wealthy old merchant, who dresses her in velvet and diamonds; and his
lady rewards him by treating him with more indifference than she does
her footman. Her acquaintance envy her elegant furniture and costly
jewels; and when they exclaim, ‘How fortunate you are! You are
surrounded by every thing the heart can desire!’ she replies, with a
languid motion of her fan, ‘Yes, every thing--_except_ love.’ Julia
never forgave me for marrying the daughter of a poor curate; but she was
like _you_, Sibella, and that was what first interested me. If _she_ had
lived, I probably should never have seen America; but after her death, I
was lonely and restless. I wanted change. I knew that you had been in
this country several years; but I cannot say you were distinctly
connected with my plans. You never answered my letters, and I supposed
you had long since forgotten me. But I never saw an Eglantine without
thinking of you; and while I was crossing the Atlantic, I sometimes
found myself conjecturing whether I should ever happen to meet you, and
whether I should find you married.” Long explanations and confessions
followed. The authorship of the mysterious verses was acknowledged, and
their preservation avowed. The conversation was exceedingly interesting
to themselves, but would look somewhat foolish on paper. It has been
well said, that “the words of lovers are like the rich wines of the
south; delicious in their native soil, but rendered vapid by
transportation.”
* * * * *
Mr. Vernon chose the site for his new dwelling with characteristic
taste. It stood on an eminence, commanding a most lovely and extensive
prospect. A flower-enamelled lawn, rich as embroidered velvet, and
ornamented with graceful trees, descended from the front of the house to
a bend in the river. It was all fresh from the hand of Nature. Nothing
had been planted, and nothing removed, except a few trees to make room
for a carriage-path. He had been advised to build an English villa; but
he disliked the appearance of assuming a style of more grandeur than his
neighbours; and Sibella thought a log-house, with its rough edges of
bark, would harmonize better with the scenery. It was spacious and
conveniently planned, and stood in the midst of a natural grove.
Festoons of vines were trained all round it, clustering roses climbed up
even to the roof, and the air was fragrant with Eglantines. The arbor,
that William had made, was carefully removed thither, and placed in the
garden, surrounded by a profusion of Ladies’ Delights, in memory of the
lost friend.
It was a fixed principle with Mr. Vernon that no man had a right to live
in the world without doing his share of its work. He imported seeds and
scions, which he planted and grafted himself, always distributing a
liberal portion among his neighbours. “My fruit and vegetables will soon
command a ready sale in the city market,” said he; “but the proceeds
shall go toward a school-fund, and the establishment of a Lyceum. I do
not desire that our children should inherit great wealth. Life
sufficiently abounds with dangers and temptations, physical and mental,
without adding _that_ glittering snare for their manhood and womanhood.
The wisest and kindest thing we can do for them is to educate equally
themselves and the people among whom they are to live.”
“There spoke the same generous soul that chose the poor country-girl for
a wife!” she exclaimed, “What can I ever do to prove the gratitude I
feel?”
Playfully he put his hand over her mouth, to stop that
self-depreciation. They remained silent for a while, seated on the
grassy slope, looking out upon the winding river and the noble trees.
“How much this scene resembles the parks and lawns of old England,” said
the happy bride. “If it were not for the deep stillness, and the
absence of human habitations, I could almost imagine myself in my native
land.”
“I like it better than English parks and lawns, for two reasons,” he
replied. “I prefer it, because it is formed by Nature, and not by Art;
and Nature gives even to her quietest pictures peculiar touches of wild
inimitable grace. Still more does the scene please me, because these
broad acres are not entailed upon noblemen, who cannot ride over their
estates in a week, while their poor tenantry toil through life without
being allowed to obtain possession of a rood of land.”
Sibella looked at him with affectionate admiration, while she replied,
“Truly, ‘the child is father of the man.’ There spoke the same soul that
invited a tradesman’s manly son to spend the vacation with him, in
preference to Lord Smallsoul.”
“I will never reprove _my_ boy, if he brings home the manly son of a
wood-sawyer to spend his school vacations with us,” rejoined he. “But
hark! Hear our children laughing and shouting! What sound is more
musical than the happy voices of children? See the dear little rogues
racing over the carpet of wild-flowers! How they seem to love each
other! God be praised, they are free to enact the parts of Paul and
Virginia in this lovely solitude. May no rich relatives tempt them into
fashionable life, and make shipwreck of their happiness.”
