THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES

 
 7MEWESTEKM M 80 E
 
 SCENES AT HOME: 
 
 OR, THE 
 
 BY MRS. ANNABACHE. 
 
 1 My eyes make pictures when they are shut." COHKBIDGB. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 JAMES K. SIMON. 
 
 1851.
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the Clerk's Office 
 of the District Court of the Eastern District of Penn 
 sylvania. 
 
 STEREOTYPED BY 
 
 S. DOUGLAS WYETH, AGT. 
 
 No. 7, Pear Street. Philad'i.
 
 TO 
 
 THE YOUNG LADIES 
 
 OF THIS COUNTRY 
 
 THIS LITTLE BOOK 
 IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED 
 
 BY THE 
 
 PUBLISHER.
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 MOST people have heard of the " Grand 
 
 & Reservoir of Somewhere," in which all 
 
 lost, mislaid, and worn-out articles are said 
 
 5. to be carefully deposited. In this reservoir 
 3 
 
 are to be seen piles of unfellowed gloves, 
 rows of dropped snuff-boxes, dozens of 
 ^ lost pocket-handkerchiefs, and grosses of 
 > mislaid penknives. Silver and gold pen 
 cil-cases are there in abundance ; jewelry 
 3 glitters in caskets, crowds of borrowed 
 4 umbrellas lean in the corners, and libra- 
 3 ries of lent volumes cumber the shelves. 
 Here departed fashions leave their lega- 
 *J cies ; gowns in which our grandmothers 
 made conquests, and coats in which our
 
 V] INTRODUCTION. 
 
 grandfathers made love. To this trea 
 sury does the tasteful disposer of draw 
 ing-room decorations consign her anti 
 quated card-baskets, her dusty shell 
 work, her cracked vases, and her tar 
 nished annuals. 
 
 From this store-house was extracted 
 the faded FIRE-SCREEN whose history is 
 now given to the world. When it was 
 discovered, why it was selected, how it 
 contrived to relate its adventures, and 
 why the language of Fire-screens was 
 rendered into English, "it boots not now 
 to tell." 
 
 A. B.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 MART AND HER FATHER, ...... 11 
 
 THE RICH MAM'S DAUGHTER, . '.'.' . 18 
 THE LYNX FAMIT.T, . ^ ':""'-' ' .34 
 
 MRS. BROWN'S BOAHDING-HOUSE, .... 71 
 
 AGE AND YOUTH. ....... 75 
 
 THE YOUNG CHRISTIAN, r . . . 101 
 INFATUATION, . . , . . 131 
 
 CHANGES OF SCENE, . . . , . 179 
 THE MISSIONARY'S BRIDE, . . 191
 
 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 IX
 
 SCNES AT HOME; 
 
 OH, 
 
 A. ED WSES IP TUT El US I? A. E'ni&IS-S 
 
 MARY AND HER FATHER. 
 
 There the pale artist plies the sickly trade. GOLDSMITH. 
 THE FlRE-SCREEN RELATES ITS OWN HlSTORY. 
 
 WHEN I first became conscious of existence? 
 I found myself in a small room, dimly lighted 
 by an autumnal sunset. The once white walls 
 were of a brownish yellow, the little ten-plate 
 stove looked battered and rusty, but the un- 
 carpeted floor was clean, and the furniture 
 though coarse and scanty, was neatly arranged. 
 Beside the stove sat a feeble-looking old man, 
 who occasionally fed the fire with chips from 
 a broken basket. I lay on a large pine table 
 in the middle of the room, with several gay 
 companions formed like myself. Drawing ma 
 terials, gold and tinted papers, artificial flowers, 
 
 11
 
 12 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 strings of beads, and delicate shells covered the 
 table ; and near me sat a pale girl, whose un 
 healthy looks and faded attire, contrasted 
 strangely with the elegance of her employ 
 ment, and the glitter of the expensive toys 
 which lay before her. She was sewing tassel 
 on a rich bead bag, and her hands trembled as 
 she worked. 
 
 "Mary, my dear," said the old man, at 
 length, "do stop now, and eat your supper. 
 I am sure you need it, for you have not eaten 
 any thing since breakfast." 
 
 Presently, father ; I must finish this before 
 I stop." 
 
 The old man arose slowly and with some 
 difficulty from his seat. I now perceived that 
 the arm-chair in which he sat, was provided 
 with a patch-work cushion; an old rug was 
 thrown over the back of it, and a little mat lay 
 on the floor before it. The old man drew from 
 a corner of the room a small round stand, took 
 out of a cupboard two cups and saucers, and 
 two plates, which he placed upon it, and then
 
 MARY AND HER FATHER. 13 
 
 lifting a calico curtain which hung before a 
 small recess, he displayed a few sticks of wood, 
 one of which he placed in the stove. 
 
 " I have done now," said Mary, rising and 
 placing her work on the table. She turned to 
 the stove, took from it a small black earthen 
 ware tea-pot, cut a few slices from a loaf of 
 rye bread, and sat down with her father to 
 their frugal meal. The old man bent his gray 
 head, and reverently asked a blessing on the 
 food, before they tasted it. 
 
 "How much are you to get for the fire 
 screens and bag, Mary ?" inquired the old 
 man. 
 
 " I do not know, father. Fancy-work is 
 less profitable than it used to be, now that 
 the ladies have so many fairs. The things 
 they cannot sell are put in stores, and the 
 market is overstocked. But as these screens 
 are made to order, I shall get something more 
 than I did for the last." 
 
 " Aye, Mary, my daughter, the ladies who 
 
 get up these fairs, sit by bright fires, in hand- 
 2
 
 14 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 some parlours, while they make their toys. 
 They work when they please, and quit when 
 they please ; they sit down to good dinners, 
 and sleep in warm beds ; and they think little, 
 and care little, about those who must work 
 whether they like it or not ; who cannot stop 
 when their heads ache, or their hearts ache ; 
 who must work with cold hands and hungry 
 stomachs, before they can be warmed and 
 fed." 
 
 " They mean to do good, father." 
 "Yes, Mary, but they give as alms what 
 should be paid as debt. It is the duty of the 
 rich to help the poor, and I believe there are 
 few who would rather be beggars than la 
 bourers. While these ladies are collecting 
 money at their fairs, they are robbing one 
 class of the industrious poor of their rights, 
 that they may give to another class in charity. 
 The rich best help the poor, when they give 
 them plenty of work, and pay them a: good 
 price for it." 
 
 " Then if ladies who encourage fairs, would
 
 MARY AND HER FATHER. 15 
 
 employ us to make the things, and pay us a 
 fair price for them at first, it would not be 
 wrong to get up fairs, and sell those things 
 afterwards, for as much as people choose to 
 give would it, father ?" 
 
 " I think not, Mary. Fairs might be made 
 doubly useful in that way. But, as I heard 
 Mathew Carey say once, ' It takes a great 
 deal of judgment to know how to do good.' " 
 
 " It does indeed, father. I wish some of 
 those charitable ladies thought of that." 
 
 There was a pause. Their meal was finished. 
 Mary quickly washed up the tea-things, and 
 set them by, then placing me and my compa 
 nions in a little basket, she held up the bag to 
 her father. 
 
 " Is it not pretty, father ?" 
 
 " Yes, Mary dear, but it is hard to see you 
 forced to toil your pretty eyes 'out over these 
 things for a morsel of bread. Little did I 
 think, when I paid for your schooling, that it 
 was to be put to such a use." 
 
 < Dear father," said Mary, throwing her arm
 
 16 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 round the old man's neck, " what better use 
 could it be put to, than earning honest bread 
 for us both ?" 
 
 " God bless you, Mary," said he, returning 
 her embrace, while tears rolled down his 
 wrinkled cheeks " God will bless you, for 
 you are a dutiful child." 
 
 " He does bless me " said Mary, looking 
 fondly at her father, while her eyes brightened, 
 and a lovely glow suffused her pale cheeks. 
 " He does bless me, for He enables me to help 
 and comfort you. But I must go," she con 
 tinued, recollecting herself, " it is quite dark ; 
 however it is not far to Mrs. Hart's. I wish 
 ' " tying her bonnet, and putting on her cloak 
 as she spoke ; " I wish I were going to Mrs. 
 Hudson's. She always has a kind word and 
 look, no matter how busy she is. Good-bye, 
 father, for a little while. Stop I '11 reach you 
 the Bible before I go." She set the little stand 
 before the old man, placed a large book on it, 
 trimmed the lamp, and put it beside the book ; 
 doing all these little servicee with the quick
 
 MARY AND HER FATHER. 17 
 
 movement of one who never wasted a moment, 
 and never had a moment to waste. She then 
 left the room and descended the stairs, singing 
 in a low voice as she went, 
 
 " When darkness and when sorrows rose, 
 
 And press'd on every side ; 
 Did not the Lord sustain my steps. 
 
 And was not God my guide?" 
 
 The door closed behind her and I left the 
 abode of virtuous poverty.
 
 THE RICH MAN'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 How shocking must thy summons be, oh ! Death ! 
 i To him that is at ease in his possessions BLAIR. 
 
 I REMAINED in the basket for some hours, and 
 was at length released from my prison by an el 
 derly lady, who, taking hold of my gilded handle 
 turned me round and round, eyed me with ap 
 parent admiration, and placed me on a marble 
 mantle-piece, near a beautiful China vase. She 
 then left the room, and I took a survey of my 
 new habitation, It was very unlike the humble 
 abode I had quitted. The room was large and 
 lofty, the furniture elegant and abundant, and 
 gazing round on rich curtains and carpets, taste 
 ful chairs, luxurious sofas, splendid mirrors, 
 glittering lamps, and costly tables, laden with 
 books, prints, and toys , I felt that I certainly 
 was in very good society. As this was my
 
 THE RICH MAN'S DAUGHTER. 19 
 
 first appearance in high life, I might have been 
 somewhat abashed had not a large mirror 
 which hung opposite, enabled me to form a 
 pretty accurate estimate of my own personal 
 advantages, and I found myself well fitted to 
 take my place in the brilliant circle to which I 
 was admitted. I was elegantly shaped, and 
 covered with embossed paper of a pale lilac 
 hue, ornamented with wreaths of flowers, so 
 finely painted, that they seemed to rival in 
 beauty the delicate natives of the hot-house, 
 which bloomed in my neighbour, the China 
 vase. I was edged with gold, and my carved 
 handle was covered with the same bright mat- 
 terial. My Chinese neighbour was a traveller, 
 and, with the ease of one who had seen the 
 world, entered into conversation with me. 
 From him I learned some particulars of the 
 family, whose mansion we assistea to adorn. 
 
 "Mr. Walcott," said the vase, " is a wealthy 
 merchant. His family consists of a wife and 
 one child; a beautiful daughter, just brought 
 out."
 
 20 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 I inquired the meaning of the last phrase, 
 feeling rather awkward as I confessed my igno 
 rance ; but my Chinese friend, being much 
 too well-bred either to smile or sneer, quietly 
 gave me the information I desired. 
 
 " There is a time," said he, " in every 
 young lady's life, somewhere between her fif 
 teenth and eighteenth years, at which her 
 education is said to be finished; She is taken 
 from school ; the accomplishments which have 
 been acquired, or are supposed to have been 
 acquired, at the cost of much time and pains 
 on the part of the damsel, and much money 
 on the part of her parents, are to be exhibited 
 to the world. Dress-makers, milliners, jew 
 ellers, and hair-dressers, are put into requisi 
 tion; certain quantities of wines, jellies, cakes, 
 ices, &c., are prepared ; cards of invitation are 
 issued to a iSrge number of persons, requesting 
 their presence at the house of the young lady's 
 parents. If more people assemble than the 
 rooms will hold, so much the better. The 
 young lady appears, elegantly dressed, her
 
 THE RICH MAN'S DAUGHTER. 21 
 
 drawings lie on the centre-table in a handsome 
 port-folio, or placed in superb frames, ornament 
 the walls. She plays on the piano-forte or 
 harp ; is asked to sing to dance. She com 
 plies ; her parents are complimented by the 
 papas and mammas, and herself by the young 
 men. She is now entitled to receive morning 
 calls, go to evening parties, and frequent public 
 amusements. Her party is returned by invi 
 tations to a multitude of others, and she floats 
 gaily along the current of fashionable society. 
 She is now brought out, and supposed to be 
 fit to undertake the duties of wife and mo 
 ther, whenever an eligible match shall offer." 
 I thanked the vase for his information, 
 though I could not understand how a series 
 of morning calls and evening parties, should 
 prepare a young women for the discharge of 
 conjugal and maternal duties. I was pro 
 ceeding to ask other questions, when the door 
 was thrown open with some violence, and 
 several young people entered the room, laugh 
 ing and talking with great vivacity. The
 
 22 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 handsomest of the ladies did the honours of 
 the apartment, and I conjectured her to be 
 the daughter of Mr. Walcott. The party dis 
 persed about the room, and Miss Walcott threw 
 herself on a sofa near the fire. An elegant- 
 looking young man placed himself beside her, 
 with a book of prints in his hand, which they 
 began to look over. They talked at intervals, 
 and presently the heat of the anthracite coal 
 appeared to overcome Miss Walcott, for she 
 reached out her hand, took me down from my 
 station, and held me before her face. I won 
 dered, however, why I was oftener held be 
 tween her and her companion, or between her 
 and the rest of the company, than between her 
 and the fire. Sometimes she examined my 
 shape very intently, and sometimes used me 
 as a fan. Then she sat upright, pressing my 
 gilded edge against her rosy mouth, and look 
 ing down at the book of engravings. At last 
 she said, " It is really too warm here ;" and 
 attempted to rise.
 
 THE RICH MAN'S DAUGHTER. 23 
 
 "One word, dearest Fanny!" whispered the 
 gentleman. 
 
 Fanny did not speak, but she held me up 
 before her face, and lifted her bright tearful 
 eyes to his. I suppose he was satisfied at 
 least he looked so. 
 
 That night it was known in the family that 
 Mr. Raymond and Miss Walcott were engaged. 
 
 Time sped on. Preparations were made for 
 Fanny's marriage, mean time she partook 
 freely of all the gaieties of a fashionable win 
 ter. Raymond, as gay and thoughtless as her 
 self, never wearied of attending his beautiful 
 betrothed. Many books lay about the par 
 lour, but I never could detect one bearing any 
 resemblance to the large, time-worn volume I 
 had seen Mary place so reverently before her 
 father. Perhaps, so unwieldly and old-fash 
 ioned a book was not deemed a fit companion 
 for the elegant volumes I now and then saw 
 Miss Walcott look through. At any rate, I do 
 not recollect that I ever even heard it men 
 tioned. On Sundays, when the weather was
 
 24 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 very fine, and Mr. Walcott had not a dinner 
 party, Mrs. and Miss Walcott sometimes came 
 in with richly bound books, lettered " Prayer," 
 in their hands ; but I never saw these books 
 opened. 
 
 The day appointed for the marriage drew 
 near, when I missed Fanny from the parlour, 
 and heard Mrs. Walcott tell her visiters that 
 Miss Walcott had taken a violent cold, and 
 was indisposed. The next morning, a plea 
 sant-looking old lady, whom I had never seen 
 before, came into the parlour with Mrs. Walcott. 
 
 " We arrived only last night," said she, 
 "but hearing that dear Fanny was ill, I came 
 down immediately." 
 
 " She will be very glad to see you," replied 
 Mrs. Walcott ; " but, my dear sister, let me 
 beg of you not to teaze the poor girl with talk 
 about religion, and so on ; you know what I 
 mean. Her spirits are low, and her nerves 
 very irritable." 
 
 The lady sighed, and shook tier head, but 
 said nothing. Mrs. Walcott walked to the
 
 THE RICH MAN'S DAUGHTEB. 25 
 
 fire-piace, took me down, and seated herself. 
 A servant entered to say that Miss Walcott 
 was awake, and would be glad to see Mrs. 
 Deane. The ladies arose and went up stairs ; 
 Mrs. Walcott still carrying me in her hand. 
 The chamber to which I was introduced, was 
 as spacious and luxuriously fitted up as the 
 parlour I had left. Seated in an easy chair by 
 the fire, was Miss Walcott. She looked bril 
 liantly beautiful ; her colour was higher and 
 her eyes brighter, than I had ever seen them, 
 and her simple white wrapper allowed the gaze 
 to rest with undivided interest on the wearer. 
 But there was something unnatural and fear 
 ful in her beauty, and her voice sounded as 
 though she spoke painfully. A gentleman 
 dressed in black sat beside her, holding her 
 hand, and keeping his finger on her wrist. 
 
 " Dear aunt !" she exclaimed, stretching out 
 her disengaged hand, " how glad I am to see 
 you ! Come sit by me quite close, aunt. 
 How long is it since you came back? Have 
 
 you brought me any New York fashions? Is 
 3
 
 26 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 it not provoking that I should be taken ill just 
 now? I have missed Julia Clark's wedding-party, 
 and Mrs. Philipson's ball, already ; and Mrs. 
 Stanwood gives a party next week. They say 
 it will be the most splendid thing that ever was 
 given in Philadelphia. Dear Doctor," turning 
 to the gentleman, " you must make me well 
 by Thursday next." 
 
 The Doctor smiled, and expressed his hope 
 that Miss Walcott would be quite well before 
 that time. Then he arose, and talked a little 
 with Mrs. Waleott at a window. I distin 
 guished the words, " perfectly quiet ;" " some 
 inflammation ;" " nervous system ;" &c. &c. : 
 then bowing to Mrs. Deane, and bidding his 
 fair patient good morning, he retired, accom 
 panied by Mrs. Walcott. 
 
 Mrs. Deane drew close to the invalid, and 
 took her hand affectionately. Oh ! now dear 
 auntie," exclaimed Fanny, " I know what 
 you are going to say. Pray don't talk to me 
 now about death, and eternity, and such gloomy 
 things. I am dull enough already, shut up here
 
 THE RICH MAN'S DAUGHTER. 27 
 
 and the Doctor wo'n't allow people to come 
 up and enliven me. I'm sure there's not much 
 the matter with me, after all but " a violent 
 cough forbade the conclusion of the sentence. 
 
 " My dear niece," said Mrs. Deane, gently, 
 " I hope indeed that your sickness is not unto 
 death ; but if you recover now, do you think 
 you will live the less happily for knowing 
 how to die ?" 
 
 Fanny pouted her lip, but her love for her 
 aunt, and her natural sweetness of temper, 
 conquered the rising irritation. 
 
 " I do not know, indeed, aunt," said she, 
 frankly, " for I have never thought about the 
 matter." 
 
 " Then, my love, while your indisposition 
 allows you leisure, had you not better give 
 the subject a little consideration ?" 
 
 " I don't know how to set about it," an 
 swered Fanny, half laughing. 
 
 Mrs. Deane sighed. " Well, my darling, I 
 will not teaze you with any more questions 
 at present ; only, while you sit here alone and
 
 28 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 unemployed, look over this " and she took 
 a small book from a bag which hung on her 
 arm, and placed it on her niece's lap. "It 
 will teach you how to set about it." Then 
 kissing Fanny's forehead, she bade her good 
 morning, and departed. 
 
 Left alone, Fanny took up the book. " The 
 Bible ! the Bible !" said she, peevishly. " I 
 wonder aunt Deane did not send for a minister 
 to pray for me. One would think I was at the 
 last gasp. After all, suppose I was to die, how 
 should I fare ? I have not done any harm 
 that I know of. Aunt Deane is always talk 
 ing about pleasing God. I do not know that 
 I have ever done any thing to displease him. 
 But I do not want to die." She paused, and 
 began to turn over the leaves of the Bible. 
 Presently her attention seemed engaged, and 
 an air of earnest seriousness overspread her 
 beautiful features. 
 
 She had been reading about half an hour, 
 when the door was softly opened, and a bloom 
 ing face appeared in the aperture. " May 1
 
 THE RICH MAN'S DAUGHTER. 29 
 
 come in ? rt said the intruder, playfully ; and 
 without waiting for permission, she closed the 
 door, ran up to Fanny, and embraced her. 
 " They told me below that you were too ill 
 to see any body ; but I knew the prohibition 
 did not extend to me, so I stole up without 
 leave, for I was determined to see you." 
 
 " Oh ! my dear Dora," exclaimed Fanny, 
 dropping her book. I am so glad you came 
 up, for I am quite melancholy. Aunt Deane 
 has been here, and I do believe she thinks I 
 am going to die." 
 
 " Going to die ! nonsense. You never 
 looked better in your life. There, is that a 
 dying face ?" and the young lady snatched a 
 mirror from the toilet and held it before her 
 friend. Fanny contemplated her fever-bright 
 ened face with a smile, and Dora, putting 
 down the mirror, went on. "Well, my dear 
 Fanny, I have come to spend a quiet hour 
 with you, and look over your bridal finery. 
 I called at Thibaults' this morning, and saw 
 
 Raymond looking at some splendid sets of 
 3*
 
 30 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 pearl. I guessed their destination. Have you 
 bought your veil, yet ?" 
 
 Fanny's maid was summoned. Drawers, . 
 wardrobes, and bandboxes, yielded up their 
 gay contents ; the Bible dropped unnoticed on 
 the floor, and the young ladies spent two 
 hours in animated discussions on white satin, 
 lace veils, pelerines, collars, sleeves, skirts, &c. 
 &c. &c., until Mrs. Walcott coming up, ex 
 pressed great vexation at Fanny's neglect of 
 the Doctor's injunctions ; ordered the maid to 
 assist her into bed immediately, and requested 
 Miss Dora to walk down stairs. 
 
 When the doctor called in the evening he 
 declared Fanny to be much worse, and bled 
 her copiously. In the night, Mrs. Walcott was 
 called up ; Fanny was delirious, and the Doc 
 tor was sent for again. For two days the 
 miserable parents watched the sick bed of their 
 only child. Raymond never left her, and Mrs. 
 Deane, who had been sent for as soon as the 
 case was declared alarming, attended her with 
 untiring care. She watched anxiously for a
 
 THE RICH MAN J S DAUGHTER. 31 
 
 moment in which she might speak to the dying 
 girl of her Saviour, but when Fanny did not 
 rave, she lay in a stupor, and Mrs. Deane could 
 only put up mental supplications in her behalf. 
 
 About noon on the third day, Fanny awoke 
 from an uneasy slumber, and stared feebly 
 around her. Her father stood at the foot of 
 the bed, his arms folded, his lips compressed, 
 and his eyes fixed on his daughter. Her 
 mother leaned weeping against the bed-post. 
 Raymond knelt beside the bed, holding one of 
 her hands. Mrs. Deane bent over her, and 
 raised her head. 
 
 " Fanny, dear," said she. 
 
 Fanny glanced at her aunt, then at her 
 parents and her lover. Her eyes returned to 
 her aunt. " Aunt," said she, in a low, hollow 
 tone, " I am going to die." 
 
 " Yes, dear Fanny, but Jesus Christ is will 
 ing to receive you. Are not yon willing to be 
 saved by Him ?" 
 
 "I do not know that I am," murmured 
 Fanny, in that same unnaturally quiet tone.
 
 32 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 don't you believe in Him, dearest 
 Fanny ?" 
 
 " I do not know that I do." 
 
 " But will not you strive to go to Him ?" 
 
 "I do not know the way." 
 
 There was a faint gasp a slight spasm 
 and the spirit departed to traverse without a 
 guide, the Valley of the Shadow of Death. 
 
 Mrs. Deane gently laid back the fair head 
 on its pillow, and closed the eyes. Mrs. 
 Walcott gave a loud scream, and sunk on the 
 floor in strong hysterics. Raymond still knelt 
 beside the bed, holding the lifeless hand, and 
 groaning in irrepressible agony. Mrs. Deane 
 assisted in conveying the poor mother to her 
 own room, and having directed the attendants 
 what to do, she returned to the chamber of 
 death. Mr. Walcott still stood in his former 
 attitude, gazing fixedly on the body. Mrs. 
 Deane approached him, put her hand on his 
 arm, an-d whispered, , " My dear brother." 
 
 He neither moved nor spoke.
 
 THE RICH MAN'S DAUGHTER. 33 
 
 " Dear brother," she resumed after a short 
 pause, come with me." 
 
 He shook off her hand impatiently, and 
 resumed his former position. 
 
 " You are sorely tried ; but oh ! dearest 
 brother, God can sustain you. Look to his 
 mercy." 
 
 " Away !" he shouted. " Look there, and 
 then talk to me of God's mercy, if you dare. 
 My child ; my daughter ; my darling ! I toiled 
 for her ; I strove for her ; I lived for her ; and 
 she lies there." 
 
 Rage, more than grief, seemed to convulse 
 the miserable man. His face grew livid, while 
 foam gathered on his lips, he uttered some 
 inarticulate murmurs, and fell down in an apo 
 plectic fit. 
 
