potatoes to a crowd of hungry children. A soldier stood by her,
insisting that she should wear a cross, which was the emblem of the
Pikemen. She mildly replied, “I cannot consent to _wear_ the cross, but
I hope God will enable me to _bear_ it.” The rude fellow, who was
somewhat intoxicated, touched her under the chin, and said, “Come,
mavourneen, do be a little more obliging.” Camillo instantly seized his
arm, and, exclaiming, “Behave decently, my lad! behave decently!” he led
him to the door. As he went, he turned towards Alice with an expression
she never forgot, and said, in a low deep tone, “Words are poor to thank
you for what you have done for my mother.”
The next day, when he met Alice walking to meeting, he touched his hat
respectfully and said, “I scarcely deem it prudent for you to be in the
roads at this time, Miss Alice. Armed insurgents are everywhere abroad;
and though there is a prevailing disposition not to injure the Quakers,
still many of our men are too desperate to be always controlled.”
She smiled and answered, “I thank thee for thy friendly caution; but I
trust in the Power that has hitherto protected me.”
After a short pause, he said, “Your place of meeting is two miles from
here. Where is the horse you used to ride?”
“A soldier took it from me, as I rode from meeting several weeks ago,”
she replied.
“You see then it is, as I have said, unsafe for you to go,” he rejoined.
“Had you not better turn back?”
With great earnestness she answered, “Friend Camillo, I cannot otherwise
than go. Our people are afflicted and bowed down. The soldiers have
nearly consumed our provisions. Our women are almost worn out with the
fatigue of constant nursing and perpetual alarms. All are not unwavering
in their faith. It is the duty of the strong to sustain the weak; and
therefore it is needful that we meet together for counsel and
consolation.”
The young man looked at her with affectionate reverence. The fair
complexion and shining ringlets of childhood were gone, but a serene and
deep expression of soul imparted a more elevated beauty to her
countenance. He parted from her with a blessing, simply and fervently
uttered; but he entered the adjoining fields, and as he walked along he
kept her within sight until she arrived safely at the place of meeting.
While he thus watched her unseen, he recollected how often his taste had
been offended by the quaint awkwardness of the Quaker garb; and uttering
aloud the sequel to his thoughts, he said, “But beautiful and graceful
will her garments be in heaven.”
Soon after this interview, he departed with a strong escort to convey
his mother and other Catholic women into a less turbulent district.
Alice bade them farewell with undisguised sadness; for we learn to love
those whom we serve, and there seemed little probability that they would
ever return to reside in that troubled neighborhood.
The next time she saw Camillo, he was brought into her father’s house on
a litter, senseless, and wounded, as it was supposed, unto death. All
the restoratives they could think of were applied, and at last, as Alice
bent over him, bathing his temples, he opened his eyes with a dull
unconscious stare, which gradually relaxed into a feeble smile, as he
whispered, “My Quaker lady-bird.” Some hours afterward, when she brought
him drink, he gently pressed her hand, and said, “Thank you, dear
Alice.” The words were simple, but the expression of his eyes and the
pressure of his hand sent a thrill through the maiden, which she had
never before experienced. That night, she dreamed of winged children
seen through flowering vines, and Camillo laughed when the parrot called
her “Lady-bird.”
Sorrow, like love, levels all distinctions, and melts all forms in its
fiery furnace. In the midst of sickness and suffering, and every-day
familiarity with death, there was small attention paid to customary
proprieties. No one heeded whether Camillo were tended by Alice or her
mother; but if Alice were long absent, he complained that she came so
seldom. As his health improved, they talked together of the flowers they
used to plant on the mossy rock, and the little boats they launched on
the rippling brook. Sometimes, in their merriest moods, they mocked the
laughing of the old green parrot, and the cooing of the fan-tailed
doves. Thus walking through the green lanes of their childhood, they
came unconsciously into the fairy-land of love! All was bright and
golden there, and but one shadow rested on the sunshine. When Camillo
spoke of the “little meeting-house in the garden,” and the image of “My
donny,” she grew very thoughtful; and he said with a sigh, “I wish, dear
Alice, that we were of one religion.” She smiled sweetly as she
answered, “Are we not both of the religion of Jesus?”
He kissed her hand, and said, “Your soul is always large and liberal,
and noble and kind; but others are not like you, dear Alice.”
