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THE JUVENILE

FORGET-ME-NOT.

JUVENILE FORGET-ME-NOT.

NEW YORK,

PUBLISHED BY LEAVITT & ALLEN.

THE JUVENILE
FORGET-ME-NOT.
A
Christmas and New Year’s
PRESENT.

NEW YORK:

LEAVITT AND ALLEN.

Illustrations.

CONTENTS.

THE MOTHER’S JEWEL.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE BROTHERS.”

“These are my gems,”[^[1]] the Roman mother cried,

Her bright lip wreathed in smiles of sunny pride,

“These are my gems,” as o’er each infant head

Superbly fond her high-born hands she spread;

This, with dark eyes, and hyacinthine flow

Of raven tresses down a neck of snow—

That, golden-haired, with orbs whose azurn hue

Had dimmed the Indian sapphire’s deathless blue.

“These are my gems! bring ye the rarest stone,

“That ever flashed from Eastern tyrants’ throne!

“Bring amber, such as those[^[2]] sad sisters gave,

“Vain bribes to still the rash relentless wave!

“Bring diamonds, such as that[^[3]] false matron wore,

“Bought by their sheen to break the faith she swore,

“Who lured to death foredoomed her prophet lord,

“To death more certain than the Theban sword,—

“Bring gauds, like those which caught Tarpeia’s[^[4]] eye,

“Fated beneath her treason’s price to die!—

“And I will match them—yea! their worth outvie

“With that, nor art can frame, nor treasure buy,

“Nor force subdue, nor dungeon walls control—

“Each precious gem—a freeborn Roman soul!

“Know ye not, how—when quaked the solid earth,

“And shook the seven hills, as at Titan’s birth,—

“When the proud forum yawned—a gulf so wide

“Rome’s navy in its space secure might ride—

“When pale-eyed prophets did the fate declare,

“That dread abyss should yawn for ever there,

“Till Rome’s best jewel, darkly tombed within,

“The gods should soothe, and expiate the sin!—

“Know ye not, how their robes of Syrian hue

“To the sad King the trembling matrons threw?

“What flower-crowned captives bled, the abyss to close?

“What Syrian perfumes from the brink arose?

“What sculptured vases of barbaric gold,

“What trophied treasures, through its void were rolled?

“What sunbright gems—onyx and agate rare,

“And deathless adamant—were scattered there?

“But not in gold, nor gems, nor Tyrian die,

“Trophies, nor slaves, did Rome’s best treasure lie!

“His limbs superb in war’s triumphant guise,

“His soul’s high valor flashing from his eyes,

“His courser chafing, impotently bold,

“Against the hand that well his fire controlled,

“Forth! forth he rode, in native worth sublime,

“Unstained by fetters, ignorant of crime!

“Forth! forth he rode, to play the martyr’s part—

“Rome’s richest jewel—[^[5]]a right Roman heart

“‘So may the gods avert my country’s doom,

“‘I rush in triumph to my living tomb!

“‘Rome hath no jewel worthier earth’s embrace,

“‘Than one free warrior of her fearless race!—

“‘Fearless I come and free!—Accept the gift,

“‘Dark Hades!’—leaped the youth—and closed the rift—

“And rolled the cloudless thunder—Jove’s assent

“That Rome’s best jewel to the abyss was sent!

“These are my gems! Each for his country’s weal

“Devote to raging fire, or rending steel—

“So long to live—so soon to die—as she—

“She only!—shall determine and decree!—

“Blest that I am, to call such jewels mine—

“All else to fate contented I resign;

“Contented—if they mount the curule chair,

“Its best adornment—I shall view them there!

“Contented—if they fill a timeless grave—

“Their wounds—their wounds of honor—I shall lave!

“Secure in each event, Cornelia’s race

“Shall live with glory—die without disgrace!

“Secure, that neither—even in hopeless strife—

“Shall turn upon his heel to save his life!

“Secure, that neither—heaven itself to buy—

“A foe shall flatter, or a friend deny!

“These are my gems!—Give ye your country such—

“So shall ye put your vauntings to the touch—

“Or, yielding me the palm, your boast disown—

“Your diamonds may not match what I have shown!”

SWEET STREAM.

I.

Sweet stream, that from the thickets free,

Comest dancing in thy mountain glee—

The thirsty traveller’s smiling friend—

To my reproachful plaint attend.

II.

The time’s long past, since here I laid

My limbs beneath the green-tree’s shade;

Yet grateful on thy waves I look,

Nor e’er forget my favorite brook.

III.

I am changed, sweet stream, and sadly changed,

Since mid these verdant fields I ranged.

I’ve proved the world, and learned how few

Of Hope’s beguiling dreams were true.

IV.

And now I fain to thee would fly

For sympathy which men deny—

Yet heed’st thou not my spirit’s pain!

Even here my weary search is vain.

V.

Why nourish still this turf of green?

These flowers my early joys have seen

Why linger yet soft breezes here,

As when they dried no falling tear?

VI.

And thou, in freshness glancing by,

Dost pause not for the wanderer’s sigh!

Thy current which no murmur hears,

Flows swifter for my added tears.

STANZAS.

BY MISS ELIZABETH M. ALLISON.

Again, in this lone hour, I snatch my lyre,

O’er which the chain of silence long has lain,

To wake once more the too neglected strain;

Ah! could I touch it with immortal fire,

And pour the burning melody of song

In one full tide its thrilling chords along.

