THE JUVENILE FORGET-ME-NOT. » ' > > » > J •» > J > > > 1 1 5 > 1 1 J ., ' > , > > 1 1 5 3 » J 1 J » > 1 , , J ) > t ( I c c , » « ^ c < t t t C C C C f c c c c < c c r f < ( < < < iiii' j'/,iilif>.^iiv IfiK.ii/itT ii i'uiuir ly Sir Joshua j(mu\u^:.1'JLJ.. ////////,■/// > ' J J • • • . , > . , J i ' ^ » » J J I i THE JUVENILE ^roWx '^ ^T^ill^ Aif?_ M^fiX^r^ T C|ristmas aitif It^to |ear's IPIEIiSISMfc •♦> KEW YORK: LEAVITT AND ALLEN "i "^^l^^-l I I / CONTENTS ./ FAGIi The Mother's Jewel. By the Author of " The Brothers " 5 Sweet Stream 10 Stanzas. By Miss E. M. Allison 12 The Would-be-Genteel Lady. By Mrs. Charles Sedgwick ► . . . . 15 At Home. By Mrs. Anna Bache 62 To the Whip-poor-will "73 The Child's best Friend 75 Napoleon and the Iron Crown. By Gren- viLLE Mellen 76 The Barlow Knife. By Robert Jonathan. 81 Ge'-trude. By Miss A. D. Woodbridge. .. 97 SodusBay 99 Mary Wallace : a Juvenile story 102 The Genoese Emigrant. By Miss E. M. Allison • 158 Sonnet : on a Sleeping Infant 168 CONTENTS. PAGE Child of my Heart 169 May Morning 170 My First Born : the hour of her birth 172 Condy O'Neal 173 On the Hudson. By Miss E. M. Allison. , 193 Charades 206 The English Flower 207 The Young Mother 209 The Isle of Rest 215 The Italian Lover 218 The Fate of the Hornet 228 A Vision 232 « I'll think of thee, Love " 234 Cottage Life 236 The Guardian Watcher 238 interrogatories , = . . 239 Gnadenhutten 241 I 1 1 THE MOTHER'S JEWEL. » BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE BROTHERS. '* These are my gems," 'the Roman mother cried, Her bright lip wreathed in smiles of sunny pride, ** These are my gems," as o'er each infant head Superbly fond her high-born hands she spread ; This, with dark eyes, and hyacinthine flow Of raven tresses down a neck of snow — That, golden-haired, with orbs whose azurn hue Had dimmed the Indian sapphire's deathless blue. " These are my gems ! bring ye the rarest stone, " That ever flashed from Eastern tyrants' throne ! " Bring amber, such as those" sad sisters gave, " Vain bribes to still the rash relentless wave I 1. Cornelia, the mother of the Gracchi. 2. The sisters of Phaeton, whose tears, for the fate of their brother drowned in the river Eridanus, were metamorphosed into amber, according to the poets. 1* 6/,' ' ' ': ; THE iioTiiEr.'s jewel. m " Bring diamonds, such as that^ false matron wore, " Bought by their sheen to break the faith she swore, " Who lured to death foredoomed her prophet lord, " To death more certain than the Theban sword. — " Bring gauds, like those which caught Tarpeia's* eye, *' Fated beneath her treason's price to die ! — " And I will match them — yea ! their worth outvie " With that, nor art can frame, nor treasure buy, " Nor force subdue, nor dungeon walls control — " Each precious gem — a freeborn Roman soul ! "Know ye not, how — when quaked the solid earth, " And shook the seven hills, as at Titan's birth, — 3. Eriphyle, the wife of Amphiaraus the prophet, who, bribed by a rich necklace, prevailed on her husband to be one of the seven chiefs against Thebes, under Adrastus, although she knew that he was fated to perish there if he should go — as he in fact did, being swallowed by an earth, quake. 4. Tarpeia. The Roman virgin, who, agreeing to admit the Sabine troops then besieging the capitol, on condition that she should receive that which the soldiers wore on their left arms, meaning their golden bracelets, as the reward of her treachery, was overwhelmed and crushed to death by their bucklers; which Titus Tatius, their commander, ordered every warrior to cast upon her as he passed the gate. THE mother's jewel. "When the proud forum yawned — a gulf sowiie " Rome's navy in its space secure might ride — " When pale-eyed prophets did the fate declare, " That dread abyss should yawn for ever there, " Till Rome's best jewel, darkly tombed within, " The gods should soothe, and expiate the sin ! — " Know ye not, how their robes of Syrian hue '' To the sad King the trembling matrons threw ? " What flower-crowned captives bled, the abyss to close ? " What Syrian perfumes from the brink arose ? " What sculptured vases of barbaric gold, •' What trophied treasures, through its void were rolled ? " What sunbright gems — onyx and agate rare, " And deathless adamant — were scattered there ? " But not in gold, nor gems, nor Tyrian die, *' Trophies, nor slaves, did Rome's best treasure lio! " His limbs superb in war's triumphant guise, " His soul's high valor flashing from his eyes, " His courser chafing, impotently bold, " Against the hand that well his fire controlled, " Forth ! forth he rode, in native worth sublime, " Unstained by fetters, ignorant of crime ! " Forth ! forth he rode, to play the martyr's part— THE mother's jewel. 'Rome's richest jewel — *a right Roman heart ' 'So may the gods avert my country's doom, "I rush in triumph to my living tomb ! "Rome hath no jewel worthier earth's embrace, ' ' Than one free warrior of her fearless race ! — ' "Fearless I come and free ! — Accept the gift, "Dark Hades!' — leaped the youth — and closed the rift — ' And rolled the cloudless thunder — Jove's assent ' That Rome's best jewel to the abyss was sent ! ' These are my gems ! Each for his country's weal ' Devote to raging fire, or rending steel — ' So loner to live — so soon to die — as she — ' She only !— -shall determine and decree ! — 'Blest that I am, to call such jewels mine — ' All else to fate contented I resign ; ' Contented — if they mount the curule chair, ' Its best adornment — I shall view them there ! ' Contented — if they fill a timeless grave — ' Their wounds — their wounds of honor — I shall lave ! 5. Quintus Curtius, who devoted himself to his country't »fety, as described above. THE mother's jewel. "Secure in each event, Cornelia's race " Shall live with glory — die without disgrace ! " Secure, that neither — even in hopeless strife — " Shall turn upon his heel to save his life ! ."Secure, that neither — heaven itself to buy — " A foe shall flatter, or a friend deny ! ''These are my gems! — Give ye your country such — " So shall ye put your vauntings to the touch — " Or, yielding me the palm, your boast disown — "Your diamonds may not match what I have shown I" 10 SWEET STREAM. 1. Sweet stream, that from the thickets free, Comest dancing in thy mountain glee — The thirsty traveller's smiling friend — To my reproachful plaint attend. [T. The time 's long past, since here I laid My limbs beneath the green-tree's shade; Yet grateful on thy waves I look, Nor e'er forget my favorite brook. III. I am changed, sweet stream, and sadly changed, Since mid these verdant fields I ranged. I've proved the world, and learned how few Of Hope's beguiling dreams were true. SWEET STREAM. IV.' And now I fain to thee would fly For sympathy which men deny — Yet heed'st thou not my spirit's pain ! Even here my weary search is vain. V. Why nourish still this turf of green ? These flowers my early joys have seen Why linger yet soft breezes here, As when they dried no falling tear ? VI. And thou, in freshness glancing by. Dost pause not for the wanderer's sigh ? Thy current which no murmur hears, Flows swifter for mv added tears. 12 STANZAS. BY MISS ELIZABETH M. ALLISON. i BA\N, in this lone hour, I snatch my lyre, O'er which the chain of silence long has lain, To wake once more the too neglected strain ; Ah ! could I touch it with immortal fire, And pour the burning melody of song In one full tide its thrilling chords along. /lias ! from me has fled the power of song, That once flung its deep crimson sun-like glow Of promise, o'er my path of life below, In deep-toned visions, such as not belong To things of earth, but float with forms of air In the bright realms of space like hourie's fair. But see, again what spells around me lour, — Forms such as Dante pictured in that hell, His proud soul bursting in his lone farewell From exiled Florence, flash my view before: STANZAS. 13 With Tasso's heroes armed in holy fight, Or Ariosto's bower for nymph and en ant-knight. Thou too !* to whom a poet's fire was given, And all a poet's quenchless thirst of fame, Quick kindling fancies, half of air and flame, Passions and feelings born but to be riven, What though denied to vent in verse their forco In poesy was their impassioned source. How wild soe'er the dreams born in that mind ByVevay's bank, they link thee with the few Whose bright reward the laurel and the rue, Emblem of suffering and of fame were twined In the undying wreath — and must such be The poet's crown of immortality ? Change we the chords, and wake another strain ; Too high aspirings in my bosom swell, As spirits hallowed each by the bright spell Of burning poesy come o'er my brain, Till every nerve with o'er wrought feeling fraught, Throbs with a pained intensity of thought. * Rousseau. 14 STANZAS. Why was my soul thus proudly taught to soar ? Why were these visions wakened in nny breast, These wild ambitionings that mar its rest, Scathing, as if with fire, its inmost core, With bright imaginings of other sphere Launched from their former source ; what do they here ? Ah ! if the muse bestowed them but in vain, Meaning them ne'er to glow to deeds of fire, But sent like lightnings, in their fatal flame To sear all verdure from the smiling plain j Take back the power of song, the Muses' fire, And grant that bliss which humbler themes in spire. 15 THE WOULD-BE-GENTEEL LADY. BY MRS. CHARLES SEDGWICK. In such a country as ours — a country of " workies " — where there exists no privileged class, falsely so called, unless idleness and ennui are privileges, one might suppose that a passion for gentility would be confined to the fashionable circles of the city ; that the bees would as soon be found giving preference tO fashionable flowers, or aiming at a fashionable style of architecture In their hives, as the busy matrons and maidens of New England, for instance, directing their thoughts, mainly, to genteel modes of living, dressing, and behaving. Doctor Johnson derives the word genteel, from the Latin word gentilis : meaning " of the same house, family name, ancestry, etc." Its meaning has, probably, undergone as many modifications as the word heretic, of which the most accurate definition I have ever heard was given by a young boy of twelve : "A heretic is a person that don't 16 THE WOULD-BE-GEXTEEL LADY. believe as you do." It is plain he had not obtained this information from books, but from society. In like manner an ungenteel person is, with many, one who does not live, dress, and act, in all respects, as they do. The orthodoxy of one age or country, is the heresy of another ; and the gentility of one, is the vulgarity of another. Thus it is with fashion, the handmaid of gen- tility ; who has been well described as a jade that stalks through one country with the cast-off clothes of another ; and the modes and forms of gentility are as variable as the wayward humors of those vacant-minded people who lead the fashion. How much more respectable, how much more American it would be for us, of this country, to limit the word, in our application of it, to some thing like its original meaning, and make gentility consist in living and acting conformably to the circumstances of one's family or station — not in a slavish, ignoble imitation of comparatively a few self-styled favored mortals, whose lot is cast in a different, but not a happier sphere. There is one indispensable condition of absolute gentility, in the popular sense, which very few in our country can command, viz. an exemption fram labor; and a hard condition it is — not foi THE WOULD-BE-GENTEEL LADY. 17 those who lose caste on its account, but for those who, by fulfilling it, acquire caste. God made us to be active in mind and body — he gave a spring to universal being — and standing water is the fit emblem of a stagnant life. But even those to whom this exemption may seem desirable, can- not enjoy it, generally speaking, in our country. A southern gentleman, describing a New Eng- land dinner, said, " In the first place, at the head of the table is always a roasted lady." Now, although a southern dinner may not have so dis- pleasing an accompaniment, we are assured by those who have been behind the scenes in fami- lies abounding with slaves, that the mistress her- self is the greatest slave of all, since all the head- work, and some part of the handy-work too, must be done by her ; for instance, she must weigh out the food, and cut out the garments of her family servants. But, notwithstanding this serious obstacle, no- where, we are assured, is there such a strife for gentility, as in this country, where every other strife most incompatible with that, is perpetually carried on. It is said to be peculiar to us, that our villages ape, so minutely, the fashions of our cities ; that B 2* 18 THE WOULD-BE-GENTEEL LAJJY. no sooner is a new fashion of dress, or of the sleeve alone of a dress, introduced into the city, than straightway, as by magic, every sleeve in the country, from the shoulder of the squire'a wife to that of her youngest maid, is fashioned precisely after the same model, or, if varied at all, exaggerated for the purpose of being extremely fashionable. The stoutest ploughboy in the land will not think of being married, without a silk stockincr to his brawny foot. Nor do our female domestics consider their wardrobe quite complete without, at least, one silk gown and one linen- cambric pocket-handkerchief. And how soon is the infection caught by for- eigners who come among us ! The sturdy Ger- man girl, although she may not immediately reject her national peasants' costume of stout cotton stripe, and foot-gear adapted to the out-of-door work she has been accustomed to, will be very likely to surmount all with a "tasty" silk hat. All this may be very agreeable as a proof of pros- perity ; but it must be remembered that prosperity without discretion, is as unprofitable as zeal with- out knowledge. We laugh at these demonstrations in our infe- riors, without considering that we are guilty of THE WOULD-BE-GENTEEL LADY. 19 absurdities quite as palpable to those in another rank from ourselves. It is said that ladies of moderate fortune in America, dress far more ex- pensively than those of a corresponding rank in Europe ; that we indulge in many expensive articles of dress which they would not think of wearing. I once knew a lady with whom the passion for gentility amounted almost to a disease. It seemed, in her, an innate propensity, or, at least, it was very difficult to account for it. Born in an ob- scure country village, not entitled, either by her rank in life, character, education, or circumstances, to take precedence of her compeers, she never- theless very early began to assume airs of great consequence, on account of superior notions in regard to gentility. Probably, feeling the desire which all have for consequence, and having noth- ing else to build it upon, she had recourse to ex- traordinary precision in various points of dress and bearing, in which she vainly imagined gen- tility chiefly to consist. Her father was a shop-keeper, or, as we are accustomed to say, a merchant, doing business or. a small scale ; both her parents were uneducatec; 2i) THE WOtTLD-BE-GENTEEL LADY. ignorant and small-minded people, but simple and unassuming. Her ideas of gentility, therefore, had been principally derived from novels, and from intercourse with some of her companions who had enjoyed a privilege she greatly coveted, but could not be allowed, of a six months' residence at a city boardinjT-school. As a young lady, the great objects of her am- bition were a languid, delicate appearance, and a white hand. This strange perversion of the human mind is, I fear, not very unfrequent in young ladies, and is a legitimate consequence of subscription to a creed which virtually says, " I believe that those only are entitled to the highest place in society, who have nothing to do." Health is the vulgar privilege of the working-man. But what a total absence of all real claims to interest and admiration is implied in a young lady's rely- ing for them, mainly, upon a sickly look ! Who would exchange roses, pinks, and lilies, with all their beauty and fragrance, for the pale and scent- less ghost-flower ? My heroine, in order to effect this favorite ob- jcct, had recourse to means which I should not like to specify, but which are only too familiar, tainted bySJnnan.XA _a_j»_»_^i .J-> . J > , ' . > > > > ©[HlQ[L[n)iH]©©[D), a c • c THU WOULD-BE-GEXTEEL LAPY 21 1 fear, to many of her sex — until her health be« came so seriously impaired that she was, all her life, a sufferer in consequence. Her mother, as mothers are apt to be, was ex- ceedingly indulgent to her, and although herself obliged to strain every nerve in order to bring up comfortably and respectably a large family, upon very limited means, seldom obliged her to put her shoulder to the burden. If it did sometimes happen that she was inevitably called upon to do other than some of the " light work" of the family, a flood of tears washed out the disgraceful stain. She had, therefore, the privilege of preserving her hands white, while her mother's wore the vulgar aspect and complexion of hard drudgery. And yet this abominable selfishness was not the " original sin" of her nature ; it was the result of her mind being diseased on the subject of gen- tility. But it was not until her marriage, when she became Mrs. William Rutherford, and attained tc the dignity of a housekeeper and matron, that her passion was fully developed. This was one of those marriages brought about, as many are said to be, " by juxta-position." William Rutherford, the son of a farmer, a plain, sensible, energetic 22 THE WCULD-BE-GE^^EEL LADY. young man, who had, very honorably to himself, made his own way in the world, studied in a lawyer's office overlooking a garden in which our heroine often strayed. The sight of a pretty girl walking among the fiowers, was an agreeable variety to one whose vision rested many hours in the day upon the grave-looking, monotonous pages of a law-book. He sometimes joined her, and she gave him flow- ers, for which, without any reference to its being genteel or ungenteel to like them, she had a gen- uine admiration ; and a jar that stood upon his study table was daily supplied from her hand. She was rather pretty, excessively neat in her ap- pearance, and seemed always amiable. The most energetic person in the world is not insensible to the necessity, or at least the agree- ahility of excitement, and by degrees the plain, simple, natural, sensible William Rutherford was led on until he plighted heart and hand to this \ Gvy pretensionary diudi hoWsh. young woman. O the rashness of young men, and young women, too, in these momentous matters ! Mrs. Rutherford had too much of the instmct of a New England woman not to make a good housekeeper. She had profited by the lessons THE WOULD-BE- CrENTEEL LADY. 23 received from her notable mother, albeit an un- willing and truant pupil. She was excessively nice in her habits, and would have her house in order even at the cruel sacrifice of vulgar person- al exertions ; but these were kept secret as possi- ble from neighbors and visitors. An unfortunate visit which she made, the first year of her marriage, to a cousin who had married a wealthy merchant in New York, greatly en- larged her ideas on the subject of gentility. She had previously set her heart upon a watch, as one of the ensignia, (now forsooth that very convenient article is very commonly laid aside because it is vulgar to wear it !) but now she had in addition constantly before her eyes, in distant perspective, a Brussels carpet, hair sofa, mahogany chairs, and silver forks. These, though constituting a small part of her cousin's splendor, were almos* unknown articles in the village where she lived, and, therefore, would be sufficient to distinguish her. Although her husband was a thriving lawyer, and had his fair proportion of the business done in the county, yet his income was moderate ; and having amassed no property previous to his marriage, it was necessary that in all his arrange- '24 THE WOULD-BE-GENTEEL LADY. ments, he should have reference to economy. Great pains were, therefore, necessary on the part of Mrs. Rutherford to secure these objects of her ambition. Never did a politician keep moro steadily in view what are supposed to be the poli- tician's aim, office and power — never did the military hero keep his eye more steadfastly fixed apon the wreaths of victory with which he hoped to grace his brow, than did Mrs. Rutherford upon her hair sofa, Brussels carpet, mahogany chairs, and silver forks. For these she lived, and for these she would have done anv thino- — but die. There is, alas ! no fashionable furniture for the grave ; it, has no privilege save that of rest to the weary. The folly of " garnering up one's heart " in the cunning but perishable works of man's de- vice, in outward show, is very striking when ex- hibited on so small a scale ; magnificence covera up the folly to many eyes. Objects pursued with such steady determination are almost sure to be gained in time. Mrs. Ru- therford practised great economy with reference to their attainment, and although her husband had a far juster sense of the right use of property, and had no taste for making more show than his neighbors — what will not a quiet, peace-loving THE WOULD-BE-GENTEEL LADY. 25 man do, that he can do, to tranqullize the restless, unsatisfied spirit of his wife ? Poor Rutherford was a much enduring man. If during the sitting of the court, (for he lived in the county town,) he invited some brother lawyers to dine with him, there being but an hour's adjourn- ment, and the dinner failed to appear seasonably, no earthly consideration would have induced his wife to leave the room and inquire into the reason of the delay — and still less to do what she might toward preventing its further continuance : be- cause it would be ungenteel for the lady of the house not to be sitting in state with her guests — and horribly vulgar to be supposed conversant with the mysteries of the kitchen. When the dinner arrived at last, if her only servant, who officiated in the double capacity of cook and waiter, were obliged to leave the room, not a plate must be passed until she returned to do the thing according to rule. No consideration of urgent haste — of comfort or convenience — was to be weighed for a moment with that of having her table genteelly served. But, notwithstanding her extreme anxiety to do the honors of her house, in what she supposed ll^e most approved manner, she was utterly inca- 26 THE WOULD-BE-GENTEEL LADY. pable of performing the most important, dignified, and graceful part of the duty of a hostess, — that of contributing to the intellectual entertainment of her guests. In fact, she was deplorably igno- rant. To give a single example : The conver- sation falling one day upon old English poetry, a gentleman said to her, " I believe, Mrs. Ruther- ford, that Pope is not so great a favorite with the ladies as formerly." " I don't know, indeed, sir," she replied ; " was he a novelist ? Scott is the favorite novelist now, I believe." It was indispensable to her system to have al- ways the air of being waited upon. If the fire were down ever so low, she would prefer waiting any length of time, until her servant of all-work could answer the bell, rather than help herself to a stick of wood, although close at hand. A friend knocking for admission, might almost go away without getting it, if there were no one but the lady of the house to open the door. Even a journey, recommended by her physician, for her only child, who had suffered much from teething, was not to be thought of, because the additional expense of a nurse could not be afforded : and it was so vulgar to travel with a young child without a nurse ! And yet she was not an unfeeling THE WOULD-BE-GENTEEL LADY. 27 mother — she would do anything for her child that was not vulgar. Nights of weary watchingj and days of laborious nursing, she submitted tc with true maternal devotion. Even in his very wardrobe, her husband's comfort was abridged, in conformity with her notions of what gentility required, inasmuch as at no season would he be allowed a cotton shirt, which in the winter he greatly preferred. I said that by degrees Mrs. Rutherford attained all her objects. I beg her pardon — the silver forks were still wanting to her complete happi- ness. Against these her husband took his stand with the determination of a desperate man. He said they were very proper for those to use who were born with silver spoons in their mouths — very proper for those who could afford them ; but for a young man in his circumstances, the intro- duction of such an article into his establishment would be perfectly preposterous — that silver forks would be a poor inheritance to his daughter, pro- vided he left her nothing to eat with them. Il was so very unusual for her husband to oppose her, that Mrs. Rutherford knew his opposition was not impulsive — not lightly resolved upon; and she yielded to it submissively. 