"Mr. Geer!"
Mr. Geer was unquestionably asleep.
This certainly did not indicate a sufficiently warm appreciation of Mrs.
Geer's social charms; but the enormity of the offence will be greatly
modified by a brief review of the attending circumstances. If you will
but consider that the crackling of burning wood in a huge Franklin
stove is strongly soporific in its tendencies,--that the cushion of a
capacious arm-chair, constructed and adjusted as if with a single eye
to a delicious dose, nay, to a long succession of doses, is a powerful
temptation to a sleepy soul,--that the regular, and, it must be
confessed, somewhat monotonous _click, click, click_ of Mrs. Geer's
knitting-needles only served to measure, without disturbing the
silence,--and, lastly, that they had been husband and wife for thirty
years,--you will not cease to wonder that Mr. Geer
"was glorious,
O'er all the ills of life victorious."
To most men, an interruption at such a time would have been particularly
annoying; but when Mrs. Geer spoke in that way, Mr. Geer, asleep or
awake, always made a point of hearing; so he roused himself, and turned
his round, honest face and placid blue eyes on the partner of his bosom,
who went on,--
"Mr. Geer, our Ivy will be seventeen, come fall."
"Possible?" replied Mr. Geer. "Who'd 'a' thunk it?"
Mr. Geer, as you may infer, was eminently a free-thinker, or rather, a
free-actor, in respect of irregular verbs. In fact, he tyrannized over
all parts of speech: wrested nouns and verbs from their original shape,
till you could hardly recognize their distorted faces; and committed
that next worst sin to murdering one's mother, namely,--murdering one's
mother-tongue, with an _abandon_ that was absolutely fascinating. Having
delivered his opinion thus sententiously, he at once subsided, closed
his placid eyes, and retired into his inner world of--thought, perhaps.
"_Mr. Geer!_"
This time he fairly jumped from his seat, and cast about him scared,
blinking eyes.
"Mr. Geer, how can you sleep away your precious time so?"
"Sleep? I--I--am sure, I was never wider awake in my life."
"Well, then, tell me what I said."
"Said? Eh,--eh,--something about Ivy, wasn't it?"
And Mr. Geer nervously twitched up the skirts of his coat, and replaced
his awry cushion, and began to think that perhaps, after all, he had
been asleep. But Mrs. Geer was too much interested in the subject of her
own cogitations to pursue her victory farther; so she answered,--
"Yes, and what is a-going to become of her?"
"Lud, lud! What's the matter?" asked Mr. Geer, wildly.
"Matter? Why, she'll be seventeen, come fall, and doesn't know a thing."
"O Lud! that all? That a'n't nothin'."
And Mr. Geer settled comfortably down into his arm-chair once more.
He felt decidedly relieved. Visions of smallpox, cholera, and
throat-distemper, the worst evils that he could think of and dread for
his darling, had been conjured up by his wife's words; and when he found
the real state of the case, a great burden, which had suddenly fallen on
his heart, was as suddenly lifted.
"But I tell you it _is_ something," continued Mrs. Geer, energetically.
"Ivy is 'most a woman, and has never been ten miles from home in her
life, and to no school but our little district"----
"And she's as pairk a gal," interrupted Mr. Geer, "as any you'll find in
all the ten miles round, be the other who she will."
"She's well enough in her way," replied Mrs. Geer, in all the humility
of motherly pride; "and so much the more reason why she shouldn't be let
go so. There's Mr. Dingham sending his great logy girls to Miss Porter's
seminary. (I wonder if he expects they'll ever turn out anything.) And
here's our Ivy, bright as a button, and you full well able to maintain
her like a lady, and have done nothing but turn her out to grass all her
life, till she's fairly run wild. I declare it's a shame. She ought to
be sent to school to-morrow."
"Nonsense, Sally! nonsense! I a'n't a-goin' lo have no such doin's.
Sha'n't go off to school. What's the use havin' her, if she can't stay
at home with us? Let Mr. Dingham send his gals to Chiny, if he wants to.
All the book-larnin' in the world won't make 'em equal to our Ivy with
only her own head. I don't want her to go to gettin' up high-falutin'
notions. She's all gold now. She don't need no improvin'. Sha'n't budge
an inch. Sha'n't stir a step."
"But do consider, Mr. Geer, the child has got to leave us some time. We
can't have her always."
"Why can't we?" exclaimed Mr. Geer, almost fiercely.
"Sure enough! Why can't we? There a'n't nobody besides you and me, I
suppose, that thinks she's pairk. What's John Herricks and Dan Norris
hangin' round for all the time?"
"And they may hang round till the cows come home! Nary hair of Ivy's
head shall they touch,--nary one on em!"
Just at this juncture of affairs, the damsel in question bounded into
the room.
"Come here, Ivy," said the old man; "your mother's been a-slanderin'
you; says you don't know nothin'."
Ivy knelt before him, rested her arms on his knees, and turned upon him
a pair of palpably roguish eyes.
"Father, it _is_ an awful slander. I do know a sight."
"Lud, child, yes! I knew you did. No more you don't want to marry John
Herricks, do you?"
"Oh, Daddy Geer! O--h--h!"
"Nor Dan Norris? nor none of 'em?"
"Never a one, father."
"Nor don't you ever think of gettin' married and slavin' yourself out
for nobody. I'm plenty well able to take care of you, as long as I live.
You'll never live so happy as you do at home; and you'll break my heart
to go away, Ivy."
"I'll never go, papa." (She pronounced it with the accent on the first
syllable.) "Indeed, I never will. I'll never be married, as long as I
live."