Alas! from me has fled the power of song,

That once flung its deep crimson sun-like glow

Of promise, o’er my path of life below,

In deep-toned visions, such as not belong

To things of earth, but float with forms of air

In the bright realms of space like houri’s fair.

But see, again what spells around me lour,—

Forms such as Dante pictured in that hell,

His proud soul bursting in his lone farewell

From exiled Florence, flash my view before:

With Tasso’s heroes armed in holy fight,

Or Ariosto’s bower for nymph and errant-knight.

Thou too![^[6]] to whom a poet’s fire was given,

And all a poet’s quenchless thirst of fame,

Quick kindling fancies, half of air and flame,

Passions and feelings born but to be riven,

What though denied to vent in verse their force

In poesy was their impassioned source.

How wild soe’er the dreams born in that mind

By Vevay’s bank, they link thee with the few

Whose bright reward the laurel and the rue,

Emblem of suffering and of fame were twined

In the undying wreath—and must such be

The poet’s crown of immortality?

Change we the chords, and wake another strain;

Too high aspirings in my bosom swell,

As spirits hallowed each by the bright spell

Of burning poesy come o’er my brain,

Till every nerve with o’er wrought feeling fraught,

Throbs with a pained intensity of thought.

Why was my soul thus proudly taught to soar?

Why were these visions wakened in my breast,

These wild ambitionings that mar its rest,

Scathing, as if with fire, its inmost core,

With bright imaginings of other sphere

Launched from their former source; what do they here?

Ah! if the muse bestowed them but in vain,

Meaning them ne’er to glow to deeds of fire,

But sent like lightnings, in their fatal flame

To sear all verdure from the smiling plain!

Take back the power of song, the Muses’ fire,

And grant that bliss which humbler themes in spire.

THE WOULD-BE-GENTEEL LADY.

BY MRS. CHARLES SEDGWICK.

In such a country as ours—a country of “workies”—where there exists no privileged class, falsely so called, unless idleness and ennui are privileges, one might suppose that a passion for gentility would be confined to the fashionable circles of the city; that the bees would as soon be found giving preference to fashionable flowers, or aiming at a fashionable style of architecture in their hives, as the busy matrons and maidens of New England, for instance, directing their thoughts, mainly, to genteel modes of living, dressing, and behaving.

Doctor Johnson derives the word genteel, from the Latin word gentilis: meaning “of the same house, family name, ancestry, etc.” Its meaning has, probably, undergone as many modifications as the word heretic, of which the most accurate definition I have ever heard was given by a young boy of twelve: “A heretic is a person that don’t believe as you do.” It is plain he had not obtained this information from books, but from society. In like manner an ungenteel person is, with many, one who does not live, dress, and act, in all respects, as they do. The orthodoxy of one age or country, is the heresy of another; and the gentility of one, is the vulgarity of another.

Thus it is with fashion, the handmaid of gentility; who has been well described as a jade that stalks through one country with the cast-off clothes of another; and the modes and forms of gentility are as variable as the wayward humors of those vacant-minded people who lead the fashion.

How much more respectable, how much more American it would be for us, of this country, to limit the word, in our application of it, to something like its original meaning, and make gentility consist in living and acting conformably to the circumstances of one’s family or station—not in a slavish, ignoble imitation of comparatively a few self-styled favored mortals, whose lot is cast in a different, but not a happier sphere.

There is one indispensable condition of absolute gentility, in the popular sense, which very few in our country can command, viz. an exemption from labor; and a hard condition it is—not for those who lose caste on its account, but for those who, by fulfilling it, acquire caste. God made us to be active in mind and body—he gave a spring to universal being—and standing water is the fit emblem of a stagnant life. But even those to whom this exemption may seem desirable, cannot enjoy it, generally speaking, in our country.

A southern gentleman, describing a New England dinner, said, “In the first place, at the head of the table is always a roasted lady.” Now, although a southern dinner may not have so displeasing an accompaniment, we are assured by those who have been behind the scenes in families abounding with slaves, that the mistress herself is the greatest slave of all, since all the headwork, and some part of the handy-work too, must be done by her; for instance, she must weigh out the food, and cut out the garments of her family servants.

But, notwithstanding this serious obstacle, nowhere, we are assured, is there such a strife for gentility, as in this country, where every other strife most incompatible with that, is perpetually carried on.

It is said to be peculiar to us, that our villages ape, so minutely, the fashions of our cities; that no sooner is a new fashion of dress, or of the sleeve alone of a dress, introduced into the city, than straightway, as by magic, every sleeve in the country, from the shoulder of the squire’s wife to that of her youngest maid, is fashioned precisely after the same model, or, if varied at all, exaggerated for the purpose of being extremely fashionable. The stoutest ploughboy in the land will not think of being married, without a silk stocking to his brawny foot. Nor do our female domestics consider their wardrobe quite complete without, at least, one silk gown and one linen-cambric pocket-handkerchief.

And how soon is the infection caught by foreigners who come among us! The sturdy German girl, although she may not immediately reject her national peasants’ costume of stout cotton stripe, and foot-gear adapted to the out-of-door work she has been accustomed to, will be very likely to surmount all with a “tasty” silk hat. All this may be very agreeable as a proof of prosperity; but it must be remembered that prosperity without discretion, is as unprofitable as zeal without knowledge.

R. Westall      W. Cook.
“Child of the thoughtful brow.”

We laugh at these demonstrations in our inferiors, without considering that we are guilty of absurdities quite as palpable to those in another rank from ourselves. It is said that ladies of moderate fortune in America, dress far more expensively than those of a corresponding rank in Europe; that we indulge in many expensive articles of dress which they would not think of wearing.

