CHAPTER I.

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THE

ATLANTIC MONTHLY.

_A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics._

VOL. XVIII.--NOVEMBER, 1866.--NO. CIX.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by TICKNOR AND

FIELDS, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of

Massachusetts.

Transcriber's Note: Minor typos have been corrected and footnotes moved

to the end of the article.

RHODA.

Uncle Bradburn took down a volume of the new Cyclopædia, and placed it

on the stand beside him. He did not, however, open it immediately, but

sat absorbed in thought. At length he spoke:--"Don't you think a young

girl in the kitchen, to help Dorothy, would save a good many steps?"

"I don't know," replied Aunt Janet, slowly. "Dorothy has a great deal to

do already. Hepsy is as good and considerate as possible, but Dorothy

won't let her do anything hardly. Hepsy says herself that within doors

she has only dusted furniture and mended stockings ever since she came."

"Can't you find sewing for Hepsy?"

"She ought not to do much of that, you know."

"Very true; but then this girl,--she will have to go to the poor-house

if we don't take her. She has been living with Mrs. Kittredge at the

Hollow; but Mrs. Kittredge has made up her mind not to keep her any

longer. The fact is, nobody will keep her unless we do; and she is

terribly set against going back to the poor-house."

"Who is she?" asked Aunt Janet, a little hurriedly. She guessed already.

"Her name is Rhoda Breck. You have heard of her."

"Heard of her! I should think so!"

"If I were you, Oliver," said grandmother, who sat in her rocking-chair

knitting, "I would have two or three new rooms finished off over the

wood-shed, and then you could accommodate a few more of that sort. Just

like you!"

And she took a pinch of snuff from a little silver-lidded box made of a

sea-shell. She took it precipitately,--a sign that she was slightly

disturbed. This snuff-box, however, was a safety-valve.

Uncle Bradburn smiled quietly and made no reply.

"We will leave it to Dorothy," said Aunt Janet. "It is only fair, for

she will have all the trouble."

Uncle Bradburn regarded the point as gained: he was sure of Dorothy. But

he added by way of clincher, "Probably the girl never knew a month of

kind treatment in her life, and one would like her to have a chance of

seeing what it is. Just imagine a child of fifteen subjected to the

veriest vixen in the country. There is some excuse for old Mrs.

Kittredge, too, exasperated as she is by disease. No wonder if she is

not very amiable; but that makes it none the less hard for the child."

So the upshot of the matter was, that Rhoda Breck was installed nominal

aid to Dorothy.

Uncle brought her the next day in his sulky,--a slight little creature,

with a bundle as large as herself.

Presently she appeared at the sitting-room door. She was scarcely taller

than a well-grown ten-years child. She wore a dress of gay-hued print, a

bright shawl whose fringe reached lower than the edge of her skirt, and

on her head an old-world straw bonnet decorated with a mat of crushed

artificial flowers, and a faded, crumpled green veil. The small head had

a way of moving in quick little jerks, like a chicken's; and it was odd

to see how the enormous bonnet moved and jerked in unison. The face and

features were small, except the eyes, which were large and wide open,

and blue as turquoise.

She took time to look well around the room before she spoke:--"Well, I'm

come; I suppose you've been expecting of me. See here, be I going to

sleep with that colored woman?"

It was not possible to know from her manner to whom the query was

addressed; but Aunt Janet replied, "No, Rhoda, there is a room for you.

We never ask Dorothy to share her room with any one." Then, turning to

me, "Go and show Rhoda her room, my dear."

I rose to obey. Rhoda surveyed me, as if taking an inventory of the

particulars which made up my exterior; and when I in turn felt my eyes

attracted by her somewhat singular aspect, she remarked, in an

indescribably authoritative tone, "Don't gawp! I hate to be gawped at."

"See what a pretty room Dorothy has got ready for you," said I,--"a

chest of drawers in it, too; and there's a little closet. I am sure you

will like your room."

"No, you ain't sure neither," she replied. "Nobody can't tell till

they've tried. Likely yourn has got a carpet all over it. Hain't it,

now?"

"It has a straw matting," I answered.

"And it's bigger'n this, I'll bet Ain't it, now?"

"It is larger; but Louise and I have it together," said I.

"Yes, I've heard tell about her," said Rhoda. "Well, you see you and her

ain't town-poor. If you was town-poor you'd have to put up with

everything,--little room, and straw bed, and old clothes, and

everything. I expect I'll have to take your old gowns; hain't you got

any? Say, now."

"Yes," I said, "but I wear them myself. Surely, that you have on is not

old."

"Well, that's because I picked berries enough to buy it with. My bundle

there's all old duds, though. It takes me half my time to patch 'em.

You'd pitch 'em into the rag-bag. Wouldn't you, now?"

"I have not seen them, you know," I replied.

"More you hain't, nor you ain't agoing to. I hate folks peeking over my

things."

"Well," said I, "you may be sure I shall never do it. I must go back to

my work now."

"O, you feel above looking at town-poor's things, don't you? Wait till

I've showed you my new apron. I didn't ride in it for fear I'd dust it.

It's real gay, ain't it, now?"

"Yes," said I; "it looks like a piece of a tulip-bed. But I must really

go. I hope you will like your room."

When I went back into the sitting-room, grandmother was wiping her eyes.

She had been laughing till she cried at the new help Uncle Oliver had

brought into the house.

"No matter, though," she was saying; "let him call them help if he

likes. If Dorothy will put up with it, I am sure we ourselves may. He

says Hepsy more than pays her way in eggs and chickens. Just as if he

thought about the eggs and chickens! Of course, if persons are really

in need, it always pays to help them; and I guess Oliver has about as

much capital invested that way as any one I know of, and I'm glad of it.

But it's his funny way of doing it; it's all help, you see." And she

laughed again till the tears came.

In half an hour, during which time grandmother had a nap in her chair

and Aunt Janet read, the little apparition stood in the doorway again.

She had doffed the huge bonnet; and in her lint-white locks, drawn back

from her forehead so straight and tight that it seemed as if that were

what made her eyes open so round, she wore a tall horn comb. Around her

neck, and standing well out, was a broad frill of the same material as

her dress, highly suggestive of Queen Elizabeth.

"You hain't got any old things, coats and trousers and such, all worn

out, have you? 'Cause if you have, I guess I'll begin a braided rug.

When folks are poor, they've got to work, if they know what's good for

'em."

"They'd better work, if they know what's good for 'em, whether they're

poor or not," said grandmother.

"There's a pedler going to bring me a diamond ring when I get a dollar

to pay him for it."

This remark was elicited by a fiery spark on grandmother's finger.

"You had better save your money for something you need more," said

grandmother.

"You didn't think so when you bought yourn, did you, now?" said Rhoda.

Meantime Aunt Janet had experienced a sense of relief at Rhoda's

suggestion, by reason of finding herself really at a loss how to employ

her. So they twain proceeded at once to the garret; whence they

presently returned, Rhoda bearing her arms full of worn-out garments

which had been accumulating in view of the possible beggar whose visits

in that part of New England are inconveniently rare.

"Those braided rugs are very comfortable things under one's feet in

winter," said grandmother. "They're homely as a stump fence, but that is

no matter."

"I hardly knew what you would do with her while we were away," said Aunt

Janet. "But it would kill the child to sit steadily at that. There's one

thing, though,--strawberries will soon be ripe, and she can go and pick

them. You may tell her, Kate, that I will pay her for them by the quart,

just as any one else does. That will please and encourage her, I think."

I told her that evening.

"No, you don't," was her answer. "Nobody don't pay me twice over. I

ain't an old skinflint, if I be town-poor. But I'll keep you in

strawberries, though. Never you fear."

I quite liked that of her, and so did grandmother and Aunt Janet when I

told them.

Uncle and Aunt Bradburn were going to make their yearly visit at Exeter,

where uncle's relatives live. The very day of their departure brought a

letter announcing a visit from one of Aunt Janet's cousins, a Miss

Lucretia Stackpole. She was a lady who avowed herself fortunate in

having escaped all those trammels which hinder people from following

their own bent. One of her fancies was for a nomadic life; and in

pursuance of this, she bestowed on Aunt Janet occasional visits, varying

in duration from two or three days to as many weeks. The letter implied

that she might arrive in the evening train, and we waited tea for her.

She did not disappoint us; and during the tea-drinking she gave us

sketches, not only of all the little celebrities she had met at

Saratoga, but of all the new fashions in dresses, bonnets, and jewelry,

besides many of her own plans.

It was impossible for her to remain beyond the week, she said, because

she had promised to meet her friends General and Mrs. Perkinpine in

Burlington in time to accompany them to Montreal and Quebec, whence they

must hurry back to Saratoga for a week, and go thence to Baltimore;

then, after returning for a few days to New York, they were to go to

Europe.

"But you don't mean to go with them to Europe, Lucretia?" said

grandmother.

"O, of course, Aunt Margaret," for so she called her,--"of course I

intend to go. We mean to be gone a year, and half the time we shall

spend in Paris. We shall go to Rome, and we shall spend a few weeks in

England."

"I cannot imagine what you will do with six months in Paris,--you who

don't know five words of French."

"I studied it, however, at boarding-school," said Miss Stackpole; "I

read both Télémaque and the New Testament in French."

"Did you?" said grandmother; "well, every little helps."

"I think I should dearly love to go myself," said Louise.

"One picks up the language," said Miss Stackpole; "and certainly nothing

is more improving than travel."

"If improvement is your motive, it is certainly a very laudable one,"

said grandmother. "But I should suppose that at your age you would begin

to prefer a little quiet to all this rushing about. But every one to his

liking."

Now it is undeniable that grandmother and Miss Stackpole never did get

on very well together; so it was rather a relief to Louise and myself

when Miss Stackpole, pleading fatigue from her ride, expressed a wish to

go to bed early, and get a good long, refreshing night's sleep, the

facilities for which, she averred, were the only compensating

circumstance of country life.

Immediately afterwards, grandmother called Louise and myself into her

room, to say what a pity it was that this visit had not occurred either

a few weeks earlier or a few weeks later, when uncle and aunt would have

been at home; but that, as it was, we must make the best of it, and do

all in our power to make things go pleasantly for Miss Stackpole. It was

true, she said, that Lucretia was not so very many years younger than

herself, and, for her part, she thought pearl-powder and rouge and dyed

hair, and all such trash, made people look old and silly, instead of

young and handsome. It did sometimes try her patience a little; but she

hoped she should remember, and so must we, that it was a Christian duty

to treat people hospitably in one's own home, and that it was enjoined

upon us to live peaceably, if possible, with all men, as much as lieth

in us. Lucretia's being a goose made no difference in the principle.

So we planned that we would take her up to Haverhill, and down to

Cornish, and over to Woodstock,--all places to which she liked to go.

And Dorothy came in to ask if she had better broil or fricassee the

chickens for breakfast, and to say that there was a whole basketful of

Guinea-hens' eggs, and that she had just set some waffles and

sally-lunns a-sponging. She was determined to do her part, she said: she

should be mighty glad to help get that skinchy-scrimpy look out of Miss

Lucretia's face, just like a sour raisin.

Grandmother said every one must do the best she could.

* * * * *

There was one topic which Miss Stackpole could never let alone, and

which always led to a little sparring between herself and grandmother.

So the next morning, directly after breakfast, she began,--"Aunt

Margaret, I never see that ring on your finger without wanting it."

"I know it," grandmother responded; "and you're likely to want it. It's

little like you'll ever get it."

"Now, Aunt Margaret! you always could say the drollest things. But, upon

my word, I should prize it above everything. What in all the world makes

you care to wear such a ring as that, at your age, is more than I can

imagine. If you gave it to me, I promise you I would never part with it

as long as I live."

"And I promise you, Lucretia, that I never will. And let me tell you,

that, old as I am, you are the only one who has ever seemed in a hurry

for me to have done with my possessions. If it will ease your mind any,

I can assure you, once for all, that this ring will never come into your

hands as long as you live. It has been in the family five generations,

and has always gone to the eldest daughter; and, depend upon it, I shall

not be the first to infringe the custom. So now I hope you will leave me

in peace."

Miss Stackpole held up her hands, and exclaimed and protested. When she

was alone with Louise and me, she said she could plainly see that

grandmother grew broken and childish.

When we saw grandmother alone, she said she was sorry she had been so

warm with Lucretia; she feared it was not quite Christian; besides,

though you brayed a fool in a mortar with a pestle, yet would not his

foolishness depart from him.

The visiting career, so desirable for various reasons, was entered upon

immediately. To Bethel, being rather too far for going and returning the

same day, only Miss Stackpole and Louise went. They rode in the

carryall, Louise driving. Though quite needlessly, Miss Stackpole was a

little afraid of trusting herself to Louise's skill, and begged Will

Bright, uncle's gardener, to leave his work, just for a day, and go with

them. But there were a dozen things, said Will, which needed immediate

doing, so that was out of the question. Then it came out that a run-away

horse was not the only danger. In the country there are so many

lurking-places, particularly in going through woods, whence a robber

might pounce upon you all of a sudden and demand your life, or your

portemonnaie, or your watch, or your rings, or something, that Miss

Stackpole thought unprotected women, out on a drive, were on the whole

forlorn creatures. But in our neighborhood a highwayman was a myth,--we

had hardly ever even heard of one; and so, after no end of misgivings

lest one or another lion in the way should after all compel the

relinquishment of the excursion, literally at the eleventh hour they

were fairly on their way.

A room with a low, pleasant window looking out on the garden was the one

assigned to Rhoda. In the garret she had discovered a little old

rocking-chair, and this, transferred to her room, and placed near the

window, was her favorite seat. Here, whenever one walked in the back

garden, which was pretty much thickets of lilacs, great white

rose-bushes, beds of pinks and southern-wood, and rows of

currant-bushes, might be heard Rhoda's voice crooning an old song. It

was rather a sweet voice, too. I wondered where she could have collected

so many old airs. She said she supposed she caught them of Miss Reeney,

out at the poor-house.

When one saw Rhoda working away with unremitting assiduity, day after

day, it was difficult to yield credence to all the stories that had been

current in regard to her violence of temper and general viciousness.

That was hard work, too, which she was doing; at least it looked hard

for such little bits of hands. First, cutting with those great heavy

shears through the thick, stiff cloth; next, the braiding; and finally,

the sewing together with the huge needle, and coarse, waxed thread.

One afternoon I had been looking at her a little while, and, as what

uncle said about her having never had fair play came into my mind, I

felt a strong compulsion to do her some kindness, however trifling; so I

gathered a few flowers, fragrant and bright, and took them to her

window.

"Rhoda," said I, "shouldn't you like these on your bureau? They will

look pretty there; and only smell how sweet they are. You may have the

vase for your own, if you like."

She took it without a word, looked at it a moment, glancing at me to

make sure she understood, and then rose and placed it on the bureau,

where it showed double, reflected from the looking-glass. She did not

again turn her face towards me till she had spent a brief space in close

communion with a minute handkerchief which she had drawn from her

pocket. Clearly, here was one not much wonted to little kindnesses, and

not insensible to them either.

* * * * *

The visit to Bethel had resulted so well, that Woodstock and Cornish

were unhesitatingly undertaken. Nor was it misplaced confidence on Miss

Stackpole's part. With the slight drawback of having forgotten the whip

on the return from Woodstock, not the shadow of an accident occurred.

