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