"No more you sha'n't, good child, good child!"
And again Farmer Geer betook himself to the depths of his arm-chair,
with the complacent consciousness of having faithfully discharged his
parental duties. "She should not go to school. She would not be married.
She had said she would not, and of course she would not."
"Of course I shall not," mused Ivy, as she lay in her white bed. "What
could put it into poor papa's head? Marry John Herricks, with his
everlasting smirk, and his diddling walk, and take care of all the
Herricks' sisters and mothers and aunts, and the Herricks' cows and
horses and pigs--and--hens--and--and"----
But Ivy had kept her thoughts on her marriage longer than ever before
in her life; and ere she had finished the inventory of John Herricks's
personal property and real estate, the blue eyes were closed in the
sweet, sound sleep of youth and health.
Mrs. Geer, in her estimate of her daughter's attainments, was partly
right and partly wrong. Ivy had never been "finished" at Mrs. Porter's
seminary, and was consequently in a highly unfinished condition. "Small
Latin and less Greek" jostled each other in her head. German and French,
Italian and Spanish, were strange tongues to Ivy. She could not dance,
nor play, nor draw, nor paint, nor work little dogs on footstools.
What, then, could she do?
_Imprimis_, she could climb a tree like a squirrel. _Secundo_, she could
walk across the great beam in the barn like a year-old kitten. In the
pursuit of hens' eggs she knew no obstacles; from scaffold to scaffold,
from haymow to haymow, she leaped defiant. She pulled out the hay from
under the very noses of the astonished cows, to see if, perchance, some
inexperienced pullet might there have deposited her golden treasure.
With all four-footed beasts she was on the best of terms. The matronly
and lazy old sheep she unceremoniously hustled aside, to administer
consolation and caresses to the timid, quaking lamb in the corner
behind. Without saddle or bridle she could
"Ride a black horse
To Banbury Cross."
(N.B.--I don't say she actually did. I only say she could; and under
sufficiently strong provocation, I have no doubt she would.) She knew
where the purple violets and the white innocence first flecked the
spring turf, and where the ground-sparrows hid their mottled eggs.
All the little waddling, downy goslings, the feeble chickens, and
faint-hearted, desponding turkeys, that broke the shell too soon, and
shivered miserably because the spring sun was not high enough in the
morning to warm them, she fed with pap, and cherished in cotton-wool,
and nursed and watched with eager, happy eyes. O blessed Ivy Geer! True
Sister of Charity! Thrice blessed stepmother of a brood whose name was
Legion!
From the conjugal and filial conversation which I have faithfully
reported, a casual observer, particularly if young and inexperienced,
might infer that the question of Miss Ivy's education was definitively
settled, and that she was henceforth to remain under the paternal roof.
I should, myself, have fallen into the same error, had not a long and
intimate acquaintance with the female sex generated and cherished
a profound and mournful conviction of the truth of the maxim, that
appearances are deceitful. E.g., a woman has set her heart on something,
and is refused. She pouts and sulks: that is clouds, and will soon blow
over. She scolds, storms, and raves (I speak in a figure; I mean she
does something as much like that as a tender, delicate, angelic woman
can): that is thunder, and only clears the air. She betakes herself to
tears, sobs, and embroidered cambric: that's a shower, and everything
will be greener and fresher after it. You may go your ways,--one to his
farm, another to his merchandise; the world will not wind up its affairs
just yet. But, put the case, she goes on the even tenor of her way
unmoved:
"Beware! beware!
Trust her not; she is fooling thee."
Thus Mrs. Geer, who was a thorough tactician. Like Napoleon, she was
never more elated than after a defeat. Before consulting her husband
at all, she had contemplated the subject in all its bearings, and had
deliberately decided that Ivy was to go to school. The consent of the
senior partner of the firm was a secondary matter, which time
and judicious management would infallibly secure. Consequently,
notwithstanding the unpropitious result of their first colloquy, she the
next day commenced preparations for Ivy's departure, as unhesitatingly,
as calmly, as assiduously, as if the day of that departure had been
fixed.
Mrs. Geer was right. She knew she was, all the time. She had a sublime
faith in herself. She felt in her soul the divine afflatus, and pressed
forward gloriously to her goal. Mr. Geer had as much firmness, not to
say obstinacy, as falls to the lot of most men; but Mrs. Geer had more;
and as Launce Outram, hard beset, so pathetically moaned, "A woman in
the very house has such deused opportunities!" so Farmer Geer grumbled,
and squirmed, and remonstrated, and--yielded.
Mrs. Geer was _not_ right. She had reckoned without her host. Her
affairs were gliding down the very Appian Way of prosperity in a
chariot-and-four, with footmen and outriders, when, presto! they turned
a sharp and unexpected corner, and over went the whole establishment
into a mirier mire than ever bespattered Dr. Slop.
To speak without a parable. When her expected Hegira was announced to
Miss Mary Ives Geer, that young lady, to the ill-concealed vexation of
her mother, and the not-attempted-to-be-concealed exultation of her
father, expressed decided disapprobation of the whole scheme. As she
was the chief _dramatis persona_, the very Hamlet of the play, this
unlooked-for decision somewhat interfered with Mrs. Geer's plans. All
the eloquence of that estimable woman was brought to bear on this one
point; but this one point was invincible. Expostulation and entreaty
were alike vain. Neither ambition nor pleasure could hold out any
allurements to Ivy. Maternal authority was at length hinted at, only
hinted at, and the spoiled child declared that she had not had her own
will and way for sixteen years to give up quietly in her seventeenth.
