University of California • Berkeley 
 
 Gift of 
 
 S. Petersen 
 
FLORENCE lVsTUANOE. 
 
THE MAYFLOWER- 
 
 30.I& flarritt 38mjjrr Itnuu. 
 
 AUTHOK OF " LNCLF TOil'S CADIN." 
 
 MAIM 
 Nader Joatph aUajn to* k UttM M 
 
 protection.— P»gc 121 
 
 ■ II RQH. 
 
IMnnr's ICihranj fur ffrairrllrrs aitit ijjj /irrsito. 
 
 THE MAYFLOWER; 
 
 %*\n an& Dwellings, 
 
 MRS. HARRIET BEF.CnER STOWE. 
 
 AUTHOR OF " UNCLE TOM'S CABIN." 
 
 ' A welcome garland here is wreathed 
 Of the pleasant ilowers of May ; 
 Of lesson, song, and story breathed. 
 And many a pleasant lay." 
 
 Xnittttra: 
 
 ITBB ROW; 
 
 AND BDTHBUfiGH. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Is the following pages the reader will find a series of 
 pleasing and instructive sketches, characterized by the 
 refinement and tenderness which mark with such peculiar 
 attractions the best productions of feminine taste, and 
 confer on them such admirable fitness for the family 
 circle. They are from the pea of the gifted American 
 authoress — Harriet Beecher Stowe ; an 1, in introducing 
 this volume to the English reader, the editor feels assured 
 
 that iprightlfacHH and happy humour, and still u 
 the G nd high moral principle displayed by the 
 
 authoress, v.- ill secure for her a hearty welcome to i . 
 
 Lom 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Florence l'Estrange ; or, The Rose Tree . . •• . . 7 
 
 Cousin William . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 
 
 Frankness .. .. .. .. .. .. 32 
 
 Feeling .. .. .. .. .. .. 3*J 
 
 The Sempstress .. .. .. .. .. .. 4^ 
 
 Aunt Mary . . .. .. .. ., .. g] 
 
 Uncle Tim and his Daughter Grace . . . . . . . . 71 
 
 ;iy Calls .. .. .. .. .. .. 10G 
 
 Murion Jones; or, Love versus Law .. .. .. .. Ill 
 
 Augusta Howard .. .. .. .. .. loo 
 
 Old Father Morris 
 
 The Canal- Boat 
 
 Trials of a Houbkeeper .. .. .. .. .. *06 
 
 . 213 
 
THE MAYFLOWER. 
 
 FLORBfl ' RANGE; OR, THE ROSE TREE. 
 
 Hose! what dost thou hero? 
 
 Bridal, royal rose? 
 How midst grief and fear, 
 Canst thou thus disclose 
 That fervid hue of love, which to thy heart-leaf glows ? 
 
 I Ik. MANS. 
 
 fpiTERE it stood, in its little green vase, on a light 
 -*- ebony stand in the window of the drawing-room. 
 The rich satin curtains, with their costly fringes, swept 
 down on either side of it, and around it glittered every 
 rare and fanciful triilo which wealth can offer to luxury, 
 
 vet that simple rose was the fairest of them all. 
 pure it looked, its white leaves just touched with that 
 delicious creamy tint peculiar to its kind ; its cup so full, 
 so perfect; its it were sinking and 
 
 melting away in its own richness — oh! when did ever 
 make any ,ual the li?l 
 
 tt the nnlight that streamed through the wi- 
 lled something fairer than the rose. Reclined < 
 ottoman, in a deep recess. 
 
 hat seemed the counterpart of that so 
 
8 FLORENCE l'eSTRANGE J 
 
 lovely flower. That cheek so pale, that fair forehead so 
 spiritual, that countenance so full of high thought, those 
 long, downcast lashes, and the expression of the beautiful 
 mouth, sorrowful, yet subdued and sweet — it seemed like 
 the picture of a dream. 
 
 "Florence!* Florence!" echoed a merry and musical 
 voice, in a sweet, impatient tone. Turn your head, 
 reader, and you will see a light and sparkling maiden, 
 the very model of some little wilful elf, born of mischief 
 and motion, with a dancing eye, a foot that scarcely 
 seems to touch the carpet, and a smile so multiplied by 
 dimples, that it seems like a thousand smiles at once* 
 "Come, Florence, I say," said the little sprite, "put down 
 that wise, good, and excellent volume, and descend from 
 your cloud, and talk with a poor little mortal. 
 
 " I have been thinking what you are to do with your 
 pet rose when you go away, as, to our consternation, you 
 are determined to do ; you know it would be a sad pity 
 to leave it with such a scatterbrain as I am. I do love 
 flowers, that is a fact ; that is, I like a regular bouquet, 
 cut off and tied up, to carry to a party ; but as to all this 
 tending and fussing, whioh is needful to keep them 
 growing, I have no gifts in that line." 
 
 " Make yourself easy as to that, Kate," said Florence, 
 with a smile ; "I have no intention of calling upon your 
 talents : I have an asylum in view for my favourite." 
 
 " Oh then, you know just what I was going to say. 
 Mrs. Marshall, I presume, has been speaking to you ; she 
 was here yesterday, and I was quite pathetic upon the 
 subject, telling her the loss your favourite would sustain, 
 
OR, THE ROSE TREE. 
 
 and so forth; and she said how delighted she would be 
 to have it in her green-house, it is in such a fine state 
 now, so full of buds. I told her I knew you would like 
 to give it to her, you are so fond of Mrs. Marshall, you 
 know." 
 
 u Nov Kate, I am sorry, but I have otherwise engaged 
 it." 
 
 u Who can it be to ? you have so few intimates here." 
 " Oh, it is only one of my odd fancies." 
 M But do tell me, Florence." 
 
 !1, cousin, you know the little pale girl to whom 
 we give sewing." 
 
 u What! little Mary Stephens? How absurd! Florence, 
 is just another of your motherly, old-maidish ways — 
 • lolls for poor children, making bonnets and 
 knit: for all the little dirty babies in the region 
 
 round about. I do believe you have made more calls in 
 those two vile, ill-smelling alleys back of our house, than 
 ever you have in Chesnut-strcet, though you know every- 
 body is half dying to see you ; and now, to crown all, you 
 hoice little bijou to a semptress-girl, when 
 one of your most intimate friends, in your own c 
 would value it so highly. What in the world can people 
 in ti. at of flowers V* 
 
 "Just the same as I do," replied Florence, calmly- 
 that the little girl never C 
 ristfully at the opening buds? 
 .', don't you remember, the rning she b 
 
 me so prettily if I would let her mother come and I 
 •he was so fond of fl 
 
10 FLORENCE l'.ESTRANGE J 
 
 " But, Florence, only think of this rare flower standing 
 on a table with ham. eggs, cheese, and flour, and stifled 
 in that close little room where Mrs. Stephens and her 
 daughter manage to wash, iron, cook, and nobody knows 
 what besides.' 1 
 
 " Well, Kate, and if I were obliged to live in one 
 coarse room, and wash, and iron, and cook, as you say — 
 if I had to spend every moment of my time in toil, with 
 no prospect from my window but a brick wall and dirty 
 lane, such a flower as this would be untold enjoyment to 
 me." 
 
 " Pshaw ! Florence — all sentiment : poor people have 
 no time to be sentimental. Besides, I don't believe it 
 will grow with them; it is a greenhouse flower, and 
 used to delicate living." 
 
 " Oh, as to that, a flower never inquires whether its 
 owner is rich or poor ; and Mrs. Stephens, whatever else 
 she has not, has sunshine of as good quality as this that 
 streams through our window. The beautiful things that 
 God makes are his gift to all alike. You will see that 
 my fair rose will be as well and cheerful in Mrs. Ste- 
 phens' room as in ours." 
 
 " Well, after all, how odd ! When one gives to poor 
 people, one wants to give them something useful— & 
 bushel of potatoes, a ham, and such things." 
 
 " Why, certainly, potatoes and ham must be supplied; 
 but, having ministered to the first and most craving 
 wants, why not add any other little pleasures or gratifi- 
 cations we may have it in our power to bestow 1 I know 
 there are many of the poor who have fine feeling and a 
 
HE RO?t : tree ]] 
 
 keen sense of the beautiful, which rusts out and dies 
 because they are too hard pressed to procure it any gra- 
 tification. Poor Mrs. Stephens, for example : I know 
 she would enjoy birds, and flowers, and music as much as 
 I do. 1 have seen her eye light up as she looked on these 
 things in our drawing-room, and yet not one beautiful 
 thing can she command. From necessity, her room, her 
 clothing, all she has, must be coarse and plain. You 
 should have seen the almost rapture she and Mary felt 
 when I offered them my rose." 
 
 "Dear me ! all this may be true, but I never thought 
 of it before. I never thought that these hard-working 
 people had any ideas of taste!" * 
 
 " Then why do* you sec the geranium or rose so care- 
 fully nursed in the old cracked teapot in the poorest 
 room, or the morning-glory planted in a box and twined 
 about the window ? Do not these show that the human 
 heart yearns for the beautiful in all ranks of life 1 You 
 remember, Kate, how our washerwoman sat up a whole 
 night, after a hard day's work, to make her first baby a 
 pretty dress to be baptized in." 
 
 "Yes, and I remember how I laughed at you for 
 making such a tasteful little cap for it." 
 
 think the look of perfect delight with 
 which the poor mother regarded her baby in its new 
 
 worth creating; I do 
 believe she could n< I t more grateful if I bad 
 
 sent her a barrel of fli 
 
 lit before of giving anv tl. 
 I oor but what they really needed, fend 1 have al 1 
 
12 FLORENCE l'eSTHANGE J 
 
 been willing to do that when I could without going far 
 out of my way." 
 
 " Well, cousin, if our heavenly Father gave to us after 
 this mode, we should have only coarse, shapeless piles of 
 provisions lying about the world instead of all this 
 beautiful variety of trees, and fruits, and flowers." 
 
 u Well, well, cousin, I suppose you are right — but 
 have mercy on my poor head ; it is too small to hold 
 so many new ideas all at once — so go on your own way." 
 And the little lady began practising a waltzing step be- 
 fore the glass with great satisfaction. 
 
 It was a very small room, lighted by only one window. 
 There was no carpet on the floor ; there was a clean, but 
 coarsely-covered bed in one corner ; a cupboard, with a 
 few dishes and j^lates, in the other ; a chest of drawers ; 
 and before the window stood a small cherry stand, quite 
 new, and, indeed, it was the only article in the room 
 that seemed so. 
 
 A pale, sickly-looking woman of about forty was lean- 
 ing back in her rocking-chair, her eyes closed and her 
 lips compressed as if in pain. She rocked backward and 
 forward a few minutes, pressed her hand hard upon her 
 eyes, and then languidly resumed her fine stitching, on 
 which she had been busy since morning. The door 
 opened, and a slender little girl of about twelve years of 
 age entered, her large blue eyes dilated and radiant 
 with delight as she bore in the vase with the rose-tree 
 in it. 
 
 u Oh ! see, mother, see ! Here is one in full bloom, 
 
O^, THE ROSE TREE. 13 
 
 and two more half out, and ever so many more pretty 
 buds peeping out of the green leaves." 
 
 The poor woman's face brightened as she looked, first 
 on the rose and then on her sickly child, on whose face 
 she had not seen so bright a colour for months. 
 
 " God bless her !" she exclaimed, unconsciously. 
 
 * Miss Florence — yes, I knew you would feel so, mo- 
 ther. Does it not make your head feel better to see 
 such a beautiful flower? Now you will not look so long- 
 ingly at the flowers in the market, for we have a rose 
 that is handsomer than any of them. Why, it seems to 
 me it is worth as much to us as our whole little garden 
 used to be. Only see how many buds there are ! Just 
 count them, and only smell the flower ! Now where 
 shall we set it up ?" And Mary skipped about, placing 
 her flower first in one position and then in another, and 
 walking off* to see the effect, till her mother gently re- 
 minded her that the rose-tree could not preserve its 
 v without sunlight. 
 
 " Oh yes, truly," said Mary ; " well, then, it must 
 stand here on our new stand. How glad I am that wo 
 such a handsome new stand for it; it will look so 
 muc!. laid down her work, 
 
 and folded a piece of n< , which the treasure 
 
 was duly d< 
 
 " 'I rrangement eagerly, 
 
 " that will do- i >es not show both the opening 
 
 ; a little farther round— a little more ; there, that 
 
 'it/' And th'-n Mary Walked around to view the 
 
 rose in various positions, after which she urged her 
 
14 FLORENCE l'estkange ; 
 
 -. 
 
 mother to go with her to the outside, and see how it 
 looked there. " How kind it was in Miss Florence to 
 think of giving this to us!" said Mary; "though she 
 had done so much for us, and given us so many things, 
 yet this seems the best of all, because it seems as if she 
 thought of us, and knew just how we felt ; and so few do 
 that, you know, mother." 
 
 What a bright afternoon that little gift made in that 
 little room. How much faster Mary's fingers flew the 
 livelong day as she sat sewing by her mother ; and Mrs. 
 Stephens, in the happiness of her child, almost forgot 
 that she had a headache, and thought, as she sipped her 
 evening cup of tea, that she felt stronger than she had 
 done for some time. 
 
 That rose! its sweet influence died not with the first 
 day. Through all the long cold winter, the watching, 
 tending, cherishing that flower, awakened a thousand 
 pleasant trains of thought that beguiled the sameness 
 and weariness of their life. Every day the fair, growing 
 thing put forth some fresh beauty — a leaf, a bud, a new 
 shoot, and constantly awakened fresh enjoyment in its 
 possessors. As it stood in the window, the passer-by 
 would sometimes stop and gaze, attracted by its beauty, 
 and then proud and happy was Mary ; nor did even the 
 serious and careworn widow notice with indifference this 
 tribute to the beauty of their favourite. 
 
 But little did Florence think, when she bestowed the 
 gift, that there twined about it an invisible thread that 
 reached far and brightly into the web of her destiny. 
 
 One cold afternoon in early spring, a tall and graceful 
 
OK, THE ROSE TREE. 15 
 
 gentleman called at the lowly room to pay for the 
 making of some linen by the inmates. He was a stranger 
 and wayfarer, recommended through the charity of some 
 of Mrs. Stephens's patrons. As he turned to go, his eye 
 rested admiringly on the rose-tree, and he stopped to 
 giize at it. 
 
 " How beautiful !" said he. 
 
 " Yes," said little Mary, " and it was given to us by a 
 lady as sweet and beautiful as that is." 
 
 4i Ah," Bald the stranger, turning upon her a pair of 
 bright dark eyes, pleased and rather struck by the com- 
 munication ; " and how came she to give it to you, my 
 little girl r 
 
 u Oh, because we are poor, and mother is sick, and we 
 
 re any thing pretty. We used to have a 
 
 garden once, and we loved flowers so much, and Miss 
 
 Florence found it out, and so she gave us this." 
 
 " Florence !" echoed the stranger. 
 
 "Yes — Miss Florence TKstrange — a beautiful lady. 
 
 J say she was from foreign parts ; but she speaks 
 
 C€ other ladies, only sweeter." 
 Is she here now? Is she in this city?" said the 
 gentl< rly. 
 
 ie left some months ago," • widow, 
 
 noti< , t on his face ; " but," 
 
 ^he, "you can find out all about her at her aunt's, 
 
 LO Street." 
 
 A short time after, Florence received a letter in a 
 hand-writ!: able. During tin- many 
 
 early jean of her life spent in France she had v. ell 
 
16 FLORENCE l'eSTUANGE. 
 
 learned to know that writing — had loved as a woman 
 like her loves, only once — but there had been obstacles 
 of parents and friends, long separation, long suspense, 
 till, after anxious years, she believed the ocean had 
 closed over that hand and heart ; and it was this that 
 had touched with such pensive sorrow the lines in her 
 lovely face. 
 
 But this letter told that he was living, that he had 
 traced her, even as a hidden streamlet may be traced, by 
 the freshness, the verdure of heart, which her deeds 
 of kindness had left wherever she had passed. Thus 
 much said, our readers need no help in finishing my 
 story for themselves. 
 
COUSIN WILLIAM. 17 
 
 COUSIN WILLIAM. 
 
 Oh ! not when hopes are brightest, 
 Is all love's sweet enchantment known ; 
 
 Oh ! not when hearts are lightest, 
 Is all fond woman's favour shown. 
 
 Prinolk. 
 
 f"PHE house in which the heroine of our story lived 
 -*- stood almost concealed amid a forest of apple-trees, in 
 spring blushing with blossoms, and in autumn golden with 
 fruit ; and near by might be seen the garden, surrounded 
 by a red picket-fence, enclosing all sorts of magnificence. 
 There, in autumn, might be seen luxuriant vines, which 
 seemed puzzled for room where to bestow themselves, 
 and bright golden squashes, and full -orbed yellow pump- 
 kins, looking as satisfied as the evening sun when he has 
 just ice washed in a shower, and is sinking 
 
 soberly to bed. There were superannuated seed-cucum- 
 • he pleasures of a contemplative old age ; 
 and Indian corn, nicely done up in green silk, with a 
 specimen tassel hanging at the end of each ear. The 
 beams of the summer ion <l;trted through rays of crim- 
 son currants, abounding on bushes by the fence, while a 
 I 
 
20 L'OUSIN WILLIAM. 
 
 the careless freedom and sprightliness in which she com- 
 monly indulged. No person had a merrier run of stories, 
 songs, and village traditions, and all those odds and ends 
 of character which form the materials for animated con- 
 versation. She had read, too, everything she could find : 
 Rollin's History, and Scott's Family Bible, that stood in 
 the glass bookcase in the best room, and an odd volume 
 of Shakspeare, and now and then one of Scott's novels, 
 borrowed from a somewhat literary family in the neigh- 
 bourhood. She also kept an album to write her thoughts 
 in, and was in a constant habit of cutting out all the 
 pretty poetry from the corners of the newspapers, be- 
 sides drying a number of forget-me-nots and rosebuds, 
 in memory of different particular friends, with a number 
 of other little sentimental practices to which young 
 ladies of sixteen and thereabout are addicted. She was 
 also endowed with great constructiveness ; so that, in 
 this day of ladies' fairs, there was nothing, from bellows 
 needle-books down to web-footed pincushions, to which 
 she could not turn her hand. Her sewing certainly was 
 extraordinary (we think too little is made of this in the 
 accomplishments of heroines), her stitching was like rows 
 of pearls, and her cross-stitching was fairy-like ; and for 
 sewing over-and-over, as the village school ma'am hath 
 it, she had not her equal. And what shall we say of her 
 pies and puddings ! They would have converted the 
 most reprobate^ old bachelor in the world. And then her 
 sweeping and dusting ! " Many daughters have done 
 virtuously, but thou excellest them all ! " 
 And now, what do you suppose is coming next 1 Why, 
 
COUSIN WILLIAM. 21 
 
 a young gentleman, of course ; for about this time comes 
 to settle in the village, and take charge of the academy, 
 a certain William Barton. Mrs. Abigail denominated 
 him cousin, and he had not been boarded in the house 
 more than a week, and made sundry observations on 
 Miss Mary, before he determined to call her cousin too, 
 which he accomplished in the most natural way in the 
 world. 
 
 . was at first somewhat afraid of him, because 
 she had heard that he had studied through all that was 
 to be studied in Greek, and Latin, and German too; and 
 she saw a library of books in his room, that made her 
 sigh every time she looked at them, to think how much 
 there was to be learned of which she was ignorant. But 
 all this wore away, and presently they were the best 
 
 I in the world. lie gave her books to read, and 
 he gave her lessons in French, nothing puzzled by that 
 troublesome verb which must be first conjugated, whe- 
 
 i French, Latin, or English. Then he gave her a 
 deal of good advice about the cultivation of her mind 
 and the formation of her character, all of w hi civ was 
 very improving, and tended greatly to consolidate their 
 
 hip. But, unfortunately for Mary, William made 
 curable an impression on the female com- 
 munity generally as he did on her, having several times 
 on public oc 1 bees 
 
 known, also, >etry, and had a retired and ro- 
 
 mantic air greatly bewitching to those who read Bulwer's 
 novels. In short, it was morally certain, according to 
 all roll . he had chosen to pfl 
 
22 COUSIN WILLIAM. 
 
 lady of the village a dozen visits a-week, she would have 
 considered it as her duty to entertain him. 
 
 William did visit : for, like many studious people, he 
 found a need for the. excitement of society; but, whe- 
 ther it was party or singing-school, he walked home with 
 Mary, of course, in as steady and domestic a manner as 
 any man who has been married a twelvemonth. His air 
 in conversing with her was inevitably more confidential 
 than with any other one, and this was the cause for envy 
 in many a gentle breast, and an interesting diversity of 
 reports with regard to her manner of treating the young 
 gentleman went forth into the village. 
 
 " I wonder Mary Taylor will laugh and joke so much 
 with William Barton in company," said one. "Her 
 manners are altogether too free," said another. " It 
 is evident she has designs upon him," remarked the 
 third ; " and she cannot even conceal it," pursued a 
 fourth. 
 
 Some sayings of this kind at length reached the ears 
 of Mrs. Abigail, who had the best heart in the world, 
 and was so indignant that it might have done your heart 
 good to see her. Still, she thought it showed that " the 
 girl needed advising" and "she should talk to Mary 
 about the matter." 
 
 But she first concluded to advise with William on the 
 subject, and therefore, after dinner, the same day, while 
 he was looking over a treatise on trigonometry or conic 
 sections, she commenced upon him : — 
 
 " Our Mary is growing up a fine girl." 
 
 William was intent on solving a problem, and only 
 
COUSIN WILLIAM. 23 
 
 understanding that something had been said, mechani- 
 cally answered, " Yes." 
 
 "A little wild or so," said Mrs. Abigail. 
 
 * I know it," said William, fixing his eyes earnestly on 
 E, F, B, C. 
 
 " Perhaps you think her a little too talkative and free 
 with you sometimes ; you know girls do not always 
 think what they do." 
 
 " Certainly," said William, going on with his pro- 
 blem. 
 
 " I think you had better speak to her about it," said 
 
 " I think so too," said William, musing over his com- 
 plete work, till at length he arose, put it in his pocket, 
 and went to school. 
 
 Oh, this unlucky concentrativeness ! How many shock- 
 ing things a man may endorse by the simple habit of 
 saying " Yes," and " No," when he is not hearing what 
 is said to him. 
 
 The next morning, when William was gone to the 
 academy, and Mary was washing the breakfast things, 
 Aunt Abigail introduced the subject with great tact ami 
 delicacy, by remarking, 
 
 " Mary, I guess you had better be rather less free 
 William than you have been." 
 
 " Free !" I Parting, and nearly dropping the 
 
 cup from her hand ; " why, aunt, what do you mean ?" 
 
 iry, you must not always be, around, so free 
 in talking with him at home, and in company, and overy- 
 wh'Tc. It won't do." The colour started into Mary's 
 
24 COUSIN WILLIAM. 
 
 cheek, and mounted even to her forehead, as she an- 
 swered with a dignified air : 
 
 " I have not been too free — I know what is right and 
 proper — I have not been doing any thing that was 
 improper." 
 
 Now, when one is going to give advice, it is very trou- 
 blesome to have its necessity thus called in question, and 
 Mrs. Abigail, who was fond of her own opinion, felt 
 called upon to defend it. 
 
 " Why, yes you have, Mary ; every body in the vil- 
 lage notices it." 
 
 " I don't care what everybody in the village says — I 
 shall always do what I think proper," retorted the young 
 lady ; " I know cousin William does not think so." 
 
 " Well, / think he does — from some things I have 
 heard him say." 
 
 " Oh, aunt ! what have you heard him say ?" said 
 Mary, nearly upsetting a chair in the eagerness with 
 which she turned to her aunt. 
 
 " Mercy on us ! you need not knock the house down, 
 Mary ; I don't remember exactly about it, only that his 
 way of speaking made me think so." 
 
 " Oh, aunt, do tell me what it was, and all about it," 
 said Mary, following her aunt, who went around dusting 
 the furniture. 
 
 Mrs. Abigail, like most obstinate people, who feel that 
 they have gone too far, and yet are ashamed to go back, 
 took refuge in an obstinate generalization, and only 
 asserted that she had heard him say things, as if he did 
 not quite like her ways. 
 
COUSIN WILLIAM. So 
 
 This is the most consoling of all methods in which to 
 leave a matter of this kind for a person of active imagi- 
 nation. Of course, in five minutes Mary had settled in 
 her mind a string of remarks that would have been 
 suited to any of her village companions, as coming from 
 her cousin. All the improbability of the thing vanished 
 in the absorbing consideration of its possibility ; and, 
 after a moment's reflection, she pressed her lips together 
 in a very firm way, and remarked that " Mr. Barton 
 would have no occasion to say such things again." 
 
 It was very evident, from her heightened colour and 
 dignified air, that her state of mind was very heroical. 
 As for poor Aunt Abigail, she felt sorry she had vexed 
 her, and addressed herself most earnestly to her consola- 
 tion, remarking, " Mary, I don't suppose William meant 
 anything. He knows you don't mean anything wrong." 
 
 " Don't mean anything wrong!" said Mary, indignantly. 
 
 " Why, child, he thinks you don't know much about 
 folks and things, and if you have been a little " 
 
 " But I have not been. It was he that talked with 
 me first ; it was he that did everything first ; he called 
 me cousin — and he is my cousin." 
 
 " No, child, you are mistaken ; for you remember his 
 grandfather was " 
 
 " I don't care who his grandfather was ; he has no 
 right to think of me as he does." 
 
 u Now, Mary, don't go to quarrelling with him ; he 
 can't help his thoughts, you know." 
 
 " I don't care what he thinks," said Mary, flinging 
 out of the room with tears in her eyes. 
 
COUSIN WILLIAM. 
 
 Now when a young lady is in such a state of affliction, 
 the first thing to be done is to sit down and cry for two 
 hours or more, which Mary accomplished in the most 
 thorough manner ; in the meanwhile making many re- 
 flections on the instability of human friendships, and 
 resolving never to trust any one again as long as she 
 lived, and thinking that this was a cold and hollow- 
 hearted world, together with many other things she had 
 read in books, but never realized so forcibly as at pre- 
 sent. But what was to be done ? Of course, she did 
 not wish to speak a word to William again, and wished 
 he did not board there; and finally, she put on her 
 bonnet, and determined to go over to her other aunt's 
 in the neighbourhood, and spend the day, so that she 
 might not see him at dinner. 
 
 But it so happened that Mr. William, on coming home 
 to dinner, found himself unaccountably lonesome during 
 school recess for dinner, and, hearing where Mary was, 
 determined to call after school at night at her aunt's, 
 and attend her home. 
 
 Accordingly, in the afternoon, as Mary was sitting in 
 the parlour with two or three cousins, Mr. William 
 entered. 
 
 Mary was so anxious to look just as if nothing was 
 the matter, that she turned away her head and began to 
 look out of the window just as the young gentleman 
 came up to speak to her. So, after he had twice in- 
 quired after her health, she drew up very coolly and 
 said : 
 
 u Did you speak to me, sir V* 
 
roueiN william. 27 
 
 William looked a little surprised at first, but seating 
 himself by her, " To be sure," said he ; " and I came to 
 know why you ran away without leaving any message 
 for me ?" 
 
 "It did not occur to me," said Mary, in the dry tone 
 which, in a lady, means, " I will excuse you from any 
 farther conversation, if you please." William felt as if 
 there was something different from common in all this, 
 but thought that perhaps he was mistaken, and so con- 
 ed : 
 
 * What a pity, now, that you should be so careless of 
 me, when I was so thoughtful of you ! I have come all 
 this distance to see how you do." 
 
 "I am sorry to have given you the trouble," said 
 Mary. 
 
 " Cousin, are you unwell to-day F* said William. 
 
 " No, sir ;" said Mary, going on with her sewing. 
 
 There was something so marked and decisive in all 
 this, that William could scarcely believe his ears. He 
 turned away, and commenced a conversation with a 
 young lady ; and Mary, to show that she could talk if 
 she chose, commenced relating a sfnry to her cousins, 
 and presently they were all in a loud laugh. 
 
 ry has been full of her knick-knacks to-day," said 
 her old uncle, joining th- 
 
 ;it her : she never seemed brighter or 
 , and he began to think that even Cousin 
 Mary I zle a man sometimes. 
 
 He turned away and began a conversation with old 
 Mr. the raising of 1 R subject which 
 
28 COUSIN WILLIAM. 
 
 evidently required profound thought, for he never looked 
 more grave, not to say melancholy. 
 
 Mary glanced that way, and was struck with the sad 
 and almost severe expression with which he was listening 
 to the details of Mr. Harper, and was convinced that he 
 was no more thinking of buckwheat than she was. 
 
 " I never thought of hurting his feelings so much," 
 said she, relenting ; " after all, he has been very kind to 
 me. But he might have told me about it, and not some- 
 body else." And hereupon she cast another glance to- 
 wards him. 
 
 William was not talking, but sat with his eyes fixed 
 on the snuffer-tray, with an intense gravity of gaze that 
 quite troubled her, and she could not help again blam- 
 ing herself. 
 
 " To be sure ! Aunt was right ; he could not help his 
 thoughts. I will try to forget it," thought she. 
 
 Now you must not think Mary was sitting still and 
 gazing during this soliloquy. No, she was talking and 
 laughing, apparently the most unconcerned spectator in 
 the room. So passed the evening till the little company 
 broke up. 
 
 " I am ready to attend you home," said William, in a 
 tone of cold and almost haughty deference. 
 
 " I am obliged to you," said the young lady, in a 
 similar tone, " but I shall stay all night ;" then, sud- 
 denly changing her tone, she said, " No, I cannot keep 
 it up any longer. I will go home with you, Cousin 
 William." 
 
 " Keep up what f M said William, with surprise. 
 
COUSIN WILLIAM. 29 
 
 Mary was going for her bonnet. She came out, took 
 his arm, and walked on a little way. 
 
 u You have advised me always to be frank, cousin," 
 said Mary, " and I must and will be ; so I shall tell you 
 all, though I dare say it is not according to rule." 
 11 All what ?" said William. 
 
 " Cousin," said she, not at all regarding what he said, 
 ; - I was very much vexed this afternoon." 
 " So I perceived, Mary." 
 
 II, it is vexatious," she continued, " though, after 
 we cannot expect people to think us perfect ; but I 
 did not think it quite fair in you not to tell mg." 
 " Tell you what, Mary ?" 
 
 Here they came to a place where the road turned 
 through a small patch of woods. It was green and 
 shady, and enlivened by a lively chatterbox of a brook. 
 There was a mossy trunk of a tree that had fallen be- 
 side <le a pretty seat. The moonlight lay in 
 little patches upon it, as it streamed down through tho 
 branches of the trees. It was a fairy-looking place, an^ 
 i>ed and sat down, as if to collect her thoughts 
 r picking up a stick, and playing a moment in the 
 r, she began, — 
 " After all, cousin, it was very natural in you to say so 
 if you thought so ; though I should not have supposed 
 you would think so." 
 
 1, I should be glad if I could know what it is," 
 said V i a tone of patient resignation. 
 
 . I forgot that I had not told you. , push- 
 
 ing back her bat, and speaking like one A to 
 
30 COUSIN WILLIAM. 
 
 go through with the thing. " Why, cousin, I have been 
 told that you spoke of my manners towards yourself as 
 being freer — more —obtrusive than they should be. And 
 now," said she, her eyes flashing, * you see it was not 
 a very easy thing to tell you, but I began with being 
 frank, and I will be so, for the sake of satisfying myself" 
 
 To this William simply replied, " Who told you this, 
 Mary 1 ?" 
 
 "My aunt." 
 
 " Did she say I said it to her V 
 
 " Yes ; and I do not so much object to your saying it 
 as to your thinking it, for you know I did not force my- 
 self on your notice : it was you who sought my acquain- 
 tance and won my confidence ; and that you, above all 
 others, should think of me in this way!" 
 
 " I never did think so, Mary," said William, quietly. 
 
 "Nor ever said so V ' 
 
 " Never. I should think you might have known it, 
 Mary." 
 
 " But—" said Mary. 
 
 " But," said William, firmly, " Aunt Abigail is cer- 
 taily mistaken." 
 
 " Well, I am glad of it," said Mary, looking relieved, 
 and gazing in the brook. Then looking up with warmth, 
 " and, cousin, you never must think so. I am ardent, 
 and I express myself freely ; but I never meant, I am 
 sure I never should mean, anything more than a sister 
 might say." 
 
 " And are you sure you never could, if all my happi- 
 ness depended on it, Mary ?" 
 
COUSIN WILLIAM. 31 
 
 She turned and looked up in his face, and saw a look 
 that brought conviction. She rose to go on, and her 
 hand was taken and drawn into the arm of her cousin,, 
 and that was the end of the first and the last diffi- 
 culty that ever arose between thera. 
 
32 FRANKNESS. 
 
 FRANKNESS. 
 
 Where then to find the spell that flings 
 His fetter on those waVring wings? 
 Tis in the native truth of heart 
 That scorns the thought of female art, 
 That, keenly thrill'd by joy or pain, 
 Disdains the thrill to hide or feign. 
 
 Crolt. 
 
 rpHERE is one kind of frankness, which is the result of 
 -*- perfect unsuspiciousness, and which requires a mea- 
 sure of ignorance of the world and of life ; this kind 
 appeals to our generosity and tenderness. There is 
 another which is the frankness of a strong but pure mind, 
 acquainted with life, clear in its discrimination and 
 upright in its intention, yet above disguise or conceal- 
 ment: this kind excites respect. The first seems to 
 proceed simply from impulse, the second from impulse 
 and reflection united ; the first proceeds, in a measure, 
 from ignorance, the second from knowledge ; the first is 
 born from an undoubting confidence in others, the second 
 from a virtuous and well-grounded reliance on one's self. 
 
 It was said of Alice H that she had the mind of a 
 
 man, the heart of a woman, and the face of an angel : a 
 
FRANKNESS. 33 
 
 combination that all my readers will think peculiarly 
 happy. 
 
 There never was a woman who was so unlike the mass 
 of society in her modes of thinking and acting, yet so 
 generally popular. But the most remarkable thing about 
 her was her proud superiority to all disguise, in thought, 
 word, aud deed. She pleased you ; for she spoke out a 
 hundred things that you would conceal, and spoke them 
 with a dignified assurance that made you wonder that 
 you had ever hesitated to say them yourself. Nor did 
 this unreserve appear like the weakness of one who could 
 not conceal, or like a determination to make war on the 
 forms of society. It was rather a calm, well-guided in- 
 tegrity, regulated by a just sense of propriety ; knowing 
 when to be silent, but speaking the truth when it spoko 
 at all. 
 
 Iier extraordinary frankness often beguiled superficial 
 observers into supposing themselves fully acquainted with 
 her real character long before they were, as the beautiful 
 transparency of some lakes is said to deceive the eye as 
 to then: depth ; yet the longer you knew her, the more 
 variety and compass of character appeared through the 
 same transparent medium. But you may just visit Miss 
 Alice fur half-an-hour to-night and judge for yourselves. 
 You may walk into this little parlour. There sits Miss 
 Alice on that sofa, sewing a pair of lace sleeves into a 
 satin dress, in which peculiarly angelic employment she 
 may persevere till we have finished another sketch. 
 
 Do you see that pretty little lady, with sparkling eyes, 
 elastic form, beautiful hand and foot, that is sitting 
 o 
 
32 FRANKNESS. 
 
 FRANKNESS. 
 
 Where then to And the spell that flings 
 His fetter on those waVring wings? 
 Tis in the native truth of heart 
 That scorns the thought of female art, 
 That, keenly thrill'd by joy or pain, 
 Disdains the thrill to hide or feign. 
 
 Ceolt. 
 
 HPHERE is one kind of frankness, which is the result of 
 -*- perfect unsuspiciousness, and which requires a mea- 
 sure of ignorance of the world and of life ; this kind 
 appeals to our generosity and tenderness. There is 
 another which is the frankness of a strong but pure mind, 
 acquainted with life, cleaf in its discrimination and 
 upright in its intention, yet above disguise or conceal- 
 ment: this kind excites respect. The first seems to 
 proceed simply from impulse, the second from impulse 
 anr) reflection united : the first proceeds, in a measure, 
 from ignorance, the second from knowledge ; the first is 
 born from an undoubting confidence in others, the second 
 from a virtuous and well-grounded reliance on one's self. 
 
 It was said of Alice H that she had the mind of a 
 
 man, the heart of a woman, and the face of an angel : a 
 
FIIANKNESS. 33 
 
 combination that all my readers will think peculiarly 
 happy. 
 
 There never was a woman who was so unlike the mass 
 of society in her modes of thinking and acting, yet so 
 generally popular. But the most remarkable thing about 
 her was her proud superiority to all disguise, in thought, 
 word, and deed. She pleased you ; for she spoke out a 
 hundred things that you would conceal, and spoke them 
 with a dignified assurance that made you wonder that 
 you had ever hesitated to say them yourself. Nor did 
 this unreserve appear like the weakness of one who could 
 not conceal, or like a determination to make war on the 
 forms of society. It was rather a calm, well-guided in- 
 tegrity, regulated by a just sense of propriety ; knowing 
 when to be silent, but speaking the truth when it spoko 
 at all. 
 
 Her extraordinary frankness often beguiled superficial 
 observers into supposing themselves fully acquainted with 
 her real character long before they were, as the beautiful 
 transparency of some lakes is said to deceive the eye as 
 to their depth ; yet the longer you knew her, the more 
 variety and compass of character appeared through the 
 same transparent medium. But you may just visit Miss 
 Alice for half-an-hour to-night and judge for yourselves. 
 You may walk into this little parlour. There sits Miss 
 Alice on that sofa, sewing a pair of lace sleeves into a 
 satin dress, in which peculiarly angelic employment she 
 may persevere till we have finished another sketch. 
 