Nor was this oversight of much account, only that Tim Linkinwater, the

horse, whose self-will had increased with his years, soon made the

discovery that he for the nonce held the reins of power; and when they

reached Roaring Brook, instead of proceeding decorously across the

bridge, he persisted in descending a somewhat steep bank and fording the

stream. Half-way across, he found the coolness of the water so agreeable

that he decided to enjoy it _ad libitum_. No expostulations nor

chirrupings nor cluckings availed aught. He felt himself master of the

occasion, and would not budge an inch. He looked up stream and down

stream, and now and then sent a sly glance back at Miss Stackpole and

Louise, and now and then splashed the water with his hoofs against the

pebbles. Miss Stackpole's distress became intense. It began to be a moot

point whether they might not be forced to pass the night there, in the

middle of Roaring Brook. By great good fortune, at this juncture came

along in his sulky Dr. Butterfield of Meriden. To him Louise appealed

for aid, and he gave her his own whip, reaching it down to her from the

bridge. Tim Linkinwater, perfectly comprehending the drift of events,

did not wait for the logic of the lash, which, nevertheless, Miss

Stackpole declared that he richly deserved, and which she would fain

have seen administered, only for the probability that his homeward pace

might be thereby perilously accelerated.

That night we all went unusually early to bed and to sleep. I remember

looking from the window after the light was out, and seeing, through a

rift in the clouds, the new moon just touching the peak of the opposite

mountain. A whippoorwill sang in the great chestnut-tree at the farther

corner of the yard; tree-toads trilled, and frogs peeped, and through

all could just be heard the rapids up the river.

We were wakened at midnight by very different sounds,--a clattering,

crushing noise, like something failing down stairs, with outcries fit to

waken the seven sleepers. You would believe it impossible that they all

proceeded from one voice; but they did, and that Rhoda's. We were wide

awake and up immediately; and as the screams ceased, we distinctly heard

some one running rapidly down the walk. As soon as we could get lights,

we found ourselves congregated in the upper front hall; and Rhoda, when

she had recovered breath to speak, told her story.

She did not know what awoke her; but she heard what sounded like

carefully raising a window, and some one stepping softly around the

house. At first she supposed it might be one of the family; but, the

sounds continuing, it came into her head to get up and see what they

were. So she came, barefooted as she was, up the back way, and was just

going down the front stairs, when a gleam of light shone on the ceiling

above her. She moved to a position whence she could look over the

balusters, and saw that the light came from a shaded lantern, carried by

a man who moved so stealthily that only the creaking of the boards

betrayed his footsteps. At the foot of the stairs he paused a moment,

looking around, apparently hesitating which way to go. He decided to

ascend; and then Rhoda, bravely determined to do battle, seized a

rocking-chair which stood near, and threw it downward with all her

force, lifting up her voice at the same time to give the alarm.

Whether the man were hurt or not, it is certain that he was not so

disabled as to impede his flight, and that he had lost his lantern, for

that lay on the floor at the foot of the staircase; so did the

rocking-chair, broken all to pieces.

When we came to go over the house, it had been thoroughly ransacked.

Every bit of silver, from the old-fashioned tea-pot and coffee-pot and

the great flat porringer which Grandmother Graham's mother had brought

over from Scotland to the cup which had belonged to the baby that died

twenty years ago, and which Aunt Janet loved for his sake, the spoons,

forks, all were collected in a large basket, with a quantity of linen

and some articles of clothing.

If the thief had been content with these, he might probably have secured

them, for he had already placed them on a table just beneath an open

window; but, hoping to gain additional booty, he lost and we saved it

all,---or rather Rhoda saved it for us. We were extremely glad, for it

would have been a great mischance losing those things, apart from the

shame, as grandmother said, of keeping house so poorly while uncle and

aunt were away.

Will Bright thought, from Rhoda's account, that the man might be Luke

Potter; for Luke lived nobody knew how, and he had recently returned

from a two years' absence, strongly suspected to have been a resident in

a New York State-prison. His family occupied a little brown house, half

a mile up the road to uncle's wood-lot.

So Will went up there the next day, pretending he wanted Luke to come

and help about some mowing that was in hand. Luke's wife said that her

husband had not been out of bed for two days, with a hurt he got on the

cars the Saturday before. Then Will offered to go in and see if he could

not do something for him; but Mrs. Potter said that he was asleep, and,

having had a wakeful night, she guessed he had better not be disturbed.

Will felt sure of his man, and, knowing Potter's reckless audacity, made

extensive preparations for defence. He brought down from the garret a

rusty old gun and a powder-horn, hunted up the bullet-moulds, and run

ever so many little leaden balls before he discovered that they did not

fit the gun; but that, as he said, was of no consequence, because there

would be just as much noise, and it was not likely that any thief would

stay to be shot at twice.

So, notwithstanding our great fright, we grew to feel tolerably secure;

but we took good care to fasten the windows, and to set in a safer place

the articles which had so nearly been lost. Moreover, Will Bright was

moved into a little room at the head of the back stairs.

It was to be thought that Miss Stackpole would be completely overcome by

this midnight adventure; but she averred that, contrariwise, it had the

effect to rouse every atom of energy and spirit which she possessed. She

had waited only to slip on a double-gown, and, seizing the first article

fit for offensive service, which proved to be a feather duster, she

hurried to the scene of action. She said afterwards, that she had felt

equal to knocking down ten men, if they had come within her range. I

remember myself that she did look rather formidable. Her double-gown was

red and yellow; and her hair, wound up in little horn-shaped

_papillotes_, imparted to her face quite a bristly and fierce

expression.

Evidently, Rhoda was much exalted in Will Bright's esteem from that

eventful night.

"She's clear grit," said Will. "Who 'd have thought the little thing had

so much spunk in her? I declare I don't believe there's another one in

the house that would have done what she did."

The next forenoon, while Louise and I were sewing in grandmother's room,

Miss Stackpole came hurriedly in, looking quite excited.

"Aunt Margaret,--girls," said she, "do you know that, after all, you've

got a thief in the house? for you certainly have."

"Lucretia," said grandmother, "explain yourself; what do you mean now?"

"Why, I mean exactly what I said; there's no doubt that somebody in the

house is dishonest. I know it; I've lost a valuable pin."

"How valuable?" said grandmother, smiling,--"a diamond one?"

"You need not laugh, Aunt Margaret; it is one of these new pink coral

pins, and very expensive indeed. I shall make a stir about it, I can

tell you. A pity if I can't come here for a few days without having half

my things stolen!"

"And whom do you suspect of taking it?" said grandmother, coolly.

"How do I know? I don't think Dorothy would touch anything that was not

her own."

"You don't?" said grandmother, firing up. "I am glad you see fit to make

one exception in the charge you bring against the household."

"O, very well. I suppose you think I ought to let it all go, and never

open my lips about it. But that is not my way."

"No, it is not," said grandmother.

"If it were my own pin, I shouldn't care so much; but it is not. It

belongs to Mrs. Perkinpine."

"And you borrowed it? borrowed jewelry? Well done, Lucretia! I would not

have believed it of you. I call that folly and meanness."

"No," said Miss Stackpole, "I shall certainly replace it; I shall have

to, if I don't find it. But I will find it. I'll tell you: that girl

that dusts my room, Hepsy you call her, I'll be bound that she has it.

Not that she would know its value; but she would think it a pretty thing

to wear. Now, Aunt Margaret, don't you really think yourself it looks--"

"Lucretia Stackpole," interrupted grandmother, "if you care to know what

I really think myself, I will tell you. Since you have lost the pin, and

care so much about it, I am sorry. You can well enough afford to replace

it, though. But if you want to make everybody in the neighborhood

dislike and despise you, just accuse Hepsy of taking your trinkets. She

was born and bred here, close by us, and we think we know her. For my

part, I would trust her with gold uncounted. Everybody will think, and I

think too, that it is far more likely you have lost or mislaid it than

that any one here has stolen it."

Miss Stackpole had already opened her lips to reply; but what she would

have said will never be known, for she was interrupted again,--this time

by a terrible noise, as if half the house had fallen, and then piteous

cries. The sounds came from the wood-shed, and thither we all hastened,

fully expecting to find some one buried under a fallen wood-pile. It was

not quite that, but there lay Rhoda, with her foot bent under her,

writhing and moaning in extreme pain.

We were every one assembled there, grandmother, Miss Stackpole, Louise,

and I, and Hepsy, Dorothy, and Will Bright. Dorothy would have lifted

and carried her in, but Rhoda would not allow it. Will Bright did not

wait to be allowed, but took her up at once, more gently and carefully

than one would have thought, and deposited her in her own room. Then, at

grandmother's suggestion, he set off directly on horseback for Dr.

Butterfield, whom fortunately he encountered on the way.

The doctor soon satisfied himself that the extent of the poor girl's

injuries was a bad sprain,--enough, certainly, but less than we had

feared.

It would be weeks before she would be able to walk, and meantime perfect

quiet was strictly enforced. Hepsy volunteered her services as nurse,

and discharged faithfully her assumed duties. But Rhoda grew restless

and feverish, and finally became so much worse that we began seriously

to fear lest she had received some internal injury.

One afternoon I was sitting with her when the doctor came. He spoke

cheeringly, as usual; but when I went to the door with him, he said the

child had some mental trouble, the disposal of which would be more

effective than all his medicines, and that I must endeavor to ascertain

and remove it.

Without much difficulty I succeeded. She was haunted with the fear,

that, in her present useless condition, she would be sent away. I

convinced her that no one would do this during the absence of Uncle and

Aunt Bradburn, and that before their return she would probably be able

to resume her work.

"I know I'll sleep real good to-night," said Rhoda. "You see I'm awful

tired of going round so from one place to another. It's just been from

pillar to post ever since I can remember."

"Well," said I, "you may be sure that you will never be sent away from

this house for sickness nor for accident. So now set your poor little

heart at rest about it."

The blue eyes looked at me with an expression different from any I had

seen in them before. They were soft, pretty eyes, too, now that the hair

was suffered to lie around the face, instead of being stretched back as

tightly as possible. One good result had come from the wood-shed

catastrophe: the high comb had been shattered into irretrievable

fragments. I inly determined that none like it should ever take its

place.

* * * * *

Since Miss Stackpole said it was impossible for her to remain till the

return of Uncle and Aunt Bradburn, I cannot say that, under the

circumstances, we particularly desired her to prolong her visit. It may

be that grandmother had too little patience with her; certainly they two

were not congenial spirits. However, by means of taking her to see every

relative we had in the vicinity, we disposed of the time very

satisfactorily. She remained a few days longer than she had intended, so

that Dorothy, who is unapproachable in ironing, might do up her muslin

dresses.

"I have changed my mind about Hepsy," said she the night before she

left. "I think now it is Rhoda."

"What is Rhoda?" asked grandmother.

"That has taken the coral pin."

Grandmother compressed her lips, but her eyes spoke volumes.

"Miss Stackpole," said I, "it is true that Rhoda has not been here long;

still, I have a perfect conviction of her honesty."

"Very amiable and generous of you to feel so, Kate," said Miss

Stackpole; "perhaps a few years ago, when I was of your age, I should

have thought just the same."

"Kate is twenty next September," said grandmother, who could refrain no

longer. "I never forget anybody's age. It is quite possible that she

will change in the course of twenty-five or thirty years."

We all knew this to be throwing down the gauntlet. Miss Stackpole did

not, however, take it up. She said she intended to lay the

circumstances, exactly as they were, before Mrs. Perkinpine; and if that

lady would allow her, she should pay for the pin. She thought, though,

it might be her duty to talk with Rhoda; perhaps, even at the eleventh

hour, the girl might be induced to give it up.

"I will take it upon me, Lucretia," said grandmother, "to object to your

talking with Rhoda. Even if we have not among us penetration enough to

see that she is honest as daylight, it does not follow that we should be

excusable in doing anything to make that forlorn orphan child less happy

than she is now. You visit about a great deal, Lucretia. I hope, for the

sake of all your friends, that you don't everywhere scatter your

suspicions broadcast as you have done here. I am older than you, as you

will admit, and I have never known any good come of unjust accusations."

After Miss Stackpole went up stairs that night, she folded the black

silk dress she had been wearing to lay it in her trunk; and in doing

that, she found the missing pin on the inside of the waist-lining, just

where she had put it herself. Then she remembered having stuck it there

one morning in a hurry, to prevent any one being tempted with seeing it

lie around.

And Rhoda never knew what an escape she had.

* * * * *

"I do wish there was something for me to do," said Rhoda; "I never was

used to lying abed doing nothing. It most tuckers me out."

"Cannot you read, Rhoda?" I asked.

"Yes, I can read some. I can't read words, but I can tell some of the

letters."

"Have you never gone to school?"

"No; I always had to work. Poor folks have got to work, you know."

"Yes, but that need not prevent your learning to read. I can teach you

myself; I will, if you like."

"I guess your aunt won't calculate to get me to work for her, and then

have me spend my time learning to read. First you know, she'll send me

off."

"She will like it perfectly well. Grandmother is in authority here now;

I will go and ask her." This I knew would seem to her decisive.

"What did she say?" said Rhoda, rather eagerly, when I returned.

"She says yes, by all means; and that if you learn to read before aunt

comes home, you shall have a new dress, and I may choose it for you."

Now it was no sinecure, teaching Rhoda, but she won the dress,--a lilac

print, delicate and pretty enough for any one. I undertook to make the

dress, but she accomplished a good part of it herself. She said Miss

Reeny used to show her about sewing. Whatever was to be done with hands

she learned with surprising quickness. Grandmother suggested that the

reading lessons should be followed by a course in writing. Before the

lameness was well over, Rhoda could write, slowly indeed, yet legibly.

I carried her some roses one evening. While putting them in water, I

asked what flowers she liked best.

"I like sweetbriers best," said she. "I think sweetbriers are handsome

in the graveyard. I set out one over Jinny Collins's grave. For what I

know, it is growing now."

"Who was Jinny Collins, Rhoda?"

"A girl that used to live over at the poor-house when I did. She was

bound out to the Widow Whitmarsh, the spring that I went to live with

Mrs. Amos Kemp. Jinny used to have sick spells, and Mrs. Whitmarsh

wanted to send her back to the poor-house, but folks said she couldn't,

because she'd had her bound. She and Mrs. Kemp was neighbors; and after

Jinny got so as to need somebody with her nights, Mrs. Kemp used to let

me go and sleep with her, and then she could wake me up if she wanted

anything. I wanted to go, and Jinny wanted to have me come; she used to

say it did her lots of good. Sometimes we'd pretend we was rich, and was

in a great big room with curtains to the windows. We didn't have any

candle burning,--Mrs. Whitmarsh said there wa'n't no need of one, and

more there wa'n't. One night we said we'd take a ride to-morrow or next

day. We pretended we'd got a father, and he was real rich, and had got a

horse and wagon. Jinny said we'd go to the store and buy us a new white

gown,--she always wanted a white gown. By and by she said she was real

sleepy; she didn't have no bad coughing-spell that night, such as she

most always did. She asked me if I didn't smell the clover-blows, how

sweet they was; and then she talked about white lilies, and how she

liked 'em most of anything, without it was sweetbriers. Then she asked

me if I knew what palms was; and she said when she was dead she wanted

me to have her little pink chany box that Miss Maria Elliot give her

once, when she bought some blueberries of her. So then she dozed a

little while; and I don't know why, but I couldn't get asleep for a good

while, for all I'd worked real hard that day. I guess 'twas as much as

an hour she laid kind of still; she never did sleep real sound, so but

what she moaned and talked broken now and then. So by and by she give a

start, and says she, 'I'm all ready.' 'Ready for what, Jinny,' says I.

But she didn't seem to know as I was talking to her. Says she, 'I'm all

ready. I've got on a white gown and a palm in my hand.' So then I knew

she was wandering like, as I'd heard say folks did when they was very

sick; for she hadn't any gown at all on, without you might call Mrs.

Whitmarsh's old faded calico sack one, nor nothing in her hand neither.

