Here, too, dwells simple truth; plain innocence;
Unsullied beauty.
Thomson’s Seasons.
Harry was much pleased with the New England people—there seemed some
peculiar traits about them, some habits of thought, which denoted the
source from which they sprung, and which told of the pilgrim band who
sought here refuge from oppression. Though their step and songs of
praise were heard no more in the land, and the neat villages, with their
pretty churches, spoke of the refinement of taste, still there appeared
a vestige of the pilgrims’ spirit, and the pilgrims’ feelings broadly
marked on her sons and daughters. In Boston Harry met an old
acquaintance, Mr. Pluribusi, who was very attentive to him, kindly
showing him all the _lions_ in the city and around the neighborhood. One
afternoon Mr. Pluribusi and he were taking their customary drive, when
they found themselves upon one of those gentle elevations from which a
fine view of the surrounding scenery may be obtained. The landscape was
beautiful beyond description. In the distance lay the city of Boston,
clothed by the bright rays of Phœbus in a glorious robe of golden light.
The clear waters of its noble bay rolled on in silent grandeur, whilst
gallant vessels, with every sail set, went careering, all life and
bravery, before the wind, and tiny barks were glittering upon its
polished surface; some drawing nearer, others lost in the distant
expanse of ocean; opposed to this, neat and beautiful villages, with
their modest church steeples, diversified with such signs of life as in
a rural prospect the eye delights to meet; cattle grazing in the
meadows, or wending homeward, children playing before the cottage-doors,
laborers at work in the field, or with hearty steps and cheerful faces
advancing to the reward of their day’s toil.
The New England landscape has invariably been admired and praised by
travelers, but its sentiment is very often overlooked. Its chief charm
exists in its calm tranquillity—in the air of repose, happiness and
assured security it breathes. All is perfect serenity, and the gazer
feels that he is in the land of freedom and plenty; even the busy bee,
as heavily laden he journeys homeward, lights on the flowers in seeming
sport, as if he knew there was no danger of disturbance. The height on
which Harry and his friend had stopped, was clothed with summer verdure,
and adorned with rows of handsome houses, each having a beautiful garden
attached to it, where countless flowers of various dyes peeped forth,
amid innumerable shrubs and creeping, clinging ivy, or were so shaded by
the bending willow and graceful hazel, that the summer sun in its
mid-day glory could only enter here and there in a few broken coquetish
beams. Struck with the extreme beauty of one of those gardens, Harry
gazed wistfully into the cultivated enclosure.
“What a beautiful garden,” exclaimed he, in undisguised admiration. “And
look! oh look, Mr. Pluribusi, what a sweet, pretty girl there is in it,
too!”
Mr. Pluribusi seemed amused, for he laughed as Harry continued to give
utterance to his admiration.
“Why she is a perfect beauty—how like a fairy-shape she flits among the
roses—can any thing so glorious be earthly? Oh! how I wish I knew her.”
Never, indeed, was there a more beautiful picture than that young girl
as she glided about, with the mellow sunlight falling around her
sylph-like form. Her hair, which was a rich and shining black, was
gathered into a knot behind, and laid in soft bands over her pure and
polished brow. Her eyes were of that deep, full blue which is so rare,
large and bright, and full of fire and spirit. The star of
intellectuality beamed from her animated countenance, and spoke of a
soul within that admitted of no influence to thwart its loftiness of
purpose, or sully its innocence and purity. She was twining a garland of
rose-buds, heliotrope and mignonette, and more than once was she seen to
press the flowers to her ruby lips, while a peculiar witchery played
over her features.
“Would that I knew her,” repeated Harry.
“Well, I will introduce you, for, to tell you the truth, I came here for
that very purpose,” replied his companion; “but beware!” he added,
shaking his finger, “for I begin to suspect that wicked urchin, Cupid,
intends playing some of his mischievous pranks here.”
“Indeed, the place seems a fitting one for his votaries,” returned
Harry, earnestly, as they entered the gateway.
Miss Bryarly, who was introduced to our hero as the niece of Mr.
Pluribusi, received him with a soft, enchanting grace, which completed
his fascination. This passage of Moore came into his mind, for he felt—
As if his soul that moment caught,
An image it through life had sought;
As if the very lips and eyes,
Predestined to have all his sighs,
And never to forget again,
Sparkled and smiled before him then.
Miss Bryarly was not one of those who pass the time within doors, when
the light, the air, and the glorious sunshine tempted her abroad. She
invited her guests to take a stroll through the grounds, and pointed out
the most beautiful spots, with an animated face glowing with enthusiasm;
and Harry’s eyes sparkled with delight, as he listened to the eloquent
tones of her low, sweet voice. There were here groves of lofty trees,
with winding avenues between them, and shrubbery of the rarest and most
beautiful kinds, with flowers of every hue and fragrance, which loaded
the air with odorous sweets, and lawns which looked like velvet. A
stream of water, pure as crystal, wound along with gentle murmurs, and
served to impart an Eden-like aspect to the place. Their walk was
prolonged until after sunset had lent its golden light to beautify the
scene; then a summons to the tea-table was almost reluctantly obeyed. It
was late when Harry tore himself away, charmed with Mr. Bryarly, and
completely fascinated by his daughter. His enthusiastic nature afforded
a striking contrast to the calm, dignified temper of Mr. Bryarly, and,
as it frequently happens in such cases, they were mutually pleased with
each other. Mr. Bryarly liked Harry’s frankness and warm-heartedness,
while Harry was delighted with the cordial kindness, the strong good
sense, and the deep insight into human nature which he found in his new
friend. It is unnecessary to expatiate upon our hero’s gratification at
finding himself invited to partake of the hospitality of Mr. Bryarly, or
to say that he took full advantage of it. A few days glided swiftly by,
each one finding him at Mary Bryarly’s side, studying the changes of her
sweet face, which appeared to him like a volume of “unwritten poetry,”
which no one could read but himself. Sometimes they walked together, and
often he would read passages from his favorite authors to her; then, in
return, she would point out the beauties, and explain the character and
qualities of her various plants; and the interest he seemed to take in
her tastes and pursuits, gave them new importance in her eyes. “With her
conversing he forgot all time;” but at length a letter from his father
recalled him to Virginia.