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D UKE UNIVERSIT Y 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 The Glenn Negley Collection 
 of Utopian Literature 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 Duke University Libraries 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/camperdownornewsOOgrif 
 
NEW NOVELS, &c. 
 
 IATELT PUBLISHED 
 
 BY CAREY, LEA AND BLANCHARD. 
 
 DR. BIRD'S NOVELS. 
 
 THE HAWKS OF HAWK HOLLOW. A Tradition of 
 Pennsylvania. By the author of " Calavar," and " The 
 Infidel." In 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 A second edition of 
 
 CALAVAR, or THE KNIGHT OF THE CONQUEST. 
 A Romance of Mexico. 2 vols. 12mo. By the author of 
 "The Infidel." 
 
 THE INFIDEL, or THE FALL OF MEXICO. A Ro- 
 mance. In 2 vols. 12mo. By the author of " Calavar." 
 
 PENCIL SKETCHES, or OUTLINES OF CHARAC- 
 TER AND MANNERS. By Miss Leslie. In 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 CLINTON BRADSHAW, or THE ADVENTURES OF 
 A LAWYER. In 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 TALES AND SKETCHES. By the author of "Lin- 
 woods," " Redwood," &c. 1 vol. 12mo. 
 
 THE INSURGENTS. A new American and Historical 
 Novel. 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 DACRE. A Novel. 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 CHANCES AND CHANGES; a Domestic Story, in 2 
 vols. 12mo. 
 
 THE TWO FRIENDS. By Lady Blessington, in 2 vols. 
 12mo. 
 
 ANNE GREY ; a Novel. 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 WILL WATCH. By the author of " Cavendish," "Port 
 Admiral," &c. in 3 vols. 12mo. 
 
 THE MONIKINS. By the author of " The Spy." In * 
 
 vols. 12mo. 
 MY COUSIN NICHOLAS, or THE BULWINKLES 
 
 OF UNDERDOWN HALL. 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 THE MARDENS AND THE DAVENTRYS. Tales by 
 Miss Pardoe. 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 THE MOST UNFORTUNATE MAN IN THE WORLD. 
 
 By Captain Chamier. 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
THE MAYOR OF WIND GAP, and CANVASSING; 
 
 Tales. By Banim, author of the O'Hara Family, &c. 2 
 vols. 12mo. 
 
 BELFORD REGIS, or SKETCHES OF A COUNTRY 
 TOWN. By Miss Mitford. 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 THE PRINCESS, or THE FEGUINE. By Lady Mor- 
 gan. 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 VATHEK, an Oriental Tale. By Mr. Beckford, author of 
 " Journey to Alcobaco," &c. 1 vol. 18mo. 
 
 ROOKWOOD, a Romance. By W. H. Ains worth, 12mo. 
 
 THE COMIC SKETCH-BOOK. By John Poole, author 
 of Paul Pry, &c. 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 HORSE SHOE ROBINSON, a Tale of the Tory Ascen- 
 dancy. By the author of " Swallow Barn." Third Edi- 
 tion. 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 CHAIROLAS; by the author of'Pelham;" and OTHER 
 TALES, by the author of " Vivian Grey," and others. 
 
 1 vol. 12mo. 
 
 GILBERT GURNEY. By the author of "Sayings and 
 
 Doings." 2 vols. 12mo. 
 THE EARLY CALLED, THE STOIC, and the LANS- 
 
 BYS OF LANSBY HALL. 1 vol. 
 PETER SNOOK, and OTHER STRANGE TALES. By 
 
 the author of "The Invisible Gentleman," &c. 2 vols. 
 
 12mo. (Nearly ready.) 
 MARGARET RAVENSCBOFT, or SECOND LOVE. 
 
 By Mr. St. John. 2 vols. 12mo. 
 AGNES DE MANFELDT. By the author of " Highways 
 
 and Byways." 2 vols. 12mo. 
 TALES OF OUR NEIGHBOURHOOD. By the author 
 
 of " The Collegians." 2 vols. 12nio. (Nearly ready.) 
 HARRY CALVERLY. By the author of " Cecil Hyde." 
 
 2 vols. 
 
 BEN BRACE, THE LAST OF NELSON'S AGAMEM- 
 
 NONS. By Captain Chamier. 2 vols. 12mo. 
 THE EMPRESS. By the author of" The Albanians," &c. 
 
 2 vols. 
 THE WARLOCK. A Tale of the Sea. By The Old Sailor. 
 
 (Nearly ready.) 
 WATKINS TOTTLE, and other Sketches, by Boz. 2 vols. 
 
 12mo. 
 THE FARMER'S DAUGHTER, &c. By the author of 
 
 " The Warlock," &c. (Nearly ready.) 
 THE DEVOTED. By Lady Charlotte Bury. 2 vols. 
 
 12mo. (Nearly ready.) 
 
CAMPERDOWN; 
 
 OB, 
 
 NEWS FROM 
 
 OUR NEIGHBOURHOOD 
 
 SKETCHES, 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF "OUR NEIGHBOURHOOD," &C. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA.- 
 CAREY, LEA & BLANCHARD. 
 
 1836. 
 
Eittehed according- to the Act of Congress, in the year 1836, 
 by Caret, Lea & Blanchaud, in the Clerk's Office of the 
 District Court of the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 
 
Ui 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS DEDICATED TO 
 
 A lady distinguished as a writer and an artist; 
 and esteemed by her friends for her domestic 
 virtues. With her accomplishments, and excel- 
 lence of character, she would be appreciated any 
 where; but it has been her peculiar good fortune 
 to belong to Boston; a place, above all others, 
 
 wherein a woman receives that high respect and 
 
 » * 
 
 consideration to which she is so justly entitled. 
 

PREFACE. 
 
 A few years ago a book was published, called 
 "Our Neighbourhood;" and those who read it, 
 will recollect that the author intended, in the se- 
 cond series, to give a short sketch of some of the 
 most conspicuous characters therein mentioned. 
 The second series is now presented to the public, 
 and is called " Camperdown," the name of our 
 neighbourhood. The work will be continued, un- 
 der different titles, until the author has accom- 
 plished the object stated in the preface to the first 
 series ; and which the tenor of the two volumes 
 will more fully explain. 
 
 
THREE HUNDRED YEARS HENCE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It is seldom that men begin to muse and sit alone 
 in the twilight until they arrive at the age of fifty, 
 for until that period the cares of the world and" the 
 education of their young children engross all then- 
 thoughts, Edgar Hastings, our hero, at thirty 
 years of age was still unmarried, but he had gone 
 through a vast deal of excitement, and the age of 
 musing had been anticipated by twenty years. 
 He was left an orphan at fourteen, with a large in- 
 come, and the gentleman who had the management 
 of his estates proved faithful, so that when a person 
 of talents and character was wanted to travel with 
 the young man, a liberal recompense was at hand 
 to secure his services. From the age of fourteen 
 to twenty-one he was therefore travelling over 
 Europe ; but his education, instead of receiving a 
 check, went on much more advantageously than if 
 he had remained at home, and he became master 
 of all the modern languages in the very countries 
 where they were spoken. The last twelve months 
 of his seven years' tour was spent in England, be- 
 ing stationary in London only during the sitting of 
 Parliament. 
 
10 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 His talents thus cultivated, and his mind enlarged 
 by liberal travel, he returned to America well 
 worthy the friendship and attention of those who 
 admire and appreciate a character of his stamp. 
 He had not therefore been back more than a year, 
 before his society was courted by some of the best 
 men in the country; but previous to his settling 
 himself into a home, he thought it but proper to tra- 
 vel through his own country also. His old friend, 
 still at his elbow, accompanied him; but at the close 
 of the excursion, which lasted nearly two years, he 
 was taken ill of a fever caught from an exposure 
 near the Lakes, and died after a few days' illness. 
 
 Edgar Hastings was now entirely alone in the 
 world, and he would have fallen into a deep melan- 
 choly, had he not engaged in politics. This occu- 
 pied him incessantly; and, as his purse was ample 
 and his heart liberally disposed, he found the de- 
 mands on his time gradually increasing. He had 
 occupations heaped upon him — for rich, disengaged, 
 and willing, every body demanded his aid ; and 
 such were the enthusiasm and generosity of his na- 
 ture, that no one applied in vain. 
 
 His first intention, on returning from his tour 
 through his own country, was to improve an estate 
 he had purchased in Pennsylvania, promising him- 
 self an amiable and beautiful wife to share his hap- 
 piness; but politics interfered, and left him no time 
 even for the luxury of musing in the evening. But 
 a man can get weary of politics as well as of any 
 other hard up-hill work; so, at the end of seven 
 years, seeing that the young trees which he had 
 planted were giving shade, and that the house that 
 they were to overshadow was not yet begun, he 
 fell to musing. He wanted something, likewise, to 
 love and protect — so he fell to musing about that. 
 He wished to convert a brisk stream, that fell down 
 the side of a hill opposite to the south end of his 
 
YEARS HENCE- 11 
 
 grounds, into a waterfall — so he fell to musing 
 about that. He wanted to make an opening through 
 a noble piece of woods that bounded the north side, 
 that he might catch a view of the village steeple — 
 so he fell to musing about that. A beautiful wind- 
 ing river lay in front of his estate, the bank of which 
 sloped down to the water's edge ; this tranquillizing 
 scene likewise operated on his feelings, so that poli- 
 tics faded away, and his mind became calm and 
 serene. Thus it was, that at thirty years of age he 
 had these fits of abstraction, and he became a 
 muser. 
 
 Men of his age — sensible men — are not so easily 
 pleased as those who are younger. He admired 
 graceful, easy manners, and a polished mind, far 
 before beauty or wealth; and thus fastidious, he 
 doubted whether he should marry at all. Every 
 now and then, too, an old bachelor feeling came 
 over him, and he feared that when his beloved twi- 
 light found him sitting under the noble porticos 
 which he intended to build, his wife would drag 
 him away to some far distant route in the city; or 
 that she would, untimely, fill the house with visiters. 
 So, with all the dispositions in the world, he lived 
 alone, though every fit of musing ended by finding 
 a wife at his side, gazing on the dim and fading 
 landscape with him. 
 
 While his house was building, he occupied a 
 small stone farm house, at the extremity of the es- 
 tate. Here he brought his valuable books and 
 print?, well secured from damp and insects by aro- 
 matic oils; here did he draw his plans during the 
 day, and here, under a small piazza, did he medi- 
 tate in the evening, transferring his musings to the 
 little parlour as soon as the damp evenings of autumn 
 compelled him to sit within doors. 
 
 Adjoining his estate lived a quaker, by the name 
 of Harley, a steady, upright man, loving his ease. 
 
12 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 as all quakers do, but having no objection to see 
 his neighbours finer or wiser than himself. He took 
 a fancy to our hero, and the beloved evening hour 
 often found him sitting on the settee with Hastings, 
 when, after enjoying together an animated conver- 
 sation, he also would fall into the deep feeling which 
 fading scenery, and the energy of such a character 
 as his young friend's, w r ould naturally excite in a 
 mind so tranquil as his own. 
 
 At length, the quiet quaker spoke of his daughter, 
 but it was not with a view to draw Edgar's atten- 
 tion; he mentioned her incidentally, and the young 
 man was delighted. In a moment, his imagination 
 depicted her as a beautiful, graceful, accomplished 
 creature ; and there could be no doubt that she 
 was amiable and gentle ; so he strolled over to his 
 friend's house, and was regularly introduced to her. 
 She was beautiful, and amiable, and gentle — all this 
 he saw at a glance; but, alas! she had no accom- 
 plishment farther than that she wrote an exquisitely 
 clear, neat hand, and was an excellent botanist and 
 florist. But "propinquity" softened down all ob- 
 jections. Every time he strayed away to Pine 
 Grove the eligibilities of the match became more 
 apparent, and his love of grace and polish of mind 
 .seemed to be of comparatively little importance, 
 when he listened to the breathings of the innocent 
 quaker, who thought all of beauty was in a flower, 
 and who infinitely preferred the perfume of a rose 
 or a lilac, to the smell of a dozen lamps in a crowd- 
 ed room. Her name was Ophelia, too. 
 
 Mr. Harley, or friend Harlcy as he was called, 
 was nowise rigid in his creed; for the recent law- 
 suits between the Orthodox and Hicksite quakers 
 had very much weakened his attachments to the 
 forms of quakerism. He found that the irritable 
 portion of his society had great difficulty in keeping 
 hands off, and in preserving the decorum of their 
 
I 
 
 VEARS HENCE. 13 
 
 order. Peaceful feelings, equable temperaments, 
 being the foundation — the cement, which, for so 
 many years, had bound the fraternity together, 
 were now displaced for the anger and turbulence 
 so often displayed by other sects of Christians. 
 
 Litigations amongst themselves — the law — had 
 done that which neither fine nor imprisonment, the 
 derision nor impositions of other sects, could ac- 
 complish. The strong cement had cracked along 
 the edge of the bulwarks, where strength was the 
 most necessary, and the waters of discord and dis- 
 union were insinuating themselves into every open- 
 ing. The superstructure was fast crumbling away, 
 and friend Harley looked to the no very distant 
 period when his posterity should cast off the quaker 
 dress, and naturally follow the customs and obey the 
 general laws which govern the whole body of 
 Americans. 
 
 This was sensible Valentine Harley's opinion and 
 feeling; in rules of faith he had never been induct- 
 ed — are there any quakers, apart from a few of 
 their leaders, who can define what their religious 
 faith is 1 So, although he loved the forms in which 
 he had been educated — although he wore the quaker 
 dress, and made his son and daughter do the same 
 — yet when Edgar Hastings left off musing in the 
 twilight, and was seen at that hour walking slowly 
 down the glen, with Ophelia hanging on his arm, 
 he only heaved a sigh, and wished that the youn°- 
 man said thee and thou. But this sigh was far from 
 being a painful one; he felt that when the obscure 
 grave, which shuts out all trace of the quaker's 
 place of rest, should close over him, his memory 
 would live fresh and green in the heart of his 
 daughter. Far more should he be reverenced, if 
 lie gave her gentle^ spirit to the strong arm, the 
 highly gifted mind of such a man as Edgar Hast- 
 ings, than if he compelled her to marry a man of 
 b2 
 
14 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 their own order — to the one who was now prefer- 
 ing his suit, friend Hezekiah Connerthwaite, a rich, 
 respectable, yet narrow minded and uneducated 
 man. 
 
 That he consented to his daughter's marriage 
 willingly, and without an inward struggle, was a 
 thing not to be expected; but he was too manly, 
 too virtuous, to use a mean subterfuge with his sect 
 that he might escape the odium which falls on the 
 parent who allows his daughter to marry out of the 
 pale. He would not suffer his child to wed clan- 
 destinely, when in reality his heart and reason ap- 
 proved of her choice ; when her lover's merits and 
 claims, and her own happiness, strongly over- 
 balanced his scruples. She might have married 
 privately, and her father, thus rid of the blame of 
 consenting to her apostacy, could, as usual, take 
 his seat in their place of worship, without the fear 
 of excommunication. But Valentine Harley scorned 
 such duplicity and foolishness; Ophelia was there- 
 lore married under her fathers roof, and received 
 her father's blessing ; and here, in this well regu- 
 lated house, Edgar Hastings spent the first yearof 
 his wedded life. Here, too, his son was born ; and 
 now no longer a being without kindred or a home, 
 he found how much happier were the feelings, of a 
 husband and father than those of a selfish, isolated 
 being. 
 
 As he was building a spacious, elegant, and du- 
 rable mansion, one that should last for many years, 
 he went slowly to work. It was begun a year be- 
 fore his marriage, and it was not until his young 
 son was three months old that he could remove his 
 family, of which Mr. Harley now made a part, to 
 their permanent home. The younger Harley, who 
 had married and settled at a distance, being induced 
 to come among them, again tolake the property at 
 1 me Grove, thus adding another link to the bond 
 
YEARS HEXCE. 15 
 
 of friendship which this happy marriage had cre- 
 ated. In the month of May the younger Harley 
 was expected to take possession of his father's 
 house. 
 
 It was now February. The new house was com- 
 pletely furnished, and every thing ready for their 
 removal as soon as Mr. Hastings returned from 
 New York, where he had some business of import- 
 ance to transact. As it called for immediate atten- 
 tion, he deferred unpacking his books, or indeed 
 taking them from the farm house, until his return. 
 It was with great reluctance that he left his wife, 
 who grieved as if the separation was to last for 
 years instead of a fortnight; but he was compelled 
 to go, so after a thousand charges to take care of 
 her health, and imploring her father to watch over 
 her and his little boy, he once more embraced them 
 and tore himself away. His wife followed him 
 with her eyes until she saw him pass their new 
 habitation, cross over the stile and turn the angle ; 
 here he stopped to take one more look at the spot 
 where all he loved dwelt, and seeing the group still 
 looking towards him, he waved his handkerchief, 
 and a few steps farther hid him from their sight. 
 
 The farm house was at the extremity of the es- 
 tate, and as it lay on the road leading to the ferry, 
 he thought he would look at the fire which had 
 been burning in the grate all the morning. Mr. 
 Harley said he would extinguish it in the afternoon, 
 and lock up the house, but still he felt a curiosity to 
 sec whether all was safe. His servant, with the 
 baggage, had preceded him, and was now waiting 
 for him at the boat; so he hurried in, and passed 
 from the hall to the middle room, where the books 
 were. Here he found an old man sitting, appa- 
 rently warming himself by the still glowing coals, 
 who made an apology for the intrusion, by saying 
 
18 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 that he was very cold, and seeing a fire burning, 
 for he had looked in at the window, he made bold 
 to enter. 
 
 Mr. Hastings bade him sit still, but the man said 
 he was about to cross the ferry and must hurry 
 on, observing that he thought there would be a 
 great thaw before morning, "and in that case," 
 said he, pointing up to the hill, at the foot of which 
 the house stood, "that great bank of snow will 
 come down and crush the roof of this house." 
 Hastings looked up and saw the dangerous position 
 of the snow bank, and likewise apprehending a 
 thaw, he begged the man to hurry on and tell his 
 servant to go over with his baggage, and get all 
 things in readiness for him on the other side, and 
 that he would wait for the next boat, which crossed 
 in fifteen minutes after the other. He gave the 
 poor man a small piece of money, and after he left 
 the house Hastings wrote a note about the snow 
 bank to Mr. Harley, which he knew that gentleman 
 would see, as he was to be there in the afternoon. 
 Knowing that he should hear the steam boat bell, 
 and feeling cold, he drew an old fashioned chair, 
 something in the form of an easy chair, and fell into 
 one of his old fits of musing. He thought i-i would 
 not be prudent to return to his family merely to say 
 farewell again, even if there were time, but a melan- 
 choly would creep over him, as if a final separation 
 were about to take place. In vain he tried to rouse 
 himself and shake it off; he closed his eyes, as if by 
 doing so he could shut out thought, and it did, for 
 in less than five minutes he was fast asleep. 
 
YEARS HENCE. 17 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Hearing a noise, he suddenly started up. It 
 was dusk, and having lain long in one position, he 
 felt so stiff as to move with difficulty; on turning 
 iiis head, he saw two strangers looking at him with 
 wonder and pity. "Is the steamboat ready?" ex- 
 claimed he, still confused with his long sleep. " Has 
 the bell rung, gentlemen 1 Bless me, I have over- 
 slept myself — what o'clock is it 1 Why, it is almost 
 dark — I am ashamed of myself." 
 
 Finding, after one or two attempts, that he could 
 not get up easily, the two strangers hastened for- 
 ward and assisted him to rise. They led him to 
 the door, but here the confusion of his mind seemed 
 rather to increase than diminish, for he found him- 
 self in a strange place. To be sure, there lay the 
 river, and the hills on the opposite shore still rose 
 in grandeur ; but that which was a wide river, now 
 appeared to be a narrow stream ; and where his 
 beautiful estate lay, stretching far to the south, was 
 covered by a populous city, the steeples and towers 
 of which were still illuminated by the last rays of 
 the sun. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said the bewildered man, " I am 
 in a strange perplexity. I fell asleep at noon in 
 this house, which belongs to me, and after remain- 
 ing in this deep repose for six hours I awoke, and 
 find myself utterly at a loss to comprehend where 
 I am. Surely I am in a dream, or my senses are 
 leaving me." 
 
 " You are not dreaming, neither is your mind 
 wandering ; a strange fate is yours," said the elder 
 of the two young men, When you are a little more 
 composed we will tell you how all this has hap- 
 pened; meantime, you must come with me ; I shall 
 
18 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 take you where you will find a home and a wel- 
 come." 
 
 "What is your name," said the astonished Hast- 
 ings, "and how have I been transported hither." 
 
 " My name is Edgar Hastings," said the young 
 man ; " and I feel assured that yours is the same. 
 If I thought you had sufficient fortitude to hear the 
 strange events which have occurred, I would tell 
 you at once; but you had better come with me, 
 and during the evening you shall know all." 
 
 Hastings suffered himself to be led by the two 
 strangers, as he felt cramped and chilly; but every 
 step he took revived some singular train of thought. 
 As he proceeded, he saw what appeared to be his 
 own house, for the shape, dimensions and situation 
 were like the one he built, and the distance and 
 direction from his farm house was the same. What 
 astonished him most was the trees ; when he saw 
 them last they were silver pines, chestnuts, catal- 
 pas, locusts and sycamores — now the few that re- 
 mained were only oak and willow; they were of 
 enormous size, and appeared aged. 
 
 " I must wait, I see," said poor Hastings, "for an 
 explanation of all this ; my hope is, that I am dream- 
 ing. Here lie trees newly felled, immense trees 
 they are, and they grew on a spot where I formerly 
 had a range of offices. I shall awake to-morrow, 
 no doubt," said he, faintly smiling, " and find my- 
 self recompensed for this miserable dream. Pray 
 what is your name?' — turning to. the younger of 
 the two men. 
 
 " My name is Valentine Harley, and I,am related 
 to this gentleman ; our family have, at intervals, 
 intermarried, for upwards of three hundred years." 
 
 "Valentine Harley!" exclaimed Hastings, " that 
 is the name of my wife's father. There never was 
 any of the name of Valentine,' to my knowledge, 
 but his ; and T did not know that there was another 
 
YEARS HENCE. 19 
 
 Edgar Hastings in existence, excepting myself and 
 my yonng son." 
 
 They were now in front of the house — the mas- 
 sive north portico had been replaced by another of 
 different shape; the windows were altered; the 
 vestibule, the main hall, the staircase, no longer the 
 same — yet the general plan was familiar, and when 
 they opened the door of a small room in the north 
 wing, he found it exactly to correspond with what 
 he had intended for his laboratory. 
 
 After persuading him to take some refreshments, 
 they conducted him to his chamber, and the two 
 young men related to the astonished Hastings what 
 follows. We shall not stop to speak of his surprise, 
 his sufferings, his mortal agony — nor of the inter- 
 ruptions which naturally took place ; but the group 
 sat up till midnight. It is needless to say that not 
 one of the three closed his eyes the remainder of 
 the night. 
 
 " Early this morning," began the younger Edgar 
 Hastings — " and be not dismayed when I tell you, 
 that instead of the 15th of February, 1835, it is now 
 the 15th of April, 2135 — several of us' stood looking 
 at some labourers who were at work cutting a street 
 through the adjoining hill. Our engines had suc- 
 ceeded in removing the trees, rocks and stones, 
 which lay embedded in the large mounds of earth, 
 and about ten o'clock the street, with the exception 
 of the great mass which covered your farm house, 
 was entirely cut through to the river. This portion 
 of it would have been also removed, but both from 
 papers in my possession and tradition, a stone 
 building, containing many valuable articles, was 
 supposed to be buried there, by the fall of the hill 
 near which it stood. 
 
 "To extend the city, which is called Hamilton, 
 my property, or rather, I should say, your property, 
 was from time to time sold, till at length nothing 
 
20 THREE HUiVDUED 
 
 remains in our possession but this house and a few 
 acres of ground; the last we sold was that strip on 
 which your farm house stands. It was with great 
 reluctance that I parted with this portion, as I could 
 not but consider it as your sepulchre, which in fact 
 it has proved to be. 
 
 "When they commenced cutting through the 
 hill the top was covered with large oaks, some of 
 which, when sawed through, showed that they were 
 upwards of a century old; and one in particular, 
 which stood on the boundary line, had been desig- 
 nated as a landmark in all the old title deeds of two 
 hundred years' standing. 
 
 " About three hours before you were liberated 
 the workmen came to a solid stratum of ice, a phe- 
 nomenon so extraordinary, that all the people in the 
 vicinity gathered to the spot to talk and ponder over 
 it. An aged man, upwards of ninety, but with his 
 faculties unimpaired, was among the number pre- 
 sent. He said, that in his youth his great grand- 
 father had often spoken of a tradition respecting 
 this hill. It was reported to have been much higher, 
 and that a ravine, or rather a precipitous slope, a 
 little below the road, was quite filled up by the over- 
 throw of the hill. That the fall had been occasioned 
 by an earthquake, and the peak of the hill, after 
 dislodging a huge rock, had entirely covered up a 
 stone building which contained a large treasure. 
 He very well remembered hearing his aged relative 
 say, that the hill was covered with immense pines 
 and chestnuts. 
 
 " The truth of part of this story was corrobo- 
 rated by ancient documents in my possession, and 
 I hastened to my library to search for some old 
 family papers, which had been transmitted to me 
 with great care. I soon found what I wanted, and 
 with a map of the estate, in which, from father to 
 son, all the alterations of time had been carefully 
 
YEARS HENCE. 21 
 
 marked down, I was able to point out the exact 
 spot on which the old stone farm house stood. 
 In a letter from a gentleman named Valentine 
 Harley, which, with several from the same hand, 
 accompanied the different maps, an account was 
 given of the avalanche which buried the house 
 and filled up the ravine and gap below. As the 
 originals were likely to be destroyed by time, they 
 had been copied in a large book, containing all the 
 records of the family, which, from period to period, 
 receive the attestation of the proper recording offi- 
 cer, so that you may look upon these documents as 
 a faithful transcript of every thing of moment that 
 has occurred within the last three hundred years. 
 It was only last November that I entered an account 
 of the sale of this very strip of land in which the 
 stone house lay. 
 
 " Here is the first thing on record — a letter, as I 
 observed, from the father-in-law of Edgar Hast- 
 ings, my great ancestor — but I forget that it is of 
 you he speaks. Believe me, dear sir, that most 
 deeply do we sympathize with you; but your case 
 is so singular, and the period in which all this suf- 
 fering occurred is so very remote, that your strong 
 sense will teach you to bear your extraordinary 
 fate like a man. Allow me to read the letter ; it is 
 directed to James Harley, son to the above men- 
 tioned Valentine Harley. 
 
 " 'Second month, 17th, 1834. My dear son — 
 Stay where thou art, for thy presence will but 
 aggravate our grief. I will give thee all the par- 
 ticulars of the dreadful calamity which has be- 
 fallen us. I have not yet recovered from the shock, 
 and thy sister is in the deepest wo; but it is proper 
 that thou shouldst know the truth, and there is no 
 one to tell thee but myself. On Monday the 15th, 
 my dear son Edgar Hastings took a tender fare- 
 c 
 
22 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 well of thy sister and his babe, shaking hands with 
 me in so earnest and solemn a manner, that one 
 prone to superstition would have said it was pro- 
 phetic of evil. -We saw him walk briskly along 
 the road until the angle, which thou knowest is 
 made by the great hill, shut him from our sight ; 
 but just before he turned the angle he cast a look 
 towards the house wherein all his treasure lay, and 
 seeing that we were watching his steps, he waved 
 his handkerchief and disappeared. His intention, 
 thou know r est,was to proceed to New York; Samuel, 
 his faithful servant, was to accompany him, and 
 had gone forward in the carriage with the baggage, 
 as Edgar preferred to walk to the boat. Thy poor 
 sister and myself stood on the old piazza waiting 
 until the little steamboat — it was the Black Hawk — 
 should turn the great bend and appear in sight, for 
 it was natural, thou knowest, to linger and look at 
 the vessel which held one so dear to us both. It 
 was the first time that thy sister had been separated 
 from Edgar, and she stood weeping silently, leaning 
 on my arm, as the little steamboat shot briskly round 
 the bend and appeared full in sight. Thou must 
 recollect that the channel brings the boat nearly 
 opposite the stone farm house, and even at that dis- 
 tance, although we could not distinguish features 
 or person, yet w*e fancied we saw the waving of a 
 handkerchief. At that instant the Black Hawk 
 blew up, every thing went asunder, and to my af- 
 frighted soul the boat appeared to rise many feet 
 out of the water. I cannot paint to thee our agony, 
 or speak of the profound grief, the unextinguishable 
 grief, of thy dear sister ; she lies still in silent wo, 
 and who is there, save her Maker, who dares to com- 
 fort her. 
 
 " 'I told thee in a previous letter, written 1 believe 
 on the 12th, that I apprehended a sudden thaw. I 
 mentioned my fears to our dear Edgar, and with 
 
VEARS HEIx'CE. 23 
 
 his usual prudence he gave orders to strengthen 
 some of the embankments below the ravine. Among 
 other things I thought of his valuable books and in- 
 struments., which still remained in the stone farm 
 house, and that very afternoon I intended to have 
 them removed to Elmwood. At the instant the 
 dreadful explosion took place, the great snow bank, 
 which thou recollectest lav above the house in the 
 hollow of the hill, slid down and entirely covered 
 the building; and, in another second, the high peak 
 of the hill, heavily covered with large pines, fell 
 down and buried itself in the ravine and gap below. 
 The building and all its valuable contents lie buried 
 deep below the immense mass of earth, but we stop 
 not in our grief to care for it, as he who delighted 
 in them is gone from us for ever. 
 
 " ' Thy sister, thy poor sister, when the first hor- 
 rible shock was over, would cling to the hope that 
 £dgar might be spared, and it was with the great- 
 est difficulty that I could prevent her from flyin* 
 to the spot where the crowd had collected. Alas" 
 no one lived to tell how death had overtaken them. 
 Oi the five persons engaged on board, three of their 
 bodies have since been found ; this was in dragging 
 the water. It seems there were but few passengers', 
 perhaps only our beloved Edgar, his poor servant 
 bamuel, and one or two others. An old man was 
 seen to enter the boat just as she was moving off; 
 his body was found on the bank, and on searching 
 his pockets a small piece of silver, a quarter of a 
 dollar, was taken out, which I knew in a moment ; 
 it was mine only an hour before, and had three 
 Jittle crosses deeply indented on the rim, with a hole 
 m the centre of the coin ; I made these marks on it 
 the day before, for a particular purpose ; 1 could 
 therefore identify the money at once. About an 
 hour before Edgar left us, thinking he might want 
 small silver, I gave him a handful, and this piece 
 
24 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 was, among the number. He must have given it to 
 the man as soon as he got on board, perhaps for 
 charity, as the man was poor, and probably had 
 begged of him. This at once convinced me that 
 our dear Edgar was in the fatal boat. We have 
 made every exertion to recover the body, but are 
 still unsuccessful; nor can we find that of our poor 
 faithful Samuel. The body of the horse was seen 
 floating down the river yesterday; and the large 
 trunk, valueless thing now, was found but this morn- 
 ing near the stone fence on the opposite shore. 
 
 11 ' There were some valuable parchments, title 
 deeds, in a small leather valise, which our dear 
 Edgar carried himself — but what do we care for 
 such things now, or for the gold pieces which he 
 also had in the same case. Alas! we think of no- 
 thing but of the loss of him, thy much varued brother. 
 Edgar Hastings has been taken from us, and although 
 thy poor sister is the greatest sufferer, yet a% 
 mourn. 
 
 " ' Offer up thy prayers, my son, that God will 
 please to spare thy sister's reason ; if that can be 
 preserved, time will soften this bitter grief, and some 
 little comfort will remain, for she has Edgar's boy 
 to nourish and protect. As to me, tranquil as I am 
 compelled to be before her, I find that my chief 
 pleasure, my happiness, is for ever gone. Edgar 
 was superior to most men, ay, to any man living, 
 and so excellent was he in heart, and so virtuous 
 and upright in all his ways, that I trust his pure 
 spirit has ascended to the Great Being who gave it. 
 
 " ' Do not come to us just now, unless it be ne- 
 cessary to thy peace of mind ; but if thou shouldst 
 come, ask not to see thy sister, for the sight of any 
 one, save me and her child, is most painful to her. 
 
 " ' Kiss thy babe, and bid him not forget his 
 afflicted grandfather. God bless thee and thy kind 
 wife. — Adieu, my son. Valentine Harley.' " 
 
YEARS HENCE. 25 
 
 It need not be said that Edgar Hastings was 
 plunged in profound grief at hearing this °epistle 
 read; his excellent father, his beloved wife, his 
 darling child, were brought before him, fresh as 
 when he last saw them; and now the withering 
 thought came over him that he was to see them no 
 more ! After a few moments spent in bitter an- 
 guish, he raised his head, and motioned the voung 
 man to proceed. 
 
 H Meantime the workmen proceeded in their la- 
 bours, and so great was the anxiety of all, that up- 
 wards of fifty more hands were employed to assist 
 in removing the thick layer of ice which apparently 
 covered the whole building. When the ice was re- 
 moved, we came immediately to the crushed roof 
 of the house, into which several of the labourers 
 would have worked their way had we not withheld 
 them. After placing the engines in front they soon 
 cleared a road to the entrance, and by sundown 
 Valentine Harley and myself stood before the door- 
 way of the low stone farm house. 
 
 " It was not without great emotion that we came 
 thus suddenly in view of a building which had lain 
 under such a mass of earth for -three centuries. We 
 arc both, I trust, men of strong and tender feelings, 
 and we could not but sigh over the disastrous fate 
 of our great ancestor, distant as was the period of 
 his existence. We had often thought of it, for it was 
 the story of our childhood, and every document had 
 been religiously preserved. We stood for a few 
 moments looking at the entrance in silence, for 
 among other letters there were two or three, writ- 
 ten late in life by your faithful and excellent wife — 
 was not her name Ophelia ?" 
 
 " It was, it was," said the afflicted man ; "go on, 
 and ask me no questions, for my reason is un- 
 steady." 
 
 " In one of these letters she suggested the possi- 
 c2 
 
26 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 bility that her beloved husband might have been 
 buried under the ruins ; that the thought had some- 
 times struck her ; but her father believed otherwise. 
 That within a few years an old sailor had returned 
 to his native place, and as it was near Elm wood, 
 he called on her to state that it was his firm belief 
 that Mr. Hastings did not perish in the Black Hawk. 
 His reason for this belief was, that on the way to 
 the ship he encountered an old friend, just at that 
 moment leaving the low stone building. ' I wanted 
 him,' said the old sailor, ' to jump in the wagon and 
 go with me to the wharf, but he refused, as he had 
 business on the other side of the river. Besides, 
 said my friend, the gentleman within, pointing to 
 the door, has given me a quarter of a dollar to go 
 forward and tell the captain of the Black Haw r k 
 that he cannot cross this trip. This gentleman, he 
 said, was Mr. Hastings.' 
 
 ** Another letter stated — I think it was written by 
 the wife of James Harley, your brother-in-law — 
 that, in addition to the above, the old sailor stated, 
 that the ship in which he sailed had not raised an- 
 chor yet, when they heard the explosion of the 
 Black Hawk, of which fact they became acquainted 
 by means of a little fishing boat that came along 
 side, and which saw her blow up. He observed to 
 some one near, that if that was the case, an old 
 shipmate of his had lost his life. The sailor added 
 likewise, that he had been beating about the world 
 for many years, hut at length growing tired, and 
 finding old age creeping on him, he determined to 
 end his days in his native village. Among the re- 
 citals of early days was the bursting of the Black 
 Hawk and the death of Mr. Hastings, which latter 
 fact he contradicted, stating his reasons for believ- 
 ing that you were not in the boat. The idea of 
 your being buried under the ruins, and the dread 
 that you might have perished with hunger, so 
 
YEARS HENCE- 27 
 
 afflicted the poor Lady Ophelia that she fell into a 
 nervous fever, of which she died." 
 
 " Say no more— tell me nothing farther," said 
 the poor sufferer ; " I can listen no longer— good 
 night — good night— leave me alone." 
 
 The young men renewed the fire, and were about 
 to depart, when he called them back. 
 
 "Excuse this emotion — but my son — tell me of 
 him; did he perish ?" 
 
 "■ 2so — he lived to see his great grandchildren all 
 married : I think he was upwards of ninety when 
 he died." 
 
 "And what relation are you to him ?" 
 "I am the great grandson of your great grand- 
 son," said Edgar Hastings the younger; "and this 
 young man is the eighth in descent from your bro- 
 ther, James Harley. We both feel respect and 
 tenderness for you, and it shall be the business of 
 our lives to make you forget your griefs. Be com- 
 forted, therefore, for we are your children. In the 
 morning you shall see my wile and children. Mean- 
 time, as we have not much more to say, let us finish 
 our account of meeting you, and then* we trust you 
 will be able to get a few hours' rest." 
 
 "Rest!" said the man who had slept three hun- 
 dred years, "I think I have had enough of sleep; 
 but proceed." 
 
 " When the thought struck us that your bones 
 might lie under the ruins, we did not wish any com- 
 mon eye to see them; we therefore dismissed the 
 workmen, and entered the door by ourselves. We 
 came immediately into a square hall, at the end of 
 which was the opening to what is called in all the 
 papers the middle room ; the door had crumbled 
 away. The only light in the room proceeded from 
 a hole which had been recently made by the re- 
 moval of the ice on the roof, but it was sufficient to 
 show the contents of the room. We saw the boxes, 
 
28 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 so often mentioned in all the letters, nine in number, 
 and four large cases, which we supposed to be in- 
 struments. The table and four chairs were in good 
 preservation, and on the table lay the very note 
 which you must have written but a few minutes 
 before the ice covered you. On walking to the 
 other side of the room, the light fell on the large 
 chair in which you were reclining. 
 
 " ' This is the body of our great ancestor,' said 
 Valentine Harley, ' and now that the nir has been 
 admitted it will crumble to dust. Let us have the 
 entrance nailed up, and make arrangements for 
 giving the bones an honourable grave.' 
 
 " ' Unfortunate man,' said I ; ' he must have pe- 
 rished with hunger — and yet his flesh does not ap- 
 pear to have wasted. It is no doubt the first owner 
 of our estate, and he was buried in the fall of the ice 
 and hill. The old sailor was right. His cap of seal- 
 skin lies at the back of his head, his gloves are on his 
 lap, and there is the cameo on his little finger, the 
 very one described in the paper which offered that 
 large reward for the recovery of his body. The little 
 valise lies at his feet — how natural — how like a 
 living being he looks; one could almost fancy he 
 breathes.' 
 
 " ' My fancy is playing the fool with me,' said 
 Valentine ; ' he not only appears to breathe, but he 
 moves his hand. If we stay much longer our senses 
 will become affected, and we shall imagine that he 
 can rise and walk.' 
 
 " We stepped back, therefore, a few paces ; but 
 you may imagine our surprise, when you opened 
 your eyes and made an attempt to get up. At length 
 you spoke, and we hastened to you; our humanity 
 and pity, for one so singularly circumstanced, being 
 stronger than our fears. You know the rest. 1 
 picked up the valise, and there it lies." 
 
 We shall draw a veil over the next two months 
 of our hero's existence. His mind was in distress 
 
YEARS HENCE. 29 
 
 and confusion, and he refused to be comforted ; but 
 the young men devoted themselves to him, and they 
 had their reward in seeing him at length assume a 
 tranquil manner — yet the sad expression of his coun- 
 tenance never left him. His greatest pleasure — a 
 melancholy one it was, which often made him shed 
 tears — was to caress the youngest child ; it was 
 about the age of his own, and he fancied he saw a 
 resemblance. In fact, he saw a strong likeness to 
 his wife in the lady who now occupied Elmwood, 
 and her name being Ophelia rendered the likeness 
 more pleasing. She had been told of the strange 
 relationship which existed between her guest and 
 themselves; but, at our hero's request, no other 
 human being was to know who he was, save Ed- 
 gar Hastings the younger and his wife, and Valen- 
 tine Harley. It was thought most prudent to keep 
 it a secret from the wife of the latter, as her health 
 was exceedingly delicate, and her husband feared 
 that the strangeness of the affair might disturb her 
 mind. 
 
 Behold our hero, then, in full health and vigour, at 
 the ripe age of thirty-two, returning to the earth af- 
 ter an absence of three hundred years ! Had it not 
 been for the loss of his wife and son, and his excellent 
 father, he surely was quite as happily circumstanced, 
 as when, at twenty-one, he returned from Europe, 
 unknowing and unknown. He soon made friends 
 then, and but for the canker at his heart he could 
 make friends again. He thought of nothing less than 
 to appear before the public, or of engaging in any 
 pursuit. His fortune, and that part of his father-in- 
 law's which naturally would have fallen to him, was 
 now in the possession of this remote descendent. He 
 was willing to let it so remain, retaining only suffi- 
 cient for his wants ; and his amiable relation took 
 care that his means were ample. 
 
 To divert his mind, and keep him from brooding 
 
30 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 over his sorrows, his young relative proposed that 
 they should travel through the different states. 
 ** Surely," said he, " you must feel a desire to see 
 what changes three hundred years have made. Are 
 not the people altered } Do those around you talk, 
 and dress, and live as you were accustomed to do?" 
 
 " I see a difference certainly," said Hastings, 
 " but less than I should have imagined. But my 
 mind has been in such confusion, and my grief has 
 pressed so heavily on my heart, that I can observe 
 nothing. I will travel with you, perhaps it may be 
 of service ; let us set out on the first of May. Shall 
 we go northward first, or where?" 
 
 " I think we had better go to New York," said 
 Edgar, " and then to Boston ; we can spend the 
 months of May, June and July very pleasantly in 
 travelling from one watering place to another. We 
 now go in locomotive cars, without either gas or 
 steam." 
 
 "Is that the way you travel now?" exclaimed 
 Hastings. 
 
 "Yes, certainly; how should we travel? Oh, I 
 recollect, you had balloons and air cars in your 
 time." 
 
 " We had balloons, but they were not used as 
 carriages; now and then some adventurous man 
 went up in one, but it was merely to amuse the peo- 
 ple. Have you discovered the mode of navigating 
 balloons?" 
 
 "Oh yes; we guide them as easily through the 
 air, as you used to do horses on land." 
 
 "Do you never use horses to travel with now?" 
 
 "No, never. It is upwards of a hundred years 
 since horses were used either for the saddle or car- 
 riage ; and full two hundred years since they were 
 used for ploughing, or other farming or domestic 
 purposes." 
 
 " You astonish me ; but in field sports, or horse 
 racing, there you must have horses." 
 
YEARS HENCE. 31 
 
 The young man smiled. " My dear sir," said 
 he, " there is no such thing as field sports or horse 
 racing now. Those brutal pastimes, thank heaven, 
 have been entirely abandoned. In fact, you will 
 be surprised to learn, that the races of horses, asses 
 and mules are almost extinct. I can assure you, 
 that they are so great a curiosity now to the rising 
 generation, that they are carried about with wild 
 beasts as part of the show." 
 
 "Then there is no travelling on horseback 1 I 
 think that is a great loss, as the exercise was very 
 healthy and pleasant." 
 
 " Oh, we have a much more agreeable mode of 
 getting exercise now. Will you take a ride on the 
 land or a sail on the water?" 
 
 " I think I should feel a reluctance in getting into 
 one of your new fashioned cars. Do the steam- 
 boats cross at what was called the Little Ferry, 
 where the Black Hawk went from when her boiler 
 exploded ?" 
 
 " Steamboats indeed ! they have been out of use 
 since the year 1950. But suspend your curiosity 
 until we commence our journey ; you will find 
 many things altered for the better." 
 
 " One thing surprises me," said Hastings. " You 
 wear the quaker dress; indeed, it is of that fashion 
 which the gravest of the sect of my time wore ; 
 but you do not use the mode of speech — is that 
 abolished among you?' 
 
 The young man, whom we shall in future call 
 Edgar, laughed out. "Quaker!" said he; "why, 
 my dear sir, the quakers have been extinct for up- 
 wards of two centuries. My dress is the fashion 
 of the present moment ; all the young men of my 
 age and standing dress in this style now. Does it 
 appear odd to you?" 
 
 "No," said Hastings, " because this precise dress 
 was worn by the people called Friends or Quakers, 
 
32 m THREE HUNDRED 
 
 in my day — strange that I should have to use this 
 curious mode of speech — my day ! yes, like the wan- 
 dering Jew, I seem to exist to the end of time. I see 
 one alteration or difference, however; you wear 
 heavy gold buckles in your shoes, the quakers wore 
 strings; you have long ruffles on your hands, they 
 had none; you wear a cocked hat, and they wore 
 one with a large round rim." 
 
 "But the women — did they dress as my wife 
 does?" 
 
 " No. — Your wife wears what the old ladies be- 
 fore my time called a. frisk and petticoat; it is the 
 fashion of the year 1780. Her hair is cropped and 
 curled closely to her head, with small clusters of 
 curls in the hollow of each temple. In 1835 the 
 hair was dressed in the Grecian style — but you can 
 see the fashion. You have preserved the picture 
 of my dear Ophelia ; she sat to two of the best 
 painters of the day, Sully and Ingham ; the one you 
 have was painted by Ingham, and is in the gay dress 
 of the lime. The other, which her brother had in 
 his possession, was in a quaker dress, and was 
 painted by Sully." 
 
 " We have it still, and it is invaluable for the 
 sweetness of expression and the grace of attitude. 
 The one in your room is admirable likewise; it 
 abounds in beauties. No one since has ever been 
 able to paint in that style ; it bears examination 
 closely. Was he admired as an artist in your 
 day?" 
 
 "Yes; he was a distinguished painter, but he 
 deserved his reputation, for he bestowed immense 
 labour on his portraits, and sent nothing unfinished 
 from his hands." 
 
 " But portrait painting is quite out of date now ; 
 it began to decline about the year 1870. It was a 
 strange taste, that of covering the walls with paint- 
 ings, which your grandchildren had to burn up as 
 
YEARS HENCE. 33 
 
 useless lumber. Where character, beauty and grace 
 were combined, and a good artist to embody them, 
 it was well enough ; a number of these beautiful 
 fancy pieces are still preserved. Landscape and 
 historical painting is on the decline also. There 
 are no good artists now, but you had a delightful 
 painter in your day — Leslie. His pictures are still 
 considered as very great treasures, and they bring 
 the very highest prices." 
 
 " How is it with sculpture? That art was begin- 
 ning to improve in my day." 
 
 "Yes; and has continued to improve. We now 
 rival the proudest days of Greece. But you must 
 see all these things. The Academy of Fine Arts 
 in Philadelphia will delight you ; it is now the largest 
 in the world. In reading an old work I find that 
 in your time it was contemptible enough, for in the 
 month of April of 1833, the Academy of Fine Arts 
 in that city was so much in debt, as to be unable to 
 sustain itself. It was with the greatest difficulty 
 that the trustees could beg a sum sufficient to pay 
 the debts. The strong appeal that was made to the 
 public enabled them to continue it a little longer in 
 its impoverished condition, but it seems that it 
 crumbled to pieces, and was not resuscitated until 
 the year 1850, at which time a taste for the art of 
 sculpture began to appear in this country." 
 
 On the first of May the two gentlemen com- 
 menced their tour — not in locomotive engines, nor 
 in steamboats, but in curious vehicles that moved 
 by some internal machinery. They were regu- 
 lated every hour at the different stopping places, 
 and could be made to move faster or slower, to suit 
 the pleasure of those within. The roads were beau- 
 tifully smooth and perfectly level; and Hastings 
 observed that there were no dangerous passes, for 
 a strong railing stretched along the whole extent 
 of every elevation. How diffeient from the roads 
 
 D 
 
34 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 of 1834! Then men were reckless or prodigal of 
 life ; stages were overturned, or pitched down some 
 steep hill — rail cars bounded off the rails, or set the 
 vehicles on fire — steamboats exploded and destroyed 
 many lives — horses ran away and broke their riders' 
 necks — carts, heavily laden, passed over children 
 and animals — boats upset in squalls of wind — in 
 short, if human ingenuity had been exerted to its 
 fullest extent, there could not be contrivances bet- 
 ter suited to shorten life, or render travelling more 
 unsafe and disagreeable. 
 
 Instead of going directly to New York, as they 
 at first contemplated, they visited every part of 
 Pennsylvania. Railroads intersected one another 
 in every direction ; every thing was a source of 
 amazement and amusement to Hastings. The 
 fields were no longer cultivated by the horse or the 
 ox, nor by small steam engines, as was projected in 
 the nineteenth century, but by a self-moving plough, 
 having the same machinery to propel it as that of 
 the travelling cars. Instead of rough, unequal 
 grounds, gullied, and with old tree stumps in some 
 of the most valuable parts of the field, the whole 
 was one beautiful level ; and, where inclinations 
 were unavoidable, there were suitable drains. The 
 same power mowed the grass, raked it up, spread 
 it out, gathered it, and brought it to the barn — the 
 same power scattered seeds, ploughed, hoed, har- 
 rowed, cut, gathered, threshed, stored and ground 
 the grain — and the same power distributed it to the 
 merchants and small consumers. 
 
 "Wonderful, most wonderful," said the astonish- 
 ed Hastings. " I well remember this very farm ; 
 those fields, the soil of which was washed away by 
 the precipitous fall of rain from high parts, are 
 now all levelled smooth. The hand of time has 
 done nothing better for the husbandman than in 
 perfecting such operations as these. Now, every 
 
YEARS HENCE. 35 
 
 inch of ground is valuable ; and this very farm, 
 once only capable of supporting a man, his wife and 
 five children in the mere necessaries of life, must 
 now give to four times that number every luxury." 
 
 "Yes, you are right; and instead of requiring 
 the assistance of four labourers, two horses and two 
 oxen, it is all managed by four men alone ! The 
 machines have done every thing — they fill up gullies, 
 dig out the roots of trees, plough down hills, turn 
 water courses — in short, they have entirely super- 
 seded the use of cattle of any kind." 
 
 "But I see no fences," said Hastings; " how is 
 this? In my day, every man's estate was enclosed 
 by a fence or wall of some kind; now, for bound- 
 ary lines I see nothing but a low hedge, and a move- 
 able wire fence for pasturage for cows." 
 
 " Why should there be the uncouth and expen- 
 sive fences, which I find by the old books were in 
 use in 1834, when we have no horses; there is no 
 fear of injury now from their trespassing. All our 
 carriages move on rails, and cannot turn aside to 
 injure a neighbouring grain field. Cows, under no 
 pretence whatever, are allowed to roam at large; 
 and it would be most disgraceful to the corporate 
 bodies of city or county to allow hogs or sheep to 
 run loose in the streets or on the road. The rich, 
 therefore, need no enclosure but for ornament, 
 which, as it embellishes the prospect, is always 
 made of some pleasant looking evergreen or flow- 
 ering shrub. In fact, it is now a state affair, and 
 when a poor man is unable to enclose the land him- 
 self, it is done by money lawfully appropriated to 
 the purpose." 
 
 " And dogs — I see no dogs," said Hastings. In 
 my day every farmer had one or more dogs; in 
 little villages there were often three and four in 
 each house ; the cities were full of them, notwith- 
 standing the dog laws — but I see none now." 
 
36 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 " No — it is many years since dogs were domes- 
 ticated; it is a rarity to see one now. Once in 
 awhile some odd, eccentric old fellow will bring a 
 dog with him from some foreign port, but he dare 
 not let him run loose. I presume that in your time 
 hydrophobia was common ; at least, on looking 
 over a file of newspapers of the year 1930, called 
 the Recorder of Self-inflicted Miseries, I saw seve- 
 ral accounts of that dreadful disease. Men, women, 
 children, animals, were frequently bitten by mad 
 dogs in those early days. It is strange, that so use- 
 less an animal was caressed, and allowed to come 
 near your persons, when the malady to which they 
 were so frequently liable, and from which there 
 was no guarding, no cure, could be imparted to hu- 
 man beings." 
 
 " Well, what caused the final expulsion of dogs?" 
 
 " You will find the whole account in that old pa- 
 per called the Recorder of Self-inflicted Miseries ; 
 there, from time to time, all the accidents that hap- 
 pened to what were called steamboats, locomotive 
 engines, stages, &c. were registered. You will see 
 that in the year 1860, during the months of August 
 and September, more than ten thousand dogs were 
 seized with that horrible disease, and that upward 
 of one hundred thousand people fell victims to it. 
 It raged with the greatest fury in New York, Phi- 
 ladelphia, and Baltimore; and but for the timely 
 destruction of every dog in the South, ten times the 
 number of human beings would have perished. 
 The death from hydrophobia is as disgraceful to a 
 corporate body, as if the inhabitants had died of 
 thirst, when good water was near them." 
 
 " This was horrible ; the consternation of the 
 people must have been very great — equal to what 
 was felt during the cholera. Did you ever read of 
 that terrible disease?" 
 
 " No, I do not recollect it Oh, yes, now I re- 
 
YEARS HENCE. 37 
 
 member to have read something of it — but that came 
 in a shape that was not easy to foresee. But dogs 
 were always known to be subject to this awful dis- 
 ease, and therefore encouraging their increase was 
 shameful. Posterity had cause enough to curse the 
 memory of their ancestors, for having entailed such 
 a dreadful scourge upon them. The panic, it seems, 
 was so great, that to this day children are more 
 afraid of looking at a dog, for they are kept among 
 wild beasts as a curiosity, than at a Bengal tiger." 
 
 "I confess I never could discover in what their 
 usefulness consisted. They were capable of feeling 
 a strong attachment to their master, and had a show 
 of reason and intelligence, but it amounted to verv 
 little in its effects. It was very singular, but I used 
 frequently to observe, that men were oftentimes 
 more gentle and kind to their dogs than to their 
 wives and children ; and much better citizens would 
 these children have made, if their fathers had be- 
 stowed half the pains in breaking them in, and in 
 training them, that they did on their dogs. It was a 
 very rare circumstance if a theft was prevented by 
 the presence of a dog ; when such a thing did oc- 
 cur, every paper spoke of it, and the anecdote was 
 never forgotten. But had they been ever so useful, 
 so necessary to man's comfort, nothing could com- 
 pensate or overbalance the evil to which he was 
 liable from this disease. Were the dogs all de- 
 stroyed at once?" 
 
 " Yes; the papers say, that by the first of October 
 there was but one dog to be seen, and the owner of* 
 that had to pay a fine of three thousand dollars, and 
 be imprisoned for one year at hard labour. When 
 you consider the horrible sufferings of so many 
 people, and all to gratify a pernicious as well as 
 foolish fondness for an animal, we cannot wonder 
 at the severity of the punishment." 
 
 " I verv well remember how frequently* I was 
 d 2 
 
38 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 annoyed by dogs when riding along the road. A 
 yelping cur has followed at my horse's heels lor five 
 or six minutes, cunningly keeping beyond the reach 
 of my whip — some dogs do this all their lives. 
 Have the shepherd's dogs perished likewise — all, 
 did you say?" 
 
 " Yes ; every dog — pointers, setters, hounds — all 
 were exterminated ; and I sincerely hope that the 
 breed will never be encouraged again. In fact, the 
 laws are so severe that there is no fear of it, for no 
 man can bring them in the country without incur- 
 ring a heavy line, and in particular cases imprison- 
 ment at hard labour. We should as soon expect to 
 see a wolf or a tiger running loose in the streets as 
 a dog." 
 
 Every step they took excited fresh remarks from 
 Hastings, and his mind naturally turned to the 
 friends he had lost. How perfect would have been 
 his happiness if it had been permitted that his wife 
 and his father could be with him to see the improved 
 state of the country. When he looked forward to 
 what his life might be — unknown, alone — he re- 
 gretted that he had been awakened: but his kind 
 relative, who never left him for a moment, as soon 
 as these melancholy reveries came over him hur- 
 ried him to some new scene. 
 
 They were now in Philadelphia, the Athens of 
 America, as it was called three centuries back. 
 Great changes had taken place here. Very few 
 of the public edifices had escaped the all-devouring 
 hand of time. In fact, Hastings recognised but 
 five — that beautiful building called originally the 
 United States Bank, the Mint, the Asylum for the 
 Deaf and Dumb, and the Girard College. The 
 latter continued to flourish, notwithstanding its 
 downfall was early predicted, in consequence of the 
 prohibition of clergymen in the direction of its af- 
 fairs. The dispute, too, about the true signification 
 
YEARS HENCE. 39 
 
 of the term ''orphan" had been settled; it was at 
 length, after a term of years, twenty, I think, de- 
 cided, that the true meaning and intent of Stephen 
 Girard, the wise founder of the institution, was to 
 make it a charity for those children who had lost 
 both parents. 
 
 " I should not think," said Hastings, on hearing 
 this from Edgar, " that any one could fancy, for a 
 moment, that Girard meant any thing else." 
 
 '• Why no, neither you nor I, nor ninety-nine out 
 of a hundred, would decide otherwise ; but it seems 
 a question was raised, and all the books of refer- 
 ence were appealed to, as well as the poets. In 
 almost every case, an orphan was said to be a child 
 deprived of one or both parents ; and, what is very 
 singular, the term orphan occurs but once through- 
 out the Old and New Testaments. In Lamentations 
 it says, ' We arc orphans, and fatherless, and our 
 mothers are as widows.' Now, in the opinion ot 
 many, the orphan and fatherless, and those whose 
 mothers are as widows, here mentioned, are three 
 distinct sets of children — that is, as the lament says, 
 some of us are orphans, meaning children without 
 father and mother, some of us are fatherless; and 
 the third set says, ' our mothers arc as widows.' 
 This means, that in consequence of their fathers' 
 absence, their mothers were as desolate and help- 
 less as if in reality they were widows by the death 
 of their husbands. This text, therefore, settles no- 
 thing. Girard, like all the unlettered men of the 
 age, by the term orphan, understood it to mean a 
 child without parents." 
 
 " I very well remember," said Hastings, " that 
 on another occasion when the term came in ques- 
 tion, I asked every man and woman that worked on 
 and lived near the great canal, what they meant by 
 orphan, and they invariably, without a single ex- 
 ception, said it meant a child without parents." 
 
40 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 " Well, the good sense of the trustees, at the end 
 of the time I mentioned, decided after the manner 
 of the multitude — for it was from this mass that their 
 objects of charity were taken. And there is no in- 
 stance on the records, of a widow begging admit- 
 tance for her fatherless boys. They knew very 
 well what being an orphan meant, but to their praise 
 be it said, [{fatherless children had been included 
 in the term, there were very few who would not 
 have struggled as long as it was in their power, be- 
 fore their boys should be taken to a charitable insti- 
 tution." 
 
 "I recollect, too," said Hastings, "that great 
 umbrage was taken by many persons because the 
 clergy were debarred from any interference in the 
 management of the college. No evil, you say, has 
 arisen from this prohibition ?" 
 
 " None at all," replied Edgar. M The clergy were 
 not offended by it ; they found they had enough to 
 do with church affairs. It has been ever since in 
 the hands of a succession of wise, humane, and 
 honest men. The funds have gone on increasing, 
 and as they became more than sufficient for the 
 purposes of the college, the overplus has been law- 
 fully spent in improving the city." 
 
 " In the year 1805 — alas, it seems to me that but 
 a few days ago I existed at that period — was there 
 not an Orphan Asylum here!" 
 
 " Yes, my dear sir, the old books speak of a 
 small establishment of that kind, founded by several 
 sensible and benevolent women ; but it was attend- 
 ed with very great personal sacrifices — for there 
 was in that century a very singular, and, we must 
 say, disgusting practice among all classes, to obtain 
 money for the establishment of any charitable, be- 
 nevolent, or literary institution. Both men and wo- 
 men — women for the most part, because men used 
 then to shove oil* from themselves all that was irk- 
 
YEARS HENCE. 41 
 
 some or disagreeable — women, I say, used to go 
 from door to door, and in the most humble manner 
 beg a few dollars from each individual. Sometimes, 
 the Recorder of Self-inflicted Miseries says, that 
 men and women of coarse minds and mean educa- 
 tion were in the habit of insulting the committee 
 who thus turned beggars. They did not make their 
 refusal in decent terms even, but added insult to it. 
 In the course of time the Recorder goes on to say, 
 men felt ashamed of all this, and their first step was 
 to relieve women from the drudgery and disgrace 
 of begging. After that, but it was by degrees, the 
 different corporate bodies of each state took the 
 matter up, and finally every state had its own hu- 
 mane and charitable institutions, so that there are 
 now no longer any private ones, excepting such as 
 men volunteer to maintain with their own money." 
 
 " Did the old Orphan Asylum of Philadelphia, be- 
 gun by private individuals, merge into the one now 
 established?" 
 
 " No," replied Edgar ; " the original asylum 
 only existed a certain number of years, for people 
 got tired of keeping up a charity by funds gathered 
 in this loose way. At length, another man of im- 
 mense wealth died, and bequeathed all his property 
 to the erection and support of a college for orphan 
 girls — and this time the world was not in doubt as 
 to the testator's meaning. From this moment a new 
 era took place with regard to women, and we owe 
 the improved condition of our people entirely to the 
 improvement in the education of the female poor; 
 blessed be the name of that man." 
 
 " Well, from time to time you must tell me the 
 rise and progress of all these things; at present I 
 must try and find my way in this now truly beau- 
 tiful city. This is Market street, but so altered that 
 1 should scarcely know it." 
 
 " Yes, I presume that three hundred years would 
 
42 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 improve the markets likewise. But wherein is it 
 altered ?" • 
 
 " In my day the market was of one story* or ra- 
 ther had a roof supported by brick pillars, with a 
 neat stone pavement running the whole length of 
 the building. Market women not only sat under 
 each arch and outside of the pillars, but likewise in 
 the open spaces where the streets intersected the 
 market. Butchers and fish sellers had their appro- 
 priate stalls; and clerks of the market, as they were 
 called, took care that no imposition was practised. 
 Besides this, the women used to bawl through the 
 streets, and carry their fish and vegetables on their 
 heads." 
 
 " All that sounds very well ; but our old friend, 
 the Recorder of Self-inflicted Miseries, mentions 
 this very market as a detestable nuisance, and the 
 manner of selling things through the streets shame- 
 ful. Come with me, and let us see wherein this is 
 superior to the one you describe." 
 
 The two friends entered the range above at the 
 Schuylkill, for to that point had the famous Phila- 
 delphia market reached. The building was of two 
 stories, built of hewn stone, and entirely fire-proof, 
 as there was not a particle of wood-work or other 
 ignitable matter in it. The upper story was appro- 
 priated to wooden, tin, basket, crockery, and other 
 domestic wares, such as stockings, gloves, seeds, 
 and garden utensils, all neatly arranged and kept 
 perpetually clean. On the ground floor, in cool 
 niches, under which ran a stream of cold, clear 
 water, were all the variety of vegetables ; and there, 
 at this early season, were strawberries and green 
 peas, all of which were raised in the neighbourhood. 
 The finest of the strawberries were those that three 
 centuries before went by the name, as it now did, 
 of the dark hautbois, rich in flavour and delicate in 
 perfume. Women, dressed in close caps and snow 
 
YEARS HENCE. 43 
 
 white aprons, stood or sat modestly by their bask- 
 ets — not, as formerly, bawling out to the passers-by 
 and entreating them to purchase of them, but wait- 
 ing for their turn with patience and good humour. 
 Their hair was all hidden, save a few plain braids 
 or plaits in front, and their neck was entirely co- 
 vered. Their dress was appropriate to their con- 
 dition, and their bearing had both dignity and 
 grace. 
 
