AUTUMNAL LEAVES.

AUTUMNAL LEAVES:

TALES AND SKETCHES
IN
PROSE AND RHYME.
BY
L. MARIA CHILD.

I speak, as in the days of youth,
In simple words some earnest truth.

NEW YORK:
C. S. FRANCIS & CO., 554 BROADWAY.
BOSTON:—53 DEVONSHIRE STREET.
1857.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856,
By C. S. Francis & Co.,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, for the
Southern District of New York.

Several of the articles contained in this volume have appeared in various periodicals ten or twelve years ago. Others have been recently written, during the hours that could be spared from daily duties.

CONTENTS.

THE EGLANTINE,
A simple Love Story,
FOUNDED ON A ROMANTIC INCIDENT, WHICH OCCURRED IN
THE FAR WEST, ABOUT TEN YEARS AGO.

“A form more fair, a face more sweet,
Ne’er hath it been my lot to meet.
And her modest answer, and graceful air,
Show her wise and good, as she is fair.
Would she were mine; and I to-day
A simple harvester of hay;
With low of cattle, and song of birds,
And health, and quiet, and loving words.”
Then he thought of his sister, proud and cold,
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.
J. G. Whittier.

“What a remarkably pretty girl Mrs. Barton has for a nursery maid,” said Mrs. Vernon to her daughter.

“Yes, mamma; and it seems quite useless for a servant to be so handsome. What good will it do her?” She glanced at the mirror, as she spoke, and seemed less satisfied than usual with her own pretty face. She was thinking to herself, “If I had as much beauty as she has, I shouldn’t despair of winning a duke.”

A similar idea flashed across Mrs. Vernon’s mind, as she noticed the involuntary appeal to the mirror. Therefore, she sighed as she answered, “Instead of doing her good, it will doubtless prove a misfortune. Some dissipated lord will take a fancy to her; but he will soon become weary of her, and will marry her to the first good-natured clown, who can be hired to take her.”

“Very likely,” replied Miss Julia; “and after living with a nobleman, she can never be happy with a person of her own condition.” The prospect of such a future in reserve for the rustic beauty seemed by no means painful to the aristocratic young lady. Indeed, one might conjecture, from her manner, that she regarded it as no more than a suitable punishment for presuming to be handsomer than her superiors in rank.

A flush passed over the countenance of her brother Edward, who sat reading at the opposite window; but the ladies, busy with their embroidery and netting, did not observe it. The lower extremity of their grounds was separated from Mrs. Barton’s merely by a hedge of hawthorns. A few weeks previous, as he was walking there, his attention had been attracted by joyful exclamations from their neighbour’s children, over a lupine that began to show its valves above the ground. He turned involuntarily, and when he saw the young girl who accompanied them, he felt a little glow of pleasant surprise curl around his heart, as if some entirely new and very beautiful wild flower had unexpectedly appeared before him. That part of the garden became his favourite place of resort; and if a day passed without his obtaining a glimpse of the lovely stranger, he was conscious of an undefined feeling of disappointment. One day, when the children were playing near by, their India-rubber ball bounced over into Mrs. Vernon’s grounds. When he saw them searching for it among the hawthorns, he reached across the hedge and presented it to their attendant. He raised his hat and bowed, as he did so; and she blushed as she took it from his hand. After this accidental introduction, he never passed her without a similar salutation; and she always coloured at a mark of courtesy so unusual from a gentleman to a person in her humble condition. The degree of interest she had excited in his mind rendered it somewhat painful to hear his mother’s careless prophecy of her future destiny.

A few days afterward, he was walking with his sister, when Mrs. Barton’s maid passed with the children. Miss Julia graciously accosted the little ones, but ignored the presence of their attendant. Seeing her brother make his usual sign of deferential politeness, she exclaimed, “What a strange person you are, Edward! One would suppose you were passing a duchess. I dare say you would do just the same if cousin Alfred were with us.”

“Certainly I should,” he replied. “I am accustomed to regulate my actions by my own convictions, not by those of another person. You know I believe in such a thing as natural nobility.”

“And if a servant happens to have a pretty face, you consider her a born duchess, I suppose,” said Julia.

“Such kind of beauty as that we have just passed, where the pliant limbs move with unconscious dignity, and harmonized features are illuminated by a moral grace, that emanates from the soul, does seem to me to have received from Nature herself an unmistakeable patent of nobility.”

“So you know this person?” inquired his sister.

He replied, “I have merely spoken to her on the occasion of returning a ball, that one of the children tossed over into our grounds. But casually as I have seen her, her countenance and manners impress me with the respect that you feel for high birth.”

“It’s a pity you were not born in the back-woods of America,” retorted his sister, pettishly.

“I sometimes think so myself,” he quietly replied. “But let us gather some of these wild flowers, Julia, instead of disputing about conventional distinctions, concerning which you and I can never agree.”

His sister coldly accepted the flowers he offered. Her temper was clouded by the incident of the morning. It vexed her that Edward had never said, or implied, so much concerning her style of beauty; and she could not forgive the tendencies of mind which spoiled him for the part she wished him to perform in the world, as a means of increasing his own importance, and thereby advancing her interests. She had the misfortune to belong to an English family extensively connected with the rich and aristocratic, without being themselves largely endowed with wealth. Cousin Alfred, the son of her father’s older brother, was heir to a title; and consequently she measured every thing by his standard. The income of the family was more than sufficient for comfort and gentility; but the unfortunate tendency to assume the habits of others as their standard rendered what might have been a source of enjoyment a cause of discontent.

Their life was a constant struggle to keep up appearances beyond their means. All natural thoughts and feelings were kept in perpetual harness; drilled to walk blindfolded the prescribed round of conventional forms, like a horse in a bark-mill; with this exception, that their routine spoiled the free paces of the horse, without grinding any bark. Edward’s liberal soul had early rebelled against this system. He had experienced a vague consciousness of walking in fetters ever since he was reproved for bringing home a favourite school-mate to pass the vacation with him, when he was twelve years old. He could not then be made to understand why a manly, intelligent, large-hearted boy, who was a tradesman’s son, was less noble than young Lord Smallsoul, cousin Alfred’s school-friend; and within the last few weeks, circumstances had excited his thoughts to unusual activity concerning natural and artificial distinctions. As he walked in the garden, book in hand, he never failed to see the beautiful nursery-maid, if she were anywhere within sight; and she always perceived him. In her eyes, he was like a bright, far-off star; while he was refreshed by a vision of her, as he was by the beauty of an opening flower. Distinction of rank was such a fixed fact in the society around them, that the star and the flower dreamed of union as much as they did. But Cupid, who is the earliest republican on record, willed that things should not remain in that state. A bunch of fragrant violets were offered with a smile and received with a blush; and in the blush and the smile an arrow lay concealed. Then volumes of poems were loaned with passages marked; and every word of those passages were stereotyped on the heart of the reader. For a long time, he was ignorant of her name; but hearing the children call her Sibella, he inquired her other name, and they told him it was Flower. He thought it an exceedingly poetic and appropriate name; as most young men of twenty would have thought, under similar circumstances. He noticed the sequestered lanes where she best loved to rove, when sent out with the children for exercise; and those lanes became his own favourite places of resort. Wild flowers furnished a graceful and harmless topic of conversation; yet Love made even those simple things his messengers. Patrician Edward offered the rustic Sibella an Eglantine, saying, “This has a peculiar charm for me, above all flowers. It is so fragrant and delicately tinted; so gracefully untrained, and so modest in its pretensions. It always seems to me like a beautiful young maiden, without artificial culture, but naturally refined and poetic. The first time I saw you, I thought of a flowering Eglantine; and I have never since looked at the shrub, without being reminded of you.” She listened, half abashed and half delighted. She never saw the flower again without thinking of him.

The next day after this little adventure, she received a copy of Moore’s Melodies, with her name elegantly written therein. The songs, all sparkling with fancy and warm with love, were well suited to her sixteen years, and to that critical period in her heart’s experience. She saw in them a reflection of her own young soul dreamily floating in a fairy-boat over moon-lighted waters. The mystery attending the gift increased its charm. The postman left it at the door, and no one knew whence it came. Within the same envelope was a pressed blossom of the Eglantine, placed in a sheet of Parisian letter-paper, gracefully ornamented with a coloured arabesque of Eglantines and German Forget-me-nots. On it the following verses were inscribed:—

TO SIBELLA FLOWER.

There is a form more light and fair,
Than human tongue can tell,
It seems a spirit of the air.
She is a flower si belle!

The lovely cheek more faintly flushed
Than ocean’s rosy shell,
Is like a new-found pearl that blushed,
She is a flower si belle!

Her glossy hair in simple braid,
With softly curving swell,
Might well have crowned a Grecian maid.
She is a flower si belle!

Her serious and dove-like eyes
Of gentle thoughts do tell;
Serene as summer ev’ning skies.
She is a flower si belle!

Her graceful mouth was outlined free
By Cupid’s magic spell,
A bow for his sure archery.
She is a flower si belle!

And thence soft silv’ry tones do flow,
Like rills along the dell,
Making sweet music as they go.
She is a flower si belle!

Fairer still is the modest mind,
Pure as a crystal well,
In mountain solitude enshrined.
She is a flower si belle!

A note at the bottom of the verses explained that the French word si belle meant so beautiful. The poetry was that of a young man of twenty; but a simple maiden of sixteen, who was herself the subject of the lines, saw more beauty in them, than a critic could find in the best inspirations of Shakespeare or Milton. And then to think that a gentleman, who understood French, should write verses to her! It was wonderful! She would as soon have dreamed of wearing the crown of England. The next time she met Edward Vernon, her cheeks were flushed more deeply than “ocean’s rosy shell.” But she never alluded to the book or the verses; for she said to herself, “Perhaps he did’nt send them; and then I should feel so ashamed of supposing he did!” The secret was half betrayed on his part; whether intentionally or unintentionally, she did not know. He began by calling her Miss Flower; then he called her Sibella; but ever after the reception of the verses, he said Sibelle.

They were so reserved toward each other, and Mrs. Barton’s children were apparently so much the objects of his attention, during their rambles, that their dreamy romance might have gone on uninterrupted for months longer, had not a human foot stepped within their fairy circle. Lord Smallsoul, as he rode abroad one day, was attracted by “the flower si belle.” As his grosser nature and more selfish habits were uncurbed by the respectful diffidence, which restrained Edward’s love, he became bold and importunate in his attentions; as if he took it for granted that any rural beauty could be purchased with a nobleman’s gold. The poor girl could not stir out of doors, without being liable to his unwelcome intrusion; the more unwelcome because the presence of the false lover expelled the true one. Edward kept carefully aloof, watching the proceedings of the profligate nobleman with jealous indignation. He painfully felt that he had no right to assume guardianship over the young girl, and that any attempt to do so would bring him into collision with her persecutor; likely to end in publicity by no means favourable to her reputation. The rural belle was inexperienced in the world’s ways, but she had been trained by a prudent mother, and warned against the very dangers that now beset her path. Therefore, with many blushes, she begged Mrs. Barton to excuse her from walking out with the children; confessing that Lord Smallsoul sought every opportunity of urging her to go and live with him in Italy, though she never would accept one of the many rich presents he was always offering her. Mrs. Barton warmly commended her, and promised protection. After some conversation, she said, “The children tell me that Mr. Vernon has often joined you in your walks. Did he ever say he was in love with you?” Sibella promptly replied, “Never. He is always very respectful.” “And he has never made you any presents, has he?” inquired the lady. The maiden lowered her eyes and blushed deeply. She had been trained to a strict observance of the truth; but she did not know certainly who sent Moore’s Melodies; and heart and conscience both pleaded with her not to say any thing that might involve her friend in blame. After a moment’s hesitation, she answered, evasively, “He has sometimes offered me flowers, madam, when he was gathering them for the children; and I thought it no harm to take them.” The book of poems, and the wonderful verses framed in flowery arabesques, remained a secret between herself and him who sent them. But Mrs. Barton noticed the sudden blush, and the involuntary hesitation; and she resolved to elicit some information from the children, in a manner not likely to excite their curiosity.

Lord Smallsoul, who from infancy had been an object of excessive indulgence, was not to be easily baffled in his selfish plans. Night and day, he, or his confidential servant, was prowling about Mrs. Barton’s grounds. His assiduities became a positive nuisance, and excited much gossip in the neighbourhood. Miss Julia Vernon took occasion to say to Mrs. Barton, “It is really surprising his lordship should make himself so ridiculous, instead of bestowing his attentions upon beautiful ladies whose rank in life is nearer to his own. He knows, however, that ladies would scorn to accept such homage as he bestows upon your servant; and I suppose he is not yet ready to enter into matrimonial bonds.”

Mrs. Barton thought to herself that the dissolute nobleman would receive a very prompt and gracious answer, if he invited Miss Julia to enter into such bonds. She, however, suppressed the smile that was rising to her lips, and said, “I don’t wonder at his being fascinated by Sibella; for she is gifted with extraordinary beauty. I am truly thankful, on her own account, and for the sake of her worthy parents, that she is discreet as she is lovely. I confess, I should myself rejoice in such a daughter.”

There was a slightly contemptuous motion in the muscles of Miss Vernon’s mouth, as she replied, “You appear to think her a paragon. The girl is pretty enough; too pretty for her own good, since she was born to be a servant. But I cannot imagine what attractions she can have for a gentleman, who is accustomed to the distinguished air of ladies of rank.”

“Some people prefer the Eglantine to the Garden Rose,” replied Mrs. Barton. “Your brother is accustomed to ladies of rank; but I imagine he appreciates Sibella’s beauty more highly than you do.”

“What reason have you for thinking so?” quickly inquired Miss Julia.

Half mischievously, and altogether imprudently, Mrs. Barton replied, “The children heard him tell her that she was like an Eglantine, which, of all flowers was his favourite; and they say he always wore an Eglantine in his vest, as long as there was one to be found.”

Up rose Miss Vernon, hastily, and with a haughty toss of the head, said emphatically, “I thank you very much for having told me this. Good morning, madam.”

The amiable neighbour, foreseeing a storm, immediately repented of what she had said; but it was impossible to recall it. She looked out of the window, and saw that Miss Vernon was excited to such a degree as to make her forget the patrician languor, which usually characterized her movements. Obeying an impulse, for once in her life, she walked rapidly across the garden to the paternal mansion. As if a case of life and death were impending, she startled her mother with this abrupt annunciation: “Do go directly to cousin Alfred, and tell him he must devise some means to remove Edward from this neighbourhood, forthwith. You know, he has been promising, for some time past, to secure a suitable situation for him; and unless you see to having it done immediately, you may prepare yourself to have your son disgrace the whole family by marrying a servant.” She then repeated what she had just heard, and added: “You know, mother, that Edward never could be induced to pay so much regard to the distinctions of rank, as he ought to do. It would be just like him to go off to Gretna Green with a servant girl, if he happened to take it into his foolish head that she was a paragon of beauty and virtue.”

Great was the consternation in all branches of the Vernon family; and their alarm was not a little increased when Edward frankly declared that it would be easy to procure a suitable education for Sibella, and then she would be a desirable companion for any gentleman in the land. How his father glowered at him, how his mother wept, and what glances his sister hurled from her haughty eyes, need not be told. He retreated to his own apartment, and for several days remained there most of the time, revolving plans for the future; some of them of the most romantic kind. He longed for a secret interview with Sibella, to avow his love, promise eternal constancy, and obtain from her a similar pledge in return. But his nice sense of honour restrained him from taking any step that might cast a shadow upon her. He made several attempts to see her openly, but he was closely watched, and she never appeared; for Mrs. Barton informed her that the family had taken offence at the attentions he paid her.

The anxious conferences in Edward’s family ended with an announcement from his father that he must prepare to start for Italy the next week, as traveling companion for a young nobleman, about to make the tour of Europe.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Vernon and her daughter vented some of their mortification and vexation upon Mrs. Barton; blaming her for keeping such a handsome servant, to make trouble in gentlemen’s families. That lady, becoming more and more uneasy at the state of things, deemed it prudent to write a warning letter to Sibella’s parents; and the good mother came to her child immediately. She found her darling in the depths of girlish misery; alleviated, however, by the happy consciousness that she had nothing to conceal. Weeping on the maternal bosom, she told all her simple story; not even reserving the secret of the book and the verses. But when her mother said they ought to be returned to Mr. Vernon, she remonstrated warmly. “Oh no, mother, don’t ask me to do that! If you do, I shall be sorry I told you. I don’t know that he sent them. He never said so. The Eglantine made me think that he did; but I am afraid I should seem to him like a bold, vain girl, if he knew that I thought so.” Her mother, being assured that no presents had been offered, and love never spoken of, yielded to her argument. She was allowed to retain the precious volume, and the wonderful verses, which were hidden away as carefully as a miser’s treasures.

