CHAPTER IV.

“We lift our trusting eyes

From the hills our fathers trod;

To the sunshine of the skies.

To the sabbath of our God.”

Ten years after the events noticed in our last chapter, a pleasant

village was rapidly springing upon the sunny lake-side, so long tenanted

only by the lonely refugees. The broad old forest had been rudely cut

away by the axe of the settler, and cottage-homes were reared thickly

side by side. The emigrant’s hut had been transformed into an elegant

mansion, whilst the green lawn in front, sloping down to the water, and

planted with shrubbery and vines—was the play-ground of happy children.

At a little distance, among the trees, a pretty church raised its

slender spire toward heaven, and behind it, several mounds of fresh

earth told plainly there was no retreat from death. But who was the

dark-haired pastor that had first awakened the voice of prayer in that

remote settlement? The imagination of the reader will furnish a ready

reply.

Oliwibatuc had gone to his rest! Faithfully, had his devoted young

captive labored to sow with good seed the hearts of his red brethren,

and in some instances, the scalping-knife and tomahawk had been buried

by the living warrior; but after the death of the old chief, he had

taken up his abode with Lord Temple, having been married to Anna soon

after the death of Red-Bird. Long and happily did they dwell together,

wondering much that an over-ruling providence should have watched over

the divided current of their lives, and united them so mysteriously in a

far, foreign land. Lord Temple lived until his head was white with

four-score years; but until death retained his Quaker dress and

appellation.

That village is now a beautiful and flourishing town in the heart of the

old empire State. The lone canoe of the Indian long since disappeared

from the blue lake, but hundreds of snowy sails now whiten its waters.

Few of the busy multitude that now throng these streets, could point the

curious traveler to the spot on which stood the humble cottage of the

first settler—many would not even remember his name; but go to the

ancient records, and there you will find that as early as 1660, a

wealthy Quaker, calling himself John Brown, made purchase of a large

territory of the Mohawk chief, and settled upon it with his own

family—that he afterward built a church of the _Presbyterian order_,

and endowed it with a fund, for its after-support, and left at his death

many rich legacies. It is also added, that much mystery shrouded the

aforesaid Brown, and by some he was supposed to have been an associate

of Oliver Cromwell.

An elegant edifice stands now on the site of the little church of the

first settler; but the burying-yard behind it remains unchanged, and

there on a broad slab may still be traced, a long obituary of John

Brown, the earliest settler, and by his side sleeps the first pastor of

that ancient church, of whom it is recorded, that he labored for a

number of years as a faithful missionary among the Mohawks, by whom he

was taken captive; and, afterward, for nearly forty years, as the

minister of the first church of Christ in the wilderness. By his side,

sleeps Anna, his wife—and children, and children’s children are around

in long ranks, with the slumber of years upon them.

Reader! My story is brought to a close. It but feebly illustrates the

chance and change of life—but if it serve to awaken a more earnest

interest in those who have gone before us, its author will not have

spent those few pleasant hours amid the records of the past in vain.

Life is not all with us! Those who trod the paths we are now treading,

knew as much of its joys and sorrows—perchance even more than

ourselves, and would we search more deeply the annals of our

forefathers, our toil would often be rewarded with histories as full of

vicissitude and adventure, as that of the illustrious Judge Temple, or

the Vaudois peasant-boy of the Alps!

* * * * *

ERNESTINA.

(OR THE GILIA TRICOLOR.)

BY ERNESTINE FITZGERALD.

Thus have ye named this modest flower,

Bright Gilia—of colors three:

What hath God given as its dower?

In what doth it resemble me?

Tiny, it hath persistent power—

It heedeth storm nor frost, ye see.

If therefore ye have named it thus,

More fitting fond ye will not find:

“But Ernestina makes more fuss,

At wintry frost and chilling wind,

Than hosts on hosts, robust like us!”

Persistence, love, is in the mind.

The little blossoms of her soul

Come forth at every sun-ray’s will:

Glance at the seed-calls! every stroll

Of warmth from heaven doth some one fill:

Let cloud and tempest o’er her roll,

The flowret and the fruit come still.

Well has love named the humble flower,

Meek Gilia, of colors three;

Well have ye placed it in your bower,

To emblem there, Humility;

Thus may it gain a higher power

Than it may ever claim from me.

* * * * *

ODE ON IDLENESS.

BY T. YARDLEY.

With walking wearied, sat I, at the time

When, pausing far above the world, the sun

Seems musing whether he shall higher climb

The pathway up to heaven; or the one

Retrace till eve, which was at morn begun;

Or drive his cloud-clad coursers from the shade

Where lie the lightnings when the storm is done,

And where the rainbows by the saints are made,

O’er many a western wild and island everglade.

’Twas one of those sweet noons the restless soul

Most loves to dream of. Just enough of breeze

To chase the overheated air and roll

Away in music. Silent symphonies,

Among the olden avenues of trees,

The spirit gathered, weaving into wings,

To waft it up through space-encircling seas,

Whose waves are inspiration, and where rings

The octave of the spheres, with quiv’ring echoings.

My ever eager eyes, with quenchless thirst,

Drank in the glory of the scene. Before,

Commingling mountains, indistinct at first

And far, sublimely rose: each range would o’er

The rearward, slow-ascending summits soar,

Like some vast army on the Appenines,

With all the bright artillery of war,

Banners of painted clouds, with proud designs,

Helmets and jeweled shields along the glitt’ring lines.

Below me slept a valley, with its fields

O’erflowing with the ripe and yellow corn:

And harvesters, whose distance-mellowed peals

Of laughter touched the ear, as echoes borne

At vesper hour from some far Alpine horn,

Reclined, at length, beside a narrow stream

That lingered lullingly beneath its worn,

Wild-blossomed banks awhile, and then would gleam

Away and windingly, like music in a dream.

Slow sloping shores, o’er-velveted with green—

Old oaks, which, sighing softly, seemed aware

That summer is not always, as between

Their branches breathed the wing-unweary air—

Blue skies that bent above, serenely fair—

And tinklings faint of distant bells among

The snowy sheep and herds of kine, that where

The grass was deepest browsed—gave to the young,

Reposing there, an Eden-hour, and brightly hung,

Round age’s mem’ries, as at eventide,

By lighted lamps, glow carved transparencies.

I felt the perfume-freighted zephyrs glide

On tiptoe by me from the midst of these:

And as they whispered lowly, by degrees

My brain grew dizzy with felicity;

And fancy, with the warm realities,

Mingled such floating, fairy imagery,

That all was isles of Greece and air of Italy.

There seemed low music swelling from afar.

Which, as it nearer came, grew lovelier;

And then smooth, iv’ry voices, such as are

Heard only from some heavenly messenger,

With harp-like pinions, warning ere we err

In words that die not, and through after time,

When evil tempts us, draw us nearer her.

And as in thought I saw the Past, sublime,

With many a sunny sky and calm Arcadian clime,

The cooling rippling of the stream of song

More deeply in its tone went sweeping by;

For other rills, its winding way along,

Had mingled with its waters leapingly.

And skimming swift the waves with ear and eye,

I found the fountains whence the river came—

A group of singing sylphs—and standing by

The one that _looked_ the queen, though robed the same,

And languishingly lovely—Idleness her name.

Her dark, luxuriant hair fell loosely o’er

A neck that said a thousand things unthinking,

And soft as if ’twere only fashioned for

A pillow to support a loved head sinking

Beneath the draught, deliriously drinking,

Of her resistless beauty; and her eyes

Were open volumes, which, like planets blinking,

Seemed saying, “Read us, all around us lies

The starry Infinite—the realm of Mysteries.”

Her thoughts environed me, for with a smile

And gesture of her hand, the group arose;

And pausing as they neared me, for awhile,

Drew round, encircling, in converging rows,

Enshrouding me in incense. A repose

Crept through my senses, such as sweetly stole

Over the Lotus-eaters—such as throws

Its dreamy spells around the bounding soul,

Like silken lassos, where the waves of Lethé roll.

And I was borne aloft through azure air,

Her warm, white arms around me, and her cheek

Close pressed to mine; her cooling, curling hair

Bathing my temples, as in Easter week,

In Rome’s cathedrals, ere the Fathers speak,

They lave in holy-water. Unopposed,

My burning, lightning-learning lips would seek

With hers communion; and though undisclosed

The secrets whispered, yet our hearts full well supposed.

We floated on, with wings extended wide,

To that fair region, where the thoughts of men,

The holiest they breathe, like angels glide,

Gathering the purely beautiful, and then

Returning laden to the earth again—

Imagination’s realm—the vast Unknown,

Full of as glorious images as when

The first Thought-angel gazed within, alone,

And will be while the world has evil to atone.

I touched Futurity’s thrice veiled domain.

And felt the moments of swift coming years

Fall sparklingly around me, like the rain

From over-heavy clouds of unwept tears,

Dropping through sunlight; while my eager ears

Caught from far sounding avenues, a name

Like mine, breathed in the tones affection hears

Swelling so sweetly on the earth the same,

Though lowly laid in flowers, the lips from whence they came.

My brain reeled with repletion, and no more,

Through such celestial scenes, and thus to be

Clothed with mortality, could I explore.

Fading, still fading slowly, I could see

The rolling prairie-land of Poesy,

Blooming with stars, and eastwardly a light,

Like the full moon rising gloriously,

Which streamed o’er it from Heaven—then our flight,

Unwilled, was earthward, with the soul’s archangel, Night.

Full many a shadow o’er the sun and me,

Subduing both a time, has passed since then;

And darker, colder ones in store may be

Unopened, with the woes awaiting men:

But still, in rose-wreathed summer, sometimes, when

The hour is noontide, and the noontide fair,

Sweet Idleness bends over me again

And whispers of Elysium—while Care

Flaps her broad, vulture wings and melts away in air.

