Rodolphus.—A Franconia Story.1 By Jacob Abbott.

scene of the story.

Franconia, a village among the mountains at the North.

principal persons.

Rodolphus.

Ellen Linn: his sister, residing with her aunt up the
glen.

Annie Linn, a younger sister.

Antoine Bianchinette, a French boy, at service at
Mrs. Henry’s, a short distance from the village. He is
called generally by grown people Antonio, and by the
children Beechnut.

Malleville, Mrs. Henry’s niece.

Alphonzo, called commonly Phonny, her son.

Mr. Keep, a lawyer.

Chapter I.

The manner in which indulgence and caprice
on the part of the parent, lead to the demoralization
and ruin of the child, is illustrated by the
history of Rodolphus.

I. Bad Training.

Rodolphus, whatever may have been his faults,
was certainly a very ingenious boy. When he
was very young he made a dove-house in the end
of his father’s shed, all complete, with openings
for the doves to go in and out in front, and a door
for himself behind. He made a ladder, also, by
which he could mount up to the door. He did
all this with boards, which he obtained from an
old fence, for material, and an ax, and a wood
saw, for his only tools. His father, when he
came to see the dove-house, was much pleased
with the ingenuity which Rodolphus had displayed
in the construction of it—though he found
fault with him for taking away the boards from
the fence without permission. This, however,
gave Rodolphus very little concern.

The Rabbit House.

When the dove house was completed, Rodolphus
obtained a pair of young doves from a
farmer who lived about a mile away, and put
them into a nest which he made for them in a
box, inside.

At another time not long after this, he
formed a plan for having some rabbits, and accordingly
he made a house for them in a corner
of the yard where he lived, a little below the village
of Franconia. He made the house out of an
old barrel. He sawed a hole in one side of the
barrel, near the bottom of it, as it stood up upon
one end—for a door, in order that the rabbits
might go in and out. He put a roof over the
top of it, to keep out the rain and snow. He
also placed a keg at the side of the barrel, by
way of wing into the building. There was a roof
over this wing, too, as well as over the main
body of the house, or, rather, there was a board
placed over it, like a roof, though in respect to
actual use this covering was more properly a lid
than roof, for the keg was intended to be used
as a store-room, to keep the provisions in, which
the rabbits were to eat. The board, therefore,
which formed the roof of the wing of the building,
was fastened at one edge, by leather hinges,
and so could be lifted up and let down again at
pleasure.

Rodolphus’s mother was unwilling that he
should have any rabbits. She thought that such
animals in Rodolphus’s possession would make
her a great deal of trouble. But Rodolphus said
that he would have some. At least, he said, he
would have one.

Rodolphus was standing in the path, in front
of the door of his mother’s house, when he said
this. His mother was upon the great flat stone
which served for a step.

“But Beechnut asks a quarter of a dollar for
his rabbits.” said his mother, in an expostulating
tone, “and you have not got any money.”

“Ah, but I know where I can get some money,”
said Rodolphus.

“Where?” said his mother.

[pg 434]

“Father will give it to me,” said Rodolphus.

“But I shall ask him not to give it to you,”
said his mother.

“I don’t care,” said Rodolphus. “I can get
it, if you do.”

“How?” asked his mother.

Rodolphus did not answer, but began to turn
summersets and cut capers on the grass, making
all sorts of antic gestures and funny grimaces toward
his mother. Mrs. Linn, for that was his
mother’s name, laughed, and then went into the
house, saying, as she went, “Oh, Rolf, Rolf,
what a little rogue you are!”

Rodolphus’s father was a workman, and he
was away from home almost all the day, though
sometimes Rodolphus himself went to the place
where he worked, to see him. When Mr. Linn
came home at night, sometimes he played with
Rodolphus, and sometimes he quarreled with
him: but he never really governed him.

For example, when Rodolphus was a very
little boy, he would climb up into his father’s
lap, and begin to feel in his father’s waistcoat
pockets for money. If his father directed him
not to do so, Rodolphus would pay no regard to
it. If he attempted to take Rodolphus’s hands
away by force, Rodolphus would scream, and
struggle; and so his father, not wishing to make
a disturbance, would desist. If Mr. Linn frowned
and spoke sternly, Rodolphus would tickle him
and make him laugh.

Finally, Rodolphus would succeed in getting
a cent, perhaps, or some other small coin, from
his father’s pocket, and would then climb down
and run away. The father would go after him,
and try all sorts of coaxings and threatenings, to
induce Rodolphus to bring the cent back—while
Mrs. Linn would look on, laughing, and saying,
perhaps, “Ah; let him have the cent, husband.
It is not much.”

Being encouraged thus by his mother’s interposition,
Rodolphus would of course persevere,
and the contest would end at last by his keeping
the money. Then he would insist the next day,
on going into the little village close by, and spending
it for gingerbread. He would go, while eating
his gingerbread, to where his father was at
work, and hold it up to his father as in triumph—making
it a sort of trophy, as it were, of victory.
His father would shake his finger at him, laughing
at the same time, and saying, “Ah, Rolf!
Rolf! what a little rogue you are!”

Rodolphus, in fact, generally contrived to have
his own way in almost every thing. His mother
did not attempt to govern him; she tried to manage
him; but in the end it generally proved that
he managed her. In fact, whenever he was
engaged in any contest with his mother, his
father would usually take the boy’s part, just
as his mother had done in his contests with
his father.

For instance, one winter evening when he was
quite a small boy, he was sitting in a corner playing
with some blocks. He was building a saw-mill.
His mother was at work in a little kitchen
which opened into the room where he was at
play. His father was sitting on the settle, by
the fire, reading a newspaper. The door was
open which led into the kitchen, and Rodolphus,
while he was at work upon his mill, watched
his mother’s motions, for he knew that when she
had finished the work which she was doing, and
had swept up the room, she would come to put
him to bed. So Rodolphus went on building the
mill, and the bridge, and the flume which was to
convey the water to his mill, listening all the
time to the sounds in the kitchen, and looking
up from time to time, with a very watchful eye,
at the door.

At length he heard the sound of the sweeping,
and a few minutes afterward his mother appeared
at the door, coming in. Rodolphus dropped his
blocks, sprang to his feet, and ran round behind
the table—a round table which stood out in the
middle of the room.

“Now, Rodolphus,” said his mother, in a tone
of remonstrance, looking at the same time very
seriously at him. “It is time for you to go to
bed.”

Rodolphus said nothing, but began to dance
about, looking at his mother very intently all
the time, and moving this way and that, as she
moved, so as to keep himself exactly on the opposite
side of the table from her.

“Rodolphus!” said his mother, in a very stern
and commanding tone. “Come to me this minute.”

Rodolphus continued his dancing.

Rodolphus’s mother was a very beautiful young
woman. Her dark glossy hair hung in curls
upon her neck.

When she found that it did no good to command
Rodolphus, the stern expression of her
face changed into a smile, and she said,

“Well, if you won’t come, I shall have to
catch you, that’s all.”

So saying, she ran round the table to catch
him. Rodolphus ran too. His mother turned
first one way and then the other, but she could
not get any nearer to the fugitive. Rodolphus
kept always on the farthest side of the table
from her. Presently Mr. Linn himself looked
up and began to cheer Rodolphus, and encourage
him to run; and once when Mrs. Linn nearly
caught him and he yet escaped, Mr. Linn clapped
his hands in token of his joy.

Mrs. Linn was now discouraged: so she stopped,
and looking sternly at Rodolphus again, she
said,

“Now, Rodolphus, you must come to me.
Come this minute. If you don’t come, I shall
certainly punish you.” She spoke these words
with a great deal of force and emphasis, in order
to make Rodolphus think that she was really in
earnest. But Rodolphus did not believe that she
was in earnest, and so it was evident that he had
no intention to obey.

Mrs. Linn then thought of another plan for
catching the fugitive, which was to push the
table along to one side of the room, or up into
a corner, and get Rodolphus out from behind it
in that way. So she began to push. Rodolphus
[pg 435]
immediately began to resist her attempt, by pushing
against the table himself, on the other side.
His mother was the strongest, however, and she
succeeded in gradually working the table, with
Rodolphus before it, over to the further side of
the room, notwithstanding all the efforts that he
made to prevent it. When he found at last that
he was likely to be caught, he left the table and
ran behind the settle where his father was reading.
His mother ran after him and caught him
in the corner.

She attempted to take him, but Rodolphus
began to struggle and scream, and to shake his
shoulders when she took hold of them, evincing
his determination not to go with her. At the
same time he called out, “Father! father!”

His father looked around at the end of the
settle to see what was the matter.

“He won’t let me put him to bed,” said Mrs.
Linn, “and it was time half an hour ago.”

“Oh, let him sit up a little while longer if he
likes,” said Mr. Linn. “It’s of no use to make
him cry.”

Mrs. Linn reluctantly left Rodolphus, murmuring
to herself that he ought to go to bed.
Very soon, she said, he would be asleep upon
the floor. “I would make him go,” she added,
“only if he cries and makes a noise, it will wake
Annie.”

In fact Annie was beginning to move a little
in the cradle then. The cradle in which Annie
was sleeping was by the side of the fire, opposite
to the settle. Mrs. Linn went to it, to rock it,
so that Annie might go to sleep again, and Rodolphus
returned victorious to his mill.

These are specimens of the ways in which
Rodolphus used to manage his father and mother,
while he was quite young. He became more
and more accomplished and capable in attaining
his ends as he grew older, and finally succeeded
in establishing the ascendency of his own will
over that of his father and mother, almost entirely.

He was about four years old when the incidents
occurred which have been just described.
When he was about five years old, he used to
begin to go and play alone down by the water.
His father’s house was near the water, just below
the bridge. There were some high rocks
near the shore, and a large flat rock rising out
of the water. Rodolphus liked very much to go
down to this flat rock and play upon it. His
mother was very much afraid to have him go
upon this rock, for the water was deep near it,
and she was afraid that he might fall in. But
Rodolphus would go.

The road which led to Mr. Linn’s from the
village, passed round the rocks above, at some
distance above the bank of the stream. There
was a fence along upon the outer side of the
road, with a little gate where Rodolphus used to
come through. From the gate there was a path,
with steps, which led down to the water. At
one time, in order to prevent Rodolphus from
going down there, Mr. Linn fastened up the
gate. Then Rodolphus would climb over the
fence. So his father, finding that it did no good
to fasten up the gate, opened it again.

Not content with going down to the flat stone
contrary to his mother’s command, Rodolphus
would sometimes threaten to go there and jump
off, by way of terrifying her, when his mother
would not give him what he wanted. This would
frighten Mrs. Linn very much, and she would
usually yield at once to his demands, in order to
avert the danger. Finally she persuaded her
husband to wheel several loads of stones there
and fill up the deep place, after which she was
less uneasy about Rodolphus’s jumping in.

Rodolphus was about ten years old when he
made his rabbit house. Annie, his sister, had
grown up too. She was two years younger than
Rodolphus, and of course was eight. She was
beautiful like her mother. She had blue eyes,
and her dark hair hung in curls about her neck.
She was a gentle and docile girl, and was often
much distressed to see how disobedient and rebellious
Rodolphus was toward his father and
mother.

She went out to see the rabbit house which
Rodolphus had made, and she liked it very much
See wished that her mother would allow them
to have a rabbit to put into it, and she said so,
as she stood looking at it, with her hands behind
her.

“I am sorry, that mother is not willing that
you should have a rabbit,” said she.

“Oh, never mind that,” said Rodolphus, “I’ll
have one for all that, you may depend.”

---

That evening when Mr. Linn came home from
his work, he took a seat near the door, where he
could look out upon the little garden. His mother
was busy setting the table for tea.

“Father,” said Rodolphus, “I wish you would
give me a quarter of a dollar.”

“What for,” said Mr. Linn.

“To buy a rabbit,” said Rodolphus.

“No,” said his mother, “I wish you would
not give him any money. I have told him that
I don’t wish him to have any rabbits.”

“Yes,” said Rodolphus, speaking to his father.
“Do, it only costs a quarter of a dollar to
get one, and I have got the house all ready for
him.”

“Oh, no, Rolfy,” said his father. “I would
not have any rabbits. They are good for nothing
but to gnaw off all the bark and buds in
the garden.”

Here there followed a long argument between
Rodolphus on the one side, and his father and
mother on the other, they endeavoring in every
possible way to persuade him that a rabbit would
be a trouble and not a pleasure. Of course, Rodolphus
was not to be convinced. His father
however, refused to give him any money, and
Rodolphus ceased to ask for it. His mother
thought that he submitted to his disappointment
with very extraordinary good-humor. But the
fact was, he was not submitting to disappointment
at all. He had formed another plan.

He began playing with Annie about the yard
[pg 436]
and garden, saying no more, and apparently
thinking no more about his rabbit, for some time.
At last he came up to his father’s side and said,

“Father, will you lend me your keys?”

“What do you want my keys for?” asked his
father.

“I want to whistle with them,” said Rodolphus.
“Annie is my dog, and I want to whistle
to her.”

“No,” said his father, “you will lose them.
You must whistle with your mouth.”

“But I can’t whistle with my mouth, Annie
makes me laugh so much. I must have the
keys.”

So saying, Rodolphus began to feel in his father’s
pockets for the keys. Mr. Linn resisted
his efforts a little, remonstrating with him all the
time, and saying that he could not let his keys
go. Rodolphus, however, persevered, and finally
succeeded in getting the keys, and running
away with them.

His father called him to come back, but he
would not come.

Rodolphus whistled in one of the keys a few
minutes, playing with Annie, and then, after a
little while, he said to her, in a whisper, and in
a very mysterious manner,

“Annie, come with me!”

So saying, he went round the corner of the
house, and there entering the house by means
of a door which led into the kitchen, he passed
through into the room where his father was sitting,
without being seen by his father. He
walked very softly as he went, too, and so the
sound of his footsteps was not heard. Annie remained
at the door when Rodolphus went in.
She asked him as he went in what he was going
to do, but Rodolphus only answered by saying in
a whisper, “Hush! Wait here till I come back.”

Rodolphus crept slowly up to a bureau which
stood behind a door. There was a certain drawer
in this bureau where he knew that his father
kept his money. He was going to open this
drawer and see if he could not find a quarter of a
dollar. He succeeded in putting the key into the
key-hole, and in unlocking the drawer without
making much noise. He made a little noise, it
is true, and though his father heard it as he sat
at the door looking out toward the garden, his
attention was not attracted by it. He thought,
perhaps, that it was Rodolphus’s mother, doing
something in that corner of the room.

Rodolphus pulled the drawer open as gently
and noiselessly as he could. In a corner of the
drawer he saw a bag. He knew that it was his
father’s money-bag. He pulled it open and put
his hand in, looking round at the same time
stealthily, to see whether his father was observing
him.

Just at that instant, Mr. Linn looked round.

“Rolf, you rogue,” said he, “what are you doing’”

Rodolphus did not answer, but seized a small
handful of money and ran. His father started up
and pursued him. Among the coins which Rodolphus
had seized there was a quarter of a dollar,
and there were besides this several smaller
silver coins, and two or three cents. Rodolphus
took the quarter of a dollar in one hand, as he ran,
and threw the other money down upon the kitchen
floor. His father stopped to pick up this money,
and by this means Rodolphus gained distance.
He ran out from the kitchen into the yard, and
from the yard into the road—his father pursuing
him. Rodolphus went on at the top of his speed,
filling the air with shouts of laughter.

He scrambled up a steep path which led to the
top of the rocks; his father stopped below.

“Ah, Rolfy!” said his father, in an entreating
sort of tone. “Give me back that money; that’s
a good boy.”

Rolfy did not answer, but stood upon a pinnacle
of the rock, holding one of his hands behind him.

“Did you throw down all the money that you
took,” said his father.

“No,” said Rodolphus.

“How much have you got now?” said his father.

“A quarter of a dollar,” said the boy.

“Come down, then, and give it to me,” said
his father. “Come down this minute.”

“No,” said Rodolphus, “I want it to buy my
rabbit.”

Mr. Linn paused a moment, looking perplexed,
as if uncertain what to do.

At length he said,

“Yes, bring back the money, Rolfy, that’s a
good boy, and to-morrow I’ll go and buy you a
rabbit myself.”

Rodolphus knew that he could not trust to such
a promise, and so he would not come. Mr. Linn
seemed more perplexed than ever. He began to
be seriously angry with the boy, and he resolved,
that as soon as he could catch him, he would
punish him severely: but he saw that it was useless
to attempt to pursue him.

Rodolphus looked toward the house, and there
he saw his mother standing at the kitchen-door,
laughing. He held up the quarter of a dollar
toward her, between his thumb and finger, and
laughed too.

“If you don’t come down, I shall come up there
after you,” said Mr. Linn.

“You can’t catch me, if you do,” said Rodolphus.

Mr. Linn began to ascend the rocks. Rodolphus,
however, who was, of course, more nimble
than his father, went on faster than his father
could follow. He passed over the highest portion,
of the hill, and then clambered down upon
the other side, to the road. He crossed the road,
and then began climbing down the bank, toward
the shore. He had often been up and down that
path before, and he accordingly descended very
quick and very easily.

When he reached the shore, he went out to
the flat rock, and there stopped and turned round
to look at his father. Mr. Linn was standing on
the brink of the cliff, preparing to come down.

“Stop,” said Rodolphus to his father. “If
you come down, I will throw the quarter of a
dollar into the water.”

[pg 437]

So saying, Rodolphus extended his hand as if
he were about to throw the money off, into the
stream.

The Pursuit.

Mrs. Linn and Annie had come out from the
house, to see how Mr. Linn’s pursuit of the fugitive
would end; but instead of following Rodolphus
and his father over the rocks, they had
come across the road to the little gate, where
they could see the flat rock on which Rodolphus
was standing, and his father on the cliffs above.
Mrs. Linn stood in the gateway. Annie had
come forward, and was standing in the path,
at the head of the steps. When she saw Rodolphus
threatening to throw the money into the
river, she seemed very much concerned and distressed.
She called out to her brother, in a very
earnest manner.

“Rodolphus! Rodolphus! That is my father’s
quarter of a dollar. You must not throw
it away.”

“I will throw it away,” said Rodolphus, “and
I’ll jump into the water myself, in the deepest
place that I can find, if he won’t let me have it
to buy my rabbit with.”

“I would let him have it, husband,” said Mrs.
Linn, “if he wants it so very much. I don’t
care much about it, on the whole. I don’t think
the rabbit will be any great trouble.”

When Rodolphus heard his mother say this,
he considered the case as decided, and he walked
off from the flat rock to the shore, and from the
shore up the path to his mother. There was
some further conversation between Rodolphus
and his parents in respect to the rabbit, but it
was finally concluded that the rabbit should be
bought, and Rodolphus was allowed to keep the
quarter of a dollar accordingly.

Such was the way in which Rodolphus was
brought up in his childhood. It is not surprising
that he came in the end to be a very bad boy.

II. Ellen.

The next morning after Rodolphus had obtained
his quarter of a dollar in the manner we
have described, he proposed to Annie to go with
him to buy his rabbit. It would not be very far,
he said.

“I should like to go very much,”
said Annie, “if my mother will let
me.”

“O, she will let you,” said Rodolphus,
“I can get her to let you.”

Rodolphus waited till his father had
gone away after breakfast, before asking
his mother to let Annie go with
him. He was afraid that his father
might make some objection to the
plan. After his father had gone, he
went to ask his mother.

At first she said very decidedly
that Annie could not go.

“Why not?” asked Rodolphus.

“Oh, I could not trust her with
you so far,” replied his mother, “she
is too little.”

There followed a long and earnest
debate between Rodolphus and his
mother, which ended at last in her
consent that Annie should go.

Rodolphus found a basket in the
shed, which he took to bring his rabbit home in.
He put a cloth into the basket, and also a long
piece of twine. The cloth was to spread over
the top of the basket, and the twine to tie round
it, in order to keep the rabbit in.

When Rodolphus was ready to go, his mother
told him that she was afraid that he might lose
his quarter of a dollar on the way, and in order
to make it more secure, she proposed to tie it up
for him in the corner of a pocket handkerchief.

“Why, that would not do any good, mother,”
said Rodolphus, “for then I should only lose
handkerchief and all.”

“No,” replied his mother. “You would not
be so likely to lose the handkerchief. The handkerchief
could not be shaken out of your pocket
so easily, nor get out through any small hole.
Besides, if you should by any chance lose the
money, you could find it again much more readily
if it was tied up in a handkerchief, that being so
large and easily seen.”

So Mrs. Linn tied the money in the corner of
a pocket handkerchief, and then put the handkerchief
itself in Rodolphus’s pocket.

The place where Rodolphus lived was in Franconia,
just below the village. There was a bridge
in the middle of the village with a dam across
the stream just above it. There were mills
near the dam. Just below the dam the water
was very rapid.

Rodolphus walked along with Annie till he
came to the bridge. On the way, as soon as he
got out of sight of the house, he pulled the handkerchief
out of his pocket, and began untying
the knot.

“What are you going to do?” asked Annie.

“I am going to take the money out of this
pocket handkerchief,” said Rodolphus.

So saying he untied the knot, and when he had
got the money out he put the money itself in one
[pg 438]
pocket and the handkerchief in the other, and
then walked along again.

When Rodolphus reached the bridge he turned
to go over it. Annie was at first afraid to go
over it. She wanted to go some other way.

“There is no other way,” said Rodolphus.

“Where is it that you are going to get the
rabbit?” asked Annie.

“To Beechnut’s,” said Rodolphus.

“Beechnut’s,” repeated Annie, “that’s a funny
name.”

“Why, his real name is Antonio,” said Rodolphus.
“But, come, walk along; there is no
danger in going over the bridge.”

Notwithstanding her brother’s assurances that
there was no danger, Annie was very much afraid
of the bridge. She however walked along, but
she kept as near the middle of the roadway as
she could. Sometimes she came to wide cracks
in the floor of the bridge, through which she
could see the water foaming and tumbling over
the rocks far below. There was a sort of balustrade
or railing each side of the bridge, but it
was very open. Rodolphus went to this railing
and putting his head between the bars of it,
looked down.

Annie begged him to come back. But he said
he wished to look and see if there were any
fishes down there in the water. In the mean
time Annie walked along very carefully, taking
long steps over the cracks, and choosing her
way with great caution. Presently she heard a
noise behind her, and looking round she saw a
wagon coming. This frightened her more than
ever. So she began to run as fast as she could
run, and very soon she got safely across the
bridge. When she reached the land, she went
out to the side of the road to let the wagon go
by, and sat down there to wait for her brother.

Presently Rodolphus came. Annie left her
seat and went back into the road to meet him,
and so they walked along together.

“If his name is truly Antonio,” said Annie,
“why don’t you call him Antonio?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Rodolphus, “the
boys always call him Beechnut.”

“I mean to call him Antonio,” said Annie, “if
I see him.”

“Well, you will see him,” said Rodolphus,
“for we go right where he lives.”

“Where does he live?” asked Annie.

“He lives at Phonny’s,” said Rodolphus.

“And where is Phonny’s?” asked Annie.

“Oh, it is a house up here by the valley.
Didn’t you ever go there?”

“No,” said Annie.

“It is a very pleasant house,” said Rodolphus.
“There is a river in front of it, and a pier, and
a boat. There is a boat-house, too. There used
to be a little girl there, too—just about as big as
you.”

“What was her name?” asked Annie.

“Malleville,” replied Rodolphus.

“I have heard about Malleville,” said Annie.

“How did you hear about her?” asked Rodolphus.

“My sister Ellen told me about her,” said
Annie.

“We can go and see Ellen,” said Rodolphus,
“after we have got the rabbit.”

“Well,” said Annie, “I should like to go and
see her very much.”

Rodolphus and Annie had a sister Ellen. She
was two years older than Rodolphus. Rodolphus
was at this time about ten. Ellen was twelve.
Antonio was fourteen. Ellen did not live at
home. She lived with her aunt. She went to
live with her aunt when she was about eight
years old. Her aunt lived in a small farm-house
among the mountains, and when Ellen was about
eight years old, she was taken sick, and so Ellen
went to the house to help take care of her.

Ellen was a very quiet and still, and at the
same time a very diligent and capable girl. She
was very useful to her aunt in her sickness. She
took care of the fire, and kept the room in order;
and she set a little table very neatly at the bedside,
when her aunt got well enough to take food.

It was a long time before her aunt was well
enough to leave her bed, and then she could not
sit up much, and she could not walk about at all.
She could only lie upon a sort of sofa, which her
husband made for her in his shop. So Ellen remained
to take care of her from week to week,
until at last her aunt’s house became her home
altogether.

Ellen liked to live at her aunt’s very much,
for the house was quiet, and orderly, and well-managed,
and every thing went smoothly and
pleasantly there. At home, on the other hand,
every thing was always in confusion, and Rodolphus
made so much noise and uproar, and
encroached so much on the peace and comfort
of the family by his self-will and his domineering
temper, that Ellen was always uneasy and unhappy
when she was at her mother’s. She liked
to be at her aunt’s, therefore, better; and as her
aunt liked her, she gradually came to make that
her home. Rodolphus used frequently to go and
see her, and even Annie went sometimes.

Annie was very much pleased with the plan of
going now to make Ellen a visit. They walked
quietly along the road, talking of this plan, when
Annie suddenly called out;

“Oh, Rodolphus, look there!”

Rodolphus looked, and saw a drove of cattle
coming along the road. It was a very large
drove, and it filled up the road almost entirely.

“Who cares for that?” said Rodolphus.

Annie seemed to care for it very much. She
ran out to the side of the road.

Rodolphus walked quietly after her, saying,
“Don’t be afraid, Annie. You can climb up on
the fence, if you like, till they get by.”

There was a large stump by the side of the
fence, at the place where Rodolphus and Annie
approached it, and Rodolphus, running to it, said,
“Quick, Annie, quick! climb up on this stump.”

Rodolphus climbed up on the stump, and then
helped Annie up after him. They had, however,
but just got their footing upon it, when Rodolphus
looked down at his feet and saw a hornet
[pg 439]
crawling out of a crevice in the side of the stump.
“Ah, Annie, Annie! a hornet’s nest! a hornet’s
nest!” exclaimed Rodolphus; “we must
run.”

So saying, Rodolphus climbed down from the
stump, on the side opposite to where he had seen
the hornet come out, and then helped Annie down.

“We must run across to the other side of the
road,” said he.

So saying, he hurried back into the road again,
leading Annie by the hand. They found, however,
that they were too late to gain the fence on
the other side, for several of the cattle had advanced
along by the green bank on that side so
far that the fence was lined with them, and Rodolphus
saw at a glance, that he could not get
near it.

“Never mind, Annie,” said Rodolphus, “we
will stay here, right in the middle of the road.
Stand behind me, and I will keep the cattle off
with my basket.”

So Annie took her stand behind Rodolphus,
in the middle of the road, while Rodolphus, by
swinging his basket to and fro, toward the cattle
as they came on, made them separate to the right
and left, and pass by on each side. Rodolphus,
besides waving his basket at the cattle, shouted
to them in a very stern and authoritative manner,
saying, “Hie! Whoh! Hie-up, there!
Ho!” The cattle were slow to turn out—but
they did turn out, just before they came to where
Rodolphus and Annie were standing—crowding
and jamming each other in great confusion. The
herd closed together again as soon as they had
passed the children, so that for a time Rodolphus
and Annie stood in a little space in
the road, with the monstrous oxen
all around them.

At length the herd all passed safely
by, and then Rodolphus and Annie
went on. After walking along a little
farther, they came to the bank of a
river. The road lay along the bank
of this river. There was a smooth
sandy beach down by the water. Rodolphus
and Annie went down there
a few minutes to ploy. There was
an old raft there. It was floating in
the water, but was fastened by a rope
to a stake in the sand.

“Ah, here is a raft, Annie,” said
Rodolphus. “I’ll tell you what we
will do. We will go the rest of the
way by water, on this raft. I’m tired
of walking so far.”

“Oh, no,” said Annie, “I’m afraid
to go on that raft. It will sink.”

“O, no,” said Rodolphus, “it will
not sink. See.” So saying, he stepped
upon the raft, to show Annie how
stable it was.

“I’ll get a block,” he continued,
“for you to sit on.”

Annie was very much afraid of the
raft, though she was not quite so much
afraid of it as she had been of the
bridge, because the bridge was very high up
above the water, and there was, consequently
as she imagined, danger of a fall. Besides the
water where the raft was lying, was smooth and
still, while that beneath the bridge was a roaring
torrent. Finally, Annie allowed herself to
be persuaded to get upon the raft. Rodolphus
found a block lying upon the shore, and he put
that upon the raft for Annie to sit upon. When
Annie was seated, Rodolphus stepped upon the
raft himself, and with a long pole he pushed it
out from the shore, while Annie balanced herself
as well as she could upon the block.

The water was not very deep, and Rodolphus
could push the raft along very easily, by setting
the end of his pole against the bottom Annie
sat upon her block very still. It happened, however,
unfortunately, that the place where Antonio
lived was up the stream, not down, and Rodolphus
found that though he could move his raft very
easily round and round, and even back and forth,
he could not get forward much on his way, on
account of the force of the current, which was
strong against him. He advanced a little way,
however, and then he began to be tired of so difficult
a navigation.

“I don’t think we shall go very far, on the
raft,” said he, to Annie, “there is such a strong
tide.”

