His fellowship lost, he came, ruinously humbled, to live in this

District, at first under compulsion to take pupils, whom, of course, he

could not manage. On the death of his mother, an annuity was purchased

for him, and paid quarterly, to keep him out of debt, if possible. He

could not take care of money, and he was often hungry, and often begged

the loan of a sixpence; and when the publicans made him welcome to what

he pleased to have, in consideration of the company he brought together,

to hear his wonderful talk, his wit, and his dreams, he was helpless in

the snare. We must remember that he was a fine scholar, as well as a

dreamer and a humorist; and there was no order of intellect, from the

sage to the peasant, which could resist the charm of his discourse. He

had taken his degree with high distinction at Oxford; and yet the old

Westmoreland "statesman," who, offered whiskey and water, accepts the

one and says the other can be had anywhere, would sit long to hear what

Hartley had to tell of what he had seen or dreamed. At gentlemen's

tables, it was a chance how he might talk,--sublimely, sweetly, or with

a want of tact which made sad confusion. In the midst of the great

black-frost at the close of 1848, he was at a small dinner-party at

the house of a widow lady, about four miles from his lodgings. During

dinner, some scandal was talked about some friends of his to whom he

was warmly attached. He became excited on their behalf,--took Champagne

before he had eaten enough, and, before the ladies left the table, was

no longer master of himself. His host, a very young man, permitted some

practical joking: brandy was ordered, and given to the unconscious

Hartley; and by eleven o'clock he was clearly unfit to walk home alone.

His hostess sent her footman with him, to see him home. The man took him

through Ambleside, and then left him to find his way for the other two

miles. The cold was as severe as any ever known in this climate; and it

was six in the morning when his landlady heard some noise in the porch,

and found Hartley stumbling in. She put him to bed, put hot bricks to

his feet, and tried all the proper means; and in the middle of the day

he insisted on getting up and going out. He called at the house of a

friend, Dr. S----, near Ambleside. The kind physician scolded him for

coming out, sent for a carriage, took him home, and put him to bed. He

never rose again, but died on the 6th of January, 1849. The young host

and the old hostess have followed him, after deeply deploring that

unhappy day.

It was sweet, as well as sorrowful, to see how he was mourned.

Everybody, from his old landlady, who cared for him like a mother, to

the infant-school children, missed Hartley Coleridge. I went to his

funeral at Grasmere. The rapid Rotha rippled and dashed over the stones

beside the churchyard; the yews rose dark from the faded grass of the

graves; and in mighty contrast to both, Helvellyn stood, in wintry

silence, and sheeted with spotless snow. Among the mourners Wordsworth

was conspicuous, with his white hair and patriarchal aspect. He had

no cause for painful emotions on his own account; for he had been a

faithful friend to the doomed victim who was now beyond the reach of his

tempters. While there was any hope that stern remonstrance might rouse

the feeble will and strengthen the suffering conscience to relieve

itself, such remonstrance was pressed; and when the case was past hope,

Wordsworth's door was ever open to his old friend's son. Wordsworth

could stand by that open grave without a misgiving about his own share

in the scene which was here closing; and calm and simply grave he

looked. He might mourn over the life; but he could scarcely grieve at

the death. The grave was close behind the family group of the Wordsworth

tombs. It shows, above the name and dates, a sculptured crown of thorns

and Greek cross, with the legend, "By thy Cross and Passion, Good Lord,

deliver me!"

One had come and gone meantime who was as express a contrast to Hartley

Coleridge as could be imagined,--a man of energy, activity, stern

self-discipline, and singular strength of will. Such a cast of character

was an inexplicable puzzle to poor Hartley. He showed this by giving his

impression of another person of the same general mode of life,--that

A.B. was "a monomaniac about everything." It was to rest a hard-worked

mind and body, and to satisfy a genuine need of his nature, that Dr.

Arnold came here from Rugby with his family,--first, to lodgings for an

occasional holiday, and afterwards to a house of his own, at Christmas

and Midsummer, and with the intention of living permanently at Fox How,

when he should give up his work at Rugby.

He was first at a house at the foot of Rydal Mount, at Christmas, 1831,

"with the road on one side of the garden, and the Rotha on the other,

which goes brawling away under our windows with its perpetual music. The

higher mountains that bound our view are all snow-capped; but it is all

snug, and warm, and green in the valley. Nowhere on earth have I ever

seen a spot of more perfect and enjoyable beauty, with not a single

object out of tune with it, look which way I will." He built Fox How,

two or three years later, and at once began his course of hospitality by

having lads of the sixth form as his guests,--not for purposes of study,

but of recreation, and, yet more, to give them that element of education

which consists in familiarity with the noblest natural scenery. The hue

and cry which arose when he showed himself a reformer, in Church matters

as in politics, followed him here, as we see by his letters; and it was

not till his "Life and Correspondence" appeared that his neighbors here

understood him. It has always been difficult, perhaps, for them to

understand anything modern, or at all vivacious. Everybody respected Dr.

Arnold for his energy and industry, his services to education, and his

devotedness to human welfare; but they were afraid of his supposed

opinions. Not the less heartily did he honor everything that was

admirable in them; and when he was gone, they remembered his ways, and

cherished every trace of him, in a manner which showed how they would

have made much of him, if their own timid prejudices had not stood in

the way. They point out to this day the spot where they saw him stand,

without his hat, on Rotha bridge, watching the gush of the river

under the wooded bank, or gazing into the basin of vapors within the

_cul-de-sac_ of Fairfield,--the same view which he looked on from his

study, as he sat on his sofa, surrounded by books. The neighbors show

the little pier at Waterhead whence he watched the morning or the

evening light on the lake, the place where he bathed, and the tracks in

the mountains which led to his favorite ridges. Everybody has read his

"Life and Correspondence," and therefore knows what his mode of life was

here, and how great was his enjoyment of it. We have all read of the

mountain-trips in summer, and the skating on Rydal Lake in winter,--and

how his train of children enjoyed everything with him, as far as they

could. It was but for a few years; and the time never came for him to

retire hither from Rugby. In June, 1842, he had completed his fourteenth

year at Rugby, and was particularly in need, under some harassing cares,

of the solace and repose which a few hours more would have brought him,

when he was cut off by an illness of two hours. On the day when he was

to have been returning to Fox How, some of his children were travelling

thence to his funeral. His biographer tells us how strong was the

consternation at Rugby, when the tidings spread on that Sunday morning,

"Dr. Arnold is dead." Not slight was the emotion throughout this valley,

when the news passed from house to house, the next day. As I write, I

see the windows which were closed that day, and the trees round the

house,--so grown up since he walked among them!--and the course of the

Rotha, which winds and ripples at the foot of his garden. I never saw

him, for I did not come here till two years after; but I have seen his

widow pass on into her honored old age, and his children part off into

their various homes, and their several callings in life,--to meet in

the beloved house at Fox How, at Christmas, and at many another time.

This leaves only Southey and the Wordsworths; and their ending was not

far off. The old poet had seen almost too much of these endings. One

day, when I found a stoppage in the road at the foot of Rydal Mount,

from a sale of furniture, such as is common in this neighborhood every

spring and autumn, I met Mr. Wordsworth,--not looking observant and

amused, but in his blackest mood of melancholy, and evidently wanting to

get out of the way. He said he did not like the sight: he had seen so

many of these sales; he had seen Southey's, not long before; and these

things reminded him how soon there must be a sale at Rydal Mount. It was

remarked by a third person that this was rather a wilful way of being

miserable; but I never saw a stronger love of life than there was in

them all, even so late in their day as this. Mrs. Wordsworth, then past

her three-score years and ten, observed to me that the worst of living

here was that it made one so unwilling to go. It seems but lately that

she said so; yet she nursed to their graves her daughter and her husband

and his sister, and she herself became blind; so that it was not hard

"to go," when the time came.

Southey's decline was painful to witness,--even as his beloved wife's

had been to himself. He never got over her loss; and his mind was

decidedly shaken before he made the second marriage which has been so

much talked over. One most touching scene there was when he had become

unconscious of all that was said and done around him. Mrs. Southey had

been careless of her own interests about money when she married him, and

had sought no protection for her own property. When there was manifestly

no hope of her husband's mind ever recovering, his brother assembled the

family and other witnesses, and showed them a kind of will which he had

drawn up, by which Mrs. Southey's property was returned to herself,

intact. He said they were all aware that their relative could not, in

his condition, make a will, and that he was even unaware of what they

were doing; but that it was right that they should, pledge themselves by

some overt act to fulfil what would certainly have been his wish. The

bowed head could not be raised, but the nerveless hand was guided to

sign the instrument; and all present agreed to respect it as if it

were a veritable will,--as of course they did. The decline was full of

painful circumstances; and it must have been with a heart full of sorrow

that Wordsworth walked over the hills to attend the funeral.

The next funeral was that of his own daughter Dora,--Mrs. Quillinan. A

story has got about, as untrue as it is disagreeable, that Dora lost

her health from her father's opposition to her marriage, and that

Wordsworth's excessive grief after her death was owing to remorse. I can

myself testify to her health having been very good for a considerable

interval between that difficulty and her last illness; and this is

enough, of itself, to dispose of the story. Her parents considered

the marriage an imprudent one; but after securing sufficient time for

consideration, they said that she must judge for herself; and there were

fine qualities in Mr. Quillinan which could not but win their affection

and substantial regard. His first wife, a friend of Dora Wordsworth's,

was carried out of the house in which she had just been confined, from

fire in the middle of the night; she died from the shock; and she died

recommending her husband and her friend to marry. Such is the understood

history of the case. After much delay they did marry, and lived near

Rydal Mount, where Dora was, as always, the light of the house, as long

as she could go to it. But, after a long and painful decline, she died

in 1847. Her husband followed soon after Wordsworth's death. He lies in

the family corner of Grasmere churchyard, between his two wives. This

appeared to be the place reserved for Mrs. Wordsworth, so that Dora

would lie between her parents. There seemed now to be no room left for

the solitary survivor, and many wondered what would be done; but all had

been thought of. Wordsworth's grave had been made deep enough for two;

and there his widow now rests.

There was much vivid life in them, however clearly the end was

approaching, when I first knew them in 1845. The day after my arrival at

a friend's house, they called on me, excited by two kinds of interest.

Wordsworth had been extremely gratified by hearing, through a book of

mine, how his works were estimated by certain classes of readers in the

United States; and he and Mrs. Wordsworth were eager to learn facts and

opinions about mesmerism, by which I had just recovered from a

long illness, and which they hoped might avail in the case of a

daughter-in-law, then in a dying state abroad. After that day, I met

them frequently, and was at their house, when I could go. On occasion of

my first visit, I was struck by an incident which explained the ridicule

we have all heard thrown on the old poet for a self-esteem which he was

merely too simple to hide. Nothing could be easier than to make a quiz

of what he said to me; but to me it seemed delightful. As he at once

talked of his poems, I thought I might; and I observed that he might

be interested in knowing which of his poems had been Dr. Channing's

favorite. Seeing him really interested, I told him that I had not been

many hours under Dr. Channing's roof before he brought me "The Happy

Warrior," which, he said, moved him more than any other in the

whole series. Wordsworth remarked,--and repeated the remark very

earnestly,--that this was evidently applicable to the piece, "not as

a poem, not as fulfilling the conditions of poetry, but as a chain of

extremely valuable _thoughts_." Then he repeated emphatically,--"a chain

of extremely _valuable_ thoughts!" This was so true that it seemed as

natural for him to say it as Dr. Channing, or any one else.