28 THE WOULD-BE-GENTEEL LADY. The child was of course included in the nio- ther's plans of gentility. She was not suffered to attend school for fear she should contract vul- garity from her schoolmates. Great pains v ere bestowed upon her dress ; and as what is deficient in money must be made up in time, there was a most lavish expenditure of what is still more val- uable than money. Then she was prevented, as far as possible, from doing any thing for herself. This last point, however, was difficult of ac- complishment. Little Caroline herself was an extremely smart, active, capable child ; and such a one, who feels the energy stirring within her, cannot well be prevented, in such a very unarti- ficial state of things as exists in a village family, from exerting it. It is not often that a child derives benefit from her mother's absurdities ; but Caroline Rutherford was an exception. The very opposition she met with confirmed all her natural tendencies to la- tionality ; and, in consequence of her being exclu- ded from the schools, her father took great pains with her education, while her mother paid a de- gree of attention to her manners ; which, though it could not render her formal, (no training could have produced that result in her case,) had the THE WOULD-BE-GENTEEL LADY. 29 effect io make her considerate and attentive. She grejv up, therefore, a very pleasing, lovely girl. When she was about the age of fourteen, a very exciting event occurred in their quiet village. A gentleman of fortune, who had determined to remove into the country, attracted by its healthy and picturesque location, selected it for his future residence, and purchased a place very near the dwelling of Mr. Rutherford. This circumstance was rejoiced in by no one so much as by Mrs. Rutherford ; and would have gone far toward compensating her for the want of silver forks, except that it made her feel the need of them so much the more ; because, " how could she invite Mr. and Mrs. Garrison to dine without them ?" She lost no time in calling upon her new neighbors, choosing for that purpose the latest hour compatible with the country dining hour. She had previously arrayed herself in the manner she deemed most befitting the occasion ; that is, most calculated to recommend her to Mrs. Garri- son as a person of undoubted gentility, viz : with a dress of Gros de Berlin, a French capo, silk stockings, etc., etc. 3* 30 THE WOULD-BE -GENTEEL LADY. To her surprise, she found Mrs. Garrison in a simple gingham morning dress, superintending the nailing down of a carpet ; for her house was not yet in order. She received Mrs. Rutherford, hawever, in a very easy manner, conducting her to an adjoining apartment ; and thus, after the usual preliminaries, was the turn given by the latter to the conversation. " I quite pity you, Mrs. Garrison, for having chosen a residence in the country." " Pity me, indeed ! I thought all people who lived in the country were fond of it. Is it not so with you ?" " O yes ! I am very fond of flowers, and I think the country moi'e healthy than town ; but then we have such trouble with our servants. Such a thing as a man-cook is quite out of the question. I often tell my husband that there would be some sense, and some pleasure in hav- ing one's friends to dine with you, if one could have a man-cook." " A man-cook, indeed !" replied Mrs. Garrison. "I did not know that such an appendage was ever thought of in the country. It is far from be- ing common in town ; and for myself, I have never THE WOULD-BE-GENTEEL LADY. 31 employed one. If I can get good women I shall be entirely satisfied." " Well, ma'am, you cannot be sure even of that ; and then, if your servants happen to leave youj it is so difficult to supply their places. Really, Mrs. Garrison, to be left as we are exposed to be occasionally, almost without any help at all, is a calamity almost too great to be borne. House- work is so odious, so disagreeable, I almost loathe myself when I am obliged to take hold of it.'' This last expression led Mrs. Garrison to sus- pect that she had been quite accustomed " to take hold " notwithstanding. " But your country ladies, in spite of these difficulties, have more leisure than we in town. You are not obliged to keep one servant to an- swer the bell, and to spend the best part of the day yourself in receiving visits from a set of idlers, as formidable, to those who really value their lime, as the unproductive consumer to the politi- cal economist." Here Mrs. Rutherford found herself at fault. She looked quite puzzled for a moment, and then replied — " But you do not give refreshments to your morning visiters, Mrs. Garrison ? That, I am told^ u quite out of fashion." 32 THE WOULD-BE-GENTEEL LADY. " And then, too," continued Mrs. Gkirrison, nol appearing to notice this question, '' we necessa- rily have a very large circle of acquaintance foi many of whom we care very little ; whereas, you in the country can limit yourselves as much as you please ; and society is, with you, on altogether a more free, unceremonious, and friendly footing." " But then," replied Mrs. Rutherford, " country people are, most of them, so vulgar. They know nothing of the forms of society." " So much the better. In large circles of society they are necessary, but burdensome ; and I expect to enjoy, very much, a more simple, un- shackled state of existence. * * * * j }^ad the pleasure of seeing your daughter, I believe, this morning ; a charming looking girl." " My daughter ! O Mrs. Garrison, I am very sorry indeed. She is a wild girl ; and her father would indulge her to-day in a strawberrying frolic, so she was dressed accordingly. I am sure she was not fit to be seen." " I cannot say how that may be, for my atten- tion was so occupied by her bright eyes, rosy cheeks, and laughing smile, that I did not notice her dress at all. But the most proper dress is always that most befitting the occasion ; and she THE WOULD-BE -GENTEEL LADY. 33 looks to me like a girl of too good sense not to have regard to the fitness of things at all times." " Dress is another o;reat trouble in the country, Mrs. Gajrison. There is never a good dress- maker to be had. You may have your dress cut, to be sure, after a fashionable pattern ; but then i* will not have at all the air of a city-made dress." " But I thought, Mrs. Rutherford, that exemp- tion from much trouble of dress was another of your country privileges. In town, the tailor and dressmaker are the most important personages, to be sure ; since it is not man as God made him, or as he has made himself, but as the tailor makes him, that is chiefly respected by a very large class — and so with woman ; but in the country, people are valued for their intrinsic merits — theii minds, and their hearts. This is their privilege and distinction." "But I think, Mrs. Garrison, that no woman appears well who is not well dressed." " If you mean^ by being well dressed, dressed with neatness and propriety, I agree with you ; but city finery, habitually worn, would seem to me as much out of place on the person of a cou» try lady, as artificial flowers in her bosom." Mrs. Rumerford took her leave, wondering to C 34 THE WOULD-BE-GENTEEL LAP!'. find Mrs. Garrison, a lady in every sense of the word, so full of what she considered very odd notions ; and did not fail, at dinner, to communi- cate to her husband the impression she had re- ceived. '' I am thankful," he replied, " that sne is a woman of some sense. I beg your pardon, wife, but really your head is completely turned upon the subject of furniture, dress, etc. ; and if Mrs. Garrison will set it right, she will do the greatest piece of service in the world that could be ren- dered to a poor fellow like me." " Why, Mr. Rutherford, I flattered myself you were quite proud of your wife. I am sure it is as much on your account as my own, that I wish to hold my proper place in society." ■" Your proper place ! Yes, I wish to heaven that would content you ; but you do make capital pies, wife, I confess," he said, as he tasted a de- licious tart. Mrs. Rutherford was more gratified by his commendation, than she would have been had she understood its full import. Meanwhile Mrs. Garrison, in relating to her husband the events of the morning, said : " Wp talked, you know, of adapting ourselves to the lastes, manners, and habits of the country ; bu« THE WOULD-BE-GENTEEL LADY. 35 here is a village lady whose head is as full of fashions, modes, and rules of etiquette, as the finest town-lady's of them all. How should it happen?" " An empty-headed woman I'll be bound," re- plied Mr. Garrison. * " Well, as to that I cannot tell. Slie certainly gave no great signs of intellectual cultivation, and that is the case with most of our fine ladies in town ; but one would suppose tha«t in the coun- try, if a woman did not love books, she might busy herself in her domestic occupations, with bees, birds, flowers, etc., without being driven to dress and fashion as a refuge from the ennui of a vacant mind." " What a strange race we are," rejoined her husband, " to make it our boast that we are ra- tional beings. T think, if those to whom man is said to be only a little lower look down upon this busy scene, the pursuits of the gi eater part of men, and women too, must seem just about as important as the children's sport of blowing soap- bubbles seems to us. One thing I have to con- gratulate myself upon — the principal lawyer in the village, Mr. Rutherford, is a very clever, sen «)bie, ^''^snectable man " 5> 36 THE WOULD-BE- GENTIJEL LADY. "He must be tliis very lady's husband." " Poor fellow ^ I am sorry for him then When Caroline Rutherford returned from hei strawberrying expedition, which had been very successful, she begged to be allowed to carry some of her strawberries to Mrs. Garrison, who by her sweet voice and pleasing address had made a most agreeable impression upon her in their short interview in the morning. Mrs. Rutherford was quite shocked at the sug- gestion. " Why, my dear child, your dress, shabby enough at best, is all in disorder. Your hair is out of curl, and you are red and heated. Besides, it is much more proper to send Sally with them. Get me a piece of note paper, and will write a note." " O, mother, do let me have my ov/n way U this once." Her father nodded in a manner which express- ed " go, my child," and she was off in the twink- ling of an eye. " O dear me ! Mr. Rutherford, Caroline is sc wild, so rustic, I am afraid Mrs. Garrison M'ill be quite disgusted with her." *' Never fear, my dear. I will pit my wild flower against the fi.n^'st green-house Dlant o THE WOUID-BE-GENTEEL LADY. 37 them all ;" and well he might be proud ff his wild flower. In spite of Caroline's being *' such a rustic," Mrs. Garrison took a great fancy to her from the beginning, and she soon became a favorite with the whole family. The oldest daughter, Fanny, was two years younger than Caroline, and two of the sons were older. The mother was not long in discovering that Caroline would be a most useful associate to her children in their lessons ; and she invited her to join her little family school. Her iiwlustry, energy, and quickness were a con- stant stimulus to her fellow-pupils. Mrs. Gar- rison taught her music and drawing, which almost made Mrs. Rutherford forget the one calamity of her life — the doing without silver forks. Notwithstanding her great delight when Mr. Rutherford ordered a piano for his daughter, she could not refrain from hintinsr that she thought him rather inconsistent in incurring: such an ex- pense, after what had passed on the subject of the forks. " No, wife," said he, " I do not admit this at a"l. The forks, in our case, would be for mere show ; but the piano will be a source of constant daily enjoyment The pleasure of a song from 4 48 THE WOULD-BE-GENTEEL LADY, Caroline, accompanied by her instrument, is t« me v/orth all the pomp and magnificence of a palace ; 'tis ' a sacred and home-felt delight.' Then, think how she enjoys it ! Besides, all these things add to the resources from which she would not fail to derive her support, if left penniless to-morrow." That Mr. Rutherford might feel no scruples of delicacy in regard to receiving all these favors for his daughter, Mrs. Garrison employed her to assist in teaching the younger children. Caroline often excited her mother's astonish- ment by her reports of what was going on, from time to time, at Mrs. Garrison's. One day they had all employed the recess in assisting Mrs. Garrison, in country phrase, '' to clean up her yard;" which, in this instance, amounted only to gathering from the lawn the dry leaves, bits of sticks, etc., which had been carelessly left behind by the person who had been sent to perform that duty. At another time Caroline had had the sole charge of the school in the morning, because Mrs. Garrison, reduced to extremities by some disarrangement of her domestic establishment, had been engaged in washing windows ! and per- forming divers other services of a similar nature ; THE WOULD-BE-GENTEEL LADY. 30 but " 1 can tell you, mother," she added, " that she looks just as much like a lady when she is washing windows, as when she is sitting at her drawing-board." Occasionally, when the waiter had been ill or absent, one of the children had tended table in her stead ; and once, when one of the servants was laid up with a rheumatic limb, her mistress would bathe it herself, several times in the day, in order to be sure that it was properly done. But the greatest wonder of all was, that a young sister of Mrs. Garrison's came to visit her, brinfjinfr an infant without a nurse to take care of it ; and not only that, but dragged it about the streets of the village in a little wicker wagon, while mother and child were both so pretty as to attract every body's attention. At the expiration of two years after their first arrival in the village, Mr. and Mrs. Garrison de- termined to obtain the assistance of a private tutor in the education of their children. They were fortunate in finding a young man, a Mr. Cleave- land, of accomplished education and pleasing manners, who knew how to make his pupils like not only their books but their teacher too. He was in the condition of many young men in our country, whose education constitutes ilieir only 40 THE WOULD-BE-tJENTEEL LADY. fortune. He wa? destined for the pulpit, anJ haa yet to acquire his profession in part. Fanny Garrison, accustomed hitherto only to her mother's teaching, could not be reconciled to the idea of being taught by a strange gentle- man, unless Caroline would become a fellow- pupil. Nearly two years passed away, during which Caroline made rapid progress in various branches of education — outstripping even the older boys in some of those studies which, until recently, have been almost universally regarded as inappro- priate to women. Mrs. Rutherford had already begun to speculate upon Caroline's chances in the matrimonial lot- tery. She had no doubt that such a girl, with a fine countenance, engaging manners, highly edu- cated, and full of vivacity, *would, in time, make "a genteel match." Now and then a vague fear that young Cleaveland might aspire to the hand of her daughter, crossed her mind ; but did not impress itself, because it was "impossible that a girl so genteelly bred and educated, should think of marrying a poor young minister, and almost equally so, that a poor young minister should think of aspiring to her." She settled it in her own mind, that if Caroline THE WOULD-BE-GENTEEl LAD"i 41 should have altogether a suitable offer in the course of a few years, it was not to be rejected ; but otherwise, there could not be a doubt that Frank Garrison's present youthful fondness for her might be cultivated into a permanent senti- ment. The country maid and her milk-pail will remain through all time the faithful and most fit- ting personification of a castle-builder. Mrs. Rutherford could not forbear communica- ting to her husband some of her thoughts upon the subject which occupied her so much, and de- claring, in unequivocal terms, her unwillingness to Caroline's making only a " common match," on the ground of her being a fit wife for a man of fortune, and qualified to grace a genteel establish- ment. "Now, I will tell you what, wife," replied her husband, " you do not know what is best for your- self or her either. Caroline is just the girl for a good, honest fellow, who has got to make his own way in the world ; such a man wants just such a helper, or help-meet, as the Bible has it. It would be a pity to have her good sense, and fine spirits, and energy, and education thrown away where lliey ain't wanted, or rather where they won't ne all called into requisition and turned to the greatest 4* 42 THE WOULD-BE GENTEEL LADY. possible account. He who gets his living oy hard work, whether of the head or the hands, wants a wife who will order well his house and educate his children — who will strengthen him in weakness — encourage him in despondency — confirm him when irresolute — soothe him when irritated — comfort and bless him perpetually with her sympathy, and look bright, beautiful, and re- freshing to him when the day's toil is over. Now a rich man's wife need not do any thin£r ; his wealth can command the aid of hands enouo;h and heads enough, without hers. Then his pleasures are very apt to be in a great many ether things besides his wife ; and a woman who knows how to dress smart, and receive his company genteely, as you say, will do very well for him. But to a poor man his wife and children are his all-in-all of pleasure ; and to make the happiness of a man who has every thing good in himself, but to whom the gifts of fortune have been denied, ought to be sufficient to satisfy any woman." Of course Mrs. Rutherford rejected such hereti- cal doctrines altogether, though she had no hope of converting him who professed them. Meanwhile the simple, happy Caroline mused not of love ; she was too happy — too much oc- THE WOULD-BE-GENTEEL LADY. 43 cupied — too well satisfied with the present, to think of the future. Life, with her, was perpetual sunshine. She was very fond of her father — had a kind and dutiful feeling toward her mother — loved the Garrisons dearly — was exceedingly interested in her studies — and liked Mr. Cleave- land very much. She liked him because she found his assistance very valuable to her in her studies — because he was not only exceedingly devoted, in his office as teacher, to all his pupils, but made them very happy — because he mani- fested, in all situations, great delicacy of feeling and the kindest consideration for others, showing that he felt deeply and tenderly the bonds of hu- man brotherhood — because he had an agreeable talent at conversation — because he loved the water-falls, fields, rivers, and groves as well as she did, and, when school was over, liked nothing better than to ramble and sport in true country fashion — and lastly, she liked him, as I sup- pose, because he liked her ; for a reason akin to this, enters, more or less, I believe, into the ra- tionale of all the partialities of man for his brother *ian. Mrs. Garrison felt some responsibility in regard lO bringing so lovely a girl as Caroline Ruther- 44 THE WOULD-BE -GEXTEEL LADY. ford, into constant association with a marriageable young man of no small attractions. But she knew him thoroughly — was certain that he was worthy of confidence, and, besides, was herself constantly with the whole groupe, both in school and in he hours of recreation. How could Charles Cleaveland but fall in love ? Not at first sight — not because it