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The May Flower, and Miscellaneous Writings

by Harriet Beecher Stowe · English · Gutenberg #31390 · 752,347 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The May Flower, and Miscellaneous Writings

Author: Harriet Beecher Stowe


        
Release date: February 25, 2010 [eBook #31390]

Language: English

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Produced by David Edwards, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
book was produced from scanned images of public domain
material from the Google Print project.)









                                   The May Flower

                                        and

                               Miscellaneous Writings

                              By Harriet Beecher Stowe

     AUTHOR OF "UNCLE TOM'S CABIN," "SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS," ETC.


BOSTON:
PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY,
13 WINTER STREET
1855.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by
PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District
of Massachusetts.

STEREOTYPED AT THE
BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY.




[Illustration: Truly Yours, H B Stowe]




INTRODUCTION.


Mr. G. B. Emerson, in his late report to the legislature of
Massachusetts on the trees and shrubs of that state, thus describes
The May Flower.

"Often from beneath the edge of a snow bank are seen rising the
fragrant, pearly-white or rose-colored flowers of this earliest
harbinger of spring.

"It abounds in the edges of the woods about Plymouth, as elsewhere, and
must have been the first flower to salute the storm-beaten crew of the
Mayflower on the conclusion of their first terrible winter. Their
descendants have thence piously derived the name, although its bloom is
often passed before the coming in of May."

No flower could be more appropriately selected as an emblem token by the
descendants of the Puritans. Though so fragrant and graceful, it is
invariably the product of the hardest and most rocky soils, and seems to
draw its ethereal beauty of color and wealth of perfume rather from the
air than from the slight hold which its rootlets take of the earth. It
may often be found in fullest beauty matting a granite lodge, with
scarcely any perceptible soil for its support.

What better emblem of that faith, and hope, and piety, by which our
fathers were supported in dreary and barren enterprises, and which drew
their life and fragrance from heaven more than earth?

The May Flower was, therefore, many years since selected by the author
as the title of a series of New England sketches. That work had
comparatively a limited circulation, and is now entirely out of print.
Its articles are republished in the present volume, with other
miscellaneous writings, which have from time to time appeared in
different periodicals. They have been written in all moods, from the
gayest to the gravest--they are connected, in many cases, with the
memory of friends and scenes most dear.

There are those now scattered through the world who will remember the
social literary parties of Cincinnati, for whose genial meetings many of
these articles were prepared. With most affectionate remembrances, the
author dedicates the book to the yet surviving members of The Semicolon.

Andover, _April, 1855_.




CONTENTS.


UNCLE LOT

LOVE _versus_ LAW

THE TEA ROSE

TRIALS OF A HOUSEKEEPER

LITTLE EDWARD

AUNT MARY

FRANKNESS

THE SABBATH.--SKETCHES FROM A NOTE BOOK OF AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN

LET EVERY MAN MIND HIS OWN BUSINESS

COUSIN WILLIAM

THE MINISTRATION OF OUR DEPARTED FRIENDS.--A NEW YEAR'S REVERY

MRS. A. AND MRS. B.; OR, WHAT SHE THINKS ABOUT IT

CHRISTMAS; OR, THE GOOD FAIRY

EARTHLY CARE A HEAVENLY DISCIPLINE

CONVERSATION ON CONVERSATION

HOW DO WE KNOW?

WHICH IS THE LIBERAL MAN?

THE ELDER'S FEAST.--A TRADITION OF LAODICEA

LITTLE FRED, THE CANAL BOY

THE CANAL BOAT

FEELING

THE SEAMSTRESS

OLD FATHER MORRIS.--A SKETCH FROM NATURE

THE TWO ALTARS, OR TWO PICTURES IN ONE

A SCHOLAR'S ADVENTURES IN THE COUNTRY

"WOMAN, BEHOLD THY SON!"

THE CORAL RING

ART AND NATURE

CHILDREN

HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS WITH MAMMON

A SCENE IN JERUSALEM

THE OLD MEETING HOUSE.--SKETCH FROM THE NOTE BOOK OF AN OLD GENTLEMAN

THE NEW-YEAR'S GIFT

THE OLD OAK OF ANDOVER.--A REVERY

OUR WOOD LOT IN WINTER

POEMS:--

THE CHARMER

PILGRIM'S SONG IN THE DESERT

MARY AT THE CROSS

CHRISTIAN PEACE

ABIDE IN ME AND I IN YOU.--THE SOUL'S ANSWER

WHEN I AWAKE I AM STILL WITH THEE

CHRIST'S VOICE IN THE SOUL




THE MAY FLOWER.




UNCLE LOT.


And so I am to write a story--but of what, and where? Shall it be
radiant with the sky of Italy? or eloquent with the beau ideal of
Greece? Shall it breathe odor and languor from the orient, or chivalry
from the occident? or gayety from France? or vigor from England? No, no;
these are all too old--too romance-like--too obviously picturesque for
me. No; let me turn to my own land--my own New England; the land of
bright fires and strong hearts; the land of _deeds_, and not of words;
the land of fruits, and not of flowers; the land often spoken against,
yet always respected; "the latchet of whose shoes the nations of the
earth are not worthy to unloose."

Now, from this very heroic apostrophe, you may suppose that I have
something very heroic to tell. By no means. It is merely a little
introductory breeze of patriotism, such as occasionally brushes over
every mind, bearing on its wings the remembrance of all we ever loved or
cherished in the land of our early years; and if it should seem to be
rodomontade to any people in other parts of the earth, let them only
imagine it to be said about "Old Kentuck," old England, or any other
corner of the world in which they happened to be born, and they will
find it quite rational.

But, as touching our story, it is time to begin. Did you ever see the
little village of Newbury, in New England? I dare say you never did; for
it was just one of those out of the way places where nobody ever came
unless they came on purpose: a green little hollow, wedged like a bird's
nest between half a dozen high hills, that kept off the wind and kept
out foreigners; so that the little place was as straitly _sui generis_
as if there were not another in the world. The inhabitants were all of
that respectable old standfast family who make it a point to be born,
bred, married, die, and be buried all in the selfsame spot. There were
just so many houses, and just so many people lived in them; and nobody
ever seemed to be sick, or to die either, at least while I was there.
The natives grew old till they could not grow any older, and then they
stood still, and _lasted_ from generation to generation. There was, too,
an unchangeability about all the externals of Newbury. Here was a red
house, and there was a brown house, and across the way was a yellow
house; and there was a straggling rail fence or a tribe of mullein
stalks between. The minister lived here, and 'Squire Moses lived there,
and Deacon Hart lived under the hill, and Messrs. Nadab and Abihu Peters
lived by the cross road, and the old "widder" Smith lived by the meeting
house, and Ebenezer Camp kept a shoemaker's shop on one side, and
Patience Mosely kept a milliner's shop in front; and there was old
Comfort Scran, who kept store for the whole town, and sold axe heads,
brass thimbles, licorice ball, fancy handkerchiefs, and every thing else
you can think of. Here, too, was the general post office, where you
might see letters marvellously folded, directed wrong side upward,
stamped with a thimble, and superscribed to some of the Dollys, or
Pollys, or Peters, or Moseses aforenamed or not named.

For the rest, as to manners, morals, arts, and sciences, the people in
Newbury always went to their parties at three o'clock in the afternoon,
and came home before dark; always stopped all work the minute the sun
was down on Saturday night; always went to meeting on Sunday; had a
school house with all the ordinary inconveniences; were in neighborly
charity with each other; read their Bibles, feared their God, and were
content with such things as they had--the best philosophy, after all.
Such was the place into which Master James Benton made an irruption in
the year eighteen hundred and no matter what. Now, this James is to be
our hero, and he is just the hero for a sensation--at least, so you
would have thought, if you had been in Newbury the week after his
arrival. Master James was one of those whole-hearted, energetic Yankees,
who rise in the world as naturally as cork does in water. He possessed a
great share of that characteristic national trait so happily denominated
"cuteness," which signifies an ability to do every thing without trying,
and to know every thing without learning, and to make more use of one's
_ignorance_ than other people do of their knowledge. This quality in
James was mingled with an elasticity of animal spirits, a buoyant
cheerfulness of mind, which, though found in the New England character,
perhaps, as often as any where else, is not ordinarily regarded as one
of its distinguishing traits.

As to the personal appearance of our hero, we have not much to say of
it--not half so much as the girls in Newbury found it necessary to
remark, the first Sabbath that he shone out in the meeting house. There
was a saucy frankness of countenance, a knowing roguery of eye, a
joviality and prankishness of demeanor, that was wonderfully
captivating, especially to the ladies.

It is true that Master James had an uncommonly comfortable opinion of
himself, a full faith that there was nothing in creation that he could
not learn and could not do; and this faith was maintained with an
abounding and triumphant joyfulness, that fairly carried your sympathies
along with him, and made you feel quite as much delighted with his
qualifications and prospects as he felt himself. There are two kinds of
self-sufficiency; one is amusing, and the other is provoking. His was
the amusing kind. It seemed, in truth, to be only the buoyancy and
overflow of a vivacious mind, delighted with every thing delightful, in
himself or others. He was always ready to magnify his own praise, but
quite as ready to exalt his neighbor, if the channel of discourse ran
that way: his own perfections being more completely within his
knowledge, he rejoiced in them more constantly; but, if those of any one
else came within the same range, he was quite as much astonished and
edified as if they had been his own.

Master James, at the time of his transit to the town of Newbury, was
only eighteen years of age; so that it was difficult to say which
predominated in him most, the boy or the man. The belief that he could,
and the determination that he would, be something in the world had
caused him to abandon his home, and, with all his worldly effects tied
in a blue cotton pocket handkerchief, to proceed to seek his fortune in
Newbury. And never did stranger in Yankee village rise to promotion with
more unparalleled rapidity, or boast a greater plurality of employment.
He figured as schoolmaster all the week, and as chorister on Sundays,
and taught singing and reading in the evenings, besides studying Latin
and Greek with the minister, nobody knew when; thus fitting for college,
while he seemed to be doing every thing else in the world besides.

James understood every art and craft of popularity, and made himself
mightily at home in all the chimney corners of the region round about;
knew the geography of every body's cider barrel and apple bin, helping
himself and every one else therefrom with all bountifulness; rejoicing
in the good things of this life, devouring the old ladies' doughnuts and
pumpkin pies with most flattering appetite, and appearing equally to
relish every body and thing that came in his way.

The degree and versatility of his acquirements were truly wonderful. He
knew all about arithmetic and history, and all about catching squirrels
and planting corn; made poetry and hoe handles with equal celerity;
wound yarn and took out grease spots for old ladies, and made nosegays
and knickknacks for young ones; caught trout Saturday afternoons, and
discussed doctrines on Sundays, with equal adroitness and effect. In
short, Mr. James moved on through the place

           "Victorious,
    Happy and glorious,"

welcomed and privileged by every body in every place; and when he had
told his last ghost story, and fairly flourished himself out of doors at
the close of a long winter's evening, you might see the hard face of the
good man of the house still phosphorescent with his departing radiance,
and hear him exclaim, in a paroxysm of admiration, that "Jemeses talk
re'ely did beat all; that he was sartainly most a miraculous cre'tur!"

It was wonderfully contrary to the buoyant activity of Master James's
mind to keep a school. He had, moreover, so much of the boy and the
rogue in his composition, that he could not be strict with the
iniquities of the curly pates under his charge; and when he saw how
determinately every little heart was boiling over with mischief and
motion, he felt in his soul more disposed to join in and help them to a
frolic than to lay justice to the line, as was meet. This would have
made a sad case, had it not been that the activity of the master's mind
communicated itself to his charge, just as the reaction of one brisk
little spring will fill a manufactory with motion; so that there was
more of an impulse towards study in the golden, good-natured day of
James Benton than in the time of all that went before or came after him.

But when "school was out," James's spirits foamed over as naturally as a
tumbler of soda water, and he could jump over benches and burst out of
doors with as much rapture as the veriest little elf in his company.
Then you might have seen him stepping homeward with a most felicitous
expression of countenance, occasionally reaching his hand through the
fence for a bunch of currants, or over it after a flower, or bursting
into some back yard to help an old lady empty her wash tub, or stopping
to pay his _devoirs_ to Aunt This or Mistress That, for James well knew
the importance of the "powers that be," and always kept the sunny side
of the old ladies.

We shall not answer for James's general flirtations, which were sundry
and manifold; for he had just the kindly heart that fell in love with
every thing in feminine shape that came in his way, and if he had not
been blessed with an equal facility in falling out again, we do not know
what ever would have become of him. But at length he came into an
abiding captivity, and it is quite time that he should; for, having
devoted thus much space to the illustration of our hero, it is fit we
should do something in behalf of our heroine; and, therefore, we must
beg the reader's attention while we draw a diagram or two that will
assist him in gaining a right idea of her.

Do you see yonder brown house, with its broad roof sloping almost to the
ground on one side, and a great, unsupported, sun bonnet of a piazza
shooting out over the front door? You must often have noticed it; you
have seen its tall well sweep, relieved against the clear evening sky,
or observed the feather beds and bolsters lounging out of its chamber
windows on a still summer morning; you recollect its gate, that swung
with a chain and a great stone; its pantry window, latticed with little
brown slabs, and looking out upon a forest of bean poles. You remember
the zephyrs that used to play among its pea brush, and shake the long
tassels of its corn patch, and how vainly any zephyr might essay to
perform similar flirtations with the considerate cabbages that were
solemnly vegetating near by. Then there was the whole neighborhood of
purple-leaved beets and feathery parsnips; there were the billows of
gooseberry bushes rolled up by the fence, interspersed with rows of
quince trees; and far off in one corner was one little patch,
penuriously devoted to ornament, which flamed with marigolds, poppies,
snappers, and four-o'clocks. Then there was a little box by itself with
one rose geranium in it, which seemed to look around the garden as much
like a stranger as a French dancing master in a Yankee meeting house.

That is the dwelling of Uncle Lot Griswold. Uncle Lot, as he was
commonly called, had a character that a painter would sketch for its
lights and contrasts rather than its symmetry. He was a chestnut burr,
abounding with briers without and with substantial goodness within. He
had the strong-grained practical sense, the calculating worldly wisdom
of his class of people in New England; he had, too, a kindly heart; but
all the strata of his character were crossed by a vein of surly
petulance, that, half way between joke and earnest, colored every thing
that he said and did.

If you asked a favor of Uncle Lot, he generally kept you arguing half an
hour, to prove that you really needed it, and to tell you that he could
not all the while be troubled with helping one body or another, all
which time you might observe him regularly making his preparations to
grant your request, and see, by an odd glimmer of his eye, that he was
preparing to let you hear the "conclusion of the whole matter," which
was, "Well, well--I guess--I'll go, on the _hull_--I 'spose I must, at
least;" so off he would go and work while the day lasted, and then wind
up with a farewell exhortation "not to be a callin' on your neighbors
when you could get along without." If any of Uncle Lot's neighbors were
in any trouble, he was always at hand to tell them that "they shouldn't
a' done so;" that "it was strange they couldn't had more sense;" and
then to close his exhortations by laboring more diligently than any to
bring them out of their difficulties, groaning in spirit, meanwhile,
that folks would make people so much trouble.

"Uncle Lot, father wants to know if you will lend him your hoe to-day,"
says a little boy, making his way across a cornfield.

"Why don't your father use his own hoe?"

"Ours is broke."

"Broke! How came it broke?"

"I broke it yesterday, trying to hit a squirrel."

"What business had you to be hittin' squirrels with a hoe? say!"

"But father wants to borrow yours."

"Why don't you have that mended? It's a great pester to have every body
usin' a body's things."

"Well, I can borrow one some where else, I suppose," says the suppliant.
After the boy has stumbled across the ploughed ground, and is fairly
over the fence, Uncle Lot calls,--

"Halloo, there, you little rascal! what are you goin' off without the
hoe for?"

"I didn't know as you meant to lend it."

"I didn't say I wouldn't, did I? Here, come and take it.--stay, I'll
bring it; and do tell your father not to be a lettin' you hunt squirrels
with his hoes next time."

Uncle Lot's household consisted of Aunt Sally, his wife, and an only son
and daughter; the former, at the time our story begins, was at a
neighboring literary institution. Aunt Sally was precisely as clever, as
easy to be entreated, and kindly in externals, as her helpmate was the
reverse. She was one of those respectable, pleasant old ladies whom you
might often have met on the way to church on a Sunday, equipped with a
great fan and a psalm book, and carrying some dried orange peel or a
stalk of fennel, to give to the children if they were sleepy in meeting.
She was as cheerful and domestic as the tea kettle that sung by her
kitchen fire, and slipped along among Uncle Lot's angles and
peculiarities as if there never was any thing the matter in the world;
and the same mantle of sunshine seemed to have fallen on Miss Grace, her
only daughter.

Pretty in her person and pleasant in her ways, endowed with native
self-possession and address, lively and chatty, having a mind and a will
of her own, yet good-humored withal, Miss Grace was a universal
favorite. It would have puzzled a city lady to understand how Grace, who
never was out of Newbury in her life, knew the way to speak, and act,
and behave, on all occasions, exactly as if she had been taught how. She
was just one of those wild flowers which you may sometimes see waving
its little head in the woods, and looking so civilized and garden-like,
that you wonder if it really did come up and grow there by nature. She
was an adept in all household concerns, and there was something
amazingly pretty in her energetic way of bustling about, and "putting
things to rights." Like most Yankee damsels, she had a longing after the
tree of knowledge, and, having exhausted the literary fountains of a
district school, she fell to reading whatsoever came in her way. True,
she had but little to read; but what she perused she had her own
thoughts upon, so that a person of information, in talking with her,
would feel a constant wondering pleasure to find that she had so much
more to say of this, that, and the other thing than he expected.

Uncle Lot, like every one else, felt the magical brightness of his
daughter, and was delighted with her praises, as might be discerned by
his often finding occasion to remark that "he didn't see why the boys
need to be all the time a' comin' to see Grace, for she was nothing so
extror'nary, after all." About all matters and things at home she
generally had her own way, while Uncle Lot would scold and give up with
a regular good grace that was quite creditable.

"Father," says Grace, "I want to have a party next week."

"You sha'n't go to havin' your parties, Grace. I always have to eat bits
and ends a fortnight after you have one, and I won't have it so." And so
Uncle Lot walked out, and Aunt Sally and Miss Grace proceeded to make
the cake and pies for the party.

When Uncle Lot came home, he saw a long array of pies and rows of cakes
on the kitchen table.

"Grace--Grace--Grace, I say! What is all this here flummery for?"

"Why, it is _to eat_, father," said Grace, with a good-natured look of
consciousness.

Uncle Lot tried his best to look sour; but his visage began to wax
comical as he looked at his merry daughter; so he said nothing, but
quietly sat down to his dinner.

"Father," said Grace, after dinner, "we shall want two more candlesticks
next week."

"Why, can't you have your party with what you've got?"

"No, father, we want two more."

"I can't afford it, Grace--there's no sort of use on't--and you sha'n't
have any."

"O, father, now do," said Grace.

"I won't, neither," said Uncle Lot, as he sallied out of the house, and
took the road to Comfort Scran's store.

In half an hour he returned again; and fumbling in his pocket, and
drawing forth a candlestick, levelled it at Grace.

"There's your candlestick."

"But, father, I said I wanted _two_."

"Why, can't you make one do?"

"No, I can't; I must have two."

"Well, then, there's t'other; and here's a fol-de-rol for you to tie
round your neck." So saying, he bolted for the door, and took himself
off with all speed. It was much after this fashion that matters commonly
went on in the brown house.

But having tarried long on the way, we must proceed with the main story.

James thought Miss Grace was a glorious girl; and as to what Miss Grace
thought of Master James, perhaps it would not have been developed had
she not been called to stand on the defensive for him with Uncle Lot.
For, from the time that the whole village of Newbury began to be wholly
given unto the praise of Master James, Uncle Lot set his face as a flint
against him--from the laudable fear of following the multitude. He
therefore made conscience of stoutly gainsaying every thing that was
said in his behalf, which, as James was in high favor with Aunt Sally,
he had frequent opportunities to do.

So when Miss Grace perceived that Uncle Lot did not like our hero as
much as he ought to do, she, of course, was bound to like him well
enough to make up for it. Certain it is that they were remarkably happy
in finding opportunities of being acquainted; that James waited on her,
as a matter of course, from singing school; that he volunteered making a
new box for her geranium on an improved plan; and above all, that he was
remarkably particular in his attentions to Aunt Sally--a stroke of
policy which showed that James had a natural genius for this sort of
matters. Even when emerging from the meeting house in full glory, with
flute and psalm book under his arm, he would stop to ask her how she
did; and if it was cold weather, he would carry her foot stove all the
way home from meeting, discoursing upon the sermon, and other serious
matters, as Aunt Sally observed, "in the pleasantest, prettiest way that
ever ye see." This flute was one of the crying sins of James in the eyes
of Uncle Lot. James was particularly fond of it, because he had learned
to play on it by intuition; and on the decease of the old pitchpipe,
which was slain by a fall from the gallery, he took the liberty to
introduce the flute in its place. For this, and other sins, and for the
good reasons above named, Uncle Lot's countenance was not towards James,
neither could he be moved to him-ward by any manner of means.

