-MODERN CLASSICS,
CONTA INNG
THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY;
LIFE IN THE IRON MILLS;
MY DOUBLE, AND HOW HE UNDID ME;
THE DIAMOND LENS;
FRIEND ELI'S DAUGHTER:
AND OTHER STORIES.FR OM TH1
"ATLANTIC MONTHLY."
PHILADELPHIA:
PORTER  & COATES,




ficter-d according to Act of Congress, in the year x865, by
IICKNOR  AND  FIELDS.
ta th,; Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Distrct of Massachusetta




CONT E N TS.
PAGB
MY DOUBLE; AND HOW HE UNDID
ME.......... Ed7ard Everem fHale 
THE DIAMOND LENS.....  Fitz 7ames O'Brze.  21
LIFE IN THE IRON-MILLS...Mis?. B Har-ding  50
THE PURSUIT OF KNOWLEDGE UNDER DIFFICULTIES... Gail C     zamlzto.   93
A RAT-T THAT NO MAN MADE.. Robert T. S. Lwell. 147
WHY THOMAS WAS DISCHARGED. George Arnold.. 162
VICTOR AND JACQUELINE...,iss Caroline Czesebre I80
ELKANAH  BREWSTER'S TEMPTATION.........    Charles Nordzhof  O 248
THE QUEEN OF THE RED CHESSMEN...... Miss Lucretia P. Hale 271
MISS LUCINDA....... MAiss Rose Terry.   299
THE DENSLOW PALACE... a.  D, Whielfley.    336
FRIEND ELI'S DAUGHTER... Bayard Taylor.   367
A HALF-LIFE AND HALF A LIFE. Miss E. H. Appleoan  398
THF MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY. Edward Everett ]hale 448








MY DOUBLE;
AND HOW HE UNDID ME.
T is not often that I trouble you, my readers. I
should not trouble you now, but for the importunities of my wife, who " feels to insist " that a duty
to society is unfulfilled, till I have told why I had to have a
double, and how he undid me. She is sure, she says, that
intelligent persons cannot understand that pressure upon
public servants which alone drives any man into the employment of a double. And while I fear she thinks, at the
bottom of her heart, that my fortunes will never be remade,
she has a faint hope, that, as another Rasselas, I may teach
a lesson to future publics, from which they may profit,
though we die. Owing to the behavior of my double, or, if
you please, to that public pressure which compelled me to
employ him, I have plenty of leisure to write this communication.
I am, or rather was, a minister, of the Sandemanian connection. I was settled in the active, wide-awake town of
Naguadavick, on one of the finest water-powers in Maine.
We used to call it a Western town in the heart of the
civilization of New England. A charming place it was and
is. A spirited, brave young parish had I; and it seemed as
if we might have all "the joy of eventful living" to our
hearts' content.
Alas  how little we knew on the day of my ordination,




2       My Double; and how he undid me.
and in those halcyon moments of our first housekeeping I
To be the confidential friend in a hundred families in the
town,-cutting the social trifle, as my friend Haliburton
says, " from the top of the whipped-syllabub to the bottom
of the sponge-cake, which is the foundation,"  to keep
abreast of the thought of the age in one's study, and to do
ope's best on Sunday to interweave that thought with the
active life of an active town, and to inspirit both and make
both infinite by glimpses of the Eternal Glory, seemed such
an exquisite forelook into one's life! Enough to do, and all
so real and so grand! If this vision could only have lasted.
The truth is, that this vision was not in itself a delusion,
nor, indeed, half bright enough. If one could only have
been left to do his own business, the vision would have accomplished itself and brought out new paraheliacal visions,
each as bright as the original. The misery was and is, as
we found out, I and Polly, before long, that, besides the
vision, and besides the usual human and finite failures in
life, (such as breaking the old pitcher that came over in the
" Mayflower," and putting into the fire the Alpenstock with
which her father climbed Mont Blanc,) -besides these, I
say, (imitating the style of Robinson Crusoe,) there were
pitchforked in on us a great rowen-heap of humbugs,
handed down from some unknown seed-time, in which we
were expected, and I chiefly, to fulfil certain public functions
before the community, of the character of those fulfilled by
the third row of supernumeraries who stand behind the
Sepoys in the spectacle of the "Cataract of the Ganges."
They were the duties, in a word, which one performs as
member of one or another social class or subdivision, wholly
distinct from what one does as A. by himself A. What invisible power put these functions on me, it would be very
hard to tell. But such power there was and is. And I had
not been at work a year before I found I was living two
lives, one real and one merely functional, - for two sets of
people, one my parish, whom I loved, and the other a vague
public, for whom I did not care two straws. All this was in




My Double; and how he undid me.               3
a vague notion, which everybody had and has, that this second life would eventually bring out some great results, unknown at present, to somebody somewhere.
Crazed by this duality of life, I first read Dr. Wigan on
the " Duality of the Brain," hoping that I could train one
side of my head to do these outside jobs, and the other to
do my intimate and real duties. For Richard Greenough
once told me, that, in studying for the statue of Franklin,
he found that the left side of the great man's face was philosophic and reflective, and the right side funny and smiling.
If you will go and look at the bronze statue, you will find he
has repeated this observation there for posterity. The eastern profile is the portrait of the statesman Franklin, the
western of Poor Richard. But Dr. Wigan does not go into
these niceties of this subject, and I failed. It was then,
that, on my wife's suggestion, I resolved to look out for a
Double.
I was, at first, singularly successful. We happened to be
recreating at Stafford Springs that summer. We rode out
one day, for one of the relaxations of that watering-place, to
the great Monson Poor-House. We were passing through
one of the large halls, when my destiny was fulfilled! I
saw my man!
He was not shaven.  He had on no spectacles.  He was
dressed in a green baize roundabout and faded blue overalls, worn sadly at the knee. But I saw at once that he was
of my height, five feet four and a half. He had black hair,
worn off by his hat. So have and have not I. He stooped
in walking.  So do I. His hands were large, and mine,
And - choicest gift of Fate in all —he had, not "a strawberry-mark on his left arm," but a cut from a juvenile brickbat over his right eye, slightly affecting the play of that eyebrow. Reader, so have I! - My fate was sealed!
A word with Mr. Holley, one of the inspectors, settled the
whole thing. It proved that this Dennis Shea was a harmless, amiable fellow, of the class known as shiftless, who had
sealed his fate by marrying a dumb wife, who was at that




4       My Double; and how he undid me.
moment ironing in the laundry.  Before I left Stafford, I
had hired both for five years. We had applied to Judg3
Pynchon, then the probate judge at Springfield, to change
the name of Dennis Shea to Frederic Ingham. We had
explained to the Judge, what was the precise truth, that an
eccentric gentleman wished to adopt Dennis under this new
name into his family. It never occurred to him that Dennis
might be more than fourteen years old. And thus, to
shorten this preface, when we returned one night to my parsonage at Naguadavick, there entered Mrs. Ingham, her
new dumb laundress, myself, who am Mr. Frederic Ingham,
and my'double, who was Mr. Frederic Ingham by as good
right as I.
Oh, the fun we had the next morning in shaving his beard
to my pattern, cutting his hair to match mine, and teaching
him how to wear and how to take off gold-bowed spectacles!
Really, they were electro-plate and the glass was plain (for
the poor fellow's eyes were excellent). Then in four successive afternoons I taught him four speeches. I had found
these would be quite enough for the supernumerary-Sepoy
line of life, and it was well for me they were.  For though
he was good-natured, he was very shiftless, and it was, as
our national proverb says, " like pulling teeth" to teach him.
But at the end of the next week he could say, with quite my
easy and frisky air, -
I. "Very well, thank you. And you?" This for an answer to casual salutations.
2. " I am very glad you liked it."
3. "There has been so much said, and, on the wholI so
well said, that I will not occupy the time."
4. " I agree, in general, with my friend the other side of
the room."
At first I had a feeling that I was going to be at great
cost tor clothing him. But it proved, of course, at once,
that, whenever he was out, I should be at home. And I
went, during the bright period of his success, to so few of
those awful pageants which require a black dress-coat and




My Double; and how he undid me.              5
what the ungodly call, after Mr. Dickens, a white choker,
that in the happy retreat of my own dressing-gowns and
jackets my days went by as happily and cheaply as those of
another Thalaba. And Polly declares there was never a
year when the tailoring cost so little. He lived (Dennis,
not Thalaba) in his wife's room over the kitchen. He had
orders never to show himself at that window. When he
appeared in the front of the house, I retired to my sanctissimum and my dressing-gown. In short, the Dutchman
and his wife, in the old weather-box, had not less to do with
each other than he and 1. He made the furnace-fire and
split the wood before daylight; then he went to sleep again,
and slept late; then came for orders, with a red silk bandanna tied round his head, with his overalls on, and his
dress-coat and spectacles off. If we happened to be interrupted, no one guessed that he was Frederic Ingham as well
as I; and, in the neighborhood, there grew up an impression that the minister's Irishman worked day-times in the
factory-village at New Coventry. After I had given him
his orders, I never saw him till the next day.
I launched him by sending him to a meeting of the Enlightenment Board. The Enlightenment Board consists of
seventy-four members, of whom sixty-seven are necessary
to form a quorum. One becomes a member under the regulations laid down in old Judge Dudley's will. I became
one by being ordained pastor of a church in Naguadavick.
You see you cannot help yourself, if you would. At this
particular time we had had four successive meetings, averaging four hours each,- wholly occupied in whipping in a
quorum. At the first only eleven men were present; at the
next, by force of three circulars, twenty-seven; at the third.
thanks to two days' canvassing by Auchmuty and myself,
begging men to come, we had sixty. Half the others were
in Europe. But without a quorum  we could do nothing.
All the rest of us waited grimly for our four hours, and adjourned without any action. At the fourth meeting we had,flagged, and only got fifty-nine together. But on the firsl




6       My Double; and how he undid me.
appearance of my double,- whom I sent on this fatal Mon.
day to the fifth meeting, - he was the sixty-seventh man
who entered the room. He was greeted with a storm of
applause! The poor fellow had missed his way, - read the
street signs ill through his spectacles, (very ill, in fact, without them,)-and had not dared to inquire. He entered
the room, - finding the president and secretary holding to
their chairs two judges of the Supreme Court, who were
also members ex officio, and were begging leave to go away.
On his entrance all was changed. Presto, the by-laws were
amended, and the Western property was given away. Nobody stopped to converse with him. He voted, as I had
charged him to do, in every instance, with the minority. I
won new laurels as a man of sense, though a little unpunctual, -and Dennis, alias Ingham, returned to the parsonage,
astonished to see with how little wisdom the world is governed. He cut a few of my parishioners in the street; but
he had his glasses off, and I am known to be near-sighted.
Eventually he recognized them more readily than I.
I "set him again " at the exhibition of the New Coventry
Academy; and here he undertook a " speaking part," - as,
in my boyish, worldly days, I remember the bills used to say
of Mlle. Celeste. We are all trustees of the New Coventry
Academy; and there has lately been " a good deal of feeling" because the Sandemanian trustees did not regularly
attend the exhibitions. It has been intimated, indeed, that
the Sandemanians are leaning towards Free-Will, and that
we have, therefore, neglected these semiannual exhibitions,
while there is no doubt that Auchmuty last year went to
Commencement at Waterville. Now the head master at
New Coventry is a real good fellow, who knows a Sanskrit
root when he sees it, and often cracks etymologies with me,
- so that, in strictness, I ought to go to their exhibitions.
But think, reader, of sitting through three long July days in
that Academy chapel, following the programme from
TUESDAY MOFNING. EnZgishS  Compo0ition,   " SUNSHINE.
Miss Jones.




My Double; and how he undid me.             7
rourd to
Trio on Three Pianos. Duel from the Opera of " Midshipman
Easy." Marryat.
coming in at nine, Thursday evening! Think of this, reader,
for men who know the world is trying to go backward, and
who would give their lives if they could help it on! Well!
The double had succeeded so well at the Board, that I sent
him to the Academy. (Shade of Plato, pardon!) He arrived early on Tuesday, when, indeed, few but mothers and
clergymen are generally expected, and returned in the evening to us, covered with honors. He had dined at the right
hand of the chairman, and he spoke in high terms of the
repast. The chairman had expressed his interest in the
French conversation. " I am very glad you liked it," said
Dennis; and the poor chairman, abashed, supposed the accent had been wrong. At the end of the day, the gentlemen
present had been called upon for speeches, - the Rev. Frederic Ingham first, as it happened; upon which Dennis had
risen, and had said, "There has been so much said, and,
on the whole, so well said, that I will not occupy the time."
The girls were delighted, because Dr. Dabney, the year before, had given them at this occasion a scolding on impropriety of behavior at lyceum lectures. They all declared
Mr. Ingham was a love,  and so handsome! (Dennis is
good-looking.) Three of them, with arms behind the others'
waists, followed him up to the wagon he rode home in; and
a little girl with a blue sash had been sent to give him a
rosebud. After this debut in speaking, he went to the exhibition for two days more, to the mutual satisfaction of all
concerned. Indeed, Polly reported that he had pronounced
the trustees' dinners of a higher grade than those of the parsonage. When the next term began, I found six of the
Academy girls had obtained permission to come across the
river and attend our church. But this arrangement did not
long continue.
After this he went to several Commencements for me, and




8       My Double; and how he unldid me.
ate the dinners provided; he sat through three of out
Quarterly Conventions for me, - always voting judiciously,
by the simple rule mentioned above, of siding with the minority. And I, meanwhile, who had before been losing
caste among my friends, as holding myself aloof from the
associations of "the Body," began to rise in everybody's
favor. "Ingham's a good fellow,    always on hand";
" never talks much,- but does the right thing at the right
time "; " is not as unpunctual as he used to be, - he comes
early, and sits through to the end."  " He has got over his
old talkative habit, too. I spoke to a friend of his about it
once; and I think Ingham took it kindly," etc., etc.
This voting power of Dennis was particularly valuable at
the quarterly meetings of the Proprietors of the Naguadavick
Ferry. My wife inherited from her father some shares in
that enterprise, which is not yet fully developed, though it
doubtless will become a very valuable property. The law
of Maine then forbade stockholders to appear by proxy at
such meetings. Polly disliked to go, not being, in fact, a
"hens'-rights hen," and transferred her stock to me. I,
after going once, disliked it more than she. But Dennis
went to the next meeting, and liked it very much. He said
the arm-chairs were good, the collation good, and the free
rides to stockholders pleasant. He was a little frightened
when they first took him upon one of the ferry-boats, but
after two or three quarterly meetings he became quite
brave.
Thus far I never had any difficulty with him. Indeed,
being of that type which is called shiftless, he was only too
happy to be told daily what to do, and to be charged not to
be forthputting or in any way original in his discharge of
that duty. He learned, however, to discriminate between
the lines of his life, and very much preferred these stock"
holders' meetings and trustees' dinners and Commencement
collations to another set of occasions, from which he used to
beg off most piteously. Our excellent brother, Dr. Fillmore,
had takeni a notion at this time that our Sandemanian




My Double; and how he undid me.              o
churches needed more expression of mutual sympathy. He
insisted upon it that we were remiss. He said, that, if the
Bishop came to preach at Naguadavick, all the Episcopal
clergy of the neighborhood were present; if Dr. Pond
came, all the Congregational clergymen turned out to hear
him; if Dr. Nichols, all the Unitarians; and he thought
we owed it to each other, that, whenever there was an occasional service at a Sandemanian church, the other brethren
should all, if possible, attend. " It looked well," if nothing
more. Now this really meant that I had not been to hear
one of Dr. Fillmore's lectures on the Ethnology of Religion.
He forgot that he did not hear one of my course on the
" Sandemanianism of Anselm."  But I felt badly when he
said it; and afterwards I always made Dennis go to hear
all the brethren preach, when I was not preaching myself.
This was what he took exceptions to, - the only thing, as I
said, which he ever did except to. Now came the advantage of his long morning-nap, and of the green tea with
which Polly supplied the kitchen. But he would plead, so
humbly, to be let off, only from one or two! I never excepted him, however. I knew the lectures were of value,:tnd I thought it best he should be able to keep the connection.
Polly is more rash than I am, as the reader has observed
in the outset of this memoir. She risked Dennis one night
under the eyes of her own sex. Governor Gorges.had always been very kind to us; and when he gave his great
annual party to the town, asked us. I confess I hated to
go. I was deep in the new volume of Pfeiffer's " Mystics,"
which Haliburton had just sent me from Boston. " But
how rude," said Polly, " not to return the Governor's civility
and Mrs. Gorges's, when they will be sure to ask why you
are away! " Still I demurred, and at last she, with the wit
of Eve and of Semiramis conjoined, let me off by saying,
that, if I would go in with her, and sustain the initial conversations with the Governor and the ladies staying there,
she would risk Dennis for the rest of the evening. And
I*




xo      My Double; and how he undid me.
that was just what we did. She took Dennis in training all
that afternoon, instructed him in fashionable conversation,
cautioned him against the temptations of the supper-table,
-and at nine in the evening he drove us all down in the
carryall. I made the grand star-enrde with Polly and the
pretty Walton girls, who were staying with us. We had put
Dennis into a great rough top-coat, without his glasses, -
and the girls never dreamed, in the darkness, of looking at
him. He sat in the carriage, at the door, while we entered.
I did the agreeable to Mrs. Gorges, was introduced to her
niece, Miss Fernanda,- I complimented Judge Jeffries on
his decision in the great case of D'Aulnay vs. Laconia Mining Co., - I stepped into the dressing-room for a moment,
- stepped out for another, - walked home, after a nod with
Dennis, and tying the horse to a pump; -and while I
walked home, Mr. Frederic Ingham, my double, stepped in
through the library into the Gorges' grand saloon.
Oh i Polly died of laughing as she told me of it at midnight! And even here, where I have to teach my hands to
hew the beech for stakes to fence our cave, she dies of laughing as she recalls it, -and says that single occasion was
worth all we have paid for it. Gallant Eve that she is!
She joined Dennis at the library-door, and in an instant
presented him to Dr. Ochterlony, from Baltimore, who was
on a visit in town, and was talking with her as Dennis came
in. " Mr. Ingham would like to hear what you were telling
us about your success among the German population." And
Dennis bowed and said, in spite of a scowl from Polly, "I'm
very glad you liked it."  But Dr. Ochterlony did not observe, and plunged into the tide of explanation, - Dennis
listening like a prime-minister, and bowing like a mandarin,
-which is, I suppose, the same thing. Polly declared it
was just like Haliburton's Latin conversation with the Hungarian minister, oJ which he is very fond of telling.  "Qucene
sit historia Reformationis in Ungarid?" quoth Haliburton,
after some thought. And his confrere replied gallantly,
a in seculo decimo tertio," etc., etc., etc.; and from decima




Mry Double; and how he undid me.               I 
tertzo - to the nineteenth century and a half lasted till the
oysters came.  So was it that before Dr. Ochterlony came
to the "success," or near it, Governor Gorges came to Dennis and asked him to hand Mrs. Jeffries down to supper, a
request which he heard with great joy.
Polly was skipping round the room, I guess, gay as a lark.
Auchmuty came to her "in pity for poor Ingham," who was
so bored by the stupid pundit, - and Auchmuty could not
understand why I stood it so long. But when Dennis took
Mrs. Jeffries down, Polly could not resist standing near
them. He was a little flustered, till the sight of the eatables
and drinkables gave him  the same Mercian courage which
it gave Diggory. A little excited then, he attempted one or
two of his speeches to the Judge's lady. But little he knew
how hard it was to get in even a proniptu there edgewise.
"Very well, I thank you," said he, after the eating elements
were adjusted; "and you?" And then did not he have to
hear about the mumps, and the measles, and arnica, and
belladonna, and chamomile-flower, and dodecatheon, till she
changed oysters for salad, - and then about the old practice
and the new, and what her sister said, and what her sister's
friend said, and what the physician to her sister's friend said,
and then what was said by the brother of the sister of the
physician of the friend of her sister, exactly as if it had been
in Ollendorff? There was a moment's pause, as she declined
Champagne.  " I am very glad you liked it," said Dennis
again, which he never should have said, but to one who
complimented a sermon. " Oh! you are so sharp, Mr. Ingham! No! I never drink any wine at all, - except sometimes in summer a little currant spirits, — from our own
currants, you know. My own mother, - that is, I call her
my own mother, because, you know, I do not remember,"
etc., etc., etc.; till they came to the candied orange at the
end of the feast,- when Dennis, rather confused, thought
* Whic'a means, "In the thirteenth century," my dear little bell-and-coral
reader. You have rightly guessed that the question means, "What is the his.
tory of the R eformation in Hungary? "




12     My Doubh; and how he undid me.
he must say something, and tried No. 4, -"I agree, in
general, with my friend the other side of the room,"- which
he never should have said but at a public meeting. But
Mrs. Jeffries, who never listens expecting to understand,
caught him up instantly with, "Well, I'm sure my husband
returns the compliment; he always agrees with you, -
though we do worship with the Methodists;-~but you
know, Mr. Ingham," etc., etc., etc., till the move was made
up-stairs; - and as Dennis led her through the hall, he was
scarcely understood by any but Polly, as he said, " There
has been so much said, and, on the whole, so well said, that
I will not occupy the time."
His great resource the rest of the evening was, standing
in the library, carrying on animated conversations with one
and another in much the same way. Polly had initiated
him in the mysteries of a discovery of mine, that it is not
necessary to finish your sentences in a crowd, but by a sort
of mumble, omitting sibilants and dentals. This, indeed,
if your words fail you, answers even in public extempore
speech, - but better where other talking is going on. Thus,
-"We missed you at the Natural-History Society, Ingham."  Ingham replies, -" I am very gligloglum, that is,
that you were mmmmm."  By gradually dropping the voice,
the interlocutor is compelled to supply the answer. " Mrs.
Ingham, I hope your friend Augusta is better." Augusta
has not been ill. Polly cannot think of explaining, however,
and answers, -' Thank you, Ma'am; she is very rearason
wewahwewoh," in lower and lower tones. And Mrs. Throckmorton, who forgot the subject of which she spoke as soon
as she asked the question, is quite satisfied. Dennis could
see into the card-room, and came to Polly to ask if he might
not go and play all-fouls. But, of course, she sternly refused. At midnight they came home delighted. Polly, as
I said, wild to tell me the story of victory; only both the
pretty Walton girls said, -" Cousin Frederick, you did not
come near me all the evening."
We always called him Dennis at home, for convenience,




My Double; and how he undid me.             3
though his real name was Frederic Ingham, as I have explained. When the election-day came round, however, I
found that by some accident there was only one Frederic
Ingham's name on the voting-list; and, as I was quite
busy that day in writing some foreign letters to Halle, 1
thought I would forego my privilege of suffrage, and stay
quietly at home, telling Dennis that he might use the record
on the voting-list and vote. I gave him a ticket, which I
told him he might use, if he liked to. That was that very
sharp election in Maine which the readers of the "Atlantic "
so well remember, and it had been intimated in public that
the ministers would do well not to appear at the polls. Of
course, after that, we had to appear by self or proxy. Still,
Naguadavick was not then a city, and this standing in a
double queue at town-meeting several hours to vote was a
bore of the first water; and so, when I found that there was
but one Frederic Ingham on the list, and that one of us must
give up, I stayed at home and finished the letters, (which, indeed, procured for Fothergill his coveted appointment of
Professor of Astronomy at Leavenworth,) and I gave Dennis, as we called him, the chance. Something in the matter
gave a good deal of popularity to the Frederic Ingham
name; and at the adjourned election, next week, Frederic
Ingham was chosen to the legislature. Whether this was I
or Dennis, I never really knew. My friends seemed to think
it was I; but I felt, that, as Dennis had done the popular
thing, he was entitled to the honor; so I sent him to Augusta when the time came, and he took the oaths. And a
very valuable member he made. They appointed him on
the Committee on Parishes; but I wrote a letter for him,
resigning, on the ground that he took an interest in our
claim to the stumpage in the minister's sixteenths of Gore
A, next No. 7, in the ioth Range. He never made any
speeches, and always voted with the minority, which was
what he was sent to do. He made me and himself a great
many good friends, some of whom I did not afterwards recognize as quickly as Dennis did my parishioners. On one
B




14      My Double; and how he undid me.
or two occasions, when there was wood to saw at home, 1
kept him at home; but I took those occasions to go to Augusta myself. Finding myself often in his vacant seat at
these times, I watched the proceedings with a good deal of
care; and once was so much excited that I delivered my
somewhat celebrated speech on the Central School-District
question, a speech of which the " State of Maine" printed
some extra copies. I believe there is no formal rule permitting strangers to speak; but no one objected.
Dennis himself, as I said, never spoke at all. But our
experience this session led me to think, that, if, by some
such "general understanding" as the reports speak of in
legislation daily, every member of Congress might leave a
double to sit through those deadly sessions, and to answer
to roll-calls and do the legitimate party-voting, which appears stereotyped in the regular list of Ashe, Bocock, Black,
etc., we should gain decidedly in working-power. As things
stand, the saddest state-prison I ever visit is that Representatives' Chamber in Washington. If a man leaves for an
hour, twenty "correspondents" may be howling, " Where
was Mr. Pendergrast when the Oregon bill passed?" And
if poor Pendergrast stays there! Certainly, the worst use
you can make of a man is to put him in prison!.1 know, indeed, that public men of the highest rank have
resorted to this expedient long ago. Dumas's novel of the
" Iron Mask" turns on the brutal imprisonment of Louis the
Fourteenth's double. There seems little doubt, in our own
history, that it was the real General Pierce who shed tears
when the delegate from Lawrence explained to him the sufferings of the people there,  and only General Pierce's
double who had given the orders for the assault on that
town, which was invaded the next day. My charming
friend, George Withers, has, I am almost sure, a double,
who preaches his afternoon sermons for him. This is the
reason that the theology often varies so from that of the
forenoon. But that double is almost as charming as the
original. Some of the most well-defined men, who stand




iLfy Double; and how he undid me.           I5
out most prominently on the background of nistory, are in
this way stereoscopic men, who owe their distinct relief to
the slight differences between the doubles. All this I know.
My present suggestion is simply the great extension of the
system, so that all public machine-work may be done by it.
But I see I loiter on my story, which is rushing to the
plunge. Let me. stop an instant more, however, to recall,
were it only to myself, that charming year while all was yet
well. After the double had become a matter of course, for
nearly twelve months before he undid me, what a year it
was! Full of active life, full of happy love, of the hardest
work, of the sweetest sleep, and the fulfilment of so many
of the fresh aspirations and dreams of boyhood! Dennis
went to every school-committee meeting, and sat through
all those late wranglings which used to keep me up till midnight and awake till morning. He attended all the lectures
to which foreign exiles sent me tickets begging me to come
for the love of Heaven and of Bohemia. He accepted and
used all the tickets for charity concerts which were sent to
me.  He appeared everywhere where it was specially desirable that "our denomination," or 4 our party," or "ourclass,"
or "our family," or "our street," or "our town," or "our
county," or " our State," should be fully represented. And
I fell back to that charming life which in boyhood one
dreams of, when he supposes he shall do his own duty and
make his own sacrifices, without being tied up with those of
other people.  My rusty Sanskrit, Arabic, Hebrew, Greek,
Latin, French, Italian, Spanish, German, and English began
to take polish. Heavens! how little I had done with them
while I attended to my public duties! My calls on my parishioners became the friendly, frequent, homelike sociabilities they were meant to be, instead of the hard work of a
man goaded to desperation by the sight of his lists of arrears.
And preaching! what a luxury preaching was when I had
on Sunday the whole result of an individual, personal week,
from which to speak to a people whom all that week I had
been meeting as hand-to-hand friend! I never tired on




i6      Mly Double; and how hle undid me.
Sunday, and I was in condition to leave the sermon at
home, if I chose, and preach it extempore, as all men should
do always. Indeed, I wonder, when I think that a sensible
people, like ours, - really more attached to their clergy than
they were in the lost days, when the Mathers and Nortons
were noblemen, — should choose to neutralize so much of
their ministers' lives, and destroy so much of their early
training, by this undefined passion for seeing them in public.
It springs from our balancing of sects. If a spirited Episcopalian takes an interest in the almshouse, and is put on
the Poor Board, every other denomination must have a
minister there, lest the poorhouse be changed into St.
Paul's Cathedral.  If a Sandemanian is chosen president
of the Young Men's Library, there must be a Methodist vicepresident and a Baptist secretary. And if a Universalist
Sunday-School Convention collects five hundred delegates,
the next Congregationalist Sabbath-School Conference must
be as large, "lest'they' - whoever they may be - should
think' we'- whoever we may be - are going down."
Freed from these necessities, that happy year, I began to
know my wife by sight. We saw each other sometimes.
In those long mornings, when Dennis was in the study explaining to map-pedlers that I had eleven maps of Jerusalem already, and to school-book agents that I would see
them hanged before I would be bribed to introduce their
text-books into the schools, - she and I were at work together, as in those old dreamy days, -and in these of our
log-cabin again. But all this could not last, - and at length
poor Dennis, my double, overtasked in turn, undid me.
It was thus it happened. There is an excellent fellow,once a minister, - I will call him  Isaacs, - who deserves
well of the world till he dies, and after, - because he once,
in a real exigency, did the right thing, in the right way, at
the right time, as no other man could do it. In the world's
great football match, the ball by chance found him loitering
on the outside of the field; he closed with it, " camped " it,
charg td it home, -yes, right through the other side,- not




My Double; and how he undid me.            17
disturbed; not frightened by his own success,- and breathless found himself a great man, -as the Great Delta rang
applause. But he did not find himself a rich man; and the
football has never come in his way again. From that moment to this moment he has been of no use, that one can
see, at all. Still, for that great act we speak of Isaacs
gratefully and remember him kindly; and he forges on,
hoping to meet the football somewhere again. In that
vague hope, he had arranged a " movement " for a general
organization of the human family into Debating-Clubs,
County Societies, State Unions, etc., etc., with a view of inducing all children to take hold of the handles of their knives
and forks, instead of the metal. Children have bad habits
in that way. The movement, of course, was absurd; but we
all did our best to forward, not it, but him. It came time
for the annual county-meeting on this subject to be held at
Naguadavick. Isaacs came round, good fellow! to arrange
for it, - got the town-hall, got the Governor to preside, (the
saint! -he ought to have triplet doubles provided him by
law,) and then came to get me to speak. " No," I said, " I
would not speak, if ten Governors presided. I do not believe in the enterprise. If I spoke, it should be to say children should take hold of the prongs of the forks and the
blades of the knives. I would subscribe ten dollars, but I
would not speak a mill."  So poor Isaacs went his way,
sadly, to coax Auchmuty to speak, and Delafield. I went
out. Not long after, he came back, and told Polly that they
had promised to speak, - the Governor would speak, - and
he himself would close with the quarterly report, and some
interesting anecdotes regarding Miss Biffin's way of handling her knife and Mr. Nellis's way of footing his fork.
" Now if Mr. Ingham will only come and sit on the platform, he need not say one word; but it will show well in
the paper, - it will show that the Sandemanians take as
much interest in the movement as the Armenians or the
Mesopotamians, and will be a great favor to me." Polly,
good soul! was tempted, and she prorised. She knew




18      My Double; nzd how he undid me.
Mrs. Isaacs was starving, and the babies, - she knew Den.
nis was at home, - and she promised! Night came, and I
returned.  I heard her story. I was sorry. I doubted.
But Polly had promised to beg me, and I dared all! I told
Dennis to hold his peace, under all circumstances, and sent
him down.
It was not half an hour more before he returned, wild
with excitement, - in a perfect Irish fury, - which it was
long before I understood. But I knew at once that he had
undone me!
What happened was this. The audience got together,
attracted by Governor Gorges's name. There were a thousand people. Poor Gorges was late from Augusta.  They
became impatient.  He came in direct from the train at
last, really ignorant of the object of the meeting. He
opened it in the fewest possible words, and said other gentlemen were present who would entertain them better than
he. The audience were disappointed, but waited. The
Governor, prompted by Isaacs, said, " The Honorable Mr.
Delafield will address you." Delafield had forgotten the
knives and forks, and was playing the Ruy Lopez opening
at the chess-club. " The Rev. Mr. Auchmuty will address
you." Auchmuty had promised to speak late, and was at
the school-committee. " I see Dr. Stearns in the hall; perhaps he will say a word."  Dr. Stearns said he had come to
listen and not to speak. The Governor and Isaacs whispered. The Governor looked at Dennis, who was resplendent on the platform; but Isaacs, to give him  his due,
shook his head. But the look was enough. A miserable
lad, ill-bred, who had once been in Boston, thought it would
sound well to call for me, and peeped out, " Ingham!" A
few more wretches cried, " Ingham! Ingham!"  Still
Isaacs was firm; but the Governor, anxious, indeed, to
prevent a row, knew  I would say something, and said,
"Our friend Mr. Ingham is always prepared, - and though
we had not relied upon him, he will say a word, perhaps."
Applause followed, which turned Dennis's head. He rose,




My Double; and how he undid me.           19
fluttered, and tried No. 3: " There has been so much said,
and, on the whole, so well said, that I will not longer occupy
the time! " and sat down, looking for his hat; for things
seemed squally. But the people cried, " Go on! go on! "
and some applauded. Dennis, still confused, but flattered
by the applause, to which neither he nor I are used, rose
again, and this time tried No. 2: "I am very glad you
liked it " in a sonorous, clear delivery. My best friends
stared. All the people who did not know me personally
yelled with delight at the aspect of the evening; the Governor was beside himself, and poor Isaacs thought he was
undone! Alas, it was I! A boy in the gallery cried in a
loud tone,." It's all an infernal humbug," just as Dennis,
waving his hand, commanded silence, and tried No. 4: "I
agree, in general, with my friend the other side of the
room." The poor Governor doubted his senses, and crossed
to stop him, - not in time, however. The same gallery-boy
shouted, " How's your mother? " - and Dennis, now completely lost, tried, as his last shot, No. i, vainly: "Very
well, thank you; and you?"
I think I must have been undone already. But Dennis,
like another Lockhard, chose "to make sicker."  The audience rose in a whirl of amazement, rage, and sorrow.
Some other impertinence, aimed at Dennis, broke all restraint, and, in pure Irish, he delivered himself of an address to the gallery, inviting any person who wished to fight
to come down and do so, - stating, that they were all dogs
and cowards and the sons of dogs and cowards, - that he
would take any five of them single-handed. " Shure, I have
said all his Riverence and the Misthress bade me say,"
cried he, in defiance; and, seizing the Governor's cane from
his hand, brandished it, quarter-staff fashion, above his
head. He was, indeed, got from the hall only with the
greatest difficulty by the Governor, the City Marshal, who
had been called in, and the Superintendent of my SundaySchool.
The universal impression, of course, was, that the Rev..




20      My Double; and how he undid me.
Frederic Ingham had lost all conman i of himself in sonme
of those haunts of intoxication which for fifteen years I
have been laboring to destroy, Till this moment, indeed,
that is the impression in Naguadavick. This number of
the "Atlantic" will relieve from it a hundred friends of
mine who have been sadly wounded by that notion now
for years;-but I shall not be likely ever to show my head
there again.
No! My double has undone me.
We left town at seven the next morning. I came to
No. 9, in the Third Range, and settled on the Minister's Lot.
In the new towns in Maine, the first settled minister has a
gift of a hundred acres of land. I am the first settled minister in No. 9. My wife and little Paulina are my parish.
We raise corn enough to live on in summer. We kill bear's
meat enough to carbonize it in winter. I work on steadily
on my "Traces of Sandemanianism  in the Sixth and
Seventh Centuries," which I hope to publish next year.
We are very happy, but the world thinks we are undone.




THE DIAMOND LENS.
i.
THE BENDING OF THE TWIG.
ROM a very early period of my life the entire bent
of my inclinations had been towards microscopic
investigations. When I was not more than ten
years old, a distant relative of our family, hoping to astonish
my inexperience, constructed a simple microscope for me,
by drilling in a disk of copper a small hole, in which a drop
of pure water was sustained by capillary attraction. This
very primitive apparatus, magnifying some fifty diameters,
presented, it is true, only indistinct and imperfect forms, but
still sufficiently wonderful to work up my imagination to a
preternatural state of excitement.
Seeing me so interested in this rude instrument, my
cousin explained to me all that he knew about the principles
of the microscope, related to me a few of the wonders which
had been accomplished through its agency, and ended by
promising to send me one regularly constructed, immediately on his return to the city. I counted the days, the
hours, the minutes, that intervened between that promise
and his departure.
Meantime I was not idle. Every transparent substance
that bore the remotest semblance to a lens I eagerly seized
upon and employed in vain attempts to realize that instrument, the theory of whose construction I as yet only vaguely




22              The Diamond Lens.
comprehended. All panes of glass containing those oblate
spheroidal knots familiarly known as "bull's eyes" were
ruthlessly destroyed, in the hope of obtaining lenses of marvellous power. I even went so far as to extract the crystalline humor from the eyes of fishes and animals, and
endeavored to press it into the microscopic service. I plead
guilty to having stolen the glasses from my Aunt Agatha's
spectacles, with a dim idea of grinding them into lenses of
wondrous magnifying properties,  in which attempt it is
scarcely necessary to say that I totally failed.
At last the promised instrument came. It was of that
order known as Field's simple microscope, and had cost
perhaps about fifteen dollars. As far as educational purposes went, a better apparatus could not have been selected.
Accompanying it was a small treatise on the microscope, -
its history, uses, and discoveries. I comprehended then for
the first time the "Arabian Nights' Entertainments."  The
dull veil of ordinary existence that hung across the world
seemed suddenly to roll away, and to lay bare a land of enchantments. I felt towards my companions as the seer
might feel towards the ordinary masses of men. I held conversations with Nature in a tongue which they could not
understand. I was in daily communication with living
wonders, such as they never imagined in their wildest visions. I penetrated beyond the external portal of things,
and roamed through the sanctuaries. Where they beheld
only a drop of rain slowly rolling down the window-glass, I
saw a universe of beings animated with all the passions
common to physical life, and convulsing their minute sphere
with struggles as fierce and protracted as those of men. In
the common spots of mould, which my mother, good housekeeper that she was, fiercely scooped away from her jam
pots, there abode for me, under the name of mildew, enchanted gardens, filled with dells and avenues of the densest
foliage and pnost astonishing verdure, while from the fantastic boughs of these microscopic forests hung strange fruits
glittering with green and silver and gold.




The Diamond Lens.                  23
It was no scientific thirst that at this time filled my mind.
It was the pure enjoyment of a poet to whom a world of wonders has been disclosed. I talked of my solitary pleasures
to none. Alone with my microscope, I dimmed my sight,
day after day and night after night poring over the marvels
which it unfolded to me. I was like one who, having discovered the ancient Eden still existing in all its primitive
glory, should resolve to enjoy it in solitude, and never betray to mortal the secret of its locality. The rod of my life
was bent at this moment. I destined myself to be a microscopist.
Of course, like every novice, I fancied myself a discoverer. I was ignorant at the time of the thousands of acute
intellects engaged in the same pursuit as myself, and with
the advantages of instruments a thousand times more powerful than mine. The names of Leeuwenhoek, Williamson,
Spencer, Ehrenberg, Schultz, Dujardin, Schact, and Schleiden were then entirely unknown to me, or if known, I was
ignorant of their patient and wonderful researches. In
every fresh specimen of Cryptogamia which I placed beneath my instrument, I believed that I discovered wonders
of which the world was as yet ignorant. I remember well
the thrill of delight and admiration that shot through me the
first time that I discovered the common wheel-animalcule
(Rotifera vulgaris) expanding and contracting its flexible
spokes, and seemingly rotating through the water. Alas!
as I grew older, and obtained some works treating of my
favorite study, I found that I was only on the threshold of
a science to the investigation of which some of the greatest
men of the age were devoting their lives and intellects.
As I grew up, my parents, who saw but little likelihood
of anything practical resulting from the examination of bits
of moss and drops of water through a brass tube and a
piece of glass, were anxious that I should choose a profession. It was their desire that I should enter the countinghouse of my uncle, Ethan Blake, a prosperous merchant,
who carried on business in New York. This suggestion I




24              The Diamond Lens.
decisively combated.  I had no taste for trade; 1 should
only make a failure; in short, I refused to become a merchant.
But it was necessary for me to select some pursuit. My
parents were staid New England people, who insisted on
the necessity of labor; and therefore, although, thanks to
the bequest of my poor Aunt Agatha, I should, on coming
of age, inherit a small fortune sufficient to place me above
want, it was decided, that, instead of waiting for this, I
should act the nobler part, and employ the intervening years
in rendering myself independent.
After much cogitation I complied with the wishes of my
family, and selected a profession. I -determined to study
medicine at the New York Academy. This disposition of
my future suited me. A removal from my relatives would
enable me to dispose of my time as I pleased, without fear
of detection. As long as I paid my Academy fees, I might
shirk attending the lectures, if I chose; and as I never had
the remotest intention of standing an examination, there
was no danger of my being "plucked."  Besides, a metropolis was the place for me. There I could obtain excellent
instruments, the newest publications, intimacy with men of
pursuits kindred to my own, - in short, all things necessary
to insure a profitable devotion of my life to my beloved
science. I had an abundance of money, few desires that
were not bounded by my illuminating mirror on one side
and my object-glass on the other; what, therefore, was to
prevent my becoming an illustrious investigator of the
veiled worlds? It was with the most buoyant hopes that I
left my New England home and established myself in New
York.




The Diamond Lens.                    25
II.
THE I ONGING OF A MAN OF SCIENCE.
Y first step, of course, was to find suitable apartments. These I obtained, after a couple of days'
search, in Fourth Avenue; a very pretty second-floor unfurnished, containing sitting-room, bedroom, and a smaller
apartment which I intended to fit up as a laboratory. I
furnished my lodgings simply, but rather elegantly, and
then devoted all my energies to the adornment of the temple
of my worship. I visited Pike, the celebrated optician, and
passed in review his splendid collection of microscopes, 
Field's Compound, Higham's, Spencer's, Nachet's Binocular, (that founded on the principles of the stereoscope,) and
at length fixed upon that form known as Spencer's Trunnion
Microscope, as combining the greatest number of improvements with an almost perfect freedom from tremor. Along
with this I purchased every possible accessory,-drawtubes, micrometers, a camera-lucida, lever-stage, achromatic
condensers, white cloud illuminators, prisms, parabolic condensers, polarizing apparatus, forceps, aquatic boxes, fishing-tubes, with a host of other articles, all of which would
have been useful in the hands of an experienced microscopist, but, as I afterwards discovered, were not of the slightest
present value to me. It takes years of practice to know
how to use a complicated microscope. The optician looked
suspiciously at me as I made these wholesale purchases.
He evidently was uncertain whether to set me down as
some scientific celebrity or a madman. I think he inclined
to the latter belief. I suppose I was mad. Every great
genius is mad upon the subject in which he is greatest.
The unsuccessful madman is disgraced, and called a lunatic.
Mad or not, I set myself to work with a zeal which few
scientific students have ever equalled. I had everything to
2




26               The Diamond Lens,
learn relative to the delicate study upon   hich I had embarked,    a study involving the most earnest patience, the
most rigid analytic powers, the steadiest hand, the most untiring eye, the most refined and subtile manipulation.
For a long time half my apparatus lay inactively on the
shelves of my laboratory, which was now most amply furnished with every possible contrivance for facilitating my
investigations. The fact was that I did not know how to
use some of my scientific accessories, - never having been
taught microscopics, -and those whose use I understood
theoretically were of little avail, until by practice I could
attain the necessary delicacy of handling. Still, such was
the fury of my ambition, such the: untiring perseverance of
my experiments, that, difficult of credit as it may be, in the
course of one year I became theoretically and practically an
accomplished microscopist.
During this period of my labors, in which I submitted
specimens of every substance that came under my observation to the action of my lenses, I became a discoverer, -in
a small way, it is true, for I was very young, but still a discoverer.  It was I who destroyed Ehrenberg's theory that
the Volvox globator was an animal, and proved that his
"monads " with stomachs and eyes were merely phases of
the formation of a vegetable cell, and were, when the)
reached their mature state, incapable of the act of conjugation, or any true generative act, without which no organism
rising to any stage of life higher than vegetable can be said
to be complete. It was I who resolved the singular problem of rotation in the cells and hairs of plants into ciliary
attraction, in spite of the assertions of Mr. Wenham and
others, that my explanation was the result of an optical
illusion.
But notwithstanding these discoveries, laboriously and
painfully made as they were, I felt horribly dissatisfied. At
every step I found myself stopped by the imperfections of
my instruments.  Like all active microscopists, I gave my
imagination full play.  Indeed, it is a common complaint




The Diamond Lens.                    27
against many such, that they supply the defects of their instruments with the creations of their brains. I imagined
depths beyond depths in Nature which the limited power
of my lenses prohibited me from exploring. I lay awake at
night constructing imaginary microscopes of immeasurable
power, with which I seemed to pierce through all the envelopes of matter down to its original atom. How I cursed
those imperfect mediums which necessity through ignorance
compelled me to use! How I longed to discover the secret
of some perfect lens whose magnifying power should be
limited only by the resolvability of the object, and which at
the same time should be free from spherical and chromatic
aberrations, in short from all the obstacles over which the 
poor microscopist finds himself continually stumbling! I
felt convinced that the simple microscope, composed of a
single lens of such vast yet perfect power, was possible of
construction.  To attempt to bring the compound microscope up to such a pitch would have been commencing at
the wrong end; this latter being simply a partially successful endeavor to remedy those very defects of the simple instrument, which, if conquered, would leave nothing to be
desired.
It was in this mood of mind that I became a constructive
microscopist. After another year passed in this new pursuit, experimenting on every imaginable substance, - glass,
gems, flints, crystals, artificial crystals formed of the alloy
of various vitreous materials, - in short, having constructed
as many varieties of lenses as Argus had eyes, I found myself precisely where I started, with nothing gained save an
extensive knowledge of glass-making. I was almost dead
with despair. My parents were surprised at my apparent
want of progress in my medical studies, (I had not attended
one lecture since my arrival in the city,) and the expenses
of my mad pursuit had been so great as to embarrass me
very seriously.
I was in this frame of mind one day, experimenting in
my laboratory on a small diamond, - that stone, from its




28.The Diamond Lens.
great refracting power, having always occupied my attention
more than any other,   when a young Frenchman, who
lived on the floor above me, and who was in the habit of occasionally visiting me, entered the room.
I think that Jules Simon was a Jew. He had many traits
of the Hebrew character: a love of jewelry, of dress, and of
good living. There was something mysterious about him.
He always had something to sell, and yet went into excellent society. When I say sell, I should perhaps have said
peddle; for his operations were generally confined to the
disposal of single articles, - a picture, for instance, or a
rare carving in ivory, or a pair of duelling-pistols, or the
dress of a Mexican caballero. When I was first furnishing
my rooms, he paid me a visit, which ended in my purchasing an antique silver lamp, which he assured me was a Cellini, - it was handsome enough even for that,-and some
other knickknacks for my sitting-room.  Why Simon
should pursue this petty trade I never could imagine. He
apparently had plenty of money, and had the entree of the
best houses in the city, - taking care, however, I suppose,
to drive no bargains within the enchanted circle of the
Upper Ten. I came at length to the conclusion that this
peddling was but a mask to cover some greater object, and
even went so far as to believe my young acquaintance to be
implicated in the slave-trade. That, however, was none of
my affair.
On the present occasion, Simon entered my room in a
state of considerable excitement.
"A4h!/ mon ami!" he cried, before I could even offer
him the ordinary salutation, " it has occurred to me to be
the witness of the most astonishing things in the world. I
promenade myself to the house of Madame  ~. How
does the little animal -le renard —name himself in the
Latin?"
"Vulpes," I answered.
"Ah! yes, - Vulpes. I promenade myself to the house
of Madame Vulpes."




The Diamond Lens.                  29
"The spirit medium?"
" Yes, the great medium. Great Heavens! what a woman! I write on a slip of paper many of questions concerning  affairs the most secret,- affairs that conceal
themselves in the abysses of my heart the most profound;
and behold! by example! what occurs! This devil of a
woman makes me replies the most truthful to all of them.
She talks to me of things that I do not love to talk of to
myself. What am I to think? I am fixed to the earth! "
"Am  I to understand you, M. Simon, that this Mrs.
Vulpes replied to questions secretly written by you, which
questions related to events known only to yourself?"
" Ah! more than that, more than that," he answered,
with an air of some alarm. " She related to me things 
But," he added, after a pause, and suddenly changing his
manner, " why occupy ourselves with these follies? It was
all the Biology, without doubt. It goes without saying that
it has not my credence. But why are we here, mon ami 
It has occurred to me to discover the most beautiful thing
as you can imagine, - a vase with green lizards on it, composed by the great Bernard Palissy. It is in my apartment;
let us mount. I go to show it to you."
I followed Simon mechanically; but my thoughts were
far from  Palissy and his enamelled ware, although I, like
him, was seeking in the dark after a great discovery. This
casual mention of the spiritualist, Madame Vulpes, set me
on a new track. What if this spiritualism should be really
a great fact? What if, through communication with subtiler organisms than my own, I could reach, at a single
bound, the goal which perhaps a life of agonizing mental
toil would never enable me to attain?
While purchasing the Palissy vase from my friend Simon,
I was mentally arranging a visit to Madame Vulpes.
C




30              The Diamond Lenso
IlL
THE SPIRIT OF LEEUWENHOEK.
TWO evenings after this, thanks to an arrangenient by
letter and the promise of an ample fee, I found Madame Vulpes awaiting me at her residence alone. She was
a coarse-featured woman, with a keen and rather cruel dark
eye, and an exceedingly sensual expression about her mouth
and under jaw. She received me in perfect silence, in an
apartment on the ground floor, very sparely furnished. In
the centre of the room, close to where Mrs. Vulpes sat,
there was a common round mahogany table. If I had
come for the purpose of sweeping her chimney, the woman
could not have looked more indifferent to my appearance.
There was no attempt to inspire the visitor with any awe.
Everything bore a simple and practical aspect. This intercourse with the spiritual world was evidently as familiar an
occupation with Mrs. Vulpes as eating her dinner or riding
in an omnibus.
" You come for a communication, Mr. Linley?" said the
medium, in a dry, business-like tone of voice.
" By appointment, - yes."
" What sort of communication do you want? - a written
one?"
"Yes, - I wish for a written one."
"From any particular spirit?"
"Yes."
"Have you ever known this spirit on this earth?"
"Never. He died long before I was born. I wish
merely to obtain from him  some information which he
ought to be able to give better than any other."
" Will you seat yourself at the table, Mr. Linley," said the
medium, " and place your hands upon it?"
I obeyed, - Mrs. Vulpes being seated opposite me, with
her hands also on the table. We remained thus for about




The Diamond Lens.                  31
a minute and a half, when a violent succession of raps came
on the table, on the back of my chair, on the floor immediately under my feet, and even on the window-panes. Mrs.
Vulpes smiled composedly.
" They are very strong to-night," she remarked. " You
are fortunate." She then continued, " Will the spirits communicate with this gentleman?"
Vigorous affirmative.
" Will the particular spirit he desires to speak with communicate?"
A very confused rapping followed this question.
"I know what they mean," said Mrs. Vulpes, addressing
herself to me; "they wish you to write down the name of
the particular spirit that you desire to converse with. Is
that so? " she added, speaking to her invisible guests.
That it was so was evident from the numerous affirmatory
responses. While this was going on, I tore a slip from my
pocket-book, and scribbled a name under the table.
" Will this spirit communicate in writing with this gentleman?" asked the medium once more.
After a moment's pause her hand seemed to be seized
with a violent tremor, shaking so forcibly that the table
vibrated. She said that a spirit had seized her hand and
would write. I handed her some sheets of paper that were
on the table, and a pencil. The latter she held loosely in
her hand, which presently began to move over the paper
with a singular and seemingly involuntary motion. After a
few moments had elapsed she handed me the paper, on
which I found written, in a large, uncultivated hand, the
words, " He is not here, but has been sent for." A pause
of a minute or so now ensued, during which Mrs. Vulpes
remained perfectly silent, but the raps continued at regular
intervals. When the short period I mention had elapsed,
he hand of the medium was again seized with its convulsive
tremor, and she wrote, under this strange influence, a few
words on the paper, which she handed to me. They were
as follows: —




32              The Diamond Lens.
"I am here. Question me.
" LEEUWENHOEK."
I was astounded. The name was identical with that I
had written beneath the table, and carefully kept concealed.
Neither was it at all probable that an uncultivated woman
like Mrs. Vulpes should know even the name of the great
father of microscopics. It may have been Biology; but this
theory was soon doomed to be destroyed.  I wrote on my
slip - still concealing it from Mrs. Vulpes - a series of questions, which, to avoid tediousness, I shall place with the
responses in the order in which they occurred.
I.    Can the microscope be brought to perfection?
SPIRIT.  Yes.
I. -Am I destined to accomplish this great task?
SPIRIT.    You are.
I. — I wish to know how to proceed to attain this end.
For the love which you bear to science, help me!
SPIRIT.   A diamond of one hundred and forty carats,
submitted to electro-magnetic currents for a long period, will
experience a rearrangement of its atoms inter se, and from
that stone you will form the universal lens.
I. -Will great discoveries result from the use of such a'ens?
SPIRIT. - So great, that all that has gone before is as
nothing.
1. - But the refractive power of the diamond is so immense, that the image will be formed within the'lens. How
is that difficulty to be surmounted?
SPIRIT.- Pierce the lens through its axis, and the difficulty is obviated. The image will be formed in the pierced
space, which will itself serve as a tube to look through.
Now I am called. Good night!
I cannot at all describe the effect that these extraordinary
communications had upon me. I felt completely bewildered. No biological theory could account for the discovery
of the lens. The medium might, by means of biological
rapJkort with my mind, have gone so far as to read my ques



The Diamond Lens.                  33
tions, and reply to them coherently. But Biology could not
enable her to discover that magnetic currents would so alter
the crystals of the diamond as to remedy its previous defects, and admit of its being polished into a perfect lens.
Some such theory may have passed through my head, it is
true; but if so, I had forgotten it. In my excited condition
of mind there was no course left but to become a convert,
and it was in a state of the most painful nervous exaltation
that I left the medium's house that evening. She accompanied me to the door, hoping that I was satisfied. The
raps followed us as we went through the hall, sounding on
the balusters, the flooring, and even the lintels of the door.
I hastily expressed my satisfaction, and escaped hurriedly
into the cool night air. I walked home with but one thought
possessing me, - how to obtain a diamond of the immense
size required.  My entire means multipled a hundred times
over'would have been inadequate to its purchase. Besides,
such stones are rare, and become historical. I could find
such only in the regalia of Eastern or European monarchs.
IV.
THE EYE OF MORNING.
THERE was a light in Simon's room as I entered my
house. A vague impulse urged me to visit him. As
I opened the door of his sitting-room, unannounced, he was
bending, with his back toward me, over a carcel lamp, apparently engaged in minutely examining some object which
he held in his hands. As I entered, he started suddenly,
thrust his hand into his breast pocket, and turned to me
with a face crimson with confusion.
"What!" I cried, "poring over the miniature of some
fair lady? Well, don't blush so much; I won't ask to
see it."
22*




34              The Diamond Lens.
Simon laughed awkwardly enough, but made none of the
negative protestations usual on such occasions. He asked
me to take a seat.
"Simon," said I, "I have just come from  Madame
Vulpes."
This time Simon turned as white as a sheet, and
seemed stupefied, as if a sudden electric shock had smitten him. He babbled some incoherent words, and went
hastily to a small closet where he usually kept his liquors.
Although astonished at his emotion, I was too preoccupied
with my own idea to pay much attention to anything
else.
" You say truly when you call Madame Vulpes a devil of
a woman," I continued. " Simon, she told me wonderful
things to-night, or rather was the means of telling me wonderful things. Ah! if I could only get a diamond that
weighed one hundred and forty carats! "
Scarcely had the sigh with which I uttered this desire
died upon my lips, when Simon, with the aspect of a wild
beast, glared at me savagely, and rushing to the mantelpiece, where some foreign weapons hung on the wall,
caught up a Malay creese, and brandished it furiously before him.
"No!" he cried in French, into which he always broke
when excited. "No! you shall not have it! You are perfidious! You have consulted with that demon, and desire
my treasure! But I will die first! Me! I am brave! You
cannot make me fear!"
All this, uttered in a loud voice trembling with excitement, astounded me. I saw at a glance that I had accidentally trodden upon the edges of Simon's secret, whatever
it was. It was necessary to reassure him.
"My dear Simon," I said, " I am entirely at a loss to
know what you mean. I went to Madame Vulpes to consult with her on a scientific problem, to the solution of
which I discovered that a diamond of the size I just mentioned was necessary. You were never alluded to during




The Diamond Lens.                   35
the evening, nor, so far as I was concernea, even thought
of. What can be the meaning of this outburst? If you happen to have a set of valuable diamonds in your possession,
you need fear nothing from me. The diamond which I require you could not possess; or if you did possess it, you
would not be living here."
Something in my tone must have completely reassured
him; for his expression immediately changed to a sort of
constrained merriment, combined, however, with a certain
suspicious attention to my movements. He laughed, and
said that I must bear with him; that he was at certain moments subject to a species of vertigo, which betrayed itself
in incoherent speeches, and that the attacks passed off as
rapidly as they came. He put his weapon aside while making this explanation, and endeavored, with some success, to
assume a more cheerful air.
All this did not impose on me in the least. I was too
much accustomed to analytical labors to be baffled by so
flimsy a veil. I determined to probe the mystery to the
bottom.
"Simon," I said, gayly, " let us forget all this over a bottle
of Burgundy. I have a case of Lausseure's Clos Vougeot
down-stairs, fragrant with the odors and ruddy with the sunlight of the Cote d'Or. Let us have up a couple of bottles.
What say you?"
" With all my heart," answered Simon, smilingly.
I produced the wine, and we seated ourselves to drink. It
was of a famous vintage, that of 1848, a year when war and
wine throve together, -and its pure, but powerful juice
seemed to impart renewed vitality to the system. By the
time we had half finished the second bottle, Simon's head,
which I knew was a weak one, had begun to yield, while I
remained calm as ever, only that every draught seemed to
send a flush of vigor through my limbs. Simon's utterance
became more and more indistinct.  He took to singing
French chansons of a not very moral tendency. I rose suddenly from the table just at the conclusion 3f one of those




36              The Diamond Lens.
incoherent verses, and, fixing my eyes on him with a quiet
smile, said:
"Simon, I have deceived you. I learned your secret this
evening. You may as well be frank with me. Mrs. Vulpes,
or rather one of her spirits, told me all."
He started with horror. His intoxication seemed for the
moment to fade away, and he made a movement towards
the weapon that he had a short time before laid down. I
stopped him with my hand.
" Monster!" he cried, passionately, "I am ruined! What
shall I do? You shall never have it! I swear by my
mother!"
" I don't want it," I said; "rest secure, but be frank with
me. Tell me all about it."
The drunkenness began to return.  He protested with
maudlin earnestness that I was entirely mistaken,- that I
was intoxicated; then asked me to swear eternal secrecy,
and promised to disclose the mystery to me. I pledged
myself, of course, to all.  With an uneasy look in his
eyes, and hands unsteady with drink and nervousness, he
drew a small case from his breast and opened it. Heavens!
How the mild lamp-light was shivered into a thousand prismatic arrows, as it fell upon a vast rose-diamond that glittered in the case! I was no judge of diamonds, but I saw
at a glance that this was a gem of rare size and purity. I
looked at Simon with wonder, and - must I confess it?with envy. How could he have obtained this treasure? In
reply to my questions, I could just gather from his drunken
statements  (of which, I fancy, half the incoherence was affected) that he had been superintending a gang of slaves
engaged in diamond-washing in Brazil; that he had seen
one of them secrete a diamond, but, instead of informing
his employers, had quietly watched the negro until he saw
him bury his treasure; that he had dug it up, and fled with
it, but that as yet he was afraid to attempt to dispose of it
publicly, - so valuable a gem being almost certain to attract
too much attention to its owner's antecedents, - and he had




The Diamond Lens.                   37
not been able to discover any of those obscure channels by
whi h such matters are conveyed away safely. He added,
that, in accordance with Oriental practice, he had named
his diamond by the fanciful title of " The Eye of Morning."
While Simon was relating this to me, I regarded the great
diamond attentively. Never had I beheld anything so
beautiful. All the glories of light, ever imagined or described, seemed to pulsate in its crystalline chambers. Its
weight, as I learned from Simon, was exactly one hundred
and forty carats. Here was an amazing coincidence. The
hand of Destiny seemed in it. On the very evening when
the spirit of Leeuwenhoek communicates to me the great
secret of the microscope, the priceless means which he directs me to employ start up within my easy reach! I determined, with the most perfect deliberation, to possess myself
of Simon's diamond.
I sat opposite him while he nodded over his glass, and
calmly revolved the whole affair. I did not for an instant
contemplate so foolish an act as a common theft, which
would of course be discovered, or at least necessitate flight
and concealment, all of which must interfere with my scientific plans. There was but one step to be taken, - to kill
Simon. After all, what was the life of a little peddling Jew,
in comparison with the interests of science? Human beings
are taken every day from the condemned prisons to be experimented on by surgeons. This man, Simon, was by his
own confession, a criminal, a robber, and I believed on my
soul a murderer. He deserved death quite as much as any
felon condemned by the laws; why should I not, like government, contrive that his punishment should contribute to
the progress of human knowledge?
The means for accomplishing everything I desired lay
within my reach. There stood upon the mantel-piece a
bottle half full of French laudanum. Simon was so occupied with his diamond, which I had just restored to him,
that it was an affair of no difficulty to drug his glass. In a
quarter of an hour he was in a profound sleep.




38              The Diamond Lens.
I now opened his waistcoat, took the diamond from the
inner pocket in which he had placed it, and removed him to
the bed, on which I laid him so that his feet hung down
over the edge. I had possessed myself of the Malay creese,
which I held in my right hand, while with the other I discovered, as accurately as I could by pulsation, the exact locality of the heart. It was essential that all the aspects of
his death should lead to the surmise of self-murder. I calculated the exact angle at which it was probable that the
weapon, if levelled by Simon's own hand, would enter his
breast; then with one powerful blow I thrust it up to the
hilt in the very spot which I desired to penetrate. A con-.
vulsive thrill ran through Simon's limbs.  I heard a smothered sound issue from his throat, precisely like the bursting
of a large air-bubble, sent up by a diver, when it reaches
the surface of the water; he turned half round on his side,
and, as if to assist my plans more effectually, his right hand,
moved by some mere spasmodic impulse, clasped the handle
of the creese, which it remained holding with extraordinary
muscular tenacity.  Beyond this there was no apparent
struggle. The laudanum, I presume, paralyzed the usual
nervous action.  He must have died instantaneously.
There was yet something to be done. To make it certain
that all suspicion of the act should be diverted from any inhabitant of the house to Simon himself, it was necessary
that the door should be found in the morning locked on the
inside. How to do this, and afterwards escape myself? Not
by the window; that was a physical impossibility.  Besides,
I was determined that the windows also should be found
bolted. The solution was simple enough. I descended
softly to my own room for a peculiar instrument which I
had used for holding small slippery substances,. such as
minute spheres of glass, etc. This instrument was nothing
more than a long, slender hand-vice, with a very powerful
grip, and a considerable leverage, which last was accidentally owing to the shape of the handle. Nothing was simpler
than, when the key was in the lock, to seize the end of its




The Diamond Lens.                  39
stem in this vice, through the keyhole, from the outside, and
so lock the door. Previously, however, to aoing this, I
burned a number of papers on Simon's hearth. Suicides
almost always burn papers before they destroy themselves.
I also emptied some more laudanum into Simon's glass, 
having first removed from it all traces of wine, - cleaned
the other wine-glass, and brought the bottles away with me.
If traces of two persons drinking had been found in the
room, the question naturally would have arisen, Who was
the second? Besides, the wine-bottles might have been
identified as belonging to me. The laudanum I poured out
to account for its presence in his stomach, in case of ajpostmortem examination. The theory naturally would be, that
he first intended to poison himself, but, after swallowing a
little of the drug, was either disgusted with its taste, oi
changed his mind from other motives, and chose the dagger. These arrangements made, I walked out, leaving the
gas burning, locked the door with my vice, and went to
bed.
Simon's death was not discovered until nearly three in
the afternoon. The servant, astonished at seeing the gas
burning,- the light streaming on the dark landing from
under the door,  peeped through the keyhole and saw
Simon on the bed. She gave the alarm. The door was
burst open, and the neighborhood was in a fever of excitement.
Every one in the house was arrested, myself included
There was an inquest; but no clew to his death, beyonct
that of suicide, could be obtained. Curiously enough, he
had made several speeches to his friends, the preceding
week, that seemed to point to self-destruction. One gentleman swore that Simon had said in his presence that " he
was tired of life." His landlord affirmed that Simon, when
paying him his last month's rent, remarked that "he would
not pay him  rent much longer." All the other evidence
corresponded, - the door locked inside, the position of the
corpse, the Lurnt papers. As I anticipated, no one knew of




40              The Diamond Lens.
the possession of the diamond by Simon, so that no motive
was suggested for his murder. The jury, after a prolonged
examination, brought in the usual verdict, and the neighborhood once more settled down into its accustomed quiet.
V.
ANIMULA.
T HE three months succeeding Simon's catastrophe I
devoted night and day to my diamond lens. I had
constructed a vast galvanic battery, composed of nearly two
thousand pairs of plates, - a higher power I dared not use,
lest the diamond should be calcined. By means of this
enormous engine I was enabled to send a powerful current
of electricity continually through my great diamond, which
it seemed to me gained in lustre every day. At the expiration of a month I commenced the grinding and polishing
of the lens, a work of intense toil and exquisite delicacy.
The great density of the stone, and the care required to be
taken with the curvatures of the surfaces of the lens, rendered the labor the severest and most harassing that I had
yet undergone.
At last the eventful moment came; the lens was completed. I stood trembling on the threshold of new worlds.
I had the realization of Alexander's famous wish before me.
The lens lay on the table, ready to be placed upon its platform. My hand fairly shook as I enveloped a drop of water
with a thin coating of oil of turpentine, preparatory to its
examination, - a process necessary in order to prevent the
rapid evaporation of the water. I now placed the drop on
a thin slip of glass under the lens, and throwing upon it, by
the combined aid of a prism and a mirror, a powerful stream
of light, I approached my eye to the minute hole drilled
through the axis of the lens. For an instant I saw nothing




The Diamond Lens.                   41
save what seemed to be an illuminated chaos, a vast luminous abyss. A pure white light, cloudless and serene, and
seemingly limitless as space itself, was my first impression.
Gently, and with the greatest care, I depressed the lens a
few hairs' breadths. The wondrous illumination still continued, but as the lens approached the object, a scene of
indescribable beauty was unfolded to my view.
I seemed to gaze upon a vast space, the limits of which
extended far beyond my vision. An atmosphere of magical
luminousness permeated the entire field of view. I was
amazed to see no trace of animalculous life. Not a living
thing, apparently, inhabited that dazzling expanse. I comprehended instantly, that, by the wondrous power of my
lens, I had penetrated beyond the grosser particles of aqueous matter, beyond the realms of Infusoria and Protozoa,
down to the original gaseous globule, into whose luminous
interior I was gazing, as into an almost boundless dome
filled with a supernatural radiance.
It was, however, no brilliant void into which I looked.
On every side I beheld beautiful inorganic forms, of unknown texture, and colored with the most enchanting hues.
These forms presented the appearance of what might be
called, for want of a more specific definition, foliated clouds
of the highest rarity; that is, they undulated and broke into
vegetable formations, and were tinged with splendors compared with which the gilding of our autumn woodlands is as
dross compared with gold. Far away into the illimitable
distance stretched long avenues of these gaseous forests,
dimly transparent, and painted with prismatic hues of unimaginable brilliancy. The pendent branches waved along
the fluid glades until every vista seemed to break through
half-lucent ranks of many-colored drooping silken pennons.
What seemed to be either fruits or flowers, pied with a
thousand hues lustrous and ever varying, bubbled from the
crowns of this fairy foliage. No hills, no lakes, no rivers,
no forms animate or inanimate were to be seen, save those
vast auroral copses that floated serenely in the luminous




42              The Diamond Lens.
stillness, with leaves and fruits and flowers gleaming with
unknown fires, unrealizable by mere imagination.
How strange, I thought, that this sphere should be thus
condemned to solitude  I had hoped, at least, to discover
some new form of animal life, - perhaps of a lower class
than any with which we are at present acquainted, - but
still, some living organism. I find my newly discovered
world, if I may so speak, a beautiful chromatic desert.
While I was speculating on the singular arrangements of
the internal economy of Nature, with which she so frequently splinters into atoms our most compact theories, I
thought I beheld a form moving slowly through the glades
of one of the prismatic forests. I looked more attentively,
and found that I was not mistaken. Words cannot depict
the anxiety with which I awaited the nearer approach of this
mysterious object.  Was it merely some inanimate substance, held in suspense in the attenuated atmosphere of the
globule? or was it an animal endowed with vitality and motion? It approached, flitting behind the gauzy, colored veils
of cloud-foliage, for seconds dimly revealed, then vanishing.
At last the violet pennons that trailed nearest to me vibrated; they were gently pushed aside, and the Form floated
out into the broad light.
It was a female human shape. When I say "human," I
mean it possessed the outlines of humanity, - but there
the analogy ends. Its adorable beauty lifted it illimitable
heights beyond the loveliest daughter of Adam.
I cannot, I dare not, attempt to inventory the charms of
this divine revelation of perfect beauty. Those eyes or
mystic violet, dewy and serene, evade my words. Her long
lustrous hair following her glorious head in a golden wake,
like the track sown in heaven by a falling star, seems to
quench my most burning phrases with its splendors. If all
the bees of Hybla nestled upon my lips, they would still
sing but hoarsely the wondrous harmonies of outline that
enclosed her form.
She swept out from between the rainbow-curtains of the




The Diamond Lens.                  43
cloud-trees into the broad sea of light that lay beyond. Her
motions were those of some graceful Naiad, cleaving, by a
mere effort of her will, the clear, unruffled waters that fill
the chambers of the sea. She floated forth with the serene
grace of a frail bubble ascending through the still atmosphere of a June day. The perfect roundness of her limbs
formed suave and enchanting curves. It was like listening
to the most spiritual symphony of Beethoven the divine, to
watch the harmonious flow of lines. This, indeed, was a
pleasure cheaply purchased at any price. What cared I, if
I had waded to the portal of this wonder through another's
blood? I would have given my own to enjoy one such moment of intoxication and delight.
Breathless with gazing on this lovely wonder, and forgetful for an instant of everything save her presence, I withdrew my eye from the microscope eagerly,- alas! As my
gaze fell on the thin slide that lay beneath my instrument,
the bright light from mirror and from prism sparkled on a
colorless drop of water! There, in that tiny bead of dew,
this beautiful being was forever imprisoned. The planet
Neptune was not more distant from me than she. I hastened
once more to apply my eye to the microscope.
Animula (let me now call her by that dear name which I
subsequently bestowed on her) had changed her position.
She had again approached the wondrous forest, and was
gazing earnestly upwards. Presently one of the trees —as
I must call them —unfolded a long ciliary process, with
which it seized one of the gleaming fruits that glittered on
its summit, and sweeping slowly down, held it within reach
of Animula. The sylph took it in her delicate hand, and
began to eat. My attention was so entirely absorbed by
her, that I could not apply myself to the task of determining
whether this singular plant was or was not instinct with
volition.
I watched her, as she made her repast, with the most profound attention. The suppleness of her motions sent a thrill
of delight through my frame; my heart beat madly as sht




44               The Diamond Lens.
turned her beautiful eyes in the direction of the spot in
which I stood.  What would I not have given to have had
the power to precipitate myself into that luminous ocean,
and float with her through those groves of purple and gold!
While I was thus breathlessly following her every movement, she suddenly started, seemed to listen for a moment,
and then cleaving the brilliant ether in which she was floating, like a flash of light, pierced through the opaline forest,
and disappeared.
Instantly a series of the most singular sensations attacked
me.  It seemed as if I had suddenly gone blind. The
luminous sphere was still before me, but my daylight had
vanished. What caused this sudden disappearance? Had
she a lover, or a husband? Yes, that was the solution!
Some signal from  a happy fellow-being  had  vibrated
through the avenues of the forest, and she had obeyed the
summons.
The agony of my sensations, as I arrived at this conclusion, startled me. I tried to reject the conviction that my
reason forced upon me. I battled against the fatal conclusion, - but in vain. It was so. I had no escape from it.
I loved an animalcule -
It is true, that, thanks to the marvellous power of my microscope, she appeared of human proportions. Instead of
presenting the revolting aspect of the coarser creatures, that
live and struggle and die, in the more easily resolvable portions of the water-drop, she was fair and delicate and of
surpassing beauty.  But of what account was all that?
Every time that my eye was withdrawn from the instrument, it fell on a miserable drop of water, within which, I
must be content to know, dwelt all that could make my life
lovely.
Could she but see me once! Could I for one moment
pierce the mystical walls that so inexorably rose to separate
us, and whisper all that filled my soul, I might consent to
be satisfied for the rest of my life with the knowledge of her
remote sympathy.  It would be something to have estab



The Diamond Lens.                  45
lished even the faintest personal link to bind us together, -
to know that at times, when roaming through those enchanted glades, she might think of the wonderful stranger,
who had broken the monotony of her life with his presence,
and left a gentle memory in her heart!
But it could not be. No invention, of which human intellect was capable, could break down the barriers that Nature had erected. I might feast my soul upon her wondrous
beauty, yet she must always remain ignorant of the adoring
eyes that day and night gazed upon her, and, even when
closed, beheld her in dreams. With a bitter cry of anguish
I fled from the room, and flinging myself on my bed, sobbed
myself to sleep like a child.
VL
THE SPILLING OF THE CUP.
AROSE the next morning almost at daybreak, and
rushed to my microscope. I trembled as I sought the
luminous world in miniature that contained my all. Animula was there. I had left the gas-lamp, surrounded by its
moderators, burning, when I went to bed the night before.
I found the sylph bathing, as it were, with an expression of
pleasure animating her features, in the brilliant light which
surrounded her. She tossed her lustrous golden hair over her
shoulders with innocent coquetry. She lay at full length in
the transparent medium, in which she supported herself
with ease, and gambolled with the enchanting grace that
the Nymph Salmacis might have exhibited when she sought
to conquer the modest Hermaphroditus. I tried an experiment to satisfy myself if her powers of reflection were developed. I lessened the lamp-light considerably. By the
dim light that remained, I could see an expression of pain
flit across her face. She looked upward suddenly, and her
D




46              The Diamond Lens.
brows contracted.  I flooded the stage of the microscope
again with a full stream of light, and her whole expression
changed. She sprang forward like some substance deprived
of all weight. Her eyes sparkled, and her lips moved. Ah!
if science had only the means of conducting and reduplicating sounds, as it does the rays of light, what carols of
happiness would then have entranced my ears! what jubilant hymns to Adonais would have thrilled the illumined
air!
I now comprehended how it was that the Count de Gabalis peopled his mystic world with sylphs,- beautiful beings
whose breath of life was lambent fire, and who sported forever in regions of purest ether and purest light. The Rosicrucian had anticipated the wonder that I had practically
realized.
How long this worship of my strange divinity went on
thus I scarcely know. I lost all note of time. All day from
early dawn, and far into the night, I was to be found peering through that wonderful lens. I saw no one, went nowhere, and scarce allowed myself sufficient time for my
meals. My whole life was absorbed in contemplation as
rapt as that of any of the Romish saints. Every hour that
I gazed upon the divine form strengthened my passion, - a
passion that was always overshadowed by the maddening
conviction, that, although I could gaze on her at will, she
never, never could behold me!
At length I grew so pale and emaciated, from want of
rest, and continual brooding over my insane love and its
cruel conditions, that I determined to make some effort to
wean myself from it. " Come," I said, "this is at best but
a fantasy. Your imagination has bestowed on Animula
charms which in reality she does not possess. Seclusion
from female society has produced this morbid condition of
mind. Compare her with the beautiful women of your own
world, and this false enchantment will vanish."
I looked over the newspapers by chance. There I be.
held the advertisement of a celebrated danseuse who ap




The Diamond Lens.                  47
peared nightly at Niblo's. The Signorina Caradolce had
the reputation of being the most beautiful as well as the
most graceful woman in the world. I instantly dressed and
went to the theatre.
The curtain drew up. The usual semicircle of fairies in
white muslin were standing on the right toe around the enamelled flower-bank, of green canvas, on which the belated
prince was sleeping. Suddenly a flute is heard. The fairies start. The trees open, the fairies all stand on the left
toe, and the queen enters. It was the Signorina. She
bounded forward amid thunders of applause, and lighting
on one foot remained poised in air. Heavens! was this
the great enchantress that had drawn monarchs at her
chariot-wheels? Those heavy muscular limbs, those thick
ankles, those cavernous eyes, that stereotyped smile, those
crudely painted cheeks! Where were the vermeil blooms,
the liquid expressive eyes, the harmonious limbs of Animula?
The Signorina danced. What gross, discordant movements! The play of her limbs was all false and artificial.
Her bounds were painful athletic efforts; her poses were
angular and distressed the eye. I could bear it no longer;
with an exclamation of disgust that drew every eye upon
me, I rose from my seat in the very middle of the Signorina's pas-de-fascination, and abruptly quitted the house.
I hastened home to feast my eyes once more on the
lovely form of my sylph. I felt that henceforth to combat
this passion would be impossible.  I applied my eye to the
lens.  Animula was there, -but what could have happened? Some terrible change seemed to have taken place
during my absence. Some secret grief seemed to cloud the
lovely features of her I gazed upon. Her face had grown
thin and haggard; her limbs trailed heavily; the wondrous
lustre of her golden hair had faded. She was ill! - ill, and
I could not assist her! I believe at that moment I would
have gladly forfeited all claims to my human birthright, if I
could only have been dwarfed to the size of an animalcule,




48              The Diamond Lens.
and permitted to console her from whom fate had forever
divided me.
I racked my brain for the solution of this mystery. What
was it that afflicted the sylph? She seemed to suffer intense pain. Her features contracted, and she even writhed,
as if with some internal agony. The wondrous forests appeared also to have lost half their beauty. Their hues were
dim, and in some places faded away altogether. I watched
Animula for hours with a breaking heart, and she seemed
absolutely to wither away under my very eye. Suddenly I
remembered that I had not looked at the water-drop for
several days. In fact, I hated to see it; for it reminded me
of the natural barrier between Animula and myself. I hurriedly looked down on the stage of the microscope. The
slide was still there, - but, great heavens! the water-drop
had vanished! The awful truth burst upon me; it had
evaporated, until it had become so minute as to be invisible
to the naked eye; I had been gazing on its last atom, the
one that contained Animula, - and she was dying!
I rushed again to the front of the lens, and looked
through. Alas! the last agony had seized her. The rainbow-hued forests had all melted away, and Animula lay
struggling feebly in what seemed to be a spot of dim light.
Ah! the sight was horrible: the limbs once so round and
lovely shrivelling up into nothings; the eyes - those eyes
that shone like heaven -being quenched into black dust;
the lustrous golden hair now lank and discolored. The last
throe came. I beheld that final struggle of the blackening
form -and I fainted.
When I awoke out of a trance of many hours, I found
myself lying amid the wreck of my instrument, myself as
shattered in mind and body as it. I crawled feebly to my
bed, from which I did not rise for months.
They say now that I am mad; but they are mistaken.
I am poor, for I have neither the heart nor the will to work;
all my money is spent, and I live on charity. Young men's
associations that love a joke invite me to lecture on Optics




The Diamond Lens                 49
before them, for which they pay me, and laugh at me while
I lecture. " Linley, the mad microscopist," is the name I
go by. I suppose that I talk incoherently while I lecture.
Who could talk sense when his brain is haunted by such
ghastly memories, while ever and anon among the shapes
of death I behold the radiant form of my lost Animula I
Li




LIFE IN THE IRON-MILLS.
" Is this the end?
0 Life, as futile, then, as frail I
What hope of answer or redress  "
CLOUDY day: do you know what that is in a
town of iron-works? The sky sank down before
dawn, muddy, flat, immovable. The air is thick,
clammy with the breath of crowded human beings.  It
stifles me.  I open the window, and, looking out, can
scarcely see through the rain the grocer's shop opposite,
where a crowd of drunken Irishmen are puffing Lynchburg
tobacco in their pipes. I can detect the scent through all
the foul smells ranging loose in the air.
The idiosyncrasy of this town is smoke. It rolls sullenly
in slow folds from the great chimneys of the iron-founderies,
and settles down in black, slimy pools on the muddy streets.
Smoke on the wharves, smoke on the dingy boats, on the
yellow river, - clinging in a coating of greasy soot to the
house-front, the two faded poplars, the faces of the passersby. The long train of mules, dragging masses of pig-iron
through the narrow street, have a foul vapor hanging to
their reeking sides.  Here, inside, is a little broken figure
of an angel pointing upward from the mantel-shelf; but
even its wings are covered with smoke, clotted and black.
Smoke everywhere I A dirty canary chirps desolately in a
cage beside me. Its dream of green fields and sunshine is
a very old dream, - almost worn out, I think.




Life in the Iron-Mills.              51
From the back-window I can see a narrow brick-yard
sloping down to the river-side, strewed with rain-butts and
tubs. The river, dull and tawny-colored, (la belle riviere /)
drags itself sluggishly along, tired of the heavy weight of
boats and coal-barges. What wonder? When I was a
child, I used to fancy a look of weary, dumb appeal upon
the face of the negro-like river slavishly bearing its burden
day after day. Something of the same idle notion comes to
me to-day, when from the street-window I look on the slow
stream of human life creeping past, night and morning, to
the great mills. Masses of men, with dull, besotted faces
bent to the ground, sharpened here and there by pain or
cunning; skin and muscle and flesh begrimed with smoke
and ashes; stooping all night over boiling caldrons of
metal, laired by day in dens of drunkenness and infamy;
breathing from infancy to death an air saturated with fog
and grease and soot, vileness for soul and body. What do
you make of a case like that, amateur psychologist? You
call it an altogether serious thing to be alive: to these men
it is a drunken jest, a joke, - horrible to angels perhaps, to
them commonplace enough. My fancy about the river was
an idle one: it is no type of such a life. What if it be
stagnant and slimy here? It knows that beyond there waits
for it odorous sunlight, - quaint old gardens, dusky with
soft, green foliage of apple-trees, and flushing crimson with
roses, - air, and fields, and mountains. The future of the
Welsh puddler passing just now is not so pleasant. To be
stowed away, after his grimy work is done, in a hole in the
muddy graveyard, and after that, - not air, nor green fields,
nor curious roses.
Can you see how foggy the day is? As I stand here, idly
tapping the window-pane, and looking out through the rain
at the dirty back-yard and the coal-boats below, fragments
of an old story float up before me, -a story of this house
into which I happened to come to-day. You may think it a
tiresome story enough, as foggy as the day, sharpened by no
sudden flashes of pain or pleasure. I know: only the out



52             Life in the Iron-Mills.
line of a dull life, that long since, with thousands of dull
lives like its own, was vainly lived and lost: thousands of
them, - massed, vile, slimy lives, like those of the torpid
lizards in yonder stagnant water-butt. - Lost? There is a
curious point for you to settle, my friend, who study psychology in a lazy, dilettante way. Stop a moment. I am
going to be honest. This is what I want you to do. I
want you to hide your disgust, take no heed to your clean
clothes, and come right down with me, -here, into the
thickest of the fog and mud and foul effluvia. I want you
to hear this story. There is a secret down here, in this
nightmare fog, that has lain dumb for centuries: I want to
make it a real thing to you. You, Egoist, or Pantheist, or
Arminian, busy in making straight paths for your feet on
the hills, do not see it clearly, - this terrible question which
men here have gone mad and died trying to answer. I dare
not put this secret into words. I told you it was dumb.
These men, going by with drunken faces, and brains full of
unawakened power, do not ask it of Society or of God.
Their lives ask it; their deaths ask it. There is no reply.
I will tell you plainly that I have a great hope; and I bring
it to you to be tested. It is this: that this terrible dumb
question is its own reply; that it is not the sentence of
death we think it, but, from the very extremity of its darkness, the most solemn prophecy which the world has known
of the Hope to come. I dare make my meaning no clearer,
but will only tell my story.  It will, perhaps, seem to you as
foul and dark as this thick vapor about us, and as pregnant
with death; but if your eyes are free as mine are to look
deeper, no perfume-tinted dawn will be so fair with promise
of the day that shall surely come.
My story is very simple, - only what I remember of the
life of one of these men, - a furnace-tender in one of Kirby
&  John's rolling-mills, - Hugh Wolfe. You know the
mills? They took the great order for the lower Virginia
railroads there last winter; run usually with about a thousand men. I cannot tell why I choose the half-forgotten




Life in the Iron-Mills.              53
story of this Wolfe more than that of myriads of these furnace-hands. Perhaps because there is a secret, underlying
sympathy between that story and this day with its impure
fog and thwarted sunshine, - or perhaps simply for the
reason that this house is the one where the Wolfes lived.
There were the father and son, - both hands, as I said, in
one of Kirby & John's mills for making railroad-iron, - and
Deborah, their cousin, a picker in some of the cotton-mills.
The house was rented then to half a dozen families. The
Wolfes had two of the cellar-rooms. The old man, like
many of the puddlers and feeders of the mills, was Welsh,
- had spent half of his life in the Cornish tin-mines. You
may pick the Welsh emigrants, Cornish miners, out of the
throng passing the windows, any day. They are a trifle
more filthy; their muscles are not so brawny; they stoop
more. When they are drunk, they neither yell, nor shout,
nor stagger, but skulk along like beaten hounds. A pure,
unmixed blood, I fancy, shows itself in the slight angular
bodies and sharply-cut facial lines. It is nearly thirty years
since the Wolfes lived here. Their lives were like those of
their class: incessant labor, sleeping in kennel-like rooms,
eating rank pork and molasses, drinking - God and the distillers only know what; with an occasional night in jail, to
atone for some drunken excess. Is that all of their lives?of the portion given to them  and these their duplicates
swarming the streets to-day? - nothing beneath? - all?
So many a political reformer will tell you, - and many a
private reformer, too, who has gone among them with a
heart tender with Christ's charity, and come out outraged,
hardened.
One rainy night, about eleven o'clock, a crowd of halfclothed women stopped outside of the cellar-door. They
were going home from the cotton-mill.
"Good-night, Deb," said one, a mulatto, steadying herself against the gas-post. She needed the post to steady
her. So did mcre than one of them.
" Dah's a ball to Miss Potts' to-night. Ye'd best comer"




54            Life in the Iron-Mills.
" Inteet, Deb, if hur'11 come, hur'11 hef fun," said a shrill
Welsh voice in the crowd.
T o or three dirty hands were thrust out to catch the
gown of the woman, who was groping for the latch of the
door.
" No."
"No? Where's Kit Small, then?"
"Begorra! on the spools. Alleys behint, though we
helped her, we dud. An wid ye! Let Deb alone! It's
ondacent frettin' a quite body. Be the powers, an' we'1
have a night of it! there'11 be lashin's o' drink, - the Vargent be blessed and praised for't!"
They went on, the mulatto inclining for a moment to show
fight, and drag the woman Wolfe off with them; but, being
pacified, she staggered away.
Deborah groped her way into the cellar, and, after considerable stumbling, kindled a match, and lighted a tallow
dip, that sent a yellow glimmer over the room. It was low,
damp, - the earthen floor covered with a green, slimy moss,
- a fetid air smothering the breath. Old Wolfe lay asleep
on a heap of straw, wrapped in a torn horse-blanket. He
was a pale, meek little man, with a white face and red rabbit-eyes. The woman Deborah was like him; only her
face was even more ghastly, her lips bluer, her eyes more
watery. She wore a faded cotton gown and a slouching
bonnet. When she walked, one could see that she was deformed, almost a hunchback. She trod softly, so as not to
waken him, and went through into the room beyond. There
she found by the half-extinguished fire an iron saucepan
filled with cold boiled potatoes, which she put upon a broken
chair with a pint-cup of ale. Placing the old candlestick
beside this dainty repast, she untied her bonnet, which hung
limp and wet over her face, and prepared to eat her supper.
It was the first food that had touched her lips since morning. There was enough of it, however: there is not always.
She was hungry, - one could see that easily enough, - and
not drunk, as most of her companions would have been




Life in the Iron-Mills.              55
found at this hour. She did not drink, this wman, - her
face told that too,-nothing stronger than ale. Perhaps
the weak, flaccid wretch had some stimulant in her pale life
to keep her up, - some love or hope, it might be, or urgent
need. When that stimulant was gone, she would take to
whiskey.  Man cannot live by work alone. While she was
skinning the potatoes, and munching them, a noise behind
her made her stop.
" Janey! " she called, lifting the candle and peering into
the darkness. "Janey, are you there?"
A heap of ragged coats was heaved up, and the face of a
young girl emerged, staring sleepily at the woman.
" Deborah," she said, at last, " I'm here the night."
" Yes, child. Hur's welcome," she said, quietly eating on.
The girl's face was haggard and sickly; her eyes were
heavy with sleep and hunger: real Milesian eyes they were,
dark, delicate blue, glooming out from black shadows with
a pitiful fright.
"I was alone," she said, timidly.
"Where's the father?" asked Deborah, holding out a
potato, which the girl greedily seized.
"He's beyant, - wid Haley,- in  the  stone house"
(Did you ever hear the word jail from an Irish mouth?) " I
came here. Hugh told me never to stay me-lone."
"Hugh?"
" Yes."
A vexed frown crossed her face. The girl saw it, and
added quickly, -
" I have not seen Hugh the day, Deb. The old man says
his watch lasts till the mornin'."
The woman sprang up, and hastily began to arrange some
bread and flitch in a tin pail, and to pour her own measure
of ale into a bottle. Tying on her bonnet, she blew out the
candle.
" Lay ye down, Janey dear," she said, gently, covering her
with the old rags. " Hur can eat the potatoes, if huX's
hungry."




56            Life in the Iron-Mills.
"Where are ye goin', Deb? The rain's sharp."
"To the mill, with Hugh's supper."'" Let him bide till th' morn. Sit ye down."
"No, no," - sharply pushing her off.  "The boy'1I
starve."
She hurried from the cellar, while the child wearily coiled
herself up for sleep. The rain was falling heavily, as the
woman, pail in hand, emerged from the mouth of the alley,
and turned down the narrow street, that stretched out, long
and black, miles before her. Here and there a flicker of
gas lighted an uncertain space of muddy footwalk and gutter; the long rows of houses, except an occasional lager-bier
shop, were closed; now and then she met a band of millhands skulking to or from their work.
Not many even of the inhabitants of a manufacturing
town know the vast machinery of system  by which the
bodies of workmen are governed, that goes on unceasingly
from year to year. The hands of each mill are divided into
watches that relieve each other as regularly as the sentinels
of an army. By night and day the work goes on, the unsleeping engines groan and shriek, the fiery pools of metal
boil and surge. Only for a day in the week, in half-courtesy
to public censure, the fires are partially veiled; but as soon
as the clock strikes midnight, the great furnaces break forth
with renewed fury, the clamor begins with fresh, breathless
vigor, theengines sob and shriek like "gods in pain."
As Deborah hurried down through the heavy rain, the
noise of these thousand engines sounded through the sleep
and shadow of the city like far-off thunder. The mill to
which she was going lay on the river, a mile below the citylimits. It was far, and she was weak, aching from standing
twelve hours at the spools. Yet it was her almost nightly
walk to take this man his supper, though at every square
she sat down to rest, and she knew she should receive small
word of thanks.
Perhaps, if she had possessed an artist's eye, the picturesque oddity of the scene might have made her step stag



Life in the Iron-Mills.              57
ger less, and the path seem shorter; but to her the mills
were only " summat deilish to look at by night."
The road leading to the mills had been quarried from the
solid rock, which rose abrupt and bare on one side of the
cinder-covered road, while the river, sluggish and black,
crept past on the other. The mills for rolling iron are simply immense tent-like roofs, covering acres of ground, open
on every side. Beneath these roofs Deborah looked in on
a city of fires, that burned hot and fiercely in the night.
Fire in every horrible form: pits of flame waving in the
wind; liquid metal-flames writhing in tortuous streams
through the sand; wide caldrons filled with boiling fire,
over which bent ghastly wretches stirring the strange brewing; and through all, crowds of half-clad men, looking like
revengeful ghosts in the red light, hurried, throwing masses
of glittering fire. It was like a street in Hell. Even
Deborah muttered, as she crept through, "T looks like
t' Devil's place! " It did, - in more ways than one.
She found the man she was looking for, at last, heaping
coal on a furnace. He had not time to eat his supper; so
she went behind the furnace, and waited. Only a few men
were with him, and they noticed her only by a " Hyur comes
t' hunchback, Wolfe."
Deborah was stupid with sleep; her back pained her
sharply; ard her teeth chattered with cold, with the rain
that soaked her clothes and dripped from her at every step.
She stood, however, patiently holding the pail, and waiting.
" Hout, woman! ye look like a drowned cat. Come near
to the fire," - said one of the men, approaching to scrape
away the ashes.
She shook her head. Wolfe had forgotten her. He
turned, hearing the man, and came closer.
"I did no' think; g' me my supper, woman."
She watched him eat with a painful eagerness. With a
woman's quick instinct, she saw that he was not hungry, -
was eating to please her. Her pale, watery eyes began to
gather a strange light.
3*




58             Life in the Iron-Mills.
" Is't good, Hugh? T' ale was a bit sour, I feared."
" No, good enough."  He hesitated a moment. "Ye're
tired, poor lass! Bide here till I go. Lay down there on
that heap of ash, and go to sleep."
He threw her an old coat for a pillow, and turned to his
work. The heap was the refuse of the burnt iron, and was
not a hard bed; the half-smothered warmth, too, penetrated her limbs, dulling their pain and cold shiver.
Miserable enough she looked, lying there on the ashes
like a limp, dirty rag, - yet not an unfitting figure to crown
the scene of hopeless discomfort and veiled crime: more
fitting, if one looked deeper into the heart of things, - at
her thwarted woman's form, her colorless life, her waking
stupor that smothered pain and hunger, - even more fit to
be a type of her class. Deeper yet if one could look; was
there nothing worth reading in this wet, faded thing, half
covered with ashes? no story of a soul filled with groping,
passionate love, heroic unselfishness, fierce jealousy? of
years of weary trying to please the one human being whom
she loved, to gain one look of real heart-kindness from him?
If anything like this were hidden beneath the pale, bleared
eyes, and dull, washed-out-looking face, no one had ever
taken the trouble to read its faint signs: not the halfclothed furnace-tender, Wolfe, certainly. Yet he was kind
to her: it was his nature to be kind, even to the very rats
that swarmed in the cellar: kind to her in just the same
way. She knew that. And it might be that very knowledge
had given to her face its apathy and vacancy more than
her low, torpid life. One sees that dead, vacant look steal
sometimes over the rarest, finest of women's faces, - in the
very midst, it may be, of their warmest summer's day; and
then one can guess at the secret of intolerable solitude that
lies hid beneath the delicate laces and brilliant smile.
There was no warmth, no brilliancy, no summer for this
woman; so the stupor and vacancy had time to gnaw into
her face perpetually. She was young, too, though no one
guessed it; so the gnawing was the fiercer.




