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32 V/IST MAIN STRUT

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-:/''

^^^^^^^m^^"^

" Life is Jo\\ and lore is p(nuer,

Death all fetters doth uiihind ;
Strength and wisdom only flo7uer
When we toil for all our kindr

James Russkli. Lowell.

(i <-

THE CITY AND THE SEA,"

llhii) ©tfjcr Camfarftisc Contributions.

IN' AID OF

The Hospital Fund.

See wliai they be; read them."

.SlIAKKSPKAKE.

CAMnRIDGE:

JOHN WILSON AXn SOX,

2lnibrr3tt0 IJrcss.

1881.

property o« «* ^^'f*

I'REFACn.

pOR the welfare of every community certain
institutions are needed, prominent anion-
wluch are scliools and religious societies. Tliere
's another institution whose necessity is not per-
liaps as widely recognized, yet whose mission is of
great importance. This is the hospital, an out-
come of Christianity ; for thot,nh we do not ex-
actly know in what way the ancients cared for
thcr s.ck poor, the probability is that the work
was done by individual Good Samaritans. The
hospital, as known to us of modern times un-
'''■"I't-^Hy had its origin among the Mediaeval
>»onks, who, whatever their faults, certainly showed
a pra^eworthy spirit of kindness toward the poor
and afflicted.

PREFACE.

Sickness and pain, bard enough to be borne by
any, arc aggravated a thousand times in the abodes
of poverty ; and it is a cause for thankfuhiess that
science and philanthropy have pointed out a way
whereby we may do something to ease the suffer-
ings of the unfortunate. Since the hospital, then,
is an institution so needed in every large com-
munity, it is strange that Cambridge as yet has not
one. For while the general prosperity of Cam-
bridge is evident and acknowledged, her citizens
cannot claim immunity from disease or poverty.

Painful accidents have occurred, will occur,
among the many employed in her various indus-
tries ; yet, no matter what the injury, the patient,
if poor, must suffer much at home from inadequate
care and the general discomfort of his surround-
ings. That Cambridge has no hospital must not be
ascribed wholly to indifference on the part of her
citizens. Doubtless many have thought that the
Massachusetts General Hospital is able to answer
all requirements made upon it by Cambridge pa-
tients. The facts, however, are otherwise. The
Massachusetts General Hospital is always full.

PKEi'.trr..

Demands arc constantly made .,,>„„ it l.v c.nntry
t'»vns: an<l it seems mifair that Cam!>ri.|..v s„
»-n able to take eare .,f l,er .,wn. shotdd 2m to
tlie perplexities of its majia-ers.

The nee.l of a Cambridge h,.spital, nou' obvious
to all, was seen, years a,:;o hy the few,-,amo„^ then,
M,ss I.:mily IC. l',,rs„„s, the history of whose work
I- too well known to require much mention here
'lavms .-iven her time and stren,;;lh to the service
"f the woimde.l durin,:; our late War, on Iier return
she was not willin,^ to sit idle when there was so
"inch to be <lone for the poor and afHietcd at home
Tlirou,,d, l,er efforts, a suitable house was hired in
Can,br„lj;eport, an.l in the spring of ..sr,;, f„r „„
first fmc in its history, Cambrhl.^e had a hospital
I'or various reasons it u-,as closed at the end of one
year, but rcopeno.l in another location in Decend.or
J«69, an.l continual its good work lor two years'
■""'-e-. During its brief existence the nee.l of a per-
manent general hospital in Cambridge was elearlv
clemonstrated, and it was with regret on the par't
o all who h,ad watched its work that it was hnally
closed, ^-et it, ,,„,k had been carried on under

PREFACE.

disadvantages; tlic building was not all that could
have been desired. With the limited means ob-
tainable for uses of the hospital, it was impossible
f(jr Miss Paisons to procure nurses who could effi-
ciently aid her. Kind friends had hel[K'd her with
their money and symi)athy, yet all felt that the
hosj)ital could only be thoroughly satisfactory when
established in a building of its own, with invested
funds sufficient to meet running expenses.

In 1871, an act of incorporation was o1)tained
from the Legislature, the hospital having been pre-
viously placed in the hands of trustees ; and to the
work of enlisting friends in the cause, Miss Par-
sons devoted the remaining years of her life. Her
success will be understood from the statement that
chiefly through her efforts there is now accumu-
lated eighteen thousand dollars (:ri 18,000), the nu-

cleus of a Cambridge Mospital Fund. After the
death of Miss Parsons, in 1880, her friends felt an
increased responsibility with regard to the further-
ance of her desire; and sad cases of sickness and
want, seen on every hand, impelled them to take at

seen
once some

decided action.

PA'F.F.IC/-:.

A call was therefore made iqion all parts of
Canihricl-e to unite in workin- for a I-'air. to be
lield in the autumn of iS8i. The readiness with
which this call has been answered shows that at
last, and none too soon, people are alive to the
necessity of establishing a Cambridge Hospital.
In Miss Parsons's own words,

"This is a -ood wr)rk tliit has come upon us,— car-
ing for the sick and . sablcd, h-^pui^ 'those we shall
have with us forever,' hclpin- them not r.uly iu the bodv,
l)ut sometiiues also recei^ :n,- the great privilege of help-
ing them in a higher uay, aiv< one that will be a heli) to
thru) in the great future that is coming to us all."

With the hope of materially ir.creasing the Hos-
pital Fund, this little book has been arranged; it
i-s hoped, also, that it will be an acceptable souvc'ni.
of our pleasant city, since those who have kindly
written for it are all closely identified with Cam-
l>ndge. I<:verything has been expressly contributed
to this book. With one slight e.vception. whose ex-
planation will be found on page 1,9, nothing has
before appeared in print.

The book having been prepared within a limited

tT*"

PREFACE.

time, at the season when people are scattered far
and wide, it was impossible to obtain contributions
from all thj Cambridij:e writers whose interest in
the object would have led them to contribute.

The sincere thanks of the ladies concerned in
increasing the Cambridge Hospital Fund is here
given to those who have contributed to this book ;
and especially would the editor thank them for the
uniform courtesy and interest with which they

have assisted her in her work.

H. L. R.
Cambridge, October, i88r.

•=>>

COiXTENTS.

TmF, CtV AXn T„F, S,.A ...//. „,, z„„^,.//„,,.
A CAM„Rn,f;r. Kob.nson Crusoe . . John IMmc...

Il Gexovese . . T- ■ ^

^rafias J. ChilcL

Frexch Radical Eloquknt k t ir ir •
K»>.M- I.:,.ua,„.:t„ l.AKSONS . . . Saran S. J,„o/..
Mv First 1.-r,k.nd ..v Can.rrmk..: . ;;•. /;. y/,„,,;/,,

Tahiti FA . . ,,, ^,

^S/.///,7/ //'. Driver.

A STUDV I.V THR HISTORV OP CAMMiuno..:

^l Icxattdcr McKenzie.

TlIK WlIIITooKWILL . ,,../

The Oij) Nurse . ,,, , , „

• • • V • I'letchcr Hates.

Historic HosriTAUTY . ,1.,, ,^.,

' • • . Arthur Gih/ian.

(I
13

55
71

«5

99
103

III

113

I I

i i

CONTEXTS.

I' AGE

The Heritage of Sufferers Charlotte F. Bates. 117

Rex's Vacation Anne IV. Abbott. 119

PuELLA Rom ANA J. B. G. 185

To William Cullen Bryant . Mrs. Chas. Folso?n. 187

The Lesson of a Song H. L. R. 191

TUIi CITY A.N'D THE SEA.

HE pantinn^ City cried to the Sea,
" I am faint with heat, — O breathe on me ! "

And the Sea said, " Lo, I breatlie ! hut mv brcatli
To some will be h'fe, to others death! "

As to Prometheus, brinj^ing ease
In pain, came tJie Oceanides, —

So to the City, hot witli the flame

Of tiie pitiless sun, the east wind came.

It came from the heavin- breast of the deep.
Silent as dreams are, and sudden as sleep.

Life-iving, death-giving, which will it be, -
O breath of the merciful, merciless Sea ? '

Hi NKV W. LOXGFKLLOW.

f^'

i III

A CAM15RlDGn ROBIXSOX CRUSOIi.

\T 7E will suppose a boy, born in Cambridge
and a steady attendant at the old Parish
j\Icct'uuis (as it was commonly pronounced), to have
been wrecked on his first venture to sea in the
year 1820; to have lived a Robinson Crusoe life
till about' the present time, when he has been
found by a venerable navigator, his companion in
boyhood and fellow-attendant at the Parish Church,
and who is conversant with the town and its changes
to the present time.

In so long a term of silent self-comj)anionship it
would be our friend's melancholy recreation to recall
the picture of his old home, and of his neighbors
young and old, in the then little more than village

TT -r r

y1 CAMBRIDGE ROBINSON CRUSOE.

of Cambridge. Seeming like part of another world
and another state of being, it would, by long con-
templation, become fixed in his mind as something
with which time and cham;e had nothinii- to do.
Himself living in perennial vigor, his days silently
coming and going like the tides cf the sea about
him, why should he dream of distant innovation or
decay ? * No ! doubtless to his last Sunday revery
on the island, the old meeting-house and its fre-
quenters appear before him as he saw tliem last.
Judge Winlhrop still hangs his cocked hat on its
brass-headed nail in the south wall ; Mr. Stacey
Read goes to his accustomed pew on the other
side of the door; and he seems faintly to hear the
rumble of Mr. William Ikites's bass-viol as he
sets the pitch for the psalm. As he advances
along the uncarpeted aisle in his creaking Sunday
shoes, he is conscious of trying to look as if they
made no noise. 1 le set:s the sexton peeping
through his little window in the tower of the
church to see if the minister has arrived, that he
may cease to toll the bell. No intervening time
has changed this perishable picture to his view.

•%

■.*1

■ vl;

W'c all know how hard it is to keep in due pro-
j^rcssion (or rctro<;rcssio:i) the buclL;et of facts
which each carries in his memory. An amicable
pjrson is about to send a present of sui^ar-i^lums
to the friend's child of whose birth he heard, it
seems to him, a year or so since. Askini;- one or
two {)re]iminary questions he finds that the young-
ster is mining in California, or lierding on the
plains, or possibly that he is a settled minister,
with a boy that exactly fits the intended gift. We
meet a valued contemporary whom we ha\'c not
seen for fortv years. He appears his exact former
self. " My dear Codlin," we exclaim. " Ves, sir ; I
am a son of }'our old friend," is the reply. We greet
him cordially, and omit to tell him that we took
him for a well preserved youth of sixty or sixty-
five summers. We e\en occasionally find persons
who fail to keep u[) with their own ad\-ance in life,
and remain ever anchored on the shores of time,
in, say, thirty to forty-five fathom.

e rii\ist allow the two friends a brief interval,

to be

come wonted to the situatio

member o

the First Parish, who has resided fifty years alone

! f

A CAMBRIDGE ROBINSON CRUSOE.

in a very remote degree of longitude, is not to be
approached exactly as a friend whom you met
yesterday. He must be allowed a certain amount
of hysteric agitation at the prospect of rescue, and
to make the first enquiries after parents and house-
hold. His jaws, opened for so long a time only to
give entrance to his primitive diet, or for brief
soliloquy, or for attempts at dialogue with beasts
and birds in their own language, need some prac-
tice to meet the demands of conversation. His
tones of voice, unregulated by any standard, range
from the sea-cow to the parrot. He gives vent
to any excess of joy in a variety of capers which
show that he retains the activity as well as the
simplicity of the boy of thirteen. These circum-
stances make the first meeting with his deliverer
rather miscellaneous. A little practice in talking
with the Captain, however, has brought him round
so that they are quite well prepared for such con-
versation as they are like to enter on. The Cap-
tain is a great custodian of old reminiscences, and
he regards his new-found friend somewhat as he
would a map of Cambridge that had lain rolled up

A CAMHRinCE ROBISSOX CRUSOE.

P-

for fifty years. He means to examine him to a
certain extent, without disturbing his evident im-
pression that his old town remains quite the same
to-day as when he left it in 1820.

The third day after arrival (the ship being de-
tained by various causes) our friend having settled
down into comparative quiet and, as the Captain
said, got his talking tackle on, they both after
breakfast lay down under a cocoa-nut tree for a
free talk.

" Well now, Captain," said our friend, " I am
going to ask you all about Old Cambridge."

" That 's right, Royal," said the Caj^tain (for such
is our friend's name), " but suppose you should
give me some idee first how well you remember
it. Have you kept the run of the time since you 've
been here? "

"Not much," said our friend ; "I guess I was
considerable distracted when I was first bumped
ashore here all alone. I suppose I must have been
here fifteen or twenty years."

The Captain saw that his friend had kept his
boy estimate of time, and that he considered

A CAMIIRIDCE ROBIXSON CRUSOE.

twenty years as much as mortal vLsion could con-
template at one time. He smiled, thinking how
he had considered himself far advanced in years
at forty, and was now disposed to look at seventy
as very near the prime of life.

"Well, Royal," said he, "we will find out by
and by how old you are. Now give me your idee
of our old town."

"Where shall I begin } "

" Well, — back of the colleges is as good as
anywhere."

" Oh, back of Holworthy," said our friend.

" I see you remember the names," said the Cap-
tain.

" Yes, there 's four colleges, and then there 's
Harvard and Holden Chapel, and University
Chapel besides. That 's all of white stone. That 's
about the finest building in the State, I suppose,
next to the State • House. Then back of Hol-
worthy is the College playground [Delta], and at
the east end of that is the Swamp — the Huckle-
berry Swamp. Craigie's road is one side of the
playground [Cambridge Street] ; there's one house

A CAMHRIDCE ROIUXSOX CRUSOE.

on that about half a mile down, and I don't know
as there's any other between that and the Pint
[Lechmere's Point, P^ast Cambridge]. Then, on
the other side of the playground is the old Charles-
town road [Kirkland Street]; there's one old
black house down there, an old Foxcroft house, I
believe [not far from the head of Oxford Street] ;
then come up along, there's a piece t)f land that
the College owns ; there 's a barn on that [near
the site of the Scientific School]. Then, going
along toward the West Cambridge road [North
Avenue], there's a little three-cornered piece of
Common, where the Light-horse always comes up
at Commencement time. Oh, ain't that a hand-
some sight, Captain } Well, up there in the corner
is the minister's house (I hope I shall hear him
preach in the old meeting-house before six months
is over), and there 's Mr. Royal Morse's and Mr.
Gannett's, — Jic died before I come away. 1 sup-
pose his widder lives there now. Then you come
to the corner [Mrs. leaker's. North Avenue], and
there 's a little pasture-lot with a yellow barn on
it. They always have a dancing-tent there Com-

iir»*""»"

A CAMIiRlDCE RO BIX SON CRUSOE.

mencemcnts. (Oh, Captain, if wc could only get
home time for Commencement. There must be
more tents now than there was when I come
away !) Well, up the road [North Avenue] there 's
about a dozen houses, say, on each side till you
get to Davenport's tavern [near Porter's]. I sup-
pose Davenport does a great business now with
the country pungs that come down in the winter."

" Do you remember the houses, Royal, along
the road pretty well ? " asked the Captain.

•' Why, no, I don't ; but about a third of 'em
was little black story and a half houses, with gam-
brel roofs."

" Yes," said the Captain, '-'• and them houses, in
my opinion, saw the row that was going on the
19th of April, '75."

•' What ^s a row } " asked our friend.

" Why, it 's a kind of shindy," said the Captain.

"What's a shindy?"

" It's a disturbance, a tumult like, where there 's
more kicks than coppers. Why, Royal, you /lavc
got pooty green staying here so long, have n't

you

»»

// C AMUR IDC, E ROBIN SOX CRUSOE.

j't

'• I 've ^^ot tanned, I suppose," said Royal, inno-
cently.

"Well, yes," said the Captain, "so you have —
f;ot tanned, that's it — yes;" and he resolved not
to use any more \v )rds at present that were not in
vogue in the j^riniitive time of his youth. " Xow,"
said the Captain, " suppose you should begin at
the southeast corner of the burying-ground, pretty
near opposite to Harvard."

" Well," said Royal, " first, there's Mr. Reemie,
in a small, squarish sort of house ; and then there 's
Captain Stimson (he takes care of the College
wood-yard) in the old black-looking house with the
gable end to the street [both these houses where
the church of the First Parish now stands] ; then
there 's the passage into the wood-yard [now carried
through and made Church Street] ; then there 's the
Den, and that's the first College house, — Wis-
wall's wife died there. Captain, do you believe
that it was the Devil that scratched Mrs. Wiswall
so?"

"Couldn't say, Royal; it's jes like him if he
got the chance."

tsMmmmammait

■'|lli|

A CAMBRIDGE KOBINSOX CRUSOE.

" But on a Sunday ! " said Royal.

" Why, you know that would n't be no objection
to /lim, Royal ; and then you know the folks was
all gone to meeting. If she 'd only had her l^ible
in her hand — they say t/iat is a pertection ; but
I am afraid the poor woman did n't have much to
do with the Good Book, but it don't concern us.
Royal, so long as we go regular to meeting when
we are ashore, and try to be good."

'* Good, scn'oits Christians, you mean, Captain,"
said Royal, who had been very piously brought
up.

" Well, about the scrioits, Royal, I don't want
folks to look all the time as if they was flying sig-
nals of distress. Vou know ihey thought hard of
the captain of the schooner that hove out his
signals of distress because he was short of beans,
— there was n't sufficient cause. Royal. I don't
want to have a feller look as if he had the colic
because he is good. ' Oil to make his face to
shine,' — you'll find that in Scripter. Now if it
was bhirking, a feller 'd have some reason for
keeping a serious look on. But look here. Royal,

IC
,0

it
i)r
al,

you '11 never get down in town at this rate. What 's
the next buildinii to the Den ?"

" It 's the College engine house," said Royal.
" I s'pose the College engine goes to fires now ? "

" It don't go to any fires out of Cambridge," said
the Captain, still evasively.

" Well, next to that," continued Royal, " is the
passage-\va^- that goes in to the College carpenter's
shop, and then comes the second College house
[Huntington's shop occu|)ies a part of the ground] ;
the Law School is there, and Professor Stearns's
office. I suppose there must be as much as forty
law students by this time."

" There 's as many as that," said the Captain.

"Then," resumed Royal, "from there to the
Court House [Lyceum] is an open field."

" Xow cross ()ver to the corner," said the Cap-
tain.

"Oh, to Miss [Mrs.] Farwell's shop [corner of
Brighton Street antl Harvard Scjuare]. What a
business they do do there; she's worth as much
as ten thou.sand dollars. Does Prudence Board-
man tend there now } She 's pooty, ain't she ?

A C A 'if BRIDGE ROBINSON CRUSOE.

■i'l"

She's just like those little handkerchiefs with a
pink border that they sell there. The next build-
in*^ is Mr. Stacey Read's — ^le is the postmaster.
I should be glad enough to pay a quarter of a
dollar for a letter, if I had it, for the sake of going
to the old post-office again."

"They did use to charge twenty-five cents for
a letter from a distance, did n't they "^ " said the
Captain.

"Why, don't they now?" said our friend in
alarm, for the least idea of innovation on the
status in quo was a pang to him.

"Oh, they make a little discount nowadays," said
the Captain, and Royal resumed : —

" Next to the post-office comes the tavern, and
it's a real dear place, is n't it .'' They charge six
cents a glass, and it 's only three at the stores ;
they keep soda, too, and that 's six cents a glass.
I never tasted any, but I have seen 'em in at the
winder a drawin' of it. You 've seen the soda
fountain .^ "

" Yes," said the Captain.

" How I should like to go in there," said Royal,

A CAMBRIDGE RO BIX SOS CRUSOE.

*•' and see Captain Stedman and Royal Morse, and
Morse that drives the stage, and ^Vtwell, and Squire
Wood, and all the rest of the printers that board
there. I mean to go to l^oston in the stage when
I get home, if I have a quarter of a dollar to pay
the fare. It 's a good deal, but I want to go in the
stage for once in my life, anyhow. Next to the
tavern is Deacon Brown's old shoj). How is the
Deacon .'* but no matter now. Then cross over to
the opposite corner [Little's Block] ; Professor
Hedge lives there, — or I suppose he does, don't
he ? "

**No," said the Captain, "he moved — some time
ago. Now go down the street toward the river
[Dunster Street], and let's see how well you re-
member."