* * * * *

RAIN AND SUNLIGHT IN OCTOBER.

BY EMILY HERRMANN.

The grape-leaf’s edge is crisping

Beside our window-pane;

Small chirping things are shrinking

From cold October rain.

I hear the pattering of its feet

All round about our home—

Among the loosely garnered shocks,

Along the runnel’s foam.

There sings no bird among our trees—

Whose robes are waxing thin—

And yellow leaves, on withered grass,

Dim graves are sinking in.

Chilling is touch of Autumn rain,

Darkly the gray cloud lowers,

Shutting the sunlight from our paths

Among the drooping flowers.

Yet gently, as to our weary brows

Come folding wings of sleep,

It moves along the furrowed fields

Where summer dust lies deep.

Bravely ’twill nurse the infant grain

That in its cradle lies,

And nerve it to struggle with the storm

Before old Winter’s eyes.

And now how quietly all about

October sunlight falls;

Tracking, with stars, the evening rain,

Sparkling on dead leaves’ palls.

Moving, in shocks of garnered maize,

Is many a fluttering wing;

And the wheat smiles to gentle light

As if ’twere a living thing.

In showers, their crimson garments fall

From off majestic forms,

Whose hearts, in the living sap kept warm,

Are fearless of wildest storms.

Round us the forest, in mellow haze,

Shuts a still glory in;

Under its shadow the cattle graze—

Soon to it we shall win!

Shaking their nuts from laden limbs,

Sharing the squirrel’s mite,

Gaily we’ll gather on tufted moss

In the yellow Autumn light.

By freshening green on the fading grass

Life in its depth has stirred,

We are not alone among changing leaves,

For, hark! there’s a singing bird!

* * * * *

FRAGMENT FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.

BY JAMES M’CARROLL.

When, in his strength, the monarch of the air

Soars proudly through the azure fields of heaven,

His pinions burning in the noontide glare,

Or flashing in the deep red dyes of even,

He sees the earth receding from his eye,

And looking round him, in his chainless glee,

Utters a loud, a long, wild, piercing cry—

And that’s the joyous shout of Liberty.

But when he leaves those vast ethereal plains,

And falls into the fowler’s hidden snare,

Beneath the icy pressure of his chains,

How soon his sounding wing hangs listless there;—

And oft, as o’er their galling links he broods,

Dreaming of the bright hours when he was free,

He looks up through those shining solitudes,

And shrieks—the bitter shriek of Slavery.

If thus ’tis, from the eagle to the dove,

Say, how can we upon our fetters smile,

Save those that, woven by the hand of Love,

Are round us flung with many a tender wile?

So pure a shrine of Freedom is the soul,

That could our chains lose all their weight and chill,

And, ’twined with light, extend from pole to pole,

We’d sigh and feel that we were captives still.

* * * * *

NATURE AND ART.

BY SAMUEL MARTIN.

When we see an insect in the fields pumping a sweet fluid from the

nectaries of flowers, and carrying it home and storing it in convenient

receptacles, which it carefully covers so as to exclude the dust and

hinder evaporation, we are filled with devout astonishment; and as we

write hymns about the “Little Busy Bee,” in her industry and foresight,

and curious contrivances, we recognize an all-pervading Mind and an

all-controlling Hand. And in this we are right. But here is another

animal, still more resourceful and provident. The bee collects the honey

from such flowers as happen to contain it, and which yield it almost

ready-made; but she takes no trouble to secure a succession of those

flowers or to increase their productiveness. This other creature is at

infinite pains to propagate and improve his favorite mellifluent herbs.

From the sweet juices of flowers the bee can only elaborate a single

fluid, while her rival from the same syrup can obtain a multitude of

dainties; and, according to the taste of the consumer, he offers it in

the guise of nectar or ambrosia, in crystals of topaz or in pyramids of

snow. And when the manufacture is complete, the bee knows only one mode

of stowage; this other creature packs it, as the case may require, in

bags or baskets, in boxes or barrels, all his own workmanship, and all

cleverly made. What, then, is the reason that when we look at a

honeycomb we are apt to be reminded of the wisdom and goodness of God;

but looking at the same thing magnified—surveying a hundred hogsheads

of sugar piled up in a West Indian warehouse—we have no devout

associations with the ingenuity and industry which placed them there?

Why are chords of pious feeling struck by the proceedings of an insect,

and no emotion roused by the on-goings of our fellow-men?

We examine two paper-mills. The one is situated in a gooseberry-bush,

and the owner is a wasp. The other covers some acres of land, and

belongs to a kind-hearted and popular legislator. But after exploring

the latter with all its water-wheels and steam-engines, and with all the

beautiful expedients for converting rags into pulp, and then weaving and

sizing, and cutting and drying, and folding and packing, we go away

admiring nothing except human skill; whereas, the moment Madam Vespa

fetches a bundle of vegetable fibres and moistens them with her saliva,

and then spreads them out in a patch of whitey-brown, we lift our hands

in amazement, and go home to write another “Bridgewater Treatise,” or to

add a new meditation to Sturm. That a wasp should make paper at all is

very wonderful; but if the rude fabric which she compiles from raspings

of wood is wonderful, how much more admirable is that texture which, as

it flows from between these flying cylinders for furlongs together,

becomes a fit repository for the story of the universe, and can receive

on its delicate and evenly expanse, not only the musings of genius but

the pictures of Prophecy and the lessons of Inspiration!

However, it is said, the cases are quite distinct. Man has reason to

guide him; the lower animal proceeds by instinct. In surveying human

handiwork, we admire the resources of reason; in looking at bird

architecture or insect manufactures, we are in more direct contact with

the Infinite Mind. Their Maker is their teacher, but man is his own

instructor; and, therefore, we see the wisdom and goodness of God in the

operations of the lower animals more clearly than in our own.

Without arguing the identity of reason and instinct, it will be admitted

that the lower animals frequently perform actions which imply a

reasoning process. Reverting to our insect illustrations, Huber and

others have mentioned cases which make it hard to deny judgment and

reflection to the wasp; and the reader who is himself “judicious” will

not refuse a tiny measure of his own endowments to the bee. On a bright

day, four or five summers since, we were gazing at a clump of fuchsias

planted out on a lawn, not far from London. As every one knows, the

flower of the fuchsia is a graceful pendent, something like a funnel or

red coral suspended with the opening downward; and in the varieties

planted on this lawn the tube of the funnel was long and slender. In the

case of every expanded flower, we noticed that there was a small hole

near the apex, just as if some one had pierced it with a pin. It was not

long till we detected the authors of these perforations. The border was

all alive with bees, and we soon noticed that in dealing with the

fuchsias they extracted the honey through these artificial apertures.

They had found the tube of the blossom so long that their haustella

could not reach the honey at its farther end; and so, by this

engineering stratagem, they got at it sideways. Surely this was

sensible. When a mason releases a sweep stuck fast in a chimney by

digging a hole in the gable, or when a chancellor of the exchequer gains

a revenue by indirect taxation, he merely carries out the principle. And

what makes the manœuvre more striking, is the fact that the problem was

new. The fuchsias had come from Mexico and Chili not many years ago;

whereas the bees were derived from a long line of English ancestors, and

could not have learned the art of tapping from their American congeners.

In cases such as these, and hundreds which might be quoted, no one feels

his admiration of the all-pervading Wisdom lessen as instinct approaches

reason, or actually merges in it. In the case of the inferior animals no

one feels—The more of reason, the less of God. And, because man is all

reason together, why should it be thought that in human inventions and

operations there is nothing divine? How is it that in the dyke-building

of that beaver, or the nest building of that bird, so many mark the

varied evolutions of the Supreme Intelligence; but, when they come to

the operations of the artisan or the architect, they are conscious of an

abrupt transition, and, feeling the groundless holy, they exclaim,

“God made the country, but man made the town?”

One would think that the right way to regard human handiwork is with the

feelings which an accomplished naturalist expresses:—“A reference to

the Deity, even through works of human invention, must lead to increased

brotherly love among mankind. When we see a mechanic working at his

trade, and observe the dexterity which he displays, together with the

ingenious adaptation of his tools to their various uses, and then

consider the original source of all this, do we not see a being at work,

employing for his own purposes an intelligence derived from the

Almighty?—and will not such a consideration serve to raise him in our

opinion, rather than induce us to look down slightingly upon him for

being employed in a mechanical trade? For my own part, when I watch a

mechanic at his work I find it very agreeable, and, I believe, a very

useful kind of mental employment, to think of him as I would of an

insect building its habitation, and in both see the workings of the

Deity.”[7]

And yet it must be admitted that few have the feelings which Mr.

Drummond describes. They cannot see as much of God in the manipulations

of the mechanic as in the operations of the bird or the beaver; nor can

a life-boat send their thoughts upward so readily as the shell of a

nautilus or the float of a raft-building spider.

The difference is mainly moral. Man is sinful. Many of his works are

constructed with sinful motives, and are destined for evil purposes. And

the artificer is often a wicked man. We know this, and when we look on

man’s works we cannot help remembering this. It is a pure pleasure to

watch a hive of bees, but it is not so pleasant to survey a sugar

plantation in Brazil, there is a painful thought in knowing how much of

their produce will be manufactured into intoxicating liquors. It is

pleasant to observe the paper-making of a hymenopterous insect; for it

does not swear nor use bad language at its work, and, when finished, its

tissues will not be blotted by effusions of impiety and vice; but of

this you can seldom be assured in the more splendid manufactures of us

lords of the creation. But if this element were guaranteed—if the will

of God were done among ourselves even as it is done among the high

artificers of heaven and among the humble laborers in earth’s deep

places—our feelings should be wholly revolutionized. If of every

stately fabric we knew, as we know regarding St. Paul’s, that no profane

word had been uttered all the time of its construction; if of every

factory we could hope, as of the mills at Lowell, that it is meant to be

the reward of good conduct and the gymnasium of intelligence and virtue;

if of every fine painting or statue we might believe that, like Michael

Angelo’s works, it was commenced in prayer; this suffusion of the moral

over the mechanical would sanctify the Arts, and in Devotion’s breast it

would kindle the conviction, at once joyful and true, “My Father made

them all.”

