Simon Gray’s, and in appearance he was rude and uncourtly enough. People
said he was crazed, but his madness never was exhibited in any
unkindness, or in any injustice. Nor was he at all deficient in his
business management, or incoherent in his conversation, when he chose to
converse. Simon was a man of few words—to others—though his lips often
moved, as if he talked to himself. When he did speak audibly there was
good will even in his harshest tone; and the pale blue eyes, which were
deep set under his bushy brows, beamed with kindness, when once you had
passed their forbidding portals. Strange boys and chance comers were
afraid of the old man, as he sat at the door of the _old new house_
where he had dwelt for many, many years in bachelorhood; but those who
knew him had always a kind word, and he had a cheerful answer. His
especial pet was a little fair-haired girl, whom he seemed to love with
the affection of a protector as well as parent. He tried to shield her
that even the wind might not visit her too roughly; and she on her part
looked up to him with a confidence, love, and trust, which would make it
seem almost that she knew him to be more than human. Both are dead now,
else might we not write this story, for it would have given the old man
pain, and made a revelation to the young child of which she died happily
ignorant. Nor, so far as we know are there any, who under our altered
names of persons and places, and the absence of dates, will recognize
the characters. If there are, they will admit that we do old Simon no
more than justice; or if they knew him but slightly they will love a
memory which has hitherto been to them only that of a bizarre old man.
We have called the house old and new. Old it certainly was, as the
blackened boards and other marks of time showed—prematurely old, from
neglect. And yet it appeared new too, in that the building was never
entirely finished. Paint, plaster, and care have made a new place of it
since the time of which we write, for it has passed into strange hands.
Why it presented the appearance of which we have been speaking, will
appear in our narrative.
Simon Gray’s life opened happily. There was nothing which indicated for
him a splendid destiny. The path which seemed open before him was
obscure, and promised to embrace only the ordinary incidents of
ninety-nine lives in a hundred; but it so befell that his experience
showed that strange things may happen as well to the humble as to the
exalted. The prince has gilded play-things, the peasant boy plain. Both
are toys after all, and both the possessors are children. Both grow up
to be men only, and in every man’s heart the thoughts are mightier to
himself than the marching of an army with banners.
Simon received the usual elements of a practical education in a New
England public school. And what was more to his benefit, he was taught
by parental admonition and example the way in which he should go; and
was founded in true faith in the God whom he should love. And between
himself and a young woman, his neighbor, Margaret Goodenow, there grew
an attachment which strengthened with their years. Neither could go back
and fix the date when the other was not a chosen companion. It was love,
pure and unsophisticated; and it was only when they learned by
observation that they were not and could not be brother and sister to
each other, that the thought came into their heads that they might be
something else, still nearer and dearer. Simon continued his attentions
naturally, and Margaret as naturally accepted them as matters of course.
There were no vows—no protestations—no jealous fits—no frantic
passages—no prudery and no affectation of concealment. None of the
romantic artillery which gives eclat to the pages of a fashionable novel
marked their intercourse. All went quietly and happily, without any
particularly definite thought of the future; until, about the same time,
Simon’s father asked him how he would like to build over against the big
elm, (that same house of which we were speaking just now,) and
Margaret’s mother asked her why she did not put a web for herself in the
loom.
That “set them to thinking,” as the Yankee phrase is. Mag plied the
distaff and shuttle as if at task-work—and a pleasant task too. Simon
would not wait that spring, till the frost was out of the ground, before
he tried some experimental blows with the pick, at the cellar; and as
for the stone for cellar-wall and foundation, that was on the spot
before sledding was over. And everybody looked forward to the completion
of the house as a probable approximation to the date of the young
couple’s wedding. Margaret was daily at the building—her mother daily
scolding her, good-humoredly, and telling her that Simon would certainly
get his part done first; but then Margaret knew that Simon would rather
the cloth should not be woven, than that she should not know every inch
of the house’s progress. So together they consulted, and together they
planned all the details; and as the walking became “settled,” it was not
unfrequently the case that both families were collected there once a
day, if not oftener. Every body had some advice or suggestion, or
incident from experience, how cellars should be kept dry, and rats and
mice kept out; how room could be saved this way and that—how too many
corners catch dirt, and above all, how a house is nothing without
“cupboards” and closets. Manifold where the dark places which were
economized into “stow-holes,” and long and earnest the conferences
between Simon and Margaret. They heard the others, and then did as they
pleased—or rather as she pleased. A wise man will let woman have her
way in such arrangements, provided that she does not wish to do any
thing quite as _outre_ as commencing the chimneys at the top, after the
mode described in Gulliver’s Travels.