It is indisputable that his mind and manners were hurt by the prominence

which his life at the Lakes--a life very public, under the name of

seclusion--gave, in his own eyes; to his own works and conversation; but

he was less absorbed in his own objects, less solemn, less severed from

ordinary men than is supposed, and has been given out by strangers, who,

to the number of eight hundred in a year, have been received by him with

a bow, asked to see the garden-terraces where he had meditated this and

that work, and dismissed with another bow, and good wishes for their

health and pleasure,--the host having, for the most part, not heard, or

not attended to, the name of his visitor. I have seen him receive in

that way a friend, a Commissioner of Education, whom I ventured to take

with me, (a thing I very rarely did,) and in the evening have had a

message asking if I knew how Mr. Wordsworth could obtain an interview

with this very gentleman, who was said to be in the neighborhood. All

this must be very bad for anybody; and so was the distinction of having

early chosen this District for a home. When I first came, I told my

friends here that I was alarmed for myself, when I saw the spirit of

insolence which seemed to possess the cultivated residents, who really

did virtually assume that the mountains and vales were somehow their

property, or at least a privilege appropriate to superior people

like themselves. Wordsworth's sonnets about the railway were a mild

expression of his feelings in this direction; and Mrs. Wordsworth,

in spite of her excellent sense, took up his song, and declared with

unusual warmth that green fields, with daisies and buttercups, were as

good for Lancashire operatives as our lakes and valleys. I proposed that

the people should judge of this for themselves; but there was no end to

ridicule of "the people from Birthwaite" (the end of the railway, five

miles off). Some had been seen getting their dinner in the churchyard,

and others inquiring how best to get up Loughrigg,--"evidently, quite

puzzled, and not knowing where to go." My reply, "that they would know

next time," was not at all sympathized in. The effect of this exclusive

temper was pernicious in the neighborhood. A petition to Parliament

against the railway was not brought to me, as it was well known that

I would not sign it; but some little girls undertook my case; and the

effect of their parroting of Mr. Wordsworth, about "ourselves" and "the

common people" who intrude upon us, was as sad as it was absurd. The

whole matter ended rather remarkably. When all were gone but Mrs.

Wordsworth, and she was blind, a friend who was as a daughter to her

remarked, one summer day, that there were some boys on the Mount in

the garden. "Ah!" said Mrs. Wordsworth, "there is no end to those

people;--boys from Birthwaite!--boys from Birthwaite!" It was the Prince

of Wales, with a companion or two.

The notion of Wordsworth's solemnity and sublimity, as something

unremitting, was a total mistake. It probably arose from the want of

proportion in his mind, as in his sister's, before referred to. But he

relished the common business of life, and not only could take in, but

originate a joke. I remember his quizzing a common friend of ours,--one

much esteemed by us all,--who had a wonderful ability of falling asleep

in an instant, when not talking. Mr. Wordsworth told me of the extreme

eagerness of this gentleman, Mrs. Wordsworth, and himself, to see the

view over Switzerland from the ridge of the Jura. Mrs. Wordsworth could

not walk so fast as the gentlemen, and her husband let the friend go on

by himself. When they arrived, a minute or two after him, they found him

sitting on a stone in face of all Switzerland, fast asleep. When Mr.

Wordsworth mimicked the sleep, with his head on one side, anybody

could have told whom he was quizzing.--He and Mrs. Wordsworth, but too

naturally impressed with the mischief of overwalking in the case of

women, took up a wholly mistaken notion that I walked too much. One day

I was returning from a circuit of ten miles with a guest, when we

met the Wordsworths. They asked where we had been. "By Red Bank to

Grasmere." Whereupon Mr. Wordsworth laid his hand on my guest's arm,

saying, "There, there! take care what you are about! don't let her lead

you about! I can tell you, she has killed off half the gentlemen in the

county!"--Mrs. Hemans tells us, that, before she had known him many

hours, she was saying to him, "Dear me, Mr. Wordsworth! how can you be

so giddy?"

His interest in common things never failed. It has been observed that

he and Mrs. Wordsworth did incalculable good by the example they

unconsciously set the neighborhood of respectable thrift. There are no

really poor people at Rydal, because the great lady at the Hall, Lady Le

Fleming, takes care that there shall be none,--at the expense of great

moral mischief. But there is a prevalent recklessness, grossness, and

mingled extravagance and discomfort in the family management, which, I

am told, was far worse when the Wordsworths came than it is now. Going

freely among the neighbors, and welcoming and helping them familiarly,

the Wordsworths laid their own lives open to observation; and the

mingled carefulness and comfort--the good thrift, in short--wrought as

a powerful lesson all around. As for what I myself saw,--they took a

practical interest in my small purchase of land for my abode; and Mr.

Wordsworth often came to consult upon the plan and progress of the

house. He used to lie on the grass, beside the young oaks, before the

foundations were dug; and he referred me to Mrs. Wordsworth as the best

possible authority about the placing of windows and beds. He climbed to

the upper rooms before there was a staircase; and we had to set Mrs.

Wordsworth as a watch over him, when there was a staircase, but no

balustrade. When the garden was laid out, he planted a stone-pine

(which is flourishing) under the terrace-wall, washed his hands in the

watering-pot, and gave the place and me at once his blessing and some

thrifty counsel. When I began farming, he told me an immense deal about

his cow; and both of them came to see my first calf, and ascertain

whether she had the proper marks of the handsome short-horn of the

region. The distinctive impression which the family made on the minds

of the people about them was that of practical ability; and it was

thoroughly well conveyed by the remark of a man at Rydal, on hearing

some talk of Mrs. Wordsworth, a few days after the poet's death:

--"She's a gay [rare] clever body, who will carry on the business as

well as any of 'em."

Nothing could be more affecting than to watch the silent changes in Mrs.

Wordsworth's spirits during the ten years which followed the death of

her daughter. For many months her husband's gloom was terrible, in the

evenings, or in dull weather. Neither of them could see to read much;

and the poet was not one who ever pretended to restrain his emotions,

or assume a cheerfulness which he did not feel. We all knew that the

mother's heart was the bereaved one, however impressed the father's

imagination might be by the picture of his own desolation; and we saw

her mute about her own trial, and growing whiter in the face and smaller

from month to month, while he put no restraint upon his tears and

lamentations. The winter evenings were dreary; and in hot summer days

the aged wife had to follow him, when he was missed for any time, lest

he should be sitting in the sun without his hat. Often she found him

asleep on the heated rock. His final illness was wearing and dreary to

her; but there her part was clear, and she was adequate to it. "You

are going to Dora," she whispered to him, when the issue was no longer

doubtful. She thought he did not hear or heed; but some hours after,

when some one opened the curtain, he said, "Are you Dora?" Composed and

cheerful in the prospect of his approaching rest, and absolutely without

solicitude for herself, the wife was everything to him till the last

moment; and when he was gone, the anxieties of the self-forgetting woman

were over. She attended his funeral, and afterwards chose to fill her

accustomed place among the guests who filled the house. She made tea

that evening as usual; and the lightening of her spirits from that time

forward was evident. It was a lovely April day, the 23d, (Shakspeare's

birth--and death-day,) when her task of nursing closed. The news spread

fast that the old poet was gone; and we all naturally turned our eyes up

to the roof under which he lay. There, above and amidst the young green

of the woods, the modest dwelling shone in the sunlight. The smoke went

up thin and straight into the air; but the closed windows gave the place

a look of death. There he was lying whom we should see no more.

The poor sister remained for five years longer. Travellers, American

and others, must remember having found the garden-gate locked at Rydal

Mount, and perceiving the reason why, in seeing a little garden-chair,

with an emaciated old lady in it, drawn by a nurse round and round the

gravelled space before the house. That was Miss Wordsworth, taking her

daily exercise. It was a great trouble, at times, that she could not be

placed in some safe privacy; and Wordsworth's feudal loyalty was put to

a severe test in the matter. It had been settled that a cottage should

be built for his sister, in a field of his, beyond the garden. The plan

was made, and the turf marked out, and the digging about to begin,

when the great lady at the Hall, Lady Le Fleming, interfered with a

prohibition. She assumed the feudal prerogative of determining what

should or should not be built on all the lands over which the Le

Flemings have borne sway; and her extraordinary determination was, that

no dwelling should be built, except on the site of a former one! We

could scarcely believe we had not been carried back into the Middle

Ages, when we heard it; but the old poet, whom any sovereign in Europe

would have been delighted to gratify, submitted with a good grace, and

thenceforth robbed his sister's feet, and coaxed and humored her at

home,--trusting his guests to put up with the inconveniences of her

state, as he could not remove them from sight and hearing. After she was

gone also, Mrs. Wordsworth, entirely blind, and above eighty years of

age, seemed to have no cares, except when the errors and troubles of

others touched her judgment or sympathy. She was well cared for by

nieces and friends. Her plain common sense and cheerfulness appeared

in one of the last things she said, a few hours before her death. She

remarked on the character of the old hymns, practical and familiar,

which people liked when she was young, and which answered some purposes

better than the sublimer modern sort. She repeated part of a child's

hymn,--very homely, about going straight to school, and taking care of

the books, and learning the lesson well,--and broke off, saying, "There!

if you want to hear the rest, ask the Bishop o' London. _He_ knows it."

Then, all were gone; and there remained only the melancholy breaking up

of the old home which had been interesting to the world for forty-six

years. Mrs. Wordsworth died in January, 1859. In the May following, the

sale took place which Wordsworth had gloomily foreseen so many years

before. Everything of value was reserved, and the few articles desired

by strangers were bought by commission; and thus the throng at the sale

was composed of the ordinary elements. The spectacle was sufficiently

painful to make it natural for old friends to stay away. Doors and

windows stood wide. The sofa and tea-table where the wisest and best

from all parts of the world had held converse were turned out to be

examined and bid for. Anybody who chose passed the sacred threshold; the

auctioneer's hammer was heard on the terrace; and the hospitable parlor

and kitchen were crowded with people swallowing tea in the intervals of

their business. One farmer rode six-and-thirty miles that morning to

carry home something that had belonged to Wordsworth; and, in default of

anything better, he took a patched old table-cover. There was a bed

of anemones under the windows, at one end of the house; and a bed of

anemones is a treasure in our climate. It was in full bloom in the

morning; and before sunset, every blossom was gone, and the bed was

trampled into ruin. It was dreary work! The two sons live at a distance;

and the house is let to tenants of another name.

I perceive that I have not noticed the poet's laureateship. The truth

is, the office never seemed to belong to him; and we forgot it, when

not specially reminded of it. We did not like to think of him in

court-dress, going through the ceremonies of levee or ball, in his

old age. His white hair and dim eyes were better at home among the

mountains.