And truly, when the war had ceased, and Camillo Campbell began to
rebuild his demolished dwelling, and the young couple spoke of marriage,
great was the consternation in both families. Even the liberal-minded
Joseph was deeply-pained to have his daughter “marry out of Society,” as
their phrase is; but he strove to console Rachel, who was far more
afflicted than himself. “The young people love each other,” he said,
“and it does not seem to be right to put any constraint on their
affection. Camillo is a goodly youth; and I think the dreadful scenes he
has lately witnessed have exercised his mind powerfully on the subject
of war. I have observed that he is thoughtful and candid; and if he does
but act up to his own light, it is all I ask of him. He promises never
to interfere with the freedom of Alice; and as she has adopted most of
our principles from her own conviction, I do not fear she will ever
depart from them.”
“Don’t comfort thyself with any such idea,” replied Rachel. “She will
have pictures of the Virgin Mary in her house, and priests will come
there to say over their mummery; and small beginnings make great
endings. At all events, one thing is certain. Alice will lose her
membership in our Society; and that it is which mainly grieves me. She
is such a serious, sensible girl, that I always hoped to see her an
esteemed minister among us.”
“It is a disappointment to me also,” replied Joseph; “but we must bear
it cheerfully. It certainly is better to have our child go out of the
Society and keep her principles, than it would be to have her stay in
Society and depart from her principles, as many do.”
Mary Campbell was more disturbed than Rachel Goodman. In the first
paroxysm of her distress, she said she wished she had been killed in the
war, rather than live to see her only son married to a black Protestant.
“Not a black Protestant, dear mother, only a dove-colored one,” rejoined
Camillo, playfully. Then he kissed her, and reminded her of the story of
the crucifix, and told her how noble and gentle, and good and sensible,
his Alice was. As he talked, a vision rose before her of the little
bedroom in the Quaker’s farm-house; she saw Rachel and Alice supporting
the drooping-heads of poor homeless Catholics, while they offered drink
to their feverish lips; and memory melted bigotry. She threw herself
weeping into Camillo’s arms and said, “Truly they did treat us like
disciples of Jesus. I once said to Alice, ‘May the Holy Virgin bless
thee;’ and I now say, from my heart, May the Holy Virgin bless you both,
my son.”
And so Catholic and Quaker were married, according to the forms of both
their churches.
The Society of Friends mostly withdrew from companionship with Alice,
though they greeted her kindly at their meetings. The Catholics shook
their heads and complained that Camillo Campbell was already half a
Quaker. Both prognosticated evil consequences from such a union. But the
worst that happened was, Alice learned that there might be superstition
in the cut of a garment, as well as in veneration for an image; and
Camillo became convinced that hatred and violence were much greater sins
than eating meat on Fridays.
NOTE.--The course here described as generally pursued by Quakers during
the Irish Rebellion, and the effect stated to be produced on the
soldiers of both parties, are strictly true.
THE RIVAL MECHANICIANS.
“I am growing old; my sight is failing very fast,” said a famous
watch-maker of Geneva, as he wiped his spectacles to examine several
chronometers, which his two apprentices laid before him. “Well done!
Very well done, my lads,” said he. “I hardly know which of you will best
supply the place of old Antoine Breguet. Thirty years ago, (pardon an
old man’s vanity,) I could have borne away the palm from a hundred like
ye. But my sight is dim, and my hands tremble. I must retire from the
place I have occupied in this busy world; and I confess I should like to
give up my famous old stand to a worthy successor. Whichever of you
produces the most perfect piece of mechanism before the end of two years
shall be my partner and representative, if Rosabella and I both agree in
the decision.”
The grand-daughter, who was busily spinning flax, looked up bashfully,
and met the glance of the two young men. The countenance of one flushed,
and his eye sparkled; the other turned very pale, and there was a
painfully deep intensity in his fixed gaze.
The one who blushed was Florien Arnaud, a youth from the French
Cantons. He was slender and graceful in figure, with beautiful features,
clear blue eyes, and a complexion fresh as Hylas, when the enamored
water-nymphs carried him away in their arms. He danced like a zephyr,
and sang little airy French romanzas in the sweetest of tenor voices.