Life in the Iron-Mills.                59
She lay quiet in the dark corner, listening, through the
monotonous din and uncertain glare of the works, to the
dull plash of the rain in the far distance, - shrinking back
whenever the man Wolfe happened to look towards her.
She knew, in spite of all his kindness, that there was that in
her face and form which made him loathe the sight of her.
She felt by instinct, although she could not comprehend it,
the finer nature of the man, which made him among his -fellow-workmen something unique, set apart.  She knew, that,
down under all the vileness and coarseness of his life, there
was a groping passion for whatever was beautiful and pure,
-that his soul sickened with disgust at her deformity, even
when his words were kindest. Through this dull consciousness, which never left her, came, like a sting, the recollection
of the dark blue eyes and lithe figure of the little Irish girl
she had left in the cellar. The recollection struck through
even her stupid intellect with a vivid glow of beauty and of
grace.  Little Janey, timid, helpless, clinging to Hugh as
her only friend: that was the sharp thought, the bitter
thought, that drove into the glazed eyes a fierce light of pain.
You laugh at it? Are pain and jealousy less savage realities
down here in this place I am taking you to than in your
own house or your own heart,    your heart, which they
clutch at sometimes? The note is the same, I fancy, be the
octave high or low.
If you could go into this mill where Deborah lay, and
drag out from the hearts of these men the terrible tragedy
of their lives, taking it as a symptom of the disease of their
class, no ghost Horror would terrify you more. A reality
of soul-starvatidn, of living death, that meets you every day
under the besotted faces on the street- I can paint nothing of this, only give you the outside outlines of a night, a
crisis in the life of one man: whatever muddy depth of soulhistory lies beneath you can read according to the eyes God
has given you.
Wolfe, while Deborah watched him as a spaniel its master, bent over the furnace with his iron pole, unconscious oc




60             Life in the Iron-Mills.
her scrutiny, only stopping to receive orders. Physically,
Nature had promised the man but little. He had already
lost the strength and instinct vigor of a man, his muscles
were thin, his nerves weak, his face (a meek, woman's face)
haggard, yellow with consumption. In the mill he was
known as one of the girl-men: " Molly Wolfe" was his sobriquet. He was never seen in the qockpit, did not own a
terrier, drank but seldom; when he did, desperately. He
fought sometimes, but was always thrashed, pommelled to a
jelly. The man was game enough, when his blood was up:
but he was no favorite in the mill; he had the taint of
school-learning on him,- not to a dangerous extent, only a
quarter or so in the free-school in fact, but enough to ruin
him as a good hand in a fight.
For other reasons, too, he was not popular. Not one of
themselves, they felt that, though outwardly as filthy and
ash-covered; silent, with foreign thoughts and longings
breaking out through his quietness in innumerable curious
ways: this one, for instance. In the neighboring furnacebuildings lay great heaps of the refuse from the ore after the
pig-metal is run. Korl we call it here: a light, porous
substance, of a delicate, waxen, flesh-colored tinge. Out of
the blocks of this korl, Wolfe, in his off-hours from the furnace, had a habit of chipping and moulding figures, - hideous, fantastic enough, but sometimes strangely beautiful:
even the mill-men saw that, while they jeered at him. It
was a curious fancy in the man, almost a passion. The
few hours for rest he spent hewing and hacking with his
blunt knife, never speaking, until his watch came again, 
working at one figure for months, and, when it was finished,
breaking it to pieces perhaps, in a fit of disappointment. A
morbid, gloomy man, untaught, unled, left to feed his soul
in grossness and crime, and hard, grinding labor.
I want you to come down and look at this Wolfe, standing there among the lowest of his kind, and see him just as
he is, that you may judge him justly when you hear the
story of this night. I want you to look back, as he does




Life in the Iron-Mills. 6.
every day, at his birth in vice, his starved infancy; to remember the heavy years he has groped through as boy and
man,- the slow, heavy years of constant, hot work. So
long ago he began, that he thinks sometimes he has worked
there for ages. There is no hope that it will ever end.
Think that God put into this man's soul a fierce thirst for
beauty, - to know it, to create it; to be - something, he
knows not what,- other than he is. There are moments
when a passing cloud, the sun glinting on the purple thistles, a kindly smile, a child's face, will rouse him to a passion
of pain, - when his nature starts up with a mad cry of rage
against God, man, whoever it is that has forced this vile,
slimy life upon him. With all this groping, this mad desire,
a great blind intellect stumbling through wrong, a loving
poet's heart, the man was by habit only a coarse, vulgar laborer, familiar with sights and words you would blush to
name. Be just: when I tell you about this night, see him
as he is. Be just, - not like man's law, which seizes on one
isolated fact, but like God's judging angel, whose clear, sad
eye saw all the countless cankering days of this man's life,
all the countless nights, when, sick with starving, his soul
fainted in him, before it judged him for this night, the saddest
of all.
I called this night the crisis of his life. If it was, it stole
on him unawares. These great turning-days of life cast no
shadow before, slip by unconsciously. Only a trifle, a little
turn of the rudder, and the ship goes to heaven or hell.
Wolfe, while Deborah watched him, dug into the furnace
of melting iron with his pole, dully thinking only how many
rails the lump would yield. It was late,- nearly Sunday
morning; another hour, and the heavy work would be done,
- only the furnaces to replenish and cover for the next day.
The workmen were growing more noisy, shouting, as they
had to do, to be heard over the deep clamor of the mills.
Suddenly they grew less boisterous, - at the far end, entirely silent. Something unusual had happened. After a
moment, the silence came nearer; the men stopped their
E




62             Life in the Iron-Mills.
jeers and drunken choruses. Deborah, stupidly lifting up
her head, saw the cause of the quiet. A group of five or
six men were slowly approaching, stopping t3 examine each
furnace as they came. Visitors often came to see the mills
after night: except by growing less noisy, the men took no
notice of them. The furnace where Wolfe worked was near
the bounds of the works; they halted there hot and tired:
a walk over one of these great founderies is no trifling task.
The woman, drawing out of sight, turned over to sleep.
Wolfe, seeing them stop, suddenly roused from his indifferent stupor, and watched them keenly. He knew some of
them: the overseer, Clarke, — a son of Kirby, one of the
mill-owners, - and a Doctor May, one of the town-physicians. The other two were strangers. Wolfe came closer.
He seized eagerly every"chance that brought him into contact with this mysterious class that shone down on him perpetually with the glamour of another order of being. What
made the difference between them? That was the mystery
of his life. He had a vague notion that perhaps to-night
he could find it out. One of the strangers sat down on a
pile of bricks, and beckoned young Kirby to his side.
"This is hot, with a vengeance. A match, please?" -
lighting his cigar. " But the walk is worth the trouble. If
it were not that you must have heard it so often, Kirby, I
would tell you that your works look like Dante's Inferno."
Kirby laughed.
"Yes. Yonder is Farinata himself in the burning tomb,"
- pointing to some figure in the shimmering shadows.
" Judging from some of the faces of your men," said the
other, "they bid fair to try the reality of Dante's vision,
some day."
Young Kirby looked curiously around, as if seeing the
faces of his hands for the first time.
"They're bad enough, that's true. A desperate set, I
fancy. Eh, Clarke?"
The overseer did not hear him. He was talking of net
profits just then, - giving, in fact, a schedule of the annual




Life in the Iron-Mills.               63
business of the firm to a sharp peeling little Yankee, who
jotted down notes on a paper laid on the crown of his hat:
a reporter for one of the city papers, getting up a series of
reviews of the leading manufactories. The other gentlemen
had accompanied them merely for amusement. They were
silent until the notes were finished, drying their feet at the
furnaces, and sheltering their faces from the intolerable heat.
At last the overseer concluded with 
" I believe that is a pretty fair estimate, Captain."
" Here, some of you men! " said Kirby, " bring up those
boards. We may as well sit down, gentlemen, until the
rain is over. It cannot last much longer at this rate."
"Pig-metal," - mumbled the reporter, - " umr  - coal facilities, - um! -hands employed, twelve hundred, - bitumen, - um!- all right, I believe, Mr. Clarke; - sinkingfund, - what did you say was your sinking-fund? "
" Twelve hundred hands?" said the stranger, the young
man who had first spoken. "Do you control their votes,
Kirby?"
" Control? No."  The young man smiled complacently.
" But my father brought seven hundred votes to the polls
for his candidate last November. No force-work, you understand, - only a speech or two, a hint to form themselves
into a society, and a bit of red and blue bunting to make
them a flag. The Invincible Roughs, - I believe that is
their name. I forget the motto:'Our country's hope,' I
think."
There was a laugh. The young man talking to Kirby
sat with an amused light in his cool gray eye, surveying
critically the half-clothed figures of the puddlers, and the
slow swing of their brawny muscles. He was a stranger in
the city, - spending a couple of months in the borders of a
Slave State, to study the institutions of the South,-a
brother-in-law of Kirby's, - Mitchell. He was an amateur
gymnast, - hence his anatomical eye; a patron, in a blasd
way, of the prize-ring; a man who sucked the essence out
of a science or philosophy in an indifferent, gentlemanly




64             Life in the Iron-Mills.
way; who took Kant, Novalis, Humboldt, for what they
were worth in his own scales; accepting all, despising noth.
ing, in heaven, earth, or hell, but one-idead men; with a
temper yielding and brilliant as summer water, until his
Self was touched, when it was ice, though brilliant still.
Such men are not rare in the States.
As he knocked the ashes from his cigar, Wolfe caught
with a quick pleasure the contour of the white hand, the
blood-glow of a red ring he wore. His voice, too, and that
of Kirby's, touched him like music, - low, even, with chording cadences. About this man Mitchell hung the impalpable atmosphere belonging to the thoroughbred gentleman.
Wolfe, scraping away the ashes beside him, was conscious
of it, did obeisance to it with his artist sense, unconscious
that he did so.
The rain did not cease. Clarke and the reporter left the
mills; the others, comfortably seated near the furnace, lingered, smoking and talking in a desultory way. Greek
would not have been more unintelligible to the furnacetenders, whose presence they soon forgot entirely. Kirby
drew out a newspaper from his pocket and read aloud some
article, which they discussed eagerly. At every sentence,
Wolfe listened more and more like a dumb, hopeless animal, with a duller, more stolid look creeping over his face,
glancing nor and then at Mitchell, marking acutely every
smallest sign of refinement, then back to himself, seeing as
in a mirror his filthy body, his more stained soul.
Never! He had no words for such a thought, but he
knew now, in all the sharpness of the bitter certainty, that
between them there was a great gulf never to be passed.
Never!
The bell of the mills rang for midnight. Sunday morning had dawned. Whatever hidden message lay in the
tolling bells floated past these men unknown. Yet it was
there. Veiled in the solemn music ushering the risen Saviour was a key-note to solve the darkest secrets of a world
gone wrong,- even this social riddle which the brain of the
grimy puddler grappled with madly to-night.




Life in the Iron-Mills.              65
The men began to withdraw the netal from the caldions.
The mills were deserted on Sundays, except by the hands
who fed the fires, and those who had no lodgings and slept
usually on the ash-heaps. The three strangers sat still
during the next hour, watching the men cover the furnaces,
laughing now and then at some jest of Kirby's.
" Do you know," said Mitchell, " I like this view of the
works better than when the glare was fiercest? These heavy
shadows and the amphitheatre of smothered fires are ghostly,
unreal. One could fancy these red smouldering lights to be
the half-shut eyes of wild beasts, and the spectral figures
their victims in the den."
Kirby laughed. "You are fanciful. Come, let us get
out of the den. The spectral figures, as you call them, are
a little too real for me to fancy a close proximity in the
darkness, - unarmed, too."
The others rose, buttoning their overcoats, and lighting
cigars.
"Raining still," said Doctor May, "and hard. Where
did we leave the coach, Mitchell?"
" At the other side of the works. - Kirby, what's that?"
Mitchell started back, half-frightened, as, suddenly turning a corner, the white figure of a woman faced him in the
darkness, - a woman, white, of giant proportions, crouching
on the ground, her arms flung out in some wild gesture of
warning.
" Stop! Make that fire burn there!" cried Kirby, stopping short.
The flame burst out, flashing the gaunt figure into bclt
relief.
Mitchell drew a long breath.
" I thought it was alive," he said, going up curiously.
The others followed.
" Not marble, eh?" asked Kirby, touching it.
One of the lower overseers stopped.
" Korl, Sir."
Who did it?"




66            Life in the Iron-Mills.
" Can't say. Some of the hands; chipped it out in off.
hours."
"Chipped to some purpose, I should say. What a fleshtint the stuff has! Do you see, Mitchell?"
" I see."
He had stepped aside where the light fell boldest on the
figure, looking at it in silence. There was not one line of
beauty or grace in it: a nude woman's form, muscular,
grown coarse with labor, the powerful limbs instinct with
some one poignant longing. One idea: there it was in the
tense, rigid muscles, the clutching hands, the wild, eager
face, like that of a starving wolf's. Kirby and Dr. May
walked around it, critical, curious. Mitchell stood aloof,
silent. The figure touched him strangely.
" Not badly done," said Doctor May. "Where did the
fellow learn that sweep of the muscles in the arm and hand?
Look at them! They are groping, - do you see? - clutching: the peculiar action of a man dying of thirst."
"They have ample facilities for studying anatomy,"
sneered Kirby, glancing at the half-naked figures.
"Look," continued the Doctor, "at this bony wrist, and
the strained sinews of the instep! A working-woman, -the
very type of her class."
"God forbid!" muttered Mitchell.
"Why?" demanded May. " What does the fellow intend
by the figure? I cannot catch the meaning."
"Ask him," said the other, dryly. " There he stands,"
pointing to Wolfe, who stood with a group of men, leaning
on his ash-rake.
The Doctor beckoned him with the affable smile which
kind-hearted men put on, when talking to these people.' Mr. Mitchell has picked you out as the man who did
this,- I'm sure I don't know why. But what did you mean
by it?"
" She be hungry."
Wolfe's eyes answered Mitchell, not the Doctor.
"Oh-h! But what a mistake you have made, my fine




Life in the Iron-Mills.             67
fellow! You have given no sign of starvation to the body.
It is strong, - terribly strong. It has the mad, half-despairing gesture of drowning."
Wolfe stammered, glanced appealingly at Mitchell, who
saw the soul of the thing, he knew. But the cool, probing
eyes were turned on himself now, - mocking, cruel, relentless.
" Not hungry for meat," the furnace-tender said at last.
"What then? Whiskey?" jeered Kirby, with a coarse
laugh.
Wolfe was silent a moment, thinking.
" I dunno," he said, with a bewildered look. "It mebbe.
Summat to make her live, I think, - like you. Whiskey ull
do it, in a way."
The young man laughed again. Mitchell flashed a look
of disgust somewhere,- not at Wolfe.
" May," he broke out impatiently, " are you blind? Look
at that woman's face! It asks questions of God, and says,'I have a right to know.' Good God, how hungry it is!"
They looked a moment; then May turned to the millowner: -
" Have you many such hands as this? What are you going to do with them? Keep them at puddling iron?"
Kirby shrugged his shoulders. Mitchell's look had irritated him.
" Ce n'est ias mon affaire. I have no fancy for nursing
infant geniuses. I suppose there are some stray gleams of
mind and soul among these wretches. The Lord will take
care of his own; or else they can work out their own salvation. I have heard you call our American system a ladder
which any man can scale. Do you doubt it? Or perhaps
you want to banish all social ladders, and put us all on a flat
table-land,  eh, May?"
The Doctor looked vexed, puzzled. Some terrible problem lay hid in this woman's face, and troubled these men.
Kirby waited for an answer, and, receiving none, went on,
warming with his subject.




68            Life in the Iron-Mills.
"I tell you, there's something wrong that no talk of'Libertd' or'Egalid' will do away. If I had the making
of men, these men who do the lowest part of the world's
work should be machines,- nothing more,   hands. It
would be kindness. God help them! What are taste,
reason, to creatures who must live such lives as that? " He
pointed to Deborah, sleeping on the ash-heap. " So many
nerves to sting them to pain. What if God had put your
brain, with all its agony of touch, into your fingers, and bid
you work and strike with that?"
" You think you could govern the world better? " laughed
the Doctor.
" I do not think at all."
" That is true philosophy. Drift with the stream, because
you cannot dive deep enough to find bottom, eh?"
" Exactly," rejoined Kirby. " I do not think. I wash my
hands of all social problems, - slavery, caste, white or black.
My duty to my operatives has a narrow limit,- the payhour on Saturday night. Outside of that, if they cut korl, or
cut each other's throats, (the more popular amusement of
the two,) I am not responsible."
The Doctor sighed, - a good honest sigh, from the depths
of his stomach.
God help us  Who is responsible  "
"Not I, I tell you," said Kirby, testily. "What has the
man who pays them money to do with their souls' concerns,
more than the grocer or butcher who takes it? "
" And yet," said Mitchell's cynical voice, " look at her!
How hungry she is! "
Kirby tapped his boot with his cane. No one spoke.
Only the dumb face of the rough image looking into their
faces with the awful question, " What shall we do to be
saved?" Only Wolfe's face, with its heavy weight of brain,
its weak, uncertain mouth, its desperate eyes, out of which
looked the soul of his class, - only Wolfe's face turned towards Kirby's. Mitchell laughed, - a cool, musical laugh.' Money has spoken! " he said, seating himself lightly on




Life in the Iron-Mills.             69
a stone with the air of an amused spectator at a play. " Are
you answered? "    turning to Wolfe his clear, magnetic
face.
Bright and deep and cold as Arctic air, the soul of the
man lay tranquil beneath. He looked at the furnace-tender
as he had looked at a rare mosaic in the morning; only the
man was the more amusing study of the two.
"Are you answered? Why, May, look at him!' De rofundis clamavi.' Or, to quote in English,'Hungry and
thirsty, his soul faints in him.' And so Money sends back
its answer into the depths through you, Kirby! Very clear
the answer, too!- I think I remember reading the same
words somewhere: -washing your hands in Eau de Cologne, and saying,' I am innocent of the blood of this man.
See ye to it!'"
Kirby flushed angrily.
"You quote Scripture freely."
"Do I not quote correctly? I think I remember another
line, which may amend my meaning:' Inasmuch as ye did
it unto one of the least of these, ye did it unto me.' Deist?
Bless you, man, I was raised on the milk of the Word.
Now, Doctor, the pocket of the world having uttered its
voice, what has the heart to say? You are a philanthropist,
in a small way, - n'est ce 5as? Here, boy, this gentleman
can show you how to cut korl better, - or your destiny. Go
on, May!"
" I think a mocking devil possesses you to-night," rejoined
the Doctor, seriously.
He went to Wolfe and put his hand kindly on his arm.
Something of a vague idea possessed the Doctor's brain that
much good was to be done here by a friendly word or two:
a latent genius to be warmed into life by a waited-for sunbeam. Here it was: he had brought it.  So he went on
complacently: -
" Do you know, boy, you have it in you to be a great
sculptor, a great man?-do you understand?" (talking
down to the capacity of his hearer: it is a way people have




70            Life in the Iron-Mills.
with children, and men like Wolfe,)- " to live a better,
stronger life than I, or Mr. Kirby here? A man may make
himself anything he chooses. God has given you stronger
powers than many men, - me, for instance."
May stopped, heated, glowing with his own magnanimity.
And it was magnanimous. The puddler had drunk in every
word, looking through the Doctor's flurry, and generous
heat, and self-approval, into his will, with those slow, absorbing eyes of his.
" Make yourself what you will. It is your right."
" I know," quietly. "Will you help me?"
Mitchell laughed again. The Doctor turned now, in a
passion, -
" You know, Mitchell, I have not the means. You know,
if I had, it is in my heart to take this boy and educate him
for-"
" The glory of God, and the glory of John May."
May did not speak for a moment; then, controlled, he
said, -
" Why should one be raised, when myriads are left?- I
have not the money, boy," to Wolfe, shortly.
" Money?"  He said it over slowly, as one repeats the
guessed answer to a riddle, doubtfully.  "That is it?
Money?"
"Yes, money, - that is it," said Mitchell, rising, and
drawing his furred coat about him. "You've found the
cure for all the world's diseases. - Come, May, find your
good-humor, and come home. This damp wind chills my
very bones. Come and preach your Saint-Simonian doctrines to-morrow to Kirby's hands. Let them have a clear
idea of the rights of the soul, and I'11 venture next week
they'11 strike for higher wages. That will be the end of it."
"Will you send the coach-driver to this side of the
mills?" asked Kirby, turning to Wolfe.
He spoke kindly: it was his habit to do so. Deborah,
seeing the puddler go, crept after him. The three men
waited outside. Doctor May walked up and down, chafed.
Suddenly he stopped.




Life in the Iron-Mills.             71' Go back, Mitchell! You say the pocket and the heart
of the world speak without meaning to these people. What
has its head to say? Taste, culture, refinement? Go! "
Mitchell was leaning against a brick wall. He turned his
head indolently, and looked into the mills. There hung
about the place a thick, unclean odor. The slightest motion of his hand marked that he perceived it, and his insufferable disgust. That was all. May said nothing, only
quickened his angry tramp.
"Besides," added Mitchell, giving a corollary to his answer, " it would be of no use. I am not one of them."
" You do not mean "- said May, facing him.
"Yes, I mean just that. Reform is born of need, not
pity. No vital movement of the people's has worked down,
for good or evil; fermented, instead, carried up the heaving, cloggy mass. Think back through history, and you
will know it. What will this lowest deep - thieves, Magdalens, negroes — do with the light filtered through ponderous Church creeds, Baconian theories, Goethe schemes?
Some day, out of their bitter need will be thrown up their
own light-bringer, - their Jean Paul, their Cromwell, their
Messiah."
"Bah!" was the Doctor's inward criticism. However,
in practice, he adopted the theory; for, when, night and
morning, afterwards, he prayed that power might be given
these degraded souls to rise, he glowed at heart, recognizing
an accomplished duty.
Wolfe and the woman had stood in the shadow of the
works as the coach drove off. The Doctor had held out his
hand in a frank, generous way, telling him to " take care of
himself, and to remember it was his right to rise." Mitchell
had simply touched his hat, as to an equal, with a quiet
look of thorough recognition. Kirby had thrown Deborah
some money, which she found, and clutched eagerly enough.
They were gone now, all of them. The man sat down on
the cinder-road, looking up into the murky sky.
"'T be late, Hugh. Wunnot hur come  "




72            Life in the Iron-Mills.
He shook his head doggedly, and the woman crouched
out of his sight against the wall. Do you remember rare
moments when a sudden light flashed over yourself, your
world, God? when you stood on a mountain-peak, seeing
your life as it might have been, as it is? one quick instant,
when custom lost its force and every-day usage? when your
friend, wife, brother, stood in a new light? your soul was
bared, and the grave, - a foretaste of the nakedness of the
Judgment-Day? So it came before him, his life, that night.
The slow tides of pain he had borne gathered themselves up
and surged against his soul. His squalid daily life, the
brutal coarseness eating into his brain, as the ashes into his
skin: before, these things had been a dull aching into his
consciousness; to-night, they were reality. He griped the
filthy red shirt that clung, stiff with soot, about him, and
tore it savagely from  his arm. The flesh beneath was
muddy with grease and ashes,-and the heart beneath that I
And the soul? God knows.
Then flashed before his vivid poetic sense the man who
had left him, - the pure face, the delicate, sinewy limbs, in
harmony with all he kaew of beauty or truth. In his cloudy
fancy he had pictured a Something like this. He had
found it in this Mitchell, even when he idly scoffed at his
pain: a Man all-knowing, all-seeing, crowned by Nature,
reigning, - the keen glance of his eye falling like a sceptre
on other men. And yet his instinct taught him that he too
-He! He looked at himself with sudden loathing, sick,
wrung his hands with a cry, and then was silent. With all
the phantoms of his heated, ignorant fancy, Wolfe had not
been vague in his ambitions. They were practical, slowly
built up before him out of his knowledge of what he could
do. Through years he had day by day made this hope a
real thing to himself, - a clear, projected figure of himself,
as he might become.
Able to speak, to know what was best, to raise these men
and women working at his side up with him: sometimes he
forgot this defined hope in the frantic anguish to escape, -




Life in the Iron-Mills.              73
only to escape, - out of the wet, the pain, the ashes, somewhere, anywhere, - only for one moment of free air on a hillside, to lie down and let his sick soul throb itself out in the
sunshine. But to-night he panted for life. The savage
strength of his nature was roused; his cry was fierce to
God for justice.
" Look at me! " he said to Deborah, with a low, bitter
laugh, striking his puny chest savagely. " What am I worth,
Deb? Is it my fault that I am no better? My fault? My
fault? "
He stopped, stung with a sudden remorse, seeing her
hunchback shape writhing with sobs. For Deborah was
crying thankless tears, according to the fashion of women.
"God forgi' me, woman! Things go harder wi' you nor
me. It's a worse share."
He got up and helpedher to rise; and they went doggedly down the muddy street, side by side.
"It's all wrong," he muttered, slowly, - "all wrong! I
dunnot understan'. But it'11 end some day."
Come home, Hugh! " she said, coaxingly; for he had
stopped, looking around bewildered.
"Home, - and back to the mill!"  He went on saying
this over to himself, as if he would mutter down every pain
in this dull despair.
She followed him through the fog, her blue lips chattering
with cold. They reached the cellar at last. Old Wolfe had
been drinking since she went out, and had crept nearer the
door. The girl Janey slept heavily in the corner. He went
up to her, touching softly the worn white arm  with his fingers. Some bitterer thought stung him, as he stood there.
He wiped the drops from his forehead, and went into the
room beyond, livid, trembling. A hope, trifling, perhaps,
but very dear, had died just then out of the poor puddler's
life, as he looked at the sleeping, innocent girl, - some plan
for the future, in which she had borne a part. He gave it
up that moment, then and forever. Only a trifle, perhaps,
to us: his face grew a shade paler, - that was all. But,
4




74            Life in the Iron-Mills.
somehow, the man's soul, as God and the angels looked
down on it, never was the same afterwards.
Deborah followed him into the inner room. She carried
a candle, which she placed on the floor, closing the door
after her. She had seen the look on his face, as he turned
away; her own grew deadly. Yet, as she came up to him,
her eyes glowed. He was seated on an old chest, quiet,
holding his face in his hands.
" Hugh i " she said, softly.
He did not speak.
" Hugh, did hur hear what the man said, - him with the
clear voice? Did hur hear? Money, money, —that it wud
do all?"
He pushed her away,- gently, but he was worn out; her
rasping tone fretted him.
"Hugh "
The candle flared a pale yellow light over the cobwebbed
brick walls, and the woman standing there. He looked at
her. She was young, in deadly earnest; her faded eyes,
and wet, ragged figure caught from their frantic eagerness a
power akin to beauty.
"Hugh, it is true! Money ull do it! Oh, Hugh, boy,
listen till me! He said it true! It is money! "
"I know. Go back! I do not want you here."
"Hugh, it is t' last time. I'11 never worrit hur again."
There were tears in her voice now, but she choked them
back.
"Hear till me only to-night! If one of t' witch people
wud come, them we heard of t' home, and gif hur all hur
wants, what then? Say, Hugh! "
"What do you mean? "
"I mean money."
Her whisper shrilled through his brain.
" If one of t' witch dwarfs wud come from t' lane moors
to-night, and gif hur money, to go out, - out, I say, - out,
lad, where t' sun shines, and t' heath grows, and t' ladies
walk in silken gownds, and God stays all t' time, - where t




Life in the Iron-Mills.             75
man lives that talked to us to-night, - Hugh knows, -
Hugh could walk there like a king!"
He thought the woman mad, tried to check her, but she
went on, fierce in her eager haste.
" If I were t' witch dwarf, if I had t' money, wud hur
thank me? Wud hur take me out o' this place wid hur and
Janey? I wud not come into the gran' house hur wud build,
to vex hur wid t' hunch, - only at night, when t' shadows
were dark, stand far off to see hur."
" Poor Deb! poor Deb!" he said, soothingly.
" It is here," she said, suddenly jerking into his hand a
small roll. " I took it! I did it! I shall be hanged! I
shall be burnt in hell, if anybody knows I took it! Me, me!
not hur! Out of his pocket, as he leaned against t' bricks.
Hur knows?"
She thrust it into his hand, and then, her errand done,
began to gather chips together to make a fire, choking down
hysteric sobs.
" Has it come to this?"
That was all he said. The Welsh Wolfe blood was
honest. The roll was a small green pocket-book containing
one or two gold pieces, and a check for an incredible
amount, as it seemed to the poor puddler. He laid it down,
hiding his face again in his hands.
"Hugh, don't be angry wud me! It's only poor Deb, -
hur knows? "
He took the long skinny fingers kindly in his.
"Angry?  God help me, no! Let me sleep. I am
tired."
He threw himself heavily down on the wooden bench,
stunned with pain and weariness. She brought some old
rags to cover him.
It was late on Sunday evening before he awoke. I tell
God's truth, when I say he had then no thought of keeping
this money. Deborah had hid it in his pocket. He found
it there. She watched him eagerly, as he took it out.
" I must gif it to him," he said, reading her face.




76            Life in the Iron-Mills.
"Hur knows," she said with a bitter sigh of disappoint"
ment. " But it is hur right to keep it."
His right! The word struck him. Doctor May had used
the same. He washed himself, and went out to find this
man Mitchell. His right! Why did this chance word
cling to him so obstinately? Do you hear the fierce devils
whisper in his ear, as he went slowly down the darkening
street?
The evening came on, slow and calm. He seated himself at the end of an alley leading into one of the larger
streets. His brain was clear to-night, keen, intent, mastering. It would not start back, cowardly, from any hellish
temptation, but meet it face to face. Therefore the great
temptation of his life came to him veiled by no sophistry,
but bold, defiant, owning its own vile name, trusting to one
bold blow for victory.
He did not deceive himself. Theft! That was it. At
first the word sickened him; then he grappled with it.
Sitting there on a broken cart-wheel, the fading day, the
noisy groups, the church-bells' tolling passed before him
like a panorama, while the sharp struggle went on within.
This money! He took it out, and looked at it. If he gave
it back, what then? He was going to be cool about it.
People going by to church saw only a sickly mill-boy
watching them quietly at the alley's mouth. They did not
know that he was mad, or they would not have gone by so
quietly: mad with hunger; stretching out his hands to the
world, that had given so much to them, for leave to live
the life God meant him to live. His soul within him was
smothering to death; he wanted so much, thought so much,
and knew - nothing. There was nothing of which he was
certain, except the mill and things there. Of God and
heaven he had heard so little, that they were to him what
fairy-land is to a child: something real, but not here; very
far off. His brain, greedy, dwarfed, full of thwarted energy
and unused powers, questioned these men and women going
by, coldly, bitterly, that night. Was it not his right to live




Life in the Iron-Mills.               77
as they, - a pure life, a good, true-hearted life, full of beauty
and kind words? He only wanted to know how to use the
strength within him. His heart warmed, as he thought of
it. He suffered himself to think of it longer. If he took
the money?
Then he saw himself as he might be, strong, helpful,
kindly. The night crept on, as this one image slowly
evolved itself from the crowd of other thoughts and stood
triumphant. He looked at it. As he might be! What
wonder, if it blinded him to delirium,   the madness that
underlies all revolution, all progress, and all fall?
You laugh at the shallow temptation? You see the error
underlying its argument so clearly, - that to him a true life
was one of full development rather than self-restraint? that
he was deaf to the higher tone in a cry of voluntary suffering for truth's sake than in the fullest flow of spontaneous
harmony? I do not plead his cause.  I only want to show
you the mote in my brother's eye: then you can see clearly
to take it out.
The money,- there it lay on his knee, a little blotted slip
of paper, nothing in itself; used to raise him out of the pit;
something straight from God's hand. A thief! Well, what
was it to be a thief? He met the question at last face to
face, wiping the clammy drops of sweat from his forehead.
God made this money   the fresh air, too - for his children's use. He never made the difference between poor and
rich. The Something who looked down on him that moment through the cool gray sky had a kindly face, he knew,
-loved his children alike. Oh, he knew that I
There were times when the soft floods of color in the crimson and purple flames, or the clear depth of amber in the
water below the bridge, had somehow given him a glimpse
of another world than this, - of an infinite depth of beauty
and of quiet somewhere, - somewhere, - a depth of quiet
and rest and love. Looking up now, it became strangely
real. The sun had sunk quite below the hills, but his last
rays struck upward, touching the zenith. The fog had risen,
I




78             Life in- the Iron-Mills.
and the town and river were steeped in its thick0 gray
damp; but overhead, the sun-touched smoke-clouds opened
like a cleft ocean, - shifting, rolling seas of crimson mist,
waves of billowy silver veined with blood-scarlet, inner
depths unfathomable of glancing light. Wolfe's artist-eye
grew drunk with color. The gates of that other world!
Fading, flashing before him now! What, in that world of
Beauty, Content, and Right, were the petty laws, the mine
and thine, of mill-owners and mill-hands?
A consciousness of power stirred within him. He stood
up. A man, - he thought, stretching out his hands, - free
to work, to live, to love! Free! His right! He folded the
scrap of paper in his hand. As his nervous fingers took it
in, limp and blotted, so his soul took in the mean temptation, lapped it in fancied rights, in dreams of improved existences, drifting and endless as the cloud-seas of color.
Clutching it, as if the tightness of his hold would strengthen
his sense of possession, he went aimlessly down the street.
It was his watch at the mill. He need not go, need never go
again, thank God! -shaking off the thought with unspeakable loathing.
Shall I go over the history of the hours of that night?
how the man wandered from  one to another of his old
haunts, with a half-consciousness of bidding them farewell,
-lanes and alleys and back-yards where the mill-hands
lodged, - noting, with a new eagerness, the filth and drunkenness, the pig-pens, the ash-heaps covered with potatoskins, the bloated, pimpled women at the doors, - with a
new disgust, a new sense of sudden triumph, and, under all,
a new, vague dread, unknown before, smothered down, kept
under, but still there? It left him but once during the
night, when, for the second time in his life, he entered a
church. It was a sombre Gothic pile, where the stained
light lost itself in far-retreating arches; built to meet the
requirements and sympathies of a far other class than
Wolfe's. Yet it touched, moved him uncontrollably. The
distances, the shadows, the still, marble figures, the mass of




Life in the Iron-Mills.               79
silent, kneeling worshippers, the mysterious musiz, thrilled,
lifted his soul with a wonderful pain. Wolfe forgot himself,
forgot the new life he was going to live, the mean terror
gnawing underneath. The voice of the speaker strengthened the charm; it was clear, feeling, full, strong. An old
man, who had lived much, suffered much; whose brain was
keenly alive, dominant; whose heart was summer-warm
with charity. He taught it to-night. He held up Humanity
in its grand total; showed the great world-cancer to his
people. Who could show it better? He was a Christian
reformer; he had studied the age thoroughly; his outlook
at man had been free, world-wide, over all time. His faith
stood sublime upon the Rock of Ages; his fiery zeal guided
vast schemes by which the Gospel was to be preached to all
nations. How  did he preach it to-night? In burning,
light-laden words he painted Jesus, the incarnate Life, Love,
the universal Man: words that became reality in the lives
of these people, - that lived again in beautiful words and
actions, trifling, but heroic. Sin, as he defined it, was a
real foe to them; their trials, temptations, were his. His
words passed far over the furnace-tender's grasp, toned to
suit another class of culture; they sounded in his ears a
very pleasant song in an unknown tongue. He meant to
cure this world-cancer with a steady eye that had never
glared with hunger, and a- hand that neither poverty nor
strychnine-whiskey had taught to shake. In this morbid,
distorted heart of the Welsh puddler he had failed.
Eighteen centuries ago, the Master of this man tried reform in the streets of a city as crowded and vile as this, and
did not fail. His disciple, showing Him to-night to cultured
hearers, showing the clearness of the God-power acting
through Him, shrank back from one coarse fact; that in
birth and habit the man Christ was thrown up from the
lowest of the people: his flesh, their flesh; their blood, his
blood; tempted like them, to brutalize day by day; to lie,
to steal: the actual slime and want of their hourly life, and
the wine-press he trod alone.




80             Life in ite Iron-Mills.
Yet, is there no meaning in this perpetually covered
truth? If the son of the carpenter had stood in the church
that night, as he stood with the fishermen and harlots by
the sea of Galilee, before His Father and their Father, despised and rejected of men, without a place to lay His head,
wounded for their iniquities, bruised for their transgressions,
would not that hungry mill-boy at least, in the back seat,
have " known the man "? That Jesus did not stand there.
Wolfe rose at last, and turned from the church down the
street. He looked up; the night had come on foggy, damp;
the golden mists had vanished, and the sky lay dull and
ash-colored. He wandered again aimlessly down the street,
idly wondering what had become of the cloud-sea of crimson and scarlet. The trial-day of this man's life was over,
and he had lost the victory. What followed was mere drifting circumstance, - a quicker walking over the path, - that
was all. Do you want to hear the end of it? You wish me
to make a tragic story out of it? Why. in the police-reports
of the morning paper you can find a dozen such tragedies;
hints of shipwrecks unlike any that ever befell on the high
seas; hints that here a power was lost to heaven, - that
there a soul went down where no tide can ebb or flowo
Commonplace enough the hints are,    jocose sometimes,
done up in rhyme.
Doctor May, a month after the night I have told you of,
was reading to his wife at breakfast from this fourth column
of the morning-paper: an unusual thing, - these police-reports not being, in general, choice reading for ladies; but it
was only one item he read.
" Oh, my dear! You remember that man I told you of,
that we saw at Kirby's mill? - that was arrested for robbing
Mitchell? Here he is; just listen:-' Circuit Court. Judge
Day. Hugh Wolfe, operative in Kirby & John's Loudon
Mills. Charge, grand larceny. Sentence, nineteen years
hard labor in penitentiary.' - Scoundrel!  Serves him
right! After all our kindness that night! Picking Mitchells
pocket at the very time! "




Lzfe in the Iron-Mills.               81
His wife said something about the ingratitude of that
kind of people, and then they began to talk of something
else.
Nineteen years! How easy that was to read I What a
simple word for Judge Day to utter! Nineteen years!
Half a lifetime I
Hugh Wolfe sat on the window-ledge of his cell, looking
out. His ankles were ironed. Not usual in such cases;
but he had made two desperate efforts to escape. " Well,"
as Haley, the jailer, said, "small blame to him! Nineteen
years' imprisonment was not a pleasant thing to look forward
to." Haley was very good-natured about it, though Wolfe
had fought him savagely.
"When he was first caught," the jailer said afterwards, in
telling the story, " before the trial, the fellow was cut down
at once, - laid there on that pallet like a dead man, with his
hands over his eyes. Never saw a man so cut down.in my life.
Time of the trial, too, came the queerest dodge of any customer I ever had. Would choose no lawyer. Judge gave him
one, of course. Gibson it was. He tried to prove the fellow
crazy; but it would n't go. Thing was plain as daylight:
check found on him.'T was a hard sentence,- all the
law allows; but it was for'xample's sake. These millhands are gettin' onbearable. When the sentence was read,
he just looked up, and said the money was his by rights,
and that all the world had gone wrong. That night, after
the trial, a gentleman came to see him  here, name of
Mitchell, -him as he stole from. Talked to him for an
hour. Thought he came for curiosity, like. After he was
gone, thought Wolfe was remarkable quiet, and went into
his cell. Found him  very low; bed all bloody. Doctor
said he had been bleeding at the lungs. He was as weak
as a cat; yet, if ye'11 b'lieve me, he tried to get a-past me
and get out. I just can ied him like a baby, and threw him
on the pallet. Three days after, he tried it again: that
time reached the wall.  Lord help you! he fought like a
tiger, -giv' some terrible blows. Fightin for life, you see;
4*




82             Life in the Iron-Mills.
for he caift live long, shut up in the stone crib down yon.
der. Got a death-cough now.'T took two of us to bring
him  down that day; so I just put the irons on his feet.
There he sits, in there. Goin' to-morrow, with a batch
more of'em. That woman, hunchback, tried with him, 
you remember?   she's only got three years.'Complice.
But she's a woman, you know. He's been quiet ever since
I put on irons: giv' up, I suppose.  Looks white, sicklookin'. It acts different on'em, bein' sentenced. Most of,em gets reckless, devilish-like. Some prays awful, and
sings them vile songs of the mills, all in a breath. That
woman, now, she's desper't'. Been beggin' to see Hugh,
as she calls him, for three days. I'm a-goin' to let her in.
She don't go with him. Here she is in this next cell. I'm
a-goin' now to let her in."
He let her in. Wolfe did not see her. She crept into a
corner of the cell, and stood watching him. He was scratching the iron bars of the window with a piece of tin which he
had picked up, with an idle, uncertain, vacant stare, just as
a child or idiot would do.
"Tryin' to get out, old boy?" laughed Haley. "Them
irons will need a crowbar beside your tin, before you can
open'em."
Wolfe laughed, too, in a senseless way.
" I think I'11 get out," he said.
" I believe his brain's touched," said Haley, when he
came out.
The puddler scraped away with the tin for half an hour.
Still Deborah did not speak. At last she ventured nearer,
and touched his arm.
"Blood?" she said, looking at some spots on his coat
with a shudder.
He looked up at her. " Why, Deb!" he said, smiling, -
such a bright, boyish smile, that it went to poor Deborah's
heart directly, and she sobbed and cried out loud.
" Oh, Hugh, lad! Hugh! dunnot look at me, when it wur
my fault! To think I brought hur to it! And I loved hur
so i 01O lad, I dud!"




Life in the Iron-Mills.            83
The confession, even in this wretch, came with the woman's blush through the sharp cry.
He did not seem to hear her, - scraping away diligently
at the bars with the bit of tin.
Was he going mad? She peered closely into his face.
Something she saw there made her draw suddenly back, -
something which Haley had not seen, that lay beneath the
pinched, vacant look it had caught since the trial, or the
curious gray shadow that rested on it. That gray shadow,
— yes, she knew what that meant. She had often seen it
creeping over women's faces for months, who died at last of
slow hunger or consumption. That meant death, distant,
lingering: but this — Whatever it was the woman saw,
or thought she saw, used as she was to crime and misery,
seemed to make her sick with a new horror. Forgetting
her fear of him, she caught his shoulders, and looked keenly,
steadily, into his eyes.
" Hugh! " she cried, in a desperate whisper, -    oh, boy,
not that! for God's sake, not that!"
The vacant laugh went off his face, and he answered her
in a muttered word or two that drove her away. Yet the
words were kindly enough. Sitting there on his pallet, she
cried silently a hopeless sort of tears, but did not speak
again. The man looked up furtively at her now and then.
Whatever his own trouble was, her distress vexed him with
a momentary sting.
It was market-day. The narrow window of the jail
looked down directly on the carts and wagons drawn up in
a long line, where they had unloaded. He could see, too,
and hear distinctly the clink of money as it changed hands,
the busy crowd of whites and blacks shoving, pushing one
another, and the chaffering and swearing at the stalls.
Somehow, the sound, more than anything else had done,
wakened him up, - made the whole real to him. He was
done with the world and the business of it. He let the tin
fall, and looked out, pressing his face close to the rusty bars.
How they crowded and pushed! And he, — he should




84            Life in the  Irn-Mills.
never walk that pavement again! There came Neff Sanders, one of the feeders at the mill, with a basket on his
arm. Sure enough, Neff was married the other week. He
whistled, hoping he would look up; but he did not. He
wondered if Neff remembered he was there, - if any of the
boys thought of him up there, and thought that he never
was to go down that old cinder-road again. Never again!
He had not quite understood it before; but now he did.
Not for days or years, but never! -that was it.
How clear the light fell on that stall in front of the market! and how like a picture it was, the dark-green heaps of
corn, and the crimson beets, and golden melons! There
was another with game: how the light flickered on that
pheasant's breast, with the purplish blood dripping over the
brown feathers! He could see the red shining of the drops,
it was so near. In one minute he could be down there. It
was just a step. So easy, as it seemed, so natural to go!
Yet it could never be - not in all the thousands of years to
come - that he should put his foot on that street again!
He thought of himself with a sorrowful pity, as of some one
else. There was a dog down in the market, walking after
his master with such a stately, grave look! -only a dog,
yet he could go backwards and forwards just as he pleased:
he had good luck! Why, the very vilest cur, yelping there
in the gutter, had not lived his life, had been free to act out
whatever thought God had put into his brain; while he -
No, he would not think of that! He tried to put the thought
away, and to listen to a dispute between a countryman and
a woman about some meat; but it would come back. He,
what had he done to bear this?
Then came the sudden picture of what might have been,
and now. He knew what it was to be in the penitentiary,
- how it went with men there. He knew how in these long
years he should slowly die, but not until soul and body had
become corrupt and rotten, -how, when he came out, if he
lived to come, even the lowest of the mill-hands would jeer
him,- how his hands would be weak, and his brain sensei




Life in the Iron-Mills.              85
less and stupid. He believed he was almost that now.
He put his hand to his head, with a puzzled, weary look.
It ached, his head, with thinking. He tried to quiet himself. It was only right, perhaps; he had done wrong. But
was there right or wrong for such as he? What was right?
And who had ever taught him? He thrust the whole matter away. A dark, cold quiet crept through his brain. It
was all wrong; but let it be! It was nothing to him more
than the others. Let it be!
The door grated, as Haley opened it.
" Come, my woman! Must lock up for t' night. Come,
stir yerself! "
She went up and took Hugh's hand.
" Good-night, Deb," he said, carelessly.
She had not hoped he would say more; but the tired pain
on her mouth just then was bitterer than death. She took
ais passive hand and kissed it.
" Hur'11 never see Deb again!" she ventured, her lips
growing colder and more bloodless.
What did she say that for? Did he not know it? Yet
he would not be impatient with poor old Deb. She had
trouble of her own, as well as he.
" No, never again," he said, trying to be cheerful.
She stood just a moment, looking at him. Do you laugh
at her, standing there, with her hunchback, her rags, her
bleared, withered face, and the great despised love tugging
at her heart?
" Come you  " called Haley, impatiently.
She did not move.
" Hugh!" she whispered.
It was to be her last word. What was it?
" Hugh, boy, not THAT! "
He did not answer. She wrung her hands, trying to be
silent, looking in his face in an agony of entreaty. He
smiled again, kindly.
"It is best, Deb.  I cannot bear to be h irted any more.
"Hut knows," she said, humbly.




86             L fe in the Iron-Mills.
"Tell niiy father good-by; and - and kiss little Janey."
She nodded, saying nothing, looked in his face again, and
went out of the door. As she went, she staggered.
" Drinkin' to-day?" broke out Haley, pushing her before
him. "Where the Devil did you get it? Here, in with
ye! " and he shoved her into her cell, next to Wolfe's, and
shut the door.
Along the wall of her cell there was a crack low down by
the floor, through which she could see the light from
Wolfe's. She had discovered it days before. She hurried
in now, and, kneeling down by it, listened, hoping to hear
some sound. Nothing but the rasping of the tin on the
bars. He was at his old amusement again.  Something in
the noise jarred on her ear, for she shivered as she heard it.
Hugh rasped away at the bars. A dull old bit of tin, not
fit to cut korl with.
He looked out of the window again. People were leaving
the market now. A tall mulatto girl, following her mistress,
her basket on her head, crossed the street just below, and
looked up. She was laughing; but, when she caught sight
of the haggard face peering out through the bars, suddenly
grew grave, and hurried by. A free, firm step, a clear-cut
olive face, with a scarlet turban tied on one side, dark,
shining eyes, and on the head the basket poised, filled with
fruit and flowers, under which the scarlet turban and bright
eyes looked out half-shadowed. The picture caught his eye.
It was good to see a face like that. He would try to-morrow, and cut one like it. To-morrow / He threw down the
tin, trembling, and covered his face with his hands. When
he looked up again, the daylight was gone.
Deborah, crouching near by on the other side of the
wall, heard no noise. He sat on the side of the low pallet,
thinking. Whatever was the mystery which the woman had
seen on his face, it came out now slowly, in the dark there,
and became fixed, - a something never seen on his face before. The evening was darkening fast. The market had
been over for an hour; the rumbling of the carts over the




Life in the Iron-Mills.               87
pavement grew more infrequent: he listened to each, as it
passed, because he thought it was to be for the last time.
For the same reason, it was, I suppose, that he strained his
eyes to catch a glimpse of each passer-by, wondering who
they were, what kind of homes they were going to, if they
had children, - listening eagerly to every chance word in
the street, as if — (God be merciful to the man! what
strange fancy was this?) - as if he never should hear human voices again.
It was quite dark at last. The street was a lonely one.
The last passenger, he thought, was gone. No, -there
was a quick step: Joe Hill, lighting the lamps. Joe was a
good old chap; never passed a fellow without some joke
or other. He remembered once seeing the place where he
lived with his wife. " Granny Hill" the boys called her.
Bedridden she was; but so kind as Joe was to her i kept
the room  so clean  - and the old woman, when he was
there, was laughing at " some of t' lad's foolishness." The
step was far down the street; but he could see him place
the ladder, run up, and light the gas. A longing seized him
to be spoken to once more.
"Joe! "  he called out of the grating.  "Good-by,
Joe! "
The old man stopped a moment, listening uncertainly;
then hurried on. The prisoner thrust his hand out of the
window, and called again, louder; but Joe was too far down
the street. It was a little thing; but it hurt him, - this disappointment.
"Good-by, Joe! " he called, sorrowfully enough.
"Be quiet! " said one of the jailers, passiig the door,
striking on it with his club.
Oh, that was the last, was it?
There was an inexpressible bitterness on his face, as he
lay down on the bed, taking the bit of tin, which he had
rasped to a tolerable degree of sharpness, in his hand, -to
play with, it may be. He bared his arms, looking intently at
their corded veins and sinews. Deborah, listening in the




88             Life in the Ircn-Mills.
next cell, heard a slight clicking sound, often repeated. She
shut her lips tightly, that she might not scream; the cold
drops of sweat broke over her, in her dumb agony.
"Hur knows best," she muttered at last, fiercely clutching
the boards where she lay.
If she could have seen Wolfe, there was nothing about
him  to frighten her. He lay quite still, his arms outstretched, looking at the pearly stream of moonlight coming
into the window. I think in that one hour that came then
he lived back over all the years that had gone before.
I think that all the low, vile life, all his wrongs, all his
starved hopes, came then, and stung him with a farewell
poison that made him sick unto death. He made neither
moan nor cry, only turned his worn face now and then to
the pure light, that seemed so far off, as one that said,
" How long, O Lord? how long?"
The hour was over at last. The moon, passing over her
nightly path, slowly came nearer, and threw the light across
his bed on his feet. He watched it steadily, as it crept up,
inch by inch, slowly. It seemed to him to carry with it a
great silence. He had been so hot and tired there always
in the mills! The years had been so fierce and cruel!
There was coming now quiet and coolness and sleep. His
tense limbs relaxed, and settled in a calm languor. The
blood ran fainter and slow from his heart. He did not
think now with a savage anger of what might be and was
not; he was conscious only of deep stillness creeping over
him. At first he saw a sea of faces: the mill-men, - women
he had known, drunken and bloated,   Janey's timid and
pitiful, - poor old Debs: then they floated together like a
mist, and faded away, leaving only the clear, pearly moonlight.
Whether, as the pure light crept up the stretched-out
figure, it brought with it calm  and peace, who shall say?
His dumb soul was alone with God in judgment. A Voice
may have spoken for it from far-off Calvary, " Father, forgive them, for they know not what'hey do!"  Who dare




Life in the Iron-Mills.             89
say? Fainter and fainter the heart rose and fell, slower and
slower the moon floated from behind a cloud, until, when at
last its full tide of white splendor swept over the cell, it
seemed to wrap and fold into a deeper stillness the dead
figure that never should move again. Silence deeper than
the Night! Nothing that moved, save the black, nauseous
stream of blood dripping slowly from the pallet to the floor!
There was outcry and crowd enough in the cell the next
day. The coroner and his jury, the local editors, Kirby
himself, and boys with their hands thrust knowingly into
their pockets and heads on one side, jammed into the corners. Coming and going all day. Only one woman. She
came late, and outstayed them all. A Quaker, or Friend,
as they call themselves. I think this woman was known
by that name in heaven. A homely body, coarsely dressed
in gray and white. Deborah (for Haley had let her in)
took notice of her. She watched them all  sitting on the
end of the pallet, holding his head in her arms - with the
ferocity of a watch-dog, if any of them touched the body.
There was no meekness, no sorrow, in her face; the stuff
out of which murderers are made, instead. All the time
Haley and the woman were laying straight the limbs and
cleaning the cell, Deborah sat still, keenly watching the
Quaker's face. Of all the crowd there that day, this woman
alone had not spoken to her, -only once or twice had put
some cordial to her lips. After they all were gone, the
woman, in the same still, gentle way, brought a vase of
wood-leaves and berries, and placed it by the pallet, then
opened the narrow window. The fresh air blew in, and
swept the woody fragrance over the dead face. Deborah
looked up with a quick wonder.
" Did hur know my boy wud like it? Did hur know
Hugh?"
" I know Hugh now."
The white fingers passed in a slow, pitiful way over the
dead, worn face. There was a heavy shadow in the quiet
eyes.




90            Life in the Iron-Mills.
"Did hur know where they'11 bury Hugh? " said Deborah in a shrill tone, catching her arm.
This had been the question hanging on her lips all day.
" In t' town-yard? Under t' mud and ash? T' lad'11
smother, woman! He wur born on t' lane moor, where t'
air is frick and strong. Take hur out, for God's sake, take
hur out where t' air blows! "
The Quaker hesitated, but only for a moment. She put
her strong arm around Deborah and led her to the window.
" Thee sees the hills, friend, over the river? Thee sees
how the light lies warm there, and the winds of God blow
all the day? I live there, —where the blue smoke is, by
the trees. Look at me." She turned Deborah's face to her
own, clear and earnest. "Thee will believe me?  I will
take Hugh and bury him there to-morrow."
Deborah did not doubt her. As the evening wore on,
she leaned against the iron bars, looking at the hills that
rose far off, through the thick sodden clouds, like a bright,
unattainable calm. As she looked, a shadow of their solemn repose fell on her face: its fierce discontent faded into
a pitiful, humble quiet. Slow, solemn tears gathered in her
eyes: the poor weak eyes turned so hopelessly to the place
where Hugh was to rest, the grave heights looking higher
and brighter and more solemn than ever before.  The
Quaker watched her keenly. She came to her at last, and
touched her arm.
" When thee comes back," she said, in a low, sorrowful
tone, like one who speaks from a strong heart deeply moved
with remorse or pity, "thee shall begin thy life again, -
there on the hills. I came too late; but not for thee, -by
God's help, it may be."
Not too late. Three years after, the Quaker began her
work. I end my story here. At evening-time it was light.
There is no need to tire you with the long years of sunshine, and fresh air, and slow, patient Christ-love, needed to
make healthy and hopeful this impure body and soul.
There is a homely pine house, on one of these hills, whose




Life in the Iron-Mills..9
windows overlook broad, wooded slopes and clover-crimsoned meadows,- niched into the very place where the
light is warmest, the air freest. It is the Friends' meetinghouse. Once a week they sit there, in their grave, earnest
way, waiting for the Spirit of Love to speak, opening their
simple hearts to receive His words. There is a woman,
old, deformed, who takes a humble place among them:
waiting like them: in her gray dress, her worn face, pure
and meek, turned now and then to the sky. A woman
much loved by these silent, restful people; more silent
than they, more humble, more loving. Waiting: with her
eyes turned to hills higher and purer than these on which
she lives,- dim and far off now, but to be reached some
day. There may be in her heart some latent hope to meet
there the love denied her here, - that she shall find him
whom she lost, and that then she will not be all-unworthy.
Who blames her? Something is lost in the passage of
every soul from one eternity to the other, - something pure
and beautiful, which might have been and was not: a hope,
a talent, a love, over which the soul mourns, like Esau deprived of his birthright. What blame to the meek Quaker,
if she took her lost hope to make the hills of heaven more
fair?
Nothing remains to tell that the poor Welsh puddler once
lived, but this figure of the mill-woman cut in korl. I have
it here in a corner of my library. I keep it hid behind a
curtain,- it is such a rough, ungainly thing. Yet there are
about it touches, grand sweeps of outline, that show a master's hand. Sometimes, - to-night, for instance, - the curtain is accidentally drawn back, and I see a bare arm
stretched out imploringly in the darkness, and an eager,
wolfish face watching mine: a wan, woful face, through
which the spirit of the dead korl-cutter looks out, with its
thwarted life, its mighty hunger, its unfinished work. Its
pale, vague lips seem to tremble with a terrible question.
"Is this the End? "- they say, - "nothing beyond? - no
more? " Why, you tell me you have seen that look in the




92            Life in the Iron-Mills,
eyes of dumb brutes, -horses dying under the lash. I
know.
The deep of the night is passing while I write. The
gas-light wakens from the shadows here and there the objects which lie scattered through the room: only faintly,
though; for they belong to the open sunlight. As I glance
at them, they each recall some task or pleasure of the coming day. A  half-moulded child's head; Aphrodite; a
bough of forest-leaves; music; work; homely fragments,
in which lie the secrets of all eternal truth and beauty.
Prophetic all! Only this dumb, woful face seems to belong
to and end with the night. I turn to look at it. Has the
power of its desperate need commanded the darkness away?
While the room. is yet steeped in heavy shadow, a cool,
gray light suddenly touches its head like a blessing hand,
and its groping arm points through the broken cloud to the
far East, where, in the flickering, nebulous crimson, Goa
has set the promise of the Dawn.




FHE PURSUIT OF KNOWLEDGE UNDER
DIFFICULTIES;
AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
it " 5   R. GEER!"
Mr. Geer was unquestionably asleep.
This certainly did not indicate a sufficiently
warm appreciation of Mrs. Geer's social charms; but the
enormity of the offence will be greatly modified by a brief
review of the attending circumstances. If you will but consider that the crackling of burning wood in a huge Franklin stove is strongly soporific in its tendencies, - that the
cushion of a capacious arm-chair, constructed and adjusted
as if with a single eye to a delicious doze, nay, to a long
succession of dozes, is a powerful temptation to a sleepy
soul,- that the regular, and, it must be confessed, somewhat monotonous click, click, click of Mrs. Geer's knittingneedles only served to measure, without disturbing the
silence, - and, lastly, that they had been husband and wife
for thirty years, - you will not cease to wonder that Mr.
Geer
"was glorious,
O'er all the ills of life victorious."
To most men, an interruption at such a time would have
been particularly annoying; but when Mrs. Geer spoke in
that way, Mr. Geer, asleep or awake, always made a point
of hearing; so 1h1  roused himself, and tuined his round,
G




94          The Pursuit of Knowledge
honest face and placid blue eyes on the partner of his
bosom, who went on,"Mr. Geer, our Ivy will be seventeen, come fall."
"Possible? " replied Mr. Geer. " Who'd'a' thunk it?"
Mr. Geer, as you may infer, was eminently a free-thinker,
or rather, a free-actor, in respect of irregular verbs. In fact,
he tyrannized over all parts of speech: wrested nouns and
verbs from their original shape, till you could hardly recognize their distorted faces; and committed that next worst
sin to murdering one's mother, namely, - murdering one's
mother-tongue, with an abandon that was absolutely fascinating. Having delivered his opinion thus sententiously, he
at once subsided, closed his placid eyes, and retired into his
inner world of- thought, perhaps.
"Mr. Geer!"
This time he fairly jumped from his seat, and cast about
him scared, blinking eyes.
"Mr. Geer, how can you sleep away your precious time
so?"
" Sleep? I -   - am sure, I was never wider awake in
my life."
"Well, then, tell me what I said."
" Said? Eh, - eh, - something about Ivy, was n't it?"
And Mr. Geer nervously twitched up the skirts of his
coat, and replaced his awry cushion, and began to think
that perhaps, after all, he had been asleep. But Mrs. Geer
was too much interested in the subject of her own cogitations to pursue her victory further; so she answered, 
"Yes, and what is a-going to become of her?"
"Lud, lud! What's the matter?" asked  Mr. Geer,
wildly.
"Matter? Why, she'11 be seventeen, come fall, and
does n't know a thing."
"0 Lud! that all? That a'n't nothin'."
And Mr. Geer settled comfortably down into his arm.
chair once more. He felt decidedly relieved. Visions of
small-pox, cholera, and throat-distemper, the worst evils




under Dfficulties.                  95
that he could think of and dread for his darling, iad been
conjured up by his wife's words; and when he found the
real state of the case, a great burden which had suddenly
fallen on his heart, was as suddenly lifted.
"But I tell you it is something," continued Mrs. Geer,
energetically. " Ivy is'most a woman, and has never been
ten miles from home in her life, and to no school but our
little district-"
"And she's as pairk a gal," interrupted Mr. Geer, "as
any you'11 find in all the ten miles round, be the other who
she will."
"She's well enough in her way," replied Mrs. Geer, in
all the humility of motherly pride; "and so much the more
reason why she should n't be let go so. There's Mr. Dingham sending his great logy girls to Miss Porter's seminary.
(I wonder if he expects they'll ever turn out anything?)
And here's our Ivy, bright as a button, and you full well
able to maintain her like a lady, and have done nothing but
turn her out to grass all her life, till she's fairly run wild. I
declare it's a shame. She ought to be sent to school tomorrow."
" Nonsense, Sally! nonsense! I a'n't a-goin' to have
no such doin's.  Sha'n't go off to school.  What's the use
havin' her, if she can't stay at home with us? Let Mr.
Dingham send his gals to Chiny, if he wants to. All the
book-larnin' in the world won't make'em equal to our Ivy
with only her own head. I don't want her to go to gettin'
up high-falutin' notions. She's all gold now. She don't
need no improvin'. Sha'n't budge an inch. Sha'n't stir a
step."
" But do consider, Mr. Geer, the child has got to leave us
some time. We can't have her always."
"Why can't we? " exclaimed Mr. Geer, almost fiercely.
"Sure enough! Why can't we? There a'n't nobody be.
sides you and me, I suppose, that thinks she's pairk.
What's John Herricks and Dan Norris hangin round for
all the time?"




96          The Pursuit of Knowledge
"And they may hang round till the cows come home 
Nary hair of Ivy's head shall they touch, -nary one of'em!"
Just at this juncture of affairs, the damsel in question
bounded into the room.
" Come here, Ivy," said the old man; "your mother's
been a-slanderin' you; says you don't know nothin'."
Ivy knelt before him, rested her arms on his knees, and
turned upon him a pair of palpably roguish eyes.
" Father, it is an awful slander.  I do know a sight."
" Lud, child, yes! I knew you did. No more you don't
want to marry John Herricks, do you?"
"0 Daddy Geer! 0 —h h!"
" Nor Dan Norris? nor none of'em? "
" Never a one, father."
" Nor don't you ever think of gettin' married and slavin
yourself out for nobody. I'm plenty well able to take care
of you, as long as I live. You'11 never live so happy as you
do at home; and you'11 break my heart to go away, Ivy."
"I'11 never go, papa." (She pronounced it with the accent on the first syllable.) " Indeed, I never will. I'11
never be married, as long as I live."
"No more you sha'n't, good child, good child!"
And again Farmer Geer betook himself to the depths of
his arm-chair, with the complacent consciousness of having
faithfully discharged his parental duties. " She should not
go to school. She would not be married.  She had said
she would not, and of course she would not."
" Of course I shall not," mused Ivy, as she lay in her
white bed. "What could put it into poor papa's head?
Marry John Herricks, with his everlasting smirk, and his
diddling walk, and take care of all the Herricks' sisters and
mothers and aunts, and the Herricks' cows and horses and
pigs - and - hens -~- and - and  "
But Ivy had kept her thoughts on her marriage longer
than ever before in her life; and ere she had finished the
inventory of J:hn Herricks's personal property and real




under Difficulties.               97
est;ate, the blue eyes were closed in the sweet, sound sleep
of youth and health.
Mrs. Geer, in her estimate of her daughter's attainments,
was partly right and partly wrong.  Ivy had never been
" finished" at Mrs. Porter's seminary, and was consequently
in a highly unfinished condition. " Small Latin and less
Greek" jostled each other in her head.  German and
French, Italian and Spanish, were strange tongues to Ivy.
She could not dance, nor play, nor draw, nor paint, nor
work little dogs on footstools.
What, then, could she do?
Imnprimis, she could climb a tree like a squirrel. Secundo,
she could walk across the great beam in the barn like a
year-old kitten. In the pursuit of hens' eggs she knew no
obstacles; from scaffold to scaffold, from haymow to haymow, she leaped defiant.  She pulled out the hay from
under the very noses of the astonished cows, to see if, perchance, some inexperienced pullet might there have deposited her golden treasure. With all four-footed beasts she
was on the best of terms. The matronly and lazy old sheep
she unceremoniously hustled aside, to administer consolation and caresses to the timid, quaking lamb in the corner
behind. Without saddle or bridle she could
"Ride a black horse
To Banbury Cross."
(N. B.- I don't say she actually did. I only say she could;
and under sufficiently strong provocation, I have no doubt
she would.)  She knew where the purple violets and the
white innocence first flecked the spring turf, and where the
ground-sparrows hid their mottled eggs. All the little waddling, downy goslings, the feeble chickens, and faint-hearted,
desponding turkeys, that broke the shell too soon, and shivered miserably because the spring sun was not high enough
in the morning to warm them, she fed with pap, and cherished in cotton-wool, and nursed and watched with eager,
happy eyes. O blessed Ivy Geer! True Sister of Charity I
5




98           The Pursuit of Knowledge
Thrice blessed stepmother of a brood whose name was
Legion!
From the conjugal and filial conversation which I have
faithfully reported, a casual observer, particularly if young
and inexperienced, might infer that the question of Miss
Ivy's education was definitively settled, and that she was
henceforth to remain under the paternal roof.  I should, myself, have fallen into the same error, had not a long and intimate acquaintance with the female sex generated and cherished a profound and mournful conviction of the truth of
the maxim, that appearances are deceitful. E. g., a woman
has set her heart on something, and is refused.  She pouts
and sulks: that is clouds, and will soon blow over. She
scolds, storms, and raves (I speak in a figure; I mean she
does something as much like that as a tender, delicate, angelic woman can): that is thunder, and only clears the air.
She betakes herself to tears, sobs, and embroidered cambric: that is a shower, and everything will be greener and
fresher after it. You may go your ways, - one to his farm,
another to his merchandise; the world will not wind up its
affairs just yet. But, put the case, she goes on the even
tenor of her way unmoved:
"Beware I beware I
Trust her not; she is fooling thee."
Thus Mrs. Geer, who was a thorough tactician.  Like
Napoleon, she was never more elated than after a defeat.
Before consulting her husband at all, she had contemplated
the subject in all its bearings, and had deliberately decided
that Ivy was to go to school. The consent of the senior
partner of the firm was a secondary matter, which time
and judicious management would infallibly secure. Consequently, notwithstanding the unpropitious result of their
first colloquy, she the next day commenced preparations for
Ivy's departure, as unhesitatingly, as calmly, as assiduously,
as if the day of that departure had been fixed.
Mrs. Geer was xight. She knew she was, all the time




under Diffclties                  99
She had a sublime faith in herself. She felt in her so al the
divine afflatus, and pressed forward gloriously to her goaL
Mr. Geer had as much firmness, not to say obstinacy, as
falls to the lot of most men; but Mrs. Geer had more; and
as Launce Outram, hard beset, so pathetically moaned, " A
woman in the very house has such deused opportunities!"
so Farmer Geer grumbled, and squirmed, and remonstrated,
and - yielded.
Mrs. Geer was not right. She had reckoned without her
host. Her affairs were gliding down the very Appian Way
of prosperity in a chariot-and-four, with footmen and outriders, when, presto! they turned a sharp and unexpected
corner, and over went the whole establishment into a miriet
mire than ever bespattered Dr. Slop.
To speak without a parable. When her expected Hegira
was announced to Miss Mary Ives Geer, that young lady,
to the ill-concealed vexation of her mother, and the not-attempted-to-be-concealed exultation of her father, expressed
decided disapprobation of the whole scheme. As she was
the chief dramatispersona, the very Hamlet of the play,
this unlooked-for decision somewhat interfered with Mrs.
Geer's plans. All the eloquence of that estimable woman
was brought to bear on this one point; but this one point
was invincible. Expostulation and entreaty were alike vain.
Neither ambition nor pleasure could hold out any allurements to Ivy. Maternal authority was at length hinted at,
only hinted at, and the spoiled child declared that she had
not had her own will and way for sixteen years to give up
quietly in her seventeenth. One last resort, one forlorn
hope, -one expedient, which had never failed to overcome
her childish stubbornness: "Would she grieve her parents
so much as to oppose this their darling wish?" And Ivy
burst into tears, and begged to know if she should show her
love to her father and mother by going away from them.
This drove the nail into her old father's heart, and then the
little vixen clenched it by throwing herself into his arms,
and sobbing, "0, papa! would you turn your Ivy out of
doors and break her heart? "




o00          The Pursuit of Knowledge
Flimsiest of fallacies! Shallowest of sophists  But she
was the only and beloved child cf his old age; so the fallacy passed unchallenged; the strong arms closed around
the naughty girl; and the soothing voice murmured, -
"There, there, Ivy! don't cry, child! Lud! lud! you
sha'n't be bothered; no more you sha'n't, lovey! " and the
status quo was restored.
"' It is not in the sea nor in the strife
We feel benumbed and wish to be no more,
But in the after silence on the shore,
When all is lost, except a little life,"
said one who had breasted the stormiest sea and plunged
into the fiercest strife. Ivy, who had never read Byron, and
therefore could not be suspected of any Byronical affectations, felt it, when, having gained her point, she sat down
alone in her own room. When her single self had been
pitted against superior numbers, age, experience, and parental authority, all her heroism was roused, and she was
adequate to the emergency; but her end gained, the excitement gone, the sense of disobedience alone remaining, and
she was thoroughly uncomfortable, nay, miserable.
" Mamma is right; I know I am a little goose," sobbed
she. (The words were mental, intangible, unspoken; the
sobs physical, palpable, decided.) " I never did know anything, and I never shall, - and I don't care if I don't. I
don't see any good in knowing so much. We don't have a
great while to stay in the world any way, and I don't see
why we can't be let alone and have a good time while we
are here, and when we get to heaven we can take a fresh
start. 0, dear! I never shall go to heaven, if I am so bad
and vex mamma.  But then papa didn't care. But then
he would have liked me to go to school. But there, I won't!
I won't! I will not! I'11 study at home. 0, dear! I
wish papa was a great man, and knew everything, and could
teach me. Well, he is just as happy, and just as rich, and
everybody likes him just as well, as if he knew the whole
world full; and why can't I do so, too? Rebecca Dingham,




under Difficulties.              IOI
indeed! Mercy! I hope I never shall be like her; I
would rather not know my A B C! What shall I do?
There's Mr. Brownslow might teach me; he knows enough.
But, dear me! he is as busy as he can be, all day long;
and Squire Merrill goes out of town every day; and there's
Dr. Mix, to be sure, but he smells so strong of paregoric,
and I don't believe he knows much, either; and there's nobody else in town that knows any more than anybody else;
and there's nothing for it but I must go to school, if I am
ever to know anything." (A renewal of sobs, uninterrupted
for several minutes.) " There's Mr. Clerron! " (A sudden
cessation.) "I suppose he knows more than the whole
town tumbled into one; and writes books, and -    mercy!
there's no end to his knowledge; and he's rich, and does
everything he likes, all day long. 0, if I only did know
him! I would ask him straight off to teach me. I should
be scared to death. I've a great mind to ask him, as it is.
I can tell him who I am. He never will know any other
way, for he is n't acquainted with anybody. They say he is
as proud as Lucifer. If he were ten times prouder, I would
rather ask him than go to school. He might just as well
do something as not. I am sure, if God had made me him,
and him me, I should'be glad to help him. I'11 go straight
to him the first thing to-morrow morning."
Once seeing a possible way out of her difficulties, her sorrow vanished. Not quite so gayly as usual, it is true, did
she sing about the house that night; for she was summoning all her powers to prepare an introductory speech to
Felix Clerron, Esq., a gentleman and a scholar. Her elocutionary attempts were not quite satisfactory to herself, but
she was not to be daunted; and when morning came, she
took heart of grace, slung her broad-brimmed hat over her
arm, and began her march "over the hills and far away," in
search of her - fate.
" And did her mother really let her roam away, alone, on
such an errand, to a perfect stranger?"
"Humanly speaking," nothing was more unlikely than




102         The Pursuit of Knowledge
that Mrs. Geer, a prudent, modest, and sensible woman,
should give her consent to such an — to use the mildest
term-unusual undertaking.  Nor did she. The fact is,
her consent was not asked. She knew nothing whatever of
the plan.
" Worse and worse! Did the wilful girl go off without
leave? without even informing her parents?"
I am sorry to say she did. In writing a story of real life,
one cannot take that liberty with facts which is quite proper,
not to say indispensable, in history, science, and belles-lettres
generally.  Duty compels me to adhere closely to the truth;
and for whatever of obloquy may be heaped upon me, or
upon my Ivy, I shall find consolation in the words of the
illustrious Harrison; or perhaps it was the illustrious Taylor; I am not quite sure, however, that it was not the illustrious Washington:  " Do right, and let the consequences
take care of themselves." I am therefore obliged to say,
that Ivy's departure in pursuit of knowledge was entirely
unknown to her respected and beloved parents.  But you
must remember that she was an only child, and a spoiled
child, - spoiled as only stern New England Puritan parents,
somewhat advanced in years, can spoil their children. I do
not defend Ivy.  On the contrary,' notwithstanding my
regard for her, I hand her over to the reprobation of an
enlightened community; and I hereby entreat all young
persons into whose hands this memoir may fall to take
warning by the fate of poor Ivy, and never enter upon any
important undertaking, until they have, to say the least,
consulted those who are their natural guides, their warmest
friends, and their most experienced counsellors.
While I have been writing this, Ivy Geer, light of heart,
fleet of foot, and firm of will, has passed over hillside,
through wood-path, and across meadow-land, and drawn
near the domains of Felix Clerron, Esq. Light of heart
perhaps I scarcely ought to say. Certainly, that enterprising organ had never before beat so furious a tattoo in Ivy's
breast, as when she stood, hat in hand, on the steps of the




under Difficulties.                 103
somewhat stately dwelling. To do her justice, she had insended to do the penance of wearing her hat when she
should have reached her destination; but in her excitement
she quite forgot it. So, as I said, she stood on the doorstep, as a royal maiden stood three hundred years before
(not in the same place), with the " wind blowing her fair
hair about her beautiful cheeks."
There had come to Ivy from the great, gay world a vague
rumor, that, instead of knocking at a door, like a Christian,
with your own good knuckles, for such case made and provided, modern fashion had introduced " the ringing and the
dinging of the bells."  This vague rumor found a local habitation, when Mr. Clerron came down upon the village and
established himself, his men and women and horses and
cattle; but as Ivy stood on his doorstep, looking upward,
downward, sidewise, with earnest, peering gaze, no bell, and
no sign of bell, was visible; nothing unusual, save a little
door-knob at the right hand side of the door,- a thing
which could not be accounted for. After long and serious
deliberation, she came to the conclusion that the bell must
be inside, and that the knob was a screw attached to it. So
she tried to twist it, first one way, then the other; but twist
it would not. In despair she betook herself to her fingers
and knocked.  Nobody came.  Twist agaip.  No use.
Knock again. Ditto. Then she went down to the gravelled path, selected one of the largest pebbles, took up her
station before the door, and began to pound away. In a
moment, a gentleman in dressing-gown and smoking-cap,
with a cigar between his fingers, came round the corner.
Seeing her, he threw away his cigar, lifted his velvet cap,
bowed, and, with a gentle " allow me," stepped to the door,
pulled the bell, and again passed out of sight. Ivy was not
so confused at being detected in her assault and battery on
the door of a respectable, peaceable, private gentleman, as
not to make the silent reflection, "Pulled the knob, instead
of twisting it. How easy it is to do a thing, if you only
know how!"




104         The Pursuit of Knowledge
The summons was soon answered by a black gnome, and
Ivy was ushered into a large room, which, to her dazzled,
sun-weary eyes, seem? a delightfully fresh and green-looking.
Two minutes more of waiting, -then a step in the hall, a
gently opening door, and Ivy felt rather than saw herself in
the presence of the formidable Mr. Clerron.  A  single
glance showed her that he was the person who had rung
the bell for her, though the gay dressing-gown had been
exchanged for a soberer suit. Mr. Clerron bowed. Ivy,
hardly knowing what she did, faltered forth, " I am Ivy
Geer."  A  half-curious, half-sarcastic smile  glimmered
behind the heavy beard, and gleamed beneath the heavy
eyebrows, as he answered, " I am happy to make your acquaintance "; but another glance at the trembling form, the
frightened, pale face, and quivering lips, changed the smile
into one that was very good-natured, and even kind; and
he added, playfully, 
I am Felix Clerron, very much at your service."
"You write books and are a very learned man," pursued
Ivy, hurriedly, never lifting her eyes from the floor, and
never ceasing to twirl her hat-strings.
There was no possibility of supposing her guilty of committing a little diplomatic flattery in conveying this succinct
bit of information. She made the assertion with the air of
one who has a disagreeable piece of business on hand, and
is determined to go through with it as soon as possible.
He bowed and smiled again; quite unnecessarily, - since,
as I have before remarked, Ivy's eyes were steadfastly fixed
on the carpet. A slight pause for breath and she pitched
ahead again.
" I am very ignorant, and I am growing old. I am almost
seventeen. I don't know anything to speak of. Mamma
wishes me to go to school. Papa did not, but now he does.
I won't go. I would rather be stupid all my life long than
leave home. But mamma is vexed, and I want to please
her, and I thought, - Mr. Brownslow is so busy, and you, -
if you have nothing to do,    and know  so much, - 
thought "




under Difficulties.                io5
She stopped short, utterly unable to proceed. Wonder.
fully different did this affair seem from the one she had
planned the preceding evening.  i. )is so much easier to
fight the battle of life in our own chimney-corner, by the
ruddy and genial firelight, than in broad day on the world's
great battle-field!
Mr. Clerron, seeing Ivy's confusion, kindly came to her
aid. "And you thought my superfluous time and wisdom
might be transferred to you, thus making a more equal
division of property?"
" If you would be so good, - I, - yes, Sir."
" May I inquire how you propose to effect such an exchange?"
He really did not intend to be anything but kind, but the
whole matter presented itself to him in a very ludicrous
light; and in endeavoring to preserve proper gravity, he
became severe. Ivy, all-unused to the world, still had a secret feeling that he was laughing at her. Tears, that would
not be repressed, glistened in her downcast eyes, gathered
on the long lashes, dropped silently to the floor.  He saw
that she was entirely a child, ignorant, artless, and sincere.
His better feelings were roused, and he exclaimed, with real
earnestness, -
" My dear young lady, I should rejoice to serve you in
any way, I beg you to believe."
His words only hastened the catastrophe which seems to
be always impending over the weaker sex. Ivy sobbed outright, - a perfect tempest. Felix Clerron looked on with a
bachelor's dismay.  "What in thunder?  Confound the
girl! " were his first reflections; but her utter abandonment
to sorrow melted his heart again, - not a very susceptible
heart either; but men, especially bachelors, are so -green /
(the word is found in Cowper.)
He sat down by her side, stroked the hair from  her
burning forehead, as if she had been six instead of sixteen, and again and again assured her of his willingness
to assist her.
e5e




io6         The Pursuit of Knowledge
"I must go home," whispered Ivy, as soon as she could
command, or rather coax her voice.
His hospitality was shocked.
"Indeed you must not, till we have at least had a consultation. Tell me how much you know. What have you
studied?"
" 0, nothing, Sir. I am very stupid."
"Ah! we must begin with the Alphabet, then. Blocks
or a primer?"
Ivy smiled through her tears.
" Not quite so bad as that, Sir."
"You do know your letters? Perhaps you can even
count, and spell your name; maybe write it. Pray, enlighten me."
Ivy grew calm as he became playful.
" I can cipher pretty well. I have been through Greenleaf's Large."
"House or meadow? And the exact dimensions, if you
please."
"Sir?"
"I understood you to say you had traversed Greenleaf's Large. You did not designate what."
He was laughing at her now, indeed, but it was open and
genial, and she joined.
" My Arithmetic, of course. I supposed everybody knew
that. Everybody calls it so."
" Time is short. Yes. Do you like Arithmetic?"
"Pretty well, some parts of it. Fractions and Partial
Payments.  But I can't bear Duodecimals, Position, and
such things."
"Positions are occasionally embarrassing. And Grammar?"
"I think it's horrid. It's all'indicative mood, common
noun, third person, singular number, and agrees with John. "
"Bravissima / A comprehensive sketch! A bird's-eye
view, as one may say, - and not entertaining, certainly.
What other branches have you pursued? Drawing, for in.
stance? "




under Difficulties.              1o7' 0, no, Sir!"
"Nor Music?"
"No, Sir."
"Good! excellent I An overruling Providence has saved
you and your friends from many a pitfall. Shall we proceed to History? Be so good as to inform me who discovered America."
" I believe Columbus has the credit of it," replied Ivy,
demurely.
" Non-committal, I see. Case goes strongly in his favor,
but you reserve your judgment till further evidence."
" I think he was a wise and good and enterprising man."
"But are rather sceptical about that San Salvador story.
A wise course. Never decide till both sides have been
fairly presented.'He that judgeth a matter before he
heareth it, it is folly and shame unto him,' said the wise
man. Occasionally his after-judgment is equally discreditable. That is a thousand times worse. Exit Clio. Enter
- well!- Geographia.  My young friend, what celebrated
city has the honor of concentrating the laws, learning, and
literature of Massachusetts, to wit, namely, is its capital?"
"Boston, Sir."
"Your Geography has evidently been attended to. You
have learned the basis fact. You have discovered the pivot
on which the world turns. You have dug down to the
antediluvian, ante-pyrean granite, -the primitive, unfused
stratum of society. The force of learning can no farther
go. Armed with that fact, you may march fearlessly forth
to do battle with the world, the flesh, and - the - ahem -
the King of Beasts,! Do you think you should like me for
a teacher?"
"I can't tell, Sir. I did not like you as anything awhile
ago."
" But you like me better now? You think I improve on
acquaintance? You detect signs of a moral reformation?'' No, Sir, I don't like you now. I only don't dislike you
so much as I did."




0o8         The Pursuit of Knowledge
" Spoken like a major-general, or, better sdill, like a brave
little Yankee girl, as you are. I am an enthusiastic admirer
of truth. I foresee we shall get on famously. I was rather
premature in sounding the state of your affections, it must
be confessed, -but we shall be rare friends by and by.
On the whole, you are not particularly fond of books?"
" I like some books well enough, but not studying-books,"
said Ivy, with a sigh, "and I don't see any good in them.
If it was n't for mamma, I never would open one,- never!
I would just as soon be a dunce as not; I don't see anything very horrid in it."
" How should you, to be sure? There is a distinction,
however, which you must immediately learn to make. The
dunce subjective is a very inoffensive animal, contented,
happy, and harmless; and, as you justly remark, inspires
no horror, but rather an amiable and genial self-complacency. The dunce objective, on the contrary, is of an entirely different species. He is a bore of the first magnitude,
-a poisoned arrow, that not only pierces, but inflames, -
a dull knife, that not only cuts, but tears, - a cowardly little
cur, that snaps occasionally, but snarls unceasingly; whom,
which, and that, it becomes the duty of all good citizens to
sweep from the face of the earth."
" What is the difference between them? How shall one
know which is which?"
" The dunce subjective is the dunce from his own point
of view, - the dunce with his eyes turned inward, - confin.
ing his duncehood to the bosom of his family. The dunce
objective is the dunce butting against his neighbor's studydoor, -intruding, obtruding, protruding his insipid folly
and still more insipid wisdom at all times and seasons. He
is a creature utterly devoid of shame. He is like Milton's
angels, in one respect at least: you may thrust him through
and through with the two-edged sword of your satire, and
at the end he shall be as intact and integral as at the beginning. Am  I sufficiently obvious?" He was talking,
however, quite as much to himself as to Ivy, and with a
bitterness evidently born of suffering.




under Difficulties.              109
"It is very obvious that I am  both, according to your
definition."
" It is very obvious that you are neither, but a sensible
young girl, - with no great quantity of the manufactured article, perhaps, but plenty of raw material, capable of being
wrought into fabric of the finest quality."
" Do you really think I can learn? " asked Ivy, with a
bright blush of pleasure.
"Can learn?"
"As much as if I went to school?"
"My dear miss, as the forest oak,'cabined, cribbed, confined' with multitudes of its fellows, grows stunted, scrubby,
and dwarfed, but brought into the open fields alone, stretches
out its arms to the blue heavens and its roots to the kindly
earth,- so, in a word, shall you, under my fostering care,
flourish like a green bay-tree, only not quite so high and
mightily as I am flourishing now; —that is, if I am  to
have the honor."
" Yes, Sir, I mean - I meant - I was thinking as if you
were teaching me - I mean were going to teach me."
" Which I also mean, if your parents continue to wish it."
" 0, they won't care!"
" Won't care? "
"No, Sir, they will be glad, I think. Papa, at least, will
be glad to have me stay at home."
" Did not they direct you to come to me to-day?"
Ivy blushed deeply, and replied, in a low voice, " No, Sir;
I knew mamma would not let me come, if I asked her."
"And to prevent any sudden temptation to disobedience,
and a consequent forfeiture of your peace of mind, you
took time by the forelock and came on your'own responsibility?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Very ingenious, upon my word! But, my dear Miss
Geer, I must confess I have not this happy feminine knack
of keeping out of the way of temptation. I should prefer
to consult your friends, even at the risk of losing the pleasure of your society."     H




110 IThe Pursuit of Knowledge
" 0, yes, Sir! I don't care, now it is all settled."
And so, over hillside, along wood-path, and through
meadow-land, with light heart and smiling eyes, tripped Ivy
back again.  To Mrs. Geer shelling peas in the shady
porch, and to Mr. Geer fanning himself with his straw hat
on the steps beside her, Ivy recounted the story of her adventures.  Mrs. Geer was thunderstruck at Ivy's temerity;
Mr. Geer was lost in admiration of her pluck. Mrs. Geer
termed it a wild-goose chase; Mr. Geer declared Ivy to be
as smart as a steel trap. Mrs. Geer vetoed the whole plan;
Mr. Geer did n't know. But when at sunset Mr. Clerron
rode over, and admired Mr. Geer's orchard, and praised the
points of his Durhams, and begged a root of Mrs. Geer's
scarlet verbena, and assured them he should be very glad to
refresh his own early studies, and also to form an acquaintance with the family, - he knew very few in the village, -
and if Mrs. Geer would drive over when Ivy came to recite,
- or perhaps they would rather he should come to their
house. 0, no! Mrs. Geer could not think of that. Just
as they pleased.  Mrs. Simm, the housekeeper, would be
very glad to meet Mrs. Geer. By the way, Mrs. Simm was
a thrifty and sensible woman, and he was sure they would
be pleased with each other. When, in short, all this and
much more had been said, it was decided that Ivy should be
regularly installed pupil of Mr. Felix Clerron.
"Eureka  " cries the professional novel-reader, that farsighted and keen-scented hound that snuffs a ddnouement
afar off; and anon there rises before his eyes the vision of
poor little Stella drinking in love and learning, especially
love, from the divine eyes of the anything but divine Swift,
-of Shirley, the lioness, the pantheress, the leopardess, the
beautiful, fierce creature, sitting, tamed, quiet, meek, by the
side of Louis Moore, her tutor and master, - and of all the
legends of all the ages wherein Beauty has sat at the feet of
Wisdom, and Love has crept in unawares, and spoiled the
lesson while as yet half-unlearnt; - so he cries,. "She is
going the way of all heroines.  The man and the girl, -




under Diffculties.                  I  I
they will fall in love, marry, and live happily all the rest of
their days."
Of course they will. Is there any reason why they should
not? If any man can show just cause why they may not
lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.
I repeat it, of course they will. You surely cannot suppose I should, in cold blood, sit down to write a story in
which nobody was to fall in love or be in love! Scoff as
you may, love is the one vital principle in all romance. Not
only does your cheek flush and your eye sparkle, till heart,
brain, and soul are all on fire, over the burning words of
some Brontean Pythoness, but when you open the last
thrilling work of Maggie Marigold, and are immediately
submerged " in a weak, washy, everlasting flood " of insipidity, and heart-rending sorrow, you do not shut the book
with a jerk.  Why not? Because in the dismal distance
you dimly descry two figures swimming, floating, struggling
towards each other, and a languid curiosity detains you till
you have ascertained, that, after infinite distress, Adolphus
and Miranda have made
"One of the very best matches,
Both well mated for life:
She's got a fool for a husband,
He's got a fool for his wife."
Sir, scoff as you may, love is the one sunbeam of poetry
that gilds with a softened splendor the hard, bare outline of
many a prosaic life. " Work, work, work, from weary chime
to chime "; tramp behind the plough, hammer on the lapstone, beat the anvil, drive the plane, from morn till dewy
eve; but when the dewy eve comes, ah! Hesperus gleams
soft and golden over the far-off pine-trees, but'The star that lightens your bosom most,
And gives to your weary feet their speed,
Abides in a cottage beyond the mead."
Jt is useless to assert that the subject is worn threadbare




112         The Pursuit of Knowledge
Threadbare it may be to you, enervated and blas6 man of
pleasure, worn and hardened man of the world; but it is
not for you I write. The fountain which leaps up fresh and
living in every new life can never be exhausted till the
springs of all life are dry. Tell me, 0 lover, gazing into
those tender eyes uplifted to yours, twining the silken rings
around your bronzed finger, - does it abate one jot or tittle
of your happiness to know that eyes just as tender, curls
just as silken, have stirred the hearts of men for a thousand
years?
Love, then, is a sine qua non in stories; and if love, why
not marriage? What pleasure can a humane and benevolent man find in separating two individuals whose chief,
perhaps whose sole happiness, consists in being together?
For certain inscrutable reasons, Divine Benevolence permits evil to exist in the world. All who have a taste for
misery can find it there in exhaustless quantities. Johns
are every day falling in love with Katys, but marrying Isabels, and Isabels the same, muzatis mutandis. We submit
to it because there is no alternative; and we believe that
good shall finally be wrought and wrested from evil. But
let us not in mere wantonness introduce into our novelworld the work of our own hand, an abridged edition, a daguerrotype copy of the world without, of which we know so
little and so much. I always do and always shall read the
last page of a novel first; and if I perceive there any indications that matters are not coming out " shipshape," my
reading invariably terminates with the last page.
For the rest, please to remember that I am not writing
about a princess of the blood, nor of the days of the bold
barons, but only the life of a quiet little girl in a quiet little
town in the eastern part of Massachusetts; and so far as
my experience and observation go, men and women in the
eastern part of Massachusetts are not given to thrilling adventures, hairbreadth escapes, wonderful concatenations of
circumstances, and blood and thunder generally, - but pursue the even tenor of their way, and of their love, with a




under Difficulties.               13
sober and delightful equanimity. If you want a plot, go to
the " Children of the Abbey," " Consuelo," and myriads of
that kin, and help yourself. As for me, I must confess I
hate plots. I see no pleasure in stumbling blindfolded
through a story, unable to see a yard ahead, fancying every
turn to be the last, and the road to go straight on to a glorious goal, - and, lo! we are in a more hopeless labyrinth
than ever. I have a sense of restraint. I want to breathe
freely, and cannot. I want to have leisure to observe the
style, the development of character, the author's tone of
thought, and not be galloped through on the back of a
breathless desire to know "how they are coming out."
But, my dear plot-loving friend, be easy. I will not leave
you in the lurch. I am not going to marry my man and
woman out of hand. An obstacle, of which I suppose you
have never heard,-an obstacle entirely new, fresh, and
unhackneyed, will arise; so, I pray you, let patience have
her perfect work.
Wonderful was the new world opened to Ivy Geer. It
was as if a corse, cold, inert, lifeless, had suddenly sprung
up, warm, invigorated, informed with a spirit which led her
own spell-bound. Grammar,  Grammar, which had been
a synonyme for all that was dry, irksome, useless,- a beating of the wind, the crackling of thorns under a pot, -
Grammar even assumed for her a charm, a wonder, a glory.
She saw how the great and wise had shrined in fitting words
their purity, and wisdom, and sorrow, and suffering, and
penitence; and how, as this generation passed away, and
another came forth which knew not God, the golden casket
became dim, and the memory of its priceless gem faded
away; but how, at the touch of a mighty wand, the obedient lid flew back, anc the long-hidden thought " sprang fullstatured in an hour." She saw how love and beauty and
freedom lay floating vaguely and aimlessly in a million
minds till the poet came and crystallized them into clear-cut,
prismatic words, tinged for each with the color of his own
fancy, and wrought intc a perfect mosaic, not for an age,




114        The Pursuit of Knowledge
but foi all time. Led by a strong hand, she trod with awe
down the dim aisles of the Past, and saw how the soul of
man, bound in its prison-house, had ever struggled to voice
itself in words. Roaming in the dense forest with the stern
and bloody Druid, - bounding over the waves with the
fierce pirates who supplanted them, and in whose blue eyes
and beneath whose fair locks gleamed indeed the ferocity
of the savage, but lurked also, though unseen and unknown,
the tender chivalry of the English gentleman,  gazing admiringly on the barbaric splendor of the cloth-of-gold,
whereon trod regally, to the sound of harp and viol, the
beauty and bravery of the old Norman nobility, she delighted to see how the mother-tongue, our dear mothertongue, had laid all the nations under contribution to enrich
her treasury, - gathering from one its strength, from another its stateliness, from a third its harmony, till the harsh,
crude, rugged dialect of a barbarous horde became worthy
to embody, as it does, the love, the wisdom, and the faith
of half a world.
So Grammar taught Ivy to reverence language.
History, in the light of a guiding mind, ceased to be a
bare record of slaughter and crime. Before her eyes filed,
in a statelier pageant than they knew, the long procession
of " simple great ones gone forever and ever by," and the
countless lesser ones whose names are quenched in the
darkness of a night that shall know no dawn. She saw the
"great world spin forever down the ringing grooves of
change "; but amid all the change, the confusion, the chaos,
she saw the finger of God ever pointing, and heard the sublime monotone of the Divine voice ever saying to the children of men " This is the way, walk ye in it." And Ivy
thought she saw, and rejoiced in the thought, that, even
when this warning was unheeded, - when on the brow of
the mournful Earth " Ichabod, Ichabod," was forever engraven, - when the Ftirst Man with his own hand put from
him the cup of innocence, and went forth from the happy
garden, sin-stained and fallen, the whole head sick, and the




under Difficulies.                  I 5
whole heart faint, - even then she saw within him the Divine spark, the leaven of life, which had power to vitalize
and vivify what Crime had smitten with death. Though
sea and land teemed with strange perils, though night and
day pursued him with mysterious terrors, though the now
unfriendly elements combined to check his career, still, with
unswerving purpose, undaunted courage, she saw him march
constantly forward. Spirits of evil could not drive from his
heart the prescience of greatness; and his soul dwelt calmly
under the foreshadow of a mighty future.
And as Ivy looked, she saw how the children of men became a great nation, and possessed the land far and wide.
They delved into the bosom of the pleased earth, and brought
forth the piled-up treasures of uncounted cycles. They unfolded the book of the skies, and sought to read the records
thereon.  They plunged into the unknown and terrible
ocean, and decked their own brows with the gems they
plucked from hers. And when conquered Nature had laid
her hoards at their feet, their restless longings would not be
satisfied. Brave young spirits, with the dew of their youth
fresh upon them, set out in quest of a land beyond their ken.
Over the mountains, across the seas, through the forests,
there came to the ear of the dreaming girl the measured
tramp of marching men, the softer footfalls of loving women,
the pattering of the feet of little children. Many a day and
many a night she saw them wander on towards the setting
sun, till the Unseen Hand led them to a fair and fruitful
country that opened its bounteous arms in welcome. Broad
rivers, green fields, laughing valleys wooed them to plant
their household gods, - and the foundations of Europe were
laid. Here were sown the seeds of those heroic virtues
which have since leaped into luxuriant life, - seeds of that
irresistible power which fastened its grasp on N ature, and
forced her to unfold the secret of her creation, - seeds of
that far-reaching wisdom which in the light of me unveiled
past has read the story of the unseen future.
And still under Ivy's eye they grouped themselves




116         The Pursuit of Knowledge
Some gathered on the pleasant hills of the sunny South,
and the beauty of earth and sea and scy passed into their
souls forever.  They caught the evanescent gleam, the
passing shadow, and on unseemly canvas limned it for all
time in forms of unuttered and unutterable loveliness.
They shaped into glowing life the phantoms of grace that
were always flitting before their enchanted eyes, and poured
into inanimate marble their rapt and passionate souls.
They struck the lyre to wild and stirring songs whose tremulous echoes still linger along the corridors of Time. Some
sought the ice-bound North, and grappled with dangers by
field and flood. They hunted the wild dragon to his mountain-fastnesses, and fought him at bay, and never quailed.
Death, in its most fearful forms, they met with grim delight,
and chanted the glories of the Valhalla waiting for heroes
who should forever quaff the "foaming, pure, and shining
mead" from skulls of foes in battle slain. Some crossed
the sea, and on
" that pale, that white-faced shore,
Whose foot spurns back the ocean's swelling tide,"
they reared a sinewy and stalwart race, "whose morning
drum-beat encircles the world."
And History taught Ivy to reverence man.
But there was one respect in which Ivy was both pupil
and teacher. Never a word of Botany had fallen upon her
ears; but through all the unconscious bliss of infancy, childhood, and girlhood, for sixteen happy years, she had lived
among the flowers, and she knew their dear faces and their
wild-wood names. She loved them with an almost human
love. They were to her companions and friends. She knew
their likings and dislikings, their joys and sorrows, -who
among them chose the darkest nooks of the old woods, and
who bloomed only to the brightest sunlight, -who sent
their roots deep down among the mosses by the brook, and
who smiled only on the southern hillside. Around each she
wove a web cf beautiful individuality, and more than one




under Difficulties.              II7
had received from her a new christening. It is true, that,
when she came to study from a book, she. made wry faces
over the long, barbarous, Latin names which completely
disguised her favorites, and in her heart deemed a great
many of the definitions quite superfluous; but she had
strong faith in her teacher, and when the technical was laid.aside for the real, then, indeed, "her foot was on her native
heath, and her name was MacGregor."  A wild and merry
chase she led her grave instructor. Morning, noon, or
night, she was always ready. Under the blue sky, breathing
the pure air, treading the green turf familiar from her infancy, she could not be otherwise than happy; but when
was superadded to this the companionship of a mind vigorous, cultivated, and refined, she enjoyed it with a keen and
intense delight. Nowhere else did her soul so entirely unfold to the genial light of this new sun which had suddenly
mounted above her horizon. Nowhere else did the freshness
and fulness and splendor of life dilate her whole being with
a fine ecstasy.
And what was the end of all this? Just what you would
have supposed. She had led a life of simple, unbounded
love and trust, -a buoyant, elastic gladness, -a dream of
sunshine. No gray cloud had ever lowered in her sky, no
thunderbolt smitten her joys, no winter rain chilled her
warmth. Only the white fleeciness of morning mist had
flitted sometimes over her summer-sky, deepening the blue.
Little cooling drops had fluttered down through the leafiness, only to span her with a rainbow in the glory of the setting sun. But the time had come. From the deep fountains of her heart the stone was to be rolled away. The
secret chord was to be smitten by a master-hand, - a chord
which, once stirred, may never cease to quiver.
At first Ivy worshipped very far off. Her friend was to
her the embodiment of all knowledge and goodness and
greatness. She marvelled to see him so at home in what
was to her so strange. Every word that fell from his lips
was an oracle. She secretly contrasted him with all the men




I 8         The Pursuit of Knowledge
she had ever met, to the utter discomfiture of the latter
Washington, the Apostle Paul, and Peter Parley were the
only men of the past or present whom she considered at all
worthy to be compared with him; and in fact, if these three
men and Felix Clerron had all stood before her, and offered
each a different opinion on any given subject, I have
scarcely a doubt as to whose would have commended itself
to her as combining the soundest practical wisdom and the
highest Christian benevolence.
So the summer passed on, and her shyness wore off, -
and their intimacy became less and less that of teacher and
pupil, and more and more that of friend and friend. With
the sudden awakening of her intellectual nature, there woke
also another power, of whose existence she had never
dreamed. It was natural, that, in ranging the fields of
thought so lately opened to her, she should often revert to
him whose hand had unbarred the gates; she was therefore
not startled that the image of Felix Clerron was with her
when she sat down and when she rose up, when she went
out and when she came in. She ceased, indeed, to think
of him. She thought him. She lived him. Her soul fed
on his life. And so - and so-by a pleasant and flowery
path, there came into Ivy's heart the old, old pain.
Now the thing was on this wise:One morning, when she went to recite, she did not find
Mr. Clerron in the library, where he usually awaited her.
After spending a few moments in looking over her lessons,
she rose and was about to pass to the door to ring, when
Mrs. Simm looked in, and, seeing Ivy, informed her that
Mr. Clerron was in the garden, and desired her to come
out. Ivy immediately followed Mrs. Simm into the garden.
On the south side of the house was a piazza two stories high.
Along the pillars which supported it a trellis-work had been
constructed, reaching several feet above the roof of the
piazza. About this climbed a vigorous grape-vine, which
not only completely screened nearly the whole front of the
piaxza, but, reaching the top of the trellis, shot across, by




under Difficulies.                I19
the aid of a few pieces of fine wire, and overran a part of
the roof of the house. Thus the roof of the piazza was the
floor of a beautiful apartment, whose walls and ceiling were
broad, rustling, green leaves, among which drooped now
innumerable heavy clusters of rich purple grapes.
From behind this leafy wall a well-known voice cried,
"All hail, my twining vine! "  Ivy turned and looked up,
with the uncertain, inquiring smile we often wear when conscious that, though unseeing, we are not unseen; and presently two hands parted the leaves far enough for a very
sunshiny smile to gleam down on the upturned face.
" O, I wish I could come up there! " cried Ivy, clasping
her hands with childish eagerness.
" The wish is father to the deed."
" May I?"
" Be sure you may."
"But how shall I get in?"
"Are you afraid to come up the ladder?"
"No, I don't mean that; but how shall I get in where
you are, after I am up? "
", never fear  I'11 draw you in safely enough."
"Lorful heart! Miss Ivy, what are you going to do?"
cried Mrs. Simm, in terror.
Ivy was already on the third round of the ladder, but she
stopped and answered, hesitatingly, -
" He said I might."
"He said you might, yes," continued Mrs. Simm, - talking to Ivy, but at Mr. Clerron, with whom she hardly dared
to remonstrate in a more direct way. " And if he said you
might throw yourself down Vineyard Cliff, it don't follow
that you are bound to do it. He goes into all sorts of haphazard scrapes himself, but you can't follow him."
" But it looks so nice up there," pleaded Ivy, " and I have
been twice as high at home. I don't mind it at all."
" If your father chooses to let you run the risk of your
life, it's none of my lookout, but I a'n't going to have you
breaking your neck right under my nose. If you want to




t20         The Pursuit of Knowledge
get up there, I'11 show you the way in the house, and you
can step right out of the window. Just wait till I've told
Ellen about the dinner."
As Mrs. Simm disappeared, Mr. Clerron said softly to
Ivy, "Come! "- and in a moment Ivy bounded up the
ladder and through an opening in the vine, and stood by
his side.
" I'm ready now, Miss Ivy," said Mrs. Simm, reappear
ing. " Miss Ivy! Where is the child?"
A merry laugh greeted her.
" 0, you good-for-nothing! " cried the good-natured old
housekeeper, "you'11 never die in your bed."
"Not for a good while, I hope," answered Mr. Clerron.
Then he made Ivy sit down by him, and took from the
great basket the finest cluster of grapes.
" Is that reward enough for coming?"
" Coming into so beautiful a place as this is like what you
read yesterday about poetry to Coleridge,'its own exceeding great reward.'"
" And you don't want the grapes?"
" I don't know that I have any intrinsic objection to them
as a free gift. It was only the principle that I opposed."
"Very well, we will go shares, then. You may have half
for the free gift, and I will have half for the principle. Little
tendril, you look as fresh as the morning."
"Don't I always?"
" I should say there was a little more dew than usual.
Stand up and let me survey you, if perchance I may discover
the cause."
Ivy rose, made a profound courtesy, and then turned
slowly around, after the manner of the revolving fashionfigures in a milliner's window.
" I don't know," continued Mr. Clerron, when Ivy, after a
couple of revolutions, resumed her seat. " You seem to be
the same. I think it must be the frock."
"I don't wear a frock. I don't think it would improve
my style of beauty if I did. Papa wears one sometimes "




under Difflculties.             121
"And what kind of a frock, pray, does' papa' wear?"
"0, a horrid blue thing. Comes about down to his
knees. Made of some kind of woollen stuff. Horrid! "
"And what name do you give to that white thing with
blue sprays in it?"
"This?"
"Yes."
" This is a dress."
" No. This, and your collar, and hat, and shoes, and sash
are your dress. This is a frock."
Ivy shook her head doubtfully.
"You know a great deal, I know."
"So you informed me once before."
" 0, don't mention that! " said Ivy, blushing, and quickly
added, " Do you know I have discovered the reason why
you like me this morning?"
"And every morning."
"Sir?"
"Go on. What is the reason?"
"It is because I clear-starched and ironed it myself with
my owny-dony hands; and that, you know, is the reason it
looks nicer than usual."
"Ah me! I wish I wore dresses."
"You can, if you choose, I suppose. There is no one to
hinder you."
"Simpleton! that is not what you were intended to say.
You should have asked the cause of so singular a wish, and
then I had a pretty little speech all ready for you, - a veritable compliment."
" It is well I did not ask, then. Mamma does not approve
of compliments, and perhaps it would have made me vain."
" Incorrigible! Why did you not ask me what the speech
was, and thus give me an opportunity to relieve myself.
Why, a body might die of a plethora of flattery, if he had
nobody but you to discharge it against."
"He must take care, then, that the supply does not ex.
ceed the demand."
6




122         The Pursuit of Knowledge
"Political economy, upon my word! What shall we have
next?"
"Domestic, I suppose you would like. Men generally,
indeed, prefer it to the other, I am told."
" Ah, Ivy, Ivy! little you know about men, my child!"
He leaned back in his seat and was silent for some minutes. Ivy did not care to interrupt his thinking. Presently
he said, -
" Ivy, how old are you?"
" I shall be seventeen the last day of this month."
A short pause.
"And then eighteen."
"And then nineteen."
"And then twenty. In three years you will be twenty."
" Horrid old, is n't it?"
He turned his head, and looked down upon her with what
Ivy thought a curious kind of smile, but only said, 
" You must not say'horrid' so much."
By and by Ivy grew rather tired of sitting silent and
watching the rustle of the leaves, which hid every other
prospect; she turned a little so that she could look at him.
He sat with folded arms, looking straight ahead; and she
thought his face wore a troubled expression. She felt as if
she would like very much to smooth out the wrinkles in his
forehead and run her fingers through his hair, as she sometimes did for her father. She had a great mind to ask him
if she should; then she reflected that it might make him
nervous. Then she wondered if he had forgotten her lessons, and how long they were to sit there. Determined, at
length, to have a change of some kind, she said, softly, -
"Mr. Clerron!"
He roused himself suddenly, and stood up.
"I thought, perhaps, you had a headache."
"No, Ivy. But this is not climbing the hill of science, is
it?"
"Not so much as it is climbing the piazza."
"Suppose we take a vacation to-day, and investigate the
state of the atmosphere? "




under Diffculties               123
"Yes, sir, I am ready."
Ivy did not fully understand the nature of his proposition; but if he had proposed to " put a girdle round the
earth in forty minutes." she would have said and acted,
Yes, sir, I am ready," just the same.
He took up the basket of grapes which he had gathered,
and led the way through the window, down-stairs. Ivy
waited for him at the hall-door, while he carried the grapes
to Mrs. Simm; then he joined her again and proposed to
walk through the woods a little while, before Ivy went
home.
"You must know, my docile pupil, that I am going to the
city to-morrow, on business, to be gone a week or two. So,
as you must perforce take a vacation then, why, we may as
well begin to vacate to-day, and enjoy it."
" I am sorry you are going away."
"You are? That is almost enough to pay me for going.
Why are you sorry?"
" Because I shall not see you for a week; and I have become so used to you, that somehow I don't seem to know
what to do with a day without you; and then the cars may
run off the track and kill you or hurt you, or you may get
the small-pox, or a great many things may happen."
" And suppose some of these terrible things should happen, - the last, for instance, - what would you do? "
"I? I should advise you to send for the doctor at once."
Mr. Clerron laughed.
" So you would not come and nurse me, and take care of
me, and get me well again? "
" No, because I should then be in danger of taking it
myself and giving it to papa and mamma; besides, they
would not let me, I am quite sure."
"So you love your papa and mamma better than   "
He stopped abruptly. Ivy finished for him.
" Better than words can tell. Papa particularly. Mamma, somehow, seems strong of herself, and does n't depend
upon me; but papa, - 0, you don't know how he is to me I




124         The Pursuit of Knowledge
I think, if I should die, he would die of grief. I have, I
cannot help having, a kind of pity for him, he loves me so."
"Do you always pity people, when they love you very
much?"
" 0 no! of course not. Besides, nobody loves me enough
to be pitied, except papa. - Is n't it pleasant here? How
very green it is! It looks just like summer. O Mr. Clerron, did you see the clouds this morning? "
"There were none when I arose."
"Why, yes, sir, there was a great heap of them at sunrise."
"I am not prepared to contradict you."
Perhaps you were not up at sunrise."
" I have an impression to that effect."
He smiled so comically, that Ivy could not help saying,
though she was half afraid he might not be pleased, -
" I wonder whether you are an early riser."
"Yes, my dear, I consider myself tolerably early. I believe I have been up every morning but one, this week, by
nine o'clock."
Ivy was horror-struck.  Her country ideas of "early to
bed and early to rise " received a great shock, as her looks
plainly showed. He laughed gayly at her amazed face.
"You don't seem to appreciate me, Miss Geer."
"' Nine o'clock'! " repeated Ivy, slowly, - "  every morning but one'! and it is Tuesday to-day."
" Yes, but you know yesterday was a dark, cloudy day,
and excellent for sleeping."
"But, Mr. Clerron, then you are not more than fairly up
when I come. And when do you write?"
"Always in the evening."
" But the evenings are so short,   or have been."
"Mine are not particularly so. From  six to three is
about long enough for one sitting."
I should think so. And you must be so tired!"
"Not so tired as you think. You, now, rising at five or
six, and running round all day, become so tired that you




under Diffculties.                125
have to go to bed by nine; of course you have no time for
reflection and meditation. I, on the contrary, take life easily, - write in the night, when everything is still and quiet,
- take my sleep when all the noise of the world's wakingup is going on, - and after creation is fairly settled for the
day, I rise leisurely, breakfast leisurely, take a smoke leisurely, and leisurely wait the coming of my little pupil."
"Mr. Clerron!"
" Well! 
"May I tell you another thing I don't like in you? a bad
habit?"
"As many as you please, provided you won't require me
to reform."
" What is the use of telling it, then?"
"But it may be a relief to you. You will have the satisfaction arising from doing your duty. We shall exchange
opinions, and perhaps come to a better understanding. Go
on."
"Well, sir, I wish you did not smoke so much."
I don't smoke very much, little Ivy."
" I wish you would not at all. Mamma thinks it is very
injurious, and wrong, even. And papa says cigars are bad
things."
"Some of them are outrageous. But, my dear, granting
your father and mother and yourself to be right, don't you
see I am doing more to extirpate the evil than you, with all
your principle? I exterminate, destroy, and ruin them at
the rate of three a day; while you, I venture to say, never
lifted a finger or lighted a spark against them."
" Now, sir, that is only a way of slipping round the question. And I really wish you did not. Before I knew you,
I thought it was almost as bad to smoke as it was to steal.
I know, however, now, that it cannot be; still —"
" Feminine logic."
" I have not studied Logic yet; still, as I was going to
say, sir, I don't like to think of you as being in a kind of
subjection to anything."
1.