One last resort, one forlorn hope,--one expedient, which had never
failed to overcome her childish stubbornness: "Would she grieve her
parents so much as to oppose this their darling wish?" And Ivy burst
into tears, and begged to know if she should show her love to her father
and mother by going away from them. This drove the nail into her old
father's heart, and then the little vixen clenched it by throwing
herself into his arms, and sobbing, "Oh, papa! would you turn your Ivy
out of doors and break her heart?"
Flimsiest of fallacies! Shallowest of sophists! But she was the only and
beloved child of his old age; so the fallacy passed unchallenged; the
strong arms closed around the naughty girl; and the soothing voice
murmured, "There, there, Ivy! don't cry, child! Lud! lud! you sha'n't
be bothered; no more you sha'n't, lovey!" and the _status quo_ was
restored.
"It is not in the sea nor in the strife
We feel benumbed and wish to be no more,
But in the after silence on the shore,
When all is lost, except a little life,"
said one who had breasted the stormiest sea and plunged into the
fiercest strife. Ivy, who had never read Byron, and therefore could not
be suspected of any Byronical affectations, felt it, when, having gained
her point, she sat down alone in her own room. When her single self had
been pitted against superior numbers, age, experience, and parental
authority, all her heroism was roused, and she was adequate to the
emergency; but her end gained, the excitement gone, the sense of
disobedience alone remaining, and she was thoroughly uncomfortable, nay,
miserable.
"Mamma is right; I know I am a little goose," sobbed she. (The words
were mental, intangible, unspoken; the sobs physical, palpable,
decided.) "I never did know anything, and I never shall,--and I don't
care if I don't. I don't see any good in knowing so much. We don't have
a great while to stay in the world any way, and I don't see why we can't
be let alone and have a good time while we are here, and when we get to
heaven we can take a fresh start. Oh, dear! I never shall go to heaven,
if I am so bad and vex mamma. But then papa didn't care. But then he
would have liked me to go to school. But there, I won't! I won't! I
_will not!_ I'll study at home. Oh, dear! I wish papa was a great man,
and knew everything, and could teach me. Well, he is just as happy, and
just as rich, and everybody likes him just as well, as if he knew the
whole world full; and why can't I do so, too? Rebecca Dingham, indeed!
Mercy! I hope I never shall be like her; I would rather not know my A
B C! What _shall_ I do? There's Mr. Brownslow might teach me; he knows
enough. But, dear me! he is as busy as he can be, all day long; and
Squire Merrill goes out of town every day; and there's Dr. Mix, to be
sure, but he smells so strong of paregoric, and I don't believe he knows
much, either; and there's nobody else in town that knows any more than
anybody else; and there's nothing for it but I must go to school, if I
am ever to know anything." (A renewal of sobs, uninterrupted for several
minutes.) "There's Mr. Clerron!" (A sudden cessation.) "I suppose he
knows more than the whole town tumbled into one; and writes books,
and--mercy! there's no end to his knowledge; and he's rich, and does
everything he likes, all day long. Oh, if I only _did_ know him! I would
ask him straight off to teach me. I should be scared to death. I've a
great mind to ask him, as it is. I can tell him who I am. He never will
know any other way, for he isn't acquainted with anybody. They say he is
as proud as Lucifer. If he were ten times prouder, I would rather ask
him than go to school. He might just as well do something as not. I am
sure, if God had made me him, and him me, I should be glad to help him.
I'll go straight to him the first thing to-morrow morning."
Once seeing a possible way out of her difficulties, her sorrow vanished.
Not quite so gayly as usual, it is true, did she sing about the
house that night; for she was summoning all her powers to prepare an
introductory speech to Felix Clerron, Esq., a gentleman and a scholar.
Her elocutionary attempts were not quite satisfactory to herself, but
she was not to be daunted; and when morning came, she took heart of
grace, slung her broadbrimmed hat over her arm, and began her march
"over the hills and far away," in search of her--fate.
"And did her mother really let her roam away, alone, on such an errand,
to a perfect stranger?"
Humanly speaking, nothing was more unlikely than that Mrs. Geer, a
prudent, modest, and sensible woman, should give her consent to such
an--to use the mildest term--unusual undertaking. Nor did she. The fact
is, her consent was not asked. She knew nothing whatever of the plan.
"Worse and worse! Did the wilful girl go off without leave? without even
informing her parents?"
I am sorry to say she did. In writing a story of real life, one
cannot take that liberty with facts which is quite proper, not to say
indispensable, in history, science, and belles-lettres generally. Duty
compels me to adhere closely to the truth; and for whatever of obloquy
may be heaped upon me, or upon my Ivy, I shall find consolation in the
words of the illustrious Harrison; or perhaps it was the illustrious
Taylor; I am not quite sure, however, that it was not the illustrious
Washington:--"Do right, and let the consequences take care of
themselves." I am therefore obliged to say, that Ivy's departure in
pursuit of knowledge was entirely unknown to her respected and beloved
parents. But you must remember that she was an only child, and a spoiled
child,--spoiled as only stern New England Puritan parents, somewhat
advanced in years, can spoil their children. I do not defend Ivy. On
the contrary, notwithstanding my regard for her, I hand her over to the
reprobation of an enlightened community; and I hereby entreat all young
persons into whose hands this memoir may fall to take warning by the
fate of poor Ivy, and never enter upon any important undertaking, until
they have, to say the least, consulted those who are their natural
guides, their warmest friends, and their most experienced counsellors.
