CHAPTER XI.

Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.

The web is wove. The work is done.

Gray.

It was on a lovely summer’s evening, rather more than ten years after

the events last recorded, that two persons were sitting in the spacious

drawing-room of a noble mansion in Canada, opening on a park. They had,

it appeared by the lady’s attire, been walking, but as their

conversation deepened in interest, the repose of home had again been

unconsciously sought. She had thrown aside her bonnet, and as she sat,

her face upturned to her male companion, her features disclosed a

loveliness that would have irresistibly attracted attention. The repose

of her features was so soft and gentle that the eye would have fallen

there with the same delight, and turned away with the same regret which

it experiences in regard to other things which are found to harmonize

with its vision. In her the period of girlhood had merged into the epoch

of woman’s maturity, when, nearer her prime than her bloom, she unites

all the truth and freshness of early youth with those calm and more

finished graces which come not to pass away, but to deepen and endure.

But one glance at the sweet Madonna countenance, the unequaled

expression of the placid features, the golden hair, shaded now to

something of a chestnut, will suffice for her recognition by all those

whose interest in Grace Bartlett has sketched her image in their minds.

To the Grace Bartlett of our opening chapter, she bore indeed only the

outward resemblance that the opening flower does to the early bud. But

even as the full blown rose reveals the luscious scent and glowing

beauty which the blossom contained, so did her character, as it now

shone forth beneath the bright and dazzling sun of affluence, confirm

and strengthen the promise of its dawn.

The gay, playful child of our first chapter, the timid, shrinking

Puritan girl of our after history, was now the modestly dignified,

though still retiring, wife of the Governor General of Canada. The pure

and holy sentiments of religion which had formerly been spoken timidly,

as hardly daring to find expression lest the high-born should mock or

pity, were now avowed calmly, unostentatiously as they had been acted

upon in the deep trials of her girlhood.

Her love for her husband was intense and absorbing, but it came not

between herself and heaven. The fruits of her holy life were gentleness

and self-denial, meekness and charity--plainly showing at whose feet she

laid the offering of her heart.

In the polished circle in which she now moved, she had preserved within

her that pure light which, when the sun is growing dim and waxing faint,

alone can guide through the dark valley of the shadow of death. The

heart of that lovely flower of a Puritan village--a heart that had

throbbed and quivered at the faintest touch of kindness, and which a

silken thread could lead in all other matters, had stood firm where her

religion was concerned, and this very firmness had won her husband to

her faith.

The importance which Frank Winthrop had acquired as the son of Gen.

Lincoln, added to his personal merit--under the name of his adopted

father, which he always retained, ignorant of his real origin, had

attracted the attention of the government. He was soon employed in

various situations of responsibility and importance. By the same

progression in fortune which first elevated him, another and a later

change had brought him in Canada to the rank of Governor General.

The conversation between the two had been continued for some time, when

the voice of a young child was heard on the stair-case.

“Oh, there is my little bird singing,” exclaimed Grace Lincoln. She

sprang to the door and returned, bearing in her arms a lovely boy,

exquisitely fair, with deep blue eyes, and clustering curls of gold. The

bright complexion and golden hair were hers, but his features were the

miniature likeness of his handsome father at her side.

Over them we now drop the curtain, and in so doing, let them take their

farewell of the reader.

* * * * *

=SONNET.=

=BY CAROLINE F. ORNE.=

Hid in the bosom of life-giving earth,

In darkness and in silence deep and still,

The buried seed to springing roots gives birth,

That fix them in the mold with firmest will;

Strong hold have they below there in the soil

Before the leaves upshoot them to the light,

And beauty crowns the deep and hidden toil

With blossomed boughs that charm the gazer’s sight.

So thou, oh soul, obscure and hidden long,

Uncared for and unknown must bide thy time,

And like the aspiring seed strike, deep and strong,

Roots that shall bear thee upward in thy prime,

So firm sustained, thou shalt the worthier be

For life’s fair flower that all men honor thee.

* * * * *

=UPS AND DOWNS.=

CHAPTER I.

“I trust Mrs. Davidson is at last satisfied.”

“In what?”

“Why, have you not heard the news of the engagement of Maria with Henry

Dawson?”

“No, I have not before. But when did it occur, and are you positive it

is so?”

“As to the when, sometime within a day or two; and as to the positive,

the lady herself is my authority.”

“She is certainly very fortunate with her daughters.”

“So she thinks, at least this time. But I am not clear that the three

former connections with Law, Physic and Divinity were exactly to her

mind.”

“Certainly no three men occupy more respectable positions for their age

in the community than her three sons-in-law, and as she had no fortune

to give with her daughters, she should be thankful.”

“I imagine few will be inclined to differ from you; but that very want

of fortune causes her to be peculiarly alive to its advantages, and

hence her delight at her daughter’s engagement to young Dawson.”

“Is he so very rich?”

“Not having any marriageable daughters of my own to dispose of, I never

asked him for a schedule of his effects. But I supposed you to have been

well posted on that point.”

“Me! Bless you, my dear--I never trouble myself about such matters. Why

should you think so?”

“Oh, I know not. A mere random remark of mine. I thought I had some

faint recollection of his flirtation with Laura last winter, and knowing

your prudence, supposed you had made the necessary inquiries.”

“You are much mistaken. There never was any thing between them. He is

music-mad, and used frequently to come to listen to Laura’s harp. I

suppose he thought it but right therefore to show her some attention in

public, and hence the world interpreted it into something else. But, I

assure you, there was never any thing in it.”

“I never supposed there was. I always thought Laura was merely amusing

herself. But how remarkably well she is looking to-night. Who is that

distinguished looking man who is paying her such marked attention?”

“That is a Mr. Ernest, who has recently returned from abroad, and has

come home a perfect virtuoso, and you know that Laura’s taste lies in

the same way.”

“Yes, she certainly admires a mustache, for I notice that of late she

encourages no one without that fashionable appendage.”

Whilst Miss Laura Bridgeman was listening complacently to the remarks of

the mustached beau by her side, and her mother and Mrs. Grayson, a

fashionable widow of no particular age, and childless, were discussing

things as above, in another part of the room, where lights and music

added to the witchery which bright eyes and lovely forms make, young

Dawson was hanging over his newly betrothed.

In the meantime her mother was receiving the congratulations of troops

of friends, for Henry Dawson was, in the phrase matrimonial, “the catch

of the season.” He had long been an orphan--his fortune was large, his

intellect fair and well cultivated, his person and address good, and his

whole appearance decidedly gentlemanly and prepossessing. That he should

have “fallen in love,” as the phrase goes, with his lively fiancée, none

wondered, and save a few anxious mothers, who, like Mrs. Bridgeman, had

marriageable daughters, all heartily congratulated him.

The family connection of Mrs. Davidson was most respectable; but left a

widow, with limited means and a family of young daughters, she had been

condemned to much and close economy to maintain appearances and give her

daughters an education to fit them for their proper positions in the

world. The three eldest were, as we have seen above, respectably

married, and now it is not to be wondered that she rejoiced that her

youngest was to be transferred from the narrow economy of her house to

the comforts and luxuries which a wealthy husband could bestow.

Did our fair heroine entertain like views? They may have crossed her

mind in some of her reveries, but they were but shadows. She had given a

young, pure heart with all its rich, unworked mine of virgin gold,

without one thought of earthly dross about it. She loved with all the

ardent devotion of young love, the handsome, intelligent youth who wooed

her with soft words and pleading looks. She loved him for what he was,

or what she thought he was, and not for what he had. She knew that his

love for her must be most disinterested, for she had naught but herself

to give, and she was happy in the feeling of loving and of being

beloved.

Oh, this love! what a strange power it exercises over the actions and

the minds of the human race. What blindness it produces in our mental

visions--how it changes defects into beauties, and magnifies

ant-hillocks to mountains--what floods of blood and floods of ink it has

shed in this world, and is doomed still to shed--how it makes virtue

vice and vice virtue--how it lights the torch of discord, and yet throws

around the soft and beaming light of harmony--how it makes wise men

idiots, and converts brave men into cowards. In a word, how it agitates,

distracts, soothes, but generally succeeds best in causing men to

stultify themselves, at any rate for a given time.

The evening sped joyously on. Few envied, more rejoiced in the apparent

future happiness, and, as it was termed, rare good fortune of the bride

elect, whose cheeks maintained a constant rivalry with the rich roses of

the fragrant boquet, as time and again some sly inuendo or more open

remark reached her ear. Her mother received the more direct

congratulations which were lavished upon her, with a quiet ease, in

which she endeavored to veil the entire satisfaction which the

prospective nuptials afforded her. Thus almost all were pleased. The

mother, that her maternal cares were so soon to cease, and the gay

pleasure-seekers were satisfied that a new and splendid establishment

would in another season be opened to them, and if a feeling of any kind

crossed the heart of Laura Bridgeman, that the prize which she once

thought within her grasp had fallen to another, she turned to her new

admirer, and in the contemplation of his superb mustache forgot, or

tried to do so, the vision of the beautiful establishment which had once

flitted through her imagination.

* * * * *

Shift we the scene. A few months have passed--the gay festivities of the

winter are over--summer now usurps her sway, and nature, decked in her

holiday attire, woos to contemplation and quiet enjoyment. The magic

words which were to fix for life the destinies of the fair Maria had

been spoken; the nuptial benediction pronounced, and in a beautiful

villa, a few miles removed from the city, she was passing the first

weeks of her bridal life, a loved and loving wife. There are few things

in the world more touching than the love of a young, pure wife. The

feelings which she entertained for the lover were constrained by a sense

of propriety, but now they may pour themselves forth unchecked, in one

o’ergushing flood of tenderness. Then she must await his approach, now

she may go forth to meet him--then she must check her feelings as they

rose, lest, forsooth, she might be thought forward, indelicate. Now she

may take the initiative, and her soft hand may push back the locks from

the brow on which she may implant a kiss of pure, almost unearthly love.

Now she may watch to gratify those little tastes or fancies which then

were passed unnoticed.

And never were the gushings of a warm, devoted heart poured forth more

tenderly than they were by Maria Dawson for her husband. Nor on his part

was the devotion less entire. The villa had been fitted up in every way

to gratify her taste and fancy; and between the ride, or the drive, or

the wandering about the grounds or in the garden, or music and reading

and conversation, the summer passed all too rapidly away, and she almost

sighed when the frosts of autumn notified her to prepare to take

possession of her luxurious mansion in the city.

Marriage seems to be necessary, as a general rule, to the full

development of the characters of women. Circumstances of course have a

large share in it, but still it seems almost necessary to the full

development of the perfect character of woman that she should be seen in

her double position of wife and mother. Germs which have lain dormant

are then brought into life; new faculties are called into play; the

disposition is fully unfolded, and she exhibits herself frequently in a

new and entirely different light from what she was regarded in the days

of her girlhood. The timid girl becomes self-reliant; far from being

dependent on the views and wishes of those to whom she has been

accustomed to look for counsel and guidance, she finds herself called

upon to act and decide for others now dependent on her--this gives a

vigor to her mind, a firmness to her views, a decision to her actions,

which, without some such cause for their development, they would in all

probability never have attained.

CHAPTER II.

“Things look blue.”

“Yes; never saw such unpromising appearances.”

“The best paper in town was done yesterday at 2 per cent. per month,”

pursued Mr. John Sharp to his brother broker Mr. Growlem, as they

cogitated over their morning’s correspondence. “My letters throw out

some inuendoes about certain houses heretofore considered undoubted,”

pursued that gentleman, as with a keen glance he peered over his

spectacles at his companion.

