The national era. [volume], September 15, 1859, Image 1

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WASHINGTON, D. C.
Acgcst 29, 1859.
Mr Di..vn : I am not going to date my letter
from anv particular place, because I don't stay
k>ng enough anywhere to make it worth while.
But it happened to me in the course of my
! ,urn? viugs, as it happens to most people, to
linJ myself in New York; for you probably
know that if you start from anywhere and go
-iriight along for an indefinite length of time,
v,.11 will presently reach New York. Now, I
i.t-ver have been in that city enough to feel ac.
uainted with it. I know that the Fifth Avenue
, fashionable, and Stewart's is an enormous
I. .p, and the Battery isn't the Bowery, though
han't always tell which is which,and a few such
, neral facts ; but 1 have never acquired that
delightful familiarity which chats of Twentyijtiith
street and the Astor House, and knows
where they are, and what streets lead to them,
and what cars to get into to go there, and
which shops are the best, and where to find
, erything and everybody, from a shoe-string
i, a Raphael's .Madonna, mis lamiiianty has
always commanded my especial reverence. If
there is anything I admire, it is bleu/ people?
j .-,.ple, as Cnrtis expresses it, who have pumpel
life dry, and the pump only wheezes?people
who don't feel interested in anything?
people who have gone through the whole round
of sensations, and have the satisfactory conv
lousness of having nothing more to feel. I
would give almost anything to be so myself,
hut I can't. I admire, and am astonished. I
like to look in at shop windows, to see a monkey
capering to a hand-organ, to buy fruit of
old women crouching on the corners of streets.
Wheu I get into an omnibus, I never can remember
to get out again, and once I rode from
15i.ston to Cambridge three times before I remembered
to pull the strap at the place where
I wanted to be left. I like to be in a crowd, if
1 am not in a hurry, (in a carriage?I shouldn't
like to be on foot, and have all sorts of people
knocking against me,) and see the feathers and
.: l- a trrin tr\ trat nn onrl ar\A man ol.
bowing through by the skin of their teeth, and
truckmen shouting, atid wheels interlocking,
ami horses pawing, and tiiuid people looking
ared?that sounds rather malignant, but it
isn't. I would not scare them myself for the
Nike of the fan; bnt as they are scared independently
of any effort of mine, I enjoy it simply
as a part of the pantomime. Besides, I
don't see nny use in being frightened in such
a case. I don't expect a coachman to have
nny especial regard for my individual bonea,
but I do expect him to have a regard for his
own reputation as a coachman and for hia
p- kot, both of which demand that he should
i..?t upset his coach and injure his passenger,
ui ss circumstances absolutely require it. I
take it for granted, also, that he understands
hi* business a great deal better than I do; and
a- be doesn't fret about my writing letters to
tbc Era, 1 won't fret about his driving me
through a crowd. I also like, in passing
through streets, to count the windows, and
see how many stories the shops have. I like
to talk with news boys, and rag-pickers, and
th^iittle beggar-girls, and with all sorts of outof-the-way
people. It seems to take you into
another world. I am always awed in the pres
euce of milliners and dress-makers. If I have
an opinion before I go in, it presents itself to
them in the form of the meekest and timidest
suggestion, and melts away and evaporates before
their slightest objection. There is something
in their art perfectly incomprehensible to
me. I can understand how a locomotive engine
or a sewing-marhine can be made. 1 think I
m uld make one myself, if I were educated to
It. and Lad the proper tools. For a ponderous
machine cuts out your work by rule, and you
put it together, one engine just like another.
Hut a milliner must have creative power,
riie must conceive an idea of every bonnet
?> parateiy, and then, from a wilderness of silk,
and straw, and lace, and flowers, she must
woke the perfect bonnet, every one separately,
and every one adapted to the figure, complexion.
and character, of every separate wearer?
and this for mouths and years continuously.
W hat power does this argue in the tasteful
milliner I
Well, you see I am necessarily in a chronic
admiration, and find it extremely difficult to
a- umc, still mere to maintain, that air of subbmo
indifference to mundane matters which so
tarinates me in others. Consequently I eonfess,
v-ith tears of mortification, that when I am in
bew York, I tire out successive series of attendants
with my indomitable passion for sightseeing.
and cover them with shame by my unm.-takable
display of country-bred ignorance.
I had heard ,a great deal of the Academy of
-I.trie. The Academy of Music is not a theatre.
1 never went to either but once in my
h'?>, ar.d I don't quite understand the difference
between them ; only, in the theatre you do catch
u word here and there, and in the Academy of
luric you don't; and in the theatre the big
drum played only a little while at once, and in
the Academy of Music it was banging all the
t.ine: but there is a great difference between
thenj. if you can only find it out. The building
itself V.'fts u morfol nf u'ltiio noint o nrl r?lr*tVt
- ?y ? 'v? v? ^ V,V1M'
and gilding. with semi-circular graded tiers of
- ats, and astonishing little Cupids, without any
ciothes on, stuck into every nook and corner,
and three or four rows of galleries, and the
brightest of gas ; and there were a great raauy
v men who thought they looked pretty, and
did ; and a great many more who thought they
did, and didn't; and some wore bonnets, and
ome wore anything but bonnets, and many
tiermans and many Americans with hair on
their lips, and occasionally on their heads,
and white kid gloves on their hands, fluttered
about here and there, and seemed to he trying
'o make themselves agreeable, and perhaps
they did, 1 don't know ; and after a while a
man down by the stage whisked his stick, and
the big drum struck up, and the curtain rose,
and there was a wood, and twenty or thirty
men marched into it, and none of their stocknigs
came up to their knees, aud none of their
frocks came down, and not a trmiscr among the
*hole company, and everything they said was
"i Italian, and they did not say anything at all,
hut sung it, and they flourished a while, and
then went off, and a couple of women came on,
dressed in some outlandish costume, and one
seemed to he in great distress, and the other,
*ith &n arm like a sledge-hammer, was contil:;.all
V iiiol-'. rtcr Viov nrfc xi.'kon alio ffiinto/1 nrliiolt
was no easy matter, lor she kept up a steady
ta.nting and lopping all the time, and chattered
like a magpie in all the intervals ; and then a
man came, and the sledge-hammer went off,
and the collapser bounced into the man's arms,
and the man bounced into her arms, and then
they rebounced and bounced back again, like
the pith balls in electric experiments, till that
scene was over -, and then thirty or forty men
and women came on, and one was supposed to
he a prince, and he wore white embroidered
pantalets a great deal too short, and " ankletie"
shoes, and a light-blue thing where his
coat ought to have been, that looked like a
yoke night-gown with the skirt cut off, and he
wanted to marry the fainting woman, and she
did not want to marry him, and her old hunchhacked
father, or uncle, or somebody, said she
should, and she said she wouldn't, and swore
dreadfully. and he yelled, and she yelled, and
they all yelled, and she fainted harder than
em, and they got into a terrible " muss," as
the New Yorkers would say, and I don't know
whether they ever got out ot it, for I left them
there.
On the whole, I don't think I appreciate the
hue arts, and shall devote the remainder of my
natural life to knitting blue mixed woollen
stockings with seams and long heels.
Gail Hamilton,
I
WW?Si?aBafc Vv?; ? * v.
ti;
G
Vol. Xni.;
For the National Era.
THE SHADOWY LAND.
BT R. A. R.
The shadowy land' the shadowy land :
I stand on the other shore,
Gazing acroaa at a glorious band.