Summer sometimes brought idlers and valetudinarians to Hill-side. It was
not a regular summering resort; but those who really wish to enjoy
country-life occasionally discover that the crowded watering-place is
not the true scene of rural pleasures. A young man named Bernard came
this summer to the village. Whether his pocket, his taste, or a mere
whim brought him there; whether he sought retirement, or traveled for
health, or what induced him to pitch upon this spot, nobody knew. Some
letters he had, and what was a better introduction, he had a good
address. He was young and pale, and of course, interesting. He had
frequent letters and parcels at the post-office, and must therefore be a
man of some note. He was extremely affable to all whom he met, old and
young; and in a very little time every body at Hill-side felt an
interest in the handsome stranger; and trusted that he would carry away
such a report of the place, its advantages and hospitalities, as would
induce other visiters.
The young people voted him an author—perhaps a poet—certainly a
student; and Margaret’s mother was not at all displeased when the young
student applied to her for summer-quarters; for to tell the truth, she
had already resolved such a possibility in her mind. He said he wished
home comforts, which were not to be found at a country tavern, and
delicately conveyed his firm impression that her house would be to him a
perfect elysium. She was not prepared to take a stranger into the house,
lived in a plain way, and all that. But he protested that these
objections were precisely the advantages that he sought in a country
visit—the absence of a mercenary calculation—a mouthful for each penny
paid, and a set price for lodgings. Where one party is determined, and
the other opposes only feigned resistance, the point at issue is soon
determined, and Bernard was at once domiciliated at Chestnut-Farm.
Never was man so little trouble as he—never were family so much
infatuated with a stranger. Margaret and all partook of the fascination.
It seemed as if she never would tire of reciting his praises to Simon at
their daily meetings. She was very anxious that the two young men should
be intimate, and as she said, “like each other very much.” She knew that
they would do so if each could only know the good points of the other as
well as she knew both. But neither of them could be inspired with any
very warm attachment in the direction she desired. Bernard was civil and
courteous to Simon, as he was to every body; but Margaret thought she
could detect some appearance of undervaluing her lover on the part of
the stranger. And he permitted this impression to be gathered in the
most agreeable manner—that is to say, as if he accidentally betrayed
his sense of her exceeding worth, and his sorrow that she was to be
sacrificed to Simon. In no way did he attempt to derogate from that
individual’s good points in the abstract, or as plain Simon—but it was
as Margaret’s accepted that he fell below Bernard’s standard. Margaret
pleaded with Bernard for her lover, and that was dangerous business,
because it was in some sort admitting what Bernard rather implied than
alleged. It was reading his hieroglyphics, and that indicated a common
understanding between them, and emboldened Bernard, while it threw
Margaret in the way of temptation.
And she pleaded with Simon for Bernard. That was dangerous business too.
The most unsuspecting heart is not proof against all misgivings—and
Simon did not like that she should enter so warmly into advocacy for a
man in whose behalf he saw no reason why she should be so deeply
interested. The stranger was but a transient guest—never again to visit
the vicinity Simon hoped; and he could not perceive that it was a matter
of great consequence whether he ever learned to like him particularly or
not. He soon ceased to argue the matter at all with her. He forced
himself to listen; but it was with evident disrelish, and Margaret,
finding the subject an unpalatable one, abandoned it. But this did not
mend matters much, since Simon’s uneasiness now look a positive
character. He had disliked to hear Margaret continually talking of the
stranger, but her evident reserve upon all that related to him was
worse. And Margaret shared in his discontent; for it seemed to her,
though she did not trust herself to say it, or even dare to think of it,
that Simon was unkind. And, what was more unfortunate for her peace, she
felt that Bernard was not.