So pretty soon she dropped to sleep again, and I did too. And I slept

later 'n common. The sun was shining right into my eyes when I opened

'em. I thought 't would trouble Jinny, and I was just going to pin her

skirt up to the window, and I see that she looked awful white. I put my

hand on her forehead, and it was just as cold as a stone. So then I knew

she was dead. I never see her look so happy like. She had the

pleasantest smile on her lips ever you see. I didn't know as Mrs. Kemp'd

like to have me stay, but I just brushed her hair,--'t was real pretty

hair, just a little mite curly,--and then I run home and told Mrs. Kemp.

She said she'd just as lives I'd stay over to Mrs. Whitmarsh's as not

that day, 'cause she was going over to Woodstock shopping. So I went

back again, and Mrs. Whitmarsh she sent me to one of the selectmen to

see if she'd got to be to the expense of the funeral, 'cause she said it

didn't seem right, seeing she never got much work out of Jinny, she was

always so weakly. And Mr. Robbins he said the town would pay for the

coffin and digging the grave. That made her real pleasant; and I don't

know what put me up to it, but I was real set on it that Jinny should

have on a white gown in the coffin. And I asked Mrs. Whitmarsh if I

mightn't go over to Miss Bradford's; and she let me, and Miss Bradford

give me an old white gown, if I'd iron it; and Polly Wheelock, she was

Miss Bradford's girl, she helped me put it on to Jinny. And then Polly

got some white lilies, and I got some sweetbrier sprigs, and laid round

her in the coffin. I've seen prettier coffins, but I never see no face

look so pretty as Jinny's. Mrs. Whitmarsh had the funeral next morning.

She said she wanted to that night, so she could put the room airing, but

she supposed folks would talk, and, besides, they didn't get the grave

dug quick enough neither. Mrs. Kemp let me go to the funeral. I thought

they was going to carry her over to the poor-house burying-ground, but

they didn't, 'cause 't would cost so much for a horse and wagon. The

right minister was gone away, and the one that was there was going off

in the cars, so he had to hurry. There wa'n't hardly anybody there, only

some men to let the coffin down, and the sexton, and Mrs. Whitmarsh and

Polly Wheelock and I. The minister prayed a little speck of a prayer and

went right away. I heard Mrs. Whitmarsh telling Mrs. Kemp she thought

she'd got out of it pretty well, seeing she didn't expect nothing but

what she'd got to buy the coffin, and get the grave dug, and be to all

the expense. She said she guessed nobody'd catch her having another girl

bound out to her. Mrs. Kemp said she always knew 't was a great risk,

and that was why she didn't have me bound.

"That summer, when berries was ripe, Mrs. Kemp let me go and pick 'em

and carry 'em round to sell; and she said I might have a cent for every

quart I sold. I got over three dollars that summer for myself."

"What did you do with it?"

"I bought some shoes, and some yarn to knit me some stockings. I can

knit real good."

"How came you to leave Mrs. Kemp."

"Partly 't was 'cause she didn't like my not buying her old green shawl

with my share of the money for the berries; and partly 'cause I got

cold, and it settled in my feet so's I couldn't hardly go round. So she

told me she'd concluded to have me go back to the poor-house. If she

kept a girl, she said, she wanted one to wait on her, and not to be

waited on. She waited two or three days to see if I didn't get better,

so as I could walk over there; but I didn't. And one day it had been

raining, but it held up awhile, and she see a neighbor riding by, and

she run out and asked him if he couldn't carry me over to the

poor-house. He said he could if she wanted him to; so I went. I had on

my cape, and it wa'n't very warm. She asked me when I come away, if I

wa'n't sorry I hadn't a shawl. I expect I did catch cold. I couldn't set

up nor do nothing for more 'n three weeks. When I got so I could knit,

my yarn was gone. I never knew what become of it; and one of the women

used to borrow my shoes for her little girl, and she wore 'em out So,

come spring, I was just where I was the year before, only lonesomer,

cause Jinny was gone."

"And did you stay there?"

"To the poor-house? No; Betty Crosfield wanted a girl to come and help

her. She took in washing for Mr. Furniss's hands. She said I wa'n't

strong enough to earn much, but she would pay me in clothes. She give me

a Shaker bonnet and an old gown that the soap had took the color out of,

and she made a tack in it, so's it did. And I had my cape. When

strawberries come, the hands was most all gone, and she let me sleep

there, and go day-times after berries, and she to have half the pay.

That's how I got my red calico and my shawl."

"Who made your dress, Rhoda?"

"Miss Reeny, I carried it over to see if she'd cut it out, and she said

she'd make it if they'd let her, and they did. And I got her some green

tea. She used to say sometimes, she'd give anything for a cup of green

tea, such as her mother used to have."

"Who is Miss Reeny?"

"A woman that lives over there. Her father used to be a doctor; but he

died, and she was sickly and didn't know as she had any relations, and

by and by she had to go there. They say over there she ain't in her

right mind, but I don't know. She was always good to me. There was an

old chair with a cushion in it, and Miss Reeny wanted it to sit in,

'cause her back was lame; but old Mrs. Fitts wanted it too, and they

used to spat it. So Miss Holbrook come there one day to see the place,

and somebody told her about the cushioned chair, and, if you'll believe

it, the very next day there was one come over as good again, with arms

to it, and a cushion, and all. Miss Holbrook sent it over to Miss Reeny.

None of 'em couldn't take it away."

"And is she there now?"

"Yes, she can't go nowhere else. One night Betty Crosfield said I

needn't come there no more; she was going to take a boarder. Berry-time

was most over, so then I got a place to Miss Stoney's, the milliner. She

agreed to give me twenty-five cents a week, and I thought to be sure I

should get back my shoes and yarn now. But one morning the teapot was

cracked, and she asked me, and I said I didn't do it,--and I didn't; but

she said she knew I did, because there wasn't nobody but her and me that

touched it, and she should keep my wages till they come to a dollar and

a half, because that was what a new one would cost. Before the teapot

was paid for I did break a glass dish. I didn't know 't would hurt it to

put it in hot water; and everything else that was broke, she thought I

broke it, and she kept it out of my wages. I told her I didn't see as

she ought to; and in the fall she said she couldn't put up with my sauce

and my breaking no longer. Mrs. Kittredge wanted a girl, and I went

there."

"And how did you find it there?"

"I think it was about the hardest place of all. I'd as lives go back to

the poor-house as to stay there. Sally Kittredge used to tell things

that wa'n't true about me. She told one day that I pushed her down. I

never touched my hand to her. But Mrs. Kittredge got a raw hide up

stairs and give it to me awful. I shouldn't wonder if it showed now;

just look."

She undid the fastening of her dress and slipped off the waist for me to

see. The little back--she was very small--was all discolored with

stripes, purple, green, and yellow. After showing me these bruises, she

quietly fastened her dress again.

Now there was that in Rhoda's manner during this narration which wrought

in my mind entire conviction of its verity. By the time of Uncle and

Aunt Bradburn's return, she was growing in favor with every one in the

house. She was gentle, patient, and grateful.

The deftness with which she used those small fingers suggested to me the

idea of teaching her some of the more delicate kinds of fancy-work. But

it seemed that she required no teaching. An opportunity given of looking

on while one was embroidering, crocheting, or making tatting, and the

process was her own. Native tact imparted to her at once the skill which

others attain only by long practice. As for her fine sewing, it was

exquisite; and in looking at it, one half regretted the advent of the

sewing-machine.

The fall days grew short; the winter came and went; and in the course of

it, besides doing everything that was required of her in the household,

keeping up the reading and writing, and satisfactory progress in

arithmetic, Rhoda had completed, at my suggestion, ten of those little

tatting collars, made of fine thread, and rivalling in delicate beauty

the loveliest fabrics of lace.

Because a project was on foot for Rhoda. A friend of mine going to

Boston took charge of the little package of collars, and the result was

that the proprietor of a fancy-store there engaged to receive all of

them that might be manufactured, at the price of three dollars each.

When my friend returned, she brought me, as the avails of her

commission, the sum of thirty dollars.

But here arose an unexpected obstacle. It was difficult to convince

Rhoda that the amount, which seemed to her immense, was of right her

own. She comprehended it, however, at last; and thenceforth her skill in

this and other departments of fancy-work obtained for her constant and

remunerative employment.

It was now a year since Rhoda came to us, and during this time her

improvement had been steady and rapid. And since she had come to dress

like other girls, no one could say that she was ill-looking; but, as I

claimed the merit of effecting this change in her exterior, it may be

that I observed it more than any one else. Still, I fancy that some

others were not blind.

"Where did you get those swamp-pinks, Rhoda?" for I detected the fine

azalia odor before I saw them.

A bright color suffused the childlike face, quite to the roots of the

hair. "Will Bright got them when he went after the cows. You may have

some if you want them."

"No, thank you; it is a pity to disturb them, they look so pretty just

as they are."

* * * * *

Troubles come to everybody. Even Will Bright, though no one had ever

known him to be without cheerfulness enough for half a dozen, was not

wholly exempt from ills. With all his good sense, which was not a

little, Will was severely incredulous of the reputed effects of

poison-ivy; and one day, by way of maintaining his position, gathered a

spray of it and applied it to his face. He was not long in finding the

vine in question an ugly customer. His face assumed the aspect of a

horrible mask, and the dimensions of a good-sized water-pail, with

nothing left of the eyes but two short, straight marks. For once, Will

had to succumb and be well cared for.

In this state of things a letter came to him with a foreign postmark. "I

will lay it away in your desk, Will," said uncle, "till you can read it

yourself; that will be in a day or two."

"If you don't mind the trouble, sir, I should thank you to open and read

it for me. I get no letters that I am unwilling you should see."

It was to the effect that a relative in England had left him a bequest

of five hundred pounds, and that the amount would be made payable to his

order wherever he should direct.

"You will oblige me, sir, if you will say nothing about this for the

present," said Will, when uncle had congratulated him.

"I hope we shall not lose sight of you, Will," said uncle, who really

felt a strong liking for the young man, who had served him faithfully

three years.

"I hope not, sir," replied Will. "I shall be glad to consult you before

I decide what use to make of this windfall. At all events, I don't want

to change my quarters for the present."

* * * * *

About the same time, brother Ned, in Oregon, sent me a letter which

contained this passage:--

"We are partly indebted for this splendid stroke of business to the help

of a townsman of our own; his name is Joseph Breck. He says he ran away

from Deacon Handy's, at fifteen years old, because the Deacon would not

send him to school as he had agreed. Ask uncle if he remembers Ira

Breck, who lived over at Ash Swamp, near the old Ingersol place. He was

drowned saving timber in a freshet. He left two children, and this

Joseph is the elder. The other was a girl, her name Rhoda, six or eight

years younger than Joseph; she must be now, he says, not far from

sixteen or seventeen. Joe has had a hard row to hoe, but now that he

begins to see daylight he wants to do something for his sister. He is a

thoroughly honest and competent fellow, and we are glad enough to get

hold of him. He told me the other night such a story as would make your

heart ache: at all events it would make you try to ascertain something

about his sister before you write next."

* * * * *

I lost no time in seeking Rhoda.

"Yes," said she, in reply to my inquiries, "I did have a brother once.

He went off and was lost. I can just remember him. I don't suppose I

shall ever see him again. Folks said likely he was drowned."

"Was his name Joseph?"

"It was Joe; father used to call him Joe."

I read to her from Ned's letter what related to her brother.

"I'm most afraid it's a dream," said Rhoda after a brief silence. "Over

at the poor-house I used to have such good dreams, and then I'd wake up

out of them. After I came here I used to be afraid it was a dream; but I

didn't wake out of that. Perhaps I shall see Joe again; who knows?"

* * * * *

From this time a change came over Rhoda. She begged as a privilege to

learn to do everything that a woman can do about a house.

"I do declare, Miss Kate," said Dorothy one day, after displaying a

grand array of freshly baked loaves, wearing the golden-brown tint that

hints at such savory sweetness, "that girl, for a white girl, is going

to make a most a splendid cook. I never touched this bread, and just you

see! ain't it perfindiculur wonderful?"

Soon after, I found Rhoda, with her dress tidily pinned out of harm's

way, standing at a barrel, and poking vigorously with a stick longer

than herself.

"What now, Rhoda! what are you doing there?"

"Come here and look at the soap, Miss Kate. I made it every bit myself;

ain't it going to be beautiful?"

"Why do you care to do such things, Rhoda?"

"I'll tell you," in a low voice; "perhaps when Joe comes home, some time

he'll buy himself a little place and let me keep house for him; then I

shall want to know how to do everything."

"Rhoda, I believe you can do everything already."

"No, I can't wring," looking piteously from one little hand to the

other. "I can iron cute, but I can't wring. Dorothy says that is one

thing I shall have to give up, unless I can make my hands grow. Do you

suppose I could?"

"No; you must make Joe buy you a wringer. Can you make butter?"

"O yes, when the churning isn't large. Likely Joe won't keep more than

one cow."

I looked at the eager little thing, wondering if her hope would ever be

realized. She divined my thought, and glanced at me wistfully. "You

think this is a dream; you think I shall wake up.

"No, no," I answered; "I wonder what Joe will think when he sees what a

mite of a sister he has. He'll make you stand round, Rhoda, you may be

sure of that."

"May be he isn't any larger himself," she responded, with a ready,

bright smile.

* * * * *

Brother Ned's next letter brought the welcome tidings that he hoped to

come home the ensuing August, and that Joseph Breck would probably come

at the same time.

June went, and July. Rhoda grew restless; she was no longer constantly

at work; she began to listen nervously for every train of cars. I was

glad to believe that the brother for whom she held in readiness such

lavish love was deserving of it. She grew prettier every day. The

uncouth dress was gone forever, the hideous bonnet burned up, and the

gay shawl made over to Miss Reeny, who admired and coveted it. Hepsy

herself was not more faultlessly quiet and tasteful in her attire. I was

sure that Joe, if he had eyes at all, must be convinced that his sister

was worth coming all the way from Oregon to see.

At last, one pleasant afternoon, there was a step in the hall that I

recognized; it was Ned's! I reached him first, and felt his dear old

arms close fast about me; and then, for Louise's right was stronger than

mine, I gave him over to her and the rest. My happiness, though it half

blinded me, did not prevent my seeing a pallid little face looking

earnestly in from the back hall door. Then Joe had not come! I felt a

keen pang for Rhoda.

"Ned," said I, as soon as I could get a word with him, "there is Joe

Breck's sister; where is Joe?"

"Where is Joe?" said Ned; "why, there he is."

Sure enough, there above Rhoda's--a good way above--was a dark, fine,

manly face, all sun-browned and bearded.--"Rhoda!"--He had stolen a

march upon her. She turned and saw him. A swift look of glad surprise,

and the brother and sister so long separated had recognized each other.

He drew her to him and held her there tenderly as if she were a little

child.

* * * * *

So Joe bought "a little place," and I believe he would fain have had his

sister Rhoda for its mistress. But then it came out that Will Bright,

that sly fellow had been using every bit of persuasion in his power to

make her promise that she would keep house for him. Nay, he had won

already a conditional promise, the proviso being, of course, Joe's

approval. Will's is not a little place, either. With his relative's

legacy he purchased the great Wellwood nursery; and so skilled is he in

its management that uncle says there is not a more thriving man in the

neighborhood. And Rhoda, of whom he is wonderfully proud, is as content

a little woman as any in the land. Whenever I go to Uncle

Bradburn's,--and few summers pass that I do not,--I make a point of

reserving time for a visit to Rhoda. The last time I went, I encountered

Will bringing her down stairs in his arms; and she held in her arms, as

something too precious to be yielded to another, what proved on

inspection to be a tiny, blue-eyed baby. It was comical to see her

ready, matronly ways; and it was touching, when you thought of the past,

to witness her quiet yet perfect enjoyment.

And I really know of no one in the world more heartily benevolent than

she. "You see," she says, "I knew once what it is to need kindness; and

now I should be worse than a heathen if I did not help other people when

I have a chance."