Still, however, in man’s works, we are bound to distinguish these two

things—the mechanical and the moral. When God made man at first, he

made him both upright and intelligent; he endowed him with both goodness

and genius. In his fall he has lost a large amount of both attributes;

but whatever measure of either he retains is still divine. Any dim

instincts of devotion, as well as every benevolent affection which

lingers in man’s nature are relics of his first estate; and so is any

portion of intellectual power which he still possesses. Too often they

exist asunder. In our self-entailed economy of defect and disorder, too

often are the genius and the goodness divided. Too many of our good men

want cleverness, and too many clever men are bad. But, whether

consecrated or misdirected, it must not be forgotten that talent,

genius, dexterity, are gifts of God, and that all their products, so far

as these are innocent or useful, are results of an original inspiration.

It is true that his Creator has not made each individual man an

instinctive constructor of railways and palaces, as he has made each

beaver a constitutional dyke-builder and each mole a constitutional

tunnel-borer. But he has endowed the human race with faculties and

tendencies, which, under favoring circumstances, shall eventually

develop in railways and palaces as surely as beaver mind has all along

developed in dykes, and mole mind worked in tunnels. And just as in

carrying out His own great scheme with our species, the Most High has

conveyed great moral truths through all sorts of messengers—through a

Balaam and a Caiaphas as well as a Daniel and a John;—so, in carrying

out His merciful plan, and gradually augmenting our sum of material

comfort, the Father of earth’s families has conveyed His gifts through

very various channels, sometimes sending into our world a great

discovery through a scoffing philosopher, and sometimes through a

Christian sage. Be the craftsman what he may; when once we have

separated the moral from the mechanical—the sin which is man’s from the

skill which is Jehovah’s—in every exquisite product, and more

especially in every contribution to human comfort, we ought to recognize

as their ultimate origin the wisdom and goodness of God. The arts

themselves are His gift; the abuse alone is human. And just as an

enlightened Christian looks forth on the landscape, and in its fair

features as well as its countless inhabitants beholds mementoes of his

Master; so, surveying a beautiful city, its museums and its monuments,

its statues and fountains, or sauntering through a gallery of art or

useful inventions—in all the symmetry of proportion and splendor of

coloring, in every ingenious device and every powerful engine, he may

read manifestations of that mind which is “wonderful in counsel and

excellent in working;” and, so far as skill and adaptation and elegance

are involved, piety will hail the Great Architect himself as the Maker

of the Town.

Reason may be regarded as the Instinct of the human race. Like instinct,

commonly so called, it has an irresistible tendency toward certain

results; and when circumstances favor, these results evolve. But reason

is a slow and experimental instinct. It is long before it attains to any

optimism. The inferior races are only repeating masterpieces which their

ancestor produced in the year of the world One. Man is constantly

improving on his models, and there are many inventions on which he has

only hit in this 59th century of his existence. Nevertheless, as the oak

is in the acorn, so these inventions have from the first been in the

instinct of humanity. That is, if you say that its nest was in the mind

of the bird, or its cocoon in the mind of the silk-worm as it came from

the hand of its Maker, and if you consequently deem it true and devout

to recognize in these humble fabrics a trace of the wisdom which moulds

the universe; so we say that the Barberini Vase and the Britannia Bridge

existed in the mind of our species when first ushered into this earthly

abode, and now in the providential progress of events these germs have

developed in structures of beauty or grandeur, whilst admiring the human

workmanship, it is right and it is comely to adore the original

Authorship.

His are the minerals and the metals, the timbers and the vegetable

tissues, from which our houses and our ships, our clothing and our

furniture, are fabricated. Of these, the variety is amazing, and it

plainly indicates that, in the arrangements of this planet, the Creator

contemplated not only the necessities but the enjoyments of his

intelligent creatures. For instance, there might have been only one or

two metals; and the eagerness with which tribes confined to copper, or

to gold and silver, grasp at an axe or a butcher’s whittle, shows how

rich are the tribes possessing iron. But even that master-metal, with

all his capabilities, and aided by his three predecessors, cannot answer

every purpose. The chemist requires a crucible which will stand a

powerful heat, and which, withal, does not yield to the corroding action

of air or water. Gold would answer the latter, and iron the former

purpose, well; but every one knows how readily iron rusts and how easily

gold melts. But there is another metal—platinum—on which air and water

have not the slightest action, and which stands unscathed in the eye of

a furnace where iron would run down like wax, and gold would burn like

paper. In the same way there are many ends for which none of these

metals are available, but which are excellently answered by tin, and

lead, and zinc, and rhodium, and mercury. Or will the reader bestow a

passing thought on his apparel? His forefathers found one garment

sufficient, and for mere protection from the weather a suit of cat-skin

or sheep-skin might still suffice. But, oh reader! what a romance is

your toilette! and should all the rest of you be prose, what a poem you

become when you put on your attire! That snowy lawn once blossomed on

the banks of the Don or the Dnieper, and before it shone in a London

drawing-room, that broad-cloth comforted its rightful owner amidst the

snows of the Cheviots. Did these boots really speak for themselves, you

would find that the upper leathers belonged to a goat, and the soles to

a horse or a cow. And could such metamorphic retributions happen now as

in the days of Ovid, the best way to punish the pride of an exquisite

would be to let every creature come and recover his own. A worm would

get his satin cravat, and a pearl oyster his studs; and if no fabulous

beaver laid claim to his hat, the rats of Paris or the kittens of

Worcester would assuredly run off with his gloves. But viewed in a

graver and truer light, it is marvellous from how many sources we derive

the several ingredients in the simplest clothing, many of them essential

to health, and most of them conducive to our well-being; so that we need

not go to the crowded mart or the groaning wharf in order to convince

ourselves of earth’s opulent resources. Few will read these pages who

have not the evidence at home. Open that cupboard, unlock that wardrobe,

look round the chamber where you are seated, and think a little of all

the kingdoms of Nature and all the regions of the globe from which their

contents have been collected, and say if the Framer of this world is not

a bountiful Provider. “O Lord, how manifold are thy works! The earth is

full of thy riches; so is this great and wide sea.”

The Supreme Governor has so ordered it, that the progress of the

arts—that is, of human comfort and accommodation—shall be nearly in

proportion to human industry, sobriety, and peacefulness. The last

thirty years have been fraught with inventions, chiefly because they

have been years of peace. In England, however, the reign of Charles II.

was tolerably tranquil; but, except for the accident of Newton and the

Royal Society, its peace was the parent of few discoveries, for it was a

peace which had converted the noise of the warrior, not into the quiet

of the artisan, but into the din of the drunken debauchee. Such honor

does the Most High put upon peaceful activity and sober perseverance,

that wherever these exist economic comfort is sure to follow. Thus,

without uncommon intellectuality, and with a false religion, the Chinese

anticipated many of the arts of modern Europe. Whilst Christendom, so

called, was divided betwixt lazy monks and a brutal soldiery—whilst

mediæval churchmen were droning masses, and feudal barons amused

themselves in knocking out each other’s brains—the Chinese, neither

fierce nor indolent, were spinning silk and manufacturing porcelain,

compiling almanacs, and sinking Artesian wells. And long before any

Friar Schwartz, or Gutenberg, or Flavio di Gioia, had revealed them to

the Western World, the pacific and painstaking Chinese were favored with

prelibations of our vaunted discoveries—gunpowder, book-printing, and

the mariner’s compass.

We have compared our world to a well-furnished dwelling, in which,

however, many of the treasures are locked up, and it is left to patience

and ingenuity to open the several doors. Caoutchouc and gutta percha

have always been elastic and extensible; but it is only of late that

their properties have been ascertained and turned to profitable account.

The cinchonas had grown for five thousand years in Peru before the

Jesuit missionaries discovered the tonic influence which the bark exerts

on the human system. Steam was always capable of condensation, so as to

leave in its place a vacuum; but it is only a century and a half since

it struck the Marquis of Worcester to employ this circumstance as a

motive power. And ever since our earthly ball was fashioned, electricity

has been able to sweep round it at the rate of ten times each second,

though it is only within the last few years that Professor Wheatstone

thought of sending tidings on its wings. And doubtless the cabinets

still unlocked contain secrets as wonderful and as profitable as these;

whilst the language of Providence is, “Be diligent, and be at peace

among yourselves, and the doors which have defied the spell of the

sorcerer and the battle-axe of the warrior will open to the prayer of

harmonious industry.”

So thoroughly provided with all needful commodities is the great house

of the world, that, in order to obtain whatever we desiderate, seldom is

aught else requisite than a distinct realization of our want and a

determined effort to supply it. In working mines, one of the

difficulties with which the excavator has to contend is the influx of

water. The effort to remedy this evil gave birth to the steam-engine;

and, with the relief afforded by the steam-pump, many mines are easily

and profitably wrought which otherwise must have long since become mere

water-holes. But a worse enemy than water encounters the collier, in the

shape of fire-damp, or inflammable gas. Formerly, in quarrying his

subterranean gallery, the axe of the unsuspecting pitman would pierce a

magazine of this combustible air, and unlike water, there being nothing

to bewray its presence, it filled the galleries with its invisible

serpent-coils; and it was not till a candle approached that it revealed

itself in a shattering explosion, and a wretched multitude lay burning

and bleeding along its track—a fearful hecatomb to this fiery dragon.