There stand the mountains, from age to age; and there run the rivers,

with their full and never-pausing tide, while those who came to live and

grow wise beside them are all gone! One after another, they have lain

down to their everlasting rest in the valleys where their step and their

voices were as familiar as the points of the scenery. The region has

changed much since they came as to a retreat. It was they who caused the

change, for the most part; and it was not for them to complain of it;

but the consequence is, that with them has passed away a peculiar

phase of life in England. It is one which can neither be continued

nor repeated. The Lake District is no longer a retreat; and any other

retreat must have different characteristics, and be illumined by some

different order of lights. The case being so, I have felt no scruple in

asking the attention of my readers to a long story, and to full details

of some of the latest Lights of the Lake District.

PINK AND BLUE.

Everybody knows that a _departing_ guest has the most to say. The touch

of the door-knob sends to his lips a thousand things which _must_ be

told. Is it strange, then, that old people, knowing they have "made out

their visit," and feeling themselves brimful of wisdom and experience,

should wish to speak from the fulness of their hearts to those whom they

must so shortly leave?

Nobody thinks it strange. The world expects it, and, as a general thing,

bears it patiently. Knowing how universal is this spirit of forbearance,

I should, perhaps, have forever held my peace, lest I might abuse

good-nature, had it not been for some circumstances which will be

related a little farther on.

My little place of business (I am the goldsmith of our village) has long

been the daily resort of several of my particular cronies. They are men

of good minds,--some of them quite literary; for we count, as belonging

to our set, the lawyer, the schoolmaster, the doctor, men of business,

men of no business, and sometimes even the minister. As may be supposed,

our discussions take a wide range: I can give no better notion of _how_

wide than to say that we discuss everything in the papers. Yesterday

was a snow-storm, but the meeting was held just the same. It was in the

afternoon. The schoolmaster came in late with a new magazine, from which

he read, now and then, for the general edification.

"Ah!" said he, "if this be true, we can all write for the papers."

"How's that?" we asked.

"Why, it says here, that, if the true experience of any human heart were

written, it would be worth more than the best tale ever invented."

It was a terribly stormy day. The snow came whirling against the two

windows of my shop, clinging to the outside, making it twilight within.

I had given up work; for my eyes are not what they were, and I have to

favor them. Nobody spoke for a while; all had been set to thinking.

Those few words had sent us all back, back, back, thirty, forty, fifty

years, to call up the past. We were gazing upon forms long since

perished, listening to voices long ago hushed forever. Could those forms

have been summoned before us, how crowded would have been my little

shop! Could those voices have been heard, how terrible the discord, the

cries of the wretched mingling with the shouts of the happy ones! There

was a dead silence. The past was being questioned. Would it reply?

At last some one said,--

"Try it."

"But," said another, "it would fill a whole book."

"Take up one branch, then; for instance, our--well, our courting-days.

Let each one tell how he won his wife."

"But shall we get any money by it?"

"To be sure we shall. Do you think people write for nothing? '_Worth

more_' are the very words used; 'worth more' _what?_ Money, of course."

"But what shall we do with all our money?"

"Buy a library for the use of us all. We will draw lots to see who shall

write first; and if he succeeds, the others can follow in order."

And thus we agreed.

I was rather sorry the lot fell upon me; for I was always bashful, and

never thought much of myself but once. I think my bashfulness was mostly

owing to my knowing myself to be not very good-looking. I believe that I

am not considered a bad-looking old man; indeed, people who remember me

at twenty-five say that I have grown handsome every year since.

I do not intend giving a description of myself at that age, but shall

confine myself principally to what was suggested by my friend, as above

mentioned,--namely, how I won my wife.

It is astonishing how a man may be deluded. Knowing, as I did, just the

facts in the case, regarding my face and figure, yet the last day of the

year 1817 found me in the full belief that I was quite a good-looking

and every way a desirable young man. This was the third article in my

creed. The second was, that Eleanor Sherman loved me; and the first,

that I loved her. It is curious how I became settled in the third

article by means of the second.

I had spent hours before my looking-glass, trying to make it give in

that I was good-looking. But never was a glass so set in its way. In

vain I used my best arguments, pleaded before it hour after hour,

re-brushed my hair, re-tied my cravat, smiled, bowed, and so forth, and

so forth. "Ill-looking and awkward!" was my only response. At last it

went so far as to intimate that I had, with all the rest, a _conceited_

look. This was not to be borne, and I withdrew in disgust. The

argument should be carried on in my own heart. Pure reasoning only was

trustworthy. Philosophers assured us that our senses were not to be

trusted. How easy and straightforward the mental process! "Eleanor loves

me; therefore I cannot look ill!"

It was on the last day of the year I have mentioned, that, just having,

for the fortieth time, arrived at the above conclusion, I prepared to go

forth upon the most delightful of all possible errands. All day I had

been dwelling upon it, wondering at what hour it would be most proper to

go. At three o'clock, I arrayed myself in my Sunday-clothes. I gave a

parting glance of triumph at my glass, and stepped briskly forth upon

the crispy snow. I met people well wrapped up, with mouth and nose

covered, and saw men leave working to thrash their hands. It must have

been cold, therefore; but I felt none of it.

Her house was half a mile distant. 'T was on a high bank a little back

from the road, of one story in front, and two at the sides. It was what

was called a single house; the front showed only two windows, with a

door near the corner. The sides were painted yellow, the front white,

with a green door. There was an orchard behind, and two poplar-trees

before it. The pathway up the bank was sprinkled with ashes. I had

frequently been as far as the door with her, evenings when I waited upon

her home; but I had never before approached the house by daylight,--that

is, any nearer than the road. I had never _said_ anything; it wasn't

time; but I had given her several little things, and had tried to be her

beau every way that I knew.

Before I began to notice her, I had never been about much with the

young folks,--partly because I was bashful, and partly because I was so

clumsy-looking. I was more in earnest, therefore, than if I had been

in the habit of running after the girls. After I began to like her,

I watched every motion,--at church, at evening meetings, at

singing-school; and a glance from her eye seemed to fall right upon my

heart. She had been very friendly and sociable with me, always thanked

me very prettily for what little trifles I gave her, and never refused

my company home. She would put her hand within my arm without a moment's

hesitation, chatting all the while, never seeming in the least to

suspect the shiver of joy which shot through my whole frame from the

little hand upon my coat-sleeve.

I had long been pondering in my mind, in my walks by day and my

lyings-down at night, what should be the next step, what _overt act_

I might commit; for something told me it was not yet time to _say_

anything.

What could have been more fortunate for my wishes, then, than the

project set on foot by the young people, of a grand sleighing-party on

New-Year's evening? They were mostly younger than myself, especially the

girls. Eleanor was but seventeen, I was twenty-three. But I determined

to join this party, and it was to invite Eleanor that I arrayed myself

and set forth, as above mentioned. It was a bold step for a bashful

man,--I mean now the _inviting_ part.

I had thought over, coming along, just what words I should use; but, as

I mounted the bank, I felt the words, ideas, and all, slipping out at

the ends of my fingers. If it had been a thickly settled place, I should

not have thought much about being watched; but, as there was only

one house in sight, I was sure that not a motion was lost, that my

proceedings would be duly reported, and discussed by the whole village.

All these considerations rendered my situation upon the stone step at

the front-door very peculiar.

I knew the family were in the back part of the house; for the shutters

of the front-room were tightly closed, as, indeed, they always were,

except on grand occasions. Nevertheless, knocking at the front-door

seemed the right thing to do, and I did it. With a terrible choking in

my throat, and wondering all the while _who_ would come to open, I did

it. I knocked three times. Nobody came. Peddlers, I had observed in like

cases, opened the outside door and knocked at the inner. I tried this

with no better result. I then ventured to open the inner door softly,

and with feelings of awe I stood alone in the spare-room.

By the light which streamed in through the holes in the tops of the

shutters I distinguished the green painted chairs backed up stiffly

against the wall, the striped homespun carpet, andirons crossed in the

fireplace, with shovel and tongs to match, the big Bible on the table

under the glass, a _waxwork_ on the high mahogany desk in the corner,

and a few shells and other ornaments upon the mantelshelf.

The terrible order and gloom oppressed me. I felt that it was no slight

thing to venture thus unbidden into the spare-room,--the room set apart

from common uses, and opened only on great occasions: evening-meetings,

weddings, or funerals. But, in the midst of all my tribulation, one

other thought would come,--I don't exactly like to tell it, but then

I believe I promised to keep nothing back;--well, then, if I must,--I

thought that this spare-room was the place where Eleanor would make up

the fire, when--when I was far enough along to come regularly every

Sunday night. With that thought my courage revived. I heard voices in

the next room, the pounding of a flat-iron, and a frequent step across

the floor. I gave a loud rap. The door opened, and Eleanor herself

appeared. She had on a spotted calico gown, with a string of gold beads

around her neck. She held in her hand a piece of fan coral. I felt

myself turning all colors, stammered, hesitated, and believed in my

heart that she would think me a fool. Very likely she did; for I really

suppose that she never, till then, thought that I _meant anything_.

She contrived, however, to pick out my meaning from the midst of the odd

words and parts of sentences offered her, and replied that she would let

me know that evening. As she did not invite me to the kitchen, the only

thing left me to do was to say good-afternoon and depart. I don't know

which were the queerest,--my feelings in going up or in coming down the

bank.

When fairly in the road, happening to glance back at the house, I saw

that one half of a shutter was open, and that a man was watching me. He

drew back before I could recognize him. That evening was singing-school.

That was why I went to invite Eleanor in the afternoon. I was afraid

some other fellow would ask her before school was out.

When I got there, I found all the young folks gathered about the stove.

Something was going on. I pressed in, and found Harry Harlow. He had

been gone a year at sea, and had arrived that forenoon in the stage from

Boston. They were all listening to his wonderful stories.

When school was over, I stepped up close to Eleanor and offered my arm.

She drew back a little, and handed me a small package. Harry stepped up

on the other side. She took his arm, and they went off slowly together.

I stood still a moment to watch them. When they turned the corner, I

went off alone. Confounded, wonder-struck, I plunged on through the

snow-drifts, seeing, feeling, knowing nothing but the package in my

hand. I found mother sitting by the fire. She and I lived together,--she

and I, and that was all. I knew I should find her with her little round

table drawn up to the fire, her work laid aside, and the Bible open. She

never went to bed with me out.

I didn't want to tell her. I wouldn't for the world, if I could have had

the opening of my package all to myself. She asked me if I had fastened

the back-door. I sat down by the fire and slowly undid the string. A

silver thimble fell on the bricks. There was also an artificial flower

made of feathers, a copy of verses headed "To a Pair of Bright Eyes,"

cut from the county newspaper, a cherry-colored neck-ribbon, a

smelling-bottle, and, at the bottom, a note. I knew well enough what was

in the note.

"MR. ALLEN,--

"I must decline your invitation to the sleigh-ride; and I hope you will

not be offended, if I ask you not to go about with me any more. I think

you are a very good young man, and, as an acquaintance, I like you very

much.

"Respectfully yours,

"ELEANOR SHERMAN.