had seemed to him a very probable thing that he should ; but because there was no earthly reason why he should not — because there was every thing to please his fancy, gratify his afiections, and ap- prove itself to his reason, in the young creature with whom he was daily associated in interesting pursuits and delightful recreations. In school she was that paragon of perfection to a teacher. a diligent, docile, and apt pupil ; by the stream, a naiad ; in the groves, a wood-nymph ; in the garden and the meadow, the ideal of a bird or a butterfly. How could she but come, in time, to haunt his imagination and make her home in his heart, in one and all the bewitching forms of love's metempsychosis ? His interest had been for some time deeply excited, before she became aware of the state of his mind or her own. But the truth gradually THE WOULD-BE-GENTEEL LADY. 45 dawned upon her when, time lifter time as she raised her head, she found him intently gazing upon her ; when she perceived unwonted ab- straction, on his part, in the hours of her recita- tions ; when she found herself, by some strange magic or other, meeting him at every turn, as if he knew all her out-fjoings and in-cominors : when his visits at her father's hitherto, on ac- count of her mother's forbidding manners few and far between, became more and more frequent ; and as she sat at the piano, where he always liked to place her, she could feel the intensity of his gaze until it produced a burning in her own cheek. Then she, too, began to muse of him. He was the subject of her day-dreams and night-dreams; his image forever in her mind ; sleep did not displace it. It was there when she closed her eyes to sleep, and there to greet her at the first moment of her waking. The animated Caroline became pensive ; the social Caroline began to affect solitary walks and lonely sittings in her chamber. She gazed upon the moon, or she list- ened to the murmuring brook or the whispering grove ; and the gay and joyous feeling with'which •he had been accustomed to mingle herself with 46 THE AV(JULD-BE-GENTEEL LADY. the harmonies of nature, gave way to oriw tf sa« cred tenderness, as ihey seemed to her spirit to give forth a deeper tone. Still her natural equanimity came in aid of her maidenly reserve to conceal from her lover the true state of her heart, and he felt by no means certain that his love was requited. But neither was he hopeless ; and knowing that it would be difficult for him to carry himself toward her ats he ouo-ht during the three months that still re- mained of his engasjement with Mrs. Garrison Avithout having an explanation with Caroline, which it would be improper for him to seek while ne stood in his present relation to her, he deter- mined to ask it as a favor of Mrs. Garrison that she would release him, which he did, of course, without assigning his principal motive. The morning after this arrangement was made, Mrs. Garrison entered the school-room just as Caroline was finishing a recitation, and said, " Now, children, do your best to leave an agree- able impression upon the mind of Mr. Cleaveland, who is going to resign the charge of yoii in two weeks." Poor Caroline turned deadly pale, and the pale- ness w'as instantly succeeded by a deep blush. THE WOULD-BE-GENTEEL LADY. 47 She took up her book and returned instantly to her seat, hoping she had been unobserved ; but she was mistaken. Such a revelation is rarely lost upon a lover; and, in this instance, did not escape the observation of Mrs. Garrison. At any other time, ?»Ir. Cleaveland would have been gratified by the lively and most unaffected demonstrations of regret with which the announce- ment of his speedy departure had been received by the whole group of children. But now, one deep joy swallowed up all the rest ; and his utter inability to reply to them would have been ex- tremely embarrassing, had not Mrs. Garrison kindly and considerately relieved him by a re- quest that he would look into a new school-book which she had just received. His only trouble in life now, was the intermi- nable duration of two weeks. That period of time overpast, he would declare his love, and then devote himself to his profession with the intent to hasten, as much as possible, the time when he might claim his bride. Meanwhile, Caroline had no resource but to put on, as far as possible, the appearance of being more than ever absorbed in her studies. Mrs. Rutherford had not been unobservant of 46 TilK WOULD- HE-GEXTEEL LADY. the signs of the times in regard either to Caroline or Cleaveland, and felt extremely nneas}' and anxious. Her husband, on the contrary, she knew would like nothing better than just such a match for his daughter ; and therefore she deter- mined, in the present emergency, to keep her own counsels and act for herself. During this last memorable fortniglit, Cleave- land almost entirely suspended his visits to the Rutherfords, and his intercourse with Caroline, except as her teacher ; because he found it al- most impossible to carry himself toward her as circumstances required. On the last day Caroline, although she had got up with a violent headache, would not re- main at home for fear of exciting suspicion or remark ; but her illness was so apparent, that Mrs. Garrison had insisted upon her leaving the school. Cleaveland had not seeined nearly as much occupied with herself, as usual, ever since his de- parture had been determined upon. She was in no state to solve the problem of this change by an argumentative process, and she began to thinl, she had deceived herself — that she had beer merely an agreeable and exciting circumstanco THE WOVLD-BE-GENTEEL LADY. 49 in the present scene of his residence — no longer valued when he was so soon to exchange it for another. When she went home, therefore, she threw herself upon her bed, and burst into a flood of tears. Meanwhile her lover with difficulty possessed his soul, until the hour of emancipation came, and ne felt at liberty to throw himself at her feet. He then went in pursuit of her, in the sweet hope that by a few rnagic words — the lover's sesame — he should unlock her carefully guarded heart, and find its wealth all his own. No one was at home but Mrs. Rutherford. " Where is Miss Caroline ?" " She has gone to walk — " " Gone ? — which way ?" There was something in his manner which revealed, or, at least, led Mrs. Rutherford to sus- pect the nature of his errand. She believed that the crisis had come, and that now, if ever, was the moment for interference. To his questions she only replied, evidently somewhat embarrassed, " Mr. Cleaveland, I want to speak a word with you." He was already on his way out, and turned most reluctantly. D 5 50 THE WOULO-BE-GENTEEL LADY. " Walk into the parlor a moment, Mr. Cleave, land. I don't know how Mr. Rutherford feels about this business, but I think that, as a mother, I have a better right than any one else to decide about it." Cleaveland, at first, would not guess to what she referred ; and, perceiving that he did not un- derstand her, she continued : " I know it is a very delicate matter for me to take it for granted that you would like to marry Caroline. If I am mis- taken, there is no harm done, and you will ex- cuse me ; if I am not mistaken, it would be too late, aftar you young people had settled the matter between you, for me to express my decided dis- approbation of it, and therefore I do it now. I appeal to you, Mr. Cleaveland, as a mother, whose soul is bound up in her child, to give up all thoughts of a connection which would fall 7ery far short of my hopes and wishes for my laughter." For a moment, poor Cleaveland sat like one jtupified. Then, without any parting salutation to Mrs. Rutherford, without even a single word in reply to her strange harangue, he hastily left the house. He retreated to his own room ; but ex. perienced there a stifling sensation, which he THE WOULD-BK GENTEEL LADY. 51 thought to relieve by going into the open air; and pursuing his way to a favorite haunt, he met Caroline just emerging from the little, grove he was about to enter. Not daring to trust himself with her a moment, and unable to command his voice, he hastily pass- ed her with hardly the seeming of a recognition. Her headache had left her much exhausted, and a dizzy faintness now came over her^ so that it was with great difficulty that she reached her home, although not very far distant. Meanwhile her lover was ^n a most piteous state of agitation and perplexity. Was ho obliged in honor to heed the matrimonial veto ? Believ- ing that Caroline was attached to him, was it right to keep her in ignorance of his love ? Her father, too, had given him the most undoubted proofs of his esteem ; and so far from showing any jealousy or suspicion of him, had always ac- quiesced entirely in all those arrangements which had brought them together so much, might he not refer the matter to him ? But to appeal to the husband against his wife — to the daughter against her mother — this would be neither manly nor delicate, perhaps not honorable ; he \^ as not quite sure. To fly, then, was his only refuge. 52 THE WOULD-BE-GL\TEEL LADY. He wrote a nolo to Mrs. Garrison, complaining of illness, saying that he had been induced, by unexpected circumstances, to leave town, con- trary to his first intentions, on the following day ; but that, on the whole, he preferred not taking leave of them personally, as the parting would, on his part, be a very painful one. He thanked her, in glowing terms, for all her kindness, adding, that he never expected to be so happy again as under her roof. Mrs. Garrison was surprised by this last ex- pression ; surprised by his hasty departure, and by his omitting to make his adieus in person ; and had a vague idea of some mystery in the matter, which she hoped time might solve. He went off at two o'clock in the morning:. Mrs. Rutherford took especial care to conceal the fact of his having called to see her, from Caroline, who forbore to make any inquiries ; and Mr. Rutherford being out of town, no investigation was made upon the subject. Poor Caroline ! her brightness was, for the present, all obscured. Her headache returned violently, and she was really ill for some days ; but even after she had no longer an excuse for playing the invalid, her spirits did not return ; THE WOULD-BE-GENTEEL LADY. 53 she had sleepless nights and languid days, and her very soul seemed to have died away within her. Her father was excessively distressed. At first he tried to rouse her spirits by a little- raillery. " You remind me," said he, " of a fine peach-tree which I came near losing last spring. It \vas in full life and beauty, just as you were, but suddenly a blight came over it which threatened its destruc- tion. I dug around the root and found one little worm there — that removed, the tree flourished again." Poor Caroline made no reply, but burst into tears and retreated to her room. " There is a canker-worm at the root, you may depend upon it, wife ; and it appears to me that you might detect it." Mrs. Rutherford looked as if she were a little disturbed at the idea of any investigation. " If you do know, wife," said he, " and don't choose to reveal what you know, the responsibility rests with you, and her blood be upon your head. Tell me, now, what is your idea upon the subject, has not Caroline been unhappy ever since young Cleaveland went away ?" " Yes." 54 THE WOULD-BE-GENTEEL LADY. "Did you ever think that they were in love?" " I thought he was." " And yet he went off without broaching the matter at all. If it is all on her part, the thing must be submitted to ; and yet it seems to me he could hardly help falling in love with her." " No, indeed !" said Mrs. Rutherford, gathering courage to do now what she had half resolved to do before, " he did fall in love with her." " Then why did he not tell her so ?" " Because I forbade him." " Did he apply to you on the subject ?" " No. I applied to him." " Then how could you be certain that he had any design of offering himself to her?" " You would not have had any doubt of it had you seen him as I did ; and besides, he would have denied it if it had not been so." " O wife ! what was your inducement ? He is not genteel enough for you, I suppose. Confound your genteel notions," he continued, as, losing control of himself, he becanie exceedingly exas- perated ; " I would give all the gentility you ever had, or ever can have, for a few grains of sense or common maternal feeling. I knew you would give up health, and comfort; and good neighbor- THE AVOULD-BE-GENTEEL LADY. 55 hood, and your own soul, if necessary, for gentiU ity ; but I thought your child was dearer to you than j^our own soul." " Why, Mr. Rutherford, I do really think you are very unkind," said the lady, bursting into tears. " How the devil," he continued, without heed- ing her emotion, " did you ever come to marry such an ungenteel fellow as I am, and thus es- tablish a precedent for your daughter to follow ? Go and comfort her, and say to her, ' My dear, console yourself that I have saved you from the disgrace consequent upon such a connection as I had the misfortune to form.' Tell her never to mind losing the chance of being made happy by a capital fellow v.'hom she loves, and who loves her, because by-and-by, if she live long enough, she may possibly marry a money-purse, ride in a carriage, tread on Brussels carpets, and have a plenty of mirrors and glasses to see herself in, and couches to recline upon, and silver forks to eat with — who knows ? Tell her it is all a mis- take to suppose that happiness has anything to do with the mind or the heart ; that it is all a thing of the eyes. Tell her its foundations are laid up in brick and mortar, and its superstructure is comprised of all the costly materials that can 56 THE WOULD-BE-GENTEEL LADY. • be gathered together from the four corners of the earth. Go now, quick, wife, call her down stairs, and bid her look at your best parlor — your bet- ter half — and tell her you expect she will have a whole suit of such apartments, only a great deal finer. Say to her, ' Look at it, Caroline ; gaze on it, my child, and forget the image of him who, though God's noblest work, cannot afford to man- ufacture happiness for you out of cabinet-ware and upholsterers' stuffs.' Go, wife, and be elo- quent." Having thus exploded^ he left the house. Poor Mrs. Rutherford had never heard her husband indulge in such a vein before. She was kind and attentive to his comfort, and his dispo- sition led him to make the most, both to her and to himself, of whatever in her was good and com- mendable. She did not suspect, therefore, that there ever lurked in his bosom a feeling of con- tempt. It was a wretched day for the whole family. In the evening, after Caroline bade good-night, the subject was renewed. Mr. Rutherford had thought much and deeply upon it. Had Cleave- land avowed his love, he might go to him at once, and tell him that his wife repented the step she • THE WOULD-BE-GENTEEL LADY. 57 had taken — but now, what was to be done? he could not tell. Matters went on thus for about three months, durino- which Mrs. Garrison shared in the solici- tude which Caroline's parents felt on her account — although, in seeing her droop, she could only guess at the cause. She corresponded with Mr Cleaveland, but he never mentioned Caroline— and she could only venture upon what might seem an accidental reference to her, and allusion to her poor health and spirits. At the end o*" three months she received from him the following letter : — My dear Mrs. Garrison — Your very great kindness, and your most generous sympathy so constantly manifested towards me, induces me to lay before you a matter that very nearly concerns me, for the purpose of obtaining your advice in circumstances of great delicacy and perplexity. I think it could not have altogether escaped your observation, that, as would probably have befallen most other young men in like circum- stances, I lost my heart to your fair young friend, my pupil. Nor was I a despairing lover — may my presumption be pardoned, in believing that I 58 THE WOULD-BE-GENTEEL LADY. . 'jccasionally discovered through the veil of her most delicate and maidenly reserve, a certain tremulousness of feeling which that veil could not entirely disguise — an occasional agitation of manner on her part, from which I derived the flatteririg conclusion that it was sometimes given to me to touch " the electric chain with which she's darkly bound." But I waited until one relation with her should be at an end before attempting to establish anoth- er; and just as I was on the point of declaring myself, her mother, suspecting my intention, interfered to prevent its fulfilment — saying, as nearly as I can remember, that such an union would fall far below her wishes and hopes for her daughter. I do indeed feel that I am not worthy of such a treasure as Caroline Rutherford. But I sup- pose it would be doing Mrs. Rutherford no injus- tice to believe that my most striking deficiency in her eyes, would be made up at once, were I to come into possession of a fortune. I am very wretched — and it is possible that I am not alone in my wretchedness. It does not eeem fitting that the destiny of two human beings capable of acting and choosing for themselves, . THE WOULD-BE-GENTEEL LADY. 59 t should be controlled by idiosyncrasies of a third person. It does not seem fitting that if we are capable of loving and making each other happy, we should be separated by such a paltry wall of partition. I have a strong impression, too, thai Mr. Rutherford would favor my suit. And yet, what can I do ? How am I to break the fetters that Mrs. R. has thrown around me ? Give me your counsel, I pray you, and add one more to the many obligations which you have already heaped upon Your very grateful and affectionate friend, Charles Cleaveland, Mrs. Garrison was not long in deciding what to do. Her great kindness to Caroline, and the services whioh she had rendered her, entitled her to act in whatever concerned her welfare. Having provided herself with a store of arguments to overcome all objections, and set the matter in its true light, she determined to appeal directly to Mrs. Rutherford herself To her surprise and joy, she found her most thankful to avail herself of the opportunity to retract her injunction. Her home once so pleasant, had become so cheerless, 60 THE WOULD-BE-GENTEEL LADY. and her husband so estranged — to say nothing of Caroline — that in the exigencies of the present, she forgot all her visions for the future. Of course Mrs. Garrison lost no time in com- municating the result to her friend ; and Mrs. Rutherford was no less eager to inform her hus- band of what had happened. " Well, now," said he, " Caroline shall know of this at once. She must have it explained to her sooner or later — why Cleaveland went off in so strange a manner ; better hear it from me than from her lover ; it will be awkward for him to tell it ; and, besides, she has suffered enough al- ready ; and now, when better things are in store for her, the sooner she enters into the enjoyment of them the better. * * * * Before Caroline slept that night, there was, for her, balm, and a physician — and her sorrows were all healed. The next week the lovers met without explana- tion, — save the tears of Caroline, and the trem- bling lips and hand of Charles. They met, as if they had parted acknowledged lovers, and been, since that time, cut off from each other by some sore calamity. From their dark hour broke forth a rosy dawn which in time was kindled to THE WOULD-BI uENTEEL LADY. 61 perfect day. The bloom soon gathered again on Caroline's cheek, and her eye was once more soul-lit. Charles was not long in obtaining a respectable settlement Caroline was henceforth permitted to manage her own affairs ; to make her outfit such as became a country clergyman's wife, with every provision for comfort and none for display ; and to have a perfectly unostentatious wedding, without a supper — without even champagne. She lived to realize her father's beau-ideal of a woman's happiness — to be the " all-in-all of plea.sure" to a man in every way worthy of her. 6 f»9 AT HOME. BY MRS. ANNA BACHE. " Her storied lore she next applies, Taxing her mind to aid her eyes." BRIDAL OF TRIERMADT. Thou lookest wearily, my love, but now the toil some day Is over, and the quiet eve its labors shall repay. Come, I will pull the sofa round, and pile the cushions higher. And Gheber-like, thou shalt adore this comfort- beaming fire. How shall I pet thee, weary one ? — I love to tend on thee ; Shall I sit here, and let thee rest thy head upon my knee ? 