126        The Pursuit of Knowledge
"Ivy, seriously, I am not in subjection to a cigar. I often
don't smoke for months together. To prove it, I promise
you I won't smoke for the next two months."
"0, I am so glad! 0, I am so much obliged to you!
And you are not in the least vexed that I spoke to you about
it?"
" Not in the least."
" I was afraid you would be. And one thing more, sir, I
have been afraid of, the last few days. You know when I
first knew you, or before I knew you, I supposed you did
nothing but walk round and enjoy yourself all day. But
now I know you do work very hard; and I have feared that
you could not well spare two hours every day for me, - particularly in the morning, which are almost always considered the best. But if you like to write in the evening, you
would just as soon I would come in the morning?"
" Certainly."
" But if two hours are too much, I hope you won't, at any
time, hesitate to tell me. I have no claim on a moment, —
only-"
" My dear Ivy Geer, pupil and friend, be so good as to
understand, henceforth, that you cannot possibly come into
my house at any time when you are not wanted; nor stay
any longer than I want you; nor say anything that will not
please me; -well, I am not quite sure about that; - but,
at least, remember that I am always glad to see you, and
teach you, and have you with me; and that I can never
hope to do you as much good as you do me every day of
your blessed life."
"0 Mr. Clerron!" exclaimed Ivy, with a great gush of
gratitude and happiness; "do I, can I, do you any good?"
"You do and can, my tendril! You supply an element
that was wanting in my life. You make every day beautiful
to me. The flutter of your robes among these trees brings
sunshine into my heart. Every morning I walk in my garden as soon as I am, as you say, fairly up, till I see you
turn into the lane; and every day I watch yo i till you dis.




under Difficulties.             I27
appear. You are fresh and truthf l and natural, and you
give me new life. And now, my dear little trembling benefactor, because we are nearly through the woods, I can go
no farther with you; and because I am going away tomorrow, not to see you again for a week, and because I hope
you will be a little lonesome while I am gone, why, I think
I must let you -kiss me! "
Ivy had been looking intently into his face, with an expression, at first, of the most beaming, tearful delight, then
gradually changing into waiting wonder; but when his sentence finally closed, she stood still, scarcely able to comprehend. He placed his hands on her temples, and, smiling
involuntarily at her blushes and embarrassment, half in
sport and half in tenderness, bent her head a little back,
touched brow, cheeks, and lips, whispered softly, " Go now!
God bless you for ever and ever, my darling! " and, turning
walked hastily down the winding path. As for Ivy, she went
home in a dream, blind and stunned with a great joy.
The week of Mr. Clerron's absence passed away more
quickly than Ivy had supposed it would. The reason for
this may be found in the fact that her thoughts were very
busily occupied. She was more silent than usual, so much
so that her father one day said to her, -" Ivy, I have n't
heard you sing this long while, and seems to me you don't
talk either. What's the matter?"
"Do I look as if anything was the matter?" and the face
she turned upon him was so radiant, that even the father's
heart was satisfied.
Very quietly happy was Ivy to think she was of service
to Mr. Clerron, that she could give him pleasure, -though
she could in no wise understand how it was. She went
over every event since her acquaintance with him; she felt
how much he had done for her, and how much he had been
to her; but she sought in vain to discover how she had
been of any use to him. She only knew that she was the
most ignorant and insignificant girl in the whole world, and
that he was the best and greatest man. As this was very




128        The Pursuit of Knowledge
nearly the same conclusion at which she had arrived at an
early period of their acquaintance, it cannot be said that
her week of reflection was productive of any very valuable
results.
The day before  Mr. Clerron's expected return, Ivy sat
down to prepare her lessons, and for the first time remembered that she had left her books in Mr. Clerron's library.
She was not sorry to have so good an excuse for visiting
the familiar room, though its usual occupant was not there
to welcome her. Very quietly and joyfully happy, she trod
slowly along the path through the woods where she last
walked with Mr. Clerron. She was, indeed, at a loss to
know why she was so calm. Always before, a sudden influx of joy testified itself by very active demonstrations.
She was quite sure that she had never in her life been so
happy as now; yet she never had felt less disposed to leap
and dance and sing. The non-solution of the problem,
however, did not ruffle her serenity. She was content to
accept the facts, and await patiently the theory.
Arriving at the house, she went, as usual, into the library
without ringing, -but, not finding the books, proceeded in
search of Mrs. Simm. That notable lady was sitting behind a huge pile of clean clothes, sorting and mending to
her heart's content. She looked up over her spectacles at
Ivy's bright "good morning," and invited her to come in.
Ivy declined, and begged to know if Mrs. Simm had seen
her books. To be sure she had, like the good housekeeper
that she was. "You'1 find them in the book-case, second
shelf; but, Miss Ivy, I wish you would come in, for I've
had something on my mind that I've felt to tell you this
long while."
Ivy came in, took the seat opposite Mrs. Simm, and
waited for her to speak; but Mrs. Simm seemed to be in
no hurry to speak. She dropped her glasses; Ivy picked
them up and handed them to her. She muttered something
about the destructive habits of men, especially in regard to
buttons; and presently, as if determined to come to the
subject at once, abruptly exclaimed, -




under Difficulties.              129
" Miss. Ivy, you're a real good girl, I know, and as innocent as a lamb. That's why I'm going to talk to you as
I do. I know, if you were my child, I should want somebody to do the same by you."
Ivy could only stare in blank astonishment. After a
moment's pause, Mrs. Simm continued, -
" I've seen how things have been going on for some time;
but my mouth was shut, though my eyes were open. I
did n't know but maybe I'd better speak to your mother
about it; but then, thinks I to myself, she'11 think it is a
great deal worse than it is, and then, like enough, there'11 be
a rumpus. So I concluded, on the whole, I'd just tell you
what I thought; and I know you are a sensible girl and
will take it all right. Now you must promise me not to get
mad."
"No," gasped Ivy.
I like you a sight. It's no flattery, but the truth, to say
I think you're as pretty-behaved a girl as you'11 find in a
thousand. And all the time you've been here, I never have
known you to do a thing you had n't ought to. And Mr.
Clerron thinks so too, and there's the trouble. You see,
dear, he's a man, and men go on their ways and like
women, and talk to them, and sort of bewitch them, not
meaning to do them any hurt, -and enjoy their company
of an evening, and go about their own business in the
morning, and never think of it again; but women stay at
home, and brood over it, and think there's something in
it, and build a fine air-castle, - and when they find it's all
smoke, they mope and pine and take on. Now that's what
I don't want you to do. Perhaps you'd think I'd better
have spoken with Mr. Clerron; but it would n't signify the
head of a pin. He'd either put on the Clerron look and
scare you to death and not say a word, or else he'd hold
it up in such a ridiculous way as to make you think it was
ridiculous yourself. And I thought I'd put you on your
guard a little, so as you needn't fall in love with him.
You'll like him, of course. He likes you; but a young
6*




130        The Pursuit of Knzowledge
girl like you might make a mistake, if she was ever so
modest and sweet,- and nobody could be modester or
sweeter than you,-and think a man loved you to marry
you, when he only pets and plays with you. Not that Mr.
Clerron means to do anything wrong. He'd be perfectly
miserable himself, if he thought he'd led you on. There
ain't a more honorable man every way in the whole country. Now, Miss Ivy, it's all for your good I say this. I
don't find fault with you, not a bit. It's only to save you
trouble in store that I warn you to look where you stand,
and see that you don't lose your heart before you know it.
It's an awful thing for a woman, Miss Ivy, to get a notion
after a man who has n't got a notion after her. Men go
out and work and delve and drive, and forget; but there
ain't much in darning stockings and making pillow-cases
to take a woman's thought off her troubles, and sometimes
they get sp'iled for life."
Ivy had remained speechless from amazement; but when
Mrs. Simm had finished, she said, with a sudden accession
of womanly dignity that surprised the good housekeeper, --
"Mrs. Simm, I cannot conceive why you should speak
in this way to me. If you suppose I am not quite able to
take care of myself, I assure you you are very much mistaken."
" Lorful heart!  Now, Miss Ivy, you promised you
would n't be mad."
"And I have kept my promise. I am not mad."
"No, but you answer up short like, and that is n't what I
thought of you, Ivy Geer."
Mrs. Simm looked so disappointed that Ivy took a lower
tone, and at any rate she would have had to do it soon; for.
her fortitude gave way, and she burst into a flood of tears.
She was not, by any means, a heroine, and could not put on
the impenetrable mask of a woman of the world.
"Now, dear, don't be so distressful, dear, don't!" said
Mrs. Simm, soothingly. " I can't bear to see you."' I am sure I never thought of such a thing as falling in




under Difficulties.              131
love with Mr. Clerron or anybody else," sobbed Ivy, "and
I don't know what should make you think so."
" Dear heart, I don't think so. I only told you, so you
need n't."
"Why, I should as soon think of marrying the angel
Gabriel!"
"0, don't talk so, dear; he's no more than man, after
all; but still, you know, he's no fit match for you. To say
nothing of his being older, and all that, I don't think it's
the right place for you. Your father and mother are very
nice folks; I am sure nobody could ask for better neighbors, and their good word is in everybody's mouth; and
they've brought you up well, I am sure; but, my dear, you
know it's nothing against you nor them  that you ain't
used to splendor, and you would n't take to it natural like.
You'd get tired of that way of life, and want to go back
to the old fashions, and you'd most likely have to leave
your father and mother; for it's noways probable Mr.
Clerron will stay here always; and when he goes back to
the city, think what a dreary life you'd have betwixt his
two proud sisters, on the one hand,   to be sure, there's
no reason why they should be; their gran'ther was a tailor,
and their grandma was his apprentice, and he got rich,
and gave all his children learning; and Mr. Felix's father,
he was a lawyer, and he got rich by speculation, and so the
two girls always had on their high-heeled boots; but Mr.
Clerron, he always laughs at them, and brings up "the
grand-paternal shop," as he calls it, and provokes them
terribly, I know. Well, that's neither here nor there; but,
as I was saying, here you'11 have them on the one side,
and all the fine ladies on the other, and a great house and
servants, and parties to see to, and, lorful heart! Miss Ivy,
you'd die in three years; and if you know when you're
well off, you'll stay at home, and marry and settle down
near the old folks. Believe me, my dear, it's a bad thing
both for the man and the woman, when she marries above
her."




132         The Pursuit of Knowledge
"Mrs. Simm," said Ivy, rising, "will you pronise me
one thing?"
"Certainly, child, if I can."
" Will you promise me never again to mention this thing
to me, or allude to it in the most distant manner? "
"Miss Ivy, now,"   began Mrs. Simm, deprecatingly.
" Because," interrupted Ivy, speaking very thick and fast,
"you cannot imagine how disagreeable it is to me. It
makes me feel ashamed to think of what you have said,
and that you could have thought it even. I supposeindeed, I know - that you did it because you thought you
ought; but you may be certain that I am in no danger
from Mr. Clerron, nor is there the slightest probability that
his fortune, or honor, or reputation, or sisters will ever be
disturbed by me. I am very much obliged to you for your
good intentions, and I wish you good morning."
"Don't, now, Miss Ivy, go so -"
But Miss Ivy was gone, and Mrs. Simm could only withdraw to her pile of clothes, and console herself by stitching
and darning with renewed vigor. She felt rather uneasy
about the result of her morning's work, though she had
really done it from a conscientious sense of duty.
" Welladay," she sighed, at last, " she'd better be a little
cut up and huffy now, than to walk into a ditch blindfolded; and I wash my hands of whatever may happen
after this. I've had my say and done my part."
Alas, Ivy Geer! The Indian summer day was just as
calm and beautiful, - the far-off mountains wore their veil
of mist just as aerially, - the brook rippled over the stones
with just as soft a melody; but what "discord on the
music" had fallen! what "darkness on the glory"! A miserable, dull, dead weight was the heart which throbbed so
lightly but an hour before. Wearily, drearily, she dragged
herself home. It was nearly sunset when she arrived, and
she told her mother she was tired and had the headache,
which was true,-though, if she had said heartache, it
would have been truer. Her mother immediately did what




under Difficulties.              133
ninety-line mothers out of a hundred would d b in similar
circumstances,- made her swallow a cup of strong tea,
and sent her to bed. Alas, alas that there are sorrows
which the strongest tea cannot assuage!
When the last echo of her mother's footstep died on the
stairs, and Ivy was alone in the darkness, the tide of bitterness and desolation swept unchecked over her soul, and
she wept tears more passionate and desponding than her
life had ever before known,- tears of shame and indignation and grief. It was true that the thought which Mrs.
Simm had suggested had never crossed her mind before;
yet it is no less true, that, all-unconsciously, she had been
weaving a golden web, whose threads, though too fine and
delicate even for herself to perceive, were yet strong enough
to entangle her life in their meshes. A secret chamber, far
removed from the noise and din of the world, —a chamber
whose soft and rose-tinted light threw its radiance over her
whole future, and within whose quiet recesses she loved
to sit alone and dream away the hours, - had been rudely
entered, and thrown violently open to the light of day, and
Ivy saw with dismay how its pictures had become ghastly
and its sacredness was defiled. With bitter, though needless and useless self-reproach, she saw how she had suffered
herself to be fascinated. Sorrowfully, she felt that Mrs.
Simm's words were true, and a great gulf lay between her
and him. She pictured him moving easily and gracefully
and naturally among scenes which to her inexperienced eye
were grand and stately; and then, with a sharp pain, she
felt how constrained and awkward and entirely unfit for
such a life was. she. Then her thoughts reverted to her
parents, -their unchanging love, their happiness depending on her, their solicitude and watchfulness, -and she
felt as if ingratitude were added to her other sins, that
she could have so attached herself to any other. And
again came back the bitter, burning agony of shame that
she had done the very thing that Mrs. Simm too late had
warned her not to do; she had been carried away by the




134         The Pursuit of Knowledge
kindness and tenderness of her frien 1, and, unasked, had
laid the wealth of her heart at his feet. So the night
flushed into morning; and the sun rose upon a pale face
and a trembling form,- but not upon a faint heart; for
Ivy, kneeling by the couch where her morning and evening
prayer had gone up since lisping infancy, - kneeling no
longer a child, but a woman, matured through love, matured, alas! through suffering, prayed for strength and
comfort; prayed that her parents' love might be rendered
back into their own bosoms a hundred-fold; prayed that
her friend's kindness to her might not be an occasion of
sin against God, and that she might be enabled to walk
with a steady step in the path that lay before her. And
she arose strengthened and comforted.
All the morning she lay quiet and silent on the lounge
in the little sitting-room. Her mother, busied with household matters, only looked in upon her occasionally, and,
as the eyes were always closed, did not speak, thinking her
asleep.  Ivy was not asleep. Ten thousand little sprites
flitted swiftly through the chambers of her brain, humming,
singing, weeping, but always busy, busy. Then softly came
another tread, and she knew her dear old father had drawn
a chair close to her, and was looking into her face. Tears
came into her eyes, her lip involuntarily quivered, and then
she felt the pressure of his - his! - surely that was not
her father's kiss! She started up. No, no! that was not
her father's face bending over her, -not her father's eyes
smiling into hers; but, woe for Ivy! her soul thrilled with
a deeper bliss, her heart leaped with a swifter bound, and
for a moment all the experience and suffering and resolutions of the last night were as if they had never been.
Only for a moment, and then with a strong effort she remembered the impassable gulf.
" A pretty welcome home you have given me  " said Mr.
Clerron, lightly.
He saw that something was weighing on her spirits, but
did not wish to distress her b) seeming to notice it.




under Difficu.ties.                135
"I wait in my library, I walk in my garden, expecting
every moment will bring you,- and lo! here you are lying,
doing nothing but look pale and pretty as hard as you can."
Ivy smiled, but did not consider it prudent to speak.
"I found your books, however, and have brought them
to you. You thought you would escape a lesson finely, did
you not? But you see I have outwitted you."
"Yes, - I went for the books yesterday," said Ivy, "but
I got talking with Mrs. Simm and forgot them."
"Ah!" he replied, looking somewhat surprised.  " I did
not know Mrs. Simm could be so entertaining.  She must
have exerted herself.  Pray, now, if it would not be impertinent,, what subject was it that drove everything else
from  your mind? The best way of preserving apples, I
dare swear, or the superiority of pickled grapes to pickled
cucumbers."
" No,' said Ivy, with the ghost of another smile, - "we
talked upon various subjects; but not those. How do you
do, Mr. Clerron?  Have you had a pleasant visit to the
city?"
"Very well, I thank you, Miss Geer; and I have not
had a remarkably pleasant visit, 1 am  obliged to you.
Have I the pleasure of seeing you quite well, Miss Geer, 
quite fresh and buoyant?"
The lightness of tone which he had assumed had precisely the opposite effect intended.
Ye banks and braes o' bonny Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And 1 sae weary fu' o' care? 
is the wail of stricken humanity everywhere. And Ivy
thought of Mr. Clerron, rich, learned, elegant, happy, on
the current of whose life she only floated a pleasant ripple,
- and of herself, poor, plain, ignorant, to whom he was
the life of life, the all in all. I would not have you suppose
this Fassed through her mind precisely as I have written




136        The Pursuit of Knowledge
it. By no means. The ideas rather trooped through in a
pellmell sort of way; but they got through just as effectually.- Now, if Ivy had been content to let her muscles
remain perfectly still, her face might have given no sign
of the confusion within; but, with a foolish presumption,
she undertook to smile, and so quite lost control of the
little rebels, who immediately twisted themselves into a sob.
Her whole frame convulsed with weeping and trying not
to weep, he forced her gently back on the pillow, and, bending low, whispered softly, —
"Ivy what is it?"
" 0, don't ask me! - please, don't! Please, go away! "
murmured the poor child.
"I will, my dear, in a minute; but you must think I
should be a little anxious. I leave you as gay as a bird,
and healthy and rosy, - and when I come back, I find you
white and sad and ill. I am sure something weighs on
your mind. I assure you, my little Ivy, and you must
believe, that I am your true friend, —and if you would
confide in me, perhaps I could bring you comfort. It would
at least relieve you to let me help you bear the burden."
The burden being of such a nature, it is not at all probable that Ivy would have assented to his proposition; but
the welcome entrance of her mother prevented the necessity of replying.
"0, you're awake! Well, I told Mr. Clerron he might
come in, though I thought you wouldn't be. Slept well
this morning, did n't you, deary, to make up for last night?"
"No, mamma, I have n't been asleep."
"Crying, my dear? Well, now, that's a pretty good one!
Nervous she is, Mr. Clerron, always nervous, when the least
thing ails her; and she did n't sleep a wink last night,
which is a bad thing for the nerves, —and Ivy generally
sleeps like a top, She walked over to your house yesterday, and when she got home she was entirely beat out, -
looked as if she had been sick a week. I don't know why
it was, for the walk could n't have hurt her. She's always




under Difficulties.              I37
dancing round at home. I don't think she's been exactly
well for four or five days. Her father and I both thought
she'd been more quiet like than usual."
The sudden pang that shot across Ivy's face was not
unobserved by Mr. Clerron. A thought came into his
mind. He had risen at Mrs. Geer's entrance, and he now
expressed his regret for Ivy's illness, and hoped that she
would soon be well, and able to resume her studies; and,
with a few words of interest and inquiry to Mrs. Geer, took
his leave.
"I wonder if Mrs. Simm has been making mischief!"
thought he, as he stalked home rather more energetically
than was his custom.
That unfortunate lady was in her sitting-room, starching
muslins, when Mr. Clerron entered. She had surmised
that he was gone to the farm, and had looked for his return with a shadow of dread. She saw by his face that
something was wrong.
"Mrs. Simm," he began, somewhat abruptly, but not
disrespectfully, "may I beg your pardon for inquiring what
Ivy Geer talked to you about, yesterday?"
"0, good Lord! she ia'n't told you, has she?" cried
Mrs. Simm,-her fear of God, for once, yielding to her
greater fear of man. The embroidered collar, which she
had been vigorously beating, dropped to the floor, and she
gazed at him with such terror and dismay in every lineament, that he could not help being amused. He picked up
the collar, which, in her perturbation, she had not noticed,
and said,"No, she has told me nothing; but I find her excited
and ill, and I have reason to believe it is connected with
her visit here yesterday. If it is anything relating to me,
and which I have a right to know, you would do me a
great favor by enlightening me on the subject."
Mrs. Simm  had not a particle of that knowledge in
which Young America is so great a proficient, namely, the
"knowing how to get out of a scrape."  She was, besides,




138          The Pursuit of Knizoledge
alarmed at the effect of her words on Ivy, supposing noth.
ing less than that the girl was in the last stages of a swift
consumption; so she sat down, and, rubbing her starchy
hands together, with many a deprecatory "you know," and
apologetic " I am sure I thought I was acting for the best,"
gave, considering her agitation, a tolerably accurate account of the whole interview. Her interlocutor saw plainly
that she had acted from a sincere conscientiousness, and
not from a meddlesome, mischievous interference; so he
only thanked her for her kind interest, and suggested that
he had now arrived at an age when it would, perhaps, be
well for him to conduct matters, particularly of so delicate
a nature, solely according to his own judgment. He was
sorry to have given her any trouble.
"Scissors cuts only what comes between'em," soliloquized Mrs. Simm, when the door closed behind him. " If
ever I meddle with a courting-business again, my name
ain't Martha Simm. No, they may go to Halifax, whoever
they be,'fore ever I'11 lift a finger."
It is a great pity that the world generally has not been
brought to make the same wise resolution.
One, two, three, four days passed away, and still Ivy pondered the question so often wrung from man in his bewildered gropings, " What shall I do?"  Every day brought
her teacher and friend to comfort, amuse, and strengthen.
Every morning she resolved to be on her guard, to remember the impassable gulf. Every evening she felt the
silken cords drawing tighter and tighter around her soul,
and binding her closer and closer to him. She thought
she might die, and the thought gave her a sudden joy.
Death would solve the problem at once. If only a few
weeks or months lay before her, she could quietly rest on
him, and give herself up to him and wait in heaven for all
rough places to be made plain. But Ivy did not die.
Youth and nursing and herb-tea were too strong for her,
and the color came back to her cheek and the languoi went
out from her blue eyes. She saw nothing to be done but




under Difficulties.                 139
to resume her old routine. It would be difficult to say
whether she was more glad or sorry at seeming to see this
necessity. She knew her danger, and it was very fascinating. She did not look into the far-off future; she only
prayed to be kept from day to day. Perhaps her course
was wise; perhaps not. But she had to rely on her own
judgment alone; and her judgment was founded on inexperience, which is not a trustworthy basis.
A new difficulty arose.  Ivy found that she could not
resume her old habits. To be sure, she learned her lessons
just as perfectly at home as she had ever done. Just as
punctual to the appointed hour, she went to recite them;
but no sooner had her foot crossed Mr. Clerron's threshold
than her spirit seemed to die within her. She remembered
neither words nor ideas. Day after day, she attempted to
go through her recitation as usual, and, day after day, she
hesitated, stammered, and utterly failed. His gentle assistance only increased her embarrassment. This she was too
proud to endure; and, one day, after an unsuccessful effort,
she closed the book with a quick, impatient gesture, and
exclaimed,
" Mr. Clerron, I shall not recite any more! "
The agitated flush which had suffused her face gave way
to paleness. He saw that she was under strong excitement, and quietly replied, -
"Very well, you need not, if you are tired. You are not
quite well yet, and must not try to do too much. We will
commence here to-morrow."
"No, sir, -I shall not recite any more at alL"
Till to-morrow."
"Never any more!"
There was a moment's pause.
"You must not lose patience, my dear. In a few days
you will recite as well as ever. A fine notion, forsooth,
because you have been ill. and forgotten a little, to give up
studying! And what is to become of my laurels, pray, -
all the glory I am to get by your proficiency P"




140         The Pursuit of Knowledge
"I shall study at home just the same, but I shall not
recite."
"Why not?"
His look became serious.
"Because I cannot. I do not think it best, - and - and
I will not."
Another pause.
"Ivy, do you not like your teacher?"
"No, sir. I hate you!"
The words seemed to flash from her lips. She sprang
up and stood erect before him, her eyes on fire, and every
nerve quivering with intense excitement. He was shocked
and startled. It was a new phase of her character, - a
new revelation. He, too, arose, and walked to the window.
If Ivy could have seen the workings of his face, there
would have been a revelation to her also. But she was too
highly excited to notice anything. He came back to her
and spoke in a low voice," Ivy, this is too much. This I did not expect."
He laid his hand upon her head as he had often done
before. She shook it off passionately.
" Yes, I hate you. I hate you, because  "
"Because I wanted you to love me?"
"No, sir; because I do love you, and you bring me only
wretchedness. I have never been happy since the miserable day I first saw you."
" Then, Ivy, I have utterly failed- in what it has been my
constant endeavor to do."
" No, sir, you have succeeded in what you endeavored
to do. You have taught me. You have given me knowledge and thought, and showed me the source of knowledge.
But I had better have been the ignorant girl you found me.
You have taken from me what I can never find again. I
have made a bitter exchange. I was ignorant and stupid,
I know, - but I was happy and contented; and now I am
wretched and miserable and wicked. You have come between me and my home and my father and mother, - be




under Difficulties.             141
tween me and all the bliss of my past and all rny hope for
the future."
" And thus, Ivy, have you come between me and my past
and my future; —yet not thus. You shut out from my
heart all the sorrow and vexation and strife that have
clouded my life, and fill it with your own dear presence.
You come between me and my future, because, in looking
forward, I see only you. I should have known better.
There is a gulf between us; but if I could make you
happy -"
" I don't want you to make me happy. I know there is
a gulf between us. I saw it while you were gone. I
measured it and fathomed it. I shall not leap across,
Stay you on your side quietly; I shall stay as quietly on
mine."
"It is too late for that Ivy, - too late now. But you
are not to blame, my child. Little sunbeam that you are,
I will not cloud you. Go shine upon other lives as you have
shone upon mine! light up other hearths as you have mine!
and I will bless you forever, though mine- "
He turned away with an expression on his face that Ivy
could not read. Her passion was gone. She hesitated a
moment, then went to his side and laid her hand softly on
his arm. There was a strange moistened gleam in his eyes
as he turned them upon her.
" Mr. Clerron, I do not understand you."
" My dear, you never can understand me."
" I know it," said Ivy, with her old humility; "but, at
least, I might understand whether I have vexed you."
" You have not vexed me."
" I spoke proudly and rudely to you. I was angry, and
so unhappy. I shall always be so; I shall never be happy
again; but I want you to be, and you do not look as if
you were."
If Ivy had not been a little fool, she would not have
spoken so; but she was, so she did.
" I beg your pardon, little tendril. I was so occupied
J




I42         The Pursuit of Knowledge
with my own preconceived ideas that I forgot to symlpa.
thize with you. Tell me why or how I have made you
unhappy. But I know; you need not. I assure you, however, that you are entirely wrong. It was a prudish and
whimsical notion of my good old housekeeper's. You are
never to think of it again. I never attributed such a
thought or feeling to you."
Did you suppose that was all that made me unhappy?"
"Can there be anything else?"
"I am glad you think so. Perhaps I should not have
been unhappy but for that, at least not so soon; but that
alone could never have made me so."
Little fool again! She was like a chicken thrusting its
head into a corner and thinking itself out of danger because it cannot see the danger. She had no notion that
she was giving him the least clew to the truth, but considered herself speaking with more than Delphic prudence.
She rather liked to coast along the shores of her trouble
and see how near she could approach without running
aground; but she struck before she knew it.
Mr. Clerron's face suddenly changed. He took both her
hands, and drew her towards him.
"Ivy, perhaps I have been misunderstanding you. I
will at least find out the truth. Ivy, do you know that I
love you, that I have loved you almost from the first, that
I would gladly here and now take you to my heart and
keep you here forever?"
" I do not know it," faltered Ivy, half beside herself.
" Know it now, then! I am older than you, and I seem
to myself so far removed from you that I have feared to
ask you to trust your happiness to my keeping, lest I should
lose you entirely; but sometimes you say or do something
which gives me hope. My experience has been very different from yours. I am not worthy to clasp your purity
and loveliness. Still I would do it if-   Tell me, Ivy,
does it give you pain or pleasure?"
Ivy took his hands, as he had before held hers, gazed
steadily into his eyes, and said,



under Diffculties.              143
"Mr. Clerron, are you in earnest? Do you love me?"
"I am, Ivy. I do love you."
"How do you love me?"
"I love you with all the strength and power that God has
given me."
"You do not simply pity me? You have not, because
you heard from Mrs. Simm, or suspected, yourself, that I
was weak enough to mistake your kindness and nobleness,
- you have not in pity resolved to sacrifice your happiness
to mine?"
"No, Ivy,-nothing of the kind. I pity only myself.
I reverence you. I think —I have hoped that you loved
me as a teacher and friend. I dared not believe you could
ever do more; now something within tells me that you
can. Can you, Ivy? If the love and tenderness and devotion of my whole life can make you happy, happiness
shall not fail to be yours."
Ivy's gaze never for a moment drooped under his, earnest
and piercing though it was.
"Now I am happy," she said, slowly and distinctly.
" Now I am blessed. I can never ask anything more."
"But I ask something more," he replied, bending forward
eagerly. "I ask much more. I want your love. Shall I
have it? And I want you."
"My love?"  She blushed slightly, but spoke without
hesitation. "Have I not given it, —long, long before you
asked it, before you even cared for my friendship? Not
love only, but life, my very whole being, centred in you,
does now, and will always. Is it right to say this?- But
I am not ashamed. I shall always be proud to have loved
you, though only to lose you, - and to be loved by you is
glory enough for all my future."
One moment Ivy rested in the arms that clasped her;
but as he whispered, "Thus you answer the second ques..
tion? You give me yourself too? " she hastily freed herself.
"Never  "
"Ivy!f




44   The Pursuit  of Knowledge
"Never!" more firmly than before.
"What does this mean?" he said, sternly. "Are you
trifling?"
There was such a frown on his brow as Ivy had never
seen. She quailed before it.
"Do not be angry! Alas! I am not trifling. Life itself
is not worth so much as your love. But the impassable
gulf is between us just the same."
"What is it? Who put it there?
" God put it there. Mrs. Simm showed it to me."
" Mrs. Simm be -! A prating gossip! Ivy, I told you
you were never to mention that again,- never to think of
it; and you must obey me."
"I will try to obey you in that."
"And very soon you shall promise to obey me in all
things. But I will not be hard with you. The yoke shall
rest very lightly, -so lightly you shall not feel it. You
will not do as much, I dare say. You will make me acknowledge your power every day, dear little vixen! Ivy,
why do you draw back? Why do you not come to me?"
" I cannot come to you, Mr. Clerron, any more. I must
go home now, and stay at home."
"When your home is here, Ivy, stay at home. For the
present, don't go. Wait a little."
"You do not understand me. You will not understand
me," said Ivy, bursting into tears. " I must leave you.
Don't make the way so difficult."
" I will make it so difficult that you cannot walk in it.
Why do you wish to leave me? Have you not said that
you loved me?"
" It is because I love you that I go. I am not fit for
you. I was not made for you. I can never make you
happy. I cannot go among your friends, your sisters. I
am ignorant. You would be ashamed of me, and then
you would not love me; you could not; and I should lose
the thing I most value. No, Mr. Clerron, - I would rather
keep your love in my own heart and my own home."




under Difficulties.             145
Ivy, can you be happy without me?"
"I shall not be without you. My heart is full of lifelong
joyful memories. You need not regret me. Yes, I shall
be happy. I shall work with mind and hands. I shall
not pine away in a mean and feeble life. I shall be strong,
and cheerful, and active, and helpful; and I think I shall
not cease to love you in heaven."
" But there is, maybe, a long road for us to travel before
we reach heaven, and I want you to help me along. Ivy,
I am not so spiritual as you. I cannot live on memory,
I want you before me all the time. I want to see you and
talk with you every day. Why do you speak of such
things? Is it the soul or its surroundings that you value 
Do you respect or care for wealth and station? Do you
consider a woman your superior because she wears a finer
dress than you?"
" I? No, sir! No, indeed! you very well know. But
the world does, and you move in the world; and I do not
want the world to pity you because you have an uncouth,
ignorant wife. I don't want to be despised by those who
are above me only in station."
"Little aristocrat, you are prouder than I. Will you
sacrifice your happiness and mine to your pride?"
" Proud perhaps I am, but it is not all pride. I think
you are noble, but I think also you could not help losing
patience when you found that I could not accommodate
myself to the station to which you had raised me. Then
you would not respect me. I am, indeed, too proud to
wish to lose that; and losing your respect, as I said before,
I should not long keep your love."
"But you will accommodate yourself to any station.
My dear, you are young, and know so little about this
world, which is such a bugbear to you. Why, there is very
little that will be greatly unlike this. At first you might
be a little bewildered, but I shall be by you all the time,
and you shall feel and fear nothing, and gradually you will
learn what little you reed to know; and most of all, you




146  The Pursuit of Knowledge under Difficulties.
will be yourself the best and the loveliest of women. Deal
Ivy, I would not part with your sweet, unconscious simplicity for all the accomplishments and acquired elegancies
of the finest lady in the world." (What men always say.)
"You are not ignorant of anything you ought to know, and
your ignorance of the world is an additional charm to one
who knows so much of its wickedness as I. But we will
not talk of it. There is no need. This shall be our home,
and here the world will not trouble us."
"And I cannot give up my dear father and mother
You and your friends    "
" They are my friends, valued and dear to me, and dearer
still they shall be as the parents of my dear little wife-"
"I was going to say -
" But you shall not say it. I utterly forbid you ever to
mention it again. You are mine, all my own. Your friends
are my friends, your honor my honor, your happiness my
happiness henceforth; and what God joins together let not
man or woman put asunder."
"Ah!" whispered Ivy, faintly; for she was yielding, and
just beginning to receive the sense of great and unexpected
bliss, "but if you should be wrong, -if you should ever
repent of this, it is not your happiness alone, but mine, too,
that will be destroyed."
" Ivy, am I a mere school-boy to swear eternal fidelity
for a week? Have I not been tossing hither and thither
on the world's tide ever since you lay in your cradle, and
do I not know my position and my power and my habits
and my love? And knowing all this, do I not know that
this dear head "- etc., etc., etc., etc.
But I said I was not going to marry my man and woman,
did I not? Nor have I. To be sure, you may have detected premonitory symptoms, but I said nothing about
that. I only promised not to marry them, and I have not
married them.
And that is the end of my story.




A RAFT THAT NO MAN MADE.
AM  a soldier: but my tale, this time, is not of
war.
The man of whom the Muse talked to the blind
bard of old had grown wise in wayfaring.. He had seen
such men and cities as the sun shines on, and the great
wonders of land and sea; and he had visited the farther
countries, whose indwellers, having been once at home in
the green fields and under the sky and roofs of the cheery
earth, were now gone forth and forward into a dim and
shadowed land, from which they found no backward path
to these old haunts; and their old loves: -'HepL KaL vefeXAt KecaXotfLyevoLt oVSe T8OT' 0VTOvb'HeA'tos  oaeCOov icwTaop'ceratL fKTtveo-otv.
Od. x.
At the Charter-House I learned the story of the King
of Ithaca, and read it for something better than a task;
and since, though I have never seen so many cities as the
much-wandering man, nor grown so wise, yet have heard
and seen and remembered, for myself, words and things
firom crowded streets and fairs and shows and wave-washed
quays and murmurous market-places, in many lands; and
for his Ksppfplpov davSpav Sjfos,o  - his people wrapt in cloud
and vapor, whom "no glad sun finds with his beams,"'
have been borne along a perilous path through thick mists,
among the crashing ice of the Upper Atlantic, as well as
sweltered upon a Southern sea, and have learned something
of men and something of God.




148        A  Raft tial no Man made.
I was in Newfoundland, a lieutenant cf Royal Engineers,
in Major Gore's time, and went about a good deal among
the people, in surveying for Government. One of my old
friends there was Skipper Benjie Westham  of Brigus, a
shortish, stout, bald man, with a cheerful, honest face and
a kind voice; and he, mending a caplin-seine one day, told
me this story, which I will try to tell after him.
We were upon the high ground, beyond where the church
stands now, and Prudence, the fisherman's daughter, and
Ralph Barrows, her husband, were with Skipper Benjie
when he began; and I had an hour by the watch to spend.
The neighborhood, all about, was still; the only men who
were in sight were so far off that we heard nothing from
them; no wind was stirring near us, and a slow sail could
be seen outside. Everything was right for listening and
telling.
" I can tell'ee what I sid * myself, sir," said Skipper
Benjie.' It is n' like a story that's put down in books:
it's on'y like what we planters t tells of a winter's night or
sech; but it's feelun, mubbe, an''ee won't expect much off
a man as could n' never read, -not so much as Bible or
Prayer-Book, even."
Skipper Benjie looked just like what he was thought: a
true-hearted, healthy man, a good fisherman, and a good
seaman. There was no need of any one's saying it, So
I only waited till he went on speaking.
"'Twas one time I goed to th' Ice, sir. I never,ed
but once, an''t was a'most the first v'yage ever was, ef't was n' the very first; an''t was the last for me, an' worse
agen for the rest-part o' that crew, that never goed no
more!'T was tarrible sad douns wi' they  "
This preface was accompanied by some preliminary
handling of the caplin-seine, also, to find out the broken
places and get them  about him. Ralph and Prudence
deftly helped him. Then, making his story wait, after this
opening, he took one hole to begin at in mending chose
* Saw.                          t Fisherme.




A  Raft that no Man made.               149
his seat, and drew the seine up to his knee. At the same
time I got nearer to the fellowship of the family by persuading the planter (who yielded with a pleasant smile) to
let me try my hand at the netting. Prudence quietly took
to herself a share of the work, and Ralph alone was unbusied.
" They calls th' Ice a wicked place, - Sundays an' weekin
days all alike; an' to my seemun it's a cruel, bloody place,
jes' so well,- but not all thinks alike, surely.- Rafe, lad,
mubbe'ee'd ruther go down cove-ways, an' overhaul the
punt a bit."
Ralph, who perhaps had stood waiting for the very dismissal that he now got, assented and left us three. Prudence, to be sure, looked after him as if she would a good
deal rather go with him than stay; but she stayed, nevertheless, and worked at the seine. I interpreted to myself
Skipper Benjie's sending away of one of his hearers by
supposing that his son-in-law had often heard his tales;
but the planter explained himself: -
"'Ee sees, sir, I knocked off goun to th' Ice becase'twas sech a tarrible cruel place, to my seemun. They
swiles * be so knowun like, - as knowun as a dog, in a
manner, an' lovun to their own, like Christens, a'most, more
than bastes; an' they'm got red blood, for all they lives
most-partly in water; an' then I found'em so friendly,
when I was wantun friends badly. But I s'pose the swilefishery's needful; an' I knows, in course, that even Christens' blood's got to be taken sometimes, when it's bad
blood, an' I would n' be childish about they things; on'y, 
ef it's me, - when I can live by fishun, I don' want to go
an' club an' shoot an' cut an' slash among poor harmless
things that'ould never harm man or'oman, an''ould cry
great tears down for pity-sake, an got a sound like a Christen; I'ould n' like to go a-swilun for gain, - not after beun
among'em, way I was, anywa) s."
This apology made it plain that Skipper Benjie was large* Seals.




150        A  Raft that no iMan made.
hearted enough, or indulgent enough, not to seek to strain
others, even his own family, up to his own way in everything; and it might easily be thought that the young
fisherman had different feelings about sealing from those
that the planter's story was meant to bring out. All being
ready, he began his tale again:" I shipped wi' Skipper Isra'l Gooden, from Carbonear:
the schooner was the Baccaloue, wi' forty men, all told.'T was of a Sunday morn'n'e'ould sail, twel'th day o'
March, wi' another schooner in company, - the Sparrow.
There was a many of us was n' too good, but we thowt
wrong -of'e's takun the Lord's Day to'e'sself. - Wull, sir,
afore I comed'ome, I was in a great desert country, an'
floated on sea wi' a monstrous great raft that no man never
made, creakun an' crashun an' groanun an' tumblun an'
wastun an' goun to pieces, an' no man on her but me, an'
full o' livun things, - dreadful!
"About a five hours out,'t was, we first sid the blink,*
an' corned up wi' th' Ice about off Cape Bonavis'. We fell
in wi' it south, an worked up nothe along: but we did n'
see swiles for two or three days yet; on'y we was workun
along; pokun the cakes of ice away, an' haulun through
wi' main strength sometimes, holdun on wi' bights o' ropes
out o' the bow; an' more times, agen, in clear water: sometimes mist all round us,'ee could n' see the ship's len'th,
sca'ce; an' more times snow, jes' so thick; an' then a gale
o' wind, mubbe, would a'most blow all the spars out of her,
seemunly.
"We kep' sight o' th' other schooner, most-partly; an'
when we did n' keep it, we'd get it agen. So one night't was a beautiful moonlight night: I think I never sid a
moon so bright as that moon was; an' such lovely sights
a body'ould n' think could be! Little islands, an' bigger,
agen, there was, on every hand, shinun so bright, wi' great,
awful-lookun shadows! an' then the sea all black, between!
They did look so beautiful as ef a body could go an' bide
* A uull glare on the horizon, from the immense masses of ice,




A  Raft that no Man made.               I51
on em, in a manner; an' the sky was jes' so blue, an' the
stars all shinun out, an' the moon all so bright! I never
looked upon the like. An' so I stood in the bows; an' I
don't know ef I thowt o' God first, but I was thinkun o' my
girl that I was troth-plight wi' then, an' a many things,
when all of a sudden we corned upon the hardest ice we'd
a-had; an' into it; an' then, wi' pokun an' haulun, workun
along. An' there was a cry goed up, —like the cry of a
babby,'t was, an' I thowt mubbe't was a somethun had
got upon one o' they islands; but I said, agen,'How could
it?' an' one John Harris said'e thowt't was a bird. Then
another man (Moffis'e's name was) started off wi' what
they calls a gaff, ('tis somethun like a short boat-hook,)
over the bows, an' run; an' we sid un strike, an' strike,
an' we hard it go wump! wump! an' the cry goun up
so tarrible feelun, seemed as ef'e was murderun some poor
wild Inden child'e'd a-found, (on'y mubbe'e would n' do
so bad as that: but there've a-been tarrible bloody, cruel
work wi' Indens in my time,) an' then'e corned back wi'
a white-coat * over'e's shoulder; an' the poor thing was n'
dead, but cried an' soughed like any poor little babby."
The young wife was very restless at this point, and, though
she did not look up, I saw her tears. The stout fisherman
smoothed out the net a little upon his knee, and drew it
in closer, and heaved a great sigh: he did not look at his
hearers.
"When'e throwed it down, it walloped, an' cried, an'
soughed, - an' its poor eyes blinded wi' blood! ('Ee sees,
sir," said the planter, by way of excusing his tenderness,
"they swiles were friends to I, after.) Dear, 0 dear! I
could n' stand it; for'e might ha' killed un; an' so'e goes
for a quart o' rum, for fetchun first swile, an' I went an'
put the poor thing out o' pain. I did n' want to look at
they beautiful islands no more, somehow. Bumby it comed
on thick, an' then snow.
" Nex' day swiles bawlun t every way, poor things! (I
* A young seal.     t Technical word for the crying of the seals




152        A  Raft that no Man made.
knowed their voice, now,) but't was blowun a gale o' wi.ad
an' we under bare poles, an' snow comun agen, so fast as
ever it could come: but out the men'ould go, all mad like,
an' my watch goed, an' so I mus' go. (I did n' think what
I was goun to!) The skipper never said no; but to keep
near the schooner, an' fetch in first we could, close by; an'
keep near the schooner.
"So we got abroad, an' the men that was wi' me jes
began to knock right an' left:'t was heartless to see an'
hear it. They laved two old uns an' a young whelp to me,
as they runned by. The mother did cry like a Christen,
in a manner, an' the big tears'ould run down, an' they'ould
both be so brave for the poor whelp that'ould cuddle up
an' cry; an' the mother looked this way an' that way, wi'
big, pooty, black eyes, to see what was the manun of it,
when they'd never doned any harm in God's world that'E
made, an' would n', even ef you killed'em: on'y the poor
mother baste ketched my gaff, that I was goun to strike
wi', betwixt her teeth, an' 1 could n' get it away.'T was n'
like fishun! (I was weak hearted like: I s'pose't was wi'
what was comun that I did n' know.) Then comed a hail,
all of a sudden, from the schooner; (we had n' been gone
mor n' a five minutes, ef'twas so much, - no, not mor'n
a three:) but I was glad to hear it come then, however:
an' so every man ran, one afore t' other. There the schooner was, tearun through all, an' we runnun for dear life. I
falled among the slob,+ and got out agen.'T was another
man pushun agen me doned it. I could n''elp myself from
goun in, an' when I got out I was astarn of all, an' there
was the schooner carryun on, right through to clear water 
So, hold of a bight o' line, or anything! an' they swung
up in over bows an' sides! an' swash! she struck the
water, an' was out o' sight in a minute an' the snow drivun
as ef't would bury her, an' a man laved behind on a pan
of ice, an' the great black say two fathom ahead, an' the
storm-wind blowun'im into it!"
* Broken ice, between large cakes, or against the shce.




A  Raft that no Man made.                153
The planter stopped speaking. We had all gone along
so with the story, that the stout seafarer, as he wrought
the whole scene up about us, seemed instinctively to lean
back and brace his feet against the ground, and clutch his
net. The young woman looked up, this time; and the
cold snow-blast seemed to howl through that still summer's
noon, and the terrific ice-fields and hills to be crashing
against the solid earth that we sat upon, and all things
round changed to the far-off stormy ocean and boundless
frozen wastes.
The planter began to speak again:"So I failed right down upon th' ice, sayun,  Lard, help
me  Lard, help me!' an' crawlun away, wi' the snow in
my face, (I was afeard, a'most, to stand,)'Lard, help me!
Lard, help me!'
"'T was n' all hard ice, but many places lolly; * an' once
I goed right down wi' my hand-wrist's an' my arm's in
cold water, part-ways to the bottom  o' th' ocean; and
a'most head-first into un, as I'd a-been in wi' my legs
afore: but, thanks be to God!'E helped me out of un,
but colder an' wetter agen.
"In course I wanted to folly the schooner; so I runned
up along, a little ways from the edge, an' then I runned
down along; but't was all great black ocean outside, an'
she gone miles an' miles away; an' by two hours' time,
even ef she'd come to, itself, an' all clear weather, I could n'
never see her; an' ef she could come back, she could n'
never find me, more'n I could find any one o' the flakes o'
snow. The schooner was gone, an' I was laved out o'
the world!
" Bumby, when I got on the big field agen, I stood up
on my feet, an' I sid that was my ship! She had n' e'er a
sail, an' she had n' e'er a spar, an' she had n' e'er a compass,
an' she had n' e'er a helm, an' she had n' no hold, an' she
had n' no cabin. I could n' sail her, nor I could n' steer
her, nor I could n' anchor her, nor bring her to, but she
e Snow in water, not yet frozen, but looking like the white ice.




154        A  Raft that no Man made.
would go, wind or calm, an' she'd never come to port, but
out in th' ocean she'd go to pieces! I sid't was so, an' I
must take it, an' do my best wi' it.'T was jest a great,
white, frozen raft, driftun bodily away, wi' storm blowun
over, an' current runnun under, an' snow comun down so
thick, an' a poor Christen laved all alone wi' it.'T would
drift as long as anything was of it, an''t was n' likely there'd
be any life in the poor man by time th' ice goed to nawthun; an' the swiles'ould swim back agen up to the Nothe!
" I was th' only one, seemunly, to be cast out alive, an'
wi' the dearest maid in the world (so I thought) waitun for
me. I s'pose'ee might ha' knowed somethun better, sir;
but I was n' lamed, an' I ran so fast as ever I could up
the way I thowt home was, an' I groaned, an' groaned, an'
shook my hand's, an' then I thowt,' Mubbe I may be goun
wrong way.' So I groaned to the Lard to stop the snow.
Then I on'y ran this way an' that way, an' groaned for
snow to knock off.*  I knowed we was driftun mubbe a
twenty leagues a day, and anyways I wanted to be doun
what I could, keepun up over th' Ice so well as I could,
Noofoundland-ways, an' I might come to somethun, -to a
schooner or somethun; anyways I'd get up so near as I
could. So I looked for a lee. I s'pose'ee'd ha' knowed
better what to do, sir," said the planter, here again appealing to me, and showing by his question that he understood
me, in spite of my pea-jacket.
I had been so carried along with his story that I had felt
as if I were the man on the Ice myself, and assured him
that, though I could get along pretty well on land, and
could even do something at netting, I should -have been
very awkward in his place.
"Wull, sir, I looked for a lee. ('T would n' ha' been so
cold, to say cold, ef it had n' a-blowed so tarrible hard.)
First step, I stumbled upon somethun in the snow, seemed
soft, like a body! Then I comed all together, hopun an'
fearun an' all together. Down I goed upon my knees to
* To stop.




A  Raft thazt no Man made.             155
un, an' I smoothed away the snow, all tremblun, an' there
was a moan, as ef't was a-livun.
"'0 Lard!' I said,'who's this?  Be this one of oux
men?'
"But how could it?  So I scraped the snow away, but't was easy to see't was smaller than a man. There was n'
no man on that dreadful place but me! Wull, sir,'t was
a poor swile, wi' blood runnun all under; an' I got my
cuffs * an' sleeves all red wi' it. It looked like a fellowcreatur's blood, a'most, an' I was a lost man, left to die
away out there in th' Ice, an' I said,' Poor thing! poor thing!'
an' I did n' mind about the wind, or th' ice, or the schooner
goun away from me afore a gale (I wouldn' mind about'em),
an' a poor lost Christen may show a good turn to a hurt
thing, ef't was on'y a baste. So I smoothed away the snow
wi' my cuffs, an' I sid't was a poor thing wi' her whelp close
by her, an' her tongue out, as ef she'd a-died fondlun an'
lickun it; an' a great puddle o' blood, -it looked tarrible
heartless, when I was so nigh to death, an' was n' hungry.
An' then I feeled a stick, an' I'thowt,'It may be a help to
me,' an' so I pulled un, an' it would n' come, an' I found she
was lyun on it so I hauled agen, an', when it comed,'t was
my gaff the poor baste had got away from me, an' got it
under her, an' she was a-lyun on it. Some o' the men, when
they was runnun for dear life, must ha' struck'em, out o'
madness like, an' laved'em to die where they was.'T was
the whelp was n' quite dead.'Ee 11 think't was foolish, sir,
but it seemed as though they was somethun to me, an' I'd
a-lost the last friendly thing there was.
" I found a big hum.mock an' sheltered under it, standun
on my feet, wi' nawthun to do but think, an' think, an' pray
to God; an' so I doned. I could n' help feelun to God
then, surely. Nawthun to do, an' no place to go, tull snow
cleared away; but jes' drift wi' the great Ice down from
the Nothe, away down over the say, a sixty mile a day,
mubbe. I was n' a good Christen, an' I could n' help
* Mittena




~56        A  Raft tiha  no Man made.
a-thinkun o' home an' she I was troth-plight wi', an' I
doubled over myself an' groaned, - I could n' help it: but
bumby it comed into me to say my prayers, an' it seemed
as thof she was askun me to pray, (an' she was good, sir,
al'ays,) an' I seemed all opened, somehow, an' I knowed
how to pray."
While the words were coming tenderly from the weatherbeaten fisherman, I could not help being moved, and
glanced over toward the daughter's seat; but she was
gone, and, turning round, I saw her going quietly, almost
stealthily, and very quickly, toward the cove.
The father gave no heed to her leaving, but went on with
his tale: -
"Then the wind began to fall down, an' the snow knocked
off altogether, an' the sun comed out; an' I sid th' Ice,
field-ice an' icebargs, an' every one of'em flashun up as ef
they'd kendled up a bonfire, but no sign of a schooner!
no sign of a schooner! nor no sign o' man's douns, but
on'y ice, every way, high an' low, an' some places black
water, in-among; an' on'y the poor swiles bawlun all over,
an' I standun amongst'em.
"While I was lookun out, I sid a great icebarg (they
calls'em) a quarter of a mile away, or thereabouts, standun
up, - one end a twenty fathom out o' water, an' about a
forty fathom across, wi' hills like, an' houses, -an' then,
jest as ef'e was alive an' had tooked a notion in'e'sself,
seemunly, all of a sudden'e rared up, an' turned over an'
over, wi' a tarrible thunderun noise, an' comed right on,
breakun everything an' throwun up great seas:'t was frightsome for a lone body away out among'em! I stood an'
looked at un, but then agen I thowt I may jes' so well be
goun to thick ice an' over Noofoundland-ways a piece, so
well as I could. So I said my bit of a prayer, an' told Un
I could n' help myself; an' I made my confession how bad
I'd been, an' I was sorry, an' et'E'd be so pitiful an' forgive me; an' ef I mus' loss my life, ef'E'd be so good as
make me a good Christen first, - an' make they happy, in
course.




A  Raft that no Man made.               I57
" So then I started; an' first I goed to where my gaff
was, by the mother-swile an' her whelp. There was swiles
every two or three yards a'most, old uns an' young uns, all
round, everywhere; an' I feeled shamed in a manner: but
I got my gaff, an' cleaned un, an' then, in God's name, I
took the big swile, that was dead by its dead whelp, an'
hauled it away, where the t' other poor things could n' si'
me, an' I sculped * it, an' took the pelt;- for I thowt I'd
wear un, now the poor dead thing did n' want to make oose
of un no more, —an' partly because'twas sech a lovun
thing. An' so I set out, walkun this way, for a spurt, an'
then t' other way, keepun up mostly a Nor-norwest, so well
as I could: sometimes away round th' open, an' more times
round a lump of ice, an' more times, agen, off from one an'
on to another, every minute. I did n' feel hungry, for I
drinked fresh water off th' ice. No schooner! no schooner!
"Bumby the sun was goun down:'t was slow work
feelun my way along, an' I did n' want to look about: but
then agen I thowt God'ad made it to be sid; an' so I
come to, an' turned all round, an' looked; an' surely it
seemed like another world, some way,'t was so beautiful, -
yellow, an' different sorts o' red, like the sky itself in a
manner, an' flashun like glass. So then it comed night:
an' I thowt I shouldn' go to bed, an' I may forget my
prayers, an' so I'd, mubbe, best say'em right away; an'
so I doned:'Lighten our darkness,' and others we was
oosed to say: an' it comed into my mind the Lard said to
Saint Peter,' Why did n''ee have faith?' when there was
nawthun on the water for un to go on; an' I had ice under
foot, -'t was but frozen water, but't was frozen,  an' I
thanked Un.
"I could n' help thinkun o' Brigus an' them  I'd laved
in it, an' then I prayed for'em; an' I could n' help cryun,
a'most: but then I give over agen, an' would n' think, ef I
could help it; on'y tryun to say an odd psalm, all through
singun-psalms an' other, for I knowed a many of'em by
* Skinned.
K




I58         A  Raft that no Man made.
singun wi' Patience, on'y now I cared more about'em: I
said that one, -'Sech as in ships an' brickle barks
Into the seas descend,
Their merchantun, through fearful floods,
To compass an' to end:
They men are force-put to behold
The Lard's works, what they be;
An' in the dreadful deep the same
Most marvellous they see.'
An' I said a many more, (I can't be accountable how many
I said,) an' same uns many times over: for I would keep
on; an''ould sometimes sing'em very loud in my poor
way.
" A poor baste (a silver fox'e was) corned an' looked at
me; an' when I turned round, he walked away a piece, an'
then'e cored back, an' looked.
" So I found a high piece, wi' a wall of ice atop for
shelter, ef it coned on to blow; an' so I stood, an' said,
an' sung. I knowed well I was on'y driftun away.
" It was tarrible lonely in the night, when night comed:
it's no use!'T was tarrible lonely: but I'ouldn' think,
ef I could help it; an' I prayed a bit, an' kep' up my
psalms, an' varses out o' the Bible, I'd a-larned. I had n'
a-prayed for sleep, but for wakun all night, an' there I was
standun.
"The moon was out agen, so bright; an' all the hills of
ice shinun up to her; an' stars twinklun, so busy, all over;
an' No'ther' Lights goun up wi' a faint blaze, seemunly,
from th' ice, an' meetun up aloft; an' sometimes a great
groanun, an' more times tarrible loud shriekun! There
was great white fields, an' great white hills, like countries,
comun down to be destroyed; an' some great bargs a-goun
faster, an' tearun through, breakun others to pieces; an'
the groanun an' screechun, - ef all the dead that ever was,
wi' their white clothes - But no!" said the stout fisherman,
recalling himself from gazing, as he seemed to be, on the
far-off ghastly scene, in memory.




A  Raft that no Man made.                59
"No  - an' thank'E's marcy, I'm sittun by my own
room.'E took me off: but't was a divadful sight, -- it's
no use, - ef a body'd let'e'sself think! I sid a great
black bear, an' hard un growl; an''twas feelun, like, to
hear un so bold an' so stout, among all they dreadful things,
an' bumby the time'ould come when'e could n' save'e'sself, do what'e woul'.
"An' more times't was all still: on'y swiles bawlun, all
over. Ef it had n' a-been for they poor swiles, how could
I stan' it? Many's the one I'd a-ketched, day-time, an'
talked to un, an' patted un on the head, as ef they'd a-been
dogs by the door, like; an' they'd oose to shut their eyes,
an' draw  their poor foolish faces together.  It seemed
neighbor-like to have some live thing.
" So I kep' awake, sayun an' singun, an' it was n' very
cold; an' so - first thing I knowed, I started, an there I
was lyun in a heap; an' I must have been asleep, an' did n'
know how't was, nor how long I'd a-been so: an' some
sort o' baste started away, an''e must have waked me up;
I could n' rightly see what't was, wi' sleepiness: an' then
I hard a sound, sounded like breakers; an' that waked me
fairly.'T was like a lee-shore; an''t was a comfort to
think o' land, ef't was on'y to be wrecked on itself; but I
did n' go, an' I stood an' listened to un; an' now an' agen
I'd walk a piece, back an' forth, an' back an' forth; an' so
I passed a many, many longsome hours, seemunly, tull
night goed down tarrible slowly, an' it comed up day o'
t' other side: an' there was n' no land; nawthun but great
mountains meltun an' breakun up, an' fields wastun away.
I sid'twas a rollun barg made the noise like breakers,
throwun up great seas o' both sides of un; no sight nor
sign o' shore, nor ship, but dazun white, -enough to blind
a body, -an' I knowed't was all floatun away, over the
say. Then I said my prayers, an' tooked a drink o' water,
an' set out agen for Nor-norwest:'twas all I could do.
Sometimes snow, an' more times fair agen; but no sign
o' man's things, an' no sign o' land, on'y white ice-an' black




i6o        A  Raft that no Man made.
water; an' ef a schooner was n' into un a'ready,'t was n
likely they woul', for we was gettun furder an' furder away
Tired I was wi' goun, though I had n' walked more n' a
twenty or thirty mile, mubbe, an' it all comun down so fast
as I could go up, an' faster, an' never stoppun!'T was a
tarrible long journey up over the driftun ice, at sea! So,
then I went on a high bit to wait tull all was done: I thowt't would be last to melt, an' mubbe, I thowt,'e may capsize
wi' me, when I did n' know (for I don't say I was stouthearted): an' I prayed Un to take care o' them I loved;
an' the tears comed. Then I felt somethun tryun to turn
me round like, an' it seemed as ef she was doun it, somehow, an' she seemed to be very nigh, somehow, an' I did n'
look.
" After a bit, I got up to look out where most swiles was,
for company, while I was livun: an' the first look struck
me a'most like a bullet! There I sid a sail!'Twas a
sail, an''t was like heaven openun, an' God settun her down
there. About three mile away she was, to nothe'ard, in th'
Ice.
" I could ha' sid, at first look, what schooner't was; but
I did n' want to look hard at her. I kep' my peace, a spurt,
an' then I runned an' bawled out.'Glory be to God!' an'
then I stopped an' made proper thanks to Un. An' there
she was, same as ef I'd a-walked off from her an hour
ago! It felt so long as ef I'd been livun years, an' they
would n' know me, sca'ce. Somehow I did n' think I could
come up wi' her.
"I started, in the name o' God, wi' all my might, an'
went, an' went, -'t was a five mile, wi' goun round, - an'
got her, thank God!'T was n' the Baccaloue, (I sid that
long before,)'t was t' other schooner, the Sparrow, repairun
damages they'd got day before. So that kep''em there,
an' I'd a-been took from one an' brought to t' other.
"'I could n' do a hand's turn tull we got into the Bay
agen,- I was so clear beat out. The Sparrow kep' her
men, an' fotch home about thirty-eight hundred s wiles, an'




A  Raft that no Man made.              I6i
a poor man off th' Ice: but they, poor fellows, that 1 went
out wi' never cored no more; an' I never went agen.
"I kep' the skin o' the poor baste, sir: that's'e on my
cap."
When the planter had fairly finished his tale, it was a
little while before I could teach my eyes to see the things
about me in their places. The slow-going sail, outside, I
at first saw as the schooner that brought away the lost man
from the Ice; the green of the earth would not, at first,
show itself through the white with which the fancy covered
it; and at first I could not quite feel that the ground was
fast under my feet. I even mistook one of my own men
(the sight of whom was to warn me that I was wanted
elsewhere) for one of the crew of the schooner Sparrow of
a generation ago.
I got the tale and its scene gathered away, presently,
inside my mind, and shook myself into a present association with surrounding things, and took my leave. I went
away the more gratified that I had a chance of lifting my
cap to a matron, dark-haired and comely, (who, I was sure,
at a glance, had once been the maiden of. Benjie Westham's "troth-plight,") and receiving a handsome courtesy
in return.




WHY THOMAS WAS DISCHARGED.
RANT Beach is a long promontory of rock and
sand, jutting out at an acute angle from a barren
portion of the coast. Its farthest extremity is
marked by a pile of many-colored, wave-washed bowlders;
its junction with the mainland is the site of the Brant
House, a watering-place of excellent repute.
The attractions of this spot are not numerous. There is
surf-bathing all along the outer side of the beach, and good
swimming on the inner. The fishing is fair; and in still
weather, yachting is rather a favorite amusement. Further
than this, there is little to be said, save that the hotel is
conducted upon liberal principles, and the society generally
select.
But to the lover of Nature, - and who has the courage
to avow himself aught else? -the sea-shore can never be
monotonous. The swirl and sweep of ever-shifting waters,
- the flying mist of foam breaking away into a gray and
ghostly distance down the beach,   the eternal drone of
ocean, mingling itself with one's talk by day and with the
light dance-music in the parlors by night, - all these are
active sources of a passive pleasure. And to lie at length
upon the tawny sand, watching, through half-closed eyes,
the heaving waves, that mount against a dark-blue sky
wherein great silvery masses of cloud float idly on, whiter
than the sunlit sails that fade and grow and fade along the
horizon, while some fair damsel sits close by, reading an
cient ballads of a simple metre, or older legends of love




Why Thomas zeas Discharged.             163
and romance, - tell me, my eater of the fashionable lotos,
is not this a diversion well worth your having?
There is an air of easy sociality among the guests at the
Brant House, a disposition on the part of all to contribute
to the general amusement, that makes a summer sojourn
on the beach far more agreeable than in certain larger,
more frequented watering-places, where one is always in
danger of discovering that the gentlemanly person with
whom he has been fraternizing is a faro-dealer, or that the
lady who has half fascinated him  is Anonyma herself.
Still, some consider the Brant rather slow, and -many good
folk were a trifle surprised when Mr. Edwin Salisbury and
Mr. Charles Burnham arrived by the late stage from Wikahasset Station, with trunks enough for two first-class belles,
and a most unexceptional man-servant in gray livery, in
charge of two beautiful setter-dogs.
These gentlemen seemed to have imagined that they were
about visiting some backwoods wilderness, some savage
tract of country, "remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow ";
for they brought almost everything with them that men of
elegant leisure could require, as if the hotel were but four
walls and a roof, which they must furnish with their own
chattels. I am sure it took Thomas, the man-servant, a
whole day to unpack the awnings, the bootjacks, the gamebags, the cigar-boxes, the guns, the camp-stools, the liquorcases, the bathing-suits, and other paraphernalia that these
pleasure-seekers brought. It must be owned, however, that
their room, a large one in the Bachelor's Quarter, facing
the sea, wore a very comfortable, sportsmanlike look, when
all was arranged.
Thus surrounded, the young men betook themselves to
the deliberate pursuit of idle pleasures. They arose at
nine and went down to the shore, invariably returning at
ten with one unfortunate snipe, which was preserved on ice,
with much ceremony, till wanted. At this rate, it took
them a week to shoot a breakfast; but to see them sally
forth, splendid in velveteen and corduroy, with top-boots and




164       Why  Thomas was Discharged.
a complete harness of green cord and patent-leather straps,
you would have imagined that all game-birds were about to
become extinct in that region. Their dogs, even, recognized this great-cry-and-little-wool condition of things, and
bounded off joyously at the start, but came home crestfallen, with an air of canine humiliation that would have
aroused Mr. Mayhew's tenderest sympathies.
After breakfasting, usually in their room, the friends enjoyed a long and contemplative smoke upon the wide
piazza in front of their windows, listlessly regarding the
ever-varied marine view that lay before them  in flashing breadth and beauty. Their next labor was to array
themselves in wonderful morning-costumes of very shaggy
English cloth, shiny flasks and field-glasses about their
shoulders, and loiter down the beach, to the point and back,
making much unnecessary effort over the walk,   a brief
mile, - which they spoke of with importance, as their "constitutional." This killed time till bathing-hour, and then
came another smoke on the piazza, and another toilet, for
dinner. After dinner, a siesta: in the room, when the
weather was fresh; when otherwise, in hammocks, hung
from the rafters of the piazza. When they had been domiciled a few days, they found it expedient to send home for
what they were pleased to term their " crabs " and " traps,"
and excited the envy of less fortunate guests by driving up
and down the beach at a racing gait to dissipate the languor of the after-dinner sleep.
This was their regular routine for the day, - varied, occasionally, when the tide served, by a fishing-trip down the
narrow bay inside the point. For such emergencies, they
provided themselves with a sail-boat and skipper, hired for
the whole season, and arrayed themselves in a highly
nautical rig. The results were, large quantities of sardines
and pale sherry consumed by the young men, and a reasonable number of sea-bass and black-fish caught by their
skipper.
There were no regular "hops" at the Brant House, but




Why  Thomas was Discharged.            I65
dancing in a quiet way every evening, to a flute, violin,
and violoncello, played by some of the waiters. For a
time, Burnham and Salisbury did not mingle much in these
festivities, but loitered about the halls and piazzas, very
elegantly dressed and barbered, (Thomas was an unrivalled
coiffeur,) and apparently somewhat ennzye.
That two well-made, full-grown, intelligent, and healthy
young men should lead such a life as this for an entire
summer might surprise one of a more active temperament.
The aimlessness and vacancy of an existence devoted to
no earthly purpose save one's own comfort must soon weary
any man who knows what is the meaning of real, earnest
life, -life with a battle to be fought and a victory to be
won. But these elegant young gentlemen comprehended
nothing of all that: they had been born with golden
spoons in their mouths, and educated only to swallow the
delicately insipid lotos-honey that flows inexhaustibly from
such shining spoons. Clothes, complexions, polish of manner, and the avoidance of any sort of shock, were the
simple objects of their solicitude.
I do not know that I have any serious quarrel with such
fellows, after all. They have some strong virtues. They
are always clean; and your rough diamond, though manly
and courageous as Cceur-de-Lion, is not apt to be scrupulously nice in his habits. Affability is another virtue. The
Salisbury and Burnham kind of man bears malice toward
no one, and is disagreeable only when assailed by some hammer-and-tongs utilitarian. All he asks is to be permitted
to idle away his pleasant life unmolested. Lastly, he is
extremely ornamental. We all like to see pretty things;
and I am sure that Charley Burnham, in his fresh white
duck suit, with his fine, thoroughbred face-gentle as a
girl's- shaded by a snowy Panama, his blonde moustache
carefully pointed, his golden hair clustering in the most
picturesque possible waves, his little red neck-ribbon - the
only bit of color in his dress - tied in a studiously careless
knot, and his pure, untainted gloves of pearl-gray or




i66        Why  Thomas was Discharged.
lavender, was, if I may be allowed the expression, just as
pretty as a picture. And Ned Salisbury was not less " a
joy forever," according to the dictum of the late Mr. Keats.
He was darker than Bumham, with very black hair, and
a moustache worn in the manner the French call triste,
which became him, and increased the air of pensive melancholy that distinguished his dark eyes, thoughtful attitudes,
and slender figure. Not that he was in the least degree
pensive or melancholy, or that he had cause to be; quite
the contrary; but it was his style, and he did it well.
These two butterflies sat, one afternoon, upon the piazza,
smoking very large cigars, lost, apparently, in profoundest
meditation. Burnham, with his graceful head resting upon
one delicate hand, his clear blue eyes full of a pleasant light,
and his face warmed by a calm unconscious smile, might
have been revolving some splended scheme of universal
philanthropy.  The only utterance, however, forced from
him by the sublime thoughts that permeated his soul, was
the emission of a white rolling volume of fragrant smoke,
accompanied by two words:
" Dooced hot!"
Salisbury did not reply. He sat, leaning back, with his
fingers interlaced behind his head, and his shadowy eyes
downcast, as in sad remembrance of some long-lost love.
So might a poet have looked, while steeped in mournfully
rapturous day-dreams of remembered passion and severance. So might Tennyson's hero have mused, when he
sang,
" 0, that'twele possible,
After long grief and pain,
To find the arms of my true love
Round me once again  "
But the poetic lips opened not to such numbers. Salisbury
gazed, long and earnestly, and finally gave vent to his emo.
tions, indicating, with the amber tip of his cigar-tube, th,
setter that slept in the sunshine at his feet.'Shocking place, this, for dogs! "-I regret to say he




Why  Thomas was Discharged.              I67
pronounced it "dawgs." --  Why, Carlo is as fat — as fat
as-as a-"
His mind was unequal to a simile, even, and he terminated the sentence in a murmur.
More silence; more smoke; more profound meditation.
Directly, Charley Burnham looked around with some show
of vitality.
" There comes the stage," said he.
The driver's bugle rang merrily among the drifted sandhills that lay warm and glowing in the orange light of the
setting sun.  The young men leaned forward over the
piazza-rail, and scrutinized the occupants of the vehicle, as
it appeared.
"Old gentleman and lady, aw, and two children," said
Ned Salisbury; " I hoped there would be some nice girls."
This, in a voice of ineffable tenderness and poetry, but
with that odd, tired little drawl, so epidemic in some of our
universities.
" Look there, by Jove!" cried Charley, with a real interest at last; " now that's what I call the regular thing! "
The " regular thing" was a low, four-wheeled pony-chaise
of basket-work, drawn by two jolly little fat ponies, black
and shiny as vulcanite, which jogged rapidly in, just far
enough behind the stage to avoid its dust..
This vehicle was driven by a young lady of decided
beauty, with a spice of Amazonian spirit. She was rather
slender and very straight, with a jaunty little hat and
feather perched coquettishly above her dark-brown hair,
which was arranged in one heavy mass and confined in a
silken net. Her complexion was clear, without brilliancy;
her eyes blue as the ocean horizon, and spanned by sharp,
characteristic brows; her mouth small and decisive; and
her whole cast of features indicative of quick talent and
independence.
Upon the seat beside her sat another damsel, leaning
indolently back in the corner of the carriage. This one
was a little fairei than the first, having one of those beauti



i68       Why  Thomas was Discharged.
ful English complexions of mingled rose and snow, and a
dash of gold-dust in her hair, where the sun touched it.
Her eyes, however, were dark hazel, and full of fire, shaded
and intensified by their long, sweeping lashes. Her mouth
was a rose-bud, and her chin and throat faultless in the
delicious curve of their lines. In a word, she was somewhat of the Venus-di-Milo type: her companion was more
of a Diana. Both were neatly habited in plain travellingdresses and cloaks of black and white plaid, and both
seemed utterly unconscious of the battery of eyes and eyeglasses that enfiladed them from the whole length of the
piazza, as they passed.
"Who are they?" asked Salisbury; "I don't know
them."
"Nor I," said Burnham; "but they look like people to
know. They must be somebody."
Half an hour later, the hotel-office was besieged by a
score of young men, all anxious for a peep at the last
names upon the register. It is needless to say that our
friends were not in the crowd. Ned Salisbury was no more
the man to exhibit curiosity than Charley Burnham was
the man to join in a scramble for anything under the sun.
They had educated their emotions clear down, out of sight,
and piled upon them a mountain of well-bred inertia.
But, somehow or other, these fellows who take no trouble
are always the first to gain the end. A special Providence
seems to aid the poor, helpless creatures. So, while the
crowd still pressed at the office-desk, Jerry Swayne, the
head clerk, happened to pass directly by the piazza where
the inert ones sat, and, raising a comical eye, saluted them.
"Heavy arrivals to-night. See the turn-out?"
"Y-e-s," murmured Ned.
"Old Chapman and family. His daughter drove the
pony-phaiton, with her friend, a Miss Thurston. Regular
nobby ones. Chapman's.the steamship-man, you know.
Worth thousands of millions! I'd like to be connected
with his family- by marriage, say! "  and Jerry vent off,




Why Thomas was Discharged.             I69
rubbing his cropped head, and smiling all over, as was his
wont.
"I know who they are now," said Charley. "Met a
cousin of theirs, Joe Faulkner, abroad, two years ago.
Dooced fine fellow. Army."
The manly art of wagoning is not pursued very vigorously at Brant Beach. The roads are too heavy back from
the water, and the drive is confined to a narrow strip
of wet sand along the shore; so carriages are few, and
the pony-chaise became a distinguished element at once.
Salisbury and Burnham whirled past it in their light trotting-wagons at a furious pace, and looked hard at the two
young ladies in passing, but without eliciting even the
smallest glance from them in return.
" Confounded dislingua-looking girls, and all that," owned
Ned; "but, aw, fearfully unconscious of a fellow! "
This condition of matters continued until the young men
were actually driven to acknowledge to each other that
they should not mind knowing the occupants of the ponycarriage, It was a great concession, and was rewarded
duly. A bright, handsome boy of seventeen, Miss Thurston's brother, came to pass a few days at the seaside, and
fraternized with everybody, but was especially delighted
with Ned Salisbury, who took him out sailing and shooting,
and, I am afraid, gave him cigars stealthily, when out of
range of Miss Thurston's fine eyes.' The result was, that
the first time the lad walked on the beach with the two
girls, and met the young men, introductions of an enthusiastic nature were instantly sprung upon them. An attempt
at conversation followed.
"How do you like Brant Beach? " asked Ned.
0, it is a pretty place," said Miss Chapman, "but not
lively enough."
"Well, Burnham and I find it pleasant; aw, we have
lots of fun.'
"Indeed! Why, what do you do?"
"0, I don't know. Everything."




170        Why  Thomas was Discharged.
"Is the shooting good?  I saw you with your guns,
yesterday."
" Well, there is n't a great deal. of game. There is some
fishing, but we have n't caught much."
"How do you kill time, then?"
Salisbury looked puzzled.
"Aw - it is a first-rate air, you know. The table is good,
and you can sleep like a top. And then, you see, I like to
smoke around, and do nothing, on the sea-shore.  It is
real jolly to lie on the sand, aw, with all sorts of little bugs
running over you, and listen to the water swashing about  "
"Let's try it!" cried vivacious Miss Chapman; and
down she sat on the sand. The others followed her example, and in five minutes they were picking up pretty
pebbles and chatting away as sociably as could be. The
rumble of the warning gong surprised them.
At dinner, Burnham and Salisbury took seats opposite
the ladies, and were honored with.an introduction to papa
and mamma, a very dignified, heavy, rosy, old-school couple,
who ate a good deal, and said very little. That evening,
when flute and viol wooed the lotos-eaters to agitate the
light fantastic toe, these young gentlemen found.themselves
in dancing humor, and revolved themselves into a grievous
condition of glow and wilt, in various mystic and intoxicating measures with their new-made friends.
On retiring, somewhat after midnight, Miss Thurston
paused, while " doing her hair," and addressed Miss Chapman.
"Did you observe, Hattie, how very handsome those
gentlemen are? Mr. Burnham looks like a prince of the
sang azur, and Mr. Salisbury like his poet-laureate."'Yes, dear," responded Hattie; "I have been considering those flowers of the field and lilies of the valley."
4 Ned," said Charley, at about the same time, "we won't
find anything nicer here, this season, I think."
"They're pretty well worth while," replied Ned; "and
I'm rather pleased with them."




Why Thomas was Discharged.            17I
"Which do you like best?"
" 0, bother! I have n't thought of that yet."
The next day the young men delayed their "constitu.
tional" until the ladies were ready to walk, and the four
strolled off together, mamma and the children following
in the pony-chaise. At the rocks on the end of the point,
Ned got his feet very wet, fishing up specimens of seaweed for the damsels; and Charley exerted himself superhumanly in assisting them to a ledge which they considered
favorable for sketching purposes.
In the afternoon a sail was arranged, and they took dinner on board the boat, with any amount of hilarity and a
good deal of discomfort. In the evening, more dancing,
and vigorous attentions to both the young ladies, but without a shadow of partiality being shown by either of the
four.
This was very nearly the history of many days. It does
not take long to get acquainted with people who are willing,
especially at a watering-place; and in the course of a few
weeks, these young folks were, to all intents and purposes,
old friends, - calling each other by their given names, and
conducting themselves with an easy familiarity quite charming to behold. Their amusements were mostly in common
now. The light wagons were made to hold two each, instead of one, and the matinal snipe escaped death, and
was happy over his early worm.
One day, however, Laura Thurston had a headache, and
Hattie Chapman stayed at home to take care of her; so
Burnham and Salisbury had to amuse themselves alone.
They took their boat, and idled about the water, inside
the point, dozing under an awning, smoking, gaping, and
wishing that headaches were out of fashion, while the
taciturn and tarry skipper instructed the dignified and
urbane Thomas in the science of trolling for blue-fish.
At length Ned tossed his cigar-end overboard, and braced
himself for an effort.
" I say, Charley," said he, "this sort of thing can't go on
forever, you know. I've been thinking, lately."




172        Why Thomas was Discharged.' Phencmenon!" replied Charley; "and what have you
been thinking about?"
"Those girls. We've got to choose."
"Why? Is n't it well enough as it is? "
"Yes, - so far. But I think, aw, that we don't quite do
them justice. They're grands piartis, you see. I hate to
see clever girls wasting themselves on society, waiting and
waiting, — and we fellows swimming about just like fish
round a hook that is n't baited properly."
Charley raised himself upon his elbow.
"You don't mean to tell me, Ned, that you have matrimonial intentions?"
" 0, no! Still, why not? We've all got to come to it,
some day, I suppose."
"Not yet, though.  It is a sacrifice we can escape for
some years yet."
" Yes, - of course, - some years; but we may begin to
look about us a bit. I'm, aw, L'm  six-and-twenty, you
know."
"And I'm very near that. I suppose a fellow can't put
off the yoke too long. After thirty, chances are n't so good.
I don't know, by Jove! but what we ought to begin thinking of it."
" But it is a sacrifice.  Society must lose a fellow, though,
one time or another. And I don't believe we will ever do
better than we can now."
"Hardly, I suspect."
"And we're keeping other fellows away, maybe. It is a
shame! "
Thomas ran his line in rapidly, with nothing on the hook.
"Capt'n Hu11," he said, gravely, " I had the biggest kind
of a fish then, I'm sure; but d'rectly I went to pull him in,
sir, he took and let go."
" Yaas," muttered the taciturn skipper, " the biggest fish
allers falls back inter the warter."
" I've been thinking a little about this matter, too," said
Charley, after a pause, "and I had about concluded we




Why  Thomas was Discharged.              I73
ought to pair off. But I'1 be confounded, if I know which
I like best! They're both nice girls."
"There is n't much choice," Ned replied. " If they were
as different, now, as you and me, I'd take the blonde, of
course; aw, and you'd take the brunette. But Hattie
Chapman's eyes are blue, and her hair isn't black, you
know; so you can't call her dark, exactly."
"No more than Laura is exactly light. Her hair is
brown, more than golden, and her eyes are hazel. Has n't
she a lovely complexion, though? By Jove! "
"Better than Hattie's. Yet I don't know but Hattie's
features are a little the best."
"They are. Now, honest, Ned, which do you prefer?
Say either; I 11 take the one you don't want. I haven't
any choice."
"Neither have I."
"How will we settle?"
"Aw   throw for it?"
"Yes. Is n't there a backgammon-board forward, in that
locker, Thomas?"
The board was found, and the dice produced.
"The highest takes which?"
"Say, Laura Thurston."
"Very good; throw."
"You first."
"No.  Go on."
Charley threw, with about the same amount of excitement he might have exhibited in a turkey-raffle.
"Five-three," said he. " Now for your luck."
"Six-four! Laura's mine. Satisfied?"
" Perfectly, - if you are. If not, I don't mind exchanging."
"0, no. I'm satisfied."
Both reclined upon the deck once more, with a sigh of
relief, and a long silence followed.
"I say," began Charley, after a time, "it is a comfort to
have these little matters arranged without any trouble, eh?"
L




174       Why  Thomas was Dischargedo
"Y-e-s.'
"Do you know, I think 1'1 mazry mine P?
"I will, if you will."
"Done! it is a bargain."
This "little matter" being arranged, a change gradually
took place in the relations of the four. Ned Salisbury
began to invite Laura Thurston out driving and in bathing
somewhat oftener than before, and Hattie Chapman somewhat less often; while Charley Burnham followed suit with
the last-named young lady. As the line of demarcation
became fixed, the damsels recognized it, and accepted with
gracious readiness the cavaliers that Fate, through the
agency of a chance-falling pair of dice, had allotted to
them.
The other guests of the house remarked the new position
of affairs, and passed whispers about, to the effect that
the girls had at last succeeded in getting their fish on hooks
instead of in a net. No suitors could' havre been more
devoted than our friends. It seemed as if each now bestowed upon the chosen one all the attentions he had
hitherto given to both; and whether they went boating,
sketching, or strolling upon the sands, they were the very
picture of a Rarlie carrie of lovers.
Naturally enough, as the young men became more in
earnest, with the reticence common to my sex, they spoke
less freely and frequently on the subject. Once, however,
after an unusually pleasant afternoon, Salisbury ventured a
few words.
"I say, we're a couple of lucky dogs! Who'd have
thought, now, aw, that our summer was going to turn out
so well? I'm  sure I didn't. How  do you. get along,
Charley, boy? "
"Deliciously.  Smooth sailing enough! Was n't it a
good idea, though, to pair off?  I'm just as happy as a
bee in clover. You seem to prosper, too, heh?"
"Could n't ask anything different. Nothing bilt devotion, and all that. I'm delighted. I say, when are you
going to pop?"




Why  Thomas was Discharged.              I75
0O, I don't know. It is only a matter of form. Sooner
the better, I suppose, and have it over."
" I was thinking of next week. What do you say to a
quiet picnic down on the rocks, and a walk afterward?
We can separate, you know, and do the thing up systematically."
"All right. I will, if you will."
" That's another bargain. I notice there is n't much
doubt about the result, though."
" Hardly! "
A close observer might have seen that the gentlemen
increased their attentions a little from that time. The objects of their devotion perceived it, and smiled more and
more graciously upon them.
The, day set for the picnic arrived duly, and was radiant.
It pains me to confess that my heroes were a trifle nervous.
Their apparel was more gorgeous and wonderful than ever,
and Thomas, who was anxious to be off, courting Miss
Chapman's lady's-maid, found his masters dreadfully exacting in the matter of hair-dressing. At length, however,
the toilet was over, and "Solomon in all his glory " would
have been vastly astonished at finding himself " arrayed as
one of these."
The boat lay at the pier, receiving large quantities of
supplies for the trip, stowed by Thomas, under the supervision of the grim and tarry skipper. When all was ready,
the young men gingerly escorted their fair companions
aboard, the lines were cast off, and the boat glided gently
down the bay, leaving Thomas free to fly to the smart
presence of Susan Jane, and to draw glowing pictures for
her of a neat little porter-house in the city, wherein they
should hold supreme sway, be happy with each other, and
let rooms up-stairs for single gentlemen.
The brisk land-breeze, the swelling sail, the fluttering of
the gay little flag at the gaff, the musical rippling of water
under the counter, and the spirited motion of the boat,
combined with the bland air and pleasant sunshine to




176       Why  Thomas was Discharged.
inspire the party with much vivacity. They had not been
many minutes afloat before the guitar-case was opened,
and the girls' voices - Laura's soprano and Hattie's contralto- rang melodiously over the waves, mingled with
feeble attempts at bass accompaniment from their gorgeous
guardians.
Before these vocal exercises wearied, the skipper hauled
down his jib, let go his anchor, and brought the craft to,
just off the rocks; and bringing the yawl along-side, unceremoniously plumped the girls down into it, without
giving their cavaliers a chance for the least display of agile
courtliness. Rowing ashore, this same tarry person left
them huddled upon the beach with their hopes, their hampers, their emotions, and their baskets, and returned to the
vessel to do a little private fishing on his own account till
wanted.
The maidens gave vent to their high spirits by chasing
each other among the rocks, gathering shells and sea-weed
for the construction of those ephemeral little ornaments 
fair, but frail -in which the sex delights, singing, laughing,
quoting poetry, attitudinizing upon the peaks and ledges
of the fine old bowlders, —mossy and weedy and green
with the wash of a thousand storms, worn into strange
shapes, and stained with the multitudinous dyes of mineral
oxidization,  and, in brief, behaved themselves with all
the charming abandon that so well becomes young girls,
set free, by the entourage of a holiday ramble, from the
buckram and clear-starch of social etiquette.
Meanwhile Ned and Charley smoked the pensive cigar
of preparation in a sheltered corner, and gazed out seaward,
dreaming and seeing nothing.
Erelong the breeze and the romp gave the young ladies
not only a splendid color and sparkling eyes, but excellent
appetites also. The baskets and hampers were speedily
unpacked, the table-cloth laid on a broad, flat stone, so used
by generations of Brant-House picnickers, and the party
fell to. Laura's beautiful hair, a little disordered, swept her




Why  Thomas was Discharged.              177
blaoming cheek, and cast a pearly shadow upon her neck.
Her bright eyes glanced archly out from under her halfraised veil, and there was something inexpressibly naive in
the freedom with which she ate, taking a bird's wing in her
little fingers, and boldly attacking it with teeth as white
and even as can be imagined. Notwithstanding all the
mawkish nonsense that has been put forth by sentimentalists concerning feminine eating, I hold that it is one of the
nicest things in the world to see a pretty woman enjoying
the creature comforts; and Byron himself, had he been
one of this picnic party, would have been unable to resist
the admiration that filled the souls of Burnham and Salisbury. Hattie Chapman stormed a fortress of boned turkey
with a gusto equal to that of Laura, and made highly successful raids upon certain outlying salads and jellies. The
young men were not in a very ravenous condition; they
were, as I have said, a little nervous, and bent their energies principally to admiring the ladies and coquetting with
pickled oysters.
When the repast was over, with much accompanying
chat and laughter, Ned glanced significantly at Charley,
and proposed to Laura that they should walk up the beach
to a place where, he said, there were "some pretty rocks
and things, you know."  She consented, and they marched
off. Hattie also arose, and took her parasol, as if to follow,
but Charley remained seated, tracing mysterious diagrams
upon the table-cloth with his fork, and looking sublimely
unconscious.
"Sha'n't we walk, too?" Hattie asked.
", why, the fact is," said he, hesitantly, "I - I sprained
my ankle, getting out of that confounded boat; so 1 don't
feel much like exercise just now."
The young girl's face expressed concern.
" That is too bad. Why did n't you tell us of it before?
Is it painful? I'm so sorry!"
"N-no, -- it does n't hurt much.  I dare say it will be
8*




178       Why Thomas was Discharged.
all right in a minute. And then -'d just as soon stay
here - with you - as to walk anywhere."
This, very tenderly, with a little sigh.
Hattie sat down again, and began to talk to this factitious cripple, in the pleasant, purring way some damsels
have, about the joys of the sea-shore, - the happy summer
that was, alas! drawing to a close, - her own enjoyment
of life, -and kindred topics, - till Charley saw an excellent opportunity to interrupt with some aspirations of his
own, which, he averred, must be realized before his'life
could be considered a satisfactory success.
If you have ever been placed in analogous circumstances,
you know, of course, just about the sort of thing that was
being said by the two gentlemen at nearly the same moment: Ned, loitering slowly along the sands with Laura
on his arm, - and Charley, stretched in indolent picturesqueness upon the rocks, with Hattie sitting beside him.
If you do not know from experience, ask any candid friend
who has been through the form and ceremony of an orthodox proposal.
When the pedestrians returned, the two couples looked
very hard at each other. All were smiling and complacent,
but devoid of any strange or unusual expression. Indeed,
the countenance is subject to such severe education in
good society, that one almost always looks smiling and
complacent. Demonstration is not fashionable; and a man
must preserve the same demeanor over the loss of a wife
or a glove-button, over the gift of a heart's whole devotion
or a bundle of cigars. Under all these visitations, the
complacent smile is in favor, as the neatest, most serviceable, and convenient form of non-committalism.
The sun was approaching the blue range of misty hills
that bounded the mainland swamps by this time; so the
skipper was signalled, the dinner paraphernalia gathered
up, and the party were soon en route for home once more.
When the young ladies were safely in, Ned and Charley




Why  Thomas was Discharged.             179
met in t:eir room, and each caught the other looking at
him' stealthily. Both smiled.
" Did I give you time, Charley?" asked Ned; "we came
back rather soon."
" 0, yes,- plenty of time."
"Did you-aw, did you pop?"
" Y-es, Did you?"
^Well - yes."
"And you were -"
"Rejected, by Jove!"
"So was I!"
The day following this disastrous picnic, the baggage of
Mr. Edwin Salisbury and Mr. Charles Burnham was sent
to the depot at Wikahasset Station, and they presented
themselves at the hotel-office with a request for their bill.
As Jerry Swayne deposited their key upon its hook, he
drew forth a small tri-cornered billet from the pigeon-hole
beneath, and presented it.
" Left for you, this morning, gentlemen."
It was directed to both, and Charley read it over Ned's
shoulder. It ran thus:
" DEAR BOYS, - The next time you divert yourselves by
throwing dice for two young ladies, we pray you not to do
so in the presence of a valet who is upon terms of intimacy with the maid of one of them.
"With many sincere thanks for the amusement you have
given us,-often when you least suspected it, —we bid
you a lasting adieu, and remain, with the best wishes,
HATTIE CHAPMAN.
"Brant House, Wednesday.      LAURA THURSTON."
"It is aTl the fault of that, aw, that confounded Thomas!"
said Ned
So Thomas was discharged.