“Hum--don’t know. In such cases caution is desirable, and so don’t say

much; but if stocks continue to fall as they have done for a few weeks

past, shan’t consider any man undoubted unless I know him to be short of

the whole list, and even then he may be caught.”

“As how, pray?” suggested his companion.

“By buying in before delivery day, and then finding his man smashed,

gone, and he himself likely to be in the same pleasant position.”

“You always look at the bright side of things.”

“Certainly I do; especially when the prospect is so charming all round

as it is now. Thank God I am pretty well up. I haven’t a contract that

has not security up. ‘My man,’ you know, always required it. And as for

any stocks I hold, why they are all paid for and I may as well hold on

for better times, as I don’t see how I can better myself by putting them

in some fellow’s note, who will, in all probability, pay just five cents

in the dollar.”

“I am a good deal of your way of thinking. But if this crash goes on

when will the revival come?”

“Just as soon as the banks break, and not before.”

“But how can their breakage benefit the matter? I confess my ignorance.”

“My dear fellow, considering your name and experience, I consider you

very flat this morning. Are you so green as to think I mean them to

stop, as you and I would if we could not meet our engagements. By no

means. They will do no such vulgar thing as fail--they will merely

suspend; and then, you know, as paper is cheap and engraving not very

expensive, we shall have money as plenty as dirt; that is, as soon as

presidents and cashiers can sign their names to pieces of paper

promising to pay--in what? I don’t know. Do you? Certainly not in the

‘current coin of the realm.’ And yet, by the way, these promises will be

the current coin. Mark what I say. He that can hold on until this time

will get through--plucked, ringed, well battered--but still he will get

through. He that can’t must go to the wall, there to be ground between

the upper and the nether mill-stone.”

The brokers parted. It was a time to make the stoutest heart quail. The

commercial world was then going through one of those dreadful

convulsions which so frequently happen to it, aggravated on this

occasion by the most reckless, improvident and profligate expansion of

the paper currency known for a century. The consequence was, that the

fury of the storm fell upon the heads not of a portion only of the

community, but upon the whole. Persons dependent upon the incomes

arising from stock investments were suddenly cut off; and all classes,

from the laborer deprived of the work which afforded him his daily

pittance for the support of his family, upward, felt the blow. Stocks

were tumbling down at from one to five per cent. a day; money was not to

be had on securities which in ordinary times would have been more than

ample, and universal distrust and dismay abounded.

How fared it in all this commotion with the personages of our story?

They had been several years wedded, and heaven seemed to smile most

benignantly on their union. Three lovely children were grouped around

them. Every comfort, every luxury that wealth could procure were

lavished by Henry Dawson on his young wife, whose loveliness appeared,

in his eyes at least, to increase with each succeeding year. The girlish

beauty had passed away, but the matronly grace and elegance and beauty

which had succeeded, were only as yet the first full developments of the

lovely bud of promise. Nothing had however occurred to test in any way

the young mother’s character, and except when occupied with the young

family in the nursery at home, she was to all outward appearance the

polished, elegant woman of the world, one of fortune’s spoiled children.

The richer qualities of head and heart, if indeed she possessed any, had

never yet seen the light. Her husband was proud of her in every

way--proud of the fine mind which her rich conversational powers showed;

proud of the faultless taste which governed all the arrangements of her

drawing-rooms and her a own personal appearance--but beyond these he

knew nothing of her--nor perhaps did she of herself. The world flocked

in crowds to her splendid balls, and gave her the tribute of admiration

which her personal graces and loveliness demanded as their right. But

this was all that the husband of her choice or the world in which she

dwelt knew of Maria Dawson. Her full character was not yet developed,

the circumstances had not arisen.

It was about the time of the conversation that we have recorded above,

that Henry Dawson one day returned home rather earlier than was his

habit. Maria was in the drawing-room when he entered. She noted that his

brow was clouded, but this had been the case for several days; and when,

on a former occasion, she had spoken to him of it, he had put her off

with what she felt was but a pretext, and she determined to abstain from

questioning until he was ready to give her his confidence. It had

however worried her. Between them, since their marriage, confidence had

been entire. They had no secrets from each other, and hence she argued

this could not concern Henry alone or he would have communicated with

her; the affairs of some friend which he was not at liberty to disclose

even to her must be preying upon him, and she would wait until the cloud

had been removed, or he was ready of his own accord to disclose it to

her.

He had been standing by a table with his back turned to her for a few

minutes, engaged apparently in an attentive examination of something on

it, when he turned suddenly to her--

“Maria,” and his voice was wanting in all the softness with which he

usually addressed her, and was pitched in the key-note of one who has

some desperate communication to make--“Maria, you must nerve yourself

for ill news. I am a ruined man,” he rather jerked out than said, and as

he spoke the strong man sank into a chair by his side.

Not one word did she speak. She sat for a moment as one stunned by a

sudden blow; then rising she passed softly to his side, and resting one

hand on his shoulder, with the other she drew gently from his face the

hands in which he strove to hide it, then stooping down pressed her lips

upon his forehead.

“Cheer up, dear husband,” was her first words. “Poor though we may be in

earth’s substances, yet in one thing are we still rich--our mutual love.

Think not, dearest Henry, that for myself I care for all the glittering

baubles around me, so that I still retain your love.” And again were

those soft lips pressed upon his forehead, and a flood of tears relieved

the anguish of his mind.

Think him not unmanly because he thus wept. This proud man who thus gave

way, was in all probability one who on the field of strife could with

curling lip, and flashing eye, and with sword or bat waving wildly o’er

his head, have led a band of the most reckless and daring who ever trod

a battle-field “to do or die;” could have again, as he had done that

morning, met his fellow men with cheek unblanched and eye unwandering,

and with a ready smile upon his lip, whilst the vulture was gnawing at

his heart. But this conduct of his wife, so pure, so heavenly, so

devoted--it was too much for his manhood--it touched the inmost chords

of deepest sensibility within him, and the strong man wept.

Maria, for a few moments, did not attempt to assuage or interrupt him.

She knew that nature was thus affording a relief to his pent-up and

restrained feelings, but as soon as the paroxysm began to subside again

she leaned over him, and said softly to him--

“Cheer up, dearest Henry. Be not so cast down, love. The worst cannot be

so bad as your imagination paints; or let the worst be as bad as may be,

it is light to me compared with your distress. Cheer up then,

dearest--remember we have others beside ourselves to care for, and if

you allow yourself to be so overcome you will be unable to do aught for

them.”

He raised an arm, passed it round her waist, and drawing her toward him

pressed her to his heart.

“Perhaps, Maria, I should rejoice in my calamities, as it has served to

show me what an angel I posses in you.”

“Oh no,” she replied, anxious to divert his thoughts; “not an angel,

only a loving, trusting wife. Remember, dearest, I took you for worse as

well as better, for poorer as well as richer, and would you have me

break my promise? Fie on you, Henry, I thought you had more confidence

in my veracity.”

“Nay, Maria, speak not thus to me; treat me not thus. Had you met my

avowal with a cold look, or with words of worldly wisdom have arraigned

me for my conduct, I could have borne all like a man; but

now--thus--such conduct has unmanned me--and our children, too, dearest!

When I think of them and of you--and of what my madness--my folly has

deprived them and you--it almost distracts me.”

“But, my dear husband, you still can give to your children the bright

legacy of an untarnished name, and your wife will bear it more proudly

for your sake, than in the days of your greatest prosperity.”

“Yes, Maria, I have, thank Heaven, that consolation. Poor though we are,

our name is untarnished by any act of mine. Madman, fool, I may have

been, but not a knave.”

“Unburthen yourself to me, Henry, and tell me all, I am a child in

matters of business, I know. Your kindness has never let me suspect that

any thing was wrong, or that you were at all embarrassed for money,

since I have been your wife. Nay, I did not even know that you were

engaged in business at all, but thought the income from your property

supported us.”

“So it did for a time, and so it should and would have continued to have

done but for my own folly--I always lived up to the extreme limit of my

income--but extravagance begets extravagance. I was proud of you, your

beauty, your accomplishments, your acquirements, and I determined that

no money should be spared to place you in possession of every thing your

fancy or your taste might dictate. It gratified my vanity to see you

arrayed in the richest robes and glittering in the most costly gems. It

also gratified the same mean passion, for such I now admit it to be,

that your balls and parties should be the most elegant, the dinners and

suppers of the house the most _recherché_ in all respects our society

could boast. You appeared to take pleasure in them, and hence I rushed

madly on until I found my fortune seriously impaired. What should I have

done? Prudence and propriety now tell me, have retrenched at once and

have gone to you and told you all. In fact they told me so then, and the

struggle between them and false pride might have resulted in their favor

and spared us this, but for one thing--I never was a gambler. I mean by

that, I never ventured at games of chance any sum whose loss would have

been worth a passing thought. But whilst I was thus hesitating, I heard

among the men with whom I associated, how much this one and that one had

cleared in a short time by ”operations“ in certain stocks. This was not

gambling. It was the result of an observation of the probable rise and

fall of the stock-market. It is unnecessary to my tale, love, to enter

into the minute particulars, or to explain at length what is meant by

the phrase ‘bulls and bears;’ suffice it to say, I saw the best men in

the community, men esteemed in all the various relations of society,

vestrymen of churches, elders, trustees, church members, all deeply

embarked in these transactions, and of their morality then there could

be no doubt, nor do I now mean to impugn it. I heard of the gains of

different individuals--I _heard nothing of any man’s losses_. I

consulted a broker, a man of keen business habits, and like almost all

the members of the broker’s board, of highly honorable character in his

avocation. I pointed out to him what I wanted. For the first time I

heard of something beside profits. He pointed out to me clearly all the

dangers of the business, and how immeasurably greater they were to one

who, like myself, had been educated to spend money, not to make it. Few,

he told me, were in the long run successful speculators, and they were

usually men of cool, calculating temperament, sagacious and far-seeing

in watching the signs of the times, and of an iron-nerve that nothing

could shake; and yet, he said, such were the uncertainties, that at

times even the most experienced of such men were deceived. I left him

fully intending to avoid the dangerous experiment--come to you, and tell

you all. Unfortunately, I fell in with a friend who had just embarked in

an operation. We had talked the matter over before, we did so again, and

before we parted I had given an order to another broker to operate for

me. I was successful. This was sufficient. Several other small

operations followed, in which I had continued success. I soon formed an

exalted opinion of my own judgment; voted the broker who had advised me

‘an old granny’ and embarked much more deeply. Losses now began to

accrue--the embarrassments of the times thickened; I fancied them only

temporary and that they would soon pass away--I plunged in more deeply

and madly than ever, and the result has been, that having to-day settled

all my contracts, save the furniture of our houses, our plate, and your

jewels, we have not a thousand dollars upon earth.”