 The father and daughter were buried on the 
 same day.
 
 THE LYNN FAMILY. 
 
 Domestic Peace '- to thy white hand is given 
 
 Of earthly happiness the golden key. Gems from the Antique. 
 
 WHEX poor Fanny's chamber was arrayed 
 for the funeral, I was placed in a drawer, 
 where I remained for some time. At length, 
 I was taken out, wrapped in paper, and carried 
 away. When my envelope was removed, I 
 found myself in the hands of a lady, who 
 after allowing two pretty children to look at 
 me, placed me, as usual, on the mantel-piece. 
 
 My new abode was a parlour, plainly fur 
 nished, but arranged with the most perfect 
 neatness. A cheerful fire burned in the grate ; 
 the table was set for tea. The two children, 
 a boy of seven, and a girl about four years old, 
 were playing on the carpet ; a pretty girl of 
 ten, sat on a low chair beside a cradle, in 
 
 which slept a beautiful baby. The girl rocked 
 34
 
 THE LYNN FAMILY. 35 
 
 the cradle with one hand, and held in the other 
 a book, which she read very attentively. The 
 lady placed a small basket of cakes on the tea- 
 table, then she took from it a lamp, and putting 
 it on a small stand near the cradle, said to the 
 absorbed reader, "My love, you should not 
 read so far from the light." 
 
 " I know it mamma, but I did not think 
 about the light just then. I was on the moun 
 tain with Ruth Lee," holding up her book. 
 Her mother smiled, but the smile was followed 
 by a sigh, and opening her work-box, she sat 
 down beside the stand. 
 
 " A'n't you well, dear mamma ?" said the 
 reader, looking anxiously at her mother. 
 
 " Yes, darling ; quite well." 
 
 " Then why do you sigh so, mamma, and 
 look so grave ? Is any thing the matter ?" 
 
 " Nothing is the matter with me Emma ; but 
 I have just been to bid poor Mrs. Walcott 
 good-bye." 
 
 " Poor Mrs. Walcott ! oh, yes ! I recollect 
 the day Fanny Walcott called on you. She
 
 36 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 was so pretty and good-natured. How she kissed 
 the baby, and played with George and Harriet. 
 Tell me what you saw to-day, mamma. 
 
 " I saw a sad sight, Emma. Mrs. Walcott 
 was very ill after the deaths of her husband 
 and child. She has recovered, and is going 
 with a party of fashionable friends to Europe. 
 She says she cannot bear the place where she 
 lost her husband and daughter : so the elegant 
 house and furniture are to be sold. She gave 
 me that beautiful screen for a keepsake. She 
 says she hopes that new company and new 
 scenes, will make her forget her troubles." 
 
 " But, mamma, what are people to do who 
 have troubles, and can't afford to go to new 
 company and new scenes ?" 
 
 "Don't you know, Emma?" 
 
 " I think I do, mamma ;" and the little girl 
 spoke very seriously. " Jesus says, ' Come 
 unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, 
 and I will give you rest.' " 
 
 " Mrs. Walcott will not go to Jesus, Emma. 
 She will not look for comfort where it may be
 
 THE LYNN FAMILY. 37 
 
 found, and she is restless and miserable. One 
 minute she is giving orders for new dresses, 
 and the next, crying over her daughter's pic 
 ture, and wishing she was dead too." 
 
 " Was Mr. Walcott pious, mamma ?" 
 
 " No, my dear. He thought of nothing but 
 making money. He used to boast that his 
 daughter was the prettiest, and he would 
 make her the richest girl in Philadelphia. 
 When his ships made good voyages, he used 
 to tell her how much he had gained on the 
 cargoes, and say, It is all for you, Fanny." 
 His finest ship was named after her, and while 
 he would refuse a cent to a starving family, he 
 would give poor Fanny thousands to squander v 
 on trifles." 
 
 " She was his idol, mamma." 
 
 "Yes, Emma; and when that idol was 
 thrown down, the poor father's life and rea 
 son went with it." 
 
 Mrs. Lynn paused, and wiped away a tear. 
 Emma's eyes were overflowing, and she hid 
 
 them in her mother's lap. 
 4
 
 38 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 The street-door bell rang. " Papa ! papa !" 
 shouted the children. Emma hastened to let 
 her father in, and the little ones ran after her. 
 Mr. Lynn entered with a smiling face, and 
 and Mrs. Lynn's grave aspect brightened when 
 she saw her beloved husband. The baby, 
 waked by the gleeful bustle, was taken up by 
 his father. Mrs. Lynn put the tea on the 
 table, and Emma placed the chairs. 
 
 Mr. Lynn was head-clerk to a very wealthy 
 merchant. Mr. and Mrs. Lynn were well 
 born and well-bred, but their circumstances 
 were below their tastes and education, and 
 they wisely conformed to them. They rented 
 a small house in a retired street, kept but one 
 domestic, visited seldom, and saw little com 
 pany. Mrs. Lynn educated her children at 
 home, and as she made her own clothes and 
 theirs, besides assisting in household business, 
 the fashionable goblin Ennui, never found her 
 at leisure to receive him. As their limited 
 income obliged them to live with exact eco 
 nomy, the funds for the charity they loved to
 
 THE LYNN FAMILY. 39 
 
 exercise, could be supplied only by self-denial. 
 Many instances of this kind it was my plea 
 sant lot to witness, during my abode in this 
 happy family. 
 
 The winter was half over, when Mrs. Lynn 
 sat down one morning in the parlour, and 
 began to take the trimming off her straw bon 
 net. While she was doing this, Mrs. Freeman 
 came in. When she had rested a little, she 
 cast her eyes on Mrs. Lynn's bonnet. 
 
 " What are you going to do with your bon 
 net, Harriet ?" 
 
 " I was caught in a storm yesterday, which 
 drenched my ribands, and has made it abso 
 lutely necessary that my bonnet should be 
 pressed and new-trimmed. I can do it myself, 
 and I must make this bonnet last me all winter." 
 
 " You wore it all last summer, Harriet ?" 
 
 " I did," answered Mrs. Lynn. 
 
 ' And all this winter I think ?" 
 
 "Even so," said Mrs. Lynn, smiling. "I 
 cannot afford a new bonnet until next sum 
 mer, if I live so long."
 
 40 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 " James Lynn has a good wife," said Mrs. 
 Freeman, affectionately returning Mrs. Lynn's 
 smile, "but since I find you making it do, as 
 Mrs. Sedgwick says, I am afraid my errand 
 
 
 
 will come to little speed." 
 
 " What is your errand, my dear madam ?" 
 Mrs. Freeman was past sixty. She had 
 been beautiful, and still retained traces of her 
 youthful loveliness in her smooth fair skin, 
 and delicate hands and feet. Those hands, 
 though weakened by age, were ever stretched 
 forth to the needy ; and those feet were never 
 weary of going about to do good. She had 
 little money to bestow, but she had time, acti 
 vity, good-will, and good sense ; and all these 
 she employed right heartily in the service of 
 her fellow-creatures. To those who were ready 
 to give money, food, or clothing, but were 
 unable or unwilling to give time, Mrs. Free 
 man was a wise and willing almoner. She 
 visited familiarly the dwellings of the poor; 
 ascertained the nature and extent of their 
 wants, and listened patiently to their com-
 
 THE LYNN FAMILY. 41 
 
 plaints. She watched and prayed with the 
 sick, prepared their food, and administered their 
 medicines. She taught ignorant wives how 
 best to economize their scanty stores, and 
 helped overburdened mothers to cut out and 
 make up the clothing she procured for them. 
 And on Sundays, the group of little faces, 
 brightening when she entered the Sabbath- 
 school, told of her usefulness there. " Silver 
 and gold have I none" said the Apostle, " but 
 such as I have give I fhee." 
 
 And the gift was blessed. 
 
 Mrs. Freeman explained that she had been 
 to see a poor family, and was requested to visit 
 the lodgers in the room above them. She found 
 a husband and wife in a state of dreadful des 
 titution. The man lay ill of a rheumatic fever, 
 and the woman, by working long at her needle 
 in a smokey room, and by a dim light, had 
 ruined her eyes, and was now scarcely able to 
 see her way about their wretched chamber. 
 A straw-pallet on the floor was their bed ; a 
 
 single thin counterpane their covering, All 
 
 4*
 
 42 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 the rest of their bedding had been pledged or 
 sold, to keep them from starving. They had 
 neither food nor fuel, and hardly clothes to 
 cover them. 
 
 " I sent them some provisions, and a quarter 
 dollar's worth of wood, from a neighbouring 
 shop," continued Mrs. Freeman, " to supply 
 their immediate wants. Mrs. Holbert and Miss 
 Ward will give them some clothing ; Mrs. Dun 
 can has sent them a warm comfortable, and 
 Dr. Barnes will attend them. I am now trying 
 to collect money to buy them half a cord of 
 wood. Can you assist me ?" 
 
 Mrs. Lynn took out her purse and counted 
 its contents. 
 
 " I am afraid I have nothing to spare to 
 day," said she thoughtfully. " We do not re 
 ceive any money until the end of this month, 
 and after we have paid our quarter's rent, 
 (which is due to-morrow,) I shall have barely 
 enough for house-keeping expenses. I wish" 
 her eye fell on the bonnet ; she paused, coun 
 ted her money again, and took from the sum
 
 THE LYNN FAMILY. 43 
 
 half a dollar, which she presented to Mrs Free 
 man. 
 
 " Now tell me, candidly, Harriet ; how 
 have you contrived to spare this half dollar?" 
 
 " Why," said Mrs. Lynn, smiling and slightly 
 blushing, "you know it is necessary for me to 
 calculate my resources, even to a cent. I had 
 allowed a dollar and a half to buy lining 
 and trimming for my bonnet. I can make a 
 smaller quantity of riband do, and the half dol 
 lar saved will help to buy the wood." 
 
 Little George, while shaping a bit of stick 
 into a boat, listened attentively to this dia 
 logue, and the lesson was not lost. 
 
 A few days afterward, while the family 
 were at dinner, Mrs. Lynn said to her hus 
 band " Did you call at Mrs. Pond's to-day, 
 about the place for Ellen ?" 
 
 " I did, and Ellen went immediately. Poor 
 Mrs. Pond was very low-spirited. Her hus 
 band is still out of employ; she has had no 
 needlework to do since the last Mrs. Freeman 
 sent her ; and Christopher, who earned a little
 
 44 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 by going on errands, has taken such a violent 
 cold that he can hardly sit up." 
 
 How did he get such a cold, papa ?" asked 
 George. 
 
 " His shoes are worn out, my dear ; he is 
 not a hardy child, and the weather has been 
 so wet and cold that he surfers severely. My 
 love," (to Mrs. Lynn,) " have you no old shoes 
 to spare ?" 
 
 Mrs. Lynn shook her head. " I gave Em 
 ma's old shoes to black Polly, last week, and 
 George's would not be large enough." 
 
 " Papa," said the little boy, as they arose 
 from the table, " you know you promised me 
 a pair of skates, if I did not miss my lessons 
 for a month." 
 
 "I did, George." 
 
 " Papa, I have earned the skates ; hav'n't 
 I, mamma ?" 
 
 " Yes, darling ; you have said your lessons 
 perfectly during the last month." 
 
 " Papa, will a pair of thick shoes cost more 
 than a pair of skates ?"
 
 THE LYNN FAMILY. 45 
 
 " Not quite so much as a very good pair." 
 
 " Well, then, papa, if you will take the 
 money my skates would cost, and buy poor 
 Christy a pair of shoes, I will go without the 
 skates." 
 
 " Very well, my son ; but you had better 
 not decide too quickly. I shall not be able to 
 afford you a pair of skates this winter, if I 
 buy the shoes for Christy. I am going to be 
 busy for half an hour ; take that time to think, 
 and make up your mind." 
 
 With a very important face, George sat 
 down by the window to think. Visions of 
 skates with bright steel runners, painted 
 woods, and stout straps, floated before him. 
 He thought of merry parties on the brick-pond, 
 and he dwelt much on the triumph of display 
 ing his handsome new skates before a certain 
 Bill Mackey, whose fine skates and disobliging 
 temper, had given some offence to little George. 
 "It would be so pleasant on the brick-pond, 
 and Fred. Clarke will be so glad, and my skates 
 will be nicer than Bill Mackey's, for the red
 
 46 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 paint is worn off his, now. And it is growing 
 so cold the streets are covered with sleet 
 it will be such grand skating to-morrow." 
 George hesitated. He felt as if he could not 
 give up the skates. He looked out of the 
 window a half-clad shivering child was shuff 
 ling along the pavment, dragging a basket of 
 chips, and his red, swollen feet were visible 
 through his torn and and mud-soaked shoes, 
 " Poor Christopher ! do his feet look so ?" 
 
 Mr. Lynn closed his book. " Well, George." 
 
 " Papa, I have chosen. Buy the shoes for 
 Christy." 
 
 " What ! will you dive up doin on the brit- 
 pond ?" inquired little Harriet, who had been 
 the confidant of her brother's glorious antici 
 pations. 
 
 George's throat swelled, but he answered 
 manfully "Harriet, poor Christy is barefoot. 
 I can do better without skates than he can 
 without shoes. Say, papa, will you ?" 
 
 u Surely, my dear boy," said his father, em-
 
 THE LYNN FAMILY. 47 
 
 bracing him, " and bless God for putting the 
 thought into your young heart. 
 
 The shoes were bought that evening, and 
 the happy little George was permitted to carry 
 them to Christopher. 
 
 " Mamma, what is sensibility ?" 
 
 " That, Emma, is one of the questions more 
 easily asked than answered. What do you 
 think it is?" 
 
 " I thought it meant feeling so sorry for other 
 people's pain or grief, that you wanted to do 
 any thing in the world for them.' 7 
 
 "A very good definition" began Mrs. Lynn, 
 but Mr. Lynn interrupted her " Of yonr 
 mother's sensibility, hey, Emma?" 
 
 " Yes, papa : just that because I once heard 
 Mrs. Freeman tell Mr. West, that mamma was 
 a woman of real sensibility. But there are 
 two kinds of sensibility, papa." 
 
 " What makes you think so ?"
 
 48 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 " Why, mamam, you know the afternoon 
 I spent with Mary Earle. Mrs. Earle wanted 
 to send a message to Mrs. Dunbar, so she wrote 
 a note, and Mary asked her mother to let us 
 take it. So we went, and Mrs. Dunbar was 
 sitting in the parlour with another lady, and 
 the asked us to sit down while she answered 
 the note. While she was writing, the nurse 
 came in, and said 'Ma'am, the Doctor says Ro 
 bert must be bled ; and he is crying for you. He 
 says he wouldn't mind it if he might sit in your 
 lap.' ' Oh ! nurse ,' said Mrs. Dunbar, 'I can't 
 think of coming. I never could bear the sight 
 of blood. I should faint away in a minute. Tell 
 Robert to let you hold him, nurse, and be a 
 brave boy and he shall have a rocking-horse when 
 he gets well.' So the nurse went away looking 
 quite vexed, and Mrs. Dunbar turned to the 
 other lady, and put her handkerchief to her eyes 
 and said,' I uever could bear to see the poor 
 dear boy bled. I should be quite ill .' 
 
 " Oh ! my dear creature,' said the other lady, 
 ' you have so much sensibility.' "
 
 THE LYNN FAMILY. 49 
 
 " Selfish, unfeeling woman !" exclaimed Mr. 
 Lynn. 
 
 " I thought it was queer, papa ; for when 
 George and Harriet had the measles, mamma 
 scarcely left them night or day, she held them 
 on her lap, sung to them, told them stories 
 and gave them all their food and physic her 
 self. And when Betsy had such a bad hand, 
 mamma dressed it every day. I know she 
 did not like to do such things, for once after the 
 hand was dressed she nearly fainted ; and Maria 
 said, "Why don't you let somebody else do that 
 for Betsy, if it makes you so sick ?' And mam 
 ma said I remember it so well ! ' How can I 
 ask another to do that which / shrink from 
 doing?' " 
 
 " That was like your mother. Emma, I 
 hope you will resemble her." 
 
 " I'll try, papa. But about sensibility. 
 What kind of sensibility was that, when 
 Mrs. Dunbar would not go to her sick child ?" 
 
 " My dear girl, sensibility, like current coin, 
 
 is often counterfeited. As you grow older, I 
 5
 
 50 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 hope you will learn to distinguish them, ' for 
 the tree is known by its fruit.' But let ns gd 
 back to your definition of sensibility. That 
 pity for another's pain, which makes us wish 
 to relieve it." 
 
 " Yes, papa." 
 
 " St. James will tell you, ' If a brother or 
 sister be naked and destitute of daily food, and 
 one of you say unto them, Depart in peace, be 
 ye warmed and filled ; notwithstanding ye give 
 them not these things which are needful to the 
 body, what doth it profit ?' " 
 
 "Well, papa?" 
 
 " Try sensibility by that test, Emma. If 
 what you feel for another's sufferings, does not 
 only make you wish, but strive to relieve it, 
 call the feeling by what name you please, its 
 real one is selfishness. I remember two little 
 anecdotes," continued Mr. Lynn. " A gentle 
 man, one bleak day, saw a poor sickly-looking 
 woman, weeding in a garden. A thin, pale 
 child, about nine years old, half clothed, and 
 blue with cold, stood with her arms wrapped
 
 THE LYNN FAMILY. 51 
 
 in her apron, looking sorrowfully at the weeder. 
 The gentleman asked the gardener some ques 
 tions, and found that the weeder was the girl's 
 mother. The woman had been ill, and was 
 still unable to do much work. ' And the child 
 is so fond of her mother, and -so sorry for her, 
 sir,' said the gardener, 'that no matter what 
 the weather is, she stands all day by her mo 
 ther's side, just as you see her now.' " 
 
 " That was foolish sensibility, papa. She 
 had better have tried to help her mother, I 
 think." 
 
 " True. This child's feelings were sincere, 
 indeed, but they were not properly exercised, 
 therefore they were useless. Worse than use 
 less ; for by standing inactive on the damp 
 ground, she probably took cold, fell ill, and 
 added to her mother's troubles." 
 
 " The other story, papa." 
 
 " Two little girls saw a poor boy collecting 
 dry sticks. They learned that he was weak 
 and hungry, and would be beaten if he went 
 home without a large bundle of sticks They
 
 52 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 gave him their breakfast; and while he ate at 
 it gathered sticks for him." 
 
 That was tvise. sensibility, papa ; they not 
 only pitied the poor boy, but helped him. 
 And Ruth had more sensibility than Orpah, 
 papa, for < Orpah kissed her mother-in-law, 
 but Ruth clave unto her.' " 
 
 "And remember, Emma, that kind actions 
 double their worth when performed in a plea 
 sant manner; for 
 
 ' With ill grace conferr'd, 
 Crowns, to a feeling mind, less joy impart, 
 Than trifles, offered by a willing heart.' " 
 
 Mrs. Lynn unlocked her book-case and took 
 from the upper shelf a small, thick, black-look 
 ing volume, which she gave to Emma. 
 
 " What an odd-looking book ! ' Dramatic 
 Dialogues.' Oh ! that's nice ; what frightful 
 pictures. Where did it come from, mamma ?" 
 
 " That book was the delight of my child 
 hood, Emma, when books for children were 
 not so plentiful as they are now. I have kept 
 it carefully, for I believe another copy could 
 scarcely be found in America."
 
 THE LYNN FAMILY. 53 
 
 - May I read it all ?" 
 
 " Not at present. One of the Dialogues is 
 called, < False and True Sensibility.'' It 
 gave me my first accurate ideas on the subject. 
 You may read that." 
 
 " But the first dialogue, mamma < Laura, 
 or the Little Idler.' Look at her bureau, 
 with all the drawers open, and the things 
 hanging out. May I read that ?" 
 
 "You may, Emma," replied her mother, 
 archly, if you know any little girl whose 
 drawers are kept like Laura's." 
 
 " Oh ! mamma," said Emma, laughingly, 
 < now that is not fair. I have never left my 
 things about, since you made me learn ' Slo 
 venly Flora.' " 
 
 " Tell me dat tory." said little Harriet. 
 
 " Jump in my lap, Harrie, and 1 will." 
 
 SLOVENLY FLORA. 
 
 Little Flora though really a beautiful child, 
 
 Was always disgusting to see ; . 
 
 Her hands were so dirty, her apron so soil'd, 
 'ler pretty black curls so entangled and wild, 
 
 No scullion more filthy than she. 
 5*
 
 54 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 In vain her kind mother endeavoured to train 
 
 Her daughter to habits more nice ; 
 She would listen and promise ; but in half a day, 
 From her heedless young mind would alike pass away, 
 
 Remonstrance, reproof, and advice. 
 
 One morning her brother came running up stairs 
 
 " Oh ! Mary, and Flora, and Sue ; 
 Come quick to the parlour, for uncle is there, 
 With beautiful pictures among us to share ; 
 But he says he has not many minutes to spare 
 
 And told me to hurry for you." 
 
 So Mary and Susan, who always look'd neat, 
 
 At once to the parlour ran down ; 
 But Flora, as usual, in slovenly case, 
 Her hair all uncomb'd and all dirty her face, 
 
 And scarcely a hook to her gown ; 
 
 Must run to the nursery, and beg to be dressed 
 
 And hurry to scrub her hands clean ; 
 But her combs were astray, and her shoe-strings untied, 
 And her frock to be mended in vain Flora tried 
 
 To make herself fit to be seen. 
 
 At last she was ready, but long before that, 
 
 The pictures and uncle were gone ; 
 And uncle had made to each little niece, 
 A present of two little pictures apiece ; 
 
 But slovenly Flora got none. 
 
 "And now get down, Harrie, dear, for I 
 must go and study my Sunday-school lesson. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Lynn observed the utmost
 
 THE LYNN FAMILY. 55 
 
 regularity in the distribution of their time, and 
 enforced punctuality on every member of their 
 household. The business of one day was 
 never, except in case of unforeseen accident, 
 allowed to encroach upon the next ; conse 
 quently, all domestic duties were easily and 
 thoroughly performed. They were as careful 
 of other people's time as of their own. Mr. 
 Lynn settled his bills at stated seasons; the 
 bag of clothes was always ready when the 
 washer-woman called for it ; Betsy's wages 
 were paid every Saturday morning ; and if Mrs. 
 Lynn, in her visits of charity, desired any poor 
 person to call at her house for food, medicine, 
 or clothing, the articles promised were always 
 prepared at the appointed hour. Promises made 
 to the children were rigidly kept, their little 
 possessions never interfered with, and their 
 play-time never, if it could be avoided, en 
 croached upon. Thus they learned the value 
 of truth, of social rights, and the distinction of 
 property. They imitated the exactness of 
 their parents, and deemed it disgraceful to
 
 56 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 deliver a message incorrectly, or forget what 
 they had planned to do at a certain time. In 
 short, as a young lady visiter observed one 
 day, " they lived more like the good people in 
 a moral tale, than a real family," 
 
 They had some agreeable friends, with 
 whom they exchanged social evening visits. 
 The ladies brought their needle work ; reading, 
 conversation, and sometimes a little music, 
 formed their amusements; a basket of fruit 
 or a few cakes made by Mrs. Lynn, sufficed 
 for refreshment. On these occasions, Emma 
 was permitted to sit up till nine o'clock. As 
 sisting her mother in attending to her guests, 
 or seated with her little work-basket she list 
 ened, enjoyed and improved. I heard more 
 wit and wisdom during one of these quiet 
 evenings, than in all the months of my so 
 journ at Mr. Walcott's. 
 
 When the short winter day closed in, Mrs. 
 Lynn liked to sit for an hour before tea, with 
 no light except that of the fire. It was a sea 
 son of rest to the parents, and delight to the
 
 THE LYNN FAMILY. 57 
 
 children, who called this time their happy hour. 
 Sometimes Mr. Lynn played on the flute, while 
 the children danced ; sometimes he told them 
 stories, or gave them riddles to guess ; and not 
 unfrequently, the whole party united in some 
 juvenile sport. One evening, the father and 
 children had had a hearty game at romps. 
 When they were weary with jumping, and 
 hoarse with laughing, Mr. Lynn threw him 
 self on the sofa. Harriet scrambled up to sit 
 beside him ; Emma and George sat down be 
 fore the sofa, and George's little dog, Prince, 
 who had contributed his full quota of noise and 
 merriment to the game, curled himself up on 
 the carpet with his nose on his master's knee. 
 
 " How snug we are !" said Emma, after a 
 little silence. 
 
 " Tell us a story, please, papa," said George. 
 
 " Tell you a story ! You have not left me 
 breath to tell one. Ask mamma, who sits 
 there so demurely." 
 
