A SKATING ADVENTURE.--WHAT IS MY THOUGHT LIKE?--QUESTIONS.--THE ORPHAN'S
TALE, OR THE VICISSITUDES OF FORTUNE.
Saturday morning was so bright and cold--such a frosty, finger-pinching
winter day, that, at breakfast, George proposed the riddle, "What two
fishes would you tie together on a day like this?" As none were able to
guess it, he pronounced the assembled company intolerably stupid, and
gave as the solution, _skates_ and _soles_. He declared the weather was
made on purpose for skating; and although his uncle expressed some
doubts as to the thickness of the ice, George's eloquence and
earnestness carried the point, especially as, from his own account, his
experience was so great that you would have concluded he was at least
sixty years old. So the boys set off for a large pond, at the distance
of about a mile, accompanied by the girls, well wrapt up in cloaks,
furs, and mufflers, of every description, all in the highest spirits,
and quite ready for fun and frolic; and the quick walk through the
frosty air, broken by many a hop, skip, and jump, certainly did not tend
to repress the exuberance of their laughter and excitement. Is any one
too grave and too wise to approve of such conduct? allow me to ask,
reverend sir, or venerable madam, as the case may be, how many centuries
are pressing their weight upon your silver locks? Methuselah himself
might remember that he once was young, and sympathize with the innocent
light-heartedness of youth: and surely you cannot have arrived at quite
his length of years. 'Tis a great mistake to suppose that dullness and
moping gravity have any thing in common with either goodness or wisdom:
they are but the base imitations, the spurious counterfeits, which can
pass only with the undiscerning. Welcome, joyous laugh, and youthful
glee! the world has quite enough of care and sorrow, without repressing
the merry heart of childhood. Wiser would it be for you, oh sad and
weary spirit, sick of the buffetings of the cold and selfish crowd, for
a little time to come out of your unhappy self, and by sympathy with
others, again to become a little child. Your soul would be refreshed and
strengthened by bathing in the morning dews of youth; here would you
find a balm for the wounds inflicted by the careless world; many a
mourner has been drawn away from that sorrow which feeds upon the very
springs of life, by the innocent caresses and gay converse of a child.
Cleave then to your liveliness, young people! and throw away from you
all vapors, megrims, and melancholic feelings! Believe me, real sorrow
will come soon enough, and your groundless depression of spirits may
have more in common with ill-nature than with thoughtfulness or
earnestness of mind: true wisdom is both cheerful and loving.
The girls staid for some time admiring the evolutions of the skaters as
they gracefully wound about in intricate figures, or cut their names
upon the ice; but they declared at last that they must retreat before
the attacks of Jack Frost, who pinched their noses, fingers, and toes in
an unmerciful manner. The boys, ardent in the pursuit of sport, still
persevered, and George especially, who was devoted to this amusement,
distinguished himself by his skill. "Take care, George!" said his
brother John, "you are going too far from the shore; it's hardly safe
out there. Please to recollect, that neither you nor I can swim, and
we'd be in a fine case if you fell in." "Who's afraid? I'm not for one!"
cried George, fearlessly dashing off to the centre of the pond: but at
the very moment when he was raising a triumphant shout, and calling upon
the rest to follow him, a sharp crack was heard, the ice gave way under
him, and he disappeared in the water! A cry of dismay broke from the
group of his companions: instinctively John rushed forward to save him,
but was held back by the others, who well knew that two would then be
lost, instead of one. But in an instant, before George rose again to the
surface, Tom Green, the oldest of the cousins, and a tall, manly fellow,
had stripped off his coat, and gaining the spot, had plunged into the
water. It was intensely cold, and he was obliged to break away the ice
for some distance round before he was able to seize hold of poor George,
who had risen up only to find a glassy wall, impenetrable to all his
efforts, between himself and the outer air, and who had given himself up
for lost.
Tom at length succeeded in forcing his way to ice thick enough to
sustain his weight, and giving up his precious burden to the anxious
group above, he reached the shore in safety. Both were chilled through,
and almost numb, from the excessive cold of the water, and Tom's hands
were cut by the ice, which he had been obliged to break: but they were
not the lads tamely to give up, and moan over their condition, when they
were able to act. "Now, boys, for a race!" cried Tom: "it's the only
hope of putting a little life into us, and of keeping off the
rheumatism--let us see who will be the first at The Grange!" They
accordingly started, running as fast as the numbness of their feet would
allow, and soon arrived at the house; but what remarkable objects were
Tom and George, when they presented themselves before the eyes of their
astonished aunt and cousins! Their dress, soaked with water, was now
perfectly stiff, like a coat of armor, and the edges hung with icicles,
as did their hair; Cornelia, concerned as she was for her brother and
cousin, could not, when she thought of it, long afterwards, refrain from
merry peals of laughter at the ludicrous appearance they made--they
looked as if they had come from the North Pole, representatives from the
regions of eternal ice and snow. Mrs. Wyndham very soon had beds
prepared for them, where, wrapt up in blankets, and comforted by a warm
drink, which the advocates of the Maine Liquor Law would not have
altogether approved of, they speedily recovered their vital warmth, and
the elasticity of their spirits. Uncle John assured the young party, who
were full of fears for their health, that his anticipations of evil
consequences had been scattered by seeing those piled-up plates at
dinner-time return to him to be replenished: he thought that such fine
appetites were very good symptoms. They spent the day in bed, but were
so much recruited from their exhaustion by a sound sleep, that Aunt Lucy
mercifully took off her restriction, and allowed them to join the family
group at supper. Tom's hands were bound up, on account of "those
honorable scars," as Cornelia called them, and the two, the rescued and
the rescuer, were decidedly the heroes of the evening: the girls, ever
full of admiration of gallant conduct, looked upon good-natured and
pleasant Tom Green with a respect they had not felt before.
One of the games this evening was "What is my thought like?" Mary went
round the circle asking the question, and when she announced that her
thought was _President Taylor_, there was some amusement at the
incongruity of the replies. She then asked each one for a reason of the
resemblance, and an answer was to be given immediately, or a forfeit to
be paid.
"Cornelia, why was President Taylor like a _sunset_?"
"Because his career was splendid like the sun, and his loss equally
regretted."
"John, why was he like a _brick_?"
"So substantial."
"Amy, why was he like a _cat_?"
"Why--because he was so 'cute."
"Alice, why was he like a _sigh_?"
"He always excited so much sympathy in the hearts of the people."
"George, how did he resemble _cream_?"
"Because he was the very best and tip-top of all that was good."
"Tom, why was he like a _cow_?"
"Because he did not know how to run."
"Ellen, why was he like an _umbrella_?"
"Because he sheltered many."
"Gertrude, how did he resemble the _Alps_?"
"He towered aloft majestically above his fellow-men."
"Harry, how did you make him out like a _laugh_?"
"Oh, he was such a merry old soul."
"Then, how does Anna make him resemble a _tear_?"
"He was so sympathetic with the woes of others."
"Aunt Lucy, how was he like a _fire_?"
"He was warm-hearted, and the centre of attraction to so many."
"And, Louis, how do you make him like a _flower_?"
"His presidential career was bright, and short-lived, like a flower."
"Charlie, why was he like a _vine_?"
"That's plain enough--his motto was _'A little more grape_.'"
Amy went round collecting resemblances for her thought, and then said
that she had the watch-dog, Trusty, in her mind.
"Why is Trusty like _paper_?"
"Because he's white."
"Then, why is he like _ink_?"
"Because he's so useful."
"Why is he like a _table_?"
"Because he's a quadruped."
