University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

Let the traveller stand with us, on the tower of this
rugged eminence, and look down upon the scene below
him. Around us, the hills gather in groups on every side,
a family cluster, each of which wears the same general
likeness to that on which we stand, yet there is no monotony
in their aspect. The axe has not yet deprived them
of a single tree, and they rise up, covered with the honoured
growth of a thousand summers. But they seem not half so
venerable. They wear, in this invigorating season, all the
green, fresh features of youth and spring. The leaves cover
the rugged limbs which sustain them, with so much ease
and grace, as if for the first time, they are so green and
glossy; and as if the impression should be made more certain
and complete, the gusty wing of March has scattered
abroad and borne afar, all the yellow garments of the vanished
winter. The wild flowers begin to flaunt their blue
and crimson draperies about us, as if conscious that they
are borne upon the bosom of undecaying beauty; and the
spot so marked and hallowed by each charming variety of
bud and blossom, would seem to have been a selected dwelling
for the queenly Spring herself.

Man, mindful of those tastes and sensibilities which in
great part constitute his claim to superiority over the brute,
has not been indifferent to the beauties of the place. In the
winding hollows of these hills, beginning at our feet, you
see the first signs of as lovely a little hamlet as ever promised
peace to the weary and the discontent. This is the
village of Charlemont.

A dozen snug and smiling cottages seem to have been
dropped in this natural cup, as if by a spell of magic.
They appear, each of them, to fill a fitted place—not
equally distant from, but equally near each other. Though
distinguished each, by an individual feature, there is yet no
great dissimilarity among them. All are small, none of
them out of joint or wanting in proportion. They are now
quite as flourishing as when first built, and their number
has had no increase, since the village was first settled.
Speculation has not made it populous and prosperous, by
destroying its repose, stifling its charities, and abridging the

sedate habits and comforts of its people. The houses,
though constructed after the fashion of the country, of heavy
and ill-squared logs, roughly hewn, and hastily thrown
together, perhaps by unpractised hands, are yet made
cheerful by that tidy industry, which is always sure to
make them comfortable also. Trim hedges that run beside
slender white pailings, surround and separate them from
each other. Sometimes as you see, festoons of graceful
flowers, and waving blossoms, distinguish one dwelling
from the rest, displaying its possession of some fair tenant,
whose hand and fancy, have kept equal progress with habitual
industry;—at the same time, some of them appear
entirely without the little garden of flowers and vegetables,
which glimmers and glitters in the rear.

Such was Charlemont, at the date of our narrative. But
the traveller would vainly look, now, to find the place as
we describe it. The garden is no longer green with fruits
and flowers—the festoons no longer grace the lowly portals—the
white pailings are down and blackened in the
gloomy mould—the roofs have fallen, and silence dwells
lonely among the ruins,—the only inhabitant of the place.
It has no longer a human occupant.

Why this fate has fallen upon so sweet an abiding place,—
why the villagers should have deserted a spot, so quiet and so
beautiful—it does not fall within our present purpose to
inquire. It was most probably abandoned—not because of
the unfruitfulness of the soil, or the unhealthiness of the
climate,—for but few places on the bosom of the earth, may
be found either more fertile, more beautiful, or more sanative—but
in compliance with that feverish restlessness of
mood—that sleepless discontent of temper, which, perhaps,
more than any other quality, is the moral failing in the
character of the Anglo-American. The roving desires of
his ancestor, which brought him across the waters, have
been transmitted without diminution—nay, with large increase—to
the son. The creatures of a new condition of
things, and new necessities, our people will follow out
their destiny. The restless energies which distinguish
them, are, perhaps, the contemplated characteristics which
Providence has assigned them, in order that they may the
more effectually and soon, bring into the use and occupation
of a yet mightier people, the wilderness of that new world
in which their fortunes have been cast. Generation is but
the pioneer of generation, and the children of millions,
more gigantic and powerful than ourselves, shall yet smile
to behold, how feeble was the stroke made by our axe upon
the towering trees of their inheritance.

