school-house, embowered in vines, and shaded by its graceful elm. He
asked to have this reserved from the wreck, and stated the reason. No
one had the heart to refuse it; for even amid the mad excitement of
party triumph, everybody said, “I pity his poor wife.”
She left her cherished home before the final breaking up. It would have
been too much for her womanly heart, to see those beloved household
goods carried away to the auction-room. She lingered long by the astral
lamp, and the little round table, where she and George used to read to
each other, in the first happy year of their marriage. She did not weep.
It would have been well if she could. She took with her the little vase,
that used to stand on the desk in the old country school-house, and a
curious Wedgewood pitcher George had given her on the day little Alice
was born. She did not show them to him, it would make him so sad. He was
tender and self-reproachful; and she tried to be very strong, that she
might sustain him. But health had suffered in these storms, and her
organization fitted her only for one mission in this world; that was, to
make and adorn a home. Through hard and lonely years she had longed for
it. She had gained it, and thanked God with the joyfulness of a happy
heart. And now her vocation was gone.
In a few days, hers was pronounced a case of melancholy insanity. She
was placed in the hospital, where her husband strives to surround her
with every thing to heal the wounded soul. But she does not know him.
When he visits her, she looks at him with strange eyes, and still
clinging to the fond ideal of her life, she repeats mournfully, “I
_want_ my _home_. Why don’t George come and take me _home_?”
* * * * *
Thus left adrift on the dark ocean of life, George Franklin hesitated
whether to trust the chances of politics for another office, or to start
again in his profession, and slowly rebuild his shattered fortunes from
the ruins of the past. Having wisely determined in favor of the latter,
he works diligently and lives economically, cheered by the hope that
reason will again dawn in the beautiful soul that loved him so truly.
His case may seem like an extreme one; but in truth he is only one of a
thousand similar wrecks continually floating over the turbulent sea of
American politics.
TO THE TRAILING ARBUTUS.
Thou delicate and fragrant thing!
Sweet prophet of the coming Spring!
To what can poetry compare
Thy hidden beauty, fresh and fair?
Only they who search can find
Thy trailing garlands close enshrined;
Unveiling, like a lovely face,
Surprising them with artless grace.
Thou seemest like some sleeping babe,
Upon a leafy pillow laid;
Dreaming, in thy unconscious rest,
Of nest’ling on a mother’s breast.
Or like a maiden in life’s May,
Fresh dawning of her girlish day;
When the pure tint her cheeks disclose
Seems a reflection of the rose.
More coy than hidden love thou art,
With blushing hopes about its heart;
And thy faint breath of fragrance seems
Like kisses stolen in our dreams.
Thou’rt like a gentle poet’s thought,
By Nature’s simplest lessons taught,
Reclining on old moss-grown trees,
Communing with the whisp’ring breeze.
Like timid natures, that conceal
What others carelessly reveal;
Reserving for a chosen few
Their wealth of feeling, pure and true.
Like loving hearts, that ne’er grow old,
Through autumn’s change, or winter’s cold;
Preserving some sweet flowers, that lie
’Neath withered leaves of years gone by.
At sight of thee a troop upsprings
Of simple, pure, and lovely things;
But half thou sayest to my heart,
I find no language to impart.
THE CATHOLIC AND THE QUAKER.
For _thee_, the priestly rite and prayer
And holy day, and solemn psalm;
For _me_, the silent reverence, where
My brethren gather, slow and calm.
J. G. WHITTIER.
It was one of Ireland’s greenest lanes that wound its way down to a
rippling brook, in the rear of Friend Goodman’s house. And there, by a
mound of rocks that dipped their mossy feet in the rivulet, Friend
Goodman walked slowly, watching for his little daughter, who had been
spending the day with some children in the neighbourhood. Presently, the
small maiden came jumping along, with her bonnet thrown back, and the
edges of her soft brown ringlets luminous in the rays of the setting
sun. Those pretty curls were not Quakerly; but Nature, who pays no more
attention to the regulations of Elders, than she does to the edicts of
Bishops, would have it so. At the slightest breath of moisture, the
silky hair rolled itself into spirals, and clustered round her pure
white forehead, as if it loved the nestling-place. Jumping, likewise,
was not a Quakerly proceeding. But little Alice, usually staid and
demure, in imitation of those around her, had met with a new companion,
whose temperament was more mercurial than her own, and she was yielding
to its magnetic influence.