1 will not light the tapers yet — I like this pleasant gloom, With the red blaze at intervals illumining the room, AT HOME. 63 Reflected in thy sparkling eye, and gleaming on thy bi*o\v : My prized, my own, my only one, how lovely look'st thou now ^ What happiness to gaze on thee ! after the bitter years Ot absence and uncertainty, of solitude and t€ars. Rememberest thou those dear, dear nights, so very long ago. When love was younger, (not more true,) those nights of frost and snow, When thou didst make, through storm and shower, thy pilgrimage to me ? Rememberest thou the forest walks, and the large willow tree. And the white wild-flowers ? I should like that dear old place to see. What say'st thou, love ? — a story, such as I told thee then. What shall it be ? — thou dost not want the old ones o'er again. I've told thee all the tales know, of witch and fairy lore, Though, since we parted, 1 have read at least a thousand more. 64 AT HOME. Yet thoughts of thee, my absent one, so occupied my brain, Few traces of their incidents in memory remain. Shall I tell of Lady Eva and the brave Sir Agil- thorn. The Brother Knights of Lombardy, the Fate of Adelmorn, The Legend of Sir Lancelot, the Fairy of the Well, Sir Ethelberg of Brittany, the Quest of Jorindell ? Oh ! glorious days of chivalry, what can with them compare ? — When all the cavaliers were brave, and all the ladies fair; When hero-hands won tender hearts, and deeds of bold emprize Were paid with lays from minstrels' lutes and looks from ladies' eyes. Aye ! love was worth the having then, and worth the giving too, When knightly honor deem.'d it shame to proffer vows untrue. And nought but nature's nobleness could beauty's pride subdue. Alas ! the " march of intellect" has crush'd these fairy bowers, AT HOME. 65 Our heroes dress in good broadcloth, and court- ship's years are hours. Yet still from Love's celestial fount some honeyed waters fall, Else were the cup of earthly life but an unmin- gled gall. And if thou 'It listen to a tale of modern love and wo, 1 '11 tell thee a. true story, dear, that chanc'd not long ago. The ship had quitted the glittering bay, And graceful sped on her ocean way. Stern eyes grew sad, as their native land Sunk from the view of the convict band. O'er tree and tower, and fortress wall, O'er slender spire and steeple tall. Distance drew her veil of haze ; One, one lingering tear-fraught gaze. Earnest dwelt on the fading shore, That fled from those eyes for evermore. There was one cry, as if long-pent grief Mastered resolve, and sought relief. One indrawn gasp of the struggling breath- And the lip that drew it seemed still'd in death. E 6* 66 AT HOME. They rais'd from the deck that senseless fonn, And even those crinne-chill'd hearts grew warro With pity. They put back her raven hair, Bar'd her white neck to the cool sea air, And dash'd the spra}'- on her forehead fair ; Till slowly unclos'd her languid eyes, And Death relinqui^h'd his half-won prize. ******* " So young, so lovely, are thine a face And form for the brand of black disgrace ? So innocent seeming — can it be true Thou art justly one of yon loathsome crew, Whose savage ire, and more savage glee, Mingle guilt, doom, and misery ?" " Oh ! asK me, ask me not to speak Of why I bear this felon thrall ; My senses reel, my heart grows weak, The stain of shame is on my cheek, — Yet would I not the past recall. I thank thee for thy pitying care, But must my lot unaided bear. Enough, I unreluctant go To banishment, disgrace, and wo." " Thy words are wild — I would not press AT HOME. 67 Intrusive on thy heart's distress ; Nor do I seek thy griefs to know, But in the hope to balm thy wo, And point thee to that Mercy-seat, Where penitence and pardon meet. Heaven comfort thee, poor girl !" " And may That Heaven thy words with blessings pay 1 Stranger, all guilty as I seem, Do not too harshly of me deem. 'T is long since pitying word or look To me were given — scorn I could brook ; But sympathy's sweet accents rest Like sunbeams on my frozen breast." Her bosom swell 'd with choking sighs, Her small hands hid her streaming eyes. Those lily hands, of fairy mould, No tale of menial usage told ; That slender youthful shape, though clad In homely weeds, rare graces had ; And when stern effort had suppress'd The grief that shook her throbbing breast, Apart the veiling curls she flung. That o'er her face dishevelled hung. Though tear-strain'dj pale, and worn with care, 63 AT HOME. Surpassing loveliness was there ; And when she met the earnest eye Of kind, yet dubious scrutiny, O^er her chill paleness, rushing came From breast to brow the crimson shame. — " My father bears a noble name, My birth-place was a lordly hall ; In that proud hall an orphan dwelt, 'T is no new tale — when young hearts melt And mingle, weak is Reason's thrall, Fear's whisper, Duty's thunder-call, Alike unheard, unheeded all. Oh ! lov'd, though unrelenting sire, Thou dost forget, in thy stern ire Against the daughter once so dear. Thyself didst bring temptation near. I was a bride, a happy bride. My gentle Malcolm's joy and pride. Though poverty was in our cot. Love dwelt there, and we fear'd her not. But sickness came — our daily toil Alone had fed life's lamp with oil. O'er my poor Malcolm's feverish bed ^ watch'd all night, then sleepless sped i AT HOME. 69 To labor for our wants. Oh ! why- Did Heaven forbid us both to die ? The sleepless night, the scant repast, The toilsome day — this could not last ; Unknown, unoar'd for, by his side Sickening I lay, and Malcolm tried, While yet pale cheek and tottering limb Told how disease had prey'd on him, His hireling task to ply. Alas ! the eager will in vain Struggled with lassitude and pain ; Desperate, he sought his home again To see hi.« Marian die. From fearful dreams 1 frenzied woke ; As famish'd nature crav'd, I spoke. Unconscious of his soothings meek. Of the hot tears that bath'd my cheek, I pray'd for food. He could not bear The wo of that delirious prayer ; He went, return'd — with gold he came— But branded with a robber's name. They tore him from my wild embrace, They dragg'd him to a prison cell ; 1 sought him in that fearful place, 70 AT HOME. I gaz'd once more upon his face, Exchang'd one sad farewell — And then, a crime-stain'd exile, he Was sent to dwell beyond the sea. Then, then, I was indeed alone — Sense, duty, reason, all were gone, Life was one racking sense of pain, One only thought dwelt in my brain, To see my victim-love again. To soothe his grief, support his care. His shame, his punishment, to share. But how, from whom assistance claim ? Banish'd, disown'd — my very name Forbidden to my father's ear, Would he my plaint or purpose hear ? Friendless and poor — one desperate thought Amid my wilder'd musings wrought. If mine the crime, the sentence too, Whisper'd the demon. Oh! how few Of those who bask in fortune's glare, Can fancy poverty's despair ! On splendor's gilded couch reclin'd, With luxury-sated frame and mind, They talk of lalor and content, And o'er the snares of wealth lament. i AT HOME. 71 Oh ! could they for brief time endure The legion temptings of the poor, Their fiery trial once gone o'er, They'd mourn the snares of wealth no more. • — I spurn'd the sinful thought away, I wept, I knelt, I strove to pray ; But Heaven is deaf to rebel prayer, And mine sent no submission there. Day after day crept torturing by, And brought no hope, no comfort nigh. Should I the penance seek to shun, . For whom the guilty deed was done ? — The urging fiend was at mine ear, Maddening with sorrow, love, and fear, 'Twas done, detected — T am here." * « i|c 4: * ♦ Her haven the stately ship has won-, The convict crew to their toils have gone. There's a grove of palms in that southern isle, Through their coronaled tops the moonbeams smile On a fairy hut, where vine-boughs throw Their cluster'd wealth o'er the lattice low, And dim the silvery rays that pour Their brightness aslant the humble floor. 72 AT HOME. Hark ! — the accents of weeping prayer Upon the vesper stillness glide ; The voices are yonder hut within, They plead for pardon, and naourn for sin- There Marian kneels at Malcolm's side. Now for the moral of my tale. — Although of heavenly birth, Love sometimes deigns to fold his wings, and find a home on earth. He strengthens woman's hand to deeds that make the warrior quail, He raises woman's mind to thoughts that turn stout manhood pale ; The feeble frame, the fearful heart, for him grow strong, to brave The tempest or the battle-field, the desert or the grave ; He led poor Malcolm's faithful bride across the stormy sea : So loves fond woman's martyr-heart — so, dearest, love I thee, The above poem is founded on an anecdote which appear- ed some yeare ago in an English gazette. 7:i TO THE WHIP-POOR-WILL. I. Bird of the lone and joyless night, Whence is thy sad and solemn lay ? Attendant on the pale moon's light, Why shun the garish blaze of day ? II. When darkness fills the dewy air, Nor sounds the song of happier bird, Alone amid the silence there Thy wild and plaintive note is heard. ill. Thyself unseen, thy pensive moan Poured in no loving comrade's ear ; The forest's shaded depths alone That mournful melody can hear. 7 74 TO THE Willi -POOR-WILL. IV. Beside what sti'.i and secret spring, In what dark wood, the livelong day, Sitt'sl thou with dusk and folded wing, To while the hours of light away. V. Sad minstrel ! thou hast learned like me, That life's deceitful gleam is vain ; And well the lesson profits thee. Who will not trust its charms again ! VI. Thou, unbeguiled, thy plaint dost trill, To listening night when mirth is o'er : I, heedless of the warning still, Believe, to be deceived once more ! E. F. K. ) J J ' > J > > J > J » 7 J ^ > » > : ( I ( : n c c c c f r c c 75 THE CHILD^S BEST FRIEND. Nay, start not so, nor turn thy head away, Fair infant, from thy comrade's boisterous play; Thy fond and faithful friend ! thy guard by night . Thy toy by day ! thy playmate and delight ! Oh ! may'st thou never — through the changeful years Which pass thou must in this dark vale of tears — Oh ! may'st thou never find a friend less true, Whose love nor time nor distance may subdue— Nor cruelty estrange, nor falsehood shake ! Who, treat him as thou may'st, for thy dear sake Fearless will leap where swiftest currents flow- Fearless will strive against the fiercest foe ! Will bear all worst extremes of earthly ill, Famine, and weariness, and wintry chill ! Who, though thine all, on this side heaven, were lost — Thy friends proved false, thy fortunes ocean-tost — Thy nearest kinsmen coldly turned aside — Would love thy want, even as he loved thy pride — Would lick thy hand, though it had nought to give. Nor leave thy poverty with kin'gs to live ! Q. 76 NAPOLEON, AND THE IRON CROWN. BY GRENVILLE MELLEN. He sat with haughty men about his throne, Himself the greatest king. The monarchy That he held o'er the nations was his own. It spoke in that broad brow and cloudless eye- It was the monarchy of soul, that beamed From every chiseled feature — till command, With a strange power upon the spirit, seemed To speak as with a voice from loftier land ; And each who heard it, tho' he wore a crown, To that great mien and tone of royalty bent down ! It was a golden crown — its iron band The brows had girdled of a race of kings ; He bore it to his own with his white hand, As some ringed bauble of those weary things Great hearts despise — e'en when they spell the world With their poor lustre. As he lifted it, His pallid lip with pride imperial curled, NAPOLEON, AND THE IKON CROWN. 77 And his large shadowy eye with fierceness lit— '' God gave it me. Beware who touches^^ fell On the helmed ears around him, like a signal bell ! It had been lifted to the warrior head Of the whole line of Lombardy ; and now It towered above the marbles of the dead Upon the unchanging paleness of a brow That frowned on worlds in mastery. It shone With sapphire and with emerald without, In bravery of its radiance alone : Within that iron band went dark about, Untouched by grayling Time ; tho'' centuries Had fled ere yet that crown gleamed o'er Napo- leon's eyes. And how tradition gathered as you gazed ! What relic of such holiness has man Beheld, with spirit silenced and amazed, Since awful story of the past began ! It was the " Iron Crown" that from the nail Of the red Cross on Calvary, for kings Was fashioned thus ! And as we read the tale E'en now, some memory like an echo rings Thro' the astonished heart, until we feel A reverence with the mystery about us steal ' 7* 78 NAPOLEON, AND THE IKUN CROWN. Crown of the Crucifixion ! O that He, On whose aspiring brow it sat, had felt And fought the spirits of his Destiny ! Then had a palsied world beheld him melt In tears for mortals, where he strode in blood, And shrieked for conquest. Then his loftier path Had been above the dashing of that flood That broke about the highway of his wrath, And Glory, like an angel, beckoned on To summits nobler than the proudest that he won ' O, had he felt that that which then did bind His beating temples with its iron band, Might once, indeed, of that Immortal Mind, That gladdened Earth, have pierced the symbol hand ; Had vision wafted him to those dim years. When Christ was bowingr to the Agonv, And pouring upon Man his farewell tears, Ere His triumphal parting for the sky — What then had been the story of thine eye. Than tongues more eloquent, O " Child of Destiny !" Then, when the trumpet brattled with his name, In the mad morning of his opening days. NAPOLEON, AND THE IRON CROWN. • 79 And his best music was the voice of Fame, Merging each accent of a lowlier praise — How changed along the ice-path of that land, The mountain-barrier of an empire, then, Had that stern spirit strode — the loud command Sunk to that suasion that makes captive men, By its great moral harmony, and pours New light from that far fount it draws from, and adores ! Then — ere the earthquake summons of red War Had lured him to that passion-field, where Man, * Wild as the wild things, oft, he battles for, Ended in blackness wnat in blood began — Forth, with his pilgrim-stafF, and booK, and prayer, From citadel to wilderness, his way Had lain through paths of Solitude and Care. The forest midnight and the glare of day — Proclaiming to the world, with prophet tongue, The Heaven-commissioned histories that round him runs: ! o Then had he crushed the Conq'ror to the dust- And trod the dabbled sword beneath his feet- Cast the crown downward as a thing accurst, And fled as pestilence the monarch's seat ! 80 • NAPOLEON, AND THE IRON CROWN. Then had the gilded holm and warrior steed Been banished, as the necromance of dreams The sceptre spurned as some unweVcome reed, Nor clutched as the gemmed wonder that it seems ! Then had the world seen rest — and with its years Virtue and Light had come, whose coming asked no tears ! Then had that mighty creature, that no prayer Could stay upon his mountain-march to win All that he dreamt of — for no mercy there Would breathe her whisper mid the tramp and din Of shaking armies — with a reverence, then, Had he looked up to God, and asked of Heaven What in his broad companionship with Men, Of loftier Duty with his Power was given — What, with a mind so pregnant of the skies, A.11 Earth might look for from its hallow'd energies ! 61 THE BARLOW KNIFE. BY ROBERT JONATHAN. There was one event of my boyish days which is the cause of such amusing reminiscence in my later years, that I cannot refrain, dear reader, from making you acquainted with it. It happened upon a time, after I had worn out my first frock coat, and got tired of trundling hoops and wagons, and drawing sleds, that I felt, as many boys do, an inordinate desire to experience the comforts of whiiiJmg ; but I had no knife — always excepting an old case-knife which mother used to lend me. But then, this was not the thing ; for, besides being inconvenient, I could not shut it up, and put it in my pocket, and walk about with the proud consciousness that it was my own — not borrowed from any one, but mine — sacred to ?ny individual use and Ijehoof. However, believing that my youthful happiness depended upon the gratifica- tion of this desire, I treated with mother to nego- tiate with father upon the subject of procuring me F 82 THE B^KLOW KNIFE. a knife. This was on a Saturday afternoon in the month of July. Mother told mc that, if I would be a good boy, and keep that night and the next day (Sunday) as I ought, and go to school every day, and study hard, and mind the ichool. mistress, and divers other conditions — to all of which I eagerly consented without considering the possibility of fulfilling them — on these condi- tions, I say, she, on her part, promised to ask father to give me a knife. Accordingly, in pur- suance of our stipulations, I kept Saturday night very well — went to bed early — went to sleep, and straiffhtwav to dreamino- of the glorious frui tion of all my hopes. I dreamed that I had a new knife — that I ^'- sharpened it up ^^ until it would cut a hair — that I had a soft piece of seasoned white pine — that, in fact, I was ivhittlingf And how inexpressible was the delight which I expe- rienceu ! Surely moral philosophers should give mankind — at least the hoy part of it — credit for a new and additional sense, which they should term Whittleaiion, and upon which they should base a new science and denominate it Whittleology . For what natural sensation is there which can be compared with that which is experienced while drawing the keen-edged blade through the deli- THE BARLOW KWlFE. 83 cate fibres of some soft, well-seasoned wood ? So far as my boyish experience extends, there is no enjoyment so deep, so soothing, and so satis- factory as that derived from wUttUng ; whether i,t be upon a shingle or a school-bench — upon the •?4quire's picket-fence or the village sign-post. But to my dream. All things went on charmingly until an unfortunate turn of my shingle brought my knife-blade in contact with one of my fingers, and the pain of the wound thus inflicted, dispelled the delightful vision which had enthralled me. And so impatient was I to have Monday morning come round, that I could sleep no more that night, and, although it was but an hour before daybreak, still it appeared to me that weeks were crowded into that short period, while I was waiting and watching for the blessed dawn of the Sabbath. Finally, daylight appeared ; and with its earliest dawn I arose and began to whistle " Heigh Betty Martin," in great glee ; but on recollection of my treaty with mother, I ceased whistling and walked down into the sitting-room with all the assumed gravity of a Friar Tuck, and with a face long as a grape-vine, and sombre as a dying cypress. I attended church all day, and did lot take my eyes off the minister, except during prayers ; but sat 84 THE BARLOW KNIFK. up in the pew straight as a new pin, the big drops, (not tear drops, however,) following each other down my cheeks and neck at stated intervals, much as though a frozen squash was thawing on my head. After returning from church I took up my catechism, and when I thought mother's eyes were on me, my own were on the book ; but when she was out of the room I amused my little brother Dick, by telling him in a whisper sufficiently loud to be heard over all the room, that " In Adam's fall We made stone-wall. But ever sense We've made brush-fence." And " By Washington Great deeds were done When he did run With his big gun 'Gainst the Hes^Awn," etc. etc. But as mother did not hear me, my youthful con- science was perfectly at ease — considering, of course, that there was no wrong done when there was no knowledge, on her part, of any trans- gression. THE BARDW KNIFE. 85 At length, after many weary hours, sun-down was proclaimed through the house by my little sister Mary, who had been watching its approach, for an hour or more, from one of the garret win- dows. I then made noise enough to remunerate me for keeping half a score of Sabbaths. I mounted my Eclipse broomstick with a deter- mination to run him on the course for the last time, previous to giving up the pleasures of the chase for the quiet comforts of whittling. And, indeed, it was the last time ; for, in the last quarter of the third heat, in the exuberance of my spirits I reared up, and, my foot slipping, I came with such force on to my wayworn charger that I broke him down, and into two pieces be- sides ; and, in addition, I got a severe thump on my cranium, which sent me weeping to bed, where I slept quietly until Monday morning. On that morning I was, of course, in very good spirits, and did not fail to give mother a gentle hint touch- ing her part of the contract, by taking particular pains to have her accidentally discover that the handle to the clothes-pounder had come out, and by carelessly observing, in a very emphatic man- ner, that if I had a penknife, I would maiie a wedge and fasten in the pounder handle, etc. 8 86 THE BARLOW KNIFE. However, that Jay and the following night were doomed to be hours of anxious suspense to me — hope and fear holding alternate sway in my ex- cited breast. But words have not power to ex- press the fulness of my joy when, after breakfast on Tuesday morning, father called me to him, and, taking a new knife from his pocket, placed me on his knee, after which he gave me several sections of good advice and kind admonitions, to which I listened with all the attention bestowed by a barn upon a whirlwind, so deeply was I engaged in scrutinizing the new object of my desire. When father had finished his lecture, it was school-time ; so, after greasing the spring of my new knife, grasping it firmly in my right hand, and thrusting said hand into my pantaloons pocket, I started for school, anticipating a " glorious tri- umph " in exhibiting my newly-acquired property to my less fortunate playmates. But, just as I stepped on to the school-house green, the school- mistress rattled the window and called the children in ; and thus my thrilling hopes were prematurely blighted. Still firmly holding my knife in my pocket as I entered the school-house, I took my seat on the " hig bench " where I usually sat, ana THB BARLOW KNIFE. 8f after the school operations had fairly commenced, I turned round to the desk with my back to the mistress and my book before me. I then took out my new knife for the purpose of examining it more particularly than I had hitherto done. It was of that kind commonly called Barlow knives, one half of the handle being of polished iron and the other half of bone ; the blade about four inches long, half an inch wide near the handle, and tapering to a point. Bill Williams, who sat next to me, soon got a glimpse at it, and we soon got whispering about it ; and the consequence was, we both got shut up in the dungeon, and were kept there until noon. Great was my joy during the noon-spell in exhibiting my new treasure ; and many were the congratulations which I received upon the pleasure of possessing it. In the after- noon, not profiting at all by my morning's expe- rience, I took it out in school-time and tried its shaving powers by cutting the bench ; which the school-mistress happening to discover, she took it away from me, gave me a feruling, kept me half an hour after school was out ; then, after giving me a long lecture, and at the end of it my knife, she sent me home. There I had a fine opportunity to indulge my whittling propensities 88 THE BARLOW KNIFE. during the whole evening ; but finding my knife rather dull, I stole into tiie dining-room and stole out of a drawer in the sideboard my father's razor- hone, which I took out under the wood-house and there gave my knife a grand rubbing. Unfortu- nately for me, however, the more I sharpened it the duller it grew, and the more it spoiled my father's hone ; for, on bringing this latter to the light, T found it was a good deal worn and very much scratched. Here was a new difficulty ; a good scolding, and perhaps a " dressing,''^ .for spoiling a nice razor-hone. However, I put it slyly back into the drawer and determined to say nothing about it, knowing that father would discover it the next time he shaved himself; at which time I should endeavor — accidentally, of course — to be absent. I next tried to sharpen my knife upon a scythe- stone ; but, as Dan O'Rourke would say, " the more I tried to give it an edge, the more it would *not take one,'" until, finally, from desperate necessity, I came to the grievous conclusion that my knife was good for nothing. Consequent upon this conclusion, was a determination to get rid of it as soon as possible. But, alas ! here was only the beginning of my sorrows, as the sequel will show. THE BARLOW KNIFK. 