 Do you see that pretty little lady, with sparkling eyes, 
 lie form, beautiful hand and foot, that is sitting 
 o 
 
34 FRANKNESS. 
 
 opposite to- her? She is a belle: the character is written 
 in her face — it sparkles from her eye — it dimples in her 
 smile, and pervades the whole woman. 
 
 But there — Alice has risen, and is gone to the mirror, 
 and is arranging the finest auburn hair in the world in 
 the most tasteful manner. The little lady watches every 
 motion as comically as a kitten watches a pin-ball. 
 
 " It is all in vain to deny it, Alice — you are really 
 anxious to look pretty this evening," said she. 
 
 " I certainly am," said Alice, quietly. 
 
 " Ay, and you hope you shall please Mr. A. and Mr. 
 B.," said the little accusing angel. 
 
 (l Certainly I do," said Alice, as she twisted her fingers 
 in a beautiful curl. 
 
 " Well, I would not tell of it, Alice, if I did." 
 
 11 Then you should not ask me," said Alice. 
 
 " I declare! Alice !" 
 
 " And what do you declare ?" 
 
 " I never saw such a girl as you are !" 
 
 " Very likely," said Alice, stooping to pick up a pin. 
 
 "Well, for my part," said the little lady, "I never 
 would take any pains to make anybody like me— parti- 
 cularly a gentleman." 
 
 " I would," said Alice, " if they would not like me 
 without." 
 
 " Why, Alice ! I should not think you were so fond of 
 admiration." 
 
 " I like to be admired very much," said Alice, return- 
 ing to the sofa, " and I suppose everybody else does." 
 " 1 don't care about admiration," said the little lady. 
 
FRANKNESS. 35 
 
 ■ I would be as well satisfied that people shouldn't like 
 me as that they should." 
 
 * Then, cousin, I think it's a pity we all like you so 
 well," said Alice, with a good-humoured smile. If Miss 
 Alice had penetration, she never made a severe use of it. 
 
 " But really, cousin," said the little lady, " I should 
 not think such a girl as you would think anything about 
 dress, or admiration, and all that." 
 
 * I don't know what sort of a girl you think I am," 
 said Alice, u but, for my own part, / only pretend to be 
 a common human being, and am not ashamed of common 
 human feelings. If God has made us so that we love 
 admiration, why should we not honestly say so. / love 
 it — you love it — everybody loves it ; and why should not 
 everybody say it 1 " 
 
 " "Why, yes," said the little lady, " I suppose everybody 
 has a — has a — a general love for admiration. I am willing 
 to acknowledge that /have ; but — " 
 
 " But you have no love for it in particular," said 
 Alice, " I suppose you mean to say ; that is just the way 
 the matter is commonly disposed of. Everybody is will- 
 ing to acknowledge a general wish for the good opinion 
 of others, but half the world are ashamed to own it when 
 it comes to a particular case. Now I have made up my 
 mind, that if it is correcf !, it is correct in par- 
 
 ticular, and I mean to own it both ways." 
 
 " But, somehow, it seems mean ! " said the little lady. 
 
 "It is mean to live for it, to be selfishly engrossed in 
 
 ut not mean to enjoy it when it comes, or even to 
 
 seek it, if we neglect no Libber interest in doing so. All 
 
36 FRANKNESS. 
 
 that God made us to feel is dignified and pure, unless 
 we pervert it." 
 
 " But, Alice, I never heard any person speak out so 
 frankly as you do." 
 
 "Almost all that is innocent and natural may he spoken 
 out ; and as for that which is not innocent and natural, 
 it ought not even to be thought." 
 
 " But can everything be spoken that may be thought ?" 
 said the lady. 
 
 " No ; we have an instinct which teaches us to be 
 silent sometimes : but, if we speak at all, let it be in 
 simplicity and sincerity." 
 
 " Now, for instance, Alice," said the lady, " it is very 
 innocent and natural, as you say, to think this, that, and 
 the other good thing of yourself, especially when every- 
 body is telling you of it ; now, would you speak the 
 truth if any one asked you on this point ?" 
 
 " If it were a person who had a right to ask, and if it 
 were a proper time and place, I would," said Alice. 
 
 " Well, then," said the bright lady, " I ask you, Alice, 
 in this very proper time and place, do you think that you 
 are handsome ? " 
 
 " Now I suppose you expect me to make a courtesy to 
 every chair in the room before I answer," said Alice ; 
 "but, dispensing with that ceremony, I will tell you 
 fairly, I think I am." 
 
 a Do you think that you are good 1 " 
 
 " Not entirely," said Alice. 
 
 " Well, but don't you think you are better than most 
 people ]" 
 
FRANKNESS. 37 
 
 "As far as I can tell, I think I am better than some 
 people ; but really, cousin, I don't trust my own judg- 
 ment in this matter," said Alice. 
 
 " Well, Alice, one more question. Do you think 
 James Martyrs likes you or me best V 9 
 
 u I do not know," said Alice. 
 
 * I did not ask you what you knew, but what you 
 thought," said the lady ; "you must have some thought 
 about it." 
 
 " Well, then, I think he likes me best," said Alice. 
 
 Just then the door opened, and in walked the identical 
 James Martyrs. Alice blushed, looked a little comical, 
 and went on with her sewing, while the little lady 
 began, 
 
 11 Really, Mr. James^I wish you had come a minute 
 sooner, to hear Alice's confessions." 
 
 il What has she confessed 1" said James. 
 
 " Why, that she is handsomer and better than most 
 folks." 
 
 " That is nothing to be ashamed of," said James. 
 
 u Oh, that's not all ; she wants to look pretty, and 
 loves to be admired, and all — " 
 
 u It sounds very much like her," said James, looking 
 ftt Alice. 
 
 u Oh, but, besides that," said the lady, " she has been 
 preaching a discourse in justification of vanity and self- 
 — " 
 
 " And next time you shall take notes when I preach," 
 said Alice, " for I don't think your memory is remark- 
 ably happy." 
 
38 FRANKNESS. 
 
 " You see, James," said the lady, " that Alice makes 
 it a point to say exactly the truth when she speaks at 
 all, and I've been puzzling her with questions. I really 
 wish you would ask her some, and see what she will say. 
 But mercy ! there is Uncle C. come to take me to ride. 
 I must run." And off flew the little humming-bird, 
 leaving James and Alice tete-a-tete. 
 
 " There really is one question — " said James, clearing 
 his voice. 
 
 Alice looked up. 
 
 " There is one question, Alice, which I wish you would 
 answer." 
 
 Alice did not inquire what the question was, but 
 began to look very solemn ; and just then the door was 
 shut— and so I never knew what it was that Alice's 
 friend James wanted to be enlightened about. 
 
39 
 
 FEELING. 
 
 Some wander through a rugged way, 
 
 Forsaken and opprest ; 
 While oLhers, cheered by Fortune's ray, 
 Through Pleasure's laughing region stray, 
 
 In rainbow colours drest. 
 
 F. IIEMA.K8. 
 
 r PIIERE is one way of studying human nature, which 
 -*■ surveys mankind only as a set of instruments for the 
 accomplishment of personal plans. There is another, 
 which regards them simply as a -gallery of pictures, to 
 he admired or laughed at as the caricature or the lean 
 ideal predominates. A third way regards them as human 
 h carts that can suffer and enjoy, that can 
 }/o improved or he ruined ; as those who are linked to us 
 noes, hy the common dan- 
 gers of a ad the uno of ;t 
 future one; I rtt we meet them, 
 is on our sympathy ; :,ee. 
 
 :ire interested in 
 
 ich hy present attractions as hy 
 
 . i heings ; hy % 
 
 • • .. I -lid may attain in aii im- 
 
40 
 
 mortal existence ; by anxieties for its temptations and 
 dangers, and often by the perception of errors and faults 
 which threaten its ruin. The two first modes are adopted 
 by the great mass of society ; the last is the office of 
 those few scattered stars in the sky of life, who look 
 down on its dark selfishness to remind us that there is a 
 world of light and love. 
 
 To this class did lie belong, whose rising and setting 
 on earth were for the " healing of the nations ;" and to 
 this class has belonged many a pure and devoted spirit 
 — like him, shining to cheer — like him, fading away 
 into the heavens. To this class many a one wishes to 
 belong, who has an eye to distinguish the divinity of 
 virtue, without the resolution to attain it ; who, while 
 they sweep along with the selfish current of society, still 
 regret that society is not different — that they them- 
 selves are not different. If this train of thought has no 
 very particular application to what follows, it was never- 
 theless suggested by it, and of its relevancy others must 
 judge. 
 
 Look into this school- room. It is a warm, sleepy 
 afternoon in July ; there is scarcely air enough to stir the 
 leaves of the tall buttonwood-tree before the door, or to 
 lift the loose leaves of the copybook in the window ; the 
 sun has been diligently shining into those curtainless 
 west windows ever since three o'clock, upon those blotted 
 and mangled desks, and those decrepit and tottering 
 benches, and that great arm-chair, the high place of 
 authority. 
 
 You can faintly hear, about the door, the " craw, 
 
41 
 
 craw," of some tk ighbouring chickens, who have stepped 
 abound to consider the dinner-baskets, and pick up the 
 crumbs of the noou*s repast. For a marvel the busy 
 school is still, because, in truth, it is too warm to stir. 
 You will find nothing to disturb your meditation on 
 character, for you cannot hear the beat of those little 
 hearts, nor the bustle of all those busy thoughts. 
 
 Now look around. Who of these is the most interest- 
 ing? Is it that tall, slender, hazel-eyed boy, with a 
 glance like a falcon, whoso elbows rest on his book as he 
 gazes out on the great buttonwood-tree, and is calcu- 
 lating how he shall fix his squirrel-trap when school is 
 out ? Or is it that curly-headed little rogue, who is 
 I with repressed laughter at seeing a chicken roll 
 over in a dinner-basket 1 Or is it that arch boy with 
 black eyelashes, and deep, mischievous dimple in his 
 cheeks, who is slyly fixing a fishhook to the skirts of the 
 master's coat, yet looking as abstracted as Archimedes 
 whenever the good man turns his head that way ? No ; 
 these are intelligent, bright, beautiful, but it is not these. 
 
 Perhaps, then, it is that sleepy little girl, with golden 
 curls and* a mouth like a half-blown rose-bud ? See ! 
 the small brass thimble has fallen to the floor, her patch- 
 work drops from her lap, her blue eyes close like two 
 sleepy violets, her little head is nodding, and she sinks 
 on her sister's shoulder ; surely it is she. No, it is not. 
 
 But look in that corner : do you see that boy with 
 such a gloomy countenance — so vacant, yet so ill-na- 
 tured ? He is doing nothing, and he very seldom does 
 anything. He is surly and gloomy in his looks and 
 
42 
 
 actions. He never showed any more aptitude for saying 
 or doing a pretty thing, than his straight white hair 
 does for curling. He is regularly blamed and punished 
 every day, and the more he is blamed and punished, th< 
 worse he grows. None of the boys and girls in school 
 will play with him, or if they do, they will be sorry fo) 
 it. And every day the master assures him that "he 
 does not know what to do with him," and that he 
 <k makes him more trouble than any boy in school," with 
 similar judicious information, that has a striking ten- 
 dency to promote improvement. That is the boy to 
 whom I apply the title of " the most interesting one." 
 
 He is interesting because he is not pleasing ; because 
 he has bad habits ; because he does wrong ; because he 
 is always likely to do wrong. He is interesting because 
 he has become what he is now by means of the very tem- 
 perament which often makes the noblest virtue. It is 
 feeling, acuteness of feeling, which has given that counte- 
 nance its expression, that character its moroseness. 
 
 He has no father, and that long-suffering friend, his 
 mother, is gone too. Yet he has relations, and kind 
 ones too ; and, in the compassionate language of worldly 
 charity, it may be said of him, " He would have nothing 
 of which to complain, if he would only behave himself." 
 
 His little sister is always bright, always pleasant and 
 cheerful; and his friends say, " Why should not he be so 
 too 1 he is in exactly the same circumstances." No, he 
 is not. In one circumstance they differ. He has a mind 
 to feel and remember almost everything that can pain 
 him ; she can feel and remember but little. If you 
 
 ! 
 
FEELING. 43 
 
 blame him, he is exasperated, gloomy, and cannot forget 
 it. If you blame her, she can say she has done wrong in 
 a moment, and all is forgotten. Her mind can no more 
 be wounded than the little brook where she loves to play. 
 The bright waters close in a moment, and smile and prat- 
 tle as merry as before. 
 
 Which is the most desirable temperament ? It would 
 be hard to say. The power of feeling is necessary for all 
 that is noble in man, and yet it involves the greatest 
 risks. They who catch at happiness on the bright sur- 
 face of things, secure a portion, such as it is, with more 
 linty ; those who dive for it in the waters of deep 
 feeling, if they succeed, will bring up pearls and dia- 
 monds, but if they sink they are lost for ever ! 
 
 But now comes Saturday, and school is just out. Can 
 any one of my readers remember the rapturous prospect 
 of a long, bright Saturday afternoon ? " Where are you 
 going ?" " Will you come and see me ?'' " We are going 
 a fishing !" " Let us go a strawberrying !" may be heard 
 rising from the happy group. But no one comes near 
 the ill-humoured James, and the little party going to 
 " wish James was out of the way." lie 
 sees every motion, hears every whisper, knows, suspects, 
 feels it all, and turns to go home more sullen and ill- 
 tempered than common. The world looks dark— no- 
 body loves him — and he is told that it is " all his own 
 fault," and that makes the matter still worse. 
 
 little party arrive, he is suspicious and irri- 
 table, and, of course, soon excommunicated. Then, as 
 . he b. consolate anger, looking over the garden 
 
44 
 
 fence at the gay group making dandelion chains, and 
 playing baby-house under the trees, he wonders why he 
 is not like other children. He wishes he were different, 
 and yet he does not know what to do. He looks around, 
 and everything is blooming and bright. His little bed 
 of flowers is even brighter and sweeter than ever before, 
 and a new rose is just opening on his rose-bush. 
 
 There goes pussy too, racing and scampering, with 
 little Ellen after her, in among the alleys and flowers ; 
 and the birds are singing in the trees ; and the soft 
 winds brush the blossoms of the sweet-pea against his 
 cheek ; and yet, though all nature looks on him so kindly, 
 he is wretched. 
 
 Let us now change the scene. Why is that crowded 
 assembly so attentive — so silent ? Who is speaking 1 
 It is our old friend, the little disconsolate schoolboy. 
 But his eyes are flashing with intellect, his face fervent 
 with emotion, his voice breathes like music, and every 
 mind is enchained. 
 
 Again, it is a splendid sunset, and yonder enthusiast 
 meets it face to face, as a friend. He is silent — rapt — 
 happy. He feels the poetry which God has written ; ho 
 is touched by it, as God meant that the feeling spirit 
 should be touched. 
 
 Again, he is watching by the bed of sickness, and it is 
 blessed to have such a watcher ! anticipating every 
 want ; relieving, not in a cold, uninterested way, but 
 with the quick perceptions, the tenderness, the gentle- 
 ness of an angel. 
 
 Follow him into the circle of friendship, and why is 
 
45 
 
 he so loved and trusted ? Why can you so easily tell to 
 him what you can say to no one else besides 1 Why is 
 it that all around him feel that he can understand, 
 
 :;ite, be touched by all that touches them 1 
 
 And when heaven uncloses its doors of light — when 
 
 all its knowledge, its purity, its bliss, rises on the eye 
 
 and passes into the soul, who then will be looked on as 
 
 the one who might be envied— he who can, or he who 
 
 fecit 
 
46 THE SEMPSTRESS. 
 
 THE SEMPSTEESS. 
 
 Few, save the poor, feel for the poor; 
 The rich know not how hard 
 Jt is to be of needful food 
 And needful rest debarred. 
 
 Their paths are paths of plenteousness : 
 They sleep on silk and down; 
 They never think how wearily 
 The weary head lies down. 
 
 They never by the window sit, 
 And see the gay pass by, 
 Yet take their weary work again, 
 And with a mournful eye. 
 
 TTOWEYER fine and elevated, in a sentimental 
 -""*- point of view, may have been the poetry of this 
 gifted writer, we think we have never seen anything 
 from this source that ought to give a better opinion of 
 her than the little ballad from which the above verses 
 are taken. 
 
 They show that the accomplished authoress possessed, 
 not merely a knowledge of the dreamy ideal wants of 
 human beings, but the more pressing and homely ones, 
 which the fastidious and poetical are often the last to 
 appreciate. The sufferings of poverty are not confined 
 
THE HEMP8TREB8. 47 
 
 to those of the common, squalid, every- day-inured to 
 hardships, and ready, with open hand, to receive cha- 
 rity, let it come to them as it will. There is another 
 class on whom it presses with still heavier power : 
 the generous, the decent, the self-respecting, who have 
 struggled with their lot in silence, " bearing all things, 
 hoping all things," and willing to endure all things, 
 rather than breathe a word of complaint, or to acknow- 
 ledge, even to themselves, that their own efforts will not 
 be sufficient for their own necessities. 
 
 M with me a while at the door of yonder small 
 room, whose small window overlooks a little court below. 
 It is inhabited by a widow and her daughter, dependent 
 entirely on the labours of the needle, and those other 
 slight and precarious resources, which are all that remain 
 to woman when left to struggle her way " through this 
 k world alone." It contains all their small earthly 
 store, and there is scarce an article of its little stock of 
 furniture that has not been thought of, and toiled for, 
 ; rice calculated over and over again, before 
 ig could come right for its purchase. Every 
 with the utmost neatness and care; 
 most costly furniture of a fashionable parlour 
 fetch or a rub, than 
 1 bureau, and that neat cherry 
 The floor, too, boasted once a 
 :i busy with it, picking a 
 hole here, and making a thin place there ; and though 
 id fellow has been followed up by the most indt. fa- 
 il in darning, the marks of his mischievous 
 
43 THE SEMPSTRESS. 
 
 fingers are too plain to be mistaken. It is true, a kindlj 
 neighbour has given a bit of faded baize, which has beer 
 neatly clipped and bound, and spread down over an en 
 tirely unmanageable hole in front of the fire-place ; anc 
 other places have been repaired with pieces of differen 
 colours ; and yet, after all, it is evident that the poor 
 carpet is not long for this world. 
 
 But the best face is put upon everything. The little 
 cupboard in the corner, that contains a few china cups, 
 and one or two antiquated silver spoons, relics of better 
 days, is arranged with jealous neatness, and the white 
 muslin window-curtain, albeit the muslin be old, has been 
 carefully whitened, and starched, and smoothly ironed, 
 and put up with exact precision; and on the bureau, 
 covered by a snowy cloth, are arranged a few books and 
 other memorials of former times, and a faded miniature, 
 which, though it have little about it to interest a stranger, 
 is more precious to the poor widow than everything 
 besides. 
 
 Mrs. Ames is seated in her rocking-chair, supported by 
 a pillow, and busy cutting out work, while her daughter, 
 a slender, sickly-looking girl, is sitting by the window, 
 intent on some fine stitching. 
 
 Mrs. Ames, in former days, was the wife of a respecta- 
 ble merchant, and the mother of an affectionate family. 
 But evil fortune had followed her with a steadiness that 
 seemed like the stern decree of some adverse fate rather 
 than the ordinary dealings of a merciful Providence. 
 First came a heavy run of losses in business ; then long 
 and expensive sickness in the family, and the death of 
 
THE SEMPSTRESS. 49 
 
 children. Then there was the selling of the large house 
 and elegant furniture, to retire to a humbler style of 
 living; and, finally, the sale of all the property, with the 
 view of quitting the shores of a native land, and com- 
 mencing life again in a new one. But scarcely had the 
 exiled family found themselves in the port of a foreign 
 land, when the father was suddenly smitten down by the 
 hand of death, and his lonely grave made in a land of 
 
 :gers. The widow, broken-hearted and discouraged, 
 
 still a wearisome journey before her ere she could 
 
 h any whom she could consider as her friends. With 
 her two daughters, entirely unattended, and with her 
 
 :ces impoverished by detention and sickness, she per- 
 formed the tedious journey. 
 
 Arrived at the place of her destination, she found her- 
 
 not only without immediate resources, but consider- 
 ably in debt to one who had advanced money for her 
 travelling expenses. With silent endurance she met the 
 necessities of her situation. II er daughters, delicately 
 1, tod hitherto carefully educated, were placed out 
 Ames sought for employment as a 
 
 •j. The younger child fell sick, and the hard earn- 
 ings of the mo- 1 exhausted in the care of her; 
 and though she recovered in part, she was declared by 
 her physician to be I ich would 
 8 her till it tens r life. 
 As soon, however, as her daughter was so far restored 
 as not to need her immediate care, resumed 
 
 laborious employment. Scarcely had she been able, 
 in this way, to discharge the debts for her journey, and 
 
 D 
 
50 THE SEMPSTRESS. 
 
 to furnish the small room we have described, when the 
 hand of disease was laid heavily on herself. Too resolute 
 and persevering to give way to the first attacks of pain 
 and weakness, she still continued her fatiguing employ- 
 ment till her system was entirely prostrated. Thus all 
 possibility of pursuing her business was cut off, and no- 
 thing remained but what could be accomplished by her 
 own and her daughter's dexterity at the needle. It is at 
 this time we ask you to look in upon the mother and 
 daughter. 
 
 Mrs. Ames is sitting up, the first time for a week, and 
 even to-day she is scarcely fit to do so ; but she remem- 
 bers that the month is coming round, and her rent will 
 soon be due; and even in her feebleness she will stretch 
 every nerve to meet her engagements with punctilious 
 exactness. 
 
 Wearied at length with cutting out, and measuring, 
 and drawing threads, she leans back in her chair, and 
 her eye rests on the pale face of her daughter, who has 
 been sitting for two hours intent on her stitching. 
 
 " Ellen, my child, your head aches ; don't work so 
 steadily." 
 
 " Oh no, it don't ache much, 11 said she, too conscious of 
 looking very much tired. Poor girl, had she remained 
 in the situation in which she was born, she would now 
 have been skipping about, and enjoying life as other 
 young girls of fifteen do ; but now there is no choice of 
 employments for her — no youthful companions — no visit- 
 ing — no pleasant walks in the fresh air. Evening and 
 morning, it is all the same ; headache or sideache, it is 
 
THE SEMPSTRESS. 51 
 
 all one. She must hold on the same unvarying task ; a 
 wearisome thing for a girl of fifteen ! 
 
 But see, the door opens, and Mrs. Ames's face bright- 
 ens as her other daughter enters. Mary has become a 
 domestic in a neighbouring family, where her faithful- 
 ness and kindness of heart have caused her to be regard- 
 ed more as a daughter and a sister than as a servant. 
 " Here, mother, is your rent-money," she exclaimed, u so 
 do put up your work and rest a while. I can get enough 
 to pay it next time before the month comes round 
 again/' 
 
 I >ear child ! I do wish you would ever think to get 
 anything for yourself," said Mrs. Ames ; " I cannot con- 
 sent to use up all your earnings, as I have done lately, 
 and all Ellen's too : you must have a new dress this 
 spring, and that bonnet of yours is not decent any 
 r." 
 " Oh no, mother ; I have fixed over my blue calico, 
 and you will be surprised to see how well it looks ; and 
 my best frock, when it is washed and darned, will answer 
 some time longer. And then Mrs. Grant has given me a 
 riband, and when my bonnet is whitened and trimmed, it 
 will look very well. And so," she added, " I brought 
 you some wine this afternoon ; you know the doctor says 
 you need wine." 
 
 i ! I want to see you take some comfort of 
 your money your 
 
 11, I do take comfort of it, mother. It is more 
 
 4 ".-rt to be able to help you than to wear all the finest 
 rid." 
 
TIIE SEMPSTRESS. 
 
 Two months from this dialogue found our little family 
 still more straitened and perplexed. Mrs. Ames had 
 been confined all the time with sickness, and the greater 
 part of Ellen's time and strength was occupied with 
 attending to her. 
 
 Very little sewing could the poor girl now do, in the 
 broken intervals that remained to her ; and the wages 
 of Mary were not only used as fast as she earned, but 
 she anticipated two months in advance. 
 
 Mrs. Ames had been better for a day or two, and had 
 been sitting up, exerting all her strength to finish a set 
 of shirts which had been sent in to make. " The money 
 for them will just pay your rent," sighed she ; "and if 
 we can do a little more this week — " 
 
 <e Dear mother, you are so tired," said Ellen, " do lie 
 down, and not worry any more till I come back." 
 
 Ellen went out and passed on till she came to the 
 door of an elegant house, whose damask and muslin 
 window-curtains indicated a fashionable residence. 
 
 Mrs. Elmore was sitting in her splendidly-furnished 
 parlour, and around her lay various fancy articles, which 
 two young girls were busily unrolling. " What a lovely 
 pink scarf !" said one, throwing it over her shoulders and 
 skipping before a mirror; while the other exclaimed, 
 " Do look at these pocket-handkerchiefs, mother ! what 
 elegant lace !" 
 
 "Well, girls," said Mrs. Elmore, "these handkerchiefs 
 are a shameful piece of extravagance. I wonder you will 
 insist on having such things." 
 
 " La ! mamma, everybody has such now ; Laura Sey- 
 
TIIE SEMPSTRESS. 53 
 
 mour has half a dozen that cost more than these, and her 
 father is no richer than ours." 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. Elmore, " rich or not rich, it seems 
 to make very little odds; we do not seem to have half as 
 much money to spare as we did when we lived in the lit- 
 tle house in Spring Street. What with new furnishing 
 the house, and getting everything you boys and girls say 
 you must have, we are poorer, if anything, than we were 
 then." 
 
 'am, here is Mrs. Ames's girl come with some 
 sewing," said the servant. 
 
 " Show her in," said Mrs. Elmore. 
 Ellen entered timidly, and handed her bundle of work 
 to Mrs. Elmore, who forthwith proceeded to a minute 
 scrutiny of the articles; for she prided herself on being 
 very particular as to her sewing. But, though the work 
 had been executed by feeble hands and aching eyes, even 
 Elmore could detect no fault in it." 
 
 .1, it is very prettily done," said she; " what docs 
 your mother charge V 
 
 i handed a neatly-folded bill which she had drawn 
 
 for her mother. u I must say, I think your mother's 
 
 s are very high," said Mrs. Elmore, examining her 
 
 nearly em] ry thing is getting so dear that 
 
 one hardly knows how to live." Ellen looked at the 
 
 fancy articles, and glanced around the room with an air 
 
 of innocent astonishment. "Ah!" said Mrs. Elmore, " I 
 
 dare say it seems to you as if persons in our situation 
 
 f economy; but, for my part, I feel the 
 
 I of it more and more every day." As she spoke 
 
54 TLIE SEMPSTRESS. 
 
 she handed Ellen the small sum, which, though it was 
 not a quarter the price of one of the handkerchiefs, 
 was all that she and her sick mother could claim in the 
 world. 
 
 a There," said she ; u tell your mother I like her work 
 very much, but I do not think I can afford to employ 
 her, if I can find any one to work cheaper." 
 
 Now Mrs. Elmore was not a hard-hearted woman, and 
 if Ellen had come as a beggar to solicit help for her sick 
 mother, Mrs. Elmore would have fitted out a basket of 
 provisions, and sent a bottle of wine, and a bundle of old 
 clothes, and all the et cetera of such occasions ; but the 
 sight of a bill always aroused all the instinctive sharp- 
 ness of her business-like education. She never had the 
 dawning of an idea that it was her duty to pay anybody 
 any more than she could possibly help ; nay, she had an 
 indistinct notion that it was her duty as an economist to 
 make everybody take as little as possible. When she and 
 her daughters lived in Spring Street, to which she had 
 alluded, they used to spend the greater part of their time 
 at home, and the family sewing was commonly done 
 among themselves; but since they had moved into a 
 large house, and set up a carriage, and addressed them- 
 selves to being genteel, the girls found that they had 
 altogether too much to do to attend to their own sewing, 
 much less to perform any for their father and brothers. 
 And their mother found her hands abundantly full in 
 overlooking her large house, in taking care of expensive 
 furniture, and in superintending her increased train of 
 servants. The sewing, therefore, was put out ; and Mrs. 
 
THE SEMPSTKESS. 
 
 vefelt U a duty to get it done the cheapest way she 
 
 could. 2s\ . Mrs. Elmore was too notable a lady, 
 
 and her sons and daughters were altogether too fastidious 
 
 lake and quality of their clothing, to admit the 
 
 being done in any but the most complete and 
 
 : manner. 
 
 Elmore never accused herself of want of charity 
 
 for the poor ; but she had never considered that the best 
 
 - of the poor are those who never ask charity. She 
 
 did not consider that, by paying liberally those who were 
 
 :md independently struggling for themselves, 
 
 ally doing a greater charity than by giving in- 
 
 uinutely to a dozen applicants. 
 
 ■ Don't you think, mother, she says we charge too high 
 
 fur this work !" said Ellen, when she returned. " I am 
 
 she did not know how much work we put in those 
 
 tji she cannot give us any more work; she 
 
 t look out for somebody that will do it cheaper. I do 
 
 Me how it is that people who live in such houses, and 
 
 many beautiful things, can feel that they cannot 
 
 pay for what costs u.>> s.j much." 
 il, child, they are mure apt to feel so than people 
 live plain- 
 
 • i, 1 am NU not afford to 
 
 . these shirts, for less 
 
 id the mother, soothingly; 
 ft bundle of her lady has sent in, 
 
 Lft done we shall have enough fur our rent, 
 u\er to buy bi\.. 
 
50 THE SEMPSTRESS. 
 
 It is needless to carry our readers over all the process 
 of cutting and fitting, and gathering and stitching, neces- 
 sary in making up six fine shirts. Suffice it 1o say, that 
 on Saturday evening all but one were finished, and Ellen 
 proceeded to carry thern home, promising to bring the re- 
 maining one on Tuesday morning. The lady examined 
 the work and gave Ellen the money; but on Tuesday, 
 when the child came with the remaining work, she found 
 her in great ill-humour. Upon re-examining the shirts, 
 she had discovered that in some important respects they 
 differed from directions she meant to have given, and 
 supposed she had given, and, accordingly, she vented her 
 displeasure on Ellen. 
 
 " Why didn't you make these shirts as I told you!" 
 said she, sharply. 
 
 " We did," said Ellen, mildly ; " mother measured by 
 the pattern every part, and cut them herself." 
 
 " Your mother must be a fool, then, to make such a 
 piece of work. I wish you would just take them back, 
 and alter them over;" and the lady proceeded with the 
 directions, of which neither Ellen nor her mother, till 
 then, had had any intimation. Unused to such language, 
 the frightened Ellen took up her work and slowly walked 
 homeward. 
 
 " Oh dear, how my head does ache ! " thought she to 
 herself ; " and poor mother, she said this morning she 
 was afraid another of her sick turns was coming on, and 
 we have all this work to pull out and do over." 
 
 "See here, mother !" said sho with a disconsolate 
 air, as she entered the room ; " Mrs. Rudd says, take 
 
THE SE3IPSTRESS. 57 
 
 out all the bosoms, and rip off all the collars, and fix 
 them quite another way. She says they are not like the 
 pattern she sent ; but she must have forgotten, for here 
 it is. Look, mother ! it is exactly as we made them." 
 
 " Well, my child, carry back the pattern, and show 
 her that it is so." 
 
 " Indeed, mother, she spoke so cross to me, and looked 
 at me so, that I do not feel as if I could go back." 
 
 " I will go for you, then," said the kind Maria Ste- 
 phens, who had been sitting with Mrs. Ames while Ellen 
 was out. " I will take the patterns and shirts, and tell 
 her the exact truth about it : I am not afraid of her." 
 Maria Stephens was a cheerful, resolute, go-forward 
 little body, and ready always to give a helping hand to 
 a neighbour in trouble. So she took the pattern and 
 shirts, and set out on her mission. 
 
 But poor Mrs. Ames, though she professed to take a 
 : view of the matter, and was very earnest in show- 
 ing Ellen why she ought not to distress herself about it, 
 still felt a shivering sense of the hardness and unkind- 
 ness of the world coming over her. The bitter tearg 
 would spring to her eyes, in spite of every effort to sup- 
 press them, as she sat mournfully gazing on the little 
 1 miniature before mentioned. " When he was alive, 
 what poverty or trouble was," was the 
 thought that ot i through her mind ; and how 
 
 a poor forlorn one has thought the same ! 
 
 I was confined to her bed for most of 
 
 The doctor gave absolute directions that she 
 
 should do nothing, and keep entirely <juiet, — a direction 
 
58 THE SEMPST11ESS. 
 
 very sensible indeed in the chamber of ease and compe- 
 tence, but hard to be observed in poverty and want. 
 
 What pains the kind and dutiful Ellen took that week 
 to make her mother feel easy ! How often she replied to 
 her anxious questions, " that she was quite well, or that 
 her head did not ache muck;" and by various other 
 evasive expedients the child tried to persuade herself that 
 she was speaking the truth. And during the times her 
 mother slept, in the day or evening, she accomplished 
 one or two pieces of plain work, with the price of which 
 she expected to surprise her mother. 
 
 It was towards evening when Ellen took her finished 
 work to the elegant dwelling of Mrs. Page. " I shall 
 get for this," said she, " enough to pay for mother's 
 wine and medicine." 
 
 "This work is done very neatly," said Mrs. Page, 
 " and here is some more, I should like to have finished 
 in the same way." 
 
 Ellen looked up wistfully, hoping Mrs. Page was 
 going to pay her for the last work. But Mrs. Page was 
 only searching a drawer for a pattern, which she put 
 into Ellen's hands, and after explaining how she wanted 
 her work done, dismissed her without saying a word 
 about the expected payment. 
 
 Poor Ellen tried two or three times, as she was going 
 out, to turn round and ask for it, and before she could 
 decide what to say she found herself in the street. 
 
 Mrs. Page was an amiable, kind-hearted woman, but 
 one who was so used to large sums of money, that she 
 did not realize how great an affair a small sum might 
 
THE SEMPSTRESS. 59 
 
 seem to other persons. For this reason, when Ellen had 
 worked incessantly at the new work put into her hands, 
 that she might get the money for all together, she again 
 ppointed her in the payment. 
 "Ill send the money round to-morrow," said she, 
 when Ellen at last found courage to ask for it. But to- 
 morrow came, and Ellen was forgotten ; and it was not 
 till after one or two applications more that the small 
 sum was paid. 
 
 But these sketches are already long enough, and let 
 I asten to close them. Mrs. Ames found liberal 
 friends, who could appreciate and honour her integrity 
 of principle and loveliness of character, and by their 
 assistance she was raised to see more prosperous days ; 
 and she, and the delicate Ellen, and warm-hearted Mary, 
 were enabled to have a home and fireside of their own, 
 and to enjoy something like the return of their former 
 prosperity. 
 
 ivq given these sketches, drawn from real life, 
 because we think there is, in general, too little consider- 
 ation on the part of those who give employment to those 
 in situations like the widow here described. The giving 
 of employment is a very important branch of charity, 
 much as it assists that class of the poor who are the 
 most j. It should be looked on in this light, 
 
 f a family be so made that a 
 suitable compensation can be gnren, and prompt and 
 cheerful payment 1 I of trans- 
 
 gressing the rule9 of economy. 
 
 <>ur daughters to do without ex- 
 
60 THE SEMPSTRESS. 
 
 pensive ornaments or fashionable elegancies ; better even 
 to deny ourselves the pleasure of large donations or direct 
 subscriptions to public charities, rather than to curtail 
 the small stipend of her " whose candle goeth not out by 
 night," and who labours with her needle for herself 
 and the helpless dear ones dependent on her exertions. 
 
AUNT MAKY. CI 
 
 ATOT MARY. 
 
 Home is possession at the highest cost- 
 Keen edge the soonest lost, 
 
 Yet who would welcome dearth 
 For fear his plenty should be famine cross'd ? 
 
 Be God beside my hearth! 
 
 TOWNSEND. 
 
 QINCE sketching character is the mode, I too take up 
 ^ my pencil, not to make you laugh, though perad ven- 
 ture it may be to get you to sleep. 
 
 I am now a tolerable old gentleman — an old bachelor, 
 moreover — and, what is more to the point, an unpretend- 
 and sober-minded one. Lest, however, any of the 
 ladies should take exceptions against me in the very 
 outset, I will merely remark, en passant, that a man can 
 sometimes become an old bachelor because he has too 
 much heart as well as too little. 
 
 Years ago — before any of my readers were born — I 
 
 was a little good-for-naught of a boy, of precisely that 
 
 unlucky kind who are always jdy's way, and 
 
 1, to watch over myuprearing, 
 
 h father and mother, and r brothers 
 
62 AUNT MARY. 
 
 to other human beings, neither good angels nor tHe 
 
 site class, but, as mathematicians say, " in the mean 
 
 proportion." 
 
 As I have before insinuated, I was a sort of family 
 scapegrace among them, and one on whose head all the 
 domestic trespasses were regularly visited, either by real 
 actual desert, or by imputation. 
 
 For this order of things there was, I confess, a very 
 solid and serious foundation, in the constitution of my 
 mind. Whether I was born under some cross-eyed 
 planet, or whether I was fairy-smitten in my cradle, 
 certain it is that I was, from the dawn of existence, a 
 sort of " Murad the Unlucky ;" an out-of-time, out-of- 
 place, out-of-form sort of a boy, with whom nothing 
 prospered. 
 
 Who always left open doors in cold weather ? it was 
 Henry. Who was sure to upset his coffee-cup at break- 
 fast, or to knock over his tumbler at dinner, or to pros- 
 trate salt-cellar, pepper-box, and mustard-pot, if he only 
 happened to move his arm? why, Henry. Who was 
 plate-breaker general for the family? it was Henry. 
 Who tangled mamma's silks and cottons, and tore up the 
 last newspaper for papa, or threw down old Phoebe's 
 clothes-horse, with all her clean ironing thereupon ? why, 
 Henry. 
 