What was to be done? Were the blast furnaces of Wales and Wolverhampton

to be extinguished, and were household fires to go out? Or, for the sake

of a blazing ingle and good cutlery, were brave men still to be

sacrificed to this Moloch of the mine? The question was put to Science,

and Science set to work to solve it. Many good expedients were

suggested, but the most ingenious was in practice the simplest and

safest. It was ascertained that a red heat, if unaccompanied by flame,

will not ignite the fire-damp; and it was also known, that the most

powerful flame will not pass through wire-gauze, if the openings are

sufficiently small. A lamp or a candle might, therefore, be put into a

lantern of this gauze, and then plunged into an atmosphere of

inflammable air; and whilst the flame inside the lantern gave light

enough to guide the laborer, none of that flame could come through to

act as a match of mischief. And now, like a diver in his pneumatic

helmet, the miner, with his “Davy,” can traverse in security, the depths

of an inflammable ocean.

So plentiful is the provision for our wants, that little more is needed

than a distinct statement in order to secure a supply. During his long

contest with England, and when both the ocean and the sugar-growing

islands were in the power of his enemy, Napoleon said to his _savans_,

“Make sugar for the French out of something which grows in France.” And,

like Archimedes with the tyrant’s crown, they set to work on the

problem. They knew that sugar is not confined to the Indian cane. They

knew that it can be obtained from many things—from maple, and parsnips,

and rags; but the difficulty was to obtain it in sufficient quantities,

and by an inexpensive process. However, knowing the compartment in which

the treasure was concealed, they soon found the key; and it was not long

till beet-root sugar was manufactured in thousands of tons, nearly as

good, though not nearly so cheap, as the produce of England’s colonies.

A few years ago the British Foreign Office had a dispute with the

Neapolitan Government. The best sulphur is found in Sicily, and from

that island Great Britain imports for its own manufactures about 20,000

tons a year. On the occasion referred to, the Neapolitan Government was

about to complete an arrangement which would have enormously enhanced

the price of this important commodity. Some wished that England should

make it a _casus belli_, and send her ships of war to fetch away the

brimstone by force. But the chemists of England took the quarrel into

their own hands; and, had not the King of Naples yielded, doubtless we

should now have been supplied with sulphur from sources at command but

yet undeveloped.

A modification of the same problem is constantly occurring to practical

science, and its almost uniform solution shows that our world has been

arranged with a benevolent eye to the growing comfort of the greater

number. Science is perpetually importuned to cheapen commodities; and by

substituting a simple method for an intricate process, or by making a

common material fulfill the part of a rare one, it is every year giving

presents to the poor. Few substances are more essential to our daily

comfort than soda. It is a large constituent of glass and soap, and many

other useful articles. The cleanliness of a nation depends on the

cheapness of soda; and if soda is cheap, you can substitute plate-glass

for crown in your windows, and you can adorn your apartments with glazed

pictures and mirrors. So that from the bleacher who spends

thousands-a-year on the carbonate, to the apprentice who in the dog-days

lays out a penny on ginger-beer or soda-water, all are interested in the

cheapness of soda. But this alkali used to be dear. Small quantities

were found native, and larger supplies were obtained from the burning of

sea-weed. Still the cost was considerable. However, it was well known

that a vast magazine of the precious article surrounds us on every side.

The sea is water changed to brine by a salt of soda. If only a plan

could be contrived for separating this soda from the hydro-chloric acid,

which makes it common salt, there is at our doors a depot large enough

to form a Mont Blanc of pure soda. That plan was discovered; and now a

laundress buys a pound of soda (the carbonate) for three half-pence, and

the baker of unfermented bread can procure the more costly bicarbonate

for sixpence.

Lately, if not still, in the shops of provincial apothecaries, no

article was in such demand as one styled in the Pharmacopœia, muriate of

magnesia. This popular medicine was first obtained by evaporation from

certain mineral waters, and as the supply was limited the price was

high. But few ingredients could be cheaper than the earth and the acid

from which it is combined. The earth forms whole mountains, and the acid

is that cheap one set free when the soda is separated from common salt.

Accordingly, chemists went to work, and in their laboratories did what

the mineral spring had been doing since the Deluge, and by a simple

process they manufactured the muriate of magnesia. A few years ago,

looking at the remarkable rocks of magnesian limestone which defend the

Durham coast, near Shields, our companion remarked, “Many a hundred tons

of these rocks have we converted into Epsom salts!”

“Waste not, want not.” An adage which received a touching sanction when,

after a miraculous feast, and when He could have converted the whole

region into bread, the Saviour said, “Gather up the fragments, that

nothing be lost.” And in the progress of discovery, God is constantly

teaching us not to waste anything, for this is a world of which nothing

need be lost. At the woollen factories of Rheims there used to

accumulate a refuse, which “it cost something to throw away.” This was

the soap-water containing the fatty matters washed from the woollen

stuffs, along with some soda and other ingredients. With its offensive

scum this soap-water was a nuisance, and required to be put out of the

way with all convenient speed. But now, from one portion of it gas is

manufactured, sufficient to supply all the works, and the remainder

yields a useful soap.[8] In the same way, when Lord Kaims found himself

proprietor of an extensive peat-moss in the neighborhood of Stirling,

with characteristic energy he commenced its improvement. On digging

through the moss, he came to a rich alluvial soil; so that to his

sanguine imagination, fifteen hundred acres, at whose barrenness his

neighbors laughed, were a splendid estate, covered over meanwhile by a

carpet seven feet thick. To lift this carpet was the puzzle: for every

acre of it weighed some hundred tons. But “the mother of invention” is

the near kinswoman of most Highland lairds, and “necessity” suggested a

plan to Lord Kaims: a plan which must have approved itself to the mind

of a judge, for, by a sort of retributive process, it forced the element

which had done the damage to undo it again. By a hydraulic contrivance,

a powerful current of water was made to traverse the moss and carry off

the loosened fragments, till they reached the river Forth, and were

finally floated into the German Ocean. And now “a waste,” which last

century was the haunt of the curlew, is covered with heavy crops, and

yields its proprietor a revenue of two or three thousand pounds a year.

But had Lord Kaims foreseen Mr. Reece’s researches into the composition

and capabilities of “bog-earth,” he would, perhaps, have hesitated

before he consigned such a treasure to the deep. At this moment we are

writing by the light of a candle which last year was a peat! And,

however opinion may differ as to the probable expense of the process,

there can be no doubt that peat yields in large quantities the ammonia

which is so largely used by farmers; the acetic and pyroligneous acids,

extensively employed by calico-printers, hatters, etc.; and, along with

naptha, a fatty substance capable of being converted into beautiful

candles; so that Mr. Owen’s benevolent calculation will, doubtless,

sooner or later be fulfilled, and “Irish moss” become a cure for Irish

misery.[9] It is pleasant to know that on every side we are surrounded

with mines of unexamined wealth. Some of the old workings may be

exhausted; but if we be only devout and diligent new veins will open.

Forty years ago, so much oil was required for lighting the streets of

cities as well as for private dwellings, that fears began to be

entertained lest the great oil-flask of the Northern Ocean might run

dry, and the whale family be extirpated. That fear was superseded when,

in 1812, gas illumination was introduced.

“The best of things is water.” So sang a very ancient Greek; and of all

the fragments preserved in Aristotle’s “Rhetoric,” hydropathy and

teetotalism have assigned the palm to this old water-poem. Not so our

ship-owners. To them the sorest of problems and the saddest of expenses

is water. Soup can be inspissated into osmazome, and meat can be

squeezed into pemican; but water is not compressible, and it is rather

provoking to see the space available for stowage occupied by tanks and

barrels of this cheap element. Many expedients have been suggested, and

some have partially succeeded. But since we began to write this paper,

our attention has been called to a beautiful contrivance which promises

to conquer every difficulty. By means of Mr. Grant’s Distilling

Galley,[10] the brine may be pumped up from the ocean, and, after

cooking the mess of the largest ship’s company, it may be collected in

the form of the purest fresh water, to the extent of some hundred

gallons each day. Nor is it only a vast saving of room which is effected

by this beautiful expedient. It is a saving of time. Frequently ships

are compelled to leave the straight route, and sometimes lose a favoring

wind, in quest of water. But a ship provided with this apparatus is as

independent as if she were sailing over a fresh water lake; and, instead

of putting into port, she has only to resort to the never-failing pump.

And we may add that it is not only space and time which are saved, but

the health of the crew and the passengers. With every precaution

cistern-water is apt to spoil, and in the Indian Seas and other regions

the water obtained on shore is apt to occasion disease. But the produce

of this engine is always as pure as the rain which falls from the

clouds.

When Pythagoras demonstrated the geometrical proposition, that in a

rectangular triangle the sum of the two lateral squares is equal to the

square of the hypotenuse, he is said to have offered the sacrifice of a

hundred oxen. In modern art we fear that there are many discoveries for

which the thank-offering has not yet been rendered.

Both the reader and the writer are deeply indebted to that gracious

Providence which has cast our lot in the most favored of all times.

Chiefly through the progress of the Arts, the average of existence has

been lengthened many years, and into these years it is possible to

concentrate an amount of literary acquisition, and moral achievement,

and intellectual enjoyment, for which Methuselah himself had not

leisure. For lives thus lengthened let us show our gratitude by living

to good purpose; and, remembering that railways and telegraphs and

steam-printed books are the good gifts of God, let the age which enjoys

them be also the age of holiest obedience and largest benevolence.

-----

[7] Drummond’s Letters.

[8] Knapp’s “Chemical Technology,” p. 179.

[9] See Professor Brande’s “Lecture,” Jan 31, 1851.

[10] The invention of Mr. Grant, of the Victualling Department, Somerset

House.

* * * * *

SNOW.

BY J. P. ADDISON.

Falling, falling,

The snow is falling;

Floating, falling,

To the earth tending

With motion unending;

Floating, falling.