Mr. Vernon, the father, had a private conversation with Mrs. Flower, the morning after her arrival. He assumed so proud a tone, that he roused a corresponding degree of pride in the worthy woman, who curtly assured him that her daughter would find no difficulty in forming a good connection, and would never be permitted to enter any family that objected to her. The gentleman thanked her, with cold politeness, and she parted from him with a very short courtesy. That evening a note came for Miss Sibella Flower. Mrs. Barton placed it in the mother’s hand, who opened it and read:

“Dear Sibelle,

“Forgive me for venturing to call you so. I am compelled to depart for Italy to-morrow; and that must be my excuse. I have reflected much upon the subject, and young as I am, I feel that it is my duty not to refuse the eligible situation my relatives have procured for me. It has given me great pain to come to this conclusion; but I console myself with the reflection that some day or other, I shall be free to follow my own inclinations. I can never forget you, never cease to love you; and I cannot part without saying farewell, and conjuring you to cherish the memory of the blissful moments we have passed together. Do ask Mrs. Barton to allow me an hour’s interview with you this evening. She and your mother can both be present, if they think proper. They will see by this request that my views are honourable, and my professions sincere.

“Yours, with undying affection,
“E. V.”

Mrs. Flower promptly decided to see the young gentleman herself. He was accordingly sent for, and came full of love and hope. But Sibella, who was kept in ignorance of the note, was requested not to intrude upon their conference; therefore, he saw the mother only. In answer to all his vehement protestations and earnest entreaties, she answered, “Sibella is a mere child; and it is my duty to guard her inexperience. Next to seeing her deceived by false professions, I have always dreaded her marrying into a proud family, who would look down upon her.”

“I will go to America, and make a position for myself, independent of my family, before I ask her to share my destiny,” replied the enthusiastic lover.

“I thank you, Mr. Vernon. You have behaved nobly toward my child; and my heart blesses you for it. But I had a sister, who married above her rank, and I cannot forget the consequences. They were very young when they were married, and never were two young creatures so much in love. She was as good as she was handsome; but his family treated her as if she was’nt worthy to black their shoes; and they had such an influence upon him, that he at last repented of the step he had taken. She felt it, and it made her very miserable. You are young, sir; too young to be certain that your mind won’t change.”

“I know perfectly well that my mind can never change,” he replied eagerly. “This is not such a boyish whim as you seem to suppose. It is a deep, abiding feeling. It is impossible that I can ever change.”

The mother quietly replied, “My sister’s husband said the same; and yet he did change.”

Edward Vernon internally cursed that sister’s heartless husband; but he contented himself with saying; “Such love as his must have been very different from the feelings that inspire me.”

His intreaties were unavailing to procure an interview with Sibella. The prudent mother concealed the fact that he had awakened an interest in her daughter’s heart. To all his arguments she would only shake her head and reply, “You are too young to know your own mind, Mr. Vernon.”

Too young! How cold and contemptuous that sounded! He was not in a state of mind to appreciate the foresight and kindness, which strove to shield him from his own rashness. She seemed to him as proud and hard-hearted as his father; and perhaps pride did help her prudence a little. Yet when he was gone away, the good woman sat down and cried; she sympathized so heartily with the trouble of those young hearts. Sibella sobbed herself to sleep that night, though unconscious that Edward intended to leave England. He watched the window of her chamber till the light of her lamp went out in darkness. “That star will shine for me no more!” he said. He returned slowly to his own room, looked out upon the hawthorn-hedge for a long time, then laid himself down to weep, and dream of green lanes, fragrant with the Eglantine.

The next morning, Mrs. Flower requested her daughter to prepare for their return home, since there was no other way of relieving Mrs. Barton from the perpetual intrusion of the shameless nobleman, and his troublesome servant. Gentle as Sibella was, she experienced a feeling of hatred toward Lord Smallsoul, who, like an odious beast, had rushed into her paradise, trampling its flowers. She did not dispute her mother’s decision, for she felt that it was judicious; but she also stood at the window a long time, looking out upon the hawthorn-hedge, associated with so many pleasant memories. Her eyes were moist when she turned and said, “Mother, before we go away, I should like to bid good-bye to some of the old places, where I have walked with—with—the children. You can go with me, if you are afraid of my meeting Mr. Vernon.”

Sadly and sympathizingly, her mother answered, “You cannot meet Mr. Vernon, my child; for he has gone to Italy.”

“Gone!” she exclaimed; and the sudden paleness and the thrilling tone cut her mother’s heart. She soothed her tenderly, and, after a while, Sibella raised her head, with an effort to assume maidenly pride, and said, “He never told me he loved me. I sometimes thought he did. But it was very foolish of me. If he cared for me, he would have said good-bye. I will think no more about it.”

The mother was strongly tempted to tell how ardently and how honourably he loved. But she thought to herself, “It would only serve to keep alive hopes destined to end in disappointment.” So she put strong constraint on her feminine sympathies, and remained silent. They went forth into the green lanes bright with sunshine, but gloomy to eyes that saw them through a veil of tears. When Sibella came to the bush from which Edward had broken the first Eglantine he offered her, she gazed at it mournfully, and throwing herself on the bosom of her best earthly friend, sobbed out, “Oh mother, mother! I have been so happy here!”

“My poor, dear child,” she replied, “You don’t know how sorry I am for you. But these feelings will pass away with time. You are very young; and life is all before you.”

The maiden looked up with inexpressible sadness in her eyes, and answered, “Yes, mother, I am young; but life is all behind me.”

* * * * *

There is a wide chasm in the story, as there was in Sibella’s life. That brief dream of the past would not unite itself with the actual present. She could form no bridge between them. It remained by itself; like an island warm with sunshine, and fragrant with Eglantines, in the midst of cold grey waves. Because she herself was changed, all things around her seemed changed. The young men, especially, appeared like a different race of beings, since she had learned to compare them with that poetic youth, who gazed so reverently at the evening star, and loved the wild-flowers as if they were living things. He had kindled her imagination, as well as her heart. She perceived a soul in Nature, of which she had been unconscious till he revealed it. Ah, how lonely she was now! In all the wide world there was not one mortal who could understand what that simple country girl had found, or what she had lost. She herself did not comprehend it. She only had an uneasy sense of always seeking for something she could never find. She lived among her former associates like one who has returned from an excursion into fairy-land, finding the air of earth chilly, and its colours dim. But employments are Amaranths in the garden of life. They live through all storms, and survive all changes of the seasons. Her duties were numerous and conscientiously performed; and through this pathway of necessity, apparently so rugged, she soon arrived at a state of cheerful serenity.

In a few months, her parents were induced to join a band of emigrants coming to America; and the novelty of change proved beneficial to her. That sunny island in her experience was not forgotten, but it smiled upon her farther in the distance. There was a joyful palpitation at her heart, when she found Eglantines growing wild in America, under the name of Sweet-Briar Roses. She opened the verses which had seemed to her “si belle!” The flower was faded, and its sweetness gone; but memory was redolent of its fragrance. She was never told that Edward Vernon had written two letters to her, after he left England; and she had almost persuaded herself that his looks and tones were not so significant as they had seemed. She had no materials to form a definite hope; but it became the leading object of her life so to improve herself, that he would have no cause to be ashamed of her, if he ever should happen to come to America. In the accomplishment of this project, she was continually stimulated by the example of American girls, who obtained the means of education by their own manual industry, and ended by becoming teachers of the highest class. Her parents were delighted with her diligence and perseverance, and did what they could to aid her; never suspecting that the impelling power came chiefly from a latent feeling, which they hoped was extinct. So she worked onwards and upwards, with hands and mind, and soon found pleasure in the development itself.

Meanwhile, the beautiful English Flower attracted admirers of various grades. Her parents hoped she would give the preference to a merchant of good character, who was in very prosperous circumstances. She was aware that such a marriage would be a great advantage to them; and she loved them so much, that she wished her beauty could be the means of bringing them prosperity. She tried to love the worthy merchant; but her efforts were unavailing. She was always thinking to herself, “He never writes poetry to me, and he never tells me about the stars. Edward used to gather wild-flowers for me, and bind them so gracefully with wreaths of Ivy. But this gentleman buys hot-house flowers, tied into pyramids on wires. The poor things look so uncomfortable! just as I shall feel, if I consent to be sold and tied up. Ah, if he were only more like Mr. Vernon! I should like to oblige my good father and mother.” The soliloquy ended with humming to herself:

“There’s nothing half so sweet in life
As Love’s young dream.”

When the time came for a definite answer to the merchant, she told her parents she had rather keep school than marry. They looked at each other and sighed; but they asked no questions concerning the memory of her heart.

The prospect of owning a farm, combined with an eligible offer for Sibella as a teacher, soon afterward attracted them to the far West. The grandeur and freedom of Nature in that new region, the mighty forests, the limitless prairies, the luxuriant vegetation, produced a sudden expansion in that youthful soul, trained amid the cultivated gardens and carefully clipped hedges of England. Imagination experienced a new birth in poetry, as the heart experiences religion. All that she had previously known of beauty seemed tame and cold compared with the wild charm of that improvised scenery. But more than ever she was oppressed with a sense of mental loneliness. Nature was inspiring, but it had no sympathy with the human soul, which longed for more responsive companionship, more intimate communion. The maiden needed a friend, into whose soul the calm sunset of the prairies would infuse the same holy light that penetrated her own. In such moods, the looks and tones of Edward Vernon came back with vivid distinctness. At times, she longed inexpressibly to know whether he ever had such lively reminiscences of the poor country girl, whom his influence had led into the regions she never dreamed of before. Nature looked at her with the same tranquil smile, and gave no answer. Fortunately, the active duties of life left but few hours for such reveries; otherwise, the abrupt termination of her long dream might have proved as hazardous, as the sudden wakening of a somnambulist. A newly-arrived English emigrant visited her father’s farm. He came from Mrs. Barton’s neighbourhood, and in the course of conversation chanced to mention that Mr. Vernon’s son and daughter were both married. Until that moment, Sibella had not realized the strength of the hope she cherished. She veiled her disappointment from the observation of others; and her mother had the good sense to forbear saying, “I told you so.” No conversation passed between them on the subject; but when Sibella retired to her sleeping apartment, she gazed out on the moonlighted solitude of the prairie for a long time, and thought the expression of the scene never seemed so sad. She said to herself, “My mother told me truly. That beautiful experience was indeed a dream of early youth; and only a dream.”

She was under the necessity of returning to Chicago the next day, to attend to her school. In another department of the school, was a teacher from New England, a farmer’s son, who had worked with his hands in the summer, and studied diligently in the winter, till he had become a scholar of more than common attainments. He taught school during the week, and occasionally preached on Sunday, not because he was too indolent to perform manual labour, or because he considered it ungenteel. He was attracted toward books by a genuine thirst for knowledge; and he devoted himself to moral and intellectual teaching, for the simple reason that God had formed him for it. He loved the occupation, and was therefore eminently successful in it. This young man had for some time been in love with Sibella Flower, without obtaining any signs of encouragement from her. But there is much truth in the old adage about the facility of catching a heart at the rebound. He never wrote poetry, or spoke eloquently about the beauties of scenery; for his busy intellect employed itself chiefly with history, science, and ethics. But though he was unlike Edward Vernon, he was gentle, good, and wise; and, after her morning-dream had vanished utterly, Sibella became aware that his society furnished pleasant companionship for heart and mind. Their intimacy gradually increased, and they finally married. Being desirous to purchase land and build a house, they continued to earn money by teaching. The desired home, with its various belongings, seemed likely to be soon completed, without great expense; for William Wood had all the capabilities of a genuine Yankee. He could hew logs and plane them, make rustic tables, benches, and arbours, and mend his own shoes and saddles, during the intervals of preparing lectures on chemistry and astronomy. In this imperfect existence, there is perhaps no combination of circumstances more favourable to happiness, than the taste to plan a beautiful home, practical skill to embody the graceful ideas, and the necessity of doing it with one’s own hands. Those who have homes prepared for them by hired architects, gardeners, and upholsterers, cannot begin to imagine the pleasure of making a nest for one’s self. William was always planning bridges, arbours, and fences, and Sibella never saw a beautiful wild shrub, or vine, without marking it to be removed to the vicinity of their cabin. She told him all about her early love-dream, and said she should always cherish a grateful remembrance of it, because it had proved such a powerful agent to wake up the dormant energies of her soul. “I am a Wood-Flower now, dear William,” said she, playfully; “and, after all, that is no great change for an Eglantine.” He smiled, and said he wished he was as poetic as she was. He was poetic in his deeds. His young wife often found a bunch of fragrant wild-flowers on her pillow, when she woke, or in her plate, when they seated themselves at the breakfast-table. He made an arbour for her to rest in, when they rode out on horseback to visit their future homestead. It was shaded with wild vines, and an Eglantine bush was placed near the entrance, filling the whole arbour with the sweet breath of its foliage. The first time Sibella saw it, she looked at him archly, and said, “So you are not jealous of that foolish dream, dear William? Well, it is customary to plant flowers on graves; and this shall be sacred to the memory of a dream. Ah, what a bright little cluster of Pansies you have planted here!” “That is what you call them in Old England,” said he; “but in New England we name them Ladies’ Delights, though some call them Forget-me-nots. Your romantic Edward preferred the Eglantine; but this is an especial favourite with your practical William. I like it because it will grow in all soils, bloom at all seasons, and hold up its head bravely in all weathers. If I were like you, I should say it was the efflorescence of Yankee character.” She clapped her hands, and exclaimed, “Bravo! William. You are growing poetic. I will name your little favourite the Yankee’s Flower; and that will be myself, you see; for I am the Yankee’s Flower.” She looked into his honest eyes affectionately, and added, “There is one Yankee character who is a Lady’s Delight.”

Gambolling thus, like children, and happy in childish pleasures, their united lives flowed smoothly on, like some full, bright, unobstructed stream. The birth of a daughter was like the opening of a pure lily on the stream. Their happiness was now complete. Their grateful souls asked for nothing but a continuance of present blessings. But, alas, sudden as the rising of a thunder cloud, a deep shadow fell on their sunny prospect. William was called away a few days on business. He left home full of life and love, and was brought back a shattered corpse. He had been killed by an accident, in the rail-road cars. Never had Sibella known any sorrow approaching the intensity of this sorrow. It saddened her to bid farewell to that first love-picture, which never emerged out of the mistiness of dream-land; but this sober certainty of wedded happiness was such a living true reality, that all her heart-strings bled, when it was wrenched from her so suddenly. Her suffering soul would have been utterly prostrated by the dreadful blow, had it not been for the blessed ministration of her babe, and the necessity of continuing to labour for its future support and education. The body of William was buried in a pretty little grove on her father’s farm; and every year the mound was completely covered with a fresh bed of Ladies’ Delights, which his little girl learned to call “Farder’s Fower.”

* * * * *

Time passed and brought healing on its wings. Sibella never expected to know happiness again, but she had attained to cheerful resignation. Her little girl of three years lived at the farm, under the good grandmother’s care. She continued to teach in the city, spending all her vacations, and most of her Sundays, at the old homestead. In her memory lay a sunny island covered with Pansies, and often watered with tears. That other island of Eglantines had floated far away, and had scarcely a moonlighted existence. But one Sunday evening, as she returned from school, she found the little one watching for her, as usual. The indulgent grandmother had just given her an Eglantine blossom, for which she had been teazing. In her eagerness to bestow something on her mother, the child thrust it into her face, exclaiming “Mamma’s Fower!” That simple phrase awoke sleeping memories. Not for years had the blooming lanes of old England been so distinctly pictured in the mirror of her soul. That night, she dreamed Edward Vernon met her in the prairie and gave her a torch-flower he had gathered. The child’s exclamation had produced the train of thought of which the dream was born; and the dream induced her to look at the verses which had long remained unopened. Ten years had passed since they were written. The paper was worn at the edges, and the Eglantine blossom was yellow and wrinkled. Still the sight of it recalled the very look and tone with which it was offered. The halo of glory with which her youthful imagination had invested the rhymes was dimmer now; and yet they seemed to her “si belle!”