Just then Rodolphus began to look very intently
into the water before him. He thought he
saw a pickerel. He was just going to attempt to
spear him with his pole, when his attention was
arrested by hearing Annie call out, “Oh, Rolfy!
Rolfy! the raft is all coming to pieces”

The Raft.

[pg 440]

Rodolphus looked round, and saw that the
boards of which the raft had been made, were
separating from each other at the end of the raft
where Annie was sitting, and one of the boards
was shooting out entirely.

“So it is,” said Rodolphus. “Why didn’t
they nail it together? You sit still, and I will
push in to the shore.”

Rodolphus attempted to push in to the shore,
but in the strenuous efforts which he made for
that purpose, he stepped about upon the raft irregularly
and in such a manner, as to make the
boards separate more and more. At length the
water began to come up around Annie’s feet, and
Rodolphus alarmed at this, hurriedly directed her
to stand up, on the block. Annie tried to do so,
but before she effected her purpose, the raft
seemed evidently about going to pieces. It had,
however, by this time got very near the shore,
so Rodolphus changed his orders, and called out,
“Jump, Annie, jump!”

Annie jumped; but the part of the raft on
which she was standing gave way under her
feet, and she came down into the water. The
water was not very deep. It came up, however,
almost to Annie’s knees. Rodolphus himself
had leaped over to the shore, and so had, himself,
escaped a wetting. He took Annie by the
hand, and led her also out to the dry land.

Annie began to cry. Rodolphus soothed and
quieted her as well as he could. He took off her
stockings and shoes. He poured the water out
of the shoes, and wrung out the stockings. He
also wrung out Annie’s dress as far as possible.
He told her not to mind it; her clothes would
soon get dry. It was all the fault of the boys,
he said, who made the raft, for not nailing it together.

Rodolphus had had presence of mind enough
to seize his basket, when he leaped ashore, so that
that was safe. The raft, however, went all to
pieces, and the fragments of it floated away down
the stream.

Rodolphus and Annie then resumed their journey.
Rodolphus talked fast to Annie, and told
her a great many amusing stories, to divert her
mind from the misfortune which had happened
to them. He charged her not to tell her mother,
when she got home, that she had been in the water,
and made her promise that she would not.

At length they came to a large house which
stood back from the road a little way, at the entrance
to a valley. This was the house, Rodolphus
said, where Beechnut lived. Rodolphus opened
a great gate, and he and Annie went into the yard.

“I think that Beechnut is in some of the barns,
or sheds, or somewhere,” said Rodolphus.

So he and Annie went to the barns and sheds.
There was a horse standing in one of the sheds,
harnessed to a wagon, but there were no signs
of Beechnut.

“Perhaps he is in the yard,” said Rodolphus.

So Rodolphus led the way through a shed to
a sort of back-yard, where there was a plank-walk,
with lilac-bushes and other shrubbery on
one side of it. Rodolphus and Annie walked
along upon the planks. Presently, they came to
a place where there was a ladder standing up
against the house.

“Ah!” said Rodolphus, “he is upon the house.
Here is the ladder. I think he is doing something
on the house. I mean to go and see.”

“No,” said Annie, “you must not go up on
such a high place.”

“Oh, this is not a very high ladder,” said Rodolphus.
So saying he began to go up. Annie
stood below, looking up to him as he ascended,
and feeling great apprehension lest he should
fall.

The top of the ladder reached up considerably
above the top of the house, and Rodolphus told
Annie that he was not going to the top of the
ladder, but only high enough to see if Beechnut
was on the house. He told her, too, that if she
walked back toward the garden gate, perhaps
she could see too. Annie accordingly walked
back, and looking upward all the time, she presently
saw a young man who she supposed was
Beechnut, doing something to the top of one of
the chimneys. By this time Rodolphus had
reached the eaves of the house, in climbing up the
ladder, and he came in sight of Beechnut, too.

Up The Ladder.

“Hie-yo! Dolphin!” said Beechnut, “is that
you!”

Beechnut often called Rodolphus, Dolphin.

“May I come up where you are?” said Rodolphus.

“No,” said Beechnut.

When Rodolphus heard this answer, he remained
quietly where he was upon the ladder.

“What are you doing?” said Rodolphus.

“Putting a wire netting over the chimney,”
said Beechnut.

“What for!” asked Rodolphus.

[pg 441]

“To keep the chimney-swallows from getting
in,” said Beechnut.

“Are you coming down pretty soon?” asked
Rodolphus.

“Yes,” said Beechnut. “Go down the ladder
and wait till I come.”

So Rodolphus went down the ladder again to
Annie.

“What is the reason,” said Annie, “that you
obey Beechnut so much better than you do my
father?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Rodolphus. “He
makes me, I suppose.”

It was true that Beechnut made Rodolphus
obey him—that is, in all cases where he was
under any obligation to obey him. One day,
when he first became acquainted with Beechnut,
he went out upon the pond in Beechnut’s boat.
He wished to row, but Beechnut preferred that
some other boy should row, and directed Rodolphus
to sit down upon one of the thwarts. Rodolphus
would not do this, but was determined
to row, and he attempted to take away one of
the oars by force. Beechnut immediately turned
the head of the boat toward the shore, and when
he reached the shore he directed four of the
strongest boys to put Rodolphus out upon the
sand, and then when they had done this he sailed
away in the boat again. Rodolphus took up
clubs and stones, and began to throw them at
the boat. Beechnut came back again, and seizing
Rodolphus, he tied his hands behind him
with a strong cord. When he was thus secured
Beechnut said to him,

“Now, you may have your choice of two
things. You may stay here till we come back
from our excursion, and then, if you seem pretty
peaceable, I will untie you. Or you may go
home now, as you are, with your hands tied behind
you in disgrace.”

Rodolphus concluded to remain where he was;
for he was well aware that if he were to go home
through the village with his hands tied behind
him, every body would know that the tying was
one of Beechnut’s punishments, and that it had
not been resorted to without good reason. Some
of the boys thought that after this occurrence
Beechnut would not be willing to have Rodolphus
go with them again in the boat, but Beechnut
said “Yes; he may go with us whenever he
pleases. I don’t mind having a rebel on board
at all. I know exactly what to do with rebels.”

“But it is a great trouble,” said one of the
boys, “to have them on board.”

“Not at all,” said Beechnut, “on the other
hand it is a pleasure to me to discipline them.”

Rodolphus very soon found that it was useless
to resist Beechnut’s will, in any case where
Beechnut had the right to control; and so he
soon formed the habit of obeying him. He liked
Beechnut too, very much. He liked him in fact,
all the better, on account of his firmness and decision.

When Beechnut came down from the housetop,
Rodolphus told him he had come to get a
rabbit, and at the same time held out the quarter
of a dollar to view.

“Where did you get the money?” said Beechnut.

“My father gave it to me,” said Rodolphus.

“No,” said Annie, very earnestly, “my father
did not give it to you. You took it away from
him.”

“But he gave it to me afterward,” said Rodolphus.

Beechnut inquired what this meant, and Annie
explained to him, as well as she could, the manner
in which Rodolphus had obtained his money.
Beechnut then said, that he would not take the
quarter of a dollar. The money was not honestly
come by, he said. It was not voluntarily
given to Rodolphus, and therefore was not honestly
his. “The money was stolen,” said he,
“and I will not have any stolen money for my
rabbits. I would rather give you a rabbit for
nothing.”

This, Beechnut said finally, he would do. “I
will give you a rabbit,” said he, “for the present,
and whenever you get a quarter of a dollar, which
is honestly your own, you may come and pay for
it, if you please, and if not, not. But don’t bring
me any money which is not truly your own.
And carry that quarter of a dollar back and give
it to your father.”

So saying, Beechnut led the way, and Rodolphus
and Annie followed him, into one of the
barns. They walked along a narrow passageway,
between a hay-mow on one side, and a row
of stalls for cattle on the other. Then they turned
and passed through an open room, and finally
came to a place which Beechnut called a bay.
Here there was a little pen, with a house in it,
for the rabbits, and a hole at one side where the
rabbits could run in under the barn. Beechnut
called “Benny! Benny! Benny!” and immediately
several rabbits came running out from the hole.

“There,” said Beechnut, “which one will
you have?”

The children began immediately to examine
the different rabbits, and to talk very fast and
very eagerly about them. Finally, Rodolphus
decided in favor of a gray one, though there was
one which was perfectly white, that Annie seemed
to prefer. Beechnut said that he would give Rodolphus
the gray one.

“As to the white one,” said he, “I am going
to let you take it, Annie, for Ellen. I can’t give
it to you. I give it to Ellen; but, perhaps, she
will let you carry it home with you, and take care
of it for her, and so keep it with Rodolphus’s.”

Annie seemed very much pleased with this
plan, and so the two rabbits were caught and
put into the basket. The cloth was then tied
over them, and Rodolphus and Annie prepared
to go away.

“But, stop,” said Beechnut, “I am going directly
by your aunt’s in my wagon, and I can
give you a ride.”

“Well,” said Annie, dancing about and clapping
her hands. It was very seldom that Annie
had an opportunity to take a ride.
[pg 442]
She ran to the wagon. Rodolphus followed
her slowly, carrying the basket. Beechnut helped
in the two children, and then got in himself, and
took his seat between them. Rodolphus held the
basket between his knees, peeping in under the
cloth, now and then, to see if the rabbits were
safe.

The Yard at Mr. Randon’s.

The party traveled on by a winding and very
pleasant road among the mountains, for about a
mile, and at length they drove up to the door of
a pleasant little farm-house in a sort of dell.
There was a high hill behind it—overhung with
forest trees. There was a spacious yard at the
end of the house, with ducks, and geese, and
chickens, in the back part of it. There was a
large dog lying asleep on the great flat stone
step when the wagon came up, but when he
heard the wagon coming, awoke, opened his eyes,
got up, and walked away. There was a well in
the middle of the yard. Beechnut rode round
the well, and drove up to the door. Ellen was
sitting at the window. As soon as she saw the
wagon, she got up and ran to the door.

“How do you do, Ellen!” said Beechnut.

“How do you do, Antonio!” said Ellen, “I
am much obliged to you for bringing my brother
and sister to see me.”

So saying, she came to the wagon and helped
Annie out. Rodolphus, who was on the other
side of Beechnut, then handed her his basket,
saying, “Here, Ellen, take this very carefully.
There are two rabbits in it, and one of them is
for you.”

“For me,” said Ellen.

“Yes,” said Annie, “only I am to take care
of it for you.”

“Good-by,” said Beechnut. He was just
beginning, as he said this, to drive the wagon
away.

“Good-by, Beechnut,” said Rodolphus.

“I am much obliged to you for my ride,” said
Annie.

“Stop a minute, Antonio,” said Ellen, “I have
got something for you.”

So saying, Ellen went into the house and
brought out a small flat parcel, neatly put up
and addressed on the outside, Antonio.

She took it out to the wagon, and handed it
up to Antonio, saying that there were the last
drawings that he had lent her. In fact, Ellen
was one of Beechnut’s pupils in drawing. He
was accustomed to lend her models, which, when
she had copied them, she sent back to him.
Ellen was one of Antonio’s favorite pupils; she
was so faithful, and patient, and persevering.
Besides, she was a very beautiful girl.

“I must not stop to see your copies now,”
said Antonio, “but I shall come again pretty
soon. Good-by.”

“Good-by,” said Ellen: and then she went
back to the door where Rodolphus and Annie
were standing.

Rodolphus lifted up the corner
of the cloth, which covered the
basket, and let Ellen see the rabbits.
Ellen was very much pleased
to find that one of them was hers.
She said that she would put a collar
on its neck, as a mark that it was
hers, and she asked Rodolphus and
Annie to go in with her into the
house, where she said she would
get the collar.

So they all went in. The room
was a very pleasant room, indeed.
It was large and it was in perfect
order. There was a very spacious
fire-place in it, but scarcely any fire.
As it was summer, no fire was necessary.
At one side of the room,
near a window, there was a table,
which Ellen said was her table.
There were two drawers in this
table. These drawers contained
books, and papers, and various articles of apparatus
for writing and drawing. In one corner of
one of the drawers there was a little paint box.

There was a small bedroom adjoining the
room where the children were. They all pretty
soon heard a voice calling from this room, in a
pleasant tone, “Ellen, bring the children in here.”

“Yes; come Rolfy,” said Ellen—“and Annie—come
and see aunt.” So all the children went
into their aunt’s room.

They found her half-sitting and half-lying upon
her sofa, by a pleasant window, which looked out
upon a green yard and upon an orchard which
was beyond the yard. She was sewing. She
looked pale, but she seemed contented and happy—and
she said that she was very glad to see Rodolphus
and Annie. She talked with them some
time, and then asked Ellen to get them some
luncheon. Ellen accordingly went into the other
room and set the table for luncheon, by her window
as she called it. This window was a very
pleasant one, near her table. The luncheon consisted
[pg 443]
of a pie, some cake, warm from the oven,
and some baked apples, and cream. Ellen said
that she made the cake, and the pie, and baked
the apples herself.

The children ate their luncheon together very
happily, and then spent some time in walking
about the yards, the barns, and the garden, to see
what was to be seen. Rodolphus walked about
quietly and behaved well. In fact, he was always
a good boy at his aunt’s, and obeyed all her directions—she
would not allow him to do otherwise.

At length Rodolphus and Annie set out on
their return home. It was a long walk, but in
due time they reached home in safety. Rodolphus
determined not to give the money back to
his father, and so he hid it in a crevice, which
he found in a part of the fence behind his rabbit
house. He put the rabbits in their house, and
put a board up before the door to keep them in.

That night when Mrs. Linn took off Annie’s
stockings by the kitchen fire, when she was going
to put her to bed, she found them very damp.

“Why, Annie,” she said, “what makes your
stockings so damp? You must have got into
the water somewhere to-day.”

Annie did not answer. Rodolphus had enjoined
it upon her not to tell their mother of
their adventure on the raft, and so she did not
know what to say.

“Damp?” said Rodolphus. “Are they damp?
Let me feel.” So he began to feel of Annie’s
stockings.

“No,” said he, “they are not damp. I can’t
feel that they are damp.”

“They certainly are,” said his mother. “They
are very damp indeed.”

“Then,” said Rodolphus, “we must have
spilled some water into them when we were getting
a drink, Annie, at the well.” Annie said
nothing, and Mrs. Linn hung the stockings up
to dry.

III. Sickness.

Ellen’s aunt was the sister of Mr. Linn, Ellen’s
father; and her name was Anne. Ellen
used to call her Aunt Anne. Her husband’s
name was Randon, so that sometimes Ellen
called her Aunt Randon.

Though Mr. Randon’s house appeared rather
small, as seen from the road by any one riding
by, it was pretty spacious and very comfortable
within. Mr. Randon owned several farms in different
places, and he was away from home a
great deal attending to his other farms and to
the flocks of sheep and herds of cattle which he
had upon them. During these absences Mrs.
Randon of course remained at home with Ellen.
There was a girl named Martha who lived at the
house to do the work of the family, and also a
young man named Hugh. Hugh was employed
in the mornings and evenings in taking care of
the barns and the cattle, and in the day-time,
especially in the winter, he hauled wood—sometimes
to the house for the family to burn, and
sometimes to the village for sale.

The family lived thus very happily together,
whether Mr. Randon was at home or away.
Mrs. Randon could not walk about the house at
all, but was, on the other hand, confined all day
to her bed or her sofa; but she knew every thing
that was done; and gave directions about every
thing. Ellen was employed as messenger to
carry her aunt’s directions out, and to bring back
intelligence and answers. Mrs. Randon knew
exactly what was in every room, and where it
was in the room. She knew what was in every
drawer, and what was on every shelf in every
closet, and what and how much was in every bin
in the cellar. So that if she wanted any thing
she could direct Ellen where to go to get it with
a certainty that it would be exactly there. The
house was very full of furniture, stores, and supplies,
and all was so well arranged and in such
an orderly and complete condition, that in going
over it every room that the visitor entered seemed
pleasanter than the one seen before.

On one occasion, Rodolphus himself had proof
of this admirable order. He had cut his finger,
in the shed, and when he came in, Mrs. Randon,
after binding it up very nicely, turned to Ellen,
and said,

“Now, Ellen, we must have a cot. Go up
into the garret, and open the third trunk, counting
from the west window. In the right-hand
front corner of this trunk you will find a small
box. In the box you will find three cots. Bring
the smallest one to me.”

Ellen went and found every thing as Mrs.
Randon had described it.

There was a room in the front part of the
house called the Front Room, which was usually
kept shut up. It was furnished as a parlor very
prettily. It had very full curtains to the windows,
a soft carpet on the floor, and a rug before
the fire-place. There was a bookcase in this
room, with a desk below. Mr. Randon kept his
valuable papers in this desk, and the book-case
above was filled with interesting books. There
were several very pretty pictures on the walls of
this room, and some curious ornaments on the
mantle shelf. The blinds of the windows in this
apartment were generally closed and the curtains
drawn, and Ellen seldom went into it, except to
get a new book to read to her aunt, out of the
secretary.

The room which the family generally used,
was a back room. It was quite large, and it had
a very spacious fire-place in it. Being larger
than any other room in the house it was generally
called the Great Room. The windows of
this room looked out upon a pretty green yard,
with a garden and an orchard beyond. There
was a door too at one end of the room opening
to a porch. In this porch was an outer door,
which led to a large yard at the end of the house.
This was the door that Antonio had driven up
to, when he brought Rodolphus and Annie to
see Ellen. On the other side of the kitchen from
the porch-door, was a door leading to Mrs. Randon’s
bed-room. The situation of these rooms,
and of the other apartments of the house as well
as of the principal articles of furniture hereafter
[pg 444]
to be described, may be perfectly understood by
the means of the following plan.

Plan of Mrs. Randon’s House. B: Bed in Mrs Randon’s bed-room.
W: The closed windows. B. E.: Back entry. pl: Back Platform.
P: Porch. C: Mrs. Randon’s couch or sofa. ff: Fire-places.
H: Hugh’s seat. S: Settle. L: Lutie’s bed.

Mrs. Randon was accustomed to remain in her
bedroom almost all the time in the summer, but
in the winter she had her sofa or couch brought
out and placed by the side of the fire-place in the
great room, as represented in the plan. Here,
in the long stormy evenings of winter, the family
would live together very happily. Mrs. Randon
would lie reclining upon her sofa, knitting, and
talking to Martha and Ellen while they were getting
supper ready. Ellen would set the table,
while Martha would bake the cakes and bring up
the milk out of the cellar, and make the tea;
and then when all was ready, they would move
the table up close to Mrs. Randon’s sofa, and
after lifting her up and supporting her with pillows
at her back, they would themselves sit down
on the other side of the table, and all eat their
supper together in a very happy manner.

The Great Room.

Then, after supper, when the table had been
put away, and a fresh fire had been made on the
great stone hearth, Ellen would sit
in a little rocking-chair by her aunt’s
side, and read aloud some interesting
story, while Martha sat knitting on
the settle, at the other side of the
fire, and Hugh, on a bench in the
corner, occupied himself with making
clothes-pins, or shaping teeth for
rakes, or fitting handles into tools,
or some other work of that kind.
Hugh found that unless he had such
work to do, he always fell asleep
while Ellen was reading.

Ellen found that her aunt, instead
of growing better, rather grew worse.
She was very pale, though very delicate
and beautiful. Her fingers were
very long, and white, and tapering.
Ellen thought that they grew longer
and more tapering every day. At
last, one winter evening, just after
tea, and before Hugh and Martha had
come in to sit down, Ellen went up
to the sofa, and kneeling down upon
a little bear-skin rug which was
there, and which had been put there
to look warm and comfortable, although
the poor invalid could never
put her feet upon it, she bent down over her
aunt and said,

“It seems to me Aunt Anne, that you don’t
get better very fast.”

The patient, putting her arm over Ellen’s
neck, and drawing Ellen down closely to her,
kissed her, but did not answer.

“Do you think you shall ever get well, aunty?”
said Ellen.

“No,” said her aunt, “I do not think that I
shall. I think that before a great while I shall
die.”

“Why, aunty!” said Ellen. She was much
shocked to hear such a declaration. “I hope
you will not die,” she continued presently, speaking
in a very low and solemn manner. “What
shall I do if you should die!—What makes you
think that you will die?”

“There are two reasons why I
think that I shall die,” said her
aunt. “One is, that I feel that I am
growing weaker and weaker all the
time. I have grown a great deal
weaker within a few days.”

“Have you?” said Ellen, in a tone
of great anxiety and concern.

“Yes,” said her aunt. “The
other reason that makes me think
that I am going to die is greater
still; and that is I begin to feel so
willing to die.”

“I thought that you were always
willing to die,” said Ellen. “I
thought we ought to be all willing to
die, always.”

“No,” said her aunt, “or yes, in
[pg 445]
one sense we ought. We ought always to be
willing to submit to whatever God shall think
best for us. But as to life and death, we ought
undoubtedly, when we are strong and well, to
desire to live.”

“God means,” she continued, “that we should
desire to live, and that we should do all that we
can to prolong life. He has given us an instinct
impelling us to that feeling. But when sickness
comes and death is nigh, then the instinct changes.
We do not wish to live then—that is, if we feel
that we are prepared to die. It is a very kind
and merciful arrangement to have the instinct
change, so that when we are well, we can be
happy in the thought of living, and when we are
sick and about to die, we can be happy in the
thought of dying. Our instincts often change
thus, when the circumstances change.”

“Do they?” said Ellen, thoughtfully.

“Yes,” said her aunt. “For instance, when
you were an infant, your mother’s instinctive
love for you led her to wish to have you always
near her, with your cheek upon her cheek, and
your little hand in her bosom. Mothers all have
such an instinct as that, while their children are
very young. It is given to them so that they
may love to have their children very near them
while they are so young and tender that they
would not be safe if they were away.

“But now,” she continued, “you have grown
older, and the instinct has changed. Your mother
loves you just as much as she did when you
were an infant, but she loves you in a different
way. She is willing to have you absent from
her, if you are only well provided for and happy.”

“And is it so with death?” asked Ellen.

“Yes,” replied her aunt; “when we are well,
we love life, and we ought to love it. It then
seems terrible to die. God means that it should
seem terrible to us then. But when sickness
comes and we are about to die, then he changes
the feeling. Death seems terrible no more.
We become perfectly willing to die.”

Here Mrs. Randon paused, and Ellen remained
still, thinking of what she had heard, but
without speaking. After a few minutes her aunt
continued.

“I have had a great change in my feelings
within a short time, about dying,” said she, “I
have always, heretofore, desired to live and to
get well; and it has seemed to me a terrible
thing to die;—to leave my pleasant home, and
my husband, and my dear Ellen, and to see them
no more. But somehow or other, lately, all this
is changed. I feel now perfectly willing to die.
It does not seem terrible at all. I have been a
great sinner all my days, but I feel sure that my
sins are forgiven for Christ’s sake, and that if I
die I shall be happy where I go, and that I shall
see my husband and you too there some day.”

Ellen laid her head down by the side of her
aunt’s, with her face to the pillow and her cheek
against her aunt’s cheek, but said nothing.

“When I am gone,” continued her aunt, “you
will go home and live with your mother again.”

“Shall I?” said Ellen, faintly.

“Yes,” replied her aunt, “it will be better
that you should. You can do a great deal of
good there. You can gradually get the house
in order, taking one thing at a time, and so not
only help your mother, but make it more pleasant
and comfortable for your father. You can
also teach Annie, and be a great help to her as
she grows up; and you can also perhaps do a
great deal of good to Rodolphus.”

“I don’t know what I shall do with Rodolphus,”
said Ellen. “He troubles my mother very
much indeed.”

“I know he does,” said her aunt, “but then
you will soon get a great influence over him,
and it is possible that you will succeed in making
him a good boy.”

As Mrs. Randon said this, Ellen heard the
sound of a door opening in the back entry, and a
stamping of feet upon the floor, as if some one
were coming in out of the snow.

“There comes Hugh,” said Ellen, “and I
think there is going to be a storm.”

Signs of a gathering storm had in fact been
appearing all that day. For several days before,
the weather had been very clear and cold, but
that morning the cold had diminished, and a thin
haze had gradually extended itself over the sky.
At sunset the sky looked thick and murky toward
the southeast, and it became dark much
sooner than usual. A moment after Ellen had
spoken, Hugh came in. He said that it was
snowing, and that two or three inches of snow
had already fallen; and that if it snowed much
during the night he should not be able to go into
the woods the next morning.

When Ellen rose the next morning and looked
at the windows, she saw that the snow was piled
up against the panes of glass on the outside, and
on going to the window to look out, she found that
it was snowing still, and that all the old snow
and all the roads and tracks upon it, were entirely
covered. Ellen went out into the great room,
and there she found a blazing fire in the fireplace,
and Martha before it getting breakfast
ready. Pretty soon Hugh came in.

“What a great snow-storm,” said Ellen.

“No,” said Hugh, “it is not a very great snow-storm.
It does not snow very fast.”

“Can you go into the woods to-day?” said Ellen.

“Yes,” said Hugh, “I am going into the
woods for a load of wood to haul to the village.
The snow is not very deep yet.”

Hugh went to the woods, got his load, hauled
it to the village, and returned to dinner. After
dinner he went again. Ellen was almost afraid
to have him go away in the afternoon, for her
aunt appeared to be more and more unwell. She
lay upon her sofa by the side of the fire, silent
and still, apparently without pain, but very faint
and feeble. She spoke very seldom, and then
only in a whisper. At one time about the middle
of the afternoon, Ellen went and stood a moment
at the window to see the snow driving by—blown
by the wind along the crests of the
drifts, and over the walls, down the road. When
she turned round, she saw that her aunt was
[pg 446]
beckoning to her with her white and slender finger.
Ellen went immediately to her.

“Is Hugh going to the village this afternoon?”
she asked.

“Yes, aunt,” said Ellen, “I believe he is.”

“I wish you would ask him to call at my
brother George’s, and tell him that I am very
sick, and ask him if he can not come up and see
me this evening.”

“Yes, aunt,” said Ellen, “I will.”

Ellen accordingly watched for Hugh when he
came down the mountain-road with the load of
wood, on the way to the village. She gave him
the message, standing at the stoop-door. The
wind howled mournfully over the trees of the
forest, and the air was thick with falling and
driving snow. Hugh said that he had almost
concluded not to go to the village. The snow
had become so deep, and the storm was increasing
so fast, that he doubted very much whether
he could get back if he should go. On receiving
Ellen’s message, however, he decided at once to
go on. He could get to the village well enough,
he said, for it was a descending road all the way;
but there would be more uncertainty about the
return.

So he started his four oxen again, and they
went wallowing on, followed by the great loaded
sled, with the runners buried in the drift.
Hugh’s cap and shaggy coat, and the handkerchief
which he had tied about the collar of his
coat, after turning it up to cover his ears, were
all whitened with the snow, and from among all
these various mufflings his face, reddened with
the cold, peeped out, though almost wholly concealed
from view.

As soon as Hugh was gone, Ellen, who was
by this time almost blinded by the snow which
the wind blew furiously into her face and eyes,
came into the house and shut the door.

Ellen watched very diligently all the afternoon
for the coming of her father. She hoped that he
would bring her mother with him. She went to
the window again and again, and looked anxiously
down the road, but nothing was to be seen but
the thick and murky atmosphere, the increasing
drifts, and the scudding wreaths of snow. The
fences and the walls gradually disappeared from
view; the great wood pile in the yard was soon
completely covered and concealed; and a deep
drift, of the form of a wave just curling over to
break upon the shore, slowly rose directly across
the entrance to the yard, until it was higher than
the posts on each side of the gateway, so that
Ellen began to fear that if her father and mother
should come, they would not be able to get into
the yard.

At length it gradually grew dark, and then,
though Ellen went to the window as often as before,
and attempted to shade her eyes from the
reflection of the fire, by holding up her hands
to the side of her face, she could watch these
changes no longer. Nothing was to be seen,
but the trickling of the flakes down the panes of
glass on the outside, and a small expanse of
white immediately below the window.

In the mean time, within the room where Ellen’s
aunt was reposing, all seemed, at least in
appearance, very bright and cheerful. A great
log was lying across the andirons, behind and
beneath which there was a blazing and glowing
fire. There was a tin baker before this fire, with
a pan of large apples in it, which Martha was
baking, to furnish the table with, for the expected
company. Martha herself was busy at a side-table
too, making cakes for supper. The tea-kettle
was in a corner, with a column of steam
rising gently from the spout, and Ellen’s little
gray kitten, Lutie, was in the other corner
asleep. Ellen herself was busy, here and there,
about the room. She went often to the window,
even after it was too dark to see, and she watched
her aunt continually with a countenance expressive
of much affection and concern. Her aunt lay
perfectly quiet and still, as if she were asleep,
only she would now and then open her eyes and
smile upon Ellen, if she saw Ellen looking at
her, and then close them again.

The couch that she was lying upon had little
wheels at the four corners of it toward the floor,
so that it could be moved to and fro. Ellen had
been accustomed, when the time arrived for her
aunt to go to bed, to ask Martha to help her move
the couch into the bedroom, by the side of the
bed, and then assist her in moving the patient
from one to the other. Ellen, accordingly, about
an hour after it became dark, went to her aunt’s
couch, and asked her in a gentle tone if she
would not like to go to bed. But her aunt said
no. She would not be moved, she said, but
would remain as she was until her brother should
come. She said, too, that Martha and Ellen
might eat their supper when it was ready, and
leave her where she was.