The one who turned pale was Pierre Berthoud, of Geneva. He had massy
features, a bulky frame, and clumsy motions. But the shape of his head
indicated powerful intellect, and his great dark eyes glowed from under
the pent-house of his brows, like a forge at midnight. He played on the
bass-viol and the trombone, and when he sang, the tones sounded as if
they came up from deep iron mines.
Rosabella turned quickly away from their expressive glances, and
blushing deeply resumed her spinning. The Frenchman felt certain the
blush was for him; the Genevan thought he would willingly give his life
to be sure it was for _him_. But unlike as the young men were in person
and character, and both attracted toward the same lovely maiden, they
were yet extremely friendly to each other, and usually found enjoyment
in the harmonious contrast of their different gifts. The first feeling
of estrangement that came between them was one evening, when Florien
sang remarkably well, and Rosabella accompanied him on her guitar. She
evidently enjoyed the graceful music with all her soul. Her countenance
was more radiantly beautiful than usual, and when the fascinating
singer rose to go, she begged him to sing another favorite song, and
then another and another. “She never urges _me_ to sing with her,” said
Pierre, as he and Florien retired for the night. “And with very good
reason,” replied his friend, laughing. “Your stentorian tones would
quite drown her weak sweet voice, and her light touch on the guitar. You
might as well have a hammer-and-anvil accompaniment to a Canary bird.”
Seeing discontent in the countenance of his companion, he added
soothingly, “Nay, my good friend, don’t be offended by this playful
comparison. Your voice is magnificently strong and beautifully correct,
but it is made for grander things than those graceful little garlands of
sound, which Rosabella and I weave so easily.”
Pierre sprang up quickly, and went to the other side of the room.
“Rosabella and I,” were sounds that went hissing through his heart, like
a red-hot arrow. But his manly efforts soon conquered the jealous
feeling, and he said cheerfully, “Well, Florien, let us accept the offer
of good Father Breguet. We will try our skill fairly and honorably, and
leave him and Rosabella to decide, without knowing which is your work
and which is mine.”
Florien suppressed a rising smile; for he thought to himself, “_She_
will know _my_ workmanship, as easily as she could distinguish my fairy
romanzas from your Samson solos.” But he replied, right cordially,
“Honestly and truly, Pierre, I think we are as mechanicians very nearly
equal in skill. But let us both tax our ingenuity to invent something
which will best please Rosabella, Her birth-day comes in about six
months. In honor of the occasion, I will make some ornaments for the
little arbor facing the brook, where she loves to sit, in pleasant
weather, and read to the good old grandfather.”
“I will do the same,” answered Pierre; “only let both our ornaments be
machines.” They clasped hands, and looking frankly into each other’s
eyes, ratified the agreement. From that hour, they spoke no more to each
other on the subject till the long-anticipated day arrived. The old
watch-maker and his grandchild were invited to the arbor, to pass
judgment on the productions of his pupils. A screen was placed before a
portion of the brook, and they sat quietly waiting for it to be removed.
“That duck is of a singular color,” exclaimed the young girl. “What a
solemn looking fellow he is!” The bird, without paying any attention to
her remarks, waddled into the water, drank, lifted up his bill to the
sky, as if giving thanks for his refreshment, flapped his wings, floated
to the edge of the brook, and waddled on the grass again. When Father
Breguet threw some crumbs of cake on the ground, the duck picked them up
with apparent satisfaction. He was about to scatter more crumbs, when
Rosabella exclaimed, “Why, grandfather, this is not a duck! It is made
of bronze. See how well it is done.”
The old man took it up and examined it. “Really, I do not think any
thing could be more perfect than this,” he said. “How exquisitely the
feathers are carved! and truly the creature seems alive. He who beats
this must be a skilful mechanician.”
At these words, Pierre and Florien stepped forward, hand in hand, and
bowing to their master, removed the temporary screen. On a black marble
pedestal in the brook was seated a bronze Naiad, leaning on an
overflowing vase. The figure was inexpressibly graceful; a silver star
with brilliant points gleamed on her forehead, and in her hand she held
a silver bell, beautifully inlaid with gold and steel. There was a smile
about her mouth, and she leaned over, as if watching for something in a
little cascade which flowed down a channel in the pedestal. Presently,
she raised her hand and sounded the bell. A beautiful little gold fish
obeyed the summons, and glided down the channel, his burnished sides
glittering in the sun. Eleven times more she rang the bell, and each
time the gold fish darted forth. It was exactly noon, and the
water-nymph was a clock.
