F3
 
 FACT AND FICTION.
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 18-16, 
 BY 0. S. FRANCIS ft CO. 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of 
 New-York. 
 
 Printed by 
 
 MUNROK 4 FRANCIS, 
 BOSTON.
 
 TO 
 
 ANNA LORING, 
 
 THE CHILD OF MY HEART, 
 
 ftfjfg Volume 
 
 Is AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. 
 * 
 
 1*
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA, 9 
 
 THE YOUTHFUL EMIGRANT, 40 
 
 THE QUADROONS, 61 
 
 THE IRISH HEART, . 77 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE APOSTLE JOHN, 91 
 
 THE BELOVED TUNE, 116 
 
 ELIZABETH WILSON, . 126 
 
 THE NEIOHBOUR-IN-LAW, . : . 149 
 
 SHE WAITS IN THE SPIRIT-LAND, 163 
 
 A POET'S DREAM OF THE SOUL, 177 
 
 THE BLACK SAXONS, 199 
 
 HILDA SILFVERLINO, . , 205 
 
 ROSENGLORY, . 241 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE FALLS OF ,ST. ANTHONY, .... 261 
 
 THE BROTHERS, . 275
 
 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 
 
 "Spirit, who waftest me where'er I will, 
 
 And seest ; with finer eyes, what infants see,, 
 
 Feeling all lovely truth, 
 
 With the wise health of everlasting youth, 
 
 Beyond the motes of bigotry's sick eye, 
 
 Or the blind feel of false philosophy 
 
 O Spirit, O Muse of mine, 
 
 Frank, and quick-dimpled to all social glee, 
 
 And yet most sylvan of the earnest Nine 
 
 O take me now, and let me stand 
 
 On some such lovely land, 
 
 Where I may feel me as I please, 
 
 In dells among the trees." 
 
 IN very ancient times there dwelt, among the Phry 
 gian hills, an old shepherd and shepherdess, named 
 Mygdomus and Arisba. From youth they had tended 
 flocks and herds on the Idean mountains. Their only 
 child, a blooming boy of six years, had been killed by 
 falling from a precipice. Arisba's heart overflowed 
 with maternal instinct, which she yearned inexpressi 
 bly to lavish on some object ; but though they laid 
 many offerings on the altars of the gods, with fervent 
 supplications, there came to them no other child. 
 
 Thus years passed in loneliness, until one day, 
 when Mygdomus searched for his scattered flock 
 among the hills, he found a babe sleeping under the 
 shadow of a plane tree. The grass bore no marks of 
 footsteps, and how long he had lain there it was im- 

 
 10 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 
 
 possible to conjecture. The shepherd shouted aloud, 
 but heard only echoes in the solitude of the mountains. 
 He took the child tenderly in his arms, and conveyed 
 it to Arisba, who received it gladly, as an answer to 
 her prayers. They nurtured him with goat's milk, 
 and brought him up among the breezes of the hills, 
 and the boy grew in strength and beauty. Arisba 
 cherished him with exceeding love, but still her heart 
 was not quite satisfied. 
 
 " If he had but a sister to play with him," said she, 
 " it would be so pleasant here under the trees." 
 
 The boy was three years old, and beautiful as a 
 morning in spring, when his foster-parents carried him 
 down to the plains, to a great festival of Bacchus, held 
 during the vintage. It was a scene of riot and con 
 fusion ; but the shepherd loved thus to vary the lone 
 liness of his mountain life, and Arisba fondly desired 
 to show her handsome boy, with his profusion of dark 
 glossy curls bound in a fillet of ivy and grape leaves. 
 Her pride was abundantly satisfied ; for everywhere 
 among the crowd the child attracted attention. When 
 the story was told of his being found in the mountain 
 forest, the women said he must have been bom of 
 Apollo and Aurora, for only they could produce such 
 beauty. This gossip reached the ears of an old wo 
 man, who came hobbling on her crutch, to look at the 
 infant prodigy. 
 
 " By the Adorable! he is a handsome boy," said 
 she ; " but come with me, and I too will show you 
 something for the Mother of Love to smile upon." 
 
 She led the way to her daughter, who, seated under a 
 tree, apart from the multitude, tended a sleeping babe.
 
 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 11 
 
 " By the honey sweet ! isn't she pretty, too ?" ex 
 claimed the old woman, pointing to the lovely infant, 
 whose rosy lips were slowly moving, as if she suckled 
 in her dreams. " My son, who hunts among the hills, 
 found her on the banks of the Cebrenus, with one 
 little foot dipped in the stream. Methinks the good 
 Mountain Mother scatters children on our Phrygian 
 hills, as abundant as the hyacinths." 
 
 " Then she is not your own ?" eagerly inquired 
 Arisba. 
 
 " No; and, pretty as she is, 1 do not want her, for 
 I have ten. But what can I do ? One must not leave 
 babes to be devoured by wild beasts." 
 
 " Oh, give her to me," cried Arisba : " My boy so 
 needs a playmate." 
 
 The transfer was readily made ; and the child-lov 
 ing matron, rejoicing in her new treasure, soon after 
 left the revellers, and slowly wended her way back to 
 the silent hills. 
 
 A cradle of bark and lichen, suspended between two 
 young olive trees, held the babe, while Arisba, seated 
 on a rock, sung as she plied the distaff. The boy at 
 her side built small altars of stones, or lay at full length 
 on the grass, listening to the gurgling brook, or watch 
 ing the shadows at their play. Thus peacefully grew 
 these little ones, amid all harmonies of sight and 
 sound ; and the undisturbed beauty of nature, like a 
 pervading soul, fashioned their outward growth into 
 fair proportions and a gliding grace. 
 
 For a long time they had no names. They were 
 like unrecorded wild flowers, known at sight, on 
 which the heart heaps all sweet epithets. Their fos-
 
 12 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 
 
 ter-parents spoke of them to strangers as the Forest- 
 found, and the River-child. A lovelier picture could 
 not be imagined, than these fair children, wreathing 
 their favourite kid with garlands, under the shadow 
 of the trees, or splashing about, like infant Naiades, 
 in the mountain brook. On the hill side, near their 
 rustic home, was a goat's head and horns, bleached by 
 sjun and winds. It had been placed on a pole to scare 
 the crows ; and as it stood there many a year, the 
 myrtle had grown round it, and the clematis wreathed 
 it with flowery festoons, like the architectural orna 
 ments of a temple. A thrush had built her nest be 
 tween the horns ; and a little rill gushed from the 
 rock, in a cleft of which the pole was fastened. Here 
 the boy loved to scoop up water for his little playmate 
 to drink from his hand ; and as they stood thus under 
 the vines, they seemed like children of the gods. But 
 the most beautiful sight was to see them kneeling hand 
 in hand before the altar of Cybele, in the grove, with 
 wreaths about their heads and garlands in their hands, 
 while the setting sun sprinkled gold among the shadow- 
 foliage on the pure white marble. Always they were 
 together. When the boy was strong enough to bend 
 a bow, the girl ran ever by his side to carry his ar 
 rows; and then she had a smaller arrow for herself, 
 with which she would shoot the flowers from their 
 stems, as skilfully as Cupid himself. 
 
 As they grew older, they came under the law of 
 utility; but this likewise received a poetic charm from 
 their free and simple mode of life. While the lad 
 tended the flocks, the maiden sat on a rock at his feet, 
 spinning busily while she sang summer melodies to
 
 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 13 
 
 the warblings of his flute. Sometimes, when each 
 tended flocks on separate hills, they relieved the weary 
 hours by love messages sent through the air on the 
 wings of music. His Phrygian flute questioned her 
 with bold bright voice, and sweetly answered her 
 Lydian pipe, in mellow tones, taking their rest in 
 plaintive cadences. Sometimes they jested sportively 
 with each other ; asking mischievous questions in 
 fragments of musical phrases, the language of which 
 could be interpreted only by themselves. But more 
 frequently they spoke to each other deeper things than 
 either of them comprehended ; struggling aspirations 
 towards the infinite, rising and lowering like tongues 
 of flame ; half uttered, impassioned prophecies of emo 
 tions not yet born ; and the wailing voice of sorrows 
 as yet unknown. 
 
 In the maiden especially was the vague but intense 
 expression of music observable. In fact, her whole 
 being was vivacious and impressible in the extreme ; 
 and so transparent were her senses, that the separa 
 tion between earthly and spiritual existence seemed to 
 be of the thinnest and clearest crystal. All noises 
 were louder to her than to others, and images invisi 
 ble to them were often painted before her on the air, 
 with a most perfect distinctness of outline and brilli 
 ancy of colouring. This kind of spirit-life was indi 
 cated in her face and form. Her exquisitely beautiful 
 countenance was remarkably lucid, and her deep blue 
 eyes, shaded with very long dark fringes, had an in 
 tense expression, as if some spirit from the inner shrine 
 looked through them. Her voice was wonderfully full 
 of melodious inflexions, but even in its happiest utter- 
 2
 
 14 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 
 
 ance had a constant tendency to slide into sad modu 
 lations. The outline of her slight figure swayed 
 gracefully to every motion, like a young birch tree to 
 the breath of gentle winds ; and its undulations might 
 easily suggest the idea of beauty born of the waves. 
 
 Her companion had the perfection of physical beau 
 ty. A figure slender but vigorous ; a free, proud car 
 riage of the head, glowing complexion ; sparkling 
 eyes, voluptuous mouth, and a pervading expression 
 of self-satisfaction and joy in his own existence. A 
 nature thus strong and ardent, of course exercised a 
 powerful influence over her higher but more ethereal 
 and susceptible life. Then, too, the constant commu 
 nion of glances and sounds, and the subtle influence 
 of atmosphere and scenery, had so intertwined their 
 souls, that emotions in the stronger were felt by the 
 weaker, in vibrations audible as a voice. Near or dis 
 tant, the maiden felt whether her companion's mood 
 were gay or sad ; and she divined his thoughts with a 
 clearness that sometimes made him more than half 
 afraid. 
 
 Of course they loved each other long before they 
 knew what love was ; and with them innocence had 
 no need of virtue. Placed in outward circumstances 
 so harmonious with nature, they were drawn toward 
 each other by an attraction as pure and unconscious 
 as the flowers. They had no secrets from their good 
 foster-mother ; and she, being reverent towards the 
 gods, told them that their union must be preceded by 
 offerings to Juno, and solemnized by mutual promises. 
 She made a marriage feast for them, in her humble 
 way, and crowned the door-posts with garlands. Life
 
 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 15 
 
 passed blissfully there, in the bosom of the deeply 
 wooded hills. Two souls that are sufficient to each 
 other ; sentiments, affections, passions, thoughts, all 
 blending in love's harmony, are earth's most perfect 
 medium of heaven. Through them the angels come 
 and go continually, on missions of love to all the low 
 er forms of creation. It is the halo of these heavenly 
 visitors that veils the earth in such a golden glory, 
 and makes every little flower smile its blessing upon 
 lovers. And these innocent ones were in such har 
 mony with nature in her peaceful spring time ! The 
 young kids, browsing on the almond blossoms, stopped 
 and listened to their flutes, and came ever nearer, till 
 they looked in the eyes of the wedded ones. And 
 when the sweet sounds died away into silence, the 
 birds took up the strain and sang their salutation to 
 the marriage principle of the universe. 
 
 Thus months passed on, and neither heart felt an 
 unsatisfied want. They were known to each other 
 by many endearing names, but the foster-parents usu 
 ally called them Corythus and CEnone. These names 
 were everywhere cut into the rocks, and carved upon 
 the trees. Sometimes, the child-like girl Avould ask, 
 nothing doubting of the answer, " Will you love me 
 thus when I am as old as our good Arisba ?" And he 
 would twine flowers in the rich braids of her golden 
 hair, as he fondly answered, " May the Scamander 
 flow back to its source, if ever I cease to love my 
 CEnone." That there were other passions in the 
 world than love, they neither of them dreamed. But 
 one day Corythus went down into the plains in search 
 of a milk-white bull, that had strayed from the herd.
 
 16 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 
 
 He was returning with the animal, when he encoun 
 tered a troop of hunters, from the city on the other 
 side of the river. The tramp of their horses and the 
 glitter of their spears frightened the bull, and he 
 plunged madly into the waves of the Scamander. 
 The uncommon beauty of the powerful beast, and his 
 fiery strength, attracted attention. Some of the hun 
 ters dismounted to assist in bringing him out of the 
 river, and with many praises, inquired to whom he 
 belonged. The shepherd answered their questions 
 with a graceful diffidence, that drew some admiration 
 upon himself. As the troop rode away, he heard one 
 of them say, " By Apollo's quiver ! that magnificent 
 bull must be the one in which Jupiter disguised him 
 self to carry ofFEuropa." 
 
 " Yes," replied another, " and that handsome rus 
 tic might be Ganymede in disguise." 
 
 A glow of pleasure mantled the cheeks of Corythus. 
 He stood for a moment proudly caressing the neck 
 and head of the superb animal, and gazed earnestly 
 after the hunters. The adventure made a strong im 
 pression on his mind ; for by the brazen helmets and 
 shields, richly embossed with silver, he rightly con 
 jectured that they who had spoken thus of him were 
 princes of Ilium. From that day he dressed himself 
 more carefully, and often looked at the reflection of 
 himself in the mountain pool. Instead of hastening 
 to CEnone, when they had by any chance been sepa 
 rated for a few hours, he often lingered long, to gaze 
 at the distant towers of Ilium, glittering in the setting 
 sun. The scene was indeed surpassingly fair. The 
 Scamander flowed silverly through a verdant valley
 
 
 TILE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 17 
 
 girdled by an amphitheatre of richly wooded moun 
 tains. Europe and Asia smiled at each other across 
 the bright waters of the j33gean, while the lovely isl 
 ands of Imbros and Tenedos slept at their feet. But 
 it was not the beauty of the scene which chiefly at 
 tracted his youthful imagination. The spark of am 
 bition had fallen into his breast, and his shepherd 
 life now seemed unmanly and dull. GBnone soon 
 felt this ; for the usually quick perception of love 
 was rendered still more keen by her peculiar impress 
 ibility to spiritual influence. For the first time, in 
 her innocent and happy life, came conscious sadness 
 without a defined reason, and unsatisfied feelings that 
 took no name. She gave out the whole of her soul, 
 and not being all received, the backward stroke of un- 
 absorbed affection struck on her heart with mournful 
 echoes. It made her uneasy, she knew not why, to 
 hear Corythus talk of the princes of Ilium, with their 
 dazzling crests and richly embroidered girdles. It 
 seemed as if these princes, somehow or other, came 
 between her and her love. She had always been 
 remarkable for the dreaming power, and in her pre 
 sent state of mind this mysterious gift increased. 
 Her senses, too, became more acute. A nerve seemed 
 to be thrust out at every pore. She started at the 
 slightest sound, and often, when others saw nothing, 
 she would exclaim 
 
 " Look at that beautiful bird, with feathers like the 
 rainbow I" 
 
 The kind foster-mother laid all these things to her 
 heart. Something of reverence, tinged with fear 
 2*
 
 18 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 
 
 mixed with her love for this dear child of her adop 
 tion. She said to her husband 
 
 " Perhaps she is the daughter of Apollo, and he 
 will endow her with the gift of prophecy, as they say 
 he has the beautiful princess Cassandra, in the royal 
 halls of Ilium." 
 
 The attention of Corythus was quite otherwise em 
 ployed. All his leisure moments were spent in ma 
 king clubs and arrows. He often went down into 
 the plains, to join the young men in wrestling 
 matches, running, leaping, throwing of quoits. In 
 all games of agility or strength, he soon proved his 
 superiority so decidedly that they ceased to excite 
 him. Then he joined hunting parties, and in contests 
 with wild beasts he signalized himself by such extra 
 ordinary boldness and skill, that in all the country 
 round he came to be known by the name of Alexan 
 der, or the Defender. 
 
 The echo of his fame flattered the pride of his 
 foster-father, who often predicted for him a career of 
 greatness ; but poor (Enone wept at these periods of 
 absence, which became more and more frequent. 
 She Concealed her tears from him, however, and 
 eagerly seized every little moment of sunshine to 
 renew their old happiness. But of all the sad tasks 
 of poor humanity, it is the most sorrowful to welcome 
 ghosts of those living joys that once embraced us with 
 the warmest welcome. To an earnest and passionate 
 nature it seems almost better to be hated, than to be 
 less beloved. CEnone would not believe that the 
 sympathy between them was less perfect than it had
 
 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 19 
 
 been ; but the anxious inquiry and the struggling hope 
 were gradually weakening her delicate frame ; and an 
 event occurred which completely deranged her nervous 
 organization. One day they had both been tending 
 flocks on the hills, and had fallen asleep in the shade 
 of a gigantic oak. When they awoke, the flock had 
 wandered away, and they went in search of them. 
 Twilight drew her cloud-curtain earlier than usual, 
 and only a solitary star was here and there visible. 
 Bewildered by the uncertain light, they lost their way, 
 and were obliged to trust to the sagacity of their dog. 
 The sky, through the thickly interlacing boughs of 
 gigantic trees, looked down upon them solemnly ; 
 bushes here and there started forth, like spectral sha 
 dows, across their path ; and their faithful dog now 
 and then uttered a long howl, as if he felt the vicinity 
 of- some evil beast. CEnone was overcome with ex 
 ceeding fear. The wind among the trees distressed 
 her with its wailing song ; and her acute senses de 
 tected other sounds in the distance, long before they 
 reached the ear of her companion. 
 
 " Ha ! what is that ?" she exclaimed, clinging more 
 closely to his arm. 
 
 " Tis only the evening wind," he replied. 
 
 " Don't you hear it I" she said : " It is a horrible 
 noise, like the roar of lions. Ah, dear Corythus, the 
 wild beasts will devour us." 
 
 He stood and listened intently. 
 
 " I hear nothing," said he, " but the Dryads 
 whispering among the trees, and pulling green gar 
 lands from the boughs. Your ears deceive you, 
 dearest."
 
 20 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 
 
 There was silence for a few moments ; and then, 
 with a faint shriek, she exclaimed : 
 
 " Oh, did'nt you hear that frightful clash ? The 
 dog heard it. Hark ! how he growls." 
 
 For some time, Corythus insisted that there were no 
 other sounds than those common to evening. But at 
 last a deep roar, mingled with howls, came through 
 the air too distinctly to be mistaken. (Enone trem 
 bled in every joint, and the perspiration stood in large 
 drops on her lips and forehead. The sounds grew 
 louder and louder. Booming timbrels were answered 
 with the sharp clash of cymbals, and at every pause 
 of the rolling drums the Phrygian pipe moaned on the 
 winds. The roars, shrieks and howls of a furious 
 multitude rent the air with fierce discords, and the 
 earth shook as with the tramp of an army. As they 
 passed by, the glare of their torches came up from 
 below, and cast fantastic gleams on the dark foliage 
 of the firs. 
 
 " The gods be praised," said Corythus, " these are 
 no wild beasts ; but the Corybantes on their way to 
 the temple of Cybele. The sounds are awful indeed ; 
 but the Mountain Mother has been kind to us, dear 
 (Enone ; for by the route they have taken I see that 
 the good dog has guided us right, and we are not far 
 from our home." 
 
 He received no answer and could hear no breathing. 
 He felt the arm that clutched him so convulsively, 
 and found it cold and rigid. Fitful flashes of lurid 
 light gleamed ever and anon in the distance ; the hills 
 echoed the roar of Cybele's lions, and the passionate 
 clang of cymbals pierced into the ear of night. There
 
 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 21 
 
 was no hope of making his voice heard through the 
 uproar ; so he tenderly lifted his fair burthen and bore 
 it vigorously down the steep hill, pausing now and 
 then to take breath. At last, his eyes were greeted 
 by the welcome sight of Mygdomus with a torch, 
 anxiously looking out for them. (Enone's terror, and 
 its consequences, were briefly explained, and quickly 
 as possible they carried her into the dwelling. 
 
 The swoon continued so long, that it seemed like 
 death ; but at last she opened her eyes, gazed around 
 with an unconscious stare, and soon fell into a deep 
 sleep. The next morning she appeared exceedingly 
 weak, and there was a strange expression about her 
 eyes. She so earnestly besought Corythus not to 
 leave her, that the old shepherd and his wife proposed 
 to go forth with the flocks ; and it was agreed to call 
 them, in case of need, by a shrill summons on the 
 pipe. But CEnone, though much exhausted, and ner 
 vously sensitive to light and sound, slept most of the 
 time quietly. Corythus had in his hand a branch of 
 laurel ; and to amuse her waking moments, he wove 
 a garland of the leaves and playfully wreathed it 
 round her head. Her eyes lighted up with a singular 
 inward radiance, and she exclaimed joyfully, " I like 
 that. It makes me feel strong." 
 
 Corythus gazed anxiously into her eyes, and a 
 superstitious fear crossed his mind that she had in 
 some way offended the dread goddess Cybele, and 
 been punished with insanity. But she smiled so 
 sweetly on him, and spoke so coherently, that he 
 soon dismissed the fear. An insect buzzed about her
 
 22 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 
 
 head, and he moved his hand slowly up and down, 
 to keep it away. When he paused, she said : 
 'Do that again. It is soothing and pleasant." 
 
 He continued the motion, and with a delighted 
 smile, she said : 
 
 " Ah, the laurel bough has golden edges, and there 
 are rays about your head, like a shining crown." 
 
 The smile was still on her lips, when she sunk into 
 a profound slumber. But when he rose and attempt 
 ed to go out, she said, imploringly : 
 
 " Oh, don't leave me !" 
 
 Yet she still seemed in the deepest possible sleep. 
 
 " CEnone, do you see me ?" he asked. 
 
 " Yes, I see you on a hill where there is a marble 
 temple. There are three very beautiful women, and 
 they all beckon to you." 
 
 " What do they ask of me ?" said he. 
 
 " They ask of you to say which is the fairest. One 
 offers you a king's crown if you decide for her ; an 
 other holds forth a glittering spear, and says she will 
 make you the most renowned warrior in the world ; 
 the other offers a myrtle wreath, and says, ' Decide in 
 my favour, and you shall marry the most beautiful 
 princess in the world.' " 
 
 " I choose the myrtle," said Corythus ; " but this 
 is an odd dream." 
 
 " It is not a dream," replied OZnone. 
 
 " Are you not asleep, then ?" 
 
 " Yes, I am asleep ; the motion of your hands put 
 me to sleep, and if you move that hazel twig over my 
 face, it will wake me."
 
 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 23 
 
 * He waved the twig, and her eyes opened imme 
 diately ; but when questioned, she said she had seen 
 no marble temple, and no beautiful women. 
 
 This incident made an indelible impression on the 
 mind of Corythus. He merely told the foster-parents 
 that she had talked in her sleep, and had at times 
 looked very strangely. But, within himself, he pon 
 dered much upon what she had said concerning the 
 beautiful princess. Some days after, when he and 
 CEnone were out on the hill-side, he told her what she 
 had said of the motion of his hands, and the effect of 
 the hazel twig ; but an undefined feeling led him to 
 forbear mentioning her prophecy that he would marry 
 the most beautiful princess in the world. 
 
 She answered, playfully : 
 
 " Move your hands over my head again, and see if 
 I shall fall asleep." 
 
 He did so, and in a few minutes, she said : 
 
 " Ah, all the leaves on the trees now wear a golden 
 edge, the flowers radiate light, there is a shining 
 crown around your head, and from your fingers dart 
 lines of fire. Dear Corythus, this is like what the 
 minstrel sung of the Argonauts, when they were be 
 nighted, and Apollo's bow cast bright gleams along 
 the shore, and sparkled on the waves." 
 
 She continued to talk of the beautiful appearance 
 more and more drowsily, and in a few minutes sunk 
 into slumber. Corythus watched the statue-like still 
 ness of her features, and the singularly impressive 
 beauty of their expression. It was unlike anything 
 he had ever seen. A glorious light beamed from the 
 countenance, but it shone through, not on it ; like a
 
 24 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 
 
 rose-coloured lamp within a vase of alabaster. For a 
 few moments, he was too much awed to interrupt the 
 silence. There was something divine in her love 
 liness, as she lay there peacefully under the whisper 
 ing foliage, while the breezes gently raised her golden 
 ringlets. But curiosity was too powerful to be long 
 subdued by reverence ; and Cory thus at last asked : 
 
 " CEnone, where is the beautiful princess whom I 
 shall marry ?" 
 
 After a pause, she replied : 
 
 "In a fair city girdled by verdant hills, far south 
 from here, toward the setting sun." 
 
 " Do you see her ?" he asked. 
 
 " Yes. She is in a magnificent palace, the walls 
 of which are ivory inlaid with golden vines, and 
 grapes of amber. Beneath her feet is spread a rich 
 green cloth, embroidered with flowers. A handmaid 
 is kneeling before her, with a shining silver vase, 
 twined round with golden serpents, and heaped with 
 fine purple wool. Another sits at her feet, with the 
 infant princess in her arms." 
 
 " She is married, then ?" 
 
 " She is the famous Helena, of whose many lovers 
 the minstrels sing, and who was married to Mene- 
 laus, king of Laconia." 
 
 " How does she look ?*' 
 
 "Majestic as Juno, and beautiful as Venus. She 
 has large dark glowing eyes, a proud but very beauti 
 ful mouth, and neck and shoulders as white as ivory. 
 Her glossy brown hair is bound round the forehead 
 with a golden fillet, and falls in waves almost to her 
 feet. She is very beautiful, and very vain of her beauty. "
 
 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 25 
 
 " How then is it that she will consent to marry me, 
 a poor shepherd ?" 
 
 " You are the son of a king ; and when she sees 
 you, she will think you the most beautiful of men." 
 
 " I the son of a king ! Dearest CEnone, tell me of 
 what king ?" 
 
 " Of Priam, king of Troy." 
 
 " How then came I on Mount Ida ?" 
 
 " The night you were born, your mother dreamed 
 of a torch that set all Ilium on fire. The dream 
 troubled her, and she told it to the king, her husband. 
 He summoned the soothsayers, and they told him 
 that the babe which was born would cause the destruc 
 tion of the city. While your mother slept, the king 
 gave you to his favourite slave, Archelaus, with 
 orders to strangle you. But he had not the heart to 
 do it, and so he left you under a plane tree on Mount 
 Ida, and prayed the gods to send some one to save 
 you." 
 
 " Shall I be happy with the beautiful princess ?" 
 
 " You shall have joy, but much, much more* sor 
 row. She will bring destruction on you; and you 
 will come to CEnone to die." 
 
 Being further questioned, she said she knew the 
 healing virtues of all herbs, and the antidotes for all 
 poisons. 
 
 Corythus walked slowly back and forth, with folded 
 arms, revolving all that had been uttered. Could 
 it be that those handsome princes of Ilium were his 
 brothers? And the lovely Helena, the renown of 
 whose beauty had even reached the ears of shepherds 
 on these distant hills, could she ever be his wife ? 
 3
 
 26 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 
 
 He paused and gazed on CEnone, and compared in 
 his mind her innocent spiritual beauty with the volup 
 tuous picture she had given of Helena ; and there 
 arose within him a vague longing for the unknown 
 one. 
 
 "Wake me! wake me!" exclaimed the sleeper: 
 " there is a strange pain in my heart." 
 
 Mar veiling much, and blushing at his own thoughts, 
 he hastily woke her. He felt an unwillingness to 
 reveal what she had uttered ; and she was satisfied 
 when told that she had talked incoherently of the 
 splendours of a palace. From that day he often tried 
 the experiment, and was never satisfied with hearing 
 of her visions. 
 
 It was a sad task of this fair prophetess, thus un 
 consciously to paint the image of a rival in the heart 
 of him she loved. And though there remained in the 
 waking state no remembrance of the revelations made, 
 yet the effect of them gave a more plaintive tone to 
 her whole existence. The angelic depth of expression 
 increased in her beautiful eyes, and evermore looked 
 out through a transparent veil of melancholy ; for she 
 felt the estrangement of her beloved Corythus, though 
 she knew it not. In fact, his wayward behaviour at 
 tracted the attention of even good old Arisba. Moody 
 and silent, or irritable and impetuous, he no longer 
 seemed like the loving and happy youth, whom she 
 had doated on from his infancy. Sometimes he would 
 hurl the heaviest stones, with might and main, down 
 the sides of the mountain, or wrench the smaller trees 
 up by the roots. He was consumed by a feverish 
 restlessness, that could find no sufficient outward ex-
 
 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 27 
 
 pression ; a fiery energy that knew not how to expend 
 itself. Into the smallest occasions of play or labour he 
 threw such vehemence and volcanic force, that Arisba 
 jestingly said, " We will call you no more Corythus, 
 but Cceculus, who is said to have been born of a spark 
 from Vulcan's forge." 
 
 To CEnone, his conduct was wayward in the ex 
 treme. Sometimes he seemed to forget that she was 
 in existence ; and then, as if reproaching himself, he 
 treated her with a lavishness of love that laid her 
 weeping on his bosom. Then she would look up, 
 smiling through her tears, and say, " You do love me, 
 still ? I know not what to make of you, dear Cory 
 thus. Your love seems like the Scamander, that has 
 two sources, one warm and the other cold. But you 
 do love me ; do you not ? " 
 
 The allusion to two sources brought a faint flush 
 to his cheek ; and when he kissed her, and said " I do," 
 her listening spirit heard a broken echo in the answer. 
 
 Thus was life passing with them, when a messen 
 ger from king Priam came to obtain the white bull, 
 which had been so much admired by the hunters. 
 There was to be a gladiatorial contest in Ilium, and 
 the king had promised to the victor the most beautiful 
 bull that could be found on Mount Ida. Corythus 
 proudly replied that he would not give up the noble 
 animal, unless he were allowed to enter the lists for 
 the prize. Mygdomus, fearing the royal displeasure, 
 remonstrated with him, and reminded him that the 
 contest was for princes and great men, and not for 
 shepherds and rustics. But Corythus persisted that 
 on such terms only would he send away the pride of
 
 28 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 
 
 their herds. The courier departed, and returned next 
 day with a message from the king, saying he liked 
 the bold spirit of the youth, and would gladly admit 
 into the lists one so famous for courage and skill. 
 
 Poor CEnone could not overcome her reluctance to 
 have him go. There had always been in her mind 
 an uncomfortable feeling with regard to those princes 
 of Ilium ; and now it returned with redoubled force. 
 But, alas, in those mysterious sleeps she prophesied 
 victory and glory, and thus kindled higher than ever 
 the flame of ambition within his breast. 
 
 At last the important day arrived ; and with throb 
 bing hearts the shepherd-family saw their young 
 gladiator depart for the contest. He drew CEnone to 
 his heart and kissed her affectionately; but when they 
 parted, he did not stop to look back, as he used to do 
 in those blissful days when their souls were fused into 
 one. With vigorous, joyful leaps, he went bounding 
 down the sides of the mountain. CEnone watched his 
 graceful figure as he swung lightly from the trunk of 
 a young olive tree, down into the plain below. When 
 she could no longer see even a moving speck in the 
 distance, she retired tearfully, to tend the flocks alone. 
 All that day her eyes were fixed sadly on the towers 
 of Ilium, and the thought ever present was, " He did 
 not look back upon me, when we parted." 
 
 He promised to return on the third day ; but the 
 fourth, and the fifth, and the sixth passed, and still he 
 came not. Mournfully, mournfully, wailed CEnone's 
 pipe, and there came no answer now, but sad echoes 
 from the hills. 
 
 " What can have become of him ? " said Arisba,
 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 29 
 
 when the evening of the fourth day closed. " Surely, 
 if harm had happened to him, they would send a 
 messenger." 
 
 " He is either dead, or he has tasted the waters of 
 Argyra, which make people forget those they love," 
 said CEnone ; and as she spoke, hot tears fell on the 
 thread she spun. 
 
 *?v % *nr "Jt* */? n- -7^ "7?- 
 
 How had it fared meanwhile with Corythus ? 
 Victor in all the games, his beauty and his strength 
 called forth shouts of applause. One after another 
 of the king's sons were obliged to yield to his supe 
 rior vigour and skill. At last came the athletic and 
 hitherto unconquered Hector. After a fierce protract 
 ed struggle, the shepherd of Ida overthrew him also. 
 Enraged at being conquered by a youth of such infe 
 rior birth, he started on his feet and rushed after him, 
 in a paroxysm of wrath. Corythus, to elude his fury, 
 passed through a gate which led into the inner court 
 of the palace. It chanced that queen Hecuba and her 
 daughter Cassandra were there, when he rushed in, 
 and panting threw himself upon the altar of Jupiter 
 for protection. Hecuba flung her mantle over him, 
 and summoned a slave to bring him water. Cassan 
 dra, gazing earnestly at the youthful stranger, ex 
 claimed, 
 
 " How like he is to my mother, as I first remember 
 her!" 
 
 The queen inquired his age, and Cassandra, listen 
 ing to his answer, said, 
 
 " If my brother Paris had lived, such also would 
 have been his years." 
 
 " Fair Princess," replied Corythus, " an oracle has 
 3
 
 30 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 
 
 told me that I am he. Is Archelaus yet alive ? If so, 
 I pray you let him be summoned, and inquire of him 
 whether he destroyed the infant Paris." 
 
 The old slave, being questioned, fell on his knees 
 and confessed that he had left the babe under a plane 
 tree, on Mount Ida, and that he had afterward seen 
 him in the hut of Mygdomus. With a cry of joy, 
 Hecuba threw herself into the arms of her beautiful, 
 her long-lost son. Slaves brought water for his feet 
 and spread rich carpets before him. They clothed 
 him in royal robes, and there was feasting and rejoic 
 ing, and magnificent processions to the temples, and 
 costly sacrifices to the gods. Brothers and sisters 
 caressed him, and he was attended by beautiful bond 
 women, whose duty it was to obey his every wish. 
 Electra, a handsome Greek girl, with glowing cheeks 
 and eyes of fire, brought water for his hands in vases 
 of silver ; while Artaynta, a graceful Persian, with 
 kiss-inviting lips, and sleepy oriental eyes, always half- 
 veiled by their long silken fringes, knelt to pour per 
 fumes on his feet. Thus surrounded by love and 
 splendour, the dazzled youth forgot GEnone. It was 
 not until the fourth day of his residence in the palace, 
 that the new prince began to think how anxious must 
 be the humble hearts that loved him on Mount Ida. 
 Should he raise CEnone to his own royal rank ? She 
 was unquestionably lovely enough to grace a throne ; 
 but the famous Spartan queen had taken possession 
 of his imagination, and he was already devising some 
 excuse to visit the court of Menelaus. He had not 
 courage to reveal these feelings to CEnone ; and a 
 selfish wish to screen himself from embarrassment and
 
 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 31 
 
 pain induced him to send Archelaus to convey the news, 
 with munificent presents to his foster-parents and his 
 wife, and a promise that he would come hereafter. 
 
 When CEnone heard the unexpected tidings, she 
 fell into a swoon more deadly than the one she had 
 experienced on the night of Cybele's procession. She 
 knew that her feelings could not have changed toward 
 Corythus, had the Fates offered her the throne of the 
 world ; but she felt that it might be otherwise with 
 him. Weary weeks passed, and still he came not 
 CEnone, wakeful and nervous, at last asked the foster- 
 mother to try to soothe her into sleep, as Corythus 
 had formerly done. Under this influence all the ob 
 jects around her again radiated light ; and when the 
 mysterious slumber veiled her senses, she entered the 
 royal palace of Priam, and saw her beloved. Some 
 times she described him as reclining on a crimson 
 couch, while Electra brought him wine in golden 
 goblets. At other times, Artaynta knelt before him 
 and played on her harp, while he twined the long 
 ringlets of her glossy hair. At last she said he was 
 fitting out a fleet, and would soon sail away. 
 
 When Arisba asked where he would go, she an 
 swered : 
 
 " He says he is going to Salamis to redeem the 
 Princess Hesione, who was carried away prisoner by 
 the Greeks ; but his real object is to visit the beautiful 
 queen of Sparta, whom I told him he would marry." 
 
 " Poor child," thought Arisba, " then it was thou 
 thyself that kindled strange fires in his bosom. What 
 wrong hast thou done, in thy innocent life, that the 
 gods should thus punish thee ?"
 
 32 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 
 
 In her waking hours, CEnone asked eager questions 
 concerning all she had said in her state of inner con 
 sciousness. 
 
 " Oh, if I could only see him again !" she would 
 exclaim with mournful impatience. "To have these 
 painted visions, and to retain no memory of them 
 this is worse than the doom of Tantalus. Oh, how 
 could he forget me so easily ? We who have slept in 
 the same cradle, and so often folded each other in 
 mutual love. I could not thus have forgotten him."" 
 
 She invented many projects of going to Ilium in 
 disguise, that she might at least look upon him once 
 more. But timidity and pride restrained her. 
 
 " The haughty ones will scorn a poor shepherd 
 girl," she said ; " and he will be ashamed to call me 
 his wife. I will not follow him who wishes to leave 
 me. It would break my heart to see him caressing 
 another's beauty. Yet if I could only see him, even 
 with another folded to his heart ! Oh, ye gods, if I 
 could only see him again ! " 
 
 Arisba listened to these ravings with deep com 
 passion. 
 
 " Poor child," she would say, " when thou wert 
 born, the Loves sneezed to thee from the unlucky side." 
 
 OEnone would fain have been in her mysterious 
 sleep half the time ; so eager was she to receive tid 
 ings from Corythus. But Arisba had not the leisure 
 to spare, nor did she think such constant excitement 
 favourable to the health of her darling child. Already 
 her thin form was much attenuated, and her com 
 plexion had the pale transparency of a spirit. But 
 the restlessness, induced by hearing no news of her
 
 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 33 
 
 beloved, had a worse effect upon her nerves than the 
 excitement caused by her visions. So day by day, 
 Arisba tried to soothe her wretchedness, by producing 
 the sleep, and afterward repeating to her what she 
 had said. In this strange way, all that occurred at 
 the palace in Ilium was known in the hut on Mount 
 Ida. The departure of the young prince for Salamis, 
 the gorgeous fleet, with gay streamers and gilded 
 prows, the crowd about the shores waving garlands, 
 were all described in the liveliest manner. But 
 CEnone's sadness was not deepened by this event. 
 Corythus had been previously separated from her, 
 more completely than if he had already passed into the 
 world of spirits. One only hope consoled her misery; 
 her own prophecy that he would come to her to die. 
 Arisba was rejoiced to discover that her darling 
 would soon become a mother. She trusted this would 
 resuscitate withering affections, by creating a visible 
 link between her desolate heart and the being she so 
 fondly loved. And the first glance of the young mo 
 ther upon her innocent babe did seem to renew the 
 fountains of her life. She named the boy Corythus, 
 and eagerly watched his growing beauty, to catch 
 some likeness of his father. But the child had been 
 born under influences too sad to inherit his father's 
 vigorous frame, or his bounding, joyous, volatile spirit. 
 His nature was deep and loving, like his mother's, 
 and he had her plaintive, prophetic eyes. But his 
 rosy mouth, the very bow of Cupid, was the image 
 of his father's. And oh, with what a passionate mix 
 ture of maternal fondness and early romantic love, did 
 poor (Enone press it to her own pale lips !
 
 34 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 
 
 Less frequently now she sought the relief of super 
 natural sleep ; and when she did, it was not always 
 followed by visions. But at various times she saw 
 her beloved in Sparta, weaving garlands for the beau 
 tiful queen, or playing upon his flute while he reclined 
 at her feet. 
 
 "She loves him not," said the sleeper; "but his 
 beauty and his flattery please her, and she will return 
 with him. It will prove a fatal day for him, and for 
 Ilium." 
 
 When little Corythus was a year old, the fleet re 
 turned from Greece, bearing Paris and his beautiful 
 Spartan queen. CEnone was, of course, aware of 
 this event, long before the rumour was reported to Myg- 
 domus by neighbouring shepherds. A feverish excite 
 ment returned upon her ; the old intense desire to see 
 the loved one. But still she was restrained by fear 
 and womanly pride. She made unseen visits to the 
 palace, as before, and told of Paris forever at the feet 
 of his queenly bride, playing upon his silver lyre f 
 while she decorated his curling tresses with garlands. 
 
 Again and again, the question rose in CEnone's 
 mind, whether the forgetful one would love her fair 
 child, if he could see him ; and month by month, the 
 wish grew stronger to show him this son of their love. 
 Little Corythus was about two years old, when she 
 foretold immediate war with the Grecian states, en 
 raged at the abduction of queen Helena. When this 
 was repeated to her, she said to herself, 
 
 " If I go not soon, the plain will be filled with war 
 riors, and it will be dangerous to venture there." 
 
 She kept her purpose secret; but one morning,
 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 35 
 
 when she and the little one were out alone upon the 
 hills, she disguised herself in some of Arisba's old 
 robes, and went forth to Ilium, hoping to gain entrance 
 to the palace under the pretence of having herbs to 
 sell. But when she came within sight of the stately 
 edifice, her resolution almost failed. A slave, who 
 was harnessing two superb white horses to a glittering 
 chariot, demanded what she wanted; and when she 
 timidly told her errand, he showed her an inner quad 
 rangular court, and pointed out the apartments of the 
 women. As she stood hesitating, gazing on the mag 
 nificent marble columns and gilded lattices, Paris 
 himself came down the steps, encircling Helen with 
 his arm. It was the first time she had looked upon 
 him since he left her, in rustic garb, without pausing 
 to look back upon her. Now, he wore sparkling san 
 dals, and a mantle of Tyrian purple, with large clasps 
 of gold. His bride was clothed in embroidered Sido- 
 nian garments, of the richest fashion, and a long 
 flowing veil, of shining texture, was fastened about 
 her head by a broad band of embossed gold. Poor 
 (En one slunk away, abashed and confounded in the 
 presence of their regal beauty ; and her Keart sank 
 within her, when she saw those well-remembered eyes 
 gazing so fondly upon her splendid rival. But when 
 the slave brought the chariot to the gate, she tried to 
 rouse her courage and come forward with the child. 
 Paris carefully lifted his bride into the chariot, and 
 leaped in, to seat himself by her side. In the agony 
 of her feelings, the suffering mother made a convul 
 sive movement, and with a shrill hysteric shriek, ex 
 claimed,
 
 36 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 
 
 " Oh Corythus, do look once upon our child !" 
 
 The frightened horses reared and plunged. The 
 chariot, turning rapidly, struck CEnone and she fell. 
 The wheels merely grazed her garments, but passed 
 over the body of the child. Paris being occupied with 
 soothing Helen's alarm, was not aware of this dread 
 ful accident. The slave reined in the startled horses 
 with a strong hand, and drove rapidly forward. CEnone 
 was left alone outside the gates, with the lifeless body 
 of her babe. 
 
 It was evening when she returned weary and heart 
 broken to Arisba. A compassionate rustic accompa 
 nied her, bearing her melancholy burden. The sad 
 story was told in a few wild words ; and the old shep 
 herds bowed down their heads and sobbed in agony. 
 GBnone's grief was the more fearful, because it was so 
 still. It seemed as if the fountains of feeling were 
 dried up within her heart. 
 
 There was a painfully intense glare about her eyes, 
 and she remained wakeful late into the night. At 
 last, the good foster-mother composed her into an arti 
 ficial sleep. She talked less than usual in such slum 
 bers, and evinced an unwillingness to be disturbed. 
 But, in answer to Arisba's question, she said, 
 
 " He did not know a child was killed, nor did he 
 see us. In the confusion he thought only of Helen, 
 and did not recognise CEnone's voice. His sister Cas 
 sandra, who sees hidden things by the same light that 
 I do, has told him that the child killed at the gates was 
 his own. But Helen and her handmaids are dancing 
 round him, laughing and throwing perfumes as they
 
 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 37 
 
 go, and he thinks not of us. He would have loved 
 our little Cory thus, if he had known him." 
 
 " Thank the gods for that," said Arisba within her 
 self ; " for I would not like to hate the nursling I rear 
 ed so fondly." 
 
 They buried the child in the shade of a gigantic 
 oak, on which, in happier days, had been carved, with 
 the point of an arrow, the united- names of Corythus 
 and CEnone. A beautiful Arum lily held its large 
 white cup over the grave ; and the sorrowing mother 
 covered the broken soil with anemonies and the deli 
 cate blossoms of the crocus. There she would sit 
 hours together, gazing on the towers of Ilium. But 
 her desire to visit the palace, visibly or invisibly, seem 
 ed to have subsided entirely. No feeling of resent 
 ment against Corythus came into her gentle heart; 
 but her patient love seemed to have sunk into utter 
 hopelessness. Sometimes, indeed, she would look up 
 in Arisba's face, with a heart-touching expression in 
 her deep mournful eyes, and say, in tones of the sad 
 dest resignation, 
 
 " He will come to me to die." 
 
 Thus years passed on. War raged in all its fury 
 in the plains below. Their flocks and herds were all 
 seized by the rapacious soldiery, and the rushing of 
 many chariots echoed like thunder among the hills. 
 The nervous wakefulness of CEnone was still occa 
 sionally soothed by supernatural sleep ; though she 
 never sought it now from curiosity. At such times, 
 she often gave graphic accounts of the two contending 
 armies ; but these violent scenes pained her in her 
 sleep, and left her waking strength extremely exhaust- 
 4
 
 38 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 
 
 ed. Sometimes she described Paris in the battle-field, 
 in shining armour, over which a panther's skin was 
 gracefully thrown, with a quiver of arrows at his 
 shoulder, and a glittering spear balanced in his hand, 
 brave and beautiful as the god of day. But more fre 
 quently she saw him at Helen's feet, playing on harp 
 or flute, while she wove her gay embroidery. In the 
 latter time, she often spoke of his handsome brother 
 Deiphobus, standing near them, exchanging stolen 
 amorous glances with the vain and treacherous Spar 
 tan. 
 
 " She is false to him," murmured the sleeper, mourn 
 fully. " But he vrill come to CEnone to die." 
 
 At last, the predicted hour arrived. The towers of 
 Ilium were all in flames, and the whole atmosphere 
 was filled with lurid light, as the magnificent city sank 
 into her fiery grave. The wretched inhabitants were 
 flying in all directions, pursued by the avenging foe. 
 In the confusion, Paris was wounded by a poisoned 
 arrow. In this hour of agony, he remembered the 
 faithful, the long-forgotten one, and what she had said 
 of her skill in medicine. In gasping tones, he cried 
 out, 
 
 " Carry me to (Enone !" 
 
 His terrified slaves lifted him on a litter of boughs, 
 and hastened to obey his orders. 
 
 CEnone sat by the grave of her child, watching the 
 blazing towers of Ilium, when they laid Corythus at 
 her feet. She sprang forward, exclaiming, 
 
 " Dear, dear Corythus, you have come to me at 
 last !" 
 
 Bending over him, she kissed the lips, which, cold
 
 THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA. 
 
 39 
 
 mt. 
 
 as marble, returned no answer to the fond caress. She 
 gazed wildly on the pale countenance for an instant 
 placed her trembling hand upon his heart and then 
 springing upward convulsively, as if shot by an arrow, 
 she uttered one long shrill shriek, that startled all the 
 echoes, and fell lifeless on the body of him she loved 
 so well. 
 
 The weeping foster-parents dug a wide grave by 
 the side of little Corythus, and placed them in each 
 other's arms, under the shadow of the great oak, whose 
 Dryad had so often heard the pure whisperings of 
 their early love.
 
 THE YOUTHFUL EMIGRANT. 
 
 A True Story of the Early Settlement of New Jersey. 
 
 A being breathing thoughtful breath; 
 
 A traveller betwixt life and death ; 
 
 The reason firm, the temperate will, 
 
 Endurance, foresight, strength and skill. 
 
 A perfect woman, nobly planned, 
 
 To warn, to comfort, and command; 
 
 And yet a spirit still, and bright 
 
 With something of an angel light. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 THE latter part of the seventeenth century saw rapid 
 accessions to the Society of Friends, called Quakers. 
 The strong humility, the indwelling life, which then 
 characterised that peculiar sect, attracted large num 
 bers, even of the wealthy, to its unworldly doctrines. 
 Among these were John Haddon and his wife Eliza 
 beth, well-educated and genteel people, in the city of 
 London. Like William Penn, and other proselytes 
 from the higher classes, they encountered much ridi 
 cule and opposition from relatives, and the grossest 
 misrepresentations from the public. But this, as 
 usual, only made the unpopular faith more dear to 
 those who had embraced it for conscience' sake. 
 
 The three daughters of John Haddon received the 
 best education then bestowed on gentlewomen, with 
 the exception of ornamental accomplishments. The 
 spinnet and mandolin, on which their mother had
 
 THE YOUTHFUL EMIGRANT. 41 
 
 played with considerable skill, were of course banish 
 ed ; and her gay embroidery was burned, lest it should 
 tempt others to a like expenditure of time. The house 
 was amply furnished, but with the simplest patterns 
 and the plainest colours. An atmosphere of kindness 
 pervaded the whole establishment, from father and 
 mother down to the little errand-boy ; a spirit of per 
 fect gentleness, unbroken by any freaks of temper, or 
 outbursts of glee ; as mild and placid as perpetual 
 moonlight. 
 
 The children, in their daily habits, reflected an im 
 age of home, as children always do. They were 
 quiet, demure, and orderly, with a touch of quaintness 
 in dress and behaviour. Their playthings were so well 
 preserved, that they might pass in good condition to 
 the third generation; no dogs' ears were turned in 
 their books, and the moment they came from school, 
 they carefully covered their little plain bonnets from 
 dust and flies. To these subduing influences, was 
 added the early consciousness of being pointed at as 
 peculiar ; of having a cross to bear, a sacred cause to 
 sustain. 
 
 Elizabeth, the oldest daughter, was by nature strong, 
 earnest, and energetic, with warm affections, uncom 
 mon powers of intellect, and a lively imagination. 
 The exact equal pressure on all sides, in strict Quaker 
 families, is apt to produce too much uniformity of 
 character ; as the equal pressure of the air makes one 
 globule of shot just like another. But in this rich 
 young soul, the full stream, which under other circum 
 stances might have overleaped safe barriers, being 
 gently hemmed in by high banks, quietly made for it- 
 4*
 
 42 
 
 THE YOUTHFUL EMIGRANT. 
 
 self a deeper and wider channel, and flowed on in all 
 its fulness. Her countenance in some measure indi 
 cated this. Her large clear blue eye " looked out hon 
 est and friendly into the world," and there was an 
 earnest seriousness about her mouth, very unusual in 
 childhood. She was not handsome ; but there was 
 something extremely pleasing in her fresh healthy 
 complexion, her bright intelligent expression, and her 
 firm elastic motions. 
 
 She early attracted attention, as a very peculiar child. 
 In her usual proceedings, her remarks, and even in her 
 play, there was a certain individuality. It was evident 
 that she never intended to do anything strange. She 
 was original merely because she unconsciously acted 
 out her own noble nature, in her own free and quiet 
 way. It was a spontaneous impulse with her to relieve 
 all manner of distress. One day, she brought home 
 a little half-blind kitten in her bosom, which her gen 
 tle eloquence rescued from cruel boys, who had cut 
 off a portion of its ears. At another time, she asked 
 to have a large cake baked for her, because she want 
 ed to invite some little girls. All her small funds 
 were expended for oranges and candy on this occasion. 
 When the time arrived, her father arid mother were 
 much surprised to see her lead in six little ragged beg 
 gars. They were, however, too sincerely humble and 
 religious to express any surprise. They treated the 
 forlorn little ones very tenderly, and freely granted 
 their daughter's request to give them some of her 
 books and playthings at parting. When they had 
 gone, the good mother quietly said, "Elizabeth, why 
 didst thou invite strangers, instead of thy schoolmates ?"
 
 THE YOUTHFUL EMIGRANT. 43 
 
 There was a heavenly expression in her eye, as she 
 looked up earnestly, and answered, " Mother, I wanted 
 to invite them, they looked so poor." 
 
 The judicious parents made no circumstance of it, 
 lest it should create a diseased love of being praised 
 for kindness. But they gave each other an expressive 
 glance, and their eyes filled with tears ; for this sim 
 ple and natural action of their child seemed to them 
 full of Christian beauty. 
 