 "Well, this surpasses belief," said Hastings. 
 " Are these the descendants of that coarse, vulgar, 
 noisy, ill dressed tribe, one half of whom appeared 
 before their dirty baskets and crazy fixtures with 
 tawdry finery, and the other half in sluttish, uncouth 
 clothes, with their hair hanging about their face, or 
 stuck up behind w r ith a greasy horn comb? What 
 has done all this?" 
 
 " Why, the improvement which took place in the 
 education of women. While women were degraded 
 as they were in your time" 
 
 " In my time, my dear Edgar," said Hastings, 
 quickly — " in my time ! I can tell you that women 
 were not in a degraded state then. Go back to the 
 days of Elizabeth, if you please ; but I assure you 
 that in 1835 women enjoyed perfect equality of 
 rights." 
 
 " Did they ! then our old friend, the Recorder of 
 Self-inflicted Miseries, has been imposing on us — 
 but we will discuss this theme more at our leisure. 
 Let us ask that neat pretty young woman for some 
 strawberries and cream." 
 
 They were ripe and delicious, and Hastings found, 
 that however much all other things had changed, 
 the fine perfume, the grateful flavour, the rich con- 
 sistency of the fruit and cream were the same — 
 nature never changes. 
 
 There were no unpleasant sights — no rotten 
 vegetables or leaves, no mud, no spitting, no in 
 
44 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 short, the whole looked like a painting, and the wo- 
 men all seemed as if they were dressed for the pur- 
 pose of sitting for their portraits, to let ether times 
 have a peep at what was going on in a former 
 world. 
 
 " If I am in my senses," said Hastings, "which 
 I very much doubt, this is the most pleasing change 
 which time has wrought ; I cannot but believe that 
 I shall wake up in the morning and find this all a 
 dream. This is no market — it is a picture." 
 
 " We shall see," said Edgar. " Come, let us pro- 
 ceed to the butchers' market." 
 
 So they walked on, and still the rippling stream 
 followed them ; and here no sights of blood, or 
 stained hands, or greasy knives, or slaughter-house 
 smells, were present. The meats were not hung 
 up to view in the open air, as in times of old; but 
 you had only to ask for a particular joint, and to! 
 a small door, two feet square, opened in the wall, 
 and there hung the identical part. 
 • " This gentleman is a stranger," said Edgar, to 
 a neatly dressed man, having on a snow white 
 apron; "show him a hind quarter of veal; we do 
 not want to buy any, but merely to look at what 
 you have to sell." 
 
 The litde door opened, and there hung one of the 
 fattest and finest quarters Hastings had ever seen. 
 " And the price," asked he. 
 " It is four cents a pound," replied the man. 
 A purchaser soon came ; the meat was weighed 
 within ; the man received the money, and gave a 
 ticket with the weight written on it ; the servant 
 departed, and the two friends moved on. 
 
 " Our regulations are excellent," said Edgar ; 
 " formerly, as the old Recorder of Self-inflicted 
 Miseries says, the butchers weighed their meats in 
 the most careless manner, and many a man went 
 home with a suspicion that he was cheated of half 
 
YEARS HENCE. 45 
 
 or three quarters of a pound. Now, nothing of 
 this kind can take place, for the clerks of the mar- 
 ket stand at every corner. See ! those men use 
 the graduated balance ; the meat is laid, basket and 
 all, on that little table ; the pressure acts on a wheel 
 — a clicking is heard — it strikes the number of 
 pounds and quarters, and thus the weight is ascer- 
 tained. The basket you saw, all those you now see 
 in the meat market, are of equal weight, and they 
 are marked 1, 2, 3, 4 or more pounds, as the size 
 may be. Do you not see how much of labour and 
 confusion this saves. I suppose, in your day, you 
 would have scorned to legislate on such trifling 
 objects; but I assure you we find our account 
 in it." 
 
 " I must confess that this simplifies things won- 
 derfully; but the cleanliness, order and cheerful- 
 ness that are seen throughout this market — these 
 are things worthy of legislation. I suppose all this 
 took place gradually V 
 
 " Yes, I presume so ; but it had arrived to this 
 point before my time ; the water which flows under 
 and through the market was conveyed there up- 
 ward of a century ago. But here is beef, mutton, 
 all kinds of meat— and this is the poultry market — 
 all sold by weight, as it should be ; and here is the fish 
 market — see what large marble basins ; each fish- 
 monger has one of his own, so that all kinds are 
 separate ; and see how dexterously they scoop up 
 the very fish that a customer wants." 
 
 " What is this V said Hastings, looking through 
 one of the arches of the fish market ; " can this be 
 the Delaware V* 
 
 " Yes," replied Edgar ; " the market on which we 
 are now, is over the Delaware. Look over this 
 railing, we are on a wide bridge — but let us pro- 
 ceed to the extremity ; this bridge extends to the 
 
 E 
 
46 
 
 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 Jersey shore, and thus connects the two large cities 
 Philadelphia and Camden." 
 
 " In my day, it was in contemplation to build a 
 bridge over the Delaware ; but there was great op- 
 position to it, as in that case there would be a very 
 great delay, if not hinderance, to the free passage of 
 ships." 
 
 New wonders sprung up at every step — vessels, 
 light as gossamer, of curious construction, were 
 passing and repassing under the arches of the bridge, 
 some of three and four hundred tons burden, others 
 for the convenience of market people, and many for 
 the pleasure of the idle. While yet they looked, a 
 beautiful vessel hove in sight, and in a moment she 
 moved gracefully and swiftly under the arches, and 
 by the time that Hastings had crossed to the other 
 side of the bridge she was fastened to the pier. 
 
 "Is this a steamboat from Baltimore V said 
 Hastings. " Yet it cannot be, for I see neither 
 steam nor smoke." 
 
 " Steamboat !" answered his companion — " don't 
 speak so loud, the people will think you crazy. 
 Why, steamboats have been out of date for more 
 than two hundred years. I forget the name of the 
 one who introduced them into our waters, but they 
 did not continue in use more than fifty years, per- 
 haps not so long; but so many accidents occurred 
 through the extreme carelessness, ignorance and 
 avarice of many who were engaged in them, that a 
 very great prejudice existed against their use. No 
 laws were found sufficiently strong to prevent fre- 
 quent occurrences of the bursting of the boilers, 
 notwithstanding that sometimes as many as nine or 
 ten lives were destroyed by the explosion, That 
 those accidents were not the consequence of using 
 steam pow T er — I mean a necessary consequence — 
 all sensible men knew ; for on this river, the Dela- 
 ware, the bursting of the boiler of a steam engine 
 
VEARS HENCE. 47 
 
 was never known, nor did such dreadful accidents 
 ever occur in Europe. But, as I was saying, after 
 one of the most awful catastrophes that ever took 
 place, the bursting of a boiler which scalded to 
 death forty-one members of Congress, (on their way 
 home,) besides upwards of thirty women and chil- 
 dren, and nine of the crew, the people of this coun- 
 try began to arouse themselves, and very severe 
 laws were enacted. Before, however, any farther 
 loss of lives occurred, a stop was put to the use of 
 steamboats altogether. The dreadful accident of 
 which I spoke occurred in the year 1850, and in 
 that eventful year a new power was brought into 
 use, by which steamboats were laid aside for ever." 
 
 " What is the new principle, and who first brought 
 it to light?" 
 
 " Why, a lady. The world owes this blessed in- 
 vention to a female! I will take you into one of 
 our small boats presently, where you can handle 
 the machinery yourself. No steam, nor heat, nor 
 animal power — but one of sufficient energy to move 
 the largest ship." 
 
 "Condensed air, is it? — that was tried in my 
 time." 
 
 "No, nor condensed air; that was almost as 
 dangerous a power as steam; for the bursting of 
 an air vessel was always destructive of life. The 
 Recorder of Self-Inflicted Miseries mentions seve- 
 ral instances of loss of life by the bursting of one of 
 the air machines used by the manufacturers of 
 mineral waters. If that lady had lived in this cen- 
 tury, her memory would be honoured and cherished ; 
 but if no memorial was erected by the English to 
 Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, a reproach could 
 not rest upon us for not having paid suitable honours 
 to the American lady." 
 
 "Why, what did lady Mary Wortley Montagu 
 do?" said Hastings; " I recollect nothing but that 
 
48 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 she wrote several volumes of very agreeable letters 
 — Oh, yes, how could I forget — the small-pox ! 
 Yes, indeed, she did deserve to have a monument; 
 but surely the English erected one to her memory?" 
 
 "Did they? — yes — that old defamer of women, 
 Horace Walpole, took good care to keep the pub- 
 lic feeling from flowing in the right channel. He 
 made people laugh at her dirty hands and painted 
 cheeks, but he never urged them to heap honours 
 on her head for introducing into England the prac- 
 tice of innoculation for the small-pox. If this Ame- 
 rican lady deserved the thanks and gratitude of her 
 country for thus, for ever, preventing the loss of 
 lives from steam, and I may say, too, from ship- 
 wreck — still farther was Lady Mary Wortley Mon- 
 tagu entitled to distinction, for the very great bene- 
 fit she bestowed on England. She saved thousands 
 of lives, and prevented, what sometimes amounted 
 to hideous deformity, deeply scarred faces, from 
 being universal. — Yes, the benefit was incalculable 
 and beyond price — quite equal, I think, to that which 
 the world owes to Dr. Jenner, who introduced a 
 new form of small-pox, or rather the small-pox pure 
 and unadulterated by any affinitive virus. This 
 modified the disease to such a degree, that the 
 small-pox, in its mixed and complicated state, almost 
 disappeared. The Recorder of Self-inflicted Mise- 
 ries states, that after a time a new variety of the 
 small-pox made its appearance, which was called 
 varioloid; but it was quite under the control of me- 
 dical skill." 
 
 "Well, you live in an age so much in advance of 
 mine, and so many facts and curious phenomena 
 came to light during the nineteenth century, that 
 you can tell me what the settled opinion is now re- 
 specting small-pox, kine-pox, and varioloid." 
 
 "The settled opinion now is, that they are one 
 and the same disease. Thus — the original disease, 
 
YEARS HENCE. 49 
 
 transferable from an ulcer of the cow's udder to 
 the broken skin of a human being, produced what 
 is called the kine or cow-pox. This virus of the 
 kine-pox, in its original state, was only capable of 
 being communicated by contact, and only when the 
 skin was broken or cut; but, when combined with 
 the other poison, infected the system by means of 
 breathing in the same atmosphere. The poison 
 from the ulcer called cow-pox was never commu- 
 nicated to or by the lungs, neither was the poison 
 which had so strong an affinity for it communicated 
 in that way ; but when the two poisons united, and 
 met in the same system, a third poison was gene- 
 rated, and the small-pox was the result. But here 
 we are discussing a deep subject in this busy place 
 — what gave rise to it? — oh, steamboats, the new 
 power now used, Lady Mary Wortley, and Dr. 
 Jenner." 
 
 "I presume," said the attentive Hastings, " that 
 Dr. Jenner fared no better than your American 
 lady and Lady Mary Wortley." 
 
 "You are much mistaken," said Edgar. "Dr. 
 Jenner was a man, which in your day was a very 
 different circumstance. I verily believe if it had 
 been a woman who brought that happy event about, 
 although the whole world would have availed itself 
 of the discovery, her name would scarcely be known 
 at this day." 
 
 Hastings laughed at his friend's angry defence of 
 women's rights, but he could not help acknowledg- 
 ing the truth of what was said — there was always 
 a great unwillingness in men to admit the claims of 
 women. But it was not a time, nor was this the 
 place, to discuss so important a subject; he intend- 
 ed, however, to resume it the first leisure moment. 
 He turned his eye to the river, and saw vessels in- 
 numerable coming and going; and on the arrival 
 of one a little larger than that which he first saw, 
 e 2 
 
50 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 the crowd pressed forward to get on board as soon 
 as she should land. 
 
 " Where is that vessel from ?" said Hastings ; 
 " she looks more -weather-beaten than the rest — she 
 has been at sen." 
 
 "Yes; that is one of our Indiamen. Let us go 
 to her, 1 see a friend of mine on board — he went 
 out as supercargo." 
 
 They went on board of the Indiaman, and although 
 it had encountered several storms, and had met with 
 several accidents, yet the crew was all well and the 
 cargo safe. The vessel was propelled by the same 
 machinery — there was neither masts nor sails ! 
 
 " How many months have they been on their re- 
 turn?" said Hastings. 
 
 " Hush !" said his friend Edgar ; " do not let any 
 one hear )^ou. Why, this passage has been a very 
 tedious one, and yet it has only occupied four 
 weeks. In general twenty days are sufficient." 
 
 " Well," said Hastings, " after this I shall not be 
 surprised at any thing. Why, in my time we con- 
 sidered it as a very agreeable thing if we made a 
 voyage to England in that time. Have you many 
 India ships?" 
 
 "Yes; the trade has been opened to the very 
 walls of China: the number of our vessels has 
 greatly increased. But you will be astonished to 
 hear that the emperor of China gets his porcelain 
 from France." 
 
 " No, I am not, now that I hear foreigners have 
 access to that mysterious city, for I never consi- 
 dered the Indian china as at all equal to the French, 
 either in texture or workmanship. But I presume 
 I have wonders to learn about the Chinese?" 
 
 " Yes, much more than you imagine. It is not 
 more than a century since the change in their sys- 
 tem has been effected ; before that, no foreigner 
 was allowed to enter their gates. But quarrels and 
 
YEARS HENCE. 51 
 
 dissensions among themselves effected what neither 
 external violence nor manoeuvring could do. The 
 consequence of this intercourse with foreign nations 
 is, that the feet of their women are allowed to grow, 
 and they dress now in the European style. They 
 import their fashions from France; and I see by 
 the papers that the emperor's second son intends to 
 pay this country a visit. They have English and 
 French, as well as German and Spanish schools ; 
 and a great improvement in the condition of the 
 lower classes of the Chinese has taken place ; but 
 it was first by humanizing the women that these 
 great changes were effected. Their form of gov- 
 ernment is fast approaching that of ours, but they 
 held out long and obstinately." 
 
 " Their climate is very much against them," ob- 
 served Hastings; "mental culture must proceed 
 slowly, where the heat is so constant and exces- 
 sive." 
 
 " Yes ; but, my dear sir, you must recollect that 
 they have ice in abundance now. We carry on a 
 great trade in that article. In fact, some of our 
 richest men owe their wealth to the exportation of 
 this luxury alone. Boston set the example — she 
 first sent cargoes of ice to China ; but it was not 
 until our fast sailing vessels were invented that the 
 thing could be accomplished." 
 
 "I should think it almost impossible to transport 
 ice to such a distance, even were the time lessened 
 to a month or six weeks, as it now is." 
 
 " You must recollect, that half of this difficulty 
 of transporting ice was lessened by the knowledge 
 that was obtained, even in your day, of saving ice. 
 According to the Recorder, who sneered at the 
 times for remaining so long ignorant of the fact, ice 
 houses could be built above ground, with the cer- 
 tainty that they would preserve ice. It was the 
 expense of building those deep ice houses which 
 
o'Z THREE HUNDRED 
 
 prevented the poor from enjoying this luxury — 
 nay, necessary article. Now, every landlord builds 
 a stack of ice in the yard, and thatches it well with 
 oat straw ; and the corporation have an immense 
 number of these stacks of ice distributed about the 
 several wards." 
 
 " I have awakened in delightful times, my friend. 
 Oh, that my family could have been with me when 
 I was buried under the mountain." 
 
 Young Hastings, seeing the melancholy which 
 was creeping over the unfortunate man, hurried 
 him away from the wharf, and hastened to Chest- 
 nut street. Our hero looked anxiously to the right 
 and to the left, but all was altered — all was strange. 
 Arcades now took precedence of the ancient, in- 
 convenient shops, there being one between every 
 square, extending from Chestnut to Market on one 
 side, and to Walnut on the other, intersecting the 
 smaller streets and alleys in their way. Here alone 
 were goods sold — no where else was there a shop 
 seen; and what made it delightful was, that a fine 
 stream of water ran through pipes under the centre 
 of the pavement, bursting up every twenty feet in 
 little jets, cooling the air, and contributing to health 
 and cleanliness. The arcades for the grocers were 
 as well arranged as those for different merchandize, 
 and the fountains of water, which flowed perpetually 
 in and under their shops, dispersed all impure smells 
 and all decayed substances. 
 
 "All this is beautiful," said Hastings; " but where 
 is the old Arcade — the original oner' 
 
 " Oh, I know what you mean," said Edgar ; 
 " our old Recorder states that it fell into disuse, 
 and was then removed, solely from the circum- 
 stance that the first floor was raised from the level 
 of the street; even in our time people dislike to 
 mount steps when they have to go from shop to 
 shop to purchase goods." 
 
YEARS HENCE. 53 
 
 " And what building is that ? — the antiquated one, 
 I mean, that stands in the little court. The masons 
 are repairing it I perceive." 
 
 " That small, brick building — oh, that is the house 
 in which William Penn lived," said Edgar. "It 
 was very much neglected, and was suffered to go 
 to ruin almost, till the year 1840, when a lady of 
 great wealth purchased a number of the old houses 
 adjoining and opened an area around it, putting the 
 whole house in thorough repair. She collected all 
 the relics that remained of this great man, and 
 placed them as fixtures there, and she left ample 
 funds for repairs, so that there is a hope that this 
 venerable and venerated building will endure for 
 many centuries to come." 
 
 " And what is this heap of ruins?" said Hastings, 
 "it appears to have tumbled down through age; it 
 was a large pile, if one may judge from the rub- 
 bish." 
 
 " Yes, it was an immense building, and was called 
 at first the National Bank. It was built in the year 
 1842, during the presidency of Daniel Webster." 
 
 "What," said Hastings, "was he really president 
 of the United States'? This is truly an interesting 
 piece of news." 
 
 " News, my dear sir," said Edgar, smiling — "yes, 
 it was news three hundred years ago, but Daniel 
 Webster now sleeps with his fathers. He was 
 really the chief magistrate for eight years, and 
 excepting for the project of a national bank, which 
 did not, however, exist long, he made an able presi- 
 dent, and, what was very extraordinary, as the old 
 Recorder of Self-inflicted Miseries states, he gained 
 the good will even of those who were violently 
 opposed to him. He was the first president after 
 Washington who had independence of mind enough 
 to retain in office all those who had been favoured 
 
54 TIJREE HUNDRED 
 
 by his predecessor. There was not a single re- 
 moval." 
 
 "But his friends — did not they complain?" said 
 Hastings. 
 
 "It is not stated that they did; perhaps he did 
 not promise an office to any one: at any rate the 
 old 'Recorder' treats him respectfully. It was 
 during his term that copyrights were placed on a 
 more liberal footing here. An Englishman now 
 can get his works secured to him as well as if he 
 were a citizen of the country." 
 
 " How long is the copy right secured ! it used to 
 be, in my time," sighed poor Hastings, " only four- 
 teen years." 
 
 " Fourteen years !" exclaimed Edgar— >" you joke. 
 Why, was not a man entitled to his own property 
 for ever? I assure you that an author now has as 
 much control over his own labours after a lapse 
 of fifty years as he had at the moment he wrote it. 
 Nay, it belongs to his family as long as they choose 
 to keep it, just the same as if it were a house or a 
 tract of land. I wonder what right the legislature 
 had to meddle with property in that way. We 
 should think a man deranged who proposed such a 
 thing." 
 
 "But how is it when a man invents a piece of 
 machinery? surely the term is limited then." 
 
 "Oh, yes, that is a different affair. If a man 
 invent a new mode of printing, or of propelling 
 boats, then a patent is secured to him for that par- 
 ticular invention, but it does not prevent another 
 man from making use of the same power and im- 
 proving on the machinery. But there is this bene- 
 fit accruing to the original patentee, the one who 
 makes the improvement after him is compelled to 
 purchase -a right of him. Our laws now, allow of 
 no monopolies; that is, no monopolies of soil, or 
 
YEARS HENCE. 5y 
 
 air, or water. On these three elements, one person 
 has as good a right as another ; he that makes the 
 greatest improvements is entitled to the greatest 
 share of public favour, and, in consequence, the 
 arts have been brought to their present state of 
 perfection." 
 
 "But rail-roads — surely these it was necessary to 
 guarantee to a company on exclusive privilege for a 
 term of years, even if a better one could be made." 
 
 " And I say, surely not. Why should all the 
 people of a great nation be compelled to pass over 
 an unsafe road, in miserably constructed cars, 
 which made such a noise that for six hours a man 
 had to be mute, and where there was perpetual 
 fear of explosion from the steam engine — why 
 should this be, when another company could give 
 them a better road, more commodious cars, and a 
 safer propelling power? On consulting the Re- 
 corder of Self-inflicted Miseries, you will find that 
 in the year 184G, the monopolies of roads, that is 
 public roads, were broken up, and these roads came 
 under the cognizance of the state governments, and 
 in the year 1900 all merged under one head. There 
 was then, and has continued ever since, a national 
 road — the grand route from one extreme of the 
 country to the other. Cross roads, leading from 
 town to town and village to village, are under the 
 control of the state governments. Here, let us get 
 in this car which is going to Princeton; it is only 
 an hour's ride. Well, here we are seated in nice 
 rocking chairs, and we can talk at our ease; for 
 the fine springs and neat workmanship make the 
 cars run without noise, as there is but little friction, 
 the rails of the road and the tires of the wheels 
 being of wood. In your time this could not be the 
 case, for as steam and manual labour were expen- 
 sive, you were forced to club all together — there 
 were, therefore, large cars that held from eight to 
 
56 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 fourteen persons; consequently, there had to be 
 heavy iron work to keep these large machines 
 together. Now, you perceive, the cars are made 
 of different sizes, to accommodate either two or 
 four persons, and they run of themselves. We have 
 only to turn this little crank, and the machine stops. 
 This is Bristol. It was a very small town in your 
 day, but by connecting it to Burlington, which lies 
 slantingly opposite, the town soon rose to its present 
 eminence. Burlington, too, is a large city — look 
 at the green bank yonder; it is a paradise: and 
 look at that large tree — it is a buttonwood or 
 sycamore ; we cannot see it very distinctly ; take 
 this pocket glass. Well, you see it now at the foot 
 of the beautiful green slope in front of the largest 
 marble building on this bank. That tree is upwards 
 of four hundred years old, but the house was built 
 within the last century." 
 
 "What a change," said Hastings, as they returned 
 to their car, — " all is altered. New Jersey, tho 
 meanest and the poorest state in the union, is now 
 in appearance equal to the other inland states. It 
 was in my time a mere thoroughfare. What has 
 thus changed the whole face of nature." 
 
 " Why canals and rail roads in the first place, 
 and rail roads now; for in a few years canals were 
 entirely abandoned. That is, as soon as the new 
 propelling power came into use, it was found far 
 more economical to travel on rail roads. The 
 track of canals through four of the principal states 
 is no longer to be seen." 
 
 At Princeton, the first thing to be seen was 
 the college; not the same that existed in Hastings's 
 day, but a long, deep range of stone buildings, 
 six in number, with work shops attached to them, 
 after the mode so happily begun by Fellenberg. In 
 these work shops the young men worked during 
 leisure hours, every one learning some trade or 
 
YEARS HENCE. 57 
 
 some handicraft, by which he could earn a living 
 if necessity required it. Large gardens lay in the 
 rear, cultivated entirely by the labour of the stu- 
 dents, particularly by those who were intended for 
 clergymen, as many of this class were destined to 
 live in the country. The college was well endowed, 
 and the salaries of the professors were ample. It 
 was able to maintain and educate three hundred 
 boys — the children of the rich and the poor. 
 
 " How do they select professors V said Hastings \ 
 "in my day a very scandalous practice prevailed. 
 I hope there is a change in this particular." 
 
 "Oh, I know to what you refer," said Edgar; 
 "I read an account of it in the Recorder. It seems 
 that when a college wanted a professor, or a presi- 
 dent, they either wrote a letter, or sent a committee 
 of gentlemen to the professor of another college, 
 and told him that if he would quit the people who 
 had with so much difficulty made up a salary for 
 him, they would give him a hundred dollars a year 
 more. They made it appear very plausible and 
 profitable, and the idea of being thought of so much 
 consequence quite unsettled his notions of right and 
 wrong, so that, without scruple, he gave notice to 
 his patrons that they must get another man in his 
 place. I believe this is the true state of the case. 
 Is it not?' 
 
 "Yes, that is the English of it, as we say. The 
 funds for the support of a professor were gathered 
 together with great difficulty, for there were very 
 few who gave liberally and for the pure love of the 
 advancement of learning. When by the mere 
 force of entreaty, by appealing to the feelings, to 
 reason, to — in short, each man's pulse was felt, and 
 the ruling passion was consulted and made subser- 
 vient to the plan of beguiling him of his money. 
 Well, the money thus wrung from the majority, — 
 tor you must suppose that a few gave from right 
 
 F 
 
58 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 motives, — was appropriated to the salary of a pro- 
 fessor, and then the question arose as to the man to 
 be selected. They run their eye over the whole 
 country, and, finally, the fame of some one indi- 
 vidual induced them to consider him as a suitable 
 candidate. This man was doing great service 
 where he was ; the college, almost gone to decay, 
 was resuscitated by his exertions; students came 
 from all parts on the faith of his remaining there ; 
 in fact, he had given an impulse to the whole dis- 
 trict. What a pity to remove such a man from a 
 place where the benefits of his labour and his 
 energies were so great, and where his removal 
 would produce such regrets and such a deterio- 
 rating change! But our new professor, being 
 established in the new college, instead of going to 
 work with the same alacrity, and with the same 
 views, which views were to spend his life in pro- 
 moting the interests of the college which he had 
 helped to raise, now began to look i a-head,'' as the 
 term is, and he waited impatiently for the rise of 
 another establishment, in the city perhaps, where 
 every thing was more congenial to his newly 
 awakened tastes. Thus it went on — change, change, 
 for ever; and in the end he found himself much 
 worse off than if he had remained in the place 
 which first patronised him. It is certainly a man's 
 duty to do the best he can for the advancement of 
 his own interest, and if he can get five hundred 
 dollars a year more in one place than in another, 
 he has a right to do it ; but the advantage of change 
 is always problematical. The complaint is not so 
 much against him, however, as against those who 
 so indelicately inveigle him away." 
 
 " Yes. I can easily imagine how hurtful in its 
 effects such a policy would be, for instance, to a 
 merchant, although it is pernicious in every case. 
 But here is a merchant — he has regularly inducted 
 
YEARS HEM K. 
 
 59 
 
 a clerk in all the perplexities and mysteries of his 
 business; the young man becomes acquainted with 
 his pi'ivate affairs, and by his acuteness and industry 
 he relieves his employer of one half of his anxieties 
 and cares. The time is coming when he might 
 think it proper to raise the salary of the young 
 man, but his neighbours envy the merchant's pros- 
 perity, and they want to take advantage of the 
 talent which has grown up under his vigilance and 
 superintending care. ' If he does so well for a man 
 who gives him but five hundred dollars a year, he 
 will do as well, or better, for ten.' So they go 
 underhandedly to work, and the young man gives 
 the merchant notice that his neighbour has offered 
 him a larger salary. The old Recorder is quite 
 indignant at this mean and base mode of bettering 
 the condition of one man or one institution at the 
 expense of another. But was it the case also with 
 house servants ? — did the women of your day send 
 a committee or write a letter to the servant of one 
 of their friends, offering higher wages — for the 
 cases are exactly similar; it is only talent of 
 another form, but equally useful." 
 
 " Oh, no, indeed," said Hastings — " then the sex 
 showed their superior delicacy and refinement. It 
 was thought most disgraceful and unlady-like con- 
 duct to enveigle away the servant of a neighbour, 
 or, in fact, of a stranger ; I have heard it frequently 
 canvassed. A servant, a clerk, a professor, or a 
 clergyman, nine times out of ten, would be con- 
 tented in his situation if offers of this kind were not 
 forced upon him. A servant cannot feel an attach- 
 ment to a mistress when she contemplates leaving 
 her at the first offer; no tender feeling can subsist 
 between them, and in the case of a clergyman, the 
 consequence is very bad both to himself and his 
 parish. In the good old times" — 
 
 "And in the good new times, if you please," said 
 
60 THRBE HUNDRED 
 
 Edgar; "for I know what you are going to say. 
 In our times there is no such thing as changing a 
 clergyman. Why, we should as soon think of 
 changing our father! A clergyman is selected 
 with great care for his piety and learning — but 
 principally for his piety ; and, in consequence of 
 there being no old clergymen out of place, he is a 
 young man, who comes amongst us in early life, 
 and sees our children grow up around him, he 
 becomes acquainted with their character, and he 
 has a paternal eye over their eternal welfare. They 
 love and reverence him, and it is their delight to 
 do him honour. His salary is a mere trifle perhaps, 
 for in some country towns a clergyman does not 
 get more than five or six hundred dollars a year, 
 but his wants are all supplied with the most affec- 
 tionate care. He receives their delightful gifts as 
 a father receives the gifts of his children ; he is 
 sure of being amply provided for, and he takes no 
 thought of wnat he is to eat or what he is to wear. 
 He pays neither house rent, for there is always a 
 parsonage; nor taxes; he pays neither physician 
 nor teacher ; his library is as good as the means of 
 his congregation can afford ; and there he is with 
 a mind free from worldly solicitude, doing good to 
 the souls of those who so abundantly supply him 
 with worldly comforts. In your day, as the Re- 
 corder states" — 
 
 " Yes," said Hastings, " in my day, things were 
 bad enough, for a clergyman was more imposed 
 upon than any other professional man. He was 
 expected to subscribe to every charity that was 
 set on foot — to every mission that was sent out — 
 to every church that was to be built — to every 
 paper that related to church offices; he had to give 
 up all his time to his people — literally all his time, 
 for they expected him to visit at their houses, not 
 when ill, or when wanting spiritual consolation, 
 
VEAKS HENCE. Gl 
 
 for that he would delight to do, but in the ordinary- 
 chit-chat, gossiping way, that he might hear them 
 talk of their neighbours' backslidings, of this one 
 who gave expensive supper parties, and of another 
 who gave balls and went to theatres. Never was 
 there a man from whom so much was exacted, and 
 to whom so little was given. There were clergy- 
 men, in New York and Philadelphia, belonging to 
 wealthy congregations, who never so much as 
 received a plum cake for the new year's table, or 
 a minced pie at christmas, or a basket of fruit in 
 summer; yet he was expected to entertain company 
 at all times. His congregation never seemed to 
 recollect that, with his limited means, he could not 
 lay up a cent for his children. Other salaried men 
 could increase their means by speculation, or by a 
 variety of methods, but a clergyman had to live on 
 with the melancholy feelings that when he died his 
 children must be dependent on charity. Women 
 di I do their best to aid their pastors, but they could 
 not do much, and even in the way that some of 
 them assisted their clergymen there was a want of 
 judgment; for they took the bread out of the mouths 
 of poor women, who would otherwise have got the 
 money for the very articles which the rich of their 
 congregation made and sold for the benefit of this 
 very man. Feeling the shame and disgrace of his 
 being obliged to subscribe to a charity, they earned 
 among themselves, by sewing, a sum sufficient to 
 constitute him a ' life member !' What a hoax upon 
 charity! What a poor, pitiful compliment, — and 
 at whose expense 1 The twenty-five dollars thus 
 necessary to be raised, which was to constitute 
 their beloved pastor a life member of a charitable 
 society, would be applied to a better purpose, if 
 they had bought him some rare and valuable book, 
 such as his small means could not allow him to 
 buy." 
 
 f 2 
 
62 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 " I am glad to hear that one so much respected 
 by us had those sentiments," said Edgar, " for the 
 old Recorder, even in the year 1850, speaks of the 
 little reverence that the people felt for their clergy. 
 Now, we vie with each other in making him com- 
 fortable; he is not looked upon as a man from whom 
 we are to get our pennyworth, as we do from 
 those of other professions — he is our pastor, a dear 
 and endearing word, and we should never think of 
 dismissing him because he had not the gift of elo- 
 quence, or because he was wanting in grace of 
 action, or because he did not come amongst us 
 every day to listen to our fiddle-faddle. When we 
 want spiritual consolement, or require his services 
 in marriage, baptism, or burial, then he is at his 
 post, and no severity of weather withholds him 
 from coming amongst us. In turn we call on him 
 at some stated period, when he can be seen at his 
 ease and enjoy the sight of our loving faces, and 
 happy is the child who has been patted on the head 
 by him. When he grows old we indulge him in 
 preaching his old sermons, or in reading others that 
 have stood the test of time, and when the infirmities 
 of age disable him from attending to his duties, we 
 draw him gently away and give him a competence 
 for the remainder of his life. What we should do 
 for our father, we do for our spiritual father." 
 
 " I am truly rejoiced at this," said Hastings, " for 
 in my day a clergyman never felt secure of the 
 affections of his people. If he was deficient in 
 that external polish, which certainly is a charm in 
 an orator, or was wanting in vehemence of action, 
 or in enthusiasm, the w r ay to displace him was sim- 
 ple and easy: dissatisfaction showed itself in every 
 action of theirs — to sum up all, they ' held him 
 uneasy,' and many a respectable, godly man was 
 forced to relinquish his hold on his cure to give 
 place to a younger and a more popular one." 
 
YEARS HEXCE. 63 
 
 " Do you send a committee to a popular clergy- 
 man, and cajole him away from his congregation, 
 by offering him a larger salary or greater per- 
 quisites?" 
 
 " Oh no — never, never: the very question shocks 
 me. Our professors and our clergymen are taken 
 from the colleges and seminaries where they are 
 educated. They are young, generally, and are the 
 better able to adapt themselves to the feelings and 
 capacities of their students and their congregation. 
 Parents give up the idle desire which they had in 
 your time, of hearing fine preaching at the expense 
 of honour and delicacv. When a congregation 
 became very much attached to their pastor, and he 
 was doing good amongst them, it was cruel to 
 break in upon their peace and happiness merely 
 because it was in a person's power to do this. We 
 are certainly much better pleased to have a clergy- 
 man with fine talents and a graceful exterior, but 
 we value him more for goodness of heart and honest 
 principles. Bat. however gifted he may be, we 
 never break the tenth commandment, we never 
 desire to take him away from our neighbour, nor 
 even in your time do I think a clergyman would 
 ever seek to leave his charge, unless strongly im- 
 portuned." 
 
 "Pray can you tell me." said Hastings. " what 
 has become of that vast amount of property which 
 belonged to the in New York !" 
 
 u Oh, it did a vast deal of good; after a time it 
 was discovered that the trustees had the power of 
 being more liberal with it : other churches, or ra- 
 ther all the Episcopal churches in the state, were 
 assisted, and, finally, each church received a yearly 
 sum, sufficient to maintain a clergyman. Every 
 village, therefore, had a church and a clergyman : 
 and in due time, from this very circumstance, the 
 Episcopalians came to be more numerous in New 
 
Ot THREE IIUNDKEO 
 
 York than any other sect. It is not now as it was 
 in your time, in the year 1835; then a poor cler- 
 gyman, that he might have the means to live, was 
 compelled to travel through two, three, and some- 
 times four parishes : all these clubbing together to 
 make up the sum of six hundred dollars in a year. 
 Now this was scandalous, when that large trust 
 had such ample means in its power to give liberally 
 to every church in the state." 
 
 " Why, yes," said Hastings, " the true intent of 
 accumulating wealth in churches, is to advance re- 
 ligion ; for what other purposes are the funds cre- 
 ated ? I used to smile when I saw the amazing 
 liberality of the trustees of this immense fund ; 
 they would, in the most freezing and pompous man- 
 ner, dole out a thousand dollars to this church, and 
 a thousand to that, making them all understand that 
 nothing more could be done, as they were fearful, 
 even in doing this, that they had gone beyond their 
 charter." 
 
 "Just as if they did not know," said Edgar, 
 " that any set of men, in any legislature, would 
 give them full powers to expend the whole income 
 in the cause of their own peculiar religion. Why 
 I cannot tell how many years were suffered to 
 elapse before they raised what was called a Bishop's 
 Fund, and you know better than T do, how it was 
 raised, or rather, how it commenced. And the old 
 Recorder of Self-inflicted Miseries, states, that the 
 fund for the support of decayed clergymen and 
 their families, was raised by the poor clergymen 
 themselves. Never were people so hardly used as 
 these ministers of the Gospel. You were an irrc- 
 verend, exacting race in your day; you expected 
 more from a preacher than from any other person 
 to whom they gave salaries — they were screwed 
 down to the last thread of the screw; people would 
 have their pennyworth out of them. It is no 
 
VEARS HENCE. 65 
 
 wonder that you had such poor preachers in your 
 day ; why few men of liberal education, aware of 
 all the exactions and disabilities under which the 
 sacred cloth laboured, would ever encounter them. 
 But, now, every village has its own pastor; and 
 some of them are highly gifted men, commanding 
 the attention of the most intelligent people. The 
 little churches are filled, throughout the summer, 
 with such of the gentry of the cities who can af- 
 ford to spend a few months in the country during 
 the warm weather. No one, however, has the in- 
 decency or the unfeelingness to covet this preacher 
 for their own church in the city. They do not at- 
 tempt to bribe him away, but leave him there, sa- 
 tisfied that the poor people who take such delight 
 in administering to his wants and his comforts, 
 should have the benefit of his piety, his learning 
 and his example. Why, the clergymen, now, are 
 our best horticulturists too. It is to them that we 
 owe the great advancement in this useful art. They 
 even taught, themselves, while at college, and now 
 they encourage their parishioners to cultivate gar- 
 dens and orchards. Every village, as well as town 
 and city, has a large garden attached to it, in which 
 the children of the poor are taught to work, so that 
 to till the earth and to ' make two blades of grass 
 grow where only one grew before,' is now the 
 chief aim of every individual; and we owe this, 
 principally, to our pastors. I can tell you that it is 
 something now to be a country clergyman." 
 
 "But how were funds raised for the purchase of 
 these garden and orchard spots V 
 
 " Why, through the means of the general tax, 
 that which, in your day, would have been called di- 
 rect tax." 
 
 " Direct tax ! Why my dear Edgar, such a thing 
 could never have been tolerated in my time; peo- 
 ple would have burnt the man in effigy for only 
 

 60 THKEE IlUNimUL) 
 
 pro])osing such a thing. It was once or twice at- 
 tempted, indirectly, and in a very cautious way, but 
 it would not do." 
 
 " Yes — direct tax — I knew you would be startled, 
 for the old Recorder of Self-inflicted Miseries states 
 that at the close of Daniel Webster's administra- 
 tion something of the kind was suggested, but even 
 then, so late as the year 1850, it was violently op- 
 posed. But a new state of things gradually paved 
 the way for it, and now we cannot but pity the 
 times when all the poor inhabitants of this free 
 country were taxed so unequally. There is now, 
 but one tax, and each man is made to pay accord- 
 ing to the value of his property, or his business, or 
 his labour. A land-holder, a stock-holder and the 
 one who has houses and bonds and mortgages, pays 
 so much per cent, on the advance of his property, 
 and for his annual receipts — the merchant, with a 
 fluctuating capital, pays so much on his book ac- 
 count of sales — the mechanic and labourer, so 
 much on their yearly receipts, for we have no sales 
 on credit now — that demoralizing practice has been 
 abolished for upwards of a century." 
 
 " The merchants, then," said Hastings, " pay 
 more than any other class of men, for there are the 
 customhouse bonds." 
 
 " Yes," said Edgar, " I recollect reading in the 
 Recorder of Self-inflicted Miseries, — you must run 
 your eye over that celebrated newspaper — that all 
 goods imported from foreign ports had to pay du- 
 ties, as it was called. But every thing now is free 
 to come and go, and as the custom prevails all over 
 the world, there is no hardship to any one. What 
 a demoralizing effect that duty or tariff system pro- 
 duced ; why honesty was but a loose term then, 
 and did not apply to every act as it now does. The 
 Recorder was full of the exposures that were yearly 
 occurring, of defrauding the revenue, as it was call- 
 
YEARS HENCE. 67 
 
 ed. Some of these frauds were to a large amount; 
 and then it was considered as a crime; but when a 
 man smuggled in hats, shoes, coats and other arti- 
 cles of the like nature, he was suffered to go free; 
 such small offences were winked at as if defrauding 
 the revenue of a dollar were not a crime per se as 
 well as defrauding it of a thousand dollars — just as 
 if murdering an infant were not as much murder as 
 if the life had been taken from a man — just as if 
 killing a man in private, because his enemy had 
 paid you to do it, was not as much murder in the 
 first degree as if the government had paid you for 
 killing a dozen men in battle in open day — just as 
 if"— 
 
 " Just as if what?" said the astonished Hastings, 
 " has the time come when killing men by whole- 
 sale, in war, is accounted a crime?" 
 
 " Yes, thank Heaven," said Edgar, "that bless- 
 ed time has at length arrived ; it is upwards of one 
 hundred and twenty years since men were ordered 
 to kill one another in that barbarous manner. Why 
 the recital of such cruel and barbarous deeds fills 
 our young children with horror. The ancient po- 
 licy of referring the disputes of nations to single 
 combat, was far more humanizing than the refer- 
 ring such disputes to ten thousand men on each 
 side; for, after all, it was ' might that made right.' 
 Because a strong party beats a weaker one, that is 
 not a proof that the right was in the strong one; 
 yet, still, if men had no other way of settling their 
 disputes but by spilling blood, then that plan was 
 the most humane which only sacrificed two or one 
 man. As to national honour! why not let the few 
 settle it? why drag the poor sailors and soldiers to 
 be butchered like cattle to gratify the fine feelings 
 of a few morbidly constructed minds?" 
 
 " Oh, that my good father, Valentine Harley, 
 could have seen this day," said Hastings. " But 
 
68 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 this bloodthirsty, savage propensity — this murder- 
 ing our fellow creatures in cold blood, as it were, 
 was cured by degrees I presume. What gave the 
 first impulse to such a blessed change !" 
 
 " The old Recorder states that it was brought 
 about by the influence of women ; it was they who 
 gave the first impulse. As soon as they themselves 
 were considered as of equal importance with their 
 husbands — as soon as they were on an equality in 
 money matters, for after all, people are inspected in 
 proportion to their wealth, that moment all the bar- 
 barisms of the age disappeared. Why, in your 
 day, a strange perverted system had taken deep 
 root ; then, it was the man that teas struck by ano- 
 ther who was disgraced in public opinion, and not 
 the one who struck him. It was that system which 
 fermented and promoted bloodthirstiness, and it 
 was encouraged and fostered by men and by wo- 
 men both. 
 
 " But as soon as women had more power in their 
 hands, their energies were directed another way; 
 they became more enlightened as they rose higher 
 in the scale, and instead of encroaching on our 
 privileges, of which we stood in such fear, women 
 shrunk farther and farther from all approach to 
 men's pursuits and occupations. Instead of con- 
 gregating, as they did in your time, to beg for alms 
 to establish and sustain a charity, that they might 
 have some independent power of their own — for 
 this craving after distinction was almost always 
 blended with their desire to do good — they united 
 for the purpose of exterminating that icar seed 
 above mentioned — that system which fastened the 
 disgrace of a blow on the one who received it. 
 This was their first effort; they then taught their 
 children likewise, that to kill a man in battle, or 
 men in battle, when mere national honour was the 
 war cry, or when we had been robbed of our mo- 
 
YEARS HENCE. 69 
 
 ney on the high seas, was a crime of the blackest 
 die, and contrary to the divine precepts of our Sa- 
 viour. They taught them to abstain from shedding 
 human blood, excepting in self defence — excepting 
 in case of invasion. 
 
 " They next taught them to reverence religion; 
 for until bloodthirstiness was cured, how could a 
 child reverence our Saviour's precepts? How 
 could we recommend a wholesome, simple diet to 
 a man who had been accustomed to riot in rich 
 sauces and condiments? They had first to wean 
 them from the savage propensities that they had 
 received through the maddening influence of un- 
 reflecting men, before a reverence for holy things 
 could be excited. Then it was that clergymen be- 
 came the exalted beings in our eyes that they now 
 are — then it was that children began to love and 
 respect them. As soon as their fathers did their 
 mothers the poor justice of trusting them with all 
 tneir properly, the children began to respect her as 
 they ought, and then her words were the words of 
 wisdom. It was then, and not till then, that war 
 and duelling ceased. We are amazed at what we 
 read. What ! take away a man's life because he 
 has robbed us of money ! Hang a man because 
 he has forged our name for a few dollars ! No : 
 go to our prisons, there you will see the murderer's 
 fate — solitary confinement, at hard labour, for life ! 
 that is his punishment; but murders are very rare 
 now in this country. A man stands in greater 
 dread of solitary confinement at hard labour than 
 he does of hanging. In fact, according to our way 
 of thinking, now, we have no right, by the Divine 
 law, to take that away from a human being for 
 which we can give no equivalent. It is right to 
 prevent a murderer from committing still farther 
 crime ; and this we do by confining him for life at 
 hard labour, and alone" 
 o 
 
70 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 " Women, you say, produced a reform in that 
 miserable code called the law of honour." 
 
 " Yes, thanks be to them for it. Why, as the 
 old Recorder states, if a man did not challenge the 
 fellow who struck him, he was obliged to quit the 
 army or the navy, and be for ever banished as a 
 coward, and it was considered as disgraceful in a 
 private citizen to receive a blow without challeng- 
 ing the ruffian that struck him. But the moment 
 that women took the office in hand, that moment 
 the thing was reversed. They entered into a com- 
 pact not to receive a man into their society who 
 had struck another, unless he made such ample 
 apology to the injured person as to be forgiven by 
 him; and not only that, but his restoration to fa- 
 vour was to be sued for by the injured party him- 
 self. A man soon became cautious how he incur- 
 red the risk." 
 
 " It often occurred to me," said Hastings, " that 
 women had much of the means of moral reform in 
 their power ; but they always appeared to be pur- 
 suing objects tending rather to weaken than to 
 strengthen morals. They acted with good inten- 
 tions, but really wanted judgment to select the pro- 
 per method of pursuing their benevolent schemes. 
 Only look at their toiling as they did to collect 
 funds towards educating poor young men for the 
 ministry." 
 
 " Oh, those young men," replied Edgar, " were, 
 no doubt, their sons or brothers, and even then they 
 must have been working at some trade to assist 
 their parents or some poor relation, and thus had 
 to neglect themselves." 
 
 " No, indeed," said Hastings, " I assure you these 
 young men were entire strangers, persons that they 
 never saw in their lives, nor ever expected to see." 
 
 " Then, all I can say is, that the women were 
 to be pitied for their mistaken zeal, and the men 
 
YEARS HENCE. 71 
 
 ought to have scorned such aid — but the times are 
 altered ; no man, no poor man stands in need of 
 women's help now, as they have trades or employ- 
 ments that enable them to educate themselves. 
 Only propose such a thing nou\ and see how it 
 would be received ; why a young man would think 
 you intended to insult him. We pursue the plan 
 so admirably begun in your day by the celebrated 
 Fellenberg. When we return this way again, I 
 will show you the work-shops attached to the col- 
 lege — the one we saw in Princeton." 
 
 " While we are thus far on the road, suppose 
 that we go to New York," said Hastings, " I was 
 bound thither when that calamity befell me. I won- 
 der if I shall see a single house remaining that I 
 saw three hundred years ago." 
 
 Edgar laughed — " You will see but very few, I 
 can tell you," said he, " houses, in your day, were 
 built too slightly to stand the test of one century. 
 At one time, the corporation of the city had to in- 
 spect the mortar, lest it should not be strong enough 
 to cement the bricks ! And it frequently happened 
 that houses tumbled down, not having been built 
 strong enough to bear their own weight. A few of 
 the public buildings remain, but they have under- 
 gone such changes that you will hardly recognize 
 them. The City Hall, indeed, stands in the same 
 place, but if you approach it, in the rear, you will 
 find that it is of marble, and not freestone as the 
 old Recorder says it was in your time. But since 
 the two great fires at the close of the years 1835 
 and 1842 the city underwent great alterations." 
 
 11 Great fires ; in what quarter of the city were 
 they? They must have been disasters, indeed, to 
 be remembered for three hundred years." 
 
 " Yes, the first destroyed nearly seven hundred 
 houses, and about fifteen millions of property; and 
 the second, upwards of a thousand houses, and 
 
72 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 about three millions of property ; but excepting that 
 it reduced a number of very respectable females to 
 absolute want, the merchants, and the city itself, 
 were greatly benefited by it. There were salutary 
 laws enacted in consequence of it, that is, after the 
 second fire; for instance, the streets in the burnt 
 districts were made wider; the houses were better 
 and stronger built; the fire engines were drawn by 
 horses, and afterwards by a new power: firemen 
 were not only exempt from jury and militia duty, 
 but they had a regular salary while they served 
 out their seven years' labour; and if any fireman 
 lost his life, or was disabled, his family received the 
 salary for a term of years. The old Recorder 
 says that there was not a merchant of any enter- 
 prise who did not recover from his losses in three 
 years." 
 
 " But what became of the poor women who lost 
 all their property? did they lose insurance stock? 
 for I presume the insurance companies became in- 
 solvent." 
 
 " The poor women? — oh, they remained poor — 
 nothing in your day ever happened to better their 
 condition when a calamity like that overtook the?n. 
 Men had enough to do to pity and help themselves. 
 Yes, their loss was in the insolvency of the- in- 
 surance companies; but stock is safe enough now, 
 for the last tremendous fire (they did not let the 
 first make the impression it ought to have done,) 
 roused the energies and sense of the people, and in- 
 surance is managed very different. Every house, 
 now, whether of the rich or the poor man, is in- 
 sured. It has to pay so much additional tax, and 
 the corporation are the insurers. But the tax is so 
 trifling that no one feels it a burden; our houses 
 are almost all fire-proof since the discovery of a 
 substance which renders wood almost proof against 
 fire. But I have a file of the Recorder of Self-In- 
 
YEARS HENCE. 73 
 
 flicted Miseries, and you will see the regular gra- 
 dation from the barbarisms of your day to the en- 
 lightened times it has been permitted you to see." 
 
 " But the water, in my day," — poor Hastings ne- 
 ver repeated this without a sigh — " in my day the 
 city was supplied by water from a brackish stream, 
 but there was a plan in contemplation to bring good 
 water to the city from the distance of forty miles." 
 
 " Where, when was that? I do not remember 
 to have read any thing about it. — Oh, yes, there was 
 such a scheme, and it appears to me they did at- 
 tempt it, but whatever was the cause of failure I 
 now forget ; at present they have a plentiful supply 
 by means of boring. Some of these bored wells 
 are upwards of a thousand feet deep." 
 
 " Why the Manhattan Company made an at- 
 tempt of this kind in my time, but they gave it up 
 as hopeless after going down to the depth of six or 
 seven hundred feet." 
 
 " Yes, I recollect; but only look at the difficul- 
 ties they had to encounter. In the first place, the 
 chisel that they bored with was not more than three 
 or four inches wide; of course, as the hole made 
 by this instrument could be no larger, there was no 
 possibility of getting the chisel up if it were broken 
 off below, neither could they break or cut it into 
 fragments. If such an accident were to occur at 
 the depth of six hundred feet, this bored hole would 
 have to be abandoned. We go differently to work 
 now; with our great engines we cut down through 
 the earth and rock, as if it were cheese, and the 
 wells are of four feet diameter. As they are lined 
 throughout with an impervious cement, the over- 
 flowing water does not escape. Every house is 
 now supplied from this neverfailing source — the 
 rich, and the poor likewise, use this water, and it 
 is excellent. All the expense comes within the 
 one yearly general tax: when a man builds he 
 g 2 
 
74 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 knows that pipes are to be conveyed through his 
 house, and he knows also that his one tax compre- 
 hends the use of water. He pays so much per 
 centum for water, for all the municipal arrange- 
 ment, for defence of harbour, for the support of 
 government, &c, and as there is such a wide door 
 open, such a competition, his food and clothing do 
 not cost half as much as they did in your day."' 
 
 " You spoke of wells a thousand feet deep and 
 four feet wide ; what became of all the earth taken 
 from them — stones I should say." 
 
 " Oh, they were used for the extension of the 
 Battery. Do you remember, in your day, an ill 
 constructed thing called Fort William, or Castle 
 Garden? Well, the Battery was filled up on each 
 side from that point, so that at present there are at 
 least five acres of ground more attached to it than 
 when you saw it, and as we are now levelling a 
 part of Brooklyn heights, we intend to fill it out 
 much farther. The Battery is a noble promenade 
 now." 
 
 They reached New York by the slow line at two 
 o'clock, having travelled at the rate of thirty miles 
 an hour; and after walking up Broadway to amuse 
 themselves with looking at the improvements that 
 had taken place since Hastings last saw it — three 
 hundred years previous — they stopped at the Astor 
 Hotel. This venerable building, the City Hall, the 
 Public Mart, the St. Paul's Church, and a stone 
 house at the lower end of the street, built by gover- 
 nor Jay, were all that had stood the test of ages. 
 The St*. Paul was a fine old church, but the steeple 
 had been taken down and a dome substituted, as 
 was the fashion of all the churches in the city — the 
 burial yards of all were gone — houses were built on 
 them: — vaults, tombs, graves, monuments — what 
 had become of them? 
 
 The Astor Hotel, a noble building, of simple and 
 
YEARS HE.YCE. 75 
 
 chaste architecture, stood just as firm, and looked 
 just as well, as it did when Hastings saw it. Why 
 should it not? stone is stone, and three hundred 
 years more would pass over it without impairing 
 it. This shows the advantage of stone over brick. 
 Mr. Astor built for posterity, and he has thus per- 
 petuated his name. He was very near living as 
 long as this building; the planning and completing 
 of it seemed to renovate him, for his life was 
 extended to his ninety-ninth year. This building 
 proves him to have been a man of fine taste and 
 excellent judgment, for it still continues to be 
 admired. 
 
 " But how is this I" said Hastings, " I see no 
 houses but this one built by Mr. Astor that are 
 higher ihan three stories; it is the case throughout 
 the city, stores and all." 
 
 "Since the two great fires of 1835 and 1842, the 
 corporation forbid the building of any house or 
 store above a certain height. Those tremendous 
 fires, as I observed, brought people to their senses, 
 and they now see the folly of it. 
 
 " The ceilings are not so high as formerly ; more 
 regard is shown to comfort. Why the old Recorder 
 of Self-inflicted Miseries states, that men were so 
 indifferent about the conveniences and comforts of 
 life, that they would sometimes raise the ceilings to 
 the great height of fourteen and fifteen feet ! Nay, 
 that they did so in despite of their wives' health, 
 never considering how hard it bore on I he lungs of 
 those who were affected with asthma or other vis- 
 ceral complaints. Heavens and earth! how little 
 the ease and pleasure of women were consulted in 
 your day." 
 
 " Yes, that appears all very true," said Hastings, 
 "but you must likewise recollect that these very 
 women were quite as eager as their husbands to 
 live in houses having such high flights of stairs." 
 
76 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 " Poor things," exclaimed Edgar, " to think of 
 their being trained to like and desire a thing that 
 bore so hard on them. Only consider what a ! 
 of time and breath it must be to go up and down 
 forty or fifty times a day, for your nurseries were, 
 it seems, generally in the third story. We love our 
 wives too well now to pitch our houses so high up 
 in the air. The Philadelphians had far more hu- 
 manity, more consideration; they always built a 
 range of rooms in the rear of the main building, 
 and this w 7 as a great saving of time and health." 
 
 "Where, at length, did they build the custom 
 house?" said Hastings; "1 think there was a diffi- 
 culty in choosing a suitable spot for it." 
 
 "Oh, I recollect," said Edgar. "Why they did 
 at length decide, and one was built in Pine street; 
 but that has crumbled away long since. You know 
 that we have no necessity for a custom house now, 
 as all foreign goods come free of duty. This direct 
 tax includes all the expenses of the general and 
 state governments, and it operates so beautifully 
 that the rich man now bears his full proportion 
 towards the support of the whole as the poor man 
 does. This was not the case in your day. Only 
 think how unequally it bore on the labourer who had 
 to buy foreign articles, such as tea, and sugar, and 
 coffee, for a wife and six or eight children, and to 
 do all this with his wealth, which was the labour 
 of his hands. The rich man did not contribute the 
 thousandth part of his proportion towards paying 
 for foreign goods, nor was he taxed according to 
 his revenue for the support of government. The 
 direct tax includes the poor man's wealth, which 
 is his labour, and the rich man's wealth, which is 
 his property." 
 
 " But have the merchants nb mart — no ex- 
 change? According to the map you showed me of 
 the two great fires, the first exchange was burnt." 
 
YEARS HENCE. 77 
 
 "Yes, the merchants have a noble exchange. 
 Did you not see that immense building on State 
 street, surrounded by an area? After the first 
 great fire they purchased — that is, a company pur- 
 chased — the whole block that included State street 
 in front, Pearl street in the rear, and Whitehall 
 street at the lower end. All mercantile business is 
 transacted there, the principal post office and the 
 exchange are there now ; the whole go under the 
 general name of Mart — the City Mart." 
 
 " Is it not inconvenient to have the post office so 
 far from the centre of business ? — it was a vexed 
 question in my day," said Hastings. 
 
 " You must recollect that even then, central as 
 the post office was, there were many sub-post 
 offices. If men in your day were regardless of 
 the many unnecessary steps that their wives were 
 obliged to take, they were very careful of sparing 
 themselves. We adopt the plan now of having 
 two sets of post men or letter carriers ; one set pass 
 through the streets at a certain hour to receive 
 letters, their coming being announced by^ the 
 chiming of a few bells at their cars, and the other 
 set delivering letters. They both ride in cars, for 
 now that no letter, far or near, pays more than 
 two cents postage — which money is to pay the let- 
 ter carriers themselves — the number of letters is 
 so great that cars are really necessary. All the 
 expense of the post office department is defrayed 
 from the income or revenue of the direct tax — 
 and hence the man of business pays his just pro- 
 portion too. It was a wise thing, therefore, to 
 establish all the mercantile offices near the Battery; 
 they knew that the time was coming when New 
 York and Brooklyn would be as one city." 
 
 " One city!" exclaimed Hastings; "how can 
 that be ? If connected by bridges, how can the 
 ships pass up the East river ?" 
 
78 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 "You forget that our vessels have no masts; 
 they pass under the bridges here as they do in the 
 Delaware." 
 
 "Oh, true, I had forgotten; but my head is so 
 confused with all the wonders that I see and hear, 
 that you must excuse my mistakes. The old thea- 
 tre stood there, but it has disappeared, I suppose. It 
 was called the Park Theatre. How are the play 
 houses conducted now ? is there only one or two 
 good actors now among a whole company?" 
 
 "Well, that question really does amuse me. I 
 dare say that the people of your day were as much 
 astonished at reading the accounts handed down to 
 them of the fight of gladiators before an audience, 
 as we are at your setting out evening after evening 
 to hear the great poets travestied. If we could be 
 transported back to your time, how disgusted we 
 should be to spend four hours in listening to rant 
 and ignorance. All our actors now, are men and 
 women of education, such as the Placides, the 
 Wallacks, the Kembles, the Keans, of your day. I 
 assure you, we would not put up with inferior 
 talent in our cities. It is a rich treat now to listen 
 to one of Shakspeare's plays, for every man and 
 woman is perfect in the part. The whole theatrical 
 corps is held in as much esteem, and make a part 
 of our society, as those of any other profession do. 
 The worthless and the dissolute are more scrupu- 
 lously rejected by that body than they are from 
 the body of lawyers or doctors ; in fact it is no 
 more extraordinary now, than it was in your day 
 to see a worthless lawyer, or merchant, or physi- 
 cian, and to see him tolerated in society too, if he 
 happen to be rich. But there is no set of people 
 more worthy of our friendship and esteem than 
 the players. A great change, to be sure, took 
 place in their character, as soon as they had reaped 
 the benefit of a college education. I presume you 
 
VEARS HENCE. 79 
 
 know that there is a college now for the education 
 of public actors?" 
 
 "Is it possible?" said Hastings; "then I can 
 easily imagine the improvements you speak of; 
 for with the exception of the few — the stars, as 
 they were called — there was but little education 
 among them." 
 
 " Here it is that elocution is taught, and here all 
 public speakers take lessons," said Edgar; "you 
 may readily imagine what an effect such an insti- 
 tution would have on those who intended to become 
 actors. In your day, out of the whole theatrical 
 corps of one city, not more than six or seven, per- 
 haps, could tell the meaning of the icords they used 
 in speaking, to say nothing of the sense of the 
 author. There is no more prejudice now against 
 play-acting than there is against farming. The old 
 Recorder states, that, before our revolution, the 
 formers were of a more inferior race, and went as 
 little into polite society as the mechanics did. 
 Even so far back as your time a farmer was some- 
 thing of a gentleman, and why an actor should not 
 be a gentleman is to us incomprehensible. One of 
 the principal causes of this change of personal 
 feeling towards actors has arisen from our having 
 expunged all the low and indelicate passages from 
 the early plays. Shakspeare wrote as the times 
 then were, but his works did not depend on a few 
 coarse and vulgar passages for their popularity and 
 immortality; they could bear to be taken out, as 
 you will perceive, for the space they occupied is 
 not now known ; the adjoining sentence closed 
 over them, as it were, and they are forgotten. 
 There were but few erasures to be made in the 
 writings of Sir Walter Scott; the times were 
 beginning to loathe coarse and indelicate allusions 
 in your day, and, indeed, we may thank the other 
 sex for this great improvement. They never dis* 
 
80 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 graced their pages with sentences and expressions 
 which would excite a blush. Look at the purity of 
 such writers as Miss Burney, Mrs. Radcliffe, Miss 
 Edgeworlh, Miss Austin, Madame Cotton, and 
 others of their day in Europe, — it is to woman's 
 influence that we owe so much. See what is done 
 by them now; why they have fairly routed and 
 scouted out that vile, disgraceful, barbarous prac- 
 tice which was even prevalent in your time — that 
 of beating and bruising the tender flesh of their 
 children." 
 
 " I am truly rejoiced at that," sajd Hastings, 
 "but I hope they extended their influence to the 
 schools likewise — I mean the common schools ; for, 
 in my day in the grammar school of a college, a 
 man who should bruise a child's flesh by beating or 
 whipping him would have been kicked out of 
 society." 
 
 " Why, I thought that boys were whipped in the 
 grammar schools also. In the year 1836, it appears 
 to me, that I remember to have read of the dismis- 
 sal of some professor for injuring one of the boys 
 by flogging him severely." 
 
 "I do not recollect it; but you say 1836 — alas! 
 I was unconscious then. It was the remains of 
 barbarism ; how a teacher could get roused to such 
 height of passion as to make him desire to bruise a 
 child's flesh, I cannot conceive — when the only 
 crime of the poor little sufferer was either an un- 
 willingness or an inability to recite his lessons. I 
 can imagine that a man, when drunk, might bruise 
 a child's flesh in such a shocking manner as that 
 the blood would settle under the skin, because 
 liquor always brutalizes. Is drunkenness as preva- 
 lent now as formerly 1" 
 
 " Oh no, none but the lowest of the people drink 
 to excess now, and they have to get drunk on cider 
 and wine, for spirituous liquors have been prohibited 
 
YEARS HENCE. 81 
 
 by law for upwards of two hundred years. A law 
 was passed in the year 1901, granting a divorce to 
 any woman whose husband was proved to be a 
 drunkard. This had a good effect, for a drunkard 
 knew that if he was abandoned by his wife he must 
 perish; so it actually reclaimed many drunkards 
 at the time, and had a salutary effect afterwards. 
 Besides this punishment, if a single man, or a bache- 
 lor, as he is called, was found drunk three times, 
 he was put in the workhouse and obliged to have 
 his head shaved, and to work at some trade. It is 
 a very rare thing to see a drunkard now. But 
 what are you looking for?" 
 
