was meditating on nothing less sublime than an eternal separation from
her lover, which she had imagined, with all the affecting attendants and
consequents, was entirely revolutionized by the unexpected turn thus
given to her ideas, while our hero pursued the opportunity he had made
for himself, and exerted his powers of entertainment to the utmost, till
Miss Silence, declaring that if she had been washing all day she should
not have been more tired than she was with laughing, took up her candle,
and good-naturedly left our young people to settle matters between
themselves. There was a grave pause of some length when she had
departed, which was broken by our hero, who, seating himself by Susan,
inquired very seriously if his father had made proposals of marriage to
Miss Silence that morning.
"No, you provoking creature!" said Susan, at the same time laughing at
the absurdity of the idea.
"Well, now, don't draw on your long face again, Susan," said Joseph;
"you have been trying to lengthen it down all the evening, if I would
have let you. Seriously, now, I know that something painful passed
between my father and you this morning, but I shall not inquire what it
was. I only tell you, frankly, that he has expressed his disapprobation
of our engagement, forbidden me to go on with it, and----"
"And, consequently, I release you from all engagements and obligations
to me, even before you ask it," said Susan.
"You are extremely accommodating," replied Joseph; "but I cannot promise
to be as obliging in giving up certain promises made to me, unless,
indeed, the feelings that dictated them should have changed."
"O, no--no, indeed," said Susan, earnestly; "you know it is not that;
but if your father objects to me----"
"If my father objects to you, he is welcome not to marry you," said
Joseph.
"Now, Joseph, do be serious," said Susan.
"Well, then, seriously, Susan, I know my obligations to my father, and
in all that relates to his comfort I will ever be dutiful and
submissive, for I have no college boy pride on the subject of
submission; but in a matter so individually my own as the choice of a
wife, in a matter that will most likely affect my happiness years and
years after he has ceased to be, I hold that I have a right to consult
my own inclinations, and, by your leave, my dear little lady, I shall
take that liberty."
"But, then, if your father is made angry, you know what sort of a man he
is; and how could I stand in the way of all your prospects?"
"Why, my dear Susan, do you think I count myself dependent upon my
father, like the heir of an English estate, who has nothing to do but
sit still and wait for money to come to him? No! I have energy and
education to start with, and if I cannot take care of myself, and you
too, then cast me off and welcome;" and, as Joseph spoke, his fine face
glowed with a conscious power, which unfettered youth never feels so
fully as in America. He paused a moment, and resumed: "Nevertheless,
Susan, I respect my father; whatever others may say of him, I shall
never forget that I owe to his hard earnings the education that enables
me to do or be any thing, and I shall not wantonly or rudely cross him.
I do not despair of gaining his consent; my father has a great
partiality for pretty girls, and if his love of contradiction is not
kept awake by open argument, I will trust to time and you to bring him
round; but, whatever comes, rest assured, my dearest one, I have chosen
for life, and cannot change."
The conversation, after this, took a turn which may readily be imagined
by all who have been in the same situation, and will, therefore, need no
further illustration.
* * * * *
"Well, deacon, railly I don't know what to think now: there's my Joe,
he's took and been a courting that 'ere Susan," said Uncle Jaw.
This was the introduction to one of Uncle Jaw's periodical visits to
Deacon Enos, who was sitting with his usual air of mild abstraction,
looking into the coals of a bright November fire, while his busy
helpmate was industriously rattling her knitting needles by his side.
A close observer might have suspected that this was _no news_ to the
good deacon, who had given a great deal of good advice, in private, to
Master Joseph of late; but he only relaxed his features into a quiet
smile, and ejaculated, "I want to know!"
"Yes; and railly, deacon, that 'ere gal is a rail pretty un. I was a
tellin' my folks that our new minister's wife was a fool to her."
"And so your son is going to marry her?" said the good lady; "I knew
that long ago."
"Well--no--not so fast; ye see there's two to that bargain yet. You see,
Joe, he never said a word to me, but took and courted the gal out of his
own head; and when I come to know, says I, 'Joe,' says I, 'that 'ere gal
won't do for me;' and I took and tell'd him, then, about that 'ere old
fence, and all about that old mill, and them _medder_s of mine; and I
tell'd him, too, about that 'ere lot of Susan's; and I should like to
know, now, deacon, how that lot business is a going to turn out."