 Under such an education, all good principles and 
 genial impulses grew freely and took vigorous root ; 
 but the only opening for her active imagination to 
 spread its wings, was in the marvellous accounts she 
 heard of America and the Indians. When she was 
 five or six years old, William Penn visited her father's 
 house, and described some of his adventures in the 
 wilderness, and his interviews with red men. The in 
 telligent child eagerly devoured every word, and kept 
 drawing nearer and nearer, till she laid her head upon 
 his knees, and gazed into his face. Amused by her 
 intense curiosity, the good man took her in his lap, 
 and told her how the squaws made baskets and em 
 broidered moccasons ; how they called a baby a pap- 
 poos, and put him in a birch-bark cradle, which they 
 swung on the boughs of trees. The little girl's eyes 
 sparkled, as she inquired, " And didst thou ever see a 
 pappoos-baby thyself? And hast thou got a mocca- 
 son-shoe ?" 
 
 " I have seen them myself, and I will send thee a 
 moccason," he replied ; " but thou mayst go to thy 
 mother now, for I have other things to speak of." 
 
 That night, the usually sedate child scampered
 
 44 THE YOUTHFUL EMIGRANT. 
 
 across the bed-room with but one sleeve of her night 
 gown on, and tossed up her shoe, shouting, " Ho, ho! 
 Friend Penn is going to send me an Indian moccason ! 
 Mother, art thou glad ? Hannah, art thou glad ?" 
 
 This unwonted ebullition was not rebuked in words, 
 but it soon subsided under the invisible influence of 
 unvarying calmness. 
 
 From that time, a new character was given to all 
 her plays. Her doll was named Pocahoritas, and she 
 swung her kitten in a bit of leather, and called it a 
 pappoos. If she could find a green bough, she stuck 
 it in the ground for a tree, placed an earthen image 
 under it for William Penn, and sticks with feathers on 
 them for Indian chiefs. Then, with amusing gravity 
 of manner, she would unfold a bit of newspaper and 
 read what she called Friend Penn's treaty with the red 
 men. Her sisters, who were a of far less adventurous 
 spirit, often said, " We are tired of always playing In 
 dian. Why not play keep school, or go to see grand 
 father ?" 
 
 But Elizabeth would answer, " No ; let us play 
 that we all go settle in America. Well, now suppose 
 we are in the woods, with great, great, big trees all 
 round us, and squirrels running up and down, and 
 wolves growling." 
 
 " I don't like wolves," said little Hannah, " they 
 will bite thee. Father says they will bite." 
 
 " I shouldn't be afraid," replied the elder sister; "I 
 would run into the house and shut the door, when 
 they came near enough for me to see their eyes. Here 
 are plenty of sticks. Let us build a house ; a wig 
 wam, I mean. Oh, dear me, how I should love to go
 
 THE YOtTTHFTTL EMIGRANT. 45 
 
 to America ! There must be such grand great woods 
 to run about in ; and I should love to swing the little 
 pappooses in the trees." 
 
 When Elizabeth was eleven years old, she went 
 with her parents to Yearly Meeting, and heard, among 
 other preachers, a young man seventeen years of age, 
 named John Estaugh. He was a new proselyte, 
 come from Essex county, to join the annual assembly 
 of the Friends. Something in his preaching arrested 
 the child's attention, and made a strong impression on 
 her active mind. She often quoted his words after 
 wards, and began to read religious books with great 
 diligence. John Had don invited the youth home to 
 dine, but as there was no room at the table for the 
 children, Elizabeth did not see him. Her father after 
 ward showed her an ear of Indian corn, which John 
 Estaugh had given him. He had received several 
 from an uncle settled in New England, and he brought 
 some with him to London as curiosities. When the 
 little girl was informed that the magnificent plant grew 
 taller than herself, and had very large waving green 
 leaves, and long silken tassels, she exclaimed, with 
 renewed eagerness, " Oh, how I do wish I could go 
 to America ! " 
 
 Years passed on, and as the child had been, so was 
 the maiden; modest, gentle and kind, but always 
 earnest and full of life. Surrounding influences na 
 turally guided her busy intellect into inquiries con 
 cerning the right principles of human action, and the 
 rationality of customary usages. At seventeen, she 
 professed to have adopted, from her own serious con 
 viction, the religious opinions in which she had been
 
 46 THE YOUTHFUL EMIGRANT. 
 
 educated. There was little observable change in out 
 ward manner ; for the fresh spontaneousness of her 
 character had been early chastened by habitual calm 
 ness and sobriety. But her views of life gradually 
 became tinged with a larger and deeper thoughtfulness. 
 She often spoke of the freedom of life away from 
 cities, and alone with nature ; of mutual helpfulness 
 in such a state of society, and increased means of 
 doing good. 
 
 Perhaps her influence, more than anything else, in 
 duced her father to purchase a tract of land in New 
 Jersey, with the view of removing thither. Mechanics 
 were sent out to build a suitable house and barns, and 
 the family were to be transplanted to the New World 
 as soon as the necessary arrangements were completed. 
 In the meantime, however, circumstances occurred 
 which led the good man to consider it his duty to re 
 main in England. The younger daughters were well 
 pleased to have it so; but Elizabeth, though she ac 
 quiesced cheerfully in her father's decision, evidently 
 had a weight upon her mind. She was more silent 
 than usual, and more frequently retired to her cham 
 ber for hours of quiet communion with herself. Some 
 times, when asked what she had upon her mind, she 
 replied, in the concise solemn manner of Friends, " It 
 is a great thing to be a humble waiter upon the Lord ; 
 to stand in readiness to follow wheresoever He leads 
 the way." 
 
 One day, some friends, who were at the house, spoke 
 of the New Jersey tract, and of the reasons which 
 had prevented a removal to America. Her father re 
 plied, that he was unwilling to have any property
 
 THE YOUTHFUL EMIGRANT. 47 
 
 lying useless, and he believed he should offer the tract 
 to any of his relatives who would go and settle upon 
 it. His friends answered, " Thy relatives are too 
 comfortably established in England, to wish to emi 
 grate to the wilds of America." 
 
 That evening, when the family were about to sepa 
 rate for the night, Elizabeth begged them to remain a 
 while, as she had something of importance to say. 
 " Dear parents and sisters," said she, " it is now a long 
 time since I have had a strong impression on my mind 
 that it is my duty to go to America. My feelings 
 have been greatly drawn toward the poor brethren and 
 sisters there. It has even been clearly pointed out to 
 me what I am to do. It has been lately signified 
 that a sign would be given when the way was opened ; 
 and to-night when I heard thy proposition to give the 
 house and land to whoever would occupy it, I felt at 
 once that thy words were the promised sign." 
 
 Her parents, having always taught their children to 
 attend to inward revealings, were afraid to oppose 
 what she so strongly felt to be a duty. Her mother, 
 with a slight trembling in her voice, asked if she had 
 reflected well on all the difficulties of the undertaking, 
 and how arduous a task it was for a young woman to. 
 manage a farm of unbroken land in a new country. 
 
 Elizabeth replied, " Young women have governed 
 kingdoms ; and surely it requires less wisdom to 
 manage a farm. But let not that trouble us, dear 
 mother. He that feedeth the ravens will guide me in 
 the work whereunto he has called me. It is not to 
 cultivate the farm, but to be a friend and physician to 
 the people in that region, that I am called."
 
 48 THE YOUTHFUL EMIGRANT. 
 
 Her father answered, " Doubt not, my child, that 
 we shall be willing to give thee up to the Lord's dis- 
 posings, however hard the trial may be. But when 
 thou wert a very little girl, thy imagination was much 
 excited concerning America ; therefore, thou must be 
 very careful that no desire for new adventures, found 
 ed in the will of the creature, mislead thee from the 
 true light in this matter. I advise thee for three 
 months to make it a subject of solid meditation and 
 prayer. Then, if our lives be spared, we will talk 
 further concerning it." 
 
 During the prescribed time, no allusion was made to 
 the subject, though it was in the thoughts of all ; for 
 this highly conscientious family were unwilling to 
 confuse inward perceptions by any expression of feel 
 ing or opinion. With simple undoubting faith, they 
 sought merely to ascertain whether the Lord required 
 this sacrifice. That their daughter's views remained 
 the same, they partly judged by her increased tender 
 ness toward all the family. She was not sad, but 
 thoughtful and ever-wakeful, as toward friends from 
 whom she was about to separate. It was likewise ob 
 servable that she redoubled her diligence in obtaining 
 knowledge of household affairs, of agriculture, and 
 the cure of common diseases. When the three 
 months had expired, she declared that the light shone 
 withundiminished clearness, and she felt, more strong 
 ly than ever, that it was her appointed mission to com 
 fort and strengthen the Lord's people in the New 
 World. 
 
 Accordingly, early in the spring of 1700, arrange 
 ments were made for her departure, and all things
 
 THE YOUTHFUL EMIGRANT. 
 
 were provided that the abundance of wealth, or the 
 ingenuity of affection, could devise. A poor widow of 
 good sense and discretion accompanied her, as friend 
 and housekeeper, and two trusty men servants, mem 
 bers of the Society of Friends. Among the many 
 singular manifestations of strong faith and religious 
 zeal, connected with the settlement of this country, 
 few are more remarkable than the voluntary separa 
 tion of this girl of eighteen years old from a wealthy 
 home and all the pleasant associations of childhood, 
 to go to a distant and thinly inhabited country, to 
 fulfil what she considered a religious duty. And the 
 humble, self-sacrificing faith of the parents, in giving 
 up their beloved child, with such reverend tenderness 
 for the promptings of her own conscience, has in it 
 something sublimely beautiful, if we look at it in its 
 OAvn pure light. The parting took place with more 
 love than words can express, and yet without a tear 
 on either side. Even during the long and tedious 
 voyage, Elizabeth never wept. She preserved a mar 
 tyr-like cheerfulness and serenity to the end. 
 
 The house prepared for her reception stood in a 
 clearing of the forest, three miles from any other 
 dwelling. She arrived in June, when the landscape 
 was smiling in youthful beauty ; and it seemed to her 
 as if the arch of heaven was never before so clear and 
 bright, the carpet of the earth never so verdant. As 
 she sat at her window and saw evening close in upon 
 her in that broad forest home, and heard, for the first 
 time, the mournful notes of the whippo-wil and the 
 harsh scream of the jay in the distant woods, she was 
 oppressed with a sense of vastness, of infinity, which 
 5
 
 
 50 THE YOUTHFUL EMIGRANT. 
 
 she never before experienced, not even on the ocean. 
 She remained long in prayer, and when she lay down 
 to sleep beside her matron friend, no words were 
 spoken between them. The elder, overcome with fa 
 tigue, soon sank into a peaceful slumber ; but the 
 young enthusiastic spirit lay long awake, listening to 
 the lone voice of the whippo-wil complaining to the 
 night. Yet notwithstanding this prolonged wakeful- 
 ness, she rose early and looked out upon the lovely 
 landscape. The rising sun pointed to the tallest trees 
 with his golden ringer, and was welcomed with a gush 
 of song from a thousand warblers. The poetry in 
 Elizabeth's soul, repressed by the severe plainness 
 of her education, gushed up like a fountain. She 
 dropped on her knees, and with an outburst of prayer 
 exclaimed fervently, " Oh, Father, very beautiful hast 
 thou made this earth ! How bountiful are thy gifts, 
 
 Lord!" 
 
 To a spirit less meek and brave, the darker shades 
 of the picture would have obscured these cheerful 
 gleams ; for the situation was lonely and the incon 
 veniences innumerable. But Elizabeth easily tri 
 umphed over all obstacles, by her practical good sense 
 and the quick promptings of her ingenuity. She 
 was one of those clear strong natures, who always 
 have a definite aim in view, and who see at once the 
 means best suited to the end. Her first inquiry was, 
 what grain was best adapted to the soil of her farm ; 
 and being informed that rye would yield best, " Then 
 
 1 shall eat rye bread," was her answer. The ear of 
 Indian corn, so long treasured in her juvenile mu 
 seum, had travelled with her across the Atlantic, to
 
 THE YOUTHFUL EMIGRANT. 51 
 
 be planted in American soil. When she saw fields 
 of this superb plant, she acknowledged that it more 
 than realized the picture of her childish imagination. 
 But when winter came, and the gleaming snow 
 spread its unbroken silence over hill and plain, was 
 it not dreary then ? It would have been dreary in 
 deed to one who entered upon this mode of life from 
 mere love of novelty, or a vain desire to do something 
 extraordinary. But the idea of extended usefulness, 
 which had first lured this remarkable girl into a path 
 so unusual, sustained her through all its trials. She 
 was too busy to be sad, and she leaned too trustingly 
 on her Father's hand to be doubtful of her way. 
 The neighbouring Indians soon loved her as a friend, 
 for they found her always truthful, just, and kind. 
 From their teachings, she added much to her know 
 ledge of simple medicines. So efficient was her 
 skill and so prompt her sympathy, that for many miles 
 round, if man, woman, or child were alarmingly ill, 
 they were sure to send for Elizabeth Haddon ; and 
 wherever she went, her observing mind gathered some 
 new hint for the improvement of farm or dairy. Her 
 house and heart were both large ; and as her resi 
 dence was on the way to the Quaker meeting-house 
 in Newtown, it became a place of universal resort to 
 Friends from all parts of the country travelling that 
 road, as well as an asylum for benighted wanderers. 
 When Elizabeth was asked if she were not sometimes 
 afraid of wayfarers, she quietly replied, " Perfect love 
 casteth out fear." And true it was that she, who 
 was so bountiful and kind to all, found none to injure 
 her.
 
 52 THE YOUTHFUL EMIGRANT. 
 
 The winter was drawing to a close, when late one 
 evening, the sound of sleigh-bells was heard, and the 
 crunching of snow beneath the hoofs of horses, as 
 they passed into the barn-yard gate. The arrival of 
 travellers was too common an occurrence to excite or 
 disturb the well-ordered family. Elizabeth quietly 
 continued her knitting, merely saying to one of the 
 men, " Joseph, wilt thou put more wood on the fire ? 
 These friends, whoever they may be, will doubtless 
 be cold ; for I observed at nightfall a chilly feeling, 
 as of more snow in the air." 
 
 Great logs were piled in the capacious chimney, 
 and the flames blazed up with a crackling warmth, 
 when two strangers entered. In the younger, Eliza 
 beth instantly recognised John Estaugh, whose 
 preaching had so deeply impressed her at eleven years 
 of age. This was almost like a glimpse of home 
 her dear old English home ! She stepped forward 
 with more than usual cordiality, saying : 
 
 " Thou art welcome, Friend Estaugh ; the more so 
 for being entirely unexpected." 
 
 " And I am glad to see thee, Elizabeth," he replied, 
 with a friendly shake of the hand. " It was not until 
 after I landed in America, that I heard the Lord had 
 called thee hither before me ; but I remember thy 
 father told me how often thou hadst played the settler 
 in the woods, when thou wast quite a little girl." 
 
 " I am but a child still," she replied, smiling. 
 
 " I trust thou art," he rejoined; " and as for these 
 strong impressions in childhood, I have heard of 
 many cases where they seemed to be prophecies sent 
 of the Lord. When I saw thy father in London, I
 
 THE YOUTHFUL EMIGRANT. 53 
 
 had even then an indistinct idea that I might some 
 time be sent to America on a religious visit." 
 
 " And hast thou forgotten, Friend John, the ear of 
 Indian corn which my father begged of thee for me ? 
 I can show it to thee now. Since then I have seen 
 this grain in perfect growth ; and a goodly plant it 
 is, I assure thee. See," she continued, pointing to 
 many bunches of ripe corn, which hung in their 
 braided husks against the walls of the ample kitchen : 
 " all that, and more, came from a single ear. no bigger 
 than the one thou didst give my father. May the 
 seed sown by thy ministry be as fruitful !" 
 
 " Amen," replied both the guests ; and for a few 
 moments no one interrupted the silence. Then they 
 talked much of England. John Estaugh had not 
 seen any of the Haddon family for several years ; but 
 he brought letters from them, which came by the 
 same ship, and he had information to give of many 
 whose names were familiar as household words. 
 
 The next morning, it was discovered that snow had 
 fallen during the night in heavy drifts, and the roads 
 were impassable. Elizabeth, according to her usual 
 custom, sent out men, oxen and sledges, to open 
 pathways for several poor families, and for house 
 holds whose inmates were visited by illness. In this 
 duty, John Estaugh and his friend joined heartily, 
 and none of the labourers worked harder than they. 
 When he returned, glowing from this exercise, she 
 could not but observe that the excellent youth had a 
 goodly countenance. It was not physical beauty ; for 
 of that he had little. It was that cheerful, child-like, 
 out-beaming honesty of expression, which we not 
 5*
 
 54 THE YOUTHFUL EMIGRANT. 
 
 unfrequently see in Germans, who, above all nations, 
 look as if they carried a crystal heart within their 
 manly bosoms. 
 
 Two days after, when Elizabeth went to visit her 
 patients, with a sled-load of medicines and provisions, 
 John asked permission to accompany her. There, by 
 the bedside of the aged and the suffering, she saw the 
 clear sincerity of his countenance warmed up with 
 rays of love, while he spoke to them words of kind 
 ness and consolation ; and there she heard his plea 
 sant voice modulate itself into deeper tenderness of 
 expression, when he took little children in his arms. 
 
 The next First Day, which we call the Sabbath, 
 the whole family, as usual, attended Newtown meet 
 ing; and there John Estaugh was gifted with an out 
 pouring of the spirit in his ministry, which sank deep 
 into the hearts of those who listened to him. Eliza 
 beth found it so marvellously applicable to the trials 
 and temptations of her own soul, that she almost 
 deemed it was spoken on purpose for her. She said 
 nothing of this, but she pondered upon it deeply. 
 Thus did a few days of united duties make them 
 more thoroughly acquainted with each other, than 
 they could have been by years of fashionable inter 
 course. 
 
 The young preacher soon after bade farewell, to 
 visit other meetings in Pennsylvania and New Jer 
 sey. Elizabeth saw him no more until the May fol 
 lowing, when he stopped at her house to lodge, with 
 numerous other Friends, on their way to the Quar 
 terly Meeting at Salem. In the morning, quite a 
 cavalcade started from her hospitable door, on horse-
 
 THE YOUTHFUL EMIGRANT. 55 
 
 back ; for wagons were then unknown in Jersey. 
 John Estaugh, always kindly in his impulses, busied 
 himself with helping a lame and very ugly old wo 
 man, and left his hostess to mount her horse as she 
 could. Most young women would have felt slighted ; 
 but in Elizabeth's noble soul the quiet deep tide of 
 feeling rippled with an inward joy. " He is always 
 kindest to the poor and the neglected," thought she ; 
 " verily he is a good youth." She was leaning over 
 the side of her horse, to adjust the buckle of the girth, 
 when he came up on horseback, and inquired if any 
 thing was out of order. She thanked him, with 
 slight confusion of manner, and a voice less calm than 
 her usual utterance. He assisted her to mount, and 
 they trotted along leisurely behind the procession of 
 guests, speaking of the soil and climate of this new 
 country, and how wonderfully the Lord had here 
 provided a home for his chosen people. Presently 
 the girth began to slip, and the saddle turned so much 
 on one side, that Elizabeth was obliged to dismount. 
 It took some time to re-adjust it, and when they 
 again started, the company were out of sight. There 
 was brighter colour than usual in the maiden's cheeks, 
 and unwonted radiance in her mild deep eyes. After 
 a short silence, she said, in a voice slightly tremu 
 lous, " Friend John, I have a subject of great impor 
 tance on my mind, and one which nearly interests 
 thee. I am strongly impressed that the Lord has 
 sent thee to me as a partner for life. I tell thee my 
 impression frankly, but not without calm and deep 
 reflection ; for matrimony is a holy relation, and 
 should be entered into with all sobriety. If thou
 
 56 THE YOUTHFUL EMIGRANT. 
 
 hast no light on the subject, wilt thou gather into the 
 stillness, and reverently listen to thy own inward re- 
 vealings ? Thou art to leave this part of the country 
 to-morrow, and not knowing when I should see thee 
 again, 1 felt moved to tell thee what lay upon my 
 mind." 
 
 The young man was taken by surprise. Though 
 accustomed to that suppression of emotion, which 
 characterizes his religious sect, the colour went and 
 came rapidly in his face, for a moment ; but he soon 
 became calmer, and replied, " This thought is new to 
 me,' Elizabeth ; and I have no light thereon. Thy 
 company has been right pleasant to me, and thy 
 countenance ever reminds me of William Penn's title- 
 page, ' Innocency with her open face.' I have seen 
 thy kindness to the poor, and the wise management 
 of thy household. I have observed, too, that thy 
 warm-heartedness is tempered by a most excellent 
 discretion, and that thy speech is ever sincere. As 
 suredly, such is the maiden I would ask of the Lord, 
 as a most precious gift ; but I never thought of this 
 connexion with thee. I came to this country solely 
 on a religious visit, and it might distract my mind to 
 entertain this subject at present. When I have dis 
 charged the duties of my mission, we will speak 
 further." 
 
 " It is best so," rejoined the maiden ; " but there i3 
 one thing disturbs my conscience. Thou hast spoken 
 of my true speech ; arid yet, Friend John, I have 
 deceived thee a little, even now, while we conferred 
 together on a subject so serious. I know not from what 
 weakness the temptation came ; but I will not hide it
 
 THE YOUTHFUL EMIGRANT. 57 
 
 from thee. I allowed thee to suppose, just now, that 
 I was fastening the girth of my horse securely ; but, in 
 plain truth, I was loosening the girth, John, that the 
 saddle might slip, and give me an excuse to fall behind 
 our friends; for I thought thou wouldst be kind 
 enough to come and ask if I needed thy services." 
 
 This pure transparency of motive seemed less 
 wonderful to John Estaugh, than it would to a man 
 more accustomed to worldly ways, or less familiar with 
 the simplicity of primitive Quakers. Nevertheless, 
 the perfect guilelessness of the maiden endeared her to 
 his honest heart, and he found it difficult to banish 
 from his thoughts the important subject she had sug 
 gested. It was observable in this singular courtship, 
 that no mention was made of wordly substance. John 
 did not say, " I am poor, and thou art rich;" he did 
 not even think of it. And it had entered Elizabeth's 
 mind only in the form of thankfulness to God that she 
 was provided with a home large enough for both. 
 
 They spoke no further concerning their union ; but 
 when he returned to England, in July, he pressed her 
 hand affectionately, as he said, " Farewell, Elizabeth. 
 If it be the Lord's will, I shall return to thee soon." 
 He lingered, and their hands trembled in each other's 
 clasp ; then drawing her gently toward him, he im 
 printed a kiss on her open innocent forehead. She 
 looked modestly into his clear honest eyes, and replied 
 in the kindest tones, " Farewell, Friend John ; may 
 the Lord bless thee and guide thee." 
 
 In October, he returned to America, and they were 
 soon after married, at Newtown meeting, according to 
 the simple form of the Society of Friends. Neither
 
 58 THE YOUTHFUL EMIGRANT. 
 
 of them made any change of dress for the occasion, and 
 there was no wedding feast. Without the aid of priest 
 or magistrate, they took each other by the hand, and, in 
 the presence of witnesses, calmly and solemly promised 
 to be kind and faithful to each other. Their mutual 
 promises were recorded in the church books, and the 
 wedded pair quietly returned to their happy home, 
 with none to intrude upon those sacred hours of hu 
 man life, when the heart most needs to be left alone 
 with its own deep emotions. 
 
 During the long period of their union, she three 
 times crossed the Atlantic, to visit her aged parents, 
 and he occasionally left her for a season, when called 
 abroad to preach. These temporary separations were, 
 felt as a cross, but the strong-hearted woman always 
 cheerfully gave him up to follow his own convictions 
 of duty. In 1742, he parted from her, to go on a 
 religious visit to Tortola, in the West Indies. He 
 died there, in the sixty-seventh year of his age. A 
 friend, in a letter informing her of the event, says : 
 " A shivering fit, followed by fever, seized him on the 
 first day of the tenth month. He took great notice 
 that it ended forty years since his marriage with thee ; 
 that during that time you had lived in much love, and 
 had parted in the same ; and that leaving thee was 
 his greatest concern of all outward enjoyments. On 
 the sixth day of the tenth month, about six o'clock at 
 night, he went away like a lamb." She published a 
 religious tract of his, to which is prefixed a preface, 
 entitled " Elizabeth Estaugh's testimony concerning 
 her beloved husband, John Estaugh." In this preface, 
 she says, " Since it pleased Divine Providence so high
 
 THE YOUTHFUL EMIGRANT. 59 
 
 ly to favour me, with being the near companion of this 
 dear worthy, I must give some small account of him. 
 Few, if any, in a married state, ever lived in sweeter 
 harmony than we did. He was a pattern of modera 
 tion in all things ; not lifted up with any enjoyments, 
 nor cast down at disappointments. A man endowed 
 with many good gifts, which rendered him very agree 
 able to his friends, and much more to me, his wife, to 
 whom his memory is most dear and precious." 
 
 Elizabeth survived her excellent husband twenty 
 years, useful and honoured to the last. The Month 
 ly Meeting of Haddonfield, in a published testimonial, 
 speak of her thus : " She was endowed with great 
 natural abilities, which, being sanctified by the spirit 
 of Christ, were much improved ; whereby she became 
 qualified to act in the affairs of the church, and was 
 a serviceable member, having been clerk to the 
 women's meeting nearly fifty years, greatly to their 
 satisfaction. She was a sincere sympathiser with the 
 afflicted, of a benevolent disposition, and in distribut 
 ing to the poor, was desirous to do it in a way most 
 profitable and durable to them, and if possible not to 
 let the right hand know what the left did. Though 
 in a state of affluence as to this world's wealth, she 
 was an example of plainness and moderation. Her 
 heart and house were open to her friends, whom to 
 entertain seemed one of her greatest pleasures. Pru 
 dently cheerful, and well knowing the value of friend 
 ship, she was careful not to wound it herself, nor to 
 encourage others in whispering supposed failings or 
 weaknesses. Her last illness brought great bodily 
 pain, which she bore with much calmness of mind
 
 60 THE YOUTHFUL EMIGRANT. 
 
 and sweetness of spirit. She departed this life as one 
 falling asleep, full of days, like unto a shock of corn, 
 fully ripe." 
 
 The town of Haddonfield, in New-Jersey, took its 
 name from her; and the tradition concerning her 
 courtship is often repeated by some patriarch among 
 the Quakers. She laid out an extensive garden in 
 rear of the house, which during her day was much 
 celebrated for its herbs, vegetables and fruits, liberally 
 distributed all round the neighbourhood. The house 
 was burned down years ago ; but some fine old yew 
 trees, which she brought from England, are still 
 pointed out on the site where the noble garden once 
 nourished. Her medical skill is so well remembered, 
 that the old nurses of New-Jersey still recommend 
 Elizabeth Estaugh's salve as the " sovereignest thing 
 on earth." 
 
 The brick tomb in which John Estaugh was buried 
 at Tortola, is still pointed out to Quaker travellers ; 
 one of whom recently writes, " By a circuitous path, 
 through a dense thicket, we came to the spot where 
 Friends once had a meeting-house, and where are 
 buried the remains of several of our valued ministers, 
 who visited this island about a century ago, from a 
 sense of gospel love. Time has made his ravages upon 
 these mansions of the dead. The acacia spreads thick 
 ly its thorny branches over them, and near them the 
 century -blooming aloe is luxuriantly growing."
 
 THE QUADROONS 
 
 "I promised the* a sister tale, 
 Of man's perfidious cruelty : 
 Come then and bear what cruel wrong 
 Befell the dark Ladie." COLERIDGB. 
 
 NOT far from Augusta, Georgia, there is a pleasant 
 place called Sand-Hills, appropriated almost exclu 
 sively to summer residences for the wealthy inhabit 
 ants of the neighbouring city. Among the beautiful 
 cottages that adorn it was one far retired from the pub 
 lic roads, and almost hidden among the trees. It was 
 a perfect model of rural beauty. The piazzas that 
 surrounded it were wreathed with Clematis and Pas 
 sion Flower. Magnificent Magnolias, and the superb 
 Pride of India, threw shadows around .it, and filled 
 the air with fragrance. Flowers peeped out from 
 every nook, and nodded to you in bye-places, with a 
 most unexpected wejcome. The tasteful hand of Art 
 had not learned to imitate the lavish beauty and har 
 monious disorder of Nature, but they lived together in 
 loving unity, and spoke in according tones. The gate 
 way rose in a Gothic arch, with graceful tracery in 
 iron-work, surmounted by a Cross, around which flut 
 tered and played the Mountain Fringe, that lightest 
 and most fragile of vines. 
 
 The inhabitants of this cottage remained in it all 
 6
 
 62 THE QUADROONS. 
 
 the year round, and peculiarly enjoyed the season 
 that left them without neighbours. To one of the 
 parties, indeed, the fashionable summer residents, that 
 came and went with the butterflies, were merely neigh- 
 bours-in-law. The edicts of society had built up a 
 wall of separation between her and them ; for she was 
 a quadroon. Conventional laws could not be reversed 
 in her favour, though she was the daughter of a weal 
 thy merchant, was highly cultivated in mind and man 
 ners, graceful as an antelope, and beautiful as the eve 
 ning star. She had early attracted the attention of a 
 handsome and wealthy young Georgian; and as their 
 acquaintance increased, the purity and bright intelli 
 gence of her mind, inspired him with far deeper in 
 terest than is ever excited by mere passion. It was 
 genuine love; that mysterious union of soul and sense, 
 in which the lowliest dew-drop reflects the image of 
 the highest star. 
 
 The tenderness of Rosalie's conscience required an 
 outward form of marriage ; though she well knew 
 that a union with her proscribed race was unrecog 
 nised by law, and therefore the ceremony gave her no 
 legal hold on Edward's constancy. But her high 
 poetic nature regarded the reality, rather than the sem 
 blance of things ; and when he playfully asked how 
 she could keep him if he wished to run away, she re 
 plied, " Let the church that my mother loved sanction 
 our union, and my own soul will be satisfied, without 
 the protection of the state. If your affections fall from 
 me, I would not, if I could, hold you by a legal fetter." 
 
 It was a marriage sanctioned by Heaven, though
 
 THE QUADROONS. 63 
 
 unrecognised on earth. The picturesque cotcage at 
 Sand-Hills was built for the young bride under her 
 own direction ; and there they passed ten as happy 
 years as ever blessed the heart of mortals. It was 
 Edward's fancy to name their eldest child Xarifa ; in 
 commemoration of a quaint old Spanish ballad, which 
 had first conveyed to his ears the sweet tones of her 
 mother's voice. Her flexile form and nimble motions 
 were in harmony with the breezy sound of the name ; 
 and its Moorish origin was most appropriate to one so 
 emphatically " a child of the sun." Her complexion, 
 of a still lighter brown than Rosalie's, was rich and 
 glowing as an autumnal leaf. The iris of her large, 
 dark eye had the melting, mezzotinto outline, which 
 remains the last vestige of African ancestry, and gives 
 that plaintive expression, so often observed, and so ap 
 propriate to that docile and injured race. 
 
 Xarifa learned no lessons of humility or shame, 
 within her own happy home ; for she grew up in the 
 warm atmosphere of father's and mother's love, like a 
 flower open to the sunshine, and sheltered from the 
 winds. But in summer walks with her beautiful 
 mother, her young cheek often mantled at the rude 
 gaze of the young men, and her dark eye flashed fire, 
 when some contemptuous epithet met her ear, as 
 white ladies passed them by, in scornful pride and ill- 
 concealed envy. 
 
 Happy as Rosalie was in Edward's love, and sur 
 rounded by an outward environment of beauty, so well 
 adapted to her poetic spirit, she felt these incidents 
 with inexpressible pain. For herself, she cared but
 
 64 
 
 THE QUADROONS. 
 
 little; for she had found a sheltered home in Edward's 
 heart, which the world might ridicule, but had no 
 power to profane. But when she looked at her be 
 loved Xarifa, and reflected upon the unavoidable and 
 dangerous position which the tyranny of society had 
 awarded her, her soul was filled with anguish. The 
 rare loveliness of the child increased daily, and was 
 evidently ripening into most marvellous beauty. The 
 father rejoiced in it with unmingled pride ; but in the 
 deep tenderness of the mother's eye there was an in 
 dwelling sadness, that spoke of anxious thoughts and 
 fearful forebodings. 
 
 When Xarifa entered her ninth year, these uneasy 
 feelings found utterance in earnest solicitations that 
 Edward would remove to France, or England. This 
 request excited but little opposition, and was so attrac 
 tive to his imagination, that he might have overcome 
 all intervening obstacles, had not " a change come 
 o'er the spirit of his dream." He still loved Rosalie , 
 but he was now twenty-eight years old, and, uncon 
 sciously to himself, ambition had for some time been 
 slowly gaining an ascendency over his other feelings. 
 The contagion of example had led him into the arena 
 where so much American strength is wasted ; he had 
 thrown himself into political excitement, with all the 
 honest fervour of youthful feeling. His motives had 
 been unmixed with selfishness, nor could he ever de 
 fine to himself when or how sincere patriotism took 
 the form of personal ambition. But so it was, that at 
 twenty-eight years old, he found himself an ambitious 
 man, involved in movements which his frank nature
 
 THE QUADROONS. 65 
 
 would have once abhorred, and watching the doubtful 
 game of mutual cunning with all the fierce excitement 
 of a gambler. 
 
 Among those on whom his political success most 
 depended, was a very popular and wealthy man, who 
 had an only daughter. His visits to the house were 
 at first of a purely political nature ; but the young 
 lady was pleasing, and he fancied he discovered in 
 her a sort of timid preference for himself. This ex 
 cited his vanity, and awakened thoughts of the great 
 worldly advantages connected with a union. Remi 
 niscences of his first love kept these vague ideas in 
 check for several months ; but Rosalie's image at last 
 became an unwelcome intruder ; for with it was asso 
 ciated the idea of restraint. Moreover Charlotte, 
 though inferior in beauty, was yet a pretty contrast 
 to her rival. Her light hair fell in silken profusion, 
 her blue eyes were gentle, though inexpressive, and 
 her delicate cheeks were like blush-rose-buds. 
 
 He had already become accustomed to the danger 
 ous experiment of resisting his own inward convic 
 tions ; and this new impulse to ambition, combined 
 with the strong temptation of variety in love, met the 
 ardent young man weakened in moral principle, and 
 unfettered by laws of the land. The change wrought 
 upon him was soon noticed by Rosalie. 
 
 "In many ways does the full heart reveal 
 
 The presence of the love it would conceal; 
 
 But in far more the estranged heart lets know 
 
 The absence of the lore, which yet it fain would show." 
 
 At length the news of his approaching marriage 
 met her ear. Her head grew dizzy, and her heart 
 6*
 
 66 THE QUADROONS. 
 
 fainted within her ; but, with a strong effort at com 
 posure, she inquired all the particulars ; and her pure 
 mind at once took its resolution. Edward came that 
 evening, and though she would have fain met him as 
 usual, her heart was too full not to throw a deep sad 
 ness over her looks and tones. She had never com 
 plained of his decreasing tenderness, or of her own 
 lonely hours ; but he felt that the mute appeal of her 
 heart-broken looks was more terrible than words. He 
 kissed the hand she offered, and with a countenance 
 almost as sad as her own, led her to a window in the 
 recess, shadowed by a luxuriant Passion Flower. It 
 was the same seat where they had spent the first 
 evening in this beautiful cottage, consecrated to their 
 youthful loves. The same calm, clear moonlight 
 looked in through the trellis. The vine then planted 
 had now a luxuriant growth ; and many a time had 
 Edward fondly twined its sacred blossoms with the 
 glossy ringlets of her raven hair. The rush of mem 
 ory almost overpowered poor Rosalie ; and Edward 
 felt too much oppressed and ashamed to break the 
 long, deep silence. At length, in words scarcely au 
 dible, Rosalie said, " Tell me, dear Edward, are you 
 to be married next week ?" He dropped her hand, as 
 if a rifle-ball had struck him ; and it was not until 
 after long hesitation, that he began to make some re 
 ply about the necessity of circumstances. Mildly, 
 but earnestly, the poor girl begged him to spare apol 
 ogies. It was enough that he no longer loved her, 
 and that they must bid farewell. Trusting to the 
 yielding tenderness of her character, he ventured, in 
 the most soothing accents, to suggest that as he still
 
 THE QUADROONS. 67 
 
 loved her better than all the world, she would ever be 
 his real wife, and they might see each other frequent 
 ly. He was not prepared for the storm of indignant 
 emotion his words excited. Hers was a passion too 
 absorbing to admit of partnership ; and her spirit was 
 too pure and kind to enter into a selfish league against 
 the happiness of the innocent young bride. 
 
 At length this painful interview came to an end. 
 They stood together by the Gothic gate, where they 
 had so often met and parted in the moonlight. Old 
 remembrances melted their souls. " Farewell, dear 
 est Edward," said Rosalie. " Give me a parting 
 kiss." Her voice was choked for utterance, and the 
 tears flowed freely, as she bent her lips toward him. 
 He folded her convulsively in his arms, and imprinted 
 a long, impassioned kiss on that mouth, which had 
 never spoken to him but in love and blessing. 
 
 With effort like a death-pang, she at length 
 raised her head from his heaving bosom, and turning 
 from him with bitter sobs, she said, " It is our last. 
 God bless you. I would not have you so miserable 
 as I am. Farewell. A last farewell." " The last !" 
 exclaimed he, with a wild shriek. " Oh, Rosalie, do 
 not say that !" and covering his face with his hands, 
 he wept like a child. 
 
 Recovering from his emotion, he found himself 
 alone. The moon looked down upon him mild, but 
 very sorrowful ; as the Madonna seems to gaze on 
 her worshipping children, bowed down with conscious 
 ness of sin. At that moment he would have given 
 worlds to have disengaged himself from Charlotte ; 
 but he had gone so far, that blame, disgrace, and duels
 
 68 THE QUADROONS. 
 
 with angry relatives, would now attend any effort to 
 obtain his freedom. Oh, how the moonlight oppress 
 ed him with its friendly sadness ! It was like the 
 plaintive eye of his forsaken one ; like the music of 
 sorrow echoed from an unseen world. 
 
 Long and earnestly he gazed at that dwelling, 
 where he had so long known earth's purest foretaste 
 of heavenly bliss. Slowly he walked away ; then 
 turned again to look on that charmed spot, the nest 
 ling-place of his young affections. He caught a 
 glimpse of Rosalie, weeping beside a magnolia, which 
 commanded a long view of the path leading to the 
 public road. He would have sprung toward her, but 
 she darted from him, and entered the cottage. That 
 graceful figure, weeping in the moonlight, haunted 
 him for years. It stood before his closing eyes, and 
 greeted him with the morning dawn. 
 
 Poor Charlotte ! had she known all, what a dreary 
 lot would hers have been ; but fortunately, she could 
 not miss the impassioned tenderness she had never 
 experienced; and Edward was the more careful in his 
 kindness, because he was deficient in love. Once or 
 twice she heard him murmur, " dear Rosalie," in his 
 sleep ; but the playful charge she brought was play 
 fully answered, and the incident gave her : o real un 
 easiness. The summer after their marriage, she pro 
 posed a residence at Sand-Hills ; little aware what a 
 whirlwind of emotion she excited in her husband's 
 heart. The reasons he gave for rejecting the propo 
 sition appeared satisfactory ; but she could not quite 
 understand why he was never willing that their after 
 noon drives should be in the direction of those plea
 
 THE QUADROONS. 69 
 
 sant rural residences, which she had heard him praise 
 so much. One day, as their barouche rolled along a 
 winding- road that skirted Sand-Hills, her attention 
 was suddenly attracted by two figures among the trees 
 by the way-side ; and touching Edward's arm, she ex 
 claimed, " Do look at that beautiful child !" He turned, 
 arid saw Rosalie and Xarifa. His lips quivered, and 
 his face became deadly pale. His young wife looked 
 at him intently, but said nothing. There were points 
 of resemblance in the child, that seemed to account 
 for his sudden emotion. Suspicion was awakened, 
 and she soon learned that the mother of that lovely 
 girl bore the name of Rosalie ; with this information 
 came recollections of the " dear Rosalie," murmured 
 in uneasy slumbers. From gossiping tongues she 
 soon learned more than she wished to know. She 
 wept, but not as poor Rosalie had done ; for she never 
 had loved, and been beloved, like her, and her nature 
 was more proud. Henceforth a change came over 
 her feelings and her manners ; and Edward had no fur 
 ther occasion to assume a tenderness in return for hers. 
 Changed as he was by ambition, he felt the wintry 
 chill of her polite propriety, and sometimes in agony 
 of heart, compared it with the gushing love of her 
 who was indeed his wife. 
 
 But these, and all his emotions, were a sealed book 
 to Rosalie, of which she could only guess the con 
 tents. With remittances for her and her child's sup 
 port, there sometimes came earnest pleadings that she 
 would consent to see him again ; but these she 
 never answered, though her heart yearned to do so. 
 She pitied his fair young bride, and would not be
 
 70 THE QUADROONS. 
 
 tempted to bring sorrow into their household by any 
 fault of hers. Her earnest prayer was that she might 
 never know of her existence. She had not looked on 
 Edward since she watched him under the shadow of 
 the magnolia, until his barouche passed her in her 
 rambles some months after. She saw the deadly 
 paleness of his countenance, and had he dared to look 
 back, he would have seen her tottering with faintness. 
 Xarifa brought water from a little rivulet, and sprink 
 led her face. When she revived, she clasped the be 
 loved child to her heart with a vehemence that made 
 her scream. Soothingly she kissed away her fears, 
 and gazed into her beautiful eyes with a deep, deep 
 sadness of expression, which Xarifa never forgot. 
 Wild were the thoughts that pressed around her ach 
 ing heart, and almost maddened her poor brain ; 
 thoughts which had almost driven her to suicide the 
 night of that last farewell. For her child's sake she 
 conquered the fierce temptation then ; and for her 
 sake, she struggled with it now. But the gloomy 
 atmosphere of their once happy home overclouded the 
 morning of Xarifa's life. 
 
 " She from her mother learnt the trick of grief, 
 And sighed among her playthings." 
 
 Rosalie perceived this ; and it gave her gentle heart 
 unutterable pain. At last, the conflicts of her spirit 
 proved too strong for the beautiful frame in which it 
 dwelt. About a year after Edward's marriage, she 
 was found dead in her bed, one bright autumnal 
 morning. She had often expressed to her daughter 
 a wish to be buried under a spreading oak, that sha-
 
 THE QUADROONS. 71 
 
 ded a rustic garden-chair, in which she and Edward 
 had spent many happy evenings. And there she was 
 buried ; with a small white cross at her head, twined 
 with the cypress vine. Edward came to the funeral, 
 and wept long, very long, at the grave. Hours after 
 midnight, he sat in the recess-window, with Xarifa 
 folded to his heart. The poor child sobbed herself to 
 sleep on his bosom ; and the convicted murderer had 
 small reason to envy that wretched man, as he gazed 
 on the lovely countenance, which so strongly remind 
 ed him of his early and his only love. 
 
 From that time, Xarifa was the central point of all 
 his warmest affections. He hired an excellent old 
 negress to take charge of the cottage, from which he 
 promised his darling child that she should never be 
 removed. He employed a music master, and dancing 
 master, to attend upon her ; and a week never passed 
 without a visit from him, and a present of books, pic 
 tures, or flowers. To hear her play upon the harp, 
 or repeat some favourite poem in her mother's earnest 
 accents and melodious tones, or to see her pliant 
 figure float in the garland-dance, seemed to be the 
 highest enjoyment of his life. Yet was the pleasure 
 mixed with bitter thoughts. What would be the des 
 tiny of this fascinating young creature, so radiant with 
 life and beauty ? She belonged to a proscribed race ; 
 and though the brown colour on her soft cheek was 
 scarcely deeper than the sunny side of a golden pear, 
 yet was it sufficient to exclude her from virtuous so 
 ciety. He thought of Rosalie's wish to carry her to 
 France : and he would have fulfilled it, had he been 
 unmarried. As it was, he inwardly resolved to make
 
 72 THE QUADROONS. 
 
 some arrangement to effect it in a few years, even if 
 it involved separation from his darling child. 
 
 But alas for the calculations of man ! From the 
 time of Rosalie's death, Edward had sought relief for 
 his wretched feelings in the free use of wine. Xarifa 
 was scarcely fifteen, when her father was found dead 
 by the road-side ; having fallen from his horse, on his 
 way to visit her. He left no will ; but his wife, with 
 kindness of heart worthy of a happier domestic fate, 
 expressed a decided reluctance to change any of the 
 plans he had made for the beautiful child at Sand- 
 Hills. 
 
 Xarifa mourned her indulgent father ; but not as 
 one utterly desolate. True, she had lived " like a 
 flower deep hid in rocky cleft ;" but the sunshine of 
 love had already peeped in upon her. Her teacher 
 on the harp was a handsome -and agreeable young 
 man of twenty, the only son of an English widow. 
 Perhaps Edward had not been altogether unmindful 
 of the result, when he first invited him to the flowery 
 cottage. Certain it is, he had more than once thought 
 what a pleasant thing it would be, if English freedom 
 from prejudice should lead him to offer legal protec 
 tion to his graceful and winning child. Being thus 
 encouraged, rather than checked, in his admiration, 
 George Elliot could not be otherwise than strongly 
 attracted toward his beautiful pupil. The lonely and 
 unprotected state in which her father's death left her, 
 deepened this feeling into tenderness. And lucky 
 was it for her enthusiastic and affectionate nature ; for 
 she could not live without an atmosphere of love. In 
 her innocence, she knew nothing of the dangers in
 
 THE QUADROONS. 73 
 
 ft 
 
 her path ; and she trusted George with an undoubt- 
 ing simplicity, that rendered her sacred to his noble 
 and generous soul. It seemed as if that flower-em 
 bosomed nest was consecrated by the Fates to Love. 
 The French have well named it La Belle Passion ; 
 for without it life were " a year without spring, or a 
 spring without roses." Except the loveliness of in 
 fancy, what does earth offer so much like Heaven, as 
 the happiness of two young, pure, and beautiful be 
 ings, living in each other's hearts ? 
 
 Xarifa inherited her mother's poetic and impassion 
 ed temperament ; and to her, above others, the first 
 consciousness of these sweet emotions was like a 
 golden sunrise on the sleeping flowers. 
 
 " Thus stood she at the threshold of the scene 
 Of busy life. * * * * 
 
 How fair it lay in solemn shade and sheen ! 
 And he beside her, like some angel, posted 
 To lead her out of childhood's fairy land, 
 On to life's glancing summit, hand in hand." 
 
 Alas, the tempest was brooding over their young 
 heads. Rosalie, though she knew it not, had been 
 the daughter of a slave, whose wealthy master, 
 though he remained attached to her to the end of her 
 days, yet carelessly omitted to have papers of manu 
 mission recorded. His heirs had lately failed, under 
 circumstances which greatly exasperated their cre 
 ditors ; and in an unlucky hour, they discovered their 
 claim on Angelique's grand-child. 
 
 The gentle girl, happy as the birds in spring-time, 
 accustomed to the fondest indulgence, surrounded by 
 all the refinements of life, timid as a fawn, and with. 
 7
 
 74 THE QUADROONS. 
 
 a soul full of romance, was ruthlessly seized by a 
 sheriff, and placed on the public auction-stand in Sa 
 vannah. There she stood, trembling, blushing, and 
 weeping ; compelled to listen to the grossest language, 
 and shrinking from the rude hands that examined the 
 graceful proportions of her beautiful frame. " Stop 
 that !" exclaimed a stern voice. " I bid two thousand 
 dollars for her, without asking any of their d d ques 
 tions." The speaker was probably about forty years 
 of age, with handsome features, but a fierce and proud 
 expression. An older man, who stood behind him, 
 bid two thousand five hundred. The first bid higher ; 
 then a third, a dashing young man, bid three thou 
 sand ; and thus they went on, with the keen excite 
 ment of gamblers, until the first speaker obtained the 
 prize, for the moderate sum of five thousand dollars. 
 And where was George, during this dreadful scene ? 
 He was absent on a visit to his mother, at Mobile. 
 But, had he been at Sand-Hills, he could not have 
 saved his beloved from the wealthy profligate, who 
 was determined to obtain her at any price. A letter 
 of agonized entreaty from her brought him home on 
 the wings of the wind. But what could he do ? How 
 could he ever obtain a sight of her, locked up as she 
 was in the princely mansion of her master ? At last, 
 by bribing one of the slaves, he conveyed a letter to 
 her, and received one in return. As yet, her pur 
 chaser treated her with respectful gentleness, and 
 sought to win her favour, by flattery and presents ; but 
 she dreaded every moment, lest the scene should 
 change, and trembled at the sound of every footfall. 
 A plan was laid for escape. The slave agreed to
 
 THE QUADROONS. 75 
 
 ft 
 
 drug his master's wine ; a ladder of ropes was pre 
 pared, and a swift boat was in readiness. But the 
 slave, to obtain a double reward, was treacherous. 
 Xarifa had scarcely given an answering signal to the 
 low cautious whistle of her lover, when the sharp 
 sound of a rifle was followed by a deep groan, and a 
 heavy fall on the pavement of the court-yard. With 
 frenzied eagerness she swung herself down by the 
 ladder of ropes, and, by the glancing light of lanthorns, 
 saw George, bleeding and lifeless at her feet. One 
 wild shriek, that pierced the brains of those who heard 
 it, and she fell senseless by his side. 
 
 For many days she had a confused consciousness 
 of some great agony, but knew not where she was, 
 or by whom she was surrounded. The slow recovery 
 of her reason settled into the most intense melancholy, 
 which moved the compassion even of her cruel pur 
 chaser. The beautiful eyes, always pensive in ex 
 pression, were now so heart-piercing in their sadness, 
 that he could not endure to look upon them. For 
 some months, he sought to win her smiles by lavish 
 presents, and delicate attentions. He bought glitter 
 ing chains of gold, and costly bands of pearl. His 
 victim scarcely glanced at them, and her attendant 
 slave laid them away, unheeded and forgotten. He 
 purchased the furniture of the Cottage at Sand-Hills, 
 and one morning Xarifa found her harp at the bed 
 side, and the room filled with her own books, pictures, 
 and flowers. She gazed upon them with a pang un 
 utterable, and burst into an agony of tears ; but she 
 gave her master no thanks, and her gloom deepened. 
 
 At last his patience was exhausted. He grew
 
 76 THE QUADROONS. 
 
 weary of her obstinacy, as he was pleased to term it ; 
 and threats took the place of persuasion. 
 
 #==*##:*## 
 
 In a few months more, poor Xarifa was a raving 
 maniac. That pure temple was desecrated ; that 
 loving heart was broken ; and that beautiful head 
 fractured against the wall in the frenzy of despair. 
 Her master cursed the useless expense she had cost 
 him ; the slaves buried her ; and no one wept at the 
 grave of her who had been so carefully cherished, and 
 so tenderly beloved.
 
 
 THE IRISH HEART. 
 
 A True Story. 
 
 IT was a pleasant sight to look on James and Nora 
 in their early childhood ; their cheeks were so rosy, 
 their hair so sunny, and their clear blue eyes so mild 
 and innocent. They were the youngest of a cabin- 
 full of children ; and though they did now and then 
 get a cuff from the elder ones, with the hasty words, 
 " Get out of the way, you spalpeen," they were the 
 pets and playmates of them all. Their love for each 
 other was extreme ; and though James, early in his 
 boyhood, evinced the Irish predilection for giving 
 knocks, he was never known to raise his hand against 
 his little sister. When she could first toddle about, it 
 was his delight to gather the Maygowans that grew 
 about the well, and put them in Nora's curly hair ; 
 and then he would sit before her, with his little hands 
 resting on his knees, contemplating her with the great 
 est satisfaction. When they were older, they might 
 be seen weeding the " pathies "* side by side, or hand 
 in hand gathering berries among the hawthorn bush 
 es. . The greatest difference between them seemed to 
 be, that James was all fun and frolic, while Nora was 
 ever serious and earnest. 
 
 When the young maiden was milking the cows, her 
 
 * Potatoes. 
 