While I have been writing this, Ivy Geer, light of heart, fleet of foot,
and firm of will, has passed over hill-side, through wood-path, and
across meadow-land, and drawn near the domains of Felix Clerron,
Esq. Light of heart perhaps I scarcely ought to say. Certainly, that
enterprising organ had never before beat so furious a tattoo in Ivy's
breast, as when she stood, hat in hand, on the steps of the somewhat
stately dwelling. To do her justice, she had intended to do the penance
of wearing her hat when she should have reached her destination; but
in her excitement she quite forgot it. So, as I said, she stood on the
door-step, as a royal maiden stood three hundred years before, (not
in the same place,) with the "wind blowing her fair hair about her
beautiful cheeks."
There had come to Ivy from the great, gay world a vague rumor, that,
instead of knocking at a door, like a Christian, with your own good
knuckles, for such case made and provided, modern fashion had introduced
"the ringing and the dinging of the bells." This vague rumor found
a local habitation, when Mr. Clerron came down upon the village and
established himself, his men and women and horses and cattle; but as
Ivy stood on his door-step, looking upward, downward, sidewise, with
earnest, peering gaze, no bell, and no sign of bell, was visible;
nothing unusual, save a little door-knob at the right-hand side of the
door,--a thing which could not be accounted for. After long and serious
deliberation, she came to the conclusion that the bell must be inside,
and that the knob was a screw attached to it. So she tried to twist it,
first one way, then the other; but twist it would not. In despair she
betook herself to her fingers and knocked. Nobody came. Twist again.
No use. Knock again. Ditto. Then she went down to the gravelled path,
selected one of the largest pebbles, took up her station before the
door, and began to pound away. In a moment, a gentleman in dressing-gown
and smoking-cap, with a cigar between his fingers, came round the
corner. Seeing her, he threw away his cigar, lifted his velvet cap,
bowed, and, with a polite "allow me," stepped to the door, pulled the
bell, and again passed out of sight. Ivy was not so confused at being
detected in her assault and battery on the door of a respectable,
peaceable, private gentleman, as not to make the silent reflection,
"Pulled the knob, instead of twisting it. How easy it is to do a
thing, if you only know how!"
The summons was soon answered by a black gnome, and Ivy was ushered into
a large room, which, to her dazzled, sun-weary eyes, seemed delightfully
fresh and _green_-looking. Two minutes more of waiting,--then a step in
the hall, a gently opening door, and Ivy felt rather than saw herself in
the presence of the formidable Mr. Clerron. A single glance showed her
that he was the person who had rung the bell for her, though the gay
dressing-gown had been changed for a soberer suit. Mr. Clerron bowed.
Ivy, hardly knowing what she did, faltered forth, "I am Ivy Geer." A
half-curious, half-sarcastic smile glimmered behind the heavy beard, and
gleamed beneath the heavy eyebrows, as he answered, "I am happy to
make your acquaintance"; but another glance at the trembling form, the
frightened, pale face, and quivering lips, changed the smile into one
that was very good-natured, and even kind; and he added, playfully,--
"I am Felix Clerron, very much at your service."
"You write books and are a very learned man," pursued Ivy, hurriedly,
never lifting her eyes from the floor, and never ceasing to twirl her
hat-strings.
There was no possibility of supposing her guilty of committing a little
diplomatic flattery in conveying this succinct bit of information. She
made the assertion with the air of one who has a disagreeable piece of
business on hand, and is determined to go through with it as soon as
possible. He bowed and smiled again; quite unnecessarily,--since, as I
have before remarked, Ivy's eyes were steadfastly fixed on the carpet. A
slight pause for breath and she pitched ahead again.
"I am very ignorant, and I am growing old. I am almost seventeen. I
don't know anything to speak of. Mamma wishes me to go to school. Papa
did not, but now he does. I won't go. I would rather be stupid all my
life long than leave home. But mamma is vexed, and I want to please
her, and I thought,--Mr. Brownslow is so busy,--and you,--if you have
nothing to do,--and know so much,--I thought"------
She stopped short, utterly unable to proceed. Wonderfully different did
this affair seem from the one she had planned the preceding evening. My
dear Sir, Madam,--have not we, too, sometimes found it an easier thing
to fight the battle of life in our own chimney-corner, by the ruddy and
genial firelight, than in broad day on the world's great battle-field?
Mr. Clerron, seeing Ivy's confusion, kindly came to her aid. "And you
thought my superfluous time and wisdom might be transferred to you, thus
making a more equal division of property?"
"If you would be so good,--I,--yes, Sir."
"May I inquire how you propose to effect such an exchange?"
He really did not intend to be anything but kind, but the whole matter
presented itself to him in a very ludicrous light; and in endeavoring to
preserve proper gravity, he became severe. Ivy, all-unused to the world,
still had a secret feeling that he was laughing at her. Tears, that
would not be repressed, glistened in her downcast eyes, gathered on the
long lashes, dropped silently to the floor. He saw that she was entirely
a child, ignorant, artless, and sincere. His better feelings were
roused, and he exclaimed, with real earnestness,--
"My dear young lady, I should rejoice to serve you in any way, I beg you
to believe."
His words only hastened the catastrophe which seems to be always
impending over the weaker sex. Ivy sobbed outright,--a perfect tempest.
Felix Clerron looked on with a bachelor's dismay. "What in thunder?
Confound the girl!" were his first reflections; but her utter
abandonment to sorrow melted his heart again,--not a very susceptible
heart either; but men, especially bachelors, are so--_green!_ (the word
is found in Cowper.)
He sat down by her side, stroked the hair from her burning forehead, as
if she had been six instead of sixteen, and again and again assured her
of his willingness to assist her.