It was probably because of this characteristic of our people,
that Charlemont came in time to be deserted. The
inhabitants were one day surprised with tidings of more
attractive regions in yet deeper forests, and grew dissatisfied
with their beautiful and secluded valley. Such is the ready
access to the American mind, in its excitable state, of
novelty and sudden impulse, that there needs but few suggestions
to persuade the forester to draw stakes, and
remove his tents, where the signs seem to be more numerous
of sweeter waters and more prolific fields. For a
time, change has the power which nature does not often
exercise; and under its freshness, the waters do seem
sweeter, and the stores of the wilderness, the wild-honey
and the locust, do seem more abundant to the lip and eye.
Where our cottagers went, and under what delusion, is
utterly unknown to us; nor is it important to our narrative
that we should inquire. Our knowledge of them is only
desirable, while they were in the flourishing condition in
which they have been seen. It is our trust that the novelty
which seduced them from their homes, did not fail
them in its promises—that they may never have found, in
all their wanderings, a less lovely abiding place, than that
which they abandoned. But change has its bitter, as well
as its sweet, and the fear is strong that the cottagers of
Charlemont, in the weary hours, when life's winter is approaching,
will still and vainly sigh after the once despised
enjoyments of their deserted hamlet.

It was towards the close of one of those bright, tearful
days in April, of which we have briefly spoken, when a
couple of travellers on horseback, ascended the last hill
looking down upon Charlemont. One of these travellers
had passed the middle period of life;—the other was, perhaps,
just about to enter upon its higher responsibilities,
and more active duties. The first wore the countenance of
one who had borne many sorrows, and borne them with
that resignation, which, while it proves the wisdom of the

sufferer, is at the same time, calculated to increase his
benevolence. The expression of his eye, was full of kindness
and benignity, while that of his mouth, with equal
force, was indicative of a melancholy, as constant as it was
gentle and unobtrusive. A feeble smile played over his
lips while he spoke, that increased the sadness which it
softened; as the faint glimmer of the evening sunlight, upon
the yellow leaves of autumn, heightens the solemn tones in
the rich colouring of the still decaying forest.

The face of his companion, in many of its features, was
in direct contrast with his own. It was well formed, and
to the casual glance, seemed no less handsome than intellectual.
There was much in it to win the regard of the
young and superficial. An eye that sparkled with fire, a
mouth that glowed with animation—cheeks warmly
coloured, and a contour full of vivacity, seemed to
denote properties of mind and heart equally valuable and
attractive. Still, a keen observer would have found something
sinister, in the upward glancing of the eye, at intervals,
from the half-closed lids; and, at such moments, there
was a curling contempt upon the lips, which seemed to
denote a cynical and sarcastic turn of mind. A restless
movement of the same features seemed equally significant
of caprice of character, and a flexibility of moral; while
the chin narrowed too suddenly and became too sharp at
the extremity, to persuade a thorough physiognomist, that
the owner could be either very noble in his aims, or very
generous in his sentiments. But as these outward tokens
cannot well be considered authority in the work of judgment,
let events, which speak for themselves, determine
the true character of our travellers.

They had reached the table land of the heights which
looked down upon Charlemont, at a moment when the
beauty of the scene could scarcely fail to impress itself
upon the most indifferent observer. The elder of the travellers,
who happened to be in the advance, was immediately
arrested by it; and, staying the progress of his horse,
with hand lifted above his eye, looked around him with
a delight which expressed itself in an abrupt ejaculation,
which brought his companion to his side. The sun had
just reached that point in his descent, which enabled him
to level a shaft of rosy light from the pinnacle of the opposite
hill, into the valley below, where it rested among the

roofs of two of the cottages, which arose directly in its
path. The occupants of these two cottages had come forth,
as it were, in answer to the summons; and old and young,
to the number of ten or a dozen persons, had met, in the
winding pathway between, which led through the valley,
and in front of every cottage which it contained. The
elder of the cottagers, sat upon the huge trunk of a tree,
which had been felled beside the road, for the greater convenience
of the traveller; and with eyes turned in the
direction of the hill on which the sunlight had sunk and
appeared to slumber, seemed to enjoy the vision with no
less pleasure than our senior traveller. Two tall damsels
of sixteen, accompanied by a young man something older,
were strolling off in the direction of the woods; while five
or six chubby girls and boys were making the echoes leap
and dance along the hills, in the clamorous delight which
they felt at their innocent but stirring exercises. The
whole scene was warmed with the equal brightness of the
natural and the human sun. Beauty was in the sky, and
its resemblance, at least, was on the earth. God was in
the heavens, and in his presence could there be other than
peace and harmony among men!