"Well," said Royal, " past Professor Hedge's it 's
open to the street — tJiat's old Mr. King's garden ;
he was at the storming of Stony Point. Next to
his garden comes the old black house where he
lives, with the ro(tf running down near the ground
on the back, — one of the real old houses. Jacob
Watson lives there, too ; is n't Catherine Watson

'Wr

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A CAMBRIDGE ROBINSON CRUSOE.

a real pooty girl ? Then you go four or five rods,
and you come to Dr. Tom Foster's house, with the
end on the cross street [Mount Auburn Street].
I suppose he 's got into a good deal of practice
by this time, has n't he ? "

" He has retired from business," said the Captain,
not wishing to say that he was dead. " Now go
across the street to the opposite corner."

"Oh, Dr. Gamage lives there, I suppose lie's
alive. He and his old yellow mare 's about as
tough as anything in Cambridge. What a pair
they be. She is rhubarb color, and his old surtout
is just the color of ipecac. Oh ! don't he give a
feller the stuff .^ Oh, Lor! his ipecac! it's just
like letting a cat down into a feller s stomach and
pulling her out by the tail. I do declare, Captain,
fur off as I am, it gives mc a sort of a twist inside
when I think of it. Folks say you 'd ought to take
a 'metic at least once a year. I should have a lot
to make up, should n't I, Captain .' "

" Well, if you like it," said the Captain, ''but the
doctors don't keep their own stuff now. You '11
have to go to an apothecary."

A CAMBRIDGE ROIU.XSO.W CRUSOE.

or is it Tuesday?) old Leonard Hunnewell marks
out the places for the tents, just as solemn as if
they was so many graves, and the boys always
make it out that there 's agoing to be more tents
than ever there 'vas before. Then Tuesday after-
noon the jice [joists] and boards and old sails come,
and they begin to build the tents, and they keep
on working at 'em in the night ; and the boys
when they go to bed know that the work is going
on, and perhaps they wake up and hear 'em ham-
mering, and go to sleep again and drear, of lots of
tencS. Do you think we can get home in time for
Commencement, Captain ?"

" I am afraid not, Royal," said the Captain, " but
you go ahead with your story. I rather like to think
about Commencement, myself."

" Well, Captain, you know when it comes morn-
ing there 's the tents, the most of 'em on the
Common right in front of the colleges, and then
there 's one or two big ones out in the direction of
the Episcopal Church, and one up at the corner on
West Cambridge road [corner of North Avenue
and Holmes Place]. The lowest down tents is

A CAMryRlDGE RO BIX SOX CRUSO[-:.

about opposite Massachusetts, and the furthest up
comes pretty near the little three-cornered Common
[Flolmes Place]. Then from the tents tlown to
the Court House [Lyceum] there's stands just
outside the sidewalk, with candy and toys and
every sort of thin^;'. The children 's thick cnoui^h
down there. I 've seen something there they calletl
ice-cream — that come from Boston I suppose. It
was dreadful dear. I never tasted any, but some
that did said it was real good. Did you ever taste
any, Captain } "

" Why, it is n't much in my line. Royal, but I
have."

" Well," resumed Royal, " then the first thing
you know there 's the Light-horse comes with
their trumpets, — they come with the governor, —
and then about nine o'clock the great procession
comes with music ; the women has been crowding
in to get seats in the meetinus beforehand, and
when the procession comes into the meetinus it 's
just as full as it can hold, every corner of it. It's
almost as good fun to be there as to be out on the
Common. Then down in the market-place it's all

A CA.l/BAVDGE ROBINSON CRUSOE.

full of carts with watermelons and peaches, and
Ijts cr folks coming and goin^;. Then at Captain
Stimson's house [where the First Parish Church
stands] they let rooms for the shows, and I see
Punch and Judy there once, and it was the best
thing that ever / did see. Well, Captain, you
know they keep it up all day on the Common,
and pretty well at night, and all the next day and
night. Oh ! there can't be anything like it any-
where, I do sup])ose. But look here, Captain !
you'd like a fresh cocoa-nut I know. This here
tree's come up and growed since I landed, and
where on earth the seed come from I don't know."
The Captain was just hesitating between an im-
mense cube of tobacco, his ordinary solace, and
a minute bit of flag-root from the Jarvis meadow,
which with true village patriotism he affirmctl to be
the best flag-root in the known world, and a sure
preventive of colic in all latitudes. Before, there-
fore, he could accept or decline, our friend pro-
ceeded alono: the tall stem as if he were on a
concrete sidewalk, detached a cocoa-nut such as
enterprising boys occasionally dream of, descended

lllili

iiiii

A CAMBRIDGE ROB I \ SON CRUSOE.

Lord forcrive us ! I am afraid I 'm a stretching: it
a little, and I belong to the Bethel, too ; but
there 's something in these low latitudes that makes
a fellow go bye and large in his talk."

" What 's localities ? " said our friend.

" Why, it 's places ; they call places localities
nowadays, and they call things local that 's in the
localities. The last time I got my hair cut ashore,
the barber (he was a purblind sort of a feller)
thought he sec a bald spot on my head, and he
told me of it. I did n't say anything, but maybe I
squirmed a little in the chair. * Oh,' says he,
' Captain, it 's only a local baldness.* ' Well,' says
I, * if it 's only local, it may stay there for all me.'
You see he wanted to sell me some of his stufT
that '11 make a head of hair grow on the capstan."

" Do they have the base-ball in Cambridge now 1 "
inquired our friend.

" Have it ! yes, worse than most anywhere, and
all the rest of the what-d' ye-call-'ems — the ath-
letics. Why, when I was ashore this last time, I
used nights to meet half a dozen young fellers in
a string all running as if the devil was after 'em.

A CAMBRIDGE Kn/ilNSCW CRL'SOE.

(There, now ' I never used that word till I was ever
so fur south of the Line, — there's somethinci: in
these latitudes.) Well, when I first met these
fellers I thought it was fire or burglary or some-
thing, and I set out to run too, but I could n't do
much in that line — your shore grub makes a fel-
ler too pussy for running. — But now, Royal, you
spoke about the old meeting-house. I don't sup-
pose you remember the inside of it very well .'' "

" Oh, don't I ? " said Royal ; " when we get home
you just ask me to carry you to any of the pews
where I know the folks. You know there 's some
of 'em comes from so fur up West Cambridge road
I don't know 'cm by name, though I do by sight.
Why, I '11 just start now at the door that looks
down the street, Dunster Street. The first right-
hand pew, if you go in straight from Dunster Street,
is Mr. Mellen's, — him that used to be the min-
ister at Barnstable. The next is the minister's
pew, and then comes Judge Winthrop ; he looks
just the same, I guess, as he did at Bunker liill, —
cocked hat, knee-breeches, and silver buckles, —
only he is pooty old now. Is he alive, Captain ? "

7
•A

'W\

i 1 '

! ;

ill

*lil ll

ihi

VlM'l

A CAMBRIDGE ROBINSON CRUSOE.

" Well, Royal, he is n't able to go o\\\. at all now,"
said the Captain, he having died about the year
1822. " What 's the next pew ? "

"It's Mr. Jacob Wyeth's," said Royal. "lie
keeps the tavern at Fresh Pond. Aiiit Fresh
Pond the beautifuUest place in the world, Captain.-*"

" It is about as pooty as anything I have seen in
all my vyges," said the Captain.

" How the yellow chaises used to go up there,"
continued Royal, "half a dozen together — Sun-
days. I should a liked to have been in one of 'em,
if it had n't been on a Sundav. It was n't our
Cambridge folks that was a riding — t/icy come,
most ^?// of 'em, to meetin' regular. — But I was at
the meetinus. Well, you go to the other side of the
door, and first there 's Professor Hedge's pew, and
next Professor Stearns's. T/uy come to meetin'
when it's College vacation. And then there's Mr.
Stacey Read's. Don't you thiiii: I remember some-
thin' about it } Well then, the first pew right-
hand, broad aisle, — t/icre's llie little old man in the
snuff-colored coat ; he 's got a great clubbed cue
that he mijiht knock a feller down with if he could

■1^

III

A CAMBRIDGE RODINSO.V CRUSOE.

hit him with it. The pews in the broad aisle is a
little mixed up in my memory, that 's a fact, Cap-
tain ; but there's Major Metcalf, his family, — {fic
sings in the choir, you know), — and Mrs. McKcan,
and Mr. Prentiss, and on the left hand there's tlie
Miss Howes, and Mr. Jacob l^ates, and Dr. Water-
house ; he 's the man that brouc^ht the vaccination
in first, ^ — he and President Jefferson writes letters
to each other ; folks think he 's a kind of Socinian.
Then there 's Captain Lee, and good old Deacon
Walton in the deacon's pew at the end. He's
alive, I hope."

•' He was very low the last time I heard from
him," said the Captain, determined not to own to
any change in the town till he was ready, although
the excellent deacon had been dead some fifty odd
years.

" When I get home," said Royal, " I shall see all
the folks together in the old meetinus ; at least, the
families."

" Yes, the families'' said the Captain. •' You
must expect some change."

" I don't know," said our friend, still tenacious of

^nrr^

^iliii^i

III

A CAMBRIDGE ROBINSON CRUSOE.

the old situation, — "I don't know, Captain. I
haven't seen much change here, though, to be sure,
my Httle dog and Dr. FrankHn and Miranda have
died." And here our friend drew from the pocket
of the trousers that the Captain had given him a
most extraordinary piece of manufacture.

" Why, Royal," said the Captain, " what 's that ? "

" It 's a hankerchif that I made out of cocoa-
nut bark. I thought I 'd have a hankchif if I
didiit have no trousers. I saved mine for Sun-
days, and outgrowed 'em pooty soon," said Royal,
suppressing the rudimentary tears and smiling
with innocent pride. " Don't you think it 's rather
pooty ? "

" Why, ahem ! — yes. Royal, very pooty, but I
should advise you not to give way to your feelings
very often, or you'll rub your eyes out with it.
But you never told me before about the dog and
— what was it ? — Dr. Franklin .'' — who in the world
was he ? "

"Oh, he was the pig," said Royal, "?nd Miranda
was the parrot. I called her after Miranda Gibson.
I used to see /ur to meetin', but I never spoke to

./ CAMBRIDGE ROBINSON CRUSOE. 37

her." Here Royal colored, and in his embarrass-
ment again produced the handkerchief.

" Look here, Royal," said the Captain, " I '11 give
you one of my bandannas if you want to use a swab
so often. I got a case of 'em at Singapore in the
year '28, when I was chief mate of the ' I'lying
Buffalo.' They 've carried me through all my trials
up to date. I 've lost three wives. Royal," said the
Captain, solemnly, " and every one of 'em just the
best of women, and I 've never used anything l)ut
these bandannas. There 's no better material for
affliction, and when you're off duty in that line,
there's nothin' more — well, I won't say fashionable,
but anyhow, respectable, than a real bandanna.
Jkit you was telling about the meetin'-house."

" Yes," said Royal ; " ain't it a nice one. too } If
the pews was all painted, and the men's and boys'
gallery too [the pojiular designation of two long
slips in the u'est gallery], it would be real hand-
somo. Then there 's such a high pulpit, and such
a handsome sounding-board over it ; and what a
winder there is back of the pulpit ! It 's shai)ed like
the gravestones in the buryiri^-ground. I guess

i :
I

III

41F"

<i:!

li^

A CAMBRIDGE ROBINSON CRUSOE

there's as mueh as a hundred panes of glass in it,
ain't there, Captain? I low the winders an that
side does rattle on a real windy winter's day ! Some-
times you ean't hear a word of what the minister
says. Can't we get home to next Thanksgiving in
the old meetinus, Captain ? "

*' I should like to do it if it 's a possible thing,"
said the Captain.

"/]///'/ Thanksgiving a good time?" continued
Royal. " They make the great stove in the broad
aisle pij)! ng hot, you know, and you hear the water
dripping from the funnels into the wooden boxes
that's slung underneath, and the green baize inside
doors keep flip-flopping with the folks coming in ;
a'most everybody comes to Thanksgiving, you
know, and you seem to have the whole town to-
gether, just as if it was one family. A feller's feet
get pretty cold, though, before the service is
through, in spite of the great stove. Then, after
the sermon, the deacons start to go round with the
contribution bo.xes, and they strike up the anthem
in the singers' gallery. How they do chase one
another round like with their fuging, as they call

af,

.•/ CAMBRinCE KOBIXSOX CRUSOE.

it. First, Mr. Nat Miinroc and liis trebles start
off, and tlicn Torry Hancock witli iiis bass comes
athundering after 'cm, and then Squire Whipple
and Major Metcalf, they come chasing after both
of 'em, and some stop, and some go on, and they
seem sort of distracted, like folks running to a lire
that ain't in sight ; and then all of a sudden they
start fair altogether, and the one that can sing
loudest is the best feller, and all the time the
ninepenccs and fo'pences and the quarters keep
cr clinking into the boxes, and once in a while
there's a kind er lull, — that's when folks puts in
bills. And when they come to the boys' gallery,
you'd think they'd knock the bottom out of the
boxes with their coppers. W'e sJiall get home in
time for Thanksgiving, sha'n't we, Captain.'"

" I hope so. Royal. Well, I guess we 'vc got
pooty well through oiu" yarn about Cambridge.
It 's lucky we are by ourselves ; anybody else
would think we was a couj)le of old fools in our
dotage. How my wife would ha' laughed to hear
us ! I have a foiu-th, Royal, that 's well and strong,
the best of vvi)men, and I do hope she'll prove

II I

I'll

Kl'l

A CAM BK' I DOE ROBINSON CA'C/SO/i.

durable. I am plaguy fond of her, but I 'd just as
lives she 'd be out of the way when I want to talk
old times. And now, let 's know how you got
along here when you was first cast away t)n the

" Well," said Royal, " I believe I was kind of
wild at first, all alone there in the dark, and half
drownded, and ' 'uiscd, and waiting to hear if some
of the rest didn'u ;ae ashore alive, — but there
never did, not one. I hollered as loud as I could,
but there was n't nobody ever answered. I said all
my prayers, which was the Lord's Prayer and the
morning and evening that's in the Assembly's
Catechism, You know I was brought up real
serious."

•' Hold on, Royal! " cried the Captain, in a sort
of subdued roar, producing a very large bandanna.
" I don't know as I told you that I was sunstruck, or
plaguy nigh it, off the Callipee Islands when I was
a young man, and it's affected my eyes ; if I don't
swab 'em once in a while, the water kind of erri-
tates 'em."

" Well," resumed Royal, after a moment's pause,

A CAMBRIDGE ROB IS SOX CRUSOE.

"when I found in the morning that nobody come
ashore, I guess I was sort of crazy, and strayed
about for a while, and just laid down and slei)t
when I was tired out. The first thing I seem to
remember clear I was digging a sort of clams there
is here, and crying and eating. I was n't but thir-
teen year old, you know. I sort er settled down
after a while, and I made me a sort of bunk in the
ground, and put in ferns and such stuff, and had
some more to put over me when the nights was
chilly, as they would l)e sometimes ; but it was a
good while before I slep' real sound. I used to
think as if I heard the drownded folks calling
to me. Then aiiain I wouKl dream that it was
artillery 'lection, and I heard the guns on Boston
Common. That was the sea coming in heavy ; it
was dreadful waking up from such dreams as that."

" I should think it must ha' been," said the
Captain.

•' Well," continued Royal, " one day I was going
along the beach alooking out for a sail, and saying
over a psalm that I had learned to home, ami I
heard a little whine, and of all things in the world.

^.Il

ilil'i

A CAMBRIDGE ROBINSON CRUSOE.

there was the captain's little dog that I used to
take care of aboard the ship, for I was the cabin
boy. He was lying in the ferns, just as thin as he
could be, and dreadful weak. I catched him up and
run with him for my little bunk, where there was
what little pervisions I had. I was so afraid he 'd
die, Captain ! I don't believe there was ever a
mother more afeard for an only child than I was
for that dog. I said all my prayers, I believe.
Well, he come round pooty slow ; he could n't
hardly eat at f'rst, ond didn't I nuss him! And
that crcter just as good as talked to me with his
eyes, and I used to answer him out loud. We
both of us knowed that we was pooty much all
that was left to each other. When he got strong
he used to go with me when I went my rounds
along the beach on the lookout ; and he used to
look just as hard out to sea as I did. I used to tell
him all about the folks at home, and how bad I
felt, and he'd whine to let me know how bad he
felt for me. I believe he felt worse for me than he
did <"or himself, but then this was his third voyage
to S'^a, and he'd forgot about home."

■k

" Royal," said the Captain, *' I j^ot a kind of
catarrh Hke, in the Jap-pan seas, that affects my
head, and particklerly my eyes. There 's no better
thing, Royal, for weak eyes than a ;vv?/ bandanna."

" Well," continued Royal, " the next thini; was,
— one day I'd <;onc a good way along the shore
with my dog, and the first thing, I heard a grunt-
ing in the bushes like, that you find here. I was
afraid it was a wild hog, or some such wild creter ;
but the dog he wagged his tail and went in, and
there did n't seem to be no trouble, and I follered,
and who should I see but Dr. Franklin, that I told
you about, — the little pig, you know, — fat and
comfortable .'' /A' found i)lenty to eat. We had
him aboard our ship, the smartest, cunningest little
feller, and looked so knowing that the captain he
once called him Dr. I^'ranklin, and so he got the
name. They let him have the run of the deck
most of the time, and he used to clatter about with
his little hoofs just like a little boy in new boots.
The dog was dancing about, and the pig was grunt-
ing his pleasantest, and I was more pleased than
cither of 'em. And so we all went home together.

Via ■■ ■

A CAMBRIDGE ROBINSON CRUSOE.

I am afraid I 'd indulged something of a repining
spirit up to this time, Captain ; but now I felt it
was my duty to give thanks for such blessings as
was spared to me."

" I should think, Royal," said the Captain, " that
you had more conveniences for a fast than a thanks-
giving."

"Well," continued Royal, "one day I went a
considerable way with my two friends, kind er
lookin' out like all the time for a sail, and the fust
thing, I heard somebody swearing. What a twist
that did give me, Captain ! I jumped much as a
rod, but I happened to look up, and there was our
parrot that I took care of aboard ship. The sailors
they'd taught her to swear, and I 'd tried to break
her of it ; but there she zuas, at it again. I was so
glad to see her that I did n't hardly think of the
sinfulness of her talk."

" Why, you can't blame a parrot for swearing a
little under them circumstances," said the Captain.
** She did n't know no better."

•• No, I can't," said Royal ; " it come to her through
the depravity of mankind, I know. Well, now I

A CAMBRIDGE RODIXSON CRUSOE.

had a sort er family, and I tried to make things as
religious as I knew how. I got up a sort of family
prayers, such as we used to have to home. The
creters used to attend, and I trained 'em to behave
pooty well in the main. I tried a little singing
once, — one of the hymns that we used to sing
Saturday nights to hcune, — but the dog he could n't
Stan' it, and he begun to whine, and that set the pig
agoing, grunting, and Miranda kept saying, * O
Lor,' and I had to dismiss the meetin'. I hope it
was n't wicked for me to try to conduct services."

" Wicked ! " roared the Captain. " But I declare !
there 's my rheumatis' again, that I catched in the
Arctic Ocean looking after sperm. It takes rheu-
m^tL>* to make a feller's eyes water. I don't know
where I should ha' been without my bandannas."

" I 've always tried," said Royal, " to be as good
as my depraved nater would allow, and I 've prayed
to be kept out of temptation."

" Why ! I don't see what temptation you could
have found ficrc^ Royal, unless it was to hang your-
self, or jump overboard," said the Captain. " Did n't
you never see a sail ? "

K i^

A C A.] f BRIDGE A'OB/XSO.V CRUSOE.

desolate tone, and again produced the cocoa-fibre
handkerchief.