"P.S.--With this note you will find the things you have given me."

I took the iron tongs which stood near, picked up the thimble and

dropped it into the midst of the hot coals, then the flower, then the

verses, then the ribbon, then the smelling-bottle, and would gladly have

added myself.

My mother and I were everything to each other. We two were all that

remained of a large family. I had always confided in her; but still I

was sorry that I had opened the package there. I might have taken it to

my chamber. But then she would have known, she _must_ have known from my

manner, that something was wrong with me. I think, on the whole, I was

glad to have her know the worst. I knew that my mother worshipped me;

but she was not one of those who let their feelings be seen on common

occasions. I gave her the note, and no more was needed. She tried to

comfort me, as mothers will; but I would not be comforted. It was my

first great heart-trouble, and I was weighed down beneath it. She drew

me towards her, I leaned my head upon her shoulder, and was not ashamed

that she knew of the hot tears upon my cheeks. At last I heard her

murmuring softly,--

"Oh, what shall I do? He is all I have, and he is so miserable! How can

I bear his sorrow?"

I think it was the recollection of these words which induced me

afterwards to hide my feelings, that she might not suffer on my account.

The next day was clear and bright. The sleighing was perfect. I was

miserable. I had not slept. I could not eat. I dared not go into the

village to encounter the jokes which I was certain awaited me there.

Early in the evening, just as the moon rose, I took my stand behind a

clump of trees, half-way up a hill, where I knew the sleighs must pass.

There I stood, feeling neither cold nor weariness, waiting, watching,

listening for the sleigh-bells. At last I heard them, first faintly,

then louder and louder, until they reached the bottom of the hill.

Slowly they came up, passing, one after another, by my hiding-place.

There were ten sleighs in all. She and Harry were in the fourth. The

moon shone full in their faces, and his looked just as I had often felt;

but I had never dared to show it as Harry did. I felt sure that he would

kiss her. A blue coverlet was wrapped around them, and he was tucking it

in on her side. The hill was steep just there, so that they were obliged

to move quite slowly. They were talking earnestly, and I heard my name.

I was not sure at first; but afterwards I knew.

"I never thought of his being in earnest before. He is a great deal

older than I, and I never thought that anybody so homely and awkward as

he could suppose"--

"Jingle, jingle, jingle," and that was all I heard. I held myself still,

watched the sleighs disappear, one after another, over the brow of the

hill, listened till the last note of the last bell was lost in the

distance, then turned and ran.

I ran as if I had left my misery behind, and every step were taking me

farther from it. But when I reached home, there it was, aching, aching

in my heart, just the same as before. And there it stayed. Even now, I

can hardly bear to think of those terrible days and nights. But for my

mother's sake I tried to seem cheerful, though I no longer went about

with the young folks. I applied myself closely to my business, sawed my

mother's wood for exercise, learned to paint, and read novels and poetry

for amusement.

Thus time passed on. The little boys began to call themselves young men,

and me an old _bach_; and into this character I contentedly settled

down. My wild oats, of which I had had but scant measure, I considered

sown. My sense of my own ill-looks became morbid. I hardly looked at a

female except my mother, lest she'd think that I "_could suppose_."

The old set were mostly married off. Eleanor married the young sailor.

People spoke of her as being high-tempered, as being extravagant,

spending in fine clothes the money he earned at the risk of his life. I

don't know that it made any difference to my feelings. It might. At the

time she turned me off, I think I should have married her, knowing she

had those faults. But she removed to the city, and by degrees time and

absence wore off the edge of my grief. My mother lost part of her little

property, and I was obliged to exert myself that she might miss none of

her accustomed comforts. She was a good mother, thoughtful and tender,

sympathizing not only in my troubles, but in my every-day pursuits, my

work, my books, my paintings.

When I was about thirty, Jane Wood came to live near us. Her mother and

young sister came with her. They rented a small house just across the

next field from us. Although ours, therefore, might have been considered

an infected neighborhood, yet I never supposed myself in the slightest

danger, because I had had the disease. Nevertheless, having an abiding

sense of my own ugliness, I should not have ventured into the immediate

presence of the Woods, _except_ on works of necessity and mercy.

The younger sister was taken very ill with the typhus fever. It was

customary, in our village, for the neighbors, in such cases, to be very

helpful. Mother was with them day and night, and, when she could not go

herself, used to send me to see if they wanted anything, for they had no

men-folks.

I seldom saw Jane, and when I did, I never looked at her. I mean, I did

not look her full in the face. It was to her mother that I made all my

offers of assistance.

This habit of shunning the society of all young females, and

particularly of the Wood girls, was by no means occasioned by any fears

in regard to my own safety. Far from it. I considered myself as one set

apart from all mankind,--set apart, and fenced in, by my own personal

disadvantages. The thought of my caring for a girl, or of being cared

for by a girl, never even occurred to me. "Taboo," so far as I was

concerned, was written upon them all. The marriage state I saw from afar

off. Beautiful and bright it looked in the distance, like the Promised

Land to true believers. Some visions I beheld of its beautiful angels

walking in shining robes; strains of its sweet melody were sometimes

wafted across the distance; but I might never enter there. It was no

land of promise to me. A gulf, dark and impassable, lay between. And

beside all this, as I have already intimated, I considered myself out of

danger. My life's lesson had been learned. I knew it by heart. What more

could be expected of me?

But, after all, we can't go right against our natures; and it is not the

nature of man to look upon the youthful and the elderly female exactly

in the same light. The feelings with which they are approached are

essentially different, whether he who approaches be seventeen or

seventy. Thus, in conversing with the old lady Wood, I was quite at

my ease. When the invalid began to get well, I often carried her nice

little messes, which my mother prepared, and was generally lucky enough

to find Mrs. Wood,--for I always went in at the back-door. She asked me,

one day, if I could lend Ellen something to read,--for she was then just

about well enough to amuse herself with a book, but not strong enough to

work. Now I always had (so my mother said) a kind and obliging way with

me, and had, besides, a great pride in my library. I was delighted that

anybody wanted to read my books, and hurried home to make a selection.

That very afternoon, I took over an armful. Nobody was in the kitchen;

so I sat down to wait. The door of the little keeping-room was open, and

I knew by their voices that some great discussion was going on. I tipped

over a cricket to make them aware of my presence. The door was opened

wide, and Mrs. Wood appeared.

"Now here is Mr. Allen," she exclaimed. "Let us get his opinion."

Then she took me in, where they were holding solemn council over a straw

bonnet and various colored ribbons. She introduced me to Ellen, whom I

had never before met. She was a merry-looking, black-eyed maiden, and

the roses were already blooming out again upon her cheeks. She was very

young,--not more than fifteen or sixteen.

"Now, Mr. Allen," said Jane, (she was not so bashful to me as I was to

her,) "let us have your opinion upon these trimmings. Remember, though,

that pink and blue can't go together."

She turned her face full upon me, and I looked straight into her eyes.

I really believe it was the first time I had done so. They were

beautifully blue, with long dark lashes. She had been a little excited

by the discussion, and her cheeks were like two roses. A strange

boldness came over me.

"How can I remember that," I answered, "when I see in your face that

pink and blue _do_ go together?"

Never, till within a few years, could I account for this sudden

boldness. I have now no doubt that I spoke by what spiritualists call

"impression." We were all surprised, and I most of all. Jane laughed,

and looked pinker than before. She would as soon have expected a

compliment from the town pump, and I felt it.

I knew nothing of bonnets, but I had studied painting, and was a judge

of colors. I made a selection, and could see that they were again

surprised at my good taste. I then offered my books, spoke of the

different authors, turned to what I thought might particularly please

them, and, before I knew it, was all aglow with the unusual excitement

of conversation. I saw that they were not without cultivation, and that

they had a quick appreciation of literary merit.

And thus an acquaintance commenced. I called often, for it seemed a

pleasant thing to do. As my excuse, I took with me my books, papers,

and all the new publications which reached me. I always thought they

appeared very glad to see me.

Being strangers in the place, they saw but little company, and it seemed

to be nothing more than my duty to call in now and then in a neighborly

way. I talked quite easily; for among books I felt at home. They talked

easily, too; for they (I say it in no ill-natured way) were women. They

began to consider my frequent calling as a matter of course, and always

smiled upon me when I entered. I felt that they congratulated themselves

upon finding me out. They had penetrated the ice, and found open sea

beyond. I speak of it in this way, because I afterwards overheard Ellen

joking her sister about discovering the Northwest Passage to my heart.

This was in the fall of the year, when the evenings were getting quite

long. They were fond of reading, but had not much time for it. I was

fond of reading, and had many long evenings at my disposal. It followed,

therefore, that I read aloud, while they worked. With the "Pink and

Blue" just opposite, I read evening after evening. At first I used to

look up frequently, to see how such and such a passage would strike her;

but one evening Ellen asked me, in a laughing, half-saucy sort of way,

why I didn't look at _her_ sometimes to see how _she_ liked things. This

made me color up; and Jane colored up, too. After that I kept my eyes on

my book; but I always knew when she stopped her work and raised her

head at the interesting parts, and always hoped she didn't see the red

flushes spreading over my face, and always wished, too, that she would

look away,--for, somehow, my voice would not go on smoothly.

Those red flushes were to myself most mysterious. Nevertheless, they

continued, and even appeared to be on the increase. At first, I felt

them only while reading; then, upon entering the room; and at last

they began to come before I got across the field. Still I felt no real

uneasiness, but, on the contrary, was glad I could be of so much use to

the family. Never before was the want of men-folks felt so little by a

family of women-folks. I did errands, split kindling, dug "tracks," (_i.

e._, paths in the snow,) and glued broken furniture.

I always thought of Jane as "Pink and Blue." Sometimes I thought from

her manner that she would a little rather I wouldn't come so often. I

thought she didn't look up at me so pleasantly as she used to at first,

and seemed a little stiff; but, as I had a majority in my favor, I

continued my visits. I always had one good look at her when I said

good-night; but it made the red come, so that I had to hurry out before

she saw. It seemed to me that her cheeks then looked pinker than ever,

and the two colors, pink and blue, seemed to mingle and float before my

eyes all the way home. "Pink and blue," "pink and blue." How those two

little words kept running in my head, and, I began to fear, in my heart

too!--for no sooner would I close my eyes at night than those delicate

pink cheeks and blue eyes would appear before me. They haunted my

dreams, and were all ready to greet me at waking.

I was completely puzzled. It reminded me of old times. Seemed just like

being in love again. Could it be possible that I was liable to a second

attack?

One night I took a new book and hurried across the field to the Woods',

for I never was easy till I saw "Pink and Blue" face to face; and

then,--why, then, I was not at all easy. I felt the red flushes coming

long before I reached the house. As soon as I entered the room, I felt

that she was missing. I must have looked blank; for Mrs. Wood began

to explain immediately, that Jane was not well, and had gone to

bed;--nothing serious; but she had thought it better for her not to

sit up. I remained and read as usual, but, as it seemed to me, to bare

walls. I had become so accustomed to reading with "Pink and Blue" just

opposite, to watching for the dropping of her work and the raising of

her eyes to my face, that I really seemed on this occasion to be reading

to no purpose whatever. I went home earlier than usual, very sober and

very full of thought. My mother noticed it, and inquired if they were

well at Mrs. Wood's. So I told her about Jane.