 " I thought I might see a cigar box about — not 
 that I ever smoke" — 
 
 "A what? — a cigar? Oh yes, I know — little 
 things made of tobacco leaves; but you have to 
 learn that there is not a tobacco plantation in the 
 world now. That is one of the most extraordinary 
 parts of your history: that well educated men could 
 keep a pungent and bitter mass of leaves in their 
 mouth for the pleasure of seeing a stream of yel- 
 low water running out of it, is the most incompre- 
 hensible mystery to me ; and then, to push the dust 
 of these leaves up their nostrils, which I find by the 
 old Recorder that they did, for the mere pleasure of 
 hearing the noise that was made by their noses! 
 The old Recorder called their pockeL handkerchiefs 
 Hags of abomination." 
 
 Hastings thought it was not worth while to eoli- 
 th o 
 
 vinoe the young man that the disgusting practice 
 was not adopted for such purposes as he mentioned. 
 In tact his melancholy had greatly increased since 
 their arrival in this city, and he determined to beg 
 his young friend to return the next day to their 
 home, and to remain quiet for another year, to see 
 if time could reconcile him to his strange fate. He 
 
 H 
 
83 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 took pleasure in rambling through the city half, 
 and the park, which remained still of the same 
 shape, and he was pleased likewise to see that 
 many of the streets at right angles with Broadway 
 were more than twice the width that they were in 
 1835. For instance, all the streets from Wall 
 street up to the Park were as wide as Broadway, 
 and they were opened on the other side quite down 
 to the Hudson. 
 
 " Yes," said Edgar, " it was the great fire of 
 1842 which made this salutary change; but here 
 is a neat building — you had nothing of this kind in 
 your time. This is a house where the daughters 
 of the poor are taught to sew and cut out wearing 
 apparel. I suppose you know that there are no 
 men tailors now." 
 
 " What, do women take measure ?" 
 
 " Oh no, men are the measurers, but women cut 
 out and sew. It is of great advantage to poor wo- 
 men that they can cut out and make their husbands' 
 and children's clothes. The old Recorder states 
 that women — poor women — in the year 1836, were 
 scarcely able to cut out their own clothes. But 
 just about that date, a lady of this city suggested 
 the plan of establishing an institution of this kind, 
 and it was adopted. Some benevolent men built 
 the house and left ample funds for the maintenance 
 of a certain number of poor girls, with a good 
 salary for those who superintend it. And here is 
 another house : this is for the education of those 
 girls whose parents have seen better clays. Here 
 they are taught accounts and book-keeping — which, 
 however, in our day is not so complicated as it 
 was, for there is no credit given for any thing. In 
 short these girls are instructed in all that relates to 
 the disposal of money ; our women now compre- 
 hend what is meant by stocks, and dividends, and 
 loans, and tracts, and bonds, and mortgages." 
 
YEARS HENCE. 83 
 
 "Do women still get the third of their husband's 
 estate after their husband's death?" 
 
 " Their thirds 1 I don't know what you mean — 
 Oh, I recollect ; yes, in your day it was the prac- 
 tice to curtail a woman's income after her hus- 
 band's death. A man never then considered a 
 woman as equal to himself; but, while he lived, he 
 let her enjoy the whole of his income equally with 
 himself, because he could not do otherwise and 
 enjoy his mone)' ; but when he died, or rather, when 
 about making his will, he found out that she was 
 but a poor creature after all, and that a very little 
 of what he had to leave would suffice for her. Nay, 
 the old Recorder says that there have been rich 
 men who ordered the very house in which they 
 lived, and which had been built for their wives' 
 comfort, during their life time, to be sold, and who 
 thus compelled their wives to live in mean, pitiful 
 houses, or go to lodgings." 
 
 " Yes," said Hastings, — quite ashamed of his 
 own times, — " but then you know the husband was 
 fearful that his wife would marry again, and all 
 their property would go to strangers." 
 
 "Well, why should not women have the same 
 privileges as men 1 Do you not think that a 
 woman had the same fears ? A man married 
 again and gave his money to strangers — did he 
 not? The fact is, we consider that a woman 
 has the same feelings as we have ourselves — a 
 thing you never once thought of — and now the 
 property that is made during marriage is as much 
 the woman's as the man's; they are partners in 
 health and in sickness, in joy and in sorrow — they 
 enjoy every thing in common while they live 
 together, and why a woman, merely on account of 
 her being more helpless, should be cut off from 
 affluence because she survives her husband, is more 
 
84 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 than we of this century can tell. Why should not 
 children wait for the property till after her death, 
 as they would for their father's death I It was a 
 relic of barbarism, but it has passed away with 
 wars and bloodshed. We educate our women 
 now, and they are as capable of taking care of 
 property as we are ourselves. They are our trus- 
 tees, far better than the trustees you had amongst 
 you in your day — they seldom could find it in their 
 hearts to allow a widow even her poor income. I 
 suppose they thought that a creature so pitifully 
 used by her husband was not worth bestowing their 
 honesty upon." 
 
 "But the women in my day," said Hastings, 
 "seemed to approve of this treatment; in fact, 1 
 have known many very sensible women who 
 thought it right that a man should not leave his 
 wife the whole of his income after his death. 
 But they were beginning to have their eyes 
 opened, for I recollect that the subject was being 
 discussed in 1835." 
 
 "Yes, you can train a mind to acquiesce in any 
 absurd doctrine, and the truth is, that as won 
 were then educated, they were, for the most part, 
 unfit to have the command of a large estate. But 
 I cannot find that the children were eventually be- 
 nefited by it; for young men and women, coming 
 into possession of their father's estate at the early 
 age of twenty-one, possessed no more business ta- 
 lent than their mother; nor had they even as much 
 prudence and judgment in the management of mo- 
 ney matters, as she had. Men seldom thought of 
 this, but generally directed their executors to divide 
 the property among the children as soon as they 
 became of age — utterly regardless of the injustice 
 they were doing their wives, and of the oath which 
 they took when they married — that is, if they mar- 
 
YEARS HENCE. 85 
 
 ned according to the forms of the Episcopal church. 
 In that service, a man binds himself by a solemn 
 oath ' to endow his wife with all his worldly goods.' 
 If he swears to endow her with all, how can he in 
 safety to his soul, will these worldly goods away from 
 her. We consider the practice of depriving a wo- 
 man of the right to the whole of her husband's pro- 
 perty after his death, as a monstrous act of injustice, 
 and the laws are now peremptory on this subject." 
 
 " I am certain you are right," said Hastings," and 
 you have improved more rapidly in this particular, 
 during a period of three hundred years, than was 
 done by my ancestors in two thousand years before, 
 I can understand now, how it happens, that children 
 have the same respect for their mother, that they 
 only felt for their father in my time. The custom, 
 or laws, being altogether in favour of equality of 
 rights between the parents, the children do not re- 
 pine when they find that they stand in the same re- 
 lation of dependence to their mother, that they did 
 to their father; and why this should not be, is incom- 
 prehensible to me now, but I never reflected on it 
 before," 
 
 " Yes, there are fewer estates squandered away 
 in consequence of this, and society is all the better 
 for it. Then to this is added the great improvement 
 in the business education of women. All the retail 
 and detail of mercantile operations are conducted by 
 them. You had some notion of this in your time; for, 
 in Philadelphia, although women were generally 
 only employed to make sales behind the counter, yet 
 some were now and then seen at the head of the 
 establishment. Before our separation from. Great 
 Britain, the business of farming was also at a low 
 ebb, and a farmer was but a mean person in public 
 estimation. He ranks now amongst the highest of 
 our business men; and in fact, lie is equal to any 
 a 2 
 
■66 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 man whether in business or not, and this is the case 
 "with female merchants. Even in 1830, a woman 
 who undertook the business of a retail shop, mana- 
 ging the whole concern herself, although greatly 
 respected, she never took her rank amongst the first 
 classes of society. This arose, first, from want of 
 education, and, secondly, from her having lived 
 amongst an inferior set of people. But when wo- 
 men were trained to the comprehension of mercan- 
 tile operations, and were taught how to dispose of 
 money, their whole character underwent a change, 
 and with this accession of business talent, came the 
 respect from men for those who had a capacity for 
 the conducting of business affairs. Only think what 
 an advantage this is to our children; why our mo- 
 thers and wives are the first teachers, they give us 
 sound views from the very commencement, and our 
 clerkship begins from the time we can comprehend 
 the distinction of right and wrong." 
 
 "Did not our infant schools give a great impulse 
 to this improvement in the condition of women, 
 and to the improvement in morals, and were not 
 women mainly instrumental in fostering these 
 schools '!" 
 
 " Yes, that they were; it was chiefly through the 
 influence of their pen and active benevolence, that 
 the scheme arrived at perfection. In these infant 
 schools a child was early taught the mystery of its 
 relation to society; all its good dispositions and pro- 
 pensities were encouraged and developed, and its 
 vicious ones were repressed. The world owes 
 much to the blessed influence of infant schools, and 
 the lower orders were the first to be humanized by 
 them. But I need not dwell on this particular. 1 
 shall only point to the improvement in the morals 
 of our people at this day, to convince you that it is 
 owing altogether to the benign influence of women. 
 
YEARS HENCE. 
 
 As soon as they took their rank as an equal to man, 
 equal as to property I mean, for they had no other 
 right to desire; there was no longer any struggle, 
 it became their ambition to show how long the 
 world had been benighted by thus keeping them in 
 a degraded state. I say degraded state, for surely 
 it argued in them imbecility or incapacity of some 
 kind, and to great extent, too, when a man appoint- 
 ed executors and trustees to his estate whilst his 
 wife was living. It showed one of three things — 
 that he never considered her as having equal rights 
 with himself; or, that he thought her incompetent to 
 take charge of his property — or, that the customs 
 and laws of the land had so warped his judgment, 
 that he only did as he saw others do, without consi- 
 dering whether these laws and customs were right 
 or wrong. But if you only look back you will per- 
 ceive, that in every benevolent scheme, in every 
 plan for meliorating the condition of the poor, and 
 improving their morals, it was women's influence 
 that promoted and festered it. It is to that healthy 
 influence, that we owe our present prosperity and 
 happiness — and it is an influence which I hope may 
 forever continue." 
 
 It was not to such a man as Hastings that Edgar 
 need have spoken so earnestly; he only wanted to 
 have a subject fairly before him to comprehend it in 
 all its bearings. He rejoiced that women were 
 now equal to men in all that they ever considered as 
 their rights; and he rejoiced likewise that the pro- 
 per distinction was rigidly observed between the 
 sexes — that as men no longer encroached on their 
 rights, they, in return, kept within the limits assign- 
 ed them by the Creator. As a man and a christian, 
 he was glad that this change had taken place; and 
 it was a melancholy satisfaction to feel that with 
 these views, if it had been permitted him to continue 
 
88 THREE HUNDRED 
 
 with his wife, he should have put her on an equality 
 with himself. 
 
 The moment his wife and child appeared to his 
 mental vision, he became indifferent to what was 
 passing around him; Edgar, perceiving that he was 
 buried in his own thoughts, proposed that they 
 should return home immediately, and they accord- 
 ingly passed down Broadway to the Battery, from 
 which place they intended to take a boat. They 
 reached the wharf — a ship had just arrived from 
 the Cape of Good Hope, with a fine cargo. The 
 captain and crew of which were black. 
 
 " That is true," said Hastings, " I have seen 
 
 very few negroes; what has become of them. The 
 question of slavery was a very painful one in my 
 time, and much of evil was apprehended in conse- 
 quence of a premature attempt to hasten their 
 emancipation. I dread to hear how it eventuated." 
 
 " You have nothing to fear on that score," said 
 Edgar, " for the whole thing was arranged most 
 satisfactorily to all parties. The government was 
 rich in resources, and rich in land; they sold the 
 land, and with the money thus obtained, and a 
 certain portion of the surplus revenue in the course 
 of ten years, they not only indemnified the slave- 
 holders for their loss of property, but actually trans- 
 planted the whole of the negro population to Libe- 
 ria, and to other healthy colonies. The southern 
 planters soon found that their lands could be as 
 easily cultivated by the labour of white men, as by 
 the negroes." 
 
 " But a great number remained, I presume, for it 
 would not have been humane to force those to go 
 who preferred to stay." 
 
 " All that chose to settle in this country were at 
 liberty to do so, and their rights and privileges were 
 respected; but in the course of twenty or thirty 
 
YEARS HEXCE. 89 
 
 years, their descendants gradually went over to 
 their own people, who by this time, had firmly 
 established themselves." 
 
 " Did those that remained, ever intermarry with 
 the white population, and were they ever admitted 
 into society V 
 
 " As soon as they became free, as soon as their 
 bodies were unshackled, their minds became enlight- 
 ened, and as their education advanced, they learned 
 to appreciate themselves properly. They saw no 
 advantage in intermarrying with the whites; on the 
 contrary, they learned, by close investigation, that 
 the negro race becomes extinct in the fourth re- 
 move, when marriages took place between the two 
 colours. It seemed to be their pride to keep them- 
 selves a distinct people, and to show the world that 
 their organization allowed of the highest grade of 
 mental culture. They seemed utterly indifferent 
 likewise about mixing in the society of white men, 
 for their object and sole aim was to become inde- 
 pendent. Many of their descendants left the United 
 States with handsome fortunes. You could not in- 
 sult a black man more highly than to talk of their 
 intermarrying with the whites — they scorn it much 
 more than the whites did in your time." 
 
 " How r do they treat the white people that trade 
 with them in their own country ?"' 
 
 "How '. why as Christians — to their praise be it 
 said, they never retaliated. The few excesses they 
 committed whilst they were degraded by slavery, 
 was entirely owing to a misdirection of their ener- 
 gies; but the moment the white man gave up his 
 right over them, that moment all malignant and 
 hostile feelings i jgappeared. The name of negro is 
 no longer a term of reproach, he is proud of it; and 
 he smiles when he reads in the history of their servi- 
 tude, how indignant the blacks were at being called 
 
90 THREE HLWDRED 
 
 by that title. They are a prosperous and happy 
 people, respected by all nations, for their trade ex- 
 tends over the whole world. They would never have 
 arrived at their present happy condition if they had 
 sought to obtain their freedom by force ; but by 
 waiting a few)- ears — for the best men of their co- 
 lour saw that the spirit of the times indicated that 
 their day of freedom was near — they were released 
 from bondage with the aid and good wishes of the 
 whole country. It showed their strong good sense 
 in waiting for the turn of the tide in their favour; 
 it proved that they had forethought, and deserved 
 our sympathies." 
 
 " I am glad of all this," said Hastings — " and the 
 Indians — what has become of them, are they still a 
 distinct people ?" 
 
 " I am sorry you ask that question, — for it is one 
 on which I do not like to converse — but 
 
 ' The Indians have departed — gone is their hunting ground, 
 And the twanging of their bow-string is a forgotten sound. 
 Where dwelleth yesterday — and where is echo's cell? 
 Where hath the rainbow vanished — there doth the Indian 
 dwell." 
 
 " When our own minds were sufficiently enlight- 
 ened, when our hearts were sufficiently inspired by 
 the humane principles of the Christian religion, we 
 emancipated the blacks. What demon closed up 
 the springs of tender mercy when Indian rights 
 were in question I know not 1 — but I must not speak 
 of it!" " 
 
 They now proceeded homewards, and in three 
 hours — for they travelled slowly, that they might 
 the better converse, — they came in sight of the low, 
 stone farm-house, in whieh poor Hastings had taken 
 his nap of three hundred years. They alighted from 
 the car, and as he wished to indulge himself in 
 
YEARS HENCE. 91 
 
 taking one more look at the interior — for the build- 
 ing was soon to be removed — his young relative left 
 him to apprize his family of their arrival. After 
 casting a glance at Edgar, he entered the house, 
 and seating himself mechanically in the old arm 
 chair, he leaned his head back in mournful reverie* 
 Thoughts innumerable, and of every variety chased 
 each other through his troubled brain ; his early 
 youth, his political career, his wife and child, all 
 that they had ever been to him, his excellent father, 
 Valentine Harley, and all their tender relationship, 
 mingled confusedly with the events that had occur- 
 red since his long sleep — copy-rights — mad dogs — 
 bursting of steam boilers — the two great fires in 
 New-York — direct tax — no duties — post-offices— 
 the improved condition of clergymen — no more 
 wars — no bruising of children's flesh — women's 
 rights — Astor's hotel — New-York Mart in State- 
 street — Negro emancipation — all passed in rapid 
 review, whilst his perplexities to know what became 
 of the Indians were mixed with the rest, and ran 
 through the whole scene. At the same time that all 
 this was galloping through his feverish brain, he 
 caught a glance of his young relative, and in his 
 troubled imagination, it appeared that it was not 
 the Edgar Hastings who had of late been his kind 
 companion, but his own son. He was conscious 
 that this was only a trick of the fancy, and arose 
 from his looking so earnestly at the young man as 
 he left him at the door of the house; but it was a 
 pleasant fancy, and he indulged in it, till a sudden 
 crash or noise of some kind jarred the windows 
 and aroused him. He was sensible that footsteps 
 approached, and he concluded it was his young 
 friend who had returned to conduct him home. 
 
 " Edgar — Edgar Hastings — my son is it thou — 
 didst thou not hear the cannon of the Black Hawk 
 — hast thou been sleeping?" 
 
92 THREE HUNDRED YEARS HEXCE. 
 
 " Amazement ! Was that the voice of his father 
 wa s this the good Valentine Harley that now as- 
 sisted him to rise — and who were those approach- 
 ing hjrn — was it his darling wife, and was that 
 smiling boy his own son, his little Edgar!" 
 
 " You have been asleep, I find, my dear husband," 
 said the gentle Ophelia, " and a happy sleep it has 
 been for me, for us all. See, here is a letter which 
 makes it unnecessary for you to leave home." 
 
 " And is this reality ?— do I indeed hold thee to 
 my heart once more, my Ophelia — oh, my father, 
 what a dream !" 
 
THE SURPRISE, 
 
 Nothing injures a man's prospects in life more 
 than a bad name. My father, an honest, good man, 
 never could rise above it, it depressed him to his 
 dying day. His name was Pan, and no one ever 
 spoke to him without some small joke, a thing 
 which my father's sensitiveness could not bear. He 
 was a gardener and sent the finest of vegetables to 
 market, striving to excel all others — I presume that 
 my taste for horticulture arose from this circum- 
 stance. 
 
 Adjoining our garden was one that belonged to 
 a man by the name of Patrick O'Brien; he like- 
 wise raised fruits and vegetables for sale, and there 
 was a constant strife between him and my father 
 as to who should get the pre-eminence ; but it so 
 happened that, although my father had the greatest 
 abundance of large and fine specimens, yet Patrick 
 O'Brien had the largest for the monthly exhibitions. 
 My father was not of a jealous nature, yet he did 
 envy his friend's success; and there is no knowing 
 whether a breach might not have been made in 
 their long tried friendship but for my excellent mo- 
 ther. She always begged my father to try and try 
 again; and, above all, to try for the yearly fair. 
 i 
 
94 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 My father did persevere, and to his great joy, he 
 got three premiums. 
 
 "I cannot tell how it has happened, wife, said 
 he " I have certainly acquired the premiums, but 
 O'Brien's tulips were, to my notion, far more beau- 
 tiful than mine; and you yourself saw how much 
 larger his sallad was; and then the early straw- 
 berries— I had the greatest quantity, but his were 
 
 Mv'mother certainly was glad tiiat my father's 
 spirit was elated, but she was of a timid, nervous 
 temperament, and she could not bear excitement 
 of any kind. She therefore trembled very much 
 whilst he stood talking to her, nor was she the less 
 agitated when Patrick O'Brien entered the room. 
 
 « Right Mad am I, neighbour Pan, that you have 
 the three prizes this day," said honest Patrick, "and 
 you must trv your luck again, for there s to be a 
 areat prize given next year. Early peas, my boy. 
 Arrah, but won't I try for them; and you have a 
 fine warm spot for them too. But mistress Pan, 
 for what are you not wishing your husband joy his 
 bright day, seeing he has what he so long wished 
 
 fnr7" 
 
 « Mr. O'Brien," said my mother, the next day, 
 " it must not be done again; my husband will find 
 it out, and he will die of vexation. Pray discour- 
 age him from making the attempt next spring, for 
 he will not bear a disappointment so well then as 
 he has hitherto done. Did no one see you put the 
 large strawberries in his dish?" 
 
 "No never a creature, and I'm wondering you 11 
 mention a thing to me that I have almost forgotten. 
 I was frightful, though, about the Parrot tulip, for 
 one of the gentlemen would keep talking about it, 
 and I had to keep saying, 'It's no a Parrot, your 
 honour, it's a Bijou.' " 
 
THE SURPRISE. 95 
 
 The fact was, that this kind hearted creature 
 could not bear to see my father so crest-fallen, and 
 he determined, as he had borne off so many pre- 
 miums, to let his friend share the pleasure with 
 him. He slily put three of his finest tulips in the 
 bunch belonging to my father, and, one by one, he 
 put a dozen of his largest strawberries on the dish. 
 He told all this to my poor mother, for which he 
 was very sorry, seeing that it troubled her tender 
 conscience ; but, as her husband was not to know 
 of the trick, she endeavoured to forget it also. 
 " And you, too, poor Patrick," said she, " you feel 
 badly at not getting the prizes; you have had them 
 so long that it must be hard for you to lose them 
 now — and particularly when, by rights, you should 
 have them." 
 
 " Oh, honey, never you mind me ; I care more 
 to name your little baby, when it comes; and if 
 you'll let it be called Patrick, why I have a little 
 matter of money which shall all be his; and we 
 will make the boy a great scholar. I'll bring him 
 up like a gentleman." 
 
 I was born on St. Patrick's day; a double reason, 
 as the poor Irishman said, for getting the name ; 
 but my mother cared little about that; all she 
 thought of was leaving me to the mercy of heart- 
 less strangers. She was in very delicate health, 
 and just lived long enough to hear me call her mo- 
 ther. Her death was a severe blow to my father 
 and my poor godfather, for she was the peace- 
 maker in their little disputes, and the consoler in all 
 their little troubles and miscarriages, of which a 
 gardener, you know, has many. In less than three 
 months I lost my father also; and thus I became 
 entirely thrown on the care of this good and ho- 
 nest Irishman. 
 
 As my father was liberal and spirited, it cannot 
 be supposed that he had, in a few short years, made 
 
96 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 much money; when his effects were sold, and 
 every thing converted into money, there only re- 
 mained about five hundred dollars. A far greater 
 sum, as Patrick said, than he expected to realize; 
 but nothing at all equal to what was necessary. 
 He was a very sanguine creature, and always had 
 a hope that the next year would do wonders; so 
 putting the money thus obtained from my father's 
 effects into safe hands, he determined on providing 
 for me himself. 
 
 Never was there a father so proud of a child as 
 Patrick was of his little godson; and never did a 
 child fare better, for three years, than I did. He 
 dressed me in the finest clothes; and I was never 
 without a lap full of toys ; in fact, he could not re- 
 sist my entreaties for more when we passed a toy 
 shop. He often neglected his w ? ork to take me 
 either a riding or walking with him ; and even when 
 toiling in the garden, he was uneasy unless I was 
 running around him. But, alas, this state of things 
 was not to last long; he missed my father's excel- 
 lent example and my mother's gentle hints, so he 
 went on as if his income was never to be dimi- 
 nished, and as if he had thousands at his command. 
 
 Like all weak people, the moment his affairs be- 
 came embarrassed, he gave up all endeavours at 
 retrieving them; he ended by neglecting every 
 thing; and when my nurse presented the quarterly 
 account for my board, poor Patrick had to sell a 
 valuable watch to meet the demand. My little 
 property was in the Savings Bank, and, hitherto, 
 untouched; but much as it was against his inclina- 
 tion — and, oh, how sore a thing it was — he was 
 compelled to take up the year's interest, which he 
 fondly hoped to leave with the principal, to pay the 
 woman for my next quarter. 
 
 Thus it went from bad to worse, until it came to 
 utter ruin; and Patrick had sunk so low in public 
 
THE SURPRISE. 97 
 
 esteem, that he could not obtain even the ordinary 
 wages of a common gardener. He seemed to have 
 lost bis skill with his pride, and all was aggravated 
 by the thought of being unable to provide for me 
 as he once intended to do. He used to hug me to 
 him and weep over me, calling on my father, but 
 most frequently on my mother, to scorn him and 
 hate him for breaking his promise, which was to 
 educate me, and give me a gentlemanly trade. He 
 was so true to his trust, however, that he never 
 Avould touch. my little patrimony; he only grieved 
 too much, as I observed, at having to draw upon 
 the interest, little as it was. But five shillings a 
 week was not a sum sufficient to satisfy my nurse. 
 She h'ad taken care of me for three years, and had 
 been well paid by my godfather, who likewise 
 made her several valuable presents; but when it 
 came to the shillings, she at once told Patrick, who 
 was thunderstruck at her hardness of heart, that 
 he must get another place for the little spoilt boy; 
 that she found him so troublesome she could keep 
 him no longer. 
 
 I shall not tell of the change that came over me, 
 nor the resistance I made to every new face, for I 
 was turned over to a dozen strangers in the course 
 of a year. Nor shall I tell of poor Patrick's misery 
 at seeing my altered looks and spirits. He rallied 
 a little and went in a gentleman's service as under 
 gardener, that he might not only be near me, but 
 comfort my little heart, which was breaking with 
 ill usage and neglect. Small as the sum was, which 
 Patrick gave for my board, there were miserable 
 creatures who offered to take me for less, so that 
 one woman, with whom I lived, actually farmed 
 rne out, keeping two shillings a week out of the 
 scanty allowance. No one can have an idea how 
 poor little orphans are abused when there are no 
 kind friends to interest themselves for them. 
 i 2 
 
98 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 I was a very unprepossessing child, neither good 
 looking nor pleasant tempered; not that I was 
 really ill-tempered, but that ill usage had stupified 
 me. I never entered into play with the children 
 of my own age, nor did I seek the amusements that 
 were even within my reach. I loved to be alone, to 
 lie under a tree near a brook, listening to the bab- 
 bling and murmuring of the waters, and fancying 
 that I heard my mother talking to me. Little as I 
 was, I used to frame long conversations with her, 
 and they had the effect of soothing me. Her gentle 
 spirit was for ever present, and constantly encour- 
 aging me to bear all, and suffer in silence, and that 
 when I was a man 1 should be rewarded. I bless 
 the good Irishman's memory for having so early 
 and so constantly spoken of my parents; particu- 
 larly of my mother. 
 
 A man finds he cannot make his way in the 
 world without honesty and industry, so that, al- 
 though his father's example may do much, he has 
 to depend upon his own exertions; he must work, 
 he must be honest, or he cannot attain to any envia- 
 ble rank. But the tender soothings of a mother, 
 her sympathy, her devotedness, her forgiving tem- 
 per — all this sinks deep in a child's heart; and let 
 him wander ever so wide, let him err or let him 
 lead a life of virtue, the remembrance of all this 
 comes like a holy calm over his heart, and he weeps 
 that he has offended her, or he rejoices that he has 
 listened to her disinterested, gentle admonition. 
 
 When I reached the age of eight years 1 was 
 taught to read, and the eagerness with which I pro- 
 ceeded, mastering every ditHculty, and overcoming 
 every impediment from cold, hunger and chilblain, 
 might have shown to an observer how suitable this 
 occupation was to my character. Poor Patrick 
 used to boast of my acquirements to every one who 
 
THE SURPRISE- 99 
 
 would listen; and every fresh book that I read 
 through, gave him visions of my future glory. 
 
 No one can tell how the poor fellow pinched him- 
 self to give me this scanty education, but hard ne- 
 cessity had taught me to think; I was compelled to 
 make use of my judgment, young as I was; and, 
 knowing that he had the sum of five hundred dol- 
 lars in his possession, for my use, I tried to prevail 
 on him to draw out a fifth part of it for the pur- 
 pose of paying a better board, and getting me a 
 better teacher. If any one could have seen this 
 poor man as I saw him at that time, thin, bowed 
 down by poverty and neglect, ragged and with 
 scarcely a home, they would have wondered that 
 his honesty could have held out as it did when he 
 had what might be considered as so large a sum 
 within his power. He not only did not touch a 
 penny himself, but he would not take a cent of it 
 from the principal. He distrusted his own judg- 
 ment, and he distrusted mine, for I was such a mere 
 child; yet his anxiety to give me an education was 
 still uppermost, and he wavered for a long time 
 about adopting the only means of accomplishing it. 
 
 He had been digging post holes, one day, for a 
 gentleman, and when his task was finished, he be- 
 gan to speak of the books which he saw lying about 
 — it was a printing office — and, as was most natu- 
 ral to him, he spoke of me. He told the printer of 
 his anxieties and his desire that I should have a 
 good education, and finally he spoke of my pro- 
 posal respecting the money. The printer told Pat- 
 rick, that it was very good advice, and he had bet- 
 ter take it; for if his object was to educate me, 
 there was no other way but this of effecting it, un- 
 less he sent me to a charity school. The blood 
 mounted in the poor fellow's cheeks at this sugges- 
 tion, and he told me that he had great difficulty in 
 
100 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 commanding his temper, but his love for me con- 
 quered. 
 
 As soon as he could swallow the affront — an af- 
 front, he said, to my father, and to my angel of a 
 mother; for he, too, never separated my feelings 
 from their's — he begged the printer to let him bring 
 me there and see how far 1 had advanced in my 
 learning; but the man did not seem disposed to 
 grant this favour. Bring the boy to me one year 
 from this, and then I shall be better able to judge, 
 said he; mean time, do you see that he is placed 
 with a good teacher; one that will keep him to his 
 studies. 
 
 With a heavy heart, Patrick obeyed him, and I 
 thus obtained a knowledge of reading, writing and 
 arithmetic; but he seemed to be failing fast; every 
 time he came to see me he appeared weaker, and 
 was still more wretchedly clad, and I could devise 
 no plan for his comfort. He never complained of 
 his poverty, but of his laziness; and his constant 
 exhortations were, " Patrick, my boy, be industri- 
 ous; never allow of an idle moment; give over 
 lying under the trees, and do not saunter about 
 when your lessons are over — look at me; I am in 
 rags and despised by every body because I have 
 been an idler." 
 
 At the end of the year, in as good a suit of clothes 
 as my poor godfather could manage to procure for 
 me, I was taken to the printer. He cast a look at 
 me as he stood at. his desk writing, and then told 
 us to take a seat. His cold manner struck a chill 
 through my heart, and I crowded myself on Pat- 
 rick's chair that I might feel the warmth of his 
 kindness. There we sat, speechless, for half an 
 hour, until the letters were finished and despatched, 
 and then the man turned his head again and gave 
 another look. 
 
 " Will you be for speaking to the boy touching 
 
THE SURPRISE. 101 
 
 his learning, your honour?" said honest Patrick, 
 his feelings hurt by this coldness of manner; "or 
 shall we come some other time?" 
 
 "I have no time to question him now," said the 
 printer, " but if he can read and write — here, my 
 boy, write your name on this leaf — Patrick Pan! 
 hem — Pan, is it?" 
 
 " Yes, your honour," said the indignant Irish- 
 man, " and it was an honest man that bore it, and 
 gived it to him, and I trust he'll never disgrace it." 
 
 " I trust so too," said the man. "He writes le- 
 gibly, and if you have nothing better to do with 
 him, he may have his food and clothing for the few 
 errands he can do." 
 
 "And Patrick, dear," said O'Brien, "will you be 
 liking this employment, sure my son it's a good berth, 
 though a mean one, to what I meant to give you; 
 but you'll he industrious and mind what's told you, 
 and PI! still be looking after you, and you'll have 
 plenty of books, dear, for they are not scarce 
 here." 
 
 " The boy will have but little chance of meddling 
 with books," said the printer, "it will be time 
 enough when he is older. Is he to stay now, or do 
 you wish him to come next week? he must be ap- 
 prenticed to me, you recollect." 
 
 Smothering and choking was the poor fellow for 
 a minute or two; lie knew that the hundred dollars 
 was all gone, and that my last quarter had just 
 ended. He knew it was entirely out of his power to 
 assist me any further, so with a mighty effort he 
 made the sacrifice — he transferred me to another. 
 
 It was but the work of half an hour, and I be- 
 came this man's property: for twelve years he was 
 to rule my destiny. I looked up in his face whilst 
 he was speaking, and I saw nothing to cheer me; 
 his countenance was only expressive of care and 
 deep thought. I cast another glance at him when 
 
102 
 
 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 my indentures were signed, and there was no 
 change. Poor Patrick never thought of his looks; 
 he was only alive to the misery of having consign- 
 ed me to another ; of having no longer any power 
 or control over my comforts and enjoyments. 
 
 When all was over, and the printer had left us 
 together, the poor man burst into tears, bewailing 
 his cruel fate that would not let him alone, as he 
 said, that he might perform his promise of giving 
 me a good education. " I wanted to be industri- 
 ous," said he, " but something always pulled me 
 back and pointed to a toy or a hobby-horse, or a 
 fine suit of clothes, or a ride, or a pleasant walk, and 
 so all these things being more agreeable to my na- 
 ture, I left my garden for the pleasure of pleasing 
 you, my poor boy ; and now you must work for 
 this nigger, who won't let you touch one of his books 
 even. But remember your mother, Patrick, what- 
 ever becomes of you; be honest, and she will be 
 looking down upon you, my jewel ; and that will 
 encourage you; and I shall be looking after you 
 too, dear, for all I am — for all I am — in the poor- 
 house. Don't cry, poor fellow, I did not mean to 
 tell you ; but where's the use of being proud now, 
 when you can't even get a book to read, but must 
 just be an errand boy and be pushed about any 
 how, and it all comes of my laziness." 
 
 " Oh no, Patrick, you have done every thing for 
 me," said I, " and only keep a good heart for 
 twelve years, and then I shall have a trade, and I 
 can make you happy and comfortable; but you 
 must come and see me every day, for I shall miss 
 you so much; and there is such a difference be- 
 tween Mr. Bartlett and you. It will kill me if you 
 don't come every day." 
 
 " Well, child, it is idle to stand here making you 
 more unhappy than you need be ; I will come as 
 often as I can; but I shall just walk up and down 
 
THE SURPRISE. 103 
 
 the alley, there, till you get sight of me, for I'll not 
 be after knocking at the door and shaming you be- 
 fore your new acquaintances, and I all in these old 
 rags." 
 
 So we parted with many a last look and last 
 speech; I following him, poor, ragged, broken down 
 old creature as he was, as far as my eye could see 
 him, and then sat on the stairs in the hall and cried 
 myself asleep ; nor did I awake till the bell rang for 
 dinner. Mr. Bartlett pointed to a little room, as he 
 passed me en coming down stairs, telling me to go 
 there and take my seat at the table as soon as the 
 cook told me that the dinner was ready. The cook 
 cast a surly glance at me, and so did the chamber- 
 maid, muttering in audible whispers that "here 
 was more trouble; and wondering what could pos- 
 sess Mr. Bartlett to bring such a mere child in the 
 house, one not big enough to fetch a pail of water." 
 
 In the afternoon I was allowed to lounge about 
 the room, no one taking the least notice of me, till 
 the foreman said, "Here is a little errand boy, one 
 of the elder apprentices must take him out when he 
 goes with books and papers, that he may learn to 
 find his way." Then they all cast a look at me, and 
 seeing my tiny size, and how awkward and poorly 
 clad I was, they made themselves very merry at 
 my expense. But small and contemptible as I ap- 
 peared, they did not think me too small nor too 
 mean for their services. I was made to toil from 
 morning till night, scarcely sitting down to my im- 
 poverished meals; for I always had to wait till the 
 elder boys had finished, and I was scarcely seated 
 before I was wanted. By degrees I lost all pride 
 about my outward appearance. From my infancy 
 I was particularly careful to keep rny face and 
 hands clean ; but now that I was driven about from 
 place to place I had no time. All I could do was 
 to dip my hands and face hastily in a basin, or a 
 
104 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 pail, or more commonly, under the pump, and either 
 let the water dry off*, or else use a pocket-hand- 
 kerchief. My master never looked after me, nor 
 inquired about me, that I ever heard, so that I was 
 as much neglected as if I was among wild beasts — 
 is not this the case with the most of apprentices'? 
 It was a week, and more, before 1 had a room to 
 sleep in; and I was forced to lie about on floors, or 
 on benches, wherever my mattress was to be found. 
 At length, by the removal of a young man, I was 
 put up in a small garret room, and in this hole I 
 slept lor twelve years. There was one thing, how- 
 ever, which made it endurable; and this was, that 
 the branches of a large buttonwood tree reached 
 up to the window and sheltered it from the after- 
 noon sun; but for this I should have suffered from 
 the heat. Many and many an evening have I been 
 soothed by the gentle rustling of the leaves, as the 
 mild breeze passed over them. It seemed as if the 
 spirii of my mother was there, and I would listen 
 and fancy that I heard her whispering to me, and 
 then I would shut my eyes and let the cool soft 
 air fall on my cheek, and say to myself, Perhaps it 
 is the breath of my mother. To this day, now that 
 I am a man, I still seem to hear that ever-to-be- 
 loved voice in the silence of the night, when the 
 summer wind murmurs through the foliage. I used, 
 at that forlorn period of my existence, to give my- 
 self up to these delusions till my heart has fairly 
 throbbed with emotion. 
 
 I looked around for something to love, but no 
 one ever dreamed of me, all were engaged in their 
 business, or when the day closed, in their own 
 amusement; all that I could draw to me was a 
 poor singed cat, which I coaxed into my garret- 
 room, and domesticated there. I rescued her from 
 the gripe of the cook's son, a hard-hearted little 
 
THE SURPRISE. 105 
 
 tyrant, who took great pleasure in tormenting ani- 
 mals. 
 
 But my unfortunate name — that, too, added to 
 my miseries. I told you it was Pan. I was called 
 Pat from the first; but when they found out my fa- 
 ther's name, it was an easy thing to call me Patty 
 Pan; and by this name I went for years. Oh, how 
 hard it was to my sensitive spirit to hear my fa- 
 ther's — my mother's name turned into ridicule by 
 these inconsiderate and callous people. 
 
 Every Sunday poor Patrick met me in one of the 
 public squares, and there we would talk together, 
 and he would tell me anecdote after anecdote of my 
 parents and their family, always making them out 
 grandees at home. Both my father and mother 
 were from Scotland, and I learned that my mother 
 had displeased her only brother by her marriage, 
 and that his illnatured conduct towards her caused 
 them to come to America. 
 
 " You are come of a good stock, Patrick, dear," 
 said he to me, when I was about fourteen years old, 
 " barring that your uncle was such a nigger. I 
 have written twice to him, my jewel, and its never 
 an answer I've got, so I'll trouble him no more, 
 only I'll just be for telling Mr. Bartlett who you 
 are; and in case your uncle should ever deign to 
 inquire about you, he can answer for you. I've 
 kept all safe, honey ; here in this old tobacco-box 
 is the certificates of your parents' marriage, and of 
 your birth, and, oh, wo's me, of their death too; 
 and here is an account of your money in the savings 
 bank, and not a penny has been touched since you 
 began your trade, so that the five hundred dollars 
 are all whole again, and something over." 
 
 It was in vain that I entreated the poor fellow to 
 take the interest and spend it on himself; he would 
 not do it ; and from seeing his self-denial I found it 
 impossible to make use of it myself, although I was 
 
 K 
 
106 
 
 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 sadly in want of comforts. Often and often would 
 the old man question me as to my usage at the print- 
 ing office ; but I could not bear to tell him how ut- 
 terly neglected I was; it would have killed him. 
 Every time I saw him he appeared weaker and 
 weaker, and at length his eye-sight failed, and it 
 was with great difficulty that he could grope his 
 way to our accustomed haunts. He never would 
 allow me to come to the alms-house, not so much 
 as to meet him at the door or near it ; but I bribed 
 a poor man to lead him to the place and call for 
 him again ; this I was enabled to do from the few 
 shillings that I received from Mr. Bartlett on the 
 new year's day and the fourth of July. 
 
 My master called me to him, one morning, with 
 some little show of sympathy ; he said that Patrick 
 O'Brien was very ill, and that it was doubtful whe- 
 ther he would live till night; that he had been to 
 the alms-house and was satisfied that the poor man 
 was properly treated. I begged to go to him, but 
 Mr. Bartlett said that Patrick had desired that I 
 should not, and that I should not follow him to the 
 grave ; but, added he, on seeing my grief, if you 
 really desire to go, I will send you there or go with 
 you myself. 
 
 I was so astonished at this unexpected kindness, 
 that my tears dried up in an instant, and I blessed 
 and blessed him over and over again — not by 
 speech, for I was unfit for it, but mentally. My 
 master told me to go to my room and remain there 
 till he sent for me, bidding me say nothing to any 
 one either respecting my poor god-father or what 
 had recently occurred. He need not have enjoined 
 this on me; no one had ever thought it worth while 
 to inquire whence I came, or to whom I belonged. 
 The general opinion was, that I was a poor, spirit- 
 less, melancholy creature. 
 
 The last link was broken; I followed my only 
 
THE SURPRISE. 107 
 
 friend to the grave, my master having the humanity 
 to take me in a carriage to the funeral ; and I need 
 not tell you that one of the first acts of my life, 
 when I had the power to do it, was to put a stone 
 at the head of poor O'Brien's grave. 
 
 But heaven opened one source of pleasure to the 
 poor orphan's heart. If the living denied me their 
 sympathy, the dead did not; I became fond of read- 
 ing ; and all at once, as it were, a flood of light 
 and knowledge entered my whole soul. To indulge 
 myself in (his newly found pleasure was scarcely 
 possible, for my labours seemed to increase as I 
 grew older. Indeed there were greater difficulties 
 in the way now than there would have been at first, 
 for then I was a mere cipher, and was only used 
 as a convenience. But there were certain things 
 going on which made it necessary that there should 
 be no spies or tell-tales about; and as I would not 
 join the young men in their irregularities, they 
 thought I meant to ingratiate myself with Mr. Bart- 
 lett by exposing them. As the follies they commit- 
 ted were not injurious to our master's interest, I had 
 no intention of exposing them, for he was a hard 
 man and showed them but few favours. My com- 
 panions, however, became shy of me, and I found 
 that they even preferred to do without my assistance 
 than to have me near them ; but I held fast by my 
 integrity; and I have the satisfaction of knowing 
 that I was true to my employer's interests, never 
 injuring them myself nor suffering others to do it. 
 
 My only chance of reading was after supper; I 
 then went to my room, and there I sat, devouring 
 book after book, night after night, by the light of my 
 little lamp, with my old cat, either on my lap or on 
 my bed, the only living thing that claimed any com- 
 panionship with me. When I had exhausted the 
 books in the house, I hired others at the libraries; 
 and thus I went on, my appetite increasing as I pro- 
 
108 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 ceeded ; and my eighteenth year found me exactly 
 in the same round of duty, but with a mind that 
 seemed almost bursting its bounds with the know- 
 ledge that I had thus crammed into it. 
 
 Just at this period, my uncle, that cruel man, of 
 whom poor O'Brien had so often to speak, wrote to 
 Mr. Bartlett concerning me. He said that, if I 
 would take the name of Parr he would make over 
 to me a tract of land which he owned in Virginia, 
 and that if money were necessary, towards pro- 
 curing this change of name, I might draw on a 
 certain firm in New York to the amount of two 
 hundred dollars. I was very indignant at first, but 
 Mr. Bartlett seemed resolute in accomplishing the 
 thing, and I at length reluctantly consented to give 
 up the name. In the course of a year, the whole 
 was arranged. I adopted the name of Parr, and 
 Mr. Bartlett, thinking it better to sell the land at a 
 moderate price than to let it lie unproductive, found 
 a purchaser for it, and the money — twelve hun- 
 dred dollars — was judiciously placed out at good 
 interest. 
 
 My fellow-apprentices only laughed amongst 
 themselves when Mr. Bartlett told them that in fu- 
 ture I was to be called by another name ; but it 
 soon passed out of their thoughts, and I was again 
 left to my own solitude and insignificance. 
 
 But the same objections did not exist with re- 
 spect to the income I derived from my uncle's 
 bounty. I felt a sort of pleasure in spending it; and 
 the first things I purchased was a looking-glass and 
 other little comforts for my forlorn garret-room. 
 Oh, the luxury of a large wash basin, a white towel 
 and pleasant soap; and the infinitely greater luxury 
 of giving a few shillings to the poor objects who soli- 
 cited charity. The pride of my childhood returned, 
 and I once more took care of my dress and my 
 outward appearance. I no longer went slouching 
 
THE SURPRISE. 109 
 
 and careless along, inattentive to what was passing, 
 but stopped to let my eye rest on the shop windows ; 
 suffering myself to take pleasure in the beauty and 
 brightness that was spread out around me — such a 
 difference is there between the pennyless and 
 crushed spirit and the one who has wealth at com- 
 mand. 
 
 But there was still a craving at the heart, which 
 money could not satisfy — I wanted a home, kind 
 fellowship, a brother, a sister, something near and 
 dear, that I could call my own. In my Sunday 
 walks I used to look at the cheerful and happy 
 young people that passed me, selecting first one and 
 then the other as a companion, and held mental 
 conversation with them, trying in this way to cheat 
 myself into the belief that I was of consequence to 
 some one being. Oh, if any one could have guess- 
 ed at the deep feeling which lay hidden under my 
 cold manner: if they could but have known whence 
 arose the nervous tremblings which assailed me 
 when 1 performed any little friendly office for 
 strangers! 
 
 As to Mr. Bartlelt, he never varied his treatment 
 of the work-people ; they were all kept at the same 
 distance; he pair! them their wages and exacled 
 obedience in return ; and when the rules were neg- 
 lected, or when his commands were disobeyed, he 
 dismissed the offender at once, without remark or 
 dispute. Of all that came and went, 1 was the only 
 one that served out my apprenticeship. Out of 
 fourteen men and boys, when I left him, there was 
 not one that had been with him four years. But 
 this gave me no advantages. 1 was no nearer his 
 confidence than I was when I entered his service. 
 I was advanced in the regular way, from step to 
 step, until I had arrived at the highest point; and I 
 did not consider myself as master of the trade until 
 my time was expired. He could not prevent me 
 
 K 2 
 
1 10 I he SURPRISE. 
 
 from feeling gratitude towards him, for I recollect- 
 ed his kindness in going with me to poor O'Bri- 
 en's grave, and in his care and attention to my in- 
 terests respecting the change of name and the in- 
 vestment of the money for the Virginia land ; but 
 he did not require sympathy, and he never gave it 
 to others. 
 
 My last act of duty was to correct the proofs of 
 a very valuable work, requiring a knowledge of the 
 subject matter, almost equal to that of the author. 
 Several had undertaken it, but made so many blun- 
 ders that the poor author was in despair. Mr. 
 Bartlett was very much mortified, and determined 
 to put back the work until he could procure a 
 competent person to read the proofs. Having been 
 fond of that particular branch of study — Vegeta- 
 ble Physiology — I knew that I could accomplish 
 the task; so I stepped into the office and told Mr. 
 Bartlett that if he had no objection I would read 
 the proofs, for having always had access to works 
 of the kind, the terms made use of were quite fa- 
 miliar. He looked at me with astonishment, having, 
 like the rest of the house, always considered me as 
 a mere automaton; a faithful drudge, who did 
 every thing mechanically. He put the work into 
 my hands, and I laboured at it with care and dili- 
 gence, so that the work came out without a single 
 erratum. Mr. Bartlett said, "This is well done, 
 Mr. Parr, excellent, and you deserve all our thanks; 
 the author has sent you his grateful thanks and this 
 little box; it contains a compound microscope. I 
 have the pleasure, likewise, of giving you a copy 
 of the work." 
 
 But praise from him, respect from my fellow 
 labourers, came too late to satisfy me ; the time 
 was approaching when I should be free, when I 
 could at intervals relieve both mind and body from 
 this unnatural monotonv, and roam about in the 
 
THE SURPRISE. Ill 
 
 country unrestrained. I hoped likewise to meet 
 with some congenial mind to whom I could pour 
 out my feelings and thoughts ; for to this one point 
 all my wishes turned; my whole soul was so swal- 
 lowed up with this one sentiment that every other 
 passion — wealth, fame, and all, were but things 
 seen at a vast distance. I was born with tender 
 and strong feelings, and a friend was the bounds of 
 my ambition. 
 
 At length the day came, St. Patrick's day, 
 blessed be his name, it gave me freedom. My agi- 
 tation had kept me awake the whole night before, 
 for 1 had a sort of fear that something would occur 
 to hinder me from leaving the office. As to where 
 J was to go, that never troubled me — green fields, 
 the river, running brooks, trees, birds, and the ani- 
 mals of the country, were all before me, and to me 
 they would speak volumes. If man denied me his 
 sympathy, they would not refuse it; and to the 
 haunts of my childhood, to the very spot where I 
 drew my breath, there I meant to direct my steps. 
 I knew I had not neglected a single duty, nor 
 disobeyed a single command. God had blessed 
 me with health, so that I never had to keep my 
 room for one day even. To be sure, there were 
 times when I had severe headaches, and wretched 
 coughs, and great weakness from night sweats; 
 but I never complained, determined that, when my 
 day of service expired, there should be nothing 
 exacted of me for lost time. I did not know that 
 my master would make me remain, to work out the 
 days that were lost by sickness, but it had been put 
 in my head by some of the apprentices, and I never 
 forgot it. 
 
 On this happy, memorable morning, dressed in a 
 lull suit of mourning, even to the crape on my new- 
 hat, with a valise well filled with good linen, hand- 
 kerchiefs, and stockings, I entered Mr. Bartlett's 
 private office for the last time. He looked at me 
 
112 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 with an inquiring eye, as I stood covered with con- 
 fusion and agitation. " What is the meaning of 
 tins, Mr. Parr !" said he, " you seem equipped lor a 
 journey." 
 
 "I was twenty-one years of age at six o'clock 
 this morning," said I, my face flushed as I could 
 feel by the tingling in my ears. 
 
 " Well, what if you were," said he, looking as 
 much surprised as if an apprentice never was to 
 leave his master. " I thought your time was nearly 
 out — this is St. Patrick's day, is it? but you are 
 going to return. You shall have good wages, and 
 1 shall take care that you have a good berth." 
 
 "No, sir," said I, almost breathless with fear that 
 I should be spell bound, — " no, sir, I intend to travel 
 about in the country this summer; I am going to 
 put head stones to the graves of my father and 
 mother : that is my first purpose, now that I have 
 money and am free. I hope and trust that you 
 think I have served a faithful and honest appren- 
 ticeship, and that if 1 want a situation in a printing 
 Office 1 can ask you for a good character." 
 
 " Yes, most assuredly you can ; but you need 
 not apply elsewhere. I know your worth, young 
 man, and 1 have both the power and inclination to 
 serve you. Serve me for five years as well as you 
 have done, and I will make you a partner in the 
 concern." 
 
 I thanked him warmly for this gratifying mark 
 of esteem, but I could not accept of his ofier, my 
 very heart turned sick at the thought of staying 
 another day even. He was evidently disconcerted, 
 and made several pauses, as if to consider whether 
 he might not propose something more acceptable, 
 but I fortified myself against all that he might 
 urge, and I am sure that an offer to make me his 
 full partner immediately would not have induced 
 me to remain. 
 
THE SURPRISE. * 113 
 
 I asked for my indentures. " Well," said he, 
 ■ Mr. Parr, you are not to be moved, I see ; but that 
 shall not hinder me from doing you justice; you 
 have served me well, and it is but fair that I should 
 look to your interest. He turned from me and 
 wrote a letter of recommendation to two publishers, 
 one in New York and the other in Boston, and 
 taking his check book from the shelf, he drew a 
 check, which I found was for two hundred dollars. 
 He gave me the three papers, and then proceeded 
 to look for the indenture; he handed it to me, 
 endorsed properly, and after thanking him for his 
 former and present kindness, I asked him if he 
 would allow me to beg one more favour of him, 
 which was that he would still keep for me the cer- 
 tificates of my parents' marriage and my birth, 
 and allow me to draw on him, as usual, for the 
 interest of the mortgage which he held for me. He 
 had previously to this put me in possession of it, 
 and of the money in the savings bank, he having 
 held it in trust for me. He readily promised me 
 this favour, begging me to use the money prudently 
 as hitherto, and in case of any difficulty to apply 
 to him. We shook hands, and I was in the act of 
 picking up my valise to depart when the crape on 
 my hat caught his eye. 
 
 " You are in mourning, I perceive," said he, 
 •• there is crape on your hat and your clothes are 
 black ; I did not know that you had a single rela- 
 tion here." 
 
 " Nor have I," said I. I put on this mourning 
 dress as a mark of affectionate gratitude to my 
 poor godfather, Patrick O'Brien. I had it not in 
 my power to do it before, but as his goodness lives 
 still fresh and green in my memory, why should I 
 omit doing that which I know would gratify his 
 spirit if it should be permitted him to know it?" 
 
 " I wish for vour sake that he had lived to sec this 
 
114 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 day," said Mr. Bartlett, " but I will not detain yon 
 longer; I wish you ■well from the bottom of my 
 heart." 
 
 " There is but one thing more, sir," said I, turning 
 back from the door. " There are several articles 
 belonging to me in my bed room ; I have given 
 them to the youngest apprentice, and I wish he 
 may have your sanction to retain them ; here is a 
 list of them." He took the list : I left the room, 
 walked hastily through the hall, and shut the street 
 door as I went out — I shut out the whole twelve 
 years from my memory. 
 
 It was a clear, cold, bright day ; the frost had 
 been out of the ground for some time, so that the 
 roads were dry and the walking pleasant, but the 
 sense of freedom was exquisite. " What," said I, 
 " no calls upon my time, no hurry, no driving ? 
 can 1 call this blessed day my own ? is that ??n/ 
 sun ? that glorious sun which goes careering 
 through the sky, and shedding its brightness all 
 around, filling my eyes with the beautiful pictures 
 which it illuminates?" And thus 1 went on, step by 
 step, rejoicing, my enraptured soul drinking in new 
 cause for exultation at every turn. 
 
 In the whole twelve years I had never eaten a 
 meal out of Mr. Bartlett's house, nor had I ever 
 been within the walls of any other house than his, 
 so strictly did I keep within the limits of my duty. 
 I was exceedingly shy, therefore, of entering a pub- 
 lic house, although my hunger was beginning to 
 make itself felt. But I conquered my timidity, and 
 entering a house of entertainment I called for din- 
 ner. I was ushered into a neat room, and in the 
 course of half an hour was served with what 
 appeared to me then an excellent dinner. I was 
 covered with confusion because the host would 
 wait on me, and I was equally embarrassed with 
 the services of a goodnatured waiter, who bowed 
 
THE SURPRISE. 115 
 
 low when I paid for the dinner, and still lower 
 when I refused to take the half dollar change. 
 
 I was now completely in the country, and in the 
 neighbourhood of the place that gave me birth. 
 Having a faint recollection of the house in which 
 my parents lived, I determined, if I ever was rich 
 enough, that I would purchase it; for visions of a 
 beautiful river, and a waterfall, and every variety 
 of romantic scenery, were constantly floating 
 before me; and then there was the inspiration of 
 my mother to heighten the picture. I reached the 
 spot at nightfall, and engaged lodgings at the inn — 
 not the one that you now see at the head of the 
 briery lane, but further on; it was destroj^ed by 
 fire about four years ago; you must all recollect 
 it. Here 1 remained three weeks, going over the 
 haunts of my early childhood — infancy, I might 
 say — and reviving the almost faded images, by 
 being amongst the same scenes. The willow and 
 the aspen tree, near my spring house, O'Brien 
 .helped me to plant when 1 was about six years old, 
 and under the large elm I used to lie when I first 
 began to read. You need not be surprised that I 
 purchased this little estate as soon as I had the 
 means of doing so; I contemplated it from the 
 moment I entered Mr. Bartlett's employment, and 
 it was a project that never ceased to occupy my 
 thoughts. The house was small, but substantially 
 built; it is the one on the edge of the common, in 
 which Martha's brother lives; and I keep it in 
 neat repair, as I also do the garden in which my 
 father worked; these fine apple trees are of his 
 planting. I made several attempts to purchase the 
 little property which once belonged to my poor god- 
 father, but it belonged to an old man by the name of 
 Banks; he added it to the Oak Valley farm, which 
 I do not regret now, as it has fallen into the hands 
 of our excellent neighbours, Mr. and Mrs. Webb. 
 
1 1 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 I know the precise spot where my parents were 
 buried, for poor Patrick had described it accurately, 
 making a drawing of it upon a piece of paper 
 which I shall preserve to the day of my death; I 
 therefore placed a tomb stone to each grave, with 
 an inscription that satisfied my ardent feelings, but 
 which I have since replaced with others more suited 
 to their humble merits and my more mature judg- 
 ment. Patrick's grave was about a mile from the 
 city, and, with Mr. Bartlett's assent, I had caused 
 a neat stone to be put over it, as many as six years 
 before this period. 
 
 My hard hearted old nurse was then and is still 
 living; that line, promising boy that was lost at 
 sea, and in whom you all took such an interest, 
 was her only child; for his sake I allow her a small 
 yearly sum, but she has no idea that I am the one 
 that she so cruelly gave up to the ill usage of the poor 
 creatures around her. Poor Patrick, how he hated 
 her; she even taunted him when she afterwards 
 saw him with me, pretending to wonder why he 
 did not dress me in such fine clothes as formerly. 
 He had, in his days of wealth, bought me a hobby 
 horse, the skeleton of which I found about three 
 years ago in an old barn, and which I knew imme- 
 diately, for the initials of my name were carved 
 underneath by him ; it is in complete order again. 
 How it would gratify the poor, kind old man, were 
 he living, for he would know the motives which 
 influenced me in this trifling act. 
 
 What a tumult of mind I was in during these 
 three weeks ! The country had not the tranquillizing 
 effect that I expected, for I was striving to recall 
 fargone images and thoughts ; I went to every old 
 tree, to the brook, to the river, to the church, and 
 to the pew in which my parents sat, for of this too 
 I had inquired of Patrick. I thought my all of 
 happiness was centred in this one place, and that, 
 
THE SURPRISE. 117 
 
 though humau sympathy was denied me, I might 
 here pass the remainder of my days in peace and 
 quiet, worshipping my Maker, and in doing good 
 to the poor creatures around me. But the money 
 was to be made to purchase these blessings, for I 
 had but eig'hteen hundred dollars, and it required as 
 many thousands to accomplish this desirable object, 
 and Patrick's last injunction for ever rung in my 
 ears^ — "never be idle." 
 
 I tore myself away from this cherished spot, and 
 walked back again to the city just in time to get in. 
 one of the cars for New York, where I arrived the 
 same afternoon. After I had looked at the curiosi- 
 ties which were, to me, so thickly scattered about, 
 I thought it quite time to commence work in earnest. 
 I therefore called on a printer by the name of 
 Blagge and offered my services. He happened, 
 luckily, to be in want of a proofreader, and with- 
 out entering into any definite agreement, I com- 
 menced the work, he having meanwhile written to 
 Mr. Bartlett, that he might be sure of the genuine- 
 ness of the letter of recommendation. Mr. Blagge 
 was quite pleased with my care and industry, as 
 well as with my knowledge of the subject matter 
 of the work ; he said that he could now bring out 
 a book which he had long wished to publish, but 
 that his proof renders were, in general, so pro- 
 foundly ignorant of science, that he was unwilling 
 to undertake it. I begged him to defer it until the 
 ensuing spring, that I intended to improve myself 
 by attending the lectures, and that I should then be 
 better able to t;ike charge of the work. Meantime 
 he gave me four hundred dollars a year, with a 
 promise of presenting me with tickets to such of 
 the lectures as I chose to attend. 
 
 My companions in the office were civil, nay, 
 respectful ; for I came amongst them under favoura- 
 ble circumstances, and Mr. Blaggc's kind manner 
 
 L 
 
1 18 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 towards me had a great cliect on them. But they 
 were not suited to me; I looked from one to the 
 other in vain for one of congenial mind ; they were 
 all industrious, and some ambitions; but their 
 minds were a blank, and their pursuits, when dis- 
 engaged from their business, were of a low order. 
 Not one could I find that loved to walk out in the 
 country for the sake of breathing pure air, and of 
 enjoying the soft, tender scenes of nature; their 
 pleasures lay in eating cellars where the best sup- 
 pers could be had for their limited means, and in 
 playing at some low pastime night after night, such 
 as Domino, All-fours, Yingtun, and other games of 
 chance; and on Sundays to take a sail, or some- 
 thing, in fact, which tended to demoralize rather 
 than improve. 
 
 Mr. Blagge was, as I observed, respectful and 
 kind, but he was full of cares and anxieties, having 
 a very large family to support, and with but slender 
 means; in fact, he had been very much embar- 
 rassed, and was just recovering from it. It was 
 not to be supposed that he could interest himself in 
 the feelings of a young man with whom he had so 
 slight an acquaintance — one, likewise, who did not 
 ask for his sympathy. I therefore moved on in 
 silence, occupying myself at leisure hours in learn- 
 ing the French and Latin lartgnages, which, with 
 the help of good teachers and books I was enabled 
 to do in the course of a few months. This was a 
 delightful occupation to me. and I soon overcame 
 all the difficulties, excepting the pronunciation, 
 which I was unable to accomplish, as I had no one 
 with whom I could converse. I learned the Latin 
 that I might more fully comprehend the meaning 
 of the technical terms made use of in all the works 
 of science, and which I considered it absolutely 
 necessary to do, as I was so soon to take charge 
 of the reputation of the great forthcoming work. 
 
TUB SUKPKISE. 119 
 
 Here was, therefore, another pleasure, for I now 
 became passionately fond of works of this nature, 
 and my greedy mind devoured all that came within 
 reach. I had nothing to interfere with my plan of 
 study, living entirely alone, and having no asso- 
 ciates ; I hired a room in which I slept and studied, 
 and I took my breakfast, dinner, and supper, at a 
 cheap ordinary near the office. As I stipulated to 
 labour only between sunrise and sunset, I had as 
 much time as I wanted for exercise and reading, 
 and my practice was to walk from the hour I left 
 the office until it was dark, eat my supper, and then 
 retire to my room. Being an early riser, there was 
 time, therefore, to attend to my dress, for I had 
 again become fastidiously clean. It now appears 
 to me that 1 hurried from one thing to another, and 
 engaged in every thing so vigorously, to keep ofT 
 the ever-intruding fueling of loneliness. I wonder 
 if any other human being suffered so acutely on 
 this subject as I did ; it seemed as if I would have 
 given all I was worth in the world for one friend. 
 
 But heaven at length took pity on my desolate 
 situation, and I was about to be rewarded for all 
 (hat I had suffered; it came in a way, too, in 
 which a man should be blest — in the form of love. 
 