"Why is he like _Aunt Lucy_?"
"He is so good and faithful."
"Why is he like a _bed_?"
"His steadiness at his post enables us to enjoy undisturbed sleep."
"How does he resemble a _carpet_?"
"He generally lies on the floor, but is sometimes brushed off."
"How is he like a _lion_?"
"He is very fond of meat."
"How does he resemble _Cousin Mary_?"
"He has a collar round his neck."
"How is he like a _tree_?"
"He is so very full of bark."
Gertrude then proposed trying another game she had seen played, which
was called "Questions." She said it was generally done by using
playing-cards, but as she knew Uncle and Aunt had an objection to having
them in the house, she had prepared a set of blank cards for the
purpose. There were duplicates of every one, and she had numbered them,
1, 2, 3, etc., in large characters: one set was placed in the centre of
the table, around which they drew up, and the duplicates were shuffled
and dealt to each in turn. When they were all supplied, one would draw a
card from the table, asking some personal question; and all looking at
their cards, the one who had the duplicate must throw it upon the table,
and say, "It is I." It was found that the sillier and more impertinent
the question, the more laughter it caused.
"Who comes down last to breakfast?" said Tom, drawing from the pack one
marked 8.
"I do," replied Aunt Lucy, throwing down her corresponding 8.
"Who is the prettiest person present?" said Aunt Lucy, drawing out a 3.
"I am," said George, with a grin--being quite reconciled to the fact
that he was decidedly the ugliest one of the party; at the same time
mating his 3 with its companion on the table.
"Who loves mince-pie the best?" said Amy
"I do," replied Ellen, with a laugh.
"Which of us is the old maid of the company?" said Cornelia.
"It is I," cried Tom, in a tone of triumph.
"Which of us has a hole in her stocking?" said Alice.
"Oh, it is I myself."
And so it went on until the pack was exhausted, when all agreed that it
was time for the daily story, which they seemed to think as much a
matter of course as the supper. Aunt Lucy said that she would gladly
tell them a short one, which should be called
The Orphan's Tale, or the Vicissitudes of Fortune.
The early days of Margaret Roscoe were spent in the beautiful manse of
Linlithgow, in the north of Scotland, where her venerable grandfather
had for half a century been engaged in breaking the bread of life to a
large congregation of humble parishioners. No wealth or grandeur was to
be seen within the walls of the kirk where Alan Roscoe officiated: there
were no waving plumes, no flashing jewels, no rustling silks; and when,
as a young man, he accepted his appointment to this remote parish, his
college friends grieved that his noble talents should be wasted, and his
refinement of mind thrown away upon rough country folks, unable to
appreciate him. But the young minister was convinced that his proper
field of labor was now before him, and resolutely putting aside the
temptings of ambition, he devoted himself in the most exemplary manner
to his parochial duties. Although he and his family were debarred from
the advantages of cultivated society, and from the mental excitement
which only such intercourse can afford, they cheerfully made the
sacrifice, for the sake of the cause to which they were wholly given up;
and they thought themselves more than repaid by the improvement and the
reverent love of the people. It is a great mistake to suppose that
plain, unlettered men cannot rightly estimate superior abilities,
erudition, and refinement; where there is any native shrewdness and
strength of mind, these higher gifts are quickly discerned, and add
greatly to the influence which sincerity and earnestness of character
will ever command. In Scotland this is especially true, for the
countrymen of Bruce and Wallace are distinguished for their sagacity;
and their acquaintance with Scripture is so extensive that their natural
intelligence is sharpened, and superficial knowledge and flowery
discourses are not tolerated from the pulpit. Certain it is, that as
years rolled on, and the white hairs became thicker on Mr. Roscoe's
head, love and veneration were the universal feelings entertained toward
him: and at the time when our story commences, when the infant Margaret
and her young widowed mother removed beneath the shelter of his roof, he
was the respected pastor, the beloved friend, and the revered father of
all within the circle of his influence.
Malcom Roscoe, Margaret's father, was a young man of superior abilities,
but of great original delicacy of constitution; he was retiring,
studious, meditative, and in all respects a contrast to his older and
only brother, Alan, who early developed those qualities which are
necessary to the active man of business. A very warm attachment united
these two young men, and a sad blow it was to Malcom, when his brother,
with the energy and decision natural to his character, announced his
intention of emigrating to America, where bright prospects had opened
before him. An old friend had commenced a large commercial establishment
in one of the Atlantic cities, and had offered him a clerkship, with the
prospect of speedy admission into the firm: he regretted to leave his
aged father, and his only brother, but such an excellent opportunity of
advancing himself in life was not to be neglected, and he gratefully
accepted the proposition. With many tears, he bade adieu to the beloved
inmates of the manse, and set out for the New World: his industry and
integrity had been greatly prospered, and in a few years he was an
honored partner of the house into which he had entered as a penniless
clerk.
What, meantime, had been Malcom's lot? He had applied himself with
assiduity to the study of divinity, for which both his character and his
abilities had admirably fitted him, but his health was unequal to the
demands made upon it. He passed his examination with great honor, was
immediately called to a parish, and went there to settle, accompanied by
his young wife, a delicate and interesting orphan girl, to whom he had
been long attached. His zealous spirit saw much to rectify, and many
labors to perform, in his new sphere: he entered with ardor into the
discharge of his duties, but soon he found that his frail body had been
overtasked by its imperious master the soul, and was no longer able to
do his bidding. He faded away from earth, as do so many of the best and
noblest of the race, when just ready to apply to the loftiest purposes
the faculties so carefully trained. To us, such occurrences appear to be
very mysterious dispensations of Providence: but the individual himself
has attained the true object of his being, the full development of all
his powers, and is prepared for a more elevated existence. And we may
believe, since not even a sparrow falls to the ground unheeded by our
Father, and since no waste is allowed in nature, so that even the dead
leaf ministers to new combinations of being, that the noble gifts of the
mind will not be unused after death. In other spheres, amid other
society, they will doubtless be employed for the benefit of immortal
beings. Mutual beneficence must form a large part of the business and
pleasure of heaven.
After Malcom's death, his widow and infant child came to live with old
Mr. Roscoe at Linlithgow. Happily for the young mourner, the household
cares of the manse now devolved upon her, in addition to the charge of
Margaret; and these occupations, no doubt, aided greatly in restoring
the serenity of her spirit. She had little time to brood over her
sorrows--those small solicitudes and minute attentions to the feelings
and comfort of others, which fill up so large a portion of a true
woman's time, were with her a double blessing, cheering both the giver
and receiver. She realized that it is woman's honor and happiness to be,
in an especial manner, a ministering spirit; and thus she learned to
resemble the bright hosts above, whom she hoped one day to join, and
grow in the likeness of Him who declared, "The Son of man came not into
the world to be ministered unto, but to minister." No wonder is it that
the gentle young widow, whose face ever beamed with kindness, whose hand
was ever outstretched to aid the unfortunate, was looked up to with a
love and veneration only inferior to that with which Mr. Roscoe himself
was regarded.
