child, who caused homemade rainbows to flicker over the father’s poem,
lay very ill, and the anxious parents feared that this beautiful vision
of innocence might soon pass away from the earth. The shadows of a
Madeira-vine now and then waved across the window, and the chamber was
filled with the delicate perfume of its blossoms. No sound broke the
Sabbath stillness, except the little bird in the Althea bush, whose
tones were sad as the voice of memory. The child heard it, and sighed
unconsciously, as he put his little feverish hand within his mother’s,
and said, “Please sing me a hymn, dear mother.” With a soft, clear
voice, subdued by her depth of feeling, she sang Schubert’s Ave Maria.
Manifold and wonderful are the intertwining influences in the world of
spirits! What was it that touched the little bird’s heart, and uttered
itself in such plaintive cadences? They made the child sigh for a hymn;
and bird and child together woke Schubert’s prayerful echoes in the
mother’s bosom. And now from the soul of the composer in that far-off
German land, the spirit of devotion comes to the father, wafted on the
wings of that beautiful music. Ernest bowed his head reverently, and
sank kneeling by the bed-side. While he listened thus, Touchu glided
softly into his bosom and laid her wand upon his heart. When the sweet
beseeching melody had ceased, Ernest pressed the hand of the singer to
his lip, and remained awhile in silence. Then the strong necessity of
supplication came over him, and he poured forth an ardent prayer. With
fervid eloquence, he implored for themselves an humble and resigned
spirit, and for their little one, that, living or dying, good angels
might ever carry him in their protecting arms. As they rose up, his wife
leaned her head upon his shoulder, and with tearful eyes whispered:
“God help us, this and every day,
_To live_ more nearly as we _pray_.”
* * * * *
That same morning, Alfred rode to church in his carriage, and a servant
waited with the horses, till he had performed his periodical routine of
worship. Many-coloured hues from the richly-stained windows of the
church glanced on wall and pillar, and imparted to silk and broadcloth
the metallic lustre of a peacock’s plumage. Gorgeous in crimson mantle,
with a topaz glory round his head, shone the meek son of Joseph the
carpenter; and his humble fishermen of Galilee were refulgent in robes
of purple and gold. The fine haze of dust, on which the sunbeams fell,
gleamed with a quivering prismatic reflection of their splendour. From
the choir descended the heavenly tones of Schubert’s Ave Maria. They
flowed into Alfred’s ear, but no Touchu was with him to lay her wand
upon his heart. To a visitor, who sat in his cushioned pew, he whispered
that they paid the highest price for their music, and had the best that
money could command. The sermon urged the necessity of providing some
religious instruction for the poor; for otherwise there could be no
security to property against robbery and fire. Alfred resolved within
himself to get up a subscription immediately for that purpose, and to
give twice as much as Mr. Duncan, whatever the sum might be. Utouch, who
had secretly suggested the thing to him, turned somersaults on the
gilded prayer-book, and twisted diabolical grimaces. But Alfred did not
see him; nor did he hear a laugh under the carriage, when, as they
rolled home, he said to his wife, “My dear, why didn’t you wear your
embroidered shawl? I told you we were to have strangers in the pew. In
so handsome a church, people expect to see the congregation elegantly
dressed, you know.”
But though Utouch was a mocking spirit, Alfred could not complain that
he had been untrue to his bargain. He had promised to bestow any thing
he craved from his kingdom of the outward. He had asked for honour in
the church, influence at the exchange, a rich handsome wife, and superb
horses. He had them all. Whose fault was it, that he was continually
looking round anxiously to observe whether _others_ had more of the
goods he coveted? He had wished for a luxurious table, and it stood
covered with the rarest dainties of the world. But with a constrained
smile he said to his guests, “Is it not provoking to be surrounded with
luxuries I cannot eat? That pie-crust would torment my sleep with a
legion of nightmares. It is true, I do not crave it much; for I sit at a
loaded table ‘half-famished for an appetite,’ as the witty Madame de
Sevigné used to say. Again and again, he asked himself, why all the
fruit that seemed so ripe and tempting on the outside was always dry and
dusty within. And if he was puzzled to understand why he _seemed_ to
have all things, and yet really _had_ nothing, still more was he puzzled
to explain how Ernest _seemed_ to have so little, and yet in reality
possessed _all_ things. One evening, at a concert, he happened to sit
near Ernest and his wife, while they listened to the beautiful Symphony
by Spohr, called the Consecration of the Tones. Delighted as children
were they, when they began to hear the winds murmur through the music,
the insects pipe, and one little bird after another chirp his notes of
gladness. How expressively they looked at each other, during the tender
lulling Cradle-Song! and how the expression of their faces brightened
and softened, as the enchanting tones passed through the lively allegro
of the Dance, into the exquisite melody of the Serenade! But when
Cradle-Song, Dance, and Serenade all moved forward together in
delightful harmony, a three-fold chord of lovely melodies, the
transparent countenance of Ernest became luminous with his inward joy.