 Immediately the merry sprites capered over 
 to Mrs. Lynn, and preferred their petition.
 
 58 SCENES AT HOME, 
 
 "Tell us Xailoun the Idiot, if you please, 
 mamma." 
 
 " The Three Caskets, please, mamma." 
 
 " No ! no ! please, mamma ittle Mary and 
 her tat." 
 
 t " Tell us something we never heard before, 
 mamma." 
 
 Mrs. Lynn thought for a moment, and be 
 gan. 
 
 " When I was about your age, Emma, my 
 mother went, out shopping one day, and took 
 me with her. It was a bright, bitter morning 
 in January, and though I was well wrapped 
 up, I felt the cold severely. We stopped at 
 the grocer's, and the shoemaker's, and then 
 we went to a dry-goods store. The store 
 keeper knew my mother, and when we had 
 bought what we wanted, she told us of a poor 
 widow in the neighbourhood, who was in 
 great distress. So my mother asked where 
 Mrs. Marshall lived, and said she would go 
 there directly. It was in a narrow alley, not 
 far from the store ; a mean, old, dirty, tumble-
 
 THE LYNN FAMILY. 59 
 
 down house, with a family in every room. 
 Mrs. Marshall lived in the garret. When we 
 went in, we found her in bed. She had very 
 few bed-clothes, and there was no fire in the 
 room. My mother talked to her, and found 
 that she was sick with liver complaint, and 
 had nothing to depend on but her daily labour. 
 She had worked too hard the week before, and 
 was not able to leave her bed. ' I have neither 
 money, victuals, nor fire-wood, ma'am, and I 
 ain't able to earn any, and what will become 
 of that poor boy, God only knows' and the 
 poor woman cried. 
 
 " I looked around, and saw a very ragged, 
 lean, little boy, about six years old, sitting on 
 a stool at the foot of the bed, eating a crust of 
 rye bread. 
 
 " < Don't cry, mamma,' said the little boy, 
 cheerfully ? < when the ladies are gone, I'll pray 
 to God to help us.' 
 
 " My mother gave the child some money, 
 and told him to go and buy a pound of coffee 
 and a loaf of bread for his mother. When he
 
 60 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 was gone, my mother said, ' Your little boy 
 seems well instructed.' < Yes, ma'am/ said 
 Mrs. Marshall,' I got him in the Infant School 
 when he was two years old, and I have never 
 kept him a day at home when he was able to 
 go. It's a great comfort to me, lying here as I 
 am, to hear him say Scripture texts and hymns. 
 He never misses his prayers, night or morning. 
 Oh ! ma'am, I have reason to bless that Infant 
 School. 1 never knew Johnny to tell a lie in his 
 life ; and he would not lay a finger on what 
 was not his own, if he was starving.' 
 
 " By this time Johnny came back. My 
 mother promised to send some wood and 
 other comforts as soon as possible ; and as we 
 went down stairs, she stopped at one of the v 
 rooms, and engaged a woman to nurse Mrs. 
 Marshall. My sisters and 1 worked very hard 
 that day, to mend up some old clothes for 
 Johnny and his mother ; and my brother 
 Charles begged leave to give Johnny a plaid 
 cloak which he had outgrown. Poor fellow ! 
 he jumped for joy when he came for the
 
 THE LYNN FAMILY. 61 
 
 clothes, and Charles threw a cloak over his 
 shoulders, and told him he might keep it. 
 
 " Mrs. Marshall was sometimes better and 
 sometimes worse. She worked when she was 
 able, and my mother and other ladies helped 
 her, but she suffered a good deal. When 
 Johnny was about nine years old, he went out 
 one Saturday morning after breakfast, and did 
 not come home till near noon. ' Oh ! Johnny/ 
 said Mrs. Marshall, < where have you been ?' 
 < Mother,' said Johnny, < I am old enough to 
 earn my own living. I don't want to be a 
 burden on you any longer, I've been to look 
 for a place." 
 
 " < And did you get one, Johnny ?' said Mrs. 
 Marshall. 
 
 "'Yes, mother, and the man I'm hired to 
 will be here presently to speak to you about 
 me.' 
 
 " Mrs. Marshall asked him how he had 
 managed. Johnny said he went and stood 
 in the market, and looked at the farmers as 
 
 they came in with their wagons, and when he 
 6
 
 62 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 saw one that looked good-natured, he asked 
 him if he wanted to hire a boy. At last he 
 met with one that did. 
 
 "The farmer came, and agreed to take 
 Johnny on a trial for a month, and if they 
 were mutually satisfied, to have him bound 
 till he was twenty-one years old. So Johnny 
 went away with his master." 
 
 "And did he stay there, mamma?" asked 
 George. 
 
 " You shall hear. The day after the month 
 was up, Johnny came home. He looked very 
 serious, and said he was not going back again. 
 His mother asked him if he had been ill- 
 treated. No; they had been very kind, in 
 deed. Had he enough to eat and drink ? 
 Plenty of the best. Was his work too hard ? 
 Nothing but what he could do very well. 
 Was his master satisfied? Yes, his master 
 wanted him to stay. 'Then why did you 
 come away, Johnny ?' Johnny made no an 
 swer. Then his mother was frightened, < Oh ! 
 Johnny,' said she, ' I am afraid you have done
 
 THE LYNN FAMILY. 63 
 
 something wrong.' Johnny burst out crying. 
 'No, indeed, mother; I have done nothing 
 wrong.' < Then why won't you go back ?' 
 i Mother,' said Johnny, wiping away his tears 
 and looking very earnest, ' my master laughs 
 at the Bible, and does not love the Lord Jesus 
 Christ. I cannot live with a man that calls the 
 Holy Bible a pack of lies. Mother, I won't 
 be a burden on you. I'll get another place, 
 but I can't live with people that don't love my 
 Saviour.' 
 
 Poor Mrs. Marshall kissed her dear little 
 boy, and they had scarcely done crying, when 
 the farmer came. He was very sorry to lose 
 Johnny, for he said he was the best little boy 
 he had ever employed. He offered to bring 
 Johnny up as his own child (for he was a rich 
 man,) if he would come back; but Johnny 
 was firm. No offers would tempt him to cast 
 in his lot with those who did not serve the 
 Lord.* 
 
 * A fact. It happened almost word for word as Mrs. Lynn 
 relates it.
 
 64 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 "Johnny soon got another place, and this 
 time it was in a pious family, for God leads 
 those who trust in Him by ways they know 
 not. His master loved him very much, for 
 Johnny was a faithful Christian servant ; and 
 his wife dying soon after, he hired Mrs. Mar 
 shall for house-keeper. The country air and 
 good living, soon restored her health ; and 
 she lived to see her little Johnny grow up a 
 pious, sensible, useful man." 
 
 " And what has become of him, mamma ?" 
 
 He has a large farm of his own, now ; he 
 is married, has a good wife, and six nice chil 
 dren. Do you remember the two fine turkeys, 
 and the barrel of pippins, that were sent to 
 your grandmother last Christmas ?" 
 
 " Yes, surely, mamma. Was that Mr. Mar 
 shall, little Johnny ?" 
 
 " Yes. He is now a wealthy, influential 
 man, but he still remembers with gratitude 
 those who befriended his childhood."
 
 THE LYNN FAMILY. 65 
 
 ' Papa is coming up the steps. I'll run and 
 open the front door," said George. 
 
 " My dear husband, what is the matter ? 
 How pale you look !" 
 
 Mr. Lynn gave Emma his hat, and without 
 speaking, sat down on the sofa. Mrs. -Lynn, 
 somewhat alarmed, seated herself beside him, 
 and took his hand. Emma closed her work- 
 box, and prepared to leave the parlour.' < Don't 
 go, my Emma, your parents have no secrets 
 from their children. Sit down beside papa, 
 and I will tell you and mamma what has wor 
 ried me. Mr. Bennett, you know, though a 
 thorough man of business, is rather eccentric. 
 He has been in and out of the counting-house 
 lately, in a fidgety sort of a way, and has said 
 several things which I have been puzzled to 
 understand. This evening we left the counting- 
 house together, and as we parted at the corner 
 of the street, he said, with a very peculiar look, 
 ' Good-bye, Lynn. I've a notion your services 
 as clerk won't be called for much longer.' I 
 
 was too much surprised to speak, and before I 
 6*
 
 66 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 could recover myself, he had turned the corner 
 and was gone." 
 
 " This is strange did he speak angrily ?" 
 
 " By no means ; and odd as he is, I have 
 never known him capricious or unjust. I know 
 that I have done my duty by him. I cannot 
 understand it." 
 
 " What do you mean to do ?" 
 
 " Ask an explanation the first thing to-mor 
 row. It may he that he intends to discharge 
 me. If so, it cannot be helped." 
 
 " Your high character, my dear husband, will 
 soon procure you another situation." 
 
 " Perhaps not, Harriet. Times are very hard 
 just now. However, God's will be done !" 
 
 " Amen," fervently responded his wife. " We 
 have health and strength ; heads, hands, and 
 hearts; we shall be able to make a living; 
 never fear it. So long as I have you and my 
 children," clasping his hand, and pressing it 
 against her heart, "I can be happy any 
 where.'' 
 
 "Dear papa," cried Emma, bursting into
 
 THE LTNN FAMILY. 67 
 
 \ 
 
 tears, and clinging round her father's neck, I 
 will do all I can to help you and mamma." 
 
 Little Harriet, who had till now been stand 
 ing beside her mother, with an exceedingly 
 puzzled expression of countenance, compre 
 hended just enough of what was said, to per 
 ceive that want of money had something to do 
 with the painful agitation she witnessed. Run 
 ning to the little box in which she kept her 
 baby wealth, she took out a long-hoarded half 
 dollar, and delightedly placed it in her father's 
 hand. " Dere papa, oo sail have my half-dol 
 lar; oo sail have it all. Don't ky, Emma. 
 Take it, papa." 
 
 " My precious children ! my noble wife !" 
 said Mr. Lynn. He embraced his children, and 
 leaned his head on his wife's shoulder. 
 
 " Papa," said George, coming in with a 
 letter in his hand, Betsey told me to bring 
 you this. She says a man just left it." 
 
 Mr. Bennett's hand !" exclaimed Mr 
 Lynn, as he took the letter. Dreading he 
 knew not what, he hastily opened it, glanced
 
 68 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 over the contents, dropped it, and clasped his 
 wife in his arms. 
 
 "Good news?" eagerly asked Mrs. Lynn, 
 catching the altered expression of his face. 
 
 " My generous friend ! Read, dearest Har 
 riet, read." 
 
 Mrs. Lynn read 
 
 DEAR LYNN : Your sudden change of 
 countenance as we parted to-day, has made 
 me fear that in my desire to give you an agree 
 able surprise, I have trifled with your feelings. 
 I could not sleep to-night if I thought your 
 rest was disturbed, so I hasten to tell you that 
 when I hinted that your services as clerk would 
 not be required much longer, I meant you to 
 understand that next week you become my 
 partner. Your long, faithful, and most valu 
 able services, have fully deserved this of me. 
 Your sincere friend, 
 
 JACOB BENNETT. 
 
 P. S. My love to Mrs. L. and children.
 
 THE LYNN FAMILY. 69 
 
 The Lynns had too much good sense to 
 make any material alteration in their mode 
 of living, until they ascertained what they 
 could prudently afford. They still inhabited 
 their quiet dwelling, and occupied themselves 
 in their daily duties. I did not so often see 
 Mrs. Lynn busied in repairing her own and 
 her children's garments : new books appeared 
 more frequently on the tables, and she spared 
 a little more time for reading. 
 
 " You have so few personal wants. Is there 
 nothing you would like to have ?" said her 
 husband. 
 
 "Nothing, thank you. Since you bought 
 me that copy of Crabbe, and those splendid 
 illustrations of Scott, I really cannot invent a 
 want." 
 
 "What can I do for you, then, my dear 
 wife ? I value these increased means chiefly 
 for your sake." 
 
 Mrs. Lynn thanked her husband with an 
 affectionate smile, and replied, 
 
 " If you think we can afford it, love, I should
 
 70 SCENES AT HOME, 
 
 like to double our donation to Mr. Allen's 
 poor's purse : and Emma wishes very much 
 to take lessons in drawing." 
 
 "I will send the money to Mr. Allen in 
 stantly, and see Mr. Smith this morning." 
 
 Blessed with such " temperate wishes, just 
 desires/' the Lynns could not but prosper. 
 My sojourn in this happy family, however, 
 drew to a close. Business of importance re 
 quired Mr. Lynn's presence in England, and 
 as he did not expect to return in less than a 
 year, he resolved to take his wife and children 
 with him. They sold their furniture, and in 
 the hurry of packing and arranging, I was 
 thrown into a drawer of the work-stand, and 
 there I lay forgotten, until after the sale.
 
 MRS. BROWN'S BOARDING-HOUSE. 
 
 The thousand nameless ills, 
 
 That one incessant struggle render life. THOMSON. 
 
 AT length the drawer was opened, and by 
 the exclamation of the young person who took 
 me out, I found that she had not been aware 
 of my presence. 
 
 " Look mother what a beautiful fire-screen. 
 I suppose it was left in the stand by mistake. 
 Can we send it back ?" 
 
 " I don't know where to send it child. I 
 bought the stand at Lynn's sale. They are in 
 England by this time, and I don't know any 
 folks that know them." 
 
 " Well, you made a cheap purchase mother. 
 Only ten dollars for the stand, and a handsome 
 screen beside. How it sets off the mantel 
 piece ! Our rooms look right handsome ; don't 
 
 they ?" 
 
 71
 
 72 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 From the conversation which ensued, 1 
 learned that Mrs. Brown was a widow with 
 four children brought to poverty by a bad 
 husband, and that she was about to open a 
 boarding-house. The parlour in which I was 
 placed, with a handsome bed-chamber adjoin 
 ing, were more expensively fitted up than the 
 rest of the house, Mrs. Brown intending to let 
 them at a higher price, to boarders who wished 
 for a private parlour. 
 
 Mrs. Brown had been pretty, and was still 
 pleasant to look upon, though her neat figure 
 was somewhat bent by toil, and her features 
 had acquired that peculiar sharpness, seldom 
 seen but in those who have long combated 
 with want and care. She was up early and 
 down late, worked harder than her servants, 
 and brought up her daughters to be as indus 
 trious and managing as herself. 
 
 Mrs. Brown had been established some 
 weeks, and had obtained half a dozen board- 
 ers, but the two best rooms were not yet en 
 gaged. Poor Mrs. Brown ! How often, day
 
 MRS. BROWN'S BOARDING-HOUSE. 73 
 
 after day, was she called from her household 
 tasks to show those rooms ! to hear objections 
 to the furniture, the situation, the price ; to 
 answer impertinent questions about her hours, 
 her table, her boarders ; to decline unreason 
 able proposals ; and once or twice, people ab 
 solutely engaged the rooms, and then sent 
 word that they had changed their minds. I 
 had once heard Mrs. Lynn say, " People who 
 go shopping merely for amusement, when they 
 do not purchase, should be compelled by law 
 to pay something for the waste of time and 
 patience they occasion." I thought it would 
 not be a bad thing if keepers of boarding-houses 
 were entitled to a similar remuneration. 
 
 "Keeping boardejs," said Mrs. Brown, as 
 she brought in a dust-pan and a brush, to take 
 up sundry lumps of mud which two gentlemen 
 had left on the carpet, "is just making one's 
 house a thoroughfare." 
 
 At last a young lady looked at the rooms, 
 asked a few necessary questions in a polite, 
 pleasant manner, and engaged them. I under-
 
 74 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 stood that herself and an invalid grandmother 
 would occupy the apartments, and as the old 
 lady's infirmities required constant attention, 
 they should bring their own servant. 
 
 " If it be quite convenient Mrs. Brown, we 
 shall come this evening." Mrs. Brown said 
 it was quite convenient, and bidding a polite 
 good-morning, the lady departed. 
 
 That 's a real lady, mother," said Martha 
 Brown as she returned from seeing the stran 
 ger down stairs. 
 
 " You may see that with half an eye, child ; 
 but hurry now, get fires lighted in both rooms, 
 and every thing to rights. Bless my life ! 
 there 's one o'clock striking, and the custards 
 not made yet." So saying, good Mrs. Brown 
 bustled away, and left Martha to prepare for 
 the reception of the ladies. 
 
 In the course of the afternoon, a book-case, 
 a piano, and a sofa, were sent, and about eight 
 in the evening, Miss Barton and her grand 
 mother arrived. Mrs. Lorimer being much 
 fatigued, went to bed immediately.
 
 AGE AND YOUTH. 
 
 So stands an aged Elm with Ivy bound- 
 So youthful Ivy clasps an Elm around PARNELL 
 
 While I walk life's thorny road 
 Path of pain, by Jesus trod ; 
 Lead me from temptation's snare, 
 Be my shield where perils are ! 
 And my thankful song shall be, 
 
 Gloria tibi, Domine! 
 
 When the weary race is past, 
 When the goal is reached at last ; 
 When sad heart and aching head ; 
 In the grave find peaceful bed ; 
 When the ransomed soul shall rise, 
 All exultant to the skies; 
 Still my joyful song shall be, 
 
 Gloria tibi, Domine. 
 
 Miss Barton sang these words, accompany 
 ing herself on the piano. The door between 
 the parlour and bed-room stood open, and at 
 
 intervals, a sweet, though feeble voice within 
 
 75
 
 76 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 the bed-room, joined in the song of praise. 
 When Miss Barton had finished her hymn, she 
 arose took up a Bible that lay on the table 
 and went into the bed-room, closing the door 
 after her. 
 
 Mrs. Lorimer's weakness obliged her to break 
 fast in bed. When up and dressed, she was 
 assisted to the sofa, which she seldom quitted 
 during the day. She was truly a majestic ruin. 
 Aged, infirm, and sickly, but patient when suf 
 fering, thankfully cheerful when free from pain, 
 the light of divine grace shone with such sweet 
 lustre through her pale and faded features, the 
 constant eommunings of her soul with Heaven 
 imparted such benignant wisdom to her speech, 
 that it was hard to say whether she~was most 
 loved or honoured. She had a large circle of 
 pious and sensible friends, some of whom fre 
 quently spent the ^vening in her quiet parlour, 
 when she was well enough to see company. 
 Thus Miss Barton's mind and manners enjoyed 
 all the advantages of mingling habitually in 
 polished society. Mrs. Lorimer also had many
 
 AGE AND YOUTH. 77 
 
 juvenile relations, and about three weeks after 
 her arrival at Mrs. Brown's, one of her grand- 
 nieces came to stay under her care, during 
 a temporary absence of her parents from Phila 
 delphia. 
 
 A beautiful creature was Joanna Somers ! 
 Just thirteen, but without the angular awk 
 wardness which generally accompanies that 
 age ; fair, fresh, rosy, and sparkling. High- 
 spirited, generous, frank, and affectionate : 
 conscious of her beauty, but with genius 
 enough to value the charms of mind above 
 those of person, Joanna was just the being to 
 enchant a poet, perplex a philosopher, and 
 make a Christian anxious. As a child she had 
 been praised for her beauty, as a school-girl 
 for her genius, and by her father's visitors, 
 flattered for both, until she was more than 
 half-spoiled. She was proud, violent, volatile, 
 and idle. She loved her grand- aunt, and that 
 perception of the beautiful, which is a charac 
 teristic of genius, made her admire, though she 
 did noi understand, Mrs. Lorimer's Christian 
 7*
 
 78 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 virtues. Nevertheless, she frequently tried the 
 patience of the old lady to the utmost. Much 
 has been said of the selfishness of age. It is 
 nothing to the selfishness of youth. 
 
 A walking party had been arranged by 
 some of Joanna's favourite companions, which 
 she anticipated with eager impatience. But 
 the appointed day arose dark and threatening, 
 and before ten o'clock, torrents of rain gut all 
 walking out of the question. 
 
 Joanna opened and shut a dozen volumes, 
 played half a waltz, unlocked her drawing- 
 box, did ten stitches in her lace work, copied 
 three lines of poetry, and began a letter to 
 her mother. But the untamed wilfulness of 
 her temper prevailed, and she gave way to a 
 violent fit of ill-humour, exclaiming against 
 the weather, and declaring that she was always 
 disappointed in every thing she undertook. 
 
 " I am disappointed too," said Miss Barton, 
 " for I had a very particular engagement this 
 morning; but I am very comfortable, never 
 theless."
 
 AGE AND YOUTH. 79 
 
 Joanna curled her beautiful lip, and looked 
 at Miss Barton with an air of scornful discon 
 tent, of which Miss Barton, who was sewing 
 very busily, remained quite unconscious. 
 
 " I would not be such an oyster as you are, 
 cousin Susan I do not believe that you can 
 feel." 
 
 " Susan is in the habit of feeling so much 
 for others, Joanna, that she forgets to feel for 
 herself," observed Mrs. Lorimer, gravely. 
 
 Joanna tossed her head, and walked to the 
 window. 0h! this horrid, horrid rain; I 
 don't know what on earth to do. I have no 
 comfort in the world." 
 
 By this time she had wrought herself into 
 a fever of vexation, and her grand-aunt was 
 seriously displeased with her folly. 
 
 " Joanna," said she, taking off her spectacles, 
 and laying them in the book she had been read 
 ing, for the young lady's restlessness made it 
 impossible for her to go on " you remind me 
 of a novel I once read."
 
 80 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 "A novel !" exclaimed Joanna. " Oh! aunt, 
 did you ever read novels . ? " 
 
 " Oftener than was good for me, my dear." 
 
 " Why, aunt, do you think it wrong to read 
 novels ?" 
 
 To go into all the difficulties of that ques 
 tion, would require more time, patience, and 
 wisdom, than either you or I can command ; 
 but one evil certainly attends novel-reading." 
 
 What is it, aunt ?" 
 
 " In reading narrative, you are amused with 
 out effort. If you read narratives only, for 
 any length of time, the mind, unused to ex 
 ertion, grows unwilling, indeed, unable to make 
 any. All reading which requires attention, 
 becomes distasteful. Science is perplexing, and 
 history dull. Valuable time is wasted, bad 
 habits are acquired, the mind stands still. If 
 the novel-reader at length finds courage to 
 break her bonds, she must do it, like the opium- 
 eater, at the expense of a long and painful 
 struggle. I speak feelingly, Joanna; when I 
 was a child, I had no one to direct my reading ;
 
 AGE AND YOUTH. 81 
 
 I wasted much of my time over idle and unpro 
 fitable books. When I became convinced that 
 I was doing wrong, the weariness and disgust 
 I experienced before I could compel my at 
 tention to more serious studies, were very, very, 
 painful. Even now, so strong is the force of 
 early habit, I prefer narrative to any other kind 
 of reading." 
 
 " Papa says, novels are mental drams" 
 " Not a bad comparison, Joanna ; but I 
 should rather liken them to sweetmeats. Very 
 pleasant and not unwholesome, eaten now 
 and then in small quantities, but unfit for daily 
 food." 
 
 " Then you don't disapprove of novels, 
 aunt, just because they are inventions-, like 
 Miss Simmons, with her starched face, who 
 says, I wonder, Mrs. Somers, you can allow 
 Joanna to read novels, which are nothing but 
 
 im* 
 
 " Many well-meaning people take that view 
 of novels, my dear ; but I do not disaporove 
 of narrative fictions, simply as fictions. Va-
 
 82 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 luable truths are not less valuable when plea 
 singly told." 
 
 " No, indeed, aunt- 
 Example strikes, where precept fails, 
 And sermons are less read than tales.'" 
 
 Mrs. Lorimer smiled at Joanna's quotation, 
 who continued 
 
 "I am sure that's true. Miss Edgeworth's 
 Moral Tales did me a great deal of good; 
 and you know, aunt, we often take physic in 
 preserves." 
 
 " Yes, Joanna ; but sometimes the sweet 
 meat lessens the effect of the drug." 
 
 " Then you would advise me to give up 
 novel-reading altogether, aunt?" 
 
 I am afraid that would be requiring too 
 great a sacrifice of you, Joanna, who have 
 tasted the dangerous luxury. But if you feel 
 equal to the effort, (Joanna erected her head, 
 and looked equal to any thing ;) I should say, 
 read no more novels for some years to come, 
 at least. At any rate, my dear child, let your 
 indulgences of this kind be very rare ; and read
 
 AGE AND YOUTH. 83 
 
 no work of fiction, unless recommended by 
 some one whose moral, as well as critical judg 
 ment, may be relied on." 
 
 " Thank you, aunt. I should not like to give 
 up novels altogether, at least, till I have read 
 all Walter Scott's. But T promise you that I 
 will try to follow your advice. And now the 
 story, if you please." 
 