A SERENADE.
Sleep well! Sleep well!
To music’s spell;
Thus hushing thee
To reverie,
Like ev’ning breeze,
Through whisp’ring trees;
Till mem’ry and the lay
Float dreamily away.
Sleep well! Sleep well!
May dreams bring near
All who are dear,
With festal flow’rs
From early hours;
While, softly free,
This melody
Drifts through thy tranquil dream,
Like lilies on a stream.
Sleep well! Sleep well!
THE JURYMAN.
Soften his hard, cold heart! and show
The power which in forbearance lies,
And let him feel that mercy now
Is better than old sacrifice!
J. G. WHITTIER.
Peter Barker belonged to that numerous class, who are neither better nor
worse than other men. Left an orphan in his infancy, the paths of life
were rough and lonely at the outset. He had a violent temper and a good
heart. The first was often roused into activity, and punished with
energy kindred to its own; the last remained almost undeveloped, for
want of genial circumstances and reciprocated affection. One softening
gleam fell upon his early path, and he loved it like the sunshine,
without comprehending the great law of attraction that made it so very
pleasant. When he attended school in the winter months, he always walked
home with a little girl named Mary Williams. On the play-ground he was
with her, always ready to do battle with anybody who disobliged her.
Their comrades laughed, and called him Mary’s beau; and they blushed and
felt awkward, though they had no idea what courting meant. Things had
arrived at this state of half-revealed consciousness, he being fourteen
years old, and Mary twelve, when her friends removed to the West, and
the warm, bright influence passed out of his life. He never rightly knew
whether he was in love with Mary; but years afterwards, when people
talked to him about marrying, he thought of her, wondering where she
was, and whether she remembered him. When he drove his cows home from
pasture, the blackberry bushes on the way brought up visions of his
favourite school-mate, with her clean cape-bonnet thrown back, her
glossy brown hair playing with the winds, and her innocent face smiling
upon him with friendly greeting. “She was the best and prettiest child I
ever saw,” he often said to himself; “I wonder whether she would be as
pleasant now.” Sometimes he thought of going to the West and seeking her
out. But he knew not where to find her; his funds were small, and his
courage fell at the thought; “Oh, it is many years ago since we were
children together. Perhaps I should find her married.” Gradually this
one ray of poetry faded out of his soul, and all his thoughts fell into
the common prosaic mould. His lot was cast with rough people, who
required much work, and gave little sympathy. The image of his little
mate floated farther and farther away, and more and more seldom her
clear blue eyes smiled upon him through the rainbow-mists of the past,
or from the air-castles of the future. In process of time, he married,
after the same fashion that a large proportion of men do; because it was
convenient to have a wife, and there was a woman of good character in
the neighbourhood, willing to marry whoever first offered her a
respectable home. Her character bore the stamp of harmless mediocrity.
She was industrious and patient, but ignorant, dull, and quietly
obstinate. The neighbours said she was well suited to him, he was so
rough and passionate; and in the main he thought so himself; though her
imperturbable calmness sometimes fretted him, as a rock chafes the
lashing ocean into foam. The child that was born to them, they both
loved better than they had ever loved; and according to their light,
they sincerely strove to do their duty. His bodily wants were well
supplied, often at the cost of great weariness and self-sacrifice; but
their own rude training had given them few good ideas concerning the
culture of an immortal soul. The infant did more for them, than they for
him. Angelic influences, unseen and unheard amid the hard struggles of
their outward life, became visible and audible through the unconscious
innocence of their little one. For the second time in his life, a vision
of beauty and love gleamed across the rugged path of that honest,
laborious man. Vague impressions of beauty he had constantly received
from the great panorama of the universe. His heart sometimes welcomed a
bright flower in the sunshine, or a cluster of lilies on the stream; he
marvelled at the splendor of the rainbow, and sometimes gazed reverently
at the sun sinking to rest in his rich drapery of purple and gold. But
these were glimpses of the Infinite; their beauty did not seem to
appertain to _him_; it did not enter like a magic charm into the sphere
of his own existence, as did the vision of Mary Williams and his own
little Joe. The dormant tenderness there was in him leaped up at the
smile of his babe, and every pressure of the little fingers made a
dimple in the father’s heart. Like the outbursts of spring, after a long
cold winter, was this revelation of infancy to him. When he plodded
home, after a hard day’s work, it rested him body and soul to have the
little one spring into his arms for a kiss, or come toddling along,
tilting his little porringer of milk, in eagerness to eat his supper on
father’s knee.
