occasional twittering of birds in the tree. It was sunset, and a bright
farewell gleam shone across the moss-carpet on the rock, and made the
little flowers in the garden smile. When he returned to the city, the
scene often rose before his mind as a lovely picture, and he longed for
the artist’s skill to re-produce it visibly in its rustic beauty. When
he again visited the country after midsummer, he remembered the little
old school-house, and one of his earliest excursions was a walk in that
direction. A profusion of crimson stars, and white stars, now peeped out
from the fringed foliage of the Cypress vines, and the little front
yard was one bed of blossoms. He leaned over the gate, and observed how
neatly every plant was trained, as if some loving hand tended them
carefully every day. He listened, but could hear no voices; and
curiosity impelled him to see how the little building looked within. He
lifted the latch, peeped in, and saw that the room was empty. The rude
benches and the white-washed walls were perfectly clean. The windows
were open on both sides, and the air was redolent with the sweet breath
of Mignonette. On the teacher’s desk was a small vase, of Grecian
pattern, containing a few flowers tastefully arranged. Some books lay
beside it, and one had an ivory folder between the leaves, as if
recently used. It was Bettine’s Letters to Günderode; and, where it
opened at the ivory folder, he read these lines, enclosed in pencil
marks; “All that I see done to children is unjust. Magnanimity,
confidence, free-will, are not given to the nourishment of their souls.
A slavish yoke is put upon them. The living impulse, full of buds, is
not esteemed. No outlet will they give for Nature to reach the light.
Rather must a net be woven, in which each mesh is a prejudice. Had not a
child a world within, where could he take refuge from the deluge of
folly that is poured over the budding meadow-carpet? Reverence have I
before the destiny of each child, shut up in so sweet a bud. One feels
reverence at touching a young bud, which the spring is swelling.”
The young man smiled with pleased surprise; for he had not expected to
find appreciation of such sentiments in the teacher of a secluded
country school. He took up a volume of Mary Howitt’s Birds and Flowers,
and saw the name of Alice White written in it. On all blank spaces were
fastened delicate young fern leaves, and small bits of richly-tinted
moss. He glanced at the low ceiling, and the rude benches. “This seems
not the appropriate temple for such a spirit,” thought he. “But, after
all, what consequence is that, since such spirits find temples
everywhere?” He took a pencil from his pocket, and marked in Bettine’s
Letters: “Thou hast feeling for the every-day life of nature. Dawn,
noon-tide, and evening clouds are thy dear companions, with whom thou
canst converse when no man is abroad with thee. Let me be thy scholar in
simplicity.”
He wrote his initials on the page. “Perhaps I shall never see this young
teacher,” thought he; “but it will be a little mystery, in her
unexciting life, to conjecture what curious eye has been peeping into
her books.” Then he queried with himself, “How do I know she is a
_young_ teacher?”
He stood leaning against the window, looking on the beds of flowers, and
the vine leaves brushed his hair, as the breeze played with them. They
seemed to say that a young heart planted them. He remembered the clear,
feminine voice he had heard humming the dancing-tune, in the spring
time. He thought of the mosses and ferns in the book. “Oh, yes, she
_must_ be young and beautiful,” thought he. “She cannot be otherwise
than beautiful, with such tastes.” He stood for some moments in half
dreaming reverie. Then a broad smile went over his face. He was making
fun of himself. “What consequence is it to me whether she be either
beautiful or young?” said he inwardly. “I must be hungry for an
adventure, to indulge so much curiosity about a country schoolmistress.”
The smile was still on his face, when he heard a light step, and Alice
White stood before him. She blushed to see a stranger in her little
sanctuary, and he blushed at the awkwardness of his situation. He
apologized, by saying that the beauty of the little garden, and the
tasteful arrangement of the vines, had attracted his attention, and,
perceiving that the school-house was empty, he had taken the liberty to
enter. She readily forgave the intrusion, and said she was glad if the
humble little spot refreshed the eyes of those who passed by, for it had
given her great pleasure to cultivate it. The young man was
disappointed; for she was not at all like the picture his imagination
had painted. But the tones of her voice were flexible, and there was
something pleasing in her quiet but timid manner. Not knowing what to
say, he bowed and took leave.