In such an atmosphere of affection, and under the best influences of
unaffected piety and refinement, little Margaret expanded in beauty and
goodness, like a sweet flower planted in a fertile soil, and refreshed
by soft-falling dews and healthful breezes. She was something like her
own Scottish heather--distinguished by no uncommon brilliancy of mind or
person, but yet one upon whom your eye delighted to fall, and on whom
your heart could dwell with pleasure. Her clear, rosy complexion showed
that she had inherited none of her parent's delicacy of constitution;
and large, deep, violet-colored eyes, shaded by long lashes, made her
face a very interesting one. She was a most lovable little girl, gentle
and thoughtful beyond her years; it seemed as if something of the shadow
of her mother's grief had fallen upon her young spirit, repressing the
volatility of childhood, and making her ever considerate of the
feelings and studious of the comfort of others. She was her
grandfather's constant companion; and it was very beautiful to see these
two, so widely separated by years, and so closely united by affection,
entwining their lives together--the old man imparting instruction and
guidance, and the child warming his heart with the bright hopes and
sweet ways of her innocent age.
And so the three lived on, in perfect contentment and uninterrupted
peace, until Margaret was seven years old, when her grandfather was
taken ill, and the manse, once so happy, was filled with sorrow. He
lingered for some time, faithfully nursed by his daughter, who overtaxed
her own strength by her daily toils and nightly watchings. He at last
sank into the tomb, as a shock of corn, fully ripe, bends to the earth:
he was full of years, and of the honor merited by a life spent in the
arduous discharge of duty. His only regret was that he was unavoidably
separated from his son; and he advised his daughter, as soon as she had
settled his affairs, to accept Alan's pressing invitation to her to make
her home with him, and to depart with her child for America, where she
would be gladly welcomed.
After the funeral, as the new incumbent of the parish wished to take
possession of the manse as soon as possible, Mrs. Roscoe made
arrangements to leave the spot she loved so well: and disposing of the
furniture, and settling the debts incurred by her father's illness, she
found that no very large sum would be left after the passages across the
Atlantic were paid for. In Alan Roscoe's last letter, he had entered
into many details about his circumstances, in order to take from her
mind the objections which delicacy might urge as to her dependent
position. He told her that he had been eminently successful as a
merchant in Charleston, and had amassed so considerable a fortune that
he intended very soon to retire from business; and that he had some
thoughts of settling in one of the northern cities, as his health, and
that of his family, had suffered from the climate. He said that a dear
and only sister, as she was, ought to have no reluctance in sharing the
superfluity of his wealth: she would thereby give far more than she
received. And his brother's orphan should be most heartily welcomed to
his heart and home: she should be taught with his children, and should
share in every respect the situation and prospects of his own little
ones, for he must receive Malcom's child, not as a niece, but as a
daughter. He advised her sailing direct for Charleston, as it would save
all trouble and difficulty: he should be on the wharf to meet her, and
if, as was frequently the case with business men, he was unavoidably
absent, his very attentive partner would be there to greet her, in
company with Mrs. Roscoe.
She accordingly wrote, accepting his kind proposition, and stating that
they should sail in the first vessel bound for Charleston, as she was
anxious to have little Maggie again settled in a home; and the more so,
as her own health was very delicate, and she knew not how long her dear
child might have a mother to watch over her. Then taking leave of the
humble friends, who would gladly have kept them ever in Scotland, Mrs.
Roscoe and her daughter set off for the nearest seaport, where the
shrinking young widow, entirely friendless and unknown, was obliged
herself to make inquiries among the shipping offices and wharves. She
found that no vessel would start for some weeks for Charleston, and she
felt that every day was of consequence to her: but she was at last
relieved of her distress by a bluff, good-natured captain, who told her
that although he didn't hail from Charleston, it was exactly the same
thing; he sailed to Boston, and the two places were as close together as
twin cherries on one stalk, or kernels in a nut, and that he would see
to it she had no trouble in finding her friends. Being a Scotchman, and
partaking of that ignorance of American geography which is so common
both in Great Britain and on the continent, he naturally mistook
Charleston, South Carolina, for which she was inquiring, for
Charlestown, near Boston--an error which has frequently been made. Nor
is it as gross a one as some others which have been perpetrated; as, for
instance, that of the late Prince Schwartzenberg, minister of Austria,
who directed some dispatches for our government to "The United States of
New York."
And now behold little Margaret actually launched upon the stormy ocean
of life! for her small bark was destined soon to be severed from its
guide and conductor, and to be left, without a pilot, to the wildly
tossing waves and bleak winds of a selfish world. Did I say without a
pilot? not so! a hand, unseen, directed her fate, and although she was
called to pass thus early through troubled waters, the end will
doubtless show that all was well. But the present trial was a very
bitter one. A few days only after the embarkation, Mrs. Roscoe's weak
frame gave way, under the combined influence of sorrow, fatigue, and
anxiety; she was only ill a week, then sank, and was consigned to a
watery grave. Little Margaret could not be separated from her for one
moment during her illness, but, clasping her mother's hand in hers,
remained by her, smoothing her pillow, bringing her the cooling draught,
and seeking, in a thousand loving ways, to cheer and relieve her.
Before her death, Mrs. Roscoe called the Captain, and committed little
Maggie to his especial care. She told him of her expectation that her
brother, Mr. Alan Roscoe, a prominent importing merchant in Charleston,
would immediately come on board to claim his niece, when the vessel
arrived; but to guard against any possibility of a mistake, she gave him
the number of the street in which he resided. The bluff, but
kind-hearted man drew his red, hard hand repeatedly across his eyes, as
he listened to her anxious directions about the little girl she was so
soon to leave. He told her he didn't know much himself about either
Charleston or the people who lived in it, as he had been engaged until
very lately in the South Sea trade; but, of course, his consignees at
Boston would, and if there were any difficulty, he should put the matter
into their hands. He begged her to be under no uneasiness--her daughter
should be well attended to.
On the last day of her illness, the little girl sat by her in the berth,
and for the first time appeared to realize that her mother, her only
earthly friend, was about to die. Her little cheek was now almost as
white as the dying woman's, and she moistened the bed with tears: she
could not restrain her sobs. Her mother passed her arm around her, and
strove to comfort her: she told her that, although she must now leave
her, and go where her dear father and grandfather awaited her, her
little girl had one friend who would never cast her off, and who could
never die, who had promised to be the father of the fatherless. Whatever
should befall her, she must put all her trust in Him who had said, "When
thy father and thy mother forsake thee, then the Lord shall take thee
up." With all the energy which the love of a dying woman could give, she
besought her child to cleave with perfect love to Him who was so kind
and pitiful. She then placed around her neck a medallion, inclosing a
portrait of herself and her husband, with their initials, the date of
their marriage, and locks of their hair, and told her never to part with
it, but to wear it next her heart. She directed her to be in all
respects obedient to her uncle, and ever to act toward him as if he were
her own father. At last, exhausted by the the long conversation she had
held, she sank back and fell asleep: it was so sweet and natural a rest,
that Margaret long waited by her side, afraid to stir lest she should
awake her mother. A happy smile seemed diffused over that face, lately
so earnest and so anxious; it appeared to say, my troubles are now over,
my work is done, I have entered into my reward. And so it was! the
sorrow-stricken woman had gently passed away from earth, and little
Margaret was watching beside the dead.
Shall I attempt to describe the grief of the child, deprived of all she
loved? The rough, but kindly sailors were much moved by it, and strove,
in their uncouth way, to comfort her. After the first few days of
passionate lamentation, the motherless girl became more quiet in her
sorrow, and then the demonstrations of sympathy ceased: but any one who
gazed upon her wasted form, her white cheek, and languid steps, might
have guessed the tears she shed upon her pillow at night. At last the
vessel arrived in Boston, and Margaret's heart beat quick each time she
saw a good-looking gentleman step on board, for every instant she
thought her unknown uncle would arrive. She tried to fancy how he
looked, and although she had heard that he and her father were very
unlike, still her imagination brought up before her a face like that
within her highly-prized medallion. So passed the day, in anxious
waiting and nervous tremors, but her uncle came not; and as the night
drew near, a sense of perfect loneliness and desertion came over her,
and she leaned her head upon her hands, and tears, wrung from the
heart, trickled through them. All around her was bustle; every one had
an object, all had a home, and a place in the world, and some to love
them--all but she; she felt completely the orphan. Some think that
children do not suffer mentally as their elders do--what a mistake!