But though this new influence seemed to have an almost miraculous power
over his nature, it could not quite subdue the force of temperament and
habit. As the darling babe grew into boyhood, he was sometimes cherished
with injudicious fondness, and sometimes repelled by bursts of passion,
that made him run and hide himself from the over-indulgent father. Mr.
Barker had himself been educated under the dispensation of punishment,
rather than attraction, and he believed in it most firmly. If his son
committed a fault, he thought of no other cure than severity. If a
neighbour did him an ill turn, he would observe, in presence of the boy,
“I will watch my chance to pay him for it.” If the dog stole their
dinner, when they were at work in the woods, he would say, “Run after
him, Joe, and give the rascal a sound beating.” When he saw the child
fighting with some larger lad, who had offended him, he would praise his
strength and courage, and tell him never to put up with an insult. He
was not aware that all these things were education, and doing far more
to form his son’s character than any thing he learned at school. He did
not know it, because his thoughts had never been directed toward it. The
only moral instruction he had ever received, had been from the minister
of the parish; and he usually preached about the hardheartedness of Jews
two thousand years ago, rather than the errors and temptations of men
and boys, who sat before him.
Once he received an admonition from his neighbour Goodwin, which, being
novel and unexpected, offended him, as an impertinent interference with
his rights. He was riding home with Joe, then a lad of thirteen, when
the horse took fright at a piece of white paper, that the wind blew
across the road. Mr. Barker was previously in an ill humor, because a
sudden squall of rain had wet some fine hay, all ready for the barn.
Pursuing the system on which he had himself been educated, he sprang to
the ground and cudgelled the poor beast unmercifully. Mr. Goodwin, who
was passing by, inquired the cause of so much severity, and remonstrated
against it; assuring him that a horse was never cured of bad habits by
violence. He spoke mildly, but Mr. Barker was irritated, and having told
him to mind his own business, he continued to whip the poor frightened
animal. The humane neighbour turned away, saying, “That is a bad lesson
for your son, Mr. Barker.”
“If you say much more, I will flog you, instead of the horse,” muttered
the angry man. “It is’nt _his_ horse. What business is it to _him_?” he
added, turning to his son.
He did not reflect in what a narrow circuit he was nailing up the
sympathies of his child, by such words as those. But when he was
reseated in the wagon, he did not feel altogether pleased with himself,
and his inward uneasiness was expended on the horse. The poor bewildered
animal, covered with foam, and breathing short and hard, tried his
utmost to do his master’s will, as far as he could understand it. But,
nervous and terrified, constantly in expectation of the whip, he started
at every sound. If he went too fast, he was reined in with a sudden
jerk, that tore the corners of his mouth; if he went too slow, the cruel
crack of the whip made him tear over the ground, to be again restrained
by the violent jerk.
The sun was setting, and threw a radiant glow on every tree and little
shrub, jewelled by the recent shower. Cows grazed peacefully in verdant
hollows; birds sang; a little brook rippled cosily by the wayside; winds
played gently with the flowers, and kissed the raindrops from their
faces. But all this loveliness passed unheeded by those human hearts,
because they had at the moment no inward beauty to harmonize with
nature. Perhaps the familiar landscape seemed quite otherwise to the
poor horse, than it would have done, had he travelled along those
pleasant paths guided by a wise and gentle hand.
Had Joseph continued to be little Joe, his eager welcome and loving
prattle might soon have tamed the evil spirit in his father’s soul that
night. But he was a tall lad, who had learned to double up his fists,
and tell other boys they had better let him alone, if they knew what was
good for themselves. He still loved his father better than any thing
else in the world, but the charm and the power of infancy were gone. He
reflected back the vexed spirit, like a too faithful mirror. He was no
longer a transparent, unconscious medium for the influence of angels.