I suppose Hepsy pitied Joe for his disappointment. In any case, she has

done what she could to console him for it. On the whole, it would be

difficult to say which is the happier wife, Hepsy or Rhoda.

PASSAGES FROM HAWTHORNE'S NOTE-BOOKS.

XI.

Concord, 1843.--To sit at the gate of Heaven, and watch persons as they

apply for admittance, some gaining it, others being thrust away.

* * * * *

To point out the moral slavery of one who deems himself a free man.

* * * * *

A stray leaf from the Book of Fate, picked up in the street.

* * * * *

The streak of sunshine journeying through the prisoner's cell,--it may

be considered as something sent from Heaven to keep the soul alive and

glad within him. And there is something equivalent to this sunbeam in

the darkest circumstances; as flowers, which figuratively grew in

Paradise, in the dusky room of a poor maiden in a great city; the child,

with its sunny smile, is a cherub. God does not let us live anywhere or

anyhow on earth without placing something of Heaven close at hand, by

rightly using and considering which, the earthly darkness or trouble

will vanish, and all be Heaven.

* * * * *

When the reformation of the world is complete, a fire shall be made of

the gallows; and the hangman shall come and sit down by it in solitude

and despair. To him shall come the last thief, the last drunkard, and

other representatives of past crime and vice; and they shall hold a

dismal merrymaking, quaffing the contents of the last brandy-bottle.

* * * * *

The human heart to be allegorized as a cavern. At the entrance there is

sunshine, and flowers growing about it. You step within but a short

distance, and begin to find yourself surrounded with a terrible gloom

and monsters of divers kinds; it seems like hell itself. You are

bewildered, and wander long without hope. At last a light strikes upon

you. You pass towards it, and find yourself in a region that seems, in

some sort, to reproduce the flowers and sunny beauty of the entrance,

but all perfect. These are the depths of the heart, or of human nature,

bright and peaceful. The gloom and terror may lie deep, but deeper still

this eternal beauty.

* * * * *

A man in his progress through life may pick up various matters,--sin,

care, habit, riches,--until at last he staggers along under a heavy

burden.

* * * * *

To have a lifelong desire for a certain object, which shall appear to be

the one thing essential to happiness. At last that object is attained,

but proves to be merely incidental to a more important affair, and that

affair is the greatest evil fortune that can occur. For instance, all

through the winter I had wished to sit in the dusk of evening, by the

flickering firelight, with my wife, instead of beside a dismal stove. At

last this has come to pass; but it was owing to her illness.

* * * * *

Madame Calderon de la Barca (in "Life in Mexico") speaks of persons who

have been inoculated with the venom of rattlesnakes, by pricking them in

various places with the tooth. These persons are thus secured forever

after against the bite of any venomous reptile. They have the power of

calling snakes, and feel great pleasure in playing with and handling

them. Their own bite becomes poisonous to people not inoculated in the

same manner. Thus a part of the serpent's nature appears to be

transfused into them.

* * * * *

An auction (perhaps in Vanity Fair) of offices, honors, and all sorts of

things considered desirable by mankind, together with things eternally

valuable, which shall be considered by most people as worthless lumber.

* * * * *

An examination of wits and poets at a police court, and they to be

sentenced by the judge to various penalties or fines,--the house of

correction, whipping, etc.,--according to the moral offences of which

they are guilty.

* * * * *

A volume bound in cowhide. It should treat of breeding cattle, or some

other coarse subject.

* * * * *

A young girl inhabits a family graveyard, that being all that remains of

rich hereditary possessions.

* * * * *

An interview between General Charles Lee, of the Revolution, and his

sister, the foundress and mother of the sect of Shakers.

* * * * *

For a sketch for a child:--the life of a city dove, or perhaps of a

flock of doves, flying about the streets, and sometimes alighting on

church steeples, on the eaves of lofty houses, etc.

* * * * *

The greater picturesqueness and reality of back courts, and everything

appertaining to the rear of a house, as compared with the front, which

is fitted up for the public eye. There is much to be learned always, by

getting a glimpse at rears. Where the direction of a road has been

altered, so as to pass the rear of farm-houses instead of the front, a

very noticeable aspect is presented.

* * * * *

A sketch:--the devouring of old country residences by the overgrown

monster of a city. For instance, Mr. Beekman's ancestral residence was

originally several miles from the city of New York; but the pavements

kept creeping nearer and nearer, till now the house is removed, and a

street runs directly through what was once its hall.

* * * * *

An essay on various kinds of death, together with the just before and

just after.

* * * * *

The majesty of death to be exemplified in a beggar, who, after being

seen, humble and cringing, in the streets of a city for many years, at

length, by some means or other, gets admittance into a rich man's

mansion, and there dies, assuming state and striking awe into the

breasts of those who had looked down on him.

* * * * *

To write a dream, which shall resemble the real course of a dream, with

all its inconsistency, its strange transformations, which are all taken

as a matter of course, its eccentricities and aimlessness, with

nevertheless a leading idea running through the whole. Up to this old

age of the world, no such thing ever has been written.

* * * * *

To allegorize life with a masquerade, and represent mankind generally as

masquers. Here and there a natural face may appear.

* * * * *

With an emblematical divining-rod, to seek for emblematic gold,--that

is, for truth,--for what of Heaven is left on earth.

* * * * *

A task for a subjugated fiend:--to gather up all the fallen autumnal

leaves of a forest, assort them, and affix each one to the twig where it

originally grew.

* * * * *

A vision of Grub Street, forming an allegory of the literary world.

* * * * *

The emerging from their lurking-places of evil characters on some

occasion suited to their action, they having been quite unknown to the

world hitherto. For instance, the French Revolution brought out such

wretches.

* * * * *

The advantage of a longer life than is now allotted to mortals,--the

many things that might then be accomplished, to which one lifetime is

inadequate, and for which the time spent seems therefore lost, a

successor being unable to take up the task where we drop it.

* * * * *

George I. had promised the Duchess of Kendall, his mistress, that, if

possible, he would pay her a visit after death. Accordingly, a large

raven flew into the window of her villa at Isleworth. She believed it to

be his soul, and treated it ever after with all respect and tenderness,

till either she or the bird died.

* * * * *

The history of an almshouse in a country village, from the era of its

foundation downward,--a record of the remarkable occupants of it, and

extracts from interesting portions of its annals. The rich of one

generation might, in the next, seek for a house there, either in their

own persons or in those of their representatives. Perhaps the son and

heir of the founder might have no better refuge. There should be

occasional sunshine let into the story; for instance, the good fortune

of some nameless infant, educated there, and discovered finally to be

the child of wealthy parents.

* * * * *

Pearl, the English of Margaret,--a pretty name for a girl in a story.

* * * * *

The conversation of the steeples of a city, when their bells are ringing

on Sunday,--Calvinist, Episcopalian, Unitarian, etc.

* * * * *

Allston's picture of "Belshazzar's Feast,"--with reference to the

advantages or otherwise of having life assured to us till we could

finish important tasks on which we might be engaged.

* * * * *

Visits to castles in the air,--Chateaux en Espagne, etc.,--with remarks

on that sort of architecture.

* * * * *

To consider a piece of gold as a sort of talisman, or as containing

within itself all the forms of enjoyment that it can purchase, so that

they might appear, by some fantastical chemic process, as visions.

* * * * *

To personify If, But, And, Though, etc.

* * * * *

A man seeks for something excellent, but seeks it in the wrong spirit

and in a wrong way, and finds something horrible; as, for instance, he

seeks for treasure, and finds a dead body; for the gold that somebody

has hidden, and brings to light his accumulated sins.

* * * * *

An auction of second-hands,--thus moralizing how the fashion of this

world passeth away.

* * * * *

Noted people in a town,--as the town-crier, the old fruit-man, the

constable, the oyster-seller, the fish-man, the scissors-grinder, etc.

* * * * *

The magic ray of sunshine for a child's story,--the sunshine circling

round through a prisoner's cell, from his high and narrow window. He

keeps his soul alive and cheerful by means of it, it typifying

cheerfulness; and when he is released, he takes up the ray of sunshine,

and carries it away with him, and it enables him to discover treasures

all over the world, in places where nobody else would think of looking

for them.

* * * * *

A young man finds a portion of the skeleton of a mammoth; he begins by

degrees to become interested in completing it; searches round the world

for the means of doing so; spends youth and manhood in the pursuit; and

in old age has nothing to show for his life but this skeleton of a

mammoth.

* * * * *

For a child's sketch:--a meeting with all the personages mentioned in

Mother Goose's Melodies, and other juvenile stories.

* * * * *

Great expectation to be entertained in the allegorical Grub Street of

the great American writer. Or a search-warrant to be sent thither to

catch a poet. On the former supposition, he shall be discovered under

some most unlikely form, or shall be supposed to have lived and died

unrecognized.

* * * * *

An old man to promise a youth a treasure of gold, and to keep his

promise by teaching him practically a golden rule.

* * * * *

A valuable jewel to be buried in the grave of a beloved person, or

thrown over with a corpse at sea, or deposited under the

foundation-stone of an edifice,--and to be afterwards met with by the

former owner, in some one's possession.

* * * * *

A noted gambler had acquired such self-command that, in the most

desperate circumstances of his game, no change of feature ever betrayed

him; only there was a slight scar upon his forehead, which at such

moments assumed a deep blood-red hue. Thus, in playing at brag, for

instance, his antagonist could judge from this index when he had a bad

hand. At last, discovering what it was that betrayed him, he covered the

scar with a green silk shade.

* * * * *

A dream the other night, that the world had become dissatisfied with the

inaccurate manner in which facts are reported, and had employed me, with

a salary of a thousand dollars, to relate things of public importance

exactly as they happen.

* * * * *

A person who has all the qualities of a friend, except that he

invariably fails you at the pinch.

* * * * *

_Concord, July 27, 1844._--To sit down in a solitary place or a busy and

bustling one, if you please, and await such little events as may happen,

or observe such noticeable points as the eyes fall upon around you. For

instance, I sat down to-day, at about ten o'clock in the forenoon, in

Sleepy Hollow, a shallow space scooped out among the woods, which

surround it on all sides, it being pretty nearly circular or oval, and

perhaps four or five hundred yards in diameter. At the present season, a

thriving field of Indian corn, now in its most perfect growth and

tasselled out, occupies nearly half of the hollow; and it is like the

lap of bounteous Nature, filled with breadstuff. On one verge of this

hollow, skirting it, is a terraced pathway, broad enough for a

wheel-track, overshadowed with oaks, stretching their long, knotted,

rude, rough arms between earth and sky; the gray skeletons, as you look

upward, are strikingly prominent amid the green foliage. Likewise, there

are chestnuts, growing up in a more regular and pyramidal shape; white

pines, also; and a shrubbery composed of the shoots of all these trees,

overspreading and softening the bank on which the parent stems are

growing, these latter being intermingled with coarse grass. Observe the

pathway; it is strewn over with little bits of dry twigs and decayed

branches, and the sear and brown oak-leaves of last year, that have been

moistened by snow and rain, and whirled about by harsh and gentle winds,

since their verdure has departed. The needle-like leaves of the pine

that are never noticed in falling--that fall, yet never leave the tree

bare--are likewise on the path; and with these are pebbles, the remains

of what was once a gravelled surface, but which the soil accumulating

from the decay of leaves, and washing down from the bank, has now almost

covered. The sunshine comes down on the pathway, with the bright glow of

noon, at certain points; in other places, there is a shadow as deep as

the glow; but along the greater portion sunshine glimmers through

shadow, and shadow effaces sunshine, imaging that pleasant mood of mind

when gayety and pensiveness intermingle. A bird is chirping overhead

among the branches, but exactly whereabout you seek in vain to

determine; indeed, you hear the rustle of the leaves, as he continually

changes his position. A little sparrow, however, hops into view,

alighting on the slenderest twigs, and seemingly delighting in the

swinging and heaving motion which his slight substance communicates to

them; but he is not the loquacious bird, whose voice still comes, eager

and busy, from his hidden whereabout. Insects are fluttering around.

The cheerful, sunny hum of the flies is altogether summer-like, and so

gladsome that you pardon them their intrusiveness and impertinence,

which continually impel them to fly against your face, to alight upon

your hands, and to buzz in your very ear, as if they wished to get into

your head, among your most secret thoughts. In truth, a fly is the most

impertinent and indelicate thing in creation,--the very type and moral

of human spirits with whom one occasionally meets, and who, perhaps,

after an existence troublesome and vexatious to all with whom they come

in contact, have been doomed to reappear in this congenial shape. Here

is one intent upon alighting on my nose. In a room, now,--in a human

habitation,--I could find in my conscience to put him to death; but here

we have intruded upon his own domain, which he holds in common with all

other children of earth and air; and we have no right to slay him on his

own ground. Now we look about us more minutely, and observe that the

acorn-cups of last year are strewn plentifully on the bank and on the

path. There is always pleasure in examining an acorn-cup,--perhaps

associated with fairy banquets, where they were said to compose the

table-service. Here, too, are those balls which grow as excrescences on

the leaves of the oak, and which young kittens love so well to play

with, rolling them over the carpet. We see mosses, likewise, growing on

the banks, in as great variety as the trees of the wood. And how strange

is the gradual process with which we detect objects that are right

before the eyes! Here now are whortleberries, ripe and black, growing

actually within reach of my hand, yet unseen till this moment.

Were we to sit here all day,--a week, a month, and doubtless a

lifetime,--objects would thus still be presenting themselves as new,

though there would seem to be no reason why we should not have detected

them all at the first moment.

Now a cat-bird is mewing at no great distance. Then the shadow of a bird

flits across a sunny spot. There is a peculiar impressiveness in this

mode of being made acquainted with the flight of a bird; it impresses

the mind more than if the eye had actually seen it. As we look round to

catch a glimpse of the winged creature, we behold the living blue of the

sky, and the brilliant disk of the sun, broken and made tolerable to the

eye by the intervening foliage. Now, when you are not thinking of it,

the fragrance of the white pines is suddenly wafted to you by a slight,

almost imperceptible breeze, which has begun to stir. Now the breeze is

the softest sigh imaginable, yet with a spiritual potency, insomuch that

it seems to penetrate, with its mild, ethereal coolness, through the

outward clay, and breathe upon the spirit itself, which shivers with

gentle delight. Now the breeze strengthens so much as to shake all the

leaves, making them rustle sharply; but it has lost its most ethereal

power. And now, again, the shadows of the boughs lie as motionless as if

they were painted on the pathway. Now, in the stillness, is heard the

long, melancholy note of a bird, complaining above of some wrong or

sorrow that man, or her own kind, or the immitigable doom of mortal

affairs, has inflicted upon her, the complaining, but unresisting

sufferer. And now, all of a sudden, we hear the sharp, shrill chirrup of

a red squirrel, angry, it seems, with somebody--perhaps with

ourselves--for having intruded into what he is pleased to consider his

own domain. And hark! terrible to the ear, here is the minute but

intense hum of a mosquito. Instinct prevails over all sentiment; we

crush him at once, and there is his grim and grisly corpse, the ugliest

object in nature. This incident has disturbed our tranquillity. In

truth, the whole insect tribe, so far as we can judge, are made more for

themselves, and less for man, than any other portion of creation. With

such reflections, we look at a swarm of them, peopling, indeed, the

whole air, but only visible when they flash into the sunshine, and

annihilated out of visible existence when they dart into a region of

shadow, to be again reproduced as suddenly. Now we hear the striking of

the village clock, distant, but yet so near that each stroke is

distinctly impressed upon the air. This is a sound that does not disturb

the repose of the scene; it does not break our Sabbath,--for like a

Sabbath seems this place,--and the more so, on account of the cornfield

rustling at our feet. It tells of human labor; but being so solitary

now, it seems as if it were so on account of the sacredness of the

Sabbath. Yet it is not; for we hear at a distance mowers whetting their

scythes; but these sounds of labor, when at a proper remoteness, do but

increase the quiet of one who lies at his ease, all in a mist of his own

musings. There is the tinkling of a cowbell,--a noise how peevishly

discordant were it close at hand, but even musical now. But hark! there

is the whistle of the locomotive,--the long shriek, heard above all

other harshness; for the space of a mile cannot mollify it into harmony.