Camillo Campbell, a boy of six years, was the grandson of an Italian
lady, who had married an Irish absentee, resident in Florence. Her
descendants had lately come to Ireland, and taken possession of estates
in the immediate neighbourhood of Friend Goodman, where little Camillo’s
foreign complexion, lively temperament, and graceful broken language,
rendered him an object of very great interest, especially among the
children. He it was with whom little Alice was skipping through the
green lane, bright and free as the wind and sunshine that played among
her curls. As the sober father watched their innocent gambols, he felt
his own pulses quicken, and his motions involuntarily became more rapid
and elastic than usual. The little girl came nestling up to his side,
and rubbed her head upon his arm, like a petted kitten. Camillo peeped
roguishly from behind the mossy rocks, kissed his hand to her, and ran
off, hopping first on one foot and then on the other.
“Dost thou like that little boy?” inquired Friend Goodman, as he stooped
to kiss his darling.
“Yes, Camillo’s a pretty boy, I like him,” she replied. Then with a
skip and a bound, which showed that the electric fluid was still leaping
in her veins, she added, “He’s a funny boy, too: he swears _you_ all the
time.”
The simple child, being always accustomed to hear _thee_ and _thou_,
verily thought _you_ was a profane word. Her father did what was very
unusual with him: he laughed outright, as he replied, “What a strange
boy is that!”
“He asked me to come down to the rock and play, to-morrow. May I go,
after school?” she asked.
“We will see what mother says,” he replied. “But where didst thou meet
Camillo?”
“He came to play with us in the lane, and Deborah and John and I went
into his garden to see the birds. Oh, he has got such pretty birds!
There’s a nice little meeting-house in the garden; and there’s a woman
standing there with a baby. Camillo calls her my donny. He says we
mustn’t play in there. Why not? Who _is_ my donny?”
“The people of Italy, where Camillo used to live, call the Mother of
Christ Madonna,” replied her father.
“And who is Christ?” she asked.
“He was a holy man, who lived a great many years ago. I read to thee one
day about his taking little children in his arms and blessing them.”
“I guess he loved little children almost as well as thou, dear father,”
said Alice. “But what do they put his mother in that little
meeting-house for?”
Not deeming it wise to puzzle her busy little brain with theological
explanations, Friend Goodman called her attention to a small dog, whose
curly white hair soon displaced the Madonna, and even Camillo, in her
thoughts. But the new neighbour, and the conservatory peopled with
birds, and the little chapel in the garden, made a strong impression on
her mind. She was always talking of them, and in after years they
remained by far the most vivid picture in the gallery of childish
recollections. Nearly every day, she and Camillo met at the mossy rock,
where they planted flowers in blossom, and buried flies in
clover-leaves, and launched little boats on the stream. When they
strolled toward the conservatory, the old gardener was always glad to
admit them. Flowering shrubs and gaudy parrots, so bright in the warm
sunshine, formed such a cheerful contrast to her own unadorned home,
that little Alice was never weary with gazing and wondering. But from
all the brilliant things, she chose two Java sparrows for her especial
favorites. The old gardener told her they were Quaker birds, because
their feathers were all of such a soft, quiet color. Bright little
Camillo caught up the idea, and said, “I know what for you so much do
like them: Quaker lady-birds they be.”
“And she’s a Quaker lady-bird, too,” said the old gardener, smiling, as
he patted her on the head; “she’s a nice little lady-bird.” Poll Parrot
heard him, and repeated, “Lady-bird.” Always after that, when Alice
entered the conservatory, the parrot laughed and screamed, “Lady-bird!”
Near the door were two niches partially concealed by a net-work of
vines; and in the niches were statues of two winged children. Alice
inquired who they were; and Camillo replied, “My little sister and
brother. Children of the Madonna now they is.” His mother had told him
this, and he did not understand what it meant; neither did Alice. She
looked up at the winged ones with timid love, and said, “Why don’t they
come down and play with us?”
“From heaven they cannot come down,” answered Camillo.
Alice was about to inquire the reason why, when the parrot interrupted
her by calling out, “Lady-bird! Lady-bird!” and Camillo began to mock
her. Then, laughing merrily, off they ran to the mossy rock to plant
some flowers the gardener had given them.