Indeed, paternal affection gradually became a hardening, rather than a
softening influence. Ambition for his son increased the love of
accumulation; and the gratification of this propensity narrowed his
sympathies more and more. Joseph had within him the unexpanded germs of
some noble qualities; but he inherited his father’s passionate
temperament with his mother’s obstinacy; and the education of such
circumstances as I have described turned his energies and feelings into
wrong channels. The remark, “It is’nt _his_ horse; what business is it
to _him_?” heard in his boyhood, expressed the views and habits of his
later years. But his mental growth, such as it was, pleased his father,
who often said exultingly, “There is no danger of Joe. He knows how to
fight his own way through the world.”
Such was their mutual product of character, when Mr. Barker was summoned
to a jury, in a case involving life or death. He was vexed to be called
away from his employments, and had never reflected at all upon the
fearful responsibility of a juryman. James Lloyd, the prisoner, was a
very young man, and his open, honest countenance gave no indication of
capacity for crime; but he was accused of murder, and circumstantial
evidence was strong against him. It was proved that a previous quarrel
had existed between him and the murdered man; and that they had been
seen to take the same road, the prisoner in a state of intoxication, the
night the violent deed was committed. Most people thought there was no
doubt of his guilt; others deemed the case by no means certain. Two of
the jury were reluctant to convict him, and _wished_ to find the
evidence insufficient; the penalty was so dreadful, and their feelings
were so much touched by the settled misery of his youthful countenance.
Others talked sternly of justice, and urged that the Scripture demanded
blood for blood. Of this number was Peter Barker. From the beginning, he
was against the prisoner. The lawyer who pleaded for him had once been
employed in a law-suit against Mr. Barker, and had gained the cause for
his client. The juryman cherished a grudge against him for his sarcastic
eloquence on that occasion. Moreover, it so happened that neighbour
Goodwin, who years ago had reproved his severity to the horse, took
compassionate interest in the accused. He often consulted with his
lawyer, and seemed to watch the countenances of the jury anxiously. It
was a busy season of the year, and the jury were impatient to be at
their workshops and farms. Mr. Barker would not have admitted it, even
to himself, but all these circumstances helped to increase his hardness
against the prisoner. By such inconceivably slight motives is the
conduct of men often swayed on the most important occasions.
“If the poor young fellow really did commit the act,” said one of the
jury, “it seems likely that he did it in a state of intoxication. I was
once drunk myself; and they told me afterward that I had quarrelled with
a man, and knocked him down a high flight of steps; but I had no
recollection of it. If I had killed him, and they had hung me for it,
what an awful thing it would have been for my poor father and mother. It
taught me a good lesson, for I was never again intoxicated. Perhaps
this poor youth might profit by his dreadful experience, if a chance
were allowed him. He is so young! and there is nothing bad in his
countenance.”
“As for his womanly face,” replied Mr. Barker, “there is no trusting to
that. The worst villains are not always the worst-looking. As for his
being intoxicated, there is no telling whether it is true or not. That
cunning lawyer may have made up the story, for the sake of exciting
compassion; and the witnesses may be more than willing enough to believe
every thing strange in the prisoner’s conduct was the result of
intoxication. Moreover, it won’t do to admit that plea in extenuation;
for then, don’t you see, a man who wants to kill his enemy has only to
get drunk in the first place? If anybody killed my Joe, drunk or not
drunk, I should want him to swing for it.”
By such remarks, urged in his vehement way, he swayed minds more timid
and lenient than his own, without being fully aware of what he was
doing. He was foreman of the jury; and when the awful moment arrived on
which depended the life of a fellow being, he pronounced the word
“Guilty,” in a strong, firm voice. The next instant his eye fell on the
prisoner, standing there so pale, and still, looking at him with such
fixed despair. There was something in the face that moved him strongly.
He turned quickly away, but the vision was before him; always, and
everywhere before him. “This is weakness,” he said to himself. “I have
merely done my duty. The law required it. I have done my duty.” But
still the pale young face looked at him; always, and everywhere, it
looked at him.