Veiled are the mountains,

Dim is the plain;

Who looketh afar,

He looketh in vain;

Wrapped in the shower,

Dark pines tower,

Shadow-like near,

Arms outspread,

As over the dead,

Solemn and drear.

Snow-birds cheerily

Chirp as they fly;

Ravens drearily

Answer on high:

Else, in the distance,

One who listens,

Naught may hear,

Voice nor sound,

In the country round,

Far or near.

Roof of the cottage

And vine at the door,

Chimney and lattice

Are rounded o’er;

The black tree

Is fair to see

In its net of snow,

And the apple-bough

Bends nearer now

To the casement low.

The paths lie buried,

The storm covers all,

The high-road wide

And the house-path small;

Hid is the stain

Of wind and rain

On the fences nigh,

And afar, each row

With the feathery snow

Is rounded high.

Muffled and heavily

Moveth the wain,

Wearily waiteth

And moveth again;

How for his hearth-fire

Sigheth the farmer

Here in the storm;

There, the fire verily

Crackleth merrily

Thinks he, and warm.

Gained that warm hearth-side,

Glad by the fire

’Mid his dear loved ones

Sitteth the sire.

“Ah the fire verily

Crackleth merrily,

Children mine,”

In the answering gleam

Glad faces beam,

The white walls shine.

Still it is falling,

The snow is falling,

Floating, falling;

To the earth tending

With motion unending,

Floating, falling.

* * * * *

THE LOST DEED.

A LEGEND OF OLD SALEM.

BY E. D. ELIOT.

(_Continued from page 29._)

One day after one of the youth’s little visits to the terrace, Captain

and Mrs. Stimpson were sitting at the door enjoying the afternoon breeze

which came fresh from the ocean, and watching the craft in the harbor,

when Judith came skipping up to the door, with a great red rose in her

hand. Her father accosted her:

“Judy, my gal, where have you been? Sir’s flower! Come, light old

daddy’s pipe for him, and tell what that youngster has been talking

about so long at the gate.”

“Oh, I will, sir,” (jumping on her father’s knee, and putting the rose

in his button-hole,) “if you will please call me Judith, and not keep

calling yourself old daddy. You are not old, I am sure. He always says

pa, or my father, and it sounds so much prettier—don’t it, ma?”

“He! who’s he?” chuckled the delighted father, winking to his wife.

“Why, didn’t you say George Fayerweather, sir?” asked Judith, stroking

his chin. “He often asks me why I don’t call you two, pa and ma. Now,

wont you promise not to laugh at me if I call you so sometimes?”

“You may call me what you please, if you don’t call me too late to

dinner,” said her father. “But you don’t tell your old dad—father, I

mean—what you’ve been talking about.”

“Why, he says,” she replied in a tremulous voice, her rosy lip

quivering, “he’s going to sea soon, to be gone a year; and he says”—her

eyes brightening—“that he means to bring you home the handsomest pipe

he can find up the Straits.”

“I thank the lad, I thank him,” said the captain, with his usual

sonorous h-m-gh; “that youngster’s a smart chap.” Turning to his

wife—“Mind what I say, he’ll turn out something remarkable.”

“And he is going to bring you, mother, a beautiful tortoise shell

snuff-box.”

“And what is he going to bring you, my darling?” said her father.

“I told him I would not have any thing.”

“And what did he say to you, dear?” asked her mother.

“Here comes old Mary to call us to tea,” said Judith, glad to dispose of

the interrogatory in so propitious a manner.

Could you have seen Captain Stimpson at his well-furnished board, you

would have been at no loss to account for his rotundity. Judith

presided, with her father and mother on the side at her left hand, old

grandsir Stimpson, in his arm-chair, at her right, and Mr. Solomon

Tarbox, the foreman of the rope-walk, on the fourth side, opposite to

her. A small, japanned tea-tray was placed before her, upon which were

ranged the tea-cups of burnt china, about the size of egg-shells, with

saucers to match, a silver sugar-dish and cream-pitcher, but little

larger than those which would grace a child’s baby-house at the present

day, and two shining black tea-pots, each holding about a pint, one

filled with the best bohea and the other with boiling water.

A pewter tankard, filled with small-beer of Mrs. Stimpson’s own brewing,

was placed at her husband’s right hand; it being a beverage of which he

was fond, not being able to bring himself to like the new-fangled

wishy-washy stuff called tea. Before grandsir was placed a small mug of

peppermint-tea, which the old gentleman thought more healthful. A

lobster in his scarlet suit occupied the centre of the table; flanked on

one side by a parallelogram of smoked salmon, six inches by seven; on

the other by a dish of cold baked beans. A plate of white bread and

another of brown, half an oblate spheroid of butter, and a truncated

cone of Dutch cheese found a place on the table; and to crown all, a

dish of miracles, a kind of cake much in vogue in those days, and not

differing materially from the crullers of New York, being the same,

under a different name, with the Massachusetts dough-nuts of more modern

date, excepting that the dough was formed into grotesque figures,

displaying the fancy of the compounder to great advantage. In this

article Judith particularly excelled, few possessing either her taste or

fancy.

The old grandsir, in his white linen cap, pushed a little back from his

furrowed brow, with clasped hands, and in a tremulous voice, asked a

blessing; to which his son responded with an audible amen, followed by

his usual h-m-gh. Judith commenced the operation of pouring out the tea,

first ascertaining that her grandfather’s peppermint was to his taste,

and being commended by him for having his little slip of salt fish

broiled to a nicety; for notwithstanding the usual abundance of his

son’s table, the good man always chose to have something prepared

exclusively for himself. Judith handed the tea with a natural grace,

equaling any elegance acquired at a modern boarding-school.

Her father, after seeing that all were well supplied with the good

things on his table, took up his pewter tankard, and with a respectful

nod to the old gentleman said, “Father, my sarvice to you; Miss

Stimpson, my sarvice; sarvice, sarvice,” nodding to Judith and Mr.

Tarbox; then applying the vessel to his lips, he took a long and

apparently a very refreshing draught. Judith, though a beauty and a

heroine, despised not the vulgar enjoyments of eating and drinking, but

valued them as social pleasures.

After ample justice being done to the meal by all parties, Captain

Stimpson and Mr. Tarbox went off to the rope-walk. Grandsir, removing

his chair to a window, where the afternoon breeze blew in refreshingly,

and placing his Bible, his favorite companion, on his knees, was soon in

a gentle slumber; his head thrown back on his comfortable chair, and his

hands folded on the pages of the sacred volume before him, opened at his

favorite last of Revelations. Mrs. Stimpson, taking up her

knitting-work, sat herself down by the side of the table, to superintend

the clearing away of the tea-things. She followed Judith with her fond

eyes, as the little maiden tripped lightly about in her neat, speckled

apron, putting every thing in its place in the most housewifely manner,

and directing old Mary in an affectionate and cheerful tone of voice.

She put away the tea-things in their accustomed places, in the little

buffet with glass-doors, at the corner of the room, in which three

mandarins of china were conspicuous, one on the middle projection of

each shelf: then seating herself down at the window, she began to ply

her needle in the embroidering of various figures in fine cat-gut to

imitate lace; a kind of ladies’ work as much in vogue in those days as

the worsted and crochet-work has been in our day.

Captain Stimpson soon joined them with his pipe, but their conversation

was interrupted by a gentle rap at the tea-room door, and on the

captain’s opening it, George Fayerweather appeared, with a lame excuse

for so soon repeating his visit. He was cordially received by the

captain, who invited him to sit down, which he immediately did, in such

a manner as to occupy the whole width of a window in the front parlor,

to which the family now all adjourned; grandsir rousing and going with

them, as he loved to doze by the sound of his children’s voices. The

evening being fairly set in, a light was brought by old Mary; but being

placed in a little cupboard, the door of which was nearly closed, the

rest of the room was left in obscurity.

The little party remained for some time almost in silence; the coolness

of the hour, after the heat of the day, bringing to each a sense of

tranquil enjoyment, which none felt disposed to interrupt by

conversation. It is in such moments, that throwing off the cares of

life, and forgetting its sorrows and disappointments, in the presence of

those best loved, one feels possessed of a treasure of happiness—though

the hoard maybe small—which wholly fills the mind and satisfies the

wishes. “The heart” does not “distrustful ask if this be joy,” secure in

the sober certainty. These are the moments, which, in their flight, mark

their traces most deeply in the memory, over which we brood as a miser

over his gold, and which, when past never to return, leave the heart

most desolate.

The beauty of the evening drew many from their dwellings to enjoy it in

the open air, and others whom thrift or need forbade to suspend longer

their occupations, resumed them with fresh vigor—a murmur of voices,

mingled with other sounds of busy life, softened and blended by

distance, found its way into the open windows of the apartment.

At intervals, a faint and distant strain of music was heard, at first

scarcely perceptible, and which each one might have attributed to

imagination as it occasioned no remark; but on the breeze freshening the

sounds drew nearer, and at length a strange and beautiful melody was

poured forth, melancholy though delicious, which drew an exclamation of

surprise and delight from the whole party.

“Oh, what is it!” exclaimed Judith; “what can it be, and where does it

come from?” as a sensation almost amounting to superstition stole over

her.

“It sounds,” said the father, “almost like the music which I’ve heard

many a time, when I was before the mast, from some of the big churches

in foreign parts, as it came over the water, whilst I kept watch on deck

of a moonlight night, when the vessel was near port.”

Here the old gentleman arousing, cried out, “I’ve been asleep, I

declare—what a beautiful dream I’ve had. I dreamed I was in the New

Jerusalem, and was walking by the side of the river, where was the Tree

of Life, with twelve manner of fruits hanging from its branches. I heard

the angels with their golden harps—though somehow I couldn’t see

them—why, there it is again!”