 I was always a regular attendant at divine wor- 
 ship, excepting during the latter part of poor 
 O'Brien's life, being then compelled to walk out 
 with him and talk to him; but after his death I used 
 to go twice every Sunday to church, going to every 
 one that would admit me. Now that I was my 
 • >wn master, and had the means to do it, I hired a 
 seat in a church about three miles out of town, 
 where I could worship God without the fear of 
 having my attention distracted by the restlessness 
 and frivolity of a fashionable city congregation. I 
 gained another object, too; I had a pleasant walk, 
 and the exercise was necessary to my health. 
 
120 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 Directly m front of the pew that I occupied sat 
 two ladies and a gentleman, regular attendants 
 likewise; the elderly lady was very lame, and 
 required assistance both in getting in and out of the 
 carriage, and the gentleman, I thought, seemed 
 rather indifferent about her comfort, for he was not 
 as tender and delicate in his attentions as he should 
 have been. Almost the whole trouble of assisting 
 her fell on the young lady, who, 1 presumed, was 
 her daughter. I had a very great desire to offer 
 my services, but my shyness of strangers prevented 
 me, although every succeeding week I saw that 
 the poor invalid was less and less able to help her- 
 self. Standing very near them one day, I found 
 that it was utterly impossible for the young lady to 
 get her aged relative in the carriage without help, 
 so I stepped hastily forward just as the old lady 
 was falling from the step, and in time to catch her 
 in my arms. 1 lifted her gently in the carriage, 
 seated her comfortably in it, sprung out again, and 
 offered my hand to the young- lady. It was the 
 impulse of a moment. The door closed, and the 
 carriage was soon out of sight. 
 
 But what a tumult and confusion I was in ; what 
 strange feelings overpowered me. There had been 
 magic in the touch of the hand. There had been 
 magic in the glance of her eye, as she turned to 
 thank me. A dreamy softness came over me, and 
 diffused itself through my very soul. I could not 
 imagine why it was that so slight an incident should 
 have affected me so deeply ; but I thought of no- 
 thing, dreamed of nothing, but the touch of that 
 hand and the glance of that beautiful eye. It was 
 in vain that I took up my pen or my book, in the 
 evening; in a few seconds, my hand dropped and 
 my eye rested on vacancy. 
 
 With more than usual care I attended to my 
 dress on the following Sunday, and I was there at 
 
THE SURPRISE. 121 
 
 the church door sooner than necessary, waiting for 
 the carriage. It did not arrive, and I was com- 
 pelled to enter and take my seat, as the clergyman 
 had commenced the service. You may imagine 
 my feelings when I saw the lady sitting quietly in 
 her pew, by the side of the old gentleman: they 
 had walked to church, having left the invalid at 
 home ; and they had passed me while I was gazing 
 up the road for the carriage. When leaving the 
 church I inquired whether the lady had been pre- 
 vented from coming to church from indisposition; 
 and a voice, the sweetest and the gentlest that ever 
 fell on human ear, answered my question. I was 
 so startled, both by my own temerity, in thus ven- 
 turing to address her, and by the uncommon soft- 
 ness of her voice, that I did not hear the import of 
 the words; but the loveliness of the tones remained 
 imprinted on my memory for ever. No music, 
 since, has ever made the like impression. 
 
 Sunday was now a day of exquisite enjoyment; 
 for, added to strong devotional feelings, I was 
 breathing the same atmosphere with a being that 
 I considered as all perfection. She appeared Jo be 
 that for which I had so long sought — a friend, a 
 sister — and I hoped the time was not far distant 
 when I could approach her and again hear that 
 musical voice. In this blissful state the summer 
 passed, unclouded, save that the lady was once ab- 
 sent from church — it was owing to the death of the 
 elderly person who, I discovered, was not her mo- 
 ther, but a distant connexion, who had resided with 
 them for many years; and that the gentleman I 
 siqtposed to be her lather was her uncle. She was 
 an orphan, and her destiny seemed for ever linked 
 with mine, from this circumstance. 
 
 Toward the close of the summer, the young lady 
 sometimes came to church alone; and fearing that, 
 when the cold weather set in, I should lose sight of 
 
 r Q 
 
122 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 her, perhaps for ever, I determined to make one at- 
 tempt to interest her in my favour. I had super- 
 intended the getting up of a beautiful prayer-book, 
 the type, paper, plates and execution were perfect, 
 and I had one copy exquisitely bound. I even ven- 
 tured to write the name of this fair being in the 
 first page, and intended to present it to her; but it 
 was a month before I gained courage to make the 
 attempt. At one time I thought to lay it on the 
 ledge of her pew, in silence; but I could not bear 
 that her devotions should be interrupted by what 
 might be considered as an act of levity on my part, 
 so I forbore. I ventured, at last, to address her on 
 coming out of church ; and to my surprise, I found 
 myself walking forward with her. She always 
 carried her prayer-book, and I asked permission to 
 look at it; she smiled and gave it to me, and I then 
 took the one intended for her from my pocket, and 
 presented it to her, making my bow suddenly, and 
 hastening with the speed of lightning from her sight 
 ■ — I need not say that the little worn out prayer-book 
 is still a treasure to me. 
 
 How she received the book I could not tell, nor 
 had I an opportunity of knowing, on the following 
 Sunday, for it stormed so violently that none but 
 a devoted lover, like myself, would have ventured 
 out. Sl*e was not there, nor did I expect to see 
 her; but I had an exquisite pleasure in being in a 
 spot where I had so frequently been near her. On 
 the Saturday following the lectures commenced ; I 
 was to attend three, Astronomy, Natural Philoso- 
 phy and Chemistry, but fearing that my mind was 
 in too unsettled a slate to attend to them all, I only 
 entered my name for two — Chemistry and Astro- 
 nomy. 
 
 The lecture room was in a narrow street, badly 
 lighted ; and, there being a basement, it became ne- 
 cessary to have a number of steps to the porch. It 
 
THE SURPRISE. 123 
 
 was November, and there had been a little sleet in 
 the afternoon, so that the steps were slippery, and I 
 could not avoid the reflection that it would be ex- 
 ceedingly unsafe for ladies to pass up and down. 
 It being an introductory lecture, the room was 
 crowded, as it always is, and I therefore stood near 
 the door, not caring to disturb any one by making 
 an attempt to look for a seat. A lady and gentle- 
 man sat near to the corner where I stood, and on 
 his getting up, she turned her head. You may judge 
 of my amazement and rapture when I saw it was 
 the lady who was ever present to my mind. 
 
 She smiled, and in a moment I w T as at her side — 
 she spoke, for I could not; I again heard that mu- 
 sical, that charming voice, and the lecturer and the 
 crowd were forgotten. I think she said something 
 pleasing of the book, but my heart beat so violently 
 that I could not tell what it was. She saw my agi- 
 tation, but thought it proceeded from mere bashful- 
 ness, and she therefore talked on, of the lecture and 
 of the crowd. I said yes, no, any thing — but I 
 soon recovered, for of one thing I was now certain 
 — my book was not to be returned; she had spoken 
 graciously of it, and I was the happiest of mortals. 
 My tongue seemed loosened from its long iron bon- 
 dage, and I poured out my thoughts in a strain that 
 now astonishes me. She listened whilst I explained 
 to her the advantages and pleasures of science, 
 particularly that branch of it which now occupied 
 the attention of the audience. I was the lecturer, 
 and the voice of the one now speaking, which was 
 falling on the ears of all in the room, was like a far 
 distant sound — we heard it noL 
 
 The young man who came with her was stand- 
 ing up near us and taking notes; he had come re- 
 gularly provided with a book and pencil, and seem- 
 ed more intent on getting information than on the 
 comfort of his charge. He now and then cast a 
 
124 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 look towards us, and it appeared to me that I had 
 seen him somewhere, but I was too happy to let the 
 subject take hold of my mind. What did I care 
 for him, or all the world, whilst I was drawing in 
 new life at every breath. 
 
 Our conversation was carried on in the lowest 
 whispers, so as not to be overheard ; but we were 
 far removed from the centre, and there were others 
 talking in louder tones near to us; for of the num- 
 ber who came to listen there were but few who had 
 a real desire to learn. As it afterwards proved, 
 the class was very small, there not being more than 
 fifty of the audience now present. 1 was overjoy- 
 ed to hear that the young lady intended to come 
 every night ; that she was to remain at a friend's 
 in town, on purpose to attend the lectures ; and this 
 gentleman was to be her escort. I learned that he 
 was her uncle's grandson, and that he had a pas- 
 sion for study, particularly chemistry- I exerted 
 all my eloquence to prevail on her to attend the 
 astronomical lectures likewise; but she said, much 
 as she desired it, she feared it was out of her power, 
 but that she would write to her uncle for permis- 
 sion. 
 
 The minutes flew, and the audience were 'making 
 a move to retire before I awakened from this bliss- 
 ful trance. The young man came to us at last, and 
 asked the lady how she was pleased with the lec- 
 ture. She smiled, and said, very much, and then 
 the crowd pressed on and separated us. I got out 
 as quickly as possible, to have the pleasure of hand- 
 ing her down the slippery steps; and, as if expect- 
 ing it, her precious hand was read}' as soon as 1 of- 
 fered mine. 
 
 Oh, what visions of happiness floated through my 
 brain that eventful night. Even my dreams were 
 filled with the sweet silvery tones of her voice. It 
 seemed as if angels were hovering round my bed, 
 
THE SURPRISE. 125 
 
 to sooth and tranquilize my troubled spirit; and 
 not one discordant thought or sound mingled with 
 it. Oh, if man would but give up his whole soul 
 to pure love. If he would let it mix up with his 
 worldly occupations. If he would allow it to be for 
 ever present, how exalted would his nature become; 
 how free from all grossness and immoral thoughts 
 and actions. For my part, it had such an effect 
 upon me that my whole nature was changed. I 
 was, to be sure, free from all vicious tendencies ; 
 and I was active in benevolence towards the poor; 
 but my heart was frozen up, and I looked on the 
 world, and those immediately around me, with a 
 cold, averted eye. Now, my full heart seemed 
 bursting to communicate its happiness to others; 
 and I became sensible that it was in my power to 
 impart pleasure although 1 might receive neither 
 thanks nor sympathy in return. 
 
 I was attentive, therefore, to what was passing 
 around me; moving my desk a few feet farther, to 
 give more light to one man, and nailing a cleat be- 
 tween the tall legs of a stool, to give ease to the feet 
 of another. I bought a pot of pomatum, and made 
 one of the young apprentices rub it on his poor 
 cracked and chopped hands, buying him a stout pair 
 of gloves, to protect them from the cold. I helped 
 the book-keeper through an intricate account, beg- 
 ging him not to speak of it to others ; a thing which 
 he did not intend to do, being only too fearful that 
 I might mention it myself. My thawed heart ex- 
 panded to all around me ; and, as it acquired 
 warmth, it diffused its sympathies to every thing 
 within its reach. Oh, holy love, when in thy true 
 shape, how benign is thy influence ! 
 
 The lady's uncle was gracious, and allowed her 
 to attend the astronomical lectures likewise; and I 
 need not say how regular I was in my attendance 
 and devotion; for as the young man was not par- 
 
126 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 ticularly interested in (his study, lie sometimes 
 brought the young lady in the room and left her, 
 calling for her either before or after the lecture was 
 over. This he did not scruple to do, as the lady with 
 whom she lived, at present, always accompanied 
 her to this lecture. I brought her note-books and 
 pencils, and assisted her in taking notes, contriving 
 that she should have the most comfortable seat in 
 the room ; and all these attentions she received in 
 the kindest manner — she received them as a sister 
 would from a brother, and 1 was satisfied. 
 
 Thus the winter wore away, and the month of 
 February had nearly closed, before the lectures 
 Were over. There was still one more evening 
 for each, and then this delightful intercourse was 
 to cease; for 1 could not devise any plan by which 
 I could gain access to the presence of the young 
 lady; more particularly as the young man had been 
 more than usually vigilant and careful of her, and 
 seemed desirous of preventing her from receiving 
 so much of my attention. Her companion, too, 
 scarcely condescended, of late, to notice me ; nil of 
 which I saw was painful to the only being for whom 
 I cared. I went, as usual, to the astronomical lec- 
 ture — it was, as I observed, the last; and she was 
 there also with the same lady, who cast a scorn- 
 ful glance at me as I approached their seat. 
 
 I could not imagine what had produced such a 
 change in this lady's manner towards me, unless 
 she had been told of my humble occupation, and 
 that it had mortified her vanity to recei\e attention 
 from one who might be considered as a journey- 
 man. From the first evening of my meeting the 
 fair creature to whom I had so unresistingly yield- 
 ed up my heart, I made her acquainted with my 
 actual situation, my prospects and my hopes. It 
 seemed necessarily inierwoven in the theme that I 
 was discussing; for I spoke of the difficulties 1 had 
 
 
*HE SURPRlSg. 127 
 
 to encounter, in consequence of which knowledge 
 came to me slowly; contrasting it with the facili- 
 ties which were now in my power. Neither she 
 nor J dreamed that high birth or fortune were at all 
 necessary to an intercourse so simple, so unexact- 
 ing as ours. She redoubled the kindness of her 
 usual manner on seeing that I was a little hurt by 
 her friend's coolness; but she little knew the pain I 
 suffered on hearing that she was not to be at the 
 last chemical lecture — her uncle was in town, and 
 they were to return home on that day. 
 
 It came like a death knell to my heart. What, 
 was she to go and not be informed of the tender 
 and enduring love I bore her! Was I never to see 
 her; to hear that voice again ! Was this to be the 
 last interview ! I could not bear it. I took her note 
 book, tremblingly, from her hand, and wrote as fol- 
 lows — 
 
 " You have pierced my heart with grief. You 
 are to leave the city, and I am to see you no more. 
 My whole soul is absorbed in one feeling; and that 
 is, love for you; and now that you are going from 
 me, existence will be a burden. I ask you not to 
 love me in return ; that seems impossible. I can 
 never hope to create a passion such as I now feel 
 for you ; such as I felt from the moment I first 
 heard your voice. But deign to think of me — no, 
 I cannot give up the thought of calling you mine — 
 at some future day, when fortune has been propi- 
 tious; or should some evil overtake you, remember 
 me. I must hasten from your presence, for I am 
 unfit to remain here; but if, on reading this, you 
 can feel compassion for my hopeless love, let these 
 few lines remain; but if you have no pity to oiler 
 me, tear them out and put them in my hand as you 
 leave the house. I shall be there to receive my 
 doom ; but be merciful." 
 
 After having written this, in great agony of mind, 
 
128 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 I turned to her, and our eyes met. She saw that I 
 was uncommonly agitated, and her concern for me 
 prevented her speaking. I bent close to her ear and 
 said, read this immediately — pointing to the page — 
 and remember that my life depends on what you 
 do. I hurried from her, and walked up and down 
 the narrow street until the lecture was over ; which, 
 to my fevered apprehensions, seemed never to have 
 an end. 
 
 At length the door opened, and I saw one, and an- 
 other, and then groups, descend the steps ; the young 
 lady appearing amongst the last, moving slowly, so 
 as to give me time to see and approach her. When 
 at the bottom of the flight she stopped, for a mo- 
 ment, and as I came near her she said, in a low 
 tone, " Here are the notes, and I have added a few 
 lines to them ; good night." It was well she said 
 this, as the giving me the paper, as I requested, 
 would have plunged me into despair. I need not 
 say that I hastened to my lodgings, that I might 
 read the precious contents; for I could not but 
 augur favourably of them from the manner of her 
 giving the paper to me. Under my own impas- 
 sioned scrawl were these lines. 
 
 "Notwithstanding the fear of giving you pain, I 
 must return the leaf; for I should not like to leave 
 it in the book. My whole manner must be a con- 
 vincing proof that I have a high esteem for your 
 character, and that I feel a strong interest in your 
 welfare; more than this I dare not say. I am en- 
 tirely dependent on my uncle; and it has been his 
 wish, for many years, to see me the wife of his 
 grandson — the person who has always accompa- 
 nied me to the lectures. You need not fear that 
 this event will ever take place, as my disinclination 
 to it has long been known to the young man ; and 
 neither he nor my uncle have any power to com- 
 pel me. In saying thus much I do not wish to en- 
 
THE SURPRISE. 129 
 
 courage you, as my uncle is obstinate and unyield- 
 ing, and would never consent to the addresses of 
 any other man. I hope you may forget me and be 
 as happy as you deserve. I do violence to my feel- 
 ings in bidding you farewell; but prudence and a 
 regard to your interests dictate it." 
 
 Prudence, indeed ! What were the prudential 
 reasons? My inability to support her ? Surely if 
 she loved me, there were means enough to be com- 
 fortable, and I would move mountains to place her 
 in affluence. She has an esteem for me, and she 
 does violence to her feelings in bidding me fare- 
 well. I have hopes, therefore, that, as her heart is 
 disengaged, I may, in time, aspire to her love. 
 
 In thoughts like these I passed the night ; nor did 
 I recover my equanimity for several days; every 
 tiling, every thought, that did not relate to her, was 
 irksome and distasteful, and my labours at the office 
 were conducted mechanically. The commence- 
 ment of the great work was now contemplated. I 
 was told to get ready for it; and, as there was a 
 translation of a very popular French work wanted, 
 Mr. Blague pressed me to undertake it. Perhaps 
 it was well for me that I was thus suddenly com- 
 pelled to exertion, for with this depression of spi- 
 rits I might have sunk into apathy incurable. I 
 likewise owed much to Mr. Blagge's kindness ; and 
 being of a grateful nature, determined not to dis- 
 appoint him. 
 
 To work, therefore, I went, reading proofs and 
 attending to the types during the day, and trans- 
 lating at night. Proceeding in this way for six 
 weeks, not allowing myself any exercise but a short 
 walk, between churches, on Sunday. Mr. Blague 
 was delighted, both with the execution and dili- 
 gence, and he promised to raise my salary the en- 
 suing year, to six hundred dollars. The French 
 translation was likewise commended ; and I felt an 
 
 M 
 
130 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 honest pride in sending all the papers which spoke 
 of the merits of my performances to the only one 
 whose applause I desired. For this translation I 
 received two hundred dollars; so that my little 
 fortune had increased to two thousand dollars. I 
 saw it with a pleasure that cannot be expressed, for 
 J had now an object in view"; and instead, as here- 
 tofore, of spending all my income, I began a rigid 
 system of economy, amounting almost to mean- 
 ness — but thank heaven, my heart was not so ex- 
 clusively selfish as to forget the poor. 
 
 As soon as these two important works were 
 through the press, I went to my accustomed seat 
 in the church, on Sunday; which, as I before men- 
 tioned, was three miles out of town; but my dis- 
 appointment was very great in not seeing the young 
 lady. On inquiry of the sexton, I learned that the 
 family had removed to a country seat, about thirty 
 miles distant ; and that they had given up their 
 pew. He could not tell the name of the place to 
 which they had gone; but he promised to inquire, 
 and let me know on the following Sunday. Jt is 
 impossible to describe my uneasiness at this intelli- 
 gence. I fancied that what was so desirable a 
 blessing to me would be equally coveted by others; 
 and that her uncle and cousin had removed her from 
 the world that their plans might be the more readily 
 executed. I was fearful that her tender nature 
 might be subdued by importunities ; and that she 
 would yield to their wishes, rather than incur their 
 displeasure. I did not flatter myself that her love 
 for me was strong enough to enable her lo brave 
 persecution; and how could she be assured of the 
 strength and continuance of mine? 
 
 Four long weeks passed and I could gain no fur- 
 ther intelligence, than that Mr. Bewcastle, the young 
 lady's uncle, had purchased a farm on the island, 
 three miles from the river and about thirty from the 
 
THE SURPRISE. 131 
 
 city; that he was devoted to the cultivation of it, and 
 was making preparations for building a large house. 
 My worst fears were realized: these improvements 
 were no doubt in the expectation of his niece's mar- 
 riage, and I once more abandoned myself to despair. 
 This state of mind, added to the severe labour I had 
 gone through, had so perceptible an effect on my 
 health that Mr. Blagge became concerned. He 
 entreated me to relax a little in my attention to 
 business, but I persevered until the first of August, 
 when fearing that I should really be unable to con- 
 tinue in the office I determined on making an ex- 
 cursion in the country. 
 
 I need not say in which direction I bent my steps- 
 In fact, my intention was to explore the whole of 
 the neighbourhood until I heard where Mr. Bew- 
 castle lived, and then to take up my residence near 
 him. I was very fortunate indeed, for the man in 
 whose house I rested the first night, knew the fa- 
 mily, and he promised to take me to a friend of his 
 who lived about half a mile from them. It was 
 about ten o'clock the next morning when I reached 
 the house, and as I liked the place and the appear- 
 ance of the people, I was induced to remain with 
 them, paying them a moderate board. I had abed- 
 room and parlour entirely to myself, and their kind- 
 ness soon made me feel myself at home. They saw 
 I was the very sort of lodger they wanted, and they 
 exerted themselves to the utmost to make me com- 
 fortable. When I tell you that the landlord of the 
 little inn was old uncle Porter, now living in the 
 small stone house, and that his sister was our kind 
 aunt Martha, you will think how fortunate I was 
 in becoming an inmate of their house. 
 
 As I did not then know their worth, I was cau- 
 tious in my inquiries about the young lady, and it 
 has amused both Martha and myself to recollect 
 how guarded, and with what apparent unconcern I 
 
132 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 talked and asked questions about the family. I ga- 
 thered that Mr. Bevvcastle was a harsh and obsti- 
 nate man, loving his own ways and his own money 
 better than any thing in the world excepting his 
 grandson, Mr. Anglesea, who could prevail on him 
 to do almost any thing. That it was talked of 
 amongst the neighbours that he wanted to marry 
 his cousin, or rather second cousin, but that she 
 could not bear him. 
 
 I asked if they knew the young lady personally, 
 and they said that she often walked their way and 
 sometimes stopped to speak to Martha, who had 
 when young lived with her parents. That she had 
 called there on her way to church on Sunday last, 
 and they were sorry to see her look so thin and 
 unhappy. 
 
 I had to turn away suddenly from the good peo- 
 ple to hide my emotion, nor did I dare to resume 
 the conversation for some time, lest they might 
 suspect my designs. I had, of^course, no settled 
 plan of proceeding; my first object was to see the 
 young lady and learn the state of her affections; if 
 they were favourable to my hopes I then intended 
 to offer my hand ; my love had been hers from the 
 first, hour I saw her. I projected a number of 
 schemes either to see her, or get a letter conveyed 
 to her, but I became nervously timid when I at- 
 tempted to put any one of them in execution. At 
 that time if I could have been sure of our good 
 Martha, I should have been spared two days of 
 great distress, for she, kind soul, would have assist- 
 ed me immediately. 1 knew of no better plan, at 
 last, than to get her to take a note to Mr. Bewcas- 
 tle's, and contrive to give it to the dear lady unob- 
 served by the family, but my hatred of deception 
 was so great I was exceedingly reluctant to practise 
 this little artifice. 
 
 Towards the close of the second day, which was 
 
THE SURPRISE. 133 
 
 passed in wandering through the fields and along 
 the lanes, I made a desperate effort to speak once 
 more on the subject nearest my heart. Aunt Mar- 
 tha came in the little parlour up stairs, and seated 
 herself near to me looking anxiously in my face, it 
 was a motherly tender look, and I felt the tears 
 starting to my eyes. You are quite indisposed, said 
 she, at length, and I told my brother that I would 
 make so bold as to ask you if you had any trouble 
 that we could relieve, and to say if you are short of 
 money that you can stay here a fortnight or longer, 
 and never mind paying us till you can afford it. 
 
 I was truly grateful for this kindness, and of 
 course showed her my pocket book full of notes. 
 " What then ails you," said she, "for it is something 
 more than ill health. May I guess?" I told her, 
 smiling, that she might guess, and if she came near 
 the truth, and cou.d assist me, I should be eternally 
 grateful. 
 
 " Well, then, I am sure it is connected with Mr. 
 Bewcastle's niece, and if you are the gentleman that 
 I have heard people talk about — are you aprinter ?" 
 
 '• STes," said I, " and I am determined to trust you 
 — my name is Parr; now tell me what you have 
 heard." 
 
 " Why, I have heard that one cause of the young 
 lady's aversion to this Mr. Anglesea, is her love for 
 a young printer by the name of Parr." 
 
 My face was like scarlet; to hear this talked of 
 publicly — to hear that from others which I would 
 give kingdoms to know was truth, rendered me al- 
 most incapable of listening any further. 
 
 '• Well, you need not answer," said the kind- 
 hearted woman, " I was pretty sure last evening, 
 that you were the very one, and now what can I do 
 to serve you. "We both love the young lady, and 
 should be verv sorrv to see her married to a man 
 she dislikes, particularly as she loves another." 
 " m -J 
 
134 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 " Oh, do not say that," said I, " there is no reason 
 to say that, I have not the slightest hope that she 
 has any other sentiment for me than friendship.*' 
 
 "No matter, no matter, you are right," said she, 
 " not to expect too much, but if you give me leave 
 I will just let the young lady know that you are 
 here, and then you can see her yourself; perhaps 
 you had better write a few lines." 
 
 I thought so too, so I went to my room and 
 wrote as follows: — 
 
 " You will not be surprised, dearest lady, to hear 
 that I am once more near to you, nor will I dis- 
 guise the truth, that my intention is to learn from 
 your own lips, whether my honest and faithful 
 love can ever meet with favour. You spoke kindly 
 in your note to me, but I had not the presumption 
 to make any further advances until my circum- 
 stances were so much improved that I could orler 
 you competence. The anxiety of my mind has 
 preyed on my health, and 1 am now 7 determined to 
 know my fate at once, for this suspense paralyzes 
 all the energies of my soul. 
 
 "I learn that you arc unhappy; confide but in 
 me, give yourself up to my devoted tender cares, 
 and my whole life shall be spent in loving and pro- 
 tecting you. Be generous, and give peace to my 
 heart by saying that you will endeavour to return 
 my affection, at present I ask no more. 
 
 " I do not want fortune, indeed I should infinitely 
 prefer that you had not a cent in the world; if you 
 are not ambitious I have enough to render you hap- 
 py ; my income is now nearly eight hundred dollars 
 a year, and I shall soon have it in my power to in- 
 crease it to a thousand. I know that your tastes are 
 simple, and with your right-mindedness and my un- 
 ceasing cares, you will find enough for all that is 
 desirable. Dearest lady, listen to my entreaties, 
 
THE SURPRISE. 135 
 
 and do not drive me to despair by doubts, either of 
 my love or my ability to make you happy." 
 
 Martha Porter took this letter from my trembling 
 hand, and promising to be back by noon, she de- 
 parted, leaving me in a state to which I cannot look 
 back without great pain — the answer was to seal 
 my fate. 
 
 One o'clock, two o'clock came; but Martha Por- 
 ter did not return ; 1 invented a thousand excuses — 
 it might have been difficull to see the young lady 
 alone — she might be ill — married — every thing 
 pressed on my burning brain at once, and when poor 
 Martha made her appearance at last, I rushed up 
 to my room unable to hear the result of her mis- 
 sion. 
 
 A gentle knock at the door, and a gentle voice 
 as 1 opened it brought some comfort — Martha's 
 face too was in smiles, and a letter was in her hand 
 — she saw that I was stupified, as it were, and un- 
 aMe to ask questions, so she quietly laid the letter on 
 the table, and closing the door, went softly down 
 stairs. Martha, dear Martha Porter, have I not 
 been as a son to thee ? 
 
 When the tumult of my feelings subsided I ven- 
 tured to open the precious letter; my eye ran over 
 the lines, but the sense came not, I did not compre- 
 hend a word. I sealed myself and prayed for com- 
 posure, for my reason seemed departing, and as I 
 prayed rny strength returned. 1 am now persuaded 
 that it was a sense of the blissful import of the let- 
 ter that so completely unmanned me, although I 
 would not allow myself to believe it. The blessed 
 letter was as follows: 
 
 " I am convinced of your affection for me, I have 
 known it for a long time, and I am sure that I can 
 trust you. I am indeed very unhappy and with no 
 hope that my uncle will ever cease his persecutions ; 
 
136 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 but for your generous letter I should this day have 
 sent for Martha Porter to confide in her, and to get 
 her to go to the city. Will you love me the less 
 when I say, that it was to see you and to make my 
 situation known to you? But do not suppose that 
 mere personal distress induces me to throw myself 
 on your protection. 1 esteem you highly, and am 
 perfectly willing to share your fortune be it what it 
 may. Perhaps my repugnance to marry Mr. An- 
 glesea would not have been so great — perhaps if I 
 had never known you, I should have found less dif- 
 ficulty in obeying my uncle. You perceive that I 
 trust in you entirely." 
 
 It was not till I had read this dear letter over and 
 over again that I could comprehend the full mea- 
 sure of my felicity; then came a rush of joy, then 
 came an exquisite calm over my troubled heart. My 
 aspiring eye shot a quick glance over days of hap- 
 piness, of thankfulness, of usefulness, till my beloved 
 and I had finished our duties on earth, and were 
 safely and securely and for ever seated among angels 
 in Heaven. 
 
 I was in this tranquil yet exhausted state when 
 the kind Martha again came to the door; she 
 thought by this time that I might be able to hear the 
 particulars of her visit to my angel, and confer 
 with me as to the best mode of proceeding. 
 
 "I found her in tears," said she, "which she has- 
 tily dried when I entered the room, and after wel- 
 coming me, she asked whether any thing particular 
 had brought me to her. I said, yes, something very 
 particular indeed, but that I did not like to tell her 
 all at once. 'Have you a letter?' said she, and oh, 
 Mr. Parr, how the dear young lady coloured. I told 
 her I had, so I gave her your letter and went to the 
 window that she might read it unobserved. She 
 wept a great deal while reading it, and then went 
 
THE SURPRISE. 137 
 
 immediately to the table to answer it ; and when it 
 was finished, and sealed, she called me to her. 
 'Martha,' said she, again blushing up to the tem- 
 ples, 'do you know the persun who wrote this let- 
 ter?' I told her that 1 did. ' Andean you get this 
 conveyed to the gentleman soon V 1 looked at her 
 in surprise ; I found she did not know how near you 
 were to her. 'O yes,' said I, 'he shall get it in less 
 than ten minutes, for my dear young lady, he is at 
 our house.' This threw her in a great flutter and she 
 smiled, I suspect for the first time in a year ; for the 
 neighbours say, and they had it from the servants, 
 that both the old man and the young one have been 
 almost cruel to her, because she would not consent 
 to the marriage. Well, I left her happy enough I 
 dare say, and now what is best to be done; for old 
 Mr. Bewcastle will be on the look-out now, and 
 who knows what he may do next?" 
 
 I was not slow in deciding on what was best to 
 be done; it was now three o'clock, and I despatched 
 Mr. Porter to a clergyman living about six miles 
 from us, requesting his attendance the next morning 
 at eleven o'clock. Martha went to a jeweller's in 
 the village, and brought home several gold rings, 
 going with them to my dear angel, and carrying 
 also a letter, wherein I detailed all our plans. All 
 that a tender love, all that a devoted, honest heart 
 could dictate, was strongly urged, to reconcile her 
 to this precipitous step, and I had the happiness to 
 learn that she gave herself up wholly to my 
 wishes. I arranged every thing as well as the short 
 time would allow, and aunt Martha was not idle; 
 she spent the evening with the dear young lady, 
 packing up and preparing for her departure, ob- 
 serving the utmost caution lest they might be sus- 
 pected. I knew that her uncle had no right to 
 detain her, for she was of age, and of course her 
 own mistress; but we both thought it better to pre- 
 
138 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 vent disagreeable scenes — scenes which might 
 delay our marriage, perhaps prevent it altogether. 
 
 The good clergyman came at the appointed 
 time, and 1 went, as was previously arranged, in a 
 carriage to meet my beloved at the head of the 
 lane leading to the garden. She saw the carriage 
 at a distance from her window, and by the time it 
 stopped she was at the gate. The steps were, 
 down; I hastened to the dear creature, who trem- 
 bled so much that I was compelled to lift her in the 
 carriage ; the door closed, and J pressed her to my 
 heart — that heart which was filled with the purest 
 esteem and affection, an affection which was to 
 endure for ever. 
 
 I entreated her to be composed, assuring her that 
 there was nothing to fear, that in a few moments 
 it would be out of the power of any one to separate 
 us. I thanked her over and over again for thus 
 making me the happiest of men, pouring out my 
 whole soul in words of love and truth. 
 
 In a few moments we stood before the clergy- 
 man; our vows were pronounced, which with our 
 prayers, I trust, were registered in heaven. 
 
 Behold me now, my friends; look at the proud 
 and happy being; see the swelling of his grateful 
 heart. VVas this the poor, despised, forsaken 
 orphan, toiling through a thankless servitude, with- 
 out a kind look or a cheering word; without pity, 
 without a single comfort of any kind — suffering 
 through twelve long years, and with a heart 
 formed to love and be loved in return — could one 
 short year have produced this blessed change? 
 
 My bride! — oh, what a tender name! how 
 sweetly it falls on the ear of the man of tender sen- 
 sibility. It is a word in common use; it is heard 
 daily; thousnnds and tens of thousands repeat it; 
 in itself it is nothing; but to the young husband, 
 when it comes to be his bride, then does the magic 
 
THE SURPRISE. 139 
 
 of the name cast its glorious spell over him — it is 
 then that he feels all its beauty and its loveliness. 
 
 " My bride ! thou art wholly mine, beloved one," 
 said I ; " no evil that I can avert shall ever come 
 near thee. How is it that the few words which we 
 have just uttered have given thee so wholly to my 
 protection? but thou hast trusted to my strong arm 
 and to my still stronger principles and feelings, and 
 may I perish if I ever deceive thee." 
 
 We spent three weeks in a retired spot among 
 the Highlands, each day restoring tranquillity to my 
 dear wife, and showing how infinitely happier I 
 was than my ardent fancy had ever contemplated. 
 We talked over our future prospects, and she drew 
 a scheme and decked it out in such beautiful 
 colours — all, too, within the compass of my abili- 
 ties — that I no longer feared she would repine at 
 the contrast of the humble home I could offer, and 
 that to which she had been accustomed. We had a 
 letter from our good friend, Martha, giving us an 
 account of the consternation they were in at Mr. 
 Bewcastle's when they read the letter which I sent 
 to them on the day of our marriage. They sent 
 for her brother and questioned him angril}', threat- 
 ening to prosecute him for allowing the ceremony 
 to take place in his house; but he was not to be 
 intimidated, as he told Mr Bewcastle, for he knew 
 that the young lady was of age. Martha pro- 
 ceeded to say, that as it was now exceedingly 
 unpleasant for them to remain in their neighbour- 
 hood, they had determined to sell their little effects 
 and go to the west. Her brother was to set out 
 as soon as this was settled, and she was to remain 
 at lodgings until he had selected a suitable place, 
 his object being to purchase a small farm. 
 
 Nothing could have happened to suit our views 
 better, for in all my dear wife's little plans there 
 would arise a little distrust of herself when it came 
 
140 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 to the marketing for our little household, nnd now, 
 at the very moment, came dear aunt Martha to our 
 aid. We wrote immediately, begging her to 
 remain with us as a friend as long as it suited her 
 convenience — nay, to live with us always, if her 
 good brother could do without her. I told her to 
 join us in New York as soon as their effects were 
 sold, and my dear wife added a postscript longer 
 than my whole letter, telling her of our happiness, 
 and of the little plans of our future establishment. 
 She told her to reserve such articles as might be 
 useful to us, such as a bed and bedding, all of which 
 we would pay for as soon as she came to us. 
 
 It was on a beautiful September morning that 
 we arrived in New York. As I had written to the 
 good lady with whom I lodged, she was prepared 
 to receive us, and I had the pleasure of finding 
 that my beloved was satisfied with her apartments. 
 But the moment came when I was to leave her for 
 several hours — it would not do to linger in her dear 
 presence any longer, and she was the first to hint 
 that my duties must be resumed. To a solitary 
 creature, whose existence was wrapped up in this 
 one being, this separation, short as it might be, was 
 most painful; I bade her farewell over and over 
 again without moving, having a most horrible fear 
 that something or some one would spirit her away 
 during my absence. I was compelled at length to 
 leave her, and I had the folly to beg her to lock 
 herself in the chamber until my return. I smile 
 now while I think of it, but O what tenderness 
 steals over me when I look back to that dear one, 
 and recollect how sweetly she soothed my appre- 
 hensions, and how careful she was not to ridicule 
 my weakness. 
 
 I reported myself to Mr. Blagge, who expressed 
 great pleasure at my return, complimenting me on 
 my improved looks. " I told you," said he, " that 
 
THE SURPRISE. 141 
 
 you wanted a little country air; where have you 
 been ?" 
 
 " I have been amongst the Highlands," said I, 
 " and I have brought back health, happiness, and a 
 wife." 
 
 " Ah ! that was the trouble, was it V said he; "I 
 feared it was a love affair, but you are such a shy 
 fellow that one cannot come at what is passing in 
 your mind." 
 
 " Well, my dear sir, you will not find that the 
 case any longer," said I, " I shall now carry my 
 heart in my hand." 
 
 " That is," said Mr. Blagge, " you think you 
 will ; but excepting that your face will be beaming 
 with pleasure as it does now, no one will be the 
 better of what is going on within; I know you 
 very well now; you will be more reserved than 
 ever." 
 
 I laughed at this, for I was in fact at that very 
 moment grudging the time 1 spent in this little 
 friendly talk, for I wanted to be thinking of my 
 wife. 
 
 " Oh, by the way," said Mr. Blagge, " there is a 
 letter for you from your old master, Mr. Bartlett ; 
 it came enclosed to me, and he requested that it 
 might be given to you immediately. Now as you 
 did not let me know where you were going, I 
 could not send it to you. I suspect the good gen- 
 tleman wants your services : but you must not leave 
 me now, Mr. Parr, for I am almost beside myself 
 with business." 
 
 I assured him that I would not; and as to Mr. 
 Bartlett, much as I now desired an increase of in- 
 come I would not live under his chilling influence, 
 different as I was now in circumstances, for half 
 his wealth. I actually shuddered at the thoughts 
 of taking my wife to the scenes of my melancholy 
 servitude. 
 
 n 
 
142 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 It was curious, but the letter could not be found ; 
 high and low, in every coiner, on every shelf, did 
 we look, but in vain; so we were compelled to give 
 up the search. I did not regret it in the least, lor I 
 hud learned from one of the young men belonging 
 to Mr. Bartlett's office that he intended to make me 
 an offer. Mr. Blagge had answered his letter, 
 stating why I did not write myself, and as this 
 thing did not concern me any further I dismissed 
 the subject from my mind, not even thinking it 
 worth mentioning when I returned to my wife. 
 
 Every evening, the moment the sun went down, 
 I returned to that dear, solitary one, and then after 
 taking our supper we would wander about from 
 place to place, caring very little in what direction 
 we strayed. We lived for ourselves, and most 
 deeply and grutefulJy did we enjoy the felicity of 
 being together unnoticed and unknown. We fre- 
 quently passed a small, one-storied brick building ; it 
 was untenanted, and had been shut up for two years, 
 not happening to suit any one. My wife thought, 
 if it were repaired a little, it might answer for a 
 dwelling house, for that a stack of chimneys could 
 soon be run up. On inquiry I found that it had 
 been built for lawyers' offices during the last yel- 
 low fever that had appeared in the city, and that it 
 had since that been only used occasionally for a 
 school-house. 
 
 There were four very small rooms, only ten feet 
 square, with a narrow hall in the centre, and nei- 
 ther cellar nor garret; but the house stood among 
 trees and back from the street, so that this was a 
 charm to counterbalance many inconveniences. I 
 saw the owner of it, and he agreed to put it in 
 repair provided I took it on a lease for four years; 
 this I gladly did; the rent was to be eighty dollars 
 a year, and cheap enough we thought it, as there 
 was a good well of water directly in front of the 
 
THE SURPRISE. 143 
 
 house. Aunt Martha came in the precise moment 
 that she was wanted, and now whilst the house was 
 being repaired there came the pleasant task of 
 going from shop to shop to purchase the tiny fur- 
 niture that was to suit these tiny rooms. The front 
 one of the left hand rooms was to be used as a bed 
 room for aunt Martha, and the one behind it as a 
 kitchen ; of the other two the front was to be the 
 parlour, and the back one our bed room. No one 
 can tell the pleasure I had in hearing and seeing 
 all that was going on — 1 had read of going to coro- 
 nations and to brilliant spectacles, but I hastened 
 home every evening with a far more exquisite plea- 
 sure to hold one end of a breadth of carpeting 
 whilst my dear wife cut it off, or listen to her little 
 rambles with aunt Martha, or looked at the neat 
 candlesticks and the little set of china, all so cheap 
 and yet so very simple and pretty. 
 
 By the first of October the house was finished 
 and the smell of the new paint entirely gone; every 
 thing, therefore, was ready, and I had begged a 
 holiday that I might assist in the grand move. The 
 sun set gloriously as I walked out of the orHce, and 
 it seemed to my joyous spirit that it smiled gra- 
 ciously as I poured forth my grateful feelings in 
 song. Only think of the poor, broken down, 
 neglected apprentice, caroling along the street 
 "home, sweet home," and having a sweet home to 
 go to in the bargain. Fast as I walked and quickly 
 as I reached our lodgings, 1 did not come too soon 
 for my dear wife, for she was expecting me at the 
 door with hat and shawl, all equipped for a walk. 
 
 "What!" said I, "dearest, a walk before tea ? or 
 is it to be a little shopping expedition? here is my 
 arm ; and which way now, my life ? not far, for I 
 think you look fatigued." 
 
 " Why, to tell the truth, Patrick, dear, I am a 
 little tired, for I have worked hard to-day that I 
 
144 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 may enjoy your holiday to-morrow. I am only 
 going to the house ; aunt Martha is there waiting 
 for us. And you can be at home to-morrow, can 
 you? oh, what a day of pleasure it will be! such a 
 day as to-morrow comes but once in a married life, 
 dear husband." 
 
 To me every day was one of happiness, and 
 with her near me, even the bustle of moving was a 
 pleasant thing to anticipate; but in the abstract, 
 apart from the thought of my wife, nothing could 
 be more irksome than the hurry of change. It was 
 not far to our new habitation, and in looking up 
 there stood dear aunt Martha at the door, bending 
 forward to look for us. 
 
 " Walk in, walk in," said she ; " walk in your 
 own house, good folks; come and see if every 
 thing is to your liking, Mr. Parr," and open went 
 all the doors of the four tiny rooms. 
 
 It was, indeed, as my darling said, a sight and a 
 feeling that came but once in the married life — the 
 first moment that the young husband and his bride 
 put their feet on the threshold of their own house. 
 I have changed that humble dwelling for the 
 princely one that I now inhabit, but that same gen- 
 tle touch came no more. My wife had an instinc- 
 tive feeling that I should be annoyed by the moving 
 and lifting and hurry of the scene, and she and 
 Martha agreed to spare me; so there I stood, and 
 it appeared to me that some good fairy had been at 
 work, so neatly and beautifully every thing was 
 arranged. In the middle of the little parlour stood 
 the tea table, and after I had gone through the 
 rooms and praised every thing over and over 
 again, we sat down with grateful hearts to our 
 own frugal meal. 
 
 Every day my spirit rose higher ; and my 
 thoughts grew loftier ; I did not envy the greatest 
 man in existence, so many and so varied were my 
 
THE SURPRISE. 145 
 
 blessings. Mr. Blagge placed the most unlimit- 
 ed confidence in me ; and, as his profits increased 
 through my exertions, he generously allowed me 
 to close my labours on hour earlier every day. 
 This was a great favour; and as the winter set in 
 he moved the printing-office a great deal higher up, 
 so that I had the additional comfort of dining at 
 home. Our kind friend, aunt Martha, would not 
 allow us to hire a servant, and my wife took a 
 share in the household duties, working for me, keep- 
 ing my drawers in order, and arranging every 
 thing in the way she knew I liked. I could not but 
 indulge her in it, seeing that it gave her such plea- 
 sure. 
 
 We made no acquaintances ; we wanted none; 
 there seemed scarcely time enough for ourselves; 
 and why should we be troubled with strangers ? 
 Martha, seeing the innocent life we led, became 
 sincerely attached to us; promising never to leave 
 us; and thus passed the first winter of my married 
 life. We were all happy. My dear wife was as 
 cheerful as a bird ; and, at times, when I was par- 
 ticularly weary — too weary to read, or even to 
 listen to her reading — she would put away her 
 little work-basket, set the candle in the farthest 
 corner, and draw her chair close to mine, charm- 
 ing away my fatigue with her clear soft voice and 
 gentle endearments. She had bright visions of the 
 future ; and they always ended as she knew I wish- 
 ed, in our purchasing the little estate on which I 
 was born. How delightful it is to listen to the little 
 nothings of a sensible woman; one that loves us 
 too. 
 
 This was the way that heaven rewarded me for 
 all that I had endured ; and the reward came to me 
 in such a shape too — a wife! I spoke of the rap- 
 turous feelings of a young husband, at the mention 
 of his bride, but thev are nothing in comparison to 
 n 2 
 
146 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 those he has when she is called his wife — when the 
 quiet evenings of winter bring him for ever near 
 her; when he listens to her innocent conversation, 
 full of love, and care, and thoughtfulness — all for 
 him. I often wondered whether all men loved their 
 wives as I loved mine. There was no way in which 
 I could judge, for I had never been even in the 
 same room with a husband and wife ; but I had 
 read of disagreements, and hatreds, and separa- 
 tions. It had given me great uneasiness before my 
 marriage ; but I always took the side of the wife, 
 wondering why the man wanted to have his own 
 way, in the merest trifles too. As to me, every thing 
 my wife or Martha did, seemed the very best thing 
 to be done; I was sure that their taste and judg- 
 ment were more to be depended upon than mine; 
 particularly as it related to household economy. 
 
 And then, was I not to be envied when, with the 
 dear creature's arm linked in mine, we walked out 
 either for exercise or business ? A man never feels 
 his power and responsibility so strongly as when 
 a lovely woman leans on him for support, and re- 
 lies on his courage and his ability to protect her. 
 What a delightful sensation comes over a man 
 •when he knows that there is one being in the world 
 who trusts to him entirely, and looks up to him as 
 the first and the best — none but a husband can have 
 this feeling — he enjoys it as long as life continues; 
 it is a pleasure of which he never wearies. 
 
 May came, with all its pleasantness and its flow- 
 ers, and our love for one another made every thing 
 appear in the gayest and brightest colours. Nothing 
 could be more inconvenient than our house ; no- 
 thing could be more irksome than my occupation 
 — the dullest of all dull employment, correcting 
 proofs — yet it was for me that my wife overlooked 
 the privations and difficulties she had to encounter 
 from a limited income and a house of such diminu- 
 
 . 
 
THE SURPRISE. 147 
 
 •ove size — and it was for her that I continued to 
 drudge on, monotonously, without a thought of 
 change. My wife was far more prudent and eco- 
 nomical than I was ; that is, in every thing that re- 
 lated to herself. I could not resist the pleasure of 
 buying her all the delicate fruits and early vegeta- 
 bles of the season ; and I had great pleasure in 
 taking all sorts of little pretty table ornaments and 
 delicate perfumes, and prints, and books; in short, 
 I scarcely went home without something in my 
 hand. 
 
 " My dear husband," said she one evening, when 
 I came home with a present as usual, "have you 
 found Aladdin's lamp, that you are so lavish of 
 your money ? You will have to put a rein on your 
 generous nature, for instead of laying up two hun- 
 dred dollars this year, as we intended, there will be 
 nothing left. Come, dearest, and look over this little 
 statement with me, and then say whether Ave should 
 not retrench? The worst of it, to me, dearest, is 
 the knowledge that the two hundred dollars have 
 been expended for my gratification : you have hard- 
 ly allowed yourself any thing; I must put a stop to 
 your dear generous spirit; aunt Martha and I have 
 talked quite seriously about it." 
 
 I promised to be more prudent for the future; 
 and if there ever was any thing trying to my tem- 
 per it was the inability to purchase such little arti- 
 cles of luxury as I thought my wife ought to have. 
 Mr. Blagge, however, true to his promise, raised 
 my salary to a thousand dollars; and with this wel- 
 come news I could not refrain from buying a 
 pretty little set of chess men ; for my wife had a 
 great desire to teach me to play the game ; and so, 
 after telling her of the addition to our income, I 
 gave her the chess men and board. I thought to 
 make it the more welcome by hinting to her that it 
 was for myself. The dear creature smiled and 
 
148 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 shook her head. " Ah, my husband," said she, " you 
 think you have found out a new way of indulging 
 me; but I am not to be taken in. Do you think I 
 don't know that you have no particular fancy for 
 games of any sort; and that the chess men are to 
 give me pleasure? But I shall punish you by sit- 
 ting down to the game this evening in good earnest; 
 you will soon tire of it, however." 
 
 In this way our evenings passed ; part of them 
 in playing at chess, in which I soon became in- 
 terested, as I had such a pleasant teacher; and in 
 part, in studying the German language. We had 
 a German in the office, who taught me the pronun- 
 ciation, and what he taught me in the morning I 
 transferred to my wife in the evening; and it was 
 really wonderful to find how quickly she conquered 
 all the difficulties. But if it was wonderful that she 
 acquired this language in so short a time, I could 
 not but feel surprised that nothing was neglected ; 
 there seemed to be time for every thing; and she 
 was always ready for a walk; always in time, and 
 always neatly dressed. What a happy fellow I was, 
 to have no care of my wardrobe; I, that never 
 knew what it was to have a button to my collar or 
 wristbands. 
 
 I thought that no event, could make her dearer to 
 me than she now was; but there did come the time 
 when I found that, ardently as I loved her, my ten- 
 derness and my cares were still more strongly ex- 
 cited ; but they came coupled with such apprehen- 
 sions that I watched over her with mingled emo- 
 tions of joy and fear. It was now that I saw the 
 necessity of prudence and economy; and I could 
 not but hope that some means might be found by 
 which my salary would be increased; for 1 desired, 
 of all things, to place my dear wife in a more com- 
 fortable house. Mr. Blagge had, I knew, done his 
 very best in allowing me two hundred dollars a 
 
THE SURPRISE. 149 
 
 year more, so I could not expect any thing from 
 him ; but I thought there might be ways to make 
 money independently of the office. Perhaps I might 
 write for the magazines ; or who knows whether 
 I might not write a saleable book. It was in vain 
 that my wife discouraged me. It was in vain that 
 she assured me the want of a cellar was nothing, 
 as the grocer, at the corner, supplied her with every 
 thing from day to day; and that the little cabin 
 rooms were quite large enough ; and that larger 
 ones would but increase her labours. 
 
 I mentioned that Mr. Bartlett had written to me 
 under cover to Mr. Blagge, but as the letter had 
 been mislaid, I knew nothing of the contents. It 
 struck me that he had made me an offer of partner- 
 ship; and what I then shuddered at, seemed not so 
 very bad a thing now that I had such an endearing 
 prospect before me. I mentioned it to my wife, 
 and she was surprised that I had not written to Mr. 
 Bartlett; but I told her, that as Mr. Blagge had 
 said to him, that he would give me the letter as 
 soon as I returned from the country, I thought there 
 was no use in saying any thing further, for I did 
 not intend to avail myself of any offer he might 
 make. 
 
 " O, but, Patrick, my love," said she, "the let- 
 ter might relate to your friends in Scotland ; nay, 
 I dare to say it did, for Mr. Bartlett, cold and heart- 
 less as he is, has some sense of honour and honesty. 
 He never would have made you an offer, however 
 advantageous, whilst you were employed by Mr, 
 Blagge; all that you tell me of him proves this. 
 Do you not think, dearest, that you had better write 
 to him ?" 
 
 This shows how much more acute a woman's 
 intellect is than ours ; I never so much as dreamed 
 of my old uncle Parr in Scotland; and now it al- 
 most amounted to conviction, that the letter related 
 
150 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 to him. I questioned Mr. Blagge respecting the 
 letter, and he said, that as far as his recollection 
 served, it appeared to be a double one, and he was 
 quite surprised to find that I had not written. There 
 was no doubt on his mind that the letter was still 
 amongst the papers, and he proposed another 
 search, particularly as there were two or three 
 boxes that had not been opened since the office was 
 removed, and he advised me to look there. We 
 opened the boxes and assorted the papers; they 
 were principally old manuscripts and the corre- 
 spondence relating to them ; but my letter did not 
 appeal - . Just as we had gone through the last box, 
 one of the clerks lifted up an old black morocco 
 portfolio, which lay at the bottom, and as he slap- 
 ped off the dust a letter flew out and fell near Mr. 
 Blagge. The moment he saw the letter the whole 
 thing flashed across his mind. That one reminded 
 him of mine, and he now recollected that he had 
 put it along with several others in this very letter 
 book. Sure enough, there it was, unsealed, just as 
 it came from the post-man; but as it was quite 
 dark, I hurried home, lest my wife should feel un- 
 easy at my protracted stay: in truth, I met her at 
 the door with her hat on, intending to walk down 
 to the office, with Martha, to see what had detain- 
 ed me. 
 
 Martha brought the candle, and then a little 
 doubt arose as to who should read the letter first; 
 but Martha decided in my wife's favour. " She 
 can bear good or bad news better than you, Mr. 
 Parr," said the good woman, " and if the news is 
 good, why, she will break it to you by degrees, and 
 you will not be set all on a tremble; and if it is 
 bad news, such as the loss of your money in the 
 Savings Bank, or the mortgage" — Heavens, I had 
 never thought of this — " why she will teach you 
 to bear it." My darling, therefore, opened the now 
 
THE SURPRISE. 151 
 
 dreaded letter; but you may judge of her astonish- 
 ment when she read as follows — 
 
 " Sir — Yesterday I received by the packet ship 
 Monongahela, the following letter, enclosed in one 
 directed to me; mine, I presume, was a copy of 
 yours ; by it you perceive that your uncle is dead, 
 and that you are the sole heir to his estate, pro- 
 vided you go to Glasgow and identify yourself be- 
 fore the month of October — next October year. I 
 had intended to write to you on my own account, 
 offering you a third partnership in our concern, but 
 I presume this piece of good fortune will make it 
 unnecessary for you to toil at your profession." 
 
 1 sat watching my wife's countenance, as did 
 our good Martha likewise, and we saw her change 
 colour, first pale and then red ; but she did no* 
 speak until the letter was folded and in her bosom. 
 " Patrick, love," said she, " what month is this V' 
 I told her it was July — the first of July. "Oh my," 
 said she, " then we have no time — it will all be lost 
 — July, August, September; only three months — 
 but come, here is the tea ; let us drink it first, other- 
 wise some people may forget to eat — aunt Martha, 
 I know you wiii not get a wink of sleep to-night; 
 I shall sleep as sound as a top, as I always do — and 
 you, dearest, you will have golden dreams; oh, 
 what a fine house you will build at Camperdown ; 
 and how snugly uncle Porter will be ensconced in 
 the little, neat, comfortable stone house; and dear 
 aunt Martha, what a glorious south room you are 
 to have on the first floor, along with us; and oh, 
 what planning and what perplexities we shall be in 
 for the next two years. Why, Mr. Bartlett has 
 made a most princely offer." 
 
 And thus the dear creature went on, leading me 
 to believe that the good news related to him; but 
 aunt Martha knew better. So, when tea was over, 
 and she was seated on my knee, J heard the whole 
 
152 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 truth. I pressed her to my bosom in an ecstasy, at 
 the thought of placing her in affluence; but too soon 
 came the reflection, that the ocean must be crossed 
 before this desirable event could take place. Sleep, 
 dream, did she say? not I; no sleep nor dreams for 
 me ; but she, the dear creature, with a mind so 
 justly balanced, and thinking nothing an evil that 
 was to save me from anxiety ; she slept like a top, 
 as she said she would. It was aunt Martha that 
 had the dreams all to herself. 
 
 Mr. Blagge expressed both joy and sorrow ; joy 
 at my good fortune, and sorrow at parting with 
 me. He, too, he said, intended to offer me better 
 terms the next year ; perhaps an equal partnership; 
 so that if the event did not equal our expectations 
 I had two means of advancement, and I need not 
 say that my choice would have fallen upon Mr. 
 Blagge. He never, for a moment, thought there 
 could be a doubt on my mind as to the propriety of 
 going to Scotland; and I absolutely hated him for 
 the ease with which he discussed the subject ; just as 
 if there were to be no fears, no struggles. When I 
 went home, there was my dear wife, looking calm, 
 and receiving me cheerfully, but with an inquiring 
 eye; and there sat aunt Martha, ready for a thou- 
 sand questions, and with a thousand observations. 
 
 Long and painfully did the subject occupy me; 
 I said nothing, but my dear wife left off her inter- 
 esting needlework and employed herself in pre- 
 paring for the voyage. As I had not made up my 
 mind whether I would go at all, the point of her 
 going with me had not been discussed, and I sat 
 with a stupid wonder looking at certain dresses 
 which she and Martha were making, and at certain 
 convenient caps that were to suit both the cabin 
 and deck. They talked and they chatted on, and 
 congratulated themselves that the smallness of the 
 ship's cabin, would not be an inconvenience, seeing 
 
THE SURPRISE. 153 
 
 that they had been so long accustomed to our small 
 rooms. 
 
 I still went daily to the office as if nothing had 
 occurred, but my mind was in a terrible state. To 
 go, and leave my wife to the mercy of strangers, 
 and at such an interesting time too, was very pain- 
 ful; to take her with me was to expose her to cer- 
 tain danger, for if there were no storms, no ship- 
 wrecks, yet sea-sickness might prove fatal. When 
 I made up my mind to take her I reproached my- 
 self as being the most selfish of mortals, and when 
 I finally concluded to leave her behind, her death 
 knell rung in my ears. Most sincerely did I wish 
 that the hated letter had never been found. It 
 became at length the subject of discussion, that is, 
 with me. My opinion was asked on several points, 
 and answers were wrung from me; but there 
 seemed one thing certain in my wife's mind, that 
 although I might not decide on her going with me, 
 yet I could not but choose to go. She never ques- 
 tioned it. 
 
 I fell to reading the biography of voyagers to 
 see how the females of their party bore the perils 
 of the sea, and then I made many inquiries as to 
 their perils on shore, even with the tenderness of a 
 husband to sustain them. Recollect, my friends, 
 that this beloved being was my only tie on earth, 
 and that without her, existence would be a burden. 
 I was not going rashly to decide on her fate and 
 mine ; it was therefore but consistent with the love 
 I bore her to weigh well the difficulties on either 
 side. She, too, had thought of every thing, and 
 her mind was made up at once — and that was to 
 go with me. "I have but this to say, dearest 
 husband," said she at the beginning, and her mind 
 underwent no change, " if we are permitted to go 
 safely, we shall be a comfort to one another 
 throughout the voyage and on shore ; but if other- 
 o 
 
151 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 wise — if the sea is to be our grave, then we shall 
 perish together; I could not survive your loss, and 
 you, dearest" — 
 
 I never could let her proceed further; as to live 
 without her seemed a thing impossible. At such 
 times I seemed to yield assent, and began to make 
 preparations; but having read an account of the 
 illness and death of a lady on her passage across 
 the Atlantic, I determined at once, if the going 
 was insisted upon, that 1 would let her remain 
 behind. Then again, if I saw in the papers the 
 death of a young mother, I repented of my former 
 decision; and in this miserable state of mind I was 
 during the whole month of July. August still 
 found me irresolute; but I had only two weeks left 
 to waver, for there would then be but little time 
 left to come within the limits of the bequest. There 
 were but six weeks from that time to the first of 
 October; it therefore became necessary to bring 
 my mind to the painful decision of leaving my wife 
 behind. I wrote to Mr. Porter, entreating him to 
 come immediately, and remain in the house during 
 my absence. I saw an eminent physician, and 
 interested him in such a way that I was sure he 
 would never let a day pass without paying her a 
 visit, whether she were indisposed or not; and I 
 took every precaution, in short, that love and pru- 
 dence could dictate to make her comfortable and 
 happy. 
 
 How she bore with all this nervous, morbid 
 irritability, I cannot tell ; but never by word or 
 look did she betray any impatience ; her sole. object 
 was to sooth me and make light of her own suf- 
 ferings. She promised to take great care of her 
 health, and Martha exhausted words in her desire 
 to set my mind at rest. Mr. Porter declared she 
 should never be out of his thoughts, and Mr. 
 Blagge promised to take his wife and daughter to 
 
THE SURPRISE. 155 
 
 her the day after I should sail. But all this was 
 nothing, absolutely nothing, in my estimation, when 
 I considered how much more than ail this I could 
 do for her were I near her mysejf. 
 
 The time came at last; Mr. Blagge had taken 
 my passage, and my trunk had gone to the ship. 
 I had been to get some necessary papers of the 
 British consul, and was hastening home — that home 
 where I had enjoyed such exquisite happiness — 
 like a fool I was leaving it — for what? — for an un- 
 certain good — and when I returned, if Providence 
 permitted me to return, might I not find that dear 
 and cherished spot desolate ! Whilst I was thus 
 tormenting myself with these fearful fancies, the 
 funeral of a lady passed me ; she had been married 
 at the same time with us, and she had died of 
 inflammation of the lungs. I inquired of a person 
 who was acquainted with her, and I found that she 
 had taken cold from sitting in the draft of two 
 doors, and, he added, the room was very small, so 
 that there was no avoiding the exposure — the very 
 situation in which I had left my dear wife only an 
 hour before ! 
 
 Of course I hastened home with greater speed 
 and opened the door of the little parlour with the 
 dismal feelings that I came too late. But she had 
 removed to the window, and the sash was down. 
 Oh, how I blessed her for this act of prudence. 
 She saw my nervous apprehension and asked what 
 had thus disturbed me, and finding my fears ground- 
 less I was ashamed to tell her the cause. She 
 looked earnestly at me and said, " My dear hus- 
 band, you are wearing yourself out with fears and 
 anxieties; I am well, and with the blessing of 
 Providence I hope so to remain; nay, I am strong 
 enough to encounter the voyage, much more able 
 to bear it than you are with your excited feelings. 
 There are our trunks, Martha's and mine, read v 
 
156 THE 5URPRI5L. 
 
 packed, and we are only hoping and waiting for 
 your assent to go with you ; so, dearest, knowing 
 how unhappy you will be to leave me behind, even 
 let me go. I shall not urge you any further, my 
 love, but think oi'it this evening, and we shall have 
 time in the morning to get ready what little remains 
 to be done. Now throw all care from your mind 
 and let us sit down cheerfully to our supper ; depend 
 upon it we shall be sitting here together this day 
 four months laughing and talking over our present 
 anxieties." 
 
 Laugh, indeed, thought I; there never can 
 come a time when I shall laugh at what I am 
 now feeling so keenly. But I cast all selfishness 
 aside, and determined to go alone as the lesser 
 evil of the two, going over and over again the 
 whole argument, and more fully convinced that 
 although it was most painful to leave her, yet 
 it would be cruel and presumptuous to make 
 her encounter the risks of a sea voyage. I had 
 but little sleep this last night; but my dear wife, 
 after vainly endeavouring to prevail on me to 
 court repose, fell asleep like an infant and slept 
 soundly till morning. She suffered as acutely as I 
 did, but her nervous temperament was of a less 
 irritable cast; her sensibilities were more equally 
 balanced. A knowledge of this always gave me 
 comfort. 
 