Martha and Ellen finished their supper about
seven o’clock. Martha then took her place upon
the settle with her knitting-work as usual, and
Ellen went and sat down upon the little bear-skin
rug, and leaned her head toward her aunt.
Her aunt put out her hand toward Ellen’s cheek
and pressed her head gently down upon the pillow,
by the side of her own, and then very slowly
and feebly moved her fingers, once or twice,
down the hair on Ellen’s temple, as if she were
pleased to have her little niece lying near her.
Ellen shut her eyes, and for a few minutes enjoyed
very much the thought that she was such
an object of affection to one whom she loved so
much; but after a few minutes, she began to lose
her consciousness, and soon fell fast asleep.

She slept more than an hour. It was in fact
nearly half-past eight when she awoke. She
raised her head and looked up. She found that
Martha had fallen asleep too. Her knitting-work
had dropped from her hand. Ellen did not
wish to disturb her, so she rose softly, went to
the fire, and put up a brand which had fallen
down, and then crossed the room to the window,
parted the curtains, and putting her face close to
the glass, attempted to look out. Nothing was
to be seen. She listened. Nothing was to be
heard but the dreadful roaring of the wind, and
[pg 447]
the clicking of the snow-flakes against the windows.

Ellen came back to the couch again, and looked
at her aunt as she lay with her cheek upon her
pillow, apparently asleep. At first Ellen thought
that she was really asleep, but when she came
near, she found that her eyes were not entirely
closed. She kneeled down by the side of the
couch and said gently, “Aunt Anne, Aunt Anne,
how do you feel now?”

Ellen saw that her aunt moved a little, and
she heard a faint whispering sound, but there
was no audible answer.

Ellen was now frightened. She feared that
her aunt might be dying. She went to Martha
and woke her. Martha started up much alarmed.
Ellen told her that she was afraid that her
aunt was dying. Martha went to the couch.
She thought so too.

“I must go,” said she, “to some of the neighbors
and get them to come.”

“But you can not get to any of the neighbors,”
said Ellen.

“Perhaps I can,” said Martha, “and at any
rate I must try.”

So Martha began to prepare herself, as well
as she could, to go out into the storm, Ellen
standing by, full of apprehension and anxiety,
and helping her so far as she was able to do so.
There was a neighbor who lived about a quarter
of a mile from the house, by a road which lay
through the woods, and which was, therefore,
ordinarily not very much obstructed with the
snow. It was to this house that Martha was
going to attempt to make her way. When she
was ready, she went forth, leaving Ellen with
her aunt alone.

(To Be Continued.)

Recollections Of St. Petersburg.

“To-morr punkt at ‘leven wir schiff for St.
Petersburg,” was the polyglot announcement
by which all of us, Swedes, Germans, English,
and one solitary American, were given to
understand at what hour on the ensuing day we
were to commence our voyage from Stockholm for
the Russian capital. With praiseworthy punctuality
the steam was up at the appointed hour
of eleven, and as our steamer shot out into the
Baltic we took our farewell view of Stockholm,
the “City of Piles.” As we steamed northward
we dashed through archipelago after archipelago
of islands, some with bold and rocky shores, and
others sloping greenly down to the tranquil sea.
Having passed the Aland Islands, one of which,
not thirty miles from the coast of Sweden, has
been seized and strongly fortified by her powerful
and unscrupulous neighbor, we turned into a
narrow inlet, and touched Russian soil at Abo,
the ancient capital of Finland.

Here we made our first acquaintance with
those fascinating gentry, whom his Imperial Majesty
deputes to watch that nothing treasonable
or contraband finds entrance into his dominions.
Our intercourse here was, however, brief, our
passports merely being demanded, and permission
granted us to go on shore while the steamer
was detained. At Cronstadt and St. Petersburg
we formed a more intimate if not more agreeable
acquaintance with these functionaries. Setting
out again we coasted eastward up the Gulf of
Finland, passing the grim fortress of Sveaborg,
with its eight hundred guns, and garrison of fifteen
thousand men, and shot up the beautiful
bay to Helsingfors, one of the great naval stations
of Russia. Touching at Revel, on the opposite
shore of the Gulf of Finland, we ran due
east up the Gulf, encountering the great Russian
summer fleet, which was performing its annual
manœuvres, and on the morning after leaving
Helsingfors came in sight of the shipping and
fortifications of Cronstadt. As we crept slowly
up the narrow and winding channel, by which
alone the harbor can be reached, and passed successively
the grim lines of batteries which command
every portion of it, we were forced to confess
that it formed a fitting outpost to a great
military power.

Cronstadt is not only the chief naval dépôt of
Russia, but is properly the port of St. Petersburg,
as the capital is inaccessible to vessels drawing
more than eight or nine feet of water. Hence
Cronstadt is included in the St. Petersburg customs-district,
and vessels clear indifferently for
either, and are subject to only a single customs-house
examination. It forms the key to the capital,
which would be entirely at the mercy of any
fleet which should once pass its batteries. It
has therefore been fortified so strongly as to be
apparently impregnable to all the navies of the
world. We came to anchor under the guns of
the fortress; and were soon put under the charge
of our amiable friends of the custom-house, who
took complete possession of the deck, while the
passengers and officers of the vessel were directed
to repair to the cabin to give an account of
themselves, their occupations, pursuits, and designs
to these rude and filthy representatives of
the Czar. It was well for us that we had been
in a measure hardened to these annoyances by
our previous Continental experiences. Police
and custom-house functionaries are nowhere famous
for civility, but the rudest and most unendurable
specimens of that class whom it has ever
been my fortune to encounter are the lower orders
of the Russian officials. We could, however,
congratulate ourselves that the infliction
was light in comparison to what it would have
been had we proceeded by land from Abo.
There trunks, pockets, and pocket-books are liable
to repeated searches at different stations
along the route. We were told of travelers who
had their boxes of tooth-powder carefully emptied,
and their soap-balls cut in two, in quest of something
treasonable or contraband.

But there is an end to all things human, even
to Russian police-examinations. Our passports
were luckily all in order, and as our steamer was
cleared for St. Petersburg we escaped the vexations
attendant upon an inspection of luggage
and a change of vessel. Every thing was put
under seal, even to an ancient umbrella which
[pg 448]
had borne the brunt of many a shower in half the
countries of Europe, to say nothing of storms
it had weathered previous to its transatlantic
voyage.

After our seven hours’ detention, we found
ourselves at last steaming up the transparent
Neva, and straining our eyes to get a first view
of the City of Peter. After something more than
an hour’s paddling against the rapid current of
the river, the gilt dome of the Cathedral first
caught the eye, followed by the sight of dome
after dome, tower upon tower, spire after spire,
gilt and spangled with azure stars, long before
the flat roofs and walls of the city were visible.

No sooner had our steamer touched the granite
quai than it was taken possession of by a horde
of custom-house and police officers, a shade or
two less filthy and disgusting than their Cronstadt
brethren; for it is a noticeable fact, the
higher you proceed in official grade, the more
endurable do the Russian officials become, till
you reach the heads of the departments, who are
as civil and well-behaved a body of functionaries
as ever clasped fingers upon a bribe. A few
copecks or rubles, as the case may require, insinuated
into the expectant palms of the searching
officials have a wonderful tendency to abate
the rigor of the examinations, which being completed,
and a silver ruble paid to the officer in
attendance, the traveler is at liberty to go on
shore in search of a hotel or lodgings.

The instructed traveler will resist the seductions
of the Russian hotels, with their magnificent
fronts, and Russian, German, and French
signboards; for once past the portals he will find
that the noble staircases and broad passages are
filthy beyond all western imagination; and the
damask curtains and velvet sofas are perfect
parks for all those “small deer” who make day
and night hideous. If he be wise, he will make
his way to some boarding-house upon the Quai
Anglais, conducted by an emigrant from some
country where the primitive faith in the virtues
of dusters and soap and water is cherished.

No sooner is the stranger established than he
must take an interpreter, and make the best of
his way to the police office, to get a permit of
residence. This he obtains after an interrogation
from a very civil functionary, to whom must
be paid a proportionate fee. But this permit is
good only for the capital and its immediate vicinity.
If the Russians are slow to welcome the
coming, they are none the more ready to speed
the parting guest. Mr. Smith and his friend
Brown must not leave the capital till they have
published an advertisement announcing their intention
in three successive numbers of the Gazette,
an operation which consumes a space of
from a week to ten days.

These preliminaries duly attended to, we were
at liberty to commence our examination of St.
Petersburg. The traveler who first sees the city
under a summer sun is always struck with amazement.
Its public places are so vast, its monuments
so numerous and imposing, its quays so
magnificent, and its edifices, public and private,
so enormous, and constructed apparently of materials
so massive and enduring, that he is ready
to pronounce it the most magnificent city upon
earth.

A century and a half ago the low marshy
shores of the Neva, and the islands formed by
the branches into which it separates just before
it empties itself into the Gulf of Finland were
inhabited only by a few scattered Finnish fishermen.
But commanding the entrance to Lake
Ladoga, it was a military position of some importance,
and the Swedes had long maintained
there a fortress, the possession of which had been
often unavailingly contested by the Russians, up
to 1703, when Peter the Great made himself
master of it. He determined to found upon this
desolate spot the future capital of his vast empire,
and at once commenced the task, without waiting
for peace to confirm the possession of the
site. He assembled a vast number of the peasantry
from every quarter of his empire, and
pushed forward the work with the energy of an
iron will armed with absolute power. The surrounding
country, ravaged by long years of war,
could furnish no supplies for these enormous
masses, and the convoys which brought them
across Lake Ladoga were frequently detained by
contrary winds. Ill fed and worse lodged, laboring
in the cold and wet, multitudes yielded to
the hardships, and the foundations of the new
metropolis were laid at the cost of a hundred
thousand lives, sacrificed in less than six months.

With Peter to will was to perform; he willed
that a capital city should be built and inhabited,
and built and inhabited it was. In April, 1714,
a ukase was issued directing that all buildings
should be erected in a particular manner; another,
three months later, ordered a large number
of nobles and merchants to erect dwellings in the
new city. In a few months more another ukase
prohibited the erection of any stone mansion in
any other portion of the empire, while the enterprise
of the capital was in progress; and that
the lack of building materials should be no obstacle,
every vessel, whether large or small, and
every peasant’s car which came to the city, was
ordered to bring a certain specified number of
building stones. The work undertaken with
such rigid determination, and carried on with
such remorseless vigor by Peter, was continued
in the same unflinching spirit by his successors;
and the result was the present St. Petersburg,
with its aspect more imposing than that of any
other city on the globe, but bearing in its bosom
the elements of its own destruction, the moment
it is freed from the control of the iron will, which
created and now maintains it:—a fitting type and
representative of the Russian Empire.

The whole enterprise of founding and maintaining
St. Petersburg was and is a struggle
against nature. The soil is a marsh so deep and
spongy that a solid foundation can be attained
only by constructing a subterranean scaffolding
of piles. Were it not for these the city would
sink into the marsh like a stage ghost through
the trap-door. Every building of any magnitude
[pg 449]
rests on piles; the granite quays which line the
Neva rest on piles. The very foot-pavements
can not be laid upon the ground, but must be
supported by piles. A great commercial city is
maintained, the harbor of which is as inaccessible
to ships, for six months in the year, as the
centre of the desert of Sahara. In the neighboring
country no part produces any thing for human
sustenance save the Neva, which furnishes
ice and fish. The severity of the climate is most
destructive to the erections of human hands; and
St. Petersburg, notwithstanding its gay summer
appearance, when it emerges from the winter
frosts, resembles a superannuated belle at the
close of the fashionable season; and can only be
put in proper visiting order by the assiduous
services of hosts of painters and plasterers.
Leave the capital for a half century to the unrepaired
ravages of its wintry climate, and it would
need a Layard to unearth its monuments.

But sure as are the wasting inroads of time
and the climate, St Petersburg is in daily peril
of an overthrow whose accomplishment would
require but a few hours. The Gulf of Finland
forms a vast funnel pointing eastward, at the
extremity of which stands the city. No portion
of the city is fifteen feet above the ordinary level
of the water. A strong westerly wind, blowing
directly into the mouth of the funnel, piles the
water up so as to lay the lower part of the city
under water. Water is as much dreaded here,
and as many precautions are taken against it, as
in the case of fire in other cities. In other cities
alarm-signals announce a conflagration; here
they give notice of an inundation. The firing of
an alarm-gun from the Admiralty, at intervals of
an hour, denotes that the lower extremes of the
islands are under water, when flags are hung out
from the steeples to give warning of danger.
When the water reaches the streets, alarm-guns
are fired every quarter of an hour. As the water
rises the alarms grow more and more frequent,
until minute-guns summon boats to the assistance
of the drowning population.

[pg 450]

So much for the lower jaw of the monster that
lies in wait for the Russian capital; now for the
upper:—Lake Ladoga, which discharges its waters
through the Neva, is frozen over to an enormous
thickness during the long winter. The rapid
northern spring raises its waters and loosens the
ice simultaneously; when the waters of the Gulf
are at their usual level, the accumulated ice and
water find an easy outlet down the broad and
rapid Neva. But let a strong west wind heap
up the waters of the Gulf just as the breaking
up of Lake Ladoga takes place, and the waters
from above and from below would suffice to inundate
the whole city, while all its palaces, monuments,
and temples would be crushed between
the masses of ice, like “Captain Ahab’s” boat
in the ivory jaws of “Moby Dick.” Nothing is
more probable than such a coincidence. It often
blows from the west for days together in the
spring; and it is almost a matter of certainty
that the ice will break up between the middle
and the end of April. Let but a westerly storm
arise on the fatal day of that brief fortnight, and
farewell to the City of the Czars. Any steamer
that bridges the Atlantic may be freighted with
the tidings that St. Petersburg has sunk deeper
than plummet can sound in the Finnish marshes
from which it has so magically risen.

The Inundation of 1824.

Nor is this merely a matter of theory and speculation.
Terrible inundations, involving enormous
destruction of life and property have occurred.
The most destructive of these took place
on the 17th of November, 1824. A strong west
wind heaped the waters of the Gulf up into the
narrow funnel of the Neva, and poured them,
slowly at first, along the streets. As night began
to close in the rise of the waters became
more and more rapid. Cataracts poured into
doors, windows, and cellars. The sewers spouted
up columns, like whales in the death-agony.
The streets were filled with abandoned equipages,
and deserted horses struggling in the rising waters.
The trees in the public squares were
crowded with those who had climbed them for
refuge. During the night the wind abated, and
the waters receded. But the pecuniary damage
of that one night is estimated at twenty millions
of dollars, and the loss of lives at eight thousand.
All through the city a painted line traced upon
the walls designates the height to which the waters
reached. Were ever house-painters before
engaged upon a task so ghastly? But suppose
that, instead of November, April had been written
as the date of this inundation, when the waters
from the Lake above had met those from
the Gulf below; St. Petersburg would have been
numbered among the things that were—Ilium
fuit.

Nothing of the kind can be more imposing than
the view of St. Petersburg from the tower of the
Admiralty upon some bright June day, such as
that on which I first beheld it from that post.
Under foot, as it seemed, from the galleries, lay
the Admiralty-yards, where great ships were in
process of erection, destined for no nobler service
than to perform their three months’ summer
cruise in the Baltic, and to be frozen immovably
in the harbors for six months out of twelve. The
will of the Czar can effect much, but it can not
convert Russia into a naval power until he can
secure a seacoast, and harbors which can not be
shut up to him by a single hostile fortification.
Russia can not be a maritime power till she is
mistress of the entrance to the Baltic and the
Black Sea.

To the right and the left of the Admiralty
stretch the great squares upon which stand the
principal public edifices and monuments of the
capital; the Winter Palace, with its six thousand
constant occupants; the Hotel de l’Etat Major,
whence go forth orders to a million of soldiers,
the Senate House, and the Palace of the Holy
Synod, the centres of temporal and spiritual law
for the hundred nations blended into the Russian
Empire; the Church of St. Isaac, with its four
porticoes, the lofty columns of which, sixty feet in
height, are each of a single block of granite, and
the walls of polished marble; its cupola covered
with copper overlaid with gold, gleaming like another
sun, surmounted by a golden cross, and
forming the most conspicuous object to the approaching
visitor, whether he comes up the Gulf,
or across the dreary Finnish marshes; yet, high
as it rises in the air, it sinks scarcely a less distance
below the ground, so deep was it necessary
to drive into the marsh the forest of piles upon
which it rests, before a firm foundation could be
secured. Here is the Statue of Peter—the finest
equestrian statue in the world—reining his steed
upon the brink of the precipice up which he has
urged it, his hand stretched out in benediction
toward the Neva, the pride of his new-founded
city. Here is the triumphal column to Alexander,
“the Restorer of Peace,” the whole elevation of
which is 150 feet, measuring to the head of the
angel who—the cross victorious over the crescent—bears
the symbol of the Christian faith above
the capital cast from cannon captured from the
Turks. The shaft is a single block eighty-four
feet in height—the largest single stone erected
in modern times; and it would have been still
loftier had it not been for the blind unreasoning
obedience to orders, so characteristic of the Russian.
When the column had been determined
upon, orders were dispatched to the quarries to
detach, if possible, a single block for the shaft of
the length of eighty-four feet, though with scarcely
a hope that the attempt would succeed. One
day a dispatch was received by the Czar from the
superintendent, with the tidings that a block had
been detached, free from flaw, one hundred feet
long; but that he was about to proceed to reduce
it to the required length. The sovereign mounted
in hot haste to save the block from mutilation,
and to preserve a column so much exceeding his
hopes. But he was too late; and arrived just in
time to see the sixteen feet severed from the block,
which would otherwise have been the noblest
shaft in the world.

The length of these public places, open and in
full view, right and left, from the Admiralty
tower, is a full mile.

[pg 451]

Stretching southward from the tower lies the
“Great Side” of St. Petersburg, cut into three
concentric semicircular divisions, of which the
Admiralty is the centre, by three canals, and intersected
by the three main avenues or Prospekts
(Perspectives). These three Perspectives diverge
like the spokes of a wheel from the Admiralty and
run straight through the city, through the sumptuous
quarters of the aristocracy, the domains of
commerce, and the suburbs of the poor; while
the view is closed by the mists rising from the
swamps of Ingermanland.

Turning from the “Great Side,” and looking
northward, the arms of the Neva diverge from
near the foot of the Admiralty tower, as the Perspectives
do from the southern side. The width
of the Neva, its yielding bottom and shores, and
the masses of ice which it sweeps down, make
the erection of bridges so difficult that they are
placed at very rare intervals, so that a person
might be obliged to go miles before reaching one.
But the stream is enlivened by boats and gondolas
ready to convey passengers from one bank
to the other. We were never weary of watching
with a glass from the Admiralty tower, alternately,
the river gay with boats and shipping,
and the Perspectives thronged with their brilliant
and motley crowd. With a somewhat different,
but certainly no less absorbing interest, we gazed
down from the same elevation into the works of
the citadel, upon Petersburg Island, whose minutest
details were clearly visible. This citadel is
useless as a defense of the city against a hostile
attack; but it furnishes a ready means of commanding
the capital, and furnishes a refuge for
the government in case of an insurrection. Like
the fortifications of Paris, it is designed not so
much to defend as to control the city.

St. Petersburg is certainly the most imposing
city, and Russia is the most imposing nation in
the world—at first sight. But the imposing aspect
of both is to a great extent an imposition.
The city tries to pass itself off for granite, when
a great proportion is of wood or brick, covered
with paint and stucco, which peels off in masses
before the frosts of every winter, and needs a
whole army of plasterers and painters every
spring to put it in presentable order. You pass
what appears a Grecian temple, and lo, it is only
a screen of painted boards. A one-storied house
assumes the airs of a loftier building, in virtue of
a front of another story bolted and braced to its
roof. And much even that is real is sadly out of
place. Long lines of balconies and pillars and
porticoes, which would be appropriate to Greece
or Italy, are for the greater part of the year piled
with snow-drifts. St. Petersburg and Russian
civilization are both of a growth too hasty, and
too much controlled from without, instead of proceeding
from a law of inward development, to be
enduring.

The capital to be seen to advantage must be
viewed during the few weeks of early summer;
or in the opening winter, when the snow forms
a pavement better than art can produce, and
when the cold has built a continuous bridge over
the Neva, without having as yet become severe
enough to drive every body from the streets.

The Neva is the main artery through which
pours the life-blood of St. Petersburg. But the
life-current is checked from the time when the
ice is too far weakened by the returning sun to
be passable, and not yet sufficiently broken up to
float down to the Gulf. At that time all intercourse
between portions of the city on its opposite
batiks is suspended. Every body is anxious
for the breaking-up of the ice. Luxuries from
more genial climes are waiting in the Baltic for
the river to be navigable. No sooner is the ice
so far cleared as to afford a practicable passage
for a boat, than the glad news is announced by
the artillery of the citadel, and, no matter what
the hour, the commandant and his suite hurry
into a gondola and push over to the Imperial
palace, directly opposite. The commandant fills
a large goblet with the icy fluid, and presents it
to the Emperor, informing him that his gondola,
the first which has that year crossed the river, is
the precursor of navigation. The Czar drains
the cup to the health of the capital, and returns
it, filled with ducats, to the commandant. Formerly
it was observed, by some mysterious law of
natural science, that this goblet grew larger and
larger, year by year, so that the Czar who had
swallowed Poland without flinching, and stood
ready to perform the same operation upon Turkey,
stood in danger of suffocation from his growing
bumpers. Some wise man at last suggested
that this tendency to the enlargement of the goblet
might be counteracted, by limiting the number
of ducats returned by way of acknowledgment.
The suggestion was acted upon, and,
greatly to the comfort of the Imperial purse and
stomach, was found to be perfectly successful.
The sum now given is two hundred ducats. This
goblet of Neva water is surely the most costly
draught ever quaffed since the time when brown-fronted
Cleopatra dissolved the pearl in honor of
mad Mark Antony.

The most striking winter spectacle of St. Petersburg,
to a foreigner, is that of the ice mountains.
They are in full glory during “Butter
Week”—of which more anon—when Russia
seems to forget her desire to be any thing but
Russian. The great Place of the Admiralty is
given up to the popular celebrations, and filled
with refreshment-booths, swings, and slides.
To form these ice mountains a narrow scaffold
is raised to the height of some thirty or forty
feet. This scaffold has on one side steps for the
purpose of ascending it; on the other it slopes
off, steeply at first, and then more gradually, until
it finally terminates on a level. Upon this
long slope blocks of ice are laid, over which water
is poured, which by freezing unites the blocks,
and furnishes a uniform surface, down which the
merry crowd slide upon sledges, or more frequently
upon blocks of smooth ice cut into an appropriate
form.

Two of these mountains usually stand opposite
and fronting each other, their tracks lying
close together, side by side.

[pg 452]

Ice Mountain.

This is a national amusement all over Russia.
Ice mountains are raised in the court-yards of
all the chief residents in the capital. And an
imitation of them, for summer use, covered with
some polished wood, instead of ice, is often found
in the halls of private dwellings. In the Imperial
palace is such a slide, built of mahogany.

Street-life in St. Petersburgh presents many
aspects strange to one who comes fresh from the
capitals of other countries. One of the first
things which will strike him is the silence and
desertion of most of the streets. The thronging,
eager crowd of other cities is here unknown.
There is room enough, and to spare here. Broad
streets, lined with rows of palaces, are as silent
and lonely as deserted Tadmor, and a solitary
droshka breaking the uniformity of the
loneliness, heightens the effect. Leaving these broad, still
streets, and mingling in the throng that presses
in and through the Admiralty Place, the Nevskoi
Perspective, or the Place of St. Isaac, the most
noticeable feature, at first glance, is the preponderance
of the military. The ordinary garrison
of the capital amounts to 60,000 men. The Russian
army comprises an almost infinite variety
of uniforms, and specimens of these, worn by
[pg 453]
the élite of every corps, are constantly in the capital.

There are the Tartar guards, and the Circassian
guards, Cossacks from the Don, from the
Ural, and from Crimea; guards with names ending
with “off” and
“ski,” unpronounceable by
Western lips. The wild Circassian—enacting
the double part of soldier and
hostage—silver-harnessed
and mail-coated, alternates with the
skin-clad Cossack of the Ural, darting, lance in
rest, over the parade-ground. There are regiments
uniform not only in size of the men, color
of the horses, and identity of equipments, but in
the minutiæ of personal appearance. Of one, all
the men are pug-nosed, blue-eyed, and red bearded;
of another, every man has a nose like a hawk,
with eyes, hair and beard as black as a raven’s
wing. Half the male population of St. Petersburg
wear uniform; for, besides these 60,000
soldiers, it is worn by officers of every grade, by
the police, and even by professors of the university,
and by teachers and pupils in the public
schools.

Turning from the military to the civil portion
of the population, the same brilliant variety of
costumes every where meets the eye. The sober-suited
native of western and civilized Europe,
jostles the brilliant silken robes of the Persian
or Bokharian; the Chinaman flaunts his dangling
pig-tail, ingeniously pieced out by artificial
means, in the face of the smoothly-shorn Englishman;
the white-toothed Arab meets the tobacco-stained
German; Yankee sailors and adventurers,
portly English merchants, canny Scotchmen,
dwarfish Finlanders, stupid Lettes, diminutive
Kamtschatkians, each in his own national
costume, make up a lively picture; while underlying
all, and more worthy of note than all, are
the true Russian peasantry; the original stock
out of which Peter and his successors have fashioned
their mighty empire.

The Russian of the lower orders is any thing
but an inviting personage, at first sight. The
name by which they have been designated, in
their own language, time out of mind, describes
them precisely. It is tschornoi
narod, “the dirty
people,” or as we might more freely render it,
“The Great Unwashed.” An individual of this
class is called a mujik. He is usually of
middle stature, with small light eyes, level cheeks,
and flat nose, of which the tip is turned up so as
to display the somewhat expanded nostril. His
pride and glory is his beard, which he wears as
long and shaggy as nature will allow. The back
of the head is shaved closely; and as he wears
nothing about his neck, his head stands distinctly
away from his body. His ideal of the beauty of
the human head, as seen from behind, seems to
be to make it resemble, as nearly as may be, a
turnip. He is always noisy and never clean; and
when wrapped in his sheepskin mantle, or caftan
of blue cloth reaching to his knees, might easily
enough be taken for a bandit. As he seldom
thinks of changing his inner garments more than
once a week, and as his outer raiment lasts half
his lifetime, and is never laid aside during the
night, and never washed, he constantly affords
evidence of his presence any thing but agreeable
to the organs of smell. But a closer acquaintance
will bring to light many traits of character
which belie his rude exterior; and will show
him to be at bottom a good-natured, merry,
friendly fellow. His most striking characteristic
is pliability and dexterity. If he does not possess
the power of originating, he has a wonderful
faculty of copying the ideas of others, and of
yielding himself up to carry out the conceptions
of any one who wishes to use him for the accomplishment
of his ends. There is an old German
myth which says that the Teutonic race was
framed, in the depths of time, out of the hard,
unyielding granite. The original material of the
Russian race must have been Indian rubber, so
easily are they compressed into any form, and so
readily do they resume their own, when the pressure
is removed. The raw, untrained mujik is
drafted into the army, and in a few weeks attains
a precision of movement more like an automaton
than a human being. He becomes a trader, and
the Jews themselves can not match him in cunning
and artifice.

The mujik is a thoroughly good-tempered fellow.
Address him kindly, and his face unbends
at once, and you will find that he takes a sincere
delight in doing you a kindness. In no capital
of Europe are the temptations to crimes against
the person so numerous as in St. Petersburg, with
its broad lonely streets, unlighted at night, and
scantily patrolled; but in no capital are such
crimes of so rare occurrence.

But the mujik has two faults. He is a thorough
rogue, and a great drunkard. He will cheat
and guzzle from sheer love for the practices; and
without the least apparent feeling that there is
any thing out of the way in so doing. But in his
cups he is the same good-natured fellow. The
Irishman or Scotchman when drunk is quarrelsome
and pugnacious; the German or the Englishman,
stupid and brutal; the Spaniard or Italian,
revengeful and treacherous. The first stages
of drunkenness in the mujik are manifested by
loquacity. The drunker he is the more gay and
genial does he grow; till at last he is ready to
throw himself upon the neck of his worst enemy
and exchange embraces with him. When the
last stage has been reached, and he starts for his
home, he does not reel, but marches straight on,
till some accidental obstruction trips him up into
the mire, where he lies unnoticed and unmolested
till a policeman takes charge of him. This
misadventure is turned to public advantage, for
by an old custom every person, male or female,
of what grade soever, taken up drunk in the street
by the police, is obliged the next day to sweep
the streets for a certain number of hours. In our
early rambles we often came across a woeful
group thus improving the ways of others, in punishment
for having taken too little heed of their
own.

In vino veritas may perhaps be true of the
juice of the grape; but it is not so of the bad
brandy which is the favorite drink of the
mujik.
[pg 454]
He is never too drunk to be a rogue, but yet you
do not look upon his roguery as you do upon that
of any other people. He never professes to be
honest; and does not see any reason why he
should be so. He seems so utterly unconscious
of any thing reprehensible in roguery, that you
unconsciously give him the benefit of his ignorance.
If he victimizes you, you look upon him
as upon a clever professor of legerdemain, who
has cheated you in spite of your senses; but you
hardly hold him morally responsible. Upon the
whole, though you can not respect the mujik,
you can hardly avoid having a sort of liking for him.