Here a swell of wild harmony filled the room, prolonged and varied for a

moment, and dying away in a low wail. Judith felt her eyes fill with

tears as the strain ceased, and looking in the direction where George

was sitting, exclaimed, “Oh, it comes from that window! I know it does!

I thought so all the time.”

George now spoke—“Well, come let us see if we can find it.”

On her approach, as he sought her hand to draw her to the window, she

drew back, saying she must get the light; on bringing which, a long,

slender box of polished wood was discovered, filling the space in the

window, which was opened just wide enough to admit it. The sounds were

now found to proceed from strings stretched across its upper surface,

(which was carved and gilded,) and fastened at each end by pegs of ivory

and brass. The delighted girl asked in wonder—

“What is it? Where did it come from? Whose is it?”

The latter of which interrogatories George answered by pointing to her

name carved at full length at one end, his own initials, in very small

characters, appearing beneath.

“It is an Eolian harp,” he said, “it is played upon by the winds, and is

a little conjuror—if you should happen to have an acquaintance at

sea”—here he looked full in her blushing face with an expression of

much feeling, his voice slightly trembling—“and should care to know any

thing how he fared, put the harp in the window, and the winds will waft

the intelligence across the ocean, and as the strains are in harmony or

in discord you may judge of his welfare.”

She replied—“Oh, how much I thank you for it. But I am sure I should

not forget you without it—oh, I am sure I should not,” she added, in a

lower tone.

He then seized her scissors, which hung at her side by its silver chain,

and looking into her face for permission, separated a silken ringlet

from her head, and, folding it carefully, placed it in his bosom, then,

the evening being somewhat advanced, he took his leave.

When the point of George’s going to sea was first settled, his mother’s

lamentations were loud and deep; but at length, when the voyage was

engaged, and the time drew near for his departure, as was usual with her

when an evil was unavoidable, she bore it as well as any one could, and

busied herself with alacrity in his equipments. She made great

complaints that he could be allowed but one sea-chest; in which,

however, she managed to find room for two plum-puddings, half a dozen

minced pies, and a roast-turkey, that he might at least keep

Thanksgiving, which was near at hand, if not Christmas, on board the

vessel.

On the day before he was to sail, a new idea seemed to strike her. She

called Mrs. Wendell, who was present and assisting, as usual, when any

thing extraordinary was going on in her aunt’s family; and they both

went again to the chest. It had been packed and repacked six times

already; but with Amy’s assistance, a closely-folded pile of sea-clothes

was once more taken out, and by still closer packing, and a different

arrangement, room was made for an oblong pasteboard box. She then went

to the high chest of drawers of black mahogany, which stood in frowning

majesty in her chamber, and was taking out an article laid with great

care in one of the drawers, when her husband, who had thought all was

finished, entered to see what more she had found to do.

“High! high! what are you doing with my best cravat with the Brussels

lace?” he cried.

“La, Mr. Fayerweather, my dear, you know you never wear it only on great

occasions—such as a wedding or so; and there is nobody to be married

now, before George comes home. I am going to let him have it, for

there’s no time to send to Boston for any; and if any thing should

happen, you shall have my best set of lace, which is handsomer than

this.”

“I don’t know that; but what upon earth can George do with a Brussels’

laced cravat at sea?”

“Oh, my dear, when he’s in London, you know, he may be invited to dine

with the king; and I should want to have him dressed suitably.”

“To dine with the king!” cried Mr. Fayerweather, shouting with laughter;

“what could have put such an idea into your head?”

Madam was quite offended, and said with great dignity, “Phillis Wheatly

drank tea with the queen and I am sure, I do not see why our son may not

be invited to dine with the king.”

“Oh, well, my dear, I ask your pardon; let George have the cravat, by

all means; and you had better let him have my blue-satin waistcoat,

laced with silver, to wear also, when he dines with his majesty,” said

Mr. Fayerweather, turning away to hide a good-natured smile.

“Why, I was thinking of that, but we can’t find room for it in the

chest; and I suppose he may find one ready made in London.”

This weighty affair settled, and the chest packed again for the seventh

and last time, it was locked to go on board the vessel.

The morning came, the wind was fair, and the young sailor took his way

to the wharf. “Good-bye, Cousin Amie!” he cried, to Mrs. Wendell, who

was waiting at her door to shake hands with him; “when I go up the

Straits, I’ll get you the handsomest brocade that was ever seen in

Salem.”

In a few weeks after George’s departure, which time passed gloomily away

with his family, Madam Brinley, a sister of Mrs. Fayerweather, came to

Salem, and moved into the large house, opposite the Fayerweather

mansion, which was a joyful event to Madam. The two sisters bore a

strong resemblance to each other in features, with some shades of

difference in character. Madam Brinley was a few years the elder; her

nose might have been a little more pointed, and, perhaps, her temper

rather sharper; then she was more worldly, and took more state upon

herself. She was a widow of about ten years standing, with a handsome

estate. Having lost several children in infancy, she had remaining only

two daughters. Molly, the then fashionable cognomen for Mary, was then

just fifteen, and Lizzy, two years younger. The three families residing

so near together, made the winter a more pleasant one to the little

neighborhood—George’s absence furnishing a subject of joyful

anticipation in his return.

Early the next spring an important personage made his appearance in

Paved Street—no less than a son to Mr. Wendell. He was, as is generally

the case with the first, the wonder of the age. Madam Fayerweather

declared, “He was the beautifullest baby that ever was seen.” Madam

Brinley said, “It was certainly a remarkably fine infant;” while Mr.

Fayerweather declared it was the exact counterpart of all the babies he

ever saw. I am sorry to say that Mr. Wendell did not comport himself

with all the dignity to be expected from his new character; for he only

laughed as if he would kill himself, whenever his son was presented to

him; but could not be prevailed upon by any means, to take it into his

arms, for fear of its falling to pieces; to the great scandal of the

little wizened old woman from Marblehead, in whose lap it usually lay,

its long robes touching the floor; she averred, “It was a sin and a

shame that its sir wouldn’t take to it more, when it was as much like

him as two peas in a pod—it was the most knowinist and the most

remarkablest baby ever she seed in her baarn days.”

When the young gentleman was in its fourth week, his mother, according

to custom, received visitors in her chamber. In these visits, scarcely

less state was observed than in those to the bride; but matrons and

elderly ladies were alone privileged to make them. If any young damsel

had the hardihood to make her appearance within the sacred precincts,

though under shelter of her mother’s wing, she was immediately

pronounced as cut out for an old maid—and the oracle seldom failed of

fulfillment.

The first day on which Mrs. Wendell sat up for company, when she was

just attired in a handsome undress, made expressly for the occasion, and

was seated in state in her easy chair, while nurse was preparing the

baby to display him to the best advantage, Scipio thrust in his black

head at the door with a “He! ho! he! Missy Amy, Scip’ got suthen for de

picaninny.” Here Madam Fayerweather’s voice was heard reproving him for

going before her, when the door was thrown open, and in she came with

Scipio after her, bearing a beautiful wicker cradle, lined with white

satin. Madam unfolded the cradle-quilt with great pomp and circumstance;

and now the grand secret came out—Amy’s wondering eyes beheld the great

work—the very work! which had employed all her aunt’s moments of

leisure for upward of three years.

It was composed of pieces of silk of every pattern that had been worn in

the family for two generations, and cut into every form which Madam’s

imagination could devise, or her scissors shape. There were squares,

triangles, and hexagons; there were stripes perpendicular, horizontal,

and diagonal, with stars, double and single; of brocade, watered tabby,

paduasoy, damask, satin, and velvet; in short, it was a very grand

affair. After having sufficiently enjoyed her niece’s surprise and

pleasure, the happy and triumphant aunt took her grand-nephew from his

nurse, and laid him on his new couch, then placed the quilt over him,

turned down at the head, to display the lining of pink sarsnet; and

being quite satisfied with the additional splendor which the _tout

ensemble_ gave to the apartment, she took the baby up again, (he was

fortunately a very quiet one,) and put him into the lap of his nurse,

until visitors should be heard coming, when he was to be reinstated in

all the magnificence of his luxurious cradle. He was christened the next

Sunday at church. Mr. Fayerweather having consented to stand as one of

the godfathers, Madam, feeling some qualms of conscience, sent to Boston

privately for a very rich lace, to replace the one which she had

abstracted for George.

The succeeding summer they received two letters from George; both

written in high spirits, and discovering a degree of intelligence and

good sense which highly gratified his father. That same season, John,

the younger son, entered college. Being of bright parts and fond of

study, he bade fair to realize all the expectations his father had

formed for his brother.

Dark November came again, with its naked trees and sad-colored skies.

This gloomy month, in which the inhabitants of _old_ England are said to

be most prone to hang themselves, the Puritan fathers of New England,

with greater wisdom, enlivened by the only festival they ever

instituted—Thanksgiving. On this occasion, after offering up solemn

thanks in public to the bountiful Hand, “who had crowned the year with

his goodness,” with all the scattered branches of their families

gathered under the patriarchal roof, they indulged in

Thanksgiving-dinner—the only approach they ever made to

merry-making—an abundant feast of every good thing the seasons had

afforded; imparting to the poor a liberal portion. It is to be

regretted, that abuses, in time, crept in, in the train of this—it

might otherwise be truly called—sacred festival—that cruel sports

became connected with its celebration, which have since continued almost

to form a part of it. It is like associating the bloody rites of

paganism with our most pure and holy worship.

On the Thanksgiving of this year, a family-party was collected at Mr.

Fayerweather’s, with the addition of the Episcopal clergyman, Mr.

McGregor, the family physician, Dr. Holly, and one or two other friends.