It was evident that Touchu had again laid her thrilling wand upon his
heart.
“How the deuce does he contrive always to delight himself?” thought
Alfred. “I wonder whether the music really _is_ any thing uncommon.”
In order to ascertain, he turned from Ernest to watch the countenance of
a musical critic near by; one of those unfortunate men, who enjoy music
as the proof-reader enjoys the poetry he corrects in a printing-office.
How can a beautiful metaphor please him, while he sees a comma
topsy-turvy, or a period out of place? How can he be charmed by the
melodious flow of the verse, while he is dotting an i, or looking out
for an inverted s? The critic seemed less attentive to his business than
the proof-reader; for he was looking round and whispering, apparently
unconscious that sweet sounds filled the air. Nevertheless, Utouch
whispered to Alfred that the critic was the man to inform him whether he
_ought_ to be delighted with the music, or not. So, at the close of the
Symphony, he spoke to him, and took occasion to say, “I invited a French
amateur to come here this evening, in hopes he would receive a
favourable impression of the state of music in America. You are an
excellent judge of such matters. Do you think he will be satisfied with
the performance?”
“He may be _pleased_, sir, but not _satisfied_,” replied the critic.
“The composition is a very fine one, but he has doubtless heard it in
Paris; and until you have heard a French orchestra, sir, you can have no
conception of music. Their accuracy in rhythmical time, amounts to
absolute perfection.”
“And do you think the orchestra have played well to-night?”
“Tolerably well, sir. But in the Cradle-Song the clarionet lagged a
little, once or twice; and the effect of the Serenade was injured,
because the violoncello was tuned one-sixteenth of a note too low.”
Alfred bowed, and went away congratulating himself that he had not been
more delighted than was proper.
The alleged impossibility of having any conception of music unless he
went to Europe, renewed a wish he had long indulged. He closed his
magnificent house, and went forth to make the fashionable tour. Ernest
was a painter, as well as a poet; and it chanced that they met in Italy.
Alfred seemed glad to see the friend of his childhood; but he soon
turned from cheerful things, to tell how vexed he was about a statue he
had purchased. “I gave a great price for it,” said he, “thinking it was
a real antique; but good judges now assure me that it is a modern work.
It is so annoying to waste one’s money!”
“But if it be really beautiful, and pleases you, the money is _not_
wasted,” replied Ernest; “though it certainly is not agreeable to be
cheated. Look at this ivory head to my cane! It is a bust of Hebe, which
I bought for a trifle, yesterday. But small as is the market value, its
beauty is a perpetual delight to me. If it be not an antique, it
deserves to be. It troubles me that I cannot find the artist, and pay
him more than I gave for it. Perhaps he is poor, and has not yet made a
name for himself; but whoever he may be, a spark of the divine fire is
certainly in him. Observe the beautiful swell of the breast, and the
graceful turn of the head!”
“Yes, it is a pretty thing,” rejoined Alfred, half contemptously. “But I
am too much vexed with that knave who sold me the statue, to go into
raptures about the head of a cane just now. What makes it more provoking
is, that Mr. Duncan purchased a _real_ antique last year, for less money
than I threw away on this modern thing.”
Having in vain tried to impart his own sunny humour, Ernest bade him
adieu, and returned to his humble lodgings, out of the city. As he
lingered in the orange-groves, listening to the nightingales, he thought
to himself, “I wish that charming little fairy, who came to me in my
boyish dream, would touch Alfred with her wand; for the purse the old
gnome gave him seems to bring him little joy.” He happened to look up
at the moment, and there, close by his hand, was Touchu balancing
herself tip-toe on an orange-bud. She had the same luminous, loving
eyes, the same prismatic robe, and the same sunny gleam on her hair. She
smiled as she said, “Then you do not repent your early choice, though I
could not give you a purse full of money?”