The loved who have gone before
And stretching my spirit's viewless wings,
I strive to join the throng,
But the cumbering clay around me clings,
And I scarce can hear their rong.
Vet there floats an echo acioss the wave,
The wave of the River OfeDeaib,
And I fancy I bear the sounds I crave,
And feel an odorous breath,
Fanning my flashed and fevered cheek,
As I strain my aching sense,
For bnt one word such as seraphs speak,
One word which might call me hence.
Oh ! earth is dark, sine* Ik y tread ao more
The homes their present- bleat,
And life baa a weight nev fell tipfore,
Since they sought the 1^1 of rd*iAnd
groping wearily thioiigh the <|ight,
I stretch aa eager hand /
Toward where they faded'from my sight.
When borne to the shadowy land
1 I V " I"'1 The
shadowy land ' the shadowy land!
Nay 1 the shadows all are *?' '
They rise between me and ihafbtrssed band.
But tktir skip* are bright and clear.
And though it may be through grief and gloom,
We reach where now ttey Maud,
Weehell know, when we ,)a?? beyond the n,mh,
That this ia the ebadowy -land
Mount Holly, Sept. Int. **
*
For the National Era. 5
MY HEROINE.
-? f
BY EDWARD S^VCEH,
CHAPTKR I
Mediocre and cowardly as the people of this
world are, in the general average* many heroes
and heroines have yet sprung from their midst.
It is very well for us that this has so happened,
for we all of as need tonics, and there is not a
greater moral stimulant in existence than just
this : personal example. 17e, who live in these
modern times, and who tpad ia history and
biography, need not to be told ho* many are the
operations of personal example, nor bow potent
its influence. From Alexander's studies in
Achillean deeds, down to Miss Nightingale and
her corps of nurses at Scuta|i, we,see continually
how the stars lead, and the wisest not only
do not disdain to follow, bet are. prompted to
the deed itself by the states presence. And,
where one is piloted by e star, there are ten
thousand who follow on to safety and loving
kindness after the feeble but true shining tapers
which are everywhere held up to guide us
.1 * .1 ?r ? * . l: T. i I _ _
mrougn me pains ui privau^iue. 11 is wunuerful
indeed to reflect upon ^he grand antiseptic
influence of individual horo?am ; and it ia impossible,
almost, for us to over estimate its efficiency
towards the regeneration, or, at least,
safely, of the world. Still more wonderful is
the fact of this heroism itself, situ that such a
thing should by any means be possible where
selfishness holds such supr&ne s?ay. ft is no
great task to be a hero before the eyes of the
world ; it is comparatively easy for a man tc
do and say great things, when he- knows lie has
mankind for audience and' spe^ator. I sup
pose no one will doubt but that the gazing city
gave nerve to Horatius, when he hewed awaj
at the bridge, with the enemy at his heels ; ant
I am pretty sore that Manilas Consul remein
bered the kept archives of Rome's great sons
when he spurred him into the'pit. So, J think
there is a higher kind of 1 ;roi?un than this, c
heroism purely unselfish, oge whose act is un
seen, which ?perchance recoils Upon the actor
and, anyhow, goes entirely yn ewarded, save o
itself and of God. This i* what I mean bj
I " private heroism," and from Up most retiree
walks I wish to single out an expmple, such a.<
perhaps would rarely be m-*t with, and one s<
entirely rounded and signal that fiction would
not venture to attempt it. K.vcepting names
what I shall relate is true in almost every par
ticular of fact, and, so far as I frave been abb
to make it, in every essential of color and pro
portion.
She, ray heroine, is dead lon^since, but stil
lives in the memory of many?grateful hearts
who have owed prosperity, happiness, perhaps
even their capacity for gratitrd*, to her minis
trations and aid. She died fuH of years, and
my earliest recollections picture Miss Bets\
(so eveir one called her) as A^uiet little ole
maid, wfio wore usually a subij&d sort of mot
cap, that impresses me a9 beit g less extrava
gantly ugly than the orthodox pattern, and
when on the street, a plain black velvet bon
net with satin ribbons. These, and her habitua
black silk apron with its outside pockets, an
the only features of her dress which I can re
member, and probably I am able to recall sc
much simply because of some subtle but un
conscious sense of aesthetic fitness emanating
from them.
But I very distinctly remember her face, pale
pock marked, and thin, but lighted up by sue!
a sweet and placid smile that it was really
pleasant to look upon her. The lovely sou
that was hers beamed out so beautifully bright
that no one could fail to recognise its nobility
had she worn a very death'9 head, we woulc
have hailed it with pride, conscious of the
honey hived therein. The disease which hac
90 seamed her face had taken forever the lighi
from one of her eyes, but the other, soft and
brown, shone with a compensating significance
of charity and loving-kindness towards all men
and, withal, invested her eptire aspect with ar
air of such eminent sweet contentment that slu
impressed every one as if knowing a peace like
the peace of a country church yard. There wa>
perhaps a little spice of primness in her man
ner, and she was indisputa'ply an " old maid ;'
bnt yon forgot all that when you heard hei
speak, for no voice was evfer more exquisitely
modulated, " sweet and low," yet rich, flexible
musical, and full of unutterable melody, loaned
her of Heaven. No anointing oil of confession
and forgiveness of sins ev^r soothed so raucb
the soul of the wearied life-iraveller, sinking tc
his last rest, as did her voice, singing some gen
tie hymn of Charles Wesley, or of Isaac Watts
fit and touching orchestral accompaniment tc
the ringing down of life's cyrtain! That music
could waft a sonl on its wt^y homeward, a3 the
murmur of running waters will lull an infant tc
slumber and to pleasant dreams!
Thus I remember Miss;Betsy in uiy early
childhood, and I remember that with my rever
enoe and love for her wax mingled a feeling
indescribably compact off respect, sympathy
compassion, and regret, born perhaps of e
subtle consciousness that only the touch of a
piUJlUuuu ry\j\ 4v/n wutu ou cy v^uioitcij miuuc nu
chorda of life into responsile harmonv with th<
world's nocturne music. Perceiving how emi
nently she was a "Sister .of Charity," in th<
most comprehensive and bfcautiful sense of th<
term; seeing how universal was her sympathy
and acquaintance with grief, how untiring hei
efforts to assuage it, from the simple salve o
honeyed word with which qpe healed the child's
cut linger, to the deep and thrilling prayer:
which we made into balm for the bruised and
broken heart; beholding -her intimacy witf
sorrow, her knowledge of the hidden springs
of woe, I could not mil, eflen in ray most un
reasoning childhood, to recpgnise the fact thai
she must have become acquainted with these
i things through her own 1 eart, that she mual
have learned their language, and been taughl
their mysteries, oat of the,,experiences of hei
own souL Sympathy onl^ follows subjective
knowledge. To De able to touch with healing
balsam the very secret spot of sorrow, we rausl
have felt the blow ourselves, and, through our
own senses, been taught to know where it will
I light hardest, and where thi flesh will be sorest,
m
f
4
a
, a
nn
1 . ,
. BAILEY, EDITOR AS
WASH
And a more universal and intelligent and kindly
sympathizer than Miss Betsy never lived. She
could and did minister with e^ual success to
young and old, rich and poor, sinner and saint.
With a word she could heal or soothe the ruffled
and wounded pride of hot rebellious youth.