 7*
 
 78 THE IRISH HEART. 
 
 Soft low voice might usually be heard, warbling some 
 of the mournful melodies of Ireland. But plaintive 
 tones were rarely heard from James. He came home 
 from his daily labour whistling like a black-bird, 
 mocking the cuckoo, or singing, at the top of his clear 
 ringing voice, the merry jingle of St. Patrick's Day in 
 the Morning, or the facetious air of Paudeen O'Raf- 
 ferty. At dancing, too, he excelled all the lads of the 
 neighbourhood. He could dance Irish jigs, three-part 
 reel, four-part reel, or rowly-powly, to the tune of 
 The Dusty Miller, or The Rakes of Bally-shanny, 
 with such a quick ear for the music, that all the lass 
 ies declared they could " see the tune upon his feet." 
 He was a comely lad, too, and at weddings and 
 Christmas carousals, none of the rustic dandies looked 
 more genteel than he, with his buff-coloured vest, his 
 knot of ribbons at each knee, and his caubeen^ set 
 jauntily on one side of his head. Being good-natur 
 ed and mirthful, he was a great favourite at wakes 
 and dances, and festivities of all sorts ; and he might 
 have been in danger of becoming dissipated, had it 
 not been for the happy consciousness of belonging to 
 an honest industrious family, and being the pride and 
 darling of Nora's heart. 
 
 Notwithstanding the natural gayety of his disposi 
 tion, he had a spirit of enterprise, and a love of earn 
 ing money. This tendency led him early to think of 
 emigrating to America, the Eldorado of Irish imagin 
 ation. Nora resisted the first suggestion with many 
 tears. But James drew fine pictures of a farm of his 
 own in the new country, and cows and horses, and a 
 Cap,
 
 THE IRISH HEART. 79 
 
 pleasant jaunting car; and in the farm-house and the 
 jaunting car, Nora was ever by his side ; for with the 
 very first guineas that crossed his hand, sure he would 
 send for her. Tho affectionate sister, accustomed to 
 sympathise with all his plans, soon began to help him 
 to build his castles in America ; and every penny that 
 she could earn at her spinning-wheel was laid away 
 for passage money. But when the time actually ar 
 rived for him to go to Dublin, it was a day of sorrow. 
 All the married sisters, with their little ones, and 
 neighbours fr.om far and near, came to bid him fare 
 well, and give their parting blessing. The good 
 mother was busy to the last, storing away some little 
 comfort in his sea-box. Nora, with the big tears in 
 her eyes, repeated, for the thousandth time, " And 
 Jimmy, mavourneen,* if you grow grand there in the 
 new country, you'll not be after forgetting me ? You 
 will send for your own Nora soon ?" 
 
 " Forget you /" exclaimed James, while he pressed 
 her warmly to his bosom : " When the blessed sun 
 forgets to rise over the green earth, maybe I'll forget 
 you, mavourneen dheelisk."^ 
 
 Amid oft repeated words of love and blessing, he 
 parted from them. Their mutual sorrow was a little 
 softened by distant visions of a final reunion of them 
 all in America. But there was a fearful uncertainty 
 about this. The big sea might swallow him up, he 
 might sicken and die among strangers, or bad exam 
 ples might lead him into evil paths worse than death. 
 
 To this last suggestion, made by an elder sister, 
 Nora replied with indignant earnestness. " Led into 
 
 Darling. f Sweet darling.
 
 80 THE IRISH HEART. 
 
 evil coorses, indade !" she exclaimed ; " Shame be on 
 you for spaking that same ! and he the dacentest and 
 best behaved boy in all the county Longford. You 
 don't know the heart of him, as I do, or you'd never 
 be after spaking of him in that fashion. It's a shame 
 on you, and indade it is. But och, wurrah dheelish,* 
 let him not sicken and die there in the strange coun 
 try, and the sister not there to do for him !" And, 
 overcome by the picture her own imagination had 
 drawn, she burst into a passionate flood of tears. 
 
 In a few weeks, came a brief letter from James, 
 written on board the ship in which he sailed from Dub 
 lin. About seven months later, came a letter, dated 
 New York, saying he had obtained work at good 
 wages, and, by God's blessing, should soon be enabled 
 to send for his dear sister. He added a hint that one 
 of these days, when he had a house of his own, per 
 haps the father and mother would be after coming 
 over. Proud were they in the Irish cabin, when this 
 letter was read aloud to all who came to inquire after 
 the young emigrant. All his old cronies answered, 
 " Throth, and he'd do well anywhere. He was al 
 ways a dacent, clane, spirited boy, as there was widin 
 a great ways of him. Divil a man in the ten parishes 
 could dance the Baltihorum jig wid him, any how." 
 
 Time passed on, and no other letter came from 
 James. Month after month, poor Nora watched with 
 feverish anxiety to catch sight of her father when he 
 returned from the distant post-office ; for he promised, 
 if he found a letter, to wave his hand high above his 
 head, as soon as he came to the top of the hill front- 
 
 * Sweet Virgin.
 
 THE IRISH HEART. 81 
 
 ing the house. But no letter came ; and at last Nora 
 fully believed that her darling brother was dead. 
 After writing again and again, and receiving no an 
 swer, she at last wrote to the son of a neighbour, 
 who had emigrated to America, and begged of him, 
 for the love of heaven, to ascertain whether Jarnes 
 was dead or alive, and send them word as soon as 
 possible. The Irishman to whom this urgent epistle 
 was addressed, was at work on a distant rail-road, 
 and had no fixed place of residence ; and so it hap 
 pened that Nora received no answer to her anxious 
 inquiries, for more than a year and a half after they 
 were written. At last, there came a crumpled square 
 of soiled paper, containing these words : 
 
 " Dear Frinds : Black and hevy is my hart for 
 the news I have to tell you. James is in prison, con- 
 carnin a bit of paper, that he passed for money. 
 Sorra a one of the nabors but will be lettin down the 
 tears, when they hear o' the same. I don't know the 
 rights of the case ; but I will never believe he was a 
 boy to disgrace an honest family. Perhaps some 
 other man's sin is upon him. It may be some com 
 fort to you to know that his time will be out in a year 
 and a half, any how. I have not seen James sense I 
 come to Ameriky ; but I heern tell of what I have 
 writ. The blessed Mother of Heaven keep your harts 
 from sinkin down with this hevy sorrow. Your 
 frind and nabor, MIKE MURPHY. " 
 
 Deep indeed was the grief in that honest family, 
 when these sad tidings were read. Poor Nora buried 
 her face in her hands, and sobbed aloud. The old
 
 82 THE IRISH HEART. 
 
 mother rocked violently to and fro, with her apron at 
 her eyes ; and the father, though he tried hard to con 
 ceal his emotion, could not restrain the big tears from 
 rolling down his weather-beaten face. " Och, wo is 
 the day," said he, " that ever we let him go from us. 
 Such a dacent lad, and belonging to a family that 
 never did a dishonest action. And sure all hearts 
 were upon him, and we all so proud out of him." 
 
 " Father," said the weeping Nora, " I know the 
 heart of him better nor any of you does ; and I know 
 he never had intintion to do anything that would bring 
 to the blush the mother that bore him, and the sister 
 that slept in his arms, when we were both weeny 
 things. I'll go to Ameriky, and find out all about it, 
 and write you word." 
 
 " You go to Ameriky !" exclaimed her mother. 
 " Sure you're crazed with the big grief that's upon 
 you, coleen macree,* or you'd niver spake thim 
 words." 
 
 " And wouldn't he follow me to the ends of the earth, 
 if the black trouble was on me ?" replied Nora, with 
 passionate earnestness. " There was always kind 
 ness in him for all human crathurs ; but he loved me 
 better nor all the world. Never a one had a bad word 
 agin him, but nobody knew the heart of him as I did. 
 Proud was I out of him, and lonesome is my heart 
 widout him. And is it I will lave him alone wid 
 his trouble ? Troth, not if there was ten oceans 
 atween us." 
 
 This vehemence subsided after awhile, and they 
 talked more calmly of how they should hide their 
 * Pet of my heart.
 
 THE IRISH HEART. 83 
 
 disgrace from the neighbourhood. That their hearts 
 were sad they could not conceal. Day after day, their 
 frugal meals were removed almost untasted, and every 
 one stepped about silently, as after a funeral. The 
 very cows came slowly and disconsolately, as if they 
 heard grief in the voice of their young mistress, when 
 she called them to be milked. And the good old 
 mother no longer crooned at her spinning wheel the 
 song she had sung over the cradle of her darling boy. 
 Nora at first persisted in her plan of crossing the At 
 lantic ; but her father forbade it, and she said no more. 
 But her heart grew more and more impatient. She 
 spoke less and less of James, but she sighed heavily 
 at her work, and her eyes were often red with weep 
 ing. At last, she resolved to depart unknown to any 
 one. She rose stealthily at midnight, tied up a small 
 bundle of clothing, placed a little bag of money in her 
 bosom, paused and gazed lovingly on her sleeping 
 parents, hastily brushed away the gathering tears, and 
 slept out into the moonlight. She stood for a few mo 
 ments and gazed on the old familiar hills and fields, 
 on the potato patch, where she and James had work 
 ed together many a day, on the old well, by the side 
 of which the Maygowans grew, and on the clear 
 white cabin, where the dear old ones slept. She pass 
 ed into the little shed, that served as a stable for the 
 animals, and threw her arms about the donkey's neck, 
 and kissed the cow, that knew her voice as well as 
 her own mother did. She came forth weeping, and 
 gazed on the old homestead, as she would gaze on the 
 face of a dying friend. The clustering memories 
 were too much for her loving heart. Dropping on her 

 
 
 84 THE IRISH HEART. 
 
 knees, she prayed, in agony of sorrow : " If it be a 
 sin to go away from the good old father and mother, 
 perhaps niver to see them agin, till the judgment day, 
 thou oh ! Father in heaven, wilt forgive me ; for thou 
 seest I can not lave him alone wid his great trouble." 
 
 Then crossing herself, and looking toward the be 
 loved home of her childhood, she said, in a stifled 
 voice, " The Mother of Glory be wid ye, and bless 
 and keep ye all." 
 
 Half blinded with tears, she wended her way over 
 the moonlighted hills, and when her favourite cow 
 called as usual for her milking pail, in the first blush 
 of the morning, she was already far on her way to 
 Dublin. 
 
 ?(* * "R" yf T? TT Tt- "A* 
 
 And had James been criminal ? In the eye of the 
 law he had been ; but his sister was right, when she 
 said he had no intention to do a wicked thing. Not 
 long after his arrival in America, he was one day 
 walking along the street, in a respectable suit of 
 Sunday clothes, when a stranger came up, and enter 
 ed into conversation with him. After asking some 
 indifferent questions, he inquired what his coat cost 
 
 " Sixteen dollars," was the answer. 
 
 " I will give you twenty for it," said the stranger ; 
 " for I am going away in a hurry, and have no time 
 to get one made." 
 
 James was as unsuspecting as a child. He thought 
 this was an excellent opportunity to make four dollars, 
 to send to his darling sister ; so he readily agreed to 
 the bargain. 
 
 " I want a watch, too," said the stranger ; " but
 
 
 THE IRISH HEART. 
 
 perhaps you would not be willing to sell yours for 
 ten dollars ?" 
 
 James frankly confessed that it was two dollars 
 more than he gave for it, and very willingly consent 
 ed to the transfer. Some weeks after, when he at 
 tempted to pass the money the stranger had given 
 him, he found, to his dismay, that it was counterfeit. 
 After brooding over his disappointment for some time, 
 he came to a conclusion at which better educated men 
 than himself have sometimes arrived. He thought to 
 himself " It is hard for a poor man to lose so much, 
 by no fault of his own. Since it was put off upon 
 me, I will just put it off upon somebody else. May 
 be it will keep going the rounds, or somebody will 
 lose it that can better afford it than I can." 
 
 It certainly was a wrong conclusion ; but it was a 
 bewilderment of the reasoning powers in the mind of 
 an ignorant man, and did not involve wickedness of 
 intention. He passed the money, and was soon after 
 arrested for forgery. He told his story plainly ; but, 
 as he admitted that he knew the money was counter 
 feit when he passed it, the legal construction of his 
 crime was forgery in the second degree. He had 
 passed three bills, and had the penalty of the law 
 been enforced with its utmost rigour, he might have 
 been sentenced to the state-prison for fifteen years ; 
 but appearances were so much in his favour, that the 
 court sentenced him but for five years. 
 
 Five years taken away from the young life of a 
 labouring man, spent in silent toil, in shame and sor 
 row for a blighted reputation, was, indeed, a heavy 
 penalty for confused notions of right and wrong, con- 
 8
 
 86 THE IRISH HEART. 
 
 cerning bits of paper, stamped with a nominal value. 
 But law, in its wisest and kindest administration, can 
 not always make nice distinctions between thoughtless 
 errors and wilful crimes. 
 
 It is probable James never felt the degree of com 
 punction, that it is supposed every convict ought to 
 feel ; for the idea was ever with him, that if he had 
 sinned against government, he did not mean to sin 
 against God. That he had disgraced himself, he 
 knew full well and felt keenly. The thoughts of 
 what Nora and his good mother would suffer, if they 
 could see him driven to hard labour with thieves and 
 murderers, tore his soul with anguish. He could not 
 bring his mind to write to them, or send them any ti 
 dings of his fate. He thought it was better that they 
 should suppose him dead, than know of his disgrace. 
 Thus the weary months passed silently away. The 
 laugh of his eye and the bound of his step were gone. 
 Day by day he grew more disconsolate and stupid. 
 
 He had been in prison about four years, when one 
 of the keepers told him that a young woman had 
 come to visit him, and he had received permission to 
 see her. He followed silently, wondering who it 
 could be ; and a moment after, he was locked in his 
 sister's arms. For some time, nothing but sobs were 
 audible. They looked mournfully in each other's fa 
 ces ; then fell on each other's necks, and wept again. 
 
 " And so you know me, mavourneen ?" said Nora, 
 at last, trying to smile through her tears. 
 
 " Know you !" he replied, folding her more closely 
 to his breast. "A cushla machree,* and wouldn't I 
 
 * Pulse of my heart.
 
 fHE IRISH HEART. 87 
 
 know your shadow on the wall, in the darkest cellar 
 they could put me in ? But who came wid you, ma.- 
 vourneen ?" 
 
 " Troth, and it was alone I come. I run away in 
 the night. I hope it wasn't wrong to lave the good 
 father and mother, when they had spoke agin my 
 coming. I wouldn't like to do any thing displasing 
 to God. But Jimmy, mackree, my heart was breakin' 
 widout you ; and I couldn't lave you alone wid your 
 great trouble. Sure it's long ago I would have been 
 wid you, if you had let us know of your misfortin." 
 
 The poor fellow wept afresh at these assurances of 
 his sister's affection. When he was calmer, he told 
 her circumstantially how the great trouble had come 
 upon him. 
 
 " God be praised for the words you spake," replied 
 Nora. " It will take a load off of hearts at home, 
 when they hear of the same. I always said there was 
 no sin in your heart ; for who should know that better 
 nor me, who slept in the same cradle ? A blessing be 
 wid you, mavourneen. The music's in my heart to 
 hear the sound of your voice agin. And proud will I 
 be out of you, as I used to be when all eyes, young 
 and old, brightened on you in warm old Ireland." 
 
 " But Nora, dheelish, the disgrace is on me," said 
 the young man, looking down. " They will say I 
 am a convict." 
 
 " Sorra a fig I care for what they say," replied the 
 warm-hearted girl. " Don't I know the heart that is 
 in you ? Didn't I say there was no sin in your intin- 
 tions, though you was shut up in this bad place ? 
 And if there had been if the black murder had 
 been widin you, is it Nora would be after laving you
 
 THE IRISH HEART. 
 
 alone wid your sin and your shame ? Troth, I would 
 weary the saints in heaven wid prayers, till they 
 made you a better man, for the sake of your sister's 
 love. But there was no sin in your heart ; and proud 
 I am out of you, a suillish machree;* and bad luck to 
 the rogue that brought you into this trouble." 
 
 The keeper reminded them that the time allowed 
 for their interview was nearly spent. 
 
 " You will come agin ?" said James, imploringly. 
 " You will come to me agin, acushla machree?" 
 
 " I had to beg hard to see you once," replied Nora. 
 " They said it was agin the rules. But when I told 
 them how I come alone across the big ocean to be wid 
 you in your trouble, because I knew the heart that 
 was in you, they said I might come in. It is a heavy 
 sorrow that we cannot spake together. But it will be 
 a comfort, mavourneen, to be where I can look on 
 these stone walls. The kind man here they call the 
 chaplain says I may stay wid his family ; and sure 
 not an hour in the day but I will think of you, a vil- 
 lishA The same moon shines here, that used to 
 shine on us when we had our May dances on the 
 green, in dear old Ireland ; and when they let you 
 get a glimpse of her bright face, you can think maybe 
 Nora is looking up at it, as she used to do Avhen she 
 was your own weeny darlint, wid the shamrock and 
 gowan in her hair. I will work, and lay by money 
 for you ; and when you come out of this bad place, 
 it's Nora will stand by you ; and proud will I be out 
 of you, a suillish machree" 
 
 The young man smiled as he had not smiled for 
 
 * Light of my heart. t Dear.
 
 THE IRISH HEART. 89 
 
 years. He kissed his sister tenderly, as he answered, 
 " Ah, Nora, mavourneen, it's yourself that was always 
 too good to me. God's blessing be wid you, acushla 
 mackree. It will go hard wid me, but I will make 
 some return for such goodness." 
 
 " And sure it's no goodness at all," replied Nora. 
 " Is it yourself would be after laving me alone, and 
 I in the great trouble ? Hut, tut, Jimmy, avick. 
 Sure it's nothing at all. Any body would do it. 
 You're as dacent and clever a lad as iver you was. 
 Sing that to your heart, mavourneen. It's Nora will 
 stand by you, all the world over." %s< 
 
 With a smile that she meant should be a brave one, 
 but with eyes streaming with tears, she bade her be 
 loved brother farewell. He embraced her with vehe 
 ment tenderness, and, with a deep sigh, returned to 
 his silent labour. But the weight was taken off his 
 heart, and his step was lighter ; for 
 
 "Hope's sunshine lingered on his prison wall, 
 And Love looked in upon his solitude." 
 
 Nora remained with the kind-hearted chaplain, ev 
 er watching the gloomy walls of Sing Sing. When 
 her brother's term expired, she was at the prison door 
 to welcome him, and lead him forth into the blessed 
 sunshine and free air. The chaplain received them 
 into his house, cheered and strengthened their hearts 
 by kind words and judicious counsel, and sent them 
 to the office of the Prison Association, No. 13 Pine- 
 street, New-York. As James brought certificates of 
 good conduct while in prison, the Association lent 
 him tools, to be paid for if he should ever be able to 
 do so, and recommended him to a worthy mechanic. 
 8*
 
 90 THE IRISH HEART. 
 
 At this place he would have remained, had not his 
 employer needed a journeyman thoroughly versed in 
 his trade. It is the policy at Sing Sing not to allow 
 the prisoners to learn all branches of any business, 
 lest they should come into competition with mechanics 
 out of the prison. What James had been accustomed 
 to do, he did with great industry and expertness ; but 
 he could not do all his employer required, and was 
 therefore kindly and honourably dismissed. 
 
 Had he been dishonest, he might have gone off with 
 the tools ; but he went to the office of the Association, 
 to ask whether they were willing he should keep 
 them till he could obtain work elsewhere, and earn 
 enough to pay for them. They consented very cor 
 dially, and told him to remember them as friends in 
 need, so long as he behaved well. His sister was 
 with him, like his shadow, and their earnest expres 
 sions of gratitude were truly affecting. 
 
 Her good-natured honest countenance, and indus 
 trious habits, attracted the attention of a thriving 
 young farmer, who succeeded in obtaining the treas 
 ure of her warm and generous heart. She who made 
 so good a sister, can scarcely fail to be an excellent 
 wife. James continues to do well, and loves her with 
 superabounding love. The blessing of our Father be 
 with them ! They are two of the kindest hearts, and 
 most transparent souls, among that reverent, loving, 
 confiding, and impulsive people, who, in their virtues 
 and their defects, deserve to be called the little chil 
 dren of the nations.
 
 A LEGEND OF THE APOSTLE JOHN. 
 
 Suggested by a well known Anecdote in the Ecclesiastical 
 History of Eusebius. 
 
 MORNING rose bright and clear on Ephesus, that 
 beautiful city of the Ancients, which Pliny calls the 
 Light of Asia. From the jutting points of lofty rocks 
 on the mountain sides rose the massive and majestic 
 pillars of Doric temples, embowered in verdant foliage, 
 while the lighter and more elegant Ionian shafts shot 
 up from the plain below, like graceful architectural 
 flowers. Brilliant sunbeams streamed tremulously 
 through the porticos, and reflected themselves in gold 
 en gleams on a forest of marble columns. The airy 
 summits of the mountains smiled in serene glory be 
 neath the lucid firmament. Troops of graceful swans 
 and beautiful white sea-doves floated on the sparkling 
 waters of the Cayster, running joyfully into the bright 
 bosom of the jEgean. Maidens bearing Etruscan 
 vases on their heads, went and came from the foun 
 tains, gliding majestically erect among the crowd of 
 merchants, or the long processions of priests and wor 
 shippers. Here and there, a Roman soldier rode 
 through the busy streets, his steel trappings and glitter 
 ing harness shining in the distance like points of fire. 
 
 Strong and deep rolled the sonorous chant of bass 
 voices from a Jewish synagogue, mingled with the
 
 92 A LEGEND OF THE APOSTLE JOHN. 
 
 sound of sackbut and harp. From the magnificent 
 temple of Diana came up a plaintive strain, a modula 
 ted murmur, as of distant waves rippling to music ; 
 slowly swelling, slowly falling away, floating off in 
 sweet echoes among the hills. There was a farewell 
 sadness in this choral hymn, as of a religion passing 
 away in its calm intellectual beauty, conscious that it 
 had no adequate voice for the yearnings and aspira 
 tions of the human heart. 
 
 And then, as ever, when the want of a more spir 
 itual faith began to be widely felt, it was already in 
 existence. From the solemn shadows of Judaism, 
 the mild form of Christianity had risen, and the Gre 
 cian mind was already preparing to encircle it with 
 the mystic halo of a golden Platonism. 
 
 In the court of an artificer of Ephesus, there met 
 that day an assembly of converts to the new and de 
 spised faith. Under the shadow of an awning, made 
 by Paul the tent-maker, they talked together of Jesus, 
 the holiness of his example, and the wide significance 
 of his doctrines. It was a season of peculiar interest 
 to the infant Church ; for John, the disciple whom. 
 Jesus especially loved, had just returned from banish 
 ment. He was a man of ninety years, with hair and 
 beard of silvery whiteness. His serious countenance 
 beamed with resignation and love ; but his high fore- 
 r head, earnest eye, and energetic motions, showed 
 plainly enough that his was not the serenity of a lan 
 guid and quiet temperament. Through conflict he 
 had attained humility and peace. His voice told the 
 same story ; for it was strong, deep, and restrained, 
 though sweetly toned, and full of musical inflections.
 
 A LEGEND OF THE APOSTLE JOHN. 93 
 
 His once erect figure was slightly bent ; the effect of 
 digging in the mines of Patmos. Many eyes were 
 moistened with tears, as they gazed on his beloved 
 and venerated countenance ; for it brought sad memo 
 ries of the hardships he had endured by the cruel or 
 ders of Domitian. He made no allusion to priva 
 tions or sufferings, but spoke only of the heavenly 
 visions, and the indwelling glory, that had been with 
 him in the Isle of Patmos ; how in the darkest mines 
 the heavens opened, and in the narrowest prisons 
 angels came and moved the stone walls afar off, so 
 that he saw them not ; and this he urged as proof how 
 little power man has over a spirit at peace with God. 
 Of those who hung upon his words, the emotions 
 of two were especially visible. One was a young 
 maiden, who sat on a divan at his feet, and leaning on 
 one arm gazed upwards in his face. She was closely 
 veiled, but the outlines of her figure, imperfectly re 
 vealed through the ample folds of her rich dress, gave 
 indication of personal grace. As she bent earnestly 
 forward, her drapery had fallen back, and showed an 
 arm of exquisite proportions, its clear soft olive tint 
 beautifully contrasted by a broad bracelet of gold. 
 She reclined partially on the shoulder of her old 
 nurse, who was seated behind her on the same divan. 
 Both ran great risk in visiting that Christian assem 
 bly; for Miriam's father was the wealthiest Jew in 
 Ephesus ; his was the highest place in the synagogue, 
 and few of her thousand merchants could count so 
 many ships. Narrow and bigoted in his own adhe 
 rence to forms and traditions, he was the last man on 
 earth to permit a woman to question them. But the
 
 94 A LEGEND OF THE APOSTLE JOHN. 
 
 earnest and truthful soul of his daughter early felt 
 how little life there was in his solemn observances. 
 Her nu'rse, a Galilean by birth, had told marvellous 
 stories of the holy Nazarene, who had cured her father 
 of blindness. With strict injunctions of secrecy, she 
 lent her a copy of St. John's Gospel ; and in this the 
 young enthusiastic girl at once recognised the deeper 
 and more spiritual teachings for which her soul had 
 yearned. And so it came that the daughter of a 
 wealthy house in Ephesus sat at the feet of the apostle, 
 in the despised assembly of the Christians. 
 
 The other person who seemed most remarkably 
 moved by the inspired eloquence of John, was a young 
 Greek of superb beauty. His form was vigorous and 
 finely proportioned. The carriage of his head was 
 free and proud, and there was intense light in his large 
 dark eyes, indicating a soul of fire. Indeed his whole 
 countenance was remarkable for transparency and 
 mobility of expression. When indignant at tyranny 
 or insult, he looked like a young war-horse rushing 
 to battle ; but at the voice of tenderness, the dilated 
 nostril subsided, and the flashing eye was dimmed 
 with tears. 
 
 This constant revelation of soul particularly attract 
 ed the attention of the venerable apostle ; for he saw 
 in it a nature liable to the greatest dangers, and capa 
 ble of the highest good. After he had dismissed the 
 assembly, with his usual paternal benediction, " Little 
 children, love one another," he stepped forward, and 
 laying his hand affectionately on the head of the 
 young Greek, said, " And thou, my son, art thou too 
 a Christian ?" With emphasis full of feeling, the
 
 A LEGEND OF THE APOSTLE JOHN. 95 
 
 young man replied, " I would I were a Christian." 
 Pleased with the earnest humility of this answer, the 
 apostle drew his arm within his own, and they retired 
 to an inner apartment to converse together. During 
 this confidential conversation, the young man made a 
 full and free revelation of his soul, in all its strength 
 and weakness. At times, his daring and fiery words 
 startled the more subdued nature of the meek disciple ; 
 but at the same moment, the crystalline frankness of 
 his heart excited the warmest and most confiding 
 affection. From that time, it was observable that the 
 apostle treated him with more marked tenderness than 
 he evinced toward any other of his converts. A few 
 months after, feeling that duty required him to take a 
 long journey to comfort and strengthen the surround 
 ing churches of Asia, he called his flock together, and 
 bade them an affectionate farewell. At parting, he 
 placed the hand of the young Greek within the hand 
 of the presiding elder, and said solemnly, " To thy 
 care I consign my precious, my beloved son, Antiorus. 
 In the Epicurean gardens he has learned that pleasure 
 is the only good ; from Christians let him learn that 
 good is the only pleasure. Be to him a father ; for 
 at my return I shall require his soul at thy hands." 
 The bishop promised, and the young man wept as he 
 kissed his venerable friend. 
 
 The apostle was gathering his robe about him, and 
 fastening his girdle, preparing to walk forth, when 
 Miriam glided timidly before him, saying in a tremu 
 lous tone, " My father, bless me before you go." She 
 removed her veil, and stooped to kiss his hand. The 
 veil dropped again instantly, but the sudden action
 
 96 A LEGEND OF THE APOSTLE JOHN. 
 
 had revealed to Antiorus a countenance of surpassing 
 beauty. He had no time to analyze the features ; but 
 he saw that her contour was noble, and that her large 
 almond-shaped eyes, of the darkest brown, were sin 
 gularly brilliant, yet deep and serene in their expres-' 
 sion. The tones of her voice, too, thrilled through 
 his soul ; for they were like a silver bell, softening 
 language into music. For an instant, she caught the 
 beaming glance of his eye, and an electric spark fell 
 from it into her heart. Henceforth, each observed the 
 other's motions, and each was indistinctly conscious 
 of pervading the other's being. The customs of the 
 times, combined with her maidenly reserve, rendered 
 it difficult to form a personal acquaintance. But 
 Antiorus had a Greek friend, whose dwelling adjoin 
 ed the gardens of Miriam's father ; and the house of 
 this friend became singularly attractive to him. Here 
 he could sometimes catch the sound of her voice, ac 
 companied by her harp, as she sang to her father the 
 psalms of David. At last, he ventured to speak to 
 her, as they left the assembly of the Christians. He 
 timidly asked her if she would play, on the next Sab 
 bath evening, the same psalm he had heard on the 
 preceding Sabbath. She started, and made no an 
 swer. The crimson suffusion of her face he could 
 not see. But when the Sabbath came, softly on the 
 evening air arose his favourite psalm, with a deeper 
 expression, a more sweet solemnity than ever. While 
 the strings yet vibrated, his Phrygian flute gently an 
 swered, in a simple Grecian air, the utterance of a 
 soul tender and sad. Tear-drops fell slowly on the 
 strings of Miriam's harp ; but she alone knew that
 
 A LEGEND OF THE APOSTLE JOHN. 97 
 
 the spirit of the beautiful Greek had thus entered in 
 visibly into the sanctuary of the Jewish maiden. How 
 dear was now her harp, since his soul had kissed the 
 winged messengers it sent from hers ! Again and 
 again, harp and flute responded to each other. Their 
 young hearts were overflowing with new and heaven 
 ly emotions, which music alone could utter. For 
 music is among the arts what love is among the pas 
 sions ; a divine mediator between spirit and matter ; a 
 flowery spiral, descending from the highest sanctuary 
 of the soul into the outer court of the senses, return 
 ing again from the senses to the soul, twining them, 
 together in perpetual bloom and fragrance. 
 
 But music has the vagueness of all things infi 
 nite ; and they who talked together in tones, earnest 
 ly desired to speak in words. At the Christian 
 assemblies too strict decorum was observed, to admit 
 of conversation between them. Into her father's 
 house he could not gain entrance ; or if he did, she 
 would be carefully secluded from the gaze of a Gen 
 tile. And so at last, by help of the over-indulgent 
 nurse, there came meetings in the garden, while all 
 the household slept. Under the dim light of the stars, 
 they talked of the new faith, which had brought them 
 together. He loved to disclose to her mind the 
 moonlight glory of Plato, showing a world of mar 
 velous beautv in shadowy outline, but fully revealing 
 nothing. While she, in soft serious tones, spoke of 
 the Hebrew prophets, complaining that they seemed 
 like an infinite glow, forever expressing a want they 
 never satisfied. Beautiful and majestic was their 
 utterance, but it was not high and deep enough to 
 9
 
 93 A LEGEND OF THE APOSTLE JOHN. 
 
 satisfy the aspirations of her soul ; therefore she 
 clung to the sublime all-embracing doctrines of Christ. 
 From these high themes, they came gradually to 
 speak of their affection for each other. There was 
 no desecration in this mingling of emotions ; for gen 
 uine love is as holy as religion ; and all round the 
 circling horizon of our mysterious being, heaven and 
 earth do kiss each other. 
 
 One night, their stolen interview in the garden was 
 interrupted by a noise on the house-top ; and fearing 
 they were suspected or observed, they resolved to be 
 more prudent. Weeks passed, therefore, and they 
 saw each other only at the meetings of the Christians, 
 rendered doubly precious by the obstacles which else 
 where separated them. There was another reason 
 why they thought more of each other's presence, than 
 they would have done had the good apostle John been 
 with them. As a deep rich musical voice will some 
 times join itself to a company of timid and wavering 
 singers, and gradually raise the whole chorus to its 
 own power and clearness, so the influence of his holy 
 and living soul elevated the character of every assem 
 bly he joined. With him, something of unction and 
 fervour had departed from the Christian meetings, and 
 still more of calm assured faith. More fear of the 
 world was visible, more anxiety to build up a respect 
 able name. The lovers felt this, though they had not 
 distinctly defined it ; and being less elevated by the 
 religious services, their thoughts were more conscious 
 ly occupied with each other. But their mutual ab 
 sorption passed unobserved ; for Miriam was always 
 closely veiled, and if she dropped a rose, or Antiorus
 
 A LEGEND OF THE APOSTLE JOHN. 99 
 
 a sprig of myrtle, it seemed mere accident to all but 
 the watchful and sympathizing nurse. These silent 
 manifestations of course made the concealed flame 
 burn all the more fervently. Perpetual separation 
 was so wearisome, that at last Miriam, in the pleni 
 tude of her love and confidence, granted his urgent 
 entreaty to walk with him once, only once, in disguise, 
 when all were sleeping. He had a proposition to 
 make, he said, and he must have an opportunity to 
 talk freely with her. In the garb of Greek peasants 
 they joined each other, and passing through the least 
 frequented streets, sought the mountains by a solitary 
 path. In a concealed nook of rock, under the shadow 
 of broad-leaved trees, they spoke together in agitation 
 and tears. Love is ever a troubled joy ; a semi-tone 
 changes its brightest strains into plaintive modulations. 
 Miriam wept, as she told her beloved that they must 
 part forever. She had come only to tell him so, and 
 bid him farewell. As yet she had not courage to 
 confess that she was promised to a wealthy kinsman, 
 a stern old Pharisee ; but her father had told her, that 
 day, that immediate preparations must be made for 
 the wedding. The enamoured Greek spoke with fiery 
 indignation, that her father should dare thus to seal 
 up the treasures of her large warm gushing heart, 
 for the sake of preserving wealth in the family. To 
 her timid suggestion that obedience was due to pa 
 rents, he insisted upon a higher obedience to the divine 
 law in the soul. In such a union as she spoke of, he 
 said there was positive pollution, which no law or 
 custom could cleanse ; for the heart alone could sanc 
 tify the senses. The maiden bent her head, and felt
 
 100 A LEGEND OF THE APOSTLE JOHN. 
 
 her cheeks burning ; for she was conscious of a pain 
 ful sense of degradation whenever the odious marriage 
 was forced upon her thoughts. He took her hand, 
 and it trembled within his, while he spoke to her of 
 flight, of secret marriage, and a hidden home of love 
 in some far-off Grecian isle. He drew her gently 
 toward him, and for the first time her lovely head 
 rested on his bosom. As she looked up fondly and 
 tearfully in his face, he stooped to kiss her beautiful 
 lips, which trembling gave an almost imperceptible 
 pressure in return. Faint and timid as was this first 
 maiden kiss, it rushed through his system like a 
 stream of fire. The earthly portion of love proclaim 
 ed ascendency over the soul, and tried him with a 
 fierce temptation. She loved him, and they were 
 alone in the midnight. Should he ever be able to 
 marry her ? Might not this stolen and troubled inter 
 view be, as she said, the last ? He breathed with 
 difficulty, his whole frame shook like a tree in the 
 storm ; but she lay on his bosom, as ignorant of the 
 struggle, as if she had been a sleeping babe. Ee- 
 buked by her unconscious innocence, he said inwardly 
 to the tempting spirit, " Get thee behind me ! Why 
 strivest thou to lead me into evil ? " But the spirit 
 answered, " The sin is wholly of man's making. 
 These Christians are too ascetic. The Epicurean 
 philosophy better agrees with nature." 
 
 The scene seemed to have entered into a league 
 with the tempting spirit. Nothing interrupted the 
 drowsy moon-stillness, save the pattering of a little 
 rill that trickled from the rocks, the amorous cooing 
 of two ring-doves awake in their nests among the
 
 A LEGEND OF THE APOSTLE JOHN. 101 
 
 shrubbery above, and the flute of some distant lover 
 conversing passionately with the moon. The maiden 
 herself, saddened by a presentiment, that this bliss 
 was too perfect to last, and melted into unusual ten 
 derness by the silent beauty of the night, and the 
 presence of the beloved one, folded her arm more 
 caressingly about his waist, till he felt the beating of 
 her heart. With frantic energy, he pressed his hand 
 against his throbbing brow, and gazed earnestly into 
 the clear arch of heaven, as if imploring strength to 
 aid his higher nature. Again the tempter said, " Thy 
 Epicurean philosophy was more in harmony with 
 nature. Pleasure is the only good." Then he re 
 membered the parting words of St. John, " Good is 
 the only pleasure." A better influence glided into 
 his soul, and a still small voice within him whispered, 
 " Thou hast no need to compare philosophies and 
 creeds, to know whether it be good to dishonour her 
 who trusts thee, or by thy selfishness to bring a stain 
 on the pure and persecuted faith of the Christians. 
 .Restore the maiden to her home." The tempter veil 
 ed his face and turned away, for he felt that the young 
 man was listening to an angel. 
 
 With a calm sad voice, spoke the tempted one, as he 
 gently and reverently removed the beloved head from 
 his breast. Taking Miriam by the hand, he led her 
 out from the deep shadow of the trees, to the little rill 
 that gurgled near by, and gathering water in his hands, 
 he offered her to drink. As she stood there in the 
 moonlight, drinking from his hand, the shadow of the 
 vines danced across her face, and fluttered gracefully 
 over the folds of her white dress. At that moment, 
 9*
 
 102 A LEGEND OF THE APOSTLE JOHN. 
 
 when the thought of danger was far from them both, 
 an arrow whizzed throgh the air, and with a groan 
 the maiden fell backward on the arm that was hastily 
 extended to save her from falling. 
 
 They were standing near a portion of Mt. Prion, 
 whence marble had been dug for the numerous edifi 
 ces of the city. It was full of grottoes, with winding 
 mazes blocked up with fragments of stone. The first 
 thought of Antiorus was to retreat hastily from the 
 moonlight that had made them visible, and the next 
 was to conceal his senseless burden within the recesses 
 of the grotto, here and there made luminous by fis 
 sures in the rocks. Carefully he drew the arrow from 
 the wound, and bound it tightly with his mantle. He 
 gathered water from the dripping cavern, and dashed 
 it in her face. But his efforts to restore life were un 
 availing. Regardless of his own safety, he would 
 have rushed back to the city and roused his friends, 
 but he dared, not thus compromise the fair fame of 
 her who had loved him so purely, though so tenderly. 
 Perhaps the person who aimed the arrow might have 
 mistaken them for others ; at all events, they could 
 not have been positively known. In a state of ago 
 nized indecision, he stepped to the entrance of the 
 grotto, and looked and listened. All was still, save 
 the pattering of water-drops. Presently he heard a 
 sound, as of feet descending the path from the moun 
 tains. With long strides, he bounded up to meet the 
 advancing stranger, and with energetic brevity begged 
 for assistance to convey a wounded maiden to some 
 place of safety, away from the city. The stranger 
 said he had companions, who would bring a litter from
 
 A LEGEND OF THE APOSTLE JOHN. 103 
 
 the mountains, and he turned back to summon them. 
 The minutes seemed hours to Antiorus, till his return; 
 for though all hope of restoring the precious life was 
 well nigh extinct, he felt continual dread of being dis 
 covered by the unseen foe, who had aimed the fatal 
 arrow. At last, the promised assistance came, and 
 they slowly ascended the mountain with their mourn 
 ful burden. After pursuing a winding rugged path 
 for some distance, they entered a spacious cavern. A 
 lamp was burning on a table of rock, and several men 
 were stretched on the ground sleeping. The litter 
 was gently lowered, and Antiorus bent in agony over 
 the senseless form so lately full of life and love. Not 
 until every means had been tried that ingenuity could 
 devise, would he believe that her pure and gentle 
 spirit had passed from its beautiful earthly frame for 
 ever. But when the last ray of hope departed, he 
 gave himself up to grief so frightfully stormy, that 
 the rude dwellers in the cave covered their eyes, that 
 they might not witness the terrible anguish of his 
 sensitive and powerful soul. In his desperate grief, 
 he heaped upon himself all manner of reproaches. 
 Why had he sought her love, when it was almost 
 sure to end unhappily ? Why had he so selfishly 
 availed himself of her tenderness, when the world 
 would judge so harshly of the concessions she had 
 made to love ? Then, in the bitterness of his heart, 
 he cursed the world for its false relations, its barriers 
 built on selfishness and pride. But soon, in the pros 
 tration of deep humility, he forgave all men, and 
 blamed only his own over-leaping nature. Through 
 all his changes of mood, ran the intensely mournful
 
 104 A LEGEND OF THE APOSTLE JOHN. 
 
 strain, " Oh, my beloved, would to God I had died 
 for thee ! " 
 
 But it is kindly ordered that human nature can 
 not long remain under the influence of extreme 
 anguish ; its very intensity stupifies the soul. When 
 Antiorus became calm from exhaustion, the man who 
 had guided him to the mountain spoke in low tones 
 of the necessity of burial. The mourner listened 
 with a visible shudder. While he could gaze on her 
 beautiful face, so placid in the sleep of death, it seemed 
 as if something remained to him ; but when that 
 should be covered from his gaze forever, oh how fear 
 fully lonely the earth would seem ! By degrees, 
 however, he was brought to admit the necessity of 
 separation. He himself gathered green branches for 
 the litter, and covered it with the fairest flowers. He 
 cut a braid of her glossy hair, and his tears fell on it 
 like the spring rain. In a green level space among 
 the trees, they dug a deep grave, and reverently laid 
 her within it, in her peasant robes. The doves cooed 
 in the branches, and a pleasant sound of murmuring 
 waters came up from the dell below. The mourner 
 fashioned a large cross, and planted it strongly at the 
 head of the grave. He sought for the most beautiful 
 vines, and removing them in large sods, twined them 
 about the cross. He sobbed himself to sleep on the 
 mound, and when his companions brought him food, 
 he ate as though he tasted it not. 
 
 The strong ardent nature of the young Greek, his 
 noble beauty and majestic figure, commanded their 
 involuntary respect, while the intensity of his sorrow 
 moved even their slow sympathies. But when seve-
 
 A LEGEND OF THE APOSTLE JOHN. 105 
 
 ral days had elapsed, their leader began to question 
 him concerning his future prospects and intentions. 
 The subject thus forced upon his reluctant thoughts 
 was a painful one. He dared not return openly to 
 Ephesus ; for whether his secret interviews with Mi 
 riam had been suspected by her family, or not, her 
 sudden disappearance, connected with his own, must 
 of course have given rise to the most unfavourable 
 rumours. Of the effect on the little community of 
 Christians, already so unpopular, he thought with ex 
 ceeding pain. And these dark suspicious-looking men, 
 that dwelt in caverns, who were they ? 
 
 They soon resolved his doubts on this subject ; for 
 their leader said boldly, " We are robbers. You are 
 in some way implicated in the death of this young 
 woman, and you dare not return to Ephesus. Remain 
 with us. We have seen your strength, and we like 
 your temper. Stay with us, and you shall be our 
 leader." 
 
 The proposition startled him with its strangeness, 
 and filled his soul with loathing. He, on whose fair 
 integrity no stain had ever rested, he become a robber ! 
 He, who had so lately sat at the feet of the holy apos 
 tle, and felt in his inmost heart the blessed influence 
 of the words, " Love your enemies, do good to them 
 that hate you" was it proposed to him to arm him 
 self against unoffending brethren ? Concealing his 
 abhorrence, by a strong effort, he thanked the robber 
 for the kindness he had shown him in his great dis 
 tress, and promised to repay him for it ; but he told 
 him mildly that his habits and his feelings alike un 
 fitted him for a life like theirs. He would return to
 
 106 A LEGEND CF TEE APOSTLE JOHN. 
 
 Ephesus, and consult with friends concerning his fu 
 ture plans. The men seemed dissatisfied with their 
 leader's courtesy to the stranger, and grumbled some 
 thing about his going to guide the magistrates to their 
 cavern in the mountains. Antiorus turned proudly 
 toward them, and with strong convincing earnestness 
 replied, " You cannot deem me base enough thus to 
 recompense your kindness." His voice became lower 
 and deeper with emotion, as he added, " Reverently 
 and tenderly you have treated her who sleeps ; and 
 the secret that thus came to my knowledge shall never 
 be revealed. I would die rather than divulge it." 
 The men stood silent, awed by the dignity of his bear 
 ing and the clear truthfulness of his words. After a 
 slight pause, their leader said, " We believe you ; but 
 there are doubtless those in Ephesus who would pay 
 a handsome sum to gain tidings from you. You may 
 keep your secret, if you like ; hut it cannot be con 
 cealed that you and the beautiful maiden were no 
 peasants. What if we put the magistrates on your 
 track ?" 
 
 Looking him openly and fearlessly in the eye, An 
 tiorus replied, " Because you have not so lost your 
 manly nature. A voice within you would forbid you 
 to persecute one already so crushed and heart-broken. 
 You will not do it, because I am in your power, and 
 because I trust you." This appeal to the manliness 
 that remained within them, controlled their rough na 
 tures, and the bold frankness of his eyes kindled their 
 admiration. Clasping his hand with rough cordiality, 
 the leader said, " We will not inform against you, and 
 we will trust you to go to Ephesus." " Let him seal
 
 A LEGEND OF THE APOSTLE JOHN. 107 
 
 his promise by an oath to Hecate and the Furies," 
 murmured several voices. The leader folded his arras 
 across his breast, and answered slowly and proudly, 
 " The simple word of such a man is more sacred to 
 him than the most terrible oaths." The countenance 
 of the impetuous young Greek became at once illu 
 minated. Seizing the hand of the robber-captain, he 
 said, " My friend, you are worthy of a better occupa 
 tion." " Perhaps so," replied the other, with a deep 
 sigh ; "at least, I thought so once." 
 
 * * * * * # * 
 
 Under the shadow of evening, and disguised in 
 dress, Antiorus ventured to return to Ephesus. The 
 first house he entered was the one adjoining the gar 
 dens, where he had so often listened to Miriam's 
 harp. The moment he was recognised, all eyes look 
 ed coldly on him. " Why hast thou come hither ?" 
 said his once friendly host. " Already my house has 
 been searched for thee, and I am suspected of aiding 
 thy designs by bringing thee within hearing of the 
 gardens. Curse on thy imprudence ! Were there not 
 women enough in the streets of Ephesus, that thou' 
 must needs dishonour one of its wealthiest families ?" 
 
 In former times, the sensitive young man would 
 have flashed fire at these insulting words ; but now 
 he meekly replied, " You judge me wrongfully. I 
 loved her purely arid reverently." His friend answer 
 ed sarcastically, " Perhaps you learned this smooth 
 hypocrisy at the meetings of the Christians ; for there, 
 I understand, to my great surprise, it has been your 
 habit to attend. What name they give to such trans 
 actions I do not care to know. It is enough to say
 
 103 A LEGEND OF THE APOSTLE JOHN. 
 
 that you are no longer a welcome guest in my house." 
 For a moment a deep flush went over the young 
 man's expressive countenance, and his eye kindled ; 
 but he turned away, and silently departed ; lingering 
 for a moment with fond reluctance, on the steps of the 
 terrace he had so often mounted rapidly, buoyant with 
 love and hope. 
 
 With a sorrowful heart, he sought the dwelling of 
 the Christian elder, to whom St. John had so affec 
 tionately confided him, at parting. As soon as he 
 made himself known, a severe frown clouded the face 
 of the bishop. " What impudence has brought thee 
 hither ?" he exclaimed. " Hast thou not sufficiently 
 disgraced the Church by thy wickedness, without pre 
 suming to disgrace it further by thy presence ?" 
 " You judge me too harshly," replied the young man, 
 meekly. " Imprudent I have been, but not wicked." 
 " Where hast thou hidden thy paramour ?" said the 
 bishop impatiently. The eyes of the young Greek 
 glowed like coals of fire, his nostrils expanded, his 
 lips quivered, his breast heaved, and his hand strongly 
 clenched the staff on which he leaned. But he con 
 strained himself, and answered with mournful calm 
 ness, " I have no paramour. She on whose innocent 
 name you have breathed an epithet so undeserved, has 
 passed from earth to heaven, pure as the angels who 
 received her." 
 
 In answer to further inquiries, he frankly repeated 
 the whole story, not concealing the temptation, which 
 had so nearly conquered him. In reply, the bishop 
 informed him that suspicion had been awakened pre 
 vious to their imprudent midnight ramble. The at-
 
 A LEGEND OF THE APOSTLE JOHN. 109 
 
 tendance of Miriam and her nurse at the Christian 
 meetings had been discovered ; her absence on that 
 fatal night had been detected ; the nurse fled in terror; 
 the betrothed husband of Miriam went forth madly 
 into the streets, vowing revenge ; her father believed 
 he had traced the fugitives on board a ship bound to 
 Athens, whither he had sent spies to discover them. 
 Whether the Jewish lover had fired the arrow or not, 
 it was impossible to tell ; but should it be known that 
 Miriam was dead, her death would unquestionably be 
 charged on Antiorus, and the effect would be to re 
 new the popular hatred against the Christians, with 
 redoubled vigour. At present, believing her to be in 
 Athens, it was the policy of her family to keep the af 
 fair from the public, as much as possible. 
 
 Antiorus expressed the utmost contrition for his 
 imprudence, but averred most solemnly that he had in 
 no way violated his conscience, or his Christian obli 
 gations. He begged the bishop for credentials to some 
 distant Christian Church, where by a life of humility 
 and prayer, he might make himself ready to rejoin 
 his beloved Miriam. 
 
 The bishop, vexed at an affair so likely to bring 
 discredit on his own watchfulness, listened coldly, and 
 replied, " For the prosperity of the Church, it is very 
 necessary to obtain and preserve a good name. We 
 must avoid the appearance of evil. Appearances are 
 very much against you. You are young and of fiery 
 blood. You have been an Epicurean, whose doc 
 trines favour unbridled pleasure. You say that your 
 love for this maiden was pure ; but what proof have 
 we, save your own word ?" Antiorus raised his head 
 10
 
 110 A LEGEND OF THE APOSTLE JOHN. 
 
 proudly, and with a clear bold glance replied, " What 
 more is needed ? Have I ever spoken falsely to 
 friend or foe ?" " I know not," answered the bishop. 
 " Young men do not usually decoy maidens into hid 
 den grottoes, at midnight, for purposes as pure as the 
 angels." 
 
 Alas, for his less noble nature ! He knew not the 
 value of the warm heart he was thus turning to gall. 
 The young man bent upon him a most intense and 
 searching gaze. He thought of that fearfully strong 
 temptation in the lonely midnight hour ; of his ex 
 treme reluctance to bring suspicion on the character 
 of the Christian Church ; of his conquest over him 
 self; of his reverential love for the pure maiden ; of 
 his virtuous resolutions, and his holy aspirations. He 
 had opened his whole heart to this father of the 
 Church, and thus it had been received ! Would 
 Christ have thus weighed the respectability of the 
 Church against the salvation of a human soul ? Were 
 these beautiful doctrines of love and forgiveness mere 
 idle theories ? Mere texts for fine speeches and elo 
 quent epistles ? A disbelief in all principles, a dis 
 trust of all men, took possession of him. With a deep 
 sigh, he gathered his robe about him and departed. 
 He walked hastily, as if to run away from his own 
 mad thoughts. Ascending an eminence, he paused 
 and looked back on the city, its white columns dimly 
 visible in the starlight. " There is no one there to 
 love me," said he. " I am an orphan ; no mother or 
 sister to comfort my aching heart. I have had great 
 projects, great hopes, sublime aspirations ; but that is 
 all over now. No matter what becomes of me. I
 
 A LEGEND OF THE APOSTLE JOHN. Ill 
 
 will go to the robbers. I have no other friends ; and 
 they at least believed me." 
 
 He was received in the mountain cavern with an 
 uproarious burst of joy. They drank wine and ca 
 roused, and with loud acclamations proclaimed him 
 king of their band. His heart was sick within him, 
 but with wild desperation, he drank to their pledge. 
 That night, when all the riotous Crew were sleeping, 
 he stole forth into the midnight, and stood alone on 
 the mountain side, gazing mournfully upon the stars, 
 that looked down upon him with solemn love. Then 
 tossing his arms wildly above his head, he threw him 
 self on the ground with a mighty sob, exclaiming, 
 " Oh, if she had but lived, her pure and gentle spirit 
 would have saved me !" 
 
 Hark ! Is that a faint whispering of music in the 
 air ? Or is it memory's echo of Miriam's psalm ? 
 Now it dies away in so sad a cadence and now it 
 rises, full of victory. It has passed into his heart ; 
 and spite of recklessness and sin, it will keep there a 
 nestling-place for holiness and love. 
 