The afternoon of that day, she sat with her mother, busily employed trimming a bonnet for their little darling, who was equally busy under the window, sticking an apron-full of wild-flowers into the ground, to make an impromptu garden. A voice called out, “Sir, will you have the goodness to give me a little help? My carriage has broken down.” Sibella started suddenly, and the bonnet fell from her hand. “What is the matter with you?” said her mother. “It is merely some traveler in trouble. That bad place in the road yonder must be mended.” Sibella resumed her work, saying, “I am strangely nervous to-day.” But in the secret chambers of her own mind, there was a voice whispering, “My dream! My dream! Can it be, as some people say, that there is a magnetic influence on the soul when certain individuals approach, each other?” Presently, her father entered, leading a small boy, “Take care of this little fellow,” said he, “his father’s carriage has broken down, out by the hill.” The young widow rose, and greeted the little stranger with such motherly tenderness, that he looked up in her face confidingly, with a half-formed smile. But she gazed into his eyes so earnestly, that he turned away partly afraid. The little girl offered him her flowers, and they sat down on the floor to play together. It was not long, before the farmer entered with the traveler; a refined looking gentleman, apparently about thirty years old. The old lady rose to greet him; but Sibella stooped to gather up the ribbons, which had fallen from her trembling hands. Browned as he was by wind and sun, she recognized him instantly. In fact she had already recognized his eyes and smile in the face of his son. She wondered whether he would know her. Was she like an Eglantine now? Having resumed a sufficient degree of self-command, while picking up the ribbons, she rose, and advanced toward him, with a blush and a smile. He started—uttered an exclamation of surprise—then seized her hand and kissed it.

“Bless my soul! It’s Mr. Vernon! And I didn’t know him!” exclaimed Mrs. Flower. “Well this is strange, I do declare!”

When their mutual surprise had subsided, many questions about old England were asked and answered. But it was not until after supper that their guest spoke of his own plans. Pointing to his son, he said, “I am a lonely man, with only that one tie to bind me to the world. My father and mother are dead; and as it was for their sakes only that I consented to endure the fetters of over-civilized life, I formed the resolution of coming into these Western wilds, to live with nature in her freedom and simplicity. I was not altogether selfish in this movement, for I felt confident it was the best way to form a manly character for my son. No cousin Alfred will stand in his sunshine here. Come, Edward,” said he, “introduce your little friend to me.” The boy sprang forward joyfully, and climbed his father’s knee. “The little friend must sit on the other knee,” said he. “Go and bring her. You are not gallant to the little lady.” But the little lady was shy. She hid herself behind a chair, and would not be easily persuaded. At last, however, her mother coaxed her to be led up to the stranger gentleman, to see him open his gold watch. He placed her on his knee and asked her name; and, emboldened by his caresses, she looked up in his face, and answered, “Teena.” He glanced inquiringly toward her mother, who, blushing slightly, answered, “I named her Eglantina; but, in her lisping way, she calls herself Teena; and we have all adopted her fashion, except grandfather, who varies it a little by calling her Teeny.” A pleased expression went over Mr. Vernon’s face, as he replied, “You did well to name her for yourself; for she resembles you, as the bud of the Eglantine resembles the blossom.” As he spoke thus, the ten intervening years rolled away like a curtain, and they both found themselves walking again in the blooming lanes of old England.

* * * * *

Weeks passed, and Mr. Vernon still remained a guest at Flower Farm, as it was called. He entered into negotiations for a tract of land in the neighbourhood, and found pleasant occupation in hunting, fishing, and planning his house and grounds. Sibella and the children often accompanied him in his excursions. The wide-spread prairie, covered with a thick carpet of grass and brilliant flowers, and dotted with isolated groves, like islands, charmed him with its novelty of beauty. “I am perpetually astonished by the profusion and gorgeousness of nature in this region,” said he. He gathered one of the plants at his feet, and presenting it to Sibella, asked whether that glowing blossom was not appropriately named the Torch Flower. “What do you think of dreams?” she replied; then seeing that he was surprised by the abruptness of the question, she told him she had dreamed, the night before his arrival, that she met him on the prairie, and received a torch-flower from his hand. He smiled, and said, “Its flame-colour might answer for Hymen’s torch.” He looked at her smilingly as he spoke; for he was bolder now than when he wrote the verses. Seeing the crimson tide mount into her cheeks, he touched the flower in her hand, and said, “It blushes more deeply than my old favourite the Eglantine.” To relieve her embarrassment, Sibella began to inquire about Mrs. Barton and her neighbours; adding, “Among all these questions, I have not yet asked if your sister is living.”

“She is what the world calls living,” he replied. “She has married a wealthy old merchant, who dresses her in velvet and diamonds; and his lady rewards him by treating him with more indifference than she does her footman. Her acquaintance envy her elegant furniture and costly jewels; and when they exclaim, ‘How fortunate you are! You are surrounded by every thing the heart can desire!’ she replies, with a languid motion of her fan, ‘Yes, every thing—except love.’ Julia never forgave me for marrying the daughter of a poor curate; but she was like you, Sibella, and that was what first interested me. If she had lived, I probably should never have seen America; but after her death, I was lonely and restless. I wanted change. I knew that you had been in this country several years; but I cannot say you were distinctly connected with my plans. You never answered my letters, and I supposed you had long since forgotten me. But I never saw an Eglantine without thinking of you; and while I was crossing the Atlantic, I sometimes found myself conjecturing whether I should ever happen to meet you, and whether I should find you married.” Long explanations and confessions followed. The authorship of the mysterious verses was acknowledged, and their preservation avowed. The conversation was exceedingly interesting to themselves, but would look somewhat foolish on paper. It has been well said, that “the words of lovers are like the rich wines of the south; delicious in their native soil, but rendered vapid by transportation.”

* * * * *

Mr. Vernon chose the site for his new dwelling with characteristic taste. It stood on an eminence, commanding a most lovely and extensive prospect. A flower-enamelled lawn, rich as embroidered velvet, and ornamented with graceful trees, descended from the front of the house to a bend in the river. It was all fresh from the hand of Nature. Nothing had been planted, and nothing removed, except a few trees to make room for a carriage-path. He had been advised to build an English villa; but he disliked the appearance of assuming a style of more grandeur than his neighbours; and Sibella thought a log-house, with its rough edges of bark, would harmonize better with the scenery. It was spacious and conveniently planned, and stood in the midst of a natural grove. Festoons of vines were trained all round it, clustering roses climbed up even to the roof, and the air was fragrant with Eglantines. The arbor, that William had made, was carefully removed thither, and placed in the garden, surrounded by a profusion of Ladies’ Delights, in memory of the lost friend.

It was a fixed principle with Mr. Vernon that no man had a right to live in the world without doing his share of its work. He imported seeds and scions, which he planted and grafted himself, always distributing a liberal portion among his neighbours. “My fruit and vegetables will soon command a ready sale in the city market,” said he; “but the proceeds shall go toward a school-fund, and the establishment of a Lyceum. I do not desire that our children should inherit great wealth. Life sufficiently abounds with dangers and temptations, physical and mental, without adding that glittering snare for their manhood and womanhood. The wisest and kindest thing we can do for them is to educate equally themselves and the people among whom they are to live.”

“There spoke the same generous soul that chose the poor country-girl for a wife!” she exclaimed, “What can I ever do to prove the gratitude I feel?”

Playfully he put his hand over her mouth, to stop that self-depreciation. They remained silent for a while, seated on the grassy slope, looking out upon the winding river and the noble trees. “How much this scene resembles the parks and lawns of old England,” said the happy bride. “If it were not for the deep stillness, and the absence of human habitations, I could almost imagine myself in my native land.”

“I like it better than English parks and lawns, for two reasons,” he replied. “I prefer it, because it is formed by Nature, and not by Art; and Nature gives even to her quietest pictures peculiar touches of wild inimitable grace. Still more does the scene please me, because these broad acres are not entailed upon noblemen, who cannot ride over their estates in a week, while their poor tenantry toil through life without being allowed to obtain possession of a rood of land.”

Sibella looked at him with affectionate admiration, while she replied, “Truly, ‘the child is father of the man.’ There spoke the same soul that invited a tradesman’s manly son to spend the vacation with him, in preference to Lord Smallsoul.”

“I will never reprove my boy, if he brings home the manly son of a wood-sawyer to spend his school vacations with us,” rejoined he. “But hark! Hear our children laughing and shouting! What sound is more musical than the happy voices of children? See the dear little rogues racing over the carpet of wild-flowers! How they seem to love each other! God be praised, they are free to enact the parts of Paul and Virginia in this lovely solitude. May no rich relatives tempt them into fashionable life, and make shipwreck of their happiness.”

A SERENADE.

Sleep well! Sleep well!
To music’s spell;
Thus hushing thee
To reverie,
Like ev’ning breeze,
Through whisp’ring trees;
Till mem’ry and the lay
Float dreamily away.
Sleep well! Sleep well!

May dreams bring near
All who are dear,
With festal flow’rs
From early hours;
While, softly free,
This melody
Drifts through thy tranquil dream,
Like lilies on a stream.
Sleep well! Sleep well!

THE JURYMAN.

Soften his hard, cold heart! and show
The power which in forbearance lies,
And let him feel that mercy now
Is better than old sacrifice!
J. G. Whittier.

Peter Barker belonged to that numerous class, who are neither better nor worse than other men. Left an orphan in his infancy, the paths of life were rough and lonely at the outset. He had a violent temper and a good heart. The first was often roused into activity, and punished with energy kindred to its own; the last remained almost undeveloped, for want of genial circumstances and reciprocated affection. One softening gleam fell upon his early path, and he loved it like the sunshine, without comprehending the great law of attraction that made it so very pleasant. When he attended school in the winter months, he always walked home with a little girl named Mary Williams. On the play-ground he was with her, always ready to do battle with anybody who disobliged her. Their comrades laughed, and called him Mary’s beau; and they blushed and felt awkward, though they had no idea what courting meant. Things had arrived at this state of half-revealed consciousness, he being fourteen years old, and Mary twelve, when her friends removed to the West, and the warm, bright influence passed out of his life. He never rightly knew whether he was in love with Mary; but years afterwards, when people talked to him about marrying, he thought of her, wondering where she was, and whether she remembered him. When he drove his cows home from pasture, the blackberry bushes on the way brought up visions of his favourite school-mate, with her clean cape-bonnet thrown back, her glossy brown hair playing with the winds, and her innocent face smiling upon him with friendly greeting. “She was the best and prettiest child I ever saw,” he often said to himself; “I wonder whether she would be as pleasant now.” Sometimes he thought of going to the West and seeking her out. But he knew not where to find her; his funds were small, and his courage fell at the thought; “Oh, it is many years ago since we were children together. Perhaps I should find her married.” Gradually this one ray of poetry faded out of his soul, and all his thoughts fell into the common prosaic mould. His lot was cast with rough people, who required much work, and gave little sympathy. The image of his little mate floated farther and farther away, and more and more seldom her clear blue eyes smiled upon him through the rainbow-mists of the past, or from the air-castles of the future. In process of time, he married, after the same fashion that a large proportion of men do; because it was convenient to have a wife, and there was a woman of good character in the neighbourhood, willing to marry whoever first offered her a respectable home. Her character bore the stamp of harmless mediocrity. She was industrious and patient, but ignorant, dull, and quietly obstinate. The neighbours said she was well suited to him, he was so rough and passionate; and in the main he thought so himself; though her imperturbable calmness sometimes fretted him, as a rock chafes the lashing ocean into foam. The child that was born to them, they both loved better than they had ever loved; and according to their light, they sincerely strove to do their duty. His bodily wants were well supplied, often at the cost of great weariness and self-sacrifice; but their own rude training had given them few good ideas concerning the culture of an immortal soul. The infant did more for them, than they for him. Angelic influences, unseen and unheard amid the hard struggles of their outward life, became visible and audible through the unconscious innocence of their little one. For the second time in his life, a vision of beauty and love gleamed across the rugged path of that honest, laborious man. Vague impressions of beauty he had constantly received from the great panorama of the universe. His heart sometimes welcomed a bright flower in the sunshine, or a cluster of lilies on the stream; he marvelled at the splendor of the rainbow, and sometimes gazed reverently at the sun sinking to rest in his rich drapery of purple and gold. But these were glimpses of the Infinite; their beauty did not seem to appertain to him; it did not enter like a magic charm into the sphere of his own existence, as did the vision of Mary Williams and his own little Joe. The dormant tenderness there was in him leaped up at the smile of his babe, and every pressure of the little fingers made a dimple in the father’s heart. Like the outbursts of spring, after a long cold winter, was this revelation of infancy to him. When he plodded home, after a hard day’s work, it rested him body and soul to have the little one spring into his arms for a kiss, or come toddling along, tilting his little porringer of milk, in eagerness to eat his supper on father’s knee.

But though this new influence seemed to have an almost miraculous power over his nature, it could not quite subdue the force of temperament and habit. As the darling babe grew into boyhood, he was sometimes cherished with injudicious fondness, and sometimes repelled by bursts of passion, that made him run and hide himself from the over-indulgent father. Mr. Barker had himself been educated under the dispensation of punishment, rather than attraction, and he believed in it most firmly. If his son committed a fault, he thought of no other cure than severity. If a neighbour did him an ill turn, he would observe, in presence of the boy, “I will watch my chance to pay him for it.” If the dog stole their dinner, when they were at work in the woods, he would say, “Run after him, Joe, and give the rascal a sound beating.” When he saw the child fighting with some larger lad, who had offended him, he would praise his strength and courage, and tell him never to put up with an insult. He was not aware that all these things were education, and doing far more to form his son’s character than any thing he learned at school. He did not know it, because his thoughts had never been directed toward it. The only moral instruction he had ever received, had been from the minister of the parish; and he usually preached about the hardheartedness of Jews two thousand years ago, rather than the errors and temptations of men and boys, who sat before him.

Once he received an admonition from his neighbour Goodwin, which, being novel and unexpected, offended him, as an impertinent interference with his rights. He was riding home with Joe, then a lad of thirteen, when the horse took fright at a piece of white paper, that the wind blew across the road. Mr. Barker was previously in an ill humor, because a sudden squall of rain had wet some fine hay, all ready for the barn. Pursuing the system on which he had himself been educated, he sprang to the ground and cudgelled the poor beast unmercifully. Mr. Goodwin, who was passing by, inquired the cause of so much severity, and remonstrated against it; assuring him that a horse was never cured of bad habits by violence. He spoke mildly, but Mr. Barker was irritated, and having told him to mind his own business, he continued to whip the poor frightened animal. The humane neighbour turned away, saying, “That is a bad lesson for your son, Mr. Barker.”

“If you say much more, I will flog you, instead of the horse,” muttered the angry man. “It is’nt his horse. What business is it to him?” he added, turning to his son.

He did not reflect in what a narrow circuit he was nailing up the sympathies of his child, by such words as those. But when he was reseated in the wagon, he did not feel altogether pleased with himself, and his inward uneasiness was expended on the horse. The poor bewildered animal, covered with foam, and breathing short and hard, tried his utmost to do his master’s will, as far as he could understand it. But, nervous and terrified, constantly in expectation of the whip, he started at every sound. If he went too fast, he was reined in with a sudden jerk, that tore the corners of his mouth; if he went too slow, the cruel crack of the whip made him tear over the ground, to be again restrained by the violent jerk.

The sun was setting, and threw a radiant glow on every tree and little shrub, jewelled by the recent shower. Cows grazed peacefully in verdant hollows; birds sang; a little brook rippled cosily by the wayside; winds played gently with the flowers, and kissed the raindrops from their faces. But all this loveliness passed unheeded by those human hearts, because they had at the moment no inward beauty to harmonize with nature. Perhaps the familiar landscape seemed quite otherwise to the poor horse, than it would have done, had he travelled along those pleasant paths guided by a wise and gentle hand.

Had Joseph continued to be little Joe, his eager welcome and loving prattle might soon have tamed the evil spirit in his father’s soul that night. But he was a tall lad, who had learned to double up his fists, and tell other boys they had better let him alone, if they knew what was good for themselves. He still loved his father better than any thing else in the world, but the charm and the power of infancy were gone. He reflected back the vexed spirit, like a too faithful mirror. He was no longer a transparent, unconscious medium for the influence of angels.

Indeed, paternal affection gradually became a hardening, rather than a softening influence. Ambition for his son increased the love of accumulation; and the gratification of this propensity narrowed his sympathies more and more. Joseph had within him the unexpanded germs of some noble qualities; but he inherited his father’s passionate temperament with his mother’s obstinacy; and the education of such circumstances as I have described turned his energies and feelings into wrong channels. The remark, “It is’nt his horse; what business is it to him?” heard in his boyhood, expressed the views and habits of his later years. But his mental growth, such as it was, pleased his father, who often said exultingly, “There is no danger of Joe. He knows how to fight his own way through the world.”