It tells a story of busy men, citizens from the hot street, who have

come to spend a day in a country village,--men of business,--in short,

of all unquietness; and no wonder that it gives such a startling scream,

since it brings the noisy world into the midst of our slumberous peace.

As our thoughts repose again after this interruption, we find ourselves

gazing up at the leaves, and comparing their different aspects,--the

beautiful diversity of green, as the sun is diffused through them as a

medium, or reflected from their glossy surface. We see, too, here and

there, dead, leafless branches, which we had no more been aware of

before than if they had assumed this old and dry decay since we sat down

upon the bank. Look at our feet; and here, likewise, are objects as good

as new. There are two little round, white fungi, which probably sprung

from the ground in the course of last night,--curious productions, of

the mushroom tribe, and which by and by will be those small things with

smoke in them which children call puff-balls. Is there nothing else?

Yes; here is a whole colony of little ant-hills,--a real village of

them. They are round hillocks, formed of minute particles of gravel,

with an entrance in the centre, and through some of them blades of grass

or small shrubs have sprouted up, producing an effect not unlike trees

that overshadow a homestead. Here is a type of domestic

industry,--perhaps, too, something of municipal institutions,--perhaps

likewise--who knows?--the very model of a community, which Fourierites

and others are stumbling in pursuit of. Possibly the student of such

philosophies should go to the ant, and find that Nature has given him

his lesson there. Meantime, like a malevolent genius, I drop a few

grains of sand into the entrance of one of these dwellings, and thus

quite obliterate it. And behold, here comes one of the inhabitants, who

has been abroad upon some public or private business, or perhaps to

enjoy a fantastic walk, and cannot any longer find his own door. What

surprise, what hurry, what confusion of mind are expressed in all his

movements! How inexplicable to him must be the agency that has effected

this mischief! The incident will probably be long remembered in the

annals of the ant-colony, and be talked of in the winter days, when they

are making merry over their hoarded provisions. But now it is time to

move. The sun has shifted his position, and has found a vacant space

through the branches, by means of which he levels his rays full upon my

head. Yet now, as I arise, a cloud has come across him, and makes

everything gently sombre in an instant. Many clouds, voluminous and

heavy, are scattered about the sky, like the shattered ruins of a

dreamer's Utopia; but I will not send my thoughts thitherward now, nor

take one of them into my present observations.

And now how narrow, scanty, and meagre is the record of observations,

compared with the immensity that was to be observed within the bounds

which I prescribed to myself! How shallow and thin a stream of thought,

too,--of distinct and expressed thought,--compared with the broad tide

of dim emotions, ideas, associations, which were flowing through the

haunted regions of imagination, intellect, and sentiment,--sometimes

excited by what was around me, sometimes with no perceptible connection

with them! When we see how little we can express, it is a wonder that

any man ever takes up a pen a second time.

* * * * *

To find all sorts of ridiculous employments for people that have nothing

better to do;--as to comb out the cows' tails, shave goats, hoard up

seeds of weeds, etc., etc.

* * * * *

The baby, the other day, tried to grasp a handful of sunshine. She also

grasps at the shadows of things in candle-light.

* * * * *

To typify our mature review of our early projects and delusions, by

representing a person as wandering, in manhood, through and among the

various castles in the air that he had reared in his youth, and

describing how they look to him,--their dilapidation, etc. Possibly some

small portion of these structures may have a certain reality, and

suffice him to build a humble dwelling in which to pass his life.

* * * * *

The search of an investigator for the unpardonable sin: he at last finds

it in his own heart and practice.

* * * * *

The trees reflected in the river;--they are unconscious of a spiritual

world so near them. So are we.

* * * * *

The unpardonable sin might consist in a want of love and reverence for

the human soul; in consequence of which, the investigator pried into its

dark depths,--not with a hope or purpose of making it better, but from a

cold, philosophical curiosity,--content that it should be wicked in

whatever kind and degree, and only desiring to study it out. Would not

this, in other words, be the separation of the intellect from the heart?

* * * * *

There are some faces that have no more expression in them than any other

part of the body. The hand of one person may express more than the face

of another.

* * * * *

An ugly person with tact may make a bad face and figure pass very

tolerably, and more than tolerably. Ugliness without tact is horrible.

It ought to be lawful to extirpate such wretches.

* * * * *

To represent the influence which dead men have among living affairs. For

instance, a dead man controls the disposition of wealth; a dead man sits

on the judgment-seat, and the living judges do but repeat his decisions;

dead men's opinions in all things control the living truth; we believe

in dead men's religions; we laugh at dead men's jokes; we cry at dead

men's pathos; everywhere, and in all matters, dead men tyrannize

inexorably over us.

* * * * *

When the heart is full of care, or the mind much occupied, the summer

and the sunshine and the moonlight are but a gleam and glimmer,--a vague

dream, which does not come within us, but only makes itself imperfectly

perceptible on the outside of us.

* * * * *

Biographies of eminent American merchants,--it would be a work likely to

have a great circulation in our commercial country. If successful, there

might be a second volume of eminent foreign merchants. Perhaps it had

better be adapted to the capacity of young clerks and apprentices.

* * * * *

For the virtuoso's collection:--Alexander's copy of the Iliad, enclosed

in the jewelled casket of Darius, still fragrant with the perfumes

Darius kept in it. Also the pen with which Faust signed away his

salvation, with the drop of blood dried in it.

_October 13, 1844._--This morning, after a heavy hoar-frost, the leaves,

at sunrise, were falling from the trees in our avenue without a breath

of wind, quietly descending by their own weight. In an hour or two

after, the ground was strewn with them; and the trees are almost bare,

with the exception of two or three poplars, which are still green. The

apple and pear trees are still green; so is the willow. The first severe

frosts came at least a fortnight ago,--more, if I mistake not.

* * * * *

Sketch of a person, who, by strength of character or assistant

circumstances, has reduced another to absolute slavery and dependence on

him. Then show that the person who appeared to be the master must

inevitably be at least as much a slave as the other, if not more so. All

slavery is reciprocal, on the supposition most favorable to the masters.

* * * * *

Persons who write about themselves and their feelings, as Byron did, may

be said to serve up their own hearts, duly spiced, and with brain-sauce

out of their own heads, as a repast for the public.

* * * * *

To represent a man in the midst of all sorts of cares and annoyances,

with impossibilities to perform, and driven almost distracted by his

inadequacy. Then quietly comes Death, and releases him from all his

troubles; and he smiles, and congratulates himself on escaping so

easily.

* * * * *

What if it should be discovered to be all a mistake, that people, who

were supposed to have died long ago, are really dead? Byron to be still

living, a man of sixty; Burns, too, in extreme old age; Bonaparte

likewise; and many other distinguished men, whose lives might have

extended to these limits. Then the private acquaintances, friends,

enemies, wives, taken to be dead, to be all really living in this world.

The machinery might be a person's being persuaded to believe that he had

been mad; or having dwelt many years on a desolate island; or having

been in the heart of Africa or China; and a friend amuses himself with

giving this account. Or some traveller from Europe shall thus correct

popular errors.

* * * * *

The life of a woman, who, by the old Colony law, was condemned to wear

always the letter A sewed on her garment in token of her sin.

* * * * *

To make literal pictures of figurative expressions. For instance, he

burst into tears,--a man suddenly turned into a shower of briny drops.

An explosion of laughter,--a man blowing up, and his fragments flying

about on all sides. He cast his eyes upon the ground,--a man standing

eyeless, with his eyes thrown down, and staring up at him in wonderment,

etc., etc., etc.

* * * * *

An uneducated countryman, supposing he had a live frog in his stomach,

applied himself to the study of medicine, in order to find a cure, and

so became a profound physician. Thus some misfortune, physical or moral,

may be the means of educating and elevating us.

_Concord, March 12, 1845._--Last night was very cold, and bright

starlight; yet there was a mist or fog diffused all over the landscape,

lying close to the ground, and extending upwards, probably not much

above the tops of the trees. This fog was crystallized by the severe

frost; and its little feathery crystals covered all the branches and

smallest twigs of trees and shrubs; so that, this morning, at first

sight, it appeared as if they were covered with snow. On closer

examination, however, these most delicate feathers appeared shooting out

in all directions from the branches,--above as well as beneath,--and

looking, not as if they had been attached, but had been put forth by

the plant,--a new kind of foliage. It is impossible to describe the

exquisite beauty of the effect, when close to the eye; and even at a

distance this delicate appearance was not lost, but imparted a graceful,

evanescent aspect to great trees, perhaps a quarter of a mile off,

making them look like immense plumes, or something that would vanish at

a breath. The so-much admired sight of icy trees cannot compare with it

in point of grace, delicacy, and beauty; and, moreover, there is a life

and animation in this, not to be found in the other. It was to be seen

in its greatest perfection at sunrise, or shortly after; for the

slightest warmth impaired the minute beauty of the frost-feathers, and

the general effect. But in the first sunshine, and while there was still

a partial mist hovering around the hill and along the river, while some

of the trees were lit up with an illumination that did not

_shine_,--that is to say, glitter,--but was not less bright than if it

had glittered, while other portions of the scene were partly obscured,

but not gloomy,--on the contrary, very cheerful,--it was a picture that

never can be painted nor described, nor, I fear, remembered with any

accuracy, so magical was its light and shade, while at the same time the

earth and everything upon it were white; for the ground is entirely

covered by yesterday's snow-storm.

Already, before eleven o'clock, these feathery crystals have vanished,

partly through the warmth of the sun, and partly by gentle breaths of

wind; for so slight was their hold upon the twigs that the least motion,

or thought almost, sufficed to bring them floating down, like a little

snow-storm, to the ground. In fact, the fog, I suppose, was a cloud of

snow, and would have scattered down upon us, had it been at the usual

height above the earth.

All the above description is most unsatisfactory.

ON TRANSLATING THE DIVINA COMMEDIA.

FOURTH SONNET.

How strange the sculptures that adorn these towers!

This crowd of statues, in whose folded sleeves

Birds build their nests; while canopied with leaves

Parvis and portal bloom like trellised bowers,

And the vast minster seems a cross of flowers!

But fiends and dragons from the gargoyled eaves

Watch the dead Christ between the living thieves,

And underneath the traitor Judas lowers!

Ah! from what agonies of heart and brain,

What exultations trampling on despair,

What tenderness, what tears, what hate of wrong,

What passionate outcry of a soul in pain,

Uprose this poem of the earth and air,

This mediæval miracle of song!

FIVE HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

We who enjoy the fruits of civil and religious liberty as our daily

food, reaping the harvest we did not sow, seldom give a thought to those

who in the dim past prepared the ground and scattered the seed that has

yielded such plenteous return. If occasionally we peer into the gloom of

by-gone centuries, some stalwart form, like that of Luther, arrests our

backward glance, and all beyond is dark and void. But generations before

Martin Luther the work for the harvest of coming ages was begun. Humble

but earnest men, with such rude aids as they possessed, were toiling to

clear away the dense underbrush of ignorance and superstition, and let

the light of the sun in on the stagnant swamp; struggling to plough up

the stony soil that centuries of oppression had made hard and barren;

scattering seed that the sun would scorch and the birds of the air

devour; and dying without seeing a green blade to reward them with the

hope that their toils were not in vain.

But their labors were not lost. The soil thus prepared by the painful

and unrequited toil of those who had gone down to obscure graves,

sorrowing and hopeless, offered less obstruction to the strong arms and

better appliances of the reformers of a later day. Of the seed scattered

by the early sowers, a grain found here and there a sheltering crevice,

and struggled into life, bearing fruit that in the succession of years

increased and multiplied until thousands were fed and strengthened by

its harvest.

The military history of the reign of the third Edward of England is

illuminated with such a blaze of glory, that the dazzled eye can with

difficulty distinguish the dark background of its domestic life. Cressy

and Poitiers carried the military fame of England throughout the world,

and struck terror into her enemies; but at home dwelt turbulence,

corruption, rapine, and misery. The barons quarrelled and fought among

themselves. The clergy wallowed in a sty of corruption and debauchery.

The laboring classes were sunk in ignorance and hopeless misery. It was

the dark hour that precedes the first glimmer of dawn.

Poitiers was won in 1356. Four years the French king remained in

honorable captivity in England. Then came the treaty of Bretigny, which

released King John and terminated the war. The great nobles, with their

armies of lesser knights and swarms of men-at-arms, returned to England,

viewed with secret and well-founded distrust by the industrious and

laboring classes along their homeward route. The nobles established

themselves in their castles, immediately surrounded by swarms of

reckless men, habituated by years of war to deeds of lawlessness and

violence, and having subject to their summons feudatory knights, each of

whom had his own band of turbulent retainers. With such elements of

discord, it was impossible for good order long to be maintained. The

nobles quarrelled, and their retainers were not backward in taking up

the quarrel. The feudatory knights had disagreements among themselves,

and carried on petty war against each other. Confederated bands of

lawless men traversed the country, seizing property wherever it could be

found, outraging women, taking prisoners and ransoming them, and making

war against all who opposed their progress or were personally obnoxious

to them. Castles and estates were seized and held on some imaginary

claim. It was in vain to appeal to the laws. Justice was powerless to

correct abuses or aid the oppressed. Powerful barons gave countenance to

the marauders, that their services might be secured in the event of a

quarrel with their neighbors; nor did they hesitate to share in the

booty. Might everywhere triumphed over right, and the "law of the

strong arm" superseded the ordinances of the civil power.

The condition of the Church was no better than that of the State. Fraud,

corruption, and oppression sat in high places in both. The prelates had

their swarms of armed retainers, and ruled their flocks with the sword

as well as the crosier. The monasteries, with but few exceptions, were

the haunts of extravagance and sensuality, instead of the abodes of

self-denying virtue and learning. The portly abbot, his black robe edged

with costly fur and clasped with a silver girdle, his peaked shoes in

the height of the fashion, and wearing a handsomely ornamented dagger or

hunting-knife, rode out accompanied by a pack of trained hunting-dogs,

the golden bells on his bridle

"Gingeling in the whistling wind as clear

And eke as loud as doth the chapel bell."

The monks who were unable to indulge their taste for the chase sought

recompense in unrestrained indulgence at the table. The land was

overspread with an innumerable swarm of begging friars, who fawned on

the great, flattered the wealthy, and despoiled the poor. Another class

traversed the country, selling pardons "come from Rome all hot," and

extolling the virtues of their relics and the power of their indulgences

with the eloquence of a quack vending his nostrums. Bishops held civil

offices under the king, and priests acted as stewards in great men's

houses. Simony possessed the Church, and the ministers of religion again

sold their Master for silver.

The domestic and social life of the higher classes of society in the

last half of the fourteenth century can be delineated, with a fair

approach to exactness, from the detached hints scattered through such

old romances and poems of that period as the diligent labors of zealous

antiquaries have brought to light.

The residences of all the great and wealthy possessed one general

character. The central point and most important feature was the great

hall, adjoining which in most houses a "parlour," or talking-room, had

recently been built. A principal chamber for the ladies of the household

was generally placed on the ground-floor, with an upper chamber, or

"soler," over it. In the larger establishments additional chambers had

been clustered around the main building, increasing in number with the

wants of the household. The castles and fortified buildings varied a

little in outward construction from the ordinary manorial residences,

but the same general arrangement of the interior existed. A few of the

stronger and more important buildings were of stone; but the larger

proportion were of timber, or timber and stone combined.

