saw a neat
little framed house, with a fence around it, and a small garden
annexed to it, inclosed with a post and rail fence of neat
construction. Jane hastened forward, and entered the cottage
with the light step of one who goes on an errand of
kindness.

“Who would have thought,” said the good dame, as she
dusted a chair and handed it to Jane, “of your coming all
this way to see whether we were above ground yet?”

“Ah,” said John, “there are some in this world, a

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precious few, who remember those that every body else forgets.”

“I could not forget you, my good friends,” replied Jane,
“though John does not come any more to put me in mind of
you.”

“Why, Miss Jane,” said John, “I grow old, and I have
been but twice to the village since that mournful night you
was here, and then I was in such a worrying matter that I
did not think even of you.”

“What have you had to disturb you?” inquired Jane.
“I hoped from finding you in this nice new house that all had
gone well since I saw you.”

“Ah,” replied John, “I have been greatly favoured; but
the storm came before the calm. Miss Jane, did you never
hear of my law-suit? the whole town was alive with it.”

Jane assured John that she had never heard a word of it;
that she had a little school to take care of; and that she saw
very few persons, and heard little village news, even when it
was as important as his law-suit.

“Then, Miss Jane,” said John, “if you have time and
patience to hear an old man's story, I will tell you mine.
It is fifty years since my old woman and I settled down in
these woods. Like all our fellow-creatures, we have had our
portion of storms and sunshine: it has pleased the Lord to
lop off all our branches, to cut down the little saplings
that grew up at our feet, and leave us two lonely and bare
trunks, to feel, and resist the winds of heaven as we may:
two old evergreens,” he continued, with a melancholy smile,
“that flourish when every thing has faded about them. Yes,
fifty years I have seen the sun come over that mountain
every morning; and there is not a tree in all these thick
woods but it seems like an old friend to me. Here my sons

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and daughters have been born to me, and here I have buried
them, all but poor Jem, who you know was lost at sea. They
died when they were but little children, and nobody remembers
them but us; but they are as fresh in our minds as if it
was but yesterday they were playing about us, with their
laughing eyes and rosy cheeks. This has not much to do
with my lawsuit,” continued John, after a pause, and clearing
his voice, “only that I shall want some excuse for loving
the old spot so well before I get through with my story. I
hired this bit of land of a man that's been dead twenty years,
and it has changed hands many a time since, but I have
always been able to satisfy for the rent; it was but a trifle,
for no one but I would fancy the place. Lately it's come
into the hands of the two young Woodhulls, by the death of
the Deacon their father. They are two hard-favoured, hard-hearted,
wild young chaps, Miss Jane, that think all the
world was made for them, and their pleasure. If my memory
serves me, it was just one week after you was here, that they
were up hunting in these woods with young Squire Erskine.
John, the eldest, took aim at a robin that was singing on the
tree just before my door: it had built its nest there early in
the summer: we had fed it with crumbs from our table, and
it was as tame as a chicken. I told this to them, and begged
the little innocent's life so earnestly, that the boys laughed,
but Erskine said, `Let the old man have his way.' They
said it was nonsense to give up to my whims, and told me to
take away my hand, (for I had raised it up to protect the
nest,) or they would fire through it. I did take it away, and
the nest with it, and brought it into the house. They
came swearing in, and demanded the bird. I refused to give
it up; they grew more and more angry: may be Erskine
might have brought them to reason, but he had walked away.

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They said it was their land, and their bird, and they would
not be thwarted by me; and they called me, and my wife too,
many a name that was too bad for a decent person's ear.
They worked themselves up to a fury, and then warned me
off the ground. I made no reply; for I thought when they
got over their passion they'd forget it. But they returned
the next day with handspikes, and threatened to pull the
house down on our heads, if we did not come out of it. I
I have had a proud spirit in my day, Miss Jane, but old age
and weakness have tamed it. I begged them to spare us our
little dwelling, with tears in my eyes; and my poor old
woman prayed she might bring out the few goods we had;
but oh! `a fool in his folly is like a bear robbed of her
whelps.' They said they would dust our goods for us; and
so we came out and turned away our faces; but we heard the
old house that had sheltered us so long crumble to pieces, as
you would crush an egg-shell in your hand; yes, and we
heard their loud deriding laugh; but thank the Lord, we
were too far off, to hear the jokes they passed between every
peal of laughter. Ah, there is more hope of any thing than of
a hard heart in a young body.”

“Can it be possible,” interrupted Jane, “that for so slight
a cause the Woodhulls could do you such an injury?”

“It is even so,” replied John; “youth is headstrong, and
will not bear crossing.”

“But where did you find a shelter?”