 Now all this was no malice prepense in me, for I 
 solemnly believe that I was the best-natured boy in the 
 world ; but something was the matter with the attraction 
 of cohesion, or the attraction of gravitation — with the 
 general dispensation of matter around me, that, let me 
 
AUNT MART. 63 
 
 do what I would, things would fall down, and break, or 
 be torn and damaged, if I only came near them; and 
 my unluckiness seemed in exact proportion to my care- 
 fulness in any matter. 
 
 If anybody in the room with me had a headache, or 
 any manner of nervous irritability, whichfmade it parti- 
 cularly necessary for others to be quiet, and if I was in 
 an especial desire unto the same, I was sure, while 
 stepping around on tiptoe, to fall headlong over a chair, 
 which would give an introductory push to the shovel, 
 which would fall upon the tongs, which would animate 
 the poker, and altogether would set in action two or 
 three sticks of wood, and down they would come, with 
 just that hearty, sociable sort of racket, which showed 
 that they were disposed to make as much of the oppor- 
 tunity as possible. 
 
 In the same manner, everything that came into my 
 \, or was at all connected with me, was sure to lose 
 If I rejoiced in a clean apron in the morning, I 
 was sure to make a full-length prostration thereupon on 
 my way to school, and come home nothing better, but 
 r>e. If I was sent on an errand, I was sure 
 either to lose my money in going, or my purchases in re- 
 turning : and on these occasions my mother would often 
 Port me with the reflection, that it was well that my 
 ned to my head, or I should lose them too. 
 Of course, I was a fair mark for the constant rebukes 
 and admonitions, not only of my parents, but of uncles, 
 ■ nds of every degree, who 
 failed of soir.e troublcson, 
 
64 AUNT MARY. 
 
 All this would have been very well if Nature had 
 not gifted me with a very unnecessary and uncomfort- 
 able capacity of feeling ', which, like a refined ear for 
 music, is undesirable, because, in this world, one meei 
 with discord ninety-nine times, where it meets with har- 
 mony once. Much, therefore, as I furnished occasion 
 be scolded at, I never became used to scolding, so that 
 was just as much galled by it the forty -fix&t time as th< 
 first. There was no such thing as philosophy in me; I had 
 just that unreasonable heart which is neither conformed 
 nor reconciled to the nature of things. I was timid, and 
 shrinking, and proud ; I was nothing to any one around 
 me but an awkward, unlucky boy ; nothing to my parents 
 but one of a half dozen children, whose faces were to be 
 washed and stockings mended on Saturday afternoon. If 
 I was very sick, I had medicine and the doctor ; if I was 
 a little sick, I was exhorted unto patience ; and if I 
 was sick at heart, I was left to prescribe for myself. 
 
 Now all this was very well; what should a child need 
 but meat, and drink, and room to play, and a school to 
 teach him reading and writing, and somebody to take care 
 of him when sick 1 certainly nothing. 
 
 But the feelings of grown-up children exist in the 
 minds of little ones oftener than is supposed; and I had, 
 even at this early day, the same keen sense of all that 
 touched the heart wrong ; the same longing for some- 
 thing which should touch it aright ; the same discontent 
 with latent, matter-of-course affection, and the same 
 craving for sympathy, which has been the unprofitable 
 fashion of this world in all ages. And no human being 
 
 ? or 
 
 I 
 
AUNT MAKT. 65 
 
 possessing such constitutionals has a better chance of 
 being made unhappy by them than the backward, unin- 
 teresting, wrong-doing child. We can all sympathise 
 to some extent with men and women; but how few can 
 go back to the sympathies of childhood ; can understand 
 the desolate insignificance of not being one of the grown- 
 up people ; of being sent to bed, to bo out of the way iu 
 the evening, and to school, to be out of the way in the 
 morning ; of manifold similar grievances and distresses 
 which the child has no elocution to set forth, and the 
 grown person no imagination to conceive. 
 
 When I was seven years old, I was told one morning, 
 with considerable domestic acclamation, that aunt Mary 
 was coming to make us a visit ; and so, when the carriage 
 brought her stopped at our door, I pulled off my 
 dirty apron, and ran in among the crowd of brothers and 
 sisters to sec what was coming. I shall not describe her 
 first appearance, for as I think of her, I begin to grow 
 somewhat sentimental, in spite of my spectacles, and 
 might, perhaps, talk a little nonsense. 
 
 ps every man, whether married or unmarried, 
 who has lived to the age of fifty or thereabout, has seen 
 some woman who, in his mind, is the woman in distinc- 
 tion! all others. She may not have been a relative ; 
 she may not have been a wife ; she may simply havo 
 shone on him from afar ; she may be remembered in the 
 Mice of years as a star that is .set, as music that is hush- 
 II beauty and lovelin- r ; but remem- 
 
 bered r, with enthusiasm; 
 
 with all that heart can feel, and more than words can tell, 
 
 £ 
 
66 AUNT MARY. 
 
 To me there has heen but one such, and that is she 
 whom I describe. Was she beautiful ] you ask. I ako 
 •will ask you one question : If an angel from heaven 
 should dwell in human form, and animate any human 
 face, would not that face be lovely] It might not be 
 beautiful, but would it not be lovely] She was not beau- 
 tiful except after this fashion. 
 
 How well I remember her, as she used sometimes to 
 sit thinking, with her head resting on her hand, her face 
 mild and placid, with a quiet October sunshine in her 
 blue eyes, and an ever-present smile over her whole 
 countenance. I remember the sudden sweetness of look 
 when any one spoke to her; the prompt attention, the 
 quick comprehension of things before you uttered them; 
 the obliging readiness to leave for you whatever she was 
 doing. 
 
 To those who mistake occasional pensiveness for melan- 
 choly, it might seem strange to say that my Aunt Mary 
 was always happy. Yet she was so. Her spirits never 
 rose to buoyancy, and never sunk to despondency. I 
 know that it is an article in the sentimental confession 
 of faith that such a character cannot be interesting. 
 For this impression there is some ground. The placidity 
 of a medium common-place mind is uninteresting, but 
 the placidity of a strong and well-governed one borders 
 on the sublime. Mutability of emotion characterizes 
 inferior orders of being; but strong self-control, when 
 guided by the principles of virtue and true religion, 
 preserves an even temperament in the well-regulated 
 mind. And while we gaze with wonder and admiration 
 
AUNT MAlil'. 67 
 
 ; reat general or statesman, ever at leisure to bestow 
 all his thoughts on the wants of others, there is some- 
 what of the same sublimity in the character of that 
 human being who has so quieted and governed the world 
 within, that nothing is left to absorb sympathy or distract 
 attention from those around. 
 
 Such a woman was my Aunt Mary. Her placidity 
 
 was not so much the result of temperament as of choice. 
 
 ry susceptibility of suffering incident to the 
 
 and most delicate construction of mind; but they 
 
 en so directed, that instead of concentrating. 
 
 thought on self, they had prepared her to understand and 
 
 feel for others. 
 
 She was, beyond all things else, a sympathetic person, 
 snd her character, like the green in a landscape, was less 
 remarkable for what it was in itself than for its perfect 
 and beautiful harmony with all the colouring and shad- 
 ing around it. 
 
 Other women have had talents, others have been good; 
 but no woman that ever I knew possessed goodness and 
 talent in union with such an intuitive perception of feel- 
 ings, and such a faculty of instantaneous adaptation to 
 them. The most troublesome thing in this world is to 
 iemncd to the society of a person who can never 
 understand anything you say without you say the whole 
 of it, making your commas and periods as you go along; 
 and the most dcsi ; in the world is to live with 
 
 bo saves you all the trouble of talking, by 
 t what you mean to say before you b 
 Something of this kind of talent I began to feel, to 
 
AUNT MARY. 
 
 _ 
 
 my great relief, when Aunt Mary came into the family. 
 I remember the very first evening, as she sat by the 
 hearth, surrounded by all the family, her eye glanced on 
 me with an expression that let me know she saw me; 
 and when the clock struck eight, and my mother pro- 
 claimed that it was my bedtime, my countenance fell as 
 I moved sorrowfully from the back of her rocking-chair, 
 and thought how many beautiful stories Aunt Mary 
 Would tell her after I was gone to bed. She turned 
 towards me with such a look of real understanding, such 
 an evident insight into the case, that I went into banish- 
 ment with a lighter heart than ever I did before. How 
 very contrary is the obstinate estimate of the heart to 
 the rational estimate of worldly wisdom. Are there not 
 some who can remember when one word, one look, or 
 even the withholding of a word, has drawn their heart 
 more to a person than all the substantial favours in the 
 world? By ordinary acceptation, substantial kindness 
 respects the necessaries of animal existence; while those 
 wants which are peculiar to mind, and will exist with it 
 for ever, by equally correct classification, are designated 
 as sentimental ones, the supply of which, though it will 
 excite more gratitude in fact, ought not in theory. 
 Before Aunt Mary had lived with us a month, I loved 
 her beyond anybody in the world, and a utilitarian would 
 have been amused in ciphering out the amount of favours 
 which produced this result. It was a look — a word — a 
 smile; it was that she seemed pleased with my new kite; 
 that she rejoiced with me when I learned to spin a top; 
 that she alone seemed to estimate my proficiency in play- 
 
AUNT MARY. 69 
 
 ing ball and marbles; that she never looked at all vexed 
 •when I upset her workbox upon the floor; that she re- 
 ceived all my awkward gallantry and mal-adroit help- 
 fulness as if it had been in the best taste in the world; 
 that when she was sick, she insisted on letting me wait 
 on her, though I made my customary havock among the 
 pitchers and tumblers of her room, and displayed, through 
 my zeal to please, a more than ordinary share of insuf- 
 ficiency for the station. She also was the only person 
 that ever I conversed with, and I used to wonder how any- 
 body who could talk all about matters and things with 
 grown-up persons, could talk so sensibly about marbles, 
 and hoops, and skates, and all sorts of little-boy matters; 
 and I will say, by-the-by, that the same sort of specula- 
 tion has often occurred to the minds of older people in 
 connexion with her. She knew the value of varied infor- 
 mation in making a woman, not a pedant, but a sympa- 
 thetic, companionable being, and such she was to almost 
 every class of mind 
 
 She had, too, the faculty of drawing others up to her 
 level in conversation, so that I would often fiud myself 
 
 Bg on in most profound style while talking with her, 
 and would wonder, wTien I was through, whether I was 
 really a little boy still. 
 
 "When she had enlightened us many months, the timo 
 came for her to take leave, and she besought my mother 
 to give n I company. Ail the family wondered 
 
 what she could find to like in Henry; but if she did like 
 me, it was no matter, and so was the case disposed of. 
 
 From that time I li- ed with her— and there are some 
 
70 AUKT JIAKY. 
 
 persons who can make the word live signify much more 
 than it commonly does — and she wrought on my character 
 all those miracles which benevolent genius can work. 
 She quieted my heart, directed my feelings, unfolded my 
 mind, and educated me, not harshly, or by force, but as 
 the blessed sunshine educates the flower, into full and 
 perfect life ; and when all that was mortal of her died to 
 this world, her words and deeds of unutterable love shed 
 a twilight around her memory that will fade only in the 
 brightness of heaven. 
 
E TIM AND HIS DAUGHTER GRACE. 
 
 I : E TIM AND HIS DAUGHTER GRACE. 
 
 .;s because lie claims 
 A homely bluntness, more than meed of praise 
 For his benevolent deeds, and by his aims 
 At other's good, his own true worth disj :. 
 
 Ri.Y.'.NT. 
 
 T\ID you ever see the little village of Kewbury ? I 
 
 dure say you never did; for it was just one of 
 
 B out-of-the-way places where nobody ever came un- 
 
 oaine on purpose : a green little hollow, wedged 
 
 like a bird's nest between half-a-dozen high hills, that 
 
 kept off the wind and kept out foreigners; so that the 
 
 ljtti as straitly "sui generis" as if there were 
 
 .a* in the world. The inh —re all of 
 
 respectable old stanu: who make it a point 
 
 ;.U in the 
 
 ame spot. Th <.. . and 
 
 d in them ; and nobody ever 
 
 ust while I was 
 
 there. The natives grew old till they could not grow 
 
 any i ill, and lasted i'ruiu 
 
 gent: 
 
72 tTNCLE TIM 
 
 As to manners, morals, arts, and sciences, the people 
 in Newbury always went to their parties at three o'clock 
 in the afternoon, and came home before dark; always 
 stopped all work the minute the sun was down on Satur- 
 day night ; always went to church on Sunday ; had a 
 school-house with all the ordinary inconveniences ; were 
 in neighbourly charity with each other; and were con- 
 tent with such things as they had — the best philosophy, 
 after all. Such was the place into which Master Jame3 
 Benton made an irruption in the year eighteen hundred 
 and no matter what. Now this James is to be our hero, 
 and he is just the hero for a sensation — at least so you 
 would have thought, if you had been in Newbury the 
 week after his arrival. Master James was one of those 
 whole-hearted, energetic men, who rise in the world as 
 naturally as cork does in water. Ke possessed a great 
 share of that characteristic national trait denominated 
 acuteness, which signifies an ability to do everything 
 without trying, and to know everything without learning, 
 and to make more use of one's ignorance than other 
 people do of their knowledge. This quality in James 
 was mingled with a great elasticity of animal spirits 
 and a buoyant cheerfulness of mind. 
 
 As to the personal appearance of our hero, we have 
 not much to say of it. There was a saucy frankness of 
 countenance, a knowing roguery of eye, and a joviality 
 of demeanour, that was wonderfully captivating, espe- 
 cially to the ladies. 
 
 It is true that Master James had an uncommonly com- 
 fortable opinion of himself, a full faith that there was 
 
AND HIS DAUanTER GRACE. 
 
 nothing in creation that he could not learn and could 
 not do ; and this faith was maintained with an abound- 
 ing and triumphant joyfulness, that fairly carried your 
 sympathies along with him, and made you feci quite as 
 much delighted with his qualifications and prospects as 
 he felt himseif. There are two kinds of self- sufficiency; 
 one is amusing, and the other is provoking. His was the 
 amusing kind. It seemed, in truth, to be only the buoy- 
 ancy and overflow of a vivacious mind, delighted with 
 everything that is delightful, in himself or others. Ho 
 was always ready to magnify his own praise, but quite as 
 ready to exalt his neighbour, if the channel of discourse 
 ran that way: his own perfections being more completely 
 within his knowledge, he rejoiced in them more con- 
 stantly ; but, if those of any one else came within the 
 same range, he was quite as much astonished and edified 
 as if they had been his own. 
 
 r James, at the time of his transit to the town 
 of Newbury, was only eighteen years of age, so that it 
 was difficult to say which predominated in him most, 
 the boy or the man. The belief that he could, and the 
 determination that he would be something in the world, 
 had caused him to abandon his home, and, with all his 
 worldly effects tied in a blue cotton pocket-hankerchiof, 
 roceed to seek his fortune in Newbury. And never 
 did stranger rise to promotion with more unparalleled 
 rapidity, or boast plurality of employment. 
 
 lie figured as schoolmaster all the week, and as chorister 
 on Sundays, and taught singing and reading in the 
 evenings, besides studying La' in and Greek with the 
 
74 UNCLE TIM 
 
 minister, nobody knew when ; thus fitting for college, 
 while he seemed to be doing everything else in the world 
 besides. 
 
 James understood every art and craft of popularity, 
 and made himself mightily at home in all the chimney 
 corners of the region round about ; knew the geography 
 of everybody's cider-barrel and apple-bin, helping him- 
 self and every one else therefrom with all bountifulness; 
 rejoicing in the good things of this life, devouring the 
 old ladies' doughnuts and apple-pies with most flattering 
 appetite, and appearing equally to relish everybody and 
 thing that came in his way. 
 
 The degree and versatility of his acquirements were 
 truly wonderful, lie knew all about arithmetic and 
 history, and all about catching squirrels and planting 
 corn; made poetry and hoe -handles with equal celerity; 
 wound yarn and took out grease spots for old ladies, and 
 made nosegays and knick-knacks for young ones. In 
 short, Master James moved on through the place 
 
 " Victorious, 
 
 Happy and glorious," 
 
 welcomed and privileged by everybody in every place ; 
 and when he had told his last ghost-story, and fairly 
 flourished himself out of doors at the close of a long 
 winter's evening, you might see the hard face of the 
 good man of the house still phosphorescent with his de- 
 parting radiance, and he^r him exclaim, in a paroxysm 
 of admiration, that " James really did beat all — that 
 he was certainly a marvellous fellow ! " 
 
 It was wonderfully contrary to the buoyant activity of 
 Master James's mind to keep a school. He had, more- 
 
AND niS DAUGHTER GRACE. 
 
 over, so much of the boy and the rogue in his composi- 
 tion, that he could not be strict with the iniquities of the 
 curly pates under his charge; and when he saw how de- 
 terminedly every little heart was boiling over with mis- 
 chief and motion, he felt in his soul more disposed to 
 join in and help them to a frolic, than to lay justice to the 
 line, as was meet. This would have made a sad case, 
 had it not been that the activity of the master's mind 
 communicated itself to his charge, just as the reaction of 
 one brisk little spring will fill a manufactory with mo- 
 tion ; so that there was more of an impulse towards study 
 in the golden good-natured day of James Benton, than 
 in the time of all that went before or came after him. 
 But, when " school was out, 1 ' James's spirits foamed 
 I as naturally as a tumbler of soda-water, and he 
 could jump over benches and burst out of doors with as 
 much rapture as the veriest little elf in his company. 
 Then you might have seen him stepping homeward with 
 a most felicitous expression of countenance, occasionally 
 reaching his hand through the fence for a bunch of cur- 
 it after a flower, or stopping to pay his 
 . Aunt ibis or Mistreu That — for James \ 
 knew the importance of the " powers that be,"" 
 always kept the sunny side of the old ladi 
 
 We shall not u s general flirtations, 
 
 •vvhi ndry and manifold; for he had just the 
 
 kindly heart that fell in love with everything in feu:: 
 shaj I his way, and if he had not 
 
 blessed with an equal faculty i 
 not . of him. But at 
 
76 tJNOLE TIM 
 
 ■ 
 
 length he came into an abiding captivity, and it is quite 
 time that he should ; for, having devoted thus much 
 space to the illustration of our hero, it is fit we should do 
 something in behalf of our heroine ; and, therefore, we 
 must beg the reader's attention while we draw a dia- 
 gram or two that will assist him in gaining a right idea 
 of her. 
 
 Do you see yonder brown house, with its broad roof 
 sloping almost to the ground on one side, and a great, 
 unsupported, sun-bonnet of a piazza shooting out over 
 the front door ? You must often have noticed it ; you 
 have seen its tall well-sweep, relieved against the clear 
 evening sky, or observed the feather beds and bolsters 
 lounging out of its chamber- windows on a still summer 
 morning ; you recollect its gate, that swung with a chain 
 and a great stone ; its pantry-window, latticed with little 
 brown slabs, and looking out upon a forest of bean-poles. 
 You remember the zephyrs that used to play among its 
 pea-brush, and shake the long tassels of its corn-patch, 
 and how vainly any zephyr might essay to perform simi- 
 lar flirtations with the considerate cabbages that were 
 solemnly vegetating near by. Then there was the whole 
 neighbourhood of purple-leaved beets and feathery pars- 
 nips; there were the billows of gooseberry bushes rolled 
 up by the fence, interspersed with rows of quince- trees ; 
 and far off in one corner was one little patch penuriously 
 devoted to ornament, which flamed with marigolds, pop- 
 pies, snappers, and four-o'clocks. 
 
 That is the dwelling of Uncle Timothy Griswold. 
 Uncle Tiin ? as he was commonly called, h'Set a character 
 
AND HIS DAUGHTER GRA< B. 
 
 that a painter would sketch for its lights and contrasts 
 rather than its symmetry. He was a chestnut burr, 
 abounding with briers without and with substantial 
 goodness within. He had the strong-grained practical 
 sense, the calculating worldly wisdom of his class of peo- 
 ple in New England : he had, too, a kindly heart, but the 
 whole strata of his character were crossed by a vein of 
 surly petulance, that, half-way between joke and earnest, 
 coloured everything that he said and did. 
 
 If you asked a favour of Uncle Tim, he generally kept 
 you arguing half-an-hour, to prove that you really 
 I it, and to tell you that he could not all the while 
 be troubled with helping one body or another, all which 
 time you might observe him regularly making his prepa- 
 rations to grant your request, and see, by an odd glimmer 
 of his eye, that he was preparing to let you hear the con- 
 clusion of the whole matter, which was, u "Well, well — I 
 guess — I 'spose I must, at least ;" so off he would go and 
 work while the day lasted, and then wind up with a fare- 
 well exhortation, " not to be callin' on your neighbours 
 whea you could get along without." If any of Uncle 
 Tim's neighbours were in any trouble, he was always at 
 I i tell them " that they shouldn't a' done so ;" that 
 
 strange they couldn't had more sense ;" and then 
 
 to close his exh< . r more diligently 
 
 them out of their difficulties, groaning 
 
 in spii ! bile, that folks would mako people so 
 
 much trouble. 
 
 le Tim, father wants to know if you will lend 
 him your hoe to-day V says a little boy, making his way 
 across a c 
 
78 UXCLE TIM 
 
 " Why don't your father use his own hoe ?" 
 
 a Ours is broke." 
 
 " Broke ! How came it broke V 
 
 " I broke it yesterday, trying to hit a squirrel." 
 
 " What business had you to be hittin 1 squirrels with a 
 hoe? say?" 
 
 " But father wants to borrow yours." 
 
 u Why don't he have that mended 1 It's a great pester 
 to have everybody usin' a body's things." 
 
 " Well, I can borrow one somewhere else, I suppose," 
 says the suppliant. After the boy has stumbled across 
 the ploughed ground and is fairly over the fence, Uncle 
 Tim calls, 
 
 " Halloo, there, you little rascal ! what are you goin' 
 off without the hoe for 1" 
 
 " I didn't know as you meant to lend it." 
 
 " I did'nt say I wouldn't, did 1 1 Here, come and 
 take it — stay, I'll bring it; and do tell your father not to 
 be a-lettin' you hunt squirrels with his hoes next time." 
 
 Uncle Tim's household consisted of Aunt Sally, his 
 wife, and an only son and daughter; the former, at the 
 time our story begins, was at a neighbouring literary in- 
 stitution. Aunt Sally was precisely as clever, as easy to 
 be entreated, and kindly in externals, as her helpmate 
 was the reverse. She was one of those respectable, plea- 
 sant old ladies whom you might often have met on the 
 way to church on a Sunday, equipped with a great fan 
 and a psalm-book, and carrying some dried orange-peel 
 or a stalk of fennel, to give to the children if they were 
 sleepy in meeting. She was as cheerful and domestic as 
 
AND HIS DAUGHTER GRACE. 70 
 
 the tea-kettle that sung by her kitchen fire, and slipped 
 along among Uncle Tim's angles and peculiarities as if 
 there nev- ciiing the matter in the world; and 
 
 the same mantle of sunshine seemed to havo fallen on 
 . her only daughter. 
 Pretty in her person and pleasant in her ways, en- 
 dowed with native self-possession and address, lively and 
 chatty, having a mind and a will of her own, yet good-hu- 
 
 a universal favourite. It 
 would have puzzled a city lady to understand how Grace, 
 who never was out of Newbury in her life, knew the way 
 to speak, and act, and behave, on all occasions, exactly as 
 c had been taught how. She was just one of those 
 which you may sometimes see waving its 
 little head in the woods, and looking so civilized and gar- 
 den-like, that you wonder if it really did come up and 
 grow there by nature. She was an adept in all household 
 concerns, and there was something amazingly pretty in 
 .tic way of bustling about, and " putting things 
 to rights/' Like many other damsels, she had a longing 
 after the tree of knowledge, and having exhausted the 
 trict school, she fell to reading 
 ii way. True, she had but little to 
 read ; but what she perused she had her own thoughts 
 that a person of information, in talking with 
 •<>nstant wonder; r« to find 
 
 that she had so mueh more to . that, and the 
 
 other thing, than he expected. 
 
 . like every one else, felt the magical bright- 
 ness of his daughter ises, 
 
80 UNCLE TIM 
 
 _ 
 
 as might be discerned by his often finding occasion to 
 remark, that " he didn't see why the boys need to be all 
 the time a' comin' to see Grace, for she was nothing so 
 extror'nary, after all." About all matters and things at 
 home she generally had her own way, while Uncle Tim 
 would scold and give up with a regular good grace that 
 was quite creditable. 
 
 " Father," says Grace, " I want to have a party next 
 week." 
 
 " You sha'nt go to bavin' your parties, Grace. I always 
 have to eat bits and ends a fortnight after you have one, 
 and I won't have it so." And so Uncle Tim walked owt, 
 and Aunt Sally and Miss Grace proceeded to make the 
 cake and pies for the party. 
 
 When Uncle Tim came home, he saw a long array of 
 pies and rows of cakes on the kitchen table. 
 
 " Grace — Grace — Grace, I say ! What is all this 
 here flummery for ?•' 
 
 " Why, it is to eat, father," said Grace, with a good- 
 natured look of consciousness. 
 
 Uncle Tim tried his best to look sour ; but his visage 
 began to wax comical as he looked at his merry daughter, 
 so he said nothing, but quietly sat down to his dinner. 
 
 " Father," said Grace, after dinner, " we shall want 
 two more candlesticks next week." 
 
 " Why ! can't you have your party with what you've 
 
 got r 
 
 " No, father, we want two more." 
 " I can't afford it, Grace— there's no sort of use on'fc — 
 and you sha'nt have any." 
 
AND ni3 DAUGHTER GRACE. 61 
 
 " Oh, father, now do," said Grace. 
 
 " I won't, neither," said Uncle Tim, as he sallied out 
 of the house, and took the road to Robert Morris's store. 
 
 In half-an-hour he returned again, and fumbling in 
 his pocket, and drawing forth a candlestick, levelled it at 
 Grace. 
 
 " There's jour candlestick." 
 
 u But, father, I said I wanted t 
 
 '• Why ! can't you make one do P' 
 
 " Xo, I can't ; I must have two." 
 
 M Well, then, there's t'other ; and here's a fol-dc-rol 
 for you to tie round your neck." So saying, he bolted 
 for the door, and took himself off with all speed. It was 
 much after this fashion that matters commonly went on 
 in the brown house. 
 
 But, having tarried long on the way, we must proceed 
 with the main tk 
 
 James thought Miss Grace was a glorious girl, and as 
 to what Miss Grace thought of Master James, perhaps it 
 would not have been developed, had she not been called 
 to stand on the defensive for him with Uncle Tim. For, 
 from the time that the whole village of Newbury began 
 to bo wholly given unto the praise of Master James, 
 Uncle Tim set his face as a Hint against him, from the 
 laudable fear of following the multitude. Ho therefore 
 made conscience of stoutly gainsaying everything that 
 was said in his favour, which, as James was in high 
 • , he had frequent opportunities 
 
 ' Irace perceived that Uncle Tim did not 
 
 r 
 
82 UXCLE TIM 
 
 like our hero as much as he ought to do, she, of course, 
 was bound to like him well enough to make up for it. 
 Certain it is that they were remarkably happy in finding 
 opportunities of being acquainted; that James waited 
 on her, as a matter of course, from singing-school ; that 
 he volunteered making a new box for her geranium on 
 an improved plan ; and above all, that he was remarkably 
 particular in his attentions to Aunt Sally, a stroke of 
 policy which showed that James had a natural genius 
 for this sort of matters. James had a flute, and was par- 
 ticularly fond of it, because he had learned to play on it 
 by intuition ; and on the decease of the old pitchpipe, 
 which was slain by a fall from the gallery, he took the 
 liberty to introduce the flute in its place. For this and 
 other sins, and for the good reasons above named, Uncle 
 Tim's countenance was not towards James, neither could 
 he be moved to him- ward by any manner of means. 
 
 To all Aunt Sally's good words and kind speeches, he had 
 only to say that "he did'nt like him; that he hated to 
 see him a-manifesting and glorifying there in the front 
 gallery Sundays, and a-acting everywhere as if he was 
 master of all ; he didn't like it, and he wouldn't." But 
 our hero was no whit cast down or discomfited by the 
 malcontent aspect of Uncle Tim. 
 
 " Why, James," said his companion and chief coun- 
 sellor, il do you think Grace likes you ?" 
 
 "I don't know," said our hero, with a comfortable 
 appearance of certainty. 
 
 " But you can't get her, James, if Uncle Tim is cross 
 about it," 
 
AND HIS DAUGHTER GRACE. 83 
 
 Ige ! I can make Uncle Tim like me, if I have a 
 I to try." 
 " Well, then, Jim, youll have to give up that flute of 
 jours, I tell 3 r ou, no 
 
 . sol, la— I can make him like mo, and my flute 
 too." 
 
 u Why, how will you do it?" 
 
 a Oh, I'll work it," said our hero. 
 
 II, Jim, I tell you, now, you don't know Uncle 
 
 if you say so." 
 
 "I do know Uncle Tim, though, better than most 
 
 . s ; he is no more cross than I am ; you have nothing 
 
 to do but make him think he is in his own way when ho 
 
 yours, — that is all." 
 
 1," said v.\ i <.n't believe 
 
 bet you a gray squirrel that I'll go thero 
 iid get him to like me and my flute 
 both. 
 
 : dingly, the late sunshine of that afternoon shone 
 
 full on the yellow buttons of James as He proceeded to 
 
 i'lace of conflict. It was a bright, beautiful evening. 
 
 under-storm had just cleared away, and the silver 
 
 clouds lay rolled up in masses around the setting sun ; 
 
 \nd winking to caeh other 
 
 ->f the leaves, and all the bluebirds and 
 
 ! th into song, made the little green 
 
 as merry as a musical box. 
 
 James's soul was always overflowing with that 1 
 
 UP*- unspeak.V and 
 
84 TJNCLE TIM 
 
 it is not to be wondered at, considering where he was 
 going, that he should feel in a double ecstacy on the 
 present occasion. He stepped gaily along, occasionally 
 springing over a fence to the right, to see whether the 
 rain had swollen the trout-brook, or to the left, to notice 
 the ripening of Mr. Somebody's watermelons — for James 
 always had an eye on all his neighbours' matters as well 
 as his own. 
 
 In this way he proceeded till he arrived at the picket- 
 fence that marked the commencement of Uncle Tim's 
 ground. Here he stopped to consider. Just then, four 
 or five sheep walked up, and began also to consider a 
 loose picket, which was hanging just ready to drop off; 
 and James began to look at the sheep. " Well, mister," 
 said he, as he observed the leader judiciously drawing 
 himself through the gap, "in with you — just what I 
 wanted j" and, having waited a moment, to ascertain 
 that all the company were likely to follow, he ran with 
 all haste towards the house, and swinging open the gate, 
 pressed all breathless to the door. 
 
 " Uncle Tiiri, there are four or five sheep in your 
 garden." Uncle Tim dropped his whetstone and scythe. 
 
 " I'll drive them out," said our hero ; and with that 
 he ran down the garden alley, and made a furious descent 
 on the enemy; bestirring himself, as Bunyan says, 
 "lustily and with good courage," till every sheep had 
 skipped out much quicker than it skipped in ; and then 
 springing over the fence, he seized a great stone, and 
 nailed on the picket so effectually that no sheep could 
 possibly encourage the hope of getting in again. This 
 
AND HIS DAUGHTER GRACE. 85 
 
 •was all the work of a miuute ; and he was back again, 
 but so exceedingly out of breath that it was necessary 
 for him to stop a moment and rest himself. Uncle Tim 
 looked ungraciously satisfied. 
 
 " What under the canopy set you to scampering so I" 
 said he; "I could a' driv' out them critturs myself!" 
 
 " If you are at all particular about driving them out 
 yourself, I can let them in again," said James. 
 
 Uncle Tim looked at him -with an odd sort of twinkle 
 in the corner of his eye. 
 
 -^ose I must ask you to walk in," said he. 
 
 "Much obliged," said James, "but I am in a great 
 hurry." So saying, he started in very business-like 
 fashion towards the gate. 
 
 " You'd better just stop a minute." 
 in't stay a minute." 
 
 " I don't sec what possesses you to bo all the while in 
 sich a hurry ; a body would think you had all creation 
 on your shoulders !" 
 
 u Just my situation, Uncle Tim," said James, swing- 
 ing open the gate. 
 
 11, at any rate, have a drink of cider, can't ye ?" 
 said Uncle Tim, who was now quite engaged to have his 
 v.iy in the C 
 
 cnient to accept this invitation, 
 and Uncle Tim was twice as good-natured as if he had 
 stayed in the first of the matter. 
 
 Once fairly forced into the premises, James thought 
 fit to forget his long walk and excess of business, espe- 
 cially as about that mottf wd Miss Grace 
 
86 UNCLE TIM 
 
 
 returned from an afternoon call. You may be sure that 
 the last thing these respectable ladies looked for was to 
 find Uncle Tim and Master James tete-a-tete over a pit- 
 cher of cider ; and when, as they entered, our hero 
 looked up with something of a mischievous air, Miss 
 Grace, in particular, was so puzzled that it took her at 
 least a quarter of an hour to untie her bonnet strings. 
 But James stayed and acted the agreeable to perfection. 
 First he must needs go down into the garden to look at 
 Uncle Tim's wonderful cabbages, and then he promenaded 
 all round the corn-patch, stopping every few moments 
 and looking up with an appearance of great gratifica- 
 tion, as if he had never seen such corn in his life ; and 
 then he examined Uncle Tim's favourite apple-tree with 
 an expression of wonderful interest. 
 
 "I never!" he broke forth, having stationed himself 
 against the fence opposite it ; " what kind of an apple- 
 tree is that V 9 
 
 " It's a bell-flower, or somethin' another," said Uncle 
 Tim. 
 
 "Why, where did you get it? I never saw such 
 
 apples !" said our hero, with his eyes still fixed on the 
 
 tree. 
 
 Uncle Tim pulled up a stalk or two of weeds and threw 
 
 them over the fence, just to show that he did not care 
 
 anything about the matter, and then he came up and 
 
 stood by James. 
 
 " Nothin' so remarkable, as I know on," said he. 
 Just then, Grace came to say that supper was ready. 
 
 Once seated at a table, it was astonishing to see the per- 
 
AND HIS DAUGHTER GRACE. 87 
 
 feet and smiling assurance with which our hero continued 
 addresses to Uncle Tim. It sometimes goes a great 
 towards making people like us, to take it for granted 
 they do already, and upon this principle James 
 proceeded. He talked, laughed, told stories, and joked 
 with the most fearless assurance, occasionally seconding 
 his words by looking Uncle Tim in the face with a coun- 
 tenance so full of good-will as would have melted any 
 snow-drift of prejudices in the world. 
 
 James also had one natural accomplishment, more 
 courticr-like than all the diplomacy in Europe, and that 
 . the gift of feeling a real interest for anybody in five 
 minutes ; so that if he began to please in jest, he gene- 
 rally ended in earnest. With great simplicity of mind, 
 he had a natural tact for seeing into others, and watched 
 their motions with the same delight with which a child 
 gazes at the wheels and springs of a watch, to " see what 
 it will do.'* 
 The rough exterior and latent kindness of Uncle Tim 
 I quite a spirit-stirring study ; and when tea was 
 over, as he and Grace happened to be standing together 
 front door, he broke forth, 
 " I do really like your father, Grace !" 
 "Do you?" saidGr; 
 
 , I do. lie has something in him, and I like 
 I the better for having to fish it out." 
 !, I hope you will make him like you," said 
 Grace, unconse; n she stopped, and looked 
 
 a little aba 
 
 James was too well li :lus, or look as if Grace 
 
88 UNCLE TIM 
 
 meant any more than she said— a kind of breeding not 
 always attendant on more fashionable polish — so he only 
 answered, 
 
 u I think I shall, Grace ! though I doubt whether I 
 can get him to own it." 
 
 " He is the kindest man that ever was," said Grace ; 
 " and he always acts as if he was ashamed of it." 
 
 James turned a little away, and looked at the bright 
 evening sky, which was glowing like a calm golden sea ; 
 and over it was the silver new moon, with one little star 
 to hold the candle for her. He shook some bright drops 
 off from a rosebush near by, and watched to see them 
 shine as they fell, while Grace stood very quietly waiting 
 for him to speak again. 
 
 " Grace," said he, at last, " I am going to college this 
 autumn." 
 
 " So you told me yesterday," said Grace. 
 
 James stooped down over Grace's geranium, and began 
 to busy himself with pulling off all the dead leaves, re- 
 marking in the meanwhile, 
 
 " And if I do get him to like me, Grace, will you like 
 me too P 
 
 u I like you now very well," said Grace. 
 
 " Come, Grace, you know what I mean," said James, 
 looking steadfastly at the top of the apple-tree. 
 
 "Well, I wish then you would understand what I mean, 
 without my saying any more about it," said Grace. 
 
 " Oh ! to be sure I will," said our hero, looking up 
 with a very intelligent air; and so, as Aunt Sally would 
 lay, the matter was settled, with si no words about it." 
 
AND IIIS DAUGHTER GRACE. 69 
 
 Now shall we narrate how our hero, as he saw Uncle 
 Tim approaching the door, had the impudence to tako 
 out his flute, and put the parts together, screwing it 
 round and fixing it with great composure ? 
 
 " Uncle Tim," said he, looking up, " this is the best 
 flute that ever I saw." 
 
 " I hate them tooting critturs," said Uncle Tim, 
 snappishly. 
 
 " I declare ! I wonder how you can !" said James, 
 il for I do think they exceed — " 
 
 So saying, he put the flute to his mouth, and ran up 
 and down a long flourish. 
 