To all Aunt Sally's good words and kind speeches, he had only to say
that "he didn't like him; that he hated to see him a' manifesting and
glorifying there in the front gallery Sundays, and a' acting every where
as if he was master of all: he didn't like it, and he wouldn't." But our
hero was no whit cast down or discomfited by the malcontent aspect of
Uncle Lot. On the contrary, when report was made to him of divers of his
hard speeches, he only shrugged his shoulders, with a very satisfied
air, and remarked that "he knew a thing or two for all that."

"Why, James," said his companion and chief counsellor, "do you think
Grace likes you?"

"I don't know," said our hero, with a comfortable appearance of
certainty.

"But you can't get her, James, if Uncle Lot is cross about it."

"Fudge! I can make Uncle Lot like me if I have a mind to try."

"Well then, Jim, you'll have to give up that flute of yours, I tell you
now."

"Fa, sol, la--I can make him like me and my flute too."

"Why, how will you do it?"

"O, I'll work it," said our hero.

"Well, Jim, I tell you now, you don't know Uncle Lot if you say so; for
he is just the _settest_ critter in his way that ever you saw."

"I _do_ know Uncle Lot, though, better than most folks; he is no more
cross than I am; and as to his being _set_, you have nothing to do but
make him think he is in his own way when he is in yours--that is all."

"Well," said the other, "but you see I don't believe it."

"And I'll bet you a gray squirrel that I'll go there this very evening,
and get him to like me and my flute both," said James.

Accordingly the late sunshine of that afternoon shone full on the yellow
buttons of James as he proceeded to the place of conflict. It was a
bright, beautiful evening. A thunder storm had just cleared away, and
the silver clouds lay rolled up in masses around the setting sun; the
rain drops were sparkling and winking to each other over the ends of the
leaves, and all the bluebirds and robins, breaking forth into song, made
the little green valley as merry as a musical box.

James's soul was always overflowing with that kind of poetry which
consists in feeling unspeakably happy; and it is not to be wondered at,
considering where he was going, that he should feel in a double ecstasy
on the present occasion. He stepped gayly along, occasionally springing
over a fence to the right to see whether the rain had swollen the trout
brook, or to the left to notice the ripening of Mr. Somebody's
watermelons--for James always had an eye on all his neighbors' matters
as well as his own.

In this way he proceeded till he arrived at the picket fence that marked
the commencement of Uncle Lot's ground. Here he stopped to consider.
Just then four or five sheep walked up, and began also to consider a
loose picket, which was hanging just ready to drop off; and James began
to look at the sheep. "Well, mister," said he, as he observed the leader
judiciously drawing himself through the gap, "in with you--just what I
wanted;" and having waited a moment to ascertain that all the company
were likely to follow, he ran with all haste towards the house, and
swinging open the gate, pressed all breathless to the door.

"Uncle Lot, there are four or five sheep in your garden!" Uncle Lot
dropped his whetstone and scythe.

"I'll drive them out," said our hero; and with that, he ran down the
garden alley, and made a furious descent on the enemy; bestirring
himself, as Bunyan says, "lustily and with good courage," till every
sheep had skipped out much quicker than it skipped in; and then,
springing over the fence, he seized a great stone, and nailed on the
picket so effectually that no sheep could possibly encourage the hope of
getting in again. This was all the work of a minute, and he was back
again; but so exceedingly out of breath that it was necessary for him to
stop a moment and rest himself. Uncle Lot looked ungraciously satisfied.

"What under the canopy set you to scampering so?" said he; "I could a'
driv out them critturs myself."

"If you are at all particular about driving them out _yourself_, I can
let them in again," said James.

Uncle Lot looked at him with an odd sort of twinkle in the corner of his
eye.

"'Spose I must ask you to walk in," said he.

"Much obliged," said James; "but I am in a great hurry." So saying, he
started in very business-like fashion towards the gate.

"You'd better jest stop a minute."

"Can't stay a minute."

"I don't see what possesses you to be all the while in sich a hurry; a
body would think you had all creation on your shoulders."

"Just my situation, Uncle Lot," said James, swinging open the gate.

"Well, at any rate, have a drink of cider, can't ye?" said Uncle Lot,
who was now quite engaged to have his own way in the case.

James found it convenient to accept this invitation, and Uncle Lot was
twice as good-natured as if he had staid in the first of the matter.

Once fairly forced into the premises, James thought fit to forget his
long walk and excess of business, especially as about that moment Aunt
Sally and Miss Grace returned from an afternoon call. You may be sure
that the last thing these respectable ladies looked for was to find
Uncle Lot and Master James _tête-à-tête_, over a pitcher of cider; and
when, as they entered, our hero looked up with something of a
mischievous air, Miss Grace, in particular, was so puzzled that it took
her at least a quarter of an hour to untie her bonnet strings. But James
staid, and acted the agreeable to perfection. First, he must needs go
down into the garden to look at Uncle Lot's wonderful cabbages, and then
he promenaded all around the corn patch, stopping every few moments and
looking up with an appearance of great gratification, as if he had never
seen such corn in his life; and then he examined Uncle Lot's favorite
apple tree with an expression of wonderful interest.

"I never!" he broke forth, having stationed himself against the fence
opposite to it; "what kind of an apple tree is that?"

"It's a bellflower, or somethin' another," said Uncle Lot.

"Why, where _did_ you get it? I never saw such apples!" said our hero,
with his eyes still fixed on the tree.

Uncle Lot pulled up a stalk or two of weeds, and threw them over the
fence, just to show that he did not care any thing about the matter; and
then he came up and stood by James.

"Nothin' so remarkable, as I know on," said he.

Just then, Grace came to say that supper was ready. Once seated at
table, it was astonishing to see the perfect and smiling assurance with
which our hero continued his addresses to Uncle Lot. It sometimes goes a
great way towards making people like us to take it for granted that they
do already; and upon this principle James proceeded. He talked, laughed,
told stories, and joked with the most fearless assurance, occasionally
seconding his words by looking Uncle Lot in the face, with a countenance
so full of good will as would have melted any snowdrift of prejudices in
the world.

James also had one natural accomplishment, more courtier-like than all
the diplomacy in Europe, and that was the gift of feeling a _real_
interest for any body in five minutes; so that, if he began to please in
jest, he generally ended in earnest. With great simplicity of mind, he
had a natural tact for seeing into others, and watched their motions
with the same delight with which a child gazes at the wheels and springs
of a watch, to "see what it will do."

The rough exterior and latent kindness of Uncle Lot were quite a
spirit-stirring study; and when tea was over, as he and Grace happened
to be standing together in the front door, he broke forth,--

"I do really like your father, Grace!"

"Do you?" said Grace.

"Yes, I do. He has something _in him_, and I like him all the better for
having to fish it out."

"Well, I hope you will make him like you," said Grace, unconsciously;
and then she stopped, and looked a little ashamed.

James was too well bred to see this, or look as if Grace meant any more
than she said--a kind of breeding not always attendant on more
fashionable polish--so he only answered,--

"I think I shall, Grace, though I doubt whether I can get him to own
it."

"He is the kindest man that ever was," said Grace; "and he always acts
as if he was ashamed of it."

James turned a little away, and looked at the bright evening sky, which
was glowing like a calm, golden sea; and over it was the silver new
moon, with one little star to hold the candle for her. He shook some
bright drops off from a rosebush near by, and watched to see them shine
as they fell, while Grace stood very quietly waiting for him to speak
again.

"Grace," said he, at last, "I am going to college this fall."

"So you told me yesterday," said Grace.

James stooped down over Grace's geranium, and began to busy himself with
pulling off all the dead leaves, remarking in the mean while,--

"And if I do get _him_ to like me, Grace, will you like me too?"

"I like you now very well," said Grace.

"Come, Grace, you know what I mean," said James, looking steadfastly at
the top of the apple tree.

"Well, I wish, then, you would understand what _I_ mean, without my
saying any more about it," said Grace.

"O, to be sure I will!" said our hero, looking up with a very
intelligent air; and so, as Aunt Sally would say, the matter was
settled, with "no words about it."

Now shall we narrate how our hero, as he saw Uncle Lot approaching the
door, had the impudence to take out his flute, and put the parts
together, arranging and adjusting the stops with great composure?

"Uncle Lot," said he, looking up, "this is the best flute that ever I
saw."

"I hate them tooting critturs," said Uncle Lot, snappishly.

"I declare! I wonder how you can," said James, "for I do think they
exceed----"

So saying, he put the flute to his mouth, and ran up and down a long
flourish.

"There! what do you think of that?" said he, looking in Uncle Lot's face
with much delight.

Uncle Lot turned and marched into the house, but soon faced to the
right-about, and came out again, for James was fingering "Yankee
Doodle"--that appropriate national air for the descendants of the
Puritans.

Uncle Lot's patriotism began to bestir itself; and now, if it had been
any thing, as he said, but "that 'are flute"--as it was, he looked more
than once at James's fingers.

"How under the sun _could_ you learn to do that?" said he.

"O, it's easy enough," said James, proceeding with another tune; and,
having played it through, he stopped a moment to examine the joints of
his flute, and in the mean time addressed Uncle Lot: "You can't think
how grand this is for pitching tunes--I always pitch the tunes on Sunday
with it."

"Yes; but I don't think it's a right and fit instrument for the Lord's
house," said Uncle Lot.

"Why not? It is only a kind of a long pitchpipe, you see," said James;
"and, seeing the old one is broken, and this will answer, I don't see
why it is not better than nothing."

"Why, yes, it may be better than nothing," said Uncle Lot; "but, as I
always tell Grace and my wife, it ain't the right kind of instrument,
after all; it ain't solemn."

"Solemn!" said James; "that is according as you work it: see here, now."

So saying, he struck up Old Hundred, and proceeded through it with great
perseverance.

"There, now!" said he.

"Well, well, I don't know but it is," said Uncle Lot; "but, as I said at
first, I don't like the look of it in meetin'."

"But yet you really think it is better than nothing," said James, "for
you see I couldn't pitch my tunes without it."

"Maybe 'tis," said Uncle Lot; "but that isn't sayin' much."

This, however, was enough for Master James, who soon after departed,
with his flute in his pocket, and Grace's last words in his heart;
soliloquizing as he shut the gate, "There, now, I hope Aunt Sally won't
go to praising me; for, just so sure as she does, I shall have it all to
do over again."

James was right in his apprehension. Uncle Lot could be privately
converted, but not brought to open confession; and when, the next
morning, Aunt Sally remarked, in the kindness of her heart,--

"Well, I always knew you would come to like James," Uncle Lot only
responded, "Who said I did like him?"

"But I'm sure you _seemed_ to like him last night."

"Why, I couldn't turn him out o' doors, could I? I don't think nothin'
of him but what I always did."

But it was to be remarked that Uncle Lot contented himself at this time
with the mere general avowal, without running it into particulars, as
was formerly his wont. It was evident that the ice had begun to melt,
but it might have been a long time in dissolving, had not collateral
incidents assisted.

It so happened that, about this time, George Griswold, the only son
before referred to, returned to his native village, after having
completed his theological studies at a neighboring institution. It is
interesting to mark the gradual development of mind and heart, from the
time that the white-headed, bashful boy quits the country village for
college, to the period when he returns, a formed and matured man, to
notice how gradually the rust of early prejudices begins to cleave from
him--how his opinions, like his handwriting, pass from the cramped and
limited forms of a country school into that confirmed and characteristic
style which is to mark the man for life. In George this change was
remarkably striking. He was endowed by nature with uncommon acuteness of
feeling and fondness for reflection--qualities as likely as any to
render a child backward and uninteresting in early life.

When he left Newbury for college, he was a taciturn and apparently
phlegmatic boy, only evincing sensibility by blushing and looking
particularly stupefied whenever any body spoke to him. Vacation after
vacation passed, and he returned more and more an altered being; and he
who once shrunk from the eye of the deacon, and was ready to sink if he
met the minister, now moved about among the dignitaries of the place
with all the composure of a superior being.

It was only to be regretted that, while the mind improved, the physical
energies declined, and that every visit to his home found him paler,
thinner, and less prepared in body for the sacred profession to which he
had devoted himself. But now he was returned, a minister--a real
minister, with a right to stand in the pulpit and preach; and what a joy
and glory to Aunt Sally--and to Uncle Lot, if he were not ashamed to own
it!

The first Sunday after he came, it was known far and near that George
Griswold was to preach; and never was a more ready and expectant
audience.

As the time for reading the first psalm approached, you might see the
white-headed men turning their faces attentively towards the pulpit; the
anxious and expectant old women, with their little black bonnets, bent
forward to see him rise. There were the children looking, because every
body else looked; there was Uncle Lot in the front pew, his face
considerately adjusted; there was Aunt Sally, seeming as pleased as a
mother could seem; and Miss Grace, lifting her sweet face to her
brother, like a flower to the sun; there was our friend James in the
front gallery, his joyous countenance a little touched with sobriety and
expectation; in short, a more embarrassingly attentive audience never
greeted the first effort of a young minister. Under these circumstances
there was something touching in the fervent self-forgetfulness which
characterized the first exercises of the morning--something which moved
every one in the house.

The devout poetry of his prayer, rich with the Orientalism of Scripture,
and eloquent with the expression of strong yet chastened emotion,
breathed over his audience like music, hushing every one to silence, and
beguiling every one to feeling. In the sermon, there was the strong
intellectual nerve, the constant occurrence of argument and statement,
which distinguishes a New England discourse; but it was touched with
life by the intense, yet half-subdued, feeling with which he seemed to
utter it. Like the rays of the sun, it enlightened and melted at the
same moment.

The strong peculiarities of New England doctrine, involving, as they do,
all the hidden machinery of mind, all the mystery of its divine
relations and future progression, and all the tremendous uncertainties
of its eternal good or ill, seemed to have dwelt in his mind, to have
burned in his thoughts, to have wrestled with his powers, and they gave
to his manner the fervency almost of another world; while the exceeding
paleness of his countenance, and a tremulousness of voice that seemed to
spring from bodily weakness, touched the strong workings of his mind
with a pathetic interest, as if the being so early absorbed in another
world could not be long for this.

When the services were over, the congregation dispersed with the air of
people who had _felt_ rather than _heard_; and all the criticism that
followed was similar to that of old Deacon Hart--an upright, shrewd
man--who, as he lingered a moment at the church door, turned and gazed
with unwonted feeling at the young preacher.

"He's a blessed cre'tur!" said he, the tears actually making their way
to his eyes; "I hain't been so near heaven this many a day. He's a
blessed cre'tur of the Lord; that's my mind about him!"

As for our friend James, he was at first sobered, then deeply moved, and
at last wholly absorbed by the discourse; and it was only when meeting
was over that he began to think where he really was.

With all his versatile activity, James had a greater depth of mental
capacity than he was himself aware of, and he began to feel a sort of
electric affinity for the mind that had touched him in a way so new; and
when he saw the mild minister standing at the foot of the pulpit stairs,
he made directly towards him.

"I do want to hear more from you," said he, with a face full of
earnestness; "may I walk home with you?"

"It is a long and warm walk," said George, smiling.

"O, I don't care for that, if it does not trouble _you_," said James;
and leave being gained, you might have seen them slowly passing along
under the trees, James pouring forth all the floods of inquiry which the
sudden impulse of his mind had brought out, and supplying his guide with
more questions and problems for solution than he could have gone through
with in a month.

"I cannot answer all your questions now," said he, as they stopped at
Uncle Lot's gate.

"Well, then, when will you?" said James, eagerly. "Let me come home with
you to-night?"

The minister smiled assent, and James departed so full of new thoughts,
that he passed Grace without even seeing her. From that time a
friendship commenced between the two, which was a beautiful illustration
of the affinities of opposites. It was like a friendship between morning
and evening--all freshness and sunshine on one side, and all gentleness
and peace on the other.

The young minister, worn by long-continued ill health, by the fervency
of his own feelings, and the gravity of his own reasonings, found
pleasure in the healthful buoyancy of a youthful, unexhausted mind,
while James felt himself sobered and made better by the moonlight
tranquillity of his friend. It is one mark of a superior mind to
understand and be influenced by the superiority of others; and this was
the case with James. The ascendency which his new friend acquired over
him was unlimited, and did more in a month towards consolidating and
developing his character than all the four years' course of a college.
Our religious habits are likely always to retain the impression of the
first seal which stamped them, and in this case it was a peculiarly
happy one. The calmness, the settled purpose, the mild devotion of his
friend, formed a just alloy to the energetic and reckless buoyancy of
James's character, and awakened in him a set of feelings without which
the most vigorous mind must be incomplete.

The effect of the ministrations of the young pastor, in awakening
attention to the subjects of his calling in the village, was marked, and
of a kind which brought pleasure to his own heart. But, like all other
excitement, it tends to exhaustion, and it was not long before he
sensibly felt the decline of the powers of life. To the best regulated
mind there is something bitter in the relinquishment of projects for
which we have been long and laboriously preparing, and there is
something far more bitter in crossing the long-cherished expectations of
friends. All this George felt. He could not bear to look on his mother,
hanging on his words and following his steps with eyes of almost
childish delight--on his singular father, whose whole earthly ambition
was bound up in his success, and think how soon the "candle of their old
age" must be put out. When he returned from a successful effort, it was
painful to see the old man, so evidently delighted, and so anxious to
conceal his triumph, as he would seat himself in his chair, and begin
with, "George, that 'are doctrine is rather of a puzzler; but you seem
to think you've got the run on't. I should re'ly like to know what
business you have to think you know better than other folks about it;"
and, though he would cavil most courageously at all George's
explanations, yet you might perceive, through all, that he was inly
uplifted to hear how his boy could talk.

If George was engaged in argument with any one else, he would sit by,
with his head bowed down, looking out from under his shaggy eyebrows
with a shamefaced satisfaction very unusual with him. Expressions of
affection from the naturally gentle are not half so touching as those
which are forced out from the hard-favored and severe; and George was
affected, even to pain, by the evident pride and regard of his father.

"He never said so much to any body before," thought he, "and what will
he do if I die?"

In such thoughts as these Grace found her brother engaged one still
autumn morning, as he stood leaning against the garden fence.

"What are you solemnizing here for, this bright day, brother George?"
said she, as she bounded down the alley.

The young man turned and looked on her happy face with a sort of
twilight smile.

"How _happy_ you are, Grace!" said he.

"To be sure I am; and you ought to be too, because you are better."

"I am happy, Grace--that is, I hope I shall be."

"You are sick, I know you are," said Grace; "you look worn out. O, I
wish your heart could _spring_ once, as mine does."

"I am not well, dear Grace, and I fear I never shall be," said he,
turning away, and fixing his eyes on the fading trees opposite.

"O George! dear George, don't, don't say _that_; you'll break all our
hearts," said Grace, with tears in her own eyes.

"Yes, but it is _true_, sister: I do not feel it on my own account so
much as----However," he added, "it will all be the same in heaven."

It was but a week after this that a violent cold hastened the progress
of debility into a confirmed malady. He sunk very fast. Aunt Sally, with
the self-deceit of a fond and cheerful heart, thought every day that "he
_would_ be better," and Uncle Lot resisted conviction with all the
obstinate pertinacity of his character, while the sick man felt that he
had not the heart to undeceive them.

James was now at the house every day, exhausting all his energy and
invention in the case of his friend; and any one who had seen him in his
hours of recklessness and glee, could scarcely recognize him as the
being whose step was so careful, whose eye so watchful, whose voice and
touch were so gentle, as he moved around the sick bed. But the same
quickness which makes a mind buoyant in gladness, often makes it
gentlest and most sympathetic in sorrow.

It was now nearly morning in the sick room. George had been restless and
feverish all night; but towards day he fell into a slight slumber, and
James sat by his side, almost holding his breath lest he should waken
him. It was yet dusk, but the sky was brightening with a solemn glow,
and the stars were beginning to disappear; all, save the bright and
morning one, which, standing alone in the east, looked tenderly through
the casement, like the eye of our heavenly Father, watching over us when
all earthly friendships are fading.

George awoke with a placid expression of countenance, and fixing his
eyes on the brightening sky, murmured faintly,--

    "The sweet, immortal morning sheds
    Its blushes round the spheres."

A moment after, a shade passed over his face; he pressed his fingers
over his eyes, and the tears dropped silently on his pillow.

"George! _dear_ George!" said James, bending over him.