He went through his tale firmly, almost calmly. When it was finished, he

looked into his wife’s face with a smile so ghastly, so unnatural, that

an ice chill fell upon her heart. Rallying in a moment, she again bent

to caress him, and then said to him,

“Thank you, dearest Henry, that I now know all. It is a melancholy tale;

and how much pain might you have spared yourself, had you known me

better. Think you that I cared so much for the splendor with which you

have surrounded me or the glittering baubles with which you have decked

me, as to have enjoyed the one or worn the other, had I known all I now

do. Oh! why, Henry, was not confidence in me so entire as to have

advised with me concerning these things. If husbands would only counsel

in such matters freely with their wives; if the situation of their

affairs was always freely and fully laid before them, much might be

spared. I rejoiced in the splendor, I decked myself in costly robes and

rich jewels, more from the pleasure I saw that my doing so gave you,

than from any positive pleasure they afforded me; though,” she added,

with a faint attempt at a smile, “jewels and velvets are things which,

in common with most women, I do not affect to despise. But the jewel

which I value above all others, is my husband’s love--to see him happy,

is to me a source of more exquisite enjoyment than all the splendor

earth can give. But, I repeat, cheer up, dear Henry; the past is gone

beyond recall, leaving behind it but the lessons of experience which it

gives--from them we can derive wisdom. The future is all before us--we

are young--trustful in each other--blessed with those objects which will

call forth all our energies. There must be no more false pride. My

jewels, all, save one or two tokens of your young love, our plate and

rich furniture will give us something on which to start afresh in life.

Our experience of the past must be our beacon for the future. Compose

yourself, dearest. Leave the management of these trifles to me. You must

let me have a beginning,” she continued, seconding her appeal with a

kiss that was irresistible, as she saw a refusal gathering on his brow.

“Keep yourself quiet and contented for a few days, and see how well I

will manage. Add now, dearest, let us go see the children.”

Our heroine had not yet fully developed--the process was but commencing.

CHAPTER III.

Pass we by the scenes of the few succeeding days. In them, however,

Maria was all efficiency. Her cheerfulness and the buoyancy of her

spirits seemed never to forsake her, at least in her husband’s presence.

She had determined that no act, nor look, nor word of her’s should add

to the poignancy of the regret, almost remorse, which agitated him. When

alone, the serenity of that young brow might be clouded; but it was more

from anxious thought for the future, than from regret for the past; or a

tear might dim the brightness of her eye, as she bent over her sleeping

children, and thought of their altered prospects.

Fortunately there were no debts, and, best of all, no small debts. No

tradesman, no mechanic suffered from this mishap. There was enough left

to settle all these accounts, and the stock contracts had all been

“met;” but there was nothing left, save the furniture of the two

mansions. How rapid was her decision on this point. All, every thing,

save the most necessary articles, were to go--satin, damask, and velvet,

were to be replaced by chintz; rosewood by pine; lounges, and ottomans,

and presentation chairs were to be as if they never had been; and if a

few good engravings were laid aside with a few cherished family

portraits to humanize their new home, wherever it might be, costly

paintings were parted with without a sigh. The rich China and costly

plate--“Why, certainly, my dear; I am sure things will eat just as well

off of Liverpool ware; and as for all that glass, I shall be glad to be

rid of the constant dread I had of having it broken, and the set

ruined.”

And thus did Maria meet all the objections of her husband as they rose

one by one. Two things, however, she determined to keep to the

last--one, her husband’s books--the other, her own piano. She knew that

be where they might, they would be a constant source of comfort to him;

and in time, when, perhaps, they could not be conveniently replaced,

they would be needed for the children.

But after all these things had been parted with, how were they to live.

To live on the proceeds would be madness, as that would in a short time

exhaust every thing; they neither of them had any expectations of future

fortune, save from their own exertions. Dawson had been educated to no

business, nor any profession; and that he had escaped being a mere

profligate “about town” was regarded almost as a wonder by all. His

refined native taste had alone saved him. Mere dissipation in its

unrefined, undraperied vulgarity, had no charms for him; and he had

sought refuge when very young in female society, and the indulgence of

an unrestrained taste for general literature. He had never been a

student--rather a literary epicure--tasting a mouthful here, and sipping

a few drops there--but nowhere sitting down to that hearty meal of solid

food by which alone true students are made.

It was, however, necessary that a decision of some kind should be made.

On one thing he was resolved, and with a determination which nothing

could shake. It was to leave the place where his former life had been

passed. His pride was yet unbroken; he could not endure the thought of

sinking back from that position in society which he had formerly filled.

He could not endure the thought that his bright, his beautiful wife

should be exposed to mortifications which always fall to the lot of

those from whose side fortune has departed. He knew full well that the

before concealed envy of many would now show itself at her expense--that

she should be an object of affected pity and compassion from those who

had greeted her appearance with applause, and had been followers in her

train. Were they to seek a new home, they would be spared a thousand and

one of those petty annoyances which none but those who have experienced

them can appreciate. In a new sphere, they would start in an humble way,

but then there would be no by-gones connected with their history. Come

what else might, do what else they would, on this point he was

unalterably determined; the what that was to be done, and the where it

was to be, could not, however, be definitely determined upon until the

results of the sale were known. He inclined for the west. To this his

wife, backed by the influence of her own family, opposed a decided

negative. The iron horse did not then course its way over the lofty

mountains and through the dense forests and across the almost boundless

prairies on which it now pursues its daily career. She dreaded the

deadly sickness to which all settlers in new countries are subject--the

isolation from all society, which she knew must fall with such crushing

weight upon one so long accustomed to it as was her husband--the want of

schools, at which her young family could receive proper

instruction--and, we must confess, she shrunk somewhat from the thought

of being her own sole “help.” She did not count upon having about her,

go where she might, a train of servants, but she knew herself physically

incapable of being the sole servant to her family. She would, she knew,

have to work, literally and physically, with her own hands--be, in all

probability, her own nurse, seamstress, chamber-woman, arrange and

manage all within doors--take care of the children, set out the table,

keep the house in order, and superintend the cooking; but beyond this

she knew herself unable to the task, and she was unwilling to undertake

what she felt she could not accomplish. And then, too, should the

dreaded sickness come on--but here the dismal prospect fancy conjured up

before her did not assume so distinct a form--it was a dark, confused

picture, like those of some of the so called “old masters,” in which the

dark shadows are so deep, that they throw into complete obscurity all

the light--if, indeed, there ever was any. And so two things were

determined on. First, they would leave their former place of residence.

And, secondly, that they would not go to the west.

But what was to be the pursuit? That was the rub. As we have said,

Dawson had neither a professional nor a business education. The

universal refuge for man, that of a tiller of the soil, was open to him;

but then what knew he of farming pursuits? It is true he knew the

difference between wheat and rye when he saw them in full head, but it

is doubtful if he could distinguish either of them from grass or oats

before they had reached that state. He could tell a scythe from a

cradle, or a plough from a harrow; but how to use one or the other was

to him a most profound mystery. What kind of a hand could he make at

farming? There seemed, however, no other resource. He must make up his

mind to do something; and no matter at what he went, he must be a

beginner--a student. He was sickened of what is termed business, and he

did not think it would be more difficult to learn to be a farmer, than

it would be to become a lawyer or a doctor. Then, too, whilst the

process of acquiring knowledge was going on, he would be acquiring

something for the support of his family. It was true that whilst

studying the law, the paths of literature were open to him, and he might

do something with his pen. But then he was entirely a novice at writing

for the public, and he had judgment sufficient to know that to succeed

either as a lawyer or a literary man, he must devote himself exclusively

to one or the other. The only resource, or at least the most available,

seemed to be to await the issue of the sale, and invest the proceeds

thereof in purchasing and stocking a moderate farm.

The day at last came; the fashionable world, and the unfashionable, too,

flocked in crowds to those halls where taste and elegance had so long

reigned. The examination of the various articles was over, and the

stentorian lungs of the auctioneer were heard announcing,

“Ladies and gentlemen, the sale is about to commence, and we will begin,

if you please, with the chamber furniture, and finish with the

drawing-rooms and the glass and china.”

His skillful experience had taught him to reserve the more costly and

rarer articles until the excitement of competition had warmed the

bidders up to the necessary pitch. Dawson and Maria were neither of them

present; but the watchful eye of her legal brother-in-law saw to every

thing. There was much competition to obtain many articles; by some, as

mementoes of the pleasant hours passed within those walls; by others, as

anxious to exhibit them in their pretending but less fashionable saloons

as articles of decided taste and elegance, from their having once

belonged to the fashionable leader, Mrs. Dawson.

The sale was over--the sum total footed up--commissions and expenses

deducted, and a very comfortable sum deposited in bank to the credit of

Mr. Dawson. To this was to be added the amount derived from Maria’s

jewels, which she actually succeeded in selling at about one half their

original cost. This he wished her to keep as her own--but she refused; a

common purse must be theirs--all, she said, but just a little, which she

had, and which she intended to keep for “shoe and stocking” money, so

she told him, adding playfully,

“You must let me have one secret from you, dear; and so don’t ask me, I

beseech you, where my shoe and stocking money comes from.”

As she has no secrets with us, courteous reader, we may as well know.

She rightly argued that satins, and brocades, and velvets, and such

like, would be worse than useless to a farmer’s wife--and so she quietly

disposed of them at a considerable sacrifice, but still for a very

comfortable sum. She also argued that a suit of common fur would keep

her quite as warm as her splendid set of marten, the envy of one half

the town, and much more appropriate--and so the martens followed the

brocades, and the velvets, and the jewels. From these resources she was

enabled to realise enough to keep herself and her children not only in

shoes and stockings, but also in all other clothing for a considerable

time after the stock at present on hand was exhausted, without drawing

on the resources of the farm.

The next thing was to purchase the farm. There were certain requisites

which it might perhaps be difficult to find. At last, however, a place

was hit upon. It was not exactly in its appearance what either our hero

or heroine would have selected with an eye to picturesque beauty. There

was no varied hill or dale--no high hill _here_ from which such a

beautiful view of such a lovely valley could be seen _there_. It was in

a flat country, without the slightest claims to beauty; but then it was

healthy, the water good and pure--the fields well fenced and well

watered--the soil of a fair natural character, in a very tolerable state

of cultivation. A landing-place where a steamboat touched daily,

affording ready communication with the city--a village at the landing,

where a store, a good doctor, and a church were to be found. These were

considered as a most excellent substitute for the want of the

picturesque. The house was in the prevailing style of the

neighborhood--without, plain clap-boards, from which the white-wash in

many places had worn or washed off, leaving the dark boards below

visible in their native beauty. The windows of a small size, with close

wooden shutters, which had been, years since, painted of a color

intended to be green, but which now was decidedly nondescript. A low

porch covered the two or three steps that led to the front door. The

court-yard was a small inclosure, through which a path led from a

gateway in the fence by one side of the house, and which opened into a

lane which led into the high-road. Within, a hall ran through the middle

of the house. On either side were doors, leading on one hand into two

rooms, called the front and back parlor; and on the other, into a room

called the dining-room, and also into the kitchen. From the door of the

kitchen the stairs ascended, leading to two or three tolerably

comfortable rooms above, and to as many as intolerably uncomfortable, at

least in the eyes of the new occupants. Beyond the kitchen was a shed,

which was intended to be shut in by large wooden shutters, in which was

the pump, and where the washing and other heavy kitchen-work could be

transacted. This was certainly a change for both from their splendid

town-mansion and luxurious villa.

The interior of the mansion was no more prepossessing than its exterior;

and Maria shrugged her shoulders and looked round with a face of dismay

as she contemplated the dreary prospect before her when she arrived to

take possession of her new home. There was no time, however, to waste in

repining. Boxes were to be opened, trunks unpacked, and places prepared

in which to sit, eat, and sleep for the next few days, until things

could be got somewhat to right. As for Dawson, he muttered some not very

inaudible imprecations on the madness and folly which had brought them

to this.