“Oh, no indeed,” replied he. “Thou hast been the brightest blessing of
my life.”
She kissed his eyes, and, waving her wand over him, said affectionately,
“Take then the best gift I have to offer. When thou art an old man, thou
shalt still remain, to the last, a simple, happy child.”
THE BROTHER AND SISTER.
But show me, on thy flowery breast,
Earth, where thy _nameless_ martyrs rest!
The thousands, who, uncheered by praise,
Have made one offering of their days.
MRS. HEMANS.
“Hurra!” exclaimed John Golding to his sister Esther. “See what Mr.
Brown has bought with Biddy’s eggs!”
The boy’s eyes sparkled, and his hands trembled with delight, while
Esther’s more serious countenance lighted up with a quick smile.
The treasure John exhibited with such exultation, was a worn copy of
Goldsmith’s Manners and Customs. The title-page declared that it was
_adorned_ with plates; but readers accustomed to the present more
beautiful style of publishing would have been slow to admit that the
straight, lank figures, daubed with engraver’s ink, were any ornament to
the volumes. To the unpractised eyes of John and his sister, they were,
however, gems of Art; and the manner in which they were obtained greatly
increased their value. The children had received a cake and two little
chickens from a neighbour, in payment for picking cranberries. Never did
chickens give rise to such extensive speculations; not even the
imaginary brood of the famous milk-maid. The chickens would become hens,
and the hens would lay eggs, and Mr. Brown, who drove the market-wagon,
would sell the eggs, and there were ever so many books in Boston, and
who could guess what wonderful stories they would buy with their eggs?
The vision was realized in due time. The chickens did become hens, and
laid eggs; and Mr. Brown listened good-naturedly to John’s request to
sell them and buy “a book, that had pictures in it, and told about
countries a way off.” Goldsmith’s Manners and Customs came as the fruit
of these instructions, and was hailed with an outburst of joy.
Most boys would have chosen to buy marbles or a drum; but John’s
earliest passion had been for a book. The subtle influences which
organize temperaments and produce character, are not easily traced. His
intellectual activity certainly was not derived from either of his
parents; for they were mere healthy sluggish animals. But there was a
tradition in the neighbourhood, that his maternal grandmother was “an
extraordinary woman in her day; that few folks knew so much as she did;
and if her husband had been half as smart and calculating, they would
have been very fore-handed people!”
The children of the “extraordinary woman” inherited her husband’s inert
temperament, but her own energetic character re-appeared in her
grandchildren; and they had the good fortune to be born in New England
where the moral atmosphere stimulates intellect, and the stream of
knowledge flows free and full to all the people. Esther was as eager for
information, as her more vivacious brother; and though, as a woman, her
pathway of life was more obstructed, and all its growth more stinted,
she helped to lead him into broader avenues than she herself was allowed
to enter. Being two years older than he, it was her delight to teach him
the alphabet, as soon as he could speak; and great was her satisfaction
when he knew all the letters in her little, old primer, and could recite
the couplet that belonged to each. They conveyed no very distinct idea
to his mind, but Esther’s praise made him very vain of this
accomplishment. A dozen times a day, he shouted the whole twenty-four,
all in a row, and was quite out of breath when he arrived at:
“Zaccheus he
Did climb a tree,
His Lord to see!”
The mother, who was a kindly but dull woman, took little interest in
their childish scrambling after literature; but she sent them to the
town-school, for the sake of having them out of the way; and she was
somewhat proud that her children could “read joining-hand,” as she
called it, earlier than neighbours of the same age. One day, when the
minister of the village called, she told John to bring his book about
Manners and Customs, and let the minister hear how well they could read.
The good old man was much pleased with the bright boy and his
intelligent, motherly sister. When their mother told him the story of
the eggs, he patted them on the head and said: “That’s right, my
children. You can’t be too fond of your books. They are the best friends
in the world. If you ask them, they will tell you about every thing!”
This remark, uttered in a very serious tone, made a deep impression.
That evening, as brother and sister sat on the door-step, eating their
supper of bread and milk, the sun set bright and clear after a transient
shower, and a beautiful rainbow arched the entire heavens. “Oh, Esther,
look at that pretty rainbow!” exclaimed John. “Ah, see! see! now there
are two of ’em!” He gazed at the beautiful phenomenon with all his soul
in his eyes, and added: “As soon as we have eggs enough, we will get Mr.