"Judge Smith and 'Squire Moseley say that my claim to it will stand,"
said the deacon.
"They do?" said Uncle Jaw, with much satisfaction; "s'pose, then, you'll
sue, won't you?"
"I don't know," replied the deacon, meditatively.
Uncle Jaw was thoroughly amazed; that any one should have doubts about
entering suit for a fine piece of land, when sure of obtaining it, was a
problem quite beyond his powers of solving.
"You say your son has courted the girl," said the deacon, after a long
pause; "that strip of land is the best part of Susan's share; I paid
down five hundred dollars on the nail for it; I've got papers here that
Judge Smith and 'Squire Moseley say will stand good in any court of
law."
Uncle Jaw pricked up his ears and was all attention, eying with eager
looks the packet; but, to his disappointment, the deacon deliberately
laid it into his desk, shut and locked it, and resumed his seat.
"Now, railly," said Uncle Jaw, "I should like to know the particulars."
"Well, well," said the deacon, "the lawyers will be at my house
to-morrow evening, and if you have any concern about it, you may as well
come along."
Uncle Jaw wondered all the way home at what he could have done to get
himself into the confidence of the old deacon, who, he rejoiced to
think, was a going to "take" and go to law like other folks.
The next day there was an appearance of some bustle and preparation
about the deacon's house; the best room was opened and aired; an ovenful
of cake was baked; and our friend Joseph, with a face full of business,
was seen passing to and fro, in and out of the house, from various
closetings with the deacon. The deacon's lady bustled about the house
with an air of wonderful mystery, and even gave her directions about
eggs and raisins in a whisper, lest they should possibly let out some
eventful secret.
The afternoon of that day Joseph appeared at the house of the sisters,
stating that there was to be company at the deacon's that evening, and
he was sent to invite them.
"Why, what's got into the deacon's folks lately," said Silence, "to have
company so often? Joe Adams, this 'ere is some 'cut up' of yours. Come,
what are you up to now?"
"Come, come, dress yourselves and get ready," said Joseph; and, stepping
up to Susan, as she was following Silence out of the room, he whispered
something into her ear, at which she stopped short and colored
violently.
"Why, Joseph, what do you mean?"
"It is so," said he.
"No, no, Joseph; no, I can't, indeed I can't."
"But you _can_, Susan."
"O Joseph, don't."
"O Susan, _do_."
"Why, how strange, Joseph!"
"Come, come, my dear, you keep me waiting. If you have any objections on
the score of propriety, we will talk about them _to-morrow_;" and our
hero looked so saucy and so resolute that there was no disputing
further; so, after a little more lingering and blushing on Susan's part,
and a few kisses and persuasions on the part of the suitor, Miss Susan
seemed to be brought to a state of resignation.
At a table in the middle of Uncle Enos's north front room were seated
the two lawyers, whose legal opinion was that evening to be fully made
up. The younger of these, 'Squire Moseley, was a rosy, portly, laughing
little bachelor, who boasted that he had offered himself, in rotation,
to every pretty girl within twenty miles round, and, among others, to
Susan Jones, notwithstanding which he still remained a bachelor, with a
fair prospect of being an old one; but none of these things disturbed
the boundless flow of good nature and complacency with which he seemed
at all times full to overflowing. On the present occasion he appeared to
be particularly in his element, as if he had some law business in hand
remarkably suited to his turn of mind; for, on finishing the inspection
of the papers, he started up, slapped his graver brother on the back,
made two or three flourishes round the room, and then seizing the old
deacon's hand, shook it violently, exclaiming,--
"All's right, deacon, all's right! Go it! go it! hurrah!"
When Uncle Jaw entered, the deacon, without preface, handed him a chair
and the papers, saying,--
"These papers are what you wanted to see. I just wish you would read
them over."
Uncle Jaw read them deliberately over. "Didn't I tell ye so, deacon? The
case is as clear as a bell: now ye will go to law, won't you?"
"Look here, Mr. Adams; now you have seen these papers, and heard what's
to be said, I'll make you an offer. Let your son marry Susan Jones, and
I'll burn these papers and say no more about it, and there won't be a
girl in the parish with a finer portion."