" Here, Royal," said the Captain, " if you must
swab, take my bandanny, and when you 're done
with it, give it to me again. I shall want to use
it. I catched a violent cold some years ago going
round the Horn, — ship half under water for forty-
eight hours, — and the remains of that cold is lurk-
ins: ever since."'

The Captain, whose eyes had become a little red
in the course of the narrative, wished to avoid all
suspicion of being sentimental.

" Why, you see, Captain," resumed Royal, " the
dog pined first ; I guess he was pooty old. I did
all I could for him, but he died. The rest of us
went to his funeral, and I tell you it was a solemn
time. Well, after the dog died the pig missed him
dreadful (they was great friends) ; he went grunt-
ing about enough to break your heart. He eat
pooty well, but his victuals did n't seem to do him
no good, and pooty soon he died, '<\n<\ Miranda set
on my shoulder at the funeral. She lived ever so
long ; but one evening in the twilight she jv st fell

■m i •

/I CAMBRIDGE RODINSON CRUSOE.

forrard, and hunj; there with her head down, — she
was dead, but her elaws kept hold of the pereh.
Then I was all alone agin. I did n't hardly know
sometimes whether it was time or eternity that I
was in. If it had n't been for my religion I don't
know what I should a done. I hope you've got
religion, Captain."

" I hope I '\e got my share of it," said the Cap-
tain. "You know in my calling I can't spread a
great deal in a religious way. I have to make
my religion pooty portable. I stow away the doc-
trine, but I try to have a little practice on hand
all the time. If a feller '11 only hi: pleasant , he'll
help religion along considable, without knowing
of it."

" lUit, Royal," said the Captain, " I 've got to tell
you now. I may as well, first as last. There 's
been terrible improvements made in Cambridge
since you left in the year '20."

The Captain imparted to Royal by degrees, now
and afterward, the afflictive substitutions of new
for old that had taken place in buildings, public

A CAMBRIDGE ROBINSON CRUSOB.

and private, at the same time recounting the va-
cancies which time had made in the population.
Consequently, in the brief interval before tlie shii)'s
departure. Royal's face was frequently liidden in
the large bandanna which th.e Caj)tain had given

him, according to his promise.

JoH.N Holmes.

111

ill

iiif

IL GKNOVESI-:.

A BALLAD FROM THE ITALLW.

'" I ^ WAS the daughter of a merchant so rich,

As pretty as pretty could be ;
This was found out by a Genoese, which

Marriage proposed, but she

Was put under lock and key.

A garden the Genoese planted

With every flower that blows ;

All the girls picked whatever they wanted,
But our fair one never a rose,
Because her papa did n't choose.

The Genoese gave a great ball,
With thirty-two musicians ;

IL GENOVESE.

Hundreds were there, but she not at all,
In spite of the free admissions,
Because of her parent's suspicions.

The Genoese gave a great feast.

With dishes of silver and gold ;

All the girls went, the biggest and least,
(Save one) the young and the old :
Papa was not thus to be sold.

The Genoese set the bells tolling about,
In sign that his days were over :

I'his poor little girl, she put her head out
Of the window, in hope to discover
Whether reallv it was for her lover.

The good folks said, " Your hopes are wreckt,
The days of your lover are sped,

Go to church and show proper respect : "
She went to her parents and said,
" My first love, they tell me, is deado

" Dear parents, my hopes are all wreckt, —
He is dead that for me was sighing ;

Let me go and show proper respect ! "

" Go," they cried, nor tiiought of denying,
" But let us have no more crying."

IL GEXOVESE.

The poor girl she went to tlie wake ;
Her hnnds she kept in her nuiff,

Her heart it was fit to l)reak,

Her bosom gave many a pulT, —

She thought he was dead, sure enougli.

But when she came up the aisle,

The (lenoese no longer tarried ;
" Stop chanting, friars, priests, in that st\ le !

The jest need no further be carried ;

We'll go to the high altar and be married."

Fkan'cis J. Child.

1:
I'

FRENCH RADICAL ELOOUEXCE.

[The following extracts are taken, with only the slif:;htest
possible revision, from a traveller's diary. They have the
inevitable defects belonging to that form of composition,
and perhaps some of the freshness and directness which
partially redeem those defects. I might have attempted to
rewrite the narrative and make it a more symmetrical atVair;
but, after all, there is a great deal in what the poet Gray says,
that '' memory is ten times worse than a lead-pencil.'"]

Paris, May 30, [878.
T WAS just able to reach the Folic Theatre in
-*■ time, where the Voltaire centenary celebration
was to be held. As I drove up, the street was full
of people, and the policeman at the door assured
me that all the tickets were sold. Indeed, this had
been already placarded. Hut when I told him I was
an American, and had come from London on pur-

iftMt^

FRENCH RADICAL ELOQUE.\XE.

pose to attend the festival, he left his place to an-
other, and hunted up a man who had a seat or two
left and sold them on speculation. I got a douhle
scat with a young Frenchman, who piloted me in,
— and a hard piloting it was! The well-dressed
crowd surged along, and the old women, who in
French theatres find seats and take umbrellas,
were at their wits' end.

It was one of the most interesting scenes I ever
witnessed ; for I never was in a French public
meeting or heard real French oratory before. I
think it must, when at its best, surpass all others,
such are the resources of the language, the power
of expression in the race, and the degree of sym-
pathy in the audience. Never at the most excited
political meeting did I ever see anything like it ;
and the fact that all applause was given with hands
and voices, never with feet, indicated a far higher
and more delicate appreciation. To begin with,
it was perhaps the most intellectual-looking audi-
ence I ever saw. The platform was covered
densely with men, — a singularly thoughtful and
able body, such as one might expect the French

FRENCH RADICAL ELOQUENCE.

Assembly to be, and certainly superior to Parlia-
ment or Congress in looks. The audience was
composed of men, nine out of ten, and the same
look predominated. I could not see the ui)per
gallery, but I saw none of the lower class except
one blouse, and nobody in uniform. And such
a talking as there was ! It seemed as if they
were quarrelling all over the house, merely with
good-natured chatter. All were French around
me, and I was so glad of this ; my companion was
from the provinces and knew noijody, but on the
other side was a very handsome man, full of zeal,
who helped me about various matters of informa-
tion. When I asked him if Victor Hugo was on
the platform, he said, " You would not ask that if
you knew the shout that will rise from these gal-
leries when he comes in." And applaud they did
when a white head was seen advancing through
the crowd on the platform, and the five galleries
and parquet seemed to rock as he took his scat.
Victor Mugo looks just like his j)ictures, except
that his white beard, cropped short, is not so rough
as some of them make him appear. He bowed

111;

«•''

FRENCH RADICAL ELOQUENCE.

and sat in his place, the two other speakers on
each side ; and the bust of the smiling Voltaire
with a wreath of laurel and flowers rose above
Hugo's head. It was a good bust and a pleasant
smile, a rare thing in the pictures or busts of
Voltaire.

The first speaker, M. Spuller, was a fine-looking
man, large, fair, and rather English in appearance ;
he spoke with one hand always on the table, but
the amount of gesture he got out of the other hand
was amazing. He spoke without notes, clearly
and well, telling the plan of the celebration.
Sentence after sentence was received with ap-
plause, and with " Oh-h-h " in a sort of long-drawn
literary enjoyment, or with "Bravo" and "Admi-
rable." But these w^^e far greater with the second
speaker, M. Emile Deschanel, well known in the
Chamber of Deputies, and author of a book on
Aristophanes. Yet he sat down to read his speech,
— I found afterwards that it was only the numer-
ous quotations he was reading, — but he gesticu-
lated as if standing and with really quite as much
effect. His speech was almost as much a tribute

FRENCH RA DICA L ELO Q i EXCE.

to Victor Hugo as to Voltaire, often running par-
allels between them. He traced Voltaire's whole
career, commenting on each part. One of the
most skilful passages was on the most dangerous
ground, Voltaire's outrageous poem on Joan of
Arc. lie claimed that Voltaire had at least put
her before the world as the savior of France, and
admitted that mo:;t of the book bore the marl<s of
the period, was '' liccncicjix ct coupabic ;'" but he
retorted powerfully on the clerical party for their
efforts to protest against Voltaire on her account.
When he said with infinite contempt at last, ''Qui
cst-cc qui Va bnWef (Who was it who burned her.')
he dismissed the clergy and the subject with an
instantaneous wave of the hand that gave me the
most vivid glimpse of the flashing power of the
French language and French wit ; it was swift
and final as the gleam of Saladin's sabre. Then
there was a perfect tempest of applause. I le too
was a large fine-looking man, of most intellectual
bearing. There was no music in the intervals
— though we should have had it in America —
and Victor Hugo followed. «

II!
I

ijl

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".-i • ii)

I'REXCII RADICAL ELOQUENCE.

I:,

).,

rii

His speech was also written, but in an immense
handwriting, on sheets twice as large as any fools-
cap I ever saw ; and he read from these without
glasses, — I think he is over eighty, but he hardly
looks seventy, — and standing. The effect was
thoroughly picturesque ; he stood behind two
great sconces holding six candles each ; above
these showed his strong white-bearded face and
emphatic right arm, and above him rose Voltaire's
forest of laurel and the smiling Voltaire himself.
Hugo's manner was strong and commanding, and
in impassioned moments he waved his arm above
his head, the fingers apart and trembling with emo-
tion, and sometimes clapped his hand to his head
as if to tear out some of his white hairs ; yet it
hardly seemed extravagant, though it sounds so. I
had lost hardly a point made by the other two
speakers, but sometimes lost his from a thicker or
defective utterance, and perceived that others did
the same. 13ut the delivery was really as remark-
able as his literary style, and much like it, — a series
of brilliant points, and applauded to the echo. It
must be extraordinary to speak to an audience so

F RE SCI I RADICAL ELOQUEXCE.

electric, men who give sighs of delight over a fine
phrase, and " Ohs " of enthusiasm over great
thoucrhts. Hugo's defence of the smile of X'ollaire
was singularly noble and powerful, though almost
extreme, and his turning his eloquence in favor
of peace was beautiful. How he denounced that
"terrific International Exposition" called a field
of battle, and praised the peaceful victories !

After the address the applause was greater than
ever, and everybody on the platform seemed to
rush at Victor Hugo. I never understood the
scenes in the French Assembly before, and they
do not now seem childish, but impassioned, as
when Deschanel, during his own speech, once
turned and took Hugo's hand and clapped him on
the shoulder tenderly. The crowd got out more
easily than I had thought ; for I had said to my
neighbor that there would be little chance for us in
case of fire, and he shrugged his shoulders and said
dramatically, " Adieu ! " I drifted through a side
entrance where Victor Hugo was just before me,
and they could hardly get him into his carriage;
all the windows opposite were full of people, and

Hit

il
I

s m

FRENCH RADICAL ELOQUENCE.

off he drove amid shouts. I think there are few
men living who could inspire so much feehng ;
partly because few people are so demonstrative as
the French. There was another much larger Vol-
taire celebration that same day at the " American
Circus," but this was the occasion for eloquence.
Now I know once for all what French eloquence
and enthusiasm are, and am very glad. It was
also Ascension Day that day, which of course gave
the clergy a great chance ; and I met white-robed
little girls now and then. One sees many shovel-
hatted priests in the streets, — more than one saw
six years ago, I should say ; and it is curious how
the two sides hold their own, face to face, each
side supplying a want of human nature, no doubt.

Paris, July 14, 1878.
H. M. came in while we were at breakfast, and
we went afterwards to Louis Blanc's appariement
to get tickets for the Rousseau centenary, which
is also a celebration of taking the Bastille. Com-
mitteemen were busy in his parlor with all the
tremendous vivacity and action of Frenchme

llli

FKEXCH RADICAL ELOQl'EXCP..

I should think they would wear themselves out in
youth, and yet the old Frenehmen are the finest 1
ever saw ; that is, they may not hold out quite so
well physically- as the luij^lish or Americans, but
the educated men and public men have such fire in
their eyes that it sets off the gray hair, as if pas-
sion and emotion did not exhaust themselves, but
only went on accumulating strength. I am always
struck with this fact. Little Louis Blanc came
in and out in a dressing-gown, more quiet and
equable than the rest. We got tickets for the
evening banquet at three and a half francs, and
cards for the afternoon free, with reserved scats.
To prepare the way, I went to the most exclusive
and aristocratic mass at the "Chapelle Expiatoire,"
but got there just at the end of mass. Later we
went by omnibus to the " American Circus," at the
square of the Chateau d'Eau. This was where
the popular demonstration was held on the Vol-
taire day, but I did not see it, and now it was the
scene of the only daylight demonstration. Crowds
of people were pouring in, but we got good scats.
Everybody seemed French ; we did not hear a

'3'

iii

p fA

if:

«: S

\\ I.

f, i

FRENCH RADICAL ELOQUENCE.

word of any other languag^e, and we three were
surrounded by the most enthusiastic French peo-
ple, jumping up, sitting down, calling and beckon-
ing, and talking loud. It is a vast place, — seats
four thousand, and there must have been six thou-
sand crowded in. The noise of that number was
something deafening, and every one seemed to be
looking for a friend or making signals to one.
Most were well dressed, but there were a good
many blouses and white caps. All was good-
nature, except that sometimes a man would make
himself obnoxious and be put out, under suspi-
cion of being a Bonapartist sent there to make
trouble. This happened twice ; I saw one man
dropped over the stairway gently but firmly, and
his hat was carefully bumped on his head as he
was handed along. There was not the slightest
riot, however, or material for any ; too much good-
nature for that. Opposite the high tribune [speak-
ers' stand] was a bust of Rousseau, white against
a crimson velvet, five French flags above it, and
wreaths of immortelles and violets below, with the
inscription " Consccra sa vie a la vdritt^r At the

I'KEXCH RADICAL i:LO{)i^£XC/:.

side were panels emblazoned with the facts of his
life. After a while, Louis Blanc came in with
others, and there was hand-clapping, and " / 7:r
Vauuicstie ! vivc la Rcpiibliquc ! vivc Louis JUauc !"'
Then singers appeared, — there was a band before,
— and instantly all said " sh ! sli ! sJi /" and there
was absolute silence for the Mar^cil/aisr.

Nothing of the kind in this world can be so
fine as the way in which a radical French audience
of six thousand receives that wondeiful air. I
observed that the chorus of young men who sang
it never looked at the notes, and most had none,
thjy knew it so well, While they sang, in the
soft parts you could almost hear the proverbial pin,
so hushed was the attention of that hitherto noisy
multitude. Nobody joined in the chorus the first
time ; they only listened ; but the inslant the
strain closed the applause broke in a crash like a
storm, and the clapping of hands was like the tak-
ing flight of ten thousand doves all over the vast
space. Behind those twinkling haiuls the dresses
of ladies and the blue blouses of workmen seemed
to be themselves twinkling with light : there was

<«''

ii.ii

■hI

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i'l

ipw

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JW'!"':

■II

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FREMCH RADICAL ELOQUENCE.

no pounding or drumming, only hands clapped ; a
roar of " bis ! bis ! " (for encore) went up every-
where ; and after the second performance many
voices swelled the chorus, and then the applause
was redoubled, as if they had gathered new sym-
pathy from one another ; and after that there was
one absolute gush of renewed applause, and then
perfect quiet as Louis l^lanc began.

It all brouq-ht home to me that brief and macr-
nificent passage in Erckmann-Chatrian's Madame
Tlicrhe, — the finest description in recent litera-
ture, I think, — where the square of I'^rench sol-
diers is being crushed and broken in on every side,
and the colonel on his horse in the middle takes
off his chapeau and puts it on the end of his sword,
and begins to chant a certain song. Instantly a
new life runs through all the bleeding and desper-
ate men ; one after another takes up the song, and
the square gradually stretches itself outward again
and resumes its original form, and they arc saved,
I could perfectly imagine that scene, after hearing
the Marseillaise, which was, of course, the song in
question. Afterwards there was another air of

FREXCII RADICAL ELOQUEXCE.

f>7

the first Revolution, the Chant dn Depart, played by
the band and received almost as eai^erly. It was
very fine, but unfamiliar to me before, strancje to say.

ere was also mu

sic by Rousseau, and I had n

notion that it would be so <;'()od. It was finely
sung by two vocalists from the Theatre Lyric[ue ;
and I was told that they risked their places at that
theatre by singing in an assembly so radical.

The speaking was elocpient and impressive, by
Louis lilanc, M. Marcou, and M. Hamel. All read
their speeches, yet they so gesticulated with one
hand that it did not seem like reading. Tlie orators
were not so distinguished as at the X'oltaire ccle-

brat

ion, e.xce

pt T

OUIS

anc, anc

I th(

e audience

was far greater ; yet there was quite as close at-
tention and almost as delicate appreciation. One
thing struck me very much ; that when there was
a long swell of a really fine sentence, if any one
interrupted the flow by premature aj)plause, there
was almost an angry "^7// j-/^/" to repress it. Once
when it was done my ne.xt neighbor said excitedly,
^*CU'st trap do pn'cipitatiou ;'' and soon the reserved
applause broke with accumulated i)ower, like the

I'!

r hi

I!- ■' ,,(

]'■

FKIiXCH RADICAL F.LOQUEXCE.

breaking of a wave at last when the shore is
readied. The utter stillness of a Parisian radical
audi(Mice in hearing a favorite speaker is as won-
derful as the storm of its applause at last, or as
the vivacity let loose in the intervals of the meet-
ing. The whole lasted from two to nearly six, and
during the latter part of the time the disentangling
power which one unconsciously uses in hearing
foreign speech was so wearied in me that I could
hardly comi)rchend a word, and it just flowed by
me uncomi)rehcnded ; and it was much the same
with my two young companions.

We were due at the evening banquet at half past
seven, and lounged gradually along an intermina-
ble street, the Rue de Belleville, up a hill towards
the outskirts of Paris. It was in a thoroughly
French region, no more " English spoken " in the
window, the streets full of cheery-looking people
with an air of holiday, and not a few children,
even babies tightly swathed. The banquet was at
a sort of cafe in the Rue de Pelleville, near the
city barriers. Perhai)s five hundred people were
seated when we arrived ; but we found three seats,

FREXCJl RADICAL El.OQUEXCE.

and I fancy we wore almost the only forei^i;ners.
There were about an equal number of men and
women, all well dressed. Two gentlemanly men

ppos

ite took an interest in us, thcnii-ht we were

English, and were much pleased at our being
Americans. One began the talk by asking if I
was a Freemason, as most of the I^'rench radicals
are, and seemed quite sorry T was not. They
drank their claret to the '* Republique Americaine,"
and when I said " Vive la Republique I'^rancj^iise,"
one shook his head and said it was a very different
thing. There was a surprisingly good banquet
for seventy cents (A)nerican), but there were few-
waiters and the courses came very slowly ; so that
when we left at ten, they were only at chicken —
after sou[), fish, ciifrccs, and /laricofs. ICverv now
and then the band would peal out the Jf(irsci7/diSi\
and all would join in with their mouths full, and
pounding the tables. One of my young ct)m-
panions said that the brandisliing of knives for
this last process was the only thing in the day that
could pass for a bloodtnirsty effect. There was
speaking, and some of it entirely without notes and

,ll

11 >.

quite eloquent, chiefly about the I^astille ; and one
si)eech by General Wimpffen was received with
s])ecial enthusiasm. A lady also read some let-
ters aloud from the platform, her appearance being
quite a novelty in France, I think. One peculiarly
French thing was, that there was a sort of dis-
turbance, produced by a man who would not keep
still during the speaking ; they all thought him a
Honapartist who had come in to make trouble, and
were going to put him out, but he explained that
he had not had anything to eat, that the waiters
had passed him by ; and then all sympathy turned
eagerly in his favor. He was fed at last, and all
was peace.

Thomas Wextworth Higginson.

EMILY ELIZABETH PARSONS.

IJIKI) MAY \i), iSSo.

Could no Apostle death forbid ?

Nor weeping widows stay?
Good works and almsdeeds that she did,

How powerless were they !
Peace, peace, my heart ! and grieve not. but rejoice
That she, the faithful, resteth, till a Voice,
More piercing sweet than Peter's, saith, ••Arise.'"
And in the upper chamber of the shies
Alive presents her,— in her soul the touch
Of heaven's first ecstasy, His gracious '•Inasmuch.-

ACTS ■ IX.