89 My first attempt was to sicop it away ; but as none of the boys had such a knife as I wanted, this could not be done. I next called my younger brother Dick to me, and asked him if he did not want a present ? He, of course, answered in the affirmative. Thereupon, after showing him my knife, how well it was sharpened up, etc., and making him promise to carry my books to and from the school-house during the remainder of the summer, I made him a present of the knife. He was exceedingly delighted with this acquisi- tion to his personal property, and immediately ran into the yard to find something to whittle. I looked through the window to watch his success. He first picked up a decayed mullen stalk, and attempted to cut off the end ; but, instead of cut- ting it off, the pressure of his knife broke it off close by his hand. He next picked up the end of an ox-goad, and tugged away at it, turning his head sidewise, and twisting his tongue and mouth into all manner of shapes, but not a shaving could he raise f He then found a piece of pine shingle, which he succeeded in splitting lengthwise, but could neither sharpen nor round it. Just then, two of his playmates coming along with a ball, Dick out his knife into his pocket, and went to join them 8* 90 THE BARLOW KSTFE. in a game of ^' one-old-cat. ^' I thought to myself, as I was almost bursting with laughter, " I was very fortunate in getting rid of that knife at any rate." On the following morning, father went tn get his shaving apparatus, and, of course, discov- ered his ruined hone. However, as soon as I saw him start for the sideboard drawer, I started for the wood-house chamber, where I lay con- cealed until school-time. I went to school with the determination not to go home at noon, and supposed that by night the hone business would all be got along with. But my hopes were again doomed to disappointment ; for when father came home in the evening, he asked me if I had " been using his hone ?" Now, as I had been taught that, let consequences be what they might, I must never tell a lie ; true to such instructions, I promptly answered — "Yes, sir." "For what purpose ?" he inquired. " To sharpen my knife," I answered. " Well," said he, " as you are so fond of sharpening knives, go get the case-knife your mother lends you, and sharpen that." Ac- cordingly, I got the case-knife, and he got the hone, and I went to hojieing, and he went to read- ing the newspapers. Now, the case-knife was a good deal like my Barlow knife ; the more you TILE BARLOW KNIFE. 91 sharpened it, the duller it grew. After rubbing it about half an hour, being someAvhat tired, I took it to father, and told him " it would not come sharp." " Oh, well," said he, " you have not honed it long enough ; it is a knife, and, of course, can be sharpened. Try it again." So at it I went once more ; and, after rubbing it until my mouth was dry as a cotton-bag, and my arm almost exhausted, f took it again to father, and, with tears in my eyes, told him " it would not he sharpened.'' " Well, my son," said he, "when I questioned you about the hone, you promptly told me the truth ; for this I commend you, and I have made you hone the case-knife as a punishment for spoiling my hone. Now the next time you want a razor-hone to sharpen a Barlow knife upon, you must ask for it." I made divers promises on the subject, and fully resolved, in my own mind, that I never would use his hone again without permission. On the following Sunday morning I put on my best suit to attend church ; and, after I had got down into the parlor, I unconsciously thrust my hand into my coat pocket, and great was my sur- prise when I drew from it my Barlow knife. '* Dick," said I, " did you put your knife into my 92 THE BAKLOW KNIFE. pocket ?" " That's not my knife,'*' said Dick. " Don't you want it ?" I asked. " No !" he answered. " Why not ?" I inquired. "Because it will not cut miy,''^ rejoined Dick ; " and I shall not carry vour books this summer for such a knife as that," and thereupon he hopped out of the room. The next day, while up in the orchard, back of the school-house, I contrived to have it slip out of my pocket, and satisfied my conscience by telling myself that I had lost it. More than a week had I passed in the enjoyment of this quiet, pleasing consciousness of having lost my knife, when, one morning as I was going to school, Bill Williams ran up to me, saying, " Bob, here's youi knife : I found it under the big sweet apple-tree." "Botheration take the knife," I thought, as I put it into my pocket. After school was out at night, I went up the road some distance from the school- house, to a sand-pit. from which the neighbors occasionally got a load of scruhhing-sand. Here I dug a hole as deep as I could, threw in my knife, ouried it up, and went away, rejoicing in the be- lief that I should never see it again. About two weeks after this, Peleg Bunce, my father's hired man, was sent, by mother, to get a load of scrubbing-sand ; and when I came home THE BARLOW KNIFE. 93 from school Peleg said to me, " Robert, here's your knife," at the same time reaching it to me. " My knife !" I exclaimed, in a manner and with feelings compounded of sanity and insanity. '' Divil burn the knife," I whispered to myself, not wishing to speak a bad word distinctly. Peleg found it in the sand-pit ; and he knew it was mine, for he once borrowed it of me to make a bow-pin for old B?'in-^hui returned it, of course, without accomplishing his object. Once more I put it in my pocket, and began to reflect how I should ever get entirely rid of it. At last, a plan occurred to me, which I conceived to be faultless. There was a pond near my father's house, at the outlet of which stood a large blast furnace. I determined to drown my knife. Accordingly, lest its own weight should not be sufficient to keep it at the bottom, and to make " assurance doubly sure," I got from the barn a piece of halter with which I tied a pretty good sized stone to my knife, and threw it into the furnace-pond. And great was my joy to see it turn and turn around until it sank out of my sight. Soon as it had fairly disappeared, I fetched a heavy sigh of min* gled joy and suspense — then turned home with a light and happy heart. Sweet was my rest thai 94 THE BARLOW KNIFE. night, and pleasant were my dreams. Week after week passed away, and my old knife like- wise passed into oblivion. One bright and beautiful morning in October, Id Russell Case and his two sons came down om the mountain on which they lived, to fish in he pond ; and as they were notorious fishermen, hey generally had quite a company of boys to watch their operations. As it was not yet school- lime, Bill Williams and myself went to see them draw their seine. They took a good sweep into the pond with their boat, then came on shore and commenced hauling in. We were all anxiously watching for the fish, and nearly the whole of them had been emptied on the beach, when Bill Williams exclaimed, " Why, Bob, ihere^s your knife .'" And sure enough, on hauling in the last joint of the seine, what should be hanging to it but my knife with the string and stone attached to it ! Perfe-ctly astounded at this discovery, I could almost have prayed that the waters might rise and overwhelm seine, fishermen and all ! How ever, the thing was easily explained ; for the piece of halter which I used happened to have been made of hemp, and the knife not being ai heavy as the string, while the stone lay on the THE BARLOW KNIPE. 95 bottom, that was elevated some inches from it, and so the fishermen caught it. Once more, with a heavy heart, I put that old knife in my pocket. A deep feeling of disap- pointment and melancholy took possession of my mind, and long and seriously did I ponder upon the best means of riddinir myself of this tantaliz- ing treasure. In vain had I endeavored to give it away — in vain, to lose it — in vain, to drown it. Light, at last, seemed to dawn through the gloom that had gathered upon me, and my resolution was soon taken. I repaired one evening to the furnace — went into the top-house, and there waited until they began to put in their hourly supply of coal and ore. I then thrust my knife into the box of ore which I thought the JiUer would put in first. I did not wish to throw it directly into the top myself, for this would seem like doino; an evil deed, and such a one I did not wish to do. Strongly and quickly did my heart beat as I watched the baskets of coal disappear ; and, finally, my whole frame shook with agita- tion when I saw the filler take the box of ore which contained my knife, and toss its contents into the furnace ! A long-drawn sigh gave vent to the conflicting emotions which had agitated 90 THE BARLOW KNIFE. my mind, and I turned homeward with a feeling of deep, almost overwhelming satisfaction and delight, that my eyes had certainly beheld, for the last time, my old barlow knife ! 97 GERTRUDE. BY MISS A. D. WOODBRIDGE, STOCKBRID6E, MASS. List to the passers by ! They'ie hastening on, the young, the beautiful, To scenes of pleasure. To the thronged soir^e^ The brilliant party, or the festive dance, The crowded theatre, or op'ra sweet. In each will wand'ring glances oft be turned In search of her, the gifted, lovely, young. And far-famed Gertrude. — She's at home to-night. Look ! who'd not be " a glove upon that hand,''* On which her brow reposes ? Th' other rests Upon the page she's reading. Ah ! that sheet Was filled, no doubt, by one she fondly loves ; For, see ! it meets her lip. — She rises now ! Grace ! thou'rt a name for her ! She moves not like A being of the earth. We almost feel 'Tis sacrilege to gaze upon that face • " Oh ! that I were a glove upon that hand !" ROMEO AND jm.IlT. G 9 98 GERTEUDE. Where thought, emotion, beauty, love, all strive For the expression. Hark ! she touches now The strings of her guitar, and wakes that voice, Whose tones thrill o'er the spirit : — " He's away ! he's away ! he's away ! Yet I know he is constant and true, Still my path is illumed by love's ray, Which though absent, brings him to my view. Yet 'tis darkness, compared with the beam Which his presence flings over me still ; When with Ernest, why should I not deem That the world contains nothing of ill ? " He's away ! he's away ! he's away ! Yet his voice will soon fall on mine ear. Its tones will tempt bliss here to stay, And e'en happiness linger to hear. When with Ernest, why should I not lose All thoughts of the world and its hum ? And his smile above fame ever choose ? He will come ! he will come ! he will come !'* Her song is done ! Footsteps approach. — She starts ! the door is oped. It must be — 'tis her lover ! — But enoufrh. 99 SODUS BAY. Calm in thy pure and summer beauty yet, As when of old my childhood's glances met This bright expanse, fair bay ! I see thee still — The laughing ripple's curl, the wood-crowned hill, The deep green shore rising in graceful sweep, The wide smooth waters in their sun-bright sleep, Scorning 'the change wrought by each passing year. In loveliness unfading, still are here. Lovely thou art, sweet bay! — when first the beam Of morning glances on the silvery stream Which seeks thy bosom — when the south winds break Thy water's glassy slumber, and awake A thousand sparkling eddies — when the sky At noon gleams blue and distant from on high — When winds are hushed in peace, the flagging sail Wooing in vain from Heaven the wished-for gal 100 SODUS BAY. Or at bright eve, when the rich sunset's pride Has gemmed with shining gold their glancing tide — No fairer spof, I ween, the radiant sun In his broad path of light has looked upon ; And the pale moon in all her midnight round No place of holier loveliness has found. Nature is here in wildness. Yonder isles, Upon whose wooded verge the sunlight smiles To meet the glittering wave, know scarce a tread. Save of the lonely huntsman. Yet 'tis said, One hero on their shore has found a grave. He died in fight the death that fits the brave. And sleeps unheeded there : — the mound which swells So greenly near, his place of burial tells. Peaceful thou art — the tempests wild thai sweep The lake, are powerless to disturb thy sleep. Thou hear'st the voices of thy parent main, Speaking in thunders ; — but their warning strain Wakes no stern echo here — in safety still The fisherman may guide his bark at will, And smile to hear the billows' angry roar, Chafing in rage upon the neighboring shore. SODUS BAY. 101 Farewell ! I found, and leave thee, calm and bright, And changeless still ! — and thus, when starless night Has closed on eyes which loved to look on thee, Wilt thou smile on — then, too, as quietly Yon towering banks will look into thy face On their unbroken shade. Thou in the embrace Of this wide shore as sweetly shalt repose — As brightly gleam at evening's fervid close. Thou hast no part in fleeting years that tell Of human ills ! My native shore — farewell ! £. F. S. 908 MARY WALLACE. A JUTENILE STORT. *' Now for a story !" said Henry Jackson, as he put the last piece to a dissected map, which lay on the table before him ; " Grandmother, do you remember you promised to give us one of your best to-night, if I could put this new map together ; and see, here it is, every bit in its place — all right !" " Not quite so fast," said George Gray, an in- telligent youth of fourteen, who, with his sister Ann, was spending Christmas-week with his cousins in town ; " not quite so fast, Henry ; see, here is a part of the Hudson spliced on to the Connecticut ; and New York and New Haven have fairly changed places !" " What of that !" returned Henry, biting his lips with vexation, as he saw his mistake ; " I don't care for that !" " Never say you donH care,'' said the grand- mother, laying her book and spectacles, at once, MARY WALLACE. 103 aside, " never allow yourself to say, I don't care ; for, besides being generally a falsehood, it always shows a bad disposition ; and no good ever came of it." " But Georcre needn't feel so smart because he's a little quicker and more forward than I am," replied the boy. " I guess, if I lived out of town, I could learn to put dissected maps together, too ; why he's nothing to do, from morning till night, but to study out puzzles !" " I think," said Ann, with true womanly spirit taking the aggrieved side, " I think our George ought to know something about it, for he was a whole evening, only last week, putting together the dissected picture uncle William gave me ; and I am sure it plagued him just twice as much as this map has y ju, cousin Henry ; but I do not think he meant to be unkind to you, either ; and [ don't know why he should, you are always so kind to us : and I'm sure you're full as forward, and quick to learn any thing as he is ; and you know you are about my age, almost two years younger than George." " \ ou are a good girl, cousin Ann — and 1 love you," said Henry, wiping the tears from his brightening eyes ; " you always have such a waj' 104 MARY WALLACE. to put one in good humor, and reconcile every thing. Now, George, give me your hand ; I will acknowledge I was wrong in getting vexed with you, and speaking as I did, especially now you are visiting me ; and I ought to do every thing to make your time pass pleasantly. I was wrong, too, in saying I did not care ; for 1 did care. Grandmother, I hope you will forgive me ?" " With all my heart, my child," said the good woman, folding her arms round the affectionate boy ; " God grant you may always be as ready to acknowledge your ^ults !" " And now brother is sorry for doing wrong, and has made it ail up with cousin George, you l^'ZZtell us a story, won't you, dear grandmother ?" said Helen, a child of seven years, who was lean- ing over the arm of Mrs. Gray's chair. " And do tell one pitty long," said little Mary, a lisping infant of three years, laying her curly head in her grandmother's lap. "Now that peace is restored, my children," said Mrs. Gray, looking fondly upon each one of the little flock that gathered round her, " I will tell you a story of one from whom we are all descended." " Was her name Gray ?" asked Ann, eagerly. MARY WALLACE. 105 " Not at the period to which our story refers ; thou.^h afterwards it became so.'" " We are in haste for you to begin," said Henry, hurrying books, maps, and pictures, without any order, into a table drawer. " Don't be impatient, child — old folks never like to be hurried," said Mrs. Gray ; " and I've a good will not to tell you any story at all, just for huddling up your things in such a slovenly man- ner." " Forgive poor Henry once again," said the good-natured Ann, "and I will put them all nice;" and she took the things all out of the drawer, and placed the books neatly in the book-case, and laid the maps and pictures into a portfolio ; and when she had done she said, *' Now, grand- mother, are you not ready ?" " Not quite yet," said Mrs. Gray, with an affec- tionate smile ; " you, my dear Ann, are such a neat little girl, I'm sure you will be' willing to wait till Sally has swept the hearth and replenish- ed the fire." " Replenished is among my definitions," said little Helen; " but I didn't know that it had any thing to do with making a fire." " Making a fire !" repeated George ; " didn't t 106 MARY WALLACE. tell you only yesterday, that we cannot make fire, but only kindle it?" *' Yes, you did tell me so, to be sure ; but I didn't believe you. I guess if you had been here the other night when the Universalist Chapel was burnt, you would think somebody could make a fire — and a pretty large one, too." " Can you tell me the meaning of the word re- plenish ?" asked Mrs. Gray. "Why, replenish means — it means — to fill up, I believe ; but I don't see as that has anything to do with fire, after all." " Why if we add wood to the fire, and so fill up, or nearly fill up, the fireplace, may it not be called replenishing? You commence the critic early, child," said the grandmother ; but she was far from being angry with little Helen for her re- marks ; " for it is right and proper for children to inquire, and understand, and learn all they can." " But, grandmother," said George, " I have placed your chair in the warmest corner — the fire is replenished, if Miss Helen will allow me to say so — the hearth is swept — Sally has got her knitting, and is going to sit down with us — and we are all ready, and impatient to hear you." "I wish father and mother would be out at a MARY WALLACE. 107 • party every night," said little Helen, as the cvrcle of happy and inquisitive children took their re- spective seats, and drew around Mrs. Gray ; " for you, dear grandmother, always sit with us when they are out ; and so do brother, and cousin Ann, and George — and we have such happy times !" The good lady drew the youngest child to her arms ; and, taking the hand of Helen, who had drawn her little chair very close to her grand- mother, thus began : " It was a cold night in December, 1664. The winter wind was howling among the bare forest- rees, and whistling through the heavy and open casements of a few small houses, which stood in the midst of the wilderness, upon a spot then mostly known as the Plantations. It was Sab- bath evening. The family belonging to one of the most comfortable looking houses rose up slowly from their usual evening devotions, and drew round a large and blazing fire. The snow and hail beat furiously against the one window of the room, and for some minutes no one spoke : and then they heard a low groan as of one in the agonies of death ; and this was followed by a faint screech and a moan of distress. 108 MARY WALLACE II I The Indians ! the Indians !' cried a boy ahoul six years old, and he hid his little head in his mother's lap. " 'Nobody shall hurt my boy !' said the father, patting his head, ' nobody shall harm thee, child;' and he rose up, and putting on a broad-brimmed hat turned up. at the sides, and taking an iron- headed cane, he began to unfasten the door. "'Thou wilt not, Simon Gray,' said the wife, laying a hand on his arm, 'ihou wilt not open our dwelling to the enemy V "' Thy fears are natural, Rebecca,' said the husband, turning with momentary hesitation, ' for verily, hath the cunning enemy been as a snake in the grass to the Lord's people.' " ' Look forth from the window, first, then,' said ihe wife ; ' hast thou lived so long in the wilder- ness and not learned that the wicked one is full of snares?' But a succession of low groans, ap- parently near the house, overcame his fears ; and hastily unfastening and throwing open the narrow door, he said, ' Farewell, Rebecca — the arm of the Lord is forever with his children !' " ' Forsake me not, Simon,' said Mrs. Gray, lifting the little boy to her arms, ' I will go with ihee ;' but lie had already passed the threshold MARY WALLACE. 