"It's my friends--it's my father--my mother," said he, faintly.

"Jesus Christ will watch over them," said James, soothingly.

"O, yes, I know he will; for _he_ loved his own which were in the world;
he loved them unto the end. But I am dying--and before I have done any
good."

"O, do not say so," said James; "think, think what you have done, if
only for _me_. God bless you for it! God _will_ bless you for it; it
will follow you to heaven; it will bring me there. Yes, I will do as you
have taught me. I will give my life, my soul, my whole strength to it;
and then you will not have lived in vain."

George smiled, and looked upward; "his face was as that of an angel;"
and James, in his warmth, continued,--

"It is not I alone who can say this; we all bless you; every one in this
place blesses you; you will be had in everlasting remembrance by some
hearts here, I know."

"Bless God!" said George.

"We do," said James. "I bless him that I ever knew you; we all bless
him, and we love you, and shall forever."

The glow that had kindled over the pale face of the invalid again faded
as he said,--

"But, James, I must, I ought to tell my father and mother; I ought to,
and how can I?"

At that moment the door opened, and Uncle Lot made his appearance. He
seemed struck with the paleness of George's face; and coming to the side
of the bed, he felt his pulse, and laid his hand anxiously on his
forehead, and clearing his voice several times, inquired "if he didn't
feel a little better."

"No, father," said George; then taking his hand, he looked anxiously in
his face, and seemed to hesitate a moment. "Father," he began, "you know
that we ought to submit to God."

There was something in his expression at this moment which flashed the
truth into the old man's mind. He dropped his son's hand with an
exclamation of agony, and turning quickly, left the room.

"Father! father!" said Grace, trying to rouse him, as he stood with his
arms folded by the kitchen window.

"Get away, child!" said he, roughly.

"Father, mother says breakfast is ready."

"I don't want any breakfast," said he, turning short about. "Sally, what
are you fixing in that 'ere porringer?"

"O, it's only a little tea for George; 'twill comfort him up, and make
him feel better, poor fellow."

"You won't make him feel better--he's gone," said Uncle Lot, hoarsely.

"O, dear heart, no!" said Aunt Sally.

"Be still a' contradicting me; I won't be contradicted all the time by
nobody. The short of the case is, that George is goin' to _die_ just as
we've got him ready to be a minister and all; and I wish to pity I was
in my grave myself, and so----" said Uncle Lot, as he plunged out of the
door, and shut it after him.

It is well for man that there is one Being who sees the suffering heart
_as it is_, and not as it manifests itself through the repellances of
outward infirmity, and who, perhaps, feels more for the stern and
wayward than for those whose gentler feelings win for them human
sympathy. With all his singularities, there was in the heart of Uncle
Lot a depth of religious sincerity; but there are few characters where
religion does any thing more than struggle with natural defect, and
modify what would else be far worse.

In this hour of trial, all the native obstinacy and pertinacity of the
old man's character rose, and while he felt the necessity of submission,
it seemed impossible to submit; and thus, reproaching himself,
struggling in vain to repress the murmurs of nature, repulsing from him
all external sympathy, his mind was "tempest-tossed, and not comforted."

It was on the still afternoon of the following Sabbath that he was sent
for, in haste, to the chamber of his son. He entered, and saw that the
hour was come. The family were all there. Grace and James, side by side,
bent over the dying one, and his mother sat afar off, with her face hid
in her apron, "that she might not see the death of the child." The aged
minister was there, and the Bible lay open before him. The father walked
to the side of the bed. He stood still, and gazed on the face now
brightening with "life and immortality." The son lifted up his eyes; he
saw his father, smiled, and put out his hand. "I am glad _you_ are
come," said he. "O George, to the pity, don't! _don't_ smile on me so! I
know what is coming; I have tried, and tried, and I _can't_, I _can't_
have it so;" and his frame shook, and he sobbed audibly. The room was
still as death; there was none that seemed able to comfort him. At last
the son repeated, in a sweet, but interrupted voice, those words of
man's best Friend: "Let not your heart be troubled; in my Father's house
are many mansions."

"Yes; but I _can't help_ being troubled; I suppose the Lord's will must
be done, but it'll _kill_ me."

"O father, don't, don't break my heart," said the son, much agitated. "I
shall see you again in heaven, and you shall see me again; and then
'your heart shall rejoice, and your joy no man taketh from you.'"

"I never shall get to heaven if I feel as I do now," said the old man.
"I _cannot_ have it so."

The mild face of the sufferer was overcast. "I wish he saw all that _I_
do," said he, in a low voice. Then looking towards the minister, he
articulated, "Pray for us."

They knelt in prayer. It was soothing, as _real_ prayer always must be;
and when they rose, every one seemed more calm. But the sufferer was
exhausted; his countenance changed; he looked on his friends; there was
a faint whisper, "Peace I leave with you"--and he was in heaven.

We need not dwell on what followed. The seed sown by the righteous often
blossoms over their grave; and so was it with this good man. The words
of peace which he spoke unto his friends while he was yet with them came
into remembrance after he was gone; and though he was laid in the grave
with many tears, yet it was with softened and submissive hearts.

"The Lord bless him," said Uncle Lot, as he and James were standing,
last of all, over the grave. "I believe my heart is gone to heaven with
him; and I think the Lord really _did_ know what was best, after all."

Our friend James seemed now to become the support of the family; and the
bereaved old man unconsciously began to transfer to him the affections
that had been left vacant.

"James," said he to him one day, "I suppose you know that you are about
the same to me as a son."

"I hope so," said James, kindly.

"Well, well, you'll go to college next week, and none o' y'r keepin'
school to get along. I've got enough to bring you safe out--that is, if
you'll be _car'ful_ and _stiddy_."

James knew the heart too well to refuse a favor in which the poor old
man's mind was comforting itself. He had the self-command to abstain
from any extraordinary expressions of gratitude, but took it kindly, as
a matter of course.

"Dear Grace," said he to her, the last evening before he left home, "I
am changed; we both are altered since we first knew each other; and now
I am going to be gone a long time, but I am sure----"

He stopped to arrange his thoughts.

"Yes, you may be sure of all those things that you wish to say, and
cannot," said Grace.

"Thank you," said James; then, looking thoughtfully, he added, "God help
me. I believe I have mind enough to be what I mean to; but whatever I am
or have shall be given to God and my fellow-men; and then, Grace, your
brother in heaven will rejoice over me."

"I believe he does _now_," said Grace. "God bless you, James; I don't
know what would have become of us if you had not been here."

"Yes, you will live to be like him, and to do even more good," she
added, her face brightening as she spoke, till James thought she really
must be right.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was five years after this that James was spoken of as an eloquent and
successful minister in the state of C., and was settled in one of its
most thriving villages. Late one autumn evening, a tall, bony,
hard-favored man was observed making his way into the outskirts of the
place.

"Halloa, there!" he called to a man over the other side of a fence;
"what town is this 'ere?"

"It's Farmington, sir."

"Well, I want to know if you know any thing of a boy of mine that lives
here?"

"A boy of yours? Who?"

"Why, I've got a boy here, that's livin' _on the town_, and I thought
I'd jest look him up."

"I don't know any boy that is living on the town. What's his name?"

"Why," said the old man, pushing his hat off from his forehead, "I
believe they call him James Benton."

"James Benton! Why, that is our minister's name!"

"O, wal, I believe he _is_ the minister, come to think on't. He's a boy
o' mine, though. Where does he live?"

"In that white house that you see set back from the road there, with all
those trees round it."

At this instant a tall, manly-looking person approached from behind.
Have we not seen that face before? It is a touch graver than of old, and
its lines have a more thoughtful significance; but all the vivacity of
James Benton sparkles in that quick smile as his eye falls on the old
man.

"I _thought_ you could not keep away from us long," said he, with the
prompt cheerfulness of his boyhood, and laying hold of both of Uncle
Lot's hard hands.

They approached the gate; a bright face glances past the window, and in
a moment Grace is at the door.

"Father! _dear_ father!"

"You'd _better_ make believe be so glad," said Uncle Lot, his eyes
glistening as he spoke.

"Come, come, father, I have authority in these days," said Grace,
drawing him towards the house; "so no disrespectful speeches; away with
your hat and coat, and sit down in this great chair."

"So, ho! Miss Grace," said Uncle Lot, "you are at your old tricks,
ordering round as usual. Well, if I must, I must;" so down he sat.

"Father," said Grace, as he was leaving them, after a few days' stay,
"it's Thanksgiving day next month, and you and mother must come and stay
with us."

Accordingly, the following month found Aunt Sally and Uncle Lot by the
minister's fireside, delighted witnesses of the Thanksgiving presents
which a willing people were pouring in; and the next day they had once
more the pleasure of seeing a son of theirs in the sacred desk, and
hearing a sermon that every body said was "the best that he ever
preached;" and it is to be remarked, that this was the standing
commentary on all James's discourses, so that it was evident he was
going on unto perfection.

"There's a great deal that's worth having in this 'ere life after all,"
said Uncle Lot, as he sat by the coals of the bright evening fire of
that day; "that is, if we'd only take it when the Lord lays it in our
way."

"Yes," said James; "and let us only take it as we should, and this life
will be cheerfulness, and the next fulness of joy."




LOVE _versus_ LAW.


How many kinds of beauty there are! How many even in the human form!
There are the bloom and motion of childhood, the freshness and ripe
perfection of youth, the dignity of manhood, the softness of woman--all
different, yet each in its kind perfect.

But there is none so peculiar, none that bears more the image of the
heavenly, than the beauty of _Christian old age_. It is like the
loveliness of those calm autumn days, when the heats of summer are past,
when the harvest is gathered into the garner, and the sun shines over
the placid fields and fading woods, which stand waiting for their last
change. It is a beauty more strictly moral, more belonging to the soul,
than that of any other period of life. Poetic fiction always paints the
old man as a Christian; nor is there any period where the virtues of
Christianity seem to find a more harmonious development. The aged man,
who has outlived the hurry of passion--who has withstood the urgency of
temptation--who has concentrated the religious impulses of youth into
habits of obedience and love--who, having served his generation by the
will of God, now leans in helplessness on Him whom once he served, is,
perhaps, one of the most faultless representations of the beauty of
holiness that this world affords.

Thoughts something like these arose in my mind as I slowly turned my
footsteps from the graveyard of my native village, where I had been
wandering after years of absence. It was a lovely spot--a soft slope of
ground close by a little stream, that ran sparkling through the cedars
and junipers beyond it, while on the other side arose a green hill, with
the white village laid like a necklace of pearls upon its bosom.

There is no feature of the landscape more picturesque and peculiar than
that of the graveyard--that "city of the silent," as it is beautifully
expressed by the Orientals--standing amid the bloom and rejoicing of
nature, its white stones glittering in the sun, a memorial of decay, a
link between the living and the dead.

As I moved slowly from mound to mound, and read the inscriptions, which
purported that many a money-saving man, and many a busy, anxious
housewife, and many a prattling, half-blossomed child, had done with
care or mirth, I was struck with a plain slab, bearing the inscription,
"_To the memory of Deacon Enos Dudley, who died in his hundredth year_."
My eye was caught by this inscription, for in other years I had well
known the person it recorded. At this instant, his mild and venerable
form arose before me as erst it used to rise from the deacon's seat, a
straight, close slip just below the pulpit. I recollect his quiet and
lowly coming into meeting, precisely ten minutes before the time, every
Sunday,--his tall form a little stooping,--his best suit of
butternut-colored Sunday clothes, with long flaps and wide cuffs, on one
of which two pins were always to be seen stuck in with the most reverent
precision. When seated, the top of the pew came just to his chin, so
that his silvery, placid head rose above it like the moon above the
horizon. His head was one that might have been sketched for a St.
John--bald at the top, and around the temples adorned with a soft flow
of bright fine hair,--

    "That down his shoulders reverently spread,
    As hoary frost with spangles doth attire
    The naked branches of an oak half dead."

He was then of great age, and every line of his patient face seemed to
say, "And now, Lord, what wait I for?" Yet still, year after year, was
he to be seen in the same place, with the same dutiful punctuality.

The services he offered to his God were all given with the exactness of
an ancient Israelite. No words could have persuaded him of the propriety
of meditating when the choir was singing, or of sitting down, even
through infirmity, before the close of the longest prayer that ever was
offered. A mighty contrast was he to his fellow-officer, Deacon Abrams,
a tight, little, tripping, well-to-do man, who used to sit beside him
with his hair brushed straight up like a little blaze, his coat buttoned
up trig and close, his psalm book in hand, and his quick gray eyes
turned first on one side of the broad aisle, and then on the other, and
then up into the gallery, like a man who came to church on business, and
felt responsible for every thing that was going on in the house.

A great hinderance was the business talent of this good little man to
the enjoyments of us youngsters, who, perched along in a row on a low
seat in front of the pulpit, attempted occasionally to diversify the
long hour of sermon by sundry small exercises of our own, such as making
our handkerchiefs into rabbits, or exhibiting, in a sly way, the apples
and gingerbread we had brought for a Sunday dinner, or pulling the ears
of some discreet meeting-going dog, who now and then would soberly
pitapat through the broad aisle. But woe be to us during our contraband
sports, if we saw Deacon Abrams's sleek head dodging up from behind the
top of the deacon's seat. Instantly all the apples, gingerbread, and
handkerchiefs vanished, and we all sat with our hands folded, looking as
demure as if we understood every word of the sermon, and more too.

There was a great contrast between these two deacons in their services
and prayers, when, as was often the case, the absence of the pastor
devolved on them the burden of conducting the duties of the sanctuary.
That God was great and good, and that we all were sinners, were truths
that seemed to have melted into the heart of Deacon Enos, so that his
very soul and spirit were bowed down with them. With Deacon Abrams it
was an _undisputed fact_, which he had settled long ago, and concerning
which he felt that there could be no reasonable doubt, and his bustling
way of dealing with the matter seemed to say that he knew _that_ and a
great many things besides.

Deacon Enos was known far and near as a very proverb for peacefulness of
demeanor and unbounded charitableness in covering and excusing the
faults of others. As long as there was any doubt in a case of alleged
evil doing, Deacon Enos _guessed_ "the man did not mean any harm, after
all;" and when transgression became too barefaced for this excuse, he
always guessed "it wa'n't best to say much about it; nobody could tell
what _they_ might be left to."

Some incidents in his life will show more clearly these traits. A
certain shrewd landholder, by the name of Jones, who was not well
reported of in the matter of honesty, sold to Deacon Enos a valuable lot
of land, and received the money for it; but, under various pretences,
deferred giving the deed. Soon after, he died; and, to the deacon's
amazement, the deed was nowhere to be found, while this very lot of land
was left by will to one of his daughters.

The deacon said "it was very extraor'nary: he always knew that Seth
Jones was considerably sharp about money, but he did not think he would
do such a right up-and-down wicked thing." So the old man repaired to
'Squire Abel to state the case, and see if there was any redress. "I
kinder hate to tell of it," said he; "but, 'Squire Abel, you know Mr.
Jones was--was--_what he was_, even if he _is_ dead and gone!" This was
the nearest approach the old gentleman could make to specifying a heavy
charge against the dead. On being told that the case admitted of no
redress, Deacon Enos comforted himself with half soliloquizing, "Well,
at any rate, the land has gone to those two girls, poor lone critters--I
hope it will do _them_ some good. There is Silence--we won't say much
about her; but Sukey is a nice, pretty girl." And so the old man
departed, leaving it as his opinion that, since the matter could not be
mended, it was just as well not to say any thing about it.

Now, the two girls here mentioned (to wit, Silence and Sukey) were the
eldest and the youngest of a numerous, family, the offspring of three
wives of Seth Jones, of whom these two were the sole survivors. The
elder, Silence, was a tall, strong, black-eyed, hard-featured woman,
verging upon forty, with a good, loud, resolute voice, and what the
Irishman would call "a dacent notion of using it." Why she was called
_Silence_ was a standing problem to the neighborhood; for she had more
faculty and inclination for making a noise than any person in the whole
township. Miss Silence was one of those persons who have no disposition
to yield any of their own rights. She marched up to all controverted
matters, faced down all opposition, held her way lustily and with good
courage, making men, women, and children turn out for her, as they would
for a mail stage. So evident was her innate determination to be free and
independent, that, though she was the daughter of a rich man, and well
portioned, only one swain was ever heard of who ventured to solicit her
hand in marriage; and he was sent off with the assurance that, if he
ever showed his face about the house again, she would set the dogs on
him.

But Susan Jones was as different from her sister as the little graceful
convolvulus from the great rough stick that supports it. At the time of
which we speak she was just eighteen; a modest, slender, blushing girl,
as timid and shrinking as her sister was bold and hardy. Indeed, the
education of poor Susan had cost Miss Silence much painstaking and
trouble, and, after all, she said "the girl would make a fool of
herself; she never could teach her to be up and down with people, as she
was."

When the report came to Miss Silence's ears that Deacon Enos considered
himself as aggrieved by her father's will, she held forth upon the
subject with great strength of courage and of lungs. "Deacon Enos might
be in better business than in trying to cheat orphans out of their
rights--she hoped he would go to law about it, and see what good he
would get by it--a pretty church member and deacon, to be sure! getting
up such a story about her poor father, dead and gone!"

"But, Silence," said Susan, "Deacon Enos is a good man: I do not think
he means to injure any one; there must be some mistake about it."

"Susan, you are a little fool, as I have always told you," replied
Silence; "you would be cheated out of your eye teeth if you had not me
to take care of you."

But subsequent events brought the affairs of these two damsels in closer
connection with those of Deacon Enos, as we shall proceed to show.

It happened that the next door neighbor of Deacon Enos was a certain old
farmer, whose crabbedness of demeanor had procured for him the name of
_Uncle Jaw_. This agreeable surname accorded very well with the general
characteristics both of the person and manner of its possessor. He was
tall and hard-favored, with an expression of countenance much resembling
a north-east rain storm--a drizzling, settled sulkiness, that seemed to
defy all prospect of clearing off, and to take comfort in its own
disagreeableness. His voice seemed to have taken lessons of his face, in
such admirable keeping was its sawing, deliberate growl with the
pleasing physiognomy before indicated. By nature he was endowed with one
of those active, acute, hair-splitting minds, which can raise forty
questions for dispute on any point of the compass; and had he been an
educated man, he might have proved as clever a metaphysician as ever
threw dust in the eyes of succeeding generations. But being deprived of
these advantages, he nevertheless exerted himself to quite as useful a
purpose in puzzling and mystifying whomsoever came in his way. But his
activity particularly exercised itself in the line of the law, as it was
his meat, and drink, and daily meditation, either to find something to
go to law about, or to go law about something he had found. There was
always some question about an old rail fence that used to run "a
_leetle_ more to the left hand," or that was built up "a _leetle_ more
to the right hand," and so cut off a strip of his "_medder land_," or
else there was some outrage of Peter Somebody's turkeys getting into his
mowing, or Squire Moses's geese were to be shut up in the town pound, or
something equally important kept him busy from year's end to year's end.
Now, as a matter of private amusement, this might have answered very
well; but then Uncle Jaw was not satisfied to fight his own battles, but
must needs go from house to house, narrating the whole length and
breadth of the case, with all the _says he's_ and _says I's_, and the _I
tell'd him's_ and _he tell'd me's_, which do either accompany or flow
therefrom. Moreover, he had such a marvellous facility of finding out
matters to quarrel about, and of letting every one else know where they,
too, could muster a quarrel, that he generally succeeded in keeping the
whole neighborhood by the ears.

And as good Deacon Enos assumed the office of peace-maker for the
village, Uncle Jaw's efficiency rendered it no sinecure. The deacon
always followed the steps of Uncle Jaw, smoothing, hushing up, and
putting matters aright with an assiduity that was truly wonderful.

Uncle Jaw himself had a great respect for the good man, and, in common
with all the neighborhood, sought unto him for counsel, though, like
other seekers of advice, he appropriated only so much as seemed good in
his own eyes.

Still he took a kind of pleasure in dropping in of an evening to Deacon
Enos's fire, to recount the various matters which he had taken or was to
take in hand; at one time to narrate "how he had been over the milldam,
telling old Granny Clark that she could get the law of Seth Scran about
that pasture lot," or else "how he had told Ziah Bacon's widow that she
had a right to shut up Bill Scranton's pig every time she caught him in
front of her house."