“Now, Henry, do, dear, just take a hatchet and pry off the top of that

box. It has the matresses in it, and I’ll just get them out and you

shall fix up the children’s bedstead, and let them and the baby have

some place to lie down upon. I do declare,” she added, laughing, “nature

must have intended you for a carpenter, you have gotten it off so

nicely,” as, after some desperate struggles with the nails, he at last

succeeded in prying off the top of the box.

“And there,” she added, “are the bedsteads tied up yonder; no fear of

their being damaged by exposure, which is a great advantage. Do, dear,

just carry them up stairs, whilst I get the bed-linen out of this great

trunk in which it is packed up”--and Dawson, stimulated by the example

of his wife, gave up something which sounded very like an occasional

objurgation of a certain fool, meaning thereby himself, and took to

working. The bedsteads were soon carried to their sleeping chamber and

set up--the matresses laid on them, and the nimble fingers of our

heroine soon covered them with their snowy linen. All was in readiness

for the time when the “Sandman” would come round among the children. In

the meantime, with the aid of the assistants on the farm, the rest of

the things had been unpacked, and chairs and tables stood in a confused

medley about. They were all of the simplest and least costly kind, and

formed a strong contrast to the splendid piano which, in all the glory

of its rich rosewood case, now occupied its destined position in the

front parlor.

Maria looked with a wistful eye on the scene of confusion. To attempt to

reduce it was, she thought, like producing order out of chaos. It was

unnecessary to attempt it to-day; and so she determined to rest for the

residue of it, and take a view of the exterior. As she passed out of the

front door for this purpose, holding little Maria by the hand and

carrying the baby in her arms, she was met by Master Harry, as he was

termed, to distinguish him from his father. His cap was gone, his nicely

combed curls were in a glorious state of dishevelment, his clothes

evinced a most intimate acquaintance with mother earth, as did his face

and hands.

“Oh, mamma!” he exclaimed, his whole face glowing with excitement, “oh,

mamma, do come and see what a nice pond there is out here to sail boats

in. And see, mamma,” holding up a “mud-cake” as he spoke, “see what a

nice cake I have made!” Although vexed that her darling, of whose locks,

and clean complexion, and trim dress she had always been so proud,

should present such an appearance, she yielded to his entreaties, and

followed the child without the gate into the lane, where a mud-puddle of

formidable dimensions at once explained the mystery of the pond and the

beautiful cakes he had been engaged in concocting.

“And see, mamma,” he added, clapping his hand, and pointing to a swarm

of yellow butterflies which were settling round the edge of the puddle,

“see what bootiful birds, and whenever I get close up to them to catch

them, they just fly away.”

“Happy child!” thought his mother; “to you the cares of life are

unknown. Happier, doubtless, will you for some time be here, chasing

your butterflies, careless of all else. But your time, too, must

come”--and our heroine found herself almost sighing.

“But, Harry, my boy, listen to me. Mamma would rather you should not

play out in this lane, and by this dirty puddle. See how dirty your

hands, and face, and clothes all are; and it will give mamma a great

deal of trouble to keep you clean if you do so.”

“But, mamma, I don’t care about being clean. I am sure it’s a great deal

nicer to be dirty and play about this nice pond, than to be dressed up

to go out and walk with Mrs. Harris, and Janey, and Maria, and the

baby.”

“Yes, my dear, but you wont have Mrs. Harris and Janey to dress you, and

keep you clean, and take you to walk any more.”

“Wont I? Oh, I’m so glad! Then I can run out here and get as dirty as I

please--can’t I mamma?”

“I hope you will not--for you have nobody else now to wash you and keep

you clean but mamma; and you don’t want to give her so much trouble, do

you?”

“No, mamma; but I’m so glad you’re going to wash me, for you wont scrub

so hard as Mrs. Harris did--she used to hurt so, sometimes.”

“I am afraid, my dear, I shall have to scrub a great deal harder than

Mrs. Harris did, if you play out here and get so dirty.”

“Well, mamma, I’ll try not to; but say, mamma, I may come out and play

here sometimes; it’s so nice.”

“I will see about it some other time; but come in with me and get ready

for supper.”

CHAPTER IV.

The next few days were those of considerable physical toil to our

friends. The care of the younger children had to be resigned to a young

girl who had been taken to assist her maid of all work; and Harry found

himself straying occasionally to his favorite puddle, which, much to his

regret, became gradually smaller, until at last it entirely disappeared.

Those few days had, however, wrought a wonderful change in the

appearance of things within the house; and it is astonishing what

marvels a few dollars will effect in producing these results when

directed by taste. A little paint, some neat but low priced wall-paper,

a little white dimity, chintz, and a few yards of white muslin, with

some matting on the floor, had effected true wonders. The family

portraits and engravings relieved the nakedness of the walls; curtains

of thin white muslin, tied up with some tasteful ribbon, gave an air of

refinement to the otherwise decidedly vulgar windows, whilst the chintz

and dimity covered with graceful folds many an otherwise plain and

homely deal plank.

“I declare,” mused Maria to herself, “we are becoming quite presentable,

almost ready to receive company. Yet something seems wanting--I have it;

there’s enough of that blue and fawn-colored chintz still left; I will

get Henry to saw me off a couple of boxes of the right size--Sam shall

bring me some wool to stuff them with, and I will have a pair of

ottomans.”

No sooner thought than done. The boxes were hunted up, and found to suit

exactly, except that they were a few inches too high.

“Henry, dear,” she said to her husband, when they had finished dinner,

“wont you just take a saw and come and saw me off a piece from each of

these boxes that are lying out there?”

“Yes--but what on earth do you want to do with them, Maria?”

“Never you mind, sir; you shall know all in good time. There now,

dear--there--just saw six inches off from the length of each of them.

Had not you better take a rule to measure them carefully? for I want

them just of a heighth, and sawed off very smoothly.”

He did as he was required--placed the boxes in the designated place, and

went out to superintend his men, and continue his lessons in the

practical details of his new employment. As soon as he was gone, she

brought her chintz, and was soon deep in all the mysteries of measuring

and fitting. The side pieces were soon cut off to the desired sizes--the

ready needle prepared them for fastening on; but she could do nothing

with the seat until she had procured the wool. That was done by the

farm-hand that evening; and as soon as her husband had gone out after

breakfast, she was busily engaged in fitting the top and stuffing it.

The upholstery work was completed to her entire satisfaction, and when

her husband came in to tea, she said quietly to him,

“I want you to come into the parlor and listen to my music for a little

time.”

This was always irresistible--he followed her in and prepared for his

treat, when she said to him, “I have a great notion not to play a note

for you, as you have not taken the slightest notice of my new ottomans.”

He looked his surprise, but following the direction of her eye, the new

articles of furniture met his view.

“I suppose I am now enlightened as to what you wanted with those boxes,

and to be sawed so carefully yesterday. But when, in Heaven’s name,

Maria, do you find time to do all you do! Here are you, a delicately

nurtured woman, attending to most of the details of the dairy--arranging

chambers and sitting-rooms--nursing, making beds, sweeping, dusting,

sewing, and what not; and now, to crown all, you must needs take to

upholstering, as if you had not enough already to do.”

“I am sure,” she said, looking up at her curtaining “that latter is no

new business. Learn, Henry, in regard to the time, the truth of the old

adage, ‘when there’s a will, there’s a way.’ I thought the room did not

look quite furnished, and so I determined on them. They certainly are a

great improvement to the room--and aren’t they sweet, dear?”

“They certainly are very creditable to your taste and handiwork. But,”

stooping over, and pressing a kiss on her rich rosy lips, “you must take

more care of yourself, dearest, or you will overdo the matter.”

“Don’t I look like a tender, delicate creature, that requires careful

nursing? Oh, fie on you! I am afraid you have lost all your gallantry. I

am very certain Maria Davidson’s cheek was never half so blooming when

you used to pay it so many compliments. I am certainly at least five

pounds heavier than I was when I came up here. The sun, too, is giving

my complexion that darker hue you so much admire.”

“I admire brown complexions! When did you ever hear me say so?”

“I don’t know that I ever did. But then, you know, dear, Laura Bridgeman

was a decided brunette.”

“Pshaw!” said Dawson, laughing; “not jealous, I trust, Maria, of the

remembrance of my old flirtation with Laura.”

“Not very, sir,” she added, looking down demurely, “for, you know, when

it happened I was a little girl that had not yet come out.”

“What a fortunate escape Laura, and her mamma would think she had made,

if they could only see me now busily engaged in my shirt-sleeves,

planting, digging, weeding, raking, learning to mow, in fine, learning

to earn my own bread and that of those dearer to me than life.”

“I don’t feel at all sentimental in connection with Laura Bridgeman; and

so,” she added, turning to the piano and striking up a gallope, “here’s

something that lady would prefer at any time to sentiment.”

The piece finished, she at once changed the measure, and in a few

moments her rich, full voice was heard in a song which was a peculiar

favorite of her husband’s. The sound of the music attracted the

children, who now came in, the youngest in his young nurse’s arms, to

kiss papa good-night, whilst Maria prepared her baby for bed.

Whilst our heroine was thus active within doors, it must not be supposed

that her husband was supine without. He was industriously learning the

practical parts of his new vocation. He was engaged, the dandy of the

pavé, the saloons and the clubs, learning, in his shirt-sleeves, to

plough, to harrow, to mow, to dig, and, in fine, to do all that a

hard-working farmer is compelled to do. He was aware that the head as

well as the hand is necessary to direct aright the art of tillage, as

any other art, and that a man may learn every thing concerning the

rotation of crops, and all the rest of the art, and yet be deficient in

the skill of an ordinary hand in the manual operations; but he thought

it best to learn all, in order that in future he might direct all; and

so he worked away under the tuition of one of his hired men, and was

rapidly becoming a proficient. The hands had lost the softness and

whiteness of the city dandy, and had put on that covering of brown which

he condemned on the cheek of his wife, only that the shade was darker,

and the hardening process had been so gone through with that blisters no

longer troubled him.

There was much to do, too, to the exterior of the place, in order to

make it harmonize with the now refined interior; so the garden was

enlarged, and fruit of various kinds set out at the proper time, and in

another year or so they had reason to calculate upon a great improvement

in every thing. Time never flew more rapidly with the subjects of our

story, not even during the ever-memorable first summer after their

wedding. It is true they had but little society, but the active

discharge of their duties required the greater portion of their time,

and the few occasional half hours of idleness in the day-time, were

moments which required no foreign assistance to render them pleasant.

After the children were dispatched for the night, and the supper things

washed up, and the breakfast-table all set out to be ready for the

morning, they would indulge themselves in some music, and then Dawson

would read aloud, whilst Maria’s nimble fingers repaired some rent which

the clothes of the children might have suffered, or prepared some

necessary habiliment.

The neighborhood was thickly settled with a class of comfortable

well-to-do farmers, almost exclusively the owners of the farms they

occupied, whilst the village of Euston was only a little more than a

mile distant. The good people had not, however, called much upon them.

Some were restrained by one cause or another, although since rumors of

their former position in life having got afloat, curiosity was largely

on the tiptoe to see how they could bear their change and get along. The

men formed a good opinion of him, when they saw him take off his coat

and go to work, as they said, “like a man who wasn’t ashamed of his

business;” and they prophesied he would get along. What the females

thought may be judged by the following conversation.

