University of Virginia Library

CONCLUSION.

Six years have passed since Harry Davis went to
L— to learn the carpenter's trade of Mr. Norton.
The relation between them proved most happy —
justice and liberality on the one side, industry and
fidelity on the other. The friendship between Harry
and Clapham, nurtured in clouds and storms, throve
in sunshine. The six years have passed prosperously
in Harry's outer and inner world; and now, at the
age of three-and-twenty, and ripened in experience
and virtue, we must present him in a new scene.

Imagine, my dear readers, a village called “Bayside”
(there is some talk of changing its name to
Maryshome) situated on one of the small bays of
Lake Erie. The village is on a gentle declivity,
sloping down to the bay, and flanked by a wood,

cut into, here and there, by rich fields of wheat,
where, as the pure breezes pass, you may see the
stalks waving around the stumps of recently levelled
trees. At one extremity of the village is a little
church of rare beauty of proportion and form, and
attached to it a cemetery, in which clumps of the
original trees of the forest are left standing, their
majestic growth giving to it a fitting and beautiful
solemnity. At the other extremity of the village is a
rustic school-house, with all the modern improvements
for ventilating and warming, and surrounded by a
play-ground, as it is modestly called, but which, with
its ten acres, its walks, and noble trees, and thrifty
plantings, better deserves the name of “Park” than
many a piece of ground that bears that ostentatious
designation. In the centre of the village is a large,
convenient establishment for carpentry, bearing on its
front the well-known names of “Davis & Hale.”
From the busy going to and fro to the work-shop,
and from the many hands to be seen through its
open windows busily employed, it is evidently a most
thriving establishment, and the source of supply to
the rising towns in the neighborhood. A little retired
from the busy village street, and separated by
a wide garden, are two very small, neat houses; so
small that it is evident the proprietors, who have
laid out around them grounds that have the promise
of much future beauty, indulge the expectation of
enlarging them. But even these humble beginnings
are not without the charm of proportion and fitness;
and they, as well as the church and school-house,
show that Bayside has the advantage of a resident
draughtsman, who has both experience and taste in
architectural plans. The cemetery and play-ground
are indications, too, that a thoughtful and cultivated
mind has been employed there. What an enchanting
world would the up-springing villages of the rich
West present, if an intelligent sense of the beautiful
made the “improvements” in harmony with the loveliness
of nature!

It is twilight of a fine June evening, and there
is a cheerful stir about the village of Bayside.
Young fathers and young mothers, young men and
maidens, and a few elderly people, (very few there

are in these new settlements,) all dressed in their
best, are making their way towards one of the twin
cottages. They are gathered there. Let us look in.
The suite of apartments — a kitchen, bed-room, and
parlor, all neatly though sparingly furnished — are
hung with festoons of wild flowers, wreaths around
the windows, wreaths around the doors, and wreaths
around the glass; under it stands a table with the
honored patrimonial Bible on which the Salisbury
family was nurtured. The prettiest wreath of all is
made of mosses and white immortals, and it encircles
a bridal present from Mr. Lyman — a sweet picture
of “little Lucy.”

A white rose in full bloom, and a honeysuckle,
both brought “from the east,” are trained around the
window, and send in sweet odors, breathing memories
of the Salisbury home.

On one side the parlor, and opposite “little
Lucy's” portrait, stands an elderly matron, whose face
tells the story of trials patiently and serenely borne,
of a quiet conscience, of satisfied expectations, and
a heart overflowing with gratitude to Providence.

Next her stands her son, the crowning blessing
of her life — a pattern of filial devotion, of fraternal
affection, and of conjugal happiness. On his other
side, and leaning on his arm, is a lovely young
woman, who wears over her bright brown hair a
cap half matronly, half girlish — a sort of token that a
piece of furniture belongs to her which may be seen
through the open door of the bed-room, where a
cradle is jogged by a girl whose face is bright with
happiness, in spite of the green ribbon over the eyes
which “blind Nannie” always wears.

Standing in the door-way is a man somewhat
past middle age, a perfect impersonation of hilarity.
He must be a Frenchman. There is a sort of “I
told you so” look upon his face. His arms are
folded, and his fingers are playing a tune on his
arms which he can hardly await the finishing of a
ceremony then going on to enact with lips and feet.

It is a bridal ceremony. Thrilling memories,
blending with joy, gratitude, and hope, have lit up
the bridegroom's cheek with a color so brilliant, and
given to his rich, dark eye such a glow, that the

carpenter of Bayside might be mistaken for a hero
of romance. But the pretty, blooming bride beside
him, clad in white muslin, and decked with white
roses, is no heroine —
but fitted for life, — holidays, working-days, and all, —
and an image of its dearest contentments. She extends
her hand to receive the wedding ring. It is
of hair set into a gold hoop; and interwoven in
the hair is the name of “Annie.”

As the bridegroom slides it on to her finger, he
recalls the dark day in the prison of L— when he
made it, and breathes a fervent thanksgiving for the
manifold mercies that have since been showered on
“The Boy of Mount Rhigi.”