But the grand "matter of matters," and the one that took up the most of
Uncle Jaw's spare time, lay in a dispute between him and 'Squire Jones,
the father of Susan and Silence; for it so happened that his lands and
those of Uncle Jaw were contiguous. Now, the matter of dispute was on
this wise: On 'Squire Jones's land there was a mill, which mill Uncle
Jaw averred was "always a-flooding his medder land." As Uncle Jaw's
"medder land" was by nature half bog and bulrushes, and therefore liable
to be found in a wet condition, there was always a happy obscurity as to
where the water came from, and whether there was at any time more there
than belonged to his share. So, when all other subject matters of
dispute failed, Uncle Jaw recreated himself with getting up a lawsuit
about his "medder land;" and one of these cases was in pendency when, by
the death of the squire, the estate was left to Susan and Silence, his
daughters. When, therefore, the report reached him that Deacon Enos had
been cheated out of his dues, Uncle Jaw prepared forthwith to go and
compare notes. Therefore, one evening, as Deacon Enos was sitting
quietly by the fire, musing and reading with his big Bible open before
him, he heard the premonitory symptoms of a visitation from Uncle Jaw on
his door scraper; and soon the man made his appearance. After seating
himself directly in front of the fire, with his elbows on his knees, and
his hands spread out over the coals, he looked up in Deacon Enos's mild
face with his little inquisitive gray eyes, and remarked, by way of
opening the subject, "Well, deacon, old 'Squire Jones is gone at last. I
wonder how much good all his land will do him now?"

"Yes," replied Deacon Enos, "it just shows how all these things are not
worth striving after. We brought nothing into the world, and it is
certain we can carry nothing out."

"Why, yes," replied Uncle Jaw, "that's all very right, deacon; but it
was strange how that old 'Squire Jones did hang on to things. Now, that
mill of his, that was always soaking off water into these medders of
mine--I took and tell'd 'Squire Jones just how it was, pretty nigh
twenty times, and yet he would keep it just so; and now he's dead and
gone, there is that old gal Silence is full as bad, and makes more
noise; and she and Suke have got the land; but, you see, I mean to work
it yet."

Here Uncle Jaw paused to see whether he had produced any sympathetic
excitement in Deacon Enos; but the old man sat without the least
emotion, quietly contemplating the top of the long kitchen shovel. Uncle
Jaw fidgeted in his chair, and changed his mode of attack for one more
direct. "I heard 'em tell, Deacon Enos, that the squire served you
something of an unhandy sort of trick about that 'ere lot of land."

Still Deacon Enos made no reply; but Uncle Jaw's perseverance was not so
to be put off, and he recommenced. "'Squire Abel, you see, he tell'd me
how the matter was, and he said he did not see as it could be mended;
but I took and tell'd him, ''Squire Abel,' says I, 'I'd bet pretty nigh
'most any thing, if Deacon Enos would tell the matter to me, that I
could find a hole for him to creep out at; for,' says I, 'I've seen
daylight through more twistical cases than that afore now.'"

Still Deacon Enos remained mute; and Uncle Jaw, after waiting a while,
recommenced with, "But, railly, deacon, I should like to hear the
particulars."

"I have made up my mind not to say any thing more about that business,"
said Deacon Enos, in a tone which, though mild, was so exceedingly
definite, that Uncle Jaw felt that the case was hopeless in that
quarter; he therefore betook himself to the statement of his own
grievances.

"Why, you see, deacon," he began, at the same time taking the tongs, and
picking up all the little brands, and disposing them in the middle of
the fire,--"you see, two days arter the funeral, (for I didn't railly
like to go any sooner,) I stepped up to hash over the matter with old
Silence; for as to Sukey, she ha'n't no more to do with such things than
our white kitten. Now, you see, 'Squire Jones, just afore he died, he
took away an old rail fence of his'n that lay between his land and mine,
and began to build a new stone wall; and when I come to measure, I found
he had took and put a'most the whole width of the stone wall on to my
land, when there ought not to have been more than half of it come there.
Now, you see, I could not say a word to 'Squire Jones, because, jest
before I found it out, he took and died; and so I thought I'd speak to
old Silence, and see if she meant to do any thing about it, 'cause I
knew pretty well she wouldn't; and I tell you, if she didn't put it on
to me! We had a regular pitched battle--the old gal, I thought she would
'a screamed herself to death! I don't know but she would, but just then
poor Sukey came in, and looked so frightened and scarey--Sukey is a
pretty gal, and looks so trembling and delicate, that it's kinder a
shame to plague her, and so I took and come away for that time."

Here Uncle Jaw perceived a brightening in the face of the good deacon,
and felt exceedingly comforted that at last he was about to interest him
in his story.

But all this while the deacon had been in a profound meditation
concerning the ways and means of putting a stop to a quarrel that had
been his torment from time immemorial, and just at this moment a plan
had struck his mind which our story will proceed to unfold.

The mode of settling differences which had occurred to the good man was
one which has been considered a specific in reconciling contending
sovereigns and states from early antiquity, and the deacon hoped it
might have a pacifying influence even in so unpromising a case as that
of Miss Silence and Uncle Jaw.

In former days, Deacon Enos had kept the district school for several
successive winters, and among his scholars was the gentle Susan Jones,
then a plump, rosy little girl, with blue eyes, curly hair, and the
sweetest disposition in the world. There was also little Joseph Adams,
the only son of Uncle Jaw, a fine, healthy, robust boy, who used to
spell the longest words, make the best snowballs and poplar whistles,
and read the loudest and fastest in the Columbian Orator of any boy at
school.

Little Joe inherited all his father's sharpness, with a double share of
good humor; so that, though he was forever effervescing in the way of
one funny trick or another, he was a universal favorite, not only with
the deacon, but with the whole school.

Master Joseph always took little Susan Jones under his especial
protection, drew her to school on his sled, helped her out with all the
long sums in her arithmetic, saw to it that nobody pillaged her dinner
basket, or knocked down her bonnet, and resolutely whipped or snowballed
any other boy who attempted the same gallantries. Years passed on, and
Uncle Jaw had sent his son to college. He sent him because, as he said,
he had "_a right_ to send him; just as good a right as 'Squire Abel or
Deacon Abrams to send their boys, and so he _would_ send him." It was
the remembrance of his old favorite Joseph, and his little pet Susan,
that came across the mind of Deacon Enos, and which seemed to open a
gleam of light in regard to the future. So, when Uncle Jaw had finished
his prelection, the deacon, after some meditation, came out with,
"Railly, they say that your son is going to have the valedictory in
college."

Though somewhat startled at the abrupt transition, Uncle Jaw found the
suggestion too flattering to his pride to be dropped; so, with a
countenance grimly expressive of his satisfaction, he replied, "Why,
yes--yes--I don't see no reason why a poor man's son ha'n't as much
right as any one to be at the top, if he can get there."

"Just so," replied Deacon Enos.

"He was always the boy for larning, and for nothing else," continued
Uncle Jaw; "put him to farming, couldn't make nothing of him. If I set
him to hoeing corn or hilling potatoes, I'd always find him stopping to
chase hop-toads, or off after chip-squirrels. But set him down to a
book, and there he was! That boy larnt reading the quickest of any boy
that ever I saw: it wasn't a month after he began his _a b, abs_,
before he could read in the 'Fox and the Brambles,' and in a month more
he could clatter off his chapter in the Testament as fast as any of
them; and you see, in college, it's jest so--he has ris right up to be
first."

"And he is coming home week after next," said the deacon, meditatively.

The next morning, as Deacon Enos was eating his breakfast, he quietly
remarked to his wife, "Sally, I believe it was week after next you were
meaning to have your quilting?"

"Why, I never told you so: what alive makes you think that, Deacon
Dudley?"

"I thought that was your calculation," said the good man, quietly.

"Why, no; to be sure, I _can_ have it, and may be it's the best of any
time, if we can get Black Dinah to come and help about the cakes and
pies. I guess we will, finally."

"I think it's likely you had better," replied the deacon, "and we will
have all the young folks here."

And now let us pass over all the intermediate pounding, and grinding,
and chopping, which for the next week foretold approaching festivity in
the kitchen of the deacon. Let us forbear to provoke the appetite of a
hungry reader by setting in order before him the minced pies, the
cranberry tarts, the pumpkin pies, the doughnuts, the cookies, and other
sweet cakes of every description, that sprang into being at the magic
touch of Black Dinah, the village priestess on all these solemnities.
Suffice it to say that the day had arrived, and the auspicious quilt was
spread.

The invitation had not failed to include the Misses Silence and Susan
Jones--nay, the good deacon had pressed gallantry into the matter so far
as to be the bearer of the message himself; for which he was duly
rewarded by a broadside from Miss Silence, giving him what she termed a
piece of her mind in the matter of the rights of widows and orphans; to
all which the good old man listened with great benignity from the
beginning to the end, and replied with,--

"Well, well, Miss Silence, I expect you will think better of this before
long; there had best not be any hard words about it." So saying, he took
up his hat and walked off, while Miss Silence, who felt extremely
relieved by having blown off steam, declared that "it was of no more use
to hector old Deacon Enos than to fire a gun at a bag of cotton wool.
For all that, though, she shouldn't go to the quilting; nor, more,
should Susan."

"But, sister, why not?" said the little maiden; "I think I _shall_ go."
And Susan said this in a tone so mildly positive that Silence was
amazed.

"What upon 'arth ails you, Susan?" said she, opening her eyes with
astonishment; "haven't you any more spirit than to go to Deacon Enos's
when he is doing all he can to ruin us?"

"I like Deacon Enos," replied Susan; "he was always kind to me when I
was a little girl, and I am not going to believe that he is a bad man
now."

When a young lady states that she is not going to believe a thing, good
judges of human nature generally give up the case; but Miss Silence, to
whom the language of opposition and argument was entirely new, could
scarcely give her ears credit for veracity in the case; she therefore
repeated over exactly what she said before, only in a much louder tone
of voice, and with much more vehement forms of asseveration--a mode of
reasoning which, if not strictly logical, has at least the sanction of
very respectable authorities among the enlightened and learned.

"Silence," replied Susan, when the storm had spent itself, "if it did
not look like being angry with Deacon Enos, I would stay away to oblige
you; but it would seem to every one to be taking sides in a quarrel, and
I never did, and never will, have any part or lot in such things."

"Then you'll just be trod and trampled on all your days, Susan," replied
Silence; "but, however, if _you_ choose to make a fool of yourself, _I_
don't;" and so saying, she flounced out of the room in great wrath. It
so happened, however, that Miss Silence was one of those who have so
little economy in disposing of a fit of anger, that it was all used up
before the time of execution arrived. It followed of consequence, that,
having unburdened her mind freely both to Deacon Enos and to Susan, she
began to feel very much more comfortable and good-natured; and
consequent upon that came divers reflections upon the many gossiping
opportunities and comforts of a quilting; and then the intrusive little
reflection, "What if she should go, after all; what harm would be done?"
and then the inquiry, "Whether it was not her _duty_ to go and look
after Susan, poor child, who had no mother to watch over her?" In short,
before the time of preparation arrived, Miss Silence had fully worked
herself up to the magnanimous determination of going to the quilting.
Accordingly, the next day, while Susan was standing before her mirror,
braiding up her pretty hair, she was startled by the apparition of Miss
Silence coming into the room as stiff as a changeable silk and a high
horn comb could make her; and "grimly determined was her look."

"Well, Susan," said she, "if you _will_ go to the quilting this
afternoon, I think it is _my duty_ to go and see to you."

What would people do if this convenient shelter of _duty_ did not afford
them a retreat in cases when they are disposed to change their minds?
Susan suppressed the arch smile that, in spite of herself, laughed out
at the corners of her eyes, and told her sister that she was much
obliged to her for her care. So off they went together.

Silence in the mean time held forth largely on the importance of
standing up for one's rights, and not letting one's self be trampled on.

The afternoon passed on, the elderly ladies quilted and talked scandal,
and the younger ones discussed the merits of the various beaux who were
expected to give vivacity to the evening entertainment. Among these the
newly-arrived Joseph Adams, just from college, with all his literary
honors thick about him, became a prominent subject of conversation.

It was duly canvassed whether the young gentleman might be called
handsome, and the affirmative was carried by a large majority, although
there were some variations and exceptions; one of the party declaring
his whiskers to be in too high a state of cultivation, another
maintaining that they were in the exact line of beauty, while a third
vigorously disputed the point whether he wore whiskers at all. It was
allowed by all, however, that he had been a great beau in the town where
he had passed his college days. It was also inquired into whether he
were matrimonially engaged; and the negative being understood, they
diverted themselves with predicting to one another the capture of such a
prize; each prophecy being received with such disclaimers as "Come now!"
"Do be still!" "Hush your nonsense!" and the like.

At length the long-wished-for hour arrived, and one by one the lords of
the creation began to make their appearance; and one of the last was
this much admired youth.

"That is Joe Adams!" "That is he!" was the busy whisper, as a tall,
well-looking young man came into the room, with the easy air of one who
had seen several things before, and was not to be abashed by the
combined blaze of all the village beauties.

In truth, our friend Joseph had made the most of his residence in N.,
paying his court no less to the Graces than the Muses. His fine person,
his frank, manly air, his ready conversation, and his faculty of
universal adaptation had made his society much coveted among the _beau
monde_ of N.; and though the place was small, he had become familiar
with much good society.

We hardly know whether we may venture to tell our fair readers the whole
truth in regard to our hero. We will merely hint, in the gentlest manner
in the world, that Mr. Joseph Adams, being undeniably first in the
classics and first in the drawing room, having been gravely commended in
his class by his venerable president, and gayly flattered in the drawing
room by the elegant Miss This and Miss That, was rather inclining to the
opinion that he was an uncommonly fine fellow, and even had the
assurance to think that, under present circumstances, he could please
without making any great effort--a thing which, however true it were in
point of fact, is obviously improper to be thought of by a young man. Be
that as it may, he moved about from one to another, shaking hands with
all the old ladies, and listening with the greatest affability to the
various comments on his growth and personal appearance, his points of
resemblance to his father, mother, grandfather, and grandmother, which
are always detected by the superior acumen of elderly females.

Among the younger ones, he at once, and with full frankness, recognized
old schoolmates, and partners in various whortleberry, chestnut, and
strawberry excursions, and thus called out an abundant flow of
conversation. Nevertheless, his eye wandered occasionally around the
room, as if in search of something not there. What could it be? It
kindled, however, with an expression of sudden brightness as he
perceived the tall and spare figure of Miss Silence; whether owing to
the personal fascinations of that lady, or to other causes, we leave the
reader to determine.

Miss Silence had predetermined never to speak a word again to Uncle Jaw
or any of his race; but she was taken by surprise at the frank, extended
hand and friendly "how d'ye do?" It was not in woman to resist so
cordial an address from a handsome young man, and Miss Silence gave her
hand, and replied with a graciousness that amazed herself. At this
moment, also, certain soft blue eyes peeped forth from a corner, just
"to see if he looked as he used to." Yes, there he was! the same dark,
mirthful eyes that used to peer on her from behind the corners of the
spelling book at the district school; and Susan Jones gave a deep sigh
to those times, and then wondered why she happened to think of such
nonsense.

"How is your sister, little Miss Susan?" said Joseph.

"Why, she is here--have you not seen her?" said Silence; "there she is,
in that corner."

Joseph looked, but could scarcely recognize her. There stood a tall,
slender, blooming girl, that might have been selected as a specimen of
that union of perfect health with delicate fairness so characteristic of
the young New England beauty.

She was engaged in telling some merry story to a knot of young girls,
and the rich color that, like a bright spirit, constantly went and came
in her cheeks; the dimples, quick and varying as those of a little
brook; the clear, mild eye; the clustering curls, and, above all, the
happy, rejoicing smile, and the transparent frankness and simplicity of
expression which beamed like sunshine about her, all formed a
combination of charms that took our hero quite by surprise; and when
Silence, who had a remarkable degree of directness in all her dealings,
called out, "Here, Susan, is Joe Adams, inquiring after you!" our
practised young gentleman felt himself color to the roots of his hair,
and for a moment he could scarce recollect that first rudiment of
manners, "to make his bow like a good boy." Susan colored also; but,
perceiving the confusion of our hero, her countenance assumed an
expression of mischievous drollery, which, helped on by the titter of
her companions, added not a little to his confusion.

"Dense take it!" thought he, "what's the matter with me?" and, calling
up his courage, he dashed into the formidable circle of fair ones, and
began chattering with one and another, calling by name with or without
introduction, remembering things that never happened, with a freedom
that was perfectly fascinating.

"Really, how handsome he has grown!" thought Susan; and she colored
deeply when once or twice the dark eyes of our hero made the same
observation with regard to herself, in that quick, intelligible dialect
which eyes alone can speak. And when the little party dispersed, as they
did very punctually at nine o'clock, our hero requested of Miss Silence
the honor of attending her home--an evidence of discriminating taste
which materially raised him in the estimation of that lady. It was true,
to be sure, that Susan walked on the other side of him, her little white
hand just within his arm; and there was something in that light touch
that puzzled him unaccountably, as might be inferred from the frequency
with which Miss Silence was obliged to bring up the ends of conversation
with, "What did you say?" "What were you going to say?" and other
persevering forms of inquiry, with which a regular-trained
matter-of-fact talker will hunt down a poor fellow-mortal who is in
danger of sinking into a comfortable revery.

When they parted at the gate, however, Silence gave our hero a hearty
invitation to "come and see them any time," which he mentally regarded
as more to the point than any thing else that had been said.

As Joseph soberly retraced his way homeward, his thoughts, by some
unaccountable association, began to revert to such topics as the
loneliness of man by himself, the need of kindred spirits, the solaces
of sympathy, and other like matters.

That night Joseph dreamed of trotting along with his dinner basket to
the old brown school house, and vainly endeavoring to overtake Susan
Jones, whom he saw with her little pasteboard sun bonnet a few yards in
front of him; then he was _teetering_ with her on a long board, her
bright little face glancing up and down, while every curl around it
seemed to be living with delight; and then he was snowballing Tom
Williams for knocking down Susan's doll's house, or he sat by her on a
bench, helping her out with a long sum in arithmetic; but, with the
mischievous fatality of dreams, the more he ciphered and expounded, the
longer and more hopeless grew the sum; and he awoke in the morning
pshawing at his ill luck, after having done a sum over half a dozen
times, while Susan seemed to be looking on with the same air of arch
drollery that he saw on her face the evening before.

"Joseph," said Uncle Jaw, the next morning at breakfast, "I s'pose
'Squire Jones's daughters were not at the quilting."

"Yes, sir, they were," said our hero; "they were both there."

"Why, you don't say so!"

"They certainly were," persisted the son.

"Well, I thought the old gal had too much spunk for that: you see there
is a quarrel between the deacon and them gals."

"Indeed!" said Joseph. "I thought the deacon never quarrelled with any
body."

"But, you see, old Silence there, she will quarrel with _him_: railly,
that cretur is a tough one;" and Uncle Jaw leaned back in his chair, and
contemplated the quarrelsome propensities of Miss Silence with the
satisfaction of a kindred spirit. "But I'll fix her yet," he continued;
"I see how to work it."

"Indeed, father, I did not know that you had any thing to do with their
affairs."

"Hain't I? I should like to know if I hain't!" replied Uncle Jaw,
triumphantly. "Now, see here, Joseph: you see, I mean you shall be a
lawyer: I'm pretty considerable of a lawyer myself--that is, for one not
college larnt; and I'll tell you how it is"--and thereupon Uncle Jaw
launched forth into the case of the _medder_ land and the mill, and
concluded with, "Now, Joseph, this 'ere is a kinder whetstone for you to
hone up your wits on."

In pursuance, therefore, of this plan of sharpening his wits in the
manner aforesaid, our hero, after breakfast, went like a dutiful son,
directly towards 'Squire Jones's, doubtless for the purpose of taking
ocular survey of the meadow land, mill, and stone wall; but, by some
unaccountable mistake, lost his way, and found himself standing before
the door of 'Squire Jones's house.

The old squire had been among the aristocracy of the village, and his
house had been the ultimate standard of comparison in all matters of
style and garniture. Their big front room, instead of being strewn with
lumps of sand, duly streaked over twice a week, was resplendent with a
carpet of red, yellow, and black stripes, while a towering pair of
long-legged brass andirons, scoured to a silvery white, gave an air of
magnificence to the chimney, which was materially increased by the tall
brass-headed shovel and tongs, which, like a decorous, starched married
couple, stood bolt upright in their places on either side. The sanctity
of the place was still further maintained by keeping the window shutters
always closed, admitting only so much light as could come in by a round
hole at the top of the shutter; and it was only on occasions of
extraordinary magnificence that the room was thrown open to profane
eyes.

Our hero was surprised, therefore, to find both the doors and windows of
this apartment open, and symptoms evident of its being in daily
occupation. The furniture still retained its massive, clumsy stiffness,
but there were various tokens that lighter fingers had been at work
there since the notable days of good Dame Jones. There was a vase of
flowers on the table, two or three books of poetry, and a little fairy
work-basket, from which peeped forth the edges of some worked ruffling;
there was a small writing desk, and last, not least, in a lady's
collection, an album, with leaves of every color of the rainbow,
containing inscriptions, in sundry strong masculine hands, "To Susan,"
indicating that other people had had their eyes open as well as Mr.
Joseph Adams. "So," said he to himself, "this quiet little beauty has
had admirers, after all;" and consequent upon this came another
question, (which was none of his concern, to be sure,) whether the
little lady were or were not engaged; and from these speculations he was
aroused by a light footstep, and anon the neat form of Susan made its
appearance.