Their emotions are more transitory, but frequently more violent while
they last. Many an angry child, if he had the physical strength, would
commit deeds from which reason and conscience deter the man--and keen
and bitter, although fleeting, are the sorrows they experience. As the
little creature, so tenderly reared and now so utterly desolate, sat
upon the deck, with no earthly being to look up to for love and
sympathy, surely a pitying angel must have wafted into her heart her
mother's dying words, "When thy father and thy mother forsake thee, then
the Lord shall take thee up." It stole into her soul like oil upon the
troubled waters: it seemed as if a voice had said to the tempest within
her, "Peace, be still." She felt that there still was one who cared for
her--one who could neither die nor change; and the prayer of faith
ascended from those young lips to "_Our father_ who art in heaven."
Soothing, blessed influence of religion! felt by young as well as
old--how, in trouble, could we dispense with it? would not our hearts
sink under their load? would not our spirits be crushed within us?
The next day the Captain set himself in earnest to fulfill his promise
to the dying woman. The head of the firm to which his goods were
consigned was absent from home, but a very kind-hearted young fellow, a
junior partner, attended to the business during his absence, and
accordingly he directed his inquiries to him. "Mr. Alan Roscoe, a
merchant of Charlestown!" said young Howard, "why, I never heard the
name--there is surely some mistake. I know all the business men of the
place, and there is no such person. Have you the direction?" "Yes, sir,
No. 200 Meeting-street." "Why, Captain, here is a complete blunder!
there is no street of that name in Charlestown. I should not wonder, now
I come to think of it, if Charleston, South Carolina, were meant;
Meeting-street is, I know, one of the most fashionable promenades. And I
remember hearing of a Mr. Roscoe, a great southern merchant--either in
Charleston, or Mobile, or New Orleans, I don't rightly know where--but
somewhere in the South. I'll tell you what, Captain, you're full of
business, and can't attend to her; I'll take her home with me, for she's
a dear little thing, and then I can inquire about her uncle, and send
her on by the first opportunity. Great pity such a blunder was made!"
Accordingly, Mr. Howard engaged a hack, which was piled up with little
Maggie's trunks, and he was about jumping in, when he was nearly run
over by his friend Russell. "Hallo, Howard!" "Is that you, Russell?" "No
one else; but what on earth are you doing with such a heap of trunks?
has a friend arrived?" "Only a little orphan, who came in one of our
ships; her mother died on board, and to crown the misfortune, they got
into the wrong vessel. They wanted to go to Charleston, S.C., where this
child has an uncle, Mr. Alan Roscoe, a rich merchant; so they came to
Charlestown by mistake. I'm taking the little creature home with me,
until I find out about him." "The luckiest thing in the world! Why, I
know Mr. Roscoe myself; he lives in Meeting-street; I became acquainted
with him in Charleston last Winter. But he has either given up business,
or intends to do so; he is in New York at this moment; I saw him the
other day at the Astor House, and he told me he had some thought of
removing to New York or Philadelphia." "In New York, is he? what a
piece of good fortune! How I wish I knew some one going on there. If I
were not so uncommonly busy, now that Mr. Field is away, I would take
her myself." "If you'd like it, my dear fellow, I'll take charge of the
child--you know I always have acquaintances going on to New York--I know
every one in the two cities, pretty much. I'll give her over to some
safe person, and then she'll be with her uncle to-night." "Thank you,
you're a real good soul; you can attend to it as well as I, of course.
And I am anxious to get the poor little thing to her relations as soon
as possible, so I'll be much obliged to you." "Good-by, then;--driver,
go as fast as your horses can carry you to the New York depot, for we're
rather late."
When they arrived, they were only a few minutes before the time. Mr.
Russell walked through the cars, looking on either side, but, to his
chagrin, he saw no one he knew. Any one who has ever sought for an
acquaintance, while the steam was puffing, and panting, and screeching,
as if in mortal pain until it was allowed to have its own way, and send
the train along at the rate of forty miles an hour, can understand the
flustered, bewildered feelings of young Russell, as, with the child in
one hand, he perambulated the cars. "Is any gentleman here willing to
take charge of this little girl?" said he. "What's to be done with her
when we get to New York?" answered a man near him. "Her uncle, Mr. Alan
Roscoe, is staying at the Astor House; all you have to do is to take the
child and her baggage to him, and as he is a southern gentleman, and
very rich, he'll see that you are well paid for your trouble." "I'll
take charge of her; have you got her ticket?" "No; and I declare I have
no more than half a dollar with me--can you advance the money? you will
be paid tenfold when you get to New York." "I'll do it as a
speculation: here, my pretty young lady, sit in my seat while I see to
your baggage." "Just got it in the baggage-car in time,--good-by, sir!"
"Good-by--good-by, Miss Roscoe!" "Good-by, sir--I wish it were _you_
going on to New York!"
Little Maggie did not like her travelling companion at all. Children are
great physiognomists, and their simple instincts are frequently surer
guides than the experience and wisdom of older persons, in detecting
character. She could not bear to talk to him--his conversation,
garnished with low cant phrases, was so different from any thing to
which she had ever been accustomed. But when she looked up into his
face, the repugnance she had at first felt became changed into
aversion--the low, narrow forehead, the furtive, but insolent glance of
his eye, and the expression of vulgar cunning about the mouth, formed a
countenance which might well justify her in shrinking back into her
seat, as far from him as possible.
When they arrived in New York, Smith, for that was the man's name,
engaged a carriage, and drove with little Margaret to the Astor House;
but, in answer to his inquiries, he was told that no one of the name of
Roscoe was lodging, or had been boarding there for the past month. He
muttered a curse, and jumped again into the hack. "What do you make of
this? that uncle of yours is not there." "Oh dear, what _shall_ I do?
but, indeed, the gentleman said he saw him in the Astor House." "What is
the gentleman's name, can you tell me?" "I don't know his name." "Don't
know his name, don't you? I'm prettily bit! But perhaps he may be in
some other hotel, we'll go and see." They accordingly drove round to the
chief hotels, but no Mr. Roscoe was to be found at any of them.
Smith flew into a terrible passion. "Cheated for once in my life! sold,
if ever a fellow was! it's a regular trick that was played! They wanted
to get rid of their beggar's brat, and palmed her off upon me, with that
humbug story of the nabob of an uncle. I'll nabob her! And there's her
ticket, which I was fool enough to pay for, and the carriage hire, and
my trouble with this saucy thing, who holds her head up so high; if ever
I am swindled again, my name's not Sam Smith!"
"I'm sure I'm very sorry; what are you going to do with me, sir?" "Take
you home with me, until I can get rid of you, and pay myself out of your
trunks, unless they're filled with stones. It wouldn't be such a bad
idea to lose you in the streets, accidentally; but no, on second
thoughts, it's better not; there are always some troublesome
philanthropists about." "Oh, sir, if you can't find my uncle, won't you
send me on to Boston again? The Captain told my mother he'd find him for
me--or that good gentleman would." "The Captain's a rogue, and so is
your _good gentleman_. Are you such an eternal fool as to think I'll pay
your passage again? you're mightily mistaken, I can tell you. I don't
believe you ever had an uncle, you little cheat--and if you don't hush
up about him, I'll find a way to make you."