10£ and thrown open the gate that led from the little enclosure around their dwelling. He paused ; listened again ; and passed into the street. The cries were repeated, but not so loud or so fre- quently as they had been. He paused again and looked around, but still saw nothing but the thick falling snow, which beat so heavily as to obscure almost everything ; besi(ies, it was very dark. " Who was it, grandmother ?" whispered Helen, "who was it?" " Hush, sister !" said Henry, '• she was just go- ing to tell." " Again," resumed Mrs. Gray, " again h-e heard the same low cry; and just as his wife came up, he stumbled upon a human figure crouched at the foot of a very large snow-bank. It proved to be an Indian woman, almost perished with cold and hunger. " ' The Lord be praised ! and bless thee, Simon Gray !' said Rebecca, as she assisted her husband to lift the poor creature from the earth ; ' the Lord be magnified !' " ' Leave Namoina, take de baby !' said the poor creature in broken English, and she point- ed to a dark heap at a little distance ; but at the instant William had reached the spot, and, as 10 110 MARY WALLACE. his mother came up, he uncovered the face of a sleeping infant. The little creature was wrapped in a thick covering of blankets, and was sleeping as peacefully amid the snow as if it was lyir.g in its own mother's bosom. " Rebecca knelt beside the little one, and blessed God that she had been the instrument of saving Its life. The falling show, and the cold wind blowing'upon the child's face, awoke it; and as it opened its eyes it looked up in the face of Rebecca, who was kneeling beside it with a lan- tern in her hand, and smiled, and lifted up its little arms. " ' The Lord has sent thee to me,' said Mrs. Gray, while her heart was filled with tenderness. ' The Lord has sent thee to me, to lie in my bosom and be unto me instead of my own little buried Rebecca !' " The good man and his wife were not long in removing the poor Indian woman and the child to the house, and, for some time, the poor creature did not appear to know what was passing around her ; but affer havin": taken some hot drink she seemed to revive, and cried out, ' Me baby ! me flower !' and she looked wildly round for the child. Mrs. Gray .'aid it on the mat beside her, MARY WALLACE. Ill and the little one sat up and twisted its littlo fingers in her wet black hair, and then nestled close to the Indian woman's bosom till she slept. Mrs. Gray then carefully removed the child, and fed it with some warm milk. The poor little thing, as if conscious of hsr kindness, looked up in her face and softly repeated, ' Mamma — mamma.' The imperfect words went to the heart of Re- becca ; and she again resolved that, as tlie Lord had cast the little stranger upon her protection, she would be unto it a mother. " Mr. and Mrs. Gray hoped to learn something of the child when the Indian woman should be restored, but they were disappointed ; for she arose at the dawn of day, and stealing softly to the bedside of Mrs. Gray, and taking the child from beside its new mother, she appeared about to carry it away ; but Mrs. Gray, as she awoke, observing her, cried out, ' Give me back the babe! give her to me !' " The Indian woman fixed her piercing black eyes upon the face of Rebecca for several min- utes, then closing them, she appeared to be rea- soning with herself; for, upon lifting them again, she said, solemnly, ' The God of the white man calleth for his child. The rose cannot bloom in 112 MARY WALLACE. the desert. The lily springeth not in the wilder- ness.' " Thus saying, she chanted a kind •: f prayer in the Indian tongue, and folding the babe an instant to her bosom, she replaced it beside Mrs. Gray ; and before any one could speak or prevent her, she had thrown open the door and passed sv/iftly from the cottage. " ^ Rise, Simon Gray !' said the kind-hearted Rebecca, 'rise and follow the poor creature, and persuade her to stay till the storm is past, and offer her food.' But though the good man made all possible haste in dressing, the woman had reached the summit of a high hill which lay toward the Bay colony ere he got into the street ; and soon she was lost in the distance^ and the thick falling snow, which was still beating down with great violence." " Did she freeze to death, grandmother ?" asked Helen. '' Did she never return ?" inquired Henry. " You'll both get answered when grandmother has finished her story," said George Gray, with a shrewd look to his cousins. "Yes, all in good time, children," said Mrs. Gray, as she resumed. " They could not possibly MAKY WALLACE. 113 find out how the Indian woman canrie by the child, or, for certainty, who she was ; yet by her calling herself Namoina, they supposed she must be a woman who was called by her tribe cunning, and revered as a prophetess, though the white people knew that the poor creature was at times crazy ; for she had seen her husband and child bleed, both in one day ; the first fell and died while de- fendinor his home ; the other was inhumanly mur- dered by wretches who deserved not the name of men ! And so poor Namoina, or, as the white people called her, Rachel, went crazy. " Mrs. Gray found, by a medal that liung round the infant's neck, that her name was Mary Wal- lace ; and Mary Wallace she was called. She appeared to be about a year old. She was a fine, healthy child, and soon grew nicely, and Mr. and Mrs. Gray were very fond of her ; and Wil- liam called her his little sister, and taught her to walk, and gave her more than half of all the nice things he had — (they did not have sugar- plums and candy then, but children were better off without them, and a great deal more healthy) — and he would tell her pretty stories, and drag her in his little wagon ; and he loved her dearly. She was a sweet-tempered and lovely child, and H 10* 114 MARY WALLACE. very seldom did any thing to displeasp! her pa- rents ; and when she did she would grieve very much, and she never could be happy till she was foro-iven. When she was twelve years old, there was not a fairer or lovelier child in tne whole Providence Plantations, than Mary Wallace. Her eyes were bright and blue ; her long, light brown hair fell in beautiful curls upon her shoulders, and her voice had such a sweet and happy tone, and her countenance such an amiable expression, that the young loved her without envy, and the old never passed her without a blessing. The lark did not rise earlier than Mary Wallace. The first thing in the morning she would be seen with a basket on her arm, tripping lightly over the grass, with her little white feet scattering the dew, and singing sweetly and merrily as the birds themselves. No one in the Plantations had not felt her kindness ; she always had an arm for the aged — some little delicacy for the sick — tears for the suffering — songs and smiles for the happy — and bread, and beer, and pity, even for the poor Indian. In short, the good people of the Plantations believed, that, by a special mercy of Divine Providence, she had been sent among them. She was of great assistance to her parents. MARY -^TALLAGE. 116 They believed that they could not do without her. In the spring she helped plant the corn and beans — weeded the vegetable beds in the garden — and, hrough all the warm season, she drove home the cows at night — fed the sheep and pigs — and took care of the hens, ducks, geese, and their little ones. In the summer she gathered berries and laid in herbs for winter. In autumn she helped harvest the corn — gathered the dry beans and peas, and did a great many other useful things ; and in the winter she sat, for the most part, by the fireside, knitting stockings for the family, and mending her own and William's clothes — or she read the Bible, of a long Sabbath evening, to her father and mother : she was never idle. " Mary never knew, till she was ten years old, but that she was the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Gray. At this time her mother thought best to inform her how she had been brought to them. She was grieved, at first, and cried very hard ; but she could not comprehend how it was possible that they who had watched her — nursed her— loved and supported her from earliest infancy, should not be her own father, and mother, and brother ; and, instead of indulging childish curi- 116 MARY WALLACE. osity respecting her real parents, she treated the whole as an unpleasant story, and strove to forget it ; and, with her sweet, happy disposition, she was not long in doing this ; and very soon she smiled as sweetly — and sang as merrily — and danced as gaily over the meadows, as she had done before. About this time a distressing war broke out, called 'King Philip's War ;' and the times were more distressing than you, my dear children, can well imagine. There is no correct history of those times ; but the most considerable account you will find in Captain ' Church's His- tory of Philip's War.' The Indians, when they took any of the white people prisoners, treated them very cruelly ; and, sometimes, put them to death with great torture." " I've read all about that, and I don't blame the Indians at all !" said George Gray, starting to his feet with much earnestness, while his eyes almost flashed fire ; " what right had the white people to come here and cheat them — and rob them of their lands — and drive them from their houses ? Philip was a noble fellow ! If I had lived then I would have been on his side — at any rate— J' UH)uIdfr MARY WALLACE. 117 "And, brother," said Ann, catching some of- his warmth, " don't vou remember what our last fourth of July orator said of Philip?" " Yes," returned George, quickly, " these were his very words : ' Philip, the hero of Mount Hope, though a savage, was a man — and a nohle rrmn — • and had he lived in otiier times and other cir- cumstances, he might have been a Csesar — an Alexander — a Napoleon : — and what is saying more, and the most that can be said of any man — a Washington !' " and the boy walked the room quickly, while his burning cheek and flashing eye told that his spirit was getting too strong for his young bosom. " We will not dispute now whether the Eng- lish or the Indians were right or wrong," said the prudent grandmother. "Doubtless they were both to blame. Well, when Mary Wallace was about ten years old, and her brother fifteen, Mr. Gray and William M^ent to join the forces of Cap- tain Church. Mary it was who buckled on their knapsacks and pinned their collars on the morning of their first departure. She would not have cried a single tear if she could have avoided it, because her mother was so much distressed ; but it was Buch a dreadful thing to see them going away, 118 MARY WALLACE. and to think they might never return, that pool Mary sobbed and wept as if her heart was break- ing ; and when thev said ' farewell, Mary !' her heart was so full she could not speak ; and when they stepped from the threshold, poor Mary hid her face in her mother's lap, because she could not bear to see them go. But after she had wept a while, Mrs. Gray wiped away her tears and got the Bible and bade her read ; and they were comforted. " Every morning and evening Mary Wallace knelt by her little bed-side and prayed to God for the safe return of her father and brother. They came home occasionally, but for the space of two years they were gone most of the time. They met, however, with no serious accident ; and Mary and her mother had much reason to be thankful. ** One pleasant day during the second summer of the war, Mary had taken her little basket, and calling Hunter, a large dog, she went to gather berries; but, not finding the fruit plenty, she wandered farther into the woods than she should have done at that dangerous time. She was very busy picking some nice large berries, which she had found in great abundance, when, pre- MARY WALLACE. 119 sently, she thought she heard a groan ; and, without waiting to think there might be danger, she swung her basket on her arm and skipped through the bushes, followed by Hunter. Very soon she saw a large Indian seated upon a flat rock and leaning against a tree behind him, with a tomahawk and a bundle of arrows laid at his side. Almost any little girl would have been frightened, and have run away crying ; and, indeed, Mary Wallace herself felt that it might be wrong to approach him when she thought of her poor, lone mother ; and she was just going to turn back and run home with all her might, when she saw that the poor man was pale and faint, and could not sit upright but for the tree against which he leaned. But what, in reality, could Mary have to fear ? She was known to most of the tribes around, very few of whom had not, at some time or other, felt her kindness. Her little room was decorated with numerous tokens of Indian gratitude, in the shape of wam- pum belts and baskets, curious shells and stones, and many other things; and the Indians called her 'the child of Sunshine' — 'the Flower' — *the Lily,' and many other endearing names; but mostly, ' the Bird of Peace.' Instead of run- 120 MARi' WALLACE. aing away, as she had at first thought to do, Mary drew near the Indian and saw that he was asleep, Dr had fainted from loss of blood, which was flow- ing fast from a large wound in his leg The sight of blood naturally made Mary feel sick and dizzy; but, without hesitation, she took a little ghawl from her neck and bound it round the limb. The dog, as soon as he smelt the blood, began tc bark furiously ; and this, together with the pain caused by binding the wound, aroused the Indian, who, thinking, probably, that the enemy had fallen upon him, clenched his tomahawk and uttered a fearful cry. Mary trembled an instant, as if she already felt the blow ; but she saw that he was still very faint ; and, taking courage, she caught his arm and said, in the Indian tongue, ' Fear not, father, it is Mary !' and as he looked upon her, she pointed to the limb which she had nearly bandaged. He appeared very grateful when he saw what she had done, but he was too weak and faint to say much ; and he only whispered, as he placed his hand on the child's head, ' Welcome, daughter of Heaven !' " Little Mary then ran home as fast as she could, and told her mother about the poor wounded man, and asked her for some food ; and her mother MARY WALLACE. 121 gave her some new milk, and some beer, and bread. Mrs. Gray went out with her and carried a blanket to cover him ; and she bound up the wound better than Mary could, putting on some healing balsam. They persuaded him to partake of the food ; and, afterward, assisted him to a shelter under a rock, where they left him quite comfortable. " The next day Mary asked permission to go and carry food to the sick Indian ; and, calling Hunter, she took the basket her mother gave her, and went to the woods. When she arrived at the rock she found that the sick man had risen and was seated on the top of the rock ; and by his side an Indian woman, who was caressing him with much affection. Little Mary had come quite near before they saw her ; for she stepped very lightly ; but as soon as the old man did per- ceive her, he said in English, ' Behold the Bird of Peace !' As he spoke the woman looked earnestly at Mary for several minutes, and then she cried out, ' My lily ! my blossom ! my babee!' and, springing from the rock, she caught the child in her arms and almost suffocated her with tears and caresses. " Little Mary alarmea and strangely agitated, 11 122 MAKY WALLACE. whispered, ' Let me go home to my mother — do let me go home !' " ' Thy mother !' repeated the woman, ' thy own mother is gone across the wide waters, far to the rising sun — and thy father,' she pointed up to heaven, ' it is twice five summers since thy father went to the hunting grounds of the pale- face — he died — he was murdered ; and so was my own little blossom — my own babe !' Her voice was choked — she could not speak any more — her eyes grew burning and wild — her features quivered, and she shook so fearfully that Mary was frightened, and tried to get from her arms. " 'Namoina,' said the old man, ' the daughter of Anawon must not be a coward.' " This appeal had the desired effect — she dash- ed the few burning tears from her eyelids, and Dending a moment before her father, she rose up again with a calm brow, that told not of the struggle in her heart ; and, taking Mary again in her arms, she kissed her, and said a great many tender and affectionate things to her. " ' Shall I never see my mother ?' asked the rhild, mournfully ; ' has she forgotten me V a < Forget thee, my flower ! Does the mothe? MARY WALLACE. 123 sver forget the child that has fed from her bosom !' Again she was terribly distressed. After a few minutes she held the child up toward heaven and said, ' The Great Spirit of thy fathers keep thee — and bless thee !' then setting her down again, she resumed her former seat on the rock and began picking up the pebbles around her and counting them ; but no entreaty or endearment could draw a single word or look from her. " Mary saw Anawon partake of some of the food she had brought him, and, leaving the re- mainder, she took her basket and returned home for the first time in her life really unhappy ; and for the first time in her life she did not open her whole heart to her mother. Mrs. Gray, however, observed that her cheek was flushed, and thought she must have taken cold ; and when it was about sunset she persuaded her to go to bed. Mary was glad to be where no one could notice or dis- turb her feelings ; so, kissing her good mother, ihe went to her room, and knelt down by her little bed and said her evening prayers. Very soon she heard voices ; and then she knew that her father and brother had come ; and just as she was going to rise from her bed and dress, for the purpose of seeing them, she heard 124 MARY WALLACE. William say that they had got on the track of old Anawon,* and that he believed he was not far hence, probably out toward Seekonk ; and that they had better take whatever nourishment could be had and be after him directly. Mrs. Gray said nothing of the wounded Indian in the woods ; and when William said he must go in and give his sister one kiss, she said, ' Do not go to-night, my son, for the child has a bad cold and I am re9.11y afraid she will take the fever ; and if she knows you are come she will not sleep another wink to-night for joy.' " At any other time, indeed, Mary would have been overjoyed to see them — but now she was thinking only of the poor Indian, and that he might be killed ; and, in her distress, she could not help thinking that men were very cruel and very wicked to wish to murder each other. After bearing her anxiety of mind as long as she could, she resolved to go herself, if she could steal from the house unperceived, and warn the Indian of his danger. *' • That was right !' exclaimed both the boys at once. * Anawon was a mighty chief under King Philip ; and was one of the bravest and most sagacious warriors among ail the tribes. MARY WjiLLACE. 125 "That was right!" echoed Ann. " I wish I could have seen that girl !" said George Gray. *' J think we have some good girls among us,"* said Henry Jackson, with a kind look at his cousin Ann. " True," said the grandmother, who noticed and applauded that look, " very true ; though few persons may be so situated as to perform hrilliant actions, yet all may have opportunity to do many good ones. We cannot tell what miglit le done by what is done ; but we must believe that a truly generous and virtuous heart will act nobly in all situations. " But to return to Mary. She rose and dressed herself very quickly; and wrapping a little blan- ket about her, she fell on her knees a moment, and prayed God to keep her from all harm, and to forgive her for leaving the house without her parents' knowledge ; for Mary was a very obe- dient and faithful child \ and this was the first lime she had ever done any important thing with- out the consent and approbation of her parents. She opened a door which led from her little room mto a narrow entry, and passed, without observa- lion, into the open air. The moon was nearly at 11* 126 MARY WALLACE. tne full. Heavy and rich masses of clouds were continually floating over its surface, and, some- times, almost obscuring its light ; but then they would pass away, and the moon would shine out brighter than before ; and the waters of the river flashed like diamonds ; and all the leaves of the wilderness, as they waved in the stirring wind, shone as if they had been dipped in molten silver. Mary clapped her little hands and forgot to be afraid, for her spirit was worshipping that God who maketh night so very glorious. " And now let me tell you, my children, a good child never need be afraid in the darkness more than in the open day ; for, as the Scriptures say, * He knoweth all the lambs of his fold ;' and again, * A sparrow falleth not to the ground without his knowledge.' " The way was familiar to Mary, and soon she came to the rock where she had left Anawon. When her steps were heard, the old chief started to his feet and uttered a low cry, and, directly, seveial Indians stood by his side. Mary was not afraid, even then ; for though the Indians were the enemies of her nation and her kindred, they were not her enemies — they were her friends : for there was hardly one among thein MARy WALLACE. 127 who had not, at some time or other, felt the kind- ness of the sweet child. So she walked directly into the midst, fearless of the tomahawks that were lifted at her approach, and holding up her little liand to Anawon, said, in her low, sweet voice, * Father — fly — thy enemy is at hand !' " The old Indian seemed, at first, almost choked with emotion ; for he well knew that his enemies were the friends of Mary ; and lay- ing his hand on the child's head as she bent before him, he only said, ' The God of the white man and the Great Spirit of the Indian be with thee !' and his followers, who, from the moment she was known, had fallen back from the centre of the rock, as they leaned upon their bows and looked upon the child, repeated, at once, a word in the Indian tongue, which was as much as to say, ' Amen.' " Then Anawon unbound a wampum bracelet from his arm, and giving it to Mary, said, ' Daugh- ter! in the hour of sorrow bring this to Anawon ; and ask what thou wilt, and it shall not be denied thee !' • '■'■ Then Namoina (whom we will henceforth call Rachel) took the child in her arms and kissed her, and wrapped her little blanket about her ; 128 MARY WALLACE. and Mary ran swiftly toward honne. She reached her room in safety, and soon she fell asleep, for she was very tired. Soon after this Mrs. Gray came into the room, and saw that Mary was asleep, and that her pillow was wet with tears ; she could not think what had caused them, for she had never known Mary to be very un- happy. Just at this moment William came in on tiptoe ; and, as he bent down to kiss his sister's cheek, he saw the bracelet, which had fallen to the floor, and examining it by the light of the moon, he thought he had seen it before ; and taking it to his father, Mr. Gray said that he re- membered it very well, for he had seen it on the arm of Anawon. " 'I will wake Mary instantly,' said William, ' and perhaps she can tell us where he is ; and we will have the cunning old savage before morning !' " ' Thou art much too hasty,' said Mr. Gray, laying a hand on his son's arm ; ' this token was given to thy sister in peace and love. Thou knowest boy,' he continued, with difficulty re- straining his son, ' thou knowest the child's heart would be broken, if she were obliged, in anyway, to be made an instrument of evil. Alas!' he MARY WALLACE. 