Punishment For Drunkenness.

Perhaps the most thoroughly Russian of all the
tschornoi narod are the
isvoshtshiks, or public
drivers; at least they are the class with whom
the traveler comes most immediately and necessarily
into contact, and from whom he derives his
idea of them. Such is the extent of St. Petersburg,
that when the foreigner has sated his curiosity
with the general aspect of the streets, he
finds that he can not afford time to walk from one
object of interest to another. Moreover, in winter—and
here winter means fully six months in
the year—the streets are spread with a thick
covering of snow, which soon becomes beaten up
into powdered crystals, through which locomotion
is as difficult as through the deepest sands
of Sahara; and the wind whirls these keen crystals
about like the sand-clouds of the desert.
Every body not to the manner born, whose pleasures
or avocations call him abroad, is glad to
draw his mantle over his face, and creeping into
a sledge, wrap himself up as closely as he may
in furs. In spring and summer, when the streets
are usually either a marsh or choked with intolerable
dust, pedestrianism is equally disagreeable.
All this has called into requisition a host of Jehus,
so that the stranger who has mastered enough
Russian to call out Davai ishvoshtshik!
“Here, driver!” or even lifts his hand by way of signal,
has seldom need to repeat the summons.

Like his cart-borne kindred, the Tartars and
Scythians, the ishvoshtshik
makes his vehicle his home. In it he eats, drinks, and often sleeps,
rolling himself up into a ball in the bottom, to
[pg 455]
present as little surface as possible
to the action of the cold.—Russian-like,
he always names a
price for his services that will
leave ample room for abatement.
But once engaged, and he is for
the time being your servant, and
accepts any amount of abuse or
beating as the natural condition
of the bargain.

Ishvoshtshiks.

The mujik of every class seems
indeed to be born ready bitted, for
the use of anyone who has a hand
steady enough to hold the reins.
They are the best servants in the
world for one who has the gift
of command. It is this adaptation
between the strong-willed
autocrats who since Peter have
swayed the destinies of Russia,
and the serviceable nature of the
people, that has raised the empire
to its present position. A
single weak ruler would change
the whole destiny of Russia.

Notwithstanding the hardships
of their lives, the isvoshtshiks are
good-natured, merry, harmless,
fellows, whether waiting for a
fare or bantering a customer.
But they have one thorn; and that is the pedestrian.
Woe to the driver who runs against a
foot-man; fine and flogging are his portion. If
the pedestrian be thrown down, visions of Siberia
float before the driver’s eye; to say nothing of
the pleasant foretaste of the policeman’s cane and
the confiscation of his vehicle.

Notwithstanding the general characteristic of
laxity of principle, instances are by no means
wanting of the most scrupulous and even romantic
fidelity on the part of the Russians of the
lower orders. It would be an interesting subject
of investigation, how far this patent trait of national
character is to be attributed to inherent
constitutional defects in the race; and how far
to the state of serfdom in which they have existed
from generation to generation. But the
investigation does not fall within the scope of
our “Recollections.”

Our friends in the greasy sheepskins or woolen
caftans have strong religious tendencies, though
they may smack a little too much of those of the
tight-fingered Smyrniote whom we detected purchasing
candles to light before his patron saint,
with the first-fruits of the purse of which he had
not ten minutes before relieved our pocket. In
all places where men congregate there are pictures
of saints before which the mujik crosses
himself on every occasion. In an inn or restaurant
each visitor turns to the picture and crosses himself
before he sits down to eat. If a mujik enters
your room he crosses himself before saluting you.
Every church is saluted with a sign of the cross.
At frequent intervals in the streets little shrines
are found, before which every body stops and
makes the sacred sign, with bared head. The
merchant in the gostunoi dvor or bazaar, every
now and then walks up to his bog or saint, and
with a devout inclination prays for success in trade.

No one has seen St. Petersburg who has not
been there at Easter. The Greek Church finds
great virtues in fasting; and a prolonged fast-time
implies a subsequent carnival. The rigor
of the Russian fasts strictly excludes every article
of food containing the least particle of animal
matter. Flesh and fowl are, of course, rigorously
tabooed; so are milk, eggs, butter; and even sugar,
on account of the animal matter used in refining
it, of which a small portion might possibly
remain. The fast preceding Easter, called, by
way of eminence, “The Great Fast,” lasts seven
full weeks, and is observed with a strictness unknown
even in Catholic countries. The lower
classes refrain even from fish during the first and
last of these seven weeks, as well as on Wednesdays
and Fridays in the remaining five. When
we reflect how large a part some or all of these
animal substances form of the cuisine of all northern
nations, and in Russia most of all, we shall
be ready to believe that this Great Fast is an important
epoch in the Russian calendar, and is not
to be encountered without a preparatory period
of feasting, the recollection of which may serve
to mitigate the enforced abstinence.

Among the upper classes in St. Petersburg
balls, routs, and all carnival revelries begin to
crowd thick and fast upon each other as early as
the commencement of February. But the mass
of the people compress these preparatory exercises
into the week before the beginning of the
fast. This is the famous Masslänitza
or “Butter Week,” which contains the sum and substance
[pg 456]
of all Russian festivity. All the butter
that should naturally have gone into the consumption
of the succeeding seven weeks is concentrated
into this. Whatever can be eaten with
butter is buttered; what can not, is eschewed.
The standard dish of the week is blinni, a
kind of pancake, made with butter; fried in butter, and
eaten with butter-sauce. For this one week the
great national dish of shtshee or cabbage-soup
is banished from the land.

Breakfast dispatched, then come the amusements.
Formerly the swings, ice-mountains, and
temporary theatres were erected upon the frozen
plain of the Neva. But some years since, the ice
gave way under the immense pressure, and a
large number of the revelers were drowned. Since
that time the great square of the Admiralty has
been devoted to this purpose. For days previous,
long trains of sledges are seen thronging to the
spot, bearing timbers, poles, planks, huge blocks
of ice, and all the materials necessary for the
erection of booths, theatres, swings, and slides.
These temporary structures are easily and speedily
reared. A hole is dug in the frozen ground,
into which the end of a post is placed. It is then
filled with water, which under the influence of a
Russian February binds it in its place as firmly
as though it were leaded into a solid rock. The
carnival commences on the first Sunday of the
Butter Week, and all St. Petersburg gives itself
up to sliding and swinging, or to watching the
sliding and swinging of others. By a wise regulation
eating and drinking shops are not allowed
in the square, and the staple potable and comestibles
are tea, cakes, and nuts. Few more animated
and stirring sights are to be seen than the
Admiralty square at noon, when the mirth is at
the highest among the lower orders, and when all
the higher classes make their appearance driving
in regular line along a broad space, in front of the
booths, reserved for the equipages. Every body
in St. Petersburg of any pretensions to rank or
wealth keeps a carriage of some kind; and every
carriage, crowded with the family in their gayest
attire, joins in the procession.

Butter Week, with its blinni and ice mountains
passes away all too quickly, and is succeeded
by the grim seven weeks’ fast. The Admiralty
square looks desolate enough, lumbered over
with fragments of the late joyous paraphernalia,
and strewed with nut-shells and orange-peel.
Public amusements, of almost all kinds are prohibited,
and time passes on with gloomy monotony,
only broken by a stray saint’s day, like a
gleam of sunshine across a murky sky. It is
worth while to be a saint, in Russia, if his day
falls during the Great Fast, for it will be sure to
be celebrated with most exemplary fervor.

As the fast draws near its close, preparation
s on tiptoe for a change. The egg-market begins
to rise, owing to the demand for “Easter-eggs,”
for on that day it is customary to present
an egg to every acquaintance on first greeting
him. This has given rise to a very pretty custom
of giving presents of artificial eggs of every
variety of material, and frequently with the most
elegant decorations. The Imperial glass manufactory
furnishes an immense number of eggs of
glass, with cut flowers and figures, designed as
presents from the Czar and Czarina.

Saturday night before Easter at last comes and
goes. As the midnight hour which is to usher
in Easter-day approaches, the churches begin to
fill. The court appears in the Imperial chapel
in full dress; and the people, of all ages, ranks,
and conditions, throng their respective places of
worship. Not a priest, however, is to be seen
until the midnight hour strikes, when the entrance
to the sanctuary of the church is flung
open, and the song peals forth—Christohs
vosskress! Christohs vosskress ihs mortvui—“Christ
is risen! Christ is risen from the dead!” The
priests in their richest robes press through the
throng, bowing and swinging their censers before
the shrine of the saints, repeating the “Christ
is risen!” The congregation grasp each other’s
hands, those acquainted, however distantly, embracing
and kissing, repeating the same words.
The churches are at once in a blaze of illumination
within and without; and all over the city
cannons boom, rockets hiss, and bells peal in
token of joy. The Great Fast is over, and the
Easter festival has begun.

In the churches the ceremony of blessing the
food is going on. The whole pavement, unencumbered
with pews or seats, is covered with
dishes ranged in long rows, with passages between
for the officiating priests, who pace along,
sprinkling holy water to the right and left, and
pronouncing the form of benediction; the owner
of each dish all the while on a keen look-out
that his food does not fail of receiving some drops
of the sanctifying fluid. Before daylight all this
is accomplished; and then come visitings and
banquets, congratulations of the season, bowings,
hand-shakings, and, above all, kissing.

All Russia breaks out now into an Oriental
exuberance of kisses. What arithmetic shall
undertake to compute the osculatory expenditure?
Every member of a family salutes every
other member with a kiss. All acquaintances,
[pg 457]
however slight, greet with a kiss and a Christohs
vosskress. Long-robed mujiks
mingle beards and kisses, or brush their hirsute honors over the
faces of their female acquaintances. In the public
offices all the employées salute each other and
their superiors. So in the army. The general
embraces and kisses all the officers of the corps;
the colonel of a regiment those beneath him, besides
a deputation of the soldiers; and the captain
salutes all the men of his company. The
Czar does duty at Easter. He must of course
salute his family and retinue, his court and attendants.
But this is not all. On parade he
goes through the ceremony with his officers, and
a selected body of privates, who stand as representatives
of the rest, and even with the sentinels
at the palace gates. So amid smiles and
handshakings, and exclamations of “Christ has
arisen!” pass on the days of the Easter festival.
Ample amends are made for the long abstinence
of the Great Fast, by unbounded indulgence in
the coveted animal food, to say nothing of the
copious libations of brandy—evidences of which
are visible enough in groups of amateur street-sweepers
who subsequently are seen plying their
brooms in the early morning hours. Such is St.
Petersburg, when most Russian.

A Love Affair At Cranford.

I am tempted to relate it, as having interested
me in a quiet sort of way, and as being the
latest intelligence of Our Society at Cranford.

I thought, after Miss Jenkyns’s death, that
probably my connection with Cranford would
cease; at least that it would have to be kept up
by correspondence, which bears much the same
relation to personal intercourse that the books of
dried plants I sometimes see (“Hortus Siccus,”
I think they call the thing), do to the living and
fresh flowers in the lanes and meadows. I was
pleasantly surprised, therefore, by receiving a
letter from Miss Pole (who had always come in
for a supplementary week after my annual visit
to Miss Jenkyns), proposing that I should go and
stay with her; and then, in a couple of days
after my acceptance, came a note from Miss Matey,
in which, in a rather circuitous and very
humble manner, she told me how much pleasure
I should confer, if I could spend a week or two
with her, either before or after I had been at
Miss Pole’s; “for,” she said, “since my dear
sister’s death, I am well aware I have no attractions
to offer; it is only to the kindness of my
friends that I can owe their company.”

Of course, I promised to come to dear Miss
Matey, as soon as I had ended my visit to Miss
Pole; and the day after my arrival at Cranford,
I went to see her, much wondering what the
house would be like without Miss Jenkyns, and
rather dreading the changed aspect of things.
Miss Matey began to cry as soon as she saw me.
She was evidently nervous from having anticipated
my call. I comforted her as well as I
could; and I found the best consolation I could
give, was the honest praise that came from my
heart as I spoke of the deceased. Miss Matey
slowly shook her head over each virtue as it was
named, and attributed to her sister; at last she
could not restrain the tears which had long been
silently flowing, but hid her face behind her
handkerchief, and sobbed aloud.

“Dear Miss Matey!” said I, taking her hand—for
indeed I did know in what way to tell her
how sorry I was for her, left deserted in the world.
She put down her handkerchief, and said,

“My dear, I’d rather you did not call me
[pg 458]
Matey. She did not like it; but I did many a
thing she did not like, I’m afraid—and now she’s
gone! If you please, my love, will you call me
Matilda?”

I promised faithfully, and began to practice
the new name with Miss Pole that very day;
and, by degrees, Miss Matilda’s feelings on the
subject were known through Cranford, and the
appellation of Matey was dropped by all, except
a very old woman who had been nurse in the
rector’s family, and had persevered through many
long years, in calling the Miss Jenkynses “the
girls;” she said “Matey,” to the day of her
death.

My visit to Miss Pole was very quiet. Miss
Jenkyns had so long taken the lead in Cranford,
that, now she was gone, they hardly knew how
to give a party. The Honorable Mrs. Jamieson,
to whom Miss Jenkyns herself had always yielded
the post of honor, was fat and inert and very
much at the mercy of her old servants. If they
chose her to give a party, they reminded her of
the necessity for so doing; if not, she let it alone.
There was all the more time for me to hear old-world
stories from Miss Pole, while she sat knitting,
and I making my father’s shirts. I always
took a quantity of plain sewing to Cranford; for,
as we did not read much, or walk much, I found
it a capital time to get through my work. One
of Miss Pole’s stories related to the love affair
I am coming to; gradually, not in a hurry, for
we are never in a hurry at Cranford.

Presently, the time arrived, when I was to
remove to Miss Matilda’s house. I found her
timid and anxious about the arrangements for
my comfort. Many a time, while I was unpacking,
did she come backward and forward to stir
the fire, which burned all the worse for being so
frequently poked.

“Have you drawers enough, dear?” asked
she. “I don’t know exactly how my sister used
to arrange them. She had capital methods. I
am sure she would have trained a servant in a
week to make a better fire than this, and Fanny
has been with me four months.”

This subject of servants was a standing grievance,
and I could not wonder much at it; for if
gentlemen were scarce, and almost unheard of in
the “genteel society” of Cranford, they or their
counterparts—handsome young men—abounded
in the lower classes. The pretty, neat servant-maids
had their choice of desirable “followers;”
and their mistresses, without having the sort of
mysterious dread of men and matrimony that Miss
Matilda had, might well feel a little anxious, lest
the heads of their comely maids should be turned
by the joiner, or the butcher, or the gardener;
who were obliged by their callings, to come to
the house; and who, as ill-luck would have it,
were generally handsome and unmarried. Fanny’s
lovers, if she had any—and Miss Matilda
suspected her of so many flirtations, that, if she
had not been very pretty, I should have doubted
her having one—were a constant anxiety to her
mistress. She was forbidden, by the articles of
her engagement, to have “followers;” and though
she had answered innocently enough, doubling
up the hem of her apron as she spoke, “Please,
ma’am, I never had more than one at a time,”
Miss Matey prohibited that one. But a vision
of a man seemed to haunt the kitchen. Fanny
assured me that it was all fancy; or else I should
have said myself that I had seen a man’s coat-tails
whisk into the scullery once, when I went on an
errand into the store-room at night; and another
evening when, our watches having stopped, I
went to look at the clock, there was a very odd
appearance, singularly like a young man squeezed
up between the clock and the back of the open
kitchen-door; and I thought Fanny snatched up
the candle very hastily, so as to throw the shadow
on the clock-face, while she very positively told
me the time half-an-hour too early, as we found
out afterward by the church-clock. But I did
not add to Miss Matey’s anxieties by naming
my suspicions, especially as Fanny said to me,
the next day, that it was such a queer kitchen
for having odd shadows about it, she really was
almost afraid to stay; “for you know, Miss,”
she added, “I don’t see a creature from six
o’clock tea, till missus rings the bell for prayers
at ten.”

However, it so fell out that Fanny had to
leave; and Miss Matilda begged me to stay and
“settle her” with the new maid; to which I
consented, after I had heard from my father that
he did not want me at home. The new servant
was a rough, honest-looking country-girl, who
had only lived in a farm-place before; but I liked
her looks when she came to be hired; and I
promised Miss Matilda to put her in the ways
of the house. These said ways were religiously
such as Miss Matilda thought her sister would
approve. Many a domestic rule and regulation
had been a subject of plaintive whispered murmur,
to me, during Miss Jenkyns’s life; but now
that she was gone, I do not think that even I,
who was a favorite, durst have suggested an alteration.
To give an instance: we constantly
adhered to the forms which were observed, at
meal times, “in my father the rector’s house.”
Accordingly, we had always wine and dessert;
but the decanters were only filled when there
was a party; and what remained was seldom
touched, though we had two wine glasses apiece
every day after dinner, until the next festive
occasion arrived; when the state of the remainder
wine was examined into, in a family council.
The dregs were often given to the poor; but
occasionally when a good deal had been left, at
the last party (five months ago, it might be) it
was added to some of a fresh bottle, brought up
from the cellar. I fancy poor Captain Brown
did not much like wine; for I noticed he never
finished his first glass, and most military men
take several. Then, as to our dessert, Miss Jenkyns
used to gather currants and gooseberries
for it herself, which I sometimes thought would
have tasted better fresh from the trees; but then,
as Miss Jenkyns observed, there would have
been nothing for dessert in summer-time. As
it was, we felt very genteel with our two glasses
[pg 459]
apiece, and a dish of gooseberries at the top, of
currants and biscuits at the sides, and two decanters
at the bottom. When oranges came in,
a curious proceeding was gone through. Miss
Jenkyns did not like to cut the fruit; for, as she
observed, the juice all ran out, nobody knew
where; sucking (only, I think, she used some
more recondite word) was in fact the only way
of enjoying oranges; but then there was the
unpleasant association with a ceremony frequently
gone through by little babies; and so, after
dessert, in orange season, Miss Jenkyns and
Miss Matey used to rise up, possess themselves
each of an orange in silence, and withdraw to
the privacy of their own rooms, to indulge in
sucking oranges.

I had once or twice tried, on such occasions,
to prevail on Miss Matey to stay; and had succeeded
in her sister’s life-time. I held up a
screen, and did not look, and, as she said, she
tried not to make the noise very offensive; but
now that she was left alone, she seemed quite
horrified when I begged her to remain with me
in the warm dining-parlor, and enjoy her orange
as she liked best. And so it was in every thing.
Miss Jenkyns’s rules were made more stringent
than ever, because the framer of them was gone
where there could be no appeal. In every thing
else Miss Matilda was meek and undecided to a
fault. I have heard Fanny turn her round twenty
times in a morning about dinner, just as the
little hussy chose; and I sometimes fancied she
worked on Miss Matilda’s weakness, in order to
bewilder her, and to make her feel more in the
power of her clever servant. I determined that
I would not leave her till I had seen what sort
of a person Martha was; and, if I found her
trustworthy, I would tell her not to trouble her
mistress with every little decision.

Martha was blunt and plain-spoken to a fault;
otherwise she was a brisk, well-meaning, but very
ignorant girl. She had not been with us a week
before Miss Matilda and I were astounded one
morning by the receipt of a letter from a cousin
of hers, who had been twenty or thirty years in
India, and who had lately, as we had seen by
the Army List, returned to England, bringing
with him an invalid wife, who had never been
introduced to her English relations. Major
Jenkyns wrote to propose that he and his wife
should spend a night at Cranford, on his way to
Scotland—at the inn, if it did not suit Miss Matilda
to receive them into her house; in which
case they should hope to be with her as much as
possible during the day. Of course, it must suit
her, as she said; for all Cranford knew that she
had her sister’s bedroom at liberty; but I am
sure she wished the Major had stopped in India
and forgotten his cousins out and out.

“Oh! how must I manage!” asked she, helplessly.
“If Deborah had been alive, she would
have known what to do with a gentleman-visitor.
Must I put razors in his dressing-room? Dear!
dear! and I’ve got none. Deborah would have
had them. And slippers, and coat-brushes?” I
suggested that probably he would bring all these
things with him. “And after dinner, how am
I to know when to get up, and leave him to his
wine? Deborah would have done it so well;
she would have been quite in her element. Will
he want coffee, do you think?” I undertook the
management of the coffee, and told her I would
instruct Martha in the art of waiting, in which it
must be owned she was terribly deficient; and
that I had no doubt Major and Mrs. Jenkyns
would understand the quiet mode in which a
lady lived by herself in a country town. But
she was sadly fluttered. I made her empty her
decanters, and bring up two fresh bottles of wine.
I wished I could have prevented her from being
present at my instructions to Martha; for she
continually cut in with some fresh direction,
muddling the poor girl’s mind, as she stood open-mouthed,
listening to us both.

“Hand the vegetables round,” said I (foolishly,
I see now—for it was aiming at more than we
could accomplish with quietness and simplicity);
and then, seeing her look bewildered, I added,
“Take the vegetables round to people, and let
them help themselves.”

“And mind you go first to the ladies,” put in
Miss Matilda. “Always go to the ladies before
gentlemen, when you are waiting.”

“I’ll do it as you tell me, ma’am,” said Martha;
“but I like lads best.”

We felt very uncomfortable and shocked at this
speech of Martha’s; yet I don’t think she meant
any harm; and, on the whole, she attended very
well to our directions, except that she “nudged”
the Major, when he did not help himself as soon
as she expected, to the potatoes, while she was
handing them round.

The Major and his wife were quiet, unpretending
people enough when they did come; languid,
as all East Indians are, I suppose. We were
rather dismayed at their bringing two servants
with them, a Hindoo body-servant for the Major,
and a steady elderly maid for his wife; but they
slept at the inn, and took off a good deal of the
responsibility by attending carefully to their
master’s and mistress’s comfort. Martha, to be
sure, had never ended her staring at the East
Indian’s white turban, and brown complexion,
and I saw that Miss Matilda shrunk away from
him a little as he waited at dinner. Indeed, she
asked me, when they were gone, if he did not
remind me of Blue Beard? On the whole, the
visit was most satisfactory, and is a subject of
conversation even now with Miss Matilda; at the
time it greatly excited Cranford, and even stirred
up the apathetic and Honorable Mrs. Jamieson to
some expression of interest when I went to call
and thank her for the kind answers she had
vouchsafed to Miss Matilda’s inquiries as to the
arrangement of a gentleman’s dressing-room—answers
which I must confess she had given in
the wearied manner of the Scandinavian prophetess—

And now I come to the love affair.

It seems that Miss Pole had a cousin, once or
twice removed, who had offered to Miss Matey
[pg 460]
long ago. Now, this cousin lived four or five
miles from Cranford on his own estate; but his
property was not large enough to entitle him to
rank higher than a yeoman; or rather, with something
of the “pride which apes humility,” he had
refused to push himself on, as so many of his
class had done, into the ranks of the squires. He
would not allow himself to be called Thomas
Holbrook, Esq.; he even sent back letters with
this address, telling the postmistress at Cranford
that his name was Mr. Thomas Holbrook, yeoman.
He rejected all domestic innovations; he
would have the house door stand open in summer,
and shut in winter, without knocker or bell
to summon a servant. The closed fist or the
knob of the stick did this office for him, if he
found the door locked. He despised every refinement
which had not its root deep down in humanity.
If people were not ill, he saw no necessity
for moderating his voice. He spoke the
dialect of the country in perfection, and constantly
used it in conversation; although Miss
Pole (who gave me these particulars) added, that
he read aloud more beautifully and with more
feeling than any one she had ever heard, except
the late Rector.

“And how came Miss Matilda not to marry
him?” asked I.

“Oh, I don’t know. She was willing enough,
I think; but you know Cousin Thomas would
not have been enough of a gentleman for the
Rector, and Mrs. and Miss Jenkyns.”

“Well! but they were not to marry him,” said
I, impatiently.

“No; but they did not like Miss Matey to
marry below her rank. You know she was the
Rector’s daughter, and somehow they are related
to Sir Peter Arley: Miss Jenkyns thought a deal
of that.”

“Poor Miss Matey!” said I.

“Nay, now, I don’t know any thing more than
that he offered and was refused. Miss Matey
might not like him—and Miss Jenkyns might
never have said a word—it is only a guess of
mine.”

“Has she never seen him since?” I inquired.

“No, I think not. You see, Woodley, Cousin
Thomas’s house, lies half-way between Cranford
and Misselton; and I know he made Misselton
his market-town very soon after he had offered
to Miss Matey; and I don’t think he has been
into Cranford above once or twice since—once,
when I was walking with Miss Matey in High-street;
and suddenly she darted from me, and
went up Shire-lane. A few minutes after I was
startled by meeting Cousin Thomas.”

“How old is he?” I asked, after a pause of
castle-building.

“He must be about seventy, I think, my dear,”
said Miss Pole, blowing up my castle, as if by
gunpowder, into small fragments.

Very soon after—at least during my long visit
to Miss Matilda—I had the opportunity of seeing
Mr. Holbrook; seeing, too, his first encounter
with his former love, after thirty or forty years’
separation. I was helping to decide whether
any of the new assortment of colored silks which
they had just received at the shop, would help
to match a gray and black mousseline-de-laine
that wanted a new breadth, when a tall, thin,
Don Quixote-looking old man came into the shop
for some woolen gloves. I had never seen the
person (who was rather striking) before, and I
watched him rather attentively, while Miss Matey
listened to the shopman. The stranger wore a
blue coat with brass buttons, drab breeches, and
gaiters, and drummed with his fingers on the
counter until he was attended to. When he answered
the shop-boy’s question, “What can I
have the pleasure of showing you to-day, sir?”
I saw Miss Matilda start, and then suddenly sit
down; and instantly I guessed who it was.
She had made some inquiry which had to be
carried round to the other shopman.

“Miss Jenkyns wants the black sarcenet two-and-twopence
the yard;” and Mr. Holbrook had
caught the name, and was across the shop in two
strides.

“Matey—Miss Matilda—Miss Jenkyns! God
bless my soul! I should not have known you.
How are you? how are you?” He kept shaking
her hand in a way which proved the warmth of
his friendship; but he repeated so often, as if to
himself, “I should not have known you!” that
any sentimental romance which I might be inclined
to build, was quite done away with by his
manner.

However, he kept talking to us all the time we
were in the shop; and then waving the shopman
with the unpurchased gloves on one side, with
“Another time, sir! another time!” he walked
home with us. I am happy to say my client,
Miss Matilda, also left the shop in an equally
bewildered state, not having purchased either
green or red silk. Mr. Holbrook was evidently
full with honest, loud-spoken joy at meeting his
old love again; he touched on the changes that
had taken place; he even spoke of Miss Jenkyns
as “Your poor sister! Well, well! we have all
our faults;” and bade us good-by with many a
hope that he should soon see Miss Matey again.
She went straight to her room; and never came
back till our early tea-time, when I thought she
looked as if she had been crying.

A few days after, a note came from Mr. Holbrook,
asking us—impartially asking both of us—in
a formal, old-fashioned style, to spend a day
at his house—a long June day—for it was June
now. He named that he had also invited his
cousin, Miss Pole; so that we might join in a
fly, which could be put up at his house.

I expected Miss Matey to jump at this invitation;
but, no! Miss Pole and I had the greatest
difficulty in persuading her to go. She thought
it was improper; and was even half-annoyed
when we utterly ignored the idea of any impropriety
in her going with two other ladies to see
her old lover. Then came a more serious difficulty.
She did not think Deborah would have
liked her to go. This took us half a day’s good
hard talking to get over; but, at the first sentence
of relenting, I seized the opportunity, and wrote
[pg 461]
and dispatched an acceptance in her name—fixing
day and hour, that all might be decided and
done with.

The next morning she asked me if I would go
down to the shop with her; and there, after much
hesitation, we chose out three caps to be sent
home and tried on, that the most becoming might
be selected to take with us on Thursday.

She was in a state of silent agitation all the
way to Woodley. She had evidently never been
there before; and, although she little dreamt I
knew any thing of her early story, I could perceive
she was in a tremor at the thought of seeing
the place which might have been her home,
and round which it is probable that many of her
innocent girlish imaginations had clustered. It
was a long drive there, through paved jolting
lanes. Miss Matilda sate bolt upright, and looked
wistfully out of the windows, as we drew near
the end of our journey. The aspect of the country
was quiet and pastoral. Woodley stood
among fields; and there was an old-fashioned
garden, where roses and currant-bushes touched
each other, and where the feathery asparagus
formed a pretty back-ground to the pinks and
gilly-flowers; there was no drive up to the door;
we got out at a little gate, and walked up a
straight box-edged path.

“My cousin might make a drive, I think,”
said Miss Pole, who was afraid of ear-ache, and
had only her cap on.