Mothers sent to her when their children had
gone astray, and she knew how to make them
Rachels no longer, comforting and consoling
them. At the young mother's bed-side, when,
in pain and tremor and faintness, she receives
her first-born to her arms, our friend could,
with a whispered word, make the thin blood
react and grow strong, wake a smile of hope
and love upon the wan and anxious face, till
resolves to live for this young life, and to wit
ness the promised beauties of its maturity,
filled all her thoughts and made her well again.
When the hoary sinner, racked with pain and
chilled by despair, would turn his face to the
wall to die, our friend could cheer him into
hope, clasp his stained hands and bend his stiff
knees in importunate prayer, loosening the
tied-up fountains of his tears, and touching him
to the heart with such a touch as Nathan laid
upon David, when he had sinned, and knew no
hope. Chief of all, came to her women, with
their loves and sorrows, and never went away
uncomforted. The weary wifer heart broken
for the lost love of him wfiio had been the pride
of her life; the blushing maiden, all quivering
with the thrill and pain of her new emotion;
the victim and the crowned, equally they came
to her with their confidences of joy and sorrow,
equally asked her to exult in their glow, to pity
their despair, and none went away but blessed
her for what she gave in return. For wounds
such as these she seemed to bear about her the
very specific, and, though every publican came
to her and was comforted, the precious oil in
that Samaritan's vial never failed once, but was
ever ready to be dropped into the hurt, soothing
like a bajsam, and, with searching virtue,
penetrating down to the innermost depths,
where the pain lurked most keenly. Indeed,
for one to have loved and lost seemed the surest
card of admission to Miss Betsy's confidence
and atfection, as it was the surest way to wake
her compassion and command her aid. And,
young as I was, I very soon came to a dim
consciousness of the cause of this, and, without
knowing aught of her history, used pitifully to
associate her in my childish fancies with poor
Crusoe pacing the deserted strand after his
shipwreck, with Mordecai at the gate, with
Hagar in the wilderness, going off a lew steps
that she might not see her infant's dying agonies,
with Christian in the dungeons of Doubting
Castle, or any other peculiar personification
of lost hope or of profound desolation, which
my thoughts may have taken hold of. Not that
the image was ever accurate, save in that one
feature of loss. This, I felt she had experienced,
and, without knowing why, was sure that
it was this peculiar loss which had given color
to her beautiful life?to me a new and forcible
verification of the text, that there were losses
which might be eminently gain.
Fo, between pity and curiosity, I looked
often at Miss Betsy, ever with increasing love
and reverence; for ever, as I grew older, did 1
become more and more convinced that a more
beautiful life than hers could not be, by any
A J / 11 1 T 1 J 1
possimmy. Ana nnauy, wnen 1 learnea ner
history, and saw her pass away as she had
lived, I felt as if her death must be rather a
translation than a dissolution?that she needed
not to be subjected to a Medean process in
ordei to become rejuvenized for the life of
heaven, requiring' only some slight superficial
purification, so as to make her body a casket
, meet for her most lovely soul,
i Miss Betsy's history reveals indeed no deep
tragedy of passionate life, no sounding abysm
of endless woe, to be chronicled in an epic, or
: bewailed in dithyrainbics. It is a simple story
' of love and loss, of loss that was gain, per[
haps?a story in which the heroism is of the
noblest, the heroism, namely, of surrender?a
story through which there runs an eloquent
' yet silent pathos of suffering, of which it were
: in vain to attempt an adequate reproduction.
i It is the story of a love that veiled her soul
forever with a soft veil of sorrow, but not of
repining, a love so strong that it could pluck
' itself up by the roots for the sake of the one
loved?a love that proved its truth and established
its identity by sacrifice?such love as
' the mother whom Solomon judged bore for the
' child of her bosom. In Robert Browning's
) poem of ''In a Balcony," the Queen's passion
' for Norbert gives us one phase of this kind of
' love. Miss Betsy's love was another phase of
the same love, aud by so much the greater than
that, as the virtue of relinquishment i3 greater
" than the virtue of idolatry.
I Let me briefly sketch this life, which became
so heroic because of the love that was born,
' lived, aud, though suffering, died not within it.
It is a 3hort story, has but a single thread, and
| can be sketched in the purest monochrome.
Two kindly, simple-hearted old people were
[ Miss Betsy's parents, such "old folks ' as we
, seldom see now a days?honest farmer and
. honest farmer's wife?wealthier far than their
neighbors, yet affecting no state, living upon
' their farm, in a low-ceiled cottage; he doing his
I day's labor as regularly as any of his em?
pioyees : she knitting and spinning?housewife,
dairymaid, tailoress, and all. Religious old
, people, full of the spirit and fire of Methodism,
who talked of Wesley's sad face, which had
r beamed upon them more than once from the
pulpit, and of stern, soul mastering Asbury,
who had broken fast with them not seldom,
j Very proud were the old man and his wife of
. Betsy, (as they called her, though, when she
I was young, every one else knew her as Miss
Lizzy,) she was their only child, the heir of
! their house and wealth. Not only were they
[ proud of her, but they looked up to her a3 a
> being elevated above their level, so accomplishi
orl moo aV?r? onrl nnciQoccotl nf cnr?V? nitmormta
t and rare endowments. For, when she was
I quite a child, and could just read and write?
, cducaeed enough, however, to their notions?
one of Wesley's early companions had come
\ to their house, faint and ill, and it was six
, months ere he went away healed. Money he
, had not, and did not need, for he was able to
5 repay in a measure their hospitality, through
the little Lizzie. He made her his pupil, and,
? himself a son of Oxford, had taught her no
. little, above all inculcating in her mind a fond,
ness for books and learning, which the parents,
though not understanding, did not disapprove,
[ So, the lessons which he gave her in the Latin
, grammar were the beginning of a careful
, course of self-instruction, which she never en,
tirely abandoned, and which helped to console
her in the darkest hours. I myself have often
seen her put on her spectacles to read a page
] of the Enchyridion of Epictetus, the patient
, cheerfulness of which philosophy had always a
> peculiar charm for her.
> The little Lizzie grew up into a strong,
healthv girl, and then into a tine noble-hearted
r woman. She was not remarkably handsome,
- but there was a fresh country hue on her cheeks,
r a springiness in her step, and an airy lightness
, and grace in her small but well-proportioned
i figure, that made her quite attractive. A broad,
i smooth forehead, plenty of rich brown hair, a
; quick-flashing yet mild and expressive eye,
i anH n noir nf okorrv lins. VftPV mobile And
...... .. ... ^ --1 , ~-j " ~
pouting, yet full of decision when compressed,
? comported very well with her reputation for
5 intelligence and refinement. She early showed
- herself to be a woman of strong chancier, full
r of generous impulses, and possessing a keen
f and ready judgment, quick wit, and a mascu3
line power of apprehension. These characters
istics, and her superior education, together
1 with her isolated life, and the control she exi
ercised over her parents, made her at times
i somewhat prononcte. She was fluent, express
ed her thoughts and feelings freely, anu was
t often not a little disputatious. During her
s whole life, she used to be fond of an argument,
t and could employ the weapons of logic with a
b force and aptness which, taken in conjunction
with her varied information and multifarious
s reading, made her quite a formidable antago;
nist. The part of the country in which she
, lived was but thinly settled, and there were but
few visiters of any education who came that
. way, except the preachers. Miss Lizzie had
, an early bias in favor of theological studies,
fATI(
rD PROPRIETOR; JOB
INGTON, D. C., THURS
and consequently was able to meet the clergy
on their own ground, and not seldom defeat
them -with their own weapons. How it used
to delight the old folks to sit in their arm chairs
and listen to one ? these wars of words, and
how their eyes would twinkle with joy and
pride when " our Betsy" would come off victorious
I Had Miss Lizzie been of a less domestic
disposition, had her self-poise been less
equalized, her home affections less acute, or
her enthusiasm more concentrated and intense,
there is no doubt bnt she would have become
a missionary or a .female preacher, and might
! have been as successful, as famous, and as
unhappy, as Harriet Livermore. But, fond of
' reasoning and argument though she was, and
i a profound believer, her controlling virtues
| were homely. She felt no " call" to go abroad
and preach, so long as there at the farm were
her parents to take care of. And for her ministry,
half the good that was required to be
done in the immediate neighborhood would
give her a plentiful work to do. So she remained
at home, the pride of those who knew
her, and the idol of her worthy old parents.