The watch-maker and his daughter were silent. It was so beautiful, that
they could not easily find words to express their pleasure. “You need
not speak, my master,” said Pierre, in a manly but sorrowful tone; “I
myself decide in favor of Florien. The clock is his.”
“The interior workmanship is not yet examined,” rejoined his amiable
competitor. “There is not a better mechanician in all Switzerland, than
Pierre Berthoud.”
“Ah, but you know how to invest equally good workmanship with grace and
beauty,” replied the more heavily moulded Genevan.
“Study the Graces, my boy; make yourself familiar with models of
beauty,” said old Antoine Breguet, laying a friendly hand upon the young
man’s shoulder.
“I should but imitate, and he creates,” answered Pierre, despondingly;
“and worst of all, my good master, I hate myself because I envy him.”
“But you have many and noble gifts, Pierre,” said Rosabella, gently.
“You know how delightfully very different instruments combine in
harmony. Grandfather says your workmanship will be far more durable than
Florien’s. Perhaps you may both be his partners.”
“But which of us will be _thine_?” thought Pierre. He smothered a deep
sigh, and only answered, “I thank you, Rosabella.”
Well aware that these envious feelings were unworthy of a noble soul, he
contended with them bravely, and treated Florien even more cordially
than usual. “I will follow our good master’s advice,” said he; “I will
try to clothe my good machinery in forms of beauty. Let us both make a
watch for Rosabella, and present it to her on her next birth-day. You
will rival me, no doubt; for the Graces threw their garlands on you
when you were born.” “Bravo!” shouted Florien, laughing and clapping his
hands. “The poetry is kindling up in your soul. I always told you that
you would be a poet, if you could only express what was in you.”
“And your soul expresses itself _so_ easily, _so_ fluently!” said
Pierre, with a sigh.
“Because my springs lie so near the surface, and yours have depths to
come from,” replied his good-natured companion.
“The worst of it is, the cord is apt to break before I can draw up my
weighty treasures,” rejoined Pierre, with a smile. “There is no help for
it. There will always be the same difference between us, that there is
in our names. I am a rock, and you are a flower. I might be hewed and
chiselled into harmonious proportions; but you grow into beauty.”
“Then be a rock, and a magnificent one,” replied his friend, “and let
the flower grow at your feet.”
“That sounds modestly and well,” answered Pierre; “but I wish to be a
flower, because----”
“Because what?” inquired Florien, though he half guessed the secret,
from his embarrassed manner.
“Because I think Rosabella likes flowers better than rocks,” replied
Pierre, with uncommon quickness, as if the words gave him pain.
On New Year’s day, the offerings, enclosed in one box, were presented by
the good grandfather. The first was a golden apple, which opened and
revealed on one side an exquisitely neat watch, surrounded by a garland
tastefully wrought in rich damaskeening of steel and gold; on the other
side was a rose intertwined with forget-me-nots, very perfectly done in
mosaic. When the stem of the apple was turned, a favourite little tune
of Rosabella’s sounded from within.
“This is surely Florien’s,” thought she; and she looked for the other
gift with less interest. It was an elegant little gold watch, with a
Persian landscape, a gazelle and birds of Paradise beautifully engraved
on the back. When a spring was touched, the watch opened, a little
circular plate of gold slid away, and up came a beautiful rose, round
which a jewelled bee buzzed audibly. On the edge of the golden circle
below were the words _Rosa bella_ in ultramarine enamel. When another
spring was touched, the rose went away, and the same melody that sounded
from the heart of the golden apple seemed to be played by fairies on
tinkling dew-drops. It paused a moment, and then struck up a lively
dance. The circular plate again rolled away, and up sprung an inch-tall
opera-dancer, with enamelled scarf, and a very small diamond on her
brow. Leaping and whirling on an almost invisible thread of gold, she
kept perfect time to the music, and turned her scarf most gracefully.
Rosabella drew a long breath, and a roseate tinge mantled her beautiful
face, as she met her grandfather’s gaze fixed lovingly upon her. She
thought to herself, “There is no doubt now which is Florien’s;” but she
said aloud, “They are both very beautiful; are they not, dear
grandfather? I am not worthy that so much pains should be taken to
please me.” The old man smiled upon her, and fondly patted the luxuriant
brown hair, which shone like threads of amber in the sun. “Which dost
thou think _most_ beautiful?” said he.