"I must go home," whispered Ivy, as soon as she could command, or rather
coax her voice.
His hospitality was shocked.
"Indeed you must not, till we have at least had a consultation. Tell me
how much you know. What have you studied?"
"Oh, nothing, Sir. I am very stupid."
"Ah! we must begin with the Alphabet, then. Blocks or a primer?"
Ivy smiled through her tears.
"Not quite so bad as that, Sir."
"You do know your letters? Perhaps you can even count, and spell your
name; maybe write it. Pray, enlighten me."
Ivy grew calm as he became playful.
"I can cipher pretty well. I have been through Greenleaf's Large."
"House or meadow? And the exact dimensions, if you please."
"Sir?"
"I understood you to say you had traversed Greenleaf's large. You did
not designate what."
He was laughing at her now, indeed, but it was open and genial, and she
joined.
"My Arithmetic, of course. I supposed everybody knew that. Everybody
calls it so."
"Time is short. Yes. We are an abbreviating nation. Do you like
Arithmetic?"
"Pretty well, some parts of it. Fractions and Partial Payments. But I
can't bear Duodecimals, Position, and such things."
"Positions are occasionally embarrassing. And Grammar?"
"I think it's horrid. It's all 'indicative mood, common noun, third
person, singular number, and agrees with John.'"
"_Bravissima!_ A comprehensive sketch! _A multum in parvo!_ A bird's-eye
view, as one may say,--and not entertaining, certainly. What other
branches have you pursued? Drawing, for instance?"
"Oh, no, Sir!"
"Nor Music?"
"No, Sir."
"Good, my dear! excellent! An overruling Providence has saved you and
your friends from many a pitfall. Shall we proceed to History? Be so
good as to inform me who discovered America."
"I believe Columbus has the credit of it," replied Ivy, demurely.
"Non-committal, I see. Case goes strongly in his favor, but you reserve
your judgment till further evidence."
"I think he was a wise and good and enterprising man."
"But are rather skeptical about that San Salvador story. A wise course.
Never decide till both sides have been fairly presented. 'He that
judgeth a matter before he heareth it, it is folly and shame unto
him,' said the wise man. Occasionally his after-judgment is
equally discreditable. That is a thousand times worse. Exit Clio.
Enter--well!--Geographia. My young friend, what celebrated city has
the honor of concentrating the laws, learning, and literature of
Massachusetts, to wit, namely, is its capital?"
"Boston, Sir."
"My dear, your Geography has evidently been attended to. You have
learned the basis fact. You have discovered the pivot on which the world
turns. You have dug down to the ante-diluvian, ante-pyrean granite,--the
primitive, unfused stratum of society. The force of learning can no
farther go. Armed with that fact, you may march fearlessly forth to do
battle with the world, the flesh, and--the--ahem--the King of Beasts!
Do you think you should like me for a teacher?"
"I can't tell, Sir. I did not like you as anything awhile ago."
"But you like me better now? You think I improve on acquaintance? You
detect signs of a moral reformation?"
"No, Sir, I don't like you now. I only don't dislike you so much as I
did."
"Spoken like a major-general, or, better still, like a brave little
Yankee girl, as you are. I am an enthusiastic admirer of truth. I
foresee we shall get on famously. I was rather premature in sounding the
state of your affections, it must be confessed,--but we shall be rare
friends by-and-by. On the whole, you are not particularly fond of
books?"
"I like some books well enough, but not studying-books," said Ivy, with
a sigh, "and I don't see any good in them. If it wasn't for mamma, I
never would open one,--never! I would just as soon be a dunce as not; I
don't see anything very horrid in it."
"An opinion which obtains with a wonderfully large proportion of our
population, and is applied in practice with surprising success. There is
a distinction, however, my dear young lady, which you must immediately
learn to make. The dunce subjective is a very inoffensive animal,
contented, happy, and harmless; and, as you justly remark, inspires no
horror, but rather an amiable and genial self-complacency. The dunce
objective, on the contrary, is of an entirely different species. He is a
bore of the first magnitude,--a poisoned arrow, that not only pierces,
but inflames,--a dull knife, that not only cuts, but tears,--a cowardly
little cur, that snaps occasionally, but snarls unceasingly; whom,
which, and that, it becomes the duty of all good citizens to sweep from
the face of the earth."
"What is the difference between them? How shall one know which is
which?"
"The dunce subjective is the dunce from his own point of view,--the
dunce with his eyes turned inward,--confining his duncehood to the bosom
of his family. The dunce objective is the dunce butting against his
neighbor's study-door,--intruding, obtruding, protruding his insipid
folly and still more insipid wisdom at all times and seasons. He is a
creature utterly devoid of shame. He is like Milton's angels, in one
respect at least: you may thrust him through and through with the
two-edged sword of your satire, and at the end he shall be as intact and
integral as at the beginning. Am I sufficiently obvious?"
"It is very obvious that I am both, according to your definition."
"It is very obvious that you are neither, I beg to submit, but a
sensible young girl,--with no great quantity of the manufactured
article, perhaps, but plenty of raw material, capable of being wrought
into fabric of the finest quality."
"Do you really think I can learn?" asked Ivy, with a bright blush of
pleasure.
"Demonstrably certain."
"As much as if I went to school?"
"My dear miss, as the forest oak, 'cabined, cribbed, confined' with
multitudes of its fellows, grows stunted, scrubby, and dwarfed, but,
brought into the open fields alone, stretches out its arms to the blue
heavens and its roots to the kindly earth, so that the birds of the air
lodge in the branches thereof, and men sit under its shadow with great
delight,--so, in a word, shall you, under my fostering care, flourish
like a green bay-tree; that is, if I am to have the honor."