 "There! what think you of that?" said he, looking 
 in Uncle Tim's face with much delight. 
 
 Uncle Tim turned and marched into the house, hut 
 soon faced to the right-about and came out again, for 
 James was fingering " Yankee Doodle" — that appropriate 
 national air for the descendants of the Puritans. 
 
 Uncle Tim's patriotism began to bestir itself ; and now, 
 if it had been anything, as he said, but " that 'ere flute" 
 — as it wa«, he looked more than once at James's fingers. 
 
 u How under the sun could you learn to do that ?" 
 said I 
 
 " Oh, it's easy enough," said James, proceeding with 
 another tune ; and, having played it through, he stopped 
 a moment to examine the joints of his flute, and in the 
 
 Yes, can't think how 
 1 this is for pitching tunes— I always piteh the tunes 
 Sunday with it." 
 
 " Yes, but I don't think it's a light and lit instrument 
 Tim. 
 
90 tJNCfL3 TIM 
 
 w Why not 1 It is only a kind of a long pifcehpipe, 
 you see," said James ; " and, seeing the old one is broken, 
 and this will answer, I don't see why it is not better than 
 nothing." 
 
 " Why, yes, it may be better than nothing," said Uncle 
 Tim ; " but, as I always tell Grace and my wife, it aint 
 the light kind of instrument, after all ; it aint solemn." 
 
 " Solemn ! " said James ; " that is according as you use 
 it : see here, now." 
 
 So saying, he struck up Old Hundred, and proceeded 
 through it with great perseverance. 
 
 " There, now !'' said he. 
 
 " Well, well, I don't know but it is," said Uncle Tim ; 
 * but, as I said at first, I don't like the look of it in 
 meetin'." 
 
 " But yet you really think it is better than nothing," 
 said James, " for you see I could'nt pitch my tunes 
 without it." 
 
 " May be 'tis," said Uncle Tim ; " but that isn't sayin' 
 much." 
 
 This, however, was enough for Master James, who soon 
 after departed, with his flute in his pocket, and Grace's 
 last words in his heart; soliloquizing as he shut the 
 gate, " There, now, I hope Aunt Sally won't go to praising 
 me ; for, just so sure as she does, I shall have it all to do 
 oyer again." 
 
 James was right in his apprehension. Uncle Tim could 
 be privately converted, but not brought to open con- 
 fession; and when, the next morning, Aunt Sally re- 
 marked, in the kindness of her heart, 
 
 " Well, I always knew you would come to like James," 
 
AND UIS DAUGHTER GRACE. 91 
 
 Uncle Tim only responded, " Who said I did like him 2" 
 " But I'm sure you seemed to 'like him last night." 
 " Why, I couldn't turn him out o' doors, could I ? I 
 don't think nothiu' of him but what I always did." 
 
 But it was to be remarked that Uncle Tim contented 
 himself at this time with the mere general avowal, 
 without running it into particulars, as was formerly his 
 wont. It was evident that the ice had begun to melt, 
 but it might have been a long time in dissolving, had not 
 collateral incidents assisted. 
 
 It so happened that, about this time, George Griswold, 
 
 the only son before referred to, returned to his native 
 
 village, after having completed his theological studies at 
 
 ighbouring institution. It is interesting to mark the 
 
 gradual development of mind and heart, from the time 
 
 that the white-headed, bashful boy quits the country 
 
 village for college, to the period when he returns, a 
 
 formed and matured man, to notice how gradually the 
 
 rust of early prejudices begins. to cleave from him — how 
 
 his opinions, like his handwriting, pass from the cramped 
 
 and limited forms of a country school into that confirmed 
 
 and characteristic style which is to mark the man for life. 
 
 I corge this chain bly striking. lie was 
 
 by nature with uncommon acuteness of f<M 
 
 : r reflection : qualities as likely as any to 
 \<:T a child 
 
 icwbury for college, ho was a taciturn 
 and apparent! ;. , only ei hieing sensibility 
 
 by blushing, and looking particularly stupefied when- 
 anybody spoke to him. \ ion passed, 
 
tTNCLE TIM 
 
 and he returned more and more an altered being ; and he 
 who once shrunk from the eye of the deacon, and was 
 ready to sink if he met the minister, now moved about 
 among the dignitaries of the place with all the composure 
 of a superior being. 
 
 It was only to be regretted that, while the mind im- 
 proved, the physical energies declined, and that every 
 visit to his home found him paler, thinner, and less pre- 
 pared in body for the sacred profession to which he had 
 devoted bimself. But now he was returned, a minister — 
 a real minister, with a right to stand in the pulpit and 
 preach ; and what a joy and glory to Aunt Sally— and to 
 Uncle Tim, if he were not ashamed to own it. 
 
 The first Sunday after he came, it was known far and 
 near that George Griswold was to preach ; and never was 
 a more ready and expectant audience. 
 
 As the time for reading the first psalm approached, 
 you might see the white-headed men turning their faces 
 attentively towards the pulpit; the anxious and expect- 
 ant old women, with their little black bonnets, bent 
 forward to see him rise. There were the children look- 
 ing, because everybody else looked ; there was Uncle Tim 
 in the front pew, his face considerately adjusted ; there 
 was Aunt Sally, seeming as pleased as a mother could 
 seem ; and Miss Grace, lifting her sweet face to her 
 brother, like a flower to the sun ; there was our friend 
 James in the front gallery, his joyous countenance a little 
 touched with sobriety and expectation : in short, a more 
 embarrassingly attentive audience never greeted the first 
 effort of a young minister. Under these circumstances, 
 
AND IIIS DAUGHTER GRACE. 93 
 
 there was something touching in the fervent self- forget- 
 ful ness which characterised the first exercises of this 
 morning — something which moved every one in the house. 
 The devout poetry of his prayer, rich with the oriental- 
 ism of Scripture, and eloquent with the expression of 
 strong yet chastened emotion, breathed over his audience 
 like music, hushing every one to silence, and beguiling 
 every one to feeling. In the sermon there was the strong 
 intellectual nerve, the constant occurrence of argument 
 and statement, which distinguishes a New-England dis- 
 course ; but it was touched with life by the intense, yet 
 half-subdued feeling with which he seemed to utter it. 
 
 When the services were over, the congregation dis- 
 persed with the air of people who had felt rather than 
 heard ; and all the criticism that followed was similar to 
 that of old Deacon Hart — an upright, shrewd man — 
 who, as he lingered a moment at the church door, turned 
 and gazed with unwonted feeling at the young preacher. 
 '■ a blessed cre'tur !" said he, the tears actually 
 making their way to his eyes ; " I han't been so near 
 heaven this many a day. He's a blessed cre'tur of the 
 Lord— that's my mind about him!" 
 
 As for our friend James, he was at first sobered, then 
 deeply moved, and at last wholly absorbed by the dis- 
 cour v;is only w!. over that he 
 
 began to think where he really was. 
 
 all his v< i vity, James had a greater 
 
 depth of mental capacity than ho was himself aware of, 
 and he began to feel a sort of electric affinity for the 
 mind that had touched him in a way so new; and when 
 
94 UNCLE TIM 
 
 ho saw the mild minister standing at the foot of the 
 pulpit stairs, he made directly towards him. 
 
 " I do want to hear more from you," said he, with a 
 face full of earnestness; " may I walk home with you 1 ?" 
 
 " It is a long and warm walk," said the young minister, 
 smiling. 
 
 " Oh, I don't care for that, if it does not trouble you" 
 said James; and leave being gained, you might have 
 seen them slowly passing along under the trees, James 
 pouring forth all the floods of inquiry which the sudden 
 impulse of his mind had brought out, and supplying his 
 guide with more questions and problems for solution 
 than he could have gone through with in a month. 
 
 " I cannot answer all your questions now," said he, as 
 they stopped at Uncle Tim's gate. 
 
 "Well, then, when will you?" said James, eagerly. 
 "Let me come home with you to-night V 
 
 The minister smiled assent, and James departed so full 
 of new thoughts, that he passed Grace without even see- 
 ing her. From that time a friendship commenced be- 
 tween the two which was a beautiful illustration of the 
 affinities of opposites. It was like a friendship between 
 morning and evening — all freshness and sunshine on one 
 side, and all gentleness and peace on the other. 
 
 The young minister, worn by long-continued ill-health, 
 by the fervency of his own feelings, and the gravity of 
 his own reasonings, found pleasure in the healthful buoy- 
 ancy of a youthful, unexhausted mind, while James felt 
 himself sobered and made better by the moonlight tran- 
 quillity of his friend. It is one mark of a superior mind 
 
AND II 13 DAUGHTER GRACE. 95 
 
 -iderstand and be influenced by the superiority of 
 others, and this was the case with James. The ascen- 
 dency which his new friend acquired over him was un- 
 limited, and did more in a month towards consolidating 
 
 developing his character, than all the four years 
 course of a college. Our religious habits are likely 
 ;:n the impression of the first seal which 
 stamped them, and in this case it was a peculiarly happy 
 The calmness, the settled purpose, the mild devo- 
 tion of his friend, formed a just alloy to the energetic 
 
 reckless buoyancy of James's character, and awakened 
 in him a set of feelings without which the most vigorous 
 mind must be incomplete. 
 
 The effect of the ministrations of the young pastor 
 in awaking attention to the subjects of his calling in the 
 
 ^e, was marked, and of a kind which brought plea- 
 
 10 his own heart. But, like all other excitement, it 
 tends to exhaustion, and it was not long before ho sen- 
 
 • felt the decline of the powers of life. To the best- 
 regulated mind there is something bitter in the relin- 
 
 iiinent of projects for which we have been long and 
 
 i iously preparing, and there is something far more 
 bitter in crossing the long-cherished expectations of 
 !s. All this George felt, lie could not bear to look 
 on his mother, hanging on his words and following his 
 i eyes of almost childish delight— on his sin- 
 gular father, whose whole earthly ambition was bound 
 up in his success, and think how soon the "candle of 
 their old ago" must be put out. returned 
 
 \\ to see the old man, 
 
96 UNCLE TIM 
 
 so evidently delighted, and yet so anxicus to conceal hi3 
 triumph. 
 
 If George was engaged in argument with any one else, 
 he would sit by, with his head bowed down, looking out 
 from under his shaggy eye-brows with a shamefaced satis- 
 faction very unusual with him. Expressions of affection 
 from the naturally gentle are not half so touching as ' 
 those which are forced out from the hard-favoured and 
 severe ; and George was affected, even to pain, by the 
 evident pride and regard of his father. 
 
 u He never said so much to anybody before," thought 
 he, " and what will he do if I die V* 
 
 In such thoughts as these Grace found her brother 
 engaged one still autumn morning, as he stood leaning 
 against the garden fence. 
 
 " What are you solemnizing here for, this bright day, 
 brother George ?" said she, as she bounded down the alley. 
 The young man turned, and looked on her happy face 
 with a sort of twilight smile. 
 " How happy you are, Grace !" 
 
 " To be sure I am ! and you ought to be too, because 
 you are better." 
 
 " I am happy, Grace — that is, I hope I shall be." 
 " You are sick, I know you are," said Grace ; " you 
 look worn out ! Oh, I wish your heart could spring once, 
 as mine does." 
 
 " I am not well, dear Grace, and I fear I never shall 
 be," said he, turning away, and fixing his eyes on the 
 fading trees opposite. 
 
 " Oh, George ! dear George! don't, don't say that: you'll 
 
AND niS DAUGHTER GRACE. 97 
 
 break all cur heart?," said Grace, with tears in her own 
 
 \ but it is true, sister: I do not feel it on my own 
 account so much as — However," he added, "it will all 
 be the same in heaven." 
 
 It was but a week after this that a violent cold has- 
 tened the progress of debility into a confirmed malady, 
 lie sunk very fast. Aunt Sally, with the self-deceit of 
 a fond and cheerful heart, thought every day that " he 
 wovhl be better," and Uncle Tim resisted conviction, 
 with all the obstinate pertinacity of his character, while 
 the sick man felt that he had not the heart to undeceive 
 them. 
 
 James was now at the house every day, exhausting all 
 his energy and invention in the case of his friend ; and 
 any one who had seen him in his hours of recklessness 
 and glee, could scarcely recognise him as the being 
 whose step was so careful, whose eye so watchful, whose 
 voice and touch were so gentle, as he moved around the 
 sick-bed. But the same quickness which makes a mind 
 buoyant in gladness, often makes it gentlest and most 
 sympathetic in sorrow. 
 
 It was now nearly morning in the sick-room. George 
 had been restless and feverish all night, but towards day 
 he fell into a light slumber, and James sat by his side, 
 almost holding his breath lest he should waken him. It 
 was yet dusk, but the sky was brightening with a so- 
 lemn glow, aud the stars were beginning to disap- 
 pear; all, save the bright and morning one, which, 
 ling alone in t , looked tenderly through 
 
08 UNCLE TIM 
 
 the casement, like the eye of our heavenly Father, 
 watching over us when all earthly friendships are 
 fading. 
 
 George awoke with, a placid expression of counte 
 nance, and fixing his eyes on the brightening sky, mur- 
 mured faintly, 
 
 " The sweet, immortal morning sheds 
 Its blushes round the spheres." 
 
 A moment after, a shade passed over his face ; he 
 pressed his fingers over his eyes, and the tears dropped 
 silently on his pillow. 
 
 " George! dear George! " said James, bending over him. 
 
 " It's my friends — it's my father — my mother," said 
 he, faintly. 
 
 ' ' Jesus Christ will watch over them," said James, 
 soothingly. 
 
 u Oh, yes, I know He will ; fcr He loved his own which 
 were in the world ; He loved them unto the end. But 
 I am dying — and before I have done any good." 
 
 " Oh, do not say so," said James ; * think, think what 
 you have done, if only for me! God bless you for it ! 
 God will bless you for it ; it will follow you to heaven ; 
 it will bring me there. Yes, I will do as you have taught 
 me ! I will give my life, my soul, my whole strength to 
 it ; and then you will not have lived in vain." 
 
 George smiled and looked upward ; " his nice was as 
 that of an angel ;" and James, in his warmth, continued : 
 
 " It is not / alone who can say this : we all bless you ; 
 every one in this place blesses you ;. you will be had in 
 everlasting remembrance by some hearts here, I know." 
 
AXD his daughter grace. 90 
 
 u Bless GodI" said George. 
 
 I James. " I bless him that I ever 
 knew you ; we all bless him, and we love you, and shall 
 for ev 
 
 The glow that had kindled over the pale face of the 
 invalid again faded as he said, 
 
 " But, James, I must, I ought to tell my father and 
 mother ; I ought to, and how can I ?" 
 
 At that moment the door opened, and Uncle Tim marie 
 appearance. He seemed struck with the paleness of 
 George's face ; and, coming to the side of the bed, ho 
 felt his pulse, and laid his har.d anxiously on his fore- 
 head, and clearing his voice several times, inquired "if 
 he didn't feel a little better." 
 
 aid George ; then taking his hand, he 
 looked anxiously in his face, and seemed to hesitate a 
 moment. u Father," he began, " you know that we 
 ought to submit to God." 
 
 There was something in his expression at this moment 
 which flashed I b into the old man's mind; he 
 
 dropped his son's hand with an exclamation of agony, 
 and, turning qv.i :he room. 
 
 Iiim, as 
 ho stood w: dow. 
 
 " Father, moth 
 
 I e, as ho p] 
 out of tho door, and shut it 
 
 <:i that the ways of God are not | 
 I that he do 1 hia 
 
100 UNCLE TIM 
 
 mighty works, than in his condescension to the weakness 
 of our fallen nature, and his long-suffering forbearance 
 with the provocations of our rebellious hearts. With all 
 his singularities, however, there was in the heart of 
 Uncle Tim a depth of religious feeling; but there are 
 few indeed whose faith and resignation to the divine will 
 can bear so keen a test as that under which his had thus 
 appeared to fail. 
 
 In this hour of trial all the native obstinacy and per- 
 tinacity of the old man's character rose, and while he 
 felt the necessity of submission, it seemed impossible to 
 submit; and thus, reproaching himself, struggling in 
 vain to repress the murmurs of nature, repulsing from 
 him all external sympathy, his mind was " tempest- 
 toss'd and not comforted." 
 
 It was on the still afternoon of the following Sabbath 
 that he was sent for, in haste, to the chamber of his son. 
 He entered, and saw that the hour was come. The 
 family were all there; Grace and James, side by side, 
 bent over the dying one, and his mother sat afar off, 
 with her face hid in her apron, " that she might not see 
 the death of the child." The aged minister was there, 
 and the Bible lay open before him. The father walked 
 to the side of the bed. He stood still, and gazed on the 
 face now brightening with " life and immortality." The 
 son lifted up his eyes: he saw his father, smiled, and put 
 out his hand. " I am glad you are come," said he. " Oh, 
 George, to the pity, don't! don't smile on me so ! I know 
 what is coming ; I have tried and tried, and I can't, I 
 cant have it so ;" and his frame shook, and he sobbed 
 
AND HIS DAUGHTER GRACfl. 101 
 
 audibly. The room was still as death ; there was none 
 that seemed able to comfort him. At last the son re- 
 peated, in a sweet but interrupted voice, those words of 
 man's best Friend ; u Let not your heart be troubled ; in 
 my Father's house are many mansions." 
 
 , but I cant help being troubled ; I suppose the 
 Lord's will must be done, but it'll kill me." 
 
 u Oh, father, don't break my heart," said the son, 
 much agitated. u I shall see you again in heaven, and 
 you shall see me again ; and then ' your heart shall re- 
 joice, and your joy no man takcth from you.' " 
 
 u I never shall get to heaven, if I feel as I do now," 
 I he old man. " I cannot have it so." 
 
 The mild face of the sufferer was overcast. " I wish 
 he saw all that I do," said he, in a low voice; then look- 
 ing towards the minister, he articulated, " Pray for us." 
 
 They knelt in prayer. It was soothing, as real prayer 
 always must be ; and when they rose, every one seemed 
 more calm. But the sufferer was exhausted ; his coun- 
 tenance changed ; he looked on his friends ; there was a 
 faint whisper, " Peaco I leave with you," and he was in 
 heaven. 
 
 We need not dwell on what followed. The seed sown 
 by the righteous often blossoms over their grave ; and so 
 was it with this good man : the words of peace which he 
 spake unto his friends while he was yet with them, came 
 into remembrance after he was gone ; and though he was 
 laid in the grave with many tears, yet it was with sof- 
 tened and submissive hearts. 
 
 " The Lord bless him !" £aid Uncle Tim, as he and 
 
102 UNCLE TIM 
 
 James were standing, last of all, over the grave. " I be- 
 lieve my heart is gone to heaven with him ; and I think 
 the Lord really did know what was best, after all." 
 
 Our friend James seemed now to become the support 
 of the family, and the bereaved old man unconsciously 
 began to transfer to him the affections that had been left 
 vacant. 
 
 " James," said he to him one day, " I suppose you 
 know that you are about the same to me as a son." 
 
 " I hope so," said James, kindly. 
 
 " Well, well, you'll go to college next week, and none 
 o 1 y'r keepin' school to get along. I've got enough to 
 bring you safe out — that is, if you'll be car'fv.1 and 
 studdy" 
 
 James knew the heart too well to refuse a favour in 
 which the poor old man's mind was comforting itself ; he 
 had the self-command to abstain from any extraordinary 
 expressions of gratitude, but took it kindly, as a matter 
 of course. 
 
 " Dear Grace," said he to her, the last evening before 
 he left home, " I am changed ; we both are altered since 
 we first knew each other ; and now I am going to be 
 gone a long time, but I am sure — " 
 
 He stopped to arrange his thoughts. 
 
 " Yes, you may be sure of all those things that you 
 wish to say, and cannot," said Grace. 
 
 " Thank you," said James ; then, looking thoughtfully, 
 he added, 
 
 u God help me. I believe I have mind enough to be 
 what I mean to ; but whatever I am or have shall be 
 
AND HIS DAUGHTER GRACE. 103 
 
 given to God and my fellow-men ; and then, Grace, your 
 brother in heaven v. ill rejoice over me." 
 
 '* I believe he docs now" said Grace. " God bless you, 
 
 James ; I don't know what would have become of us if 
 
 ..adnot been here." 
 
 44 Yes, you will live to be like him, and to do even more 
 
 good," she added, her face brightening as she spoke, till 
 
 I .<hc really must be rig 
 
 * * ■* 
 
 It wa ar this that James was spoken of 
 
 D eloquent and successful minister. Late one autumn 
 
 ing, a tall, bony, hard-favoured man was observed 
 
 making his way into the outskirts of the village of 
 
 aington. 
 
 aoa, there !" he called to a man ov. 
 
 : ' b 
 
 " It's F;:rmington, sir." 
 
 U, I want to know if you know anything of a boy 
 of mine that li\ c 
 
 ;rs— who I'' 
 v, I've got a boy here, and I thought I'd jest look 
 
 :id pray, what's his name V 
 u Why," suid the old til hat off from fata 
 
 ■ 
 
 ac." 
 ..istcr, com-.' 
 on't. lie's a I 
 
 that you 
 
104 UNCLE TIM 
 
 _ 
 
 At this instant a tall, manly-looking person approached 
 from behind. Have we not seen that face before 1 It is 
 a touch graver than of old, and its lines have a more 
 thoughtful significance ; but all the vivacity of James 
 Benton sparkles in that quick smile as his eye falls on 
 the old man. 
 
 " I thought you could not keep away from us long," 
 said he, with the prompt cheerfulness of his boyhood, 
 and laying hold of both of Uncle Tim's hard hands. 
 
 They approached the gate ; a bright face glances past 
 the window, and in a moment Grace is at the door. 
 
 "Father! dear father !" 
 
 " You'd better make believe be so glad," said Uncle 
 Tim, his eyes glistening as he spoke. 
 
 " Come, come, father, I have authority in these days," 
 said Grace, drawing him towards the house, " so no dis- 
 respectful speeches ; away with your hat and coat, and 
 sit down in this great chair." 
 
 " So, ho ! Miss Grace," said Uncle Tim, " you are at 
 your old tricks, ordering round as usual. Well, if I 
 must, I must ;" so down he sat. 
 
 u Father," said Grace, as he was leaving them, after a 
 few days' stay, " it is thanksgiving-day next month, and 
 you and mother must come and stay with us." 
 
 Accordingly, the following month found Aunt Sally 
 and Uncle Tim by the minister's fireside, delighted wit- 
 nesses of the thanksgiving presents which a willing 
 people were pouring in, and the next day they had 
 once more the pleasure of seeing a son of theirs in the 
 sacred desk, and hearing a sermon that everybody said 
 
AND III3 DAUGHTER GRACE. 105 
 
 was the " best he ever preached ;" and it is to be re- 
 marked, by-the-by, that this was the standing comment- 
 ary on all James's discourses, so it was evident that he 
 was " going on unto perfection." 
 
 " There's a great deal that's worth havin' in this 'ere 
 life, after all," said Uncle Tim, as he sat musing over the 
 coals of the bright evening fire of that day ; " that is, if 
 we'd only take it when the Lord lays it in our way." 
 
 " Yes," said James, " and let us only take it as we 
 shouldj and this life will be cheerfulness, and the next 
 fulness of joy." 
 
106 SO MANY CALLS. 
 
 SO MANY CALLS. 
 
 A SKETCH. 
 
 O ignorant poor man! what dost thou bear, 
 Locked up within the casket of thy breast? 
 What jewels, and what riches hast thou there? 
 What heavenly treasures in so weak a chest. 
 
 Davie s. 
 
 TT was a brisk clear evening in the latter part of 
 December, when Mr. Aubrey returned from his 
 counting-house to the comforts of a bright coal fire and 
 warm arm-chair in his parlour at home. He changed 
 his heavy boots for slippers, drew around him the folds 
 of his evening gown, and then, lounging back in the 
 chair, looked up to the ceiling and about with an air of 
 satisfaction. Still there was a cloud on his brow : what 
 could be the matter with Mr. Aubrey? To tell the 
 truth, he had that afternoon received in his counting- 
 room the agent of one of the principal religious charities 
 of the day, and had been warmly urged to double 
 his last year's subscription, and the urging had been 
 pressed by statements and arguments to which he did 
 
 u People think," solilo- 
 
ALLS. 1U7 
 
 quized he to himself, (i that I am made of money, I be- 
 
 this is the fourth object this year for which I have 
 
 jmested to double my subscription, and this year 
 
 has been one of heavy family expenses— building and 
 
 fitting up this house — carpets, curtains — no end to the 
 
 new things to be bought — I really do not see how I am 
 
 j any thing more in charity ; then there are the 
 
 bills for the girls and the boys — they all say that they 
 
 must have twice as much now as before we came into 
 
 wonder if I did right in building it?" And 
 
 Mr. Aubrey glanced up and down the ceiling, and around 
 
 on the costly furniture, and looked into the fire in silence. 
 
 lie was tired, harassed, and drowsy; his head began to 
 
 swim, and his eyes closed — he v.as asleep. In his sleep 
 
 he thought he heard a tap at the door; he opened it, and 
 
 there stood a plain, poor-looking man, who, in a voice 
 
 ked for a few moments' con- 
 
 ■ ih him. Mr. Aubrey asked him into the 
 
 parlour, and drew him a chair neur the fire. The stranger 
 
 looked attentively around, and then, turning to Mr. 
 
 Aubrey, presented him with a paper. " It is your last 
 
 •; "you know all 
 the wants of thai □ be told you; I called 
 
 if you had any thing more to add to it." 
 
 t voice as 1 
 bwt 3 for some reason un; nis&f, Mr. Aubrey 
 
 •ur. unpret 
 
 man, than h of anyone r 
 
 i moments silent before he could r 
 
108 SO MANY CALLS. 
 
 began the same excuses which had appeared so satisfac- 
 tory to him the afternoon before — the hardness of the 
 times, the difficulty of collecting money, family ex- 
 penses, &c. 
 
 The stranger quietly surveyed the spacious apartment, 
 with its many elegancies and luxuries, and without any 
 comment took from the merchant the paper he had given, 
 but immediately presented him with another. 
 
 " This is your subscription to the Tract Society : have 
 you anything to add to it ; you know how much it has 
 been doing, and how much more it now desires to do, if 
 Christians would only furnish means: do you not feel 
 called upon to add something to it V 7 
 
 Mr. Aubrey was very uneasy under this appeal, but 
 there was something in the mild manner of the stranger 
 that restrained him ; but he answered that, although he 
 regretted it exceedingly, his circumstances were such 
 that he could not this year conveniently add to any of 
 his charities. 
 
 The stranger received back the paper without any re- 
 ply, but immediately presented in its place the subscrip- 
 tion to the Bible Society, and in a few clear and forcible 
 words, reminded him of its well-known claims, and again 
 requested him to add something to his donations. Mr. 
 Aubrey became impatient. 
 
 " Have I not said," he replied, " that I can do nothing 
 more for any charity than I did last year? There seems 
 to be no end to the calls upon us in these days. At first 
 there were only three or four objects presented, and the 
 sums required were moderate; now the objects increase 
 
BO MANY CALLS. 100 
 
 every day ; all call upon us for money, and all, after we 
 once, want us to double and treble our subscriptions; 
 there is no end to the thing; we may as well stop in one 
 place as another." 
 
 The stranger took back the paper, rose, and fixing his 
 eye on his companion, said, in a voice that thrilled to hi3 
 
 " One year ago to-night, you thought that your daugh- 
 lay dying ; you could not sleep for agony ; upon 
 whom did you call all that night ?" 
 
 The merchant started and looked up ; there seemed a 
 change to have passed over the whole form of his visitor, 
 whose eve was fixed on him with a calm, intense, pene- 
 trate ion, that awed and subdued him; he drew 
 back, covered his face, and made no reply. 
 
 • years ago," said the stranger, "when you lay 
 at the brink of the grave, and thought that if you died 
 then you should leave a family of helpless children en- 
 tirely unprovided for, do you remember how you prayed ? 
 who saved you then ?" 
 
 The stranger paused for an answer, but there was a 
 dead silence. The merchant only bent forward as one 
 entirely overcome, and rested his head on the seat before 
 
 The strand I nearer, and said, in a still lower 
 
 more impressive tone, "Do you remember, fifteen 
 
 ' when you felt yourself so lost, so 
 
 less, so hopeless; when you spent days and nights 
 
 •mid give the whole 
 
110 BO MANY CALLS. 
 
 world for one hour's assurance that your sins were for- 
 given you ? — who listened to you then ']" 
 
 u It was my God and Saviour !" said the merchant, 
 with a sudden burst of remorseful feeling ; a oh, yes, it 
 was he." 
 
 " And has He ever complained of being called on too 
 often ?" inquired the stranger, in a voice of reproachful 
 sweetness ; " say," he added, " are you willing to begin 
 this night, and ask no more of Him, if he, from thi3 
 night, will ask no more from you ?" 
 
 " Oh, never, never !" said the merchant, throwing him- 
 self at his feet ; but, as he spake these words, the figure 
 seemed to vanish, and he awoke with his whole soul 
 stirred within him. 
 
 " Oh, my Saviour ! what have I been saying 1 what 
 have I been doing V ' he exclaimed. " Take all, take 
 everything! what is all that I have to what thou hast 
 done for me !** 
 
MARION JONES J OR, LOVE VERSUS LAW. Ill 
 
 JIAEION JOXES; OR, LOVE VERSUS LAW. 
 
 oh! banish grief, and then 
 s -will bring our hope3 again." 
 
 " Tains of love be sat 
 Than all other pleasures are." 
 
 TTOV, *f beauty there are! How many 
 
 ■*-*- even in the human form ! There is the bloom and 
 motion of childhood, the freshness and ripe perfection of 
 youth, the dignity of manhood, the softness of woman — 
 all different, yet each in its kind perfect. 
 
 But there is none so peculiar, none that bears more the 
 
 image of the heavenly, than the beauty of Christian old 
 
 . It is like the loveliness of those calm autumn days, 
 
 when the heats of summer arc past, when the harvest is 
 
 gathered into the garner, and the sun shines over the 
 
 pla< i id fading wcods, which stand waiting for 
 
 the':- tg& It is a beauty more strictly moral, 
 
 mor 5 to the soul, tofanyot". 
 
 of life. Poetic fiction always paints th as a 
 
 -tian ; nor ii there any period where the virtues of 
 
 icy seem to find a more harmonious develop- 
 
112 MARION JONES • 
 
 e hurry of 
 
 ment. The aged man, who has outlived the hurry of 
 passion — who has withstood the urgency of temptation— 
 who has concentrated the religious impulses of youth 
 into habits of obedience and love — who, having served 
 his generation by the will of God, now leans in helpless- 
 ness on Him whom once he served, is, perhaps, one of 
 the most faultless representations of the beauty of holi- 
 ness that this world affords. 
 
 Thoughts something like these arose in my mind as I 
 slowly turned my footsteps from the grave-yard of my 
 native village, where I had been wandering, after years 
 of absence. It was a lovely spot — a soft slope of ground 
 close by a little stream, that ran sparkling through the 
 cedars and junipers beyond it, while on the other side 
 arose a green hill, with the white village laid like a 
 necklace of pearls upon its bosom. 
 
 There is no feature of the landscape more picturesque 
 and peculiar than that of the graveyard — that u city of 
 the silent, 1 ' as it is beautifully expressed by the Orien- 
 tals — standing amid the bloom and rejoicing of Nature, 
 its white stones glittering in the sun, a memorial of 
 decay, a link between the living and the dead. 
 
 As I moved slowly from mound to mound, and read 
 the inscriptions, which purported that many a money- 
 saving man, and many a busy, anxious housewife, and 
 many a prattling, half-blossomed child, had done with 
 care or mirth, I was struck with a plain slab, bearing the 
 inscription, "To the memory of Howard Dudley, who 
 died in his hundredth year." My eye was caught by 
 this inscription, for in other years I had well known the 
 
OR, LOVE VERSUS LAW. 113 
 
 person it recorded. At this instant, his mild and vene- 
 rable form arose before me, and I recollect his quiet and 
 lowly coming into meeting, precisely ten minutes before 
 the time, every Sabbath — his tall form a little stooping 
 —his best suit of butternut-coloured clothes, with long 
 flaps and wide cuffs, on one of which two pins were 
 always to be seen stuck in with the most reverent preci- 
 sion. When seated, the top of the pew came just to his 
 chin, so that his silvery, placid head rose above it like 
 the moon above the horizon. His head was one that 
 might have been sketched for a St. John — bald at the 
 and around the temples adorned with a soft flow of 
 bright fine hair, 
 
 " That down hig shoulders reverently spread, 
 As hoary frost with spangles doth attira 
 The naked branches of an oak half-dead." 
 
 was then of great age, and every line of his patient 
 seemed to say, "And now, Lord, what wait I for ?" 
 Yet still, year after year, was he to be seen in the same 
 place, with the same dutiful punctuality. 
 
 iown far and near as a very proverb for 
 peacefulncss of demeanour and unbounded charitable- 
 ness in covering and excusing the faults of others. As 
 long as there was any doubt in a case of alleged evil- 
 doing, he would say, u the man did not mean any harm, 
 after all ;" and when transgression became too bare- 
 faced for this excuse, he always guessed " it was best not 
 to say much about it ; nobody could tell what they might 
 be lei> 
 
 Some incidents in his life will show more clearly these 
 
114 MARION JONE3! 
 
 
 traits. A certain shrewd landholder, by the name of 
 Jones, who was not well reported of in the matter of 
 honesty, sold to Mr. Dudley a valuable lot of land, and 
 received the money for it; but, under various pretences, 
 deferred giving the deed. Soon after, he died ; and the 
 deed was nowhere to be found, while this very lot of 
 land was left by will to one of his daughters. 
 
 Old Mr. Dudley said " it was very extraordinary: hq 
 always knew that Seth Jones was considerably sharp 
 about money, but he did not think he would do such a 
 downright wicked thing." So the old man repaired to 
 Squire Abel to state the case and see if there was any 
 redress. " I do not like to tell of it," said he ; " but? 
 Squire Abel, you know Mr. Jones was — was — what he 
 was, even if he is dead and gone !" This was the nearest 
 approach the old gentleman could make to specifying a 
 heavy charge against the dead. On being told that the 
 case admitted of no redress, he comforted himself with 
 half soliloquizing, "Well, at any rate, the land has gone 
 to those two girls, poor creatures — I hope it will do them 
 some good. There is Silence — we won't say much about 
 her; but Marion is a nice, pretty girl." And so the 
 old man departed, leaving it as his opinion that, since 
 the matter could not be mended, it was just as well not 
 to say anything about it. 
 
 Now the two girls here mentioned (to wit, Silence 
 
 and Marion) were the eldest and the youngest of a 
 
 numerous family, the offspring of three wives of Seth 
 
 Jones, of whom these two were the sole survivors. The 
 
 1 elder, Silence, was a tall, strong, black-eyed ? hard-fea- 
 
OR, LOVE VER3US LAW. 115 
 
 tared girl, verging upon forty, with a good, loud, resolute 
 voice, and what the Irishman would call "a dacent 
 notion of using it." "Why she was called Silence was a 
 standing problem to the neighbourhood, for she had 
 more faculty and inclination for making a noise than any 
 person in the whole village. Miss Silence was one of 
 those persons who have no disposition to yield any of 
 ' their own rights. She marched up to all controverted 
 matters, faced down all opposition, held her way lustily 
 and with good courage, making men, women, and chil- 
 dren turn out for her, as they would for a mailcoach. 
 her innate determination to be free and 
 independent, that, though she was the daughter of a 
 rich man, and well portioned, only one swain was ever 
 heard of who ventured to solicit her hand in marriage, 
 and he was sent off with the assurance that, if he ever 
 showed his face about the house again, she would set the 
 dogs on him. 
 
 :i Jones was as different from her sister as 
 
 the little graceful convolvulus from the great rough stick 
 
 supports it. At the time of which we speak she 
 
 was just eighteen, a modest, slender, blushing girl, as 
 
 timid and shrinking as her sister was bold and hardy. 
 
 Ind' ion of poor Marion had cost Miss 
 
 ice much painstaking and trouble, and, after all, she 
 
 said, the girl would make a fool of herself, she never could 
 
 teach her to be up and down with people, as she was; 
 
 When the report came to Miss Silence's ears that Mr. 
 
 icy consid If as aggrieved by her father's 
 
 will, she held forth upon the subject with great strength 
 
 of courage and of lunga. u Mr. Dudley might bo in 
 
116 MATtrON JONES J 
 
 better business than in trying to cheat orphans out of their 
 rights— she hoped he would go to law about it, and see 
 what good he would get by it — a pretty church member 
 and deacon, to be sure ! getting up such a story about 
 her poor father, dead and gone!" 
 
 " But," said Marion, " Mr. Dudley is a good man : I 
 do not think he means to injure any one ; there must be 
 some mistake about it." 
 
 " Marion, you are a little fool, as I have always told 
 you," replied Silence; (C you would be cheated out of 
 your eye-teeth if you had not me to take care of you." 
 
 But subsequent events brought the affairs of these two 
 damsels in closer connexion with those of Mr. Dudley, 
 as we shall proceed to show. 
 