Several days after, when his rural visit was drawing to a close, he
felt the need of a long walk, and a pleasant vision of the winding road
and the little school-house rose before him. He did not even think of
Alice White. He was ambitious, and had well nigh resolved never to
marry, except to advance his fortunes. He admitted to himself that grace
and beauty might easily bewitch him, and turn him from his prudent
purpose. But the poor country teacher was not beautiful, either in face
or figure. He had no thought of her. But to vary his route somewhat, he
passed through the woods, and there he found her gathering mosses by a
little brook. She recognized him, and he stopped to help her gather
mosses. Thus it happened that they fell into discourse together; and the
more he listened, the more he was surprised to find so rare a jewel in
so plain a setting. Her thoughts were so fresh, and were so simply said!
And now he noticed a deep expression in her eye, imparting a more
elevated beauty than is ever derived from form or colour. He could not
define it to himself, still less to others; but she charmed him. He
lingered by her side, and when they parted at the school-house gate, he
was half in hopes she would invite him to enter. “I expect to visit this
town again in the autumn,” he said. “May I hope to find you at the
little school-house?”
She did not say whether _he_ might hope to find her there; but she
answered with a smile, “I am always here. I have adopted it for my
home, and tried to make it a pleasant one, since I have no other.”
All the way home his thoughts were occupied with her; and the memory of
her simple, pleasant ways, often recurred to him amid the noises of the
city. He would easily have forgotten her in that stage of their
acquaintance, had any beautiful heiress happened to cross his path; for
though his nature was kindly, and had a touch of romance, ambition was
the predominant trait in his character. But it chanced that no woman
attracted him very powerfully, before he again found himself on the
winding road where stood the picturesque little school-house. Then came
frequent walks and confidential interviews, which revealed more
loveliness of mind and character than he had previously supposed. Alice
was one of those peculiar persons whose history sets at naught all
theories. Her parents had been illiterate, and coarse in manners, but
she was gentle and refined. They were utterly devoid of imagination, and
she saw every thing in the sunshine of poetry. “Who is the child like?
Where did she get her queer notions?” were questions they could never
answer. They died when she was fourteen; and she, unaided and unadvised,
went into a factory to earn money to educate herself. Alternately at the
factory and at school, she passed four years. Thanks to her notable
mother, she was quick and skilful with her needle, and knew wonderfully
well how to make the most of small means. She travelled along unnoticed
through the by-paths of life, rejoicing in birds, and flowers, and
little children, and finding sufficient stimulus to constant industry in
the love of serving others, and the prospect of now and then a pretty
vase, or some agreeable book. First, affectionate communion, then beauty
and order, were the great attractions to her soul. Hence, she longed
inexpressibly for a home, and was always striving to realize her ideal
in such humble imitations as the little school-house. The family where
she boarded often disputed with each other, and, being of rude natures,
not all Alice’s unassuming and obliging ways could quite atone to them
for her native superiority. In the solitude of the little school-house
she sought refuge from things that wounded her. There she spent most of
the hours of her life, and found peace on the bosom of Nature. Poor, and
without personal beauty, she never dreamed that domestic love, at all
resembling the pattern in her own mind, was a blessing she could ever
realize. Scarcely had the surface of her heart been tremulous with even
a passing excitement on the subject, till the day she gathered mosses in
the wood with George Franklin. When he looked into her eyes, to
ascertain what their depth expressed, she was troubled by the
earnestness of his glance. Habitually humble, she did not venture to
indulge the idea that she could ever be beloved by him. But when she
thought of his promised visit in autumn, fair visions sometimes floated
before her, of how pleasant life would be in a tasteful little home,
with an intelligent companion. Always it was a _little_ home. None of
her ideas partook of grandeur. She was a pastoral poet, not an epic
poet.
George did come, and they had many pleasant walks in beautiful October,
and crowned each other with garlands of bright autumnal leaves. Their
parting betrayed mutual affection; and soon after George wrote to her
thus: “I frankly acknowledge to you that I am ambitious, and had fully
resolved never to marry a poor girl. But I love you so well, I have no
choice left. And now, in the beautiful light that dawns upon me, I see
how mean and selfish was that resolution, and how impolitic withal. For
is it not happiness we all seek? And how happy it will make me to fulfil
your long-cherished dream of a tasteful home! I cannot help receiving
from you more than I can give; for your nature is richer than mine. But
I believe, dearest, it is always more blessed to give than to receive;
and when two think so of each other, what more need of heaven?