Uncle Jaw opened his eyes with amazement, and looked at the old man, his
mouth gradually expanding wider and wider, as if he hoped, in time, to
swallow the idea.
"Well, now, I swan!" at length he ejaculated.
"I mean just as I say," said the deacon.
"Why, that's the same as giving the gal five hundred dollars out of your
own pocket, and she ain't no relation neither."
"I know it," said the deacon; "but I have said I will do it."
"What upon 'arth for?" said Uncle Jaw.
"To make peace," said the deacon, "and to let you know that when I say
it is better to give up one's rights than to quarrel, I mean so. I am an
old man; my children are dead"--his voice faltered--"my treasures are
laid up in heaven; if I can make the children happy, why, I will. When I
thought I had lost the land, I made up my mind to lose it, and so I can
now."
Uncle Jaw looked fixedly on the old deacon, and said,--
"Well, deacon, I believe you. I vow, if you hain't got something ahead
in t'other world, I'd like to know who has--that's all; so, if Joe has
no objections, and I rather guess he won't have----"
"The short of the matter is," said the squire, "we'll have a wedding; so
come on;" and with that he threw open the parlor door, where stood Susan
and Joseph in a recess by the window, while Silence and the Rev. Mr.
Bissel were drawn up by the fire, and the deacon's lady was sweeping up
the hearth, as she had been doing ever since the party arrived.
Instantly Joseph took the hand of Susan, and led her to the middle of
the room; the merry squire seized the hand of Miss Silence, and placed
her as bridesmaid, and before any one knew what they were about, the
ceremony was in actual progress, and the minister, having been
previously instructed, made the two one with extraordinary celerity.
"What! what! what!" said Uncle Jaw. "Joseph! Deacon!"
"Fair bargain, sir," said the squire. "Hand over your papers, deacon."
The deacon handed them, and the squire, having read them aloud,
proceeded, with much ceremony, to throw them into the fire; after which,
in a mock solemn oration, he gave a statement of the whole affair, and
concluded with a grave exhortation to the new couple on the duties of
wedlock, which unbent the risibles even of the minister himself.
Uncle Jaw looked at his pretty daughter-in-law, who stood half smiling,
half blushing, receiving the congratulations of the party, and then at
Miss Silence, who appeared full as much taken by surprise as himself.
"Well, well, Miss Silence, these 'ere young folks have come round us
slick enough," said he. "I don't see but we must shake hands upon it."
And the warlike powers shook hands accordingly, which was a signal for
general merriment.
As the company were dispersing, Miss Silence laid hold of the good
deacon, and by main strength dragged him aside. "Deacon," said she, "I
take back all that 'ere I said about you, every word on't."
"Don't say any more about it, Miss Silence," said the good man; "it's
gone by, and let it go."
"Joseph!" said his father, the next morning, as he was sitting at
breakfast with Joseph and Susan, "I calculate I shall feel kinder proud
of this 'ere gal! and I'll tell you what, I'll jest give you that nice
little delicate Stanton place that I took on Stanton's mortgage: it's a
nice little place, with green blinds, and flowers, and all them things,
just right for Susan."
And accordingly, many happy years flew over the heads of the young
couple in the Stanton place, long after the hoary hairs of their kind
benefactor, the deacon, were laid with reverence in the dust. Uncle Jaw
was so far wrought upon by the magnanimity of the good old man as to be
very materially changed for the better. Instead of quarrelling in real
earnest all around the neighborhood, he confined himself merely to
battling the opposite side of every question with his son, which, as the
latter was somewhat of a logician, afforded a pretty good field for the
exercise of his powers; and he was heard to declare at the funeral of
the old deacon, that, "after all, a man got as much, and may be more, to
go along as the deacon did, than to be all the time fisting and jawing;
though I tell you what it is," said he, afterwards, "'tain't every one
that has the deacon's _faculty_, any how."
THE TEA ROSE.
There it stood, in its little green vase, on a light ebony stand, in the
window of the drawing room. The rich satin curtains, with their costly
fringes, swept down on either side of it, and around it glittered every
rare and fanciful trifle which wealth can offer to luxury; and yet that
simple rose was the fairest of them all. So pure it looked, its white
leaves just touched with that delicious creamy tint peculiar to its
kind; its cup so full, so perfect; its head bending as if it were
sinking and melting away in its own richness--O, when did ever man make
any thing to equal the living, perfect flower?