“I think it is very pretty,” said Miss Matey,
with a soft plaintiveness in her voice, and almost
in a whisper; for just then Mr. Holbrook appeared
at the door, rubbing his hands in very effervescence
of hospitality. He looked more like
my idea of Don Quixote than ever, and yet the
likeness was only external. His respectable
housekeeper stood modestly at the door to bid us
welcome; and, while she led the elder ladies upstairs
to a bed-room, I begged to look about the
garden. My request evidently pleased the old
gentleman; who took me all round the place,
and showed me his six-and-twenty cows, named
after the different letters of the alphabet. As
we went along, he surprised me occasionally by
repeating apt and beautiful quotations from the
poets, ranging easily from Shakspeare and George
Herbert to those of our own day. He did this
as naturally as if he were thinking aloud, that
their true and beautiful words were the best expression
he could find for what he was thinking
or feeling. To be sure he called Byron “my
Lord Byron,” and pronounced the name of
Goethe strictly in accordance with the English
sound of the letters—“As Goëthe says, ‘Ye ever
verdant palaces,’” &c. Altogether, I never met
with a man, before or since, who had spent so
long a life in a secluded and not impressive
country, with ever-increasing delight in the daily
and yearly change of season and beauty.

When he and I went in, we found that dinner
was nearly ready in the kitchen—for so I suppose
the room ought to be called, as there were
oak dressers and cupboards all round, all over by
the side of the fire-place, and only a small Turkey-carpet
in the middle of the flag-floor. The room
might have been easily made into a handsome
dark-oak dining-parlor, by removing the oven,
and a few other appurtenances of a kitchen,
which were evidently never used; the real cooking-place
being at some distance. The room in
which we were expected to sit was a stiffly furnished,
ugly apartment; but that in which we
did sit was what Mr. Holbrook called the counting-house,
where he paid his laborers their weekly
wages, at a great desk near the door. The
rest of the pretty sitting-room—looking into the
orchard, and all covered over with dancing tree-shadows—was
filled with books. They lay on
the ground, they covered the walls, they strewed
the table. He was evidently half ashamed and
half proud of his extravagance in this respect.
They were of all kinds—poetry, and wild weird
tales prevailing. He evidently chose his books
in accordance with his own tastes, not because
such and such were classical, or established favorites.

“Ah!” he said, “we farmers ought not to have
much time for reading; yet somehow one can’t
help it.”

“What a pretty room!” said Miss Matey,
sotto voce.

“What a pleasant place!” said I, aloud, almost
simultaneously.

“Nay! if you like it,” replied he; “but can
you sit on these great black leather three-cornered
chairs? I like it better than the best parlor;
but I thought ladies would take that for the
smarter place.”

It was the smarter place; but, like most smart
things, not at all pretty, or pleasant, or home-like;
so, while we were at dinner, the servant-girl
dusted and scrubbed the counting-house
chairs, and we sate there all the rest of the day.

We had pudding before meat; and I thought
Mr. Holbrook was going to make some apology
for his old-fashioned ways, for he began,

“I don’t know whether you like newfangled
ways.”

“Oh! not at all!” said Miss Matey.

“No more do I,” said he. “My housekeeper
will have things in her new fashion; or else I
tell her, that when I was a young man, we used
to keep strictly to my father’s rule, ‘No broth,
no ball; no ball, no beef;’ and always began
dinner with broth. Then we had suet puddings,
boiled in the broth with the beef; and then the
meat itself. If we did not sup our broth, we had
no ball, which we liked a deal better; and the
beef came last of all, and only those had it who
had done justice to the broth and the ball. Now
folks begin with sweet things, and turn their
dinners topsy-turvy.”

When the ducks and green pease came, we
looked at each other in dismay; we had only
two-pronged, black-handled forks. It is true,
the steel was as bright as silver; but, what were
we to do? Miss Matey picked up her peas, one
by one, on the point of the prongs, much as
Aminé ate her grains of rice after her previous
feast with the Ghoul. Miss Pole sighed over
[pg 462]
her delicate young peas as she left them on one
side of her plate untasted; for they would drop
between the prongs. I looked at my host: the
peas were going wholesale into his capacious
mouth, shoveled up by his large round-ended
knife. I saw, I imitated, I survived! My
friends, in spite of my precedent, could not muster
up courage enough to do an ungenteel thing;
and, if Mr. Holbrook had not been so heartily
hungry, he would, probably, have seen that the
good pease went away almost untouched.

After dinner, a clay-pipe was brought in, and
a spittoon; and, asking us to retire to another
room, where he would soon join us, if we disliked
tobacco-smoke, he presented his pipe to
Miss Matey, and requested her to fill the bowl.
This was a compliment to a lady in his youth;
but it was rather inappropriate to propose it as
an honor to Miss Matey, who had been trained
by her sister to hold smoking of every kind in
utter abhorrence. But if it was a shock to her
refinement, it was also a gratification to her feelings
to be thus selected; so she daintily stuffed
the strong tobacco into the pipe; and then we
withdrew.

“It is very pleasant dining with a bachelor,”
said Miss Matey, softly, as we settled ourselves
in the counting-house. “I only hope it is not
improper; so many pleasant things are!”

“What a number of books he has!” said Miss
Pole, looking round the room. “And how dusty
they are!”

“I think it must be like one of the great Dr.
Johnson’s rooms,” said Miss Matey. “What a
superior man your cousin must be!”

“Yes!” said Miss Pole; “he is a great reader;
but I am afraid he has got into very uncouth
habits with living alone.”

“Oh! uncouth is too hard a word. I should
call him eccentric; very clever people always
are!” replied Miss Matey.

When Mr. Holbrook returned, he proposed a
walk in the fields; but the two elder ladies were
afraid of damp and dirt; and had only very unbecoming
calashes to put over their caps; so
they declined; and I was again his companion
in a turn which he said he was obliged to take,
to see after his niece. He strode along, either
wholly forgetting my existence, or soothed into
silence by his pipe—and yet it was not silence
exactly. He walked before me, with a stooping
gait, his hands clasped behind him; and, as some
tree, or cloud, or glimpse of distant upland pastures
struck him, he quoted poetry to himself;
saying it out loud in a grand, sonorous voice,
with just the emphasis that true feeling and appreciation
give. We came upon an old cedar-tree,
which stood at one end of the house;

“Capital term—‘layers!’ Wonderful man!”
I did not know whether he was speaking to me
or not; but I put in an assenting “wonderful,”
although I knew nothing about it; just because
I was tired of being forgotten, and of being consequently
silent.

He turned sharp round. “Ay! you may say
‘wonderful.’ Why, when I saw the review of
his poems in ‘Blackwood,’ I set off within an
hour, and walked seven miles to Misselton (for
the horses were not in the way), and ordered
them. Now, what color are ash-buds in March?”

Is the man going mad? thought I. He is
very like Don Quixote.

“What color are they, I say?” repeated he,
vehemently.

“I am sure I don’t know, sir,” said I, with
the meekness of ignorance.

“I knew you didn’t. No more did I—an old
fool that I am! till this young man comes and
tells me. ‘Black as ash-buds in March.’ And
I’ve lived all my life in the country; more shame
for me not to know. Black; they are jet-black,
madam.” And he went off again, swinging
along to the music of some rhyme he had got
hold of.

When he came home nothing would serve him
but that he must read us the poems he had been
speaking of; and Miss Pole encouraged him in
his proposal, I thought, because she wished me
to hear his beautiful reading, of which she had
boasted; but she afterward said it was because
she had got to a difficult part of her crotchet,
and wanted to count her stitches without having
to talk. Whatever he had proposed would have
been right to Miss Matey; although she did fall
sound asleep within five minutes after he began
a long poem called “Locksley Hall,” and had a
comfortable nap, unobserved, till he ended; when
the cessation of his voice wakened her up, and
she said, feeling that something was expected,
and that Miss Pole was counting:

“What a pretty book!”

“Pretty! madam! it’s beautiful! Pretty, indeed!”

“Oh, yes! I meant beautiful!” said she, fluttered
at his disapproval of her word. “It is so
like that beautiful poem of Dr. Johnson’s my sister
used to read—I forget the name of it; what
was it, my dear?” turning to me.

“Which do you mean, ma’am? What was it
about?”

“I don’t remember what it was about, and
I’ve quite forgotten what the name of it was;
but it was written by Dr. Johnson, and was very
beautiful, and very like what Mr. Holbrook has
just been reading.”

“I don’t remember it,” said he, reflectively,
“but I don’t know Dr. Johnson’s poems well.
I must read them.”

As we were getting into the fly to return, I
heard Mr. Holbrook say he should call on the
ladies soon, and inquire how they got home; and
this evidently pleased and fluttered Miss Matey
at the time he said it; but after we had lost
sight of the old house among the trees, her sentiments
toward the master of it were gradually
absorbed into a distressing wonder as to whether
Martha had broken her word, and seized on the
opportunity of her mistress’s absence to have a
“follower.” Martha looked good, and steady,
and composed enough, as she came to help us
[pg 463]
out; she was always careful of Miss Matey, and
to-night she made use of this unlucky speech:

“Eh! dear ma’am, to think of your going out
on an evening in such a thin shawl! It is no
better than muslin. At your age, ma’am, you
should be careful.”

“My age!” said Miss Matey, almost speaking
crossly, for her; for she was usually gentle. “My
age! Why, how old do you think I am, that
you talk about my age?”

“Well, ma’am! I should say you were not far
short of sixty; but folks’ looks is often against
them—and I’m sure I meant no harm.”

“Martha, I’m not yet fifty-two!” said Miss
Matey, with grave emphasis; for probably the
remembrance of her youth had come very vividly
before her this day, and she was annoyed at finding
that golden time so far away in the past.

But she never spoke of any former and more
intimate acquaintance with Mr. Holbrook. She
had probably met with so little sympathy in her
early love, that she had shut it up close in her
heart; and it was only by a sort of watching,
which I could hardly avoid, since Miss Pole’s
confidence, that I saw how faithful her poor heart
had been in its sorrow and its silence.

She gave me some good reason for wearing
her best cap every day, and sate near the window,
in spite of her rheumatism, in order to see,
without being seen, down into the street.

He came. He put his open palms upon his
knees, which were far apart, as he sate with his
head bent down, whistling, after we had replied
to his inquiries about our safe return. Suddenly,
he jumped up.

“Well, madam! have you any commands for
Paris? I’m going there in a week or two.”

“To Paris!” we both exclaimed.

“Yes, ma’am! I’ve never been there, and always
had a wish to go; and I think if I don’t go
soon, I mayn’t go at all; so as soon as the hay
is got in I shall go, before harvest-time.”

We were so much astonished, that we had no
commissions.

Just as he was going out of the room, he
turned back, with his favorite exclamation:

“God bless my soul, madam! but I nearly forgot
half my errand. Here are the poems for you,
you admired so much the other evening at my
house.” He tugged away at a parcel in his coat-pocket.
“Good-by, Miss,” said he; “good-by,
Matey! take care of yourself.” And he was
gone. But he had given her a book, and he had
called her Matey, just as he used to do thirty
years ago.

“I wish he would not go to Paris,” said Miss
Matilda, anxiously. “I don’t believe frogs will
agree with him; he used to have to be very careful
what he ate, which was curious in so strong-looking
a young man.”

Soon after this I took my leave, giving many
an injunction to Martha to look after her mistress,
and to let me know if she thought that
Miss Matilda was not so well; in which case I
would volunteer a visit to my old friend, without
noticing Martha’s intelligence to her.

Accordingly I received a line or two from
Martha every now and then; and, about November,
I had a note to say her mistress was “very low,
and sadly off her food;” and the account
made me so uneasy, that, although Martha did
not decidedly summon me, I packed up my things
and went.

I received a warm welcome, in spite of the
little flurry produced by my impromptu visit, for
I had only been able to give a day’s notice. Miss
Matilda looked miserably ill; and I prepared to
comfort and cosset her.

I went down to have a private talk with Martha.

“How long has your mistress been so poorly?”
I asked, as I stood by the kitchen fire.

“Well! I think it’s better than a fortnight; it
is, I know: it was one Tuesday after Miss Pole
had been here that she went into this moping way.
I thought she was tired, and it would go off with
a night’s rest; but, no! she has gone on and on
ever since, till I thought it my duty to write to
you, ma’am.”

“You did quite right, Martha. It is a comfort
to think she has so faithful a servant about
her. And I hope you find your place comfortable?”

“Well, ma’am, missus is very kind, and there’s
plenty to eat and drink, and no more work but
what I can do easily—but—” Martha hesitated.

“But what, Martha?”

“Why, it seems so hard of missus not to let
me have any followers; there’s such lots of young
fellows in the town; and many a one has as
much as offered to keep company with me; and
I may never be in such a likely place again, and
it’s like wasting an opportunity. Many a girl as
I know would have ’em unbeknownst to missus;
but I’ve given my word, and I’ll stick to it; or
else this is just the house for missus never to be
the wiser if they did come: and it’s such a capable
kitchen—there’s such good dark corners in
it—I’d be bound to hide any one. I counted up
last Sunday night—for I’ll not deny I was crying
because I had to shut the door in Jem Hearn’s
face; and he’s a steady young man, fit for any
girl; only I had given missus my word.” Martha
was all but crying again; and I had little
comfort to give her, for I knew, from old experience,
of the horror with which both the Miss
Jenkynses looked upon “followers;” and in Miss
Matey’s present nervous state this dread was not
likely to be lessened.

I went to see Miss Pole the next day, and took
her completely by surprise; for she had not been
to see Miss Matilda for two days.

“And now I must go back with you, my dear,
for I promised to let her know how Thomas Holbrook
went on; and I’m sorry to say his housekeeper
has sent me word to-day that he hasn’t
long to live. Poor Thomas! That journey to
Paris was quite too much for him. His housekeeper
says he has hardly ever been round his
fields since; but just sits with his hands on his
knees in the counting-house, not reading or any
thing, but only saying, what a wonderful city
[pg 464]
Paris was! Paris has much to answer for, if
it’s killed my cousin Thomas, for a better man
never lived.”

“Does Miss Matilda know of his illness?”
asked I; a new light as to the cause of her indisposition
dawning upon me.

“Dear! to be sure, yes! Has she not told
you? I let her know a fortnight ago, or more,
when first I heard of it. How odd, she shouldn’t
have told you!”

Not at all, I thought; but I did not say any
thing. I felt almost guilty of having spied too
curiously into that tender heart, and I was not
going to speak of its secrets—hidden, Miss Matey
believed, from all the world. I ushered Miss
Pole into Miss Matilda’s little drawing-room;
and then left them alone. But I was not surprised
when Martha came to my bedroom door,
to ask me to go down to dinner alone, for that
missus had one of her bad headaches. She came
into the drawing-room at tea-time; but it was
evidently an effort to her; and, as if to make up
for some reproachful feeling against her late sister,
Miss Jenkyns, which had been troubling her
all the afternoon, and for which she now felt penitent,
she kept telling me how good and how clever
Deborah was in her youth; how she used to
settle what gowns they were to wear at all the
parties (faint, ghostly ideas of dim parties far
away in the distance, when Miss Matey and Miss
Pole were young!) and how Deborah and her
mother had started the benefit society for the
poor, and taught girls cooking and plain sewing;
and how Deborah had once danced with a lord;
and how she used to visit at Sir Peter Arley’s,
and try to remodel the quiet rectory establishment
on the plans of Arley Hall, where they kept thirty
servants; and how she had nursed Miss Matey
through a long, long illness, of which I had never
heard before, but which I now dated in my own
mind as following the dismissal of the suit of Mr.
Holbrook. So we talked softly and quietly of old
times, through the long November evening.

The next day Miss Pole brought us word that
Mr. Holbrook was dead. Miss Matey heard the
news in silence; in fact, from the account on the
previous day, it was only what we had to expect.
Miss Pole kept calling upon us for some expression
of regret, by asking if it was not sad that
he was gone: and saying,

“To think of that pleasant day last June, when
he seemed so well! And he might have lived
this dozen years if he had not gone to that wicked
Paris, where they are always having revolutions.”

She paused for some demonstration on our
part. I saw Miss Matey could not speak, she
was trembling so nervously; so I said what I
really felt: and after a call of some duration—all
the time of which I have no doubt Miss Pole
thought Miss Matey received the news very calmly—our
visitor took her leave. But the effort at
self-control Miss Matey had made to conceal her
feelings—a concealment she practiced even with
me, for she has never alluded to Mr. Holbrook
again, although the book he gave her lies with
her Bible on the little table by her bedside; she
did not think I heard her when she asked the
little milliner of Cranford to make her caps something
like the Honorable Mrs. Jamieson’s, or that
I noticed the reply,

“But she wears widows’ caps, ma’am?”

“Oh! I only meant something in that style;
not widows’, of course, but rather like Mrs. Jamieson’s.”

This effort at concealment was the beginning
of the tremulous motion of head and hands which
I have seen ever since in Miss Matey.

The evening of the day on which we heard of
Mr. Holbrook’s death, Miss Matilda was very silent
and thoughtful; after prayers she called
Martha back, and then she stood uncertain what
to say.

“Martha!” she said at last; “you are young,”
and then she made so long a pause that Martha,
to remind her of her half-finished sentence, dropped
a courtesy, and said:

“Yes, please, ma’am; two-and-twenty last
third of October, please, ma’am.”

“And perhaps, Martha, you may some time
meet with a young man you like, and who likes
you. I did say you were not to have followers;
but if you meet with such a young man, and tell
me, and I find he is respectable, I have no objection
to his coming to see you once a week. God
forbid!” said she, in a low voice, “that I should
grieve any young hearts.” She spoke as if she
were providing for some distant contingency, and
was rather startled when Martha made her ready,
eager answer:

“Please, ma’am, there’s Jim Hearn, and he’s
a joiner, making three-and-sixpence a day, and
six foot one in his stocking-feet, please ma’am;
and if you’ll ask about him to-morrow morning,
every one will give him a character for steadiness;
and he’ll be glad enough to come to-morrow night,
I’ll be bound.”

Though Miss Matey was startled, she submitted
to Fate and Love.

Anecdotes Of Monkeys.

During a short stay on the Essequibo, a little
monkey of the Jackowai Ris tribe, in return
for some slight attention I had shown him,
permitted me so far to gain his favor and confidence,
that he was seldom away from my person;
indeed, he treated me like one mentioned
by a distinguished traveler, which every morning
seized on a pig belonging to a mission on the
Orinoco, and rode on its back during the whole
day, while it wandered about the savannahs in
search of food. Nothing pleased him better than
to perch on my shoulder, when he would encircle
my neck with his long hairy tail, and accompany
me in all my rambles. His tail formed a no very
agreeable neckcloth, with the thermometer above
one hundred degrees; but he seemed so disappointed
when I refused to carry him, that it was
impossible to leave him behind. In appearance
he was particularly engaging—squirrel-like in
form—with a light brown coat slightly tinged
with yellow, and arms and legs of a reddish cast—pleasingly
[pg 465]
contrasting with a pale face, and
small black muzzle; the expressive and merry
twinkle of his sparkling black eye betokened fun,
roguery, and intelligence. The Jackowai Ris
are a fierce race, and approach the carnivora in
their habits and dispositions. One reason of our
intimacy was the sameness of our pursuits—both
being entomologists; but he was a far more indefatigable
insect-hunter than myself. He would
sit motionless for hours among the branches of a
flowering shrub or tree, the resort of bees and
butterflies, and suddenly seize them when they
little expected danger. Timid in the presence
of strangers, he would usually fly to the branches
of a neighboring tree at their approach, uttering
a plaintive cry, more resembling a bird than an
animal. He was apt to be troublesome, even to
me, unless I found him some amusement; this,
fortunately, was not difficult; for his whole attention
was soon engrossed by a flower, or by a
leaf from my note-book, which he would industriously
pull to pieces, and throw on the surface
of the water, earnestly watching the fragments
with his quick black eye, as they glided away.

At other times, when sitting on my shoulder,
he was an incessant plague, twitching the hairs
from my head by twos and threes, filling my ears
with fragments of plants and other rubbish, and
taking a malicious pleasure in holding on by
those members when the boat lurched, and he
was in danger of falling. I think it was one of
the same family that Humboldt found capable of
recognizing, as resemblances of their originals,
even uncolored zoological drawings; and would
stretch out its hand to endeavor to capture the
bees and grasshoppers. I was unable to test the
sagacity of my little comrade, as the only accessible
work with engravings was a copy of Schomburgk’s
“Fishes of Guiana;” and when I showed
him the plates he manifested no signs of a knowledge
of any of his finny compatriots; never, perhaps,
having seen them. He was dreadfully
afraid of getting himself wet, particularly his
hands and feet; in this respect showing a very
different disposition to a large long-haired black
monkey, belonging to a family settled a short distance
from our residence.

This animal—an object of the greatest terror
to the little Jackowinki, from his having caught
him one day and ducked him in the river—was
one of the most tractable and docile I ever remember
having met. He was in the habit of accompanying
his master in all his fishing and
shooting expeditions, taking his allotted seat in
the canoe, and plying his small paddle for hours
together with the utmost gravity and composure;
all the while keeping excellent time, and being
never “out of stroke.” Like his companions, he
would now and then dip the handle of his paddle
in the water, to destroy the squeaking grate of
the dry surface, and again would lean over the
side and wash his hands. His domestic habits
were perfectly human. The first thing every
morning he cleansed his teeth, by taking a
mouthful of water, and using his finger as a
tooth-brush; like the other members of the family,
whom he also imitated in their daily bath in
the river. Perhaps one at least of these peculiarities
was not entirely imitative, as a credible
authority (Captain Stedman, in his “Narrative
of an Expedition to Surinam”) assures us that
he once saw a monkey at the water’s edge, rinsing
his mouth, and appearing to clean his teeth
with his fingers.

As for my little friend, I intended to bring him
home; but the day before my departure he suddenly
decamped. We were taking our usual trip
up the creek, and I was just thinking of returning,
when, on rounding a sharp bend in the tortuous
channel, I perceived two Jackowinkis sitting
on a branch about twenty yards distant, as
yet unaware of our vicinity, and from their chattering
and grimaces seemingly engaged in some
matrimonial squabble. Anxious to obtain a specimen
for stuffing, I fired at one, which proved to
be the male, who dropped to the ground.

When he saw his brother fall, he seemed
instantly to understand that I was a murderer.
He took immediate revenge. He sprang to
my shoulder, tore a handful of hair from my
head, and swiftly clambered away among the
overhanging branches. When I recovered from
surprise at this unexpected attack, he had paused
in his flight; and, with his face turned toward
me, was grinning, showing his sharp little teeth,
and throwing down glances of fierceness and hate.
In another instant he was pursuing the female,
whose plaintive twitterings were distinctly audible,
as she scampered away among the trees. In
the course of time, he no doubt managed to console
the widow; and, free from all shackles and
restraints, is probably, at this moment, quietly
enjoying a married life in his native woods.

The Mountain Torrent.

A Masked Ball At Vienna.

It is a bitterly cold night, and the snow which
has been for three days tumbling down upon
the roofs and pavements of Vienna, tumbles down
upon us still. The theatres, which get through
their performances by half-past nine, are closed
already; and there is a lull now in the muffled
streets. I mean to go out as a muffled man, and
use the ticket I have bought for a Masked Ball
at the palace. The sale of tickets for such balls,
which take place now and then during the winter,
raises enormous sums, which are applied to
charitable purposes, so that the luxury of the rich
is made to minister, in this case, also to the comforts
of the poor.

Here I stand ankle-deep in snow, and look up
at the palace; all the windows on the first story
are being lighted up, and cold gentlemen converging
toward the door from all parts, are the
members of Strauss’s band. And now lights
[pg 470]
have begun to flash about the streets, and masks
are beginning to arrive. Splendid carriages of
the nobility; and positively some of the imperial
family do not disdain to be among the first arrivals!
The beau from the suburbs, in a light
fiacre. Actresses and officers in their broughams.
Sledges from the country, drawn by merry
little horses, frisking through the snow, and jingling
bells over their harness. A chaos of lights,
a coachman, and the long poles of sedan chairs
in the way of a chaos of legs, hats, shoulders,
coach-tops, and every thing else, powdered with
snow that tumbles silently and steadily upon the
scene of riot. A crush of revelers upon the staircase.
Half-past eleven; all the most important
people having now entered—except myself—it is
quite time for me to follow to the ball-room.

A vast room. Think of the Great Exhibition,
if you want a notion of it; and take off a discount
for exaggeration. Walk to the end of this room,
and a door opens into another ball-room, almost
twice as large. In each of these great halls, there
are raised orchestras, in which the bands are
stationed; and when one band ceases playing,
another is prepared immediately to begin. Galleries,
to which you ascend by flights of stairs at
each end, run round both the rooms; and into
these galleries open innumerable ice and supper-rooms,
passages, and out-of-the-way cells,
wherein you may lose yourself, but not your
company. Masks are to be found sitting in
every corner; wherever a mask is, there is mischief.

You see nothing vulgar, no rude costume, no
monstrous noses, no absurd pairs of spectacles,
or woolly wigs. You hear no boisterous shouts
of mirth; beautiful music reigns incessantly supreme
over all other sounds. Only the ladies
are disguised; their faces are hidden behind elegant
little black silk masks, and they vie with
each other in the costliness and beauty of their
costumes and dominoes. The men are all in simple
evening dress; they walk about, defenseless
game, and yield sport in abundance to the dames
and damsels. Most of the ministers are here—grave,
steady gentlemen, with bald heads or gray
hair. Each of them is surrounded by a swarm
of masks—princesses, perhaps—milliners, perhaps—and
some of them are evidently making
wry mouths at what they are obliged to hear.
This is the time for home truths. The ladies at a
masked ball make good use of their disguise, and
scatter about their wholesome mischief abundantly.

A vision in black and gold beckons to me. I
place myself at her disposal. “You are an Englishman,”
the vision says; “I know you.”
“How, madam?” “By your awkwardness.”
“Are Britons awkward?” “Yes, and wearisome.
Go, you are not amusing. Take care of
your gloves; they are so large that I fear they
will fall off.” The vision laughs at me and vanishes.
I have a secret or two which I don’t mean
to print. I did think that those mysteries were
locked up in my bosom. If you ever happen to
be at Vienna, with some secrets in your keeping,
and desire to know whether you hold them safe,
go to a Masked Ball. Mocking voices, behind
black silk masks, will very much surprise you
with some samples of the penetration proper to
a sex which seems, in Vienna, to be made of
Blue Beard wives. Twenty ladies honor me
with minute details of the contents of one apartment
in my mind, which I had considered quite
a patent safe, with a fastening like that of the
box in the talisman of Oromanes.

The night wears on; at three o’clock the instrumental
music ceases, but the music of the
mischievous and merry tattlers still continues to
be ringing in all ears, and making them to tingle.
Every man is destined to go home abundantly
informed and criticised upon the subject of his
foibles. Until six o’clock, supping, and taking
tea and coffee, will continue, and the relish for
amusement will be as keen as ever. Nobody is
dancing—nobody has danced; that is no part of
the business. At length, the multitude has dwindled
down to a few stragglers; the remainder of
the cloaks, and coats, and wrappers, are brought
out and scattered, as so many hints to their possessors,
in the middle of the great room. We
immediately dive and scramble for them. In another
hour, the lights are put out; all is over, and
I travel home over the snow.

The Ornithologist.

I was still young, when a sudden reverse of
fortune deprived me of a kind father and
affluence at the same time. A home was offered
for my acceptance by Mrs. Priestly, a widow lady,
whom I had never seen since my infancy, distance
and circumstances having combined to effect
this separation. Mrs. Priestly was not only
my godmother, but she had been the earliest
chosen friend of my own lamented mother, and
now came forward to extend succor to the destitute
orphan. In former years, I remembered to
have heard that she had suffered deep sorrow,
from the loss of her only child, a fine boy, who
was heir to a princely fortune, independent of
his mother’s considerable possessions. There
were rumors afloat, at the period of this bereavement,
of a peculiarly distressing nature—strange,
half-suppressed whispers of some fearful accident
that had rendered the widow childless; but
the memory of these things had passed away,
and Mrs. Priestly’s first despair and agony had
settled down to a resigned melancholy. On her
fine countenance premature age was stamped, a
smile seldom visible, while her mourning garb
was never cast aside; she was a lifelong mourner.