129 added, giving way to the natural tenoerness of his heart, ' alas ! that \ye are compelled, by cruel necessity, to slay, ay, murder each other!' and Simon Gray folded his dark, bony hands upon his breast and was silent. " Observing the boy still unsatisfied, he said, < Go to thy rest, my son ; the Lord in his own good time will do the work. At all events, if 1 can prevent it, blood shall never fall upon the head of Mary.' " The next morning by dav/n of day, father and son departed. Mary was not awake, for she had' been so tired that she slept very soundly; and William was just allowed to kiss her cheek very softly, and deposite by her side some little baskets of willow ; and he then embraced his weeping mother and hastened to join his father, who already stood by the gate waiting for him. "When Mary awoke, she was so much disap=. pointed because they were gone, that she could hardly keep from crying ; but she saw that her mother was striving to be cheerful, so she wiped the few tears that fell upon her cheek, and fold- ing her arms round her nedc, she whispered softly, ' Let us pray to God, mother, and he will com- fort us.' And they both knelt down and prayed, I 30 MARY WALLACE. and when they rose up they were quite calm ; foi God never withholds a blessing from those who seek in humility of soul, and never withdraws his countenance from those who trust in him. And now, my children, [ beg you to remember, whatever may be your ';rials and distresses, al- ways to put your trust in God, and nothing will have power to harm you ; but do not think, my children, that you must wait till distresses come — seek the love of God in the day of joy — and in ihe hour of sorrow he will not be far off. " But to return to my story. Two months had passed away and Mr. Gray and William had not returned, though Mrs. Gray had heard from them occasionally. " It was a bright afternoon in September,^and Mary had taken her knitting- work and was sitting beside her mother's arm-chair at the door of their cottage ; but she could not work, for her eyes were continually wandering off in the direction of the Seekonk road ; and, at every waving of the trees, or the least unusual sound, she would start from her scat, and say, ' They are coming !' and then run to make some addition, or alteration, to the furniture of a small round table, white as snow which was spread with bowls and spoons, brown MARY WALLACE. 131 bread and baked apples, and a pan of new milk ; and then, returning to the door, s.ie would expect to find them near ; but when she looked in every direction, she saw only the few quiet looking houses of the Plantation — the wide and almost unbroken forest, and the broad road before her — but no father or brother. She had repeated this act several times, and at each successive one she was more sure that they were coming ; until, at last, the continued disappointment was more than she could bear ; and, clinging round her mother's neck, she burst into tears. " Mr. Gray and William had sent word, by some men belonging to the town, that they should be at home the night before, and they had not come. Might not some terrible accident have happened ? " Mrs. Gray had been sitting silently, with her arms folded upon her breast, struggling within herself to bear the approaching trial as became a Christian; for she knew better than Mary did how full of disappointment life is, and she knew also that the "imes were peculiarly uncertain and hazardous. She had appeared calm, notwith- standing, for she did not wish to check the fond anticipations of Mary ; but when she saw that 132 MARY WALLACE. even she could not hope any longer — when she felt the sweet child weeping upon her breast, for an instant her calmness forsook her, and she wept with Mary. •' ' Do you believe, mother, they will not come V sobbed the child ; ' do you believe they will not come to-nig-ht V And shakinsf awav the curls from her face, and a flood of tears with them, she looked upon her mother as if she would read her thoughts before she spoke. " ' They will come, my child,' said Mrs. Gray, speaking with much difficulty; 'they will come when it is God's pleasure ;' and putting the child from her arms, she went to her room and shut herself in, for her distress was so great that she could not bear to have Mary see it. " The child, being left to herself, wept without restraint : but still she did not actually believe that her father and brother would not come very soon, and she dried her tears and thought she would run out a little way on the Sfeekonk road, and perhaps she might meet them. When she had got a little way from the house she saw a person approaching, and she hastened along, hoping to hear something of her father and brother ; and when she got near she saw it was MARY WALLACE. 133 Rachel. Mary was very glad, for she had noi seen Rachel for a long time, and she knew the Indian woman was a good friend to her, so she ran toward her and put her little arms around her; but her heart was so full she could not speak. Rachel did not know her at first ; but when she saw that it was Mary, she held her in her arms, repeating, all the while, some words in the Indian tongue, which Mary knew were a kind of thanksgiving to the Great Spirit. " ' Child, I was seeking thee !' she said, at last, in imperfect English ; ' I have bad news — thy brother is fallen among his enemies !' " ' Will not my brother come home V said the child, bursting into tears ; ' will he never come home ? Is he dead V "'He is yet alive,' replied Rachel, * but nis hours are counted. This night he is to die !" \' * Where is he ? Let me go to him !' said the child. " ' It was for that very purpose I came to thee. For thy sake he may yet live-r-he is in the hands of An a won.' -' 'O, let us go this instant ! Let us lun! Lei us fly !' said Mary, seizing the hand of Rachel ; 12 134 MARY WALLACE. and she ran forward a few steps — ^then, stopp ng short, she said, ' I must run back and tell mother ; I cannot go without telling her !' '* ' Thou must not go back,' said Rachel ; * let her not know his danger till it is over — if thy brother lives, we will return with the earliest light ; if he dies, it will be soon enough to break her heart — as mine is brokei,' she added, beating her breast, while her eyes shone like fire. " ' I cannot go,' sobbed Mary, ' I cannot go with- out telling mother.' " ' Then thy brother will die !' said Rachel ; * then he will die — they are singing the death- song ! The fire is kindling now !' " ' O let us go then !" said the child, with a piercing cry, ' let us hurry ! let us go !' " ' The pledge of Anawon, is it about thee, child V asked Rachel ; and Mary drew from her pocket the bracelet of the chief; and they went on. " Tneir way lay directly through the woods. Mary's poor, little, bare feet, were dreadfully scratched with the briers ; and she was so tired with running, and hurrying, and crying, that sometimes Rachel was obliged to take her up and carry her. At length it grew very dark ; and, a< MARY WALLACE. 185 first, Mary could hardly tel] where to step; but when she got used to it she did not mind it at all — for she was not thinking of herself, but of her father, and mother, and brcther. " After they had gone several miles they saw a light at a great distance : and, when they came near, they saw it was a large fire — and when they got still nearer, they saw a great many In- dians, with painted faces and tomahawks in their hands, dancing about it, singing, and shouting, and uttering terrible cries. " One of the Indians, who was stationed to keep watch, saw little Mary and her guide ; and as soon as he knew Rachel he shouted ' Namoina !' And all immediately rested their tomahawks on the ground, and, ceasing to sing and dance, they awaited her approach with all the respect due to the daughter of so mighty a chief as Anawon. " Mary Wallace saw but one thing. As the ring opened she beheld her brother standing in the midst, beside a large pile of light fuel, which was all ready to be kindled ; his hands were bound behind him and his head was bent down. Mary gave one spring, and, fearing not the terri- ble looking men around her, she bounded to the side of William; and clinging round his neck, 133 MARY WALLACE. she sobbed as if her little heart was breaking. William was pale as death when he saw Mary. A few hot tears fell on his cheek ; but he spoke not; he bowed his head upon her neck awhile — and then his heart was melted — and he sobbed aloud. This relieved him, and he whispered, ' Sister, wipe my tears away and leave me — thou must not see me die.' " ' Thou wilt not die ! Thou shalt not !' said Mary, wringing her hands ; and, losing all fear, but that of her brother's death, she ran wildly from one to another crying out, ' Will my brothei die ? must William die V " Anawon, who sat apart on a rock higher than those around, saw and heard the tumult ; but he knew not its cause ; and, in a deep and some- what angry tone of voice, he gave orders for the noise to be hushed, and the awful ceremonies of death to be resumed. In an instant the place was still — and then a low murmur ran among the crowd, ' The Child of Sunrise !'— ' The Bird of Peace!'— 'The Red Man's Friend!' and such was the strong love Mary had excited among the Indians, that, for a moment, not a hand was lifted, even at the command of their chief — then slowly they prepared to obey. MARY WALLACE. 137 '* A.S Mary's almost distracted features were turned to the glaring light of the death-fire, Ana- won saw her ; and the long, deep, agonizing groan he did not try to suppress, told that she was re- cognized. The next moment she was at his feet. The bracelet was clasped about his arm. ' Father, will he die !' was all that she could speak ; and poor little Mary fainted away. " Anawon took the child in his own arms, and administered something which revived her ; and when he saw her beautiful blue eyes again, he wiped the heavy drops of sweat from his brow, and gave orders for the release of the prisoner. Mary was then almost wild with joy — and she laughed and wept — and sang and danced — and ran from one to another — and they feared she would go into fits ; but in a few minutes she was completely exhausted ; and Rachel took her in her arms and held her. '' William wanted to go home immediately, be- cause he knew his parents would be very much distressed about their children. One of the Indians said he would carry little Mary in his arms, and, accompanied by Rachel, they set out. " It was about sunrise when they came in sight of Providence ; and just then they met 12* 138 MARY WALLACE. Simon Gray, at the head of a small band of men, going out in pursuit of his children. He was very much overcome at meeting them so unexpectedly ; and he forgot not to fall on his knees and bles3 God for their restoration. Then he embraced them afTectionately, and learned the particulars of their escape. " During this time the men ran on before to the settlement and told the news ; and as they entered the town the people came running out of their houses, all uttering expressions of joy, and blessing God for their happy deliverance. But the mother's heart was most severely tried. She had given them up, and had become almost calm ; but when the news of their safe return reached her, her agitation was so great that she fell into fits ; and from their effect she never recovered. She lingered, however, in a weak state nearly a year ; and then she took an epidemic fever and died ; and Mary Wallace was once more — an orphan ! " During this time the poor Indians were mostly subdued. King Philip was killed ; Anawon was taken by Captain Church, and, during the absence of that good man, was shamefully put to death. Mary was much distressed, and refused to be MARY WALLACE. 139 « comforted, when she heard of the cruel death of her good old friend, (though William often told her that the white people never could be safe while he lived,) and when she was alone she would weep at thinking of it. *' One day, a short lime after her mother's death, she went to visit a friend about five or six miles from the Plantation; and in the afternoon she walked out alone, thinkinij she would so and see the rock where Philip and his men had once concealed themselves. She soon found the place ; for the main rock, which the Indians called Quins- riiket, or Rock-house, was larger than, and differ- ent from, all others around. This rock projects over to the southwest, and under that side of it the Indians had found a home. Mary went there and examined the place, and she found a great many arrow-spikes made of flint, and some pieces of wampum ; and the ashes of their fires were still visible. She then climbed to the top of the rock, and sat down under the shade of a tall sugar- maple ; and there she could not help thinking how cruel it was for the poor Indians to be killed or driven from their lands, and their houses, and their fathers' graves. " As she was returning, a little way from Quins- 140 MARY WALLACE. niket, she saw a woman sitting on a flat stone, in the midst of a square where the earth seemed to have been blackened with fire, and where the grass had never since grown. When Mary came nearer, she saw that it was Rachel. Overjoyed, she was just going to spring to her arms, for she had not seen her friend since the morning of her brother's release, when she saw the poor creature was Weeping. As soon as Rachel saw Mary, she hid her head in her blanket. The child looked at her a moment sorrowfully, then springing to her lap she folded her little arms round her neck, and putting her soft cheek close to hers, wept with her. This act of tenderness softened Rachel ; and wiping away her own tears with a corner of her blanket, she held up the child aud gazed mourn- fully upon her face ; then she said, ' Weep on, my daughter ! weep on ! — for thy tears are cool and pleasant ; but mine — O ! they are drops of fire !' Then she spoke of her father's death and the downfall of her race, till her voice was choked — and she wept like a heart-broken child. Again she was silent, and began to pluck the blades of grass and weave them into basket-work, keeping her face all the while turned from Mary. " Suddenly she looked upon the child, and MARY WALLACE. 141 exclaimed, with much energy, ' Here — here I on this very spot 'twas done !' u i What, mother ? what was done V asked Mary, wich a trembling voice. " ' My babe — my babe !' Rachel could say no more for an instant ; and then she added, ' I will tell thee : Namoina was the daughter of a mighty chief; many chiefs sought her in marriage — but she said, " No !" for her heart beat quick only at the step of Mohaton the brave. Anawon, the great chief, said, " Go !" and Namoina took the hand of Mohaton, and went from her father. We had one babe — it was beautiful and dear — and it went as quick from my arms as the blossom from the corn-leaf. The white man came — Mo- haton fell by our own door ! and my babe — they trod upon it ! It saw me — it tried to lift its little arms — it tried to open its little eyes — it could not. I took it in my arms — it was cold — still — dead. I saw not that all my brethren had gone — I saw not that I was alone. I held my little one till night came and made everything as dark and cold as my own bosom, and then I laid it in the ground — here !' As she spoke she stretched out her handj and rested it an instant on a little mound beside her; then she stretched out her 142 MARY WALLACE. arms and fell upon it, and wept and groaned fear, fully. " After a short time she arose, and dashing the tears away from her cheek, she became terribly calm, and continued : * ' At last the hope of ven- geance possessed me. I rose from- this grave and vowed to kill the first white child I could find. I found thee, my child — I brought thee here — to the very spot where my own darling bled ; but thy smile was so sweet — thy voice was so soft and pitiful — thy little arms clung around my neck so tenderly, I could not kill thee ; and the spirit of my little one whispered to me constantly, " Let Mary lie in thy bosom and warm it again !" So I kept thee, and when three moons ■]■ were gone, it was cold, and thy little limbs trembled, and thy cheek was blue. I saw that the child of the Pale-face should not dwell in the wilderness. I gave thee meal and corn ; but the food of the red babe was not for thee. I was afraid that thou too wouldst die. I sought thy mother to give thee up. She had gone, with her broken * The Indians believe that, when they have a friend mur- dered, the soul of that friend cannot rest till they have avenged ihe death by killing the murderer or some of his connections. t Months. MARY WALLACE. 143 heart, over the great waters.* Namoina knew how to pity her. Thy father was slain in battle. She was a motherless widow. On my way back Simon Gray found me ; and when I saw thee among thy own people, I could not take thee away. Thy smile was as the sunlight to me— thou wert the only thing that made life pleasant, and yet I left thee.' She paused, and Mary hid her face in the faithful creature's bosom and wept without restraint. " Ao-ain she resumed — ' The mother I found thee is gone, and now I will give thee back the other — thv own !' « ' Where ? where V asked Mary, lifting her hands quickly. ' Where is my mother V " ' Be patient, and I will tell thee. Go to See- konk on the next day thy people meet to worship the Great Spirit — I have promised to send thee — she will be there ; a tall woman, and slender and graceful as a reed upon the hill-side. Her brow is fair as the coming of light, fair as thy own, my child; and her dark hair falleth over it as the shadows of evening upon snow. There she is,' continued Rachel, taking a small miniature from • The ocean. 144 MARY WALLACh. her own neck, and giving it to Mary, ' some cm • ning* man of thy people hath put her face here ; but not all. The kind look, and the tears, and the sorrow are not here !' " Mary took the picture and looked upon it, and kissed it, and thanked God that again she was not an orphan — that again she Avas to find a mother, *' ' Go,' continued Rachel, ' remember all I have told thee ; observe the scar over her left eye. She will know thee by thy little playthings — by thy sweet voice, and by thy father's soft blue eye.' As she spoke she gave some little toys to Mary, and then, motioning her away, she added, in a thick and tremulous voice, ' now go, and let Namoina — die !' " ' Die !' repeated Mary, ' Die ! what can my mother mean V *' 'Come hither, child, at the rising of the sun, and thou wilt know what I mean. Thrice hath the sun risen and set since food hath passed the lips of Namoina ; and when she eateth again, it will be among her fathers in the hunting-grounds afar off. * Ingenious MARY WALLACE. 145 " ' I will bring thee food and drink ; I will go now,' said Mary, bursting into tears. " ' Go, but come not again ! go, and return not ! Namoina will find it hard to die while the eye of her nursling is upon her.' " Mary sprang back again to the side of RacheL ' O, my mother !' she said, ' thy hands are cold, and thy brow — what shall I do for thee ? . What shall I do V " * If thou wilt not go, sit down at my feet and listen to my death-song ; but touch me not — speak not, or the soul of Namoina will be a cow- ard and refuse to die.' " Mary fell, rather than sat, down at the poor creature's feet, and listened to her with a bursting heart. I will repeat the song to you, not exactly as it was chanted by Namoina, but as it has since been put into verse. It still, however, retains its original spirit and meaning. THF DEATH-SONG OF NAMOINA. ^I hear the voices of the brave from yonder fair southwest — They welcome poor Namoina unto her place of rest. K 13 ] 46 -f AEY WALLACE. The hills are glad with living things — the valleys bright with corn, Beyond the beautiful blue sky where all the brave are gone. ' The earth is cold — the hills are lone — the pleas- ant places sad, And evervthin » 3 > 3 1 ' ^ I .7 » 7 J J » ) > 1 J 7 ■» 1 5 > c t c c c c < c f ( ( ( f c ( r ( ' t ^ ' t r' crccc etccc ctfcc crtcc c e «• c r ^ ec ef c t c f c c t c c < ' , 193 ON THE HUDSON. SY ELIZABETH MARY ALLISON. River that rollest thy bright course along In virgin beauty, yet unwooed by song, Unknown to glory ; save, to that which springs Like to a blushing maiden, from the fame Of her own loveliness. Shall thy name Be fraught with bright romance, like that which flings Enchantment o'er the Rhine, whose feudal towers Look down disdainful on the winged hours ? The legionary forces of old Time, Battling with man e'en from his youthful prime, And the sublimest efforts of his hand. Shall genius give thee immortality ? Her radiance flung o'er earth and sky, By magic touch of her unearthly wand ; Far richer crowning of thy sunny tide. Than palaces of wealth, of power or pride. N 17 194 ON THE 3UDS0N. Flow on, then, bright and beauteous river, f!o% Yet smile beneath the summer sunset's glow, Or autumn's mellow lustre, shed o'er all The sombre grandeur of the foliage dense ; Or solitary tree that doth dispense O'er thee its willowy gracefulness of fall. While now thy highlands nearing the blue sky, Emblazoned with its orient tracery. Flow on — flow on in loveliness like this ' Soft as the im.age of Arcadian bliss, When earth itself was young as thou art njw, Ere in the east was mosque or high serai. But all was wild-wood, where the deer might stray, Or the gazelle bound from the mountain's brow, Unharmed by man, who led his flocks along, Joying in freedom, and the free bird's song. Nymph of thy source, and bearer of the urn From which these crystal waters winding tuni Into their varying track of loveliness — Presiding spirit of the sparkling flood. Of heavenly aspect and serenest mood. Come at my bidding, with each shining tress Wet with the spray of the full rushing stream Thou lov'st to pour beneath the moonlit beam ON THE HUDSON. 