ST ; MATT : XXV : 40.

S. S. J

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MY FIRST I'RIHND I.\ CAMBRIDGi;.

MY feeble sense of locality had been upset, in
leaving Bowdoin Square, by the fact that
the horse-car started for Cambridge in quite a dif-
ferent direction from that in which it arrived ; and
on the way out I questioned the conductor from
time to time as to whether we had yet reachct!
Harvard Square. He treated my ignorance with
the contempt it merited, and he carried me a little
beyond Harvard Square in punishment of my con-
tumacious anxiety. lUit I was too glad at finding
myself actually in the desired part of Caml)ridge
to make him any reproaches, which indeed he did
not stay for, but snapped his bell \iciously and
trundled away toward Mount Aubuin or Porter's

in'

ill:'

MY FIRST FRIEND IN CAMBRIDGE.

Station as the case may have been, while I set out
as best I could to find the Poet.

The Poet was then an editor, and he had printed
some verses of mine, and had even written me
a little note about them in his beautiful hand,
which I kept in my desk (when I had become
afraid that I should wear it out in my pocket), and
went and looked at whenever I found it incredibly
precious, in order to assure myself that it was
really addressed to me, and that I was the person
to whom it was addressed. It seemed to me that
my great affection and gratitude to the Poet gave
me the right, somehow, to go and see him, and
I was at least going without any other right. I
crossed the College grounds and then the Delta
in which the Memorial Hall stands, and so reached
the house where the Poet was living, and found
that he was not at home.

I cannot now remember whether this was a dis-
appointment or a relief, for after all I had been
very much afraid to go ; but, having screwed my
courage to the point ^^i going, I think I would
rather have had it over ^vith. I came out into the

street again quite bewildered, and not knowing
which way to turn, when I met an old man, of ci\ il
condition, as the Italians would say, but who still
impresses me after a lapse of twenty-one years with
the sense of one who had retired from the active
duties of some lowly u ilk of life, and was solely
devoted to the performance of his own chores. I
cannot account for this impression, and I do not
understand why he should have known me for a
stranger ; perhaps I inquired the way back to-
Harvard Square. At any rate, he discovered my
foreignness, and he asked me if I had ever seen
Jarcd Sparks. " Because," he said, on my answer-
ing that I had not, "theie he goes now;" and I
turned about in time to miss the historic fiirure
which had just vanished within the gate of what
my informant said was the Sparks residence.

He seemed to think he owed me something in
reparation for my loss, and he asked me now if I
had seen the Washington Kim. When I replietl
no, he said, " Come along," and I came as if I had
been one of the centurion's men. I wish that I
could recall some impressions that the venerable

MY FIRST FRIEXD IN CAMBRIDGE.

. I

tree made upon m

c. I must have stood under it

and l(jokcd up into it as I have often sinee sarcas-
tically witnessed stranjjers doin<j: ; but I recall

o )

nothinLT o

f it

s surrou

ndi

ners.

The Common was there, no doubt, as it used to
be before the present monumental nightmare op-
pressed its laboring breast, and the Washington
Elm had the company of the Whitefield Kim, now
many years a sacrifice to the City Forester. This
odd contradiction in terms had not vet attacked
the former tree with such unsparing surgery, and
its mutilated limbs did not show those bandages
and poultices which now appeal to the spectator's
tenderness. I stooped to pick up for a moment
one of the twigs which strewed the ground, and
the old man, moved by my piety, said he had a
great many windfalls from the tree in his wood-
shed ; a!Kl a second time he bade me come along.
I have not now the least idea where the wood-
shed could have been, or what manner of house it
could have belonged to ; entering it in quality of
guest, I probably did not think it fit to stare about
mc a great deal. I sat down on the wood-pile.

■«

MV F/A'ST I'K/END /.V CA.UBh'IDGF.

and my friend, takiti.L;- one of his windfalls from a
shelf, sawed off a block large enough to satisfy the
most rapacious patriot.

I tried it, after due acknowledgment, in all my
pockets, and found that it iticommoded me least
in the breast of my coat, where I could still feel its
sharp corners. IMy zeal in the matter wrought
upon my benefactor so that he would not separate
from me. He gave me his company about the old
town, then so much quainter and more homelike
than now, and led me up and down its pleasant
streets in pursuit of objects of interest. Where
or when he left me, I cannot say ; he departed
out of my consciousness as mysteriously as he had
entered it, and who or what he was, I have never
since been able to learn.

Years after, when I came to live in Cambridge,
and to love the place with the affection almost of
J. IT. (who once in a burst of local feeling assured
me that " Cambridge never allowed a man to keep
a cold "), I wholly failed to identify my cicerone —
if I may not call him host — of that first visit.
Neither could I ever make out the woodshed in

W. if

MV F/A'Sr FN IE. YD LY CAMBR.'DGE.

which I had enjoyed his hospitality, and had been,
as It were, taken to the bosom of his intimate life.
He must have died long before; at any rate, he
was forever gone, and with him his woodshed and
his windfalls. Some r'rench-roofed wooden palace
now doubtless rears its haughty front above the
spot where this structure once extended its patri-
otic bounty to the wandering stranger.

Getting older, as we all are oldiged to do with
the passing years, T have often felt that if I
could go back to certain places, I might find my-
self as young there as I used to be ; and I lament
this vanished woodshed because I know of no
magic even by which I could replace myself in the
youth who sat tliere on the wood-j)ilc. We are all
gone, — the old man, the woodshed, and myself, —
and one not more irretrievably than another.

W. D. IIOWELLS.

TAHITIIA.

FROM AN uv^rnusiir.n poi-m, nKnicATKi) T(^

Miss KMIL\ i:. I'AKSONS.

CWIO I.

THE ripples L::;c'ntly break on Jaffa's sliore,
"I' is Uvilii^lU oti the western sea, no more
Is heard tlie luini of toil, -- a j^oldcn dim
Just j;ilcls the peaks of distant (lerizim ;
Upon thy d\vellin;i;-tops soft fades the IiL;IU ;
The breeze is gentle, cool, — soon cometh ni:;ht.
'riiou art so hushed and still,

Canst thou expectant be
Of the great miracle

Soon to be wrought in thee ;
And dost thou listenini^ wait.
With scarce permitted breath,

5. - if •

^- .,

TAHI rilA.

With ai;c, and soiiu' arc youn^ ; hut all hiiucnt

And wail their l)ittL'r loss, for she had s[)cnt

A life of sweetest charity, and now,

With j)iteous pride, her t^l^■er work thev show.

Who ii.uu she. in that upper chainl)er laid ;

A staid and sober, wrinkled, crabbed maid ?

Ah, no I but one whom her own iirief had tauLiht

To feel another's woe, and so she souL;ht

'riie sorrowing; ones, — her busy tnim'is wroui;ht

On many a _i;arment for the lowly poor

Whom God has called his own wiili promisi' sure.

t • • • •

The door is shut, — alone, beside lu-r bed

He kneels, the man of (lod, with bowed head ;

In agoniziui; prayer lie wrestles, till

lie feels a mii^hty faith liis l)osom I'lll,

And then he calls, "() Tabitha, arise! "

lie takes her hand ; she oix-neth lu'r eyes.

And now she sits, — she stands,- () lovini; one,

Receive thv dead alive, tiie wonder-work is done.

And can it be that (lod will i^rant the life

Of one we love to us.' ( )h, blessed strife

To strive with IIea\en in time of our desi)air.

And ^rasp by faith alone this blest reward ^A i)ra\ er !

\ i:i

ll t^

B]!

■i

TAIUTIIA.

Now, listener, did you never heed
'I'iiis jirecioLis tiiou^L^ht, thai truly we ne'er read
In Holy Writ one word that proves her death,
Into whose bosom came again the breath
Of life ; whose chillini;, faltering pulses stirred
With living warmth at Simon Peter's word ?
Ah no I I 've traced iier footsteps down the path of time,
Have caught the glimjDses of her form in every clime,
Where weeping woman's loving, pitying breast
Receives and soothes the sorrowing ones to rest.
• • • • «

r.wro vr.

C) Church ! one of thy humble ones is gone ;

Of a despised race, and one upon

Wiiose wavs was shed — hers was a toilini; road —

l)Ut scanty drojDS of what the world calls g(j(xl.

I nto her couch of jKiin, one weary morn

Of care, when my desponding steps were borne,

Afy dread of cureless pain, my cloud of gloom

Dispersed, on entering her huml)le room, —

ller glad old face with such delightful cheer

Was lit, as to her couch mv steps drew near.

It needed not the garments on the broken chair

To show her pitying footstep — Tabitha was tJictr,

lii

1
1

r ABIT 1 1 A.

" They are all so good,'' she whispered, while a tear

Upon her dusky cheek showed me how dear

To her old heart the proof of Christian love,

A foretaste of the sisterhood above.

Not there alone ; I 've niel her oft again,

In squalid rooms, where sickness, want, and pain

Her gentle hand has nursed, relieved, and soothed,

To lonely graves has many a pathway soothed ;

And now I look to see her form appear

Among your band, for Tabitha is here.

SriiPHLN W. Driver.

|H !

■XEKfeB

A STl'DY I\ Till: HISTORY OI-^

camhriik;]:.

TT is the thoiiL^htfiil remark of n writer in the
Memorial History of lioston. that amoni; the
Massachusetts e(il()nists" the relij;ious and pohtieal
elements are more marked in the views and pur-
poses of the men from the eastern counties of 1'Jil;-
lanii," while "the commercial element existed more
visibly amoui;- the adventurers from the westein
counties of Dorset and Devon." Th<e former were
c immonly known as "the Boston m-cn," the latter
as " the Dorchester men."*

There are thre* men who sta.Bid ounn bcvnd others
in our earliest annals: Jthr \\' wis born

in the county of Suflolk, < \i^ v. .e .-icm

I :

Is'

I .

.-/ STi:/)V /.V 77//?

coast of I'Jiirland ; Thomas Hooker, of Lciccstcr-

sliiix'. also in the cast

ind yet more prominently

Thomas Shepard, of the adjoin!

county o

Northampton. Ik'twecn Suffolk and Northampton

IS Camhridife, where these three me

■ --,^»

n were

students. They were all, therefore, from that part
of ICnirland which furnished the reliirious and
political elements of the colonial life. Whatever
importance we may i;ive to this matter of localit}',
it is certain that in the men themselves these ele-
ments held the conspicuous and controlling^ place.
Two of them were clerg^ymen, and in that capacity
became the leaders of their colonies. Our first
i;dvern()r would have been a clerp^ynian, prol)ably,
had not the persuasions of his friends induced him
to abandon the study of Divinity and adhere to the

ofession of the Law. He was a man o

f (1

ec[)

spiritual thought. It was full of li,L;"ht and warmth.
His " Relij^ious lCxi)eriences," recorded by his own
liand, have a charm in the rcadini; which has re-
minded his l)io<;rapher of Baxter and Hunyan. He
was called into the counsels of the Massachusetts
Company in luigland, whose " niaine pillars," as

il!!A^^..„

i;i?l

,1 sT(7>y /.v T/r/-:

written at the corners of our streets. The same
spirit })erva(les the nine reasons, which still remain
in \\'inthro[)'s handwriting, encouraging the plan-
tation.

It is true that these men had commercial rela-
tions among themselves and with others in Eng-
land. This was necessary, and they dignified trade
and commerce by bringing them into such connec-
tion. These were not altogether inhospitable
shores. The fisheries along this coast were well
known. They had drawn the ships of France and
Holland, and they brought ships from tlie southern
ports of (ireat l^ritain. The emblem of this bold
and characteristic enterprise has long hung in state
before our legislators. There were, also, indefinite
opportunities to trade with the Indians, and to
carry into the homes of luigland the furs of this
remote wilderness.

Business of some kind, remunerated industry, the
means of livelihood, must enter into the plan and
being of a state. Not even for religious men,
exiles for liberty, founders of states, was there such
vitality in the air of these forests that they could

insn^KV OF cA.MiiRinc,/-:,

live without broad. Their faith was stroi^i;-, but
not so simple that they fancied the skies over the
new world were dark with falling; manna, antl the
gloomy rocks bursting with water-brooks. They
belonged in civilized communities, and were familiar
with the fact that in these stores and shops, fields
and farms, money and merchandise, have their i)lace
as really as churches, schools, and homes. Their
godliness was of that practical sort which inchules
prudence, economy, industry, enterprise, and lu)kls
the promise even of the life which now is. John
Winthrop was over forty years old when he engaged
to lead his company across the seas, and all his
manliness was in all he did, — in his i)olitical ar-
rangements, in his spiritual designs, in the last
request for the prayers of those who remained in
the old homesteatl when the Arbe^ka sailed on her
tedious voyage. It is a little thing, perhaps, but
when these men held the first Court of .Assistants
on this side of the Atlantic, the first cjuestion pro-
posed was, " how the ministers should be main-
tained." It was decided that this should be "at
the common charge." Here was our beginning.

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///S/-()A'V OF ClM/lA'/fX;/'.

to the contrary, it niiL;iit lia\'c retained that dis-
tinction if the j^rincipal inhabitants had not re-
moved." In the colony taxes for 1^)33, Ixxston and
Cambridge were assessed in the same sum, X4<'^.
and Dorchester in /,<So. Hut in 1637 l^oston |)aid
/,'59 4s., and Cambridge but Xj9 i2s. In the le\y
for the Pequot war in 1637, Boston was called upon
for thirty-ftvc men, and Cambri<lge for twehe. The
settlement on the oiner side of the river was out-
stripping this in wealth and jiopulation. Even a
windmill which had been erected here was, in 1632,
removed to Boston, " because where it first stootl
it would not grind l)utwith a westerlv wind." The
mill was like the men, some may think, much set
in its own way. lUit wc ought to remember from
what region the west winds blew.

The village here was to make its own peculiar
renown. The true founder and father of our town
was Thomas Shepanl, whose name is preserved in
several ways in the city, and whose story should
be familiar to every boy. He was a man of marked
character. Tiie hour of his bnth was prophetic,
for he was born on " the Powder treason day, and

1 ,.,

(II

' 1

1 ii

'1 . ''

i n

A STUDY IN THE

that very hoiire of the day wherin the l*arlament
should liave bin l)lo\vn up." His father lhouL;ht
that so wicked a thing would not be believed, and
he fixed the sign of this iiicredulity upon his boy
by naming him for the disciple who was the last to
believe that his Lord had risen from the dead.
Thus he began his life under a Puritan j)lanet.
I'he grim figures of Robert Catesby and (iuy
l'\iwkes stood by his cradle as he looked back to
it from his manhood. The native dread of ail
which was even remotely associated with the (iun-
pcnvder Plot had a controlling influence on his life.

" Often do the spirits
Of great events stride on l)ef()fe the events.
And in to-day already wa'ks to-morrow.'"

Mis training fostered his birthright, and gave him
a rugged devotion to liberty and purity. lie
studied at Mmmanucl College, at Cambridge, "the
Puritan seed-plot." It was hard to find a place to

-k

work \\\ wnen ne was reac

ly t

o exercise ins uiits

ift.^

Thomas Hooker thought it was " dangerotis and
uncomfortable for little birds to build under the
nests of old ravens and kites." Shepard tried such

i J

ii/sroh'V (y- camukiiu^,/:.

iicst-buiklinLC for a time. It \v:is not without its

com

fort. One urcat u"ift came to liim in Voikshiri.

where

he f(

ound, \\\ tne ureat house o

t h

)f Sir Kiehard

Darlcy, the kinswoman of tlie Knii;ht, AhirL;aivt
Tauteville, who became Mari;-aret Shepard. She

seems

to h

ave l)een

a woman of decided character.

and was, perliaps, more darinj^^ than tlie man slie
1. iXmonu' " tlie reason.^ which swaved

hac marriec

me to come to N. I'!.." he writes, "my dear wife
(Hd mucli Ioul; to see me settled there in j)e;nx',
and so put mc on to it." Iler natne mi,L;lit \'cry
titlinL;iy be <j,"i\-en to the Hospital in whose interest

K'se pages are written.

So th

lis "poor, weal

le-

complectioncd man," as one described him after-

wards, came with his fi'iends an

1 foil

owers

to th

\illaL;e here, whicli Thomas Hooker and his friends
were about to desert, and a new church was orL;an-
ized, and Thomas Shepard bci^an his ministry here
of thirteen years, which he di^nitied with his
" gracious," " sweet," " sweet-affecting," " heaveidv,"

)ul-ravishin

ll-ll

soui-uour-

" heavenly-minded," " s(

ishing" preaching. His wife did not long enjoy

the freedom of the new world, but she left a saintly

1 ''(

1' :

»t*

{

p 1 (i

niSTOkV OF CAMIiKIDGi:.

first rulini; ciders of the new church. And Thomas
Marrett, who was probably the first man chosen
deacon of the church, whose honored name still
remains amonj; us ; and Nich(^las Danforth, Select-
man and Representative, and the father of dis-
tinguished sons ; and Thomas Chesholme, deacon,
and steward of the College. These and others of a
kindred spirit joined themselves to those already
here who did not choose to accompany Mr. Hooker
to Hartford. Among these were John Hridge, on.e
of those of whom Shcpard says, "Some went before
and writ to me of providing a place for a company
of us ;" and Bartholomew Circcn and his son Sam-
uel, the famous printer ; and John Masters, who, in
163 1, was engaged upon a problem not yet solved,
by which Newtown should be more favorably con-
nected with the settlements beyond the river. Hut
the catalogue must not be lengthened. These were
religious men, to whom religion was a vital concern,
who had exchanged the old country for the new
for the sake of religion and its service, lliey ami
others like them gave the character to the com-
munity of which they were a part.

-,p.

■

■ 'J

;?! !

H
ill

11;

■<:
\ i^

: I M

fill"
it;

"ill

I ■ !

I I:

f j

HISTORY OF CAMBRIDGE.

licre is supjgcstcd by the fact that nearly one hun-
dred University men joined the new C(jlony be-
tween 1630 and 1647. Of these, two thirds were
from Cambridge. There they had been associated
with scholars, some of whom were to be illustrious.
Harvard, Shepard, Dunster, Norton, "had trodden
the banks of the Cam with John Milton and Jeremy
Taylor." If any other testimony were needed to
the literary taste of the men who were here, it is
found in their early provision for education, and in
the setting up of a college in these fields, and en-
riching it out of their poverty. In all this, al.^
the religious element is prominent and effective.
They used the word in a large sense, covering all
duties. Not in all who were here was the moral
force equally strong. In the leaders it was full of
efficiency. Find the men where you will, busy in
their daily work, engaged in their common worship,
resting in the quiet of their homes, their spirit is
not hard to discover, and when it is found, it is
honorable, powerful, religious.

Ali:.\a\der AIcKexzik.

so.

' I

I ■

iiiia

ill

'il

iiill'

» ♦

■\'U

ill

THE WIIIPPOORWILL.

11 ? .

HIDDEN in twili-ht, far off in the woody fell,
Waking the echoes from high rock and citadel,
When the clear waters in moonlight are shiinnicrin-j.
When the soft banners of even are crlinnnerin'f
Round the horizon empurpled and vapory,
From his high arbor of evergreen draperv,
When the cool night-winds are fluttering wearily,
Singing his hymn to the solitude cheerily,
Hear the loud whippoorwill, whippoorwill, whippoorwill,
Whippoorwill, whippoorwill, whippoorwill, whippoorwill,
Sylvian, lyrical, musical whippoorwill,
Whippoorwill, whippoorwill, whippoorwill, whippoorwill.

Lone serenader! awaking the stillv ni'dit ;
From his green bowery hailing the lunar light,

il? V 1,1 ,>!

' 'I

100

7V//-; 1 1 '////TOO A' 1 1 7/./..

^Vhc!l the dor-beetle is wanderinir airily,

When the small owlet is foraging charily,

Hosts of gay creatures in all the wide latitude,

()uietly sleeping in silent 1)eatitudc ;

J'erched on his sylvian battlement all alone,

Calling aloud in his musical monotone,

Hear the lone whippoorwill, whippoorwill, whippoorwill,

Whippoorwill, whippoorwill, whippoorwill, whippoorwill,

ICremite, isolate, wandering whippoorwill,

AVhippoorwill, whippoorwill, whippoorwill, whippoorwill.