But the sunlight that streamed through the window revealed something
fairer than the rose. Reclined on an ottoman, in a deep recess, and
intently engaged with a book, rested what seemed the counterpart of that
so lovely flower. That cheek so pale, that fair forehead so spiritual,
that countenance so full of high thought, those long, downcast lashes,
and the expression of the beautiful mouth, sorrowful, yet subdued and
sweet--it seemed like the picture of a dream.
"Florence! Florence!" echoed a merry and musical voice, in a sweet,
impatient tone. Turn your head, reader, and you will see a light and
sparkling maiden, the very model of some little wilful elf, born of
mischief and motion, with a dancing eye, a foot that scarcely seems to
touch the carpet, and a smile so multiplied by dimples that it seems
like a thousand smiles at once. "Come, Florence, I say," said the little
sprite, "put down that wise, good, and excellent volume, and descend
from your cloud, and talk with a poor little mortal."
The fair apparition, thus adjured, obeyed; and, looking up, revealed
just such eyes as you expected to see beneath such lids--eyes deep,
pathetic, and rich as a strain of sad music.
"I say, cousin," said the "bright ladye," "I have been thinking what you
are to do with your pet rose when you go to New York, as, to our
consternation, you are determined to do; you know it would be a sad pity
to leave it with such a scatterbrain as I am. I do love flowers, that is
a fact; that is, I like a regular bouquet, cut off and tied up, to carry
to a party; but as to all this tending and fussing, which is needful to
keep them growing, I have no gifts in that line."
"Make yourself easy as to that, Kate," said Florence, with a smile; "I
have no intention of calling upon your talents; I have an asylum in view
for my favorite."
"O, then you know just what I was going to say. Mrs. Marshall, I
presume, has been speaking to you; she was here yesterday, and I was
quite pathetic upon the subject, telling her the loss your favorite
would sustain, and so forth; and she said how delighted she would be to
have it in her greenhouse, it is in such a fine state now, so full of
buds. I told her I knew you would like to give it to her, you are so
fond of Mrs. Marshall, you know."
"Now, Kate, I am sorry, but I have otherwise engaged it."
"Whom can it be to? you have so few intimates here."
"O, it is only one of my odd fancies."
"But do tell me, Florence."
"Well, cousin, you know the little pale girl to whom we give sewing."
"What! little Mary Stephens? How absurd! Florence, this is just another
of your motherly, oldmaidish ways--dressing dolls for poor children,
making bonnets and knitting socks for all the little dirty babies in the
region round about. I do believe you have made more calls in those two
vile, ill-smelling alleys back of our house, than ever you have in
Chestnut Street, though you know every body is half dying to see you;
and now, to crown all, you must give this choice little bijou to a
seamstress girl, when one of your most intimate friends, in your own
class, would value it so highly. What in the world can people in their
circumstances want of flowers?"
"Just the same as I do," replied Florence, calmly. "Have you not noticed
that the little girl never comes here without looking wistfully at the
opening buds? And don't you remember, the other morning, she asked me so
prettily if I would let her mother come and see it, she was so fond of
flowers?"
"But, Florence, only think of this rare flower standing on a table with
ham, eggs, cheese, and flour, and stifled in that close little room
where Mrs. Stephens and her daughter manage to wash, iron, cook, and
nobody knows what besides."
"Well, Kate, and if I were obliged to live in one coarse room, and wash,
and iron, and cook, as you say,--if I had to spend every moment of my
time in toil, with no prospect from my window but a brick wall and dirty
lane,--such a flower as this would be untold enjoyment to me."
"Pshaw! Florence--all sentiment: poor people have no time to be
sentimental. Besides, I don't believe it will grow with them; it is a
greenhouse flower, and used to delicate living."
"O, as to that, a flower never inquires whether its owner is rich or
poor; and Mrs. Stephens, whatever else she has not, has sunshine of as
good quality as this that streams through our window. The beautiful
things that God makes are his gift to all alike. You will see that my
fair rose will be as well and cheerful in Mrs. Stephens's room as in
ours."
"Well, after all, how odd! When one gives to poor people, one wants to
give them something _useful_--a bushel of potatoes, a ham, and such
things."