A woman like Miss Lizzie could not of course
want for suitors. Her own personal charms
and her delightful character would have insured
her these, apart from other considerations ; and
then her father was a very wealthy man, and
she the onlv child. There was scarcely a young
man in the vicinage but had sought her for his
wife, and it was currently reported that there
never had come to the house a single unmarried
preacher but had fallen desperately in love
with the young heiress, who, in addition to her
ability to write a sermon, and her charming
disposition, would bring her husband at least
an hundred thousand dollars for dowry. But Lizzie
sent them all away, some laughingly, some
compassionately and with tears, all kindiv, but
all positively, and remained singularly heartwhole.
Her parents began to say that u our
Betsy " would never marry, but would become
an old maid, and they were in doubt whether
this was a subject for regret or congratulation.
Lizzie said, laughingly, that she valued her
own independence too much ever to think of
marrying; and anyhow, the right man had not
yet made his appearance. She would wait until
he came. ' l_
So things went on, and Lizzie had reached
her twenty-fifth year, a woman lovely at heart,
aud beloved by every one. Her parents were
grown quite old and feeble now, and required
her constant attention. At this time occurred
the cardinal incident in our friend's life.
I As is customary with the settlers in a new
country, where habitations are few, and " sights "
infrequent, the cottage was built immediately
| upon the county road, so that whatever passed
could be seen. In front of the house was a
small grass plot, enclosed within a paling fence,
and here and there besprinkled with beds of
flowers, for which Lizzie had even mere than
her sex's fondness. Two or three rnstic seats
also were placed under the trees, and, depending
from a high branch of the largest oak, hung
a swing made of grape vine withes, in which
Miss Lizzie used very frequently to recreate
herself. She was swaying to and fro in this
very swing one June afternoon, with a book in
her lap, and her hair somewhat disordered.
The old folks were still nodding in their chairs
I in wnoiesome aner-ainner tasmon, and lnzzie,
who was never lonesome, bad somehow found
her hook less entertaining to day than usual;
her letters were all written for the next mail,
and so, with the second volume of Pamela in
her hands, she had resorted to the swing as to
an old companion. Not swinging so much,
nor reading very much, but giving way to a
dreamy sort of thinking, that was delightfully
hazy and indefinite ? delightfully unlike exertion,
and therefore Recording with her mood;
for, though an eminently practical body, and
not given to dreams, nor an admirer of the dolce
Jar nienie, she yet had her moments of maiden
meditation, wheu thought, mystically rapt,
gleamed after the lotos-island's dreamy quiet,
the better to induldge itself. The yellow sun
spots fleaked here and there the lawn through
the tree-tops, the dying breeze of evening sighed
itself away among the distant pines, the
roses breathed their attar towards her, the
honeysuckles were redolent with the burden of
their sweets, from the clover-lot came the faint
hum of the voluptuous bees, and above there,
where the view was not intercepted, loitered indolently
the moon's pale-grav crescent. What !
did the wise man mean ? Was not all this en- j
joyable, worthy to be indnlged for its own '
sake? Where was the " vanitas vanitaivm,"
the " vexation of spirit,'' in a nature so charming
as this ? Dry your tears, Pamela, and go
into the country. Cure your dyspepsy, oh Solomon,
banish your concubines, and establish a
hunting-lodge in "shady Lebanon." For life
is a gilt, a thing perfect of itself, and not necessarily
to be regarded as a mere stage of existence.
Thus ran her thoughts.
Brnno, the huge brindle mastiff, bays out a
deep-toned alarum, and Mignonne clatters a
; i i- c - '
quica uar&. ooine one musi De coming. lizzie,
shaking off her revery, glanced up, and
saw coming along the road towards the house
a lad of apparently sixteen years, whose slow,
heavy,"and uncertain step seemed to indicate the
weariness of long travel. As he drew near, he
glanced wishfully at the house and at her, and
walked yet more slowly. At the gate he hesitated,
paused, half reached out his hand to lift
the latch, then withdrew it, and made out as if
to move on?evidently longing to stop, but fearing
to do so. His looks were so weary, his
manner so embarassed, and bis appearance so
forlorn, that Lizzie's quick sympathies were
awakened in his behalf, and in her kindliest
tones she called out: 4' Come in ; the dogs shall
not harm you!"
The lad opened the gate, and, as she jumped
down from the swing, came towards her. He
was rather tall, and, though pale and thin, was
very handsome. Spite of his worn and travelsoiled
clothes, his bared feet and povertystricken
air, he struck her as one who had
been genteelly bred. As he approached, he
took off his ragged straw hat, and made her
a courteous bow. lizzie thought that ?ir
Charles Qrandiaon could not have done it
better.
44 Good evening, madam," said he, still keeping
his hat off, and speaking most pleasantly,
with a slow and aacurate enunciation; 44 will
you permit me to get a drink of water from
your well ? "
44 I will have you a glass got, my lad," said
Lizzie, who affected the old woman when with
boys, 44 but would you not rather have a glaas
of milk ? It is more refreshing, and you seem
tired." _
The boy's eyes sparkled. 44 If it is ncflrouble,
madam," said he, 441 shall be very grateful."
Lizzie called to one of the servant women.
44 You look hungry?are you not?" asked she,
eyeing him with compassion.
He colored up. 44 No, thank you," be began,
but, hesitating a moment, said, 441 am hungry,
i i i ? .i l-?.
very uuugty. * ut?ve Kitieii noining nqi ? crust
of bread to day."
" Priscilla," cried Lizzie, " go to the pantry,
quick; here are the keys. Bring a pitcher of
milk, and some biscuits, on a plate?and that
piece of cold chicken on the second shelf. Put
them on a waiter, and don't stay a minute. The
poor boy looks half starved," added she, in a
Eartial aside. When the servent started off,
lizzie turned again towards the lad. u You
seem fatigued. Have von walked fiir to-day?"
" From said he, naming a town.
u Why, that is more than twenty miles! You
were not going further this evening? Where
are you going to?"
" I really do not know, madam," said he, as
if wishing bnt unable to conceal the dejection
of his spirits.
44 Where is your home ? "
" I have none now." He looked at her a
moment, and then, as if encouraged, proceeded
: "I have been in search of work for a
week, but at last I have become tired of seeking
it in the country, and am trying now to
make my way to the city. There I oan get
something to do, perhaps?enough to feed me,
anyhow ; and if nothing else wilt do, Imust go
to sea. .