Oft have I loitered at eve in the soliti;de,
Tracing his haunts in the maples and hollywood,
^Vhen the loud din of the forest was quieted.
Merry birds sleeping where lately they rioted,
Ominous silence pervading the wilderness,
All the sweet solitude quiet and echoless ;
Loitered alone in the mellow eve, pondering
On the weird shadows that greeted my wandering;
Charmed by the whippoorwill, wl \,poorwill, whippoor-
will,
Whippoorwill, whippoorwill, whippoorwill, whippoorwill,
Sorrowful, errant, melodious whippoorwill,
Whippoorwill, whippoorwill, whippoorwill, whippoorwill.

THE wuippnoRwii.r..

lOI

Bird of ll)c wilderness, doarer than Philomel !
Echoes are telling thy notes from the hill and dell !
Lovers and poets deligiited are listen ini;
When the first star in the dewdrop is 'dist'Miin'^ •
Waiting the call of the eremite forester,
Lonely, nocturnnl, and sentinel chorister!
Prophet of gladness, but never foreboding ill,
Carolling cheerily from his green domicile,
Uttering whippoorwill, n- lippoorwill, vhij^poorwill,
Whippoorwill, whippooiw ill, whippoorwill, whippoorwill-
Sibylline, tuneful, r.;ysterious whippoorwill,
Whippoorwill, whippoorwill, whippoorwill, whij^pooruill.

Wilson Flagg.

ii"

TOI'SY-TIRVY.

i» ,

A ARON GOODIir:\Vi:S was a i)lain, lianl-
•^ ^ working" man, stroni:; and stead \', hiil poor.
What he earned one day, he and liis eliildrcn ate
the next. lie lived from hrnd to mouth. If he
nKinaL;cd by Iiard striving; to lay by a little for a
rainy day, the rainy day was sure to eome. Work
was scarce, [provisions high, his family robust and
active, and hungry as little l)ears. lUit Aaron
Goodhewes had a happy, cheerful temper. As
generous a heart beat in his bosom as if he had
never known pinching care or want. If he had
anything, he was ready to share with any i)oor
mortal that came along. He cast his bread upon
the waters, and received it threefold in lo\e and

I04

rOPSY-TURVY.

V'i

'!)M

good-will, and not a man in the town would refuse
him a helping hand if he were in need. But the
times were growing harder. Wages, to be sure,
had risen, but where was the work ? Aaron's
unselfish heart bled to see hearty men walking the
streets and begging from door to door for jobs that
no one seemed to give ; to see them lounging around
their fires, or wasting their money and time, ay,
their very lives away, in drinking.

He thought it over and over, until, one night, he
had a dream — a wonderful dream — that treasure
lay buried far down under the busy streets. The
dream was a reality in Aaron's simple mind, and
thus he reasoned : " If the gold is found, surely
some must fall into the waiting hands of these poor
fellows ; at all events, living will be easier." So
he pondered, wondering daily how he, a poor, quiet
man, should gain his object, having nothing to fall
back upon but a vision of the night.

Now Topsy-turvy, the spirit of earthquakes and
excavations, bank failures, and riots, and street-
making, — of everything that turns a quiet com-
munity into a bustling one, — perceived what was

TOPSY-TURVY.

lo;

working in the heart of Aaron Goodhewes, and
came speedily to his help. *' I will jnit it into the
heads of these good people," said he, " to renew
their bridge, and you, Aaron Goodhewes, shall be
head workman. Keep your eyes about you, and if
you find not the treasure, we will take further
measures."

So Topsy-turvy set the sober Cambridge people
to tearing up their ancient bridge, the planks that
had resounded for years to the merry tramp of their
horses' feet ; and the mighty stream of humanity,
of omnibuses and carts and light vehicles, of foot-
passengers and cows and dogs, was turned from
its course, and poured through roundabout thor-
oughfares, until humanity became very cross and
impatient, and wished the dear old bridge back
again. The work went gayly on, however, and
Topsy-turvy was in his element ; destruction and
ruin were triumphant. Gradually order began to
come out of chaos, and at last the causeway, dusty
and muddy, with noisy pavement, and city side-
walk, and complicated draw, was finished. Hut no
treasure had appeared, and Aaron (loodhewcs la-

■i (

5 - rp-M

i;i

mcntcd loudly. " Hold ! " exclaimed Topsy-turvy,
" we have not finished yet."

Soon everybody began to say how dear and scarce
oil was becoming, and oh, what wretched stuff !
Nothing but smoke could come from it. The
light by which our grandmothers knit and darned
stockings was pronounced beneath contempt by
their degenerate, embroidery-lo\'ing descendants.
Delicate fingers shrank from contact with the hand-
lamps, and delicate noses resented the odor that
arose from heated, crusted wicks. Then came the
wily spirit of disorder. Wagon-loads of iron tubes
passed jangling through the streets. The pickaxe
and spade buried themselves deep in the hardened
soil. Men sank to their waists beneath the surface,
and still they went digging deeper and deeper, as
if they would, come out at the antipodes. And,
working with the foremost, active, eager, inspiring
them all, was Aaron Goodhewes, unmindful of the
busy street and curious passer-by, thinking only of
the lost treasure. At night, pale lamj^s and barri-
cades in the streets, frequent smashings, wheels
and horses plunging into the deep ditch, bore wit-

TOPSY-TURVY.

lo:

ness to the universal rule of Topsy-turw, until
the pale beacons were changed for sparkling- rows
of light, as though the stars of heaven had fallen.
Hut still no treasure !

" Surely this benighted people know not the
blessing of pure water," said Topsy-turvy, " or they
would have an acpieduct from yonder lovely pond."
No sooner said than begun. A deeper, broader
channel ran through all the streets. Wheels locked
together in tlie narrow passages. Huge carts and
omnibuses blocked the way. Laborers' heatl;
pearing now and then from subterran
looked with a strange st

ean caverns,

are at the t

umu

It. lil

gnomes rising from their haunts to see what the

matter was. And there was A

aron w

ith 1

lis nil

:\s

axe, working with absorbing interest in the deepest,
earthiest part, stopping neither to look to the right
nor the left. The public declared tl

lese innovations

a perfect nuisance.

;"r()wled audibly at this new

outrage on their beautiful pond, and sent forth dark
s to taxes, and threats of leaving, in a body,

us ion

all

this region of new-fangled notions. \'et, stiangt

to say, the general opinion seemed to be that thi;

lilfl

III

,■(»»»•

1 08

TOPSY-TURVY.

very public was at the bottom of it, that it was all
for the good of the public, and the public desired
it of all things ; which was the more provokin*;.
Still, nothing but layers of sand, and layers of
gravel, and black earth, and light earth ! How-
ever interesting to geologists, they were not gold.
And now for a last stroke, to undermine the whole
road .

For a long time back, discontent had accom-
panied travellers into the clumsy omnibuses, and
undisguised exultation had got out with them.
Nothing could be more stupefying, more directly
opposed to social conversation, more wearing to the
nerves, the throats, and the bodies generally of
passengers than these rackety, rickety, creaking,
jarring, rumbling vehicles. When the boy, the
only enlivening and entertaining part of the whole
affair, was changed for a leather strap, patience
could endure no longer. And when the horses
were trained, apparently, to start just as the un-
lucky passenger was balancing on the lower step,
preparing for a dainty, leisurely descent into the
mud ; when the drivers became gruffy, and so

many incomprehensible " lines " started up, that
people were as likely to find themselves landed in
Charlestown as in Cambridge, — then Toj)sy-turvy
seized his chance. He sent a whisper on the wind,
which was caught up and repeated, until all Cam-
bridge echoed with the shout, " Horse Railroatl ! "

Gangs of men appeared as if by magic. I'hc
streets were full, — crowded. Side by side, in rows
of three, they worked, breaking the earth with huge
mattocks, digging, scraping, rolling great stones,
beating and pounding, laying solid beams this way
and that, along and across, sawing and planing and
hammering. Hoarse voices and a ceaseless clatter
of axes and spades drowned all other noises. The
air was redolent with tobacco. Laborers' coats
hung on aristocratic fences. Laborers' dinners in
tin pails were set inside of private yards. Stones
and earth rolled over the narrow pathway from em-
bankments cast up against the sidewalks. Great
pools of water, settling behind these dykes, waited
silently in dark places to entrap unwary mortals.
Through all, the work went on steadily, rapidly ;
but no treasure turned up.

\m\\

TOrSY-TURVY.

Aaron Goodhcwcs kancd on his spade when the
otlicr laborers, careless and merry, had gone from
their work, and thus complained : '' O faithless
spirit ! Why have you deceived me ? " Then
came Topsy-turvy, with his usual headlong speed.
" Have you not found your treasure, ungrateful
man ? And has it not gone where you most de-
sired ? See your comrades filled and satisfied.
Work has been abundant. No excuse for idleness !

No time to waste in drinkintr

c'iimr

! N

scarcity of wages ! They and you, Aaron Good-
hcwcs, have found the treasure."

So sa}ing. Topsy-turvy flew away to superintend
the pitch pavement in the neighboring city, and
rejoice his heart in the dire commotion.

Mrs. Ezra Abbott,

^^J^

. I

THE OLD NURSK.

IT ER gentle spirit had no creed,
A She lived to succor souls in need ;
Through her calm eyes religion shone,
And lit the face she looked upon.

Where anguish ploughed up bosom-weeds,
She scattered love's immortal seeds,
Till sometimes, gray-haired, dying men
Dreamt sunnv childhood dawned ajrain.

Some thought a cheerless life she spent,
And wondered at her sweet content ;
But, by the solace round her thrown,
We knew she did not walk alone.

Flktcher Bates.

•I

HISTORIC HOSPITALITY.

T T /"HEN the Good Samaritan found thcwound-
^ • cd man on the way to Jericho, he knew of
no better place to take him than an inn, and if we
are to judge by the representation of travellers, an
inn in the Holy Land is not adapted to giv^e com-
fort even to a well man, and we can only imagine
the discomforts which would have been found there
by one "half dead."

When the Good Bostonian finds in the streets
a sufferer from any cause, he is able to select, from
a variety of well-organized hospitals, the one which
is best adapted to give not only comfort, but the
most skilful surc^ical and medical attendance.

In the nineteen hundred years which have inter-

i '^ I

%i y»' i

'.'}

114

HISTORIC HOSPITALITY.

vcncd, a great chan2,"e lias come over the practice
of hospitality in all of its different categories.
From the days of Abraham to the time of the
Good Samaritan, hospitality was personal, and the
good man sat at his tent door ready to " entertain
angels unawares," or slowly passed down the
minmlain road ready to take his neighbor by the
hand and set him on his own beast, and pay his
expenses at an inn.

The first hospitals {Jiospitalia) among the Romans
were intended, not for invalids, but merely for the
accommodation of guests. No obligation was more
sacred among the Greeks and Romans than that of
hospitality, which may be also considered one of the
natural virtues of uncivilized people.

Hospitality among them was exercised every-
where and always, the guests at first being received
into the immediate family of the host. At a later
period the strangers were entertainevl in a separate
part of the host's dwelling, the right of hospitality
thereby losing something of its personal character.
Still later, as the number of travellers and strangers
became greater, caravansaries and establishments

', I

nisroh'/c iiosi'i r.M.i iv

for the organized care of \va)farers became a ne-
cessity.

In the early years of the Ciiristian era, private

cliarity was a sufficient provisio

for tl

le neec

Is of

the poor ai d sufferini,^ ; but l)y the fourth centui-y
a want was recognized for establishnii'nts in wliicli
strangers, travellers, invalids, and those suffering
from accidents might receive protection anil care.
It is said that the world owes to I'abiola, a noble
Roman matron, the foundation of the first hos|)ital
for the sick which corresponds to those of modern
times. We are quite willing to believe that this
tradition iytrue, as we meet to put our hands anew
to the blessed work which owes its origin to one
of the noble ladies of our own fair town.

From the days of Fabiola to the time of Tjiiily
Parsons, the impersonal character of hospitality has
become more and more em})hasized, as the world
has grown into a broader charit)' which spreads its
blessed mantle as wide as the wants and ills of the
human race.

In our time the sufferer is not left to the chance
ministrations of empiric practitioners, even though

t %

> ti

I •> !

'S (

of the warmest hearts, nor to the stray Samaritan ;
but the highest science reaches down to the hum-
blest child of sorrow, and cheers his hours of sad-
ness by assuring him that all the wisdom and skill
of the nineteenth century civilization is freely at
his service.

" The primal duties shine aloft, like stars ;
The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless,
Are scattered at the feet of man, Uke flowers."

Arthur Gil.max.

THE HHRITACE OF SUFFERl-RS.

TF ever sonrr of poet or of saint

Had office doubly blest;
If ever proverb \vei-;hty, witty, quaint,

Or luimor's happy jest,
Were for our help and cheer divinely meant,

It is for those distrest ; —
Whom Heaven hath first the gift of sufferin*; sent,

Inherit all the best.

CHAKLOTTK FisKK B ATI'S.

?•:;

jssfffra

'|M"«'

sEsamssaa

1R^ skmemhatkammimaimtimi

REX'S VACATION.

[Part of this story has been printed before in a Fair book,
and is repeated here in order to add the Conchision inciuired
for by friendly readers.]

T WAS long the " Illustrious Lazy " of my class.

^ I have been so hard driven since I resolved
to make up for past idle years, and win a more
honorable title, that I am wasted to a shadow, and
fears are entertained that I shall wholly vanish
into thin air. My physician talks of nervous pros-
tration, and sends me to RatborouL;h, as the place
of all others the most favorable for entire intel-
lectual repose. I am living with my old aunt,
Tabitha Mint, who was wont to rock and trot me,
and wash my face in my helpless infancy, and can

{■■•

1 ?'

MiiiiHiiiiiiiiiiiMiMBHl

tj ■ "I

.1 ij

1 20

A'/sW:; VACATIO.V.

hardly believe I have outgrown such endearing
assiduities in the twenty-two years that have in-
tervened.

There is another personage in the household
who probably thinks that in the exuberant kind-
ness of my aunt I have a full average of civility
without the least interest on her part. But as I
have not even a book allowed me to take up my
thoughts, my curiosity fixes itself strangely on this
silent, sulky, meditative little person, who takes
about as much notice of me as of the figure of
Father Time over the clock.

What can such a body have to think about the
livelong day, that is so absorbing that all one's
briirht thouiihts and one's most whimsical sallies
pass without notice .-* Should I see her once move
a muscle of her very plain, doggedly inexpressive,
provokingly composed phiz, I should jump up and
cry " Bo ! " with surprise. She vanishes several
hours at a time, and I hear her humming to her-
self in rooms I do not frequent. While I gnaw
my nails and stretch and yawn, I hear that con-
tented murmur, and now and then a light, rapid

^*fl

step on the stairs, and I wonder how she can be so
happy in this dull house alone.

There is a piano, but as silent as she is. I do
not see her wince, though I drum upon the keys
with the most ingenious discords, and sing false on
purpose as loud as I can bellow. I will not ask
her if she can play ; she can have no ear at all, or
she would box mine in self-defence.

There is somebody, by name Mora, who is
looked for daily by stage-coach. " Flory," says
my aunt, " sings like a canary-bird, and plays a
sight," and at sight too, it seems. This Miss
Flora will be found to possess a tongue, I hope,
and the disposition to give it exercise. I do not
know certainly as Miss T^tty — by the way, what
is her real name.'* I won't condescend to ask any
question about her. But really, I wish 1 knew
whether it is Mehitable ; perhaps Henrietta. No,
no, that is too pretty a name ; I will call her
Litt/c I'g/y.

Hark ! I have two or three times heard a very
musical kuiLih in the direction of the kitchen. I
will inquire into this gay outbreak in a land of

? *

fi'I

122

A' EX'S KICAT/O.V.

Stupidity. Irish humor, probably, as I licar Norah
laughing too, after her guttural fashion. As I
popped my head into the kitchen, Little Ugly was
just vanishing at the opposite doer. I could not
make Norah tell me what Miss l^Ltty put under her
arm, as she looked over her shoulder at me and
darted out of sight. Oh, my noisy boots ! I might
as well wear a bell round my neck.

Stage-wheels are rattling up the road. Now
they run upon the grass before the door. I rush
in undignified haste to the window. Shall I —
will I — go and help this long-expected Miss VXoxa
to alight } No, for I sec forty boxes on the coach-
top. A very handsome girl, really! I will get out
a blameless collar, if such there be. First impres-
sions arc important. I wish my hair was cut !
" Yes, aunt, I hear," and shall presently arrive to
make my bow to Little Handsome.

Sept, 23<;/. — Truly, the presence of Miss Flora
Cooper makes the old farmhouse a new place. At
least six hours are taken from the length of the
days. Now am I relieved from that tedious com-
panion, my own self. I never liked him very well;

\' i

A'/:X-S I'ACATIOX.

123

he scolds mc, just as a stay-at-home wife lectures
a gay husband, who never returns to his better
half when he finds anything to amuse him abroad.
Good-by, old fellow ; I have found better company
than your rememberings and ho[)ings, to wit,
Miss Flora Cooper, alias Little Handsome, alias
Aunt Tabitha's canary.

The first day or two after h(_r arrival. Miss I-'lora
pouted at me. I was exceedingly well amused,
making all the saucy speeches I could think of in
pure mischief. Finding her displeasure was not
producing any particular effect, I imagine the in-
dignant beauty begins to plot a different revenge
on me. Ila, ha! it is not because you like me
better than you did, Miss Flora, that you are all
smiles and grace and sunshine. I shall not flatter
you the more, I am determined. I am on my
guard. No, no, Little Handsome! I am no lady's
man ; I was never flirted withal in my life. I defy
your smiles as stoutly as your frowns. I like your
pretty face, but you should not be so conscious of
its beauty. I am tired of your pretty surprise,
your playful upbraidings, and the raps of your fan.

'ij

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r^ , .\ i,im i< f ^ n ^l«» ».n.Jir.»niwi»iii.i«iiiir«

124

J? EX'S VACATION.

I I ■ r

■i

h! it

I want more repose of manner, Little Handsome !
What a contrast you and Miss Etty present ! I
am glad you have given up following her out of
the room the moment we rise from table. You sit
down to your tiny basket and demurely take out
something that passes for work. I do not see you
do much at it, however. I give you warning that
I never hold skeins to be wound, not I ! I will not
read aloud, so you need not offer me " Sonnet to
Flora" in manuscript, nor your pet poet in print.
We will talk. It is a comfort to have my wit
appreciated, after wasting so much on my aunt
who cannot, and Miss Etty who will not, under-
stand.

24///. — Charming little Canary ! I have spent
the forenoon with her at the piano. I like her
playing when she does not attempt my favorite
songs. It must be confessed she is apt to vary,
and not for the better always. Her throat is a fine
instrument ; I shall teach her to use it with more
expression and feeling. We will have another
lesson to-morrow.

I thought, though, there was a shadow over her

A'/iA'-.s- r.icArio.v.

125

:; '

face when I called it practisiiii^. Etty's eyes met
mine at the moment, — a rare occurrence. What
was her thought? One cannot read in her immov-
able face.

Ei'oiiiii:. — r am booked for a horseback ride
with Little Handsome to-morrow morning. I low
did she make me offer.' I did not mean to. All
country girls ride, I believe. I often see Miss
ICtty cantering through the shady lanes all by
herself. I saw the bars down at the end of the
track through the woods, one day. I immediately
concluded that Little Ugly had paced off that way,
that I need not see her from my • indow. I put
the bars up again, and lay in wait behind the
bushes. Soon I heard her approaching. I come
forward as she comes near on that rat-like pony of
hers, who holds his head down as if searching for
something lost in the road. I stand in doubt
whether to laugh at her predicament, or advance
in a gentlemanly manner to remove the obstacle I
had put in her way. When lo ! the absurd little
nag clears it at a bound, and skims away over the
green track like a swallow, till he vanishes under

\ i

\X\

' 'l

126

AViX'S I'ACATIOX.

the leafy arch. I am left in a fooHsh attitude, with
mouth and eyes wide open.