Little Margaret was too much frightened to answer, and they kept on
their way, through narrow muddy streets lined with lofty warehouses, and
alleys filled with low German and Irish lodging-houses and beer-shops,
until they came to a wider highway, at the corners of which Margaret
read the name of Chatham street. On each side of the way were shops of
the strangest appearance--furniture, old and new, was piled up together,
coats and cloaks hung out at the doors, watches and jewelry of a tawdry
description made a show in the windows, and men with keen black eyes
and hooked noses, and stooping backs which looked as if they had never
been erect in their lives, stood at the entrances, trying to attract the
attention of the passer-by. As Margaret looked at them, she thought of
the stories her mother had read to her of the ant-lion, stealthily
watching at the bottom of its funnel-shaped den for its prey, which the
deceitful sand brings within its reach, if once the victim comes to the
edge of the pit; and of the spider, so politely inviting the fly within
its parlor.
"Will you walk into my parlor?" said the Spider to the Fly,
"'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy;
The way into my parlor is up a winding stair,
And I've many curious things to show you when you're there."
"Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "to ask me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."
At the door of some of the shops, she saw a man standing upon a box,
with a hammer in his hand, and a crowd around him, eager, and bidding
against one another. "Going, going, a splendid gold watch at five
dollars--the greatest bargain in the world--tremendous sacrifice--going,
going, _gone_!"
At last they came to his den; a shop like the rest, piled up with old
brass andirons, sofas, bureaus, tables, lamps, coats and pants, ropes,
feather-beds, and hideous daubs of pictures. Old-fashioned
mantel-ornaments, looking-glasses, clocks pointing to all hours of the
day, waiters with the paint rubbed off, old silver candlesticks, and a
heap of other trash, completed the furniture of the room. Stumbling
through this lumber, Smith led her up to a little garret, where the bare
rafters were covered with dust, and one hole of a window let in some
light, enough to reveal the nakedness of the place. In one corner, upon
the dirty floor, was an old bed; a piece of a mirror was fastened
against the wall, which looked quite innocent of the whitewash brush;
and a stool, which had lost one of its legs, was lying in a very
dejected attitude near the door. "Here you are to lodge," said Smith,
with a sardonic grin, as he noticed the child's dismay at the
announcement. "You can stay up here till I want you, and when you are
hungry, you can go down stairs to the little back kitchen and get a
slice of bread; but don't dare to show your face in the shop." "When
will my trunks come?" said the little girl, whose wits were sharpened by
the necessity of looking out for her own interests. "Never you mind
about them trunks," replied Smith; "I advise you to keep quiet, and it
will be the better for you." So saying, he descended into his shop, and
left the poor child to her meditations, which were none of the
pleasantest.
Two days passed without Smith making his appearance, and Margaret worked
up her courage to the point of going into the shop, even if it did
excite his anger, and insisting upon his taking her to her uncle, or
sending her back to the ship. She walked in, unnoticed, and the first
object that met her sight was one of her mother's large trunks, open and
empty, with the price marked upon the top. Around the room she saw the
others, and the contents, so precious to her from association with her
deceased parent, were hanging about upon pegs, looking ashamed of their
positions. Horrified, the little girl ran up to Smith: "these are my
things," she said; "how dare you put them into the shop?" "You had
better hush up, little vixen," replied the man, "or I'll take the very
clothes from off your back. You don't think I am going to keep you
without receiving board, do you?" "But I'm not going to stay here. I'll
go back to the ship--the Captain will _make_ you give me my things,"
cried the child, bursting into passionate tears. "Go--I'd like nothing
better; go back to Boston as fast as you can, cry-baby, and give my
compliments to the gentleman who cheated me into taking you," replied
Smith, with his odious smile. "Then why will you not take me to my
uncle? I don't want to stay in this horrid place." "Take care, or you'll
get into a worse--as for your uncle, I saw in the paper yesterday an
account of his death, so you need have no hopes from him." "Dead! all
dead!" said Margaret, sinking down into the nearest seat, for her head
swam, and her knees trembled so that she could not stand. "Yes, he's
dead as a door nail--no mistake about that. So you had better not be
troublesome, or you won't fare as well as you do. Here, Jackson," he
said to a rough, bloated-looking, elderly countryman, who had been
purchasing some old furniture, and had now re-entered the shop, "didn't
you say that you wanted a little girl to do your work?" "Yes, I did,"
replied the man, "my old woman is not worth any thing any more. But I
must have some one that will not be interfered with: I intend to get an
orphan from the alms-house, that will suit me best." "Here is an orphan,
who is the very thing: she has no relations or friends in the world, and
I'm rather tired of keeping her--I'll give her to you for nothing."
"That would do, but she does not look like a poor child: she is dressed
like a little lady, and her hands are small and white, as if she wasn't
used to rough work." "She _is_ dressed up more than she should be, but
you can soon mend that; and I'll answer for it, she'll learn to do the
rough work soon enough." "Well, I'll take her: have her bundle ready by
the afternoon, and I'll call for her in the wagon, and take the girl and
the other baggage at the same time." "Agreed--she shall be ready."
It would be hard to describe little Margaret's feelings during the
preceding dialogue: she plainly saw that there was no escape for her,
unless she rushed into the street, and claimed the protection of any
chance passer-by, and that honest Smith took pains to prevent, by
locking her up in her room. When there alone, she threw herself down
upon the bed, and sobbed as if her heart would break: "If my mother, my
dear, dear mother, was living, _she_ would take care of me. She would
not let me stay in this filthy place--she would not let me eat dry bread
and water--she would not let that ugly old man take me away, to do
servants' work. Oh mother! mother! I wish I were dead too!" When her
passion of grief was exhausted, comfort and hope began to dawn upon her,
and she thought, "It cannot certainly be as bad in the country, where
the old man lives, as here, in this vile hole, with all these disgusting
smells and sights. And my mother said, that God is a friend who can
never die or change, who will never leave or forsake the poor orphan. I
will try to be a better child, and then God will love me: perhaps I
deserve this, for being naughty. I certainly will try to be good."
In the afternoon, Jackson came for his baggage, as he called it, and
after the furniture was stowed away, Smith brought down the little girl,
and gave into her hand a very small bundle of clothes, bidding her tell
no tales, or she should find she was in his power yet. She was put into
the wagon, on top of the furniture, and the old man, whose face was red,
and whose breath smelt of liquor, set off at a smart pace. It was late
in the evening before they reached the solitary and desolate farm-house,
which Jackson called his home: Margaret scrambled out as best she could,
and entered the dwelling. Although it was now late in the autumn, there
was no fire upon the hearth, and the room looked to the last degree
dismal. It had something more of a habitable aspect when the furniture
was brought in, but it was evident that no "neat-handed Phillis" had
been accustomed to range through the house; and the spiders had provided
the only ornaments to be found anywhere about, by hanging the walls with
tapestry, which certainly could not be produced in the looms of France.
Margaret found that there were two other inhabitants of this neglected
house--Jackson's wife, a sad, heart-broken woman, only too evidently in
a dying condition, and a son of about fifteen, rude, stubborn, and
rebellious, whose only good-feeling seemed to be love to his poor
mother. Jackson brought out some food, of which Margaret stood greatly
in need, and she was then happy to be allowed to retire to the loft
allotted to her, as she was exhausted by the ride and the agitation of
mind she had gone through during the past week. Miserable as was her
attic, she slept soundly until waked by the sun shining into her eyes:
she quickly dressed, but did not escape a scolding from her sullen
master, who commanded her to make a fire, and get his breakfast for him.
