University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
MARGARET GOES TO THE BAY.

When all things were ready, one cool but pleasant morning
in the early part of November, they took their final start from
the Widow Wright's, — Obed and Rose on Tim, a thick-set
animal of small stature, who in addition to his load bore a pair
of large panniers, stocked with the Leech's simples and compounds;
Nimrod with Margaret, on a horse of his own, and
one, in the estimation of his master who piqued himself with
being a good judge in such things, of admirable proportions
and other desirable qualities. Margaret passed her old home,

now deserted and dead, with some sensation. She descended
the Delectable Way and the Brandon road with quite a complexity
of emotions, and came to the Burial Ground, where
they all stopped their horses, went and shed a silent tear on
Chilion's grave, and proceeded on their way. Halting, without
dismounting, at the Widow Small's, to inquire after the
Master, that gentleman himself appeared at the door in a loose
gown, with a cap on his head, and wearing a look of evident
sickness and debility. He seemed quite overcome at seeing
Margaret. “Vale, vale, eternumque vale, O mihi me discipula
carior!” was all he could say, and covering his eyes
with his red bandanna handkerchief, withdrew. As they rode
up the street, Job Luce came out to shake hands with them,
and Mistress Weeks with several of her children, who said
Isabel was getting better. Tony also had his adieus to make,
and certain commissions for Nimrod to execute. Most of the
people they met looked sorrowful and anxious. The Green
presented a melancholy aspect, the entire West side was in
ruins; the church lay smouldering in its own ashes; what
had been a beautiful grove, sweeping down the acclivities on
the North, was now a waste, as if a black winter had overtaken
it, half-devoured trees, charred stumps, roots unearthed, lean
and hollow, a soil of sackcloth grey. Some little children
came scudding and shouting across the Green to speak with
Margaret. They entered the East Street, and made their last
call at Deacon Ramsdill's. The old man gave Margaret a
letter, superscribed “Mrs. Pamela Wiswall.” “It's for sister
Pamela,” said he; “I thought it might do you some good.
She is a good-hearted critter as ever lived, if she is my sister.
I don't know where she is now, I havn't been to the Bay
since the War, and things have altered some since then I suppose.
She used to keep lodgings next door to Deacon Smiley's
Auction Room, a little over against the Three Doves. There
are people enough there that know her, — ask for the Widow
Wizzle, and anybody will tell you where she lives. I can't
blame you for wanting to get away. When our Jessie died,
we thought we should have to pull up stakes. Freelove
couldn't bear to make the bed up where she died, and I had
to do it. I guess she didn't go into the room full a month.
I had to put off Jessie's sheep; she had a cosset that used to
follow her. Freelove couldn't bear the sight of it. We are
all down, on the Green. People don't know what to do. But
old sward wants turning under once in a while, and if land
lies fallow a year or so, it don't hurt. The Lord knows what
is best for us. We had preaching in the Town Hall last Lord's
Day, and I guess there wasn't a dry eye there. Good bye,
Molly, God bless you all.”

They continued on the East Street, crossed the River, and
entered the region beyond. The sun which has shone upon
all ages and countries alike, and dispensed its ministrations
of life, hope, and joy to every suffering heart equally on this
many-peopled globe, shone brightly upon them; the atmosphere
was clear, fresh and invigorating; the scream of the
red-hammer, the brown herbage, the denuded forest, harmonized
with their feelings. Margaret had never been beyond
the River before. Looking back she beheld what had formerly
been esteemed a beautiful prospect, the village, its environs,
the rising grounds beyond, and, crowning all, the Indian's
Head; but it suggested at the present moment any other feelings
than those of gratification and delight, and she was not
sorry to find herself rapidly receding from Livingston. Touching
the objects of this sudden excursion Margaret and Rose
were alike ignorant and indifferent; and they went on only
anxious to be a-going. Margaret had been able to procure
suitable clothing; she wore a black beaver hat, and a dress of
cambleteen. In her hair was fastened the Indian's gift, an
aigrette of white heron's feathers. Rose had on her blue silk
bonnet, and a queens-stuff habit of the same color. In Nimrod
appeared the transition from the old style to the new. He
wore a round-rimmed hat, straightbodied coat with large pewter
buttons, and a pair of overalls buttoning from the hip to the
ankle. He was more dressed than usual, and the caparison of
his horse corresponded with the elegance of that animal; circumstances
denoting rather the weakness of Nimrod, than
any pecuniary ability. Obed bore up the olden time, and
showed his respect for the memory of his father and the purse
of his mother, in his tattered cocked-hat, broad-flapped drab
coat, leather breeches and silver buckles. His red hair was
powdered and queued, and on his nose were his brass-bowed
bridge spectacles. The habits of Tim, who resented all approach
of strangers, might have interrupted the sociability of
the company, or even proved hazardous to life or limb, unless
Nimrod had suggested to Obed a method of prevention, which
the latter executed by cutting squares from the sides of his
hat, which he fastened as blinders to the head-stall; a step
Obed had been slow to undertake save that his mother promised
him a new hat on conditions of fidelity and success in
this expedition. This movement served another effect, which