“Well, I do declare this is very nice, comfortable,” said Miss Maggie

Chatterton, as she undid her bonnet-strings and threw off her shawl

amidst a female group of neighbors who were assembled in the best parlor

of a certain Mrs. Holmes.

“Oh, Miss Maggie,” shouted two or three juveniles, starting from their

various posts about the room, “do tell us that story you promised us

last week.”

“Presently, dears, but I want to have a little chat with your mothers

first. Seen the newcomers yet, any of you? I mean those city people the

Dawsons.”

“Yes,” said Miss Susan Bitterly, a staid single lady of no particular

age. “I saw them both as I passed by their place yesterday, and can’t

say I saw any thing particularly desirable about either of them. They

say she has a piano. I wonder what she expects to do with it here?”

“Well, for my part,” said Mrs. Hardmoney, the portly wife of a

well-to-do farmer in the neighborhood, “I don’t see what farmers’ wives

have to do with them there sort of things. When I was a girl, we were

taught another guess matter than to sit thumping pianys all day.”

“I think you’re rather hard on the poor young thing,” said kind,

motherly Mrs. Holmes, as she smoothed down carefully her best dress,

which she wore in honor of the occasion; “it must certainly be a hard

thing for her to come to such a change, after having had every thing so

comfortable about her all her life.”

“Well, for my part,” said Miss Chatterton, “I quite pity her. And they

say she’s such a dear, sweet little thing--yes, children, I’ll be with

you presently--and all the fault of her husband. Not that I ever heard

she complained of him. By the way, Mrs. Holmes, how’s your husband’s

rheumatism to-day? I’ve heard of a new remedy for it. Ah! my dear Mrs.

Brown,” she added, turning to another of the party, “I saw Henry Cole

only yesterday, and he told me they were all well at his father’s. But,

as I was saying, they say it was all his fault--”

“Maggie, are you never going to tell us that story?”

“Yes, dears, presently, when I’ve done here. Yes, she is quite a dear

little thing, and Sally Irish, who lives with them, you know, says she’s

so good and so gentle, and goes about every thing so nicely and so

pleasantly, that she has quite won Sally’s heart already, and that, you

know, is not very easy to do. It was only a day or two after they moved

up, before they had got all fixed to rights, that she came up to Sally,

who was washing out some things, and said to her, as she held out a

bundle of nice muslins--‘Do, Sally, please wash these out for me this

time, and I will stand by whilst you do it and learn how, and then, you

know, another time I can do it myself, and perhaps, in time, I may learn

to do it almost as well as you, Sally.’”

“Well, I am glad to hear she’s not so set up with her piany and such

nicknakeries as to be above being willing to help herself some. When I

heard what a heap of help they had down there, I thought sure as how

they were going to bring all their city notions as well as their piany

down here into the country.”

“Why, what harm can there be in a piano,” said the oldest of the Holmes

girls, before whose eyes visions of a boarding-school, and a piano, and

such like things had been for some time dancing; “I can’t see what harm

there can be in having a piano. For my part I think it must be very

nice, and I mean to go over and see that dear, pretty Mrs. Dawson, and

perhaps she will play on hers for me.”

“No doubt she will, my dear,” said Miss Susan Bitterly; “accomplished

ladies like her when they’re settled down among such barbarians as we,

are glad to find some one as accomplished as yourself with whom to

associate.”

A tart reply arose to Susan Holmes’ tongue, but an opportune look from

her mother arrested it.

“I should think,” resumed Mrs. Hardmoney, “that their help would eat up

all they make at any time. The Gilbert farm was never a very profitable

one, and this man, Dawson, they say, knows nothing about farming. He’s

hired Sara Bromley and Jim Clodpole to work on the place. Sam told my

old man he was to have a kind of management of things, for Dawson hardly

knew the tines of the fork from the handle. We all know that Sam is a

managing fellow, and if he don’t contrive to get more out of the place

than Dawson, I’m mistaken.”

“I think you do Sam injustice,” said Mrs. Holmes. “Mr. Holmes told me

that Mr. Dawson came to see him about hiring Sam, and that he took him

on his recommendation. Dawson is to pay him high wages, but Sam is a

smart hand, and if Dawson will only keep his eyes open, he may learn a

good deal from him.”

“One thing is very certain,” broke in our friend, Miss Chatterton--“I

shall go see her as soon as she’s fixed, and I hope all the neighbors

will. From what Sally Irish told me, I’m sure she is not a bit uppish,

but will be glad to see us all. And you know, Mrs. Holmes, you can give

her some of your nice recipes for country dishes, and teach her so many

things, if you choose, about managing her dairy, and I am certain, from

what Sally says, she will be much obliged to you for doing so.”

“Well, my dear,” said the lady, addressed, “I have been thinking about

it for some time, only I thought perhaps she would not care to have any

visitors until she got quite settled and began to feel quite at home. It

was only to-day Mr. Holmes told me he thought it would be neighborly for

me to go, and he was sure she would take it quite kindly. Mr. Dawson and

he are quite sociable, and he often drops in to see how things are

getting on as he goes by, and Mr. Dawson consults with him a good deal

about things and is quite thankful to him for his advice.”

Mr. Holmes was one of the principal men in that part of the world. In

addition to the very fine farm on which he lived, he was the owner of

two or three others, and had some very comfortable snug sums invested in

mortgages, and some stocks. Mr. Holmes’ opinion on any subject was then

that of a man entitled to be heard, for it is astonishing what an

additional force of wisdom those little things called dollars, when

counted in tens of thousands, and especially in hundreds of thousands,

lend to their possessor. Should it chance that they should mount into

millions, Solomon himself, could he revisit the earth, would not be more

regarded than are their fortunate possessors--their words are cherished

as the very oracles of wisdom, and their breath is as it were the divine

afflatus--men who possess them may pass their lives without contributing

in the slightest degree to the comfort or happiness of their fellow men,

the very incarnation of selfish avarice; but should they after their

death, unable to carry it with them, build and endow an hospital, a

college or a library, their names immediately ascend to heaven in

grateful pæans for their wondrous bounties, and they live in brick and

marble for ages, whilst those whose lives have been past in one constant

act of beneficence to their fellows, sink into their graves and are

forgotten in a month.

Mr. Holmes’ opinions then, were of weight in the circle in which he

moved, and his good lady re-echoing them, they bore down all feeling

which the natural rancor of Miss Bitterly and the contracted views of

Mrs. Hardmoney might have engendered in the breasts of the females

around, against our sweet Maria. None of them had yet seen her; she had

not been a month in their neighborhood, but they all had heard something

good about her, and after wondering why the Dawsons had not yet been

seen in any place of worship, and whether they didn’t mean to go, and if

they did which--the conversation turned into other channels, and Maggie

Chatterton at last yielded to the solicitations of the children to go

over into their corner and tell them “that nice story.”

The village of Euston, though numbering less than a thousand

inhabitants, was well supplied with places of public worship, for, as we

have said, it was surrounded by a populous neighborhood. First, stood

the old and venerable brick building, destitute of any ornament, unless

the glazed ends of the blue-colored bricks scattered profusely through

the walls could be called such, with its small, venerable porch. The

building was, however, becoming too large for the worshipers, or rather

the worshipers were becoming too few for the building, for the great

dissension, some years previous, which rent the society in twain had

reached here, and a large number had gone off to seek another building

other than that in which, in contemplative silence, their sires and

grandsires before them had worshiped. Then came the Baptists and

Methodists, in their almost equally plain buildings but with large

congregations, and the Presbyterians and Episcopalians, with more

pretending buildings but much fewer numbers, brought up the rear.

It was not from want of a chance that the Protestant could not worship,

and the number of emigrants in the neighborhood was so small that the

chapel of the Roman Catholic had not yet appeared. Before removing to

the country Dawson and his wife had been regular attendants on every

Sunday morning, or at least on every not very wet or stormy Sunday

morning, at a church of the Episcopal denomination. They went,

especially the gentleman, more from a feeling that it was a tribute

rendered to propriety than from any other motive. Not that he was an

irreligious man; he was simply a careless one. Of religion in the

abstract, he professed when he spoke of it, which was very seldom, great

respect. He had never been led off either by reading or the influence of

companionship to any thing beyond simple indifference. He saw that those

who were called “religious people”--“church members”--most of them

declined frequenting the opera, or the theatre, or ball-room. He could

not understand this--he could not comprehend why what he considered the

innocent pleasures of life were to be thus given up. It is true he often

met these very persons in the concert-room, or at what he thought very

large parties, provided there was no dancing--he could not understand

those which he considered distinctions without a difference, except that

the music of the concert-room would be improved by scenic

representations in costume, or that the scandal of the tea-party might

be advantageously broken in upon by the music of the dance. This was the

reasoning of one who merely regarded the surface--beyond this he had not

penetrated. Religion itself, as a vital, soul-giving principle, he had

never studied. A large portion of the Bible was familiar to him--he

admired the psalms of David for their exquisite pathos and

simplicity--the sublimity of Isaiah, and the mournful imagery of

Jeremiah had touched his fancy, but his heart had been unmoved, either

by these or the gentle teachings and lofty morality of the New

Testament. He read the Bible as he did the works of other great authors,

to please his fancy, his imagination, but not as the Book in which

choice of life and death, the mode of attaining the one and avoiding the

other, is offered to mankind. Maria, like most women, possessed deeply

religious sensibilities. The Bible was not to her a sealed book, and she

was unconsciously most probably to herself, much influenced in her

actions by its teachings. But her mode of life and that of her husband

had not been such as to allow it to make any very deep impression on

her. Had one charged her with being deficient in religious feeling she

would have shrunk back from it with horror. But, in very truth, though

the germs may have been planted in her heart, the requisite sun and rain

had not yet reached them to mature them. With such views, they had not

hastened their motions churchward, and, since their removal, were under

some feeling of embarrassment at a first meeting with a congregation all

strangers to them.

CHAPTER V.

On the Sunday succeeding the tea-party at Mrs. Holmes’, our hero and

heroine solved the problem in regard to their church-going by appearing

in the Episcopal church at Euston. Thus it was settled that they did

intend to go to church, and also where they intended to go; two very

important points for the gossips of the neighborhood. Mr. Dawson had

called on the church-warden to obtain a pew a day or two before; the

fact was duly communicated to his wife, and by her to some of the ladies

of the congregation, so that when the Sunday morning arrived the new

comers were duly expected. She would of course be dressed in her best

silk dress, made in newest fashion; and her hat of the same material,

would also be a glass in which the ladies of Euston could mould their

own. Great was the surprise of sundry good ladies, who cast furtive

glances over their shoulder, when a young lady of graceful mien and

carriage, and who could be no other than the expected one, followed the

warden, who politely pointed out their seats to the strangers, up the

aisle. Attired in a simple, white muslin dress, with a plain straw hat,

slightly trimmed with green ribbon, Maria, holding her little boy by the

hand, disappointed expedition. There was no time for criticism, for

immediately after the clergyman entered the desk, and as there was no

grand preliminary flourish by the organ of some favorite aria from

Rossini or Bellini, the services commenced.

They were conducted with an earnest fervor which chained and held the

attention of all. There was no attempt at display, but the lofty and

sublime beauty of the liturgy was brought out in all its force by the

heartfelt utterance of the speaker. The congregation soon seemed to

enter into the spirit of the rector. The responses were deep and

fervent--the music, plain and unaccompanied by an instrument, seemed to

the new arrivers, joined in as it was by the whole congregation, as more

expressive of deep devotion than the more finished efforts of the choir,

accompanied by a superb instrument, to which they had been accustomed.