 It happened that the next-door neighbour of Mr. 
 Dudley was a certain old farmer, whose crabbedness of 
 demeanour had procured for him the name of Uncle Jaw. 
 This agreeable surname accorded very well with the gene- 
 ral characteristics both of the person and manner of its 
 possessor. He was tall and hard-favoured, with an ex- 
 pression of countenance much resembling a north-east 
 rain-storm — a drizzling, settled sulkiness, that seemed to 
 defy all prospect of clearing off, and to take comfort in 
 its own disagreeableness. His voice seemed to have 
 taken lessons of his face, in such admirable keeping was 
 its sawing, deliberate growl, with the pleasing physiog- 
 nomy before indicated. By nature he was endowed with 
 one of those active, acute, hair-splitting minds, which 
 can raise forty questions for dispute on any point of the 
 compass; and had he been an educated man, he might 
 have proved as clever a metaphysician as ever threw 
 
OK, LOVE VERSUS LAW. 117 
 
 dust in the eyes of succeeding generations. But, being 
 deprived of these advantages, he nevertheless exerted 
 himself to quite as useful a purpose in puzzling and mys- 
 tifying whomsoever came in his way. But his activity 
 particularly exercised itself in the line of the law, as it 
 iiis meat, and drink, and daily meditation, either 
 to find something to go to law about, or go to law 
 about something he had found. There was always some 
 question about an old rail fence that used to run " a leeile 
 more to the left hand," or that was built up " a leeile 
 more to the right hand, 1 ' and so cut off a strip of his 
 "medder land" or else there was some outrage of Peter 
 Somebody's turkeys, getting into his mowing, or Squire 
 Moses's geese were to be shut up in the town pond, or 
 something equally important kept him busy from year's 
 . to year's end. Now, as a matter of private amuse. 
 at, this might have answered very well; but then 
 c Jaw was not satisfied to fight his own battles, but 
 t needs go from house to house, narrating the whole 
 length and breadth of the case, with all the says he's and 
 says Ts, and the / telVd hiuis and he telVd me's, which do 
 cither accompany or flow therefrom. Moreover, he had 
 such a marvellous facility of finding out matters to quarrel 
 it, and of letting every one else know where they 
 too could muster a quarixl, that he generally succeeded 
 hole neighbourhood by the cars. 
 M good -Mr. Dudley I ie oilice of peace- 
 
 maker for the village, Uncle Jaw's efficiency rendered 
 it no sinecure. jra followed the steps of Uncle 
 
 Jaw, smoothing, hushing up, and puting matters aright 
 iduity that v.;u> truly wonderful. 
 
IIS MARION JONES ; 
 
 Uncle Jaw himself had a great respect for the good 
 man, and, in common with all the neighbourhood, sought 
 unto him for counsel, though, like other seekers of advice, 
 he appropriated only so much as seemed good in his own 
 eyes. 
 
 Still he took a kind of pleasure in dropping in of an 
 evening to Mr. Dudley's fireside, to recount the various 
 matters which he had taken or was to take in hand. 
 
 But the grand " matter of matters," and the one that 
 took up the most of Uncle Jaw's spare time, lay in a dis- 
 pute between him and Squire Jones, the father of Marion 
 and Silence; for it so happened that his lands and those 
 of Uncle Jaw were contiguous. Now the matter of dis- 
 pute was on this wise: on Squire Jones's land there was 
 a mill, which mill Uncle Jaw averred was " always a- 
 flooding his medder land." As Uncle Jaw's " medder 
 land" was by nature half bog and bulrushes, and there- 
 fore liable to be found in a wet condition, there was 
 always a happy obscurity where the water came from, 
 and whether there was at any time more there than be- 
 longed to his share. So, when all other subject matters 
 of dispute failed, Uncle Jaw recreated himself with 
 getting up a lawsuit about his "medder land," and one 
 of these cases was in pendency, when, by the death of 
 the Squire, the estate was left to Marion and Silence, his 
 daughters. When, therefore, the report reached him that 
 Mr. Dudley had been cheated out of his dues, Uncle Jaw 
 prepared forthwith to go and compare notes. Therefore, 
 one evening, as Mr. Dudley was sitting quietly by the 
 fire, musing and reading with his big Bible open before 
 him, ho heard the premonitory symptoms of a visitation 
 
OR, LOVE VE11SUS LAW. 119 
 
 from Uncle Jaw on his door scraper, and soon the man 
 mad- After seating himself directly in 
 
 front of the fire, with his elbows on his knees, and his 
 ac coals, he looked up in Mr. 
 Dudley's mild face with his little inquisitive grey eyes, 
 remarked, by way of opening the subject, " Well, 
 well, old Squire Jones is gone at last. I wonder how 
 much good all his land will do him now?" 
 
 .*' replied Mr. Dudley, "it just shows how all 
 these things arc not worth striving after. We brought 
 nothing into the world, and it is certain we can (tarty 
 nothing out." 
 
 y, yes," replied Uncle Jaw, " that's all very right, 
 but ;mge how that old Squire Jones did hang 
 
 on t Now that mill of his, that was always 
 
 soaking of ■ dders of mine, I took and 
 
 tell'd Squire Jones just how it was, pretty nigh twenty 
 times, and yet he would keep it just so ; and now he's 
 i and gone, there is that old girl Silence is full as 
 bad, and makes more noise ; and she and Marion have 
 got the land ; but, you see, I mean to work it yet!" 
 
 whether he had pro- 
 in Mr. Dudley; but 
 I without the least emotion, quietly con- 
 templating the tup of 111 I nele 
 Jaw fidgeted in his chair, a.. 1 his mode of 
 attack fur one more direct. u 1 hea: Mr. Dud- 
 ley, I a unhandy 
 sort ( ut that Y; jid." 
 
 ] . but Uncle Juw's per- 
 
ISO MARION JONES ; 
 
 severance was not so to be put off, and he recommenced 
 u Squire Abel, you see, be tell'd me bow tbe matter was, 
 and be said be did not see as it could be mended; but I 
 took and tell'd bim, ' Squire Abel,' says I, c I'd bet pretty 
 nigh 'most anything, if Mr. Dudley would tell tbe mat- 
 ter to me, tbat I could find a bole for bim to creep out 
 at ; for,' says I, ' I've seen daylight through more twis- 
 tical cases than that afore now.' " 
 
 Still Mr. Dudley remained mute ; and Uncle Jaw, 
 after waiting a while, recommenced with, " But, railly, 
 Mr. Dudley, I should like to hear the particulars!" 
 
 " I have made up my mind not to say anything more 
 about that business," said Mr. Dudley, in a tone which, 
 though mild, was so exceedingly definite, that Uncle 
 Jaw felt that the case was hopeless in that quarter ; he 
 therefore betook himself to the statement of his own 
 grievances. 
 
 " Why, you see," he began, at the same time taking the 
 tongs, and picking up all the little brands, and disposing 
 them in the middle of the fire, " you see, two days after 
 the funeral (for I did'nt like to go any sooner), I stepped 
 up to speak over the matter with old Silence ; for as to 
 Marion, she ha' n't no more to do with such things than 
 our white kitten. Now, you see, Squire Jones, just afore 
 he died, he took away an old rail fence of bis that lay 
 between bis land and mine, and began to build a new 
 stone wall, and when I come to measure, I found he had 
 took and put almost the whole width of the stone wall 
 on to my land, when there ought not to have been more 
 than half of it come there. Now, you see, I could not 
 
CR, LOVE VERSUS 1AW. 121 
 
 say a word to Squire Jones, because, just before I found 
 it out, he took ill and died; and so I thought I'd speak 
 to old Silence, and see if she meant to do anything about 
 it, 'cause I knew pretty well she would'nt; and I tell 
 you, if 6he didn't put it on me ! we had a regular 
 pitched battle— I thought she would have screamed her- 
 self to death! I don't know but she would, but just 
 then poor Marion came in, and looked so frightened — 
 Marion is a pretty girl, and looks so trembling and deli- 
 cate, that it's a shame to plague her, and so I took and 
 come away for that time." 
 
 II ere Uncle Jaw perceived a brightening in the face of 
 the good man, and felt exceedingly comforted that at 
 last he was about to interest him in his story. 
 
 But all this while Mr. Dudley had been in a profound 
 meditation concerning the ways and means of putting a 
 stop to a quarrel that had been his torment from time 
 immemorial, and just at this moment a plan had struck 
 his mind which our story will proceed to unfold. 
 
 The mode of settling differences which had occurred 
 to the good man was one which has been considered a 
 specific in reconciling contending sovereigns and states 
 from early antiquity, and he hoped it might have a paci- 
 fying influence even in so unpromising a case as that of 
 M Silence and Uncle J 
 
 In former days, Mr. Dudley had kept the district 
 school for several successive winters, and among his 
 scholars was the gentle Marion Jones, then a plump, 
 rosy littl ■ curly hair, and the sweet- 
 
122 marion jokes; 
 
 est disposition in the world. There was also little Joseph 
 Adams, the only son of Uncle Jaw, a fine, healthy, robust 
 boy, who used to spell the longest words, make the best 
 snowballs and poplar whistles, and read the loudest and 
 fastest of any boy at school. 
 
 Little Joe inherited all hi3 father's sharpness, with a 
 double share of good humour, so that, though he was 
 for ever effervescing in the way of one funny trick or 
 another, he was a universal favourite, not only with Mr. 
 Dudley, but with the whole school. 
 
 Master Joseph always took little Marion Jones under 
 his especial protection, drew her to school on his sled, 
 helped her out with all the long sums in her arithmetic, 
 saw to it that nobody pillaged her dinner-basket or 
 knocked down her bonnet, and resolutely whipped or 
 snowballed any other boy who attempted the same gal- 
 lantries. Years passed on, and Uncle Jaw had sent his 
 son to college. lie sent him because, as he said, he had 
 "a right to send him; just as good a right as Squire 
 Abel or anybody else to send their boys, and so he would 
 send him." It was the remembrance of his old favourite 
 Joseph, and his little pet Marion, that came across the 
 mind of Mr. Dudley, and which seemed to open a gleam 
 of light in regard to the future. So, when Uncle Jaw 
 had finished his prelection, Mr. Dudley, after some medi- 
 tation, came out with, 
 
 t( Well, they say that your son is going to have the 
 valedictory in college." 
 
 Though somewhat startled at the abrupt transition^ 
 
OB, LOVE VERSUS LAW. 1£3 
 
 Uncle Jaw found the suggestion too flattering to his 
 pride to be dropped: so, -with a countenance grimly ex- 
 pressive of his satisfaction, he replied, 
 
 " "Why yes — yes — I don't see no reason why a poor 
 man's son han't as much right as any one to be at the 
 top, if he can get there." 
 
 • Just so," replied Mr. Dudley. 
 
 " He 9 the boy for learning, and for nothing 
 
 ' continued Uncle Jaw; "put him to fanning, 
 cuuldn't make nothing of him. If I set him to hoeing 
 corn or hilling potatoes, I'd always find him stopping to 
 a hoptoads, or off after chip-squirrels. But set him 
 a to a book, and there he was ! That boy larnt read- 
 ing the quickest of any boy that ever I saw: it wasn't a 
 month after he began his a b, al/s, before he could read in 
 • Fox and the Brambles,' and in a month more he 
 could clatter off his chapter in the Testament as fast as 
 any of them; and you see, in college, it's just so — he ha3 
 right up to be first." 
 
 " And he is coming home week after next," said Mr. 
 Dudley, meditat! 
 
 The next morning, as Mr. Dudley was eating hi*3 
 breakfast, he quietly remarked to Rifl wife, " Sally, 1 
 lieve it was week after next you wl g to have 
 
 your quiltingl" 
 
 • told you so: what makes you think 
 that?" 
 
 '• I thought that was your calculation," said the good 
 man, quietly. 
 
 H V,'liy a» n 4o U ay be it's 
 
124 XlAUIOX JONES 
 
 the best of any time, if we can get old Susan to come 
 and help about the cakes and pies." 
 
 " I think you had better/' replied Mr. Dudley, " and 
 we will have all the young folks here." 
 
 And now let us pass over all the intermediate pound- 
 ing, and grinding, and chopping, which for the next 
 week foretold approaching festivity in the kitchen of Mr. 
 Dudley. Let us forbear to provoke the appetite of a 
 hungry reader by setting in order before him the minced 
 pies, the cranberry tarts, the pumpkin pies, the dough- 
 nuts, the cookies, and other sweet cakes of every descrip- 
 tion, that sprung into being at the magic touch of old 
 Susan, the village priestess on all these solemnities. 
 Suffice it to say, that the day had arrived, and the auspi- 
 cious quilt was spread. 
 
 The invitation had not failed to include the Misses 
 Silence and Marion Jones — nay, good Mr. Dudley had 
 pressed gallantry into the matter so far as to be the 
 bearer of the message himself ; for which he was duly 
 rewarded by a broadside from Miss Silence, giving him 
 what she termed a piece of her mind in the matter of 
 the rights of widows and orphans ; to all which the good 
 old man listened with great benignity from the begin- 
 ning to the end, and replied with, 
 
 " Well, well, Miss Silence, I expect you will think 
 better of this before long; there had best not be any 
 hard words about it." So saying, he took up his hat 
 and walked off, while Miss Silence, who felt extremely 
 relieved by having blown off steam, declared that " It 
 was of no more use to hector old Mr. Dudley than to 
 
OR, LOVE VERSUS LAW. 125 
 
 fire a gun at a bag of cotton-wool. For all that, though, 
 she shouldn't go to the quilting; nor, more, should 
 Marion." 
 
 " But, sister, why not ?" said the little maiden ; " I 
 think I shall go." And Marion said this in a tone so 
 mildly positive, that Silence was amazed. 
 
 " What ails you, Marion?" said she, opening her eyes 
 with astonishment; " haven't you any more spirit than 
 to go to there when he is doing all he can to ruin us?" 
 
 u I like Mr. Dudley," replied Marion; " he was always 
 kind to me when I was a little girl, and I am not going 
 to believe that he is a bad man now." 
 
 "When a young lady states that she is not going to believe 
 a thing, good judges of human nature generally give up 
 the case ; but Miss Silence, to whom the language of 
 opposition and argument was entirely new, could scarcely 
 give her cars credit for veracity in the case ; she there- 
 fore repeated over exactly what she said before, only in 
 a much louder tone of voice, and with much more vehe- 
 ment forms of asseveration : a mode of reasoning which, 
 if not strictly logical, has at least the sanction of very 
 ctablo authorities among the enlightened and 
 
 nee," replied Marion, when the storm had spent 
 
 , u if it did not look like being angry with Mr. Dud- 
 
 iv away to oblige you; but it would seem 
 
 to every one to be taking sides in a quarrel, and I never 
 
 ny part or lot in such things.'' 
 
 " Then you'll just l»o trod and trampled on all your 
 
 days," replied Silence ; " but, however, if you choose to 
 
126 MARION J03S T E8; 
 
 make a fool of yourself, / don't;" and so saying, she 
 flounced out of the room in great wrath. It so hap- 
 pened, however, that Miss Silence was one of those 
 who have so little economy in disposing of a fit of 
 anger, that it was all used up before the time of execu- 
 tion arrived. It followed, of consequence, that having 
 unburdened her mind freely both to Mr. Dudley and to 
 Marion, she began to feel very much more comfortable and 
 good-natured ; and consequent upon that came divers 
 reflections upon the many gossiping opportunities and 
 comforts of a quilting; and then the intrusive little re- 
 flection, " What if she should go — after all, what harm 
 would be done Y* and then the inquiry, " Whether it was 
 not her duty to go and look after Marion, poor child, 
 who had no mother to watch over her?" In short, before 
 the time of preparation arrived, Miss Silence had fully 
 worked herself up to the magnanimous determination of 
 going to the quilting. Accordingly, the next day, while 
 Marion was standing before her mirror, braiding up her 
 pretty hair, she was startled by the apparition of Miss 
 Silence coming into the room as stiff as a changeable 
 silk and a high horn comb could make her; and " grimly 
 determined was her look." 
 
 "Well, Marion," said she, " if you will go to the 
 quilting this afternoon, I think it is ray duty to go and 
 see to you." 
 
 What would people do if this convenient shelter of 
 duty did not afford them a retreat in cases when they 
 are disposed to change their minds % Marion suppressed 
 the arch smile that, in spite of herself, laughed out at 
 
Oil, LOVE VERSUS LAW. 1 "7 
 
 the corners of her eyes, and told her sister that she was 
 much obliged to her for her care. So off they went 
 together. 
 
 'once in the mean time held forth largely on the im- 
 portance of standing up for one's rights, and not letting 
 one's self be trampled on. 
 
 The afternoon L, the elderly ladies quilted and 
 
 talked scandal, and the younger ones discussed the merits 
 of the various beaux -who were expected to give vivacity 
 to the evening entertainment. Among these, the newly- 
 arrived Joseph Adams, just from college, with all his 
 literary honours thick about him, became a prominent 
 subject of conversation. 
 
 It was duly canvassed whether the young gentleman 
 might be called handsome, and the affirmative was carried 
 I large majority, although there were some variations 
 and exceptions; one of the party declaring his whiskers 
 • in too high a state of cultivation, another maintain- 
 ing that they were in the exact line of beauty, while a 
 orously disputed the point whether ho wore 
 lit all. It was allowed by all, however, that lie 
 had been a great beau in the town where he had ] 
 
 inquired into whether he 
 nially engaged ; and the negative 1 
 
 M with predicting to 
 one another the capture of such a j b prophecy 
 
 I with sue i u Come now !" 
 
 "Do 1 h your nonsense !" and the like. 
 
 At length the .d one 
 
 t>y one i" a began to make their ap- 
 
12S MARION JONES ; 
 
 pearance, and one of the last was this much-admired 
 youth. 
 
 "That is Joe Adams !" " That is he!" was the busy 
 whisper, as a tall, well-looking young man came into the 
 room, with the easy air of one who had seen several 
 things before, and was not to be abashed by the combined 
 blaze of all the village beauties. 
 
 In truth, our friend Joseph had made the most of his 
 
 residence in N , paying his court no less to the 
 
 Graces than the Muses. His fine person, his frank, manly 
 air, his ready conversation, and his faculty of universal 
 adaptation, had made his society much coveted among 
 
 the beau monde of N , and though the place was 
 
 ttmall, he had become familiar with much good society. 
 
 "Wo hardly know whether we may venture to tell our 
 fair readers the whole truth in regard to our hero. We 
 will merely hint, in the gentlest manner in the world, 
 that Mr. Joseph Adams, being undeniably first in the 
 classics and first in the drawing-room, having been 
 gravely commended in his class by his venerable presi- 
 dent, and gaily flattered in the drawing-room by the 
 elegant Miss This and That, was rather inclining to the 
 opinion that he was an uncommonly fine fellow, and even 
 had the assurance to think that, under present circum- 
 stances, he could please without making any great effort; 
 ii thing which, however true it were in point of fact, is 
 obviously improper to be thought of by a young man. 
 Be that as it may, he moved about from one to another, 
 shaking hands with all the old ladies, and listening with 
 the greatest affability to the various comments on his 
 
Oil. LOVE VERSUS LAW. I £9 
 
 / th ami personal appearance, his points of resemblance 
 to his father, mother, grandfather, and grandmother, 
 which are always detected by the superior acumen of 
 elderly femi 
 
 Among the younger ones, he at once, and with full 
 
 frankness, recognised old schoolmates, and partners in 
 
 Kortleberry, chestnut, and strawberry excursions 
 
 and thus called out an abundant flow of conversation. 
 
 crtheless, his eye wandered occasionally around the 
 
 if in search of something not there. What 
 
 I it be ? It kindled, however, with an expression of 
 
 sudden brightness as he perceived the tall and spare 
 
 figure of Miss Silence ; whether owing to the personal 
 
 inations of that lady, or to other causes, we leave the 
 
 reader to determine. 
 
 ee had predetermined never to speak a word 
 
 in to Uncle Jaw or any of his race; but she was taken 
 
 foe at the frank, extended hand, and friendly 
 
 " how d'ye do ?" It was not in woman to resist so cordial 
 
 an address from a handsome young man, and Miss Silence 
 
 gave her hand and replied with a graciousness that 
 
 umazed hei- If. At this moment, also, certain soft blue 
 
 eyes peeped forth from a corner, just " to see if he looked 
 
 as he used to do." Yes, there he was ! the same dark 
 
 mirthful eyes that used to peer on her from behind the 
 
 corners of the spelling-book at the district school ; and 
 
 ion Jones gave a half sigh to those times, and then 
 
 wondered why |] think of such nonsense. 
 
 W is your sister, little Miss Marion I" said J 
 
 I 
 
130 MARION JONES ; 
 
 "Why, she is here — have you not seen her] 1 ' 
 Silence ; " there she is, in that corner." 
 
 Joseph looked, but could scarcely recognise her. There 
 stood a tall, slender, blooming girl, that might have been 
 selected as a specimen of that union of perfect health 
 with delicate fairness so characteristic of the young New- 
 England beauty. 
 
 She was engaged in telling some merry story to a knot 
 of young girls, and the rich colour that, like a bright 
 spirit, constantly went and came in her cheeks ; the 
 dimples, quick and varying as those of a little brook ; 
 the clear, mild eye ; the clustering curls, and, above all, 
 the happy, rejoicing smile, and the transparent frankness 
 and simplicity of expression which beamed like sunshine 
 about her, all formed a combination of charms that took 
 our hero quite by surprise ; and when Silence, who had 
 a remarkable degree of directness in all her dealings, 
 called out, " Here, Marion, is Joe Adams, inquiring after 
 you !" our practised young gentleman felt himself colour 
 to the roots of his hair, and for a moment he could scarce 
 recollect that first rudiment of manners, " to make his 
 bow like a good boy." Marion coloured also ; but, per- 
 ceiving the confusion of our hero, her countenance 
 assumed an expression of mischievous drollery, which, 
 helped on by the titter of her companions, added not a 
 little to his confusion. 
 
 " What's the matter with me ?" thought he, and calling 
 up his courage, he dashed into the formidable circle of 
 fair ones, and began chattering with one and another, 
 calling by name with or without introduction, remember- 
 
OR, LOVE VERSUS LAW. 131 
 
 ing things that never happened with a freedom that was 
 perfectly fascinating. 
 
 " Really, how handsome he has grown ! H thought 
 Marion ; and she coloured deeply when once or twice the 
 dark eyes of our hero made the same observation with 
 regard to herself, in that quick, intelligible dialect which 
 eyes alone can speak. And when the little party dis- 
 persed, as they did very punctually at nine o'clock, our 
 hero requested of Miss Silence the honour of attending 
 her home, an evidence of discriminating taste which 
 materially raised him in the estimation of that lady. It 
 was true, to be sure, that Marion walked on the other 
 side of him, her little white hand just within his arm' 
 and there was something in that light touch that puzzled 
 him unaccountably, as might be inferred from the fre- 
 quency with which Miss Silence was obliged to bring up 
 the ends of conversation with " What did you say V s 
 " What were you going to say ?" and other persevering 
 forms of inquiry, with which a regular-trained matter- 
 of-fact talker will hunt down a poor feliow-mortai who is 
 in danger of sinking into a comfortable revery. 
 
 When they parted at the gate, however, Silence gave 
 our hero a hearty invitation to " come and see them any 
 ■," which he mentally regarded as more to the point 
 than anything else that had been said. 
 
 As Joseph soberly retraced his way homeward, his 
 thoughts, by some unaccountable association, began to 
 revert to such topics as the loneliness of man by himself; 
 tne need of kindred spirits, the solaces of sympathy, and 
 other like matters. 
 
132 MAinoN jones ; 
 
 _ 
 
 That night Joseph dreamed of trotting along with 
 his dinner-basket to the old brown school-house, and 
 vainly endeavouring to overtake Marion Jones, whom he 
 saw with her little sun-bonnet a few yards in front of 
 him ; then he was tetering with her on a long board, her 
 bright little face glancing up and down, while every curl 
 around it seemed to be living with delight ; and then he 
 was snow-balling Tom Williams for knocking down 
 Marion's doll's house, or he sat by her on a bench, helping 
 her out with a long sum in arithmetic ; but, with the 
 mischievous fatality of dreams, the more he ciphered 
 and expounded, the longer and more hopeless grew the 
 sum ; and he awoke in the morning pshawing at his ill 
 luck, after having done a sum over half a dozen of times, 
 while Marion seemed to be looking on with the same air 
 of arch-drollery that he saw on her face the evening 
 before. 
 
 il Joseph," said Uncle Jaw, the next morning at 
 breakfast, " I s'pose Squire Jones's daughters were not 
 at the quilting ?'■ 
 
 " Yes, sir, they were," said our hero ; " they were both 
 there." 
 
 "Why, you don't say so ?" 
 
 " They certainly were," persisted the son. 
 
 " Well, I thought the old gal had too much spirit for 
 that : you see there is a quarrel between Mr. Dudley and 
 those gals." 
 
 " Indeed !" said Joseph. " I thought the deacon never 
 quarrelled with anybody." 
 
 " But, you see, old Silence there, she will quarrel with 
 
OR, LOVE VERSUS LAW. 133 
 
 Attn; raily, that creatur' is a tough one;" and Uncle 
 
 Jaw leaned kick in his chair, and contemplated the 
 
 > relsome propensities of Miss Silence with the satis- 
 
 >n of a kindred spirit. "But I'll fix her yet," he 
 
 continued ; " I see how to work it." 
 
 u Indeed, father, I did not know that you had anything 
 to do with their affairs." 
 
 " Han't I ? I should like to know if I haVt !" re- 
 plied Uncle Jaw, triumphantly. " Now see here, Joseph : 
 -ee I mean you shall be a lawyer : I'm pretty consi- 
 derable of a lawyer myself — that is, for one not college 
 lam't, and I'll tell you how it is" — and thereupon Uncle 
 launched forth into the case of the medder land 
 the mill, and concluded with, "Now, Joseph, this 
 'ere is a whetstone for you to hone up your wits on." 
 
 In pursuance, therefore, of this plan of sharpening his 
 wits in the manner aforesaid, our hero, after breakfast, 
 went, like a dutiful sou, directly towards Squire Jones's, 
 doubtless for the purpose of taking ocular survey of the 
 meadow land, mill, and stone wall ; but, by some unac- 
 countable mistake, lost his way, and found himself stand- 
 ing before the door of Squire Jones's house. 
 
 The old Squire had been among the aristocracy of the 
 Tillage, and his house had been the ultimate standard of 
 n in all matters of style and irarniture. Their 
 big front room. i being strewn with lumps of 
 
 sand, duly streaked over twice a-w< -plcndent 
 
 with a car; !. yellow, and black stripes, while a 
 
 towering pair of long-legged brass andirons, scoured to a 
 silvery white, gave an air of magnificence to the chim- 
 
134 MARION JONES ; 
 
 ney, which was materially increased by the tall brass- 
 headed shovel and tongs, which, like a decorous, starched 
 married couple, stood bolt upright in their places on 
 either side. The sanctity of the place was still further 
 maintained by keeping the window-shutters always 
 closed, admitting only so much light as could come in 
 by a round hole at the top of the shutter, and it was only 
 on occasions of extraordinary magnificence that the room 
 was thrown open to profane eyes. 
 
 Our hero was surprised, therefore, to find both the 
 doors and windows of this apartment open, and symp- 
 toms evident of its being in daily occupation. The fur- 
 niture still retained its massive, clumsy stiffness, but 
 there were various tokens that lighter fingers had been 
 at work there since the notable days of good Dame Jones. 
 There was a vase of flowers on the table, two or three 
 books of poetry, and a little fairy work-basket, from 
 which peeped forth the edges of some worked ruffling ; 
 there was a small writing-desk, and last, not least, in a 
 lady's collection, an album, with leaves of every colour 
 of the rainbow, containing inscriptions, in sundry strong 
 masculine hands, "To Marion," indicating that other 
 people had had their eyes open as well as Mr. Joseph 
 Adams. " So," said he to himself, " this quiet little 
 beauty has had admirers after all ;" and consequent upon 
 this came another question, (which was none of his con- 
 cern, to be sure,) whether the little lady were or were not 
 engaged ; and from these speculations he was aroused 
 by a light footstep, and anon the neat form of Marion 
 made its appearance. 
 
OR, LOVE VERSUS LAW. 135 
 
 " Good-morning, Miss Jones," said he, bowing. 
 
 Now there is something very comical in the feeling 
 when little boys and girls, who have always known each 
 other as plain Marion or Joseph, first meet as " Mr." or 
 " Miss" So-and-So. Each one feels half-disposed, half 
 afraid, to return to the old familiar form, and awkwardly 
 fettered by the recollection that they are no longer chil- 
 dren. Both parties had felt this the evening before, 
 when they met in company, but, now that they were 
 alone together, the feeling became still stronger; and 
 when Marion had requested Mr. Adams to take a chair, 
 and Mr. Adams had inquired after Miss Marion's health, 
 there ensued a pause, which, the longer it continued, 
 seemed the more difficult to break, and during which 
 Marion's pretty face slowly assumed an expression of the 
 "ludicrous, till she was as near laughing as propriety 
 would admit ; and Mr. Adams, having looked out at the 
 window, and up at the mantelpiece, and down at the car- 
 pet, at last looked at Marion ; their eyes met : the eftect 
 was electrical ; they both smiled, and then laughed out- 
 right, after which the whole difficulty of conversation 
 vanished. 
 
 " Marion," said Joseph, " do you remember the old 
 nchool-house ?" 
 
 * I thought that was what you were thinking of," said 
 Marion; "but, really, you have grown and altered so 
 that I could hardly believe my eyes last night." 
 
 " Nor I mine," said Joseph, with a glance that gave a 
 very complimentary turn to the expression. 
 
 Our readers may imagine that after th's the conver- 
 
136 IIAHIOK J0NE3 ; 
 
 sation proceeded to grow increasingly confidential and 
 interesting ; that, from the account of early life, each 
 proceeded to let the other know something of intervening 
 history, in the course of which each discovered a number 
 of new and admirable traits in the other, such things 
 being matters of very common occurrence. In the course 
 of the conversation, Joseph discovered that it was neces- 
 sary that Marion should have two or three books then in 
 his possession, and, as promptitude is a great matter in 
 such cases, he promised to bring them " to-morrow." 
 
 For some time our young friends pursued their acquain- 
 tance, without a distinct consciousness of anything 
 except that it was a very pleasant thing to be together. 
 During the long, still afternoons, thej' rambled among 
 the fading woods, now illuminated with the radiance of 
 the dying year, and sentimentalized and quoted poetry; 
 and almost every evening Joseph found some errand to 
 bring him to the house ; a book for Miss Marion, or a 
 bevy of roots and herbs for Miss Silence, or some re- 
 markably fine yarn for her to knit ; attentions which 
 retained our hero in the good graces of the latter lady, 
 and gained him the credit of being " a young man that 
 knew how to behave himself. 1 ' 
 
 It cannot be supposed that all these things passed un- 
 noticed by those wakeful eyes that are ever upon the 
 motions of such "bright particular stars," and, as is 
 usual in such cases, many things were known to a cer- 
 tainty which were not yet known to the parties them- 
 selves. The young belles and beaux whispered and tit- 
 tered, and passed the origiual jokes and witticisms com- 
 
OH, LOVE VEltSUS LAV.'. 13? 
 
 in such cases, "while the old ladies soberly took the 
 
 •er in hand when they went out with their knitting 
 
 to make afternoon visits, considering how much money 
 
 • Jaw had, how much his son would have, and how 
 much Marion would have, and what altogether would 
 
 to, and whether Joseph would be a " smart man," 
 n a good house-keeper, with all the u ifs, ands, 
 and huts" of married life. 
 
 But the most fearful wonders and prognostics crowded 
 
 id the point " what Uncle Jaw would have to say to 
 the matter." Ills lawsuit with the sisters being well 
 
 istood, as there was every reason it should be, it was 
 surmised what two such vigorous belligerents as himself 
 Silence would say to the prospect of a matrimo- 
 nial conjunction. It was also reported that Mr. Dudley 
 had a claim to the land which constituted the finest part 
 of Marion's portion, the loss of which would render the 
 out of Uncle Jaw still more doubtful. But all this 
 while Miss Silence knew nothing of the matter, for her 
 habit of considering and treating Marion as a child 
 seemed to gain strength with time. Marion was always 
 to be seen to, and watched, instructed, and taught; and 
 nee could not conceive that one who could 
 not even make pickles without her to oversee, could 
 think of such a matter as setting up house-keeping her- 
 self. To be sure, she began to observe an extraordinary 
 change in her B turn- 
 
 ed to be getting sort o' crazy- headed ; that she 1MB 
 not to have any "faculty" for anything; that she 
 had made ginger-bread twice, and forgot the ginger 
 
 time, and put in mustard the other ; that she tcok 
 
138 MARION JONES J 
 
 the saltcellar out in the table-cloth, and let the cat 
 into the pantry half a dozen times; and that, when scol- 
 ded for these sins of omission or commission, she had 
 a fit of crying, and did a little worse than before. 
 Silence was of opinion that Marion was getting to be 
 i( weakly and narvy," and actually concocted an un- 
 merciful pitcher of wormwood and boneset, which she 
 said was to keep oif the " shaking weakness" that was 
 coming over her. In vain poor Marion protested that 
 she was well enough — Miss Silence knew better; and one 
 evening she entertained Mr. Joseph Adams with a long 
 statement of the case in all its bearings, and ended 
 with demanding his opinion, as a candid listener, whe- 
 ther the wormwood and boneset sentence should not be 
 executed. 
 
 Poor Marion had that very afternoon parted from a 
 knot of young friends who had teased her most unmerci- 
 fully on the score of attentions . received, till she began 
 to think the very leaves and stones were so many eyes to 
 pry into her secret feelings, and then to have the whole 
 case set in order before the very person, too, whom she 
 most dreaded. " Certainly he would think she was acting 
 like a fool ; perhaps he did not mean anything more than 
 friendship after all, and she would not, for the world, 
 have him suppose that she cared more for him than for 
 any other friend, or that she was in love, of all things." 
 So she sat very busy with her knitting-work, scarcely 
 knowing what she was about, till Silence called out — 
 
 " Why, Marion, what a piece of work you are making 
 of that stocking heel ! What in the world are you doing 
 to it r 
 
on, LOVE VERSUS LAW. 139 
 
 Marion dropped her knitting, and, making some pettish 
 answer, escaped out of the room. 
 
 " Now, did you ever !" said Silence, laying down the 
 seam she had been cross-stitching ; "what is the matter 
 with her, Mr. Adams I" 
 
 " Miss Marion is certainly indisposed,* 1 replied our hero, 
 gravely ; " I must get her to take your advice, Miss 
 Silence." 
 
 Our hero followed Marion to the front door, where she 
 stood looking out at the moon, and begged to know what 
 distressed her. 
 
 Of course it was m nothing," the young lady's usual 
 complaint when in low spirits ; and to show that she was 
 perfectly easy, she began an unsparing attack on a white 
 rose-bush near by. 
 
 u Marion !" said Joseph, laying his hand on hers, and 
 in a tone that made her start. She shook back her curls* 
 and looked up to him with such an innocent, confiding 
 face — 
 
 Ah, my good reader, you may go on with this part of 
 the story for yourself. We are principled against un- 
 veiling the " sacred mysteries," the " thoughts that 
 breathe and words that burn," in such little moonlight 
 rviews as these. You may fancy all that followed ; 
 and we can only assure all who are doubtful, that, under 
 judicious management, cases of this kind may be disposed 
 of without wormwood or boneset. Our hero and heroine 
 were called to sublunary realities by the voice of Miss 
 Silence, who came into the passage to see what upon 
 •arth they were doing. That lady was satisfied by th« 
 
140 5IARION J0NE3 ; 
 
 representations of so friendly and learned a young man 
 as Joseph, that nothing immediately alarming was to be 
 apprehended in the case of Marion, and she retired. 
 From that evening Marion stepped about with a heart 
 many pounds lighter than before. 
 
 " I'll tell you what, Joseph," said "Uncle Jaw, " I'll 
 tell you what, now, I hear 'em tell that you've took and 
 courted that 'ere Marion Jones. Now I just want to 
 know if it's true V ' 
 
 There was an explicitness about this mode of inquiry 
 that took our hero quite hy surprise, so that he could 
 only reply, 
 
 " Why, sir, supposing I had, would there be any ob- 
 jection to it in your mind V* 
 
 " Don't talk to me," said Uncle Jaw ; " I just want to 
 know if it's true ?" 
 
 Our hero put his hands in his pockets, walked to the 
 window, and whistled. 
 
 " Cause if you have," said Uncle Jaw, " you may jest 
 uncourt as fast as you can ; for Squire Jones's daughter 
 won't get a single penny of my money, I can tell you 
 that." 
 
 " Why, father, Marion Jones is not to blame for any- 
 thing that her father did, and I'm sure she is a pretty' 
 girl enough." 
 
 " I don't care if she is pretty ; what's that to me 1 
 I've got you through college, Joseph, and a hard time 
 I've had of it, a delving and slaving, and here you come, 
 and the very first thing you do, you must take and court 
 that 'ere Squire Jones's daughter, who was always putting 
 
OH. LOYE VERSUS LAW. 141 
 
 himself up above me ; besides, I mean to have the law 
 on that estate yet, and Mr. Dudley, he will have the law 
 too, and it will cut off the best piece of land the girl has; 
 and when you get married, I mean you shall have some- 
 thing. It's just a trick of them gals at me; but I guess 
 I'll come up with 'em yet. I'm just a goin' down to 
 have a ■ regular hash' with old Silence, to let her know 
 she can't come round me that way." 
 
 " Silence," said Marion, drawing her head into the 
 window, and looking apprehensive, " there is Mr. Adams 
 coming here." 
 
 u What, Joe Adams? Well, and what if he is?" 
 " No, no, sister, but it is his father — it is Uncle 
 Jaw." 
 
 " Well, s'pose 'tis, child — what scares you? s'pose I'm 
 afraid of him? If he wants more than I gave him last 
 time, I'll put it on." So saying, Miss Silence took her 
 knitting- work and marched down into the sitting-room, 
 set herself bolt upright in an attitude of defiance, 
 v/hile poor Marion, feeling her heart beat unaccountably 
 fast, glided out of the room. 
 
 il, good-morn in r, Miss Silence," said Uncle Jaw, 
 after having scraped his feet on the scraper, and scrub- 
 bed them on the mat nearly ten minutes in silent de- 
 liberation. 
 
 " Morning, sir," ; deviating the " good." 
 