The outward aspect of Lodimer—so Mrs.
Priestly’s domain was called—was but little in
accordance with the sad heart of its owner, for
a more cheerful or animated scene I had rarely
witnessed. The villa, surrounded by colonnades,
stood on the side of a gently swelling hill, at the
base of which flowed a broad and sparkling river,
on which numerous boats and picturesque-looking
barges were continually passing and repassing.
Roses and thatch, light French windows
and exotics, trimly-kept pleasure-grounds, slopping
[pg 471]
down to the water’s edge, drooping willows
and silver birches were accessories, doubtless,
to produce an effect of combined elegance and
grace, while on the opposite banks richly wooded
hills were studded with white cottages, glancing
in the sunshine; though even during rainy seasons
Lodimer never looked gloomy, an indescribable
air of joyousness and hilarity pervading it.
The calamity which overshadowed Mrs. Priestly’s
existence had not occurred at this pleasant home,
but at the distant seat of the widow’s brother,
Mr. Lovell, of Lovell Castle, where she and her
son were on a visit at the time; and still Mrs.
Priestly continued to pay an annual visit thither,
never leaving Lodimer save for that purpose, but
leading a life of extreme seclusion. I had the
satisfaction of believing that my society tended
to enhance the comfort of Mrs. Priestly; who,
with the utmost delicacy and kindness, lavished
a thousand nameless attentions—trifling in themselves,
but keenly felt by the dependent; calling
me her adopted daughter, while her candor demanded
and received my grateful thanks, for I
fully appreciated the excellent motives actuating
Mrs. Priestly’s avowal. She wished to prevent
false expectations on my part, and yet to set at
rest all anxiety respecting the future; informing
me, that the bulk of her wealth she designed to
bequeath to her nephew, Mr. Lovell’s son, but
that a moderate provision was secured for her
dear orphan god-daughter. But my agitation
gave place to surprise, when Mrs. Priestly continued,
addressing me, “You have sense and
discretion beyond your years, Evelin, my love,
and when you came to reside here with me, I
determined first to ascertain if this were the case,
ere I confided my secret to your keeping—for I
have a secret—which may not be mentioned at
Lovell Castle, when you accompany me thither
shortly. A few miles hence, an individual resides,
to whom I intend shortly to introduce you.
He is a most unfortunate person, and desires the
strictest privacy; but Mr. Edwin is not unhappy,
because he knows the ‘peace within which passeth
show,’ while his intellectual attainments are
of the highest order. But, in case you should
weave a romance, Evelin, out of these details,”
added Mrs. Priestly, faintly smiling, “it is but
fair I warn you, that romance and Edwin may
not be coupled together, for he is—alas! poor
fellow—an unsightly and deformed creature; his
captivations are those only of the heart and mind—in
this he shines pre-eminent. Again let me
remind you, my love, not to allude to Mr. Edwin
in conversation; forget him altogether, except
when you speak to me. I know that you are
not tormented with feminine curiosity, or I would
tell you to ask no questions. This is my secret,
Evelin, which I fearlessly confide to your keeping.”

However, Mrs. Priestly did me more than justice,
for though I certainly endeavored to indulge
no idle speculations on the forbidden topic, yet I
was not apathetic enough to forget it; more especially
after accompanying Mrs. Priestly to see
her mysterious friend, whose ménage, to say nothing
of himself, might have excused a far more
insensible person than I was for feeling a strong
interest and sympathy. Surrounded by thick
woods on all sides save one, which opened toward
the same river that washed the emerald
turf of Lodimer, we came to a small spot of
ground resembling a “clearing,” and I fancied
we were transported to those wild western lands
I had so often read of—the old ivy-covered hunting-lodge
in the midst adding much to the real
beauty of the picture, though detracting somewhat
from its savage charms. Quantities of
feathered tribes were strutting about within the
inclosure, or enjoying themselves in various attitudes
of indolence or security; an immense
aviary extended down one side of the clearing,
fitted up with the view of affording as much
solace and liberty of movement as possible to the
inmates. The whole place seemed alive with
fowls of the air, and we beheld a human form
within the wire-work of the aviary, literally covered
with birds, small and large, wherever they
could find a resting-place—on head, arms, or
back—and many more were fluttering and crowding
over and around him, as Mr. Edwin—for it
was he—proceeded to dispense food to his loving
flock. Presently he made his escape, and approached
us, with a jay perched on one shoulder
and a magpie on the other, appearing to hold
whispering discourse with their benefactor, who
fondly caressed and chirruped to them in turn.
He was of middling stature, perceptibly and
painfully deformed; but his countenance was
such an one as Raphael would have loved to
portray—holy, placid, and spiritual, beyond any
mortal face I have looked upon before or since.
His voice was inexpressibly touching and melodious;
it thrilled the heart of the listener, for
there was an intonation of sadness in its tone,
though the words were cheerful, as he cordially
and warmly welcomed us. We followed him
into a long, low-roofed apartment, the windows
of which looked out on woodland vistas, and on
all sides, from floor to ceiling, it was lined with
books, and cases containing stuffed birds, for
Mr. Edwin was devoted to the study of ornithology,
and almost rivaled Audubon in patient
watching and research. A married couple, of
quiet and orderly habits, formed the domestic
establishment at Ivy Lodge; and the profound
stillness and solitude of this sylvan retreat was
unbroken, save by the cooing of the cushat dove,
the song-birds’ varied notes, the sonorous hooting
of the white owl up among the eaves, and
the occasional screams of the splendid peacocks
ringing through the greenwood glades.

Here was the paradise of the feathered creatures,
here they were all fostered and protected;
and Mr. Edwin had attained the mysterious art
of taming the wild denizens of the woods as
surely and wonderfully, if not quite as rapidly,
as did that celebrated Arab horse-leech exert his
skill on quadrupeds, whispering in the ear of
vicious and hitherto untamable steeds, who immediately
became docile and subdued. Even
shy and stately swans knew this lonely clearing
[pg 472]
on the river banks, and frequently came to be
fed by Mr. Edwin’s gentle hand; the swans had
a nest here among the reeds, and broods of cygnets
were reared in this haven of peace. Mr.
Edwin had made many beautiful copies of rare
birds, which he could not otherwise preserve, the
colors being brilliant and true to nature, as well as
the size of each specimen; and I felt not a little
delighted when he accepted my timid offer of
assistance in this branch of his study, for I was
afraid that my poor efforts would fall far short
of his masterly productions. But Mrs. Priestly
re-assured me, and she told Mr. Edwin that he
had found a valuable coadjutor, for bird-painting
had always been quite a passion with me—a
strange taste, perhaps, for a young lady, though
I know not why it should be considered more
out of the way than copying flowers from nature.
However, I exerted myself to the utmost, and
succeeded well, for he gave my drawings unqualified
approbation, and was eloquent in thanking
me. I am sure the amiable recluse read my
heart at once, and saw how eagerly and gratefully
I availed myself of this opportunity, trifling
as it was, of gratifying Mrs. Priestly, to whom I
owed so much; for her affection toward Mr. Edwin
rendered attentions bestowed on him personally
felt and acknowledged by her. This
similarity of taste, together with our mutual love
and veneration for Mrs. Priestly, induced that
kindly communion between Mr. Edwin and myself
which afterward ripened into a lasting friendship,
cemented by time. He was, indeed, wise
unto salvation. Learned not only in this world’s
lore, but in that wisdom which maketh not
ashamed, he bore his daily cross most meekly,
and yet most manfully. Deeply alive to the
beautiful, keenly sensitive on all points, tender-hearted
and affectionate, he lived alone in the
woodland solitude, not, I was convinced, from
any morbid disinclination to encounter his kind
on account of his personal affliction (he was too
humble and good for that), but from some unknown
and mysterious cause, some hidden sorrow,
which rendered solitude in a retreat like
this desirable. At Lodimer, I never gazed on
the gay and sparkling river, without remembering
that it flowed onward toward the swan’s nest
among the reeds. I never gazed on the thick,
rich woods, or heard the wood-pigeon’s cooing
across the waters at the hushed evening hour,
without a sensation of tranquillity and peace
stealing over my spirit, as fancy pictured the
lonely lodge, the soft twittering around it, and
the dense shadows beyond.

I obeyed Mrs. Priestly, and never asked a
question concerning Mr. Edwin, but I pondered
much on this interesting subject; and whenever
my thoughts turned away from the vanities of
this world, they always rested with satisfaction
on the ornithologist.

As the time drew nigh for our departure to
Lovell Castle, I observed a degree of restlessness
on Mr. Edwin which I had not hitherto noticed,
and frequent gloomy abstraction, which he vainly
endeavored to shake off in our presence. Mrs.
Priestly often conversed alone with him, when
traces of agitation were visible on her countenance,
and tears on his; and when she bade him
farewell, these words lingered on his lips—“Tell
dear Mildred how happy I am.”

Lovell Castle was a dark, frowning pile, bearing
an ancient date, while some portions were
more antiquated still, and had fallen into disuse.
It was a real castle of the olden time; I had often
read of such with interest and delight, but
now I could explore for myself. Here were dungeons
and vaulted chambers, trap-doors and loop-holes,
intricate passages, secret hiding-places,
and curious old oaken chests, battlements and
turrets, carved work and tapestry, banqueting
hall and chapel—in short, all the appendages
necessary for romance in feudal days.

The family consisted of Mr. Lovell, Mildred,
his eldest daughter by a first wife, and Harold
and Rose, the children of the second Mrs. Lovell,
who had died when Rose was an infant. Mildred
was tenderly beloved by Mrs. Priestly; and, as
she never quitted her hypochondriacal father, it
was principally to see this dear niece that the
widow left her quiet home on the margin of
Lodimer’s blue waters. I was absolutely startled
by the extraordinary and striking likeness between
the ornithologist and Mildred Lovell—the
same placid, sweet expression of countenance,
the same gentle, winning manners, too. While
in unobtrusive performance of her duties toward
God and man, this good daughter and sister
journeyed onward through life, ministering to
the comfort and well-being of all, but without
exacting a meed of praise or a single glance of
admiration. Mildred was nobody at Lovell Castle;
but, had she been absent, her absence would
have been universally bewailed, and her value
known: they were perhaps too used to the blessing
to appreciate it, even as the sun shines day
after day, and we do not remark it as any thing
unusual.

Rose was a volatile, thoughtless girl, yet affectionate
and kind-hearted withal, and dearly
loved her elder sister, who had indeed filled the
place of a mother to her. Rose had elastic, unvarying
spirits, which were not unwelcome in
that dull old place, and kept the inmates from
stagnation. She and Harold were the father’s
darlings, though all Mr. Lovell’s hope and pride
centred in his son. Pre-eminently beautiful in
person, active and graceful, Harold Lovell was
born the same year as his deceased cousin, Jocelyn
Priestly, and the youths had strongly resembled
each other, not only in person but in disposition.
The partial parents had not, perhaps,
read those dispositions truthfully, or in both their
children they might have traced evil propensities,
which went far to counterbalance the good—revengeful
passions, and a proneness to selfish
indulgence, which not all their brilliant acquirements
and feats of gallant prowess could conceal
from a close observer of character. They were
at the same school together, and at Lovell Castle
for the vacation, when that sad catastrophe took
place which plunged the family in irremediable
[pg 473]
affliction. Mr. Lovell, who had always been a
nervous, ailing man, never recovered the shock,
and latterly he had sunk into complete indolence,
and left the care and management of his affairs
entirely to Harold, who, however, ill-fulfilled his
duties. The aversion which Mrs. Priestly entertained
toward her nephew, and which she
vainly strove to conceal, had once been the source
of painful contention between Mr. Lovell and his
sister, though now it had settled down into a
silent grief never alluded to by either of them.
All these particulars I had heard from Rose; and
much I was amazed at Mrs. Priestly’s conduct,
coupled with the avowal she had made to me
respecting the disposal of her property in favor
of her nephew; but I knew her to be a just and
strong-minded woman, and felt sure there was
some mystery connected with these family details,
which Rose was bursting to disclose, the
first convenient opportunity. But I gave her no
encouragement to do so, for I thought that, had
Mrs. Priestly wished me to know the secret motives
by which she was actuated, her confidence
would have been already bestowed; and it seemed
a breach of trust, or dishonorable, to gain the
knowledge by other means. The sweet benignity
of Mildred Lovell, her untiring patience and
unaffected cheerfulness, as well as the strong
resemblance of feature, continually reminded me
of Mr. Edwin, and I pondered often on the parting
words which I had heard him address to Mrs.
Priestly—“Tell dear Mildred how happy I am.”

And what was Mildred to Mr. Edwin? Wherefore
was he exiled and alone? What had he
done that his name was forbidden to be spoken
at Lovell? These ideas constantly haunted me,
despite my determination to exclude such idle
questionings concerning the mysterious affair.
Rose sometimes communicated some portion of
her own gay spirit to me: we were thrown much
together, for Mildred was constantly occupied
with her invalid parent, and Mrs. Priestly shared
the duties of her beloved niece. But I often desired
the solitude which was more congenial to
my turn of mind, though it was not always easy
to obtain it, as Rose, from a mistaken kindness,
continually watched my movements, and accompanied
me wheresoever I desired to go. It was
impossible to check the affectionate girl in a direct
manner; but I discovered that there was
one locality particularly avoided by all the inmates
of the castle, which had fallen into decay, and
was seldom approached by Rose. This was the
western wing or turret; and thither, accordingly,
I often bent my steps, in search of quietude, and
also of a magnificent prospect to be viewed from
the summit. In this sumptuous home at Lovell
Castle, my thoughts often wandered to Ivy Lodge
on Lodimer’s banks, and its lonely occupant,
apart from the vanities of life, contented and
cheerful under afflictions which were, I felt sure,
of no common nature. I compared the pious recluse
with the heir of Lovell, toward whom an
inexpressible feeling of repugnance reigned in
my breast. Harold was devoted to field sports
and the pleasures of the table; he was, in fact,
the real master, consulting only his own time
and inclinations on all occasions. His bloated,
though still handsome countenance, evidenced excess;
while a dictatorial manner, as of one unused
to reproof or contradiction, was habitual.
A constant restlessness and irritability, a quick
turn of the eye, a wild glance, betokened a mind
ill at ease. He was a scoffer at religion, too,
an unkind brother, and an undutiful son to the
doating father, who yet believed and saw no
faults in his offspring. Despite her brother’s
harshness, Rose, with devoted sisterly affection,
extenuated Harold’s conduct, and it was very
beautiful to witness her womanly tenderness and
forbearance. It might be that Mildred was the
child of another mother, and that circumstances
had somewhat weakened the ties of blood; but
notwithstanding her general kindness of demeanor
toward all, including Harold, there was
a perceptible shade of coldness when addressing
him. She never volunteered an embrace, to be
cast off, like the persevering, warm-hearted Rose;
she never clung to her brother, praying him to
remain at home, when he was about to engage
in any hazardous or foolish exploit. No; there
was some sin or sorrow which had weaned and
divided this brother and sister, until the erring
one should turn and repent. And who could
doubt that Mildred Lovell would open wide her
arms to receive the penitent?

I had sought my favorite deserted turret, to
contemplate a glorious sunset behind the distant
mountains, when Rose joined me on the summit,
from whence we gazed on the dizzy depth
below. She was unusually serious and pale;
her laugh was hushed, and she spoke in whispers.

“Why do you choose this spot, Evelin, to indulge
your reveries?” she said, “for I can not
bear to remain here; and Harold would not ascend
this western tower for all the universe.”

“And why is it so distasteful to you, Rose?”
I inquired, with some curiosity, “for the view is
the most superb I ever witnessed. Is this wing
of the castle haunted?” I added, with a smile,
taking her arm, and making a step nearer to the
edge, guarded only by a very low, broad parapet.

She convulsively drew me back, exclaiming—“Oh!
Evelin, if you knew the dreadful recollections
attached to this turret, you would not marvel
at my being so nervous. I do not believe it
is haunted, but there are folks who do. They
report that white fleecy shadows hover around it
by night, though perhaps the owls and birds
building in the crevices may account for the supposed
supernatural appearances.”

“And wherefore, Rose, is this turret in such
bad repute? What are the dreadful recollections
attached to it? A legend of olden times, perhaps?”

“Alas, Evelin,” responded my companion,
“’tis a reality of our own. My poor cousin,
Jocelin Priestly, met with his fearful end here.
He fell from this dizzy height on the shaven
turf beneath, and lived but a few moments afterward.”

[pg 474]

“But how did this fatal accident occur, Rose?”
I inquired. “Why have you never mentioned
it before?”

Paler than ever, Rose replied, with a faltering
voice, “Because it was not an accident, Evelin”
(she shivered, and put her lips close to my ear).
“He was cast down intentionally.”

“By whom, Rose?” My heart throbbed violently;
strange thoughts were rushing through
my brain.

“I dare not tell you; I am forbidden to reveal
more. I was very young at the time, and things
were hushed up; but poor Milly has been a
changed being ever since.”

“Mildred!” I exclaimed, in surprise; “what
effect could this tragedy have on her, more than
on other members of your family?”

“It had, it had, Evelin, because she desired to
screen the guilty; but ask me no more, and let
us quit this hateful place.”

My mind was bewildered and uneasy. Who
could the guilty person alluded to be, and wherefore
such a mystery preserved? The wildest
conjectures disturbed my imagination, while redoubled
love and sympathy were given to the
bereaved mother. But this tangled web was soon
to be unraveled—unraveled in an awful and sudden
manner, for that avenging arm was outstretched
which no mortal can withstand.

We were preparing to return home, and I was
happy in the near prospect of seeing dear Lodimer
so soon. Harold Lovell left the castle at
early morn in high health and spirits, to attend a
race meeting, some few miles off, with several
boon companions. A quarrel arose, and Harold,
deeming himself insulted, and more than half inebriated,
struck a desperate gambler, who demanded
satisfaction on the spot. Harold fell,
mortally wounded, and was borne back to Lovell
on a litter, late in the evening. The father’s despair,
blessedly merged in insensibility, the sister’s
agony, we draw a vail over.

Mrs. Priestly, Mildred, and myself, with the
medical attendants, alone were calm and of use,
so far, indeed, as human aid extended. The domestics
were wildly running hither and thither,
but to no purpose: Harold Lovell was rapidly
dying. Mrs. Priestly supported the expiring
sufferer; she bathed his temples, and spoke
words of peace. You would have deemed him
the son of her fondest love, all dislike merged in
pity and the tenderest solicitude. Suddenly Harold
opened his glazing eyes to their widest extent;
he recognized her, while a shudder convulsively
shook his whole frame. He essayed to
articulate, and at length these broken sentences
were heard, “Forgive me, Aunt Priestly—now
forgive. ‘Twas I did it! Edwin is innocent; I
am the murderer. Oh! mercy! mercy!”

Mrs. Priestly had sank down beside the couch,
as with clasped hands she raised her streaming
eyes to heaven; then burying her face, she murmured—“I
do forgive you, poor boy, and so does
Edwin, freely.” The spirit passed into eternity
as she spoke these words. I saw Mildred fling
herself into Mrs. Priestly’s arms, and I remember
no more, for, unused to such scenes, my
strength succumbed.

Mr. Lovell and his son were laid side by side
in the family vault on the same day; the broken-hearted
father surviving his beloved child but a
few hours. That son’s dying confession was repeated
to him, although he took no notice at the
time, and lived not to make restitution to the innocent;
but to his daughters, as co-heiresses,
the whole of his immense wealth descended; and
yet Mr. Lovell left a son—a good, noble-hearted
son, whom he had unjustly disinherited. When
the disinherited was told that the only words his
departed parent had spoken after receiving his
death-blow, the only token of consciousness he
had evinced was in faintly murmuring, “Bless
Edwin, my son,” that son valued the world’s
wealth but as dross in comparison; nor would
he have exchanged those precious words for all
the uncounted riches of the globe! His father
then had believed him innocent, and had blessed
him; and Edwin, the ornithologist of Ivy Lodge,
came to Lovell Castle, justly lord of all, but owning
nothing save a thankful heart and a peaceful
mind, to be clasped in the arms of his faithful
sister Mildred, for they were twins, and linked
together in heart. Then, and not till then, were
the following particulars narrated to Rose and
myself by Mrs. Priestly. Rose mourned deeply
for her brother, but justice to the living demanded
full disclosure of the truth.

Edwin had never been a favorite with his
father, a fall in infancy having rendered him unsightly,
and probably occasioned the delicate
health which induced that love of studious repose
so opposite to those qualities which Mr.
Lovell admired in his younger son. A tutor was
provided for Edwin at home, while Harold, with
his cousin, Jocelin Priestly, was sent to a public
school. With unfeeling thoughtlessness, Jocelin
used often to amuse himself by joking at
the expense of Edwin’s personal deformity, calling
him “hunchback,” and many other nick-names,
all of which the amiable youth bore with
unflinching patience and fortitude, ever returning
good for evil. The quarrels and rivalry between
Harold and Jocelin were violent and unceasing;
and, previous to the last vacation, they had risen
to a fiercer pitch than formerly, Jocelin Priestly
having carried off a prize from Harold, which the
latter declared was unfair. Jocelin’s spirits were
outrageous, and in reckless levity he made so
unceasing a butt of the unfortunate elder brother,
that Edwin determined to keep himself as much
aloof as possible from the boisterous pair, whose
bickerings and headstrong passion disturbed his
equanimity. Mildred, whose love and veneration
for her beloved brother was returned by him with
a depth of affection which only the isolated can
feel, vainly tried to make peace and preserve concord.
Mrs. Priestly, with a mother’s doating
partiality for an only child, never allowed Jocelin
to be in fault, though she would chide his exuberant
spirits, and liked not that he should
wound the gentle Edwin, whom she dearly loved.
Mr. Lovell, on the other hand, laughed at the
[pg 475]
lads’ faults; and, when he could not laugh, winked
at them: “Edwin was a milk-sop, and Harold
and Jocelin fine, high-spirited, handsome fellows,
who would grow wiser as they grew older.” Mrs.
Priestly “hoped so”—she “prayed so; and Jocelin
was so clever and handsome, that a little
steadiness was all he needed; there was nothing
else amiss.” So argued the blind mother; and,
next to Harold, his uncle Lovell’s affections were
lavished on this nephew.

When these two youths made their appearance
at the castle, Edwin frequently retired to the
western turret, where he could read and meditate
alone, and enjoy the lovely landscape. Here he
was resting on a projecting stone, which served
as a bench, part of the edifice screening him from
view, when Jocelin Priestly appeared on the
summit with a telescope in hand, and, with boyish
recklessness, jumped on the low parapet, balancing
himself on the extreme verge, as he applied
the glass to his eye. In another moment
Harold came leaping up the turret-stairs, boiling
with furious passion; and, darting forward, he
clutched at the glass, screaming, as he did so,
“How dare you take my telescope, sir, when
you know I forbade you?” There was a struggle,
a violent thrust, succeeded by a scream of
horror and despair, and Edwin beheld his brother
Harold alone on that dizzy height.

All this had passed in a moment a of time apparently.
Harold looked round with a wild, terrified
glance, and fled, Edwin’s limbs refusing to
sustain him in his efforts to reach the parapet,
as he lost consciousness, and swooned. Jocelin
Priestly’s fall had been noticed by a gardener,
who gave an instant alarm; but the ill-fated lad
expired in his distracted mother’s arms, after articulating,
“I am murdered.”

Edwin was found on the summit of the western
turret, his incoherent exclamations and agitation
being considered proofs of guilt by his father and
tutor. He solemnly asseverated his innocence,
but refused to enter into particulars until his
brother Harold returned, for Harold was absent,
it was supposed, in the adjacent woodlands, where
he ofttimes resorted to practice with his gun.
When he did return, Harold with well-acted surprise
heard the dreadful tidings, and demanded,
in a careless manner, where Edwin had been at
the time? When informed that he was found
on the summit of the tower, and of the deceased’s
fearful avowal in his dying moments, Harold
exclaimed, “Edwin has indeed avenged himself
on poor Jocelin.” And Edwin was branded as
the dastardly wretch who had taken his cousin’s
life thus!

Edwin denied the foul deed with indignation
and horror; but, when Harold’s words were repeated
to him, he hung his head, and blushed
scarlet. He spoke no more, save to affirm his
innocence; and, when questioned as to Jocelin
Priestly having been near him on the tower just
before he met with his death, Edwin admitted
the fact; but, when further pressed, he became
confused, and painful internal struggles were
evident.

Mr. Lovell discarded his son forever. He
would not harbor, he said, one who had vengefully
taken the life of his beloved nephew; the
law, indeed, could not reach the criminal, but a
father’s malediction could! So the hapless Edwin
was disowned and disinherited by his indignant
parent, who granted him a stipend barely
sufficient for subsistence, and thrust him forth as
an alien. Harold had not encountered his brother’s
placid gaze; he shrank from being alone
with him, and when Edwin begged for an audience,
it was refused. Mildred protested her
brother’s innocence. Edwin had never swerved
from truth in his life; and, strange to say, there
was another who sided with Mildred, and that
other, the miserable mother of the victim. She
had scrutinized and watched Harold Lovell closely;
and when Edwin knelt beside her, and said,
with quiet, but impressive calmness, “I am innocent,
aunt; I never injured a hair of my cousin’s
head,” he was believed by that jealous,
breaking heart.

“But you were there, Edwin,” cried the poor
lady; “you witnessed it: he came not to his
end by fair means. Speak—your brother—was
it he did this foul deed, for he envied and hated
my son—the base, cowardly traitor!”

Passion choked Mrs. Priestly’s utterance, and
Edwin was mute. Neither prayers nor entreaties
induced him to explain past circumstances connected
with the direful catastrophe. He bore
the burden of another’s guilt; he bore in silence
the contumely that should have been heaped on
another, and was banished from the parental roof.
But conviction found its way to Mrs. Priestly’s
heart; and, though Mr. Lovell was implacable,
nor would listen to a suspicion implied that he
might be deceived, the mother intuitively shrank
from contact with the false-hearted Harold Lovell.
As years progressed, the truth became more
and more firmly impressed on her mind; and to
him, accused by his own father of being her only
child’s destroyer, she left the bulk of her fortune,
and established the outcast in her near vicinity,
firmly trusting that the Almighty, in his own
good time, would bring the real culprit to light.
Her heart fixed on this culprit, but Mr. Lovell
continued in error and darkness. Those precious
words spoken in his last hour proved, however,
that darkness was dissipated, and error abandoned,
when the dying man murmured a blessing
on his exiled son, who had sacrificed himself to
shield an ungrateful brother from shame and opprobrium.

Within two years after her father and brother’s
decease, Rose rewarded the long and sincere
attachment of a neighboring squire by becoming
his wife. Lovell Castle was sold, and Mildred
repaired to Lodimer; while, on the original site
of Ivy Lodge, a more commodious dwelling was
in course of preparation. There she resided
with her beloved brother for the remainder of
their joint lives, and Mr. Edwin found in his
sweet companion not only a valuable coadjutor
in his favorite pursuits, but an absolute rival in
the affections of his feathered pets; while the
[pg 476]
swan’s nest among the reeds on Lodimer’s fair
waters continued to be as carefully preserved
and guarded as it had been during the solitary
years of the now happy ornithologist.

A Child’s Toy.

The afternoon was drawing in toward evening;
the air was crisp and cool, and the
wind near the earth, steady but gentle; while
above all was as calm as sleep, and the pale clouds—just
beginning in the west to be softly gilded
by the declining sun—hung light and motionless.
The city, although not distant, was no longer
visible, being hidden by one of the many hills
which give such enchantment to the aspect of
our city. There was altogether something singularly
soothing in the scene—something that
disposed not to gravity, but to elevated thought.
As we looked upward, there was some object
that appeared to mingle with the clouds, to form
a part of their company, to linger, mute and motionless
like them, in that breathless blue, as if
feeling the influence of the hour. It was not a
white-winged bird that had stolen away to muse
in the solitudes of air: it was nothing more than
a paper kite.

On that paper kite we looked long and intently.
It was the moral of the picture; it appeared
to gather in to itself the sympathies of the whole
beautiful world; and as it hung there, herding
with the things of heaven, our spirit seemed to
ascend and perch upon its pale bosom like a
wearied dove. Presently we knew the nature
of the influence it exercised upon our imagination;
for a cord, not visible at first to the external
organs, though doubtless felt by the inner
sense, connected it with the earth of which we
were a denizen. We knew not by what hand
the cord was held so steadily. Perhaps by some
silent boy, lying prone on the sward behind yonder
plantation, gazing up along the delicate ladder,
and seeing unconsciously angels ascending
and descending. When we had looked our fill,
we went slowly and thoughtfully home along the
deserted road, and nestled, as usual, like a moth,
among our books. A dictionary was lying near;
and with a languid curiosity to know what was
said of the object that had interested us so much,
we turned to the word, and read the following
definition: Kite—a child’s toy.

What wonderful children there are in this
world, to be sure! Look at that American boy,
with his kite on his shoulder, walking in a field
near Philadelphia. He is going to have a fly;
and it is famous weather for the sport, for it is
in June—June, 1752. The kite is but a rough
one, for Ben has made it himself, out of a silk
handkerchief stretched over two cross-sticks.
Up it goes, however, bound direct for a thunder-cloud
passing overhead; and when it has arrived
at the object of its visit, the flier ties a key to
the end of his string, and then fastens it with
some silk to a post. By and by he sees some
loose threads of the hempen-string bristle out
and stand up, as if they had been charged with
electricity. He instantly applies his knuckles to
the key, and as he draws from it the electrical
spark, this strange little boy is struck through
the very heart with an agony of joy. His laboring
chest relieves itself with a deep sigh, and he
feels that he could be contented to die that moment.
And indeed he was nearer death than he
supposed; for as the string was sprinkled with
rain, it became a better conductor, and gave out
its electricity more copiously; and if it had been
wholly wet, the experimenter might have been
killed upon the spot. So much for this child’s
toy. The splendid discovery it made—of the
identity of lightning and electricity—was not allowed
to rest by Ben Franklin. By means of
an insulated iron rod the new Prometheus drew
down fire from heaven, and experimented with
it at leisure in his own house. He then turned
the miracle to a practical account, constructing
a pointed metallic rod to protect houses from
lightning. One end of this true magic wand is
higher than the building, and the other end
buried in the ground; and the submissive lightning,
instead of destroying life and property in
its gambols, darts direct along the conductor into
the earth. We may add that Ben was a humorous
boy, and played at various things as well as
kite-flying. Hear this description of his pranks
at an intended pleasure-party on the banks of the
Schuylkill: “Spirits at the same time are to be
fired by a spark sent from side to side through
the river, without any other conductor than water—an
experiment which we have some time
since performed to the amazement of many. A
turkey is to be killed for dinner by the electrical
shock; and roasted by the electrical jack, before
a fire kindled by the electrical bottle; when the
healths of all the famous electricians in England,
Holland, France, and Germany, are to be drunk
in electrified bumpers, under the discharge of
guns from the electrical battery.”