The sermon which followed was in keeping with what had passed. It was a

plain, practical discourse on our duties here as connected with our

state hereafter. There was no eloquence, but much earnestness--the

sentences were not rounded and polished to the highest elegance of

finish, but brief and pithy, and the language strong and nervous, went

directly home to the heart and conscience. Although devoid of ornament,

it was entirely free from any thing like commonplace, and proclaimed the

utterer to be no commonplace man. A few months only settled in the

place, he had already made a forcible impression on his people, as was

apparent from their manner both during the prayers and the sermon.

Mr. Stapleton was indeed no ordinary man. His talents were more than

usually fall to the common herd. They had been highly cultivated, and

would fit him to adorn any position to which he might be called. His

ambition was, however, to do good to his fellow man. To this all the

energies of his mind and heart were directed. Holding sincerely to the

distinctive principles of his own denomination, he could yet see in

every man a brother. The road to heaven was not in his opinion over one

narrow plank, which alone must be trodden in conformity with the creeds

and synods of certain men in order to reach it. In his preaching as in

his practice, it was justification by faith in a crucified Redeemer who

died to save all who sincerely trusted in him. Where disease and sorrow

were, there was the rector found--nor were his attentions confined to

those who were called of his own denomination--it was enough for him to

know that pain or suffering existed to draw him to its home. In humble

imitation of his Divine Master, “he went about doing good.” The effects

of this were already apparent in many cases--universal respect and

esteem awaited him whenever he approached--the careless, the

indifferent, the profane, all awarded to him a consistency of life and

conduct in keeping with the doctrines and principles he enforced. The

influence of such a life in a man placed in such a situation could not

but be felt in the surrounding community, and especially among those

whose spiritual guide he was--accordingly, already the fruits of it were

beginning to be shown in a deeper, and more earnest spirit of devotion

in his congregation. Their attendance on the regular services of the

church was more numerous and more regular; increasing attention was

given by them to the spiritual education of their children through the

medium of the Sunday-schools into which he had breathed a renewed

vitality.

Yet with all his energy and devotedness in his sacred calling Mr.

Stapleton was no bigot, no ascetic. In the social circle no one

contributed more largely to the entertainment and amusement of those

around him. He took an active interest in the temporal affairs of those

among whom he lived--he had a keen relish for the innumerable blessings

with which God has strewed our pathway through life, recommending the

use, but strongly deprecating the abuse of them; in a word, inculcating

both by precept and example temperance in all things.

Such was the man upon whose ministrations the hero and heroine of our

tale now for the first time attended. They were unknown to him except by

reputation, their former history being familiar to him, and fear of

intrusion having thus long deterred him from seeking an acquaintance,

which must have been most agreeable to a man of as cultivated a mind and

refined taste as his. Now, however, that they had enrolled themselves

among his parishioners, the case was different, and in the discharge of

his pastoral duties he could seek them out with propriety. This was

accordingly done, and Dawson and his wife felt pleasure that among those

who were likely to be their future life associates there was one so

refined in taste, so cultivated in intellect, so gentlemanly in manner

as their pastor. Nor was the pastor on his side less pleased. The charms

of conversation with persons of refined taste and cultivation were a

source of positive pleasure to him, and of relief to a mind worn by

study and anxiety. The lighter literature in which Dawson delighted was

not unknown to him, and from the shelves of his new friend (the

“back-parlor” had been transformed into the “library”) he could obtain

authors of rare merit which his own library did not afford. Maria’s

piano and voice were always put into requisition at the pastor’s call,

and thus in a comparatively short time an intimacy was established,

which under other circumstances would in all probability have only been

brought about in months, if not in years.

Let it not be supposed, however, that in his intercourse with the

Dawsons, Mr. Stapleton ever lost sight of the great object of his

life--the salvation of the souls of his fellow-men. The greater his

intimacy became, the more he found himself the habitual frequenter of

the house of his new friends, the deeper became his interest, the more

anxious his desire to raise their thoughts from the concerns of time to

those of eternity. Gradually and gently would he lead the conversation

into channels which enabled him to dwell more and more on the thoughts

that were nearest and dearest to himself. He found attentive listeners.

There were no doubts of a sceptical kind to be overcome. Both Dawson and

Maria yielded a belief of the head to all the doctrines of Christianity,

to which they had been accustomed to listen from their childhood. With

her, too, as she had increased in years, had--in her more thoughtful

moments--increased an earnest respect for the precepts which were

familiar to her. In the midst of all her former gaiety and splendor, she

not unfrequently felt that she was created for some higher and nobler

purpose than to pass her life in the frivolities of which she was the

center. An aching void, filled--as she thought--first, by her husband,

and then still fuller by her children, she could not but at times

experience, as who of us has not. Stapleton now showed her that even

these cherished objects of affection were not sufficient. These ties

death might rend asunder--the cherished objects might be wrested from

her, at any rate, for a season; but, that there was one, to whom, if she

gave her affections, He never would part from her. To do this, it was

not necessary for her to abate one iota of her domestic feelings--the

love for those on earth and for Him in heaven were not only compatible

with each other, but would actually increase the purity and devotion of

each.

So sped away the fall and winter. The new comers had become perfectly at

home in their new position. Many and various had been the neighborly

calls upon them, which had been duly returned. Strange was the contrast

between their new and old acquaintances in much of the outward forms of

society, but they both found that beneath these plainer exteriors were

frequently met with hearts as large and pure, and minds as strong and

vigorous, if not as polished and cultivated, as those to which they had

been accustomed. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes had been invaluable adjuncts to

both. The former had conveyed many an useful piece of practical

knowledge to Dawson, who had entered on his new pursuits with a fixed

determination to succeed, and with his mind unfettered by any of those

prejudices arising from the fact that “his father had done so before

him,” or that “it was the practice in their neighborhood,” was enabled

to avail himself of all the improvements which modern skill and the

experience of others now bring to the aid of the tiller of the soil. His

life was passed in an even, quiet tenor. If his meals were not as

luxurious as they once had been, labor of some kind gave to them a most

excellent relish, and no butter was ever so good as that which he now

ate, for the hands of Maria had made it; no pastry so light and

delicious, for the same fair hands had prepared it; no bread so sweet,

for she had kneaded it herself; and her light cakes, a recipe from Mrs.

Holmes, were pronounced equal to those of that thrifty lady, whose

housewifery was the theme of admiration the country round. Thus they

conformed themselves to their circumstances; and, in so doing, enjoyed

the many blessings Heaven still reserved for them. The children had

thriven apace. Harry had learned not only to take care of himself

without the assistance of Mrs. Harris and Jenny, but aspired to take

charge of the cows, also; being never so happy as when permitted to

assist in driving them to and from the pasture-grounds. Little Maria’s

great delight, too, was to feed the “chickes,” and baby, left to roll

about a good deal by itself, was fast attaining that happy period, when

it is its glorious privilege to waddle up and down stairs alone, to the

imminent danger of its own neck, and the perpetual alarm of all careful

mammas.

But had the true seed sown by Mr. Stapleton produced no fruit during

this time?--It had. An increased and more earnest attention to those

things of which he spake was seen on the part of both Dawson and his

wife. The mode of operation on their minds and hearts was different. He

reasoned--she felt. With the almost unerring instinct of the female

character she had reached her conclusions, whilst her husband was

deliberating with slower reason. She felt that here was the something

which was to fill that aching void in her heart, which, despite her

ardent affection for her husband and children, she had long felt there.

With her usual prompt determination she acted. She communicated her

resolves to her husband, whose only reply was a warmer, more fervent

kiss than usual. Thus sanctioned by her husband, in the early spring she

made a public confession of her faith by joining in that communion a

remembrance of a Saviour’s love from which she had before abstained.

Let it not, however, be supposed that this was the result of sudden and

hasty determination. Many and earnest were her communings with her own

mind. Long and earnest had been her conversations with Mr.

Stapleton--attentive and careful her perusal of the sacred volume; and

when, at last, after frequent and fervent prayer to God, for

enlightenment and guidance, she fully determined to pursue the path she

had considered, she felt her heart lightened of a load, and the peace of

mind which the world can neither give nor take away.

One care now oppressed her--one desire actuated her: it was that her

husband should also join with her in her new profession. To obtain this

end was now her constant aim. Fervently did she address her prayers to

God for such a consummation. Earnest and loving were her conversations

with him. His head and his mind were (she knew) right; but his heart had

been untouched. Well she knew, that for her sake he would do almost any

thing--but for his own sake it was that the devoted wife, leaning upon

his arm as they sometimes rambled together, or, at other times, with her

hand resting in his pressed her gentle pleadings upon him. She opened

for him such passages of the sacred volume as she thought most suited

for him, and then, not unfrequently, retiring to the privacy of her own

chamber would throw herself upon her knees, and pour out all her full,

gushing soul to God in earnest prayer, that he would touch the heart of

her husband and bring him to Him. (God answereth prayer.) Nor were hers

in vain; and, oh! who could tell the unutterable joy of that fond heart

when, at last, pressing her fondly to his heart, he avowed his

determination to join her, on the following Sunday, in an open

profession of his Saviour before men, adding--

“To you, my own sweet wife, I owe this change which has come upon me.

Your gentle pleadings, your fond prayers have opened this stubborn

heart, and prepared the way for the reception of those better things

which were hereafter to be his.”

“Not unto me, dearest Henry, not unto me, but unto God above be the

praise. Too happy, indeed, am I, if I have been the feeble instrument in

His hands of your enlightenment.”

Close we the scene. It would indeed be a privilege, had we the ability,

to follow our heroine further. Never had she looked so lovely. A

heavenly radiance and serenity shone from her young brow. Her eyes wore

a subdued and softened expression which rendered them even more

attractive than of old. And how was her care for her children

heightened--not for their bodies only, as formerly, but now for their

souls. Never afterward did either she or Dawson cast a regretful glance

backward, for they felt that, if they had lost the world, they had

gained Heaven.

T. R. N.

* * * * *

=FATHER BROMLEY’S TALE.=

=BY WILLIAM ALBERT SUTLIFFE.=

“I will tell you a tale,” said Father Bromley.

Father Bromley sat on the piazza of his cottage, looking over the green

breadth of lawn which stretched down to Willow Brook. The sun had just

gone down, and the western sky, still a-glow, seemed--seen through the

willows--like a splendid tissue--gold and green; and the stream, as it

rolled, might have been supposed to have its rise in that strange El

Dorado which filled our country’s ancestral dreams. On his right sat his

daughter Alice, needing to be but a shade paler to be wrapped in a

shroud, and laid to her dreamless sleep with a white rose-bud pressed

between her slender fingers, and on his left his other daughter,

Margaret, fresh as a June rose at sunrise. The father sat between them;

the very pattern of paternal grace and quiet benignity. His worldly

cares had been slight, so his face had been left smooth, full, and

sunny; so sunny, in fact, that it appeared to have taken and retained

the quintessence of every sunbeam which had fallen upon it. But now,

like external nature, it had a sort of twilight expression, approaching

to spirituality, which would awaken in the beholder an abiding interest,

and lead him to pause and study ere he passed. Various circumstances

conspired to this--the time, the place, and the proximity of his pale

child, propt up with pillows, and almost as ethereal as a moonbeam. For

a long time they had been sitting in a deepening silence, which neither

wished to disturb; and so absorbed were the two daughters with their own

thoughts, that the first words of the gray father fell upon unheeding

ears.