 # =fc * * * 
 
 When the apostle John returned to Ephesus, his 
 first inquiry of the bishop was, " Where is the beloved 
 son I committed to thy charge ?" The elder, looking 
 down, replied, with some embarrassment, " He is 
 dead !" " Dead !" exclaimed the apostle, " How did 
 he die ?" The elder answered with a sigh, " He is 
 dead in trespasses and sins. He became dissolute, 
 was led away by evil companions, and it is said he is 
 now captain of a band of robbers in yonder moun 
 tains." With a voice full of sorrowful reproach, the
 
 112 A LEGEND OF THE APOSTLE JOHN. 
 
 apostle said, " And is it thus, my brother, thou hast 
 cared for the precious soul that Christ and I commit 
 ted to thy charge ? Bring me a horse and a guide to 
 the mountains. I will go to my erring son." " I pray 
 you do not attempt it," exclaimed the elder. " You 
 will be seized by the robbers and perhaps murdered." 
 " Hinder me not," replied the venerable man. " If 
 need be, I will gladly die to save his soul, even as 
 Christ died for us. I will go to my son; perchance 
 he will listen to me." 
 
 They brought him a horse, and he rode to the 
 mountains. While searching for the cavern, one of 
 the robbers came up and seized him rudely, exclaim 
 ing, " Who art thou, old man ? Come before our 
 captain, and declare thy business." 
 
 " For that purpose I came hither," replied the 
 apostle. " Bring me to your captain." 
 
 Antiorus, hearing the sound of voices, stepped 
 forth from "the mouth of the cavern ; but when he 
 saw John, he covered his face and turned quickly 
 away. The apostle ran toward him with outstretched 
 arms, exclaiming, "Why dost thou fly from me, my 
 son ? From me, an old unarmed man ? Thou art 
 dear to me, my son. I will pray for thee. If need 
 be, I will die for thee. Oh, trust to me ; for Christ 
 has sent me to thee, to speak of hope, forgiveness, 
 and salvation." 
 
 Antiorus stood with his face covered, and his strong 
 frame shook in his armour. But when he heard the 
 words forgiveness and hope, he fell on the ground, 
 embraced the old man's knees, and wept like a child. 
 The apostle laid his hand affectionately on that noble
 
 A LEGEND OF THE APOSTLE JOHN. 113 
 
 head, and said, with a heavenly smile, " Ah, now 
 thou art baptized again, my dear son baptized in thy 
 tears. The Lord bless thee and keep thee. The 
 Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee 
 peace." 
 
 After speaking together for a few moments, they 
 retired to Miriam's grave, and there the young man 
 laid open all his sinning and suffering heart. In con 
 clusion, he said, " There seems ever to be within me 
 two natures ; one for good, and one for evil." " It is 
 even thus with us all," replied the apostle. " But 
 thou, my father," rejoined Antiorus, " thou canst not 
 imagine how I have sinned, or what I have resisted. 
 Thy blood flows so calmly. Thou art too pure and 
 holy to be tempted as I have been." 
 
 " Hush, hush, I pray thee, my son," replied the 
 apostle. " How I have struggled is known only to 
 Him who seeth all the secrets of the heart* Because 
 my blood has not always flowed so calmly, therefore, 
 my son, have I been peculiarly drawn toward thee in 
 the bonds of pity and of sympathy. Thy wild am 
 bition, thy impetuous anger, are no strangers in my 
 own experience ; and that midnight temptation so 
 brought back a scene of my youth, that it seemed 
 almost like a page of my own history." " Of thine .'" 
 exclaimed the young man, with an accent of strong 
 surprise. In a voice low and tender, he added, " Then 
 thou hast loved ?" The white-haired man bowed his 
 head upon his hands, and with strong emotion an 
 swered, " Oh, how deeply, how tenderly." 
 
 There was silence for some moments, interrupted 
 only by the quiet lullaby of the waters, rippling in the 
 10*
 
 114 A LEGEND OF THE APOSTLE JOHN. 
 
 dell below. Pressing the apostle's hand, Antiorus 
 said, in a low reverential tone, " Does love end here, 
 my father ? Shall we know our loved ones among 
 the angels of heaven ? Do they witness our conflicts ? 
 Do they rejoice over our victories ?" 
 
 Hark ! Is that music in the air ? Or is it a memory 
 of the psalm ? How distinctly it swells forth in joy, 
 how sweetly it breathes of love and peace ! The list 
 ener smiles ; for he seems to hear a harp in the heavens. 
 
 The two beautiful ones, the young and the old, stand 
 with clasped hands, looking upward into the sky. 
 The countenance of the apostle was radiant with 
 spiritual light, as he said, " Let us believe and hope." 
 They knelt down, embracing each other, and offered 
 a silent prayer, in the name of him who had brought 
 immortality to light. 
 
 Antiorus bade his wild comrades farewell, with ex 
 hortations, to which the apostle added words that were 
 blessed in their gentleness ; for the former leader of 
 the band turned from the evil of his ways, and became 
 a zealous Christian. The young Greek went to the 
 church in Corinth, bearing affectionate credentials from 
 the beloved apostle. Many years after, hearing that 
 the family of Miriam had gone to a Syrian city, he 
 returned to Ephesus. The cross had been removed 
 from the mountain, but he planted another on the well- 
 remembered spot. Near by, he built a little cabin of 
 boughs, where an opening in the thick groves gave 
 glimpses of the marble columns of Ephesus, and the 
 harbour of Panormous sparkling in the sun. Many 
 came to talk with him concerning the doctrines of 
 Plato, arid the new truths taught by Jesus. He received
 
 A LEGEND OF THE APOSTLE JOHN. 115 
 
 them all with humility and love ; but otherwise he 
 mixed not with the world, except to visit the sick and 
 suffering, or to meet with the increasing band of Chris 
 tians in the plain below. He was an old man when 
 he died. The name of Miriam had not passed his lips 
 for many years ; but when they buried him beside the 
 mountain cross, they found a ringlet of black hair in 
 a little ivory casement next his heart.
 
 THE BELOVED TUNE. 
 
 Fragments of a Life, in Small Pictures 
 
 A child, a friend, a wife, whose soft heart sings 
 
 In unison with ours, breeding its future wings. LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 IN a pleasant English garden, on a rustic chair of 
 intertwisted boughs, are seated two happy human 
 beings. Beds of violets perfume the air, and the 
 verdant hedge-rows stand sleepily in the moonlight. 
 A guitar lies on the greensward, but it is silent now, 
 for all is hushed in the deep stillness of the heart. 
 That youthful pair are whispering their first acknowl 
 edgment of mutual love. With them is now unfold 
 ing life's best and brightest blossom, so beautiful and 
 so transient, but leaving, as it passes into fruit, a fra 
 grance through all the paths of memory. 
 
 And now the garden is alone in the moonlight. 
 The rustic bench, and the whispering foliage of the 
 tree, tell each other no tales of those still kisses, those 
 gentle claspings, and all the fervent language of the 
 heart. But the young man has carried them away 
 in his soul ; and as he sits alone at his chamber win 
 dow, gazing in the mild face of the moon, he feels, 
 as all do who love and are beloved, that he is a better 
 man, and will henceforth be a wiser and a purer one. 
 The worlds within and without are veiled in transfig 
 ured glory, and breathe together in perfect harmony.
 
 THE BELOVED TUNE. 117 
 
 For all these high aspirations, this deep tide of ten 
 derness, this fulness of beauty, there is but one utter 
 ance ; the yearning heart must overflow in music. 
 Faint and uncertain come the first tones of the guitar, 
 breathing as softly as if they responded to the mere 
 touch of the moonbeams. But now the rich manly 
 voice has united with them, and a clear spiritual 
 melody flows forth, plaintive and impassioned, the 
 modulated breath of indwelling life and love. All 
 the secrets of the garden, secrets that painting and 
 poetry had no power to reveal, have passed into the 
 song. 
 
 At first, the young musician scarcely noticed the 
 exceeding beauty of the air he was composing. But 
 a passage that came from the deepest of the heart, re 
 turned to the heart again, and filled it with its own 
 sweet echoes. He lighted a? lamp, and rapidly trans 
 ferred the sounds to paper. Thus has he embodied 
 the floating essence of his soul, and life's brightest 
 inspiration cannot pass away with the moonlight and 
 the violet-fragrance that veiled its birth. 
 
 But obstacles arise in the path of love. Dora's 
 father has an aversion to foreigners, and Alessandro 
 is of mingled Italian and German parentage. He 
 thinks of worldly substance, as fathers are wont to 
 do ; and Alessandro is simply leader of an orchestra, 
 and a popular composer of guitar music. There is a 
 richer lover in question, and the poor musician is sad 
 with hope deferred, though he leans ever trustfully on 
 Dora's true heart. He labours diligently in his voca 
 tion, gives lessons day by day, and listens with all 
 patience to the learner's trip-hammer measurement of
 
 118 THE BELOVED TUNE. 
 
 time, while the soul within him yearns to pour itself 
 forth in floods of improvised melody. He composes 
 music industriously, too ; but it is for the market, and 
 slowly and reluctantly the offended tones take their 
 places per order. Not thus came they in that inspir 
 ed song, where love first breathed its bright but timid 
 joy over vanished doubts and fears. The manuscript 
 of that melody is laid away, and seldom can the anx 
 ious lover bear its voice. 
 
 But two years of patient effort secures his prize. 
 The loved one has come to his humble home, with 
 her bridal wreath of jessamine and orange-buds. He 
 sits at the same window, and the same moon shines 
 on him ; but he is no longer alone. A beautiful head 
 leans on his breast, and a loving voice says, " Dearest 
 Alessandro, sing me a song of thine own composing." 
 He was at that moment thinking of the rustic seat in 
 her father's garden, of violets breathing to the moon 
 light, of Dora's first bashful confession of love ; and 
 smiling with a happy consciousness, he sought for 
 the written voice of that blissful hour. But he will 
 not tell her when it was composed, lest it should not 
 say so much to her heart, as it does to his. He be 
 gins by singing other songs, which drawing-room 
 misses love for their tinkling sweetness. Dora listens 
 well pleased, and sometimes says, " That is pretty, 
 Alessandro ; play it again." But now comes the 
 voice of melting, mingling souls. That melody, so 
 like sunshine, and rainbows, and bird-warbling, after 
 a summer shower, with rain drops from the guitar at 
 intervals, and all subsiding into blissful, dreamy moon 
 light. Dora leans forward, gazing earnestly in his
 
 THE BELOVED TUNE. 119 
 
 face, and with beaming tearful eyes, exclaims, " Oh, 
 that is very beautiful ! That is my tune." " Yes, it 
 is indeed thy tune," replied the happy husband ; and 
 when she had heard its history, she knew why it had 
 seemed so like echoes of her own deepest heart. 
 
 Time has passed, and Alessandro sits by Dora's 
 bed-side, their eyes looking into each other through 
 happy tears. Their love is crowned with life's deep 
 est, purest joy, its most heavenly emotion. Their 
 united lives have re-appeared in a new existence ; 
 and they feel that without this rich experience the 
 human heart can never know one half its wealth of 
 love. Long sat the father in that happy stillness, and. 
 wist not that angels near by smiled when he touched 
 the soft down of the infant's arm, or twined its little 
 finger over his, and looked his joyful tenderness 
 into the mother's eyes. The tear-dew glistened on 
 those long dark fringes, when he took up his guitar 
 and played the beloved tune. He had spoken no word 
 to his child. These tones were the first sounds with 
 which he welcomed her into the world. 
 
 A few months glide away, and the little Fioretta 
 knows the tune for herself. She claps her hands and 
 crows at sight of the guitar, and all changing emo 
 tions show themselves in her dark melancholy eyes, 
 and on her little tremulous lips. Play not too sadly, 
 thou fond musician ; for this little soul is a portion of 
 thine own sensitive being, more delicately tuned. Ah, 
 see now the grieved lip, and the eyes swimming in 
 tears ! Change, change to a gayer measure ! for the 
 little heart is swelling too big for its bosom. There, 
 now she laughs and crows again ! Yet plaintive mu-
 
 120 THE BELOVED TUNE. 
 
 sic is her choice, and especially the beloved tune. As 
 soon as she can toddle across the room, she welcomes 
 papa with a shout, and runs to bring the guitar, which 
 mother must help her carry, lest she break it in her 
 zeal. If father mischievously tries other tunes than 
 her favourites, she shakes her little curly head, and 
 trots her feet impatiently. But when he touches the 
 first notes he ever played to her, she smiles and lis 
 tens seriously, as if she heard her own being prophe 
 sied in music. As she grows older, the little lady 
 evinces a taste right royal ; for she must needs eat her 
 supper to the accompaniment of sweet sounds. It is 
 beautiful to see her in her night-gown, seated demure 
 ly in her small arm-chair, one little naked foot uncon 
 sciously beating time to the tune. But if the music 
 speaks too plaintively, the big tears roll silently down, 
 and the porringer of milk, all unheeded, pours its 
 treasures on the floor. Then come smothering kisses 
 from the happy father and mother, and love-claspings 
 with her little soft arms. As the three sit thus inter 
 twined, the musician says playfully, " Ah, this is the 
 perfect chord !" 
 
 Three years pass away, and the scene is changed. 
 There is discord now where such sweet harmony pre 
 vailed. The light of Dora's eyes is dim with weep 
 ing, and Fioretta "has caught the trick of grief, and 
 sighs amid her playthings." Once, when she had 
 waited long for the beloved father, she ran to him 
 with the guitar, and he pushed her away, sayinsr an 
 grily, " Go to bed ; why did your mother keep you up 
 so long?" The sensitive little being, so easily re 
 pulsed, went to her pillow in tears ; and after that,
 
 THE BELOVKD TUNE. 121 
 
 she no more ran to him with music in her hand, in 
 her eye, and in her voice. Hushed now is the belov 
 ed tune. To the unhappy wife it seems a mockery to 
 ask for it ; and Alessandro seldom touches his guitar ; 
 he says he is obliged to play enough for his bread, 
 withput playing for his family at home. At the glee- 
 club the bright wine has tempted him, and he is slow 
 ly burying heart and soul in the sepulchre of the body. 
 Is there no way to save this beautiful son of genius 
 and feeling ? Dora at first pleads with him tenderly ; 
 but made nervous with anxiety and sorrow, she at last 
 speaks words that would have seemed impossible to 
 her when she was so happy, seated on the rustic 
 chair, in the moonlighted garden ; and then comes 
 the sharp sorrow, which a generous heart always feels 
 when it has so spoken to a cherished friend. In such 
 moments of contrition, memory turns with fond sad 
 ness to the beloved tune. Fior3tta, whose little fin 
 gers must stretch wide to reach an octave, is taught to 
 play it on the piano, while mother sings to her accom 
 paniment, in their lonely hours. After such seasons, 
 a tenderer reception always greets the wayward hus 
 band ; but his eyes, dulled by dissipation, no longer 
 perceive the delicate shadings of love in those home 
 pictures, once so dear to him. The child is afraid of 
 her father, and this vexes him; so a strangeness has 
 grown up between the two playmates, and casts a 
 shadow over all their attempts at joy. One day Ales 
 sandro came home as twilight was passing into even 
 ing. Fioretta had eaten her supper, and sat on her 
 mother's lap, chatting merrily ; but the little clear 
 voice hushed, as sooa as father's step was heard ap- 
 11
 
 122 THE BELOVED TUNE. 
 
 preaching. He entered with flushed cheek and un 
 steady motions, an i threw himself full length on the 
 sofa, grurnbling that it was devilish dismal there. 
 Dora answered hastily, " When a man has made his 
 home dismal, if he don't like it, he had better stay 
 where he finds more pleasure." The next moment 
 she would have given worlds if she had not spoken 
 such words. Her impulse was to go and fall on his 
 neck, and ask forgiveness ; but he kicked over Fioret- 
 ta's little chair with such violence, that the kindly im 
 pulse turned back, and hid itself in her widowed 
 heart. There sat they silently in the twilight, and 
 Dora's tears fell on the little head that rested on her 
 bosom. I know not what spirit guided the child ; 
 perhaps in her busy little heart she remembered how 
 her favourite sounds used to heighten all love, and 
 cheer all sorrow : perhaps angels came and took her 
 by the hand. But so it was, she slipped down from 
 mother's lap, and scrambling up on the music-stool, 
 began to play the tune which had been taught her in 
 private hours, and which the father had not heard for 
 many months. Wonderfully the little creature touched 
 the keys with her tiny fingers, and ever and anon her 
 weak but flexible voice chimed in with a pleasant 
 harmony. Alessandro raised his head, and looked 
 and listened. " God bless her dear little soul !" he 
 exclaimed ; " can she play it ? God bless her ! God 
 bless her!" He clasped the darling to his breast, and 
 kissed her again and again. Then seeing the little 
 overturned chair, once so sacred to his heart, he 
 caught it up, kissed it vehemently, arid burst into a 
 fl >od of tears. Dora threw her arms round him, and
 
 THE BELOVED TUNE. 123 
 
 said softly, " Dear Alessandro, forgive me that I spoke 
 so unkindly." He pressed her hand, and answered 
 in a stifled voice, " Forgive me, Dora. God bless the 
 little angel ! Never again will father push away her 
 little chair." As they stand weeping on each other's 
 necks, two little soft arms encircle their knees, and a 
 small voice, says, " Kiss Fietta." They raise her up, 
 and fold her in long embraces. Alessandro carries 
 her to her bed, as in times of old, and says cheerful 
 ly, " No more wine, dear Dora ; no more wine. Our 
 child has saved me." 
 
 But when discord once enters a domestic paradise, 
 it is not easily dispelled. Alessandro occasionally 
 feels the want of the stimulus to which he has become 
 accustomed, and the corroding appetite sometimes 
 makes him gloomy and petulant. Dora does not 
 make sufficient allowance for this, and her own na 
 ture being quick and sensitive, she sometimes gives 
 abrupt answers, or betrays impatience by hasty mo 
 tions. Meanwhile Alessandro is busy, with some se 
 cret work. The door of his room is often locked, and 
 Dora is half displeased that he will not tell her why ; 
 but all her questions he answers only with a kiss and 
 a smile. And now the Christmas morning comes, 
 and Fioretta rises bright and early to see what Santa 
 Glaus has put in her stocking. She comes running 
 with her apron full, and gives mother a package, on 
 which is written, " A merry Christmas and a Happy 
 New Year to my beloved wife." She opens it, and 
 reads " Dearest Dora, I have made thee a music-box. 
 When I speak hastily to my loved ones, I pray thee 
 wind it up ; and when I see the spark kindling in thy
 
 124 THE BELOVED TUNE. 
 
 eyes, I will do the same. Thus, dearest, let memory 
 teach patience unto love." Dora winds up the music- 
 box, and lo, a spirit sits Avithin, playing the beloved 
 tune ! She puts her hand within her husband's, and 
 they look at each other with affectionate humility. 
 But neither of them speak the resolution they form, 
 while the voice of their early love falls on their ears, 
 like the sounds of a fairy guitar. 
 
 Memory, thus aided, does teach patience unto love. 
 No slackened string now sends discord through the 
 domestic tune. Fioretta is passing into maidenhood, 
 beautiful as an opening flower. She practises 
 on the guitar, while the dear good father sits with 
 his arm across her chair, singing from a manuscript 
 tune of her own composing. In his eyes, this first ef 
 fort of her genius cannot seem otherwise than beau 
 tiful. Ever and anon certain notes occur, and they 
 look at each other and smile, and Dora smiles also. 
 " Fioretta could not help bringing in that theme," she 
 says, " for it was sung to her in her cradle." The 
 father replies, " But the variations are extremely pret 
 ty and tasteful ;" and a flush of delight goes over the 
 expressive face of his child. The setting sun glances 
 across the guitar, and just touches a rose in the maid 
 en's bosom. The happy mother watches the dear 
 group earnestly, and sketches rapidly on the paper 
 before her. And now she, too, works privately in her 
 own room, and has a secret to keep. On Fioretta's 
 fifteenth birth-day, she sends by her hands, a covered 
 present to the father. He opens it and finds a lovely 
 picture of himself and daughter, the rose and the 
 guitar. The sunlight glances across them in a bright
 
 THE BELOVED TUNE. 125 
 
 shower of fine soft rays, and touches on the manu 
 script, as with a golden finger, the few beloved notes, 
 which had made them smile. As the father shrined 
 within his divine art the memory of their first hour 
 of mutual love, so the mother has embalmed in her 
 beautiful art the first musical echo from the heart of 
 their child. 
 
 But now the tune of life passes into a sadder mode. 
 Dora, pale and emaciated, lies propped up with pil 
 lows, her hand clasped within Fioretta's, her head 
 resting on her husband's shoulder. 
 
 All is still still. Their souls are kneeling rever 
 ently before the Angel of Death. Heavy sunset 
 guns from a neighbouring fort, boom through the air. 
 The vibrations shake the music-box, and it starts up 
 like a spirit, and plays the cherished tune. Dora 
 presses her daughter's hand, and she, with a faint 
 smile, warbles the words they have so often sung. 
 The dying one looks up to Alessandro, with a deep 
 expression of unearthly tenderness. Gazing thus, 
 with one long-drawn sigh, her affectionate soul floats 
 away on the wings of that ethereal song. The me 
 mory that taught endurance unto love leaves a lu 
 minous expression, a farewell glory, on the lifeless 
 countenance. Attendant angels smile, and their 
 blessing falls on the mourners' hearts, like dew from 
 heaven. Fioretta remains to the widowed one, the 
 graceful blossom of his lonely life, the incarnation 
 of his beloved tune. 
 11*
 
 ELIZABETH WILSON. 
 
 THB following story is founded upon facts which occurred during the 
 latter part of the eighteenth century. The leading incidents are still in the 
 memory of many of the inhabitants of Chester county, Pennsylvania. 
 
 ELIZABETH WILSON was of humble, though respect 
 able parentage. From infancy she was remarked for 
 beauty, and a delicate nervous organization. Her 
 brother William, two years older, was likewise a 
 handsome child, with a more sturdy and vigorous 
 frame. He had a gentle, loving heart, which expend 
 ed its affections most lavishly on his mother and lit 
 tle sister. In their early years, Lizzy was his con 
 stant shadow. If he went to the barn to hunt for eggs, 
 the little one was sure to run prattling along with 
 him, hand in hand. If he pelted walnuts from the 
 tree, she was sure to be there with her little basket, 
 to pick them up. They sat on the same blue bench 
 to eat their bread and milk, and with the first jack- 
 knife he ever owned, the affectionate boy carved on it 
 the letters W. and E. for William and Elizabeth. 
 The sister lavishly returned his love. If a pie was 
 baked for her, she would never break it till Willie 
 came to share ; and she would never go to sleep un 
 less her arms were about his neck. 
 
 Their mother, a woman of tender heart and yield, 
 ing temper, took great delight in her handsome chil-
 
 ELIZABETH WILSON. 127 
 
 dren. Often, when she went out to gather chips or 
 
 brush, she stopped to look in upon them, as they sat 
 
 on the blue bench, feeding each other from their little 
 
 porringers of bread and milk. The cross-lights from 
 
 side-window threw on them a reflection of the lilac 
 
 ashes, so that they seemed seated in a flowering 
 
 rove. It was the only picture the poor woman had ; 
 
 but none of the old masters could have equalled its 
 
 beauty. 
 
 The earliest and strongest development of Lizzy's 
 character was love. She was always caressing her 
 kitten, or twining her arms about Willie's neck, or 
 leaning on her mother's lap, begging for a kiss. A 
 dozen times a day she would look earnestly into her 
 mother's eyes, and inquire, most beseechingly, " Does 
 you love your little Lizzy ?" And if the fond answer 
 did not come as promptly as usual, her beautiful eyes, 
 always plaintive in their expression, would begin to 
 swim with tears. This " strong necessity of loving," 
 which so pervades the nature of woman, the fair child 
 inherited from her gentle mother ; and from her, too, 
 inherited a deficiency of firmness, of which such na 
 tures have double need. To be every thing, and do 
 every thing, for those she loved, was the paramount 
 law of her existence. 
 
 Such a being was of course born for sorrow. Even 
 in infancy, the discerning eye might already see its 
 prophetic shadow resting on her expressive counte 
 nance. The first great affliction of her life was the 
 death of her mother, when she was ten years old. 
 Her delicate nerves were shattered by the blow, and 
 were never after fully restored to health. The dead
 
 128 ELIZABETH WILSON. 
 
 body of her beloved mother, with large coins on the 
 eye-lids, was so awfully impressed on her imagination, 
 that the image followed her everywhere, even into her 
 dreams. As she slept, tears often dropped from her 
 tremulous eye-lashes, and nightmare visions made her 
 start and scream. There was no gentle voice near to 
 soothe her perturbed spirit ; none to throw an angel's 
 shining robe over the hideous spectre, that lay so cold 
 and stiff in the halls of memory. Her father fed and 
 clothed his children, and caused them to be taught to 
 read and write. It did not occur to him that anything 
 more was included in parental duty. Of clothing for 
 the mind, or food for the heart, he knew nothing ; for 
 his own had never been clothed and fed. He came 
 home weary from daily toil, ate his supper, dozed in 
 his chair awhile, and then sent the children to bed. 
 A few times, after the death of his wife, he kissed 
 his daughter ; but she never ventured to look into his 
 eyes, and ask, " Does you love your little Lizzy ?" 
 Willie was her only consolation ; and all he could do 
 was to weep passionately with her, at everything which 
 reminded them of their mother. 
 
 Nature, as usual, reflected back the image of the 
 soul that gazed upon her. To Lizzy's excited mind, 
 everything appeared mysterious and awful, and all 
 sounds seemed to wail and sigh. The rustling of the 
 trees in the evening wind went through her, like the 
 voice of a spirit ; and when the nights were bright, 
 she would hide her head in her brother's bosom, and 
 whisper, " Willie, dear, I wish the moon would not 
 keep looking at me. She seems to say something to 
 me ; and it makes me afraid."
 
 ELIZABETH WILSON. 129 
 
 All susceptible souls have felt thus ; particularly 
 when under the influence of grief. 
 
 " The snow of deepest silence 
 
 O'er everything doth fall, 
 So beautiful and quiet, 
 
 And yet so like a pall 
 As if all life were ended, 
 
 And rest were come to all." 
 
 Such a state of feeling, long indulged, could not be 
 otherwise than injurious to a bodily frame originally 
 delicate. The sensitive child soon became subject to 
 fits, the severity of which at times threatened her life. 
 On coming out of these spasms, with piteous tones 
 and bewildered looks, she would ask, " Where is my 
 mother ?" 
 
 At the end of a year, an important change came 
 over the lonely household. A strong active step 
 mother was introduced. Her loud voice and energetic 
 tread, so different from her own quiet and timid mother, 
 frightened poor Lizzy. Her heart more than ever 
 turned back upon itself, and listened to the echoes of 
 its own yearnings. Willie, being old enough to work 
 on the farm, was now absent most of the day ; and 
 the fair girl, so richly endowed by nature with all 
 deep feelings and beautiful capacities, so lavish of her 
 affections, so accustomed to free outpourings of love, 
 became reserved, and apparently cold and stupid. 
 When the step-mother gave birth to an infant, the 
 fountain of feeling was again unsealed. It was her 
 delight to watch the babe, and minister to its wants. 
 But this development of the affections was likewise 
 destined to be nipped in the bud. The step-mother,
 
 130 ELIZABETH WILSON. 
 
 though by no means hard-hearted, was economical 
 and worldly-wise. She deemed it most profitable to 
 employ a healthy, stout niece of her own, somewhat 
 older than Elizabeth, and to have her step-daughter 
 bound out in some family where she could do light 
 labour. It was also determined that William should 
 go to service ; and his place of destination was fifty 
 miles from that of his sister. 
 
 The news of this arrangement was very bitter to 
 the children. Both answered their father, very meek 
 ly, that they were willing to go ; but their voices 
 were deep, sad, and almost inaudible. Without 
 saying another word, the boy put on his hat, and the 
 girl her sun-bonnet, and taking each other by the 
 hand, they went forth, and roamed silently to their 
 mother's grave. There they stood for a long time, 
 in silence, and their tears dropped fast on the green 
 sod. At last, Elizabeth sobbed out, " Oh, if dear 
 mother was alive, Willie, we should not have to go 
 away from home." But Willie could only answer by 
 a fresh outburst of grief. A little clump of wild 
 flowers nodded over the edge of the mound. The 
 affectionate boy cut two of them, and said, " Let us 
 keep these, Lizzy, to remember mother by." 
 
 The flowers were carefully pressed between the 
 leaves of Lizzy's Testament, and when the sorrowful 
 day of parting came, one was nicely folded in a paper 
 for Willie. " Now, dear sis, give me that nice little 
 curl," said he, putting his finger on a soft, golden- 
 brown ringlet, that nestled close to her ear, and lay 
 caressingly on her downy cheek. She glanced in the 
 fragment of a glass, which served them for a mirror, and
 
 ELIZABETH WILSON. 131 
 
 with eyes brimful of tears she answered, " Oh, Willie, 
 I cannot give you that. Don't you remember how 
 dear mother used to wet my head all over with cold 
 water, to make my hair curl ? She used to laugh 
 when I shook my head, and made the curls go all 
 over my forehead ; and she would kiss that little curl 
 in particular. She said it was such a darling little 
 curl." Thus childishly did the innocent ones speak 
 together. The brother twisted the favorite curl round 
 his finger, and kissed it, and a bright tear fell on it, 
 and glittered in the sunshine. 
 
 William left home a few days earlier than his sister, 
 and bitterly did the lonely one sob herself to sleep 
 that night. She shuddered in the dark, and when 
 the moon looked in at the window, its glance seemed 
 more mournful than ever. The next morning, she 
 fell from the breakfast table in a fit more severe than 
 usual. But as she soon recovered, and as these 
 spasms now occurred only at distant intervals, her 
 step-mother thought she had better be in readiness to 
 depart at the appointed time. 
 
 The wagon was brought to the door, and the father 
 said to her, " Lizzy, put on your bonnet, and bring 
 your bundle. It is time to go." Oh, how the poor 
 child lingered in her little bed-room, where she and 
 Willie slept in their infant days, and where the mother 
 used to hear them say their prayers, and kiss them 
 both, as they lay folded in each other's arms. To 
 the strong step-mother she easily said good bye ; but 
 she paused long over the cradle of her baby-brother, 
 and kissed each of his little fingers, and fondly turned 
 a little wave of sunny hair on his pure white forehead.
 
 132 ELIZABETH WILSON. 
 
 Her heart swelled, and she had to swallow hard to keep 
 down the sobs ; for it was her cradle, and she was 
 thinking how her mother used to sing her to sleep. 
 Her father spoke to her in a tone of unusual tenderness, 
 as if he too remembered her infancy, and the gentle 
 one who used to rock her in that cradle. " Come, 
 Lizzy," said he, " it is time to go. You shall come 
 back and see the baby before long." With blinded 
 eyes she stumbled into the wagon, and turned and 
 looked back as long as she could see the old elm-tree 
 by her bed-room window, where all the summers of 
 her young life she had watched the swallows come 
 and go. 
 
 It is a dreary fate for a loving and sensitive child 
 to be bound out at service among strangers, even if 
 they are kind-hearted. The good woman of the house 
 received Lizzy in a very friendly manner, and told 
 her to make herself at home. But the word only sent 
 a mournful echo through her heart. For a few days, 
 she went about in a state of abstraction, that seemed 
 like absolute stupidity. Her step-mother had pre 
 pared them for this, by telling them there was some 
 thing strange about Lizzy, and that many people 
 thought her fits affected her mind. Being of coarser 
 and stronger natures, they could none of them imagine 
 that the slow stagnation of the heart might easily dim 
 the light of intellect in a creature so keenly suscepti 
 ble. But by degrees the duties required of her roused 
 her faculties into greater activity ; and when night 
 came, she was fortunately too weary to lie awake and 
 weep. Sometimes she dreamed of Willie, and her 
 dreams of him were always bright and pleasant ; but
 
 ELIZABETH WILSON. 133 
 
 her mother sometimes fondled her with looks of love, 
 and sometimes came as the pale cold spectre. Thus 
 the months passed slowly away. Her father came to 
 see her at distant intervals, and once in a great while, 
 a letter came from Willie, in a large stiff hand. Un 
 accustomed to writing, he could not, through that me 
 dium, tell much that was passing in his heart. That 
 he wanted badly to see his sister, and often kissed the 
 flower they plucked from the dear mother's grave, 
 was the substance of all his epistles. 
 
 In the mean time, Lizzy was passing into woman 
 hood. Childhood and youth kissed each other, with 
 new and glowing beauty. Her delicate cheeks mant 
 led with a richer colour, and her deep blue eyes, 
 shaded with long fringes of the darkest brown, looked 
 out upon life with a more earnest and expressive long 
 ing. Plain and scanty garments could not conceal 
 the graceful outline of her figure, and her motions 
 were like a willow in the breeze. She was not aware 
 of her uncommon loveliness, though she found it plea 
 sant to look in the glass, and had sometimes heard 
 strangers say to each other, " See that pretty girl !" 
 
 There were no young men in the immediate neigh 
 bourhood, and she had not been invited to any of the 
 rustic dances or quilting frolics. One bashful lad in 
 the vicinity always contrived to drive his cows past 
 the house where she lived, and eagerly kept watch 
 for a glimpse of her, as she went to the barn with her 
 milking pails. But if she happened to pass near 
 enough to nod and smile, his cheeks grew red, and his 
 voice forsook him. She could not know, or guess, 
 that he would lie awake long that night, and dream of 
 12
 
 134 ELIZABETH WILSON. 
 
 her smile, and resolve that some time or other he 
 would have courage to tell her how handsome she 
 was, and how the sight of her made his heart throb. 
 She did not yet know that she could love anybody 
 better than she had loved Willie. She had seen her 
 darling brother but twice, during their three years of 
 separation ; but his image was ever fresh and bright 
 in memory. When he came to see her, she felt com 
 pletely happy. While he gazed upon her with de 
 lighted eyes, her affectionate nature was satisfied with 
 love : for it had not yet been revealed to her in the 
 melting glance of passion. Yet the insidious power 
 already began to foreshadow itself in vague restless 
 ness and romantic musings. For she was at an age, 
 
 " To feel a want, yet scarce know what it is ; 
 
 To seek one nature that is always new, 
 Whose glance is warmer than another's kiss ; 
 Such longing instinct fills the mighty scope 
 Of the young heart with one mysterious hope." 
 
 At last, an important event occurred in Lizzy's 
 monotonous existence. A young girl in the village 
 was to be married, and she was invited to the quilting 
 party. It was the first invitation of the kind she had 
 ever received, and of course it occupied her thoughts 
 day and night. Could she have foreseen how this 
 simple occurrence would affect her whole future des 
 tiny, she would have pondered over it still more 
 deeply. The bridegroom brought a friend with him 
 to the party, a handsome dark-eyed young man, clerk 
 of a store in a neighbouring town. Aware of his 
 personal attractions, he dressed himself with peculiar 
 care. Elizabeth had never seen anything so elegant ;
 
 ELIZABETH WILSON. 135 
 
 and the moment his eye glanced on her, he decided 
 that he had never seen anything half so beautiful. 
 He devoted himself to her in a manner sufficiently 
 marked to excite envy ; and some of the rich farmers' 
 daughters made critical remarks about her dress, 
 which they concluded was passably genteel, for a girl 
 who lived out at service. However, Lizzy was queen 
 of the evening, by virtue of nature's own impress of 
 royalty. When the quilt was finished, romping 
 games were introduced according to the fashion of the 
 times ; and the young men took care that the forfeits 
 paid by the pretty girls should generally involve kiss 
 ing some of their own number. Among the forfeits 
 required of the dark-eyed stranger, he was ordered to 
 beg on his knees for the identical little curl that Willie 
 had asked of his sister. In the midst of her mirth- 
 fulness, this brought a shadow over her countenance, 
 and she could not answer playfully. However, this 
 emotion passed away with the moment, and she be 
 came the gayest of the gay. Never before had she 
 been half so handsome, for never before had she been 
 half so happy. The joyful consciousness of pleasing 
 everybody, and the attractive young stranger in par 
 ticular, made her eyes sparkle, and her whole coun 
 tenance absolutely radiant with beauty. When the 
 party were about to separate, the young man was 
 very assiduous about placing her shawl, and begged 
 permission to accompany her home. Little was said 
 during this walk ; yet enough to afford entrance into 
 both hearts for that unquiet passion, which tangles the 
 web of human life more than all the other sentiments 
 and instincts of our mysterious being. At parting, he
 
 136 ELIZABETH WILSON. 
 
 took her hand, to say good night. He continued to 
 hold it, and leaning against the gate, they stood for a 
 few moments, gazing at the clear, silvery orb of night. 
 Ah, how different the moon seemed to Lizzy now ! 
 Earth's spectral robe had changed to a veiJ of glory. 
 Her bonnet had fallen back, and the evening breeze 
 played gently with her ringlets. In soft insinuating 
 tones, the young man said, " Will you not give me 
 that little curl I asked for ?" She blushed deeply 
 and answered, in her child-like way, " I cannot give 
 you that, because my mother used to kiss it so often." 
 " No wonder she kissed it," he replied ; " it looks so 
 roguish, lying there on your pretty cheek." And be 
 fore she was aware of it, he had kissed it too. Trem 
 bling and confused, she turned to open the gate, but 
 he held it fast, until she had promised that the next 
 time he came she would give him one of her curls. 
 
 Poor Lizzy went to bed that night with an intox 
 icated heart. When she braided her hair at the glass, 
 next morning, she smiled and blushed, as she twined 
 the favourite ringlet more carefully than ever. She 
 was so childishly happy with her pretty little curl ! 
 The next Sunday evening, as she sat at the window, 
 she heard the sound of a flute. He had promised to 
 bring his flute ; and he had not forgotten her. She 
 listened it came nearer and nearer, through the wood. 
 Her heart beat audibly, for it was indeed the hand 
 some dark-eyed stranger. 
 
 All summer long, he came every Sunday afternoon ; 
 and with him came moonlight walks, and flute-war- 
 blings, and tender whisperings, and glances, such as 
 steal away a woman's heart. This was the fairy-land
 
 . 
 
 ELIZABETH WILSON. 137 
 
 of her young life. She had somebody now into whose 
 eyes she could gaze, with all the deep tenderness of 
 her soul, and ask, " Do you love your own Lizzy ?" 
 
 The young man did love, but not as she loved him; 
 for hers was a richer nature, and gave more than he 
 could return. He accompanied her to her father's, 
 and they were generally understood to be betrothed. 
 He had not seen brother William, but he was told a 
 thousand affectionate anecdotes of his kind good heart. 
 When they returned from the visit to the homestead, 
 they brought with them the little blue bench marked 
 w. and E. Lizzy was proud of her genteel lover ; and 
 the only drop which it now seemed possible to add to 
 her cup of happiness was to introduce him to William. 
 But her brother was far off; and when the autumn 
 came, her betrothed announced the necessity of going 
 to a distant city, to establish himself in business. It 
 was a bitter, bitter parting to both. The warmest 
 letters were but a cold substitute for those happy 
 hours of mutual confidence; and after awhile, his 
 letters became more brief and cool. The fact was, 
 the young man was too vain to feel deeply ; and 
 among his new acquaintance in the city was a young 
 good-looking widow, with a small fortune, who early 
 evinced a preference for him. To be obviously, and 
 at the same time modestly preferred, by a woman of 
 any agreeable qualities, is what few men, even of the 
 strongest character, can withstand. It is the know 
 ledge of this fact, and experience with regard to the most 
 delicate and acceptable mode of expressing preference, 
 which, as Samuel Weller declares, makes " a widow 
 equal to twenty -five other women." Lizzy's lover was 
 12*
 
 138 ELIZABETH WILSON. 
 
 not a strong character, and he was vain and selfish. It 
 is no wonder, therefore, that his letters to the pretty 
 girl, who lived out at service, should become more 
 cool and infrequent. She was very slow to believe it 
 thus ; and when, at last, news reached her that he 
 was positively engaged to be married to another, she 
 refused to listen to it. But he came not to vindicate 
 himself, and he ceased to answer her letters. The 
 poor deluded girl awoke to a full consciousness of her 
 misery, and suffered such intensity of wretchedness as 
 only keenly sensitive natures can suffer. William 
 had promised to come and see her the latter part of 
 the winter, and her heart had been filled with pleasant 
 and triumphant anticipations of introducing to him her 
 handsome lover. But now the pride of her heart was 
 humbled, and its joy turned into mourning. She was 
 cast off, forsaken ; and, alas, that was not the worst. 
 As she sobbed on the neck of her faithful brother, she 
 felt, for the first time, that there was something she 
 could not tell him. The keenest of her wretched 
 feelings she dared not avow. He pitied and consoled 
 her, as well as he could ; but to her it seemed as if there 
 was no consolation but in death. Most earnestly did 
 he wish that he had a home to shelter her, where he 
 could fold her round with the soft wings of brotherly 
 love. But they were both poor, and poverty fetters 
 the impulses of the heart. And so they must part 
 again, he guessing but half of her great sorrow. If 
 the farewell was sad to him, what must it have been 
 to her, who now felt so utterly alone in the wide 
 world ? Her health sank under the conflict, and the 
 fits returned upon her with increased violence. In her
 
 ELIZABETH WILSON. 139 
 
 state of gloomy abstraction and indifference, she hard 
 ly noticed the significant glances and busy whispers 
 of neighbours and acquaintance. With her, the 
 agony of death was past. The world seemed too 
 spectral for her to dread its censure. At last she gave 
 birth to a dead infant, and for a long time her own 
 life trembled in the balance. She recovered in a state 
 of confirmed melancholy, and with visible indications 
 of intellect, more impaired than ever. 
 
 " A shadow seemed to rise 
 
 From out her thoughts, and turned to dreariness 
 All blissful hopes and sunny memories." 
 
 She was no longer invited to visit with the young 
 people of the neighbourhood ; and the envy excited by 
 her uncommon beauty showed itself in triumph over 
 her blighted reputation. Her father thought it a duty 
 to reprove her for sin, and her step-mother said some 
 cutting words about the disgrace her conduct had 
 brought upon the family. But no kind Christian 
 heart strengthened her with the assurance that one 
 false step in life might be forgiven and retrieved. 
 Thus was the lily broken in its budding beauty, and 
 its delicate petals blighted by harsh winds. 
 
 Poor Lizzy felt this depressing atmosphere of ne 
 glect and scorn ; but fortunately with less keenness 
 than she would have done, before brain was stultified, 
 and heart congealed by shame and sorrow. She no 
 longer showed much feeling about anything, except 
 the little blue bench marked W. and E. Every mo 
 ment that she could steal from household labours, she 
 would retire to her little room, and, seated on this 
 bench, would read over William's letters, and those
 
 140 ELIZABETH WILSON. 
 
 other letters, which had crushed her loving heart. 
 She would not allow any person to remove the bench 
 from her bedside, or to place a foot upon it. To such 
 inanimate objects does the poor human heart cling in 
 its desolation. 
 
 Years passed away monotonously with Elizabeth ; 
 years of loneliness and labour. Some young men, 
 attracted by her beauty, and emboldened by a know 
 ledge of her weakness, approached her with familiari 
 ty, which they intended for flattery. But their pro 
 fligacy was too thinly disguised to be dangerous to u 
 nature like hers. She turned coldly from them all, 
 with feelings of disgust and weariness. 
 
 When she was about twenty-three years old, she 
 went to Philadelphia to do household work for a family 
 that wished to hire her. Important events followed 
 this change, but a veil of obscurity rests over the causes 
 that produced them. After some months residence in 
 the city, her health failed more and more, and she re 
 turned to the country. She was still competent to 
 discharge the lighter duties of household labour, but 
 she seemed to perform them all mechanically, and 
 with a dull stupor. After a time, it became obvious 
 that she would again be a mother. When questioned, 
 her answers were incoherent and contradictory. Some 
 said she must be a very base low creature to commit 
 this second fault ; but more kindly natures said, 
 " She was always soft-hearted and yielding, from child 
 hood ; and she is hardly a responsible being ; for 
 trouble and continual fits have made her almost an 
 idiot." At last she gave birth to twins. She wept 
 when she saw them j but they seemed to have no
 
 ELIZABETH WILSON. 141 
 
 power to withdraw her mind from its disconsolate 
 wanderings. When they were a few moths old, she 
 expressed a wish to return to Philadelphia ; and a 
 lad, belonging to the family where she had remained 
 during her illness, agreed to convey her part of the 
 way in a wagon. When they came into the public 
 road, she told him she could walk the rest of the way, 
 and begged him to return. He left her seated on a 
 rock, near a thick grove, nursing her babes. She 
 was calm and gentle, but sad and abstracted as usual. 
 That was in the morning. Where or how she spent 
 the day was never known. Toward night she arrived in 
 Philadelphia, at the house where she had formerly lived. 
 She seemed very haggard and miserable ; what few 
 words she said were abrupt and unmeaning ; and 
 her attitudes and motions had the sluggish apathy of 
 an insane person. 
 
 The next day, there was a rumour afloat that two 
 strangled infants had been found in a grove on the 
 road from Chester. Of course this circumstance soon 
 became connected with her name. When she was 
 arrested, she gave herself up with the same gloomy 
 indifference that marked all her actions. She denied 
 having committed the murder : but when asked who 
 she supposed had done it, she sometimes shuddered 
 and said nothing, sometimes said she did not know, 
 and sometimes answered the children were still living. 
 When conveyed to prison, she asked for pen and ink, 
 and in a short letter, rudely penned, she begged Wil 
 liam to come to her, and to bring from her bed-room 
 the little blue bench they used to sit upon in the happy
 
 142 ELIZABETH WILSON. 
 
 days of childhood. He came at once, and long did 
 the affectionate couple stand locked in each other's 
 arms, sobbing, and without the power to speak. It 
 was not until the second interview, that her brother 
 could summon courage to ask whether she really 
 committed the crime of which she was accused. 
 
 " Oh no, William," she replied, " you could not 
 suppose I did." 
 
 " You must indeed have been dreadfully changed, 
 dear Lizzy," said he ; " for you used to have a heart 
 that could not hurt a kitten." 
 
 " I am dreadfully changed," she answered, " but I 
 never wanted to harm anything." 
 
 He took her hand, played sadly with the emaciat 
 ed fingers, and after a strong effort to control his emo 
 tions, he said, in a subdued voice, "Lizzy, dear, can 
 you tell me who did do it ?" 
 
 She stared at him with a wild intense gaze, that 
 made him shudder. Then looking fearfully toward 
 the door, she said, in a strange muffled whisper, " Did 
 what ?" Poor William bowed his head over the hand 
 that he held in his own, and wept like a child. 
 
 During various successive interviews, he could 
 obtain no satisfactory answer to the important ques 
 tion. Sometimes she merely gazed at him with a 
 vacant inane expression ; sometimes she faintly an 
 swered that she did not know ; and sometimes she said 
 she believed the babes were still alive. She gradually 
 became more quiet and rational under her brother's 
 soothing influence ; and one day, when he had re 
 peatedly assured her that she could safely trust her
 
 ELIZABETH WILSON. 143 
 
 secrets to his faithful heart, she said with a suppress 
 ed whisper, as if she feared the sound of her own 
 voice, "He did it." 
 
 " Who is he ?" asked the brother, gently. 
 
 " The father," she replied. 
 
 " Did you know he meant to do it ?" 
 
 " No. He told me he would meet me and give 
 me some money. But when I asked him for some 
 thing to support the children, he was angry, and 
 choked them. I was frightened, and felt faint. I 
 don't know what I did. I woke up and found myself 
 on the ground alone, and the babies lying among the 
 bushes." 
 
 " What is his name, and where does he live ?" in 
 quired the brother. 
 
 She gave him a wild look of distress, and said 
 " Oh, don't ask me. I ought not to have done so. 
 I am a poor sinner a poor sinner. But everybody 
 deserted me ; the world was very cold ; I had nobody 
 to love ; and he was very kind to me." 
 
 " But tell me his name," urged the brother. 
 
 She burst into a strange mad laugh, picked nervously 
 at the handkerchief she held in her hand, and repeated, 
 idiotically, " Name ? name ? I guess the babies are 
 alive now. I don't know I don't know ; but I guess 
 they are." 
 
 To the lawyer she would say nothing, except t6 
 deny that she committed the murder. All their ex 
 ertions could wring from her nothing more distinct 
 than the story she had briefly told her brother. Dur 
 ing her trial, the expression of her countenance was 
 stupid and vacant. At times, she would drum on the
 
 144 ELIZABETH WILSON. 
 
 railing before her, and stare round on the crowd with 
 a bewildered look, as if unconscious where she was. 
 The deranged state of her mind was strongly urged 
 by her lawyer ; but his opponent replied thai all this 
 might be assumed. To the story she had told in prison, 
 it was answered that her not telling of the murder at 
 the time made her an accomplice. After the usual 
 display of legal ingenuity on both sides, the jury 
 brought her in guilty of murder, and the poor forlorn 
 demented creature was sentenced to be hung at 
 Chester. 
 
 The wretched brother was so stunned by the blow, 
 that at first he could not collect his thoughts. But it 
 soon occurred to him that the terrible doom might 
 still be arrested, if the case could be brought suitably 
 before the governor. -A petition was accordingly 
 drawn up, setting forth the alienation of mind to which 
 she had been subject, in consequence of fits, and the 
 extreme doubtfulness whether she committed the mur 
 der. Her youth, her beauty, the severe sorrows of 
 her life, and the obviously impaired state of her reason, 
 touched many hearts, and the petition was rapidly 
 signed. When William went to her cell to bid her 
 adieu, he tried to cheer her with the hope of pardon. 
 She listened with listless apathy. But when he press 
 ed her hand, and with a mournful smile said, " Good 
 bye, dear Lizzy, I shall come back soon ; and I hope 
 with good news," she pointed tearfully to the little 
 blue bench and said, " Let what will happen, Willie, 
 take care of that, for my sake." He answered with a 
 choked voice ; and as he turned away, the tears flowed 
 fast down his manly cheeks. She listened to the
 
 ELIZABETH WILSON. 145 
 
 echoes of his steps, and when she could hear them no 
 longer, she threw herself on the floor, laid her head 
 down on the little blue bench, kissed the letters carved 
 upon it, and sobbed as she had not sobbed since she 
 was first deserted by her false lover. When the jailor 
 went in to carry her supper, he found her asleep thus. 
 Rich masses of her glossy brown hair fell over her 
 pale, but still lovely face, on which rested a serene 
 smile, as if she were happy in her dreams. He stood 
 and gazed upon her, and his hard hand brushed away a 
 tear. Some motion that he made disturbed her slum 
 ber. She opened her eyes, from which there beamed 
 for a moment a rational and happy expression, as she 
 said, " I was out in the woods, behind the house, 
 holding my little apron to catch the nuts that Willie 
 threw down. Mother smiled at me from a blue place 
 between two clouds, and said, ' Come to me, my 
 child.' " 
 
 The next day a clergyman came to see her. He 
 spoke of the penalty for sin, and the duty of being re 
 signed to the demands of justice. She heard his 
 words, as a mother hears street sounds when she is 
 watching a dying babe. They conveyed to her no im 
 port. When asked if she repented of her sins, she 
 said she had been a weak erring creature, and she 
 hoped that she was penitent ; but that she never com 
 mitted the murder. 
 
 " Are you resigned to die, if a pardon should not 
 be obtained ?" he asked. 
 
 " Oh yes," she replied, " I want to die." 
 
 He prayed with her in the spirit of real human love ; 
 and this soothed hei heart. She spoke seldom, after 
 13
 
 146 ELIZABETH WILSON. 
 
 her brother's departure ; and often she did not appear 
 to hear when she was spoken to. She sat on the 
 little blue bench, gazing vacantly on the floor, like 
 one already out of the body. 
 
 In those days, there was briefer interval between 
 sentence and execution, than at present. The atal 
 day and hour soon arrived, and still no tidings from 
 the governor. Men came to lead her to the gallows. 
 She seemed to understand what they said to her, and 
 turned meekly to obey their orders. But she stopped 
 suddenly, gazed on the little blue bench, and said in a 
 gasping tone, " Has William come ?" When they told 
 her no, a shudder seemed to go over her, and her pale 
 face became still paler. A bit of looking-glass hung on 
 the wall in front of her; and as she raised her head, 
 she saw the Jittle curl, that had received her mother's 
 caresses, and the first kiss of love. With a look of 
 the most intense agony, she gave a loud groan, and 
 burying her face in her hands, fell forward on the 
 shoulder of the sheriff. 
 