“How beautiful!” exclaimed the elder of our travellers—
“could any thing be more so! How pure, how peaceful!
See, Warham, how soft, how spirit-like, that light lies
along the hill-side, and how distinct, yet how delicate, is
the train which glides from it down the valley, even to the
white dwellings at its bottom, from which it seems to
shrink, and trembles as if half conscious of intrusion. And
yet the picture below is of close kindred with it. That,
now, is a scene that I delight in,—it is a constant picture
in my mind. There is peace in that valley, if there be
peace any where on earth. The old men sit before the
door, and contemplate with mingled feelings of pride and
pleasure, the vigorous growth of their children. They
behold in them their own immortality, even upon earth.
The young will preserve their memories, and transmit their
names to other children yet unborn; and how must such
a reflection reconcile them to their own time of departure,
not unfitly shown in the last smiles of that sunlight, which
they are so soon about to lose. Like him, they look with
benevolence and love, upon the world from which they
will soon depart.”

“Take my word for it, uncle, they will postpone their
departure to the last possible moment, and, so far from
looking with smiles, upon what they are about to leave for
ever, they will leave it with very great reluctance, and in
monstrous bad humour. As for regarding their children
with any such notions as those you dwell upon with such
poetical raptures, they will infinitely prefer transmitting for
themselves their names and qualities to the very end of the
chapter. Ask any one of them the question now, and he
will tell you that an immortality, each, in his own wigwam,
and with his weight of years and infirmity upon him,
would satisfy all their expectations. If they look at the
vigour of their young, it is to recollect that they themselves
once were so, and to repine at the recollection. Take my
word for it, there is not a dad among them, that does not
envy his own son the excellence of his limbs, and the long
time of exercise and enjoyments which they seemingly
assure him.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed the senior. “Impossible! I
should be sorry to think as you do. But you, Warham,
cannot understand these things. You are an habitual unbeliever—the
most unfortunate of all mankind.”

“The most fortunate, rather. I have but few burdens of
credulity to carry. The stars be blessed, my articles of
faith are neither very many nor very cumbrous. I should
be sorry if my clients were so few.”

“I should be sorry, Warham, if I had so little feeling
as yourself.”

“And I should be still more sorry, uncle, if I had half
so much. Why, sir, yours is in such excess, that you
continually mistake the joys and sorrows of other people
for your own. You laugh and weep with them alternately;
and, until all's done and over, you never seem to discover
that the business was none of yours;—that you had none
of the pleasure which made you laugh, and might have been
spared all the unnecessary suffering which moved your
tears. 'Pon my soul, sir, you pass a most unprofitable
life.”

“You mistake, Warham, I have shared both; and my
profits have been equally great from both sources. My
susceptibility has been an exceeding great gain to me, and
has quickened all my senses. There is a joy of grief, you
know, according to Ossian.”

“Nay, if you quote Ossian, uncle, I give you up. I
don't believe in Ossian, and his raving stuff always sickens
me.”

“I sometimes think, Warham,” said the uncle good
naturedly, “that Providence has denied you some of the
more human faculties. Nay, I fear that you are partially
deficient in some of the senses. Do you see that sunlight
to which I point—there, on the hill-side, a sort of rosy haze,
which seems to me eminently beautiful?”

“Yes, sir, and, if you will suffer me, I will get out of its
reach as quickly as possible. I have been half blinded
by it, ever since you found it so beautiful. Sunlight is,
I think, of very little importance to professional men, unless
as a substitute for candles, and then it should come over the
left shoulder, if you would not have it endanger the sight.
Nay, I will go farther, and confess that it is better than
candlelight, and certainly far less expensive. Shall we go
forward, sir?”

“Warham,” said the senior, with increasing gravity,
“I should be sorry to believe that a habit of speech so
irreverential, springs from any thing but an ambition for
saying smart things, and strange things; which are not
always smart. It would give me great pain, to think that
you were devoid of any of those sensibilities which soften
the hearts of other men, and lead them to generous impulses.”