“I led my wife down the other side of the mountain, to
one Billy Downie's, a soft feeling creature, who has more
goodness in his heart than wit in his head, and he made us
kindly welcome. I left my wife there, and the next day I
came over to the village, to see if the law would give me
justice of those that had no mercy. I should have gone to

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Squire Erskine with my case, for I knew he was called a fine
pleader, though he is too wordy to suit me—but he was a
friend of the Woodhulls, and so I applied to the stranger
that's lately moved in: he proved a raw hand. The trial was
appointed for the next Saturday. The day came; and all
the men in the village were collected at the tavern, for Erskine
was to plead for the Woodhulls, and every body likes to
hear his silver tongue.”

“Erskine plead for the Woodhulls!” exclaimed Jane.

“Oh yes, Miss Jane; for, as I told you, they are very
thick. My attorney was a kind of a 'prentice-workman at
the law; he was afraid of Erskine too; and he stammered,
and said one thing and meant another, and made such a jingle
of it, I could not wonder the justice and the people did not
think I had a good claim for damages. But still, the plain
story was so much against the Woodhulls, and the people of
the village are so friendly-like to me, that it is rather my
belief I should have been righted, if Erskine had not poured
out such a power of words, that he seemed to take away
people's senses. He started with what he called a proverb of
the law, and repeated it so many times, I think I can never
forget it, for it seemed to be the hook he hung all his argufying
upon. It was `cujus est solum, ejus est usque ad cœ
lum, (we have taken the liberty slightly to correct the old
man's quotation of the Latin;) which, if I rightly understood
it, means, that whoever owns the soil, owns all above it to the
sky; and though it stands to reason it can't be so, yet Erskine's
fine oration put reason quite out of the question; and
so the justice decided that the Woodhulls had a right to do
what seemed good in their own eyes with my furniture; and
then he gave me a bit of an exhortation, and told me I should
never make out well in the world, if I did not know more of

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the laws of the land! and concluded with saying, I ought to
be very thankful I had so little to be destroyed. I said
nothing; but I thought it was late in the day for me to study
the laws of the land; and my mite was as much to me as his
abundance to him. When the trial was over, Erskine and
the Woodhulls invited the justice and the company in the
bar-room to treat them; and through the open door I heard
Erskine propose a bumper to those who knew how to maintain
their rights. “No,” Woodhull said, “it should be to
him who knew how to defend a friend”—right or wrong,
thought I. But,” said John, pausing, “my story is too long
for you Miss Jane.”

Jane had turned away her head; she now assured John
she was listening to every word he said, and begged him to
go on.

“Well, miss, I thought I was alone in the room, and I
just let out my heart, as you know a body will when he thinks
there is no eye but His that's above, sees him. I saw nothing
before Sarah and I, but to go upon the town, and that's
what I always had a dread of; for, though I have been a
poor man all my life, Miss Jane, what I had was my own. I
have been but weakly since I was a boy, but my woman and
I have been sober and industrious. We have always had a
shelter for ourselves; and sometimes, too, for a poor houseless
creature that had not a better; and we wanted but little,
and we were independent: and then you know, what the town
gives is neither given or taken with a good will. Well, as I
said, I thought I was alone in the room; but I heard a slight
noise behind me, and there was one who had not followed the
multitude; he had a clear open face, and that look—I can't
justly describe it, Miss Jane, but it seems as if it was the
light of good deeds sent back again; or, may be, the seal the

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Lord puts upon his own children—and pity and kindness
seemed writ in every line of his face. Do you know who I
mean?”

“Mr. Lloyd,” she replied, in a scarcely audible voice.

“Yes, yes—any body that had ever seen him would guess.
He beckoned to me to shut the door, and asked me if I had
any particular attachment to this spot; and I owned to him,
as I have to you, my childishness about it; and he smiled,
and said he was afraid I was too old to be cured of it; and
then asked, if I believed I could persuade the young men to
sell as much of the land as I should want. I was sure I could,
for I know they are wasteful and ravenous for money, and besides
they had had their own will, and the land was of no use
to them. And then he told me, Miss Jane, that he would give
me the money for the land, if I could make a bargain with the
Woodhulls, and enough besides to build me a comfortable little
house. I could not thank him—I tried, but I could not; and so
he just squeezed my hand and said, he understood me—and
charged me to keep it a secret where I got help; and I have
minded him till this day, but I could not keep it from you.”

“You'd better stop now, John,” said the old woman, “for
the long walk, and the long story, have quite overdone Miss
Jane; she looks tired out, and pale and red in a minute.”

Jane was obliged to own she did not feel well; but after
drinking some water, she made an effort to compose herself,
and asked the old man, “What reason he had to think the
Woodhulls and Erskine were intimate friends?”