Such was their mutual product of character, when Mr. Barker was summoned to a jury, in a case involving life or death. He was vexed to be called away from his employments, and had never reflected at all upon the fearful responsibility of a juryman. James Lloyd, the prisoner, was a very young man, and his open, honest countenance gave no indication of capacity for crime; but he was accused of murder, and circumstantial evidence was strong against him. It was proved that a previous quarrel had existed between him and the murdered man; and that they had been seen to take the same road, the prisoner in a state of intoxication, the night the violent deed was committed. Most people thought there was no doubt of his guilt; others deemed the case by no means certain. Two of the jury were reluctant to convict him, and wished to find the evidence insufficient; the penalty was so dreadful, and their feelings were so much touched by the settled misery of his youthful countenance. Others talked sternly of justice, and urged that the Scripture demanded blood for blood. Of this number was Peter Barker. From the beginning, he was against the prisoner. The lawyer who pleaded for him had once been employed in a law-suit against Mr. Barker, and had gained the cause for his client. The juryman cherished a grudge against him for his sarcastic eloquence on that occasion. Moreover, it so happened that neighbour Goodwin, who years ago had reproved his severity to the horse, took compassionate interest in the accused. He often consulted with his lawyer, and seemed to watch the countenances of the jury anxiously. It was a busy season of the year, and the jury were impatient to be at their workshops and farms. Mr. Barker would not have admitted it, even to himself, but all these circumstances helped to increase his hardness against the prisoner. By such inconceivably slight motives is the conduct of men often swayed on the most important occasions.

“If the poor young fellow really did commit the act,” said one of the jury, “it seems likely that he did it in a state of intoxication. I was once drunk myself; and they told me afterward that I had quarrelled with a man, and knocked him down a high flight of steps; but I had no recollection of it. If I had killed him, and they had hung me for it, what an awful thing it would have been for my poor father and mother. It taught me a good lesson, for I was never again intoxicated. Perhaps this poor youth might profit by his dreadful experience, if a chance were allowed him. He is so young! and there is nothing bad in his countenance.”

“As for his womanly face,” replied Mr. Barker, “there is no trusting to that. The worst villains are not always the worst-looking. As for his being intoxicated, there is no telling whether it is true or not. That cunning lawyer may have made up the story, for the sake of exciting compassion; and the witnesses may be more than willing enough to believe every thing strange in the prisoner’s conduct was the result of intoxication. Moreover, it won’t do to admit that plea in extenuation; for then, don’t you see, a man who wants to kill his enemy has only to get drunk in the first place? If anybody killed my Joe, drunk or not drunk, I should want him to swing for it.”

By such remarks, urged in his vehement way, he swayed minds more timid and lenient than his own, without being fully aware of what he was doing. He was foreman of the jury; and when the awful moment arrived on which depended the life of a fellow being, he pronounced the word “Guilty,” in a strong, firm voice. The next instant his eye fell on the prisoner, standing there so pale, and still, looking at him with such fixed despair. There was something in the face that moved him strongly. He turned quickly away, but the vision was before him; always, and everywhere before him. “This is weakness,” he said to himself. “I have merely done my duty. The law required it. I have done my duty.” But still the pale young face looked at him; always, and everywhere, it looked at him.

He feared to touch a newspaper, for he wished not to know when the day of execution would arrive. But officious neighbours, ignorant of his state of mind, were eager to talk upon the subject; and when drawn into such discourse, he strove to fortify his own feelings by dwelling on all the worst circumstances of the case. Notwithstanding all his efforts, the night preceding the execution, he had troubled dreams, in which that ghastly young face was always conspicuous. When he woke, he saw it in the air. It walked beside him as he ploughed the fields, it stood before him on the threshold of his own door. All that the merciful juryman had suggested came before him with painful distinctness. Could there be a doubt that the condemned had really committed murder? Was he intoxicated? Might he have happened to be intoxicated for the first time in his life? And he so young! But he drove these thoughts away; saying ever to himself, “The law required it. I merely did my duty.” Still every thing looked gloomy to him. The evening clouds seemed like funeral palls, and a pale despairing face gazed at him forever.

For the first time in his manhood, he craved a companion in the darkness. Neighbours came in, and described the execution; and while they talked, the agitated juryman beat the fire-brands into a thousand pieces, and spoke never a word. They told how the youth had written a long letter to his mother, and had died calm and resigned. “By the way, perhaps you knew his mother, Mr. Barker,” said one; “they tell me she used to live in this neighbourhood. Do you remember a girl by the name of Mary Williams?”

The tongs dropped from Mr. Barker’s hand, as he gasped out, “Mary Williams! Was he her son? God forgive me! Was he her son?” And the strong man laid his head upon the table and wept.

There was silence in the room. At last, the loquacious neighbour said, in a subdued tone, “I am sorry I hurt your feelings. I didn’t know she was a friend of yours.”

The troubled juryman rose hastily, walked to the window, looked out at the stars, and, clearing his choked voice, said, “It is many years since I knew her. But she was a good-tempered, pretty girl; and it seems but yesterday that we used to go together to pick our baskets full of berries. And so she was his mother? I remember now there was something in his eye that seemed familiar to me.”

Perhaps the mention of Mary’s beauty, or the melting mood, so unusual with her husband, might have excited a vague feeling of jealousy in Mrs. Barker. Whatever might have been the motive, she said, in her demure way, without raising her eyes from her knitting, “Well, it was natural enough to suppose the young man had a mother; and other mothers are likely to have hearts that can feel, as well as this Mary Williams.”

He only answered by shaking his head slowly, and repeating, as if to himself, “Poor Mary! and so he was her son.”

Joseph came in, and the details of the dreadful scene were repeated and dwelt upon, as human beings are prone to dwell on all that excites strong emotion. To him the name of Mary Williams conjured up no smiling visions of juvenile love; and he strove to fortify his father’s relenting feelings, by placing in a strong light all the arguments in favour of the prisoner’s guilt. The juryman was glad to be thus fortified, and replied in a firm, reassured voice, “At all events, I did my duty.” Yet, for months after, the pale young face looked at him despairingly from the evening air, and came between him and the sunshine. But time, which softens all things, drifted the dreary spectre into dim distance; and Mr. Barker’s faculties were again completely absorbed in making money for his son.

Joseph was called a fine, promising young man; but his conduct was not altogether satisfactory to his parents. He was fond of dress and company, and his impetuous temperament not unfrequently involved him in quarrels. On two or three of these occasions, they feared he had been a little excited by drink. But he was, in reality, a good-hearted fellow, and, like his rough father, had undeveloped germs of deep tenderness within him. His father’s life was bound up within his; his mother loved him with all the energy of which her sluggish nature was capable; and notwithstanding the inequalities of his violent and capricious temper, the neighbours loved him also.

What, then, was their consternation, when it was rumoured that on his twenty-fourth birth-day he had been arrested for murder! And, alas! it was too true that his passions had thus far over-mastered his reason. He wished to please a young girl in the vicinity; and she treated him coolly, because a rival had informed her that he was seen intoxicated, and in that state had spoken over-boldly of being sure of her love. He drank again, to drown his vexation; and while the excitement of the draught was on him, he met the man who informed against him. His exulting rival was injudicious enough to exclaim, “Ho! here you are, drunk again! What a promising fellow for a husband!” Unfortunately, an axe was at hand, and, in the double fury of drink and rage, he struck with it again and again. One hour after, he would have given all he ever hoped to possess, nay, he would gladly have died, could he have restored the life he had so wantonly destroyed.

Thus, Mr. Barker was again brought into a court of justice on an affair of life and death. How differently all questions connected with the subject presented themselves now! As he sat beside that darling son, the pride of his life, his only hope on earth, oh, how he longed for words of fire, to plead that his young existence might be spared for repentance and amendment! How well he remembered the juryman’s plea for youth and intoxication! and with what an agony of self-reproach he recalled his own hard answer! With intense anxiety he watched the countenance of the jury for some gleams of compassion; but ever and anon, a pale young face loomed up between him and them, and gazed at him with fixed despair. The vision of other years returned to haunt him; and Joseph, his best beloved, his only one, stood beside it, pale and handcuffed, as he had been. The voice that pronounced his son guilty sounded like an awful echo of his own; and he seemed to hear Mary Williams whisper, “And my son also was very young.”

That vigorous off-shoot from his own existence, so full of life and feeling, and, alas, of passion, which misguides us all—he must die! No earthly power can save him. May the All Merciful sustain that poor father, as he watches the heavy slumber of his only son in that dark prison; and while he clasps the cold hand, remembers so well the dimpled fingers he used to hold in his, when little Joe sat upon his knee and prattled childish love.

And the All Merciful was with him, and sent influences to sustain him through that terrible agony. It did not break his heart; it melted and subdued him. The congealed sympathies of his nature flowed under this ordeal of fire; and, for the first time, he had a realizing sense that every human being is, or has been, somebody’s little Joe.

“How kind you are to me!” said the prisoner, in answer to his soothing words and affectionate attentions.

He replied meekly, “Would I had always been so!” Then turning his face away, and earnestly pressing Joseph’s hand, he said, in an agitated voice, “Tell me truly, my son, does it ever occur to you, that I may have been to blame for this great misfortune that has befallen you?”

“You, dear father!” he exclaimed. “I do not understand what you mean.”

Still keeping his face turned away, and speaking with effort, Mr. Barker said, “Do you remember once, when I was beating my horse cruelly, (you were a boy of twelve then) neighbour Goodwin remarked to me, that I was giving a bad lesson to my son? I was angry with him at the time; and perhaps that resentment helped to make me hard toward a poor young fellow who is dead and gone; but his words keep ringing in my ears now. May God, in his mercy, forgive me, if I have ever done or said any thing to lead you into this great sin! Tell me, Joseph, do you ever think it might have happened otherwise, if you had had a less violent father?”

“My poor father!” exclaimed the prisoner, pressing his hand convulsively, “it almost breaks my heart to hear you thus humble yourself before me, who so little deserve it at your hands. Only forgive me my violent outbreaks, dear father! for in the midst of them all, I always loved you. You have always sought to do me good, and would rather have died, than have led me into any harm. But since I have been here in prison, I have thought of many things, that never occurred to me before. The world and all things in it are placed before me in a different light. It seems to me men are all wrong in their habits and teachings. I see now that retaliation and hatred are murder. I have read often, of late, the exhortation of Jesus to forgive our brother his offences, not only seven times, but seventy times seven; and I feel that thus it ought to be with human beings in all their relations with each other. What I have done cannot be undone; but if it will be any satisfaction to you, rest assured that I did not intend to kill him. I was wretched, and I was fool enough to drink; and then I knew not what I did. Violent as my temper has been, I never conceived the thought of taking his life.”

“I know it, my son; I know it,” he said; “and that reflection consoles me in some degree. While I have a loaf of bread, I will share it with the mother and sister of him you——” he hesitated, shuddered, and added in a low deep tone—“you murdered.”

“I was going to ask that of you,” replied the prisoner; “and one thing more, dear father; try to bear up bravely under this terrible blow, for the sake of my poor patient mother.”

“I will, I will,” he answered; “and now my dear misguided boy, say you forgive your poor father for the teachings of his violent words and actions. I did not foresee the consequences, my child. I did it in my ignorance. But it was wrong, wrong, all wrong.”

The young man threw himself on his father’s bosom, and they had no other utterance but tears.

* * * * *

After his only strong link to life was broken by the violent arm of the law, Mr. Barker was a changed man; silent, and melancholy, patient, gentle, and forgiving to all. He never complained of the great sorrow that wasted away his life; but the neighbours saw how thin and sad he looked, and the roughest natures felt compassion for him.

Every year, she who had been Mary Williams received a hundred dollar note. He never whispered to any mortal that it was sent by the juryman who helped to condemn her son to death; but when he died, a legacy of a thousand dollars to her showed that he never forgot the pale despairing face, that for years had haunted his dreams.

THE FAIRY FRIEND.

Spirit, who waftest me where’er I will,
And see’st with finer eyes what infants see;
Feeling all lovely truth,
With the wise health of everlasting youth.
Leigh Hunt.

In these rational days, most people suppose that fairies do not exist; but they are mistaken. The mere fact that fairies have been imagined proves that there are fairies; for fancy, in her oddest freaks, never paints any thing which has no existence. She merely puts invisible agencies into visible forms, and embodies spiritual influences in material facts. It seems a wild fiction when we read of beautiful young maidens floating in gossamer, and radiant with jewels, who suddenly change into mocking old hags, or jump off into some slimy pool, in the form of a frog; or like the fair Melusina, doomed to become a fish on certain days of the year, and those who happened to see her in that plight could never again see her as the Fair Melusina. Yet who that has grown from youth to manhood, who that has been in love and out of love, has not found the fairies of his life playing him just such tricks?

In the fascinating ballet of Giselle, so poetic in conception, and so gracefully expressed in music, there is deep and tender meaning for all who have lived long, or lived much. Is not Memory a fairy spirit, like Giselle, dancing round graves, hovering between us and the stars, flitting across our woodland rambles, throwing us garlands and love-tokens from the past, coming to us in dreams, so real that we clasp our loved ones, and gliding away when morning gleams on the material world?

Oh yes there are fairies, both good and bad; and they are with us according as we obey or disobey their laws of being. One, with whom I made acquaintance as soon as I could run alone, has visited me ever since; though sometimes she pouts and hides herself, and will not soon come back. I am always sad when she is gone; for she is a wonder-working little sprite, and she takes all my wealth away with her. If you were to gaze on a field of dandelions, if she were not at your elbow, you would merely think they were pretty posies, and would make excellent greens for dinner. But if she touches you, and renders you clairvoyant, they will surprise you with their golden beauty, and every blossom will radiate a halo. Sometimes she fills the whole air with rainbows, as if Nature were out for a dance, with all her ribbons on. A sup of water, taken from a little brook, in the hollow of her hand, has made me more merry than would a goblet of wine. She has often filled my apron with opals, emeralds, and sapphires, and I was never weary of looking at them; but those who had wandered away from the fairy, and forgotten her treasures, sneered at my joy, and said, “Fie upon thee! Wilt thou always be a child? They are nothing but pebbles.”

Last Spring, my friendly little one guided me to a silver-voiced waterfall at Weehawken, where a group of German forget-me-nots were sitting with their feet in the water. Their little blue eyes laughed when they saw me. I asked what made them smile in my face so lovingly. They answered, “Because we hear a pleasant song, and you know what it says to us.” It was not I who knew; it was the fairy; but she had magnetized me, and so I heard all that was said to her.

A wealthy invalid passed by, afflicted with dyspepsia. He did not see the flowers smile, or hear the waterfall singing his flowing melody of love to the blue eyes that made his home so beautiful. He had parted from the fairy long ago. He told her she was a fool, and that none would ever grow rich, who suffered themselves to be led by her. She laughed and said, “Thou dost not know that I alone am rich; always, and every where, rich. But go thy ways, vain worldling. Shouldst thou come back to me, I will ask if thou hast ever found any thing equal to my gems and rainbows.” She gazed after him for a moment, and laughed again, as she exclaimed, “Aha, let him try!”

The gay little spirit spoke truly; for indeed there is nothing so real as her unrealities. Those who have parted from her complain that she made them large promises in their early time, and has never kept them; but to those who remain with her trustfully, she more than fulfils all. For them she covers the moss-grown rock with gold, and fills the wintry air with diamonds. It is many years since she first began to tell me her fine stories. But this very last New Year’s day she led me out into the country, and lighted up all the landscape as I went, so that it seemed lovelier than the rarest pictures. The round bright face of the moon smiled at me, and said, “I know thee well. Thou hast built many castles up here. Come to them whenever thou wilt. Their rose-coloured drapery, with rainbow fringes, is more real than silken festoons in Broadway palaces.” I was glad at heart, and I said to my fairy, “The sheriff cannot attach our furniture, or sell our castles at auction.” “No indeed,” she replied. “He cannot even see them. He has forgotten me. He thinks all the gems I show are only pebbles, and all my prismatic mantles mere soap-bubbles.”