The young stranger was by no means an indifferent observer of all this.
Nay, it seemed wonderfully to fall in with his plans—perhaps with his
expectations—certainly with his wishes. Margaret learned to be very
much pleased with him, and fond of his conversation and society; and yet
she felt a half-consciousness that she was doing her old friend a wrong.
But why? she would ask herself. Is it esteeming Simon less, to do
justice where he refuses it? It was too knotty a point in casuistry for
her to solve; and things at Chestnut-Farm now began to go on strangely.
Simon was spoken of in a tone in which he had never been mentioned
before. Bernard was particular in his expressions of good opinion—too
particular—patronizing. But there was, withal, a covert spice of
detraction in it—as neatly contrived as Mark Antony’s effort “to bury
Cæsar, not to praise him.” Bernard affected to praise Simon, not to
detract from him; but the effect of all his conversation was precisely
the opposite of his ostensible design. After a time even Margaret could
laugh heartily at a joke uttered at the expense of her lover in his
absence. At first she was almost offended at any liberty taken with the
character or person of Simon, however well it was gilded; but the
polished wit of Bernard, and his apparently unassuming superiority, led
her more and more to desire that her country lover could resemble her
accomplished friend.
It would too much lengthen our sketch to describe the whole process and
progress of the estrangement—for an estrangement it became. Bernard’s
discussions upon architecture quite ruined in the eyes of Margaret the
humble dwelling which had once seemed to her a palace. As she suggested
this and that and the other impossible change in the original plan, and
treated poor Simon’s cherished notions with ill-disguised
superciliousness, he was grieved to perceive in all this, that he as
well as the house, was daily growing less and less in her estimation.
And the villagers began now to perceive the growing coolness. It made
the judicious sad; the thoughtless sneered, the friends of Simon were
angry. And at last he became angry himself; or at least his feelings
approached as near to anger as the love he still felt would admit; and
he looked anxiously forward to the time when the departure of the
dangerous guest would release Margaret from her hallucination.
Summer passed away, and the foliage commenced to wear its autumn hue.
Long before this Simon had taken it for granted that his house would
have been finished and furnished, and that his wife would have been busy
with him, perfecting their winter comforts. But now things began to wear
the aspect of a house begun without counting the cost. There was a delay
in the few finishing touches which alone remained to perfect the
building. A step here, and a pale there were ready for their places, but
still stood unadjusted. The gate which had been tacked up, waiting for
bolts and hinges, still waited. Dust blew over the door-stone, and all
looked like neglect. Simon Gray was no more seen daily at the building;
indeed he was scarcely seen abroad at all, and when he did make his
appearance, it was with an aspect so wan and woful, that men saw he had
a broken-heart.
The student had gone from the village. Margaret, who had grieved the
good people by a flirtation with him which had grown more and more open
and unblushing, was now seldom met. The whole vicinage, so cheerful and
pleasant in the spring, appeared to have had a spell cast over it; and
the people—for in a village men sympathize with each other—looked as
if a heavy secret lay at all their hearts; as if they knew more than
they would speak, and feared more than they knew.
Winter came; and the deep snows of New England drifted over the paling
of Simon Gray’s new house, and filled the yard, where nobody broke a
path. Winds blew, and scattered from the bared road side sand and gravel
over the white mantle, and still it lay unbroken, and where the eaves
dropped it froze. The threshold was ice, and the roof and windows hung
with icicles. Simon passed one day, and paused and looked at the place
earnestly. A little boy who watched him, for Simon had now become an
object of marvel to the little folk, said that Simon Gray drew his
sleeve across his eyes. The lad wondered if it was not because his house
was not finished before the snow set in. Poor Simon! He was no poet, but
the sullied snow had given him other and more bitter thoughts than that!
Spring opened. The strengthening sun melted down the bank of snow before
Simon Gray’s new house, and the winter-hid shavings and bits of brick,
and scraps of mortar, peeped out—last year’s mementoes of the
unfinished work, preserved beneath the bank to tell their story over
again in the new year. And now a great surprise had taken the village;
and the envious wondered how _that_ family, meaning Margaret’s poor
mother, and her father, bowed with more than the weight of years, could
have held up their heads as long as they did. The doctor, and the truly
worthy and pious minister, vied with each other in the constancy and
frequency with which they visited Chestnut Farm-house. Simon went at
last also, for the minister took him there. If he went at all disposed
to be unforgiving, he came away melted and subdued. His heart was
lighter too; for he had performed a duty which all owe who dare to say
in their prayers “forgive us—_as we forgive_.”