“I am no flatterer, and I tell you frankly I was disappointed when I
first saw you. Unconsciously to myself, I had fallen in love with your
soul. The transcript of it, which I saw in the vines and the flowers
attracted me first; then a revelation of it from the marked book, the
mosses and the ferns. I imagined you _must_ be beautiful; and when I saw
you were not, I did not suppose I should ever think of you more. But
when I heard you talk, your soul attracted me irresistibly again, and I
wondered I ever thought you otherwise than beautiful. Rarely is a
beautiful soul shrined within a beautiful body. But loveliness of soul
has one great advantage over its frail envelope, it need not decrease
with time, but ought rather to increase.
“Of one thing rest assured, dear Alice; it is now impossible for me ever
to love another, as I love you.”
When she read this letter, it seemed to her as if she were in a
delightful dream. Was it indeed possible that the love of an
intelligent, cultivated soul was offered to her, the poor unfriended
one? How marvellous it seemed, that when she was least expecting such a
blossom from Paradise, a stranger came and laid it in the open book upon
her desk, in that little school-house, where she had toiled with patient
humility through so many weary hours! She kissed the dear letter again
and again; she kissed the initials he had written in the book before he
had seen her. She knelt down, and, weeping, thanked God that the great
hunger of her heart for a happy home was now to be satisfied. But when
she re-read the letter in calmer mood, the uprightness of her nature
made her shrink from the proffered bliss. He said he was ambitious.
Would he not repent marrying a poor girl, without beauty, and without
social influence of any kind? Might he not find her soul far less lovely
than he deemed it? Under the influence of these fears, she answered him:
“How happy your precious letter made me, I dare not say. My heart is
like a garden when the morning sun shines on it, after a long, cold
storm. Ever since the day we gathered mosses in the wood, you have
seemed so like the fairest dreams of my life, that I could not help
loving you, though I had no hope of being beloved in return. Even now, I
fear that you are acting under a temporary delusion, and that hereafter
you may repent your choice. Wait long, and observe my faults. I will try
not to conceal any of them from you. Seek the society of other women.
You will find so many superior to me, in all respects! Do not fear to
give me pain by any change in your feelings. I love you with that
disinterested love, which would rejoice in your best happiness, though
it should lead you away from me.”
This letter did not lower his estimate of the beauty of her soul. He
complied with her request to cultivate the acquaintance of other women.
He saw many more beautiful, more graceful, more accomplished, and of
higher intellectual cultivation; but none of them seemed so charmingly
simple and true, as Alice White. “Do not talk to me any more about a
change in my feelings,” he said, “I like your principles, I like your
disposition, I like your thoughts, I like your ways; and I always
_shall_ like them.” Thus assured, Alice joyfully dismissed her fears,
and became his wife.
Rich beyond comparison is a man who is loved by an intelligent woman, so
full of home-affections! Especially if she has learned humility, and
gained strength, in the school of hardship and privation. But it is only
beautiful souls who learn such lessons in adversity. In lower natures it
engenders discontent and envy, which change to pride and extravagance in
the hour of prosperity. Alice had always been made happy by the simplest
means; and now, though her husband’s income was a moderate one, her
intuitive taste and capable fingers made his home a little bower of
beauty. She seemed happy as a bird in her cozy nest; and so grateful,
that George said, half in jest, half in earnest, he believed women loved
their husbands as the only means society left them of procuring homes
over which to preside. There was some truth in the remark; but it pained
her sensitive and affectionate nature, because it intruded upon her the
idea of selfishness mingled with her love. Thenceforth, she said less
about the external blessings of a home; but in her inmost soul she
enjoyed it, like an earthly heaven. And George seemed to enjoy it almost
as much as herself. Again and again, he said he had never dreamed
domestic companionship was so rich a blessing. His wife, though far less
educated than himself, had a nature capable of the highest cultivation.
She was always an intelligent listener, and her quick intuitions often
understood far more than he had expressed or thought. Poor as she was,
she had brought better furniture for his home, than mahogany chairs and
marble tables.