 " It is of a shrewd, sensible girl, who had 
 roughed through many wants arid dangers. At 
 last she became waiting-maid to a spoiled lady 
 of quality. Her ladyship had every thing to 
 make her happy but one." 
 
 " What was that, aunt ?" 
 
 " Knowledge of her own blessings. She had 
 never known suffering, and no one reminded 
 her how bitterly others knew it. She lay on 
 her sofa, day after day, devoured with ennui, 
 and puzzling the doctor 
 
 'To name the nameless, ever new disease,' 
 
 She took no exercise, therefore she had no ap 
 petite ; though her French cook excelled him 
 self, she declared that she could get nothing fit
 
 84 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 to eat. The frown of habitual discontent 
 spoiled her pretty face and she laid the blame 
 on her milliner. If she rode, the carriage jolted 
 her to death ; if she thought of walking, it was 
 sure to rain." 
 
 Joanna smiled, and blushed a little. 
 
 " Her friends were tired out at last, and the 
 burden of her weariness fell upon her waiting- 
 maid. Poor Kitty did her best to please, to 
 soothe, and to amuse, but in vain. She grew 
 weary, too ; and one day, in answer to her 
 lady's constantly repeated drawl of Oh ! 
 Kitty, can you think of nothing that would do 
 me good?' Kitty replied, 'Yes, my lady. 1 
 think I could cure you, if you would follow my 
 advice/ 
 
 < What is it ?' said the lady. 
 
 u ( Let me go and buy two coarse gowns, 
 my lady, and you and I will put them on. 
 Then we will go and rent a garret in some by 
 street, and work for our living. I will take in 
 washing, and you shall take in sewing, my 
 lady. I will cook and scrub, and you shall
 
 AGE AND YOUTH. 85 
 
 make the bed and sweep the room. We will 
 have brown bread and bohea for breakfast' 
 ( Horrid !' ejaculated her ladyship, ' and tripe 
 
 or cow-heel for dinner, and we'll get up at day- 
 
 
 
 light, and work hard all day, and may be have 
 to sit up all night now and then, to earn 
 enough to keep us, and after we have lived so 
 for a month, we'll come home ; and your lady 
 ship will relish your chocolate and muffin, and 
 your carriage will be easy, and your bed com 
 fortable, and your very night-gown will seem 
 an elegant dress.' 
 
 "'Is the girl rnad?' exclaimed Lady Mary, 
 actually raising herself on her elbow to look 
 at Kitty. < Did any body ever live in such a 
 dreadful way ?' 
 
 " ' Oh ! yes, my lady ; hundreds and thou 
 sands live so, and hundreds and thousands 
 more would be glad to live so. If you had 
 seen the sight that I saw yesterday ! A poor 
 family in such distress starving, my lady.' 
 
 " Lady Mary had not a bad disposition, nor 
 
 did she want sense, though indulgence kept 
 8
 
 86 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 her better nature torpid. ' Starving!' she said 
 with a look of horror < why did not you tell 
 me, Kitty ?" 
 
 "'Your ladyship complained so much of 
 your nerves, that I was afraid to disturb you.' 
 
 " ' But when people are starving, Kitty.' 
 Tears came into her ladyship's eyes, and her 
 purse was already in her hand. Encouraged 
 by these symptoms, Kitty persevered. ' If 
 your ladyship could only see them. It is not 
 far. Your ladyship never saw any thing like 
 it.' Curiosity and pity were excited. It was 
 delightful to feel an interest in something ; 
 quite a new sensation. Lady Mary looked out 
 of the window, was positive she should take 
 her death, the wind, was high, the day was 
 cold, &c. &c. But at length the carriage was 
 ordered, Lady Mary was well wrapped up, 
 and attended by Kitty, she entered, for the first 
 time, the dwelling of poverty. 
 
 " I cannot remember the particulars of their 
 visit. Lady Mary witnessed a terrible scene 
 of domestic distress; she gave relief freely,
 
 AGE AND YOUTH. 87 
 
 and aided by Kitty's experience, gave it 
 wisely. They departed laden with thanks and 
 blessings. 
 
 " When they got home, Lady Mary thought 
 her boudoir more elegant, and her sofa more 
 comfortable, than they had ever been before. 
 She ate her dinner with appetite, she looked 
 on with interest while Kitty cut out the 
 clothing they had bought for the poor family ; 
 and at last actually undertook to make a little 
 cap. How she succeeded, the story does not 
 relate ; but many such visits were afterwards 
 paid, to the great benefit of Lady Mary's 
 health, and Kitty got a handsome new gown, 
 as a fee for her successful prescription. 
 
 Having finished her story, Mrs. Lorimer got 
 up, and leaning on her servant, went out of 
 the room. 
 
 " I can bear to hear aunt Lorimer preach," 
 said Joanna, extending herself on the sofa her 
 aunt had just quitted, "for she always prac 
 tises what she preaches." 
 
 " I wish you would practice what she
 
 88 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 preaches," said Miss Barton good-humouredly, 
 " for I am afraid I cannot finish this wrapper 
 by dinner time." 
 
 " So I will !" exclaimed Joanna, jumping up. 
 
 " I know why you are in such a hurry ; that 
 wrapper is for old Mrs. Clark. I will help 
 you ; and cousin Susan," (the blush of inge 
 nuous shame rose to her temples,) " I was rude 
 and false when I said you was unfeeling. 
 Will you forgive me ?" 
 
 The cousins exchanged an affectionate kiss. 
 Joanna went to work in good earnest. Susan 
 exerted herself to entertain her volatile assist 
 ant, and the morning passed so rapidly, that 
 Joanna started with surprise when the bell 
 rang for dinner. 
 
 Mrs. Lorimer owned some western lands, 
 which she wished to dispose of. A note came 
 from her lawyer requesting her to send him a 
 certain deed. Miss Barton searched every 
 corner of her grandmother's writing desk, but
 
 AGE AND YOUTH. 89 
 
 the required document was not to be found. 
 Mrs. Lorimer gave Joanna a key directing her 
 to unlock a closet in her chamber, and bring 
 her a rose-wood box, which stood on the low 
 est shelf. 
 
 The rose-wood box was brought, and in it 
 the deed was found. When it was sent to the 
 lawyer, Joanna offered to assist Mrs. Lorimer 
 in replacing the contents of the box. One 
 compartment was filled with papers ; another 
 with antique and valuable trinkets long silver 
 pins, with jewelled heads ; diamond ear-rings, 
 shoe-buckles, and other relics of departed fash 
 ions. In replacing a curiously engraved topaz 
 seal, Joanna threw down a folded paper. It 
 opened as it fell, disclosing a lock of hair. 
 " What splendid hair!" exclaimed Joanna, as 
 she lifted it from the carpet, and the black and 
 glossy tress unfolded to more than three feet 
 in length. Mrs. Lorimer sighed as she contem 
 plated it. She opened another paper, and 
 showed Joanna a bright auburn curl. " These 
 
 locks of hair belonged to two friends of my 
 
 8*
 
 90 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 youth. How many recollections does the sight 
 of them awaken !" She touched a spring in 
 the si'de of the box ; a shallow drawer was 
 thrown out, in which lay two small morocco 
 cases. Mrs. Lorimer opened one of them, and 
 gave it to Joanna. 
 
 " Oh, how beautiful ! What eyes and lips ! 
 They almost speak : such ringlets, too. Aunt, 
 was not she a genius, as well as a beauty ? 
 What a bright, sweet, glad face! One 'to 
 make sunshine in a shady place.' She looks 
 all beauty, hope, and happiness. Who was 
 she, aunt ?" 
 
 " Her name was Albina Leigh. When that 
 likeness was taken, (and it is not a flattered 
 one) she was, as you say, all beauty, hope and 
 happiness. Her family was rich and respect 
 able ; her parents doted on her ; no pains were 
 spared on her education, no expense was 
 spared to give her pleasure ; she was fed with 
 praise and luxury from her birth." 
 
 " No wonder she looks happy," said Joanna. 
 
 Mrs. Lorimer shook her head and continued j
 
 AGE AND YOUTH. 91 
 
 " She had warm affections, a generous temper, 
 and a lofty scorn of all mean faults. Too 
 proud to be haughty, her manners were pecu 
 liarly fascinating ; even her vanities were grace 
 ful : but, for want of proper training, her very 
 virtues were no better than lovely weeds. 
 Her courage was boldness, her frankness im 
 prudence, and her generosity profusion. She 
 had lived on excitement till excitement was 
 her daily bread; and her sensibilities, natu 
 rally too acute for peace, became thoroughly 
 diseased. . She married early and imprudently, 
 with her heart full of Arcadian visions of 
 wedded bliss. A good husband could not 
 have satisfied her romantic expectations: Al- 
 bina married a villain. In her father's house 
 she had never known sorrow ; too proud to 
 complain, too impatient to endure, ignorant of 
 the only True Comforter, she rushed into 
 society. ' I can never know happiness,' she 
 said, when a friend remonstrated with her; 
 < I will satisfy myself with pleasure.' Thus, 
 at sixteen, talented, beautiful, ardent, and most
 
 92 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 wretched, Albina was placed in the most 
 dangerous of all positions for a woman, a ne 
 glected wife in fashionable society. Her very 
 innocence was a snare to her; for, as she 
 meant no evil, she was not careful to avoid 
 the appearance of it. Of course she was mis 
 judged. Admired and hated, caressed and 
 slandered, she sacrified health, peace, and re 
 putation in her mad career. She saw her 
 error too late ; an early grave received her 
 who might have been " 
 
 The old lady's voice faltered. She took off 
 her spectacles and busied herself in wiping 
 them, 
 
 " I cut that curl from her head just before 
 she was put into the coffin ; and I tell you her 
 story, Joanna, as a warning ; for her character 
 in its good and evil, was too like your own." 
 
 Joanna remained silent, gazing at the beau 
 tiful face which seemed to smile at her, and 
 many new thoughts passed confusedly over her 
 mind. 
 
 " Here," resumed Mrs. Lorimer, taking a
 
 AGE AND YOUTH. 93 
 
 paper out of the drawer, " are some lines she 
 wrote on the birth -day of her son." Joanna 
 took the paper with a feeling as if if, came from 
 the dead. 
 
 TO MY SON. 
 
 ON HIS BIRT H-D A Y. 
 
 In cloudless beauty rose the morn, 
 When thou, my lovely babe, wast born, 
 Serene along its heavenly way, 
 Roll'd the effulgent orb of day ; 
 And then I pray'd, that like those skies, 
 Clear might thy morn of life arise ; 
 Of guilt no cloud, of grief no shower, 
 To blight nor crush my tender flower, 
 And will that prayer in heaven be heard ? 
 Or are its golden portals barr'd 
 For aye against the suppliant cry, 
 Of one so sad, so lone as I ? 
 
 As yet my babe, thou canst n6t know 
 What waits thee in this world of wo ; 
 The sorrows of thy infant hour, 
 Sooth'd by a toy, a fruit, a flower. 
 As yet, sweet boy, thy cheek's young rose 
 With health's untainted crimson glows ; 
 As yet, the laughter of thine eyes. 
 To dimpling cheek and lip replies; 
 Thou hast not learned the needful art 
 To amile, while anguish rings the heart ; 
 To lock within the struggling sigh, 
 Give torturing question, calm reply ;
 
 94 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 And as the warriors shining vest 
 Full often hides the mangled breast, 
 In quaint array of mirth, conceal 
 The wounds of soul that will not heal. 
 
 Dear boy, thy mother's morn of life, 
 Was free as thine from storm and strife. 
 Hopes of my youth ! your meteor blaze 
 One instant flashing on my gaze, 
 The next, for ever quenched in night ; 
 Ye gave my path a transient light, 
 That fading, left despair more chill, 
 And sorrow's midnight darker still. 
 
 The victim of emotions wild. 
 
 Tumultuous passion's wayward child; 
 
 Ah ? what avails the brilliant name, 
 
 The wreath of praise the crown of fame ! 
 
 They cannot sooth reflection's smart, 
 
 They cannot bind the broken heart ; 
 
 They bloom, like flowers that grave-stones deck, 
 
 Or shine like sunbeams o'er a wreck. 
 
 Yet, could I think that all the wo. 
 I've known, and must for ever know, 
 Would spare thy heart one painful thrill. 
 Would turn from tkee one shaft of ill. 
 For thy dear sake I'd gladly bear 
 Even to the tomb, my load of care ; 
 My heart for misery's target yield, 
 So might I thy dear bosom shield ; 
 And welcome every pang to me, 
 If recompensed by joy to thee. 
 
 The other portrait represented a lady about 
 twenty-five. It was a calm, sensible, thought-
 
 AGE AND YOUTH. 95 
 
 ful face, with no pretensions to beauty, except 
 in the dark eyes and luxuriant folds of jet 
 black hair. 
 
 Caroline Mel win," said Mrs. Lorimer, 
 " was a few years older than myself. She 
 was not remarkable for talent, and, as you see, 
 was not handsome; but she had plain good 
 sense, great constancy of affection, and a very 
 strong sense of duty. When 1 first knew her, 
 she was as happy as it seemed possible to be. 
 She had an affectionate husband, whom she 
 loved, and two darling children. Theirs was 
 a pleasant home, indeed. They removed from 
 Philadelphia soon after their third child was 
 born; circumstances interrupted our corre 
 spondence, and for ten years I heard nothing of 
 them beyond accidental reports. One winter 
 evening I was writing in my husband's study, 
 when I heard the stage-coach stop at our door, 
 (we lived in the country then,) and presently I 
 was told that a lady wished to see me. I went 
 into the parlour; a lady in deep mourning 
 threw up her crape veil and advanced to meet
 
 96 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 
 
 me. It was only by her voice that I recognised 
 Mrs. Melwin. I welcomed her warmly, but 
 was afraid to ask for whom she wore mourn 
 ing. She saw me look at her dress. 'For 
 my husband/ said she, and burst into tears. 
 
 " Knowing how they had loved each other, 
 I felt as if she had told me the worst when I 
 knew that she was dead ; but I was mistaken. 
 
 " She staid with me a week, and at intervals 
 related all that had taken place since I had 
 seen her last. Her husband engaged in a 
 business he did not understand, was cheated 
 and ruined. He was an excellent musician, 
 and his wife sang and played extremely well ; 
 he procured an engagement at the theatre, and 
 this was the beginning of sorrows. 
 
 " Mr. Melwin's virtues had been those of 
 situation not principle. The society into 
 which he was now thrown proved most per 
 nicious to him. He was invited to parties, 
 where he enjoyed luxuries they could not 
 afford at home. Night after night poor Mrs. 
 Melwin sat alone, waiting for her husband,
 
 AGE AND YOUTH. 97 
 
 and regretting the time when he used to read 
 to her while she worked. At last he came 
 home intoxicated. 
 
 " He neglected his business at the theatre, 
 and was discharged. He rambled from city 
 to city, dragging his wife and children with 
 him, forming engagements, breaking them, get 
 ting discharged in disgrace, and growing more 
 and more intemperate. His excellent wife did 
 her best for him and her children, but he ceased 
 to love her when he ceased to respect him 
 self; unkindness was soon added to indiffer 
 ence. Still she toiled patiently on, trying to 
 assist him by giving lessons in music ; but he 
 never staid long enough in one place to make 
 her exertions profitable. At length, just after 
 their arrival in a strange city, a stroke of palsy, 
 brought on by hard drinking, cast him a help 
 less burden on the pity of her he had so cruelly 
 wronged. 
 
 " Hitherto her trials and her efforts had been 
 private ; now she was in a strange place with 
 out money, without friends, her helpless hus-
 
 98 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 band and four children depending on her for 
 support. The manager of the theatre pitied 
 her ; he was not rich, but he did what he 
 could; he knew she sang well, and he advised 
 her to give a concert, and offered to assist her 
 in preparing for it. Caroline was a woman 
 of very quiet, grave manners, and so averse 
 to display that her musical powers had seldom 
 been exerted in her days of affluence, except 
 for the amusement of her family. To appear 
 in public was like being stretched on the rack. 
 But her children were starving, her husband 
 must have a physician, and she consented. 
 What she suffered I will not attempt to de 
 scribe. Her singing was admired, her situa 
 tion made known ; sympathy was awakened, 
 and it was suggested that a second concert 
 would be even more profitable than the first. 
 As her children were remarkably handsome, 
 and inherited the musical talents of their pa 
 rents, it was arranged that they should appear 
 with her. 
 "' Imagine,' she said to me, 'what I must
 
 AGE AND YOUTH. 99 
 
 have endured. Compelled to practise songs 
 with my children in one room, while the 
 dying groans of their father resounded in the 
 next. 
 
 " However, the concerts succeeded. She 
 became known and respected, obtained plenty 
 of pupils, and for three years this admirable 
 woman maintained herself, her sick husband, 
 and her children. At the end of that time Mr. 
 Melwin died, and his last words were a bless 
 ing on his wife. Shortly afterwards, Caroline's 
 brother, who had been many years in India, 
 returned to Philadelphia, and sent for her 
 and her children. It was then that she visited 
 me. 
 
 " I grieved to see that sorrow and toil had 
 undermined her health, but she seemed so 
 much better during the quiet week we spent 
 together, that I hoped she might be perfectly 
 restored. We parted reluctantly, and she pro 
 mised to visit me in the course of the next 
 summer, That summer she never saw. She 
 ruptured a blood-vessel soon after she left
 
 100 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 Forestville, and died before the leaves were 
 green." 
 
 " Oh ! aunt, what an angel," sobbed Jo- 
 anna, whose tears had been silently flowing for 
 some time; "and her children, what became 
 of them ?" 
 
 "They went with their uncle to Alabama. 
 They were worthy children of such a mother ; 
 they profited by the bitter lessons of their in 
 fancy, and grew up excellent men and women." 
 
 Joanna remained quiet a little while, and 
 then, with a deep sigh, said, " How my heart 
 does ache ! Aunt, your stories have made me 
 very sad." 
 
 " You look pale, really, Joanna," said Miss 
 Barton, kindly. 
 
 Mrs. Lorimer laid her hand on Joanna's 
 clustering curls. "'By the sadness of the 
 countenance, the heart is made better.' God 
 grant, my child, that it may be so with thee." 
 
 NOTE. The character of Caroline Melwin is no sketch of 
 fancy. The author knew and loved the excellent woman whose 
 virtues she has here attempted to portray.
 
 THE YOUNG CHRISTIAN. 
 
 A flower that's offered in the bud, 
 Is no vain sacrifice. WATTS. 
 
 DR. HENDERSON, a wealthy physician re 
 tired from practice, was one of Mrs. Lorimer's 
 most intimate friends ; and as he was remark 
 ably cheerful and intelligent, his. visits were 
 always joyfully welcomed; particularly by 
 Joanna, who was the Doctor's pet. He de 
 lighted in a skirmish of words with the quick 
 witted girl, and gave her much valuable in 
 struction. 
 
 "I met with a little adventure on your 
 staircase just now," said he, one morning, to 
 Miss Barton. 
 
 " Pray tell us. An adventure of any kind 
 is worth hearing, in these commonplace days." 
 
 " I was coming up rather slowly, you know," 
 9* 101
 
 102 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 pointing with his cane to his rheumatic foot, 
 " when, on the flight above, I saw a young 
 gentleman coming down. He was moving even 
 more slowly than I did, and reading so atten 
 tively that nothing less audible than a pistol- 
 shot seemed likely to disturb him. I drew 
 aside to watch his progress; but when he 
 reached the landing-place where I stood, he 
 missed a step, stumbled, and almost fell against 
 me. He looked up, started back, took off his 
 hat, and, while I was admiring one of the 
 handsomest heads I ever saw, apologized for 
 his awkwardness with such gentlemanly grace, 
 and in such sweet tones " 
 
 "As ardent as ever, my old friend," said 
 Mrs. Lorimer, laughing. 
 
 The Doctor nodded and went on "that I 
 had a mind to hug the dear lad ; for my heart 
 warms to a boy who loves his book." 
 
 " Oh ! then, your pnoenix is a school-boy." 
 
 " About fifteen, I should suppose, but a Sir 
 Philip Sidney in courtesy. So, when his apo 
 logy was made and received, he went on his
 
 THE YOUNG CHRISTIAN. 103 
 
 way, as John Bunyan says, and I saw him no 
 more." 
 
 " Can you imagine who it is, Susan?" 
 
 (t Not unless it be one of the new boarders. 
 Mrs. Brown told me she expected a lady with 
 two children." 
 
 A quick tapping was now heard at the door, 
 and before Joanna could open it, the knob was 
 turned from without, and Mrs. Brown came 
 in, much flurried. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, ladies ; but have either 
 of you any hartshorne or smelling-salts ?" 
 
 Miss Barton took her salts out of her work- 
 basket. " What is the matter, Mrs. Brown ?" 
 
 "Thank you, miss. Mrs. Field has just 
 fainted away ; " and was hurrying off. 
 
 "I will go with you, Mrs. Brown," said 
 Miss Barton; but Mrs. Brown had disap 
 peared. 
 
 " Send for me, my dear, if I can be useful," 
 said Dr. Henderson, calling after Miss Barton, 
 as she ran after Mrs. Brown. 
 
 Miss Barton Soon returned, and said that
 
 104 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 Mrs. Field's fainting had been caused by fa 
 tigue, she being just recovered from a fit of 
 illness. " This must be the lady Mrs. Brown 
 told me of, last week," said Mrs. Lorimer. 
 " She is a widow." 
 
 " Herself and daughter are in deep mourn 
 ing," said Miss Barton. 
 
 Her husband died not long ago. They are 
 in reduced circumstances, I think. The son is 
 in a lawyer's office, and the mother and 
 daughter wish to open a school." 
 
 " They are ladies, decidedly," replied Miss 
 Barton. "Notwithstanding the indisposition 
 of the mother, and the alarm of the daughter, 
 they struck me as women of superior man 
 ners." 
 
 "Then the son is undoubtedly my hero 
 of the staircase" exclaimed Dr. Henderson. 
 " Come, Miss Somers ; cannot your active im 
 agination furnish forth a poem or a novel on 
 this interesting group ? You might call it the 
 ' Mysterious Family.' ' 
 
 Joanna reddened, for she did not like to be
 
 THE YOUNG CHRISTIAN. 105 
 
 rallied on her fondness for the romantic. A 
 saucy repartee hovered on her lip, but Mrs. 
 Lorimer's eye was upon her; she held her 
 peace, and the conversation turned to other 
 subjects. 
 
 In the course of the evening, Mrs. Lorimer's 
 maid Phoebe came in, to say that a young gen 
 tleman begged to know if she was at leisure, 
 and would see him for a moment. Mrs. Lori- 
 mer sent an affirmative message, and the 
 stranger was introduced. The ladies could not 
 but identify the blooming, graceful boy, who 
 entered, with Dr. Henderson's "hero of the 
 staircase." He came to return Miss Barton's 
 salts ; and their prepossession in his favour 
 was farther heightened by the modest pro 
 priety with which he thanked her for her kind 
 attentions to his mother. Mrs. Lorimer re 
 quested him to sit down; he accepted her 
 civility with the manner of one who is accus 
 tomed to associate with well-bred people, and 
 after a short stay, took his leave, bearing with 
 him the " golden opinions" of the ladies, and
 
 106 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 a polite message from Mrs. Lorimer to Mrs. 
 Field. 
 
 Summer was ripening into autumn, and still 
 Mr. and Mrs. Somers were absent. Joanna 
 remained under her grand-aunt's care, and the 
 Lorimer party had become quite intimate with 
 the Fields. Mrs. Lorimer, having taken care 
 to ascertain that the character, principles, and 
 habits of the family, were such as to make 
 them proper companions for her grand-daughter 
 and niece, felt that their narrow circumstances, 
 and as the manner in which they bore a bitter 
 reverse of fortune, gave them a double claim 
 on her affection, and commanded her respect. 
 Many plans did she revolve for their benefit; 
 but her income, though affording a respectable 
 independence to herself and orphan grand-child, 
 was not large enough to enable her to offer any 
 essential aid to her new friends. Mrs. and 
 Miss Field were sensible, amiable, elegant, and 
 highly accomplished women ; but sense, amia-
 
 THE YOUNG CHRISTIAN. 107 
 
 bility, elegance, and accomplishments, are not 
 the only capital needed in establishing a board 
 ing-school. Dr. Henderson was out of town; 
 other friends had their interest already engaged. 
 She finally determined to await the return of 
 Mr. Somers, and state the case to him. 
 
 Mrs. Field and her daughter frequently 
 spent their evenings with Mrs. Lorimer. 
 Edmund was seldom at leisure, but was 
 always so cordially welcomed by the kind old 
 lady, that it became his custom to call every 
 evening, and inquire if he could perform any 
 little commission for her. When he had an 
 hour to spare, it was his luxury to spend it in 
 Mrs. Lorimer's parlour. 
 