" It is an hundred miles to the city, my poor
boy," said Lizzie. She looked at him with in
MAI
> *. i >~'y" * *{ - itii C'Sl) EtOtTt^ J i
[N G. WHITTIER, CO!
3D AY, SEPTEMBER 1?
! . ? ;1 J
creasing pity. His frank and ingenuous face
seemed to inspire her ever with more confidoace.
" We do not permit people to starve
while we have plenty. You want employment,
rnn Mr? T (Un- L c?
;w A icai juu aiu uut BllVIIJt VUUU^D iOT
farm work. Will you tell me your name ? "
" It is Oscar?Oscar Erik Malrastedt."
" That is not American. Are you a foreigner
? "
u I ain not, ma'am, but my father was. A
Swede, and an artist, who came to this country
before I was born.''
" Was ? Is your father dead f "
" I am an orphan?without a friend in the
world that I know of, ma'am. My mother died
last year, and my father I helped to bury one
month ago to-day."
u Poor boy 1" cried Lizzie; " but Oscar, yon
are very pale; sit down; there, is a seat, at the
root of that tree; Priscilla will be hare in a
moment. I fear you have walked too far today.
Come, sit down, and tell me more about
yourself."
He had grown alarmingly pale. As she
spoke, he started to obey her, bnt his feet
seemed to fail. He staggered, reeled, and
is* as she sprang towards him, with a cry of
al*rm, he sank at her feet, fainting. She was
?Aher knees instantly, took his head in her lap,
and began chafing his temples, at die same
time calling loudly for assistance. Priscilla,
who was coming out with the bread and milk,
put her waiter down, and ran to Miss Lizzie's
aid. Lizzie sent her for water and hartshorn,
and still chafed the boy's pale temples, loosening
his collar, and nursing his head upon her
knees. " Poor child! " she repeated to herself
bending over and gazing anxiously into his face.
It was a very handsome face, indeed. His hair
was yellow as gold, long and curly, and, though
now unkempt, felt soft and fine as silk to her
touch. The forehead was high and smooth,
with a delicate blue vein in each temple.
Those eyes, whose frank and melancholy look
had so much impressed her, were large and
blue, she remembered, with a delicate spot or
two of amber, that much improved and beautified
them. Seldom had she seen such lovely
eyes, and she felt that they must be indices of
a rich and lovely soul. The even arch of the
brows, the nose high, with thin nostrils, full of
aristocratic lines, the sweet mouth, all were full
of manly beauty. His skin was soft and fair?
very fair, indeed, where the sun had not tanned
it?as she could see by the part of his neck and
breast that the unbottoned collar exposed. And
the inert hand that rested upon the grass was
white and small and soft?not used to work,
evidently. " Poor child!" murmured she,
while her eyes filled up with tears of compassion.
What was this new emotion she felt towards
the boy whom she was nursing upon her
lap ? The warm color came into her cheeks,
her suffused eyes grew dimmer still as she bent
over him, her heart beat strong and tumultuous
; she seemed to feel as if this boy belonged
to her?as if, by sheltering his fainting form
then she had acquired a guardian's rights towards
him?as if he had been sent to her to be
Krovided for, to occupy her thoughts, to become
er child from that time forth. She bent over
him, lower still, gazing upon his pale thin
face?bent over him, with his head upon her
knees and her arm holding him there?bent
over him, and, obeying the impulse, kissed him
twice upon the lips.
"Poor chile. He'm werry pooty, aint he,
Miss Lizzie ? "
Lizzie blushed deeply, as she looked up, and
received the water and restoratives from Priscilla,
and, looking down again, she found the
boy just opening his languid eyes with a vacant
stare.
" Poor chile. He's comin' to, now. Spec'
he'm starved, most likely. Jest, see to his feet,
ma'am. They's all blistered and swelled up,
and a-bleedin", too, as I'm a livin' sinner. No
wonder you drapt down, honey," said she to the
boy. who now, atter looking a moment into
Liz&e tf eyes or. til consciousness of his situation
returned, began to color deeply, and made an
effort to rise. ^
But Lizzie gently prevented him. "Yon
must lie still a while yet, and eat something, before
you think of stauding. I fear you have
suffered for food. Bring the milk here, Prisey ;
now, run and get me the brandy from the sideboard.
Drink some milk, Oscar. You are too
young to be left to yourself thus, all alone in
the world.. You might have died to-night"
" You are very kind, madam," murmured the
boy?"too kind. I cannot repay ?- Indeed
I am not a beggar," said he, with a feeble but
passionate earnestness, that was most piteous.
" I had money until yesterday ; but my father
was poor, and I had to sell the last painting to
have him buried. There are others, but they
are in pledge ; but I can work "
" Hush. We do not miss a biscuit and a glass
of milk, Oscar; and I am so persuaded that
you can work, that I intend to give you a trial.
Drink this brandy and milk; it will strengthen
you. Bring that bench here, Prisey, and Oscar
will eat some chicken. Do you feel better now,
Oscar ? "
"Yes, madam?I am well now, almost, and
when I have eaten will be quite so," answered
he, rising to his feet, and staggering to the seat.
He turned his large eyes towards her, and, while
they glistened with emotion, added:
" I will not attempt to thank yon."
" Stop, Oscar. There is no need to thank
me. I do not like to be thanked?in words, at
least. You have no home?you wish to work,
you say. I will give you a trial, and if you
wish to thank me as I like to be thanked, prove
that I have not been mistaken in thinking you
honest and deserving. You will never want
for friends if you prove to people that you are
so."
" Oh, indeed will you try me!" cried he,
trembling with eagerness. " I have no home?
my wants are very few"?he glanced so ruefully
at his clothes as he said this, that Lizzie could
not restrain a smile?"and indeed I will be
faithful. Who would not work for yon?"1 added
be, fervently.
" But you must rest first, Oscar, or you cannot
do your work well j and when your feet are
better, we will see if we cannot hunt you up a
pair of shoes, and get these clothes of yours in
better order. I think yon are a proud boy, Oscar."
" I'll wash de does to-night, Miss Lizzie,"
volunteered Priscilla.
" I have little to be proud of, Miss," said Oscar,
not sadly, for the arink, the meal, and this
promised labor, had restored its bright side to
everything. " All I have is my health and a
little education?and my poor father had ten
times as much, yet nearly starved."
.Lizzie sent Priscilla to prepare a room for
tho lad. and said tn him ?
44 You must be very tired, Oscar, so I think
you had better get your rest before you think
of anything else. Remember, I will be your
friend if you deserve it"
44 You can trust me, so far?" asked he.
"Yes."
He seized her hand and kissed it, and turned
away after Priscilla. As he did so, Lizzie felt
a warm tear upon her hand, and it would probably
have been a very easy matter for her to have
let fall some of her own just then ; but she restrained
herself, for she was not one of that
pluvial class of ladies who,44 like Aprile when hee
raines down showres," can afford a tear for
every trifle that touches them.
Oscar was sent to a quiet, nice room, where
Priscilla had water ready, and insisted upon
bathing his sore and swollen feet, in spite ot his
entreaties to be allowed to do it himself. Thus
refreshed^ and told to lie abed in the morning
until called, he slept soon the dreamless sleep
that only waits upon a weary child.
Not so Lizzie. Tea over, the curiosity of her
parents satisfied, and themselves seen safely to
bed, the young ladv, once in own room, had
time to pause and think over what had happened.
She could not say, upon reflection, that
she was satisfied with the course of events.