VICTOR AND JACQUELINE.
ACQUELINE GABRIE and Elsie MWril could
- not occupy one room, and remain, either of them,
indifferent to so much as might be manifested of
the other's inmost life. They could not emigrate together,
peasants from Domr6my,   Jacqueline so strong, Elsie so
fair;  could not labor in the same harvest-fields, children
of old neighbors, without each being concerned in the welfare and affected by the circumstances of the other.
It was near ten o'clock, one evening, when Elsie Meril
ran up the common stairway, and entered the room in the
fourth story where she and Jacqueline lodged.
Victor Le Roy, student from Picardy, occupied the room
next theirs, and was startled from his slumber by the voices
of the girls. Elsie was fresh from the theatre, from the
first play she had ever witnessed; she came home excited
and delighted, ready to repeat and recite, as long as Jacqueline would listen.
And here was Jacqueline.
Early in the evening Elsie had sought her friend with a
good deal of anxiety. A fellow-lodger and field-laborer
had invited her to see the play, - and Jacqueline was far
down the street, nursing old Antonine Dupre. To seek
her, thus occupied, on such an errand, Elsie had the good
taste and the selfishness to refrain from doing.
Therefore, after a little deliberation, she had gone to




Victor and  aGcqueline.           181
the theatre, and there forgot her hard day-labor in the
wonders of the stage,- forgot Jacqueline, and Antonine,
and every care and duty. It was hard for her, when all
was ended, to come back to compunction and explanation,
yet to this she had come back.
Neither of the girls was thinking of the student, their
neighbor; but he was not only wakened by their voices,
he amused himself by comparing them and their utterances
with his preconceived notions of the girls. They might
not have recognized him in the street, though they had
often passed him on the stairs; but he certainly could have
distinguished the pretty face of Elsie, or the strange face
of Jacqueline, wherever he might meet them.
Elsie ran on with her story, not careful to inquire into
the mood of Jacqueline, - suspicious of that mood, no
doubt, —but at last, made breathless by her haste and
agitation, she paused, looked anxiously at Jacqueline, and
finally said,"You think I ought not to have gone?'
0, no,   it gave you pleasure."
A pause followed. It was broken at length by Elsie,
exclaiming, in a voice changed from its former speaking, -
"Jacqueline Gabrie, you are homesick! horribly homesick, Jacqueline!"
"You do not ask for Antonine: yet you know I went to
spend the day with her," said Jacqueline, very gravely.
"How is Antonine Dupre? " asked Elsie.
"She is dead. I have told you a good many times that
she must die. Now she is dead."
"Dead?" repeated Elsie.
"You care as much as if a candle had gone out," said
Jacqueline.
" She was as much to me as I to her," was the quick
answer.  "She never liked me.  She did not like my
mother before me. When you told her my name, the day
we saw het first, I knew what she thought. So let that go.
If I could have done her good, though, I woultd, Jacque
line."




182            Victor and Yacqueline.
"She has everything she needs, - a great deal mace than
we have. She is very happy, Elsie."
"Am  not I? Are not you, in spite of your dreadful
look? Your look is more terrible than the lady's in the
play, just before she killed herself. Is that because Antonine is so well off?"
"I wish that I could be where she is," sighed Jacqueline.
"You? You are tired, Jacqueline. You look ill. You
will not be fit for to-morrow. Come to bed. It is late."
As Jacqueline made no reply to this suggestion, Elsie
began to reflect upon her words, and to consider wherefore
and to whom she had spoken. Not quite satisfied with
herself could she have been, for at length she said in quite
another manner, 
" You always said, till now, you wished that you might
live a hundred years. But it was not because you were
afraid to die, you said so, Jacqueline."
" I don't know," was the answer, - sadly spoken. " Don't
remind me of things I have said. I seem to have lost
myself."
The voice and the words were effectual, if they were
intended as an appeal to Elsie. Fain would she now exclude the stage and the play from her thoughts, — fain
think and feel with Jacqueline, as it had long been her
habit to do.
Jacqueline, however, was not eager to speak. And Elsie
must draw yet nearer to her, and make her nearness felt,
ere she could hope to receive the thought of her friend.
By and by these words were uttered, solemn, slow, and
dirge-like: -
"Antonine died just after sundown. I was alone with
her. She did not think that she would die so soon. I did
not. In the morning, John Leclerc came in to inquire how
she spent the night. He prayed with her. And a hymn, —
he read a hymn that she seemed to know, for all day she
was humming it over. I can say some of the lines."
" Say them, Jacqueline," said the softened voice of Elsie.




Victor and  Yacqueline.                 183
Slowly, and as one recalls that of which he is uncertain,
Jacqueline repeated what I copy more entire:" In the midst of life, behold,
Death hath girt us round I
Whom for help, then, shall we pray t
Where shall grace be found?
In thee, O Lord, alone l
We rue the evil we have doae,
That thy wrath on us hath drawn.
Holy Lord and God I
Strong and holy God I
Merciful and holy Saviour I
Eternal God I
Sink us not beneath
Bitter pains of endless death I
Kyrie, eleison 1"' Then he went away," she continued.  "But he did not
think it was the last time he should speak to Antonine. In
the afternoon I thought I saw a change, and I wanted to
go for somebody.  But she said,'Stay with me.  I want
nothing.'  So I sat by her bed.  At last she said,'Come,
Lord Jesus! come quickly!' and she started up in her bed,
as if she saw  him  coming.  And as if he were coming
nearer, she smiled.  That was the last, - without a struggle, or as much as a groan."
"No priest there?" asked Elsie.'" No.  When I spoke to her about it, she said her priest
was Jesus Christ the Righteous, - and there was no other,
-the High-Priest.  She gave me her Bible.  See how it
has been used!'Search the Scriptures,' she said.  She
told me I was able to learn the truth.  6I loved your
mother,' she said;'that is the reason I am so anxious you
should know.  It is by my spirit, said the Lord.  Ask for
that spirit,' she said.'He is more willing to give than
earthly parents are to give good gifts to their children.'
She said these things, Elsie. If they are true, they must
be better worth believing than all the riches of the world
are worth the having."
The interest manifested by the student in this conversa




184            Victor and Yacqucline.
tion had been on the increase since Jacjueline began to
speak of Antonine Dupr&. It was not, at this point of the
conversation, waning.
"Your mother would not have agreed with Antonine,"
said Elsie, as if there were weight in the argument; for
such a girl as Jacqueline could not speak earnestly in the
hearing of a girl like Elsie without result, and the result
was at this time resistance.
"She believed what she was taught in Domrdmy," answered Jacqueline. " She believed in Absolution, Extreme
Unction, in the need of another priest than Jesus Christ, -
a representative they call it." She spoke slowly, as if interrogating each point of her speech.
"I believe as they believed before us," answered Elsie,
coldly.
"We have learned many things since we came to Meaux,"
answered Jacqueline, with a patient gentleness, that indicated the perplexity and doubt with which the generous
spirit was departing from  the old dominion.  She was
indeed departing, with that reverence for the past which
is not incompatible with the highest hope for the future.
" Our Joan came from Domr6my, where she must crown
the king," she continued. " We have much to learn."
"She lost her life," said Elsie, with vehemence.
"Yes, she did lose her life," Jacquelin quietly acquiesced.
"If she had known what must happen, would she have
oome? "
"Yes, she would have come."
"How late it is! " said Elsie, as if in sleep were certain
rest from these vexatious thoughts.
Victor Le Roy was by this time lost in his own reflec.
tions. These girls had supplied an all-sufficient theme;
whether they slept or wakened was no affair of his. He
had somewhat to argue for himself about extreme unction,
priestly intervention, confession, absolution, - something to
say to himself about Leclerc, and the departed Antonine.




Victor and Yacqueline.             I85
Late into the night he sat thinking of the marvel of
Domrdmy and of Antonine Dupre, of Picardy and of
Meaux, of priests and of the High-Priest.  Brave and
aspiring, Victor Le Roy could not think of these things,
involved in the names of things above specified, as more
calculating, prudent spirits might have done. It was his
business, as a student, to ascertain what powers were working in the world. All true characters, of past time or
present, must be weighed and measured by him. Result
was what he aimed at.
Jacqueline's words had not given him new thoughts, but
unawares they did summon him to his appointed labor.
He looked to find the truth. He must stand to do his
work. He must haste to make his choice. Enthusiastic,
chivalrous, and strong, he was seeking the divine right,
night and day; and to ascertain that, as it seemed, he
had come from Picardy to Meaux.
Elsie MWril went to bed, as she had invited Jacqueline
to do; to sleep, to dream, she went, - and to smile, in her
dreaming, on the world that smiled on her.
Jacqueline sat by the window; leaned from the window,
and prayed; her own prayer she prayed, as Antonine had
said she must, if she would discover what she needed, and
obtain an answer.
She thought of the dead, - her own. She pondered on
the future. She recalled some lines of the hymn Antonine
had repeated, and she wished — oh, how she wished!that, while the woman lived, and could reason and speak,
she had told her about the letter she had received from
the priest of Domr6my. Many a time it had been on her
lips to tell, but she failed in courage to bring her poor
affairs into that chamber and disturb that dying hour.
Now she wished that she had done it. Now she felt that
speech had been the merest act of justice to herself.
But there was Leclerc, the wool-comber, and his mother;
she might rely on them for the instruction she needed.
Old Antonine's faith had made a deep impression on the




i86            Victor and Jacqueline.
strong-hearted and deep-thinking girl; as also had the
prayers of John Leclerc, - especially that last prayer offered
for Antonine. It seemed to authenticate, by its strong, unfaltering utterance, the poor old woman's evidence. "Jesus
Christ, the same yesterday, to-day, and forever," were strong
words that seemed about to take possession of the heart of
Jacqueline.
Therefore, while Elsie slept, she prayed,- looking farther than the city-streets and darkness,- looking farther
than the shining stars. What she sought, poor girl, stood
in her silent chamber, stood in her waiting heart. But she
knew Him not, and her ear was heavy; she did not hear
the voice, that she should answer Him, " Rabboni! "
II.
A    FORTNIGHT from this night, after the harvesters
had left the fields of M. Flaval, Jacqueline was lingering in the twilight.
The instant the day's work was done, the laborers set
out for Meaux. Their haste suggested some unusual cause.
John Leclerc, wool-comber, had received that day his
sentence. Report of the sentence had spread among the
reapers in the field and all along the vineyards of the hillsides. Not a little stir was occasioned by this sentence:
three days of whipping through the public streets, to conclude with branding on the forehead; For this Leclerc, it
seemed, had profanely and audaciously declared that a
man might in his own behalf deal with the invisible God,
by the mediation of Christ, the sole Mediator beween God
and man. Viewed in the light of his offence, his punishment certainly was of the mildest. Tidings of his sentence
were received with various emotion; by some as though
they were maddened with new wine; others wept openly;
many more were pained at heart; some brutally rejoiced;
some were incredulous.




Victor and Yacqueline.             I87
But now they were all on their way to Meaux; the fields
were quite deserted. Urged by one desire, to ascertain the
facts of the trial, and the time when the sentence would be
executed, the laborers were returning to the town.
Without demonstration of any emotion, Jacqueline Gabrie, quiet, silent, walked along the river-bank, until she
came to the clump of chestnut-trees, whose shadow fell
across the stream. Many a time, through the hot, dreadful
day, her eyes turned wistfully to this place. In the morning Elsie M6ril had promised Tacqueline that at twilight
they would read together here the leaves the poor old
mother of Leclerc gave Jacqueline last night: when they
had read them, they would walk home by starlight together.
But now the time had come, and Jacqueline was alone.
Elsie had returned to town with other young harvesters.
"Very well," said Jacqueline, when Elsie told her she
must go. It was not, indeed, inexplicable that she should
prefer the many voices to the one, - excitement and company, rather than quiet, dangerous thinking.
But, thus left alone, the face of Jacqueline expressed
both sorrow and indignation. She would exact nothing
of Elsie; but latterly how often had she expected of her
companion more than she gave or could give!
Of course the young girl was equal to others in pity and
surprise; but there were people in the world beside the
wool-comber and his mother. Nothing of vast import was
suggested by his sentence to her mind. She did not see
that spiritual freedom was threatened with destruction. If
she heard the danger questioned, she could not apprehend
it. Though she had listened to the preaching of Leclerc
and had been moved by it, her sense of truth and of justice
was not so acute as to lead her willingly to incur a risk in
the maintaining of the same.
She would not look into Antonine's Bible, which Jacqueline had read so much during the last fortnight. She was
not the girl to torment herself about her soul, when the




138            Victor and Yacqueline.
Church would save it for her by mere compliance with a
few easy regulations.
More and more was Elsie disappointing Jacqueline. Day
by day these girls were developing in ways which bade fair
to separate them in the end. When now they had most
need of each other, their estrangement was becoming more
apparent and decided. The peasant-dress of Elsie would
not content her always, Jacqueline said sadly to herself.
Jacqueline's tracts, indeed, promised poorly as entertainment for an hour of rest, -rest gained by hours of toil.
The confusion of tongues and the excitement of the city
pleased Elsie better. So she went along the road to Meaux,
and was not talking, neither thinking, all the way, of the
wrongs of John Leclerc, and the sorrows of his mother, -
neither meditating constantly, and with deep-seated purpose, " I will not let thee go, except thou bless me!" —
neither on this problem, agitated then in so many earnest
minds, " What shall a man give in exchange for his soul?"
Thus Jacqueline sat alone and thought that she would
read by herself the tracts Leclerc had found it good to
study. But unopened she held the little printed scroll,
while she watched the home-returning birds, whose nests
were in the mighty branches of the chestnut-trees.
She needed the repose more than the teaching even';
for all day the sun had fallen heavily on the harvesters, -
and toiling with a troubled heart, under a burning sun, will
leave the laborer not in the best condition for such work as
Jacqueline believed she had to do.
But she had promised the old woman she would read
these tracts, and this was her only time, for they must be
returned that night: others were waiting for them with an
eagerness and longing of which, haply, tract-dispensers see
little now. Still she delayed in opening them. The news
of Leclerc's sentence had filled her with dismay.
Did she dread to read the truth, - "the truth of Jesus
Christ," as his mother styled it? The frightful image of
the bleeding, lacerated wool-comber would come between




Victor and Yacqueline.             I89
her and the book in which that faith was written, for maintaining which this man must suffer.  Strange contrast
between the heavy gloom and terror of her thoughts and
the peaceful "river flowing on"!  How tranquil were the
fields that spread beyond her sight! But there is no rest
or joy in Nature to the agitated and foreboding spirit. Must
we not have conquered the world, if we serenely enter into
Nature's rest?
Fain would Jacqueline have turned her face and steps in
another direction that night than toward the road that led
to Meaux: to the village on the border of the Vosges, -
to the ancient Domrdmy. Once her home was there; but
Jacqueline had passed forth from the old, humble, true deo
fences: for herself must live and die.
Domrdmy had a home for her no more. The priest, on
whom she had relied when all failed her, was still there,
it is true; and once she had thought, that, while he lived,
she was not fatherless, not homeless: but his authority had
ceased to be paternal, and she trusted him no longer.
She had two graves in the old village, and among the
living a few faces she never could forget. But on this earth
she had no home.
Musing on these dreary facts, and on the bleeding,
branded image of Leclerc, as her imagination rendered him
back to his friends, his fearful trial over, a vision more
familiar to her childhood than her youth opened to Jacqueline.
There was one who used to wander through the woods
that bordered the mountains in whose shadow  stood
Domrdmy, - one whose works had glorified her name in
the England and the France that made a martyr of her.
Jeanne d'Arc had ventured all things for the truth's sake:
was she, who also came forth from that village, by any
power commissioned?
Jacqueline laid the tracts on the grass. Over them she
placed a stone. She bowed her head. She hid her face.
She saw no more the river, trees, or home-returning birds;
M




I90            Victor and Yacqueline.
heard not the rush of water or of wind,- nor, even now,
the hurry and the shout that possibly to.morrow would
follow the poor wool-comber through the streets of Meaux,
and on the third day they would brand him!
She remembered an old cottage in the shadow of the
forest-covered mountains. She remembered one who died
there suddenly, and without remedy, — her father, unabsolved and unanointed, dying in fear and torment, in a
moment when none anticipated death. She remembered
a strong-hearted woman who seemed to die with him, —
who died to all the interests of this life, and was buried by
her husband ere a twelvemonth had passed, - her mother,
who was buried by her father's side.
Burdened with a solemn care they left their child. The
priest of Domrdmy, and none beside him, knew the weight
of this burden. How had he helped her bear it? since it
is the business of the shepherd to look after the younglings
of the flock. Her hard earnings paid him for the prayers
he offered for the deliverance of her father from his purgatorial woes. Burdened with a dire debt of filial love, the
priest had let her depart from  Domr6my; his influence
followed her as an oppression and a care, -a degradation
also.
Her life of labor was a slavish life. All she did, and all
she left undorne, she looked at with sad-hearted reference
to the great object of her life. Far away she put all allurement to tempting, youthful joy. What had she to do with
merriment and jollity, while a sin remained unexpiated, or
a moment of her father's suffering and sorrow could be
anticipated?
How, probably, would these new doctrines, held fast by
some through persecution and danger, these doctrines
which brought liberty to light, be received by one so fast
a prisoner of Hope as she? She had pledged herself, with
solemn vows had promised, to, complete the work her mother left unfinished when she died.
Some of the laborers in the field, Elsie among them, had




Victor and Jacqueline.            11g
hoped, they said, that the wool-comber would retract from
his dangerous position. Recalling their words, Jacqueline
asked herself would she choose to have him'retract? She
reminded herself of the only martyr whose memory she
loved, the glorious girl from Domrdmy; and a lofty and
stern spirit seemed to rouse within her as she answered
that question.  She believed that John had found and
taught the truth; and was Truth to be sacrificed to Power
that hated it? Not by a suicidal act, at least.
She took the tracts, so judging, from underneath the
stone, wistfully looked them over, and, as she did so, recalled these words: "You cannot buy your pardon of a
priest; he has no power to sell it; he cannot even give it.
Ask of God, who giveth to all men liberally, upbraiding
not.' If ye, being evil, know how to give good gifts to
your children, how much more shall your Heavenly Father
give his Holy Spirit to them that ask him! "
She could never forget these words. She could never
forget the preacher's look when he used them; nor the
solemnity of the assenting faith, as attested by the countenances of those around her in that "upper room."
But her father! What would this faith do for the departed?
Yet again she dared to pray,  here in this solitude, to
ask for that Holy Spirit, the Enlightener. And it was truly
with trembling, in the face of all presentiments of what
the gift might possibly, must certainly, import to her. But
what was she, that she could withstand God, or His gift,
for any fear of the result that might attend the giving of
the gift?
Divinely she seemed to be inspired with that courageous
thought. She rose up, as if to follow the laborers who had
already gone to Meaux. But she had not passed out from
the shadow of the great trees when another shadow fell
along her path.




192            Victor and Yacqueline.
III.
I T was Victor Le Roy who was so close at hand. Ha
recognized Jacqueline; for, as he came down the road,
now and then he caught a glimpse of her red peasant-dress.
And he accepted his persuasion as it had been an assurance; for he believed that on such a night no other girl
would linger alone near the place of her day's labor. Moreover, while passing the group of harvesters, he had observed
that she was not among them.
The acquaintance of these young persons was but slight;
yet it was of such a character as must needs increase.
Within the last fortnight they had met repeatedly in the
room of Leclerc's mother. On the last night of her son's
preaching they had together listened to his words. The
young student with manly aspirations, ambitious, courageous, inquiring, and the peasant girl who toiled in fields and
vineyards, were on the same day hearkening to the call,
"Ho, every one that thirsteth!" with the consciousness
that the call was meant for them.
When Victor Le Roy saw that Jacqueline perceived and
recognized him, he also observed the tracts in her hand
and the trouble in her countenance, and he wondered in
his heart whether she could be ignorant of what had passed
that day at Meaux, and if it could be possible that her
manifest disturbance arose from  any perplexity or disquietude independent of the sentence that had been passed
on John Leclerc. His first words brought an answer that
satisfied his doubt.
" She has chosen that good part which shall not be taken
from her," said he, as he came near. " The country is so
fair, could no one of them all except Jacqueline see that?
Were they all drawn away by the bloody fascination of
Meaux? even Elsie?"
"It was the news that hurried her home with the rest,"
answered she, almost pleased at this disturbance of the
solitude.




Victor and Yacqueline.               193
" Did that keep you here, Jacqueline?" he asked.  "It
sent me out of the city. The dust choked me. Every
face looked like a devil's. To-morrow night, to-morrow
night, the harvesters will hurry all the faster. Terrible
curiosity! And if they find traces of his blood along the
streets, there will be enough to talk about through the rest
of the harvesting. Jacqueline, if the river could be poured
through those streets, the sacred blood could never be
washed out.'T is not the indignity, nor the cruelty, I think
of most, but the barbarous, wild sin. Shall a man's truest
liberty be taken from him, as though, indeed, he were not
a man of God, but the spiritual subject of his fellows? If
that is their plan, they may light the fires, - there are
many who will not shrink from sealing their faith with their
blood."
These words, spoken with vehemence, were the first free
utterance Victor Le Roy had given to his feelings all day.
All day they had been concentrating, and now came from
him fiery and fast.
It was time for him to know in whom and in what he
believed.
Greatly moved by his words, Jacqueline said, giving him
the tracts,"I came from  Domremy.  I am free. No one can be
hurt by what befalls me. I want to know the truth. I am
not afraid. Did John Leclerc never give way for a moment?  Is he really to be whipped through the streets,
and on the third day to be branded?  Will he not retract?"
" Never! " was the answer, - spoken not without a shudder. " He did not flinch through all the trial, Jacqueline.
And his old mother says,'Blessed be Jesus Christ and his
witnesses! "'
"I came from  Domremy," seemed to be in the girl's
thought again; for her eyes flashed when she looked at
Victor Le Roy, as though she could believe the heavens
would open for the enlightening of such believers.
9




I94            Victor and   acqueline.
"She gave me those to read," said she, pointing to the
tracts she had given him.
" And have you been reading them here by yourself?"
" No. Elsie and I were to have read them  together;
but I fell to thinking."
"You mean to wait for her, then?"
"I was afraid I should not make the right sense of
them."
"Sit down, Jacqueline, and let me read aloud. I have
read them  before. And I understand them better than
Elsie does, or ever will."
" I am afraid that is true, sir. If you read, I will listen."
But he did not, with this permission, begin instantly.
"You came from  Domr6my, Jacqueline," said he. "I
came from Picardy. My home was within a stone's throw
of the castle where Jeanne d'Arc was a prisoner before
they carried her to Rouen. I have often walked about that
castle and tried to think how it must have been with her
when they left her there a prisoner. God knows, perhaps
we shall all have an opportunity of knowing, how she felt
when a prisoner of Truth. Like a fly in a spider's net she
was, poor girl! Only nineteen! She had lived a life that
was worth the living, Jacqueline. She knew she was about
to meet the fate her heart must have foretold. Girls do not
run such a course and then die quietly in their beds.  They
are attended to their rest by grim sentinels, and they light
fagots for them. I have read the story many a time, when
I could look at the window of the very room where she
was a prisoner. It was strange to think of her witnessing
the crowning of the King, with the conviction that her
work ended there and then,   of the women who brought
their children to touch her garments or her hands, to let
her smile on them, or speak to them, or maybe kiss them.
And the soldiers deemed their swords were stronger when
they had but touched hers. And they knelt down to kiss
her standard, that white standard, so often victorious! I
nave read many a time of that glorious day at Rheims."




Victor and 7acqueline.             195
"And she said, that day,'0, why can I not die here?'
said Jacqueline, with a low voice.
"And when the Archbishop asked her," continued Victor,
"'Where do you, then, expect to die?' she answered,'I
know not. I shall die where God pleases. I have done
what the Lord my God commanded me; and I wish that
He would now send me to keep my sheep with my mother
and sister.'"
" Because she loved Domrdmy, and her work was done,"
said Jacqueline, sadly. "And so many hated her! But
her mother would be sure to love. Jeanne would never see
an evil eye in Domr6my, and no one would lie in wait to
kill her in the Vosges woods."
"It was such as you, Jacqueline, who believed in her,
and comforted her. And to every one that consoled her
Christ will surely say,'Ye blessed of my Father, ye did it
unto me!' Yes, to be sure, there were too many who stood
ready to kill her in all France, — besides those who were
afraid of her, and fought against our armies. Even when
they were taking her to see the Dauphin, the guard would
have drowned her, and lied about it, but they were restrained. It is something to have been born in Domrnmy,
-to have grown up in the very place where she used to
play, a happy little girl. You have seen that fountain, and
heard the bells she loved so much. It was good for you, I
know."
"Her prayers were everywhere," Jacqueline replied.
"Everywhere she heard the voices that called her to come
and deliver France. But her father did not believe in her.
He persecuted Jeanne."
"A man's foes are of his own household," said Victor.
"You see the same thing now. It is the very family of
Christ -yes! so they dare call it — who are going to tear
and rend Leclerc to-morrow for believing the words of
Christ. A hundred judges settled that Jeanne should be
burned; and for believing such words as are in these
books - "




196            Victor and 7acqueline.
"Read me those words," said Jacqueline.
So they turned from speaking of Joan and her work, to
contemplate another style of heroism, and to question their
own hearts.
Jacqueline Gabrie had lived through eighteen years of
hardship and exposure. She was strong, contented, resolute. Left to herself, she would probably have suffered no
disturbance of her creed,-would have lived and died
conforming to the letter of its law. But thrown under the
influence of those who did agitate the subject, she was
brave and clear-headed. She listened now, while, according to her wish, her neighbor read,  listened with clear
intelligence, intent on the truth. That, or any truth, accepted, she would hardly shrink from whatever it involved.
This was the reason why she had really feared to ask the
Holy Ghost's enlightenment! So well she understood herself! Truth was truth, and, if received, to be abided by.
She could not hold it loosely. She could not trifle with it.
She was born in Domr6my. She had played under the
Fairy Oak. She knew the woods where Joan wandered
when she sought her saintly solitude. The fact was acting
on her as an inspiration, when Domrdmy became a memory
when she labored far away from the wooded Vosges and
the meadbws of Lorraine.
She listened to the reading, as girls do not always listen
when they sit in the presence of a reader such as young
Le Roy.
And let it here be understood - that the conclusion
bring no sorrow, and no sense of wrong to those who turn
these pages, thinking to find the climax dear to halffledged imagination, incapable from inexperience of any
deeper truth, (I render them all homage!)-this story is
not told for any sake but truth's.
This Jacqueline did listen to this Victor, thinking actually
of the words he read. She looked at him really to ascertain whether her apprehension of these things was all the
same as his. She questioned him, with the simple desire




Victor and Yacqueline.               197
to learn what he could tell her. Her hands were very hard,
so constant had been her dealing with the rough facts of
this life; but the hard hand was firm in its clasp, and ready
with its helpfulness. Her eyes were open, and very clear
of dreams. There was room  in them  for tenderness as
well as truth. Her voice was not the sweetest of all voices
in this world; but it had the quality that would make it
prized by others when heart and flesh were failing; for it
would be strong to speak then with cheerful faith and an
unfaltering courage.
Jacqueline sat there under the chestnut-trees, upon the
river-bank, strong-hearted, high-hearted, a brave, generous
woman. What if her days were toilsome?  What if her
peasant-dress was not the finest woven in the looms of
Paris or of Meaux? Her prayers were brief, her toil was
long, her sleep was sound, - her virtue firm as the everlasting mountains. Jacqueline, I have singled you from
among hordes and tribes and legions upon legions of
women, one among ten thousand, altogether lovely, —not
for dalliance, not for idleness, not for dancing, which is
well; not for song, which is better; not for beauty, which,
perhaps, is best; not for grace, or power, or passion. There
is an attribute of God which is more to His universe than
all evidence of power. It is His truth. Jacqueline, it is
for this your name shall shine upon my page.
And, manifestly, it is by virtue of this quality that her
reader is moved and attracted at this hour of twilight on
the river-bank.
Her intelligence is so quick! her apprehension so direct!
her conclusions so true! He intended to aid her; but
Mazurier himself had never uttered comments so entirely
to the purpose as did this young girl, speaking from heart
and brain. Better fortune, apparently, could not have befallen him than was his in this reading; for with every sentence almost came her comment, clear, earnest, to the point.
He had need of such a friend as Jacqueline seemed able
to prove herself. His nearest living relative was an uncle,




198            Victor and Yacqueline.
who had sent the ambitious and capable young student to
Meaux; for he gave great promise, and was worth an experiment, the old man thought, -and was strong to be
thrown out into the world, where he might ascertain the
power of self-reliance. He had need of friends, and, of all
friends, one like Jacqueline.
From the silence and retirement of his home in Picardy
he had come to Meaux, — the town that was so astir, busy,
thoroughly alive! Inexperienced in worldly ways he came.
His face was beautiful with its refinement and power of
expression. His eyes were full of eloquence; so also was
his voice. When he came from Picardy to Meaux, his old
neighbors prophesied for him. He knew their prophecies,
and purposed to fulfil them. He ceased from dreaming,
when he came to Meaux. He was not dreaming, when he
looked on Jacqueline. He was aware of what he read, and
how she listened, under those chestnut-trees.
The burden of the tracts he read to Jacqueline was salvation by faith, not of works, —an iconoclastic doctrine,
that was to sweep away the great mass of Romish superstition, invalidating Papal power. Image-worship, shrinefrequenting sacrifices, indulgences, were esteemed and
proved less than nothing worth in the work of salvation.
" Did you understand John, when he said that the priests
deceived us and were full of robberies, and talked about
the masses for the dead, and said the only good of them
was to put money into the Church?' asked Jacqueline.
"I believe it," he replied, with spirit.
"That the masses are worth nothing? " she asked, - far
from concealing that the thought disturbed her.
"What can they be worth, if a man has lived a bad life?"
"That my father did not / " she exclaimed.
"If a man is a bad man, why, then he is. He has gone
where he must be judged. The Scripture says, As a tree
falls, it must lie."
" My father was a good man, Victor. But he died of a
sudden, and there was no time."




Victor and Yacqueline.             199
"No time for what, Jacqueline?  No time for him  to
turn about, and be a bad man in the end?"
" No time for confession and absolution. He died praying God to forgive him all his sins. I heard him. I wondered, Victor, for I never thought of his committing sins.
And my mother mourned for him as a good wife should
not mourn for a bad husband."
" Then what is your trouble, Jacqueline?"
"Do you know why I came here to Meaux? I came to
get money, —to earn it. I should be paid more money
here than I got for any work at home, they said: that was
the reason. When I had earned so much, - it was a large
sum, but I knew I should get it, and the priest encouraged
me to think I should, -he said that my heart's desire
would be accomplished. And I could earn the money
before winter is over, I think. But now if  "
"Throw it into the Seine, when you get it, rather than
pay it to the liar for selling your father out of a place he
was never in! He is safe, believe me, if he was the good
man you say. Do not disturb yourself, Jacqueline."
"He never harmed a soul. And we loved him that way
a bad man could not be loved."
As Jacqueline said this, a smile more sad than joyful
passed over her face, and disappeared.
"He rests in peace," said Victor Le Roy.
"It is what I must believe. But what if there should be
a mistake about it? It was all I was working for."
"Think for yourself, Jacqueline. No matter what Leclerc
thinks or I think. Can you suppose that Jesus Christ requires any such thing as this of you, that you should make
a slave of yourself for the expiation of your father? It is
a monstrous thought.  Doubt not it was love that took
him away so quickly. And love can care for him. Long
before this, doubtless, he has heard the words,'Come, ye
blessed of my father' And what is required of you, do
you ask?  You shall be merciful to them that live; and
trust Him that He will care for those who have gone be



200            Victor and Jacqueline.
yond your reach. Is it so? Do I understand you? You
have been thinking to buy this good gift of God, eternal
life for your father, when of course you could have nothing
to do with it. You have been imposed upon, and robbed
all this while, and this is the amount of it."
"Well, do not speak so. If what you say is true, - and
I think it may be, - what is past is past."
"But won't you see what an infernal lie has been practised on you, and all the rest of us who had any conscience
or heart in us, all this while? There is no purgatory; and
it is nonsense to think, that, if there were, money could
buy a man out of it. Jesus Christ is the one sole atonement for sin. And by faith in Him shall a man save his
soul alive. That is the only way. If I lose my soul, and
am gone, the rest is between me and God. Do you see it
should be so, and must be so, Jacqueline?"
" He was a good man," said Jacqueline.
She did not find it quite easy to make nothing of all this
matter, which had been the main-spring of her effort since
her father died. She could not in one instant drop from
her calculations that on which she had heretofore based all
her activity. She had labored so long, so hard, to buy the
rest and peace and heavenly blessedness of the father she
loved, it was hardly to be expected that at once she would
choose to see that in that rest and peace and blessedness,
she, as a producing power, had no part whatever.
As she more than hinted, the purpose of her life seemed
to be taken from her. She could not perceive that fact
without some consternation; could not instantly connect
it with another, which should enable her to look around
her with the deliberation of a liberated spirit, choosing her
new work. And in this she was acted upon by more than
the fear arising from the influences of her old belief. Of
course she should have been, and yet she was not, able to
drop instantly and forever from recollection the constant
sacrifices she had made, the deprivation she had endured,
with heroic persistence, -the putting far away every per



Victor and Yacqueline.              201
sonal indulgence whose price had a market ialue. Her
father was not the only person concerned in this work; the
priest; herself. She had believed in the pastor of Domr6my. Yet he had deceived her. Else he was self-deceived;
and what if the blind should strive to lead the blind?
Could she accept the new faith, the great freedom, with
perfect rejoicing?
Victor Le Roy seemed to have some suspicion of what
was passing in her thoughts.  He did not need to watch
her changeful face in order to understand them.
" I advise you to still think of this," said he. "Recall
your father's life, and then ask yourself if it is likely that
He who is Love requires the sacrifice of your youth and
your strength before your father shall receive from Him
what He has promised to give to all who trust in Him.
Take God at his word, and you will be obliged to give up
all this priest-trash."
IV.
V ICTOR  LE ROY spoke these words quietly, as if.
aware that he might safely leave them, as well as
any other true words, to the just sense of Jacqueline.
She was none the happier for them when she returned
that night to the little city room, the poor lodging whose
high window overlooked both town and country, city streets
and harvest-fields, and the river flowing on beyond the
borders of the town, - no happier through many a moment
of thinking, until, as it were by an instant illumination, she
began to see the truth of the matter, as some might wonder
she did not instantly perceive it, if they could omit from
observation this leading fact, that the orphan girl was
Jacqueline Gabrie, child of the Church, and not a wise and
generous person, who had never been in bondage to superstitions.
For a long time after her return to her lodging sle was
alone. Elsie was in the street with the rest of the town,
9*




202            Victor and Yacqueline.
talking, as all were talking, of the sight that Meaux should
see to-morrow.
Besides Jacqueline, there was hardly another person in
this great building, six stories high, every room of which
had usually a tenant at this hour. She sat by her window,
and looked at the dusky town, over which the moon was
rising. But her thoughts were far away; over many a
league they wandered.
Once more she stood on the play-ground of her toilsome
childhood. She recalled many a year of sacrificing drudgery, which now she could not name such, -for another
reason than that which had heretofore prevented her from
calling it a sacrifice.  She remembered these years of
wrong and of extortion, - they received their proper name
now, - years whose mirth and leisure she had quietly foregone, but during which she had borne a burden that saddened youth, while it also dignified it,- a burden which
had made her heart's natural cheerfulness the subject of
self-reproach, and her maiden dreams and wishes matter
for tears, for shame, for confession, for prayer.
Now Victor Le Roy's words came to her very strangely;
powerfully they moved her. She believed them  in this
solitude, where at leisure she could meditate upon them.
A vision more fair and blessed than she had ever imagined
rose before her. There was no suffering in it, and no sorrow; it was full of peace. Already, in the heaven to which
she had hoped her toil would give him at length admission,
her father had found his home. There was a glory in his
rest not reflected from her filial love, but from the all-availing love of Christ.
Then -delay the rigor of your judgment!  -she began,
-yes, she, this Jacqueline, began to count the cost of what
she had done. She was not a sordid soul. she had not a
miserly nature. Before she had gone far in that strange
computation, she paused abruptly, with a crimsoned face,
and not with tearless eyes. Counting the cost! Estimating the sacrifice I Had, then, her purpose been less holy




Victor and  _Yacqueline,           203
betause excited by falsehood and sustained through delusion? Was she less loving and less true, because deceived?
And was she to lament that Christ, the one and only Priest,
rather than another instrumentality, was the deliverer of
her beloved from the power of death?
No ritual was remembered, and no formula consulted,
when she cried out,  " It is so! and I thank Thee! Only
give me now, my Jesus, a purpose as holy as that Thou
hast taken away!"
But she had not come into her chamber to spend a
solitary evening there. Turning away from the window,
she bestowed a little care upon her person, smoothed away
the traces of her day's labor, and after all was done she
lingered yet longer. She was going out, evidently. Whither? To visit the mother of John Leclerc. She must carry
back the tracts the good woman had lent her. Their contents had firm lodgment in her memory.
Others might run to and fro in the streets, and talk about
the corners, and prognosticate with passion, and defy, in
the way of cowardice, where safety rather than the truth is
well assured. If one woman could console another, Jacqueline wished that she might console Leclerc's mother. And
if any words of wisdom  could drop from the poor old
woman's lips while her soul was in this strait, Jacqueline
desired to hear those words.
Down the many flights of stairs she went across the court,
and then along the street, to the house where the woolcomber lived.
A brief pause followed her knock for admittance. She
repeated it. Then was heard a sound from within, - a
step crossing the floor. The door opened, and there stood
the mother of Leclerc, ready to face any danger, the very
Fiend himself.
But when she saw that it was Jacqueline, only Jacqueline,
- an angel, as one might say, and not a devil, - the terni
ble lock passed from her face; she opened the door wide.
"Come in, child! come in!"




294            Victor and  /acqueline.
So Jacqueline went into the room where John had worked
and thought, reasoned, argued, prayed.
This is the home of the man because of whom many
are this night offended in the city of Meaux. This is the
place whence issued the power that has set the tongues to
talking, and the minds to thinking, and the hearts to hoping, and the authorities to avenging.
A grain of mustard-seed is the kingdom of'heaven in a
figure; the wandering winds a symbol of the Pentecostal
power: a dove did signify the descent of God to man.
This poor chamber, so pent in, and so lowly, so obscure,
has its significance. Here has a life been lived; and not
the least does it import, that walls are rough and the ceiling low.
But the life of John Leclerc was not to be limited. A
power has stood here which by its freedom has set at defiance the customary calculation of the worldly-wise. In
high places and in low the people are this night disturbed
because of him who has dared to lift his voice in the freedom  of the speech of God.  In drawing-rooms odorous
with luxury the man's name has mention, and the vulgarity
of his liberated speech and courageous faith is a theme to
move the wonder and excite the reprobation of hearts whose
languid beating keeps up their show  of life, —to what
sufficient purpose expect me not to tell. His voice is loud
and harsh to echo through these music-loving halls; it
rends and tears, with almost savage strength, the dainty
silences.
But busier tongues are elsewhere more vehement in
speech; larger hearts beat faster indignation; grief and
vulgarest curiosity are all manifesting themselves after their
several necessity. In solitary places heroes pray throughout the night, wrestling like Jacob, agonizing like Saul, and
with some of them the angel left his blessing; for some
the golden harp was struck that soothed their souls to peace.
Angels of heaven had work to do that night. Angels of
heaven and hell did prove themselves that night in Meaux;




Victor and Yacquehine             205
night of unrest and sleeplessness, or of cruel dreaming;
night of bloody visions, tortured by the apprehension of a
lacerated body driven through the city streets, and of the
hooting shouts of Devildom; night-haunted by a gory image, -the defiled temple of the Holy Ghost.
Did the prospect of torture keep him wakeful? Could
the man bear the disgrace, the derision, shouting, agony?
Was there nothing in this thought, that as a witness of
Jesus Christ he was to appear next day, that should soothe
him even unto slumber? Upon the silence of his guarded
chamber let none but ministering angels break. Sacred to
him, and to Him who watched the hours of the night, let
the night go!
But here  his mother, Jacqueline with her  we may
linger with these.
V.
HEN the old woman saw that it was Jacqueline
Gabrie who stood waiting admittance, she opened
the door wider, as I said; and the dark solemnity of her
countenance seemed to be, by so much as a single ray,
enlivened for an instant
She at once perceived the tracts which Jacqueline had
brought. Aware of this, the girl said, 
" I stayed to hear them read, after I heard that for the
sake of the truth in them "- she hesitated   "this city
will invite God's wrath to-morrow."
And she gave the papers to the old woman, who took
them in silence.
By and by she asked, -.
"Are you just home, Jacqueline?"
" Since sunset, though it was nearly dark when I came
in," she answered. "Victor Le Roy was down by the
river-bank, and he read them for me."
"He wanted to get out of town, may be. You would
surely have thought it was a holiday, Jacquelin e, if you




o26            Victor and Ziacqueline.
could have seen the people. Anything for a show; but
some of them might well lament. Did you want to know
the truth he pays so dear for teaching?  But you have
heard it, my child."
"We all heard what he must pay for it, in the fields at
noon. Yes, mother, I wanted to know."
" But if you shall believe it, Jacqueline, it may lead you
into danger, into sad straits," said the old woman, looking
at the young girl with earnest pity in her eyes.
She loved this girl, and shuddered at the thought of
exposing her to danger.
Jacqueline had nursed her neighbor, Antonine, and more
than once, after a hard day's labor, which must be followed
by another, she had sat with her through the night; and
she could pay this service only with love, and the best gift
of her love was to instruct her in the truth. John and she
had proved their grateful interest in her fortunes by giving
her that which might expose her to danger, persecution,
and they could not foresee to what extremity of evil.
And now the old woman felt constrained to say this to
her, even for her love's sake,  "It may lead you into
danger."
"But if truth is dangerous, shall I choose to be safe?"
answered Jacqueline, with stately courage.
"It is truth.  It will support him. Blessed be Jesus
Christ and His witnesses! To-night, and to-morrow, and
the third day, our Jesus will sustain him. They think John
will retract. They do not know my son. They do not
know how he has waited, prayed, and studied to learn the
truth, and how dear it is to him. No, Jacqueline, they do
not. But when they prove him, they will know. And if
he is willing to witness, shall I not be glad? The people
will understand him better afterward, —and the priests,
maybe.' I can do all things,' said he,'Christ strengthening me'; and that was said long ago by one who was
proved. Where shall you be, Jacqueline?"
" 0," groaned Jacqueline, " I shall be in the fields at work,




Victor and Yacquzeine.               207
away from these cruel people, and the noise and the sight
But, mother, where shall you be?"
"With the people, child. With him, if I live. Yes, he
is my son; and I have never been ashamed of the brave
boy. I will not be ashamed to-morrow. I will follow John;
and when they bind him, I will let him see his mother's eyes
are on him, -blessing him, my child! - Hark! how they
talk through the streets! - Jacqueline, he was never a
coward.  He is strong, too. They will not kill him, and
they cannot make him dumb.  He will hold the truth the
faster for all they do to him. Jesus Christ on his side, do
you think he will fear the city, or all Paris, or all France?
He does not know what it is to be afraid. And when God
opened his eyes to the truth of his Gospel, which the priests
had hid, he meant that John should work for it; for he is
a working-man, whatever he sets about."
So this old woman tried, and not without success, to
comfort herself, and sustain her tender, proud, maternal
heart. The dire extremity into which she and her son had
fallen did not crush her; few were the tears that fell from
her eyes as she recalled for Jacqueline the years of her
son's boyhood,  told her of his courage, as in various
ways it had made itself manifest: how he had always been
fearless in danger, - a conqueror of pain, - seemingly regardless of comfort, — fond of contemplation, - contented
with his humble state, -kindly, affectionate, generous, but
easily stirred to wrath by injustice, when manifested by the
strong toward the weak, or by cruelty, or by falsehood.
Many an anecdote of his career might she relate; for
his character, under the pressure of this trial, which was
as searching and severe a test of her faith as of his, seemed
to illustrate itself in manifold heroic ways, all now of the
highest significance. With more majesty and grandeur his
character arose before her; for now in all the past, as she
surveyed it, she beheld a living power, a capability, and a
necessity of new and grand significance, and her heart
reverenced the spirit she had nursed into being.




208           Victor and 7acqueline.
Removed to the distance of a prison from her sight,
separated from her love by bolts and bars, and the wrath
of tyranny and close-banded bigotry, he became a power,
a hero, who moved her, as she recalled his sentence, and
prophesied the morrow, to a feeling tears could not explain.
They passed the night together, the young woman and
the old. In the morning, Jacqueline must go into the field
again. She was in haste to go. Leaving a kiss on the old
woman's cheek, she was about to steal away in silence;
but as she laid her hand upon the latch, a thought arrested
her, and she did not open the door, but went back and sat
beside the window, and watched the mother of Leclerc
through the sleep that must be brief. It was not in her
heart to go away and leave those eyes to waken upon solitude. She must see a helpful hand and hopeful face, and,
if it might be, hear a cheerful human voice, in the dawning
of that day.
She had not long to wait; and the time she may have lost
in waiting Jacqueline did not count or reckon, when she
heard her name spoken, and could answer, "What wilt
thou? here am I."
Not in vain had she lingered. What were wages, more
or less, that they should be mentioned, thought of, when
she might give and receive here what the world gives not,
and never has to give, and what a mortal cannot buy,
the treasure being priceless? Through the quiet of that
morning hour, soothing words, and strong, she felt and
knew to speak; and when at last she hurried away from
the city to the fields, she was stronger than of nature, able
to bear witness to the faith that speaks from the bewilderment of its distresses, "Though He slay me, yet will I
trust in Him."
Not alone had her young, frank, loving eyes enlivened
the dreary morning to the heart of Leclerc's mother. Grace
for grace had she received. And words of the hymn that
were always on John's lips had found echo from his mother's




Victor and  Yacqueline.                209
memory this morning: they lodged in the heart of Jacqueline. She went away repeating, -
"In the midst of death, the jaws
Of hell against us gape.
Who from peril dire as this
Openeth us escape?'T is thou, 0 Lord, alone I
Our bitter suffering and our sin
Pity from thy mercy win,
Holy Lord and God I
Strong and holy God I
Merciful and holy Saviour I
Eternal God I
Let us not despair
For the fire that burneth there I
Kyrie, eleison I"
Jacqueline met Elsie on her way to the fields. But the
girls had not much to say to each other that morning in
their walk. Elsie was manifestly conscious of some great
constraint; she might have reported to her friend what she
had heard in the streets last night, but she felt herself
prevented from  such communication, -seemed to be intent principally on one thing: she would not commit herself in any direction.  She was looking with suspicion
upon Jacqueline.  Whatever became of her soul, her body
she would save alive.  She was waking to this world's
enjoyment with vision alert, senses keen. Martyrdom in
any degree was without attraction to her, and in Truth she
saw no beauty that she should desire it. It was a root out
of dry ground indeed, that gave no promise of spreading
into goodly shelter and entrancing beauty.
As to Jacqueline, she was absorbed in her heroic and
exalted thoughts. Her heart had almost failed her when
she said farewell to John's mother; tearfully she had hurried on her way.  One vast cloud hung between her and
heaven; darkly rolled the river; every face seemed to bear
witness to the tragedy that day should witness.
Not the least of her affliction was the consciousness of
the distance increasing between herself and Elsie MdriL




210            Victor and  /acqueline.
She knew that Elsie was rejoicing that she had in no way
endangered herself yet; and sure was she that in no way
would Elsie invite the fury of avenging tyranny and reckless superstition.
Jacqueline asked her no questions, - spoke few words to
her, —was absorbed in her own thoughts. But she was
kindly in her manner, and in such words as she spoke.
So Elsie perceived two things, -that she should not lose
her friend, neither was in danger of being seized by the
heretical mania. It was her way of drawing inferences.
Certain that she had not lost her friend, because Jacqueline
did not look away, and refuse to recognize her; congratulating herself that she was not the object of suspicion, either
justly or unjustly, among the dreadful priests.
But that friend whose steady eye had balanced Elsie
was already sick at heart, for she knew that never more
must she rely upon this girl who came with her from
Domrdmy.
As they crossed the bridge, lingering thereon a moment,
the river seemed to moan in its flowing toward Meaux.
The day's light was sombre; the birds' songs had no
joyous sound, - plaintive was their chirping; it saddened
the heart to hear the wind, - it was a wind that seemed to
take the buoyancy and freshness out of every living thing,
an ugly southeast wind. They went on together, — to the
wheat-fields together.  It was to be day of minutes to
poor Jacqueline.
To be away from Meaux bodily was, it appeared, only
that the imagination might have freer exercise. Yes,now the people must be moving through the streets; shopmen were not so intent on profits this day as they were on
other days. The priests were thinking with vengeful hate
of the wrong to themselves which should be met and conquered that day. The people should be swiftly brought
into order again! John in his prison was preparing, as all
without the prison were.
The crowd was gathering fast. He would soon be led




Victor and Yacqueline.             211
forth. The shameful march was forming. Now the brutal
hand of Power was lifted with scourges. The bravest man
in Meaux was driven through the streets, -she saw with
what a visage, -she knew with what a heart. Her heart
was awed with thinking thereupon. A bloody mist seemed
to fall upon the environs of Meaux; through that red
horror she could not penetrate; it shrouded and it held
poor Jacqueline.
Of the faith that would sustain him she began once more
to inquire. It is not by a bound that mortals ever clear the
heights of God. Step by step they scale the eminences.
toiling through the heavenly atmosphere. Only around the
summit shines the eternal sun.
So she must now recall the words that Victor Le Roy
read for her last night; and the words he spoke from out
his heart, —these also. And she did not fear now, as
yesterday, to ask for light. Let the light dawn, - oh, let it
shine on her!
The mother of Leclerc had uttered mysterious words
which Jacqueline took for truth; the light was joyful and
blessed, and of all things to be desired, though it smote the
life from one like lightning. She waited alone with faith,
watching till it should come, —left alone with this beam
glimmering like a moth through darkness - for thus was
a believer, or one who resolved on believing, left in that
day, when he turned from the machinery of the Church,
and stood alone, searching for God without the aid of
priestly intervention.
VI.
T    HERE was something awful in such loneliness.
Jacqueline knew little of it until now, as she walked
toward the fields, by the side of Elsie Mdril.
She saw how she had depended on the priest of Domrdmy, as he had been the lawgiver and the leader of her
life. A spiritual life, to be sustained only by the invisible




2I2            Victor and Yacqueline.
spirit, to be lived by faith, not in man, but in God, without
intervention of saint or angel or Blessed Virgin, - was the
world's life liberated by such freedom?
By faith, and not by sight, the just must live. Would
He bow his heavens and come down to dwell with the
contrite and the humble?
Wondrous strange it seemed, -incomprehensible, -more
than she could manage or control. There are prisoners
whose pardon proves the world too large for them: they
find no rest until their prison-door is opened for them again.
Of this class was Elsie, -not Jacqueline. Elsie was
afraid of freedom, - not equal to it, - unable to deal with
it; satisfied with being a child, with being a slave, when it
came to be a question whether she should accept and use
her highest privilege and dignity. At this hour, and among
all persuasions, you will find that Elsie does not stand
alone. Little children there are, long as the world shall
stand, - though not precisely such as we think of when we
remember, "Of such is the kingdom of heaven."
It was enough for Elsie —it is enough for multitudes
through all the reformations —that she had an earthly
defence, even such as she relied on without trouble. She
lived in the hour. She had never toiled to deliver her
darling from the lions, - to redeem a soul from purgatory.
She eased her conscience, when it was troubled, by such
shallow  discovery of herself as she deemed confession.
She loved dancing, and all other amusements, - hated solitude, knew not the meaning of self-abnegation. And let
her dance and enjoy herself!- some service to the body is
rendered thereby. She might do greatly worse, and is incapable of doing greatly better. Will you stint the idiots
of comfort, - or rather build them decent habitations, and
even vex yourself to feed and clothe them, in reverent confidence that the Future shall surely take them up and bless
them, unstop their ears, open their eyes, give speech to
them and absolute deliverance?
There are others beside Elsie who congratulate them



Victor and Yacqueline.              213
selves on non-committal, -they covet not the advanced
and dangerous positions. Honorable, but dangerous positions! The head might be taken off, do you not see?
And could all eternity compensate for the loss of time?
Ah, the body might be mutilated, -the liberty restrained:
as if, indeed, a man's freedom were not eternally established,
when his enemies, howling around, must at least crucify
him! as if a divine voice were not ever heard through the
raging of the people, saying, " Come up higher "
But a fern-leaf cannot grow into a mighty hemlock-tree.
From  the ashes of a sparrow the phoenix shall not rise.
You will not to all eternity, by any artificial means, nor by
a miracle, bring forth an eagle from a mollusk.
There was not a sadder heart in all those fields of Meaux
than the heart of Jacqueline Gabrie. There was not a
stronger heart. Not a hand labored more diligently. Under
the broad-brimmed peasant-hat was a sad countenance, -
under the peasant-dress a heavily burdened spirit. Silent,
all day, she labored. She was alone at noon under the
river-bordered trees, eating her coarse fare without zest, but
with a conscience, - to sustain the body that was born to
toil. But in the maelstrom of doubt and anxiety was she
tossed and whirled, and she cared not for her life. To be
rid of it, now for the first time, she felt might be a blessing.
What purpose, indeed, had she? She turned her thought
from this question, but it would not let her alone. Again
and yet again she turned to meet it, and thus would surely
have at length its satisfying answer.
John Leclerc might pass through this ordeal, as from
the first she had expected of him. But she listened to the
speech of many of her fellow-laborers. Some prophecies
which had a sound incredible escaped them. She did not
credit them, but they tormented her. They contended with
one another. John, some foretold, would certainly retract.
One day of public whipping would suffice.  When the
blood began to flow, he would see his duty clearer! The
men were prophesying from the depths and the abundance




214            Victor and Yacqueline.
of their self-consciousness. Others speculated on the final
result of the executed sentence. They believed that the
"obstinacy" and courage of the man would provoke his
judges, and the executors of his sentence; that with rigor
they would execute it; and that, led on by passion, and
provoked by such as would side with the victim, the sentence would terminate in his destruction. Sooner or later,
nothing but his life would be found ultimately to satisfy his
enemies.
It might be so, thought Jacqueline Gabrie. What then?
what then? -she thought. There was inspiration to the
girl in that cruel prophecy. Her life-work was not ended.
If Christ was the One Ransom, and it did truly fall on
Him, and not on her, to care for those beloved, departed
from this life, her work was still for love.
John Leclerc disabled or dead, who should care then for
his aged mother?  Who should minister to him? Who,
indeed, but Jacqueline?
Living or dying, she said to herself, with grand enthusiasm, -living or dying, let him do the Master's pleasure!
She also was here to serve that Master; and while in
spiritual things he fed the hungry, clothed the naked, gave
the cup of living water, visited the imprisoned, and the
sick of sin, she would bind herself to minister to him and
his old mother in temporal things; so should he live above
all cares save those of heavenly love. She could support
them all by her diligence, and in this there would be joy.
She thought this through her toil; and the thought was
its own reward.  It strengthened her like an angel, 
strengthened heart and faith. She labored as no other
peasant-woman did that day, -like a beast of burden,
unresisting, patient,  like a holy saint, so peaceful and
assured, so conscious of the present very God!




Victor and Yacqueline.               215
VII.
T    HE three days passed away. And every hour's progress was marked as it passed over the citizens of
Meaux. Leclerc, and the doctrines fo which he suffered,
filled the people's thought; he was their theme of speech.
Wonder softened into pity; unbelief was goaded by his
stripes to cruelty; faith became transfigured, while he,
followed by the hooting crowd, endured the penalty of faith.
Some men looked on with awe that would become adoring;
some with surprise that would take refuge in study and
conviction. There were tears as well as exultation, solemn
joy as well as execration, in his train. The mother of
Leclerc followed him with her undaunted testimony, " Blessed be Jesus Christ and His Witnesses! "
By day, in the field, Jacqueline Gabrie thought over the
reports she heard, through the harvesters, of the city's feeling, of its purpose, of its judgment; by night she prayed
and hoped, with the mother of Leclerc; and wondrous was
the growth her faith had in those days.
On the evening of the third day, Jacqueline and Elsie
walked into Meaux together. This was not invariably their
habit.  Elsie had avoided too frequent conversation with
her friend of late.  She knew their paths were separate,
and was never so persuaded of the fact as this night, when,
of her own will, she s6ught to walk with Jacqueline. The
sad face of her friend troubled her; it moved her conscience that she did not deeply share in her anxiety. When
they came from Domrdmy, she had relied on Jacqueline:
there was safety in her counsel, - there was wisdom in it:
but now, either?
"It made me scream outright, when I saw the play," said
she; "but it is worse to see your face now-a-days, - it is
more terrible, Jacqueline."
Jacqueline made no reply to this; and Elsie regarded
the silence as sufficient provocation.




2 6            Victor and Zacqueline.
"You seem to think I have no feeling," said she. "I am
as sorry about the poor fellows as you can be. But I cannot look as if I thought the day of judgment close at hand,
when I don't, Jacqueline."
"Very well, Elsie. I am not complaining of your looks."
"But you are, - or you might as well."
"Let not that trouble you, Elsie. Your face is smooth,
at least; and your voice does not sound like the voice of
one who is in grief. Rejoice, -for, as you say, you have a
right to yourself, with which I am not to interfere. We are
old friends, - we came away from Lorraine together. Do
not forget that. I never will forget it."
"But you are done with me. You say nothing to me. I
might as well be dead, for all you care."
"Let us not talk of such things in this manner," said
Jacqueline, mildly. But the dignity of her rebuke was felt,
for Elsie said," But I seem to have lost you, - and now we are alone
together, I may say it. Yes, I have lost you, Jacqueline! "
" This is not the first time we have been alone together
in these dreadful three days."
"But now I cannot help speaking."
"You could help it before. Why, Elsie? You had not
made up your mind. But now you have, or you would not
speak, and insist on speaking. What have you to say,
then?"
"Jacqueline! Are you Jacqueline?"
"Am I not?"
"You seem not to be."
"How is it, Elsie?"
"You are silent and stern, and I think you are very
nhappy, Jacqueline."
"I do not know,- not unhappy, I think. Perhaps I
am  silent, -I have been so busy. But for all it is so
dreadful-no! not unhappy, Elsie."
"Thinking of Leclerc all the while?"
Of him? 0, no! I have not beein +hinling of him, —




Victor and Yacqueme.                 217
not constantly. Jesus Christ will take care of him His
mother is quiet, thinking that. I, at least, can be as strong
as she. I'm not thinking of the shame and cruelty, - but
of what that can be worth which is so much to him, that he
counts this punishment, as they call it, as nothing, as hardly
pain, certainly not disgrace. The Truth, Elsie!  if I have
not as much to say, it is because I have been trying to find
the Truth."
"But if you have found it, then I hope I never shall, -
if it is the Truth that makes you so gloomy. I thought it
was this business in Meaux."
" Gloomy? when it may be I have found, or shall find-"
Here Jacqueline hesitated,- looked at Elsie.  Grave
enough was that look to expel every frivolous feeling from
the heart of Elsie, -at least, so long as she remained
under its influence. It was something to trust another as
Jacqueline intended now to trust her friend.  It was a
touching sight to see her seeking her old confidence, and
appearing to rely on it, while she knew how frail the reed
was. But this girl, frivolous as was her spirit, this girl had
come with her from the distant native village; their childhood's recollections were the same. And Jacqueline determined now to trust her. For in times of blasting heat the
shadow even of the gourd is not to be despised.
"You know what I have looked for so long, Elsie," she
said; " you ought to rejoice with me. I need work for that
no longer."
"What is that, Jacqueline?"
Even this question, betraying no such apprehension as
Jacqueline's words seemed to intimate, did not disturb the
girl. She was in the mood when, notwithstanding her show
of dependence, she was really in no such necessity, Never
was she stronger than now when she put off all show of
strength.  Elsie stood before her in place of the opposing
world. To Elsie's question she replied as readily as though
she anticipated -the word, and had no expectation of better
recollection,- not to speak of better apprehension.
IO




218            Victor and Yacqueline.
" To bring him out of suffering he has never been made
to endure, as surely as God lives. As if the Almighty
judged men so! I shall send back no more money to
Father La Croix. It is not his prayer, nor my earnings,
that will have to do with the eternity of John Gabrie. - Do
you hear me, Elsie?"
" I seem to, Jacqueline."
"Have I any cause for wretched looks, then? I am in
sight of better fortune than I ever hoped for in this world."
"Then don't look so fearful. It is enough to scare one.
You are not a girl to choose to be a fright, - unless this
dreadful city has changed you altogether from what you
were. You would frighten the Domrdmy children with
such a face as that; they used not to fear Jacqueline."
" I shall soon be sailing on a smoother sea. As it is, do
not speak of my looks. That is too foolish."
" But, 0, I feel as if I must hold you, - hold you! 
you are leaving me!"
"Come on, Elsie!" exclaimed Jacqueline, as though she
almost hoped this of her dear companion.
" But where? " asked Elsie, not so tenderly.
"Where God leads. I cannot tell."
"I do not understand."
"You would not think the Truth worth buying at the
price of your life?"
"My life?"
"Or such a price as he pays who- has been branded
to-day?"
" It was not the truth to your mother, - or to mine. It
was not the truth to any one we ever knew, till we came
here to Meaux."
"It is true to my heart, Elsie. It is true to my conscience.  I know that I can live for it.  And it may
be "
" Hush! - do not! 0, I wish that I could get you back
to Domr6my! What is going to come of this? Jacqueline, let us go home. Come, let us start to-night. We shall




Victor and Yacqueliane             2I9
have the moon all night to walk by. There is nothing in
Meaux for us. 0, if we had never come away! It would
have been better for you to work there for what you wanted,
-for what you came here to do."
"No, let God's Truth triumph! What am  I?  Less
than that rush! But if His breath is upon me, I will be
moved by it,- I am not a stone."
Then they walked on in silence. Elsie had used her
utmost of persuasion, but Jacqueline not her utmost of
resistance. Her companion knew this, felt her weakness in
such a contest, and was silent.
On to town they went together. They walked together
through the streets, passing constantly knots of people who
stood about the corners and among the shops, discussing
what had taken place that day. They crossed the square
where the noonday sun had shone on crowds of people,
men and women, gathered from the four quarters of the
town and the neighboring country, assembled to witness
the branding of a heretic. They entered their court-yard
together, - ascended the stairway leading to their lodging.
But they were two, - not one.
Elsie's chief desire had been to get Jacqueline safely into
the house ere she could find opportunity for expression of
what was passing in her mind. Her fear was even greater
than her curiosity. She had no desire to learn, under these
present circumstances, the arguments and incidents which
the knots of men and women were discussing with so much
vehemence as they passed by. She could guess enough to
satisfy her. So she had hurried along, betraying more
eagerness than was common with her to get out of the
street. Not often was she so overcome of weariness, -
not often so annoyed by heat and dust. Jacqueline, without remonstrance, followed her. But they were two,not one.
Once safe in their upper room, Elsie appeared to be, after
all, not so devoid of interest in what was passing in the
street as her hurried walk would seem to betoken. She




220            Victor and 7acqueline.
had not quite yet lost her taste for excitement and display.
For immediately she seated herself by the window, and
was all eye and ear to what went on outside.
Jacqueline's demonstrations also were quite other than
might have been anticipated. Each step she took in her
chamber gave an indication that she had a purpose, and
that she would perform it.
She removed from her dress the dust and stain of toil,
arranged her hair, made herself clean and decent, to meet
the sober gaze of others. Then she placed upon the table
the remains of their breakfast; but she ate nothing.
VIII
T was nearly dark when Jacqueline said to Elsie, -
" I am now going to see John and his mother. I must
see with my own eyes, and hear with my own ears. I may
be able to help them, - and I know they will be able to
help me. John's word will be worth hearing,  and I want
to hear it. He must have learned in these days more than
we shall ever be able to learn for ourselves. Will you go
with me? "
" No," cried Elsie, — as though she feared she might
against her will be taken into such company. Then, not
for her own sake, but for Jacqueline's, she added, almost as
if she hoped that she might prove successful in persuasion,
" I remember my father and mother. What they taught
me I believe. And that I shall live by. I shall never be
wiser than they were. And I know I never can be happier.
They were good and honest. Jacqueline, we shall never
be as happy again as we were in Domr6my, when the
pastor blessed us, and we hunted flowers for the altar, —
never - never!" And Elsie Mdril, overcome by her recollections and her presentiments, burst into tears.
" It was the happiness of ignorance," said Jacqueline,
after a solemn silence, full of hurried thought. " No, - I,




Victor and Yacqueline.             221
for one, shall never be as happy as 1 was then. But my
joy will be full of peace and bliss. It will be full of satisfaction, —very different, but such as belongs to me, such
as I must not do without. God led us from Domrdmy, and
with me shall He do as seemeth good to Him. We were
children then, Elsie; but now may we be children no
longer! "
"I will be faithful to my mother. Go, Jacqueline, -let
me alone."
Elsie said this with so much spirit that Jacqueline answered quickly, and yet very kindly, -
" I did not mean to trouble you, dear, - but - no matter
now."
No sooner had Jacqueline left the house than Elsie went
down to a church near by, where she confessed herself to
the priest, and received such goodly counsel as was calculated to fortify her against Jacqueline in the future.
Jacqueline went to the house of the wool-comber, as of
late had been her nightly custom, - but not, as heretofore,
to lighten the loneliness and anxiety of the mother of
Leclerc. Already she had said to the old woman, -
"I need not work now for my father's redemption. Then
I will work for you, if your son is disabled. Let us believe
that God brought me here for this. I am strong. You can
lean on me. Try it."
Now she went to make repetition of the promise to
Leclerc, if, perchance, he had come back to his mother sick
and sore and helpless. For this reason, when she entered
the humble home of the martyr, his eyes fell on her, and
he saw her as she had been an angel; how serene was her
countenance; and her courage was manifestly such as no
mortal fear, no human affliction, could dismay.
Already in that room faithful friends had gathered to
congratulate the living man, and to refresh their strength
from the abounding richness of his.
Martial Mazurier, the noted preacher, was there, and
0




222             Victor and  7acqzueine.
Victor Le Roy; besides these, others, unknown by name
or presence to Jacqueline.
Among  them  was the wool-comber, - wounded  with
many stripes, branded, a heretic! But a man still, it appeared,-a living man,-brave as any hero, determined
as a saint, - ready to proclaim now the love of God, and
from the couch where he was lying to testify to Jesus and
his Truth.
It was a goodly sight to see the tenderness of these men
here gathered; how they were forgetful of all inequalities
of station, such as worldlings live by, - meeting on a new
ground, and greeting one another in a new spirit.
They had come to learn of John.  A halo surrounded
him; he was transfigured; and through that cloud of
glory they would fain penetrate.  Perchance his eyes, as
Stephen's, had seen heaven open, when men had tried
their torments. At least, they had witnessed, when they followed the crowd, that his face, in contrast with theirs who
tormented, shone, as it had been the face of an angel.
They had witnessed his testimony given in the heroic endurance of physical pain. There was more to be learned
than the crowd were fit to hear or could hear.  Broken
strains of the Lord's song they heard him singing through
the torture.  Now  they had come longing for the full
burden of that divinest melody.
Jacqueline entered the room quietly, scarcely observed.
She sat down by the door, and it chanced to be near the
mother of Leclerc, near Victor Le Roy.
To their conversation she listened as one who listens for
his life, -to the reading of the Scripture, - to the sing'ng
of the psalm, - that grand old version, 
"Out of the depths I cry to thee,
Lord God  0, hear my prayer I
Incline a gracious ear to me,
And bid me not despair.
If thou rememberest each misdeed,
If each should have its rightful meed,
Lord, who shall stand before thee X




Victor and  Yacqueline.                  223
" Lord, thi )ugh thy love alone we gain
The pardon of our sin:
The strictest life is but in vain,
Our works can nothing win,
That man should boast himself of aught,
But own in fear thy grace hath wrought
What in him seemeth righteous.
"Wherefore my hope is in the Lord,
My works I count but dust;
I build not there, but on his word,
And in his goodness trust.
Up to his care myself I yield;
He is my tower, my rock, my shield;
And for his help I tarry."
To tie praying of the broken voice of John Leclerc she
listened. In his prayer she joined. To the eloquence of
Mazurier, whose utterances she laid up in her heart, - to
the fervor of Le Roy, which left her eyes not dry, her soul
not calm, but strong in its commotion, grasping fast the
eternal truths which he, too, would proclaim, she listened.
She was not only now among them, she was of them, 
of them forevermore. Though she should never again look
on those faces, nor listen to those voices, of them, of all
they represented, was she forevermore.  Their God was
hers, - their faith was hers; their danger would she share,
-their work would aid.
Their talk was of the Truth, and of the future of the
Truth. Well they understood that the spirit roused among
the people would not be quieted  again, - that what of
ferocity in the nature of the bigot and the powerful had
been appeased had but for the moment been  satisfied.
There would be unremitting watch for victims; everywhere
the net for the unwary and  the fearless would be laid.
Blood-thirstiness and lust and covetousness would make
grand their disguises, - broad would their phylacteries be
made, - shining with sacred gems, their breastplates.
Of course it was of the great God's honor these men
would be jealous. This heresy must needs be uprooted, or




224            Victor and Yacquelize.
no knowing where would be the end of the wild growth.
And, indeed, there was no disputing the fact that there was
danger in open acceptance of such doctrines as defy the
authority of priestcraft, -ay, danger to falsehood, and
death to falsehood!
Fanaticism, cowardice, cruelty, the spirit of persecution,
the spirit of authority aroused, ignorance and vanity and
foolishness would make themselves companions, no doubt.
Should Truth succumb to these? Should Love retreat
before the fierce onset of Hate? These brave men said
not so. And they looked above them and all human aid
for succor, — Jacqueline with them.
When Mazurier and Victor Le Roy went away, they left
Jacqueline with the wool-comber's mother, but they did not
pass by her without notice. Martial lingered for a moment,
looking down on the young girl.
" She is one of us," said the old woman.
Then the preacher laid his hand upon her head, and
blessed her.
" Continue in prayer, and listen to the testimony of the
Holy Ghost," said he. "Then shall you surely come deep
into the blessed knowledge and the dear love of Jesus
Christ."
When he had passed on, Victor paused in turn.
" It is good to be here, Jacqueline," said he. "This is
the house of God; this is the gate of heaven."
And he also went forth, whither Mazurier had gone.
Then beside the bed of the poor wool-comber, women
like angels ministered, binding up his wounds, and soothing him with voices soft as ever spoke to man. And from
the peasant whose toil was in harvest-fields and vineyards
came offers of assistance which the poor can best give the
poor.
But the wool comber did not need the hard-earned pence
of Jacqueline. When she said, " Let me serve you now, as
a daughter and a sister, you two," - he made no mistake in
regard to her words and offer. But he had no need of just




Victor and 7acqueline.             225
such service as she stood prepared to render. In his toil
he had looked forward to the seasons of adversity, had
provided for a dark day's disablement; and he was able
now to smile upon his mother and on Jacqueline, and to
say,
" I will, indeed, be a brother to you, and my mother will
love you as if you were her child. But we shall not take
the bread from your mouth to prove it. Our daughter and
our sister in the Lord, we thank you and love you, Jacqueline. I know what you have been doing since I went away.
The Lord love you, Jacqueline! You will no longer be a
stranger and friendless in Meaux, while John Leclerc and
his mother are alive, -nay, as long as a true man or
woman lives in Meaux. Fear not."
"I will not fear," said Jacqueline.
And she sat by the side of the mother of Leclerc, and
thought of her own mother in the heavens, and was tranquil, and prepared, she said to herself, to walk, if indeed
she must, through the valley of the shadow of death, and
would still fear no evil.
IX.
STRENGTHENED and inspired by the scenes of the
last three days, Martial Mazurier began to preach
with an enthusiasm, bravery, and eloquence unknown before to his hearers. He threw himself into the work of
preaching the new revelation of the ancient eternal Truth,
with an ardor that defied authority, that scorned danger,
and with a recklessness that had its own reward.
Victor Le Roy was his ardent admirer, his constant
follower, his loving friend, his servant. Day by day this
youth was studying with indefatigable zeal the truths and
doctrines adopted by his teacher. Enchanted by the wise
man's eloquence, already a convert to the faith he magnified,
he was prepared to folow wherever the preacher led. The
io*




,26           Victor and Yacqueline.
fascination of danger he felt, and was allured by. Frown.
ing faces had for him no terrors. He could defy evil.
Jacqueline and he might be called most friendly students.
Often in the cool of the day the young man walked out
from Meaux along the country-roads, and his face was
always toward the setting sun, whence towards the east
Jacqueline at that hour would be coming. The girls were
living in the region of the vineyards now, and among the
vines they worked.
It began to be remarked by some of their companions
how much Jacqueline Gabrie and the young student from
the city walked together. But the subject of their discourse, as they rested under the trees that fringed the river,
was not within the range of common speculation; far
enough removed from the ordinary use to which the peasants put their thought was the thinking of Le Roy and
Jacqueline.
Often Victor went, carefully and with a student's precision, over the grounds of Martial's arguments, for the
satisfaction of Jacqueline. Much pride as well as joy had
he in the service; for he reverenced his teacher, and feared
nothing so much, in these repetitions, as that this listener,
this animated, thinking, feeling Jacqueline, should lose anything by his transmission of the preacher's arguments and
eloquence.
And sometimes, on those special occasions which were
now constantly occurring, she walked with him to the town,
and hearkened for herself in the assemblages of those who
were now one in the faith.
Elsie looked on and wondered, but did not jest with
jacqueline, as girls are wont to jest with one another on
such points as seemed involved in this friendship between
youth and youth, between man and woman.
Towards the conclusion of the girl's appointed labor in
the vineyard, a week passed in which Victor Le Roy had
not once come out from  Meaux in the direction of the
setting sun. He knew the time when the peasants' labor in




Victor and  7acqueline.              227
the vineyard would be done; Jacqueline had told him;
and with wonder, and with trouble, she lived through the
days that brought no word from him.
At work early and late, Jacqueline had no opportunity of
discovering what was going on in Meaux.  But it chanced,
on the last day of the last week in the vineyard, tidings
reached her: Martial Mazurier had been arrested, and
would be tried, the rumor said, as John Leclerc had been
tried; and sentence would be pronounced, doubtless, said
conjecture, severe in proportion to the influence the man
had acquired, to the position he held.
Hearing this, oppressed, troubled, yet not doubting, Jacqueline determined that she would go to Meaux that evening, and so ascertain the truth. She said nothing to Elsie
of her purpose. She was careful in all things to avoid that
which might involve her companion in peril in an unknown
future; but at nightfall she had made herself ready to set
out for Meaux, when her purpose was changed in the first
steps by the appearance of Victor Le Roy.
He had come to Jacqueline, -had but one purpose in
his coning; yet it was she who must say, 
" Is it true, Victor, that Martial Mazurier is in prison?"
His answer surprised her.
"No, it is not true."
But his countenance did not answer the glad expression
of her face with an equal smile. His gravity almost communicated itself to her. Yet this rebound from her recent
dismay surely might demand an opportunity.' I believe you," said she. "But I was coming to see if
it could be true. It was hard to believe, and yet it has
cost me a great deal to persuade myself against belief,
Victor."
" It will cost you still mcore, Jacqueline. Martial Mazurier
has recanted."
"He has been in prison, then?"
He has retracted, and is free again, - has denied himself. No more glorious words from him, Jacqueline, such




228            Victor and Yacqueline.
as we have heard! He has sold himself to the Devil, you
see."
"Mazurier? "
"Mazurier has thought raiment better than life. He has
believed a man's life to consist in the abundance of the
things he possesseth," said the youth, bitterly.  He continued, looking steadfastly at Jacqueline, " Probably I must
give up the Truth also. My uncle is dead: must I not
secure my possessions? - for I am no longer a poor man;
I cannot afford to let my life fall into the hands of those
wolves."
" Mazurier retracted? I cannot believe it, Victor Le
Roy!'
"Believe, then, that yesterday the man was in prison, and
to-day he is at large. Yes, he says that he can serve Jesus
Christ more favorably, more successfully, by complying
with the will of the bishop and the priests. You see the
force of his argument. If he should be silenced, or imprisoned long, or his life should be cut off, he would then
be able to preach no more at all in any way. He only does
not believe that whosoever will save his life, in opposition
to the law of the everlasting Gospel, must lose it."
0, do you remember what he said to John, - what he
prayed in that room? 0, Victor, what does it mean?"
" It means what cannot be spoken, - what I dare not say
or think."
"Not that we are wrong, mistaken, Victor?"
4 No, Jacqueline, never! it can never mean that! Whatever we may do with the Truth, we cannot make it false.
We may act like cowards, unworthy, ungrateful, ignorant;
but the truth will remain, Jacqueline."
"Victor, you could not desert it."
"How can I tell, Jacqueline? The last time I saw
Martial Mazurier, he would have said nobler and more
loving words than I can command. But with my own eyes
I saw him walking at liberty in streets where liberty foa
him to walk could be bought only at an infamous price.3




Victor and Yacqueline.              229
"Is there such danger for all men who believe with John
Leclerc, and with-with you, Victor?"
"Yes, there is danger, such danger."
"Then you must go away. You must not stay-in Meaux,"
she said, quickly, in a low, determined voice.
" Jacqueline, I must remain in Meaux," he answered, as
quickly, with flushed face and flashing eyes. The dignity
of conscious integrity, and the "fear of fear," a beholder
who could discern the tokens might have perceived in him.
" 0, then, who can tell? Did he not pray that he might
not be led into temptation?"
"Yes," Victor replied, more troubled than scornful, -
" yes, and allowed himself to be led at last."
"'But if you should go away   "
"Would not that be flying from  danger?" he asked,
proudly.
" Nay, might it not be doing with your might what you
found to do, that you might not be led into temptation?"
" And you are afraid, that, if I stay here, I shall yield to
them."
" You say you are not certain, Victor. You repeat Mazurier's words."
"Yet shall I remain. No, I will never run away."
The pride of the young fellow, and the consternation
occasioned by the recreancy of his superior, his belief in
the doctrines he had confessed with Mazurier, and the
timeserving of the latter, had evidently thrown asunder
the guards of his peace, and produced a sad state of confusion.
" It were better to run away," said Jacqueline, not pausing to choose the word, -" far better than to stay and defy
the Devil, and then find that you could not resist him,
Victor. 0, if we could go, as Elsie said, back to Domrdmy,
anywhere away from this cruel Meaux! "
"Have you, then, gained nothing, Jacqueline?"
"Everything. But to lose it, - oh, I cannot afford that! X
"Let us stand together, then. Promise me, Jacqluelines,




230            Victor and Yacqueline.
he exclaimed, eagerly, as though he felt himself among
defences here, with her.
"What shall I promise, Victor?" she asked, with the
voice and the look of one who is ready for any deed of
daring, for any work of love.
" I, too, have preached this word."
Her only comment was, " I know you preached it well."
" What has befallen others may befall me."
" Well."
So strongly, so confidently did she speak this word, that
the young man went on, manifestly influenced by it, hesitating no more in his speech.
"May befall me," he repeated.
"'Whosoever believeth in me, though he were dead, yet
shall he live,'" she answered, with lofty voice, repeating the
divine word. " What is our life, that we should hold it at
the expense of his Truth? Mazurier was wrong. He can
never atone for the wrong he has done."
" I believe it!" exclaimed Victor, with a brightening
countenance. The clouds of doubt rose from his face and
floated away, as we see the mists ascending from  the
heights, when we are so happy as to live in the wild hillcountry. " You prize Truth more than life. Stand with me
in this, Jacqueline. Speak of this Truth as it has come to
me. You are all that I have left. I have lost Mazurier.
Jacqueline, you are a woman, but you never, -yes  yes!
though I dare not say as much of myself, I dare say it of
you, - you never could have bought your liberty at such a
price as Martial has paid. I know not how, even with the
opportunity, he will ever gain the courage to speak of these
things again, -those great mysteries which are hidden
from the eyes of the covetous and worldly and unbelieving.
Promise, stand with me, Jacqueline, and I will rely on you.
Forsake me not."
"Victor, has He not said, who can best say it,'I will
never leave you nor forsake you'? "
" But, Jacqueline, I love you."




Victor and  -acqueline.              231
Having said these words, the face of the young man
emerged wholly from the eclipse of the former shadow.
" What is this? " said the brave peasant from Domrdmy,
manifestly doubting whether she had heard aright; and her
clear pure eyes were gazing full on Victor Le Roy, actually
looking for an explanation of his words.
"I love you, Jacqueline," he repeated.  "And I do not
involve you in danger, oh, my friend! Only let me have it
to believe that my life is dear to Jacqueline, and I shall not
be afraid then to lose it, if that testimony be required of
me.  Shall we not stand side by side, soldiers of Christ,
stronger in each other than in all the world beside? Shall
it not be so, Jacqueline? True heart, answer me! And
if you will not love me, at least say, say you are my friend,
you trust me. I will hold your safety sacred."
" I am your friend, Victor."
" Say my wife, Jacqueline. I honored you, that you came
from  Domr6my. You are my very dream  of Joan, —as
brave and as true, as beautiful. Jacqueline, it is not all for
the Truth's sake, but for my love's sake. Is not our work
one, moreover? Are we not one in heart and purpose, Jacqueline? You are alone; let me protect you."
He needed no other answer than he had while his eyes
constantly sought hers.  Her calm  look, the dignity and
strength of her composure, assured him of all he longed to
learn, - assured him that their hearts, even as their purposes and faith, were one.
"But speak one word," he urged.
The word she spoke was, " I can be true to you, Victor."
Won hardly by a word: too easily, you think? She
loved the youth, my friends, and she loved the Truth for
which he dared not say that he could sacrifice himself.
"We are one, then," said Victor Le Roy. " It concerned
me above all things to prove that, Jacqueline.  So you
shall have no more to do with these harvest-fields and vineyards henceforth, except to eat of the fruits, if God will.
You have borne all the burden and heat of labor you shall




232            Victor and Yacqueline.
ever bear. I can say that, with God's blessing. We shall
sit under our own vine. Death in one direction has prepared for life in another. I inherit what my uncle can
make use of no longer. We shall look out on our own
fields, our harvests; for I think this city will keep us no
longer than may be needful. We will go away into Picardy,
and I will show you where our Joan was a prisoner; and
we will go back to Domremy, and walk in the places she
loved, and pray God to bless us by that fountain, and in
the graveyard where your father and mother sleep. 0, Jacqueline, is it not all blessed and all fair?"
She could hardly comprehend all the brightness of this
vision which Victor Le Roy would fain bring before her.
The paths he pointed out to her were new and strange;
but she could trust him, could believe that together they
might walk without stumbling.
She had nothing to say of her unfitness, her unworthiness, to occupy the place to which he pointed. Not a
doubt, not a fear, had she to express. He loved her, and
that she knew; and she had no thought of depreciating his
choice, its excellency, or its wisdom.' Whatever excess of
wonder she may have felt was not communicated. How
know I that she marvelled at her lover's choice, though all
the world might marvel?
Then remembering Mazurier, and thinking of her strength
of faith, and her high-heartedness, he was eager that Jacqueline should appoint their marriage-day.  And more
than he, perhaps, supposed was betrayed by this haste.
He made his words profoundly good. Strong woman that
she was, he wanted her strength joined to his. He was
secretly disquieted, secretly afraid to trust himself, since
this defection of Martial Mazurier.
What did hinder them? They might be married on
Sunday, if she would: they might go down together to the
estate, which he must immediately visit.
Through the hurry of thought, and the agitation of heart,
and the rush of seemirg impossibilities, he brought out at
length in triumph her consent.




Victor and   acqueline.            233
She did consent. It should all be as he wished. And
so they parted outside that town of Meaux on the fair
summer evening, - plighted lovers, - hopeful man and woman. For them the evening sky was lovely with the day's
last light; for them the serene stars of night arose.
So they parted under the open sky: he going forward
to the city, strengthened and refreshed in faith and holy
courage; she, adorned with holy hopes which never until
now had found place among her visions. Neither was she
prepared for them, until he brought them to a heart which,
indeed, could never be dismayed by the approach and claim
of love.
Love was no strange guest. Fresh and fair as Zephyrus,
he came from the forest depths, and she welcomed him;
no stranger, though the breath that bore him was all heavenly, and his aspiration was remote from earthly sources.
Yes, she so imagined.
She went back to the cottage where she and Elsie lodged
now, to tell Elsie what had happened, - to thankfulness, 
to gazing forward into a new world, — to aspiration, expectation, joy, humility, - to wonder, and to praise, - to
all that my best reader will perceive must be true of Jacqueline on this great evening of her life.
X.
T HAT same night Victor Le Roy was arrested on charge
of heresy, - arrested and imprisoned. Watchmen
were on the look-out when the lover walked forward with
triumphant steps to Meaux.
"This fellow also was among the wool-comber's disciples," said they; and their successful dealing with Mazurier
encouraged the authorities to hope that soon all this evil
would be overcome, trampled in the dust. This impudent
insurrection of thought should certainly be stifled; youth
and age, high station, low, should be taught alike of Rome.




234            Victor and Yacqueline.
Tidings reached Martial Mazurier next day of what had
befallen Victor Le Roy, and he went instantly to visit him
in prison. It was an interview which the tender-hearted
officials would have invited, had he not forestalled them by
inviting himself to the duty. Mazurier had something to
do in the matter of reconciling his conscience to the part
he had taken, in his recent opportunity to prove himself
equally a hero with Leclerc. He had recanted, done evil,
in short, that good might come; and was not content with
having done this thing: how should he be? Now that his
follower was in the same position, he had but one wish, -
that he should follow his example. He did not, perhaps,
entirely ascertain his motive in this; but it is hardly to be
supposed that Mazurier was so persuaded of the justice of
his course that he desired to have it imitated by another
under the same circumstances.
No! he was forever disgraced in his own eyes, when he
remembered the valiant John Leclerc; and it was not to be
permitted that Victor Le Roy should follow the example of
the wool-comber in preference to that he had given, - that
politic, wise, blood-sparing, flesh-loving, truth-depreciating,
God-defrauding'example.
Accordingly he lost no time in seeking Victor in his cell.
It was the very cell in which he himself had lately been
imprisoned. Within those narrow walls he had meditated,
prayed, and made his choice. There he had stood face to
face with fate, with God, with Jesus, and had decided -
not in favor of the flogging, and the branding, and the
glorious infamy. There, in spite of eloquence and fervor
and devotion, in spite of all his past vows and his hopes,
he had decided to take the place and part of a timeserver;
for he feared disgrace and pain, and the hissing and scoff
and persecution, more than he feared the blasting anger
of insulted and forsaken Truth.
He found Victor within his cell, his bright face not overcast with gloom, his eyes not betraying doubts, neither
disappointed, astonislhed, nor in deep dejection.  The mood




Victor and  yacqueline.             235
he deemed unfavorable for his special word, -poor, de.
ceived, self-deceiving Mazurier!
He was not merely surprised at these indications, -he
was at a loss. A little trepidation, doubt, suspicion would
have better suited him. Alas! and was his hour the extremity of another's weakness, not in the elevation of
another's spiritual strength? Once when he preached the
Truth as moved by the Holy Ghost, it was not to the prudence or the worldly wisdom of his hearers he appealed,
but to the higher feelings and the noblest powers of men.
Then he called on them to praise God by their faith in all
that added to His glory and dominion. But now his eloquence was otherwise directed; not full of the old fire and
enthusiasm; not trustful in God, but dependent on prudence, as though all help were in man. He had to draw
from his own experience now, things new and old, -and
was not, by confession of the result of such experience,
humiliated!
"You are under a mistake," was his argument. "You
have not gone deep into these matters; you have made
acquaintance only with the agitated surface of them." And
he proceeded  to make good all this assertion, it was
so readily proven! He also had been beguiled; ah, had
he not? He had been beguiled by the rude eloquence, the
insensibility to pain, the pride of opposition, the pride of
poverty, the pride of a rude nature, exhibited by John
Leclerc.
He acknowledged freely, with a fatal candor, that, until
he came to consider these things in their true light, when
shut away from all outward influences, until compelled to
quiet meditation beyond the reach and influence of mere
enthusiasm, he had believed with Leclerc, even as Victor
was believing now. He could have gone on, who might
tell to what fanatical length? had it not been for that fortunate arrest which made a sane man of him!
Leclerc was not quite in the wrong; not absolutely, -
but neither was he, as Mazurier had once believed, glo



236            Victor and Jacqueline.
riously in the right. It was clearly apparent to him, that
Victor Le Roy, having now also like opportunity for calm
reflection, would come to like conclusions.
With such confident prophecy, Mazurier left the young
man. His visit was brief and hurried, -- no duty that could
be waved should call him away from his friend at such
a time; but he would return; they would speak of this
again; and he kissed Victor, and blessed him, and went
out to bid the authorities delay yet before the lad was
brought to trial, for he was confident, that, if left to reflection, he would come to his senses, and choose wisely -
between God and Mammon? Mazurier expressed it in
another way.
In the street, Elsie M&ril heard of Victor's arrest, and
she brought the news to Jacqueline. They had returned
to Meaux, to their old lodging, and a day had passed, during which, moment by moment, his arrival was anticipated.
Elsie went out to buy a gift for Jacqueline, a bit of fine
apparelling which she had coveted from the moment she
knew Jacqueline should be a bride. She stole away on her
errand without remark, and came back with the gift; but
also with that which made it valueless, unmentionable,
though it was a costly offering, purchased with the wages
of more than a week's labor in the fields.
It was almost dark when she returned to Jacqueline.
Her friend was sitting by the window, - waiting, - not for
her; and when she went in to her, it was silently, with no
mention of her errand or her love-gift. Quietly she sat
down, thankful that the night was falling, waiting for its
darkness before she should speak words which would make
the darkness to be felt.
"He does not come," said Jacqueline, at length.
"Did you think it was he, when I came up the stairs? 
inquired Elsie, tenderly.
0, no! I can tell your step from all the rest."
"His, too, I think."




Victor and 7acqueline.              237
6 Yes,  and his, too. My best friends.  Strange, if I
could not!"
0, I'm glad you said that, Jacqueline!"
"My best friends," repeated Jacqueline; not merely to
please Elsie. Love had opened wide her heart; and Elsie,
weak and foolish though she might be,- Elsie, her old
companion, her playmate, her fellow-laborer, - Elsie, who
should be to her a sister always, and share in her goodfortune, - Esie had honorable place there.
Could anything have happened, Jacqueline?" said Elsie,
trembling: her tremulous voice betrayed it.
"0, I think not," was the answer.
"But he is so fearless; he might have fallen into —
into trouble."
"What have you heard, Elsie?"
This question was quietly asked, but it struck to the
heart of the questioned girl. Jacqueline suspected! - and
yet Jacqueline asked so calmly! Jacqueline could hear it;
and yet how could this be declared?
Her hesitation quickened what was hardly suspicion into
a conviction.
"What have you heard? " Jacqueline again questioned,
not so calmly as before; and yet it was quite calm, even to
the alarmed ear of Elsie Mdril.
"They have arrested Victor, Jacqueline."
"For heresy? "
"I heard it in the street."
Jacqueline arose, - she crossed the chamber, -her hand
was on the latch. Instantly Elsie stood beside her.
"What will you do? I must go with you, Jacqueline."
"Where will you go? " said Jacqueline.
"With you. Wait, - what is it you will do? Or, - no
matter, go on, I will follow you, - and take the danger
with you."
" Is there danger? For him there is! and there might
be for you, - but none for me. Stay, Elsie. Where shall
I go, in truth?"
IP




238            Victor and Yacqueline.
Yet she opened the door, and began to descend the stairs
even while she spoke; and Elsie followed her.
First to the house of the wool-comber. John was not at
home; and his mother could tell them nothing, had heard
nothing of the arrest of Victor. Then to the place which
Victor had pointed out to her as the home of Mazurier.
Mazurier likewise they failed to find. Where, then, was
the prison of Le Roy's captivity? That no man could tell
them; so they came home to their lodging at length in the
dark night, there to wait through endless-seeming hours for
morning.
On the Sunday they had chosen for their wedding-day
Mazurier brought word of Victor to Jacqueline,- was really
a messenger, as he announced himself, when she opened
for him the door of her room in the fourth story of the
great lodging-house. He had come on that day with a
message; but it was not in all things - in little beside the
love it was meant to prove - the message Victor had desired to convey. In want of more faithful, more trustworthy messenger, Le Roy sent word by this man of his
arrest, -and bade Jacqueline pray for him, and come to
him, if that were possible. He desired, he said, to serve
his Master, - and, of all things, sought the Truth.
To go to the prisoner, Mazurier assured Jacqueline, was
impossible, but she might send a message; indeed, he was
here to serve his dear friends. Ah, poor girl, did she trust
the man by whom she sent into a prison words like these?"Hold fast to the faith that is in you, Victor. Let
nothing persuade you that you have been mistaken. We
-sked for light, - it was given us, - let us walk in it; and
no matter where it leads, - since the light is from heaven.
Do not think of me, nor of yourself, but only of Jesus
Christ, who said,'Whosoever would save his life shall
lose it.'"
Mazurier took this message. What did he do with it?
He tossed it to the winds.




Victor and Jacqueline.             239
A week after, Le Roy was brought to trial, -and re.
canted; and so recanting, was acquitted and set at liberty.
Mazurier supposed that he meant all kindly in the exertion he made to save his friend. He would never have
ceased from self-reproach, had he conveyed the words of
Jacqueline to Victor; for the effect of those words he
could clearly foresee. And so far from attempting to bring
about an interview between the pair, he would have striven
to prevent it, had he seen a probability that it would be
allowed. He set little value on such words as Jacqueline
spoke, when her conscience and her love rose up against
each other. The words she had committed to him he could
account for by no supposition acceptable and reasonable
to him. There was something about the girl he did not
understand; she was no fit guide for a man who had need
of clear judgment, when such a decision was to be made as
the court demanded of Le Roy.
Elsie Mdril, between hope and fear, was dumb in these
days; but her presence and her tenderness, though not heroic in action nor wise in utterance, had a value of which
neither she nor Jacqueline was fully aware.
When Jacqueline learned the issue of the trial, and that
Victor had falsified his faith, her first impulse was to fly,
that she might never see his face again. For, the instant
she heard his choice, her heart told her what she had been
hoping during these days of suspense. She had tried to
see Martial Mazurier, but without success, since he conveyed, or promised to convey, her message to the prisoner.
Of purpose he had avoided her. He guessed what strength
she would by this time have attained; and he was deter
mined to save both to each other, though it might b
against their will.