Margaret was remarkably quick and handy for a child of her age, as her
affection to her mother and grandfather had prompted her to do many
little things for them which so young a girl seldom thinks of; but her
delicate white fingers were unused to menial tasks, and to make a fire
was quite beyond the circle of her accomplishments. Jackson then called
upon his son to do it, but told her that he should not make it a second
time, and grumbled and swore at her while he remained in the house.
It is astonishing how human nature can adapt itself to circumstances, so
that the thing which we must do we can do: little Margaret, who had ever
been so tenderly nurtured, soon learned to make the fire, to sweep the
rooms, and cook the meals. Not in the most scientific manner, truly; her
cookery would scarcely have been approved by Kitchener, Glass, or
Soyer, but it was done to the best of her slender ability. While poor
Mrs. Jackson lived, Maggie had at least the satisfaction of feeling that
her efforts to please her were understood: the grateful look, the
languid smile, and the half-expressed pity for the little slave, who was
now to fill her place, reminded the child of her mother, and made her
more contented with her situation. But when, exhausted by the life of
hardship and cruelty which the drunkard's wife must ever experience,
Mrs. Jackson slept her last sleep, and went to the home appointed for
all the living, "where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary
are at rest," then the little girl had none to feel for her. In a few
days, the boy, Bill Jackson, told her that now his mother was dead, he
wasn't such a fool as to stay there to be kicked and starved by his
father; he intended to run off and go to sea, and he advised her too "to
make herself scarce" as soon as she could. When he had gone, all the
brutality which had been divided between the mother and son, was now
visited on the innocent head of little Maggie; and unassisted even by
counsel, she had to perform all the household tasks. If she had received
kind words in payment, she could have overlooked many of the hardships
of her condition; but these she never got. Let her be as diligent and
pains taking as she would, severity and reproaches were all she met:
Jackson was always sullen and morose in the morning, and at night,
frequent potations from a large stone jug worked him up to a passion.
Then he would knock the furniture about, throw chairs at Margaret's head
if she came in his way, and swear in such a dreadful manner that the
little girl was glad to seek shelter in her cold and cheerless loft,
where at least she could be alone, and could pray to the One Friend she
had left.
As the winter advanced, the child's sufferings greatly increased. The
cold was intense, the situation a bleak one, and the old farm-house full
of cracks and crannies which admitted the winter winds. Her clothing was
of a thin description, and nearly worn out by hard usage: at night also,
in her airy loft, she was often kept awake by the cold, or cried herself
to sleep. But the more severe the weather was, the more did Jackson
think it needful to take something a little warming, and the stone jug
was frequently replenished: of course his temper became more violent,
and Margaret was the sufferer. She kept out of the way as much as
possible, but had no place to which she could retreat, except her loft.
Here she would frequently solace herself by bringing out her medallion,
which, according to her mother's directions, she wore next her heart,
and gazing upon the beloved countenances of her parents--this dying gift
was the only relic she had left of former times. One day a snow-storm
set in, which reminded her of those she had seen among her own Scottish
hills, where the drifts are so great that the shepherd frequently loses
his life in returning to his distant home. The wind was piercing, and
the snow was so driven about that you could scarcely see a few feet
before you; and by evening it lay in deep piles against the door, and
around the house. Jackson had of course resorted to the whiskey jug very
frequently during the day, for consolation; and little Margaret, seeing
him more than usually excited, had sought refuge in the cold and dismal
loft, wrapping herself up as well as she could. As she sat there,
shivering, and thinking how differently she was situated on the last
snow-storm she remembered, when she was seated on a little stool,
between her mother and grandfather, holding a hand of each, before a
large blazing fire, and listening to beautiful tales--she heard Jackson
call her name in savage tones. She hastened, but before she could get
down the ladder which led to the room below, he called her again and
again, each time more fiercely so that her heart trembled like a leaf
upon a tree, dreading to meet his rage. He received her with oaths and
abuse; called her a lazy little wretch, who did not earn the bread she
eat, and commanded her to bring in an armful of wood from the pile, as
the fire was going out. She ventured to tell him that she had already
tried to find some, but ineffectually; in some places the snow was above
her head, and the air was so thick with it, now that night had come on,
that she could not see before her. But the violent man would take no
excuse: he drove her out with threats, and long she groped about, vainly
trying to discover the wood, which was completely hidden by the snow.
Her hands and feet became numb, and she felt that she _must_ return to
the house, if he killed her--she would otherwise die of the cold. She
came, timidly crawling into the room--the moment her master saw her, he
started up; fury made him look like a demon. Seizing a stick of wood
which still remained, he assailed her violently: the child, so tender
hearted, and so delicately reared, who could be recalled to duty by one
glance of the eye, was now subjected to the chastisement of a brutal,
insensate drunkard! At last he stopped, but his rage was not exhausted.
Opening the door, he told her never to darken it again--never more
should she dare to show herself within his house. Falling upon her
knees, the little girl besought him with tears not to expel her--she had
no one to go to, no father, no mother to take care of her. If she was
driven out into the snow, she should die with cold--if he would only
allow her to stay that night, she would leave on the morrow, if he
wished it! But tears and prayers were unavailing; all of man he had
ever had in his nature was now brutified by strong drink; as well might
she have knelt to the tiger thirsting for blood, as to him. Driving her
out with a curse, he shut and bolted the door.
The depths of distress call up energies, even in the childish heart
which have never been felt before. What was there upon earth to revive
the spirit of the little orphan, so utterly deserted, so ready to
perish? Nothing. But there was something in heaven--and within that
girlish bosom there lived a faith in the unseen realities, which might
well have shamed many an older person. With her uncovered head exposed
to the falling snow, she knelt down, and this time she bent the knee to
no hard, cruel master; but with the confidence of filial love, she
uttered her fervent prayer to Him who is a very present help in time of
trouble. She called upon her Father to save a little helpless orphan;
or, if it were His will, to take her up to heaven--"_Thy_ will be done."
And she rose with a tranquillity and calm determination which many would
have deemed impossible in one so young; but there is a promise, and many
weak ones can testify to its fulfilment, "As thy day, so shall thy
strength be."
Margaret went onward towards the public road: there was no farm-house
nearer than about a mile, and the child greatly doubted her ability to
reach it; but she had resolved to persevere in her efforts, while any
power remained in her muscles, any vital warmth in her heart. Onward
went that little child, painfully, but still steadily onward; she
struggled against the drowsiness that attacked her, but at last she
began to feel that she could do no more. But yield not yet to despair,
thou gentle and brave orphan! One stronger than thou has come to thy
assistance. For hearest thou not the subdued sound of horses' hoofs
scattering the snow? thou art saved!
A traveller approaches, made of other stuff than the crafty Smiths and
the brutal Jacksons of the earth,--he sees that slight childish figure,
that bare head, those failing steps,--he thinks of his own little ones
at home, seated by the sparkling fire, and awaiting his return. He is
not one of those who hold the creed of impious Cain, "Am I my brother's
keeper?" But, instead, he is a follower of the Good Samaritan, or
rather, I should say, of Him who taught that lesson and practised it,
seeking and saving those who were lost. He stopped his horse. "My little
girl, what are you doing out of doors on a night like this? you will be
frozen to death. Why are you not at home with your father and mother?"