“Nay, be not harsh, uncle. You should know me better.
I trust my sensibilities and senses too, may be sufficient
for all proper purposes, when the proper time comes for
their employment; but I can't flame up at every sunbeam,
and grow enthusiastic in the contemplation of Bill Johnson's
cottage, and Richard Higgins's hedgerow. A turnip-patch
never yet could waken my enthusiasm, and I do
believe, sir,—I confess it with some shame and a slight
misgiving, lest my admissions should give you pain,—that
my fancy has never been half so greatly enkindled by Carthula,
of the bending spear, or Morven of the winds, as by
the sedate and homely aspect of an ordinary dish of eggs
and bacon, hot from the flaming frying-pan, of `some
worthy housewife.' ”

The uncle simply looked upon the speaker, but without
answering. He was probably quite too much accustomed
to his modes of thought and speech, to be so much

surprised as annoyed by what he said. Perhaps, too, his
own benevolence of spirit, interfered to save the nephew
from that harsher rebuke which his judgment might yet
have very well disposed him to bestow. Following the
steps of the latter in silence, he descended into the valley,
and soon made his way among the sweet little cottages at
its foot. An interchange of courtesies between the travellers
and the villagers whose presence had given occasion
to some portion of the previous dialogue, in which the manner
of the younger traveller was civil, and that of the elder
kind; and the two continued on their journey, though not
without being compelled to refuse sundry invitations, given
with true patriarchal hospitality, to remain among the
quiet abodes through which they passed. As cottage after
cottage unfolded itself to their eyes, along the winding
avenue, the proprietors appeared at door and window, and
with the simple freedoms of rural life, welcomed the strangers
with a smile, a nod, and sometimes when sufficiently
nigh, a friendly word of salutation; but without having the
effect of arresting their onward progress. Yet many a
backward glance was sent by the elder of the travellers,
whose eyes, beaming with satisfaction, sufficiently declared
the delight which he received from the contemplation of so
many of the mingled graces of physical and moral nature.
His loitering steps drew from his young companion an
occasional remark, which, to ears less benevolent and unsuspecting
than those of the senior, might have been
deemed a sarcasm, and his lips more than once curled with
contemptuous smiles, as he watched the yearning glances
of his uncle on each side of the avenue as they wended
slowly through it. At the end of the village, and at the
foot of the opposite hills, they encountered a group of
young people of both sexes, whose bursts of merriment
were suddenly restrained as they emerged unexpectedly
into sight. The girls had been sitting upon the grassy
mead, with the young men before them; but they started to
their feet at the sound of strange steps, and the look of
strange faces. Charlemont, it must be remembered, was
not in the thoroughfare of common travel. If visited at all
by strangers, it was most usually visited by those only,
who came with that single purpose, and who accordingly
remained for some time in it. Nothing, therefore, could
have been more calculated to surprise a community so insulated,
than that they should attract, but not arrest, the
traveller. The natural surprise which the young people
felt, when unexpectedly encountered in their rustic sports,
was naturally increased by this unusual circumstance; and
they looked after the departing forms of the wayfarers, with
a wonder and curiosity that kept them for some time
silent. The elder of the two, meanwhile,—one of whose
habits of mind was always to give instantaneous utterance
to the feeling which was uppermost, dilated, without heeding
the sneers of his nephew, upon the apparent happiness
which they witnessed.

“Here, you see, Warham, is a pleasure which the great
city never knows:—the free intercourse of the sexes, in
all those natural exercises which give health to the body,
grace to the movement, and vivacity to the manners.”

“The health will do well enough,” replied the sceptic,
“but save me from the grace of Hob and Hinney; and as
for their manners,—did I hear you correctly, uncle, when
you spoke of their manners?”

“Surely, you did. I have always regarded the natural
manners which belong to the life of the forester, as being
infinitely more noble, as well as more graceful, than those
of the citizen. Where did you ever see a tradesmen, whose
bearing was not mean compared with that of the hunter?”

“Ay, but these are no hunters, and scarcely foresters. I
see not a single Nimrod among the lads; and as for the
lasses, even your eyes, indulgent as they usually are, will
scarcely venture to insist that I shall behold one nymph
among them worthy to tie the shoe-latchets of Diana. The
manners of the hunter are those of an elastic savage; but
these lads shear sheep, raise hogs for the slaughter-pen,
and seldom perform a nobler feat than felling a bullock.
They have none of the elasticity, which, coupled with
strength, makes the grace of the man; and they walk as if
perpetually in the faith that their corn-rows and potatoe-hills
were between their legs.”