This simple little sprite says much richer things than the miracles she does. Her talk is all alive. She is a poet, though she knows it not; or, rather because she knows it not. She tells me the oddest and most brilliant things; and sometimes I write them down imperfectly, as well as I can remember them. Matter-of-fact persons shake their heads, and say, “What on earth does the woman mean? I never see and hear such things.” And grave people raise their spectacles and inquire, “Can you point me out any moral, or any use, in all this stuff?” “There is no sense in it,” says one; “The writer is insane,” says another; “She’s an enthusiast, but we must pardon that weakness,” says a third, more magnanimous than others. The fairy and I have great fun together, while we listen to their jokes and apologies. The frolicsome little witch knows very well that it is she who says the things that puzzle them; and she knows the meaning very well; but she never tells it to those who “speer questions.”

She is a philosopher, too, as well as a poet, without being aware of it. She babbles all manner of secrets, without knowing that they are secrets. If you were to propound to her a theory concerning the relation between tones and colours, she would fold her wings over her face and drop asleep. But sound a flute, and she will leap up and exclaim, “Hear that beautiful, bright azure sound!” And if oboës strike in, she will smile all over, and say, “Now the yellow flowers are singing. How pert and naïve they are!” It was she who led the little English girl to the piano, and put a melody of cowslip meadows in her brain; and as the child improvised, she smiled, and said ever to herself, “This is the tune with the golden spots.”

But this genial little fairy is easily grieved and estranged. Her movements are impulsive, she abhors calculators, and allows no questions. If she shows you a shining gem, be careful not to inquire what would be its price in the market; otherwise its lustre will fade instantly, and you will have to ask others whether the thing you hold in your hand has any beauty or value. If she beckons into blooming paths, follow her in simple faith, whether she leads to castles in the moon, or lifts up a coverlet of leaves to peep at little floral spirits sound asleep, with their arms twined round the fragrant blossoms of the arbutus. She carries with her Aladdin’s lamp, and all the things she looks upon are luminous with transfigured glory. Take heed not to inquire where the path will lead to, whether others are accustomed to walk in it, or whether they will believe your report of its wonderful beauty. Above all, be careful not to wish that such visions may be kept from the souls of others, that your own riches may seem marvellous and peculiar. Wish this but for a single instant and you will find yourself all alone, in cold gray woods, where owls hoot, and spectral shadows seem to lie in wait for you. But if with a full heart you crave forgiveness for the selfish thought, and pray earnestly that the divine Spirit of Beauty may be revealed to all, and not one single child of God be excluded from the radiant palace, then will the fairy come to you again, and say, “Now thou and I are friends again. Give me thy hand, and I will lead thee into gardens of paradise. Because thou hast not wished to shut up any thing, therefore thou shalt possess all things.” Instantly the cold gray woods shine through a veil of gold; the shadows dance, and all the little birds sing, “Joy be with thee.” A spirit nods welcome to you from every cluster of dried grass; a soul beams through the commonest pebble; ferns bow before you more gracefully than the plumes of princes; and verdant mosses kiss your feet more softly than the richest velvets of Genoa.

Trust the good little fairy. Be not disturbed by the mockery of those who despise her simple joys. She said truly, “I alone am rich; always, and everywhere, rich.”

WERGELAND, THE POET.

The busy bees, up coming from the meadows
To the sweet cedar, fed him with soft flowers,
Because the Muse had filled his mouth with nectar.
Leigh Hunt.

Wergeland was one of the most popular poets Norway has ever produced. He rhymed with wonderful facility, and sometimes, when a rush of inspiration came upon him, he would write verses during a whole day and night, with untiring rapidity, scarcely pausing to eat, or to rest his hand. In the poems which expressed his own inward life there was often something above common comprehension; but, in addition to those higher efforts, he wrote a great number of verses for the peasantry, in all the peculiar dialects of their various districts. The merest trifle that flowed from his pen is said to have contained some sparkling fancy, or some breathing of sentiments truly poetic. He was an impassioned lover of nature, and in his descriptions of natural objects was peculiar for making them seem alive. Thus in one of his poems he describes the winds coming through clefts of rock, forming a powerful current in the fiord, driving white-crested waves before them, like a flock of huge storm-birds. A lawyer, who passes through the current in a boat, imagines the great waves to be angry spectres of the many poor clients whom he has wronged. He throws one ten dollars, another twenty, another fifty, to pacify them. At last, a wondrous tall wave stretches forth his long neck, as if to swallow him. The terrified lawyer throws him a hundred dollars, imploring him to be merciful. Just then, the boat turns a corner of the rock, out of the current. The great wave eagerly bends his long arm round the rock, and tries to clutch him; then retreats, disappointed at his escape.

Wergeland had a strongly marked head, full of indentations, like a bold rocky shore. He was an athletic, earnest, jovial man, and enjoyed life with a keen zest. His manner of telling a story was inimitably funny and vivacious. While he was settling his spectacles, before he began to speak, a smile would go mantling all over the lower part of his face, announcing that something good was coming. His soul went forth with warm spontaneousness to meet all forms of being; and this lively sympathy seemed to attract both men and animals toward him magnetically. He was accustomed to saddle his own horse, which stood loose in the barn, among pet rabbits, pet pigeons, pet birds, all sorts of poultry, and a favourite cat. These creatures all lived in the greatest friendship together. They knew their master’s voice perfectly well; and the moment he opened the door, they would all come neighing, purring, cooing, singing, crowing, capering and fluttering about him. His cottage was a picturesque place, ornamented with all sorts of mosses, vines, and flowers. Under it was a grotto made of rocks and shells, in which were an old hermit, with a long beard, and various other grotesque figures, carved in wood. The grotto was occasionally lighted up in the evening, and the images, seen among flickering shadows, excited great awe in the minds of peasant children.

This gifted and genial man, who lived in such loving companionship with nature, was called away from the earth, which seemed to him so cheerful, before he had passed the middle term of human life. The news of his death was received with lamentation by all classes in Norway. Crowds of people went to Christiana to bid farewell to the lifeless body of their favorite poet. While in the last stage of consumption, in May, 1845, he wrote the following verses, which were read to me by one of his countrymen, who translated them literally, as he went along. Even through this imperfect medium, my heart was deeply touched by their childlike simplicity and farewell sadness. The plaintive voice seemed to become my own, and uttered itself thus, in English rhyme, which faithfully preserves the sense of the original:

SUPPLICATION TO SPRING.

Oh, save me, save me, gentle Spring!
Bring healing on thy balmy wing!
I loved thee more than all the year.
To no one hast thou been more dear.

Bright emeralds I valued less,
Than early grass, and water-cress.
Gem of the year I named thy flower,
Though roses grace fair Summer’s bower.

The queenly ones, with fragrant sighs,
Tried to allure thy poet’s eyes;
But they were far less dear to me,
Than thy simple wild anemone.

Bear witness for me, little flower!
Beloved from childhood’s earliest hour;
And dandelions, so much despised,
Whose blossoms more than gold I prized.

I welcomed swallows on the wing,
And loved them for their news of Spring.
I gave a feast for the earliest one,
As if a long-lost child had come,

Blest harbingers of genial hours,
Unite your voices with the flowers!
Dear graceful birds, pour forth your prayer,
That nature will her poet spare!

Plead with the Maker of the rain!
That he will chilling showers restrain;
And my poor breast no longer feel
Sharp needle-points of frosty steel.

Thou beautiful old maple tree!
For my love’s sake, pray thou for me!
Thy leaf-buds, op’ning to the sun,
Like pearls I counted ev’ry one.

I wished I might thy grandson be,
Dear, ven’rable old maple tree!
That my young arms might round thee twine,
And mix my vernal crown with thine.

Ah, even now, full well I ween,
Thou hast thy robe of soft light-green.
I seem to hear thee whisp’ring slow
To the vernal grass below.

Stretch thy strong arms toward the sky,
And pray thy poet may not die!
I will heal thy scars with kisses sweet,
And pour out wine upon thy feet.

Blessings on the patriarch tree!
Hoarsely he intercedes for me;
And little flowers, with voices mild,
Beg thee to spare thy suff’ring child.

Fair season, so beloved by me!
Thy young and old all plead with thee.
Oh, heal me, with thy balmy wing!
I have so worshipped thee, sweet Spring!

The following lines, written two days before he died, were addressed to a fragrant, golden-coloured flower whose English name I cannot ascertain.

TO THE GULDENLAK.

Sweet flower! before thy reign is o’er,
I shall be gone, to return no more,
Before thou losest thy crown of gold,
I shall lie low in the cold dark mould.

Open the window, and raise me up!
My last glance must rest on her golden cup.
My soul will kiss her, as it passes by
And wave farewell from the distant sky.

Yea, twice will I kiss thy fragrant lip,
Where the wild honey-bee loves to sip.
The first, I will give for thy own dear sake;
The second, thou must to my rose-bush take.

I shall sleep sound in the silent tomb,
Before the beautiful bush will bloom;
But ask her the first fair rose to lay
On her lover’s grave, to fade away.

Give her the kiss I gave thee to keep,
And bid her come on my breast to sleep;
And, glowing flower, with sweetest breath,
Be thou our bridal torch in death!

THE EMIGRANT BOY.

’Tis lone on the waters,
When eve’s mournful bell,
Sends forth to the sunset
A note of farewell.

When, borne with the shadows
And winds, as they sweep,
There comes a fond memory
Of home o’er the deep.
Hemans.

In the old town of Rüdesheim, on the Rhine, is one of those dilapidated castles, which impart such picturesque beauty to the scenery of Germany. Among the ruins, Karl Schelling, a poor hard-working peasant, made for himself a home. With him dwelt his good wife Liesbet, and two blue-eyed children, named Fritz and Gretchen. A few cooking utensils, and wooden stools, constituted all their furniture; and one brown-and-white goat, was all they had to remind them of flocks and herds. But these poor children led a happier life, than those small imitations of humanity, who are bred up in city palaces, and drilled to walk through existence in languid drawing-room paces. From moss-grown arches in the old ruins, they could watch boats and vessels gliding over the sparkling Rhine, and see broad meadows golden with sunshine. On the terrace of the castle, the wind had planted many flowers. It was richly carpeted with various kinds of moss, tufts of grass, blue-bells, and little pinks. Here Karl often carried his goat to feed, and left the children to tend upon him. There had been a stork’s nest on the roof, from time immemorial; and the little ones were early taught to reverence the birds, as omens of blessing. Their simple young souls were quite unconscious of poverty. The splendid Rhine, with all its islands—the broad pasture-lands, with herds peacefully grazing—houses nestling among woody hills—all seemed to belong to them; and in reality, they possessed them more truly than many a rich man, who

“One moment gazes on his flowers,
The next they are forgot;
And eateth of his rarest fruits,
As though he ate them not.”

On their little heaps of straw, brother and sister slept soundly in each other’s arms; and if the hooting of an owl chanced to wake them, some bright star looked in with friendly eye, through chinks in the walls, and said, “Go to sleep, little ones; for all little children are dear to the good God.”

Thus, with scanty food and coarse clothes, plenty of pure air and blue sky, Fritz and his sister went hand in hand over their rugged but flower-strewn path of life, till he was nearly seven years old. Then came Uncle Heinrich, his mother’s brother, and said the boy could be useful to him at the mill, where he worked; and if the parents were willing to bind him to his service, he would supply him with food and clothing, and give him an outfit when he came of age. Tears were in Liesbet’s eyes; for she thought how lonely it would seem to her and little Gretchen, when they should no longer hear Fritz mocking the birds, or singing aloud to the high heaven. But they were very poor, and the child must earn his bread. So, with much sorrow to part with father and mother, and Gretchen, the goat and the stork, and with some gladness to go to new scenes, Fritz departed from the old nest that had served him for a home. Mounted with Uncle Heinrich, on the miller’s donkey, he ambled along through rocky paths, by deep ravines and castle-crowned hills, with here and there glimpses of the noble river, flowing on, bright and strong, reflecting images of spires, cottages, and vine-covered slopes. When he arrived at his new home, the good grandmother gave him right friendly welcome, and promised to set up on her knitting-needles a striped blue cap for him to wear. Uncle Heinrich was kind, in his rough way; but he thought it an excellent plan for boys to eat little and work hard. Fritz, remembering the blossom-carpet of the old castle, was always delighted to spy a clump of flowers. His uncle told him they looked well enough, but he wondered anybody should ever plant them, since they were not useful either to eat or wear; and that when he grew older, he would doubtless think more of pence than posies. Thus the child began to be ashamed, as of something wrong, when he was caught digging a flower. But his laborious and economical relative taught him many orderly and thrifty ways, which afterward had great influence on his success in life; and fortunately a love for the beautiful could not be pressed out of him. Kind, all-embracing Nature took him in her arms, and whispered many things to preserve him from becoming a mere animal. All day long he was hard at work; but the blossoming tree was his friend, and the bright little mill-stream chatted cozily, and smiled when the good grandmother gave it his clothes to wash. The miller’s donkey, ambling along through sun-lighted paths over the hills, was a picture to him. From his small garret window he could see the mill-wheel scattering bright drops in the moonlight; and he fell asleep to the gentle lullaby of ever-flowing water. Other education than this he had not.

“His only teachers had been woods and rills;
The silence that is in the starry sky,
The sleep that is among the lonely hills.”

An aged neighbour, cotemporary with the grandmother, took a great liking to Fritz; and on Sundays, when no work could be done, he was often allowed to go and take dinner or supper there. The old man had traversed nearly all Germany as a peddler, and had come to die in the old homestead near the mill, where he had worked when a boy. He knew by heart all the wild fairy legends of the country, and, in his character of peddler-guest, had acquired a talent for relating them in a manner peculiarly amusing and exciting to children. In the course of his travels, he had likewise collected many things which seemed very remarkable to the inexperienced eye of Fritz; such as curious smoking-pipes and drinking-cups, and images in all the various costumes of Germany. But what most attracted his attention was an ancient clock, brought from Copenhagen when the peddler’s father was a young man. When this clock was in its right mind, it could play twelve tunes, about as simple as “Molly put the kettle on.” But the friction of many years had so worn the cogs of the wheels, that it was frightfully out of tune. This did not trouble the boy’s strong nerves, and he was prodigiously amused with the sputtering, seething, jumping, jabbering sounds it made, when set in motion. To each of the crazy old tunes he gave some droll name. “There goes the Spitting Cat,” he would say; “now let us hear the Old Hen.”

Father Rudolph called the rickety old machine his Blacking Box; because he had bought it with the proceeds of a peculiar kind of blacking, of his own manufacture. He was always praising this blacking; and one day he said, “I have never told any one the secret of making it; but if you are a good boy, Fritz, I will show you how it is done.” The child could not otherwise than respect what had procured such a wonderful clock; and when he fell asleep that night, there floated through his mind undefined visions of being able, some time or other, to purchase such a comical machine for himself. This seemed a very unimportant incident of his childhood; but it was the introduction of a thread, that reappeared again in his web of life.

Fritz passed at the old mill four years of health, happiness, and hard labor. For three years, Father Rudolph was an unfailing source of entertainment. Alternately with his comic old songs, and wild legends of fairies and goblins, he imparted much of a traveller’s discursive observation, and thorough practical knowledge concerning the glossy jet blacking. At last he fell asleep, and the boy heard that pleasant old voice no more, except in the echoing caves of memory. The good grandmother survived the companion of her youth only a few months. The ancient ballads she used to croon at her spinning-wheel, had caught something of the monotonous flow of the water, which forever accompanied them; and Fritz, as he passed up and down from the mill to the brook, missed the quaint old melodies, as he would have missed the rustling of the leaves, the chirping of crickets, or any other dear old familiar sound. He missed, too, her kind motherly ways, and the little comforts with which her care supplied him. With the exception of his rough, but really kind-hearted uncle, he was now alone in the world. He had visited Rüdesheim but once, and had then greatly amused Gretchen with his imitations of the crazy clock. But his parents had since removed to a remote district, and he knew not when he should see dear Gretchen again. As none of them could read or write, there came no tidings to cheer the long years of separation. How his heart yearned at times for the good mother and the joyous little sister!

But when Uncle Heinrich announced his intention of removing to America, the prospect of new adventures, and the youthful tendency to look on the bright side of things, overbalanced the pain of parting from father-land. It is true the last night he slept at the old mill, the moonlight had a farewell sadness in its glance, and the little stream murmured more plaintively as it flowed. Fritz thought perhaps they knew he was going away. They certainly seemed to sigh forth, “We shall see thee no more, thou bright, strong child! We remain, but thou art passing away!”