 Joanna scarcely knew whether she liked or 
 disliked Edmund Field. He exercised, un 
 consciously, a power over her mind, which she 
 felt, resented, resisted, and submitted to, with 
 out in the least understanding it. It was the 
 power of a principled mind over an impulsive 
 one; of a mild over a violent temper, and she
 
 108 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 benefited, in spite of herself, by the unseen in 
 fluence. 
 
 Joanna's position in life, brilliant as it ap 
 peared had some dark shadows, Her mother 
 was an amiable gentle wjoman, but of limited 
 understanding and timid temper-; one of those 
 who are born to be ruled. She was quite un 
 able to comprehend, far less to control the fiery 
 temperament of her daughter. Provided her 
 dress was neat and her movements graceful, if 
 she sinned not against the etiquette of the 
 drawing-room, and her teachers reported well 
 of her improvement, Mrs. Somers was satis 
 fied. Mr. Somers was a well-informed, strong- 
 minded man, but he devoted his energies to 
 business, and left the formation of his daughter's 
 mind to her mother and governess. He was 
 proud of her beauty and talents, and lavish in 
 his indulgence of her caprices. He had mar 
 ried early, and chose his wife for her beauty 
 and gentleness : he found her, as he sometimes 
 thought, like lemonade without the acid. He 
 was determined that his daughter should not
 
 THE YOUNG CHRISTIAN. 109 
 
 be insipid" and encouraged her quickness of 
 repartee, till her wit became pertness. Mrs. 
 Somers was timid every where, and about 
 every thing. In a boat, in a carriage, at home, 
 abroad, her timidity was in the way of every 
 body's pleasure. Mr. Somers determined " that 
 his daughter should have no feminine weak 
 nesses." He taught her to load and fire a 
 pistol, as soon as her little hands could hold 
 one ; to manage a horse, as soon as she could 
 sit on one. Joanna's bold and ardent charac 
 ter well seconded her father's wishes. She 
 gloried in doing what others of her sex feared 
 and blamed ; and nothing saved her from be 
 coming thoroughly masculine and disagreeable, 
 but the tenderness of her affections. She loved 
 her gentle mother ; she loved her aunt Lorimer, 
 and her cousin Susan ; and she tried to tame 
 down her loud tones and boisterous movements 
 in their presence. 
 
 In the many conversations she held with 
 Edmund Field, she sometimes grieved him, and 
 
 frequently grew angry herself; but Edmund 
 10
 
 110 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 never lost either his politeness or his temper, 
 and she retired from their contests, self-re 
 proving, abashed, and perplexed. She was not 
 very popular among the fashionable juveniles 
 with whom she associated. The boys admired 
 her beauty, but felt rather jealous of her talents ; 
 the girls envied both, and were affronted at her 
 contempt (not always very civilly expressed) 
 for their frivolous amusements, their ignorance 
 of poetry, and their love of dress. 
 
 Edmund was evidently not dazzled by her 
 genius and she could not even guess whether 
 he thought her handsome or not. He always 
 treated her with a manliness of respect beyond 
 his years; listened with evident pleasure when 
 she talked rationally of books, or repeated fine 
 passages from her favourite authors : but when 
 she boasted of some unfeminine daring, or de 
 fended some questionable theory, he gently and 
 steadily combated her opinions. When she 
 grew angry, he heard her in grave silence, 
 and embraced the first opportunity of taking 
 his leave.
 
 THE YOUNG CHRISTIAN. Ill 
 
 One evening, when Mrs. Field and her 
 daughter were out, Edmund came to make his 
 usual inquiry. Mrs. Lorimer, feeling very un 
 well, had gone to bed ; Miss Barton and Jo 
 anna were attending her. Edmund sent in 
 his message by Phoebe, who brought back Miss 
 Barton's compliments, and would thank him to 
 wait a little. He sat down on the sofa. The 
 parlour was cool and quiet, lighted only by a 
 shaded lamp. There was just breeze enough 
 to stir the curtains, arid send the odour of Miss 
 Barton's flowers sweetly through the room. 
 Edmund was very weary; he leaned back 
 among the soft cushions; gradually the sur 
 rounding quiet stole over his senses, and he 
 fell fast asleep. 
 
 His was the sound, sweet sleep of youth ; 
 and when Miss Barton and Joanna came in, 
 even the opening and shutting of the door did 
 not disturb him. He was half sitting, half re 
 clining, his cheek pillowed on his clasped hands, 
 which were supported by a pile of cushions,
 
 112 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 and his fine features wearing an expression of 
 innocent and smiling composure 
 
 Joanna half exclaimed, but Miss Barton's 
 up-lifted finger motioned her to silence. 
 
 " He is tired, no doubt. Don't let us disturb 
 him, Joanna." 
 
 She stepped softly to the chimney-piece to 
 remove the lamp, but people always seem 
 doomed to make a noise when they are most 
 anxious to avoid it. Her foot struck the tongs, 
 they fell clattering on the marble hearth ; Ed 
 mund sprang to his feet, and Joanna burst into 
 a loud laugh. 
 
 When poor Edmund was sufficiently awake 
 to comprehend where he was, and what had 
 happened, he was much confused, and blushed 
 violently. Miss Barton kindly and politely 
 said 
 
 " You must excuse me, Edmund, for having 
 kept you waiting so long. We were unwilling 
 to leave my grandmother until she seemed in 
 clined to sleep." 
 
 "You are very good, Miss Barton," replied
 
 THE YOUNG CHRISTIAN. 113 
 
 Edmund, glancing reproachfully at the still 
 laughing Joanna ; " but I know that an apology 
 is due to you. The fact is, I was up at four 
 this morning, and have been walking nearly 
 all day. It was so quiet and comfortable here, 
 that I fell asleep unawares. 1 hope you will 
 excuse me." 
 
 Miss Barton was about to reply, when Mrs. 
 Lorimer's bell rang hurriedly, and she darted 
 away in alarm, leaving Joanna and Edmund 
 standing together. Edmund looked at the 
 young lady ; he saw her glance mischievously 
 at him, while suppressed mirth dimpled round 
 her lips ; and when she met his eyes, she 
 laughed again. Edmund was at the age to 
 dread being the subject of female ridicule. He 
 felt Joanna's rudeness painfully; he bit his 
 lips, bowed, and turned to leave the room, but 
 she saw that tears stood in his eyes. She was 
 serious in a moment. 
 
 " Oh ! Edmund," she exclaimed, springing 
 after him, " please to excuse me. Do come 
 
 back just a minute. 1 am very sorry. I did 
 10*
 
 114 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 not mean to vex you, but, indeed, I could not 
 help laughing. Don't be angry with me." 
 
 " I am not angry. Miss Somers," replied 
 Edmund, sadly. 
 
 " Then don't look so sad, or I shall cry too. 
 I know I am thoughtless, but I did not mean 
 to be unkind. Won't you forgive me, Ed 
 mund ? I am very sorry." 
 
 " It is all over now," said Edmund, smiling 
 gravely, and shaking her offered hand. 
 
 " Then don't go away yet. Sit down and 
 talk with me awhile. Your mamma and sister 
 are out, and you will be lonely. But perhaps 
 you are tired, and would rather go to bed ?" 
 
 " I am tired," replied Edmund, sitting down ; 
 "but I shall not go to bed till twelve o'clock." 
 
 " And up again at four ! Why, Edmund, 
 no wonder you are sleepy. What in the world 
 makes you get up so early ? Mamma says it 
 is very hurtful to young people not to have 
 enough sleep." 
 
 I should like to sleep longer, but I cannot 
 spare time."
 
 THE YOUNG CHRISTIAN. 115 
 
 "Why, what on earth can you do up, at 
 four in the morning ?" 
 
 " I study French." 
 
 " Well, I love learning dearly, but not 
 enough to get up before sun-rise to study." 
 
 " I love learning, and I love my dear mother 
 too. She knows the value of a good education. 
 I have nothing to depend on but my own ex 
 ertions. She gives me lessons, and I should 
 be very ungrateful if I did not try to profit by 
 them." 
 
 " Oh ! Edmund," said Joanna, touched, " I 
 wish I were as good as you.' 
 
 " Good, Miss Somers ! < there is none good 
 but one that is God. 7 " 
 
 " Oh ! yes, that way ; but you are good, I 
 am sure. You are always industrious, and 
 obliging, and polite, and dutiful to your mother, 
 and affectionate to your sister ; you are never 
 thoughtless, and foolish, and passionate as I 
 am. I am sure, I think you are very good." 
 
 " Oh ! Miss Somers, don't talk so, if you 
 please. It makes me ashamed. If you could
 
 116 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 see into my heart, you would know how very, 
 very bad it is. ' The heart is deceitful above 
 all things, and desperately wicked.' ' 
 
 Why, Edmund, you won't pretend to say 
 that your heart is as wicked as the boy's you 
 told us of yesterday, that stabbed his school 
 fellow ?" 
 
 "Indeed, I do say so, Miss Somers. My 
 heart is naturally quite as bad as his, and if I 
 am kept from doing as he did, who made me 
 to differ ? I have not power of myself to think 
 one good thought. The Bible tells us, ' If we 
 say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and 
 the truth is not in us.' ' 
 
 " I don't understand you Edmund," said 
 Joanna, looking bewildered. 
 
 A long and earnest conversation ensued be 
 tween the young people, in which Edmund 
 explained to Joanna, as clearly as he was able, 
 the leading doctrines of Christianity. He told 
 her of the depravity of the natural heart, of the 
 necessity of a change of heart before we could 
 be fit for, or happy in a holy heaven, even if
 
 THE YOUNG CHRISTIAN. 117 
 
 admitted there. He spoke of Jesus Christ, the 
 Son of God; his mysterious incarnation, his 
 wondrous life, and that death upon the cross, 
 whereby he purchased ^salvation for all those 
 who believe in him, and are willing to be 
 saved by his atoning blood. He spoke also 
 of the work of the Holy Spirit ; and how, for 
 Christ's sake, its renewing and sanctifying in 
 fluences are given to those who believe ; and 
 that, as the sacrifice of Christ saves us from 
 the punishment of sin, the influence of the 
 Holy Spirit will free us from the dominion of 
 sin. 
 
 " Now, Miss Somers," he concluded, " you 
 understand what I mean, when I say that none 
 of us are good. God's restraining grace keeps 
 us from much actual sin, but the seed of sin is 
 born in our hearts, inherited from our first 
 parents, Adam and Eve." 
 
 A new day seemed to dawn upon Joanna's 
 mind as Edmund spoke. Her parents were 
 not pious, and though Mrs. Lorimer and some 
 other of her elder relatives had laboured to
 
 118 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 make her comprehend the truths of the gospel, 
 she had listened compulsively, thought of 
 religion as a gloomy, incomprehensible thing, 
 for old people to lecture young ones about, and 
 dismissed the subject from her mind as soon as 
 the lesson was over. But here was a hand 
 some, sensible, elegant boy, only two years 
 older than herself, speaking as if he not only 
 understood, but felt and loved what he talked of. 
 
 " I never understood so much about religion 
 before," said Joanna, drawing a deep breath 
 when Edmund paused. " Edmund I think 
 you ought to be a minister. Why don't you 
 study to be a minister ?" 
 
 The blood rushed to Edmund's face ; his 
 bosom heaved, and he seemed unable to speak. 
 At length, mastering his emotion, " Why don't 
 I?" he exclaimed. "Why don't I? If it 
 pleased God, I would give one half of my life, 
 to be a preacher of the gospel for the rest of it. 
 Why don't I? I'll tell you, Miss Somers. 
 My parents were rich once. I was to go from 
 school to college. My dear father was ruined
 
 THE YOUNG CHRISTIAN. 119 
 
 by the great fire in New York. He toiled so 
 hard to settle his affairs, and grieved so much 
 that any body should lose by his misfortunes, 
 that he took a fever and died. My dear mo 
 ther and sister, accustomed to affluence, (and 
 you know what they are, Miss Somers,) must 
 work for a living ; and even if I could go to 
 college, I would not do it while I can be use 
 ful to them. But I study all the. spare time I 
 have ; and it is my daily and nightly prayer, 
 that God will let me preach his gospel, if he sees 
 fit ; and if he does see fit, I am sure a way will 
 be opened for me, though I can't tell how." 
 
 The clock struck ten. Edmund arose and 
 said it was time for him to go for his mother 
 and sister. Joanna bade him good night with 
 unusual gravity ; and when Miss Barton came 
 out of Mrs. Lorimer's room and told her it 
 was time to come to bed, (for the cousins slept 
 together,) she followed in silence, and did not 
 speak until Miss Barton surprised at her un 
 usual taciturnity, inquired whether she was 
 quite well.
 
 120 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 The next day Mrs. Lorimer was sufficiently 
 well to take her usual seat in the parlour, but 
 Joanna's thoughtful mood continued. She was, 
 however, unusually gentle, and attentive to her 
 grand-aunt's comfort. She arranged Mrs. 
 Lorimer's cushions, placed her footstool and 
 reading-stand, looked for her spectacles, and 
 found the place in her book. When Mrs. 
 Lorimer was comfortably settled, and began to 
 read, Joanna said to Miss Barton, " If I can do 
 any thing else for aunt or you, cousin Susan, 
 please to call me, I am going into our room ;" 
 and she left the parlour. 
 
 Some time afterwards Miss Barton went out 
 and when she returned she said to Mrs. Lori 
 mer, " I cannot imagine what ails Joanna. 
 Last night, instead of chattering while we were 
 undressing, as she usually does, until I am 
 tempted to beg her to hold her tongue, she 
 never spoke one word, but looked extremely 
 serious. This morning it was the same. She 
 has hardly opened her lips since she arose."
 
 THE YOUNG CHRISTIAN. 121 
 
 " Perhaps she is not well," said Mrs 
 Lorimer." 
 
 " I asked her, and she said she was quite 
 well. Just now I went up stairs to look for a 
 piece of lace ; when I opened the door of our 
 room, she was on her knees at the foot of the 
 bed. She jumped up when I went in, and pre 
 tended to be looking for something on the floor ; 
 but my Bible was lying open on the bed, and 
 the leaf was wet, as if tears had dropped on it. 
 I wish you would question her, grandmother. 
 
 " Not now, Susan. It cannot be an evil in 
 fluence that sends her to the Bible in secret. 
 . Her mind will work itself clear ; and if she is 
 not interfered with, she is too frank to withhold 
 her confidence from us long. Poor child ! 
 She costs me many an anxious hour." 
 
 " One cannot help loving her, though she' is, 
 at times, the most provoking little creature in 
 the world. She half affronted Edmund Field 
 last night." 
 
 Mrs. Lorimer inquired the particulars, and 
 
 Miss Barton gave her the history of Edmund's 
 11
 
 122 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 nap and Joanna's laughter ; whereat the old 
 lady was considerably amused. 
 
 " They had a long conversation afterwards," 
 continued Miss Barton, " and I fancy it is some 
 thing Edmund has said which makes her so 
 serious." 
 
 " Very likely," replied Mrs. Lorimer. " Ed 
 mund is a valuable example for Joanna, and I 
 think she is somewhat improved by it already. 
 He is an uncommon boy. I never saw the 
 Christian graces so perfect in one so young. 
 There is a remarkable symmetry in his cha 
 racter ; qualities the most opposite are com 
 bined, and so admirably balanced, that each 
 supports the other. I wish Joanna had such 
 a brother. It is a great misfortune to her that 
 she is an only child. The clear girl has fine 
 elements of character, but they are in a very 
 chaotic state at present." 
 
 Here Joanna entered, and the conversation 
 ceased. 
 
 Two days passed, unmarked by any par 
 ticular event. Joanna was much in her own
 
 THE YOUNG CHRISTIAN. 123 
 
 room; and when she came into the parlour, 
 her beautiful face still wore a serious expres 
 sion, and she seemed particularly anxious to 
 offer every little affectionate attention to her 
 aunt and cousin. Both agreed that she had 
 never been so amiable, and Mrs. Lorimer 
 awaited, with no little anxiety, the explana 
 tion of a change which she hoped was a token 
 for good. 
 
 Soon after breakfast, on the third day, a note 
 came to Mrs. Lorimer, requesting her and 
 Miss Barton to spend the day with an invalid 
 friend. Mrs. Lorimer sent for a carriage, and 
 prepared for the visit. While Phosbe was 
 bringing her bonnet and shawl, another note 
 was sent up. " Quite a day of letters," said 
 Mrs. Lorimer, opening and looking over it. 
 " From Dr. Henderson arrived last night 
 has settled Wilson's business will call at eleven 
 o'clock, &c., &c." 
 
 " This is awkward," said Mrs. Lorimer, 
 folding up the note. " I must not disappoint 
 Mrs. Glenn, and there is no time to write.
 
 124 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 Joanna, my dear, you must receive the Doctor 
 for me. Explain to him why 1 am absent, and 
 tell him I shall be at home by five in the eve 
 ning, if he will be so good as to call then." 
 
 Mrs. Lorimer was pinning her shawl about 
 her throat, and did not observe the delight that 
 sparkled in Joanna's eyes as she spoke. 
 
 When the ladies were gone, Joanna took her 
 post at a front window, and seemed fearful of 
 turning her eyes for a moment from the street. 
 After an hour's unceasing watch, her patience 
 was rewarded; she saw Dr. Henderson cross 
 the street, and flew down stairs in time to an 
 swer his knock. 
 
 So you are all alone, Miss Somers," said 
 the Doctor, looking round, as Joanna ushered 
 him into the parlour. " Where are the ladies ?" 
 
 Joanna gave him Mrs. Lorimer's message. 
 
 " Upon my word ! you gipsy, could you not 
 have told me this below, and saved my lame 
 foot the pain of scaling the Alps of your stair 
 case ?" 
 
 I I forgot your foot, sir and and I
 
 THE YOUNG CHRISTIAN. 125 
 
 wanted to speak to you myself," faltered Jo 
 anna, her colour changing, and her breath 
 coming quick. 
 
 The Doctor was surprised at the evident agi 
 tation of the young lady, and looked keenly 
 at her varying countenance. " You wanted to 
 speak to me, my dear ?" Come, then, let me 
 hear the mighty secret. Sit down by me, and 
 begin. What, you have got into some little 
 scrape, and want me to settle matters with 
 your aunt, hey ?" 
 
 Joanna instantly ceased to blush and trem 
 ble. " No sir," said she, firmly, meeting the 
 Doctor's scrutinizing glance with calm, clear 
 eyes ; " No sir. I have done nothing bad. I 
 only want to tell you how you may do some 
 thing good." 
 
 " Indeed," said the Doctor, smiling, but con 
 siderably impressed by her earnest, and even 
 lofty manner ; " well, sit down, my child, and 
 tell me what you would have me do." 
 
 Thus encouraged, Joanna seated herself on 
 
 the sofa beside the Doctor, and related, at full 
 11*
 
 126 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 length, her conversation with Edmund. " And 
 now, dear Doctor Henderson," she concluded, 
 " you are very rich, and I know you are very 
 kind. Cannot you help Edmund Field to be a 
 minister ? I would ask papa, but he is away ; 
 and besides " she hesitated, " besides, papa 
 does not care as much about making people 
 ministers as you do. Papa would take him 
 into the counting-house, I know ; but it would 
 be hard, Doctor Henderson, wouldn't it ? that 
 he should have to spend all his life casting up 
 dollars and cents, when he wants to be preach 
 ing the gospel." 
 
 " Bless you, my dear little girl," said the 
 old gentleman, much affected; "you might 
 well tell me you could help me to do good; 
 and I am obliged to you for it, Joanna." 
 
 He then questioned her as to the situation, 
 character, wishes, and prospects of the family. 
 "I will call on your aunt this evening, my 
 dear, and have some talk with her about your 
 friends. If she thinks as highly of them as 
 you do, Joanna, your young preacher shall
 
 THE YOUNG CHRISTIAN. 127 
 
 not spend his life in casting up dollars and 
 cents." 
 
 " Thank you, thank you, a thousand times, 
 dear Doctor Henderson," said Joanna, taking 
 his hand in both hers, and pressing it warmly ; 
 " you are very good." 
 
 " Opportunities for doing evil, the proverb 
 says, come a hundred times a day ; those for 
 doing good, but once a year. We should seize 
 them when they come. Tell your aunt I shall 
 wait on her at six. Good bye, my pretty pet." 
 
 Joanna attended the Doctor down stairs ; 
 then, returning with light steps to the parlour, 
 she closed the door, and, obedient to the new 
 impulse her mind had received, knelt down 
 and thanked God that he had put it into Dr. 
 Henderson's heart to listen to her. 
 
 According to promise, at six in the evening 
 the good Doctor made his appearance. He 
 first saw Mrs. Lorimer, and, having heard her 
 full and favourable opinion of Mrs. Field and 
 her family, he requested an interview with the 
 lady herself.
 
 128 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 The particulars of their conversation I never 
 learned, but, to judge by the results, it must 
 have been satisfactory to all parties, for within 
 a month after it took place, Mrs. and Miss 
 Field had opened a boarding-school, (which, 
 under the patronage of the learned and wealthy 
 Dr. Henderson, soon became a flourishing esta 
 blishment,) and Edmund was on his way to 
 Princeton College. 
 
 The winter of this year set in with uncom 
 mon severity, and Mrs. Lorimer's physician 
 advised her to lose no time in removing to a 
 warmer climate. It was therefore determined 
 that she should spend the winter in Charleston, 
 and Miss Barton set about preparing for the 
 voyage, with all possible despatch. 
 
 It was a melancholy day when Mrs. Lori- 
 mer and Miss Barton left Mrs. Brown's, They 
 endeared themselves to every member of the
 
 THE YOUNG CHRISTIAN. 129 
 
 family, and when the carriage containing the 
 venerable lady and her amiable grand-daugh 
 ter ^drove from the door, Mrs. Brown came up 
 stairs, and, looking round the vacant parlour, 
 sat down and wept without restraint. 
 
 Mrs. Gibbs, a woman who sometimes came 
 to assist in doing house-work, had followed 
 Mrs. Brown into the parlour, and stood gaping 
 at her with evident astonishment. 
 
 " Laws ! Mrs. Brown, why you couldn't 
 take on worse if your own flesh and blood 
 was a going to leave you. Laws ! why I 
 dare say you'll soon get somebody else as 
 good pay as old Mrs. Lorimer." 
 
 " It is not that I'm thinking of," said Mrs. 
 Brown, looking up indignantly ; " if the next 
 comer should pay me twice as much as she 
 did, and ten times more to the back of that, it 
 wouldn't pay me for losing them. If ever 
 there was a saint on earth, it's that dear old 
 lady. And her grand-daughter ain't far be 
 hind her in goodness, bless her !" 
 
 I reckon they must a give you a good deal
 
 130 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 of trouble," remarked Mrs. Gibbs ; " the old 
 lady had sick turns so often." 
 
 " Trouble, indeed ! there wasn't one of the 
 family, boarders as well as ourselves, that 
 wouldn't have gone on their hands and knees 
 to do any thing for Mrs. Lorimor, morning or 
 midnight. I was sorry enough to part with 
 Mrs. Field and her dear children, but it's no 
 thing to seeing that dear, dear old lady leave 
 the house " a fresh burst of tears inter 
 rupted Mrs. Brown's voice. 
 
 " Law ! me !" ejaculated the uncomprehend 
 ing Mrs. Gibbs.
 
 INFATUATION. 
 
 Wherefore trace from what slight cause, 
 Its source one tyrant passion draws, 
 
 Till mastering all within ; 
 Where lives the man who has not tried, 
 How mirth can into folly glide, 
 
 And folly into sin ? SCOTT. 
 
 MRS. BROWN set her rooms in order, and 
 prepared to undergo the routine of inspection, 
 questions, objections, offers, and demurs ; but 
 upon this occasion her patience was not put to 
 a protracted trial. About a week after Mrs. 
 Lorimer's departure, she had a successor in the 
 person of Mr. Selby. 
 
 Mr. Selby merely ascertained that the rooms 
 were handsome and well furnished, when he 
 engaged them at once ; observing, in reply to 
 Mrs. Brown's statement of terms, " Ah ! yes 
 
 very reasonable very reasonable, indeed," 
 
 131
 
 132 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 with a carelessness which gave the good wo 
 man a high opinion of his wealth and gentility. 
 