Now this independent young lady shall be at
liberty to take care of herself, with no officious
interference of mine ; I will not invite her to join
us to-morrow morning, as I intended. I wonder if
any horses are to be procured that are not rats. I
trust Miss Flora knows enough to mount her pony,
for I am sure I shall not know how to help her.
Whew! I hope we shall meet with no disasters!
I feel certain Little Handsome would scream like
a sea-gull, pull the wrong rein, tangle her foot in
the stirrup or riding-skirt, faint, fall, break her
neck — O horrors! Will not the dear old Aunt
Tabitha forbid her going }

25///. — Rainy. Glad of it. Breakfast late. Miss
Etty did not appear, having been up for hours, I
imagine. What for, I wonder.'' One thing pleases
me in her. If Aunt Tabitha wants any little at-
tention, — a needle threaded, or a dropped stitch
taken up, — Miss Etty quietly comes to her aid.
It is so entirely a matter of course the old lady
only smiles, but any service from Flora calls forth

an acknowledgment, it being a particular effort of
good-nature, or the fruit of a direct appeal. Miss
I'^tty talks more than she did, too. While I am

talki

nir non

sense with Little Handsome, I hear

her amusing my good aunty, and 1 catch a few
words, her utterance having a peculiar distinctness,
and the lowest tones bein'r fine and clear, lik

th(

ose or a good singer on a pianissimo strain.

is a peculiarly ladylike articulation. Was she
d bred in Ratborouirh, I wonder ? She

bor

n an

o"»

never speaks while we are singing. Does she like
music, then } I asked her once ; but what sort of
answer is ** Yes " to such a question .-* And that
is all I elicited.

Music again, the forenoon occupation. Miss
Flora does not like being criticised, I find. One
must not presume to set her right in the smallest
particular ; it puts her in a pet. She laughed it
off, but I saw the mounting color and the flashing
glance. I think she need not take offence at what
was intended as a friendly help. I am no flatterer,
at least. Really, I am hurt that I might not take
so trifling a liberty in behalf of my favorite song.

i I!''

: I

!;!

■P ill i
■ ' I!

1/ ^-((i!

wt. ■ I'

I '11 walk off as oftcMi as she sings it. Can her
temper be perfectly good ? Must no improvement
be ever suggested because it implies imperfection ?
I hope none of my friends will ever be on such
terms with mc/ If I am touchy, like a nettle, may
they grasp mc hard, and fear me not.

26///. — This little sheet of water in front of the
house has the greatest variety of aspects ; its face
is like a human face, full of varying expressions.
A slight haze made it so beautiful just before sun-
set, I took my chair, and put it out of the window
upon the grass, then followed it, and sat with it
tipped back against the house, close by the win-
dow of one of those mysterious rooms in which
Miss Etty immures herself. I heard the Canary
say in a scolding tone, " I should think you
might oblige me ; it is such a trifle to do, it is
not worth refusing. Why should you care for
him ? "

No answer, though i confess my ears were
erected to the sharpest attitude of listening. I
was wholly oblivious of myself, or I should have
taken myself away as in honor bound.

wmmmmmmmm

A'z-xs r.icATio.y.

129

"Won't you now, laiy ? 1 '11 only ask for one of
our old ducts — just one !"

" No, Flora," said Little Ugly, coldly enough,

" Why not ? " No answer.

"To be sure, /w might hear. He would find out
that you are musical. What of that .'' Where is
the use of being able to sing, to sing only whe
there is nobody to listen .'' "

I sing only to friends. I cannot sing, I never
have sung, to persons in whom I have no con-
fidence."

" Afraid ! what a little goose ! "

" Not afraid, exactly."

" I don't comprehend, I am sure."

" I do not expect you should."

" I never did understand you."

" You never will." Silence again.

Flora tuned up, and of all tunes, she must needs
hum my song. I was on my feet in a moment to
depart, when I lieard the clear tones of r>tty's
voice again, and stood still with one foot advanced,
ihould si

you

"1^

■^*v; 33

last line.

I m

It'

li!

130

A' EX'S V.iCATIO.W

Flora murdered it again, with the most atro-
cious, cold-blooded cruelty. I almost mocked the
sound aloud in my passion.

** I do not mean to vex you, only I saw that Mr.
Ratcliffe — "

"You need not trouble yourself about /lis opin-
ion.

" I knew you would not like it if I told you of a
mistake. But I supposed you would rectif)- it, and
I should have done you a service, even against your
will."

" And I to hate you for it, eh } "

" If )ou can."

•' Indeed I cannot, Etty, for you arc my best
friend. But you are a horrid, truth-telling, formi-
dable body. Why not let me sing on my own
way } I don't thank you a bit. I had rather sing-
it wrong than be corrected. It hurts my pride.
I think people should take my music as they find
it. One note wrong can surely be put up with if
the rest is worth hearing. I shall continue to sing
it as I have done, I think."

•• No, please don't ! "

" If I will mend it when I think of it, will you
sing a duet ? "

" Yes, though it will cost me more than you know."

" Poh ! " And Flora sang the song without ac-
companiment. The desired sharp rang upon my
cars, and set my nerves at rest.

''Bravo! encore!" I cried beneath the window,
and was pelted with peach-stones. I wonder when
this duet is to come off.

2'jth. — Am I trilling, or am I in earnest.'' In-
deed I don't know. I am constantly at the side
of Little Handsome without knowing how I came
there. She makes me sing with her, ride with her,
walk with her, at her will ; and as if that was not
enough for one day, to test her jiower over me,
to-night she made me dance with her. And now
I feel like a fool as I think of laty playing a waltz
ft)r us, at Mora's request, and giving me a long,
serious look as I approached the piano to compli-
ment her playing. I could not utter a word. I
answered her gaze with one as sober, and more
sad, and came away to my rooni, to ha\'e some talk
with mv real self. >'')w ft)r it.

^'i:

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"'if'

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mmm

mMam«m»iif^>-,»Mitm»ua,^nwn

132

A' EX'S K'lCATION.

Says I to Myself, " A truce to your upbraidings,
you old scold ; tell me at once how you find your-
self affected towards this charminir little Flora."

Says JMyseli, " There are no tastes in common
between her and me."

Says I, quickly, " Music ! " and triumphed for a
moment or two. But the snarling old fellow asked
whether I liked her singing or her flattery } Vov
his part, he thought we both liked to hear our own
voices, and agreed in nothing else. Taste, indeed !
when I would not let her sing a song I cared a
fillip for ; and as to any love between us, I was not
to be a fop; her bright glances said nothing that
they had not said to the author of " Flora, oh, forget
me not," and perhaiis to a dozen more.

27///. — \ dull day. "You are as sober as a
judge," said J'lora, at breakfast. I caught I'Jty's
eye, but it said nothing. T'lora has revenged her-

,'lf

sell on m

e as she meant tt) do. She lias turned

my head ; made me act like a simpleton. But

"Richard's himself again," and wiser than he was.

P. M. -— I endeavored to talk more with Miss

Etty, that the change in my manner might be less

observed. She seemed to divine my objeet, and
snstained the dialogue. I never knew her to do it
before. It is not diffidence, it seems, that caused
her reserve. Little Ugly and I actually exchang-
ing ideas ! T shall call her Little Ugly still, how-
ever, for I could not make her look at me as
she spoke, nor answer my wit by a change of
countenance.

2'!it/i. — Little Hantlsome cannot be convinced
that the flirtation is over — absolutely at an end.
She alternately rails at my capricious solemnity,
and pretends to be grieved at it. I can sec that
nothing but the avoidance o( a tctc-a-tctc is my
safety.

The maples are turning red. The setting sun
threw a glorious light through their tinted foliage,
and the still bosom of the lake reflected it in a
softened, changeable hue of crimson and silver.
T'lora was standing at the door. I somehow found
myself there also, but I talked over my shoulder
to Aunt Tabitha about potatoes.

"I have a fancy to walk round the pond," said
Flora. After a [)ause she looked at me, as much

» 'i..

'1^

li i.,1

III

134

leEX'S V.i CATION.

as to say, " Don't you sec, you monster, it is too
la'.e lor me to go alone ? "

" Miss Flora, I will second your wish if you will
drum up a third party," said I, point blank.

Flora l)lujhed and pouted for a moment, then
beckoned to Little Ugly, who disobligingly sug-
gested that the grass would be wet. It so liap-
pcned thei vns no dew, and Mora convinced her
of the fact b) .»ning in the grass, and then pre-
senting llie sole of her shoe for her inspection.
Miss F.tt}', her ill-chosen objection being van-
quished, went for her bonnet, and we set forth,
Flora's arm in mine as a matter of court^e, and
Miss Etty's in hers, save where the exigencies of
the woodland path gave her an excuse to drop
behind. A little boat tied to a stimip suggested
to Flora a new whim. Instead of going round the
pond, which I now began to like doing, I must
weary myself with rowing her across. I was ready
enough to do it, however, had not Miss VA\y
quietly observed that the pond was muddy, and
the boat unseaworthy. Flora would not have

et of water : but mud ! She

ity

sighed and resumed niy arm. I, offeri.iL;- the other
to Miss luty in so determined a way that she
could not waive accepting it, marched forward with
spirits rising into high glee and loquacity. Pres-
ently, feeling a sudden irritation at the feathcr-likc
lightness with which Little Ugly's fingers just
touched my elbow, I caught her hand and drew it
through my arm, and when I relinquishetl it,
pressed her arm to my side with mine, thinking
she would snatch it away and walk alone in of-
fended dignity. Whether she was too really digni-
fied for that, or took my rebuke as it was intended.

I k

now not ; but she leaned on my arm with some-
what greater confidence during the remainder of
our walk, and now and then even volunteered a
remark. Before we finished the circumambulation
of the pond, she had quite forgotten her sulky
reserve, and talked with much earnestness and
animation, Flora subsiding into a listener with
a willing interest which raised her in my esti-
mation.

And now that I am alone in my room, and jour-
nalizing, it behooves mc to gather up and record

i !|

■I'

::;i

Ik- 1;

136

REX'S VACATION.

some of those words, precious from their rarity.
Flora and I, in our merry notisense, h'.id a mock
dispute, and referred the matter to Fcty for arbi-
tration.

Little Ugly was obliged to confess that she had
not heard a word of the matter, her thouirhts beinc:
elsewhere intently engaged.

" I must request you to excuse my inattention,"
she said, "and repeat what you were saying."

"The latter request I scorn to grant," said I,
•' and the former we will consider about when we
have heard what thoughts have been preferred to
our most edifying conversation."

'• You s/ia/l tell us," said Flora. " Yes, or we '11
go off and leave you to your meditations, here in
the dark woods, with the owls and the bats, whom
you probably prefer for company." Miss I^tty
condescended to confess that she should be fright-
ened without my manful protection. Quite a
triumph !

"I must thank you," she said, "for the novelty
of an evening walk in the woods. I enjoy it, I con-
fess, very highly. Look at those dark, mysterious

REX'S I'ACATIOX.

137

vistas, and those dccpenini^ shadows blending; tlie
bank with its mirror I How different from the
trite dayhght truth ! It took strong hokl of my
imaiifination."'

•'Go on. And so you were thinking — "

" I was hardly doing so much as thinking. I
was seeiniT it to remember."

** Etty draws like an artist," whispered Flora.

" I was taking a mental jdiotograph of my com-
panions by twilight, and of all the scene round, too,
in the same gray tint, just to look at some ten or
fifteen vears hence, when — "

Let us all three airree," said I. "to remember

this evening on the 28th of September, 18 — . I
am sure I shall look back to it with pleasure."

"Oh, horrid!" shrieked Mora. " Hy that time
you will be a shocking, middle-aged sort of person.
r^ifteen years! dismal thought ! I shall have out-
lived everything I care about in life!" So moaned
Little Handsome.

" But you may have found new sources of inter-
est," said I, perhaps a little too tenderly; for I had
some sympathy with her dread of that j)articular

\ ;i

!;*

phase of existence, middlc-agedness. " Perhaps as
mistress of a household — "

"Worse and worse!" screamed Flora. "A mis-
erable comforter you are ! As if it were not
enough merely to grow old, but one must be a
slave and a martyr, bound forever to one spot, and
one perpetual companion — "

"Planning dinners every day for cooks hardly
less ignorant than yourself," added I, laughing at
her selfish horror of matronly bondage, yet pro-
voked at it. " Miss I*ltty, would you, if you could,
stand still instead of going forward ? "

" My happiness is altogether different from

ora's," she replied, " though we were brought up

side by side. What has taught me to be inde-
pendent of the world and its notice, was my being
continually compared with her, and told, with com-
passionate regret, that I had

ficat

ions w

hich

cou

society

one
give me success

— " I be2:an.

of th

e q

ali-

in freneral

' Which was a libel —

' Without the last syllable," said Flora.

'At any rate, I knew I was plain and shy, and

REX'S VACATION.

139

made friends slowly. So I chose such i)leasurcs as
should be under my own control, and could never
fail me. They make my lite so much lia[)pier than
it was ten years ago, that I feel certain I shall have
a wider and fuller enjoyment of the same ten years
hence."

What they arc, I partly guess, and partly drew
from her in her uncommonly frank mood. I begin
to perceive that I, as well as Mora, have been
che.i.-hing most mistaken and unsatisfactory aims.
My surly old inner self has often hinted as much,
but I would not hear him. ICtty may have her mis-
taken views too, but she has set me thinking.

Ktty, your voice is still with me, clear, sweet, and
penetrating, as it was when }ou talked so elo-
quently to-night in our dreamy ramble. What if I
had early adopted her idea that with every conscious
power is bound up both the duty and the pleasure
of developing it } Might I not now have reached
higher ground, with health both of body and mind }
Ambition is an unhealthy stimulus. A wretchedly
uneasy guest, too, in the breast of an invalid. I
would fain have a purer motive, which shall dismiss

-m.

! ! ft ?

!!!'

jl;

« I

I' *" II

or control it. But Etty — what are the uses to be
made of her talents, while she lives thus withdrawn
into a world of her own ? Certainly, she is wrong.
I shall convince her of it when our friendship, now
fairly planted, I trust, shall have taken root.

2gf/i. — Capricious are the ways of womankind !
Little Ugly is more thoroughly undemonstrative
than ever. I did but leave my old aunt to T'lora
on our way home from church, and step back to
remark that the sermon was dull and the sinuinc:
discordant. Miss luty assented very coldly, and
presently bolted into an old red house, and left me
to go home by myself. When we started for church
again, she was among the missing, and we found
her in the pew on our arrival. Thus pointedly to
avoid me ! It might be accident, however, for she
did not refuse to sing from the same hvmn-book
v/ith me, and pointed to a verse on the oUier page,
quaint, but excellent. After all. Watts //^s written
the best hymns in the language.

Evening. — Without choice, I found myself walk-
ing round the pond again. It was as smooth as
glass, and the leaves scarcely trembled on the trees

fi:

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iCi II

♦iji

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' 1

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1
I

A'/:X'S VACATION.

loses under a false idea that it is a luxury to sleep
in the morning ! How often I " eut prayers " in my
lazy Freshman year ! Reelining under Farmer Pud-
dingstone's elm, and looking upon the glassy pond
in which the glowing sky mirrored itself, my soul
was fired with poetic inspiration. On the blank
page of a letter I wrote, —

Mow holy the calm, in the stillness of morn,

and threw down my paper, being suddenly quenched
by sclf-ridiculc, as I was debating whether to write
" To I^tty" over the top. Returning that way after
a ramble, I found the following conclusion pinnc'
to the tree by a jackknife : —

How holy the calm in tlie stillness of morn,
When to call cm to l)reakfast Josh toots on the horn ,
The ducks gives a ciuack, and the caow gives a moo,
And the children chimes in with their plaintive boo-hoo.

How holy the calm in the stillness of neune.
When the pot is a siniiin' its silvery teune, —
Its soft, woolly teune, jest likv^ Aribi's Darter,
While the teakettle plays up the simperny arter.

How holy the calm, in the stillness of night.

When the moon, like a punkin, looks yaller and bright ;

!!!

A'/:x-s I'. I CAT/ ox.

While the aowls and the katydids, screeching; hke time,
Jest brings me up close to the eend o' my rhyme.*

Atul underneath was addetl, as if in scorn of my

fruitl

ess endeavor : —

' i

" I wrote that one ni;^ht ofT, as fast as you could
shell corn. — Salome Puddin'ostom:."

I came home to find an earthen pitcher in my
room, with dahHas surroundini; a i^Iorioiis sunflower.
My aunt's doing ; and its homehness pleases me
as I love her homely sincerity of affection. ICtty
adorns the panor with wild things, — the bear-bind,
the ground-nut, so deliciously scented, the golden-
rod, plumy and graceful, etc., etc. I will get for her
some of the clematis I saw this morning, more
beautiful in its present state than when it was in
fiower. Etty loves wild-flowers because she is one
herself, and prefers to hide in her native nook, where
no eye (I might except my own) gives her more
than a casual glance.

A'^oon. — •* I shall think it quite uncivil of Little
Ugly if she does not offer to arrange my share of

t :

(■ '

* Written by Mrs. Charles Folsom.

■«i

I; '.

!l i

I! I

the booty I am brin£;ing," I said to myself as 1
entered the house by the kitchen way, and deposited
my traihng treasures on Norah's table, by the side
of a yellow squasli.

'• Do, Fh)ra, go with me to Captain ]>lack's," said
nttv's voice at the side door. " The old folks have
not seen you since your return."

" I can't ! " said Flora, with a drawl.

" Wo. coaxablc, for once ! "

" It only makes me obstinate to coax. Why not
go without me } "

" I r.m no novelty. Old people like attention
from such as you, because — "

" Because it is unreasonable to expect it. It is
dusty. My gown is long."

" The old man is failing. I went to Rit with him
yesterday, but found Salome there, so I went to
church, after walking in the graveyard till tlie bell
rang."

" Owl that you arc ! Your meditations must
have been lively! Go; it's of no use waiting
for me."

I laid a detaining hand on Ktty's basket, as she

A'/'X'S VAC.l riox

■

put herself in motion, on which she turned round
with unfeigned astonisliment. " May I not be a
substitute for Flora ? "

"It is quite unnecessary you should trouble your-
self," said I'2tty, shyly. " It is not because I needed
help I was urging Mora."

*' Is it not the old red house with the roof sloping
almost to the ground?" said I, "and shall I say
ycfU sent it ? I shall go in, and be as agiecable as

In
can.

Arc

you

reallv in earnest ? " asked lutv, look-

ing in my face with a smile of wontler that made
her radiantly beautiful. She tuinetl away, blush-
ing at my surprised and eager gaze, and joined me
without a word of answer on my part. It was
some time before I quite recovered from a strange
Hurry of spirits, which made my heart bump very
much as it does when I hear unexi ected good
news. And then I dashed away upon the subject
of okl age, or anything that came uppermost, i

pej

f di

rawuig the soul-lighted eyes to nunc

ted

again, with that transfiguring siuile U[)on the lips.
Ikit 1 was like an unskilful ma;rician ; 1 luul lost

Mi-

Hi il

■(

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U
41^

" ■ --"^?W:<*»^!jiKS ^iW i ^ ^i .| I w It

f t\;\

■>m

146

AViX\S VACATION.

the spell. Ill vain I said to myself, '* I '11 make her
do it again ! " Little Ugly would n't ! She answered
my incoherent sallies in her usual sedate manner,
and I believe it was only in my fancy that her
cheek dimpled a little when I was specially elo-
quent.

Introduced by Miss Etty, I was \v\ aily wel-
comed. I am always affected by the sight of an
aged woman who at all reminds me of the grand-
mother so indulgent to my prankful boyhood. The
old man, too, interested me. lie related his ad-
ventures at sea in a most unhackneyed style. I '11
go and see them every day. One anecdote he
told was good. "An old salt," he said — Bah!
what was it 1 How very lovely Etty looked, sit-
ting on a cricket at the old woman's feet, and, with
a half-smile on her face, submitting her polished
little head to be stroked by her trembling hands !
This I saw out of the corner of my eye.