I once knew a lady with whom the passion for gentility amounted almost to a disease. It seemed, in her, an innate propensity, or, at least, it was very difficult to account for it. Born in an obscure country village, not entitled, either by her rank in life, character, education, or circumstances, to take precedence of her compeers, she nevertheless very early began to assume airs of great consequence, on account of superior notions in regard to gentility. Probably, feeling the desire which all have for consequence, and having nothing else to build it upon, she had recourse to extraordinary precision in various points of dress and bearing, in which she vainly imagined gentility chiefly to consist.

Her father was a shop-keeper, or, as we are accustomed to say, a merchant, doing business on a small scale; both her parents were uneducated, ignorant and small-minded people, but simple and unassuming. Her ideas of gentility, therefore, had been principally derived from novels, and from intercourse with some of her companions who had enjoyed a privilege she greatly coveted, but could not be allowed, of a six months’ residence at a city boarding-school.

As a young lady, the great objects of her ambition were a languid, delicate appearance, and a white hand. This strange perversion of the human mind is, I fear, not very unfrequent in young ladies, and is a legitimate consequence of subscription to a creed which virtually says, “I believe that those only are entitled to the highest place in society, who have nothing to do.” Health is the vulgar privilege of the working-man. But what a total absence of all real claims to interest and admiration is implied in a young lady’s relying for them, mainly, upon a sickly look! Who would exchange roses, pinks, and lilies, with all their beauty and fragrance, for the pale and scentless ghost-flower?

My heroine, in order to effect this favorite object, had recourse to means which I should not like to specify, but which are only too familiar, I fear, to many of her sex—until her health became so seriously impaired that she was, all her life, a sufferer in consequence.

Her mother, as mothers are apt to be, was exceedingly indulgent to her, and although herself obliged to strain every nerve in order to bring up comfortably and respectably a large family, upon very limited means, seldom obliged her to put her shoulder to the burden. If it did sometimes happen that she was inevitably called upon to do other than some of the “light work” of the family, a flood of tears washed out the disgraceful stain. She had, therefore, the privilege of preserving her hands white, while her mother’s wore the vulgar aspect and complexion of hard drudgery. And yet this abominable selfishness was not the “original sin” of her nature; it was the result of her mind being diseased on the subject of gentility.

But it was not until her marriage, when she became Mrs. William Rutherford, and attained to the dignity of a housekeeper and matron, that her passion was fully developed. This was one of those marriages brought about, as many are said to be, “by juxta-position.” William Rutherford, the son of a farmer, a plain, sensible, energetic young man, who had, very honorably to himself, made his own way in the world, studied in a lawyer’s office overlooking a garden in which our heroine often strayed.

The sight of a pretty girl walking among the flowers, was an agreeable variety to one whose vision rested many hours in the day upon the grave-looking, monotonous pages of a law-book. He sometimes joined her, and she gave him flowers, for which, without any reference to its being genteel or ungenteel to like them, she had a genuine admiration; and a jar that stood upon his study table was daily supplied from her hand. She was rather pretty, excessively neat in her appearance, and seemed always amiable.

The most energetic person in the world is not insensible to the necessity, or at least the agreeability of excitement, and by degrees the plain, simple, natural, sensible William Rutherford was led on until he plighted heart and hand to this very pretensionary and foolish young woman. O the rashness of young men, and young women, too, in these momentous matters!

Mrs. Rutherford had too much of the instinct of a New England woman not to make a good housekeeper. She had profited by the lessons received from her notable mother, albeit an unwilling and truant pupil. She was excessively nice in her habits, and would have her house in order even at the cruel sacrifice of vulgar personal exertions; but these were kept secret as possible from neighbors and visitors.

An unfortunate visit which she made, the first year of her marriage, to a cousin who had married a wealthy merchant in New York, greatly enlarged her ideas on the subject of gentility. She had previously set her heart upon a watch, as one of the ensignia, (now forsooth that very convenient article is very commonly laid aside because it is vulgar to wear it!) but now she had in addition constantly before her eyes, in distant perspective, a Brussels carpet, hair sofa, mahogany chairs, and silver forks. These, though constituting a small part of her cousin’s splendor, were almost unknown articles in the village where she lived, and, therefore, would be sufficient to distinguish her.

Although her husband was a thriving lawyer, and had his fair proportion of the business done in the county, yet his income was moderate; and having amassed no property previous to his marriage, it was necessary that in all his arrangements, he should have reference to economy. Great pains were, therefore, necessary on the part of Mrs. Rutherford to secure these objects of her ambition. Never did a politician keep more steadily in view what are supposed to be the politician’s aim, office and power—never did the military hero keep his eye more steadfastly fixed upon the wreaths of victory with which he hoped to grace his brow, than did Mrs. Rutherford upon her hair sofa, Brussels carpet, mahogany chairs, and silver forks. For these she lived, and for these she would have done any thing—but die. There is, alas! no fashionable furniture for the grave; it has no privilege save that of rest to the weary. The folly of “garnering up one’s heart” in the cunning but perishable works of man’s device, in outward show, is very striking when exhibited on so small a scale; magnificence covers up the folly to many eyes.

Objects pursued with such steady determination are almost sure to be gained in time. Mrs. Rutherford practised great economy with reference to their attainment, and although her husband had a far juster sense of the right use of property, and had no taste for making more show than his neighbors—what will not a quiet, peace-loving man do, that he can do, to tranquilize the restless, unsatisfied spirit of his wife?