 Uncle Jaw helped himself to a chair directly in front 
 
 of the enemy, dropped his hat on the floor, and surveyed 
 
 Miss Silence with a dogged air of satisfaction, like one 
 
142 MARION JONES ; 
 
 who is sitting down to a regular, comfortable quarrel, 
 and means to make the most of it. 
 
 Miss Silence tossed her head disdainfully, but scorned 
 to commence hostilities. 
 
 u So, Miss Silence," said Uncle Jaw, deliberately, 
 "you don't think you'll do anything about that 'ere 
 matter." 
 
 " What matter?" said Silence, with an intonation re- 
 sembling that of a roasted chestnut when it bursts from 
 the fire. 
 
 " I railly thought, Miss Silence, in that 'ere talk I 
 had with you about Squire Jones's cheatin' about that 
 'ere-" 
 
 " Mr. Adams," said Silence, u I tell you, to begin 
 with, I'm not going to be sauced in this 'ere way by you. 
 You haven't got common decency, nor common sense, 
 nor common anything else, to talk so to me about my 
 father : I won't bear it, I tell you." 
 
 u Why, Miss Jones," said Uncle Jaw, " how you talk ! 
 Well to be sure, Squire Jones is dead and gone, and it's 
 as well not to call it cheatin', as I was tellin' Mr. Dudley 
 when he was talkin' about that 'ere lot — that 'ere lot, 
 you know, that he sold him and never let him have the 
 deed on't." 
 
 " That's a lie," said Silence, starting on her feet ; 
 • that's an up and down black lie ! I tell you that, now, 
 before you say another word." 
 
 " Miss Silence, railiy you seem to be getting touchy." 
 said UncJe Jaw ; " well, to be sure, if he can let tha; 
 
OR. LOVE VERSUS LAW. 143 
 
 pass, other folks can, and may-be he will, because Squire 
 Jones was a church-member, and Mr. Dudley is tender 
 about bringing out anything against professors; but railly, 
 now, Miss Silence, I didn't think you and Marion were 
 going to work it so cunning in this here way." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean, and, what's more, I 
 don't care," said Silence, resuming her work, and calling 
 back the bolt upright dignity with which she began. 
 
 There was a pause of some moments, during which the 
 features of Silence worked with suppressed rage, which 
 was contemplated by Uncle Jaw with undisguised satis- 
 faction. 
 
 "You see, I s'pose, I shouldn't a minded your Marion's 
 setting out to court my Joe, if it hadn't a been for those 
 things." 
 
 " Courting your son ! Mr. Adams, I should like to 
 know what you mean by that. I'm sure nobody wants 
 your son, though he's a civil, likely fellow enough; yet 
 with such an old dragon for a father, I'll warrant he 
 won't get anybody to court him, nor be courted by him 
 neither." 
 
 u Railly, Miss Silence, you an't hardly civil, now." 
 
 " Civil ! I should like to know who coidd be civil ? 
 You know, now, as well as I do, that you are saying all 
 this out of clear, sheer ugliness; and that's what you 
 keep a doing all round the neighbourhood." 
 
 " Miss Silence," said Uncle Jaw, " I don't want no 
 hard words with you. It's pretty much known round 
 the neighbourhood that your Marion thinks she'll get 
 my Joe, and I s'pose you was thinking that perhaps it 
 
144 MARION JONES; 
 
 would be the "best way of settling up matters : but you 
 see now, I took and tell'd my son I railly didn't see as I 
 could afford it; I took and tell'd him that young folks 
 must have something considerable to start with; and 
 that, if Marion lost that 'ere piece of ground, as is 
 likely she will, it would be cutting off quite too much of 
 a piece; so, you see, I don't want you to take no encour- 
 agement about that." 
 
 " Well, I think this is pretty well !" exclaimed Silence, 
 provoked beyond measure or endurance; "you old tor- 
 ment ! think I don't know what you're at ? I and 
 Marion courting your son! I wonder if you an't ashamed 
 of yourself, now ! I should like to know what I or she 
 have done, now, to get that notion into your head?" 
 
 <c I didn't s'pose you 'spected to get him yourself," 
 said Uncle Jaw, <; for I guess by this time you've pretty 
 much gin up trying, ha'n't ye 1 But Marion does, I'm 
 pretty sure." 
 
 "Here, Marion! Marion! you — come down!" called 
 Miss Silence, in great wrath, throwing open the chamber 
 door. " Mr. Adams wants to speak with you." Marion, 
 fluttering and agitated, slowly descended into the room, 
 where she stopped, and looked hesitatingly, first at 
 Uncle Jaw and then at her sister, who, without cere- 
 mony, proposed the subject-matter of the interview as 
 follows: — 
 
 "Now, Marion, here's this man pretends to say that 
 you've been a courting and snaring to get his son, and I 
 just want you to tell him that you ha'n't never had no 
 thought of him. and that you won't have, neither." 
 
OR, LOVE VERSUS LAW. 145 
 
 This considerate way of announcing the subject had 
 the effect of bringing the burning colour into Marion's 
 face, as she stood like a convicted culprit with her eyes 
 bent on the floor. 
 
 Uncle Jaw, savage as he was, was always moved by 
 female loveliness, as wild beasts are said to be myste- 
 riously swayed by music, and looked on the beautiful, 
 ncast face with more softening than Miss Silence, 
 who, provoked that Marion did not immediately respond 
 to the question, seized her by the arm and eagerly 
 reiterated, 
 
 " Marion ! why don't you speak, child V* 
 
 Gathering desperate courage, Marion shook off the 
 hand of Silence, and straightened herself up with as 
 much dignity as some little flower lifts up its head when 
 it has been bent down by raindrops. 
 
 " Silence," she said, " I never would have come down 
 if I had thought it was to hear such things as this. Mr. 
 Adams, all I have to say to you is, that your son has 
 sought me, and not I your son. If you wish to know any 
 more, he can tell you better than I." 
 
 1, I vow! she is a pretty girl," said Uncle Jaw, 
 as Marion shut the door. 
 
 exclamation was involuntary; then recollecting 
 himself, he picked up his hat, and saying, " Well, I 
 guess I may as well get along," he began to depart; but, 
 turning round before he shut the door, ho said, "Miss 
 i ice, if you should conclude to do anything about 
 that 'ere fence, just send word over and let me know." 
 
 Silence, without deigning any reply, marched up into 
 & 
 
146 MARION JONES; 
 
 Marion's litfo chamber, where our heroine was treating 
 resolution to a good fit of crying. 
 
 " Marion, I did not think you had been such a fool," 
 said the lady. " I do not want to know, now, if you've 
 railly been thinking of getting married, and to that Joe 
 Adams of all folks!" 
 
 Poor Marion ! such an interlude in all her pretty 
 romantic little dreams about kindred feelings and a hun- 
 dred other delightful ideas, that flutter like singing-birds 
 through the fairy-land of first love. Such an interlude! 
 to be called on by gruff human voices to give up all the 
 cherished secrets that she had trembled to whisper even 
 to herself. She felt as if love itself had been defiled by 
 the coarse, rough hands that had been meddling with it: 
 so to her sister's soothing address Marion made no answer, 
 only to cry and sob still more bitterly than before. 
 
 Miss Siience, if she had a great stout heart, had no 
 less a kind one, and seeing Marion take the matter so 
 bitterly to heart, she began gradually to subside. 
 
 " Marion, you poor little fool, you," said she, at the 
 same time giving her a hearty slap, as expressive of 
 earnest sympathy, * I really do feel for you ; that good- 
 for-nothing fellow has been a cheatin' you, I do believe." 
 " Oh, don't talk any more about it, for mercy's sake," 
 said Marion; " I am sick of the whole of it." 
 
 " That's you, Marion ! Glad to hear you say so ! I'll 
 stand up for you, Marion; if I catch Joe Adams coming 
 here again with his palavering face, I'll let him know!" 
 
 " No! no! don't, for mercy's sake, say anything to Mr. 
 Adams — don't!" 
 
OR, LOVE VERSUS LAW. 147 
 
 " Well, at any rate, I'll just let Joe Adams know that 
 we haVt nothing more to say to him." 
 
 " But I don't wish to say that — that is — I don't know 
 — indeed, sister Silence, don't say anything about it." 
 
 " Why not ? You an't such a natural, now, as to want 
 to marry him after all, hey ?" 
 
 " I don't know what I want nor what I don't want ; 
 only, Silence, do now, if you love me, do promise not to 
 say anything at all to Mr. Adams — don't." 
 
 11, then, I won't," said Silence; "but, Marion, if 
 you railly was in love all this while, why ha'n't you been 
 and told me ? Don't you know that I'm as much as a 
 mother to you, and you ought to have told me in the 
 beginning ?" 
 
 u I don't know, Silence ! I couldn't — I don't want to 
 talk about it." 
 
 " Well, Marion, you an't a bit like me," said Silence; 
 a remark evincing great discrimination, certainly, and 
 with which the conversation terminated. 
 
 That very evening our friend Joseph walked down 
 towards the dwelling of the sisters, not without some 
 anxiety for the result, for he knew by his father's satisfied 
 appearance that war had been declared. He walked into 
 the family room, and found nobody there but Miss 
 ice, who was sitting, grim as an Egyptian sphinx, 
 stitching very vigorously on a meal-bag, in which in- 
 teresting employment 6he thought proper to be so much 
 engaged as not to remark the entrance of our hero. To 
 Joseph's accustomed " Good-evening, Miss Silence," she 
 replied merely by looking up with a cold nod, and went 
 
148 MARION JONES J 
 
 on with her sewing. It appeared that she had determined 
 on a literal version of her promise not to say anything to 
 Mr. Adams. 
 
 Our hero, as we have before stated, was familiar with 
 the crooks and turns of the female mind, and mentally 
 resolved to put a bold face on the matter, and give Miss 
 Silence no encouragement in her attempt to make him 
 feel himself unwelcome. It was rather a frosty autumnal 
 evening, and the fire on the hearth was decaying. Mr. 
 Joseph bustled about most energetically, throwing down 
 the tongs, and shovel, and bellows, while he pulled the 
 fire to pieces, raked out ashes and brands, and then in a 
 twinkling, was at the woodpile, from whence he selected 
 a massive backlog and forestick, with accompaniments, 
 which were soon roaring and crackling in the chimney. 
 
 " There, now, that does look something like comfort," 
 said our hero ; and drawing forward the big rocking-chair, 
 he seated himself in it, and rubbed his hands with an air 
 of great complacency. Miss Silence looked not up, but 
 stitched so much the faster that one might distinctly 
 hear the crack of the needle and the whistle of the 
 thread all over the apartment. 
 
 " Have you a headache to-night, Miss Silence Y* 
 
 " No ;" was the gruff answer. 
 
 " Are you in a hurry about those bags ]" said he, 
 glancing at a pile of unmade ones which lay by her side. 
 
 No reply. " AVell !" said our hero to himself, " I'll 
 make her speak." 
 
 Miss Silence's needle-book and brown thread lay on a. 
 ehak beside her. Our friend helped himself to a needle. 
 
OH, LOVE VERSUS LAW. 140 
 
 and thread, and taking one of the bags, planted himself 
 bolt upright opposite to Miss Silence, and pinning his 
 work to his knee, commenced stitching at a rate fully 
 equal to her own. 
 
 Miss Silence looked up and fidgeted, but went on with 
 her work faster than before : but the faster she worked, 
 the faster and steadier worked our hero, all in " mar- 
 vellous silence." There began to be an odd twitching 
 about the muscles of Miss Silence's face ; our hero took 
 no notice, having pursed his features into an expression 
 of unexampled gravity, which only grew more intense as 
 he perceived, by certain uneasy movements, that the 
 adversary was beginning to waver. 
 
 As they were sitting, stitching away, their needles 
 whizzing at each other like a couple of locomotives 
 engaged in conversation, Marion opened the door. 
 
 The poor child had been crying for the greater part of 
 her spare time during the day, and was in no very merry 
 humour ; but the moment that her astonished eyes com- 
 prehended the scene, she burst into a fit of almost in- 
 extinguishable merriment, while Silence laid down her 
 needle, and looked half amused and half angry. Our 
 hero, however, continued his business with inflexible per- 
 severance, unpinning his work and moving the seam 
 along, and going on with increased velocity. 
 
 Poor Miss Silence was at length vanquished, and joined 
 in the loud laugh which seemed to convulse her sister. 
 Whereupon our hero unpinned his work, and folding it 
 up, looked up at her with all the assurance of impudence 
 triumphant, and remarked to Marion — 
 
150 MARION JONES J 
 
 " Your sister had such a pile of these pillow-cases to 
 make, that she was quite discouraged, and engaged me to 
 do half a dozen of them : when I first came in she was 
 so busy she could not even speak to me." 
 
 " Well, if you an't the beater for impudence !" said 
 Miss Silence. 
 
 " The beater for industry — so I thought," rejoined our 
 hero. 
 
 Marion, who had been in a highly tragical state of 
 mind all day, and who was meditating on nothing less 
 sublime than an eternal separation from her lover, which 
 she imagined, with all the affecting attendants and con- 
 sequents, was entirely revolutionized by the unexpected 
 turn thus given to her ideas, while our hero pursued the 
 opportunity he had made for himself, and exerted his 
 powers of entertainment to the utmost, till Miss Silence 
 declared that if she had been washing all day she should 
 not have been more tired than she was with laughing, 
 took up her candle, and good-naturedly left our young 
 people to settle matters between themselves. There was 
 a grave pause of some length when she had departed, 
 which was broken by our hero, who seating himself by 
 Marion, inquired very seriously if his father had made 
 proposals of marriage to Miss Silence that morning. 
 
 " No, you provoking creature !" said Marion, at the 
 same time laughing at the absurdity of the idea. 
 
 " Well, now, don't draw on your long face again, 
 Marion," said Joseph; " you have been trying to leng- 
 then it down all the evening, if I would have let you. 
 Seriously, now, I know that something painful passed 
 
or; love versus law. 151 
 
 between my father and you this morning, hut I shall not 
 inquire what it was. I only tell you frankly, that he has 
 expressed his disapprobation of our engagement, forbid- 
 den me to go on with it, and — * 
 
 " And, consequently, I release you from all engage- 
 ments and obligations to me, even before you ask it," 
 said Marion. 
 
 " You are extremely accommodating," replied Joseph; 
 " but I cannot promise to be so obliging in giving up 
 certain promises made to me, unless, indeed, the feelings 
 that dictated them should have changed." 
 
 M Oh, no — no, indeed," said Marion, earnestly ; " you 
 know it is not that ; but if your father objects to me — " 
 
 " If my father objects to you, he is welcome not to 
 marry you," said Joseph. 
 
 "Now, Joseph, do be serious," said Marion. 
 
 II, then, seriously, Marion, I know my obligation 
 to my father, and in all that relates to his comfort I will 
 ever be dutiful and submissive, for I have no college-boy 
 pride on the subject of submission ; but in a matter so 
 individually my own as the choice of a wife — in a mat- 
 Mit will most likely affect my happiness years and 
 years after he has ceased to be, I hold that I have a 
 right to consult my own inclinations, and, by your leave, 
 my dear little lady, I shall take that liberty." 
 
 " But, then, if your father is made angry, you know 
 what sort of a man he is; and how could I stand in the 
 way of all your prospects V* 
 
 " Why, my dear Marion, do you think I count myself 
 dependant upon my father, like the heir of an English 
 
If) 2 MARION JONES J 
 
 estate, who has nothing to do but sit still and wait for 
 money to come to him? No ! I have energy and edu- 
 cation to start with, and if I cannot take care of myself, 
 and you too, then cast me off and welcome ;" and, as 
 Joseph spoke, his fine face glowed with conscious power. 
 He paused a moment, and resumed : " Nevertheless, 
 Marion, I respect my father : whatever others may say 
 of him, I shall never forget that I owe to his hard earn- 
 ings the education that enables me to do or be anything, 
 and I shall not wantonly or rudely cross him. I do not 
 despair of gaining his consent ; my father has a great 
 partiality for pretty girls, and if his love of contradiction 
 is not kept awake by open argument, I will trust to time 
 and you to bring him round; but, whatever comes, rest 
 assured, my dearest one, I have chosen for life, and can- 
 not change." 
 
 The conversation, after this, took a turn which may 
 readily be imagined by all who have been in the same 
 situation, and will, therefore, need no farther illustration. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Dudley, railly I don't know what to think 
 now : there's my Joe, he's took and been a courting that 
 'ere Marion," said Uncle Jaw. 
 
 This was the introduction to one of Uncle Jaw's per- 
 iodical visits to Mr. Dudley, who was sitting with his 
 usual air of mild abstraction, looking into the coals of a 
 bright November fire, while his busy helpmate was indus- 
 triously rattling her knitting-needles by his side. 
 
 A close observer might have suspected that this was 
 no news to the good man, who had given a great deal of 
 good advice, in private, to Master Joseph of late ; but 
 
OR. LOVE VERSUS LAW. 153 
 
 he onlv relaxed his features into a quiet smile, and eja- 
 culated, " I want to know!" 
 
 " Yes ; and railly, that 'ere girl is a rail pretty un. I 
 was a tellin' my folks that our new minister's wife was a 
 fool to her." 
 
 " And so your son is going to marry her?" said the good 
 lady ; " I knew that long ago." 
 
 " Well — no — not so fast ; ye see there's two to that 
 bargain yet. You see, Joe, he never said a word to me, 
 but took and courted the girl out of his own head ; and 
 when I come to know, says I, ' Joe,' says I, ■ that 'ere 
 girl won't do for me ;' and I took and tell'd him, then, 
 about that 'ere old fence, and all about that old mill, and 
 them medders of mine ; and I tell'd him too about that 
 'ere lot of Marion's; and I should like to know now, how 
 that lot of business is a going to turn out." 
 
 " Judge Smith and Squire Moseley say that my claim 
 to it will stand," said the deacon. 
 
 " They do ?" said Uncle Jaw, with much satisfaction ; 
 " s'pose then you'll sue, won't you?" 
 
 u I don't know," replied he, meditatively. 
 
 Uncle Jaw wa9 thoroughly amazed : that any one 
 should have doubts about entering suit for a fine piece 
 of land, when sure of obtaining it, was a problem quite 
 beyond his powers of solving. 
 
 *' You say your son has courted the girl," said the 
 deacon, after a long pause; "that strip of land is the 
 best part of Marion's share; I paid down five hundred 
 dollars for it; I've got papers here that Judge Smith and 
 Squire I to e clcj say will stand good in any court of law." 
 
154 MARION JONESJ 
 
 Uncle Jaw pricked up his ears and was all attention, 
 eyeing with, eager looks the packet ; but, to his disap- 
 pointment, the deacon deliberately laid it into his desk, 
 shut and locked it, and resumed his seat. 
 
 " Now, railly," said Uncle Jaw, " I should like to know 
 the particulars." 
 
 ta Well, well," said Mr. Dudley, " the lawyers will be 
 at my house to-morrow evening, and if you have any 
 concern about it, you may as well come along." 
 
 Uncle Jaw wondered all the way home at what he 
 could have done to get himself into the confidence of the 
 old man, who, he rejoiced to think, was a going to " take,' 1 
 and go to law like other folks. 
 
 The next day there was an appearance of some bustle 
 and preparation about Mr. Dudley's house ; the best 
 room was opened and aired ; an ovenful of cake was 
 baked, and our friend Joseph, with a face full of business, 
 was seen passing to and fro, in and out of the house, 
 from various closetings with Mr. Dudley, whose lady 
 bustled about the house with an air of wonderful mys- 
 tery, and even gave her directions about eggs and raisins 
 in a whisper, lest they should possibly let out some event- 
 ful secret. 
 
 The afternoon of that day Joseph appeared at the 
 house of the sisters, stating that there was to be company 
 at Mr. Dudley's that evening, and he was sent to invite 
 them. 
 
 " Why, what's got into these folks lately," said Silence, 
 " to have company so often? Joe Adams, this 'ere is 
 some l cut up' of yours. Come, what are you up to now?" 
 
OR, LOVE VERSUS LAW. 
 
 "Come, come, dress yourselves and get ready," said 
 Joseph ; and, stepping up to Marion, as she was follow- 
 ing Silence out of the room, he whispered something 
 into her ear, at which she stopped short and coloured 
 violently. 
 
 " Why, Joseph, what do you mean ?" 
 
 " It is so/' said he. 
 
 * No, no, Joseph; no, I can't, indeed I can't." 
 ■ But you can, Marion." 
 
 " Oh, Joseph, don't." 
 "Oh, Marion, <fc." 
 
 • Why, how strange, Joseph !" 
 
 u Come, come, my dear, you keep me waiting. If you 
 have any objections on the score of propriety, we will 
 talk about them to-morrow;" and our hero looked so 
 saucy and so resolute that there was no disputing farther; 
 so, after a little more lingering and blushing on Marion's 
 part, and a few kisses and persuasions on the part of the 
 Buiter, Miss Marion seemed to be brought to a state of 
 resignation. 
 
 At a tahle in the middle of Mr. Dudley's north front 
 room were seated the two lawyers, whose legal opinion 
 was that evening to be fully made up. The younger of 
 these, Squire Moseley, was a rosy, portly, laughing little 
 bachelor, who boasted that he had offered himself, in 
 rotation, to every pretty girl within twenty miles round, 
 and, among others, to Marion Jones, notwithstanding 
 which he still remained a bachelor, with a fair prospect 
 of being an old one ; but none of these things disturbed 
 the boundless How of good nature and complacency with 
 
150 MARION JONES? 
 
 which he seemed at all time3 full to overflowing. On th< 
 present occasion he seemed to be particularly in his ele- 
 ment, as if he had some law business in hand remarkably 
 suited to his turn of mind ; for, on finishing the inspec- 
 tion of the papers, he started up, slapped his graver 
 brother on the back, made two or three flourishes rounc 
 the room, and then seizing Mr. Dudley's hand, shook it 
 violently, exclaiming, 
 
 "All's right, all's right ! hurrah !" 
 
 When Uncle Jaw entered, Mr. Dudley, without pre- 
 face, handed him a chair and the papers, saying, 
 
 " These papers are what you wanted to see. I just 
 wish you would read them over." 
 
 Uncle Jaw read them deliberately over. "Didn't I 
 tell ye so 1 The case is as clear as a bell : now ye will 
 go to law, won't you ?" 
 
 " Look here, Mr. Adams ; now you have seen these 
 papers, and heard what's to be said, I'll make you an 
 offer. Let your son marry Marion Jones, and I'll burn 
 these papers and say no more about it, and there won't 
 be a girl in the parish with a finer portion." 
 
 Uncle Jaw opened his eyes with amazement, and 
 looked at the old man, his mouth gradually expanding 
 wider and wider, as if he hoped, in time, to swallow the 
 idea. 
 
 " Well, now," at length he ejaculated. 
 
 u I mean just as I say," said the deacon. 
 
 " Why, that's the same as giving the girl five hundred 
 dollars out of your own pocket, and she an't no relation 
 neither." 
 
OR, LOVE VERSUS LAW. 157 
 
 u I know it," said the deacon; " but I have said I will 
 do it." 
 
 u What upon 'arth for?" said Uncle Jaw. 
 
 "To make peace," said the good man, "and to let 
 you know that when I say it is better to give up one's 
 rights than to quarrel, I mean so. I am an old man ; 
 my children are dead" — his voice faltered, — " my trea- 
 sures are laid up in heaven ; if I can make the children 
 happy, why, I will. When I thought I had lost the land, 
 I made up my mind to lose it, and so I can now." 
 
 Uncle Jaw looked fixedly on the old man and said, 
 1, well, I believe you. I vow, if you ha'n't got 
 something ahead in t'other world, I'd like to know who 
 has, that's all ; so, if Joe has no objections, and I rather 
 guess he won't have — " 
 
 " The short of the matter is," said the Squire, " we'll 
 have a wedding; so come on;" and with that he threw 
 open the parlour door, where stood Marion and Joseph in 
 a recess by the window, while Silence and the Rev. Mr. 
 Bissel were drawn up by the fire, and the lady of the 
 •house was sweeping up the hearth, as she had been doing 
 ever since the party arrived. 
 
 Instantly Joseph took the hand of Marion, and led 
 her to the middle of the room ; the merry Squire seized 
 the hand of Miss Silence and placed her as bridesmaid, 
 and before any one could open their mouths, the cere- 
 mony was in actual progress, and the minister, hating 
 been previously instructed, made the two one with extra- 
 ordinary eel 
 
 H What J what] what:" said Uncle Jaw. "Joseph! 
 Mr. Dudley ■" 
 
158 MARION jones; 
 
 " Fair bargain, sir," said the Squire. u Hand over 
 your papers, Mr. Dudley." 
 
 He handed them, and the Squire, having read them 
 aloud, proceeded, with much ceremony, to throw them 
 into the fire ; after which, in a mock solemn oration, he 
 gave a statement of the whole affair, and concluded with 
 a grave exhortation to the new couple on the duties of 
 wedlock, which unbent the risibles even of the minister 
 himself. 
 
 Uncle Jaw looked at his pretty daughter-in-law, who 
 stood half smiling, half blushing, receiving the congra- 
 tulations of the party, and then at Miss Silence, who ap- 
 peared full as much taken by surprise as himself. 
 
 " Well, well, Miss Silence, these 'ere young folks have 
 come round us smart enough," said he. ;c I don't see 
 but we must shake hands upon it." And the warlike 
 powers shook hands accordingly, which was a signal for 
 general merriment. 
 
 As the company were dispersing, Miss Silence laid 
 hold of good Mr. Dudley, and by main strength dragged 
 him aside : " Mr. Dudley," said she, " I take back all 
 that e'er I said about you, every word on't." 
 
 " Don't say any more about it, Miss Silence," said the 
 good man ; " it's gone by, and let it go." 
 
 " Joseph !" said his father, the next morning, as he 
 was sitting at breakfast with Joseph and Marion, " I cal- 
 culate I shall feel proud of this girl yet : and I'll tell you 
 what, I'll give you that nice little place that I took on 
 Stanton's mortgage : it's a nice little place with green 
 blinds, and flowers, and all them things, just right for 
 Marion." 
 
OR, LOVE VERSUS LAW. 159 
 
 And, accordingly, many happy years flew over the 
 heads of the young couple in the Stanton place, long 
 after the hoary hairs of their kind benefactor, the deacon, 
 were laid with reverence in the dust. Joseph's father 
 was so far wrought upon by the magnanimity of the good 
 old man, as to be very materially changed for the better. 
 Instead of quarrelling in real earnest all around the 
 neighbourhood, he confined himself merely to battling 
 the opposite side of every question with his son, which, 
 as the latter was somewhat of a logician, afforded a 
 pretty good field for the exercise of his powers. 
 
160 AUGUSTA HOWARD. 
 
 AUGUSTA HOWARD. 
 
 In business diligent, in spirit pure 
 And fervent 'gainst the ills of life secure, 
 By the fidelity that wins success, 
 By unrepining sense of happiness. 
 
 Anon. 
 
 u A ND so you will not sign this paper?" said Alfred 
 "*-** Melton to his cousin, a fine-looking young man, 
 who was lounging by the centre table. 
 
 " Not I, indeed. What in life have I to do with these 
 decidedly vulgar temperance pledges?" 
 
 " Come, come, Cousin Melton," said a brilliant, dark- 
 eyed girl, who had been lolling on the sofa during the 
 conference, " I beg of you to give over attempting to 
 evangelize Edward. You see, as Falstaff has it, ' he is 
 little better than one of the wicked.' You must not 
 waste such valuable temperance documents on him." 
 
 <: But, seriously, Melton, my good fellow," resumed 
 Edward, " this signing, and sealing, and pledging, is al- 
 together an unnecessary affair for me. My past and 
 present habits, my situation in life, — in short, everything 
 that can be mentioned with regard to me, goes against 
 
AUGUSTA HOWARD. 1 <U 
 
 the supposition of my ever becoming the slave of a vice 
 so debasing ; and this pledging myself to avoid it is 
 something altogether needless — nay, by implication, it is 
 degrading. As to what you say of my influence, I am 
 inclined to the opinion, that if every man will look to 
 himself, every man will be looked to. This modern no- 
 tion of tacking the whole responsibility of society on to 
 every individual, is one I am not at all inclined to adopt ; 
 for, first, I know it is a troublesome doctrine; and, se- 
 condly, I doubt if it be a true one. For both which rea- 
 sons, I shall decline extending it my patronage." 
 
 " Well, positively," exclaimed the lady, " you gentle- 
 men have the gift of continuance in an uncommon de- 
 gree. You have discussed this matter backward and 
 forward till I am ready to perish. I will take the matter 
 in hand myself, and sign a temperance pledge for Ed- 
 ward, and see that he gets into none of those naughty 
 courses upon which you have been so pathetic." 
 
 M I dare say," said Melton, glancing on her brilliant 
 face with evident admiration, " that you will be the best 
 temperance pledge he could have. But every man, cou- 
 sin, may not be so fortunate." 
 
 " But, Melton," said Edward, " seeing my steady ha- 
 bits are so well provided for, you must carry your logic 
 and eloquence to some poor fellow less favoured." And 
 thus the conference ended. 
 
 " What a good, disinterested fellow Melton is !" said 
 Edward, after he hid left. 
 
 " Yes, good as the day is long," said Augusta, " but 
 rather prusy, after all. T M temperance busi- 
 
 L 
 
162 AUGUSTA HOWARD. 
 
 ness ! One never hears the end of it now-a-days. Tem- 
 perance papers — temperance tracts — temperance hotels — 
 temperance this, that, and the other thing, even down to 
 temperance pocket-handkerchiefs for little boys ! Really, 
 the world is getting intemperately temperate." 
 
 " Ah, well ! with the security you have offered, Au- 
 gusta, I shall dread no temptation." 
 
 Though there was nothing peculiar in these words, yet 
 there was a certain earnestness of tone that called the 
 colour into the face of Augusta, and set her to sewing 
 with uncommon assiduity. And thereupon Edward pro- 
 ceeded with some remark about " guardian angels," to- 
 gether with many other things of the kind, which, though 
 they contain no more that is new than a temperance lec- 
 ture, always seem to have a peculiar freshness to people 
 in certain circumstances. In fact, before the hour was 
 at an end, Edward and Augusta had forgotten where they 
 began, and had wandered far into that land of anticipa- 
 tions and bright dreams, which surrounds the young and 
 loving before they eat of the tree of experience, and gain 
 the fatal knowledge of good and evil. 
 
 But here, stopping our sketching pencil, let us throw 
 in a little back ground and perspective that will enable 
 our readers to preceive more readily the entire picture. 
 
 Edward Howard was a young man whose brilliant 
 talents and captivating manners had placed him first in 
 the society in which he moved. Though without pro- 
 perty or weight of family connexions, he had become a 
 leader in the circles where these appendages are most 
 considered, and there were none of their immunities and 
 privileges that were not freely at his disposal. 
 
 
AUGUSTA noWARD. 163 
 
 Augusta Elmore was conspicuous in all that lies with- 
 in the sphere of feminine attainment. She was an orphan, 
 and accustomed from a very early age to the free enjoy- 
 ment and control of an independent property. This cir- 
 cumstance, doubtless, added to the magic of her per- 
 sonal graces in procuring for her that flattering deference 
 which beauty and wealth secure. 
 
 Her mental powers were naturally superior, although, 
 from want of motive, they had received no development, 
 except such as would secure success in society. Native 
 good sense, with great strength of feeling and indepen- 
 dence of mind, had saved her from becoming heartless 
 and frivolous. She was better fitted to lead and to in- 
 fluence than to be influenced or led. And hence, though 
 not swayed by any habitual sense of moral responsibility, 
 the tone of her character seemed altogether more ele- 
 vated than the average of fashionable society. 
 
 General expectation had united the destiny of two 
 persons who seemed every way fitted for each other, and, 
 for once, general expectation did not err. A few months 
 after the interview mentioned were witnessed the fes- 
 and congratulations of their brilliant and happy 
 marriage. 
 
 Never did two young persons commence life under 
 happier auspices. " What an exact match !" " What a 
 beautiful couple !" said all the gossips. " They seem 
 made for each other," said every one ; and so thought 
 the happy lovers themselves. 
 
 Love, which, with persons of strong character, is always 
 an earnest and sobering principle, had made them 
 thoughtful and considerate; and as they looked forward 
 
164 AUGUSTA HOWARD. 
 
 
 to future life, and talked of the days before them, their 
 plans and ideas were as rational as any plans can be, 
 when formed entirely with reference to this life, with- 
 out any regard to another. 
 
 For a while their absorbing attachment to each other 
 tended to withdraw them from the temptations and allure- 
 ments of company, and many a long winter evening 
 passed delightfully in the elegant quietude of home, as 
 they read, and sang, and talked of the past, and dream- 
 ed of the future in each other's society. But, contra- 
 dictory as it may appear to the theory of the sentimen- 
 talist, it is nevertheless a fact, that two persons cannot 
 always find sufficient excitement in talking to each other 
 merely; and this is specially true of those to whom high 
 excitement has been a necessary of life. After a while, 
 the young couple, though loving each other none the 
 less, began to respond to the many calls which invited 
 them again into society, and the pride they felt in each 
 other added zest to the pleasures of their return. 
 
 As the gaze of admiration followed the graceful 
 motions of the beautiful wife, and the whispered tribute 
 went round the circle whenever she entered, Edward felt 
 a pride beyond all that flattery, addressed to himself, 
 had ever excited ; and Augusta, when told of the con- 
 vivial talents and powers of entertainment which distin- 
 guished her husband, could not resist the temptation of 
 urging him into society even oftener than his own wishes 
 would have led him. 
 
 Alas ! neither of them knew the perils of constant 
 excitement, nor supposed that, in thus alienating them- 
 
AUGUSTA HOWARD. 165 
 
 selves from the pure and simple pleasures of home, they 
 were risking their whole capital of happiness. It is in 
 indulging the first desire for extra stimulus that the first 
 and deepest danger to domestic peace lies. Let that 
 stimulus be either bodily or mental, its effects are alike 
 to be dreaded. 
 
 The man or the woman to whom habitual excitement 
 of any kind has become essential, has taken the first step 
 towards ruin. In the case of a woman, it leads to dis- 
 content, fretfulness, and dissatisfaction with the quiet 
 duties of domestic life ; in the case of a man, it leads 
 almost invariably to animal stimulus, ruinous alike to 
 the powers of body and mind. 
 
 Augusta, fondly trusting to the virtue of her husband, 
 saw no danger in the constant round of engagements 
 which were gradually drawing his attention from the 
 graver cares of business, from the pursuit of self-improve- 
 ment, and from the love of herself. Already there was in 
 her horizon the cloud " as big as a man's hand" — the pre- 
 cursor of future darkness and tempest ; but, too confi- 
 dent and buoyant, she saw it not. 
 
 It was not until the cares and duties of a mother 
 began to confine her at home, that she first felt, with a 
 startling sensation of fear, that there was an alteration in 
 her husband, though even then the change was so shadowy 
 and indefinite that it could not be defined by words. 
 
 It was known by that quick, prophetic sense, which 
 reveals to the heart of woman the first variation in' the 
 pulse of affection, though it be so slight that no other 
 touch can detect it. 
 
166 AUGUSTA HOWARD. 
 
 Edward was still fond, affectionate, admiring ; and 
 when he tendered her all the little attentions demanded 
 by her situation, or caressed and praised his beautiful 
 son, she felt satisfied and happy. But when she saw 
 that, even without her, the convivial circle had its attrac- 
 tions, and that he could leave her to join it, she sighed, 
 she scarce knew why. " Surely," she said, " I am not so 
 selfish as to wish to rob him of pleasure because I can- 
 not enjoy it with him. But yet, once he told me there 
 was no pleasure where I was not. Alas ! is it true, what 
 I have so often heard, that such feelings cannot always 
 last]" 
 
 Poor Augusta ! she knew not how deep reason she had 
 to fear. She saw not the temptations that surrounded 
 her husband in the circles where, to all the stimulus of 
 wit and intellect was often added the zest of wine, used 
 far too freely for safety. 
 
 Already had Edward become familiar with a degree of 
 physical excitement which touches the very verge of in- 
 toxication; yet, strong in self-confidence, and deluded 
 by the customs of society, he dreamed not of danger. 
 The traveller who has passed above the rapids of Niagara 
 may have noticed the spot where the first white spark- 
 ling ripple announces the downward tendency of the 
 waters. All here is brilliancy and beauty; and as the 
 waters ripple and dance in the sunbeam, they seem only 
 as if inspired by a spirit of new life, and not as hasten- 
 ing to a dreadful fall. So the first approach to intem- 
 perance, that ruins both body and soul, seems only like 
 the buoyancy and exulting freshness of a new life, and 
 
AUGUSTA noWAHD. 1^7 
 
 tUe unconscious voyager feels his bark undulating with. 
 a thrill of delight, ignorant of the inexorable hurry, the 
 tremendous sweep, with which the laughing waters urge 
 him on beyond the reach of hope or recovery. 
 
 It was at this period in the life of Edward that one 
 judicious and manly friend, who would have had the 
 courage to point out to him the danger that every one 
 else perceived, might have saved him. But among the 
 circle of his acquaintances there was none such. "Let 
 evert/ man mind his own business" was the universal 
 maxim. True, heads were gravely shaken, and Mr. A. 
 regretted to Mr. B. that so promising a young man seem- 
 ed about to ruin himself. But one was " no relation''' of 
 Edward's, and the other " felt a delicacy in speaking on 
 such a subject," and therefore, according to a very 
 ancient precedent, they " passed by on the other side." 
 Yet it was at Mr. A.'s sideboard, always sparkling with 
 the choicest wine, that he had felt the first excitement of 
 extra stimulus; it was at Mr. B.'s house that the convivial 
 club began to hold their meetings, which, after a time, 
 found a more appropriate place in a public hotel. It is 
 thus that the sober, the regular, and the discreet, whose 
 constitution saves them from liabilities to excess, will 
 accompany the ardent and excitable to the very verge of 
 danger, and then wonder at their want of self-control. 
 