In the evening, the accustomed game of Blind Man’s Buff was called for,

in which no one was privileged to refuse joining. George’s absence was

now loudly lamented, but he was not expected until Christmas. Much

merriment and noise, however, succeeded. The good clergyman, an Oxford

scholar, and a deep and sound divine, who always went into company ready

prepared with a particular subject to debate upon, with all his weapons

sharpened for the contest; and who had at length succeeded in engaging

Mr. Wendell in a grave discussion on some knotty point in divinity, was

obliged to break off, just as he had established the premises to an

important conclusion. He joined in the “mad game” with a very bad grace,

but by degrees, warming with the sport, he enjoyed it the most of the

party, and shouted the loudest when Mr. Fayerweather, on being caught by

Lizzy Brinley, left his wig in her hand, and escaped with his bare poll.

Dr. Holly, who loved sport better than his life, on being caught and

blindfolded, managed, by a little cheating, to catch Madam Fayerweather,

to her unfeigned astonishment. At this juncture, Flora tripped lightly

into the room, and whispered to her master, who immediately followed her

out, when Vi’let, in a flaming red gown, popped in her head for a moment

with a most remarkable expression of countenance. As she closed the door

softly, she gave a significant nod to the company, to let them know she

was in possession of a great secret.

Mr. Fayerweather a moment after returned, bringing in with him a tall

stranger, and made signs to the company to take no notice of the

interruption. All passed so silently that Madam did not perceive either

the going out or the returning, but continued to sail round the room in

her green damask, without being able to catch any one. At length her

husband thrust the tall stranger in her way, whom she caught amidst

shouts of laughter, succeeded by deep silence, while she was naming him.

All eyes were fixed on the stranger with different expressions, which we

will not attempt to describe.

Madam cried out, “Well, I’ve caught somebody at last!—who upon earth is

it! John, it’s you, I know; you are standing on something to deceive me,

you saucy boy.”

Here she felt the clustering curls of the stranger’s head—John’s hair

was straight, and all the other masculine heads in company wore

peruques—when reminiscences of earlier days seemed suddenly to strike

her, and she threw off her blinder, bringing with it fly-cap and

lappets, and exclaiming with a shriek—“Can it be George!”

George, indeed, it was; standing six feet one inch in his shoes. We

would describe, if we could, what is indescribable, but which may easily

be imagined—the exclamations—the shakes of the hand—the

congratulations which followed. After the parents of the newly arrived

son had sufficiently admired him, and had expended their stock of

wondering expressions at his growth, the rest of the party took their

turn, inwardly deciding in their own minds that he was the finest

looking fellow they had ever seen. He was, in truth, a noble specimen of

manhood; but his curling hair, the overflowing and almost child-like

good-humor—the fun, which shone in his full blue eye, and extended his

somewhat large mouth and full lips, displaying his brilliantly white

teeth, seemed to bespeak him still the boy, despite his giant frame, and

the brown tinge which darkened his cheek. The salutations over, the

company very considerately took their leave, excepting George’s

relatives, who lingered a few moments after the rest to welcome him home

again, and to bid him more affectionate adieus.

During breakfast, next morning, the young mariner related his

adventures, and the wonders he had beheld in foreign parts; from the

first whale he saw, which awoke out of a comfortable afternoon’s nap,

just after they had passed “the Banks,” and which, lazily yawning,

opened its huge jaws and then closed them again, spouting water as high

as the top-gallant mast, to Stromboli, spouting fire for the express

entertainment of sailors on a dark night, as they neared the coast of

Sicily. Not omitting the Tower of London, where he had held his head in

the lion’s mouth for full five minutes.

“You naughty, wicked boy!” exclaimed his mother, almost breathless with

terror; “I really believe I should have been tempted to box your ears.

Did you ever hear any thing like it, Amy?” The latter during the recital

having quietly slipped in, and taken her seat at the table. “Mr. Wendell

being obliged to go away by daylight, and the baby not having yet

awakened.”

George made no reply, but continued his narrative, eating lump after

lump of sugar out of the basin, and escaping the rap over the knuckles,

which he would once have had. Then the Cross of St. Paul’s—on the right

arm of which he had stood upon one leg, whilst Dick did the same on the

left, shaking hands together over the top.

John, who had been listening in silent wonder and delight, at this

climax clapped his brother on the shoulder in an ecstasy.

“It is a pity you hadn’t both broken your necks,” exclaimed Mrs.

Wendell, in indignation. “What upon earth did you play such pranks for?”

Mr. Fayerweather wore his comical look.

“Why, now, cousin—when I’ve brought you home such a beautiful gown—a

rich yellow calamanco, the brightest there was in the shop. Dick went

with me on purpose to help me choose it.”

“Where’s the brocade you promised me, you scapegrace?”

“Why, I’m sorry, but I forgot all about it until I came back to London;

but I thought being an old married woman now, a nice calamanco would do

as well.”

This turn in the conversation changed the current of his mother’s

thoughts, and she wished to see the rarities he had brought home. In her

impatience, before her husband had half-finished his second cup of

coffee, she ordered—I am wrong. The perogative of ordering the servants

in this family, Vi’let allowed to none but herself—she desired Scipio

to bring in the ponderous sea-chest, the weight of which was a

sufficient excuse for the appearance of the other three, each bearing a

corner. Aunt Vi’let indulgently making allowances for the curiosity of

Flora and Peter, and telling them, patronizingly, “to bear a hand.”

Madam and her niece, full of eager expectation, seated themselves on the

floor beside the chest, both ready to dive into its deepest recesses,

the moment it should be opened.

The first thing which presented itself to view, was a red worsted cap

with a famous red tassel. This George threw to Scipio, telling him, it

was for him. It was received with a grin from ear to ear.

“Tank you, massa, now Scip got suthen to put on his head nex ’lection.

Primus shan’t be king no longer. Scip king heself! He! he! he!”

The others withdrew, they having too much of the pride of the family to

be willing to have it supposed they were expecting there was any thing

for them. Scipio not being able to restrain his impatience to try on his

new finery, pulled it on as he went into the kitchen, exclaiming—

“It fits dizackly!” and in his exultation at the favor shown himself,

losing his awe of Vi’let, appealed to her, without her usual title of

respect, “if it wasn’t mighty becoming?”

At which, with some indignation, she told him—“He looked like a black

monkey with that red cap on his head, and that great thing jigging up

and down behind,” betraying some of the infirmity of human nature, at

the preference shown her rival.

Mrs. Wendell now pounced upon a package of some size, and opening it,

cried—

“Oh, here’s my yellow calamanco; well, it’s really a beauty! Nobody

could tell it from a rich satin! I’ll have it made up for

Christmas—it’s full handsome enough, aunt, isn’t it? I’m sure, I am

much obliged to you, George.”

“Stop, cousin,” said he, taking it from her, “upon second thoughts, I

cannot let you have that—I remember now, I bought it for Aunt Vi’let.”

Aunt Vi’let was called in, the others following in her wake, and the

present unfolded before her admiring eyes. Her usually grim features

were softened into benignity at the sight.

“That aint for me, Misser George! Well, it is a parfec’ speck, I

’clare!”

She could say no more. Her vocabulary, rich in epithets of vituperation

only, was soon exhausted, when drawn upon for expressions of

satisfaction. Her pleasure was shown in silence. A gay Madras

handkerchief for the head was given to Flora, who received it with a

modest curtsey, and displaying a row of ivory, and a dimple which many a

fairer belle might have envied. On Peter’s looking rather solemn at

thinking himself forgotten, his young master told him that his present

had not come up from the vessel yet, he had brought him a fine parrot,

which could talk nearly as well as himself; at which Peter’s joy knew no

bounds. He capered about the room, regardless where he was, and in whose

presence, until brought to his senses by a smart rap upon the head by

Vi’let, with—

“Please to walk off into the kitchen, sir, till you can larn to ’have

yeself.” Off went Peter, Vi’let and Flora following, each with her

present tucked under her arm.

George now brought from under a pile of other things a large roll,

carefully wrapped in several covers. He put it into Mrs. Wendell’s hand.

“There, cousin, I’ve brought you something, but I’m afraid you will not

like it so well as the yellow calamanco.”

Mrs. Wendell took the roll, and with her aunt’s assistance removed

wrapper after wrapper. When the last was off, the wrong side of some

fabric appeared, presenting a brown surface, without lustre, on which

were seen rows of floss silk of various gay colors, lying without any

apparent order. The right side drew an exclamation of admiration from

both aunt and niece, for never had eyes in Salem, beheld a brocade so

magnificent. The figure was a gigantic crimson peony, and a bunch of

cherries alternately, each with its appropriate green leaves; on a

ground of lustrous chocolate colored satin, firm and thick as leather.

“Oh, George!” his cousin exclaimed, “how could you have brought such a

silk for me! I had no idea you were in earnest—how much it must have

cost! (looking at her uncle.) I really cannot take it.”

“Oh! if you do not like it, you can let Mr. Wendell have it for a _robe

de chambre_.”

“Take it, Amy,” interrupted his father. “I am glad he has shown so good

a taste.”

“Yes,” added her aunt, “he has only done just what we could have wished;

remember you are our only daughter, and Mr. Wendell is like another son

to us.”

Amy did not attempt to reply, but laid the rich present aside,

carefully. A black case of dog-fish skin of peculiar form was now

brought forth. Mr. Fayerweather seized upon this, and undoing the little

hooks which served as fastenings, opened it, and displayed a gold watch

with its chain and seals, all richly chased, luxuriously reposing on

crimson velvet.

“You gave Haliburton my letter then,” he said, as he took the measure of

old Time from its bed, and examined the whole carefully. Then appearing

to be satisfied with the workmanship, he wound up the watch, and

fastening its large golden hook into the binding of madam’s apron, it

hung at her side, on its chain, loaded with rich seals, and ticked away

merrily, as if wonderfully refreshed by its long nap, and in liable to

show off with its new mistress.

She, finding the costly present really for herself, expressed her

gratification, though with glistening eyes, in the quiet way which best

pleased her husband. George then rapped his brother over the head with a

silver-mounted flute. His father finding that all had had their

presents, then asked him if he brought nothing for _him_.