Smoothly glided a year away, when a little daughter came into the
domestic circle, like a flower brought by angels. George had often
laughed at the credulous fondness of other parents, but he really
thought _his_ child was the most beautiful one he had ever seen. In the
countenance and movements he discovered all manner of rare gifts. He was
sure she had an eye for color, an eye for form, and an ear for music.
She had her mother’s deep eye, and would surely inherit her quick
perceptions, her loving heart, and her earnestness of thought. His whole
soul seemed bound up in her existence. Scarcely the mother herself was
more devoted to all her infant wants and pleasures. Thus happy were
they, with their simple treasures of love and thought, when, in evil
hour, a disturbing influence crossed their threshold. It came in the
form of political excitement; that pestilence which is forever racing
through our land, seeking whom it may devour; destroying happy homes,
turning aside our intellectual strength from the calm and healthy
pursuits of literature or science, blinding consciences, embittering
hearts, rasping the tempers of men, and blighting half the talent of our
country with its feverish breath.
At that time, our citizens were much excited for and against the
election of General Harrison. George Franklin threw himself into the
melée with firm and honest conviction that the welfare of the country
depended on his election. But the superior and inferior natures of man
are forever mingling in all his thoughts and actions; and this generous
ardor for the nation’s good gradually opened into a perspective of
flattering prospects for himself. By the study and industry of years, he
had laid a solid foundation in his profession, and every year brought
some increase of income and influence. But he had the American
impatience of slow growth. Distinguished in some way he had always
wished to be; and no avenue to the desired object seemed so short as the
political race-course. A neighbour, whose temperament was peculiarly
prone to these excitements, came in often and invited him to clubs and
meetings. When Alice was seated at her work, with the hope of passing
one of their old pleasant evenings, she had a nervous dread of hearing
the door-bell, lest this man should enter. It was not that she expected,
or wished, her husband to sacrifice ambition and enterprise, and views
of patriotic duty, to her quiet habits. But the excitement seemed an
unhealthy one. He lived in a species of mental intoxication. He talked
louder than formerly, and doubled his fists in the vehemence of
gesticulation. He was restless for newspapers, and watched the arrival
of mails, as he would once have watched over the life of his child. All
calm pleasures became tame and insipid. He was more and more away from
home, and staid late in the night. Alice at first sat up to wait for
him; but finding that not conducive to the comfort of their child, she
gradually formed the habit of retiring to rest before his return. She
was always careful to leave a comfortable arrangement of the fire, with
his slippers in a warm place, and some slight refreshment prettily laid
out on the table. The first time he came home and saw these silent
preparations, instead of the affectionate face that usually greeted him,
it made him very sad. The rustic school-house, with its small belfry,
and its bright little garden-plat, rose up in the perspective of memory,
and he retraced, one by one, all the incidents of their love. Fair and
serene came those angels of life out of the paradise of the past. They
smiled upon him and asked, “Are there any like us in the troubled path
you have now chosen?” With these retrospections came some
self-reproaches concerning little kind attentions forgotten, and
professional duties neglected, under the influence of political
excitement. He spoke to Alice with unusual tenderness that night, and
voluntarily promised that when the election was fairly over, he would
withdraw from active participation in politics. But this feeling soon
passed away. The nearer the result of the election approached, the more
intensely was his whole being absorbed in it. One morning, when he was
reading the newspaper, little Alice fretted and cried. He said,
impatiently, “I wish you would carry that child away. Her noise disturbs
me.” Tears came to the mother’s eyes, as she answered, “She is not well;
poor little thing! She has taken cold.” “I am sorry for that,” he
replied, and hurried to go out and exult with his neighbour concerning
the political tidings.
At night, the child was unusually peevish and restless. She toddled up
to her father’s knees, and cried for him to rock her to sleep. He had
just taken her in his arms, and laid her little head upon his bosom,
when the neighbour came for him to go to a political supper. He said the
mails that night must bring news that would decide the question. The
company would wait for their arrival, and then have a jubilee in honour
of Harrison’s success. The child cried and screamed, when George put her
away into the mother’s arms; and he said sternly, “Naughty girl! Father
don’t love her when she cries.” “She is not well,” replied the mother,
with a trembling voice, and hurried out of the room.
It was two o’clock in the morning before George returned; but late as it
was, his wife was sitting by the fire. “Hurrah for the old coon!” he
exclaimed. “Harrison is elected.”