The great hall was the most important part of the establishment. Here

the general business of the household was transacted, the meals served,

strangers received, audiences granted, and what may be termed the public

life of the family carried on. It was also the general rendezvous of the

servants and retainers, who lounged about it when duty or pleasure did

not call them to the other offices or to the field. In the evening they

gathered around the fire, built in an iron grate standing in the middle

of the room; for as yet chimneys were a luxury confined to the principal

chamber. The few remaining halls of this period that have not been

remodelled in succeeding ages present no trace of a fireplace or

chimney. At night the male servants and men-at-arms stretched themselves

to sleep on the benches along its sides, or on the rush-covered floor.

The floor at the upper end was raised, forming the _dais_, or place of

honor. On this, stretching nearly from side to side, was the "table

dormant," or fixed table, with a "settle," or bench with a back, between

it and the wall. On the lower floor, and extending lengthwise on each

side down the hall, stood long benches for the use of the servants and

retainers. At meal-times, in front of these were placed the temporary

tables of loose boards supported on trestles. At the upper end was the

cupboard, or "dresser," for the plate and furniture of the table. In

the halls of the greater nobles, on important occasions, tapestry or

curtains were hung on the walls, or at least on that portion of the wall

next the dais, and still more rarely a carpet was used for that part of

the floor,--rushes or bare tiles being more general. A perch for hawks,

and the grate of burning wood, sending its smoke up to the blackened

open roof, completed the picture of the hall of a large establishment in

the fourteenth century.

The "parlour," or talking-room, as its name imports, was used chiefly

for conferences, and for such business as required more privacy than was

attainable in the hall, but was unsuited to the domestic character of

the chamber.

After the hall, the most important feature of the building was the

principal chamber. Here the domestic life of the family was carried on.

Here the ladies of the household spent their time when not at meals or

engaged in out-door sports and pastimes. The furniture of this room was

more complete than that of the other parts of the building, but was

still rude and scanty when judged by modern wants. The bed was of

massive proportions and frequently of ornamental character. A

truckle-bed for the children or chamber servants was pushed under the

principal bed by day. At the foot of the latter stood the huge "hutch,"

or chest, in which were deposited for safety the family plate and

valuables. Two or three stools and large chairs, with a perch or bar on

which to hang garments, completed the usual furniture of the chamber.

In this room was one important feature not found in the others, and

which accounted for the increasing attachment manifested towards it. The

fire, instead of being placed in an iron grate or brazier in the middle

of the room, burned merrily on the hearth; and the smoke, instead of

seeking its exit by the window, was carried up a chimney of generous

proportions.

The household day commenced early. The members of the family arose from

the beds where they had slept in the garments worn by our first parents

before the fall; for the effeminacy of sleeping in night-dresses had not

yet been introduced, and it was only the excessively poor that made the

clothes worn during the day serve in lieu of blankets and coverlets.

"'I have but one whole hater,'[1] quoth Haukyn;

'I am the less to blame,

Though it be soiled and seldom clean:

I sleep therein of nights.'"

Breakfast was served about six o'clock. It is difficult to get an exact

description of the customs of the breakfast-table, or the nature of the

meal, as the contemporary writers make little allusion to it. Probably

it was but a slight repast, to allay the cravings of appetite until the

great meal of the day was served. Until within a few years of the period

of which we write, the dinner-hour was so early that but little food was

taken before that time.

Dinner was then, as now, the principal meal of the English day. In the

houses of the great it was conducted with much ceremony; and among the

richer classes certain well-established rules of courtesy in relation to

the meal were observed. The family and their guests entered the great

hall about ten o'clock. They were met by a domestic, bearing a pitcher

and basin, and his assistant, with a towel. Water was poured on the

hands of each person, and the ablutions carefully performed; scrupulous

cleanliness in this respect being required, from the fact that forks

were as yet things undreamed of. The principal guests took their seats

at the "table dormant," on the dais, the person of highest rank having

the middle seat,--which was consequently at the head of the hall,--and

the others being arranged according to their respective rank.

At the side-tables, below the dais, sat the inferior members of the

household, with the guests of lesser note,--these also arranged with

careful regard to rank and position. The beggar or poor wayfarer who

was admitted to a humble share of the feast crouched on the rushes among

the dogs who lay awaiting the bones and relics of the repast, and

thankfully fed, like Lazarus, on "the crumbs that fell from the rich

man's table."

The guests being seated, the busy servitors hastened to cover the table

with a "fair white linen cloth," of unsullied purity; and on it were

placed the salt-cellars of massive silver, the spoons and knives; next

the bread, and then the wine, poured with great ceremony into the

drinking-cups by the cupbearer. The silver vessels were brought from the

"dresser," and arranged on the table, the display being proportioned to

the wealth and condition of the host and the consideration to be paid to

the guests. The head cook and his assistants entered in procession,

bearing the dishes in regular order, and deposited them on the table

with due solemnity. The pottage was first served, and when this course

was eaten, the vessels and spoons were removed. The carver performed his

office on the meats, holding the joint, according to the traditions of

his order, carefully with the thumb and first two fingers of his left

hand, whilst he carved. The pieces were placed on "trenchers" or slices

of bread, and handed to the guests, who made no scruple of freely using

their fingers. The bones and refuse of the food were placed on the

table, or thrown to the dogs.

The people of that day were not insensible to the pleasures of the

table; and, unless urgent matters called them to the field or the

council, dinner was enjoyed with leisurely deliberation. In great houses

of hospitable reputation, the great hall at the hour of meals was open

to all comers. The traveller who found himself at its door was admitted,

and received position and food according to his condition. The minstrels

that wandered over the country in great numbers were always welcome, and

were well supplied with food and drink, and received liberal gifts for

their songs and the long romances of love and chivalry which they

recited to music. Not unfrequently satirical songs were sung, or the

minstrel narrated stories in which the humor was of a coarser nature

than would now be tolerated in the presence of ladies, but which in that

day were listened to without a blush.

Dinner ended, the vessels and unconsumed meats were removed, the

tablecloths gathered up, and the relics of the feast thrown on the floor

for the dogs to devour. The side-tables were removed from their trestles

and piled in a corner, and the hall cleared for the entertainments that

frequently followed the dinner. These consisted of feats of conjuring by

the "joculators," balancing and tumbling by the women who wandered about

seeking a livelihood by such means, or dancing by the ladies of the

household and their guests.

The feast and its succeeding amusements disposed of, the ladies either

shared in the out-door sports and games, of which there were many in

which women could take part, or they retired to the chamber, where,

seated in low chairs or in the recessed windows, they engaged in making

the needle-work pictures that adorned the tapestry, listening the while

to the love-romances narrated by the minstrel who had been invited for

the purpose, or gave willing ear to the flattery of some "virelay" or

love-song, sung by gay canon, gentle page, or courtly knight.

About six o'clock, the household once more assembled in the hall for

supper; and then the orders for the ensuing day were given to the

servants and retainers. Soon after dark the members of the family and

their guests sought their respective sleeping-places, as contrivances

for lighting were rude, and had to be economized. Such of the servants

as had special chambers or sleeping-places retired to them, whilst a

large proportion of the male servants and such of the retainers as

belonged immediately to the household stretched themselves on the

benches or floor of the hall, and were soon fast asleep. Such is a

sketch of the ordinary course of domestic life among the higher classes

of English society in the fourteenth century.

Among the greater nobles, the details of the daily life were sometimes

on a more magnificent scale; but the leading features were as we have

described them. Rude pomp and barbaric splendor marked the

establishments of some of the powerful barons and ecclesiastical

dignitaries. At tilt and tournament, the contending knights strove to

outshine each other in gorgeousness of equipment, as well as in deeds of

arms. Nor were the ladies averse to richness of attire in their own

persons. Costly robes and dainty furs were worn, and jewels and gems of

price sparkled when the dames and demoiselles appeared at great

gatherings, or on occasions of state and ceremony. The extravagance of

dress in both sexes had grown to be so great an evil, that stringent

sumptuary laws were passed, but without producing any effect.

The moral state of even the highest classes of society was not of a

flattering character. Europe was one huge camp and battle-field, in

which all the chivalry of the day had been educated,--no good school for

purity of life and delicacy of language. The literature of the time, at

least that portion of it which penetrated to ladies' chambers, was of an

amorous, and too frequently of an indelicate character. A debased and

sensual clergy swarmed over the land, finding their way into every

household, and gradually corrupting those with whom their sacred office

brought them into contact. The manners and habits of the time afforded

every facility for the gratification of debased passions and indulgence

in immoral practices.

Whilst the barons feasted and fought, the ladies intrigued, and the

clergy violated every principle of the religion they professed, the

great mass of the population lived on, with scarcely a thought bestowed

on them by their social superiors. Between the Anglo-Norman baron and

the Anglo-Saxon laborer, or "villain," there was a great gulf fixed. The

antipathy of an antagonistic and conquered race to its conquerors was

intensified by years of oppression and wrong, and the laborer cherished

a burning desire to break the bonds of thraldom in which most of the

poor were held.

By the laws of the feudal system, the tenants and laborers on the

property of a baron were his "villains," or slaves. They were divided

into two classes;--the "villains regardant," who were permitted to

occupy and cultivate small portions of land, on condition of rendering

certain stipulated services to their lord, and were therefore considered

in the light of slaves to the land; and the "villains in gross," who

were the personal slaves of the landowner, and were compelled to do the

work they were set to perform in consideration of their food and

clothing. Besides these two classes a third had recently come into

existence, and, owing to various causes, was fast increasing in extent

and importance,--that of free laborers, who worked for hire. This class

was recruited in various ways from the ranks of the "villains in gross."

Some were manumitted by their dying masters, as an act of piety in

atonement for the deeds of violence done during life; but by far the

greater number effected their freedom by escaping to distant parts of

the country, where but little search would be made for them, or by

seeking the refuge of the walled towns and cities, where a residence of

a year and a day would give them freedom by law. The citizens were

always ready to give asylum to those fugitives, for they supplied the

growing need for laborers, and enabled the cities, by the increase of

population, to maintain their independence against the pretensions of

the barons.

The condition of the "villain" was bad at the best; and numerous petty

acts of oppression in most instances increased the bitterness of his

lot. Himself the property of another, he could not legally hold

possessions of any kind. Not only the land he tilled, and the rude

implements of husbandry with which he painfully cultivated the soil, but

the cattle with which he worked, the house in which he lived, the few

chattels he gathered around him, and the scanty store of money earned by

hard labor, all belonged to his master, who could at any time dispossess

him of them. The "villain" who obtained a livelihood by working the few

acres of land which had been held from father to son, on condition of

performing personal labor or other services on the estate of the

landowner, was subject not only to the demands of his master, but to the

tithing of the Church; to the doles exacted by the swarms of begging

friars, who, like Irish beggars of the present day, invoked cheap

blessings on the cheerful giver, and launched bitter curses at the heads

of those who refused alms; to the impositions of the wandering

"pardoners," with their charms and relics; and to the tyrannical

exactions of the "summoners," who, under pretence of writs from

ecclesiastical courts, robbed all who were not in position to resist

their fraudulent demands. What these spared was frequently swept away by

the visits of the king's purveyors and the officers of others in power,

who, not content with robbing the poor husbandman of the proceeds of his

toil, treated the men with violence and the women with outrage.

Complaint was useless. The "churl" had no rights which those in office

were bound to respect.

Ignorant, superstitious, and condemned to a life of unrequited toil and

unredressed wrongs, the mental and moral condition of the agricultural

poor was wretchedly low. Huddled together in mud cottages, through the

rotten thatches of which the rain penetrated; clothed with rough

garments that were seldom changed night or day; feeding on coarse food,

and that in insufficient quantities,--their physical condition was one

of extreme misery. The usual daily allowance of food to the bond laborer

of either class, when working for the owner of the land, was two

herrings, milk for cheese, and a loaf of bread, with the addition in

harvest of a small allowance of beer. Occasionally, salted meats or

stockfish were substituted for the herrings.

The condition of the free laborer was measurably better; but even he was

condemned to a life of privation and wretchedness, relieved only by the

knowledge that his scanty earnings were his own, and that he could

change the scene of his labors if he saw fit. The ordinary agricultural

laborer, at the wages usually given, would have to work more than a week

for a bushel of wheat. At harvest-time and other periods when the demand

for labor was unusually great, as it was after the pestilences that

swept the land about the time of which we write, the free laborers

demanded higher wages; and although laws were passed to prevent their

obtaining more than the usual rates, necessity frequently compelled

their employment at the advanced prices. The receipt of higher wages

only temporarily bettered their condition. Accustomed to griping hunger

and short allowances of food, when better days came, they thought only

of enjoying the present, and took no heed of the future. After harvest,

with its high wages and cheapness of provision, the laborer frequently

became wasteful and improvident. Instead of the stinted allowance of

salted meat or fish, with the pinched loaf of bean-flour, and an

occasional draught of weak beer, his fastidious appetite demanded fresh

meat or fish, white bread, vegetables freshly gathered, and ale of the

best. As long as his store lasted, he worked as little as possible, and

grumbled at the fortune that made him a laborer. But these halcyon days

were few, and soon passed away, to be followed by decreasing allowances

of the commonest food, fierce pangs of hunger, and miserable

destitution. A bad harvest inflicted untold wretchedness on the poor.

Ill lodged, ill fed, and scantily clothed, disease cut them down like

grass before the scythe. A deadly pestilence swept over the land in

1348, carrying off about two thirds of the people; and nearly all the

victims were from among the poorest classes. In 1361, another pestilence

carried off thousands, again spreading terror and dismay through the

country. Seven years later a third visitation desolated England. Here

and there one of the better class fell a victim to the destroyer; but

the great mass were from the ranks of the half-starved and poorly lodged

laborers.

The morality of the poor was, as might be expected, at a low ebb.

Modesty, chastity, and temperance could scarcely be looked for in

wretched mud huts, where all ages and sexes herded together like swine.

Men and women alike fled from their miserable homes to the ale-house,

where they drank long draughts of cheap ale, and, in imitation of their

superiors in station, listened to a low class of "japers" who recited

"rhymes of Robin Hood," or told coarse and obscene stories for the sake

of a share of the ale, or such few small coins as could be drawn from

the ragged pouches of the bacchanals.

Between proud wealth and abject poverty there can be no friendly

feeling. Stolid, brutish ignorance can alone render the bonds of the

slave endurable. As his eyes are slowly opened by increasing knowledge,

and he can compare his condition with that of the freeman, his fetters

gall him, he becomes restive in his bonds, and at length turns in blind

fury on his oppressors, striking mad blows with his manacled hands.

Trodden into the dust by the iron heel of a tyrannical feudal power, the

peasantry of France had turned on their oppressors, and wreaked a brief

but savage vengeance for ages of wrong. The atrocious cruelties and mad

excesses of the revolted Jacquerie could only have been committed by

those who had been so long treated as brutes that they had acquired

brutish passions and instincts. The English peasantry had not yet

followed the example of their French compeers; but the gathering storm

already darkened the sky, and the mutterings of the thunder were heard.

Superstitiously religious, they hated the ministers of religion who

violated its principles. Born slaves and hopelessly debased and

ignorant, they began to ask the question,--

"When Adam delved and Eve span,

Who then was the gentleman?"

Occasionally a rude ballad found its way among the people fiercely

expressive of their scorn of the clergy and their hatred of the rich.

One that was very popular, and has been transmitted to our day, asked,--

"While God was on earth

And wandered wide,

What was the reason

Why he would not ride?

Because he would have no groom

To go by his side,

Nor grudging of no gadeling[2]

To scold nor to chide.