240             Victor and Yacqueline.
XI.
VICTOR LE ROY'S first endeavor, on oeing liberated,
was - of course to find Jacqueline? Not so. That
was far from his first design. His impulse was to avoid
the girl he had dared to love. Mazurier had, indeed, conveyed to his mind an impression that would have satisfied
him, if anything of this character could do so. But this
was impossible.  The secret of his disquiet was far too
profound for such easy removal.
He had not in himself the witness that he had fulfilled
the will of God. He was disquieted, humiliated, wretched.
He could not think of Leclerc, nor upon his protestations,
except with shame and remorse, - remorse, already.  In
his heart, in spite of the impression Mazurier had contrived
to convey, he believed not that Jacqueline would bless him
to such work as he could henceforth perform, no longer a
free man, no longer possessed of liberty of speech and
thought.
He had no sooner renounced his liberty than he became
persuaded, by an overwhelming reasoning, as he had never
been convinced before, of the pricelessness of that he had
sacrificed. When he went from the court-room, from the
presence of his judges, he was not a free man, though the
dignitaries called him so. Martial Mazurier walked arm
in arm with him; but the world was a den of horrors, a
blackened and accursed world, to the young man who came
from prison, free to use his freedom -as the priests directed!
He went home from  the prison with Mazurier.  The
world had conquered.  Love had conquered, - Love, that
in the conquest felt itself disgraced. He had sold the
divine, he had received the human: it was the old pottage
speculation over again. This privilege of liberty from his
dungeon had looked so fair! - but now it seemed so worths
less! This prospect of life so priceless in contemplation




Victor and Yacqueli ze.            241
of its loss, - 0, the beggar who crept past him was an
enviable man compared with young Victor Le Roy, the
heir of love and riches, the heir of liberty and life!
Yes, - he went home with Mazurier. Where else should
he go? Congratulations attended him. He was compelled
to receive them with a countenance not too sombre, and a
grace not all thankless, or - or - they would say it was of
cowardice he had saved his precious body from the sentence of the judges, and given his precious LIFE up to the
sentence of the JUDGE.
Yes, - Martial took him home. There they might talk
at leisure of those things, - and ask a blessing on the
testimony of Jesus, made and kept by them!
Victor Le Roy was too proud to complain now. He assented to all the preacher's sophistry. He allowed himself
to be cheered. But this was no such evening as had been
spent. in the room of the wool-comber, when Leclerc's voice,
strong, even through his weakness, called on God, and
blessed and praised Him, and the spirit conquered the flesh
gloriously, - the old mother of Leclerc sharing his joy, as
she had also shared his anguish. Here was no Jacqueline
to say to Victor, "Thou hast done well!'Glory be to
Jesus Christ and His witnesses!'"
Mazurier thanked God for the deliverance of His servant!
He dedicated himself and Victor anew to the service of
Truth, which they had shrunk from defending! And his
eloquence and fervor seemed to stamp the words with
sincerity. He seemed not in the least to suspect or fear
himself.
With Victor Le Roy such self-deception, such sophistry,
was simply impossible.
Not of purpose did he meet Jacqueline that night. She
had heard that Le Roy was at liberty, and alone now she
applied at the door of Martial Mazurier for admittance,
but in vain.  The master had signified that his evening
was not to be interrupted. Therefore she returned, from
Ii




242             Victor and Yacqueline.
waiting rieai his door, to the street where she and Elsie
lived.
Should her woman's pride have led her to her lofty lodging, and kept her there without a sign, till Victor himself
came seeking her?  She knew nothing of such pride, —
but much of love; and her love took her back to the post
where she had waited many an hour since that disastrous
arrest; she would wait there till morning if she must,- at
least, till one should enter, or come forth, who might tell
her of Victor Le Roy.
The light in the preacher's study she could see from the
door-step in a court-yard where she waited. Should Mazurier come with Victor, she would let them pass; but if
Victor came alone, she had a right to speak.
It was after midnight when the student came down from
the preacher's study. She heard his voice when the door
opened, - by the street-lamp saw his face. And she recognized also the voice of Mazurier, who, till the last moment
of separation, seemed endeavoring to dissuade his friend
from leaving him that night.
He heard footsteps following him, as he passed along the
pavement, - observed that they gained on him. And could
it be any other than Jacqueline who touched his arm, and
whispered, "Victor "?
His fast-beating heart told him it was she. He took her
hand, and drew it within his arm, and looked upon her
face, -the face of his Jacqueline.
" Now where?" said he. " It is late. It is after midnight. Why are you alone in the street?"
"Waiting for you, Victor.  I heard you were at liberty,
and I supposed you were with him. I was safe."
"Yes, for you fear nothing. That is the only reason.
You knew  I was with the preacher, Jacqueline.  Why?
Because-because I am with him, of course."
"Yes," she said. " I heard it was so, Victor."
" Strange!  strange!  is it not? A prison is a better
place to learn the truth than the pure air of liberty, it
sems,)' said he, bitterly.




Victor and Yacqueline.            243
" What is that?" she asked. She seemed not to under,
stand his meaning.
" Nothing. I am  acquitted of heresy, you know. It
seems, what we talked so bravely meant-nothing. 0, I
am safe now! "
" It was to preach none the less, to hold the truth none
the less. But if he lost his life, there was an end of all;
or if he lost his liberty, it was as bad. But he would keep
both, and serve God so," said Jacqueline.
"Yes," cried Victor, " precisely what he said. I have
said the same, you think?"
" If you are quite clear that Leclerc and the rest of us
are all wrong, Victor."
"Jacqueline!"
"What is it, Victor?"
"'The rest of us,' you say. What would you have done
in my place?"
"God knows. I pretend not to know anything more."
"But'the rest of us,' you said. You think that you at
least are with Leclerc?"
"That was the truth you taught me, Victor. But - 
have not yet been tried."
"That is safe to say. What makes you speak so prudently, Jacqueline? Why do you not declare,'Though all
men deny Thee, yet will I never deny Thee'? Ah, you
have not been tried! You are not yet in danger of the
judgment, Jacqueline!"
" Do not speak so; you frighten me; it is not like you.
How can I tell?  I do not know but in this retirement,
in this thought you have been compelled to, you have
obtained more light than any one can have until he comes
to just such a place."
"Ah, Jacqueline, why not say to me what you are think.
ing? Have you lost your courage? Say,' Thou hast no,
lied unto men, but unto God."'
"No, - oh, no! How could I say it, mly Door Victor?
How do you know?"




244            Victor and Yacqueline.
"Surely you cannot know, as you say. But from where
you stand, that is what you are thinking. Jacqueline, confess! If you should speak your mind, it would be,'Thou
hast not lied unto men, but unto God, poor coward!  0,
Jacqueline, Mazurier may deceive himself!  I speak not
for him; but what will you do with your poor Victor, my
poor Jacqueline?"
She did not linger in the answer, - she did not sob or
tremble, — he- was by her side.
"Love him to the end. As He, when He loved His
own."
"Your own, poor girl? No, no!"
"You gave yourself to me," she answered straightway,
with resolute firmness clinging to the all she had.
"I was a man then," he answered. "But I will never
give a liar and a coward to Jacqueline Gabrie. Everything
but myself, Jacqueline! Take the old words and the old
memory. But for this outcast, him you shall forget. My
God! thou hast not brought this brave girl from Domrdmy,
and lighted her heart with a coal from Thine altar, that she
should turn from Thee to me! If you love a liar and a
coward, Jacqueline, you cannot help yourself,-he will
make you one, too. And what I loved you for was your
truth and purity and courage. I have given you a treasure
which was greater than I could keep. Where is it that you
live now, Jacqueline? I am not yet such a poltroon that I
am afraid to conduct you. I think that I should have the
courage to protect you to-night, if you were in any immediate danger. Come, lead the way."
"No," said Jacqueline. " I am not going home. I could
not sleep; and a roof over my head - any save God's
heaven- would suffocate me, I believe."
"Go then, as you will. But where?"
Jacqueline did not answer, but walked quietly on; and
so they passed beyond the city-borders to the river-bank,
-far away into the country, through the fields, under the
light of stars and of the waning moon,




Victor and Jacqueline.             245
"If I had been true!" said Victor, - "if I had not
listened to him! But him  I will not blame. For why
should I blame him? Am I an idiot? And his influence
could not have prevailed, had I not so chosen, when I stood
before my judges and they questioned me. No, - I acquit
Mazurier. Perhaps what I have denied never appeared to
him so glorious as it did once to me; and so he was guiltless at least of knowing what it was I did. But I knew.
And I could not have been deceived for a moment. No, 
I think it impossible that for a moment I should have been
deceived. They would have made a notable example of
me, Jacqueline. I am rich,- I am a student.  0, yes!
Jesus Christ may die for me, and I accept the benefit; but
when it comes to suffering for His sake, —you could not
have expected that of such a poltroon, Jacqueline! We
may look for it in brave men like Leclerc, whose very living
depends on their ability to earn their bread, - to earn it by
daily sweat; but men who need not toil, who have leisure
and education, - of course you would not expect such testimony to the truth of Jesus from them! Bishop Briconnet
recants,- and Martial Mazurier; and Victor Le Roy is no
braver man, no truer man than these! "
With bitter shame and self-scorning he spoke. Poor
Jacqueline had not a word to say. She sat beside him.
She would help him bear his cross. Heavy-laden as he,
she awaited the future, saying, in the silence of her spirit's
dismal solitude, " 0, teach us! 0, help us!"  But she
called not on any name; her prayer went out in search of
a God whom in that hour she knew not. The dark cloud
and shadow of Satan that overshadowed him was also
upon her.
" Mazurier is coming in the morning to take me with
him, Jacqueline," said Victor. "We are to make a journey."
" What is it, Victor?" she asked, quietly.
There was nothing left for her but patience, - that she
clearly saw, - nothing   ut patience, and quiet enduring of
the will of God.




246            Victor and Yacqueznne.
"He is afraid of me, —or of himself, - or of both, I
believe. He thinks a change of scene would be good for
both of us, poor lepers that we are."
" I must go with you, Victor Le Roy," said the resolute
Jacqueline.
"Wherefore?" asked he.
" Because, when you were strong and happy, that was
your desire, Victor; and now that you are sick and sorrowing, I will not give you to another: no! not to Mazurier,
nor to any one that breathes, except myself, to whom you
belong."
"I must stay here in Meaux, then?"
" That depends upon yourself, Victor."
"We were to have been married. We were going to
look after our estate, now that the hard summer and the
hard years of work are ended."
" Yes, Victor, it was so."
"But I will not wrong you. You were to be the wife of
Victor Le Roy. You are his widow, Jacqueline. For you
do not think that he lives any longer? "
" He lives, and he is free!  If he has sinned, like Peter
even, he weeps bitterly."
" Like Peter? Peter denied his Lord. But he did weep,
as you say, - bitterly. Peter confessed again."
" And none served the Master with truer heart or greater
courage afterward. Victor, you remember."
"Even so, - 0, Jacqueline! "
"Victor! Victor! it was only Judas who hanged himself."
"Come, Jacqueline! "
She arose and went with him.  At dawn they were
married. Love did lead and save them.
I see two youthful students studying one page. I see
two loving spirits walking through thick darkness. Along
the horizon flicker the promises of day. They say, "O
Holy Ghost, hast thou forsaken thine own temples?" Aloud
they cry to God.




Victor and  7acqueline.              247
I see them wandering among Domremy woods and meadows, - around the castle of Picardy, - talking of Joan.  I
see them resting by the graves they find in two ancient
villages. I see them walk in sunny places; they are not
called to toil: they may gather all the blossoms that delight
their eyes. Their love grows beyond childhood, - does
not die before it comes to love's best estate. Happy bride
and bridegroom! But I see them as through a cloud whose
fair hues are transient.
From the meadow-lands and the vineyards and the dark
forests of the mountains, from study and from rest, I see
them move with solemn faces and calm steps. Brave lights
are in their eyes, and flowers that are immortal they carry
in their hands. No distillation can exhaust the fragrance
of those blooms.
What dost thou here, Victor? What dost thou here,
Jacqueline?
This is the place of prisons. Here they light again, as
they have often lighted, torch and fagot; - life must pay
the cost! Angry crowds and hooting multitudes love this
dreary square. 0, Jacqueline and Victor, what is this I
behold?
They come together from  their prison, hand in hand.
"The testimony of Jesus!" Stand back, Mazurier! Retire,
Briconnet! Here is not your place, - this is not your hour!
Yet here incendiaries fire the temples of the Holy Ghost!
The judges do not now congratulate. Jacqueline waits
not now at midnight for the coming of Le Roy. Bride and
bridegroom, there they stand; they face the world to give
their testimony.
And a woman's voice, almost I deem the voice of Elsie
Meril, echoes the mother's cry that followed John Leclerc
when he fought the beasts at Meaux, 
"Blessed be Jesus Christ, and His witnesses."
So of the Truth were they borne up that day in a blazing
chariot to meet their Lord in the air, to be forever with
their Lord.




ELKANAH BREWSTER'S TEMPTATION,
WAS always of opinion that the fruit forbidden
to our grandmother Eve was an unripe apple.
Eaten, it afflicted Adam with the first colic known
to this planet. He, the weaker vessel, sorrowed over his transgression; but I doubt if Eve's repentance was thorough;
for the plucking of unripe fruit has been, ever since, a
favorite hobby of her sons and daughters, — until now our
mankind has got itself into such a chronic state of colic,
that even Dr. Carlyle declares himself unable to prescribe
any Morrison's Pill or other remedial measure to allay the
irritation.
Part of this irritation finds vent in a great cry about
"legitimate ambition."  Somehow, because any American
may be President of the United States, almost every American feels himself bound to run for the office. A man thinks
small things of himself, and his neighbors think less, if he
does not find his heart filled with an insane desire, in some
way, to attain to fame or notoriety, riches or bankruptcy.
Nevertheless, we are not purse-proud, - nor, indeed, proud
at all, more's the pity, - and receive a man just as readily
whose sands of life have been doled out to suffering humanity in the shape of patent pills, as one who has entered
Fifth Avenue by the legitimate way of pork and cotton
speculations, if only he have been successful, -which I
call a very noble trait in the American character.
Now this is all very well, and, granted that Providence
has placed us here to do what is best pleasing to ourselves,




Elkanah Brewster's Templation.           249
it is surely very noble and grand in us to please to serve
nothing less than our country or our age. But let us not
forget that the English language has such a little word as
duty. A man's talents, and, perhaps, once in a great while,
his wishes, would make him a great man (if wishes ever
did such things, which I doubt), while duty imperatively
demands that he shall remain a little man. What then?
Let us see.
Elkanah Brewster was going to New York to-morrow.
"What for, boy?" asked old Uncle Shubael, meeting
whom on the fish-wharf, he had bid him a cheery good-bye.
" To make my fortune," was the bold reply.
"Make yer fortin? You're a goose, boy! Stick to yer
work here, - fishin' summers an' shoemakin' winters. Why,
there is n't a young feller on the hull Cape makes as much
as you. What's up? Gal gin ye the mitten? Or what? "
"I don't want to make shoes, nor fish neither, Uncle
Shub," said Elkanah, soberly, looking the old fellow in the
face, - "goin' down to the Banks year arter year in cold
an' fish-gurry, an' peggin' away all winter, like mad. I
want to be rich, like Captain Crowell; I want to be a
gentleman, like that painter-chap that give me drawin'lessons, last summer, when I stayed to home."
" Phew! Want to be rich an' a gentleman, eh? Gittin'
tu big for yer boots, youngster? What's yer old man du
but go down t' the Banks reg'lar every spring?  You're
no better'n he, I guess! Keep yer trade, an' yer trade'11
keep you. A rollin' stun gethers no moss. Dry bread tu
home's better'n roast meat an' gravy abroad."
"All feet don't tread in one shoe, Uncle Shub," said
young Brewster, capping the old fellow's proverbs with
another. "Don't see why I shouldn't make money as
well's other fellers. It's a free country, an' if a feller wants
to try suthin' else'sides fishin' uv it, what d'yer all want to
be down on him fur? I don't want to slave all my days,
when other folks ken live in big houses an' ride in'ker.
riges, an' all that."
II 




250      Elkanak Brewster's Temptation.
"A'n't yer got bread enough to eat, an' a place to sleep?
an' what more's any on'em got? You stay here; make
yer money on the old Cape, where yer father an' grand'ther
made it afore you. Use yer means, an' God'11 give the
blessin'. Yer can't honestly git rich anywheres all tu once.
Good an' quickly don't often meet. One nail drives out
another. Slow an' easy goes fur in a day. Honor an' ease
a'n't often bedfellows. Don't yer be a goose, I tell ye.
What's to become of Hepsy Ann?"
Having delivered himself of which last and hardest shot,
Uncle Shubael shouldered his cod-craft, and, without awaiting an answer, tugged across the sand-beach for home.
Elkanah Brewster was a Cape-Cod boy, with a pedigree,
if he had ever thought of it, as long as any on the Cape, -
and they are the longest in the land. His forefathers had
caught fish to the remotest generation known. The Cape
boys take to the water like young ducks; and are born
with a hook and line in their fists, so to speak, as the
Newfoundland codfish and Bay Chaleur mackerel know,
to their cost. "Down on old Chatham" there is little
question of a boy's calling, if he only comes into the world
with the proper number of fingers and toes; he swims as
soon as he walks, knows how to drive a bargain as soon
as he can talk, goes cook of a coaster at the mature age
of eight years, and thinks himself robbed of his birthright,
if he has not made a voyage to the Banks before his
eleventh birthday comes round. There is good stuff in
the Cape boys, as the South-Street ship-owners know, who
don't sleep easier than when they have put a " Cape man"
in charge of their best clipper. Quick of apprehension,
fertile in resource, shrewd, enterprising, brave, prudent, and
above all, lucky,- no better seamen sail the sea. Long
may they keep theirprestige and their sand!
They are not rich on the Cape, —in the Wall-Street
sense of the word, that is to say. I doubt if Uncle Lew
Baker, who was high line out of Dennis last year, and who,
by the same token, had to work himself right smartly to




El7kanah Brewsters Temntation.          251
achieve that honor, - I doubt if this smart and thorcughly
wide-awake fellow took home more than three hundred
dollars to his wife and children when old Obed settled the
voyage. But then the good wife saves while he earns, and,
what with a cow, and a house and garden-spot of his own,
and a healthy lot of boys and girls, who, if too young to
help, are not suffered to hinder, this man is more forehanded and independent, gives more to the poor about him
and to the heathen at the other end of the world, than
many a city man who makes, and spends, his tens of
thousands.
Uncle Abijah Brewster, the father of this Elkanah, was
an old Banker, - which signifies here, not a Wall-Street
broker-man, but a Grand-Bank fisherman. He had brought
up a goodly family of boys and girls by his hook and line,
and, though now a man of some fifty winters, still made
his two yearly fares to the Banks, in his own trim little
pinky, and prided himself on being the smartest and jolliest man aboard. His boys had sailed with him till they
got vessels of their own, had learned from his stout heart
and strong arm their seamanship, their fisherman's acuteness, their honest daring, and childlike trust in God's
Providence. These poor fishermen are not rich, as I have
said; a dollar looks to them as big as a dinner-plate to us,
and a moderately flush Wall-Street man might buy out the
whole Cape, and not overdraw his bank-account. Also,
they have but little book-learning among them, reading
chiefly their Bible, Bowditch, and Nautical Almanac, and
leaving theology mostly to the parson, on shore, who is
paid for it. But they have a conscience, and, knowing a
thing to be right, do it bravely, and against all odds. I
have seen these men on Sunday, in a fleet of busy " Sunday fishers," fish biting all around them, sitting faithfully,
- ay, and contentedly, - with book in hand, sturdily refraining from what the mere human instinct of destruction
would strongly impel them to, without counting the temptation of dollars,   and this only because they had been




252      Elkanah Brewsters Temptation.
taught that Sunday was a day of rest and worship, wherein
no man should catch fish, and knew no theological quibble
or mercantile close-sailing by which to weather on God's
command.  It sounds little to us who have not been
tempted, or, if tempted, have gracefully succumbed, on the
plea that other people do so too; but how many stockspeculators would see their fellows buying bargains and
making easy fortunes on Sunday morning, and not forget
the ring of Trinity chimes and go in for dollars? Or which
of us denies himself his Monday morning's paper?
Elkanah had always been what his mother called a
strange boy. He was, indeed, an odd sheep in her flock.
Restless, ambitious, dreamy, from  his earliest youth, he
possessed, besides, a natural gift for drawing and sketching,
imitating and constructing,.that bade fair, unless properly
directed, to make of him that saddest and most useless of
human lumber, a jack-at-all-trades. He profited more by
his limited winter's schooling than his brothers and fellows,
and was always respected by the old man as "a boy that
took naterally to book-larnin', and would be suthin' some
day."  Of course he went to the Banks, and acquitted himself there with honor,- no man fishing more zealously or
having better luck. But all the time he was dreaming of
his future, counting this present as nothing, and ready, as
soon as Fortune should make him an opening, to cast away
this life, and grasp - he had not settled what.
" I dun know what ails him," said his father; "but he
don't take kindly to the Banks. Seems to me he kinder
despises the work, though he does it well enough. And
then he makes the best shoes on the Cape; but he a'n't
content, somehow."
And that was just it. He was not contented. He had
seen men - " no better than I," thought he, poor fool! -
in Boston, living in big houses, wearing fine clothes, putting
fair, soft hands into smooth-fitting kid-gloves; "and why
not I?" he cried to himself continually. Year by year,
from his seventeenth to his twenty-first, he was pursued by




Elkana  Brewster's Temptation.          253
this demon of "ambition," which so took possession of his
heart as to crowd out nearly everything else,  father,
mother, work,- even pretty Hepzibah Nickerson, almost,
who loved him, and whom he also loved truly. They had
almost grown up together, had long loved each other, and
had been now two years betrothed. When Elkanah was
out of his time and able to buy a share in a vessel, and
had made a voyage to the Banks as captain, they were to be
married.
The summer before this spring in which our story opens,
Elkanah had stayed at home for two months, because of a
rheumatism contracted by unusual exposure on the Banks
in early spring; and at this time he made the acquaintance
of Mr. James Graves, N. A., from New York, spending
part of his summer on the Cape in search of the picturesque, -which I hope he found. Elkanah had, as I have
said, a natural talent for drawing, and some of his sketches
had that in them which elicited the approval of Graves,
who saw in the young fellow an untutored genius, or, at
least, very considerable promise of future excellence.. To
him there could be but one choice between shoemaking
and " Art "; and finding that young Brewster made rapid
advances under his desultory tuition, he told him  his
thoughts, that he should not waste himself making seaboots for fishermen, but enter a studio in Boston or New
York, and make his career as a painter. It scarcely needed
this, however; for Elkanah took such delight in his new
proficiency, and got from Graves's stories of artist life such
exalted ideas of the unalloyed felicity of the gentleman of
the brush, that, even had the painter said no word, he
would have worked out that way himself.
"Only wait till next year, when I'm out of my time,"
said he to Graves; and to himself, - " This is the opening
for which I have been waiting."
That winter -" my last at shoemaking "- he worked
more diligently than ever before, and more good-naturedly.
Uncle Abijah was delighted at the change in his boy, and
Q




254      Elkanah Brewster's Temptation.
promised him great things in the way of a lift next year,
to help him to a speedy wedding. Elkanah kept his own
counsel, read much in certain books which Graves had left
him, and looked impatiently ahead to the day when, twentyone years of age, he should be a free man, — able to go
whither he listed and do what he would, with no man
authoritatively to say him nay.
And now the day had come; and with I don't know how
few dollars in his pocket, his scant earnings, he had declared to his astounded parents his determination to fish
and shoemake no longer, but to learn to be a painter.
" A great painter," - that was what he said.
" I don't see the use o' paintin' picters, for my part," said
the old man, despairingly; "can't you learn that, an'
fish tu?"
"Famous and rich too," said Elkanah half to himself,
looking through the vista of years at the result he hoped
for, and congratulating himself in advance upon it. And
a proud, hard look settled in his eye, which froze the opposition of father and mother, and was hardly dimmed
by encountering the grieved glance of poor Hepsy Ann
Nickerson.
Poor Hepsy Ann! They had talked it all over, time and
again. At first she was in despair; but when he laid before her all his darling hopes, and painted for her in such
glowing colors the final reward which should come to him
and her in return for his struggles,- when she saw him,
her love and pride, before her already transfigured, as it
were, by this rare triumph, clothed in honors, his name in
all mouths, - dear, loving soul, her heart consented, " ay,
if it should break meantime," thought she, as she looked
proudly on him through her tears, and said, — " Go, in
God's name, and God be with you  "
Perhaps we might properly here consider a little whether
this young man did well thus to leave father, mother, home,
his promised bride, sufficient bread-and-butter, healthy occupation, all, to attempt life in a new direction. Of course,




Elkanah Brewster's Temptation.           255
your man who lives by bread alone wilh "pooh! pooh! "
all such folly, and tell the young man to let well enough
alone. But consider candidly, and decide: Should Elkanah
have gone to New York?
On the whole, I think, yes. For,
He had a certain talent, and gave good promise of excellence in his chosen profession.
He liked it, felt strongly impelled towards it. Let us not
yet scrutinize too closely the main impelling forces. Few
human actions originate solely in what we try to think the
most exalted motives.
He would have been discontented for life, had he not had
his way. And this should count for something, - for much,
indeed. Give our boys liberty to try that to which their
nature or fancy strongly drives them, - to burn their fingers,
if that seem best.
Let him go, then; and God be with him! as surely He
will be, if the simple, faithful prayers of fair, sad Hepsy
Ann are heard. Thus will he, thus only can any, solve that
sphinx-riddle of life which is propounded to each passer
to-day, as of old in fable-lands,- failing to read which, he
dies the death of rusting discontent, - solving whose mysteries, he has revealed to him the deep secret of his life,
and sees and knows what best he may do here for himself
and the world.
But what, where, who, is Elkanah Brewster's world?
While we stand reasoning, he has gone. In New York,
his friend Graves assisted him to a place in the studio of
an artist, whose own works have proved, no less than those
of many who have gathered their most precious lessons
from him, that he is truly a master of his art. But what
are masters, teachers, to a scholar? It's very fine boarding at the Spread-Eagle Hotel; but even after you have
feed the waiter, you have to chew your own dinner, and are
benefited, not by the amount you pay for it, but only by so
much of all that with which the bounteous mahogany is
covered as you can thoroughly masticate, easily contain




236      Elkanah  Brewster's Temptation.
and healthily digest. Elkanah began with the soup, so to
speak. He brought all his Cape-Cod acuteness of observation to bear on his profession; lived closely, as well he
might; studied attentively and intelligently; lost no hints,
no precious morsels dropping from  the master's board;
improved slowly, but surely. Day by day he gained in that
facility of hand, quickness of observation, accuracy of
memory, correctness of judgment, patience of detail, felicity
of touch, which, united and perfected and honestly directed,
we call genius. He was above no drudgery, shirked no
difficulties, and labored at the insignificant sketch in hand
to-day as though it were indeed his masterpiece, to be hung
up beside Raphael's and Titian's; meantime, keeping up
poor Hepsy Ann's heart by letters full of a hope bred of
his own brave spirit, rather than of any favoring circumstances in his life, and gaining his scant bread-and-butter
by various honest drudgeries which I will not here recount.
So passed away three years; for the growth of a poor
young artist in public favor, and that thing called fame, is
fearfully slow. Oftenest he has achieved his best when the
first critic speaks kindly or savagely of him. What, indeed,
at best, do those blind leaders, but zealously echo a sentiment already in the public heart, -which they vainly
endeavor to create (out of nothing) by any awe-inspiring
formula of big words?
Men grow so slowly! But then so do oaks. And little
matter, so the growth be straight.
Meantime Elkanah was getting, slowly and by hardest
labor, to have some true conception of his art and his aims.
He became less and less satisfied with his own performances; and, having with much pains and anxious prayers
finished his first picture for the Academy, carefully hid it
under the bed, and for that year played the part of independent critic at the Exhibition. Wherefrom resulted some
increase of knowledge, - though chiefly negative.
For what positive lesson is taught to any by that yearly
show of what we flatter ourselves by calling Art?  Eight




Elkanah Brewsters Temptation.            257
hundred and fifteen new paintings this year, shown by no
less than two hundred and eighty-one painters. When you
have gone patiently through and looked at every picture,
see if you don't wish the critics had eyes, and a little
common sense, too. How many of these two hundred and
eighty-one, if they live to be a hundred, will ever solve their
great riddle? and once solved, how many would honestly
go back to shoemaking?
Why should they not paint?  Because, unless some of
them are poorer men than I think, that is not the thing
they are like to do best; and a man is put into this world,
not to do what he may think or hope will most speedily or
effectually place him in the list of this world's illustrious
benefactors, but honestly and against all devilish temptations to stick to that thing by which he can best serve and
bless 
Whom? A city? A state? A republic? A king?
No, -but that person who is nearest to, and most dependent upon him. Look at Charles Lamb, and then at
Byron and Shelley.
The growth of a poor young artist into public favor is
slow enough.  But even poor young artists have their
temptations. When Elkanah hung his first picture in the
Academy rooms, he thought the world must feel the acquisition. Now the world is a notoriously stupid world, and
never does its duty; but kind woman not seldom supplies its
omissions. So it happened, that, though the world ignored
the picture, Elkanah became at once the centre of admiration to a coterie of young ladies, who thought they were
appreciating Art when they flattered an artist, and who,
when they read in the papers the gratifying intelligence
(invented by some sanguine critic, over a small bottle of
Champagne cider) that the American people are rapidly
growing in true love for the fine arts, blushingly owned to
themselves that their virtuous labors in this direction were
not going unrewarded.
Have you never seen them in the Academy, - these dear




258       Elkanah Brewster's Temptation.
young ladies, who are so constantly foreseeing new Ra.
phaels, Claudes, and Rembrandts? Positively, in this year's
Exhibition they are better worth study than the paintings.
There they run, up and down, critical or enthusiastical, as
the humor strikes: Laura, with big blue eyes and a loud
voice, pitying Isidora because she "has never met" that
dear Mr. Herkimer, who paints such delicious, dreamy
landscapes; and Emily dragging everybody off to see Mr.
Smith's great work, " The Boy and the Windmill," which -
so surprising is his facility — he actually painted in less
than twelve days, and which "promises so much for his
success and the future of American Art," says this sage
young critic, out of whose gray eyes look the garnered
experiences of almost eighteen summers.
Whoever desiderates cheap praise, let him  cultivate a
beard and a sleepy look, and hang a picture in the Academy
rooms.  Elkanah received it, you may be sure.  It was
thought so romantic, that he, a fisherman, - the young
ladies sunk the shoemaker, I believe, - should be so devoted to Art. How splendidly it spoke for our civilization,
when even sailors left their vessels, and abjuring codfish,
took to canvas and brushes! What admirable courage in
him, to come here and endeavor to work his way up from
the very bottom! What praiseworthy self-denial,-" No!!
is it really so?" cried Miss Jennie, — when he had left
behind him a fair young bride!
It was as though it had been written, " Blessed is he who
forsaketh father, mother, and wife to paint pictures." But
it is not so written.
It was as if the true aim and glory of every man in a
civilized community should be to paint pictures. Which
has this grain of truth in it, that, in the highest form of
human development, I believe every man will be at heart
an artist. But then we shall be past picture-painting and
exhibitions. Don't you see, that, if the fruit be thoroughly
ripe, it needs no violent plucking? or that, if a man is
really a painter, he will paint, - ay, though he were ten




Elkanah Brewster's Temptation.          259
times a shoemaker, and could never, never hope to hang
his pictures on the Academy walls, to win cheap wonder
from boarding-school misses, or just regard from judicious
critics?
Elkanah Brewster came to New York to make his career,
-to win nothing less than fame and fortune. When he
had struggled through five years of Art-study, and was
now just beginning to earn a little money, he began also to
think that he had somehow counted his chickens before they
were hatched, - perhaps, indeed, before the eggs were laid.
" Good and quickly come seldom together," said old Uncle
Shubael. But then a man who has courage commonly has
also endurance; and Elkanah, ardently pursuing from love
now what he had first been prompted to by ambition, did
not murmur nor despair. For, indeed, I must own that
this young fellow had worked himself up to the highest and
truest conception of his art, and felt, that, though the
laborer is worthy of his hire, unhappy is the man who
lowers his art to the level of a trade. In olden times, the
priests did, indeed, eat of the sacrificial meats; but we live
under a new and higher dispensation.
II.
EANTIME, what of Hepsy Ann Nickerson? She
had bravely sent her hero out, with her blessing on
his aspirations. Did she regret her love and trust? I am
ashamed to say that these five long, weary years had passed
happily to this young woman. She had her hands full of
work at home, where she reigned over a family of brothers
and sisters, vice her mother, promoted. Hands busied with
useful toils, head and heart filled with love and trust of
Elkanah, there was no room for unhappiness. To serve
and to be loved; this seems, indeed, to be the bliss of the
happiest women I have known, - and of the happiest men,
too, for that matter. It does not sound logical, and I know




260      Elkanah Brewster's Temptatiot.
of no theory of woman's rights which will satisfactorily
account for the phenomenon. But then —there are the
facts.
A Cape household is a simpler affair than you will meet
with in the city. If any young marrying man waits for a
wife who shall be an adept in the mysteries of the kitchen
and the sewing-basket, let him  go down to the Cape.
Captain Elijah Nickerson, Hepsy Ann's father, was master
and owner of the good schooner " Miranda," in which excellent, but rather strongly scented vessel, he generally made
yearly two trips to the Newfoundland Banks, to draw thence
his regular income; and it is to be remarked, that his drafts,
presented in person. were never dishonored in that foggy
region. Uncle Elijah (they are all uncles, on the Cape,
when they marry and have children, - and boys until then),
Uncle Elijah, I say, was not uncomfortably oft, as things
go in those parts. The year before Elkanah went to New
York, the old fellow had built himself a bran-new house,
and Hepsy Ann was looked up to by her acquaintance as
the daughter of a man who was not only brave and honest,
but also lucky. " Elijah Nickerson's new house "- as it is
still called, and will be, I suppose, until it ceases to be a
house - was fitted up inside in a way which put you much
in mind of a ship's cabin, and would have delighted the
simple heart of good Captain Cuttle.
There was no spare space anywhere thrown away, nor
anything suffered to lie loose. Beckets and cleats, fixed
into the walls of the sitting-room, held and secured against
any possible damage the pipes, fish-lines, dolphin-grains,
and sou'westers of the worthy Captain; and here he and
his sat, when he was at home, through the long winter
evenings, in simple and not often idle content. The kitchen, flanked by the compendious outhouses which make our
New England kitchens almost luxurious in the comfort and
handiness of every arrangement, was the centre of Hepsy
Ann's kingdom, where she reigned supreme, and waged
sternest warfare against dirt and disorder.  Hence her




Elkanah Brewster's Temptation.             261
despotic sway extended over the pantry, an awful, and fragrant sanctuary, whither she fled when household troubles,
or a letter from  Elkanah, demanded her entire seclusion
from the outer world, and of whose interior the children
got faint glimpses and sniffs only on special and longremembered occasions; the west room, where her father
slept when he was at home, and where the curious searcher
might find store of old compasses, worn-out cod-hooks,
condemned gurry-knives, and last year's fishing-mittens,
all "stowed away against time-o'-need"; the spare room,
sacred to the rites of hospitality; the " up-stairs," occupied
by the children and Hepsy Ann's self; and finally, but
most important of all, the parlor, a mysterious and hermetically sealed apartment, which almost seemed to me an
unconsecrated spot in this little temple of the homely
virtues and affections,- a room furnished in a style somewhat ostentatious and decidedly uncomfortable, swept and
dusted on Saturday afternoons by Hepsy Ann's own careful
hands, sat in by the Captain and her for an hour or two on
Sundays in awkward state, then darkened and locked for
the rest of the week.
As for the queen and mistress of so much neatness and
comfort, I must say, that, like most queens whose likeness
I have seen, she was rather plain than strictly beautiful, 
though, no doubt, her loyal subjects, as in such cases commonly occurs, pictured her to themselves as a very Helen
of Troy. If her cheeks had something of the rosy hue of
health, cheeks, and arms, too, were well tanned by frequent
exposure to the sun.  Neither tall nor short, but with a
lithe figure, a natural grace and sweet dignity of carriage,
the result of sufficient healthy exercise, and a pure, untroubled spirit; hands and feet, mouth and nose, not such
as a gentleman would particularly notice; and straight
brown hair, which shaded the only really beautiful part
of Hepsy Ann's face, -her clear, honest, brave blue eyes:
eyes from which spoke a soul at peace with itself and with
the outward wold, - a soul yet full of love and trust, fea.r



262      Elkanak Brewster's Temptation.
ing nothing, doubting nothing, believing much good, and
inclined to patient endurance of the human weaknesses it
met with in daily life, as not perhaps altogether strange to
itself. The Cape men are a brave, hardy race; and the
Cape women, grave and somewhat silent, not demonstrative
in joy or grief, reticent mostly of anxieties and sorrows, born
to endure, in separation from fathers, brothers, lovers, husbands, in dangers not oftener fancied than real, griefs which
more fortunate women find it difficult to imagine, - these
Cape women are worthy mothers of brave men. Of such
our Hepsy Ann was a fair example, - weaving her rathei
prosaic life into golden dreams in the quiet light of her
pantry refuge, happy chiefly because she thought much and
carefully for others and had little time for self-brooding;
like most genuine heroines (except those of France), living
an heroic life without in the least suspecting it.
And did she believe in Elkanah?
Utterly.
And did Elkanah believe in himself?
Yes, -but with certain grave doubts. Here is the difference: the woman's faith is intuition; the man must have a
reason for the faith that is in him.
Yet Elkanah was growing.  I think a man grows like the
walls of a house, by distinct stages: so far the scaffolding
reaches, and then a general stoppage while the outer shell
is raised, the ladders lengthened, and the work squared
off. Now I don't know, unhappily, the common process of
growth of the artistic mind, and how far the light of to-day
helps the neophyte to look into the indefinite twilight of
to-morrow; but step by step was the slow rule of Elkanah's
mind, and he had been now five years an artist, and was
held in no despicable repute by those few who could rightly
judge of a man's future by his past, when first it became
very clear to him that he had yet to find his specialty in
Art,- that truth which he might better represent than any
other man. Don't think five years long to determine so
trivial a point. The right man in the right place is still




iElkanal  Brewster's Temptation.           263
a rare phenomenon in the world; and some men spend a
lifetime in the consideration of this very point, doubtless
looking to take their chance of real work in the next world.
I mean to say it took Elkanah just five years to discover,
that, though he painted many things well, he did yet put
his very soul into none, and that, unless he could now
presently find this, his right place, he had, perhaps, better
stop altogether.
Elkanah considered; but he also worked unceasingly,
feeling that the best way to break through a difficulty is to
pepper away at its outer walls.
Now while he was firing away wearily at this fortress,
which held, he thought, the deepest secret of his life, Hepsy
Ann sat in her pantry, her serene soul troubled by unwonted
fears.  Captain Elijah Nickerson had sailed out in his
stanch schooner in earliest spring, for the Banks. The
old man had been all winter meditating a surprise; and
his crew were in unusual excitement, peering out at the
weather, consulting almanacs, prophesying (to outsiders) a
late season, and winking to each other a cheerful disbelief
of their own auguries. The fact is, they were intending to
slip off before the rest, and perhaps have half their fare of
fish caught before the fleet got along. No plan could have
succeeded better-up to a certain point.  Captain Elijah
got off to sea full twelve days earlier than anybody else,
and was bowling merrily down towards the eternal fogbanks when his neighbors were yet scarce thinking of gathering up their mittens and sea-boots. By the time the last
comers arrived on the fishing-ground, one who had spoken
the "Miranda" some days before, anchored and fishing
away, reported that they had, indeed, nearly wet her salt, 
by which is meant that she was nearly filled with good,
sound codfish. The men were singing as they dressed their
fish, and Captain Elijah, sitting high up on the schooner's
quarter, took his pipe out of his mouth, and asked, as the
vessel rose on the sea, if they had any news to send home,
for three days more like that would fill him up.




264      Elkanalh Brewster's Temptation.
That was the last word of Captain Elijah Nickerson s
ever heard by men now living. Whether the " Miranda"
was sunk by an iceberg; whether run down in the dark
and silent watches of the night by some monster packet
or swift hurling steamer, little recking the pale fisher's light
feebly glimmering up from  the surface of the deep; or
whether they went down at their anchors, in the great gale
which set in on the third night, as many brave men have
done before, looking their fate steadfastly in the face for
long hours, and taking time to bid each other farewell ere
the great sea swallowed them; — the particulars of their
hapless fate no man may know, till the dread day when the
sea shall give up its dead.
Vainly poor Hepsy Ann waited for the well-known signal
in the offing, - daily walking to the shore, where kind old
Uncle Shubael, now long superannuated, and idly busying
himself about the fish-house, strove to cheer her fainting
soul by store of well-chosen proverbs, and yarns of how,
aforetimes, schooners not larger and not so stout as the
"Miranda," starting early for the Banks, had been blown
southward to the West Indies, and, when the second-fare
men came in with their fish, had made their appearance
laden with rich cargoes of tropical molasses and bananas.
P6or Hepsy Ann! what need to describe the long-drawn
agony which grew with the summer flowers, but did not
wane with the summer sun?  Hour after hour, day after
day, she sat by her pantry-window, looking with wistful
eyes out upon the sand, to that spot where the ill-fated
"Miranda " had last been seen, but never should appear
again, - another
"poor lone Hannah,
Sitting by the window, binding shoes," —
cheeks paling, eyes dimming, with that hope deferred which
maketh the heart sick. Pray God you never may be so
tried, fair reader! If, in these days, she had not had the
children to keep and comfort, she has since told me, she
could scarce have borne it. To calm their fears, to soothe




Elkanah Brewster's Temptation.            265
their little sorrows, to look anxiously -more anxiously
than ever before —after each one of her precious little
brood, became now her chief solace.
Thus the long, weary days rolled away, each setting sun
crushing another hope, until at last the autumn storms
approached, the last Banker was safe home; and by this
time it was plain, even to poor Hepsy Ann's faithful heart
that her dead would not come back to her.
"If only Elkanah were here! " she had sometimes sighed
to herself; — but in all these days she wrote him no word.
And he - guessing nothing of her long, silent agony, him 
self sufficiently bemired in his slough of despond, working
away with sad, unsatisfied heart in his little studio, hoping
yet for light to come to his night -was, in truth, so full of
himself, that Hepsy Ann had little of his thoughts. Shall
I go farther, and admit that sometimes this poor fellow
dimly regretted his pledged heart, and faintly murmured,
"If only I were free, then I might do something"? If
only the ship were rid of her helmsman, then indeed would
she go - somewhere.
At last, - it was already near Thanksgiving, - the news
reached Elkanah. " I thought you' d ha' been down afore
this to see Hepsy Ann Nickerson in her trouble," said an
old coasting-skipper to him, with mild reproach, handing
him a letter from his mother, - of all persons in the world!
Whereupon, seeing ignorance in Elkanah's inquiring glance,
he told the story.
Elkanah was as one in a maze. Going to his little room,
he opened his mother's letter, half-dreading to find here a
detailed repetition of what his heart had just taken in.
But the letter was short.
"MY SON ELKANAH," Do you not know that Captain Elijah Nickerson will
never come home from the Banks, and that Hepsy Ann is
left alone in the world?
"'For this cause shall a man leave his father and mother,
12




266       Elkanah Brewster's Temptativn.
and be joined to his wife, and they two shall be one
fles h.'"
That was all.
Elkanah sat on his stool, before his easel, looking vacantly'at the unfinished picture, as one stunned and breathless.
For the purport of this message was not to be mistaken.
Nor did his conscience leave him in doubt as to his duty.
O God! was this, indeed, the end? Had he toiled, and hoped
and prayed, and lived the life of an anchorite these five years
only for this? Was such faith, such devotion, so rewarded?
But had any one the right to demand this sacrifice of
him? Was it not a devilish temptation to take him from
his calling, from  that work in which God had evidently
intended him to work for the world?  Had he a right to
spoil his life, to belittle his soul, for any consideration? If
Hepsy Ann Nickerson had claims, had not he also, and
his Art? If he were willing, in this dire extremity, to sacrifice his love, his prospects of married bliss, might he not
justly require the same of her? Was not Art his mistress?
- Thus whispered the insidious devil of Selfishness to this
poor, tempted, anguished soul.
"Yea," whispered another still, small voice; "but is not
Hepsy Ann your promised wife?"  And those fatal words
sounded in his heart: " For this cause shall a man leave
his father and mother, and be joined to his wife."
" Lord, inspire me to do what is right!" prayed poor
amazed Elkanah, sinking on his knees at his cot-side.
But presently, through his blinding tears, "Lord, give
me strength to do the right! "
And then, when he awoke next morning, the world seemed
another world to him. The foundations of his life seemed
broken loose. Tears were no longer, nor prayers. But he
went about slowly, and with loving hands, packing up his
brushes, pallets, paints, easel, - all the few familiar objects
of a life which was his no longer, and on which he seemed
to himself already looking as across some vast gulf of




Elka'akh Brewster's Temptation.          267
years. At last all was done. A last look about the dismantled garret, so long his workshop, his home, where he
had grown out of one life into another, and a better, as he
thought, -out of a narrow circle into a broader. And
then, away for the Cape. No farewells, no explanations to
friends, nothing that should hold out to his sad soul any
faintest hope of a return to this garret, this toil, which
now seemed to him more heaven than ever before. Thus
this "Adam left his paradise, clinging to his Eve.
It was the day before Thanksgiving when Elkanah arrived at home. Will any one blame him, if he felt little
thankful? if the thought of the Thanksgiving turkey was
like to choke him, and the very idea of giving thanks
seemed to him  a bitter satire? Poor fellow! he forgot
that there were other hearts to whom Thanksgiving turkey
seemed little tempting.
The Cape folk are not demonstrative. They have warm
hearts, but the old Puritan ice has never quite melted away
from the outer shell.
" Well, Elkanah, glad to see you, boy!  said his father,
looking up from his corner by the stove; "how's things in
New York?" Father and son had not met for three years.
But, going out into the kitchen, he received a warm grasp
of the hand, and his mother said, in her low, sweet voice,
"I knew you'd come." That was all. But it was enough.
How to take his sad face over to Elijah Nickerson's new
house? But that must be done, too. Looking through the
little sitting-room window, as he passed, he saw pale-faced
Hepsy Ann sitting quietly by the table, sewing. The children had gone to bed. He did not knock; -why should
he? — but, walking in, stood silent on the floor. A glad,
surprised smile lit up the sad, wan face, as she recognized
him, and, stepping to his side, said, "0, Elkanah! I knew
you'd come. How good of you! " Then, abashed to have
so committed herself and him, she shrank to her chair
again.
Let us not intrude further on these two. Surely Elkanah




268      Elkanah Brewster's Temptation.
Brewster had been less than man, had he not found his
hard heart to soften, and his cold love to warm, as he drew
from her the story of her long agony, and saw this weary
heart ready to rest upon him, longing to be comforted in
his strong arms.
The next day a small sign was put up at Abijah Brewster's
door: —
BOOTS AND SHOES
MADE AND MENDED
BY
ELKANAH BREWSTER.
It was arranged that he should work at his trade all
winter. In the spring, he was to have his father's vessel,
and the wedding would be before he started for the Banks.
So the old life was put on again. I will not say that
Elkanah was thoroughly content, -that there were no bitter longings, no dim regrets, no faint questionings of Providence. But hard work is a good salve for a sore heart;
and in his honest toils, in his care for Hepsy Ann and her
little brood, in her kind heart, which acknowledged with
such humility of love all he did for her and all he had cast
away for her, he found his reward.
The wedding was over, — a quiet affair enough, - and
Elkanah was anchored on the Banks, with a brave, skilful
crew, and plenty of fish. His old luck had not deserted
him; wherever he dropped anchor, there the cod seemed
to gather; and, in the excitement of catching fish and
guarding against the dangers of the Banks, the old New
York life seemed presently forgotten; and, once more,
Elkanah's face wore the old, hopeful calm which belonged
there. Art, that had been so long his tyrant mistress, was
at last cast off.
Was she?




Elkanah Brewster's Temptation.             269
As he sat, one evening, high on the quarter, smoking his
pipe, in that calm, contemplative mood which is the smoker's
reward for a day of toil,- the little vessel pitching bows
under in the long, tremendous swell of the Atlantic, the
low drifting fog lurid in the light of the setting sun, but
bright stars twinkling out, one by one, overhead, in a sky
of Italian clearness and softness,  it all came to him, —
that which he had so long, so vainly sought, toiled for,
prayed for in New York, - his destiny.
Why should he paint heads, figures, landscapes, objects
with which his heart had never been really filled?
But now, as in one flash of divinest intelligence, it was
revealed to him!  This sea, this fog, this sky, these stars,
this old, old life, which he had been almost born into. 0,
blind bat indeed, not to have seen, long, long ago, that this
was your birthright in Art! not to have felt in your innermost heart, that this was indeed that thing, if anything,
which God had called you to paint!
For this Elkanah had drunk in from his earliest youth, -
this he understood to its very core; but the poor secret of
that other life, which is so draped about with the artistic
mannerisms and fashionable Art of New York, or any other
civilized life, he had never rightly appreciated.
In that sunset-hour was born apainter!
III.
T chanced, that, a few months ago, I paid my accustomed summer visit to an old friend, living near Boston,
-a retired merchant he calls himself. He began life as a
cabin-boy, -became, in time, master of an Indiaman, -
then, partner in a China house, -and after many years'
residence in Canton, returned some years ago, heart and
liver whole, to spend his remaining days among olden
scenes. A man of truest culture, generous heart, and rarely
erring taste. I never go there without finding something
new and admirable.
TB




270      Elkanahk  Brewster's Temptation.
"What am I to see, this time?" I asked, after dinner,
looking about the drawing-room.
"Come. I'11 show you."
He led me up to a painting, - a sea-piece:- A schooner,
riding at her anchor, at sunset, far out at sea, no land in
sight, sails down, all but a little patch of storm-sail fluttering wildly in the gale, and heavily pitching in a great, grand,
rolling sea; around, but not closely enveloping her, a driving fog-bank, lurid in the yellow sheen of the setting sun;
above her, a few stars dimly twinkling through a clear blue
sky; on the quarter-deck, men sitting, wrapped in all the
paraphernalia of storm-clothing, smoking and watching the
roll of the sea.'
"What do you think?" asked Captain Eastwick, interrupting my rapt contemplation.
" I never in my life saw so fine a sea-view. Whose can
it be?"
"A Cape-Cod fisherman's."
"But he is a genius!" cried I, enthusiastically.
"A great, a splendid genius! " said my friend, quietly.
"And a fisherman?"
"Yes, and shoemaker."
"What a magnificent career he might make!' Why
don't you help him! What a pity to bury such a man in
fish-boots and cod-livers!"
" My dear -," said Captain Eastwick, " you are a goose.
The highest genius lives above the littleness of making a
career. This man needs no Academy prizes or praises.
To my mind, his is the noblest, happiest life of all."
Whereupon he told me the story which I have endeavored
to relate.




THE QUEEN OF THE RED CHESSMEN
I IE box of chessmen had been left open all night.
That was a great oversight!  For everybody
knows that the contending chessmen are but too
eager to fight their battles over again by midnight, if a
chance is only allowed them.
It was at the Willows, - so called, not because the house
is surrounded by willows, but because a little clump of
them hangs over the pond close by. It is a pretty place,
with its broad lawn in front of the door-way, its winding
avenue hidden from the road by high trees. It is a quiet
place, too; the sun rests gently on the green lawn, and
the drooping leaves of the willows hang heavily over the
water.
No one would imagine what violent contests were going
on under the still roof, this very night. It was the night of
the first of May. The moon came silently out from the
shadows; the trees were scarcely stirring. The box of
chessmen had been left on the balcony steps by the drawing-room window, and the window, too, that warm night,
had been left open. So, one by one, all thechessmen came
out to fight over again their evening's battles.
It was a famously carved set of chessmen. The bishops
wore their mitres, the knights pranced on spirited steeds,
the castles rested on the backs of elephants, -even the
pawns mimicked the private soldiers of an army. The
skilful carver had given to each piece, and each pawn, too,
a certain individuality. That night there had been a close




272      The Queen of the Red Che-ssmz.
contest. Two well-matched players had guided the game,
and it had ended with leaving a deep irritation on the conquered side.
It was Isabella the Queen of the Red Chessmen, who
had been obliged to yield. She was young and proud, and
it was she, indeed, who held the rule; for her father, the
old Red King, had grown too imbecile to direct affairs; he
merely bore the name of sovereignty. And Isabella was
loved by knights, pawns, and all; the bishops were willing
to die in her cause, the castles would have crumbled to
earth for her. Opposed to her, stood the detested White
Queen. All the Whites, of course, were despised by her;
but the haughty, self-sufficient queen angered her most.
The White Queen was reigning during the minority of
her only son. The White Prince had reached the age of
nineteen, but the strong mind of his mother had kept him
always under restraint. A simple youth, he had always
yielded to her control. He was pure-hearted and gentle,
but never ventured to make a move of his own. He sought
shelter under cover of his castles, while his more energetic
mother went forth at the head of his army. She was
dreaded by her subjects,- never loved by them. Her own
pawn, it is true, had ventured much for her sake, had often
with his own life redeemed her from captivity; but it was
loyalty that bound even him, - no warmer feeling of devotion or love.
The Queen Isabella was the first to come out from her
prison.
" I will stay here no longer," she cried; "the blood of
the Reds grows pale in this inactivity."
She stood upon the marble steps; the May moon shone
down upon her. She listened a moment to a slight murmuring within the drawing-room window. The Spanish
lady, the Murillo-painted Spanish lady, had come down
from her frame that bound her against the wall. Just for
this one night in the year, she stepped out from the canvas
to walk up and-dov n the rooms majestically. She would




The Queen of the Red Chessmen.    273
not exchange a word with anybody; nobody understood
her language. She could remember when Murillo looked
at her, watched over her, created her with his pencil. She
could have nothing to say to little paltry shepherdesses,
and other articles of virtf, that came into grace and motion just at this moment.
The Queen of the Red Chessmen turned away, down
into the avenue. The May moon shone upon her. Her
feet trod upon unaccustomed ground; no black or white
square hemmed her in; she felt a new liberty.
"My poor old father! " she exclaimed, " I will leave him
behind; better let him slumber in an ignoble repose than
wander over the board, a laughing-stock for his enemies.
We have been conquered, -the foolish White Prince rules! "
A strange inspiration stole upon her; the breath of the
May night hovered over her; the May moon shone upon
her.  She could move without waiting for the will of
another; she was free. She passed down the avenue;
she had left her old prison behind.
Early in the morning, - it was just after sunrise, - the
kind Doctor Lester was driving home, after watching half
the night out with a patient. He passed the avenue to the
Willows, but drew up his horse just as he was leaving the
entrance. He saw a young girl sitting under the hedge.
She was without any bonnet, in a red dress, fitting closely
and hanging heavily about her. She was so very beautiful,
she looked so strangely lost and out of place here at this
early hour, that the Doctor could not resist speaking
to her.
" My child, how came you here?"
The young girl rose up, and looked round with uncertainty.
"Where am I?" she asked.
She was very tall and graceful, with an air of command,
but with a strange, wild look in her eyes.
" The young woman must be slightly insane," thought
the Doctor; "but she cannot have wandered far."
12 *




274      Th/e Queen of the Red Ch/esslneIz.
" Let me take you nome," he said aloud. " Perhaps you
come from the Willows?"
"0, don't take me back there!" cried Isabella, "they
will imprison me again! I had rather be a slave than a
conquered queen!"
"Decidedly insane!" thought the Doctor. "I must take
her back to the Willows."
He persuaded the young girl to let him lift her into his
chaise. She did not resist him; but when he turned up
the avenue, she leaned back in despair. He was fortunate
enough to find one of the servants up at the house, just
sweeping the steps of the hall-door. Getting out of his
chaise, he said confidentially to the servant, -
" I have brought back your young lady."
" Our young lady!" exclaimed the man, as the Doctor
pointed out Isabella.
" Yes, she is a little insane, is she not?"
" She is not our young lady," answered the'servant; "we
have nobody in the house just now, but Mr. and Mrs.
Fogerty, and Mrs. Fogerty's brother, the old geologist."
"Where did she come from? " inquired the Doctor.
"I never saw her before," said the servant, "and I certainly should remember. There's some foreign folks live
down in the cottage, by the railroad; but they are not the
like of her!"
The Doctor got into his chaise again, bewildered.
"My child," he said, "you must tell me where you came
from."
" 0, don't let me go back again!" said Isabella, clasping
her hands imploringly. " Think how hard it must be never
to take a move of one's own! to know how the game might
be won, then see it lost through folly! 0, that last game,
lost through utter weakness! There was that one move!
Why did he not push me down to the king's row? I might
have checkmated the White Prince, shut in by his own
castles and pawns,-it would have been a direct checkmate t Think of his folly! he stopped to take the queen's




The Queen of the Red Chessmen.            275
pawn with his bishop, and within one move of a check.
mate "
"Quite insane!" repeated the Doctor. "But I must
have my breakfast. She seems quiet; I think I can keep
her till after breakfast, and then I must try and find where
the poor child's friends live. I don't know what Mrs.
Lester will think of her."
They rode on. Isabella looked timidly round.
"You don't quite believe me," she said, at last. "It
seems strange to you."
"It does," answered the Doctor, " seem very strange."
"Not stranger than to me," said Isabella, —"it is so
very grand to me! All this motion! Look down at that
great field there, not cut up into squares! If I only had
my knights and squires there! I would be willing to give
her as good a field, too; but I would show her where the
true bravery lies. What a place for the castles, just to
defend that pass!"
The Doctor whipped up his horse.
Mrs. Lester was a little surprised at the companion her
husband had brought home to breakfast with him.
"Who is it?" she whispered.
"That I don't know,-I shall have to find out," he
answered, a little nervously.
"Where is her bonnet?" asked Mrs. Lester; this was
the first absence of conventionality she had noticed.
"You had better ask her," answered the Doctor.
But Mrs. Lester preferred leaving her guest in the parlor
while she questioned her husband.  She was somewhat
disturbed when she found he had nothing more satisfactory
to tell her.
"An insane girl! and what shall we do with her?" she
asked.
" After breakfast I will make some inquiries about her,"
answered the Doctor.
"And leave her alone with us? that will never do! You
must take her away directly, - at least to the Insane




276      The Queen of the Red Chessmen.
Asylum, - somewhere! What if she should graw wild
while you were gone?  She might kill us all! I will go
in and tell her that she cannot stay here."
On returning to the parlor, she found Isabella looking
dreamily out of the window. As Mrs. Lester approached,
she turned.
"You will let me stay with you a little while, will you
not?"
She spoke in a quiet tone, with an air somewhat commanding.  It imposed upon nervous little Mrs. Lester.
But she made a faint struggle.
" Perhaps you would rather go home," she said.
"I have no home now," said Isabella; "some time I
may recover it; but my throne has been usurped."
Mrs. Lester looked round in alarm, to see if the Doctor
were near.
"Perhaps you had better come in to breakfast," she
suggested.
She was glad to place the Doctor between herself and
their new guest.
Celia Lester, the only daughter, came down stairs. She
had heard that her father had picked up a lost girl in the
road. As she came down in her clean morning dress, she
expected to have to hold her skirts away from some little
squalid object of charity. She started when she saw the
elegant-looking young girl who sat at the table. There
was something in her air and manner that seemed to make
the breakfast equipage, and the furniture of the room about
her, look a little mean and poor. Yet the Doctor was very
well off, and Mrs. Lester fancied she had everything quite
in style. Celia stole into her place, feeling small in the
presence of the stranger.
After breakfast, when the Doctor had somewhat refreshed
himself by its good cheer from  his last night's fatigue,
Isabella requested to speak with him.
" Let me stay with you a little while," she asked, beseechingly; " I will do everything for you that you desire. You




The Queen of the Red Chessmen.            277
shall teach me anything;    I know I can learn ad that you
will show me, all that Mrs. Lester will tell me."
" Perhaps so, - perhaps that will be best," answered the
Doctor, "until your friends inquire for you; then I must
send you back to them."
"Very well, very well," said Isabella, relieved. " But I
must tell you they will not inquire for me. I see you will
not believe my story. If you only would listen to me, I
could tell it all to you."
" That is the only condition I can make with you," answered the Doctor, "that you will not tell your story, —
that you will never even think of it yourself. I am  a
physician.  I know that it is not good for you to dwell
upon such things. Do not talk of them to me, nor to my
wife or daughter. Never speak of your story to any one
who comes here. It will be better for you."
"Better for me," said Isabella, dreamily, "that no one
should know! Perhaps so. I am, in truth, captive to the
White Prince; and if he should come and demand me, 
I should be half afraid to try the risks of another game."
" Stop, stop! " exclaimed the doctor, "you are already
forgetting the condition. I shall be obliged to take you
away to some retreat, unless you promise me- "
" O I will promise you anything," interrupted Isabella;
"and you will see that I can keep my promise."
Meanwhile Mrs. Lester and Celia had been holding a
consultation.
" I think she must be some one in disguise," suggested
Celia.
Celia was one of the most unromantic of persons. Both
she and her mother had passed their lives in an unvarying
routine of duties. Neither of them had ever found time
from their sewing even to read. Celia had her books of
history laid out, that she meant to take up when she should
get through her work; but it seemed hopeless that this
time would ever come. It had never come to Mrs. Lester,
and she was now fifty years old. Celia had never re ad any




278      The Queen of the Red Chessmen.
novels. She had tried to read them, but never was inter.
ested in them. So she had a vague idea of what romance
was, conceiving of it only as something quite different
from her every-day life. For this reason the unnatural
event that was taking place this very day was gradually
appearing to her something possible and natural. Because
she knew there was such a thing as romance, and that it
was something quite beyond her comprehension, she was
the more willing to receive this event quietly from finding
it incomprehensible.
"We can let her stay here to-day, at least," said Mrs.
Lester. "We will keep John at work in the front dooryard, in case we should want him. And I will set Mrs.
Anderson's boy to weeding in the border; we can call him,
if we should want to send for help."
She was quite ashamed of herself, when she had uttered
these words, and Isabella walked into the room, so composed, so refined in her manners.
" The Doctor says I may stay here a little while, if you
will let me," said Isabella, as she took Mrs. Lester's hands.
"We will try to make you comfortable," replied Mrs.
Lester.
" He. says you will teach me many things, - I think he
said, how to sew."
" How to sew! Was it possible she did not know how
to sew? " Celia thought to herself " How many servants
she must have had, never to have learned how to sew,
herself! "
And this occupation was directly provided, while the
Doctor set forth on his day's duties, and at the same time
to inquire about the strange apparition of the young girl.
He was so convinced that there was a vein of insanity
about her, that he was very sure that questioning her only
excited her the more. Just as he had parted from her,
some compunction seized her, and she followed him to the
door.
"There is my father," said she.




The Queen of the Red Chessmen.            279
"Your father  where shall I find him?" asked the
Doctor.
"O, he could not help me," she replied; "it is a long
time since he has been able to direct affairs. He has
scarcely been conscious of my presence, and will hardly
feel my absence, his mind is so weak."
" But where can I find him? " persisted the Doctor.
"He did not come out," said Isabella; "the White
Queen would not allow it, indeed."
"Stop, stop!" exclaimed the Doctor, " we are on forbidden ground."
He drove away.
" So there is insanity in the family," he thought to himself. " I am quite interested in this case. A new form of
monomania! I should be quite sorry to lose sight of it.
I shall be loath to give her up to her friends."
But he was not yet put to that test. No one could give
him  any light with regard to the strange girl. He went
first to the Willows, and found there so much confusion
that he could hardly persuade any one to listen to his
questions. Mrs. Fogerty's brother, the geologist, had been
riding that morning, and had fallen from his horse and
broken his leg. The Doctor arrived just in time to be of
service in setting it. Then he must linger some time to
see that the old gentleman was comfortable, so that he was
obliged to stay nearly the whole morning. He was much
amused at the state of disturbance in which he left the
family. The whole house was in confusion, looking after
some lost chessmen.
"There was nothing," said Mrs. Fogerty, apologetically,
"that would soothe her brother so much as a game of
chess. That, perhaps, might keep him quiet. He would
be willing to play chess with Mr. Fogerty by the day together. It was so strange! they had a game the night
before, and now some of the pieces could not be found.
Her brother had lost the game, and to-day he was so eager
to take his revenge!"




280      The Queen of the Red C/hesmen.
"How  absurd!" thought the Doctor; "what trifling
things people interest themselves in! Here is this old man
more disturbed at losing his game of chess than he is at
breaking his leg. It is different in my profession, where
one deals with life and death. Here is this young girl's
fate in my hands, and they talk to me of the loss of a few
paltry chessmen!"
The "foreign people" at the cottage knew  nothing of
Isabella. No one had seen her the night before, or at any
time.  Dr. Lester even drove ten miles to Dr. Giles's
Retreat for the Insane, to see if it were possible that a
patient could have wandered away from there.  Dr. Giles
was deeply interested in the account Dr. Lester gave. He
would very gladly take such a person under his care.
" No," said Dr. Lester, " I will wait awhile.  I am interested in the young girl. It is not possible but that I shall
in time find out from her, by chance, perhaps, who her
friends are, and where she came from.  She must have
wandered away in some delirium of fever, - but it is very
strange, for she appears perfectly calm now. Yet I hardly
know in what state I shall find her."
He returned to find her very quiet and calm, learning
from  his wife and daughter how  to sew. She seemed
deeply interested in this new occupation, and had given
all her time and thought to it.  Celia and her mother
privately confided to the Doctor their admiration of their
strange guest.  Her ways were so graceful and beautiful!
all that she said seemed so new and singular! The Doctor, before he went away, had exhorted Mrs. Lester and
Celia to ask her no questions about her former life, and
everything had gone on very smoothly. And everything
went on as smoothly for some weeks. Isabella seemed
willing to be as silent as the Doctor upon all exciting subjects.  She appeared to be quite taken up with her sewing,
much to Mrs. Lester's delight.
"She will turn out quite as good a seamstress as Celia,"
said she to the Doctor.  "She sews steadily all the time,




The Queen of the Red Chessmen.            281
and nothing seems to please her so much as to finish a
piece of work. She will be able to do much more than her
own sewing, and may prove quite a help to us."
"I shall be very glad," said the Doctor, "if anything
can be a help, to prevent you and Celia from working yourselves to death. I shall be glad if you can ever have done
with that eternal sewing. It is time that Celia should do
something about cultivating her mind."
"Celia's mind is so well regulated," interrupted Mrs.
Lester.
"We won't discuss that," continued the Doctor,  "we
never come to an agreement there. I was going on to say
that I am becoming so interested in Isabella, that I feel
towards her as if she were my own. If she is of help to
the family, that is very well, -it is the best thing for her
to be able to make herself of use. But I don't care to
make any profit to ourselves out of her help. Somehow I
begin to think of her as belonging to us. Certainly she
belongs to nobody else. Let us treat her as our own child.
We have but one, yet God has given us means enough to
care for many more.  I confess I should find it hard to
give Isabella up to any one else. I like to find her when I
come home, - it is pleasant to look at her."
And I, too, love her," said Mrs. Lester. " I like to see
her as she sits quietly at her work."
So Isabella went on learning what it was to be one of
the family, and becoming, as Mrs. Lester remarked, a very
experienced seamstress. She seldom said anything as she
sat at her work, but seemed quite occupied with her sewing; while Mrs. Lester and Celia kept up a stream  of
conversation, seldom addressing Isabella, as, indeed, they
had few topics in common.
One day, Celia and Isabella were sitting together.
" Have you always sewed?" asked Isabella.
" 0, yes," answered Celia, - " since I was quite a child."
"And do you remember when you were a child? " asked
Isabella, laying down her work.




282      The Queen of the Red Chessmen.
"0, yes, indeed," said Celia; "I used to make All my
doll's dresses myself."
" Your doll's dresses!" repeated Isabella.
" 0, yes," replied Celia, -" I was not ashamed to play
with dolls in that way."
"I should like to see some dolls," said Isabella.
"I will show you my large doll," said Celia; "I have
always kept it, because I fitted it out with such a nice set
of clothes. And I keep it for children to play with."
She brought her doll, and Isabella handled it and looked
at it with curiosity.
"So you dressed this, and played with it," said Isabella,
inquiringly, "and moved it about as one would move a
piece at chess?"
Celia started at this word "chess."  It was one of the
forbidden words. But Isabella went on: 
" Suppose this doll should suddenly have begun to speak,
to move, and walk round, would not you have liked it?"
"0, no!" exclaimed Celia. "What! a wooden thing
speak and move!  It would have frightened  me very
much."
" Why should it not speak, if it has a mouth, and walk,
if it has feet?" asked Isabella.
" What foolish questions you ask!" exclaimed Celia, " of
course it has not life."
" 0, life, - that is it! " said Isabella. "Well what is
life? "
"Life! why it is what makes us live," answered Celia.
"Of course you know what life is."
"No, I don't know," said Isabella, "But I have been
thinking about it lately, while I have been sewing, - what
it is."
" But you should not think, you should talk more, Isabella," said Celia. " Mamma and I talk while we are at
work, but you are always very silent."
" But you think sometimes? " asked Isabella.
"Not about such things," replied Celia. " I have to
think about my work."




The Queen of the Red Chessmen.           283
"But your father thinks, I suppose, when he comes home
and sits in his study alone?"
" 0, he reads when he goes into his study, - he reads
books and studies them," said Celia.
" Do you know how to read?" asked Isabella.
" Do I know how to read!" cried Celia, angrily.
"Forgive me," said Isabella, quickly, " but I never saw
you reading. I thought perhaps - women are so different
here!"
She did not finish her sentence, for she saw Celia was
really angry. Yet she had no idea of hurting her feelings.
She had tried to accommodate herself to her new circumstances. She had observed a great deal, and had never
been in the habit of asking questions. Celia was disturbed
at having it supposed that she did not know how to read;
therefore it must be a very important thing to know how to
read, and she determined she must learn. She applied to
the Doctor. He was astonished at her entire ignorance,
but he was very glad to help her. Isabella gave herself
up to her reading, as she had done before to her sewing.
The Doctor was now the gainer. All the time he was
away, Isabella sat in his study, poring over her books;
when he returned, she had a famous lesson to recite to him.
Then he began to tell her of books that he was interested
in. He made Celia come in, for a history class. It was
such a pleasure to him to find Isabella interested in what
he could tell her of history!
"All this really happened," said Isabella to Celia once, -
" these people really lived!"
" Yes, but they died," responded Celia, in an indifferent
tone, - " and ever so long ago, too! "
"But did they die," asked Isabella, "if we can talk
about them, and imagine how they looked? They live for
us as much as they did then."
" That I can't understand," said Celia. " My uncle saw
Napoleon when he was in Europe, long ago. But I never
saw Napoleon. He is dead and gone to me, just as much
as Alexander the Great."




284      The Queen of the Red Chessmen.
" Well, who does live, if Alexander the Great, if Napoleon,
and Columbus do not live?" asked Isabella, impatiently.
"Why, papa and mamma live," answered Celia, "and
you -"
"And the butcher," interrupted Isabella, "because he
brings you meat to eat; and Mr. Spool, because he keeps
the thread store.  Thank you for putting me in, too!
Once   "
" Once!" answered Celia, in a dignified tone, "I suppose
once you lived in a grander circle, and it appears to you we
have nobody better than Mr. Spool and the butcher."
Isabella was silent, and thought of her "circle," her
former circle. The circle here was large enough, the circumference not very great, but there were as many points
in it as in a larger one. There were pleasant, motherly
Mrs. Gibbs, and her agreeable daughters, - the Gresham
boys, just in college, - the Misses Tarletan, fresh from a
New York boarding-school, - Mr. LovelI, the young minister, - and the old Misses Pendleton, that made raspberryjam, - together with Celia's particular friends, Anna and
Selina Mountfort, who had a great deal of talking with
Celia in private, but not a word to say to anybody in the
parlor. All these, with many others in the background,
had been speculating upon the riddle that Isabella presented, - " Who was she? and where did she come from?"
Nobody found any satisfactory answer. Neither Celia
nor her mother would disclose anything.  It is a great
convenience in keeping a secret, not to, know what it is.
One can't easily tell what one does not know.
"The Doctor really has a treasure in his wife and daughter," said Mrs. Gibbs, "they keep his secrets so well!
Neither of them  will lisp a word about this handsome
Isabella."
" I have no doubt she is the daughter of an Italian refugee," said one of the Misses Tarletan. " We saw a number
of Italian refugees in New York."
This opinion became prevalent in the neighborhood.




The Queen of the Red Chessmen.    285
That Dr. Lester should be willing to take charge of an
unknown girl did not astonish those who knew of his many
charitable deeds. It was not more than he had done for
his cousin's child, who had no especial claim upon him.
He had adopted Lawrence Egerton, educated him, sent
him to college, and was giving him every advantage in his
study of the law. In the end Lawrence would probably
marry Celia and the pretty property that the Doctor would
leave behind for his daughter.
" She is one of my patients," the Doctor would say, to
any one who asked him about her.
The tale that she was the daughter of an Italian refugee
became more rife after Isabella had begun to study Italian.
She liked to have thl musical Italian words linger on her
tongue. She quoted Italian poetry, read Italian history.
In conversation, she generally talked of the present, rarely
of the past or of the future. She listened with wonder to
those who had a talent for reminiscence. How rich their
past must be, that they should be willing to dwell in it 
Her own she thought very meagre. If she wanted to live in
the past, it must be in the past of great men, not in that of
her own little self. So she read of great painters and great
artists, and because she read of them she talked of them.
Other people, in referring to by-gone events, would say,
"When I was in Trenton last summer,"  " In Cuba the
spring that we were there "; but Isabella would say, " When
Raphael died, or when Dante lived."  Everybody liked to
talk with her, - laughed with her at her enthusiasm. There
was something inspiring, too, in this enthusiasm; it compelled attention, as her air and manner always attracted
notice. By her side. the style and elegance of the Misses
Tarletan faded out; here was a moon that quite extinguished the light of their little tapers. She became the
centre of admiration; the young girls admired her, as they
are prone to admire some one particular star. She never
courted attention, but it was always given.
"Isabella attracts everybody," said Celia to her mother
S




286      The Queen of the Red Chessmen.
" Even the old Mr. Spencers, who have never been touched
by woman before, follow her, and act just as she wills."
Little Celia, who had been quite a belle hitherto, sunk
into the shade by the side of the brilliant Isabella. Yet
she followed willingly in the sunny wake that Isabella left
behind.  She expanded somewhat, herself, for she was
quite ashamed to know nothing of all that Isabella talked
about so earnestly. The sewing gave place to a little reading, to Mrs. Lester's horror.  The Mountforts and the
Gibbses met with Isabella and Celia to read and study, and
went into town with them to lectures and to concerts.
A winter passed away and another summer came. Still
Isabella was at Dr. Lester's; and with the lapse of time
the harder did it become for the Doctor to question her
of her past history, - the more, too, was she herself weaned
from it.
The young people had been walking in the garden one
evening.
" Let me sit by you here in the porch," said Lawrence
Egerton to Celia, - " I want rest, for body and spirit. I
am always in a battle-field when I am talking with Isabella.
I must either fight with her or against her. She insists on
my fighting all the time. I have to keep my weapons
bright, ready for use, every moment. She will lead me,
too, in conversation, sends me here, orders me there. I
feel like a poor knight in chess, under the sway of a
queen - "
"I don't know anything about chess," said Celia, curtly.
"It is a comfort to have you a little ignorant," said Lawrence. "Please stay in bliss awhile. It is repose, it is
refreshment. Isabella drags one into the company of her
heroes, and then one feels completely ashamed not to be
on more familiar terms with them all. Her Mazzinis, her
Tancreds, heroes false and true, — it makes no difference
to her, - put one into a whirl between history and story.
What a row she would make in Italy, if she went back
there!"




The Queen of the Red Chessmen.            287
"What could we do without her? " said Celia; "it was
so quiet and commonplace before she came! "
" That is the trouble," replied Lawrence, " Isabella won't
let anything remain commonplace.  She pulls everything
out of its place, - makes a hero or heroine out of a piece
of clay. I don't want to be in heroics all the time. Even
Homer's heroes ate their suppers comfortably. I think it
was a mistake in your father, bringing her here. Let her
stay in her sphere queening it, and leave us poor mortals
to our bread and butter."
"You know  you don't think so," expostulated Celia;
"you worship her shoe-tie, the hem of her garment."
"But I don't want to," said Lawrence, -"it is a compulsory worship. I had rather be quiet."
" Lazy Lawrence! " cried Celia, " it is better for you.
You would be the first to miss Isabella. You would find
us quite flat without her brilliancy, and would be hunting
after some other excitement."
" Perhaps so," said Lawrence. " But here she comes to
goad us on again. Queen Isabella, when do the bull-fights
begin?"
" I wish I were Queen Isabella!" she exclaimed. " Have
you read the last accounts from Spain? I was reading
them  to the Doctor to-day.  Nobody knows what to do
there. Only think what an opportunity for the Queen to
show herself a queen! Why will not she make of herself
such a queen as the great Isabella of Castiie was?"
"I can't say," answered Lawrence.
"Queens rule in chess," said Horace Gresham.  "I
always wondered that the king was made such a poor
character there.  He is not only ruled by his cabinet,
bishops, and knights, but his queen is by far the more
warlike character."
" Whoever plays the game rules, - you or Mr. Egerton,"
said Isabella, bitterly; "it is not the poor queen. She
must yield to the power of the moving hand.  I suppose
it is so with us women. We see a great aim before us, but
have not the power."




288      The Queen of the Red Chessmen.
" Nonsense  " exclaimed Lawrence, " it is just the reverse.
With some women, - for I won't be personal, - the aim,
as you call it, is very small, - a poor amusement, another
dress, a larger house —"
"You may stop," interrupted Isabella, "for you don't
believe this. At least, keep some of your flings for the
women that deserve them; Celia and I don't accept them."
" Then we'll talk of the last aim we were discussing, -
the ride to-morrow."
The next winter was passed by Mrs. Lester, her daughter,
and Isabella in Cuba.  Lawrence Egerton accompanied
them thither, and the Doctor hoped to go for them in the
spring. They went on Mrs. Lester's account. She had
worn herself out with her household labors, - very uselessly, the Doctor thought, - so he determined to send hei
away from them.  Isabella and Celia were very happy all
this winter and spring. With Isabella, Spanish took the
place of Italian studies. She liked talking in Spanish.
They made some friends among the residents, as well as
among the strangers, particularly the Americans. Of these
last, they enjoyed most the society of Mrs. Blanchard and
h jr son, Otho, who were at the same hotel with them.
The opera, too, was a new delight to Isabella, and even
Celia was excited by it.
"It is a little too absurd, to see the dying scene of Romeo
and Juliet sung out in an opera!" remarked Lawrence
Egerton, one morning; "all the music of the spheres could
not have made that scene, last night, otherwise than supremely ridiculous."
" I am glad you did not sit by us, then," replied Celia;
" Isabella and I were crying."
" I dare say," said Lawrence. "I should be afraid to
take you to see a tragedy well acted. You would both be
in hysterics before the killing was over."
" I should be really afraid," said Celia, " to see Romeo
and Juliet finely performed. It would be too sad."
" It would be much better to end it up comfortably,"




The Queen of the Red Chessmen.            289
said Lawrence. " Why should not Juliet marry her Romeo
in peace?"
"It would be impossible!" exclaimed Isabella, —"impossible to bring together two such hostile families! Of
course the result must be a tragedy."
" In romances," answered Lawrence, " that may be necessary; but not in real life."
"Why not in real life?" asked Isabella. "When two
thunder-clouds meet, there must be an explosion."
" But we don't have such hostile families arrayed against
each other now-a-days," said Lawrence. "The Bianchi
and the Neri have died out; unless the feud lives between
the whites and the blacks of the present day."
"Are you sure that it has died out everywhere? " asked
Isabella.
" Certainly not," said Otho Blanchard; "my mother,
Bianca Bianco, inherits her name from a long line of ancestry, and with it come its hatreds as well as its loves."
"You speak like an Italian or Spaniard," said Lawrence.
"We are cold-blooded Yankees, and in our slow veins such
passions do die out. I should have taken you for an
American from your name."
"It is our name Americanized; we have made Americans
of ourselves, and the Bianchi have become the Blanchards."
" The romance of the family, then," persisted Lawrence,
"must needs become Americanized too. If you were to
meet with a lovely young lady of the enemy's race, I think
you would be willing to bury your sword in the sheath for
her sake."
" I hope I should not forget the honor of my family,"
said Otho. " I certainly never could, as long as my mother
lives; her feelings on the subject are stronger even than
mine."
" I cannot imagine the possibility of such feelings dying
out," said Isabella. "I cannot imagine such different elements amalgamating.  It would be like fire and water
13




290      The Queen of the Red Chessmen.
unitii g. Then there would be no longer any contest; the
game of life would be over."
"Why will you make out life to be a battle always?"
exclaimed Lawrence; "won't you allow us any peace? I
do not find such contests all the time, - never, except when
I am fighting with you."
"I had rather fight with you than against you," said
Isabella, laughing. " But when one is not striving, one is
sleeping."
"That reminds me that it is time for our siesta," said
Lawrence; " so we need not fight any longer."
Afterwards Isabella and Celia were talking of their new
friend Otho.
" He does not seem to me like a Spaniard," said Celia,
"his complexion is so light; then, too, his name sounds
German."
"' But his passions are quick," replied Isabella. "How
he colored up when he spoke of the honor of his family! "
" I wonder that you like him," said Celia; " when he is
with his mother, he hardly ventures to say his soul is his
own."
" I don't like his mother," said Isabella; "her manner
is too imperious and unrefined, it appears to me. No
wonder that Otho is ill at ease in her presence. It is evident that her way of talking is not agreeable to him. He
is afraid that she will commit herself in some way."
" But he never stands up for himself," answered Celia;
"he always yields to her. Now I should not think you
would like that."
"He yields because she is his mother," said Isabella;
"and it would not be becoming to contradict her."
"He yields to you, too," said Celia; "how happens
that?"
" I hope he does not yield to me more than is becoming,"
answered Isabella, laughing; "perhaps that is why I like
him. After all, I don't care to be always sparring, as I am
with Lawrence Egerton. With Otho I find that I agree




The Queen of the Red Chessmen.            291
wonderfully in many things. Neither of us yields to the
other, neither of us is obliged to convince the other."
"Now I should think you would find that stupid," said
Celia. "What becomes of this desire of yours never to
rest, always to be struggling after something?"
"We might strive together, we might struggle together,"
responded Isabella.
She said this musingly, not in answer to Celia, but to her
own thoughts,- as she looked away, out from everything
that surrounded her. The passion for ruling had always
been uppermost in her mind; suddenly there dawned upon
her the pleasure of being ruled. She became conscious of
the pleasure of conquering all things for the sake of giving
all to another. A new sense of peace stole upon her mind.
Before, she had felt herself alone, even in the midst of the
kindness of the home that had been given her.  She had
never dared, to think or to speak of the past, and as little
of the future. She had gladly flung herself into the details
of every-day life. She had given her mind to the study
of all that it required. She loved the Doctor, because he
was always leading her on to fresh fields, always exciting
her to a new knowledge.  She loved him, too, for himself,
for his tenderness and kindness to her. With Mrs. Lester
and Celia she felt herself on a different footing. They
admired her, but they never came near her. She led them,
and they were always behind her.
With Otho she experienced a new feeling. He seemed,
very much as she did herself, out of place in the world just
around him. He was a foreigner, - was not yet acclimated
to the society about him. He was willing to talk of other
things than every-day events. He did not talk of "things,"
indeed, but he speculated, as though he lived a separate
life from that of mere eating and dimlnking. He was not
content with what seemed to every-day people possible, but
was willing to believe that there were things not dreamed
of in their philosophy.
It is a satisfaction," said Lawrence once to Celia, " that




292      The Queen of the Red Clessmen.
Isabella has found somebody who will go high enough into
the clouds to suit her. Besides, it gives me a little repose."
"And a secret jealousy at the same time; is it not so?"
asked Celia. " He takes up too much of Isabella's time to
please you."
"The reason he pleases her," said Lawrence, " is because
he is more womanly than manly, and she thinks women
ought to rule the world. Now if the world were made up
of such as he, it would be very easily ruled. Isabella loves
power too well to like to see it in others. Look at her when
she is with Mrs. Blanchard  It is a splendid sight to see
them together!"
"How can you say so?  I am  always afraid of some
outbreak."
These families were, however, so much drawn together,
that, when the Doctor came to summon his wife and
daughter and Isabella home, Mrs. Blanchard was anxious
to accompany them to New England. She wondered if it
were not possible to find a country-seat somewhere near
the Lesters, that she could occupy for a time. The Doctor
knew that the Willows was to be vacant this spring. The
Fogertys were all going to Europe, and would be very
willing to let their place.
So it was arranged after their return. The Fogertys left
for Europe, and Mrs. Blanchard took possession of the
Willows. It was a pleasant walking distance from  the
Lesters, but it was several weeks before Isabella made her
first visit there. She was averse to going into the house,
but, in company with Celia, Lawrence, and Otho, walked
about the grounds. Presently they stopped near a pretty
fountain that was playing in the midst of the garden.
" That is a pretty place for an Undine;" said Otho.
" The idea of an Undine makes me shiver," said Lawrence. "Think what a cold-blooded, unearthly being she
would be'!
"Not after she had a soul!" exclaimed Isabella.
"An Undine with a soul " cried Lawrence. " I con.




The Queen of the Red Chessmen.             293
cei e of them as malicious spirits, who live and die as the
bubbles of water rise and fall."
" You talk as if there were such things as Undines," said
Celia. " I remember once trying to read the story of Undine, but I never could finish it."
"It ends tragically," remarked Otho.
"Of course all such stories must," responded Lawrence;
" of course it is impossible to bring the natural and the
unnatural together."
" That depends upon what you call the natural," said
Otho.
"We should differ, I suppose," said Lawrence, "if we
tried to explain what we each call the natural. I fancy
your'real life' is different from mine."
"Pictures of real life," said Isabella, "are sometimes
pictures of horses and dogs, sometimes of children playing,
sometimes of fruits of different seasons heaped upon one
dish, sometimes of watermelons cut open."
" That is hardly your picture of real life," said Lawrence,
laughing, - " a watermelon cut open! I think you would
rather choose the picture of the Water Fairies from  the
Dusseldorf Gallery."
"Why not?" said Isabella.  "The life we see must be
very far from being the only life that is."
" That is very true," answered Lawrence; "but let the
fairies live their life by themselves, while we live our life in
our own way. Why should they come to disturb our peace,
since we cannot comprehend them, and they certainly cannot comprehend us?"
" You do not think it well, then," said Isabella, stopping
in their walk, and looking down, - "you do not think it
well that beings of different natures should mingle? "
" I do not see how they can," replied Lawrence. " I am
limited by my senses; I can perceive only what they show
me. Even my imagination can picture to me only what
my senses can paint."' Your senses!" cried Otho, contemptuously, -    it is




294       Tihe Queen of the Red Chessmen.
very true, as you confess, you are limited by your senses.
Is all this beauty around you created merely for you,- and
the other insects about us?  I have no doubt it is filled
with invisible life."
" Do let us go in! " said Celia. " This talk, just at twilight, under the shade of this shrubbery, makes me shudder.
I am not afraid of the fairies. I never could read fairy
stories when I was a child; they were tiresome to me.
But talking in this way makes one timid.  There might be
strollers or thieves under all these hedges."
They went into the house, through the hall, and different
apartments, till they reached the drawing-room. Isabella
stood transfixed upon the threshold. It was all so familiar
to her! - everything as she had known it before!  Over
the mantel-piece hung the picture of the scornful Spanish
lady; a heavy bookcase stood in one corner; comfortable
chairs and couches were scattered round the room; beautiful landscapes against the wall seemed like windows cut
into foreign scenery. There was an air of ease in the room.
an old-fashioned sort of ease, such as the Fogertys must
have loved.
" It is a pretty room, is it not?" said Lawrence.  " You
look at it as if it pleased you. How much more comfort
there is about it than in the fashionable parlors of the day?
It is solid, substantial comfort."
" You look at it as if you had seen it before," said Otho
to Isabella.  "Do you know the room  impressed me in
that way, too?"
"It is singular," said Lawrence, "the feeling, that'all
this has been before,' that comes over one at times. I have
heard it expressed by a great many people."
"Have you, indeed, ever had this feeling?" asked Isabella.
" Certainly," replied Lawrence; 6 I say to myself sometimes,'I have been through all this before!' and I can
almost go on to tell what is to come next, -it seems so.
much a part of my past experience."




The Queen of the Red Chessmen.            295
"It is strange it should be so with you,- and with you
too," she said, turning to Otho.
"Perhaps we are all more alike than we have thought,"
said Otho.
Otho's mother appeared, and the conversation took another turn.
Isabella did not go to the Willows again, until all the
Lester family were summoned there to a large party that
Mrs. Blanchard gave.  She called it a house-warming,
although she had been in the house some time. It was a
beautiful evening. A clear moonlight made it as brilliant
outside on the lawn as the lights made the house within.
There was a band of music stationed under the shrubbery,
and those who chose could dance. Those who were more
romantic wandered away down the shaded walks, and
listened to the dripping of the fountain.
Lawrence and Isabella returned from a walk through the
grounds, and stopped a moment on the terrace in front of
the house. Just then a dark cloud appeared in the sky,
threatening the moon. The wind, too, was rising, and
made a motion among the leaves of the trees.
"Do you remember," asked Lawrence, "that child's story
of the Fisherman and his Wife? how the fisherman went
down to the sea-shore, and cried out, 
"'0 man of the sea,
Come listen to me I
For Alice, my wife,
The plague of my life,
Has sent me to beg a boon of thee I'
The sea muttered and roared;- do you remember? There
was always something impressive to me in the descriptions,
in the old story, of the changes in the sea, and of the
tempest that rose up, more and more fearful, as the fisherman's wife grew more ambitious and more and more grasping in her desires, each time that the fisherman went down
to the sea-shore.  I believe my first impression of the sea
came from that. The coming on of a storm is always as



296      The Queen of the Red Chessmen.
sociated A ith it. I always fancy that it is bringing with it
something beside the tempest, —that there is something
ruinous behind it."
"That is more fanciful than you usually are," said Isabella; "but, alas! I cannot remember your story, for I
never read it."
"That is where your education and Celia's was fearfully
neglected," said Lawrence; " you were not brought up on
fairy stories and Mother Goose. You have not needed
the first, as Celia has; but Mother Goose would have
given a tone to your way of thinking, that is certainly
wanting."
A little while afterwards, Isabella stood upon the balcony
steps leading from the drawing-room. Otho was with her.
The threatening clouds had driven almost every one into
the house.  There was distant thunder and lightning;
but through the cloud-rifts, now and then, the moonlight
streamed down.  Isabella and Otho had been talking
earnestly, - so earnestly, that they were quite unobservant
of the coming storm, of the strange lurid light that hung
around.
"It is strange that this should take place here!" said
Isabella,  "that just here I should learn that you love
me! Strange that my destiny should be completed in this
spot!"
"And this spot has its strange associations with me,"
said Otho, "of which I must some time speak to you.
But now I can think only of the present. Now, for the
first time, do I feel what life is, — now that you have
promised to be mine!"
Otho was interrupted by a sudden cry. He turned to
fnd his mother standing behind him.
"You are here with Isabella! she has promised herself
to you!" she exclaimed. "It is a fatality, a terrible fatality!
Listen, Isabella! You are the Queen of the Red Chessmen; and he, Otho, is the King of the White Chessmen, 
and I, their Queen. Can there be two queens? Can there




The Queen of the Red Chessmen.            297
be a marriage between two hostile families? Do you not
see, if there were a marriage between the Reds and the
Whites, there were no game? Look! I have found our
old prison! The pieces would all be here, —but we, we
are missing! Would you return to the imprisonment of
this poor box, - to your old mimic life? No, my children,
go back! Isabella, marry this Lawrence Egerton, who
loves you. You will find what life is, then. Leave Otho,
that he may find this same life also."
Isabella stood motionless.
" Otho, the White Prince! Alas! where is my hatred?
But life without him! Even stagnation were better! I
must needs be captive to the White Prince! "
She stretched out her hand to Otho. He seized it passionately. At this moment there was a grand crash of
thunder. A gust of wind extinguished at once all the lights
in the drawing-room. The terrified guests hurried into the
hall, into the other rooms.
"The lightning must have struck the house!" they exclaimed.
A heavy rain followed; then all was still. Everybody
began to recover his spirits. The servants relighted the
candles. The drawing-room  was found untenanted.  It
was time to go; yet there was a constraint upon all the
party, who were eager to find their hostess and bid her
good-bye.
But the hostess could not be found! Isabella and Otho,
too, were missing! The Doctor and Lawrence went everywhere, calling for them, seeking them in the house, in the
grounds. They were nowhere to be found,-neither that
night, nor the next day, nor ever afterwards!
The Doctor found in the balcony a box of chessmen
fallen down. It was nearly filled; but the red queen, and
the white king and queen, were lying at a little distance.
In the box was the red king, his crown fallen f:om his head,
himself broken in pieces. The Doctor took up the red
queen and carried it home.
i4




298      The Queen of the Red Chessmen.
"Are you crazy?" asked his wife. " What are you going
to do with that red queen?"
But the Doctor placed the figure on his study-table, and
often gazed at it wistfully.
Whenever, afterwards, as was often the case, any one
suggested a new theory to account for the mysterious disappearance of Isabella and the Blanchards, the Doctor looked
at the carved image on his table and was silent.