Poor Rutherford was a much enduring man. If during the sitting of the court, (for he lived in the county town,) he invited some brother lawyers to dine with him, there being but an hour’s adjournment, and the dinner failed to appear seasonably, no earthly consideration would have induced his wife to leave the room and inquire into the reason of the delay—and still less to do what she might toward preventing its further continuance: because it would be ungenteel for the lady of the house not to be sitting in state with her guests—and horribly vulgar to be supposed conversant with the mysteries of the kitchen.

When the dinner arrived at last, if her only servant, who officiated in the double capacity of cook and waiter, were obliged to leave the room, not a plate must be passed until she returned to do the thing according to rule. No consideration of urgent haste—of comfort or convenience—was to be weighed for a moment with that of having her table genteelly served.

But, notwithstanding her extreme anxiety to do the honors of her house, in what she supposed the most approved manner, she was utterly incapable of performing the most important, dignified, and graceful part of the duty of a hostess,—that of contributing to the intellectual entertainment of her guests. In fact, she was deplorably ignorant. To give a single example: The conversation falling one day upon old English poetry, a gentleman said to her, “I believe, Mrs. Rutherford, that Pope is not so great a favorite with the ladies as formerly.” “I don’t know, indeed, sir,” she replied; “was he a novelist? Scott is the favorite novelist now, I believe.”

It was indispensable to her system to have always the air of being waited upon. If the fire were down ever so low, she would prefer waiting any length of time, until her servant of all-work could answer the bell, rather than help herself to a stick of wood, although close at hand. A friend knocking for admission, might almost go away without getting it, if there were no one but the lady of the house to open the door. Even a journey, recommended by her physician, for her only child, who had suffered much from teething, was not to be thought of, because the additional expense of a nurse could not be afforded: and it was so vulgar to travel with a young child without a nurse! And yet she was not an unfeeling mother—she would do anything for her child that was not vulgar. Nights of weary watching, and days of laborious nursing, she submitted to with true maternal devotion. Even in his very wardrobe, her husband’s comfort was abridged, in conformity with her notions of what gentility required, inasmuch as at no season would he be allowed a cotton shirt, which in the winter he greatly preferred.

I said that by degrees Mrs. Rutherford attained all her objects. I beg her pardon—the silver forks were still wanting to her complete happiness. Against these her husband took his stand with the determination of a desperate man. He said they were very proper for those to use who were born with silver spoons in their mouths—very proper for those who could afford them; but for a young man in his circumstances, the introduction of such an article into his establishment would be perfectly preposterous—that silver forks would be a poor inheritance to his daughter, provided he left her nothing to eat with them. It was so very unusual for her husband to oppose her, that Mrs. Rutherford knew his opposition was not impulsive—not lightly resolved upon; and she yielded to it submissively.

The child was of course included in the mother’s plans of gentility. She was not suffered to attend school for fear she should contract vulgarity from her schoolmates. Great pains were bestowed upon her dress; and as what is deficient in money must be made up in time, there was a most lavish expenditure of what is still more valuable than money. Then she was prevented, as far as possible, from doing any thing for herself.

This last point, however, was difficult of accomplishment. Little Caroline herself was an extremely smart, active, capable child; and such a one, who feels the energy stirring within her, cannot well be prevented, in such a very unartificial state of things as exists in a village family, from exerting it.

It is not often that a child derives benefit from her mother’s absurdities; but Caroline Rutherford was an exception. The very opposition she met with confirmed all her natural tendencies to rationality; and, in consequence of her being excluded from the schools, her father took great pains with her education, while her mother paid a degree of attention to her manners; which, though it could not render her formal, (no training could have produced that result in her case,) had the effect to make her considerate and attentive. She grew up, therefore, a very pleasing, lovely girl.

When she was about the age of fourteen, a very exciting event occurred in their quiet village. A gentleman of fortune, who had determined to remove into the country, attracted by its healthy and picturesque location, selected it for his future residence, and purchased a place very near the dwelling of Mr. Rutherford.

This circumstance was rejoiced in by no one so much as by Mrs. Rutherford; and would have gone far toward compensating her for the want of silver forks, except that it made her feel the need of them so much the more; because, “how could she invite Mr. and Mrs. Garrison to dine without them?”

She lost no time in calling upon her new neighbors, choosing for that purpose the latest hour compatible with the country dining hour. She had previously arrayed herself in the manner she deemed most befitting the occasion; that is, most calculated to recommend her to Mrs. Garrison as a person of undoubted gentility, viz: with a dress of Gros de Berlin, a French cape, silk stockings, etc., etc.

To her surprise, she found Mrs. Garrison in a simple gingham morning dress, superintending the nailing down of a carpet; for her house was not yet in order. She received Mrs. Rutherford, however, in a very easy manner, conducting her to an adjoining apartment; and thus, after the usual preliminaries, was the turn given by the latter to the conversation.

“I quite pity you, Mrs. Garrison, for having chosen a residence in the country.”

“Pity me, indeed! I thought all people who lived in the country were fond of it. Is it not so with you?”

“O yes! I am very fond of flowers, and I think the country more healthy than town; but then we have such trouble with our servants. Such a thing as a man-cook is quite out of the question. I often tell my husband that there would be some sense, and some pleasure in having one’s friends to dine with you, if one could have a man-cook.”

“A man-cook, indeed!” replied Mrs. Garrison. “I did not know that such an appendage was ever thought of in the country. It is far from being common in town; and for myself, I have never employed one. If I can get good women I shall be entirely satisfied.”