* * * * *

"Hearken hitherward, horsemen,

A tiding I you tell,

That ye shall hang

And harbor in hell!"

But no leader had as yet arisen to give proper voice to the desire for

reformation that burned in the hearts of the common people. The writers

of that age were breathing the intoxicating air of court favor, and

heeded not the sufferings of the common rabble. Froissart, the courtly

canon and chronicler of deeds of chivalry, was writing French madrigals

and amorous ditties for the ear of Queen Philippa, and loved too well

gay society, luxurious feasts, and dainty attire, not to shrink with

disgust from thought of the dirty, uncouth, and miserable herd of

"greasy caps." Gower was inditing fashionable love-songs. Chaucer, who

years after was to direct such telling blows in his Canterbury Tales at

the vices and corruptness of the clergy, was a favorite member of the

retinue of the powerful "John of Gaunt, time-honored Lancaster," and had

as yet only written long and stately poems on the history of Troilus and

Cressida, the Parliament of Birds, and the Court of Love. Wycliffe, the

great English reformer of the Church, was quietly living at his rectory

of Fylingham, and preparing his first essays against the mendicant

orders. John Ball, the "crazy priest of Kent," as Froissart calls him,

was brooding over the miseries of his poor parishioners, and nursing in

his mind that enmity to all social distinctions with which he afterwards

inflamed the minds of the peasantry, and incited them to open rebellion.

But in the quarter least expected the oppressed people found an

advocate. An unobtrusive monk, whose name is almost a doubtful

tradition, stole out from his quiet cell in Malvern Abbey, and, whilst

his brethren feasted, climbed the gentle slope of the Worcestershire

hills, and drank in the beauties of the varied landscape at his feet.

There, on a May morning, as he rested under a bank by the side of a

brooklet, and was lulled to sleep by the murmuring of the water, he

dreamed those dreams that set waking people to thinking, and gave a

powerful impetus to the moral and social revolution that was just

commencing.

The "Vision of Piers Plowman" is every way a singular production.

Clothed in the then almost obsolete verse of a past age, it breathes

wholly the spirit of the time in which it was written. The work of a

monk, it is unsparing in its attacks on the monastic orders. Intended

for the reading or hearing of the middle and lower classes, it gives

more frequent glimpses of the social condition of all ranks of people

than any other work of that age. As a philological monument, it is of

great value; as a poem, it contains many passages of merit; and as a

storehouse of allusions to the social life of the people in the

fourteenth century, it is invaluable.

The poem consists of a series of visions or dreams, of an allegorical

character, in which the dreamer seeks to find Truth and Righteousness on

earth, meeting with but little success. The allegorical idea cannot be

followed without weariness, and, in fact, the intentions of the writer

are by no means clear, the allegory being frequently involved and

contradictory. The beauty of the poem lies in its detached passages, its

occasional poetic touches, its graphic pictures, biting satire, and

withering denunciation of fraud, corruption, and tyranny. The measure

adopted is the unrhymed alliterative, characteristic of the Anglo-Saxon

literature, and which had long been disused, but which retained its hold

on the affections of the common people, who were of Anglo-Saxon stock.

In the extracts we give from the poem, the measure is retained, but the

words modernized, so far as can be done without injuring the sense or

metre.

The opening passage of the "Vision" has been so frequently reproduced,

as a specimen of the poet's style, that it is probably familiar to many

readers, but its exquisite naturalness and simplicity tempt us to quote

it here.

"In a summer season,

When soft was the sun,

I shaped me into shrouds[3]

As I a shep[4] were;

In habit as an hermit

Unholy of works

Went wide in this world

Wonders to hear:

And on a May morwening

On Malvern hills

Me befell a ferly,[5]

Of fairy methought.

I was weary for-wandered,

And went me to rest

Under a broad bank

By a bourne's[6] side;

And as I lay and leaned,

And looked on the waters,

I slumbered into a sleeping

It swayed so merry."

The first scene in the visions that visited the sleep of the dreaming

monk gives a view of the social classes of that time, beginning with the

humblest, whose condition was uppermost in his mind. The picture is not

only painted with vigorous touches, but affords a better idea of society

in the fourteenth century than can be elsewhere obtained. There is the

toiling ploughman, who "plays full seldom," winning by hard labor what

wasteful men destroy; the mediæval dandy, whose only employment is to

exhibit his attire; the hermit, who seeks by solitude and penitential

life to win "heaven's rich bliss"; the merchant, who has wisely chosen

his trade,--

"As it seemeth in our sight

That such men thriveth."

There are minstrels, who earn rich rewards by their singing; jesters and

idle gossips; "sturdy beggars," wandering with full bags; pilgrims and

palmers, who

"Went forth in their way

With many wise tales,

And had leave to lie

All their lives after";

counterfeit hermits, who assumed the cloak and hooked staff in order to

live in idleness and sensuality; avaricious friars, selling their

religion for money; cheating pardoners; covetous priests; ambitious

bishops; lawyers who loved gain better than justice; "barons and

burgesses, and bondmen also," with

"Bakers and brewers,

And butchers many;

Woollen websters,

And weavers of linen;

Tailors and tinkers,

And toilers in markets;

Masons and miners,

And many other crafts.

Of all kind living laborers

Leaped forth some;

As ditchers and delvers,

That do their deeds ill,

And driveth forth the long day

With _Dieu save dame Emme_.

Cooks and their knaves

Cried, 'Hot pies, hot!

Good geese and grys,[7]

Go dine, go!'"

To plead the cause of the poor and weak against their powerful

oppressors, and to protest in the name of religion against the pride and

corrupt life of its ministers, was the object of the monk of Malvern

Abbey; and he did his work well. The blows he dealt were fierce and

strong, and told home. Burgher and baron, monk and cardinal, alike felt

the fury of his attacks. He was no respecter of persons. A monk himself,

he had no scruples in tearing off the priestly robe that covered lust

and rapine. Wrong in high places gained no respect from him. His

invectives against a haughty and oppressive nobility and a corrupt and

arrogant clergy are unsurpassed in power, and it is easy to understand

the hold the poem at once acquired on the attention of the lower

classes, and its influence in directing and hastening the attempt of the

oppressed people to break their galling bonds.

What we have before said in reference to the wretched condition of the

peasantry, as shown by contemporary evidence, is confirmed by the writer

of the "Vision." The peasant was a born thrall to the owner of the land,

and could

"no charter make,

Nor his cattle sell,

Without leave of his lord."

Misery and he were lifelong companions, and pinching want his daily

portion. The wretched poor

"much care suffren

Through dearth, through drought,

All their days here:

Woe in winter times

For wanting of clothing

And in summer time seldom

Soupen to the full."

A graphic picture of a poor ploughman and his family is given in the

"Creed" of Piers Plowman, supposed to have been written by the author of

the "Vision," but a few years later.

"As I went by the way

Weeping for sorrow,

I saw a simple man me by,

Upon the plow hanging.

His coat was of a clout

That cary[8] was called;

His hood was full of holes,

And his hair out;

With his knopped[9] shoon

Clouted full thick;

His toes totedun[10] out

As he the land treaded;

His hosen overhung his hockshins

On every side,

All beslomered in fen[11]

As he the plow followed.

Two mittens as meter

Made all of clouts,

The fingers were for-werd[12]

And full of fen hanged.

This wight wallowed in the fen

Almost to the ankle.

Four rotheren[13] him before

That feeble were worthy,

Men might reckon each rib

So rentful[14] they were.

His wife walked him with,

With a long goad,

In a cutted coat,

Cutted full high,

Wrapped in a winnow sheet

To weren her from weathers,

Barefoot on the bare ice

That the blood followed.

And at the land's end layeth

A little crumb-bowl,[15]

And thereon lay a little child

Lapped in clouts,

And twins of two years old

Upon another side.

And all they sungen one song,

That sorrow was to hear;

They crieden all one cry,

A careful note.

The simple man sighed sore,

And said, 'Children, be still!'"

The tenant of land, or small farmer, was in a better condition, and when

not cozened of his stores by the monks, or robbed of them by the

ruffians in office or out of office, managed to live with some kind of

rude comfort. What the ordinary condition of his larder and the extent

of his farming stock were, may be learned from a passage in the

"Vision."

"'I have no penny,' quoth Piers,

'Pullets to buy.

Nor neither geese nor grys;

But two green cheeses,

A few curds and cream,

And an haver cake,[16]

And two loaves of beans and bran,

Baked for my fauntes[17];

And yet I say, by my soul!

I have no salt bacon.

Nor no cokeney,[18] by Christ!

Collops for to maken.

"But I have perciles and porettes,[19]

And many cole plants,[20]

And eke a cow and calf.

And a cart-mare

To draw afield my dung,

The while the drought lasteth;

And by this livelihood we must live

Till Lammas time.

And by that I hope to have

Harvest in my croft,

And then may I dight thy dinner

As me dear liketh.'"

We have already described the tenure by which the tenant held his lands,

and the protection the knightly landowner was bound to give his tenant.

Thus Piers Plowman, when his honest labors are broken in upon by

ruffians,

"Plained him to the knight

To help him, as covenant was,

From cursed shrews,

Aud from these wasters, wolves-kind,

That maketh the world dear."

At times this was but a wolf's protection, or a stronger power broke

through all guards. The "king's purveyor," or some other licensed

despoiler, came in, and the victim was left to make fruitless complaints

of his injuries. The women were subjected to gross outrages, and the

property stolen or destroyed.

"Both my geese and my grys

His gadelings[21] fetcheth,

I dare not, for fear of them,

Fight nor chide.

He borrowed of me Bayard

And brought him home never,

Nor no farthing therefore

For aught that I could plead.

He maintaineth his men

To murder my hewen,[22]

Forestalleth my fairs,

And fighteth in my chepying.[23]

And breaketh up my barn door,

And beareth away my wheat,

And taketh me but a tally

For ten quarters of oats;

And yet he beateth me thereto."

Then, as now, there were complaints that the privations of the poor were

increased by the covetousness of the hucksters, and "regraters"

(retailers), who came between the producer and the consumer, and grew

rich on the profits made from both.

"Brewers and bakers,

Butchers and cooks,"

were charged with robbing

"the poor people

That parcel-meal[24] buy;

For they empoison the people

Privily and oft.

They grow rich through regratery,

And rents they buy

With what the poor people

Should put in their wamb.[25]

For, took they but truly,

They timbered[26] not so high,

Nor bought no burgages,[27]

Be ye fell certain."

Stringent laws were made against huckstering and regrating, and

officers were appointed to punish offenders in this respect, "with

pillories and pining-stools." But officers, then as now, were not proof

against temptation, and were often disposed

"Of all such sellers

Silver for to take;

Or presents without pence,

As pieces of silver,

Rings, or other riches,

The regraters to maintain."

Nor had the rogues of the fourteenth century much to learn in the way of

turning a dishonest penny. The merchant commended his bad wares for

good, and knew how to adulterate and how to give short measure. The

spinners of wool were paid by a heavy pound, and the article resold by a

light pound. Laws were made against such frauds, but laws were little

regarded when they conflicted with self-interest. The crime of clipping

and "sweating" coin was frequently practised. Pawn-brokers,

money-lenders, and sellers of exchange thrived and flourished.

The rich find but little consideration at the hands of the plain-spoken

dreamer. Their extravagance is commented on; their growing pride, which

prompted them to abandon the great hall and take their meals in a

private room, and their uncharitableness to the poor. They practise the

saying, that "to him that hath shall be given."

"Right so, ye rich,

Ye robeth them that be rich,

And helpeth them that helpen you,

And giveth where no need is.

Ye robeth and feedeth

Them that have as ye have

Them ye make at ease."

But when, hungered, athirst, and shivering with cold, the poor man comes

to the rich man's gate, there is none to help, but he is

"hunted as a hound,

And bidden go thence."

Thus

"the rich is reverenced

By reason of his richness,

And the poor is put behind."

Truly, says the Monk of Malvern,

"God is much in the gorge

Of these great masters;

But among mean men

His mercy and his works."

But it is on the vices and corruptions of the clergy that the monk pours

the vials of his wrath. He cloaks nothing, and spares neither rank nor

condition. The avarice of the clergy, their want of religion, and the

prostitution of their sacred office for the sake of gain, are sternly

denounced in frequently-recurring passages. The facility with which

debaucheries and crimes of all kinds could be compounded for with the

priests by presents of gold and silver, the neglect of their flocks

whilst seeking gain in the service of the rich and powerful, their

ignorance, pride, extravagance, and licentiousness, are painted in

strong colors. The immense throng of friars and monks, who "waxen out of

number," meet with small mercy from their fellow-monk. Falsehood and

fraud are described as dwelling ever with them. Their unholy life and

unseemly quarrels are held up for reprobation. Nor do the nuns escape

the imputation of unchastity. The quackery of pardoners, with their

pardons and indulgences from pope and bishop, is treated with contempt

and scorn. Bishops are criticised for their undivided attention to

worldly matters; and even the Pope himself does not escape censure.

"What pope or prelate now

Performeth what Christ hight[28]?"

The cardinals come in for a share of the censure, and here occurs a

passage, curiously suggestive of the celebrated line,--

"Never yet did cardinal bring good to England."

"The commons _clamat cotidie_

Each man to the other,

The country is the curseder

That cardinals come in;

And where they lie and lenge[29] most,

Lechery there reigneth."

Years afterwards, Wycliffe dealt mighty blows at the corrupt and debased

clergy, and Chaucer pierced them with his sharp satire, but neither

surpassed their predecessor in the vigor and spirit of his onslaughts.

One passage, which we quote, had evidently been acted on by Chaucer's

"poor parson," and can be studied even at this late day.

"Friars and many other masters,

That to lewed[30] men preachen,

Ye moven matters unmeasurable

To tellen of the Trinity,

That oft times the lewed people

Of their belief doubt.

Better it were to many doctors

To leave such teaching,

And tell men of the ten commandments,

And touching the seven sins,

And of the branches that bourgeoneth of them,

And bringeth men to hell,

And how that folk in follies

Misspenden their five wits,

As well friars as other folks,

Foolishly spending,

In housing, in hatering,[31]

And in to high clergy showing

More for pomp than for pure charity.

The people wot the sooth

That I lie not, lo!

For lords ye pleasen,

And reverence the rich

The rather for their silver."

It would be hardly proper to leave this portion of the subject without

alluding to the remarkable passage which has been held by many as a

prophecy of the dissolution of the monasteries by Henry VIII., nearly

two centuries later. After denouncing the corruptions of the clergy, he

says:--

"But there shall come a king

And confess you religiouses,

And beat you as the Bible telleth

For breaking of your rule;

And amend monials,

Monks and canons,

And put them to their penance.

* * * * *

And then shall the Abbot of Abingdon,

And all his issue forever,

Have a knock of a king,

And incurable the wound."

A distinctive and charming feature of the English landscape is the

hedgerow that divides the fields and marks the course of the roadways.

Nowhere but in England does the landscape present such a charming

picture of "meadows trim with daisies pied," "russet lawns and fallows

gray," spread out like a map, divided with irregular lines of green.

Nowhere else is the traveller's path guarded on either hand with a

rampart of delicate primroses, sweet-breathed violets, golden buttercups

fit for fairy revels, honeysuckles in whose bells the bee rings a

delighted peal, and luscious-fruited blackberry-bushes. Nowhere else is

such a rampart crowned with the sweet-scented hawthorn, robed in snowy

blossoms, or beaded over with scarlet berries, and with the hazel, with

its gracefully pendent catkins, or nuts dear to the school-boy. It

scarcely seems possible to imagine an English landscape without its

flower-scented hedge-rows, and yet, when the armed knights of Edward the

Third's reign rode abroad from their castles, few lofty hedges barred

their progress across the country; no hazel-crowned rampart stopped the

way of the Malvern monk as he took his way to the "bourne's side"; and

when the ploughman "whistled o'er the furrowed land," the line of

division at which he turned his back on his neighbor's acres was

generally but a narrow trench instead of a ditch and hedge. Thus the

covetous man confesses,

"If I yede[32] to the plow,

I pinched so narrow

That a foot land or a furrow

Fetchen I would

Of my next neighbor,

And nymen[33] of his earth.