 Mr. Selby was a tall, well made man, about 
 thirty-five, having a foppishly-fashionable air, 
 an ease of manner so elaborate as to make 
 every one else uneasy, an affability that was 
 almost supercilious, and a smile so perpetual 
 as to suggest the idea that he who smiled so 
 much could seldom smile sincerely. Neverthe 
 less, as he was quiet and regular, paid his bills 
 punctually, was civil to Mrs. Brown, and very 
 liberal to the domestics, he was spoken of by 
 mistress and servants as " very much of a gen 
 tleman." He sometimes gave card parties, and 
 on these occasions splendid refreshments were 
 provided, and exquisite wines were pressed 
 upon the guests. Mr. Selby, however, seldom 
 tasted any beverage stronger than lemonade. 
 
 Selby's most frequent visiter was a young 
 student of medicine. Mr. Clerrison spent a 
 great deal of time in Selby's parlour, writing 
 notes, which he sealed very carefully, and de 
 spatched by Selby's black servant, Mark
 
 INFATUATION. 133 
 
 These notes were frequently accompanied by 
 little parcels, containing books, trinkets, elegant 
 confectionary, foreign fruits in short, such de 
 licate offerings as men in love delight in laying 
 before the shrine of their idol-worship. An 
 swers to the notes were sometimes brought, 
 which always procured for Mark a glittering 
 token of Clerrison's delight. These answers 
 were read and re-read, kissed often, and then 
 carefully consigned to the breast-pocket of the 
 lover's coat. 
 
 At first Clerrison appeared in Selby's par 
 lour only in the daytime, and the intercourse 
 of notes was constant. As the winter wore 
 on, he came seldomer in the morning, but was 
 a frequent guest at the evening card-parties. 
 Sometimes he and Selby spent the evening 
 alone together : cards were then the never- 
 failing amusement, and more than once the late 
 winter morning dawned on them while thus 
 engaged. At these times large rolls of bank 
 notes were transferred from the pocket-book of 
 
 Clerrison to that of Selby. Every evening so 
 12
 
 134 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 spent seemed to increase his fondness for play, 
 and if ever he appeared reluctant to engage in it, 
 a well directed compliment from Selby on his 
 skill, or an assurance that his run of ill luck 
 must be nearly out, drew him again to the in 
 fatuating sport. Mean time, Mark carried 
 letters less often ; those written were shorter, 
 and seldom accompanied by presents ; while 
 the answers were hastily perused, and not un- 
 frequently thrust into the pocket unopened. 
 
 One morning in the beginning of April, 
 Clerrison wrote a brief note, and requested 
 that Mark might carry it. 
 
 "He is at your orders, my dear fellow," 
 replied Selby, pulling the bell. " What ! writ 
 ing to the little girl again ?" 
 
 " I promised to spend last evening with her. 
 You know who hindered me. Poor Louisa; 
 I owe her at least a civil excuse." 
 
 " By the bye nothing just now, Mark. 
 I'll ring again when you are wanted. (Exit 
 Mark.) By the bye what do you mean to do 
 about her ?"
 
 INFATUATION. 135 
 
 "Ah! there's the puzzle. Poor little girl, 
 she is so dotingly fond of me, too it would 
 break her heart if " 
 
 " Bah ! my good fellow, women's hearts are 
 not so easily broken. Besides, remember your 
 old gentleman and your lady mother, too " 
 
 " Proud as Lucifer she is, you know. They 
 might get over poor Louy's poverty, but the 
 idea of my marrying a girl who had lived in 
 the family as seamstress " Selby interrupted 
 him with a loud laugh. 
 
 " Marrying her ! my dear boy ! marrying 
 her ! I thought you knew more of the world 
 marrying her ! The only son of John Ju 
 lius Clerrison, Esq., a millionaire of the Qua 
 ker city, marrying a little mantua-maker !" 
 
 Clerrison's countenance exhibited a mixture 
 of mortification and anger ; he bit his lip, and 
 Selby, whose keen eye noted the rising passion, 
 went on " Upon my soul, Clerrison, you must 
 excuse me." Then, assuming a serious air, 
 " I mean no disrespect to Miss Brooke ; she's 
 certainly a charming girl ; but to think of you
 
 136 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 you, with your advantages of person and 
 fortune ;" Clerrison's brow relaxed ; " you, 
 who might choose among the richest and fair 
 est you, who have such advantages now a 
 poor headlong fellow like myself, might do 
 such a thing but you who have such a sound 
 judgment " 
 
 The weak boy listened with credulous plea 
 sure. 
 
 " Selby," said he, suddenly, " I believe you 
 are my friend." 
 
 " Your friend ! oh ! my dear fellow, you 
 know how sincerely " 
 
 " Well," interrupted Clerrison, " I will con 
 fide in you. You shall know exactly how I 
 am situated. I want you to advise me. But 
 stop; first I must finish my note to Louisa." 
 He took up the pen. " By the way, she asked 
 me, a week ago, to bring her some flower 
 paintings to copy. 1 had forgotten it entirely. 
 Selby, have you any engravings or drawings 
 to lend me ?" 
 
 "Not I, faith; but here, this fire-screen is
 
 INFATUATION. 137 
 
 admirably painted. It belongs to the house, 
 but never mind, we'll borrow it. Miss Brooke 
 can copy that. Make haste with your note, 
 Clerrison, for I have an appointment at two." 
 Clerrison finished his note. I was wrapped 
 in paper, Mark was summoned, the note and 
 myself delivered into his hands, and Clerrison 
 sat down to pour his confidence into the ear 
 of the gambler. 
 
 " A note and parcel ? oh ! give me the note I" 
 exclaimed a sweet female voice. The note 
 was read, my covering was torn off, but, after 
 a hasty glance, I was laid on the table, and the 
 note was re-perused and scrutinized, as if the 
 reader hoped to discover, by examination, more 
 than the words had conveyed to her at first. 
 
 I found myself in the small parlour of a small 
 house, in a narrow street. There was a rag 
 carpet on the floor, a cherry table, and half a 
 
 dozen cane-coloured, wooden chairs, with a 
 12*
 
 138 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 settee to match, and a small mirror. But several 
 books were piled on the table, a guitar-case lay 
 under it, and on a round stand, near the single 
 window, stood a little vase of beautiful china, 
 holding a bunch of snow-drops. Paper and 
 pencils lay beside the vase, and a large basket 
 of needle-work stood on the floor, at the feet 
 of the reader. 
 
 She was a fair young girl ; but her beauty 
 was less remarkable than the anxious sadness 
 of her expression. She raised her eyes from 
 the note once or twice, shook her head, as if 
 indignant, and then read on. The indignant 
 expression softened ; she folded the note, and 
 placed it in her bosom. 
 
 " I am wrong," she said, " F am unjust. 
 Alas ! suffering has made me unjust. I am 
 not what I was. Shame on me to suspect so 
 readily ! His time must be much occupied 
 now, and his duties must be attended to. He 
 has violated one duty for me. God forbid that 
 my exacting fondness should lead him to neg 
 lect any other. I have wrought the web of my
 
 INFATUATION. loi) 
 
 own destiny, and I must not complain if it 
 should prove to be a shroud." 
 
 Like most keenly feeling people, when ex 
 cited, Louisa had a habit of talking to herself. 
 She went on. 
 
 " Charles ! dear Charles ! Forgive me, if in 
 my sorrow I doubt your affection. But oh ! 
 my heart aches with such wearying pain." 
 She took me up from the table. " It is beauti 
 ful very beautiful and it is very kind in him 
 to think of my wish, but I cannot copy it now. 
 I feel too wretched, and I have work that must 
 be done." She gathered up the pencils and 
 paper. I thought to paint you to-day," said 
 she, addressing the snow-drops, "but you must 
 even wither, as I am like to do, unremembered. 
 Oh ! Charles, there was a time when no pres 
 sure of business, no call of duty would have 
 kept you away from me for three days. I have 
 uo pleasure in any thing now. When he 
 valued my talents, I was proud of them, and 
 tried to improve them for his sake. And I 
 tried hard. No wonder I look so pale, when I
 
 140 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 have stolen so many hours from sleep that I 
 might read, and draw, and practise, so as to 
 make myself a fit companion for him when the 
 time comes. Oh ! my God has he ceased to 
 wish it to come !" 
 
 She burst into tears, wringing her hands, 
 and sobbing in all the agony of a grief seem 
 ingly heightened by doubt and fear. Her tears 
 apparently relieved her, for she sat up after a 
 few minutes of this bitter indulgence, wiped 
 her eyes, and said in a resolute tone, " This 
 must not be. I have brought the trial on my 
 self and I will bear it, but I will not live long 
 in this mean and miserable suspense." She left 
 the room, and presently returned, having 
 smoothed her disordered hair, and bathed her 
 swollen eyes. It was a sad sight to see a crea 
 ture so young and lovely, so very miserable. 
 External evils may be borne or remedied, " but 
 a wounded spirit, who can bear." Louisa sat 
 down by her work-basket, and taking out 
 what appeared to be a portion of trimming for 
 a rich dress, began to work diligently, betray-
 
 INFATUATION. 141 
 
 ing her inward emotion only by occasional 
 sighs. Once she began to sing, but after mur 
 muring a few lines, she stopped. "I cannot 
 sing. The last time I sang and played to him, 
 he praised Miss Dupont's harp." 
 
 While she sat at her sewing, a carriage thun 
 dered along the street, and stopped at the door. 
 Louisa started up, threw some of the books 
 into the table drawer, and turned to receive the 
 ladies who entered They were tall, handsome, 
 and fashionable-looking women, sufficiently 
 alike in dress and person, to be immediately 
 known for sisters ; but the younger was dis 
 tinguished by a pleasanter expression, and 
 milder voice. Louisa courtesied, and hastened, 
 with trembling hands to place chairs. 
 
 " Well; Miss Brooke," began the elder lady, 
 in a harsh, imperious tone, " I have called, as 
 I sent you word, to have my dress fitted. 
 Make haste, if you please. I have no time to 
 spare." 
 
 "You don't look well, Louisa," observed 
 the younger, in, a kind tone. " Take your
 
 142 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 time with Elvira's dress. I can call again 
 about mine." 
 
 " They are both ready, ladies, so soon as I 
 have tacked on this trimming. Shall I fix on 
 yours before you try it, Miss Clerrison ?" to 
 the elder lady. Miss Clerrison nodded assent, 
 and Louisa quitted the parlour, taking the 
 trimming in her hand. 
 
 " How pale poor Louisa looks," said the 
 younger sister. I am sure this dress-making 
 does not agree with her. When she lived with 
 us she was as fresh as a rose." 
 
 " I suppose she is fretting after Charles," 
 replied Miss Clerrison, coldly. "A presump 
 tuous thing ! I don't pity her at all ; what 
 business had she to turn her eyes on Charles 
 Clerrison ?" 
 
 " What business, then, had Charles Clerrison 
 to turn his eyes on her ? Louisa 's poor, to be 
 sure, but her family was quite as good as ours, 
 and she is handsome, sensible, and virtuous. 
 Charles may go farther and fare worse." 
 
 " Julia, don't provoke me. Charles Clerri-
 
 INFATUATION. 143 
 
 son, who might marry into one of the first 
 families in the United States, to take for a wife 
 a girl who has been his mother's seamstress !" 
 " Her having been a seamstress makes her 
 neither better nor worse, except as it affects 
 her manners and character. Now, if she were 
 vulgar, ignorant, or unprincipled, that would 
 be another affair; but if she is calculated to 
 adorn and enjoy a higher station, it would 
 only be according to the natural fitness of 
 things, to help her into it." 
 
 " What a horrid leveller you are, Julia." 
 " No, sister. I am as thorough an aristocrat 
 as an American ought to be. I would have 
 distinct ranks in society, for I think that God 
 has ordained them, and man is made wretched 
 by striving to abolish them ; but I would not 
 have rank to dependon wealth. I would bow 
 first to the aristocracy of Virtue, then come the 
 claims of Genius. I have, I confess, a little 
 leaning to pride of birth, for who would not 
 rejoice in the blood of Washington or Frank 
 lin ? But pride of purse oh ! I do despise it."
 
 144 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 " I suppose, then, you would advise Charles 
 to behave like a fool, and marry Louisa 
 Brooke ?" 
 
 " You know me better than to suppose that 
 I would advise Charles to do what would so 
 incense our parents ; but better behave like a 
 fool than a villain if, indeed, it is possible to 
 be one without being the other. However, if 
 Charles were to marry Louisa, in my opinion 
 she would get the worst of it." 
 
 Julia Clerrison !" 
 
 {t Yes. Louisa is a strong-minded, warm 
 hearted girl. She is handsome and well man 
 nered enough to be introduced into any circle, 
 and has supplied the deficiencies of her early 
 education to a surprising extent. Charles is 
 weak and fickle her steadiness of character 
 might support the instability of his; though 
 I really doubt whether he can appreciate such 
 affection as Louisa would give." 
 
 " Your brother is very much obliged to you," 
 said Miss Clerrison, with increasing asperity ; 
 " but he shall never marry beneath him if I
 
 INFATUATION. 145 
 
 can help it ; and to tell you the truth, if it was 
 not to keep an eye on the girl's movements, 
 she should never make another dress for me. 
 I wonder if she is going to keep us all day," 
 
 The impatient lady was stepping to the door, 
 when Louisa entered, laken with the ball- 
 dresses. They were tried on, and, after much 
 ill-humoured fault-finding on the part of Miss 
 Clerrison, the final directions were given, and 
 the ladies departed, Miss Julia dropping her 
 glove as she bade Louisa good bye. The front 
 door was heard to open, but Miss Julia, ex 
 claiming " Pray stop a moment, sister, I have 
 dropped my glove," ran back into the parlour, 
 and, flying to Louisa, whispered, " Dear Louisa, 
 you look wretchedly. I would advise you 
 to try country air for a few weeks. Go to 
 Camden or Germantown. Don't sew too con 
 stantly," 
 
 " Julia !" exclaimed Miss Clerrison, from 
 the entry. 
 
 " Pm coming. If you are short of money, 
 
 dear Lony, my purse is yours. God bless 
 13
 
 146 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 you." She threw her arms around Louisa's 
 neck, kissed her fervently, and ran out of the 
 room. 
 
 Louisa sat still, her bosom heaving con 
 vulsively, but she did not allow herself to 
 weep. " It is hard, hard to bear," she said at 
 length; hard to bear from his sister. And 
 yet Julia's kindness cuts deeper than Elvira's 
 pride ; but still it comforts me. Sweet, sweet 
 Julia ; Heaven reward you for the balm you 
 have poured into my heart this day. Oh ! 
 Charles, I suffer a great deal for your sake ; but 
 if you smile the whole world may frown." 
 
 Steadily repressing her feelings, she arranged 
 her scattered work, and sat down again to her 
 needle ; but this was to be a fateful day to poor 
 Louisa. Scarcely was she engaged with her 
 work, when there was a loud knock at the 
 street door, and presently a young man rushed 
 into the parlour, and caught her in his arms. 
 "My dear Louisa my darling sister !" 
 "My brother! my own dear Allen !" 
 These and similar disjointed expressions
 
 INFATUATION. 147 
 
 of affection were all that passed between the 
 brother and sister for some time. When the 
 excitement of meeting began to subside, Mr. 
 Brooke sat down on the settee, and drew 
 Louisa down beside him. 
 
 " Come, Louisa, and sit beside me. Let me 
 feel at home once more.' 
 
 " Let me get you something to eat, first ; 
 you must be hungry as well as tired/ 
 
 " Well, I should enjoy a cup of tea home, 
 tea, Louisa. I breakfasted on board the steam 
 boat, and was too impatient to swallow any 
 thing at dinner time." 
 
 Tea was prepared as quickly as possible. 
 When Allen had satisfied his appetite, he 
 stretched himself out on the settee, and his 
 sister put a cushion under his head. 
 
 " Oh ! how comfortable this is. < Be it ever 
 so humble, there's no place like home.' Oh ! 
 how tired I am. I have travelled night and 
 day since I left St. Louis. Come sit by me, 
 dearest, and tell me all that has happened. 
 Did you get the money I remitted?"
 
 148 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 "Safely. Had you a pleasant journey ?" 
 
 " Very. It is worth a western tour to look 
 at the beautiful country. I might have lin 
 gered a little, but your letter, my darling, after 
 having been twice sent to wrong places, met 
 me at St. Louis, and I lost no time in hastening 
 %to you." 
 
 Louisa seemed confused, and said, hurriedly, 
 "Did you succeed?" 
 
 " Entirely. Wilkins and Brooke open store 
 on the first of June. We have little time 
 enough, Louy, for preparations and journey. 
 Once away from Philadelphia, this dear cheek 
 will bloom again, I hope. And if our little 
 capital should be the seed of a goodly harvest, 
 and Charles is constant, sister, why, Miss Louisa 
 Brooke, the sister of the rich western merchant, 
 may My dear sister !" 
 
 Louisa's head had sunk on her brother's 
 shoulder, and she wept with convulsive vio 
 lence. 
 
 " Louisa, what is the matter ? Compose 
 yourself, my dear girl, you alarm me."
 
 INFATUATION. 149 
 
 " Oh ! brother, forgive me." 
 
 " Forgive you, Louisa ; what have I to for 
 give ? Is'it possible " he seized his sis 
 ter's arm, and his lips grew white, as he looked 
 searchingly in her face. 
 
 Louisa understood the mute agony of his 
 asking look, and eagerly replied, " No, no ; 
 oh! no, brother, no not that; thank Heaven, 
 not that ! but I am scarcely less miserable, and 
 perhaps not less guilty." 
 
 " Collect yourself at once, Louisa, and ex 
 plain." 
 
 Allen, I am married." 
 
 " Married ! and to Charles Clerrison. Oh ! 
 Louisa and secretly married, of course." 
 
 Louisa bowed her head. 
 
 Allen started from the settee and walked 
 about the room. " Married ! This I did not 
 expect. Clandestinely, too. And his proud, 
 insolent, unfeeling family. Louisa, where was 
 your self-respect your pride your honest 
 pride your delicacy ?" 
 
 " Spare me, brother," said Louisa, clasping 
 13*
 
 150 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 her hands entreatingly. "All that you can 
 say, I have said to myself. I have done wrong. 
 I feel that I have dreadfully, perh&ps fatally 
 wrong. But I have wrought my own fate, 
 and will abide by it. I love Charles, and if he 
 continues to love me " 
 
 " If Louisa, that if betrays that he has al 
 ready given you cause to doubt it. And why, 
 if you are his wife, do I find you still toiling 
 in this occupation ?" touching her work-basket 
 with his foot. 
 
 "Not with his good will," eagerly replied 
 Louisa. " He entreated, he almost commanded 
 me to give it up, but I refused. Partly to ward 
 off suspicion, and partly because, until I was 
 his acknowledged wife, I could not bear to owe 
 my support to him. Oh ! brother, you know 
 not how terrible a struggle I went through be 
 fore I yielded to the weakness of my heart. 
 I wrote to you when I felt my resolution fail 
 ing. Had my letter reached you in time " 
 
 " Oh ! that it had. My poor sister, you must 
 have suffered. But this must not go on, I
 
 INFATUATION. 151 
 
 will see Charles. If he is willing to acknow 
 ledge his marriage, very well. You must ex 
 pect some bitter trials, but any thing is prefer 
 able to a life of deceit." 
 
 " Oh ! yes, indeed. And if my husband 
 continues to love me, I am ready and willing 
 to brave all consequences. Come what may, 
 I shall be happy. It is only for his sake I 
 would avoid his father's anger; he will turn 
 Charles out of doors." 
 
 " He has deserved his father's anger ; and our 
 doors are open to him. Our home is humble, 
 Louisa, and Charles has been a spoiled child ; 
 but we will toil for him, darling, as willingly 
 as we have done for each other, and if he 
 loves you, he will soon learn to strive for 
 himself." 
 
 Louisa threw herself into Allen's arms. He 
 kissed her fondly, and resumed 
 " I will go to Charles immediately." 
 
 " But you are both hasty. Dear brother " 
 
 Don't be afraid, Louisa. I will consult my 
 friend Martin, and take him with me. 1 will
 
 152 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 deliver a packet of importance with which I 
 am charged, and then seek Charles. Do you 
 go and lie down, you look exhausted. I will 
 return to you as soon as possible." 
 
 He kissed her again, and left the room and 
 the house. Louisa listened till the street-door 
 closed, then, snatching, up a pencil, she wrote a 
 few lines, wrapped them up with me in a par 
 cel, and summoning her only domestic, directed 
 the girl to go to Mrs. Brown's boarding-house, 
 ask to see Mr. Selby, and desire him to give 
 that parcel as directed. 
 
 The girl fulfilled her commission, and Selby, 
 restoring me to my former station on the man 
 telpiece, handed the note to Clerrisori. Wine 
 and cigars were on the table ; two young men 
 were lounging on the sofa, and smoking. Cler- 
 rison sat near the wine, of which he drank 
 frequently. Selby occupied an arm-chair near 
 the fire.
 
 INFATUATION. 153 
 
 I'll tell you what I would do, Clerrison," 
 said one of the youths on the sofa, knocking 
 the ashes off his cigar. " I'd cut the concern, 
 and go to Texas. I would, upon my soul." 
 
 " Easier said than done, Harrington ; espe 
 cially as this note from my wife tells me that 
 her brother is in town. I wish he had never 
 left it, for he kept a hawk's eye over Louisa, 
 and would have seen her dead rather than pri 
 vately married." 
 
 " Cannot you get somebody to take her off 
 your hands, eh ! Clerry ?" 
 
 The face of the half intoxicated boy flushed 
 with something like shame, and there was 
 emotion in his voice as he replied, " Come, 
 Harrington, that's going .rather too far. If Miss 
 Brooke had not been so cursedly virtuous, she 
 never would have been my wife." 
 
 " A gentleman, sar, wants to see Mr. Cler 
 rison," said Mark, throwing open the parlour 
 door, and Allen Brooke walked into the centre 
 of the astonished group. "Mr. Selby, I pre-
 
 154 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 sume," said he, glancing round and bowing to 
 Selby. 
 
 " At your service, sir." rising and returning 
 the bow. 
 
 " You will excuse this intrusion, Mr. Selby ; 
 having important business with Mr. Clerrison, 
 1 called at his father's house, and, not finding 
 him, inquired where I should be likely to meet 
 with him. I was directed here. Mr. Clerrison, 
 will you take a short walk with me ? I have 
 something particular to say to you." 
 
 Clerrison quailed before the quiet determina 
 tion of his brother-in-law's manner, and me 
 chanically rose to accompany him. 
 
 " Pray sit down, Mr. Brooke," interfered 
 Selby, with flourishing politeness ; " all friends 
 here beg leave to congratulate you. You will 
 take a glass of wine with us, to the health of 
 Mrs. Charles Clerrison ?" 
 
 " You have declared your marriage, then ?" 
 said Brooke, steadily, and disregarding Selby's 
 invitation. 
 
 Clerrison bowed.
 
 INFATUATION. 155 
 
 "To your parents?" 
 
 He stammered a negative. 
 
 Will you walk out with me, Mr. Clerrison ; 
 or is it your wish that our business should be 
 discussed before the present company ?" 
 
 The youth who had advised Clerrison to 
 desert his wife and go to Texas, arose, mut 
 tered something about not wishing to intrude, 
 and left the room. Brooke stood waiting for 
 Clerrison's answer, and Clerrison looked in 
 awkward embarrassment from one to the other. 
 
 The other young man on the sofa, who had 
 not yet spoken, but had been an attentive ob 
 server of Clerrison's manner, now arose and 
 addressed Allen. 
 
 " I believe I have the pleasure of speaking 
 to Mr. Brooke ?" 
 
 An affirmative bow was the answer. 
 
 " I have seen Mrs. Charles Clerrison once 
 or twice, though I have never been presented 
 to her. Mr. Clerrison" (with emphasis) " knows 
 me for his friend. I strenuously opposed his 
 marriage until it took place. The irrevoca-
 
 156 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 ble step being taken, 1 now say, that the duties 
 he has voluntarily assumed, render it impera 
 tive on him to acknowledge his marriage as 
 soon as possible. Knowing my opinion, I 
 trust, Mr. Brooke, that you will appreciate my 
 motives when I offer my services to you and 
 Mr. Clerrison in the arrangement of your plans. 
 Here is my card." 
 
 "Mr. Curtis," said Allen, looking at the 
 card, and grasping his offered hand, " I thank 
 you. Most gratefully do I accept your offer, 
 especially as the friend whose company here I 
 meant to request, is unexpectedly absent." 
 
 " In my opinion, then," said Curtis, " the 
 proper, indeed the only course for Mr. Clerri 
 son to take, as a man of honour, is to acknow 
 ledge his marriage immediately. Mr. Clerrison, 
 senior, will doubtless be very indignant, for I 
 know he had particular views for his son; ne 
 vertheless, this difficulty must be met." 
 