“Well, ma’am, you cannot be sure even of that; and then, if your servants happen to leave you, it is so difficult to supply their places. Really, Mrs. Garrison, to be left as we are exposed to be occasionally, almost without any help at all, is a calamity almost too great to be borne. Housework is so odious, so disagreeable, I almost loathe myself when I am obliged to take hold of it.”

This last expression led Mrs. Garrison to suspect that she had been quite accustomed “to take hold” notwithstanding.

“But your country ladies, in spite of these difficulties, have more leisure than we in town. You are not obliged to keep one servant to answer the bell, and to spend the best part of the day yourself in receiving visits from a set of idlers, as formidable, to those who really value their time, as the unproductive consumer to the political economist.”

Here Mrs. Rutherford found herself at fault. She looked quite puzzled for a moment, and then replied—“But you do not give refreshments to your morning visitors, Mrs. Garrison? That, I am told, is quite out of fashion.”

“And then, too,” continued Mrs. Garrison, not appearing to notice this question, “we necessarily have a very large circle of acquaintance for many of whom we care very little; whereas, you in the country can limit yourselves as much as you please; and society is, with you, on altogether a more free, unceremonious, and friendly footing.”

“But then,” replied Mrs. Rutherford, “country people are, most of them, so vulgar. They know nothing of the forms of society.”

“So much the better. In large circles of society they are necessary, but burdensome; and I expect to enjoy, very much, a more simple, unshackled state of existence. * * * * I had the pleasure of seeing your daughter, I believe, this morning; a charming looking girl.”

“My daughter! O Mrs. Garrison, I am very sorry indeed. She is a wild girl; and her father would indulge her to-day in a strawberrying frolic, so she was dressed accordingly. I am sure she was not fit to be seen.”

“I cannot say how that may be, for my attention was so occupied by her bright eyes, rosy cheeks, and laughing smile, that I did not notice her dress at all. But the most proper dress is always that most befitting the occasion; and she looks to me like a girl of too good sense not to have regard to the fitness of things at all times.”

“Dress is another great trouble in the country, Mrs. Garrison. There is never a good dressmaker to be had. You may have your dress cut, to be sure, after a fashionable pattern; but then it will not have at all the air of a city-made dress.”

“But I thought, Mrs. Rutherford, that exemption from much trouble of dress was another of your country privileges. In town, the tailor and dressmaker are the most important personages, to be sure; since it is not man as God made him, or as he has made himself, but as the tailor makes him, that is chiefly respected by a very large class—and so with woman; but in the country, people are valued for their intrinsic merits—their minds, and their hearts. This is their privilege and distinction.”

“But I think, Mrs. Garrison, that no woman appears well who is not well dressed.”

“If you mean, by being well dressed, dressed with neatness and propriety, I agree with you; but city finery, habitually worn, would seem to me as much out of place on the person of a country lady, as artificial flowers in her bosom.”

Mrs. Rutherford took her leave, wondering to find Mrs. Garrison, a lady in every sense of the word, so full of what she considered very odd notions; and did not fail, at dinner, to communicate to her husband the impression she had received.

“I am thankful,” he replied, “that she is a woman of some sense. I beg your pardon, wife, but really your head is completely turned upon the subject of furniture, dress, etc.; and if Mrs. Garrison will set it right, she will do the greatest piece of service in the world that could be rendered to a poor fellow like me.”

“Why, Mr. Rutherford, I flattered myself you were quite proud of your wife. I am sure it is as much on your account as my own, that I wish to hold my proper place in society.”

“Your proper place! Yes, I wish to heaven that would content you; but you do make capital pies, wife, I confess,” he said, as he tasted a delicious tart. Mrs. Rutherford was more gratified by his commendation, than she would have been had she understood its full import.

Meanwhile Mrs. Garrison, in relating to her husband the events of the morning, said: “We talked, you know, of adapting ourselves to the tastes, manners, and habits of the country; but here is a village lady whose head is as full of fashions, modes, and rules of etiquette, as the finest town-lady’s of them all. How should it happen?”

“An empty-headed woman I’ll be bound,” replied Mr. Garrison.

“Well, as to that I cannot tell. She certainly gave no great signs of intellectual cultivation, and that is the case with most of our fine ladies in town; but one would suppose that in the country, if a woman did not love books, she might busy herself in her domestic occupations, with bees, birds, flowers, etc., without being driven to dress and fashion as a refuge from the ennui of a vacant mind.”

“What a strange race we are,” rejoined her husband, “to make it our boast that we are rational beings. I think, if those to whom man is said to be only a little lower look down upon this busy scene, the pursuits of the greater part of men, and women too, must seem just about as important as the children’s sport of blowing soap-bubbles seems to us. One thing I have to congratulate myself upon—the principal lawyer in the village, Mr. Rutherford, is a very clever, sensible, respectable man.”

“He must be this very lady’s husband.”

“Poor fellow! I am sorry for him then.”

When Caroline Rutherford returned from her strawberrying expedition, which had been very successful, she begged to be allowed to carry some of her strawberries to Mrs. Garrison, who by her sweet voice and pleasing address had made a most agreeable impression upon her in their short interview in the morning.

Mrs. Rutherford was quite shocked at the suggestion. “Why, my dear child, your dress, shabby enough at best, is all in disorder. Your hair is out of curl, and you are red and heated. Besides, it is much more proper to send Sally with them. Get me a piece of note paper, and I will write a note.”

“O, mother, do let me have my own way for this once.”