She evaded the question, by asking, “Which do _you_?”
“I will tell thee when thou hast decided,” answered he.
She twisted and untwisted the strings of her boddice, and said she was
afraid she should not be impartial. “Why not?” he inquired. She looked
down bashfully, and murmured, in a very low voice, “Because I can easily
guess which is Florien’s.”
“Ah, ha,” exclaimed the kind old man; and he playfully chucked her under
the chin, as he added, “Then I suppose I shall offend thee when I give a
verdict for the bee and the opera-dancer?”
She looked up blushing, and her large serious brown eyes had for a
moment a comic expression, as she said, “I shall do the same.”
Never were disciples of the beautiful placed in circumstances more
favourable to the development of poetic souls. The cottage of Antoine
Breguet was
“In a glade,
Where the sun harbours; and one side of it
Listens to bees, another to a brook.
Lovers, that have just parted for the night,
Dream of such spots when they have said their prayers;
Or some tired parent, holding by the hand
A child, and walking toward the setting sun.”
In the stillness of the night, they could hear the “rushing of the
arrowy Rhone.” From a neighbouring eminence could be seen the
transparent Lake of Geneva, reflecting the deep blue heaven above.
Mountains, in all fantastic forms, enclosed them round; now draped in
heavy masses of sombre clouds, and now half revealed through sun-lighted
vapour, like a veil of gold. The flowing silver of little waterfalls
gleamed among the dark rocks. Grape-vines hung their rich festoons by
the roadside, and the beautiful barberry bush embroidered their leaves
with its scarlet clusters. They lived under the same roof with a
guileless good old man, and with an innocent maiden, just merging into
beautiful womanhood; and more than all, they were both under the
influence of that great inspirer, Love.
Rosabella was so uniformly kind to both, that Pierre could never
relinquish the hope that constant devotedness might in time win her
affections for himself. Florien, having a more cheerful character, and
more reliance on his own fascinations, was merely anxious that the
lovely maiden should prefer his workmanship, as decidedly as she did
his person and manners. Under this powerful stimulus, in addition to the
ambition excited by the old watch-maker’s proposal, the competition
between them was active and incessant. But the groundwork of their
characters was so good, that all little heart-burnings of envy or
jealousy were quickly checked by the predominance of generous and kindly
sentiments.
One evening, Rosabella was reading to her grandfather a description of
an albino squirrel. The pure white animal, with pink eyes and a feathery
tail, pleased her fancy extremely, and she expressed a strong desire to
see one. Pierre said nothing; but not long after, as they sat eating
grapes after dinner, a white squirrel leaped on the table, frisked from
shoulder to shoulder, and at last sat up with a grape in its paws.
Rosabella uttered an exclamation of delight. “Is it alive?” she said.
“Do you not see that it is?” rejoined Pierre. “Call the dog, and see
what he thinks about it.”
“We have so many things here, which are alive and yet not alive,” she
replied, smiling.
Florien warmly praised the pretty automaton; but he was somewhat vexed
that he himself did not think of making the graceful little animal for
which the maiden had expressed a wish. Her pet Canary had died the day
before, and his eye happened to rest on the empty cage hanging over the
flower-stand. “I too will give her a pleasure,” thought he. A few weeks
after, as they sat at breakfast, sweet notes were heard from the cage,
precisely the same the Canary used to sing; and, looking up, the
astonished maiden saw him hopping about, nibbling at the sugar and
pecking his feathers, as lively as ever. Florien smiled, and said, “Is
it as much alive as Pierre’s squirrel?”
The approach of the next birth-day was watched with eager expectation;
for even the old man began to feel keen pleasure in the competition, as
if he had witnessed a race between fleet horses. Pierre, excited by the
maiden’s declaration that she mistook his golden apple for Florien’s
workmanship, produced a much more elegant specimen of art than he had
ever before conceived. It was a barometer, supported by two knights in
silver chain-armour, who went in when it rained, and came out when the
sun shone. On the top of the barometer was a small silver basket, of
exceedingly delicate workmanship, filled with such flowers as close in
damp weather. When the knights retired, these flowers closed their
enamelled petals, and when the knights returned, the flowers expanded.