 "You do not know my father," interposed 
 Charles. " He will be furious. It is for Louisa's 
 sake "
 
 INFATUATION. 157 
 
 " For your wife's sake," continued Curtis, 
 "the disclosure should be immediate. Mrs. 
 Charles must be in a state of mind most pain 
 ful and mortifying to a woman of sensibility. 
 No man has a right to inflict such suffering ; 
 especially on the woman he professes to love, 
 or the woman he has sworn to protect." 
 
 Brooke had with difficulty kept silence 
 hitherto ; he could refrain no longer. 
 
 " My sister will not be without a protector 
 while I live, Mr. Curtis." 
 
 " A woman's happiness, my dear sir, needs 
 to be protected as well as her reputation. 
 Your sister has placed that sacred deposite in 
 her husband's hands. He must now be re 
 sponsible for it. But we are wandering from 
 the business in hand. Charles, your marriage 
 must be declared some time or other. Your 
 father's just displeasure must be encountered. 
 Is it likely he will be less displeased six months 
 or a year hence, than he will be to-day?" 
 
 " But my studies are not finished. I cannot 
 
 take my degree till next year. I have nothing 
 14
 
 158 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 independent of my father he makes me a 
 handsome allowance now when he knows I 
 am married, he will cast me off. How am 1 
 to maintain Louisa and myself?" 
 
 " You should have thought of that before !" 
 exclaimed Brooke, sternly ; while Curtis' lip 
 curled with an expression of impatient con 
 tempt. 
 
 " But I say to you, as I have already said to 
 Louisa, you shall share our means. My sister 
 can endure poverty, but her peace and honour 
 shall not be trifled with any longer." 
 
 "Mr. Brooke," said Curtis, warmly, "I 
 honour you." 
 
 " My patience has been tried to the utmost," 
 said Brooke, struggling to preserve his calm 
 ness. li Not one word or look of yours, Mr. 
 Clerrison, has been such as a brother can re 
 ceive with satisfaction ; but for Louisa's sake, 
 I will try to forbear. Mr. Curtis you have 
 merited perfect frankness at my hands. I wish 
 to put you in possession of the facts of the 
 case. That gentleman's father and mine were
 
 INFATUATION. 159 
 
 old acquaintances. By the fluctuations of 
 commerce, he grew rich while we grew poor. 
 Louisa and I were early orphans. Mrs. Cler- 
 rison took Louisa into her family as seamstress, 
 when she was about fourteen. I went into a 
 dry goods store. When I had learned the 
 business, I obtained employment as a clerk. 
 My sister has great skill at her needle, and 
 Mrs. Clerrison paid her liberally. We were 
 anxious to have a home of our own, and that 
 I should go into business on my own account. 
 Every cent that we could save has been 
 hoarded for this purpose. About a year ago, 
 I noticed that my sister was losing her health 
 and spirits. I inquired the cause, and she con 
 fessed that Charles Clerrison had courted her 
 secretly for some time, and that he had made 
 an impression on her affections. Girlish timid 
 ity made her unwilling to tell me this, but she 
 had struggled with her feelings till her health 
 sunk under them. She knew his family would 
 never hear of such an alliance, and begged me 
 to take her from the house. My plan was
 
 160 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 formed at once. I took a small house, and we 
 went to house-keeping. Still intent on our 
 grand object, we lived as frugally as possible. 
 I continued in rny clerkship, and my dear 
 Louisa worked at embroidery and dress 
 making. Louisa behaved nobly ; she sincerely 
 and steadily tried to overcome her ill-starred 
 affection, but her disposition, poor girl, is con 
 stancy itself. Last September, I had an excel 
 lent offer of entering into a partnership, and 
 settling at St. Louis. I went out to see the 
 place, and ascertain the chances of success be 
 fore I closed the engagement. I was taken ill 
 on the road which delayed me a long time, and 
 after my arrival at St. Louis, I had a relapse. 
 During my prolonged absence, Mr. Clerrison 
 sought Louisa again. He did every thing man 
 could do, to convince her that his happiness 
 depended on her becoming his wife. Louisa 
 held out for a long time, but she is not quite 
 eighteen ; she loves him, and thought she had 
 every reason to confide in the strength of his 
 attachment. She felt her resolution failing, and
 
 INFATUATION. 161 
 
 wrote to me, asking what she had better do. 
 The letter miscarried. She waited in vain 
 for an answer ; Charles was near her, pleading 
 his own cause. The moment I was able I 
 hastened back. I came too late and believe 
 me, Mr. Curtis, the rich Mr. Clerrison cannot 
 more bitterly regret this ill-assorted marriage, 
 than poor Allen Brooke." 
 
 " I believe you," answered Curtis meaningly. 
 " I thank you for this confidence. Charles, I 
 will, if you authorize me to do so, wait on 
 your father immediately, and break the matter 
 to him as gently as possible. You will trust 
 me, Mr. Brooke ?" 
 
 Allen's eyes glistened as he replied, " With 
 my life. With more, Louisa's peace." 
 
 Curtis looked at his watch. " It is near six 
 o'clock. I will go to Mr. Clerrison this mo 
 ment. You, Charles, had better go to my 
 lodgings, and I will meet you and Mr. Brooke 
 there at nine o'clock. I hope I shall have good 
 news to tell you." 
 
 Selby who had cautiously refrained from in- 
 14*
 
 162 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 terfering, now hastened to declare, with many 
 over-strained professions of friendship, that his 
 apartments were entirely at the service of his 
 dear friend Clerrison, and in spite of the visible 
 reluctance of Curtis and Brooke, it was settled 
 that Charles should await the result of the em 
 bassy in Selby's parlour, Selby professing to 
 have an engagement abroad. 
 
 Nine o'clock came. Brooke was shown in 
 as the last stroke of the hour pealed from the 
 State House clock, and he was hardly seated 
 before Curtis ran into the room, out of breath, 
 his countenance indicating considerable satis 
 faction. 
 
 " Good news, my dear Charles. Mr. Brooke, 
 I beg your pardon. I did not see you." 
 
 " Is my father satisfied ?" eagerly asked 
 Charles, looking, however, as if it would not 
 have distressed him much, had he been told 
 that his father insisted on having the marriage 
 annulled.
 
 INFATUATION. 163 
 
 " Satisfied ! why Charles, that's rather too 
 much to expect when a man has been dis 
 appointed in the first wish of his heart, and 
 by an only son, too. However, on the whole, 
 the old gentleman has behaved nobly. It will 
 be all your own fault if Mr. Brooke, I beg 
 your pardon again. I am keeping you in sus 
 pense. I'll begin at the beginning. I asked 
 for your father, Charles, and was shown into 
 the library. The old gentleman was reading 
 the newspaper. I began as cautiously as pos 
 sible; however, he took the alarm, and bade 
 me speak out at once, in a way that I should 
 not have liked, if his head had not been as 
 white as my own dear old father's. Well, I 
 unfolded the mystery, setting things out to the 
 best advantage ; and he listened with his lips 
 squeezed close, till I had done. It's surprising 
 how soon one finishes when one is not inter 
 rupted, and 1 was obliged to come to a stop. 
 Then the storm burst out. I thought there 
 was no hope for you, Charles, I confess ; but 
 when Mr. Clerrison had raved himself out of
 
 164 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 breath, he rang the bell, and sent for your 
 mother arid sisters. Then the hurricane raged 
 again. Mrs. Clerrison was frantic. Miss Cler- 
 rison heaped fuel on the fire, but your sister 
 Julia, bless her little heart ! took your part. 
 She hung round her father's neck, owned that 
 Charles had done very wrong but then she 
 reminded him how Charles and Louisa had 
 been brought up together : ' and you know, 
 papa, you used to love Louisa, and take her 
 on your knee when she was a little girl ; and 
 I'm sure Louisa loves -you as if you were her 
 own father; and she's pretty and good enough 
 for any body to be proud of ' 
 
 " God bless her !" ejaculated Allen. 
 
 " t And she has every thing but money, papa, 
 and you can give her that.' In short, I am a 
 bad narrator, but the end of it was, Mr. Cler 
 rison desired the ladies to retire, and then said, 
 ' Mr. Curtis, I must take a little time for reflec 
 tion. I am severely shocked.' I begged to 
 know when I should wait on him again. It 
 was then seven o'clock. He looked at his
 
 INFATUATION. 165 
 
 watch, and said, in one hour. I took my leave, 
 and walked about until the hour expired ; at 
 eight o'clock I presented myself before him. 
 He was walking up and down the library, 
 looking troubled, but not angry. He asked 
 me to sit down, and said, l Mr. Curtis, I have 
 made up my mind. I will give you a message 
 for Charles. I do not feel able to write. You 
 will promise to deliver it word for word ?' I 
 bowed and promised. 
 
 < Tell Charles/ said he, ' that I regret his 
 marriage, not only because it destroys my long- 
 cherished hopes, and because he has insulted 
 and disobeyed his parents in contracting it, but 
 because I think his conduct a proof that he 
 will give his wife cause to regret it too. Charles 
 is a boy, an unsteady boy, and with shame I 
 confess it, a spoiled boy ; he was the child of 
 my old age.' The poor old gentleman turned 
 away, and put his handkerchief to his eyes. 
 Charles, I could have knocked you down just 
 then. However/ he resumed, ' what's done 
 can't be undone. Miss Brooke is a worthy
 
 166 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 girl, and her brother a fine young man. These 
 are the conditions I give you leave to propose 
 to my son. I am far from satisfied with what 
 I have heard of his general conduct this win 
 ter. If he v/ill consent to live apart from his 
 wife for one year/ hear me out, Mr. Brooke. 
 * If he will consent to live apart from his wife 
 for one year ; if he will spend that year quietly 
 under his father's roof if he will give up all 
 his dissipated companions, and attend to his 
 studies, so that he may pass his examination 
 with credit at the end of that time, I will re 
 ceive his wife as my daughter. I will buy a 
 house and furnish it completely for them, and 
 supply Charles with all that is necessary for a 
 handsome outset in his profession. During the 
 year of probation, I will continue his present 
 allowance, and I will provide for the support 
 of Miss Brooke as a gentlewoman ; but they 
 must not see each other.' " 
 
 " Miss Brooke has a brother who will pro 
 vide for her support," said Allen, proudly. 
 
 I remonstrated," continued Mr. Curtis,
 
 INFATUATION. 167 
 
 " against the clause which forbade them to see 
 each other; but Mr. Clerrison was inflexible. 
 < I know my son better than you do,' said he. 
 " Unstable as water, he shall not excel.' I have 
 much to forgive, much to bear with in this 
 cruel disappointment of all my hopes ; and 
 believe me, it is for Miss Brooke's welfare, no 
 less than his own, that I insist on these condi 
 tions. If they continue to love each other, very 
 well ; they shall have my blessing. If not, it 
 will be better for them both, that their childish 
 marriage should be annulled. I have no more 
 to say but this. Tell Charles to send to me at 
 ten to-morrow. I cannot see him yet. If he 
 has debts, I will give him money to pay them, 
 provided they are not gaming debts. He 
 shall enter on his new duties, freed from all 
 embarrassments/ ' 
 
 While Curtis spoke, Charles sat at the table, 
 with his face hidden in his hands. Curtis 
 turned to Allen Well, Mr. Brooke, what do 
 you say ? Are you satisfied ?" 
 
 " Mr. Clerrison is kinder than I hoped or ex-
 
 168 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 pected," answered Allen. "When I consider 
 how his hopes have been blighted, and his 
 authority defied, I wonder that he can so soon 
 be willing to do so much. Whether he has a 
 right to insist on the separation of husband and 
 wife, I cannot take upon me to decide. At 
 any rate, he has a right to the obedience of his 
 son, and to require some pledge for his future 
 steadiness. Had he taken steps to annul the 
 marriage immediately, I should not have been 
 surprised ; nor, to say the truth, should I have 
 been sorry. My object, Mr. Curtis, is not to 
 force concessions from Mr. Clerrison, nor to ob 
 tain any aggrandizement of situation for my 
 sister; but simply to do my duty in putting 
 an end to her present sufferings, and ascertain 
 ing her real position. Her situation is now 
 dubious and miserable. She has a wife's duties 
 and sorrows, without a wife's honours or pri 
 vileges. Say for me to Mr. Clerrison, that I 
 consider him to have acted with wonderful for 
 bearance and generosity. That I thank him 
 for his offer to Louisa, but beg leave to decline
 
 INFATUATION. 169 
 
 it; not out of pride, but self-respect. My 
 sister must receive no pecuniary favours from 
 Mr. Clerrison, unless she be acknowledged as 
 his son's wife. Until then, she is under her 
 brother's care." 
 
 Curtis turned to Clerrison. " And what 
 have you to say, Charles, to your father's 
 offer ?" 
 
 Charles slowly took his hands from his face, 
 and revealed its death-like paleness, as he fal- 
 teringly replied, 
 " That I cannot accept it." 
 
 Curtis uttered an exclamation of astonish 
 ment. Brooke sprang forward to strike Cler 
 rison, but Curtis threw himself between them. 
 
 " A moment's patience ! Charles, explain 
 yourself instantly. I will not be trifled with. 
 Do you mean to say you will not accept your 
 father's offer ?" 
 
 " Oh ! no ; but I cannot. I dare not. 
 
 An explanation was at last wrung forth. 
 It appeared that about two years before, 
 
 Charles being then eighteen, he had become in- 
 15
 
 170 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 timate with a knot of dissipated young men. 
 and contracted a passion for gaming. He had 
 lost large sums, far beyond his ability to pay, 
 though his allowance was a most liberal one. 
 He was betrayed to his father by his principal 
 creditor, who calculated shrewdly on Mr. Cler- 
 rison's love for his son, and the dread of public 
 disgrace attaching to that son's name. But he 
 had not calculated all the results of his daring 
 game. Mr. Clerrison, violent when excited, 
 was sternly inflexible when resolved. He held 
 gaming and gamesters in utter abhorrence. He 
 paid the debt, it was an enormous one, ordered 
 the exulting sharper from his presence, sent for 
 his son, told him what he had done, and de 
 manded a list of his gaming debts. It was 
 given ; Charles received a check for the amount, 
 and then heard his father take a solemn oath, 
 never to forgive, or consider him as a son, if 
 ever he contracted another debt of like nature. 
 He shuddered, and resolved never to incur the 
 penalty. For the next eighteen months his 
 passion for Louisa, and the difficulties which
 
 INFATUATION. 171 
 
 opposed it, occupied his attention, and supplied 
 the excitement he had learned to crave at the 
 gaming-table. But his love was merely the 
 desire of a wilful child for a forbidden toy. 
 When she became his wife, securely his own, 
 her virtues, her beauty, even her innocent and 
 devoted love, soon lost their influence over his 
 weak and pampered nature. He renewed 
 (accidentally at first) his intercourse with his 
 former tempters. Gradually he was induced 
 to play, soothing his conscience with the 
 thought that he would not exceed his allow 
 ance, and therefore need not incur his father's 
 displeasure. The end of such reasoning and 
 such actions may be briefly told. Clerrison 
 had gaming debts to the amount of three thou 
 sand dollars. 
 
 Curtis and Brooke looked at each other 
 in consternation. " Oh ! my poor Louisa," 
 groaned the brother. Charles, conscience- 
 stricken, ashamed, and despairing, sat silent. 
 
 " What is to be done ?" asked Curtis, after a 
 melancholy pause. " It is a large sum ; still,
 
 172 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 Mr. Clerrison could easily afford to advance 
 it." 
 
 It is not that," muttered Charles. " It is 
 not the money ; it is his oath, he will never 
 break it. If he hears of this, I am a lost 
 man." 
 
 Again the friends looked despondingly at 
 each other. " What is to be done ?" repeated 
 Curtis. "I would gladly lay down the cash 
 myself, but my means are slender. To be 
 frank, my father spares me all he can, and I 
 am just able to pay my way, and no more. 
 Have you no moneyed friend you can call on, 
 Clerrison ?" 
 
 Clerrison shook his head. 
 
 " What can be done ?" said Curtis, appeal 
 ing to Brooke. Brooke was silent for a little 
 time, and then he said, " So far as I can see, 
 there is but one thing to be done. There is 
 one person who can assist Charles." 
 
 " And who is that ?" inquired Curtis, eagerly. 
 Charles looked up in amazement. 
 
 "Myself. The money I have saved and
 
 INFATUATION. 173 
 
 made within the last five years, with poor 
 Louisa's earnings, is rather more than three 
 thousand dollars. With that sum I meant to 
 begin business at St. Louis. I was, as I told 
 you, offered a partnership on very favourable 
 terms. I am willing to give it up. It is evi 
 dent that the scoundrels who have entangled 
 Charles would keep silence for their own sakes, 
 and allow him to remain their debtor, so long 
 as they had hopes of payment from his father's 
 purse. Those hopes failing, they would show 
 him no mercy; every thing now depends on 
 keeping the matter from Mr. Clerrison's know 
 ledge. That can be done only by satisfying 
 their claims at once, dishonest as they may be. 
 1 will pay these debts. I can get my old clerk 
 ship again ; and if three thousand dollars will 
 save my sister's husband from a father's curse, 
 I shall think the money well spent." 
 
 His voice faltered. It was it must have 
 been, a bitter moment in which he sacrificed 
 his honest hope of independence ; but his pur 
 pose wavered not. Curtis wrung his hands in 
 15*
 
 174 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 silent sympathy. Charles hid his face again, 
 and burst into tears. 
 
 " Here is the money," continued Brooke, 
 taking out his pocket-book ; " settle these dis 
 graceful debts to-night, if you can, Charles. 
 Let Mr. Curtis carry your acknowledgments 
 and acceptance to your father to-morrow, and 
 then come and bid your wife farewell. This 
 indulgence he will not deny you, and she has a 
 right to it." 
 
 " I am sure he will not," said Curtis ; " and 
 I am sure, too, that if Charles behaves well, 
 his father will abridge the time of probation." 
 
 " I will go with you to-night, Brooke," ex 
 claimed Charles.' 
 
 " No ; you do not enter my house without 
 your father's permission ; besides, Louisa is 
 not able to receive you. When I left you at 
 six o'clock, I went home, and found her so' 
 ill that I sent for a physician. He gave her 
 an opiate, and ordered her to be kept perfectly 
 quiet. I left her asleep, and she must not be 
 disturbed."
 
 INFATUATION. 175 
 
 Cutting short the incoherent thanks and pro 
 mises of Charles, Curtis and Brooke went away 
 together. They had not been gone five minutes 
 before Selby made his appearance. He listened 
 to Charles' rapturous account of his brother-in- 
 law's generosity, echoing his praises, applauding 
 Charles 7 resolutions of reform, and expatiating 
 on the delights of domestic life. Then he rang 
 for Champagne, and proposed a bumper to 
 Allen's health. Charles drank; the glasses 
 were refilled, and he drank again. Selby 
 turned the conversation on Charles' debts, and 
 artfully brought to mind that he had an unset 
 tled claim. It was paid. More wine was 
 pressed on Charles, but he proposed to go in 
 search of his creditors. Harrington was one 
 of them. Selby expected him every moment ; 
 they would all go together. Meanwhile, another 
 glass of wine ; and, just for pastime, they 
 would take a hit at backgammon, till Harring 
 ton came. 
 
 He came they loitered the victim was 
 plied with wine Selby and Harrington began
 
 176 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 to bet with each other Charles was allowed 
 to be a looker-on until his interest became ex 
 cited. Seiby produced the money Charles had 
 paid him. It was suggested that he might win 
 it back that he might win enough to pay his 
 debts and restore Allen's money 
 
 Will it be believed ? No ; those who do 
 not know the sorcery of the gaming-table never 
 can believe, that at five in the morning, Charles 
 Clerrison had lost the last dollar of Brooke's 
 three thousand. 
 
 He paid over the money with seeming in 
 difference, and, when Harrington departed, 
 said in a quiet tone, to Selby, " With your 
 leave, Selby, I'll just throw myself on the sofa, 
 and take a nap." 
 
 Selby was, as usual, profuse in his offers of 
 accommodation, pressing Charles to occupy his 
 bed ; but Charles rather sternly intimated that 
 he chose to lie on the sofa, and wished to be 
 left alone. 
 
 When Selby had withdrawn, Charles threw 
 off his assumed calmness, and, groaning in
 
 INFATUATION. 177 
 
 agony, walked distractedly about the parlour. 
 " For this," he said, did Allen beggar him 
 self for this did my father forgive me for 
 this did Louisa love and trust me. Oh ! vil 
 lains ; but no ; it is I ; madman ! fool ! beast 
 that I am. Oh ! Louisa, what have I done ? 
 Where shall I hide my dishonoured head? 
 The very refuse of the world will spurn me. 
 Allen Brooke, how can I meet you ? I cannot 
 I cannot any thing rather than that." 
 
 Selby's pistol-case lay on a side-table. It 
 was open, and the weapons caught Charles' 
 eye. Ha ! well thought of." He took up one 
 of the pistols; it was loaded. "Allen, you 
 shall not look reproach upon me till I am care 
 less of your looks. Louisa!" He staggered 
 to the chimney, and gazed at himself in the 
 mirror which hung over it. "I look like a 
 bridegroom, don't I ? A merry bridegroom 
 and a blessed bridal I have made for you, 
 Louisa. Poor girl, poor girl. Well, she will 
 forgive me ; they will all forgive me then."
 
 178 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 He put the pistol to his head, fired, and fell, 
 
 mortally wounded. 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 Those who pass by the Lunatic Hos 
 pital, often overhear the wailing screams of a 
 female maniac, to whose imagination is ever 
 present the bloody and disfigured body of her 
 self-murdered husband. That maniac is Louisa 
 Brooke.
 
 CHANGES OF SCENE. 
 
 Swift o'er Memory's magic glass, 
 
 Now the changing shadows pass. M. S. POEM. 
 
 POOR Mrs. Brown's horror and distress at 
 the terrible catastrophe which had taken place 
 in her house, threw her into a nervous fever, 
 and when she recovered, she declared that she 
 would never let the best rooms to a single gen 
 tleman again. The furniture, (some articles 
 of which bore sanguinary tokens of Clerrison's 
 fearful death,) was changed , and as my beauty 
 began to fade, and I was not valuable enough 
 to be sold, I was given to one of the children, 
 who soon wearied of playing with me, and the 
 chamber-maid placed me on the mantelpiece 
 in one of the third story rooms. 
 
 Many strange pages in the book of human 
 
 life were opened to me there. - The first occu- 
 
 179
 
 180 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 pants of the chamber were a married couple. 
 The wife was a little, timid, broken-spirited 
 creature ; the husband was the best of husbands 
 in company, and a sullen tyrant in private. 
 To them succeeded a student of medicine, 
 whose poor parents had half-starved them 
 selves, that he might attend the lectures, and 
 keep up the appearance of a gentleman. He went 
 on very 'soberly for a short time, then plunged 
 into dissipation, neglected his studies, expended 
 in six weeks the sum that should have sup 
 ported him for six months, and finally disap 
 peared, as Mrs. Brown said, "between two 
 days," leaving an empty trunk and half a dozen 
 ill-used medical books in payment for his board- 
 Then came a young wife, whose husband 
 was at sea. They were in narrow circum 
 stances, and she prudently resolved not to in 
 cur the expenses of housekeeping in her hus 
 band's absence. So she and her pretty baby 
 came to board with Mrs. Brown. She often 
 sang it to sleep, and among her simple lays 
 the following seemed her favourite :
 
 CHANGES OF SCENE. 181 
 
 All day thy far wanderings in thought to pursue, 
 All night my lone pillow with tears to bedew, 
 
 To welcome, for thy sake, the lowliest lot ; 
 To gaze on our babe, thy resemblance to see, 
 And love him the better for looking like thee, 
 
 If this be forgetting thee, thou art forgot 
 
 To toil on contented, though lone and obscure, 
 And, assur'd of thy love, to forget we are poor, 
 
 In the wealth of delight from that certainty caught; 
 Though a year since our parting has lingered away, 
 To feel it, as though thou hadst left me to-day 
 
 If this be forgetting thee, thou art forgot. 
 
 Mrs. Ellis was a Christian mother, and she 
 began early to train up her child in the way it 
 should go. Next to her Bible, Abbott's Mo 
 ther at Home was her chief study. She sel 
 dom left her chamber except at meal times, 
 and when her child was laid to sleep on his 
 little pillow, how fervent were her prayers, as 
 she knelt beside him, for his father's safety 
 not from danger only, but from sin. He came 
 at last, and never did a happier pair offer 
 thanks for perils passed and mercies granted, 
 than krijelt beside each other then ; the hus 
 band's manly voice faltering with emotion, and 
 the sweet face of his wife deulged with joyful 
 
 tears. 
 