Her father nodded in a manner which expressed “go, my child,” and she was off in the twinkling of an eye.

“O dear me! Mr. Rutherford, Caroline is so wild, so rustic, I am afraid Mrs. Garrison will be quite disgusted with her.”

“Never fear, my dear. I will pit my wild flower against the finest green-house plant of them all;” and well he might be proud of his wild flower.

In spite of Caroline’s being “such a rustic,” Mrs. Garrison took a great fancy to her from the beginning, and she soon became a favorite with the whole family. The oldest daughter, Fanny, was two years younger than Caroline, and two of the sons were older. The mother was not long in discovering that Caroline would be a most useful associate to her children in their lessons; and she invited her to join her little family school. Her industry, energy, and quickness were a constant stimulus to her fellow-pupils. Mrs. Garrison taught her music and drawing, which almost made Mrs. Rutherford forget the one calamity of her life—the doing without silver forks.

Notwithstanding her great delight when Mr. Rutherford ordered a piano for his daughter, she could not refrain from hinting that she thought him rather inconsistent in incurring such an expense, after what had passed on the subject of the forks.

“No, wife,” said he, “I do not admit this at all. The forks, in our case, would be for mere show; but the piano will be a source of constant daily enjoyment. The pleasure of a song from Caroline, accompanied by her instrument, is to me worth all the pomp and magnificence of a palace; ’tis ‘a sacred and home-felt delight.’ Then, think how she enjoys it! Besides, all these things add to the resources from which she would not fail to derive her support, if left penniless to-morrow.”

That Mr. Rutherford might feel no scruples of delicacy in regard to receiving all these favors for his daughter, Mrs. Garrison employed her to assist in teaching the younger children.

Caroline often excited her mother’s astonishment by her reports of what was going on, from time to time, at Mrs. Garrison’s. One day they had all employed the recess in assisting Mrs. Garrison, in country phrase, “to clean up her yard;” which, in this instance, amounted only to gathering from the lawn the dry leaves, bits of sticks, etc., which had been carelessly left behind by the person who had been sent to perform that duty. At another time Caroline had had the sole charge of the school in the morning, because Mrs. Garrison, reduced to extremities by some disarrangement of her domestic establishment, had been engaged in washing windows! and performing divers other services of a similar nature; but “I can tell you, mother,” she added, “that she looks just as much like a lady when she is washing windows, as when she is sitting at her drawing-board.” Occasionally, when the waiter had been ill or absent, one of the children had tended table in her stead; and once, when one of the servants was laid up with a rheumatic limb, her mistress would bathe it herself, several times in the day, in order to be sure that it was properly done. But the greatest wonder of all was, that a young sister of Mrs. Garrison’s came to visit her, bringing an infant without a nurse to take care of it; and not only that, but dragged it about the streets of the village in a little wicker wagon, while mother and child were both so pretty as to attract every body’s attention.

At the expiration of two years after their first arrival in the village, Mr. and Mrs. Garrison determined to obtain the assistance of a private tutor in the education of their children. They were fortunate in finding a young man, a Mr. Cleaveland, of accomplished education and pleasing manners, who knew how to make his pupils like not only their books but their teacher too. He was in the condition of many young men in our country, whose education constitutes their only fortune. He was destined for the pulpit, and had yet to acquire his profession in part.

Fanny Garrison, accustomed hitherto only to her mother’s teaching, could not be reconciled to the idea of being taught by a strange gentleman, unless Caroline would become a fellow-pupil. Nearly two years passed away, during which Caroline made rapid progress in various branches of education—outstripping even the older boys in some of those studies which, until recently, have been almost universally regarded as inappropriate to women.

Mrs. Rutherford had already begun to speculate upon Caroline’s chances in the matrimonial lottery. She had no doubt that such a girl, with a fine countenance, engaging manners, highly educated, and full of vivacity, would, in time, make “a genteel match.” Now and then a vague fear that young Cleaveland might aspire to the hand of her daughter, crossed her mind; but did not impress itself, because it was “impossible that a girl so genteelly bred and educated, should think of marrying a poor young minister, and almost equally so, that a poor young minister should think of aspiring to her.”

She settled it in her own mind, that if Caroline should have altogether a suitable offer in the course of a few years, it was not to be rejected; but otherwise, there could not be a doubt that Frank Garrison’s present youthful fondness for her might be cultivated into a permanent sentiment. The country maid and her milk-pail will remain through all time the faithful and most fitting personification of a castle-builder.

Mrs. Rutherford could not forbear communicating to her husband some of her thoughts upon the subject which occupied her so much, and declaring, in unequivocal terms, her unwillingness to Caroline’s making only a “common match,” on the ground of her being a fit wife for a man of fortune, and qualified to grace a genteel establishment.

“Now, I will tell you what, wife,” replied her husband, “you do not know what is best for yourself or her either. Caroline is just the girl for a good, honest fellow, who has got to make his own way in the world; such a man wants just such a helper, or help-meet, as the Bible has it. It would be a pity to have her good sense, and fine spirits, and energy, and education thrown away where they ain’t wanted, or rather where they won’t be all called into requisition and turned to the greatest possible account. He who gets his living by hard work, whether of the head or the hands, wants a wife who will order well his house and educate his children—who will strengthen him in weakness—encourage him in despondency—confirm him when irresolute—soothe him when irritated—comfort and bless him perpetually with her sympathy, and look bright, beautiful, and refreshing to him when the day’s toil is over. Now a rich man’s wife need not do any thing; his wealth can command the aid of hands enough and heads enough, without hers. Then his pleasures are very apt to be in a great many other things besides his wife; and a woman who knows how to dress smart, and receive his company genteelly, as you say, will do very well for him. But to a poor man his wife and children are his all-in-all of pleasure; and to make the happiness of a man who has every thing good in himself, but to whom the gifts of fortune have been denied, ought to be sufficient to satisfy any woman.”