 The dreaded morning came ; all was hurry and 
 bustle, and of course but little time for conversa- 
 tion. The trunks still stood in the room ; mine had 
 gone the day before, and I cast a look at them, and 
 then on my wife, who, pale as death, was looking 
 at the carriage that was to convey me to the boat. 
 She saw my look and said, " I may go then, dear 
 husband, you consent then that we shall go ?" But 
 I shut my eyes, as if to shut out the temptation, 
 and shook my head. " Put the trunks out of the 
 room, Mr. Porter," said I, " for I shall be tormented 
 
 
THE SURPRISE. 157 
 
 with the desire to take her with me, and that I 
 ought not to do; I must not waver any more, or I 
 shall be unable to go at all. The trunks were 
 removed, and my dear wife seated herself and 
 sighed. " But why do not you and Martha accom- 
 pany me to the wharf?" said I — " perhaps we shall 
 feel the parting less. There will be no time for any 
 thing there but gelting on board. Do you think, 
 Maitha, that she can bear it?" 
 
 " Oh yes, I dare say she can," said Martha, " and 
 I am sure it will do her good, and we can keep the 
 carriage for an hour or so and take a little ride, for 
 she has sat too much at her needle lately. Brother, 
 do you get another carriage for us, and let them go 
 together; Mr. Parr will feel the better for having 
 her all to himself. We can return with her, you 
 know." 
 
 I was thankful for being a few minutes longer 
 with my beloved, and I hoped that we might 
 remain at the wharf an hour at least, as it was 
 now only nine o'clock. We thought it best to go, 
 however, as the wind was fair, and the captain 
 might be anxious to sail ; so we entered the car- 
 riage, leaving Martha to come with her brother. 
 We drove slowly to the wharf, and there the first 
 person we saw was Mr. Blagge, who had kindly 
 come to see me oft'. My dear wife drew back in 
 the carriage and begged that he might not see her, 
 so I went to him and thanked him for this proof of 
 his friendship, and again entreated him to remem- 
 ber how essential it was to my peace of mind that 
 he should do all in his power to lessen my wife's 
 anxieties — if I could not ask a favour for myself, I 
 would for this dear one. 
 
 Mr. Porter came to us and said that they had 
 
 better return, as the horses were restless and Mrs. 
 
 Parr might get frightened. Mr. Blagge thought so 
 
 too, and blamed me for bringing her down to a 
 
 o2 
 
158 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 scene of so much confusion; so I hastily snatched 
 one kiss, pressed her dear hand as she held it out 
 to me after the door was closed, and she and Mar- 
 tha disappeared from my sight. 
 
 What Mr. Blagge said to me I don't know, but I 
 now and then heard the sounds of new publica- 
 tions, and letters, and manuscripts, but I could only 
 dwell on the grief that my poor wife was now in ; 
 it was too much to expect I could listen to him on 
 such uninteresting subjects; why did he not talk of 
 what he knew was the only feeling of my mind? — 
 and to hold me by the arm too, lest I should get 
 away. The steamboat, however, called ail hands 
 aboard, and passengers with all their friends 
 jumped on board to go to the ship, which lay in the 
 stream. I made a move to go also, but the captain, 
 coming up at the instant, told me he would give me 
 ten minutes longer, as he had to see a man on busi- 
 ness, and that I could go with him in the ship's boat 
 which lay there ready for him. The steamboat 
 left the wharf, and Mr. Blagge talked on; I never 
 knew him so loquacious before, and he kept jerking 
 me around as if the nervousness under which I 
 was labouring had imparted itself to his arm. 
 
 At length the captain returned, and Mr. Blagge, 
 shaking hands with me, promised to look most 
 carefully — and, he added with strong emphasis — 
 most affectionately, after all the concerns I left 
 behind. The oars cut the water, and as soon as 
 we were on board the captain gave orders for sail- 
 ing. The steamboat was just departing, and on 
 turning my eye towards it I saw poor Mr. Porter. 
 I called out to him that I was safely on board, most 
 thankful that he had seen me, for what would have 
 been the agony of my dear wife if he had returned 
 and reported that the vessel had sailed without me. 
 He entered the boat, thought I, with the intention 
 of seeing me safely to the ship ; his consternation 
 
THE SURPRISE. 159 
 
 must have been great when I was not to be found 
 amongst the passengers. He waved his hat, how- 
 ever, on seeing me as I bent over the side of the 
 vessel, and pressing his hand to his heart he pointed 
 towards the shore — it told me that he intended to 
 fulfil his promise of guarding well the sacred trust 
 I had confided to him. 
 
 Through the narrows and out in the broad ocean 
 we soon were; but I stood immovable with my 
 eyes turned to that dear shore where all my hopes 
 were centred. I could not realize it — what! volun- 
 tarily to leave the only creature on earth to whom 
 I was attached? — she, too, who had chosen me 
 when poor and unknown. Could I not be content 
 with the independence that my own honest labour 
 procured, but must I show how much more I va- 
 lued money than the pains to us both of such a 
 bitter separation — a separation that might be for 
 ever! Before the pilot left us I had serious thoughts 
 of returning with him ; but the captain was at my 
 eibow, and assuming a kind of authority; I was 
 forced to see him depart without me. The wind 
 blew fresh, and before night there was a heavy 
 gale ; yet I cared not, my feelings were too strong 
 even for that to subdue. I could not go down to 
 dinner, nor was I disposed to sit with strangers at 
 the supper table; but the captain showed so much 
 good natured solicitude that I yielded and took my 
 seat beside him. 
 
 I do not recollect now how many of the passen- 
 gers were at supper, but they were not all there, 
 for some were already seasick and in their berths. 
 I only remember that opposite to me sat a young 
 lady who looked at me very frequently, and who 
 could scarcely keep from laughing, although the gen- 
 tleman next her reprimanded her once or twice for 
 her ill breeding. I could not imagine what had 
 caused her mirth, unless it were the melancholy 
 
160 THE SUHPRISE. 
 
 expression of my countenance. There was not 
 much time, however, to speculate on any thing, 
 
 for the gale increased and every body on board 
 became anxious and watchful. The captain ad- 
 vised me to go to bed, but I chose rather to remain 
 on deck, hoping that if there were any danger I 
 might be of some use. Just as 1 was leaving the 
 cabin I heard the laughing lady say to her com- 
 panion, " I am glad he is going on deck, for I can 
 hardly stand it." 
 
 I had been so unaccustomed to the society of 
 women, and my dear wife and the gentle Martha, 
 in all my various moods of gaiety and melancholy, 
 had always shown so much tenderness and sym- 
 pathy for me, that the mirth of this young lady 
 excited something like uneasiness in my mind, and 
 I could not help referring to it in the midst of the 
 storm that was raging. Perhaps it was of service 
 to me ; but I could not help thinking how indig- 
 nant my wife would be had she been witness to it; 
 for, as she respected me herself, she could not but 
 suppose that 1 would be entitled to the same 
 respect from others. 
 
 Having never been on the ocean before, the vio- 
 lence of the gale was truly appalling, though the 
 captain assured me there was no danger; it conti- 
 nued unabated for two days and nights, and at every 
 meal, there set the laughing lady. I asked who the 
 young lady was, that seemed so amused when I went 
 to the table. The captain laughed heartily and then 
 begged my pardon. "Indeed, Mr. Parr," said he, 
 "you must cheer up; why man, we want mirth and 
 not melancholy on shipboard. I cannot find out why 
 you look so very unhappy, for Mr. Blagge tells me 
 that you have a lovely wife, and are in expectation 
 of getting a large fortune. Why you did not bring 
 your lady along with you is more than I can tell ; 
 this gale is nothing, the ship is a fast sailer and the 
 
THE SURPRISE. 161 
 
 voyage will be a short and a pleasant one, no doubt, 
 so you might have enjoyed her society in comfort, 
 if it is the leaving her behind that makes you look 
 so miserable. I am sure I do not wonder that the 
 young lady is amused; why I could hardly keep my 
 own countenance at the breakfast table this morn- 
 ing, you looked so disturbed, and cast such suspi- 
 cious glances at the harmless young thing who was 
 looking at you." 
 
 But this did not mend the matter, for I was not 
 to become gay merely because others were amused 
 by the expression of sadness in my countenance. 
 That I had willingly parted from my wife was a 
 reality that could not be forgotten, and I told the 
 captain that to avoid giving the tittering lady any 
 further food for her mirth, I should take my seat on 
 the same side of the table with her. He consented 
 that I should, and the dinner passed off very well, 
 for my opposite neighbour was a decrepid old wo- 
 man whose head was bent low, and who seemed to 
 suffer too much from sickness to care who looked 
 sad or merry. 
 
 The gale abated, and by sundown it had died 
 away to a pleasant breeze; the full moon rose beau- 
 tifully out of the ocean, and my whole soul was 
 filled with wonder and admiration. If my wife had 
 been at my side, what a happiness to enjoy it with 
 her ; I sighed heavily, and the good natured captain 
 broke in upon my meditations. " I am more and 
 more sorry Mr. Parr," said he, " that you did not 
 bring your wife with you; if I had only known how 
 hard you were going to take it, I should have 
 brought her along by main force. You will destroy 
 yourself if you continue thus to grieve, and yet I 
 cannot blame you much neither, for I had pretty 
 nearly the same kind of feelings when I left my 
 wife for the first time. It was different with me, 
 however, I was only mate then, and had not the 
 
162 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 power to bring her with me, but I warrant you I 
 did so as soon as I became captain." 
 
 " Why, is your wife on board now," said I, fright- 
 ened out of my senses lest the laughing lady might 
 be her. " J have not seen her, have I." 
 
 "No, she is quite indisposed," said he; "in fact 
 she goes this voyage to see whether it may not cure 
 her eyes; she has to wear goggles all the time as 
 the light is so painful; if it were not for that she 
 would be a very pretty woman; one of these even- 
 ings I will get her to take them off, and you must 
 come down and see her. Do you play at chess? 
 You do hey; well, I am glad of it, for she plays a 
 good game, and it will keep you both to while away 
 the time, particularly since my wife's eyes won't 
 allow her to sew. She has beautiful hair, too, 
 though I say it," continued the warm-hearted cap- 
 tain, and I liked him all the better for talking so 
 tenderly of his wife. "That old lady that sits oppo- 
 site to you now, almost bent double, as you see, is 
 a friend of my wife's, and we are taking her on a 
 visit. Poor old thing she is so near-sighted, that 
 every thing must go close to her eyes, or her eyes 
 be sent close to the object, otherwise she could not 
 see to cut her food even. Excuse me, Mr. Parr, is 
 your wife handsome?' 
 
 "I think she is," said I, "to me she appears 
 beautiful, and I wish she was here to enjoy this de- 
 licious evening with me." 
 
 " Why yes, as I said, it would be better to have 
 her here. My wife has a few freckles on her face 
 — is your wife freckled?" 
 
 "Freckled!" said I indignantly, "no, \\ hy do 
 you ask that question ; she has a remarkablv clear 
 skin." 
 
 "Oh, T meant no offence; what colour are her 
 eyes? my wife has blue eyes; people say they are 
 handsome, and I think so too." 
 
THE SURPRISE. 163 
 
 Would any one believe me when I say, that to 
 this moment, I could not tell the colour of her eyes. 
 To me they always beamed with intelligence and 
 love; and as to whether they were blue or grey, I 
 never thought. But the persevering captain think- 
 ing that it gave me great pleasure in talking of her, 
 went on in this way to question me about her dear 
 face until I got as miserable as possible. " Well, 
 well," said he, moving off, "you can't bear more to- 
 night, so I'll go below and talk to the ladies a little, 
 and tell my wife the good news that you can play 
 chess." 
 
 Good news, indeed, to sit opposite to his goggle- 
 eyed wife, and play at chess, when she that taught 
 me was sitting solitary at home. I thought I should 
 go mad, if I did not try and invent some excuse; for 
 the idea was intolerable, and yet I pitied the poor 
 woman too. 
 
 The next morning the captain's wife w r as at ta- 
 ble ; she had taken her seat before I went down, so 
 that I could not see her distinctly, although she was 
 on the opposite side. She wore green spectacles 
 and plenty of curls, which were certainly of a beau- 
 tiful colour ; but the cap she wore hid the back hair 
 entirely; so I thought, after all, it was only a little 
 brag of the captain, for these curls might be arti- 
 ficial. As to the freckles, there they were, sure 
 enough ; ugly little yellow things. She did well, I 
 thought, to let the curls cover her face as much as 
 possible, for these freckles were well worth hiding. 
 And then, such great clumsy hands too ; and to 
 make them look still larger by wearing gloves. I 
 was at last quite ashamed of myself, for I really 
 felt spiteful towards this poor lady; more particu- 
 larly as the tittering one opposite to her was now 
 fairly laughing out ; and all the rest, but the cap- 
 tain's wife and the poor old lady opposite to me, 
 
164 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 laughed along with her. I looked at the captain, 
 and he sat with his handkerchief to his face. 
 
 I made a short meal of it; and I determined if 
 this foolery was continued at dinner, that I would 
 eat in the steerage, any where, rather than encoun- 
 ter such incivilities ; for I, somehow or other, asso- 
 ciated it all with myself; but to my great relief, 
 neither the captain's wife nor the young lady were 
 at table, so that I ate my dinner without annoyance. 
 But there was no getting rid of the captain's de- 
 sire to amuse his poor wife with a game of chess. 
 He set aside every excuse; and at length, fairly 
 told me that he saw through my artifice; but that 
 he knew better than I did, how to make the voyage 
 endurable ; and that the sooner I broke through my 
 reserve and shyness the belter able I should be to 
 bear up against the separation with my wife. 
 
 There were but three gentlemen passengers, so 
 that, in all, there were, besides myself and the cap- 
 tain's wife, only the laughing lady and the one who 
 sat opposite to me. There were, to be sure, a num- 
 ber in the steerage; but I had not taken any notice 
 of them, nor, in fact, had I exchanged a word with 
 the gentlemen in the cabin. I was, therefore, very 
 much surprised when they all three left the table 
 and went with me on deck, talking with me as fa- 
 miliarly as if I had been the most communicative 
 person in the world. They were in high glee, and 
 said a number of pleasant things, all of which I 
 might have enjoyed at any other moment ; but the 
 chess and the captain's wife crowded out all social 
 feelings; and when the captain came for me, and 
 said the chess board was arranged, and his wife 
 waiting, I went down provoked enough. — Only to 
 think of being placed in such a dilemma — to sit 
 with the captain's wife, dawdling over the chess 
 men, with a mind so far away. My only hope 
 
THE SURPRISE. 165 
 
 was, that she would beat me so easily that she 
 would not ask me to play with her again. 
 
 When I got in the cabin, the first person I saw 
 was the old lady, who was pulling and jerking at 
 her black hood, and laughing heartily. Surely, 
 thought I, that laugh is familiar to me ; but she 
 could not untie the string of her hood, so I offere,d 
 to help her. Thereat she laughed louder and push- 
 ed me away. I then turned to the captain's wife, 
 and she seemed beside herself too. I never heard 
 of such a cracked set of people in my life ; they 
 all seemed bursting with fun. She threw, first one, 
 and then the other, ugly glove, across the floor; and 
 then away went the spectacles, away went the 
 cap, and away went the curls, and I stood amazed 
 and wondering what was coming next, when a voice 
 that sprung fresh and warm to my heart, said, 
 " Patrick, my dear Patrick, do you know me now?"' 
 I ha*d no words; not a syllable could my overjoyed 
 heart allow me to utter, as my dear wife lay in my 
 fond arms. 
 
 And there she was, and Martha too. The captain 
 and his wife, who was the laughing lady, all were 
 in the plot ; and I was for a long time in such agi- 
 tated bliss that I did not want to hear how it had 
 all happened; but it was a surprise — a most joyful 
 surprise. 
 
 " And so, Patrick, dearest," said she, " you never 
 knew I had freckles, just look at them." "No, no," 
 said I, kissing the dear cheek that she held towards 
 me, "nor do I see them now ; nor could I tell the 
 colour of these eyes ; all I was ever sensible to is 
 their tender expression. And here is dear Martha 
 too ; how completely were you both disguised. By 
 and by you must tell me all about it; but now I 
 only want to feel the bliss of being near to you, 
 and to know that this is all reality." 
 
 In half an hour some one tapped at the door, and 
 p 
 
166 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 in came my late tormentor, and in came the cap- 
 tain ; and now they laughed heartily ; and I smiled 
 in return, for my heart was too full to break out in 
 loud mirth. It seems it was as much as they could 
 all do to restrain the lively lady, fearing that the 
 plot would be discovered before the time. My wife 
 intended to show herself as soon as the pilot left 
 us; but she was so very sea-sick that she thought 
 I could better bear the pain of thinking her away 
 from me than witness suffering which I could not 
 relieve. The gale came on, and her sickness con- 
 tinued, and she thought it most prudent to wait till 
 it was over. Her plan was to write me a note, and 
 prepare me for it, but the captain and his wife, as 
 well as the gentlemen, begged her to allow of this 
 little artifice, which, as they had taken such an in- 
 terest in her affairs, she thought it right to indulge 
 them in. Finding me so averse to her going, and 
 knowing that I should so bitterly regret it, she and 
 Martha went in a carriage, one day, and interested 
 Mr. Blagge in her scheme. The captain and his 
 wife were delighted; and whilst he detained me by 
 a sham business, on shore, Mr. Porter saw her and 
 Martha safely on board. She had left the trunks 
 till the last, hoping that I might relent, and thus 
 prevent any necessity of a plot; but as I would not 
 consent, Mr. Porter, who had another carriage in 
 waiting, took them down to the wharf. 
 
 What more is to be said ? Our voyage was de- 
 lightful. I had no difficulty, whatever, in identify- 
 ing myself; and I returned in possession of a large 
 estate, which I trust I shall spend with grateful feel- 
 ings. Dr. Bently and his amiable niece, Miss Sid- 
 ney, now Mrs. North, were our fellow-passengers 
 on returning. They little knew what an interest I 
 had in the village of Camperdown, when they so 
 earnestly pressed me to settle in thier neighbourhood. 
 My beloved wife was not at all the worse for the 
 
THE SURPRISE. 167 
 
 three months' excursion ; and two months after our 
 return, we were made still happier, if possible, by 
 the birth of a son. My wife, always mindful of 
 my feelings, has called him Cyrus, after my poor 
 father ; and we are, I trust, bringing him up in the 
 love of his Maker, and in the fear of breaking his 
 commandments. Aunt Martha, as you know, lives 
 with us, and Mr. Porter resides altogether in the 
 stone house, where I was born; we could not do 
 without him. Now that you all know my dear wife, 
 you can easily imagine that my love for her can 
 never diminish ; and that, to be separated from her, 
 would be the greatest of evils. 
 
 You have asked me to write a memoir of my 
 life ; but, after all, what is it? It is only a descrip- 
 tion of my heart and its feelings ; of my early sor- 
 rows, and of my deep, deep love for one, whom I 
 still continue to think is far too good — too far above 
 me. Of her unworthy uncle I will not speak ; she 
 was his sister's only child, and he could neither ap- 
 preciate nor love her. All my felicity has arisen 
 from his blindness, and I therefore forgive him. 
 But if there has been nothing remarkable in this 
 memoir, if the events are such as we meet with 
 frequently, surely there is some novelty in the Sur- 
 prise. 
 
THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 
 
 " Jemmy, come here — come quick, will ye," said 
 a poor, dirty, good-natured looking fellow, to a 
 man as ragged and poor as himself — " step faster, 
 will ye, and help me to raise this wagon." 
 
 They lifted up the overturned light carriage and 
 dragged out of the mud — first, atrunk and carpet 
 bag, then a gun case, and lastly the owner of all 
 this, a middle aged man, apparently, who had been 
 stunned by the rail, although in so soft a spot. 
 
 He recovered his senses, however, as soon as the 
 men raised him from the ground, and the next thing 
 was to know what to do with him. One of the men, 
 Jemmy Brady, scratched his head and said, " If I 
 had ever a room but the one in which the wife and 
 childer are, I would take the gentleman there any 
 how, but the noise would be too great for him I'm 
 thinking." 
 
 " Och! but he'll never mind the childer, God bless 
 them," said the other. " I dare say his honour has 
 plenty of them — the likes of these jontlemen are 
 always fond of young childer." 
 
 " You are very much mistaken, my friend," said 
 the stranger, " I do not like children. Is there no 
 
THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 169 
 
 cabin or hut about here where I could rest for an 
 hour or two, and change my clothes? I see that 
 the wheel is off the carriage, so I cannot proceed to 
 the tavern." 
 
 "Yes, sure," said Larry, "plenty of them, bar- 
 ring Jemmy Brady's and mine. Jemmy has seven 
 childer and I have five, — too much noise for your 
 honour, I'm thinking, and the mud is almost as thick 
 on the floor of my shanty as it is here, your honour 
 — but if you'll step a bit this way, I'll take you to 
 Sally M'Curdy's." 
 
 The gentleman asked if this Sally M'Curdy had 
 any children. Larry said that she had not — that 
 she was a lone woman. " She's left with one grand- 
 daughter," said he, " Norah — you'll maybe have 
 heard of little Norie,yer honour, for she is very smart 
 at her latters,and can read and write too, and she's 
 very quiet and very mindful of her grandmother." 
 
 Both Jemmy and Larry had the instinctive feel- 
 ing, that this widow's shanty bade fairer for com- 
 fort than any other in the range, and they were 
 hastening forward to show the way and to prepare 
 her for the guest, when he discovered that he had 
 sprained his ancle, and could not move. 
 
 " What now is to be done," said he, impatiently, 
 "I cannot lift my foot from the ground, and the 
 pain is becoming intolerable." 
 
 " Och, hub-bub-boo," said Larry, " what is better 
 to be done than to carry your honour on our hands, 
 crossed this fashion. I've carried a bigger man 
 nor you in this way, in play even." So he called 
 lazy Jemmy to him," who scratched his head and 
 sighed, to think of the heavy weight they were to 
 carry. He crossed hands with Larry, the stranger 
 seated himself, and in this awkward, singular vyay, 
 with much vexation of spirit, he was taken to Sally 
 M'Curdy's shanty. 
 
 " Here is a good ould gentleman what's lame," 
 r 2 
 
170 THE SEVEN SHANT-E5. 
 
 said Larry, as they lifted him up a few steps into 
 the neat little room — " he's broke his foot any how, 
 Mistress M'Curdy, and shall I run for a doctor, 
 your honour, to set the leg?" 
 
 " My leg is not broken, my honest friend. If this 
 good lady gives me leave to rest here all night, all 
 that I shall require is, to have the boot cut off and 
 my ancle bathed — it is only a sprain." 
 
 " And is it I that will cut that good boot, your ho- 
 , nour, I that am a shoemaker by trade, if the white 
 boys at home would have let me earn a penny at it. 
 Sure I know where the stitches are, and can't I cut 
 the thread ?" So down Larry knelt, and with speed 
 and skill, giving the stranger as little pain as pos- 
 sible, he cut through the seam, and took the boot 
 from the swelled foot. Meantime Mrs. M'Curdy 
 was not idle, she called her little grand-daughter, 
 and immediately began to prepare supper, as the 
 gentle clatter of cups in the next room indicated. 
 
 The stranger, whose name was Price, begged 
 Jemmy to take his horse and dearborn to the next 
 inn, and tell the landlord of his accident, and to say 
 where he was to be found. He knew there was 
 nothing better to be done than to put his foot in a 
 tub of warm, salt water, and to remain as quiet as 
 possible. Larry, whose good nature was a strong 
 recommendation, promised to assist him in undress- 
 ing, so that in half an hour after changing his 
 clothes and keeping his foot in the tepid water, he 
 felt so much easier that he was glad to hear that tea 
 was ready. He was very willing to have the little 
 tea table drawn close to his chair, and partake of the 
 nice supper which his kind hostess had prepared for 
 him. 
 
 "Don't wait — don't stand up, my good lady," 
 said he, " have you no young person to assist you ; 
 pray sit down and pour out tea for me." 
 
 Mrs. M'Curdy quietly seated herself and made 
 
THE SEVEiV SHANTIES. 171 
 
 ten, while Larry answered the question about the 
 young person, by pulling in the little shv Norah. 
 
 "Oh, Norah, dear," 'said Mrs. M'Curdy, "you 
 should not be coming in, child, and the gentleman in 
 such pain — may be children trouble you, sir." 
 
 " I am not over fond of children, that's certain," 
 said Mr. Price, " but I should not imagine this nice 
 little girl, who seems so unwilling to intrude, could 
 be noisy or troublesome. Let her go, Larry — I 
 believe that's your name — let her hand go." 
 
 Oil* darted the little girl, much to Mr. Price's 
 gratification; and much to Larry's joy. After get- 
 ting the gentleman snugly to bed, he received a 
 dollar for his evening's services, with a request to 
 call in the morning and assist him to rise. 
 
 But the morning found Mr. Price, although able 
 to rise, in so much pain that there was no hope of 
 proceeding on his journey ; he, therefore, after se- 
 curing Larry's services during those intervals al- 
 lotted to the labourers at the forge, quietly settled 
 it in his mind that here he must remain until the 
 ankle recovered its strength. Mrs. M'Curdy was 
 gentle, neat and attentive ; anticipating his wants, 
 and only wishing that more was to be done. But 
 Mr. Price was neither troublesome nor ungracious, 
 and before the dinner hour approached she won- 
 dered how so good-natured a gentleman could dis- 
 like children. 
 
 " To be sure," said she, finishing her thoughts 
 aloud, " Larry's little ones are very noisy, and not 
 over clean, and poor Jemmy's are still worse than 
 noisy; for they are rude and mischievous. But 
 Norah is not like other children, sir, and she knows 
 a world of stories, your honour, if it is stories out 
 of books would amuse you. Sure will you try and 
 coax the little creature in to sit by you a bit, till I 
 come back from the grocer; and if she tires you, 
 just let her go when Larry comes in." 
 
172 THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 
 
 " Well, send her in," said Mr. Price, " and let 
 me hear her little stories. I will promise to get rid 
 of her when she becomes troublesome." 
 
 " Then your honour will want to keep her for 
 ever at your side, for Norah is never troublesome. 
 She is an orphan, your honour, and that, as your 
 honour knows, is a child without father or mother; 
 although in Philadelphia they have found out, it is 
 said, that an orphan means a child with one parent. 
 But little Norah's mother died broken-hearted be- 
 cause her husband left her and married another 
 woman. She had too much feeling for her little 
 girl to prosecute him; so she bore it all and died. 
 Since that time her husband is dead; but I keep it 
 all to myself, not letting his hard-hearted family 
 know of little Norah. Indeed, I have kept pur- 
 posely from knowing where they now are; for out 
 of pride, like, they would take her away from me, 
 and put her to some grand boarding-school; for, 
 from what I could learn from him, they are rich." 
 
 The grandmother brought in the blushing little 
 girl, almost by force, to the gentleman's arm-chair; 
 but on his stroking her hair, and speaking tenderly, 
 she, by degrees, began to look up and cast side 
 glances at him; and, finally, on his asking her to 
 hand him a glass of water, she shook back her 
 curly locks, and, with the movement, threw off part 
 of her fright. 
 
 "Well, you are no longer afraid of me, Norah; 
 you have a little chair there, I see; bring it here, 
 and sit by me till your grandmother comes back. 
 How old are you ?" 
 
 "I am nine years old; but I can remember my 
 mother quite well, for I was five years old when 
 she died. 1 have not cried about her for a great 
 while, but I feel as if I could cry now." 
 
 "No, don't cry, Norah, don't," said Mr. Price, as 
 the poor little creature burst into a passionate flood 
 
THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 173 
 
 of tears — "don't cry, my dear;" and lifting the child 
 up, he drew her to him, while she sobbed on his 
 bosom. " What makes you cry now?" 
 
 " Why, Jemmy Brady came in the room last 
 evening, when grandmother was getting your sup- 
 per ready, and he said something to me which 
 made me think of my mother, and I have been all 
 the morning thinking of her, and of all that she 
 said and did." 
 
 " Well, what did this Jemmy Brady say to you 
 that has troubled you so much?" But Norah would 
 not tell. She said it was no matter now, she should 
 not cry again ; for she was sure he was good-na- 
 tured. 
 
 It was a new thing for Mr. Price to be soothing 
 a crying child — he kept referring to it himself — but 
 Norah advanced in his good graces, and by the 
 time Mrs. M'Curdy returned, he was laughingaloud 
 at some of her childish remarks. Norah too, was 
 very much pleased with Mr. Price; her bright blue 
 eye seemed to watch every motion of his, and at 
 length he really felt aw T ant, a restlessness whenever 
 the child was called out of the room. 
 
 A week still found Mr. Price sitting in the widow 
 M'Curdy's arm chair, and little Norah at his side. 
 A sprained ankle, every one knows, requires time 
 and quiet and an outstretched limb, but above all, 
 a tranquil mind. He had time, for he was rich; and 
 where on earth, thought he, could I be so quiet as in 
 this neat little room. Friction was now necessary, 
 and who could rub his leg so tenderly as the dear 
 little girl; then her prattle was delightful. He had 
 never been much among children; he once had a 
 son, but an indulgent mother ruined him. His 
 child from boy to manhood had been a constant 
 source of disquiet and misery to him, and he had 
 three years before this period, followed him to the 
 grave. He thought that no child could ever again 
 
174 THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 
 
 interest him, in fact he had steeled his heart against 
 children, and but for this accident, and the good 
 chance of meeting with Mrs. M'Curdy, the warm 
 and pleasant feelings which the innocence and beau- 
 ty of childhood always create, had been unknown to 
 him for ever. 
 
 Nothing could be cleaner and neater than the old 
 lady; all her ways were tidy. She never ran her 
 forefinger in a tumbler or tea cup, nor washed the 
 tea things in a wash basin, nor dried them on the 
 same towel with which the hands were dried, as 
 many of the poor do. All this Mr. Price saw, and 
 what made his room particularly comfortable was, 
 that there were shutters to his window. His room 
 was facing the road, which Mrs. M'Curdy very 
 much regretted, as the children of the other shanties 
 were forever in view of the house, keeping up an 
 eternal squalling and noise of some kind or other, 
 frequently amounting to screams and yells. When 
 things arrived at this height, the mothers of the dif- 
 ferent children would rush out, and by dint of pull- 
 ing, tugging, beating and scolding, succeed in drag- 
 ging the delinquent away from "the sick gentleman." 
 
 " Can't ye be after seeing that your noise disturbs 
 the lame gentleman, ye sinners you," said Mrs. 
 Brady one fine spring morning, as she was separat- 
 ing her two eldest boys from a fighting frolic — 
 " come away, will ye, and get me the chips, or ye'll 
 no get your breakfast, let alone your father's and 
 the baby's." 
 
 One eye was directed to Mr. Price's window, while 
 this was screamed out by the woman, a poor, dirty, 
 broken down looking creature; who, although not 
 more than five and thirty, looked at least fifty. She 
 had never had the "luck" to see Mr. Price, a thing she 
 ardently longed for, as every one else at some odd 
 time or other, had taken a peep at him. Larry was 
 loud in his praise, and lazy Jemmy, as he was call- 
 
THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 175 
 
 ed by one and all of the women, and by his own wife 
 too, had also testified to the liberality of the lame 
 gentleman. 
 
 " Why are not these children made to work," said 
 he to Mrs. M'Curdy, as he turned from the window 
 in disgust. " Those two boys could be employed in 
 the factories, I should think; they must be at least 
 eight and ten years of age." 
 
 " Yes, they are old enough to work," said Mrs. 
 M'Curdy, but it is only in the paper-mills that such 
 young children are wanted; and those who have 
 even worked in a paper-mill know that nothing tires 
 such young children so much as picking and pulling 
 about old rags. If they could be employed at some 
 other thing half the day, I think both the employer 
 and the children could be greatly benefited by it." 
 
 "Well, why can they not? Why can't they be 
 made to work in a garden all the morning, and 
 at some quiet work in the afternoon 1 Here you 
 have a population of several thousand persons, 
 and according to your own account throughout the 
 summer you have no fruit nor vegetables, scarcely 
 a potatoe. You live then on bread and meat. Are 
 not those men who have an eye to the interests of 
 the community aware, that a diet of this kind creates 
 thirst, and they must know that a thirsty man will 
 not always drink water. How do you get along 
 with such a poor diet as bread and meat '!" 
 
 " Oh, it is far different with us ; when your honor 
 is able to leave the room I will show you my little 
 garden, our little garden I should say; for here is 
 Norah, who is sitting on your lap, so helpless like 
 just now, she assists me greatly in the garden. She 
 fetches and carries, helps sow the seeds, and more 
 than helps weed ; indeed last summer I had so much 
 sowing to do that there was but little time to weed. 
 And the dear child picked every bean and pea her- 
 self, and from a very little patch she got as much as 
 
176 THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 
 
 a quart of strawberries every day ; and did I not get 
 eighteen pence for every quart, without stirring 
 away from the door to sell them ? And how much, 
 dear, did you get from your little row of raspber- 
 ries ?" Norah said it was thirteen shillings. " Well, 
 we made clear money, besides helping ourselves to 
 as much as we wanted for our own eating, just four- 
 teen dollars; it paid our rent and two dollars over; 
 so it was no more than right that Norah, the little 
 dear, should get the two dollars to herself; the very 
 frock and shoes she has on, can show it." 
 
 Mr. Price kissed the little girl, whose sparkling 
 eye showed how deeply she was interested in her 
 grandmother's story — he asked if all the shanties 
 had gardens attached to them, and whether the 
 children assisted their parents in working them. 
 
 "Oh, no, poor things," said the old lady, "they 
 would work, even lazy Jemmy's children would work 
 if they were encouraged. But see how it is, your ho- 
 nour. When I came here nine years ago, Norah was 
 just two months' old — this shanty was knocked up 
 quickly for me; and it had never a floor even till the 
 winter came. There were then no other shanties near, 
 and as I had paid for the building of the house and for 
 the fence around the garden, I by degrees, got very 
 comfortable. Before I built the chimney, sashed 
 the window, and made the floor, it was bad enough ; 
 but I had not enough money at the time, and it was 
 only by working early and late, and my poor dear 
 daughter helped too, that I got all these things done, 
 and proud enough I was to show people how much 
 a lone woman could do. There's many a woman 
 here, your honour, in these shanties, that could do 
 very well if their husbands would let them, but a 
 poor woman has no chance at all. Here is Biddy 
 Brady, my next neighbour, she has seven chil- 
 dren, from ten years down to that little wee thing 
 yonder, that has just now been taken out for the 
 
THE SEVEN - SHAXTIES. 177 
 
 first time — there it is, Norah dear, and she's called 
 it Norah after my grandchild, sir, because Norah 
 has been kind like in her ways to poor Biddy, who 
 is to be sure, a little bit of a scold, and always in a 
 hubbub of some kind or other. My landlord leased 
 me this piece of ground for ten years; but well he 
 may, for I have made this house quite comfortable, 
 you see. There are three rooms, small enough to 
 be sure, but if I have to leave it, and oh, how loath I 
 shall be to go from it, he will get thirty-six dollars 
 for it instead of twelve — only think of that. He is 
 a good man, and I dare say when I ask him to re- 
 new my lease, for the sake of the good I have done 
 to his property, he will rent the place to me for 
 thirty dollars." 
 
 " Well, well," said Mr. Price, who had been 
 musing during this long speech, "don't think about 
 your rent for the next year, or the year after, — 
 don't cry, Norah, your grandmother shall have no 
 rent to pay for five years, if you will always be as 
 good a girl as you are now. Who taught you to 
 read, Norah ? — come kiss me, my child, and don't 
 sob so; you are on my lap, and your crying jars my 
 lame foot." 
 
 "Oh, grandmother," said the little girl, "tell the 
 gentleman why we don't want to go away from this 
 pleasant house," — and she pointed to a small enclo- 
 sure on a rising hill a little way from the road. 
 
 " It is a burial ground, your honour," said Mrs. 
 M'Curdy in a low subdued tone, "and under that 
 old hemlock tree poor Norah's mother lies buried." 
 
 Mr. Price, whose sympathies had been long pent 
 up; in fact, who had been soured towards all the 
 world ; for his disappointment both in his marriage 
 and in his only child, had been severely felt; now 
 suffered himself to be deeply interested in the fate 
 of this innocent family, he pressed the child closer 
 
 Q 
 
178 THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 
 
 to his bosom, and resolved that he would immedi- 
 ately place her and her grandmother above want. 
 But this sudden thawing of his feelings produced a 
 kindlier interest towards others; he saw a mass of 
 suffering in this little community which he thought 
 could be alleviated without much trouble or ex- 
 pense, and his quick apprehension soon pointed out 
 the way. He put Norah down from his lap, asked 
 for his portfolio, and in a few moments a letter was 
 written and despatched to a gentleman in the neigh- 
 bourhood. 
 
 "Now my good Mrs. M'Curdy, bring your work 
 in this room, and tell me all about your neighbours 
 — tell me exactly how things are ; I do not ask out 
 of idle curiosity, but I have a plan in my mind 
 which I think will be of service to them. I have 
 an eye to you, too; I have become interested in you 
 and your little girl, and I should like to leave you 
 in a better neighbourhood. Only don't call me 
 your honour, but Mr. Price ; I hate your honour." 
 
 " Well, sir, here is my work, and I can't do bet- 
 ter than just to say a little more about myself. You 
 see my pride, for I had a good bringing up, would 
 not let me live along so lazily and so miserably as 
 the poor people around me; besides, times in one re- 
 spect, were better eight years ago than they are 
 now, at least for poor women I mean. The ladies' 
 societies had not then found us out, and widow wo- 
 men and young girls got plenty of sewing to do, and 
 for a decent price too. I could then earn from three 
 to four shillings a day, and there never was a time, 
 until a month before — Norah, dear, put chips under 
 the pot, will you love, and then set the milk pans in 
 the sun, and be sure and put on your bonnet — I 
 never like to speak of my poor daughter before the 
 tender hearted little thing ; for although she was but 
 little more than five vears old when her mother 
 
THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 179 
 
 died, yet she recollects her perfectly, and all her 
 nice orderly ways, and how she taught her to read 
 and sew and pray. She says the same prayers yet, 
 sir, and indeed no better can be taught her. But 
 as I was saying when I sent Norah out, there never 
 was a time until a month before my daughter died, 
 that she did not, weakly and drooping as she was, 
 earn two shillings a day. Had she lived till now, 
 she would have found an alteration." 
 
 " Why, what has happened to deprive you of 
 work? your town has increased in numbers greatly 
 since that time." 
 
 " I'll tell you, sir. Then, when ladies of large fa- 
 milies had more linen to make up than they or their 
 maids could do, they gave a poor woman a chance ; 
 there were then three ladies in this very town, that 
 gave me every year, a set of shirts to make; and 
 my daughter made pincushions, and thread cases, 
 and night caps, and darned silk stockings for gen- 
 tlemen, and made linen gloves, all so neatly and 
 prettily, that the price she got for them purchased 
 all our little comforts; but as soon as the societies 
 found us out, as I said before, the ladies of the town 
 themselves undertook to make all these things." 
 
 " But if that was a saving to their families, my 
 good friend, it was all perfectly right." 
 
 " Oh, it was not for their families that they met 
 together to sew; sometimes it was for a Dorcas so- 
 ciety, sometimes for a Sunday school, sometimes for 
 an Infants' school, sometimes to get a church out of 
 debt, or to buy an organ; and oftentimes to educate 
 young men for the ministry. For all the purposes 
 I have mentioned, excepting that of educating young 
 men, I found some excuse, but I own I did inwardly 
 fret and find fault, with the kind-hearted women 
 who belong to these societies, when they neglected 
 their own families, and let us poor women who 
 
180 THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 
 
 were willing to work, starve, while they did the 
 things by which we formerly earned our bread." 
 
 " Why do not the young men work for them- 
 selves, or why are there not societies of young men 
 for these purposes; surely men can labour, and at 
 more trades too than women can — mechanics I 
 mean, and rich young men, they can contribute in 
 money." 
 
 " Yes, sir, that is what I said when these ladies 
 came to me and begged me to sew one day for this 
 purpose; for seeing me a little better off than my 
 poor neighbours, they thought I was quite too well 
 off. God forgive me for my uncharitableness, but 
 I looked at smart little Norah, and was thinking 
 how much at that moment she wanted a good warm 
 cloak for winter, so with all" the willingness in the 
 world, my love for the child got the better of my 
 wish to oblige the ladies." 
 
 " In some parts of Connecticut, the young men 
 destined for the church, work for themselves." 
 
 " Yes, sir, I hear they do, and why should nc 
 they as well as artists and lawyers and doctors. 
 Those who are poor find ways and means to edu- 
 cate themselves; they go in gentlemen's houses and 
 teach children, or they teach school, or write; in 
 short, a man has ways and means enough if he 
 chooses." 
 
 " This is all very true, Mrs. M'Curdy; I taught 
 school myself, and besides lhat I laboured in a gar- 
 den for two years for my food and lodging. With 
 the profits of my school I bought books, and g« 
 myself instructed in book-keeping and French; I 
 had besides, two hundred dollars in hand, to pay my 
 board when I went as merchant's clerk. In five 
 years I was sent out as supercargo, and from that 
 hour I began to make money. But I think you 
 would not complain if these ladies were to raise a 
 
THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 181 
 
 fund for the education of females, not to preach, but 
 to teach." 
 
 " Yes, indeed, that is what I have often thought 
 would be more creditable to them, and there is not 
 a poor body who would not join in it. I have often 
 thought how happy I should be, if at my death, I 
 could leave Norah at the head of a good school ; 
 instead of knowing, as I do, that she must be put out 
 to service, nay, bound out, as a common kitchen 
 girl, if I should die before she grows up." 
 
 " You need not fear that, my good friend, I shall 
 take care of that; but let us leave that subject for 
 the present. I have heard your grievances, and you 
 do not complain without cause. As to the women 
 working for missionaries, unless it be for mission- 
 aries who go out to teach reading and writing, and 
 the English or French language, I think they will 
 soon feel a little ashamed of it ; and men will be 
 ashamed to be under such an obligation to women. 
 We will try and get up societies among the young 
 (nen, and then women will direct their charities to 
 their own sex." 
 
 " I wish they would do this, but I am afraid it 
 will be a long time before men will give their time 
 and money to such purposes. Why, I hear they buy 
 things at the ladies' fairs very reluctantly, and there 
 are very few who give money to their societies wil- 
 lingly. I know that the two young men I wash for, 
 Mr. Green and Mr. Wilber, often make fun of these 
 ladies, and say they only do it to show themselves, 
 and to be talked about. Men are very ill-natured 
 in these matters. For my part, I think that ladies 
 should teach at Sunday schools, if they are so bene- 
 volently disposed, and in Infant schools, and inDor- 
 • •n.s societies; which Dorcas societies should be for 
 the relief of poor, sick women, but men should give 
 the- funds, and poor women should do the work and be 
 paid for it. This /think is the proper way; as it is, 
 Q 2 
 
182 THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 
 
 these societies create a great deal of distress, by 
 sewing themselves. And as to Sunday schools, the 
 excellent persons who first set them going, did not 
 intend them for the children of rich parents. I am 
 not the one however, to put this matter in its pro- 
 per light ; the evil of the thing will soon be seen, and 
 then there will be a cure. But I am talking quite 
 astray ; you wanted to hear about my neighbours, 
 and I have gone off to other matters." 
 
 "I am glad of it, if I have the means of doing 
 your poor neighbours a little good, I should know 
 w y here the grievance lies; this will enable me to ap- 
 ply a remedy. I shall bear it in mind; at present 
 we will speak of the poor people immediately around 
 you. You are on the edge of the common, who is 
 your next neighbour'? It is Jemmv Brady, is it 
 not V 
 
 " Yes, poor Jemmy lives there, and a better tem- 
 pered fellow never lived; but ill luck pursues him in 
 every thing he does, and I cannot think that any 
 thing can improve his condition. He has lived in 
 that poor shanty these seven years, and has never 
 yet been able to put a floor to it, let alone a chim- 
 ney. To be sure, they have a stove in winter, and 
 in summer they set their pot over stones, yet it is a 
 poor way of living. The two eldest boys that you 
 saw fighting this morning, did work a litile in the 
 paper mill, but the confinement made them sick, at 
 least one of them became sick, and the other had to 
 come home to help his mother nurse him, for her 
 other children were too young to bring her a pail 
 of water even." 
 
 " Do you ever go into their cabin ?" 
 
 "Do 1? yes, sure. I go in every now and then, 
 particularly when she's confined. If her neigh- 
 bours did not go in to make her a little gruel, and 
 look after the children, they must perish; and the 
 Catholic women, we are all Catholics here, sir, are 
 
THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 183 
 
 very good to one another. ' 'Tis the poor man 
 alone that hears the poor man,' you know, sir; but 
 I am thankful that Biddy Brady is the worst off; 
 that is, I am thankful that there are no more so 
 very badly off; if there were, I do not know what 
 we should do." 
 
 " Does not Jemmy like to work 2 he is a strong, 
 healthy looking man." 
 
 " Why, he likes to work, and he does not like to 
 work; he was bred up to do just nothing at all; but 
 he can write a good hand, and is a good weaver 
 enough, but no one wants a clerk looking so ragged 
 and dirty as Jemmy; and no one weaves now in a 
 small way. If he had a loom by himself he could 
 earn a little; that is, if he could have other employ- 
 ment with it; for Jemmy, unlike Irishmen in gene- 
 ral, cnnnot bear to keep all day at one thing." 
 
 Mr. Price set down this man's name, and the ages 
 of his children, desiring Mrs. M'Curdy to proceed 
 to the next shanty. 
 
 " Next to Jemmy Brady, lives lame David, a poor 
 drunken creature; he has an aged mother, two sis- 
 ters, a wife and one child. He is a blacksmith, and 
 could get good wages throughout the year if he 
 would only keep sober. His son bids fair to be a 
 decent honest man ; but the child, now only four- 
 teen, works beyonds his strength, and his poor mo- 
 ther was telling me the other day that he had dread- 
 ful night sweats, and is losing his appetite. I wish 
 you could see this boy, sir, I am sure you would 
 think he is overworked." 
 
 " Don't his employers take notice of it?" 
 
 "Why, yes, they tell him not to work so hard; 
 but men have not time to attend to such things; 
 if they were to notice the ailings of all their work 
 people they could never get on — no, when poor 
 people get sick they must go home and trust to their 
 family for help. Patrick Conolly is an ill-favoured 
 
184 THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 
 
 looking lad; he is red-haired, freckled and bandy- 
 legged ; yet for all that he is a very interesting 
 child, at least to his mother, grandmother and aunts, 
 to say nothing of myself. I wish the lad could be 
 sent to school, he has been so decently brought up, 
 that I am sure he would make a good school mas- 
 ter to the poor Catholic children." 
 
 " Well, Mrs. M'Curdy, your wish shall be grati- 
 fied; Patrick Conolly shall be sent to a good school 
 for one year; nay, don't stop to thank me, it will 
 cost me nothing. How do the women, his aunts 
 and mother, maintain themselves V* 
 
 " They wash for the men at the forge and the 
 quarry ; and they pick blackberries in the season, 
 and they go out to day's work to clean house and 
 so on, and the old woman patches and mends and 
 knits. They are as industrious as possible, but they 
 barely make out to keep life and body together; for 
 money is scarce and women are plenty. If the man 
 only was sober it would do very well, but he is so 
 notorious a drunkard that he can get no work 
 during the few days he is sober." 
 
 " And thus the peace and well doing of a whole 
 family are destroyed by the beastliness of one man. 
 Who lives next to lame David ?' 
 
 "Ah! then comes Larry M'Gilpin — there's an 
 honest creature spoiled, sir, by too much willing- 
 ness to help others. He is always too late at the 
 forge or the quarry, or the mill, for he is never 
 steady at one place, because he has to help one 
 neighbour look for his run-a-way pig, or to put up 
 a fence, or to run for a doctor, or something or 
 other. Every body calls upon Larry M'Gilpin, but 
 no one does a thing for him. I never heard of any 
 one doing him a good turn but yourself, sir, and it 
 was but small service he did for you. I try to be 
 of use to him as far as I can, and Norah teaches his 
 little girl to read, which you know is something ; 
 
THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 185 
 
 but his wages, somehow or other, amounts to very 
 little the year out. How they contrive to live I can- 
 not tell;' for they have five children, all living in one 
 room, and on the bare ground too. To be sure, he 
 has a chimney in it, and in winter they can keep 
 themselves warm when they have wood to burn; 
 but they do certainly live on less means than any 
 family I know. I do not wonder she has the name 
 of dirty Rachel; for how can a poor creature keep 
 a husband and five children clean, when she has not 
 money to buy soap even. But they are a quiet, well 
 behaved set, and disturb no one. Larry keeps the 
 children around him, and by his eternal good hu- 
 mour and pleasant ways he has contrived to make 
 us all like him ; so one throws him this thing and the 
 other that; and your little bounties have come in a 
 very good time. He only wishes, he says, that such 
 gentlemen as you would sprain their ankle every 
 day." 
 
 " Is his wife lazy ? — does she take in work, or go 
 out to work ?" 
 
 " I can't say that she is lazy — only spiritless like. 
 You know a woman with five children, the oldest 
 only eight years old, cannot be expected to do much 
 more than take care of them; and yet Rachel 
 would be willing to make a coarse shirt now and 
 then, if the price was not next to nothing. But 
 next to Larry M'Gilpin, lives the woman of women ! 
 Here, just let me lift up this sash, sir, for one mi- 
 nute — now listen — do you hear any thing ?" 
 
 " Yes, I hear some one singing; do I not?" 
 
 "You do; that is Bonny Betty, as the ladies call 
 her. She is a very large, bony woman, full six 
 feet high, and well looking too. She works from 
 morning till night, and has contrived to maintain 
 herself and six children without the help of a human 
 being, and not one child to do a turn for her, in the 
 way of earning money, I mean. Her husband died 
 
186 THE SEVEN SHANT1E&. 
 
 a drunkard; she buried him three years ago, and 
 from that hour she seemed to alter her very nature. 
 Before that, she used to go about the country to 
 beg, carrying all the children with her; and, when 
 far away from home, would sleep in outhouses and 
 barns. With the little money she gathered in this 
 way, she bought wood and other necessaries for 
 the winter, mending up the rags she had begged, 
 and preparing for a trampse in the summer, may 
 be with an additional child on her arm. As soon 
 as Christie Kelley died, she bought a broom, the 
 first over seen in her house, swept the two rooms 
 of her shanty clean, — pulled out an old leather 
 glove from her huge' pocket, and counted out fifty 
 dollars in notes and silver. 'Now, Mrs. M'Curdy,' 
 said she, 'you're a sensible woman; sit down by 
 me and tell me how I had best lay out all this 
 money. I kept it unknown to poor Christie, and a 
 little more too — how else could he have been buried 
 so decently?' In a little time, sir, with her pru- 
 dence in laying out this money, her cabin got to 
 look as well as mine, barring that six ailing chil- 
 dren will make a litter and some noise." 
 
 " How does she maintain herself, if work is so 
 scarce, and what is the matter with her children?" 
 
 " How does she maintain herself? why, in the 
 strangest way you ever heard of. She does every 
 thing and any thing. In the morning she finds out 
 which of the children are likeliest to be the sickest 
 through the day ; these she carries with her, for 
 she is a powerful, strong woman ; and into a house 
 she goes, seats the children in an obscure corner, 
 and falls to work — nothing comes amiss. If it is 
 washing day, she is up to her elbows in the suds 
 before the lady of the house is up, and nothing but 
 a constable will force her out till she has done two 
 women's work, has eaten three hearty meals, and 
 fed the ailing children with such little scraps as 
 
THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 187 
 
 their feeble health requires. She then gathers up 
 the children, and, with a basket added to her load, 
 off she goes to feed those at home with the savoury 
 scraps in her basket. When she forces her way 
 into a house she takes no money, contenting herself 
 with receiving broken meat for her pay, and if 
 there is more than enough for the family, she takes 
 it in to Biddy Brady, or to one poor body or other. 
 But this vagrant disposition is fast leaving her, for 
 she is so useful and so cheerful that there are very 
 few families that can do without her. She scents 
 a dinner or a tea party at a great distance, and she 
 gets there in the nick of time to be of service. She 
 makes yeast, soap, candles, bread, — whitewashes, 
 takes out grease and stains, paints rooms, mends 
 broken windows and china, — cuts better cold slaw, 
 as the Dutch call it, finer and quicker than any one, 
 — makes sourcrout, pickles and preserves, — knows 
 how to put up shad and smoke herrings; in short, 
 in her ramblings she watched the different ways of 
 doing things, and now she sets up for herself. You 
 cannot think what a really useful woman Bonny 
 Betty is; it is a pity that the children are so 
 sickly." 
 
 "Has she a doctor? — does she ever consult a 
 doctor?" 
 
 "A doctor! why they are all more or less de- 
 formed. Ben, the eldest, has a great wen over his left 
 eye which has nearly destroyed his sight; Kate, 
 the next, has a broken back, and is lame; Jemmy 
 is one sore from head to foot, and has been in that 
 way for four years; Bob is a thin, sickly boy, that 
 lias fainty turns, and is beginning to lose his hearing; 
 Susy is deaf and dumb; and little Christie, only 
 four years old, has the dropsy." 
 
 " Good heavens ! and this woman is cheerful, and 
 maintains them all with the labour of her own 
 
188 THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 
 
 "Yes, and is laying up money. She has nearly 
 a hundred dollars in the Savings Fund ; her children 
 are well clothed for poor people's children, and 
 well fed ; she has two pigs in the pen ; and she and 
 I are the only persons in the neighbourhood that 
 keep a cow. She has a fresh cow in the fall and I 
 in the spring ; so we both do well by them. I wish 
 she had a better shanty." 
 
 " Well, I shall make acquaintance with Bonny 
 Betty ; who comes next?" 
 
 " Sammy Oram is the sixth ; he is a shoemaker, 
 a poor, do-little kind of man, with five boys; he is 
 a widower. Three of his boys work at times in 
 the cotton factory and at times in the paper mill ; 
 but Sammy talks of going to Philadelphia, and so 
 gel rid of them all at once; for he calls his boys 
 orphans, and he thinks as they were all born there, 
 (for he only came here about five years ago,) he 
 can get them in the Girard College. I wish he 
 may, I am sure. Next to him lives an old man 
 with one leg. He was once a good gardener, they 
 say, but it is many years since he had to quit the 
 trade owing to a white swelling which finally 
 caused him to lose his leg. He lives alone, and 
 maintains himself by making mats and brooms and 
 such things; he is a "very honest, sober man, and 
 would make a good overseer, or some such thing, 
 if any body knew his worth ; but he is shy and 
 melancholy like for an Irishman, and we often think 
 he suffers in winter for comforts; but he never 
 complains, and if people never complain, you know, 
 why no one will thrust kindness on them." 
 
 "But there is Bonny Betty, with six helpless 
 children — you see that she can get along." 
 
 " Yes, sir, — but Betty is a woman, and somehow 
 they have a higher spirit than a man. Why, a man 
 would have broken down if he had been left with 
 six such children as she has, or if he had not sunk, 
 
THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 189 
 
 he would have run away and left them to Provi- 
 dence. You have no idea, sir, how long a poor 
 woman will bear up against every evil and misfor- 
 tune if she has children dependent upon her." 
 
 " You have now told me the little history of 
 the Seven Shanties, but has no one a garden but 
 yourself. I should think that the man you men- 
 tioned last — what's his name? — the man with one 
 leg — he ought to have a garden." 
 
 "Daniel M'Leary, — yes, he might do a little in 
 that way, but for two reasons; one is that he can- 
 not dig, for his back is weak, — and a better reason 
 still is, that there's never a shanty but mine that has 
 a bit of land to it. Daniel M'Leary has not even 
 enough for a pig pen if he had wherewithal to feed 
 a pig. He has done, however, all that man could 
 do ; he has planted a grape vine behind his shanty, 
 and last summer, being the third year of its bear- 
 ing, he sold from it five dollars' worth of grapes. 
 He gave me some cuttings; I planted them against 
 the back of my shanty which faces the south, and 
 last summer two of them had a few bunches on 
 them, but the children pulled them off before they 
 were ripe. 1 don't think, however, it was the 
 neighbours' children." 
 
 The next day Mr. Price was able to get out of 
 the little room and enjoy the fresh air of the open 
 commons. He saw, what Mrs. M'Curdy said, that 
 the shanties had no ground attached to them. In 
 front was the road, and behind a precipitous bank, 
 scarcely a foot-path behind that of Bonny Betty. 
 Yet these poor people paid from ten to twelve dol- 
 lars a year for a piece of ground not more than 
 twenty feet square. Mrs. M'Curdy was on the 
 edge of a common, and her plot took in a strip of 
 land about twenty by a hundred feet ; this was the 
 admiration and envy of the neighbours, who all ima- 
 gined that if they only had " the luck to get such a 
 
 R 
 
1U0 THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 
 
 bit garding spot" they would thrive as well as Mrs. 
 M'Curdy. 
 
 At noon a gentleman called on Mr. Price ; he 
 was the owner of some of the land thereabout, and 
 likewise of the little strip on which all the shanties, 
 excepting Mrs. M'Curdy's, stood. He came by con- 
 sequence of the letter which Mr. Price had written 
 to him the day before, and being a sensible and 
 considerate man, he was soon convinced by this 
 gentleman's arguments that some change in the 
 circumstances of these poor people, his tenants, 
 would be beneficial to him as well as to them. He 
 finally agreed to lease to Mr. Price a piece of land 
 not more than a few rods' distance from the shan- 
 ties; it was to be about one hundred and sixty feet 
 square. It was leased for twelve years. 
 
 As money can command any thing, in two weeks 
 two hundred loads of manure were spread over 
 this spot and ploughed in, and a good rough board 
 fence enclosed the whole, with a wide gate in the 
 centre of each side. Near the upper gate, under a 
 large hemlock, a comfortable shanty was built, well 
 floored, with two rooms, and a chimney between. 
 On the lower side was another, only larger, having 
 four small rooms; this was shaded by a fine silver 
 pine. This shanty guarded the south gate. The 
 fence and gates, all the posts being made of cedar, 
 cost Mr. Price one hundred and fifty dollars, the 
 manure and ploughing were one hundred more, the 
 two shanties cost three hundred and fifty dollars. 
 Furniture for the two shanties, grape vines, currant 
 bushes, strawberry plants, garden seeds, two carts, 
 six wheelbarrows, and other garden tools, with 
 a shed to .keep them in, cost four hundred dollars 
 more. Here was an expenditure of the round sum 
 of ten hundred dollars. The interest of this at six 
 per cent, amounted only to sixty dollars, and he 
 was only charged one hundred and forty dollars 
 
THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 191 
 
 for the rent of the land, so that the interest of the 
 monev was but two hundred dollars a year. What 
 was this to a man worth twelve thousand a year ? 
 
 Mr. Price, quick in planning and executing, soon 
 arranged every thing to his mind, and what was 
 extraordinary, to the liking of every one. In ten 
 days he installed Daniel M'Leary in the north 
 shanty, giving him the key of the north, east and 
 west gates; in the south shanty, he placed Bonny- 
 Betty and her six helpless children; and a day it 
 was to see, for both he and Mrs. M 'Curdy, as well 
 as dear little Norah, kept the thing a profound 
 secret. The first intimation Bonny Betty had of 
 the good luck, was in the morning of the day of her 
 removal ; Mrs. M'Curdy called in by accident, as it 
 were, and observed that she should not be sur- 
 prised if Mr. Price were to call in and see about 
 the wen on Benny's forehead; "so Betty, my 
 friend, suppose you red up the children a little; 
 here is Susan quite able, I am sure, to lend a hand, 
 deaf and dumb though the poor little thing is. See 
 how handy she goes to work." 
 
 "If you thought he'd be coming Sally, why I'd 
 leave my work, and put on their Sunday clothes ; 
 but poor little Jemmy is very feverish to-day, and 
 Christie's le^s are more swelled than common; are 
 you sure he'll be coming this way V 
 
 "No, I am not sure, but at any rate red up the 
 children, for who knows what may happen; you're 
 an honest industrious woman, and you may well be 
 called Bonny Betty; I think ye'll eat your dinner in 
 a better house than this ere you die ; good folks are 
 not always neglected." 
 
 Well, Bonny Betty left her work, and in an 
 hour the poor little creatures were dressed in their 
 best; and atten o'clock, Mrs. M'Curdy and Norah, 
 with all the women of the other shanties, as well as 
 those children that were at home, proceeded to her 
 
192 THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 
 
 house, and asked her to take a walk and look at the 
 gentleman's improvements. On being urged by 
 Mrs. M'Curdy, whom she very much respected, and 
 seeing the eager looks of the children, she sat out 
 with them. AW was wonderment and pleasure when 
 they got to the shanty, for the pots were boiling, 
 and the meat was roasting, loaves of bread, and 
 plates of butter, and gingerbread, and small cakes, 
 were all paraded on a clean new table; in short, a 
 house-warming was prepared for someone. 
 
 " Oh ! if all this was for me and my poor chil- 
 dren," thought Bonny Betty, " how happy I should 
 be; but then there's the other poor bodies, I'm think- 
 ing, wishing the same thing, and sure, have not they 
 as good a right as met" 
 
 "Now Betty, did not I tell you, that you'd eat your 
 dinner in a better house than your old ricketty for- 
 lorn one? You are in your own house now, Bonny 
 Betty ! for the good kind man, God bless him, has 
 bid me tell you, that by giving him the same rent 
 that you pay for that old one, you may live in this 
 nice comfortable house." 
 
 There was a general cry of joy ; and Bonny Bet- 
 ty fell on her knees, and bade ihem all kneel down 
 with her, and pray that she might continue to de- 
 serve this great good. Every thing was of the 
 plainest materials, wooden presses, wooden bed- 
 steads; in short, though all was new, yet there was 
 nothing better than poor people generally buy; but 
 what went most to Betty's heart, were the neat 
 comfortable beds for her children, and the nice 
 kitchen furniture, and the shed for the cow. 
 
 After they had dined, and assisted in washing up 
 the plates and pots, the neighbours after again 
 wishing her joy departed, and left her "alone in her 
 glory," and no creature could be happier nor more 
 thankful. It cannot be doubted that she prayed 
 
THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 193 
 
 most fervently, and that she slept soundly on her 
 clean strnvv bed that night. 
 
 Jn the morning, Mr. Price sent for Jemmy Brady, 
 Larry M'Gilpin, David Conolly, Sammy Oram, 
 and Daniel M'Leary. Through respect of age, he 
 addressed the latter first; he asked him if he liked 
 his new quarters. The poor Irishman said, he 
 was only too comfortable. " Well then," said 
 Mr. Price, " I hope you will lend a hand in what I 
 propose doing; you need not speak; the time of 
 these men is precious; I know you will assist me, 
 and I trust as I leave you overseer, or agent, or 
 give it any name you please, over that square of 
 land yonder, you will follow my directions strictly. 
 They are these: In the first place, you are to open 
 and shut three of the gates, keeping the keys your- 
 self; and only opening them for carts and wagons, 
 which are to go in and out, whenever the tenants 
 desire it. You are to set down in a book, how many 
 tools each man takes out ever}' day, and note down 
 such as are not brought to you when the day is 
 ended. All the tool" are to be mended at my ex- 
 pense for one year. You are to give every man or 
 -boy as much seed as is required ; and as you are, I 
 am told, a good gardener, you will be able to decide 
 on the quantity to be given. This is all I can re- 
 collect to ask of you just now; excepting further- 
 more, to set down the names of such men and chil- 
 dren as are regular at their work; and to ask each 
 person to let you know how much money he makes 
 from day to day, all of which you must commit to 
 writing. I do not wish to know this to raise the 
 rent on the tenants of that piece of ground, but to 
 know to whom I am to give the premium in the fall. 
 I shall be here in November, to look at your book. 
 "i ou will find paper and pens and ink in abundance 
 in a box, which I shall send you next week. Find 
 out the men's ages, and let the oldest have the first 
 r2 
 
194 THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 
 
 choice of twenty-five feet. Good morning my 
 friends — no thanks — let me see whom I am to thank 
 in November next. Here M'Leary, here are twen- 
 ty-five dollars; give five to the wife of each man, 
 keep five for yourself, and give a dollar a piece to 
 Sammy Oram's boys. I hope you'll give no trouble 
 to Mr. M'Leary, and that people will come far and 
 near to see your garden — Good morning." 
 