We now turn to a group of capital little fellows
who did something more than fly their kite.
These were English skippers, promoted somehow
to the command of vessels before they had
arrived at years of discretion; and chancing to
meet at the port of Alexandria in Egypt, they
took it into their heads—these naughty boys—that
they would drink a bowl of punch on the
top of Pompey’s Pillar. This pillar had often
served them for a signal at sea. It was composed
of red granite, beautifully polished, and standing
114 feet high, overtopped the town. But how
to get up? They sent for a kite, to be sure;
and the men, women, and children of Alexandria,
wondering what they were going to do with it,
followed the toy in crowds. The kite was flown
over the Pillar, and with such nicety, that when
it fell on the other side the string lodged upon
the beautiful Corinthian capital. By this means
they were able to draw over the Pillar a two-inch
rope, by which one of the youngsters
“swarmed” to the top. The rope was now in
a very little while converted into a sort of rude
shroud, and the rest of the party followed, and
actually drank their punch on a spot which,
seen from the surface of the earth, did not
[pg 477]
appear to be capable of holding more than one
man.

By means of this exploit it was ascertained
that a statue had once stood upon the column—and
a statue of colossal dimensions it must have
been to be properly seen at such a height. But
for the rest—if we except the carvings of sundry
initials on the top—the result was only the
knocking down of one of the volutes of the capital,
for boys are always doing mischief; and this
was carried to England by one of the skippers,
in order to execute the commission of a lady,
who, with the true iconoclasm of her country,
had asked him to be so kind as to bring her a
piece of Pompey’s Pillar.

Little fellows, especially of the class of brick-layers,
are no great readers, otherwise we might
suspect that the feat of the skipper-boys had
conveyed some inspiration to Steeple Jack. Who
is Steeple Jack? asks some innocent reader at
the Antipodes. He is a little, spare creature
who flies his kite over steeples when there is
any thing to do to them, and lodging a cord on
the apex, contrives by its means to reach the
top without the trouble of scaffolding. No fragility,
no displacement of stones, no leaning from
the perpendicular, frightens Steeple Jack. He
is as bold as his namesake, Jack-the-Giant-Killer,
and does as wonderful things. At Dunfermline,
not long ago, when the top of the spire was in
so crazy a state that the people in the street
gave it a wide berth as they passed, he swung
himself up without hesitation, and set every thing
to rights. At the moment we write, his cord is
seen stretched from the tall, slim, and elegant
spire of the Assembly Hall in Edinburgh, which
is to receive, through his agency, a lightning-conductor;
and Jack only waits the subsidence
of a gale of wind to glide up that filmy rope like
a spider. He is altogether a strange boy, Steeple
Jack. Nobody knows where he roosts upon the
earth, if he roosts any where at all. The last
time there was occasion for his services, this advertisement
appeared in the Scotsman: “Steeple
Jack is wanted at such a place immediately”—and
immediately Steeple Jack became visible.

In 1827 the child’s toy was put to a very remarkable
use by one Master George Pocock.
This clever little fellow observed that his kite
sometimes gave him a very strong pull, and it
occurred to him that if made large enough it
might be able to pull something else. In fact,
he at length yoked a pair of large kites to a carriage,
and traveled in it from Bristol to London,
distancing in grand style every other conveyance
on the road. A twelve-foot kite, it appears, in
a moderate breeze, has a one-man power of
draught, and when the wind is brisker, a force
equal to 200 lbs. The force in a rather high
wind is as the squares of the lengths; and two
kites of fifteen and twelve feet respectively, fastened
one above the other will draw a carriage
and four or five passengers at the rate of twenty
miles an hour. But George’s invention went
beyond the simple idea. He had an extra line
which enabled him to vary the angle of the surface
of his kites with the horizon, so as to make
his aerial horses go fast or slow as he chose;
and side lines to vary the direction of the force,
till it came almost to right angles with the direction
of the wind. His kites were made of varnished
linen, and might be folded up into small
compass. The same principle was successfully
applied by a nautical lad of the name of Dansey
to the purpose of saving vessels in a gale of
wind on “the dread lee shore.” His kite was
of light canvas.

In India, China, and the intermediate countries,
the aggregate population of which includes
one-half of mankind, kites are the favorite toy
of both old and young boys, from three years to
threescore and ten. Sometimes they really resemble
the conventional dragon, from which,
among Scotch children, they derive their name,
sometimes they are of a diamond shape, and
sometimes they are like a great spider with a
narrow waist. Our Old Indian is eloquent on
kites, and the glory of their colors, which, in the
days of other years, made her girlish heart leap,
and her girlish eyes dazzle. The kite-shop is
like a tulip-bed, full of all sorts of gay and gorgeous
hues. The kites are made of Chinese
paper, thin and tough, and the ribs of finely-split
bamboo. A wild species of silkworm is pressed
into the service, and set to spin nuck for the
strings—a kind of thread which, although fine,
is surprisingly strong. Its strength, however, is
wanted for aggression as well as endurance; and
a mixture composed of pounded glass and rice
gluten is rubbed over it. Having been dried in
the sun, the prepared string is now wound upon
a handsome reel of split bamboo inserted in a
long handle. One of these reels, if of first-rate
manufacture, costs a shilling, although coarser
ones are very cheap; and of the nuck, about
four annas, or sixpence worth, suffices for a kite.

In a Hindoo town the kite-flying usually takes
place on some common ground in the vicinity,
and there may be seen the young and old boys
in eager groups, and all as much interested in
the sport as if their lives depended upon their
success. And sometimes, indeed, their fortunes
do. Many a poor little fellow bets sweetmeats
upon his kite to the extent of his only anna in
the world; and many a rich baboo has more
rupees at stake than he can conveniently spare.
But the exhilarating sport makes every body
courageous; and the glowing colors of the kites
enable each to identify his own when in the air,
and give him in it, as it were, a more absolute
property. Matches are soon made. Up go the
aerial combatants, and, with straining eyes and
beating hearts, their fate is watched from below.
But their masters are far from passive, for this
is no game of chance, depending upon the wind.
Kite-flying is in these countries an art and mystery;
and some there be who would not disclose
their recipe for the nuck-ointment, if their own
grandfathers should go upon their knees to ask it.

Sometimes an event occurs on the common.
It is the ascent of a pair of kites of a distingué
air, and whose grand and determined manner
[pg 478]
shows that the combat is to be à l’outrance, and
that a large stake of money depends upon the
result. The fliers are invisible. They are probably
on the flat roof of some neighboring house;
but the kites are not the less interesting on account
of their origin being unknown. What a
host of anxious faces are turned up to the sky!
Some take a liking to the red at first sight, while
others feel attracted by a mysterious sympathy
to the green. Bets are freely offered and accepted,
either in sweetmeats or money; and the
crowd, condensing, move to and fro in a huge
wave, from which their eager voices arise like
the continuous roaring of the sea. Higher and
higher go the kites. Well done, Red! he has
shot above his antagonist, and seems meditating
a swoop; but the Green, serenely scornful, continues
to soar, and is soon uppermost. And thus
they go—now up, now down, relatively to each
other, but always ascending higher and higher,
till the spectators almost fear that they will
vanish out of sight. But at length the Green,
taking advantage of a loftier position he has
gained, makes a sudden circuit, and by an adroit
manœuvre gets his silken string over the silken
string of the other. Here a shout of triumph
and a yell of terror break simultaneously from
the crowd; for this is the crisis of the fight.
The victor gives a fierce cut upon his adversary’s
line. The backers of the latter fancy they hear
it grate, and in an instant their forebodings are
realized; for the unfortunate Red is seen to
waver like a bird struck by a shot, and then, released
from the severed string, he descends in
forlorn gyrations to the earth.

Now rush in the smaller boys to play their
part. Their object is that of the plunderers who
traverse the field after a battle, to rob the dying
and the slain. Off run the little Hindoos, like
a company of imps from the nether regions, tearing
and fighting as they fly; and on reaching
the fallen kite, the object of their contention is
torn to pieces in the scuffle. Presently the victorious
Green is seen descending, and the gross
excitement of the common pauses to watch his
majestic flight. He is of the largest size of Indian
kites called ching, and of the spider shape. Before
being drawn in, he hangs for an instant high
up over the crowd. It is not, however, to sing Io
Pæans for his victory, but apparently rather to
mourn over the ruin he has made; for a wailing
music breathes from his wings as he passes. This
is caused by the action of the wind upon some
finely-split bamboo twigs arched over the kite
without touching the paper, and which thus become
a true Æolian harp. Sometimes a kite of
this kind is sent up at night, bearing a small
lighted lantern of talc; and the sleepers awakened,
called to their balconies by the unearthly
music, gaze after the familiar apparition not
without a poetical thrill.

Upon the whole, it must be admitted, we think,
that this is a somewhat interesting child’s toy.
But has the kite a future? Will its powers exhibit
new developments, or has it already reached
its pride of place? If a twelve-feet kite has the
force of a man, would it take many more feet to
lift a man into the air? And supposing the man
to be in a strong cage of network, with bamboo
ribs, and a seat of the same material, would he
have greater difficulty in governing his aerial
coursers by means of the Pocock cords, than if
he were flashing along the road from Bristol to
London? Mind, we do not say that this is possible:
we merely ask for the sake of information;
and if any little boy will favor us with his opinion,
we shall take it very kind. Come, and let
us fancy that it is possible. The traveler feels
much more comfortable than in the car of a balloon,
for he knows he can go pretty nearly in
what direction he chooses, and that he can hasten
or check the pace of his horses, and bring them
to a stand-still at pleasure. See him, therefore,
boldly careering through the air at the rate of
any number of miles the wind pleases. At a
single bound he spans yonder broad river, and
then goes bowling over the plantation beyond,
just stirring the leaves as he passes; trees, water,
houses, men, and animals gliding away beneath
his feet like a dream. Now he stoops
toward the earth, just to make the people send
up their voices that there may be some sound in
the desert air. Now he swings up again; now
he leaps over that little green hill; now he—Hold!
hold, little boy! that will do: enough, for
a time, of a Child’s Toy.

“Rising Generation”-Ism.

“Grave and reverend seniors” aver, that
among the innumerable isms and pathies
which inundate this strange nineteenth century,
not the least curious, dangerous, and comical,
are those phases of character, opinion, and aspiration
embodied in the title of our sketch. Each
day, week, or month, we receive an accession to
the list of those speculations and practices, which,
embracing every department of philosophy and
art, seek to overturn hitherto accepted axioms,
and erect in their stead—what? Some “baseless
fabric of a vision,” which came we know
not whence, and tends we know not very well
whither? Or has the microscopic eye and telescopic
mind of modern European civilization discovered
other distorting flaws in the mirror in
which we view truth—other idols in the den of
treasured belief—faults which it is urgently
necessary to remedy—vices which it were
well speedily to extirpate? The answer of most
men will be sometimes the latter, oftener the
former.

What, then, is that fraternity whose members
are now denominated in a peculiar sense “the
rising generation,” albeit no existing dictionary
conveys it? How came they to assume or receive
that cognomen? “What are their doings—what
their ends?” And, finally (for this is par
excellence the practical, if not the golden English
era), how much are all these worth? In one
shape or another, we suspect that the class embraces
a great mass of our youth, we will almost
say, of both sexes.

Various definitions may be given of a member
[pg 479]
of the “rising generation.” The lowest, commonest,
and most readily apprehensible to the
general reader, is that of a “fast young man,”
such as “Punch” has for some time spitted
weekly as a laughing-stock for half of the population.
A little, lean, lathy, sickly-looking
youth, delighting in rough short coats, monkey
jackets, regatta shirts, big cigars, funny walking-canes,
the smallest of boots, the most angular of
hats, the most Brobdignagian of ties—rejoicing
in a thinly-sown mustache or imperial, addicted
to brandy-and-water and casinos, going out with
the “afternoon delivery,” and coming in with
the milk. This is true so far as it goes. Ascend
a step, and there is the representative of the class
which has run to seed in the mediæval direction—fond
of, and learned in, all the symbols of ancient
priestly power and rank—steeped in black-letter
and illuminated missal philosophy and
theology—erudite in all the variations which
spiritual dominance has assumed—in short, the
resuscitator of the “good old times” ecclesiastical.

Again, we come to the type of the chief, and
perhaps the finest class—many-hued and many-sided,
difficult to define, more difficult to estimate.
He is a chaos of misty beliefs and dubious doubtings—a
striver after theories which would exercise
a spell over mind and matter of almost
alchemic potency—an open receiver for every
new and quackish nostrum—a shallow scholar,
with the pedantry and conceit of a ripe one—a
denier of other men’s attainments, without stopping
to inquire whether he will ever be able to
equal them—apt to give dogmatic advice, and
slow to take any—lastly, and worst, he is sometimes
a rash and unphilosophic would-be analyzer
of the grounds of our most sacred belief. He
may be—indeed, frequently is—of a genuine and
earnest spirit, which he knows neither how to
direct nor bound.

In judging of the frame of mind which generates
and elaborates, or receives such impressions,
it is necessary to remember and make due allowance
for the rapid and real advances which we
have made in the sifting of old and the ascertainment
of new truth, within an almost infinitesimal
portion of time. Men now think and act vehemently—with
appliances at their elbow which,
to those who know their power, are a true Aladdin’s
lamp, giving the key to thoughts and deeds,
and the clew to facts, which erst had been deemed
miraculous. When we now speak of the “rising
generation,” it is seriously. We discard the
class whose dress is apish, whose life is an inanity,
whose thoughts are vapid, if not something
fouler and worse. We would think of, and give
credit for earnestness, to that large class whose
ready reception and striving after the establishment
of all things new, for novelty’s sake, and
the demolition of many things old and revered,
has fixed upon them, half in jest, half in earnest,
the sobriquet. Not only on matters of faith—on
innovations on all established practice, do they
take their stand. Education they understand in
no limited sense. The acquisition of the circle
of sciences, and nothing less, is the average of
their contentment. We are to live in an age
when every man, or, at least, every second, is
to be an Admirable Crichton. Formerly, it was
thought that the mind of man was, even in its
strength, so feeble, that strict adherence to some
single and well-defined line of study or path of
action was necessary, if a moderate skill in its
command were desired. He who loved and pursued
his knowledge of ancient people, languages,
customs, and laws, was not expected to be erudite
except in classical lore. The philosopher and
mathematician, if well acquainted in their respective
spheres with the laws and processes of
mind, matter, and number, were thought to have
learned their part. The laborer in the field of
active industry, who was skillful in the taste and
knowledge of his craft and the use of its tools,
was esteemed no cumberer of the ground. If,
after this, he cultivated his mind by a scrutiny
of the labors of others, so much the better. Under
this régime, each man learned his own department,
every one knew something, better than his
neighbors—could follow or elucidate his special
study or calling through ramifications the other
could not trace, and thus knowledge progressed,
and became the great power that it has
grown.

But now the “rising generation” will have
matters altered. Education is all wrong, and too
limited. The spirit of unity, as the Germans
call it—that hidden elf which haunts all knowledge,
and is the same, however disguised—is not
to be caught except by a search which involves
the acquisition of every science, art, and philosophy.
This, in addition to an insane and, we
shrink not from saying, a blasphemous dallying
with things sacred, is the grand error of the
“rising generation”—the rock on which their
bark will founder, if it has not already done so.
Man can not be a “universal genius.” Let us
by all means shake off the trammels under which
education has groveled—under which she still
groans. Let us seek by all means to make education
so free, that, like the winds of heaven,
and the light of the sun, no man shall want a
reasonable—a full share of her benefits. Let us
seek accurate and varied knowledge and scholarship,
endeavoring (although it is a difficult and
subtle process) to find out for what our youth
are best fitted, by evoking the latent special talents
with which their Maker has gifted them,
and thus train them in the expert use of that
weapon which will enable them to do yeoman
service in the wide arena of the world. But,
while we do all this, let us beware. We have
before now been taunted as a nation of shopkeepers.
This was no evil, if true; but who can
calculate the direness of that calamity which shall
turn us into a nation of smatterers. This is a
looming evil of unparalleled magnitude. There
can be no doubt that at the present moment there
is a tendency to rest content with very superficial
acquirements, if they be only heterogeneous
enough. A man who can gabble the alphabet
of any science or subject may, if he has sufficient
[pg 480]
presumption, gain credit for possessing a knowledge
of its arcana—for the ability necessary to
plumb its profounder depths and unravel its intricacies.
The successful practice of this imposture,
for it is nothing less, has led, and is still
leading, many to sacrifice accuracy for variety,
both in those departments which their circumstances,
rightly considered, demand that they
should thoroughly understand, and in those
branches which tend only to add grace and finish
to a liberal education.

In “those days,” the chance was that genius
often passed away unnoticed or neglected. In
“the good time come,” we fear that a similar
injustice will be done, and in a larger measure.
The modest, the sound-thinking, and really learned,
will withdraw from a field where they find
as companions or competitors only strutting jackdaws
and noisy shallow smatterers, who have
decided that they were born for other purposes
than to tread in the work-a-day paths of life. A
portion of the old as well as the “rising generation”
would do well to look to the present state
of things. There is too often a desire on the
part of parents to push their children into positions
for which they are totally unfitted. There
is a sphere for all, which, when chosen with a
due regard to ability, and not adopted through
caprice or vanity, will lead to usefulness in society
and comfort to the individual.

We have little fear of that audacious phase in
the character of the “rising generation,” which
devotes itself to a probing of those things which
have to do with our eternal destiny. A well-conducted
inquiry of this kind is a healthy symptom,
and tends to fix good impressions: and, as
for those whose temerity exceeds their judgment,
the Christian knows that his bulwarks are too
many and strong ever to be shaken by any blast
of human breath or stroke of human hand. Still,
let every stumbling-block be removed, and no
safeguard neglected, which may be of service
to those of feeble knees or weak and timorous
mind.

The “rising generation” are those upon whom
the hopes of the world will ere long rest, who
are soon to have the reins of government in their
own hands, and must play their part in the great
drama of life, at a time when its stage affords
more ample room for the development of true
nobility, richer opportunities for distinguishing
a life by action, and of signalizing it by discoveries
almost magical—a time, in short, open to
greater achievements than any that have been
won since this globe was first spun into space.
The greater the talent and the wealth of opportunity,
so much more are the dangers increased,
and the more wily the machinations of the Spirit
of Evil. While the “rising generation” adopt
as their motto “Excelsior,” and cultivate an inquiring
spirit, let it always be an earnest and
definite one, not “blown about by every wind
of doctrine,” not falling into every quagmire of
vain conceit, until the mental eye is so besmeared
that it can no longer discern the true zenith.
Yet, withal, it is not necessary to tread exclusively
in the old paths, as they are somewhat
contemptuously styled; there is need and verge
enough for pioneering new ones. “Beat the
bushes; there is still plenty of game to be raised.”
But do not disdainfully discard the experience of
those who have gone before. We do not insinuate
by this that age and priority combined make
an oracle. Yet there are comparatively few men
who can not tell something that is worth hearing—communicate
some bit of knowledge which may
save you the disbursement of some of those high
school fees which, as Thomas Carlyle keenly observes,
must be paid for experience.

It has been iterated and reiterated, that there
is no royal road to knowledge. This is true of
knowledge, as it is true of any thing that is worth
having. And this brings to our recollection a
manifestation of spirit displayed by some portions
of the “rising generation” to which we have not
yet adverted. This is called the non-mercantile
idea—a growing dislike to all manual and merely
commercial pursuits, and an over-fondness for
what are known as the learned, and more especially
the literary professions. This desire,
we fear, proceeds often from a wish to avoid labor;
and, where this is the case, we can assure
all such that literature is not the sphere for indolence.

We neither impugn the honesty nor ignore the
talents of the “rising generation.” We would
only tender them a parting advice: Think, learn,
and act, reverently and cautiously, and in the
spirit of that philosophy which has won for England
her most enduring laurels—which taught
her Newton to discard for years, until fact supported
theory, what was perhaps the broadest
glimpse of truth ever vouchsafed to the human
mind. Do so, as they dread the realization of
the outline drawn by the master-hand of Jean
Paul Richter—“The new-year’s night of an unhappy
man.” His graphic picture we hold up
to the gaze of the “rising generation.” The
season is appropriate. We are all fond at this
time of retrospection, and are full of resolves for
the future. Perhaps we may strike some chord
now in jarring dissonance, that may yet vibrate
to divinest harmony.

“An old man stood on the new-year’s midnight
at the window, and gazed with a look of long
despair, upward to the immovable, ever-blooming
heaven, and down upon the still, pure, white
earth, on which no one was then so joyless and
sleepless as he. For his grave stood near him;
it was covered over only with the snow of age,
not with the green of youth; and he brought
nothing with him out of the whole rich life, no
thing with him, but errors, sins, and disease, a
wasted body, a desolated soul, the breast full of
poison, an old age full of remorse. The beautiful
days of his youth turned round to-day, as
spectres, and drew him back again to that bright
morning on which his father first placed him at
the cross-road of life, which, on the right hand,
leads by the sun-path of virtue into a wide peaceful
land full of light and of harvests, and full of
angels, and which, on the left hand, descends
[pg 481]
into the mole-ways of vice, into a black cavern,
full of down-dropping poison, full of aiming serpents,
and of gloomy, sultry vapors.

“Ah! the serpents hung about his breast, and
the drops of poison on his tongue. And he
knew now where he was!

“Frantic, and with unspeakable grief, he called
upward to Heaven, ‘Oh! give me back my
youth again! O, father! place me once more
at the cross-path of life, that I may choose otherwise
than I did.’ But his father and his youth
had long since passed away.

“He saw fiery exhalations dancing on the
marshes, and extinguishing themselves in the
church-yard, and he said, ‘These are the days
of my folly!’ He saw a star fly from heaven,
and, in falling, glimmer and dissolve upon the
earth. ‘That am I!’ said his bleeding heart,
and the serpent-teeth of remorse dug therein
further in its wounds.

“His flaming fancy showed him sleepwalkers,
slinking away on the house-tops; and a windmill
raised up its arms threateningly to destroy
him; and a mask that remained behind in the
empty charnel-house assumed by degrees his
own features.

“In the midst of this paroxysm, suddenly the
music for the new year flowed down from the
steeple, like distant church anthems. He became
more gently moved. He looked round on
the horizon and upon the wide world, and thought
on the friends of his youth, who, better and more
happy than he, were now instructors of the earth,
fathers of happy children, and blest men, and he
exclaimed, ‘Oh! I also might have slumbered
like you, this new year’s night with dry eyes,
had I chosen it. Ah, I might have been happy,
beloved parents! had I fulfilled your new year’s
wishes and instructions.’

In feverish recollection of the period of his
youth, it appeared to him as if the mask with
his features raised itself up in the charnel-house—at
length, through the superstition which, on
the new year’s night, beholds spirits and futurity,
it grew to a living youth in the position of the
beautiful boy of the capitol, pulling out a thorn;
and his former blooming figure was bitterly placed
as a phantasma before him.

“He could behold it no longer, he covered his
eyes. A thousand hot, draining tears streamed
into the snow. He now only softly sighed, inconsolably
and unconsciously, ‘Only come again,
youth! come again!’

“And it came again, for he had only dreamed
so fearfully on the new year’s night. He was
still a youth. His errors alone had been no
dream; but he thanked God that, still young, he
could turn round in the foul ways of vice, and
fall back on the sun-path which conducts into
the pure land of harvests.

“Turn with him, youthful reader, if thou
standest on his path of error! This frightful
dream will, in future, become thy judge; but
shouldst thou one day call out, full of anguish,
‘Come again, beautiful youth!’ it would not
come again.”

A Taste Of Austrian Jails.

At the “Fête de Dieu,” in Vienna religious
rites are not confined to the places of worship—the
whole city becomes a church. Altars
rise in every street, and high mass is performed
in the open air, amid clouds of incense and
showers of holy water. The Emperor himself
and his family swell the procession.

I am an English workman; and, having taken
a cheering glass of Kronewetter with the worthy
landlord of my lodgings, I sauntered forth to observe
the day’s proceedings. I crossed the Platz
of St. Ulrick, and thence proceeded to the high
street of Mariahilf—an important suburb of
Vienna. I passed two stately altars on my way,
and duly raised my hat, in obedience to the custom
of the country. A little crowd was collected
round the parish church of Mariahilf; and,
anticipating that a procession would pass, I took
my stand among the rest of the expectant populace.
A few assistant police, in light blue-gray
uniforms with green facings, kept the road.

A bustle about the church-door, and a band of
priests, attendants, and—what pleased me most—a
troop of pretty little girls came, two and two,
down the steps, and into the road. I remember
nothing of the procession but those beautiful and
innocent children, adorned with wreaths and
ribbons for the occasion. I was thinking of the
rosy faces I had left at home, when my reflections
were interrupted by a peremptory voice, exclaiming,
“Take off your hat!” I should have obeyed
with alacrity at any other moment; but there
was something in the manner and tone of the
“Polizerdiener’s” address which touched my
pride, and made me obstinate. I drew back a
little. The order was repeated; the crowd murmured.
I half turned to go; but, the next
moment, my hat was struck off my head by the
police-assistant.

What followed was mere confusion. I struck
the “Polizerdiener;” and, in return, received
several blows on the head from behind with a
heavy stick. In less than ten minutes I was
lodged in the police-office of the district; my hat
broken and my clothes bespattered with the blood
which had dropped, and was still dropping, from
the wounds in my head.

I had full time to reflect upon the obstinate
folly which had produced this result; nor were
my reflections enlivened by the manners of the
police-agents attached to the office. They threatened
me with heavy pains and punishments; and
the Polizerdiener whom I had struck assured me,
while stanching his still-bleeding nose, that I
should have at least “three months for this.”

After several hours’ waiting in the dreary
office, I was abruptly called into the commissioner’s
room. The commissioner was seated at a
table with writing materials before him, and
commenced immediately, in a sharp, offensive
tone, a species of examination. After my name
and country had been demanded, he asked:

“Of what religion are you?”

“I am a Protestant.”

[pg 482]

“So! Leave the room.”

I had made no complaint of my bruises, because
I did not think this the proper place to do
so; although the man who dealt them was
present. He had assisted, stick in hand, in
taking me to the police-office. He was in
earnest conversation with the Polizerdiener, but
soon left the office. From that instant I never
saw him again; nor, in spite of repeated demands,
could I ever obtain redress for, or even
recognition of the violence I had suffered.

Another weary hour, and I was consigned
to the care of a police-soldier; who, armed
with sabre and stick, conducted me through the
crowded city to prison. It was then two o’clock.

The prison, situated in the Spenzler Gasse, is
called the “Polizer-Hampt-Direction.” We descended
a narrow gut, which had no outlet, except
through the prison gates. They were slowly
opened at the summons of my conductor. I was
beckoned into a long gloomy apartment, lighted
from one side only; and having a long counter
running down its centre; chains and handcuffs
hung upon the walls.

An official was standing behind the counter.
He asked me abruptly:

“Whence come you?”

“From England,” I answered.

“Where’s that?”

“In Great Britain; close to France.”

The questioner behind the counter cast an inquiring
look at my escort.

“Is it?” he asked.

The subordinate answered him, in a pleasant
way, that I had spoken the truth. Happily an
Englishman, it seems, is a rarity within those
prison walls.

I was passed into an adjoining room, which reminded
me of the back parlor of a Holywell-street
clothes-shop, only that it was rather lighter. Its
sides consisted entirely of sets of great pigeon-holes,
each occupied by the habiliments or effects
of some prisoner.

“Have you any valuables?”

“Few enough.” My purse, watch, and pin
were rendered up, ticketed, and deposited in one
of the compartments. I was then beckoned into
a long paved passage or corridor down some
twenty stone steps, into the densest gloom.
Presently I discerned before me a massive door
studded with bosses, and crossed with bars and
bolts. A police-soldier, armed with a drawn
sabre, guarded the entrance to Punishment-Room,
No. 1. The bolts gave way; and, in a
few moments, I was a prisoner within.

Punishment Room, No. 1, is a chamber some
fifteen paces long by six broad, with a tolerably
high ceiling and whitened walls. It has but two
windows, and they are placed at each end of one
side of the chamber. They are of good height,
and look out upon an inclosed graveled space,
variegated with a few patches of verdure. The
room is tolerably light. On each side are shelves,
as in barracks, for sleeping. In one corner, by
the window, is a stone sink; in another, a good
supply of water.

Such is the prison; but the prisoners! There
were forty-eight—gray-haired men and puny boys—all
ragged, and stalking with slippered feet from
end to end with listless eyes. Some, all eagerness;
some, crushed and motionless; some,
scared and stupid; now singing, now swearing,
now rushing about playing at some mad game;
now hushed or whispering, as the loud voice of
the Vater (or father of the ward) is heard above
the uproar, calling out “Ruke!” (“Order!”)

On my entrance, I was instantly surrounded
by a dozen of the younger jail-birds, amid a shout
of “Ein Zuwachs! Ein Zuwachs!” which I was
not long in understanding to be the name given
to the last comer. “Was haben sie?” (“What
has he done?”) was the next eager cry. “Struck
a Polizerdiener!” “Ei! das ist gut!” was the
hearty exclamation; and I was a favorite immediately.
One dirty, villainous-looking fellow, with
but one eye, and very little light in that, took to
handling my clothes; then inquired if I had any
money “up above?” Upon my answering in the
affirmative my popularity immediately increased.
They soon made me understand that I could
“draw” upon the pigeon-hole bank to indulge in
any such luxuries as beer or tobacco.