 It was a cold winter evening, and the wind whistled 
 drearily around the closed shutters of the parlour in 
 which Augusta was sitting. Everything around her bore 
 the marks of elegance and comfort. 
 
 idid books and engravings lay about in every 
 
368 AUGUSTA HOWARD. 
 
 . 
 
 direction. Vases of rare and costly flowers exhaled per- 
 fume, and magnificent mirrors multiplied every object. 
 All spoke of luxury and repose, save the anxious and 
 sad countenance of its mistress. 
 
 It was late, and she had watched anxiously for her 
 husband for many long hours. She drew out her gold 
 and diamond repeater, and looked at it. It was long 
 past midnight. She sighed as she remembered the 
 pleasant evenings they had passed together, as her eye 
 fell on the books they had read together, and on her 
 piano and harp, now silent, and thought of all he had 
 said and looked in those days when each was all to the 
 other. 
 
 She was aroused from this melancholy reverie by a 
 loud knocking at the street door. She hastened to open 
 it, but started back at the sight it disclosed — her hus- 
 band borne by four men. 
 
 "Dead! is he dead V she screamed, in agony. 
 
 " No, ma'am," said one of the men, te but he might as 
 well be dead as in such a fix as this." 
 
 The whole truth, in all its degradation, flashed on the 
 mind of Augusta. Without a question or comment, she 
 motioned to the sofa in the parlour, and her husband 
 was laid there. She locked the street door, and when the 
 last retreating footstep had died away, she turned to the 
 sofa, and stood gazing in fixed and almost stupefied 
 silence on the face of her senseless husband. 
 
 At once she realized the whole of her fearful lot. She 
 saw before her the blight of her own affections, the ruin 
 of her helpless children, the disgrace and misery of her 
 
AUGUSTA nOWARD. 1G9 
 
 husband. She looked around her in helpless despair, for 
 she well knew the power of the vice whose deadly seal 
 was set upon her husband. As one who is struggling 
 and sinking in the waters casts a last dizzy glance at the 
 green sunny banks and distant trees which seem sliding 
 from his view, so did all the scenes of her happy days 
 pass in a moment before her, and she groaned aloud in 
 bitterness of spirit. " Great God ! help me — help me !" 
 she prayed. " Save him — oh, save my husband !" 
 
 Augusta was a woman of no common energy of spirit, 
 and when the first wild burst of anguish was over, she 
 resolved not to be wanting to her husband and children 
 in a crisis so dreadful. 
 
 " When he wakes," she mentally exclaimed, " I will 
 warn and implore ; I will pour out my whole soul to save 
 him. My poor husband, you have been misled — be- 
 trayed. But you are too good — too generous — too noble 
 to be sacrificed without a struggle." 
 
 It was late the next morning before the stupor in 
 which Edward was plunged began to pass off. He slowly 
 opened his eyes, started up wildly, gazed hurriedly 
 around the room, till his eye met the fixed and sor- 
 rowful gaze of his wife. The past instantly flashed upon 
 him, and a deep flush passed over his countenance. 
 There was a dead, a solemn silence, until Augusta, yield- 
 ing to her agony, threw herself into his arms, and wept. 
 " Then you do not hate me, Augusta?" said he, sor- 
 rowfully. 
 
 c you — never! but oh, Edward— Edward, what 
 has beguiled you /" 
 
173 AUGUSTA HOWARfl. 
 
 "■' My wife, you once promised to be my guardian in 
 virtue — such you are, and will be. Oh, Augusta ! you 
 have looked on what you shall never see again — never — 
 never — so help me God !" said he, looking up with solemn 
 earnestness. 
 
 And Augusta, as she gazed on the noble face, the ar- 
 dent expression of sincerity and remorse, could not doubt 
 that her husband was saved. But Edward's plan of re- 
 formation had one grand defect. It was merely modifi- 
 cation and retrenchment, and not entire abandonment. 
 He could not feel it necessary to cut himself off entirely 
 from the scenes and associations where temptation had 
 met him. He considered not that, when the temperate 
 flow of the blood and the even balance of the nerves have 
 once been destroyed, there is, ever after, a double and 
 fourfold liability, which often makes a man the sport of 
 the first untoward chance. 
 
 He still contrived to stimulate sufficiently to prevent 
 the return of a calm and healthy state of the mind and 
 body, and to make constant self-control and watchfulness 
 necessary. 
 
 It is a great mistake to call nothing intemperance but 
 that degree of physical excitement which completely 
 overthrows the mental powers. There is a state of 
 nervous excitability, resulting from what is often called 
 moderate stimulation, which often long precedes this, 
 and is, in regard to it, like the premonitory warnings of 
 the fatal cholera, an unsuspected draught on the vital 
 powers, from which, at any moment, they may sink into 
 irremediable collapse. It is in this state, often, that the 
 
AUGUSTA HOWARD. 171 
 
 spirit of gambling or of wild speculation is induced by 
 the morbid cravings of an overstimulated system. Un- 
 satisfied with the healthy and regular routine of busi- 
 ness, and the laws of gradual and solid prosperity, the 
 excited and unsteady imagination leads its subjects to 
 daring risks, with the alternative of unbounded gain on 
 the one side, or of utter ruin on the other. And when, 
 as is too often the case, that ruin comes, unrestrained 
 and desperate intemperance is the wretched resort to 
 allay the ravings of disappointment and despair. 
 
 Such was the case with Edward. He had lost his in- 
 terest in his regular business, and he embarked the bulk 
 of his property in a brilliant scheme then in vogue ; and 
 when he found a crisis coming, threatening ruin and 
 beggary, he had recourse to the fatal stimulus, which, 
 •las ! he had never wholly abandoned. 
 
 At this time he spent some months in a distant city, 
 separated from his wife and family, while the insidious 
 power of temptation daily increased, as he kept up, by 
 artificial stimulus, the flagging vigour of his mind and 
 nervous system. 
 
 It came at last — the blow which shattered alike his 
 brilliant dreams and his real prosperity. The large for- 
 tune brought by his wife vanished in a moment, so that 
 scarcely a pittance remained in his hands. From the 
 distant city where he had been to superintend his 
 schemes, he thus wrote to his too confiding wife : 
 
 u Augusta, all is over ! expect no more from your 
 husband— believe no more of his promises — for he is lest 
 to you and to him. Augusta, our property is gone ; your 
 
172 AUGUSTA HOWARD. 
 
 property, which I have blindly risked, is all swallowei 
 up. But is that the worst ? No, no, Augusta, I am los 
 — lost, body and soul, and as irretrievably as the perish- 
 ing riches I have squandered. Once I had energy — 
 health — nerve — resolution ; but all are gone : yes, yes, 
 have yielded — I do yield daily to what is at once my 
 tormentor and my temporary refuge from intolerable 
 misery. You remember the sad hour you first knew your 
 husband was a drunkard. Your look on that morning of 
 misery — shall I ever forget it ! Yet, blind and confiding 
 as you were, how soon did your ill-judged confidence in 
 me return. Yain hopes ! I was even then past recovery 
 — even then sealed over to blackness of darkness for 
 ever. 
 
 " Alas ! my wife, my peerless wife, why am I your 
 husband 1 why the father of such children as you have 
 given me ? Is there nothing in your unequalled loveli- 
 ness--nothing in the innocence of our helpless babes, 
 that is powerful enough to recall me 1 — no, there is not. 
 
 " Augusta, you know not the dreadful gnawing, the 
 intolerable agony of this master passion. I walk the 
 floor — I think of my own dear home, my high hopes, my 
 proud expectations, my children, my treasured wife, my 
 own immortal spirit — I feel that I am sacrificing all — 
 feel it till I am withered with agony ; but the hour comes 
 — the burning hour, and all is in vain. I shall return to 
 you no more, Augusta. All the little wreck I have saved, 
 I send ; you have friends, relatives — above all, you have 
 an energy of mind, a capacity of resolute action, beyond 
 that of ordinary women, and you shall never be bound — 
 
AUGUSTA HOWARD. 173 
 
 the living to the dead. True, you will suffer, thus to 
 burst the bonds that unite us ; but be resolute, for you 
 will suffer more to watch from day to day the slow work- 
 ings of death and ruin in your husband. Would you 
 stay with me, to see every vestige of what you once 
 loved passing away ; to endure the caprice, the morose- 
 ness, the delirious anger of one no longer master of 
 himself ? Would you make your children victims and 
 fellow-sufferers with you ? No ! dark and dreadful is 
 my path ; I will walk it alone : no one shall go with me. 
 " In some peaceful retirement you may concentrate 
 your strong feelings upon your children, and bring them 
 up to fill a place in your heart which a worthless husband 
 has abandoned. If I leave you now, you will remember 
 me as I have been — you will love me and weep for me 
 when dead ; but if you stay with me your love will be 
 worn out ; I shall become the object of disgust and 
 loathing. Therefore farewell, my wife — my first, best 
 love, farewell ! with you I part with hope, 
 
 * And, with hope, farewell fear, 
 Farewell remorse : all good to me is lost : 
 Eril, be thou my good.' 
 
 This is a wild strain, but fit for me : do not seek for me, 
 do not write : nothing can save me." 
 
 Thus abruptly began and ended the letter that con- 
 veyed to Augusta the death-doom of her hopes. There 
 are moments of agony when the most worldly heart is 
 pressed upward to God, even as a weight will force 
 upward the reluctant water. Augusta had been a gene- 
 rous, a high-minded, an affectionate woman, but she Lad 
 
174 AUGUSTA HOWARD. 
 
 lived entirely for this world. Her chief good had been 
 her husband and her children. These had been her 
 pride, her reliance, her dependance. Strong in her own 
 resources, she had never felt the need of looking to a 
 higher power for assistance and happiness. But when 
 this letter fell from her trembling hand, her heart died 
 within .her at its wild and reckless bitterness. 
 
 In her desperation she looked up to God. "What 
 have I to live for now 1" was the first feeling of her heart. 
 
 But she repressed this iniquity of selfish agony, and 
 besought Almighty assistance to nerve her weakness ', 
 and here first began that practical acquaintance with the 
 truths and hopes of religion which changed her whole 
 character. 
 
 The possibility of blind, confiding idolatry of any 
 earthly object was swept away by the fall of her husband, 
 and with the full energy of a decided and desolate spirit, 
 she threw herself on the protection of an Almighty 
 helper. She followed her husband to the city whither 
 he had gone, found him, and vainly attempted to save. 
 
 There were the usual alternations of short-lived reform- 
 ations, exciting hopes only to be destroyed. There was 
 the gradual sinking of the body, the decay of moral 
 feeling and principle — the slow but sure approach of 
 disgusting animalism, which marks the progress of the 
 drunkard. 
 
 It was some years after that a small and partly ruinous 
 
 tenement in the outskirts of A received a new family. 
 
 The group consisted of four children, whose wan and 
 wistful countenances, and still, un childlike deportment, 
 
AUGUSTA HOWARD. 175 
 
 testified an early acquaintance with want and sorrow. 
 There was the mother, foded and care-worn, whose dark 
 and melancholy eyes, pale cheeks, and compressed lips, 
 told of years of anxiety and endurance. There was the 
 father, with haggard face, unsteady step, and that callous, 
 reckless air, that betrayed Jong familiarity with degrada- 
 tion and crime. Who that had seen Edward Howard in 
 the morning and freshness of his days, could have recog- 
 ised him in this miserable husband and father ; or who, 
 in this worn and wc-stricken woman, would have known 
 the beautiful, brilliant, and accomplished Augusta ? Yet 
 such changes are not fancy, as many a bitter and broken 
 heart can testify. 
 
 Augusta had come with her husband to a city where 
 they were wholly unknown, that she might at least 
 escape the degradation of their lot in the presence of 
 those who had known them in better days. The long 
 and dreadful struggle that annihilated the hopes of this 
 life, had raised her feelings to rest upon the next, and 
 the habit of communion with God, induced by sorrows 
 which nothing else could console, had given a tender 
 dignity to her character such as nothing else could 
 bestow. 
 
 Poverty, deep poverty, had followed their steps, but 
 yet she had not fainted. Talents, which in her happier 
 days had been nourished merely as luxuries, were now 
 stretched to the utmost to furnish a support ; while from 
 the resources of her own reading she drew that which 
 lail the foundation for early mental culture in fcer 
 children. 
 
176 AUGUSTA HOWARD. 
 
 Augusta had been here hut a few weeks before her 
 footsteps were traced by her only brother, who had lately 
 discovered her situation, and urged her to forsake her 
 unworthy husband and find refuge with him. 
 
 " Augusta, my sister, I have found you !" he exclaimed, 
 
 
 as he suddenly entered one {lay, while she was busied 
 with the work of her family, 
 
 u Henry, my dear brother !" There was a momentary 
 illumination of countenance accompanying these words, 
 which soon faded into a mournful quietness as she cast 
 her eyes around on the scanty accommodations and mean 
 apartment. 
 
 " I see how it is, Augusta ; step by step, you are 
 sinking— dragged down by a vain sense of duty to one 
 no longer worthy. I cannot bear it any longer ; I have 
 come to take you away." 
 
 Augusta turned from him, and looked abstractedly out 
 of the window. Her features settled in thought. Their 
 expression gradually deepened from their usual tone of 
 mild, resigned sorrow to one of keen anguish. 
 
 " Henry," said she, turning towards him, " never was 
 mortal woman so blessed in another as I was once in him. 
 How can I forget it 1 Who knew him in those days that 
 did not admire and love him 1 They tempted and 
 ensnared him ; and even I urged him into the path of 
 danger. He fell, and there was none to help. I urged 
 reformation, and he again and again promised, resolved, 
 and began. But again they tempted him — even his very 
 best friends ; yes, and that, too, when they knew his 
 danger. They led him on as far as it was safe for them 
 
AUGUSTA HOWARI>. 177 
 
 to go, and when the sweep of his more excitable tem- 
 perament took him past the point of safety and decency, 
 they stood by and coolly wondered and lamented. How 
 often was he led on by such heartless friends to humili- 
 ating falls, and then driven to desperation by the cold 
 look, averted faces, and cruel sneers of those whose 
 medium temperament and cooler blood saved them from 
 the snares which they saw were enslaving him. What if 
 / had forsaken him then ? What account should I have 
 rendered to God ? Every time a friend has been alienated 
 by his comrades, it has seemed to seal him with another 
 seal. I am his wife — and mine will be the last. Henry, 
 when I leave him, I know his eternal ruin is sealed. I 
 cannot do it now ; a little longer — a little longer ; the 
 hour, I see, must come. I know my duty to my children 
 forbids me to keep them here ; take them — they are my 
 last earthly comforts, Henry — but you must take them 
 away. It may be — oh God— perhaps it must be, that I 
 ^h.tll soon follow, but not till I have tried once more. 
 What is this present life to one who has suffered as I 
 hare ? Nothing. But eternity. Oh, Henry ! eternity — 
 how can I abandon him to everlasting despair ? Under 
 the breaking of my heart I have borne up. I have borne 
 up under all that can try a woman ; but this thought — * 
 She stopped, and seemed struggling with herself ; but at 
 last, borne down by a tide of agony, she leaned her head 
 ; the tears streamed through her fingers, 
 and her whole frame shook with convulsive sobs. 
 
 Bet brother wept with her; nor dared he again U) 
 touch the point so solemnly guarded. The next day 
 
 M 
 
178 AUGUSTA HOWARD. 
 
 Augusta parted from her children, hoping something 
 from feelings that possibly might be stirred by their ab- 
 sence in the bosom of their father. 
 
 It was about a week after this that Augusta one even- 
 ing presented herself at the door of a rich Mr. L , 
 
 whose princely mansion was one of the ornaments of the 
 
 city of A . It was not till she reached the sumptuous 
 
 drawing-room that she recognised in Mr. L one 
 
 whom she and her husband had frequently met in the 
 gay circles of their early life. Altered as she was, Mr. 
 
 L did not recognise her, but compassionately handed 
 
 her a chair, and requested her to wait the return of his 
 lady, who was out; and then turning, he resumed his 
 conversation with another gentleman. 
 
 " Now, Dallas," said he, " you are altogether excessive 
 and intemperate in this matter. Society is not to be re- 
 formed by every man directing his efforts towards his 
 neighbour, but by every man taking care of himself. It 
 is you and I, my dear sir, who must begin with ourselves, 
 and every other man must do the same ; and then society 
 will be effectually reformed. Now this modern way, by 
 which every man considers it his duty to attend to the 
 spiritual matters of his next-door neighbour, is taking 
 the business at the wrong end altogether. It makes a 
 vast deal of appearance, but it does very little good." 
 
 " But suppose your neighbour feels no disposition to 
 attend to his own improvement — what then V 1 
 
 "Why, then it is his own concern, and not mine. 
 What my Maker requires is, that I do my duty, and not 
 fret about my neighbour's." 
 
AUGUSTA HOWARD. 179 
 
 ■ But, my friend, that is the very question. What is 
 the duty your Maker requires? Does it not include 
 some regard to your neighbour, some care and thought 
 for his interest and improvement ?" 
 
 " Well, well, I do that by setting a good example. I 
 do not mean by example what you do — that is, that I am 
 to stop drinking wine because it may lead him to drink 
 brandy, any more than that I must stop eating because 
 he may eat too much and become a dyspeptic — but that 
 I am to use my wine, and everything else, temperately 
 and decently, and thus set him a good example." 
 
 The conversation was here interrupted by the return 
 
 of Mrs. L . It recalled, in all its freshness, to the 
 
 mind of Augusta the days when both she and her hus- 
 band had thus spoken and thought. 
 
 Ah ! how did these sentiments appear to her now, 
 lonely, helpless, forlorn — the wife of a ruined husband — 
 the mother of more than orphan children. How different 
 from what they seemed, when, secure in ease, in wealth, 
 in gratified affections, she thoughtlessly echoed the 
 common phraseology, " Why must people concern them- 
 selves so much in their neighbours' affairs? Let every 
 man mind his own business." 
 
 Augusta received in silence from Mrs. L the fine 
 
 sewing for which she came, and left the room. 
 
 en," said Mr. L to his wife, "that poor 
 
 woman must be in trouble of some kind or other. You 
 must go some time, and see if anything can be done for 
 her." 
 
 " How singular!"' Mid Mrs. L ; "she reminds me 
 
180 AUGUSTA HOWARD. 
 
 all the time of Augusta Howard. You remember her. 
 my dear?" 
 
 " Yes, poor thing! and her husband too. That was a 
 shocking affair of Edward Howard's. I hear that he be- 
 came an intemperate, worthless fellow. Who could have 
 thought it !" 
 
 "But you recollect, my dear," said Mrs. L , " I pre- 
 dicted it six months before it was talked of. You re- 
 member, at the wine-party which you gave after Mary's 
 wedding, he was so excited that he was hardly decent. 
 I mentioned then that he was getting into dangerous 
 ways. But he was such an excitable creature, that two 
 or three glasses would put him quite beside himself. 
 And there is George Eldon, who takes off his ten or 
 twelve glasses, and no one suspects it." 
 
 "Well, it was a great pity," replied Mr. L ; 
 
 " Howard was worth a dozen George Eldons." 
 
 u Do you suppose," said Dallas, who had listened thus 
 far in silence, " that if he had moved in a circle where 
 it was the universal custom to banish all stimulating 
 drinks, he would thus have fallen V ' 
 
 "I cannot say," said Mr. L ; "perhaps not." 
 
 Mr. Dallas was a gentleman of fortune and leisure, 
 and of an ardent and enthusiastic temperament. What- 
 ever engaged him absorbed his whole soul; and, of late 
 years, his mind had become deeply engaged in schemes 
 of philanthropy for the improvement of his fellow-men. 
 He had, in his benevolent ministrations, often passed the 
 dwelling of Edward, and was deeply interested in the 
 pale and patient wife and mother. He made acquain- 
 
AUGUSTA HOWARD. 181 
 
 tance with her through the aid of her children, and, in 
 one way and another, learned particulars of their his- 
 tory that awakened the deepest interest and concern. 
 W but a mind as sanguine as his would have dreamed 
 of attempting to remedy such hopeless misery by the re- 
 formation of him who was its cause. But such a plan 
 had actually occurred to him. The remarks of Mr. and 
 
 Mrs. L recalled the idea, and he soon found that his 
 
 projected protege was the very Edward Howard whose 
 early history was thus disclosed. He learned all the 
 minutiae from these his early associates without disclos- 
 ing his aim, and left them still more resolved upon his 
 benevolent plan. 
 
 He watched his opportunity when Edward was free 
 from the influence of stimulus, and it was just after the 
 loss of his children had called forth some remains of his 
 better nature. Gradually and kindly he tried to touch 
 the springs of his mind, and awaken some of its buried 
 ilities. 
 
 "It is in vain, Mr. Dallas, to talk thus to me," said 
 Edward, when one day, with the strong eloquence of 
 excited feeling, he painted the motives for attempting 
 reformation; "you might as well try to reclaim the lost 
 in hell. Do you think," he continued, in a wild, deter- 
 mined manner, " do you think I do not know all you can 
 tell me ? I have it all by heart, sir; no one can preach 
 such discourses as I can on this subject : I know all — 
 believe all — as the devils believu and tremble." 
 
 " Ay, but," said Dallas, " to you tfiere is hope; you are 
 mot to ruin yourself for ever." 
 
 *' And who are you, to speak to me iu this wav?" said 
 
182 AUGUSTA HOWARD. 
 
 _ 
 
 Edward, looking up from his sullen despair with a gleam 
 of curiosity, if not of hope. 
 
 " God's messenger to you, Edward Howard," said 
 Dallas, fixing his keen eye upon him solemnly, " to you, 
 Edward Howard, who have thrown away talents, hope, 
 and health — who have blasted the heart of your wife, 
 and beggared your suffering children. To you I am the 
 messenger of your God — by me he offers health, and 
 hope, and self-respect, and the regard of your fellow- 
 men. You may heal the broken heart of your wife, 
 and give back a father to your helpless children. Think 
 of it, Howard: what if it where possible? only suppose 
 it. What would it be again to feel yourself a man, be- 
 loved and respected as you once were, with a happy 
 home, a cheerful wife, and smiling little ones ? Think 
 how you could repay your poor wife for all her tears ! 
 What hinders you from gaining all this ? 
 
 " Just what hindered the rich man in hell — * between 
 us there is a great gulf fixed? it lies between me and all 
 that is good; my wife, my children, my hope of heaven* 
 are all on the other side." 
 
 "Ay, but this gulf can be passed: Howard, what 
 would you give to be a temperate man?" 
 
 " What would I give ?" said Howard— he thought for 
 a moment, and burst into tears. 
 
 " Ah, I see how it is," said Dallas; " you need a friend, 
 and God has sent you one." 
 
 " What can you do for me, Mr. Dallas?" said Edward, 
 in a tone of wonder at the confidence of his assurances. 
 
 "I will tell you what I can do: I can take you to my 
 
AUGUSTA HOWARD. 183 
 
 house, and give you a room, and watch over you until 
 the strongest temptations are past. I can give you busi- 
 ness again. I can do all for you that needs to be done, 
 if you will give yourself to my care." 
 
 "Oh God of mercy!" exclaimed the unhappy man, 
 "is there hope for me? I cannot believe it possi- 
 ble ; but take me where you choose— I will follow and 
 obey." 
 
 A few hours witnessed the transfer of the lost husband 
 to one of the retired apartments in the elegant mansion 
 of Dallas, where he found his anxious and grateful wife 
 still stationed as his watchful guardian. 
 
 Medical treatment, healthful exercise, useful employ- 
 ment, simple food, and pure water, were connected with 
 a personal supervision by Dallas, which, while gently 
 and politely sustained, at first amounted to actual im- 
 prisonment. 
 
 For a time the reaction from the sudden suspension of 
 habitual stimulus was dreadful, and even with tears did 
 the unhappy man entreat to be permitted to abandon 
 the undertaking. But the resolute steadiness of Dallas 
 and the tender entreaties of his wife prevailed. It is 
 true that he might be said to be saved " so as by fire ;" 
 for a fever, and a long and fierce delirium, wasted him 
 almost to the borders of the grave. 
 
 But, at length, the struggle between life and death was 
 over, and though it left him stretched on the bed of sick- 
 ness, emaciated and weak, yet he was restored to his 
 right mind, and was conscious of returning health. Let 
 any one who has laid a friend in the grave, and known 
 
184 AUGUSTA jaOWARD. 
 
 what it is to have the heart fail with longing for them 
 day by day, imagine the dreamy and unreal joy of Au- 
 gusta when she began again to see in Edward the hus- 
 band so long lost to her. It was as if the grave had 
 given back the dead ! 
 
 " Augusta !" said he, faintly, as, after a long and 
 quiet sleep, he awoke free from delirium. She bent over 
 him. u Augusta, I am redeemed — I am saved — I feel in 
 myself that I am made whole." 
 
 The high heart of Augusta melted at these words. 
 She trembled and wept. JHer husband wept also, and 
 after a pause he continued : 
 
 " It is more than being restored to this life — I feel 
 that it is the beginning of eternal life. It is the Saviour 
 who sought me out, and I know that he is able to keep 
 me from falling." 
 
 But we will draw a veil over a scene which words 
 have little power to paint. 
 
 "Pray, Pallas," said Mr. L , one day, "who is 
 
 that fine-looking young man whom I met in your office 
 this morning 1 I thought his face seemed familiar." 
 
 " It is a Mr. Howard— a young lawyer whom I have 
 lately taken into business with me," 
 
 "Strange! impossible!" said Mr. I- — . "Surely 
 this cannot be the Howard that I once knew'?" 
 
 " I believe he is," said Mr. Dallas, 
 
 " Why, I thought he was gone — dead and done over, 
 long ago, with intemperance." 
 
 " He was so ; few have ever sunk lower ; but he now 
 promises even to outdo all that was hoped of him." 
 
AUGUSTA HOWARD. 185 
 
 " Strange ! Why, Dallas, what did bring about this 
 change T 
 
 " I feel a delicacy in mentioning how it came about, 
 
 to you, Mr. L , as there undoubtedly was a great 
 
 deul of ' interference with other men's matters' in the 
 business. In short, the young man fell in the way of 
 one of those meddlesome fellows, who go prowling about, 
 distributing tracts, forming temperance societies, and all 
 that sort of stuff." 
 
 " Come, come, Dallas," said Mr. L , smiling, " I 
 
 must hear the story, for all that." 
 
 •• First call with me at this house," said Dallas, 
 stopping before the door of a neat little mansion. They 
 were soon in the parlour. The first sight that met their 
 eyes was Edward Howard, who, with a cheek glowing 
 with exercise, was tossing aloft a blooming boy, while 
 Augusta was watching his motions, her face radiant 
 with smiles. 
 
 " Mr. and Mrs. Howard, this is Mr. L , an old 
 
 acquaintance, I believe." 
 
 There was a moment of mutual embarrassment and 
 surprise, soon dispelled, however, by the frank cordiality 
 
 of Edward. Mr. L sat down, but could scarce 
 
 withdraw his eyes from the countenance of Augusta, in 
 whose eloquent face he recognised a beauty of a higher 
 caste than even in her c;ulkr days. 
 
 He glanced about the apartment. It was simply, but 
 tastefully furnished, and wore an air of retired, domestic 
 couiiort. There were boa 1 **, engravings, and musical 
 
186 AUGUSTA HOWARD. 
 
 instruments. Above all, there were four happy, healthy - 
 looking children, pursuing studies or sports at the far- 
 ther end of the room. 
 
 After a short call they regained the street. 
 
 "Dallas, you are a happy man," said Mr. L 1 
 
 " that family will he a mine of jewels to you "" 
 
OLD FATHER MORRIS 187 
 
 OLD FATIIER MORRIS. 
 
 A SKETCH FROM NATURE, 
 
 fXF all the marvels that astonished my childhood, there 
 is none I remember to this day with so much inter- 
 est as the old man whose name forms my caption. When 
 I knew him he was an aged clergyman, settled over an 
 obscure village in New England. He had enjoyed the 
 advantages of a liberal education, had a strong original 
 power of thought, an omnipotent imagination, and much 
 general information ; but so early and so deeply had the 
 habits and associations of the plough, the farm, and 
 country life wrought themselves into his mind, that his 
 after acquirements could only mingle with them, forming 
 an unexampled amalgam, like unto nothing but itself. 
 
 It is in vain to attempt to give a full picture of such 
 a genuine unique ; but some slight and imperfect dashes 
 may help the imagination to a faint idea of what none 
 can fully conceive but those who have seen and heard old 
 Father Morris. 
 
 Suppose yourself one of half a dozen children, and you 
 hear the cry, " Father Morris is coming !" You run to 
 the window, or door, and you see a tall, bulky old man, 
 
188 OLD FATHER MORRIS. 
 
 with a pair of saddle-bags on one arm, hitching his old 
 horse with a fumbling carefulness, and then deliberately 
 stumping towards the house. You notice his tranquil, 
 florid, full-moon face, enlightened by a pair of great, 
 round blue eyes, that roll with dreamy inattentiveness 
 on all the objects around ; and as he takes off his hat, 
 you see the white curling wig that sets off his round 
 head. He comes towards you, and as you stand staring 
 with all the children around, he deliberately puts his 
 great hand on your head, and with a deep, rumbling 
 voice inquires, " How d'ye do, my darter 1 Is your 
 daddy at home ?" " My darter" usually makes off as 
 fast as possible in an unconquerable giggle. Father 
 Morris goes into the house, and we watch him at every 
 turn, as, with the most liberal simplicity, he makes him- 
 self at home, takes off his wig, wipes down his great face 
 with his handkerchief, helps himself hither and thither 
 to whatever he wants, and asks for such things as he 
 cannot lay his hands on. 
 
 I remember to this day how we used to peep through 
 the crack of the door, or hold it half ajar and peep in, 
 to watch his motions ; and how mightily diverted we 
 were with his deep, protracted a-hem-em, which was like 
 nothing else that ever I heard ; and when once, as he 
 was in the midst of one of these indulgences, the parlour 
 door suddenly happened to swing open, I heard one of 
 my roguish brothers calling, m a suppressed tone, 
 " Charles ! Charles ! Father Morris has hemmed the door 
 open ! " and then followed the signs of a long and de- 
 sperate titter, in which I sincerely sympathized. 
 
OLD FATHER MORRIS. 189 
 
 But the morrow is Sunday. The old man rises in the 
 pulpit. He is not now in his own humble little parish, 
 preaching simply to the hoers of corn and planters of 
 
 potatoes, but there sits Governor G , and there is 
 
 Judge R , and Councillor P , and Judge D . 
 
 In short, he is before a refined and literary audience. 
 But Father Morris rises : he thinks nothing of this — he 
 cares nothing — he knows nothing, as he himself would 
 say, but " Jesus Christ, and him crucified." He takes a 
 passage of Scripture to explain ; perhaps it is the walk 
 to Emmaus, and the conversation of Jesus with his dis- 
 ciples. Immediately the whole start out before you, liv- 
 ing and picturesque : the road to Emmaus is a New 
 England turnpike ; you can see its milestones — its mul- 
 len-stalks — its toll-gates. Next the* disciples rise, and 
 you have before you all their anguish, and hesitation, 
 and dismay, talked out to you in the language of your 
 own fireside. You smile — you are amused — yet you are 
 touched, and the illusion grows every moment. You see 
 the approaching stranger, and the mysterious conversa- 
 tion grows more and more interesting. Emmaus rises in 
 the distance, in the likeness of a New England village, 
 with a white meeting-house and spire. You follow the 
 Hers— you enter the house with tbem ; nor do you 
 wake from your trance until, with streaming eves, the 
 preacher tells you that " they saw it was the Lord Jesus ! 
 and what a pity it was they coufal not have known it 
 before !" 
 
 It was after a sermon on this very chapter of Scrip- 
 ture history that Governor Griswold, in passing out of 
 
100 OLD FATHER MORRIS. 
 
 the house, laid hold on the sleeve of his first acquaint- 
 ance : " Pray tell me," said he, " who is this minister ? " 
 
 " Why, it is old Father Morris." 
 
 " Well, he is an oddity — and a genius too ! I de- 
 clare ! " he continued, " I have been wondering all the 
 morning how I could have read the Bible to so little 
 purpose as not to see all these particulars he has pre- 
 sented." 
 
 I once heard him narrate in this picturesque way the 
 story of Lazarus. The great bustling city of Jerusalem 
 first rises to view, and we were told, with great simpli - 
 city, how the Lord Jesus " used to get tired of the 
 noise ;" and how he was " tired of preaching again and 
 again to people who would not mind a word he said ; " 
 and how, " when it came evening, he used to go out and 
 see his friends in Bethany." Then he told us about the 
 house of Martha and Mary : "a little white house among 
 the trees," he said ; " you could just see it from Jerusa- 
 lem." And there the Lord Jesus and his disciples used 
 to go and sit in the evenings, with Martha, and Mary, 
 and Lazarus. 
 
 Then he went on to tell how Lazarus died, describing, 
 with tears and a choking voice, the distress they were in, 
 and how they sent a message to the Lord Jesus, and he 
 did not come, and how they wondered and wondered ; 
 and thus on he went, winding up the interest by the 
 graphic minutiae of an eye-witness, till he woke you 
 from the dream by his triumphant joy at the resurrec- 
 tion scene. 
 
 On another occasion, as he was sitting at a tea table 
 
OID FATHER BtORRTS. 191 
 
 unusually supplied with cakes and sweetmeats, he found 
 an opportunity to make a practical allusion to the same 
 family story. He spoke of Mary as quiet and humble, 
 sitting at her Saviour's feet to hear his words ; but 
 Martha thought more of what was to be got for tea. 
 Martha could not find time to listen to Christ; no; she 
 was " 'cumbered with much serving' — around the house, 
 trying fritters and making gingerbread" 
 
 Among his own simple people, his style of Scripture 
 painting was listened to with breathless interest. But it 
 was particularly in those circles, called, in New-England, 
 " Conference-meetings," that his whole warm soul un- 
 folded, and the Bible in his hands became a gallery of 
 New-England paintings. 
 
 lie particularly loved the Evangelists, following the 
 footsteps of Jesus Christ, dwelling upon his words, re- 
 peating over and over again the stories of what he did, 
 with all the fond veneration of an old and favoured 
 servant. 
 
 Sometimes, too, he would give the narration an ex- 
 ceedingly practical turn, as one example will illustrate* 
 Ho had noticed a falling off in his little circle that met 
 for social prayer, and took occasion, the first time he col- 
 lected a tolerable audience, to tell concerning " the con- 
 :ice-meeting that the disciples attended" after the 
 resurrection. 
 
 " * But Thomas was not with them.' Thomas not with 
 them !" said the old man, in a sorrowful voice ; u why ! 
 what could keep Thomas away? Perhaps," said he, 
 glancing at some of his backward audiiors, 4l Thomas had 
 
192 OLD FATHER MORRIS. 
 
 got cold-hearted, and was afraid they would ask him to 
 make the first prayer; or perhaps," he continued, look- 
 ing at some of the farmers, "Thomas was afraid the 
 roads were bad; or perhaps," he added, after a pause* 
 " Thomas had got proud, and thought he could not come 
 in his old clothes." Thus he went on, significantly sum- 
 ming up the common excuses of his people ; and then, 
 with great simplicity and emotion, he added, " But only 
 think what Thomas lost ! for in the middle of the meet- 
 ing, the Lord Jesus came and stood among them ! How 
 sorry Thomas must have been!" This representation 
 served to fill the vacant seats for some time to come. 
 
 At another time, Father Morris gave the details of the 
 anointing of David to be king. He told them how 
 Samuel went to Bethlehem, to Jesse's house, and went 
 in with a " How d'ye do, Jesse V and how, when Jesse 
 asked him to take a seat, he said he could not stay a 
 minute; that the Lord had sent him to anoint one of his 
 sons for a king; and how, when Jesse called in the 
 tallest and handsomest, Samuel said, " He would not do;" 
 and how all the rest passed the same test ; and at last 
 how Samuel says, "Why, haven't you any more sons, 
 Jesse?" and Jesse says, " Why, yes, there is little David 
 down in the lot;" and how, as soon as ever Samuel saw 
 David, u he poured the oil right on to him ;" and how 
 Jesse said, "he never was so out in all his life!" 
 
 Father Morris sometimes used his illustrative talent 
 to very good purpose in the way of rebuke. He had on 
 his farm a fine orchard of peaches, from which some of 
 the ten and twelve-year-old gentlemen helped them- 
 
OLD FATHER MORUIS. 193 
 
 selves more liberally than even the old man's kindness 
 thought expedient. 
 
 Accordingly, ho took occasion to introduce into his 
 sermon one Sunday, in his litt]^ parish, an account of a 
 journey he took ; and how he was very warm and very 
 dry; and how he saw a fine orchard of peaches that made 
 his mouth water to look at them. " So/' says he, " I 
 came up to the fence and looked all around, for I would 
 not have touched one of them without leave for all the 
 world. At last I espied a man, and says I, 'Mister, 
 won't you give me some of your peaches?' So the man 
 came and gave me nigh about a hat full. And while I 
 stood there eating, I said, ( Mister, how do you manage 
 to keep your peaches]' 'Keep them!' said he, 'what 
 do you mean]' ' Yes, sir,' said I; ' don't the boys steal 
 them?' 'Boys steal them! no, indeed!' 'Why, sir,* 
 said I, ' I have a whole garden full of peaches, and 1 
 cannot get half of them' " — here the old man's voice 
 grew tremulous— "'because the boys in my parish steal 
 them so.' ' Why, sir,' said he, ' don't their parents 
 teach them not to steal V At this I grew all over in a 
 cold sweat, and I told him ' I feared they did not.' 
 ' Why, how you talk !' said the man ; ' do tell me where 
 you live]' Then," I ris, the tears running 
 
 D his checks, " I was obliged to tell him I lived in 
 
 town of G ." After this Father Morris kept his 
 
 peaches. 
 