 * ^ # =H= % 
 
 Poor William had worked with the desperate ener 
 gy of despair, and the governor, after brief delay, 
 granted a pardon. But in those days, the facilities 
 for travelling were few; and it happened that the 
 country was inundated with heavy rains, which every 
 where impeded his progress. He stopped neither for 
 food nor rest ; but everywhere the floods and broken 
 roads hindered him. When he came to Darby 
 Creek, which was usually fordable, it was swollen 
 too high to be crossed, and it was sometime before a 
 boat could be obtained. In agony of mind he pressed
 
 ELIZABETH WILSON. 147 
 
 onward, till his horse fell dead under him. Half 
 frantic, he begged for another at any price, mounted, 
 and rode furiously. From the top of a hill, he saw a 
 crowd assembled round the place of execution. He 
 waved his handkerchief, he shouted, he screamed. 
 But in the excitement of the moment he was not 
 heard or noticed. All eyes were fastened on the gal 
 lows ; and soon the awful object came within his own, 
 vision. Father of mercies ! There are a woman's 
 garments floating in the air. There is a struggling, 
 a quivering and all is still. 
 
 With a shriek that pierced the ears of the mul 
 titude, the desperate rider plunged forward ; his 
 horse fell under him, and shouting, "A pardon! A 
 pardon !" he rolled senseless on the ground. He 
 came too late. The unhappy Elizabeth was dead. 
 The poor young creature, guilty of too much heart, 
 and too little brain to guide it, had been murdered by 
 law, and men called it justice. 
 
 Pale as a ghost, with hair suddenly whitened by 
 excess of anguish, the wretched brother bent over the 
 corpse of that beautiful sister, whom he had loved so 
 well. They spoke to him of resignation to God's 
 will. He answered not ; for it was not clear to him 
 that the cruelty of man is the will of God. Reverently 
 and tenderly, he cut from that fair brow the favourite 
 little curl, twined about with so many sacred memo 
 ries, and once a source of girlish innocent joy to the 
 yearning heart, that slept so calmly now. He took 
 the little bench from its cold corner in the prison, and 
 gathering together his small personal property, he 
 retired to a lonely cave in Dauphin county. He
 
 148 ELIZABETH WILSON. 
 
 shunned all intercourse with his fellow men, and 
 when spoken to, answered briefly and solemnly. 
 There he died a few years ago, at an advanced age. 
 He is well remembered in the region round about, as 
 WILLIAM the HERMIT.
 
 THE NEIGHBOUR-IN-LAW. 
 
 WHO blesses others in his daily deeds, 
 Will find the healing that his spirit needs ; 
 For every flower in others' pathway strewn, 
 Confers its fragrant beauty on our own. 
 
 " So you are going to live in the same building with 
 Hetty Turnpenny," said Mrs. Lane to Mrs. Fairwea- 
 ther, " You will find nobody to envy you. If her 
 temper does not prove too much even for your good 
 nature, it will surprise all who know her. We lived 
 there a year, and that is as long as anybody ever 
 tried it." 
 
 " Poor Hetty !" replied Mrs. Fairweather, " She 
 has had much to harden her. Her mother died too 
 early for her to remember ; her father was very severe 
 with her , and the only lover she ever had, borrowed 
 the savings of her years of toil, and spent them in dis 
 sipation. But Hetty, notwithstanding her sharp fea 
 tures, and sharper words, certainly has a kind heart. 
 In the midst of her greatest poverty, many were the 
 stockings she knit, and the warm waistcoats she made, 
 for the poor drunken lover, whom she had too much 
 good sense to marry. Then you know she feeds and 
 clothes her brother's orphan child." 
 
 " If you call it feeding and clothing," replied Mrs. 
 
 Lane. " The poor child looks cold, and pinched, and 
 
 frightened all the time, as if she were chased by the 
 
 East wind. I used to tell Miss Turnpenny she ought 
 
 13*
 
 150 THE NEIGHBOUR-IN-LAW. 
 
 to be ashamed of herself, to keep the poor little thing at 
 work all the time, without one minute to play. If 
 she does but look at the cat, as it runs by the window, 
 Aunt Hetty gives her a rap over the knuckles. I 
 used to tell her she would make the girl just such 
 another sour old crab as herself." 
 
 " That must have been very improving to her dis 
 position," replied Mrs. Fairweather, with a good- 
 humoured smile. " But in justice to poor Aunt Hetty, 
 you ought to remember that she had just such a cheer 
 less childhood herself. Flowers grow where there is 
 sunshine." 
 
 " I know you think everybody ought to live in the 
 sunshine," rejoined Mrs. Lane ; " and it must be con 
 fessed that you carry it with you wherever you go. 
 If Miss Turnpenny has a heart, I dare say you will 
 find it out, though I never could, and I never heard of 
 any one else that could. All the families within hear 
 ing of her tongue call her the neighbour-in-law." 
 
 Certainly the prospect was not very encouraging ; 
 for the house Mrs. Fairweather proposed to occupy, 
 was not only under the same roof with Miss Turn 
 penny, but the buildings had one common yard in the 
 rear, and one common space for a garden in front. 
 The very first day she took possession of her new 
 habitation, she called on the neighbour-in-law. Aunt 
 Hetty had taken the precaution to extinguish the fire, 
 lest the new neighbour should want hot water, before 
 her own wood and coal arrived. Her first salutation 
 was, " If you want any cold water, there's a pump 
 across the street ; I don't like to have my house slop 
 ped all over."
 
 THE NEIGHBOUR-IN-LAW. 151 
 
 " I am glad you are so tidy, neighbour Turnpenny," 
 replied Mrs. Fairweather ; " It is extremely pleasant 
 to have neat neighbours. I will try to keep everything 
 as bright as a new five cent piece, for I see that will 
 please you. I came in merely to say good morning, 
 and to ask if you could spare little Peggy to run up and 
 down stairs for me, while I am getting my furniture 
 in order. I will pay her sixpence an hour." 
 
 Aunt Hetty had begun to purse up her mouth for a 
 refusal ; but the promise of sixpence an hour relaxed 
 her features at once. Little Peggy sat knitting a 
 stocking very diligently, with a rod lying on the table 
 beside her. She looked up with timid wistfulness, as 
 if the prospect of any change was like a release from 
 prison. When she heard consent given, a bright 
 colour flushed her cheeks. She was evidently of an 
 impressible temperament, for good or evil. " Now 
 mind and behave yourself," said Aunt Hetty ; " and 
 see that you keep at work the whole time. If I hear 
 one word of complaint, you know what you'll get 
 when you come home." The rose-colour subsided 
 from Peggy's pale face, and she answered, " Yes, 
 ma'am," very meekly. 
 
 In the neighbour's house all went quite otherwise. 
 No switch lay on the table, and instead of, " mind 
 how you do that. If you don't I'll punish you," she 
 heard the gentle words, " There, dear, see how care 
 fully you can carry that up stairs. Why, what a 
 nice handy little girl you are !" Under this enliven 
 ing influence, Peggy worked like a bee, and soon began 
 to hum much more agreeably than a bee. Aunt Hetty 
 was always in the habit of saying, " Stop your noise,
 
 152 THE NEIGHBOUR-LN'-LAW. 
 
 and mind your woik." But the new friend patted her 
 on the head, and said, " What a pleasant voice the 
 little girl has. It is like the birds in the fields. By 
 and by, you shall hear my music-box." This opened 
 wide the windows of the poor little shut-up heart, so 
 that the sunshine could stream in, and the birds fly in 
 and out, carolling. The happy child tuned up like a 
 lark, as she tripped lightly up and down stairs, on 
 various household errands. But though, she took 
 heed to observe all the directions given her, her head 
 was all the time filled with conjectures what sort of a 
 thing a music-box might be. She was a little afraid 
 the kind lady would forget to show it to her. She 
 kept at work, however, and asked no questions ; she 
 only looked very curiously at everything that resem 
 bled a box. At last Mrs. Fairweather said, " I think 
 your little feet must be tired, by this time. We will 
 rest awhile, and eat some gingerbread." The child 
 took the offered cake, with a humble little courtesy, 
 and carefully held out her apron to prevent any crumbs 
 from falling on the floor. But suddenly the apron 
 dropped, and the crumbs were all strewn about. 
 " Is that a little bird ?" she exclaimed eagerly. 
 "Where is he? Is he in this room?" The new 
 friend smiled, and told her that was the music-box ; 
 and after awhile she opened it, and explained what 
 made the sounds. Then she took out a pile of books 
 from one of the baskets of goods, and told Peggy she 
 might look at the pictures, till she called her. The 
 little girl stepped forward eagerly to take them, and 
 then drew back, as if afraid. " What is the matter ?" 
 asked Mrs. Fairweather ; " I am very willing to trust
 
 THE NEIGHBOUR-IN-LAW. 153 
 
 you with the books. I keep them on purpose to 
 amuse children." Peggy looked down with her finger 
 on her lip, and answered in a constrained voice, 
 " Aunt Turnpenny won't like it if I play." " Don't 
 trouble yourself about that. I will make it all right 
 with Aunt Hetty," replied the friendly one. Thus 
 assured, she gave herself up to the full enjoyment of 
 the picture books ; and when she was summoned to 
 her work, she obeyed with a cheerful alacrity that 
 would have astonished her stern relative. When the 
 labours of the day were concluded, Mrs. Fairweather 
 accompanied her home, paid for all the hours she had 
 been absent, and warmly praised her docility and dili 
 gence. " It is lucky for her that she behaved so well," 
 replied Aunt Hetty ; " if I had heard any complaint, 
 I should have given her a whipping, and sent her to 
 bed without her supper." 
 
 Poor little Peggy went to sleep that night with a 
 lighter heart than she had ever felt, since she had been 
 an orphan. Her first thought in the morning was 
 whether the new neighbour would want her service 
 again during the day. Her desire that it should be 
 so, soon became obvious to Aunt Hetty, and excited an 
 undefined jealousy and dislike of a person who so easily 
 made herself beloved. Without exactly acknowledg 
 ing to herself what were her own motives, she ordered 
 Peggy to gather all the sweepings of the kitchen and 
 court into a small pile, and leave it on the frontier 
 line of her neighbour's premises. Peggy ventured to 
 ask timidly whether the wind would not blow it about, 
 and she received a box on the ear for her impertinence. 
 It chanced that Mrs. Fairweather, quite unintention-
 
 154 THE NEIGHBGUR-IN-LAW. 
 
 ally, heard the words and the blow. She gave Aunt 
 Hetty's anger time enough to cool, then stepped out 
 into the court, and after arranging divers little matters, 
 she called aloud to her domestic, " Sally, how came 
 you to leave this pile of dirt here ? Didn't I tell you 
 Miss Turnpenny was very neat ? Pray make haste 
 and sweep it up. I wouldn't have her see it on any 
 account. I told her I would try to keep everything 
 nice about the premises. She is so particular herself, 
 and it is a comfort to have tidy neighbours." The 
 girl, who had been previously instructed, smiled as she 
 came out with brush and dust-pan, and swept quietly 
 away the pile, that was intended as a declaration of 
 border war. 
 
 But another source of annoyance presented itself, 
 which could not so easily be disposed of. Aunt Hetty 
 had a cat, a lean scraggy animal, that looked as if 
 she were often .kicked and seldom fed ; and Mrs. 
 Fairweather had a fat, frisky little dog, always ready 
 for a caper. He took a distaste to poor poverty- 
 stricken Tab, the first time he saw her ; and no coax 
 ing could induce him to alter his opinion. His name 
 was Pink, but he was anything but a pink of be 
 haviour in his neighbourly relations. Poor Tab 
 could never set foot out of doors without being saluted 
 with a growl, and a short sharp bark, that frightened 
 her out of her senses, and made her run into the 
 house, with her fur all on end. If she even ventured 
 to doze a little on her own door step, the enemy was 
 on the watch, and the moment her eyes closed, he 
 would wake her with a bark and a box on the ear, 
 and off he would run. Aunt Hetty vowed she would
 
 THE NEIGHBOUR-IN-LAW. 155 
 
 scald him. It was a burning shame, she said, for 
 folks to keep dogs to worry their neighbours' cats. 
 Mrs. Fairweather invited Tabby to dine, and made 
 much of her, and patiently endeavoured to teach her 
 dog to eat from the same plate. But Pink sturdily 
 resolved he would be scalded first ; that he would. 
 He could not have been more obstinate in his opposi 
 tion, if he and Tab had belonged to different sects in 
 Christianity. While his mistress was patting Tab 
 on the head, and reasoning the point with him, he 
 would at times manifest a degree of indifference, 
 amounting to toleration ; but the moment he was left 
 to his own free will, he would give the invited guest 
 a hearty cuff with his paw, and send her home spit 
 ting like a small steam engine. Aunt Hetty consider 
 ed it her own peculiar privilege to cuff the poor animal, 
 and it was too much for her patience to see Pink un 
 dertake to assist in making Tab unhappy. On one 
 of these occasions, she rushed into her neighbour's 
 apartments, and faced Mrs. Fairweather, with one 
 hand resting on her hip, and the forefinger of the other 
 making very wrathful gesticulations. " I tell you 
 what, madam, I wont put up with such treatment 
 much longer," said she ; " I'll poison that dog ; see if 
 I don't ; and I shan't wait long, either, I can tell you. 
 What you keep such an impudent little beast for, I 
 don't know, without you do it on purpose to plague 
 your neighbours." 
 
 " I am really sorry he behaves so," replied Mrs. 
 Fairweather, mildly. " Poor Tab !" 
 
 " Poor Tab !" screamed Miss Turnpenny ; " What 
 do you mean by calling her poor ? Do you mean to
 
 156 THE NEIGHBOITR-IN-LAW. 
 
 fling it up to me that my cat don't have enough to 
 eat ?" 
 
 " I didn't think of such a thing," replied Mrs. Fair- 
 weather. " I called her poor Tab, because Pink 
 plagues her so, that she has no peace of her life. I 
 agree with you, neighbour Turnpenny ; it is not right 
 to keep a dog that disturbs the neighbourhood. I am 
 attached to poor little Pink, because he belongs to 
 my son, who has gone to sea. I was in hopes he 
 would soon leave off quarrelling with the cat ; but if 
 he won't be neighbourly, I will send him out in the 
 country to board. Sally, will you bring me one of the 
 pies we baked this morning ? I should like to have 
 Miss Turnpenny taste of them." 
 
 The crabbed neighbour was helped abundantly ; 
 and while she was eating the pie, the friendly matron 
 edged in many a kind word concerning little Peggy, 
 whom she praised as a remarkably capable, industrious 
 child. 
 
 " I am glad you find her^so," rejoined Aunt Hetty : 
 " I should get precious little work out of her, if I 
 didn't keep a switch in sight." 
 
 " I manage children pretty much as the man did 
 the donkey," replied Mrs. Fairweather. " Not an 
 inch would the poor beast stir, for all his master's 
 beating and thumping. But a neighbour tied some 
 fresh turnips to a stick, and fastened them so that 
 they swung directly before the donkey's nose, and 
 off he set on a brisk trot, in hopes of overtaking 
 them." 
 
 Aunt Hetty, without observing how very closely 
 the comparison applied to her own management of
 
 THE NEIGHBOtR-IN-LAW. 157 
 
 Peggy, said, " That will do very well for folks that 
 have plenty of turnips to spare." 
 
 " For the matter of that," answered Mrs. Fair- 
 weather, " whips cost something, as well as turnips ; 
 and since one makes the donkpy stand still, and the 
 other makes him trot, it is easy to decide which is the 
 most economical. But, neighbour Turnpenny, since 
 you like my pies so well, pray take one home with 
 you. I am afraid they will mould before we can 
 eat them up." 
 
 Aunt Hetty had come in for a quarrel, and she was 
 astonished to find herself going out with a pie. " Well, 
 Mrs. Fairweather," said she, " you are a neighbour. 
 I thank you a thousand times." When she reached 
 her own door, she hesitated for an instant, then turned 
 back, pie in hand, to say, " Neighbour Fairweather, 
 you needn't trouble yourself about sending Pink away. 
 It's natural you should like the little creature, seeing 
 he belongs to your son. I'll try to keep Tab in doors, 
 and perhaps after awhile they will agree better." 
 
 " I hope they will," replied the friendly matron : 
 " We will try them awhile longer, and if they per 
 sist in quarreling, I will send the dog into the coun 
 try." Pink, who was sleeping in a chair, stretched 
 himself and gaped. His kind mistress patted him on 
 the head, " Ah, you foolish little beast," said she, 
 " what's the use of plaguing poor Tab?" 
 
 " Well, I do say," observed Sally, smiling, "you 
 are a master woman for stopping a quarrel." 
 
 " I learned a good lesson when I was a little girl," 
 rejoined Mrs. Fairweather. " One frosty morning, I 
 was looking out of the window into my father's barn- 
 14
 
 158 THE NE1GHBOUR-1N-LAW. 
 
 yard, where stood many cows, oxen, and horses, 
 waiting to drink. It was one of those cold snapping 
 mornings, when a slight thing irritates both man and 
 beast. The cattle all stood very still and meek, till 
 one of the cows attempted to turn round. In making 
 the attempt, she happened to hit her next neighbour ; 
 whereupon the neighbour kicked and hit another. In 
 five minutes, the whole herd were kicking and hook 
 ing each other, with all fury. Some lay sprawling 
 on the ice, others were slipping about, with their hind 
 heels reared in the air. My mother laughed, and 
 said, ' See what comes of kicking when you're hit. 
 Just so I've seen one cross word set a whole family 
 by the ears, some frosty morning.' Afterward, if my 
 brothers or myself were a little irritable, she would 
 say, ' Take care, children. Remember how the fight 
 in the barn-yard began. Never give a kick for a hit, 
 and you will save yourself and others a deal of 
 trouble.'" 
 
 That same afternoon, the sunshiny dame stepped 
 into Aunt Hetty's rooms, where she found Peggy 
 sewing, as usual, with the eternal switch on the table 
 beside her. " I am obliged to go to Harlem, on busi 
 ness," said she : " I feel rather lonely without com 
 pany, and I always like to have a child with me. If 
 you will oblige me by letting Peggy go, I will pay 
 her fare in the omnibus." 
 
 " She has her spelling lesson to get before night," 
 replied Aunt Hetty. " I don't approve of young 
 folks going a pleasuring, and neglecting their educa 
 tion." 
 
 " Neither do I," rejoined her neighbour ; " but I
 
 THE NEIGHBOUR-IN-LAW. 159 
 
 think there is a great deal of education that is not 
 found in books. The fresh air will make Peggy grow 
 stout and active. I prophesy that she will do great 
 credit to your bringing up." The sugared words, 
 and the remembrance of the sugared pie, touched the 
 soft place in Miss Turnpenny's heart, and she told 
 the astonished Peggy that she might go and put on 
 her best gown and bonnet. The poor child began to 
 think that this new neighbour was certainly one of 
 the good fairies she read about in the picture books. 
 The excursion was enjoyed as only a city child can 
 enjoy the country. The world seems such a pleasant 
 place, when the fetters are off, and Nature folds the 
 young heart lovingly on her bosom ! A flock of real 
 birds and two living butterflies put the little orphan in 
 a perfect ecstasy. She ran and skipped. One could 
 see that she might be graceful, if she were only free. 
 She pointed to the fields covered with dandelions, and 
 said, " See how pretty ! It looks as if the stars had 
 come down to lie on the grass." Ah, our little stint 
 ed Peggy has poetry in her, though Aunt Hetty never 
 found it out. Every human soul has the germ of 
 some flowers within, and they would open, if they 
 could only find sunshine and free air to expand in. 
 
 Mrs. Fairweather was a practical philosopher, in 
 her own small way. She observed that Miss Turn 
 penny really liked a pleasant tune ; and when Win 
 ter came, she tried to persuade her that singing would 
 be excellent for Peggy's lungs, and perhaps keep her 
 from going into a consumption. 
 
 " My nephew, James Fairweather, keeps a singing 
 school," said she ; " and he says he will teach her
 
 160 THE NEIGHBOUR-IN-LAW. 
 
 gratis. You need not feel under great obligation ; 
 for her voice will lead the whole school, and her ear 
 is so quick, it will be no trouble at all to teach her. 
 Perhaps you would go with us sometimes, neighbour 
 Turnpenny ? It is very pleasant to hear the chil 
 dren's voices." 
 
 The cordage of Aunt Hetty's mouth relaxed into a 
 smile. She accepted the invitation, and was so much 
 pleased, that she went every Sunday evening. The 
 simple tunes, and the sweet young voices, fell like 
 dew on her dried-up heart, and greatly aided the 
 genial influence of her neighbour's example. The 
 rod silently disappeared from the table. If Peggy 
 was disposed to be idle, it was only necessary to say, 
 " When you have finished your work, you may go 
 and ask whether Mrs. Fairweather wants any errands 
 done." Bless me, how the fingers flew ! Aunt Hetty 
 had learned to use turnips instead of the cudgel. 
 
 When Spring came, Mrs. Fairweather busied her 
 self with planting roses and vines. Miss Turnpenny 
 readily consented that Peggy should help her, and 
 even refused to take any pay from such a good neigh 
 bour. But she maintained her own opinion that it 
 was a mere waste of time to cultivate flowers. The 
 cheerful philosopher never disputed the point ; but 
 she would sometimes say, " I have no room to plant 
 this rose-bush. Neighbour Turnpenny, would you 
 be willing to let me set it on your side of the yard ? 
 It will take very little room, and will need no care." 
 At another time, she would say, " Well, really my 
 ground is too full. Here is a root of Lady's-delight. 
 How bright and pert it looks. It seems a pity to
 
 THE NEIGHBOUR-IN-LAW. 161 
 
 tnrow it away. If you are willing, I will let Peggy 
 plant it in what she calls her garden. It will grow 
 of itself, without any care, and scatter seeds, that will 
 come up and blossom in all the chinks of the bricks. 
 I love it. It is such a bright good-natured little 
 thing." Thus by degrees, the crabbed maiden found 
 herself surrounded by flowers ; and she even declared, 
 of her own accord, that they did look pretty. 
 
 One day, when Mrs. Lane called upon Mrs. Fair- 
 weather, she found the old weed-grown yard bright 
 and blooming. Tab, quite far and sleek, was asleep, 
 in the sunshine, with her paw on Pink's neck, and 
 little Peggy was singing at her work, as blithe as a 
 bird. 
 
 " How cheerful you look here," said Mrs. Lane. 
 " And so you have really taken the house for another 
 year. Pray, how do you manage to get on with the 
 neighbour-in-law ?" 
 
 " I find her a very kind, obliging neighbour," replied 
 Mrs. Fairweather. 
 
 " Well, this is a miracle !" exclaimed Mrs. Lane, 
 " Nobody but you would have undertaken to thaw 
 out Aunt Hetty's heart." 
 
 " That is probably the reason why it was never 
 thawed," rejoined her friend. " I always told you, 
 that not having enough of sunshine was what ailed 
 the world. Make people happy, and there will not be 
 half the quarrelling, or a tenth part of the wickedness, 
 there is." 
 
 From this gospel of joy preached and practised, 
 nobody derived so much benefit as little Peggy. Her 
 nature, which was fast growing crooked and knotty, 
 14*
 
 162 THE NE GHBOUR-IN-LAW. 
 
 under the malign influence of constraint and fear, 
 straightened up, budded and blossomed, in the genial 
 atmosphere of cheerful kindness. 
 
 Her affections and faculties were kept in such 
 pleasant exercise, that constant lightness of heart 
 made her almost handsome. The young music- 
 teacher thought her more than almost handsome ; for 
 her affectionate soul shone more beamingly on him 
 than on others, and love makes all things beautiful. 
 
 When the orphan removed to her pleasant little 
 cottage, on her wedding-day, she threw her arms 
 round the blessed missionary of sunshine, and said, 
 " Ah, thou dear good Aunt, it is thou who hast made 
 my life Fairweather."
 
 SHE WAITS IN THE SPIRIT LAND. 
 
 A Romance founded on an Indian Tradition. 
 
 A bard of many breathings 
 Is the wind in sylvan wreathings, 
 
 O'er mountain tops and through the woodland groves 
 Now fifing and now drumming, 
 Now howling and now humming, 
 As it roves. 
 
 Though the wind a strange tone waketh 
 In every home it maketh, 
 And the maple tree responds not as the larch, 
 Yet harmony is playing 
 Round all the green arms swaying 
 
 Neath heaven's arch. 
 
 Oh, what can be the teaching 
 Of these forest voices preaching ? 
 'Tis that a brother's creed, though not like mine, 
 May blend about God's altar, 
 And help to fill the psalter, 
 
 That's divine. ELIZA COOK 
 
 PU-KEE-SHE-NO-QTIA was famous among her tribe for 
 her eloquent manner of relating stories. She trea 
 sured up all the old traditions, and though she repeat 
 ed them truly, they came from her mouth rn brighter 
 pictures than from others, because she tipped all the 
 edges with her own golden fancy. One might easily 
 conjecture that there was poetry in the souls of her 
 ancestry also ; for they had given her a name which 
 signifies, " I light from flying." At fourteen years 
 old, she was shut up in a hut by herself, to fast and
 
 164 SHE WAITS IN THE SPIRIT LAND. 
 
 dream, according to the custom of the Indians. She 
 dreamed that the Morning Star came down and nestled 
 in her bosom, like a bird ; therefore she chose it for 
 the Manitou, or Protecting Spirit of her life, and 
 uiiuel hei first-born son Wah-bu-nung-o, an Indian 
 word for the Morning Star. The boy was handsome, 
 brave and gentle ; and his childhood gave early indi 
 cations that he inherited the spiritual and poetic ten 
 dencies of his mother. At the threshold of his young 
 life, he too was set apart to fast and dream. He 
 dreamed of a wild rose bush, in full bloom, and heard 
 a voice saying, " She will wait for thee in the spirit- 
 land. Do not forsake her." The Wild Rose was 
 accordingly adopted as his Manitou. 
 
 In a neighbouring wigwam, was a girl named 
 O-ge-bu-no-qua, which signifies the Wild Rose. 
 When she, at twelve years old, was sent into retire 
 ment to fast and dream, she dreamed of a Star ; but 
 she could tell nothing about it, only that it was mild, 
 and looked at her. She was a charming child, and 
 grew into beautiful maidenhood. Her dark cheek look 
 ed like a rich brown autumn leaf, faintly tinged with 
 crimson. Her large eyes, shaded with deep black 
 fringe, had a shy and somewhat mournful tenderness 
 of expression. Her voice seemed but the echo of her 
 glance, it was so low and musical in tone, so plaintive 
 in its cadences. Her well-rounded figure was pliant 
 and graceful, and her motions were like those of some 
 pretty, timid animal, that has always stepped to 
 sylvan sounds. 
 
 The handsome boy was but two years older than 
 the beautiful girl. In childhood, they swung together
 
 SHE WAITS IN THE SPIRIT LAND. 165 
 
 in the same boughs, hand in hand they clambered the 
 rocks, and gathered the flowers and berries of the 
 woods. Living in such playful familiarity with the 
 deer and the birds, the young blood flowed fresh and 
 strong, their forms were vigorous, and their motions 
 flexile and free. The large dark eyes of Wah-bu- 
 nung-o were tender and sad, and had a peculiarly 
 deep, spiritual, inward-looking expression, as if he 
 were the destined poet and prophet of his tribe. But 
 the lofty carriage of his head, the Apollo curve of his 
 parted lips, and his aquiline nose, with open well- 
 defined nostrils, expressed the pride and daring of a 
 hunter and a warrior. 
 
 It was very natural that the maiden should some 
 times think it a beautiful coincidence that a Star was 
 her guardian spirit, and this handsome friend of her 
 childhood was named the Morning Star. And when 
 he told her of the Wild Rose of his dream, had he not 
 likewise some prophetic thoughts ? Fortunately for 
 the free and beautiful growth of their love, they lived 
 out of the pale of civilization. There was no Mrs. 
 Smith to remark how they looked at each other, and 
 no Mrs. Brown to question the propriety of their 
 rambles in the woods. The simple philosophy of the 
 Indians had never taught that nature was a sin, and 
 therefore nature was troubled with no sinful conscious 
 ness. When Wah-bu-nung-o hunted squirrels, O-ge- 
 bu-no-qua thought it no harm to gather basket-stuff in 
 the same woods. There was a lovely crescent-shaped 
 island opposite the village, profusely covered with 
 trees and vines, and carpeted with rich grasses and 
 mosses, strewn with flowers. Clumps of young
 
 166 SHE WAITS IN TMJ; SPi IT LAND. 
 
 birches shone among the dark shrubbery, like slender 
 columns of silver, and willows stooped so low to look 
 in the mirror of the waters, that their graceful tresses 
 touched the stream. Here, above all other places, did 
 the maiden love to go to gather twigs for baskets, and 
 the young man to select wood for his bows and arrows. 
 Often, when day was declining, and the calm river 
 reflected the Western sky, glowing with amber light, 
 and fleckered with little fleecy rose-coloured clouds, 
 his canoe might be seen gliding across the waters. 
 Sometimes O-ge-bu-no-qua was waiting for him on 
 the island, and sometimes he steered the boat for the 
 grove of willows, while she urged it forward with the 
 light swift stroke of her paddle. 
 
 Civilized man is little to be trusted under such cir 
 cumstances ; but nature, subjected to no false re 
 straints, manifests her innate modesty, and even in 
 her child-like abandonment to impulse, rebukes by her 
 innocence the unclean self-consciousness of artificial 
 society. With a quiet grave tenderness, the young 
 Indian assisted his beautiful companion in her tasks, 
 or spoke to her from time to time, as they met by 
 brook or grove, in the pursuit of their different avo 
 cations. Her Manitou, the Morning Star of the sky, 
 could not have been more truly her protecting spirit. 
 
 It was on her sixteenth birth day, that they, for the 
 first time, lingered on the island after twilight. The 
 Indians, with an untaught poetry of modesty, never 
 talk of love under the bright staring gaze of day. 
 Only amid the silent shadows do they yield to its 
 gentle influence. O-ge-bu-no-qua was born with the 
 roses ; therefore this birth-night of their acknowledged
 
 SHE WAITS IN THE SPIRIT LAND. 167 
 
 love was in that beautiful month, named by the Indians 
 " the Moon of Flowers." It was a lovely evening, and 
 surpassingly fair was the scene around them. The pic 
 turesque little village of wigwams, on the other side of 
 the river, gave a smiling answer to the sun's farewell. 
 The abrupt heights beyond were robed in the richest 
 foliage, through which the departing rays streamed 
 like a golden shower. In the limitless forest, the 
 tall trees were of noble proportions, because they had 
 room enough to grow upward and outward, with a 
 strong free grace. In the flowery glades of the islands, 
 flocks of pigeons, and other smaller birds, cooed and 
 chirped. Soon all subsided into moon-silence, and 
 the elysian stillness was interrupted only by the faint 
 ripple of the sparkling river, the lone cry of the whip- 
 powill, or the occasional plash of some restless bull 
 frog. The lovers sat side by side on a grassy knoll. 
 An evening breeze gave them a gentle kiss as it pass 
 ed, and brought them a love-token of fragrance from 
 a rose-bush that grew at their feet. Wah-bu-nung-o 
 gathered one of the blossoms, by the dim silvery light, 
 and placing it in the hand of O-ge-bu-no-qua, he said, 
 in a voice tender and bashful as a young girl's, 
 " Thou knowest the Great Spirit has given me the 
 wild rose for a Manitou. I have told thee my dream; 
 but I have never told thee, thou sweet rose of my life, 
 how sadly I interpret it." 
 
 She nestled closer in his bosom, and gazing ear 
 nestly on a bright star in the heavens, the Manitou 
 of her own existence, she murmured almost inaudibly, 
 " How dost thou ?" His brave strong arm encir 
 cled her in a closer embrace, as he answered with
 
 168 SHE WAITS IN THE SPIRIT LAND. 
 
 gentle solemnity, " The Rose will go to the spirit-land, 
 and leave her Star to mourn alone." The maiden's 
 eyes filled with tears, as she replied, " But the Rose 
 will wait for her Star. Thus said the voice of the 
 dream." 
 
 They sat silently leaning on each other, till Wah- 
 bu-nung-o took up the pipe, that lay beside him, and 
 began to play. Birds sing only during their mating 
 season; their twin-born love and music pass away 
 together, with the roses ; and the Indian plays on his 
 pipe only while he is courting. It is a rude kind of 
 flute, with two or three stops, and very limited variety 
 of tone. The life of a savage would not be fitly ex 
 pressed in rich harmonies ; and life in any form never 
 fashions to itself instruments beyond the wants of the 
 soul. But the sounds of this pipe, with its perpetual 
 return of sweet simple chords, and its wild flourishes, 
 like the closing strain of a bob o' link, was in pleasing 
 accord with the primeval beauty of the scene. When 
 the pipe paused for awhile, O-ge-bu-no-qua warbled a 
 wild plaintive little air, which her mother used to sing 
 to her, when she swung from the boughs in her queer 
 little birch-bark cradle. Indian music, like the voices 
 of inanimate nature, the wind, the forest, and the sea, 
 is almost invariably in the minor mode ; and breathed 
 as it now was to the silent moon, and with the shadow 
 of the dream interpretation still resting on their souls, 
 it was oppressive in its mournfulness. The song 
 hushed ; and O-ge-bu-no-qua, clinging closer to her 
 lover's arm, whispered in tones of superstitious 
 fear, " Does it not seem to you as if the Great Spirit 
 was looking at us ?" " Yes, and see how he smiles,"
 
 SHE WAITS IN THE SPIRIT LAND. 169 
 
 replied Wah-bu-nung-o, in bolder and more cheerful 
 accents, as he pointed to the sparkling waters : " The 
 deer and the birds are not sad ; let us be like them." 
 He spoke of love ; of the new wigwam he would 
 build for his bride, and the game he would bring 
 down with his arrow. These home-pictures roused 
 emotions too strong for words. Stolid and impertur 
 bable as the Indian race seem in the presenc? cf spec 
 tators, in these lonely hours with the beloved one, 
 they too learn that love is the glowing wine, the ex 
 hilarating " fire-water" of the soul. 
 
 * ****** 
 
 When they returned, no one questioned them. It 
 was the most natural thing in the world that they 
 should love each other ; and natural politeness respect 
 ed the freedom of their young hearts. No marriage 
 settlements, no precautions of the law, were necessary. 
 There was no person to object, whenever he chose to 
 lead her into his wigwam, and by that simple circum 
 stance she became his wife. The next day, as 0-ge- 
 bu-no-qua sat under the shadow of an elm, busily 
 braiding mats, Wah-bu-nung-o passed by, carrying 
 poles, which he had just cut in the woods. He stop 
 ped and spoke to her, and the glance of her wild mel 
 ancholy eye met his with a beautiful expression of 
 timid fondness. The next moment, she looked down 
 and blushed very deeply. The poles were for the 
 new wigwam, and so were the mats she was braiding ; 
 and she had promised her lover that as soon as the 
 wigwam was finished, she would come and live with 
 him. He conjectured her thoughts ; but he did not 
 smile, neither did he tell her that her blush was as 
 15
 
 170 SHE WAITS EN THE SPIRIT LAND. 
 
 beautiful as the brilliant flower of the Wickapee ; but 
 that bashful loving glance filled him with an inward 
 warmth. Its beaming, yet half-veiled tenderness pass 
 ed into his soul, and was never afterward forgotten. 
 
 That afternoon, all the young men of the tribe went 
 a few miles up the river to fish. Sad tidings awaited 
 their return. Ong-pa-tonga, the Big Elk, chief of a 
 neighbouring tribe, in revenge for some trifling affront, 
 had attacked the village in their absence, wounded 
 some of the old warriors, and carried off several of 
 the women and children. The blooming Wild Rose 
 was among the captives. Wah-bu-nung-o was frantic 
 with rage and despair. A demon seemed to have 
 taken possession of his brave, but usually gentle soul. 
 He spoke few words, but his eyes gleamed with a 
 fierce unnatural fire. He painted himself with the 
 colours of eternal enmity to the tribe of Big Elk, and 
 secretly gloated over plans of vengeance. An oppor 
 tunity soon offered to waylay the transgressors on their 
 return from a hunting expedition. Several women 
 accompanied the party, to carry their game and blan 
 kets. One of these, the wife of Big Elk, was killed by 
 an arrow, and some of the men were wounded. This 
 slight taste of vengeance made the flames of hatred 
 burn more intensely. The image of his enemy ex 
 piring by slow tortures was the only thought that 
 brought pleasure to the soul of Wah-bu-nung-o. 
 Twice he had him nearly in his power, but was baffled 
 by cunning. In one of the skirmishes between the 
 contending tribes, he took captive a woman and her 
 two children. Being questioned concerning the fate 
 of O-ge-bu-no-qua, she said that Big Elk, in revenge
 
 SHE WAITS IN THE SPIRIT LAND. 171 
 
 for the loss of his wife, had killed her with his war 
 club. For a moment, Wah-bu-nung-o stood as if sud 
 denly changed to stone ; then his Indian firmness for 
 sook him, ha tore his hair, and howled in frantic 
 agony. But in the midst of this whirlwind of grief, 
 the memory of his dream came like a still small voice, 
 and whispered, " She waits for thee in the spirit land. 
 Do not forsake her." The mad fire of his eye changed 
 to the mildest and deepest melancholy. He promised 
 the captive that she and her children should be treated 
 kindly, and allowed to return to her tribe, if she would 
 guide him to the maiden's grave. 
 
 Leaving her children in his own village, as a secu 
 rity against treachery, he followed her through the for 
 est, till they came to a newly-made mound, with a 
 few stones piled upon it. This she said was O-ge- 
 bu-no-qua's grave. The young warrior gazed on it 
 silently, with folded arms. No cry, or groan, escaped 
 him ; though in the depths of his soul was sorrow 
 more bitter than death. Thus he remained for a long 
 time. At last, he turned to take a careful inspection 
 of the scene around him, and marked a tree with the 
 point of his arrow. Then commanding the woman to 
 walk before him, he strode homeward in perfect silence. 
 A monotonous accompaniment of tree- whispering alone 
 responded to the farewell dirge in his heart. As he 
 looked on the boundless wilderness, and gazed into its 
 dark mysterious depths, wild and solemn reveries 
 came over him ; vast shadowy visions of life and death ; 
 but through all the changes of his thought sounded 
 the ever-recurring strain, " She waits for thee in the 
 spirit-land." Then came the dread that Big Elk
 
 172 SHE WAITS IN THE SPIRIT LAND. 
 
 would go there before him, and would persecute his 
 beloved, as he had done during her life in the body. 
 An impatient shudder went over him, and he longed 
 for death ; but he had been taught to consider suicide 
 a cowardly act, and he was awe-stricken before the 
 great mystery of the soul. The dreadful conflict ter 
 minated in one calm fixed resolution. He determined 
 to relinquish all his cherished plans of vengeance, and 
 during the remainder of his life to watch over Big 
 Elk, and guard him from danger, that he might not 
 go to the spirit-land till he himself was there to pro 
 tect his beloved. 
 
 The day after his return home, he told his mother 
 that he must go away to fulfil a vow, and he knew 
 not when he should return. He earnestly conjured 
 his brothers to be kind and reverent to their mother ; 
 then bidding them a calm but solemn farewell, he 
 stepped into his canoe, and rowed over to the Isle of 
 Willows. Again he stood by the grassy knoll where 
 the loved one had lain upon his breast. The rose 
 bush was there, tall and vigorous, though the human 
 Rose had passed away, to return no more. He shed 
 no tears, but reverently went through his forms of wor 
 ship to the tutelary spirit of his life. With measured 
 dance, and strange monotonous howls, he made a vow 
 of utter renunciation of everything, even of his hopes 
 of vengeance, if he might be permitted to protect his 
 beloved in the spirit-land. He brought water from 
 the brook in a gourd, from which they had often drunk 
 together ; he washed from his face the emblems of 
 eternal enmity to Big Elk, and with solemn ceremo 
 nial poured it on the roots of the rose. Then he
 
 SHE WAITS TN THE SPIRIT LAXD. 173 
 
 rowed far up the river, and landed near the grave, on 
 which he kindled a fire, that the dear departed might 
 be lighted to the spirit-land, according to the faith of 
 his fathers. He buried the gourd in the mound, say 
 ing, " This I send to thee, my Rose, that thou'mayest 
 drink from it in the spirit-land." Three nights he 
 tended the fire, and then returned for the rose-bush, 
 which he planted at the head of the grave. He built 
 a wigwam near by, and dwelt there alone. He fear 
 ed neither wild beast nor enemies ; for he had fulfil 
 led his duties to the dead, and now his only wish was 
 to go and meet her. Big Elk and his companions 
 soon discovered him, and came upon him with their 
 war-clubs. He stood unarmed, and quietly told them 
 he had consecrated himself by a vow to the Great 
 Spirit, and would fight no more. He gazed steadily 
 in the face of his enemy, and said, if they wanted his 
 life, they were welcome to take it. The deep, mourn 
 ful, supernatural expression of his eyes inspired them 
 with awe. They thought him insane ; and all such 
 are regarded by the Indians with superstitious fear 
 and reverence. " He has seen the door of the spirit- 
 land opened," they said ; " the moon has spoken se 
 crets to him ; and the Great Spirit is angry when such 
 are harmed." So they left him in peace. But he 
 sighed as they turned away ; for he had hoped to die 
 by their hands. From that time he followed Big Elk 
 like his shadow ; but always to do him service. At 
 first, his enemy was uneasy, and on his guard ; but 
 after awhile, he became accustomed to his presence, 
 and even seemed to be attached to him. At one time, 
 a fever brought the strong man to the verge of the 
 15*
 
 174 SME WAITS IN THE SPIRIT LAND. 
 
 grave. Wah-bu-nung-o watched over him with trem 
 bling anxiety, and through weary days and sleepless 
 nights tended him as carefully as a mother tends her 
 suffering babe. Another time, when Big Elk was 
 wounded by an enemy, he drew out the arrow, sought 
 medicinal herbs, and healed him. Once, when he 
 was about to cross a wide deep ditch, bridged by a 
 single tree, Wah-bu-nung-o perceived a rattle-snake 
 on the bridge, and just as the venomous reptile was 
 about to spring, his arrow nailed him to the tree. 
 
 Thus weary months passed away. The mourner, 
 meek and silent, held communion with his Manitou, 
 the rose-bush, to which he repeated often, " Bid her 
 look to the Morning Star, and fear nothing. I will 
 protect her. Tell her we shall meet again in the 
 spirit-land, as we met in the Isle of Willows." Sad 
 ly but mildly his eye rested on the murderer of his 
 beloved, and he tended upon him with patient gentle 
 ness, that seemed almost like affection. Very beauti 
 ful and holy was this triumph of love over hatred, 
 seeking no reward but death. But the " twin-brother 
 of sleep" came not where he was so much desired. 
 Others who clung to life were taken, but the widowed 
 heart could not find its rest. At last, the constant 
 prayer of his faithful love was answered. By some 
 accident, Big Elk became separated from his hunting 
 companions, late in the afternoon of a winter's day. 
 There came on a blinding storm of wind and snow 
 and sleet. The deep drifts were almost impassable, 
 and the keen air cut the lungs, like particles of sharp 
 ened steel. Night came down in robes of thick dark 
 ness. Nothing interrupted her solemn silence, but
 
 SHE WAITS IN THE SPIRIT LAND. 175 
 
 the crackling of ice from the trees, and the moaning 
 and screaming of the winds. The very wolves hid 
 themselves from the fury of the elements. While 
 light enough remained to choose a shelter, the wan 
 derers took refuge in a deep cleft screened by pro 
 jecting rocks. The morning found them stiff and 
 hungry, and almost buried in snow. With much dif 
 ficulty they made their way out into the forest, com 
 pletely bewildered, and guided only by the sun, which 
 glimmered gloomily through the thick atmosphere. 
 Two days they wandered without food. Toward 
 night, Wah-bu-nung-o discovered horns projecting 
 through the snow ; and digging through the drift, he 
 found a few moose bones, on which the wolves had 
 left some particles of flesh. He resisted the cravings 
 of hunger, and gave them all to his famishing enemy. 
 As twilight closed, they took shelter in a large 
 hollow tree, near which Wah-bu-nung-o, with the 
 watchful eye of love and faith, observed a rose-bush, 
 with a few crimson seed-vessels shining through 
 the snow. He stripped some trees, and covered 
 Ong-pa-tonga with the bark; then piling up snow 
 before the entrance to the tree, to screen him from 
 the cold, he bade him sleep, while he kept watch. 
 Ong-pa-tonga asked to be awakened, that he might 
 watch in his turn ; but to this his anxious guardian re 
 turned no answer. The storm had passed away and 
 left an atmosphere of intense cold. The Stars glittered 
 in the deep blue sky, like points of steel. Weary, faint, 
 and starving, Wah-bu-nung-o walked slowly back and 
 forth. When he felt an increasing numbness stealing 
 over his limbs, a disconsolate smile gleamed on his
 
 176 SHE WAITS IN THE SPIRIT LAND. 
 
 countenance, and he offered thanks to the Manitou bush 
 by his side. It was the first time he had smiled since 
 his Wild Rose was taken from him. Presently, the 
 howl of wolves was heard far off. He kept more 
 carefully near the tree where his enemy slept, and 
 listened to ascertain in what direction the ravenous 
 beasts would come. " They shall eat me first, before 
 they find their way to him," he said ; " She would be 
 so frightened to see his spirit, before mine came to 
 protect her." But the dismal sounds died away in 
 the distance, and were heard no more. Panting and 
 staggering, the patient sufferer fell on the ground, at 
 the foot of the rose-bush, and prayed imploringly, 
 " Let not the wild beasts devour him, while I lie here 
 insensible. Oh, send me to the spirit-land, that I may 
 protect her !" He gasped for breath, and a film came 
 over his eyes, so that he could no longer see the stars. 
 How long he remained thus, no one ever knew. 
 
 Suddenly all was light around him. The rose 
 bush bloomed, and O-ge-bu-no-qua stood before him, 
 with the same expression of bashful love he had last 
 seen in her beautiful eyes. " I have been ever near 
 thee," she said ; " Hast thou not seen me ?" 
 
 " Where am I, my beloved ?" he exclaimed : " Are 
 we in the Isle of Willows ?" 
 
 " We are in the spirit-land," she answered : " Thy 
 Rose has waited patiently for the coming of her 
 Morning Star."
 
 A POET'S DRE1M OF THE SOUL. 
 
 For, as be all bards, he was born of beauty, 
 
 And with a natural fitness to draw down 
 
 All tones and shades of beauty to his soul, 
 
 Even as the rainbow-tinted shell, which lies 
 
 Miles deep at bottom of the sea, hath all 
 
 Colours of skies and flowers, and gems and plumes. FESTtis. 
 
 Forms are like sea-shells on the shore ; they show 
 
 Where the mind ends, and not how far it has been. IBID. 
 
 HIDDEN among common stones, in a hill-side of 
 Germany, an agate reposed in deep tranquillity. The 
 roots of a violet twined about it, and as they embraced 
 more and more closely, year by year, there grew up 
 a silent friendship between the stone and the flower. 
 In Spring, when the plant moved above the surface of 
 the earth, it transmitted genial sun-warmth, and car 
 ried dim amethystine light into the dark home of the 
 mineral. Lovingly it breathed forth the secrets of its 
 life, but the agate could not understand its speech ; 
 for a lower form of existence has merely a vague feel 
 ing of the presence of the grade above it. But from 
 circling degrees of vegetable life, spirally, through the 
 violet, passed a subtle influence into the heart of the 
 agate. It wanted to grow, to spread, to pass upward 
 into the light. But the laws of its being girdled it 
 round like a chain of iron. 
 
 A shepherd came and stretched himself fondly by
 
 178 A POET'S DREAM OF THE SOUL. 
 
 the side of the violet, and piped sweet pastoral music, 
 thinking the while of the fragrant breath and deep 
 blue eyes of her he loved. The flower recognised the 
 tones as a portion of its own soul, and breathed forth 
 perfumes in harmony. Her deeply moved inward 
 joy was felt by the mineral, and kindled enthusiastic 
 longing. Under the glow which renders all forms 
 fluid, the chain of necessity relaxed, and the agate 
 expressed its aspiration for vegetable life, in the form 
 of mosses, roots, and leaves. But soon it touched the 
 wall of limitation ; upward it could not grow. 
 
 A compounder of medicines and amulets came dig 
 ging for roots and minerals. He pounded the moss- 
 agate to dust, and boiled it with the violet. The 
 souls passed away from the destroyed forms, to enter 
 again at some perfect union of Thought and Affection, 
 a marriage between some of the infinitely various 
 manifestations of this central duality of the universe. 
 The spirit of the agate floated far, and was finally at 
 tracted toward a broad inland lake in the wilds of 
 unknown America. The water-lilies were making 
 love, and it passed into the seed to which their union 
 gave birth. In the deep tranquillity of the forest, it 
 lived a snowy lily with a golden heart, gently swayed 
 on the waters, to the sound of rippling murmurs. 
 Brightly solemn was the moon-stillness there. It 
 agitated the breast of the lily ; for the mild planet shed 
 dewy tears on his brow, as he lay sleeping, and seem 
 ed to say mournfully, " I too am of thy kindred, yet 
 thou dost not know me." 
 
 Soon came the happy days when the lily wooed his 
 bride. Gracefully she bowed toward him, and a de-
 
 A POET'S DREAM OF THE SOUL. 179 
 
 licious languor melted his whole being, as he fondly 
 veiled her in a golden shower of aroma. Its spiritual 
 essence pervaded the atmosphere. The birds felt its 
 influence, though they knew not whence it was. The 
 wood-pigeons began to coo, and the mocking-bird 
 poured forth all the loves of the forest. The flowers 
 thrilled responsive to their extremest roots, and all the 
 little blossoms wanted to kiss each other. 
 
 The remembrance of mineral existence had passed 
 away from the lily; but with these sounds came vague 
 reminiscences of kindred vibrations, that wrote the 
 aspiration of the agate in mossy hieroglyphics on its 
 bosom. Among the tall trees, a vine was dancing 
 and laughing in the face of the sun. " It must be a 
 pleasant life to swing so blithely high up in the air," 
 thought the lily : " O, what would I give to be so 
 much nearer to the stars !" He reared his head, and 
 tried to imitate the vine ; but the waters gently swayed 
 him backward, and he fell asleep on the bosom of the 
 lake. A troop of buffaloes came to drink, and in wild 
 sport they pulled up the lilies, and tossed them on 
 their horns. 
 
 The soul, going forth to enter a new body, arrived 
 on the southern shores of the Rhone, at the courting 
 time of blossoms, and became a winged seed, from 
 which a vine leaped forth. Joyous was its life in that 
 sunny clime of grapes and olives. Beautiful rainbow- 
 tinted fairies hovered about it in swarms. They 
 waltzed on the leaves, and swung from the tendrils, 
 playing all manner of merry tricks. If a drowsy one 
 fell asleep in the flower-bells, they tormented him 
 without mercy, tickling his nose with a butterfly's
 
 180 A POET'S DREAM OF THE SOUL. 
 
 feather, or piping through straws in his ear. Not a 
 word of love could the vine-blossoms breathe to each 
 other, but the mischievous fairies were listening ; and 
 with a zephyry laugh of silvery sweetness, they would 
 sing, " Aha, we hear you !" Then the blossoms 
 would throw perfumes at them, and they would dance 
 away, springing from leaf to leaf, still shouting, " Aha, 
 we heard you !" The next minute, the whole troop 
 would be back again, making ugly faces from a knot 
 hole in the tree, pelting the blossoms with dew-drops, 
 or disturbing their quiet loves with a serenade of mus- 
 quito trumpets, and a grotesque accompaniment of 
 cricket-rasping. But the blossoms delighted in the 
 frolicksome little imps ; for their capers were very 
 amusing, and at heart they were real friends to love, 
 and always ready to carry perfumes, or presents of 
 golden flower-dust, from one to another, on their tiny 
 wands. They could not reveal secrets, if they would ; 
 because the flowers and the fairies have no secrets ; 
 but many a graceful song they sang of Moth-feather 
 kissed by Fly-wing, as she lay pretending to be asleep 
 in a Fox-glove ; or how Star-twinkle serenaded Dew- 
 drop in the bosom of a Rose. 
 