She threw herself on his bosom, and bursting into tears, sobbed out,
“Oh, hush, hush, dear George! Our little Alice is dead!” Dead! and the
last words he had spoken to his darling had been unkind. What would he
not have given to recall them now? And his poor wife had passed through
that agony, alone in the silent midnight, without aid or consolation
from him. A terrible weight oppressed his heart. He sank into a chair,
drew the dear sufferer to his bosom, and wept aloud.
* * * * *
This great misfortune sadly dimmed the glory of his eagerly-anticipated
political triumph. When the tumult of grief subsided, he reviewed the
events of his life, and weighed them in a balance. More and more, he
doubted whether it were wise to leave the slow certainties of his
profession, for chances which had in them the excitement and the risks
of gambling. More and more seriously he questioned whether the
absorption of his faculties in the keen conflicts of the hour was the
best way to serve the true interests of his country. It is uncertain how
the balance would have turned, had he not received an appointment to
office under the new government. Perhaps the sudden fall of the
triumphal arch, occasioned by the death of General Harrison, might have
given him a lasting distaste for politics, as it did to many others. But
the proffered income was more than double the sum he had ever received
from his profession. Dazzled by the prospect, he did not sufficiently
take into the account that it would necessarily involve him in many
additional expenses, political and social, and that he might lose it by
the very next turn of the wheel, without being able to return easily to
his old habits of expenditure. Once in office, the conviction that he
was on the right side combined with gratitude and self-interest to make
him serve his party with money and personal influence. The question of
another election was soon agitated, and these motives drove him into the
new excitement. He was kind at home, but he spent little time there. He
sometimes smiled when he came in late, and saw the warm slippers by the
fire, and a vase of flowers crowning his supper on the table; but he did
not think how lonely Alice must be, nor could he possibly dream what she
was suffering in the slow martyrdom of her heart. He gave dinners and
suppers often. Strangers went and came. They ate and drank, and smoked,
and talked loud. Alice was polite and attentive; but they had nothing
for her, and she had nothing for them. How out of place would have been
her little songs and her fragrant flowers, amid their clamor and
tobacco-smoke! She was a pastoral poet living in a perpetual battle.
The house was filled with visitors to see the long Whig procession pass
by, with richly-caparisoned horses, gay banners, flowery arches, and
promises of protection to every thing. George bowed from his chariot and
touched his hat to her, as he passed with the throng, and she waved her
handkerchief. “How beautiful! How magnificent!” exclaimed a visitor, who
stood by her. “Clay will certainly be elected. The whole city seems to
be in the procession. Sailors, printers, firemen, every thing.”
“There are no women and children,” replied Alice; and she turned away
with a sigh. The only protection that interested _her_, was a protection
for _homes_.
Soon after came the evening procession of Democrats. The army of horses;
temples of Liberty, with figures in women’s dress to represent the
goddess; raccoons hung, and guillotined, and swallowed by alligators;
the lone star of Texas everywhere glimmering over their heads; the whole
shadowy mass occasionally illuminated by the rush of fire-works, and the
fitful glare of lurid torches; all this made a strange and wild
impression on the mind of Alice, whose nervous system had suffered in
the painful internal conflicts of her life. It reminded her of the
memorable 10th of August in Paris; and she had visions of human heads
reared on poles before the windows, as they had been before the palace
of the unfortunate Maria Antoinette. Visitors observed their watches,
and said it took this procession an hour longer to pass than it had for
the Whig procession. “I guess Polk will beat after all,” said one.
George was angry and combated the opinion vehemently. Even after the
company had all gone, and the street noises had long passed off in the
distance, he continued remarkably moody and irritable. He had more cause
for it than his wife was aware of. She supposed the worst that could
happen, would be defeat of his party and loss of office. But
antagonists, long accustomed to calculate political games with a view to
gambling, had dared him to bet on the election, being perfectly aware of
his sanguine temperament; and George, stimulated solely by a wish to
prove to the crowd, who heard them, that he considered the success of
Clay’s party certain, allowed himself to be drawn into the snare, to a
ruinous extent. All his worldly possessions, even his watch, his books,
and his household furniture, were at stake; and ultimately all were
lost. Alice sympathized with his deep dejection, tried to forget her own
sorrows, and said it would be easy for her to assist him, she was so
accustomed to earn her own living.