What had caused this sudden and profound interest
in the young stranger? True, he was
friendless, hungry, had fainted at her feet, and
showed both in manners and in person that at
least he had not been born to his present forlorn
condition. But there was no enticing mystery
about him nothing beyond his good looks
j EI
IRESPONDING EDITO
i, 1859.
and his ingenuousness, to distinguish him above
other beggars who had appealed to her for aid.
True, she had not done more for him than for
thoae others, perhaps?but did she feel towards
them as she aid towards this boy? Would she
in the morning, or as soon as he was able to
walk, see Oscar depart, provided with money
perhaps, and clothes, as had done those others
who had aroused her sympathies? No?she
felt she would not permit that. She felt that
her interest in him was snch that she wished to
provide for him?to stand in loco parentis towards
him. And she could not satisfy herself
as to the cause of this interest, could not be certai
i that it was wise or reasonable. What if
he were actually an impostor?what if, after
doing all she could for nim, he should repay
her with the ingratitude so common with those
in his circumstances? No?she would entertain
no such thought. Imposition or ingratitude
could not by any possibility belong to the
possessor of that face. So much was certain.
But what did she intend to do?what wonld
people say 7 She formed numerous plans, built
many air-castles, but could uot come to any
definite conclusion, further than a resolve to
keep him there for a time, and see what provision
could be made for him. If he nad
friends, she could find them out. If he was
unworthy, she could dismiss him. And if he
proved all she hoped, why, there would be no
need to trouble about provision for him. Her
parents were old?she needed a companion?a
brother?she would never marry?long ago she
had determined as to that. And if Oscar were
the boy she thought him, to look after his education,
and make a noble man of him, was just
the employment she felt herself to be in need
of. Anyhow, it would cost nothing to take
care him for a week?she coald nave him
watched, and?it was only a Christian act to
cast her bread upon the waters.
Pleasant dreams, Miss Betsy 1
"Father, we must find some work for
him to do," said Lizzie at the breakfast table
next morning.
" But, Betsy, there's no work to give him.
We've got all the force we want now, and more
than enough, for that matter. You can keep
hint here until he's well, but I don't see the use
of hiring when you don't need it."
" Nevertheless, we must give him work. He
is too proud and independent to eat the bread
of charity, and he must not be turned away
from our doors, if we can help him without injuring
ourselves. II you won't employ him, 1
will ao so myself. My garden is full of weeds
since the last rain, and you know you refused
to let me have Jim to work it, no longer ago
than yesterday. So I will have my own gardener."
" And thy own way, too, Betsy dear. Is it
not so? Very well, then ; but come, go with
me, and we will see this prodigious youth of
thine, and talk with him."
The result of the conversation must have
prepossessed the old man in Oscar's favor, for
that afternoon, in compliance with a suggestion
of his, the tailor of the neighborhood was sent
for, and took Oscar's measure for a suit of
clothes, while Priscilla plied a busy needle in
the manufacture of half a dozen coarse muslin
shirts for " the new boy," as he was called.
While these articles of raiment were being
rapidly got ready, Oscar was kept in bed, in
spite of his remonstrances. Lizzie knew best;
his feet were still bruised and sore, aud he had
an ague, which might be hard to cure, unless
taken in hand at once. It was only his fear of
being troublesome that made him ugent to get
about, she knew very well, and she was determined
to have her own way in the matter. During
those four or five days she was in his room
frequently, giving him medicine, seeing how he
did, taking his meals to him, &c. She had no
prudery, was as free as innocent, and thought
of him, and acted towards him as if he were a
child. In this way she saw a great deal of
him and learned the whole of his history. It
w?9 an ordinary tab) of tnisfi.rtivne and poverty,
heightened somewhat by the fact of the victim's
being unfitted by superior refinement to endure
its hardships with ordinary powens. His father
was a Swede, a man of education, letters, genius
perhaps, and an artist, but a man entirely
unfitted for active life, by an utter deficiency of
business talent. He had originally been a man
of some property, had followed art rather as an
amateur than professionally; and it was only
when, after his return from Italy and his mar
riage, misfortunes came upon him, and he lost
his property through the dishonesty of his
agents, that he had turned to it as a means ot
maintenance. Too proud to live at home, hv i
had displayed his want of judgment by emigrating
to a new country, where the necessity
to live was.yet so supreme that art had no ex
istence. They eked out their slender means as
best they could, the wife toiling with her needle,
and the husband collecting a few dollars here
and there, now by painting a cheap portrait,
now by the embellishment of signs, and again
by panelling, teaching drawing, and other miserable
fag-ends of his profession. They had
done what they could for Oscar, and had tried
to fit him for more successful work than had
fallen to their share. But, just as he was growing
old enouch to nrofit bv their examnle and
warning, the wearisomeneas of their mistaken
life conquered them. The mother died first,
and next year the father succumbed?both killed
by over-work?involuntary suicides, to speak
in paradox, for the sake of a most pitiful existence.
What little money was in his father's
pocket when he died?at a wayside tavern,
where he had stopped for the night, he and his
son being "on a tramp" in quest of work?
the boy, with a tender pride, had devoted to
procure his father decent sepulture and a tombstone,
and it was with five dollars in his pocket
that Oscar started out to make his way through
life, without a single friend, footsore and tired
already, agitated ;n spirit, and choking with
grief. }s it any wonder that, at the end of a
month, he found himself penniless, and ready
to drop down upon the road ? But he could
not have fallen at the feet of one more charitably
disposed towards all persons, or more willing
to aid him particularly than Lizzie was.
She melted with tender pity at thought of all
this poor boy must have gone through, qnd
marvelled much that he was so brave and so
cheerful, notwithstanding. Had it been herself,
she thought, she must have hated the whole
human race for permitting her to suffer so much,
and she could never have smiled again. Cut
there was humor in those soft Liue eyes, she
felt sure, and many a merry dimple of laughter
lurked perdu about the corners of that little
moptb. Jt would be her pleasure to tost to
their full these capacities. Evidently, Lizzie
had plans that looked considerably farther than
the mere weeding of her flower-beds, and the
trimming and training of her vines and shrubbery.
perhaps there was some relation between
these ulterior designs and the circumstance of
her placing a book in Oscar's hands on one of
these days, and asking him to read to her from
it. It was a poem by Dr. Oliver Qoldimitb,
i r _ it v i ?
woo was a iavorue aumor 01 me young lady s,
on account of his " Vicar of Wakeheld "?and
the name of the poem was "The Traveller"?
" Remote, unfriended, solitary, ?low,
Or by the lary Scheldt or wandering Po
And the young man delivered a page of it with
such taste, accuracy, polish, and elegance, that
Miss Lizzie was astonished, and thought that
some of her preacher friends might learn a lesson
from the lad, that would enable them to
read their hymns much more effectually. In
effect, she found Oscar to be well educated.
Getting hold of a pencil this same day, he drew
something inside tne cover of Goldsmith, which,
when Miss Lizzie examined it, she found to be
her own portrait, and to her unskillful eyes
quite a miraculous likeness.
Hence, when one morning Qsear made his
appearance at breakfast, clad in his new suit,
he looked so handsome, so graceful, and withal
so much a gentleman, that Lizzie quite forgot
her need of a gardener, and only thought of the
company her young protege would be to her.