 It was a pleasant life the vine led among the but 
 terflies and fairies ; but the stars seemed just as far 
 off as when he was a lily ; and when he saw the great 
 trees spread their branches high above him, he wish 
 ed that he could grow strong, brave, and self-sustain 
 ing, like them. While such wishes were in his heart, 
 a traveller passed that way, singing light carols as he 
 went. With careless gayety he switched the vine, the 
 stem broke, and it hung fainting from the branches.
 
 A POET'S DREAM OF THE SOTTL. 181 
 
 The fairies mourned over the drooping blossoms, and 
 sang- sweet requiems as its spirit passed away. 
 
 On the heights of Mount Helicon, oak-blossoms 
 were tremulous with love when the vine-spirit floated 
 over them. He entered into an acorn, and became an 
 oak. Serenely noble was his life, in a grove conse 
 crated to the Muses. With calm happiness he gazed 
 upon the silent stars, or watched his own majestic 
 shadow dancing on the verdant turf, enamelled with 
 flowers, which filled the whole air with fragrance. 
 The olive trees, the walnuts, and the almonds, whisper 
 ed to him all the stories of their loves; and the zephyrs, 
 as they flew by, lingered among his branches, to tell 
 marvellous stories of the winds they had kissed in 
 foreign climes. The Dryads, as they leaned against 
 him, and lovingly twined each other with vernal 
 crowns from his glossy leaves, talked of primal spirits, 
 veiled in never-ending varieties of form, gliding in 
 harmonies through the universe. The murmur of 
 bees, the music of pastoral flutes, and the silvery flow 
 of little waterfalls, mingled ever with the melodious 
 chime of these divine voices. Sometimes, long pro 
 cessions of beautiful youths, crowned with garlands, 
 and bearing branches of laurel, passed slowly by, 
 singing choral hymns in worship of the Muses. The 
 guardian Nymphs of fountains up among the hills 
 leaned forward on their flowing urns, listening to the 
 tuneful sounds ; and often the flash of Apollo's harp 
 might be seen among the trees, lightening the forest 
 with a golden fire. 
 
 Amid this quiet grandeur, the oak forgot the pretti- 
 ness of his life with the nimble fairies. But when he 
 16
 
 1S2 A POET'S DREAM OF THE SOUL. 
 
 looked down on little streams fringed with oleander 
 and myrtle, or saw bright-winged butterflies and ra 
 diant little birds sporting in vine-festoons, he felt a 
 sympathy with the vines and the blossoms, as if they 
 were somehow allied to his own being. The motion 
 of the busy little animals excited a vague restlessness ; 
 and when he saw goats skip from rock to rock, or 
 sheep following the flute of the shepherd far over the 
 plain, the sap moved more briskly in his veins, and he 
 began to ask, " How is it beyond those purple hills ? 
 Do trees and Dryads live there ? And these moving 
 things, are their loves more lively and perfect than 
 ours ? Why cannot I also follow that music ? Why 
 must I stand still, and wait for all things to come to 
 me?" Even the brilliant lizard, when he crawled 
 over his bark, or twined about his stems, roused with 
 in him a faint desire for motion. And when the 
 winds and the trees whispered to him their pastoral 
 romances, he wondered whether the pines, the hazels, 
 and the zephyrs, there beyond, could tell the story of 
 love between the moon and the hills, that met so near 
 them, to bid each other farewell with such a lingering 
 kiss. There came no answer to these queries ; but 
 the marble statue of Euterpe, in the grove below, 
 smiled significantly upon him, and the bright war- 
 blings of a flute were heard, which sounded like the 
 utterance of her srnile. A Dryad, crowned with lau 
 rel, and bearing a branch of laurel in her hands, was 
 inspired by the Muse, and spake prophetically : " That 
 was the divine voice of Euterpe," she says; "be patient, 
 and I will reveal all things." 
 
 Long stood the oak among those Grecian hills.
 
 A POET'S DREAM OF THE SOUL. 183 
 
 The whisperings of the forest became like the voices 
 of familiar friends. But those grand choral hymns, 
 accompanied by warblings of Euterpe's flute, with 
 harmonic vibrations from Erato's silver lyre, and 
 Apollo's golden harp, remained mysteries profound as 
 the stars. Yet all his fibres unconsciously moved in 
 harmony, the unintelligible sounds passed into his 
 inmost being, and modified his outward growth. In" 
 process of time, a woodcutter felled the magnificent 
 tree, for pillars to an altar of Jove ; and weeping Dry 
 ads threw mosses and green garlands over the decay 
 ing roots. 
 
 A beautiful lizard, with bright metallic hues, glided 
 about on the trees and temples of Herculaneum. He 
 forgot that he had ever been an oak, nor did he know 
 that he carried on his back the colours of the faery 
 songs he had heard as a vine. He led a pleasant life 
 under the shadow of the leaves, but when Autumn 
 was far advanced, he found a hole in the ground, 
 under one of the pillars of the theatre, and crept into 
 the crevice of a stone to sleep. A torpor came over 
 him, at first occasionally startled by the sharp clash 
 of cymbals, or the deep sonorous voice of trombones, 
 from within the building. But the wind blew sand 
 into the crevice, the earth covered him, and the un 
 conscious lizard was entombed alive. Processions of 
 drunken Bacchantes, with all their furious uproar, did 
 not rouse him from his lethargy. Vesuvius roared, 
 as it poured out rivers of fire, but he heard it not. 
 Through the lapse of silent centuries, he lay there 
 within a buried city, in a sepulchre of lava. But not 
 even that long, long sleep, without a dream, could
 
 184 A POET'S DREAM OF THE SOUL. 
 
 efface the impressions of his past existences. At last, 
 some workmen, digging for a well; struck upon a 
 statue, and the lost city was discovered. Breaking 
 away the lava with pickaxes and hammers, they dash 
 ed in pieces the stone into which the lizard had crept. 
 He gasped when the fresh air came upon him, and 
 died instantly. His lizard-life had passed without as 
 piration, and long imprisonment had made him averse 
 to light. He slipped under ground, and became a 
 mole, blind as when he was an agate. He could not 
 see the beauty of the flowers, or the glory of the stars. 
 But music, the universal soul of all things, came to 
 him also. A lark built her nest on the ground near 
 by ; and when she returned to her little ones, the 
 joyful trill of her gushing tones was so full of sun 
 light, that it warmed the heart of the poor little mole. 
 He could not see where the lark went, when he 
 heard her clear notes ascending far into the sky ; but 
 he felt the expression of a life more free and bright 
 than his own, and he grew weary of darkness and 
 silence. As he came out oftener to feel the sunshine, 
 his rich brown glossy fur attracted the attention of a 
 boy, who caught him in a trap. 
 
 The emancipated spirit passed where birds were 
 mating on the sea shore, and became a halcyon. He 
 wooed a lady-bird, and she was enamoured of his beau 
 ty, though neither of them knew that the lark's song 
 was painted in rainbow-tints upon his plumage. 
 Their favourite resort was a cave in the Isle of Staffa. 
 Season after season, he and his successive lady-loves 
 went there to rear their young, in a deep hole of the 
 rock, where the tide, as it ebbs and flows, makes
 
 A POET'S DREAM OF THE SOUL. 185 
 
 strange wild melody. As the mother brooded over 
 her nest, he sat patiently by her side, listening to the 
 measured rhythm of the sea, and the wild crescendo 
 of the winds. When storms subsided, and rainbows 
 spanned the rocky island, sirens and mermaids came 
 riding on the billows, with pearls in their hair, sing 
 ing of submarine gardens, where groves of fan-coral 
 bend like flexile willows, and yellow and crimson sea 
 weeds float in their fluid element, as gracefully as 
 banners on the wind. The halcyons, as they glided 
 above the white wave-wreaths, or sat on the rocks 
 watching for food, often saw these fantastic creatures 
 swimming about, merrily pelting each other with peb 
 bles and shells ; and their liquid laughter, mingled 
 with snatches of song, might be heard afar, as they 
 went deep down to their grottoes in the sea. 
 
 When Winter approached, the happy birds flew to 
 more Southern climes. During these inland visits, 
 the halcyon again heard the song of the lark. It 
 moved him strangely, and he tried to imitate it ; but 
 the sounds came from his throat in harsh twirls, and 
 refused to echo his tuneful wishes. One day, as the 
 beautiful bird sat perched on a twig, gazing intently 
 into the stream, and listening to woodland warbles, a 
 sportsman pointed his gun at him, and killed him in 
 stantly. 
 
 The spirit, hovering over Italian shores, went into 
 the egg of a nightingale, and came forth into an earth 
 ly paradise of soft sunny valleys, and vine-clad hills, 
 with urns and statues gleaming amid dark groves of 
 cypress and cedar. When the moon rose above the 
 hills, with her little one, the evening star, by her side,
 
 186 A POET'S DREAM OF THE SOUL. 
 
 and twilight threw over the lovely landscape a veil of 
 rose-coloured mist, the bird felt the pervading pres 
 ence of the beautiful, and poured forth his soul in 
 songs of exquisite tenderness. Plaintive were the 
 tones ; for the moon spoke into his heart far more sad 
 ly than when he was a water-lily, and with her solemn 
 voice was mingled the chime of vesper bells across 
 the water, the melancholy cry of gondoliers, and the 
 measured plash of their oars. When the sun came 
 up in golden splendour, flooding hill and dale with bril 
 liant light, the nightingale nestled with his lady-love 
 in cool sequestered groves of cypress and ilex, and 
 listened in dreamy revery to the trickling of many 
 fountains. Fairies came there and danced in graceful 
 undulations, to music of liquid sweetness. In their 
 wildest mirth, they were not so giddy-paced as the 
 pretty caperers of the Rhone, and more deeply pas 
 sionate were the love-stories they confided to the sym 
 pathizing nightingale. When the solemn swell of the 
 church organ rose on the breeze, the fairies hid away 
 timidly under leaves, while human voices chanted 
 their hymns of praise. The nightingale, too, listened 
 with awe ; the majestic sounds disturbed him, like 
 echoes of thunder among the hills. His mate had 
 built her nest in low bushes, on the shore of a broad 
 lagune, and there he was wont to sing to her at even 
 tide. The gondolas, as they glided by, with lights 
 glancing on the water, passed his home more slowly, 
 that passengers might listen to the flowing song. 
 One night, a violinist in the gondola responded to his 
 lay. The nightingale answered with an eager gush. 
 Again the violin replied, more at length. Sadly, and
 
 A POET'S DREAM OF THE SOUL. 187 
 
 with a lingering sweetness, the nightingale resumed ; 
 but suddenly broke off, and went silent. The musi 
 cian slept on shore, and played a long time under the 
 shadow of the groves, to the ears of his lady-love, who 
 leaned from her balcony to listen. Wildly throbbed the 
 pulses of the nightingale. What was this enchanting 
 voice? It repeated the sky-tone of the lark, the drowsy 
 contemplations of the water-lily communing with 
 the moon, the trills of fairies frisking among the vine- 
 blossoms, the whispers of winds, and trees, and streams, 
 the siren's song, and the mermaid's laugh. With all 
 these he had unconsciously acquired sympathy, in the 
 progress of his being ; but mingled with them was a 
 mysterious utterance of something deeper and more 
 expansive, that thrilled his little bosom with an agony 
 of aspiration. When the violin was itself a portion of 
 trees, the music of winds, and leaves, and streams, 
 and little birds, had passed into its heart. The poet's 
 soul likewise listens passively to the voices of nature, 
 and receives them quietly, as a divine influx. The 
 violin knew by the poet's manner of questioning, that 
 he could understand her, and she told him all the 
 things she had ever heard. But by reason of this 
 divine harmony between them, his human soul breath 
 ed through her, and made her the messenger of joys 
 and sorrows far deeper than her own. This it was 
 that troubled the breast of the nightingale. The next 
 evening he flooded the whole valley with a rich tide 
 of song. Men said, " Did ever bird sing so divinely ?" 
 But he felt how far inferior it was to those heavenly 
 tones, which repeated all the things he had ever
 
 188 A POET'S DREAM OF THE SOUL. 
 
 heard, and oppressed him with a prophecy of things 
 unknown. Evening by evening, his song grew more 
 sad in its farewell sweetness, and at last was heard 
 no more. He had pined away and died, longing for 
 the voice of the violin. 
 
 In a happy German home, a young wife leaned 
 lovingly on the bosom of her chosen mate. They 
 were not aware that the spirit of a nightingale was 
 circling round them and would pass into the soul of 
 their infant son, whom they named Felix Mendelssohn. 
 The poet-musician, as he grew to manhood, lost all 
 recollection of his own transmigrations. But often 
 when his human eyes gazed on lovely scenes for the 
 first time, Nature looked at him so kindly, and all her 
 voices spoke so familiarly, that it seemed as if his 
 soul must have been there before him. The moon 
 claimed kindred with him, and lulled him into 
 dreamy revery, as she had done when the undulating 
 waters cradeled him as a lily. In music, he asked 
 the fair planet concerning all this, and why she and 
 the earth always looked into each other's eyes with 
 such saddened love. Poets, listening to the Concerto, 1 * 
 heard in it the utterance of their souls also ; and they 
 will give it again in painting, sculpture, and verse. 
 Thus are all forms intertwined by the pervading spirit 
 which flows through them. 
 
 The sleeping flowers wakened vague reminiscences 
 of tiny radiant forms. Mendelssohn called to them in 
 music, and the whole faery troop came dancing on 
 moon-beams into his " Midsummer Night's Dream." 
 
 * Concerto for the piano, in G Minor.
 
 A POET'S DREAM OF THE SOUL. 189 
 
 The sight of temples and statues brought shadowy 
 dreams of Druids, and consecrated groves, of choral 
 hymns, and the rich vibrations of Apollo's harp. 
 Serene in classic beauty, these visions float through 
 the music of " Antigone." 
 
 The booming of waves, and the screaming of gulls, 
 stirred halcyon recollections. He asked in music 
 whence they came, and Euterpe answered in the pic 
 turesque sea-wildness of his " Fingal's Cave." 
 
 The song of the nightingale brought dim memories 
 of a pure brilliant atmosphere, of landscapes tinted 
 with prismatic splendour, of deep blue lakes dimpled 
 with sun-flecks ; and gracefully glides the gondola, 
 under the glowing sky of Italy, through the flowing 
 melody of his " Songs without Words." 
 
 But music is to him as the violin was to the night 
 ingale. It repeats, with puzzling vagueness, all he 
 has ever known, and troubles his spirit with prophe 
 cies of the infinite unknown. Imploringly he asks 
 Euterpe to keep her promise, and reveal to him all 
 the secrets of the universe. Graciously and con 
 fidingly she answers. But as it was with the night 
 ingale, so is it with him; the utterance belongs to 
 powers above the circle of his being, and he cannot 
 comprehend it now. Through the gate which men 
 call Death, he will pass into more perfect life, where 
 speech and tone dwell together forever in a golden 
 marriage.
 
 THE BLACK SAXONS. 
 
 Tyrants are but the spawn of ignorance, 
 
 Begotten by the slaves they trample on; 
 
 Who, could they win a glimmer of the light, 
 
 And see that tyranny is always weakness, 
 
 Or fear with its own bosom ill at ease, 
 
 Would laugh away in scorn the sand-wove chain, 
 
 Which their own blindness feigned for adamant. 
 
 Wrong ever builds on quicksands ; but the Kight 
 
 To the firm centre lays its moveless base. J. R. LOWELL. 
 
 MR. DUNCAN was sitting alone in his elegantly fur 
 nished parlour, in the vicinity of Charleston, South 
 Carolina. Before him lay an open volume, Thierry's 
 History of the Norman Conquest. From the natural 
 kindliness of his character, and democratic theories 
 deeply imbibed in childhood, his thoughts dwelt more 
 with a nation prostrated and. kept in base subjection by 
 the strong arm of violence, than with the renowned 
 robbers," who seized their rich possesions, and haugh 
 tily trampled on their dearest rights. 
 
 " And so that bold and beautiful race became slaves !" 
 thought he. " The brave and free-souled Harolds, 
 strong of heart and strong of arm ; the fair-haired 
 Ediths, in their queenly beauty, noble in soul as well 
 as ancestry ; these all sank to the condition of slaves. 
 They tamely submitted to their lot, till their free, 
 bright beauty passed under the heavy cloud of animal 
 dullness, and the contemptuous Norman epithet of
 
 THE BLACK SAXONS. 191 
 
 'base Saxon churls' was but too significantly true. 
 Yet not without efforts did they thus sink. How of 
 ten renewed, or how bravely sustained, we know not ; 
 for Troubadours rarely sing of the defeated, and con 
 querors write their own History. That they did not 
 relinquish freedom without a struggle, is proved by 
 Robin Hood and his bold followers, floating in dim and 
 shadowy glory on the outskirts of history ; brave out 
 laws of the free forest, and the wild mountain-passes, 
 taking back, in the very teeth of danger, a precarious 
 subsistence from the rich possessions that were once 
 their own ; and therefore styled thieves and traitors by 
 the robbers who had beggared them. Doubtless they 
 had minstrels of their own ; unknown in princely 
 halls, untrumpeted by fame, yet singing of their ex 
 ploits in spirit-stirring tones, to hearts burning with a 
 sense of wrong. Troubled must be the sleep of those 
 who rule a conquered nation !" 
 
 These thoughts were passing through his mind, 
 when a dark mulatto opened the door, and making a 
 servile reverence, said, in wheedling tones, " Would 
 massa be so good as gib a pass to go to Methodist 
 meeting?" 
 
 Mr. Duncan was a proverbially indulgent master ; 
 and he at once replied, " Yes, Jack, you may have a 
 pass ; but you must mind and not stay out all night." 
 
 " Oh, no, massa. Tom neber preach more than 
 two hours." 
 
 Scarcely was the pass written, before another ser 
 vant appeared with a similar request ; and presently 
 another ; and yet another. When these interruptions
 
 192 THE BLACK SAXONS. 
 
 ceased, Mr. Duncan resumed his book, and quietly 
 read of the oppressed Saxons, until the wish for a glass 
 of water induced him to ring the bell. No servant 
 obeyed the summons. With an impatient jerk of the 
 rope, he rang a second time, muttering to himself, 
 " What a curse it is to be waited upon by slaves ! If 
 I were dying, the lazy loons would take their own 
 time, and come dragging their heavy heels along, an 
 hour after I was in the world of spirits. My neigh 
 bours tell me it is because I never flog them. I be 
 lieve they are in the right. It is a hard case, too, to 
 force a man to be a tyrant, whether he will or no." 
 
 A third time he rang the bell more loudly; but 
 waited in vain for the sound of coming footsteps. 
 Then it occurred to him that he had given every one 
 of his slaves a pass to go to the Methodist meeting. 
 This was instantly followed by the remembrance, that 
 the same thing had happened a few days before. 
 
 We were then at war with Great Britain ; and 
 though Mr. Duncan often boasted the attachment of 
 his slaves, and declared them to be the most content 
 ed and happy labourers in the world, who would not 
 take their freedom if they could, yet, by some coinci 
 dence of thought, the frequency of Methodist meetings 
 immediately suggested the common report that Brit 
 ish troops were near the coast, and about to land in 
 Charleston. Simultaneously came the remembrance 
 of Big-boned Dick, who many months before had ab 
 sconded from a neighbouring planter, and was sus 
 pected of holding a rendezvous for runaways, in the 
 swampy depths of some dark forest. The existence 

 
 THE BLACK SAXONS. 193 
 
 of such a gang was indicated by the rapid disappear 
 ance of young corn, sweet potatoes, fat hogs, &c., 
 from the plantations for many miles round. 
 
 " The black rascal !" exclaimed he : " If my boys 
 are in league with him " 
 
 The coming threat was arrested by a voice within, 
 which, like a chorus from some invisible choir, all at 
 once struck up the lively ballad of Robin Hood ; and 
 thus brought Big-boned Dick, like Banquo's Ghost, 
 unbidden and unwelcome, into incongruous associa 
 tion with his spontaneous sympathy for Saxon serfs, 
 his contempt of " base Saxon churls," who tamely 
 submitted to their fate, and his admiration of the bold 
 outlaws, who lived by plunder in the wild freedom of 
 Saxon forests. 
 
 His republican sympathies, and the " system en 
 tailed upon him by his ancestors," were obviously out 
 of joint with each other; and the skilfullest soldering 
 of casuistry could by no means make them adhere to 
 gether. Clear as the tones of a cathedral bell above 
 the hacks and drays of a city, the voice of Reason 
 rose above all the pretexts of selfishness, and the apol 
 ogies of sophistry, and loudly proclaimed that his sym 
 pathies were right, and his practice wrong. Had 
 there been at his elbow some honest John Woolman, 
 or fearless Elias Hicks, that hour might perhaps have 
 seen him a freeman, in giving freedom to his serfs. 
 But he was alone ; and the prejudices of education, 
 and the habits of his whole life, conjured up a fearful 
 array of lions in his path ; and he wist not that they 
 were phantoms. The admonitions of awakened con 
 science gradually gave place to considerations of per- 
 17
 
 194 THE BLACK SAXONS. 
 
 sonal safety, and plans for ascertaining the real extent 
 of his danger. 
 
 The next morning he asked his slaves, with assum 
 ed nonchalance, whether they had a good meeting. 
 
 " Oh, yes, massa; bery good meeting." 
 
 " Where did you meet ?" 
 
 " In the woods behind Birch Grove, massa." 
 
 The newspaper was brought, and found to contain 
 a renewal of the report that British troops were prowl 
 ing about the coast. Mr. Duncan slowly paced the 
 room for some time, apparently studying the figures 
 of the carpet, yet utterly unconscious whether he trod 
 on canvass or the greensward. At length, he ordered 
 his horse and drove to the next plantation. Seeing a 
 gang at work in the fields, he stopped ; and after some 
 questions concerning the crop, he said to one of the 
 most intelligent, " So you had a fine meeting last 
 night?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, massa, bery nice meeting." 
 
 " Where was it ? 
 
 The slave pointed far east of Birch Grove. The 
 white man's eye followed the direction of the bond 
 man's finger, and a deeper cloud gathered on his 
 brow. Without comment he rode on in another di 
 rection, and with apparent indifference made similar 
 inquiries of another gang of labourers. They pointed 
 north of Birch Grove, and replied, " In the Hugonot 
 woods, massa." 
 
 With increasing disquietude, he slowly turned his 
 horse toward the city. He endeavoured to conceal 
 anxiety under a cheerful brow ; for he was afraid to 
 ask counsel, even of his most familiar friends, in a
 
 THE BLACK SAXONS. 195 
 
 community so prone to be blinded by insane fury un 
 der the excitement of such suspicions. Having pur 
 chased a complete suit of negro clothes, and a black 
 mask well fitted to his face, he returned home, and 
 awaited the next request for passes to a Methodist 
 meeting. 
 
 In a few days, the sable faces again appeared before 
 him, one after another, asking permission to hear Tom 
 preach. The passes were promptly given, accom 
 panied by the cool observation, " It seems to me, boys, 
 that you are all growing wonderfully religious of 
 late." 
 
 To which they eagerly replied, " Ah, if massa could 
 hear Tom preach, it make his hair stand up. Tom 
 make ebery body tink weder he hab a soul." 
 
 When the last one had departed, the master hastily 
 assumed his disguise, and hurried after them. Keep 
 ing them within sight, he followed over field and mea 
 dow, through woods and swamps. As he went on, 
 the number of dark figures, all tending toward the 
 same point, continually increased. Now and then, 
 some one spoke to him ; but he answered briefly, and 
 with an effort to disguise his voice. At last, they ar 
 rived at one of those swamp islands, so common at 
 the South, insulated by a broad, deep belt of water, 
 and effectually screened from the main-land by a lux 
 uriant growth of forest trees, matted together by a rich 
 entanglement of vines and underwood. A large tree 
 had been felled for a bridge ; and over this dusky 
 forms were swarming, like ants into their new-made 
 nest. 
 
 Mr. Duncan had a large share of that animal in-
 
 196 THE BLACK SAXONS. 
 
 stinct called physical courage ; but his heart throbbed 
 almost audibly, as he followed that dark multitude. 
 
 At the end of a rough and intricate passage, there 
 opened before him a scene of picturesque and impo 
 sing grandeur. .A level space, like a vast saloon, was 
 enclosed by majestic trees, uniting their boughs over 
 it, in fantastic resemblance to some Gothic cathedral. 
 Spanish moss formed a thick matted roof, and floated 
 in funereal streamers. From the points of arches 
 hung wild vines in luxuriant profusion, some in heavy 
 festoons, others lightly and gracefully leaping upward. 
 The blaze of pine torches threw some into bold relief, 
 and cast others into a shadowy background. And 
 here, in this lone sanctuary of Nature, were assem 
 bled many hundreds of swart figures, some seated in 
 thoughtful attitudes, others scattered in moving groups, 
 eagerly talking together. As they glanced about, 
 now sinking into dense shadow, and now emerging 
 into lurid light, they seemed to the slaveholder's ex 
 cited imagination like demons from the pit, come to 
 claim guilty souls. He had, however, sufficient pres 
 ence of mind to observe that each one, as he entered, 
 prostrated himself, till his forehead touched the ground, 
 and rising, placed his ringer on his mouth. Imitating 
 this signal, he passed in with the throng, and seated 
 himself behind the glare of the torches. For some 
 time, he could make out no connected meaning amid 
 the confused buzz of voices, and half-suppressed 
 snatches of songs. But, at last, a tall man mounted 
 the stump of a decayed tree, nearly in the centre ot 
 the area, and requested silence. 
 
 " When we had our last meeting," said he, " I sup-
 
 THE BLACK SAXONS. 197 
 
 pose most all of you know, that we all concluded it 
 was best for to join the British, if so be we could get 
 a good chance. But we didn't all agree about our 
 masters. Some thought we should never be able to 
 keep our freedom, without we killed our masters, in 
 the first place ; others didn't like the thoughts of that ; 
 so we agreed to have another meeting to talk about 
 it. And now, boys, if the British land here in Caro- 
 liny, what shall we do with our masters ?" 
 
 He sat down, and a tall, sinewy mulatto stepped into 
 his place, exclaiming, with fierce gestures, " Ravish 
 wives and daughters before their eyes, as they have 
 done to us ! Hunt them with hounds, as they have 
 hunted us ! Shoot them down with rifles, as they 
 have shot us ! Throw their carcasses to the crows, 
 they have fattened on our bones ; and then let the 
 Devil take them where they never rake up fire o' 
 nights. Who talks of mercy to our masters ?" 
 
 " I do," said an aged black man, who rose up before 
 the fiery youth, tottering as he leaned both hands on 
 an oaken staff". " I do ; because the blessed Jesus 
 always talked of mercy. I know we have been fed 
 like hogs, and shot at like wild beasts. Myself found 
 the body of my likeliest boy under the tree where 
 buckra* rifles reached him. But thanks to the 
 blessed Jesus, I feel it in my poor old heart to forgive 
 them. I have been member of a Methodist church 
 these thirty years ; and I've heard many preachers, 
 white and black ; and they all tell me Jesus said, Do 
 good to them that do evil to you, and pray for them 
 that spite you. Now I say, let us love our enemies ; 
 
 * Buckra is the negro term for white man. 
 
 17*
 
 198 THE BLACK SAXONS. 
 
 let us pray for them ; and when our masters flog us, 
 and sell our piccaninnies, let us break out singing : 
 
 " You may beat upon my body, 
 But you cannot harm my soul; 
 I shall join the forty thousand by and by. 
 
 "You may sell my children to Georgy, 
 
 But you cannot harm their soul; 
 
 They will join the fjrty thousand by and bye. 
 
 " Come, slave-trader, come in too ; 
 
 The Lord 's got a pardon here for you ; 
 
 You shall join the forty thousand by and bye. 
 
 "Co-ne, poor nigger, come in too; 
 
 The Lord 's got a pardon here for you ; 
 
 You shall join the f^rty thousand by and bye. 
 
 " My skin is black, but my soul is white ; 
 And when we get to Heaven we '11 all be alike; 
 We shall join the forty thousand by and bye. 
 
 That's the way to glorify the Lord." 
 
 Scarcely had the cracked voice ceased the tremu 
 lous chant in which these words were uttered, when 
 a loud altercation commenced ; some crying out ve 
 hemently for the blood of the white men, others main 
 taining that the old man's doctrine was right. The 
 aged black remained leaning on his staff, and mildly 
 replied to every outburst of fury, " But Jesus said, do 
 good for evil." Loud rose the din of excited voices ; 
 and the disguised slaveholder shrank deeper into the 
 shadow. 
 
 In the midst of the confusion, an athletic, gracefully- 
 proportioned young man sprang upon the stump, and 
 throwing off his coarse cotton garments, slowly turned 
 round and round, before the assembled multitude.
 
 THE BLACK SAXOKS. 199 
 
 Immediately all was hushed ; for the light of a dozen 
 torches, eagerly held up by fierce revengeful comrades, 
 showed his back and shoulders deeply gashed by the 
 whip, and still oozing with blood. In the midst of 
 that deep silence, he stopped abruptly, anJ with stern 
 brevity exclaimed, " Boys ! shall we not murder our 
 masters ?" 
 
 " Would you murder all ?" inquired a timid voice at 
 his right hand. " They don't all cruellize their 
 slaves." 
 
 " There's Mr. Campbell," pleaded another ; " he 
 never had one of his boys flogged in his life. You 
 wouldn't murder him, would you ?" 
 
 " Oh, no, no, no," shouted many voices ; " we 
 wouldn't murder Mr. Campbell. He's always good 
 to coloured folks." 
 
 " And I wouldn't murder my master," said one of 
 Mr. Duncan's slaves ; " and I'd fight anybody that 
 set out to murder him. I an't a going to work for 
 him for nothing any longer, if I can help it; but he 
 shan't be murdered ; for he's a good master." 
 
 " Call him a good master, if ye like !" said the 
 bleeding youth, with a bitter sneer in his look and 
 tone. " I curse the word. The white men tell us 
 God made them our masters ; I say it was the Devil. 
 When they don't cut up the backs that bear their bur 
 dens ; when they throw us enough of the grain we 
 have raised, to keep us strong for another harvest ; 
 when they forbear to shoot the limbs, that toil to make 
 them rich ; there are fools who call them good mas 
 ters. Why should they sleep on soft beds, under 
 silken curtains, while we, whose labour bought it all,
 
 200 THE BLACK SAXONS. 
 
 lie on the floor at the threshold, or miserably coiled up 
 in the dirt of our own cabins ? Why should I clothe 
 my master in broadcloth and fine linen, when he 
 knows, and I know, that he is my own brother ? arid 
 I, meanwhile, have only this coarse rag to cover my 
 aching shoulders ?" He kicked the garment scorn 
 fully, and added, " Down on your knees, if ye like, 
 and thank them that ye are not flogged and shot. 
 Of me they'll learn another lesson !" 
 
 Mr. Duncan recognised in the speaker, the reputed 
 son of one of his friends, lately deceased ; one of that 
 numerous class, which southern vice is thoughtlessly 
 raising up, to be its future scourge and terror. 
 
 The high, bold forehead, and flashing eye, indicated 
 an intellect too active and daring for servitude ; while 
 his fluent speech and appropriate language betrayed 
 the fact that his highly educated parent, from some 
 remains of instinctive feeling, had kept him near his 
 own person, during his lifetime, and thus formed 
 his conversation on another model than the rude jar 
 gon of slaves. 
 
 His poor, ignorant listeners stood spell-bound by the 
 magic of superior mind ; and at first it seemed as if 
 he might carry the whole meeting in favour of his 
 views. But the aged man, leaning on his oaken staff", 
 still mildly spoke of the meek and blessed Jesus ; 
 and the docility of African temperament responded 
 to his gentle words. 
 
 Then rose a man of middle age, short of stature, 
 with a quick roguish eye, and a spirit of knowing 
 drollery lurking about his mouth. Rubbing his head 
 in uncouth fashion, he began : " I don't know how to
 
 THE BLACK SAXONS. 201 
 
 speak like Bob ; for I never had no chance. He says 
 the Devil made white men our masters. Now dat's 
 a ting I've thought on a heap. Many a time I've 
 axed myself how pon arth it was, that jist as sure as 
 white man and black man come togeder, de white 
 man sure to git he foot on de black man. Sometimes 
 I link one ting, den I link anoder ting ; and dey all 
 be jumbled up in my head, jest like seed in de cotton, 
 afore he put in de gin. At last, I find it all out. 
 White man always git he foot on de black man ; no 
 mistake in dot. But how he do it ? I'll show you 
 how !" 
 
 Thrusting his hand into his pocket, he took out a 
 crumpled piece of printed paper, and smoothing it 
 carefully on the paim of his hand, he struck it signifi 
 cantly with his finger, and exclaimed triumphantly, 
 " Dat's de way dey do it ! Dey got de know 
 ledge ! Now, it'll do no more good to rise agin our 
 masters, dan put de head in de fire and pull him out 
 agin ; and may be you can't pull him out agin. 
 When I was a boy, I hear an old conjuring woman 
 say she could conjure de Divil out of anybody. I ask 
 her why she don't conjure her massa, den ; and she 
 tell me, ' Oh, nigger neber conjure buckra can't do't.' 
 But I say nigger can conjure buckra. How he doit? 
 Get de knowledge ! Dat de way. We make de 
 sleeve wide, and fill full of de tea and de sugar, ebery 
 time we get in missis' closet. If we take half so much 
 pains to get de knowledge, de white man take he foot 
 off de black man. Maybe de British land, and maybe 
 de British no land ; but tell you sons to marry de free 
 woman, dat know how to read and write j and tell
 
 202 THT BLACK SAXONS. 
 
 you gals to marry de free man, dat know how to read 
 and write ; and den, by'm bye, you be de British 
 yourselves ! You want- to know how I manage to get 
 de knowledge ? I tell you. I want right bad to 
 larn to read. My old boss is the most begrudgfullest 
 massa, and I know he won't let me larn. So, when 
 I see leetle massa wid he book, (he about six year 
 old,) I say to him, What you call dat ? He tell me 
 dat is A. Oh, dat is A ! So I take old newspaper, 
 and I ax missis, may I hab dis to rub my brasses ? She 
 say yes. I put it in my pocket, and by'm by, I look to 
 see I find A ; and I look at him till I know him bery 
 well. Den I ask my young massa, What you call 
 dat ? He say, dat is B. Sol find him on my paper, 
 and look at him, till I know him bery well. Den I ask 
 my young massa what CAT spell ? He tell me 
 cat. Den, after great long time, I can read de news 
 paper. And what you tink I find dere ? I read 
 British going to land ! Den I tell all de boys British 
 going to land ; and I say what you do, s'pose British 
 land ? When I stand behind massa's chair, I hear 
 him talk, and I tell all de boys what he say. Den 
 Bob say must hab Methodist meeting, and tell massa, 
 Tom going to preach in de woods. But what you 
 tink I did toder day ? You know Jim, massa Gu- 
 bernor's boy ? Well, I want mighty bad to let Jim 
 know British going to land. But he lib ten mile off, 
 and old boss no let me go. Well, massa Gubernor 
 he come dine my massa's house ; and I bring he 
 horse to de gate ; and I make my bow, and say, 
 massa Gubernor, how Jim do ? He tell me Jim bery 
 well. Den I ax him, be Jim good boy ? He say
 
 THE BLACK SAXONS. 
 
 yes. Den I tell him Jirn and I leetle boy togeder ; 
 and I want mighty bad send Jim someting. He tell 
 me Jim hab enough of ebery ting. Oh, yes, massa 
 Gubernor, I know you bery good massa, and Jim hab 
 ebery ting he want ; but when leetle boy togeder, 
 dere is always someting here (laying his hand on his 
 heart). I want to send a leetle backy to Jim. I know 
 he hab much backy he want ; but Jim and I leetle 
 boy togeder, and I want to send Jim someting. Mas 
 sa Gubernor say, bery well, Jack. So I gib him de 
 backy, done up in de bery bit o' newspaper dat tell 
 British going to land ! And massa Gubernor himself 
 carry it ! And massa Gubernor himself cany it ! !" 
 
 He clapped his hands, kicked up his heels, and 
 turned somersets like a harlequin. These demonstra 
 tions were received with loud shouts of merriment ; 
 and it was sometime before sufficient order was re 
 stored to proceed with the question under discussion. 
 
 After various scenes of fiery indignation, gentle 
 expostulation, and boisterous mirth, it was finally de 
 cided, by a considerable majority, that in case the 
 British landed, they would take their freedom without 
 murdering their masters ; not a few, however, went 
 away in wrathful mood, muttering curses deep. 
 
 With thankfulness to Heaven, Mr. Duncan again 
 found himself in the open field, alone with the stars. 
 Their glorious beauty seemed to him, that night, 
 clothed in new and awful power. Groups of shrub 
 bery took to themselves startling forms ; and the sound 
 of the wind among the trees was like the unsheathing 
 of swords. Again he recurred to Saxon history, and 
 remembered how he had thought that troubled must
 
 204 THE BLACK SAXONS. 
 
 be the sleep of those who rule a conquered people. 
 A new significance seemed given to Wat Tyler's ad 
 dress to the insurgent labourers of his day ; an empha 
 tic, and most unwelcome application of his indignant 
 question why serfs should* toil unpaid, in wind and 
 sun, that lords might sleep on down, and embroider 
 their garments with pearl. 
 
 "And these Robin Hoods, and Wat Tylers, were 
 my Saxon ancestors," thought he. " Who shall so 
 balance effects and causes, as to decide what portion 
 of my present freedom sprung from their seemingly 
 defeated efforts ? Was the place I saw to-night, in 
 such wild and fearful beauty, like the haunts of the 
 Saxon Robin Hoods ? Was not the spirit that gleamed 
 forth as brave as theirs ? And who shall calculate what 
 even such hopeless endeavours may do. for the future 
 freedom of this down-trodden race ?" 
 
 These cogitations did not, so far as I ever heard, 
 lead to the emancipation of his bondmen ; but they did 
 prevent his revealing a secret, which would have 
 brought hundreds to an immediate and violent death. 
 After a painful conflict between contending feelings 
 and duties, he contented himself with advising the 
 magistrates to forbid all meetings whatsoever among 
 the coloured people until the war was ended. 
 
 He visited Boston several years after, and told the 
 story to a gentleman, who often repeated it in the 
 circle of his friends. In brief outline it reached my 
 ears. I have told it truly, with some filling up by 
 imagination, some additional garniture of language, 
 and the adoption of fictitious names, because I have 
 forgotten the real ones.
 
 HILDA SILFVERLING. 
 
 A Fantasy. 
 
 " Thon hast nor youth nor age ; 
 But, as it were, an after dinner's sleep, 
 Dreaming on both." MEASCKB FOB MEASURE. 
 
 HILDA GYLLENLOF was the daughter of a poor Swe 
 dish clergyman. Her mother died before she had 
 counted five summers. The good father did his best 
 to supply the loss of maternal tenderness ; nor were 
 kind neighbors wanting, with friendly words, and 
 many a small gift for the pretty little one. But at the 
 age of thirteen, Hilda lost her father also, just as she 
 was receiving rapidly from his affectionate teachings 
 as much culture as his own education and means 
 afforded. The unfortunate girl had no other resource 
 than to go to distant relatives, who were poor, and 
 could not well conceal that the destitute orphan was a 
 burden. At the end of a year, Hilda, in sadness and 
 weariness of spirit, went to Stockholm, to avail her 
 self of an opportunity to earn her living by her needle, 
 and some light services about the house. 
 
 She was then in the first blush of maidenhood, with 
 
 a clear innocent look, and exceedingly fair complexion. 
 
 Her beauty soon attracted the attention of Magnus 
 
 Andersen, mate of a Danish vessel then lying at the 
 
 18
 
 206 HILDA SILFVERLING. 
 
 wharves of Stockholm. He could not be otherwise 
 than fascinated with her budding loveliness ; and alone 
 as she was in the world, she was naturally prone to 
 listen to the first words of warm affection she had 
 heard since her father's death. What followed is the 
 old story, which will continue to be tola es long as 
 there are human passions and human laws. To do the 
 young man justice, though selfish, he was not delibe 
 rately unkind ; for he did not mean to be treacherous 
 to the friendless young creature who trusted him. 
 He sailed from Sweden with the honest intention to 
 return and make her his wife ; but he was lost in a 
 storm at sea, and the earth saw him no more. 
 
 Hilda never heard the sad tidings ; but, for another 
 cause, her heart was soon oppressed with shame and 
 sorrow. If she had had a mother's bosom on which 
 to lean her aching head, and confess all her faults and 
 all her grief, much misery might have been saved. 
 But there was none to whom she dared to speak of 
 her anxiety and shame. Her extreme melancholy 
 attracted the attention of a poor old woman, to whom 
 she sometimes carried clothes for washing. The good 
 Virika, after manifesting her sympathy in various 
 ways, at last ventured to ask outright why one so 
 young was so very sad. The poor child threw her 
 self on the friendly bosom, and confessed all her 
 wretchedness. After that, they had frequent confi 
 dential conversations ; and the kind-hearted peasant 
 did her utmost to console and cheer the desolate or 
 phan. She said she must soon return to her native 
 village in the Norwegian valley of Westfjordalen ; and 
 as she was alone in the world, and wanted some-
 
 HILDA SILFVERLING. 207 
 
 thing to love, she would gladly take the babe, and 
 adopt it for her own. 
 
 Poor Hilda, thankful for any chance to keep her 
 disgrace a secret, gratefully accepted the offer. When 
 the babe was ten days old, she allowed the good Viri- 
 ka to carry it away ; though not without bitter tears, 
 and the oft-repeated promise that her little one might 
 be reclaimed, whenever Magnus returned and fulfilled 
 his promise of marriage. 
 
 But though these arrangements were managed 
 with great caution, the young mother did not escape 
 suspicion. It chanced, very unfortunately, that soon 
 after Virika's departure, an infant was found in the 
 water, strangled with a sash very like one Hilda had 
 been accustomed to wear. A train of circumstantial 
 evidence seemed to connect the child with her, and 
 she was arrested. For some time, she contented her 
 self with assertions of innocence, and obstinately refu 
 sed to tell anything more. But at last, having the 
 fear of death before her eyes, she acknowledged that 
 she had given birth to a daughter, which had been 
 carried away by Virika Gjetter, to her native place, in 
 the parish of Tind, in the Valley of Westfjordalen. 
 Inquiries were accordingly made in Norway, but the 
 answer obtained was that Virika had not been heard 
 of in her native valley, for many years. Through 
 weary months, Hilda lingered in prison, waiting in 
 vain for favourable testimony ; and at last, on strong 
 circumstantial evidence, she was condemned to die. 
 It chanced there was at that time a very learned 
 chemist in Stockholm ; a man whose thoughts were 
 all gas, and his hours marked only by combinations
 
 208 HILDA SILFVERLING. 
 
 and explosions. He had discovered a process of arti 
 ficial cold, by which he could suspend animation in 
 living creatures, and restore it at any prescribed time. 
 He had in one apartment of his laboratory a bear that 
 had been in a torpid state five years, a wolf two years, 
 and so on. This of course excited a good deal of 
 attention in the scientific world. A metaphysician 
 suggested how extremely interesting it would be to 
 put a human being asleep thus, and watch the reunion 
 of soul and body, after the lapse of a hundred years. 
 The chemist was half wild with the magnificence of 
 this idea ; and he forthwith petitioned that Hilda, in 
 stead of being beheaded, might be delivered to him, 
 to be frozen for a century. He urged that her ex 
 treme youth demanded pity ; that his mode of execu 
 tion would be a very gentle one, and, being so strictly 
 private, would be far less painful to the poor young 
 creature than exposure to the public gaze. 
 
 His request, being seconded by several men of 
 science, was granted by the government ; for no one 
 suggested a doubt of its divine right to freeze human 
 hearts, instead of chopping off human heads, or cho 
 king human lungs. This change in the mode of 
 death was much lauded as an act of clemency, and 
 poor Hilda tried to be as grateful as she was told she 
 ought to be. 
 
 On the day of execution, the chaplain came to pray 
 with her, but found himself rather embarrassed in 
 using the customary form. He could not well allude 
 to her going in a few hours to meet her final judge ; 
 for the chemist said she would come back in a hun 
 dred years, and where her soul would be meantime
 
 HILDA SILFVERLING. 209 
 
 was more than theology could teach. Under these 
 novel circumstances, the old nursery prayer seemed 
 to be the only appropriate one for her to repeat : 
 
 " Now I lay me down to sleep, 
 I pray the Lord my soul to keep : 
 If I should die befure 1 wake, 
 I pray the Lord my soul to take." 
 
 The subject of this curious experiment was convey 
 ed in a close carriage from the prison to the laborato 
 ry. A shudder ran through soul and body, as she 
 entered the apartment assigned her. It was built en 
 tirely of stone, and rendered intensely cold by an arti 
 ficial process. The light was dim and spectral, being 
 admitted from above through a small circle of blue 
 glass. Around the sides of the room, were tiers of 
 massive stone shelves, on which reposed various ob 
 jects in a torpid state. A huge bear lay on his back, 
 with paws crossed on his breast, as devoutly as some 
 pious knight of the fourteenth century. There was 
 in fact no inconsiderable resemblance in the proceed 
 ings by which both these characters gained their 
 worldly possessions ; they were equally based on the 
 maxim that "might makes right." It is true, the 
 Christian obtained a better name, inasmuch as he paid 
 a tithe of his gettings to the holy church, which the 
 bear never had the grace to do. But then it must be 
 remembered that the bear had no soul to save, and the 
 Christian knight would have been very unlikely to 
 pay fees to the ferryman, if he likewise had had noth 
 ing to send over. 
 
 The two public functionaries, who had attended the 
 prisoner, to make sure that justice was not defrauded 
 18*
 
 210 HILDA SILFVERLING. 
 
 of its due, soon begged leave to retire, complaining of 
 the unearthly cold. The pale face of the maiden be 
 came still paler, as she saw them depart. She seized 
 the arm of the old chemist, and said, imploringly, 
 " You will not go away, too, and leave me with these 
 dreadful creatures ?" 
 
 He replied, not without some touch of compassion 
 in his tones, " You will be sound asleep, my dear, 
 and will not know whether I am here or not. Drink 
 this ; it will soon make you drowsy." 
 
 " But what if that great bear should wake up ?" 
 asked she, trembling. 
 
 " Never fear. He cannot wake up," was the brief 
 reply. 
 
 " And what if I should wake up, all alone here ?" 
 
 " Don't disturb yourself," said he, " I tell you that 
 you will not wake up. Come, my dear, drink quick ; 
 for I am getting chilly myself." 
 
 The poor girl cast another despairing glance round 
 the tomb-like apartment, and did as she was request 
 ed. " And now," said the chemist, " let us shake 
 hands, and say farewell; for you will never see me 
 again." 
 
 " Why, wont you come to wake me up ?" inquired 
 the prisoner ; not reflecting on all the peculiar circum 
 stances of her condition. 
 
 " My great-grandson may," replied he, with a smile. 
 " Adieu, my dear. It is a great deal pleasanter than 
 being beheaded. You will fall asleep as easily as a 
 babe in his cradle." 
 
 She gazed in his face, with a bewildered drowsy 
 look, and big tears rolled down her cheeks. " Just
 
 HILDA SILFVERLING. 211 
 
 step up here, my poor child," said he ; and he offered 
 her his hand. 
 
 " Oh, don't lay me so near the crocodile !" she ex 
 claimed. " If he should wake up !" 
 
 " You wouldn't know it, if he did," rejoined the 
 patient chemist ; " but never mind. Step up to this 
 other shelf, if you like it better." 
 
 He handed her up very politely, gathered her gar 
 ments about her feet, crossed her arms below her 
 breast, and told her to be perfectly still. He then 
 covered his face with a mask, let some gasses escape 
 from an apparatus in the centre of the room, and im 
 mediately went out, locking the door after him. 
 
 The next day, the public functionaries looked in, 
 and expressed themselves well satisfied to find the 
 maiden lying as rigid and motionless as the bear, the 
 wolf, and the snake. On the edge of the shelf where 
 she lay was pasted an inscription : " Put to sleep for 
 infanticide, Feb. 10, 1740, by order of the king. To 
 be wakened Feb. 10, 1840." 
 
 The earth whirled round on its axis, carrying with 
 it the Alps and the Andes, the bear, the crocodile, 
 and the maiden. Summer and winter came and went ; 
 America took place among the nations ; Bonaparte 
 played out his great game, with kingdoms for pawns ; 
 and still the Swedish damsel slept on her stone shelf 
 with the bear and the crocodile. 
 
 When ninety-five years had passed, the bear, hav 
 ing fulfilled his prescribed century, was waked accord 
 ing to agreement. The curious nocked round him, 
 to see him eat, and hear whether he could growl as
 
 212 HILDA SILFVERLING. 
 
 well as other bears. Not liking such close observa 
 tion, he broke his chain one night, and made off for 
 the hills. How he seemed to his comrades, and what 
 mistakes he made in his recollections, there were 
 never any means of ascertaining. But bears, being 
 more strictly conservative than men, happily escape 
 the influence of French revolutions, German philoso 
 phy, Fourier theories, and reforms of all sorts ; there 
 fore Bruin doubtless found less change in his fellow 
 citizens, than an old knight or viking rniglit have 
 done, had he chanced to sleep so long. 
 
 At last, came the maiden's turn to be resuscitated. 
 The populace had forgotten her and her story long 
 ago ; but a select scientific few were present at the 
 ceremony, by special invitation. The old chemist 
 and his children all " slept the sleep that knows no 
 waking." But carefully written orders had been trans 
 mitted from generation to generation ; and the duty 
 finally devolved on a great grandson, himself a chem 
 ist of no mean reputation. 
 
 Life returned very slowly ; at first by almost im 
 perceptible degrees, then by a visible shivering through 
 the nerves. When the eyes opened, it was as if by 
 the movement of pulleys, and there was something 
 painfully strange in their marble gaze. But the lamp 
 within the inner shrine lighted up, and gradually shone 
 through them, giving assurance of the presence of a 
 soul. As consciousness returned, she looked in the 
 faces round her, as if seeking for some one ; for her 
 first dim recollection was of the old chemist. For 
 several days, there was a general sluggishness of soul
 
 HILDA SILFVERLING. 213 
 
 and body ; an overpowering inertia, which made all 
 exertion difficult, and prevented memory from rushing 
 back in too tumultuous a tide. 
 
 For some time, she was very quiet and patient ; but 
 the numbers who came to look at her, their perpetual 
 questions how things seemed to her, what was the 
 state of her appetite and her memory, made her rest 
 less and irritable. Still worse was it when she went 
 into the street. Her numerous visitors pointed her 
 out to others, who ran to doors and windows to stare 
 at her, and this soon attracted the attention of boys 
 and lads. To escape such annoyances, she one day 
 walked into a little shop, bearing the name of a wo 
 man she had formerly known. It was now kept by 
 ner grand-daughter, an aged woman, who was evi 
 dently as afraid of Hilda, as if she had been a witch 
 or a ghost. 
 
 This state of things became perfectly unendurable. 
 After a few weeks, the forlorn being made her escape 
 from the city, at dawn of day, and with money which 
 had been given her by charitable people, she obtained 
 a passage to her native village, under the new name 
 of Hilda Silfverling. But to stand, in the bloom of 
 sixteen, among well-remembered hills and streams, 
 and not recognise a single human face, or know a sin 
 gle human voice, this was the most mournful of all ; 
 far worse than loneliness in a foreign land ; sadder 
 than sunshine on a ruined city. And all these suffo 
 cating emotions must be crowded back on her own 
 heart ; for if she revealed them to any one, she would 
 assuredly be considered insane or bewitched. 
 
 As the thought became familiar to her that even the
 
 214 HILDA SILFVERLING. 
 
 little children she had known were all dead long- ago, 
 her eyes assumed an indescribably perplexed and 
 mournful expression, which gave them an appearance 
 of supernatural depth. She was seized with an inex 
 pressible longing to go where no one had ever heard 
 of her, and among scenes she had never looked upon. 
 Her thoughts often reverted fondly to old Virika Gjet- 
 ter, and the babe for whose sake she had suffered so 
 much ; and her heart yearned for Norway. But then 
 she was chilled by the remembrance that even if her 
 child had lived to the usual age of mortals, she must 
 have been long since dead ; and if she had left de 
 scendants, what would they know of her ? Over 
 whelmed by the complete desolation of her lot on earth, 
 she wept bitterly. But she was never utterly hope 
 less ; for in the midst of her anguish, something pro 
 phetic seemed to beckon through the clouds, and call 
 her into Norway. 
 