MISS LUCINDA.
UT that Solomon is out of fashion I should quote
him, here and now, to the effect that there is a
time for all things; but Solomon is obsolete, and
never, no, never, will I dare to quote a dead language,
"for raisons I have," as the exiles of Erin say. Yet, in
spite of Solomon and Horace, I may express my own less
concise opinion, that even in hard times, and dull times,
and war times, there is yet a little time to laugh, a brief
hour to smile and love and pity, just as through this dreary
easterly storm, bringing clouds and rain, sobbing against
casement and door with the inarticulate wail of tempests,
there comes now and then the soft shine of a sun behind it
all, a fleeting glitter, an evanescent aspect of what has
been.
But if I apologize for a story that is nowise tragic, nor
fitted to "the fashion of these times," possibly somebody
will say at its end that I should also have apologized for its
subject, since it is as easy for an author to treat his readers
to high themes as vulgar ones, and velvet can be thrown
into a portrait as cheaply as calico; but of this apology I
wash my hands.  I believe nothing in place or circumstance makes romance.  I have the same quick sympathy
for Biddy's sorrows with Patrick that I have for the Empress of France and her august, but rather grim lord and
master. I think words are often no harder to bear than
" a blue bating," and I have a reverence for poor old maids
as great as for the nine Muses.  Commonplace people are




300                Miss Lucinda.
only commonplace from character, and no position affects
that. So forgive me once more, patient reader, if I offer
to you no tragedy in high life, no sentimental history of
fashion and wealth, but only a little story about a woman
who could not be a heroine.
Miss Lucinda Jane Ann Manners was a lady of unknown
age, who lived in a place I call Dalton, in a State of these
Disuniting States, which I do not mention for good cause.
I have already had so many unconscious personalities visited
on my devoted head, that but for lucidity I should never
mention persons or places, inconvenient as it would be.
However, Miss Lucinda did live, and lived by the aid of
" means," which, in the vernacular, is money.  Not a great
deal, it is true,  five thousand dollars at lawful interest,
and a little wooden house, do not imply many luxuries even
to a single-woman; and it is also true that a little fine
sewing taken in helped Miss Manners to provide herself
with a few small indulgences otherwise beyond her reach.
She had one or two idiosyncrasies, as they are politely
called, that were her delight. Plenty of dish-towels were
necessary to her peace of mind; without five pair of
scissors she could not be happy; and Tricopherous was
essential to her well-being: indeed, she often said she
would rather give up coffee than Tricopherous, for her hair
was black and wiry and curly, and caps she abhorred, so
that of a winter's day her head presented the most irrelevant and volatile aspect, each particular hair taking a twist
on its own responsibility, and improvising a wild halo about
her unsaintly face, unless subdued into propriety by the
aforesaid fluid.
I said Miss Lucinda's face was unsaintly, - I mean unlike ancient saints as depicted by contemporary artists:
modern and private saints are after another fashion. I niet
one yesterday, whose green eyes, great nose, thick lips, and
sallow wrinkles, under a bonnet of fifteen years' standing,
further clothed upon by a scant merino cloak and cat-skin
tippet, would have cut a sorry figure in the gallery of the




Mliss Lucinda.                   301
Vatican or the Louvre, and put the tranquil Madonna of
San Sisto into a state of stunning antithesis; but if Saint
Agnes or Saint Catharine was half as good as my saint, I
am glad of it I
No, there was nothing sublime and dolorous about Miss
Manners; her face was round, cheery, and slightly puckered,
with two little black eyes sparking and shining under dark
brows, a nose she unblushingly called pug, and a big mouth
with eminently white and regular teeth, which she said
were such a comfort, for they never ached, and never would
to the end of time. Add to this physiognomy a small and
rather spare figure, dressed in the cleanest of calicoes,
always made in one style, and rigidly scorning hoops, 
without a symptom  of a collar, in whose place (or it may
be over which) she wore a white cambric handkerchief,
knotted about her throat, and the two ends brought into
subjection by means of a little angular-headed gold pin,
her sole ornament, and a relic of her old father's days
of widowhood, when buttons were precarious tenures. So
much for her aspect. Her character was even more quaint.
She was the daughter of a clergyman, one of the old
school, the last whose breeches and knee-buckles adorned
the profession, who never "outlived his usefulness," nor lost
his godly simplicity.  Parson Manners held rule over an
obscure and quiet village in the wilds of Vermont, where
hard-handed farmers wrestled with rocks and forests for
their daily bread, and looked forward to heaven as a land
of green pastures and still waters, where agriculture should
be a pastime, and winter impossible.  Heavy freshets from
the mountains that swelled their rushing brooks into annual
torrents, and snow-drifts that covered five-rail fences a foot
above the posts and blocked up the turnpike-road for weeks,
caused this congregation fully to appreciate Parson Mant
ners's favorite hymns,"There is a land of pure delight,"
and -
" On Jordan's stormy banks I stand" 
Tx




302                Miss Lucinda.
Indeed, one irreverent, but " pretty smart feller," who lived
on the top of a hill known as Drift Hill, where certain
adventurous farmers dwelt for the sake of its smooth sheeppastures, was heard to say, after a mighty sermon by Parson
Manners about the seven-times heated furnaces of j.udgment reserved for the wicked, that " Parson had n't better
try to skeer Drift-Hillers with a hot place;'t would n't more'n jest warm'em through down there, arter a real snappin'
winter."
In this out-of-the-way nook was Lucinda Jane Ann born
and bred. Her mother was like her in many things, -just
such a cheery, round-faced little body, but with no more
mind than found ample scope for itself in superintending
the affairs of house and farm, and vigorously " seeing to "
her husband and child. So, while Mrs. Manners baked,
and washed, and ironed, and sewed, and knit, and set the
sweetest example of quiet goodness and industry to all her
flock, without knowing she could set an example, or be
followed as one, the Parson amused himself, between sermons of powerful doctrine and parochial duties of a more
human interest, with educating Lucinda, whose intellect
was more like his own than her mother's. A strange training it was for a young girl, - mathematics, metaphysics,
Latin, theology of the driest sort; and after an utter failure
at Greek and Hebrew, though she had toiled patiently
through seven books of the " IEneid," Parson Manners
mildly sniffed at the inferiority of the female mind, and
betook himself to teaching her French, which she learned
rapidly, and spoke with a pure American accent, perhaps
as pleasing to a Parisian ear as the hiss of Piedmont or
the gutturals of Switzerland. Moreover, the minister had
been brought up, himself, in the most scrupulous refinement
of manner; his mother was a widow, the last of an " old
family," and her dainty, delicate observances were inbred,
as it were, in her only son. This sort of elegance is perhaps the most delicate test of training and descent, and all
these things Lucinda was taught from the grateful recollec



Miss Lucinda.                  303
tion of a son who never forgot his mother, through all the
solitary labors and studies of a long life. So it came to
pass, that, after her mother died, Lucinda grew more and
more like her father, and, as she became a woman, these
rare refinements separated her more and more from those
about her, and made her necessarily solitary. As for marriage, the possibility of such a thing never crossed her
mind; there was not a man in the parish who did not
offend her sense of propriety and shock her taste, whenever
she met one; and though her warm, kind heart made her
a blessing to the poor and sick, her mother was yet bitterly
regretted at quiltings and tea-drinkings, where she had
been so "sociable-like."
It is rather unfortunate for such a position as Lucinda's,
that, as Deacon Stowell one day remarked to her father,
Natur' will be Natur' as much on Drift Hill as down to
Bosting"; and when she began to feel that " strong necessity of loving" that sooner or later assails every woman's
heart, there was nothing for it to overflow on, when her
father had taken his share. Now Lucinda loved the Parson most devoutly. Ever since the time when she could
just remember watching through the dusk his white stockings, as they glimmered across the road to evening-meeting,
and looked like a supernatural pair of legs taking a walk
on their own responsibility, twilight concealing the black
breeches and coat from mortal view, Lucinda had regarded
her father with a certain pleasing awe. His long abstractions, his profound knowledge, his grave, benign manners,
and the thousand daily refinements of speech and act that
seemed to put him far above the sphere of his pastorate, 
all these things inspired as much reverence as affection;
and when she wished with all her heart and soul she had
a sister or a brother to tend and kiss and pet, it never once
occurred to her that any of those tender familiarities could
be expended on her father: she would as soon have thought
of caressing any of the goodly angels whose stout legs,
flowing curls, and impossible draperies sprawled among the




304                Miss Lucinda.
pictures in the big Bible, and who excited her wonder as
much by their garments as their turkey-wings and bran.
dishing arms. So she betook herself to pets, and growing
up to the old-maidenhood of thirty-five before her father
fell asleep, was by that time the centre of a little world of
her own,- hens, chickens, squirrels, cats, dogs, lambs, ana
sundry transient guests of stranger kind; so that, when
she left her old home, and removed to the little house in
Dalton that had been left her by her mother's aunt, and
had found her small property safely invested by means of
an old friend of her father's, Miss Manners made one more
journey to Vermont to bring in safety to their future dwelling a cat and three kittens, an old blind crow, a yellow
dog of the true cur breed, and a rooster with three hens,
"real creepers," as she often said, "none of your longlegged, screaming creatures."
Lucinda missed her father, and mourned him  as constantly and faithfully as ever a daughter could; but her
temperament was more cheerful and buoyant than his, and
when once she was quietly settled in her little house, her
garden and her pets gave her such full occupation that she
sometimes blamed herself for not feeling more lonely and
unhappy. A little longer life or a little more experience
would have taught her better: power to be happy is the
last thing to regret. Besides, it would have been hard to
be cheerless in that sunny little house, with its queer old
furniture of three-legged tables, high-backed chairs, and
chintz curtains where red mandarins winked at blue pagodas on a deep-yellow ground, and birds of insane ornithology pecked at insects that never could have been
hatched, or perched themselves on blossoms totally unknown
to any mortal flora. Old engravings of Bartolozzi, from
the stiff elegances of Angelica Kaufman and the mythologies of Reynolds, adorned the shelf; and the carpet in the
parlor was of veritable English make, older than Lucinda
herself, but as bright in its fading and as firm in its usefulness as she. Up stairs the tiny chambers were decked with




Miss Lucinda.                   305
spotless white dimity, and rush-bottomed chairs stood in
each window, with a strip of the same old carpet by either
bedside; and in the kitchen the blue settle that had stood
by the Vermont fireside now defended this lesser hearth
from  the draught of the door, and held under the seat
thereof sundry ironing-sheets, the blanket belonging to
them, and good store of ticking and worsted holders. A
half-gone set of egg-shell china stood in the parlor-closet,
— cups, and teapot, and sugar-bowl, rimmed with brown
and gold in a square pattern, and a shield without blazon
on the side; the quaint tea-caddy with its stopper stood
over against the pursy little cream-pot, and held up in its
lumps of sparkling sugar the oddest sugar-tongs, also a
family relic; —beside this, six small spoons, three large
ones, and a little silver porringer comprised all the "plate"
belonging to Miss Manners, so that no fear of burglars
haunted her, and but for her pets she would have lived a life
of profound and monotonous tranquillity.  But this was a
vast exception; in her life her pets were the great item
now;- her cat had its own chair in the parlor and kitchen;
her dog, a rug and a basket never to be meddled with by
man or beast; her old crow, its special nest of flannel and
cotton, where it feebly croaked as soon as Miss Lucinda
began to spread the little table for her meals; and the
three kittens had their own playthings and their own saucer
as punctiliously as if they had been children.  In fact,
Miss Manners had a greater share of kindness for beasts
than for mankind. A strange compound of learning and
unworldliness, of queer simplicity, native penetration, and
common sense, she had read enough books to despise
human nature as it develops itself in history and theology,
and she had not known enough people to love it in its
personal development.  She had a general idea that all
men were liars, and that she must be on her guard against
their propensity to cheat and annoy a lonely and helpless
woman; for, to tell the truth, in her good father's overan Iaety to defend her from the snares of evil men after his




306                Miss Lucinda.
death, his teachings had given her opinion this bias, and
he had forgotten to tell her how kindly and how true he
had found many of his own parishioners, how few inclined to
harm or pain him. So Miss Lucinda made her entrance
into life at Dalton, distrustful, but not suspicious; and
after a few attempts on the part of the women who were
her neighbors to be friendly or intimate, they gave her up
as impracticable: not because she was impolite or unkind:
they did not themselves know why they failed, though she
could have told them; for, old maid as she was, poor and
plain and queer, she could not bring herself to associate
familiarly with people who put their teaspoons into the
sugar-bowl, helped themselves with their own knives and
forks, gathered up bits of uneaten butter and returned them
to the plate for next time, or replaced on the dish pieces of
cake half eaten or cut with the knives they had just introduced into their mouths. Miss Lucinda's code of minor
morals would have forbidden her to drink from the same
cup with a queen, and have considered a pitchfork as suitable as a knife to eat with, nor would she. have offered to a
servant the least thing she had touched with her own lips
or her own implements of eating; and she was too delicately bred to look on in comfort where such things were
practised. Of course these women were not ladies; and
though many of. them had kind hearts and warm impulses
of goodness, yet that did not make up to her for their social
misdemeanors, and she drew herself more into her own
little shell, and cared more for her garden and her chickens,
her cats and her dog, than for all the humanity of. Dalton
put together.
Miss Manners held her flowers next dearest to her pets,
and treated them accordingly.  Her garden was the most
brilliant bit of ground possible. It was big enough to hold
one flourishing peach-tree, one Siberian crab, and a solitary
egg-plum; while under these fruitful boughs bloomed mossroses in profusion, of the dear old-fashioned kind, every
deep pink bud with its clinging garment of green breathing




Miss Lucinda.                   3c7
out the richest odur; close by, the real white rose, which
fashion has banished to country towns, unfolded its cups
of pearl flushed with yellow sunrise to the heart; and by
its side its damask sister waved long sprays of bloom and
perfume.  Tulips, dark-purple and cream-color, burning
scarlet and deep-maroon, held their gay chalices up to
catch the dew; hyacinths, blue, white, and pink, hung
heavy bells beneath them; spiced carnations of rose and
garnet crowded their bed in July and August, heart's-ease
fringed the walks, May honeysuckles clambered over the
board-fence, and monthly honeysuckles overgrew the porch
at the back-door, making perpetual fragrance from their
moth-like horns of crimson and ivory. Nothing inhabited
those beds that was not sweet and fair and old-fashioned.
Gray-lavender-bushes sent up purple spikes in the middle
of the garden and were duly housed in winter, but these
were the sole tender plants admitted, and they pleaded
their own cause in the breath of the linen-press and the
bureau-drawers that held Miss Lucinda's clothes. Beyond
the flowers, utility blossomed in a row of bean-poles, a
hedge of currant-bushes against the farther fence, carefully
tended cauliflowers, and onions enough to tell of their use
as sparing as their number; a few deep-red beets and
golden carrots were all the vegetables beside: Miss Lucinda
never ate potatoes or pork.
Her housekeeping, but for her pets, would have been
the proper housewifery for a fairy. Out of her fruit she
annually conserved miracles of flavor and transparence, —
great plums like those in Aladdin's garden, of shining topaz,
- peaches tinged with the odorous bitter of their pits, and
clear as amber, -crimson crabs floating in their own ruby
sirup, or transmuted into jelly crystal clear, yet breaking
with a grain, - and jell) from the acid currants to garnish
her dinner-table or refresh the fevered lips of a sick neighbor. It was a study to visit her tiny pantry, where all these
"lucent sirops" stood in tempting array, - where spices,
and sugar, and tea, in their small jars, flanked the sweet



308                Miss Lucinda.
meats, ard a jar of glass showed'its store of whitest honey,
and another stood filled with crisp cakes. Here always a
loaf or two of home-made bread lay rolled in a snowy
cloth, and another was spread over a dish of butter; pies
were not in favor here, -nor milk, save for the cats; salt
fish Miss Manners never could abide, -her savory taste
allowed only a bit of rich old cheese, or thin scraps of
hung beef, with her bread and butter; sauces and spices
were few in her repertory, but she cooked as only a lady
can cook, and might have asked Soyer himself to dinner.
For, verily, after much meditation and experience, I have
divined that it takes as much sense and refinement and
talent to cook a dinner, wash and wipe a dish, make a bed
as it should be made, and dust a room  as it should be
dusted, as goes to the writing of a novel or shining in high
society.
But because Miss Lucinda Manners was reserved and
"unsociable," as the neighbors pronounced her, I did not,
therefore, mean to imply that she was inhuman. No neighbor of hers, local or Scriptural, fell ill, without an immediate offer of aid from her: she made the best gruel known
to Dalton invalids, sent the ripest fruit and the sweetest
flowers: and if she could not watch with the sick, because
it interfered with her duties at home in an unpleasant and
inconvenient way, she would sit with them hour after hour
in the day-time, and wait on all their caprices with the
patient tenderness of a mother. Children she always eyed
with strange wistfulness, as if she longed to kiss them,
but did n't know how; yet no child was ever invited across
her threshold, for the yellow cur hated to be played with,
and children always torment kittens.
So Miss Lucinda wore on happily toward the farther side
of the middle ages. One after another of her pets passed
away and was replaced, the yellow cur barked his last
currish signal, the cat died and her kittens came to various
ends of time or casualty, the crow fell away to dust and
was too old to stuff, and the garden bloomed and faded ten




Miss Lucinda.                   309
times ovei, before Miss Manners found herself to be fortysix years old, which she heroically acknowledged one fine
day to the census-taker. But it was not this consciousness,
nor its confession, that drew the dark brows so low over
Miss Lucinda's eyes that day; it was quite another trouble,
and one that wore heavily on her mind, as we shall proceed
to explain. For Miss Manners, being, like all the rest of
her sex, quite unable to do without some masculine help,
had employed, for some seven years, an old man by the
name of Israel Slater, to do her " chores," as the vernacular
hath it. It is a mortifying thing, and one that strikes at
the roots of Women's Rights terribly sharp blows, but I
must even own it, that one might as well try to live without
one's bread-and-butter as without the aid of the dominant
sex. When I see women split wood, unload coal-carts, move
wash-tubs, and roll barrels of flour and apples handily down
cellar-ways or up into carts, then I shall believe in the
sublime theories of the strong-minded sisters; but as long
as I see before me my own forlorn little hands, and sit
down on the top stair to recover breath, and try in vain to
lift the water-pitcher at table, just so long I shall be glad
and thankful that there are men in the world, and that
half a dozen of them are my kindest and best friends. It
was rather an affliction to Miss Lucinda to feel this innate
dependence, and at first she resolved to employ only small
boys, and never any one of them more than a week or two.
She had an unshaped theory that an old maid was a match
for a small boy, but that a man would cheat and domineer
over her. Experience sadly put to flight these notions;
for a succession of boys in this cabinet-ministry for the
first three years of her stay in Dalton would have driven
her into a Presbyterian convent, had there been one at
hand. Boy Number One caught the yellow cur out of
bounds one day, and shaved his plumy tail to a bare stick,
and Miss Lucinda fairly shed tears of grief and rage when
Pink appeared at the door with the denuded appendage
tucked between his little legs, and his funny yellow eyes




310                Miss Lucinda.
casting sidelong looks of apprehension at his mistress.
Boy Number One was despatched directly. Number Two
did pretty well for a month, but his integrity and his appetite conflicted, and Miss Lucinda found him one moonlight
night perched in her plum-tree devouring the half-ripe fruit.
She shook him down with as little ceremony as if he had
been an apple; and though he lay at Death's door for a
week with resulting cholera-morbus, she relented not. So
the experiment went on, till a list of casualties that numbered in it fatal accidents to three kittens, two hens and a
rooster, and at last Pink himself, who was sent into a
decline by repeated drenchings from the watering-pot, put
an end to her forbearance, and she instituted in her viziership the old man who had now kept his office so long, -
a queer, withered, slow, humorous old creature, who did
"chores " for some six or seven other households, and got
a living by sundry "jobs" of wood-sawing, hoeing corn,
and other like works of labor, if not of skill. Israel was
a great comfort to Miss Lucinda: he was efficient counsel
in the maladies of all her pets, had a sovereign cure for
the gapes in chickens, and could stop a cat's fit with the
greatest ease; he kept the tiny garden in perfect order,
and was very honest, and Miss Manners favored him accordingly.  She compounded liniment for his rheumatism,
herb-sirup for his colds, presented him with a set of flannel
shirts, and knit him a comforter; so that Israel expressed
himself strongly in favor of " Miss Lucindy," and she said
to herself he really was "quite good for a man."
But just now, in her forty-seventh year, Miss Lucinda had
come to grief, and all on account of Israel and his attempts
to please her. About six months before this census-taking
era, the old man had stepped into Miss Manners's kitchen
with an unusual radiance on his wrinkles and in his eyes,
and began without his usual morning greeting, —
" I've got so'thin' for you naow, Miss Lucindy. You're
a master-hand for pets, but I'11 bet a r d cent yo'i ha'n't an
idee what I've got for ye naow  "




Miss Lucinda.                    311
" I'r  sure I can't tell, Israel," said she;'you'11 have to
let me see it."
"Well," said he, lifting up his coat and looking carefully
behind him as he sat down on the settle, lest a stray kitten
or chicken should preoccupy the bench, " you see I was
down to Orrin's abaout a week back, and he hed a litter o'
pigs, - eleven on'em. Well, he could n't raise the hull on'em, -'t a'n't good to raise more'n nine, - an' so he said,
ef I'd'a' had a place o' my own, I could'a' had one on'em,
but, as't was, he guessed he'd hev to send one to market
for a roaster.  I went daown to the barn to see'em, an'
there was one, the cutest little critter I ever sot eyes. on,
and I've seen more'n four pigs in my day, -'t was a little
black-spotted one, as spry as an ant, and the dreffullest
knowin' look out of its eyes! I fellowshipped it right off,
and I said, says I,'Orrin, ef you'll let me hev that'ere
little spotted feller, I'11 git a place for him, for I do take
to him consarnedly.' So he said I could, and I fetched
him hum, and Miss Slater and me we kinder fed him up
for a few days back, till he got sorter wonted, and I'm
a-goin' to fetch him to you."
"But, Israel, I have n't any place to put him in."
"Well, that a'n't nothin' to hender.  I'11 jest fetch out
them old boards out of the wood-shed, and knock up a little
sty right off, daown by the end o' the shed, and you ken
keep your swill that I've hed before, and it'11 come handy."
"But pigs are so dirty! "
"I don't know as they be; they ha'n't no great conveniences for washin' ginerally; but I never heerd as they was
dirtier'n other critters, where they run wild. An' beside,
that a'n't goin' to hender, nuther; I calculate to make it
one o' the chores to take keer of him;'t won't cost no more
to you; and I ha'n't no great opportunities to do things for
folks that's allers a-doin' for me; so't you need n't be
afeard, Miss Lucindy: I love to."
Miss Lucinda's heart got the better of her judgment. A
nature that could feel so tenderly for its inferiors in the




312                Miss Lucinda.
scale could not be deaf to the tiny voices of humanity,
when they reached her solitude; and she thanked Israel
for the pig so heartily that the old man's face brightened
still more, and his voice softened from its cracked harshness, as he said, clicking up and down the latch of the
back-door, 
" Well, I'm sure you're as welcome as you are obleeged,
and I'11 knock up that'ere pen right off; he sha'n't pester
ye any,- that's a fact."
Strange to say,- yet perhaps it might have been expected
from her proclivities, - Miss Lucinda took an astonishing
fancy to the pig. Very few people know how intelligent an
animal a pig is; but when one is regarded merely as pork
and hams, one's intellect is apt to fall into neglect: a moral
sentiment which applies out of Pigdom. This creature
would not have passed muster at a county fair; no Suffolk
blood compacted and rounded him; he belonged to the
" racers," and skipped about his pen with the alacrity of a
large flea, wiggling his curly tail as expressively as a dog's,
and "all but speakin'," as Israel said. He was always glad
to see Miss Lucinda, and established a firm friendship with
her dog Fun, a pretty, sentimental, German spaniel. Besides, he kept tolerably clean by dint of Israel's care, and
thrust his long nose between the rails of his pen for grass,
or fruit, or carrot- and beet-tops, with a knowing look out
of his deep-set eyes that was never to be resisted by the
soft-hearted spinster. Indeed, Miss Lucinda enjoyed the
possession of one pet who could not tyrannize over her.
Pink's place was more than filled by Fun, who was so
oppressively affectionate that he never could leave his mistress alone. If she lay down on her bed, he leaped up and
unlatched the door, and stretched himself on the white
counterpane beside her with a grunt of satisfaction; if she
sat down to knit or sew, he laid his head and shoulders
across her lap, or curled himself up on her knees; if she
was cooking, he whined and coaxed round her till she
nardl knew whether she fried or broiled her steak; and




Miss Lucinda.                   313
if she turned him out and buttoned the door, his cries were
so pitiful she could never be resolute enough to keep him
in exile five minutes, - for it was a prominent article in her
creed, that animals have feelings that are easily wounded,
and are of "like passions" with men, only incapable of
expression. Indeed, Miss Lucinda considered it the duty
of human beings to atone to animals for the Lord's injustice
in making them dumb and four-legged. She would have
been rather startled at such an enunciation of her practice,
but she was devoted to it as a practice: she would give
her own chair to the cat and sit on the settle herself; get
up at midnight, if a mew or a bark called her, though the
thermometer was below zero; the tenderloin of her steak
or the liver of her chicken was saved for a pining kitten or
an ancient and toothless cat; and no disease or wound
daunted her faithful nursing, or disgusted her devoted tenderness.  It was rather hard on humanity, and rather reversive of Providence, that all this care and pains should
be lavished on cats and dogs, while little morsels of flesh
and blood, ragged, hungry, and immortal, wandered up and
down the streets. Perhaps that they were immortal was
their defence from Miss Lucinda; one might have hoped
that her " other-worldliness " accepted that fact as enough
to outweigh present pangs, if she had not openly declared,
to Israel Slater's immense amusement and astonishment,
that she believed creatures had souls, - little ones perhaps,
but souls after all, and she did expect to see Pink again
some time or other.
"Well, I hope he's got his tail feathered out ag'in," said
Israel, dryly. "I do'no' but what hair'd grow as well as
feathers in a speretooal state, and I never see a pictur' of
an angel but what hed consider'ble many feathers."
Miss Lucinda looked rather confounded.  But humanity
had one little revenge on her in the shape of her cat, a
beautiful Maltese, with great yellow eyes, fur as soft as
velvet, and silvery paws as lovely to look at as they were
thistly to touch. Toby certainly pleaded hard for Miss
14




314                Miss Lucinda.
Lucinda's theory of a soul; but his was no good one: some
tricksy and malign little spirit had lent him his share of
intellect, and he used it to the entire subjugation of Miss
Lucinda. When he was hungry, he was as well-mannered
and as amiable as a good child,- he would coax, and purr,
and lick her fingers with his pretty red tongue, like a " perfect love "; but when he had his fill, and needed no more,
then came Miss Lucinda's time of torment.  If she attempted to caress him, he bit and scratched like a young
tiger, he sprang at her from the floor and fastened on her
arm with real fury; if he cried at the window and was not
directly let in, as soon as he had achieved entrance his first
manceuvre was to dash at her ankles and bite them, if he
could, as punishment for her tardiness. This skirmishing
was his favorite mode of attack; if he was turned out of
the closet, or off the pillow up stairs, he retreated under
the bed and made frantic sallies at her feet, till the poor
woman got actually nervous, and if he was in the room
made a flying leap as far as she could to her bed, to escape
those keen claws. Indeed, old Israel found her more than
once sitting in the middle of the kitchen-floor with Toby
crouched for a spring under the table, his poor mistress
afraid to move, for fear of her unlucky ankles. And this
literally cat-ridden woman was hazed about and ruled over
by her feline tyrant to that extent that he occupied the
easiest chair, the softest cushion, the middle of the bed,
and the front of the fire, not only undisturbed, but caressed.
This is a veritable history, beloved reader, and I offer it as
a warning and an example: if you will be an old maid,
or if you can't help it, take to petting children, or donkeys,
or even a respectable cow, but beware of domestic tyranny
in any shape but man's!
No wonder Miss Lucinda took kindly to the pig, who
had a house of his own, and a servant, as it were, to the
avoidance of all trouble on her part,- the pig who capered
for joy when she or Fun approached, and had so much
expression in his physiognomy that one almost expected




Miss Lucinda.                   315
to see him smile  Many a sympathizing conference Miss
Lucinda held with Israel over the perfections of Piggy, as
he leaned against the sty and looked over at his favorite
after this last chore was accomplished.
" I say for't," exclaimed the old man, one day, " I b'lieve
that cre'tur' knows enough to be professor in a college.
Why, he talks! he re'lly doos: a leetle through his nose,
maybe, but no more'n Dr. Colton allers doos, -'n' I declare he appears to have abaout as much sense. I never
see the equal of him. I thought he'd'a' larfed right out
yesterday, when I gin him that mess o' corn: he got up
onto his forelegs on the trough, an' he winked them knowin'
eyes o' his'n, an' waggled his tail, an' then he set off an'
capered round till he come bunt up ag'inst the boards. I
tell you, - that sorter sobered him; he gin a growlin' grunt,
an' shook his ears, an' looked sideways at me, and then he
put to and eet up that corn as sober as a judge.  I swan!
he does beat the Dutch!"
But there was one calculation forgotten both by Miss
Lucinda and Israel: the pig would grow, - and in consequence, as I said before, Miss Lucinda came to grief; for
when the census-taker tinkled her sharp little door-bell, it
called her from  a laborious occupation at the sty,  no
more and no less than trying to nail up a board that Piggy
had torn down in struggling to get out of his durance. He
had grown so large that Miss Lucinda was afraid of him;
his long legs and their vivacious motion added to the
shrewd intelligence of his eyes, and his nose seemed as
formidable to this poor little woman as the tusk of a rhinoceros: but what should she do with him?  One might
as well have proposed to her to kill and cut up Israel as to
consign Piggy to the " fate of race." She could not turn
him into the street to starve, for she loved him; and the
old maid suffered from a constancy that might have made
some good man happy, but only embarrassed her with the
pig. She could not keep him forever,- that was evident;
she knew enough to be aware that time would increase hsa




316                Miss Lucinda.
disabilities as a pet, and he was an expensive one now,for the corn-swallowing capacities of a pig, one of the
6"racer" breed, are almost incredible, and nothing about
Miss Lucinda wanted for food even to fatness. Besides, he
was getting too big for his pen, and so "cute " an animal
could not be debarred from all out-door pleasures, and
tantalized by the sight of a green and growing garden
before his eyes continually, without making an effort to
partake of its delights.  So, when Miss Lucinda indued
herself with her brown linen sack and sun-bonnet to go
and weed her carrot-patch, she was arrested on the way by
a loud grunting and scrambling in Piggy's quarter, and
found to her distress that he had contrived to knock off the
upper board from his pen. She had no hammer at hand;
so she seized a large stone that lay near by and pounded
at the board till the twice-tinkling bell recalled her to the
house, and as soon as she had made confession to the
census-taker she went back, -alas, too late! Piggy had
redoubled his efforts, another board had yielded, and he
was free! What a thing freedom is! how objectionable in
practice, how splendid il theory! More people than Miss
Lucinda have been put to their wits' end when " Hoggie "
burst his bonds and became rampant instead of couchant.
But he enjoyed it; he made the tour of the garden on a
delightful canter, brandishing his tail with an air of defiance that daunted his mistress at once, and regarding her
with his small bright eyes as if he would before long taste
her and see if she was as crisp as she looked. She retreated
forthwith to the shed and caught up a broom with which
she courageously charged upon Piggy, and was routed entirely; for, being no way alarmed by her demonstration,
the creature capered directly at her, knocked her down,
knocked the broom  out of her hand, and capered away
again to the young carrot-patch.
" 0  dear!" said Miss Manners, gathering herself up
from the ground, - " if there only was a man here! "
Suddenly she betook herself to her heels, - for the ani



Miss Lucizda.                  317
mal looked at her, and stopped eating  that was enough
to drive Miss Lucinda off the field. And now, quite desperate, she rushed through the house and out of the frontdoor, actually in search of a man! Just down the street
she saw one. Had she been composed, she might have
noticed the threadbare cleanliness of his dress, the odd
cap that crowned his iron-gray locks, and the peculiar
manner of his walk; for our little old maid had stumbled
upon no less a person than Monsieur Jean Leclerc, the
dancing-master of Dalton. Not that this accomplishment
was much in vogue in the embryo city; but still there were
a few who liked to fit themselves for firemen's balls and
sleighing-party frolics, and quite a large class of children
were learning betimes such graces as children in New
England receive more easily than their elders. Monsieur
Leclerc had just enough scholars to keep his coat threadbare and restrict him to necessities; but he lived, and was
independent. All this Miss Lucinda was ignorant of; she
only saw a man, and, with the instinct of the sex in trouble
or danger, she appealed to him at once.
" 0, sir! won't you step in and help me? My pig has
got out, and I can't catch him, and he is ruining my garden!"
" Madame, I shall!" replied the Frenchman, bowing low,
and assuming the first position.
So Monsieur Leclerc followed Miss Manners, and supplied himself with a mop that was hanging in the shed as
his best weapon. Dire was the battle between the pig and
the Frenchman. They skipped past each other and back
again as if they were practising for a cotillon. Piggy had
four legs, which gave him a certain advantage; but the
Frenchman had most brain, and in the long run brain gets
the better of legs. A weary dance they led each other, but
after a while the pet was hemmed in a corner, and Miss
Lucinda had run for a rope to tie him, when, just as she
returned, the beast made a desperate charge, upset his
opponent, and, giving a leap in the wrong direction, to his
U




318                Miss Lucind,
manifest astonishment, landed in his own sty! Miss Lu.
cinda's courage rose; she forgot her prostrate friend in
need, and, running to the pen, caught up hammer and nailbox on her way, and, with unusual energy, nailed up the
bars stronger than ever, and then bethought herself to
thank the stranger. But there he lay quite still and pale.
" Dear me! " said Miss Manners, " I hope you have n't
hurt yourself, sir?"
" I have fear that I am hurt, Madame," said he, trying to
smile. " I cannot to move but it pains me."
"Where is it?  Is it your leg or your arm?  Try and
move one at a time," said Miss Lucinda, promptly.
The left leg was helpless, it could not answer to the effort,
and the stranger lay back on the ground pale with the pain.
Miss Lucinda took her lavender-bottle out of her pocket
and softly bathed his head and face; then she took off her
sack and folded it up under his head, and put the lavender
beside him. She was good at an emergency, and she
showed it.
" You must lie quite still," said she; "you must not try
to move till I come back with help, or your leg will be hurt'
more."
With that she went away, and presently returned with
two strong men and the long shutter of a shop-window.
To this extempore litter she carefully moved the Frenchman, and then her neighbors lifted him and carried him into
the parlor, where Miss Lucinda's chintz lounge was already
spread with a tight-pinned sheet to receive the poor man,
and while her helpers put him to bed she put on her bonnet
and ran for the doctor.
Doctor Colton did his best for his patient, but pronounced
it an impossibility to remove him till the bone should be
joined firmly, as a thorough cure was all-essential to his
professional prospects. And now, indeed, Miss Lucinda
had her hands f\ll. A nurse could not be afforded, but
Monsieur Leclerc was added to the list of old Israel's
"chores," and what other nursing he needed Miss Lucinrd




AMiss Lucinda.                   319
was glad to do; for her kind heart was full of self-reproaches to think it was her pig that had knocked down
the poor man, and her mop-handle that had twisted itself
across and under his leg, and aided, if not caused, its
breakage. So Israel came in four or five times a day to do
what he could, and Miss Lucinda played nurse at other
times to the best of her ability. Such flavorous gruels and
porridges as she concocted! such tisanes after her guest's
instructions! such dainty soups, and sweetbreads, and cutlets, served with such neatness! After his experience of
a second-rate boarding-house, Monsieur Leclerc thought
himself in a gastronomic paradise. Moreover, these tiny
meals were garnished with flowers, which his French taste
for color and decoration appreciated: two or three stems
of lilies-of-the-valley in their folded green leaves,.cool and
fragrant; a moss-rosebud and a spire of purple-gray lavender bound together with ribbon-grass; or three carnations
set in glittering myrtle-sprays, the last acquisition of the
garden.
Miss Lucinda enjoyed nursing thoroughly, and a kindlier
patient no woman ever had.  Her bright needle flew faster
than ever through the cold linen and flaccid cambric of the
shirts and cravats she fashioned, while he told her, in his
odd idioms, stories of his life in France, and the curious
customs both of society and czisinerie, with which last he
showed a surprising acquaintance.  Truth to tell, when
Monsieur Leclerc said he had been a member of the Duc
de Montmorenci's household, he withheld the other half
of this truth, - that he had been his valet-de-chambre: but
it was an hereditary service, and seemed to him as different
a thing from  common servitude as a peer's office in the
bedchamber differs from  a lackey's.  Indeed, Monsieur
Leclerc was a gentleman in his own way, -not of blood,
but of breeding; and while he had faithfully served the
"aristocrats," as his father had done before him, he did
not limit that service to their prosperity, but in their greatest need descended to menial offices, and forgot that he




320                Miss Lucinda.
could dance and ride and fence almost as well as his young
master. But a bullet from a barricade put an end to his
duty there, and he hated utterly the democratic rule that
had overturned for him both past and future, so he escaped,
and came to America, the grand resort of refugees, where
he had labored, as he best knew how, for his own support,
and kept to himself his disgust at the manners and customs
of the barbarians. Now, for the first time, he was at
home and happy.  Miss Lucinda's delicate fashions suited
him exactly; he adored her taste for the beautiful, which
she was unconscious of; he enjoyed her cookery, and
though he groaned within himself at the amount of debt
he was incurring, yet he took courage from her kindness
to believe she would not be a hard creditor, and, being
naturally cheerful, put aside his anxieties and amused himself as well as her with his stories, his quavering songs, his
recipes for po/-au-fez, tisane, and pdtds, at once economical and savory. Never had a leg of lamb or a piece of
roast beef gone so far in her domestic experience, a chicken
seemed almost to outlive its usefulness in its various forms
of reappearance, and the salads he devised were as wonderful as the omelets he superintended, or the gay dances he
played on his beloved violin, as soon as he could sit up
enough to manage it. Moreover, - I should say mostover, if the word were admissible, - Monsieur Leclerc
lifted a great weight before long from Miss Lucinda's mind.
He began by subduing Fun to his proper place by a mild
determination that completely won the dog's heart. "Women and spaniels," the world knows, "like kicking"; and
though kicks were no part of the good man's Rareyfaction
of Fun, he certainly used a certain amount of coercion,
and the dog's lawful owner admired the skill of the teacher
and enjoyed the better manners of the pupil thoroughly;
she could do twice as much sewing now, and never were
her nights disturbed by a bark, for the dog zrouched by
his new friend's bed in the parlor and lay quiet there.
Toby was next undertaken, and proved less amenable to




Miss Lucinda.                   321
discipline; he stood in some slight awe of the man who
tried to teach him, but still continued to sally out ait Miss
Lucinda's feet, to spring at her caressing hand when he felt
ill-humored, and to claw Fun's patient nose and his approaching paws when his misplaced sentimentality led him
to caress the cat; but after a while a few well-timed slaps
administered with vigor cured Toby of his worst tricks,
though every blow made Miss Lucinda wince, and almost
shook her good opinion of Monsieur Leclerc: for in these
long weeks he had wrought out a good opinion of himself.
in her mind, much to her own surprise; she could not have
believed a man could be so polite,. so gentle, so patient, and
above all so capable of ruling without tyranny. Miss Lucinda was puzzled.
One day, as Monsieur Leclerc was getting better, just
able to go about on crutches, Israel came into the kitchen,
and Miss Manners went out to see him. She left the door
open, and along with the odor of a pot of raspberry-jam
scalding over the fire, sending its steams of leaf-and-insect
fragrance through the little house, there came in also the
following conversation.
"Israel," said Miss Lucinda, in a hesitating and rather
forlorn tone, " I have been thinking, - I don't know what
to do with Piggy. He is quite too big for me to keep.
I'm  afraid of him, if he gets out; and he eats up the
garden."
" Well, that is a consider'ble swaller for a pig, Miss Lucindy; but I blieve you're abaout right abaout keepin' on
him. He is too big, -that's a fact; but he's so like a
human cre'tur', I'd jest abaout as lieves slarter Orrin. I
declare, I don't know no more'n a taown-haouse goose
what to do with him!"
" If I gave him away, I suppose he would be fatted and
killed, of course?"
"I guess he'd be killed, likely; but as for fattenin' on
him, I'd jest as soon undertake to fatten a salt codfish.
He's one o' the racers, an' they're as holler as hogsheads:
14"




322                Miss Lucinda.
you can fill'em  up to their noses, ef you're a mind to
spend your corn, and they 11 caper it all off their bones in
twenty-four haours. I b'lieve, ef they was tied neck an
heels an' stuffed, they'd wiggle thin betwixt feedin'-times.
Why, Orrin, he raised nine on'em, and every darned
critter's as poor as Job's turkey, to-day: they a'n't no good.
I'd as lieves ha' had nine chestnut rails, -an' a little
lieveser,'cause they don't eat nothin'."
" You don't know of any poor person who'd like to have
a pig, do you? " said Miss Lucinda, wistfully.
"Well, the poorer they was, the quicker they'd eat him
up, I guess, - ef they could eat such a razor-back."
" O, I don't like to think of his being eaten! I wish he
could be got rid of some other way. Don't you think he
might be killed-in his sleep, Israel?"
This was a little too much for Israel. An irresistible
flicker of laughter twitched his wrinkles and bubbled in
his throat.
" I think it's likely'twould wake him up," said he, demurely. "Killin''s killin', and a cre'tur' can't. sleep over
it's though'twas the stomach-ache.  I guess he'd kick
some, ef he was asleep, - and screech some, too 1 "
" Dear me!" said Miss Lucinda, horrified at the idea.
I wish he could be sent out to run in the woods. Are
there any good woods near here, Israel?"
"I don't know but what he'd as lieves be slartered to
once as to starve, an' be hunted down out in the lots.
Besides, there a'n't nobody as I knows of would like a hog
to be a-rootin' round amongst their turnips and young
wheat."
"Well, what I shall do with him I don't know! " despairingly exclaimed Miss Lucinda. " He was such a dear little
thing when you brought him, Israel! Do you remember
how pink his pretty little nose was, -just like a rose-bud, --
and how bright his eyes looked, and his cunning legs?
And now he's grown so big and fierce   But I can't help
liking him, either."




Miss Lucinda.                   323'He's a cute critter, that's sartain; but he does too
much rootin' to have a pink nose now, I expect; -there's
consider'ble on't, so I guess it looks as well to have it gray.
But I don't know no more'n you do what to do abaout it."
"If I could only get rid of him without knowing what
became of him! " exclaimed Miss Lucinda, squeezing her
fore-finger with great earnestness, and looking both puzzled
and pained.
"If Mees Lucinda would pairmit?" said a voice behind
her.
She turned round to see Monsieur Leclerc on his crutches,
just in the parlor-door.
"I shall, Mees, myself dispose of Piggee, if it please.  I
can. I shall have no sound; he shall to go away like a
silent snow, to trouble you no more, never! "
"0, sir! if you could! But I don't see how! "
"If Mees was to see, it would not be to save her pain.
I shall have him to go by magique to fiery land."
Fairy-land, probably! But Miss Lucinda did not perceive the equivoque.
"Nor yet shall I trouble Meester Israyel. I shall have
the aid of myself and one good friend that I have; and
some night when you rise of the morning, he shall not be
there."
Miss Lucinda breathed a deep sigh of relief.
"I am greatly obliged, - I shall be, I mean," said she.
"Well, I'm glad enough to wash my hands on't," said
Israel. "I shall hanker arter the critter some, but he's
a-gettin' too big to be handy;'n' it's one comfort abaout
critters, you ken get rid on' em somehaow when they're
more plague than profit. But folks has got to be let alone,
excep' the Lord takes'em; an' He don't allers see fit."
What added point and weight to these final remarks of
old Israel was the well-known fact that he suffered at home
from the most pecking and worrying of wives, and had
been heard to say in some moment of unusual frankness
that he "didn't see how't could be sinful to wish Miss




324                 Miss Lucinda.
Slater was in heaven, for she'd be lots better off, and other
folks too! "
Miss Lucinda never knew what befell her pig one fine
September night; she did not even guess that a visit paid
to Monsieur by one of his pupils, a farmer's daughter just
out of Dalton, had anything to do with this enlevement;
she was sound asleep in her bed up stairs, when her guest
shod his crutches with old gloves, and limped out to the
garden-gate by dawn, where he and the farmer tolled the
animal out of his sty and far down the street by tempting
red apples, and then Farmer Steele took possession of him,
and he was seen no more.  No, the first thing Miss Lucinda knew of her riddance was when Israel put his head
into the back-door that same morning, some four hours
afterward, and said, with a significant nod,"He's gone!"
After all his other chores were done, Israel had a conference with Monsieur Leclerc, and the two sallied into the
garden, and in an hour had dismantled the low dwelling,
cleared away the wreck, levelled and smoothed its site,
and Monsieur, having previously provided himself with an
Isabella-grape-vine, planted it on this forsaken spot, and
trained it carefully against the end of the shed: strange
to say, though it was against all precedent to transplant a
grape in September, it lived and flourished.  Miss Lucinda's gratitude to Monsieur Leclerc was altogether disproportioned, as he thought, to his slight service. He could
not understand fully her devotion to her pets, but he respected it, and aided it whenever he could, though he never
surmised the motive that adorned Miss Lucinda's table
with such delicate superabundance after the late departure,
and laid bundles of lavender-flowers in his tiny portmanteau
till the very leather seemed to gather fragrance.
Before long, Monsieur Leclerc was well enough to resume
his classes, and return to his boarding-house. but the
latter was filled, and only offered a prospect of vacancy
in some three weeks after his application; so he returned




Miss Lucinda.                 325
home somewhat dejected, and as he sat by the little parlorfire after tea, he said to his hostess, in a reluctant tone, -
"Mlees Lucinda, you have been of the kindest to the
poor alien. I have it in my mind to relieve you of this
care very rapidly, but it is not in the Fates that I do. I
have gone to my house of lodgings, and they cannot to give
me a chamber as yet. I have fear that I must yet rely me
on your goodness for some time more, if you can to entertain me so much more of time?"
"Why, I shall like to, sir," replied the kindly, simplehearted old maid. "I'm sure you are not a mite of trouble,
and I never can forget what you did for my pig."
A smile flitted across the Frenchman's thin, dark face,
and he watched her glittering needles a few minutes in
silence before he spoke again.
"But I have other things to say of the most unpleasant
to me, Mees Lucinda. I have a great debt for the goodness
and care you to me have lavished. To the angels of the
good God we must submit to be debtors, but there are also
of mortal obligations. I have lodged in your mansion for
more of ten weeks, and to you I pay yet no silver, but it is
that I have it not at present. I must ask of your goodness
to wait."
The old maid's shining black eyes grew soft as she looked
at him.
" Why!" said she, "I don't think you owe me much of
anything, Mr. Leclerc. I never knew things last as they
have since you came. I really think you brought a blessing.
I wish you would please to think you don't owe me anything."
The Frenchman's great brown eyes shone with suspicious
dew.
" I cannot to forget that I owe to you far more than anj
silver of man repays; but I should not think to forget that
I also owe to you silver, or I should not be worthy of a
man's name. No, Mees! I have two hands and legs. I
will not let a woman most solitary spend for me her good
self."




326                Miss Lucinda.
"Well," said Miss Lucinda,"if you will be uneasy till
you pay me, I would rather have another kind of pay than
money.  I should like to know how to dance. I never did
learn, when I was a girl, and I think it would be good
exercise."
Miss Lucinda supported this pious fiction through with
a simplicity that quite deceived the Frenchman.  He did
not think it so incongruous as it was. He had seen women
of sixty, rouged, and jewelled, and furbelowed, foot it deftly
in the halls of the Faubourg St. Germain in his earliest
youth; and this cheery, healthy woman, with lingering
blooms on either cheek, and uncapped head of curly black
hair but slightly strewn with silver, seemed quite as fit a
subject for the accomplishment. Besides, he was poor, -
and this offered so easy a way of paying the debt he had so
dreaded! Well said Solomon, —" The destruction of the
poor is their poverty! " For whose moral sense, delicate
sensitiveness, generous longings, will not sometimes give
way to the stringent need of food and clothing, the gall of
indebtedness, and the sinking consciousness of an empty
purse and threatening possibilities?
Monsieur Leclerc's face brightened,
"Ah! with what grand pleasure shall I teach you the
dance!"
But it fell dark again as he proceeded, -
" Though not one, nor two, nor three, nor four quarters
shall be of value sufficient to achieve my payment."
"Then, if that troubles you, why, I should like to take
some French lessons in the evening, when you don't have
classes. I learned French when I was quite a girl, but not
to speak it very easily; and if I could get some practice
and the right way to speak, I should be glad."
"And I shall give you the real Parisien tone, Mees
Lucinda! " said he proudly. " I shall be as if it were no
more an exile when I repeat my tongue to you! "
And so it was settled. Why Miss Lucinda should learn
French any more than dancing was not a question in Mon



Miss Lucinma.                    327
sieur Leclerc's mind. It is true, that Chaldaic would, in all
probability, be as useful to our friend as French; and the
flying over poles and hanging by toes and fingers, so eloquently described by the Apostle of the Body in these
"Atlantic" pages, would have been as well adapted to
her style and capacity as dancing; —but his own language,
and his own profession! what man would not have regarded these as indispensable to improvement, particularly
when they paid his board?
During the latter three weeks of Monsieur Leclerc's stay
with Miss Lucinda he made himself surprisingly useful.
He listed the doors against approaching winter breezes, -
he weeded in the garden, - trimmed, tied, trained, wherever
either good office was needed, — mended china with an
infallible cement, and rickety chairs with the skill of a
cabinet-maker; and whatever hard or dirty work he did,
he always presented himself at table in a state of scrupulous neatness: his long brown hands showed no trace of
labor; his iron-gray hair was reduced to smoothest order;
his coat speckless, if threadbare; and he ate like a gentleman, an accomplishment not always to be found in the
"best society," as the phrase goes, -whether the best in
fact ever lacks it is another thing.  Miss Lucinda appreciated these traits, - they set her at ease; and a pleasanter
home-life could scarce be painted than now enlivened the
little wooden house.  But three weeks pass away rapidly;
and when the rusty portmanteau was gone from her spare
chamber, and the well-worn boots from the kitchen-corner,
and the hat from its nail, Miss Lucinda began to find herself wonderfully lonely. She missed the armfuls of wood
in her wood-box, that she had to fill laboriously, two sticks
at a time; she missed the other plate at her tiny round
table, the other chair beside her fire; she missed that dark,
thin, sensitive face, with its rare and sweet smile; she
wanted her story-teller, her yarn-winder, her protector, back
again.  Good gracious! to think of an old lady of forty,
seven entertaining such sentiments for a man!




328                Miss Lucinda.
Presently the dancing-lessons commenced. It was thought
advisable that Miss Manners should enter a class, and, in
the fervency of her good intentions, she did not demur.
But gratitude and respect had to strangle with persistent
hands the little serpents of the ridiculous in Monsieur Leclerc's soul, when he beheld his pupil's first appearance.
What reason was it, 0 rose of seventeen, adorning thyself
with cloudy films of lace and sparks of jewelry before the
mirror that reflects youth and beauty, that made Miss Lucinda array herself in a brand-new dress of yellow muslinde-laine strewed with round green spots, and displace her
customary handkerchief for a huge tamboured collar, on
this eventful occasion? Why, 0  why did she tie up the
roots of her black hair with an unconcealable scarlet string?
And most of all, why was her dress so short, her slipperstrings so big and broad, her thick slippers so shapeless by
reason of the corns and bunions that pertained to the feet
within?  The "instantaneous rush of several guardian
angels" that once stood dear old Hepzibah Pynchon in
good stead was wanting here, - or perhaps they stood by
all-invisible, their calm eyes softened with love deeper than
tears, at this spectacle so ludicrous to man, beholding in
the grotesque dress and adornments only the budding of
life's divinest blossom, and in the strange skips and hops
of her first attempts at dancing only the buoyancy of those
inner wings that goodness and generosity and pure selfdevotion were shaping for a future strong and stately flight
upward. However, men, women, and children do not see
with angelic eyes, and the titterings of her fellow-pupils
were irrepressible: one bouncing girl nearly choked herself
with her handkerchief trying not to laugh, and two or three
did not even try. Monsieur Leclerc could not blame them,
— at first he could scarce control his own facial muscles;
but a sense of remorse smote him, as he saw how uncon.
scious and earnest the little woman was, and remembered
how often those knotty hands and knobbed feet had waited
an his need or his comfort. Presently he tapped on his




Miss Lucinda.                   329
violin for a few moments' respite, and approached Miss
Lucinda as respectfully as if she had been a queen.
You are ver' tired, Mees Lucinda? " said he.
"I am a little, sir," said she, out of breath. " I am not
used to dancing; it's quite an exertion."
" It is that truly. If you are too much tired, is it better
to wait? I shall finish for you the lesson till I come tonight for a French conversation?"
" I guess I will go home," said the simple little lady. " I
am  some afraid of getting rheumatism; but use makes
perfect, and I shall stay through next time, no doubt."
"So I believe," said Monsieur, with his best bow, as
Miss Lucinda departed and went home, pondering all the
way what special delicacy she should provide for tea.
" My dear young friends," said Monsieur Leclerc, pausing
with the uplifted bow in his hand, before he recommenced
his lesson, *' I have observe that my new pupil does make
you much to laugh.  I am not so surprise, for you do not
know all, and the good God does not robe all angels in one
manner; but she have taken me to her mansion with a leg
broken, and have nursed me like a saint of the blessed,
nor with any pay of silver except that I teach her the dance
and the French. They are pay for the meat and the drink,
but she will have no more for her good patience and care.
I like to teach you the dance, but she could teach you the
saints' ways which are better. I think you will no more to
laugh."
"No! I guess we won't " said the bouncing girl with
great emphasis, and the color rose over more than one
young face.
After that day Miss Lucinda received many a kind smile
and hearty welcome, and never did anybody venture even a
grimace at her expense. But it must be acknowledged
that her dancing was at least peculiar. With a sanitary
view of the matter, she meant to make it exercise, and fearful was the skipping that ensued. She chissed on tiptoe,
and balanc6d with an indescribable hopping twirl, that




330                 Miss Lucinda.
made one think of a chickadee pursuing its quest of food
on new-ploughed ground; and some late-awakened feminine instinct of dress, restrained, too, by due economy,
indued her with the oddest decorations that woman ever
devised. The French lessons went on more smoothly. If
Monsieur Leclerc's Parisian ear was tortured by the barbarous accent of Vermont, at least he bore it with heroism,
since there was nobody else to hear; and very pleasant,
both to our little lady and her master, were these long
winter evenings, when they diligently waded through Racine, and even got as far"as the golden periods of Chateaubriand. The pets fared badly for petting in these days;
they were fed and waited on, but not with the old devotion;
it began to dawn on Miss Lucinda's mind that something
to talk to was preferable, as a companion, even to Fun, and
that there might be a stranger sweetness in receiving care
and protection than in giving it.
Spring came at last. Its softer skies.were as blue over
Dalton as in the wide fields without, and its footsteps as
bloom-bringing in Miss Lucinda's garden as in mead or
forest. Now Monsieur Leclerc came to her aid again at
odd minutes, and set her flower-beds with mignonette borders, and her vegetable-garden with salad herbs of new and
flourishing kinds. Yet not even the sweet season seemed
to hurry the catastrophe that we hope, dearest reader, thy
tender eyes have long seen impending. No, for this quaint
alliance a quainter Cupid waited, -the chubby little fellow
with a big head and a little arrow, who waits on youth and
loveliness, was not wanted here. Lucinda's God of Love
wore a lank, hard-featured, grizzly shape, no less than that
of Israel Slater, who marched into the garden one fine June
morning, earlier than usual, to find Monsieur in his blouse,
hard at work weeding the cauliflower-bed.
" Good mornin', sir! good mornin' I " said Israel, in answer to the Frenchman's greeting. "This is a real slick
little garden-spot as ever I see, and a pooty house, and a
real:lever woman too. I'11 be skwitched, ef it a'n't a




Remiss Lucinda.                  331
fust-rate ccesarn, the hull on't. Be you ever a-goin' back
to France, Mister?"
"No, my goot friend.  I have nobody there.  I stay
here; I have friend here: but there, - oh, non! je ne reviendrai pas / ah/, jamais! jamais  "
"Pa's dead, eh? or shamming? Well, I don't understand your lingo; but ef you're a-goin' to stay here, I don't
see why you don't hitch hosses with Miss Lucindy."
Monsieur Leclerc looked up astonished.
"Horses, my friend?  I have no horse!'"
"Thunder'n' dry trees! I did n't say you hed, did I?
But that comes o' usin' what Parson Hyde calls figgurs, I
s'pose.  I wish't he'd use one kind o' figgurin' a leetle
more; he'd pay me for that wood-sawin'.  I didn't mean
nothin' about horses. I sot out fur to say, Why don't ye
marry Miss Lucindy?"
"I?" gasped Monsieur,  " I, the foreign, the poor?  I
could not to presume so!"
" Well, I don't see's it's sech drefful presumption. Ef
you're poor, she's a woman, and real lonesome too; she
ha'n't got nuther chick nor child belongin' to her, and
you're the only man she ever took any kind of a notion to.
I guess't would be jest as much for her good as yourn."
"Hush, good Is-ray-el! it is good to stop there.  She
would not to marry after such years of goodness: she is a
saint of the blessed."
" Well, I guess saints sometimes fellerships with sinners;
I've heerd tell they did; and ef I was you, I'd make trial
for't. Nothin' ventur', nothin' have."
Whereupon Israel walked off, whistling.
Monsieur Leclerc's soul was perturbed within him  by
these suggestions; he pulled up two young cauliflowers
and reset their places with pigweeds; he hoed the nicelysloped border of the bed flat to the path, and then flung
the hoe across the walk, and went off to his daily occupation with a new idea in his head. Nor was it an unpleasant one. The idea of a transition from  his squalid and




332                Miss Lucinda.
pinching boarding-house to the delicate comfort of Miss
Lucinda's me'nage, the prospect of so kind and good a wife
to care for his hitherto dreaded future, - all this was pleasant. I cannot honestly say he was in love with our friend;
I must even confess that whatever element of that nature
existed between the two was now all on Miss Lucinda's side,
little as she knew it. Certain it is, that, when she appeared
that day at the dancing-class in a new green calico flowered
with purple, and bows on her slippers big enough for a
bonnet, it occurred to Monsieur Leclerc, that, if they were
married, she would take no more lessons! However, let
us not blame him; he was a man, and a poor one; one
must not expect too much from men, or from poverty; if
they are tolerably good, let us canonize them even, it is so
hard for the poor creatures! And to do Monsieur Leclerc
justice, he had a very thorough respect and admiration for
Miss Lucinda. Years ago, in his stormy youth-time, there
had been a pair of soft-fringed eyes that looked into his as
none would ever look again, -and they murdered her, those
mad wild beasts of Paris, in the chapel where she knelt at
her pure prayers, - murdered her because she knelt beside
an aristocrat, her best friend, the Duchess of Montmorenci,
who had taken the pretty peasant from her own estate to
bring her up for her maid. Jean Leclerc had lifted that
pale shape from the pavement and buried it himself; what
else he buried with it was invisible; but now he recalled
the hour with a long, shuddering sigh, and, hiding his face
in his hands, said softly, "The violet is dead,  there is
no spring for her. I will have now an amaranth, -it is
good for the tomb."
Whether Miss Lucinda's winter dress suggested this floral
metaphor let us not inquire. Sacred be sentiment, when
there is even a shadow of reality about it!    when it becomes a profession, and confounds itself with millinery and
shades of mourning, it is - "bosh," as the Turkeys say.
So that very evening Monsieur Leclerc arrayed himself
in his best, to give another lesson to Miss Lucinda. But,




Msiss Lucinda.                 333
somehow or other, the lesson was long in beginning; the
little parlor looked so home-like and so pleasant, with its
bright lamp and gay bunch of roses on the table, that it
was irresistible temptation to lounge and linger.  Miss
Lucinda had the volume of Florian in her hands, and was
wondering why he did not begin, when the book was drawn
away, and a hand laid on both of hers.
" Lucinda! " he began, " I give you no lesson to-night.
I have to ask. Dear Mees, will you to marry your poor
slave?"
0 dear! " said Miss Lucinda.
Don't laugh at her, Miss Tender-eyes 1 You will feel
just so yourself some day, when Alexander Augustus says,
" Will you be mine, loveliest of your sex? " only you won't
feel it half so strongly, for you are young, and love is
Nature to youth, but it is a heavenly surprise to age.
Monsieur Leclerc said nothing. He had a heart after all,
and it was touched now by the deep emotion that flushed
Miss Lucinda's face, and made her tremble so violently, 
but presently he spoke.
" Do not! " said he. " I am wrong. I presume. Forgive the stranger  "
"0 dear! " said poor Lucinda again, -" 0, you know
it is n't that! but how can you like me?"
There, Mademoiselle! there's humility for you! you will
never say that to Alexander Augustus!
Monsieur Leclerc soothed this frightened, happy, incredulous little woman into quiet before very long; and if he
really began to feel a true affection for her from the moment
he perceived her humble and entire devotion to him, who
shall blame him?  Not I. If we were all heroes, who
would be valet-de-chambre? if we were all women, who
would be men? He was very good as far as he went; and
if you expect the chivalries of grace out of Nature, you
"may expect," as old Fuller saith. So it was peacefully
settled that they should be married, with a due amount of
tears and smiles on Lucinda's part, and a great deal of
V




334                Miss Lucinda.
tender sincerity on Monsieur's. She missed her dancinglesson next day, and when Monsieur Leclerc came in the
evening he found a shade on her happy face.
"0 dear! " said she, as he entered.
"O dear!" was Lucinda's favorite aspiration. Had she
thought of it as an Anglicizing of " O Dieu /" perhaps she
would have dropped it; but this time she went on headlong, with a valorous despair, -
"I have thought of something! I'm  afraid I can't!
Monsieur, are n't you a Romanist?"
" What is that? " said he, surprised.
" A Papist, - a Catholic!"
" Ah!" he returned, sighing, "once I was bon Catholique,
- once in my gone youth; after then I was nothing but the
poor man who bats for his life; now I am of the religion
that shelters the stranger and binds up the broken poor."
Monsieur was a diplomatist. This melted Miss Lucinda's
orthodoxy right down; she only said,
"Then you will go to church with me? "
"And to the skies above, I pray," said Monsieur, kissing
her knotty hand like a lover.
So in the earliest autumn they were married, Monsieur
having previously presented Miss Lucinda with a delicate
plaided gray silk for her wedding attire, in which she looked
almost young; and old Israel was present at the ceremony,
which was briefly performed by Parson Hyde in Miss
Manners's parlor. They did not go to Niagara, nor to
Newport; but that afternoon Monsieur Leclerc brought a
hired rockaway to the door, and took his bride a drive into
the country. They stopped beside a pair of bars, where
Monsieur hitched his horse, and, taking Lucinda by the
hand, led her into Farmer Steele's orchard, to the foot of
his biggest apple-tree. There she beheld a little mound, at
the head and foot of which stood a daily rose-bush shedding its latest wreaths of bloom, and upon the mound itself
was laid a board on which she read, - "Here lie the bones
of poor Piggy."




Miss Lucinda.                   335
Mrs. Lucinda burst into tears, and Monsieur, picking a
bud from the bush, placed it in her hand, and led her
tenderly back to the rockaway.
That evening Mrs. Lucihda was telling the affair to old
Israel with so much feeling that she did not perceive at all
the odd commotion in his face, till, as she repeated the
epitaph to him, he burst out with, - " He did n't say what
became o' the flesh, did he? "   and therewith fled through
the kitchen-door. For years afterward Israel would entertain a few favored auditors with his opinion of the matter,
screaming till the tears rolled down his cheeks, -
"That was the beateree of all the weddin'-towers I ever
heerd tell on. Goodness! it's enough to make the Wander.
in' Jew die o' larfin'!"




THE DENSLOW PALACE.
l    T is the privilege of authors and artists to see and
to describe; to " see clearly and describe vividly"
gives the pass on all state occasions. It is the' cap of darkness " and the ta/aria, and wafts them whither
they will. The doors of boudoirs and senate-chambers
open quickly, and close after them, - excluding the talentless and staring rabble. I, who am one of the humblest
of the seers, -a universal admirer of all things beautiful
and great, - fom the commonwealths of Plato and Solon,
severally, expulsed, as poet without music or politic, and
a follower of the great,  I, from my dormitory, or nest,
of twelve feet square, can, at an hour's notice, or less, enter
palaces, and bear away, unchecked and unquestioned, those
imagines of Des Cartes which emanate or are thrown off
from all forms,-and this, not in imagination, but in the
flesh.
Whether it was the "tone of society" which pervaded
my " Florentine letters," or my noted description of the
boudoir of Egeria Mentale, I could not just now determine;
but these, and other humble efforts of mine, made me
known in palaces as a painter of beauty and magnificence;
and I have been in demand, to do for wealth what wealth
cannot do for itself, -namely, make it live a little, or, at
least, spread as far, in fame, as the rings of a stone-plash
on a great pond.
I enjoy friendships and regards which would satisfy the
most fastidious. Are not the Denslows enormously rich?




The Denslow  Palace.               337
Is not Dalton a sovereign of elegance? It was I who gave
the fame of these qualities to the world, in true colors, not
flattered. And they know it, and love me. Honoria Denslow is the most beautiful and truly charming woman of
society. It was I who first said it; and she is my friend,
and loves me. I. defy poverty; the wealth of all the senses
is mine, without effort. I desire not to be one of those
who mingle as principals and sufferers; for they are less
causes than effects. As the Florentine in the Inferno saw
the souls of unfortunate lovers borne upon a whirlwind, so
have I seen all things fair and precious, -outpourings of
wealth, - all the talents, — all the offerings of duty and
devotion, -angelic graces of person and of soul, - borne
and swept violently around on the circular gale. Wealth
is only an enlargement of the material boundary, and leaves
the spirit free to dash to and fro, and exhaust itself in vain
efforts. But I am philosophizing, - oddly enough, - when
I should describe.
An exquisite little note from Honoria, sent at the last
moment, asking me to be present that evening at a " select "
party, which was to open the "new house," -the little
palace of the Denslows, -lay beside me on the table. It
was within thirty minutes of nine o'clock, the hour I had
fixed for going. A howling winter out of doors, a clear fire
glowing in my little grate. My arm-chair, a magnificent
present from Honoria, shaming the wooden fixtures of the
poor room, invited to meditation, and perhaps the composition of some delicate periods. They formed slowly. Time,
it is said, devours all things; but imagination, in turn, devours time,  and, indeed, swallowed my half-hour at a
gulp. The neighboring church-clock tolled nine. I was
belated, and hurried away.
It was a reunion of only three hundred invitations, selected by my friend Dalton, the intimate and adviser of
Honoria.  So happy were their combinations, scarce a
dozen were absent or declined.
At eleven, the guests began to assemble.  Introductions
15




338            ~i  ne iJenstow  palace.
were almost needless. Each person was a recognized memr
ber of "society."  One half of the number were women, -
many of them  young, beautiful, accomplished, -heiresses,
" charming widows," poetesses of real celebrity, and, rarer
still, of good repute, -wives of millionnaires, flashing in
satin and diamonds. The men, on their side, were of all
professions and arts, and of every grade of celebrity, from
senator to merchant, - each distinguished by some personal
attribute or talent; and in all was the gift, so rare, of manners and conversation.  It was a company of undoubted
gentlemen, as truly entitled to respect and admiration as
if they stood about a throne.  They were the untitled
nobility of Nature, wealth, and genius.
As I stood looking, with placid admiration, from a recess,
upon a brilliant tableau of beautiful women and celebrated
men that had accidentally arranged itself before me, Dalton
touched my arm.
"I have seen," said he, "aristocratic and republican reunions of the purest mode in Paris, the court and the
banker's circle of London, conversazioni at Rome and Florence. Every face in this room  is intelligent, and nearly
all either beautiful, remarkable, or commanding. Observe
those five women standing with Denslow and Adonai's,grandeur, sweetness, grace, form, purity; each has an attribute. It is a rare assemblage of superior human beings,
The world cannot surpass it. And, by the by, the rooms
are superb."
They were indeed magnificent: two grand suites, on
either side a central hall of Gothic structure, in white
marble, with light, aerial staircases and gilded balconies.
Each suite was a separate miracle: the height, the breadth,
the columnal divisions; the wonderful delicacy of the arches,
upon which rested ceilings frescoed with incomparable art.
In one compartment the arches and caryatides were of
black marble; in another, of snowy Parian; in a third, of
wood, exquisitely carved, and joined like one piece, as if
it were a natural growth; vines rising at the bases of the




The Denslow  Palace.               339
walls, and spreading under the roof. There was no forced
consistency. Forms suitable only for the support of heavy
masses of masonry, or for the solemn effects of church
interiors, were not here introduced. From straight windowcornices of dark wood, slenderly gilt, but richly carved, fell
cataracts of gleaming satin, softened in effect with laces of
rare appreciation.
The frescoes and panel-work were a study by themselves,
uniting the classic and modern styles in allegorical subjects.
The paintings, selected by the taste of Dalton, to overpower the darkness of the rooms by intensity of color,
were incorporated with the walls. There were but few
mirrors. At the end of each suite, one, of fabulous size,
without frame, made to appear, by a cunning arrangement
of dark draperies, like a transparent portion of the wall
itself, extended the magnificence of the apartments.
Not a flame nor a jet was anywhere visible. Tinted
vases, pendent, or resting upon pedestals, distributed harmonies and thoughts of light rather than light itself; and
yet all was visible, effulgent. The columns which separated
the apartments seemed to be composed of masses of richlycolored flames, compelled, by some ingenious alchemy, to
assume the form and office of columns.
In New York, par excellence the city of private gorgeousness and petite magnificence, nothing had yet been seen
equal to the rooms of the glorious Denslow Palace. Even
Dalton, the most capricious and critical of men, whose nice
vision had absorbed the elegancies of European taste, pronounced them superb. The upholstery and ornamentation
were composed under the direction of celebrated artists.
Palmer was consulted on the marbles. Page (at Rome)
advised the cartoons for the frescoes, and gave laws for the
colors and disposition of the draperies. The paintings,
panelled in the walls, were modern, triumphs of the art
and genius of the New World.
Until the hour for dancing, prolonged melodies of themes
modulated in the happiest moments of the great composers




340             The Denslowz  Palace.
floated in the perfumed air from  a company of unseen
musicians, while the guests moved through the vast apartments, charmed or exalted by their splendor, or conversed
in groups, every voice'subdued and intelligent.
At midnight began the modish music of the dance, and
groups of beautiful girls moved like the atoms of Chladni
on the vibrating crystal, with their partners, to the sound
of harps and violins, in pleasing figures or inebriating
spirals.
When supper was served, the ivory fronts of a cabinet
of gems divided itself in the centre, - the two halves revolving upon silver hinges,    and discovered a hall of
great height and dimensions, walled with crimson damask,
supporting pictures of all the masters of modern art. The
dome-like roof of this hall was of marble variously colored,
and the floor tessellated and mosaicked in grotesque and
graceful figures of Vesuvian lavas and painted porcelain.
The tables, couches, chairs, and vis-a-vis in this hall
were of plain pattern and neutral dead colors, not to overpower or fade the pictures on the walls, or the gold and
Parian service of the cedar tables.
But the chief beauty of this unequalled supper-room was
an immense bronze candelabrum, which rose in the centre
from a column of black marble. It was the figure of an
Italian elm, slender and of thin foliage, embraced, almost
enveloped, in a vine, which reached out and supported itself
in hanging from all the branches; the twigs bearing fruit,
not of grapes, but of a hundred little spheres of crimson,
violet, and golden light, whose combination produced a soft
atmosphere of no certain color.
Neither Honoria, Dalton, nor myself remained long in
the gallery. We retired with a select few, and were served
in an antechamber, separated from  the grand receptionroom by an arch, through which, by putting aside a silk
curtain, Honoria could see, at a distance, any that entered,
as they passed in from the hall.
My own position was such that I could look over hey




The Denslow  Palace.               341
shou der and see as she saw.  Vis-a-vis with her, and consequently with myself, was Adonais, a celebrated author,
and person of the beau monde. On his left, Dalton, always
mysteriously elegant and dangerously witty. Denslow and
Jeffrey lethal, the critic, completed our circle. The conversation was easy, animated, personal.
"You are fortunate in having a woman of taste to
manage your entertainments," said Lethal, in answer to a
remark of Denslow's, - ".but in bringing'these people together she has made a sad blunder."
"And what may that be? " inquired Dalton, mildly.
"Your guests are too well behaved, too fine, and on their
guard; there are no butts, no palpable fools or vulgarians,
and, worse, there are many distinguished, but no one great
man, -no social or intellectual sovereign of the occasion."
Honoria looked inquiringly at Lethal. " Pray, Mr. Lethal,
tell me who he is? I thought there was no such person in
America," she added, with a look of reproachful inquiry at
Dalton and myself, as if we should have found this sovereign and suggested him.
"You are right, my dear queen; Lethal is joking," responded Dalton; "we are a democracy, and have only a
queen of-"
"Water ices," interrupted Lethal; "but, as for the king
you seek, as democracies finally come to that  "
"Good Heavens!" exclaimed Honoria, raising the curtain, "it must be he that is coming in."
Honoria frowned slightly, rose, and advanced to meet a
new-comer, who had entered unannounced, and was advancing alone. Dalton followed to support her. I observed
their movements,- Lethal and Adonais using my face as a
mirror of what was passing beyond the curtain.
The masses of level light from the columns on the left
seemed to envelop the stranger, who came toward us from
the entrance, as if he had divined the presence of Honoria
in the alcove.
He was about the middle height, Napoleonic in form and




342             The Denslow  Palace.
bearing, with features of marble paleness, firm, and sharply
defined. His hair and magnificent Asiatic beard were jetty
black, curling, and naturally disposed. Under his dark and
solid brows gleamed large eyes of abysmal blackness and
intensity.
" Is it Lord N-? " whispered Lethal, moved from his
habitual coldness by the astonishment which he read in my
face.
"Senator D —, perhaps' suggested Denslow, whose
ideas, like his person, aspired to the senatorial.' Dumas," hinted Adonais, an admirer of French literature. " I heard he was expected."
" No," I answered, " but certainly in appearance the most
noticeable man living. Let us go out and be introduced."
" Perhaps," said Lethal, "it is the d-."
All rose instantly at the idea, and we went forward, urged
by irresistible curiosity.
As we drew near the stranger, who was conversing with
Honoria and Dalton, a shudder went through me. It was
a thrill of the universal Boswell; I seemed to feel the
presence of " the most aristocratic man of the age."
Honoria introduced me. "My Lord Duke, allow me to
present my friend, Mr. De Vere; Mr. De Vere, the Duke
of Rosecouleur."
Was I, then, face to face with, nay, touching the hand of
a highness, -and that highness the monarch of the ton?
And is this a ducal hand, white as the albescent down of
the eider-duck, which presses mine with a tender touch, so
haughty and so delicately graduated to my standing as
"friend" of the exquisite Honoria?  It was too much; I
could have wept; my senses rather failed.
Dalton fell short of himself; for, though his head stooped
to none, unless conventionally, the sudden and unaccountable presence of the Duke of Rosecouleur annoyed and
perplexed him. His own sovereignty was threatened.
Lethal stiffened himself to the ordeal of an introduction;
the affair seemed to exasperate him. Denslow alone, of




The Denslow  Palace.              343
the men, was in his element. Pompous and soft, he "cottoned " to the grandeur with the instinct of a torn satellite,
and his eyes grew brighter, his body more shining and
rotund, his back more concave. His bon-vivant tones, jolly
and conventional, sounded a pure barytone to the clear
soprano of Honoria, in the harmony of an obsequious welcome.
The Duke of Rosecouleur glanced around him approvingly upon the apartments. I believed that he had never
seen anything more beautiful than the petite palace of
Honoria, or more ravishing than herself. He said little,
in a low voice, and always to one person at a time. His
answers and remarks were simple and well-turned.
Dalton allowed the others to move on, and by a slight
sign drew me to him.
"It is unexpected," he said, in a thoughtful manner, looking me full in the eyes.
"You knew the Duke of Rosecouleur in Europe?"
"At Paris, yes,-and in Italy he was a travel friend;
but we heard lately that he had retired upon his estates in
England; and certainly, he is the last person we looked for
here."
" Unannounced."
"That is a part of the singularity."
"His name was not in the published list of arrivals; but
he may have left England incognito. Is a mistake possible?"
" No! there is but one such man in Europe; —a handsomer or a richer does not live."
"An eye of wonderful depth."
"Hands exquisite."
"Feet, ditto."
"And his dress and manner."
Unapproachable! "
"Not a shadow of pretence;- the essence of good.
breeding founded upon extensive knowledge, and a thorough
sense of position and its advantages; —in fact, the Napoleon of the parlor."




344            The Denslow  Palace.
"But, Dalton," said I, nervously, "no one attends Uim."
"No, -I thought so at first; but do you see that Mephistophelean figure, in black, who follows the Duke a few
paces behind, and is introduced to no one? "
"Yes. A singular creature, truly!  how thin he is! "
"That shadow that follows his Highness is, in fact, the
famous valet, Reve de Noir, - the prince of servants. The
Duke goes nowhere without this man as a shadow. He
asserts that Reve de Noir has no soul; and I believe him.
The face is that of a demon. It is a separate creation,
equally wonderful with the master, but not human. He
was condensed out of the atmosphere of the great world."
As we were speaking, we observed a crowd of distinguished persons gathered about and following his Highness,
as he moved. He spoke now to one, now to another.
Honoria, fascinated, her beauty every instant becoming
more radiant, just leaned, with the lightest pressure, upon
the Duke's arm.  They were promenading through the
rooms. The music, soft and low, continued, but the groups
of dancers broke up, the loiterers in the gallery came in,
and as the sun draws his fifty, perhaps his hundreds of
planets, circling around and near him, this noble luminary
centred in himself the attention of all. If they could not
speak with him, they could at least speak of him. If they
could not touch his hand, they could pass before him and
give one glance at his eyes. The less aristocratic were
even satisfied for the moment with watching the singular
being, Reve de Noir, —who caught no one's eye, seemed
to see no one but his master, -and yet was  not here nor
there, nor in any place, - never in the way, a thing of air,
and not tangible, but only black.
At a signal, he would advance and present to his master
a perfume, a laced handkerchief, a rose of rubies, a diamond
clasp; of many with whom  he spoke the liberal Duke
begged the acceptance of some little token, as an earnest
of his esteem. After interchanging a few words with Jeff-ey
Lethal,-who dared not utter a sarcasm, though he chafed




The Denslow  Palace.               345
visibly under the restraint, -the Duke's tasteful generosity
suggested a seal ring, with an intaglio head of Swift cut
in opal, the mineral emblem of wit, which dulls in the sunlight of fortune, and recovers its fiery points in the shade
of adversity; - Reve de Noir, with a movement so slight,'t was like the flitting of a bat, placed the seal in the hand
of the Duke, who, with a charming and irresistible grace,
compelled Lethal to receive it.
To Denslow, Honoria, Dalton, and myself he offered
nothing. Strange?- Not at all. Was he not the guest,
and had not I been presented to him by Honoria as her
"friend?"-a word of pregnant meaning to a Duke of
Rosecouleur!
TTo Adonais he gave a lock of hair of the great novelist,
Dumas, in a locket of yellow tourmaline, -a stone usually
black.  Lethal smiled at this.  He felt relieved. "The
Duke," thought he, "must be a humorist."
From my coarse way of describing this, you would suppose that it was a farcical exhibition of vulgar extravagance,
and the Duke a madman or an impostor; but the effect was
different. It was done with grace, and, in the midst of so
much else, it attracted only that side regard, at intervals,
which is sure to surprise and excite awe.
Honoria had almost ceased to converse with us. It was
painful to her to talk with any person. She followed the
Duke with her eyes. When, by some delicate allusion or
attention, he let her perceive that she was in his thoughts, a
mantling color overspread her features, and then gave way
to paleness, and a manner which attracted universal remark.
It was then Honoria abdicated that throne of conventional
purity which hitherto she had held undisputed. Women
who were plain in her presence outshone Honoria, by meeting this ducal apparition, that called itself Rosecouleur, 
and which might have been, for aught they knew, a fume
of the Infernal, shaped to deceive us all, -with calm and
haughty propriety.
The sensation did not subside. The music of the waltz
I' 




346            The Denslow  Palace.
invited a renewal of that intoxicating whirl which isolates
friends and lovers, in whispering and sighing pairs, ir che
midst of a great assemblage. All the world looked on, when
Honoria Denslow placed her hand upon the shoulder of the
Duke of Rosecouleur, and the noble and beautiful forms
began silently and smoothly turning, with a dream-like motion. Soon she lifted her lovely eyes and steadied their
rays upon his. She leaned wholly upon his arm, and the
gloved hands completed the magnetic circle. At the close
of the first waltz, she rested a moment, leaning upon his
shoulder, and his hand still held hers, - a liberty often assumed and permitted, but not to the nobles and the monarchs of society. She fell farther, and her ideal beauty
faded into a sensuous.
Honoria was lost. Dalton saw it. We retired together
to a room apart. He was dispirited; called for and drank
rapidly a bottle of Champagne; - it was insufficient.
" De Vere," said he, "affairs go badly."
" Explain."
"This cursed thing that people call a duke -it kills
me."
" I saw."
"Of course you did;- the world saw; the servants
saw. Honoria has fallen to-night. I shall transfer my
allegiance."
"And Denslow?"
"A born sycophant;- he thinks it natural that his wife
should love a duke, and a duke love his wife."
"So would you, if you were any other than you are."
"Faugh! it is human nature."
Not so; would you not as soon strangle this Rosecouleur for making love to your wife in public, as you would
another man?"
"Rather."
"Pooh! I give you up. If you had simply said,'Yes,'
it would have satisfied me."
Dalton seemed perplexed. He called a servant and sent




The Denslow  Palace.              347
him with an order for Nalson, the usher, to come instantly
to him.
Nalson appeared with his white gloves and mahogany
face.
"Nalson, you were a servant of the Duke in England?"
"Yes, sir."
"Is the person now in the rooms the Duke of Rosecor:leur?"
" I have not seen him, sir."
" Go immediately, study the man well, - do you hear? -
and come to me. Let no one know your purpose."
Nalson disappeared.
I was alarmed. If "the Duke" should prove to be an
impostor, Wve were indeed ruined.
In five minutes, —an hour, it seemed, —Nalson stood
before us.
"Is it he?" said Dalton, looking fixedly upon the face of
the usher.
No reply.
"Speak the truth; you need not be afraid."
"I cannot tell, sir."
"Nonsense! go and look again."
"It is of no use, Mr. Dalton; you, who are as well acquainted with the personal appearance of his Highness as
I am, you have been deceived, -if I have."
" Nalson, do you believe that this person is an impostor?"
said Dalton pointing at myself.
"Who? Mr. De Vere, sir? "
" If, then, you know at sight that this gentleman is my
friend Mr. De Vere, why do you hesitate about the other?"
"But the imitation is perfect. And there is Reve de
Noir."
"Yes, did Reve de Noir recognize you? "
"I have not caught his eye.  You.know, sir, that this
Rave is not, and never was like other men; he is a devil
One knows, and one does not know him."




J48             The Denslow  Palace
6 Were you at the door when the Duke entered?"
"I think not; at least —I cannot tell. When I first
saw him, he was in the room, speaking with Madam Denslow."
" Nalson, you have done wrong; no one should have entered unannounced. Send the doorkeeper to me."
The doorkeeper came; a gigantic negro, magnificently
attired.
"Jupiter, you were at the door when the Duke of Rosecouleur entered? "
"Yes, sir."
"Did the Duke and his man come in a carriage?"
"Yes, sir, -a hack."'You may go. They are not devils," said Dalton musingly, "or they would not have come in a carriage."
"You seem to h4ave studied the spiritual mode of loco
motion," said I.
Dalton frowned. " This is serious, De Vere."
C What mean you? "
6 I mean that Denslow is a bankrupt."
Explain yourself."
"You know what an influence he carries in political
circles. The G-rs, the S —es, and their kind, have
more talent, but Denslow enjoys the secret of popularity."
"Well, I know it."
" In the middle counties, where he owns vast estates, and
has been liberal to debtors and tenants, he carries great favor; both parties respect him for his ignorance and pomposity, which they mistake for simplicity and power, as usual.
The estates are mortgaged three deep, and will not hold out
a year. The shares of the Millionnaire's Hotel and the Poor
Man's Bank in the B —y are worthless. Denslow's railroad schemes have absorbed the capital of those concerns.'
" But he had three millions."' Nominally.  This palace has actually sunk his income."




The Denslow  Palace.              349
"Madness! "
"Wisdom, if you will listen.'
"I am all attention."
" The use of money is to create and hold power. Denslow was certain of the popular and county votes; he
needed only the aristocratic support, and the A — people
would have made him Senator."
"Fool, why was he not satisfied with his money?"
"Do you call the farmer fool, because he is not satisfied
with the soil, but wishes to grow wheat thereon? Money
is the soil of power. For much less than a million one may
gratify the senses; great fortunes are not for sensual luxuries, but for those of the soul. To the facts, then. The
advent of this mysterious duke, - whom I doubt, - hailed
by Denslow and Honoria as a piece of wonderful good-fortune, has already shaken him and ruined the prestige of his
wife. They are mad and blind,"
" Tell me, in plain prose, the how and the why."
"De Vere, you are dull. There are three hundred people in the rooms of the Denslow Palace; these people
are the'aristocracy.' They control the sentiments of the'better class.' Opinion, like dress, descends from them.
They no longer respect Denslow, and their women have
seen the weakness of Honoria."
"Yes, but Denslow still has'the people.'"
" That is not enough. I have calculated the chances, and
mustered all our available force. We shall have no support
among the'better class' since we are disgraced with the'millionnaires."'
At this moment Denslow came in.
"Ah! Dalton, -like you! I have been looking for you
to show the pictures. Devil a thing I know about them.
The Duke wondered at your absence."
Where is Honoria? "
"Ill, ill, —fainted.  The house is new; smell of new
wood and mortar; deused disagreeable in Honoria. If it
had not been for the Duke, she would have fallen. That's
W




350             The Denslow  Palace.
a monstrous clever fellow, that Rosecouleur. Admires Ho.
noria vastly. Come, —the pictures."
"Mr. John Vanbrugen Denslow, you are an ass!"
The large, smooth, florid millionnaire, dreaming only of
senatorial honors, the shouts of the multitude, and the
adoration of a party press, cowered like a dog under the
lash of the " man of society."
"Rather rough, -- ha, De Vere?  What have I done?
Am I an ass because I know nothing of pictures? Come.
Dalton, you are harsh with your old friend."
"Denslow, I have told you a thousand times never to
concede position."
"6 Yes, but this is a duke, man, - a prince!"
"This from you? By Jove, De Vere, I wish you and I
could live a hundred years, to see a republican aristocrat.
We are still mere provincials," added Dalton, with a sigh.
Denslow perspired with mortification.
"You use me badly,   I tell you, Dalton, this Rosecouleur is a devil. Condescend to him! be haughty and  what
do you call it? - urbane to him! I defy you to do it, with
all your impudence. Why, his valet, that shadow that glides
after him, is too much for me. Try him yourself, man."
"Who, the valet?"
"No, the master, - though I might have said the valet."
"Did I yield in Paris? "
"No, but you were of the embassy, and -and -no one
really knew us, you know."
Dalton pressed his lips hard together.
"Come," said he, "De Vere, let us try a fall with this
Titan of the carpet."
Denslow hastened back to the Duke. I followed Dalton;
but as for me, bah! I am a cipher.
The room in which we were adjoined Honoria's boudoir,
from which a secret passage led down by a spiral to a panel
behind hangings; raising these, one could enter the drawing-room unobserved. Dalton paused midway in the secret
passage, and through a loop or narrow window, concealed




The Denslow  Palace.               35
by architectural ornaments, and which overlooked the great
drawing-rooms, made a reconnoissance of the field.
Nights of Venice! what a scene was there! The vinebranch chandeliers, crystal-fruited, which depended from the
slender ribs of the ceiling, cast a rosy dawn of light, deepening the green and crimson of draperies and carpets, making
an air like sunrise in the bowers of a forest. Form and order were everywhere visible, though unobtrusive. Arch
beyond arch, to fourth apartments, lessening in dimension,
with increase of wealth; - groups of beautiful women, on
either hand, seated or half reclined; the pure or rich hues
of their robes blending imperceptibly, or in gorgeous contrasts, with the soft outlines and colors of their supports; a
banquet for the eyes and the mind; the perfect work of art
and culture;  gliding about and among these, or, with
others, springing and revolving in that monarch of all measures, which blends luxury and purity, until it is either the
one or the other, moved the men.
"That is my work," exclaimed Dalton, unconsciously.
"Not all, I think."
" I mean the combinations, - the effect. But see! Honoria will again accept the Duke's invitation. He is coming
to her. Let us prevent it."
He slipped away; and I, remaining at my post of observation, saw him, an instant later, passing quickly across the
floor among the dancers, toward Honoria. The Duke of
Rosecouleur arrived at the same instant before her. She
smiled sorrowfully upon Dalton, and held out her hand in a
languid manner toward the Duke, and again they floated,
away upon the eddies of the music. I followed them with
eyes fixed in admiration. It was a vision of the orgies of
Olympus,  Zeus and Aphrodite circling to a theme of
Chronos.
Had Honoria tasted of the Indian drug, the weed of paradise? Her eyes, fixed upon the Duke's, shone like molten
sapphires. A tress of chestnut hair, escaping from the diamond coronet, sprang lovingly forward and twined itself




352             The Denslow  Palace.
over her white shoulder and still fairer bosom. Tints like
flitting clouds, Titianic, the mystery and despair of art, disclosed to the intelligent eye the feeling that mastered her
spirit and her sense. Admirable beauty! Unrivalled, unhappy! The Phidian idol of gold and ivory, into which
a demon had entered, overthrown, and the worshippers
gazing on it with a scorn unmixed with pity!
The sullen animal rage of battle is nothing to the livor,
the burning hatred of the drawing-room. Dalton, defeated,
cast a glance of deadly hostility on the Duke.  Nor was it
lost. While the waltz continued, for ten minutes, he stood
motionless. Fearing some untoward event, I came down
and took my place near him.
The Duke led Honoria to a sofa. But for his arm she
would again have fallen. Dalton had recovered his courage
and natural haughtiness. The tone of his voice, rich, tender, and delicately expressive, did not change.
"Honoria, you sent for me; and the Duke wishes to see
the pictures. The air of the gallery will relieve your faintness."
He offered his arm, which she, rising mechanically, accepted. A deep blush crimsoned her features, at the allusion to her weakness. Several of the guests moved after
us, as we passed into the gallery. The Duke's shadow,
Reve de Noir, following last, closed the ivory doors. We
passed through the gallery, - where pyramids of sunny
fruits, in baskets of fine porcelain, stood relieved by gold
and silver services for wine and coffee, disposed on the
tables,- and thence entered another and smaller room,
devoid of ornament, but the crimson tapestried walls were
covered with works or copies of the great masters of Italy.
Opposite the entrance there was a picture of a woman
seated on a throne, behind which stood a demon whispering
in her ear, and pointing to a handsome youth in the circle
of the courtiers. The design and color were in the style
of Correggio.  Denslow stood close behind me.  In advance were Honoria, Dalton, and the Duke, whose conver



The Denslow  Palace.               353
sation was adressed alternately to her and Dalton. The
lights of the gallery burst forth in their full refulgence as we
approached the picture.
The glorious harmony of its colors, -the force of the
shadows, which seemed to be converging in the rays of a
single unseen source of light, - the unity of sentiment,
which drew all the groups together, in the idea;  I had
seen all this before, but with the eyes of supercilious criticism. Now the picture smote us with awe.
"I have the original of this excellent work," said the
Duke, "in my house at A-, but your copy is nearly as
good."
The remark, intended for Honoria, reached the pride of
her companion, who blandly replied, 
"Your Highness's exquisite judgment is for once at
fault. The piece is original. It was purchased from a wellknown collection in Italy, where there are none others of
the school."
Honoria was gazing upon the picture, as I was, in silent
astonishment.
"If this," said she, "is a copy, what must have been the
genuine work?  Did you never before notice the likeness
between the queen, in that picture, and myself? " she asked,
addressing Dalton.
The remark excited general attention. Every one murmured, " The likeness is perfect."
"And the demon behind the queen," said Denslow, insipidly, "resembles your Highness's valet."
There was another exclamation. No sooner was it observed, than the likeness to Reve de Noir seemed to be
even more perfect.
The Duke made a sign.
Reve de Noir placed himself near the canvas. His profile was the counterpart of that in the painting. He seemed
to have stepped out of it.
"It was I," said the Duke, in a gentle voice, and with a
smile which just disclosed the ivomy line under the black




354             The Denslow  Palace.
moustache, "who caused this picture to be copied and
altered. The beauty of the Hon. Mrs. Denslow, whom it
was my highest pleasure to know, seemed to me to surpass
that of the queen of my original. I first, with great secrecy,
unknown to your wife," continued the Duke, turning to
Denslow, "procured a portrait from the life by memory,
which was afterwards transferred to this canvas. The resemblance to my attendant is, I confess, remarkable and
inexplicable."
" But will you tell us by what accident this copy happened
to be in Italy?" asked Dalton.
You will remember," replied the Duke, coldly, "that at
Paris, noticing your expressions of admiration for the picture, which you had seen in my English gallery, I gave you
a history of its purchase at Bologna by myself. I sent my
artist to Bologna, with orders to place the copy in the
gallery and to introduce the portrait of the lady; it was a
freak of fancy; I meant it for a surprise; as I felt sure,
that, if you saw the picture, you would secure it."
"It seems to me," replied Dalton, "that the onus of
proof rests with your Highness."
The Duke made a signal to Reve de Noir, who again
stepped up to the canvas, and, with a short knife or stiletto,
removed a small portion of the outer layer of paint, disclosing a very ancient ground of some other and inferior
work, over which the copy seemed to have been painted.
The proof was unanswerable.
"Good copies," remarked the Duke, "are often better
than originals."
He offered his arm to Honoria, and they walked through
the gallery, - he entertaining her, and those near him, with
comments upon other works. The crowd followed them,
as they moved on or returned, as a cloud of gnats follow
up and down, and to and fro, a branch tossing in the wind.
"Beaten at every point," I said, mentally, looking on the
pale features of the defeated Dalton.
"Yes," he replied, seeing the remark in my face; "but




The Denslow  Palace.               355
there is yet time. I am satisfied this is the man with whom
we travelled; none other could have devised such a plan,
or carried it out. He must have fallen in love with Honoria
at that time; and simply to see her is the object of his visit
to America. He is a connoisseur in pictures as in women;
but he must not be allowed to ruin us by his arrogant assumptions."
"Excepting his manner and extraordinary personal advantages, I find nothing in him to awe or astonish."
"His wealth is incalculable; he is used to victories; and
that manner which you affect to slight, -that is everything.'Tis power, success, victory. This man of millions, this
prince, does not talk; he has but little use for words. It is
manner, and not words, that achieves social and amatory
conquests."
" Bah! You are like the politicians, who mistake accidents for principles. But even you are talking, while this
pernicious foreigner is acting. See! they have left the
gallery, and the crowd of fools is following them. You
cannot stem such a tide of folly."
" I deny that they are fools. Why does that sallow
wretch, Lethal, follow them? or that enamelled person,
Adonais? They are at a serpent-charming, and Honoria is
the bird-of-paradise. They watch with delight, and sketch
as they observe, the struggles of the poor bird. The others
are indifferent or curious, envious or amused. It is only
Denslow who is capped and antlered, and the shafts aimed
at his foolish brow glance and wound us.
We were left alone in the gallery. Dalton paced back
and forth, in his slow, erect, and graceful manner; there
was no hurry or agitation.
"How quickly," said he, as his moist eyes met mine,
"how like a dream, this glorious vision, this beautiful work,
will fade and be forgotten! Nevertheless, I made it," he
added, musingly. "It was I who moulded and expanded
the sluggish millions."
"You will still be what you are, Dalton, — an artist, more




356             The Denslow  Palace.
than a man of society. You work with a soft and perishable material."
"A distinction without a difference. Every man is a
politician, but only every artist is a gentleman."
"Denslow, then, is ruined."
" Yes and no; - there is nothing in him to ruin. It is I
who am the sufferer."
"And Honoria?"
"It was I who formed her manners, and guided her perceptions of the beautiful. It was I who married her to a
mass of money, De Vere."
"Did you never love Honoria?'
He laughed.
"Loved? Yes; as Praxiteles may have loved the clay
he moulded,-for its smoothness and ductility under the
hand."
" The day has not come for such men as you, Dalton.'
"Come, and gone, and coming. It has come in dreamland. Let us follow your fools."
The larger gallery was crowded. The pyramids of glowing fruit had disappeared; there was a confused murmur of
pairs and parties, chatting and taking wine. The master
of the house, his wife, and guest were nowhere to be seen.
Lethal and Adonais stood apart, conversing. As we approached them  unobserved, Dalton checked me. "Hear
what these people are saying," said he.
" My opinion is," said Lethal, holding out his crooked
forefinger like a claw, "that this soi-disant duke   what
the deuse is his name?"
" Rosecouleur," interposed Adonais, in a tone of society.
"Right,- Couleur de Rose is an impostor, - an impostor, a sharper. Everything tends that way. What an utter
sell it would be  "
"You were with us at the picture scene?" murmured
Adonais.
" Yes. Dalton looked wretchedly cut up, when that devil
of a valet, who must be an accomplice, scraped the new paint




The Denslow  Palace.              357
off. The picture must have been got up in New York by
Dalton and the Denslows."
"Perhaps the Duke, too, was got up in New York, on
the same principle," suggested Adonais. " Such things are
possible. Society is intrinsically rotten, you know, and
Dalton   "
"Is a fellow of considerable talent," sneered Lethal, —
"but has enemies, who may have planned a duke."
Adonais coughed in his cravat, and hinted, -." How
would it do to call him' Barnum Dalton'?"
Adonais appeared shocked at himself, and swallowed a
minim of wine to cleanse his vocal apparatus from the stain
of so coarse an illustration.
"Do you hear those creatures?" whispered  Dalton.
" They are arranging scandalous paragraphs for the'Illustration.' 
A moment after, he was gone. I spoke to Lethal and
Adonais.
" Gentlemen, you are in error about the picture and the
Duke; they are as they now appear: the one, an excellent
copy, purchased as an original, —no uncommon mistake;
the other, a genuine highness. How does he strike you?"
Lethal cast his eyes around to see who listened.
" The person," said he, "who is announced here to-night
as an English duke seemed to me, of all men I could select,
least like one."
"Pray, what is your ideal of an English duke, Mr.
Lethal?" asked AdonaYs, with the air of a connoisseur,
sure of himself, but hating to offend.
"A plain, solid person, well dressed, but simple; muttonchop whiskers; and the manners of a-a-"
"Bear! " said a soft female voice.
"Precisely, - the manners of a bear; a kind of gentlemanly bear, perhaps, -but still, ursine and heavy; while
this person, who seems to have walked out of -- or a
novel, affects me, by his ways and appearance, like a- a
-h'm -"




358            The Denslow  Palace.
"Gambler! " said the same female voice, in a conclusive
tone.
There was a general soft laugh. Everybody was pleased.
All admired, hated, and envied the Duke. It was settled
beyond a doubt that he was an impostor, -and that the
Denslows were either grossly taken in, or were "selling"
their friends. In either case, it was shocking and delightful.
"The fun of the thing," continued Lethal, raising his
voice a little, " is, that the painter who got up the old picture must have been as much an admirer of the Hon. Mrs.
Denslow  as -his    Highness; for, in touching in the
queen, he has unconsciously made it a portrait."
The blow was final. I moved away, grieved and mortified to the soul, cursing the intrusion of the mysterious
personage whose insolent superiority had overthrown the
hopes of my friends.
At the door of the gallery I met G-, the painter, just
returned from London. I drew him with me into the inner
gallery, to make a thorough examination of the picture. I
called his attention to the wonderful resemblance of the
queen to Honoria. He did not see it; we looked together,
and I began to think that it might have been a delusion. I
told the Duke's story of the picture to G-. He examined the canvas, tested the layers of color, and pronounced
the work genuine and of immense value. We looked again
and again at the queen's head, viewing it in every light.
The resemblance to Honoria had disappeared; nor was the
demon any longer a figure of the Duke's valet.
"One would think," said G, laughing, " that you had
been mesmerized. If you had been so deceived in a picture,
may you not be equally cheated in a man? I am loath to
offend: but, indeed, the person whom you call Rosecouleur
cannot be the Duke of that title, whom I saw in England.
I had leave to copy a 1 icture in his gallery. He was often
present.  His manners were mild and unassuming,  not
at all like those of this man, to whom, I acknowledge, the




The Denzslow  Palace.              359
personal resemblanceis surprising. I am afraid our gocd
friends, the Denslows, and Mr. Dalton,-whom I esteem
for their patronage of art, -have been taken in by an adventurer."
"But the valet, Reve de Noir?"
"The Duke had a valet of that name who attended him,
and who may, for aught I know, have resembled this one;
but probability is against concurrent resemblances. There
is also an original of the picture in the Duke's gallery; in
fact, the artist, as was not unusual in those days, painted
two pictures of the same subject. Both, then, are genuine."
Returning my cordial thanks to the good painter for his
timely explanation, I hastened to find Dalton. Drawing
him from the midst of a group whom he was entertaining,
I communicated G-'s account of the two pictures, and
his suspicions in regard to the Duke.
His perplexity was great. "Worse and worse, De Vere!
To be ruined by a common adventurer is more disgraceful
even than the other misfortune. Besides, our guests are
leaving us. At least a hundred of them have gone away
with the first impression, and the whole city will have it.
The journal reporters have been here. Denslow's principal
creditors were among the guests to-night; they went away
soon, just after the affair with the picture; to-morrow will
be our dark day. If it had not been for this demon of a
duke and his familiar, whoever they are, all would have
gone well. Now we are distrusted, and they will crush us.
Let us fall facing the enemy. Within an hour I will have
the truth about the Duke. Did I ever tell you what a price
Denslow paid for that picture?"
"No, I do not wish to hear."
"You are right. Come with me."
The novel disrespect excited by the scandal of Honoria
and the picture seemed to have inspired the two hundred
people who remained with a cheerful ease. Eating, drinking excessively of DensloM's costly wines, dancing to music
which grew livelier and more boisterous as the musicians,




360             The Denslow  Palace.
imbibed more of the inspiriting juice, and, catching scraps
of the scandal, threw out significant airs, the company
of young persons, deserted by their scandalized seniors,
had converted the magnificent suite of drawing-rooms into
a carnival theatre. Parties of three and four were junketing in corners; laughing servants rushed to and fro as in
a cafe, the lounges were occupied by reclining beauties or
languid fops overpowered with wine, about whom lovely
young women, flushed with champagne and mischief, were
coquetting and frolicking.' I warrant you, these people know it is our last night,"
said Dalton; "and see what a use they make of us! Denlow's rich wines poured away like water; everything soiled,
smeared, and overturned; our entertainment, at first stately
and gracious as a queen's drawing-room, ending with the
loss of prestige, in the riot of a bal mzasque. So fades ambition! But to this duke."
Denslow, who had passed into the polite stage of inebriation, evident to close observers, had arranged a little exclusive circle, which included three women of fashionable
reputation, his wife, the Duke, Jeffrey Lethal, and Adonais.
Reve de Noir officiated as attendant. The fauteuils and
couches were disposed around a pearl table, on which were
liquors, coffee, wines, and a few delicacies for Honoria, who
had not supped. They were in the purple recess adjoining
the third drawing-room. Adonais talked with the Duke
about Italy; Lethal criticised; while Honoria, in the full
splendor of her beauty, outshining  and overpowering,
dropped here and there a few musical words, like servicenotes, to harmonize.
There is no beauty like the newly-enamored.  Dalton
seemed to forget himself, as he contemplated her, for a
moment. Spaces had been left for us; the valet placed
chairs.
"Dalton," cried Lethal, "you are in time to decide a
question of deep interest; — your friend, De Vere, will
assist you. His Highness has given preference to the wo(




T7he Denslow  Palace.             361
men cf America over those of Italy. Adonais, the exquisite and mild, settles his neck-tie against the Duke, and
objects in that bland but firm manner which is his. I am
the Duke's bottle-holder; Denslow and wife accept that
function for the chivalrous Adonais."
" I am of the Duke's party," replied Dalton, in his most
agreeable manner. " To be in the daily converse and view
of the most beautiful women in America, as I have been
for years, is a privilege in the cultivation of a pure taste. I
saw  nothing in Italy, except on canvas, comparable witn
what I see at this moment. The Duke is right; but in
commending his judgment, I attribute to him also sagacity.
Beauty is like language; its use is to conceal. One may,
under rose-colored commendations, a fine manner, and a
flowing style, conceal, as Nature does with personal advantages in men, the gross tastes and vulgar cunning of a
charlatan."
Dalton, in saying this, with a manner free from suspicion
or excitement, fixed his eyes upon the Duke's.
"You seem to have no faith in either men or women,"
responded the rich barytone voice of his Highness, the dark
upper lip disclosing, as before, the row of square, sharp,
ivory teeth.
"Little, very little," responded  Dalton, with a sigh.
"Your Highness will understand me, — or if not now,
presently."
Lethal trod  upon Adonais's foot; I saw him  do it.
Adonais exchanged glances with a brilliant hawk-faced lady
who sat opposite. The lady smiled and touched her companion. Honoria, who saw everything, opened her magniicent eyes to their full extent. Denslow was oblivious.
"In fact," continued Dalton, perceiving the electric flash
he had excited, "scepticism  is a disease of my intellect.
Perhaps the most noticeable and palpable fact of the moment is the presence and identity of the Duke who is
opposite to me; and yet, doubting as I sometimes do my
own existence, is it not natural, that, philosophically steak16




362            The Denslow  Palace.
ing, the presence and identity of your Highness are at meo
ments a subject of philosophical doubt?"
" In cases of this kind," replied the Duke, "we rest upon
circumstantial evidence."
So saying, he drew from his finger a ring and handed it
to Dalton, who went to the light and examined it closely,
and passed it to me. It was a minute cameo, no larger than
a grain of wheat, in a ring of plain gold; a rare and beautiful work of microscopic art.
" I seem to remember presenting the Duke of Rosecouleur with a similar ring, in Italy," said Dalton, resuming
his seat; "but the coincidence does not resolve my philosophic doubt, excited by the affair of the picture. We all
supposed that we saw a portrait of the Hon. Mrs. Denslow
in yon picture; and we seemed to discover, under the management of your valet, that Denslow's picture, a genuine
duplicate of the original by the author, was a modern copy.
Since your Highness quitted the gallery, those delusions
have ceased. The picture appears now to be genuine.
The likeness to Mrs. Denslow has vanished."
An exclamation of surprise from all present, except the
Duke, followed this announcement.
" And so," continued Dalton, " it may be with this ring,
which now seems to be the one I gave the Duke at Rome,
but to-morrow may be different."
As he spoke, Dalton gave back the ring to the Duke, who
received it with his usual grace.
"Who knows," said Lethal, with a deceptive innocence
of manner, "whether aristocracy itself be not founded in
mesmerical deceptions? "
"I think, Lethal," observed Adonais, "you push the
matter. It would be impossible, for instance, even for
his Highness, to make Honoria Denslow appear ugly."
We all looked at Honoria, to whom the Duke leaned over
and said, -
Would you be willing for a moment to lose that exquisite beauty? "




The Denslow Palace.              363
"For my sake, Honoria," said Dalton " refuse him.'
The request, so simply made, was rewarded by a ravisning smile.
"Edward, do you know that you have not spoken a kind
word to me to-night, until now?"
Their eyes met, and I saw that Dalton trembled with a
deep emotion. " I will save you yet," he murmured.
A tall, black hound, of the slender breed, rose up near
Honoria, and placing his fore-paws upon the edge of the
pearl table, turned and licked her face and eyes.
It was the vision of a moment. The dog sprang upon the sofa by the Duke's side, growling and snapping.
" Rve de Noir," cried Lethal and Adonais, "drive the
dog away! "
The valet had disappeared.
"I have no fear of him, gentlemen," said the Duke, patting the head of the hound; "he is a faithful servant, and
has a faculty of reading thoughts. Go bring my servant,
Demon," said the Duke.
The hound sprang away with a great bound, and in an
instant Rive de Noir was standing behind us. The dog did
not appear again.
Honoria looked bewildered. "Of what dog were you
speaking, Edward?"
"The hound that licked your face.
"You are joking. I saw no hound.
"See, gentlemen," exclaimed Lethal, "his Highness
shows us tricks. He is a wizard."
The three women gave little shrieks,- half pleasure,
half terror.
Denslow, who had fallen back in his chair asleep, awoke
and rubbed his eyes.
"What is all this, Honoria?"
" That his Highness is a wizard," she said, with a forced
laugh, glancing at Dalton.
" Will his Highness do us the honor to lay aside the mask,




364             The Denslow  Palace.
and appear in his true colors?" said Dalton, returning
Honoria's glance with an encouraging look.
"Gentlemen," said the Duke, haughtily, "I am your guest,
and by hospitality protected from insult."
" Insult, most noble Duke!" exclaimed Lethal, with a
sneer, —" impossible, under the roof of our friend, the
Honorable Walter Denslow, in the small hours of the night,
and in the presence of the finest women in the world.
Dalton, pray, reassure his Highness! "
"Edward! Edward! " murmured Honoria, "have a care,
- even if it be as you think:"
Dalton remained bland and collected.
"Pardon, my Lord, the effect of a little wine, and of those
wonderful fantasies you have shown us. Your dog, your
servant, and yourself interest us equally; the picture, the
ring, -all are wonderful. In supposing that you had assumed a mask, and one so noble, I was led into an error by
these miracles, expecting no less than a translation of yourself into the person of some famous wonder-worker. It is,
you know, a day of miracles, and even kings have their salaried seers, and take counsel of the spiritual world. More!
-let us have more! "
The circle were amazed; the spirit of superstitious curiosity seized upon them.
"Reve de Noir," said the Duke, "a carafe, and less
light."
The candelabra became dim. The Duke took the carafe
of water from the valet, and, standing up, poured it upon the
air; it broke into flames, which mounted and floated away,
singly or in little crowds. Still the Duke poured, and dashing up the water with his hand, by and by the ceiling was
illuminated with a thousand miniature tongues of violet-colored fire. We clapped our hands, and applauded,- " Beautiful! marvellous! wonderful, Duke! —your Highness is
the only magician,"- when, on a sudden, the flames disappeared and the lights rose again.
"The world is weary of scepticism," remarked Lethal;




The Denslow  Palace.               365
"there is no chemistry for that. It is the true magic, doubtless, -recovered from antiquity by his Highness. Are the
wonders exhausted? "
The Duke smiled again. He stretched out his hand
toward Honoria, and she slept. It was the work of an instant.
"I have seen that before," said Dalton.
"Not as we see it," responded his Highness. " Reve de
Noir, less light!"
The room was dark in a moment. Over the head of Honoria appeared a cloud, at first black, and soon in this a
nucleus of light, which expanded and shaped itself into an
image and took the form of the sleeper, nude and spiritual,
a belt of rosy mist enveloping and concealing all but a head
and bust of ravishing beauty. The vision gazed with languid and beseeching eyes upon Dalton, and a sigh seemed
to heave the bosom. In scarce a breathing-time, it was
gone. Honoria waked, unconscious of what had passed.
Deep terror and amazement fell upon us all.
"I have seen enough," said Dalton, rising slowly, and
drawing a small riding-whip, " to know now that this person
is no duke, but either a charlatan or a devil. In either case,
since he has intruded here, to desecrate and degrade, I find
it proper to apply a magic more material."
At the word, all rose exclaiming, -" For God's sake, Dalton! "  He pressed forward and laid his hand upon the
Duke. A cry burst from Reve de Noir which rent our very
souls; and a flash followed, unspeakably bright, which revealed the demoniacal features of the Duke, who sat motionless, regarding Dalton's uplifted arm. A darkness followed
profound and palpable. I listened in terror. There was no
sound. Were we transformed?  Silence, darkness, still. I
closed my eyes, and opened them again. A pale, cold light
became slowly perceptible, stealing through a crevice, and
revealing the walls and ceiling of my narrow room. The
dream sti2l oppressed me. I went to the window, and let
in reality with the morning light. Yet, for days after, the
x




366            The Denslow  Palace.
images of the real Honoria and Dalton, my friends, remained separated from the creatures of the vision; and the
Denslow palace of dream-land, the pictures, the revelry, and
the magic of the Demon Duke, haunted my memory, and
kept with them all their visionary splendors and regrets.