That night my eyes were fully opened. I was in love. Yes, the old

disease was upon me, and my last state was worse than my first,--just as

much so as Jane was superior to Eleanor. The discovery threw me into

the greatest distress. Hour after hour I walked the floor, in my own

chamber, trying to reason the love from my heart,--but in vain; and at

length, tossing myself on the bed, I almost cursed the hour in which I

first saw the Woods. I called myself fool, dolt, idiot, for thus running

my head a second time into the noose. It may seem strange, but the

thought that she might possibly care for me never once occurred to my

mind. Eleanor's words in the sleigh still rang in my ears: "I never

thought that anybody so homely and awkward could suppose"--No, I must

not "suppose." Once, in the midst of it all, I calmed down, took a

light, and, very deliberately walking to the glass, took a complete view

of my face and figure,--but with no other effect than to settle me more

firmly in my wretchedness. Towards morning I grew calmer, and resolved

to look composedly upon my condition, and decide what should be done.

While I was considering whether or not to continue my visits at the

Woods', I fell asleep just where I had thrown myself, outside the bed,

in overcoat and boots. I dreamed of seeing "Pink and Blue" carried off

by some horrid monster,--which, upon examination, proved to be myself.

The sun shining in my face woke me, and I remembered that I had decided

upon nothing. The best thing seemed to be to snap off the acquaintance

and quit the place. But then I could not leave my mother. No, I must

keep where I was,--and if I kept where I was, I must keep on at the

Woods',--and if I kept on at the Woods', I should keep on feeling just

as I did, and perhaps--more so. I resolved, finally, to remain where

I was, and to take no abrupt step, (which might cause remark,) but

to break off my visits gradually. The first week, I could skip one

night,--the next, two,--and so on,--using my own judgment about tapering

off the acquaintance gradually and gracefully to an imperceptible point.

The way appearing plain at last, how that _unloving_ might be made easy,

I assumed a cheerful air, and went down to breakfast. My mother looked

up rather anxiously at my entrance; but her anxiety evidently vanished

at sight of my face.

It did not seem to me quite right to forsake the Woods that morning; for

some snow had fallen during the night, and I felt it incumbent upon me

to dig somewhat about the doors. With my trousers tucked into my boots,

I trod a new path across the field. It would have seemed strange not to

go in; so I went in and warmed my feet at the kitchen-fire. Only Mrs.

Wood was there; but I made no inquiries. Not knowing what to say, I rose

to go; but, just at that minute, the mischievous Ellen came running out

of the keeping-room and wanted to know where I was going. Why didn't I

come in and see Jane? So I went in to see Jane, saying my prayers, as I

went,--that is, praying that I might not grow foolish again. But I did.

I don't believe any man could have helped it. She was reclining upon

a couch which was drawn towards the fire. I sat down as far from that

couch as the size of the room would allow. She looked pale and really

ill, but raised her blue eyes when she said good-morning; and then--the

hot flushes began to come. She looked red, too, and I thought she had

a settled fever. I wanted to say something, but didn't know what. Some

things seemed too warm, others too cold. At last I thought,--"Why,

_anybody_ can say to anybody, 'How do you do?'" So I said,--

"Miss Wood, how do you do, this morning?"

She looked up, surprised; for I tried hard to stiffen my words, and had

succeeded admirably.

"Not very unwell, I thank you, Sir," she replied; but I knew she was

worse than the night before. My situation grew unbearable, and I rose to

go.

"Mr. Allen, what do you think about Jane?" said Ellen. "You know about

sickness, don't you? Come, feel her pulse, and see if she will have a

fever." And she drew me towards the lounge.

My heart was in my throat, and my face was on fire. Jane flushed up, and

I thought she was offended at my presumption. What could I do? Ellen

held out to me the little soft hand; but I dared not touch it, unless I

asked her first.

"Miss Wood," I asked, "shall I mind Ellen?"

"Of course you will," exclaimed Ellen. "Tell him yes, Jane."

Then Jane smiled and said,--

"Yes, if he is willing."

And I took her wrist in my thumb and finger. The pulse was quick and the

skin dry and hot. I think I would have given a year's existence to clasp

that hand between my own, and to stroke down her hair. I hardly knew how

I didn't do it; and the fear that I should made me drop her arm in

a hurry, as if it had burned my fingers. Ellen stared. I bade them

good-morning abruptly, and left the room and the house. "This, then," I

thought, as I strode along towards the village, "is the beginning of the

ending!"

That evening, I felt in duty bound to go, as a neighbor, to inquire for

the sick. I went, but found no one below. When Ellen came down, she said

that Jane was quite ill. I remained in the keeping-room all the evening,

mostly alone, asked if I could do anything for them, and obtained some

commissions for the next day at the village.

Jane's illness, though long, was not dangerous,--at least, not to her.

To me it was most perilous, particularly the convalescence; for then I

could be of so much use to her! The days were long and spring-like. Wild

flowers appeared. She liked them, and I managed that she should never be

without a bunch of them. She liked paintings, and I brought over my own

portfolio. She must have wondered at the number of violets and roses

therein. The readings went on and seemed more delicious than ever. I

owned a horse and chaise, and for a whole week debated whether it would

be safe for me to take her to drive. But I didn't; for I should have

been obliged to hand her in, to help her out, and to sit close beside

her all alone. All that could never be done without my betraying myself.

But she got well without any drives; and by the latter part of April,

when the evenings had become very short, I thought it high time to begin

to skip one. I began on Monday. I kept away all day, all the evening,

and all the next day. Tuesday evening, just before dark, I took the path

across the field. The two girls were at work making a flower-garden.

"Pink and Blue" had a spade, and was actually spading up the ground. I

caught it from her hand so quickly that she looked up almost frightened.

Her face was flushed with exercise; but her blue eyes looked tired. How

I reproached myself for not coming sooner! At dark, I went in with them.

We took our accustomed seats, and I read. "Paradise regained" was what I

kept thinking of. Once, when I moved my seat, that I might be directly

opposite Jane, who was lying on the coach, I thought I saw Ellen and her

mother exchange glances. I was suspected, then,--and with all the pains

I had taken, too. This rather upset me; and what with my joy at being

with Jane, my exertions to hide it, and my mortification at being

discovered, my reading, I fear, was far from satisfactory.

The next morning I went early to the flower-garden, and, before anybody

was stirring, had it all hoed and raked over, so that no more hard work

could be done there. I didn't go in. Thursday night I went again, and

again Saturday night. The next week I skipped two evenings, and the

next, three, and flattered myself I was doing bravely. Jane never asked

me why I came so seldom, but Ellen did frequently; and I always replied

that I was very busy. Those were truly days of suffering. Nevertheless,

having formed my resolution, I determined to abide by it. God only knew

what it cost me. On the beautiful May mornings, and during the long

"after tea," which always comes into country-life, I could watch them,

watch her, from my window, while the planting, watering, and weeding

went on in the flower-garden. I saw them go in at dark, saw the light

appear in the keeping-room, and fancied them sitting at their work,

wondering, perhaps, that nobody came to read to them.

One day, when I had not been there for three days and nights, I

received, while at work in my shop, a sudden summons from home. My

mother, the little boy said, was very sick. I hurried home in great

agitation. I could not bear the thought that sickness or death should

reach my dear mother. Mrs. Wood met me at the door, to say that a

physician had been sent for, but that my mother was relieved and there

was no immediate danger. I hurried to her chamber and found--Jane by

her bedside. For all my anxiety about my mother, I felt the hot flush

spreading over my face. It seemed so good to see her taking care of my

mother! In my agitation, I caught hold of her hand and spoke before I

thought.

"Oh, Jane," I whispered, "I am so glad you are here!"

Her face turned as red as fire. I thought she was angry at my boldness,

or, perhaps, because I called her Jane.

"Excuse me," said I. "I am so agitated about mother that I hardly know

what I am about."

When the doctor came, he gave hopes that my mother would recover; but

she never did. She suffered little, but grew weaker and weaker every

day. Jane was with her day and night; for my mother liked her about her

bed better than anybody. Oh, what a strange two weeks were those! My

mother was so much to me, how could I give her up? She was the only

person on earth who cared for me, and she must die! Yet side by side in

my heart with this great grief was the great joy of living, day after

day, night after night, under the same roof with Jane. By necessity

thrown constantly with her, feeling bound to see that she, too, did not

get sick, with watching and weariness,--yet feeling myself obliged to

measure my words, to keep up an unnatural stiffness, lest I should break

down, and she know all my weakness!

At last all was over,--my mother was dead. It is of no use,--I never can

put into words the frenzied state of my feelings at that time. I had not

even the poor comfort of grieving like other people. I ground my teeth

and almost cursed myself, when the feeling would come that sorrow for

my mother's death was mingled with regrets that there was no longer any

excuse for my remaining in the same neighborhood with Jane. I reproached

myself with having made my mother's death-bed a place of happiness; for

my conscience told me that those two weeks had been, in one sense, the

happiest of my life.

By what I then experienced I knew that our connection must be broken off

entirely. Half-way work had already been tried too long. Sitting by the

dead body of my mother, gazing upon that face which, ever since I could

remember, had reflected my own joys and sorrows, I resolved to decide

once for all upon my future course. I was without a single tie. In all

the wide world, not a person cared whether I lived or died. One part of

the wide world, then, was as good for me as another. There was but one

little spot where I must not remain; all the rest was free to me. I took

the map of the world. I was a little past thirty, healthy, and should

probably, accidents excepted, live out the time allotted to man. I

divided the land mapped out before me into fifteen portions. I would

live two years in each; then, being an old man, I would gradually draw

nearer to this forbidden "little spot," inquire what had become of the

Woods, and settle down in the same little house, patiently to await my

summons. My future life being thus all mapped out, I arose with calmness

to perform various little duties which yet remained to be done before

the funeral could take place.

Beautiful flowers were in the room; a few white ones were at my mother's

breast. Jane brought them. She had done everything, and I had not even

thanked her. How could I, in that stiff way I had adopted towards her?

My father was buried beneath an elm-tree, at the farthest corner of the

garden. I had my mother laid by his side. When the funeral was over,

Mrs. Wood and her daughters remained at the house to arrange matters

somewhat, and to give directions to the young servant, who was now my

only housekeeper. At one time I was left alone with Jane; the others

were up stairs. Feeling that any emotion on my part might reasonably be

attributed to my affliction, I resolved to thank her for her kindness. I

rushed suddenly up to her, and, seizing her hand, pressed it between my

own.

"I want to thank you, Jane," I began, "but--I cannot."

And I could not, for I trembled all over, and something choked me so

that I could not speak more.

"Oh, don't, Mr. Allen!" she said; and the tone in which she uttered the

words startled me.

It seemed as if they came from the very depths of her being. Feeling

that I could not control myself, I rushed out and gained my own chamber.

What passed there between myself and my great affliction can never be

told.