 This thing being settled, Mr. Price now turned 
 his attention to his new friend Mrs. M'Curdy; he 
 asked her how she would like to have one of Da- 
 vid Conolly's sisters to live with her? " You have 
 given me so good a character of her," said he, 
 "Nelly, I think you call her, that I should like her 
 to live an easier and a happier life. She is younger 
 than yourself, and is more' able to do the rough 
 work of the house, and I can make it a desirable 
 thing, for I will allow her good wages. My little 
 Norah must not labour any more; I want her to 
 grow tall and fair, and she must go to school like- 
 wise." 
 
 Poor Sally did not like this part of the arrange- 
 ment, which Mr. Price seeing, he observed, that 
 if she disliked to part with the little girl, he would 
 make another arrangement; but at any rate he 
 should consult her feelings in whatever he proposed. 
 He intended to give her pleasure and not pain. Re- 
 formers and patrons were too apt, he knew, to order 
 things to suit their own views, without regard to the 
 feelings of those whom they wish to benefit. At any 
 rate one thing he was sure would give her pleasure, 
 and this was the adding a small house to the shan- 
 ty she lived in. 
 
 The house was soon begun — it was to be a neat 
 two-storied brick house — and while it was building 
 he persuaded Mrs. M'Curdy to live with him, leav- 
 ing Nelly Conolly in the shanty to take care of the 
 furniture, cow, pigs and garden. They all set out 
 
THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 195 
 
 together in a week from that time, every heart bless- 
 ing Mr. Price, and lamenting the absence of the old 
 lady and Norah, whose neatness and kindness of 
 disposition had wrought such a change in their 
 prospects. 
 
 Sammy Oram was found to be the oldest man of 
 the four candidates ; but as Bonny Betty had testi- 
 fied a desire to hire one of the lots, he very gallantly 
 resigned his rights of seniority to her; of course she 
 chose the one parallel with her own shanty; she 
 therefore, had one of the centre strips. Sammy 
 Oram took the lot adjoining; at which Larry 
 M'Gilpin gave a knowing wink to Jemmy Brady. 
 Jemmy took the one next to him, being the corner 
 lot. Between Bonny Betty and the next lot was a 
 cart road of ten feet; Larry had the one adjoining 
 the road, David Conolly the next, and his son Pa- 
 trick, with Sammy Oram's two oldest boys took the 
 corner lot — making in all six different tenants. 
 
 Mr. Price's interest in this little community did not 
 stop here; he persuaded Bonny Betty to let her son 
 Ben go to the hospital, and have the wen on his 
 forehead examined, promising that he would himself 
 pay all the necessary expenses; such as suitable 
 clothes, travelling charges and extra nursing. The 
 boy was so eager and the neighbours so clamour- 
 ous in their entreaties, that poor Betty gave a re- 
 luctant assent. Ben went, and in one month he 
 returned perfectly cured — the wen taken out, and 
 his eye-sight very much improved. Kate was sent 
 to town next, and by means of Casey's dormant ba- 
 lance, and Mrs. M'Curdv's kind treatment, the in- 
 jured spine, although not entirely restored to its 
 healthy state, was prevented from further distor- 
 tion. She remained under medical care, and it was 
 owing to this humane and judicious treatment that 
 she was relieved of her lameness, a lameness caused 
 by general debility. A few bottles of Swaim's pa- 
 
196 THE SEVEN SHAXTIES. 
 
 nacea, entirely removed the scrofulous complaint 
 of Jenny. Bob was found to be nearly devoured by 
 worms: the doctor of the village, when called in, 
 soon removed his complaint, and his hearing im- 
 proved as his stomach recovered its tone. But poor 
 liltle Christie was beyond cure; he died in the fall 
 to the very great grief of poor Betty, who was pas- 
 sionately attached to her children. The little deaf 
 and dumb girl was sent to the asylum in Hartford, 
 and there she received an education, which fitted 
 her as a teacher to others of her own class. The 
 lifting up of one kind hand did all this for poor 
 Bonny Betty; five good little creatures, heiplessand 
 forlorn, an incumbrance to their mother, and a lax 
 on all around them, were thus made useful mem- 
 bers of society ; whereas, in the course of time, they 
 must necessarily have gone to the almshouse. 
 
 But lo return to our friends in the shanties. 
 Early, full an hour before sunrise, on the fifteenth 
 of April, all the gardeners were at work under old 
 Daniel M'Leary's superintendence; for his very 
 youth seemed renewed, so much was he raised in 
 his own estimation. Instead of being a cumberer of 
 the earth, as in his fits of despondency he used to 
 call himself, he was now a second iN'npoleon ruling 
 over the destiny of others — their well doing was 
 entrusted to his care, and many were his mental 
 promises to be just — if he could keep them. At the 
 sound of his shrill whistle the little band left off 
 work, in time to eat their breakfast, and be ready 
 to go to their several employments when the bells 
 rung. At twelve all ate their dinner, and for half 
 an hour were again in their garden plot where they 
 wrought — and pleasant it was to work in the open 
 air under such a glorious sky, with more satisfac- 
 tion than they ever did in their lives; for the pro- 
 ceeds of their labour was their own. 
 
 Their supper was ready when their working 
 
THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 197 
 
 hours were over, and once more they went up to 
 their garden, and it was difficult for Daniel to per- 
 suade them to leave off at the allotted time. Instead 
 of lounging about before a dram shop, which was 
 their custom in the evening, and often becoming 
 noisy if not riotous, they went quietly to bed and 
 slept soundly. Even Pat Conolly, the overworked 
 boy declared, that although he went very tired to his 
 rest, it was a far different sort of fatigue from that 
 which he nightly felt before. 
 
 By the first of June, the whole lot was one beau- 
 tiful green, bright spot. The land, naturally good, 
 had been so well manured, and carefully laboured, 
 that the seeds could not help coming up freely. But 
 if the truth must be tol(J, Bonny Betty and the three 
 boys' gardens, were more forward than the rest; at 
 least they had a more smiling gay look. And no 
 wonder, for in the first place, women and children 
 will put a few flower seeds in the garden; in the 
 second place, the boys and Betty had the double 
 advantage of working in the afternoons, as Bonny 
 Betty having a little shop, scarcely ever went out 
 to work by the day, and the children only worked 
 half a day in the mills ; and lastly Daniel M'Leary 
 lent a hand " to beautify the women and childers' 
 bit garding." 
 
 Every one in the neighbourhood had an eye on 
 this project, and every one predicted that the wo- 
 man and boys might persevere, but that Sammy 
 Oram would give out first, Davy Conolly next, 
 Lazy Jemmy next, and, lastly, Larry M'Gilpin. 
 Sammy Oram was very near verifying this predic- 
 tion in consequence of "his taking it into his head to 
 offer himself as a helpmate to Bonny Betty; but 
 the reader shall hear the progress and end of the 
 affair in a letter received by Mr. Price from Daniel 
 M'Leary. 
 
198 THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 
 
 " Your honour asks how we are getting on — O 
 beautifully, your honour, and all work with good 
 heart, with a pleasant thought of your praise in the 
 fall. lam glad your honour mistakes about Lazy 
 Jemmy — Lazy Jemmy no longer, for he's here 
 before any one, and brings his little boy with him, 
 and because there's never a spade small enough 
 for so young a boy, he's bought him one, your 
 honour. I'm thinking Jemmy will hold out, and his 
 little girrel, I'm tould, is crying to come with the 
 daddy to help too; and why should she not? for 
 here's Bonny Betty's little Jenny, now quite cured, 
 God bless your honour for ever and ever, she 
 weeds and helps her mother at every chance. So 
 I bid Jemmy bring the little.girrel with him. 
 
 "Larry laughs and works, and runs over to one 
 garden to help the boys a bit, though they bid him 
 keep off, and then he digs among the potatoes for 
 Bonny Betty ; but he's broke off that, your honour, 
 for as soon as she found it out she went to his gar- 
 ding and dug just as many rows as he did. I'm 
 thinking it will be hard to tell which of the men's 
 gardings will get the premium, for they're jealous 
 like, and they all put in the same things and work 
 in the same way as near as possible, but they scorn 
 the flowers, your honour. 
 
 " David Conolly still drinks, but for very shame's 
 sake he works morning and evening, and he would 
 get behind hand only that that fine boy, his son, 
 just steps over now and then and keeps the garding 
 up to the others. His wife tould me t'other day 
 that for certain David does not drink so much, and 
 she's certain he will leave off in time, for now on 
 Sundays he takes up a book or lies in bed after 
 chapel hours, and this she thinks is a good sign. 
 Pat, the hoy, is another crater, your honour; his 
 master at the factory is well pleased with the change 
 in him, and agrees to his only coming half a day, 
 
THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 199 
 
 since he's all the better for it, and his mother says 
 for the last week he has not had any of those bad 
 night sweats, and he does not talk in his sleep — so 
 the change of work has done him good. 
 
 Sammy Oram is none the worse for working out 
 of doors, and he's better tempered too, your honour, 
 for we none of us took much to Sammy, he was so 
 soured like, owing to his sitting all day cobbling 
 shoes and fretting. He thought at one time of 
 making orphans of his boys and getting them all off 
 his hands in the Girard College, for the kind gen- 
 tlemen there made it out at one time that all childer 
 that had only one parent was orphans, but our 
 priest, father M'Guire, tould him that so many 
 orphans came with their daddies, that the overseers, 
 or whatever their names may be, found that, large 
 as the college was, it would not hold all the orphans 
 that the daddies brought. Father M'Guire said 
 that the truth ought to be tould, that very few 
 mothers took their orphans; they preferred to edi- 
 cate them themselves. 
 
 " When Sammy, your honour, found there was 
 no chance to get his little boys off his hands as 
 orphans, he then thought to fall in love with Bonny 
 Betty, for she's now well off in the world, thanks 
 to your honour. So one day last week he stept 
 over the row of currant bushes, nimbly like, and 
 says, 'Mistress Kelly,' says he, ' you and I have 
 wrought side by side since the 15th of April, and 
 it's now June. I'm thinking we could work on this 
 way to the end of our lives, and I'll be a good fader 
 to your children, and keep you from such hard 
 work as this, for it's a shame to see a fine woman 
 like yourself, Mistress Kelly, working like a man 
 any how.' Well, what does Bonny Betty do but 
 one thing, and Sammy Oram might be sure she'd 
 tell; indeed we were all in the garding at the time, 
 and saw them speak together, and we saw her lift 
 
200 
 
 THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 
 
 him, easy like, with one hand, by the waistband 
 behind, over the currant bushes, and set him gently 
 down on the other side, and then Betty she laughed 
 out loud, scornful like. Sammy Oram, after that, 
 had no heart to work next to Bonny Betty. ' And I 
 knew what he corned next to me for at the time,' 
 said she, ' but I said I'll fit him when he's ready 
 to spake — he a fader to my childer — he's not a 
 fader to his own. There's Lizzy Conolly, she's a 
 good enough body for him, and he'll find her a 
 better mammy to his childer than I would be.' 
 Sammy's a man, your honour, that soon tires of a 
 wife. I remember once he tould me when his first 
 wife had been a long time ailen, that he wished he 
 could get her back to Ireland to her fader, he did 
 not see why he was obliged to take care of another 
 man's child. But Sammy's an honest man, your 
 honour, and he'll may be do well yet. I think the 
 hint of Lizzy Conolly not a bad one, and she's 
 fond of little childer. We are all wishing to see 
 your honour, not forgetting our respects to Mrs. 
 M'Curdy and sweet little Nory. I remain your 
 honour's humble and obedient servant, 
 
 "Daniel M'Leary." 
 
 On the fourth of July the four gates were thrown 
 open, and all the village, rich and poor, went in, 
 for the first time, to see what the idle hours of six 
 persons had accomplished. The praises that the 
 men and boys received, to say nothing of Bonny 
 Betty, who was there in all her pride with her 
 children, quite compensated them for any little 
 extra fatigue they had undergone. The boys and 
 girls were neatly dressed, and the poor women, the 
 wives of the gardeners, began to take rank among 
 the better order of labourers, for their husbands 
 were beginning to attract notice. It was con- 
 stantly — " Well, Jemmy Brady, how does your 
 
THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 201 
 
 garden come on ? are you almost tired yet V 
 " Tired ! Is it I that am tired, sir, when I and the 
 wife and children had a dish of potatoes of my own 
 raising larger nor any you ever seed in our foolish 
 little market? Sure you have not seen Bonny 
 Betty's stall, as they call it — only just go over 
 to-morrow, being Monday, ye'll see a sight — early 
 York cabbage — ye see I've learned the name's of 
 things since I belonged to your garding — and there's 
 real marrowfat peas, and big white ingans, as big 
 as a tay saucer, and ye'll may be hardly see the 
 end of the beets and carrots, they're so long, and 
 then there's the early turnip just fit to melt in your 
 mouth; sure we had a mess of them with our pork 
 and potatoes this blessed day, and how could a 
 poor man like me, with seven childer, all babies 
 nearly, get the like of turnips and white ingans, 
 unless I made them grow myself, barring I might 
 send to York for them, but poor people can't do 
 that." 
 
 Every one of the shanty people took a pride in 
 having vegetables on the table every Sunday, and 
 in a little time Bonny Betty did nothing, literally, 
 but sell vegetables; and most scrupulous was she 
 in keeping the difFei'ent interests separate. Each 
 man and boy had his basket, and every morning 
 they were filled and carried to Betty's shed, erected 
 for the purpose. No market woman was ever 
 prouder, and none certainly so happy, if we make 
 allowance for the increased illness of her youngest 
 child. But even this she did not see, for so great 
 a change had taken place in the circumstances and 
 health of all the rest, that she went on, hoping that 
 in God's good time little Christie would get well 
 too. 
 
 The trial day came — the first of November. It 
 was on Saturday, and the six candidates took a 
 holiday, for they could now afford it. Jemmy 
 s 
 
202 THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 
 
 Brady and Larry M'Gilpin, at one time the worst 
 off, and the most dirty and ragged of them all. were 
 now clean and decently dressed ; they were each 
 the richer too, in having another child added to 
 their number, but they were very much set up 
 about, as Larry had the felicity of calling his new 
 daughter Sally M'Curdy — and never even when in 
 a hurry did he shorten the name — and Jemmy only 
 wished that his boy had been twins, that they 
 might both have been called Oliver Price. 
 
 Mr. Price, Mrs. M'Curdy and Norah arrived the 
 day before; a wagon followed them loaded with 
 presents, and at ten o'clock on the day of trial the 
 three went together to the shanty of Bonny Betty. 
 The gate was thrown open, and after they had all 
 walked over the grounds and had seen the neat 
 order in which each garden was prepared for the 
 winter, they went to Daniel M'Leary's shanty to 
 look at his accounts. 
 
 " I'm thinking," said good natured Larry, " that 
 the boys will get the premium any how, and if 
 neither Bonny Betty nor myself is to get it, why 
 the master, God bless his honour, could not do 
 better than let the children have it — so he stood 
 back, and in this happy frame of mind waited the 
 aw r ard of his industry- 
 
 Mr. Price, assisted by several gentlemen of the 
 village, examined each man's account as rendered 
 in by himself every day, all fairly written out by 
 Jemmy Brady. The result was wonderful; these 
 poor families had not only a large mess of vegeta- 
 bles of the best kind for their tables every Sun- 
 day, and from twelve to fifteen bushels of potatoes 
 for their winter use, but they had cleared — first, 
 the boys in the corner lot — twenty-one dollars 
 each, making sixty-three dollars. This was after 
 paying Bonny Betty a per centage tor selling the 
 different vegetables for them, and Betty was not 
 
THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 203 
 
 extortionate; this yielded the boys about four dol- 
 lars a month, which with the money they earned at 
 their different employments enabled them to buy 
 themselves two good suits of clothes, pay their 
 parents for their board, and put a few dollars in the 
 savings fund. But I ought to go on with the other 
 gardens. 
 
 Next to the three boys came David Conolly — he 
 looked so much better in health that Mr. Price did 
 not recollect him — he produced his account ; he had 
 cleared fifty dollars. " Well done, David," said 
 Mr. Price, "who could have believed this? — what! 
 fifty dollars, and such good looks! I must shake 
 hands with you — and your wife, which is she 1 let 
 me wish her joy too." • 
 
 Poor Mrs. Conolly stepped forward with her 
 handkerchief to her eyes, and shook hands with 
 Mr. Price, but her heart was too full to speak, 
 though Bonny Betty punched her in the side several 
 times and whispered to her to hold up a bit. 
 
 David Conolly, so long despised as a drunken 
 vagabond, had undergone something of a change 
 in his feelings too. He knew that, but for the as- 
 sistance of his good son, his garden would have 
 been overrun with weeds ; and that, so often was 
 he drunk, in the early part of the SUinnr]g»j Vviien" 
 everv thing r^nyired so much care and attention, 
 that if Patrick had not turned in and helped, he 
 would not have held up his head this day. All this 
 came full to his mind ; and he was not slow in giv- 
 ing his son this praise. Perhaps, this was the most 
 gratifying thing to Mr. Price that had occurred. 
 Here, by the little he had done, was a poor crea- 
 ture restored to a moral sensibility, which had be- 
 come almost extinct in his bosom. Here, through his 
 means, was a husband and a father restored to the 
 respect of his wife and child. " I am satisfied," 
 said Mr. Price, inwardly, "and I humbly thank 
 
204 THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 
 
 thee, oh, my God, for being the means of saving 
 this poor creature." 
 
 Next came Larry, hitching and twisting himself 
 into all manner of shapes — he had sixty dollars — 
 for by good luck, as he said, his cauliflowers was 
 bigger nor David's; and a man had given a great 
 price for them, to take to York ; and he had planted 
 squashes in among his potatoes, so that they took 
 up no more room; and his little datters had helped 
 him weed; " and so, your honour," said he, " you 
 see that David's not behind me, any how, seeing he 
 has no little datters to weed for him." 
 
 " Plase your honour," said Bonny Betty, whose 
 turn came next, "just pass me by and let Jemmy 
 Brady bring up ; I'll be better ready, being the 
 last." 
 
 "Why, I thought that Sammy Oram had the 
 next lot to you," said Mr. Price, " has Jemmy 
 changed ?" 
 
 " Yes, Sir," said Jemmy, walking proudly up, 
 with a decent smart dress on; and, in his nervous 
 anxiety to show himself to Mr. Price, he had his 
 hat on his head. His wife, however, twitched it 
 off', and told him not to forget where he was. " But 
 he's scared, like, your honour," said Biddy, dressed 
 up'as"s?-naft'-a^k. r Jl'isband; "and I've brought 
 you my little boy ; he's a new c6me'iTyr;;,T hcr^r; 
 and if your honour would not be affronted, we in- 
 tend to call him Oliver Price." 
 
 Mr. Price patted the chubby little thing on the 
 cheek, and thanked the mother for the compliment, 
 saying, that when his little namesake was old 
 enough, he should be sent to school. Jemmy, with 
 hat now in hand, brought his account— alas, poor 
 Jemmy, his account showed only forty dollars — 
 but eight children! "No, don't feel ashamed," 
 said Mr. Price. "I have heard that you were often 
 obliged to remain at home to nurse your wife — but 
 
THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 205 
 
 what's the matter, Bonny Betty, why do you look 
 so amazed ?" 
 
 " Why, sure, your honour, Jemmy's fine clothes 
 have crazed him. I kept the money, and sure, 
 Jemmy, there's more; sure you had sixty dollars." 
 
 " Yes, you gave me sixty," said honest Jemmy, 
 "but can't I write and read, and isn't all these bills 
 made out by myself? and did I not set down all 
 the time I worked ? and sure I am that forty dollars 
 is all I earned any how. There's the twenty dollars, 
 and they're none of mine; but to be shared wid my 
 two little boys — shame on me for spaking of my 
 own first, and Bonny Betty's little Ben, to say no- 
 thing of Petey and Ody Oram, them two good little 
 fellows. When I could not work, your honour, 
 they all fell to, and my little garding looked none 
 the worse, I ean tell you." 
 
 Sammy Oram came next — he could not bear to 
 work next to Betty, so good natured Jemmy 
 changed with him ; and Sammy, after that, plucked 
 up heart a little, offered himself to Lizzy Conolly, 
 got married, and really improved wonderfully, for 
 Lizzy was cheerful, and his children became very 
 fond of her. He had forty dollars likewise. 
 
 " And now, your honour, here's my earnings, 
 your honour," said Bonny Betty, stepping forward 
 with five healthy children at her side — poor little 
 Christie having died about two weeks before. "Here 
 is my money," and she opened a little box, count- 
 ing out one hundred and ten dollars, all in silver. 
 
 "I'm thankful" said Larry, "that she'll get the 
 premium, any how.*' '-\.>, I've not earned all this 
 money by my garden," said honest Betty, " but by 
 selling for the rest — I had that chance over ye all. 
 If I could rightly tell how much I made by selling 
 for you. you'd find 1 may be would be a great deal 
 behind you all." 
 
 " 1 see, my friends," said Mr. Trice, "that it is 
 s2 
 
206 THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 
 
 difficult to tell which has made the most. I shall 
 not give the premium to any one in particular. 
 You have all done well. David Conolly is, certain- 
 ly, most to be praised, because he has broken him- 
 self of an accursed vice." — "I'll never drink a 
 drop, your honour, from this hour," said David — 
 " The boys," continued Mr. Price — " but I dare not 
 trust myself to speak of them — the gentlemen pre- 
 sent will take care that they shall always have the 
 best wages and the best places in their gift; they 
 deserve it well ; and, as I thought they would be- 
 have exactly as they have done, I have brought 
 them each something suited to their present wants. 
 As to you, Bonny Betty — seeing tlfat you are a 
 woman, by rights I ought to distinguish you beyond 
 the others. You shall have your shanty and lot rent 
 free ; the rest shall pay into the hands of Daniel 
 M'Leary ten dollars each,*for the next year. I 
 shall charge them nothing now. The gardens will 
 be better, as the raspberries and strawberries will 
 be ready for sale; and the year after, the aspara- 
 gus will be large enough to cut. I shall then build 
 a small markethouse, and place Mr. M'Leary at the 
 head of it. Make way there, Larry, and let the 
 packages from the wagon be brought in." 
 
 Mr. Price gave every one a parcel, containing a 
 number of things necessary to the coming winter; 
 such as blankets, coarse cloth for the children, 
 stockings, and stuff for cloaks and coats — besides 
 sewing cotton, pins, tape, needles, scissors ; and for 
 the boys plenty of paper, pencils, books and car- 
 penter's tools — the men could hardly stagger home 
 under their pleasant loads; and the women went 
 trotting along by their side, laughing and talking 
 loud in the joy of their hearts. Mr. Price did not 
 stay for their thanks, which, after the Irish fashion, 
 they were pouring out feelingly and rapidly. All 
 he heard, as he jumped in the dearborn, with the 
 
THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 207 
 
 gentleman who owned the land, was the end of 
 Jemmy Brady's outpouring — " God bless him ; if 
 his son had lived, he'd, may be, in time have been 
 as good a man as himself." Mr. Price was very 
 much affected ; slopped with the intention of speak- 
 ing to the man, but feeling unable, he rode away. 
 
 "Norah, dear," said he, in the evening of this 
 busy day, — "Norah, you have done being afraid of 
 me, have you not? You may remember how un- 
 willing you were to come near me when I first saw 
 you." 
 
 " Yes," said the little girl, " I was afraid of you 
 then, but it was not long. It was only something 
 that Jemmy Brady said to me in the "kitchen that 
 made me not like you at first; but I love you dearly 
 now," said she, as she jumped on his lap and threw 
 her arms around his neck. 
 
 " I wanted you then to tell me what Jemmy said 
 to make you fear me, but you would not. You will 
 tell me now, will you not?" and he pressed the 
 little creature fondly to his bosom. 
 
 "Why, Jemmy said you were the image of my 
 father ; and that if he chose, he could make my dear 
 grandmother very unhappy; but that he would not 
 tell — he liked me too well to let any one separate 
 me from him. 80 I was afraid, and yet I did not 
 know why you would take me from my dear grand- 
 mother; for that was what I thought Jemmy 
 meant." 
 
 Mr. Price sent her to call Jemmy. When ques- 
 tioned, he said he firmly believed that Mr. Price's 
 son was Norah's father: that he lived in the neigh- 
 bourhood, very near to Sally M'Curdy; that the 
 young man, who called himself White, fell in love 
 with Ellinora M'Curdy. who was a beautiful girl, 
 bm too virtuous to listen to any one excepting in 
 the way of marriage — that he finally did marry 
 her, but under the name of White. After a few 
 
208 THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 
 
 months, he came to America, where he married 
 again, and this was the last they ever heard of htm. 
 Jemmy Brady went on to observe that he came to 
 this country about a year after Mrs. M'Curdy, and 
 heard from them that Mr. White had married 
 again, and that they had made up their minds never 
 to molest him, fearing that the little girl would be 
 taken from them. He had seen the likeness be- 
 tween Mr. Price and the young man who called 
 himself White, and he said aloud — but not in the 
 hearing of Mrs. M'Curdy — that the likeness was 
 very strong; but he did not think, at the time, the 
 little girl minded it. 
 
 On further inquiry, and on recollecting what his 
 son had said in his last moments, owning that he 
 had left a wife, and, he believed, a child, in Ireland, 
 Mr. Price had no doubt that little Norah was his 
 grandchild. A book, with a few lines in the title 
 page, which Mrs. M'Curdy had preserved, recog- 
 nized as his own, given to his son before he sailed, 
 more fully proved it; but he could hardly be said 
 to love the child more after this disclosure. He 
 immediately acknowledged her; and glad was he 
 that his unhappy son had left no children by this 
 second marriage. Of course, Mrs. M'Curdy re- 
 turned no more to the shanty. She lived with Mr. 
 Price, and had but one regret — that her poor 
 daughter had not lived to share their happiness. 
 Both she and Norah went yearly to visit the grave 
 under the old hemlock tree. 
 
 Here was an unlooked-for reward for his kind- 
 ness to a hapless family ; but as every man who 
 does good is not to expect a grandchild to start up 
 in his walk, he must look to other sources for com- 
 pensation. Mr. Price had these likewise ; for the 
 shanty people never relapsed into idleness and dirt ; 
 but continued to improve in their circumstances. 
 At the end of ten years, (and they passed quickly 
 
THE SEVEN SHANTIES. 209 
 
 away,) every man was able to buy the lot of ground 
 on which he had so long wrought. The owner sold 
 them at a moderate price; but he more than made 
 up for this small advance by the greater prices ob- 
 tained for the rest of the land which he owned in 
 the neighbourhood. 
 
 In consequence of the success of this scheme 
 other landholders adopted the same wise policy, 
 and the benefit to their property was immense. 
 The love of horticulture opened the way to better 
 habits and tastes among the poor of the district; 
 and there was none so humble that had not a gar- 
 den spot of their own. The ladies' societies fled 
 from them for ever ; and the poor women blessed 
 the day of their departure, for now they could earn 
 an honest living by their needle. 
 
 During the ten years of which we speak, other 
 changes had taken place, greatly beneficial to the 
 village. A pier had been built by a company from 
 New York, and steamboats now plied there daily. 
 In compliment to Mr. Price they intended to call 
 the first one that was built for the place, " Oliver 
 Price," but that gentleman declined the honour for 
 the present ; he said, if they had no objection, he 
 would give them a more suitable name — " The 
 Seven Shanties" — and that if they ever built ano- 
 ther, of which there was no doubt, he wished it 
 might be called the " Bonny Betty." 
 
 They did build another, and another; and at this 
 moment there are no less than five for the trade 
 and pleasure of that place alone. — The Seve?i Shan- 
 ties — The Bonny Betty — The Little JVorah — The 
 Henry Barclay, and the . 
 
THE LITTLE COUPLE. 
 
 " I wish my dear Hassy," said Mrs. Webb to her 
 husband, " I do really wish that we had a house of 
 our own ; I dislike to live at lodgings, it leaves me 
 so little to do. When my baby is dressed and your 
 bureau is put in order, I have nothing to do but to 
 sew, no exercise at all ; and as to you, you read, 
 read until you lose your colour and health. Now, 
 if we had a house to ourselves, you would have ex- 
 ercise enough in going to market — (Heavens, Mr. 
 Webb go to market ! !) — and in one little odd notion 
 or other; and as to me, I should be as busy as a 
 bee, and would scarcely have time to sit down from 
 morning till night." 
 
 " My dear Winny," said l\er husband, " I detest 
 this mode of life as much as you can do, I am even 
 more anxious to leave these lodgings than you are 
 - — and — I have several times lately been going to 
 mention the subject to you. I have weighed it over 
 and over in my own mind for a long time, and if 
 you have no material objection — (Here Mr. Webb 
 refrained from looking at his wife) — I should prefer, 
 when we do move, to live in the country." 
 
 Now, this was precisely what Mrs. Webb dis- 
 liked; she had for some time been dreading that her 
 husband would make a proposal of this kind, and 
 she had fortified herself well to meet it. She, too, 
 
THE LITTLE COUPLE. 211 
 
 as she thought, had weighed the affair well, and all 
 things being considered, her decision was, that there 
 was more real comfort for man, woman and child, 
 in the city than in the country. " When one comes 
 to speak of horses, cows and dogs," said she one 
 day to a friend, " why then the case is altered. 
 Keeping a horse at livery is an expensive thing, as 
 Mr. Webb finds to his cost, and milk from cows 
 which are fed about a stable yard, is unfit to drink. 
 Dogs to be sure, nine cases in ten, are useless and 
 worthless animals, in any place ; but they lead a life 
 of misery in the city, kicked and cuffed and half 
 starved as they always are. If dogs must be kept, 
 the country is the best place for them too." ' 
 
 Mr. Ahasuerus Webb was a gentleman born and 
 bred ; the peculiar cast of his mind led him to study 
 theology, and but for his timidity, for he distrusted 
 his own powers, he would have destined himself to 
 the church. His friends, however, thought there 
 wrs a much stronger objection to his taking orders 
 than what arose from timidity or the absence of 
 powerful talent. Mr. Webb was one of the most 
 diminutive of men — almost a dwarf. — Butwas there 
 ever a small man who felt conscious that he was 
 unable to achieve actions which belonged exclu- 
 sively to those possessing superior stature and 
 strength 'I 
 
 Year after year, however, passed aw r ay in irreso- 
 lution on his part in choosing an occupation which 
 might increase his income. He had no employ- 
 ments but such as were the result of reading; and 
 his friends at length ceased to urge him to exertion, 
 as there seemed every probability that he would 
 always remain single, having then attained his 
 twenty-eighth year. 
 
 But Mr. Webb at last fell in love and married; 
 and the lady that he selected, independently of the 
 obligation which his marriage vows laid him under, 
 
212 THE LITTLE COUPLE. 
 
 of loving her with the greatest tenderness, was enti- 
 tled to his utmost sympathy from another cause — she 
 was even of smaller stature than himself. She suited 
 him therefore, in every particular but two, which at 
 the time of courtship seemed no difference at all; 
 but which, now that they had been man and wife 
 for two years, seemed likely to result in a very un- 
 comfortable state of things. Mrs. Webb hated, 
 books, and she detested the thoughts of living in the 
 country; on the contrary, Mr. Webb was a great 
 reader, and was passionately fond of the country, 
 and of rural occupations. 
 
 " You fire not very partial to the country, my 
 dear Winny," said he, venturing to cast a look at 
 his wife, whose tiny fingers were plying like light- 
 ning over her work, while her cheeks were flushed 
 with agitation. " but if you will give up this small 
 point." 
 
 " Small point, Mr. Webb, do you call that a small 
 point which is so very disagreeable to me? Nay," 
 said she, laughing, " if it be such a small point, why 
 contend about it; do you concede this small point to 
 me, and when it comes to one that you consider of 
 greater magnitude, why — exert your prerogative 
 my dear." 
 
 Mr. Webb looked grave and sighed ; the little 
 lady, although very fond of her husband, was not 
 disposed to yield, much as her husband's sighs and 
 grave looks affected her. She continued to sew 
 very fast, without looking up for some time. At 
 length, finding that his eyes were again dropped on 
 his book, and that he had resumed his tranquil man- 
 ner, she called his attention to the offer of a com- 
 promise. " Suppose my dear Hassy, that we both 
 give up a little? Do you give up this small point of 
 living in the country, and I will live as frugally as I 
 can in ever so small a house in the city, that you 
 may j^urchase books and keep the horse — and — 
 
THE LITTLE COUPLE. 213 
 
 and — now my dear Hassy," said she, drawing her 
 chair nearer to her husband and looking up to his 
 face — " think of the very great point I am going to 
 give up for your small one — you shall have the 
 naming of our little girl !" 
 
 This was indeed a temptation, for Mr. Webb 
 was of a romantic turn of mind, and considered a 
 good name as a thing of vital importance. His 
 own name, Ahasuerus, had been a source of much 
 mortification to him ; and that of his wife, Wini- 
 fred, was equally inharmonious and distasteful. But 
 Mrs. Webb had no romance about her; she called 
 her husband's horse Mush, because the animal hap- 
 pened one day to run his nose into a dishful of that 
 article ; and a fine handsome little terrier she called 
 Scratch, although her husband had named the one 
 Orelio and the other Bevis. 
 
 As to her own name, or that of her husband, 
 she saw nothing disagreeable in either of them ; 
 and could she have followed her own inclinations 
 she would have called her little girl Rachel. But, 
 although thus indifferent about names, which in ge- 
 neral were thought old fashioned — such as Marga- 
 ret, Magdalen, Sarah and the like, yet she had an 
 active dislike to fanciful ones; - Emily, Caroline and 
 Matilda, had nothing notable or thrifty in their cha- 
 racter; they were novel names, and she hated 
 novels. Still less did she like those of Myrtilla, 
 Flora, Narcissa ; they savoured too much of the 
 country; she dreaded her husband's tasteseither way. 
 
 If romances were uppermost at the time, then 
 the first mentioned names would be present to his 
 imagination; and if her child were so unfortunate 
 as to get one of them, it might be the means of 
 fastening a lackadaysical character on her for life; 
 she would never be fit for any rational employment. 
 
 If, on the contrary, her husband had the country 
 mania on him, then what could she hope for but a 
 
 T 
 
214 THE LITTLE COUPLE. 
 
 Pastorella or a Daphne? What a milk and water 
 creature would this make of her child ! For Mrs. 
 Webb, too, in her way, was of opinion that pecu- 
 liar names gave a peculiar turn to character. In 
 either case, therefore, she was in a dilemma, and 
 the baby, now three months old, had no name. 
 
 Mr. Webb laid down his book at this unlooked- 
 for offer of a compromise, and was about to enter 
 into a discussion concerning it, when a servant an- 
 nounced a visiter. An elderly gentleman entered, 
 at whose appearance Mrs. Webb started up in great 
 dismay and confusion. She hastily, and in much 
 trepidation, introduced the stranger as her uncle, 
 Mr. Banks, her mother's only brother. 
 
 Mr. Banks, a rich planter, had just arrived from 
 Jamaica, where his principal estates lay. He had 
 never seen Mr. Webb; and had now come to pay 
 his first visit. As Mrs. Webb was the only child of 
 his only sister, the old gentleman, in his way, had 
 been very fond of her; yet, in spite of this, and of 
 his real goodness of heart, he could never see his 
 niece without laughing at her tiny little figure ; and 
 she was always called by him, " the Little Fairy." 
 His only hope was, that she would either not marry 
 at all, or else choose a husband of ordinary size, 
 that their offspring might have a chance of looking 
 as if they had not come from fairy land. He had 
 hardly got over the mirth of his niece's marriage, 
 when he learned that her husband was as diminu- 
 tive as herself; and his impatience to see them to- 
 gether overcame his discretion. Afler making a 
 few purchases, as presents to the little couple, he 
 posted immediately to their lodgings. 
 
 " And so Winny," said the old gentleman, after 
 he had kissed his niece, and had shaken hands with 
 her husband, (without looking at him though) " so, 
 this is your — husband, and you have a baby too, 
 they say ; where is it ? cannot I see it? what is its 
 
THE LITTLE COUPLE. 215 
 
 name? tell the servant to bring it in." He could 
 hardly restrain his impatience, so much did he want 
 to see the child of this diminutive couple ; and 
 when the maid brought it in, dressed in its very 
 best; its little cap, with pink bows; its little sleeves, 
 looped up with pink ribands; and its pretty little 
 frock, all stiff with delicate needle-work, he was in 
 an ecstasy of delight. He snatched the child from 
 the maid, and holding it from him, at arm's length, 
 he laughed so loud and long that the poor child 
 screamed with fright. 
 
 He then drew the innocent, terrified little crea- 
 ture close to him to take a nearer look ; but no 
 sooner had he examined its little features, and had 
 poised it in his arms, to ascertain its weight, than 
 his laughter was renewed with redoubled energy; 
 and so little command had he over himself, that if 
 Mr. Webb, angrily enough, had not taken the child 
 from him, it must have fallen to the ground. 
 
 There seemed no end to the old gentleman's 
 mirth, when Mrs. Webb, unable to contain herself 
 any longer, indignantly exclaimed — " Uncle Banks, 
 I wonder at your coming here to insult us in this 
 manner ! What can make you act in this strange 
 unnatural way? You have hurt my husband's 
 feelings; which, I can tell you, is more painful to 
 me than if you had insulted me alone." 
 
 When the old gentleman could stop himself, he 
 held out his arms as if he still held the child — 
 "Here, Winny," said he, the tears of laughter 
 running down his cheeks — " here, take the baby ; 
 whv don't you take the child, I say? I shall cer- 
 tainly let it fall." 
 
 " Uncle Banks, if you would only come to your 
 senses, you would know that" — 
 
 " Hold your peace, Winny, and take the doll — 
 the baby I mean." 
 
 " You know well enough, uncle, that Mr. Webb 
 
216 THE LITTLE COLTLE. 
 
 took the child from you and left the room. I could 
 see that he was exceedingly hurt at" — 
 
 "What?" said the obdurate man — "what, did 
 he actually take away the baby, and I not miss it 
 nor him either? Winny, I thought it was light, 
 but I did not dream it was so feathery that I could 
 not tell whether I held it or not — why I should 
 have missed a down pincushion." 
 
 Mrs. Webb burst into tears. This sobered the 
 old man at once. " My dear Winny," said he, go- 
 ing suddenly to her, and kissing her cheek, " how 
 foolish it is in you to mind what your old uncle 
 says or does in his fun. Come, deary, do not cry 
 any more, but save your eyes to look at the pretty 
 things I have brought you. Here, girl," calling to 
 a servant, " tell those men to bring in that trunk." 
 
 A large trunk was brought in, which he hastened 
 to open ; and it was not in the nature of one so 
 constituted as Mrs. Webb, to remain insensible to 
 the pleasure of examining such presents as her 
 uncle had placed before her. She forgot her vex- 
 ation, and her eyes sparkled with delight as the old 
 gentleman, with much ostentatious parade, drew 
 out each valuable article. When he had, in this 
 way, emptied the trunk, he asked her if she had 
 forgiven him for his laughter. 
 
 " Indeed, uncle Banks," said she, " I am so used 
 to your humour, that if I alone were concerned, I 
 should not mind it ; but Mr. Webb feels such things 
 keenly, for he has a great deal of sensibility. I am 
 sure, however, that he will be delighted with the 
 books — how elegantly they are bound — and he will 
 be more than pleased with this beautiful tea set of 
 silver. What a great help this is to our housekeep- 
 ing ; and all these spoons too, and silver forks — 
 Mr. Webb has a great fondness for silver plate. I 
 must call him in to thank you." 
 
 "No don't, Winny, don't," said her uncle, "I 
 
THE LITTLE COUPLE. 217 
 
 shall relapse, for I can hardly help going at it fresh 
 again when I think of his tiny, slender little figure. 
 Why don't you send him in the country, to get a 
 little flesh on his little bones?" 
 
 Mrs. Webb reddened, but a look at the presents, 
 as they lay on the floor, kept her from replying ; 
 and finding him tolerably grave, she thought it bet- 
 ter for her husband to get accustomed to the coarse 
 ways of her uncle at once. She, therefor^j^teejit 
 to him to prepare the way for a better understand- 
 ing. Mr. Webb, however, felt no willingness to 
 be under obligations to so vulgar a mind ; but see- 
 ing his wife's distress, in consequence of his refusal 
 to go into the room, and having, likewise, a point 
 to gain with her, he at length resolved to bear with 
 the folly of the old man, without showing his sense 
 of the indignity. 
 
 It was some time before he made his appear- 
 ance. Meantime Mrs. Webb had been coaxing her 
 uncle to behave with decency before her husband. 
 "You can but turn your back," said she, "if you 
 think you cannot refrain from laughing; but if you 
 knew how kind he is to me, and how much every 
 body respects him, you would not mind his size. 
 You have no idea what an excellent scholar he is. 
 It is really cruel, my dear uncle, to make game of 
 what, by your mirth, you consider as a ludicrous 
 affliction — a thing which we neither of us have 
 been instrumental in doing; and which we would 
 alter if we could. Do, dear sir, let him see what 
 you really are — a kind and affectionate man. I will 
 give my husband a chair the moment he comes in; 
 he does not look so small when he sits." 
 
 This last unlucky observation undid all that her 
 previous conversation had effected; and when Mr. 
 Webb entered, the old man was in a roar of laugh- 
 ter; and only one glance at the unfortunate man, 
 t 2 
 
218 THE LITTLE COUPLE. 
 
 as he came into the room, increased it to such a 
 degree, that he fairly rolled over the floor. 
 
 In fact, a person of even more refinement, would 
 have had his risible faculties excited at the appear- 
 ance which Mr. Webb made. Conscious of his 
 inferior size, and being now, for the first time, 
 coarsely treated in consequence of it, he had taken 
 some pains to improve his figure. He had on a 
 long skirted coat and high heeled boots, with a hat 
 of an uncommonly high crown. His walk, as he 
 entered, was constrained, and his manner was for- 
 mal. He was exceedingly provoked at the old 
 gentleman's mirth; and nothing less than his wife's 
 distress could have induced him to remain one mo- 
 ment in the room. But he did stay, and he even 
 helped the silly old man to rise, who, through sheer 
 weakness, was unable to move from the floor. 
 
 When he had, in some measure, composed his 
 features, he beckoned to his niece, who stood look- 
 ing very angrily at him ; and, as she came near, he 
 mustered up resolution enough to restrain himself 
 so that he could articulate. He whispered in her 
 ear, in a sort of hoarse giggle — " My dear Winny — 
 take off his hat, and get between us, while you coax 
 him to look at the things on the floor — the boots I 
 do not mind — make him sit, Winny, will you? — 
 and then I shall not see his coat." 
 
 Mrs. Webb could not, at length, help laughing 
 herself; so she twitched off the unfortunate hat, 
 got a chair for her husband, and, after putting a 
 pile of books in his lap, she endeavoured to screen 
 him from her uncle's view. In this way they all 
 sat for a few minutes; the old gentleman in a sort 
 of convulsive titter, which he tried to disguise by 
 keeping a handkerchief close to his mouth. Mrs. 
 Webb was then compelled to leave the room on 
 account of the poor little child, who could not re- 
 cover from its fright ; but, as she was going out, she 
 
THE LITTLE COLTLE. 219 
 
 whispered to her husband not to mind her uncle. 
 "Laugh with him, my dear," said she, "it is the 
 only way to stop him ; but, above all, look at the 
 beautiful silver, and do not let his folly vex you. I 
 will be back in a few minutes." 
 
 Mr. Banks behaved much better after his niece 
 left the room ; and he even trusted his voice in 
 making an apology. By degrees, poor Mr. Webb 
 was appeased ; and, in looking at his dress, he could 
 not but acknowledge that he cut an exceedingly 
 grotesque figure. He was, therefore, soon disposed 
 to bear with the oddity of his relation ; and, in fact, 
 to join in his mirth, when the old gentleman put on 
 his high crowned hat, by mistake, for his own. 
 
 " Well, sir," said he, " that hat, I must confess, 
 is rather of the tallest, and I can join you in your 
 laugh. You may laugh at my slight, small figure, 
 and I will laugh at your robust one, and your red 
 face, for one is as fit a subject for mirth as the 
 other." 
 
 " You are very much mistaken," said the old. 
 gentleman, rousing himself suddenly. " You can 
 see nothing at all to laugh at in me; for I am made 
 like most people — and — besides — I allow no man 
 to laugh at me. This reminds me, Mr. Webb, of 
 the golden rule — I beg your pardon for my mirth ; 
 but, really? the hat and coat, to say nothing of the 
 boots, were too much for me. But, my little man 
 — hem — Mr. Webb, I mean, why do you not go 
 into the country and gather a little colour and flesh? 
 You would look more like a — hem — you would 
 look as well again. Little Winny and the little — 
 doll — babv — would be the better for country air 
 too." 
 
 Mr. Webb, thoroughly good tempered, had long 
 since smiled off his chagrin, for he had a splendid 
 edition of Shakspeare on his lap; and he could not 
 but think that the hint of the country might be of 
 
220 THE LITTLE COUPLE. 
 
 use to him. He thought there was a possibility of 
 drawing Mr. Banks over to his scheme of living 
 there; he, therefore, hastily explained his reasons 
 for being in town ; and spoke of his regrets at not 
 being able to live in the country, both on his child's 
 account and his own. He finished by stating his 
 wife's strong aversion to the plan, and of the im- 
 possibility of her ever consenting to it. 
 
 " What income have you, my little— hem — Mr. 
 Webb, I mean." 
 
 "Why, sir, we have about six hundred dollars a 
 year. Now I think that sum, with my wife's eco- 
 nomy — and I have no expensive habits" — 
 
 " No, I'll be sworn that your clothes won't cost 
 you much — nay," said he, on seeing the colour fly 
 into Mr. Webb's face, " let me have my joke, and 
 I'll make you amends. In the first place, I will 
 manage your wife, so that she shall come into your 
 plans. Winny always liked to have her own way; 
 and, as I helped to spoil her, when young, it is but 
 fair that I should endeavour to set things a little 
 square now. And, to repay you for bearing so 
 well with an old man's humour — which, consider- 
 ing how little there is of you — nay, my boy — Mr. 
 Webb, I mean, don't look so angry; I was only 
 going to observe, that I might as well give you, in 
 my lifetime, what I should certainly leave you at 
 my death. I mean a little estate I have, called Oak 
 Valley. It is just the very thing for two such little 
 — I mean two such agreeable young people." 
 
 " I am much obliged to you for your kindness, 
 sir, but it will be a useless present; you forget your 
 niece has a strong aversion to the country." 
 
 " What, Winny 1 Have I not told you to let me 
 manage her; hush, there she comes. I hope she has 
 left the little doll — baby I mean — behind; two I can 
 stand, now that I am used to it, but a third would 
 set me going again. Well, Winny, your husband 
 
THK LITTLE COUPLE. 221 
 
 is not so much vexed at my laughter as you are. I 
 think him a good, pleasant tempered little — fellow. 
 In short, Winny, I begin to like him, he bears a 
 joke so well. Now, a joke to me is a great thing ; 
 and I shall be tempted, now that 1 find you in the 
 city, to remain here a year or two, and pitch my 
 tent near you. If you lived in the country I should 
 not be able to enjoy your society, as I never go 
 there. But here, in the city, I could see you very 
 often ; and I know two or three old fellows like 
 myself, who would often come with me to pay you 
 an evening visit. You will soon get used to my 
 jokes, eh, Mr. Webb. You will not mind my laugh- 
 ing, Winny, when it comes to be a daily thing? 
 
 Mrs. Webb was struck dumb. What ! to under- 
 go the same torture daily? To see her sensitive 
 husband daily, hourly, exposed to such coarse 
 insults as he had been obliged to submit to during 
 this day? — and before strangers too, to be the butt 
 of vulgar and unfeeling people? — It was too much — 
 nothing on earth could compensate for such an 
 evil. She cast her eye towards her husband, not 
 doubting but that he was feeling precisely as she 
 did ; but his back was towards her, and she could 
 not learn how this communication affected him. It 
 would not do — that she knew at once; she saw 
 nothing but misery in having her uncle near them, 
 and she therefore determined to make an effort to 
 prevent the threatened evil. 
 
 " My dear uncle," said she, with much embar- 
 rassment, for she knew that her husband was like- 
 wise interested in what she was saying, — " you 
 would no doubt be very kind to us, if we lived 
 together in the city, which, on many accounts, I 
 should prefer to the country; but just before you 
 came in Mr. Webb had been expressing a strong 
 desire to go in the country — and — and — you know 
 you, yourself, recommended our going — you ad- 
 vised me to it, you know." 
 
222 THE LITTLE COUPLE. 
 
 " Yes, Winny, I told you that you had better 
 send the little man — I mean your little husband — 
 in short, Winny, where is the use of your reddening 
 up to your temples every time I make a mistake? 
 You must get used to it if I live near you. I must 
 call your husband little, while I am near him, and 
 see that he is small. At my time of life people 
 want indoor amusement, and you three here, would 
 be a great — no, a little help, to wile away an hour 
 or two in a rainy evening." 
 
 This settled the matter with poor Mrs. Webb ; 
 not for worlds would she put herself in the way of 
 such an evil ; she therefore, with much pretended 
 humility, disclaimed all right to decide on the ques- 
 tion of living in the town or country ; she said 
 that, like a prudent wife, she meant to give up her 
 own wishes to please her husband — that she was 
 certain of its being better for him and the child to 
 be in pure air, and now all that she should ask for 
 this full compliance with his wishes was, that she 
 should have the privilege of naming their little 
 girl. 
 
 " That is but fair, Winny," said her uncle, "you 
 have certainly the right of naming little tiny as 
 you choose. But stop — let me see — let me give 
 the child a name ; I will stand godfather to it, and, 
 what is better, I will act as a godfather should. I 
 will settle a thousand dollars a year on her, and 
 will give you a very pretty little farm — my Oak 
 Valley farm. Winny, you remember that farm." 
 
 "You shall have the naming of our little girl — 
 remember Oak Valley! yes, indeed I do ; I can 
 safely trust her name to you — my dear husband, 
 you can have no objection; you will give your 
 consent, I hope." 
 
 "Certainly," said poor Mr. Webb, his mind mis- 
 giving him about the name, as on looking at Mr. 
 Banks, he saw his features announcing a new burst 
 
THE LITTLE COUPLE. 223 
 
 of merriment — " I have no objection to a scripture 
 name, and I would even prefer Winnifred," — cast- 
 ing a timid glance at the old humourist, — " to many 
 that I know." 
 
 " Well, you both consent then, and will not 
 retract — give me your word of honour to let me 
 name the child as I like, in case I settle a thousand 
 dollars a year upon her." Mrs. Webb eagerly gave 
 her word, and her husband, after again expressing 
 his entire willingness, once more hinted that a plain 
 scripture name was quite as agreeable to him now, 
 as any other. 
 
 " Well, then," said Mr. Banks, " the thing is set- 
 tled. I will now take my leave and go to my 
 lodgings. The deed for Oak Valley shall be made 
 out immediately, as shall the settlement on our little 
 dolly — but, Winny," said he, casting a sly look at 
 Mr. Webb — " you had better change your mind 
 and live in the city; your going so far off from me 
 will drive me back to Jamaica — what, you are 
 determined ? well, I must submit; but remember, I 
 must name dolly." Saying this, he walked nimbly 
 out of the house, apparently unwilling to trust him- 
 self a minute longer in their sight. 
 
 In the course of the next day the deeds were 
 sent to them by which the estate of Oak Valley 
 was secured to them, as was likewise a settlement 
 of one thousand dollars a year, which sum was for 
 the use of the parents until the child came of age. 
 There was a letter accompanying the papers, say- 
 ing that he would tell them his mind concerning the 
 name of the child, meantime he had sent them each 
 a present, which he hoped would do away all past 
 offences. 
 
 " Generous man," said the enraptured Mrs. Webb, 
 " I have no doubt but that these two parcels, so 
 carefully sealed, contain bank notes; here, my 
 dear, this one is directed to you — let him laugh, I 
 
224 THE LITTLE COUPLE. 
 
 only wish I may be able to sleep this night under 
 such a load of kindness. That farm of Oak Val- 
 ley, my dear, is a very excellent one — such pas- 
 turage, such fine springs on it" — and while she was 
 regaling herself with a recollection of its many 
 beauties and comforts, she was at the same time 
 opening her little packet, which was enveloped in 
 fold after fold of paper, each one carefully sealed. 
 Mr. Webb was, however, in such a pleasing reve- 
 rie, that her words fell on his ear without his having 
 any very distinct notion of what she was saying, 
 further than that they were harmonizing with his 
 feelings. As to his own packet, it remained 
 untouched in his hand. 
 
 " And then there is such a pretty river, navigable 
 too for small craft, running at the very foot of the 
 
 farm; you can take what a curious conceit 
 
 this is of Uncle Banks, what trouble he has given 
 himself and me to, in enclosing this money, for 
 such I have no doubt it is, in so many covers; I 
 am afraid to tear them loose at once, lest I may 
 tear the notes — my dear, why do you not begin 
 to open yours ? I am sorry my poor uncle does not 
 like the country, for all things considered we might 
 bear with his fooleries — there, thank goodness, I 
 
 have opened the last pa" . But what was her 
 
 chagrin on finding that it contained the old story 
 book, " There w r as a little woman, as I've heard 
 tell." 
 
 Casting her quick eye towards her husband, she 
 saw that his "eye was in fine frenzy rolling," and 
 that he had been long past attending either to her 
 packet or his own ; so, wishing to spare him the 
 mortification which she had just encountered, she 
 gently took the unopened parcel from his unresist- 
 ing hand, and went quietly out of the room. She 
 opened this second parcel with much less ceremony 
 than she did her own, cutting and tearing through 
 
THE LITTLE COUPLE. 225 
 
 the numerous folds, and just as she expected, she 
 saw a book of the same size as the other, called, 
 " There was a little man, and he wooed a little 
 maid." 
 
 Indignation was the first effect, as she threw the 
 books across the room, but surprise and pleasure 
 soon succeeded, for as the books dashed against the 
 wall, sundry bank notes fell out and were scattered 
 on the floor. On examination she found that the 
 eccentric humourist had placed a one hundred dol- 
 lar bank note between every two leaves of each 
 book. 
 
 " I know exactly, my dear Hassy," said the now 
 delighted wife, as she rushed into the room, " I 
 know what uncle Banks means by these handsome 
 presents — here is a thousand dollars for you and 
 the same sum for me. Your money is to purchase 
 stock for the farm, and mine is to buy furniture ; 
 was there ever any one so generous ! — laugh ? 
 who cares for his laughter and his odd ways, when 
 he atones for them in such a handsome manner as 
 this 1 Here, my dear, put the money carefully 
 away, while I pick up these foolish bits of paper." 
 
 She raised herself from her stooping posture on 
 hearing her husband sigh. "What, upon earth, my 
 dear Hassy, is the matter with you?" said she, in 
 great alarm, for she feared that this sudden acces- 
 sion of wealth had disturbed his brain, particularly 
 as her own was in a whirl. She recollected, too, 
 at the moment, that Mr. Webb had read some 
 observations of Dr. Burroughs on the subject of 
 insanity, which went to prove that there were 
 more frequently cases of aberration of mind from a 
 rise to sudden prosperity, than from adversity. 
 " What can ail you 1 surely you are not one of 
 those weak minded persons who cannot bear a 
 sudden turn of good fortune V 
 
 " My dear Winny," said her husband, in the 
 
 D 
 
226 THE LITTLE COUPLE. 
 
 most rueful tone imaginable, " I am not thinking 
 in the least of the money, nor of the farm, but of 
 the probability of our child's having a preposterous 
 name." 
 
 Mrs. Webb fairly laughed aloud. " Is that all ?" 
 said she. " Why, my dear Hassy, I would not 
 care if she were called Nebuchadnezzar — provided 
 she were a boy — fret about a name ! Why, can- 
 not we make a pleasant abbreviation of it in case 
 it be an ugly one'? But my uncle is an old fashioned 
 man, and I apprehend nothing worse than Jerusha, 
 or Kezia, or Margaret." 
 
 " I hope it may be so, Winny, but I fear that you 
 are too sanguine; I dread to hear the name — 
 nothing can compensate me if the name be a 
 ridiculous one." 
 
 After breakfast the next morning a note was 
 brought from Mr. Banks, bidding them farewell, 
 saying that urgent business called him immediately 
 to Jamaica. He said that he had dwelt with much 
 anxiety on the subject of selecting a suitable name 
 for their baby, and after discarding a number of 
 them he had at length pitched on one that he 
 thought would suit all parties ; that it was a little 
 of the longest, to be sure, but then this fault was 
 made up in its dignity. The child, he said, should 
 be called Glumdalclitch. 
 
 Any one would have pitied the poor little couple 
 if they could have seen the consternation which 
 this billet produced. 
 
 " I never will consent to this," said Mr. Webb, 
 as soon as his anger and shame would allow him 
 to speak — " never shall my child reproach me with 
 fastening such a ridiculous name upon her. I will 
 write this instant to your uncle and refuse to accept 
 any of his gifts on such disgraceful conditions. No, 
 no, my dear Winny, we are — I, at least, am mark 
 enough for ridicule, but this is a thing which I have 
 
THE LITTLE COUPLE. 227 
 
 learned to bear, as it has been our Creator's will to 
 make me as I am ; but to name our child in such 
 fantastic fashion, would be indeed to invite both 
 scorn and laughter." 
 
 But prudent Mrs. Webb had cooled in propor- 
 tion as her husband was excited. She had felt a 
 good deal mortified at first at the outlandish name; 
 but during the indignant burst of feeling of her hus- 
 band, she began to think thatGlumdalclitch, although 
 harsh and difficult to pronounce, might have a short 
 and pleasant abridgment, at any rate there was no 
 prohibition to a double name. 
 
 Clearing up as this passed through her mind, she 
 then turned to give her husband what comfort she 
 could; for little refinement as she had in general, 
 she still could comprehend the morbid sensibili- 
 ties of those she loved. How few men there are 
 who know how to appreciate the sympathy of a 
 prudent, tender wife ! Mr. Webb understood the 
 excellence of the woman who now stood with af- 
 fectionate earnestness before him, and before she 
 had talked the matter over the third time — in her 
 vague yet decisive way — he had recovered his 
 equanimity. Happy to perceive that he had re- 
 sumed his quiet manner again, Mrs. Webb conti- 
 nued, 
 
 " One thousand dollars a year may easily com- 
 pensate for an ugly name; and even if we do not 
 choose to give the child a middle name, which is 
 optional with us, she will not have to be called by 
 her Christian name long; for after a girl is in her 
 teens, she gets the title of her surname. She will be 
 called Miss Webb, you know. Perhaps, after all, 
 my dear, this name which is so disagreeable to us, 
 may not be thought ugly by some people." 
 
 •• 1'gly," said her husband, " do you know what 
 this name means ? — but no — I heard you say the 
 other day that you had never read Gulliver's tra- 
 
228 1HE LITTLE COUPLE. 
 
 vels, my dear Winny," blushing deeply as he said it 
 — " Glumdalclitch is the name of a giantess !" 
 
 " Well, this comes of so much reading ; I bless my 
 want of taste that way; it is enough to make one 
 forswear books ; never reproach me again for my 
 indifference towards them. I am sure 1 wish Mr. 
 Gulliver had staid at home, if he could have com- 
 municated nothing better than such a hideous 
 name. But where is the use of fretting? since it is 
 so, we must make the best of it, and then you know 
 we need not call the name out in full ; you never 
 call me Winnifred, nor do I call you Ahasuerus. 
 Let us shorten the name to Glummy — no 1 Well, 
 how would Clitchy sound — you don't like that. Let 
 us shorten it to Dally, that I know will please you, 
 for it is the name of a flower." 
 
 " How often Winny," said her fretted husband, 
 " have I told you that the flower is called Dahlia ;" 
 suspending for a moment his right to feel indignant 
 and irritable, to do justice to the pronunciation of the 
 name of a flower. 
 
 " Dahlia is it ? well, that is the way an Irishman 
 would call Delia. Let us call her Delia then, it is a 
 pretty pastoral name;" and as she said this, she cast 
 a side glance at her husband." 
 
 After this, and other conversations of the kind, 
 they agreed to give the child this uncouth name, for 
 the charm of living in the country was hourly 
 growing more captivating to Mr. Webb, and Mrs. 
 Webb had a great reverence for a thousand dollars 
 a year. Besides, the misery of living where they 
 would daily be subject to the coarse mirth of her 
 uncle, when he made his regular visits to the city, 
 which he had until of late years, been always in the 
 habit of doing, was becoming more and more ap- 
 parent. She even with more alacrity than one 
 could expect, set about making preparations for her 
 departure to Oak Valley. 
 
THE LITTLE COUPLE. 229 
 
 • This is all very hard upon you, my clear wife/' 
 said Mr. Webb to her one day when he saw how 
 < hrerlully she was preparing for their removal; 
 " this is worse for you than for me. With the one 
 part, at least, I am more than gratified, whereas 
 your feelings and taste have not been consulted at 
 all. You have neither the satisfaction of living 
 where you like best, nor the pleasure of having a 
 decent name for your child." 
 
 "But I have the pleasure of knowing that my lit- 
 tle girl will have a handsome independence — and do 
 you think, my dear Hassy, that it is no gratification 
 to me to see that our going to the country is an 
 event of great importance to your health and hap- 
 piness V 
 
 " My dearest Winny," said her tender-hearted, 
 conscience-stricken husband, " ] do not deserve 
 this goodness. I cannot enjoy the thought of going 
 into the country, unless I tell you how it has been 
 brought about. You were manoeuvred into this 
 scheme, my dear wife; and I here declare, that 
 much as I wish to leave the city, you shall yet re- 
 main if you wish it. Your uncle had no intention 
 of living near us, if we remained here; he was eager 
 to get us all into the country, on the score of our 
 health, and he made use of this stratagem to induce 
 you to consent to it. Now that I have told you 
 the truth, pray do as you like best; but with respect 
 to the settlement on our child, much as I dislike the 
 name, I fear she would not thank us if we gave that 
 up for a thing of such little consequence. Giving 
 up the farm," continued he, sighing deeply, " is 
 another affair." 
 
 " Yes," said his wife laughing, " I see it is, and it 
 would be a worse affair if you knew what a sweet 
 spot Oak Valley is ; but here is this money, this two 
 thousand dollars — would you think it right to re- 
 turn this too, — my part of it I need not re- 
 u2 
 
230 THE LITTLE COUPLE. 
 
 turn, for I am persuaded it was to purchase furni- 
 ture, which will suit me either for a town or a coun- 
 try house. Your's was no doubt, for purchasing 
 stock for the farm ; if we live in the city we can 
 have no pretence for keeping that part of it." 
 