 In Stockholm, there was a white-haired old clergy 
 man, who had been peculiarly kind, when he came 
 to see her, after her centennial slumber. She resolved 
 to go to him, to tell him how oppressively dreary was 
 her restored existence, and how earnestly she desired 
 to go, under a new name, to some secluded village in 
 Norway, where none would be likely to learn her his 
 tory, and where there would be nothing to remind her 
 of the gloomy past. The good old man entered at 
 once into her feelings, and approved her plan. He 
 had been in that country himself, and had staid a few 
 days at the house of a kind old man, named Eystein 
 Hansen. He furnished Hilda with means for the 
 journey, and gave her an affectionate letter of intro-
 
 HILDA SILFVERLING. 215 
 
 duction, in which he described her as a Swedish or 
 phan, who had suffered much, and would be glad to 
 earn her living in any honest way that could be point 
 ed out to her. 
 
 It was the middle of June when Hilda arrived at 
 the house of Eystein Hanson. He was a stout, clum 
 sy, red-visaged old man, with wide mouth, and big 
 nose, hooked like an eagle's beak ; but there was a 
 right friendly expression in his large eyes, and when 
 he had read the letter, he greeted the young stranger 
 with such cordiality, she felt at once that she had 
 found a father. She must come in his boat, he said, 
 and he would take her at once to his island-home, 
 where his good woman would give her a hearty wel 
 come. She always loved the friendless ; and espe 
 cially would she love the Swedish orphan, because 
 her last and youngest daughter had died the year be 
 fore. On his way to the boat, the worthy man intro 
 duced her to several people, and when he told her 
 story, old men and young maidens took her by the 
 hand, and spoke as if they thought Heaven had sent 
 them a daughter and a sister. The good Brenda 
 received her with open arms, as her husband had said 
 she would. She was an old weather-beaten woman, 
 but there was a whole heart full of sunshine in her 
 honest eyes. 
 
 And this new home looked so pleasant under the 
 light of the summer sky ! The house was embower 
 ed in the shrubbery of a small island, in the midst ol 
 a fiord, the steep shores of which were thickly covered 
 with pine, fir, and juniper, down to the water's edge,
 
 216 HILDA SILFVERLING. 
 
 The fiord went twisting and turning about, from pro 
 montory to promontory, as if the Nereides, dancing 
 up from the sea, had sportively chased each other 
 into nooks and corners, now hiding away behind some 
 bold projection of rock, and now peeping out sudden 
 ly, with a broad sunny smile. Directly in front of the 
 island, the fiord expanded into a broad bay, on the 
 shores of which was a little primitive romantic-looking 
 village. Here and there a sloop was at anchor, and 
 picturesque little boats tacked off and on from cape to 
 cape, their white sails glancing in the sun. A range 
 of lofty blue mountains closed in the distance. One 
 giant, higher than all the rest, went up perpendicu 
 larly into the clouds, wearing a perpetual crown of 
 glittering snow. As the maiden gazed on this sub 
 lime and beautiful scenery, a new and warmer tide 
 seemed to flow through her stagnant heart. Ah, how 
 happy might life be here among these mountain 
 homes, with a people of such patriarchal simplicity, 
 so brave and free, so hospitable, frank and hearty! 
 
 The house of Eystein Hansen was built of pine 
 logs, neatly white-washed. The roof was covered 
 with grass, and bore a crop of large bushes. A vine, 
 tangled among these, fell in heavy festoons that waved 
 at every touch of the wind. The door was painted 
 with flowers in gay colours, and surmounted with fan 
 tastic carving. The interior of the dwelling was or 
 namented with many little grotesque images, boxes, 
 bowls, ladles, &c., curiously carved in the close- 
 grained and beautifully white wood of the Norwegian 
 fir. This was a common amusement with the peas-
 
 HILDA SILFVERLIN3. 217 
 
 antry, and Eystein being a great favourite among 
 them, received many such presents during his frequent 
 visits in the surrounding parishes. 
 
 But nothing so much attracted Hilda's attention as 
 a kind of Jong trumpet, made of two hollow half cy 
 linders of wood, bound tightly together with birch 
 bark. The only instrument of the kind she had ever 
 seen was in the possession of Virika Gjetter, who call 
 ed it a luhr, and said it was used to call the cows 
 home in her native village, in Upper Tellemarken. 
 She showed how it was used, and Hilda, having a 
 quick ear, soon learned to play upon it with consider 
 able facility. 
 
 And here in her new home, this rude instrument 
 reappeared ; forming the only visible link between her 
 present life and that dreamy past! With strange 
 feelings, she took up the pipe, and began to play one 
 of the old tunes. At first, the tones flitted like phan 
 toms in and out of her brain ; but at last, they all came 
 back, and took their places rank and file. Old Bren- 
 da said it was a pleasant tune, and asked her to play 
 it again ; but to Hilda it seemed awfully solemn, like 
 a voice warbling from the grave. She would learn 
 other tunes to please the good mother, she said; but 
 this she would play no more ; it made her too sad, for 
 she had heard it in her youth. 
 
 " Thy youth !" said Brenda, smiling." One sees 
 well that must have been a long time ago. To hear 
 thee talk, one might suppose thou wert an old autumn 
 leaf, just ready to drop from the bough, like myself." 
 
 Hilda blushed, and said she felt old, because she 
 had had much trouble. 
 19
 
 218 HILDA SILFVERLING. 
 
 " Poor child," responded the good Brenda : " I hope 
 thou hast had thy share." 
 
 " I feel as if nothing could trouble me here," re 
 plied Hilda, with a grateful smile ; " all seems so kind 
 and peaceful." She breathed a few notes through the 
 luhr, as she laid it away on the shelf where she had 
 found it. " But, my good mother," said she, " how 
 clear and soft are these tones ! The pipe I used to 
 hear was far more harsh." 
 
 " The wood is very old," rejoined Brenda : " They 
 say it is more than a hundred years. Alerik Thorild 
 gave it to me, to call my good man when he is out in 
 the boat. Ah, he was such a Berserker 1 * of a boy ! 
 and in truth he was not much more sober when he 
 was here three years ago. But no matter what he 
 did; one could never help loving him." 
 
 " And who is Alerik ?" asked the maiden. 
 
 Brenda pointed to an old house, seen in the dis 
 tance, on the declivity of one of the opposite hills. It 
 overlooked the broad bright bay, with its picturesque 
 little islands, and was sheltered in the rear by a noble 
 pine forest. A water-fall came down from the hill 
 side, glancing in and out among the trees ; and when 
 the sun kissed it as he went away, it lighted up with 
 a smile of rainbows. 
 
 " That house," said Brenda, " was built by Alerik's 
 grandfather. He was the richest man in the village. 
 But his only son was away among the wars for a long 
 time, and the old place has been going to decay. But 
 they say Alerik is coming back to live among us ; and 
 
 * A warrior famous in the Northern Sagas for his stormy and untamable 
 character.
 
 HILDA SILFVERLING. 219 
 
 he will soon give it a different look. He has been 
 away to Germany and Paris, and other outlandish 
 parts, for a long time. Ah ! the rogue ! there was no 
 mischief he didn't think of. He was always tying cats 
 together under the windows, and barking in the mid 
 dle of the night, till he set all the dogs in the neigh 
 bourhood a howling. But as long as it was Alerik 
 
 o o 
 
 that did it, it was all well enough : for everybody 
 loved him, and he always made one believe just what 
 he liked. If he wanted to make thee think thy hair 
 was as black as Noeck's* mane, he would make thee 
 think so." 
 
 Hilda smiled as she glanced at her flaxen hair, 
 with here and there a gleam of paly gold, where the 
 sun touched it. " I think it would be hard to prove 
 this was black," said she. 
 
 " Nevertheless," rejoined Brenda, " if Alerik un 
 dertook it, he would do it. He always has his say, 
 and does what he will. One may as well give in to 
 him first as last." 
 
 This account of the unknown youth carried with it 
 that species of fascination, which the idea of uncom 
 mon power always has over the human heart. The se 
 cluded maiden seldom touched the luhr without thinking 
 of the giver ; and not unfrequently she found herself 
 conjecturing when this wonderful Alerik would come 
 home. 
 
 Meanwhile, constant but not excessive labour, the 
 mountain air, the quiet life, and the kindly hearts 
 around her, restored to Hilda more than her original 
 
 * An elfish spirit, which, according to popular tradition in Norway, ap 
 pears in the form of a coal black horse.
 
 220 HILDA SILFVEKLING. 
 
 loveliness. In her large blue eyes, the inward-look 
 ing sadness of experience now mingled in strange 
 beauty with the out-looking clearness of youth. Her 
 fair complexion was tinged with the glow of health, 
 and her motions had the airy buoyancy of the moui.- 
 tain breeze. When she went to the mainland, to at 
 tend church, or rustic festival, the hearts of young 
 and old greeted her like a May blossom. Thus with 
 calm cheerfulness her hours went by, making no noise 
 in their flight, and leaving no impress. But here was 
 an unsatisfied want ! She sighed for hours that did 
 leave a mark behind them. She thought of the 
 Danish youth, who had first spoken to her of love ; 
 and plaintively came the tones from her luhr, as she 
 gazed on the opposite hills, and wondered whether 
 the Alerik they talked of so much, was indeed so 
 very superior to other young men. 
 
 Father Hansen often came home at twilight with a 
 boat full of juniper boughs, to be strewed over the 
 floors, that they might diffuse a balmy odour, inviting 
 to sleep. One evening, when Hilda saw him coming 
 with his verdant load, she hastened down to the water's 
 edge to take an armful of the fragrant boughs. She 
 had scarcely appeared in sight, before he called out, 
 " I do believe Alerik has come ! I heard the organ 
 tip in the old house. Somebody was playing on it 
 like a Northeast storm ; and surely, said I, that must 
 be Alerik." 
 
 " Is there an organ there ?" asked the damsel, in 
 surprise. 
 
 " Yes. He built it himself, when he was here 
 three years ago. He can make anything he chooses.
 
 HILDA SILFVERLING. 221 
 
 An organ, or a basket cut from a cherry stone, is all 
 one to him. 
 
 When Hilda returned to the cottage, she of course 
 repeated the news to Brenda, who exclaimed joyfully, 
 " Ah, then we shall see him soon ! If he does not 
 come before, we shall certainly see him at the wed- 
 di igs in the church to-morrow. 
 
 " And plenty of tricks we shall have now," said 
 Father Hansen, shaking his head with a good-natured 
 smile. " There will be no telling which end of the 
 world is uppermost, while he is here." 
 
 " Oh yes, there will, my friend," answered Brenda, 
 laughing ; " for it will certainly be whichever end 
 Alerik stands on. The handsome little Berserker ! 
 How I should like to see him !" 
 
 The next day there was a sound of lively music on 
 the waters ; for two young couples from neighbouring 
 islands were coming up the fiord, to be married at the 
 church in the opposite village. Their boats were 
 ornamented with gay little banners, friends and 
 neighbours accompanied them, playing on musical 
 instruments, and the rowers had their hats decorated 
 with garlands. As the rustic band floated thus gayly 
 over the bright waters, they were joined by Father 
 Hansen, with Brenda and Hilda in his boat. 
 
 Friendly villagers had already decked the simple 
 little church with ever-greens and flowers, in honour 
 of the bridal train. As they entered, Father Hansen 
 observed that two young men stood at the door with 
 clarinets in their hands. But he thought no more of 
 it, till, according to immemorial custom, he, as clergy 
 man's assistant, began to sing the first lines of the 
 19*
 
 222 HILDA SILFVERLING. 
 
 hymn that was given out. The very first note he 
 'sounded, up struck the clarinets at the door. The 
 louder they played, the louder the old man bawled ; 
 but the instruments gained the victory. When he 
 essayed to give out the lines of the next verse, the 
 merciless clarinets brayed louder than before. His 
 stentorian voice had become vociferous and rough, 
 from thirty years of halloing across the water, and 
 singing of psalms in four village churches. He ex 
 erted it to the utmost, till the perspiration poured down 
 his rubicund visage ; but it was of no use. His 
 rivals had strong lungs, and they played on clarinets 
 in F. If the whole village had screamed fire, to the 
 shrill accompaniment of rail-road whistles, they would 
 have over-topped them all. 
 
 Father Hansen was vexed at heart, and it was plain 
 enough that he was so. The congregation held down 
 their heads with suppressed laughter ; all except one 
 tall vigorous young man, who sat up very serious and 
 dignified, as if he were reverently listening to some 
 new manifestation of musical genius. When the 
 people left church, Hilda saw this young stranger ap 
 proaching toward them, as fast as numerous hand 
 shakings by the way would permit. She had time to 
 observe him closely. His noble figure, his vigorous 
 agile motions, his expressive countenance, hazel eyes 
 with strongly marked brows, and abundant brown hair, 
 tossed aside with a careless grace, left no doubt in her 
 mind that this was the famous Alerik Thorild ; but 
 what made her heart beat more wildly was his strong 
 resemblance to Magnus the Dane. He went up to 
 Brenda and kissed her, arid threw his arms about
 
 HILDA SILFVERLING. 223 
 
 Father Hansen's neck, with expressions of joyful re 
 cognition. The kind old man, vexed as he was, re 
 ceived these affectionate demonstrations with great 
 friendliness. " Ah, Alerik," said he, after the first 
 salutations were over, " that was not kind of thee." 
 
 " Me ! What !" exclaimed the young man, with 
 well-feigned astonishment. 
 
 " To put up those confounded clarinets to drown rny 
 voice," rejoined he bluntly. " When a man has led 
 the singing thirty years in four parishes, I can assure 
 thee it is not a pleasant joke to be treated in that style. 
 I know the young men are tired of my voice, and 
 think they could do things in better fashion, as young 
 fools always do ; but I may thank thee for putting it 
 into their heads to bring those cursed clarinets." 
 
 " Oh, dear Father Hansen," replied the young man, 
 in the most coaxing tones, and with the most caressing 
 manner, " you couldn't think I would do such a 
 thing !" 
 
 " On the contrary, it is just the thing I think thou 
 couldst do," answered the old man : " Thou need not 
 think to cheat me out of my eye-teeth, this time. 
 Thou hast often enough made me believe the moon 
 was made of green cheese. But I know thy tricks. 
 I shall be on my guard now ; and mind thee, I am 
 not going to be bamboozled by thee again." 
 
 Alerik smiled mischievously ; for he, in common 
 with all the villagers, knew it was the easiest thing in 
 the world to gull the simple-hearted old man. " Well, 
 come, Father Hansen," said he, " shake hands and be 
 friends. When you come over to the village, to-
 
 224 HILDA SILFVKRL1NG. 
 
 morrow, we will drink a mug of ale together, at the 
 Wolfs Head." 
 
 " Oh yes, and be played some trick for his pains," 
 said Brenda. 
 
 " No, no," answered Alerik, with great gravity ; 
 " he is on his guard now, and I cannot bamboozle him 
 again." With a friendly nod and smile, he bounded 
 off, to greet some one whom he recognised. Hilda 
 had stepped back to hide herself from observation. 
 She was a little afraid of the handsome Berserker ; 
 and his resemblance to the Magnus of her youthful 
 recollections made her sad. 
 
 The next afternoon, Alerik met his old friend, and 
 reminded him of the agreement to drink ale at the 
 Wolfs head. On the way, he invited several young 
 companions. The ale was excellent, and Alerik told 
 stories and sang songs, which filled the little tavern 
 with roars of laughter. In one of the intervals of 
 merriment, he turned suddenly to the honest old man, 
 and said, " Father Hansen, among the many things 
 I have learned and done in foreign countries, did I 
 ever tell you I had made a league with the devil, and 
 am shot-proof?" 
 
 " One might easily believe thou hadst made a league 
 with the devil, before thou wert born," replied Eystein, 
 with a grin at his own wit ; " but as, for being shot- 
 proof, that is another affair." 
 
 " Try and see," rejoined Alerik. " These friends 
 are winesses that I tell you it is perfectly safe to try. 
 Come, I will stand here ; fire your pistol, and you 
 will soon see that the Evil One will keep the bargain he 
 made with me."
 
 HILDA SILFVERLING. 225 
 
 " Be done with thy nonsense, Alerik," rejoined his 
 old friend. 
 
 " Ah, I see how it is," replied Alerik, turning to 
 wards the young men. " Father Hansen used to be 
 a famous shot. Nobody was more expert in the bear 
 or the w^olf-hunt than he ; but old eyes grow dim, 
 and old hands will tremble. No wonder he does not 
 like to have us see how much he fails." 
 
 This was attacking honest Eystein Hansen on his 
 weak side. He was proud of his strength and skill 
 in shooting, and he did not like to admit that he was 
 growing old. " I not hit a mark !" exclaimed he, with 
 indignation : " When did I ever miss a thing I aimed 
 at?" 
 
 " Never, when you were young," answered one of 
 the company ; " but it is no wonder you are afraid to 
 try now." 
 
 " Afraid !" exclaimed the old hunter, impatiently. 
 " Who the devil said I was afraid ?" 
 
 Alerik shrugged his shoulders, and replied care 
 lessly, " It is natural enough that these young men 
 should think so, when they see you refuse to aim at 
 me, though I assure you that I am shot proof, and 
 that I will stand perfectly still." 
 
 " But art thou really shot-proof?" inquired the 
 guileless old man. " The devil has helped thee to do 
 so many strange things, that one never knows wha: 
 he will help thee to do next.". 
 
 " Really, Father Hansen, I speak in earnest. Take 
 up your pistol and try, and you will soon see with 
 your own eyes that I am shot-proof." 
 
 Eystein looked round upon the company like one
 
 226 HILDA SILFVERLIiNG. 
 
 perplexed. His wits, never very bright, were some 
 what muddled by the ale. " What shall I do with 
 this wild fellow ?" inquired he. " You see he will 
 be shot." 
 
 " Try him, try him," was the general response. 
 "He has assured you he is shot-proof; what more 
 do you need ?" 
 
 The old man hesitated awhile, but after some fur 
 ther parley, took up his pistol and examined it. " Be 
 fore we proceed to business," said Alerik, " let me 
 tell you that if you do not shoot me, you shall have a 
 gallon of the best ale you ever drank in your life. 
 Come and taste it, Father Hansen, and satisfy your 
 self that it is good." 
 
 While they were discussing the merits of the ale, 
 one of the young men took the ball from the pistol. 
 " I am ready now," said Alerik : " Here I stand. 
 Now don't lose your name for a good marksman." 
 
 The old man fired, and Alerik fell back with a 
 deadly groan. Poor Eystein stood like a stone image 
 of terror. His arms adhered rigidly to his sides, his 
 jaw dropped, and his great eyes seemed starting from 
 their sockets. " Oh, Father Hansen, how could you 
 do it !" exclaimed the young men. 
 
 The poor horrified dupe stared at them wildly, and 
 gasping and stammering replied, " Why he said he 
 was shot-proof; and you all told me to do it." 
 
 " Oh yes," said they ; " but we supposed you would 
 have sense enough to know it was all in fun. But 
 don't take it too much to heart. You will probably 
 forfeit your life ; for the government will of course 
 consider it a poor excuse, when you tell them that
 
 HILDA SILFVERLING. 227 
 
 you fired at a man merely to oblige him, and because 
 he said he was shot-proof. But don't be too much 
 cast down, Father Hansen. We must all. meet death 
 in some way ; and if worst comes to worst, it will be 
 a great comfort to you and your good Brenda that you 
 did not intend to commit murder." 
 
 The poor old man gazed at them with an expres 
 sion of such extreme suffering, that they became alarm 
 ed, and said, " Cheer up, cheer up. Come, you must 
 drink something to make you feel better." They 
 took him by the shoulders, but as they led him out, 
 he continued to look back wistfully on the body. 
 
 The instant he left the apartment, Alerik sprang 
 up and darted out of the opposite door ; and when 
 Father Hansen entered the other room, there he sat, 
 as composedly as possible, reading a paper, and smo 
 king his pipe. 
 
 " There he is !" shrieked the old man, turning paler 
 than ever. 
 
 " Who is there ?" inquired the young men. 
 
 " Don't you see Alerik Thorild ?" exclaimed he, 
 pointing, with an expression of intense horror. 
 
 They turned to the landlord, and remarked, in a 
 compassionate tone, " Poor Father Hansen has shot 
 Alerik Thorild, whom he loved so well ; and the 
 dreadful accident has so affected his brain, that he 
 imagines he sees him." 
 
 The old man pressed his broad hand hard against 
 his forehead, and again groaned out, " Oh, don't you 
 see him ?" 
 
 The tones indicated such agony, that Alerik had
 
 228 HILDA SILFVERLING. 
 
 not the heart to prolong the scene. He sprang on his 
 feet, and exclaimed, " Now for your gallon of ale, 
 Father Hansen ! You see the devil did keep his bar 
 gain with me." 
 
 " And are you alive ?" shouted the old man. 
 
 The mischievous fellow soon convinced him of that, 
 by a slap on the shoulder, that made his bones ache. 
 
 Eystein Hansen capered like a dancing bear. He 
 hugged Alerik, and jumped about, and clapped his 
 hands, and was altogether beside himself. He drank 
 unknown quantities of ale, and this time sang loud 
 enough to drown a brace of clarinets in F. 
 
 The night was far advanced when he went on 
 board his boat to return to his island home. He pull 
 ed the oars vigorously, and the boat shot swiftly across 
 the moon-lighted waters. But on arriving at the cus 
 tomary landing, he could discover no vestige of his 
 white-washed cottage. Not knowing that Alerik, in 
 the full tide of his mischief, had sent men to paint the 
 house with a dark brown wash, he thought he must 
 have made a mistake in the landing; so he rowed 
 round to the other side of the island, but with no bet 
 ter success. Ashamed to return to the mainland, to 
 inquire for a house that had absconded, and a little 
 suspicious that the ale had hung some cobwebs in his 
 hrain, he continued to row hither and thither, till his 
 strong muscular arms fairly ached with exertion. But 
 the moon was going down, and all the landscape 
 settling into darkness ; and he at last reluctantly con 
 cluded that it was best to go back to the village inn. 
 
 Alerik, who had expected this result much sooner,
 
 HILDA SILFVERLING. 229 
 
 had waited there to receive him. When he had kept 
 him knocking a sufficient time, he put his head out of 
 the window, and inquired who was there. 
 
 " Eystein Hansen," was the disconsolate reply. 
 " For the love of mercy let me come in and get a few 
 minutes sleep, before morning. I have been rowing 
 about the bay these four hours, and I can't find my 
 house any where." 
 
 " This is a very bad sign," replied Alerik, solemn 
 ly. " Houses don't run away, except from drunken 
 men. Ah, Father Hansen ! Father Hansen ! what 
 will the minister say ?" 
 
 He did not have a chance to persecute the weary 
 old man much longer ; for scarcely had he come un 
 der the shelter of the house, before he was snoring in 
 a profound sleep. 
 
 Early the next day, Alerik sought his old friends in 
 their brown-washed cottage. He found it not so easy 
 to conciliate them as usual. They were really griev 
 ed ; and Brenda even said she believed he wanted to 
 be the death of her old man. But he had brought 
 them presents, which he knew they would like par 
 ticularly well ; and he kissed their hands, and talked 
 over his boyish days, till at last he made them laugh. 
 " Ah now," said he, " you have forgiven me, my dear 
 old friends. And you see, father, it was all your own 
 fault. You put the mischief into me, by boasting be 
 fore all those young men that I could never bamboo 
 zle you again." 
 
 "Ah thou incorrigible rogue!" answered the old 
 man. " I believe thou hast indeed made a league 
 20
 
 230 HILDA SILFVERLING. 
 
 with the devil ; and he gives thee the power to make 
 every body love thee, do what thou wilt." 
 
 Alerik's smile seemed to express that he always 
 had a pleasant consciousness of such power. The 
 luhr lay on the table beside him, and as he took it up, 
 he asked, " Who plays on this ? Yesterday, when I 
 was out in my boat, I heard very wild pretty little 
 variations on some of my old favourite airs." 
 
 Brenda, instead of answering, called, " Hilda ! Hil 
 da !" and the young girl came from the next room, 
 blushing as she entered. Alerik looked at her with 
 evident surprise. " Surely, this is not your Gunil- 
 da ?" said he. 
 
 " No," replied Brenda, " She is a Swedish orphan, 
 whom the all-kind Father sent to take the place of 
 our Gunilda, when she was called hence." 
 
 After some words of friendly greeting, the visitor 
 asked Hilda if it was she who played so sweetly on 
 the luhr. She answered timidly, without looking up. 
 Her heart was throbbing ; for the tones of his voice 
 were like Magnus the Dane. 
 
 The acquaintance thus begun, was not likely to 
 languish on the part of such an admirer of beauty as 
 was Alerik Thorild. The more he saw of Hilda, 
 during the long evenings of the following winter, the 
 more he was charmed with her natural refinement of 
 look, voice, and manner. There was, as we have 
 said, a peculiarity in her beauty, which gave it a high 
 er character than mere rustic loveliness. A deep, 
 mystic, plaintive expression in her eyes ; a sort of 
 graceful bewilderment in her countenance, and at
 
 HILDA SILFVERLING. 231 
 
 times in the carriage of her head, and the motions of 
 her body; as if her spirit had lost its way, and was 
 listening intently. It was not strange that he was 
 charmed by her spiritual beauty, h-jr ^rnple untutored 
 modesty. No wonder sie was delighted with his 
 frank strong exterior, his cordial caressing manner, 
 his expressive eyes, now tender and earnest, and now 
 sparkling with merriment, and his " smile most mu 
 sical," because always so in harmony with the inward 
 feeling, whether of sadness, fun, or tenderness. Then 
 his moods were so bewitchingly various. Now pow 
 erful as the organ, now bright as the flute, now naive 
 as the oboe. Brenda said every thing he did seemed 
 to be alive. He carved a wolfs head on her old man's 
 cane, and she was always afraid it would bite her. 
 
 Brenda, in her simplicity, perhaps gave as good a 
 description of genius as could be given, when she said 
 everything it did seemed to be alive. Hilda thought 
 it certainly was so with Alerik's music. Sometimes 
 all went madly with it, as if fairies danced on the 
 grass, and ugly gnomes came and made faces at them, 
 and shrieked, and clutched at their garments; the 
 fairies pelted them off with flowers, and then all died 
 away to sleep in the moonlight. Sometimes, when 
 he played on flute, or violin, the sounds came mourn 
 fully as the midnight wind through ruined towers ; 
 and they stirred up such sorrowful memories of the 
 past, that Hilda pressed her hand upon her swelling 
 heart, and said, " Oh, not such strains as that, dear 
 Alerik." But when his soul overflowed with love 
 and happiness, oh, then how the music gushed and 
 nestled !
 
 232 HILDA SILFVERLING. 
 
 " The lark could scarce get out his notes for joy, 
 But shook his song together, as he neared 
 His happy home, the ground." 
 
 The old luhr was a great favourite with Alerik ; 
 not for its musical capabilities, but because it was en 
 twined with the earliest recollections of his childhood. 
 " Until I heard thee play upon it," said he, " I half re 
 pented having given it to the good Brenda. It has 
 been in our family for several generations, and my 
 nurse used to play upon it when I was in my cradle. 
 They tell me my grandmother was a foundling. She 
 was brought to my great-grandfather's house by an 
 old peasant woman, on her way to the valley of 
 Westfjordalen. She died there, leaving the babe and 
 the luhr in rny great-grandmother's keeping. They 
 could never find out to whom the babe belonged ; but 
 she grew up very beautiful, and my grandfather mar 
 ried her." 
 
 " What was the old woman's name ?" asked Hilda ; 
 and her voice was so deep and suppressed, that it 
 it made Alerik start. 
 
 " Virika Gjetter, they have always told me," he re 
 plied. "But my dearest one, what is the matter?" 
 
 Hilda, pale and fainting, made no answer. But 
 when he placed her head upon his bosom, and kissed 
 her forehead, and spoke soothingly, her glazed eyes 
 softened, and she burst into tears. All his entreaties, 
 however, could obtain no information at that time. 
 " Go home now," she said, in tones of deep despon 
 dency. " To-morrow I will tell thee all. I have had 
 many unhappy hours ; for I have long felt that I ought 
 to tell thee all my past history ; but I was afraid to do
 
 HILDA SILFVEKLING. 233 
 
 it, for I thought them wouldst not love me any more ; 
 and that would be worse than death. But come to 
 morrow, and I will tell thee all." 
 
 " Well, dearest Hilda, I will wait," replied Alerik ; 
 " but what my grandmother, who died long before I 
 was born, can have to do with my love for thee, is 
 more than I can imagine." 
 
 The next day, when Hilda saw Alerik coming to 
 claim the fulfilment of her promise, it seemed almost 
 like her death-warrant. " He will not love me any 
 more," thought she, " he will never again look at me 
 so tenderly ; and then what can I do, but die ?" 
 
 With much embarrassment, and many delays, she 
 at last began her strange story. He listened to the 
 first part very attentively, and with a gathering frown ; 
 but as she went on, the muscles of his face relaxed 
 into a smile ; and when she ended by saying, with the 
 most melancholy seriousness, " So thou seest, dear 
 Alerik, we cannot be married ; because it is very likely 
 that I am thy great-grandmother" he burst into im 
 moderate peals of laughter. 
 
 When his mirth had somewhat subsided, he replied, 
 " Likely as not thou art my great-grandmother, dear 
 Hilda ; and just as likely I was thy grandfather, in 
 the first place. A great German scholar* teaches 
 that our souls keep coining back again and again into 
 new bodies. An old Greek philosopher is said to 
 have corne back for the fourth time, under the name' 
 of Pythagoras. If these things are so, how the deuce 
 is a man ever to tell whether he marries his grand 
 mother or not ?" 
 
 * Leasing. 
 
 20*
 
 234 HILDA SILFVERLING. 
 
 " But, dearest Alerik, I am not jesting," rejoined 
 she. " What I have told thee is really true. They 
 did put me to sleep for a hundred years." 
 
 " Oh, yes," answered he, laughing, " I remember 
 reading about it in the Swedish papers ; and I thought 
 it a capital joke. I will tell thee how it is with thee, 
 my precious one. The elves sometimes seize people, 
 to carry them down into their subterranean caves ; 
 but if the mortals run away from them, they, out of 
 spite, forever after fill their heads with gloomy insane 
 notions. A man in Drontheim ran away from them, 
 and they made him believe he was an earthen coffee 
 pot. He sat curled up in a corner all the time, for 
 fear somebody would break his nose off." 
 
 " Nay, now thou art joking, Alerik ; but really " 
 
 " No, I tell thee, as thou hast told me, it was no 
 joke at all," he replied. " The man himself told me 
 he was a coffee-pot." 
 
 " But be serious, Alerik," said she, " and tell me, 
 dost thou not believe that some learned men can put 
 people to sleep for a hundred years ?" 
 
 ' J don't doubt some of my college professors could," 
 rejoined he ; " provided their tongues could hold out 
 so long." 
 
 " But, Alerik, dost thou not think it possible that 
 people may be alive, and yet not alive ?" 
 
 " Of course I do," he replied ; " the greater part of 
 the world are in that condition." 
 
 " Oh, Alerik, what a tease thou art ! I mean, is it 
 not possible that there are people now living, or stay 
 ing somewhere, who were moving about on this earth 
 ages ago ?"
 
 HILDA S1LFVERLING. 235 
 
 " Nothing more likely," answered he ; " for instance, 
 who knows what people there may be under the ice- 
 sea of Folgefond ? They say the cocks are heard 
 crowing down there, to this day. How a fowl of any 
 feather got there is a curious question ; and what 
 kind of atmosphere he has to crow in, is another puz 
 zle. Perhaps they are poor ghosts, without sense of 
 shame, crowing over the recollections of sins commit 
 ted in the human body. The ancient Egyptians 
 thought the soul was obliged to live three thousand 
 years, in a succession of different animals, before it could 
 attain to the regions of the blest. I am pretty sure I 
 have already been a lion and a nightingale. What I 
 shall be next, the Egyptians know as well as I do. One 
 of their sculptors made a stone image, half woman and 
 half lioness. Doubtless his mother had been a lioness, 
 and had transmitted to him some dim recollection of 
 it. But I am glad, dearest, they sent thee back in 
 the form of a lovely maiden ; for if thou hadst come 
 as a wolf, I might have shot thee ; and I shouldn't 
 like to shoot my great-grandmother. Or if thou 
 hadst come as a red herring, Father Hansen might 
 have eaten thee in his soup ; and then I should have 
 had no Hilda Silfverling." 
 
 Hilda smiled, as she said, half reproachfully, " I 
 see well that thou dost not believe one word I say." 
 
 " Oh yes, I do, dearest," rejoined he, very seriously. 
 " I have no doubt the fairies carried thee off some 
 summer's night and made thee verily believe thou 
 hadst slept for a hundred years. They do the strang 
 est things. Sometimes they change babies in the 
 cradle ; leave an imp, and carry off the human to the
 
 36 HILDA SILFVERL1NG. 
 
 metal mines, where he hears only clink ! clink ! 
 Then the fairies bring him back, and put him in some 
 other cradle. When he grows up, how he does hurry 
 skurry after the silver ! He is obliged to work all his 
 life, as if the devil drove him. The poor miser never 
 knows what is the matter with him ; but it is all be 
 cause the gnomes brought him up in the mines, and 
 he could never get the clink out of his head. A more 
 poetic kind of fairies sometimes carry a babe to JEolian. 
 caves, full of wild dreamy sounds ; and when he is 
 brought back to upper earth, ghosts of sweet echoes 
 keep beating time in some corner of his brain, to 
 something which they hear, but which nobody else is 
 the wiser for. I know that is true ; for I was brought 
 up in those caves myself." 
 
 Hilda remained silent for a few minutes, as he sat 
 looking in her face with comic gravity. " Thou wilt 
 do nothing but make fun of me," at last she said. " I 
 do wish I could persuade thee to be serious. What I 
 told thee was no fairy story. It really happened. I 
 remember it as distinctly as I do our sail round the 
 islands yesterday. I seem to see that great bear now, 
 with his paws folded up, on the shelf opposite to me." 
 
 " He must have heen a great bear to have staid 
 there," replied Alerik, with eyes full of roguery. " If 
 I had been in his skin, may I be shot if all the drugs 
 and gasses in the world would have kept me there, 
 with my paws folded on my breast." 
 
 Seeing a slight blush pass over her cheek, he ad 
 ded, more seriously, " After all, I ought to thank that 
 wicked elf, whoever he was, for turning thee into a 
 stone image ; for otherwise thou wouldst have been
 
 HILDA SlLi'VERLING. 237 
 
 in the world a hundred years too soon for me, and so 
 I should have missed rny life's best blossom." 
 
 Feeling her tsars on his hand, he again started off 
 into a vein of merriment. " Thy case was not so very 
 peculiar," said he. " There was a Gresk lady, named 
 Niobe, who was changed to stone. The Greek gods 
 changed women into trees, and fountains, and all 
 manner of things. A man couldn't chop a walking- 
 stick in those days, without danger of cutting off some 
 lady's finger. The tree might be his great-grand 
 mother ; and she of course would take it very un 
 kindly of him." 
 
 " All these things are like the stories about Odin 
 and Frigga," rejoined Hilda. " They are not true, 
 like the Christian religion. When I tell thee a true 
 story, why dost thou always meet me with fairies and 
 fictions ?" 
 
 " But tell me, best Hilda," said he, " what the 
 Christian religion has to do with penning up young 
 maidens with bears and crocodiles ? In its marriage 
 ceremonies, I grant that it sometimes does things not 
 very unlike that, only omitting the important part 
 of freezing the maiden's heart. But since thou hast 
 mentioned the Christian religion, I may as well give 
 thee a bit of consolation from that quarter. I have 
 read in my mother's big Bible, that a man must not 
 marry his grandmother ; but I do not remember that 
 it said a single word against his marrying his great- 
 grandmother." 
 
 Hilda laughed, in spite of herself. But after a 
 pause, she looked at him earnestly, and said, " Dost
 
 238 HILDA SILFVERLING. 
 
 thou indeed think there would be no harm in marrying, 
 under these circumstances, if I were really thy great- 
 grandmother ? Is it thy earnest ? Do be serious for 
 once, dear Alerik !" 
 
 " Certainly there would be no harm," answered he. 
 " Physicians have agreed that the body changes en 
 tirely once in seven years. That must be because the 
 soul outgrows its clothes ; which proves that the soul 
 changes every seven years, also. Therefore, in the 
 course of one hundred years, thou must have had 
 fourteen complete changes of soul and body. It is 
 therefore as plain as daylight, that if thou wert my 
 great-grandmother when thou fell asleep, thou couldst 
 not have been my great-grandmother when they 
 waked thee up." 
 
 " Ah, Alerik," she replied, " it is as the good Bren- 
 da says, there is no use in talking with thee. One 
 might as well try to twist a string that is not fastened 
 at either end." 
 
 He looked up merrily in her face. The wind was 
 playing with her ringlets, and freshened the colour on 
 her cheeks. " I only wish I had a mirror to hold 
 before thee," said he ; " that thou couldst see how very 
 like thou art to a great grandmother." 
 
 " Laugh at me as thou wilt," answered she ; " but 
 I assure thee I have strange thoughts about myself 
 sometimes. Dost thou know," added she, almost in a 
 whisper, " I am not always quite certain that I have 
 not died, and am now in heaven ?" 
 
 A ringing shout of laughter burst from the light- 
 hearted lover. "Oh, I like that! I like that!" ex-
 
 HILDA SILFVERLING. 239 
 
 claimed he. " That is good ! That a Swede coming 
 to Norway does not know certainly whether she is in 
 heaven or not." 
 
 " Do be serious, Alerik," said she imploringly. 
 " Don't carry thy jests too far." 
 
 " Serious ? I am serious. If Norway is not heaven, 
 one sees plainly enough that it must have been the 
 scaling place, where the old giants got up to heaven ; 
 for they have left their ladders standing. Where 
 else wilt thou find clusters of mountains running up 
 perpendicularly thousands of feet right into the sky ? 
 If thou wast to see some of them, thou couldst tell 
 whether Norway is a good climbing place into heaven." 
 
 " Ah, dearest Alerik, thou hast taught me that al 
 ready," she replied, with a glance full of affection ; 
 " so a truce with thy joking. Truly one never knows 
 how to take thee. Thy talk sets everything in the 
 world, and above it, and below it, dancing together in 
 the strangest fashion." 
 
 " Because they all do dance together," rejoined the 
 perverse man. 
 
 " Oh, be done ! be done, Alerik !" she said, putting 
 her hand playfully over his mouth. " Thou wilt tie 
 my poor brain all up into knots." 
 
 He seized her hand and kissed it, then busied him 
 self with braiding the wild spring flowers into a gar 
 land for her fair hair. As she gazed on him earnestly, 
 her eyes beaming with love and happiness, he drew 
 her to his breast, and exclaimed fervently, " Oh, thou 
 art beautiful as an angel ; and here or elsewhere, with 
 thee by my side, it seemeth heaven." 
 
 They spoke no more for a long time. The birds
 
 240 HILDA SILFVERLING. 
 
 now and then serenaded the silent lovers with little 
 twittering gushes of song. The setting sun, as he 
 went away over the hills, threw diamonds on the bay, 
 and a rainbow ribbon across the distant waterfall. 
 Their hearts were in harmony with the peaceful 
 beauty of Nature. As he kissed her drowsy eyes, 
 she murmured, " Oh, it was well worth a hundred 
 years with bears and crocodiles, to fall asleep thus on 
 thy heart." 
 
 ***** 
 
 The next autumn, a year and a half after Hilda's 
 arrival in Norway, there was another procession of 
 boats, with banners, music and garlands. The little 
 church was again decorated with evergreens ; but no 
 clarinet players stood at the door to annoy good Father 
 Hansen. The worthy man had in fact taken the hint, 
 though somewhat reluctantly, and had good-naturedly 
 ceased to disturb modern ears with his clamorous 
 vociferation of the hymns. He and his kind-hearted 
 Brenda were happy beyond measure at Hilda's good 
 fortune. But when she told her husband anything 
 he did not choose to believe, they could never rightly 
 make out what he meant by looking at her so slily, 
 and saying, " Pooh ! Pooh ! tell that to my great- 
 grandmother."
 
 ROSENGLORY. 
 
 A stranger among strange faces, she drinketh the wormwood of dependence ; 
 
 She is marked as a child of want ; and the worid hateth poverty. 
 
 She is cared for by none upon earth, and her G^d seemeth to forsake her. 
 
 Then cometh, in fair show, the promise and the feint of affection ; 
 
 And her heart, long unused to kindness, remembereth her brother, and loveth ; 
 
 And the traitor hath wronged her trust, and mocked and flung her from him ; 
 
 And men point at her and laugh, and women hate her as an outcast ; 
 
 But elsewhere, far other judgment may seat her among the martyrs. 
 
 Proverbial Philosophy. 
 
 Oh, moralists, who treat of happiness and self-respect in every sphere of 
 life, go into the squalid depths of deepest ignorance, the uttermost abyss of 
 man's neglect, and say can any hopeful plant spring up in air so foul that it 
 extinguishes the s.jul's bright torch as soon as it is kindled ? Oh, ye Phari 
 sees of the nineteen hundredth year of Christian knowledge, who soundingly 
 appeal to human nature, see that it be, human first. Take heed that during 
 your slumber, and the sleep of generations, it has not been transformed into 
 the nature of the beasts. Dickens. 
 
 JERRY GRAY and his sister Susan were the children 
 of a drunken father, and of a poor woman, who saved 
 them from starvation by picking up rags in the street, 
 and washing them for the paper-makers. In youth, 
 she had been a rustic belle, observable for her neat 
 and tasteful attire. But she was a weak, yielding 
 character ; and sickness, poverty, and toil, gradually 
 broke down the little energy with which nature had 
 endowed her. " What's the use of patching up my 
 old rags?" she used to say to herself; "there's no 
 body now to mind how I look." But she had a kind, 
 affectionate heart ; and love for her children preserved 
 her from intemperance, and sustained her in toiling 
 for their daily bread. 
 21 
 
 *
 
 242 ROSENGLORY. 
 
 The delight she took in curling her little daughter's 
 glossy brown ringlets was the only remaining indica 
 tion of early coquetish taste. Though often dirty 
 and ragged herself, Susan was always clean and tidy. 
 She was, in fact, an extremely lovely child ; and as 
 she toddled through the streets, holding by her moth 
 er's skirts, Napoleon himself could not have been 
 more proud of popular homage to his little King of 
 Rome, than was the poor rag-woman of the smiles 
 and kisses bestowed on her pretty one. Her large 
 chestnut-coloured eyes had been saddened in their 
 expression by the sorrows and privations of her 
 mother, when the same life-blood sustained them 
 both ; but they were very beautiful ; and their long 
 dark fringes rested on cheeks as richly coloured as a 
 peach fully ripened in the sunshine. Like her moth 
 er, she had a very moderate share of intellect, and 
 an extreme love of pretty things. It was a gleam in 
 their souls of that intense love of the beautiful, which 
 makes poets and artists of higher natures, under more 
 favourable circumstances. 
 
 A washerwoman, who lived in the next room, 
 planted a Morning-Glory seed in a broken tea-pot ; 
 and it bore its first blossom the day Susan was three 
 years old. The sight of it filled her with passionate 
 joy. She danced, and clapped her hands ; she re 
 turned to it again and again, and remained a long 
 time stooping down, and looking into the very heart 
 of the flower. When it closed, she called out, impa 
 tiently, " Wake up ! wake up, pretty posy !" When 
 it shrivelled more and more, she cried aloud, and re 
 fused to be comforted. As successive blossoms open-
 
 ROSENGLORY. 243 
 
 ed day by day, her friendship for the vine increased, 
 and the conversations she held with it were some 
 times quite poetic, in her small way. 
 
 One day, when her mother was hooking up rags 
 from the dirty gutters of the street, with the little 
 ones trudging behind her, a gentleman passed with a 
 large bouquet in his hand. Susan's eyes brightened, 
 as she exclaimed, " Oh, mammy, look at the pretty 
 posies !" 
 
 The gentleman smiled upon her and said, " Would 
 you like one, my little girl ?" 
 
 She eagerly held out her hand, and he gave her a 
 flower, saying, " There's a rose for you." 
 
 " Thank the good gentleman," said her mother. 
 But she was too much occupied to attend to polite 
 ness. Her head was full of her pet Morning-Glory, 
 the first blossom she had ever looked upon ; and she 
 ran to her brother shouting joyfully, " See my Rosen- 
 glory !" 
 
 The gentleman laughed, patted her silky curls, 
 and said, " You are a little Rosenglory yourself; and 
 I wish you were mine." 
 
 Jerry, who was older by two years, was quite 
 charmed with the word. " Rosenglory," repeated 
 he ; " what a funny name ! Mammy, the gentle 
 man called our Susy a Rosenglory." 
 
 From that day, it became a favourite word in the 
 wretched little household. It sounded there with 
 mournful beauty, like the few golden rays which at 
 sunset fell aslant the dingy walls and the broken 
 crockery. When the weary mother had washed her
 
 244 ROSENGLORY. 
 
 basket of rags, she would bring water for Susan's 
 hands, and a wooden comb to smooth her hair, and 
 gazing fondly in that infant face, her only vision of 
 beauty in a life otherwise all dark and dreary, she 
 would say, " Now kiss your poor mammy, my little 
 Rosenglory." Even the miserable father, when his 
 sense's were not stupified with drink, would take the 
 pretty little one on his knee, twine her shining ring 
 lets round his coarse fingers, and sigh deeply as he 
 said, " Ah, how many a rich man would be proud to 
 have my little Rosenglory for his own !" 
 
 But it was brother Jerry who idolized her most of 
 all. He could not go to bed on his little bunch of 
 straw, unless her curly head was nestled on his 
 bosom. They trudged the streets together, hand in 
 hand, and if charity offered them an apple or a slice 
 of bread, the best half was always reserved for her. 
 A proud boy was he when he received an old tatter 
 demalion rocking-horse from the son of a gentleman, 
 for whom his father was sawing wood. " Now Ro 
 senglory shall ride," said he ; and when he placed 
 her on the horse, and watched her swinging back 
 and forth, his merry shouts of laughter indicated 
 infinite satisfaction. But these pleasant scenes oc 
 curred but seldom. More frequently, they came 
 home late and tired, every body was hungry and 
 cross, and they were glad to steal away in silence to 
 their little bed. When the father was noisy in his 
 intoxication, the poor boy guarded his darling with 
 the thoughtfulness of maturer years. He patiently 
 warded off the random blows, or received them him-
 
 ROSENGLORY. 245 
 
 self ; and if harm accidentally came to her, it was af 
 fecting to see his tearful eyes, and hear his grieved 
 whisper, " Mammy ! he struck Rosenglory !" 
 
 Poor child ! her young life was opening in dark 
 and narrow places ; though, like the vine in the 
 broken tea-pot, she caught now and then a transient 
 gleam of sunshine. It would be well if men could 
 spare time from the din of theological dispute, and 
 the drowsiness of devotional routine, to reflect wheth 
 er such ought to be the portion of any of God's little 
 ones, in this broad and beautiful earth, which He 
 created for the good of all. 
 
 Many a hungry day, and many a night of pinching 
 cold, this brother and sister went struggling through 
 their blighted youth, till the younger was eight years 
 old. At that period, the father died of delirium tre- 
 mens, and the mother fell into a consumption, brought 
 on by constant hardship and unvarying gloom. The 
 family were removed to the almshouse, and found it 
 an improvement in their condition. The coarse food 
 was as good as that to which they had been accus 
 tomed, there was more air and a wider scope for the 
 eye to range in. Blessed with youthful impressibility 
 to the bright and joyous, Jerry and Susan took more 
 notice of the clear silvery moon and the host of 
 bright stars, than they did of the deformity, paleness, 
 and sad looks around them. The angels watch over 
 childhood, and keep it from understanding the evil 
 that surrounds it, or retaining the gloom which is its 
 shadow. 
 
 The poor weak mother was daily wasting away, 
 but they only felt that her tones were more tender, 
 21*
 
 246 ROSENGLORY. 
 
 her endearments more fond. One night, when they 
 were going to bed, she held them by the hand longer 
 than usual. The rough hireling nurse felt the elo 
 quence of her sad countenance, and had not the heart 
 to hurry them away. No one knew what deep 
 thought, what agony of anxious love, was in the soul 
 of the dying one ; but she gazed earnestly and tear 
 fully into their clear young eyes, and said, with a 
 troubled voice, " My children, try to be good." She 
 kissed them fervently, and spoke no more. The next 
 day,- the nurse told them their mother was dead. 
 They saw her body laid in a white pine coffin, and 
 carried away in a cart to the burying ground of the 
 poor. It was piled upon a hundred other nameless 
 coffins, in a big hole dug in the sandy hill side. She 
 was not missed from the jostling crowd ; but the or 
 phans wept bitterly, for she was all the world to them. 
 
 In a few days, strangers came to examine them, 
 with a view to take them into service. Jerry was 
 bound to a sea-captain, and Susan to a grocer's wife, 
 who wanted her to wait upon the children. She was, 
 indeed, bound; for Mrs. Andrews was entirely forget 
 ful that anything like freedom or enjoyment might be 
 necessary or useful to servants. All day long she 
 lugged the heavy baby, and often sat up late at night, 
 to pacify its fretfulness as she best could, while her 
 master and mistress were at balls, or the Bowery. 
 While the babe was sleeping, she was required to 
 scour knives, or scrub the pavement. No one talked 
 to her, except to say, "Susy do this ;" or " Susy, why 
 didn't you do as I bade you ?" 
 
 Now and then she had a visit from Jerry, when his
 
 *- 
 
 ROSEN GLORY. 247 
 
 master was in port. He was always very affectionate, 
 and longed for the time when he should be a man, 
 and able to have his sister live with him. But after a 
 few years, he came no more ; and as neither of them 
 could write, they had no means of communication. 
 
 When Susan grew older, and there were no more 
 babes to tend, she was mostly confined to the cellar 
 kitchen, from which she looked out upon stone steps 
 and a brick wall. Her mistress had decided objec 
 tions to her forming acquaintances in the neighbour 
 hood, and for several years the young girl scarcely 
 held communion with any human being, except the 
 old cook. Even her beauty made her less a favour 
 ite ; for when company came in, it was by no means 
 agreeable to Mrs. Andrews to observe that the servant 
 attracted more attention than her own daughter. Her 
 husband spent very little of his time at home, and 
 when there, was usually asleep. But one member of 
 the family was soon conscious of a growing interest 
 in the orphan. Master Robert, a year older than her 
 self, had been a petulant, over-indulged boy, and was 
 now a selfish, pleasure-seeking lad. In juvenile days, 
 he had been in the habit of ordering the little servant 
 to wash his dog, and of scolding at her, if she did not 
 black his shoes to his liking. But as human nature 
 developed within him, his manners toward her grad 
 ually softened ; for he began to notice that she was 
 a very handsome girl. 
 
 Having obtained from his sister a promise not to 
 reveal that he had said anything, he represented that 
 Susy ought to have better clothes, and be allowed to 
 go to meeting sometimes. He said he was sure the
 
 248 ROSENGLORY. 
 
 neighbours thought she was very meanly clad, and he 
 had heard that their servants made remarks about it. 
 He was not mistaken in supposing that his mother 
 would be influenced by such arguments. She had 
 never thought of the alms-house child in any other 
 light than as a machine for her convenience ; but if 
 the neighbours talked about her meanness, it was cer 
 tainly necessary to enlarge Susy's privileges. In an 
 swer to her curious inquiries, her daughter repeated 
 that Mrs. Jones's girl had said so and so, and that 
 Mrs. Smith, at the next door, had made a similar re 
 mark to Mrs. Dickson. Whether this gossip was. or 
 was not, invented by Robert, it had the effect he de 
 sired. 
 