A long train wound one day, just as the violets were opening, into the
village grave-yard. Simon Gray was there, and it was observed, as they
passed his new house, for the train were all on foot, that his companion
had much labor to bear him up. But he was not a mourner as one without
hope; for his arms had supported Margaret when she resigned her soul to
Him who forgiveth sin, and heareth those who call upon Him. He never
spoke of her after while he lived; and he never would hear when her name
was mentioned. Some people felt, and others affected surprise that he
was present at all at the funeral—but Simon noticed neither. He was
simply following the dictates of an affection too virtuous to have
permitted him to sacrifice his self-respect had she lived—too
charitable to permit one who was once loved to die unforgiven of man,
since the Master received her—or to die unloved of a fellow-mortal,
since while we were yet sinners Christ died for us; and greater love can
none show than this.
Such is the story of the “Old New House.” The child of whom we spoke at
the opening was Margaret’s grandchild. Her father grew in that house,
lived there married and single, and died there. Simon never would suffer
it to be finished further than absolute necessity required; and people,
as we have already stated, said he was crazed. He was solitary and
heart-broken; and if it were a strange fantasy that he should rear
Margaret’s child, there was a method in such madness, which we all would
do well to imitate in behalf of the orphan and the destitute.
* * * * *
THE WOUNDED GUERILLA.
A SKETCH OF THE LATE CAMPAIGN.
BY MAYNE REID.
[SEE ENGRAVING.]
The city of Puebla lies in the centre of an immense _plateau_, seven
thousand feet above sea level, and bordered by mountains of more than
twice this altitude. Malinchi, rendered classic in the history of the
first conquest, rises on the north; the Piñal bars up the eastern
passes, while the great Cordillera of the Rio Frio forms its western
boundary, thus separating the two great valleys of Puebla and Mexico by
an almost impassible barrier. In this ridge lie the great snow mountains
of Popocatepec and the “White Woman,” (_la muger blanca_,) known
poetically as the “Twin Sisters.”
These mountains soar far above the regions of eternal snow. Popocatepec
is a cone, and the gray fringe that marks the blending of the white
glacier and the dark pines of the mountain forest, forms the
circumference of a horizontal circle. On the White Woman this snow line
is more irregular. On both mountains its altitude is variable, according
to the season and the heat of the sun. Thus the melting of the snows in
the sultry months of summer throws the gray fringe higher up the sides
of Popocatepec and Ixticihuath, and irrigates the broad plains of Puebla
and Tlaxcalla.
But for these snow-crowned mountains the _plateau_ of Puebla would be a
barren desert. As it is, the western segment of this plain may be termed
the garden spot of Mexico.
As the traveler emerges from the western gate of Puebla, he beholds one
of the loveliest pictures in the world. The delighted eye roams over
broad fields of corn and wheat, and “frijoles,” bordered by fence rows
of the picturesque maguey—here and there the cupolas of rich
haciendas—the turrets of a flourishing village, and the spires of a
rural church variegate the green landscape, while in the distance rises
the dark Cordilleras of the Mexican Andes, over whose gloomy forests and
frowning chasms the snowy crests of the “Twin Sisters” glisten with a
dazzling whiteness.
This is, perhaps, the fairest picture in Mexico. Its beauty, however,
did not protect it from the desolating influence of war, and during the
occupation of Puebla by the American army, bands of robbers under the
name of “guerilleros,” alike hostile to Mexican and American, roamed
over the fairest portions of this district, committing every species of
outrage upon its peaceful inhabitants.