"Good morning, Miss Jones," said he, bowing.

Now, there is something very comical in the feeling, when little boys
and girls, who have always known each other as plain Susan or Joseph,
first meet as "Mr." or "Miss" So-and-so. Each one feels half disposed,
half afraid, to return to the old familiar form, and awkwardly fettered
by the recollection that they are no longer children. Both parties had
felt this the evening before, when they met in company; but now that
they were alone together, the feeling became still stronger; and when
Susan had requested Mr. Adams to take a chair, and Mr. Adams had
inquired after Miss Susan's health, there ensued a pause, which, the
longer it continued, seemed the more difficult to break, and during
which Susan's pretty face slowly assumed an expression of the ludicrous,
till she was as near laughing as propriety would admit; and Mr. Adams,
having looked out at the window, and up at the mantel-piece, and down at
the carpet, at last looked at Susan; their eyes met; the effect was
electrical; they both smiled, and then laughed outright, after which the
whole difficulty of conversation vanished.

"Susan," said Joseph, "do you remember the old school house?"

"I thought that was what you were thinking of," said Susan; "but,
really, you have grown and altered so that I could hardly believe my
eyes last night."

"Nor I mine," said Joseph, with a glance that gave a very complimentary
turn to the expression.

Our readers may imagine that after this the conversation proceeded to
grow increasingly confidential and interesting; that from the account of
early life, each proceeded to let the other know something of
intervening history, in the course of which each discovered a number of
new and admirable traits in the other, such things being matters of very
common occurrence. In the course of the conversation Joseph discovered
that it was necessary that Susan should have two or three books then in
his possession; and as promptitude is a great matter in such cases, he
promised to bring them "to-morrow."

For some time our young friends pursued their acquaintance without a
distinct consciousness of any thing except that it was a very pleasant
thing to be together. During the long, still afternoons, they rambled
among the fading woods, now illuminated with the radiance of the dying
year, and sentimentalized and quoted poetry; and almost every evening
Joseph found some errand to bring him to the house; a book for Miss
Susan, or a bundle of roots and herbs for Miss Silence, or some
remarkably fine yarn for her to knit--attentions which retained our hero
in the good graces of the latter lady, and gained him the credit of
being "a young man that knew how to behave himself." As Susan was a
leading member in the village choir, our hero was directly attacked with
a violent passion for sacred music, which brought him punctually to the
singing school, where the young people came together to sing anthems and
fuguing tunes, and to eat apples and chestnuts.

It cannot be supposed that all these things passed unnoticed by those
wakeful eyes that are ever upon the motions of such "bright, particular
stars;" and as is usual in such cases, many things were known to a
certainty which were not yet known to the parties themselves. The young
belles and beaux whispered and tittered, and passed the original jokes
and witticisms common in such cases, while the old ladies soberly took
the matter in hand when they went out with their knitting to make
afternoon visits, considering how much money Uncle Jaw had, how much his
son would have, and what all together would come to, and whether Joseph
would be a "smart man," and Susan a good housekeeper, with all the "ifs,
ands, and buts" of married life.

But the most fearful wonders and prognostics crowded around the point
"what Uncle Jaw would have to say to the matter." His lawsuit with the
sisters being well understood, as there was every reason it should be,
it was surmised what two such vigorous belligerents as himself and Miss
Silence would say to the prospect of a matrimonial conjunction. It was
also reported that Deacon Enos Dudley had a claim to the land which
constituted the finest part of Susan's portion, the loss of which would
render the consent of Uncle Jaw still more doubtful. But all this while
Miss Silence knew nothing of the matter, for her habit of considering
and treating Susan as a child seemed to gain strength with time. Susan
was always to be seen to, and watched, and instructed, and taught; and
Miss Silence could not conceive that one who could not even make
pickles, without her to oversee, could think of such a matter as setting
up housekeeping on her own account. To be sure, she began to observe an
extraordinary change in her sister; remarked that "lately Susan seemed
to be getting sort o' crazy-headed;" that she seemed not to have any
"faculty" for any thing; that she had made gingerbread twice, and forgot
the ginger one time, and put in mustard the other; that she shook the
saltcellar out in the tablecloth, and let the cat into the pantry half a
dozen times; and that when scolded for these sins of omission or
commission, she had a fit of crying, and did a little worse than before.
Silence was of opinion that Susan was getting to be "weakly and naarvy,"
and actually concocted an unmerciful pitcher of wormwood and boneset,
which she said was to keep off the "shaking weakness" that was coming
over her. In vain poor Susan protested that she was well enough; Miss
Silence _knew better_; and one evening she entertained Mr. Joseph Adams
with a long statement of the case in all its bearings, and ended with
demanding his opinion, as a candid listener, whether the wormwood and
boneset sentence should not be executed.

Poor Susan had that very afternoon parted from a knot of young friends
who had teased her most unmercifully on the score of attentions
received, till she began to think the very leaves and stones were so
many eyes to pry into her secret feelings; and then to have the whole
case set in order before the very person, too, whom she most dreaded.
"Certainly he would think she was acting like a fool; perhaps he did not
mean any thing more than friendship, _after all_; and she would not for
the world have him suppose that she cared a copper more for him than for
any other _friend_, or that she was _in love_, of all things." So she
sat very busy with her knitting work, scarcely knowing what she was
about, till Silence called out,--

"Why, Susan, what a piece of work you are making of that stocking heel!
What in the world are you doing to it?"

Susan dropped her knitting, and making some pettish answer, escaped out
of the room.

"Now, did you ever?" said Silence, laying down the seam she had been
cross-stitching; "what _is_ the matter with her, Mr. Adams?"

"Miss Susan is certainly indisposed," replied our hero gravely. "I must
get her to take your advice, Miss Silence."

Our hero followed Susan to the front door, where she stood looking out
at the moon, and begged to know what distressed her.

Of course it was "nothing," the young lady's usual complaint when in low
spirits; and to show that she was perfectly easy, she began an unsparing
attack on a white rosebush near by.

"Susan!" said Joseph, laying his hand on hers, and in a tone that made
her start. She shook back her curls, and looked up to him with such an
innocent, confiding face!

Ah, my good reader, you may go on with this part of the story for
yourself. We are principled against unveiling the "sacred mysteries,"
the "thoughts that breathe and words that burn," in such little
moonlight interviews as these. You may fancy all that followed; and we
can only assure all who are doubtful, that, under judicious management,
cases of this kind may be disposed of without wormwood or boneset. Our
hero and heroine were called to sublunary realities by the voice of Miss
Silence, who came into the passage to see what upon earth they were
doing. That lady was satisfied by the representations of so friendly and
learned a young man as Joseph that nothing immediately alarming was to
be apprehended in the case of Susan; and she retired. From that evening
Susan stepped about with a heart many pounds lighter than before.

"I'll tell you what, Joseph," said Uncle Jaw, "I'll tell you what, now:
I hear 'em tell that you've took and courted that 'ere Susan Jones. Now,
I jest want to know if it's true."

There was an explicitness about this mode of inquiry that took our hero
quite by surprise, so that he could only reply,--

"Why, sir, supposing I had, would there be any objection to it in your
mind?"

"Don't talk to me," said Uncle Jaw. "I jest want to know if it's true."

Our hero put his hands in his pockets, walked to the window, and
whistled.

"'Cause if you have," said Uncle Jaw, "you may jest un-court as fast as
you can; for 'Squire Jones's daughter won't get a single cent of my
money, I can tell you that."

"Why, father, Susan Jones is not to blame for any thing that her father
did; and I'm sure she is a pretty girl enough."

"I don't care if she is pretty. What's that to me? I've got you through
college, Joseph; and a hard time I've had of it, a-delvin' and slavin';
and here you come, and the very first thing you do you must take and
court that 'ere 'Squire Jones's daughter, who was always putting himself
up above me. Besides, I mean to have the law on that estate yet; and
Deacon Dudley, he will have the law, too; and it will cut off the best
piece of land the girl has; and when you get married, I mean you shall
_have_ something. It's jest a trick of them gals at me; but I guess I'll
come up with 'em yet. I'm just a-goin' down to have a 'regular hash'
with old Silence, to let her know she can't come round me that way."

"Silence," said Susan, drawing her head into the window, and looking
apprehensive, "there is Mr. Adams coming here."

"What, Joe Adams? Well, and what if he is?"

"No, no, sister, but it is his father--it is Uncle Jaw."

"Well, s'pose 'tis, child--what scares you? S'pose I'm afraid of him? If
he wants more than I gave him last time, I'll put it on." So saying,
Miss Silence took her knitting work and marched down into the sitting
room, and sat herself bolt upright in an attitude of defiance, while
poor Susan, feeling her heart beat unaccountably fast, glided out of the
room.

"Well, good morning, Miss Silence," said Uncle Jaw, after having scraped
his feet on the scraper, and scrubbed them on the mat nearly ten
minutes, in silent deliberation.

"Morning, sir," said Silence, abbreviating the "good."

Uncle Jaw helped himself to a chair directly in front of the enemy,
dropped his hat on the floor, and surveyed Miss Silence with a dogged
air of satisfaction, like one who is sitting down to a regular,
comfortable quarrel, and means to make the most of it.

Miss Silence tossed her head disdainfully, but scorned to commence
hostilities.

"So, Miss Silence," said Uncle Jaw, deliberately, "you don't think
you'll do any thing about that 'ere matter."

"What matter?" said Silence, with an intonation resembling that of a
roasted chestnut when it bursts from the fire.

"I really thought, Miss Silence, in that 'ere talk I had with you about
'Squire Jones's cheatin' about that 'ere----"

"Mr. Adams," said Silence, "I tell you, to begin with, I'm not a going
to be sauced in this 'ere way by you. You hain't got common decency, nor
common sense, nor common any thing else, to talk so to me about my
father; I won't bear it, I tell you."

"Why, Miss Jones," said Uncle Jaw, "how you talk! Well, to be sure,
'Squire Jones is dead and gone, and it's as well not to call it
cheatin', as I was tellin' Deacon Enos when he was talking about that
'ere lot--that 'ere lot, you know, that he sold the deacon, and never
let him have the deed on't."

"That's a lie," said Silence, starting on her feet; "that's an up and
down black lie! I tell you that, now, before you say another word."

"Miss Silence, railly, you seem to be getting touchy," said Uncle Jaw;
"well, to be sure, if the deacon can let that pass, other folks can; and
maybe the deacon will, because 'Squire Jones was a church member, and
the deacon is 'mazin' tender about bringin' out any thing against
professors; but railly, now, Miss Silence, I didn't think you and Susan
were going to work it so cunning in this here way."

"I don't know what you mean, and, what's more, I don't care," said
Silence, resuming her work, and calling back the bolt-upright dignity
with which she began.

There was a pause of some moments, during which the features of Silence
worked with suppressed rage, which was contemplated by Uncle Jaw with
undisguised satisfaction.

"You see, I s'pose, I shouldn't a minded your Susan's setting out to
court up my Joe, if it hadn't a been for them things."

"Courting your son! Mr. Adams, I should like to know what you mean by
that. I'm sure nobody wants your son, though he's a civil, likely fellow
enough; yet with such an old dragon for a father, I'll warrant he won't
get any body to court him, nor be courted by him neither."

"Railly, Miss Silence, you ain't hardly civil, now."

"Civil! I should like to know who _could_ be civil. You know, now, as
well as I do, that you are saying all this out of clear, sheer ugliness;
and that's what you keep a doing all round the neighborhood."

"Miss Silence," said Uncle Jaw, "I don't want no hard words with you.
It's pretty much known round the neighborhood that your Susan thinks
she'll get my Joe, and I s'pose you was thinking that perhaps it would
be the best way of settling up matters; but you see, now, I took and
tell'd my son I railly didn't see as I could afford it; I took and
tell'd him that young folks must have something considerable to start
with; and that, if Susan lost that 'ere piece of ground, as is likely
she will, it would be cutting off quite too much of a piece; so, you
see, I don't want you to take no encouragement about that."

"Well, I think this is pretty well!" exclaimed Silence, provoked beyond
measure or endurance; "you old torment! think I don't know what you're
at! I and Susan courting your son? I wonder if you ain't ashamed of
yourself, now! I should like to know what I or she have done, now, to
get that notion into your head?"

"I didn't s'pose you 'spected to get him yourself," said Uncle Jaw, "for
I guess by this time you've pretty much gin up trying, hain't ye? But
Susan does, I'm pretty sure."

"Here, Susan! Susan! you--come down!" called Miss Silence, in great
wrath, throwing open the chamber door. "Mr. Adams wants to speak with
you." Susan, fluttering and agitated, slowly descended into the room,
where she stopped, and looked hesitatingly, first at Uncle Jaw and then
at her sister, who, without ceremony, proposed the subject matter of the
interview as follows:--

"Now, Susan, here's this man pretends to say that you've been a courting
and snaring to get his son; and I just want you to tell him that you
hain't never had no thought of him, and that you won't have, neither."

This considerate way of announcing the subject had the effect of
bringing the burning color into Susan's face, as she stood like a
convicted culprit, with her eyes bent on the floor.

Uncle Jaw, savage as he was, was always moved by female loveliness, as
wild beasts are said to be mysteriously swayed by music, and looked on
the beautiful, downcast face with more softening than Miss Silence, who,
provoked that Susan did not immediately respond to the question, seized
her by the arm, and eagerly reiterated,--

"Susan! why don't you speak, child?"

Gathering desperate courage, Susan shook off the hand of Silence, and
straightened herself up with as much dignity as some little flower lifts
up its head when it has been bent down by rain drops.

"Silence," she said, "I never would have come down if I had thought it
was to hear such things as this. Mr. Adams, all I have to say to you is,
that your son has sought me, and not I your son. If you wish to know any
more, he can tell you better than I."

"Well, I vow! she is a pretty gal," said Uncle Jaw, as Susan shut the
door.

This exclamation was involuntary; then recollecting himself, he picked
up his hat, and saying, "Well, I guess I may as well get along hum," he
began to depart; but turning round before he shut the door, he said,
"Miss Silence, if you should conclude to do any thing about that 'ere
fence, just send word over and let me know."

Silence, without deigning any reply, marched up into Susan's little
chamber, where our heroine was treating resolution to a good fit of
crying.

"Susan, I did not think you had been such a fool," said the lady. "I do
want to know, now, if you've railly been thinking of getting married,
and to that Joe Adams of all folks!"

Poor Susan! such an interlude in all her pretty, romantic little dreams
about kindred feelings and a hundred other delightful ideas, that
flutter like singing birds through the fairy land of first love. Such an
interlude! to be called on by gruff human voices to give up all the
cherished secrets that she had trembled to whisper even to herself. She
felt as if love itself had been defiled by the coarse, rough hands that
had been meddling with it; so to her sister's soothing address Susan
made no answer, only to cry and sob still more bitterly than before.

Miss Silence, if she had a great stout heart, had no less a kind one,
and seeing Susan take the matter so bitterly to heart, she began
gradually to subside.

"Susan, you poor little fool, you," said she, at the same time giving
her a hearty slap, as expressive of earnest sympathy, "I really do feel
for you; that good-for-nothing fellow has been a cheatin' you, I do
believe."

"O, don't talk any more about it, for mercy's sake," said Susan; "I am
sick of the whole of it."

"That's you, Susan! Glad to hear you say so! I'll stand up for you,
Susan; if I catch Joe Adams coming here again with his palavering face,
I'll let him know!"

"No, no! Don't, for mercy's sake, say any thing to Mr. Adams--don't!"

"Well, child, don't claw hold of a body so! Well, at any rate, I'll just
let Joe Adams know that we hain't nothing more to say to him."

"But I don't wish to say that--that is--I don't know--indeed, sister
Silence, don't say any thing about it."

"Why not? You ain't such a _natural_, now, as to want to marry him,
after all, hey?"

"I don't know what I want, nor what I don't want; only, Silence, do now,
if you love me, do promise not to say any thing at all to Mr.
Adams--don't."

"Well, then, I won't," said Silence; "but, Susan, if you railly was in
love all this while, why hain't you been and told me? Don't you know
that I'm as much as a mother to you, and you ought to have told me in
the beginning?"

"I don't know, Silence! I couldn't--I don't want to talk about it."

"Well, Susan, you ain't a bit like me," said Silence--a remark evincing
great discrimination, certainly, and with which the conversation
terminated.

That very evening our friend Joseph walked down towards the dwelling of
the sisters, not without some anxiety for the result, for he knew by his
father's satisfied appearance that war had been declared. He walked into
the family room, and found nobody there but Miss Silence, who was
sitting, grim as an Egyptian sphinx, stitching very vigorously on a meal
bag, in which interesting employment she thought proper to be so much
engaged as not to remark the entrance of our hero. To Joseph's
accustomed "Good evening, Miss Silence," she replied merely by looking
up with a cold nod, and went on with her sewing. It appeared that she
had determined on a literal version of her promise not to say any thing
to Mr. Adams.

Our hero, as we have before stated, was familiar with the crooks and
turns of the female mind, and mentally resolved to put a bold face on
the matter, and give Miss Silence no encouragement in her attempt to
make him feel himself unwelcome. It was rather a frosty autumnal
evening, and the fire on the hearth was decaying. Mr. Joseph bustled
about most energetically, throwing down the tongs, and shovel, and
bellows, while he pulled the fire to pieces, raked out ashes and brands,
and then, in a twinkling, was at the woodpile, from whence he selected a
massive backlog and forestick, with accompaniments, which were soon
roaring and crackling in the chimney.

"There, now, that does look something like comfort," said our hero; and
drawing forward the big rocking chair, he seated himself in it, and
rubbed his hands with an air of great complacency. Miss Silence looked
not up, but stitched so much the faster, so that one might distinctly
hear the crack of the needle and the whistle of the thread all over the
apartment.

"Have you a headache to-night, Miss Silence?"

"No!" was the gruff answer.

"Are you in a hurry about those bags?" said he, glancing at a pile of
unmade ones which lay by her side.

No reply. "Hang it all!" said our hero to himself, "I'll make her
speak."

Miss Silence's needle book and brown thread lay on a chair beside her.
Our friend helped himself to a needle and thread, and taking one of the
bags, planted himself bolt upright opposite to Miss Silence, and pinning
his work to his knee, commenced stitching at a rate fully equal to her
own.

Miss Silence looked up and fidgeted, but went on with her work faster
than before; but the faster she worked, the faster and steadier worked
our hero, all in "marvellous silence." There began to be an odd
twitching about the muscles of Miss Silence's face; our hero took no
notice, having pursed his features into an expression of unexampled
gravity, which only grew more intense as he perceived, by certain uneasy
movements, that the adversary was beginning to waver.

As they were sitting, stitching away, their needles whizzing at each
other like a couple of locomotives engaged in conversation, Susan opened
the door.

The poor child had been crying for the greater part of her spare time
during the day, and was in no very merry humor; but the moment that her
astonished eyes comprehended the scene, she burst into a fit of almost
inextinguishable merriment, while Silence laid down her needle, and
looked half amused and half angry. Our hero, however, continued his
business with inflexible perseverance, unpinning his work and moving the
seam along, and going on with increased velocity.

Poor Miss Silence was at length vanquished, and joined in the loud laugh
which seemed to convulse her sister. Whereupon our hero unpinned his
work, and folding it up, looked up at her with all the assurance of
impudence triumphant, and remarked to Susan,--

"Your sister had such a pile of these pillow cases to make, that she was
quite discouraged, and engaged me to do half a dozen of them: when I
first came in she was so busy she could not even speak to me."

"Well, if you ain't the beater for impudence!" said Miss Silence.

"The beater for _industry_--so I thought," rejoined our hero.

Susan, who had been in a highly tragical state of mind all day, and who
was meditating on nothing less sublime than an eternal separation from
her lover, which she had imagined, with all the affecting attendants and
consequents, was entirely revolutionized by the unexpected turn thus
given to her ideas, while our hero pursued the opportunity he had made
for himself, and exerted his powers of entertainment to the utmost, till
Miss Silence, declaring that if she had been washing all day she should
not have been more tired than she was with laughing, took up her candle,
and good-naturedly left our young people to settle matters between
themselves. There was a grave pause of some length when she had
departed, which was broken by our hero, who, seating himself by Susan,
inquired very seriously if his father had made proposals of marriage to
Miss Silence that morning.

"No, you provoking creature!" said Susan, at the same time laughing at
the absurdity of the idea.