People breakfast early in Vienna; and, as I
had tasted nothing since that meal, I was very
hungry; but I was not to starve; for soon we
heard the groaning of bolts and locks, and the
police-soldier who guarded the door, appeared,
bearing in his hand a red earthen pot, surmounted
by a round flat loaf of bread “for the Englishman.”
I took my portion with thanks, and found
that the pipkin contained a thick porridge made
of lentils, prepared with meal and fat; in the
midst of which was a piece of fresh boiled beef.
The cake was of a darkish color, but good wholesome
bread. Altogether, the meal was not unsavory.
Many a greedy eye watched me as I sat
on the end of the hard couch, eating my dinner.
One wretched man seeing that I did not eat all,
whispered a proposal to barter his dirty neckerchief—which
he took off in my presence—for half
of my loaf. I satisfied his desires, but declined
the recompense. My half-emptied pipkin was
thankfully taken by another man, under the pretense
of “cleaning it!”

One of my fellow-prisoners approached me.

“It is getting late,” said he; “do you know
what you have got to do?”

“No.”

“You are the ‘Zuwachs’ ” (latest accession),
“and it is your business to empty and clean out
the ‘Kiefel!’ ” (the sink, &c.)

“The devil!”

“But I dare say,” he added, carelessly, “if
you pay the Vater a ‘mass-bier,’ ” (something
less than a quart of beer), “he will make some
of the boys do it for you.”

“With all my heart.”

“Have you a rug?”

“No.”

“You must ask the corporal, at seven o’clock;
but I dare say the Vater will find you one—for a
‘mass-bier’—if you ask him.”

[pg 483]

I saw that a mass-bier would do a great deal
in an Austrian prison.

The Vater, who was a prisoner like the rest,
was appealed to. He was a tall, burly-looking
young man, with a frank countenance. He had
quitted his honest calling of butcher, and had
taken to smuggling tobacco into the city. This
was a heavy crime; for the growth, manufacture,
and sale of tobacco, is a strict Imperial
monopoly. Accordingly, his punishment had
been proportionately severe—two years’ imprisonment.
The sentence was now approaching
completion; and, on account of good conduct, he
had received the appointment of Vater to Punishment
Room, No. 1. The benefits were enumerated
to me with open eyes by one of the prisoners—“Double
rations, two rugs, and a mass-bier
a day!”

The result of my application to the Vater was
the instant calling out of several young lads, who
crouched all day in the darkest end of the room—a
condemned corner, abounding in vermin; and
I heard no more of the sink, and so forth. The
next day a new-comer occupied my position.

At about seven o’clock the bolts were again
withdrawn, the ponderous door opened, and the
corporal—who seemed to fill the office of ward-inspector—marched
into the chamber. He was
provided with a small note-book and a pencil, and
made a general inquiry into the wants and complaints
of the prisoners. Several of them asked
for little indulgencies. All these were duly noted
down to be complied with the next day—always
supposing that the prisoner possessed a small
capital “up above.” I stepped forward, and
humbly made my request for a rug.

“You?” exclaimed the corporal, eying me
sharply. “Oh! you are the Englishman?—No!”

I heard some one near me mutter: “So;
struck a policeman! No mercy for him from the
other policemen—any of them.”

The Vater dared not help me; but two of his
most intimate friends made me lie down between
them; and swaddled in their rugs, I passed the
night miserably. The hard boards, and the vermin,
effectually broke my slumbers.

The morning came. The rules of the prison
required that we should all rise at six, roll up the
rugs, lay them at the heads of our beds, and
sweep out the room. Weary and sore, I paced
the prison while these things were done. Even
the morning ablution was comfortless and distressing;
a pocket-handkerchief serving but indifferently
for a towel.

Restless activity now took full possession of
the prisoners. There was not the combined
shouting or singing of the previous day; but
there was independent action, which broke out
in various ways. Hunger had roused them; the
prison allowance is one meal a day; and although,
by husbanding the supply, some few might eke
it out into several repasts, the majority had no
such control over their appetite. Tall, gaunt
lads, just starting into men, went roaming about
with wild eyes, purposeless, pipkin in hand, although
hours must elapse before the meal would
come. Caged beasts pace their narrow prisons
with the same uniform and unvarying motion.

At last eleven o’clock came. The barred door
opened, and swiftly, yet with a terrible restraint—knowing
that the least disorder would cost
them a day’s dinner—the prisoners mounted the
stone steps, and passed slowly, in single file, before
two enormous caldrons. A cook, provided
with a long ladle, stood by the side of each; and,
with a dextrous plunge and a twist, a portion of
porridge and a small block of beef were fished up
and dashed into the pipkin extended by each
prisoner. Another official stood ready with the
flat loaves. In a very short time the whole of
the prisoners were served.

Hunger seasoned the mess; and I was sitting
on the bedstead-end enjoying it, when the police-soldier
appeared on the threshold, calling me
by name.

“You must leave—instantly.”

“I am ready,” I said, starting up.

“Have you a rug?”

“No.”

I hurried out into the dark passage. I was
conducted to the left; another heavy door was
loosened, and I was thrust into a gloomy cell, bewildered,
and almost speechless with alarm. I
was not alone. Some half-dozen melancholy
wretches crouching in one corner, were disturbed
by my entrance, but half an hour had scarcely
elapsed, when the police-soldier again appeared,
and I was hurried out. We proceeded through
the passage by which I had first entered. In my
way past the nest of pigeon-holes “up above,”
some—only a few—of my valuables were restored
to me. Presently a single police-soldier led
me into the open street.

The beautiful air and sunshine! how I enjoyed
them as we passed through the heart of the
city. Bei’m Magistrat, at the corner of the Kohlmarket,
was our destination. We entered its porticoed
door, ascended the stone stairs, and went
into a small office, where the most repulsive-looking
official I have any where seen, noted my
arrival in a book. Thence we passed into another
pigeon-holed chamber, where I delivered up my
little property, as before, “for its security.” A
few minutes more, and I was safely locked in a
small chamber, having one window darkened by
a wooden blind. My companions were a few
boys, a courier—who, to my surprise, addressed
me in English—and a man with blazing red hair.

In this place, I passed four days, occupied by
what I suppose I may designate “my trial.” The
first day was enlivened by a violent attack which
the jailer made upon the red-headed man for
looking out of the window. He seized the fiery
locks, and beat their owner’s head against the
wall. I had to submit that day to a degrading
medical examination.

On the second day I was called to appear before
the “Rath” or council. The process of
examination is curious. It is considered necessary
to the complete elucidation of a case, that
the whole life and parentage of the accused
should be made known; and I was thus exposed
[pg 484]
to a series of questions which I had never anticipated.—The
names and countries of both my
parents; their station; the ages, names, and
birthplaces of my brothers and sisters; my own
babyhood, education, subsequent behavior, and
adventures; my own account, with the minutest
details, of the offense I had committed. It was
more like a private conference than an examination.
The Rath was alone—with the exception
of his secretary, who diligently recorded my answers.
While being thus perseveringly catechised,
the Rath sauntered up and down; putting
his interminable questions in a friendly chatty
way, as though he were taking a friendly interest
in my history, rather than pursuing a judicial investigation.
When the examination was concluded,
the secretary read over every word to
me, and I confirmed the report with my signature.

The Rath promised to do what he could for
me; and I was then surprised and pleased by
the entrance of my employer. The Rath recommended
him to write to the British Embassy in
my behalf, and allowed him to send me outer
clothing better suited to the interior of a prison
than the best clothes I had donned to spend the
holiday in.

I went back to my cell with a lightened heart.
I was, however, a little disconcerted on my return
by the courier, who related an anecdote of
a groom of his acquaintance, who had persisted
in smoking a cigar while passing a sentinel; and
who, in punishment therefor, had been beaten by
a number of soldiers, with willow rods; and
whose yells of pain had been heard far beyond the
prison walls. What an anticipation! Was I to
be similarly served? I thought it rather a suspicious
circumstance that my new friend appeared
to be thoroughly conversant with all the details
(I suspect from personal experience) of the police
and prison system of Vienna. He told me
(but I had no means of testing the correctness of
his information) that there were twenty Ratherrn,
or Councillors; that each had his private chamber,
and was assisted by a confidential secretary;
that every offender underwent a private examination
by the Rath appointed to investigate his
case—the Rath having the power to call all witnesses,
and to examine them, singly, or otherwise,
as he thought proper; that on every Thursday
the “Rathsherrn” met in conclave; that each
Rath brought forward the particular cases which
he had investigated, explained all its bearings,
attested his report by documentary evidence
prepared by his secretary, and pronounced his
opinion as to the amount of punishment to be
inflicted. The question was then decided by a
majority.

On the third day, I was suddenly summoned
before the Rath, and found myself side by side
with my accuser. He was in private clothes.

“Herr Tuci,” exclaimed the Rath, trying to
pronounce my name, but utterly disguising it,
“you have misinformed me. The constable
says he did not knock your hat off—he only
pulled it off.”

I adhered to my statement. The Polizerdiener
nudged my elbow, and whispered, “Don’t
be alarmed—it will not go hard with you.”

“Now, constable,” said the Rath; “what
harm have you suffered in this affair?”

“My uniform is stained with blood.”

“From my head!” I exclaimed.

“From my nose,” interposed the Polizerdiener.

“In any case it will wash out,” said the Rath.

“And you,” he added, turning to me—“are
you willing to indemnify this man for damage
done?”

I assented; and was then removed.

On the following morning I was again summoned
to the Rath’s chamber. His secretary—who
was alone—met me with smiles and congratulations:
he announced to me the sentence—four
days’ imprisonment. I am afraid I did
not evince that degree of pleasure which was
expected from me; but I thanked him; was removed;
and, in another hour, was reconducted
to Punishment Room, No. 1.

The four days of sentence formed the lightest
part of the adventure. My mind was at ease: I
knew the worst. Additions to my old companions
had arrived in the interval. We had an
artist among us, who was allowed, in consideration
of his talents, to retain a sharp cutting implement
fashioned by himself from a flat piece of
steel—knives and books being, as the most dangerous
objects in prison, rigidly abstracted from
us. He manufactured landscapes in straw, gummed
upon pieces of blackened wood. Straw was
obtained, in a natural state, of green, yellow, and
brown; and these, when required, were converted
into differently-tinted reds, by a few hours
immersion in the Kiefel. He also kneaded bread
in the hand, until it became as hard and as
plastic as clay. This he modeled into snuff
boxes (with strips of rag for hinges, and a piece
of whalebone for a spring), draughts, chess-men,
pipe-bowls, and other articles. When dry, they
became hard and serviceable; and he sold them
among the prisoners and the prison officials. He
obtained thus a number of comforts not afforded
by the prison regulations.

On Sunday, I attended the Catholic chapel
attached to the prison—a damp, unwholesome
cell. I stood among a knot of prisoners, enveloped
in a nauseous vapor; whence arose
musty, mouldy, rotten effluvia which gradually
overpowered my senses. I felt them leaving me,
and tottered toward the door. I was promptly
met by a man who seemed provided for emergencies
of the kind; for, he held a vessel of cold
water; poured some of it into my hands, and directed
me to bathe my temples. I partly recovered;
and, faint and dispirited, staggered
back to the prison. I had not, however, lain
long upon my bed (polished and slippery from
constant use), when the prison guard came to
my side, holding in his hand a smoking basin of
egg soup “for the Englishman.” It was sent
by the mistress of the kitchen. I received the
offering of a kind heart to a foreigner in trouble,
with a blessing on the donor.

[pg 485]

On the following Tuesday, after an imprisonment
of, in all, nine days, during which I had
never slept without my clothes, I was discharged
from the prison. In remembrance of the place,
I brought away with me a straw landscape and a
bread snuff-box, the works of the prison artist.

On reaching my lodging I looked into my box.
It was empty.

“Where are my books and papers?” I asked
my landlord.

The police had taken them on the day after
my arrest.

“And my bank-notes?”

“Here they are!” exclaimed my landlord,
triumphantly. “I expected the police; I knew
you had money somewhere, so I took the liberty
of searching until I found it. The police made
particular inquiries about your cash, and went
away disappointed, taking the other things with
them.”

“Would they have appropriated it?”

“Hem! Very likely—under pretense of paying
your expenses.”

On application to the police of the district, I
received the whole of my effects back. One of
my books was detained for about a week; a
member of the police having taken it home to
read, and being as I apprehend, a slow reader.

It was a matter of great astonishment, both
to my friends and to the police, that I escaped
with so slight a punishment.

Who Knew Best?

On the outskirts of the little town of Bernau,
with a garden between it and the road, stands
the house of Master Baptist Heinzelmann, a respectable
citizen and cabinet-maker, or Tischlermeister,
as the Germans call it, so surrounded
and overshadowed by tall trees and shrubs, that
it reminds you of true contentment, which is always
quiet and retiring where it reigns in the
heart. Nimble vine-branches climb up the walls
and over the roof, so thick and shady, that birds
build their nests among them, and rest every
night under the sheltering leaves. Besides this
there is no other garnishment or decoration to be
seen about the dwelling, although Master Heinzelmann
is in very comfortable circumstances.
As it had come down from his father and grandfather,
so stood the house at the time of our tale;
one story, compact and solid. From the garden
you entered the spacious outer room, the ordinary
play-place of the children, and from that into
the living-room, and from that into the large
workshop, where Master Heinzelmann kept his
ten or a dozen journeymen at work from one
year’s end to another, without reckoning the apprentices.
His business flourished greatly, for the
townsfolk preferred to go to him whenever they
had orders to give or purchases to make. His
workmanship was tasteful and durable, and what
was more than all, he overcharged no one, which
pleased people, and on that account they did not
mind the walk to his house, although it was, as
before said, a little off the road, and out of the
way.

What the house wanted in grandeur and ornament,
was made up by the contentment and the
gentle and full-hearted happiness which had taken
up their abode within it. Free from cares of
whatever sort, Master Heinzelmann passed his
days in the circle of his family. Providence had
bestowed on him a good-looking, intelligent wife
and three healthy and lively children, on whom
his whole affections hung, and when they assembled
each evening, after the labors of the day,
none looked comelier and happier than they.
At seven o’clock, Master Heinzelmann left off
work, and dismissed his men; the noise of saws,
hammers, and planes ceased, and a peaceful
stillness reigned in the house; and he, having
put on his comfortable in-doors jacket, filled a
pipe, and looked about for his family. In summer,
he found them nearly always in the garden,
or in the outer room, near the open door, from
whence there was a pleasant view over the sweet-scented
flower-beds. His wife welcomed his
coming with a friendly nod and a cheerful smile,
and the children ran to meet him, clung to his
hands, and strove to climb up for a kiss. Such was
Baptist Heinzelmann’s daily pleasure, abounding
in all that makes life happy. After lifting
up and embracing his children, he would sit and
listen to their lively prattle, or watch their simple
sports, in which he himself often took a part,
while their mother made ready the evening meal.
When this was over, they went and sat in the pretty
summer-house, and talked about the little occurrences
of the day. There was always something
to relate, concerning the children, or the housekeeping,
or the garden, or of other matters, nor
was there any lack of simple gossip, which, however
insignificant it might seem, yet had a meaning
and an interest for a family bound together
by the strongest ties of love. Father, mother,
children, enjoyed the quiet gladness of a household
into which the noise of the great world without
seldom penetrated. And in what else does
happiness consist, than in gladness and contentment?
He who possesses them needs to ask
for nothing further. Had Master Heinzelmann
always remembered that, he would have saved
himself from much toil and vexation.

One fine summer evening the Tischlermeister
left his workshop as usual, put on his lounging-jacket,
lit his pipe, and turned his steps toward
the front room, from whence came the noise of
merry laughter and shouts of fun. Softly he approached
behind the open door which concealed
him from his wife and children, leant himself at
his ease on the lower half, and looked smilingly
down on the frolics of his little ones. The
mother, with the youngest girl on her lap, sat on
the doorstep, while Fritz and Hans crawled about
the floor. They were playing a hundred tricks
with the kitten, which had come into the world
only a few weeks before. Fritz had got a piece
of colored cloth for a plaything, and flung it
across the room, but with a thread cunningly
fastened to it, so that he might pull it back again.
The kitten, according to the manner of young
cats, leaped and seized the lure with comical antics,
[pg 486]
but just as she fancied it was fast between
her paws, came a sudden pull, and away flew
the prize, while she looked after it with ludicrous
astonishment. Then rose bursts of merriment
and shouts of delight, and the mother, glad in
her children’s pleasure, laughed with them, and
took care that the old cat should not disturb their
sport by any sudden outbreak of ill-temper.

Master Heinzelmann looked on for a little
while, and amused himself, without being seen,
with his children’s diversions. All at once, however,
he made a grave face, and said, “Enough,
little ones; let the kitten go, and come to supper.
Come, dear wife, it is all ready.”

As soon as the children heard their father’s
voice, they thought no more about the kitten,
but sprang up and ran toward him with merry
faces. But he did not hug and kiss them as he
was accustomed to do; he gave them only a short
salute, and the same to his wife, who came toward
him with her hand held out, and the youngest
child on her arm.

“Baptist,” she said, “dear husband, we have
had rare fun this afternoon; you should see how
cleverly Fritz can spring about with the kitten!
But what is the matter? You look angry. Has
any thing happened to vex you?”

“Not exactly vexatious,” replied Heinzelmann,
“and yet as I saw you sitting there so pleasantly,
I was a little fretted to think that I had promised
Master Vollbracht to go into town this
evening. I would much rather stay at home with
you.”

“Go to town, Baptist, to-day?” asked Frau
Margaret in astonishment. “And what have
you to do there?”

“Oh, it is about some town affairs,” answered
Baptist; “I don’t myself know rightly what they
are; when Master Vollbracht told me, I did not
altogether understand, but, at all events, I promised
to go for a short hour, so as to be quit of
him. You know well, Margaret, that to speak
truly, the locksmith is no special friend of mine—he
is too fond of the public-house. Still a
promise is a promise, and I must keep my word;
so let us have supper quickly, for the sooner
there, the sooner shall I be back again.”

Frau Margaret said nothing, although it could
be seen in her face, that her husband’s going out
in the evening was not at all agreeable to her.
She went and got the supper ready, Master Heinzelmann
ate a few mouthfuls hastily, and then
rose up and put on his coat.

“Good-by, Margaret,” he said, “good-night,
children! I expect to be at home again soon,
wife.”

“Go, then,” she answered with a cheerful
look, “and I will wait for you; but do not stay
too long.”

Baptist promised, and went. Frau Margaret
felt uneasy as she looked after him. It was the
first evening since their marriage that she had
been left alone in the house. When she heard
the garden gate shut behind her husband, she became
fearful, and pressed her hand over her eyes,
out of which a few tears had forced their way.
Presently, however, she said to herself—“Timid
heart! what matters it if you are left alone for
once? It will not happen often, for he loves
me; yes, and the children too. How can I be
so silly!”

So she thought, and then put on a cheerful
face, and played and talked to the children, as
though nothing had happened. But that pure
gladness, which leaps from the care-free heart
as a clear spring, was wanting. She sent the
youngsters to bed earlier than usual, and placed
herself at the window, and looked silently forth
into the garden, which the moon, with its pale
light, seemed to have covered with a vail of silver.
Thus she waited for her husband’s return.
At ten o’clock she hoped he would come; by-and-by
eleven struck, he was still absent; an
other anxious half-hour passed—at last he came.
She heard his footsteps still far off, heard the
garden-gate creak, and flew to meet him.

“So late! you bad man,” she cried merrily,
but with a slight reproach in the tone of her voice.

“I could not do otherwise, dear wife,” replied
Baptist, who was visibly a little excited “You
should only have been there! They paid me
great honor, and when I was coming away at
ten o’clock, they all cried out for me to stay, that
my opinion had great weight with them, and so,
really I could not leave. But you should have
gone to bed, Margaret.”

“No; I was not at all tired,” answered the
wife. “But, now, make haste in; you are heated,
and the cool night air may do you harm.”

Lovingly she drew him into the house, and
listened patiently to all that he had to tell about
the matters that had been talked over in the
town, and how he had settled and determined
nearly every question, because of his consequence
and station.

“There’s only one thing vexes me,” he said
lastly, “I was obliged to promise to go again.
Two evenings in the week are fixed on for the
meetings, and as every body was in favor, I
could not well say no. However, it is but two
evenings; the whole history won’t last longer.”

If Frau Margaret was alarmed at the beginning
of the evening, she was now doubly fearful
Her quiet in-door happiness seemed to be all at
once threatened by some great danger. She
trembled to think that her husband could find
pleasure away from home—away from his children,
and she had the sense to foresee the consequences.
But she remained silent, for she
was too bewildered to find words to express her
apprehensions, and then, she knew that when
her husband had once made a promise, nothing
would lead him to break it. This made her sorrow
the greater, and for the first time since her
marriage, her pillow was wet with tears. She,
however, concealed her sadness from her husband;
she hoped that the good old habits would
rule again, and make him dislike passing his evenings
away from home.

Although Frau Margaret was prudent and sensible,
she deceived herself in this matter. Truly
enough, Baptist at first went out for the evening
[pg 487]
unwillingly, and not without a struggle, but gradually
this resistance disappeared, and at last he
longed for the hour which led him among his
companions. He was a man of clear judgment,
knew how to deliver his words neatly, and his
comfortable circumstances gave him a certain
importance, so that, quite naturally, in course of
time he gave the tone to the company, and his
sayings were received as oracles. That flattered
his vanity, which therein got full satisfaction,
and before long, he wondered in secret how he
could have lived so many years in the background,
and had so little to do with the world. The political
and religious questions of the day, about
which he had never before troubled himself, began
to excite his eager attention. He read newspapers,
journals, pamphlets, and became a great
politician—at least in the eyes of himself and his
companions. The magic circle of his calm and
peaceful happiness was broken. Baptist himself
had done it, but without a foreboding of what he
had destroyed. He fancied himself happier than
ever, and could not see that all his household
joys were blighted.

But Margaret saw and felt it. She mourned
in secret; the evenings when she sat at home
alone were sad and sorrowful for her, and at last,
as Baptist left off observing any rule in his outgoing,
but longed more and more to be away
from home, she plucked up a heart, and begged
of him to leave her no more.

“But why not!” rejoined Heinzelmann; “we
do nothing wrong. We debate about matters for
the good of the town and of the state. There
must be great changes, Margaret, before things
can be better with us. But, presto, it will come.”

“Oh, Baptist, what concern have you with the
town and the state?” answered Frau Margaret.
“Look at your family, that is your town and
state. When you are with it, and fulfill your
duty rightfully, then are you one of the best of
citizens. Consider well: the skin is nearer than
the fleece.”

“Yes, wife, but what do you mean by that?”
said Baptist, a little angrily. “Perhaps I am not
fulfilling my duty?”

“No longer the same as formerly, dear husband.
Don’t take it ill, Baptist, but my heart
and conscience compel me—I must tell you.
You neglect your business a little. Yesterday,
you know, the town-clerk wanted his coffer; but
you—you went out at five, and the coffer was not
finished.”

“Eh, what!” cried Baptist, snappishly. “I
had business in town—we were to lay a memorial
before the magistrates about the pavement,
and that could not be done without me; and the
town-clerk can have his coffer to-day.”

“No, dear husband,” replied the wife, “he
sent a little while ago to say that he had got one;
and now, you see, the coffer must be kept on hand
unsold.”

“The town-clerk is an old fool,” continued
Baptist, fretfully. “These aristocrats!—they always
want to ride on the necks of us honest traders.
But patience! Our turn will come someday.”

“But, dearest husband,” said Margaret, soothingly,
“the town-clerk has always been very
agreeable and friendly with you, and it is certainly
not his fault, that the coffer was not ready
at the right time. Many go out for wool and
come home shorn. Had you thought more of the
skin than of the fleece, you would have saved
yourself all this trouble. You understand: your
business—that’s the skin; the street paving—that’s
the fleece.”

“Yes, I understand well enough what you
mean,” rejoined the Tischlermeister, “but I understand
it quite otherwise! You, however, do
not understand me: men were meant for general
affairs, for great matters. Their mind stretches
far beyond the narrow circle of housewifery.
Only let me alone, and don’t mix yourself up in
things which don’t concern you, and which you
don’t understand.”

Frau Margaret saw plainly that her remonstrance
made no impression, and she remained
silent. But her sad and downcast looks spoke
more loudly to the heart of her husband than her
words. Heinzelmann found that her view was
not far wrong, after all, and made an attempt to
withdraw from his companions, and again live a
domestic life. But his attempt failed. Vanity,
and the desire to appear somebody, led him back
again to his crooked ways, and soon they became
worse.

The insurrection at Paris broke out—the Republic
was proclaimed—and the news of these
events fell on the minds of the German people
like a spark in a barrel of gunpowder. Blow followed
blow, feelings grew hot, and almost every
town had its own revolution. That was something
for Master Baptist Heinzelmann. He was
called to the head of the Democratic party, and
made the leader of a revolutionary club, and
spouted speeches full of fire and flame; the mob
cried hurrah! held up their hands for him—he
became drunk with triumph—was chosen town-councilor—a
great man, as he thought, and leader
of the people. He was near being elected Deputy
to the Diet, and sent as representative to the
Parliament at Berlin. Master Baptist swam in
pleasures—Frau Margaret swam in tears. Her
husband triumphed—she sat at home and wept.
Her husband walked proudly about, and looked
radiant with joy—she was full of mournfulness,
and the feeling of happiness seemed to have disappeared
from her heart forever.

Master Heinzelmann appeared to be totally
changed. He troubled himself no longer about
his business, but left every thing to his work
men. Every morning early, he left home to fulfill
his new vocation as leader of the people, and
to labor for their happiness. He saw not that
his own happiness was going to ruin in the meantime.
He used to return home late, worn-out,
weary, and hoarse with much speechifying and
shouting, and ill-tempered into the bargain.
Scarcely had he exchanged a few sulky words
with his poor wife, than he betook himself to
bed. He rarely saw his children: the pleasant
evenings in the front-room had all vanished as a
[pg 488]
dream, and could not be recalled. Instead of
merry laughter, and joyful cries, and glad shoutings,
there was nothing to be heard but the low,
sad sobs of Frau Margaret. Peace and contentment
seemed to have fled from the house, as well
as from the hearts of all its inmates. Yes—all!
for to confess the truth, Master Baptist Heinzelmann
found, little by little, that although his new
life in the busy current of politics brought plenty
of excitement, it by no means brought contentment;
and instead of making him happy, it laid
upon him rather a burden of cares, vexations,
hardships, and losses of many kinds. At first it
went well enough—but how went it afterward?
His party, which in truth was not a small one,
listened to him right willingly when he held forth
and displayed his political knowledge, but they
also had no objection to a cool drink now and
then between the fiery speeches. So Master
Baptist, from time to time, in order to keep up
his popularity, was obliged to let a cask of ale go
the rounds, and that was not quite so pleasant to
him as to be listened to with attention, and to
hear the hurrahs when he said something a little
more violent than usual. Besides, there were
other leaders of the people as well as he, who
stood in high favor with the mob, but who had
very little money, while Master Heinzelmann
was well-to-do, and could afford to offer a sacrifice
on the altar of his country, and—he offered
it. Only, somehow or other, the sacrifice was
wanted so often, and that was not much to the
liking of the Tischlermeister. In the end—and
that worried him the most—his journeymen became
refractory all of a sudden. They wished
also to have property of their own, and demanded
higher wages. Baptist Heinzelmann liked
revolutions very well, but not against himself,
and so he told all his hands to go to Jericho, and
for a time his business went to sleep. From this
it happened that orders did not come in quite so
numerously as before, which puzzled Baptist not
a little. He began to turn it over in his mind,
and all at once he bethought himself of what his
good-hearted wife had said to him one day: “Remember!
the skin is nearer than the fleece.”
Never had the truth of this proverb come before
him so strikingly and forcibly, as now that his
delusions were losing their strength. A singular
and irresistible longing to return once more to
his former tranquil and retired, and yet happy
life, overcame him. What was the selfish love of
the mob, against the pure and true love of wife
and children? a painted bubble in comparison
with a bright and costly jewel. Baptist Heinzelmann
plucked up a heart; toward evening he
left the council-house and went home. No one
was in the garden; it lay there in deep stillness.
He stole down a by-path to his workshop, where
now but three hands were employed out of the
dozen that formerly worked therein, and threw
off his Sunday clothes, put on his dear old comfortable
jacket, his cap on his head, reached down
the clay pipe which had had such a long rest, lit
it, and then went softly through the inner to the
outer room. Wife and children sat, as often before,
on the threshold, not lively as they used to
be, but particularly quiet and downcast—even
merry Fritz had scarcely a word to say for himself.
The sun was dropping down to his setting,
and cast golden streams of light through
the thick foliage of the vine which enwreathed
the door and window, down upon the clean
boards of the floor. Sweet odors were borne in
on the air from the garden, the birds chirped and
twittered their last evening notes, and peace and
tranquillity reigned around, except in the hearts
which once knew nothing else than joy and contentment.