 Susan, now nearly sixteen years of age, obtained 
 a better dress than she had ever before possessed, and 
 \vas occasionally allowed to go to meeting on Sunday 
 afternoon. As Mrs. Andrews belonged to a very gen 
 teel church, she could not, of course, take a servant 
 girl with her. But the cook went to a Methodist 
 meeting, where " the poor had the gospel preached to 
 them," and there a seat was hired for Susan also. 
 Master Robert suddenly became devotional, and was 
 often seen at the same meeting. He had no delibe 
 rately bad intentions ; but he was thoughtless by na 
 ture, and selfish by education. He found pleasant 
 excitement in watching his increasing power over the 
 young girl's feelings ; and sometimes, when he que 
 ried within himself whether he was doing right to 
 gain her affections, and what would come of it all, he 
 had floating visions that he might possibly educate 
 Susan, and make her his wife. These very vague
 
 ROSENGLORY. 249 
 
 ideas he impressed so definitely on the mind of the 
 old cook, aided by occasional presents, that she prom 
 ised to tell no tales. Week after week, the lovers sat 
 together in the same pew, and sang from the same 
 hymn-book. Then came meetings after the family 
 had retired to rest, to which secresy gave an addition 
 al charm. The concealment was the only thing that 
 troubled Susan with a consciousness of wrong; and 
 he easily persuaded her that this was a duty, in order 
 to screen him from blame. " Was it his fault that he 
 loved her?" he asked; "he was sure he could not 
 help it." 
 
 She, on her part, could not help loving him deeply 
 and fervently. He was very handsome, and she de 
 lighted in his beauty, as naturally as she had done in 
 the flower, when her heart leaped up and called it a 
 Rosenglory. Since her brother went away, there was 
 no other human bosom on which she could rest her 
 weary head ; no other lips spoke lovingly to her, no 
 other eye-beams sent warmth into her soul. If the 
 gay, the prosperous, and the flattered find it pleasant 
 to be loved, how much more so must it be to one 
 whose life from infancy had been so darkened ? So 
 ciety reflects its own pollution on "feelings which na 
 ture made beautiful, and does cruel injustice to youth 
 ful hearts by the grossness of its interpretations. Thus 
 it fared with poor Susan. Late one summer's night, 
 she and Robert were sitti-ng by the open window of 
 the breakfast-room. All was still in the streets ; the 
 light of the moon shone mildly on them, and hushed 
 their souls into auiet happiness. The thoughtless
 
 250 KOSENGLORY. 
 
 head of sixteen rested on the impressible heart of 
 seventeen, and thus they fell asleep. 
 
 Mrs. Andrews had occasion for some camphor, in 
 the course of the night, and it chanced to be in the 
 closet of that room. When she entered in search of 
 it, she started back, as if she had heard the. report of 
 a pistol. No suspicion of the existing state of things 
 had ever crossed her mind ; and now that she discov 
 ered it, it never occurred to her that she herself was 
 much to blame. Her own example, and incidental 
 remarks not intended as education, but which in fact 
 were so, had taught her son that the world was made 
 for him to get as much pleasure in as possible, with 
 out reference to the good of others. She had caution 
 ed him against the liability of being cheated in money 
 matters, and had instructed him how to make the 
 cheapest bargains, in the purchase of clothing or 
 amusement ; but against the most inevitable and most 
 insidious temptations of his life, he had received no 
 warning. The sermons he heard were about publi 
 cans and pharisees, who lived eighteen hundred years 
 ago; none of them met the wants of his own life, none 
 of them interpreted the secrets of his own heart, or 
 revealed the rational laws of the senses. 
 
 As for Susan, the little fish, floated along by the 
 tide, were not more ignorant of hydrostatics, than she 
 was of the hidden dangers and social regulations, in 
 the midst of which she lived. Robert's love had 
 bloomed in her dreary monotonous life, like the Mor- 
 ning-Glory in the dark dismal court ; and she wel 
 comed it, and gazed into it, and rejoiced in it, much 
 after the same fashion.
 
 ROSENGLORY. 251 
 
 * All these thoughts were, however, foreign to the 
 mind of Mrs. Andrews. She judged the young 
 couple as if they had her experience of forty years, 
 and were encased in her own hard crust of worldly 
 wisdom. The dilemma would have been a trying 
 one, even fora sensible and judicious mother; and 
 the management of it required candour and delicacy 
 altogether beyond her shallow understanding and ar 
 tificial views. She wakened them from their dream 
 with a storm of indignation. Her exaggerated state 
 ments were in no degree adapted to the real measure 
 of wrong doing, and therefore, instead of producing 
 humility and sorrow, they roused resentment against 
 what was felt to be unjust accusation. The poor 
 heedless neglected child of poverty was treated as if 
 she were already hardened in depravity. No names 
 were too base to be bestowed upon her. As the an 
 gry mistress drove her to her garret, the concluding 
 words were, " You ungrateful, good-for-nothing hussy, 
 that I took out of the alms-house from charity ! You 
 vile creature, you, thus to reward all my kindness by 
 trying to ruin and seduce my only son !" 
 
 This was reversing matters strangely. Susan was 
 sorely tempted to ask for what kindness she was ex 
 pected to be grateful ; but she did not. She was 
 ashamed of having practised concealment, as every 
 generous nature is ; but this feeling of self-reproach 
 was overpowered by a consciousness that she did not 
 deserve the epithets bestowed upon her, and she 
 timidly said so. " Hold your tongue," replied Mrs. 
 Andrews. " Leave my house to-morrow morning, 
 and never let me see you again. I always expected
 
 252 ROSENGLORY. 
 
 you'd come to some bad end, since that fool of a paint 
 er came here and asked to take your likeness, sweep 
 ing the side-walk. This comes of setting people up 
 above their condition." 
 
 After talking the matter over with her husband, 
 Mrs. Andrews concluded to remain silent about Rob 
 ert's adventure, to send him forthwith into the coun 
 try, to his uncle the minister, and recommend Susan 
 to one of her friends, who needed a servant, and had 
 no sons to be endangered. At parting, she said, " I 
 shall take away the cloak I gave you last winter. 
 The time for which you were bound to me isn't up by 
 two years ; and the allowance Mr. Jenkins makes to 
 me isn't enough to pay for my disappointment in 
 losing your services just when you are beginning to 
 be useful, after all the trouble and expense I have had 
 with you. He has agreed to pay you every month, 
 enough to get decent clothing ; and that's more than 
 you deserve. You ought to be thankful to me for all 
 the care I have taken of you, and for concealing your 
 bad character ; but I've done expecting any such thing 
 as gratitude in this world." The poor girl wept, but 
 she said nothing. She did not know what to say. 
 
 No fault was found with the orphan in the family 
 of Mr. Jenkins, the alderman. His wife said she was 
 capable and industrious ; and he himself took a deci 
 ded fancy to her. He praised her cooking, he praised 
 the neatness with which she arranged the table, and 
 after a few days, he began to praise her glossy hair 
 and glowing cheeks. All this was very pleasant to 
 the human nature of the young girl. She thought it 
 was very kind and fatherly, and took it all in good
 
 ROSENGLORY. 253 
 
 part. She made her best courtesy wnen he presented 
 her with a handsome calico gown ; and she began to 
 think "she had fallen into the hands of real friends. 
 But when he chucked her under the chin, and said 
 such a pretty girl ought to dress well, she blushed 
 and was confused by the expression of his counte 
 nance, though she was too ignorant of the world to 
 understand his meaning. But his demonstrations 
 soon became too open to admit of mistake, and ended 
 with offers of money. She heard him with surprise 
 and distress. To sell herself without her affections, 
 had never been suggested to her by nature, and as yet 
 she was too little acquainted with the refinements of 
 high civilization, to acquire familiarity with such an 
 idea. 
 
 Deeming it best to fly from persecutions which she 
 could not avoid, she told Mrs. Jenkins that she found 
 the work very hard, and would like to go to another 
 place as soon as possible. " If you go before your 
 month is up I shall pay you no wages," replied the 
 lady ; " but you may go if you choose." In vain the 
 poor girl represented her extreme need of a pair of 
 shoes. The lady was vexed at heart, for she secretly 
 suspected the cause of her departure ; and though she 
 could not in justice blarne the girl, and was willing 
 enough that she should go, she had a mind to punish 
 her. But when Susan, to defend herself, hinted that 
 she had good reasons for wishing to leave, she brought 
 a storm on her head, at once. " You vain, imperti 
 nent creature !" exclaimed Mrs. Jenkins, " because my 
 husband gave you a new gown, for shame of the old 
 duds you brought from Mrs. Andrews, do you pre- 
 22
 
 254 ROSENGLOEY. 
 
 sume to insinuate that his motives were not honourable? 
 And he a gentleman of high respectability, an alder 
 man of the city ! Leave my house ; the sooner the 
 better ; but don't expect a cent of wages." 
 
 Unfortunately, a purse lay on the work table, near 
 which Susan was standing. She had no idea of 
 stealing ; but she thought to herself, " Surely I have 
 a right to a pair of shoes for my three weeks of hard 
 labour." She carried off the purse, and went into the 
 service of a neighbour, who had expressed a wish to 
 hire. That very evening she was arrested, and was 
 soon after tried and sentenced to BlackwelPs Island. 
 A very bold and bad woman was sentenced at the 
 same time, and they went in company. From her 
 polluting conversation and manners, poor Susan re 
 ceived a new series of lessons in that strange course 
 of education, which a Christian community had from 
 the beginning bestowed upon her. Her residence on 
 the Island rapidly increased her stock of evil knowl 
 edge. But she had no natural tendencies to vice ; 
 and though her ideas of right and wrong were inevi 
 tably confused by the social whirlpool into which she 
 was born, she still wished to lead a decent and industri 
 ous life. When released from confinement, she tried 
 to procure a situation at service ; but she had no ref 
 erences to give, except Mrs. Andrews and Mrs. Jen 
 kins. When she called a second time, she uniformly 
 met the cold reply, " I hear you have been on Black- 
 well's Island. I never employ people who have lost 
 their character." 
 
 From the last of these attempts, she was walking 
 away hungry and disconsolate, doubtful where to ob-
 
 ROSENGLORY. 255 
 
 tain shelter for the night, when she met the magistrate, 
 who had sentenced her and the other woman. He 
 spoke to her kindly, gave her a quarter of a dollar, 
 and asked her to call upon him that evening. At part 
 ing, he promised to be a friend to her, if she behaved 
 herself, and then murmured something in a lower 
 tone of voice. What were his ideas of behaving her 
 self were doubtless implied by the whisper ; for the 
 girl listened with such a smile as was never seen on 
 her innocent face, before he sent her to improve her 
 education on the Island. It is true she knew very. 
 little, and thought still less, about the machinery of 
 laws, and regulations for social protection ; but it puz 
 zled her poor head, as it does many a wiser one, why 
 men should be magistrates, when they practise the 
 same things for which they send women to Black- 
 well's Island. She had never read or heard anything 
 about " Woman's Rights ;" otherwise it might have 
 occurred to her that it was because men made all the 
 laws, and elected all the magistrates. 
 
 The possible effect of magisterial advice and pro 
 tection is unknown ; for she did not accept the invita 
 tion to call that evening. As she walked away from 
 the tempter, thinking sadly of Robert Andrews, and 
 her dear brother Jerry, she happened to meet the 
 young man who had gained her first youthful love, 
 unmixed with thoughts of evil. With many tears, 
 she told him her adventures since they parted. The 
 account kindled his indignation and excited his sym 
 pathy to a painful degree. Had he lived in a true 
 and rational state of society, the impulse then given
 
 256 ROSENGLORl. 
 
 to his better feelings might have eventually Braised his 
 nature to noble unselfishness and manly frankness. 
 But as it was, he fell back upon deception and false 
 pride. He hired apartments for Susan, and, by some 
 pretence, wheedled his mother out of the means of 
 paying for them. Those who deem the poor girl un 
 pardonable for consenting to this arrangement, would 
 learn mercy if they were placed under similar circum 
 stances of poverty, scorn, and utter loneliness. 
 * =fc * * * 
 
 Ten years passed since Jerry last parted with his 
 blooming sister, then fourteen years old. He had 
 been shipwrecked twice, and returned from sea in 
 total blindness, caused by mismanagement of the small 
 pox. He gained a few coppers by playing a clarinet 
 in the street, led by a little ragged boy. Everywhere 
 he inquired for his sister, but no one could give him 
 any tidings of her. One day, two women stopped to 
 listen, and one of them put a shilling into the boy's 
 hand. " Why, Susy, what possesses you to give so 
 much to hear that old cracked pipe ?" said one. 
 
 " He looks a little like somebody I knew when 1 
 was a child," replied the other ; and they passed on. 
 
 The voices were without inflexions, rough and 
 animal in tone, indicating that the speakers led a 
 merely sensual existence. The piper did not recog 
 nise either of them ; but the name of Susy went 
 through his heart, like a sunbeam through November 
 clouds. Then she said he looked like somebody she 
 had known ! He inquired of the boy whether the 
 woman called Susy was handsome.
 
 ROSENGLORY. 257 
 
 He replied, " No. She is lean and pale ; her 
 cheek-bones stand out, and her great staring dark 
 eyes look crazy." 
 
 The blind man hesitated a moment, and then said, 
 " Let us walk quick and follow them." They did go, 
 but lost sight of the women at the turning of a dirty 
 alley. For six weeks, the blind piper kept watch in 
 the neighbourhood, obviously a very bad one. In 
 many houses he inquired if any one knew a woman 
 by the name of Susan Gray ; but he always received 
 an answer in the negative. At last an old woman 
 said that a girl named Susan Andrews boarded with 
 her for a while ; that she was very feeble, and lived 
 in a street near by. He followed the directions she 
 gave, and stopped before the house to play. People 
 came to the door and windows, and in a few minutes 
 the boy pressed his hand and said, " There is the 
 woman you want to find." 
 
 He stopped abruptly, and exclaimed, " Susy !" 
 There was an anxious tenderness in his tones, which 
 the bystanders heard with loud laughter. They 
 shouted, " Susy, you are called for ! Here's a beau 
 for you !" and many a ribald jest went round. 
 
 But she, in a sadder voice than usual, said, " My 
 poor fellow, what do you want of me ?" 
 
 " Did you give me a shilling a few weeks ago ?" 
 he asked. 
 
 " Yes, I did ; but surely that was no great thing." 
 
 " Had you ever a brother named Jerry ?" he in 
 quired. 
 
 " Oh, Heavens ! tell me if you know any thing of 
 him !" she exclaimed. 
 22*
 
 258 KOSENGLOEY. 
 
 He fell into her arms, sobbing, " My sister ! My 
 poor sister !" 
 
 The laughter hushed instantly, and many eyes 
 were filled with tears. There were human hearts 
 there also ; and they felt at once the poor piper was 
 Susy's long-lost brother, and that he had come home 
 to her blind. 
 
 For an instant, she clasped him convulsively to her 
 heart. Then thrusting him away with a sudden 
 movement, she said, " Don't touch me, Jerry ! Don't 
 touch me !" 
 
 * " Why not ? dear sister," he asked. But she only 
 replied, in a deep, hollow tone of self-loathing, " Don't 
 touch me !" 
 
 Not one of the vicious idlers smiled. Some went 
 away weeping ; others, with affectionate solicitude, 
 offered refreshments to the poor blind wanderer. Alas, 
 he would almost have ivished for blindness, could he 
 have seen the haggard spectre that stood before him, 
 and faintly recognised, in her wild melancholy eyes, 
 his own beloved Rosenglory. 
 
 From 'that hour, he devoted himself to her with the 
 most assiduous attention. He felt that her steps trem 
 bled when she leaned on his -arm, he observed that her 
 breath came with difficulty, and he knew that she 
 spoke truly when she said she had not long to live. 
 A woman, who visited the house, told him of a charita 
 ble institution in Tenth Avenue, called the Home, 
 where women who have been prisoners, and sincerely 
 wish to reform, can find shelter and employment. He 
 went and besought that his sister might be allowed to 
 come there and die.
 
 ROSENGLGRY. 259 
 
 There, in a well ventilated room, on a clean and 
 comfortable bed, the weary pilgrim at last reposed in 
 the midst of true friends. " Oh, if I had only met 
 with such when my poor mother first died, how dif 
 ferent it might all have been," she was wont to say.' 
 The blind brother kissed her forehead, and said, 
 " Don't grieve for that now, dear. It was not your 
 fault that you had no friends." 
 
 One day, a kind sympathizing lady gave him a 
 bunch of flowers for his sister. Hitherto an undefined 
 feeling of delicacy had restrained him, when he 
 thought of using the pet word of their childhood. But 
 thinking it might perhaps please her, he stepped into 
 the room, and said, cheerfully, " Here, Rosenglory ! 
 See what I have brought you !" It was too much for 
 the poor nervous sufferer. " Oh, don't call me that .'" 
 she said ; and she threw herself on his neck, sobbing 
 violently. 
 
 He tried to soothe her ; and after awhile, she said 
 in a subdued voice, " I am bewildered when I think 
 about myself. They tell me that I am a great sinner : 
 and so I am. But I never inj ured any human being ; I 
 never hated any one. Only once, when Robert mar 
 ried that rich woman, and told me to keep out of his 
 way, and get my living as others in my situation did 
 then for a little while, I hated him ; but it was not 
 long. Dear Jerry, I did not mean to be wicked ; I 
 never wanted to be wicked. But there seemed to be 
 no place in the world for me. They all wronged me ; 
 and my heart dried up. I was like a withered leaf, 
 and the winds blew me about just as it happened." 
 
 He pressed her hand to his lips, and hot tears fell
 
 260 ROSENGLOKY. 
 
 upon it. " Oh, bless you, for your love !" she said. 
 
 " Poor outcast as I am, you do not think I have sinned 
 
 beyond forgiveness. Do you ?" 
 
 Fervently he embraced her, and answered, " I too 
 
 have sinned ; but God only knows the secret history of 
 
 our neglected youth, our wrongs, sufferings, andtempta- 
 
 tions ; and say what they will, 1 am sure He will not 
 judge u so harshly as men have done." 
 
 He knelt down by the bed-side-in silent prayer, and 
 
 with her hand clasped in his, they both fell asleep. 
 
 He dreamed that angels stood by the pillow and smiled 
 with sad pitying love on the dying one. It was the 
 last night he watched with her. The next day, her 
 weary spirit passed away from this world of sin and 
 suffering. The blind piper was all alone. 
 
 As he sat holding her emaciated hand, longing 
 once more to see that dear face, before the earth 
 covered it forever, a visitor came in to look at the 
 corpse. She meant to be kind and sympathizing ; but 
 she did not understand the workings of the human 
 heart. To the wounded spirit of the mourner, she 
 seemed to speak with too much condescension of the 
 possibility of forgiveness even to so great a sinner. 
 He rose to leave the room, and answered meekly, 
 " She was a good child. But the paths of her life 
 were dark and tangled, and she lost her way."
 
 A LEGEND 
 OF THE FALLS OF ST. ANTHONY. 
 
 Founded on Indian Tradition. 
 
 From all its kind 
 
 This wasted heart, 
 This moody mind 
 
 Now drifts apart ; 
 It longs to find 
 
 The tideless shore, 
 Where rests the wreck 
 
 Of Heretofore 
 The great heart-break 
 
 Of loves no more. 
 
 I drift alone, 
 
 For all are gone, 
 
 Dearest to me ; 
 
 And hail the wave 
 
 That to the grave & r* \1 
 
 On hurrieth me : 
 Welcome, thrice welcome, then, 
 
 Thy wave, Eternity. MOTHEBWELL. 
 
 WEE-CHUSH-TA-DOO-TA was a powerful Sioux chief. 
 He numbered many distinguished warriors among his 
 ancestors, and was as proud of his descent as was 
 ever feudal noble. His name simply signified The 
 Red Man ; but he was " a great brave," and the poet 
 of his tribe, whose war-songs were sung on all great 
 occasions. In one of the numerous battles of the
 
 282 A LEGEND OF THE 
 
 Sioux with their enemies the Chippewas, he took 
 prisoner a very handsome little girl. A widowed 
 woman begged to adopt her, to supply the place 
 of a daughter, who had gone to the spirit-land ; and 
 thus the pretty young creature was saved from the 
 general massacre of prisoners. As she approached 
 womanhood, the heart of the poet-chieftain inclined 
 towards her, and he made her his wife. 
 
 Their first-born was a daughter. When she was 
 two years old, the mother, struck by a peculiarity in 
 the expression of her eyes, named her Zah-gah-see- 
 ga-quay, which, in her own language, signified Sun 
 beams breaking through a Cloud. As she grew 
 older, this poetic name became more and more appro 
 priate ; for when she raised her large deeply-shaded 
 eyes, their bright lucid expression was still more 
 obviously veiled with timidity and sadness. Her 
 voice, as usual with young Indian women, was low 
 and musical, and her laugh was gentle and childlike. 
 
 T-hejre was a mixed expression in her character, as 
 in her eyes. She was active, buoyant, and energetic, 
 in her avocations and amusements ; yet from child 
 hood she was prone to serious moods, and loved to 
 be alone in sequestered places, watching the golden 
 gleam of sunset on the green velvet of the hills, till it 
 passed away, and threw their long twilight-shadows 
 across the solitude of the prairies. 
 
 Her father, proud of her uncommon intelligence 
 and beauty, resolved to mate her with the most re 
 nowned of warriors, and the most expert of hunters. 
 In the spring of 1765, when she had just passed her 
 fourteenth birth-day, she attracted the attention of one
 
 FALLS OF ST. ANTHONY. 263 
 
 worthy to claim the prize. Nee-hee-o-ee-woo, The 
 Wolf of the Hill, was a noble-looking young chief, 
 belonging to the neighbouring tribe of Shiennes. 
 He was noted for bold exploits, superb horsemanship, 
 and the richness of his savage attire. The first time 
 he saw the beautiful Sioux, he looked at her with 
 earnest eyes ; and he soon after returned, bringing 
 Wee-chush-ta-doo-ta a valuable present of furs. The 
 maiden understood very well why his courting-flute 
 was heard about the wigwam till late into the night, 
 but the sounds excited no lively emotions in her heart. 
 The dashing young warrior came too late. The week 
 previous, a Frenchman, drawn thither by thirst for 
 new adventures, had arrived with a company of fur 
 traders from Quebec. He was a handsome man ; but 
 Zah-gah-see-ga-quay was less attracted by his expres 
 sive face and symmetrical figure, than by his graceful 
 gallantry toward women, to which she had been hith 
 erto unaccustomed. His power of fascinating was 
 increased by the marked preference bestowed upon her 
 self. She received his attentions with childish delight 
 and pretty bashfulness, like a coy little bird. The 
 lustrous black hair, which he praised, was braided 
 more neatly than ever ; her dress of soft beaver-skins 
 was more coquetishly garnished with porcupine quill- 
 work, and her moccasons were embroidered in gayer 
 patterns. 
 
 The beauty of this forest nymph pleased the 
 Frenchman's fancy, and his vanity was flattered by 
 the obvious impression he had made on her youthful 
 imagination. He was incapable of love. A volatile 
 temperament, and early dissipation, had taken from 

 
 264 A LEGEND OF THE 
 
 him that best happiness of human life. But Indian 
 lands were becoming more and more desirable to his 
 ambitious nation, and Wee-chush-ta-doo-ta had the 
 disposal of broad and valuable tracts. He had an 
 aversion to marriage ; but this he knew- would be but 
 the shadow of a fetter ; for he could dissolve the bond 
 at any moment, with as little loss of reputation as if 
 it were a liaison in Paris. Thus reasoned civilized 
 man, while the innocent child of the woods was as 
 unconscious of the possibility of such selfish calcula 
 tions, as is a robin in the mating season. 
 
 Her father had encountered white men, and was 
 consequently more on his guard. When Jerome de 
 Ranee offered rich presents, and asked his daughter 
 in marriage, he replied, " Zah-gah-see-ga-quay must 
 mate with a chieftain of her own people. If a pale 
 face marries an Indian woman, he calls her his wife 
 while he likes to look upon her, but when he desires 
 another, he walks away and says she is not his wife. 
 Such are not the customs of the red men." 
 
 Though Jerome de Ranc6 had secretly rejoiced 
 over the illegality of an Indian marriage, being highly 
 civilized, he of course made the most solemn protes 
 tations of undying love and everlasting good faith. 
 But the proud chieftain had set his heart upon an al 
 liance with the magnificent Wolf of the Hill, and he 
 listened coldly. Obstacles increased the value of the 
 prize, and the adventurous Frenchman was deter 
 mined to win his savage bride at any price. With 
 the facility of his pliant nation, he accommodated 
 himself to all the customs of the tribe ; he swore to 
 adopt all their friendships and all their enmities ;
 
 PALLS OF ST. ANTHONY. 
 
 he exercised himself in all performances requiring 
 strength and skill, and on all possible occasions he 
 exhibited the most reckless courage. These things 
 made him very popular, and gained the admira 
 tion of the chief more than was shown by his grave 
 countenance and indifferent manner. Still he could 
 not easily overcome a reluctance to mix his proud 
 race with foreign blood. 
 
 De Ranee, considering himself the one who stooped 
 in the proposed alliance, was piqued by what seemed 
 to him a ridiculous assumption of superiority. Had 
 it not been for the tempting Indian lands, of which he 
 hoped to come in possession, he would have gained 
 the loving maiden on his own terms, and left her 
 when he chose, without seeking to conciliate her 
 father. But the fulfilment of his ambitious schemes 
 required a longer probation. With affected indiffer 
 ence, he made arrangements for departure. He in 
 tended to re-appear among them suddenly, in a few 
 weeks, to test his power over the Clouded Sunbeam ; 
 but he said he was going to traffic with a neighbour 
 ing tribe, and it was doubtful whether he should see 
 them again, or return to Canada by a different route. 
 That she would pine for him, he had no doubt ; and 
 he had observed that Wee-chush-ta-doo-ta, though 
 bitter and implacable to his enemies, was tender 
 hearted as a child toward his own family. 
 
 He was not mistaken in his calculations. Zah- 
 gah-see-ga-quay did not venture to dispute the will 
 of her father ; but her sweet voice was no more 
 heard in songs ; the sunbeam in her eyes went more 
 and more behind the cloud, and the bright healthy 
 23
 
 266 A LEGEND OF THE 
 
 colour of her cheek grew pale. Her listless move 
 ments and languid glance pained her mother's heart, 
 and the stern father could not endure the mournfulness 
 of their beseeching looks. He spoke no words, but 
 called together a few of his companions, and went 
 forth apparently to hunt in the forest. Before the 
 moon had traversed half her monthly orbit, he and 
 Jerome entered the wigwam together. Zah-gar-see- 
 ga-quay was seated in a dark corner. Her head 
 leaned despondingly on her hand, and her basket- 
 work lay tangled beside her. As she looked up, a 
 quick blush mantled her face, and her eyes shone like 
 stars. Wee-chush-ta-doo-ta noticed the sudden change, 
 and, in tones of deep tenderness, said, " My child, go 
 to the wigwam of the stranger ; that your father may 
 again see you love to look on the rising sun and the 
 opening flowers." There was mingled joy and mod 
 esty in the upward glance of The Clouded Sunbeam, 
 and when she turned away bashfully from his trium 
 phant gaze, the Frenchman smiled with a conscious 
 ness of unlimited power over her simple heart. 
 
 That evening, they rambled alone, under the 
 friendly light of the moon. When they returned, a 
 portion of the scarlet paint from her brown cheek was 
 transferred to the face. of her lover. Among his 
 Parisian acquaintance, this would have given rise to 
 many a witty jest ; but the Indians, with more natural 
 politeness, observed it silently. A few days after, the 
 gentle daughter of the Sioux passed into the tent of 
 the stranger, and became his wife. 
 
 Years passed on, and she remained the same de 
 voted, submissive friend. In all domestic avocations
 
 FALLS OF ST. ANTHONY. 267 
 
 of the Indians, she was most skilful. No one made 
 more beautiful matting, or wove into it such pretty 
 patterns. The beaver skins she dressed were as soft 
 and pliable as leather could be. She rowed her 
 canoe with light and vigorous stroke, and the flight 
 of her arrow was unerring. Her husband loved her 
 as well as was possible for one of his butterfly temper 
 ament and selfish disposition ; but the deferential 
 courtesy of the European lover gradually subsided 
 into something like the lordly indifference of the men 
 around him. He was never harsh ; but his affection 
 ate bride felt the change in his manner, and some 
 times wept in secret. When she nestled at his feet, 
 and gazed into his countenance with her peculiarly 
 pleading plaintive look, she sometimes obtained a 
 glance such as he had given her in former days. 
 Then her heart would leap like a frolicsome lamb, 
 and she would live cheerfully on the remembrance of 
 that smile through wearisome days of silence and 
 neglect. Her love amounted to passionate idolatry. 
 If he wished to cross the river, she would ply the oar, 
 lest he should suffer fatigue. She carried his quiver 
 and his gun through the forest, and when they re 
 turned at twilight, he lounged indolently on the bottom 
 of the boat, while she dipped her oars in unison with 
 her low sweet voice, soothing him with some simple 
 song, where the same plaintive tones perpetually came, 
 and went away in lullaby-cadence. 
 
 To please him, she named her son and daughter 
 Felicie and Florimond, in memory of his favourite 
 brother and sister. On these little ones, she could 
 lavish her abundant love without disappointment or
 
 269 A LEGEND OF THE 
 
 fear. The children inherited their parents' beauty ; 
 but Felicie, the eldest, was endowed with a double 
 portion. She had her mother's large lucid eye, less 
 deeply shaded with the saddening cloud ; but her 
 other features resembled her handsome father. Her 
 oval cheeks had just enough of the Indian tint to 
 give them a rich warm colouring. At thirteen years 
 old, her tall figure combined the graceful elasticity of 
 youth, with the rounded fulness of womanhood. She 
 inherited her father's volatile temperament, and was 
 always full of fun and frolic. As a huntress, she was 
 the surest eye, and the fleetest foot ; and her pretty 
 canoe skimmed the waters like a stormy petrel. It 
 was charming to see this young creature, so full of 
 life, winding about among the eddies of the river, or 
 darting forward, her long black hair streaming on the 
 wind, and her rich red lips parted with eagerness. 
 She sported with her light canoe, and made it play 
 all manner of gambols in the water. It dashed and 
 splashed, and whirled round in pirouettes, like an 
 opera-dancer ; then, in the midst of swift circles, she 
 would stop at once, and laugh, as she gracefully shook 
 back the hair from her glowing face. Jerome de 
 Ranee had never loved anything, as he did this beau 
 tiful child. But something of anxiety and sadness, 
 mingled with his pride, when he saw her caracoling 
 on her swift little white horse of the prairies, or leap 
 ing into the chase, or making her canoe caper like a 
 thing alive. Buoyant and free was her Indian child 
 hood ; but she was approaching the period, when she 
 would be claimed as a wife ; and he could not endure 
 the thought, that the toilsome life of a squaw, would be
 
 FALLS OF ST. ANTHONY. 269 
 
 the portion of his beautiful daughter. He taught her 
 to dance to his flute, and hired an old Catholic priest 
 to instruct her in reading and writing. But these 
 lessons were irksome to the Indian girl, and she was 
 perpetually eluding her father's vigilance, to hunt 
 squirrels in the woods, or sport her canoe among the 
 eddies. He revolved many plans for her future ad 
 vancement in life ; and sometimes, when he turned 
 his restless gaze from daughter to mother, the wife 
 felt troubled, by an expression she did not understand. 
 In order to advance his ambitious views, it was neces 
 sary to wean Felicie from her woodland home ; and 
 he felt that his Clouded-Sunbeam, though still beau 
 tiful, would be hopelessly out of place in Parisian 
 saloons. Wee-chush-ta-doo-ta and his wife were 
 dead, and their relatives were too much occupied with 
 war and hunting, to take particular notice of the white 
 man's movements. The acres of forest and prairie, 
 which he had received, on most advantageous terms, 
 from his Indian father-in-law, were sold, tract after 
 tract, and the money deposited in Quebec. Thither, 
 he intended to convey first his daughter,. and then his 
 son, on pretence of a visit, for the purposes of educa 
 tion, but in reality, with the intention of deserting his 
 wife, to return no more. 
 
 According to Indian custom, the mother's right to 
 her offspring amounts to unquestioned law. If her 
 husband chooses to leave the tribe, the children must 
 remain with her. It was therefore necessary to pro 
 ceed artfully. De Ranee became more than usually 
 aifectionate ; and Zah-gah-see-ga-quay, grateful for 
 such gleams of his old tenderness, granted his earnest 
 23*
 
 270 A LEGEND OF THE 
 
 prayer, that Felicie might go to Quebec, for a few 
 moons only. The Canadian fur-traders made their 
 annual visit at this juncture, arid he resolved to accept 
 their escort for himself and daughter. His wife beg 
 ged hard to accompany them ; humbly promising, 
 that she would not intrude among his white friends, 
 but would remain with a few of her tribe, hidden in 
 neighbouring woods, where she could now and then 
 get a glimpse of their beloved faces. Such an arrange 
 ment, was by no means pleasing to the selfish Euro 
 pean. The second time she ventured to suggest it, 
 he answered briefly and sternly, and the beautiful 
 shaded eyes filled with unnoticed tears. Felicie was 
 the darling of her heart ; she so much resembled the 
 handsome Frenchman, as she had first known him. 
 When the parting hour came, she clung to her 
 daughter with a passionate embrace, and then start 
 ing up with convulsive energy, like some gentle ani 
 mal when her young is in danger, she exclaimed, 
 " Felicie is my child, and I will not let her go." De 
 Ranee looked at her, as he had never looked before, 
 and raised his arm to push her away. Frightened at 
 the angry expression of his eye, she thought he in 
 tended to strike her ; and with a deep groan she fell 
 on the earth, and hid her face in the long grass. 
 
 Felicie sobbed, and stretched out her arms implo 
 ringly towards her mother ; but quick as a flash, her 
 father lifted her on the horse, swung himself lightly 
 into the same saddle, and went off at a swift gallop. 
 When the poor distracted mother rose from the ground, 
 they were already far off, a mere speck on the wide 
 prairie. This rude parting would perhaps have kill-
 
 FALLS OF ST. ANTHONY. 271 
 
 ed her heart, had it not been for her handsome boy of 
 seven summers. With a sad countenance, he gravely 
 seated himself by her side. She spoke no word to 
 him, but the tears rolled slowly down, as she gazed at 
 him, and tried to trace a resemblance to his unkind 
 father. 
 
 The promised period of return arrived ; but moon 
 after moon passed away, and nothing was heard from 
 the absent ones. A feeling that she had been inten 
 tionally deceived gradually grew strong within the 
 heart of the Indian mother; and the question often 
 arose, " Will he seek to take my boy away also ?" 
 As time passed on, and suspicion changed into cer 
 tainty, she became stern and bitter. She loved young 
 Florimond intensely ; but even this love was tinged 
 with fierceness, hitherto foreign to her nature. She 
 scornfully abjured his French name, and called him 
 Mah-to-chee-ga, The Little Bear. Her strongest 
 wish seemed to be to make him as hard and proud as 
 his grandfather had been, and to instil into his bosom 
 the deadliest hatred of white men. The boy learned 
 her lessons well. He was the most inveterate little 
 savage that ever let fly an arrow. Already, he car 
 ried at his belt the scalp of a boy older and bigger 
 than himself, the son of a chief, with whom his tribe 
 were at war. The Sioux were proud of his vigour and 
 his boldness, and considered his reckless courage 
 almost a sufficient balance to the disadvantage of 
 mixed blood. 
 
 Such was the state of things, when Jerome de 
 Ranee returned to the shores of the Mississippi, after 
 an absence of three years. He was mainly induced
 
 272 A LEGEND OF THE 
 
 to make this visit by a wish to retain some hold upon 
 his Indian boy, and preserve a good understanding 
 with the tribe, as an advantage in future speculations. 
 He had some dread of meeting the Clouded Sunbeam, 
 and was not without fear that she might have exaspe 
 rated her people against him. But he trusted much 
 to her tenderness for him, and still more to his own 
 adroitness. He was, however, surprised at the cold 
 indifference with which she met him. He had ex 
 pected deep resentment, but he was not prepared for 
 such perfect apathy. He told a mournful and highly- 
 wrought story of Felicie's sudden death, by being 
 thrown from her horse, in their passage through the 
 forest ; and sought to excuse his long absence, by 
 talking of his overwhelming grief, and his reluctance 
 to bring sad tidings. The bereaved mother listen 
 ed without emotion; for she did not believe him. 
 She thought, and thought truly, that Felicie was in 
 her father's native land, across the wide ocean. All 
 his kind glances and endearing epithets were received 
 with the same stolid indifference. Only when he 
 talked with her Little Bear, did she rouse from this 
 apparent lethargy. She watched over him like a she- 
 wolf, when her young are in danger. She hoped 
 that the hatred of white men, so carefully instilled, 
 would prove a sufficient shield against all attempts to 
 seduce him from her. But in the course of a few 
 weeks, she saw plainly enough that the fascinating 
 and insidious Frenchman was gaining complete power 
 over the boy, as he had over her own youthful spirit. 
 She was maddened with jealousy at her own dimin 
 ished influence ; and when Mah-to-chee-ga at last ex-
 
 FALLS OF ST. ANTHONY. 273 
 
 pressed a wish to go to Canada with his father, the 
 blow was too severe for her deeply lacerated soul. 
 The one thought that he would be enticed away from 
 her took complete possession of her mind, and night 
 and day she brooded over plans of vengeance. More 
 than once, she nearly nerved her hand to murder the 
 father of her son. But his features recalled the image 
 of the handsome young Frenchman, who had carried 
 her arrows through the woods, and kissed the mocca- 
 son he stooped to tie ; and she could not kill him. 
 
 As the time approached for de Ranee to return to 
 Canada with the traders, her intense anxiety increased 
 almost to frenzy. One day, when he had gone to a 
 neighbouring tribe to traffic for furs, she invited Mah- 
 to-chee-ga to go up the river with her, to fish. She 
 decked herself in her most richly embroidered skins, 
 and selected the gaudiest wampum-belt for her Little 
 Bear. When the boy asked why they were dressed 
 so carefully, she replied, " Because we are going to 
 meet your grandfather, who was a great brave, and a 
 mighty hunter." He was puzzled by the answer, but 
 when he questioned of her meaning, she remained 
 silent. When they came to the waterside, she paused 
 and looked back on the forest, where she had spent 
 her happy childhood, and enjoyed her brief dream of 
 love. The beautiful past, followed by a long train of 
 dark shadows, rushed through memory, and there 
 seemed no relief for her but death. 
 
 She entered the boat with a calm countenance, and 
 began to chant one of those oppressively mournful 
 songs, which must have been suggested to her people 
 by the monotonous minor cadences of the rustling
 
 274 A LEGEND OF THE FALLS OF ST. ANTHONY. 
 
 forest. As they approached the Falls of St. Anthony, 
 and heard more and more plainly the rush of waters, 
 she gazed on her child with such a wild expression 
 of vehement love, that the boy was frightened. But 
 his eye was spell-bound to hers, and he could not es 
 cape its concentrated magnetic power. At length, 
 his attention was roused by the violent motions of the 
 boat ; and he screamed, " Mother ! mother ! the canoe 
 is going over the rapids !" 
 
 " We go to the spirit-land together," she replied : 
 " he cannot come there to separate us." 
 
 With whirl and splash, the boat plunged down the 
 cataract. The white foam leaped over it, and it was 
 seen no more. 
 
 The sky soon after darkened, and the big rain fell 
 in torrents. 
 
 The Indians believe that the spirits of the drowned 
 ones, veiled in a winding-sheet of mist, still hover 
 over the fatal spot. When they see the vapour rising, 
 they say, " Let us not hunt to-day ; a storm will cer 
 tainly come ; for Zah-gah-see-ga-quay and her son 
 are going over the Falls of St. Anthony." 
 
 Felicie was informed of the death of her mother 
 and brother, and wept for them bitterly, though she 
 never knew the painful circumstances of their exit. 
 She married a wealthy Frenchman, and was long 
 pointed out in society as " La Belle Indienne."
 
 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 Three pnre heavens opened, beaming in three pure hearts, and nothing was 
 in them but God, love, and joy, and the little tear-drop of earth which hangs 
 upon all our flowers. Richter. 
 
 FEW know how to estimate the precious gem of 
 friendship at its real worth ; few guard it with the ten 
 der care which its rarity and excellence deserves. 
 Love, like the beautiful opal, is a clouded gem, which 
 carries a spark of fire in its bosom ; but true friend 
 ship, like a diamond, radiates steadily from its trans 
 parent heart. 
 
 This sentiment was never experienced in greater 
 depth and purity than by David and Jonathan True- 
 man, brothers, of nearly the same age. Their friend 
 ship was not indeed of that exciting and refreshing 
 character, which is the result of a perfect accord of 
 very different endowments. It was unison, not har 
 mony. In person, habits, and manners, they were as 
 much alike as two leaves of the same tree. They 
 were both hereditary members of the Society of 
 Friends, and remained so from choice. They were 
 acquainted in the same circle, and engaged in similar 
 pursuits. " Their souls wore exactly the same frock- 
 coat and morning-dress of life ; I mean two bodies 
 with the same cuffs and collars, of the same colour, 
 button-holes, trimmings and cut."
 
 276 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 Jonathan was a little less sedate than his older 
 brother ; he indulged a little more in the quiet, elderly 
 sort of humour of the " Cheeryble Brothers." But it 
 was merely the difference between the same lake per 
 fectly calm, or faintly rippled by the slightest breeze. 
 They were so constantly seen together, that they 
 were called the Siamese Twins. Unfortunately, this 
 similarity extended to a sentiment which does not 
 admit of partnership. They both loved the same 
 maiden. 
 
 Deborah Winslow was the only daughter of one of 
 those substantial Quakers, whom a discriminating 
 observer would know, at first sight, was " well to do in 
 the world ;" for the fine broadcloth coat and glossy 
 hat spoke that fact with even less certainty than the 
 perfectly comfortable expression of countenance. His 
 petted child was like a blossom planted in sunny pla 
 ces, and shielded from every rude wind. All her 
 little lady-like whims were indulged. If the drab- 
 coloured silk was not exactly the right shade, or the 
 Braithwaite muslin was not sufficiently fine and trans 
 parent, orders must be sent to London, that her dain 
 tiness might be satisfied. Her countenance was a 
 true index of life passed without strong emotions. 
 The mouth was like a babe's, the blue eyes were mild 
 and innocent, and the oval face was unvarying in the 
 delicate tint of the Sweet Pea blossom. Her hair 
 never straggled into ringlets, or played with the breeze ; 
 its silky bands were always like rnolasses-candy, 
 moulded to yellowish whiteness, and laid in glossy 
 braids. 
 
 There is much to be said in favour of this unvarying
 
 THE BROTHERS. 277 
 
 serenity ; for it saves a vast amount of suffering. But 
 all natures cannot thus glide through an unruffled 
 existence. Deborah's quiet temperament made no 
 resistance to its uniform environment; but had I been 
 trained in her exact sect, I should inevitably have 
 boiled over and melted the moulds. 
 
 She had always been acquainted with the Trueman 
 brothers. They all attended the same school, and 
 they sat in sight of each other at the same meeting ; 
 though Quaker custom, ever careful to dam up 
 human nature within safe limits, ordained that they 
 should be seated on different sides of the house, and 
 pass out by different doors. They visited the same 
 neighbours, and walked home in company. She 
 probably never knew, with positive certainty, which 
 of the brothers she preferred ; she had always been 
 in the habit of loving them both ; but Jonathan hap 
 pened to ask first, whether she loved him. 
 
 It was during an evening walk, that he first men 
 tioned the subject to David ; and he could not see 
 how his limbs trembled, and his face flushed. The 
 emotion, though strong and painful, was soon sup 
 pressed ; and in a voice but slightly constrained, he 
 inquired, " Does Deborah love thee, brother ?" 
 
 The young man replied that he thought so, and 
 he intended to ask her, as soon as the way opened. 
 
 David likewise thought, that Deborah was attached 
 to him ; and he had invited her to ride the next day, 
 for the express purpose of ascertaining the point. 
 Never had his peaceful soul been in such a tumult. 
 Sometimes he thought it would be right and honour 
 able, to tell Deborah that they both loved her, and 
 24
 
 278 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 ask her to name her choice. " But then if she 
 should prefer me" he said to himself," it will make 
 dear Jonathan very unhappy ; and if she should 
 choose him, it will be a damper on their happiness, to 
 known that I am disappointed. If she accepts him, I 
 will keep my secret to myself. It is a heavy cross to 
 take up ; but William Penn says, ' no cross, no 
 crown/ In this case, I would be willing to give up 
 the crown, if I could get rid of the cross. But then 
 if I lay it down, poor Jonathan must bear it. I have 
 always found that it brought great peace of mind to 
 conquer selfishness, and I will strive to do so now. 
 As my brother's wife, she will still be a near and 
 dear friend ; and their children will seem almost like 
 my own." 
 
 A current of counter thoughts rushed through his 
 mind. He rose quickly and walked the room, with a 
 feverish agitation he had never before experienced. 
 But through all the conflict, the idea of saving his 
 brother from suffering remained paramount to his own 
 pain. 
 
 The promised ride could not be avoided, but it 
 proved a temptation almost too strong for the good 
 unselfish man. Deborah's sweet face looked so 
 pretty under the shadow of her plain bonnet ; her 
 soft hand remained in his so confidingly, when she 
 was about to enter the chaise, and turned to speak to 
 her mother ; she smiled on him so affectionately, and 
 called him Friend David, in such winning tones, that 
 it required all his strength to avoid uttering the ques 
 tion, which for ever trembled on his lips : " Dost thouT 
 love me, Deborah ? " But always there rose between
 
 _ 
 
 THE BROTHERS. 279 
 
 them the image of that dear brother, who slept in his 
 arms in childhood, and shared the same apartment 
 now. " Let him have the first chance," he said to 
 himself. If he is accepted, I will be resigned, and 
 will be to them both a true friend through life. A 
 very slight pressure of the hand alone betrayed his 
 agitation, when he opened the door of her house, and 
 said, " Farewell, Deborah." 
 
 In a few days, Jonathan informed him that he was 
 betrothed ; and the magnanimous brother wished him 
 joy with a sincere heart, concealing that it was a sad 
 one. His first impulse was to go away, that he might 
 not be daily reminded of what he had lost ; but the 
 fear of marring their happiness enabled him to choose 
 the wiser part of making at once the eflbrt that must 
 be made. No one suspected the sacrifice he laid on 
 the altar of friendship. When the young couple 
 were married, he taxed his ingenuity to furnish 
 whatever he thought would please the bride, by its 
 peculiar neatness and elegance. At first, he found it 
 very hard to leave them by their cozy pleasant fire 
 side, and go to his own solitary apartment, where he 
 never before had dwelt alone ; and when the bride 
 and bridegroom looked at each other tenderly, the 
 glance went through his heart like an arrow of fire. 
 But when Deborah, with gentle playfulness, apolo 
 gized for having taken his brother away from him, 
 he replied, with a quiet smile, " Nay, my friend, I 
 have not lost a brother, I have only gained a sister." 
 His self-denial seemed so easy, that the worldly 
 might have thought it cost him little effort, and de 
 served no praise ; but the angels loved him for it.
 
 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 By degrees he resumed his wonted serenity, and 
 became the almost constant inmate of their house. A 
 stranger might almost have doubted which was the 
 husband ; so completely were the three united in all 
 their affections, habits, and pursuits. A little son and 
 daughter came to strengthen the bond ; and the affec 
 tionate uncle found his heart almost as much cheered 
 by them, as if they had been his own. Many an 
 agreeable young Friend would have willingly super 
 intended a household for David ; but there was a na 
 tural refinement in his character, which rendered it 
 impossible to make a marriage of convenience. He 
 felt, more deeply than was apparent, that there was 
 something wanting in his earthly lot ; but he could 
 not marry, unless he found a woman whom he loved 
 as dearly as he ha# loved Deborah ; and such a one 
 never again came to him. 
 
 Their years flowed on with quiet regularity, dis 
 turbed with few of the ills humanity is heir to. In all 
 the small daily affairs of life, each preferred the 
 other's good, and thus secured the happiness of the 
 whole. Abroad, their benevolence fell with the noise 
 less liberality of dew. The brothers both prospered 
 in business, and Jonathan inherited a large portion of 
 his father-in-law's handsome property. Never were 
 a family so pillowed and cushioned on the carriage- 
 road to heaven. But they were so simply and natu 
 rally virtuous, that the smooth path was less danger 
 ous to them than to others. 
 
 Reverses came at last in Jonathan's affairs. The 
 failure of others, less careful than himself, involved 
 him in their disasters. But David was rich, and the
 
 THE BROTHERS. 281 
 
 idea of a separate purse was unknown between them ; 
 therefore the gentle Deborah knew no change in her 
 household comforts and elegancies, and felt no neces 
 sity of diminishing their large liberality to the poor. 
 
 At sixty-three years old, the younger brother de 
 parted this life, in the arms of his constant friend. 
 The widow, who had herself counted sixty winters, 
 had been for some time gradually declining in health. 
 When the estate was settled, the property was found 
 insufficient to pay debts. But the kind friend, with 
 the same delicate disinterestedness which had always 
 characterized him, carefully concealed this fact. He 
 settled a handsome fortune upon the widow, which 
 she always supposed to be a portion of her husband's 
 estate. Being executor, he managed affairs as he 
 liked. He borrowed his own capital ; and every 
 quarter, he gravely paid her interest on his own money. 
 In the refinement of his generosity, he was not satis 
 fied to support her in the abundance to which she had 
 been accustomed ; he wished to have her totally un 
 conscious of obligation, and perfectly free to dispose 
 of the funds as she pleased. 
 
 His goodness was not limited to his own house- 
 hold. If a poor seamstress was declining in health, 
 for want of exercise and variety of scene, David 
 Trueman was sure to invite her to Niagara, or the 
 Springs, as a particular favour to him, because he 
 needed company. If there was a lone widow, pecu 
 liarly friendless, his carriage was always at her service. 
 If there was a maiden lady uncommonly homely, his 
 arm was always ready as an escort to public places. 
 Without talking at all upon the subject, he practical- 
 24* 
 
 '
 
 282 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 ly devoted himself to the mission of attending upon 
 the poor, the unattractive, and the neglected. 
 
 Thus the good old bachelor prevents his sympathies 
 from congealing, and his heart from rusting out. 
 The sunlight was taken away from his landscape of 
 life ; but little birds sleep in their nests, and sweet 
 flowers breathe their fragrance lovingly through the 
 bright moonlight of his tranquil existence. 

 
 < 
 

 
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 clusion ; the modes of attack upon Liberal Christianity, the 
 same that were used against the Doctrine of the Apostles and 
 Reformers. 
 
 THE ANALOGY OF RELIGION WITH OTHER SUBJECTS CONSIDERED. 
 DISCOURSES AND REVIEWS : 
 
 I. The Analogy of Religion. II. On Conversion. III. On the 
 method of obtaining and exhibiting Religious and Virtuous 
 affections. IV. Causes of indifference and aversion to Reli 
 gion. 
 
 On the original use of the Epistles of the New Testament, 
 compared with their use and application at the present day. 
 
 On Miracles. 
 
 The Scriptures considered as the Record of a Revelation. 
 
 On the Nature and Extent of Inspiration. 
 
 On Faith, and Justification by Faith. 
 
 That Errors in Theology have sprung from false principles 
 of Reasoning. 
 
 On the Calvinistic Views of Moral Philosophy. 
 
 It is the highest pleasure to meet touched and moved by him aa by uc 
 
 with a volume so replete with earnest other preacher now living to whom it 
 
 thought, tempered with the kindest has been our privilege to listen. We 
 
 charity. Besides the intellectual plea- need not commend this volume j and 
 
 sure of studying the works of an essay- yet, as we have been reading it, we 
 
 ist so accomplished and eloquent as Dr. could not help wishing, that its spirit, 
 
 Dewey, the reader enjoys the greater at least, of reverence and charity, 
 
 satisfaction of considering the highest might find a place in every heart; 
 
 religious principles and problems with that those, who are not convinced by 
 
 a writer who looks at them with the sim- its reasoning, might yet be profited by 
 
 plicity and dignity of study which they its teachings, aud go from its pages 
 
 deserve. Boston Daily Advertiser. better, and, therefore, wiser men. 
 
 The profound learning, cultivated Christian Register. 
 taste, and eminent ability of Dr. Dewey, We rejoice whenever a competent 
 give an interest to this work that will writer feels moved again and again to 
 secure a large class of readers without discuss subjects involving the best in- 
 the circle of his own religious denomi- terests of humanity. Such we con- 
 nation. Journal of Commerce. ceive to be the topics in the present 
 
 There is no living writer to whom we volume, and which Dr. Dewey has in- 
 
 feel ourselves under greater obligations vested *** freah beauty and interest. 
 
 than to Dr. Dewey. We have been Christian World.