“I will tell you a story,” he repeated, after a little pause, and in a

firmer tone.

Slowly, and with a sigh, like one awakening from a pleasant dream to an

unpleasant reality, Alice lifted the lids, and upturned her eyes, filled

with a gathering dreaminess, to the dawning love-look of her only

parent. Those deep, dark eyes, they must have known many tears.

“Do let us hear it, papa,” she murmured, “but let it be in harmony with

gathering stars and slanting moonbeams, and let it have a true golden

tinge from the sunset which lights up the gloaming.”

“And do let us hear it!” echoed Margaret, turning quite away from the

moon, which was just rising.

“And of what shall it be?” asked Father Bromley, as he looked

inquiringly from one to the other.

“O, something that will please Alice!” returned the sweet girl. “For who

knows how many times we shall have it in our power to please her,” she

thought but did not say, for all of that household knew that sooner or

later death would knock at their door.

There was a long pause, and then Alice said--

“Let it be of the picture, with the angel-face, which hangs in the green

parlor?” There must have been strange thoughts suggested by it, for her

face in the white moonshine grew a shade paler, and her hands trembled a

little, as if nervously affected, but no one noticed it.

There was another pause, and then she continued, as if to explain the

reason of her wish--

“I have been reading to-day a beautiful poem, in which a lovely lady

died of a broken heart, and her spirit nightly haunted her old home.

Thinking on the sad tale, I paused to weep, and sat for a few moments

with shut eyes. When I opened them, the first thing that I saw was the

portrait, and--will you believe it?--it had acquired a new sadness, such

as I never saw on a mortal face. It seemed to be looking at me with an

incomprehensible intensity of earnestness; and, as I still gazed, a

tear--I saw it as plainly as I see the moon--started in the eyes, and

rolled down the face. And then another, and another,” she went on in

higher tones, as if trying to impress a burning truth on incredulous

listeners, “and all the while it looked at me so sadly--but not with

pity, and seemed so to invite me, that I fancied that I heard the lips

say--‘Come!’ _That_ was _only_ fancy, but, as I live, I saw it weep.”

Father Bromley looked with deep and tender anxiety upon the pale face at

his side. He well knew of a report, formerly current in the house, to

the effect that this same picture was seen to shed tears just before the

death of any member of the family. But this piece of information he

restrained, justly deeming it not pertinent for the occasion. Margaret

looked anxious and perplexed, but said nothing; and the father, after a

little pause, began--in a low voice--his tale. Let us listen, dear

reader, seated attentively on the sward, at the corner of the dim old

mansion. We may be as sceptical as we please, since neither of us ever

saw a strip of painted canvas, in a gilt frame, weep.

“My great grandfather’s second wife--for so far back his story was to

date--was a strange, bad woman. There was no peace in her vicinity. The

estate had become involved, and my great-grandfather, knowing her to be

possessed of some money, married her. But he always had cause to

bitterly rue that day and hour which made her his. He had two

daughters--both sweet girls, and she one son, who had inherited all her

bad qualities, with an additional coarseness and ugliness of manner,

which she--if she possessed it--from superiority of education, seldom

showed. Her son, whose name was Andrew, had that sensual perception of

beauty which always marks vulgar natures, and he had been but a short

time in the family before he gave evidence of the impression which the

beauty of the younger sister made upon him. Lisette, from the first,

rejected his overtures, and withdrew from his society to that of her

elder sister as much as possible; but Andrew, not heeding her contempt,

and abetted moreover by his mother, still pressed his suit with all the

pertinacity and regardlessness of feeling, which characterize such

semi-barbarous beings. The persecuted girl sought her father’s

protection, and he, in giving it, alienated from himself the spark of

affection which the bosom of the step-mother might have known. From that

time she ‘hated him with the hate of hell;’ but, with all the cunning of

her perfidious heart, she covered it with a smile. She softened toward

her step-daughters, and, by her open advice, Andrew discontinued the

attentions which had made him so odious in their sight. All was,

seemingly, about to be harmonious and well again, when the father

suddenly sickened and died. There were strange circumstances attending

his death, which made it to be as much talked of as an eighth wonder.

Sturdy men put their bushy heads together, and whispered mysteriously in

corners, and old dames--stooping over the few last embers on the hearth,

as the hours drew on toward the ghostly midnight--muttered to each other

in underbreath, starting ever and anon if the wind but wailed a little

louder, or flapped a clapboard which chanced to hang loose. Children

whimpered if they were put to bed alone in the dark; and young women, in

broad daylight, would not go ten rods unattended over an unfrequented

road. Dame Burton had had, for a long time before this, an unfavorable

reputation with a few, and the assertions of this few were latterly

gaining believers. It was now currently reported that she was in the

habit of going, nightly, to the Devil’s Crag, under which was a cave,

whose black recesses had never been seen by mortal eye. It was

furthermore reported, that whenever any one approached it, a dark vapor

issued from its mouth, in the midst of which were sometimes seen two

fiery eyes, and ominous voices also added to the fright of whomsoever

might chance to be lost or stray in this vicinity.

“The foundation for all this was the testimony of two superstitious

woodmen; who, in plying their trade, occasionally ventured into the

vicinity, and, besides what has been here told, one of them gave out--as

a piece of definite information--that, being one night belated in the

neighborhood of the cave, and coming toward home in great terror, he

suddenly heard the sound of rapid footsteps, and pausing, he saw Dame

Burton come into an open spot not twelve feet from him. Suddenly there

appeared a man as black as ebony at her side. Whence he came he could

not tell, but his _identity_ was not to be mistaken.

“‘Why are you so late?’ asked the dark personage.

“‘Mercy, mercy!’ cried the cringing dame, piteously.

“But mercy did not seem to be one of his component parts; for, seizing

her roughly by the arm, and rushing off with her like lightning through

the dense underbrush, he made directly for the cave, leaving nothing but

an overpowering smell of brimstone, and a line of blue light, pointing

like a guide-board toward the place of rendezvous.

“How the man ever got home he could not tell: but it was not at all

uncertain that he did get home, and tell the tale here given to a

thousand incredulous hearers.

“Father Burton died and was laid with his fathers, and Esther and

Lisette wept together in their sorrow, and arrayed themselves sadly in

mourning weeds. The suspicions of their neighbors never troubled them.

The thought that their step-mother could be to utterly depraved would

have killed them at once, had it entered their minds. The father had

not, however, been long gone to rest when they perceived a change in the

mother and son. The mother’s face assumed a crafty and hag-like

expression, and the son’s face seemed to have gotten a look of stupid

cunning quite foreign to it. Except this, for some time, nothing was to

be seen; but soon matters took a more overt and decided turn, Andrew

again renewed his odious attentions, but with a confidence which he

formerly lacked. He was met with the same coldness as before, to which

was added an entreaty--coached in the most conciliatory language, to the

effect--that he would desist. But coldness and entreaty were alike vain.

He still persisted, and Dame Burton, at last, seconded his suit by

commanding Lisette, in unequivocal terms, to marry him.

“‘I cannot! I will not!’ said Lisette, with a passionate burst of tears,

at the close of an interview in which the matter had been pressed upon

her with more than ordinary vehemence and fiendish show of malignity.

“‘Cannot? will not?’ muttered the dame, half to herself and half to her

auditor, accompanying the same with an impatient gesture, and a laugh

hissed through her closed teeth--‘we will see! we will see!’

“‘I beg to hear no more of this,’ continued the persecuted girl, ‘or I

shall expect our poor dead father to come in his shroud to defend me

from such cruelty.’

“‘Thy poor dead father in his shroud!’ echoed the step-mother. ‘Ah, ha!

it was a good drug--a friendly drug,’ she muttered on in an undertone,

‘a pleasant potion, for a peevish child!’ and then she laughed at her

devilish wit. ‘Thy father sleeps well, child. Did thy keen wit ever take

exception at the friendly nursing which waited on him to the grave?’

“Lisette started, and looked fearfully at her; but, recovering herself,

she proceeded to state her refusal more definitely.

“‘I will took upon thy son as a brother, but do not think I can ever do

more. Why will he persist in asking what he has so often been told I

cannot give? We are dissimilar, and I cannot love him--but I do not hate

him. I repeat, I will continue to regard him as a brother, but in any

other light I cannot--ay, I _will_ not--look upon him!’

“Rising with the last words she would have passed from the room, but she

was detained.

“‘Dost love another?’ queried the crone, looking her full in the face.

“The blood rushed to the young girl’s cheeks.

“‘Ah! I see! I heard Andrew tell of the young painter, who--’

“Lisette’s face was scarlet.

“‘Let me go!’ she cried impatiently. ‘Have not I told thee that I will

not marry thy son?’

“‘But you will! you shall!--you cannot escape me! I will summon every

fiend in hell to my aid! I will torture thee to submission!--I will melt

thee in the crucible of my wrath!’

“The last words were lost on the object of her anger, and the dame stood

with her arms akimbo, and a peculiar exultation of expression, such as a

fiend, conscious of his diabolical power might be supposed to wear.

“Lisette rushed to her room, and threw herself, half-fainting, into the

arms of her sister.

“‘Strange things at the Burton house, Neighbor Guernsey,’ said Widow

Hamersley, as she lighted her pipe, and, having taken an initiatory

whiff, drew her chair toward the bright wood fire.

“It was now Autumn, and the winds were growing colder day by day, and

the external aspect of Nature more dreary.

“‘Yes, yes,’ returned she who was addressed. ‘Since Mistress Alton lost

her two little children in Marsden Forest, who were no doubt eaten of

the wolves, there has not been the like of it. I pity poor Esther, who

is left all alone with so ungracious a woman as Dame Burton.’

“‘Ay, ay, Neighbor Guernsey. Many a long year have I known this strange

woman, and I have yet to discover if there be any good thing in her. And

the dolt Andrew is no better man a stupid beast. It has been noised

about, that the step-mother has been trying to force the younger girl to

marry him. Heaven knows what might happen if the poor child would not

yield!’

“Here the widow puffed forth a volume of smoke as large as a small

thunder-cloud, and gazed knowingly among the embers.

“‘And the young painter in the village, they say, is going distracted at

her loss,’ continued Mistress Guernsey, not observing the drift of the

other’s remarks. ‘He has been painting a portrait of her, and now he has

left all and gone off to search for her in the woods.’

“‘Small chance of his finding her, Neighbor Guernsey,’ answered the

widow, drily; her remarks still tending in a direction which her

companion did not perceive. ‘It is no wolf of the forest which will have

the pleasure of picking her bones.’

“‘Heaven grant it may be as you say!’ was the reply, referring to the

last clause of the sentence, whose ambiguity was unnoticed.

“‘Hast thou not heard tales about this dame?’ asked the widow, dropping

her disguise and speaking more openly.

“‘Ay, ay, many a time and oft; tales smacking of mystery and mischief,

which boded no good to Dame Burton. They say she has unholy company

o’nights in the wood. But, after all, they were only tales about which I

knew nothing certain.’

“‘Hast thou not,’ continued the widow, ‘noticed a strange twinkle in her

eyes, a shrillness in her voice, and that her hair is becoming coarse

and grizzled? What does this portend?’

“‘Alas! I cannot tell,’ replied Mistress Guernsey. ‘There were strange

hints when her good man died, and now I bethink me that they might have

been true, and the remorse of the inner conscience might thus have

developed itself outwardly.’