 But Mr. Webb did not like this view of the busi- 
 ness at all, and he was besides getting quite uneasy, 
 notwithstanding his late compunctious feelings, lest 
 his wife should take him at his word, and remain 
 where she was. 
 
 Strange perplexities for these little people, but 
 money always brings as much pain as pleasure. 
 Mrs. Webb had, however, accommodated herself 
 wonderfully to circumstances ; she generally looked 
 on the sunny side of a question, and she had, by 
 working it over in her mind early and late, viewing 
 it in every possible shape, fairly brought herself to 
 think, that all things considered (this was a favour- 
 ite expression of hers) farm, income, money and 
 health, and, though last not least, the pleasure of 
 obliging her husband; and if it must be told, the hold 
 she would have on him for this double disappoint- 
 ment of hers — the plan of living in the country 
 would be the very best thing for them all. 
 
 The spring opened delightfully, and the farm was 
 to be ready for them in a few days ; but Mr. Webb, 
 wishing to make the removal as pleasant as possi- 
 ble, could not bear to let his wife go until every 
 thing was tolerably well arranged in their new 
 house. He proposed, therefore, that she and the 
 child should go to see a relation of his who had 
 never yet seen her, and who had several times given 
 her pressing invitations to pay her a visit. The 
 rooms they occupied at present had been let, and 
 new boarders were to take possession of them im- 
 mediately. 
 
 But Mrs. Webb strongly objected to this plan — 
 " My dear Hassy," said she, " no fear of my fa- 
 tiguing myself or of taking cold. I shall remain 
 
THE LITTLE COUPLE. 231 
 
 quietly in my room until the carpets are down and 
 the furniture unpacked. You will never catch 
 me paying a visit to a near relation in the spring of 
 the year, unless there be other guests there at the 
 same time ; I have seen too much of that." 
 
 " But why," said Mr. Webb, " why in the spring 
 of the year more than in any other season V' 
 
 " Because, then you are treated most scandalous- 
 ly. In the first place, they begin with — a con- 
 strained smile on their face all the while — I am 
 very sorry that you have come just at this time, not 
 sorry on our account, but on your own; we are 
 pulling every thing to pieces to commence house 
 cleaning. Our best bed-room, which you ought to 
 have, is all upside down; you will have to take the 
 third story — and such a room, my dear Hassy — 
 you can have no idea of it ; I shudder when I think 
 of exposing my baby to it. Perhaps it has been a 
 nursery or neglected school room ; spots of ink and 
 grease cover the floor, great black knots show 
 themselves, and the unseasoned boards gape wide. 
 Three odd chairs, a half circular wooden toilet table 
 without a cover, and a slim-posted, ricketty bedstead, 
 with a feather bed scantily filled, and which still more 
 scantily covers the bedstead — happy if it have a 
 sacking instead of a rope bottom — coarse patched 
 sheets, darned pillow cases, an old heirloom blue 
 chequered counterpane, a broken wash basin on a 
 little foot-square tottering table, and a blurred look- 
 ing glass, complete the furniture of this cold north 
 room. I shall say nothing of ' the hearth uncon- 
 scious of a fire,' nor of the long deep cracks in the 
 coarse whitewashed walls, nor of the rattling of the 
 window sashes." 
 
 "What a picture you have drawn, Winny ! you 
 speak very feelingly; have you ever been compelled 
 to sleep in such a room? But what sort of fare do 
 you receive under such circumstances ?" 
 
^32 ME LITTLE 'COUPLE. 
 
 " Oh, the worst in the world ; when it is meal 
 lime, then you hear this, or something like it: ' How 
 unfortunate to come at this unpropitious season ? ii 
 is so uncomfortable for you ; no vegetables, but old 
 potatoes; no salad yet; all our hams gone; nothing 
 but shoulders; and the hens arc so backward this 
 spring.' — No, no, my dear Hassy, unless there be vi- 
 siters of some consequence in the house, never go 
 near a relation in the spring of the year; I mean, if 
 they live in the country. There is no exertion made 
 to gratify your taste or your palate ; a more forlorn 
 state of things cannot be imagined. Now in June, 
 or July, you may, on the score of your being a 
 near relation, which is always a justifiable ex- 
 cuse, be ushered up in that comfortless north room; 
 but then coolness and shade is not unpleasant — 
 there are strawberries and blackberries, in their 
 season, along the hedges and meadows, if none are 
 to be had in the garden — then there are fresh milch 
 cows, and the hens cannot help laying if they would 
 — new potatoes come in plenty, and dock and pig- 
 weed grow without culture. I would rather have 
 them than spinach at any time; buttermilk too can 
 be had for asking; and you can rove about uncared 
 for and unheeded, which I can tell you is as great a 
 luxury when you are in the country, as to eat fresh 
 eggs and breathe fresh air." 
 
 Mr. Webb was exceedingly amused with this de- 
 scription, and as his wife did not seem to consider it 
 an evil to go to an unaired house, he did not think it 
 prudent to make her think it one. Her pliant, well- 
 regulated mind soon enabled her to overcome her 
 dislike to country occupations; and even to exult in 
 her achievement in the way of making butter and 
 cheese, and she soon excelled in raising poultry — 
 three things which formerly belonged to female 
 management alone. Now, however, in these won- 
 der-working days, so ravenous are men for monr 
 
THE LITTLE COUrLE. 233 
 
 polies and for experimentalizing, that they have 
 encroached on privileges, which even the old task- 
 masters of the female sex unreluctantly yielded to 
 them. 
 
 Mrs. Webb, although of slender figure, and small 
 in size, had a mind as active and as comprehensive, 
 a temper as irritable, and was as bold an asserter 
 of her own rights, as the stoutest of her sex. She 
 soon I'egulated her household in a quiet, economi- 
 cal way, and had none but female servants within 
 doors; detesting, as well she might, the appearance 
 of a stale, heavy-looking, half-dirty man about the 
 room, doing woman's work, when he should be out 
 of doors with a spade or a hoe. 
 
 What a bower did the happy Mr. Webb make of 
 Oak Valley ! Such a profusion of sweet-scented 
 shrubs and flowers had never before been seen in 
 the neighbourhood. Fruit trees soon made their 
 appearance ; and their crops of grain and grass 
 were abundant and good. But what his wife most 
 admired was, the regular supply of wood which he 
 provided for the house — nicely cut and piled; a 
 thing generally less attended to, and the cause of 
 more vexatious disputes between the farmer and 
 his wife than any other part of their arrangements. 
 All things, therefore, considered, which Mrs. Webb 
 was still in the habit of saying, " it really was pre- 
 ferable to live on such a pleasant, well regulated 
 farm than in a narrow street or at lodgings." 
 
 Then there was so much speculation about the 
 right breed of cows and poultry. Mr. Webb first 
 inclined to long-horns, then to short-horns ; but 
 Mrs. Webb cut the matter short by declaring for 
 no horns ; and to this day they have from ten to 
 fifteen of these meek, subdued animals, so fat that 
 they could not do much in the way of running from 
 a cross cur if any such should attack them. 
 
 She had her own way, too, with the poultry. She 
 
234 
 
 THE LITTLE COL'TLE. 
 
 soon banished the coarse, long-legged Buck's coun- 
 ty fowls, with their uncouth looking bodies. She 
 said their tread was almost as heavy as a young 
 colt's; and, really, when she pointed to a dozen of 
 them which were picking their way over a straw- 
 berry bed, her husband submitted in silence to the 
 order given to the farmer, to prepare them for mar- 
 ket. "And, David," said Mrs. Webb, after the man 
 had chased the fowls from the garden, " see what 
 prospect there is of selling off our stock of Ban- 
 toms. It takes twenty of their eggs to make a pud- 
 ding, and they lay no more eggs a day than other 
 hens — and, David, when you return from Wick- 
 lowe, cross over to neighbour Haywood's, and see 
 what he will take for two or three pair of those 
 old fashioned kind of hens — those full, broad breast- 
 ed, pale speckled ones ; sometimes a dingy yellow 
 and sometimes brown and gray, with large spread- 
 ing tails. Those are the only kind. But above all, 
 David, see that they have flesh coloured legs ; they 
 fatten well ; those with yellow or black legs are not 
 worth raising — strange that people are so inatten- 
 tive to such important matters." 
 
 Sixteen years passed away, and time, as the 
 little lady said, seemed to fly with them ; every 
 thing prospered. Mr. Banks, to their great sur- 
 prise, never came near them. He contented him- 
 self with sending them a yearly present ; and heard 
 of the birth of each succeeding child with a fresh 
 burst of merriment. Their children, all girls, were 
 six in number; and their income was now about 
 three thousand dollars a year. 
 
 Mr. Webb, in the most peaceable, unaccountable 
 manner, had been allowed the pleasure of naming 
 four of his children. Perhaps — for woman's ten- 
 derness will sometimes increase — perhaps she felt 
 for his first disappointment ; and, as it rose out of 
 the caprice of a relative of her own, she deter- 
 
THE LITTLE COUPLE. 235 
 
 mined on remaining quiet, only resolving to inter- 
 fere if an outrageously romantic name presented 
 itself to his imagination. 
 
 The first child literally had no name until the 
 birth of the second ; then, as the " child," or the 
 " baby" could no longer distinguish it, they took it 
 to the font and had it christened. The clergyman, 
 old Mr. Saxeweld, was then a stranger to them, for 
 through very shame they would not apply to their 
 own pastor. He did not rightly understand what 
 Mr. Webb said, when he demanded the name of the 
 child, for he never, for a moment, dreamed of Gul- 
 liver. He asked over and over again, and still the 
 sound of Glumdalclitch came to his ear. "Is it a 
 French name V said he, looking angrily at Mrs. 
 Webb, who, nothing disconcerted by all this hub- 
 bub about the name, was enjoying the triumph 
 which she should have over her husband when she 
 got home, in telling him that there was one other 
 person in the world beside herself who had not 
 read Gulliver's Travels. 
 
 Mr. Webb was ready to sink in the earth ; he 
 felt that he could at that moment renounce the 
 world and all its vanities, as well as the child's 
 income, which had caused all this disgrace. 
 
 " I presume," said Mr. Saxeweld, willing to put 
 an end to the scene, " I presume it is a French 
 name. Colombo — what?" But Mr. Webb was past 
 appeal; he felt a hollow ringing in his ears; and, 
 in time to save him from fainting, the child was 
 christened Colombe. 
 
 The clergyman, a testy old man, was so pro- 
 voked at what he thought stupidity in the father of 
 the child, that he felt disposed to rebuke him ; and 
 when poor Mr. Webb turned to him, as he was 
 leaving the church, to offer him the accustomed 
 fee, he not only refused it, but broke out in this way 
 — " Never come to me again ; vou, with a name 
 
236 THE LITTLE COUPLE. 
 
 bigger than your whole body; and which is too 
 long for your mouth to utter. If it had not been 
 for my knowledge of French, I should have chris- 
 tened your child Glumdalclitch, and it would have 
 been serving you right if I had." 
 
 After Colombe came Flora, then Rosa, then Imo- 
 gen, then Christabelle ; and, when the sixth was 
 old enough for baptism, while Mr. Webb was de- 
 ciding between Diana and Lilius, Mrs. Webb went 
 to church during a week-day service, with a friend, 
 and came home in triumph, with the only Christian 
 name, as she said, in the family — it was Rebecca. 
 Mr. Webb thanked his stars that it was no worse. 
 
 Old Mr. Banks made no other remarks, when he 
 heard of the mistake in the child's name, than that 
 the income should now be divided between the chil- 
 dren, as at the time he did not imagine that the little 
 girl would ever have any rivals. When the little 
 Rebecca was about two years old, the old gentle- 
 man took it into his head to pay the tiny family a 
 visit, to see how they all looked together. 
 
 Early, one fine spring morning, he made his ap- 
 pearance at Oak Valley, accompanied by Stephen 
 Haywood, with whose father he had long been ac- 
 quainted. While on the way to the farm, he enter- 
 tained our young friend Stephen with an account of 
 his first interview with the little couple and their 
 tiny little child. " How I shall stand it now," said 
 he, " I cannot tell ; but I am sixteen years older, 
 and a man of eighty has nearly expended all his 
 laughter. It is high time, I think." 
 
 Young Haywood, who, although not introduced 
 to the family at that time, yet knew them well, 
 from report, could not help smiling; but the old 
 gentleman's attention was soon directed to the neat- 
 ness and order of the farm ; and, when Stephen 
 asked him if he had an idea that the children were 
 
THE LITTLE COUPLE. 237 
 
 all as small as their parents, he could scarcely an- 
 swer. 
 
 " Assuredly they are ; why, if any one of thr six 
 had been but an inch taller than themselves, they 
 would have sent an express to me at Jamaica." 
 
 A servant came to the door, and Mr. Banks 
 asked eagerly, if Mr. and Mrs. Webb and the six 
 little children were at home. The girl stared, but 
 replied that Mr. and Mrs. Webb, and some of the 
 children, were in the garden, and some of the 
 younger ones were in the nursery ; but that Miss 
 Webb, the eldest daughter, was in the parlour. 
 " Show me in, show me in," said he ; and into the 
 room he nimbly stepped, winking aside to young 
 Haywood, to express his glee. He seemed quite 
 disappointed at seeing only a middle sized young 
 lady sitting there. She arose on the old gentle- 
 man's precipitate entrance, while he exclaimed, " I 
 thought to find one of Mr. Webb's tiny little chil- 
 dren here." 
 
 " I am Mr. Webb's eldest daughter," said the 
 young lady, blushing, " my parents will be in pre- 
 sently — will you sit down?" and she presented each 
 gentleman with a chair. 
 
 Never was man more amazed — this young lady 
 his little niece's daughter? — he certainly saw a like- 
 ness ; but it was altogether a puzzle. At length he 
 roused himself to say, " Why did not your mother 
 write me word that they had a child as tall as you 
 arc? What is your name? Oh, — I remember — 
 Colombo. It is a foolish name enough; but it might 
 have been worse. Never mind, my dear, I will 
 make you amends for your French name ; better 
 though than — but no matter ; let me introduce you 
 to Mr. Stephen Haywood." 
 
 Just then the door opened, and his niece, with 
 her husband, and the five children, made their ap- 
 pearance. But if Mr. Banks was amazed at seeing 
 x 
 
238 THE LITTLE COUPLE. 
 
 the respectable height of the eldest daughter, how 
 much more so was he when he saw that there was 
 nof'.one of the diminutive stature of the parents. 
 Even the youngest, a rosy little girl, just begin- 
 ning to walk, bade fair to be as tall as her sisters. 
 Mrs. Webb enjoyed her uncle's amazement; not 
 without suspicion, however, that he was disappoint- 
 ed at bottom, because there were no dwarfs among 
 them. But in a short time, the old gentleman's 
 good-natured eye glistened at the pictures of health, 
 order and obedience of the children, and at the im- 
 proved looks of the parents. He did not laugh 
 once during his visit, which was of a week's dura- 
 tion ; and when he left them, he had the satisfac- 
 tion of seeing that Stephen Haywood was following 
 his advice; which was, to fall. in love with his 
 pretty pigeon as fast as possible. 
 
 
THE BAKER'S DOZEN. 
 
 " Mrs. Bangs, look here," said the cook, " look 
 at this queer thing in the turkey's craw; it looks 
 for all the world like a brickbat." 
 
 " O never mind the brickbat," said Mrs. Bangs, 
 " let that alone ; 'tis no concern of ours — only make 
 haste and prepare the turkey for the spit. Your 
 head is always running after things that don't con- 
 cern you." 
 
 Thus spoke Mrs. Bangs, the mother of thirteen 
 children, all girls. She was a strong, healthy 
 woman of fifty years of age, and in the three 
 characters of daughter, wife and mother, had been 
 exemplary. She was the only child of a respecta- 
 ble farmer, and at her parent's death inherited the 
 farm which a few years after her marriage rose 
 greatly in value. It was on the outskirts of a popu- 
 lous city which had increased so rapidly that at 
 the birth of her second child the farm was laid out 
 in streets, in every one of which they had sold 
 several lots for buildings. 
 
 Her husband was a chemist, and his laboratory 
 was very near this valuable property, so that he 
 could attend to his business in the manufactory and 
 look after the workmen who were building his 
 houses. What Mr. Bangs learned during his ap- 
 
240 the baker's dozen. 
 
 prenticeship, that he knew well, and on that 
 stock of knowledge he operated all his life. He 
 manufactured the best aqua ammonia in the coun- 
 try, free from that empyreumatic, old tobacco-pipe 
 taste and smell, which it has in general when made 
 in America, and his salt of tartar had not an 
 opaque grain in it. Thus it was with all the drugs 
 that he made, for he was more intent upon keeping 
 up his good name than in making money speedily, 
 and his pride was in having it said that Christo- 
 pher Bangs's word was as good as his bond. Fur- 
 ther than this there was but little to be said, except- 
 ing that he was a disappointed man, and had the 
 feeling of being ill used. 
 
 This disappointment consisted in not having a 
 son — one, he said, who could take up the business 
 when he laid it down — one to whom he could con- 
 fide the few secrets of his trade. 
 
 When the birth of the first girl was announced, 
 it was very well ; not that he did not fret in 
 secret, but he took it as a thing of course, and 
 as he was daily in the habit of hearing Mrs. 
 Bangs congratulate herself that the child was 
 a girl, because she could assist her in her house- 
 hold cares, he was resigned to it, although it 
 was full three months before his club mates were 
 told of his having an increase of family. But he 
 really did murmur when the second girl came. 
 " Why, at this rate," said he, indignantly, " I can- 
 not have a child named after me at all. Christo- 
 pher Bangs will end with me, and who is to be the 
 better of all the valuable secrets of the labora- 
 tory?" 
 
 " Oh, la! my dear," said his wife, " let that alone, 
 it's no concern of ours, and as to the child's name, 
 don't fret about that, for can't I name this dear 
 chubby little thing Christina, the short of which is 
 Kitty, and that is as good as Kit any day in the 
 
the baker's dozen. 241 
 
 year ; and only think what a help this dear, chubby 
 little thing will be to her sister." 
 
 Mr. Bangs sulked out of the room and went to 
 his laboratory, and his wife went through her 
 nursing and household duties with double alacrity. 
 The third daughter came, and Mr. Bangs heard it 
 with surprise that bordered on despair. " Never 
 mind it, Kit," said the contented, good-tempered 
 Mrs. Bangs ; " we'll call this dear, chubby, little 
 thing after your old uncle Joseph; Josephine is a 
 very pretty name." 
 
 " I don't care what you call it," said her crusty 
 husband; "I consider myself as an ill used, injured 
 man ; only I hope, since you like girls so well, that 
 you may have a round dozen of them." 
 
 "Oh la! husband, what makes you so spiteful 
 against girls?" said she — " but let that alone, it is 
 no concern of ours — a dozen, indeed ! how do you 
 think we can manage to live in this small house 
 with so large a family? You must build a bigger 
 house, man; so, my dear Kit, set about it," — and 
 this was all the concern it gave her. 
 
 After that he troubled himself no more with 
 inquiries about the sex of the child, and in due 
 time, one after the other, the round dozen came. 
 The only thing that troubled the contented, busy 
 woman was the naming of the little girls. She 
 certainly, when she could spare her thoughts from 
 her increased cares, would have liked a boy now 
 and then, to please her husband ; but as this was 
 not to be, she did the next best thing to it — she 
 gave them all boys' names. So, after the first, 
 which was called Robina, came Christina, then 
 Josephine, then Phillippa, Augusta, Johanna, Ga- 
 briella, Georgiana, and Wilhelmina. At the birth of 
 her tenth child she paused — her father's name was 
 Jacob, and as she had name Gabriella after her 
 husband's father, Gabriel, she thought it but lair to 
 x 2 
 
242 the baker's dozen. 
 
 honour her own likewise — but Jacob ! However, 
 she was not a woman to stop at trifles, even if she 
 had the time; so the poor, little, chubby thing — for 
 now she added poor to the chubby — the poor, 
 chubby, little thing was called Jacobina. Then in 
 due time came the eleventh, which was Frederica — 
 — the twelfth, Benjamina — " and now," said the 
 still happy Mrs. Bangs, " what to call my baker's 
 dozen is more than I can tell. I have one more than 
 Christopher wished me to have, but let that alone ; 
 'tis no concern of ours ; only Robina, dear, step to 
 the parlour and tell your father what a strait I am 
 in about the name. There is his friend, Floss ; he 
 has a curly headed, chubby little boy by the name 
 of Francis, and it is a girl's name too; ask him if 
 he would like to name the poor, dear, chubby, little 
 thing after his friend's son." 
 
 " Tell your mother — are you Phillippy ?" " No, 
 father, I am Robina." " You are all so much alike," 
 said he, " that I don't know you apart ; girls all look 
 alike; now if one of you had been a boy, as any 
 reasonable man had a right to expect, I could have 
 told the difference. It is a hard thing that a man 
 cannot tell one child from another, a thing that I 
 could have done if they had been boys." 
 
 " But mother knows us all apart," said Robina, 
 " and so do Hannah French and our dear grand- 
 father and grandmother Bangs — thev never arc in 
 doubt." 
 
 " Don't tell me this," said surly Mr. Bangs, " for 
 have I not heard your mother call you the one half 
 of four or five names before she could hit on the 
 right one? Does she not call out 'Phil — Will — 
 Fred — Jo — Ben — Robina, fetch me the poor, dear, 
 chubby, little thing out of the cradle?' Tell her 
 that Fabius Floss won't think it any compliment to 
 name a girl after his fine little boy, and tell her that 
 
THE BAKER'S DOZEN. 213 
 
 I am not going to stand godfather to any more of 
 her children, for I am tired of it." 
 
 " But the name, father — shall mother call it 
 Frances V 
 
 " She may call it Souse if she likes ; what is the 
 name of a girl to me ? it is all one, so go away, 
 Robina, for I am busy." 
 
 " Christopher Bangs was now a rich man, and 
 was cautious and prudent in all his money matters, 
 but he had no more care of his children and house- 
 hold than if he were the great-grandfather. He 
 arose early, went to the workshop, saw that every 
 thing went right there, returned home at eight, 
 with the certainty of finding the breakfast waiting 
 for him. At this meal he only saw some of the 
 eldest of the girls, but being a man of few words, 
 and looking on women and girls as mere workers, 
 and of a different race, he had no thoughts in com- 
 mon with them. The conversation, therefore, was 
 all on the part of Mrs. Bangs, who told of the price 
 of beef and poultry, and what her husband might 
 expect at dinner. He nodded his head drily, but 
 said nothing, being sure that, come what would, he 
 should find an excellent meal. He gave her as 
 much money as she wanted, a privilege which 
 she never abused, and all he had to do was to 
 build a new house whenever she presented him 
 with another poor, chubby, little thing ; for she had 
 resolved that every child should have a house. 
 
 Exactly at one o'clock his dinner was ready, and 
 at this meal all the children were assembled — for, 
 as his wife observed, if he did not see them all 
 together once a day, he might chance to forget 
 some of them ; so, in time, Frances, the baker's 
 dozen, came to sit on Mrs. Bangs's lap. Every day 
 he made the same remark on entering the dining 
 room, the children all being seated before he 
 entered, that the bustle of placing them might be 
 
24 i the baker's dozen. 
 
 over before he came — "What! here you allure, 
 all waiting I see ; well, keep quiet and help one 
 another; don't expect me to do more than carve." 
 
 Mrs. Bangs had drilled the children well, for a 
 more orderly, peaceable set were never seen. Her 
 chief aim was to keep them from troubling their 
 father. "Poor man," she would say, "he must 
 not be plagued with noise, for what with the busi- 
 ness of the laboratory and building new houses, his 
 hands are full — but let that alone, 'tis no concern 
 of ours." 
 
 She never thought of her own full hands ; for she 
 was of a nature that delighted in work, and in doing 
 things regularly and methodically, and all the girls 
 were like her. Busy, busy, busy, they all were 
 from morning till night, and most happily busy. It 
 was making, and mending, and razeeing, and 
 cooking, and preserving, and housekeeping, and 
 shopping, and keeping accounts. Was not this 
 quite enough to occupy them? 
 
 Mr. Bangs built houses and Mrs. Bangs looked 
 to the tenants and collected the rents. The only 
 thing she knew, out of the routine of her family 
 duties, was the various w r ays of disposing of 
 money, and before she w r as the mother of three 
 children she made herself fully acquainted with the 
 meaning of the terms dividends, stock, per centage, 
 mortgages and notes of hand. She put the money in the 
 bank as fast as she received it, and Mr. Bangs drew 
 checks to any amount she chose — well he might. 
 
 Mrs. Bangs thought it more suitable and eco- 
 nomical to have a governess for her daughters, so 
 she hired a decent young person, who was an 
 excellent needle woman, and who could write and 
 cipher admirably. Reading and spelling, Mrs. 
 Bangs said, seemed to come " by nature" with the 
 poor, dear, chubby, little things; how else could 
 they learn, for poor Hannah French was as deaf 
 
the taker's dozen. 245 
 
 as a post. So eternally busy were they all from 
 morning till ten at night, that Robina, a pretty, 
 delicate girl, with a good understanding, and very 
 excitable, had never found time to cultivate the 
 acquaintance of any of the young girls of her own 
 age, although in the abstract there was no unwil- 
 lingness to it. Neither her father nor mother 
 would have hindered her, but sisters and com- 
 panions came so fast at home, and that home was 
 made so happy by her active, well-principled mo- 
 ther, that there was no craving for out-door society. 
 
 Mrs. Bangs was a pious and benevolent woman 
 too, and after going through all her home duties 
 she thought of the poor, and three days she set 
 apart in every month to sew for them. All the 
 children, down to the baker's dozen, felt this as 
 part of their duty, and they no more thought it 
 possible to break through the rule than not to eat 
 when they were hungry. It was a leant which they 
 sought to attain like any other want or comfort. 
 
 Mrs. Bangs never staid to inquire whether the 
 poor wretches were worthy of her attentions — "Let 
 that alone," she would say, " 'tis no concern of 
 ours." She reverently left it to a higher power to 
 judge of their worthiness. All she had to do was 
 to feed the hungry and clothe the naked, choosing 
 old age and infancy whenever she could, for the 
 objects of her bounty. The children thus brought 
 up, I should like to know, — as they did their own 
 clearstarching, knitted stockings for their father, 
 grandfather, and three aged uncles, made their 
 own linen and worked all the baby caps, as well as 
 sewed for the poor — I should like to know what 
 time they had to gossip or make acquaintances, 
 excepting with the poor? 
 
 They had no time — even on Sunday their faces 
 were not familiar to the congregation, for a cot- 
 tage bonnet and a veil kept them from gazing 
 
246 THE BAKER'S D02EN*. 
 
 about ; so the conversation, when they returned, 
 was not about the dress or spiteful looks of this 
 person or that. If by accident an observation was 
 made, indiscreetly, the mother would stop them 
 immediately by her eternal saying — " Let that 
 alone, 'tis no concern of ours." 
 
 She kept her accounts in excellent order, ini- 
 tiating her children early in the mysteries of bank 
 stock operations ; for when it came to be explained 
 to them in the mother's simple way, the children 
 understood it as well as A, B, C. It is the hard 
 words, and the mystification, and solemn nonsense 
 kept up about it that keeps women so ignorant and 
 helpless in these matters, and makes them so 
 entirely dependent on men, who nineteen times out 
 of twenty cheat them when they become widows. 
 
 As their wealth increased, so were her benevo- 
 lent feelings excited, and Mr. Bangs was no hin- 
 derance, for he had no love of hoarding now that 
 there were no boys to inherit his property. " Ne- 
 ver mind that, Christopher," she would say, when 
 this sore subject was touched upon, " let that 
 alone, 'tis no concern of ours ; but I am of opinion 
 that every man should make a will, and here is one 
 that I drew up, which I wish you to sign." "I'll 
 tell you what it is, Molly Bangs," said he, on 
 reading the will, " I'll do none of this. I've made 
 my will already, and if you outlive me then all 
 belongs to you; but if you die first, then I mean to 
 marry again, because the chance is that I may 
 have sons; for I tell you that such secrets as I have 
 to disclose about my business ought not to die with 
 a man." 
 
 Mrs. Bangs knew her husband's obstinacy too 
 well to make further words about the matter, so 
 she set herself to work to remedy the evil. Instead 
 of wanting to build a hospital or an asylum for 
 the poor and destitute, she built a row of houses 
 
the baker's dozen. 247 
 
 in one of the back streets of her valuable lot of 
 ground, for poor widows with young children, and 
 she studied their comfort in every thing. Each di- 
 vision, for the row was uniform and fire-proof, con- 
 sisted of four rooms, two below, and two above. 
 The sitting room and bed-rooms were warmed by 
 means of heated air from a furnace in the kitchen, 
 which was so constructed that the cooking was done 
 at the same fire. Even the stove pipe which was 
 carried up to let off' the gas and smoke, threw all 
 the external heat into the room above, so that all 
 was kept warm by one fire. The cistern of rain 
 water was close to the kitchen, and the water was 
 drawn within by means of Hale's rotary pump. 
 Drinking-water was likewise introduced by a pipe, 
 and a drain carried off all the slops from the house. 
 She could not bear to think that poor women should 
 have to put up with so many inconveniences, when 
 it cost so little to make them comfortable. 
 
 When a very rich man has a few lots in an out 
 of the way place, he builds a row of houses for poor 
 people and gets a good rent for them — enjoining it on 
 his agent not to let a poor widow have any one of 
 them; because, if she should be unable to pay her 
 rent, he would be ashamed to sell her little furni- 
 ture. His houses are miserably built, generally one 
 brick thick, and with only one coat of plaster on 
 the walls; no crane in the kitchen, no cistern, no 
 well, no comfort of any kind. The poor tenants 
 might think themselves well off with having the 
 shell to cover them. 
 
 Mrs. Bangs knew that the life to come was a long 
 one — to last for ever ; so she thought it was not 
 worth while to hoard up money for the very short 
 time she had to live here. She had a great love of 
 comfort herself, and so had all her children; and 
 they could not bear to set a poor widow in an empty 
 house, without even a closet to put her clothes in. 
 
248 THE BAKER'S DOZEN". 
 
 So she had closets made between the two bed rooms, 
 and likewise between the parlour and kitchen. And 
 she gave them a chance of helping themselves still 
 further by having a good deep, dry cellar, where 
 they could keep their half barrel of fish, and their 
 little joints of meat, and small pots of butter from 
 the heats of summer, and their vegetables from the 
 frosts of winter, and why coal and wood should be 
 kept out of doors in winter was more than she 
 could tell. It was easy to build a cellar, she thought, 
 and so the cellars were made. " It seems to me," 
 she continued to say, " that men have no idea of 
 comfort themselves, or they would not grudge it to 
 their poor tenants ; women understand these matters 
 better, and as God has endowed them with greater 
 sensibilities than the other sex, why it is incumbent 
 on them to show their grateful sense of this partial- 
 ity in their favour ; and how can we show it but by 
 attending to those little things which make up, by 
 their great number, all the happiness of life? Men 
 never view the subject in this light, but let that 
 alone, 'tis no concern of ours." 
 
 The thirty houses, with the plainest furniture that 
 could be bought, cost exactly thirty thousand dol- 
 lars — the precise sum she intended to appropriate 
 to them. Fuel and repairs and taxes cost her twelve 
 hundred a year; this with the interest on the thirty 
 thousand, came to three thousand dollars a year. 
 With an income of more than thirty thousand, and 
 the prospect of a great rise in the value of her lots 
 of ground, what was the annual loss of three thou- 
 sand dollars? 
 
 As it was solely for poor widows that this charity 
 was built, she did not allow a woman to live in one 
 of the houses a moment after she married again; 
 nor would she take a woman who had been twice a 
 widow. When the children grew up and were no 
 longer a burden to their mother, then this mother 
 
THE BAKER'S DOZEN". 219 
 
 was allowed a dollar a week, and placed comforta- 
 bly with one of her children elsewhere, and this sum 
 was continued until the child was able to maintain 
 her. To see that no one imposed upon her became 
 one of her tasks; but she was seldom deceived, for 
 she made many allowances for poor people. She 
 even made more allowances for them, than for the 
 rich; for poverty, she thought, was such an evil in 
 itself that we should not expect all the virtues to 
 centre in the poor alone. If she saw that some lit- 
 tle unfair attempt was made to excite her pity, she 
 would wink at it and say, " let that alone, 'tis no 
 concern of ours ; of one thing I am certain, deceive 
 me in other things as they may, the poor things are 
 in great want, and must be helped through with it." 
 Mr. Bangs did nothing towards all this ; but still I 
 wish him to keep some hold of my leaders' good 
 opinion, for was it not a great merit to let his excel- 
 lent wife manage as she liked ? 
 
 To be sure the farm, and all the income ever to 
 be derived from it, w r ere made fast, by will to his 
 wife and her heirs ; but a man knows that there are 
 one or two lawyers always at hand to pick flaws in 
 a will; and a suit can be carried up to the court of 
 errors, and there brought to issue in his favour, al- 
 though neither law nor equity is on his side. So 
 Mr. Bangs, knowing this, would not go to law; for, 
 thought he, whether I should win or lose, the whole 
 would go to the lawyers ; and as the farm w r as really 
 intended, by the father, to belong to her and hers, 
 why e'en let them have it; but I must say it is hard 
 that I can't have a boy." 
 
 In the course of time Francis Floss, the foreman 
 of the shop, had a regular invitation to sit in their 
 pew at church, partake of their Sunday dinner, and 
 join in their walk after church. Mr. Bangs begged 
 the lad of his father when he was of a suitable age, 
 for the laboratorv, and he being of a curious and 
 
250 THE BAKER'S DOZEN. 
 
 ingenious turn and very industrious, came not only 
 to find out all the little secrets of the art, so tena- 
 ciously withheld from all eyes by simple Mr. Bangs, 
 but to add more to the stock of knowledge. He 
 could not but see that his apprentice had outwitted 
 him, and that he more than rivalled him in his art; 
 but he would not allow himself to get angry about 
 it, for two reasons — one was, that if he quarrelled 
 with him, the young man w T ould leave him and set up 
 for himself — the other reason was, that he intended 
 Francis Floss for the husband of his wife's baker's 
 dozen. 
 
 A young man in love with a beautiful girl, with 
 the prospect of a handsome independence with her, 
 does not pay particular attention to the extent of 
 her acquirements. Inquisitive as Mr. Floss might 
 be in general, he was in utter ignorance of all 
 things that concerned the education of Mr. Bangs's 
 family. He fell in love with Fanny, before he 
 thought of her mind or her qualifications. He knew 
 how far the mind of Christopher Bangs stretched; 
 but he had great reliance that all was right at home, 
 for every body allowed that Mrs. Bangs was a sen- 
 sible, notable, thrifty, shrewd, energetic, capable 
 woman, and he knew that all the virtues and talent 
 generally come from the motherly side of the 
 house. Of the daughters no one knew any thing, 
 excepting the shopkeepers and poor people; the for- 
 mer thought them sensible and modest, and the lat- 
 ter loved them entirely. All this, and he saw that 
 she w 7 as docile and affectionate at home, was for- 
 tune enough for him, as he was thoroughly in love. 
 He made proposals and was accepted — by all. Mr. 
 Bangs for once in his life, would have asked the 
 reason why, if he had been rejected. I think that 
 all the girls loved Frank Floss nearly as well as 
 Fanny did. 
 
 It was on the wedding day, and preparing the 
 
the baker's dozen. 251 
 
 wedding dinner, that the cook called Mrs. Bangs's 
 attention to the piece of brickbat in the turkey's 
 craw. Four of her daughters were assisting like- 
 wise, but I guess that they did not stop to inquire or 
 even look at the stone. Their work was to attend 
 to the jellies and pastry — pleasant work for women, 
 rich or poor. If they had found a whole brick 
 in the craw, all their care would be to see that the 
 cook got it out without breaking the skin. But let 
 that alone, as Mrs. Bangs says, 'tis no concern of 
 ours. 
 
 The happy Francis Floss took his beautiful bride 
 home to a handsome, well-furnished house ; and 
 never was there a bride that had less to do with 
 sublunary affairs than Mrs. Bangs's thirteenth daugh- 
 ter. For in the first place, there was she — the mo- 
 ther — both able and willing to relieve her darling of 
 all the cares of marketing. There were Robina, 
 Christina, Josephine and Philippa, by right of seni- 
 ority and by having taught her to read and spell — 
 for good Hannah French being very deaf could not 
 make much display of erudition in these branches 
 — and by making and mending for her all her brief 
 life, were they not fairly entitled to do the same kind 
 offices for her still, particularly as she had now a 
 husband who would require all her time? There 
 were Augusta, Johanna, Gabriella, and Georgiana, 
 what suited them as well as to go from the garret to 
 the cellar, and thence back again, to see that no 
 dust or cobweb found a place there ? Were there 
 not Wilhelmina, Jacobina, Frederica, and Benjami- 
 na to fuss about the pantries and kitchen, and to 
 keep the larders and store room filled with the 
 choicest and best ? 
 
 There was deaf Hannah French, too, to see that 
 the fire was carefully raked up at night ; for Han- 
 nah, on the evening of the wedding day, without 
 question, or leave, or license — but to no one's sur- 
 
252 the baker's dozen. 
 
 prise — quietly took her night things and her little 
 work basket, and followed the bride home. She 
 took possession of a snug room in the back build- 
 ing, which room she kept till her dying day. And 
 there was Mr. Bangs himself; did he not every 
 night, on his way home from his club, where he 
 had spent all his evenings, excepting Sunday, for 
 thirty years; did he not open the street door with 
 his night-key, walk to the back door, bolt that and 
 then latch the inside parlour window-shutters? He 
 did this at his own house, from the day of his mar- 
 riage, for his wife left this part of house-keeping 
 duty purposely for him, " to keep him in mind," she 
 said, "that he had a house and family to protect 
 from thieves." Fanny Floss thought it part of her 
 duty to let her father do this for her likewise; and 
 her husband was so accustomed to all their ways, 
 that he naturally fell into these agreeable regulari- 
 ties himself. 
 
 Well, then, Mr. Floss was a happy man ; he 
 went to the laboratory and came home ; went and 
 came; went and came, for seven years; and when- 
 ever his step was heard in the hall Fanny ran to 
 meet him, to give him a kiss. If it rained, there 
 was a dry coat ready for him; and if the day 
 were warm, then she stood in the hall with a thin 
 coat and a glass of lemonade. Every evening he 
 saw her in the rocking-chair, either sewing or knit- 
 ting ; for now the three days for the poor had grown 
 to three times three. Her good temper and excel- 
 lent nature never varied ; she was the gentlest, the 
 tenderest, the purest and the most devoted wife that 
 man was ever blessed with — what could he desire 
 more ? Did he wish her altered ? Would any 
 man wish such a wife to change? 
 
 Mr. Floss, as I observed, had an inquiring mind, 
 and he went on from one point to another until he 
 became a man of consequence ; and, as Mr. Bangs 
 
I HE BAKER'S DOZEN'. 25.3 
 
 predicted, token he saw his name up, he was a can- 
 didate for Congress. Mrs. Bangs had some indis- 
 tinct notion that a Congressman was a grandee; 
 but it passed through her head like a dream ; for it 
 was only in her dreams that her fancy was ever 
 excited. Her daughters never so much as pon- 
 dered on the word; and as to Fanny, that sweetest 
 and gentlest of human beings, it would have been 
 cruel to mention the thing to her. Going to Con- 
 gress would have sounded to her like going down 
 a deep pit, among miners; or sailing in an open 
 boat to Botany Bay. "Don't tell Fanny of it, my 
 dear Francis; it will only set her to wondering 
 and crying, for she can't understand it," said good 
 Mrs. Bangs ; " but let that alone, 'tis no concern of 
 ours." 
 
 »So Mr. Floss said nothing when he went home; 
 and, in the evening, as Fanny sat in the rocking 
 chair, singing an evening hymn, in a low, sweet 
 voice, he looked steadily at her, for five minutes, 
 and watched the innocent play of her beautiful mo- 
 dest face, and gave the matter up. " It will never 
 do," said he, " for as to leaving her behind, that is 
 out of the question; neither of us could bear the 
 separation; and as to taking her to Washington — 
 Good Heavens !" 
 
 Well might he thus exclaim ; for, excepting to 
 knit, and sew, and work muslin, and do kind little 
 offices for the poor, and love her father and mother, 
 her twelve sisters — and, oh, best of all, her hus- 
 band, what else did Fanny Floss know ? — not an 
 earthly thing. 
 
 It was some time after his marriage before Mr. 
 Floss found it all out; but when the first surprise 
 was over, he soon got used to it; and, after a few 
 vain attempts to enlighten her, he gave it up, and 
 let his mind flow into other channels. He made 
 friends ; had dinner parties — Could not he give 
 y 2 
 
254 the baker's dozen. 
 
 dinner parties, with so many able and willing co- 
 adjutors ? — and nothing could show off to better 
 advantage than his beautiful, modest wife, and four 
 or live of her neat, happy sisters, scattered about 
 the dinner table. 
 
 "What was it," you ask, "that Fanny did not 
 know ?" All that she knew I have told you already, 
 gentle reader. Do you think that she ever so much 
 as dreamed that the earth moved around the sun ? 
 — that mahogany was once a tree? — that the car- 
 pet came from a sheep's back ? — that her bobbinet 
 lace came from a cotton pod ? — As to her silk dress, 
 could it be supposed that her imagination ever ran 
 riot so far as to believe that little worms spun the 
 web ? Does any one think for a moment, that she 
 knew that quills were plucked from the wing of a 
 goose? — that paper came from old rags? — that a 
 looking-glass was ever any thing but the smooth, 
 polished thing it now is ? She saw loads of hay 
 pass, and knew that horses were fed with it; but 
 she never speculated on the manner in which it 
 became hay. It is a chance if she knew that it 
 was once grass. Not that Fanny had never read 
 all this, when very young, in her little books ; but 
 she read without letting any thing make an impres- 
 sion. Nothing was a mystery to her; she never 
 made a doubt of any thing; but took things and 
 left them just as she found them, either in books or 
 in conversation. 
 
 Once her husband said, " I wonder whether they 
 pull the feathers from the tail of the ostrich while 
 he is alive?" "Would it hurt him if they did ?" 
 said Fanny. " Yes, I presume it would," replied 
 he. " Then they wait till the poor thing dies," 
 quoth she — " only look, dear husband, see that 
 merry little group of children, all boys too; how 
 my father would rejoice if they were all his sons." 
 
 You will ask whether Fanny ever took a walk. 
 
THE DOZEff. 255 
 
 Yes, often ; her husband had great delight in letting 
 her hang on his arm, and walk up the long street 
 with him. Sometimes, on Sunday, after church, 
 they strayed as far as the commons; she, pouring 
 out her grateful feelings for being allowed to enjoy 
 the bright sunshiny day, and accustoming her hus- 
 band to dwell on the Divine source whence all our 
 blessings flow. Mr. Floss, himself, had a hard 
 bringing up; to obey his father and mother; keep 
 himself neat and clean; to bring home medals 
 from school, and to be honest in his dealings, were 
 all that he had to observe. Fanny never dipped 
 into his mind, or she would have seen how cold and 
 barren all lay there; while, outward, all was so fair. 
 She thought that every one's heart — but no — Fanny 
 never speculated on any thing; she talked to her 
 husband as if his heart was of the same mould as 
 hers. He dipped into her mind though ; and the 
 purity and excellence of it more than compensated 
 for her want of worldly knowledge. So all the 
 way from church he listened to the outpourings of 
 her spirit ; always fresh and animated, and clothed 
 in a language peculiar to herself; for Fanny knew 
 nothing of the forms and phrases in which bigots 
 disguise the truth. 
 
 Her husband, therefore, listened and loved ; nnd, 
 at length, he loved the subject; so that her very 
 simplicity was the means of his becoming a reli- 
 gious man. " To meet you in Heaven, my Fanny," 
 he said, one day, " I must strive to think on these 
 subjects as you do. I am afraid I shall not be found 
 worthy to join you there." 
 
 ' " But you do think as I do, love," said she, look- 
 ing affrighted — "you do — and you think more than 
 I do; you can argue better. I never think at all; all 
 my feelings come naturally. You will go to hea- 
 ven, my Francis, for the prayers of the humble 
 and penitent are heard; and is there a night, nay 
 
256 the baker's dozen. 
 
 an hour in the day, that my spirit is not lifted up to 
 ask for forgiveness for you and for us all V 
 
 "You are so merry and cheerful, my dear Fanny, 
 that one would not suppose you were in prayer so 
 constantly." 
 
 "Well, Francis, and is not that the time to pray? 
 — why must God be addressed only in darkness, and 
 when we are ill and sad ? Then we pray*through 
 fear and selfishness. It is when I am happy and 
 merry that I am most afraid of committing sin ; and 
 it is then, too, that I feel God's goodness and mercy 
 most. Dear Francis, what a pleasure it is to feel 
 this bright, warm sun shine on our face ; and see, 
 that little dog barks in very gladness, too, for I see 
 nothing near it to make it bark. He feels the 
 warmth and it gives, him pleasure ; but he forgets 
 it, you see, and falls to quarrelling with that little 
 black dog, for the bone. God is ever present to me, 
 my husband, and that keeps me merry and cheer- 
 ful. I am sure I have no wish to quarrel for any 
 thing." 
 
 " I believe it, Fanny," said her husband, as he 
 pressed her arm closely to his heart; "and I will 
 let this thought sink deep, that I may in time come 
 to be merry and cheerful in your way." 
 
 And then they w T ould walk on till they reached 
 the commons, where they were sure to meet some 
 of the family; and there talk over the subjects of 
 the sermon — when they could understand it, which 
 w T as not very often the case. The exposition of a 
 doubtful text never m.'.de any thing the clearer to 
 these simple minded people. They had the Scrip- 
 tures, and they believed in the holy book most sin- 
 cerely; nothing w r as a mystery to them; they 
 thought that the words and actions of our blessed 
 Saviour were easy enough to comprehend; and 
 that they were all-sufficient to our salvation. They 
 could not imagine why clergymen darkened up a 
 
the baker's dozen. 257 
 
 point by hard words and cramped unintelligible 
 terms and phrases, when the meaning was so clear 
 to them. As to the doctrine of the Trinity — even 
 Fanny, the least gifted, as to acuteness of intellect 
 — even she could believe all and adore; for a tree, 
 the sun, moon and stars, a living, moving being, 
 and, above all, that perpetual spring of love which 
 she felt within her towards the Almighty, towards 
 her family, and towards her husband — all this was 
 quite as incomprehensible to her as what her reli- 
 gion enjoined on her to believe. So that Fanny 
 never speculated even on this subject. 
 
 Mr. Bangs felt nothing of all this ; and his Sun- 
 day walk was to the shipyards or arsenal; and his 
 Sunday talk, scanty enough, was of laying that that 
 are ship would outsail the other; and that that are 
 cannon would do for the English. He never would 
 walk with his daughters, because they were not 
 boys; and he always wound up by saying, " Time 
 enough to walk out with you when Fanny gives me 
 a grandson ; there will be some sense in my going 
 then." 
 
 But Mr. Bangs was doomed to disappointment; 
 for the little boy did not come ; nor was there any 
 sister to put his nose out of joint ; yet Mr. Floss 
 did not grieve, for Fanny was pet enough for him. 
 When he was tired out with business, and did not 
 want to take up a book, she would talk over her 
 thoughts and feelings. Heavens ! what a gush of 
 tenderness and pathos it was; and how the young 
 man's soul melted away in him as she talked — and 
 yet, what could it be about? 
 
 You will ask, perhaps, if Fanny ever read. Not 
 much. When a child, and learning to read, she had 
 little story-books of good and naughty boys and 
 girls, which she read over and over again — wept 
 over often — but sensible Mrs. Bangs saw no use in 
 all this, and she therefore seldom opened her polish- 
 
258 the baker's dozex. 
 
 ed, mahogany book-case. Fanny loved poetry, 
 tender, pathetic poetry ; but as she selected only 
 such, and as it always set her crying and sobbing, 
 why, poetry was interdicted too. Mrs. Bangs gave 
 her son several hints on this point; a thing which 
 he soon found out of himself, as Fanny was made 
 perfectly unhappy for a whole week alter he had 
 read Keats's Isabella to her. JShc had the most 
 tender love for a virtuous and beautiful heroine; 
 the mishaps and death, therefore, which overtook 
 her, were taken to heart with such earnest grief 
 that Mr. Floss, after that, wisely, read all such 
 things to himself. In fact, it soon amounted to this, 
 that he never read aloud at all ; for works of wit 
 and fancy were lost on his gentle wife — a repartee 
 she thought must cost somebody pain, and that 
 brought no pleasure to her. 
 
 While her husband read in the long winter even- 
 ings, she sat in her rocking-chair and knitted or 
 sewed ; and had many little pleasant chats with one 
 or the other of her sisters or her mother — Fanny 
 was never alone. Let us listen to what she is say- 
 ing to Robina ; raising her voice to its highest pitch, 
 that poor Hannah French, who now and then made 
 one of the evening party, might feel that she was 
 considered as one of the family. 
 
 " Oh, Robina, dear, what a delightful walk we 
 had. I just went up to the laboratory with Gabriella, 
 to say how do you do to my dear husband, when, 
 there he stood, ready for a walk, (here Mr. Floss 
 laid down his book to listen too) so up the road we 
 went; and the warm sunshine, and the brisk winds 
 seemed to be playing with each other, and gambol- 
 ling, as it were, before us. We both felt grateful 
 that we did not meet a single beggar or a discon- 
 tented face. So we walked around our own divi- 
 sion and inquired of the widows how they were 
 getting on ; and their glad looks, when they saw 
 
the baker's dozen. 259 
 
 my husband" — " It was you, Fanny," said he, in- 
 terrupting her, " I am certain it was your sweet 
 face, and not my hard, sunburnt one, that made 
 them brighten up so." 
 
 "Hannah French, has my husband a hard, sun- 
 burnt face?" said Fanny, raising her voice very 
 loud — for she knew how very handsome poor 
 Hannah thought he was. 
 
 " Sunburnt !" exclaimed Hannah, — " no, indeed 
 — sometimes I have seen it smutted with the stuff 
 which he is cooking over the great pots in his fur- 
 nace; but he is not sunburnt — he is fireburnt." 
 
 " There," said Mr. Floss, laughing, " you will not 
 appeal to Hannah French again about my beauty 
 — but go on, dearest; tell Gabriella all about your 
 walk. I should really be glad to know, too, for 
 although I was with you, yet my mind was so oc- 
 cupied with what I had been cooking, as Hannah 
 calls it, in that great pot, that I just followed where 
 you led ; and yet I was sensible, all the time, of 
 what you were saying. Her voice, Gabrielle, is 
 always so musical that I feel its influence even 
 when the sound only makes an impression." 
 
 " So mother always said," answered the modest 
 Gabriella. " Fanny never hurt her sweet voice by 
 crying or getting in a passion, as some of us did 
 when we were children." 
 
 Well, Fanny was not elated by all this fond 
 praise ; she felt that it was love which had dictated 
 if, and it came over her gentle nature like a sun- 
 beam, where all was mild and gracious before; she 
 laid her hand gently on her husband's arm and pro- 
 ceeded. 
 
 "All this took up half an hour; and, cool as the 
 weather was, I could not help thinking how much 
 of summer still remained ; for almost every win- 
 dow had rosebushes and geraniums in it, and our 
 widows' row looked like one long green-house; for 
 
260 the iukur's dozen*. 
 
 every window, there too, had a rosebush, full of 
 roses, in it. And that lemon tree belonging to Mrs. 
 Green — did I tell you, Hannah, that I bought you 
 that fine, large lemon tree 1 Poor Mrs. Green 
 hated to part with it; but it was too large for her 
 room. It has ten large, ripe lemons on it ; and 
 ever so many blossoms." 
 
 For fear of a mistake, Hannah feigned a little 
 more of deafness than belonged to her; but to have 
 her hopes destroyed by misapprehension was pain- 
 ful ; for, of all things, she coveted a lemon tree, 
 she so loved the smell of its delicate white blos- 
 soms. 
 
 Fanny repeated it loud enough to bring convic- 
 tion to poor Hannah ; and in a few moments the 
 ten lemons were appropriated to more uses than 
 one hundred could satisfy. Custard ! oh, how much 
 superior was a boiled custard, with the gratings of 
 a. fresh lemon; and many a glass of jelly did she 
 fancy herself making with the sprightly well ripened 
 juice; so much sprightlier, and having so much 
 more of a fperfume with it, than the stale, unripe 
 lemons of the shop — oh, how Hannah French, at 
 that moment, despised the shop lemons. And then 
 to surprise Mr. Floss with the half of a fine, w*ell 
 rolled, plump, ripe lemon on Sunday, to eat with 
 his fish or cutlet — on Sunday, when none could be 
 bought — and Hannah laughed out in very happi- 
 ness. The deaf have many pleasant, innocent, 
 fancies. 
 
 I hope, gentle reader, you do not think that 
 Fanny was an insipid kind of person. Oh, if you 
 could but know how much of beauty and loveli- 
 ness there is in a nature wherein truth dwells con- 
 stantly, you would covet to be like my Fanny. 
 Yet, although she never read any thing but the 
 Bible, or some good little pattern book, now and 
 then, — although she only visited the poor and com- 
 
the baker's dozev. 261 
 
 fortless, and knew nothing of a theatre, yet her 
 conversation was full of life; and, I might say, 
 poetry. Her soul was in such harmony with all 
 God's works; and there was such melody in her 
 accents, and such eloquence in her eye and her 
 smile — such devotion to those she loved, that no 
 one ever dreamed that she was an ignoramus. 
 
 Mr. Floss, as I before observed, after the first 
 surprise was over, doubted whether a woman more 
 learned would have made him half so happy. He 
 saw that other men did not care twopence for 
 their wives' sense or reading, after a month or so. 
 Very few, he observed, talked out of book to their 
 family, or seemed particularly pleased to hear that 
 their wives were reading women. 
 
 As to sights — no one ever thought of taking so 
 refined and delicate a creature as Fanny to see 
 them ; particularly such as the Siamese twins, or 
 fat children, or the wild beasts in their closely con- 
 fined, stifled menageries. She certainly knew that 
 there were wild beasts ; for well she remembered 
 how often she had cried over the story, in a little 
 gilt covered book, of the boy who went too near 
 the lion, and had his head struck off. But Fanny, 
 as she grew up, was not allowed to suffer her mind 
 to dwell on such things; her judicious mother said 
 there was too much of real life business to occupy 
 her without crying over little boys that had their 
 heads chopped off by wild beasts ; and, another 
 thing, she did not believe a word of the story — 
 " But, let that alone," said she, " Fanny dear, 'tis 
 no concern of ours." 
 
 But, although Fanny's thoughts and actions 
 were full of piety, yet there was nothing mawkish, 
 or canting, or tiresome, in her way of talking about 
 it. She made even the poor themselves feel cheer- 
 ful by her pleasant ways. It was not in her nature 
 to exact any thing of them in return for what she 
 
 z 
 
2&2 the baker's dozen. 
 
 did; nor did she pry into the little unhappy affairs 
 which had contributed to bring them to poverty. 
 It is only the callous heart that does this; only 
 those who wish to make themselves conspicuous 
 who ferret out the little miserable secrets of the 
 poor. 
 
 At length, on Christmas day, the little boy was 
 born; his mother's birth-day likewise; and it seem- 
 ed as if Mr. Bangs had never lived till that moment. 
 He was sitting in a very nervous, dogged, defying* 
 sort of way, by himself, in the front parlour, before 
 a large fire, having some anxiety about his daugh- 
 ter, but a greater sympathy for himself and his 
 thirteen disappointments, when Mrs. Bangs entered 
 the room. He turned slowly around and stared at 
 her with his mouth wide open, as she announced 
 that Fanny was safely through her trouble ; and 
 that Mr. Floss was too happy to do more than cry 
 like a child. 
 
 Mr. Bangs was speechless, while his wife expa- 
 tiated on Fanny's fortitude, and her anxiety to pre- 
 vent her mother from knowing what her sufferings 
 were. Still Mrs. Bangs did not hear the sound of 
 thanksgiving from his lips. She little dreamed that 
 the foolish old man's head was running on the sex 
 of the child. 
 
 " And — and — wife," said he at last, " it is a girl, 
 I presume ; nothing but girls in this life," said he, 
 as he jerked himself around and stared at the fire. 
 " I hope I shall be rewarded in the other world, by 
 having some of my girls turned to boys." 
 
 " Why, Christopher, did I not tell you that the 
 dear chubby little thing was a boy?" 
 
 " A boy !" exclaimed he, jumping on his feet, his 
 face flushed with agitation, " a boy — a boy — now, 
 Molly Bangs, are you sure? — take care — remem- 
 ber, a man can't bear disappointments for ever — 
 I've had thirteen, remember." 
 
the baker's dozex. 263 
 
 " Am I sure — certainly I am ; and a sweet, dear, 
 blessed, chubby little thing it is ; one roll of fat and 
 good nature ; and the very picture of you ; but let 
 that alone, 'tis no concern of ours, just now; but I 
 hope that you are suited at last." 
 
 Mr. Bangs could not speak ; but he untied his 
 cravat, and wiped the perspiration from his face, 
 while his wife stood looking at him with amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 "Why, Christopher — Kit, what ails you?" said 
 she, really frightened at this extraoi'dinary display 
 of animation — " is it possible that a boy sat so close 
 to your heart? and have you borne your thirteen 
 disappointments so long, and so well? I really give 
 you credit for not showing a great deal of ugly 
 temper; and now I trust that this dear, little, chubby 
 fellow will make amends." 
 
 " It will, Molly, it will : and I heartily forgive 
 you for giving me thirteen girls. How soon will 
 little Christopher walk? Hang it all; but he shall 
 have a hobby-horse as soon as he can call me 
 grandpapa. And you must dress him in his best 
 when I walk out with him. I'll take him to our 
 club, some warm evening. I'll not let a servant 
 touch him, to get his back broke, but will carry him 
 myself." 
 
 "Heaven help him," thought his wife, as she 
 slowly walked up stairs, " he is growing foolish." 
 
 But Mr. Bangs ! He went to the glass and said, 
 " Grandpa, grandpa," as if a child was calling him 
 — then he whistled and laughed. "Who is that," 
 said he, as one of his daughters entered the room. 
 "Is that you, Fillippi?" "No, father, it is Georgi- 
 ana; how glad you must be, father, to hear that 
 dear Fanny is so well." 
 
 "Yes, child, yes. Does the little fellow grow ? 
 But don't call him Kit ; it is too feminine. Call him 
 oat, boldly, Christopher :" and the enraptured, fool- 
 
264 the baker's dozen. 
 
 ish man made an attempt to chassee across the 
 room, to the no small amazement of his daughter. 
 "I must tell mother," said she, "his joy is making 
 him lose his wits." 
 
 Mr. Bangs, in due time, was asked up to Fanny's 
 room, into which he walked on tiptoe, giggling. 
 But when he got a glimpse of the baby, his cheek 
 was flushed, and his lip quivered. It seemed as if 
 all the feelings of a father had been pent up till that 
 moment ; for when the nurse put the little boy in 
 his arms, he tenderly kissed it, and, " lifting up his 
 face, he wept aloud." 
 
 Mr. Floss was kneeling by his wife, and blessing 
 her every moment between his grateful prayers ; 
 this sudden burst therefore of the old man was not 
 surprising, but it was to his wife. As to Hannah 
 French, she laughed so loud at the oddity of it, that 
 Mrs. Bangs fearing that their hubbub would be in- 
 jurious to her daughter, made them both go out of 
 the room; but Hannah French laughed by snatches 
 for the remainder of the day. 
 
 " Adieu to business and to clubs now. The boy 
 has been so long coming," said he to his wife, " and 
 no thanks to you, that I shall make myself amends 
 for my thirteen disappointments, and having to wait 
 seven years too, in the bargain." 
 
 So he staid nearly all the time in the nursery, and 
 waited for the development of growth and intellect 
 with the most intense and feverish anxiety. Every 
 day he pulled the little fellow's mouth open to look 
 for a tooth, and when it came at last, which it did 
 at the end of six months, he tore himself from the 
 pleasure of looking at it, to rush out among his old 
 friends to make them as happy as himself. 
 
 The first that he saw was one of his club com- 
 panions, for he consorted with no others. This 
 person was just coming up the street from the 
 river. 
 
THE BAKER'S DOZEN". 265 
 
 "Good morning, neighbour Bangs," said he, 
 " have you seen the steamboat Sea Serpent? She 
 has just come in — twenty miles in one hour!" 
 
 " My Christopher has a tooth," roared Mr. Bangs, 
 for his old friend was a little deaf. 
 
 " She is expected to go even fnster when her 
 boiler is a little larger," said the club man, Peter 
 Broo, by name. 
 
 " You never saw a finer tooth. It is a thundering 
 large one. He bit my little finger — here, just put 
 your thumb in my mouth, and I'll show you how 
 the little rogue tried to bile." 
 
 " Yes; but you had better take a look at the boat, 
 for it will be off again in an hour." 
 
 " 'Tis a thundering big tooth, and I thought I 
 would just stop and tell you; and the other will be 
 out to-morrow at farthest. Good morning, I must 
 go and tell the good news to the captain, for every 
 body is glad to hear that the first tooth comes 
 through without fits." 
 
 His club mate, not a whit more gifted than him- 
 self, stared at Mr. Bangs, as in very boyishness of 
 heart he hopped off first on one foot, and then on 
 the other, as children do. He wondered how a 
 baby's tooth should prevent any one from going to 
 the wharf to see the famous steamboat Sea Serpent. 
 "If the old goose thought he had a thundering big 
 tooth coming through his own gums I should not 
 wonder at it — but a baby's tooth ! as if they did not 
 get teeth every day — there, he has met the captain; 
 he'll smoke him with his baby tooth. I will go look 
 at the steamboat Sea Serpent again. 
 
 " Hillo ! captain, stop, will you ?" said Mr. Bangs ; 
 " we have a tooth, and a thundering large white 
 tooth it is." 
 
 " What! your little grand-daughter has a tooth at 
 last — well, it has been long a coming; is it up or 
 down?" 
 
 z 2 
 
266 the baker's dozen. 
 
 For thirty-seven years Mr. Bangs had had evening 
 intercourse with captain Muff, and till this morn- 
 ing he had never found out that he was a fool; and 
 what was worse, as he said to himself, an old fool. 
 Indignation kept him silent — forgot that he had a 
 grandson when he had talked of it for six months! 
 At length he burst out. 
 
 " I presume it would make no difference to 
 you, captain Muff," said he, grinning hysterically, 
 " if I had thirteen more daughters?" 
 
 ••No, why should it?" rejoined the sage captain, "I 
 like girls. If mv wife and your wife had not been 
 girls when they were babies, I wonder where our 
 wives would have been ? You may be glad your 
 little grandchild is a girl." 
 
 " Why, what a good for nothing old fat fool you 
 are — that I must call you names in your old age," 
 said the enraged Christopher. " Your memory is 
 very short this morning ; have I not told you that 
 my Christopher is a boy ?" 
 
 " No, I cannot forget what you tell me every 
 day ; but what has a boy to do with what you were 
 telling me about a thundering large tooth. Does 
 she grow ?" 
 