"Well, now, don't draw on your long face again, Susan," said Joseph;
"you have been trying to lengthen it down all the evening, if I would
have let you. Seriously, now, I know that something painful passed
between my father and you this morning, but I shall not inquire what it
was. I only tell you, frankly, that he has expressed his disapprobation
of our engagement, forbidden me to go on with it, and----"

"And, consequently, I release you from all engagements and obligations
to me, even before you ask it," said Susan.

"You are extremely accommodating," replied Joseph; "but I cannot promise
to be as obliging in giving up certain promises made to me, unless,
indeed, the feelings that dictated them should have changed."

"O, no--no, indeed," said Susan, earnestly; "you know it is not that;
but if your father objects to me----"

"If my father objects to you, he is welcome not to marry you," said
Joseph.

"Now, Joseph, do be serious," said Susan.

"Well, then, seriously, Susan, I know my obligations to my father, and
in all that relates to his comfort I will ever be dutiful and
submissive, for I have no college boy pride on the subject of
submission; but in a matter so individually my own as the choice of a
wife, in a matter that will most likely affect my happiness years and
years after he has ceased to be, I hold that I have a right to consult
my own inclinations, and, by your leave, my dear little lady, I shall
take that liberty."

"But, then, if your father is made angry, you know what sort of a man he
is; and how could I stand in the way of all your prospects?"

"Why, my dear Susan, do you think I count myself dependent upon my
father, like the heir of an English estate, who has nothing to do but
sit still and wait for money to come to him? No! I have energy and
education to start with, and if I cannot take care of myself, and you
too, then cast me off and welcome;" and, as Joseph spoke, his fine face
glowed with a conscious power, which unfettered youth never feels so
fully as in America. He paused a moment, and resumed: "Nevertheless,
Susan, I respect my father; whatever others may say of him, I shall
never forget that I owe to his hard earnings the education that enables
me to do or be any thing, and I shall not wantonly or rudely cross him.
I do not despair of gaining his consent; my father has a great
partiality for pretty girls, and if his love of contradiction is not
kept awake by open argument, I will trust to time and you to bring him
round; but, whatever comes, rest assured, my dearest one, I have chosen
for life, and cannot change."

The conversation, after this, took a turn which may readily be imagined
by all who have been in the same situation, and will, therefore, need no
further illustration.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Well, deacon, railly I don't know what to think now: there's my Joe,
he's took and been a courting that 'ere Susan," said Uncle Jaw.

This was the introduction to one of Uncle Jaw's periodical visits to
Deacon Enos, who was sitting with his usual air of mild abstraction,
looking into the coals of a bright November fire, while his busy
helpmate was industriously rattling her knitting needles by his side.

A close observer might have suspected that this was _no news_ to the
good deacon, who had given a great deal of good advice, in private, to
Master Joseph of late; but he only relaxed his features into a quiet
smile, and ejaculated, "I want to know!"

"Yes; and railly, deacon, that 'ere gal is a rail pretty un. I was a
tellin' my folks that our new minister's wife was a fool to her."

"And so your son is going to marry her?" said the good lady; "I knew
that long ago."

"Well--no--not so fast; ye see there's two to that bargain yet. You see,
Joe, he never said a word to me, but took and courted the gal out of his
own head; and when I come to know, says I, 'Joe,' says I, 'that 'ere gal
won't do for me;' and I took and tell'd him, then, about that 'ere old
fence, and all about that old mill, and them _medder_s of mine; and I
tell'd him, too, about that 'ere lot of Susan's; and I should like to
know, now, deacon, how that lot business is a going to turn out."

"Judge Smith and 'Squire Moseley say that my claim to it will stand,"
said the deacon.

"They do?" said Uncle Jaw, with much satisfaction; "s'pose, then, you'll
sue, won't you?"

"I don't know," replied the deacon, meditatively.

Uncle Jaw was thoroughly amazed; that any one should have doubts about
entering suit for a fine piece of land, when sure of obtaining it, was a
problem quite beyond his powers of solving.

"You say your son has courted the girl," said the deacon, after a long
pause; "that strip of land is the best part of Susan's share; I paid
down five hundred dollars on the nail for it; I've got papers here that
Judge Smith and 'Squire Moseley say will stand good in any court of
law."

Uncle Jaw pricked up his ears and was all attention, eying with eager
looks the packet; but, to his disappointment, the deacon deliberately
laid it into his desk, shut and locked it, and resumed his seat.

"Now, railly," said Uncle Jaw, "I should like to know the particulars."

"Well, well," said the deacon, "the lawyers will be at my house
to-morrow evening, and if you have any concern about it, you may as well
come along."

Uncle Jaw wondered all the way home at what he could have done to get
himself into the confidence of the old deacon, who, he rejoiced to
think, was a going to "take" and go to law like other folks.

The next day there was an appearance of some bustle and preparation
about the deacon's house; the best room was opened and aired; an ovenful
of cake was baked; and our friend Joseph, with a face full of business,
was seen passing to and fro, in and out of the house, from various
closetings with the deacon. The deacon's lady bustled about the house
with an air of wonderful mystery, and even gave her directions about
eggs and raisins in a whisper, lest they should possibly let out some
eventful secret.

The afternoon of that day Joseph appeared at the house of the sisters,
stating that there was to be company at the deacon's that evening, and
he was sent to invite them.

"Why, what's got into the deacon's folks lately," said Silence, "to have
company so often? Joe Adams, this 'ere is some 'cut up' of yours. Come,
what are you up to now?"

"Come, come, dress yourselves and get ready," said Joseph; and, stepping
up to Susan, as she was following Silence out of the room, he whispered
something into her ear, at which she stopped short and colored
violently.

"Why, Joseph, what do you mean?"

"It is so," said he.

"No, no, Joseph; no, I can't, indeed I can't."

"But you _can_, Susan."

"O Joseph, don't."

"O Susan, _do_."

"Why, how strange, Joseph!"

"Come, come, my dear, you keep me waiting. If you have any objections on
the score of propriety, we will talk about them _to-morrow_;" and our
hero looked so saucy and so resolute that there was no disputing
further; so, after a little more lingering and blushing on Susan's part,
and a few kisses and persuasions on the part of the suitor, Miss Susan
seemed to be brought to a state of resignation.

At a table in the middle of Uncle Enos's north front room were seated
the two lawyers, whose legal opinion was that evening to be fully made
up. The younger of these, 'Squire Moseley, was a rosy, portly, laughing
little bachelor, who boasted that he had offered himself, in rotation,
to every pretty girl within twenty miles round, and, among others, to
Susan Jones, notwithstanding which he still remained a bachelor, with a
fair prospect of being an old one; but none of these things disturbed
the boundless flow of good nature and complacency with which he seemed
at all times full to overflowing. On the present occasion he appeared to
be particularly in his element, as if he had some law business in hand
remarkably suited to his turn of mind; for, on finishing the inspection
of the papers, he started up, slapped his graver brother on the back,
made two or three flourishes round the room, and then seizing the old
deacon's hand, shook it violently, exclaiming,--

"All's right, deacon, all's right! Go it! go it! hurrah!"

When Uncle Jaw entered, the deacon, without preface, handed him a chair
and the papers, saying,--

"These papers are what you wanted to see. I just wish you would read
them over."

Uncle Jaw read them deliberately over. "Didn't I tell ye so, deacon? The
case is as clear as a bell: now ye will go to law, won't you?"

"Look here, Mr. Adams; now you have seen these papers, and heard what's
to be said, I'll make you an offer. Let your son marry Susan Jones, and
I'll burn these papers and say no more about it, and there won't be a
girl in the parish with a finer portion."

Uncle Jaw opened his eyes with amazement, and looked at the old man, his
mouth gradually expanding wider and wider, as if he hoped, in time, to
swallow the idea.

"Well, now, I swan!" at length he ejaculated.

"I mean just as I say," said the deacon.

"Why, that's the same as giving the gal five hundred dollars out of your
own pocket, and she ain't no relation neither."

"I know it," said the deacon; "but I have said I will do it."

"What upon 'arth for?" said Uncle Jaw.

"To make peace," said the deacon, "and to let you know that when I say
it is better to give up one's rights than to quarrel, I mean so. I am an
old man; my children are dead"--his voice faltered--"my treasures are
laid up in heaven; if I can make the children happy, why, I will. When I
thought I had lost the land, I made up my mind to lose it, and so I can
now."

Uncle Jaw looked fixedly on the old deacon, and said,--

"Well, deacon, I believe you. I vow, if you hain't got something ahead
in t'other world, I'd like to know who has--that's all; so, if Joe has
no objections, and I rather guess he won't have----"

"The short of the matter is," said the squire, "we'll have a wedding; so
come on;" and with that he threw open the parlor door, where stood Susan
and Joseph in a recess by the window, while Silence and the Rev. Mr.
Bissel were drawn up by the fire, and the deacon's lady was sweeping up
the hearth, as she had been doing ever since the party arrived.

Instantly Joseph took the hand of Susan, and led her to the middle of
the room; the merry squire seized the hand of Miss Silence, and placed
her as bridesmaid, and before any one knew what they were about, the
ceremony was in actual progress, and the minister, having been
previously instructed, made the two one with extraordinary celerity.

"What! what! what!" said Uncle Jaw. "Joseph! Deacon!"

"Fair bargain, sir," said the squire. "Hand over your papers, deacon."

The deacon handed them, and the squire, having read them aloud,
proceeded, with much ceremony, to throw them into the fire; after which,
in a mock solemn oration, he gave a statement of the whole affair, and
concluded with a grave exhortation to the new couple on the duties of
wedlock, which unbent the risibles even of the minister himself.

Uncle Jaw looked at his pretty daughter-in-law, who stood half smiling,
half blushing, receiving the congratulations of the party, and then at
Miss Silence, who appeared full as much taken by surprise as himself.

"Well, well, Miss Silence, these 'ere young folks have come round us
slick enough," said he. "I don't see but we must shake hands upon it."
And the warlike powers shook hands accordingly, which was a signal for
general merriment.

As the company were dispersing, Miss Silence laid hold of the good
deacon, and by main strength dragged him aside. "Deacon," said she, "I
take back all that 'ere I said about you, every word on't."

"Don't say any more about it, Miss Silence," said the good man; "it's
gone by, and let it go."

"Joseph!" said his father, the next morning, as he was sitting at
breakfast with Joseph and Susan, "I calculate I shall feel kinder proud
of this 'ere gal! and I'll tell you what, I'll jest give you that nice
little delicate Stanton place that I took on Stanton's mortgage: it's a
nice little place, with green blinds, and flowers, and all them things,
just right for Susan."

And accordingly, many happy years flew over the heads of the young
couple in the Stanton place, long after the hoary hairs of their kind
benefactor, the deacon, were laid with reverence in the dust. Uncle Jaw
was so far wrought upon by the magnanimity of the good old man as to be
very materially changed for the better. Instead of quarrelling in real
earnest all around the neighborhood, he confined himself merely to
battling the opposite side of every question with his son, which, as the
latter was somewhat of a logician, afforded a pretty good field for the
exercise of his powers; and he was heard to declare at the funeral of
the old deacon, that, "after all, a man got as much, and may be more, to
go along as the deacon did, than to be all the time fisting and jawing;
though I tell you what it is," said he, afterwards, "'tain't every one
that has the deacon's _faculty_, any how."




THE TEA ROSE.


There it stood, in its little green vase, on a light ebony stand, in the
window of the drawing room. The rich satin curtains, with their costly
fringes, swept down on either side of it, and around it glittered every
rare and fanciful trifle which wealth can offer to luxury; and yet that
simple rose was the fairest of them all. So pure it looked, its white
leaves just touched with that delicious creamy tint peculiar to its
kind; its cup so full, so perfect; its head bending as if it were
sinking and melting away in its own richness--O, when did ever man make
any thing to equal the living, perfect flower?

But the sunlight that streamed through the window revealed something
fairer than the rose. Reclined on an ottoman, in a deep recess, and
intently engaged with a book, rested what seemed the counterpart of that
so lovely flower. That cheek so pale, that fair forehead so spiritual,
that countenance so full of high thought, those long, downcast lashes,
and the expression of the beautiful mouth, sorrowful, yet subdued and
sweet--it seemed like the picture of a dream.

"Florence! Florence!" echoed a merry and musical voice, in a sweet,
impatient tone. Turn your head, reader, and you will see a light and
sparkling maiden, the very model of some little wilful elf, born of
mischief and motion, with a dancing eye, a foot that scarcely seems to
touch the carpet, and a smile so multiplied by dimples that it seems
like a thousand smiles at once. "Come, Florence, I say," said the little
sprite, "put down that wise, good, and excellent volume, and descend
from your cloud, and talk with a poor little mortal."

The fair apparition, thus adjured, obeyed; and, looking up, revealed
just such eyes as you expected to see beneath such lids--eyes deep,
pathetic, and rich as a strain of sad music.

"I say, cousin," said the "bright ladye," "I have been thinking what you
are to do with your pet rose when you go to New York, as, to our
consternation, you are determined to do; you know it would be a sad pity
to leave it with such a scatterbrain as I am. I do love flowers, that is
a fact; that is, I like a regular bouquet, cut off and tied up, to carry
to a party; but as to all this tending and fussing, which is needful to
keep them growing, I have no gifts in that line."

"Make yourself easy as to that, Kate," said Florence, with a smile; "I
have no intention of calling upon your talents; I have an asylum in view
for my favorite."

"O, then you know just what I was going to say. Mrs. Marshall, I
presume, has been speaking to you; she was here yesterday, and I was
quite pathetic upon the subject, telling her the loss your favorite
would sustain, and so forth; and she said how delighted she would be to
have it in her greenhouse, it is in such a fine state now, so full of
buds. I told her I knew you would like to give it to her, you are so
fond of Mrs. Marshall, you know."

"Now, Kate, I am sorry, but I have otherwise engaged it."

"Whom can it be to? you have so few intimates here."

"O, it is only one of my odd fancies."

"But do tell me, Florence."

"Well, cousin, you know the little pale girl to whom we give sewing."

"What! little Mary Stephens? How absurd! Florence, this is just another
of your motherly, oldmaidish ways--dressing dolls for poor children,
making bonnets and knitting socks for all the little dirty babies in the
region round about. I do believe you have made more calls in those two
vile, ill-smelling alleys back of our house, than ever you have in
Chestnut Street, though you know every body is half dying to see you;
and now, to crown all, you must give this choice little bijou to a
seamstress girl, when one of your most intimate friends, in your own
class, would value it so highly. What in the world can people in their
circumstances want of flowers?"

"Just the same as I do," replied Florence, calmly. "Have you not noticed
that the little girl never comes here without looking wistfully at the
opening buds? And don't you remember, the other morning, she asked me so
prettily if I would let her mother come and see it, she was so fond of
flowers?"

"But, Florence, only think of this rare flower standing on a table with
ham, eggs, cheese, and flour, and stifled in that close little room
where Mrs. Stephens and her daughter manage to wash, iron, cook, and
nobody knows what besides."

"Well, Kate, and if I were obliged to live in one coarse room, and wash,
and iron, and cook, as you say,--if I had to spend every moment of my
time in toil, with no prospect from my window but a brick wall and dirty
lane,--such a flower as this would be untold enjoyment to me."

"Pshaw! Florence--all sentiment: poor people have no time to be
sentimental. Besides, I don't believe it will grow with them; it is a
greenhouse flower, and used to delicate living."

"O, as to that, a flower never inquires whether its owner is rich or
poor; and Mrs. Stephens, whatever else she has not, has sunshine of as
good quality as this that streams through our window. The beautiful
things that God makes are his gift to all alike. You will see that my
fair rose will be as well and cheerful in Mrs. Stephens's room as in
ours."

"Well, after all, how odd! When one gives to poor people, one wants to
give them something _useful_--a bushel of potatoes, a ham, and such
things."

"Why, certainly, potatoes and ham must be supplied; but, having
ministered to the first and most craving wants, why not add any other
little pleasures or gratifications we may have it in our power to
bestow? I know there are many of the poor who have fine feeling and a
keen sense of the beautiful, which rusts out and dies because they are
too hard pressed to procure it any gratification. Poor Mrs. Stephens,
for example: I know she would enjoy birds, and flowers, and music, as
much as I do. I have seen her eye light up as she looked on these things
in our drawing room, and yet not one beautiful thing can she command.
From necessity, her room, her clothing, all she has, must be coarse and
plain. You should have seen the almost rapture she and Mary felt when I
offered them my rose."

"Dear me! all this may be true, but I never thought of it before. I
never thought that these hard-working people had any ideas of _taste_!"

"Then why do you see the geranium or rose so carefully nursed in the old
cracked teapot in the poorest room, or the morning glory planted in a
box and twined about the window? Do not these show that the human heart
yearns for the beautiful in all ranks of life? You remember, Kate, how
our washerwoman sat up a whole night, after a hard day's work, to make
her first baby a pretty dress to be baptized in."

"Yes, and I remember how I laughed at you for making such a tasteful
little cap for it."

"Well, Katy, I think the look of perfect delight with which the poor
mother regarded her baby in its new dress and cap was something quite
worth creating: I do believe she could not have felt more grateful if I
had sent her a barrel of flour."

"Well, I never thought before of giving any thing to the poor but what
they really needed, and I have always been willing to do that when I
could without going far out of my way."

"Well, cousin, if our heavenly Father gave to us after this mode, we
should have only coarse, shapeless piles of provisions lying about the
world, instead of all this beautiful variety of trees, and fruits, and
flowers."

"Well, well, cousin, I suppose you are right--but have mercy on my poor
head; it is too small to hold so many new ideas all at once--so go on
your own way." And the little lady began practising a waltzing step
before the glass with great satisfaction.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was a very small room, lighted by only one window. There was no
carpet on the floor; there was a clean, but coarsely-covered bed in one
corner; a cupboard, with a few dishes and plates, in the other; a chest
of drawers; and before the window stood a small cherry stand, quite new,
and, indeed, it was the only article in the room that seemed so.

A pale, sickly-looking woman of about forty was leaning back in her
rocking chair, her eyes closed and her lips compressed as if in pain.
She rocked backward and forward a few minutes, pressed her hand hard
upon her eyes, and then languidly resumed her fine stitching, on which
she had been busy since morning. The door opened, and a slender little
girl of about twelve years of age entered, her large blue eyes dilated
and radiant with delight as she bore in the vase with the rose tree in
it.

"O, see, mother, see! Here is one in full bloom, and two more half out,
and ever so many more pretty buds peeping out of the green leaves."

The poor woman's face brightened as she looked, first on the rose and
then on her sickly child, on whose face she had not seen so bright a
color for months.

"God bless her!" she exclaimed, unconsciously.

"Miss Florence--yes, I knew you would feel so, mother. Does it not make
your head feel better to see such a beautiful flower? Now, you will not
look so longingly at the flowers in the market, for we have a rose that
is handsomer than any of them. Why, it seems to me it is worth as much
to us as our whole little garden used to be. Only see how many buds
there are! Just count them, and only smell the flower! Now, where shall
we set it up?" And Mary skipped about, placing her flower first in one
position and then in another, and walking off to see the effect, till
her mother gently reminded her that the rose tree could not preserve its
beauty without sunlight.

"O, yes, truly," said Mary; "well, then, it must stand here on our new
stand. How glad I am that we have such a handsome new stand for it! it
will look so much better." And Mrs. Stephens laid down her work, and
folded a piece of newspaper, on which the treasure was duly deposited.

"There," said Mary, watching the arrangement eagerly, "that will do--no,
for it does not show both the opening buds; a little farther around--a
little more; there, that is right;" and then Mary walked around to view
the rose in various positions, after which she urged her mother to go
with her to the outside, and see how it looked there. "How kind it was
in Miss Florence to think of giving this to us!" said Mary; "though she
had done so much for us, and given us so many things, yet this seems the
best of all, because it seems as if she thought of us, and knew just how
we felt; and so few do that, you know, mother."

What a bright afternoon that little gift made in that little room! How
much faster Mary's fingers flew the livelong day as she sat sewing by
her mother! and Mrs. Stephens, in the happiness of her child, almost
forgot that she had a headache, and thought, as she sipped her evening
cup of tea, that she felt stronger than she had done for some time.

That rose! its sweet influence died not with the first day. Through all
the long, cold winter, the watching, tending, cherishing that flower
awakened a thousand pleasant trains of thought, that beguiled the
sameness and weariness of their life. Every day the fair, growing thing
put forth some fresh beauty--a leaf, a bud, a new shoot, and constantly
awakened fresh enjoyment in its possessors. As it stood in the window,
the passer by would sometimes stop and gaze, attracted by its beauty,
and then proud and happy was Mary; nor did even the serious and
care-worn widow notice with indifference this tribute to the beauty of
their favorite.