“Did you note the young woman in the crimson body,
Warham? Was she not majestically made?”

“It struck me she would weigh against any two of the
company.”

“She is rather heavy, I grant you, but her carriage,
Warham?”

“Would carry weight—nothing more.”

“There was one little girl, just rising into womanhood;
—you must admit that she had a very lovely face, and her
form—”

“My dear uncle, what is it that you will not desire me
to believe? You are sadly given to proselytism, and take
infinite pains to compel me to see with eyes that never do
their owner so much wrong, as when they reject the aid of
spectacles. How much would Charlemont and its inhabitants
differ to your sight, were you only to take your green
spectacles from the shagreen cases in which they do no
duty. But if you are resolved, in order to seem youthful, to
let your age go unprovided with the means of seeing as
youth would see, at least suffer me to enjoy the natural privileges
of twenty-five. When, like you, my hairs whiten,
and my eyes grow feeble, ten to one, I shall think with you
that every third woodman is an Apollo, and every other
peasant girl is a Venus, whom—”

The words of the speaker ceased—cut short by the sudden
appearance of a form and face, the beauty and dignity
of which silenced the sceptic, and made him doubtful, for
the moment, whether he had not in reality reached that
period of confused and confounding vision, which, as he
alleged to be the case with his uncle, loses all power of
discrimination. A maiden stood before him—tall, erect,
majestic—beautiful after no ordinary standard of beauty.
She was a brunette, with large dark eyes, which, though
bright, seemed dark with the excess of bright—and had a
depth of expression which thrilled instantly through the
bosom of the spectator. A single glance did she bestow
upon the travellers, while she acknowledged, by a slight
courtesy, the respectful bow which they each made her.
They drew up their horses as with mutual instinct, but she
passed them quickly, courtesying a second time as she did
so, and, in another moment a turn of the road concealed
her from the eyes of the travellers.

“What say you to that, Warham?” demanded the
senior exultingly.

“A Diana, in truth; but, uncle, we find her not among
the rest. She is none of your cottagers. She is of another
world and element. She is no Charlemonter.”

And, as he spoke, the younger traveller looked back
with straining eyes to catch another glance of the vanished
object, but in vain.

“You deserve never to see a lovely woman again, Warham,
for your scepticism.”

“But I will have a second look at her, uncle, though the
skies fall;” answered the young man, as, wheeling his
horse round, he deliberately galloped back to the bend in
the avenue, by which she had been hidden from his view.
He had scarcely reached the desired point, when he suddenly
recoiled to find the object of his pursuit standing
motionless just beyond, with eyes averted to the backward
path—her glance consequently encountering his own, the
very moment when he discovered her. A deep crimson,
visible even where he stood, suffused her cheeks when she
beheld him; and without acknowledging the second bow
which the traveller made, she haughtily averted her head
with a suddenness which shook her long and raven tresses
entirely free from the net-work which confined them.

“A proud gipsy!” muttered the youth as he rode back
to his uncle—“just such a spirit as I should like to tame.”
He took especial care, however, that this sentiment did
not reach the ears of the senior.

“Well?” said the latter, inquiringly, at his approach.

“I am right after all, uncle:—the wench is no better
than the rest. A heavy bulk that seemed dignified only
because she is too fat for levity. She walks like a blind
plough-horse in a broken pasture, up and down, over and
over; with a gait as rigid and deliberate as if she trod
among the hot cinders, and had corns on all her toes. She
took us so by surprise that if we had not thought her beautiful
we must have thought her ugly, and the chances are
equal, that, on a second meeting, we shall both think her
so. I shall, I'm certain, and you must, provided you give
your eyes the benefit, and your nose the burden of your
green specs.”

“Impossible! I can scarce believe it, Warham;” replied
the senior with Charlemontic simplicity. “I thought her
very beautiful.”

“I shall never rely on your judgment again;—nay,
uncle, I am almost inclined to suspect your taste.”