 16
 
 182 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 " Ruthless Time, who waits for no man," 
 wended on at his accustomed pace ; and seven 
 years had gone over me in that third story 
 room, when Mrs. Brown broke up housekeep 
 ing. Her eldest son was established in busi 
 ness, her younger was apprenticed to his bro 
 ther, and both her daughters well married. 
 The affectionate children paid back, with hearty 
 good will, the debt of love and care they owed 
 their mother; and, in compliance with their 
 repeated entreaties, she agreed to give up busi 
 ness, and reside with each of them in turn. 
 Her furniture was accordingly disposed of, and 
 during the process of arrangement for sale, I 
 was gathered up with certain other antiquated 
 trifles, and thrown into a large old trunk, which 
 had stood, time out of mind, in the back gar 
 ret. Here I found myself in company with 
 rolls of patches, bundles of dried herbs, files 
 of old newspapers, the London Magazine for 
 1770, three old song books, a mutilated Eng 
 lish Reader, some torn spelling books, sundry 
 fragments of slates, and several smeared copy-
 
 CHANGES OF SCENE. 183 
 
 books. To these were now added an old fili 
 gree basket, a crushed pasteboard flower-stand, 
 a pair of tarnished card-racks, a few soiled 
 pencil drawings, and myself. The trunk was 
 put into a lot with three crazy chairs and a very 
 infirm bedstead, bought by a broker and dealer 
 in second-hand furniture, and by him placed 
 in his shop. 
 
 " The world is a comedy to those who think, 
 a tragedy to those who feel." This saying 
 might well be applied to Mr. Farrell's shop. 
 What an incongruous medly did it contain ! 
 What tales of household wreck, of sorrow, 
 poverty, pain, and death did it suggest. Here 
 stood a scrap-table, the toy, perhaps, of happy 
 leisure ; its making, no doubt, had cost weeks 
 of time and dollars of expense; there lay a 
 string of rusty keys. Here was a carved ma 
 hogany bureau, black with age ; there, an oil- 
 painting fresh from the easel. Here, a chaff 
 bed, stained and torn ; there, a pair of elegant 
 glass shades. Here, a pine table worth fifty 
 cents ; there, a sideboard worth four times as
 
 184 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 many dollars. On those hooks hung a costly 
 rifle ; in this case glittered a lady's watch. 
 
 The trunk in which I lay was placed near 
 the door, and remained there unnoticed for two 
 or three days, until one of Mrs. Farrell's children, 
 who occasionally threaded the labyrinths of the 
 shop, chose to open it. She was busily exam 
 ining its contents, when the pleasing occupation 
 was suspended by the slight tap of a parasol 
 applied to the back of the searcher, while a 
 voice of surpassing sweetness inquired, " My 
 dear, does Mrs. Farrell live here ?" 
 
 The child scrampled up, and stood gazing in 
 awkward, open-mouthed wonder at the speaker, 
 who smilingly repeated her inquiry. The child 
 turned round and rushed into the interior of the 
 establishment, shouting as she ran, " Mother ! 
 mother ! here's a woman wants to know if you 
 live here." 
 
 The lady was young and beautiful, tall, of 
 noble figure and dignified carriage. Her dress 
 was a gray silk, with a plain lace collar, and 
 the dark curls which clustered round her bloom-
 
 CHANGES OP SCENE. 185 
 
 ing face were shaded by a straw bonnet, tied 
 down with white satin riband. Her eyes wan 
 dered round the shop, and fell at last on the 
 open trunk. She stooped, and extended her 
 hand to the magazine ; suddenly she paused, 
 lifted me up, and surveyed me attentively. 
 Mrs. Farrell was at her side, with the staring 
 child clinging to her gown, and had twice re 
 peated her question of, " What did you please 
 to want, ma'am?" before the lady was con 
 scious of her presence. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, madam," she said, 
 starting from her reverie. " Pray is this screen 
 for sale ?" 
 
 " Mrs. Farrell replied that it was. The lady 
 took out her purse, paid the trifling sum de 
 manded for me, and then said, " May 1 ask, 
 madam, if you know where it came from ?" 
 
 Mrs. Farrell replied, that her husband had 
 bought it with a lot of old things, of a Mrs. 
 Brown, who kept a boarding-house in Spruce 
 Street. 
 
 I was sure of of it," said the lady, a bright 
 16*
 
 186 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 smile dimpling round her mouth ; " I was sure 
 it was my old acquaintance." She wrapped 
 me carefully in her handkerchief, and referring 
 to a paper she held in her hand, asked if Mrs. 
 Farrell could tell her where to find Mrs. Nancy 
 Ryan. 
 
 ft She has a room here, ma'am ; they moved 
 last week ; please to walk this way up them 
 stairs, ma'am ; turn to the right, and knock at 
 the first door ; take care, ma'm, that paint's 
 wet." The lady thanked her courteously, and 
 groped her way up the dark and crooked 
 stairs. 
 
 " Come in," was the invitation accorded to 
 her gentle tap. The lady opened the door, and 
 involuntarily shrunk back from the close and 
 offensive atmosphere that filled the room. 
 The day was warm, yet the window was shut, 
 and a haggard woman, the sole occupant of 
 the room, her eyes glazed, and cheeks flushed 
 with fever, lay panting for breath under a huge 
 heap of bed-clothes. 
 
 The lady sprang to the window, threw it up
 
 CHANGES OF SCENE. 187 
 
 as high as it would go, turned to the bed, and 
 flung back part of the heavy covering ; then, 
 addressing the invalid, she said, " I had some 
 difficulty in finding you, Mrs. Ryan, or I should 
 have been here before. You are quite sick." 
 
 " Oh ! yes, honey. I am a great deal worse 
 since morning." 
 
 The lady drew off her glove, applied her 
 fingers to the woman's pulse, arid said, " You 
 want bleeding immediately, Mrs. Ryan. You 
 have no objection ?" 
 
 " Oh ! no, honey, if you'll be by me." 
 
 The lady called Mrs. Farrell, and requested 
 her to let one of her children go for a bleeder. 
 Mrs. Farrell readily assented, and the lady, en 
 couraged by her civility, ventured to petition 
 for a pail of hot water. It was brought, and 
 Mrs. Farrell offered her farther assistance, for 
 which she was warmly thanked by the lady. 
 Between them, the sick woman was lifted up, 
 and placed in an arm-chair which Mrs. Farrell 
 kindly brought from the shop. 
 
 " Oh ! how much good it does me," said
 
 188 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 Mrs. Ryan, when her feet had been for a few 
 minutes in the hot water. " I feel better al 
 ready." " You will feel better still," said the 
 lady, " when I have bathed your face and 
 hands, and combed your hair, and put on your 
 cap snugly ; and while I do that, perhaps, Mrs. 
 Farrell, you would be so kind as to make up 
 Mrs. Ryan's bed with clean sheets, and she 
 will feel so comfortable." Mrs. Farrell, hav 
 ing screamed to " Sally" to " mind the door," 
 began with alacrity to make the bed ; but Mrs. 
 Ryan had no clean sheets. Stimulated, how 
 ever, by the presence and example of the fair 
 stranger, Mrs. Farrell offered to lend a pair of 
 sheets and a pillow-case. Mean time, the lady 
 took out of her little basket an apron, which 
 she tied on, turned up her sleeves, and tenderly 
 bathed the fevered face and hands of the pa 
 tient, combed out her tangled hair, replaced 
 her cap, dried her feet, and, assisted by Mrs. 
 Farrell, had her settled in her clean, cool, com 
 fortably made bed, before the bleeder arrived. 
 The abstraction of blood seemed to give Mrs.
 
 CHANGES OP SCENE. 189 
 
 Ryan's laboured breathing immediate relief; 
 the lady then opened her basket again, took 
 out some medicine, which she mixed and ad 
 ministered ; and having, with quiet dexterity, 
 set the littered room in something like order, 
 she sat down by the bed-side, and recommended 
 her patient to try to sleep. 
 
 " I can't sleep, honey. Pd rather look at 
 you. It does me good to see you once more," 
 replied Mrs. Ryan. 
 
 The lady smiled. " I must leave you soon, 
 Mrs. Ryan, but I shall come again to-morrow 
 morning; you want nothing at present but 
 sleep. Tell your husband to give you a little 
 warm tea now and then, nothing else till I see 
 you. You would like me to read a little to 
 you, before I go ?" 
 
 " Oh ! yes, honey ; bless you, that I should." 
 
 The lady reached an old Bible that lay on 
 the table, read a chapter, and then, kneeling 
 beside the bed, she prayed in simple, yet ener 
 getic language, while tears, sweet, soothing 
 tears, flowed down the sick woman's cheeks.
 
 190 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 Having concluded her pious office, the lady 
 bade her patient a kind farewell, and departed: 
 stopping, as she passed through the shop, to 
 repeat her thanks for Mrs. Farrell's assistance ; 
 Mrs. Farrell volunteering a promise " to step 
 up as often as she could, and see after the poor 
 soul a little." People are often incited to do 
 kind actions by seeing it supposed that they are 
 willing to do them. 
 
 My new owner paid several visits of a simi 
 lar description, distributing money, advice, and 
 sympathy, as they were needed ; and the sun 
 was setting when she ascended the steps of an 
 elegant mansion in Chesnut street.
 
 THE MISSIONARY'S BRIDE. 
 
 Shall we, whose souls are lighted 
 With wisdom from on high ; 
 
 Shall we to men benighted 
 The lamp of life deny ? HEBER. 
 
 " MY love," exclaimed a young gentleman, 
 as he advanced to meet the lady ; " my own 
 Joanna, where have you been?" 
 
 'f Dear Edmund, have I kept you waiting? 
 I thought I should have been at home two 
 hours ago, but Mrs. Ryan had moved, and I 
 had some difficulty in finding her. And I had 
 other calls to make, which could not be deferred 
 without infringing on our duties for to-morrow. 
 But you look tired, and sad too, my Edmund ?" 
 she continued, and, throwing me on the table, 
 she took her companion's hand, and looked 
 
 anxiously in his face. He had seated himself 
 
 191
 
 192 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 again, and as she stood beside him, he drew 
 her to him, and leaned his head on her arm. 
 " I am tired, and a little sad too. I have had a 
 toilsome walk, and a very painful visit ; but I 
 shall be better now." 
 
 " I will ask cousin Susan to order tea up im 
 mediately," said the lady, gently withdrawing 
 from his embrace. " Tea will revive you, I 
 know. I will take off my bonnet, and come 
 back to you in a moment ;" and she turned to 
 leave the room. 
 
 " Joanna," said the gentleman. 
 
 " Well ?" replied the lady, pausing, with her 
 hand on the knob of the door. 
 
 " Dearest," resumed the gentleman, and he 
 hesitated, as if he spoke reluctantly ; " what is 
 your opinion now about Watson's affair ?" 
 
 " Exactly what it was yesterday." 
 
 Then you will not do any thing ?" 
 
 What you wished is done." 
 
 Done ! when ?" 
 
 This afternoon, before I went to Mrs. 
 Ryan's."
 
 THE MISSIONARY'S BRIDE. 193 
 
 My dear, kind wife ! But you have done 
 this against your own judgment." 
 
 " You know our agreement, Edmund, that 
 when our opinions differed, and reasons ap 
 peared nearly equal on both sides, you should 
 have the casting vote. I had rather trust your 
 judgment than my own. You know, aunt 
 Lorimer used to say you had the best balanced 
 mind in the world." 
 
 "I thank you very much, my dear girl. 
 You have acted in direct opposition to your 
 own will. I " 
 
 "What's the use," interrupted Joanna, play 
 fully, still resting one hand on the door-knob, 
 while she extended the other gracefully to 
 wards her husband ; " what's the use of hav 
 ing that important possession, a will of one's 
 own, if we cannot give it up to oblige those 
 we love ?" 
 
 So saying, she opened the door and tripped 
 away. 
 
 This little scene took place in the front par 
 lour. A gentleman who sat reading in the 
 17
 
 194 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 adjoining room had been unnoticed by the 
 young pair, being concealed from view by the 
 half-closed folding door; he now came for 
 ward, laughing. 
 
 "How in the world, Field," said he, "did 
 you contrive to convert our vixen cousin into 
 such a gentle wife ?" 
 
 " She never was a vixen, I think," answered 
 Edmund, smiling, for he understood the good- 
 humoured raillery of the speaker ; " but she 
 was converted into a gentle Christian before 
 she became my wife ; and the best of wives 
 she is," he contined, as the subject of his eulogy 
 re-entered. 
 
 " Excepting me, Mr. Field," said a lady who 
 followed Joanna into the parlour. 
 
 " Your claims to that title are so well esta 
 blished that we think it needless to mention 
 them," was the smiling reply, as the happy 
 group surrounded the tea-table. 
 
 When " the lady-like duties of the tea-table" 
 were ended, and the little party seated again 
 in the front parlour, Joanna said, Did any of
 
 THE MISSIONARY'S BRIDE. 195 
 
 you ever see this before ?" and she held me up 
 t6 view. Mr. Field had forgotten me, but 
 Mrs. Andrews, after a minute inspection, ex 
 claimed, " I do believe, Joanna, that this is the 
 screen that stood on the mantelpiece in the 
 parlour, when grandmamma and I boarded at 
 Mrs. Brown's." 
 
 " It is ; there are my initials, which you 
 reproved me for scratching on the handle. I 
 found it to-day in a second-hand furniture 
 shop." 
 
 "A very valuable relic, indeed," said Mr. 
 Andrews, turning me round, and eyeing me in 
 rather a disrespectful manner, " and cost you a 
 goodly sum, no doubt." 
 
 " More than you would think it worth, of 
 course," replied Joanna, good-humouredly ; 
 " but I would willingly have paid twice as 
 much for a token which reminds me so plea 
 santly of ' lang syne.' " 
 
 "Dear grandmamma!" said Mrs. Andrews, 
 as she musingly surveyed my faded surface. 
 
 Yes," said Joanna, don't you remember,
 
 196 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 Susan, exactly how she looked as she used to 
 sit in her easy chair, using this screen to defend 
 her eyes from the glare of the coal fire ? I have 
 often watched her as she sat in the large crim 
 son-cushioned chair, wrapped in the rich-looking 
 dark shawl she was so fond of, with her silver 
 hair parted on her serene fore-head, under her 
 cap of snow-white lace ; her hand, still fair and 
 delicate, holding up this screen ; and some-times 
 little Ellen Morris on the footstool at her feet, 
 in her white frock, with her long flaxen curls 
 hanging over her neck, her arm on aunt Lori- 
 mer's knee, and her round, rosy face lifted up 
 so smilingly and the fire casting a ruddy glow 
 upon the group. I have longed to be a painter, 
 then." 
 
 "Quite a poetical description. You paint in 
 words, Joanna," observed Mr. Andrews. 
 
 " I can't help it, cousin," said Joanna, apo 
 logetically. " I only describe things as I see 
 them." 
 
 " Your eyes must be Claude Lorraine glasses 
 then j but you tell me
 
 THE MISSIONARY'S BRIDE. 197 
 
 ' Nothing is lost upon him who sees 
 
 With an eye that feeling gave; 
 To him there's a story in every breeze, 
 
 And a picture in every wave,' " 
 
 quoted Mr. Andrews. 
 
 "True, cousin, true," replied Joanna, ear 
 nestly, "and though you quote those charming 
 lines in jest, I feel them in earnest. Often do I 
 thank God for giving me those perceptions, 
 which enable me, in the language of one who 
 must have partaken the blessing, ' to look at a 
 blank wall, and fancy I gaze on Paradise.' 
 You pity the deaf and dumb ; how much more 
 are they to be pitied whose mental visions can 
 form no picture when it looks upon the elements 
 of beauty ; whose mental hearing is deaf to 
 poetry, which is the music of thought." 
 
 Mr. Andrews looked admiringly at the beau 
 tiful creature before him, as her animated fea 
 tures expressed what she felt. 
 
 " What a being to bury in a western wilder 
 ness ! Field, can you really intend that all 
 these charms and talents are to be dimmed in 
 
 17*
 
 198 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 the smoke of an Indian wigwam, for the re 
 mainder of your natural lives ?" 
 
 She has chosen," said Edmund, calmly. 
 
 " Cousin," resumed Joanna, blushing deeply, 
 while tears started into her eyes " do not talk 
 so. I know your compliments, as well as your 
 teazings, are more than half ironical ; still they 
 make me uncomfortable. If I possessed all the 
 qualities you are pleased to ascribe to me, from 
 whom did I receive, and to whom should I de 
 vote them ? I am aware that the duties I shall 
 hereafter undertake, and the influence I may 
 be called on to exert, must be of a kind in 
 which talents and accomplishments (as those 
 words are generally understood) will not be 
 needed. But I desire to consecrate all I am, 
 and all I may be, to my Saviour's service. 
 And so long as I can cultivate refinement of 
 thought and manner, without neglecting 'the 
 weightier matters of the law,' so long will I 
 continue to bring my little offering of ' anise, 
 and mint, and cummin.' I may be wrong," 
 she continued, the poetry of her nature flashing
 
 THE MISSIONARY'S BRIDE. 199 
 
 forth in spite of herself, but those who banish 
 from their minds and manners when they enter 
 the service of God, all the graces they so sedu 
 lously cultivated for the world, appear to me 
 like those who keep back the choice of the 
 flock, and offer the blind, the halt, and the 
 maimed on the altar of the Most High. Ex 
 cuse me if I have spoken too strongly." 
 
 There was a short silence, for Mr. Andrews 
 (who, though a good and intelligent man, was 
 incapable of estimating the lofty enthusiasm of 
 Joanna) felt somewnat embarrassed. Mrs. 
 Andrews, with her usual good-natured tact, 
 broke the awkward pause by recurring to me j 
 and Joanna gave the little history of my rescue. 
 
 " And what do you mean to do with your 
 treasure ?" 
 
 "Keep it, Susan. I shall keep it always. 
 To me it brings back many sweet memories. 
 I shall prize it for her sake who is now a 
 saint in heaven. How many lessons of holy 
 wisdom I received from aunt Lorimer in that 
 parlour at Mrs. Brown's ! How many lessons
 
 200 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 of practical usefulness I got from you, dear 
 Susan !" 
 
 "They were unconsciously given, I am 
 sure," observed the modest Susan. 
 
 " And not always willingly received, for I was 
 a wayward girl in those days ; however, they 
 bore their fruit in due season. There, too, I first 
 saw you, Edmund ; and there " she stopped, 
 and looked affectionately at her husband. 
 
 " And there you first fell in love !" said Mr 
 Andrews. 
 
 " No, indeed, that was not until a long time 
 after," replied Joanna, innocently. " What I 
 was going to say, was, that there I received 
 my first impressions of the importance of reli 
 gion. Edmund went to college a few months 
 after we first met, and I saw nothing of him 
 for five years. There was very little love be 
 tween us then. I rather feared him, for he told 
 me of my faults more plainly than I had ever 
 been told before." 
 
 "And you bore the telling well, dear Jo 
 anna," said Edmund.
 
 THE MISSIONARY'S BRIDE. 201 
 
 " ' And so I won my Genevieve, 
 My bright and beauteous bride' 
 
 an original style of wooing, truly," said Mr. 
 Andrews. 
 
 " It came to good speed, nevertheless," re 
 torted Edmund. 
 
 LETTER FROM JOANNA TO A FRIEND. 
 
 Philadelphia, May 16, 18. 
 
 MY DEAR MARIANNE : Your letter, filled 
 with wonders and queries, reached me only 
 yesterday. The change of our proposed route 
 accounts for your not having received any let 
 ters from me since that in which I announced 
 my intended marriage. 
 
 I have been married three months. Edmund 
 and I are now the guests of my cousin Susan. 
 As Edmund cannot enter the ministry until 
 next spring, we shall spend the intervening 
 time in 'Philadelphia, preparing ourselves, as
 
 202 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 far as we are able, for the sacred duties we are 
 about to undertake. 
 
 You are aware, my dear friend, that from 
 Edmund's earliest youth, ,it has been his wish 
 and prayer that he might serve God as a mis 
 sionary. I united my fate with his, under 
 standing and consenting, that his life was to 
 be devoted to missionary labours. I did not 
 take this step hastily or unadvisedly. Per 
 haps, had I been left to my own choice, I 
 might have preferred a settlement in a place 
 where his highly cultivated mind and elegant 
 manners might be appreciated ; but when I ac 
 cepted his hand, I felt that even without a 
 higher motive, his affection would repay me 
 for all I should resign to become his companion 
 in the wilderness. At first he thought of go 
 ing to Asia ; but on balancing the reasons for 
 and against this choice, we arrived at the con 
 clusion that the scale of duty preponderated in 
 favour of our own country, and that our op 
 portunities of doing good might (humanly 
 speaking) be greater and of longer duration.
 
 THE MISSIONARY'S BRIDE. 203 
 
 The Indians of America, those poor re 
 mains of savage greatness, have always ap 
 peared to my mind a deeply wronged people. 
 Stripped of their wild dignity, degraded from 
 their savage chivalry, robbed of their birth 
 right, denied as they touchingly say, even " a 
 resting place for the bones of their fathers," 
 tainted with the vices, while refused the pri 
 vileges of civilization, they are indeed 
 
 44 What others' crimes and injuries have made them." 
 
 The white man drove them from their ances 
 tral forests. The right of possession I am not 
 prepared to dispute ; I cannot decide upon the 
 law of nations ; but the law of Christian love 
 is plain. " To loose the bands of wickedness, 
 to undo the heavy burdens, and to let the op 
 pressed go free, and that ye break every yoke" 
 We cannot give back their wide domains, but 
 we can point their way to a rich inheritance 
 beyond the everlasting hills. We cannot deli 
 ver him that has been spoiled out of the hand 
 of the oppressor ; but we can tell of One who
 
 204 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 came to break from the soul the yoke of sin 
 we can spread before them t the unsearchable 
 riches of Christ.' Surely, if we desire a blessing 
 to rest upon our dear, dear country, we should 
 strive for the salvation of the scattered rem 
 nants of that race which first welcomed the 
 white men to its shores. My heart sickens 
 when I think of the melancholy war that now 
 desolates our southern frontier, and has cost the 
 blood of so many of our best and bravest. 
 Oh ! that the cross had been our standard, and 
 the ministers of Christ our leaders, in the first 
 warfare against our forest foes. 
 
 These considerations of our duty to others 
 inclined us to decide for the far west. For our 
 selves, there was no positive duty to keep us 
 at home. Edmund's only sister is happily mar 
 ried, and his mother resides with her ; his pro 
 tection, therefore, is not needed for them. He 
 has no other relatives. For myself, my father's 
 second marriage with a lady well calculated to 
 make his domestic life happy, has enabled him 
 to dispense with my presence, and his new
 
 THE MISSIONARY'S BRIDE. 205 
 
 views of duty induce him cheerfully to for 
 ward mine. My excellent grand-aunt Lorimer 
 is dead, and my orphan cousin Susan is a 
 happy wife and mother. I have, then, no 
 claims of affection which can interfere with 
 those of my beloved husband, and no claims 
 of duty which interfere with my earnest desire 
 to assist in carrying the message of salvation 
 to the heathen of the far west. 
 
 I at first determined to defer my marriage 
 until after Edmund's ordination, but after con 
 sulting my friends, it was thought better that 
 our union should take place immediately, and 
 we have agreed to devote the present year, as 
 much as possible, to preparations for our future 
 duties. Edmund gives all the time he can 
 spare to the study of medicine ; and I, under his 
 instructions, shall hope to be something of a 
 physician myself. My dear mother's long ill 
 ness, you remember, made me a skilful nurse ; 
 and I am taking a course of kitchen lectures, 
 that I may be able to provide somewhat for the 
 
 18
 
 206 SCENES AT HOME. 
 
 comfort of my dear husband when we are set 
 tled in our log cabin. 
 
 Our privations will doubtless be great, and 
 our trials may be greater, but we are not poor 
 (for my dear father has been very liberal, and 
 "money is power" even in the wilderness,) 
 we have youth, health, energy, mutual affec 
 tion, and mutual desire to labour in the service 
 of our Heavenly Master. We do not expect 
 "a Paradise to open in the wild;" but thus 
 endowed and thus employed, we may humbly 
 hope for the blessing of God upon our labours, 
 and a reasonable portion of domestic happiness 
 at our fire-side. 
 
 I am called away. You shall hear from 
 me again very soon ; mean time, I am, dear 
 Marianne, 
 
 Affectionately yours, 
 
 JOANNA FIELD. 
 
 THE END.
 
 T IVERSITY O* CALIFORNIA LIBRAR^ 
 
 \ngeles 
 Ms F " last date stam^e^ ' 
 
 UNIVERSITY ot CALIFORNIA 
 
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