When the emigrants came to the sea-port, every thing was new and exciting to the juvenile imagination of Fritz. The ships out in the harbor looked like great white birds, sailing through the air. How pleasant it must be thus to glide over the wide waters! But between a ship in the distance, and the ship we are in, there exists the usual difference between the ideal and the actual. There was little romance in the crowded cabin, with hundreds of poor emigrants eating, drinking, and smoking, amid the odour of bilge-water, and the dreadful nausea of the sea. Poor Fritz longed for the pure atmosphere and fresh-flowing brook, at the mill. However, there was always America in prospect, painted to his imagination like Islands of the Blest. Uncle Heinrich said he should grow rich there; and a fairy whispered in his ear that he himself might one day possess a Copenhagen clock, bright and new, that would play its tunes decently and in order. “No, no,” said Fritz to the fairy, “I had rather buy Father Rudolph’s clock; it was such a funny old thing.” “Very well,” replied the fairy, “be diligent and saving, and perhaps I will one day bring Father Rudolph’s clock to crow and sputter to thee in the New World.”

But these golden dreams of the future received a sad check. One day, there was a cry of “A man overboard!” It occasioned the more terror, because a shark had been following in the wake of the vessel for several days. Boats were lowered instantly; but a crimson tinge on the surface of the water showed that their efforts were useless. It was not till some minutes after the confusion subsided, that Fritz perceived his Uncle Heinrich was missing. Terrible had been that crimson stain on the water; but now, when he knew it was the life-blood of his last and only friend, it made him faint and dizzy, as if it were flowing from his own veins.

Uncle Heinrich’s hard-earned savings were fastened within the belt he wore; and a bundle of coarse clothes, with a few tools, were all that remained of his worldly possessions. The captain had compassion on the desolate child, and charged nothing for his passage, or his food. When the vessel came within sight of port, the passengers, though most of them poor, raised a small fund for him by contribution. But who can describe the utter loneliness of the emigrant boy, when he parted from his ship-companions, and wandered through the crowded streets of New York, without meeting a single face he had ever seen before? Lights shone in cheerful basements, where families supped together; but his good-hearted mother, and his dear little blue-eyed Gretchen—where were they? Oh, it was very sad to be so entirely alone, in such a wide, wide world! Sometimes he saw a boy turn round to stare at his queer little cap, and outlandish frock; but he could not understand what he said, when he sung out, “There goes what they call a Flying Dutchman.” Day after day he tried for work, but could obtain none. His funds were running very low, and his heart was extremely heavy. As he stood leaning against a post, one day, a goat walked slowly towards him from a neighboring court. How his heart leaped up to greet her! With her came back images of the castle on the Rhine, the blooming terrace, his kind father, his blessed mother, and his darling little sister. He patted the goat’s head, and kissed her, and looked deep into her eyes, as he had done with the companion of his boyhood. A stranger came to lead the animal away; and when she was gone, poor Fritz sobbed as if his heart would break. “I have not even a goat for a friend now,” thought he. “I wish I could get back to the old mill again. I am afraid I shall starve here in this foreign land, where there is nobody to bury me.”

In the midst of these gloomy cogitations, there was an alarm of fire; and the watchmen sprung their rattles. Instantly a ray of hope darted through his soul! The sound reminded him of Father Rudolph’s Blacking Box; for one of its tipsy tunes began with a flourish exactly like it. “I will save every cent I can, and buy materials to make blacking,” thought he. “I will sleep under the planks on the wharves, and live on two pence a day. I can speak a few words of English. I will learn more from some of my countrymen, who have been here longer than I. Then, perhaps, I can sell blacking enough to buy bread and clothes.”

And thus he did. At first, it went very hard with him. Some days he earned nothing; and a week of patient waiting brought but one shilling. But his broad face was so clean and honest, his manners so respectful, and his blacking so uncommonly good, that his customers gradually increased. One day, a gentleman who traded with him made a mistake, and gave him a shilling instead of a ten-cent piece. Fritz did not observe it at the moment; but the next day, when the gentleman passed to his counting-house, he followed him, and touched him on the arm. The merchant inquired what he wanted. Fritz showed the coin, saying, “Dat not mine.” “Neither is it mine,” rejoined the merchant; “what do you show it to me for?” The boy replied, in his imperfect English, “Dat too mooch.” A friend, who was with the merchant, addressed him in German; and the poor emigrant’s countenance lighted up, as if it had become suddenly transparent, and a lamp placed within it. Heaving a sigh, and blushing at his own emotion, he explained, in his native tongue, that he had accidently taken too much for his blacking, the day before. They looked at him with right friendly glances, and inquired into his history. He told them his name and parentage, and how Uncle Heinrich had attempted to bring him to America, and had been devoured by a shark on the way. He said he had not a single friend in this foreign land, but he meant to be honest and industrious, and he hoped he should do well. The gentlemen assured him that they should always remember him as Fritz Shilling, and that they would certainly speak of him to their friends. He did not understand the joke of his name, but he did understand that they bought all his blacking, and that customers increased more rapidly after that interview.

It would be tedious to follow the emigrant through all the process of his gradually-improving fortune. As soon as he could spare anything from necessary food and clothing, he went to an evening school, where he learned to read, write, and cipher. He became first a shop-boy, then a clerk, and finally established a neat grocery-store for himself. Through all these changes, he continued to sell the blacking, which arrived at the honour of poetical advertisements in the newspapers, under the name of Schelling’s Best Boot Polisher.

But the prosperity thus produced was not the only result of his acquaintance with Father Rudolph. The dropped stitches of our life are sometimes taken up again strangely, through many intervening loops. One day, as Fritz was passing through the streets, when he was about sixteen years old, he stopped and listened intently; for he heard far off the sounds of a popular German ballad, which his grandmother and the peddler often used to sing together. Through all the din and rattle of the streets, he could plainly distinguish the monotonous minor cadence, which had often brought tears to his eyes when a boy. He followed the tones, and soon came in sight of an old man and his wife singing the familiar melody. A maiden, apparently somewhat younger than himself, played a tamborin at intervals. When he spoke to her in German, her face kindled, as his own had done, at the first sound of his native tongue in a strange land. “They call me Röschen,” she replied; “these are my father and mother. We came from the ship last night, and we sing for bread, till we can get work to do.” The soul looked simply and kindly through her blue eyes, and reminded him of sister Gretchen. Her wooden shoes, short blue petticoat, and little crimson jacket might seem vulgar to the fashionable, and picturesque to the artist; but to him it was merely the beloved costume of his native land. It warmed his heart with childish recollections; and when they sang again the quaint, sad melody, he seemed to hear the old brook flow plaintively by, and see the farewell moonlight on the mill. Thus began his acquaintance with the maiden, who was afterwards his wife, and the mother of his little Gretchen.

Of these, and all other groups of emigrants, for many years, he inquired concerning his parents and his sister; but could obtain no tidings. At last, a priest in Germany, to whom he wrote, replied that Gretchen had died in childhood; and that the father and mother had also recently died. It was a great disappointment to the affectionate heart of Fritz Schelling; for through all his expanding fortunes he had cherished the hope of returning to them, or bringing them to share his comfortable home in the New World. But when he received the mournful news, he had Röschen to love, and her parents to care for, and a little one that twined herself round his heart with fresh flower-garlands every day.

At thirty-five, he was a happy and a prosperous man. So prosperous, that he could afford to live well in the city, and yet build for himself a snug cottage in the country. “We can go out every Saturday and return on Monday,” said he to Röschen. “We can have fresh cream, and our own sweet butter. It will do the children good to roll on the grass, and they shall have a goat to play with.”

“And, perhaps, by-and-by, we can go there to live all the time,” rejoined Röschen. “It is so quiet and pleasant in the country; and what’s the use of being richer than enough?”

The site chosen for the cottage overlooked the broad, bright river, where high palisades of rock seemed almost like the ruins of an old castle. Fritz said he would make a flower-carpet on the rocks, for the goat to browse upon; and if a stork would only come and build a nest on his thatched roof, he could almost fancy himself in Germany. At times, the idea of importing storks crossed his mind; but his good sense immediately rejected the plan. It is difficult to imagine how those venerable birds, with their love of the antique and the unchangeable, could possibly live in America. One might as well try to import loyal subjects, or an ancient nobility.

When house and barn were completed, the first object was to secure honest, industrious German tenants to till the soil. Fritz heard of a company of emigrants, who wished to sell themselves for a specified time, in order to pay their passage; and he went on board the ship to see them. A hale man, who said he was about sixty years old, with a wife some five or six years younger, attracted his attention by their extreme cleanliness and good expression of countenance. He soon agreed to purchase them; and in order to prepare the necessary papers, he inquired their names.

“Karl Schelling and Liesbet Schelling,” replied the old man.

Fritz started, and his face flushed, as he asked, “Did you ever live in the old castle at Rüdesheim?”

“That we did for several summers,” rejoined Karl.

“Ah, can you tell us any thing of our son Fritz?” exclaimed Liesbet, eyeing him eagerly. “God bless him wherever he is! We came to America to find him.”

“Mother! Mother! do you not know me?” he said; and threw himself into her open arms, and kissed the honest, weather-beaten face.

“I see it has gone well with you, my son. Now, thanks be to God, and blessed be His holy name,” said Karl, reverently uncovering his head.

“And where is Gretchen?” inquired Fritz, earnestly.

“The All-Father took her home, to Himself, soon after you came to see us at Rüdesheim,” replied Liesbet. “She was always mourning for the brother, poor little one! It troubled us to go away and leave you behind us, without saying farewell; and I feared no blessing would follow it. But we were very poor, and we thought then we should come to you in two or three years.”

“Don’t speak of that,” said Fritz. “You were always good parents to me, and did the best you could. Blessings have followed me; and to meet you thus is the crowning blessing of all. Come, let us hasten home. I want to show you my good Röschen, and our Gretchen, and Karl, and Liesbet, and Rudolph, and baby Röschen. My small farm overlooks a river broad and beautiful as the Rhine. The rocks look like castles, and I have bought a goat for the children to play with. The roof of our cottage is thatched, and if a stork would only come and build her nest there, then dear father and mother might almost imagine themselves again at Rüdesheim, with plenty to eat, drink, and wear. If Father Rudolph’s Blacking Box were only here,” added he, laughing, “I should have all but one of my boyish dreams fulfilled. Ah, if dear Gretchen were only here!”

The fairy who whispered to Fritz when he was crossing the Atlantic, told him if he were diligent and saving, she would perhaps bring him the old clock; and she kept her promise better than fairies sometimes do; for it chanced that the heir of Father Rudolph came to America, and brought it with him. The price Fritz offered for it was too tempting, and it now stands in his thatched cottage. Its carved black case, inlaid with grotesque figures of birds and beasts in pearl, is more wonderful than a picture-book to the children. When any of them are out of health, or out of humour, their father sets the old bewildered tunes agoing, and they soon join in a merry mocking chorus, with “Cluck, cluck, cluck! Whirr, whirr, whirr! Rik a rik a ree!”

Note.—The accidental purchase of his parents by a German emigrant actually occurred a few years since; and this story was suggested by the fact.

HOME AND POLITICS.

FOUNDED ON AN INCIDENT THAT OCCURRED IN NEW YORK, DURING THE EXCITEMENT ATTENDING THE ELECTION OF PRESIDENT POLK.

O friendly to the best pursuits of man!
Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace,
Domestic life.
Cowper.

At the bend of a pleasant road winding under the shade of a large elm, stood a small school-house. It was a humble building; and the little belfry on the top seemed hardly large enough for the motions of the cow-bell suspended there. But it was a picturesque feature in the landscape. The elm drooped over it with uncommon gracefulness, and almost touched the belfry with its light foliage. The weather-beaten, moss-grown shingles were a relief to the eye of the traveller, weary of prim staring white houses. Moreover, a human soul had inscribed on the little place a pastoral poem in vines and flowers. A white Rose bush covered half one side, and carried its offering of blossoms up to the little bell. Cypress vines were trained to meet over the door, in a Gothic arch, surmounted by a cross. On the western side, the window was shaded with a profusion of Morning Glories; and a great rock, that jutted out into the road, was thickly strewn with Iceland moss, which in the springtime covered it with a carpet of yellow stars.

It was at that season it was first seen by George Franklin, a young New York lawyer, on a visit to the country. He walked slowly past, gazing at the noble elm slightly waving its young foliage to a gentle breeze. Just then, out poured a flock of children, of various ages. Jumping and laughing, they joined hands and formed a circle round the elm. A clear voice was heard within the school-house, singing a lively time, while measured strokes on some instrument of tin marked the time. The little band whirled round the tree, stepping to the music with the rude grace of childhood and joy. After ten or fifteen minutes of this healthy exercise, they stopped, apparently in obedience to some signal. Half of them held their hands aloft and formed arches for the other half to jump through. Then they described swift circles with their arms, and leaped high in the air. Having gone through their simple code of gymnastics, away they scampered, to seek pleasure after their own fashion, till summoned to their books again. Some of them bowed and courtesied to the traveller, as they passed; while others, with arms round each other’s necks, went hopping along, first on one foot, then on the other, too busy to do more than nod and smile, as they went by. Many of them wore patched garments, but hands and faces were all clean. Some had a stolid, animal look; but even these seemed to sun their cold nature in the rays of beauty and freedom, which they found only at school. The whole scene impressed the young man very vividly. He asked himself why it could not be always thus, in the family, in the school, every where? Why need man forever be a blot on Nature? Why must he be coarse and squalid, and gross and heavy, while Nature is ever radiant with fresh beauty, and joyful with her overplus of life? Then came saddening thoughts how other influences of life, coarse parents, selfish employers, and the hard struggle for daily bread, would overshadow the genial influences of that pleasant school, which for a few months gilded the lives of those little ones.

When he repassed the spot, some hours after, all was still, save the occasional twittering of birds in the tree. It was sunset, and a bright farewell gleam shone across the moss-carpet on the rock, and made the little flowers in the garden smile. When he returned to the city, the scene often rose before his mind as a lovely picture, and he longed for the artist’s skill to re-produce it visibly in its rustic beauty. When he again visited the country after midsummer, he remembered the little old school-house, and one of his earliest excursions was a walk in that direction. A profusion of crimson stars, and white stars, now peeped out from the fringed foliage of the Cypress vines, and the little front yard was one bed of blossoms. He leaned over the gate, and observed how neatly every plant was trained, as if some loving hand tended them carefully every day. He listened, but could hear no voices; and curiosity impelled him to see how the little building looked within. He lifted the latch, peeped in, and saw that the room was empty. The rude benches and the white-washed walls were perfectly clean. The windows were open on both sides, and the air was redolent with the sweet breath of Mignonette. On the teacher’s desk was a small vase, of Grecian pattern, containing a few flowers tastefully arranged. Some books lay beside it, and one had an ivory folder between the leaves, as if recently used. It was Bettine’s Letters to Günderode; and, where it opened at the ivory folder, he read these lines, enclosed in pencil marks; “All that I see done to children is unjust. Magnanimity, confidence, free-will, are not given to the nourishment of their souls. A slavish yoke is put upon them. The living impulse, full of buds, is not esteemed. No outlet will they give for Nature to reach the light. Rather must a net be woven, in which each mesh is a prejudice. Had not a child a world within, where could he take refuge from the deluge of folly that is poured over the budding meadow-carpet? Reverence have I before the destiny of each child, shut up in so sweet a bud. One feels reverence at touching a young bud, which the spring is swelling.”

The young man smiled with pleased surprise; for he had not expected to find appreciation of such sentiments in the teacher of a secluded country school. He took up a volume of Mary Howitt’s Birds and Flowers, and saw the name of Alice White written in it. On all blank spaces were fastened delicate young fern leaves, and small bits of richly-tinted moss. He glanced at the low ceiling, and the rude benches. “This seems not the appropriate temple for such a spirit,” thought he. “But, after all, what consequence is that, since such spirits find temples everywhere?” He took a pencil from his pocket, and marked in Bettine’s Letters: “Thou hast feeling for the every-day life of nature. Dawn, noon-tide, and evening clouds are thy dear companions, with whom thou canst converse when no man is abroad with thee. Let me be thy scholar in simplicity.”

He wrote his initials on the page. “Perhaps I shall never see this young teacher,” thought he; “but it will be a little mystery, in her unexciting life, to conjecture what curious eye has been peeping into her books.” Then he queried with himself, “How do I know she is a young teacher?”

He stood leaning against the window, looking on the beds of flowers, and the vine leaves brushed his hair, as the breeze played with them. They seemed to say that a young heart planted them. He remembered the clear, feminine voice he had heard humming the dancing-tune, in the spring time. He thought of the mosses and ferns in the book. “Oh, yes, she must be young and beautiful,” thought he. “She cannot be otherwise than beautiful, with such tastes.” He stood for some moments in half dreaming reverie. Then a broad smile went over his face. He was making fun of himself. “What consequence is it to me whether she be either beautiful or young?” said he inwardly. “I must be hungry for an adventure, to indulge so much curiosity about a country schoolmistress.”