He feared to touch a newspaper, for he wished not to know when the day
of execution would arrive. But officious neighbours, ignorant of his
state of mind, were eager to talk upon the subject; and when drawn into
such discourse, he strove to fortify his own feelings by dwelling on all
the worst circumstances of the case. Notwithstanding all his efforts,
the night preceding the execution, he had troubled dreams, in which that
ghastly young face was always conspicuous. When he woke, he saw it in
the air. It walked beside him as he ploughed the fields, it stood before
him on the threshold of his own door. All that the merciful juryman had
suggested came before him with painful distinctness. _Could_ there be a
doubt that the condemned had really committed murder? _Was_ he
intoxicated? _Might_ he have happened to be intoxicated for the _first_
time in his life? And he so young! But he drove these thoughts away;
saying ever to himself, “The law required it. I merely did my duty.”
Still every thing looked gloomy to him. The evening clouds seemed like
funeral palls, and a pale despairing face gazed at him forever.
For the first time in his manhood, he craved a companion in the
darkness. Neighbours came in, and described the execution; and while
they talked, the agitated juryman beat the fire-brands into a thousand
pieces, and spoke never a word. They told how the youth had written a
long letter to his mother, and had died calm and resigned. “By the way,
perhaps you knew his mother, Mr. Barker,” said one; “they tell me she
used to live in this neighbourhood. Do you remember a girl by the name
of Mary Williams?”
The tongs dropped from Mr. Barker’s hand, as he gasped out, “Mary
Williams! Was he _her_ son? God forgive me! Was he _her_ son?” And the
strong man laid his head upon the table and wept.
There was silence in the room. At last, the loquacious neighbour said,
in a subdued tone, “I am sorry I hurt your feelings. I didn’t know she
was a friend of yours.”
The troubled juryman rose hastily, walked to the window, looked out at
the stars, and, clearing his choked voice, said, “It is many years since
I knew her. But she was a good-tempered, pretty girl; and it seems but
yesterday that we used to go together to pick our baskets full of
berries. And so she was _his_ mother? I remember now there was something
in his eye that seemed familiar to me.”
Perhaps the mention of Mary’s beauty, or the melting mood, so unusual
with her husband, might have excited a vague feeling of jealousy in Mrs.
Barker. Whatever might have been the motive, she said, in her demure
way, without raising her eyes from her knitting, “Well, it was natural
enough to suppose the young man _had_ a mother; and other mothers are
likely to have hearts that can feel, as well as this Mary Williams.”
He only answered by shaking his head slowly, and repeating, as if to
himself, “Poor Mary! and so he was _her_ son.”
Joseph came in, and the details of the dreadful scene were repeated and
dwelt upon, as human beings are prone to dwell on all that excites
strong emotion. To him the name of Mary Williams conjured up no smiling
visions of juvenile love; and he strove to fortify his father’s
relenting feelings, by placing in a strong light all the arguments in
favour of the prisoner’s guilt. The juryman was glad to be thus
fortified, and replied in a firm, reassured voice, “At all events, I did
my duty.” Yet, for months after, the pale young face looked at him
despairingly from the evening air, and came between him and the
sunshine. But time, which softens all things, drifted the dreary spectre
into dim distance; and Mr. Barker’s faculties were again completely
absorbed in making money for his son.
Joseph was called a fine, promising young man; but his conduct was not
altogether satisfactory to his parents. He was fond of dress and
company, and his impetuous temperament not unfrequently involved him in
quarrels. On two or three of these occasions, they feared he had been a
little excited by drink. But he was, in reality, a good-hearted fellow,
and, like his rough father, had undeveloped germs of deep tenderness
within him. His father’s life was bound up within his; his mother loved
him with all the energy of which her sluggish nature was capable; and
notwithstanding the inequalities of his violent and capricious temper,
the neighbours loved him also.
What, then, was their consternation, when it was rumoured that on his
twenty-fourth birth-day he had been arrested for murder! And, alas! it
was too true that his passions had thus far over-mastered his reason. He
wished to please a young girl in the vicinity; and she treated him
coolly, because a rival had informed her that he was seen intoxicated,
and in that state had spoken over-boldly of being sure of her love. He
drank again, to drown his vexation; and while the excitement of the
draught was on him, he met the man who informed against him. His
exulting rival was injudicious enough to exclaim, “Ho! here you are,
drunk again! What a promising fellow for a husband!” Unfortunately, an
axe was at hand, and, in the double fury of drink and rage, he struck
with it again and again. One hour after, he would have given all he ever
hoped to possess, nay, he would gladly have died, could he have restored
the life he had so wantonly destroyed.