 Our old friend was not less original in the logical than 
 in the illustrative portions of his discourses. 1 1 14 logic was 
 1 kind, which shakes li tnds with 
 I 
 
394 OLD FATHER MOliiMS. 
 
 common sense like an old friend. Sometimes, too, his 
 great mind and great heart would be poured out on the 
 vast themes of religion, in language which, though 
 homely, produced all th$. effects of the sublime. lie 
 once preached a discourse on the text, "the High and 
 Holy One that inhabiteth eternity;" and from the be- 
 ginning to the end it was a train of lofty and solemn 
 thought. With his usual simple earnestness, and his 
 great rolling voice, he told about " the great God — the 
 great Jehovah — and how the people in this world were 
 flustering and worrying, and afraid they should not get 
 time to do this, and that, and the other. But," he added, 
 with full-hearted satisfaction, " the Lord is never in a 
 hurry: he has it all to do, but he has time enough, for he 
 inhabiteth eternity." And the grand idea of infinite 
 leisure and almighty resources was carried through the 
 sermon with equal strength and simplicity. 
 
 Although the old man never seemed to be sensible of 
 anything tending to the ludicrous in his own mode of 
 expressing himself, yet he had considerable relish for 
 humour, and some shrewdness of repartee. One time, 
 as he was walking through a neighbouring parish, 
 famous for its profanity, he was stopped by a whole flock 
 of the youthful reprobates of the place: — 
 
 "Father Morris! Father Morris! the devil's dead!" 
 
 " Is he]" said the old man, benignly laying his hand on 
 the head of the nearest urchin, "you poor fatherless 
 children !" 
 
 But the sayings and doings of this good old man, as 
 reported in the legends of the neighbourhood, are more 
 
OLD FATUEii MORRIS. 195 
 
 than can be gathered or reported. He lived far beyond 
 the common age of man, and continued, when age had 
 impaired his powers, to repeat the same Bible stories 
 that he had told so often before. 
 
 I recollect hearing of the joy that almost broke the 
 old man's heart, when, after many years' diligent watch- 
 ing and nurtme of the good seed in his parish, it began 
 to spring into vegetation, sudden and beautiful as that 
 which answers the patient watching of the husbandman. 
 Many a hard, worldly- hearted man — many a sleepy, in- 
 itive hearer — many a listless, idle young person, 
 a to give ear to words that had long fallen un- 
 heeded. A neighbouring minister, who had been sent 
 •juice in those results, describes the scene, 
 when, on entering the little church, he found an anxious, 
 \ Jed auditory assembled around their venerable tea- 
 lor direction and instruction. The old 
 man was sitting in his pulpit, almost choking with ful- 
 I Demotion as he gazed around. " Father," said 
 the • dnister, '*I suppose you are ready to say 
 
 . lettcst thou thy servant 
 i/ " 
 U 1 the ol lie tears 
 
 ■trained down his hook 
 
 with emotion. 
 
 is not m;; 
 
 lliin wfc from 
 
 rem memory, like 
 
 rown over 
 
196 OLD FATHER MORRIS. 
 
 forgotten among men, though it will be had in ever- 
 lasting remembrance by Him who "forgetteth not his 
 servants," and in whose sight the death of his saints if 
 precious. 
 
THE CANAL-BOAT. 197 
 
 TIIE CANAL-BOAT. 
 
 (XF all the ways of travelling which obtain among our 
 ^ locomotive nation, the canal-boat is the most abso- 
 lutely prosaic and inglorious. There is something pic- 
 turesque, nay, almost sublime, in the lordly march of 
 your well-built, high-bred steamboat. Go take your 
 stand on some overhanging bluff, where the blue Ohio 
 winds its thread of silver, or the sturdy Mississippi 
 makes its path through unbroken forests, and it will do 
 your heart good to see the gallant boat walking the 
 waters with unbroken and powerful tread, like some 
 nster of the wave, breathing fire, and making 
 shores resound with its deep respirations. Then 
 • is something mysterious, even awful, in the power 
 •am. See it curling up against a blue sky some rosy 
 ing— graceful, fleeting, intangible, and to all ap- 
 11 spiritual things — 
 •lien think ' his fairy spirit that keeps half 
 
 the world alive aiul hot 1 n; think how excel- 
 
 lent a servant it is, I sorts of gigantic works, 
 
 like the genii of old; and yet, if you let slip the talis- 
 man only for a moment, what terrible advantage it will 
 
198 THE CANAL-BOAT. 
 
 
 take of you ! and you will confess that steam has some 
 claims both to the beautiful and the terrible. But in a 
 canal-boat there is no power, no mystery, no danger; one 
 cannot blow up, one cannot be drowned, unless by some 
 special effort: one sees clearly all there is in the case — a 
 horse, a rope, and a muddy strip of water — and that is all. 
 
 Did you ever try it, reader ? If not, take an imaginary 
 trip with us, just for experiment. " There's the boat !" 
 exclaims a passenger in the omnibus, as we are rolling 
 down from the Pittsburgh Mansion House to the canal. 
 " Where?" exclaim a dozen voices, and forthwith a dozen 
 heads go out of the windows. " Why, down there, under 
 that bridge; don't you see those lights?" " What, that 
 little thing?" exclaims an inexperienced traveller: "dear 
 me ! we can't half of us get into it!" "We, indeed!" 
 says some old hand in the business; " I think you'll find 
 it will hold us and a dozen more loads like us." " Im- 
 possible!" say some. " You will see, replies tbe old tra- 
 veller; and, as soon as you get out, you do see, and hear 
 too, what seems like a general breaking loose from the 
 Tower of Babel, amid a perfect hailstorm of trunks, 
 boxes, valises, carpet-bags, and every describable and in- 
 describable form of what a Westerner calls " plunder." 
 
 "That's my trunk!" barks out a big, round man. 
 "That's my bandbox!" screams a heart-stricken old 
 lady, in terror for her immaculate Sunday caps. " Where's 
 my little red box? I had two carpet-bags and a — " 
 " My trunk had a scarle — " " Halloo ! where are you 
 going with that portmanteau?" "Husband, husband! 
 do see after the large basket and the little hair trunk — 
 
; CANAL BOAT. 199 
 
 oli ! and the baby's little chair !" " Go below — go below, 
 for mercy's sake, my dear ; I'll see to the baggage." At 
 .iue part of creation, perceiving that, in 
 this particular instance, they gain nothing by public 
 . are content to be led quietly under hatches, 
 and amusing is the look of dismay which each new- 
 comer gives to the confined quarters that present them- 
 selves. Those who were so ignorant of the power of 
 compression as to suppose the boat scarce large eno gh. 
 to contain them and theirs, find, with dismay, a respec- 
 1 colony of old ladies, babies, mothers, big baskets, 
 and carpet-bags, already established. " Mercy on us f ' 
 the little room, about ten feet 
 ii, " Where are we all to sleep to-night f 
 a sight of children !" says a young 
 ng tone. u Poht" says an initiated 
 traveller, "children! scarce any here; let's see: one — 
 the woman in the corner, two — that child with the bread 
 and :<jc — and then there's that other woman 
 
 with ruite moderate for a canal-boat: 
 
 D t tell till they have all come." 
 
 ay there are any 
 kh ; " they 
 I is not ro 
 
 utterance of this sen- 
 y the 
 Dt elderly lady, with three 
 . 
 
 it is that fat 
 | 
 
200 TIIE CANAL BOAT 
 
 After this follows an indiscriminate raining down of 
 all shapes, sizes, sexes, and ages — men, women, children, 
 habies, and nurses. The state of feeling becomes per- 
 fectly desperate. Darkness gathers on all faces. " We 
 shall be smothered ! we shall be crowded to death ! we 
 can't stay here /" are heard faintly from one and another ; 
 and yet, though the boat grows no wider, the walls no 
 higher, they do live, and do bear it, in spite of repeated 
 protestations to the contrary. Truly, as Sam Slick says, 
 " there's a sight of ivear in human natur." 
 
 " But, meanwhile, the children grow sleepy, and divers 
 Interesting little duets and trios arise from one part or 
 another of the cabin. "Mamma, I'm tired!" bawls a 
 child. " Where's the baby's night-gown ?" calls a nurse. 
 "Do take Peter up in your lap, and keep him still." 
 " Pray get out some biscuits to stop their mouths." 
 Meanwhile, sundry babies strike in " con spirito," as the 
 music-books have it, and execute various nourishes ; the 
 disconsolate mothers sigh, and look as if all was over 
 with them ; and the young ladies appear extremely dis- 
 gusted, and wonder " what business women have to be 
 travelling round with babies!" 
 
 To these troubles, succeeds the turning-out scene, 
 when the whole caravan is ejected into the gentlemen's 
 cabin, that the beds maybe made. The red curtains are 
 put down, and in solemn silence all, the last mysterious 
 preparations begin. At length it is announced that all 
 is ready. Forthwith the whole company rush back, and 
 find the walls embellished by a series of little shelves, 
 about a foot wide, each furnished with a mattress and 
 
TIIE CANAL-BOAT. 201 
 
 bedding, and hooked to the ceiling by a very suspici- 
 ously slender cord. Direful are the ruminations and 
 exclamations of inexperienced travellers, particularly 
 young ones, as they eye these very equivocal accommo- 
 dations. " What ! sleep up there ! I won't sleep on one 
 of those top shelves, / know. The cords will certainly 
 break." The chambermaid here takes up the conversa- 
 tion, and solemnly assures them that such an accident is 
 not to be thought of at all ; that it is a natural impossi- 
 bility — a thing that could not happen without an actual 
 miracle ; and since it becomes increasingly evident that 
 thirty ladies cannot all sleep on the lowest shelf, there is 
 some effort made to exercise faith in this doctrine ; never- 
 theless, all look on their neighbours with fear and trem- 
 bling ; and when the stout lady talks of taking a top 
 shelf, she is urgently pressed to change places with her 
 alarmed neighbour below. Points of location being after 
 a while adjusted, comes the last struggle. Everybody 
 wants to take off their bonnet, to look for their shawl, 
 to find their cloak, to get their carpet-bag, and all set 
 
 ;t it with such zeal that nothing can be done. 
 
 I 'am, you're on my foot!" says one. "Will you please 
 to move, ma'am?" says somebody, who is gasping and 
 .ind you. ".Move!" you echo; u indeed, 
 tj glad to, but I don't see much prospect 
 of it." u < [y s who is struggling 
 
 among a 1. igi and children at one end of 
 
 the cabin. ■ j.lics the pool I 
 
 who is wc in a similar situation, at the other. 
 
 M Where*! mj cloak, id '<" " I would find it 
 
202 THE CANAL-BOAT. 
 
 ma'am, if I could move." " Chambermaid, my basket (" 
 " Chambermaid, my parasol is lost !" " Chambermaid, 
 my carpet-bag !" " Mamma, they push me so!" " Hush, 
 child ; crawl under there, and lie still till I can undress 
 you." At last, however, the various distresses are over, 
 the babies sink to sleep, and even that much-enduring 
 being, the chambermaid, seeks out some corner for repose. 
 Tired and drowsy, you are just sinking into a doze, when 
 bang! goes the boat against the -sides of a lock; ropes 
 scrape, men run and shout, and up fly the heads of all 
 the top-shelf- ites, who are generally the more juvenile 
 and airy part of the company. 
 
 "What's that! what's that!" flies from mouth to 
 mouth ; and forthwith they proceed to awaken their re- 
 spective relations. " Mother ! Aunt Hannah ! do wake 
 up ; what is this awful noise ?" " Oh, only a lock !" 
 " Pray be still," groan out the sleepy members from 
 below. 
 
 " A lock !" exclaim the vivacious creatures, ever on 
 the alert for information ; " and what is a lock, pray I" 
 
 " Don't you know what a lock is, you silly creatures 1 
 Do lie down and go to sleep." 
 
 " Bat say, there is not any danger in a lock, is there?" 
 respond the querists. "Danger!" exclaims a deaf old 
 lady, poking up her head, " what's the matter ? There 
 ha'nt nothin' burst, has thero T' " No, no, no !" exclaim 
 the provoked and despairing opposition party, who find 
 that there is no such thing as going to sleep till they 
 have made the old lady below and the young ladies 
 above understand exactly the philosophy of a lock. 
 
\NAL-BOAT. 203 
 
 r a while the conversation again subsides ; again all 
 is still ; you hear only the trampling of horses and the 
 rippling of the rope in the water, and sleep again is 
 ling over you. You doze, you dream, and all of a 
 leu you arj - a cry, " Chambermaid ! wake 
 
 the lady that wants to be set ashore." Up jumps 
 ip jumps the lady and two children, 
 form a committee of inquiry as to ways and 
 OS. " Where's my bonnet l w says the lady, half 
 e, and fumbling among the various articles of that 
 :-. " I thought I hung it up behind the door." 
 i the poor chambermaid, yawn- 
 g. " Oh, yes, here it is," says 
 the lady ; and then the cloak, the shawl, the gloves, the 
 shoes, receive each a separate discussion. At last all 
 seems ready, and they begin to move off, when, lo ! 
 Peter's cap is missing. u Now where can it be ?" solilo- 
 quizes the lady, " I put it right here by the table-leg ; 
 
 e it has got into some of the berths." At this 
 gestion, the c!i 1 takes the candle, and goes 
 
 round deliberately to every berth, poking the light di- 
 rect! ry sleeper. " Here it is," she 
 .ims, pulling at something black under one pillow. 
 are my shoes," s;iys the vexed sic 
 s here," she resumes. 
 
 h. " No, that'l 
 the occupant. The cl 
 
 'it is not il- 
 ia the course of n most 
 
 ry- 
 
204 THE CANAL-BOAT. 
 
 body is broad awake, and most uncharitably wishing the 
 cap, and Peter too, at the bottom of the canal, the good 
 lady exclaims, "Well, if this isn't lucky! here I had it 
 safe in my basket all the time !" and she departs amid 
 the — what shall I say 1 — execrations ? — of the whole 
 company, ladies though they be. 
 
 Well, after this follows a hushing up and wiping up 
 among the juvenile population ; and a series of remarks 
 commences from the various shelves, of a very edifying 
 and instructive tendency. One says that the woman did 
 not seem to know where anything was ; another says 
 that she has waked them all up ; a third adds, that 
 she has waked up all the children too ; and the elderly 
 ladies make moral reflections on the importance of 
 putting your things where you can find them — being 
 always ready ; which observations, being delivered in an 
 exceedingly doleful and drowsy tone, form a sort of sub- 
 bass to the lively chattering of the upper-shelf-ites, who 
 declare that they feel quite wide awake — that they don't 
 think that they shall go to sleep again to-night — and 
 discourse over everything in creation, until you heartily 
 wish you were enough related to them to give them a 
 scolding. 
 
 At last, however, voice after voice drops off; you fall 
 into a most refreshing slumber ; it seems to you that you 
 sleep about a quarter of an hour, when the chambermaid 
 pulls you by the sleeve : " Will you please to get up, 
 ma'am ; we want to make the beds." You start and 
 stare- Sure enough, the night is gone. So much for 
 sleeping on board canal-boats- 
 
THE CANAL-BOAT. 205 
 
 Let us not enumerate the manifold perplexities of the 
 morning toilet in a place where every lady realizes most 
 forcibly the condition of the old woman who lived under 
 a broom : " All she wanted was elbow room." Let us 
 not tell how one glass is made to answer for thirty fair 
 faces, one basin and jug for thirty lavations ; and, tell it 
 not in Gath ! one towel for a company ! Let us not inti- 
 mate how ladies 7 shoes have, in the night, clandestinely 
 slid into the gentlemen's cabin, and gentlemen's boots 
 elbowed, or, rather, toed their way among lady's gear, nor 
 recite the exclamations after runaway property that are 
 heard. "I can't find nothing of Johnny's shoe." "Here's 
 a shoe in the water pitcher — is this it ?" " My side- 
 combs are gone," exclaims a nymph with dishevelled 
 curls. "Massy! do look at my bonnet!" exclaims an 
 old lady, elevating an article crushed into as many 
 angles as there are pieces in a minced pie. " I never 
 did sleep so much together in my life," echoes a poor little 
 French lady, whom despair has driven into talking 
 
 But our shortening paper warns us not to prolong our 
 catalogue of distresses beyond reasonable bounds, and 
 il clusc with advising all our friends who 
 intend to try this way of travelling for 2^asure } to take 
 a good stock, both « e and clean towels, with 
 
 think that they will find abundant need 
 for both. 
 
206 TRIALS OF A HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 TRIALS OF A HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 « T)OII!" says one of the lords of creation, talcing his 
 cigar out of his mouth, and twirling it between 
 his two first fingers, " what a fuss women make of this 
 simple matter of managing a family ! I can't see as 
 there is anything so extraordinary to be done in this 
 matter of housekeeping: only three meals a day to be 
 got and cleared off, and it really seems to take up the 
 whole of their mind from morning till night. I could 
 keep house without so much of a llurry, I know." 
 
 Now prithee, good brother, listen to my story, and see 
 how much you know about it. I came to this enlightened 
 West about a year since, and was duly established in a 
 comfortable country residence within a mile and a half 
 of the city. I had been married about three months. 
 My family consisted of myself and husband, a female 
 friend as a visitor, and two brothers of my good man, 
 who were engaged with him in business. 
 
 I pass over the first two or three days spent in that 
 process of hammering boxes, breaking crockery, knocking 
 things down and picking them up again, which is com- 
 monly called getting to housekeeping. As usual, carpets 
 
TUIALS OF A UOUSBKBfiPEB. 207 
 
 -owed and stretched, laid down, and taken up to be 
 1 over; things were reformed, Iranrformed, and con- 
 formed, till at last a settled order began to appear. But 
 now came the great point of all. During our confusion, 
 we had cooked and eaten our meals in a very miscella- 
 neous and pastoral manner, eating now from the top of a 
 barrel, and now from a fireboard laid on two chairs ; and 
 drinking, some from teacups, and some from saucers, and 
 some from tumblers, and some from a pitcher big enough 
 to be drowned in ; and sleeping, some on sofas, and some 
 on straggling beds and mattresses, thrown down here and 
 there, wherever there was room. All these pleasant bar- 
 barities were now at an end : the house was in order ; the 
 dishes put up in their places ; three Deals were 
 
 to Ik red in one day, all in an orderly, civilized 
 
 ll were to be made ; rooms swept and dusted ; 
 es washed ; knives scoured, and all the et cetera to be 
 to. Now for getting a Mrs. Trollopo 
 
 1 where and how were v.e to get it? We knew 
 few persons in the city, an re we to a< 
 
 : th the " house of employ: 
 was mentioned. tithcr 
 
 regularly every day for a week; while I, in I 
 
 nearly d< :: dance of 
 
 jme. One evening, as I was sitting completely 
 
 ustcd, my husband m ace at the door: 
 
 got you a couple at last — cook 
 
 and chan: in a little, 
 
 •nuffy-lo great star; 
 
 nds, with her mouth 
 
208 TRIALS OP A HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 wide open. I however addressed a few words of encou- 
 ragement to each, and proceeded to ask their names, 
 when the old woman began to snuffle and to wipe her 
 face with what was left of an old silk pocket-handker- 
 chief, preparatory to speaking; while the young lady 
 opened her mouth wider, and looked around with a 
 frightened air, as if meditating an escape. After some 
 preliminaries I found out that my old woman was Mrs. 
 Tibbins, and my Hebe's name was Kotterin; also, that 
 she knew more Dutch than English, and not any too 
 much of either. The old woman was the cook. I ven- 
 tured a few inquiries : " Had she ever cooked ?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, sartin ; she had lived at two or three 
 places m the city!" 
 
 I said no more, but determined to wait till morning. 
 The breakfast, to be sure, did not do much honour to the 
 talents of my official, but it was the first time, and the 
 place was new to her. After breakfast was cleared away, 
 I proceeded to give directions for dinner : it was merely 
 a plain joint of meat, I said, to be roasted in the tin 
 oven. The experienced cook looked at me with a stare of 
 entire vacuity. " The tin oven," I repeated, " stands 
 there," pointing to it. 
 
 She walked up to it, and touched it with such an ap- 
 pearance of suspicion as if it had been an electrical bat- 
 tery, and then looked round at me with a look of such 
 helpless ignorance, that my soul was moved : ts I never 
 see one of them things before," said she. 
 
 " Never saw a tin oven !" I exclaimed. " I thought 
 you said you had cooked in two or three families." 
 
TRIALS OF A HOUSEKEEPER. 209 
 
 " They does not have such things as them, though," 
 rejoined my old lady. Having spitted the joint myself, 
 and given numberless directions, I walked off to see after 
 Kotterin, to whom I had committed the up-stairs work, 
 it never having come iuto my head that there could be 
 a wrong way of making a bed, and to this day it is a mar- 
 vel to me how any one could arrange pillows and quilts 
 to make such a nondescript appearance as mine now pre- 
 sented. One glance showed me that Kotterin also was 
 "just caught" and that I had as much to do in her de- 
 partment as in that of my old lady. 
 
 Just then the door bell rang: " Oh, there is the door- 
 bell !" I exclaimed; " run, Kotterin, and show them into 
 the parlour." 
 
 Kotteriu started to run, as directed, and then stopped, 
 and stood looking round on all the doors, and on me, 
 with a wofully puzzled air : " The street-door," said I, 
 pointing towards the entry. Kotterin blundered into 
 the entr ing with a look of stupid wonder 
 
 at the bell ringing without hands, while I went to the 
 door and let in the company before she could be fairly 
 made to understand the connexion between the ringing 
 and the phenomenon of admission. 
 
 As dinner-time approached, I sent word into my kit- 
 chen to have it set on; but, recollecting the state of the 
 re, I soon followed my own or- 
 ders. I found the tin oven standing out in the middle 
 of the kitchen, and my cook seated a la Turk in front of 
 it, contemplating the roast meat with full n- puzzled an 
 ail- as in the morning. I once more explained the mys- 
 o 
 
210 TRIALS OP A HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 it on the 
 
 tery of taking it off, and assisted her to get it ■ 
 platter, though somewhat cooled by having been so long 
 set out for inspection. I was standing holding the spit 
 in my hands, when Kotterin, who had heard the door-bell 
 ring, and was determined this time to be in season, ran 
 into the hall, and soon returning, opened the kitchen 
 door, and politely ushered in three or four fashionable- 
 looking ladies, exclaiming, "Here she is!" As these 
 were strangers from the city, who had come to make 
 their first call, this introduction was far from proving an 
 eligible one: the look of thunderstruck astonishment 
 with which I greeted thefc first appearance, as I stood 
 brandishing the spit, and the terrified snuffling and 
 starting of poor Mrs. Tibbins, who again had recourse to 
 her old pocket-handkerchief, almost entirely vanquished 
 their gravity, and it was evident that they were on the 
 point of a broad laugh ; so, recovering my self-possession, 
 I apologized, and led the way to the parlour. 
 
 Let these few incidents be a specimen of the four 
 mortal weeks that I spent with these "helps" during 
 which time I did almost as much work, with twice a# 
 much anxiety, as when there was nobody there ; and yet 
 everything went wrong besides. The young gentlemen 
 complained of the patches of starch grimed to their col- 
 lars, and the streaks of black coal ironed into the shirt 
 fronts, while one week every pocket-handkerchief in the 
 house was starched so stiff that you might as well have 
 carried a sheet of browr paper in your pocket. The 
 tumblers looked muddy ; the plates were never washed 
 clean, nor ^iped dry, unless I attended to each one ; and 
 
TRIALS OP A HOUSEKEEPER. £11 
 
 as to eating and drinking, we experienced a variety that 
 we had not before considered possible. 
 
 At length the old woman vanished from the stage, 
 and was succeeded by a knowing, active, capable damsel, 
 with a temper like a steel-trap, who remained with me 
 just one week, and then went off in a fit of spite. To her 
 succeeded a rosy, good-natured, merry lass, who broke 
 the crockery, burned the dinner, tore the clothes in iron- 
 ing, and knocked down everything that stood in her way 
 about the house, without at all discomposing herself 
 about the matter. One night she took the stopper from 
 a barrel of molasses, and came singing up stairs, while 
 the molasses ran soberly out into the cellar all night, till 
 by morning it was in a state of universal emancipation, 
 :ng done this, and also despatched an entire set of 
 tea-things by letting the waiter fall, she one day made 
 her disappearance. 
 
 Then, for a wonder, there fell to my lot a tidy, 
 efficient-trained, pretty-looking girl, knowing how to do 
 ever 1 with the sweetest temper in the world. 
 
 v," sail I to myself, " I shall rest from my labours." 
 I vtliing about the house began to go right, and 
 
 d as clean and genteel as Mary's own self. But, 
 alas! this period of* u interrupted by a clever, 
 
 looking young man, who for some weeks could be 
 heard scraping his boots at the kitchen door every Sunday 
 
 t; and at !i some smiling and 
 
 hing, gave me to understand that she must leave in 
 two v. 
 
 u W; I, feeling a little mischievous 
 
 "don't you like the p] 
 
212 TRIALS OP A HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 " Oh, yes, ma'am." 
 
 u Then why do you look for another V 
 
 " I am not going to another place." 
 
 ft What, Mary, are you going to learn a trade ?" 
 
 " No, ma'am." 
 
 " Why, then, what do you mean to do V* 
 
 "I expect to keep house myself, ma'am," said she, 
 laughing and blushing. 
 
 " Oh ho!" said I, " that is it ;" and so, in two weeks, 
 I lost the best little girl in the world : peace to her 
 memory. 
 
 After this came an interregnum, which put me in 
 mind of the chapter in Chronicles that I used to read 
 with great delight when a child, where Baasha, and 
 Elah, and Tibni, and Zimri, and Omri, one after the 
 other, came to the throne of Israel, all in the compass of 
 half a dozen verses. We had one old woman who stayed 
 a week, and went away with the misery in her tooth ; one 
 young woman who ran away and got married ; one cook, 
 who came at night, and went off before light in the 
 morning ; one very clever girl, who stayed a month, and 
 then went away because her mother was sick ; another, 
 who stayed six weeks, and was taken with the fever her- 
 self ; and during all this time, who can speak the damage 
 and destruction wrought in the domestic paraphernalia 
 by passing through these multiplied hands 1 
 
 What shall we do 1 Shall we give up houses, have no 
 furniture to take care of ; keep merely a bag of meal, a 
 porridge-pot, and a pudding-stick, and sit in our tent- 
 door in real patriarchal independence ] What shall 
 we do 1 
 
LITTLE EDWARD. 213 
 
 LITTLE EDWARD. 
 
 TTTERE any of you born in New England, in the 
 ' * good old catechising, church-going, school-going, 
 orderly times ] If so, you may have seen my Uncle 
 Abel ; the most perpendicular, rectangular, upright, 
 downright good man that ever laboured six days, and 
 rested on the seventh. 
 
 You remember his hard, weather-beaten countenance, 
 where every line seemed drawn with " a pen of iron and 
 the point of a diamond ;" his considerate grey eyes, that 
 moved over objects as if it were not best to be in a hurry 
 about seeing; the circumspect opening and shutting of 
 mouth; his down sitting and uprising, all performed 
 with conviction aforethought — in short, the whole order- 
 li life and conversation, which was, according to 
 the tenor of the military order, " to the right about 
 face— forward, march f" 
 
 if you supposed, from all this triangularism of 
 exterior, that this good man had nothing kindly within, 
 you were much mistaken. You often find the greenest 
 grass under a snow-drift; and though my uncle's mind 
 was not exactly of the flower-garden kind, still there 
 
214 LITTLE EDWARD. 
 
 was an abundance of wholesome and kindly vegetation 
 there. 
 
 It is true, he seldom laughed, and never joked himself, 
 but no man had a more serious and weighty conviction 
 of what a good joke was in another ; and when some ex- 
 ceeding witticism was dispensed in his presence, you 
 might see Uncle Abel's face slowly relax into an expres- 
 sion of solemn satisfaction, and he would look at the 
 author with a sort of quiet wonder, as if it were past his 
 comprehension how such a thing could ever come into a 
 man's head. 
 
 Uncle Abel, too, had some relish for the fine arts ; in 
 proof of which, I might adduce the pleasure with which 
 he gazed at the plates in his family Bible, the likeness 
 whereof is neither in heaven, nor on earth, nor under 
 the earth. And he was also such an eminent musician, 
 that he could go through the singing-book at one sitting 
 wuthout the least fatigue, beating time like a windmill 
 all the way. 
 
 He had, too, a liberal hand, though his liberality was 
 all by the rule of three. He did to his neighbour exactly 
 as he would be done by ; he loved some things in this 
 world very sincerely; he loved his God much, but he 
 honoured and feared him more ; he was exact with 
 others, he was more exact with himself, and he expected 
 his God to be more exact still. 
 
 Everything in Uncle Abel's house was in the same 
 time, place, manner, and form, from year's end to year's 
 end. There was old Master Bose, a dog after my uncle's 
 own heart who always walked as if he were studying 
 
LITTLL* EDWARD. 215 
 
 the multiplication- table. There was the old clock, for 
 ever ticking in the kitchen corner, with a picture on its 
 face of the sun, for ever setting behind a perpendicular 
 row of poplar trees. There was the never-failing supply 
 of red-peppers and onions hanging over the chimney. 
 There, too, were the yearly hollyhocks and morning- 
 glories blooming about the windows. There was the 
 
 t room," with its sanded floor, the cupboard in one 
 corner with its glass doors, the evergreen asparagus- 
 bushes in the chimney, and there was the stand with 
 the Bible and Almanac on it in another corner. There, 
 too, was Aunt Betsey, who never looked any older, be- 
 cause she always looked as old as she could ; who always 
 dried her catnip and wormwood the last of September, 
 and began to clean the house the first of May. In short, 
 the land of continuance. Old Time never took 
 it into his head to practise either addition, or subtrac- 
 tion, or multiplication on its sum total. 
 
 This Aunt Betsey afore-named was the neatest and 
 most efficient piece of human machinery that ever ope- 
 
 1 in forty places at once. She was always every- 
 where, predominating over, and seeing to everything ; 
 
 though my uncle had been twice married, Aunt 
 
 iie and authority had never been broken. She 
 
 reigned o\ ives when living, and reigned after 
 
 them when dead, and so seemed likely to reign on to the 
 
 >f the chapter. But my uncle's latest wife left Aunt 
 
 Betsey a much less tractable subject than ever before 
 
 !e Kdward was tin: child of my 
 
 uncle's old age, and a brighter, merrier little blossom 
 
216 UTTLE EDWARD. 
 
 never grew on the verge of an avalanche. He had been 
 committed to the nursing of his grandmamma till he 
 had arrived at the age of indiscretion, and then my old 
 uncle's heart so yearned for him that he was sent for 
 home. 
 
 His introduction into the family excited a terrible sen- 
 sation. Never was there such a contemner of dignities, 
 such a violator of high places and sanctities as this very 
 Master Edward. It was all in vain to try to teach him 
 decorum. He was the most outrageously merry elf that 
 ever shook a head of curls ; and it was all the same to 
 him whether it were " Sabba' day" or any other day. 
 He laughed and frolicked with everybody and every- 
 thing that came in his way, not even excepting his 
 solemn old father ; and when you saw him with his fair 
 arms around the old man's neck, and his bright blue 
 eyes and blooming cheek peering out beside the bleak 
 face of Uncle Abel, you might fancy you saw Spring ca- 
 ressing winter. Uncle Abel's metaphysics were sorely 
 puzzled by this sparkling, dancing compound of spirit 
 and matter ; nor could he devise any method of bringing 
 it into any reasonable shape, for he did mischief with an 
 energy and perseverance that was truly astonishing. 
 Once he scoured the floor with Aunt Betsey's very Scotch 
 snuff; once he washed up the hearth with Uncle Abel's 
 most immaculate clothes-brush ; and once he was found 
 trying to make Bose wear his father's spectacles. In 
 short, there was no use, except the right one, to which he 
 did not put everything that came in his way. 
 
 But Uncle Abel was most of all puzzled to know what 
 to do with him on the Sabbath, for on that day Master 
 
LITTLE EDWARD. 217 
 
 rd seemed to exert himself to be particularly dili- 
 gent and entertaining. 
 
 " Edward ! Edward must not play on Sunday !" his 
 father would call out ; and then Edward would hold up 
 his curly head, and look as grave as the catechism ; but 
 in three minutes you would see u pussy" scampering 
 through the " best room," with Edward at her heels, to 
 the entire discomposure of all devotion in Aunt Betsey 
 and all others in authority. 
 
 At length my uncle came to the conclusion that " it 
 wasn't in natur' to teach him any better," and that "he 
 could no more keep Sunday than the brook down in the 
 lot." My poor uncle ! he did not know what was the 
 matter with his heart; but certain it was he lost all 
 faculty of scolding when little Edward was in the case, 
 and he would rub his spectacles a quarter of an hour 
 longer than common when Aunt Betsey was detailing his 
 witticisms and clever doings. 
 
 In process of time our hero had compassed his third 
 year, and arrived at the dignity of going to school. He 
 went illustriously through the spelling-book, and then 
 attacked the catechism ; went from " man's chief end " 
 to the " requirin's and forbiddin's " in a fortnight, and 
 at last came home inordinately merry, to tell his father 
 that he had got to " Amen." After this, he made a re- 
 gul.i: r the whole every Sunday 
 
 evening, standing with his hands behind hiin and his 
 checked pinafore folded down, occasionally glancing 
 round to see if pussy gave due attention. And, being of 
 a practically benevolent turn of mind, he made several 
 inendablc efforts to chism, in 
 
218 LITTLE EDWARD. 
 
 which he succeeded as well as might be expected. In 
 short, without farther detail, Master Edward bade fair 
 to become a literary wonder. 
 
 But alas for poor little Edward ! his merry dance was 
 soon over. A day came when he sickened. Aunt Betsey 
 tried her whole herbarium, but in vain : he grew rapidly 
 worse and worse. His father sickened in heart, but said 
 nothing ; he only stayed by his bedside day and night, 
 trying all means to save, with affecting pertinacity. 
 
 " Can't you think of anything more, doctor V said he 
 to the physician, when all had been tried in vain. 
 
 " Nothing," answered the physician. 
 
 A momentary convulsion passed over my uncle's face. 
 " The willof the Lord be done," said he, almost with a 
 groan of anguish. 
 
 Just at that moment a ray of the setting sun pierced 
 the checked curtains, and gleamed like an angel's smile 
 across the face of the little sufferer. He awoke from 
 troubled sleep. 
 
 "Oh, dear! I am so sick !" he gasped, feebly. His 
 father raised him in his arms; he breathed easier, and 
 looked up with a grateful smile. Just then his old play- 
 mate, the cat, crossed the room. " There goes pussy," 
 said he; "oh, dear! I shall never play with pussy any 
 more." 
 
 At that moment a deadly change passed over his face. 
 He looked up in his father's face with an imploring ex- 
 pression, and put out his hand as if for help. There 
 was one moment of agony, and then the sweet features 
 all settled into a smile of peace, and u mortality was 
 swallowed up of life." 
 
LITTLE EDWMtD. 210 
 
 My uncle laid him down, and looked one moment at 
 his beautiful face. It was too much for his principles, 
 too much for his consistency, and " he lifted up his voice 
 and wept." 
 
 A I fter was the Sabbath — the funeral day — 
 
 U rose with " breath all incense and with cheek all 
 bloom." Uncle Abel was as calm and collected as ever, 
 but in his face there was a sorrow-stricken appearance 
 touching to behold. I remember him at family prayers, 
 as he bent over the great Bible and began the psalm, 
 " Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place in all gener- 
 ations." Apparently he was touched by the melancholy 
 .lour of the poetry, for after reading a few verses 
 he stopped. There was a dead silence, interrupted only 
 by the tick of the clock. He cleared his voice repeatedly, 
 iried to go on, but in vain. He closed the book, and 
 kneeled down to prayer. The energy of sorrow broke 
 through his usual formal reverence, and his language 
 1 forth with a deep and sorrowful pathos which I 
 shall never forget. The God so much reverenced, so 
 much feared, seemed to draw near to him as a friend 
 and comforter, his refuge and strength, "a very present 
 in time of trouble." 
 My uncle rose, and I saw him walk to the room of the 
 the face. It was set 
 the I • h, but oh ! how lurpM tingly lovely ! The 
 
 brilliancy of life WM gone, but that pure, transparent 
 
 was touched with a mysterious, triumphant bi i 
 : L like tl 
 
 Mj uncle looked long and earnestly. lie felt the 
 
220 LITTLE EDWARD. 
 
 beauty of what he gazed on; his heart was softened, but 
 he had no words for his feelings. He left the room un- 
 consciously, and stood in the front door. The morning 
 was bright, the bells were ringing for church, the birds 
 were singing merrily, and the pet squirrel of little 
 Edward was frolicking about the door. My uncle watched 
 him as he ran first up one tree and then down and up 
 another, and then over the fence, whisking his brush and 
 chattering just as if nothing were the matter. 
 
 With a deep sigh Uncle Abel broke forth: "How 
 happy that creature is! Well, the Lord's will be done!" 
 
 That day the dust was committed to dust, amid the 
 lamentations of all who had known little Edward- 
 Years have passed since then, and all that is mortal of my 
 uncle has long since been gathered to his fathers, but his 
 just and upright spirit has entered the glorious liberty 
 of the sons of God. Yes; the good man may have had 
 opinions which the philosophical scorn, weakness at 
 which the thoughtless smile; but death shall change 
 him into all that is enlightened, wise, and refined; for 
 he shall awake in His likeness, and be satisfied. 
 
22