The smile was still on his face, when he heard a light step, and Alice White stood before him. She blushed to see a stranger in her little sanctuary, and he blushed at the awkwardness of his situation. He apologized, by saying that the beauty of the little garden, and the tasteful arrangement of the vines, had attracted his attention, and, perceiving that the school-house was empty, he had taken the liberty to enter. She readily forgave the intrusion, and said she was glad if the humble little spot refreshed the eyes of those who passed by, for it had given her great pleasure to cultivate it. The young man was disappointed; for she was not at all like the picture his imagination had painted. But the tones of her voice were flexible, and there was something pleasing in her quiet but timid manner. Not knowing what to say, he bowed and took leave.

Several days after, when his rural visit was drawing to a close, he felt the need of a long walk, and a pleasant vision of the winding road and the little school-house rose before him. He did not even think of Alice White. He was ambitious, and had well nigh resolved never to marry, except to advance his fortunes. He admitted to himself that grace and beauty might easily bewitch him, and turn him from his prudent purpose. But the poor country teacher was not beautiful, either in face or figure. He had no thought of her. But to vary his route somewhat, he passed through the woods, and there he found her gathering mosses by a little brook. She recognized him, and he stopped to help her gather mosses. Thus it happened that they fell into discourse together; and the more he listened, the more he was surprised to find so rare a jewel in so plain a setting. Her thoughts were so fresh, and were so simply said! And now he noticed a deep expression in her eye, imparting a more elevated beauty than is ever derived from form or colour. He could not define it to himself, still less to others; but she charmed him. He lingered by her side, and when they parted at the school-house gate, he was half in hopes she would invite him to enter. “I expect to visit this town again in the autumn,” he said. “May I hope to find you at the little school-house?”

She did not say whether he might hope to find her there; but she answered with a smile, “I am always here. I have adopted it for my home, and tried to make it a pleasant one, since I have no other.”

All the way home his thoughts were occupied with her; and the memory of her simple, pleasant ways, often recurred to him amid the noises of the city. He would easily have forgotten her in that stage of their acquaintance, had any beautiful heiress happened to cross his path; for though his nature was kindly, and had a touch of romance, ambition was the predominant trait in his character. But it chanced that no woman attracted him very powerfully, before he again found himself on the winding road where stood the picturesque little school-house. Then came frequent walks and confidential interviews, which revealed more loveliness of mind and character than he had previously supposed. Alice was one of those peculiar persons whose history sets at naught all theories. Her parents had been illiterate, and coarse in manners, but she was gentle and refined. They were utterly devoid of imagination, and she saw every thing in the sunshine of poetry. “Who is the child like? Where did she get her queer notions?” were questions they could never answer. They died when she was fourteen; and she, unaided and unadvised, went into a factory to earn money to educate herself. Alternately at the factory and at school, she passed four years. Thanks to her notable mother, she was quick and skilful with her needle, and knew wonderfully well how to make the most of small means. She travelled along unnoticed through the by-paths of life, rejoicing in birds, and flowers, and little children, and finding sufficient stimulus to constant industry in the love of serving others, and the prospect of now and then a pretty vase, or some agreeable book. First, affectionate communion, then beauty and order, were the great attractions to her soul. Hence, she longed inexpressibly for a home, and was always striving to realize her ideal in such humble imitations as the little school-house. The family where she boarded often disputed with each other, and, being of rude natures, not all Alice’s unassuming and obliging ways could quite atone to them for her native superiority. In the solitude of the little school-house she sought refuge from things that wounded her. There she spent most of the hours of her life, and found peace on the bosom of Nature. Poor, and without personal beauty, she never dreamed that domestic love, at all resembling the pattern in her own mind, was a blessing she could ever realize. Scarcely had the surface of her heart been tremulous with even a passing excitement on the subject, till the day she gathered mosses in the wood with George Franklin. When he looked into her eyes, to ascertain what their depth expressed, she was troubled by the earnestness of his glance. Habitually humble, she did not venture to indulge the idea that she could ever be beloved by him. But when she thought of his promised visit in autumn, fair visions sometimes floated before her, of how pleasant life would be in a tasteful little home, with an intelligent companion. Always it was a little home. None of her ideas partook of grandeur. She was a pastoral poet, not an epic poet.

George did come, and they had many pleasant walks in beautiful October, and crowned each other with garlands of bright autumnal leaves. Their parting betrayed mutual affection; and soon after George wrote to her thus: “I frankly acknowledge to you that I am ambitious, and had fully resolved never to marry a poor girl. But I love you so well, I have no choice left. And now, in the beautiful light that dawns upon me, I see how mean and selfish was that resolution, and how impolitic withal. For is it not happiness we all seek? And how happy it will make me to fulfil your long-cherished dream of a tasteful home! I cannot help receiving from you more than I can give; for your nature is richer than mine. But I believe, dearest, it is always more blessed to give than to receive; and when two think so of each other, what more need of heaven?

“I am no flatterer, and I tell you frankly I was disappointed when I first saw you. Unconsciously to myself, I had fallen in love with your soul. The transcript of it, which I saw in the vines and the flowers attracted me first; then a revelation of it from the marked book, the mosses and the ferns. I imagined you must be beautiful; and when I saw you were not, I did not suppose I should ever think of you more. But when I heard you talk, your soul attracted me irresistibly again, and I wondered I ever thought you otherwise than beautiful. Rarely is a beautiful soul shrined within a beautiful body. But loveliness of soul has one great advantage over its frail envelope, it need not decrease with time, but ought rather to increase.

“Of one thing rest assured, dear Alice; it is now impossible for me ever to love another, as I love you.”

When she read this letter, it seemed to her as if she were in a delightful dream. Was it indeed possible that the love of an intelligent, cultivated soul was offered to her, the poor unfriended one? How marvellous it seemed, that when she was least expecting such a blossom from Paradise, a stranger came and laid it in the open book upon her desk, in that little school-house, where she had toiled with patient humility through so many weary hours! She kissed the dear letter again and again; she kissed the initials he had written in the book before he had seen her. She knelt down, and, weeping, thanked God that the great hunger of her heart for a happy home was now to be satisfied. But when she re-read the letter in calmer mood, the uprightness of her nature made her shrink from the proffered bliss. He said he was ambitious. Would he not repent marrying a poor girl, without beauty, and without social influence of any kind? Might he not find her soul far less lovely than he deemed it? Under the influence of these fears, she answered him: “How happy your precious letter made me, I dare not say. My heart is like a garden when the morning sun shines on it, after a long, cold storm. Ever since the day we gathered mosses in the wood, you have seemed so like the fairest dreams of my life, that I could not help loving you, though I had no hope of being beloved in return. Even now, I fear that you are acting under a temporary delusion, and that hereafter you may repent your choice. Wait long, and observe my faults. I will try not to conceal any of them from you. Seek the society of other women. You will find so many superior to me, in all respects! Do not fear to give me pain by any change in your feelings. I love you with that disinterested love, which would rejoice in your best happiness, though it should lead you away from me.”

This letter did not lower his estimate of the beauty of her soul. He complied with her request to cultivate the acquaintance of other women. He saw many more beautiful, more graceful, more accomplished, and of higher intellectual cultivation; but none of them seemed so charmingly simple and true, as Alice White. “Do not talk to me any more about a change in my feelings,” he said, “I like your principles, I like your disposition, I like your thoughts, I like your ways; and I always shall like them.” Thus assured, Alice joyfully dismissed her fears, and became his wife.

Rich beyond comparison is a man who is loved by an intelligent woman, so full of home-affections! Especially if she has learned humility, and gained strength, in the school of hardship and privation. But it is only beautiful souls who learn such lessons in adversity. In lower natures it engenders discontent and envy, which change to pride and extravagance in the hour of prosperity. Alice had always been made happy by the simplest means; and now, though her husband’s income was a moderate one, her intuitive taste and capable fingers made his home a little bower of beauty. She seemed happy as a bird in her cozy nest; and so grateful, that George said, half in jest, half in earnest, he believed women loved their husbands as the only means society left them of procuring homes over which to preside. There was some truth in the remark; but it pained her sensitive and affectionate nature, because it intruded upon her the idea of selfishness mingled with her love. Thenceforth, she said less about the external blessings of a home; but in her inmost soul she enjoyed it, like an earthly heaven. And George seemed to enjoy it almost as much as herself. Again and again, he said he had never dreamed domestic companionship was so rich a blessing. His wife, though far less educated than himself, had a nature capable of the highest cultivation. She was always an intelligent listener, and her quick intuitions often understood far more than he had expressed or thought. Poor as she was, she had brought better furniture for his home, than mahogany chairs and marble tables.

Smoothly glided a year away, when a little daughter came into the domestic circle, like a flower brought by angels. George had often laughed at the credulous fondness of other parents, but he really thought his child was the most beautiful one he had ever seen. In the countenance and movements he discovered all manner of rare gifts. He was sure she had an eye for color, an eye for form, and an ear for music. She had her mother’s deep eye, and would surely inherit her quick perceptions, her loving heart, and her earnestness of thought. His whole soul seemed bound up in her existence. Scarcely the mother herself was more devoted to all her infant wants and pleasures. Thus happy were they, with their simple treasures of love and thought, when, in evil hour, a disturbing influence crossed their threshold. It came in the form of political excitement; that pestilence which is forever racing through our land, seeking whom it may devour; destroying happy homes, turning aside our intellectual strength from the calm and healthy pursuits of literature or science, blinding consciences, embittering hearts, rasping the tempers of men, and blighting half the talent of our country with its feverish breath.

At that time, our citizens were much excited for and against the election of General Harrison. George Franklin threw himself into the melée with firm and honest conviction that the welfare of the country depended on his election. But the superior and inferior natures of man are forever mingling in all his thoughts and actions; and this generous ardor for the nation’s good gradually opened into a perspective of flattering prospects for himself. By the study and industry of years, he had laid a solid foundation in his profession, and every year brought some increase of income and influence. But he had the American impatience of slow growth. Distinguished in some way he had always wished to be; and no avenue to the desired object seemed so short as the political race-course. A neighbour, whose temperament was peculiarly prone to these excitements, came in often and invited him to clubs and meetings. When Alice was seated at her work, with the hope of passing one of their old pleasant evenings, she had a nervous dread of hearing the door-bell, lest this man should enter. It was not that she expected, or wished, her husband to sacrifice ambition and enterprise, and views of patriotic duty, to her quiet habits. But the excitement seemed an unhealthy one. He lived in a species of mental intoxication. He talked louder than formerly, and doubled his fists in the vehemence of gesticulation. He was restless for newspapers, and watched the arrival of mails, as he would once have watched over the life of his child. All calm pleasures became tame and insipid. He was more and more away from home, and staid late in the night. Alice at first sat up to wait for him; but finding that not conducive to the comfort of their child, she gradually formed the habit of retiring to rest before his return. She was always careful to leave a comfortable arrangement of the fire, with his slippers in a warm place, and some slight refreshment prettily laid out on the table. The first time he came home and saw these silent preparations, instead of the affectionate face that usually greeted him, it made him very sad. The rustic school-house, with its small belfry, and its bright little garden-plat, rose up in the perspective of memory, and he retraced, one by one, all the incidents of their love. Fair and serene came those angels of life out of the paradise of the past. They smiled upon him and asked, “Are there any like us in the troubled path you have now chosen?” With these retrospections came some self-reproaches concerning little kind attentions forgotten, and professional duties neglected, under the influence of political excitement. He spoke to Alice with unusual tenderness that night, and voluntarily promised that when the election was fairly over, he would withdraw from active participation in politics. But this feeling soon passed away. The nearer the result of the election approached, the more intensely was his whole being absorbed in it. One morning, when he was reading the newspaper, little Alice fretted and cried. He said, impatiently, “I wish you would carry that child away. Her noise disturbs me.” Tears came to the mother’s eyes, as she answered, “She is not well; poor little thing! She has taken cold.” “I am sorry for that,” he replied, and hurried to go out and exult with his neighbour concerning the political tidings.

At night, the child was unusually peevish and restless. She toddled up to her father’s knees, and cried for him to rock her to sleep. He had just taken her in his arms, and laid her little head upon his bosom, when the neighbour came for him to go to a political supper. He said the mails that night must bring news that would decide the question. The company would wait for their arrival, and then have a jubilee in honour of Harrison’s success. The child cried and screamed, when George put her away into the mother’s arms; and he said sternly, “Naughty girl! Father don’t love her when she cries.” “She is not well,” replied the mother, with a trembling voice, and hurried out of the room.

It was two o’clock in the morning before George returned; but late as it was, his wife was sitting by the fire. “Hurrah for the old coon!” he exclaimed. “Harrison is elected.”

She threw herself on his bosom, and bursting into tears, sobbed out, “Oh, hush, hush, dear George! Our little Alice is dead!” Dead! and the last words he had spoken to his darling had been unkind. What would he not have given to recall them now? And his poor wife had passed through that agony, alone in the silent midnight, without aid or consolation from him. A terrible weight oppressed his heart. He sank into a chair, drew the dear sufferer to his bosom, and wept aloud.

* * * * *

This great misfortune sadly dimmed the glory of his eagerly-anticipated political triumph. When the tumult of grief subsided, he reviewed the events of his life, and weighed them in a balance. More and more, he doubted whether it were wise to leave the slow certainties of his profession, for chances which had in them the excitement and the risks of gambling. More and more seriously he questioned whether the absorption of his faculties in the keen conflicts of the hour was the best way to serve the true interests of his country. It is uncertain how the balance would have turned, had he not received an appointment to office under the new government. Perhaps the sudden fall of the triumphal arch, occasioned by the death of General Harrison, might have given him a lasting distaste for politics, as it did to many others. But the proffered income was more than double the sum he had ever received from his profession. Dazzled by the prospect, he did not sufficiently take into the account that it would necessarily involve him in many additional expenses, political and social, and that he might lose it by the very next turn of the wheel, without being able to return easily to his old habits of expenditure. Once in office, the conviction that he was on the right side combined with gratitude and self-interest to make him serve his party with money and personal influence. The question of another election was soon agitated, and these motives drove him into the new excitement. He was kind at home, but he spent little time there. He sometimes smiled when he came in late, and saw the warm slippers by the fire, and a vase of flowers crowning his supper on the table; but he did not think how lonely Alice must be, nor could he possibly dream what she was suffering in the slow martyrdom of her heart. He gave dinners and suppers often. Strangers went and came. They ate and drank, and smoked, and talked loud. Alice was polite and attentive; but they had nothing for her, and she had nothing for them. How out of place would have been her little songs and her fragrant flowers, amid their clamor and tobacco-smoke! She was a pastoral poet living in a perpetual battle.

The house was filled with visitors to see the long Whig procession pass by, with richly-caparisoned horses, gay banners, flowery arches, and promises of protection to every thing. George bowed from his chariot and touched his hat to her, as he passed with the throng, and she waved her handkerchief. “How beautiful! How magnificent!” exclaimed a visitor, who stood by her. “Clay will certainly be elected. The whole city seems to be in the procession. Sailors, printers, firemen, every thing.”

“There are no women and children,” replied Alice; and she turned away with a sigh. The only protection that interested her, was a protection for homes.

Soon after came the evening procession of Democrats. The army of horses; temples of Liberty, with figures in women’s dress to represent the goddess; raccoons hung, and guillotined, and swallowed by alligators; the lone star of Texas everywhere glimmering over their heads; the whole shadowy mass occasionally illuminated by the rush of fire-works, and the fitful glare of lurid torches; all this made a strange and wild impression on the mind of Alice, whose nervous system had suffered in the painful internal conflicts of her life. It reminded her of the memorable 10th of August in Paris; and she had visions of human heads reared on poles before the windows, as they had been before the palace of the unfortunate Maria Antoinette. Visitors observed their watches, and said it took this procession an hour longer to pass than it had for the Whig procession. “I guess Polk will beat after all,” said one. George was angry and combated the opinion vehemently. Even after the company had all gone, and the street noises had long passed off in the distance, he continued remarkably moody and irritable. He had more cause for it than his wife was aware of. She supposed the worst that could happen, would be defeat of his party and loss of office. But antagonists, long accustomed to calculate political games with a view to gambling, had dared him to bet on the election, being perfectly aware of his sanguine temperament; and George, stimulated solely by a wish to prove to the crowd, who heard them, that he considered the success of Clay’s party certain, allowed himself to be drawn into the snare, to a ruinous extent. All his worldly possessions, even his watch, his books, and his household furniture, were at stake; and ultimately all were lost. Alice sympathized with his deep dejection, tried to forget her own sorrows, and said it would be easy for her to assist him, she was so accustomed to earn her own living.