FRIEND ELI'S DAUGHTER.
L
HE mild May afternoon was drawing to a close, as
Friend Eli Mitchenor reached the top of the long
hill, and halted a few minutes, to allow his horse
time to recover breath. He also heaved a sigh of satisfaction, as he saw again the green, undulating valley of the
Neshaminy, with its dazzling squares of young wheat, its
brown patches of corn-land, its snowy masses of blooming
orchard, and the huge, fountain-like jets of weeping-willow,
half concealing the gray stone fronts of the farm-houses.
He had been absent from home only six days, but the time
seemed almost as long to him as a three-years' cruise to a
New-Bedford whaleman. The peaceful seclusion and pastoral beauty of the scene did not consciously appeal to his
senses; but he quietly noted how much the wheat had
grown during his absence, that the oats were up and looking well, that Friend Comly's meadow had been ploughed,
and Friend Martin had built his half of the line-fence along
the top of the hill-field. If any smothered delight in the
loveliness of the spring-time found a hiding-place anywhere
in the well-ordered chambers of his heart, it never relaxed
or softened the straight, inflexible lines of his face. As
easily could his collarless drab coat and waistcoat have
flushed with a sudden gleam of purple or crimson.
Eli Mitchenor was at peace with himself and the world,
-that is, so much of the world as he acknowledgel. Be



368           Friend Eli's Daughter.
yond the community of his own sect, and a few personal
friends who were privileged to live on its borders, he neither
knew, nor cared to know, much more of the human race
than if it belonged to a planet farther from the sun. In the
discipline of the Friends he was perfect; he was privileged
to sit on the high seats, with the elders of the Society; and
the travelling brethren from other States, who visited Bucks
County, invariably blessed his house with a family-meeting.
His farm was one of the best on the banks of the Neshaminy, and he also enjoyed the annual interest of a few
thousand dollars, carefully secured by mortgages on real
estate. His wife, Abigail, kept even pace with him in the
consideration she enjoyed within the limits of the sect;
and his two children, Moses and Asenath, vindicated the
paternal training by the strictest sobriety of dress and
conduct. Moses wore the plain coat, even when his ways
led him among "the world's people"; and Asenath had
never been known to wear, or to express a desire for, a
ribbon of a brighter tint than brown or fawn-color. Frienct
Mitchenor had thus gradually ripened to his sixtieth year
in an atmosphere of life utterly placid and serene, and
looked forward with confidence to the final change, as a
translation into a deeper calm, a serener quiet, a prosperous
eternity of mild voices, subdued colors, and suppressed
emotions.
He was returning home, in his own old-fashioned " chair,"
with its heavy square canopy and huge curved springs,
from the Yearly Meeting of the Hicksite Friends, in Philadelphia. The large bay farm-horse, slow and grave in his
demeanor, wore his plain harness with an air which made
him seem, among his fellow-horses, the counterpart of his
master among men. He would no more have thought of
kicking than the latter would of swearing a huge oath.
Even now, when the top of the hill was gained, and he
knew that he was within a mile of the stable which had
been his home since colthood, he showed no undue haste
or impatience, but waited quietly, until Friend Mitchenor




Friend Eli's Daughler.               369
by a well known jerk of the lines, gave him the signal to go
on. Obedient to the motion, he thereupon set forward
once more, jogging soberly down the eastern slope of the
hill,- across the covered bridge, where, in spite of the
tempting level of the hollow-sounding floor, he was as
careful to abstain from trotting as if ha had read the warning notice, - along the wooded edge of the green meadow,
where several cows of his acquaintance were grazing,and finally, wheeling around at the proper angle, halted
squarely in front of the gate which gave entrance to the
private lane.
The old stone house in front, the spring-house in a green
little hollow just below it, the walled garden, with its clumps
of box and lilac, and the vast barn on the left, all joined in
expressing a silent welcome to their owner, as he drove up
the lane. Moses, a man of twenty-five, left his work in the
garden, and walked forward in his shirt-sleeves.
" Well, father, how does thee do? " was his quiet greeting, as they shook hands.
"How's mother, by this time? " asked Eli.
"0, thee need n't have been concerned," said the son.
"There she is. Go in: I'11'tend to the horse."
Abigail and her daughter appeared on the piazza. The
mother was a woman of fifty, thin and delicate in frame,
but with a smooth, placid beauty of countenance which had
survived her youth. She was dressed in a simple dovecolored gown, with book-muslin cap and handkerchief, so
scrupulously arranged that one might have associated with
her for six months without ever discovering a spot on the
former or an uneven fold in the latter. Asenath, who followed, was almost as plainly attired, her dress being a
dark-blue calico, while a white pasteboard sun-bonnet, with
broad cape, covered her head.
"Well, Abigail, how art thou? " said Eli, quietly giving
his hand to his wife.
" I'm glad to see thee back," was her simple welcome.
No doubt they had kissed each other as lovers, but
i6*




370            Friend Eli's Daughter.
Asenath had witnessed this manifestation of affection but
once in her life,- after the burial of a younger sister. The
fact impressed her with a peculiar sense of sanctity and
solemnity: it was a caress wrung forth by a season of
tribulation, and therefore was too earnest to be profaned to
the uses of joy. So, far, therefore, from expecting a paternal embrace, she would have felt, had it been given, like
the doomed daughter of the Gileadite, consecrated to sacrifice.
Both she and her mother were anxious to hear the proceedings of the Meeting, and to receive personal news of
the many friends whom  Eli had seen; but they asked
few questions until the supper-table was ready and Moses
had come in from the barn. The old man enjoyed talking,
but it must be in his own way and at his own good time.
They must wait until the communicative spirit should move
him.  With the first cup of coffee the inspiration came.
Hovering, at first, over indifferent details, he gradually approached those of more importance, - told of the addresses
which had been made, the points of discipline discussed,
the testimony borne, and the appearance and genealogy of
any new Friends who had taken a prominent part therein.
Finally, at the close of his relation, he said, 
"Abigail, there is one thing I must talk to thee about.
Friend Speakman's partner- perhaps thee's heard of him,
Richard Hilton —has a son who is weakly. He's two or
three years younger than Moses. His mother was consumptive, and they're afraid he takes after her. His father wants
to send him into the country for the summer, -to some place
where he'lI have good air, and quiet, and moderate exercise,
and Friend Speakman spoke of us. I thought I'd mention
it to thee, and if thee thinks well of it, we can send word
down next week, when Josiah Comly goes."
"What does thee think?" asked his wife, after a pause.
"He's a very quiet, steady young man, Friend Speakman
says, and would be very little trouble to thee. I thought
perhaps his board would buy the new yoke of oxen we must




Friend Eli's Daughter.                371
ha ve in the fall, and the price of the fat ones might go to
help set up Moses. But it's for thee to decide."
" I suppose we could take him," said Abigail, seeing that
the decision was virtually made already; "there's the corner-room, which we don't often use. Only, if he should get
worse on our hands " 
"Friend Speakman says there's no danger.  He's only
weak-breasted, as yet, and clerking is n't good for him.  I
saw the young man at the store. If his looks don't belie
him, he's well-behaved and orderly."
So it was settled that Richard Hilton the younger was
to be an inmate of Friend Mitchenor's house during the
summer.
II.
A T the end of ten days he came..L   In the under-sized, earnest, dark-haired, and dark-eyed
young man of three-and-twenty Abigail Mitchenor at once
felt a motherly interest. Having received him as a temporary member of the family, she considered him entitled to the
same watchful care as if he were in reality an invalid son.
The ice over an hereditary Quaker nature is but a thin crust,
if one knows how to break it; and in Richard Hilton's case,
it was already broken before his arrival. His only embarrassment, in fact, arose from the difficulty which he naturally experienced in adapting himself to the speech and
address of the Mitchenor family. The greetings of old Eli,
grave, yet kindly, of Abigail, quaintly familiar and tender,
of Moses, cordial and slightly condescending, and finally of
Asenath, simple and natural to a degree which impressed
him like a new revelation in woman, at once indicated to
him  his position among them.  His city manners, he felt,
instinctively, must be unlearned, or at least laid aside for a
time. Yet it was not easy for him to assume, at such short
notice, those of his hosts. Happening to address Asenath
as "Miss Mitchenor," Eli turned to him with a rebnking
face.




372           Irieizd Eli's Daughter.
"We do not use compliments, Richard," said he; "my
daughter's name is Asenath."
"I beg pardon. I will try to accustom myself to your
ways, since you have been so kind as to take me for a
while," apologized Richard Hilton.' Thee's under no obligation to us," said Friend Mitchenor, in his strict sense of justice; "thee pays for what thee
gets."
The finer feminine instinct of Abigail led her to interpose.
"We'11 not expect too much of thee, at first, Richard,"
she remarked, with a kind expression of face, which had
the effect of a smile; " but our ways are plain and easily
learned. Thee knows, perhaps, that we're no respecters
of persons."
It was some days, however, before the young man could
overcome his natural hesitation at the familiarity implied
by these new forms of speech. "Friend Mitchenor " and
" Moses " were not difficult to learn, but it seemed a want
of respect to address as "Abigail" a woman of such sweet
and serene dignity as the mother, and he was fain to avoid
either extreme by calling her, with her cheerful permission,
"Aunt Mitchenor."  On the other hand, his own modest
and unobtrusive nature soon won the confidence and cordial
regard of the family. He occasionally busied himself in
the garden, by way of exercise, or accompanied Moses to
the cornfield or the woodland on the hill, but was careful
never to interfere at inopportune times, and willing to learn
silently, by the simple process of looking on.
One afternoon as he was idly sitting on the stone wall
which separated the garden from the lane, Asenath, attired in
a new gown of chocolate-colored calico, with.a double-handled willow work-basket on her arm, issued from the house.
As she approached him, she paused and said, 
"The time seems to hang heavy on thy hands, Richard.
If thee Is strong enough to walk to the village and back,
it might do thee more good than sitting still."




Friend Eli's Dazughter.            373
Richard Hilton at once jumped down from the wall
"Certainly I am able to go," said he, "if you will allow
it."
"Have n't I asked thee? " was her quiet reply.
"Let me carry your basket," he said, suddenly, after they
had walked, side by side, some distance down the lane.
"Indeed, I shall not let thee do that. I'm only going for
the mail, and some little things at the store, that make ne
weight at all. Thee must n't think I'm like the young women in the city, who,- I'm told, - if they buy a spool of
cotton, must have it sent home to them. Besides, thee
must n't over-exert thy strength."
Richard Hilton laughed merrily at the gravity with which
she uttered the last sentence.
" Why, Miss - Asenath, I mean — what am I good for,
if I have not strength enough to carry a basket?"
"Thee's a man, I know, and I think a man would almost
as lief be thought wicked as weak. Thee can't help being
weakly-inclined, and it's only right that thee should be
careful of thyself. There's surely nothing in that that thee
need be ashamed of."
While thus speaking, Asenath moderated her walk, in
order, unconsciously to her companion, to restrain his steps.
"0, there are the dog's-tooth violets in blossom!" she
exclaimed, pointing to a shady spot beside the brook;
"does thee know them? "
Richard immediately gathered and brought to her a handtul of the nodding yellow bells, trembling above their large,
cool, spotted leaves.
" How beautiful they are! " said he; " but I should never
Aave taken them for violets."
"They are misnamed," she answered. "The flower is
an Erythronium; but I am accustomed to the common
name, and like it. Did thee ever study botany?"
Not at all. I can tell a geranium, when I see it, and I
know a heliotrope by the smell. I could never mistake a
red cabbage for a iose, and I can r-cognize a hollyhock




374           Friend Eli's Dauglhtr.
or a sunflower at a considerable distance. The wild-flowers
are all strangers to me; I wish I knew something about
them."
If thee's fond of flowers, it would be very easy to learn.
I think a study of this kind would pleasantly occupy thy
mind. Why could n't thee try? I would be very willing to
teach thee what little I know. It's not much, indeed, but
all thee wants is a start. See, I will show thee how simple
the principles are."
Taking one of the flowers from the bunch, Asenath, as
they slowly walked forward, proceeded to dissect it, explained
the mysteries of stamens and pistils, pollen, petals, and
calyx, and, by the time they had reached the village, had
succeeded in giving him a general idea of the Linnxaan system of classification. His mind took hold of the subject.with a prompt and profound interest.  It was a new and
wonderful world which suddenly opened before him. How
surprised he was to learn that there were signs by which a
poisonous herb could be detected from a wholesome one,
that cedars and pine-trees blossomed, that the gray lichens
on the rocks belonged to the vegetable kingdom! His respect for Asenath's knowledge thrust quite out of sight the
restraint which her youth and sex had imposed upon him.
She was teacher, equal, friend; and the simple, candid
manner which was the natural expression of her dignity and
purity thoroughly harmonized with this relation.
Although, in reality, two or three years younger than he,
Asenath had a gravity of demeanor, a calm self-possession,
a deliberate balance of mind, and a repose of the emotional
nature, which he had never before observed, except in much
older women. She had had, as he could well imagine, no
romping girlhood, no season of careless, light-hearted dalliance with opening life, no violent alternation even of the
usual griefs and joys of youth. The social calm in which
she had expanded had developed her nature as gently and
securely as a sea-flower is unfolded below the reach of tides
d)4 storms.




Friend Eli's Daugzw-er.              375
She world have been very much surprised, if any one had
called her handsome; yet her face had a mild, unobtrusive
beauty, which seemed to grow and deepen from day to day.
Of a longer oval than the Greek standard, it was yet as
harmonious in outline; the nose was fine and straight, the
darK-blue eyes steady and untroubled, and the lips calmly,
but not too firmly closed. Her brown hair, parted over a
high white forehead, was smoothly laid across the temples,
drawn behind the ears, and twisted into a simple knot.
The white cape and sun-bonnet gave her face a nun-like
character, which set her apart, in the thoughts of "the
world's people" whom she met, as one sanctified for some
holy work. She might have gone around the world, repelling every rude word, every bold glance, by the protecting
atmosphere of purity and truth which inclosed her.
The days went by, each bringing some new blossom to
adorn and illustrate the joint studies of the young man and
maiden. For Richard Hilton had soon mastered the elements of botany, as taught by Priscilla Wakefield, -the
only source of Asenath's knowledge, - and entered, with
her, upon the text-book of Gray, a copy of which he procured from  Philadelphia.  Yet, though he had overtaken
her in his knowledge of the technicalities of the science, her
practical acquaintance with plants and their habits left her
still his superior. Day by day, exploring the meadows, the
woods, and the clearings, he br.aght home his discoveries
to enjoy her aid in classifying and assigning them to their
true places. Asenath had generally an hour or two of leisure from domestic duties in the afternoons, or after the
early supper of summer was over; and sometimes, on
" Seventh-days," she would be his guide to some locality
where the rarer plants were known to exist. The parents
saw this community of interest and exploration without a
thought of misgiving.  They trusted their daughter as
themselves; or, if any possible fear had flitted across
their hearts, it was allayed by the absorbing delight with
which Richard Hilton pursued his study. An earnest dis



376           Friend Eli's Daughter.
cussion as to whether a certain leaf was ovate or lanceolate,
whether a certain plant belonged to the species scandens or
canadensis, was, in their eyes, convincing proof that the
young brains were touched, and therefore not the young
hearts.
But love, symbolized by a rose-bud, is emphatically a
botanical emotion. A sweet, tender perception of beauty,
such as this study requires, or develops, is at once the most
subtile and certain chain of communication between im
pressible natures. Richard Hilton, feeling that his years
were numbered, had given up, in despair, his boyish dreams.
even before he understood them: his fate seemed to preclude the possibility of love. But, as he gained a little
strength from the genial season, the pure country air, and the
release from gloomy thoughts which his rambles afforded, the
end was farther removed, and a future -though brief, perhaps, still afuture-began to glimmer before him. If this
could be his life, —an endless summer, with a search for
new plants every morning, and their classification every
evening, with Asenath's help, on the shady portico of
Friend Mitchenor's house, - he could forget his doom, and
enjoy the blessing of life unthinkingly.
The azaleas succeeded to the anemones, the orchis and
trillium followed, then the yellow gerardias and the feathery
purple pogonias, and finally the growing gleam of the golden-rods along the wood-side and the red umbels of the tall
eupatoriums in the meadow announced the close of summer.
One evening, as Richard, in displaying his collection,
brought to view the blood-red leaf of a gum-tree, Asenath
exclaimed, -
4 Ah, there is the sign! It is early, this year."
"What sign?" he asked.
"That the summer is over. We shall soon have frosty
nights, and then nothing will be left for us except the asters
an i gentians and golden-rods."
Was the time indeed so near? A few more weeks, and
this Arcadian life would close. He must go back to the




Friend Eli's Danugter.               377
city, to its rectilinear streets, its close brick walls, its artificial, constrained existence. How could he give up the
peace, the contentment, the hope he had enjoyed through
the summer? The question suddenly took a more definite
form in his mind: How could he give up Asenath? Yes,
-the quiet, unsuspecting girl, sitting beside him, with her
lap full of the September blooms he had gathered, was
thenceforth a part of his inmost life. Pure and beautiful as
she was, almost sacred in his regard, his heart dared to say,
" I need her and claim her! "
"Thee looks pale to-night, Richard," said Abigail, as
they took their seats at the supper-table. "I hope thee
has not taken cold."
III.
cc      ILL thee go along, Richard? I know where the
rudbeckias grow," said Asenath, on the following
"Seventh-day" afternoon.
They crossed the meadows, and followed the course of
the stream, under its canopy of magnificent ash and planetrees, into a brake between the hills. It was an almost impenetrable thicket, spangled with tall autumnal flowers.
The eupatoriums, with their purple crowns, stood like
young trees, with an undergrowth of aster and blue spikes
of lobelia, tangled in a golden mesh of dodder. A strong,
mature odor, mixed alike of leaves and flowers, and very
different from the faint, elusive sweetness of spring, filled
the air. The creek, with a few faded leaves dropped upon
its bosom, and films of gossamer streaming from its bushy
fringe, gurgled over the pebbles in its bed. Here and there,
on its banks, shone the deep yellow stars of the flower they
sought.
Richard Hilton walked as in a dream, mechanically
plucking a stem of rudbeckia, only to toss it, presently, into
the water.




378           Friend Eli's Daughter.
"Why, Richard! what's thee doing?" cried Asenathi
"thee has thrown away the very best specimen."
"Let it go," he answered, sadly. " I am afraid everything else is thrown away."
"What does thee mean?" she asked, with a look of
surprised and anxious inquiry.
"Don't ask me, Asenath.  Or-yes, I will tell you. I
must say it to you now, or never afterwards. Do you know
what a happy life I've been leading since I came here?that I've learned what life is, as if I'd never known it
before?  I want to live, Asenath, — and do you know
why? "
"I hope thee will live, Richard," she said, gently and
tenderly, her deep-blue eyes dim with the mist of unshed
tears.
"But, Asenath, how am I to live without you? But you
can't understand that, because you do not know what you
are to me. No, you never guessed that all this while I've
been loving you more and more, until now I have no other
idea of death than not to see you, not to love you, not to
share your life! "
0, Richard!"
"I knew you would be shocked, Asenath. I meant to
have kept this to myself. You never dreamed of it, and I
had no right to disturb the peace of your heart. The truth
is told now, -and I cannot take it back, if I wished. But
if you cannot love, you can forgive me for loving you,forgive me now, and every day of my life."
He uttered these words with a passionate tenderness,
standing on the edge of the stream, and gazing into its
waters. His slight frame trembled with the violence of his
emotion. Asenath, who had become very pale as he commenced to speak, gradually flushed over neck and brow as
she listened. Her head drooped, the gathered flowers fell
from her hands, and she hid her face. For a few minutes
no sound was heard but the liquid gurgling of the water,
and the whistle of a bird in the thicket beside them.




Friend Eli's Daughter.               379
nichard Hilton at last turned, and, in a voice of hesitating
entreaty, pronounced her name, 
"Asenath! "
She took away her hands and slowly lifted het face. She
was pale, but her eyes met his with a frank, appealing,
tender expression, which caused his heart to stand still a
moment. He read no reproach, no faintest thought of
blame; but -was it pity?-was it pardon? -or"We stand before God, Richard," said she, in a low,
sweet, solemn tone. "He knows that I do not need to
forgive thee. If thee requires it, I also require His forgiveness for myself."
Though a deeper blush now came to cheek and brow, she
met his gaze with the bravery of a pure and innocent heart.
Richard, stunned with the sudden and unexpected bliss,
strove to take the full consciousness of it into a being
which seemed too narrow to contain it. His first impulse
was to rush forward, clasp her passionately in his arms,
and hold her in the embrace which encircled, for him, the
boundless promise of life; but she stood there, defenceless,
save in her holy truth and trust, and his heart bowed down
and gave her reverence.
"Asenath," said he, at last, "I never dared to hope for
this. God bless you for those words i Can you trust me?
- can you indeed love me?"
"I can trust thee, - I do love thee!"
They clasped each other's hands in one long, clinging
pressure. No kiss was given, but side by side they walked
slowly up the dewy meadows, in happy and hallowed silence.
Asenath's face became troubled as the old farm-house appeared through the trees.
"Father and mother must know of this, Richard," said
she. " I am afraid it may be a cross to them."
The same fear had already visited his own mind, but he
answered, cheerfully, -
"I hope not. I think I have taken a new lease of life,
and shall soon be strong enough to satisfy them. Besides,
my father is in prosperous business."




380           Friend Eli's Daughzte.
"It is not that," she answered; "but thee is not one
of us."
It was growing dusk when they reached the house. In
the dim candle-light Asenath's paleness was not remarked;
and Richard's silence was attributed to fatigue.
The next morning the whole family attended meeting at
the neighboring Quaker meeting-house, in the preparation
for which, and the various special occupations of their
"First-day " mornings, the unsuspecting parents overlooked
that inevitable change in the faces of the lovers which they
must otherwise have observed. After dinner, as Eli was
taking a quiet walk in the garden, Richard Hilton approached him.
"Friend Mitchenor," said he, "I should like to have
some talk with thee."
" What is it, Richard?" asked the old man, breaking off
some pods from a seedling radish, and rubbing them in the
palm of his hand.
"I hope, Friend Mitchenor," said the young man, scarcely knowing how to approach so important a crisis in his life,
"I hope thee has been satisfied with my conduct since I
came to live with thee, and has no fault to find with me as a
man."
"Well," exclaimed Eli, turning around and looking up,
sharply, "does thee want a testimony from  me? I've
nothing, that I know of, to say against thee."
"If I were sincerely attached to thy daughter, Friend
Mitchenor, and she returned the attachment, could thee
trust her happiness in my hands?"
"What?" cried Eli, straightening himself and glaring
upon the speaker, with a face too amazed to express any
other feeling.
"Can you confide Asenath's happiness to my care? I
love her with my whole heart and soul, and the fortune of
my life depends on your answer."
The straight lines in the old man's face seemed to grow
deeper and more rigid, and his eyes shone with the chill




Friend Eli's Daughter.              381
glitter of steel. Richard, not daring to say a word more,
awaited his reply in intense agitation.
"So!" he exclaimed at last, " this is the way thee's repaid me!  I didn't expect this from  thee!  Has thee
spoken to her?"
"I have."
"Thee has, has thee? And I suppose thee's persuaded
her to think as thee does. Thee'd better never have come
here. When I want to lose my daughter, and can't find
anybody else for her, I'11 let thee know."
" What have you against me, Friend  Mitchenor?"
Richard sadly asked, forgetting, in his excitement, the
Quaker speech he had learned.
"Thee need n't use compliments now! Asenath shall
be a Friend while I live; thy fine clothes and merry-makings and vanities are not for her. Thee belongs to the
world, and thee may choose one of the world's women."
" Never! " protested Richard; but Friend Mitchenor was
already ascending the garden-steps on his way to the house.
The young man, utterly overwhelmed, wandered to the
nearest grove and threw himself on the ground. Thus, in
a miserable chaos of emotion, unable to grasp any fixed
thought, the hours passed away. Towards evening, he heard
a footstep approaching, and sprang up. It was Moses.
The latter was engaged, with the consent of his parents,
and expected to "pass meeting" in a few weeks. He knew
what had happened, and felt a sincere sympathy for Richard,
for whom he had a cordial regard. His face was very grave,
but kind.
"Thee'd better come in, Richard," said he; "the evenings are damp, and I've brought thy overcoat. I know
everything, and I feel that it must be a great cross for thee.
But thee won't be alone in bearing it."
" Do you think there is no hope of your father relenting? " he asked, in a tone of despondency which anticipated
the answer.' Father's very'hard to move," said Moses; "and when
y




382           Frienzd Eli's Daughter.
mother and Asenath can't prevail on him, nobody else need
try. I'm afraid thee must make up thy mind to the trial.
I'm sorry to say it, Richard, but I think thee'd better go
back to town."
" I'11 go to-morrow,- go and die! " he muttered hoarsely,
as he followed Moses to the house.
Abigail, as she saw his haggard face, wept quietly. She
pressed his hand tenderly, but said nothing. Eli was stern
and cold as an Iceland rock. Asenath did not make her appearance. At supper, the old man and his son exchanged
a few words about the farm-work to be done on the morrow,
but nothing else was said. Richard soon left the room and
went up to his chamber to spend his last, his only unhappy
night at the farm. A yearning, pitying look from Abigail
accompanied him.
"Try and not think hard of us!" was her farewell the
next morning, as he stepped into the old chair, in which
Moses was to convey him to the village where he should
meet the Doylestown stage. So, without a word of comfort
from Asenath's lips, without even a last look at her beloved
face, he was taken away.
IV.
T RUE and firm and self-reliant as was the nature of
Asenath Mitchenor, the thought of resistance to her
father's will never crossed her mind. It was fixed, that she
must renounce all intercourse with Richard Hilton; it was
even sternly forbidden her to see him again during the few
hours he remained in the house; but the sacred love, thus
rudely dragged to the light and outraged, was still her own.
She would take it back into the keeping of her heart, and
if a day should ever come when he would be free to return
and demand it of her, he would find it there, unwithered,
with all the unbreathed perfume hoarded in its folded leaves.
If that day came not, she would at the last give it back to
God, saying, "Father, here is Thy most precious gift: bestow it as Thou wilt."




Friend Eli's Daughter.               383
As her life had never before been agitated by any strong
emotion, so it was not outwardly agitated now. The placid
waters of her soul did not heave and toss before those winds
of passion and sorrow; they lay in dull, leaden calm,
under a cold and sunless sky. What struggles with herself she underwent no one ever knew.  After Richard
Hilton's departure, she never mentioned his name, or referred, in any way, to the summer's companionship with
him. She performed her household duties, if not cheerfully,
at least as punctually and carefully as before; and her father
congratulated himself that the unfortunate attachment had
struck no deeper root. Abigail's finer sight, however, was
not deceived by this external resignation. She noted the
faint shadows under the eyes, the increased whiteness
of the temples, the unconscious traces of pain which sometimes played about the dimpled corners of the mouth, and
watched her daughter with a silent, tender solicitude.
The wedding of Moses was a severe test of Asenath's
strength, but she stood the trial nobly, performing all the
duties required by her position with such sweet composure
that many of the older female Friends remarked to Abigail,
"How womanly Asenath has grown!"  Eli Mitchenor
noted, with peculiar satisfaction, that the eyes of the young
Friends- some of them of great promise in the sect, and
well endowed with worldly goods -followed her admiringly
"It will not be long," he thought, "before she is consoled."
Fortune seemed to favor his plans, and justify his harsh
treatment of Richard Hilton.  There were unfavorable
accounts of the young man's conduct. His father had died
during the winter, and he was represented as having become
very reckless and dissipated. These reports at last assumed such a definite form that Friend Mitchenor brought
them to the notice of his family.
" I met Josiah Comly in the road," said he one day at dinner. "He's just come from Philadelphia, and brings bad
news of Richard Hilton.  He's taken to drink, and is




384           Friend Eli's Daughter.
spen ding in wickedness the money his father left him.
His friends have a great concern about him, but it seems
he's not to be reclaimed."
Abigail looked imploringly at her husband, but he either
disregarded or failed to understand her look. Asenath, who
had grown very pale, steadily met her father's gaze, and
said, in a tone which he had never yet heard from her
lips, 
" Father, will thee please never mention Richard Hilton's
name when I am by?"
The words were those of entreaty, but the voice was that
of authority. The old man was silenced by a new and
unexpected power in his daughter's heart; he suddenly felt
that she was not a girl, as heretofore, but a woman, whom
he might persuade, but could no longer compel.
" It shall be as thee wishes, Asenath," he said; "we had
best forget him."
Of their friends, however, she could not expect this reserve. and she was doomed to hear stories of Richard which
clouded and embittered her thoughts of him. And a still
severer trial was in store. She accompanied her father, in
obedience to his wish, and against her own desire, to the
Yearly Meeting in Philadelphia. It has passed into a proverb, that the Friends on these occasions, always bring rain
with them; and the period of her visit was no exception to
the rule. The showery days of " Yearly Meeting Week"
glided by, until the last, and she looked forward with relief
to the morrow's return to Buck's County, glad to have escaped a meeting with Richard Hilton, which might have
confirmed her fears, and could but have given her pain in
any case.
As she and her father joined each other, outside the meeting-house, at the close of the afternoon meeting, a light rain
was falling. She took his arm, under the capacious umbrella, and they were soon alone in the wet streets, on their
way to the house of the Friends who entertained them.
At a crossing, where the water, pouring down the gutter




Friend Eli's Daughter.             385
towards the Delaware, caused them to halt, a man, plashing
through the flood, staggered towards them. Without an
umbrella, with dripping, disordered clothes, yet with a hot,
flushed face, around which the long black hair hung wildly,
he approached, singing to himself, with maudlin voice, a
song which would have been sweet and tender in a lover's
mouth. Friend Mitchenor dreW to one side, lest his spotless drab should be brushed by the unclean reveller; but
the latter, looking up, stopped suddenly, face to face with
them.
"Asenath! " he cried, in a voice whose anguish pierced
through the confusion of his senses, and struck down into
the sober quick of his soul.
"Richard!" she breathed, rather than spoke, in a low,
terrified voice.
It was indeed Richard Hilton who stood before her, or rather- as she afterwards thought, in recalling the interviewthe body of Richard Hilton, possessed by an evil spirit.
His cheeks burned with a more than hectic red, his eyes
were wild and bloodshot, and though the recognition had
suddenly sobered him, an impatient, reckless devil seemed to
lurk under the set mask of his features.
"Here I am, Asenath," he said at length, hoarsely. " I
said it was death, did n't I? Well, it's worse than death, I
suppose; but what matter? You can't be more lost to me
now than you were already. This is thy doing, Friend Eli!"
he continued, turning to the old man, with a sneering emphasis on the "thy."  "I hope thee's satisfied with thy
work?"
Here he burst into a bitter, mocking laugh, which it chilled
Asenath's blood to hear.
The old man turned pale. "Come away, child! " said he,
tugging at her arm. But she stood firm, strengthened for
the moment by a solemn feeling of duty which trampled
down her pain.
"Richard," she said, with the music of an immeasurable
sorrow in her voice, "O Richard, what has thee done?
17




386           Friend Eli's Daughter.
Where the I ord commands resignation, thee has been rebellious; where he chasteneth to purify, thee turns blindly
to sin. I had not expected this of thee, Richard; I thought
thy regard for me was of the kind which would have helped
and uplifted thee,-not through me, as an unworthy object,
but through the hopes and the pure desires of thy own heart.
I expected that thee would so act as to justify what I felt
towards thee, not to make my affection a reproach, - 
Richard, not to cast over my heart the shadow  of thy
sin! "
The wretched young man supported himself against the
post of an awning, buried his face in his hands, and wept
passionately. Once or twice he essayed to speak, but his
voice was, choked by sobs, and, after a look from the streaming eyes which Asenath could scarcely bear to meet, he
again covered his face. A stranger, coming down the street,
paused out of curiosity.  "Come, come! " cried Eli, once
more, eager to escape from the scene. His daughter stood
still, and the man slowly passed on.
Asenath could not thus leave her lost lover, in his despairing grief. She again turned to him, her own tears
flowing fast and free.
" I do not judge thee, Richard, but the words that passed
between us give me a right to speak to thee. It was hard
to lose sight of thee then, but it is still harder for me to see
thee now. If the sorrow and pity I feel could save thee, I
would be willing never to know any other feelings. I would
still do anything for thee except that which thee cannot ask,
as thee now is, and I could not give. Thee has made the
gulf between us so wide that it cannot be crossed. But I
can now weep for thee and pray for thee as a fellow-creature whose soul is still precious in the sight of the Lord.
Fare thee well!"
He seized the hand she extended, bowed down, and
showered mingled tears and kisses upon it. Then, with a
wild sob in his throat, he started up and rushed down the
street, through the fast-falling rain. The father and daugh



Friend Eli's Daughter.              387
ter walked home in silence. Eli had heard every word that
was spoken, and felt that a spirit whose utterances he dared
not question had visited Asenath's tongue.
She, as year after year went by, regained the peace and
patience which give a sober cheerfulness to life. The pangs
of her heart grew dull and transient; but there were two
pictures in her memory which never blurred in outline or
faded in color: one, the break of autumn flowers, under the
bright autumnal sky, with bird and stream making accordant
music to the new voice of love; the other, a rainy street,
with a lost, reckless man leaning against an awning-post,
and staring in her face with eyes whose unutterable woe,
when she dared to recall it, darkened the beauty of the
earth, and almost shook her trust in the providence of God.
V.
Y EAR after year passed by, but not without bringing
change to the Mitchenor family. Moses had moved
to Chester County soon after his marriage, and had a good
farm of his own. At the end of ten years Abigail died;,and the old man, who had not only lost his savings by an
unlucky investment, but was obliged to mortgage his farm,
finally determined to sell it and join his son. He was getting too old to manage it properly, impatient under the
unaccustomed pressure of debt, and depressed by the loss
of the wife to whom, without any outward show of tenderness, he was, in truth, tenderly attached. He missed her
more keenly in the places where she had lived and moved
than in a neighborhood without the memory of her presence.
The pang with which he parted from his home was weakened by the greater pang which had preceded it.
It was a harder trial to Asenath. She shrank from the
encounter with new faces, and the necessity of creating
new associations. There was a quiet satisfaction in the
ordered, monotonous round of her life, which might be the




388           Friend Eli's Daughter.
same elsewhere, but here alone was the nook which I eld all
the morning sunshine she had ever known. Here still
lingered the halo of the sweet departed summer, -here
still grew the familiar wild-flowers which the first Richard
Hilton had gathered. This was the Paradise in which the
Adam of her heart had dwelt, before his fall. Her resignation and submission entitled her to keep those pure and
perfect memories, though she was scarcely conscious of
their true charm. She did not dare to express to herself, in
words, that one everlasting joy of woman's heart, through all
trials and sorrows,  " I have loved, I have been beloved."
On the last " First-day " before their departure, she walked
down the meadows to the lonely brake between the hills,
It was the early spring, and the black buds of the ash had
just begun to swell. The maples were dusted with crimson
bloom, and the downy catkins of the swamp-willow dropped
upon the stream and floated past her, as once the autumn
leaves. In the edges of the thickets peeped forth the blue,
scentless violet, the fairy cups of the anemone, and the
pink-veined bells of the miskodeed.  The tall blooms
through which the lovers walked still slept in the chilly
earth; but the sky above her was mild and blue, and the
remembrance of the day came back to her with a delicate,.
pungent sweetness, like the perfume of the trailing arbutus
in the air around her. In a sheltered, sunny nook, she
found a single erythronium, lured forth in advance of its
proper season, and gathered it as a relic of the spot, which
she might keep without blame. As she stooped to pluck it,
her own face looked up at her out of a little pool filled by
the spring rains. Seen against the reflected sky, it shone
with a soft radiance, and the earnest eyes met hers, as if it
were her young self, evoked from the past, to bid her farewell.   Farewell! " she whispered, taking leave at once, as
she believed, of youth and the memory of love.
During those years she had more than once been sought
in marriage, but had steadily, though kindly, refused. Once,
when the suitor was a man whose character and position




Friend Eli's Dazughter.             389
made the union very desirable in Eli Mitchenoi s eyes, he
ventured to use his paternal influence. Asenath's gentle
resistance was overborne by his arbitrary force of will, and
her protestations were of no avail.
"' Father," she finally said, in the tone which he had once
heard and still remembered, " thee can take away, but thee
cannot give."
He never mentioned the subject again.
Richard Hilton passed out of her knowledge shortly after
her meeting with him in Philadelphia. She heard, indeed,
that his headlong career of dissipation was not arrested, -
that his friends had given him up as hopelessly ruined, —
and, finally, that he had left the city. After that, all reports
ceased. He was either dead, or reclaimed and leading a
better life, somewhere far away. Dead, she believed, —
almost hoped; for in that case might he not now be enjoying the ineffable rest and peace which she trusted might be
her portion? It was better to think of him as a purified
spirit, waiting to meet her in a holier communion, than to
know that he was still bearing the burden of a soiled and
blighted life. In any case, her own future was plain and
clear. It was simply a prolongation of the present, -an
alternation of seed-time and harvest, filled with humble
duties and cares, until the Master should bid her lay down
her load and follow Him.
Friend Mitchenor bought a small cottage adjacent to
his son's farm, in a community which consisted mostly of
Friends, and not far from the large old meeting-house in
which the Quarterly Meetings were held. He at once took
his place on the upper seat, among the elders, most of
whom he knew already, from having met them, year after
year, in Philadelphia. The charge of a few acres of ground
gave him sufficient occupation; the money left to him after
the sale of his farm was enough to support him comfortably;
and a late Indian summer of contentment seemed now to
have come to the old man. He was done with the earnest
business of life. Moses was gradually taking his place, as




390           Friend Eli's Daughter.
father and Friend; and Asenath would be reasonably provided for at his death. As his bodily energies decayed, his
imperious temper softened, his mind became more accessible to liberal influences, and he even cultivated a cordial
friendship with a neighboring farmer who was one of "the
world's people." Thus, at seventy-five, he was really younger, because tenderer of heart and more considerate than he
had been at sixty.
Asenath was now a woman of thirty-five, and suitors had
ceased to approach her. Much of her beauty still remained,
but her face had become thin and wasted, and the inevitable
lines were beginning to form around her eyes. Her dress
was plainer than ever, and she wore the scoop-bonnet of
drab silk, in which no woman can seem beautiful, unless
she be very old. She was calm and grave in her demeanor,
save that her perfect goodness and benevolence shone
through and warmed her presence; but, when earnestly interested, she had been known to speak her mind so clearly
and forcibly that it was generally surmised among the
Friends that she possessed "a gift," which might, in time,
raise her to honor among them. To the children of Moses
she was a good genius, and a word from " Aunt'Senath "
oftentimes prevailed when the authority of the parents was
disregarded.  In them she found a new source of happiness; and when her old home on the Neshaminy had been
removed a little farther into the past, so that she no longer
looked, with every morning's sun, for some familiar feature
of its scenery, her submission brightened into a cheerful
content with life.
It was summer, and Quarterly-Meeting Day had arrived.
There had been rumors of the expected presence of" Friends
from a distance," and not only those of the district, but
most of the neighbors who were not connected with the
sect, attended. By the by-road through the woods, it was
not more than half a mile from Friend Mitchenor's cottage
to the meeting-house, and Asenath, leaving her father to be
taken by Moses in his carriage, set out on foot. It was a




Friend Eli's Daughter.               391
sparkling, breezy day, and the forest was full of life. Squirrels chased each other along the branches of the oars, and
the air was filled with fragrant odors of hickory-leaves,
sweet-fern, and spice-wood. Picking up a flower here and
there, Asenath walked onward, rejoicing alike in shade and
sunshine, grateful for all the consoling beauty which the
earth offers to a lonely heart. That serene content which
she had learned to call happiness had filled her being until
the dark canopy was lifted and the waters took back their
transparency under a cloudless sky.
Passing around to the "women's side" of the meetinghouse, she mingled with her friends, who. were exchanging
information concerning the expected visitors.  Micajah
Morrill had not arrived, they said, but Ruth Baxter had
spent the last night at Friend Way's, and would certainly
be there. Besides, there were Friend Chandler, from Nine
Partners, and Friend Carter, from  Maryland: they had
been seen on the ground. Friend Carter was said to have
a wonderful gift,  Mercy Jackson had heard him once, in
Baltimore. The Friends there had been a little exercised
about him, because they thought he was too much inclined
to "the newness," but it was known that the Spirit had
often manifestly led him.  Friend Chandler had visited
Yearly Meeting once, they believed. He was an old man,
and had been a personal friend of Elias Hicks.
At the appointed hour they entered the house. After the
subdued rustling which ensued upon taking their seats,
there was an interval of silence, shorter than usual, because
it was evident that many persons would feel the promptings
of the Spirit. Friend Chandler spoke first, and was followed by Ruth Baxter, a frail little woman, with a voice of
exceeding power. The not unmelodious chant in which she
delivered her admonitions rang out, at times, like the peal
of a trumpet. Fixing her eyes on vacancy, with her hands
on the wooden rail before her, and her body slightly swaying to and fro, her voice soared far aloft at the commencement of every sentence, gradually dropping, through a me



392           Friend Eli's Daughter.
lodious scale of tone, to the close.  She resembled an
inspired prophetess, an aged Deborah, crying aloud in the
valleys of Israel.
The last speaker was Friend Carter, a small man, not
more than forty years of age. His face was thin and in
tense in its expression, his hair gray at the temples, and his
dark eye almost too restless for a child of "the stillness and
the quietness." His voice, though not loud, was clear and
penetrating, with an earnest, sympathetic quality, which
arrested, not the ear alone, but the serious attention of the
auditor. His delivery was but slightly marked by the peculiar rhythm of the Quaker preachers; and this fact, perhaps, increased the effect of his words, through the contrast
with those who preceded him.
His discourse was an eloquent vindication of the law of
kindness, as the highest and purest manifestation of true
Christian doctrine. The paternal relation of God to man
was the basis of that religion which appealed directly to the
heart: so the fraternity of each man with his fellow was its
practical application. God pardons the repentant sinner:
we can also pardon, where we are offended; we can pity,
where we cannot pardon. Both the good and the bad principles generate their like in others. Force begets force;
anger excites a corresponding anger; but kindness awakens
the slumbering emotions even of an evil heart. Love may
not always be answered by an equal love, but it has never
yet created hatred.  The testimony which Friends bear
against war, he said, is but a general assertion, which has
no value except in so far as they manifest the principle of
peace in their daily lives, -in the exercise of pity, of charity,
of forbearance, and Christian love.
The words of the speaker sank deeply into the hearts of
his hearers. There was an intense hush, as if in truth the
Spirit had moved him  to speak, and every sentence was
armed with a sacred authority. Asenath Mitchenor looked
at him, over the low partition which divided her and her
&sters from the men's side, absorbed in his rapt earr-estne I




Friend Eli's Daughter.               393
and truth.  She forgot that other hearers were present:
he spake to her alone. A strange spell seemed to seize
upon her faculties and chain them at his feet: had he beckoned to her, she would have arisen and walked to his side.
Friend Carter warmed and deepened as he went on. " I
feel moved to-day," he said, - "moved, I know not why, but
I hope for some wise purpose, - to relate to you an instance
of Divine and human kindness which has come directly to
my own knowledge. A young man of delicate constitution,
whose lungs were thought to be seriously affected, was sent
to the house of a Friend in the country, in order to try the
effect of air and exercise."
Asenath almost ceased to breathe, in the intensity with
which she gazed and listened. Clasping her hands tightly
in her lap to prevent them from trembling, and steadying
herself against the back of the seat, she heard the story of
her love for Richard Hilton told by the lips of a stranger!
-not merely of his dismissal from the house, but of that
meeting in the street, at which only she and her father were
present! Nay, more, she heard her own words repeated,
she heard Richard's passionate outburst of remorse described in language that brought his living face before her!
She gasped for breath, — his face was. before her! The
features, sharpened by despairing grief, which her memory
recalled, had almost anticipated the harder lines which fifteen years had made, and which now, with a terrible shock
and choking leap of the heart, she recognized. Her senses
faded, and she would have fallen from her seat but for the
support of the partition against which she leaned. Fortunately, the women near her were too much occupied with
the narrative to notice her condition. Many of them wept
silently, with their handkerchiefs pressed over their mouths.
The first shock of death-like faintness passed away, and
she clung to the speaker's voice, as if its sound alone could
give her strength to sit still and listen further.
"Deserted by his friends, unable to stay his feet on the
evil path," he continued, " the young man left his home and
1 7*




394           Friend Eli's Daughter.
went to a city in another State. But here it was easier to
find associates in evil than tender hearts that might help
him back to good. He was tired of life, and the hope of
a speedier death hardened him in his courses. But, my
friends, Death never comes to those who wickedly seek
him. The Lord withholds destruction from the hands that
are madly outstretched to grasp it, and forces Hlis pity and
forgiveness on the unwilling soul. Finding that it was the
principle of life which grew stronger within him, the young
man at last meditated an awful crime. The thought of
self-destruction haunted him day and night. He lingered
around the wharves, gazing into the deep waters, and was
restrained from the deed only by the memory of the last
loving voice he had heard. One gloomy evening, when
even this memory had faded, and he awaited the approaching darkness to make his design secure, a hand was laid on
his arm. A man in the simple garb of the Friends stood
beside him, and a face which reflected the kindness of the
Divine Father looked upon him.'My child,' said he,'I
am drawn to thee by the great trouble of thy mind. Shall
I tell thee what it is thee meditates?' The young man
shook his head.' I will be silent, then, but I will save
thee. I know the human heart, and its trials and weaknesses, and it may be put into my'mouth to give thee
strength.' He took the young man's hand, as if he had
been a little child, and led him to his home. He heard the
sad story, from beginning to end; and the young man wept
upon his breast, to hear no word of reproach, but only the
largest and tenderest pity bestowed upon him. They knelt
down, side by side, at midnight; and the Friend's right
hand was upon his head while they prayed.
"The young man was rescued from his evil ways, to acknowledge still further the boundless mercy of Providence.
The dissipation wherein he had recklessly sought death
was, for him, a marvellous restoration to life. His lungs
had become sound and free from the tendency to disease.
The measure of his forgiveness was almost more than he




Friend Eli's Daughter.               395
eould bear. He bore his cross thenceforward with a joyful
resignation, and was mercifully drawn nearer and nearer to
the Truth, until, in the fulness of his convictions, he entered
into the brotherhood of the Friends.
"I have been powerfully moved to tell you this story,"
Friend Carter concluded, " from a feeling that it may be
needed, here, at this time, to influence some heart trembling in the balance. Who is there among you, my friends,
that may not snatch a brand from the burning? 0, believe that pity and charity are the most effectual weapons
given into the hands of us imperfect mortals, and leave the
awful attribute of wrath in the hands of the Lord! "
He sat down, and dead silence ensued. Tears of emotion stood in the eyes of the hearers, men as well as women,
and tears of gratitude and thanksgiving gushed warmly from
those of Asenath. An ineffable peace and joy descended
upon her heart.
When the meeting broke up, Friend Mitchenor, who had
not recognized Richard Hilton, but had heard the story with
feelings which he endeavored in vain to control, approached
the preacher.
"The Lord spoke to me this day through thy lips," said
he; "will thee come to one side, and hear me a minute?"
" Eli Mitchenor!" exclaimed Friend Carter; " Eli! I
knew not thee was here! Does n't thee know me?"
The old man stared in astonishment. " It seems like a
face I ought to know," he said, "but I can't place thee."
They withdrew to the shade of one of the poplars. Friend
Carter turned again, much moved, and, grasping the old
man's hands in his own, exclaimed, 
"Friend Mitchenor, I was called upon to-day to speak
of myself. I am- or, rather, I was - the Richard Hilton
whom thee knew."
Friend Mitchenor's face flushed with mingled emotions
of shame and joy, and his grasp on the preacher's hands
tightened.
" But thee calls thyself Carter? " he finally said.




396           Friend Eli's Daughter.
"Soon after I was saved," was the reply, "an aunt on
the mother's side died, and left her property to me, on condition that I should take her name. I was tired of my own
then, and to give it up seemed only like losing my former
self; but I should like to have it back again now."
" Wonderful are the ways of the Lord, and past finding
out! " said the old man. " Come home with me, Richard,
— come for my sake, for there is a concern on my mind
until all is clear between us. Or, stay,-will thee walk
home with Asenath, while I go with Moses?"
"Asenath?"
"Yes, there she goes, through the gate. Thee can easily
overtake her. I'm  coming, Moses!" —and he hurried
away to his son's carriage, which was approaching.
Asenath felt that it would be impossible for her to meet
Richard Hilton there. She knew not why his name had
been changed; he had not betrayed his identity with the
young man of his story; he evidently did not wish it to be
known, and an unexpected meeting with her might surprise him into an involuntary revelation of the fact. It was
enough for her that a saviour had arisen, and her lost Adam
was redeemed, - that a holier light than the autumn sun's
now rested, and would forever rest, on the one landscape
of her youth. Her eyes shone with the pure brightness of
girlhood, a soft warmth colored her cheek and smoothed
away the coming lines of her brow, and her step was light
and elastic as in the old time.
Eager to escape from the crowd, she crossed the highway, dusty with its string of returning carriages, and entered the secluded lane. The breeze had died away, the
air was full of insect-sounds, and the warm light of the sinking sun fell upon the woods and meadows. Nature seemed
penetrated with a sympathy with her own inner peace.
But the crown of the benignant day was yet to come. A
quick footstep followed her, and erelong a voice, near at
hand, called her by name.
She stopped, turned, and for a moment they stood silent,
face to face.




Friend Eli's Daughter.               397
" I knew thee, Richard!"  at last she said, in a trembling
voice; "may the Lord bless thee!"
Tears were in the eyes of both.
"He has blessed me," Richard answered, in a reverent
tone; "and this is His last and sweetest mercy. Asenath,
let me hear that thee forgives me."
"I have forgiven thee long ago, Richard, - forgiven, but
not forgotten."
The hush of sunset was on the forest, as they walked onward, side by side, exchanging their mutual histories. Not
a leaf stirred in the crowns of the tall trees, and the dusk,
creeping along between their stems, brought with it a richer
woodland odor. Their voices were low and subdued, as if
an angel of God were hovering in the shadows, and listening, or God Himself looked down upon them from the violet
sky.
At last Richard stopped.
"Asenath," said he, "does thee remember that spot on
the banks of the creek, where the rudbeckias grew? "
"I remember it," she answered, a girlish blush rising to
her face.
" If I were to say to thee now what I said to thee there,
v hat would be thy answer?"
Her words came brokenly.
" I would say to thee, Richard, —  I can trust thee, --
do love thee!'"
"Look at me, Asenath."
Her eyes, beaming with a clearer light than even then
when she first confessed, were lifted to his. She placed
her hands gently upon his shoulders, and bent her head
upon his breast. He tenderly lifted it again, and, for the
first time, her virgin lips knew the kiss of maa.
z




A HALF-LIFE AND HALF A LIFE.'On garde longtemps son premier amant, quand on n'en prend point de
second."-Maxinzes Morales du Due de la Rochefoucauld.
T is not suffering alone that wears out our lives.
We sometimes are in a state when a sharp pang
would be hailed almost as a blessing, -when,
rather than bear any longer this living death of calm stagnation, we would gladly rush into action, into suffering, to
feel again the warmth of life restored to our blood, to feel it
at least coursing through our veins with something like a
living swiftness.
This death-in-life comes sometimes to the most earnest
men, -to those whose life is fullest of energy and excitement.  It is the reaction, the weariness which they name
Ennui, foul fiend that eats fastest into the heart's core, that
shakes with surest hand the sands of life, that makes the
deepest wrinkles on the cheeks and deadens most surely the
lustre of the eyes.
But what are the occasional visits of this life-consumer,
this vampire that sucks out the blood, to his constant, neverfailing presence? There are those who feel within themselves the power of living fullest lives, of sounding every
chord of the full diapason of passion and feeling, yet who
have been so hemmed around, so shut in by adverse and
narrowing circumstances, that never, no, not once in their
half-century of years which stretch from childhood to old
age, have they been free to breath out, to speak aloud the




A  Half-Life and Half a Life.            399
heart that was in them. Ever the same wasting indifference to the things that are, the same ill-repressed longing
for the things that might be. Long days of wearisome repetition of duties in which there is no life, followed by restless
nights, when Imagination seizes the reins in her own hands,
and paints the out-blossoming of those germs of happiness
and fulness of being of whose existence within us we carry
about always the aching consciousness.
And such things I have known from the moment when I
first stepped from babyhood into childhood, from the time
when life ceased to be a play and came to have its duties and
its sufferings. Always the haunting sense of a happiness
which I was capable of feeling, faint glimpses of a paradise
of which I was a born denizen, - and always, too, the stern
knowledge of the restraints which held me prisoner, the idle
longings of an exile. But would no strong effort of will, no
energy of heart or mind, break the bonds that held me down,
-no steady perseverance of purpose win me a way out
of darkness into light?  No, for I was a woman, an ugly
woman, whose girlhood had gone by without affection, and
whose womanhood was passing without love, -a woman,
poor and dependent on others for daily bread, and yet so
bound by conventional duties to those around her that to
break from them into independence would be to outrage all
the prejudices of those who made her world.
I could plan such escape from my daily and yearly narrowing life, could dream of myself walking steadfast and unshaken
through labor to independence, could picture a life where, if
the heart were not fed, at least the tastes might be satisfied,
could strengthen myself through all the imaginary details of
my going forth from the narrow surroundings which made my
prison-walls; but when the time came to take the first step,
my courage failed. I could not go out into that world which
looked to me so wide and. lonely; the necessity for love was
too strong for me, I must dwell among mine own people.
There, at least, was the bond of custom, there was the affection which grows out of habit; but in the world what hope




400       A  Ha/f-Life and Half a Lie.
had I to win love from strangers, with my repellent looks,
awkward movements, and want of personal attractions?
Few  persons know  that within one hundred and fifty
miles of the Queen City of the West, bounded on both sides
by highly cultivated tracts of country, looking out westwardly on the very garden of Kentucky, almost in the range of
railroad and telegraph, in the very geographical centre of
our most populous regions, there lie some thousand square
miles of superb woodland, rolling, hill above hill, in the
beautiful undulations which characterize the country bordering on the Ohio, watered by fair streams which need only
the clearing away of the few obstructions incident to a new
country to make them navigable, and yet a country where
the mail passes only once a week, where all communication
is by horse-paths or by the slow course of the flat-boat,
where schools are not known and churches are never seen,
where the Methodist itinerant preacher gives all the religious instruction, and a stray newspaper furnishes all the political information.  Does any one doubt my statement?
Then let him ask a passage up-stream in one of the flatboats that supply the primitive necessities of the small farmers who dwell on the banks of the Big Sandy, in that debatable border-land which lies between Kentucky and Virginia; or let him, if he have a taste for adventure, hire his
horse at Catlettsburg, at the mouth of the river, and lose his
way among the blind bridle-paths that lead to Louisa and
to Prestonburg. If he stops to ask a night's lodging at one
Cf the farm-houses that are to be found at the junction of the:reeks with the rivers, log-houses with their primitive outbuildings, their half-constructed rafts of lumber ready to
float down-stream with the next rise, their " dug-outs" for
the necessities of river-intercourse, and their rough oxcarts for hauling to and from the mill, he will see before him
such a home as that in which I passed the first twenty
years of my life.
I had little claim  on the farmer with whom  I lived.
I was the child by a former marriage of his wife, who




A  Half-Life and Half a Life.            401
had brought me with her into this wilderness, a puny,
ailing creature of four years, and into the three years that
followed was compressed all the happiness I could remember. The free life in the open air, the nourishing influence
of the rich natural scenery by which I was surrounded, the
grand, silent trees with their luxuriant foliage, the fresh,
strong growth of the vegetation, all seemed to breathe
health into my frame, and with health came the capacity for
enjoyment. I was happy in the mere gift of existence, happy in the fulness of content, with no playmate but the kindly and lovely mother Earth from whose bosom I drew ful
ness of life.
But in my seventh year my mother died, worn out by the
endless, unvarying round of labors which break down the
constitutions of our small farmers' wives. She grew sallow
and thin under repeated attacks of chills and fever, brought
into the world, one after another, three puny infants, only to
lay them away from her breast, side by side, under the sycamore that overshadowed our cornfield, and visibly wasted
away, growing more and more feeble, until, one winter
morning, we laid her, too, at rest by her babies. Before the
year was out,-my father (so I called him) was married again.
My step-mother was a good woman, and meant to do her
duty by me. Nay, she was more than that: she was, as far
her poor light went, a Christian. She had experienced religion in the great revival of 18-, which was felt all through
Western Kentucky, under the preaching of the Reverend
Peleg Dawson, and when she married my father and went
to bury herself in the wilds of " Up Sandy" was a shining
light in the Methodist Church, a class-leader who had had
and had told experiences.
But all that glory was over now; it had flashed its little
day: for there is a glow in the excitement of our religious
revivals as potent in its effect on the imaginations of women
and young men as ever were the fastings and penances
which brought the dreams and reveries, the holy visions
and the glorious revealings, of the Catholic votaries. In




402       A  Half-Life and Half a Life.
this short, triumphant time of spiritual pride lay the whole
romance of my step-mother's life. Perhaps it was well for
her soul that she was taken from the scene of her triumphs
and brought again to the hard realities of life. The self-exaltation, the ungodly pride passed away; but there was left
the earnest, prayerful desire to do her duty in her way and
calling, and the first path' of duty which opened to her zeal
was that which led to the care of a motherless child, the
saving of an immortal soul. And in all sincerity and uprightness did she strive to walk in it. But what woman of
five-and-thirty, who has outlived her youth and womanly
tenderness in the loneliness and hardening influences of a
single life, and who marries at last for a shelter in old age,
knows the wants of a little child?  Indeed, what but a
mother's love has the long-enduring patience to support the
never-ceasing calls for forbearance and perseverance which
a child makes upon a grown person? Those little ones need
the nourishment of love and praise, but such milk for babes
can come only from a mother's breast. I got none of it. On
the contrary, my dearly loved independence, my wild-wood
life, where Nature had become to me my nursing-mother,
was exchanged for one of never-ceasing supervision. " Little girls must learn to be useful," was the phrase that greeted my unwilling ears fifty times a day, which pursued me
through my daily round of dish-washings, floor-sweepings,
bed-making and potato-peeling, to overtake me at last in
the very moment when I hoped to reap the reward of my
diligence in a free afternoon by the river-side in the crotch
of the water-maple that hung over the stream, clutching me
and fastening me down to the hated square of patchwork,
which bore, in the spots of red that defaced its white purity
in following the line of my stitches, the marks of the wounds
that my awkward hands inflicted on themselves with their
tiny weapon.
And so the years went on. It was a pity that no babies
came to soften our hearts, my step-mother's and mine, and
to draw us nearer together as only the presence of children




A  Half-Life and Half a Life.            403
can. A household without children is always hard and angular, even when surrounded by all the softening influences
of refinement and education. What was ours with its poverty
and roughness, its every-day cares and its endless discomforts? One day was like all the rest, and in their wearying
succession they rise up in my memory like ghosts of the
past coming to lay their cold, death-like hands on the feebly
kindling hopes of the present. I see myself now, as I look
back, a tall, awkward girl of fifteen, with my long, straggling,
sunburnt hair, my sallow, yet pimply complexion, my small,
weak-looking blue eyes, that every exposure to the sun and
wind would redden, and my long, lean hands and arms, that
offended my sense of beauty constantly, as I dwelt on their
hopelessly angular turns.  I had one beauty; so my little
paper-framed glass, that rested on the rough rafter that
edged the sloping roof of my garret, told me, whenever I
took it down to gaze in it, which, but for that beauty, would
have been but seldom. It was a finely cut and firmly set
mouth and chin. There was, and I felt it, beauty and character in the curves of the lips, in the rounding of the chin;
there was even a healthy ruddiness in the lips, and something of delicacy in the even, well-set teeth that showed
themselves when they parted.
The gazing at these beauties gave me great pleasure, not
for any effect they might ever produce in others, — what did
I know of that? - but because I had in myself a strong love
of the beautiful, a passion for grace of form and brilliancy
of color which made doubly distasteful to me our bare,
uncouth walls, with their ugly straight-backed chairs, and
their frightfully painted yellow or red tables and chests of
drawers.
My step- mother's appearance, too, was a constant offence to my beauty-loving eye,- with her lank, tall figure,
round which clung those narrow skirts of "bit" calico, dingy red or dreary brown, - her feet shod in the heavy storeshoes which were brought us from Catlettsburg by the returning flat-boat men, — her sharp-featured facze, the fore



404       A  Ia f-L ife anHd Half a Life.
head and cheeks covered with brown, mouldy-looking spots
the eyes deep-set, with a livid dyspeptic ring around them,
and the lips thin and pinched, - the whole face shaded by
the eternal sun-bonnet, which never left her head from early
sunrise till late bedtime (no Sandy woman is ever seen without her sun-bonnet). All these were perpetual annoyances
to me; they made me discontented without knowing why;
they filled me with disgust, a disgust which my respect for
her good qualities could not overcome.
And then our life, how dreary! The rising in the cold,
gray dawn to prepare the breakfast of corn-dodgers and
bacon for my'father and his men, -the spreading the tablecloth, stained with the soil-spots of yesterday's meal, - the
putting upon it the ugly unmatched crockery, -the straggling in of the unwashed, uncombed men in their coarse
working-clothes, redolent of the week's unwholesome toil, -
their washings, combings, and low talk close by my side,
-the varied uses to which our household utensils were
put,- the dipping of dirty knives into the salt and of dirty
fingers into the meat-dish, - all filled me then, and fill me
now, with loathing.
There was a relief when the men left the house; but
then came the dreary "slicking-up," almost more disgusting, in its false, superficial show of cleanliness, than had
been the open carelessness of the workmen.
But there was no time for rest; my step-mother's sharp,
high-pitched voice was heard calling, "6Janet! " and I followed her to the garden to dig the potatoes from the hills
or to the cornfield to pull and husk the three dozen ears of
corn which made our chief dish at dinner. Then came the
week's washing, the apple-peeling, the pork-salting, work
varied only with the varying season, until the blowing of
the horn at twelve brought back the men to dinner, after
which came again the clearing up, again the day's task, and
again the supper.
I often thought that the men around us were always more
cheerful and merry than the women. They worked as hard,




A  Half-Life and Half a Life.            405
they endured as many hardships, but they had, certainly,
more pleasures. There was the evening lounge by the
fire in winter, the sitting on the fence or at the door-step
in summer, when, pipe or cigar in mouth, knife and whitfling-stick in hand, jest and gibe would pass round among
them, and the boisterous laugh would go up, reaching me,
as I lay, tired out, on my little cot, or leaned disconsolate
at my garret-window, looking with longing eyes far out into
the darkness of the woods. No such gatherings-together of
the women did I ever see. If one of our neighbors dragged
her weary steps to our kitchen, and sat herself down, baby
in lap, on the upturned tub or flag-bottomed chair that I
dusted off with my apron, it was to commence the querulous
complaint of the last week's chill or the heavy washing of the
day before, the ailing baby, or the troublesome child, all told
in the same whining voice. Even the choice bit of gossip
which roused us at rare intervals always had its dark side,
on which these poor women dwelt with a perverse pleasure.
In short, life was too hard for them; it brought its constant cares without any alleviating pleasures. Their homes
were only places of monotonous labor, -their husbands
so many hard taskmasters, who exacted from them more
than their strength could give,- their children, who should
have been the delight of their mothers' hearts, so many
additional burdens, the bearing and nursing of which broke
down their poor remaining health; the glorious and lavish
Nature in which they lived only brought to them  added
labor, and shut them out from the few social enjoyments
that they knew of.
I was old enough to feel all this, - not to reason on it as
I can now, but to rebel against it with all the violence of a
vehement nature which feels its strength only in the injuries
it inflicts upon itself in its useless struggles for freedom.
Bitter tears did I shed sometimes, as I lay with my head
on my arms, leaning on that narrow window-sill, - tears of
passionate regret that I was not a boy, a man, that I might,
by the, very force of my right arm, hew my way out of that




406       A  Half-Life and Half a Life.
encircling forest into the world of which I dreamed, -tears;
too, that, being as I was, only an ugly, ignorant girl, I could
not be allowed to care only for myself, and dream away my
life in this same forest, which charmed me while it hemmed
me in. My rude, chaotic nature had something of force in
it, strength which I knew would stand me in good stead,
could I ever find an outlet for it; it had also a power of
enjoyment, keen, vivid, could I ever get leave to enjoy.
At length came the opening, the glimpse of sunlight. I
remember, as if it were but yesterday, that afternoon which
first showed to my physical sight something of that full life
of which my imagination had framed a rude, faint sketch.
I was standing at the end of the meadow, just where the
rails had been thrown down for the cows, when, looking up
the path that led through the wood by the river, I saw, almost
at my side, a man on horseback. He stopped, and, half raising his hat, a motion I had never seen before, said, -
" Is this Squire Boarders's place? "
I pushed back my sun-bonnet, and looked up at him. I
see him now as I saw him then; for my quick, startled
glance took in the whole face and figure, which daguerrotyped themselves on my memory. A frank, open face, with
well-cut and well-defined features and large hazel eyes, set
off by curling brown hair, was smiling down upon me, and,
throwing himself from his horse, a young man of about
five-and-twenty stood beside me. He had to repeat his
question before I gained presence of mind enough to answer him.
" Is this Squire Boarders's house, and do you think I
could get a night's lodging here? "
It was no unusual thing for us to give a night's lodging to
the boatmen from the river, or to the farmers from the backcountry, as they passed to or from Catlettsburg; but what
accommodation had we for such a guest as here presented?
I walked before him up the path to the house, and, shyly
polnting to my step-mother, who stood on the porch, said, --
" That's Miss Boarders; you can ask her."




A  Half-Life and Half a Life.           407
An d then, before he had time to answer, I fled in an
agony of bashfulness to my refuge under the water-maple
behind the house. I lingered there as long as I dared,longer, indeed, than I had any right to linger, for I heard
my mother's voice crying, " Janet! " and I well knew that
there was nobody but myself to mix the corn-cake, spread
the table, or run the dozen errands that would be needed. I
slipped in by the back-door, and, escaping my step-mother's
peevish complaints, passed into the little closet which served
us for pantry, and, scooping up the meal, began diligently
to mix it.
The window by which I stood opened on the porch. My
father and his men had come in, and, tipping their chairs
against the wall, or mounted on the porch-railing, were
smoking their cigars, laughing, joking, talking,- and there
in the midst of them sat the stranger, smoking too, and
joining in their talk with an easy earnestness that seemed
to win them at once. Our country-people do not spare their
questions. My father took the lead, the men throwing in a
remark now and then.
"'I calculate you have never been in these parts before?"
"No, never. You have a beautiful country here."
"The country's well enough, if we could clear off some
of them trees that stop a man every way he turns. Did
you come up from Lowiza to-day?"
" No; I have only ridden from the mouth of Blackberry,
I believe you call it. I have left a boat and crew there,
who will be up in the morning."
"What truck have you got on your boat?"
"Lumber and so forth, and plenty of tools of one sort or
other."
"Damn me if I don't believe you're the man who is
coming up here to open the coal mines on Burgess's land!"
And the w] ole crowd gathered round him.
He laughed good-naturedly.
"Yes, I am coming to live, among you. I hope you'U
give me a welcome."




408       A  Half-Life and Half a Life.
There was a cheery sound of welcome from the met, but
my father shook his head.
"We don't like no new-fangled notions, noways, up here,
and I'11 not say that I'm glad you're bringing them in;
but, at any rate, you're welcome here to-night."
The young man held out his hand.
"We are to be close neighbors, Squire Boarders, and I
hope we shall be good friends; but I ought to tell you all
about myself. Mr. Burgess's land has been bought by a
company, who intend to open the coal mines, as you know
and I am sent up here as their agent, to make ready for the
miners and the workmen. We shall clear away a little, and
put up some rough shanties, to make our men comfortable
before we go to work. We shall bring a new set of people
among you, those Scotch and Welsh miners; but I believe
they are a peaceable set, and we'11 try to be friendly with
each other."
The frank speech and the free, open face seemed to mole
lify my father.
" And how do you call yourself, stranger, when you are
at home?"
"My name is George Hammond."
"Well, as I was telling you, you're welcome here tonight, and I don't know as I've anything against your settling over the river on Burgess's land. The people round
here have been telling me your coming will be a good thing
for us farmers, because you'11 bring us a market for our
corn and potatoes; but I don't see no use of raising more
corn than we want for ourselves. We have enough selling
to do with our lumber, and you'11 be thinning out the trees.
-But there's my old woman's got her supper ready."
I listened as I waited on the table. The talk varied from
farming to mining and the state of the river, merging at last
into the politics of the country, and through the whole of it
I watched the stranger: noticed how different was his language from anything I had ever heard before; marked the
clear tones of his voice, and the distinctness of his ut-er



A  Half-Life anzd Half a Life.          409
ance, contrasting with the heavy, thick gutturals, the running of words into each other, the slovenly drawl of my
father and his men; watched his manner of eating, his neat
disposition of his food on his plate; saw him move his chair
back with a slight expression of annoyance, unmarked by
any one else, as Will Foushee spit on the floor beside him.
All this I observed, in a mood half envious, half sullen, --
a mood which pursued me that night into my little attic, as
I peevishly questioned with myself wherein lay the difference between us.
" Why is this man any better than Will Foushee or Ned
Burgess? He is no stronger nor better able to do a day's
work. Why am I afraid of him, when I don't care an acorn
for the others? Why do my father and the men listen to
him and crowd round him? What makes him stand among
them as if he did not belong to them, even when he talks of
what they know better than he? There is not a man round
Sandy that could make me feel as ashamed as that gentleman
did when he spoke to me this afternoon. Is it because he
is a gentleman?" And sullenly I resolved that I would be
put down by no airs. I was as good as he, and would show
him to-morrow morning that I felt so. Then came the bitter acknowledgment. "I am not as good as he is. I am
a stupid, ugly girl, who knows nothing but hateful housework and a little of the fields and trees; and he, - I sup-pose he has been to school, and read plenty of books, and
lived among quality." And I cried myself to sleep before
I had made up my mind fully to acknowledge his superiority.
It was one of my greatest pleasures to get up early. Our
people were not early risers, except when work pressed
upon them, and I often secured my only leisure hour for
the day by stealing down the staircase, out into the woods,
by early sunrise, when, wrapped in an old shawl, and sheltered from the dew by climbing into the lower branches cf
my pet maple, I would watch the fog reaching up the oppo.
site hills, putting forth as it were an arm, by which, stretched
i8




410       A  Hraf-Life and Half a Life.
far out over the trees, it seemed to lift itself from tie valley,
- or, perhaps carrying with me one of the few books which
made my library, I would spell out the sentences and attempt to extract their meaning.
They were a strange medley, my books; some belonging
to my step-mother, and others borrowed or begged from the
neighbors, or brought to me by the men, with whom I was
a favorite, and who knew my passion for reading. My
mother's books were mostly religious: a life of Brainerd,
the missionary, whose adventures roused within me a gleam
of religious enthusiasm; some sermons of the leading Methodist clergy, which, to her horror, I pronounced stupid; and
a torn copy of the " Imitation of Christ," a book which she
threatened to take from me, because she believed it had
something to do with the Papists, but to which, for that
very reason, I clung with a tenacity and read with an earnestness which brought at last its own beautiful fruits.
Then, there was the "Scottish Chiefs," a treasure-house
of delight to me, - two or three trashy novels, given me by
Tom  Salyers, of which my mother knew nothing, -and
(the only poetry I had ever seen) a song-book, which had,
scattered among its vulgarisms and puerilities, some gems
of Burns and Moore. These, my natural, unvitiated taste
had singled out, and I would croon them over to myself, set
them to a tune of my own composing, and half sing, half
chant them, when at work out-of-doors, till my mother de-.
clared I was going crazy.
This morning I did not read. I sat looking down into
the water from my perch, carrying on the inward discussion
of the night before, and wishing that breakfast-time were
come, that I might try my strength and show that I was
not to be put down by any assumption of superiority, when
suddenly a voice near me made me start so that I almost
lost my balance. Mr. Hammond was standing beneath.
He laughed, and held out his hand to help me down; but
I sprang past him and was on my way to the house, when
suddenly my brave resolutions came back to my mind, and




A  Half-Life and Half a Life.            411
I stood still with a feeling of defiance. I wondered what
he would dare to say. Would he tell me how stupid he
thought us all, how like the very pigs we lived? or would
he describe his own grand house and the great places he
had seen? I scowled up sullenly.
"Will you tell me where to find a towel, that I may wash
my face here by the river-side? "
I laughed aloud, and with that laugh fled my sullenness.
He looked a little puzzled, but went on, -
" I went to bed so early that I cannot sleep any longer;
and if I could only find some way of getting across the
river, I could get things under way a little before my men
come up."
There were ways, then, in which I could help him, -he
was not so immeasurably above me, -and down went my
defiant spirit. The towel, a crash roller, luckily clean, was
brought at once, and gathering courage as I stood by and
saw him finish his washing, I said,"I can scull you over -the river in a few minutes, if you
will go in our skiff."
" You? can you manage that shell of a thing? will your
father let you take it, Miss Boarders?"
"My name is Janet Rainsford, and Squire Boarders is
not my father," said I, some of my sullenness returning.
"If you will take me, Janet," said he, with the frank,
open-hearted tone which had won my step-father the night
before,  a tone before which my sullenness melted.
I jumped in, and, letting him pass me before I threw off
the rope, sculled the little dug-out into the middle of the
river. No boatman on the Sandy was more skilful than I
in the management of the little vessel, for in it most of my
leisure time had been passed for the last year or two. My
step-mother had scolded, my father grumbled, and the farmers' wives and daughters had shaken their heads and " allowed that Janet Rainsford would come to no good, if she
was let fool about here and there, like a boy."  But on that
point I was incorrigible; the boat was my 3ne escape fyom




4.12      A  Half-Life and Hal a Life.
my daily drudgery, and late at night and early in the morns
ing I went up and down among the shoals and bars, under
the trees and over the ripples, till every turn of the current
was familiar to me. I knew all the boatmen, too, up and
down the river, would pull along-side their rafts or pushingboats, and get from them a slice of their corn-bread or a
cup of coffee, or at least a pleasant word or jest. And none
but pleasant words did I ever receive from the rough, but
honorable men whom I met., They respected, as the roughest men will always do, my lonely girlhood, and felt a sort
of pride in the daring, adventurous spirit that I showed.
My knowledge of the river stood Mr. Hammond in good
stead that morning, as soon as I understood that he was
looking for a place where his men could land easily. It was
only to sweep round a small bluff that jutted into the river,
and carry the skiff into the mouth of Nat's Creek, where
the bank sloped gradually down to the water from a level
bit of meadow-land that extended back some rods before
the hills began to rise. Mr. Hammond leaped out.
"The very place, - and here, on this point shall be my
saw-mill. I'11 run the road through here and up the creek
to the mining-ground, and build my store under the ledge
there, and my shanties on each side of the road."
I caught his enthusiasm, and my shyness all gone, I
found myself listening and suggesting; more than that, I
found my suggestions attended to. I knew the river well;
I knew what points of land would be overflowed in the
June rise; I knew how far the backwater would reach up
the creek; I knew the least obstructed paths through the
woods; I could even tell where the most available timber
was to be found. I felt, too, that my knowledge was appreciated. George Hammond had that one best gift that belongs to all successful leaders, whether of armies, colonies,
or bands of miners; he recognized merit when he saw it.
From that morning a feeling of self-respect dawned upon
me, I was not so altogether ignorant as I had thought myself I had some available knowledge; and with that feeling




A  Half-Life and Half a Life.           413
tame the determination to raise myself out of that slough
of despond into which I had fallen the night before.
From that time a sort of friendship sprang up between
George Hammond and myself.  Every morning I rowed
him across the river, and, in the early morning light, before
the workmen were out of bed, he talked over, partly to himself and partly to me, his plans for the day and his vexations
of the day before, until I began to offer advice and make
suggestions, which made him laughingly call me his little
counsellor.
Then in the evenings (he slept at my father's) he would
pick up my books and amuse himself with talking to me
about them, laugh at my crude enthusiasms, clear up some
difficult passage, prune away remorselessly the trash that
had crept into my little collection, until. one day, returning
from Cincinnati, where business had called him, he brought
with hinl a store of books inexhaustible to my inexperienced eyes, and declared himself my teacher for the winter.
"Never mind Janet's knitting and mending, Mrs. Boarders," said he, in reply to my mother's complaints; "she is a
smart girl, and may be a schoolmistress yet, and earn more
money than any women on Sandy."
"But I am afraid," my step-mother answered, "that the
books she reads are not godly, and have no grace in them.
They look to me like players' trash. I've tried to do my
duty to Janet," she continued, plaintively; "but I hope the
Lord won't hold me accountable for her headstrong ways."
Meantime, as I read in one of my books, and repeated to
myself over and over again in my fulness of content, 
"How happily the days
Of Thalaba went by I"
How rapidly fled that winter, and how soon came the spring,
that would bring me, I thought, new hopes, new interests,
new companions!
How changed a scene did I look upon, that bright April
morning, when I went over the river to see that all was in
2A




414      A  Half-Life and Half a Life.
readiness for the boats from below which were to bring
Esther Hammond to her new home! She was to keep her
brother's house; and furniture, books, and pictures, such as
I had never dreamed of, had been sent up by the last-returning boatmen, all of which I had helped Mr. Hammond
to arrange in the little two-story cottage which stood on the
first rise of the hill behind the store.
A little plat of ground was hedged in with young Osageorange shrubs, and within it one of the miners, who had
formerly been an under-gardener in a great house in Scotland, had already prepared some flower-beds and sodded
carefully the little lawn, laying down the walks with brightcolored tan, which contrasted pleasantly with the lively
green of the grass. From the gate one might look up and
down the road, bordered on one side by the trees that hung
over the river, and on the other by the miners' houses, onestory cottages, each with its small enclosure, and showing
every degree of cultivation, from the neat vegetable-patch
and whitewashed porch of the Scotch families to the neglected waste ground and slovenly potato-patch of the Irishmen. There were some Sandians among the hands, but
they never could be made to take one of the houses prepared for the miners. They lived back on the creek, generally on their own lands, raised their corn and tobacco, cut
their lumber, and hunted or rode the country, taking jobs
only when they felt so inclined, but showing themselves
fully able to compete with the best hands both in skill and
in endurance, when they were willing to work.
On the side of the hill across the creek could be seen the
entrance to the mines, and down that hill were passing constantly the cars, loaded with earth and stone taken from the
tunnel, which fell with a thundering sound into the valley
beneath. Below me was the store, gay with its multifarious
goods, which supplied all the needs of the miners and their
wives, from the garden-tools and seeds for the afternoonwork to the gay-colored dresses for the Sunday leisure, -
where, too, on Saturday night, whiskey was to be had in




A  Half-Life and Half a Life.            415
exchange for the scrip in which their wages were paid, and
where, sometimes, the noise waxed fast and furious, till Mr.
Hammond would cut off the supply of liquor, as the readiest means of stilling the tumult.
On this side the river all was changed. But as I looked
that morning across the stream towards my step-father's
farm, my own home, everything there lay as wild and unimproved as I had known it since the first day my mother
brought me there, comfortless and disorderly as it was when,
child as I was, I could remember the tears of fatigue and
discouragement which she dropped upon my face as she
put me for the first time into my little crib; but there, too,
were still (and my heart exulted as I saw them) the glorious
water-maples, the giant sycamores, and the bright-colored
chestnut-trees, which I had known and loved so long.
Would Miss Hammond see how beautiful they were? would
she praise them as her brother had done? would she listen
as kindly to my rhapsodies about them? and would she say,
as he had said, that I was a poet by nature, with a poet's
quick appreciation of beauty and the poet's gift of enthusiastic expression? I could not tell whether Esther Hammond
would be to me the friend her brother had been, with the
added blessing, that, being a woman, I could go freely to
her with my deficiencies in sure dependence upon her aid
and sympathy, - or if she would come to stand between me
and him, to take away from me my friend and teacher. Time
alone would show; and meanwhile I must be busy with my
preparations, for the boats were expected at noon, and Mr.
Hammond, who had ridden down to Louisa to meet them,
had said that he depended upon me to have things cheerful
and in order when they arrived.
Two hours' hard work saw everything in its place, the
furniture arranged to the best of my ability, but wanting, as
I sorely felt, the touch of a mistress's hand to give it a
home-like look. I had done my best, but what did I know
of the arrangement of a lady's house? I hardly knew the
use of half the things I touched. But I would not let my




416       A  Half-Life and Half a Life.
old spirit of discontent creep over me now; so, betaking
myself to the woods, which were full of the loveliest spring
flowers, I brought back such a profusion of violets, springbeauties, and white bloodroot-blossoms, that the whole room
was brightened with their beauty, while their faint, delicate
perfume filled the air.
" Surely these must please her," I said to myself, as I put
the last saucerful on the table, and stepped back to see the
result of my work.
"They certainly will, Janet," said George Hammond, who
had entered behind me. " How well you have worked, and
how pleasant everything looks! Esther will be so much
obliged to you. She is just below, in the boat. Will you
not come with me and help her up the bank?"
But I hung back, bashful and frightened, while he called
some of the men to his assistance, and, hurrying down to
the river, landed the boat, and was presently seen walking
toward the house with a lady leaning upon his arm. I saw
her from the window. A tall, dignified woman, with a face,
- yes, beautiful, certainly, for there were the regular features, the dark eyes, with their straight brows, the heavy,
dark hair, parted over the fair, smooth forehead, but so
quiet, so cold, so almost haughty, that my heart stood still
with an undefined alarm.
She came in and sat down in one of the chairs without
taking the least notice of me. Mr. Hammond spoke," This is Janet Rainsford, my little friend that I told you
of, Esther. I hope you will be as good friends as we have
been. She will show you every beautiful place around the
country, and make you acquainted with the people, too."
Miss Hammond looked at me with a steadiness of gaze
under which my eyes sank.
" I shall not trouble the young person much, since I shall
only walk when you can go with me; and as for the people,
t is not necessary for me to know them, I suppose."
George Hammond bit his lip.
"Janet has taken great pains to put everything in order




A  Half-Life and Half a Life.           4I7
for us here. I should hardly know the room, it is so improved since I left it this morning."
"She is very kind," said his sister, languidly; "but,
George, how horribly this furniture is arranged,- the sofa
across the window, the centre-table in the corner! "
"0, you will have plenty of time to arrange it, Esther.
Come, let me show you your own room; you will want to
rest while your Dutch girl - what's her name? Catrine?
-gets us something to eat."
Miss Hammond followed her brother to her room, while,
mortified and angry with her, with myself, I escaped from
the house, jumped into my.skiff, and hardly stopped to
breathe till I had reached my own little garret. I flung myself on my bed, and burst into bitter tears of resentment
and despair. So, after all my pains, after my endeavors to
improve myself, after all I had done, I was not worth the
notice of a real lady. I supposed I was an uncouth, awkward girl, disagreeable enough to her; she would not want
to see me near her. All I had done was miserable; it
would have been better to let things alone. I never would
go near her again, - that was certain, - she should not be
troubled by me;   and my tears fell hot and fast upon my
pillow. Then came my old sullenness. Why was she any
better than I? Her brother thought me worth talking to;
could she not find me worthy of at least a kind look? Perhaps she knew more than I did of books: but what of that?
She had not half the useful knowledge wherewith to make
her way here in the woods. And what right had she to
bring her haughty looks and proud ways here among our
people? My sullenness gave way before my bitter disappointment and my offended pride. I was only a child of
sixteen, sensitive and distrustful of myself, and her cold
looks and colder words had keenly wounded me.
A week passed, in which I gave myself most earnestly to
the household tasks, going through them with dogged pertinacity and accomplishing an amount of work which made
my step-mother declare that Janet was coming back to her
18*




418       A  Half-Lzfe and ialf a Life.
senses after all. It was only my effort to forget my disap.
pointment.
On the Saturday evening when I sat tired out with my
exertions, Mr. Hammond came up the path. How my
heart leaped at seeing him! How good he was to come 
His sister had not taught him to despise me. But when
he asked me to come over the next day, and see what he
had done to his house and garden, the demon of sullen
pride took possession of me again. I would not go. I had
too much to do; my mother would want me to get the dinner. In short, I could not go. He bore it good-naturedly,
though I think he understood it, and, leaving with me a
package of books which he had promised me, said he must
go, as Esther would be waiting tea for him.
Many another endeavor did George Hammond make to
bring his sister and myself together, but the first impression had been too strong for me, and Miss Hammond made
no effort to remove it. I do not believe it ever crossed her
mind to try to do so. Little was it to her whether or no
she made herself pleasant to a stupid, ugly girl. She had
her books, her light household cares, her letter-writing, her
gardening, her walks and drives with her brother, and she
felt and.showed little interest in anything else. Very unpopular she was among the people around her, who con.
trasted her cold reserve with her brother's frank cordiality,
but she troubled herself not at all about her unpopularity.
For me, I kept shyly out of her way, and fell back into my
old habits.
I had not lost my friend, Mr. Hammond. He did not read
with me regularly as before, but he kept me supplied with
books, and the very infrequency of his lessons stimulated
me to redoubled effort, that I might surprise him by my
progress when we met again. Then there was scarcely a
day that some business did not take him past our house, or
that I did not meet him by the river-bank or at the store.
Sometimes he would ask me to row him down the stream
on some errand, sometimes he would take me with him in




A  HIflf-Life and Half a Life.           419
his rides. I was a fearless horsewoman and Miss Hammond did not ride. In all those meetings he was frank and
kind as ever; he told me of his plans, his annoyances, his
projects. No, I had not lost my friend, as I had feared,
and when assured of this, I could-do without Miss Hammond.
And so the weeks glided into months, and the months
into years, and I was nineteen years old. Four years had
passed since the morning when George Hammond first
awakened my self-esteem, first gave me the impulse to raise
myself out of my awkwardness and ignorance, to make of
myself something better than one of the worn, depressed,
dispirited women I saw around me. Had I done anything
for myself? I asked. I was not educated, I had no acquirements, so-called; but I had read, and read well, some good
and famous books, and I knew that I had made their contents my own. I was richer for their beauties and excellencies. With my self-respect had come, too, a desire to
improve my surroundings, and, as far as they lay under my
control, they had been improved. Our household was more
orderly; some little attempt at neatness and decoration was
to be seen around and in the house, and my own room,
where I had full sway, was beautiful in its rustic adornment.
My glass, too, the poor little three-cornered, paper-framed
companion of my girlhood, showed me some change. The
complexion had cleared, the hair had taken a decided brown,
and the angular figure had rounded and filled. It was hardly
a week since, standing in Miss Hammond's kitchen counting over with her servant-girl the basketful of fresh eggs
which were sent from our house every week, I had overheard Mr. Hammond say to his sister,
" Really, Janet Rainsford has improved so much that she
is almost pretty. Her brown hair tones so well with her
quiet eyes; and as to her mouth, it is really lovely, so finely
cut, and with so much character in it."
What was it to me that Miss Hammond's cold voice answered, -




420       A  Half-Life and Half a Life.
"I think you make a fool of yourself, George, and of that
girl, too, going on as you do about her. She will be entirely
unfitted for her state of life, and for the people she must
live with."
Her words had hardly time to chill my heart when it
bounded again, as I turned hurriedly away and passed
under the window on my way out, at hearing her brother's
answer: -
"There is too much in her to be spoiled. I like her.
She has talent and character, and I cannot understand,
Esther, why you are so prejudiced against her."'There were others besides Mr. Hammond who thought
ine improved and who liked me. Tom Salyers never let an
evening pass without dropping into our house on his way
home from the store, where he was a sort of overseer or
salesman,-never failed to bring in its season the earliest
wild-flower or the freshest fruit, - had thoroughly searched
Catlettsburg for books to please me, -nay, had once sent
an indefinite order to a Cincinnati bookseller to put up
twenty dollars' worth of the best books for a lady, wlich
order was filled by a collection of the Annuals of six years
back and a few unsalable modern novels. I read them all
most conscientiously and gratefully, and would not listen
for a moment to Mr. Hammond's jests about them: but, a
few weeks afterwards, I almost repented of my complaisance, when Tom Salyers took me at an advantage while
rowing me down to Louisa one afternoon, and, seeing a
long stretch of river before him without shoal or sand-bar,
leisurely laid up his oars, and, letting the boat float with
the stream, asked me, abruptly, to marry him, and go with
him up into the country to a new place which he meant to
clear and farm.
I laughed at him at first, but he persisted till I was forced
to believe him in earnest; and then I told him how foolish
he was to fan:y an ugly, sallow-looking girl like me, who
had no father nor mother, when he might take one of John
Mills's rosy daughters, or go down to Catlettsburg and get




A  Half-Life and Half a Life.            421
somebody whose father would give him  a farm  alrea'y
cleared.
"You are laughing at me, Janet," he said. "I know I
am not smart enough for you, nor hardly fit to keep companf with you, now that Hammond has taught you so many
things that are proper for a lady to know; but I love you
true, and if you can only fancy me, I'11 work so hard that
you 11 be able to keep a hired girl and have all your time
for reading and going about the woods as you like to do.
And you'11 be in your own house, instead of under Squire
Boarders and his sharp-spoken wife. Could n't you fancy
me after a while? I'd do anything you said to make
myself agreeable and fit company for you."
"You are very fit company for me now, Tom," I said,
"and you are of a great deal more use in the world than I
am; you know more that is worth knowing than I do.
Only let us be good friends, as we have always been, and
do not talk about anythifig else."
"I will not talk any more of it now," said he, " if so be
it don't please you, and if you'11 promise never to say any
more to me about the Mills gals, or any of them critters
down in Catlettsburg, - I can't abide the sight of them, 
and if you'11 let me come and see you all the same, and row
you about and take you to the mill when you want flour."
I held out my hand to Tom with the earnest assurance
that I always liked to see him and talk to him, and that there
was nobody whom I would sooner ask to do me a kindness.
The poor fellow choked a little as he thanked me, and
then, recovering himself, rowed a few strokes in silence,
when, looking round as if to assure himself that there was
nothing near us but the quiet trees, he said suddenly,I'11 tell you what, Janet, I've a great mind to tell you
something, seeing how you're not a woman that can't hold
her tongue, and then you think so much of Hammond."
I started with a quick sense of alarm, but Tom went
doggedly on.
"You know   hat a hard winter we've had, with this low




422       A  Half-Life and Half a Life.
water and no January rise, and all that ice in the Ohio.
They say they're starving for coal down in Cincinnati, and
here we've no end of it stacked up. Well, Hammond,
he's had hard work enough to keep the men along through
the winter. Many another man would have turned them
off, but he wouldn't do it; so he's shinned here and
shinned there to get money to pay them their wages, and
they've had scrip, and we've fairly brought goods up to
the store overland, on horseback and every kind of way,
just for their convenience; and now the damned Irish
rascals, with some of the Sandy boys for leaders, have
made up their minds to strike for higher wages the minute
we have a rise, just when we'11 need all hands to get the
coal off, and all those boats laying at the mouth, too. I
heard it day before yesterday, by chance like, when Jim
Foushee and the two O'Learys were sitting smoking on
the fence behind the store. The O'Learys were tight with
the Redeye they had aboard, and let it out in their stupid'colloguing,' as they call it; but Jim  Foushee saw me
standing at the window, and right away called in two or
three of the Sandy men and threatened my life if I told
Hammond. They have watched me like a cat ever since,
and never left me and Hammond alone together. They
are with Hammond now, launching a coal-boat, or 1'd
never have got off with you."
I sat breathless. I knew it was ruin to let the expected
rise pass without getting the coal-boats down; but what
could be done?
"Don't look so pale, Janet. You can tell Hammond, you
know, and he'11 find a way to circumvent them. And it
was to tell you all this that I brought you out here this
afternoon, only my unlucky tongue would talk of what I
see it's too soon to talk of yet. But here's Louisa, right
ahead. Make haste and get your traps, while I settle my
business and we'll be back, perhaps, in time for you to
manage some way to see Hammond to-night. Nobody
knows you went with me, and you'11 never be suspected."