"I wish I were!" she said. "They are both dead--I wish I were with
them!" "But, my child, you must have a home; why are you out on such a
stormy night?" "I have no home, sir," replied poor Margaret. "I lived at
the nearest farm-house, but my master was angry with me for not bringing
in the wood, and beat me, and turned me out of doors; and I shall die of
cold very soon, unless you take care of me, sir." "Poor little deserted
one!" said the gentleman, jumping off from his horse. "Such a tiny thing
as she, cannot have done any thing very bad--and to send her out to die!
poor child! God sent me to you, and I will surely take care of you." So
saying, he took off his cloak, lined with warm fur, and shaking the snow
from her hair and clothes, carefully wrapped it around her, and placed
her in front of him upon his horse. "My good, thoughtful wife!" said he;
"when I laughed at you this morning for insisting upon my wearing this
cloak outside my great-coat, little did I think it would save a precious
life--I always do find it to my advantage to mind your womanly, wifely
instincts. And now, little girl, we will go home as fast as we can--I
will try to keep Jack Frost away from you with this cloak." Urging his
horse onward, Mr. Norton, for that was the good man's name, every now
and then spoke cheerily to the child whom he sustained with one arm,
striving to keep her awake, and telling her of the bright warm fire she
should see when they got home. At last they arrived there: when Mr.
Norton jumped off his horse, Margaret saw that they had come to a small
town, which looked very pretty as the snow lay upon the roofs and
fences. Before he could ring, the door flew open, and the warm light,
which looked like an embodiment of the love and happiness of home and
fireside pleasures, streamed out upon the pure, cold snow, revealing, to
the group within doors, the father carefully holding his burden. "Dear
father! are you not almost perished?" cried his oldest son, Frederic, a
manly little fellow, muffled up in cap, and coat, and worsted scarf.
"You must let me take old Charlie to the stable, and come in yourself
and thaw--you see I am all ready." "Well, my son, I believe I will;
particularly as I have a bundle here that I must take care of." "What
has father got?" said the younger children, wonderingly. "Why, it as
large as a bag of potatoes!" "I have brought you home a little sister,
children," Mr. Norton replied, entering the sitting-room and unwrapping
poor Margaret. "My dear wife, I found this child upon the road, almost
perished with cold: she is an orphan, and was cruelly treated by the
wretch of a master who turned her out of doors to-night. Only look at
her thin, worn-out gingham dress--and at the holes in her shoes!" "Poor
little lamb!" said Mrs. Norton, gazing on her with a mother's
pity--blessed effect of paternal and maternal love, that it opens the
heart to all helpless little ones! "Don't cry, my dear, you will not be
turned out of this house!" "Indeed, I cannot help it, ma'am; you are so
very kind--like my mother." "But, wife and children, we must not stand
here talking; we must get a tub of cold water, and keep her hands and
feet in it for some time, or she will be all frost-bitten. Sally, my
child, you need not place that chair for her so near the fire, for she
cannot sit there: help your mother to bring the water." Sally, although
rather younger than little Margaret, was a large child for her age, and
while the latter was getting thawed, and the good mother was making a
warming drink, she hunted up her thickest clothes, and begged that the
poor stranger might wear them. "And may she not sleep with me to-night,
mother?" "Oh no, mother, let her sleep with us," said Kate and Lucy, the
two younger children. "I am glad to see you want to have her with you,"
replied their mother, "but as Sally is the nearest her age, and spoke
the first, I think I must gratify her. But if Kate and Lucy wish it, she
may sit between them at table." "Thank you, thank you, dear mother, that
will be pleasant. Oh how glad we are we have a new sister!"
Soon was the story of the orphan's trials confided to the sympathizing
ears of those who had now adopted her as one of themselves, and soon did
the little girl feel at home in that household of love. Every day, as it
developed her warm feelings, her lively gratitude, and the intrinsic
worth of a character which seemed to inherit the virtues of her pious
ancestors, attached her new friends to her more closely. Mrs. Norton
declared that Margaret was the best child she had ever seen, and
perfectly invaluable to her: if she did not keep her because it was her
duty, and because she loved her, she certainly would as a daily pattern
to her own children. And besides, she had such pretty manners, and knew
so much, that it was better than sending the children to school, to have
them with her.
If I were making up a story for your entertainment, my dear nieces and
nephews, I should tell you that Margaret always lived with this
admirable family, in perfect happiness, and that when she became a woman
she married Frederic, the oldest son, thus keeping the place of a
daughter in the house. But I am telling you the truth, which, you know,
is often stranger than fiction, and often sadder also. In stories, good
people are generally rewarded with uninterrupted prosperity, just as
some very judicious parents give their children plum-cake and sweetmeats
when they say their lessons well and do not scratch each others' eyes
out. But it is not so in the real world: the all-wise Father above, acts
on other principles. He knows that his children require evil, as well as
good, and that the best soil will become dry, hard, and sterile, if the
sun always shines upon it;--therefore it is that He sends dark, heavy
clouds and gloomy days. Unwise and unthankful as we are, we grievously
complain; but the showers still descend, and when we least expect it,
behold the beautiful sun! All nature is again gay and joyous: the birds
sing cheerily, the flowers raise up their dripping heads, new blossoms
are put forth, and, to use the language of Scripture, the little hills
skip like rams, the valleys shout, they also sing, and all the trees of
the field do clap their hands. My heroine is still under the cloud of
adversity, sharing in the fate of her protectors, and lightening their
trials by her ready hand and most affectionate heart. Two years after
she entered Mr. Norton's home, her benefactor was taken ill, and
lingered for some months before he was transferred to that better
mansion which is provided for each one of the faithful. Sad was the
desolation caused by his death. I will not speak of the sorrow of the
widow and of the orphans--you can all imagine that--but, in addition,
they were deprived of their home, and cast out upon the world. After
the bills were paid--the physician's, the apothecary's, and the
undertaker's, in addition to those necessarily contracted for the
household while the father was earning nothing, Mrs. Norton found that
not a penny was left her. Selling what she could, she removed to
Philadelphia, where she had resided in her youth, thinking that she
could easily obtain employment for her needle, and so support her young
family, while they shared the advantages of our excellent system of
public schools. But she found herself friendless and unknown in the
great city, with many competitors for a very little sewing; and she came
to the conclusion that it is the very poorest way by which a woman can
support herself. She obtained a situation for Frederic in a store, where
he receives rather more than is necessary for his own wants; and,
removing to the country, she took a little cottage for the sum which one
room would have cost her in town. Frederic is able to pay her rent: and
when she is well, with the aid of our little Margaret, she can maintain
herself and her helpless children in tolerable comfort. Thus the orphan
has it in her power to repay the kindness shown to her, and by
exercising the noble virtue of gratitude, to rise daily higher in the
scale of being."
"Dear Aunty!" cried Amy, with all eagerness, "have you not been telling
us the story of _our_ Mrs. Norton, and that pretty little adopted
daughter of hers, with the large, deep blue eyes?"
"You have guessed my riddle, Amy," replied her aunt, smiling. "I called
there this morning while you were all out--while George was amusing
himself by falling into the pond--and heard the whole history from the
sick woman's lips. I felt so deeply interested in it, that I thought you
could spend an hour worse than in listening to the simple tale."
"Are you sure that you have not embellished it?" asked Mr. Wyndham, with
a smile.
"Quite sure: for, although I filled up a few gaps in the narrative by
using my very common-place imagination, I assure you that all the facts
are substantially the same. And I don't doubt that if I had witnessed
the scenes described, I should have been able to make my story far more
pathetic, and far more romantic, because it would then have been a
daguerreotype of the truth. I have talked with little Margaret herself,
and certainly I have never seen a more engaging and lovely child. At my
urgent request, she consented to lend me her precious medallion for a
few days--and here it is."