On their wedding day, George had given her a landscape of the rustic school-house, embowered in vines, and shaded by its graceful elm. He asked to have this reserved from the wreck, and stated the reason. No one had the heart to refuse it; for even amid the mad excitement of party triumph, everybody said, “I pity his poor wife.”

She left her cherished home before the final breaking up. It would have been too much for her womanly heart, to see those beloved household goods carried away to the auction-room. She lingered long by the astral lamp, and the little round table, where she and George used to read to each other, in the first happy year of their marriage. She did not weep. It would have been well if she could. She took with her the little vase, that used to stand on the desk in the old country school-house, and a curious Wedgewood pitcher George had given her on the day little Alice was born. She did not show them to him, it would make him so sad. He was tender and self-reproachful; and she tried to be very strong, that she might sustain him. But health had suffered in these storms, and her organization fitted her only for one mission in this world; that was, to make and adorn a home. Through hard and lonely years she had longed for it. She had gained it, and thanked God with the joyfulness of a happy heart. And now her vocation was gone.

In a few days, hers was pronounced a case of melancholy insanity. She was placed in the hospital, where her husband strives to surround her with every thing to heal the wounded soul. But she does not know him. When he visits her, she looks at him with strange eyes, and still clinging to the fond ideal of her life, she repeats mournfully, “I want my home. Why don’t George come and take me home?”

* * * * *

Thus left adrift on the dark ocean of life, George Franklin hesitated whether to trust the chances of politics for another office, or to start again in his profession, and slowly rebuild his shattered fortunes from the ruins of the past. Having wisely determined in favor of the latter, he works diligently and lives economically, cheered by the hope that reason will again dawn in the beautiful soul that loved him so truly.

His case may seem like an extreme one; but in truth he is only one of a thousand similar wrecks continually floating over the turbulent sea of American politics.

TO THE TRAILING ARBUTUS.

Thou delicate and fragrant thing!
Sweet prophet of the coming Spring!
To what can poetry compare
Thy hidden beauty, fresh and fair?

Only they who search can find
Thy trailing garlands close enshrined;
Unveiling, like a lovely face,
Surprising them with artless grace.

Thou seemest like some sleeping babe,
Upon a leafy pillow laid;
Dreaming, in thy unconscious rest,
Of nest’ling on a mother’s breast.

Or like a maiden in life’s May,
Fresh dawning of her girlish day;
When the pure tint her cheeks disclose
Seems a reflection of the rose.

More coy than hidden love thou art,
With blushing hopes about its heart;
And thy faint breath of fragrance seems
Like kisses stolen in our dreams.

Thou’rt like a gentle poet’s thought,
By Nature’s simplest lessons taught,
Reclining on old moss-grown trees,
Communing with the whisp’ring breeze.

Like timid natures, that conceal
What others carelessly reveal;
Reserving for a chosen few
Their wealth of feeling, pure and true.

Like loving hearts, that ne’er grow old,
Through autumn’s change, or winter’s cold;
Preserving some sweet flowers, that lie
’Neath withered leaves of years gone by.

At sight of thee a troop upsprings
Of simple, pure, and lovely things;
But half thou sayest to my heart,
I find no language to impart.

THE CATHOLIC AND THE QUAKER.

For thee, the priestly rite and prayer
And holy day, and solemn psalm;
For me, the silent reverence, where
My brethren gather, slow and calm.
J. G. Whittier.

It was one of Ireland’s greenest lanes that wound its way down to a rippling brook, in the rear of Friend Goodman’s house. And there, by a mound of rocks that dipped their mossy feet in the rivulet, Friend Goodman walked slowly, watching for his little daughter, who had been spending the day with some children in the neighbourhood. Presently, the small maiden came jumping along, with her bonnet thrown back, and the edges of her soft brown ringlets luminous in the rays of the setting sun. Those pretty curls were not Quakerly; but Nature, who pays no more attention to the regulations of Elders, than she does to the edicts of Bishops, would have it so. At the slightest breath of moisture, the silky hair rolled itself into spirals, and clustered round her pure white forehead, as if it loved the nestling-place. Jumping, likewise, was not a Quakerly proceeding. But little Alice, usually staid and demure, in imitation of those around her, had met with a new companion, whose temperament was more mercurial than her own, and she was yielding to its magnetic influence.

Camillo Campbell, a boy of six years, was the grandson of an Italian lady, who had married an Irish absentee, resident in Florence. Her descendants had lately come to Ireland, and taken possession of estates in the immediate neighbourhood of Friend Goodman, where little Camillo’s foreign complexion, lively temperament, and graceful broken language, rendered him an object of very great interest, especially among the children. He it was with whom little Alice was skipping through the green lane, bright and free as the wind and sunshine that played among her curls. As the sober father watched their innocent gambols, he felt his own pulses quicken, and his motions involuntarily became more rapid and elastic than usual. The little girl came nestling up to his side, and rubbed her head upon his arm, like a petted kitten. Camillo peeped roguishly from behind the mossy rocks, kissed his hand to her, and ran off, hopping first on one foot and then on the other.

“Dost thou like that little boy?” inquired Friend Goodman, as he stooped to kiss his darling.

“Yes, Camillo’s a pretty boy, I like him,” she replied. Then with a skip and a bound, which showed that the electric fluid was still leaping in her veins, she added, “He’s a funny boy, too: he swears you all the time.”

The simple child, being always accustomed to hear thee and thou, verily thought you was a profane word. Her father did what was very unusual with him: he laughed outright, as he replied, “What a strange boy is that!”

“He asked me to come down to the rock and play, to-morrow. May I go, after school?” she asked.

“We will see what mother says,” he replied. “But where didst thou meet Camillo?”

“He came to play with us in the lane, and Deborah and John and I went into his garden to see the birds. Oh, he has got such pretty birds! There’s a nice little meeting-house in the garden; and there’s a woman standing there with a baby. Camillo calls her my donny. He says we mustn’t play in there. Why not? Who is my donny?”

“The people of Italy, where Camillo used to live, call the Mother of Christ Madonna,” replied her father.

“And who is Christ?” she asked.

“He was a holy man, who lived a great many years ago. I read to thee one day about his taking little children in his arms and blessing them.”

“I guess he loved little children almost as well as thou, dear father,” said Alice. “But what do they put his mother in that little meeting-house for?”

Not deeming it wise to puzzle her busy little brain with theological explanations, Friend Goodman called her attention to a small dog, whose curly white hair soon displaced the Madonna, and even Camillo, in her thoughts. But the new neighbour, and the conservatory peopled with birds, and the little chapel in the garden, made a strong impression on her mind. She was always talking of them, and in after years they remained by far the most vivid picture in the gallery of childish recollections. Nearly every day, she and Camillo met at the mossy rock, where they planted flowers in blossom, and buried flies in clover-leaves, and launched little boats on the stream. When they strolled toward the conservatory, the old gardener was always glad to admit them. Flowering shrubs and gaudy parrots, so bright in the warm sunshine, formed such a cheerful contrast to her own unadorned home, that little Alice was never weary with gazing and wondering. But from all the brilliant things, she chose two Java sparrows for her especial favorites. The old gardener told her they were Quaker birds, because their feathers were all of such a soft, quiet color. Bright little Camillo caught up the idea, and said, “I know what for you so much do like them: Quaker lady-birds they be.”

“And she’s a Quaker lady-bird, too,” said the old gardener, smiling, as he patted her on the head; “she’s a nice little lady-bird.” Poll Parrot heard him, and repeated, “Lady-bird.” Always after that, when Alice entered the conservatory, the parrot laughed and screamed, “Lady-bird!”

Near the door were two niches partially concealed by a net-work of vines; and in the niches were statues of two winged children. Alice inquired who they were; and Camillo replied, “My little sister and brother. Children of the Madonna now they is.” His mother had told him this, and he did not understand what it meant; neither did Alice. She looked up at the winged ones with timid love, and said, “Why don’t they come down and play with us?”

“From heaven they cannot come down,” answered Camillo.

Alice was about to inquire the reason why, when the parrot interrupted her by calling out, “Lady-bird! Lady-bird!” and Camillo began to mock her. Then, laughing merrily, off they ran to the mossy rock to plant some flowers the gardener had given them.

That night, while Alice was eating her supper, Friend Goodman chanced to read aloud something in which the word heaven occurred. “I’ve been to heaven,” said Alice.

“Hush, hush, my child,” replied her father.

“But I have been to heaven,” she insisted. “Little children have wings there.”

Her parents exchanged glances of surprise, and the mother asked, “How dost thou know that little children have wings in heaven?”

“Because I saw them,” she replied. “They wear white gowns, and they are the children of my donny. My donny lives in the little meeting-house in Camillo’s garden. She’s the mother of Christ that loved little children so much; but she never said any thing to me. The birds call me lady-bird, in heaven.”

Her mother looked very sober. “She gets her head full of strange things down there yonder,” said she. “I tell thee, Joseph, I don’t like to have the children playing together so much. There’s no telling what may come of it.”

“Oh, they are mere babes,” replied Joseph. “The my donny, as she calls it, and her doll, are all the same to her. The children take a deal of comfort together, and it seems to me it is not worth while to put estrangement between them. Divisions come fast enough in the human family. When he is a lad, he will go away to school and college, and will come back to live in a totally different world from ours. Let the little ones enjoy themselves while they can.”

Thus spake the large-hearted Friend Joseph; but Rachel was not so easily satisfied. “I don’t like this talk about graven images,” said she. “If the child’s head gets full of such notions, it may not prove so easy to put them out.”

Truly, there seemed some ground for Rachel’s fears; for whether Alice walked or slept, she seemed to live in the neighbour’s garden. Sitting beside her mother in the silent Quaker meeting, she forgot the row of plain bonnets before her, and saw a vision of winged children through a veil of vines. At school, she heard the old green parrot scream, “Lady-bird!” and fan-tailed doves and Java sparrows hopped into her dreams. She had never heard a fairy story in her life; otherwise, she would doubtless have imagined that Camillo was a prince, who lived in an enchanted palace, and had some powerful fairy for a friend.

* * * * *

It came to pass as Joseph had predicted. These days of happy companionship soon passed away. Camillo went to a distant school, then to college, and then was absent awhile on the Continent. It naturally happened that the wealthy Catholic family had but little intercourse with the substantial Quaker farmer. Years passed without a word between Alice and her former playfellow. Once, during his college life, she met him and his father on horseback, as she was riding home from meeting, on a small gray mare her father had given her. He touched his hat and said, “How do you do, Miss Goodman?” and she replied, “How art thou, Camillo?” His father inquired, “Who is that young woman?” and he answered, “She is the daughter of Farmer Goodman, with whom I used to play sometimes, when I was a little boy.” Thus like shadows they passed on their separate ways. He thought no more of the rustic Quaker girl, and with her, the bright picture of their childhood was like the remembrance of last year’s rainbow.

But events now approached, which put all rainbows and flowers to flight. A Rebellion broke out in Ireland, and a terrible civil war began to rage between Catholics under the name of Pikemen, and Protestants under the name of Orangemen. The Quakers being conscientiously opposed to war, could not adopt the emblems of either party, and were of course exposed to the hostility of both. Joseph Goodman, in common with others of his religious persuasion, had always professed to believe, that returning good for evil was a heavenly principle, and therefore safe policy. Alice had received this belief as a traditionary inheritance, without disputing it, or reflecting upon it. But now came times that tested faith severely. Every night, they retired to rest with the consciousness that their worldly possessions might be destroyed by fire and pillage before morning, and perhaps their lives sacrificed by infuriated soldiers. At the meeting-house, and by the way-side, earnest were the exhortations of the brethren to stand by their principles, and not flinch in this hour of trial. Joseph Goodman’s sermon was brief and impressive. “The Gospel of Love has power to regenerate the world,” said he; “and the humblest individual, who lives according to it, has done something for the salvation of man.”

His strength was soon tried; for the very next day a party of Pikemen came into the neighbourhood and set fire to all the houses of the Orangemen. Groans, and shrieks, and the sharp sound of shots, were heard in every direction. Fierce men rushed into their peaceful dwelling, demanding food, and ordering them to give up their arms.

“Food I will give, but arms I have none,” replied Joseph.

“More shame for you!” roared the commander of the troop. “If you can’t do any thing more for your country than that, you may as well be killed at once, for a coward, as you are.”

He drew his sword, but Joseph did not wink at the flash of the glittering blade. He looked him calmly in the eye, and said, “If thou art willing to take the crime of murder on thy conscience, I cannot help it. I would not willingly do harm to thee, or to any man.”

The soldier turned away abashed, and putting his sword into the scabbard, he muttered, “Well, give us something to eat, will you?”

The hours that followed were frightful with the light of blazing houses, the crash of musketry, and the screams of women and children flying across the fields. Many took refuge in Joseph’s house, and he did all he could to soothe and strengthen them.

At sunset, he went forth with his serving-men to seek the wounded and the dead. Along the road and among the bushes, mangled bodies were lying in every direction. Those in whom life remained, they brought with all tenderness and consigned to the care of Rachel and Alice; and, as long as they could see, they gathered the dead for burial. In the evening, the captain of the Pikemen returned in great wrath. “This is rather too much,” he exclaimed. “We did’nt spare your house this morning to have it converted into a hospital for the damned Orangemen. Turn out every dog of ’em, or we will burn it down over your heads.”

“I cannot stay thy hand, if thou hast the heart to do it,” mildly replied Joseph. “But I will not desert my fellow-creatures in their great distress. If the time should come when thy party is routed, we will bury thy dead, and nurse thy wounded, as we have done for the Orangemen. I will do good to all parties, and harm to none. Here I take my stand, and thou mayest kill me if thou wilt.”

Again the soldier was arrested by a power he knew not how to resist. Joseph seeing his embarrassment, added: “I put the question to thee as a man of war: Is it manly to persecute women and children? Is it brave to torture the wounded and the dying? Wouldst thou feel easy to think of it in thy dying hour? Let us part in peace, and when thou hast need of a friend, come to me.”

After a brief hesitation, the soldier said, “It would be a happier world if all thought as you do.” Then, calling to his men, he said, “Let us be off, boys. There’s nothing to be done here.”

A fortnight after, triumphant Orangemen came with loud uproar to destroy the houses of the Catholics. It was scarcely day-break, when Alice was roused from uneasy slumbers by the discharge of musketry, and a lurid light on the walls of her room. Starting up, she beheld Colonel Campbell’s house in a blaze. The beautiful statues of the Madonna and the winged children were knocked to pieces, and crushed under the feet of an angry mob. Vines and flowers crisped under the crackling flames, and the beautiful birds from foreign climes fell suffocated in the smoke, or flew forth, frightened, into woods and fields, and perished by cruel hands. In the green lane, once so peaceful and pleasant, ferocious men were scuffling and trampling, shooting and stabbing. Everywhere the grass and the moss were dabbled with blood. Above all the din, were heard the shrill screams of women and children; and the mother of Camillo came flying into Joseph’s house, exclaiming, “Hide me, oh, hide me!” Alice received her in her arms, laid the throbbing head tenderly on her bosom, put back the hair that was falling in wild disorder over her face, and tried to calm her terror with gentle words. Others came pouring in, and no one was refused shelter. To the women of Colonel Campbell’s household Alice relinquished her own little bedroom, the only corner of the house that was not already filled to overflowing. She drew the curtain, that the afflicted ones need not witness the bloody skirmishing in the fields and lane below. But a loud shriek soon recalled her to their side. Mary Campbell had withdrawn the curtain, and seen her husband fall, thrust at by a dozen swords. Fainting-fits and hysterics succeeded each other in quick succession, while Alice and her mother laid her on the bed, and rubbed her hands and bathed her temples. Gradually the sounds of war died away in the distance. Then Joseph and his helpers went forth to gather up the wounded and the dead. Colonel Campbell was found utterly lifeless, and the brook where Camillo used to launch his little boats, was red with his father’s blood. They brought him in tenderly, washed the ghastly wounds, closed the glaring eyes, and left the widow and the household to mourn over him. Late in the night they persuaded her to go to rest; and, when all was still, the weary family fell asleep on the floor; for not a bed was unoccupied.