“I have something here, sir, which Mr. Haliburton said, he thought would

be valuable to you.”

All looked in eager expectation, when George diving with his hand down

to the very bottom of the chest, and bringing up something, which in its

egress turned topsy turvy check-shirts, trowsers, pea-jackets, etc.,

etc. It was a stout oaken staff, which he put into his father’s hand.

The latter bore quietly the merriment which succeeded; though madam

could not forbear expressing some indignation, at what she took almost

as an insult from their old friend to her husband, who, moving the huge

baton slowly through his fingers, appeared to be examining closely the

grain of the wood for some time in silence.

“Haliburton judged right,” at length he said; “there are few things I

should have valued so much. This staff came from Narley Wood, the old

family estate in Leicestershire, and was cut from an oak planted by my

great grandfather’s own hand. (He pointed to some letters rudely cut in

the wood.) Wendell shall have my gold-headed cane. I shall never carry

any but this in future.”

Mrs. Wendell was beginning to speak, when a violent uproar was heard

from the precincts of the kitchen, in which the yelping of a dog and the

screams of a cat predominated. It drew near, and the door burst open

suddenly, when in rushed a large black and white dog, yelling fearfully,

as if in the extremity of pain and terror, with old tabby on his back,

her tail erect, and looking like the cylindrical brush used in these

latter days to clear stove-pipes, her talons apparently dug deep into

his skin; while Vi’let followed, belaboring him with a broom-handle.

Leaping over the chest, he made his way to George, on whose knees he

laid his head, whining piteously.

“Why, Jaco! how did you find your way here? I left you in the

vessel—poor fellow,” said George. The dog was released from his feline

foe by Vi’let, when she found to whom he belonged. He then leaped upon

his master, with strenuous endeavors to lick his face, and made other

extravagant demonstrations of joy at finding him.

George then mentioned that he had bought him in Italy, of a person who

kept him to show off in the celebrated Grotto del cane.

“I had no great curiosity to see the poor devil die and come to life

again, so I tried to beg him off. His master only laughed, and was

forcing him into the cave by blows, when he seemed to have understood

what I said, for he made out to clear himself, and came and fawned on

me. After this, I could not help taking him under my protection, so I

persuaded the rascal to sell him to me.”

“It would have been more like you to have knocked the fellow down, and

taken the dog away in spite of him,” said his father. “I am glad you

have learned a little prudence. What did you call him? Jaco.”

“That’s the name the sailors called him; it is a corruption they made of

his Italian name, Cicco, meaning blind—he’s blind of one eye. He’s a

good fellow, though no great beauty.”

“Poor fellow!” said madam, patting him, “he must be hungry. John, my

dear—do ask Vi’let to give him something to eat.”

John immediately disappeared, and soon returned bringing in nearly half

the contents of Vi’let’s larder, when all gathered round to see Jaco

eat; Mrs. Wendell for the time forgetting the baby at home. Poor Jaco,

forgetting his first rough reception, thought he was in Elysium, having

doubtless heard of such a blissful region in the classic land of his

nativity, and in his poor silly brain, not conceiving it could be

appropriated to one species only of created beings, and that, the

remorseless tyrant of all the others. He stuffed till he could scarcely

see out of his remaining eye; then laying himself down at his master’s

feet, “the sober certainty of waking bliss” was soon lost in a

comfortable nap.

After a short time, George went out to see some of his numerous friends.

He made a call at his Aunt Brinley’s, and laughed and jested with his

cousins; he then shaped his course to Neptune street, where he made so

long a stay that dinner had been ready to put on the table some time

before he came home. Whom he could have gone to see it is not easy to

conjecture; not his friend Dick, for the latter had called twice to see

him during his absence. Where-ever he might have been, he came home in

high good-humor.

Seeing his brother, who was watching for him at the gate, he stooped and

took him, passive and unresisting, on his arm, as a nurse would a child

of a year old, and carried him into the house. Peter was bringing in

dinner as he opened the door, and his mother had already taken her seat

at table. He then went up to his father, who had not yet risen from his

seat by the fire, slipped softly behind him, and seizing the chair on

which Mr. Fayerweather was sitting, by the two arms, he said, “By your

leave, sir,” and holding the chair out at arm’s length, he described

with it a semi-circle, himself the centre, which brought his father

directly before the smoking sirloin. He then stood at his own place at

table while Mr. Fayerweather asked the blessing. The remainder of the

day George passed by the fireside, making his mother laugh and scold

alternately, as he related the pranks of Dick and himself on board the

vessel, as well as on shore.

This winter George remained at home, and managed to pass away the time

in making the model of a fine ship he had seen at Deptford; a little

mathematics with John during the college vacation, but more skating; and

occasionally a sleigh-ride with his aunt and cousins, with whom he was a

great favorite. Molly had arrived at an age to be admitted to the

assemblies, and was the acknowledged belle of the season; she, moreover,

had made a decided impression on Sir Harland Hartley, a young baronet

who had arrived in Boston with some dispatches the previous year, and

was visiting Salem.

The next spring young Fayerweather and his friend Seaward again set

sail. With intervals of a month or two between, they made several

succeeding voyages together; during one of which, their vessel was

captured by a French privateer, part of the crew taken out, and a French

captain and crew, nearly double their own remaining number, put on

board. This event gave the two young men the glorious occasion they had

long desired, for displaying their courage and prowess, which until then

had been wasted or thrown away in feats of strength or hardihood to

excite the wonder of the bystanders. With their little band they rose

upon their captors, and succeeded in retaking their vessel, which they

carried in triumph to its destined British port. Their promotion

followed of course, and each returned home master of a fine merchantman.

George’s engagement with Judith Stimpson took place soon after,

naturally occasioning some dissatisfaction to his family on account of

her plebeian origin; this, however, soon wore off, or was conquered by

the sweetness of the fair young girl, who soon gained so entirely upon

Madam Fayerweather’s affections, that she declared, “She could not have

loved Judith better if she had been the daughter of King George

himself;” which was saying much, for madam prided herself on her

loyalty.

Sir Harland Hartley was now the declared suitor of Molly Brinley, and

great preparations were making for the wedding. The baronet, being

anxious to return to Quebec as soon as possible, in order to present his

bride to some of his near connections, who were soon to embark for

England, could not remain in Salem long enough for the three weeks’

sitting up for company. In this dilemma Madam Brinley concluded, after

several long and deep consultations with her sister and niece, to make a

great wedding, to be followed by a ball and supper, and to invite all

the Salem world, with the court which was then sitting, and the _élite_

of Boston.

The preparations for this grand event occupied the heads and hands of

all the female part of the three families for ten days. Aunt Vi’let

being great in the roasting line, was a very important personage, and

the whole direction of this department was given to her, she felt her

consequence accordingly.

Molly Brinley was glad to choose a bridemaid in Judith, whose beauty

would contribute to the _éclat_ of her wedding; feeling too secure in

her own charms and in Sir Harland’s devotion to her to fear a rival, and

Captain and Mrs. Stimpson were among the earliest bidden. What was the

trepidation of the latter on her own account in preparing for her first

appearance in the _beau monde_. The captain, determined to spare no

expense for his wife and daughter on so proud an occasion, took a

journey to Boston to make the necessary purchases; his taste, in dress

being unquestioned. The whole family were up by daybreak to set him off;

the expedition requiring the whole of a long day at that time, though

now the distance is traversed by the rail-cars in half an hour.

After ransacking every shop in Boston, he bought for his wife a

grass-green damask for a sack, with a bright-pink lustring for a

petticoat; these being the colors in which she had captivated him, at

the never-to-be-forgotten ordination of Parson Slocum. It may be well to

inform the reader that the sack was a dress, open before, discovering

half the petticoat, which was usually of the same material. For Judith

he chose better; a delicate buff-colored satin. This was so much admired

that Madam Brinley sent for some of the same piece for Lizzy, who was

her sister’s other bridemaid. For himself, the captain bought a full

suit of mulberry color, with a blue-satin waistcoat, magnificently

flowered with red, green and purple; and a new wig, with a bag, lately

come into fashion, he had always worn a tie.

On the day of the wedding it was thought expedient to try on their new

habiliments to see if they fitted, and how they all looked together.

Mrs. Stimpson, after surveying herself in the glass before and behind

and on each side, pleased and slightly agitated at the unwonted elegance

of her appearance, threw herself into a chair and heaving a deep sigh,

to throw off her embarrassment, said to her husband—

“Oh dear! Mr. Stimpson, we must think over a little what we shall have

to do. I suppose, when we go into the room, Judith must be on your right

hand, and I on your left—no, I must be on your right hand and Judith on

your left—”

“I think, Miss Stimpson,” said the captain, consequentially, “it will be

more becoming for me to go in first, and for you and Judith to take hold

of hands and follow me.”

“Why, no, Mr. Stimpson; that doesn’t seem to me to be the right way—it

wasn’t so at Nanny Dennis’s wedding, if I remember me rightly.”

“But, ma,” interrupted their daughter gently, “I do not think this will

be exactly like Mrs. Brayton’s wedding.”

“No more it wont,” replied her father, “and we must go and take pattern

by the others; I was always a good hand at taking a hint, and I don’t

doubt we shall appear as well as any on ’em.”

Here Mrs. Stimpson broke in with—“Oh, Judith, do think me on’t to make

a courtesy when I go in; like as not I shall forget it in my hurry. I

remember we all courtesied round at Nanny Dennis’s, we had each of us a

white rosy in our hands, and it was the beautifullest sight! But,

where’s my fan? Do run and get it Judith.”

Judith tripped out of the room to get the fan, and as she closed the

door, grandsir, who was not as usual dozing, but was listening to their

conversation, and in fact, taking considerable interest in it, spoke

out—