"Yes, Sir, I mean--I meant--I was thinking as if you were teaching me--I
mean were going to teach me."
"Which I also mean, if time and the favoring gods allow, and your
parents continue to wish it."
"Oh, they won't care!"
"Won't care?"
"No, Sir, they will be glad, I think. Papa, at least, will be glad to
have me stay at home."
"Did not they direct you to come to me to-day?"
Ivy blushed deeply, and replied, in a low voice, "No, Sir; I knew mamma
would not let me come, if I asked her."
"And to prevent any sudden temptation to disobedience, and a consequent
forfeiture of your peace of mind, you took time by the forelock and came
on your own responsibility?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Very ingenious, upon my word! An accomplished casuist! A born Jesuit!
But, my dear Miss Geer, I must confess I have not this happy feminine
knack of keeping out of the way of temptation. I should prefer to
consult your friends, even at the risk of losing the pleasure of your
society."
"Oh, yes, Sir! I don't care, now it is all settled."
And so, over hill-side, along wood-path, and through meadow-land, with
light heart and smiling eyes, tripped Ivy back again. To Mrs. Geer
shelling peas in the shady porch, and to Mr. Geer fanning himself with
his straw hat on the steps beside her, Ivy recounted the story of her
adventures. Mrs. Geer was thunderstruck at Ivy's temerity; Mr. Geer was
lost in admiration of her pluck. Mrs. Geer termed it a wild-goose chase;
Mr. Geer declared Ivy to be as smart as a steel trap. Mrs. Geer vetoed
the whole plan; Mr. Geer didn't know. But when at sunset Mr. Clerron
rode over, and admired Mr. Geer's orchard, and praised the points of his
Durhams, and begged a root of Mrs. Geer's scarlet verbena, and assured
them he should be very glad to refresh his own early studies, and also
to form an acquaintance with the family,--he knew very few in the
village,--and if Mrs. Geer would drive over when Ivy came to recite,--or
perhaps they would rather he should come to their house. Oh, no! Mrs.
Geer could not think of that. Just as they pleased. Mrs. Simm, the
housekeeper, would be very glad of Mrs. Geer's company while Miss Ivy
was reciting, in case Mrs. Geer should not wish to listen; and the house
and grounds would be shown by Mrs. Simm with great pleasure. By the way,
Mrs. Simm was a thrifty and sensible woman, and he was sure they would
be mutually pleased.--When, in short, all this and much more had been
said, it was decided that Ivy should be regularly installed pupil of Mr.
Felix Clerron.
"_Eureka!_" cries the professional novel-reader, that far-sighted and
keen-scented hound that snuffs a _dénouement_ afar off; and anon there
rises before his eyes the vision of poor little Stella drinking in love
and learning, especially love, from the divine eyes of the anything but
divine Swift,--of Shirley, the lioness, the pantheress, the leopardess,
the beautiful, fierce creature, sitting, tamed, quiet, meek, by the side
of Louis Moore, her tutor and master,--and of all the legends of all the
ages wherein Beauty has sat at the feet of Wisdom, and Love has crept
in unawares, and spoiled the lesson while as yet half-unlearnt;--so
he cries, "She is going the way of all heroines. The man and the
girl,--they will fall in love, marry, and live happily all the rest of
their days."
Of course they will. Is there any reason why they should not? If any man
can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let
him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.
I repeat it, of course they will. You surely cannot suppose I should,
in cold blood, sit down to write a story in which nobody was to fall
in love or be in love! Sir, scoff as you may, love is the one vital
principle in all romance. Not only does your cheek flush and your eye
sparkle, till "heart, brain, and soul are all on fire," over the burning
words of some Brontean Pythoness, but when you open the last thrilling
work of Maggie Marigold, and are immediately submerged "in a
weak, washy, everlasting flood" of insipidity, twaddle, bosh, and
heart-rending sorrow, you do not shut the book with a jerk. Why not?
Because in the dismal distance you dimly descry two figures swimming,
floating, struggling towards each other, and a languid _soupçon_ of
curiosity detains you till you have ascertained, that, after infinite
distress, Adolphus and Miranda have made
"One of the very best matches,
Both well mated for life:
She's got a fool for her husband,
He's got a fool for his wife."
Sir, scoff as you may, love is the one sunbeam of poetry that gilds
with a softened splendor the hard, bare outline of many a prosaic life.
"Work, work, work, from weary chime to chime"; tramp behind the plough,
hammer on the lapstone, beat the anvil, drive the plane, "from morn till
dewy eve"; but when the dewy eve comes, ah! Hesperus gleams soft and
golden over the far-off pinetrees, but
"The star that lightens your bosom most,
And gives to your weary feet their speed,
Abides in a cottage beyond the mead."
It is useless to assert that the subject is worn threadbare. Threadbare
it may be to you, enervated and _blasé_ man of pleasure, worn and
hardened man of the world; but it is not for you I write. The fountain
which leaps up fresh and living in every new life can never be exhausted
till the springs of all life are dry. Tell me, O lover, gazing into
those tender eyes uplifted to yours, twining the silken rings around
your bronzed finger, pressing reverently the warm lips consecrated to
you,--does it abate one jot or tittle of your happiness to know that
eyes just as tender, curls just as silken, lips just as red, have
stirred the hearts of men for a thousand years?