A  HaZf-Life anzd Ha/f a Life.           423
Not Tom Salyers's most rapid and vigorous rowing could
make our little skiff keep pace with my impatience; but,
thanks to his efforts, the sun was still high when he landed
me in the little cove behind our house, where I could run
up through the woods to our back-door, while he pulled
boldly up to the store-landing and called some, of the men
to help him carry his purchases up the bank. I did not
stop for a word with my step-mother, but passing rapidly
through the house, threw my parcels on the bed in the
sitting-room, and, running down the walk to the maple-tree
under which my dug-out was always tied, jumped into it
and sculled out into the river. The coal-boat had just been
launched, and George Hammond was standing on the bank
superintending the calking of the seams which the water
made visible. I pushed up to the bank, and called to him
as I neared, 
"Can you not come, Mr. Hammond, a little way upstream with me? I have found those young tulip-trees that
you want for your garden; they are just round the bend
above Nat's Creek. Jim  Foushee will see to that work,
and I have just time to show them to you before supper."
I was a favorite with Jim Foushee. He laughed a joking
welcome to me, as he said, 
I'11 see to this, sir, if you want to go with Janet Rainsford. She's the gal that knows the woods. A splendid
Sandy wife you'11 make some young fellow, Janet, if you
don't get too book-learned."
In five minutes we were off and had rounded the point
out of sight and hearing. In a few hurried words I told
my story, but at first Mr. Hammond would not believe it.
"Those men that I've done so much for and worked so
hard for this winter!"
At last, convinced, his face set with the determined look
that I had seen on it once or twice before.
" I'11 not raise the wages of a single man, and, what's
more, I'd turn them all off the place, if only I could find
others. But those boats at Catlettsburg, they are the most




424       A  Half-Life and Half a L ife.
important  The company would send me up men from
Cincinnati, if only I could get word to them; but these
rascals will stop any letter I send. Those Sandians are
capable of it, —or rather they are capable of putting the
Irishmen up to doing their dirty work for them."
"A letter would be safe, if it once reached Catlettsburg?'
I asked.
" Certainly. But how to get it there?"
"I can take it. Nobody will suspect me. Give me the
letter to-night, and I will go to-morrow."
"You, Janet? you are crazy! "
"No, indeed. I often ride to Louisa; what is to hinder
me from having errands to Catlettsburg. I could go down
there in one day, and take two days back, if my father
thinks it is too much for old Bill to take it through in one."
"0, you could borrow Swiftfoot.  I have often lent him
to you, and he would carry you safely and surely.  I don't
believe any harm would come to you, and so much depends
upon it."
I turned the skiff decidedly.
"You have only to get your letter ready and give it to me
when I come over in the morning to borrow Swiftfoot. I
will take care of all the rest."
And, sculling rapidly, we were at the wharf again before
he had time to raise objections. I knew that I could persuade my mother into letting me go to Louisa again the
next day, for we needed all our spring purchases, — and
once there it was easy to find it necessary to go to the mouth.
I had never been alone, but often with my father or some of
our hands; besides, I was too well able to take care of myself, too accustomed to have my own way, to anticipate any
anxiety about my not returning.
And so it proved. The next morning saw me mounted
on Swiftfoot, the letter safe in my bosom, and a long list of
articles wanted in my pocket. What a lovely ride that was,
with the gentle, spir.ted horse of which I was so fond for a
companion, and my own beautiful forests.n all their'cveli'




A  Half-Life and Half a Life.          425
est spring green around me, with just enough of mystery
and danger in the expedition to add an exhilarating excitement, and with the happy consciousness that I was doing
something for Mr. Hammond, who had done so much for
me, to urge me on! I cantered merrily past Jim Foushee's
cornfield, and, nodding to him, as he stood in the door of his
log-house, I enjoyed telling him that I was going to Louisa
on a shopping expedition.  "Should I get anything for
him? He could see that Mr. Hammond had lent me Swiftfoot, so that I should soon be back, if I could buy all I
wanted in Louisa; if not, I did believe I should go on to
Catlettsburg: the ride would be so glorious!"
And glorious it was. I was happy in myself, happy in my
thoughts of my friend, happy in the physical enjoyment of
the air, the woods, the sun, the shade. Let me dwell on
that ride. I have not had many happy days, but that was
one which had its fulness of content. And I succeeded in
putting Mr. Hammond's letter into the Catlettsburg postoffice, made my little purchases, and turned my horse's head
homeward, reaching the end of my journey before my father
or step-mother had time to be anxious for me, and having a
chance to whisper, "All right," to Tom Salyers, as he took
my horse from me at the door of the store.
The long-expected rise came, and the strike came, Jim
Foushee heading it, and standing sullen and determined in
the midst of his party. Mr. Hammond was prepared for
them. The malcontents came to him in the store, where he
was filling Tom's place; for he had sent Tom to Catlettsburg, avowedly to prepare the boats there to meet the rise,
really to have him out of the way. Their first word was
met coolly enough.
"You will not work another stroke, unless I give you
higher wages, I understand, Foushee? And these men say
the same thing? You are their spokesman? Very well, I
am satisfied; you can quit work to-morrow. I have other
hands at the mouth for the boats there, and there is no hurry about the coal that lies here."




426       A  Half-Life and Hazlf a Life.
Foushee burst out with an oath,
"That damned Salyers is the traitor! mean, cowardly
rascal! "
But Mr. Hammond would not tell me more of what
passed; perhaps he was afraid of frightening me. This only he told me that night, when thanking me with glance,
voice, and pressure of the hand for all I had done for him.
The blood rushed quick and hot through my veins, I was
delirious with an undreamed-of happiness, which took away
from me all power of answering, of even raising my eyes to
his face. and the same delirium fbllowed'me to my pillow.
He had called me his friend, his little Janet, who was so
quick and ready, so fertile in invention, so brave in execution: what should he have done without me? J repeated
his words to myself till they lost all their meaning; they
were only replete with blissful content, and filled me with
their music till I dropped asleep for very weariness in saying them over.
The next morning, before I waked, George Hammond
had gone. He had left for Catlettsburg to direct the new
hands. The works lay idle, the men (those who had been
dismissed) lounged around gloomy and sullen, and so passed
the week. Then came the news that Mr. Hammond and
Tom Salyers had gone to Cincinnati, and would not return
for the present, and that such men as were satisfied with
the former wages were to be put to work again. Readily
did the miners come back to their duty, all but a few of the
Sandy men, who returned to their own homes, and all fell
into the usual train.
And I? There was first the calm sense of happy security, then the impatience to test again its reality, then the
longing homesickness of the heart. As weeks passed on
and I saw nothing of him, as I heard of his protracted stay,
as I saw Miss Hammond make her preparations to join
him, as I watched the boat which carried her away, my sense
of loneliness became too heavy for me, and the same pil.
low on which I had known those happy slumbers was wet
with tears of bitter despondency.




A  Half-Life and Half a Life.          427
And yet I understood neither the happiness nor the tears.
I did not know (how should I?) what were the new feelings
which made my heart beat at George Hammond's name. I
did not know why I yearned towards his sister with a
warmth of love that would fain show itself in kindly word
or deed. I did not know why the news that he was coming
again, which greeted me after long weeks of weariness,
brightened with joyful radiance everything that I saw, and
glorified the aspect of my little garret, as I had seen a brilliant bunch of flowers glorify and refine with a light of
beauty the every-day ugliness of our sitting-room.
I sang my merriest songs that night, and my feet kept
time to their music in almost dancing measures. The next
day, yes, by noon he would be at home. I could see his
boat land from my little window, and then, giving Miss
Hammond time to be safely housed, I would row myself
over to the store and meet him there. How much I should
have to tell him, how much to hear!
The morning came, and with it came a nervous bashfulness. I should never dare to go over to see him. No, I
would wait quietly until night, when he would surely con.e
himself to see me. Still I could watch his boat. And nervously did I stand, my face pressed against the windowpane, through the long morning hours, my sewing dropped
neglected in my lap at the risk of a scolding from my mother, watching the slow-passing river, and the leaves hanging
motionless over it in the stillness of the summer noon. At
last there was a stir on the opposite shore. Yes, the boat
must be in sight; I could even hear the shouts of the boatmen; and there, rounding the bluff, she was; there, too,
was Mr. Hammond in the stern, with the rudder in his
hand; there sat Miss Hammond, book in hand, with her
usual look of listless disdain. But whose was that girlish
face raised towards Mr. Hammond, while he pointed cut so
eagerly the surrounding objects? whose that slight, girlish
figure, crowned with the light garden-hat, with its wealth of
golden hair escaping from under it?




428      A  Half-Life and Half a Life.
A sharp pang shot through me. Some one was coming
to disturb my happy hours with my teacher and friend; and
the chill of disappointment was on me already. I saw the
boat land, saw George Hammond assist carefully every step
of the strange girl, saw an elderly gentleman step also upon
the bank and give his hand to Miss Hammond, and in two
minutes the trees of the landing hid them from my sight.
And how slowly went the hours of that afternoon! how
nervously I listened to every tread, to every click of the
gate! nay, my sharpened hearing took note of every sway
of the branches. But the day passed, the night, and no one
came.  The next morning brought with it an impatience
which mastered me. I must go, I must see him, and in
five minutes I was pushing my boat from its cove under the
water-maple.
But I needed not to have left my room; my visit would
be useless; for, lifting my eyes, as my boat came out from
under the leaves, there, on the path by the river-side opposite, I saw the strange lady mounted on Swiftfoot, her light
figure set off by a cloth riding-habit such as I had never
seen before, the graceful folds of which struck me even then
with a sense of beauty and fitness. I could even distinguish
the golden curls again, which fell close on George Hammond's face, as he stood by her side arranging her stirrup,
his own horse's bridle over his arm. A backward motion
of the oar sent my boat under the branches again, and I sat
motionless, watching them as they rode away.
Two hours afterward they stopped at our gate, and I
heard George Hammond's voice calling me.  The blood
rushed to my forehead. Had I been alone, I would not have
heard; but my mother was in the room, and I had no excuse for not going forward. He leaned from his horse and
shook hands cordially, while, at the same time, he said, —
" I have brought Miss Worthington to see you, Janet.
She has heard so much of your kindness to me, and of your
courage last spring, that she was anxious to know you.
"This is Janet Rainsford, Amy," he continued, turning to
her.




A  Half-Life and Half a Life.           429
The lovely, bright young face was bent towards me, the
tmny hand stretched out to mine, and I heard a gentle voice
say,
" Mr. Hammond has told me so much of you, Janet, (I
may call you Janet, may I not?) that I was determined to
come and see you. I hope we shall know each other."
A great fear seized me then,- a fear which seemed to
clutch my heart and stop its beatings, leaving me without
any power of reply. I only stammered a few words, and
Mr. Hammond, pitying what he thought my bashfulness,
rode on with a nod of farewell and some words, I could not
take in their sense, which'seemed to be requests that I
would teach Miss Worthington all that I knew of the woods
and the country.
I sat down with a stunned feeling, dizzied with the knowledge that seemed to blaze upon me with that horrid fear.
Yes, I knew now what it all meant, -the happiness, the
loneliness of the past weeks, the shrinking bashfulness of
yesterday morning, and the chill that fell upon me when I
first saw the stranger in the boat.
I loved George Hammond,  I, the country-girl, without
one beauty, one accomplishment, so ignorant, so beneath
him. I had been fool enough to fling away my heart,- and
now, now that it was gone from me, there came this terrible
fear. What was this young girl to him? Were my intuitions right? Did he love her? Would she take him away
from me? take away even that poor friendship which was all
I asked?
That night, - I cannot tell of it,-the rapid, wearying
walk from side to side of my little garret, the despairing
flinging myself on the bed, the restlessness that would
bring me to my feet again, the pressing my hot face against
the cool window-pane, the convulsive sobs with which the
struggle ended, the heavy, unrefreshing sleep that came at
last, and the dull wakening in the morning, when nothing
seemed left about my heart but a dead weight of insensibility.  But with the brightening hours came again the
2B




430       A  HaIlf- Life a n d Half a Life.
restlessness.  I would at least know the worst; let me face
all my wretchedness; it could not be but strength would
come to me when the worst was over.
And so I went doggedly through my morning tasks, and
the early afternoon saw me at the store. I would not go to
Miss Hammond's house, but I was sure to hear something
of the new-comers among the gossiping miners and workmen, - or, if not there, I had only to drop into some of the
cottages to learn from their wives all that they knew or imagined.  How  little I learned, -how little compared to
what my fierce, craving heart asked!
"Miss Worthington was here with her father; they had
come to see the mines, so they said; but who knows the
truth?  More like it was to be a wedding between the
young folks, and the father wanted to see the Sandy country
before he let his daughter come into it. She was a sweetspoken young thing,    not like Miss Hammond, with her
proud, quality airs."
But all this was only conjecture, and I must have certainty. The certainty came that evening. Mr. Hammond
passed the store as I was standing by the counter, and insisted that I should go home to tea with him. I had often
done so before, and had no excuse, even when he said, 
" I want so much to make Miss Worthington like our
Sandy people, Janet. I want her father to see that there are
people worth knowing even here. You will tell her of all the
pleasures we have, -our walks, our rides. You cannot be
afraid of her, dear Janet, -- she is so gentle, so lovely."
A strange feeling seized me, one mingled of gentleness
and bitterness. Yes, for his sake, I would help him. I
would do all I could to welcome to his home her who was
to be its blessing, and (here my good angel left me and some
evil one whispered) I would show her, too, that I was not
so altogether to be contemned; she should see that I was
not merely the poor country-girl she thought me. And all
I had of thought or feeling, all that George Hammond had
called my inborn poetry, came out that evening. I talked I




A  THalf-Life and Half a Life.          431
talked well, for I was talking of what I understood, - of my
own forests and streams, of the flowers whose haunts I
knew so well, of the changing seasons in their varying
beauty, -nay, as I gained courage, as I saw that I commanded attention, the books that I had read so well, the
thoughts of those great writers that I had made my own,
came to my aid, and quotation and allusion pressed readily
to my lips.
I saw Esther Hammond's cold look fixed upon my face,
but I dared it back again, and my color rose and my eye
sparkled from the excitement. I felt my triumph when I
saw the surprise on Mr. Hammond's face, when I heard the
patronizing tone of Mr. Worthington's voice changed to
one of equality, as he said, 
"You are a worthy champion of Sandy life, Miss Janet.
I believe Amy will be tempted to try it."
There was a quick blush on Amy's face as I turned to
look at it, and a glance of proud affection towards her from
George Hammond, which took away my false strength as I
stood, leaving me, weak and trembling, to seek my home in
the evening twilight.
That evening's short-lived triumph cost me dear.  It
betrayed my scarcely self-acknowledged secret to another.
Miss Hammond's woman's-eye had read the poor fool who
laid her heart open before her. I was made to feel my weakness before her the next morning, when, walking into our
kitchen, she asked, with her hard, yet dignified calmness,
that I should gather for her some of the Summer Sweetings
that hung so thick on the tree behind our house.
She followed me to the orchard. I gathered the apples
diligently and spoke no word, but not for that did I escape.
She stood calmly looking on till I had finished, then began
with that terrible opening from which we all shrink.
"I should like to speak to you a few moments, Janet."
I quailed before her, for I had somehow a perception of
what she was going to say, though I scarcely dreamed of the
hardness with which it would be said. The blow came,
however.




432       A  Half-Life and Half a Life.
"My brother has been in the habit of taking notice of
you ever since he has been on the Sandy, and he has been
of great advantage to you; but you must be aware that such
notice as he gave you when you were a mere child cannot
be continued now that you are a woman."
I bowed my head, and my lips formed something like a
"Yes."
She went on.
" I say this to you because I was surprised to find by your
behavior last night that you had allowed yourself to presume
upon that notice, and I do not suppose you know how unbecoming this is, from a person in your position, especially
before Miss Worthington."
I was stung into a reply.
"What is Miss Worthington to me?" came out sullenly
from my lips.
-" Nothing to you, certainly, nor can she ever be: but as
the future wife of my brother, she is something to me."
It was true, then; but so fully had I felt the truth before
that this certainty gave me no added pang. From its very
depths of despair I drew strength, and, my courage rising,
I had power even to look full at Miss Hammond, and
say,"You may be sure I shall never intrude myself on Mr.
Hammond's wife or sister, nor upon him, unless he desires
it, except, indeed, to wish him happiness."
My unexpected calmness roused her worst feelings, her
pride, her jealousy, and, with a woman's keen aim, she sent
the next dart home. So calmly she spoke, too, with such
command of herself, -with a lady-like self-control that I,
alas! knew not how to reach.
" I am happy to hear you say so, for there have been times
when your singular manner has made me fear that you
nourished some very false and idle dreams, -follies that I
have sometimes thought it my duty as a woman to warn.
you against"; and with one keen look at my burning face,
she took up the basket and walked away.




A  liat-Life and Half a Life.            433
I think at that moment I could have killed her, so bitter
was the hatred which I felt towards her; but the next
brought its crushing shame, taking away from me all but
the desire to hide myself from every eye. Where should I
go? Somewhere where nobody could find me, where I
could be insured perfect solitude. It was not difficult to
bury myself in the forest that pressed around me on every
side, and a few minutes saw me struggling with the embarrassments of the tangled vines which obstructed the path up
our steepest hill. There was in the very difficulties to be
overcome something that seemed to bring me relief; they
forced my mind from myself. On, on I went, as if my life
depended upon my struggles, till, breathless and utterly exhausted, I had reached the top of the hill, the highest point
for miles around.
I sank down on the cool grass, the fresh wind blowing on
my face, and, too wearied to think, shut my eyes against the
beautiful Nature around me, alive only to my own overpowering misery. How long I lay there I never knew. I
was safe and alone. I could be wretched as I pleased, away
from Miss Hammond's mocking eye, away from the sight
of George Hammond's happiness. But, strangely enough,
out of the very freedom to be miserable came at last a sense
of relief. I looked my wretchedness full in the face. Could
I not bear it? And there rose within me a strength I had
not known before. I was young, I had a long life before
me; it could not be but that this great sorrow would pass
away. At least I would not nourish it. I would do what I
could to help myself. Help mlyself!  For the first time in
my life I put up an earnest prayer for help out of myself.
The words, coming as such words come but few times in
life, out from the very depths of the heart, brought with
them their softening influence. The tears sprung forth,
those tears which I thought I should never shed again, and
I burst into a passionate fit of crying, the passionate crying
of a child. It shook me from head to foot with its hysterical convulsiors, but it left me at last calmer, soothed into
19




434       A  JlalJ-Life and Half a Life.
stillness, with only now and then those choking after-sobs
which I, child-like, sent forth there on the bosom of the
only mother I had ever known, - our kindly mother Earth.
The sun was going down when I rose up, soothed and
comforted, and strengthened, too, for a time. I would do
what I could. I would live down this grief: how I knew
not, but the way would come to me. And gathering up my
hair, which had fallen around me, I stopped, on my way
home, by a running stream, and bathed my eyes and forehead until I was fit to appear before my step-mother. She
did not question me: she was too used to my unexplained
absences since I had grown out of her control. Sufficient
for her that my tasks were always performed; sufficient for
her, that, that very evening, I threw myself with an apparently untiring energy into the household work, —that I
never rested a moment till she herself closed the house and
insisted that I should go to bed. I slept that night, -after
such fatigue, it was impossible but that I should, -and
woke in the morning with a renewed determination to struggle against my sorrow.
Alas! alas! I thought I had only to resolve. I thought
the struggle would be but once. How little I knew of the
daily, almost hourly, changes of feeling, - of the despondency, the despair, that would come, I knew  not why,
directly upon my most earnest resolves, my hardest struggles, -of the weakness that would make me at times give
up all struggling as useless, - of the mad hope that would
sometimes arise that something, some outward change, I did
not dare to say what, would bring me some relief!
I had at least the courage to keep away from the sight of
all that was so miserable to me. I did not see George Hammond for weeks, and he, -ah! there was the bitterness,he did not miss me.
And so the weary days went on. It is wonderful what
endurance there is in a young heart, - for how long a time
it can beat off sufferirg all day by unceasing labor, and lie
awake all night with that same suffering for a bedfel



A  IHalf-Life and Half a Life.           435
low, and still make no sign that a careless eye can see. I
look at that time now with wonder. How did I bear that
constant occupation by day, alternated only with those sleepless nights, without breaking down entirely?  The crisis
came at last, —a sort of stupor, a cessation of suffering
indeed, but a cessation, too, of all feeling. I was frightened
at myself. Alas! I had no one to be frightened for me.
Could it be that I was going to lose my senses? But no, I
passed through that too, and then came a more natural state
of mind than any I had known since the blow fell.
My suffering self seemed like something apart from me,
which I could pity and help, could counsel and act for, and
this one thing came clear to me. Some change of scene
was necessary to me. I could never go on so; it was idle
to attempt it. I could not live any longer face to face with
my grief. There was the whole world before me. Was it
not possible to go out into it? I had health, strength, ability, I was sure of it. How often before had I dreamed over
the seeking my fortune in that world which looked to me
then so full of excitement? Nothing had held me back then
but the clinging to home-pleasures, to home-enjoyments, to
home-comforts, poor as they were, - nothing but the sense
of safety, of protection. What were these to me now? I
cared nothing for them. I only asked to be away from all that
reminded me of my suffering, to be so forced to struggle with
external difficulties as to have no thought for myself. I did
not want to love anybody; I would rather have nobody care
for me. I would go. The only question was how.
A few days and nights of thought solved the problem for
me, and, once roused to action, I took my steps rapidly and
well. The first thing necessary was money, money enough
to take me away, and to support me until I could find employment; and the means of attaining it were within my
reach. I owned a watch that had been my mother's, a
pretty trinket, though somewhat old-fashioned, and which
had often excited the envy of the young wife of one of the
head miners. I knew that her husband was flush of nonef




436       A  Half-Life and Ha/f a Life.
just then, for he had drawn his wages only the week before,
-and I knew, too, that he would give me a good price for
my watch, were it only to gratify the bride to whom he had
as yet denied nothing.
The sale was made at once.  I do not know if I got
anything like the value of the watch, but the next day saw
me with fifty dollars in my pocket, a small bundle, made up
from the most available part of my wardrobe, under my
arm, prepared to walk to Louisa, avowedly to buy supplies,
but with the secret determination to meet there the coalboats which were bound for the mouth, ask a passage on
them as far as Catlettsburg, and there take the first steamer
that passed, and let it carry me whither it would.
There was no pause of regret, no delay for parting looks
or words; from the moment that I had made up my mind to
go, I felt nothing but a desperate eagerness to be away, to
be in action. The few words necessary to prepare my stepmother for my ostensible errand were soon said, the goodmorning calmly spoken, and I passed into the forest-path
leading to the town. A pang smote me as I remembered
her conscientious discharge of duty toward me for so many
years; but it was duty, not love, that had urged her, and
while I said that to myself, I said, too, that time would bring
to me the opportunity of repaying her.
Toward the settlement on the opposite shore I turned no
look. I would not trust myself; I knew my own weakness
too well; this desperate energy which was carrying me on
now would fail, if I allowed my heart one moment's indulgence. Steadily I walked on through the woods, my own
woods, which, perhaps, I should never see again, till wearied
out by the exertion, which had precluded thought, I saw the
houses of Louisa rise before me.
The boats lay at the fork above the town. I had informed
myself of their movements, and knew they were to start at
noon. A few inquiries for groceries and so forth, where I
knew they could not be gotten, gave me an excuse for the
proposition to the captain of the boats to give me a passage




A  Half-Life and Half a Life.            437
to Catlettsburg. It was readily granted, and the crew, most
of them Sandy men, put up a rough awning, and, spreading
under it some blankets, did their kind uttermost to make me
comfortable.
I remember now, as one looks back into a dream, the
afternoon and night that passed before we reached Catlettsburg. I lay perfectly quiet, watching tie shadowy trees as
we glided past them, noting their varied reflections in the
water, marking every peculiarity of shore and stream, hearing the jests and laughter, the words of command and the
oaths, that went round among the boatmen; but all passed
as something with which I had nothing to do. To me
there was the burning desire to put a great distance between
myself and my home, -but with it, too, the consciousness,
that, as I could do nothing to expedite our slow progress,
so neither could I afford to waste upon it in impatient restlessness the strengthwhich would be so much needed afterwards. The men brought me a cup of coffee from their
supper, which gave me strength for the night. The biscuit
I could not taste.
But how long was that night! how tedious the summer
dawn! and how slowly went the hours till we brought up
our boats at the landing at Catlettsburg!
I had formed my plans; so, telling the captain that I
might perhaps want to go back with him, I hurried into the
town. A steamboat lay by the wharf-boat. "The Bostona,
for Cincinnati," said the board displayed over her upper
railing. She was to leave at eight o'clock. I walked about
the town till half-past seven; then, returning to the coalboats, gave to the man left in charge a letter I had prepared
in which I told my step-mother, in as few words as possible,
that I wanted to see something of the world, and had determined to go for a tiwe either to Cincinnati or to Pittsburg,
-that I begged her not to be uneasy about me, I had sold
my watch, and had money enough for the present; she
should hear from me in due time. The man took the letter,
with some remark on my not returning with them, and, with




438       A  Half-Life and Half a Lfe.
a quiet good-day, I left him and walked rapidly toward the
steamer.  The plank was laid from the wharf-boat, and,
without daring to hesitate, I walked over it.
It was done. I was fairly separated from everything I
had ever known before; everything now was new to me; I
was ignorant of all around me; each step might be a mistake. I felt this, when a porter, stepping forward and taking
my bundle, asked me if I would have a state-room. What
was a state-room? I did not know, but saying " Yes," with
a desperate feeling that it might as well be "yes " as "no,"
I was led back to the ladies' cabin, a key was turned in one
of an infinite number of little doors, and I was ushered into
what looked to me like a closet, with shelves made to take
the place of beds. Here at least I was alone, and here I
could be alone till dinner-time; till then there was no call
for action on my part.
And how precious seemed to me every hour of rest!
Singularly enough, my great sorrow did not come back
to me in those pauses of action.  I seemed then to be
entirely absorbed in gathering strength for the next occasion; my grief was put away for the future, when there
would come to me the time to indulge it.
So I lay quiet during that morning, looking sometimes
through my little window at the passing shore, listening
sometimes to the loud talking in the cabin, sometimes to the
noises on the boat, wondering if all those strange creakings
and shakings could be right, but finding a sense of security
in my very ignorance. Dinner came, and in the course of
it I found courage to ask the "captain, at whose right hand I
was placed, what time we should reach Cincinnati. " Not
till after breakfast," was his welcome answer; for I had
been haunted by a dread of being set adrift in a great city
in the middle of the night, when I might perhaps fall into
some den of thieves.  I had read of such things in my
books. This gave me still the afternoon before it would be
necessary to think, some hours more in which to rest mind
and bodyl.




A  Half-Life and Half a Life.            439
The night came at last, and I must decide what step to
take next, that, my mind made up, I might perhaps get
some sleep. I turned restlessly in my narrow bed, got up
and stood at the window, tried first the upper shelf, and
then the lower, but no possible plan presented itself. I still
saw before me that terrible city where I should be ten times
lonelier than in the midst of our forests, where I should
make mistakes at every turn, where I should not know one
face out of the many thousands that crowded upon my
nervous fancy. I seemed to be afraid of nothing but human
beings, and, at the thought of encountering them, my woman's heart gave way. In vain I reasoned with myself, " I
shall not see all Cincinnati at once, - not more at one time,
perhaps, than I saw to-day at dinner." Still came up those
endless streets, all filled with strange faces; still I saw myself pushed, jostled, by a succession of men and women
who cared nothing for me. Suddenly came the thought,
"Tom Salyers is in Cincinnati. There is one person there
that I know. If I could only find him, he would take care
of me till I knew how to take care of myself."
There came no remembrance of our last conversation to
check my eager joy. Indeed, it had never made much impression upon me, followed as it had been by so much of
nearer interest. I set myself to reflect on the means of
finding him. He had gone down in the employ of the coal
company. The captain could tell me where to look for him,
and, satisfied with that, I laid my weary head on my pillow.
The next morning at breakfast I gained the needed information. " Did I want to find one of the men in Mr. Hammond's employment? I must go to the coal-yard"; and
the direction was written out for me.
And now we neared the city. I stood on the guards and
looked, wondering at the steamboats that lined the riverbank, at the long rows of houses that stretched before me,
the tall chimneys vomiting smoke which obscured the surrounding hills, at the crowd of men and drays on the landing through which I was to make my way; but my courage




440       A  Half-Life and Half a Life.
rose with the occasion, and, stepping resolutely from the
plank, I walked up the hill and stood among the warehouses. I had been told to "turn to the right and take the
first street, I could not miss my way "; but somehow I did
miss my way again and again, and wandered weary and bewildered, not daring at first to ask for directions, till, gathering strength from my very weariness, I at last saw before
me the welcome sign. It was something like home to see
it; the familiar names cheered me while they moved me. I
entered the office trembling with a wild dread lest I should
meet Mr. Hammond there, but the sight of a stranger's
face at the desk gave me courage to ask for Tom Salyers.
"He is in the yard now. Here, Jim,. tell Salyers there's
a person "-he hesitated -   a lady wants to see him."
I sat down in a chair which was luckily near me, for my
knees trembled so that I could not stand, and as the door
opened and Tom's familiar face was before me, my whole
composure gave way and I burst into a violent fit of crying.
"Janet! is it you? For Heaven's sake, what is the
matter? "
But I could only sob in answer.
" Has anything happened up Sandy? Did you come for
me?"
The poor fellow leaned over me, his face pale with surprise and agitation.
" Take me out of here! " was all I could muster composure enough to say.
He opened the door, and I escaped into the open air.
We walked side by side through the streets, he silently respecting my agitation with a delicacy for which I had not
given him credit, and I struggling to grow calm. At last he
opened a little side-gate.
"Come in here, Janet; we shall be quiet here."
And I entered a sort of garden; the grounds belonging
to the city water-works I have since known them to be.
We sat down on a bench that overlooked the Kentucky hills.
I love the seat now. I think the sight of the familiar fields




A  IHalf-Life and Half a Life.         441
and trees calmed me, and I was able at last to answer
Tom's anxious questions.'It is nothing; indeed, it is nothing. I am a foolish
coward, and I was frightened walking through the city, and
then the sight of a home-face upset me."
"But, Janet, why are you here?  Is anything wrong
about the works, the men? Did Mr. Hammond send you
down? "
" No, indeed, no! it was only a fancy of mine to see the
world. I am tired of that lonely life, and you know I am not
needed there. My mother can get along without me, and I
am only a burden to my father."
" Not needed? Why, Janet, what will the Sandy country
be without you?"
My eyes filled up with tears again.
"Don't ask me any more questions, dear Tom; only
help me for a little while, till I can help myself. I want to
earn my living somehow, but I have money enough to live
upon till I can find something to do. Only find me a place
to stay quietly in while I am looking for work. You are the
only person I know in this great city; and who will help
me, if you do not?"
" You know I will help you with my whole heart and soul,
Janet," he said, his voice faltering. 
I looked up, and in one moment rushed back upon me
the remembrance of his words that day in the boat, and I
stood aghast at the new trouble that seemed to rise before
me. My voice must have changed as I said,
" I only want you to find me a place to live in; I can take
care of myself"; for his countenance fell, and he sat silent
for some moments.
At last he spoke:
" I know I cannot do much, Janet, but what I can, I will.
And, first, I will take you to the house of a widow-woman
who has a room to let; one of our men wanted me to take
it, but it was too far from my work. I went to see the place,
though, and it is quiet and respectable; the woman looks
19*




442       A  Half-Life and Half a Life.
kind, too. Would you walk slowly down the street, while I
go to the office and get my coat? "- he was in his working.
dress, -" and then I'11 join you."
I got up, feeling that I had chilled him in some way, and
reproaching myself for it. When he rejoined me, we walked
silently on, till, after many a turning, we found ourselves in
a narrow, quiet street, before a small house, with a tiny yard
in front. I do not know how the matter was arranged; he
did it all for me. There was the introducing me to a motherly-looking person, as a friend of his from the country; the
going up a narrow staircase to look at a small room of
which all that could be said was that it was neat and clean;
the bargaining for my board, in which I was obliged to answer "Yes " and "No" as I could best follow his lead;
and then Tom left me with a shake of the hand, and the advice that I should lie down and rest after my tedious journey; he would see me again in the evening.
The quiet dinner with my landlady, the afternoon rest,
the fresh toilet, the sort of home-feeling that my room already gave me, all did their part towards bringing back my
usual composure before Tom came in the evening; and
then, sitting by the window in the little parlor, I could talk
rationally of my plans for the future.
I had money enough for twelve weeks' board, even if I
reserved ten dollars for other expenses.  Surely, in that
time I could find something to do. And as to what I should
do, I had thought that all over before I left home. I might
find some sewing, or tend in a store, or, perhaps, - did he
think I could?- I might keep school.
Tom would not hear of my sewing. He knew poor girls
that worked their lives out at that. I might tend in a store,
if I pleased, but still he did not believe I would like to be
tied to one place for twelve hours in the day. Why should
n't I keep school? he was sure I knew enough, I was so
smart, and had read so many books.
I shook my head. I did not believe the books I had read
were the kind that school-mistresses studied. Still, I could




A  Hal/f-Life and Half a Life.         443
learn, and certainly I might begin by teaching little children,
But where was I to begin?
"If only we knew some gentleman, Janet, some city-man,
who knew what to do about such things."
Suddenly a thought struck me.
"Tom, do you remember those gentlemen who came up
to look at the coal mines when they were first opened?
One of them stayed at our house two nights, and saw my
books, and talked to me about them. Mr. Kendall was his
name."
"That's the very man; and a kind-hearted gentleman
he seemed, not stuck up or proud. I'11 find him out for
you, Janet, to-morrow; but there's no need of your hurrying yourself about going to work. You must see the city
and the sights."
And Tom grew enthusiastic in describing to me all that
was to be seen in this wonderful place.
Tom had altered, had improved in appearance and manners. since he had known something of city-life. I could
not tell wherein the change lay, but I felt it. He told me
of himself, - of his rising to be head-man, a sort of overseer, in the coal-yard, - of his good wages, - of some investments that he had made which had brought him in good
returns.
"So you see, Janet, that, even if you were not so rich
yourself, I have plenty of money at your service."
I thanked him most heartily, and roused myself to show
some interest in all that concerned him.
So passed the rest of the week, -quiet days with my
landlady, or in my room, where I busied myself in putting
my wardrobe into better shape under the direction of Mrs.
Barnum, and quiet walks and talks in the evening with Tom
Salyers. It was evident that he was not satisfied with my
alleged motives for leaving home, but I so steadily avoided
all conversation on this point that he learned to respect my
silence. On Sunday he told me he had found out who Mr.
Kendall was.




444      A  Half-Life and Half a Life.
"One of the stockholders of the Company, and a good
man, they say. I'11 go to him to-morrow, if you say so, Janet, and ask him anything you want to know."
" No, Tom, I shall go myself. It is my business, and I
must not let you do so much for me. If you will go with
me, though," —I added.
And so the next morning saw us at Mr. Kendall's counting-room. It was before business-hours: we had cared for
that.  We found Mr. Kendall sitting leisurely over his
papers, his feet up and his spectacles pushed back. I had
been nervous enough during the walk, but a glance at his
face reassured me. It was a good, a fatherly face, full of
bonhommie, but showing, withal, a spice of business-shrewdness. I left Tom standing at the counting-room door, and,
taking my fate in my own hands, walked forward and made
myself known.
"0 yes! the little girl that Hammond thought so much
of, that he talks about so often when he is down here. He
thinks a school or two would bring the Sandy people out
and holds you up as an example; but, for my part, I think
you are an exception. There are not many of them that
one could do much with."
I turned quickly.
"This is Tom Salyers, sir, head-workman, overseer, at
your coal-yard, and he is a Sandy man."
Mr. Kendall laughed.
" I see I must not say anything against the Sandy country; nor need I just now. Walk in, Mr. Salyers. So, Miss
Janet, you have come down to seek your fortune, earn your
living, you say. I suppose Hammond sent you to me. Did
you bring me a letter from him?"
I hesitated.
"No, sir. Mr. Hammond was so much occupied when I
came away that I had not seen him for a day or two. He
has friends staying with him."
" True enough. Mr. Worthington has gone up there with
his pretty daughter to see whether he can allow her to bury




A  Half-Life and Half a Life.           445
herself in the country. You saw Miss Worthington? Will
she be popular among your people when she is Mrs. Hammond? "
I caught a glimpse of Tom's face, and felt myself turning
pale as I answered, with a composure that did not seem to
come from my own strength, 
Miss Worthington is a very pleasant-spoken young lady.
The people will like her, because she seems to care for them:
just as Mr. Hammond does. But do you think, sir, that you
could put me in the way of teaching school? Could I learn
how to do it?"
6 Well, I am just the right person to come to, Miss Janet,
for the people have put me on the School Board, and-yes,
we shall want some teachers next month in two of the primary departments. Could you wait a month? You might
be studying up for your examination; it's not much, but it'11 not hurt you to go over their arithmetics and grammars.
And I must write to Hammond to-day about some business
of the Company. I'11 ask him about your qualifications,
and what he thinks of it, and we'11 see what can be done. I
should not wonder if I could get you a place."
Mr. Kendall shook hands with us both; and, bidding him
good-morning, with many thanks for his kindness, we went
out. We walked a square silently. Suddenly Tom turned
to me:"You did not tell me, Janet, of this young lady."
s No."
"And is Mr. Hammond going to marry her?"
The blood rushed to my face till it was crimson to the
very hair, while I stammered,' I do not know, - you heard Mr. Kendall."
Tom's voice was as gentle as a mother's in answer, but
iis words had little to do with the subject, they were almost
as incoherent as mine, - something about his hoping I
would like living'in Cincinnati, that teaching would not be
too tiresome for me. But from that moment George Hammond's name was never mentioned between us.
20




446       A  Half-Life and Half a Life.
I wrote that day to my step-mother, telling her of my
plans and prospects, and that evening Tom brought me the
needed school-books. He had found them by asking some
of the men at the yard whose children went to the public
schools, and to the study of them I sat down with a determination that no slight difficulty could subdue. The next
week brought a long, kind letter from Mr. Hammond, scolding me for going as I did, and declaring that he missed me
every day.
"But more than all shall I miss you, Janet, when I bring
Miss Worthington back as my wife; I had depended so
upon you as a companion for her. But still it is a good
1tiing for you to see something of the world, and you are
bright enough to do anything you set out to do. I have
written to Mr. Kendall to do all he can for you, and with Tom
to take care of you I am sure you will get along. I begin
to suspect that your going away was a thing contrived between Tom and yourself. Who knows how soon he may
bring you back among us to show the Sandy farmers' wives
how to live more comfortably than some of them do? Tom
has a very pretty place below the mouth of Blackberry, if
you would only show him how to take care of it."
There was comfort in this letter, in spite of the tears it
caused me. My secret was safe. Miss Hammond had not
been so cruel, so traitorous to her sex, as to betray it. If
she had not told it now, she never would tell it, and Tom, if
he suspected it, was too good, too noble, to whisper it even
to himself. So I laid away my letter, and with a lighter
heart turned again to my tasks.
And now three months have passed, for two of which I
have been teaching. There are difficulties, yes, and there is
hard work; but I can manage the children.  I have the
tact, the character, the gift, that nameless something which
gives one person control over others; and for the studies,
they are as yet a pleasure to me. I see how they will lead me
on to other knowledge, how I may bring into form and make
available my desultory reading, and there is a great pleasure




A    lfaf-Life and Half a Life.           447
fn the very study itself. And for the rest, if my great grief
is never out of mind, if it is always present to me, at least I
can put it back, behind my daily occupations and interests.
I begin, too, to see dimly that there are other things in life
for a woman to whom the light of life is denied. My heart
will always be lonely; but how much there is to live for in my
mind, my tastes, my love for the beautiful! My little room
has taken another aspect. I have so few wants that I can
readily devote part of my earnings to gratifying myself with
books, pictures. Such lovely prints as I find in the printshops! and the flowers, — Tom Salyers, who is as kind as a
brother, brings me them from the market. And then everything is so new to me; there is so much in life to see, to
know.  No, I will not be unhappy; happy I suppose I can
never be, but I have strength and courage, and a will to rise
above this sorrow which once crushed me to the ground.
When I wrote the bitter words with which this record begins, I wronged the kind hearts that are around me, I
lacked faith in that world wherein I have found helo and
comfort.
+i




THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY.
SUPPOSE that very few casual readers of the
New York Herald of August I3th observed, in
an obscure corner, among the "Deaths," the
announcement, 
"NOLAN. Died, on board U. S. Corvette Levant, Lat. 2~ II
S., Long. I310 W., on the IIth of May, PHILIP NOLAN."
I happened to observe it, because I was stranded at the
old Mission-House in Mackinaw, waiting for a Lake-Superior steamer which did not choose to come, and I was devouring to the very stubble all the current literature I could get
hold of, even down to the deaths and marriages in the Herald. My memory for names and people is good, and the
reader will see, as he goes on, that I had reason enough to
remember Philip Nolan. There are hundreds of readers
who would have paused at that announcement, if the officer
of the Levant who reported it had chosen to make it thus:
-"Died, May I th, THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY."
For it was as "The Man without a Country" that poor
Philip Nolan had generally been known by the officers who
had him in charge during some fifty years, as, indeed, by all
thle men who sailed under them. I dare say there is many
a man who has taken wine with him once a fortnight, in a
three years' cruise, who never knew that his name was
"Nolan," or whether the poor wretch had any name at all.
There can now be no possible harm in telling this poor
creature's story. Reason enough there has been till now,




The Man without a Country.             449
ever since Madison's Administration went out in 1817, for
very strict secrecy, the secrecy of honor itself, among the
gentlemen of the navy who have had Nolan in successive
charge. And certainly it speaks well for the esprit de corps
of the profession and the personal honor of its members, that
to the press this man's story has been wholly unknown,
-and, I think, to the country at large also. I have reason
to think, from some investigations I made in the Naval
Archives when I was attached to the Bureau of Construction, that every official report relating to him was burned
when Ross burned the public buildings at Washington.
One of the Tuckers, or possibly one of the Watsons, had
Nolan in charge at the end of the war; and when, on
returning from his cruise, he reported at Washington to one
of the Crowninshields, -who was in the Navy Department
when he came home,-he found that the Departmentignored the whole business. Whether they really knew
nothing about it, or whether it was a "Non  mi ricordo,"
determined on as a piece of policy, I do not know. But
this I do know, that since 1817, and possibly before, no
naval officer has mentioned Nolan in his report of a
cruise.
But, as I say, there is no need for secrecy any longer.
And now the poor creature is dead, it seems to me worth
while to tell a little of his story, by way of showing young
Americans of to-day what it is to be
A MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY.
Philip Nolan was as fine a young officer as there was in
the " Legion of the West," as the Western division of
our army was then called. When Aaron Burr made his
first dashing expedition down to New Orleans in 1.805, at
Fort Massac, or somewhere above on the river, he met,
as the Devil would have it, this gay, dashing, bright young
fellow, at some dinner-party, I think. Burr marked him,
talked to him, walked with him, took him a day or two's
cc




450        The MHan without a Country.
voyage in his flat-boat, and, in short, fascinated him. Foi
the next year, barrack-life was very tame to poor Nolan.
He occasionally availed of the permission the great man
had given him to write to him. Long, high-worded, stilted
letters the poor boy wrote and rewrote and copied. But
never a line did he have in reply from the gay deceiver.
The other boys in the garrison sneered at him, because he
sacrificed in this unrequited affection for a politician the
time which they devoted to Monongahela, sledge, and highlow-jack. Bourbon, euchre, and poker were still unknown.
But one day Nolan had his revenge. This time Burr came
down the river, not as an attorney seeking a place for his
office, but as a disguised conqueror. He had defeated I
know not how many district-attorneys; he had dined at I
know not how many public dinners; he had been heralded
in I know not how many Weekly Arguses, and it was rumored that he had an army behind him and an empire
before him. It was a great day-his arrival-to poor
Nolan. Burr had not been at the fort an hour before he
sent for him. That evening he asked Nolan to take him
out in his skiff, to show him a canebrake or a cotton-wood
tree, as he said, — really to seduce him; and by the time
the sail was over, Nolan was enlisted body and soul. From
that time, though he did not yet know it, he lived as A MAN
WITHOUT A COUNTRY.
What Burr meant to do I know no more than you, dear
reader. It is none of our business just now. Only, when
the grand catastrophe came, and Jefferson and the House of
Virginia of that day undertook to break on the wheel all the
possible Clarences of the then House of York, by the great
treason-trial at Richmond, some of the lesser fry in that
distant Mississippi Valley, which was farther from us than
Puget's Sound is to-day, introduced the like novelty on their
provincial stage, and, to while away the monotony of the
summer at Fort Adams, got up, for spectacles, a string of
court-martials on the officers there. One and another of
the colonels and majors were tried, and, to fill out the list,




The Man witAzout a Country.           451
little Nolan, against whom, Heaven knows, there was evidence enough, - that he was sit k of the service, had been
willing to be false to it, and would have obeyed any order
to march any-whither with any one who would follow him,
had the order only been signed, " By command of His Exc.
A. Burr."  The courts dragged on. The big flies escaped,
-rightly for all I know. Nolan was proved guilty enough,
as I say; yet you and I would never have heard of him,
reader, but that, when the president of the court asked him
at the close, whether he wished to say anything to show that
he had always been faithful to the United States, he cried
out, in a fit of frenzy, 
" D-n the United States! I wish I may never hear of
the United States again! "
I suppose he did not know how the words shocked old
Colonel Morgan, who was holding the court. Half the officers who sat in it had served through the Revolution, and
their lives, not to say their necks, had been risked for the
very idea which he so cavalierly cursed in his madness.
He, on his part, had grown up in the West of those days, in
the midst of " Spanish plot," " Orleans plot," and all the
rest. He had been educated on a plantation where the
finest company was a Spanish officer or a French merchant
from Orleans. His education, such as it was, had been perfected in commercial expeditions to Vera Cruz, and I think
he told me his father once hired an Englishman to be a private tutor for a winter on the plantation. He had spent
half his youth with an older brother, hunting horses in Texas; and, in a word, to him " United States" was scarcely
a reality. Yet he had been fed by " United States " for all
the years since he had been in the army. He had sworn on
his faith as a Christian to be true to " United States." It
was " United States" which gave him the uniform he wore,
and the sword by his side. Nay, my poor Nolan, it was
only because " United States " had picked you out first as
one of her own confidential men of honor that " A. Burr "
cared fcr you a straw more than for the flat-boat men who




452        The Man without a Country.
sailed his aik for him. I do not excuse Nolan; I only explain to the reader why he damned his country, and wished
he might never hear her name again.
He never did hear her name but once again. From that
moment, September 23, 1807, till the day he died, May ii
1863, he never heard her name again. For that half-century
and more he was a man without a country.
Old Morgan, as I said, was terribly shocked. If Nolan
had compared George Washington to Benedict Arnold, or
had cried," God save King George," Morgan would not have
felt worse. He called the court into his private room, and
returned in fifteen minutes, with a face like a sheet, to
say,"Prisoner, hear the sentence of the Court! The Court
decides, subject to the approval of the President, that you
never hear the name of the United States again."
Nolan laughed. But nobody else laughed. Old Morgan
was too solemn, and the whole room was hushed dead as
night for a minute. Even Nolan lost his swagger in a mo.
ment. Then Morgan added,"Mr. Marshal, take the prisoner to Orleans in an armed
boat, and deliver him to the naval commander there."
The Marshal gave his orders and the prisoner was taken
out of court.
"Mr. Marshal," continued old Morgan, " see that no one
mentions the United States to the prisoner. Mr. Marshal,
make my respects to Lieutenant Mitchell at Orleans, and
request him to order that no one shall mention the United
States to the prisoner while he is on board ship. You will
receive your written orders from the officer on duty here this
evening. The court is adjourned without day."
I have always supposed that Colonel Morgan himself took
the proceedings of the court to Washington City, and explained them to Mr. Jefferson. Certain it is that the President approved them, - certain, that is, if I may believe the
men who say they have seen his signature.  Before the
Nautilus got round from New Orleans to the Northern At



The Man withiout a County.              453,antic coast with the prisoner on board, the sentence had
been approved, and he was a man without a country.
The plan then adopted was substantially the same which
was necessarily followed ever after. Perhaps it was suggested by the necessity of sending him by water from Fort
Adams and Orleans. The Secretary of the Navy -it must
have been the first Crowninshield, though he is a man I do
not remember - was requested to put Nolan on board a Government vessel bound on a long cruise, and to direct that he
should be only so far confined there as to make it certain
that he never saw or heard of the country. We had few
long cruises then, and the navy was very much out of favor; and as almost all of this story is traditional, as I have
explained, I do not know certainly what his first cruise
was. But the commander to whom he was intrusted, —
perhaps it was Tingey or Shaw, though I think it was one
of the younger men, -we are all old enough now, —regulated the etiquette and the precautions of the affair, and according to his scheme they were carried out, I suppose, till
Nolan died.
When I was second officer of the Intrepid, some thirty
years after, I saw the original paper of instructions. I have
been sorry ever since that I did not copy the whole of it.
It ran, however, much in this way:W' Washinglon," (with the date, which
must have been late in 1807.)
" SIR, - You will receive from Lieutenant Neale the person of Philip Nolan, late a Lieutenant in the United States
Army.
"This person on his trial by court-martial expressed with
an oath the wish that he might'never hear of the United
States again.'
"The Court sentenced him to have his wish fulfilled.
"For the present the execution of the order is intrusted
by the President to this department.
" You will take the prisoner on board your ship, and keep
him there with such i\recautions as shall prevent his escape,




454        The Man without a Couzntry
"You will provide him with such quarters, rations, and
clothing as would be proper for an officer of his late rank,
if he were a passenger on your vessel on the business of his
Government.
"The gentlemen on board will make any arrangements
agreeable to themselves regarding his society. He is to be
exposed to no indignity of any kind, nor is he ever unnecessarily to be reminded that he is a prisoner.
" But under no circumstances is he ever to hear of his
country or to see any information regarding it; and you will
specially caution all the officers under your command to take
care, that, in the various indulgences which may be granted,
this rule, in which his punishment is involved, shall not be
broken.
"It is the intention of the Government that he shall never
again see the country which he has disowned. Before the
end of your cruise you will receive orders which will give
effect to this intention.
" Respectfully yours,
"W. SOUTHARD, for tlhe
Secretary of the Navy."
If I had only preserved the whole of this paper, there
would be no break in the beginning of my sketch of this
story. For Captain Shaw, if it was he, handed it to his successor in the charge, and he to his, and I suppose the commander of the Levant has it to-day as his authority for
keeping this man in this mild custody.
The rule adopted on board the ships on which I have met
"the man without a country" was, I think, transmitted
from the beginning. No mess liked to have him permanently, because his presence cut off all talk of home or of
the prospect of return, of politics or letters, of peace or of
war, -cut off more than half the talk men like to have at
sea. But it was always thought too hard that he should
never meet the rest of us, except to touch hats, and we
fnally sank into one system. He was not permitted to




The Man without a Country.             455
talk with the men, unless an officer was by. With officers
he had unrestrained intercourse, as far as they and he chose.
But he grew shy, though he had favorites: I was one.
Then the captain always asked him to dinner on Monday.
Every mess in succession took up the invitation in its turn.
According to the size of the ship, you had him at your mess
more or less often at dinner. His breakfast he ate in his
own state-room,- he always had a state-room, -which was
where a sentinel, or somebody on the watch, could see the
door. And whatever else he ate or drank he ate or drank
alone. Sometimes, when the marines or sailors had any
special jollification, they were permitted to invite "PlainButtons," as they called him. Then Nolan was sent with
some officer, and the men were forbidden to speak of home
while he was there. I believe the theory was that the sight of
his punishment did them good. They called him " Plain-Buttons," because, while he always chose to wear a regulation
army-uniform, he was not permitted to wear the army-button, for the reason that it bore either the initials or the insignia of the country he had disowned.
I remember, soon after I joined the navy, I was on shore
with some of the older officers from our ship and from the
Brandywine, which we had met at Alexandria.  We had
leave to make a party and go up to Cairo and the Pyramids.
As we jogged along, (you went on donkeys then,) some of
the gentlemen (we boys called them " Dons," but the phrase
was long since changed) fell to talking about Nolan, and
some one told the system which was adopted from the first
about his books and other reading.  As he was almost
never permitted to go on shore, even though the vessel lay
in port for months, his time, at the best, hung heavy; and
everybody was permitted to lend him books, if they were
not published in America and made no allusion to it. These
were common enough in the old days, when people in the
other hemisphere talked of the United States as little as we
do of Paraguay. He had almost all the foreign papers that
came into the ship, sooner or later; only somebody must go




456        The Man without a Cozutry.
over them first, and cut out any advertisement or stray
paragraph that alluded to America. This was a little cruel
sometimes, when the back of what was cut out might be as
innocent as Hesiod. Right in the midst of one of Napoleon's battles, or one of Canning's speeches, poor Nolan would
find a great hole, because on the back of the page of that
paper there had been an advertisement of a packet for New
York, or a scrap from the President's message. I say this
was the first time I ever heard of this plan, which afterwards I. had enough, and more than enough, to do with. I
remember it, because poor Phillips, who was of the party,
as soon as the allusion to reading was made, told a story of
something which happened at the Cape of Good Hope on
Nolan's first voyage; and it is the only thing I ever knew
of that voyage. They had touched at the Cape, and had
done the civil thing with the English Admiral and the fleet,
and then, leaving for a long cruise up the Indian Ocean,
Phillips had borrowed a lot of English books from an offi
cer, which, in those days, as indeed in these, was quite a
windfall. Among them, as the Devil would order, was the
"Lay of the Last Minstrel," which they had all of them
heard of, but which most of them had never seen. I think
it could not have been published long.  Well, nobody
thought there could be any risk of anything national in
that, though Phillips swore old Shaw had cut out the
" Tempest " from Shakespeare before he let Nolan have it,
because he said "the Bermudas ought to be ours, and, by
Jove, should be one day." So Nolan was permitted to join
the circle one afternoon when a lot of them sat on deck
smoking and reading aloud. People do not do such things
so often now; but when I was young we got rid of a great
deal of time so. Well, so it happened that in his turn Nolan took the book and read to the others; and he read very
well, as I know. Nobody in the circle knew' a line of the
poem, only it was all magic and Border chivalry, and was
ten thousand years ago. Poor Nolan read steadily through
the fifth canto, stopped a minute and drank something, and
then began, without a thought of what was coming, —




The Man  without a  Country.                 457
"Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said," —
Ii /teas  Apossible to us that anybody ever heard this for
the first tnme; but all these fellows did then, and poor Nolan himself went on, still unconsciously or mechanically, —
"This is my own, my native land I"
Theti they all saw something was to pay; but he expected
to get through, I suppose, turned a little pale, but plunged
on, -
" Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned
From wandering on a foreign strand?If such there breathe, go, mark him well."
By this time the men were all beside themselves, wishing
there was any way to make him turn over two pages; but
he had not quite presence of mind for that; he gagged a
little, colored crimson, and staggered on, -
"For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim,
Despite these titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,"and here the poor fellow  choked, could not go on, but
started up, swung the book into the sea, vanished into his
state-room, "and by Jove," said Phillips, "we did not see
him  for two months again.  And I had to make up some
beggarly story to that English surgeon why I did not return
his Walter Scott to him."
That story shows about the time when Nolan's braggadocio must have broken down.  At first, they said, he took
a very high tone, considered his imprisonment a mere farce,
affected to enjoy the voyage, and all that; but Phillips said
that after he came out of his state-room he never was the
same man again.  He never read aloud again, unless it was
the Bible or Shakespeare, or something else he was sure of.
But it was not that merely.  He never entered in with the
10




458        The Man without a Country.
other young men exactly as a companion again. He was
always shy afterwards, when I knew him, —very seldom
spoke, unless he was spoken to, except to a very few friends.
He lighted up occasionally,- I remember late in his life
hearing him fairly eloquent on something which had been
suggested to him by one of Flechier's sermons, - but generally he had the nervous, tired look of a heart-wounded
man.
When Captain Shaw was coming home,- if, as I say, it
was Shaw, -rather to the surprise of everybody they made
one of the Windward Islands, and lay off and on for nearly
a week. The boys said the officers were sick of salt-junk,
and meant to have turtle-soup before they came home. But
after several days the Warren came to the same rendezvous;
they exchanged signals; she sent to Phillips and these
homeward-bound men letters and papers, and told them she
was outward-bound, perhaps to the Mediterranean, and
took poor Nolan and his traps on the boat back to try his
second cruise. He looked very blank when he was told to
get ready to join her. He had known enough of the signs
of the sky to know that till that moment he was going
"home."  But this was a distinct evidence of something he
had not thought of, perhaps, -that there was no going
home for him, even to a prison. And this was the first of
some twenty such transfers, which brought him sooner or
later into half our best vessels, but which kept him all his life
at least some hundred miles from the country he had hoped
he might never hear of again.
It may have been on that second cruise, it was once
when he was up the Mediterranean,- that Mrs. Graff, the
celebrated Southern beauty of those days, danced with him.
They had been lying a long time in the Bay of Naples, and
the officers were very intimate in the English fleet, and
there had been great festivities, and our men thought they
must give a great ball on board the ship. How they ever
did it on board the Warren I am sure I do not know. Perhaps it was not the Warren, or perhaps ladies did not take




The Man;  without a Country.           459
up so much room as they do now. They wanted to use
Nolan's state-room for something, and they hated to do it
without asking him to the ball; so the captain said they
might ask him, if they would be responsible that he did not
talk with the wrong people, "who would give him intelligence."  So the dance went on, the finest party that had
ever been known, I dare say; for I never heard of a man
of-war ball that was not. For ladies they had the family of
the American consul, one or two travellers who had adventured so far, and a nice bevy of English girls and matrons,
perhaps Lady Hamilton herself.
Well, different officers relieved each other in standing and
talking with Nolan in a friendly way, so as to be sure that
nobody else spoke to him. The dancing went on with spirit,
and after a while even the fellows who took this honorary
guard of Nolan ceased to fear any contre-temps. Only when
some English lady —Lady Hamilton, as I said, perhapscalled for a set of " American dances," an odd thing happened. Everybody then danced contra-dances. The black.
band, nothing loath, conferred as to what "American
dances " were, and started off with "Virginia Reel," which
they followed with " Money-Musk," which, in its turn in
those days, should have been followed by "The Old Thirteen." But just as Dick, the leader, tapped for his fiddles
to begin, and bent forward, about to say, in true negro
state, "'The Old Thirteen,' gentlemen and ladies!" as he
had said "' Virginny Reel,' if you please! " and "'MoneyMusk,' if you please  " the captain's boy tapped him on the
shoulder, whispered to him, and he did not announce the
name of the dance; he merely bowed, began on the air, and
they all fell to, - the officers teaching the English girls the
figure, but not telling them why it had no name.
But that is not the story I started to tell. - As the dancing went on, Nolan and our fellows all got a+ ease, as I said,
- so much so, that it seemed quite natural for him to bow to
that splendid Mrs. Graff, and say, -
" I hope you have not forgotten me, Miss Rutledge
Shall I have the honor of dancing? "




460        The Man without a Country.
He did it so quickly, that Fellows, who was by him, could
not hinder him. She laughed, and said, -
" I am not Miss Rutledge any longer, Mr. Nolan; but I
will dance all the same," just nodded to Fellows, as if to say
he must leave Mr. Nolan to her, and led him off to the place
where the dance was forming.
Nolan thought he had got his chance. He had known
her at Philadelphia, and at other places had met her, and
this was a Godsend. You could not talk in contra-dances,
as you do in cotillons, or even in the pauses of waltzing;
but there were chances for tongues and sounds, as well as
for eyes and blushes. He began with her travels, and
Europe, and Vesuvius, and the French; and then, when
they had worked down, and had that long talking-time at
the bottom of the set, he said, boldly, -a little pale, she
said, as she told me the story, years after, -
"And what do you hear from home, Mrs. Graff?"
And that splendid creature looked through him. Jove 
how she must have looked through him!
"Home!! Mr. Nolan!!! I thought you were the man
who never wanted to hear of home again!"  and she
walked directly up the deck to her husband, and left poor
Nolan alone, as he always was. - He did not dance
again.
I cannot give any-history of him in order; nobody can
now: and, indeed, I am not trying to. These are the traditions, which I sort out, as I believe them, from the myths
which have been told about this man for forty years. The
lies that have been told about him are legion. The fellows
used to say he was the "Iron Mask"; and poor George
Pons went to his grave in the belief that this was the author
of "Junius," who was being punished for his celebrated
libel on Thomas Jefferson. Pons was not very strong in the
historical line. A happier story than either of these I have
told is of the War. That came along soon after. I have heard
this affair told in three or four ways,  and, indeed, it may
have happened more than once. But which ship it was on I




The M3zan without a Country.          461
cannot tell.  However, in one, at least, of the great frigate.
duels with the English, in which the navy was really baptized,
it happened that a round-shot from the enemy entered one of
our ports square, and took right down the officer of the gun
himself, and almost every man of the gun's crew. Now you
may say what you choose about courage, but that is not a
nice thing to see. But, as the men who were not killed
picked themselves up, and as they and the surgeon's people
were carrying off the bodies, there appeared Nolan, in his
shirt-sleeves, with the rammer in his hand, and, just as if he
had been the officer, told them off with authority, —who
should go to the cockpit with the wounded men, who should
stay with him, - perfectly cheery, and with that way which
makes men feel. sure all is right and is going to be right.
And he finished loading the gun with his own hands, aimed
it, and bade the men fire. And there he stayed, captain of
that gun, keeping those fellows in spirits, till the enemy
struck,   sitting on the carriage while the gun was cooling,
though he was exposed all the time, -showing them easier
ways to handle heavy shot, -making the raw hands laugh
at their own blunders, - and when the gun cooled again,
getting it loaded and fired twice as often as any other gun
on the ship. The captain walked forward by way of encouraging the men, and Nolan touched his hat and said,"I am showing them how we do this in the artillery,
sir."
And this is the part of the story where all the legends
agree; that the Commodore said,"I see you. do, and I thank you, sir; and I shall never
forget this day, sir, and you never shall, sir."
And after the whole thing was over, and he had the
Englishman's sword, in the midst of the state and ceremoony of the quarter-deck, he said, -
"Where is Mr. Nolan? Ask Mr. Nolan to come here."
And when Nolan came, the captain said,"Mr. Nolan, we are all very grateful to you to-day; you
are one of us to-day; you will be named in the despatches.
2D




462        The Man without a Country.
And then the old man took off his own sword of ceremony,
and gave it to Nolan, and made him put it on. The man
told me this who saw it. Nolan cried like a baby, and well
be might. He had not worn a sword since that infernal day
at Fort Adams. But always afterwards, on occasions of
ceremony, he wore that quaint old French sword of the
Commodore's.
The captain did mention him in the despatches. It was
always said he asked that he might be pardoned. He
wrote a special letter to the Secretary of War. But nothing
ever came of it. As I said, that was about the time when
they began to ignore the whole transaction at Washington,
and when Nolan's imprisonment began to carry itself on
because there was nobody to stop it without any new orders
from home.
I have heard it said that he was with Porter when he took
possession of the Nukahiwa Islands. Not this Porter, you
know, but old Porter, his father, Essex Porter, - that is, the
old Essex Porter, not this Essex. As an artillery officer,
who had seen service in the West, Nolan knew more about
fortifications, embrasures, ravelins, stockades, and all that,
than any of them did; and he worked with a right good-will
in fixing that battery all right. I have always thought it
was a pity Porter did not leave him in command there with
Gamble. That would have settled all the question about
his punishment. We should have kept the islands, and at
this moment we should have one station in the Pacific
Ocean. Our French friends, too, when they wanted this little watering-place, would have found it was preoccupied.
But Madison and the Virginians, of course, flung all that
away.
All that was near fifty years ago. If Nolan was thirty
then, he must have been near eighty when he died. He
looked sixty when he was forty. But he never seemed to
me to change a hair afterwards. As I imagine his life, from
what I have seen and heard of it, he must have been in
every sea, and yet almost never on land. He must have




2/he Man without a Country.           463
known, in a formal way, more officers in our service than
any man living knows. He told me once, with a grave
3mile, that no man in the world lived so methodical a life as he.' You know the boys say I am the Iron Mask, and you know
how busy he was."  He said it did not do for any one to try
to read all the time, more than to do anything else all the time;
but that he read just five hours a day. " Then," he said, " I
keep up my note-books, writing in them at such and such
hours from what I have been reading; and I include in
these my scrap-books." These were very curious indeed.
He had six or eight, of different subjects. There was one
of History, one of Natural Science, one which he called
"Odds and Ends."  But they were not merely books of extracts from newspapers. They had bits of plants and ribbons, shells tied on, and carved scraps of bone and wood,
which he had taught the men to cut for him, and they were
beautifully illustrated. He drew admirably. He had some
of the funniest drawings there, and some of the most pathetic, that I have ever seen in my life. I wonder who will
have Nolan's scrap-books.
Well, he said his reading and his notes were his profession, and that they took five hours and two hours respectively of each day. "Then," said he, "every man should
have a diversion as well as a profession. My Natural History is my diversion." That took two hours a day more.
The men used to bring him birds and fish, but on a long
cruise he had to satisfy himself with centipedes and cockroaches and such small game. He was the only naturalist
I ever met who knew anything about the habits of the
house-fly and the mosquito. All those people can tell you
whether they are Lepfidoftera or Steptopiotera; but as for
telling how you can get rid of them, or how they get away
from you when you strike them, -why, Linnaeus knew a"
little of that as John Foy the idiot did. These nine hours
made Nolan's regular daily "occupation."  The rest of the
time he talked or walked. Till he grew very old, he went
aloft a great deal. He always kept up his exercise; and 2




464        The Man without a Country.
never heard that he was ill. If any other man was ill, he
was the kindest nurse in the world; and he knew more than
half the surgeons do. Then if anybody was sick or died,
or if the captain wanted him to on any other occasion, he
was always ready to read prayers.  I have said that he
read beautifully.
My own acquaintance with Philip Nolan began six or
eight years after the War, on my first voyage after I was
appointed a midshipman.  It was in the first days after
our Slave —Trade treaty, while the Reigning House, which
was still the House of Virginia, had still a sort of sentimentalism about the suppression of the horrors of the
Middle Passage, and something was sometimes done that
way. We were in the South Atlantic on that business.
From the time I joined, I believe I thought Nolan was
a sort of lay chaplain,  a chaplain with a blue coat. I
never asked about him.  Everything in the ship was
strange to me. I knew it was green to ask questions,
and I suppose I thought there was a "Plain-Buttons" on
every ship. We had him to dine in our mess once a week,
and the caution was given that on that day nothing was to
be said about home. But if they had told us not to say anything about the planet Mars or the Book of Deuteronomy,
I should not have asked why; there were a great many
things which seemed to me to have as little reason. I first
came to understand anything about "the man without a
country" one day when we overhauled a dirty little schooner which had slaves on board. An officer was sent to take
charge of her, and, after a few minutes, he sent back his
boat to ask that some one might be sent him who could
speak Portuguese. We were all looking over the rail when
the message came, and we all wished we could interpret,
when the captain asked who spoke Portuguese. But none
of the officers did; and just as the captain was sending forward to ask if any of the people could, NoLan stepped out
and said he should be glad to interpret, f the captain
wished, as he understood  the language.  The captain




The Man without a Country.             465
thanked him, fitted out another boat with him, and in this
boat it was my luck to go.
When we got there, it was such a scene as you seldom
see, and never want to. Nastiness beyond account, and
chaos run loose in the midst of the nastiness. There were
not a great many of the negroes; but by way of making
what there were understand that they were free, Vaughan
had had their hand-cuffs and ankle-cuffs knocked off, and,
for convenience' sake was putting them upon the rascals of
tie schooner's crew. The negroes were, most of them, out
of the hold, and swarming all round the dirty deck, with a
central throng surrounding Vaughan and addressing him in
every dialect and patois of a dialect, from the Zulu click up
to the Parisian of Beledeljereed.
As we came on deck, Vaughan looked down from a hogshead, on which he had mounted in desperation, and
said, 
"For God's love, is there anybody who can make these
wretches understand something? The men gave them rum,
and that did not quiet them. I knocked that big fellow
down twice, and that did not soothe him.  And then I
talked Choctaw to all of them together; and I'11 be hanged
if they understood that as well as they understood the
English."
Nolan said he could speak Portuguese, and one or two
fine-looking Kroomen were dragged out, who, as it had been
found already, had worked for the Portuguese on the coast
at Fernando Po.
"Tell them they are free," said Vaughan; " and tell them
that these rascals are to be hanged as soon as we can get
rope enough."
Nolan "put that into Spanish," -that is, he explained it
in such Portuguese as the Kroomen could understand, and
they in turn to such of the negroes as could understand
them. Then there was such a yell of delight, clinching of
fists, leaping and dancing, kissing of Nolan's feet, and a
general rush made to the hogshead by way of spontaneous
20 *                       D D




466        The MAan without a Country.
worship of Vaughan, as the deus ex matkina of the occasion.
"Tell them," said Vaughan, well pleased, "that I will
Sake them all to Cape Palmas."
This did not answer so well. Cape Palmas was practically as far from the homes of most of them as New Orleans or Rio Janeiro was; that is, they would be eternally
separated from home there. And their interpreters, as we
could understand, instantly said, "Ah, non Palnas," and
began to propose infinite other expedients in most voluble
language. Vaughan was rather disappointed at this result
of his liberality, and asked Nolan eagerly what they said.
The drops stood on poor Nolan's white forehead, as he
hushed the men down, and said," He says,' Not Palmas.' He says,' Take us home, take
us to our own country, take us to our own house, take us
to our own pickaninnies and our own women.' He says he
has an old father and mother who will die if they do not see
him. And this one says he left his people all sick, and paddled down to Fernando to beg the white doctor to come and
help them, and that these devils caught him in the bay just
in sight of home, and that he has never seen anybody
from home since then. And this one says," choked out
Nolan, "that he has not heard a word from his home in
six months, while he has been locked up in an infernal barracoon."
Vaughan. always said he grew gray himself while Nolan
struggled through this interpretation. I, who did not understand anything of the passion involved in it, saw that the
very elements were melting with fervent heat, and that
something was to pay somewhere. Even the negroes themselves stopped howling, as they saw Nolan's agony, and
Vaughan's almost equal agony of sympathy. As quick as
he could get words, he said, -
"Tell them yes, yes, yes; tell them they shall go to
the Mountains of the Moon, if they will. If I sail the
schooner through the Great White J)esert, they shall go
lome! "




The Man without a Cotuntry.            467
And after some fashion Nolan said so. And then they
all fell to kissing him again, and wanted to rub his nose
with theirs.
But he could not stand it long; and getting Vaughan to say
he might go back, he beckoned me down into our boat. As
we lay back in the stern-sheets and the men gave way, he
said to me,   " Youngster, let that show you what it is to be
without a family, without a home, and without a country.
And if you are ever tempted to say a word or to do a thing
that shall put a bar between you and your family, your home,
and your country, pray God in His mercy to take you that
instant home to His own heaven. Stick by your family,
boy; forget you have a self, while you do everything for
them. Think of your home, boy; write and send, and talk
about it. Let it be nearer and nearer to your thought, the
farther you have to travel from it; and rush back to it, when
you are free, as that poor black slave is doing now. And for
your country, boy," and the words rattled in his throat, "and
for that flag," and he pointed to the ship, "never dream
a dream but of serving her as she bids you, though the service carry you through a thousand hells. No matter what
happens to you, no matter who flatters you or who abuses
you, never look at another flag, never let a night pass but
you pray God to bless that flag. Remember, boy, that behind all these men you have to do with, behind officers, and
government, and people even, there is the Country Herself,
your Country, and that you belong to Her as you belong to
your own mother. Stand by Her, boy, as you would stand
by your mother, if those devils there had got hold of her
to-day! "
I was frightened to death by his calm, hard passion; but
I blundered out, that I would, by all that was holy, and that
I had never thought of doing anything else. He hardly
seemed to hear me; but he did, almost in a whisper, say, -
" Oh, if anybody had said so to me when I was of your
age! "
I think it was this half-confidence of his, which I never




468        The Man without a Country.
abused, for I never told this story till now, which afterward
made us great friends. He was very kind to me. Often he
sat up; or even got up, at night to walk the deck with me,
when it was my watch. He explained to me a great deal
of my mathematics, and I owe to him my taste for mathematics. He lent me books, and helped me about my reading. He never alluded so directly to his story again; but
from one and another officer I have learned, in thirty years,
what I am  telling.  When we parted from  him  in St.
Thomas harbor, at the end of our cruise, I was more sorry
than I can tell. I was very glad to meet him again in 1830;
and later in life, when I thought I had some influence in
Washington, I moved heaven and earth to have him discharged.  But it was like getting a ghost out of prison.
They pretended there was no such man, and never was
such a man. They will say so at the Department now!
Perhaps they do not know. It will not be the first thing in
the service of which the Department appears to know
nothing!
There is a story that Nolan met Burr once on one of
our vessels, when a party of Americans came on board in
the Mediterranean.  But this I believe to be a lie; or,
rather, it is a myth, ben trovato, involving a tremendous
blowing-up with which he sunk Burr, - asking him how he
liked to be "without a country."  But it is clear, from
Burr's life, that nothing of the sort could have happened;
and I mention this only as an illustration of the stories
which get a-going where there is the least mystery at
bottom.
So poor Philip Nolan had his wish fulfilled. I know but
one fate more dreadful: it is the fate reserved for those
men who shall have one day to exile themselves from their
country because they have attempted her ruin, and shall
have at the same time to see the prosperity and honor to
which she rises when she has rid herself of them and their
iniquities.  The wish of poor Nolan, as we all learned to
cal him, not be:ause his punishment was too great, but be,




The Man without a Country. 
cause his repentance was so clear, was precisely the wish
of every Bragg and Beauregard who broke a soldier's oath
two years ago, and of every Maury and Barron who broke
a sailor's. I do not know how often they have repented. I
do know that they have done all that in them lay that they
might have no country, - that all the honors, associations,
memories, and hopes which belong to "country" might be
broken up into little shreds and distributed to the winds. I
know, too, that their punishment, as they vegetate through
what is left of life to them in wretched Boulognes and Leicester Squares, where they are destined to upbraid each
other till they die, will have all the agony of Nolan's, with
the added pang that every one who sees them will see them
to despise and to execrate them. They will have their wish,
like him.
For him, poor fellow, he repented of his folly, and then,
like a man, submitted to the fate he had asked for. He
never intentionally added to the difficulty or delicacy of the
charge of those who had him in hold. Accidents would happen; but they never happened from his fault. Lieutenant
Truxton told me, that, when Texas was annexed, there was
a careful discussion among the officers, whether they should
get hold of Nolan's handsome set of maps, and cut Texas
out of it,  from the map of the world and the map of
Mexico. The United States had been cut out when the
atlas was bought for him. But it was voted, rightly enough,
that to do this would be virtually to reveal to him what had
happened, or, as Harry Cole said, to make him think Old
Burr had succeeded. So it was from no fault of Nolan's
that a great botch happened at my own table, when, for a
short time, I was in command of the George Washington
corvette, on the South-American station. We were lying in
the La Plata, and some of the officers, who had been on
shore, and had just joined again, were entertaining us with
accounts of their misadventures in riding the half-,vild
horses of Buenos Ayres. Nolan was at table, and was in
an unusually bright and talkative mood. Some story cW a




70o        The Man wilthout a Country.
tumble reminded him of an adventure of his own, when he
was catlhing wild horses in Texas with his brother Stephen,
at a time when he must have been quite a boy. He told the
story with a good deal of spirit,- so much so, that the
silence which often follows a good story hung over the table
for an instant, to be broken by Nolan himself. For he
asked, perfectly unconsciously," Pray, what has become of Texas? After the lIexicans
got their independence, I thought that province of Texas
would come forward very fast. It is really one of the finest
regions on earth; it is the Italy of this continent. But I
have not seen or heard a word of Texas for near twenty
years."
There were two Texan officers at the table. The reason
he had never heard of Texas was that Texas and her affairs
had been painfully cut out of his newspapers since Austin
began his settlements; so that, while he read of Honduras
and Tamaulipas, and till, quite lately, of California, - this
virgin province, in which his brother had travelled so far,
and, I believe, had died, had ceased to be to him. Waters
and Williams, the two Texas men, looked grimly at each
other, and tried not to laugh.  Edward Morris had his
attention attracted by the third link in the chain of the captain's chandelier. Watrous was seized with a convulsion
of sneezing. Nolan himself saw that something was to pay,
he did not know what. And I, as master of the feast, had
to say,"Texas is out of the map, Mr. Nolan. Have you seen
Captain Back's curious account of Sir Thomas Roe's Welcome? "
After that cruise I never saw Nolan again. I wrote to
him at least twice a year, for in that voyage we became even
confidentially intimate; but he never wrote to me. The
other men tell me that in those fifteen years he aged very
fast, as well he might indeed, but that he was still the same
gentle, uncomplaining, silent sufferer that he ever was, bearing as best he could his self-appointed  punishment,



The MAan withouzt a Counlry.            471
rather less social, perhaps, with new men wnom he did not
know, but more anxious, apparently, than ever to serve
and befriend and teach the boys, some of whom  fairly
seemed to worship him. And now it seems the dear old
fellow  is dead.  He has found a home at last, and a
country.
Since writing this, and while considering whether or no
I would print it, as a warning to the young Nolans and
Vallandighams and Tatnals of to-day of what it is to
throw away a country, I have received from Danforth, who
is on board the Levant, a letter which gives an account
of Nolan's last hours. It removes all my doubts about
telling this story.
To understand the first words of the letter, the non-professional reader should remember that after 1817, the position of every officer who had Nolan in charge was one of
the greatest delicacy. The governm'ent had failed to renew
the order of I807 regarding him. What was a man to do?
Should he let him go? What, then, if he were called to
account by the Department for violating the order of 1807?
Should he keep him? What, then, if Nolan should be liberated some day, and should bring an action for false imprisonment or kidnapping against every man who had had him
in charge? I urged and pressed this upon Southard, and I
have reason to think that other officers did the same thing.
But the Secretary always said, as they so often do at Washington, that there were no special orders to give, and that
we must act on our own judgment. That means, " If you
succeed, you will be sustained; if you fail, you will be dis
avowed."  Well, as Danforth says, all that is over now,
though I do not know but I expose nr yself to a criminal pro.
secution on the evidence of the very'evelation I am mak.
ng.
Here is the letter: -




472        The Man without a Country.
LEVANT, 2~ 2' S. @ I31~ W.
"DEAR FRED, - I try to find heart and life to tell you
that it is all over with dear old Nolan. I have been with
him on this voyage more than I ever was, and I can understand wholly now the way in which you used to speak of the
dear old fellow. I could see that he was not strong, but I
had no idea the end was so near. The doctor has been
watching him very carefully, and yesterday morning came
to me and told me that Nolan was not so well, and had not
left his state-room, -a thing I never remember before. He
had let the doctor come and see him as he lay there, - the
first time the doctor had been in the state-room, —and he
said he should like to see me. 0 dear! do you remember
the mysteries we boys used to invent about his room, in
the old Intrepid days?  Well, I went in, and there, to be
sure, the poor fellow lay in his berth, smiling pleasantly as
he gave me his hand, but looking very frail. I could not
help a glance round, which showed me what a little shrine
he had made of the box he was lying in. The stars and
stripes were triced up above and around a picture of Washington, and he had painted a majestic eagle, with lightnings
blazing from his beak and his foot just clasping the whole
globe, which his wings overshadowed. The dear old boy
saw my glance, and said, with a sad smile,' Here, you see,
I have a country!' And then he pointed to the foot of his
bed, where I had not seen before a great map of the United
States, as he had drawn it from memory, and which he had
there to look upon as he lay. Quaint, queer old names were
on it, in large letters:' Indiana Territory,'' Mississippi Territory,' and' Louisiana Territory,' as I suppose our fathers
learned such things: but the old fellow had patched in
Texas, too; he had carried his western boundary all the
way to the Pacific, but on that shore he had defined nothing.
"'O0 Danforth, he said,'I know I am dying. I cannot
get home. Surely you will tell me something now?- Stop!
stop I Do not speak till I say what I am sure you know,




The Man vwithout a Country.             473
that there is not in this ship, that there is not in America,
- God bless her  - a more loyal man than I. There cannot be a man who loves the old flag as I do, or prays
for it as I do, or hopes for it as I do. There are thirtyfour stars in it now, Danforth.  I thank God for that,
though I do not know what their names are. There has
never been one taken away: I thank God for that. I know
by that, that there has never been any successful Burr. 0
Danforth, Danforth,' he sighed out,'how like a wretched
night's dream a boy's idea of personal fame or of separate
sovereignty seems, when one looks back on it after such a
life as mine? But tell me, — tell me something, - tell me
everything, Danforth, before I die!'
" Ingham, I swear to you that I felt like a monster that I had
not told him everything before. Danger or no danger, delicacy or no delicacy, who was I, that I should have been acting the tyrant all this time over this dear, sainted old man,
who had years ago expiated, in his whole manhood's life,
the madness of a boy's treason?'Mr. Nolan,' said I,  I
will tell you everything you ask about. Only, where shall I
begin?'
" 0 the blessed smile that crept over his white face! and
he pressed my hand and said,'God bless you!''Tell
me their names,' he said, and he pointed to the stars on the
flag.'The last I know is Ohio. My father lived in Kentucky. But I have- guessed Michigan and Indiana and
Mississippi, -that was where Fort Adams is,- they make
twenty. But where are your other fourteen? You have not
cut up any of the old ones, I hope?'
" Well, that was not a bad text, and I told him the names
in as good order as I could, and he bade me take down his
beautiful map and draw them in as I best could with my
pencil. He was wild with delight about Texas, told me how
his brother died there: he had marked a gold cross where
he supposed his brother's grave was; and he had guessed
at Texas. Then he was delighted as he saw California
and Oregon;- that, he said, he had suspected partly, be.




474        The Man without a Country.
cause he had never been permitted to land on that shore,
though the ships were there so much.' And the men,' said
he, laughing,'brought off a good deal besides furs.' Then
he went back - heavens, how far  - to ask about the Chesapeake, and what was done to Barron for surrendering her to
the Leopard, and whether Burr ever tried again, -and he
ground his teeth with the only passion he showed. But in
a moment that was over, and he said,'God forgive me, for I
am  sure I forgive him.' Then he asked about the old
war, —told me the true story of his serving the gun the
day we took the Java,-asked about dear old David Porter, as he called him. Then he settled down more quietly,
and very happily, to hear me tell in an hour the history of
fifty years.
" How I wished it had been somebody who knew something! But I did as well as I could. I told him of the
English war. I told him about Fulton and the steamboat
beginning. I told him about old Scott, and Jackson; told
him all I could think about the Mississippi, and New Orleans, and Texas, and his own old Kentucky. And do you
think he asked who was in command of the' Legion of the
West.' I told him it was a verygallant officer named Grant,
and that, by our last news, he was about to establish his
head-quarters at Vicksburg.  Then,' Where was Vicksburg?' I worked that out on the map; it was about a
hundred miles, more or less, above his old Fort Adams;
and I thought Fort Adams must be a ruin now.' It must
be at old Vick's plantation,' said he;'well, that is a
change!'
"I tell you, Ingham, it was a hard thing to condense the
history of half a century into that talk with a sick man.
And I do not now know what I told him, - of emigration, and
the means of it,  of steamboats, and railroads, and telegraphs,-of inventions, and books, and literature,  of
the colleges, and West Point, and the Naval School, -but
with the queerest interruptions that ever you heard. You
see it was Robinson Crusoe asking all the accumulated
questions of fifty-six years!




The   aniuz without a Country.         475
"I iemenmber lie asked, all of a sudden, who was President now; and when I told him, he asked if old Abe was
General Benjamin Lincoln's son. He said he met old General Lincoln, when he was quite a boy himself, at some Indian treaty. I said no, that old Abe was a Kentuckian like
himself, but I could not tell him of what family; he had
worked up from the ranks.'Good for him!' cried Nolan;' I am glad of that. As I have brooded and wondered, I
have thought our danger was in keeping up those regular
successions in the first families.' Then I got talking about
my visit to Washington. I told him of meeting the Oregon
Congressman, Harding; I told him about the Smithsonian,
and the Exploring Expedition; I told him about the Capitol, and the statues for the pediment, and Crawford's Liberty, and Greenough's Washington: Ingham, I told him
everything I could think of that would show the grandeur of his country and its prosperity; but I could not
make up my mouth to tell him a word about this infernal
Rebellion!
"And he drank it in, and enjoyed it as I cannot tell you.
He grew more and more silent, yet I never thought he was
tired or faint. I gave him a glass of water, but he just wet
his lips, and told me not to go away. Then he asked me
to bring the Presbyterian' Book of Public Prayer,' which
lay there, and said, with a smile, that it would open at the
right place,  and so it did. There was his double red
mark down the page; and I knelt down and read, and he
repeated with me,' For ourselves and our country, 0 gracious God, we thank Thee, that, notwithstanding our manifold transgressions of Thy holy laws, Thou hast continued
to us Thy marvellous kindness,'- and so to the end of that
thanksgiving. Then he turned to the end of the same book,
and I read the words more familiar to me, -'Most heartily
we beseech Thee with Thy favor to behold and bless Thy
servant, the President of the United States, and all others
In authority. -and the rest of the Episcopal collect.' Danforth,' said he,' I have repeated those prayers night and




476        The Main zit/hozit a CoinlZry.
morning, it is now fifty-five years.' And then he said he
would go to sleep. He bent me down over.him and kissed
me; and he said,'Look in my Bible, Danforth, when I am
gone.' And I went away.
But I had no thought it was the end. I thought he was
tired and would sleep. I knew he was happy and I wanted him to be alone.
"But in an hour, when the doctor went in gently, he
found Nolan had breathed his life away with a smile. He
had something pressed close to his lips. It was his father's
badge of the Order of Cincinnati.
" We looked in his Bible, and there was a slip of paper,
at the place where he had marked the text,."'They desire a country, even a heavenly: wherefore
God is not ashamed to be called their God: for he hath
prepared for them a city.'
"On this slip of paper he had written, -
"'Bury me in the sea; it has been my home, and I love
it. But will not some one set up a stone for my memory at
Fort Adams or at Orleans, that my disgrace may not be
more than I ought to bear? Say on it,"' I Meemory of'hPHILIP  NOLAN,
"''Lieutenant in the Army of the United States.' He loved his country as no other man has loved her;
but no man deserved less at her hands. "
NOTE BY THE AUTHOR.
THIS story was written in the summer of 1863, as a contribu.
tion, however humble, towards the formation of a just and true
nati3nal sentiment, or sentiment of love to the nation. It was at




The Man without a Country.                    47
the time when Mr. Vallandigham had been sent across the border.
It was my wish, indeed, that the story might be printed before the
autumn elections of that year, - as my " testimony " regarding the
principles involved in them, -but circumstances delayed its publication till the December number of the Atlantic appeared.
It is wholly a fiction, "founded on fact."  The facts on which
it is founded are these, — that Aaron Burr sailed down the Mississippi River in I805, again in I806, and was tried for treason in
1807.  The rest, with one exception to be noticed, is all fictitious.
It was my intention that the story should have been published
with no author's name, other than that of Captain Frederic Ingham, U. S. N.  Whether writing under his name or my own, I
have taken no liberties with history other than such as every writer
of fiction is privileged to take, - indeed, must take, if fiction is to
be written at all. 
The story having been once published, it passed out of my
hands.  From  that moment it has gradually acquired different
accessories, for which I am not responsible. Thus I have heard
it said, that at one bureau of the Navy Department they say that
Nolan was pardoned, in fact, and returned home to die.  At
another bureau, I am told, the answer to questions is, that, though it
is true that an officer was kept abroad all his life, his name was not
Nolan.  A venerable friend of mine in Boston, who discredits all
tradition, still recollects this " Nolan court-martial." One of the
most accurate of my younger friends had noticed Nolan's death in
the newspaper, but recollected " that it was in September, and not
in August. " A lady in Baltimore writes me, I believe in good faith,
that Nolan has two widowed sisters residing in that neighborhood.
A correspondent of the Philadelphia Despatch believed "the article untrue, as the United States corvette Levant was lost at sea
nearly three years since, between San Francisco and San Juan."
I may remark that this uncertainty as to the place of her loss rather adds to the probability of her turning up after three years in
Lat. 2~ II' S., Long. I31~ W. A writer in the New Orleans Picayune, in a careful historical paper, explained at length that I had
been mistaken all through; that Philip Nolan never went to sea,
but to Texas; that there he was shot in battle, March 21, I801,
and by orders from  Spain every fifth man of his party was to be
shot, had they not died in prison. Fortunately, ho Never, he left
2E




478         The Man  without a  Country.
his papers and maps, which fell into the hands of a friend of the
Picayune's correspondent. This friend proposes to publish them,
- and the public will then have, it is to be hoped, the true history
of Philip Nolan, the man without a country.
With all these continuations, however, I have nothing to do. I
can only repeat that my Philip Nolan is pure fiction. I cannot
send his scrap-book to my friend who asks for i., because I have it
not to send.
I remembered when I was collecting material for my story, that
in General Wilkinson's galimatias, which he calls his " Memoirs,"
is frequent reference to a Jorkins-like partner of his, of the name
of Nolan, who, at some time near the beginning of this century
was killed in Texas.  Whenever Wilkinson found himself ir
rather a deeper bog than usual, he used to justify himself by
saying that he could not explain such or such a charge because
"the papers referring to it were lost when Mr. Nolan was imprisoned in Texas." Finding this mythical character in the mythical legends of a mythical time, I took the liberty to give him
a brother, rather more mythical, whose adventures should be on
the seas.  I had the impression that Wilkinson's friend was
named Stephen, -and as such he is spoken of in this story at
page 470.  As this book goes to press, I find that the New Orleans paper is right in saying that the Texan hero was named
Philip.  I am very sorry that I changed him  inadvertently to
Stephen.  It is too late for me to change him back again.  I remember to have heard a distinguished divine preach on St. Philip's day, by accident, a discourse on the life of the Evangelist
Stephen.  If such a mistake can happen in the best regulated
of pulpits, I must be pardoned for mistaking Philip for Stephen
Nolan.  The reader will observe that he was dead some years before the action of this story begins.  In the same connection I
must add that Mr. P. Nolan, teamster in Boston, whose horse and
cart I venture to recommend to an indulgent public, is no relation
of the hero of this tale.
If any reader considers the invention of a brother too great a liberty to take in fiction, I venture to remind him that "'T is sixty
years since"; and that I should have the highest authority in literature even for much greater liberties taken with  nnals so far removed fronl our time.




The r/ank  without a  Country.             479
A Boston paper, in noticing the story of " My Double," confined in another part of this collection, said it was highly imp-rob.
able. I have always agreed with that critic. I confess I have the
same opinion of the story of Philip Nolan.  It passes on ships
which had no existence, is vouched for by officers who never lived.
Its hero is in two or three places at the same time, under a pro.
cess wholly impossible under any conceivable administration of'ffairs. In reply, therefore, to a kind adviser in Connecticut, who
told me that the story must be apologized for, because it was doing
great injury to the national cause by asserting such continued cruelty of the Federal Government through a half-century, I must Mt
permitted to say that the public, like the Supreme Court of the
United States, may be supposed "to know something."
O  








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Hector's Inheritance; or, Boys of Smith Institute.
i6mo....................      I 25
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NEW VOLUiMES.
The Store Boy; or, The Fortunes of Ben Barclay.
By Horatio Alger, Jr. Illustrated.  I6mo. Cloth,
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Cloth, extra, black and gold...........     I 25




PORTER & COATES'S POPULAR JUVENILES.                7
By C. A. Stephens.
Rare books for boys-bright, breezy, wholesome and instructive; full of
adventure and incident, and information upon natural history. They blend
instruction with amusement-contain much useful and valuable information
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CAMPING OUT SERIES. By C. A. Stephens.
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I6mo................   I 25
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8         PORTER & COATES'S POPULAR JUVENILBS.
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THI^
firesibe Gncyclopaebia of  oetry
COLLECTED AND ARRANGED
By HEINRY T. COATEES.
27th edition, enlarged and thoroughly revised, and containing
portraits of prominent American poets, with facsimiles of their handwriting.
Imperial 8vo., cloth, extra, gilt side and edges.  $5 oo
Half calf, gilt.............;..   7 50
Half morocco, antique, gilt edges........   7 50
Turkey morocco, antique, full gilt edges..  o. oo
Tree calf.................. 12 00
Plush, padded sides, nickel lettering.......  14 00
The remarkable success that has attended the publication of
"The Fireside Encyclopaedia of Poetry"-26 editions having
been printed-has induced the author to thoroughly revise
it, and to make it in every way worthy of the high place it
has attained. About one hundred and fifty new poems have
been inserted, and the work now contains nearly fourteen hundred poems, representing four hundred and fifty authors, English
and American. The work is now illustrated by finely-engraved
portraits of many prominent poets, with their signatures and facsimiles of their handwriting.
1e C/isbren's  3ooh of   oetry.
Compiled by HENRY T. COATES.
With nearly 200 illustrations.  The most complete collection
of poetry for children ever published. 4to.
Cloth, extra, gilt edges.............  3 oo
Full Turkey morocco, gilt edges......   7 50
9




THE HANDSOMEST AND CHEAPEST GIFT BOOKS.
ie "66dells    3eries.
The " BELLS " Series has been undertaken by tke publishers with a view
to issue original illustrated poems of a high character, at a price within the
reach of all classes.
Small 4to. Cloth, gilt edges..............$I 50
Ivory surface.....................  I 50
Embossed calf, gilt edges...............   I 50
GEMS FROM TENNYSON.
By ALFRED TENNYSON. Elegantly illustrated by Hammatt Billings.
BEAUTIES OF TENNYSON.
By ALFRED TENNYSON. Elegantly illustrated with twenty engravings, from
original drawings by Frederic B. Schell. Beautifully printed on the finest
plate paper.
FROM GREENLAND'S ICY MOUNTAINS.
By BISHOP HEBER. Elegantly illustrated with twenty-two engravings, from
original drawings by Frederic B. Schell. Beautifully printed on the finest
plate paper.
LADY CLARE.
By ALFRED TENNYSON. Elegantly illustrated with twenty-two engravings,
from original drawings by Alfred Fredericks, F. S. Church, Harry Fenn,
F. B. Schell, E. P. Garret and Granville Perkins. Beautifully printed on
the finest plate paper.
THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS.
By CLEMENT C. MOORE. Never before has this popular poem-a favorite
with both the old and the young-been presented in such a beautiful dress.
It is elegantly illustrated with twenty-two engravings, from original drawings by F. B. Schell, W. T. Smedley, A. Fredericks and H. R. Poore.
BINGEN ON THE RHINE.
By CAROLINE E. NORTON.  Elegantly illustrated with twenty-two engravings, from original drawings by W. T. Smedley, F. B. Schell, A.
Fredericks, Granville Perkins and E. P. Garrett.
THE BELLS.
By EDGAR ALLAN POE. Elegantly illustrated with twenty-two engravings,
from original drawings by F. O. C. Darley, A. Fredericks, Granville
Perkins and others.
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
By OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Elegantly illustrated with thirty-five engravings,
from drawings by Hammatt Billings.
THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.
By ROBERT BURNS. Elegantly illustrated with fifty engravings, from drawings by Chapman.
Io




tanbarb                   istories.
History of England, from  the Accession  of
James the  Second.   By Thomas  Babington
Macaulay.  Standard edition.  With a steel portrait
of the author  Printed from  new  electrotype plates
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correct edition in the American market.  5 vols.,
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Sheep, marbled edges, per set.......  7 50
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History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman
Empire.  By Edward Gibbon.  With notes by Rev.
H. H. Milman.  Standard edition.  To which is
added a complete Index of the work.  A new edition
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History  of England, from  the  Invasion  of
Julius Cesar to the Abdication  of James
the Second, 1688.  By David Hume.  Standard
edition.  With the author's last corrections and improvements, to which is prefixed a short account of his
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1r




j'iscellaneous.
A  Dictionary of the Bible.  Comprising its Antiquities, Biography, Geography, Natural History and
Literature.'i Edited by William  Smith, LL.D. Revised and adapted to the present use of Sunday-school
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History of the Civil War in America.  By the
Comte de Paris. Translated with the approval of the
author. With maps faithfully engraved from the originals, and printed in three colors. 8vo.
Cloth, extra, per vol..............   3 50
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Volumes I, II III and IV now ready, put up in a neat
box, or any volume sold separately.
The Battle of Gettysburg.  By the Comte de Paris.
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Comprehensive Biographical Dictionary. Embracing accounts of the most eminent persons of all
ages, nations and professions. By E. A. Thomas.
Crown 8vo.
Cloth, extra, gilt top.............  2 50
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The Amateur Photographer.  A manual of photographic manipulations intended especially for beginners and amateurs, with suggestions as to the choice of
apparatus and. of processes. By Ellerslie Wallace,
Jr., M.D. New edition, with two new chapters on
paper negatives and microscopic photography. I2mo.
Limp morocco, sprinkled edges........   i oo
12