That night, while Alice was eating her supper, Friend Goodman chanced to
read aloud something in which the word heaven occurred. “I’ve been to
heaven,” said Alice.
“Hush, hush, my child,” replied her father.
“But I _have_ been to heaven,” she insisted. “Little children have wings
there.”
Her parents exchanged glances of surprise, and the mother asked, “How
dost thou know that little children have wings in heaven?”
“Because I saw them,” she replied. “They wear white gowns, and they are
the children of my donny. My donny lives in the little meeting-house in
Camillo’s garden. She’s the mother of Christ that loved little children
so much; but she never said any thing to me. The birds call me
lady-bird, in heaven.”
Her mother looked very sober. “She gets her head full of strange things
down there yonder,” said she. “I tell thee, Joseph, I don’t like to have
the children playing together so much. There’s no telling what may come
of it.”
“Oh, they are mere babes,” replied Joseph. “The my donny, as she calls
it, and her doll, are all the same to her. The children take a deal of
comfort together, and it seems to me it is not worth while to put
estrangement between them. Divisions come fast enough in the human
family. When he is a lad, he will go away to school and college, and
will come back to live in a totally different world from ours. Let the
little ones enjoy themselves while they can.”
Thus spake the large-hearted Friend Joseph; but Rachel was not so easily
satisfied. “I don’t like this talk about graven images,” said she. “If
the child’s head gets full of such notions, it may not prove so easy to
put them out.”
Truly, there seemed some ground for Rachel’s fears; for whether Alice
walked or slept, she seemed to live in the neighbour’s garden. Sitting
beside her mother in the silent Quaker meeting, she forgot the row of
plain bonnets before her, and saw a vision of winged children through a
veil of vines. At school, she heard the old green parrot scream,
“Lady-bird!” and fan-tailed doves and Java sparrows hopped into her
dreams. She had never heard a fairy story in her life; otherwise, she
would doubtless have imagined that Camillo was a prince, who lived in an
enchanted palace, and had some powerful fairy for a friend.
* * * * *
It came to pass as Joseph had predicted. These days of happy
companionship soon passed away. Camillo went to a distant school, then
to college, and then was absent awhile on the Continent. It naturally
happened that the wealthy Catholic family had but little intercourse
with the substantial Quaker farmer. Years passed without a word between
Alice and her former playfellow. Once, during his college life, she met
him and his father on horseback, as she was riding home from meeting, on
a small gray mare her father had given her. He touched his hat and said,
“How do you do, Miss Goodman?” and she replied, “How art thou, Camillo?”
His father inquired, “Who is that young woman?” and he answered, “She is
the daughter of Farmer Goodman, with whom I used to play sometimes,
when I was a little boy.” Thus like shadows they passed on their
separate ways. He thought no more of the rustic Quaker girl, and with
her, the bright picture of their childhood was like the remembrance of
last year’s rainbow.
But events now approached, which put all rainbows and flowers to flight.
A Rebellion broke out in Ireland, and a terrible civil war began to rage
between Catholics under the name of Pikemen, and Protestants under the
name of Orangemen. The Quakers being conscientiously opposed to war,
could not adopt the emblems of either party, and were of course exposed
to the hostility of both. Joseph Goodman, in common with others of his
religious persuasion, had always professed to believe, that returning
good for evil was a heavenly principle, and therefore safe policy. Alice
had received this belief as a traditionary inheritance, without
disputing it, or reflecting upon it. But now came times that tested
faith severely. Every night, they retired to rest with the consciousness
that their worldly possessions might be destroyed by fire and pillage
before morning, and perhaps their lives sacrificed by infuriated
soldiers. At the meeting-house, and by the way-side, earnest were the
exhortations of the brethren to stand by their principles, and not
flinch in this hour of trial. Joseph Goodman’s sermon was brief and
impressive. “The Gospel of Love has power to regenerate the world,”
said he; “and the humblest individual, who lives according to it, has
done something for the salvation of man.”
His strength was soon tried; for the very next day a party of Pikemen
came into the neighbourhood and set fire to all the houses of the
Orangemen. Groans, and shrieks, and the sharp sound of shots, were heard
in every direction. Fierce men rushed into their peaceful dwelling,
demanding food, and ordering them to give up their arms.