\2 dc/oik. — The night is beautiful, and it is a
piece of self-denial to close the shuttc^-, light my
lamp, and write in my journal. Peace of mind
came yesterday, positive happiness to-day, neither

A'EX'S VACATIOX.

of which I can analyze. I only know I Ikivc not
been so thoroughly content since the acquisition of
my first jackknife. I have conqucreti Ktty's dis-
trust ; she has actually promised me her friend-
ship. I am rather surprised that I am so enchanted
at this triumph over a prejudice. I am hugely de-
lighted. Not because it is a triumph, however ;
vanity has naught to do with it. It is a wortnier
feeling, in which humility mingles with a more
cordial self-respect than I have hitherto been con-

scious o

How came it all about. -* l?y what blessed sun-
beams can the ice have been softened, till now, as
I hope, it is broken up forever.^ People under the
same roof cannot long mistake each other, it seems,
else b^tty and I should never have become friends.

As we left the door of Captain Black's house,
and turned into the field path to avoid the dust,
Etty said, '• I do not know whether you care much
about it, but you have given pleasure to these good
old people, who have but little variety in their daily
routine, being poor and infirm and lonely. It is
really a duty to cheer them up if we can."

:' \\

^M hi

,l,<<"^

m a i'P. m P V w w »* - ' m fmM mm wM li M i W . b W wfa Wiw' iX . rji ^i Wii i^i^

! Ji

148

av:a's vacation.

I felt that it warmed my heart to have shared
that duty with her, and I said so. I thought she
looked doubtful and surprised. It was a good
opening for egotism, and I improved it. I saw
that she was no uninterested listener, but all along
rather suspicious and incredulous, as if what I was
claiming for myself was inconsistent with her pre-
vious notions of my disposition. I believe I had
made some little impression Saturday night, but
her old distrust had come back by Sunday morn-
incr. Now she was acrain shaken.

y\t last, looking up with the air of one who has
taken a mighty resolve, she said, " I presume such
a keen observer as yourself must have noticed that
the most reserved people are, on some occasions,
the most frank and direct. I am going to tell you
that- 1 feel some apology due to you, if my first im-
pressions of your character are really incorrect. I
am puzzled what to think."

" I am to suppose that your first impressions
were not so favorable as those of Mrs. Black, whom
I heard remark that I was an amiable youth, with
an uncommonly pleasant smile."

A' EX'S VACATlO.y.

149

" Just the opposite, in fact — pardon me ! To
my eye, you had a mocking, ironical cast of counte-
nance. I felt sure at once you were the sort of

rson

I never could make a friend of, au'l ac-

quaintances I leave to Flora, who wants to know
everybody. I thought the less I had to do with
you the better."

I felt hurt, and almost insulted. I had not bee

mistaken ; she had disliked me, and perhaps dis-
liked me yet. '* It was not that I stood in fear of
your satire," she continued. " I am indifferent to
ridicule and censure in general ; no one but a
friend has power to wound me."

A flattering emphasis, truly ! I felt my temper
stirred a little by Miss Tatty's frankness. I was
sulkily silent. She went on : " I had no claim to
any forbearance, any consideration of any sort. I
am perfectly resigned to being the theme of your
wit in any circle, if you can find aught in my
country bred ways to amuse you."

Zounds ! I must speak.

" My conduct to Flora must have confirmed the
charming impression produced by my unlucky phiz,

i'li

i PH

' i*

i 1(1

I y.

.it !

I** '

Ik.

150

AV:.v\v r.tcjT/o.v.

I ima<;inc. Ikit don't l)car malice aj^ainst me in
/uT behalf ; you must have seen she was perfectly
able to reveniie herself."

ICtty's li^L;iit-hearted lau^i;h rang out, and reminded
me of my once baffled curiosity when it reached
my ear from Norah's domain. ]h\i though this
unsuppressed mirth of hers revealed the i)rettiest
row of teeth in the world, and made the whole face
decidedly beautiful, somehow or other it gave me
no pleasure, but rather a feeling of depression.
My joining in it was pure pretence. Presently the
brightness faded, and I found myself gazing at the
cold countenance of Little Ugly again.

" No, I did not refer to Flora," said she. *' As
you say, she can ax'cnge her own quarrel, and we
both were quite as ready to laugh at you as you
could be to laugh at us, I assure you."

*' No doubt of it," said I, with some pique.

" But what I can't forgive you, cannot think of
with any toleration, is — "

•* What .'' " cried I, astonished.

" A man of any right feeling at all could not
make game of an aged woman — his own relative —

/^EX's r.ic.ir/o.v.

151

at the same time that lie was receiving her hearty
and affectionate hospitahty."

" Neither have I done so," cried I, in a towering
passion. " You do me great wrong in accusing me
of it. I would knock any man down who should
treat my aunt with any disrespect. And if I have
sometimes allowed Mora to do it unrebuketl, yt)u
well know that she might once have jjulled my
hair or cuffed my ears, and I should have thought
it a becoming thing for a young lady to do. I
respond to my aunt's love for me with sincere
gratitude, and the sister of my grandmother shall
never want any attention that an own grandson
could render, while I live. I shall find it luutl to
forgive you this accusation, Miss l-^tty," I said,
haughtily, and shut my mouth as if I would ne\er
speak to her again.

She made no answer, but looked up itito my face

with one of those wondrt)Us smil

es.

went as

straight to my heart as a pistol bullet could do, my
high indignation proving no delcnce against it. 1
was instantly vanquished, and as I heartily shook
the hand she held out to me, I was just able to

H; I

III;

■W* i

■ :■{

' i'.

If,

; 11

] I

^1 '

' !

m^..

i'. : .<

refrain from pressing it to my lips, which, now I
think of it, would have been an absurd thinir for
me to do. I wonder what could have made me
think of doing it !

/l//iT Dinner, — I hear Flora's musical laugh in
the mysterious boudoir, and a low, congratulatory
little murmur of good humor on Etty's part. I
believe she is afraid to laugh loud, lest I should
hear her do it and rush to the spot. The door is
ajar ; I '11 storm the castle.

Flora admitted me with a shout of welcome the
instant I tapped. Etty pushed a rocking-chair
towards me, but said nothing. The little room
was almost lined with books. Drawings, paint-
ings, shells, corals, and in a sunny window, plants,
met my exploring gaze.

" This is the pleasantest nook in the house. It
is a shame you have not been let in before," said
Flora, zealously. " You shall see l-^tty's drawings."

Neither of us opened the portfolio she seized,
however, but watched l">tty's eyes. They were
cast down with a dilTident blush which gave me
pain ; I was indeed an intruder. She gave us the

/HEX'S I'ACATIOX.

permission we waited for, however. There were
many good copies of lessons ; those I did not
dwell upon. But the sketches, spirited though
imperfect, I studied as if they had been those of
an Allston. I'^tty was evidently in a fidget at this
preference for the smallest line of original talent
over the corrected performances that aro like those
of every one else. I drew out a full-length figure
done in black chalk on brown ];)ai)er. It chained
Flora's wandering attention as quite new. It was
a young man with his chair tipped back ; his feet
rested on a table, with a slipper perched on each
toe. Mis hands were clasped on the back of his
head. The face — really, I was angry at the dia-
bolical expression given it by eyes looking askance,
and lips pressed into an arch by a contemptuous
smile. It was a corner of this very brown sheet
that I saw under her arm when she vanished from
the kitchen as I entered ; the vociferous mirth that
attracted me was at my expense. Ik'forc Flora
could recognize my portrait. Little Ugly i){)unced
upon it ; it fell in a crumpled lump into the bright
little wood fire, and ceased to exist.

ii,l

t -')

-i

r .'

" I had totally forgotten it," she said, with a
blush that avenged my wounded self-love. Ironi-
cal pleasure at having been the subject of her
pencil I could not indulge myself in expressing, as
I did not care to eulighten Little Handsome. Any
lurking pique was banished when luty showed me,
with a smile, the twilight view by the pond.

"Do you draw .? " she asked, and Flora cried. —

"He makes caricatures of his friends with pen
and ink ; let him deny it if he can."

I was silenl.

• • • • •

Flora and I had just returned from a walk around
the pond, and were chatting with Ftty at the door
about the fun v/e lioped to have at Farmer Pud-
dingstone's husking, when, as I was enlarging on
the romantic and picturesque element I hoped to
find at the rustic festival, who should appear but
a friend of mine from Cambridge, that ubiquitous

S , bringing messages for me from the P. & S.

Club, and he was invited by Etty to go with us.
He is one of those sunny, genial fellows one envies
as being everywhere welcome.

A'/:-.V.S- r.lC.iTKW.

:>:>

• 1

Oct. 30. — I liopc my dear fiicnd of tlic P. ^S: S.
will not be too late for the train ; it would be .sv/r/-

an inconvenience for bini ! Hark! th

e w

bistl

Can he have i;ot there ? Mcjra will not miss him ;
she prefers Dr. Saireen's wise conversation. He

as well as I had to give place to a jovial youn
Divinity student, who knew the way to make ICtty
talk. I should not wonder if he should write to
her ; he is to lend her some books, I hear.

At breakfast Flora said, " You were out of humor
last night, because you were laughed at when you
slipped down in the dance on the slippery barn
floor."

" No such thing ! " I said, starting and spilling
coffee.

"Never tell fibs!" insisted Miss Impertinence
holding up her finger.

I was disdainfully silent. Etty laughed till her
very temples reddened. A man who could not
put up with a trifle like that should be sent home
to his mother, if l\e was so fortunate as to have

one.

With a half- roguish gravity, Etty asked me if I

<- 11

, ■ I

V 1

1 y

m \i I

156

A'EX-S VACAT/O.V.

was cross the night before because she had dis-
I)lcased me. Flora Hftcd her eyebrows, and Aunt
Tabilha opened her eyes wide. I quitted the table,
after muttering an insincere disclaimer. Mis-
chievous as monkeys are girls, without exception.
But Little Ugly docs not get off so !

• • * • •

No, indeed ! I met her in a narrow entry with
a brush in one hand and a dustpan in the other,
and barred her way, saying, " A word with you, if
you please."

"Well.-*" said she, coldly, the color mounting to
her forehead.

" You were shrewd enough to perceive that I
was vexed to see you so chatty with a total stran-
ger, when to me, who have been at the same board
with you these six weeks past — "

" You know you neglected him," she said, step-
ping back somewhat haughtily ; " but your neglect
of your visitor was my gain. I liked your friend
very much indeed."

"I thought so; no one could doubt it," sa
bitterly.

!i In

!ft

A'i;.\"s r,\c.tri(\\\

One is not afraid oi hiui. One sees in his face

his goodness of heart." Then she tried to esca
and signally failed.

pe,

((

sai(

Etty, I ('O not believe you are afraid of me," I
. " I should be both flattered and mortified if
I did."

" I do not stand in awe of your intellect, nor of
your superior knowledge, nor am I daunted by
your frowns, not a whit ! " And then she began
to laugh, and begged to be allowed to sweep her
carpet. Flora's voice was heard approaching,
reading aloud Salome's doggerel verses about the
husking.

&&'

' Miss Ethclind
She 's my best frind,
A fixini; the posies,
A counting the noses,
And s( .ting all straight,
Cup, platter, and plate ;
Tripping round light,
Like fairies at night,
While I 'niongst the kittles
Am fixing the vittles,"' etc., etc.

" Oh, did you see the china punch-bowl heaped

1 i :

1 (
1

,.i''T-i^v;"''^v>'

■u'-}''ri!^TJlmfvr^^Uf?^h''K^:^>v^-^-^-'^\'s^^^^ ^.-siir^S-; .■Ai-is^sf-^.iiMJ^w*

158

A' EX'S I'ACATIO^V.

with baked beans, the pork brooding on top ?
Were you not tickled to see the loaf of brown-
bread dressed with flowers ? ' said Flora.

^" Ethdind ? I have always thought her name
was Mehitable," I said ; and a merry clang of the
dustpan and brush made answer in the distance.

• • • • •

I seem bewitched to ruin myself with ICtty ; and
my desire to be esteemed by her increases as my
hopes diminish. Jealousy and ill-temper .'' Yes ;
and how do they look through the green spectacles
of an original prejudice }

• • ■ • •

Aunt Tabitha sends a small cherub to call me
to tea. lie spanks my door with his fat hand.
"Come in, you pretty little dog! Who are you.-*
IJtlle boys should speak when spoken to. Have
you swallowed your tongue } and do you put your
finger in your mouth in search of it .'* Here, jump
upon my knee! Up! you almost went over my
head ! Not a word.'* I*ut your hand in my pocket.
Penknife, pencil, toothpick, a bright half-dime, —

sp«,

eak and vou shall have it. What is your name }

/^!EX'S r. I CAT/OX.

159

— Adolphuth Thairccn. — Oh, all powerful lucre!
it makes the dumb speak. — Ith Mith J'lint }'()u'
gramma? — The onXy gramnin I ha\'e is the Latin
grammar. — Come, leth go thee JCtty, I love Ktty.

Don't you? — Rather a close (jueslion, young man,
ha, ha! I cannot answer it at present, at least till
I am better appreciated myself. Roost on my
shoulder. Hold on ! Not by my hair, though.
Here we go. Don't bump your head, or if you do,
don't bawl, there 's a hero ! "

I'Ltty's smile greeted us ; did it belong only to
the cherub ? The young rascal refused to come
down from his perch, and made me his steed all
about the house. I threw him at last, and he fell
into the lap of Flora. She was in a fidget lest he
should tumble her dress, I saw ; but she kissed
him, her eye wandering the while to the inattenti\'e
papa, who was lecturing on spectacles. The ur-
chin, indifferent to her caresses, ran to slide his
small fist into Ii^tty's hand. Aunt Tabitha winked
at me. I stared as' if I did not take her meaning.
If the young person elects to become a stepmother
I would not wish to interfere. Really I do not sec

:t 1

i6o

AV:X\S J'.lC.'lT/ChV.

».i

Hi) !

"J 1

l:i i

ill

much clancrcr of it as lon^r as lie talks of cornea and
sclerotica with her dovclike eyes fi.xcd upon his
face. Dovclike! pshaw! A complimentary adjec-
tive truly ; doves happen to have red eyes, so far
as I know.

What induces a man of Dr. Sairecn's eminence
to choose Ratborough for his residence } His
haughty mother regrets Boston. Sentimental at-
tachment to the house he went to live in with his
first spouse } Charming place ! depot on one side,
nail-factory behind, and —

What can ICtty be writing so much .' Docs she
send contributions to the P. & S., I wonder .'' I '11
ask my late visitor about the translation from Ovid
in the last number of the Letter-clip. I have no
means of judging whether she could have done the
graceful thing; but she certainly wrote to him, to
thank him for the books i)erhaps.

I would give all my morning nai)S and my nod-
dings after dinner or in the pew at church, to know
whether I really did see tears in Etty's eyes just
now when I obstructed her escape from the room.
Aunt Tabitha had told Flora not to set her cap at

wn.%

tk^^

the widower; she might beat the hush, but ICtty
W(Hil(l catch the birch Flora iiouted ; I doi^gcdly
stood in the doorway till Juty's color rose, and then
I sprani; aside with an affected apolo<j;y.

:!l

Almost November, is it ? I am tired of biting
my nails in indolence. I had rather work myself
into a brain fever. Little Handsome beckons me
out for a walk. At tlie [)ath round tlie pond I
turned in.

" I hate walking among fallen leaves," objected
Mora.

" Let us call on the lilacks."

" Certainly not ; I carried a jelly there not a
week ago."

Next I came to a cart-track over a liill. " No
leaves here, and a view of the pond to be had."

•'I see the pond enougli at home," said I'^lora.

A drove of cattle came at us, lowing and kicking
up a dust. " Let us turn into the held," said I,
taking a bar down.

"Pshaw! who's afraid .-^ " said my fair com-
panion, running U[) the steps of a house, however.

' t
I I

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')■

•'11,

162

I^^EX'S VACATION.

We came to tlic car station. " Do you expect
any one, that you take so disagreeable a direction
for your promenade ? " said I.

"No ; I like to see cars come in."

Coming to Dr. Saireen's office, Flora peeped in
at the window. " I guess they are at tea," she
remarked. But no ; the Doctor emerged with his
boy and joined us. I resorted to the post-office,
and went home laughing, yet provoked.

A\n'. 1st. — If I have the blues, I am not alone in
the mood. Ktty has not smiled to-day. For my
part, I rather enjoy being miserable. I have a
relish for wretchedness. I hug my blue devils.
What truly torments me is curiosity. Could I
stoop to interrogate Flora.-* Iktter go directly to
Ethelind, and ask what preys on her mind. I
could not pry into her thoughts in any underhand
way, even to know whether I could be useful.

2</. — I should certainly suppose there were
half a dozen Dr. Saireens. I never look up but
he is coming in at the gate or going out of it.
There was smirking at breakfast over some nice
white honeycomb ; I conclude he sent it to 7;iy

aunt. The tables groan under the weight of l)ooks
with his name stamped on the fly-leaf. lie po-
litely offered me the use of a saddle-horse, which
I as urbanely refused. Flora goes to ride with
him ; never Etty. I wonder why ?

P. M. — Dr. Saircen has been here in Tatty's
boudoir the livelonLr afternoon. His horse is
stamping at the gate. Hollo! the kicking beast
forgot to leave himself a leg to stand upon, and he
is down. Shall I go and help the old gentleman
to get him up }

Really, he looked at me as if I had come to
knock the beast on the heatl. I helped him, how-
ever, in a gentlemanly manner ; and he snatched
the rein from my hand, and leaped into the
chaise without a word. He did vouchsafe a cold

bow in departing. It was provoking, no ciou,^.,

epaning. ii was provoKing, no doubt, to
have an interesting conversation (as I conclude
from its length it must have been) cut short.

I have been to meet l^'lora on her return from
the village fair. She is very certain, she says, that
the Doctor and, I*!tty are going to be engaged. It
must be so. She has wo positive knowledge ; Ktty

I fi

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p. !■

164

REX'S J \ WAT/OAT.

will only allow that the boy is to be left in her
charge while the father goes abroad, intending to
examine a new disease of the eyes that has ap-
peared somewhere. She says I'Ltty went to St.
Augustine with his wife, who died on the way
home, bequeathing to her friend her husband and
child. An odd legacy! And it seems it has taken
Etty three years to make up her mind to accept it.

I2t/i. — I ought to return to college; but I
cannot rouse any interest in my future career.
Life is a wearisome job. I intend to be a useful
man, however. That is all that is left for me.

15///. — Etty has recovered her cheerfulness sur-
prisingly. I hear the usual undertoned music as
she sits at her work ; the light beat of her foot
on the stairs has a playful sound, and just now I
saw her dance on the landing-place as she turned
round the banister. I try to rejoice that her spirits
are so exuberant. May she be happy !

20///. — I went to bid good-by to my good old
Blacks, and get a peep at their wood-pile, fearing
they were not well provided for the winter. With
what disgust I endured their raptures upon Etty's

A'/:A"5 VACATIOX.

i6;

prospects ! Etty rejects congratulations, but gives
no definite denial of an engagement. Aunty tells
peo[)le who come on pumping errands " not to coii-
sani theirselves. At present 't an't nobody's busi-
ness, and that 's enough for curiosity." Flora is
gone to l^oston. I am glad not to hear her prate
about it.

22^/. — I'^ttv is not afraid of me now. She is
ready for conversation, but, oddly enough, will not
speak first. I do not trouble her much. I am not
inspired with the desire to be agreeable, looking
upon her as the future Mrs. Saireen. liih ! it
changes my whole idea of her character and feel-
ings. But let me be reasonable.

I shall lend five dollars to the poor Irish cobbler
to buy leather. A loan is a gift in such cases, but
less humbling. His little Kathleen comes to Etty
every day to be taught to sew. At ten years old,
her father's only housekeeper ; the look of prema-
ture care on the child-face is unpleasant. I hear
her voice in Etty's room ; I will push open the
door by and by, and ask for a book.

W I

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" Is this pencil mark in the margin a token of
approbation ? " I inquired, taking up a red-edged
volume.