“Well, let them be beautiful or ugly, still I should
think the same of the beauty of this little village.”

“While the sun shines it may be tolerable; but, uncle,
in wet bad weather—it must become a mere pond, it lies
so completely in the hollow of the hills.”

“There is reason in that, Warham.”

“And yet, even as a pond, it would have its advantages
—it would be famous for duck raising.”

“Pshaw! you are worse than a Mahometan.”

“Something of a just comparison, uncle, though scarcely
aimed,” said the other; “like Mahomet, you know, I
doubt the possession of souls by women.”

“Yet if these of Charlemont have not souls, they have
no small share of happiness on earth. I never heard more
happy laughter from human lips than from theirs. They
must be happy.”

“I doubt that also;” was the reply. “See you not,
uncle, that to nine or ten women there are but three lads?
Where the disproportion is so great among the sexes, and
where it is so unfavourable to the weaker, woman never
can be happy. Their whole lives will be lives of turmoil,
jealousy and pulling of caps. Nay, eyes shall not
be secure under such circumstances; and Nan's fingers
shall be in Doll's hair, and Doll's claws in Nanny's cheeks,
whenever it shall so happen, that Tom Jenkins shall incline
to Nan, or John Dobbins to Doll. Such a disparity between
the sexes is one of the most fruitful causes of domestic
war.”

“Warham, where do you think to go when you die?”

“Where there shall be no such inequality in the population.
Believe me, uncle, though I am sometimes disposed
to think with Mahomet, and deny the possession of
souls to the sex, I also incline to believe, with other more
charitable teachers,—however difficult it may be to reconcile
the two philosophies—that there will be no lack of
them in either world.”

“Hush, hush, Warham,” was the mild rebuke of the
senior; “you go too far,—you are irreverent. As for this
maiden, I still think her very beautiful—of a high, noble
kind of beauty. My eyes may be bad;—indeed I am
willing to admit they are none of the best; but I feel certain
that they cannot so far deceive me, when we consider
how nigh we were to her.”

“The matter deserves inquiry, uncle, if it were only to
satisfy your faith;—suppose we ride back, both of us, and
see for ourselves,—closely, and with the aid of the green
spectacles? Not that I care to see farther—not that I have
any doubts,—but I wish you to be convinced in this case,

if only to make you sensible of the frequent injustice to
which your indulgence of judgment, subjects the critical
fastidiousness of mine. What say you; shall we wheel
about?”

“Why, you are mad, surely. It is now sunset, and we
have a good eight miles before we get to Holme's Station.”

“But we can sleep in Charlemont to-night. A night in
this earthly Eden—”

“And run the risk of losing our company? Oh, no,
most worthy nephew. They will start at dawn to-morrow.”

“We can soon come up with 'em.”

“Perhaps not, and the risk is considerable. Travelling
to the Mississippi is no such small matter at any time, and,
in these times with a multitude, alone, there is safety. The
murder of old Whiteford, is a sufficient warning not to go
alone, with more gold than lead in one's pocket. We are
two, it is true, but better ten than two. You are a brave
fellow enough, Warham, I doubt not; but a shot will dispose
of you, and after that I should be an easy victim. I
could wink and hold out as well as the best of you, but
I prefer to escape the necessity. Let us mend our pace.
We are burning daylight.”

The nephew, with an air of some impatience, which,
however, escaped the eyes of the senior, sent his horse
forward by a sharp application of his spur, though looking
back the while, with a glance of reluctance, which strongly
disagreed with the sentiments which he expressed. Indeed,
with both the travellers, the impression made by the little
village of Charlemont, was such that the subject seemed
no ways displeasing to either, and furnished the chief staple
of conversation between them, as they rode the remaining
eight miles of their journey. The old man's heart had
been subdued and won by the sweet air of peace which
seemed to overspread and hallow the soft landscape, and
the smiling cottages which made it human. The laughing
maidens with their bright eyes and cheering accents, gave
vivacity to its milder charms. We have heard from the
lips of the younger traveller, that these attractions had
failed to captivate his fancy. We may believe what of
this we please. It is very probable that he had, in considerable
part, spoken nothing but the truth. He was too
much of a mocker:—one of those worldlings who derive

their pleasures from circumstances of higher conventional
attraction. He had no feeling for natural romance. His
penchant, was decidedly for a more artificial existence;
and the sneers which he had been heard to express at the
humble joys of rustic life, its tastes, and characteristics,
were, in truth, only such as he really felt. But, even in
his case, there was an evident disposition to know something
more of Charlemont. He was really willing to
return. He renewed the same subject of conversation,
when it happened to flag, with obvious eagerness; and,
though his language was still studiedly disparaging, a more
deeply penetrating judgment than that of his uncle, would
have seen that the little village, slightly as he professed
to esteem it, was yet an object of thought and interest in
his eyes. Of the sources of this new interest time must
inform us.