“Why, did you never hear, miss, that it was Erskine that
got John Woodhull clear when Betsy Davis sued him for
breach of promise? I was summoned to court as a witness.
It was a terrible black business; but Erskine made it all
smooth; and after the trial was past, I overheard these chaps

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flattering Erskine till they made him believe he was more
than mortal. At any rate, they put such a mist before his
eyes, that he could not see to choose good from evil, else he
never would have chosen them for his companions; he never
would have been led to spend night after night with them at
the gambling club.”

“At the gambling club, John!—where—what do you
mean?” and poor Jane clasped her hands together, and looked
at him with an expression of such wretchedness, that the old
man turned his eyes from her to his wife and back again to
Jane, as if he would, but durst not, inquire the reason of her
emotion.

“I have done wrong,” he stammered out, “old fool that I
was. Erskine is your friend, Miss Jane. The Lord forgive
me,” he added, rising and walking to the door. Jane had
risen also, and with a trembling hand was tying on her hat.
“And the Lord help thee, child,” he continued, turning again
towards her, “and keep thee from every snare. Well, well!—
I never should have thought it.”

Jane felt humbled by the old man's sympathy; and yet
it was too sincere, too kindly felt, to be repressed. She was
hastening away, when Sarah said, “You have forgotten your
bundle, miss.”

“It is for you, my good friend,” she replied; and, without
awaiting their thanks, she bade them farewell, and was
soon out of sight of the old man, whose eye followed her quick
footsteps till she was hid by the adjoining wood. He then
turned from the door, and raised his hands and his faded eyes,
glistening with the gathering tears, to Heaven—“Oh Lord!”
he exclaimed, “have mercy on thy young servant. Suffer
not this child of light to be yoked to a child of darkness.”

We believe that, in all classes and conditions, women are

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more inclined than men to look on the bright side of marriage.
In this case Sarah, after a little consideration, said,
“I'm thinking, John, you take on too much; you are borrowing
trouble for Miss Jane. She is a wise, discreet young
body, and she may cure Mr. Erskine of his faults. Besides,
if he does go astray a little, that's no uncommon thing for a
young man; he is not wicked and hard-hearted like the
Woodhulls.”

“No, no, Sarah, he an't so bad as the Woodhulls, but he
has been a spoilt child from the beginning: he is a comely
man to look to, and he has a glib tongue in his head; but he
is all for self—all for self, Sarah. You might as well undertake
to make the stiff branches of that old oak tender and
pliable as the sprouts of the sapling that grows beside it, as
to expect Miss Jane can alter Erskine. No—He alone can
do it with whom all things are possible. We have no right
to expect a miracle. She has no call to walk upon the sea,
and we cannot hope a hand will be stretched out to keep her
from sinking. It is the girl's beauty has caught him; and
when that is gone, and it is a quickly fading flower, she will
have no hold whatever on him.”

We know not how long the old man indulged in his reflections,
for he was not again interrupted by Sarah, whose
deference for her husband's superior sagacity seems to have
been more habitual than even her namesake's of old.

Our unhappy heroine pursued her way home, her mind
filled with `thick coming' and bitter fancies, revolving over
and over again the circumstances of John's narrative. He
had thrown a new light on the character of her lover; and she
blamed herself, that faults had seemed so dim to her, which
were now so glaring. She was not far from coming to the
result, which, we trust, our readers have expected from the

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integrity and purity of her character. “If I had remained
ignorant of his faults,” she thought, “I should have had some
excuse: I might then have hoped for assistance and blessing
in my attempts to reform him. It would be presumption to
trust, now, in any efforts I could make; and what right have
I, with my eyes open, to rush into a situation where my own
weak virtues may be subdued by trials—must be assailed
by temptation? Oh! when I heard him speak lightly
of religion, how could I hope he would submit to its requisitions
and restraints? I started at the first thought, that he
was unprincipled; and yet I have always known there was
no immovable basis for principle, but religion. Selfish—
vain—how could I love him? And yet—and she looked at
the other side of the picture—his preference of me was purely
disinterested—an orphan — destitute—almost an outcast—
liable to degradation—and he has exposed himself to all the
obloquy I may suffer—and does he not deserve the devotion
of my life?” A moment before, she would have answered
her self-interrogation in the negative; but now she seemed
losing herself in a labyrinth of opposing duties. She thought
that she ought not to place implicit reliance in John's statements.
He might have exaggerated Erskine's faults. In
his situation, it was natural he should; but he had such a
calm, sober way with him, every word bore the impress of
truth. The story of the gambling club had turned the scale;
but John might have been misinformed.

Thus, after all her deliberations, Jane re-entered her home
without having come to any decision. Though we believe
the opinion of a great moralist is against us, we doubt if
“decision of character” belongs to the most scrupulously virtuous.

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