But Oscar quietly told "them that he was now
well, and ready to go to work at whatever they
pleased to assign him, only hoping he would
be able to give them something like satisfaction,
and prove that he was not ungrateful for the
\
1
it'
gHBBSBBHBHHBBSKSnOBfli
tA.
r ?
R.
No. 663.
unexampled kindness he had received at their
hands. Thereupon the old man told him that
he would be under Lizzie's orders, and, turning
! to his daughter, remarked that, as the young
| man's hands seemed tender and unused to
worn, he had better take a light hoe at first?
she would find one in the tool-house?and there
couldn't be a better morning to put out her cabbage
plants and cauliflowers, and weed the
beets and parsnips. Lizzie, with a slight blush
! and some hesitation, which her protege did not
| seem to notice, led the way to the garden, and
Oscar looked so expectant for his directions,
that she was in a measure forced to tell him
| what she wanted done, enjoining him at the
| same time not to fatigue himself, as he was not
| used to work. Telling her that he hoped soon
to be rid of his clumsiness, he took hoe in hand
and bent over to his task, the weeding of a
flower-plot, giving evidence, by his sturdy manner,
of an intention to make a gardener of himself,
and earn his wages.
For the National Era.
FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF SARATOGA.
No. C.
United States Hotel, Saturday Morning.
Dear G***: Among the notabilities now
here is J. 6. Saxe. who was pointed out to me
this morning on my way to the Spring, smoking
a German pipe in front of Congress Hall. 1
believe there is some name given to these things
which lifts them out of the vulgarity of pipes?
| but for a poet and wit to be seen smoking one
of these crooked contrivances had a very common
look. But I forgive him, for he has
just strickep off at a dash the following sketch
of Saratoga, which I can testify is true to the
letter:
[The poem quoted from Saxe by our fair
correspondent appeared in the Era last week.]
I have been contriving a surprise for grandfather,
whose generous draft on New York
came very opportune. Not that I wanted anything,
but so soon as I had cashed the draft, I
saw the loneliest point lace collar for seventyfive
dollars; and I could not refuse to purchase.
Now you will think " the girl and her money
.-J " V? V_A ,1 T I.?
nuvu j-ani-u. i r>, uiu uit'ii i nave sucn a
love of a collar I But I was about to tell you
of the surprise I have been getting up for dear
grandpa. Jt is nothing less than my own self
done m crayon by Vincent Colyer, Esq., artist,
105 Bleecker street. I chanced to pass his
studio, and was attracted by some beautiful
heads. One of these, a most perfect face of a
young girl, was taken by Mr. Colyer last summer.
She was al&the 8prings with her family
and her lqver, to whom she was Boon to be
married. f)n Saturday he was at work on 'his
head, and she was all life and gladness. That
night she bad n fatal bleeding at the lungs, and
the next day, calling ft see her after church,
he was shown her corpse. This sketch remains
?? ;? i.ft rv c\t- n-i ??i-;ii ...
?.-> It Kiu mil. VJI Jir. voiyer B Skill Ha an arust
you will judge by his drawing of me. I only
wish I was hall as handsome as he has made
me, and yet everybody says it is a great saccess.
I hope you all will be of that opinion.
I am beginning to weary of the United States
Hotel. Yea, weary of dressing and undressing;
weary of talking by the hour, and not being
able to recall anything I have heard, or of being
conscious of having had any new trains of
thought awakened in my own mind. I do not
know how others get along, but it is wearisome
to be forever doing the same things. Even the
Lancers, with the inspiration of Munck's music,
have ockscd to be attractive; and T was sorry
hear Doctqr W. say to Aunt that she must not
leave before the 1st September. What will become
of me!
You ask me why I do not speak of any member
of the We Six but Mr. U. and Amelia. Be- '
cause they are like all the rest of Boston people.
Very bright, clever, (in the English sense of
the word,) and somewhat wearisome, because
they are so ; for I have to be ever on the alert,
lest some Mianee word may slip in, and give goc&sion
to an ingenious misapprehension or a
bright repartee. Von are made to fefl as when
you arc witnessing a spectacle of tire works,
where one rocket chases another into the sky,
there to break into spangles; to be followed by
another rush of rogketa, more bright, reaching
higher, and bursting into more glorious stars ; i
until at lrrt you are glad when they are all exploded,
ari you can go home to rest. Clara j
and Eliza'-D. are thus content to shine. Ame- i
lia does r*>t?she seeks to win. and her skill is 1
wonderfupto behold. As for the young gentlemen,
the. are extremely proper, and regard i
themselvea the pinks of courtesy?and so do I.
Mr. H. is a travelled gentleman, and he is ex- 1
eeedingly piqued by Amelia's interest in Dick, 1
and, by way of compensation, has devoted him- 1
self to me; and I have sought to secure all the
advantages his varied knowledge enables him
gracefully to impart to an inquirer, as I always
am when we two are thrown together- and V,o .
# t " "O "T ? ? ? "V j .
with a smile of kindness, consents to be my instructor.
Amelia is an heiress, and Mr. H. is a man of i
mind, and has his fortune to make. Now, what
could be more grateful to generous girl, who i
holds her fortune in her own right as Amelia
does, than to endow such a man with the accident
of wealth ? This, I think, she designs to
do one of these days; but in the mean time she
proposes to play at fast and loose with Mr. H.,
and to flirt, more or less seriously, with just
such novices as ray cousin Dick. You would
think it was an arranged affair, if you were to
see how naturally Mr. H. offers me his arm,
and how Dick takes Amelia into the ball-room ;
and in dancing, Mr, U. is my partner, and
Amelia and Dick arc our ris-atis ; and though
this may be nothing new to Mr. H., it is very
new to Dick. If Dick likes being cheated, I do
not like to see him cheated ; but it is not proper
for m# to help him see things as they are, for
ther, he might misconceive me.
Thursday, Atu/vst 25.?You have seen, dear
Q***, that I had much to tell you, I did not
know how to write; and as matters have ripened
rapidly to a conclusion, I cannot deny myself ;
the pleasure of telling you briefly what has
happened. To begin at the beginning?some
time sinoe, Miss Amelia led nae to talk about
her cousins, and asked rae if I thought it a
food plan for first cousins to marry ; and I told
er the truth when I said I had no cousin in
the world whom I would marry, which is all
true. She looked me ;n the thee, and asked me
if I wis seriuua. It never occurred to me what
Use sue could make of what I said, nor that she
was necessarily ignorant that Dick was not the
on offAunt Jane, and no oousin of mine; and
she very naturally believed he must be an only
son, because of his devotion to the only mother
he ha^ever known.
After this conversation, which I had forgotten,
with a multitude of just such sayings, Dick
showed himseif alienated from me. v\ e walked
together to the springs every morning, sat together
with Aunt Jane, listening to the same
author, and talking over what we were reading,
but all the while I felt a great veil had fallen
down between us, and this I attributed to the
presence of Amelia and her fascinations ; and i
though I was more deeply pained at what I i
saw than I was willing to confess even to myself,
yet I thought she would soon go away, and 1
all wonld be well again. But why Dick should
show any alienation of feeling surprised me, <
for I had tasked myself to comply with every ]
wish of his, to go where he would have me go, i
and to promote his views so far as I could guess 1
them, at whatever sacrifice of my own prefer- i
ences. It was not always easy, but I was sure i
the day and hour would come when mv mo- 1
tives would be appreciated by Dick, *nd I Vnew i
tbey would bear the test of my own scrutiny.