“Food I will give, but arms I have none,” replied Joseph.
“More shame for you!” roared the commander of the troop. “If you can’t
do any thing more for your country than that, you may as well be killed
at once, for a coward, as you are.”
He drew his sword, but Joseph did not wink at the flash of the
glittering blade. He looked him calmly in the eye, and said, “If thou
art willing to take the crime of murder on thy conscience, I cannot help
it. I would not willingly do harm to thee, or to any man.”
The soldier turned away abashed, and putting his sword into the
scabbard, he muttered, “Well, give us something to eat, will you?”
The hours that followed were frightful with the light of blazing houses,
the crash of musketry, and the screams of women and children flying
across the fields. Many took refuge in Joseph’s house, and he did all
he could to soothe and strengthen them.
At sunset, he went forth with his serving-men to seek the wounded and
the dead. Along the road and among the bushes, mangled bodies were lying
in every direction. Those in whom life remained, they brought with all
tenderness and consigned to the care of Rachel and Alice; and, as long
as they could see, they gathered the dead for burial. In the evening,
the captain of the Pikemen returned in great wrath. “This is rather too
much,” he exclaimed. “We did’nt spare your house this morning to have it
converted into a hospital for the damned Orangemen. Turn out every dog
of ’em, or we will burn it down over your heads.”
“I cannot stay thy hand, if thou hast the heart to do it,” mildly
replied Joseph. “But I will not desert my fellow-creatures in their
great distress. If the time should come when thy party is routed, we
will bury thy dead, and nurse thy wounded, as we have done for the
Orangemen. I will do good to all parties, and harm to none. Here I take
my stand, and thou mayest kill me if thou wilt.”
Again the soldier was arrested by a power he knew not how to resist.
Joseph seeing his embarrassment, added: “I put the question to thee as a
man of war: Is it manly to persecute women and children? Is it brave to
torture the wounded and the dying? Wouldst thou feel easy to think of
it in thy dying hour? Let us part in peace, and when thou hast need of
a friend, come to me.”
After a brief hesitation, the soldier said, “It would be a happier world
if all thought as you do.” Then, calling to his men, he said, “Let us be
off, boys. There’s nothing to be done here.”
A fortnight after, triumphant Orangemen came with loud uproar to destroy
the houses of the Catholics. It was scarcely day-break, when Alice was
roused from uneasy slumbers by the discharge of musketry, and a lurid
light on the walls of her room. Starting up, she beheld Colonel
Campbell’s house in a blaze. The beautiful statues of the Madonna and
the winged children were knocked to pieces, and crushed under the feet
of an angry mob. Vines and flowers crisped under the crackling flames,
and the beautiful birds from foreign climes fell suffocated in the
smoke, or flew forth, frightened, into woods and fields, and perished by
cruel hands. In the green lane, once so peaceful and pleasant, ferocious
men were scuffling and trampling, shooting and stabbing. Everywhere the
grass and the moss were dabbled with blood. Above all the din, were
heard the shrill screams of women and children; and the mother of
Camillo came flying into Joseph’s house, exclaiming, “Hide me, oh, hide
me!” Alice received her in her arms, laid the throbbing head tenderly on
her bosom, put back the hair that was falling in wild disorder over her
face, and tried to calm her terror with gentle words. Others came
pouring in, and no one was refused shelter. To the women of Colonel
Campbell’s household Alice relinquished her own little bedroom, the only
corner of the house that was not already filled to overflowing. She drew
the curtain, that the afflicted ones need not witness the bloody
skirmishing in the fields and lane below. But a loud shriek soon
recalled her to their side. Mary Campbell had withdrawn the curtain, and
seen her husband fall, thrust at by a dozen swords. Fainting-fits and
hysterics succeeded each other in quick succession, while Alice and her
mother laid her on the bed, and rubbed her hands and bathed her temples.
Gradually the sounds of war died away in the distance. Then Joseph and
his helpers went forth to gather up the wounded and the dead. Colonel
Campbell was found utterly lifeless, and the brook where Camillo used to
launch his little boats, was red with his father’s blood. They brought
him in tenderly, washed the ghastly wounds, closed the glaring eyes, and
left the widow and the household to mourn over him. Late in the night
they persuaded her to go to rest; and, when all was still, the weary
family fell asleep on the floor; for not a bed was unoccupied.