Of course Mrs. Rutherford rejected such heretical doctrines altogether, though she had no hope of converting him who professed them.

Meanwhile the simple, happy Caroline mused not of love; she was too happy—too much occupied—too well satisfied with the present, to think of the future. Life, with her, was perpetual sunshine. She was very fond of her father—had a kind and dutiful feeling toward her mother—loved the Garrisons dearly—was exceedingly interested in her studies—and liked Mr. Cleaveland very much. She liked him because she found his assistance very valuable to her in her studies—because he was not only exceedingly devoted, in his office as teacher, to all his pupils, but made them very happy—because he manifested, in all situations, great delicacy of feeling and the kindest consideration for others, showing that he felt deeply and tenderly the bonds of human brotherhood—because he had an agreeable talent at conversation—because he loved the water-falls, fields, rivers, and groves as well as she did, and, when school was over, liked nothing better than to ramble and sport in true country fashion—and lastly, she liked him, as I suppose, because he liked her; for a reason akin to this, enters, more or less, I believe, into the rationale of all the partialities of man for his brother man.

Mrs. Garrison felt some responsibility in regard to bringing so lovely a girl as Caroline Rutherford into constant association with a marriageable young man of no small attractions. But she knew him thoroughly—was certain that he was worthy of confidence, and, besides, was herself constantly with the whole group, both in school and in the hours of recreation.

How could Charles Cleaveland but fall in love? Not at first sight—not because it had seemed to him a very probable thing that he should; but because there was no earthly reason why he should not—because there was every thing to please his fancy, gratify his affections, and approve itself to his reason, in the young creature with whom he was daily associated in interesting pursuits and delightful recreations. In school she was that paragon of perfection to a teacher, a diligent, docile, and apt pupil; by the stream, a naiad; in the groves, a wood-nymph; in the garden and the meadow, the ideal of a bird or a butterfly. How could she but come, in time, to haunt his imagination and make her home in his heart, in one and all the bewitching forms of love’s metempsychosis?

His interest had been for some time deeply excited, before she became aware of the state of his mind or her own. But the truth gradually dawned upon her when, time after time as she raised her head, she found him intently gazing upon her; when she perceived unwonted abstraction, on his part, in the hours of her recitations; when she found herself, by some strange magic or other, meeting him at every turn, as if he knew all her out-goings and in-comings; when his visits at her father’s hitherto, on account of her mother’s forbidding manners few and far between, became more and more frequent; and as she sat at the piano, where he always liked to place her, she could feel the intensity of his gaze until it produced a burning in her own cheek.

Then she, too, began to muse of him. He was the subject of her day-dreams and night-dreams; his image forever in her mind; sleep did not displace it. It was there when she closed her eyes to sleep, and there to greet her at the first moment of her waking. The animated Caroline became pensive; the social Caroline began to affect solitary walks and lonely sittings in her chamber. She gazed upon the moon, or she listened to the murmuring brook or the whispering grove; and the gay and joyous feeling with which she had been accustomed to mingle herself with the harmonies of nature, gave way to one of sacred tenderness, as they seemed to her spirit to give forth a deeper tone.

Still her natural equanimity came in aid of her maidenly reserve to conceal from her lover the true state of her heart, and he felt by no means certain that his love was requited. But neither was he hopeless; and knowing that it would be difficult for him to carry himself toward her as he ought during the three months that still remained of his engagement with Mrs. Garrison without having an explanation with Caroline, which it would be improper for him to seek while he stood in his present relation to her, he determined to ask it as a favor of Mrs. Garrison that she would release him, which he did, of course, without assigning his principal motive.

The morning after this arrangement was made, Mrs. Garrison entered the school-room just as Caroline was finishing a recitation, and said, “Now, children, do your best to leave an agreeable impression upon the mind of Mr. Cleaveland, who is going to resign the charge of you in two weeks.”

Poor Caroline turned deadly pale, and the paleness was instantly succeeded by a deep blush. She took up her book and returned instantly to her seat, hoping she had been unobserved; but she was mistaken. Such a revelation is rarely lost upon a lover; and, in this instance, did not escape the observation of Mrs. Garrison.

At any other time, Mr. Cleaveland would have been gratified by the lively and most unaffected demonstrations of regret with which the announcement of his speedy departure had been received by the whole group of children. But now, one deep joy swallowed up all the rest; and his utter inability to reply to them would have been extremely embarrassing, had not Mrs. Garrison kindly and considerately relieved him by a request that he would look into a new school-book which she had just received.

His only trouble in life now, was the interminable duration of two weeks. That period of time overpast, he would declare his love, and then devote himself to his profession with the intent to hasten, as much as possible, the time when he might claim his bride. Meanwhile, Caroline had no resource but to put on, as far as possible, the appearance of being more than ever absorbed in her studies.

Mrs. Rutherford had not been unobservant of the signs of the times in regard either to Caroline or Cleaveland, and felt extremely uneasy and anxious. Her husband, on the contrary, she knew would like nothing better than just such a match for his daughter; and therefore she determined, in the present emergency, to keep her own counsels and act for herself.