After being here a fortnight, Amelia told me 1
she was sick of 8aratoga, and they all were to
j:
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leave the next day for Newport, and begged me
to go with them. Of course thi9 was an impossibility
; and my excuse was regarded as all jufficient?that
my motive for coming here was
to be with Aunt Jane, and that I should remain
with her. That my refusal was not a
matter of regret, I readily saw, notwithstanding
all the attempts she made to impress me with
her earnest desire that I should go with them.
But when Dick was approached, she was not a
little surprised to find that no persuasions
could induce him to leave his mother. She
affected any degree of skepticism as to his devotion
to her, and suggested that if she could
persuade me to go with them, her wishes might
be gratified, and that Dick would feel himself
impelled to see that his Cousin Netta was not
spirited away by Mr. II or some such attractive
gentleman. The day came, and the *
hour, and we all went with them to the depot,
and saw them off.
With what different feelings did I walk down
the beautiful grounds of the United States on
that day and the day of my arrival. 1 had
Dick and Aunt Jane with me now, as theu%
The sun shone as brightly, and the checkered
shadows danced as sweetly on the greensward.
All Nature wore the same joyousnesa, hut I
was not joyous. Dick walked on in silence,
supporting Aunt Jane, and I tried to talk of
thp licrlit ft nH frw fVtn n r>A hm*.
tieth time, but never so hopelessly as now;
for you must know, when I could say nothing
else to one of those wearisome men who haunt
the piazzas of the United States, I started the
loveliness of the sunlight and the shadows with >
some success; bnt not so now. Dick was absorbed,
and Aunt Jane did not care to be
awakened to enthusiasm about what she had
said everything Bhe had to say. And ao we
three went to our rooms. ^
This state of feeling existing between Tls, the
estrangement, hard as it was for uie to bear,
was harder for Dick, and he manifested his
temper in a wav to attract the attention of
Aunt Jane. Alter watching us for a day or
two, she asked me what had happened?and I
told her truly, notbing. So ahe took an oppor
tunity, wheu I had gone out a riding with Mr.
and Mrs. H., to inquire of Dick, who at first
would give no sign, but after a while, when hi*
mother told him it was the first time time Ue $
had ever denied her his loving confidence, and
that she felt it like a sword piercing her tt> the
heart, he gave in, and said that Netta had been
guilty of what he regarded a great indelicacy
in saying to Amelia A. that she never would
marry him. Aunt Jane, with a woman's intuition,
denied for me that 1 had ever made <
such a speech. Dick was sure it must be so,
for Amelia had repeated, as she said, word for
word, the conversation ; and he thought it most
unkind and unmaidenly for me to make such a
statement to one who hatl no claims to my cou- 9
fidence, and who, in all other matters than this, ]
never appeared to hnvo received it. Indeed, 1
we seemed to be the antipodes of each other? I
as he washed me to be. I
On my return home, Aunt Jane having ient I
Dick out, I found her alone, waiting to V&sk me I
for my speech, aB repeated by Am^da and by I
Dick. I listened to it all, and then said, "I I
made no such speech. Dick's name was never '
mentioned. The topic was about marryiug
first cousins, and I said I would not marry a
first cousin." "I told Dick so!" exclaimed (
Aunt Jane; and then, the flood-gate being
raised, I had a full talk with Aunt Jane of all ;
I had endured during the last two weeks, and
I was greatly relieved by her sympathy and assurance
that I had acted with great discretion '
and kindness, of which she had not been inobservant
; and that the time would come when <
Dick would come 'to his senses. " These men
arc such fools," said A- t Jane, "they never
know their own minds till somebody helps them
into daylight; and I think Amelia A. has dona
this for Dick." I could not delay to tell yon K
so much as ibis, and I must coufess I was glad
to bear Aunt Jane say Dick wished me to bo
Jinliko Amelia A. I will write vou one more I
etter, and but one more, for Attnt Jane says I
she will certainly leave here on the 1st of Sep- I
tf-mber, and it may be we shall go to Lake I
George before we set our face homewards. I
Hoping we may soon meet, I remain, dear I
G***, yours, lovingly, NsTTa. I
From Chambers's Journal I
HOP VILLA. 1
I had not seen Luke Swinton for thirty
roars; and so long ago, we were class-mates
and sworn chums. In the interim, I had been
knocked about, the very shuttlecock of fortune,
until at last the capricious dame gave me the
moans of coming home?that is, to England?
with the prospect of ending ray days there. I
said I had not seen Luke Swinton for thirty
rears, and yet, when he and I accidentally
lostled each other " on Change," soon after my
arrival, there was enough of the old face left
for me to recognise it.
" You are Luke Swinton," I said, and held
out my hand.
" And you are" . He looked inquiringly,
and his palm, slowly extended, touched mine
with a doubtful clasp, till I filled up the sen- <
lencc:
" James Ashburton."
No want of cordiality when those words fell
on his ear. " To think I did not know you."
said be. u But thirty years make many
changes, and yours has been a roving life, by
all accounts. You shall tell me everything by
and by."
I shook my head. " Mine would be too long
a story in detail, but you may fill it up from the
outline. I went away poor; I have not returned
rich, though with enough to supply a .
bachelor's wants."
" I am eorry you are a bachelor, my dear
fellow," said ray old mate, eyeing me compassionately.
" But there is a bright side to everything,
and you can go home with me to dinner
withont its being necessary to ask permission ;
moreover, yon can give orders for your baggage
to be forwarded to Hop Villa, my little place
out of town, without fear that vour other half
will lodge a detainer. Depend on it, I shall
not soon part with you."
u And can you really give such an invitation
without the cognizance of the lady that owns
you? Oh, happy Benedict!" contiuued I,
laughing; " tell me where I may find such a
partner, and I will forthwith join your fraternity."
" Don't talk rashly, James, but rather niako
all the preparations you need for a long visit,
and join me two hours hence."
lie named the place of meeting. Both were
punctual, and we duly arrived at Hop Villa. .<
I did not expect to see such a lovely domain
as that which called my old friend master, and
?*a ne f/> m a/v/v/1 a/1 mw anfi/>irvotiAna Q a
Iio CAiriH iai j ?*i n v ?
did its beauty. "So this is jour home?" I
asked, my face expressing both surprise and
pleasure.
" Yes, all is really mine these boundaries
enclose. I see you wonder how it came to be
so ; but I do not like to begin a long story
before dinner, so be patient a while longer."
We were near the house when we came upon
the gardener, who was examining the withered
remains of an old hop-vine.
" Is it quite dead, Scott?" asked my friend.
" Quite, sir. Shall I remove it?"
" I suppose yon must, but I feel sorry to give
the order. Remember, you procure and plant
another in its place immediately. I must not
have Hop Villa without one vine.
" I have been wondering," said I, " what indnced
you to give this charming place the name
it bears?if, indeed, you acted as its sponsor."
" Ah ! thereby hangs a?or rather the?tale ;
but wait till after dinner."
I must say I felt very forlorn^ in comparison
with my friend, when I saw the joyous greetings
be received from a handsome matron, and half
a dozen boys and girls, varying in age from six
to eighteen. In sp;:e of bis tnockdugubrioua
expression of face, when be informed me that
these formed only a portion of his " responsibilities,"
for o<ie olive branch was at college,
and the yonngest tendrils of his household vine
would come in with the dessert, one might see
that his home deserved the name. It was
pleasant to receive * sort of reflected edition ol
. - I' ' i. )