I write from somewhere in Massachusetts, and the following passage will
give you an idea of my theme:
All that life can rate
Worth name of life, in her hath estimate;
Youth, beauty, wisdom, courage, virtue, all
That happiness and prime can happy call.
Shaks.
Lilly Larnard is an only child, the pride of her mother, and the delight
of her father, who is the clergyman of our secluded and beautiful
village. I desire to make you acquainted with this dear girl; but what
can I find to say which hath not been anticipated by the poet? Her
character is already revealed. Well, then, I will say something about
her by way of illustration.
As I passed by her cottage this afternoon, which stands on the southern
extremity of the green, about a hundred paces from the meeting house, I
noticed an almost startling stillness about the premises, as if the
place were deserted; but this was owing to the heat and natural silence
of the hour. The closed window-blinds, half hidden by woodbine and
honey-suckle; the open doors, with a kitten sunning itself upon the sill
of one of them; bespoke it not only inhabited, but the abode of peace
and contentment. In a green grape-vine arbor beside the house sat our
little heroine, engaged in drawing some curious flowers, which she had
gathered in the meadow during her morning walk. At this moment two of
her female cousins stopped at the front gate, and called her to go with
them on a ramble through the woodlands. I had just time to change from
one hand to the other my heavy string of trout, for I was returning home
from angling, when out she came, bounding like a fawn, robed in white
muslin, her gypsy bonnet awry, and a crimson scarf thrown carelessly
over her shoulders. This simple dress is a specimen of her taste in such
matters, and the very thing to correspond with her dark-brown curling
hair, regular pearly teeth, blue, Madonna-like eyes, and blooming
cheeks. A snow-white terrier, her constant playmate and companion, soon
came following after, and having licked the hands of the two friends, as
a token of recognition, leaped a neighboring fence, and led the way
across a clover-field. When I turned to look again, the happy group were
crossing a rude bridge at the foot of a hill, and following the path a
short distance they were lost to view.
Lilly Larnard is now in her sixteenth year. She is passionately fond of
the country; and I do believe, could she obtain permission, would spend
half her time in the open air. If she has but one summer hour to spare,
she goes no farther than her favorite brook, half a mile from home,
where she will angle away her time, wandering up the stream to where the
overhanging trees throw a soft twilight upon her path; and, if
_necessity_ requires it, will off with her slippers, and wade in after a
bunch of lilies or some golden pebbles. The neighboring farmer as he
comes to the post-office early in the morning, if he chances to pass the
parsonage, will most likely be saluted by a sweet smile and bow. And
from whom, do you think? Why, from Lilly Larnard, who is airing the
parlor, dusting the furniture, or arranging some creeping flowers beside
the door, with her pretty face almost hidden in a “kerchief white.” And
it may be, when mowing in one of his fields in the afternoon, he will be
surprised by a hearty laugh in an adjoining copse, and on looking round
behold a party of girls returning from the strawberry hills, with Lilly
as their leader. She is a pure-hearted lover of nature, and everything,
from the nameless flower to the cloud-capt mountain, hath a language
which causes her to feel that the attributes of God are infinite. For
her gayer hours, Nature “hath a tale of gladness, and a smile and
eloquence of beauty, and glides into her darker musings, with a mild and
gentle sympathy, which steals away their sharpness ere she is aware.”
But how does she busy herself at home? it will be asked. She is an early
riser; and the first thing she does in the morning, after she has left
her room, is to put everything in its place which is out of place. She
kindly directs and helps Betty, the servant, to perform those numerous
little household duties, such as feeding the chickens and straining the
milk, not forgetting to give pussy a saucer full of the warm, sweet
liquid. She sets the breakfast table, prepares the toast, and all those
kindred delicacies, and pours out the coffee, sitting like a fairy queen
in the old high-backed chair, with her parents on either side. And when
her father clasps his hands to implore a blessing, she meekly bows her
head, sweetly responding to the solemn Amen. If anything is wanted from
the kitchen, she is up and away, and back again almost in a minute, so
sprightly is she in all her movements. During the forenoon she is
generally helping her mother to sew or knit, or do anything else which
is required to be done; or, if her father wants her to read one of his
chaste and deeply religious sermons, the sweetness of her eloquent voice
makes it doubly impressive. In the afternoon she is generally engaged in
some benevolent duty. Not one in a hundred is so well acquainted with
the poor of the parish.