"Why, certainly, potatoes and ham must be supplied; but, having
ministered to the first and most craving wants, why not add any other
little pleasures or gratifications we may have it in our power to
bestow? I know there are many of the poor who have fine feeling and a
keen sense of the beautiful, which rusts out and dies because they are
too hard pressed to procure it any gratification. Poor Mrs. Stephens,
for example: I know she would enjoy birds, and flowers, and music, as
much as I do. I have seen her eye light up as she looked on these things
in our drawing room, and yet not one beautiful thing can she command.
From necessity, her room, her clothing, all she has, must be coarse and
plain. You should have seen the almost rapture she and Mary felt when I
offered them my rose."
"Dear me! all this may be true, but I never thought of it before. I
never thought that these hard-working people had any ideas of _taste_!"
"Then why do you see the geranium or rose so carefully nursed in the old
cracked teapot in the poorest room, or the morning glory planted in a
box and twined about the window? Do not these show that the human heart
yearns for the beautiful in all ranks of life? You remember, Kate, how
our washerwoman sat up a whole night, after a hard day's work, to make
her first baby a pretty dress to be baptized in."
"Yes, and I remember how I laughed at you for making such a tasteful
little cap for it."
"Well, Katy, I think the look of perfect delight with which the poor
mother regarded her baby in its new dress and cap was something quite
worth creating: I do believe she could not have felt more grateful if I
had sent her a barrel of flour."
"Well, I never thought before of giving any thing to the poor but what
they really needed, and I have always been willing to do that when I
could without going far out of my way."
"Well, cousin, if our heavenly Father gave to us after this mode, we
should have only coarse, shapeless piles of provisions lying about the
world, instead of all this beautiful variety of trees, and fruits, and
flowers."
"Well, well, cousin, I suppose you are right--but have mercy on my poor
head; it is too small to hold so many new ideas all at once--so go on
your own way." And the little lady began practising a waltzing step
before the glass with great satisfaction.
* * * * *
It was a very small room, lighted by only one window. There was no
carpet on the floor; there was a clean, but coarsely-covered bed in one
corner; a cupboard, with a few dishes and plates, in the other; a chest
of drawers; and before the window stood a small cherry stand, quite new,
and, indeed, it was the only article in the room that seemed so.
A pale, sickly-looking woman of about forty was leaning back in her
rocking chair, her eyes closed and her lips compressed as if in pain.
She rocked backward and forward a few minutes, pressed her hand hard
upon her eyes, and then languidly resumed her fine stitching, on which
she had been busy since morning. The door opened, and a slender little
girl of about twelve years of age entered, her large blue eyes dilated
and radiant with delight as she bore in the vase with the rose tree in
it.
"O, see, mother, see! Here is one in full bloom, and two more half out,
and ever so many more pretty buds peeping out of the green leaves."
The poor woman's face brightened as she looked, first on the rose and
then on her sickly child, on whose face she had not seen so bright a
color for months.
"God bless her!" she exclaimed, unconsciously.
"Miss Florence--yes, I knew you would feel so, mother. Does it not make
your head feel better to see such a beautiful flower? Now, you will not
look so longingly at the flowers in the market, for we have a rose that
is handsomer than any of them. Why, it seems to me it is worth as much
to us as our whole little garden used to be. Only see how many buds
there are! Just count them, and only smell the flower! Now, where shall
we set it up?" And Mary skipped about, placing her flower first in one
position and then in another, and walking off to see the effect, till
her mother gently reminded her that the rose tree could not preserve its
beauty without sunlight.
"O, yes, truly," said Mary; "well, then, it must stand here on our new
stand. How glad I am that we have such a handsome new stand for it! it
will look so much better." And Mrs. Stephens laid down her work, and
folded a piece of newspaper, on which the treasure was duly deposited.
"There," said Mary, watching the arrangement eagerly, "that will do--no,
for it does not show both the opening buds; a little farther around--a
little more; there, that is right;" and then Mary walked around to view
the rose in various positions, after which she urged her mother to go
with her to the outside, and see how it looked there. "How kind it was
in Miss Florence to think of giving this to us!" said Mary; "though she
had done so much for us, and given us so many things, yet this seems the
best of all, because it seems as if she thought of us, and knew just how
we felt; and so few do that, you know, mother."