Brown to buy a book that tells how rainbows are made, and where they
come from.” Esther replied, that she did wish the hens would lay three
eggs a day.
When the market-man was commissioned to purchase another volume, he
declared himself unable to find one that told where rainbows came from.
In lieu thereof, he brought Bruce’s Travels; and an unfailing source of
entertainment it proved. Thus month by month their little library
increased, and their intellectual craving grew fast by the food it fed
on. They gathered berries, picked chips, ran on errands, rose early, and
worked late, to accumulate sixpences.
When this is done merely to obtain animal indulgences, or for the sake
of possessing more than others, there is something degrading in the
servile process; but when the object is pursuit of knowledge for its own
sake, all creeping things become winged. Beautiful it is to see human
souls thus struggling with poverty and toil, sustained only by those
ministering angels, Hope and Faith! Those who have life enough to
struggle thus, are all the stronger for the contest. For the vigorous
intellect it is better to be so placed than to be born in palaces. Jean
Paul says truly: “Wealth bears far heavier on talent than poverty. Under
gold mountains and thrones, who knows how many a spiritual giant may lie
crushed down and buried?”
Esther and her brother were troubled with no ambitious conjectures
whether or not they could ever become spiritual giants; they simply felt
that the acquisition of knowledge was present delight. They thought
little of hats and shoes, till father and mother said these must be
bought with a portion of their wages; but after that, they were doubly
careful of their hats, and often carried their shoes in their hands.
Thus were they, in their unconscious earnestness, living according to
laws which highest reason would prescribe for the whole social fabric.
They worked industriously at manual labor, but always with a spiritual
end in view; and that spiritual end was their own chosen recreation.
They practised the most careful economy, but it was neither mean nor
painful, because it was for a noble use, not for the mere sake of
accumulation.
Though the poor parents were obliged to appropriate a portion of the
children’s juvenile earnings, there was one little fund that was
entirely their own. The two chickens had a progeny of chickens, and
these, in process of time, likewise laid eggs. John picked up every
stray grain of oats he could find, because he had heard it was a good
kind of food to increase eggs; and busy little Esther saved all the
oyster shells she could find, to pound for the hens in winter, when
there was no gravel to furnish material for the shells. The cackling of
a hen was to them an important event. Esther smiled at her knitting as
she heard it, and John, as he plucked the weeds, raised up his head to
listen. Hens have been often laughed at for proclaiming all abroad that
another egg is in the world; but John’s brood had a right to crow over
their mission. Cackle away to thy heart’s content, thou brown little
feather-top! Never mind their jibes and jeers! Thy human superiors often
become world-famous by simply obeying an impulse, which, unconsciously
to themselves, evolves extensive and progressive good; and thou art not
the first prattling egotist, who has worked for far higher results than
he had the ability to comprehend. Let him who laughs at thy cackling,
measure, if he can, what share thy new-laid egg may have in changing the
destiny of man! It will aid in the culture of a human soul. It will help
to develop and stimulate individual thought. And if generously aimed and
fearlessly uttered, may not that individual thought pervade and modify
the entire opinion of society? And is not law the mere record of
aggregate opinion?
Truly the cackling hen brought no such thoughts to simple Esther and her
brother John. To them it merely announced that another egg was laid, and
thereby another cent gained toward the purchase of a new book. They
talked the stories over by the light of the moon, or recited to each
other favorite passages from Burns and Bloomfield. When the
field-labourers took their noon-day rest, you would be sure to find John
hidden away in the shade of a haystack, devouring a book. His zeal
attracted the minister’s attention, and he often stopped to talk with
him. One day, he said to the mother, “This boy will make something
extraordinary. He must get an education. He must go to college, ma’am.”
“Bless my heart, I might as well think of sending him to the moon!” she
replied.
But Esther heard it with a quick blush of pleasure and pride; and
henceforth the one absorbing thought of her life was how to assist in
sending John to college. Busily she calculated how much could be earned
in two years by knitting, and binding shoes, and braiding straw. John
listened with rapture to her plans, but his triumph was checked midway
by the recollection that his sister could not go to college with him.
“Why, Esther, you have always been my teacher,” he said. “You learn
faster than I do, and you remember better. Why don’t _women_ go to
college?”
“They couldn’t be lawyers, and ministers, and judges, if they _did_,”
answered Esther.
“Why not?” said John.
Esther’s knowledge and reflection on the subject stopped there, and she
simply replied that women never _had_ done such things.