195 Come at my bidding, oh immortal maid ! Come from thy grotto, 'neath the wavelets made Far, far below, wrought of the treasures there, Mocking the eagerness of mortal eye As much as the far glories of the sky. Deign thee, oh nymph ! — oh deign thee to draw near— The poet bending, thus invokes thee now With pure libations to thy virgin brow. She rose, the genius of the unsung stream, She rose in beauty like a flashing gleam Of sudden sunlight, o'er her glassy tide ; Fair as the four young nymphs that, hand in hand, Gave their elastic footsteps to the sand. From Tagus' golden depths,* so did she glide To earth — so wring the moisture from her hair, Which so o'ershadowed her white bosom bare. The spot on which her pearly sandals stay'd, Was that green islet, that might well be made Shrine for her footsteps : but I may not tell Of half the loveliness that lent its aid To that enchanting wilderness of shade, • Eclogue III. of Garcilasso de la Vega 196 ON THE mJDSON. Of parted rock o'erhanging a sweet dell : Meet home for elfin sprites that nightly sing, And woo the stars to their enchanted ring. Swift to this place, the margin's pride she passed. O'er it a look of joyousness she cast. Sunlight and song were floating on the air. The hamadryads' mirth, with warblings blent Of joyous birds, and fainter thrill yet sent By myriad tribes of insects whirling there In the fantastic and unending round, The bees' glad hum and crickets' shriller sound. The river wantoned o'er the pebbles white, And seemed to linger with a fond delight By this loved scene, the fairest e'en of all That decked its banks — and hailed the jocund flow Of its mellifluous waters, as they go Meandering in their course. But hark ! There fall Sounds of enchanting music on the breeze. A spirit's voice is quivering through the trees. *' Minstrel of a far glorious clime," it said, " What hath thy wandering footstep hither led, To string the lyre these silent haunts among. Waking the elfin sprites that here reside, ON THE HUDSON. 197 And celling on the genius of the tide To hearken to the floatings of thy song, Borne to our crystal palace, whence we come Only when daylight ceases, and the hum " Of earthliness is still'd for many an hour. When dews descend to steep the purple flower. And the more purple arch of heaven is hung With clustering stars, the coronal of night: Then, then we come to joy in that pure light, To lave the moonbeams o'er the waters flung, Dear to the spirits of the flood and fell, Dear to the genii of the woodland dell. *' But thou hast dared to call me to the day, To list the warblings of thine earthly lay, Presumptuous bard ; or is it to demand Some favor from us, which thou fear'st to speak, And only o'er thy harp-chords dar'st to break, The vain request that trembles on thy hand, In strains that by the aid of echo go, From rocks above to coral caves below ? *•■ But know, vain bard, the longings of thy breast, Stand to our immortality confessed. Thou sigh'st to know too much for one of earth ; But as the music on the zephyrs flung, 17=^ 198 ON THE HUDSON. As the full cadence on thy lips that hung, Dies in the self-same span that saw its birth As thy high hopes have ended in despair, Be too. thy rashness tossed to empty air. " We pardon thee, for the aerial train. Have ever lov'd the poet's thrilling strain •, Whether it swells the breezes from afar, Whether 'tis blended with the moon-tide bright, In full accord of harmony and light, Or sighed to Hesperus the vesper star : Whether 'tis given to rock, or vale, or shore, Or sweetly vibrates our glad waters o'er. " But see the mountains, diademed with rays Of the departing sun's transcendant blaze. Through all the west diffused. One halo there Of orient lustre shrines his farewell beams, And o'er the pensive earth reflected gleams. Image of love that fain would linger where His presence has been owned with warm delightj And forcefully withdraws his parting sight, " And all himself transfuses in that look As bright as gentle. Mortal eye may brook The radiance that before it could not scan. There too pale Dian timidly draws nigh, ON THE HUDSON. 199 Lost in the richer glory of the sky. Hail thee, fair crescent, hail ! No evil ban From wicked fiend, or sprite, can mar the glow, That soon thy beauty all around shall throw. " Hail thee, fair orb ! all hail ! advance to lend Thy more ethereal light. All spirits bend [n holiest worship to thee. Forth from glen And the sequestered wood, from cave and bower, Impatiently they wait the genial hour Of thy mild sovereignty. Advance thee then ! Speed, speed the hours till midnight is begun, And till each star its central course has run. " Poet, we bear thee with us till the time, Spirits can know without the aid of chime From village church, or proud cathedral spire: Such as in thy land equal Babel's dome, In vain design to reach the Almighty's home, Where mortals with religion may aspire, And godliness o go." She ceas'd and gave The signal, that was heard below the wave. And now a chariot stood upon the edge Of the bright river's willow fringed sedge. 'Twas formed of pearl and opal, who e clear dyes 200 ON THii HUi;S()i^. Are brilliant as the rainbow's. Sapphire too And silver lent their aid. Shells of each hue Were curiously inlaid, and met the eyes As things unearthly there. Such was that car That shot its rich effulgency afar. 'Twas lined with down, soft as the swan's white breast, And far more glorious tinted than the crest Of any bird that skims the earth or main. Once a white plant that 'neath the waters grew, Which the young nymphs that dwelt there, gath- ering knew To weave into their vestments, and to stain With tints pellucid, which they snatch from air Or from the tide, when sunbeams wanton there. Four flying dolphins to the car were reined. Whose eagerness could scarcely be restrained, So much they longed again to cleave the flood, And lave their golden scales, if but in spray Made by the chariot o'er the moonlit way. They wait the spirit's entrance, as they would With that aerial burden lighter go. Spurning the azure depths that lie below. ON THE HUDSON. 201 The poet and the spirit press'd the car, Which soon the sportive dolphins whirl' J afar; Those dolphins bred in the Ionian sea, And thence were sent an offering to the maid, Who the bright current of the Hudson sway'd. The silvery rein obeying, on they flee — They track the beauteous river's winding course, That not an eddy stirr'd, e'en from its source. Still as a sheet of azure sheen it lay, Reflecting but the moon's translucent ray That broke through amber clouds, that veil'd her brow. Or only sought to veil, since brighter shone Hei presence canopied as by a throne : While the resplendent orbs prepare to throw Their planetary lustre on the view, Burstinor interminable ether through. Rapidly on the gleaming chariot went, A flash of inessential splendor sent Athwart the tide, and blended with the light The kindling stars flung forth, and yellow moon- What to a poet could be such a boon, As thus to ride the waters as a sprite ; 02 ON THE HUDSON. With such a sky above and earth below, Thus o'er the glittering waters, thus to go? To see the beauty of that starry eve, To list the melody the spirits weave At that still hour : to watch the varying scene; Here towering rock frowning in grand array, Whence springs the eagle forth to welcome day ; There valleys slanting to .the margin green, With vistas form'd by the cleft rock's tall peaks, Through which a flood of moonlight splendor breaks. Now the thick forests touch'd with autumn hues. And the wild flowers trembling with diamond dews, On the fair islets, which their car went by In magic speed, along the tide that delv'd Between its lofty banks, that then were shelvM To admit of all the glory of the sky ; The distant mountains rearing their proud brows O'er all the view, that tremulously glows. Glows in the silvery light, that not alone On the wide ripples oi the river shone, ON THE HUDSON. 202 But on morass, and wood, and valley lay. Oh on the poet's heart a rapture broke. That every inmost slumbering chord awoke. It seem'd as though his soul imbibed a ray Of that ethereal light, that all around The gentle earth, with shining cycles bound. Or did the aerial spirit by his side, That gave him thus immortally to glide Over her moist dominions, on him pour More than the spell unearthly things to view, But the glad gush of spiritual feelings too ; For then the poet deem'd that one such hour Of brief enchanted happiness, were worth A thousand years of feelings but of earth. The spirit now lent him her aid to see Things that, to us, must lie in mystery ; Visions unborn of time, which future years Shall make reality, and men shall know Sti'ipp'd of the strangeness, that events wil throw Into accordance. What, shall blood and tears Deface these smiling sites ; or shall men learn The beacon-torch of virtue to discern ? 204 ON THE HUDSON. But that alone to guide them o'er the steep And shelving rocks, hid by the ocean deep Of life; away — the theme we may not tell. Suffice it that the poet's heart was glad, And could it be, if what he heard were sad ? And now they touch'd the land, and reach'd u dell— A wild, enchanted spot, where fairies stood, Watching their coming from the illumin'd flood The sprites and fays their sportive glee began ; From heart to heart the genial transport ran, Unmix'd with fear, or pain, or doubt, or dread That mar our earthly revelry. The song From fairy harps floated the air along, And on the breez*8s melting music shed ; While odors that no censers seem'd to hold, A stream of luscious fragrance upward roU'd. And dance went round, a graceful flying maze From tiny feet, that changing glancing rays Gave out around ; for o'er their persons shone A light, that from the kindling stars is caught, When with their lustre most the skies is fraught, But all their brightest wassailage — oh, none ON TH2 ilUDSO-V. 205 That ever has beheld it, may reveal ; Or gone for ever is his earthly weal, Waking the fairies' ire. " Hark ! hark, away ! Each to his mission — now no longer stay. Go cleave the air, or skim the liquid main, Where its proud billows dash with frantic roar, Or break in idle bubbles on the shore. Go do your errands on. Then here again To taste the luscious feast, and sip the bowl, And stay the winged moments ere they roll." So spake the fairy queen, and stretched her wand The magic sceptre sparkling in her hand. They wait no new command to disappear. And where that elfin band so lately stood. Falls but the shadow of the distant wood. No sound but of the river murmurs near, Where late ethereal melody was heard. And every leaf unearthly chorus stirred. 18 206 CHARADES. I. My first slew Pharaoh and his host, — My next has many a fortune lost, — My whole — more fatal still than either- It smashed Napoleon altogether ! II. I am not deceiving, believe me, my dear, That all are my first, who to thee are not near ; My next may be anything — choose what you like, And say what you please — it will suit it alike. My whole of this trifling charade is the price, You will not give more, it you take my advice. SPHINX. i 207 THE ENGLISH FLOWEa. Not the proud ros^ of England's glorious crown- Not France's flower-de-luce of stainless sheen — Not Scotland's boastful ennblem of renown — Not Erin's hallowed shamrock green — Not, as the laurel prodigal of power, To deck the blood-stained victor's triumph high, — Not as the proud Narcissus, hapless flower, Of self-enamored vanity to die, — r No cultured plant of rare exotic birth. With flaunting hues unconscious of perfume,— Meek offspring of thy parent earth, — Art thou, sweet bud of native bloom,— Pure as the lily of some rural glade. That bursts unnoted frOm the velvet sod. Yet sends, from tufted leaves its head that shade, A tribute of rare odors up to God. 208 THE ENGLISH FLOWER. Oh ! born to cheer, to comfort, and to bless. To lend to happiness a deeper charm, To banish sorrow with thy pure caress. Holy, and sweet, and innocent, and warm — May nought of lasting grief thy smiles efface, Blight thy rich cheek, or dim thy laughing eyes. Long mayest thou witch the world with that fair face. Then bloom for ever in the eternal skies. ZETA. 200 THE YOUNG MOTHER. BY GRENVILLE MELLEN. Heaven lies about us in our infancy. WORDSWCKTH I. A YOUNG and gentle mother, She bows above her boy, And a tear is in her downcast eye, But 'tis the tear of joy — Of one whose few fair summers On golden wings have sped, Like childhood's dreams of Paradise, Above her sainted head. Loved, ere her life's flush morning Had kindled into day, And worshipped, as she wooed the flowers That bloomed around her way, 18* 210 THE YOl/.o -tiee, love ! 235 I'll think of thee, dearest, while thou art afar, And I'll liken thy smile to the night's fairest star : As the ocean-shell breathes of its home in the sea — So in absence my spirit will murmur of thee ! p. B. Boston, July, IbSb. "^^♦< COTTAGE LIFE. Oh ! happy cottage life, Far from foul gain, and rude ambitious strife ! And oh thrice happy ye. Who innocent and free Dwell in your village homes with plenty rife ! Happy to watch the morn 'Mid rosy clouds in the rich orient born ! Happy to fill the pail, In some sequestered vale, Or spin the fleece, or shell the golden corn ! Happy your friend to rear. Some snowy lamb, or weanling heifer dear — For they will ne'er forget. When once their love is set, But will your footsteps follow, far and near. COTTAGE LIFE. 237 Happy to live at ease *Mid rural blessings, and domestic peace — . Thrice happy, when ye die, Beside your sires to lie In the old churchyard, 'neath the ancestral trees. 23« THE GUARDIAN WATCHEPw. My little girl sleeps on my arm all night, And seldom stirs, save when, with playful wile, I bid her turn and put her lip to mine — Which, in her sleep, she does ; and, sometimes, then, Half muttered through her slumbers, she affirms, Her love for me is boundless ; and I take The little imp, and, closer in my arms, Assure her by my action — for my lips Yield me no utterance then — that, in my heart, She is the treasured jewel. Tenderly, Hour after hour, with no desire of sleep, I watch about that large amount of hope. Until the stars wane, and the yellow moon Walks forth into the night. 239 INTERROGATORIES. The stars, dear Fanny, were out last night, And the moon was bright on high. And the silent earth, by the clear cold light, Looked up to the dark blue sky, — But the fairest spot on her face so white Was the grove with the brook hard by ; Can you tell, dear Fanny, what might it be, That the stars looked down on so pleasantly ? There stood two forms by that moonlit grove. In the night-air damp and cold, And one was lovely and meet for love. And one was of manly mould ; To the winking stars, in their arch above. Was a gentle secret told. Can you say, sweet Fanny, what might it be Was whispered last night so tenderly ? A sound — yet not of a spoken word, But softer and sweeter in tone, — 240 INTERROGATORIES. Like the quick low note of a startled bird That sleeps on its nest alone, — Once and again that sound was heard, As of lips tc/gether grown. Can you guess, dear Fanny, what might it be— The sound that faltered so tenderly ? I turned away with a sad, chilled heart. From that happiest spot below, — For I felt that I was a thing apart, There was none to love me so ; And the one for whom my soul founts start Is fro ward and cold, you know. Can you think, sweet Fanny, who may it be That my thoughts will dwell on so heavily ? I sometimes dream of a happier lot, Of a heart that is all my own, — Of a quiet hearth, and a vine-clad cot, Where peace may dwell alone, — ' Where sorrow and bitterness enter not. Or vanish at love's soft tone; And all last night I was dreaming of you — Do you know, dear Fanny, if dreams prove true ^ 241 GNADENHUTTEN. About the middle of the last century, the Moravians, so much distinguished by their exertions for the welfare of the most hapless portion of their species, established a mission- ary station at the northern base of the Blue Mountains, in what is now Northampton county, Pennsylvania, a few miles from the beautiful scenery of Mauch Chunk. This station they appropriately termed, " Gnadenhutten," or " The House of Grace." The savage race which then inhabited those regions were divided in sentiment with respect to their benevolent visitors. Some regarded them with veneration ; while others, and they the more numerous portion, looked upon them with a malignant suspicion, which resulted in a midnight attack, when the establishment was destroyed by fire and the in Habitants, male and female, young and old, butchered 1 'TwAS eve, the balmy breath of flowers, Came sweetly floating on the breeze ; The recent rain-drops gemmed the bowers, And glistened on the leafy trees. And far into the eastern sky The growling thunder-cloud had gone, Upon whose breast of inky dye, The radiant bow of promise shone. Q 21 242 GNADENHUTTEN. The setting sun beamed broad and bnght, And far the lengthening shadows cast ; On Gnadenhutten's tower-crown'd height. He lingered long to look his last. And never had his parting ray, To light a lovlier scene been given ; Since first he trod his radiant way, Across the azure vault of heaven. For not on hill, and vale, and stream, 'And glittering leaf and sacred tower Alone, was shed his evening beam — It lit devotion's hallowed hour : For there was heard the solemn bell, That told the hour of rest and prayer ; There sweetly rose the anthem's swell, And holy words were spoken there. And o'er the heaven-directing page, The man of God enraptured hung ; While wisdom's aphorisms sage. Distilled like honey from his tongue. GNADE^-HUTTEN. 243 And there the forest-warrior stood, With bow unstrung and humbled pride; With longing soul for heavenly food, The dark-brown matron pressed his side. And tottering age, and vigorous youth, And childhood with its steadfast gaze, Heard wondrous words of heavenly truth ; Vnd knelt in prayer and joined in praise. And O ! a holy look was given, To him who bent that book above ; His brow was bright with light from heaven ; His soul with heaven's all brightening love. Nor was it that he loved to roam, He crossed the pathless ocean o'er ; Nor yet to find a fairer home, Left he his own loved native shore. It was to point the forest sons, Up to the radiant throne of God ; And show those dark, benighted ones. The way through Christ's atoning blood ; 2^4 GNADENHUTTEN. That far into the desert wild, From the refined abodes of men, With his loved wife and only child. He sought that distant forest glen. That matron's brow was vounff and fair. Half hid 'neath locks of golden sheen; And lovely as a thing of air, Was little rosy Wilhelmine. With wavy curls of flaxen hair ; And forehead rising pure and high ; And breast as mountain's snow-wreath fair; And eyes like stars in winter sky. Buoyant, and beautiful, and bright, A being made of smiles and bliss ; With soul too full of heaven's own light, To stay in such a world as this. And soon was that immortal flower That bud of being, lent not given From blighting sin and sorrow's shower, Transplanted safe to bloom in heaven. GNADENHUTTEN. 240 'Twas night — the sky was cloudless blue, And all around was hushed and still, Save paddle of the light canoe, And wailing of the whippoorwill. The moon was like a silver thread, Just sinking in the green wood's bosom; And swift from heaven the night-dew sped, With pearly gifts for leaf and blossom. And soft as balmy dews of night Upon the beauteous blossom's breast. Came slumber, and her finger light, On every closing eyelid pressed. ^Twas night — dark night — no sound arose— The weary eye forgot its weeping ; And wrapt in bonds of bland repose, The missionary band lay sleeping. But hark ! upon the startled air. Wild, unexpected whoops arise ! — And the red conflagration's glare, Is brightening all the midnight skies' 21* 246 GNADENHUTTEN. Up! sleepers, up! awake and fly, By the dread lamp your foes have lighted— To the dark green-wood's bosom hio, Your homes are gone, your hopes are blighted Up ! sleepers, up ! away, away ! A canopy of smoke is o'er you ; Around you fiery streamers play, And the dark savage is before you ! Perchance some home-fraught dream of joy. In slumber's silken links had bound ihem ; They wake ! 'tis but to hear the cry Of savage slaughter raging round them ! They wake ! 'tis but to mark the arm Of death above each brow impending ; Vain, vain, the shriek of wild alarm — And vain the prayer for life ascending. They died, as holy martyrs die — Their latest thought to God was given ; Resigned their souls in agony, To wake in ecstacy in heaven. GNADENHUrrEN. 247 And perished al] ? One mother fled, Escaping both the brand and arrow ; And to the midnight forest sped, Weary and weak, in pain and sorrow f Nor fled alone — in wild distress, A little one she fondly pressed, Sleeping in blessed unconsciousness, Rocked by the throbbings of her breast. For when the work of death was rife, 'Midst savage yell and dying prayer. She fearless sought the thickest strife, And found that little slumberer there. Trembling beneath a shed she crept — The babe still hushed upon her bosom — Restrained each bursting throb, nor wept, Fearing to wake that slumbering blossom, And from her lowly hiding-place. Heard every yell of savage slaughter ! And closer clasped in her embrace, The babe she deemed her fair-haired daughtes' 848 GNADENHITTTEN. At length the long night passed away— The morning rose in all its glory — But smouldering ruins met his ray, And corpses cold, and pale, and gory. A midnight stillness reigned around— The savage foe had fled afar — The Lehigh with its moaning sound, Went wailing by the field of war. • Uprose that matron young and fair, With trembling limb and beating heart- Why bursts her wild shriek on the air ? And whence that horror-speaking start ? She gazed upon that infant's face With frenzied look and wild despair; Clasped to her breast, in fond embrace, An Indian babe lay sleeping there ! Nor pined she long in hopeless grief, With every bond of being riven ; Death smiling came, a sure relief, And angels winged her soul to heaven. i THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW AN INITIAL FINE OF 25 CENTS WILL BE ASSESSED FOR FAILURE TO RETURN THIS BOOK ON THE DATE DUE. THE PENALTY WILL INCREASE TO 50 CENTS ON THE FOURTH DAY AND TO $I.OO ON THE SEVENTH DAY OVERDUE.