In a week's time all was ready for my departure. I gave away part of the

furniture to some poor relations of my father's. My mother's clothing

and the silver spoons, which were marked with her maiden name, I locked

up in a trunk, and asked Mrs. Wood to take care of it. She inquired

where I was going, and I said I didn't know. I didn't, for I was not to

decide until I reached Boston. I think she thought my mind was impaired

by grief, and it was. I spent the last evening there. They knew I was to

start the next forenoon in the stage, and they really seemed very sober.

No reading was thought of. Jane had her knitting-work, and Mrs. Wood

busied herself about her mending. The witchy little Ellen was quite

serious. She sat in a low chair by the fire, sometimes stirring up the

coals and sometimes the conversation. Jane appeared restless. I feared

she was overwearied with watching and her long attendance on my mother,

for her face was pale and she had a headache. She left the room several

times. I felt uneasy while she was out; but no less so when she came

back,--for there was a strange look about her eyes.

At last I summoned all my courage and rose to depart.

"I will not say good-bye," I said, in a strange, hollow voice; "I will

only shake hands, and bid you good-night."

I shook hands with them all,--Jane last. Her hand was as cold as clay. I

dared not try to speak, but rushed abruptly from the house. Another long

night of misery!

When I judged, from the sounds below stairs, that my little servant had

breakfast ready, I went down and forced myself to eat; for I was feeling

deathly faint, and knew I needed food. I gave directions for the

disposition of some remaining articles, and for closing the house, then

walked rapidly towards the public-house in the village, where my trunks

had already been carried. I was very glad that I should not have to pass

the Woods'. I saw the girls out in their garden just before I left, and

took a last long look, but was sorry I did; it did me no good.

I was to go to Boston in the stage, and then take a vessel to New York,

whence I might sail for any part of the world. When I arrived at the

tavern, the Boston stage was just in, and the driver handed me a letter.

It was from the mate of the vessel, saying that his sailing would be

delayed two days, and requesting me to take a message from him to his

family, who lived in a small village six miles back from what was called

the stage-road. I went on horseback, performed my errand, dined with the

family, and returned at dark to the inn. After supper, it occurred to me

to go to the Woods' and surprise them. I wanted to see just what they

were doing, and just how they looked,--just how _she_ looked. But a

moment's reflection convinced me that I had much better not. But be

quiet I could not, and I strolled out of the back-door of the inn, and

so into a wide field behind. There was a moon, but swift dark clouds

were flying across it, causing alternate light and shadow. I strayed

on through field and meadow, hardly knowing whither I went, yet with a

half-consciousness that I should find myself at the end by my mother's

grave. I felt, therefore, no surprise when I saw that I was approaching,

through a field at the back of my garden, the old elm-tree. As I drew

near the grave, the moon, appearing from behind a cloud, showed me the

form of a woman leaning against the tree. She wore no bonnet,--nothing

but a shawl thrown over her head. Her face was turned from me, but I

knew those features, even in the indistinct moonlight, and my heart gave

a sudden leap, as I pressed eagerly forward. She turned in affright,

half screamed, half ran, then, recognizing me, remained still as a

statue.

"Mr. Allen, you here? I thought you were gone," she said, at last.

"Jane, you here?" said I. "You ought not; the night is damp; you will

get sick."

Nevertheless, I went on talking, told what had detained me, described

my journey and visit, and inquired after her family, as if I had been a

month absent. I never talked so easily before; for I knew she was not

looking in my face, and forgot how my voice might betray me. I spoke of

my mother, of how much she was to me, of my utter loneliness, and even

of my plans for the future.

"But I am keeping you too long," I exclaimed, at last; "this evening air

is bad; you must go home."

I walked along with her, up through the garden, and along the road

towards her house. I did not offer my arm, for I dared not trust myself

so near. The evening wind was cool, and I took off my hat to let it blow

upon my forehead, for my head was hot and my brain in a whirl. We came

to a stop at the gate, beneath an apple-tree, then in full bloom. I

think now that my mind at that time was not--exactly sound. The severe

mental discipline which I had forced upon myself, the long striving to

subdue the strongest feelings of a man's heart, together with my real

heart-grief at my mother's death, were enough, certainly, to craze any

one. I _was_ crazy; for I only meant to say "Good-bye," but I said,

"Good-bye, Jane; I would give the world to stay, but I must go." I

thought I was going to take her hand; but, instead of that, I took her

face between my own two hands, and turned it up towards mine. First I

kissed her cheeks. "That is for the pink," I said. Then her eyes. "And

that is for the blue. And now I go. You won't care, will you, Jane, that

I kissed you? I shall never trouble you any more; you know you will

never see me again. Good-bye, Jane!"

I grasped her hand tightly and turned away. I thought I was off, but she

did not let go my hand. I paused, as if to hear what she had to say. She

had hitherto spoken but little; she had no need, for I had talked with

all the rapidity of insanity. She tried to speak now, but her voice was

husky, and she almost whispered.

"Why do you go?" she asked.

"Because I _must_, Jane," I replied. "I _must_ go."

"And _why_ must you go?" she asked.

"Oh, Jane, don't ask me why I must go; you wouldn't, if you knew"--

There I stopped. She spoke again. There was a strange tone in her voice,

and I could feel that she was trembling all over.

"_Don't_ go, Henry."

Never before had she called me Henry, and this, together with her strong

emotion and the desire she expressed for me to stay, shot a bright

thought of joy through my soul. It was the very first moment that I

had entertained the possibility of her caring for me. I seemed another

being. Strange thoughts flashed like lightning across my mind. My

resolve was taken.

"Who cares whether I go or stay?" I asked.

"_I_ care," said she.

I took both her hands in mine, and, looking full in her face, said, in a

low voice,--

"Jane, _how much_ do you care?"

"A whole heart full," she replied, in a voice as low and as earnest as

my own.

She was leaning on the fence; I leaned back beside her, for I grew sick

and faint, thinking of the great joy that might be coming.

"Jane," said I, solemnly, "you wouldn't _marry me_, would you?"

"Certainly not," she replied. "How can I, when you have never asked me?"

"Jane," said I, and my voice sounded strange even to myself, "I hope you

are not trifling;--you never would dare, did you know the state I am in,

that I _have_ been in for--oh, so long! But I can't have hidden all my

love. Can't you see how my life almost is hanging upon your answer?

Jane, do you love me, and will you be my wife?"

"Henry," she replied, softly, but firmly, "I _do_ love you. I have loved

you a long, long time, and I shall be proud to be your wife, if--you

think me worthy."

It was more than I could bear. The sleepless nights, the days of almost

entire fasting, together with all my troubles, had been too much for me.

I was weak in body and in mind.

"Oh, Jane!" was all I could say. Then, leaning my head upon her

shoulder, I cried like a child. It didn't seem childish then.

"Oh, but, Henry, I won't, then, if you feel so badly about it," said

she, half laughing. Then, changing her tone, she begged me to become

calm. But in vain. The barriers were broken down, and the tide of

emotion, long suppressed, must gush forth. She evidently came to this

conclusion. She stood quiet and silent, and at last began timidly

stroking my hair. I shall never forget the first touch of her hand upon

my forehead. It soothed me, or else my emotion was spent; for, after a

while, I became quite still.

"Oh, Jane," I whispered, "my sorrow I could bear; but this strange

happiness overwhelms me. Can it be true? Oh, it is a fearful thing to be

so happy! How came you to love me, Jane? You are so beautiful, and I--I

am so"----

"You are so good, Henry!" she exclaimed, earnestly,--"too good for me!

You are a true-hearted, noble soul, worthy the love of any woman. If you

weren't so bashful," she continued, in a lower tone, "I should not say

so much; but--do you suppose nobody is happy but yourself? There is

somebody who scarcely more than an hour ago was weeping bitter tears,

feeling that the greatest joy of her life was gone forever. But now her

joy has returned to her, her heart is glad, she trembles with happiness.

Oh, Henry, 'it is a fearful thing to be so happy!'"

I could not answer; so I drew her close up to me. She was mine now, and

why should I not press her closely to my heart,--that heart so brimful

of love for her? There was a little bench at the foot of the apple-tree,

and there I made her sit down by me and answer the many eager questions

I had to ask. I forgot all about the dampness and the evening air.

She told how her mother had liked me from the first,--how they were

informed, by some few acquaintances they had made in the village, of my

early disappointment, and also of the peculiar state of mind into which

I was thrown by those early troubles; but when she began to love me she

couldn't tell. She had often thought I cared for her,--mentioned the day

when I found her at my mother's bedside, also the day of the funeral;

but so well had I controlled my feelings that she was never sure until

that night.

"I trust you will not think me unmaidenly, Henry," said she, looking

timidly up in my face. "You won't think worse of me, will you, for--for

almost offering myself to you?"

There was but one answer to this, and I failed not to give it. 'Twas a

very earnest answer, and she drew back a little. Her voice grew lower

and lower, while she told how, at my shaking hands the night before, she

almost fainted,--how she longed to say "Stay," but dared not, for I was

so stiff and cold: how could she say, "Don't go, Mr. Allen; please stay

and marry me"?--how she passed a wretched night and day, and walked out

at evening to be alone,--how she felt that she could go nowhere but to

my mother's grave,--and, finally, how overwhelmed with joy she was when

I came upon her so suddenly.

All this she told me, speaking softly and slowly, for which I was

thankful; for I liked to feel the sweet words of healing, dropping one

by one upon my heart.

In the midst of our talk, we heard the front-door of the house open.

"They are coming to look for me," said Jane. "You will go in?"

Hand in hand we walked up the pathway. We met Ellen half-way down. She

started with surprise at seeing me.

"Why, Mr. Allen!" she exclaimed, "I thought you a hundred miles off.

Why, Jane, mother was afraid you had fallen down the well."

She tripped gayly into the house.

"Mother!" she called out,--"you sent me for one, and I have brought you

two."

Jane and I walked in hand in hand; for I would not let her go. Her

mother looked surprised, but well pleased.

"Mrs. Wood," said I, "Jane has asked me to stay, and I am going to."

Nothing more was needed; our faces told the rest.

"Now Heaven be praised," she replied, "that we are still to have you

with us! I could not help thinking, that, if you only knew how much we

cared for you, you would not have been in such a hurry to leave us." And

she glanced significantly towards Jane.

The rest of the evening was spent in the most interesting explanations.

I passed the night at the village inn, as I had intended,--passed it,

not in sleep, but in planning and replanning, and in trying to persuade

myself that "Pink and Blue" was my own to keep.

The next day I spent at the Woods'. It was the first really happy day of

my life. In the afternoon, I took a long walk with Jane, through green

lanes, and orchards white and fragrant with blossoms. In the evening,

the family assembled, and we held sweet council together. It was decided

unanimously, that, situated as I was, there was no reason for delaying

the wedding,--that I should repossess myself of the furniture I had

given away, by giving new in exchange, the old being dearer to both Jane

and myself,--and, finally, that our wedding should be very quiet, and

should take place as soon as Jane could be got ready. Through it all I

sat like one in a dream, assenting to everything, for everything seemed

very desirable.