“Why, yes, they have,” said John. “The Bible says that Deborah was a
judge; and Queen Elizabeth was more than a judge; and we read the other
day that Isabella of Spain knew how to direct an army, and govern the
state, better than her husband, King Ferdinand. I am sure I don’t see
why women _shouldn’t_ go to college.”
The boy, in the eagerness of brotherly love, had started ideas which he
was too ignorant to follow. But in his simple question lies the germ of
thoughts that will revolutionize the world. For as surely as there is a
God of harmony in the universe, so surely will woman one day become the
acknowledged equal and co-worker of man, in _every_ department of life;
and yet be more truly gentle and affectionate than she now is.
But Esther was too young to reflect on such matters. She loved her
brother, and she wanted him to go to college; and with unquestioning
diligence she applied her faculties to the purpose, in every way that
was left open for her. She scarcely allowed herself time to eat and
sleep, and grudged herself every article of apparel, so zealous was her
sisterly love. Poor girl! there was no one to teach her the physical
laws, and she knew not that toiling thus perpetually, without exercise
for the body, or recreation for the mind, was slow suicide. Month after
month she laboured, and seldom spoke of pains in her side, and confused
feelings in her head. Even her favourite luxury of reading was almost
entirely relinquished; and John had little leisure to read to her such
books as were entertaining. The minister had offered to hear him recite
Latin and Greek once a week, and he was too busy with the classics, to
have time for Voyages and Travels. He often repeated his lessons to his
sister, and from his bald translations she here and there gleaned a few
ideas; but this kind of mental effort was little profitable, and less
enlivening. Blessed Nature stood ever ready to refresh and strengthen
her. The golden dandelion blossoms smiled brightly in her face, and the
trees stretched their friendly arms over her in blessing; but she had
no time to listen to their kind voices. It would have been difficult to
lure her aside from her arduous path, even if she had known that it
would lead to an open tomb.
When an object is pursued with such concentrated aim and persevering
effort, it is almost always attained. John taught school in the winters,
and worked at whatever his hand could find to do in the summers. Esther
hoarded all her earnings, to add to the Education Fund, as they called
it: and their good friend the minister borrowed a hundred dollars for
them, to be repaid according to their own convenience. At last, the
darling hope of many years was realized. John went to college, and soon
ranked among the best scholars of his class. His sister still toiled,
that he might have a sufficiency of books and clothing. He studied hard,
and taught school during college vacations, and returned home at the end
of four years, attenuated almost to a skeleton.
The new milk and cheese-whey, the breath of the cows, and the verdure of
the fields, refreshed him, and in some degree restored his exhausted
strength. But now he was fretted with the question, what to do with the
education he had acquired with so much hardship. An additional
expenditure of time and money was required to fit him for either of the
professions. He was not stimulated by any strong preference for either
of them, and his generous soul resisted the idea of taxing his sister’s
strength any further for his own advantage. The old question of his
boyhood returned with additional force. Why should she, with her noble
nature and admirable faculties, be forever penned up within the small
routine of petty cares, and mere mechanical efforts? Why should she not
share his destiny, and enjoy with him a more expansive atmosphere for
soul and body? To this end he resolved to labour. He would earn money by
the readiest means that offered, and devote his earnings to her
improvement. But Esther said, “If you educate me, dear John, what can I
_do_ with my education? I can do nothing but teach school; and for that
I am sure my health is not adequate. The doctor says I must take as much
exercise as possible.”
“The doctor!” exclaimed John. “Why, Esther, you never told me you had
been ill enough to consult a physician.”
“It is merely a slight difficulty in my lungs,” she replied. “I am going
to spin on the great wheel this winter; and I think that will cure me.
Do not trouble your kind heart about me, my dear John. While I have any
health and strength, I will never consent to be a burden upon you,
however much you may urge it. I do not believe that sisters ought to
depend on brothers for support. I am sure it is far better for the
characters of women to rely on their own energies. But sometimes I
think we have not a fair chance in the world. I often wish, as you do,
that it was easy for us to obtain a more liberal education, and
customary to use that education in a freer scope for all our faculties.
But never mind, dear brother, the door of _your_ cage is open, and the
world is all before you. Go where you will, I know you will never forget
the sister, who loves you so dearly. You are destined to go far ahead of
me in life; but your good heart will never allow you to be ashamed of
your poor untutored Esther.”