But little did Florence think, when she bestowed the gift, that there
twined about it an invisible thread that reached far and brightly into
the web of her destiny.

One cold afternoon in early spring, a tall and graceful gentleman called
at the lowly room to pay for the making of some linen by the inmates. He
was a stranger and wayfarer, recommended through the charity of some of
Mrs. Stephens's patrons. As he turned to go, his eye rested admiringly
on the rose tree; and he stopped to gaze at it.

"How beautiful!" said he.

"Yes," said little Mary; "and it was given to us by a lady as sweet and
beautiful as that is."

"Ah," said the stranger, turning upon her a pair of bright dark eyes,
pleased and rather struck by the communication; "and how came she to
give it to you, my little girl?"

"O, because we are poor, and mother is sick, and we never can have any
thing pretty. We used to have a garden once; and we loved flowers so
much, and Miss Florence found it out, and so she gave us this."

"Florence!" echoed the stranger.

"Yes, Miss Florence L'Estrange--a beautiful lady. They say she was from
foreign parts; but she speaks English just like other ladies, only
sweeter."

"Is she here now? is she in this city?" said the gentleman, eagerly.

"No; she left some months ago," said the widow, noticing the shade of
disappointment on his face. "But," said she, "you can find out all about
her at her aunt's, Mrs. Carlysle's, No. 10 ---- Street."

A short time after Florence received a letter in a handwriting that made
her tremble. During the many early years of her life spent in France she
had well learned to know that writing--had loved as a woman like her
loves only once; but there had been obstacles of parents and friends,
long separation, long suspense, till, after anxious years, she had
believed the ocean had closed over that hand and heart; and it was this
that had touched with such pensive sorrow the lines in her lovely face.

But this letter told that he was living--that he had traced her, even as
a hidden streamlet may be traced, by the freshness, the verdure of
heart, which her deeds of kindness had left wherever she had passed.
Thus much said, our readers need no help in finishing my story for
themselves.




TRIALS OF A HOUSEKEEPER.


I have a detail of very homely grievances to present; but such as they
are, many a heart will feel them to be heavy--_the trials of a
housekeeper_.

"Poh!" says one of the lords of creation, taking his cigar out of his
mouth, and twirling it between his two first fingers, "what a fuss these
women do make of this simple matter of _managing a family_! I can't see
for my life as there is any thing so extraordinary to be done in this
matter of housekeeping: only three meals a day to be got and cleared
off--and it really seems to take up the whole of their mind from morning
till night. _I_ could keep house without so much of a flurry, I know."

Now, prithee, good brother, listen to my story, and see how much you
know about it. I came to this enlightened West about a year since, and
was duly established in a comfortable country residence within a mile
and a half of the city, and there commenced the enjoyment of domestic
felicity. I had been married about three months, and had been previously
_in love_ in the most approved romantic way, with all the proprieties of
moonlight walks, serenades, sentimental billets doux, and everlasting
attachment.

After having been allowed, as I said, about three months to get over
this sort of thing, and to prepare for realities, I was located for life
as aforesaid. My family consisted of myself and husband, a female friend
as a visitor, and two brothers of my good man, who were engaged with him
in business.

I pass over the two or three first days, spent in that process of
hammering boxes, breaking crockery, knocking things down and picking
them up again, which is commonly called getting to housekeeping. As
usual, carpets were sewed and stretched, laid down, and taken up to be
sewed over; things were formed, and _re_formed, _trans_formed, and
_con_formed, till at last a settled order began to appear. But now came
up the great point of all. During our confusion we had cooked and eaten
our meals in a very miscellaneous and pastoral manner, eating now from
the top of a barrel and now from a fireboard laid on two chairs, and
drinking, some from teacups, and some from saucers, and some from
tumblers, and some from a pitcher big enough to be drowned in, and
sleeping, some on sofas, and some on straggling beds and mattresses
thrown down here and there wherever there was room. All these pleasant
barbarities were now at an end. The house was in order, the dishes put
up in their places; three regular meals were to be administered in one
day, all in an orderly, civilized form; beds were to be made, rooms
swept and dusted, dishes washed, knives scoured, and all the et cetera
to be attended to. Now for getting "_help_," as Mrs. Trollope says; and
where and how were we to get it? We knew very few persons in the city;
and how were we to accomplish the matter? At length the "house of
employment" was mentioned; and my husband was despatched thither
regularly every day for a week, while I, in the mean time, was very
nearly _despatched_ by the abundance of work at home. At length, one
evening, as I was sitting completely exhausted, thinking of resorting to
the last feminine expedient for supporting life, viz., a good fit of
crying, my husband made his appearance, with a most triumphant air, at
the door. "There, Margaret, I have got you a couple at last--cook and
chambermaid." So saying, he flourished open the door, and gave to my
view the picture of a little, dry, snuffy-looking old woman, and a
great, staring Dutch girl, in a green bonnet with red ribbons, with
mouth wide open, and hands and feet that would have made a Greek
sculptor open _his_ mouth too. I addressed forthwith a few words of
encouragement to each of this cultivated-looking couple, and proceeded
to ask their names; and forthwith the old woman began to snuffle and to
wipe her face with what was left of an old silk pocket handkerchief
preparatory to speaking, while the young lady opened her mouth wider,
and looked around with a frightened air, as if meditating an escape.
After some preliminaries, however, I found out that my old woman was
Mrs. Tibbins, and my Hebe's name was _Kotterin;_ also, that she knew
much more Dutch than English, and not any too much of either. The old
lady was the cook. I ventured a few inquiries. "Had she ever cooked?"

"Yes, ma'am, sartain; she had lived at two or three places in the city."

"I suspect, my dear," said my husband confidently, "that she is an
experienced cook, and so your troubles are over;" and he went to reading
his newspaper. I said no more, but determined to wait till morning. The
breakfast, to be sure, did not do much honor to the talents of my
official; but it was the first time, and the place was new to her. After
breakfast was cleared away I proceeded to give directions for dinner; it
was merely a plain joint of meat, I said, to be roasted in the tin oven.
The _experienced cook_ looked at me with a stare of entire vacuity. "The
tin oven," I repeated, "stands there," pointing to it.

She walked up to it, and touched it with such an appearance of suspicion
as if it had been an electrical battery, and then looked round at me
with a look of such helpless ignorance that my soul was moved. "I never
see one of them things before," said she.

"Never saw a tin oven!" I exclaimed. "I thought you said you had cooked
in two or three families."

"They does not have such things as them, though," rejoined my old lady.
Nothing was to be done, of course, but to instruct her into the
philosophy of the case; and having spitted the joint, and given
numberless directions, I walked off to my room to superintend the
operations of Kotterin, to whom I had committed the making of my bed and
the sweeping of my room, it never having come into my head that there
_could be_ a wrong way of making a bed; and to this day it is a marvel
to me how any one could arrange pillows and quilts to make such a
nondescript appearance as mine now presented. One glance showed me that
Kotterin also was "_just caught_," and that I had as much to do in her
department as in that of my old lady.

Just then the door bell rang. "O, there is the door bell," I exclaimed.
"Run, Kotterin, and show them into the parlor."

Kotterin started to run, as directed, and then stopped, and stood
looking round on all the doors and on me with a wofully puzzled air.
"The street door," said I, pointing towards the entry. Kotterin
blundered into the entry, and stood gazing with a look of stupid wonder
at the bell ringing without hands, while I went to the door and let in
the company before she could be fairly made to understand the connection
between the ringing and the phenomenon of admission.

As dinner time approached, I sent word into my kitchen to have it set
on; but, recollecting the state of the heads of department there, I soon
followed my own orders. I found the tin oven standing out in the middle
of the kitchen, and my cook seated _à la Turc_ in front of it,
contemplating the roast meat with full as puzzled an air as in the
morning. I once more explained the mystery of taking it off, and
assisted her to get it on to the platter, though somewhat cooled by
having been so long set out for inspection. I was standing holding the
spit in my hands, when Kotterin, who had heard the door bell ring, and
was determined this time to be in season, ran into the hall, and soon
returning, opened the kitchen door, and politely ushered in three or
four fashionable looking ladies, exclaiming, "Here she is." As these
were strangers from the city, who had come to make their first call,
this introduction was far from proving an eligible one--the look of
thunderstruck astonishment with which I greeted their first appearance,
as I stood brandishing the spit, and the terrified snuffling and staring
of poor Mrs. Tibbins, who again had recourse to her old pocket
handkerchief, almost entirely vanquished their gravity, and it was
evident that they were on the point of a broad laugh; so, recovering my
self-possession, I apologized, and led the way to the parlor.

Let these few incidents be a specimen of the four mortal weeks that I
spent with these "_helps_," during which time I did almost as much work,
with twice as much anxiety, as when there was nobody there; and yet
every thing went wrong besides. The young gentlemen complained of the
patches of starch grimed to their collars, and the streaks of black coal
ironed into their dickies, while one week every pocket handkerchief in
the house was starched so stiff that you might as well have carried an
earthen plate in your pocket; the tumblers looked muddy; the plates were
never washed clean or wiped dry unless I attended to each one; and as to
eating and drinking, we experienced a variety that we had not before
considered possible.

At length the old woman vanished from the stage, and was succeeded by a
knowing, active, capable damsel, with a temper like a steel-trap, who
remained with me just one week, and then went off in a fit of spite. To
her succeeded a rosy, good-natured, merry lass, who broke the crockery,
burned the dinner, tore the clothes in ironing, and knocked down every
thing that stood in her way about the house, without at all discomposing
herself about the matter. One night she took the stopper from a barrel
of molasses, and came singing off up stairs, while the molasses ran
soberly out into the cellar bottom all night, till by morning it was in
a state of universal emancipation. Having done this, and also despatched
an entire set of tea things by letting the waiter fall, she one day made
her disappearance.

Then, for a wonder, there fell to my lot a tidy, efficient-trained
English girl; pretty, and genteel, and neat, and knowing how to do every
thing, and with the sweetest temper in the world. "Now," said I to
myself, "I shall _rest_ from my labors." Every thing about the house
began to go right, and looked as clean and genteel as Mary's own pretty
self. But, alas! this period of repose was interrupted by the vision of
a clever, trim-looking young man, who for some weeks could be heard
scraping his boots at the kitchen door every Sunday night; and at last
Miss Mary, with some smiling and blushing, gave me to understand that
she must leave in two weeks.

"Why, Mary," said I, feeling a little mischievous, "don't you like the
place?"

"O, yes, ma'am."

"Then why do you look for another?"

"I am not going to another place."

"What, Mary, are you going to learn a trade?"

"No, ma'am."

"Why, then, what do you mean to do?"

"I expect to keep house _myself_, ma'am," said she, laughing and
blushing.

"O ho!" said I, "that is it;" and so, in two weeks, I lost the best
little girl in the world: peace to her memory.

After this came an interregnum, which put me in mind of the chapter in
Chronicles that I used to read with great delight when a child, where
Basha, and Elah, and Tibni, and Zimri, and Omri, one after the other,
came on to the throne of Israel, all in the compass of half a dozen
verses. We had one old woman, who staid a week, and went away with the
misery in her tooth; one _young_ woman, who ran away and got married;
one cook, who came at night and went off before light in the morning;
one very clever girl, who staid a month, and then went away because her
mother was sick; another, who staid six weeks, and was taken with the
fever herself; and during all this time, who can speak the damage and
destruction wrought in the domestic paraphernalia by passing through
these multiplied hands?

What shall we do? Shall we give up houses, have no furniture to take
care of, keep merely a bag of meal, a porridge pot, and a pudding stick,
and sit in our tent door in real patriarchal independence? What shall we
do?




LITTLE EDWARD.


Were any of you born in New England, in the good old catechizing,
church-going, school-going, orderly times? If so, you may have seen my
Uncle Abel; the most perpendicular, rectangular, upright, downright good
man that ever labored six days and rested on the seventh.

You remember his hard, weather-beaten countenance, where every line
seemed drawn with "a pen of iron and the point of a diamond;" his
considerate gray eyes, that moved over objects as if it were not best to
be in a hurry about seeing; the circumspect opening and shutting of the
mouth; his down-sitting and up-rising, all performed with conviction
aforethought--in short, the whole ordering of his life and conversation,
which was, according to the tenor of the military order, "to the right
about face--forward, march!"

Now, if you supposed, from all this triangularism of exterior, that this
good man had nothing kindly within, you were much mistaken. You often
find the greenest grass under a snowdrift; and though my uncle's mind
was not exactly of the flower garden kind, still there was an abundance
of wholesome and kindly vegetation there.

It is true, he seldom laughed, and never joked himself; but no man had a
more serious and weighty conviction of what a good joke was in another;
and when some exceeding witticism was dispensed in his presence, you
might see Uncle Abel's face slowly relax into an expression of solemn
satisfaction, and he would look at the author with a sort of quiet
wonder, as if it was past his comprehension how such a thing could ever
come into a man's head.

Uncle Abel, too, had some relish for the fine arts; in proof of which, I
might adduce the pleasure with which he gazed at the plates in his
family Bible, the likeness whereof is neither in heaven, nor on earth,
nor under the earth. And he was also such an eminent musician, that he
could go through the singing book at one sitting without the least
fatigue, beating time like a windmill all the way.

He had, too, a liberal hand, though his liberality was all by the rule
of three. He did by his neighbor exactly as he would be done by; he
loved some things in this world very sincerely: he loved his God much,
but he honored and feared him more; he was exact with others, he was
more exact with himself, and he expected his God to be more exact still.

Every thing in Uncle Abel's house was in the same time, place, manner,
and form, from year's end to year's end. There was old Master Bose, a
dog after my uncle's own heart, who always walked as if he was studying
the multiplication table. There was the old clock, forever ticking in
the kitchen corner, with a picture on its face of the sun, forever
setting behind a perpendicular row of poplar trees. There was the
never-failing supply of red peppers and onions hanging over the chimney.
There, too, were the yearly hollyhocks and morning-glories blooming
about the windows. There was the "best room," with its sanded floor, the
cupboard in one corner with its glass doors, the ever green asparagus
bushes in the chimney, and there was the stand with the Bible and
almanac on it in another corner. There, too, was Aunt Betsey, who never
looked any older, because she always looked as old as she could; who
always dried her catnip and wormwood the last of September, and began to
clean house the first of May. In short, this was the land of
continuance. Old Time never took it into his head to practise either
addition, or subtraction, or multiplication on its sum total.

This Aunt Betsey aforenamed was the neatest and most efficient piece of
human machinery that ever operated in forty places at once. She was
always every where, predominating over and seeing to every thing; and
though my uncle had been twice married, Aunt Betsey's rule and authority
had never been broken. She reigned over his wives when living, and
reigned after them when dead, and so seemed likely to reign on to the
end of the chapter. But my uncle's latest wife left Aunt Betsey a much
less tractable subject than ever before had fallen to her lot. Little
Edward was the child of my uncle's old age, and a brighter, merrier
little blossom never grew on the verge of an avalanche. He had been
committed to the nursing of his grandmamma till he had arrived at the
age of _in_discretion, and then my old uncle's heart so yearned for him
that he was sent for home.

His introduction into the family excited a terrible sensation. Never was
there such a condemner of dignities, such a violator of high places and
sanctities, as this very Master Edward. It was all in vain to try to
teach him decorum. He was the most outrageously merry elf that ever
shook a head of curls; and it was all the same to him whether it was
"_Sabba' day_" or any other day. He laughed and frolicked with every
body and every thing that came in his way, not even excepting his solemn
old father; and when you saw him, with his fair arms around the old
man's neck, and his bright blue eyes and blooming cheek peering out
beside the bleak face of Uncle Abel, you might fancy you saw spring
caressing winter. Uncle Abel's metaphysics were sorely puzzled by this
sparkling, dancing compound of spirit and matter; nor could he devise
any method of bringing it into any reasonable shape, for he did mischief
with an energy and perseverance that was truly astonishing. Once he
scoured the floor with Aunt Betsey's very Scotch snuff; once he washed
up the hearth with Uncle Abel's most immaculate clothes brush; and once
he was found trying to make Bose wear his father's spectacles. In short,
there was no use, except the right one, to which he did not put every
thing that came in his way.

But Uncle Abel was most of all puzzled to know what to do with him on
the Sabbath, for on that day Master Edward seemed to exert himself to be
particularly diligent and entertaining.

"Edward! Edward must not play Sunday!" his father would call out; and
then Edward would hold up his curly head, and look as grave as the
catechism; but in three minutes you would see "pussy" scampering through
the "best room," with Edward at her heels, to the entire discomposure of
all devotion in Aunt Betsey and all others in authority.

At length my uncle came to the conclusion that "it wasn't in natur' to
teach him any better," and that "he could no more keep Sunday than the
brook down in the lot." My poor uncle! he did not know what was the
matter with his heart, but certain it was, he lost all faculty of
scolding when little Edward was in the case, and he would rub his
spectacles a quarter of an hour longer than common when Aunt Betsey was
detailing his witticisms and clever doings.

In process of time our hero had compassed his third year, and arrived at
the dignity of going to school. He went illustriously through the
spelling book, and then attacked the catechism; went from "man's chief
end" to the "requirin's and forbiddin's" in a fortnight, and at last
came home inordinately merry, to tell his father that he had got to
"Amen." After this, he made a regular business of saying over the whole
every Sunday evening, standing with his hands folded in front and his
checked apron folded down, occasionally glancing round to see if pussy
gave proper attention. And, being of a practically benevolent turn of
mind, he made several commendable efforts to teach Bose the catechism,
in which he succeeded as well as might be expected. In short, without
further detail, Master Edward bade fair to become a literary wonder.

But alas for poor little Edward! his merry dance was soon over. A day
came when he sickened. Aunt Betsey tried her whole herbarium, but in
vain: he grew rapidly worse and worse. His father sickened in heart, but
said nothing; he only staid by his bedside day and night, trying all
means to save, with affecting pertinacity.

"Can't you think of any thing more, doctor?" said he to the physician,
when all had been tried in vain.

"Nothing," answered the physician.

A momentary convulsion passed over my uncle's face. "The will of the
Lord be done," said he, almost with a groan of anguish.

Just at that moment a ray of the setting sun pierced the checked
curtains, and gleamed like an angel's smile across the face of the
little sufferer. He woke from troubled sleep.

"O, dear! I am so sick!" he gasped, feebly. His father raised him in his
arms; he breathed easier, and looked up with a grateful smile. Just then
his old playmate, the cat, crossed the room. "There goes pussy," said
he; "O, dear! I shall never play any more."

At that moment a deadly change passed over his face. He looked up in his
father's face with an imploring expression, and put out his hand as if
for help. There was one moment of agony, and then the sweet features all
settled into a smile of peace, and "mortality was swallowed up of life."

My uncle laid him down, and looked one moment at his beautiful face. It
was too much for his principles, too much for his consistency, and "he
lifted up his voice and wept."

The next morning was the Sabbath--the funeral day--and it rose with
"breath all incense and with cheek all bloom." Uncle Abel was as calm
and collected as ever; but in his face there was a sorrow-stricken
appearance touching to behold. I remember him at family prayers, as he
bent over the great Bible and began the psalm, "Lord, thou hast been our
dwelling-place in all generations." Apparently he was touched by the
melancholy splendor of the poetry, for after reading a few verses he
stopped. There was a dead silence, interrupted only by the tick of the
clock. He cleared his voice repeatedly, and tried to go on, but in vain.
He closed the book, and kneeled down to prayer. The energy of sorrow
broke through his usual formal reverence, and his language flowed forth
with a deep and sorrowful pathos which I shall never forget. The God so
much reverenced, so much feared, seemed to draw near to him as a friend
and comforter, his refuge and strength, "a very present help in time of
trouble."

My uncle rose, and I saw him walk to the room of the departed one. He
uncovered the face. It was set with the seal of death; but O, how
surpassingly lovely! The brilliancy of life was gone, but that pure,
transparent face was touched with a mysterious, triumphant brightness,
which seemed like the dawning of heaven.

My uncle looked long and earnestly. He felt the beauty of what he gazed
on; his heart was softened, but he had no words for his feelings. He
left the room unconsciously, and stood in the front door. The morning
was bright, the bells were ringing for church, the birds were singing
merrily, and the pet squirrel of little Edward was frolicking about the
door. My uncle watched him as he ran first up one tree, and then down
and up another, and then over the fence, whisking his brush and
chattering just as if nothing was the matter.

With a deep sigh Uncle Abel broke forth, "How happy that _cretur'_ is!
Well, the Lord's will be done."

That day the dust was committed to dust, amid the lamentations of all
who had known little Edward. Years have passed since then, and all that
is mortal of my uncle has long since been gathered to his fathers; but
his just and upright spirit has entered the glorious liberty of the sons
of God. Yes, the good man may have had opinions which the philosophical
scorn, weaknesses at which the thoughtless smile; but death shall change
him into all that is enlightened, wise, and refined; for he shall awake
in "His" likeness, and "be satisfied."