 " You are enough to make a man swear, you 
 damned old goose," said Mr. Bangs, in a huff — (too 
 mad to pop off this time,) " to call Christopher she : 
 man and boy," said he to himself, as he turned 
 sulkily away, " have I known captain Muff for sixty 
 years, and I have but just found out what a disad- 
 vantage he has been to me^ why he is but half 
 witted." 
 
 Mr. Bangs turned homewards, fearing to find out 
 more foolish old men among his club. He was 
 anxious too, to see whether the other tooth had not 
 got the start of him. The quiet, regular Mr. Bangs 
 had become a nuisance. No one had ever suspected 
 him of being soft, and but for this unlucky male 
 
the baker's dozen. 267 
 
 child he might have " died as he lived, an excel- 
 lent chemist, an honest man, and one of the best 
 husbands in the world ;" but if a weak man will 
 talk, people will find him out. 
 
 He passed away very easy, not long after this, 
 just in time to save his credit, so that no one but 
 Peter Broo and captain Muff gave a ha, ha, or a 
 smile when his death was announced. The baby's 
 tooth stood for ever uppermost in their eyes; and 
 when they told the story, which they did every day 
 for a twelvemonth, they got the thundering big 
 tooth to the size of an elephant's. 
 
 He was missed at home, particularly when the 
 window shutters were to be latched, which office 
 Hannah French now undertook, and the first sound 
 of mirth that was heard in the house was from her. 
 The baby's teeth all carne out finely; and one day 
 as she put on her spectacles to look at them, she 
 gave one of her little deaf laughs. Mrs. Bangs 
 asked her what she laughed at, but Hannah French 
 was too " cute" to tell. It was what follows that 
 passed through her brain and produced the laugh at 
 the end of it. 
 
 " I am glad," thought she, " the old man went off 
 as he did, for the baby's mouth would have gone 
 from ear to ear, by his grandfather's constantly 
 pulling it open to see what thundering big tooth was 
 coming out next ; and the baby was so used to have 
 his mouth stretched open, that whenever he heard 
 his grandfather's voice on the stairs, he used, of his 
 own accord, to throw his head back and open his 
 mouth as wide as possible." Then it was, as this 
 passed through her mind, that Hannah French 
 laughed; but it would not have done to tell Mrs. 
 Bangs of it. 
 
 Every one of Mrs. Bangs's thirteen daughters 
 married, and everyone had sons and daughters. I 
 have something pleasant to say of all of them, 
 though not so much as I have said of Fanny. She 
 
268 the baker's doze.v. 
 
 lives still, and is loved by her husband and family 
 as dearly as ever. 
 
 Mrs. Bangs would not have one of her grandsons 
 called Christopher, through fear of their hating her 
 as they grew up. " I had such a deal of trouble 
 about naming you all," said she, to her thirteen 
 daughters, " that I am resolved my grandchildren 
 shall not be named after kit or kin of mine." Whe- 
 ther she meant this as a pun, or only as an old saw, 
 I do not know; I should rather suspect the latter; 
 but we will let that alone, 'tis no concern of ours. 
 
THE THREAD AND NEEDLE STORE. 
 
 Martin Barton, a respectable, well looking lad, 
 entered Mr. Daly's thread and needle store at the 
 age of fourteen. He was a faultless and enduring 
 creature, always at his post, and serving out 
 his appointed time — seven years — without giving 
 his master the least cause of complaint. The morn- 
 ing of his birthday was his day of freedom, and. 
 although Mr. Daly knew that this day must come 
 some time or other, yet he was quite unprepared 
 for it. Great, therefore, would have been his sor- 
 row, if Martin Barton had not, in announcing that 
 his apprenticeship was expired, asked his consent 
 to marry Miss Letty Daly — his only child. 
 
 Now Mr. Daly had not the least suspicion that 
 Martin Barton had a fancy for his daughter, for he 
 had always considered him as a young man that 
 had no fancy for any thing outside the counter. 
 Even Mrs. Daly, as sharp-eyed as one of her 
 needles, heard the news pretty much as he had 
 done — sorrow that Martin Barton's time was up, 
 and surprise that he wanted to marry their daugh- 
 ter. 
 
 "Martin Barton in love with our Letty ! — it can- 
 not be, Mr. Daly, for to my knowledge he has 
 never spent an evening with her in his life." 
 
270 THE THREAD AND NEEDLE STORE. 
 
 "I did not say lie was in love with her, Mrs. Daly, 
 I only said he wanted our consent to marry her — 
 so, wife, if you have no objection, I may as well let 
 them marry at once; business is a little slack just 
 at present, and he can be spared better now than 
 in the spring." 
 
 "Why, to be sure, husband, Martin Barton is 
 worth his weight in gold in such a shop as ours, 
 and no one could supply his place if he were to 
 leave us ; so I'll just step back and tell Letty — oh, 
 here she comes — Letty, my dear, Martin Barton's 
 time is up, he is twenty-one this morning, and he 
 told your father, and your father t < >ld me, that he 
 wants to have you for a wife." 
 
 "Yes, so Martin Barton told me himself," said 
 Miss Letty, a fine tempered girl of eighteen, and as 
 brisk as a bee. 
 
 " Oh, then he has spoken to you himself, has he? 
 When did you see him 1 Not this morning after 
 church, I guess, for I saw him turn the corner with 
 Ira Elkado, and I saw him come back with old 
 Hosea Bringle around the very same corner." 
 
 " We talked the matter over after church about 
 a month ago; indeed we have done all our court- 
 ing in that way while coming home after church, 
 for Martin Barton has no time to court on week 
 days, you know." 
 
 "No more he has not," said the satisfied mother, 
 " so, husband, all we have to do now is to get them 
 married and pass the shop over to Martin Barton. 
 You and I are tired of all this hard work, so we 
 will go to our little farm in the country and live at 
 our ease." Live at their ease! ! 
 
 Martin Barton expected as much, and so did 
 Miss Letty; they were married the following 
 week, and before another week had expired Mr. 
 and Mrs. Daly bade adieu to the thread and needle 
 store, and went into the country to live at their 
 ease ! 
 
THE THREAD AND NEEDLE STORE. 271 
 
 Hosea Bringle, with whom Martin Barton 
 had gone round the corner, was the book keeper 
 as long as goods were sold on credit, but as 
 soon as it was determined to sell for cash alone, 
 the old man's occupation was gone. He was 
 transferred to the lower end of the counter— but, 
 alas ! Hosea Bringle was found to be a poor vender 
 of tape and bobbin. It did well enough when it 
 came to a dozen of stockings or socks, but he never 
 could tell which thread of yarn was thick or which 
 thin, and above all he could not tell linen tape from 
 cotton tape. It was plain, therefore, that Hosea 
 Bringle had to go. 
 
 Sigismund Sloper had entered the shop at the 
 same time with Martin Barton, but although he was 
 a decent lad enough, and had been a year out of 
 his time, for he was fiifteen when he began his 
 service, yet Mr. Daly had no great partiality for 
 him. He continued on, therefore, at good wages, 
 till the present time, when little Jenny Hart spoke 
 up and said that Sigismund Sloper was not wanted 
 any longer, as she had heard of an excellent lad of 
 the right age who would work better and cheaper. 
 
 Now Jenny Hart was the oracle of the shop; 
 she likewise had been in Mr. Daly's employ for a 
 term of years — three, I believe — but it was a far 
 different thing to see her move about and direct 
 every thing that was done, than when the clerks or 
 Martin Barton did it. Clean and neat, too, was 
 little Jenny Hart, quick at meals and quick at 
 work, an early riser and a late sitter up ; and such 
 a tongue as she had, such a spirit as she showed, 
 such a goer and comer ! In short, little Jenny Hart 
 was the life and soul of the establishment, and 
 money came in so fast that the money drawers had 
 to be emptied every night — no credit — happy 
 thread and needle people were Mr. and Mrs. Mar- 
 tin Barton. 
 
 Sigismund Sloper vowed vengeance against little 
 
272 THE THREAD AXD XEEDLE STORE. 
 
 Jenny Hart; for she was a free spoken little thing, 
 and made no scruple of speaking out her thoughts. 
 He was too slow and too tardy of speech for such 
 off hand business as theirs, and was too mulish to 
 learn, so she fairly told him that on the first of 
 May — three months ahead — Ira Elkado was to 
 take his place. She cast many an anxious glance at 
 old Hosea Bringle, wishing him out of the concern^ 
 too, for he was very much in her way, and it was 
 really hard upon her, for thus it went all day, week 
 in and week out: " It is three cents a yard, Hojer 
 Bringle — (she always called him Hojer) — this way, 
 miss, that old gentleman does not know our private 
 mark, and yet he has lived in this shop seven 
 years." The old man sighed, and little Jenny Hurt 
 heard him. " To be sure there is an excuse for 
 him, as he was always at the desk when we gave 
 credit — nine yards and a half? — yes, sir, stocks of 
 all kinds, beautiful and well made — too high a 
 price ! — oh, no indeed — will I take eighteen shil- 
 lings? no, but I'll split the difference — Hojer Brin- 
 gle, give this gentleman five shillings — Hojer Brin- 
 gle examines all the three dollar notes, sir." And 
 so little Jenny Hart's tongue run on, while she cast 
 rueful glances at the old man and strove to harden 
 her heart against him. 
 
 Ira Elkado came in at one fold of the double 
 door as Sigismund Sloper went out at the other, 
 and Jenny Hart laughed out in one of the cus- 
 tomers' face while selling him a pair of stockings. 
 The man looked at his waistcoat and at his hands, 
 and cast a glance at himself in the glass behind the 
 little shop girl's head, but as nothing was amiss he 
 attributed it to a joyous spirit, as in reality it was. 
 " You are merry, Jenny Hart, this fine May 
 morning," said he. " I suspect you are thinking of 
 your lover." 
 
 " Lover ! oh, sir," said Jenny Hart, casting a sly 
 glance at Ira Elkado, as he solemnly stalked be- 
 
THE THREAD AND NEEDLE STORE. 273 
 
 hind the counter, and, as if he had been there for 
 years, fell to putting up a bundle of misses' hose. 
 " Such a lover, too, thought Jenny Hart, as he 
 would make, — pretty much, however, like Mr. 
 Martin Barton, — and she cast her eye to the other 
 end of the counter, where Martin Barton stood 
 folding up a bundle of suspenders in the very same 
 solemn way. Hosea Bringle, instead of taking a 
 little girl's penny for two needles, — he had given 
 her nines for sixes, the paper being turned upside 
 down when he looked at it, — was staring at the 
 new clerk, Ira Elkado. 
 
 "Put the cent in Hojer Bringle's hand, little girl; 
 he is thinking" — said Jenny Hart — " here, let me 
 stick the needles in the paper or you'll lose them; 
 they are tiny little needles; are you hemming fine 
 work, my dear 1" 
 
 "No, Miss Jenny Hart, mother is making a 
 cloak — these are sixes," said the child, "are they 
 not 7 " So Jenny Hart had to go to the needle box 
 and get out No. 6, saying — " Look here, Hojer 
 Bringle, the numbers are all at the top; this paper, 
 if turned up so, looks like nines; do you see now?" 
 
 Hosea Bringle sighed again, and Jenny whispered 
 in his ear — "there are two fine pair of ducks and a 
 huge mess of corn salad for dinner to-day, and I'll 
 have them at my side of the table and give you the 
 four legs all to your own share, and all the stuf- 
 fings out of two of them — precious little will I 
 give to Ira Elkado, beside the neck and rack, or 
 may be the drumsticks. Hosea Bringle wiped his 
 mouth and put the needle box nicely away, pitying 
 Ira Elkado for the poor dinner he was to get, for 
 Hosea Bringle held the rack and drumsticks very 
 cheap; while Ira Elkado was revelling in the 
 thoughts of owning this very thread and needle 
 store that day three years, with Jenny Hart for 
 clerk and wife. No one, to look at Ira Elkado, 
 would ever suppose that he had an excursive ima- 
 2 A 
 
274 THE THREAD AxVD NEEDLE STORE. 
 
 gination, he looked so sober and acted so cau- 
 tiously; but, oh! what a turmoil and what business 
 was going on within. He took all the company in 
 at a glance, and made up his mind that he would 
 rule them all as Jenny Hart did, and her into the 
 bargain. So he began that very moment. 
 
 " This counter is very inconvenient, Miss Jenny 
 Hart," said he, striking his foot against the bottom, 
 " it ought to slope inward; it is very wearisome for 
 you to keep at such a distance from the counter. 
 Now, if it sloped inward — now Sigismund Sloper, 
 he"— 
 
 Ah ha ! did Ira Elkado think this was news to 
 Jenny Hart? she had felt the inconvenience often 
 and often, but she counted cost, and made up her 
 mind that the house was old, the counter old, and 
 time precious, so that it was not worth while to 
 make a new counter, and, besides, there was no 
 time to do it. She gave one of her peculiar stares, 
 as if trying to comprehend what Ira Elkado was 
 saying. 
 
 " Sigums Sloper, did you say, Ira Elkado, — he 
 went out as you came in; I persuaded Mr. Martin 
 Barton to change him for you because he was a 
 fault finder; I warned him, when he came, to mind 
 the customers ; the fact is, we are such busy peo- 
 ple that we have no time to fiddle-faddle and look 
 out for flaws and specks. This is your money 
 drawer — here are four places to drop money in — 
 this for sixpenny pieces — this for shillings — this for 
 quarters, and this for half dollars. Hojer Bringle, 
 there, changes three dollar notes, I five, Mrs. Mar- 
 tin Barton ten, and Mr. Martin Barton all larger 
 ones. Do you recollect? — to-morrow I shall tell 
 it to you over again." Oh, how small Ira Elkado 
 felt, and how he hated Jenny Hart! 
 
 Little Jenny Hart did not tell him that she 
 twitched the notes from every hand first, before the 
 others had a chance of looking at them. In fact, 
 
THE THREAD AND NEEDLE STORE. 215 
 
 she handed them to the one whose business it was 
 to take them, with a nod or a shake of the head, if 
 good, or bad, for she was as wise as a serpent 
 about bank notes — and in what was she not wise? 
 
 Every body that went to the shop took a good 
 look at Jenny Hart, but no one took the least liberty 
 with her; there she stood helping the customers, 
 watching Hosea Bringle, curbing Ira Elkado, keep- 
 ing Martin Barton from prosing, and relieving Mrs. 
 Martin Barton from the most of her labours. The 
 worthy couple had now been married eight years, 
 and had but two children, twin girls, now in their 
 seventh year, and it was odd enough to see how 
 they were brought up ; in fact, if it had not been 
 for Jenny Hart they would not have been brought 
 up at all. The shop was opened at daylight winter 
 and summer; Jenny Hart was the first in it, and 
 the last to leave it ; every thing, as they said, went 
 through her mouth and through her hands; neither 
 Martin Barton nor his wife had the least concern 
 in the world, for Jenny Hart ordered the marketing 
 too; and as the girl brought the market basket 
 through the long shop, the little body would whisk 
 from behind the counter, lift up the cover, and satis- 
 fy herself that all was as she ordered. Then she 
 hired the cook, and nurse, and maid of all work, 
 and little Betty the waiter was of her choosing. 
 
 " Mrs. Martin Barton, what a noise those chil- 
 dren make," — said Mr. Martin Barton; " you must 
 tell Jenny Hart that we shall have to build a room 
 back of the parlour, and let them range about 
 there, for their play is as noisy as their cries." 
 
 Jenny Hart had just returned from quieting them, 
 and a lady who was buying some German worsted 
 asked Mrs. Martin Barton how old the little girls 
 were. 
 
 "Let me see — how old are the two twins?" — for 
 she always called them the two twins, just as if 
 they were speaking of two candles, or two pinches 
 
276 THE THREAD AND NEEDLE STORE. 
 
 of snuff — "how old are the two twins, Jenny 
 Hart ?" 
 
 " Just seven years old, Mrs. Martin Barton," 
 and Jenny Hart had answered this question of the 
 age of the two twins ever since they were a year 
 old. Mr. Martin Barton never knew, and Mrs. 
 Martin Barton always forgot. 
 
 " As to building another room, Mr. Martin Bar- 
 ton, that will never do," (oh, how Ira Elkado stared 
 to see what a sway she had !) said Jenny Hart, — 
 "for the back parlour is dark enough already, and 
 we shall have less draft through the shop, too, if 
 we clutter up the yard ; but the twins are soon 
 going to school ; I spoke to Mrs. Playfair yester- 
 day, — she was buying canvass of me, — and she has 
 promised to take good care of the children, and for 
 one year let them off easy — after that," said she, 
 whispering in Mrs. Martin Barton's ear — " after 
 that, we'll get poor old Hojer to teach them at 
 home, and Mrs. Armstrong will be a sort of gov- 
 erness to them ; for old Hojer Bringle is a dead 
 weight in the shop." 
 
 " Good," said Mrs. Martin Barton, and she went 
 the other side of Jenny Hart and whispered it to 
 Martin Barton. " Good," said he. 
 
 " Oh, if I had only the ruling of that girl," 
 thought Ira Elkado, " how I would quell her." Just 
 as he said this, mentally, however, Jenny Hart, 
 who had sold a gross of pearl buttons while the 
 Martin Bartons were saying "good, good," thrust 
 a bad shilling in his hand. " You took that bad 
 shilling from a boy, yesterday," said she, and gave 
 it to Amy Russel this morning; it has come back, 
 and it must be charged to you." Ira Elkado put it 
 in his pocket and gave her a good shilling ; but the 
 moment her quick eye was directed to something 
 else, he slipped the bad piece of money in old 
 Hosea Bringle's drawer and helped himself to 
 another, for he did not see why he should lose it. 
 
THE THREAD AND NEEDLE STORE. 277 
 
 Hosea Bringle stood up, holding by the counter, 
 fast asleep, and did not see it. 
 
 " That bad shilling," said Jenny Hart, " will be 
 known again, I'll warrant, for I run the file across 
 the edge. You had better put it in Hosea Bringle's 
 bad money drawer, that last slit in the corner; all 
 the counterfeit money goes there." " Powers on 
 earth!" thought Ira Elkado, " did the little black- 
 eyed devil see me slip the shilling in?" 
 
 No, Jenny Hart did not see him do it, but she 
 suspected he would. She knew that he was a 
 capital hand to buy goods at auction, and it was 
 for this purpose she hired him — we may as well 
 say she hired him, for it was all her doings. Mar- 
 tin Barton had nothing to do but approve; Jenny 
 Hart, therefore, put up with many things from him. 
 
 " Mrs. Martin Barton," said her husband, " what 
 a long holiday those children have; how noisy 
 they are, jumping and screaming like mad things; 
 and old Hosea Bringle with your night cap on — 
 only look there." 
 
 "No, it is my cap," said Jenny Hart, "let the 
 poor old man play, for once in his life; only think 
 how long he has been nailed to this counter. Just 
 make a codicil to your will, Mr. Martin Barton, 
 and give the poor old soul one hundred dollars a 
 year for life — I am only too glad to get him out of 
 the shop. By twelve to-morrow w r e shall have two 
 nice young lads — if I can only remember their 
 names — I wish people would give their children 
 plain names. Oh, I forgot, Mrs. Armstrong will 
 be in town to-morrow; I have hired the house next 
 door, as you told me, and here is the lease. I paid 
 one year's rent, you see, in advance." 
 
 "Good," said Martin Barton. "Excellent," said 
 his wife. The back door stood open, and happy 
 Hosea Bringle was playing sleep with the children, 
 while they were tickling his ears with a straw r , and 
 then he would snap at the straw, which made the 
 2 a2 
 
278 THE THREAD AND NEEDLE STORE. 
 
 little girls shout again. "Hojer Bringle will fall 
 asleep in good earnest," said Jenny Hart to a lady 
 who was buying hair pins of her, and in a few mo- 
 ments he was snoring. 
 
 "How old are your little girls?' said the lady to 
 Mrs. Martin Barton. 
 
 " How old are the two twins 1 — how old are 
 they, Jenny? I forget." 
 
 " Ten years old, Mrs. Martin Barton ; I thought 
 I had better leave them another year with old Mrs. 
 Play fair, for they had been cooped up so here, in 
 this* close place, that they were sickly like, and the 
 good old lady has quite freshened them up again. 
 They have not learned much, that is book learning, 
 but all that will come in a few years, as Mrs. 
 Armstrong is a rock of learning. Ira Elkado, you 
 are the very prince of buyers." The young man 
 had just come in loaded from auction. " Oh, what 
 beautiful slippers — just what we wanted. Chess- 
 men! — how many have you ? only three sets — well, 
 I'll take them oft" your hands, for we don't sell 
 chessmen, you know, and I have been wanting to 
 make a few presents. Never buy things we are 
 not in the habit of selling; it only confuses us. 
 Here is your money; pray Mr. Martin Barton 
 charge me with fifteen dollars — they are as cheap 
 as dirt, Ira Elkado." " Devil take the girl," 
 thought Ira Elkado. 
 
 And so she went on, talking and acting, and let- 
 ting no one get the better of her, whiie the good cou- 
 ple did their share of labour too, for the shop had 
 a very great run, and customers stood three deep 
 sometimes. " We shall have to push the shop into 
 the back room," said she to Martin Barton, "and 
 get two more clerks — I mean two more besides 
 those that are coming to-morrow." " Good," said 
 Martin Barton. 
 
 " I don't hear the children's voices any more," said 
 a lady to Mrs. Martin Barton, " where are they V 
 
THE THREAD AND NEEDLE STORE. 279 
 
 "Oh, they live next door with Mrs. Armstrong; 
 we could not attend to them ourselves, you know, 
 having so much to do." 
 
 " How old are they now, Mrs. Martin Barton." 
 
 " How old are the two twins ? — let me see — how 
 old are they, Jenny Hart?" 
 
 " Twelve years old this month, Mrs. Martin 
 Barton, and as fine, healthy children as you would 
 wish to see. Here, Alfred Gray, put up these 
 goods, the porter has laid them before me, and 
 they belong to Mr. Martin Barton's shelves. These 
 buttons are for the drawer, we shall retail them. 
 Mr. Martin Barton, to-morrow we begin to close 
 the shop at sundown. Alfred Gray and Jasper 
 Merry stipulated, you know, that at the end of two 
 years they were only to tend shop between sun- 
 rise and sunset." 
 
 "Very well," said Martin Barton, "I am glad 
 of it. Then we may as well all quit together, at 
 the same hour, for the other young men have the 
 like privilege." 
 
 "No," said Jenny Hart, " Ira Elkado made no 
 such bargain, he is to work evenings, and as there 
 are many bundles to pack up, he can help the 
 porter to" — but Jenny Hart cast those black eyes of 
 hers to the end of the long counter, and there 
 stood Ira Elkado figuring away at accounts, his 
 auction accounts, and making all square. Her 
 heart smote her, but she reasoned herself out of 
 her tender feelings, for the man had been pre- 
 sumptuous and disposed to meddle, particularly 
 with a fifth clerk, a clever young man who had his 
 station on the right hand of Martin Barton, and, of 
 course, next to her. Ira Elkado had at first 
 longed for this post of honour, but his having to 
 turn buyer at auctions kept him from having a 
 regular station behind the counter. His place was 
 the old spot once occupied by Hosea Bringle, and 
 here he had to sit perched up at a small desk. 
 
280 THE THREAD AND NEEDLE STORE. 
 
 Oh, how these people worked ; never shop had 
 such a run ; and Jenny Hart's fame had spread far 
 and wide. Some people said she was beautiful, very- 
 beautiful; far too beautiful to stand behind the coun- 
 ter ; but others thought that she was not so very 
 beautiful either; only so remarkably shrewd and 
 good humoured. The gentlemen made business 
 every day to get a peep at her ; and yet, after all, 
 what was it? She had a neat, well made figure; 
 a pretty hand, and a small foot, with a delicate 
 ankle. Her eyes were like black cherries dipped 
 in clear spring water ; and her teeth were like 
 grains of white corn, standing out a little. She had 
 a large, well shaped mouth and rich red lips, with a 
 breath like new made hay. Her cheek bones were 
 a little too high, and her nose a thought too small; 
 and her skin, the hundredth part of a shade too 
 dark ; but take her all in all there was a some- 
 thing which was very piquant about her. I for- 
 got her voice; it was fine, clear, and musical, and 
 such as no one could ever forget. 
 
 "I'll have her yet," said Ira Elkado, as he sat 
 watching her from the corner of his eye. " That 
 lad, Archy Campbell, next her, thinks he is in a 
 fair way to win her, but he shall eat poison first. I 
 have wrought hard for her, and she and this shop 
 shall be mine. I wonder how old the black eyed 
 gipsy is." 
 
 More than Ira Elkado had wondered ; and had 
 asked this question, but no one knew. Jenny Hart 
 was an orphan, and came early into Mr. Daly's 
 family. We knew her age, however; she was just 
 six and twenty when Ira Elkado sat wondering. 
 
 At ten o'clock the postman brought two letters, 
 one for Martin Barton, and one for Mrs. Martin 
 Barton — the first letter, really the first letter either 
 of them had ever received in their lives. Jenny 
 Hart had never read a letter, but she knew how 
 
THE THREAD AND NEEDLE STORE. 281 
 
 one ought to be opened ; a thing which neither of 
 the two owners of the shop did. 
 
 "Jenny Hart, can you tell how to open this letter?" 
 
 " Yes, surely I can ; I have seen many a one 
 opened — here, let me cut the seals — there — they 
 are open. This is yours, Mr. Martin Barton ; — 
 twelve cents a dozen, Miss — and this is yours, Mrs. 
 Martin Barton; but what is the matter?" 
 
 The fact is, that Martin Barton was perplexed. 
 The letter began thus : " Dear sir, I am sorry to 
 
 inform you of the death of ," he had got so far 
 
 when Jenny Hart, true as steel to her business, no 
 sooner had said, "What is the matter?" than she 
 turned to a customer who wanted black silk stock- 
 ings. " Mr. Martin Barton, said she, please to show 
 this gentleman the best black silk stockings— here is 
 a pin, stick it in the place where you left off." 
 (Jenny Hart used to do so when reading a book.) 
 
 Martin Barton stuck in the pin, laid down the 
 letter, and sold the stockings, while the gentleman 
 was eyeing the pretty shop-girl. Archy Campbell 
 could have knocked him down ; and Ira Elkado 
 was well pleased to see his rival vexed. Jenny 
 Hart was indifferent to all this ; turning to Mrs. 
 Martin Barton with, "some ladies' gloves wanting 
 — here, stick a pin in the letter where you leave off; 
 the gloves are twenty-five cents, you know, Mrs. 
 Martin Barton." 
 
 "Archy Campbell," said she, one day, "why did 
 you look so angrily at the gentleman who gave me 
 the bunch of flowers yesterday? It was not like 
 you ; and it gave me great pain ; you will drive 
 customers away if you behave so rudely to them." 
 
 •" You know well enough, Jenny Hart, why I 
 looked angrily ; and there sits Ira Elkado, who 
 knows it too" — 
 
 " Carpet binding by the gross ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir. Archy Campbell, show the best car- 
 pet binding," said the indefatigable Jenny Hart; 
 
282 THE THREAD AND NEEDLE STORE. 
 
 never waiting to hear why Archy Campbell looked 
 so mad at the customer. 
 
 It certainly was a great relief to them all, when 
 the shop closed at sun-down. Every one felt it a 
 blessing but Ira Elkado ; it cut him off from two or 
 three hours of gazing at Jenny Hart, and in regal- 
 ing himself with the thoughts of conquering this 
 hard hearted gipsy, as he always called her. He 
 lay awake for hours, very often, in trying to perfect 
 some plan by which he could get admittance to her 
 during the evening ; but it never came to any thing. 
 He was one of those kind of persons whose ima- 
 ginations are fertile enough ; but with physical ca- 
 pacities so entirely different, that a life is spent, 
 or dawdled aw r ay, without any benefit to themselves 
 or others. Had Ira Elkado been as brisk in his 
 motions as he was in his mind, the shop and Jenny 
 Hart might have been his long ago ; but her good 
 genius preserved her from a hard fate. Hard it 
 would have been ; for Ira Elkado never ended one 
 of his aspiring soliloquies without grinding his teeth 
 and promising himself great satisfaction in scourg- 
 ing her, after marriage, as she had scourged him 
 before. Poor Jenny Hart did not mean to scourge 
 him ; it was her way of managing people. She 
 was shrewd, and treated them according to their 
 merits ; but she was never unjust. 
 
 As soon as the shop was shut, and she had pre- 
 sided at the tea-table, (for in the old fashioned way, 
 the clerks always lived in the house, and ate at the 
 table, one after the other,) she assisted Martin 
 Barton and Archy Campbell in counting the money 
 of the day ; and it was a job. But by the judicious 
 mode of keeping the different money apart; and, 
 oh, how she rated the poor clerk, in whose box a 
 sixpence was found in the shilling department — 
 much time was saved. Martin Barton and his 
 wife, good souls, went tired to bed, as soon as this 
 was over ; and then came Jenny Hart's holiday : 
 
THE THREAD AND NEEDLE STORE. 283 
 
 then was the time to see her. Talk of her beauty 
 and musical voice ; her bounding spirit and her 
 grace of motion, behind the counter ; what was all 
 that to the seeing her up in Mrs. Armstrong's room, 
 with the twin sisters ! Then her joyous spirit re- 
 laxed; tape, bobbin, buttons, money, marketing, 
 bank stock, rents — for Jenny managed all the 
 money concerns ; and Martin Barton was now im- 
 mensely rich — then all was combed out of her head 
 with the first brush that was put to her fine glossy 
 hair. 
 
 It was the signal for fun and frolic, when her 
 light step was heard bounding up the narrow stairs; 
 and there stood the two girls ready to snatch the 
 first kiss, and to say the first word. From the time 
 they could hold the brush, they coveted the plea- 
 sure of combing and brushing her hair; and the 
 poor thing was generally so tired that she was 
 really glad when they were old enough to do it 
 properly for her. So up she came, and down she 
 sat on the sofa ; and a world of things had she to 
 hear from the two innocent girls ; and then came 
 the rummaging of her apron pockets and her am- 
 ple basket ; and then came Mrs. Armstrong, with 
 her account of the progress of her pupils. 
 
 "Oh, such sweet walks as we have, dear Jenny 
 Hart. Why can you not sometimes go with us? 
 it would do you so much good," said Rona, a beau- 
 tiful black eyed girl ; "you must go with us to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 " Or, if you cannot take a walk, you can surely 
 go with us to the museum in the evening, now that 
 the shop closes at sundown," said Ida, the blue 
 eye, and quite as beautiful as her sister. 
 
 " Why, that is true," said Jenny Hart, " and we 
 can do a great deal in that way, now that winter 
 is coming and the evenings long." 
 
 " Jenny Hart, dear, I want some fine cotton 
 stockings," said Rona. " And I want gloves," said 
 
284 THE THREAD AND NEEDLE STORE- 
 
 Ida. " And I want a fresh supply of needles and 
 thread, and every thing, in short, for these little gip- 
 sies have given away my whole stock." 
 
 " Plenty, plenty shall you have ; for plenty there 
 is. And do you know that you are to have a grand 
 Christmas present ? But if you guess till morning 
 you will not guess right ; for 'tis a present that does 
 not often fall to the lot of the daughters of thread 
 and needle people. Oh, Mrs. Armstrong, let us 
 remember the poor, for we are growing very 
 rich." 
 
 The girls guessed ; and Mrs. Armstrong was 
 made to guess ; but they fell either above or below 
 the mark ; and tell, Jenny Hart would not. Then 
 came the little story, that one or the other read 
 every evening. And, to see Jenny Hart's admira- 
 tion at their progress ! And then came the writing 
 books; and, lastly, just as the clock struck ten, 
 came a tap at the door, and little Betty, with her 
 face hidden in her handkerchief, presented to the 
 astonished Jenny Hart two letters. 
 
 "Oh, you rogues," said the delighted little maiden 
 — " letters from you — oh, how nicely they are writ- 
 ten. And I dare say they are all spelled right; 
 hey, Mrs. Armstrong? And how sweetly they 
 smell of roses. I'll show them to your father and 
 mother in the morning ; and, if there is a chance, 
 to Archy Campbell." 
 
 " And to Jasper Merry," said blaHc eyed Rona; 
 " and to Alfred Gray," said the little blue eye. " I 
 will, I will," said Jenny Hart. 
 
 " And why not to Peter Squires and IraElkado?" 
 said Mrs. Armstrong. " Because," said Jenny 
 Hart, " I never think of Peter Squires from one 
 year's end to the other. I see quite through him 
 when he stands near me; such a mere shadow he 
 is. Not but that he is a faithful, honest creature. 
 I'll get Mr. Martin Barton to set him up in busi- 
 ness, one of these days ; and, as to Ira Elkado — 
 
THE THREAD AND \EEDLE STORE. 285 
 
 I tell you what, Mrs. Armstrong, I go as near to 
 hating him as I can hate any one ; and yet, poor 
 soul, he does me no harm. I think I'll set him up 
 with Peter Squires ; but we cannot spare him yet. 
 We have not made, what 1 think, enough money 
 yet. I shall remember the museum ; and, perhaps, 
 I may bring Archy Campbell with me." 
 
 "And Jasper Merry," said Rona. " And Alfred 
 Gray," said Ida. " Yes, yes, dears ; I'll bring 
 them all; and so, good night — good night; and 
 write me such a pretty letter every day ; and who 
 knows what I'll do when Christmas comes?" 
 
 Christmas was indeed a day w r ith the whole fa- 
 mily of Martin Barton. First, there was the great 
 long counter, covered w T ith squares of table-cloths, 
 before each clerk's stand ; and then, there was the 
 hall table, for the servants; and, lastly, there was 
 the parlour, next door — literally full of presents for 
 the children, Mrs. Martin Barton's two twins ; and 
 there were the little baskets for the poor custom- 
 ers — I suspect they did not pay much for needle 
 and thread. Jenny Hart had arranged everything 
 herself; and there she stood in the shop, at sunrise, 
 having given them all an early breakfast. With a 
 little white wand in her hand, she pointed to a table 
 that stood out from the corner, and said — 
 
 "Hosea Bringle — our oldest and our best clerk 
 — lift up the table cover; Martin Barton hopes you 
 will be pleased with what is under." 
 
 Old Hosea, who had not been in the shop for a 
 long time, lifted up the cover — " Oh, Jenny Hart, 
 how kind ; how excellent all these things are ; and 
 I was wishing for this box of tools, and all this fine 
 wire; (just as if Jenny Hart did not know his 
 wants) and here is fine perfumed soap, and every 
 thing an old man wants ; and, ah ha, Miss Jenny 
 Hart, you have found out I have a sweet tooth, 
 have you? (Jenny Hart had furnished him with 
 confectionary for twelve vears,) and what's this ? 
 2b 
 
286 THE THREAD AND NEEDLE STORE. 
 
 — a suit of clothes? oh, Miss Jenny Hart — and the 
 old man wrung her hand, with his eyes swimming; 
 while she, the good little maiden, laughed till she 
 cried. 
 
 " Ira Elkado — lift up that cover," said she, touch 
 ing it with her wand. " What can it be V thought 
 he ; " it lies flat ; I think she means to play me a 
 trick. I shall not touch it. Nothing can lie under 
 that flat cover;" so he said, "Never mind me, 
 Jenny Hart ; pass on to Mr. Archy Campbell." 
 
 " Well, then," said Jenny Hart, laughing, "Archy 
 Campbell, lift up your parcel ;" and Archy Camp- 
 bell lifted up the cover ; but there was nothing but 
 a bunch of rods and a little note. He slipped the 
 note into his pocket, without looking at it, redden- 
 ing up to the very temples. He likewise took up 
 the bunch of rods, and gallantly kissed it, which 
 made Jenny Hart blush in return. " Devil take 
 the impudent rascal," said Ira Elkado. 
 
 " You come next, Alfred Gray ;" and Alfred 
 Gray lifted up the cover, where lay chess men and 
 drawing materials, and perfumery, and books, and 
 keepsakes in plenty. A little note lay there, too; but 
 he left all and went near the door to read it. " Keep 
 the contents to yourself," whispered Jenny Hart. 
 
 Jasper Merry's parcel was similar to his friend's; 
 and the little note caused them both to smile. Peter 
 Squires came last; and there lay a nice new suit 
 of clothes for him, and a variety of very useful and 
 pretty articles likewise ; such as a poor young man 
 would like to have, and could not afford to buy. 
 
 "Now you are all pleased," said Jenny Hart, 
 "but Ira Elkado; and why he don't lift up the cover 
 I cannot tell. I must do it for him." She lifted up 
 the cover, and only a little note was seen. Archy 
 Campbell felt injured, for he dreaded the contents 
 of the note ; but he need not have been jealous. 
 It ran thus: 
 
 " Mr. Ira Elkado, you have served me faithfully 
 
THE THREAD AND NEEDLE STORE. 287 
 
 for seven years. I shall want you no longer. At 
 the corner of Joice street, you will find your shop. 
 I hope it will be to your liking. One year's rent is 
 paid. Your friend, Martin Barton." 
 
 Ira Elkado had nearly fainted ; but, rallying, he 
 lifted up his head to thank Jenny Hart ; but she 
 was gone. Out he rushed to look at his shop. He 
 might well thank Jenny Hart, for it was all her do- 
 ings. She had persuaded Martin Barton to give 
 theyoung man this outfit — a thousand dollars' worth. 
 Ira Elkado made heaps of money, and died a rich 
 man ; but he had visions of Jenny Hart to the last. 
 
 At twelve o'clock the little girls' present was at 
 the door ; a handsome new carriage, and a pair of 
 excellent, gentle horses. " There's for you, dears," 
 said she, as the happy children flew to the window; 
 " there, jump in. After sitting in church so long 
 you will be the better for a little ride. Come, let us 
 all go ; Martin Barton has never been inside of a 
 carriage in his life ; and I can scarcely remember 
 how it is." The whole family — six — took a nice 
 ride to old Mr. Daly's, and had a fine Christmas 
 dinner. 
 
 " Well, young gentlemen, how did you like the 
 contents of the notes?" said she, the next morning. 
 " O delightful! Most happy it made us," said Alfred 
 Gray and Jasper Merry. " And the honour is deeply 
 felt by me," said Archy Campbell," blushing and 
 looking tenderly at Jenny Hart, who said, " Pshaw." 
 The notes were nothing more than an invitation 
 from Mrs. Armstrong to go with them to the muse- 
 um. From that hour every evening was spent in 
 Mrs. Armstrong's parlour; and innocent they were, 
 for the lady was indeed, as Jenny Hart said, a rock 
 of learning; and loved to improve young people. 
 
 Martin Barton knew no more what was going on 
 next door than if the family was not his; all the 
 day was spent behind the counter, and the evening 
 found them so tired that they were only fit for the 
 
288 THE THREAD AND NEEDLE STORE. 
 
 bed when the money was counted, and put in the 
 iron chest. On Sunday they went regularly to 
 church, in the morning, dined, took a long nap in 
 the afternoon, were called up to tea, yawned while 
 drinking it; and, after a few vain attempts to keep 
 awake, fairly took the candle and went to bed. 
 Poor tired souls ; if it had not been for this one day's 
 rest, they never could have gone through the week. 
 But Jenny Hart did not tire ; her little caoutchouc 
 frame never failed her. Her twins and herself, 
 with Mrs. Armstrong and old Hosea, spent almost 
 every Sunday with Mr. and Mrs. Daly, going with 
 them to the village church. 
 
 Still they toiled on ; the years passed — flew, it 
 seemed; and they grew richer end richer, until 
 even Jenny thought they had enough; and most 
 judiciously had she placed the money. She had 
 chosen her counsellor well ; honest Mr. Norton, 
 the broker; he never deceived her for a moment ; 
 and, as to herself, even Archy Campbell did not 
 covet her hand more than did Mr. Norton. He 
 would have taken her without a cent ; indeed he 
 did not know that she had a penny in the world ; 
 but Jenny Hart was as honest as himself; and she 
 settled it in her mind, long ago, that she could never 
 be his wife. He was true to her, however — dear 
 Jenny Hart, who would not be true to her? 
 
 " Take this parcel up to Mrs. Armstrong, Betty," 
 said Jenny Hart, one fine morning in May, " and 
 say, that if it suits she can keep the whole dozen." 
 " Twelve for a shilling, sir; thank you." " Knit- 
 ting needles ?" " Yes, the best of steel ; Alfred 
 Gray, some of the best steel knitting needles — A 
 newspaper from Mr. Norton, my boy ? — thank you ; 
 stop, here is a pair of gloves for you ; now run 
 home. — You have only measured off seven yards, 
 Mrs. Martin Barton, and the lady asked for eight 
 — Jasper Merry, make that dog go out — Your's, 
 madam, is it? — well, Jasper Merry, just put him 
 
THE THREAD AND NEEDLE STORE. 289 
 
 outside of the door and shut it — Why did Mr. Nor- 
 ton send me the paper? — Oh, I see — The Camper- 
 down property is for sale, Mrs. Martin Barton — 
 Mr. Daly, your father wants you to buy it sadly. 
 We rode out there yesterday afternoon; and, 
 really, it is a place for a prince, let alone poor thread 
 and needle people, like ourselves. It is very much 
 improved since you were there, last fall, Mrs. Mar- 
 tin Barton; all the houses are finished; and now 
 the gardens are all laid out, and the fences and the 
 grounds ; and it looks like a little settlement already. 
 Four beautiful houses, all large and very roomy ; 
 and the river in front, too. I wonder what it will 
 bring. It is to be sold separate or together ; but I 
 fear it is beyond our means. The property is to be 
 sold on Monday next." 
 
 " I wonder how it came to be called Camper- 
 down," said Martin Barton. " I had a scapegrace 
 of a cousin, called Camperdown Barton ; but for 
 him my old uncle Davies would have left me some- 
 thing handsome. Some people did say, that this 
 Camperdown Barton forged a will in his own fa- 
 vour ; but I could not believe it." 
 
 "Mr. Barton," said a man, entering the shop — 
 " Martin Barton, if you please, sir," said Mr. Mar- 
 tin Barton. 
 
 " Mr. Martin Barton," said the man, smiling, 
 " have you any white galloon V* " Yes." " Alfred 
 Gray, hand down that box of white galloon," said 
 Jenny Hart. 
 
 " And where is this Camperdown Barton, now," 
 said Jenny Hart, when the man had bought the gal- 
 loon, and was out of the shop. 
 
 " I can hardly tell ; but he was in the West In- 
 dies when I last heard of him. He married, and 
 had two children, and" — 
 
 " La, Mr. Martin Barton," said his wife, " what 
 became of my letter; I am sure there was some 
 mention made in it of this Camperdown Barton — 
 2 b 2 
 
290 THE THREAD AND NEEDLE STORE. 
 
 I stuck a pin in it, Jenny Hart, as you told mc, at 
 the very place; and I had no time to finish the 
 letter ; in fact I don't know where I put it. Do you 
 know, Jenny Hart? — it is many years ago." 
 
 " Well, let me see — yes, I think I know; it is in 
 the japan box, on the toilet table. And what be- 
 came of your letter, Mr. Martin Barton ?" 
 
 " Mine, Jenny Hart? that is more than I r.an tell. 
 I laid it just here ; and I stuck a pin in at where I 
 left off, as you told me." 
 
 "It must have been pushed aside; or perhaps it 
 was folded up in one of the bundles of stockings. 
 It is gone, certainly. I trust it had nothing of im- 
 portance in it." Jenny Hart always placed Martin 
 Barton before the shelves of socks and stockings, 
 as they were the least perplexing articles to sell. 
 
 " Here is a letter," said Jasper Merry, "I picked 
 it up the other day, by Mr. Martin Barton's feet; I 
 think it must have fallen from that bundle of stock- 
 ings that you sent up to Mrs. Armstrong." 
 
 " Let me see," said Jenny Hart." She took it, 
 and cast her eye over the contents, while Mr. Mar- 
 tin Barton and his wife were plunged in tapes, bob- 
 bins, buttons and pins. She quietly put it in her 
 little French pocket, and as quietly walked out of 
 the shop. In five minutes Mr. Norton was with her 
 up in Mrs. Armstrong's parlour. 
 
 "Look here," said Jenny Hart, "just read this 
 letter, Mr. Norton. Only think what luck to find it 
 as we did. Two days later, and all would have 
 been lost to us." Mr. Norton was indeed surprised, 
 for this letter announced the death of this very 
 cousin, and his two children — this Camperdown 
 Barton ; and he had left all the property to his cou- 
 sin, Martin Barton, on condition that he claimed it 
 before a certain period. If not claimed then, it was 
 to be sold and the money divided among some dis- 
 tant relations. As Martin Barton had not claimed 
 it — how tired I am of always writing his name at 
 
THE THREAD AND NEEDLE STORE. 291 
 
 lull length; but I shall soon have done — the pro- 
 perty was to be sold on the following Monday, the 
 very day the term expired. 
 
 " There is no difficulty, then, Mr. Norton," said 
 Jenny Hart, " we can claim it yet, can we?" Cer- 
 tainly my dear Jenny Hart — he could not have call- 
 ed her Jenny for the world, nor could I — so send 
 Martin Barton to me. Can you tell why he chose to 
 be called Martin Barton'? — 'tis so tiresome." 
 
 " Why, this very Campcrdown Barton was the 
 cause; he was a bad character even when very 
 young, and our Martin Barton kept the two names 
 together, that he might not be taken for his cousin. 
 I only heard all this this morning, for we have 
 been always too busy to talk of such matters. I 
 think that Mrs. Martin Barton is even more particu- 
 lar on this point than he is. But, oh, Mr. Norton, 
 don't our dear little girls grow finely ?" 
 
 " Little girls indeed ! why they arc young wo- 
 men, taller than yourself, Jenny Hart ; but they don't 
 eclipse you yet ; you are as pretty and good as ever, 
 hard-hearted girl that you are ; but I claim the pro- 
 mise of giving you away," said the kind old bache- 
 lor, seeing Jenny Hart shy off'. " Good morning, 
 then, if you must go; but this shop business will kill 
 you; you work too hard." 
 
 "Never fear," said she, and down she tripped, 
 pitying Mr. Norton for his hopeless love, although 
 he was now quite resigned to it ; and congratulating 
 Martin Barton on this handsome accession of pro- 
 perty. Of course, every thing was properly done, 
 and to the entire satisfaction of every one but the 
 poor folks, who were on the point of getting the 
 money. This Camperdown Barton had, in reality, 
 secreted the will of their uncle; but on the death of 
 his children he repented, and restored as much of 
 the property as was left to the true owner. - 
 
 But oh, what a plot Jenny Hart had in hand — her 
 first plot and her last. She had acquainted Martin 
 
292 THE THREAD AND NEEDLE STORE- 
 
 Barton and his wife, with the affection that was 
 growing up between their daughters and the two 
 excellent young clerks, Jasper Merry and Alfred 
 Gray; and the good couple were very well content. 
 The* acme of bliss was to stand day in and day out, 
 in the thread and needle shop, eat their three nice 
 meals, count out their five long boxes of copper and 
 silver and bank notes, rock themselves for a quarter 
 of an hour in their high backed rocking chairs, and 
 go lovingly to bed as innocent and happy as their 
 " two" twins. 
 
 For one month did Jenny Hart toil as no woman 
 ever did toil; for she had all sorts of work people to 
 superintend, and all sorts of secrets to keep: and 
 above all she had to repress Archy Campbell's 
 highly excited feelings, for he was as far as ever 
 from coming to any understanding with her. V\ ell, 
 all was ready — the first of June came ; Archy had 
 been told in a quiet kind of way, that he was to be 
 bride's man to his two young companions; and that 
 he must be ready at a minute's warning, and to go 
 on as if nothing was to happen, particularly on this 
 their last day in the shop. 
 
 The last day came — the first of June, and the 
 shop was unusually full; for quietly as Jenny Hart 
 managed every thing, still something had leaked 
 out, and as she was the most conspicuous person, 
 the secret was attached to her. It was conjectured, 
 that she was either to be married to Mr. Norton or 
 to Archy Campbell, and in either case she would 
 disappear from public eyes. 
 
 It will be a great loss to the shop when she goes, 
 said one; a public loss said another; Jenny Hart 
 ought never to marry said a young gentleman; for 
 half the pleasure in life we young fellows have, is to 
 get a look at her and hear her musical voice, so 
 modest and so arch and gay as she is too. I have 
 a great mind to choke old Norton, and shoot this 
 Archy Campbell ; and there he stands, looking as if 
 
THE THREAD AND NEEDLE STORK. 293 
 
 no happiness awaited him. I think it must be old Nor- 
 ton after all ; for no man could look so grave on the 
 eve of marrying such a peerless creature as this 
 Jenny Hart. Young and old caught a whisper of 
 the news, but no one dared to banter her ; in fact, 
 there was no chance, she was so busy. 
 
 Tired and fagged they all were that day; and if 
 you had looked down behind the counter, you would 
 have seen Martin Barton, the much enduring crea- 
 ture, standing on one foot to rest the other. His 
 wife had told him to do it years ago; and so, when- 
 ever he saw her standing on one foot, which was 
 generally every Saturday, he thought it was high 
 time to do the same. This day poor Jenny Hart 
 did complain of fatigue, the first time Archy Camp- 
 bell had ever heard her complain of any thing. 
 "Are you tired, Jenny Hart?" said Martin Barton, 
 " how sorry I am." " Tired, are you V' said Mrs. 
 Martin Barton, " stand on one foot as we do Jenny 
 Hart, that will rest the other." " Stand on one 
 foot," said Jenny Hart, laughing, " I have not a foot 
 left to stand upon." 
 
 " Oh, what a beautiful bunch of flowers," said a 
 lady, " where did they come from, and whom are 
 they for ?" 
 
 " They came from our new place Camperdown," 
 said Mrs. Martin Barton, "and they are for our 
 two twins to-morrow." — Jenny Hart pushed her. 
 
 "Ah ! true," said the lady, " I recollect you have 
 twins; how old are they'!" 
 
 " How old? let me see," said Mrs. Martin Barton, 
 who really had known the night before ; but Jenny's 
 push had bewildered her — she was afraid that to 
 tell their age, would be to tell the secret. " How 
 old are they Jenny Hart?" 
 
 " Just seventeen, Mrs. Martin Barton, and the 
 sun is down, you see. We shut up shop now at sun- 
 down," said Mr. Martin Barton. Seeing that many 
 of the customers lingered — we arc going to the 
 
294 THE THREAD AiVD NEEDLE STORE. 
 
 Jenny gave him a push. "What ails them both to 
 tell things now," thought she, "just at this present 
 moment, and never before V 
 
 "Well, the shop was closed, the clerks had their 
 tea, the boxes were brought in and the money count- 
 ed; Archy Campbell put all in the strong box and 
 disappeared. Jenny Hart, — a thing of late years, 
 quite unusual, set herself down in a chair, and seem- 
 ed as if she were going to spend the evening in the 
 little back room. 
 
 " I have something to say to you my good kind 
 friends," said she at last, " something that I fear 
 will give you pain; and I have also a favour to beg 
 of you, and this I know you will have pleasure in 
 granting." 
 
 " Tell us all in the morning, dear Jenny Hart," 
 said Mrs. Martin Barton, " for I am so sleepy and 
 tired, that I cannot even listen." 
 
 "Just stop one moment," said she, as Mrs. Mar- 
 tin Barton was pulling her husband by the sleeve to 
 go, she having the candlestick in her hand. 
 
 " You are going with us to Camperdown to-mor- 
 row," said he, " and you can come in our carriage, 
 and tell us all about it. Poor thing, see how tired 
 she is;" and he looked down, and saw Mrs. Martin 
 Barton on one foot. 
 
 " Going with you," said Jenny Hart, her lip qui- 
 vering, "yes, just for to-morrow; but you'll see 
 then — you'll see. But go to bed, for I fear that 
 what I have to say, will rob you of sleep." 
 
 " Oh, no," said Martin Barton, " nothing can keep 
 two such tired souls awake, so say out and have 
 done with it. You see that even poor tired Letty 
 is broad awake, has let go my sleeve, and has put 
 down the candlestick." 
 
 " Well, to be sure," said Mrs. Martin Barton, " a 
 change has come over you. I have not heard you 
 all me Letty this many a day. Speak out Jenny Hart." 
 
THE THREAD AND NEEDLE STORE. 295 
 
 " I won't detain you long," said Jenny, rising as 
 she spoke, and going near her friends, " We have 
 taken an account of stock you know — and my 
 wages for the last fourteen years, untouched you 
 know, is about equal to the amount of goods. I 
 want you to let Archy Campbell have the goods and 
 the shop, and your good will — and — poor Jenny 
 Hart in the bargain. Archy Campbell has saved 
 money too ; will you give your consent?" 
 
 "No," thundered out Martin Barton, wide 
 awake, " that I won't. The goods he may have 
 for nothing, the shop he may have for nothing, and 
 our best good will he may have ; but as to your 
 leaving us — no, never. Oh, Jenny Hart, Jenny 
 Hart, can you bear to leave us ? You may w 7 ell 
 cry and take on so, Letty ; why it is impossible, 
 Jenny Hart — we could not stand it." 
 
 " Oh, Jenny Hart, dear Jenny Hart," said Mrs. 
 Martin Barton, wide awake now, falling on the 
 afflicted little maiden's neck, and trembling like a 
 leaf—" don't leave us, we shall both die if you 
 think of leaving us. Martin Barton, don't let us 
 go to Camperdown — that is, to live there, I mean. 
 If she will stay, let us remain and keep shop for 
 her as she has done for us." 
 
 " Good heaven," thought Jenny Hart, almost 
 fainting with emotion, " could I have believed that 
 under this untiring money-making spirit there w r as 
 so much of deep feeling? — and for me too ! But I 
 cannot give up Archy Campbell; he has wrought 
 hard for me. If I go with them I must give him 
 up, and that I find I cannot do." 
 
 " There is no sleep for us to-night, Jenny" — see- 
 ing her hesitate— " how much did you say we 
 were now worth ?" 
 
 "Why, Archy Campbell was just whispering to 
 me as he went out that you were now worth half 
 a million of dollars, besides the large Camperdown 
 
296 THE THREAD AND NEEDLE STORE. 
 
 properly. He has been hard at work with Mr. 
 Norton for the last week." 
 
 "Half a million!" said Mrs. Martin Barton; 
 " well, it is really time to leaye off selling thread 
 and needles." 
 
 " Yes, a good half million," said the little shop- 
 woman exultingly. Martin Barton whispered to 
 his wife, and she wiped her tearful eyes, and 
 laughed out aloud. " Excellent," said she, — " ah, 
 Jenny, you have had your day, now we'll have ours; 
 it is all settled, Jenny Hart, we have settled it all, 
 and now I am getting sleepy again — so, good night." 
 
 What did Jenny do when the good couple left 
 her ? why she sent little Betty for Archy Campbell, 
 and when he came in she pointed to a chair. 
 
 " Archy Campbell," said she, " I have never told 
 you that this was the last day that Mr. and Mrs. 
 Martin Barton were to be in the shop. They have 
 left it entirely, and — and — it is yours — all yours, 
 goods, shop, and all." 
 
 "And you, Jenny Hart," said the young man, rising 
 and standing before her, trembling with emotion. 
 
 "I," said she, rising also, and stepping to the 
 door of the entry which led to the next house, — 
 " I, why lam going to Camperdown with the 
 family." (Oh, Jenny Hart, Jenny Hart, how could 
 you torment the young man in this way ?) 
 
 " Then the devil take the goods, the shop, and 
 all," said he, putting on his hat. f They may look 
 out for another bridesman to-morrow, and so I will 
 tell the young man. I had hoped that in time" — 
 
 " They are going to look out for another brides- 
 man in your place," said the provoking girl, breaking 
 her heart, too, to see him so unhappy. "They went 
 to see one of their friends an hour ago, and I am to 
 have the two sweet girls for my bridesmaids, and 
 you are to have both Jasper Merry and Alfred Gray 
 for your bridesmen; so get yourself ready and" — 
 
 "Jenny, dearest Jenny," said he, approaching 
 
TEW THREAD AND NEEDLE STORE. 297 
 
 her, almost beside himself through hopes and fears, 
 "arc you in earnest? am I at last" — and he that 
 had never wept since he left his mother, now 
 covered his face and wept aloud. 
 
 " Archy Campbell, I did not think you would be 
 so greatly affected. Oh, how I have underrated 
 every body ! what a world we live in, myself the 
 poorest in it. Here is my hand, dear Archy Camp- 
 bell; it is so long since I gave you my heart that I 
 forget I ever had one." 
 
 One embrace and the lovers parted; she tripped 
 up, frightened to death at what she had done, and 
 he threw his hat to the farthest end of the room in 
 a transport of joy. 
 
 So the carriages came to the door, and then 
 first stepped in Mr. and Mrs. Martin Barton, Mrs. 
 Armstrong and Mr. Norton, (they were married 
 that day six months, and I was at the wedding,) and 
 little Betty, who sat down between Martin Barton's 
 feet Then, in the second carriage, stepped Rona, 
 Jasper Merry, Ida, and Alfred Gray ; then went 
 Archy Campbell — no, I ought rather to say, then 
 went Jenny Hart and Archy Campbell; he felt too 
 deeply to wish for any other person near him at 
 that moment but his own darling, Jenny Hart — let 
 me call her so a little longer; — and, lastly, went the 
 bridesmaids and bridesmen, who rattled away, and 
 were the first to get at the church door to help the 
 party out. 
 
 There had been great altercation the morning 
 before as to who should be married first, but Jenny 
 Hart did not conquer this time. They all coaxed 
 and threatened, and at last she had to consent, to 
 save time, she said. " 1 would not give up now, 
 my dear girls, but I feel as if the poor shop girl" — ■ 
 
 " Hold your tongue, Jenny Hart," said Mrs, 
 Martin Barton, " you are not a poor" — 
 
 Martin Barton gave her a push. Then came 
 the ^dispute as to which of the twins should stand. 
 2c 
 
298 THE THREAD AND NEEDLE STORE. 
 
 up first, for Mrs. Martin Barton had forgotten 
 which was the oldest; there was only half an 
 hour's difference, however. Jenn;f Hart settled 
 that by saying, that, as Jasper Merry was older 
 than Alfred Gray, his bride should take the prece- 
 dence — and all was settled. 
 
 So Jenny Hart, and her manly, handsome 
 lover, Archy Campbell, were married first — and 
 there had like to have been no one else mar- 
 ried, there was so much kissing and frying: 
 but the ceremonies proceeded, and the clergy- 
 man said he had never married three such lovely 
 couples before. He had five little notes in his hand 
 as the carriages drove off; it was a surprise to the 
 poor clergyman, for each paper contained a hun- 
 dred dollar note — even Mr. Martin Barton and 
 Mr. Norton made the clergyman a present. But — 
 half a million ! 
 
 Away the carriages flew — five miles to Camper- 
 down — and there, looking quite young and hand- 
 some, stood good Mr. and Mrs. Daly, waiting to 
 bless them all, and to tell them that dinner was 
 ready. 
 
 The table — two tables, I should say, were set 
 out, and people may believe it or not as they 
 choose, but, though every delicacy was on them, 
 there was neither decanter nor wine glass. Tem- 
 perance was their motto ; it was by temperance in 
 all things that these thread and needle people made 
 themselves rich and happy. 
 
 The dinner was all one happy confusion ; and, 
 if Hosea Bringle had not solaced himself with a 
 good luncheon, beforehand, he would have risen 
 from the table with but a poor account of delica- 
 cies eaten — he was impelled on by the tide of joy- 
 ful faces, to follow, as they left the house to take 
 possession of their future homes. 
 
 Archy Campbell, with Jenny hanging on his arm, 
 (good reader, let me go back again, and call her 
 Jenny Hart.) Archy Campbell, with dear Jenny 
 
THE THREAD AND NEEDLE STORE. 299 
 
 Hart hanging on his arm, walked slowly forward ; 
 his heart was too lull to be gay; his happiness was 
 too new; his gratitude too deep, to know what was 
 •'! passing; and his bride, letting in a flood of new 
 feelmgs, was pondering and wondering to see the 
 quiet, yet alert, shopman, who, for fifteen years, had 
 frittered away the minufcs in selling pennyworths 
 of tape and needles, transformed into a man of 
 great elevation of soul, and deep, tender feeling. 
 "And this man is my "husband," said she, casting 
 her eyes up to his handsome countenance, which 
 was all radiant with joy as her eye met his. 
 
 First they installed Rona in her house. Every 
 thing that heart could wish was there, down to the 
 minutest thing ; and beautiful every thing was; for 
 dear Jenny — see, reader, I have dropped the other 
 name — had an exquisite taste. And then, Ida took 
 possession of her home, exactly like her sister's, in 
 point of beauty and completeness; but different 
 l ! only in fancy. Then Mrs. Armstrong was taken to 
 her house: every thing complete, like the other 
 two, only the furniture^a thought more grave. Then 
 the whole flock proceeded to the fourth house — it 
 was the one for the father and mother — good, ho- 
 nest Martin Barton and his wife; this also was a 
 model of comfort and beauty. The whole party 
 stood on the steps and under the portico. 
 
 "Step in Jenny Hart — dear Jenny Campbell, 
 now" — said Martin Barton, " step in, Archy Camp- 
 bell; I have made up my mind to one thing; and 
 that is, that I cannot let you have the thread and 
 needle store; I have made it all over to Peter 
 Squire and Jacob Teller." — Jacob Teller was the 
 fifth clerk. 
 
 Jenny turned pale and Archy red — " Come this 
 way, Hosea Bringle," said old Mr. Daly, "don't go 
 to cry, man, you'll hear all presently — come, son 
 and daughter, make haste, it is getting late." 
 
 "Jenny Hart, my own Jenny," said Mrs. Martin 
 
300 THE THREAD AND NEEDLE STORE. 
 
 Barton, drying her eyes, " this house, and all in it, 
 is yours; and here comes Mr. Norton, to make 
 over to you one-fifth of the money you helped us 
 to make. What, did you think we -could hear to 
 see you toil, and toil again, as you have done: and 
 Archy Campbell, too— so in with you." And in 
 they went, with hearts tooffull to thank their friends. 
 
 There was, indeed, plenty of room at Mr. Daly's 
 for Martin Barton and his wife, and little Betty and 
 all; and, as to Hosea Bringle, he was a fixture 
 there. Mrs. Armstrong, as I said, did not live alone 
 long, in her handsome house. 
 
 And now, gentle reader, I must leave off. But 
 would you not like to hear more of our dear Jenny 
 — how she managed her house and her gardens, 
 and the poor people in the neighbourhood — and 
 how her husband idolized her; and how all the old 
 customers, rich and poor, came to see her, and par- 
 take of her hospitalities. Only let me know, ar 
 I will tell you more of her, and how Hosea Brii 
 gle read to the four innocent people every evening, 
 either some good book or other; or in the Arabian 
 Nights; and how they blended the genii that wanted 
 to kill the merchant, with the giant in Pilgrim's 
 Progress. And haw the old man sat whittling with 
 a penknife, making weathercocks for the stables ; 
 and, finally, little go-carts, and little wheelbarrows, 
 and little rakes, for the young family that was fast 
 rising up around him. They could not come too 
 fast for old Hosea Bringle. And then, how easy it 
 came to Martin Barton to take care of a garden; 
 working as hard at it as he did in his thread and 
 needle store. Only encourage me, and I will write 
 on ; or drop a line in the Evening Star, and thft 
 American, of New York, and my pen will soon, be 
 set going again. 
 
 THE END.