She enters the abode of the poor widow, and, besides administering to
her temporal wants, gives her the overflowing sympathy of her own warm
heart, administering at the same time the consolations of religion. It
is a common sight to see her tripping along the street, with a basket on
her arm; and the clerk, or more stately merchant, as he sees her pass
his door, takes particular pains to make a bow, inwardly
exclaiming,—“Who now is to become the debtor of Lilly Larnard?” And the
stranger who may have met her in his walk, fails not to inquire of his
host, at evening, the name of the lovely creature who wears a white
dress and gypsy bonnet.
Lilly is a Christian, not only a church-going Christian, but her life is
one continued round of charitable deeds and pious duties, almost worthy
of an angel. She has a class of little boys in the Sabbath school, and
they are all so fond of their amiable teacher, that I do believe they
would undergo almost any trial for her sake. She _loves_ her Bible too,
and would be unhappy were she deprived of the privilege of reading it
every day. When she rises from her pillow at dawn, she kneels beside her
couch, and breathes her offering of prayer; and so, too, when the day is
closed and she retires to repose.
Her father is a clergyman of easy fortune. The prayer of his youth seems
to have been kindly answered by the Most High. About one year ago he
bought a beautiful chesnut pony, and, all saddled and bridled, presented
it to Lilly on her fifteenth birth-day. As might be expected, she was
perfectly transported with the gift. “Oh! father,” she exclaimed, “how I
will try to merit your approbation in every action of my life.”
A colored boy, named Tommy, is Lilly’s groom and page, and he seems to
love the pony and his mistress above everything else in the world. A
smarter and better-hearted page did not follow a high-born lady of the
feudal times. Lilly has now become a first-rate rider; and often, when
with her friends, takes pleasure in boasting of her noble
accomplishment, and the speed of her horse. When she has been out
riding, she almost always manages to canter through the middle street of
the village on her return. Sometimes she is alone with her dog, and
sometimes with a female friend; but the forelock of her pony is always
surmounted by a few flowers, or a cluster of green leaves, for she has a
queer notion of ransacking the most secluded corners of the field and
wood. Only a week ago (the very day I caught that two-pound trout),
while standing upon a hill, I saw her trying to leap a narrow but deep
brook, and she did not give up trying until she had accomplished the
deed. I thought that if her pony had been gifted with the power of
speech, he would have exclaimed, “Well done, you courageous girl, you
possess a wonderful deal of spunk!”
Lilly left school about two years ago, because her father chose to
superintend her education himself. She is a good scholar in everything
requisite for a lady. You could hardly puzzle her with questions in
history, geography, or mathematics. Her modesty and simplicity of
character are so great, that you would be surprised at the extent of her
book-information and practical knowledge. She has a wonderful talent for
making herself agreeable under all circumstances. If she meets a beggar
woman in the street, she will talk familiarly with her about her
sorrows, instructing her to bear up under every trial. She is the
universal favorite of the whole village. All who know her, the poor and
the rich, from the child of three years to the hoary head, all love her
with the affection felt toward a sister or daughter. She smiles with
those who smile, and weeps with those who weep. Servant-girls consult
with her about purchasing a new dress, and little children invite her to
participate with them in their pastimes.
Lilly Larnard is a lover of poetry. Yes, whether she sees it in the
primrose and the evening cloud; or hears it in the laughing rivulet and
the song of birds; or reads it in the pages of Spenser, Milton,
Shakspeare, Wordsworth, or Coleridge. And she is a _writer_, too, of
sweet and soothing poetry, just such as should always emanate from the
pure-hearted. To give you an idea of her poetic powers, I will here
quote her last effort, which was written with a pencil on a fly-leaf of
Dana’s Poems while walking on the sea-shore; for, be it known that the
village of her birth is within sound of the never-ceasing roar of the
Atlantic. The title of it is—