Love, then, is a _sine qua non_ in stories; and if love, why not
marriage? What pleasure can a humane and benevolent man find in
separating two individuals whose chief, perhaps whose sole happiness,
consists in being together? For certain inscrutable reasons, Divine
Benevolence permits evil to exist in the world. All who have a taste for
misery can find it there in exhaustless quantities. Johns are every day
falling in love with Katys, but marrying Isabels, and Isabels the same,
_mutatis mutandis_. We submit to it because there is no alternative; and
we believe that good shall finally be wrought and wrested from evil.
Don't, for heaven's sake, let us in mere wantonness introduce into
our novel-world the work of our own hand, an abridged edition, a
daguerreotype copy of the world without, of which we know so little and
so much. I always do and always shall read the last page of a novel
first; and if I perceive there any indications that matters are not
coming out "shipshape," my reading invariably terminates with the last
page.
For the rest, please to remember that I am not writing about a princess
of the blood, nor of the days of the bold barons, but only the life of
a quiet little girl in a quiet little town in the eastern part of
Massachusetts; and so far as my experience and observation go, men and
women in the eastern part of Massachusetts are not given to thrilling
adventures, hairbreadth escapes, wonderful concatenations of
circumstances, and blood and thunder generally,--but pursue the even
tenor of their way, and of their love, with a sober and delightful
equanimity. If you want a plot, go to the "Children of the Abbey,"
"Consuelo," and myriads of that kin, and help yourself. As for me, I
must confess I hate plots. I see no pleasure in stumbling blindfolded
through a story, unable to see a yard ahead, fancying every turn to be
the last, and the road to go straight on to a glorious goal,--and,
lo! we are in a more hopeless labyrinth than ever. I have a sense of
restraint. I want to breathe freely, and can't. I want to have leisure
to observe the style, the development of character, the author's tone of
thought, and not be galloped through on the back of a breathless desire
to know "how they are coming out."
But, my dear plot-loving friend, be easy. I will not leave you in
the lurch. I am not going to marry my man and woman out of hand. An
obstacle, of which I suppose you have never heard,--an obstacle entirely
new, fresh, and unhackneyed, will arise; so, I pray you, let patience
have her perfect work.
Wonderful was the new world opened to Ivy Geer. It was as if a corpse,
cold, inert, lifeless, had suddenly sprung up, warm, invigorated,
informed with a spirit which led her own spell-bound. Grammar,--Grammar,
which had been a synonyme for all that was dry, irksome, useless,--a
beating of the wind, the crackling of thorns under a pot,--Grammar even
assumed for her a charm, a wonder, a glory. She saw how the great and
wise had shrined in fitting words their purity, and wisdom, and sorrow,
and suffering, and penitence; and how, as this generation passed away,
and another came forth which knew not God, the golden casket became dim,
and the memory of its priceless gem faded away; but how, at the touch of
a mighty wand, the obedient lid flew back, and the long-hidden thought
"sprang full-statured in an hour." She saw how love and beauty and
freedom lay floating vaguely and aimlessly in a million minds till the
poet came and crystallized them into clear-cut, prismatic words, tinged
for each with the color of his own fancy, and wrought into a perfect
mosaic, not for an age, but for all time. Led by a strong hand, she trod
with reverent awe down the dim aisles of the Past, and saw how the soul
of man, bound in its prison-house, had ever struggled to voice itself
in words. Roaming in the dense forest with the stern and bloody
Druid,--bounding over the waves with the fierce pirates who supplanted
them, and in whose blue eyes and beneath whose fair locks gleamed indeed
the ferocity of the savage, but lurked also, though unseen and unknown,
the tender chivalry of the English gentleman,--gazing admiringly on the
barbaric splendor of the cloth-of-gold, whereon trod regally, to the
sound of harp and viol, the beauty and bravery of the old Norman
nobility, she delighted to see how the mother-tongue, our dear
mother-tongue, had laid all the nations under contribution to enrich
her treasury,--gathering from one its strength, from another its
stateliness, from a third its harmony, till the harsh, crude, rugged
dialect of a barbarous horde became worthy to embody, as it does, the
love, the wisdom, and the faith of half a world.
So Grammar taught Ivy to reverence language.
History, in the light of a guiding mind, ceased to be a bare record of
slaughter and crime. Before her eyes filed, in a statelier pageant than
they knew, the long procession of "simple great ones gone for ever and
ever by," and the countless lesser ones whose names are quenched in the
darkness of a night that shall know no dawn. She saw the "great world
spin forever down the ringing grooves of change"; but amid all the
change, the confusion, the chaos, she saw the finger of God ever
pointing, and heard the sublime monotone of the Divine voice ever saying
to the children of men, "This is the way, walk ye in it." And Ivy
thought she saw, and rejoiced in the thought, that, even when this
warning was unheeded,--when on the brow of the mournful Earth "Ichabod,
Ichabod," was forever engraven,--when the First Man with his own hand
put from him the cup of innocence, and went forth from the happy garden,
sin-stained and fallen, the whole head sick, and the whole heart
faint,--even then she saw within him the divine spark, the leaven of
life, which had power to vitalize and vivify what Crime had smitten with
death. Though sea and land teemed with strange perils, though night
and day pursued him with mysterious terrors, though the now unfriendly
elements combined to check his career, still, with unswerving purpose,
undaunted courage, she saw him march constantly forward. Spirits of evil
could not drive from his heart the prescience of greatness; and his soul
dwelt calmly under the foreshadow of a mighty future.
And as Ivy looked, she saw how the children of men became a great
nation, and possessed the land far and wide. They delved into the bosom
of the pleased earth, and brought forth the piled-up treasures of
uncounted cycles. They unfolded the book of the skies, and sought to
read the records thereon. They plunged into the unknown and terrible
ocean, and decked their own brows with the gems they plucked from hers.