During this last memorable fortnight, Cleaveland almost entirely suspended his visits to the Rutherfords, and his intercourse with Caroline, except as her teacher; because he found it almost impossible to carry himself toward her as circumstances required.

On the last day Caroline, although she had got up with a violent headache, would not remain at home for fear of exciting suspicion or remark; but her illness was so apparent, that Mrs. Garrison had insisted upon her leaving the school.

Cleaveland had not seemed nearly as much occupied with herself, as usual, ever since his departure had been determined upon. She was in no state to solve the problem of this change by an argumentative process, and she began to think she had deceived herself—that she had been merely an agreeable and exciting circumstance in the present scene of his residence—no longer valued when he was so soon to exchange it for another. When she went home, therefore, she threw herself upon her bed, and burst into a flood of tears.

Meanwhile her lover with difficulty possessed his soul, until the hour of emancipation came, and he felt at liberty to throw himself at her feet. He then went in pursuit of her, in the sweet hope that by a few magic words—the lover’s sesame—he should unlock her carefully guarded heart, and find its wealth all his own. No one was at home but Mrs. Rutherford.

“Where is Miss Caroline?”

“She has gone to walk—”

“Gone?—which way?”

There was something in his manner which revealed, or, at least, led Mrs. Rutherford to suspect the nature of his errand. She believed that the crisis had come, and that now, if ever, was the moment for interference.

To his questions she only replied, evidently somewhat embarrassed, “Mr. Cleaveland, I want to speak a word with you.”

He was already on his way out, and turned most reluctantly.

“Walk into the parlor a moment, Mr. Cleaveland. I don’t know how Mr. Rutherford feels about this business, but I think that, as a mother, I have a better right than any one else to decide about it.”

Cleaveland, at first, would not guess to what she referred; and, perceiving that he did not understand her, she continued: “I know it is a very delicate matter for me to take it for granted that you would like to marry Caroline. If I am mistaken, there is no harm done, and you will excuse me; if I am not mistaken, it would be too late, after you young people had settled the matter between you, for me to express my decided disapprobation of it, and therefore I do it now. I appeal to you, Mr. Cleaveland, as a mother, whose soul is bound up in her child, to give up all thoughts of a connection which would fall very far short of my hopes and wishes for my daughter.”

For a moment, poor Cleaveland sat like one stupified. Then, without any parting salutation to Mrs. Rutherford, without even a single word in reply to her strange harangue, he hastily left the house. He retreated to his own room; but experienced there a stifling sensation, which he thought to relieve by going into the open air; and pursuing his way to a favorite haunt, he met Caroline just emerging from the little grove he was about to enter.

Not daring to trust himself with her a moment, and unable to command his voice, he hastily passed her with hardly the seeming of a recognition. Her headache had left her much exhausted, and a dizzy faintness now came over her, so that it was with great difficulty that she reached her home, although not very far distant.

Meanwhile her lover was in a most piteous state of agitation and perplexity. Was he obliged in honor to heed the matrimonial veto? Believing that Caroline was attached to him, was it right to keep her in ignorance of his love? Her father, too, had given him the most undoubted proofs of his esteem; and so far from showing any jealousy or suspicion of him, had always acquiesced entirely in all those arrangements which had brought them together so much, might he not refer the matter to him? But to appeal to the husband against his wife—to the daughter against her mother—this would be neither manly nor delicate, perhaps not honorable; he was not quite sure. To fly, then, was his only refuge.

He wrote a note to Mrs. Garrison, complaining of illness, saying that he had been induced, by unexpected circumstances, to leave town, contrary to his first intentions, on the following day; but that, on the whole, he preferred not taking leave of them personally, as the parting would, on his part, be a very painful one. He thanked her, in glowing terms, for all her kindness, adding, that he never expected to be so happy again as under her roof.

Mrs. Garrison was surprised by this last expression; surprised by his hasty departure, and by his omitting to make his adieus in person; and had a vague idea of some mystery in the matter, which she hoped time might solve. He went off at two o’clock in the morning.

Mrs. Rutherford took especial care to conceal the fact of his having called to see her, from Caroline, who forbore to make any inquiries; and Mr. Rutherford being out of town, no investigation was made upon the subject.

Poor Caroline! her brightness was, for the present, all obscured. Her headache returned violently, and she was really ill for some days; but even after she had no longer an excuse for playing the invalid, her spirits did not return; she had sleepless nights and languid days, and her very soul seemed to have died away within her.

Her father was excessively distressed. At first he tried to rouse her spirits by a little raillery. “You remind me,” said he, “of a fine peach-tree which I came near losing last spring. It was in full life and beauty, just as you were, but suddenly a blight came over it which threatened its destruction. I dug around the root and found one little worm there—that removed, the tree flourished again.”

Poor Caroline made no reply, but burst into tears and retreated to her room.

“There is a canker-worm at the root, you may depend upon it, wife; and it appears to me that you might detect it.”

Mrs. Rutherford looked as if she were a little disturbed at the idea of any investigation.

“If you do know, wife,” said he, “and don’t choose to reveal what you know, the responsibility rests with you, and her blood be upon your head. Tell me, now, what is your idea upon the subject, has not Caroline been unhappy ever since young Cleaveland went away?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever think that they were in love?”

“I thought he was.”

“And yet he went off without broaching the matter at all. If it is all on her part, the thing must be submitted to; and yet it seems to me he could hardly help falling in love with her.”

“No, indeed!” said Mrs. Rutherford, gathering courage to do now what she had half resolved to do before, “he did fall in love with her.”

“Then why did he not tell her so?”

“Because I forbade him.”