“Here there ensued a pause, and the two sat awhile quietly listening to

the hollow moaning of the wind among the trees of the old forest hard

by. Superstition, which always attends ignorance, was a prominent point

in the characters of both; but more especially in that of the widow. No

doubt she heard demon voices in the wind wailing in the crannies, and

fancied the air filled with evil spirits, hurrying like lightning upon

their various errands of mischief. When she spoke again her voice

quivered, and her frame shook as with an ague-fit.

“‘I tell thee, Mistress Guernsey, I have seen--’ said she, at last, her

gaze fixed intently on vacancy.

“‘Seen what?’ asked the other, drawing closer, and looking distrustfully

into every corner of the room.

“‘Seen--’ repeated the widow, still looking into vacancy.

“‘Seen what?’ repeated her auditor, drawing still nearer, and looking

with still greater scrutiny into all the dark nooks of the apartment.

“But the expected speech still hung half-way between conception and

utterance, as if some impalpable auditor were present, who might convey

the tale to the ears of the object of both her aversion and fear.

“The sad moaning of the wind filled up the chasm in the conversation,

and the subtle influences of the place, and their loneliness, seemed to

be rapidly gathering about the two lonely women. The speech was still

unspoken, when the thread of the proceedings was broken short by the

abrupt entrance of Mistress Hamersley’s son. Whether or not the embryo

disclosure might have embodied new and startling developments, or only

old statements re-hashed, we cannot tell; but, certain it is that, the

vein of mystery was explored no further that night. The son piled new

fagots on the fire--the widow refilled and relighted her pipe, and the

conversation took a more cheerful turn, and the place took again that

air of rude pleasantness which belongs particularly to a

farm-house-kitchen, while the weird lady was, for the moment, forgotten.

“As may have been gathered from the remarks in the preceding

conversation, Lisette had disappeared, lost, it was supposed, in the

forest, into which she sometimes strayed alone; for, as to superstition,

she had none of it, and wild animals had mostly retired to a safe

distance before the advance of civilization. Every possible means had

been tried for her recovery, seconded by apparently every effort of Dame

Burton and her son. They seemed inconsolable, and some of those who

looked upon her as a slandered person affirmed that she spent the nights

for a week in weeping. Esther was now alone and friendless, thrown

entirely into the power of these protectors. Surmises and ill-boding

opinions passed occasionally from mouth to mouth, but never reached her

ears. She wept in silent sorrow away from all intercourse. Thus matters

went on for some weeks, until one night, at dusk, Andrew was brought to

his mother a corpse. He had been accidentally shot in a hunting

excursion. Her sorrow at this occurrence was real. Every other tie had

been to her nothing, while this had absorbed all her soul’s capability

of affection. She had indulged him in every thing, and had attempted to

gratify his every wish. Now that he was gone, all that she possessed was

gone, and all her thoughts and deeds glared upon her in all their

malignity. She had nothing now to take from herself those hell-hound

thoughts which bred in her a bitter remorse. One night she lay by his

coffin--another by his grave, and a third she would have spent thus, but

they led her away. She yielded as pliantly as a child. Thenceforth, she

was completely broken down. She could do nothing more, and all day she

sat like a fixture in the chimney-corner, while all the house-affairs

fell into Esther’s hands. But, at dusk, the dame would be gone

mysteriously for an hour. Esther never questioned concerning it, nor

cared; but the ignorant neighbors whispered, wondered, surmised, and

told of strange things that happened at these times, until it became so

much a matter of course, that nothing more could be said. At the end of

a year she married my grandfather Bromley. The portrait of the lost

sister was taken from the painter’s studio, and hung in her room. Each

succeeding year added a new balm to her wounds, until they seemed so far

back in the past, that sometimes she would almost question with herself

whether or not they had had actual existence.

“Thus twenty years of married life passed calmly and pleasantly. Sons

and daughters were growing up around her in full bloom, and all promised

that the afternoon of her life should be peace. Dame Burton had grown

old and decrepit, and bent nearly double. Her hair was white as snow,

and her face had a sort of blank, passive expression, except at times,

when her eyes would glow like half-extinguished coals, and she would

start as if some frightful object looked in upon her visions. Through

all the long day she sat in the chimney-corner, and never stirred until

the bats wheeled in the dusk, and the rude noises of day were displaced

by a stillness, so still that the bark of life might be said to move

down the noiseless river of time with muffled oars.

“One night, in the early autumn, my grandfather was gone, and my

grandmother was left alone with the family. All were quietly at rest

before she retired. That day she had been laboring hard and was

overwearied, and now a strange restlessness and loneliness of feeling

came across her. It was just at the moonrise. The moon came up looking

red and angrily over the ripening fields, glistening with dew, near at

hand, the mill-pond still and large further off, and the black and

massive woods in the distance. Those weird influences were at work,

which incline every mind at times to retrospection. And now, as over a

dim sea, from a dim seen island, came the memories of the past. She saw,

as in a dream, the mother of her childhood, who pressed her childish

hand in hers. A few years past, and she saw her die, and felt the

intense agony of that moment. A few years more were gone, and she saw

the deathbed of her other parent, and felt the keener and more enduring

pain which maturer minds must feel. Still farther, and she saw the

sister-branch, which had grown side by side with her upon the parental

tree, torn rudely away. And now she could think no more. It was too much

pain. Turning from the window, she hastily disrobed herself, and dropped

wearily upon the bed. It was some time before slumber came, and when it

did come it brought a dream. Memory, in the guise of a headless figure

with a lantern, seemed to lead her through all the past, which was

nothing more than a field covered with brambles and underbrush, and

filled with pitfalls into which she continually fell. Her flesh was torn

and bloody; but still she went on, and on, and on, and still there was

no end.

“She might have slept thus nearly an hour, when she became conscious

that there was another presence in the room. She stirred a little, and

the village-clock drowsily clanged to tell the midnight. She opened her

eyes. The moon was far up, and poured a flood of white light through the

casement. A tall, attenuated figure, in a long, loose, and tattered

gown, which showed ghostly white, stooped over her.

“The shape stood between the bed and the window, and yet so ethereal was

it, that she seemed to see the casement, the climbing moon, and the

white church spire, as though nothing intervened. But the face, so

ghastly white, so thin with want and woe--cross-lined and

interlined--and the eyes--so faded and expressionless, she had never

seen any thing like it.

(Here Margaret pressed her father’s arm, and pointed to Alice, whose

fingers were quivering like aspen-leaves--but he did not pause.)

“Like two pictures on a wall, her imagination placed the image of her

lost sister beside this form, so unlike in every particular. The

conclusion was irresistible. It was her sister, or--as her disturbed

fancy would rather indicate--her ghostly representative. Overcome by her

emotions she fainted, and when she recovered, the visitor was gone. She

lay quite still, in her terror, until the approach of dawn, and then

arising, she dressed herself all in a tremor, and prepared to descend.

All was still as death, for it lacked a half-hour yet of sunrise. She

heard Chanticleer’s shrill cry without, just as he emerged from his

dormitory, and she noticed a cricket’s sharp voice within, and even the

tick of a death-watch in the wall fell distinctly on her ears. A chill

crept over her, like the forerunner of some frightful calamity.

(Here Margaret pressed the narrator’s arm again, but with the same

success as before.)

“She crept, rather than walked down the stairs, and peeped through the

kitchen door, which stood ajar. The eastern shutter was swung partially

back, and admitted a streak of the cold, gray light of dawn, which fell

upon the features of the midnight visitor, who sat erect at one side of

the room. She did not stir, though Esther, staggering in her terror,

thrust the door back with considerable noise. Perfectly still she sat,

gazing, as if in fright, at the hideous face of old Dame Burton, who sat

a little more in the dusk, regarding her attentively. The old crone was

inclined a little forward, her shriveled lips separated in a grin, and

one lean finger threateningly raised in a gesture which said more than

words. Neither spoke; but, cold, still, and pale, they gazed at one

another, and then was felt around--

‘A smell of clay, a pale and icy glare

And silence----’”

“See, see!” exclaimed Margaret.

Alice sat motionless, with her head thrown slightly back, and her face

whiter than the moonbeams which fell upon it.

“What is this?” asked Father Bromley.

“It is Death!” shrieked Margaret.

* * * * *

=HOURS IN AUGUST.=

=BY MRS. J. H. THOMAS.=

Softly as the star-beam slideth

From its halls of blue;

Gently--gently as it glideth

Lily bells into--

And, with kisses unimpassioned,

Greets the vestal dew--

Falls this mellow August sunlight,

Darling! upon you.

Warmly through the bending branches,--

Through the slumbrous air--

Like a thought of joy it glances

On thy forehead fair;

Softly wreathing o’er the midnight

Of thy shining hair,

Till the gleam of starry pinions

Seems to linger there.

Sweetest eyes of softened splendor

On me faintly beam;

Lips most proud, and yet most tender,

Move as in a dream;

While our boat beneath the willows

Sleeps upon the stream--

Moveless, save its idle rocking

In the golden gleam.

Hours of faint and drowsy sweetness

’Mid the silence go--

Idle hours, that care or fleetness

Scarcely seem to know;--

Lightly rest! nor dream thou, darling,

Of time’s onward flow,

Till, upon yon wall of sapphire,

Sunset banners glow.

Then, from out the brooding silence,

Softly will we glide

Past the myriad happy islands

Sleeping on the tide;

Home with joy! though hours as golden

Long must be denied,

Clasping thus their haunting sweetness

Naught we’ll ask beside.

* * * * *

=ANNIE.=

=BY D. W. BARTLETT.=

Her brow is very beautiful--

The lily’s spotless hue;

Her eyes, which ever follow me,

Are heaven’s own blue;

Like rose-buds are her little lips,

Her motions full of grace,

And spiritually clear and fair

Her innocent young face.

Her smile is sunshine to my heart,

Her silver voice a tune

I always love to hear--her breath

Like that of flowers in June;

She is my first, my only child,

And has no mother’s love

To gather closely round her heart--

_She_ is in light above!

Her snow-white arms are round my neck.

Her lips my own do seek,

Her curls of silken, golden hair

Fall down upon my cheek;

I hear her voice and watch her eyes,

And whisper low--“above

Such voices fill the air--and there

There be such eyes of love!”

When trouble fills my aching breast

And I am grief’s sad prey,

Her prattling lips and gentle glee

Drive all the gloom away;

She lays her head upon my heart

And hushes every sigh:

I dare not think how cold the world

Would be if _she_ should die!

* * * * *

=THE USEFUL ARTS IN OTHER NATIONS AND TIMES.=

=BY CHARLES WILLIAMS.=

For several centuries after the irruption of the Barbarians and the fall

of Rome, there are scarce any visible traces of the existence of those

manufactures which attained so high a development in the old world. This

remark, of course, applies merely to Europe, for arts and refinement

still continued uninjured in the Eastern empire; and thence, on the

revival of Italian commerce, the knowledge of many inventions and useful

arts flowed westward. In the ninth century, the inhabitants of the

cities in Italy began to rebuild their ancient walls; and the security

conferred by fortified towns, together with the union of their citizens

for mutual defense, soon caused a decided advance in the useful arts.

Their progress was necessarily slow, in consequence of many disturbing

political and social evils. We will give a few examples from an ancient

historian[11] cited by Muratori, to show the condition of the most

civilized country of Europe in the former half of the thirteenth

century.