This time, they hoped to escape the conquerors’ rage. But early in the
morning, a party of them came back, and demanded that all the Catholics
should be given up to them. Joseph replied, as he had done before: “I
cannot give up my helpless and dying neighbours, whether they be
Pikemen or Orangemen. I will do good to all, and harm to none, come to
me what may.”
“That’s impartial, anyhow,” said the captain. He took some Orange
cockades from his pocket, and added, “Wear these, and my men will do you
no harm.”
“I cannot conscientiously wear one,” replied Joseph, “because they are
emblems of war.”
The captain laughed half scornfully, and handing one to Alice, said,
“Well, my good girl, you can wear one, and then you need not be afraid
of our soldiers.”
She looked very pleasantly in his face and answered, “I _should_ be
afraid if I did not trust in something better than a cockade.”
The leader of the Orangemen was arrested by the same spell that stopped
the leader of the Pikemen. But some of his followers, who had been
lingering about the door, called out, “What’s the use of parleying?
Isn’t the old traitor nursing Catholics, to fight us again when they get
well? If he won’t serve the government by fighting for us, he will at
least do to stop a bullet as well as a braver man. Bring him out, and
put him in the front ranks to be shot at!” One of them seized Joseph to
drag him away; but Alice laid a trembling hand on his arm, and said,
beseechingly, “Before you take him, come and see the wounded Orangemen,
with their wives and children, whom my father and mother have fed and
tended night and day.” A pale figure, with bandaged head and one arm in
a sling, came forth from an adjoining room and said, “Comrades, you
surely will not harm these worthy people. They have fed our children,
and buried our dead, as if we were their own brothers.” The soldiers
listened, and, suddenly changing their mood, went off shouting, “Hurrah
for the Quakers!”
Some days of comparative quiet followed. Colonel Campbell was buried in
his own garden, with as much deference to the wishes of his widow as
circumstances would permit. She returned from the funeral calmer than
she had been, and quietly assisted in taking care of the wounded. But
when she retired to her little room, and saw a crucifix fastened on the
wall at the foot of her bed, she burst into tears and said, “Who has
done this?”
Alice gently replied, “I did it. I found it in the mud, where the little
chapel used to stand. I know it is a sacred emblem to thee, and I
thought it would pain thee to have it there; so I have washed it
carefully and placed it in thy room.”
The bereaved Catholic kissed the friendly hand that had done so kind a
deed; and tears fell on it, as she murmured, “Good child! may the Holy
Virgin bless thee!”
Balmy is a blessing from any human heart, whether it be given in the
name of Jesus or Mary, God or Allah. Alice slept well, and guardian
angels rejoiced over her in heaven.
* * * * *
Success alternated between the contending parties, and kept the country
in a state of perpetual alarm. One week, the widow of Colonel Campbell
was surrounded by victorious friends, and the next week, she was in
terror for her life. At last, Camillo himself came with a band of
successful insurgents. During a brief and agitated interview with his
mother, he learned how kindly she had been sheltered in their
neighbour’s house, and how tenderly the remains of his father had been
treated. When she pointed to the crucifix on the wall, and told its
history, his eyes filled with tears. “Oh, why cannot we of different
faith always treat each other thus?” was his inward thought; but he
bowed his head in silence. Hearing loud voices, he started up suddenly,
exclaiming, “There may be danger below!” Following the noise, he found
soldiers threatening Friend Goodman, who stood with his back firmly
placed against the door of an inner room. Seeing Camillo enter, and
being aware of the great influence his family had with the Catholics, he
said, “These men insist upon carrying out the dying Orangemen who are
sheltered here, and compelling me to see them shot. Is it thy will that
these murders should be committed?”
The young man took his hand, and in tones of deep respect answered,
“Could you believe that I would suffer violence to be done to any under
_your_ roof, if I had power to prevent it?” Then turning to his
soldiers, he said, “These excellent people have injured no one. Through
all these troubled times, they have been kind alike to Pikemen and
Orangemen; they have buried our dead, and sheltered our widows. If you
have any respect for the memory of my father, treat with respect all who
wear the peaceful garb of the Quakers.” The men spoke apart for awhile,
and soon after left the house.