AUNT MARY.


Since sketching character is the mode, I too take up my pencil, not to
make you laugh, though peradventure it may be--to get you to sleep.

I am now a tolerably old gentleman--an old bachelor, moreover--and, what
is more to the point, an unpretending and sober-minded one. Lest,
however, any of the ladies should take exceptions against me in the very
outset, I will merely remark, _en passant_, that a man can sometimes
become an old bachelor because he has _too much_ heart as well as too
little.

Years ago--before any of my readers were born--I was a little
good-for-nought of a boy, of precisely that unlucky kind who are always
in every body's way, and always in mischief. I had, to watch over my
uprearing, a father and mother, and a whole army of older brothers and
sisters. My relatives bore a very great resemblance to other human
beings, neither good angels nor the opposite class, but, as
mathematicians say, "in the mean proportion."

As I have before insinuated, I was a sort of family scape-grace among
them, and one on whose head all the domestic trespasses were regularly
visited, either by real, actual desert or by imputation.

For this order of things, there was, I confess, a very solid and serious
foundation, in the constitution of my mind. Whether I was born under
some cross-eyed planet, or whether I was fairy-smitten in my cradle,
certain it is that I was, from the dawn of existence, a sort of "Murad
the Unlucky;" an out-of-time, out-of-place, out-of-form sort of a boy,
with whom nothing prospered.

Who always left open doors in cold weather? It was Henry. Who was sure
to upset his coffee cup at breakfast, or to knock over his tumbler at
dinner, or to prostrate saltcellar, pepper box, and mustard pot, if he
only happened to move his arm? Why, Henry. Who was plate breaker general
for the family? It was Henry. Who tangled mamma's silks and cottons, and
tore up the last newspaper for papa, or threw down old Ph[oe]be's
clothes horse, with all her clean ironing thereupon? Why, Henry.

Now all this was no "malice prepense" in me, for I solemnly believe that
I was the best-natured boy in the world; but something was the matter
with the attraction of cohesion, or the attraction of gravitation--with
the general dispensation of matter around me--that, let me do what I
would, things would fall down, and break, or be torn and damaged, if I
only came near them; and my unluckiness in any matter seemed in exact
proportion to my carefulness.

If any body in the room with me had a headache, or any kind of nervous
irritability, which made it particularly necessary for others to be
quiet, and if I was in an especial desire unto the same, I was sure,
while stepping around on tiptoe, to fall headlong over a chair, which
would give an introductory push to the shovel, which would fall upon the
tongs, which would animate the poker, and all together would set in
action two or three sticks of wood, and down they would come together,
with just that hearty, sociable sort of racket, which showed that they
were disposed to make as much of the opportunity as possible.

In the same manner, every thing that came into my hand, or was at all
connected with me, was sure to lose by it. If I rejoiced in a clean
apron in the morning, I was sure to make a full-length prostration
thereupon on my way to school, and come home nothing better, but rather
worse. If I was sent on an errand, I was sure either to lose my money in
going, or my purchases in returning; and on these occasions my mother
would often comfort me with the reflection, that it was well that my
ears were fastened to my head, or I should lose them too. Of course, I
was a fair mark for the exhortatory powers, not only of my parents, but
of all my aunts, uncles, and cousins, to the third and fourth
generation, who ceased not to reprove, rebuke, and exhort with all
long-suffering and doctrine.

All this would have been very well if nature had not gifted me with a
very unnecessary and uncomfortable capacity of _feeling_, which, like a
refined ear for music, is undesirable, because, in this world, one meets
with discord ninety-nine times where it meets with harmony once. Much,
therefore, as I furnished occasion to be scolded at, I never became
_used_ to scolding, so that I was just as much galled by it the
_forty_-first time as the first. There was no such thing as philosophy
in me: I had just that unreasonable heart which is not conformed unto
the nature of things, neither indeed _can_ be. I was timid, and
shrinking, and proud; I was nothing to any one around me but an awkward,
unlucky boy; nothing to my parents but one of half a dozen children,
whose faces were to be washed and stockings mended on Saturday
afternoon. If I was very sick, I had medicine and the doctor; if I was a
little sick, I was exhorted unto patience; and if I was sick at heart, I
was left to prescribe for myself.

Now, all this was very well: what should a child need but meat, and
drink, and room to play, and a school to teach him reading and writing,
and somebody to take care of him when sick? Certainly, nothing.

But the feelings of grown-up children exist in the mind of little ones
oftener than is supposed; and I had, even at this early day, the same
keen sense of all that touched the heart wrong; the same longing for
something which should touch it aright; the same discontent, with
latent, matter-of-course affection, and the same craving for sympathy,
which has been the unprofitable fashion of this world in all ages. And
no human being possessing such constitutionals has a better chance of
being made unhappy by them than the backward, uninteresting, wrong-doing
child. We can all sympathize, to some extent, with _men_ and _women_;
but how few can go back to the sympathies of childhood; can understand
the desolate insignificance of not being one of the _grown-up_ people;
of being sent to bed, to be _out of the way_ in the evening, and to
school, to be out of the way in the morning; of manifold similar
grievances and distresses, which the child has no elocution to set
forth, and the grown person no imagination to conceive.

When I was seven years old, I was told one morning, with considerable
domestic acclamation, that Aunt Mary was coming to make us a visit; and
so, when the carriage that brought her stopped at our door, I pulled off
my dirty apron, and ran in among the crowd of brothers and sisters to
see what was coming. I shall not describe her first appearance, for, as
I think of her, I begin to grow somewhat sentimental, in spite of my
spectacles, and might, perhaps, talk a little nonsense.

Perhaps every man, whether married or unmarried, who has lived to the
age of fifty or thereabouts, has seen some woman who, in his mind, is
_the_ woman, in distinction from all others. She may not have been a
relative; she may not have been a wife; she may simply have shone on him
from afar; she may be remembered in the distance of years as a star that
is set, as music that is hushed, as beauty and loveliness faded forever;
but _remembered_ she is with interest, with fervor, with enthusiasm;
with all that heart can feel, and more than words can tell.

To me there has been but one such, and that is she whom I describe. "Was
she beautiful?" you ask. I also will ask you one question: "If an angel
from heaven should dwell in human form, and animate any human face,
would not that face be lovely? It might not be _beautiful_, but would it
not be lovely?" She was not beautiful except after this fashion.

How well I remember her, as she used sometimes to sit thinking, with her
head resting on her hand, her face mild and placid, with a quiet October
sunshine in her blue eyes, and an ever-present smile over her whole
countenance. I remember the sudden sweetness of look when any one spoke
to her; the prompt attention, the quick comprehension of things before
you uttered them, the obliging readiness to leave for you whatever she
was doing.

To those who mistake occasional pensiveness for melancholy, it might
seem strange to say that my Aunt Mary was always happy. Yet she was so.
Her spirits never rose to buoyancy, and never sunk to despondency. I
know that it is an article in the sentimental confession of faith that
such a character cannot be interesting. For this impression there is
some ground. The placidity of a medium commonplace mind is
uninteresting, but the placidity of a strong and well-governed one
borders on the sublime. Mutability of emotion characterizes inferior
orders of being; but He who combines all interest, all excitement, all
perfection, is "the same yesterday, to-day, and forever." And if there
be any thing sublime in the idea of an almighty mind, in perfect peace
itself, and, therefore, at leisure to bestow all its energies on the
wants of others, there is at least a reflection of the same sublimity in
the character of that human being who has so quieted and governed the
world within, that nothing is left to absorb sympathy or distract
attention from those around.

Such a woman was my Aunt Mary. Her placidity was not so much the result
of temperament as of choice. She had every susceptibility of suffering
incident to the noblest and most delicate construction of mind; but they
had been so directed, that, instead of concentrating thought on self,
they had prepared her to understand and feel for others.

She was, beyond all things else, a sympathetic person, and her
character, like the green in a landscape, was less remarkable for what
it was in itself than for its perfect and beautiful harmony with all the
coloring and shading around it.

Other women have had talents, others have been good; but no woman that
ever I knew possessed goodness and talent in union with such an
intuitive perception of feelings, and such a faculty of instantaneous
adaptation to them. The most troublesome thing in this world is to be
condemned to the society of a person who can never understand any thing
you say unless you say the whole of it, making your commas and periods
as you go along; and the most desirable thing in the world is to live
with a person who saves you all the trouble of talking, by knowing just
what you mean before you begin to speak.

Something of this kind of talent I began to feel, to my great relief,
when Aunt Mary came into the family. I remember the very first evening,
as she sat by the hearth, surrounded by all the family, her eye glanced
on me with an expression that let me know she _saw_ me; and when the
clock struck eight, and my mother proclaimed that it was my bedtime, my
countenance fell as I moved sorrowfully from the back of her rocking
chair, and thought how many beautiful stories Aunt Mary would tell after
I was gone to bed. She turned towards me with such a look of real
understanding, such an evident insight into the case, that I went into
banishment with a lighter heart than ever I did before. How very
contrary is the obstinate estimate of the heart to the rational estimate
of worldly wisdom! Are there not some who can remember when one word,
one look, or even the withholding of a word, has drawn their heart more
to a person than all the substantial favors in the world? By ordinary
acceptation, substantial kindness respects the necessaries of animal
existence; while those wants which are peculiar to mind, and will exist
with it forever, by equally correct classification, are designated as
sentimental ones, the supply of which, though it will excite more
gratitude in fact, ought not to in theory. Before Aunt Mary had lived
with us a month, I loved her beyond any body in the world; and a
utilitarian would have been amused in ciphering out the amount of favors
which produced this result. It was a look--a word--a smile: it was that
she seemed pleased with my new kite; that she rejoiced with me when I
learned to spin a top; that she alone seemed to estimate my proficiency
in playing ball and marbles; that she never looked at all vexed when I
upset her workbox upon the floor; that she received all my awkward
gallantry and _mal-adroit_ helpfulness as if it had been in the best
taste in the world; that when she was sick, she insisted on letting me
wait on her, though I made my customary havoc among the pitchers and
tumblers of her room, and displayed, through my zeal to please, a more
than ordinary share of insufficiency for the station. She also was the
only person that ever I _conversed_ with, and I used to wonder how any
body who could talk all about matters and things with grown-up persons
could talk so sensibly about marbles, and hoops, and skates, and all
sorts of little-boy matters; and I will say, by the by, that the same
sort of speculation has often occurred to the minds of older people in
connection with her. She knew the value of varied information in making
a woman, not a pedant, but a sympathetic, companionable being; and such
she was to almost every class of mind.

She had, too, the faculty of drawing others up to her level in
conversation, so that I would often find myself going on in most
profound style while talking with her, and would wonder, when I was
through, whether I was really a little boy still.

When she had enlightened us many months, the time came for her to take
leave, and she besought my mother to give me to her for company. All the
family wondered what she could find to like in Henry; but if she did
like me, it was no matter, and so was the case disposed of.

From that time I _lived_ with her--and there are some persons who can
make the word _live_ signify much more than it commonly does--and she
wrought on my character all those miracles which benevolent genius can
work. She quieted my heart, directed my feelings, unfolded my mind, and
educated me, not harshly or by force, but as the blessed sunshine
educates the flower, into full and perfect life; and when all that was
mortal of her died to this world, her words and deeds of unutterable
love shed a twilight around her memory that will fade only in the
brightness of heaven.




FRANKNESS.


There is one kind of frankness, which is the result of perfect
unsuspiciousness, and which requires a measure of ignorance of the world
and of life: this kind appeals to our generosity and tenderness. There
is another, which is the frankness of a strong but pure mind, acquainted
with life, clear in its discrimination and upright in its intention, yet
above disguise or concealment: this kind excites respect. The first
seems to proceed simply from impulse, the second from impulse and
reflection united; the first proceeds, in a measure, from ignorance, the
second from knowledge; the first is born from an undoubting confidence
in others, the second from a virtuous and well-grounded reliance on
one's self.

Now, if you suppose that this is the beginning of a sermon or of a
fourth of July oration, you are very much mistaken, though, I must
confess, it hath rather an uncertain sound. I merely prefaced it to a
little sketch of character, which you may look at if you please, though
I am not sure you will like it.

It was said of Alice H. that she had the mind of a man, the heart of a
woman, and the face of an angel--a combination that all my readers will
think peculiarly happy.

There never was a woman who was so unlike the mass of society in her
modes of thinking and acting, yet so generally popular. But the most
remarkable thing about her was her proud superiority to all disguise, in
thought, word, and deed. She pleased you; for she spoke out a hundred
things that you would conceal, and spoke them with a dignified assurance
that made you wonder that you had ever hesitated to say them yourself.
Nor did this unreserve appear like the weakness of one who could not
conceal, or like a determination to make war on the forms of society. It
was rather a calm, well-guided integrity, regulated by a just sense of
propriety; knowing when to be silent, but speaking the truth when it
spoke at all.

Her extraordinary frankness often beguiled superficial observers into
supposing themselves fully acquainted with her long before they were so,
as the beautiful transparency of some lakes is said to deceive the eye
as to their depth; yet the longer you knew her, the more variety and
compass of character appeared through the same transparent medium. But
you may just visit Miss Alice for half an hour to-night, and judge for
yourselves. You may walk into this little parlor. There sits Miss Alice
on that sofa, sewing a pair of lace sleeves into a satin dress, in which
peculiarly angelic employment she may persevere till we have finished
another sketch.

Do you see that pretty little lady, with sparkling eyes, elastic form,
and beautiful hand and foot, sitting opposite to her? She is a belle:
the character is written in her face--it sparkles from her eye--it
dimples in her smile, and pervades the whole woman.

But there--Alice has risen, and is gone to the mirror, and is arranging
the finest auburn hair in the world in the most tasteful manner. The
little lady watches every motion as comically as a kitten watches a
pin-ball.

"It is all in vain to deny it, Alice--you are really anxious to _look
pretty_ this evening," said she.

"I certainly am," said Alice, quietly.

"Ay, and you hope you shall please Mr. A. and Mr. B.," said the little
accusing angel.

"Certainly I do," said Alice, as she twisted her fingers in a beautiful
curl.

"Well, I would not tell of it, Alice, if I did."

"Then you should not ask me," said Alice.

"I _declare_! Alice!"

"And what do you declare?"

"I never saw such a girl as you are!"

"Very likely," said Alice, stooping to pick up a pin.

"Well, for _my_ part," said the little lady, "I never would take any
pains to make any body like me--_particularly_ a gentleman."

"I would," said Alice, "if they would not like me without."

"Why, Alice! I should not think you were so fond of admiration."

"I like to be admired very much," said Alice, returning to the sofa,
"and I suppose every body else does."

"_I_ don't care about admiration," said the little lady. "I would be as
well satisfied that people shouldn't like me as that they should."

"Then, cousin, I think it's a pity we all like you so well," said Alice,
with a good-humored smile. If Miss Alice had penetration, she never made
a severe use of it.

"But really, cousin," said the little lady, "I should not think such a
girl as you would think any thing about dress, or admiration, and all
that."

"I don't know what sort of a girl you think I am," said Alice, "but, for
my own part, _I_ only pretend to be a common human being, and am not
ashamed of common human feelings. If God has made us so that we love
admiration, why should we not honestly say so. _I_ love it--_you_ love
it--every body loves it; and why should not every body say it?"

"Why, yes," said the little lady, "I suppose every body has a--has a--a
general love for admiration. I am willing to acknowledge that _I_ have;
but----"

"But you have no love for it in particular," said Alice, "I suppose you
mean to say; that is just the way the matter is commonly disposed of.
Every body is willing to acknowledge a general wish for the good opinion
of others, but half the world are ashamed to own it when it comes to a
particular case. Now I have made up my mind, that if it is correct in
general, it is correct in particular; and I mean to own it both ways."

"But, somehow, it seems mean," said the little lady.

"It is mean to live for it, to be selfishly engrossed in it, but not
mean to enjoy it when it comes, or even to seek it, if we neglect no
higher interest in doing so. All that God made us to feel is dignified
and pure, unless we pervert it."

"But, Alice, I never heard any person speak out so frankly as you do."

"Almost all that is innocent and natural may be spoken out; and as for
that which is not innocent and natural, it ought not even to be
thought."

"But _can_ every thing be spoken that may be thought?" said the lady.

"No; we have an instinct which teaches us to be silent sometimes: but,
if we speak at all, let it be in simplicity and sincerity."

"Now, for instance, Alice," said the lady, "it is very innocent and
natural, as you say, to think this, that, and the other nice thing of
yourself, especially when every body is telling you of it; now would you
speak the truth if any one asked you on this point?"

"If it were a person who had a right to ask, and if it were a proper
time and place, I would," said Alice.

"Well, then," said the bright lady, "I ask you, Alice, in this very
proper time and place, do you think that you are handsome?"

"Now, I suppose you expect me to make a courtesy to every chair in the
room before I answer," said Alice; "but, dispensing with that ceremony,
I will tell you fairly, I think I am."

"Do you think that you are good?"

"Not entirely," said Alice.

"Well, but don't you think you are better than most people?"

"As far as I can tell, I think I am better than some people; but really,
cousin, I don't trust my own judgment in this matter," said Alice.

"Well, Alice, one more question. Do you think James Martyrs likes you or
me best?"

"I do not know," said Alice.

"I did not ask you what you knew, but what you thought," said the lady;
"you must have some thought about it."

"Well, then, I think he likes me best," said Alice.

Just then the door opened, and in walked the identical James Martyrs.
Alice blushed, looked a little comical, and went on with her sewing,
while the little lady began,--

"Really, Mr. James, I wish you had come a minute sooner, to hear Alice's
confessions."

"What has she confessed?" said James.

"Why, that she is handsomer and better than most folks."

"That's nothing to be ashamed of," said James.

"O, that's not all; she wants to look pretty, and loves to be admired,
and all----"

"It sounds very much like her," said James, looking at Alice.

"O, but, besides that," said the lady, "she has been preaching a
discourse in justification of vanity and self-love----"

"And next time you shall take notes when I preach," said Alice, "for I
don't think your memory is remarkably happy."

"You see, James," said the lady, "that Alice makes it a point to say
exactly the truth when she speaks at all, and I've been puzzling her
with questions. I really wish you would ask her some, and see what she
will say. But, mercy! there is Uncle C. come to take me to ride. I must
run." And off flew the little humming bird, leaving James and Alice
_tête-à-tête_.

"There really is one question----" said James, clearing his voice.

Alice looked up.

"There is one question, Alice, which I wish you _would_ answer."

Alice did not inquire what the question was, but began to look very
solemn; and just then the door was shut--and so I never knew what the
question was--only I observed that James Martyrs seemed in some seventh
heaven for a week afterwards, and--and--you can finish for yourself,
lady.




THE SABBATH.

SKETCHES FROM A NOTE BOOK OF AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.


The Puritan Sabbath--is there such a thing existing now, or has it gone
with the things that were, to be looked at as a curiosity in the museum
of the past? Can any one, in memory, take himself back to the unbroken
stillness of that day, and recall the sense of religious awe which
seemed to brood in the very atmosphere, checking the merry laugh of
childhood, and chaining in unwonted stillness the tongue of volatile
youth, and imparting even to the sunshine of heaven, and the unconscious
notes of animals, a tone of its own gravity and repose? If you cannot
remember these things, go back with me to the verge of early boyhood,
and live with me one of the Sabbaths that I have spent beneath the roof
of my uncle, Phineas Fletcher.

Imagine the long sunny hours of a Saturday afternoon insensibly slipping
away, as we youngsters are exploring the length and breadth of a trout
stream, or chasing gray squirrels, or building mud milldams in the
brook. The sun sinks lower and lower, but we still think it does not
want half an hour to sundown. At last, he so evidently is really _going
down_, that there is no room for scepticism or latitude of opinion on
the subject; and with many a lingering regret, we began to put away our
fish-hooks, and hang our hoops over our arm, preparatory to trudging
homeward.

"O Henry, don't you wish that Saturday afternoons lasted longer?" said
little John to me.

"I do," says Cousin Bill, who was never the boy to mince matters in
giving his sentiments; "and I wouldn't care if Sunday didn't come but
once a year."

"O Bill, that's wicked, I'm afraid," says little conscientious Susan,
who, with her doll in hand, was coming home from a Saturday afternoon
visit.

"Can't help it," says Bill, catching Susan's bag, and tossing it in the
air; "I never did like to sit still, and that's why I hate Sundays."

"Hate Sundays! O Bill! Why, Aunt Kezzy says heaven is an _eternal_
Sabbath--only think of that!"

"Well, I know I must be pretty different from what I am now before I
could sit still forever," said Bill, in a lower and somewhat
disconcerted tone, as if admitting the force of the consideration.

The rest o

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