And if I reap, overreach."

As might have been expected, the monkish dreamer, unusually liberal as

he was in his views, had but a slighting opinion of women. Rarely does

he refer to them except to rate them for their extravagance in dress and

love of finery. The humbler class of women, he shrewdly insinuates, were

fond of drink, and the husbands of such were advised to cudgel them home

to their domestic duties. He credited the long-standing slander about

woman's inability to keep a secret:--

"For that that women wotteth

May not well be concealed."

His opinion of the proper sphere of women in that time, and some

knowledge of their ordinary feminine occupations, can be acquired from

the answer made to the question of a lady as to what her sex should

do:--

"Some should sew the sack, quoth Piers,

For shedding of the wheat;

And ye, lovely ladies,

With your long fingers,

That ye have silk and sendal

To sew, when time is,

Chasubles for chaplains,

Churches to honor.

Wives and widows

Wool and flax spinneth;

Make cloth, I counsel you,

And kenneth[34] so your daughters;

The needy and the naked,

Nymeth[35] heed how they lieth,

And casteth them clothes,

For so commanded Truth."

Marriage is an honorable estate, and should be entered into with proper

motives, and in a decent and regular manner. It is desirable that most

men should marry, for

"The wife was made the way

For to help work;

And thus was wedlock wrought

With a mean person,

First by the father's will

And the friends counsel;

And sithens[36] by assent of themselves,

As they two might accord."

This is the essentially worldly way of making marriage arrangements yet

practised in some aristocratic circles, but the more democratic and

natural way is to reverse the process, and commence with the agreement

between the two persons most concerned. Such unequal matches as age and

wealth on one side, and youth and desire of wealth on the other, bring

about, are sternly reprobated.

"It is an uncomely couple,

By Christ! as me thinketh,

To give a young wench

To an old feeble,

Or wedden any widow

For wealth of her goods,

That never shall bairn bear

But if it be in her arms."

Such marriages lead to jealousy, bickerings, and open rupture,

disgraceful to husband and wife, and annoying to others. Therefore Piers

counsels

"all Christians,

Covet not to be wedded

For covetise of chattels.

Not of kindred rich;

But maidens and maidens

Make you together;

Widows and widowers

Worketh the same;

For no lands, but for love,

Look you be wedded";--

adding the sound bit of spiritual and worldly advice,

"And then get ye the grace of God;

_And goods enough, to live with_."

The touch of shrewd humor in the last line finds its counterpart in many

other passages. Thus, when the dreamer sits down to rest by the wayside,

his iteration of the prescribed prayers makes him drowsy:--

"So I babbled on my beads;

They brought me asleep."

The Franciscan friars, his especial aversion, get a sly thrust when he

says of Charity that

"in a friar's frock

He was founden once;

_But it is far ago_,

In Saint Francis's time:

In that sect since

Too seldom hath he been found."

When Covetousness has confessed his numerous misdeeds, and is asked if

he ever repented and made restitution, he replies,

"Yes, once I was harbored

With a heap of chapmen.[37]

I rose when they were at rest

And rifled their males[38]";--

and on being told that this was no restitution, but another robbery, he

replies, with assumed innocence of manner,

"I wened[39] rifling were restitution, quoth he,

For I learned never to read on book;

And I ken no French, in faith,

But of the farthest end of Norfolk."

Even the Pope is not exempt from a touch of satire:--

"He prayed the Pope

Have pity on holy Church,

And ere he gave any grace,

_Govern first himself_."

The prejudice against doctors and lawyers was as strong five hundred

years ago as now, judging from Piers Plowman, who says, that

"Murderers are many leeches,

Lord them amend!

They do men die through their drinks

Ere destiny it would."

Of lawyers he says they pleaded

"for pennies

And pounds, the law;

And not for the love of our Lord

Unclose their lips once.

Thou mightest better meet mist

On Malvern hills

Than get a mum of their mouth

Till money be showed."

No class of people suffered more in the Middle Ages than the Jews. They

were abhorred by the poor, despised by the wealthy, and cruelly

oppressed by the powerful. But through all their sufferings and trials

they were true to each other; and the monk holds up their fraternal

charity as an example to shame Christians into similar virtues. He

says:--

"A Jew would not see a Jew

Go jangling[40] for default.

For all the mebles[41] on this mould[42]

And he amend it might.

Alas! that a Christian creature

Shall be unkind to another;

Since Jews, that we judge

Judas's fellows,

Either of them helpeth other

Of that that him needeth.

Why not will we Christians

Of Christ's good be as kind

As Jews, that be our lores-men[43]?

Shame to us all!"

With one more curious passage, giving a glimpse of the belief of that

age concerning the future state, we will close our extracts from "Piers

Plowman." Discussing the condition of the thief upon the cross who was

promised a seat in heaven, the dreamer says:--

"Right as some man gave me meat,

And amid the floor set me,

And had meat more than enough,

But not so much worship

As those that sitten at the side-table,

Or with the sovereigns of the hall;

But set as a beggar boardless,

By myself on the ground.

So it fareth by that felon

That on Good Friday was saved,

He sits neither with Saint John,

Simon, nor Jude,

Nor with maidens nor with martyrs,

Confessors nor widows;

But by himself as a sullen,[44]

And served on earth.

For he that is once a thief

Is evermore in danger,

And, as law him liketh,

To live or to die.

And for to serven a saint

And such a thief together,

It were neither reason nor right

To reward them both alike."

"Piers Plowman" is supposed to have been written in 1362. It became

instantly popular, and manuscript copies were rapidly distributed over

England. Imitations preserving the peculiar form, and aiming at the same

objects as the "Vision," though without the genius exhibited in that

work, appeared in quick succession. The hatred of the oppressed people

for their oppressors was intensified by the inflammatory harangues of

John Ball, the deposed priest. The preaching of Wycliffe probed still

deeper the festering corruption of the dominant Church. At last, in

1381, a popular rising, under Wat Tyler, attempted to right the wrongs

of generations at the sword's point. The result of that attempt is well

known,--its temporary success, sudden overthrow, and the terrible

revenge taken by the ruling power in the enactment of laws that made the

burden of the people still more intolerable.

But the seed of political and religious freedom had been sown. It had

been watered with the blood of martyrs; and, although the tender shoots

had been trodden down with an iron heel as soon as they appeared, they

gathered additional strength and vigor from the repression, and soon

sprang up with a vitality that defied all efforts to crush them.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Garment.

[2] Vagabond.

[3] Clothes.

[4] Shepherd.

[5] Vision.

[6] Brook.

[7] Pigs.

[8] A kind of very coarse cloth.

[9] Buttoned.

[10] Pushed.

[11] Mud.

[12] Worn out.

[13] Oxen.

[14] Meagre.

[15] Kneading-trough.

[16] Oat cake.

[17] Children.

[18] A lean hen.

[19] Parley and leeks.

[20] Cabbages.

[21] Vagabonds.

[22] Workingmen.

[23] Market.

[24] Piecemeal.

[25] Belly.

[26] Built.

[27] Lands or tenements in towns.

[28] Commanded.

[29] Remain.

[30] Unlearned.

[31] Dressing.

[32] Went.

[33] Rob him.

[34] Teach.

[35] Take.

[36] Afterwards.

[37] Pedlers.

[38] Boxes.

[39] Thought.

[40] Complaining.

[41] Goods.

[42] Earth.

[43] Teachers.

[44] One left alone.

KATHARINE MORNE.

PART I.

CHAPTER I.

One day, near the middle of a June about twenty years ago, my landlady

met me at the door of my boarding-house, and began with me the following

dialogue.

"Miss Morne, my dear, home a'-ready? Goin' to be in, a spell, now?"

"Yes, Mrs. Johnson, I believe so. Why?"

"Well, someb'dy's been in here to pay ye a call, afore twelve o'clock,

in a tearin' hurry. Says I, 'Ye've got afore yer story this time, I

guess,' says I. Says he, 'I guess I'll call again,' says he. He's left

ye them pinies an' snowballs in the pitcher."

"But who was it?"

"Well, no great of a stranger, it wa'n't,--Jim!"

"O, thank you."

"He kind o' seemed as if he might ha' got somethin' sort o' special on

his mind to say to ye. My! how he colored up at somethin' I said!"

I walked by, and away from her, into the house, but answered that I

should be happy to see Jim if he came back. Well I might. Through all

the months of school-keeping that followed my mother's death,--in the

little country village of Greenville, so full of homesickness for

me,--he had been my kindest friend. My old schoolmate, Emma Holly, from

whose native town he came, assured me beforehand that he would be so.

She wrote to me that he was the best, most upright, well-principled,

kind-hearted fellow in the world. He was almost like a brother to her,

(this surprised me a little, because I had never heard her speak of him

before,) and so he would be to me, if I would only let him. She had told

him all about me and our troubles and plans,--how I winced at that when

I read it!--and he was very much interested, and would shovel a path for

me when it snowed, or go to the post-office for me, or do anything in

the world for me that he could. And so he had done.

He had little chance, indeed, to devote himself to me abroad; for I

seldom went out, except now and then, when I could not refuse without

giving offence, to drink tea with the family of some pupil. But when I

did that, he always found it out through Mrs. Johnson, whose nephew he

was, and came to see me home. He usually brought some additional

wrappings or thick shoes for me; and even if they were too warm, or

otherwise in my way, I could be, and was, grateful for his kindness in

thinking of them. He was very attentive to his aunt also, and came to

read aloud to her, while she napped, almost every evening. At every meal

which he took with us, he was constantly suggesting to her little

comforts and luxuries for me, till I was afraid she would really be

annoyed. She took his hints, however, in wonderfully good part,

sometimes acted upon them, and often said to me, "How improvin' it was

for young men to have somebody to kind o' think for! It made 'em so kind

o' thoughtful!" Many a flower, fruit, and borrowed book he brought me.

He tried to make me walk with him; and, whenever he could, he made me

talk with him. But for him, I should have studied almost all the time

that I was not teaching or sleeping; for when I began to teach, I first

discovered how little I had learned. Thus nearly all the indulgences and

recreations of the rather grave, lonely, and hard-working little life I

was leading at that time were associated with him and his kind care; and

so I really think it was no great wonder if his peonies and snowballs

that day made the bare little parlor, with the row of staring, uncouth

daguerreotypes on the mantel-piece, look very pretty to me, or that to

know that he had been there, and was coming back again, made it a very

happy place.

I walked across it, took off my hot black bonnet, threw up the western

window, and sat down beside it in the rocking-chair. The cool breeze

struggled through the tree that nestled sociably up to it, and made the

little knobs of cherries nod at me, as if saying, "You would not like us

now, but you will by and by." The oriole gurgled and giggled from among

them, "_Wait!_ Come _again_! Come again! Ha, ha!" The noise of the

greedy canker-worms, mincing the poor young green leaves over my head,

seemed a soothing sound; and even the sharp headache I had brought with

me from the school-room, only a sort of _sauce piquante_ to my delicious

rest. I did not ask myself what Jim would say. I scarcely longed to hear

him come. I did not know how anything to follow could surpass that

perfect luxury of waiting peace.

He did come soon. I heard a stealthy step, not on the gravel-walk, but

on the rustling hay that lay upon the turf beside it. He looked, and

then sprang, in at the window. He was out of breath. He caught my hand,

and looked into my face, and asked me to go out and walk with him.

Before I had time to answer, he snatched up my bonnet, and almost

pressed it down upon my head. As I tied it, he hurried out and looked

back at me eagerly from the road. I followed, though more slowly than he

wished. The sun was bright and hot, and almost made me faint; but

everything was very beautiful.

He wrenched out the topmost bar of a fence, _jumped_ me over it into a

meadow, led me by a forced march into the middle of the field, seated me

on a haycock, and once more stood before me, looking me in the face with

his own all aglow.

Then he told me that he had been longing for weeks, as I must have seen,

to open his mind to me; but, till that day, he had not been at liberty.

He had regarded me, from almost the very beginning of our acquaintance,

as his best and trustiest friend,--in short, as just what dear Emma had

told him he should find me. My friendship had been a blessing to him in

every way; and now my sympathy, or participation, was all he wanted to

render his happiness complete. He had just been admitted as a partner in

_the store_ of the village, in which he had hitherto been only a

salesman; and now, therefore, he was at last free to offer himself,

before all the world, to the girl he loved best; and that was--I must

guess who. He called me "dearest Katy," and asked me if he might not

"to-day, at last."

I bowed, but did not utter my guess. He seemed to think I had done so,

notwithstanding; for he hurried on, delighted. "Of course it is, 'Katy

darling,' as we always call you! I never knew your penetration out of

the way. It _is_ Emma Holly! It couldn't be anybody but Emma Holly!"

Then he told me that she had begged hard for leave to tell me outright,

what she thought she had hinted plainly enough, about their hopes; but

her father was afraid that to have them get abroad would hurt her

prospects in other quarters, and made silence towards all others a

condition of her correspondence with Jim. Mr. Holly was "aristocratic,"

and in hopes Emma would change her mind, Jim supposed; but all danger

was over now. He could maintain her like the lady she was; and their

long year's probation was ended. Then he told me in what agonies he had

passed several evenings a fortnight before, (when I must have wondered

why he did not come and read,) from hearing of her illness. The doctors

were right for once, to be sure, as it proved, in thinking it only the

measles; but it might just as well have been spotted fever, or

small-pox, or anything fatal, for all they knew.

And then I rather think there must have been a pause, which I did not

fill properly, because my head was aching with a peculiar sensation

which I had never known before, though I have sometimes since.--It is

like the very hand of Death, laid with a strong grasp on the joint and

meeting-point of soul and body, and makes one feel, for the time being,

as Dr. Livingstone says he did when the lion shook him,--a merciful

indifference as to anything to come after.--And Jim was asking me, in a

disappointed tone, what the matter was, and if I did not feel

interested.

"Yes," I said, "Mr. Johnson--"

"Mr. Johnson!" interrupted he, "How cold! I thought it would be _Jim_ at

least, to-day, if you can't say _dear_ Jim."

"Yes, 'dear Jim,'" I repeated; and my voice sounded so strangely quiet

in my own ears, that I did not wonder that he called me cold. "Indeed, I

am interested. I don't know when I have heard anything that has

interested me so much. I pray God to bless you and Emma. But the reason

I came from school so early to-day was, that I had a headache; and now I

think perhaps the sun is not good for it, and I had better go in."

I stood up; but I suspect I must have had something like a sunstroke,

sitting there in the meadow so long with no shade, in the full blaze of

June. I was almost too dizzy to stand, and could hardly have reached the

house, if I had not accepted Jim's arm. He offered, in the joy of his

heart, to change head-dresses with me,--which luckily made me

laugh,--declaring that mine must be a perfect portable stove for the

brains. Thus we reached the door cheerfully, and there shook hands

cordially; while I bade him take my kindest love and congratulations to

Emma,--to whom he was going on a three days' visit, as fast as the cars

could carry him,--and charged him to tell her I should write as soon as

I recovered the use of my head.

He looked concerned on being reminded of it, and shouted for Mrs.

Johnson to bring me some lavender-water to bathe it with. I had told

him, on a former occasion, that the smell of lavender always made it

worse; but it was natural that, when he was so happy, he should forget.

Whistling louder than the orioles, whose songs rang wildly through and

through my brain, he hastened down the road, and was gone.