As soon as possible, I reopened my house, and established myself there

with the same little servant. It took Jane about a month to get ready,

and it took me some years to feel wholly my own happiness.

The old house is still standing; but after Mrs. Wood died, and Ellen was

married, we moved into the village; for the railroad came very near us,

cutting right through the path "across the field." I had the bodies of

my father and mother removed to the new cemetery.

My wife has been to me a lifelong blessing, my heart's joy and comfort.

They who have not tried it can never know how much love there is in a

woman's heart. The pink still lingers on her cheek, and her blue eye has

that same expression which so bewitched me in my younger days. The spell

has never been broken. I am an old man and she is an old woman, and,

though I don't do it before folks, lest they call us two old fools, yet,

when I come in and find her all alone, I am free to own that I do hug

and kiss her, and always mean to. If anybody is inclined to laugh, let

him just come and see how beautiful she is.

Our sons are away now, and all our daughters are married but one. I'm

glad they haven't taken her,--she looks so much as her mother did when I

first knew her. Her name is Jane Wood Allen. She goes in the village by

the name of Jennie Allen; but I like Jane better,--Jane Wood.

That is a true account of "How I won my wife."

POMEGRANATE-FLOWERS.

The street was narrow, close, and dark,

And flanked with antique masonry,

The shelving eaves left for an ark

But one long strip of summer sky.

But one long line to bless the eye--

The thin white cloud lay not so high,

Only some brown bird, skimming nigh,

From wings whence all the dew was dry

Shook down a dream of forest scents,

Of odorous blooms and sweet contents,

Upon the weary passers-by.

Ah, few but haggard brows had part

Below that street's uneven crown,

And there the murmurs of the mart

Swarmed faint as hums of drowsy noon.

With voices chiming in quaint tune

From sun-soaked hulls long wharves adown,

The singing sailors rough and brown

Won far melodious renown,

Here, listening children ceasing play,

And mothers sad their well-a-way,

In this old breezy sea-board town.

Ablaze on distant banks she knew,

Spreading their bowls to catch the sun,

Magnificent Dutch tulips grew

With pompous color overrun.

By light and snow from heaven won

Their misty web azaleas spun;

Low lilies pale as any nun,

Their pensile bells rang one by one;

And spicing all the summer air

Gold honeysuckles everywhere

Their trumpets blew in unison.

Than where blood-cored carnations stood

She fancied richer hues might be,

Scents rarer than the purple hood

Curled over in the fleur-de-lis.

Small skill in learned names had she,

Yet whatso wealth of land or sea

Had ever stored her memory,

She decked its varied imagery

Where, in the highest of the row

Upon a sill more white than snow,

She nourished a pomegranate-tree.

Some lover from a foreign clime,

Some roving gallant of the main,

Had brought it on a gay spring-time,

And told her of the nacar stain

The thing would wear when bloomed again.

Therefore all garden growths in vain

Their glowing ranks swept through her brain,

The plant was knit by subtile chain

To all the balm of Southern zones,

The incenses of Eastern thrones,

The tinkling hem of Aaron's train.

The almond shaking in the sun

On some high place ere day begin,

Where winds of myrrh and cinnamon

Between the tossing plumes have been,

It called before her, and its kin

The fragrant savage balaustine

Grown from the ruined ravelin

That tawny leopards couch them in;

But this, if rolling in from seas

It only caught the salt-fumed breeze,

Would have a grace they might not win.

And for the fruit that it should bring,

One globe she pictured, bright and near,

Crimson, and throughly perfuming

All airs that brush its shining sphere.

In its translucent atmosphere

Afrite and Princess reappear,--

Through painted panes the scattered spear

Of sunrise scarce so warm and clear,--

And pulped with such a golden juice,

Ambrosial, that one cannot choose

But find the thought most sumptuous cheer.

Of all fair women she was queen,

And all her beauty, late and soon,

O'ercame you like the mellow sheen

Of some serene autumnal noon.

Her presence like a sweetest tune

Accorded all your thoughts in one.

Than last year's alder-tufts in June

Browner, yet lustrous as a moon

Her eyes glowed on you, and her hair

With such an air as princes wear

She trimmed black-braided in a crown.

A perfect peace prepared her days,

Few were her wants and small her care,

No weary thoughts perplexed her ways,

She hardly knew if she were fair.

Bent lightly at her needle there

In that small room stair over stair,

All fancies blithe and debonair

She deftly wrought on fabrics rare,

All clustered moss, all drifting snow,

All trailing vines, all flowers that blow,

Her daedal fingers laid them bare.

Still at the slowly spreading leaves

She glanced up ever and anon,

If yet the shadow of the eaves

Had paled the dark gloss they put on.

But while her smile like sunlight shone,

The life danced to such blossom blown

That all the roses ever known,

Blanche of Provence, Noisette, or Yonne,

Wore no such tint as this pale streak

That damasked half the rounding cheek

Of each bud great to bursting grown.

And when the perfect flower lay free,

Like some great moth whose gorgeous wings

Fan o'er the husk unconsciously,

Silken, in airy balancings,--

She saw all gay dishevellings

Of fairy flags, whose revellings

Illumine night's enchanted rings.

So royal red no blood of kings

She thought, and Summer in the room

Sealed her escutcheon on their bloom,

In the glad girl's imaginings.

Now, said she, in the heart of the woods

The sweet south-winds assert their power,

And blow apart the snowy snoods

Of trilliums in their thrice-green bower.

Now all the swamps are flushed with dower

Of viscid pink, where, hour by hour,

The bees swim amorous, and a shower

Reddens the stream where cardinals tower.

Far lost in fern of fragrant stir

Her fancies roam, for unto her

All Nature came in this one flower.

Sometimes she set it on the ledge

That it might not be quite forlorn

Of wind and sky, where o'er the edge,

Some gaudy petal, slowly borne,

Fluttered to earth in careless scorn,

Caught, for a fallen piece of morn

From kindling vapors loosely shorn,

By urchins ragged and wayworn,

Who saw, high on the stone embossed,

A laughing face, a hand that tossed

A prodigal spray just freshly torn.

What wizard hints across them fleet,--

These heirs of all the town's thick sin,

Swift gypsies of the tortuous street,

With childhood yet on cheek and chin!

What voices dropping through the din

An airy murmuring begin,--

These floating flakes, so fine and thin,

Were they and rock-laid earth akin?

Some woman of the gods was she,

The generous maiden in her glee?

And did whole forests grow within?

A tissue rare as the hoar-frost,

White as the mists spring dawns condemn,

The shadowy wrinkles round her lost,

She wrought with branch and anadem,

Through the fine meshes netting them,

Pomegranate-flower and leaf and stem.

Dropping it o'er her diadem

To float below her gold-stitched hem,

Some duchess through the court should sail

Hazed in the cloud of this white veil,

As when a rain-drop mists a gem.

Her tresses once when this was done,

--Vanished the skein, the needle bare,--

She dressed with wreaths vermilion

Bright as a trumpet's dazzling blare.

Nor knew that in Queen Dido's hair,

Loading the Carthaginian air,

Ancestral blossoms flamed as fair

As any ever hanging there.

While o'er her cheek their scarlet gleam

Shot down a vivid varying beam,

Like sunshine on a brown-bronzed pear.

And then the veil thrown over her,

The vapor of the snowy lace

Fell downward, as the gossamer

Tossed from the autumn winds' wild race

Falls round some garden-statue's grace.

Beneath, the blushes on her face

Fled with the Naiad's shifting chase

When flashing through a watery space.

And in the dusky mirror glanced

A splendid phantom, where there danced

All brilliances in paler trace.

A spicery of sweet perfume,

As if from regions rankly green

And these rich hoards of bud and bloom,

Lay every waft of air between.

Out of some heaven's unfancied screen

The gorgeous vision seemed to lean.

The Oriental kings have seen

Less beauty in their daïs-queen,

And any limner's pencil then

Had drawn the eternal love of men,

But twice Chance will not intervene.

For soon with scarce a loving sigh

She lifts it off half unaware,

While through the clinging folds held high,

Arachnean in a silver snare

Her rosy fingers nimbly fare,

Till gathered square with dainty care.

But still she leaves the flowery flare

--Such as Dame Venus' self might wear--

Where first she placed them, since they blow

More bounteous color hanging so,

And seem more native to the air.

Anon the mellow twilight came

With breath of quiet gently freed

From sunset's felt but unseen flame.

Then by her casement wheeled in speed

Strange films, and half the wings indeed

That steam in rainbows o'er the mead,

Now magnified in mystery, lead

Great revolutions to her heed.

And leaning out, the night o'erhead,

Wind-tossed in many a shining thread,

Hung one long scarf of glittering brede.

Then as it drew its streamers there,

And furled its sails to fill and flaunt

Along fresh firmaments of air

When ancient morn renewed his chant,--

She sighed in thinking on the plant

Drooping so languidly aslant;

Fancied some fierce noon's forest-haunt

Where wild red things loll forth and pant,

Their golden antlers wave, and still

Sigh for a shower that shall distil

The largess gracious nights do grant.

The oleanders in the South

Drape gray hills with their rose, she thought,

The yellow-tasselled broom through drouth

Bathing in half a heaven is caught.

Jasmine and myrtle flowers are sought

By winds that leave them fragrance-fraught.

To them the wild bee's path is taught,

The crystal spheres of rain are brought,

Beside them on some silent spray

The nightingales sing night away,

The darkness wooes them in such sort.

But this, close shut beneath a roof,

Knows not the night, the tranquil spell,

The stillness of the wildwood ouphe,

The magic dropped on moor and fell.

No cool dew soothes its fiery shell,

Nor any star, a red sardel,

Swings painted there as in a well.

Dyed like a stream of muscadel

No white-skinned snake coils in its cup

To drink its soul of sweetness up,

A honeyed hermit in his cell.

No humming-bird in emerald coat,

Shedding the light, and bearing fain

His ebon spear, while at his throat

The ruby corselet sparkles plain,

On wings of misty speed astain

With amber lustres, hangs amain,

And tireless hums his happy strain;

Emperor of some primeval reign,

Over the ages sails to spill

The luscious juice of this, and thrill

Its very heart with blissful pain.

As if the flowers had taken flight

Or as the crusted gems should shoot

From hidden hollows, or as the light

Had blossomed into prisms to flute

Its secret that before was mute,

Atoms where fire and tint dispute,

No humming-birds here hunt their fruit.

No burly bee with banded suit

Here dusts him, no full ray by stealth

Sifts through it stained with warmer wealth

Where fair fierce butterflies salute.

Nor night nor day brings to my tree,

She thought, the free air's choice extremes,

But yet it grows as joyfully

And floods my chamber with its beams,

So that some tropic land it seems

Where oranges with ruddy gleams,

And aloes, whose weird flowers the creams

Of long rich centuries one deems,

Wave through the softness of the gloom,--

And these may blush a deeper bloom

Because they gladden so my dreams.

The sudden street-lights in moresque

Broke through her tender murmuring,

And on her ceiling shades grotesque

Reeled in a bacchanalian swing.