And when conquered Nature had laid her hoards at their feet, their
restless longings would not be satisfied. Brave young spirits, with the
dew of their youth fresh upon them, set out in quest of a land beyond
their ken. Over the mountains, across the seas, through the forests,
there came to the ear of the dreaming girl the measured tramp of
marching men, the softer footfalls of loving women, the pattering of the
feet of little children. Many a day and many a night she saw them wander
on towards the setting sun, till the Unseen Hand led them to a fair
and fruitful country that opened its bounteous arms in welcome. Broad
rivers, green fields, laughing valleys wooed them to plant their
household gods,--and the foundations of Europe were laid. Here were sown
the seeds of those heroic virtues which have since leaped into luxuriant
life,--seeds of that irresistible power which fastened its grasp on
Nature and forced her to unfold the secret of her creation,--seeds of
that far-reaching wisdom which in the light of the unveiled past has
read the story of the unseen future.
And still under Ivy's eye they grouped themselves. Some gathered on the
pleasant hills of the sunny South, and the beauty of earth and sea and
sky passed into their souls forever. They caught the evanescent gleam,
the passing shadow, and on unseemly canvas limned it for all time in
forms of unuttered and unutterable loveliness. They shaped into glowing
life the phantoms of grace that were always flitting before their
enchanted eyes, and poured into inanimate marble their rapt and
passionate souls. They struck the lyre to wild and stirring songs whose
tremulous echoes still linger along the corridors of Time. Some sought
the icebound North, and grappled with dangers by field and flood. They
hunted the wild dragon to his mountain-fastnesses, and fought him at
bay, and never quailed. Death, in its most fearful forms, they met with
grim delight, and chanted the glories of the Valhalla waiting for heroes
who should forever quaff the "foaming, pure, and shining mead" from
skulls of foes in battle slain. Some crossed the sea, and on
"that pale, that white-faced shore,
Whose foot spurns back tho ocean's swelling
tide,"
they reared a sinewy and stalwart race, whose "morning drum-beat
encircles the world."
And History taught Ivy to reverence man.
But there was one respect in which Ivy was both pupil and teacher.
Never a word of Botany had fallen upon her ears; but through all the
unconscious bliss of infancy, childhood, and girlhood, for sixteen happy
years, she had lived among the flowers, and she knew their dear faces
and their wild-wood names. She loved them with an almost human love.
They were to her companions and friends. She knew their likings and
dislikings, their joys and sorrows,--who among them chose the darkest
nooks of the old woods, and who bloomed only to the brightest
sunlight,--who sent their roots deep down among the mosses by the brook,
and who smiled only on the southern hill-side. Around each she wove a
web of beautiful individuality, and more than one had received from her
a new christening. It is true, that, when she came to study from a
book, she made wry faces over the long, barbarous, Latin names which
completely disguised her favorites, and in her heart deemed a great many
of the definitions quite superfluous; but she had strong faith in her
teacher, and when the technical was laid aside for the real, then,
indeed, "her foot was on her native heath, and her name was MacGregor."
A wild and merry chase she led her grave instructor. Morning, noon, or
night, she was always ready. Under the blue sky, breathing the pure air,
treading the green turf familiar from her infancy, she could not be
otherwise than happy; but when was superadded to this the companionship
of a mind vigorous, cultivated, and refined, she enjoyed it with a keen
and intense delight. Nowhere else did her soul so entirely unfold to
the genial light of this new sun which had suddenly mounted above her
horizon. Nowhere else did the freshness and fulness and splendor of life
dilate her whole being with a fine ecstasy.
And what was the end of all this? Just what you would have supposed. She
had led a life of simple, unbounded love and trust,--a buoyant, elastic
gladness,--a dream of sunshine. No gray cloud had ever lowered in her
sky, no thunderbolt smitten her joys, no winter rain chilled her warmth.
Only the white fleeciness of morning mist had flitted sometimes over her
summer-sky, deepening the blue. Little cooling drops had fluttered
down through the leafiness, only to span her with a rainbow in the glory
of the setting sun. But the time had come. From the deep fountains of
her heart the stone was to be rolled away. The secret chord was to be
smitten by a master-hand,--a chord which, once stirred, may never cease
to quiver.
At first Ivy worshipped very far off. Her friend was to her the
embodiment of all knowledge and goodness and greatness. She marvelled to
see him so at home in what was to her so strange. Every word that fell
from his lips was an oracle. She secretly contrasted him with all
the men she had ever met, to the utter discomfiture of the latter.
Washington, the Apostle Paul, and Peter Parley were the only men of the
past or present whom she considered at all worthy to be compared with
him; and in fact, if these three men and Felix Clerron had all stood
before her, and offered each a different opinion on any given subject, I
have scarcely a doubt as to whose would have commended itself to her
as combining the soundest practical wisdom and the highest Christian
benevolence.
So the summer passed on, and her shyness wore off,--and their intimacy
became less and less that of teacher and pupil, and more and more that
of friend and friend. With the sudden awakening of her intellectual
nature, there woke also another power, of whose existence she had never
dreamed. It was natural, that, in ranging the fields of thought so
lately opened to her, she should often revert to him whose hand had
unbarred the gates; she was therefore not startled that the image of
Felix Clerron was with her when she sat down and when she rose up, when
she went out and when she came in. She ceased, indeed, to think _of_
him. She thought _him_. She lived him. Her soul fed on his life. And
so--and so--by a pleasant and flowery path, there came into Ivy's heart
the old, old pain.