" Not at all. It is a passage that proved too
hard even for my intrepid guessing. Comfort me
by agreeing that nobody could turn that paragraph
into English sense."

I took the dictionary and Etty a pencil, but
Kathleen had her share of attention.

" Thank you, that seems clearer ; I have it
written. — Katty, don't draw your thread so tight. —
Faust speaks here. — You should not pile your
stitches. — For this phrase, what .' I believe you
arc wrong. — Katty, Katty, pick that out at once,
it is all askew. — Oh, now I see! please find that
one word more. — Match the stripe, child! — A bold
periphrasis, don't you think } Write it out for me,
will you .'* "

Etty laughed at my work, but adopted it. I
shall send for a translation. She may reject the
help of a />o//j', but has not refused the aid of
a donkey, certainly. " Who was your German
teacher } " I inquired.

A'I-X\S VAC. IT 10 X.

167

" Dr. Sairccn."

I had quite forg(jtten the stupid old fellow.

2^.(1. — Little Ugly torments me atrociously. It

IS 01 no av

ail f

or me to ami at reserve ; s

he plays

upon me now to a merry, now to a serious, tune, as
if I were no better than a hurdv-irurdv.

Provoked to some satirical remark on coquetry,
I am coolly desired not to resume my old sarcastic
ways.

24///. — I cannot approve this engaged }'oung
lady's readiness to road German and to sing duets
with me hour after hour. I ought not to ask what
she should avoid, to be sure, and I am to blame.
I am afraid she sinks in my esteem with every one
of those half-roguish, half-serious smiles, so timid,
yet so encouraging. I cannot resist the fascina-
tion, while I despise it.

I talk to Etty about witches, sirens, imps of mis-
chief, and scowl, I suppose. To-day she bit her
lips, perhaps to keep from smiling, and asked if I
was afraid of being too amiable. I answered
" Yes," like an honest man. She said such an
apprehension was honorable, and presently com-

i i 8

P'*'.

1 68

A- EX'S VACATIOX.

poscdly assured me it was quite superfluous after
my early mauifestation of inconstaucy. This sjiir-
ited speeeli gave me a sense of freedom. Ah, Lit-
tle Ugly, we shall see who is inconstant ! That
hint might have been spared !

Letters from l^oston. Flora says the Doctor's
being there is convenient ; he is very attentive to
her. "Are you not jealous ? " Tasked. Etty an-
swered simply " No." What am I to think of her
proposing that we shall be fellow-students in Ger-
man now my translation has come. Take care,
Miss Etty ! it is rash for you as well as for me,
this reading sentiment from the same page, and
•wondering what has come over the sun, when he
is only dipping himself in the pond at the proper
time. It is hard to deny myself the short-lived
happiness of watching the graceful movements of
her mind, her feelings responding to the same
thoughts that gratify my own. Not long can I
enjoy the privilege, unless — Nay, I must not
look that way ! I am bewitched to believe that
now, Etty not being on her guard, supposing her
fate fixed beyond recall, i might win her to like or

/^EXS I'ACATIOX.

169

even to love me. /<?/// men often deceive them-
selves ; but I am not vain. She may yet be mine !
I can rescue her ; I will do it.

Off her guard, did I say .^ Therein lies the base-
ness. S/ie is bound ; shall I deliberately tempt
her to break her troth ? Is i. the man who loves
her truth, her goodness, her strength of mind, who
would wish her unworthy of trust } Far be such
selfishness from the heart of Reginald Ratcliffe.

25///. — No German to-day. Fishing, with Ike
for company. Chilly business.

Midnii^ht. — And Etty's lamp yet shines on the
old tree. Is she puzzling over n labyrinthine sen-
tence .** It was more heroic than kind to bid her not
wait for me. But am I not conceited, s^ desper-
ately afraid of supplanting a very handsome and
gifted man, having the advantage of being a widow-
er with a cherub son, in whom I'2tty has a special
interest } He is a fool not to take them with him
to Europe ; left here, she vKiy change her mind !

Oh, that hope, — it zvill intrude !

Did my aunt see me color when the mail brought

't ■

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170

A'/:X'S rACATioy.

I'A^y a letter, with a mortar and bi^; S on a wax
seal. She wliispered, " You an' me 's seen enough
of the wooing" not to be in no doubt."

As I handed it to ICtty, who held out her hand,
I Goidd not helj) saying, " A sentimental deviee,
truly!" and laughed mueh louder than was neces-
sary. Little Ugly banished all expression from
her face ; it was like a wood-cut in the primer.
I almost wish the shrewd little witch would always
be repellent.

When did my aunt go off to bed ? I did not miss
her ! My favorite songs, that I never can hear
without emotion, and would not let Flora s-ing, —
ah, how I enjoyed them to-night ! Never again !

27///. — lo-morrowis inanksgivmg. I'umpRin-
pies on the tea-table. Ike brings in a letter — sent
express — and grins, as aunty says, *'Is't from
him .^ " I'^tty looked at the boy, and he went off
with ears as red as if they had been boxed. She
broke the seal, and at the first glance w^as con-
vulsed with laughter. Just as she got her mirth
reined in, and was going to read on, her eye fell on
me. Bowing her head upon the edge of the table.

she laughed till I was inclined to believe she was
in hysterics. She soon raised her face with a tear
on each cheek ; she looked at Aunt TabiJha. who
was peering over her spectacles, and holding knife
and fork upright, in forgetfulness of their use.
" When is it to come out, hey ? "
Ktty choked down another burst of laughter, and
said, " To-morrow, or next day at farthest."

" Nevy, give me holt o' yer arm ; 1 'U just step
over and tell Salome."

Ktty interdicted this proceeding, resuming her
most obstinate wooden l(n>k. Her letter weiU un-
read into her pocket, while she went on stirring her
tea and buttering her bit of johnny-cake. I walked
off to the pond. It is not I that write letters to be
passed by, thank my stars ! Women arc frivolous
creatures !

2m. — r carried a pudding to the Blacks for my
aunt, r found Salome there with pies. I saw and
smelt my turkey basting at the fire. To-morrow
I'll go to Cambridge. I sent word to have a fire
in my room. 77/.,;./..,.-/:./;/.. / Glad it is over !

29/'//.— I found a book in company with an ink-

I? -.

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stand, lyinf]^ on tlic stairs. Ktty came running to
tlic rescue. " When you leave your composition
books in my path, I take it for granted I may read
them," said I, holding it above her reach.

*' If you read these, you will pronounce me defi-
cient in originality," said Ktty. Oh, it was an ex-
tract book !

*' Whose vulgar-looking scrawls are these } "

" Dr. Saireen sets an example he wishes followed,
in mercy to eyes."

" Black and coarse ! "

" I should so like a little oi your writing ; as fine
as you choose."

" Oh ! "

"Very well, then ; do not trouble yourself. Give
me my book ; it will not repay you for reading. I
pick up a thought T like, without regard to literary
merit. There are more pebbles than gems in my
collection."

" Do not fatigue yourself by extending your hand.
* Allow people to discover yoitr merit ; they ivill volnc
it the more for beiui^- their own discovtry' (Lord
Kames.) Apparently j't^w adopt that rule."

" You need explore no further. Mr. Ratcliffe. I
will thank you for my chip-basket."

" A date here — ' Sent -'Xth • ' ti, > ,.

ocju. ^oin , tnij very eveniu'^

we circumambulated the pond. Vou see I have a
memory for important events."

" r iu)pe the motto is to your taste. I was nuz-
zled then." ■ ' '

Si./.' be Apollyon or Gabriel thy son! knoivctk not!
Are you still in doubt, Miss luty.' "

" I have found you out pretty nearly. I want
my book."

" I fold," cried r. startin- and nervouslv lau-hin-
" J'^^>'- this pas.sa.:^e from the Albi.^^enses! 1 conjec-
ture both date and application."

Much e.x-cited, luty protested a^-ainst my rum-
magin^^^ and drawing inferences. " ^'our .sagacity
wdl only mislead you, however."

" I'^Uy. you were reading that book last Saturday."
It was the day she wept so much. " < J\r/iaps )n-
dilfarncc to those who h>ve us truly, fou.llr, aud
^oortlulj, that iusoheuey of the heart to^vanls a <r,„
n-ous creditor, is the paug that trws its ehords 'most

I i

1/4

j^/-:.\"s i'A(\tT/o.y.

deeply' (Maturin.) Was it for mc or for him —
tell me — that you shed those tears, soon dried and
forj^otten ? I be,i; you to say, though I have little
douljt on the subject."

" It is an abstract sentiment. I give you no
leave to apply it," said luty, coldly.

" Do not be offended. I'.tty, are you engaged ? "

•' Vou know, Mr. Ratcliffe, that is a question I
do not at present answer."

*' To tliose inipcytincutly curious," said I ; " but
you must have divined the motive which gives mc
a right to ask and to be answered. From this
moment there shall be a clear understanding be-
tween us, ICtty." I would have said "dear Ktty,"
but for the phantom of a rival yet between mc and
hope. " Vou should be incapable of trifling."

"You have lost the right to complain of trifling,"
said she; but I jiressed my cpiestion.

With a movement to break off the conference,
she said, " I have no entanglement of any kind.
I woukl form no attachment that miglit lead me to
quit Aunt Tabitha while she lives."

" I understand your motive for narrowing the

I '

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when we were told the compact that had been
made. I'>tty wore her most stoHd aspect, and
I)resently betook herself to the kitchen, where
Xorah was making a hospitable clatter. Master
Adolphus had remained in Boston, practising the
whooinng-cough.

Tea being over, Flora ran to her (/cdr piano,
which I opened for her, the Doctor being occupied
with ru])bing his liands over the fire. Tiic first
song that came to hand was, *' Mora, oh, forget me
not!"

"This news will be a blow for Horace!" I said.
Flora would not hear.

" I presume he will ever retain his title of Bach-
elor of the P. & S."

vSilence, and a gentle sigh.

" Perhaps he never hixd a serious intention of
resigning it," I said, looking for a rap on the
knuckles.

Flora leaned her cheek on her hand, and whis-
pered, " He would never have taken me to ICurope,
you know ! " and phiyed a polka with such energy
that the teacups rattled and almost danced away

'111

Rl'.XS I'ACATIOX.

^77

with the spoons. And wc san^ " Scotlantl's burn-
ing," as loud as we could shinit, till I thought the
**r'ire! fire!" would brinir in the neiiihbors with
buckets. Dr. Saireen stood all the while at the
fire, talking as loudly as if aunty was deaf.

But all was still in an instant, when Juty, having
carried away Flora's bonnet and furs, canie to join
her iji a duet. No ear has the Doctor ; his eyes
only were attentive. His quick and keen glances
noted all my movements, and scanned my face, as
a detective who suspected me of having stolen a
missing treasure might do. I could liardly avoid
smiling. Etty felt it, too ; she blushed whenever
I spoke to her, and sang so bashfully that I'^lora
stopped in the middle of a bar, and scolded her.
On me the Doctor's surveillance had no "'her
effect than to render me incilicioNsly devoted. A
saucy whisper made Little Ugly perfectly charm-
ing, blushing and laughing in imj)atient confusion,
and when Aunt Tabitha called me to attend her
to Salome IHiddingstone's, T flatter myself I""tty was
heartily glad at my departure. Where is the self-
possession that so long baflled and detied me .'

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A' A A" 5 VACATION.

2^th. — I rose early to watch for Etty, with the
following curious document in my pocket, which,
though only folded and directed, I could not read
of course till it was in her hand. She unsus-
piciously allowed me to look over her shoulder : —

Patience ! liow often clouds abuse
Weak mortals' sight, and bound tiieir views !
You rogue, you let us all think 't was you !
lUit we can spiire Flory the l)est o' the two !
Wearing the willow won't trouble your mind ;
As good fish in tlie sea you will sartainly find.
But sincerely I pray you may never be married,
Till Miss Flint to her last low home is carried.
Unless, like lair Ruih with Naomi who tarried,
You take up with her kixsmax. This hint can't be parried.

S A uniK P u DDi NGSTox i:.

Upon this hint I spake. Of course Aunt Tab-
itha could not spare her, I acknowledged, but the
dear old mother-aunty would ask nothing better
than to live in the winter in J^oston with her best-
loved children, and Ratborough woidd always be
the happiest summer resort for her nephew, lie
would buy the woods by the pond, not to redeem the
property of his ancestors, but on account of certain
di/i^/it/iil associations.

I ,

wmasm

/;!EA"S VACATIOX.

1/9

Etty inquired whether it was my falling head-
foremost into the blackberry bushes in pursuit of
Captain Black's pigeons.

Oh no ; it was there, in our moonlight walk, that
I fell in love, I explained. A more serious disaster,
Etty remarked, unless my heart wounds were mere
scratches, as in my earlier experience. This saucy
rejoinder T punished by putting my arm round her
and making her sit down with me on the sofa. She
bowed her head, with her hand across her mouth,
and I ran on about my plans and prospects, un-
checked. " I will return to cc^llege and study hard
for marks, and graduate with high rank, of course.
Then there will be nothing to wait for but to fit
up the old Ratcliffc mansion. It will be my joy
to gratify all your preferences in the furnishing.
Aunt Tabitha's rooms shall have her own things
in them, to make her feel at home. Then I shall
put my woodside flower where it will be seen and
admired. Life ^hall glide along liiuc a glorious
dream," etc. etc.

Enter my aunt. Her counlenarLce iell as she
said, " It is a bargain, I see ! "

.•.V

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A'/LVS VACATION.

" No, aunly," said laty ; and, releasing herself,
she escaped from the room.

"She can't get over it all to once *t, the Doctor
passing her by for Flory, foolish man ! Well,
Flory '11 come out bright yet. She 's been fond of
him ever since she used to set on his knee and hold
the book, when I'ltty was saying her Jiick-Jiack-
Jiocks. That outlandish lingo ain't o' much use,
to my notion, — not for a woman. A doctor don't
want no larned wife to darn his socks ; that 's so ! "

" Aunt, I know Etty loves me. I have obtained
no promise as yet, to be sure.''

" Sakes alive !" cried my aunt, her eyes swim-
ming and lips quivering. '* I sha'n't know how to
put one foot 'fore t'other with ICtty in Boston!
But if t/iat's the trouble, as maybe 'tis, I won't
Stan' in ycr way, my boy. 'T an't long I have to
live alone." I was dumb, and she went slowly
away.

• • • • •

Christmas, and here I linger yet. Etty docs not
know me well, forsooth ! She is trying my temper,
perhaps. It is giving way. Only when I am with

her am I patient. I 'm an ill-used man. I '11 b,,lt
— give up College — do some reckless thinj;- —
marry somebody else, and leave Little U-ly to -o
sin-in- about the red farmhouse till she is as old
as Aunt Tabitha.

• • • . .

, Jau, I. — " Mappy New Year ! " cries my aunt,
whom I purposely avoided till she espied mi^ first.
Etty had a penwiper all ready for me. I showtxl
her the little Hnen wristband in my pocket-book,
which she vainly attempted to take away, and could
not hide from me that she was pleased that I had
so long kept it. We hear of the Sairecns in Paris.
Before they sailed, Adol|)h had the croup, and my
aunt says could not be coaxed out of Flora's arms,
when she " was all tuckered out." The Doctor is
no fool ; he knew it was in her. and so did I.
Madam Saireen always preferred to shy I<:tty the
saucy romp that tousled her starched ruffs, and
pushed her cap half off. kissing lier for doughnuts
or candy. I wonder if Ktty still thinks of my only
flirtation, abandoned at one reproving look from
her.

mi ■■ I

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" Come, new, — read me Salome's last, — I can't
make out her i)ot-ho()ks and trammels."

I obeyed, and from the sorry rhymes I won't copy
here, I learned this fact. ICtty is an heiress. That
is one stump out of my way, if pride has anything
to do with my want of favor. I had often wondered
how my aunt could have laid uj) money enough to
live so comfortably and indulge Flora's love of
dress, and I said so.

" Etty's pennies — she 's so open-handed — are
always mine more 'n hern. I 'm sick of seeing of
her in dark gownds and linen collars, and she
making Flora buy what she liked."

" And in my view she looked the lady, and Flora
the country lass," said I.

ya/i. 2. — Wake up, old monitor ; what is the
matter that I do not gain an inch in Etty's confi-
dence .'* — You arc self-engrossed. — Nonsense, I
love! — You don't earn respect by your loafing here
with your sweet speeches and your pdits soius.
You should be at your work in earnest.

" Aunt, have my things ready, will you, for I am
going to Cambridge to-morrow."

/eEX's r.ic.ir/o.v.

183

Etty's face lighted up. I will leave her. I said
to myself, to make up her mind at her leisure

she

is glad to be rid of me, evidently. Ami I said ve
seriously, " Whatever I have to do shall be done at
my best, to prepare for doing my fair share of tl
world's work. \Vh(m I graduate, help me to pi

i"y

such a career as you would be proud to share with
me. I shall need a home to rest in."

With a tear and a smil

e, and a hand meet

incr

mine, she said I should find her there to cheer and
to help.

And advise > " said I.

mischievously.

Etty's light-hearted laugh found

She said she should

a ready echo.

no doubt try to be useful in

that line, but her wi.sd

om must be gauged by my

judgment ; her part was to accept its decisions.

I thought I shouKl be more incline., to render
than to e.xact a siavish sub

mission, and I said s

Aunt Tabitha comi

ng in, we kissed her and each

other, and so at last the bargain was sealed.

Anne W. AiinoxT.

^.^.r^\

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23 WIST MAIN STRUT

WIBSTIR.N.Y. 14510

(716) S73-4S03

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PUELLA ROMAN A.

FUIT olim puella Romana
Quam terruit pipiens sana ;
Ait parvulus mus,
Qui coluit rus,
" Quam debilis gens est humana."

J. B. G.

-vv^'

!"■

!■:

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

SENT ON HIS SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY, NOV. 3, 1864.

p^RYANT ! now, while thy honored brow
^-^ Poets and artists crown with bay,
I, too, though distant and alone,
With joy will keep the day.

Ennobling thoughts and happy hours
I owe to thee come thronging back,

When, of the footsteps of the Past
I sweep across the track.

In childhood's deep and bitter grief
I watched thy sea-bird's flight at even.

And took, with earnest sympathy.
The lesson sent from Heaven ;

V:^

And still, bedewing every line,

'J'here shines with tender lustre, clear,

That which but adds a holy charm, —
My widowed mother's tear.

How, day by day, through circling years.
Has Nature, hand in hand with thee,

Unlocked her stores of gracious wealth,
And held them up to me !

The raging blasts of stormy March,
'J'lie autumn woods in crimson flame,

And breathings of the summer wind
Are vocal with thv name.

The blue-bird's note, the squirrel's chirp.

Wild waters murmuring along,
The varied music of the woods.

All mingle with thy song.

The yellow violet speaks of thee
While its soft fragrance rises up,

And holy Hope in silence fills
Thy gentian's azure cup.

And still, through all thy gathering years,
For Truth, for Right, ha:, been thy word,

TO WILLIAM CULLIW BRYAXT.

I 89

Nor ever yet from out thy lyre
Has one false note been heard.

Our Country, when she stands once more

(Now bleeding, pierced, through Treason's wile)

Erect, in strength and beauty clad.
Shall greet thee with a smile;

For thou hast used thy God-given powers
To spread the Truth that makes men free ;

And spoken from a patriot's heart
For Light and Liberty.

Mrs. Charles Folsom.

' !

THE LESSON OP A SONG.

OH, 't was a cruel wrong,
And its memory lingered long

In the heart of one who would not forget ;

Disdain and anger therein met.
Each succeeding morrow,
Freighted with joy or sorrow,

Only heightened the bitter pain.

Till hope of forgiving seemed in vain.
An injury nourished in the heart

Stinss like a venomed arrow's dart.

IT.

'T was but a simple song,

With a meaning sweet and strong ;

rsstssHBw^^-

111'
ii

192

THE LESSON OF A SONG.

And, in truth, the shiger never knew

That the song had done what naught else could do ;

For, upward soaring slowly,

As on an errand holy.
On its wings from the hearer's heart was borne
That bitter feeling of pride and scorn.

What, as music, can impart

Healing balm to a wounded heart ?

H. L. R.