The American army entered Puebla in the month of May, 1847. The
inhabitants, one hundred thousand in number, were struck with
astonishment at the boldness of the act. They had been expecting an army
of at least ten thousand men. Instead of this, ninety dragoons rode into
the piazza alone, where they halted to await the advance of the army, in
all, not numbering four thousand men. Hundreds of Mexicans counted our
soldiers as they crossed the bridge of “Noche buena,” and the feeling
that existed in the breasts of the Poblanos, after our entry into their
city, was one of shame, that they had permitted such a handful of men to
take the old and warlike town of Puebla without a blow having been
struck in its defense.
They might apparently _have stoned us to death_.
Santa Anna repulsed at Amozoc, had retreated upon San Martin, and now
held that fair district with his rabble soldiery.
On finding that it was not in the power of the American commander to
advance beyond Puebla for a time, the bright idea struck Santa Anna of
rousing the national pride once more in defense of their capital. He
consequently crossed the mountains at Rio Frio, and commenced fortifying
the ancient city of the Aztecs, leaving however a large guerilla force,
who roamed at will over the western plain of Puebla and occupied San
Martin, Tlaxcalla, and Atlixco. These at first commenced hostilities by
stopping the supplies of the Puebla market, which depends altogether
upon the fertile districts of the west. Finding, however, that the
American gold received in exchange for the fruits and vegetables of San
Martin, served their purposes better than revenge, the guerillas at
length permitted the produce to pass, levying a heavy contribution upon
each article.
The hated “alcabala,” was abolished at the city gates, and the Indians
and rancheros of Chohula, San Pablo, and San Martin, flocked to the
grand Piazza of Puebla.
It was a rare sight in the bright mornings of June, this Piazza of
Puebla. Hundreds of Indian girls seated in groups under their awnings of
“petates,” gayly chatting with one another, or laughing with a clear
ringing laugh at the bad Spanish of the American soldier. Who says that
the Indians of Mexico are a dejected race? No such thing. We have seen
more bright happy faces in the markets of Puebla than any where else.
The slightest witticism—a mispronunciation of the names of any of their
wares by a foreign tongue, will elicit peals of laughter from these
merry market-girls, while the almost constant display of their small
pearly teeth and sparkling eyes evinces the lightness of their hearts.
[Illustration: THE WOUNDED GUERILLA
Engraved by Rice]
The remnants of several nations exist in the plains of Puebla. These may
be easily distinguished in the streets of the city by a singular custom.
A few strands of worsted thread, blue, crimson, or purple, are twisted
into the plaits of their luxuriant black hair. The difference of color
in this worsted marks the tribe or village to which the wearer belongs,
so that at a glance you may tell an Indian girl from Tlaxcalla or San
Pablo from one of the Cholultecas.
The Indians of the last mentioned tribe are perhaps the most interesting
to be met with in Mexico. Living at the foot of the great pyramid, on
“haunted holy ground,” they are constantly reminded of the religion of
their fathers, many of whose peculiar customs and habits they still
preserve in all their pristine simplicity. The young girls of this tribe
are strikingly handsome, and but for their malformation—the effect of
early toil and careless rearing—the Cholultecas, with their dark Indian
eyes and pearly teeth, would far eclipse with their beauty the daughters
of the famed Castilian conquerors.
Of all the Indian maidens who visited the Piazza of Puebla, none
attracted more admiration from the officer or soldier who thronged
through this market than two sisters from Cholula. These girls were
named Remedios and Dolores, after the appellations of two of the most
popular saints in Mexico.
The elder, Remedios, was strikingly beautiful, and though admired by
all, her dark Indian eye had made a deeper impression upon the heart of
a young Ranger.
The occupation of these girls was that of weaving baskets from the fine
fibres of the _palma redonda_, which wares, along with the flowers that
grew in their little garden at Cholula, they brought once or twice a
week to the city.
The young ranger spoken of, was frequently placed upon picket guard at a
point on the Cholula road, and had thus become acquainted with the
sisters, with whom he seemed to be on terms of friendly intercourse. He
was frequently seen to accompany them beyond the confines of the city on
their return homeward, and at parting the beautiful Remedios would
linger behind her sister, and concealed by the friendly shelter of a
maguey plantation, bid him farewell with a kiss. It was evident that the
passion between the ranger and the fair Cholulteca was mutual.
Such was the state of affairs in the city. Let us follow the young girls
to their native village at the foot of the far-famed pyramid.