“Well, well, Warham,” at length exclaimed the
uncle, in a tone that seemed meant to close the discussion
of a topic which his nephew now appeared mischievously
bent to thrust upon him—“you will return to Kentucky
in the fall. Take Charlemont in your route. Stop a week
there. It will do you no harm. Possibly, you may procure
some clients—may indeed, include it in your tour of
practice—at all events, you will not be unprofitably employed
if you come to see the village and the people with
my eyes, which, I doubt not, you will in time.”

“In time, perhaps, I may. It is well that you do not
insist upon any hurried convictions. Were I at your
years, uncle mine,” continued the other irreverently,—“I
shall no doubt see with your eyes, and possibly feel with
your desires. Then, no doubt, I shall have acquired a
taste for warming-pans and night-caps—shall look for landscapes
rather than lands—shall see nothing but innocence
among the young, and resignation and religion among the
old; and fancy, in every aged pair of bumpkins that I see,
a Darby and Joan, with perpetual peace at their fireside,
though they may both happen to lie there, drunk on apple
brandy. Between caudle-cups and “John Anderson, my
Jo-John,” it is my hope to pass the evening of my days
with a tolerable grace, and leave behind me some comely
representatives, who shall take up the burden of the ditty
where I leave off. On this head be sure you shall have no
cause to complain of me. I shall be no malthusian, as you

certainly have shown yourself. It is the strangest thing
to me, uncle, that, with all your spoken rapture for the sex,
you should never have thought of securing for yourself, at
least one among the crowd which you so indiscriminately
admire. Surely, a gentleman of your personal attractions
—attractions which seem resolute to cling to you to the
last,—could not have found much difficulty in procuring
the damsel he desired! And when, too, your enthusiasm
for the sex is known, one would think it only necessary
that you should sling your handkerchief, to have it greedily
gsappled by the fairest of the herd. How is it, uncle,—
how have you escaped—from them—from yourself?”

“Pshaw, Warham, you are a fool!”—exclaimed the
senior, riding forward with increasing speed. The words
were spoken good naturedly, but the youth had touched a
spot, scarcely yet thoroughly scarred over, in the old man's
bosom; and memories, not less painful because they had
been hidden so long, were instantly wakened into fresh and
cruel activity. It will not diminish the offence of the
nephew in the mind of the reader, when he is told that the
youth was not ignorant of the particular tenderness of his
relative in this respect. The gentle nature of the latter,
alone, rescued him from the well merited reproach of suffering
his habitual levity of mood to prevail, in reference to
one whom, even he himself was disposed to honour. But few
words passed between the two, ere they reached the place
of appointment. The careless reference of the youth had
made the thoughts of the senior active at the expense of
his observation. His eyes were now turned inwards; and
the landscape, and the evening sun, which streamed over,
and hallowed it with a tender beauty to the last, was as
completely hidden from his vision, as if a veil had been
drawn above his sight. The retrospect, indeed, is ever the
old man's landscape; and perhaps, even had he not been
so unkindly driven back to its survey, one aged traveller
would have been reminded of the past in the momently
deepening shadows which the evening gathered around his
path. Twilight is the cherished season for sad memories,
even as the midnight is supposed to be that of guilty
ghosts; and nothing, surely, can be more fitting than that
the shadows of former hopes should revisit us in those
hours when the face of nature itself seems darkening into
gloom. It was night before the wayfarers reached the

appointed baiting place. There they found their company;
—a sort of little caravan, such as is frequent in the history
of western emigration—already assembled; and the
supper awaiting them. Let us leave them to its enjoyment,
and return once more to the village of Charlemont.