"What a spiritual, poetical face!" exclaimed Mr. Wyndham. "I declare it
reminds me of a portrait of Schiller which I once saw."
"And the mother, too--there is no doubt of that woman being a real
lady," said Ellen. "Did you ever see a sweeter, gentler countenance?"
"Never," replied Alice. "But, uncle, do you not know that I have an
idea? I guessed all along that Margaret Roscoe was _our_ little
friend--but I feel sure that rascal of a Smith was lying, when he said
he had seen her uncle's death in the paper. It's not very likely such a
fellow as he was, would object to telling an untruth! He only wanted to
get her trunks, and to quiet her, you may be sure. And I believe that
Mr. Alan Roscoe is now living in Philadelphia--and I believe that I know
him, uncle!"
Her uncle started, and exclamations of surprise and delight burst from
all the circle. "It might very well be," Mr. Wyndham said; "I remember
thinking our amiable friend Smith was speaking an untruth, at the time,
although I did not carry out the idea. But do you know any one of that
name, Alice? Surely, it cannot be Mr. Roscoe, the retired merchant, who
is so prominent for his benevolence and liberality?"
"Yes, sir, it is--I am intimate with his oldest child, Carrie. And I
know that he is a Scotchman, and they used to live in Charleston, and
his name is Alan, and his little boy is called Malcom! that's after
Margaret's father, I am sure. Carrie told me he had been named after an
uncle in Scotland who was dead!"
"Is it possible?" replied Mr. Wyndham. "It really does look like it--if
it be actually so, my dear wife, here is another reverse of fortune for
your heroine, which you did not expect. The contrast would be great
indeed, between the little whitewashed cottage, and the magnificent
mansion on Walnut-street!"
"I hope it will not turn her head!" said Charlie Bolton.
"There is little fear of that, I think," rejoined Mrs. Wyndham.
"Margaret has early been tried in the furnace of affliction, and she has
come out gold: I believe she really possesses that gospel charity, one
of the marks of which is, that it is not, and cannot be, puffed up. But
what shall we do? shall we tell her of our hopes?"
"By no means," replied her husband. "It would only excite expectations
which, after all, may be disappointed--although I am strongly convinced
that our suppositions are correct. For the first time in my life, I
regret that to-morrow will be Sunday; but early on Monday morning I
shall set out for the city, and for Mr. Roscoe's house or counting-room.
With my good wife's permission, I will take this medallion with me, and
show it to Mr. Roscoe--then I shall know in a moment if he is really
Margaret's uncle."
"Will you be so kind as to take me with you?" asked a dozen voices at
once.
"No, I will not," replied Mr. Wyndham, laughing. "The carriage cannot
possibly hold you all. If Alice wishes it, I will take her, both as a
reward for her quickness in making this discovery, and as a means of
introduction to Mr. Roscoe, with whom I am not acquainted. And if our
surmises prove correct, I expect to bring Mr. Roscoe back with me, which
is another reason for not riding twenty or thirty in a carriage."
"Oh, uncle! uncle! twenty or thirty!"
"Well, you are a baker's dozen, at least, that you cannot deny. I quite
long to get to town! I believe I am as much of a boy as Harry, there, or
Lewis--I _really_ wish I could put off Sunday just for one day, I am so
impatient!"
"It will be an admirable exercise of your noblest faculties, uncle,"
said Cornelia, slyly. "I am rather impatient myself, even at my mature
age. But the _moral discipline_, uncle, that is so invaluable that we
ought not to wish it to be otherwise."
"Ah, you witch! I believe in my heart this is your revenge for my
refusing to take you to town with me," rejoined her uncle.
"Not a bit of it--I bear no malice--it is only my native and
unconquerable pertness, which I sometimes fear may get me into a
difficulty with some one yet. But I am not at all afraid of you, dear
uncle; I know you understand that it's only my way."
"Certainly, certainly; I should be a cross old fellow if I wished to
repress your youthful spirits."
"But, uncle," said Charlie Bolton, "couldn't you put off Sunday as Dean
Swift, or somebody or other, put off the eclipse? That would obviate all
the difficulty."
"I never heard that story," cried George Wyndham, "But every one knows
about 'Hail Columbia' _putting on_ an eclipse."
"I don't, I must own," replied Cornelia, laughing. "Do tell it straight,
if you can, you monkey."
"I'll try, my own true sister. If it wasn't Hail Columbia, it was
Columbus, and that's all one, the whole world knows. When the Indians
began to discover that the Spaniards were not gods, as they at first
thought, they became a little obstreperous, and wanted to starve them
out--quite natural, under the circumstances. But Columbus, from his
knowledge of astronomy, was aware that a total eclipse of the moon would
take place the next night. So he called a meeting of the natives, and
informed them that they had brought upon themselves the vengeance of the
Great Spirit by their conduct--that at a certain hour, the light of the
moon would be nearly put out, and its orb would look like blood, as a
sign to them of the displeasure of Heaven. And when the poor creatures
really saw it happen as he had said, they were nearly frightened to
death, and came to him, laden with provisions, and begging him to pray
to the Great Spirit, that he might remove his wrath from them. Now I
call that putting on an eclipse."
"The funniest circumstance in relation to an eclipse, happened to me,"
said Mrs. Wyndham. "When I was a very small child, I thought that quite
as great a miracle was about to happen, as the Indians did. You must
know that there came to Philadelphia a certain famous race-horse named
Eclipse, of whose speed great marvels were told. Handbills about him
were thrown into the house, and I thought he must really be a wonderful
animal. Just at that epoch, I heard my father say something about an
eclipse that night, and the moon in connection with it. My imagination
was instantly fired. "Did you say, father, that Eclipse would go over
the _moon_? why, can that be true?" "Oh yes, my dear, the eclipse is
really going over the moon: if you wish it, you can stay up till nine
o'clock, to see it." "Thank you, thank you, I should like to very much.
But I don't see how it can be!" "More wonderful things than that happen,
my child: you'll understand it better when you are older; but you shall
see it to-night, if you are not too sleepy." "No danger of that--I
wouldn't miss it for the world!" "How much interest little Lucy seems to
feel in the eclipse, mother!" said my father. "We must certainly let her
stay up."
Night came on, and the show began. The best seat at an upper window was
reserved for me, and I looked at the moon constantly, afraid that if I
turned away my eyes for one moment the wonderful event might take place
without my observing it. All were interested in my seeing it. "Lucy, do
you see it, dear I do you see the moon getting dark?" "Oh yes, I see
that, but I don't see Eclipse." "Why, that's the eclipse--when the dark
shadow goes over the moon, that is an eclipse of the moon." "But I don't
see the horse jumping over the moon, at all." "The _horse_? what do you
mean, child?" "You said that Eclipse was to go over the moon, but I
can't see him in the least!"
"Oh, Auntie! were you, really, such a _green_ child as that?"
"Yes, it is a literal fact. I thought it a most astonishing thing that
it could happen; but since my father so gravely said it would, my faith
was equal to the demand made upon it. When I found it was only something
about the shadow of the earth falling on the moon, I went to bed,
grievously disappointed and quite disgusted: I felt somewhat as the
amiable Smith did, that I had been _sold_."
"Ah, Auntie, we children could not be taken in so now, I can tell you!"
said Lewis.
"I know it," replied his aunt, smiling. "I am quite aware that the age
of faith has passed away, and that republican institutions have made the
young ones as wise and incredulous as their elders. I don't half like it
myself!"