Then all things swam, and like a ring

Of bubbles welling from a spring

Breaking in deepest coloring

Flower-spirits paid her minist'ring.

Sleep, fusing all her senses, soon

Fanned over her in drowsy rune

All night long a pomegranate wing.

* * * * *

THE PRAIRIE STATE.

On the head-waters of the Wabash, near Lake Erie, we first meet with

those grassy plains to which the early French explorers of the West gave

the name of Prairies. In Southern Michigan, they become more frequent;

in the State of Indiana, still more so; and when we arrive in Illinois,

we find ourselves in the Prairie State proper, three-quarters of its

territory being open meadow, or prairie. Southern Wisconsin is partly of

this character, and, on crossing the Mississippi, most of the surface of

both Iowa and Minnesota is also prairie.

Illinois, with little exception, is one vast prairie,--dotted, it is

true, with groves, and intersected with belts of timber, but still one

great open plain. This State, then, being the type of the prairie lands,

a sketch of its history, political, physical, and agricultural, will

tolerably well represent that of the whole prairie region.

The State of Illinois was originally part of Florida, and belonged to

Spain, by the usual tenure of European title in the sixteenth century,

when the King of France or Spain was endowed by His Holiness with half

a continent; the rights of the occupants of the soil never for a moment

being considered. So the Spaniard, in 1541, having planted his flag at

the mouth of the Mississippi, became possessed of the whole of the vast

region watered by its tributary streams, and Illinois and Wisconsin

became Spanish colonies, and all their native inhabitants vassals of His

Most Catholic Majesty. The settlement of the country was, however,

never attempted by the Spaniards, who devoted themselves to their more

lucrative colonies in South America.

The French missionaries and fur-traders found their way from Canada into

these parts at an early day; and in 1667 Robert de la Salle made his

celebrated explorations, in which he took possession of the territory of

Illinois in behalf of the French crown. And here we may remark, that the

relations of the Jesuits and early explorers give a delightful picture

of the native inhabitants of the prairies. Compared with their savage

neighbors, the Illini seem to have been a favored people. The climate

was mild, and the soil so fertile as to afford liberal returns even to

their rude husbandry; the rivers and lakes abounded in fish and fowl;

the groves swarmed with deer and turkeys,--bustards the French called

them, after the large gallinaceous bird which they remembered on the

plains of Normandy; and the vast expanse of the prairies was blackened

by herds of wild cattle, or buffaloes. The influence of this fair and

fertile land seems to have been felt by its inhabitants. They came to

meet Father Marquette, offering the calumet, brilliant with many-colored

plumes, with the gracious greeting,--"How beautiful is the sun, O

Frenchman, when thou comest to us! Thou shalt enter in peace all our

dwellings." A very different reception from that offered by the stern

savages of Jamestown and Plymouth to John Smith and Miles Standish!

So, in peace and plenty, remained for many years this paradise in the

prairies.

About the year 1700, Illinois was included in Louisiana, and came under

the sway of Louis XIV., who, in 1712, presented to Anthony Crozat the

whole territory of Louisiana, Illinois, and Wisconsin,--a truly royal

gift!

The fortunate recipient, however, having spent vast sums upon the

territory without any returns, surrendered his grant to the crown a

few years afterwards; and a trading company, called the Company of the

Indies, was got up by the famous John Law, on the basis of these lands.

The history of that earliest of Western land-speculations is too well

known to need repetition; suffice it to say, that it was conducted upon

a scale of magnificence in comparison with which our modern imitations

in 1836 and 1856 were feeble indeed. A monument of it stood not many

years ago upon the banks of the Mississippi, in the ruins of Fort

Chartres, which was built by Law when at the height of his fortune, at

a cost of several millions of livres, and which toppled over into the

river in a recent inundation.

In 1759 the French power in North America was broken forever by Wolfe,

upon the Plains of Abraham; and in 1763, by the Treaty of Paris, all the

French possessions upon this continent were ceded to England, and the

territory of the Illinois became part of the British empire.

Pontiac, the famous Ottawa chief, after fighting bravely on the French

side through the war, refused to be transferred with the territory; he

repaired to Illinois, where he was killed by a Peoria Indian. His tribe,

the Ottawas, with their allies, the Pottawattomies and Chippewas,

in revenge, made war upon the Peorias and their confederates, the

Kaskaskias and Cahoklas, in which contest these latter tribes were

nearly exterminated.

At this time, the French population of Illinois amounted to about three

thousand persons, who were settled along the Mississippi and Illinois

rivers, where their descendants remain to this day, preserving a

well-defined national character in the midst of the great flood of

Anglo-American immigration which rolls around them.

Illinois remained under British rule till the year 1778, when George

Rogers Clarke, with four companies of Virginia rangers, marched from

Williamsburg, a distance of thirteen hundred miles, through a hostile

wilderness, captured the British posts of Kaskaskia and Cahokia, and

annexed a territory larger than Great Britain to the new Republic. Many

of Colonel Clarke's rangers, pleased with the beauty and fertility of

the country, settled in Illinois; but the Indians were so numerous and

hostile, that the settlers were obliged to live in fortified stations,

or block-houses, and the population remained very scanty for many years.

In 1809 Illinois was made into a separate Territory, and Ninian Edwards

appointed its first Governor.

During the War of 1812, Tecumseh, an Indian chief of remarkable ability,

endeavored to form a coalition of all the tribes against the Americans,

but with only partial success. He inflicted severe losses upon them,

but was finally defeated and slain at the Battle of the Thames, leaving

behind him the reputation of being the greatest hero and noblest patriot

of his race.

In 1818, Illinois, then having a population of about forty-five

thousand, was admitted into the Union. The State was formed out of that

territory which by the Ordinance of 1787 was dedicated to freedom; but

there was a strong party in the State who wished for the introduction

of slavery, and in order to effect this it was necessary to call a

convention to amend the Constitution. On this arose a desperate contest

between the two principles, and it ended in the triumph of freedom.

Among those opposed to the introduction of slavery were Morris Birkbeck,

Governor Coles, David Blackwell, Judge Lockwood, and Daniel P. Cook.

It was a fitting memorial of the latter, that the County of Cook,

containing the great commercial city of Chicago, should bear his name.

The names of the pro-slavery leaders we will leave to oblivion.

In 1824 the lead mines near Galena began to be worked to advantage,

and thousands of persons from Southern Illinois and Missouri swarmed

thither. The Illinoisans ran up the river in the spring, worked in the

mines during the summer, and returned to their homes down the river in

the autumn,--thus resembling in their migrations the fish so common in

the Western waters, called the Sucker. It was also observed that great

hordes of uncouth ruffians came up to the mines from Missouri, and it

was therefore said that she had vomited forth all her worst population.

Thenceforth the Missourians were called "Pukes," and the people of

Illinois "Suckers."

From 1818 to 1830, the commerce of the State made but small progress.

At this time, there were one or two small steamboats upon the Illinois

River, but most of the navigation was carried on in keel-boats. The

village merchants were mere retailers; they purchased no produce, except

a few skins and furs, and a little beeswax and honey. The farmers along

the rivers did their own shipping,--building flat-boats, which, having

loaded with corn, flour, and bacon, they would float down to New

Orleans, which was the only market accessible to them. The voyage was

long, tedious, and expensive, and when the farmer arrived, he found

himself in a strange city, where all were combined against him, and

often he was cheated out of his property,--returning on foot by a long

and dangerous journey to a desolate farm, which had been neglected

during his absence. Thus two crops were sometimes lost in taking one to

market.

The manners and customs of the people were simple and primitive. The

costume of the men was a raccoon-skin cap, linsey hunting-shirt,

buck-skin leggings and moccasons, with a butcher-knife in the belt.

The women wore cotton or woollen frocks, striped with blue dye and

Turkey-red, and spun, woven, and made with their own hands; they went

barefooted and bareheaded, except on Sundays, when they covered the head

with a cotton handkerchief. It is told of a certain John Grammar, for

many years a representative from Union County, and a man of some note

in the State councils, though he could neither read nor write, that in

1816, when he was first elected, lacking the necessary apparel, he and

his sons gathered a large quantity of hazel-nuts, which they took to

the nearest town and sold for enough blue strouding to make a suit of

clothes. The pattern proved to be scanty, and the women of the household

could only get out a very bob-tailed coat and leggings. With these Mr.

Grammar started for Kaskaskia, the seat of government, and these he

continued to wear till the passage of an appropriation bill enabled him

to buy a civilized pair of breeches.

The distinctions in manners and dress between the higher and lower

classes were more marked than at present; for while John Grammar wore

blue strouding, we are told that Governor Edwards dressed in fine

broadcloth, white-topped boots, and a gold-laced cloak, and rode about

the country in a fine carriage, driven by a negro.

In those days justice was administered without much parade or ceremony.

The judges held their courts mostly in log houses or in the bar-rooms of

taverns, fitted up with a temporary bench for the judge, and chairs for

the lawyers and jurors. At the first Circuit Court in Washington County,

held by Judge John Reynolds, the sheriff, on opening the court, went out

into the yard, and said to the people, "Boys, come in; our John is going

to hold court." The judges were unwilling to decide questions of law,

preferring to submit everything to the jury, and seldom gave them

instructions, if they could avoid it. A certain judge, being ambitious

to show his learning, gave very pointed directions to the jury, but

they could not agree on a verdict. The judge asked the cause of their

difference, when the foreman answered with great simplicity,--"Why,

Judge, this 'ere's the difficulty: the jury wants to know whether that

'ar what you told us, when we went out, was r'aly the law, or whether it

was on'y jist your notion."

In the spring of 1831, Black Hawk, a Sac chief, dissatisfied with the

treaty by which his tribe had been removed across the Mississippi,

recrossed the river at the head of three or four hundred warriors, and

drove away the white settlers from his old lands near the mouth of the

Rock River. This was considered an invasion of the State, and Governor

Reynolds called for volunteers. Fifteen hundred men answered the

summons, and the Indians were driven out. The next spring, however,

Black Hawk returned with a larger force, and commenced hostilities by

killing some settlers on Indian Creek, not far from Ottawa. A large

force of volunteers was again called out, but in the first encounter the

whites were beaten, which success encouraged the Sacs and Foxes so much

that they spread themselves over the whole of the country between the

Mississippi and the Lake, and kept up a desultory warfare for three or

four months against the volunteer troops. About the middle of July, a

body of volunteers under General Henry of Illinois pursued the Indians

into Wisconsin, and by forced marches brought them to action near the

Mississippi, before the United States troops, under General Atkinson,

could come up. The Indians fought desperately, but were unable to stand

long before the courage and superior numbers of the whites. They escaped

across the river with the loss of nearly three hundred, killed in the

action, or drowned in the retreat. The loss of the Illinois volunteers

was about thirty, killed and wounded.

This defeat entirely broke the power of the Sacs and Foxes, and they

sued for peace. Black Hawk, and some of his head men, were taken

prisoners, and kept in confinement for several months, when, after a

tour through the country, to show them the numbers and power of the

whites, they were set at liberty on the west side of the Mississippi. In

1840 Black Hawk died, at the age of eighty years, on the banks of the

great river which he loved so well.