Nimrod probably had not overlooked; this, to wit, of animating
the gloom of Margaret and Rose, whose smiles, having long
been worried by the contrast of the parties, their horses and
accoutrements, were now provoked into open laughter, in
which neither the finesse of Nimrod, nor the habitual dignity
of Obed, allowed those gentlemen to join. Margaret had
sometime in course of her life said she could manage Tim as
well as his master. To put this point to test, and make an
exhibit of his own dexterity, when they stopped to breathe
the horses Nimrod proposed that Margaret should touch the
animal. She called his name familiarly, as she must have
often done before, and he suffered her to lay hands upon him
and stroke him, with the docility of a cat. But whenever
Nimrod approached, the ears of Tim were seen to fall, his
heels rose, and Nimrod retreated. Sometimes the girls walked
long distances. Again Nimrod, who knew the whole region
as well as his own mother's kitchen, led them about by-paths
that afforded the best views of the country and the towns. So
in various ways, with a generous if not the most discreet
attention, he contrived to relieve the monotony of the ride,
and move their spirits, which he said were binding, and the
renovation of which he declared was one purpose of the
journey. It was not difficult to observe that in all this Nimrod
consulted what was due to his own state of mind also, and
the girls were sometimes obliged to recall him from reveries
into which the scenes of the last month might have plunged
one even more light-minded than himself. As regards the
region they traversed, in some of its aspects, if any one is
curious to compare former times with the present, he might
be guided in his inquiries by a passage from the letters of Wilson,
the Ornithologist, who was over the same ground a short
time afterwards. “Every where,” says he, “I found school-houses
ruinous and deserted; the taverns dirty, and filled with
loungers brawling about politics and lawsuits; the people idle
and lazy.” They arrived at Hartford that evening, where
Nimrod declared he had business of an express nature, and
Obed was desirous of finding a market. They left the next
morning, Obed in fine humor, having been able, by Nimrod's
assistance, to turn some of his goods for a new hat. On the
afternoon of the fourth day, having accomplished a journey
which can now be made in almost as many hours, they arrived
in the suburbs of Boston, at a place then and we believe now
known as Old Cambridge. Here, if they had not intended to
stop, their course must have been arrested by a great swell of
people, who crowded about the tavern, and seemed to check
all progress except in a northerly direction, whither multitudes
were hastening.

“Ho, Nim,” cried a burly fellow from the crowd in a tarpaulin
and blue jacket, who evidently recognized an old
acquaintance. “What are you so loaded for? Break bulk,
box-haul, and make sail in company. We are going to have a
pull-all-together up here.”

“How fares ye, Hart?” said another. “You liked to be
late at the feast. Always expect to see you when anything is
going on. Didn't see you at Plimbury Roads. Turn the
ladies in, warm your nose with Porter's flip-dog, and follow on.
Great stakes. Old Highflyer himself, out of Antelope; grandam,
Earl of Godolphin's Arabian.”

“Well,” said Nimrod, “if you have got anything here
equal to Tartar, out of the Scarboro Colt, nephew to the late
Hyder Ali, and first cousin to Tippoo Saib, I should like to
see him, that's all.”

“My old fellow,” said one addressing Obed, “don't you
wan't to see the fun? Four horses, one greased pole to climb,
two sheared pigs to catch, and a silver punch-bowl the prize.
It will do your old heart good to see it.”

Nimrod, subject to a vacillation of spirit and passion for
novelty, that had both chequered and vitiated his life, might,
without surprise to the girls, have been tempted by the inducements
now spread before him, and gone off with the
crowd, if he had not anticipated anything of the sort, or even
had these very scenes in his eye when he started from home.
However this might be, he kept his own counsels, told the
girls he should soon be back, threw his purse to Margaret, intimating
there were pickpockets among the people, had them
shown to the parlor of the Inn, and rode off. Obed also,
whose ardor was inspired by the prospect of trade, soon followed.

Margaret and Rose, left to themselves, occupied the hour
examining the contents of the room, looking from the windows.
Finally they went into the street, walked through the
College grounds, saw the buildings and the students. The day
was nearly spent, people returned from the races, the tavern
rang with their noise and revels. Nimrod and Obed came
not. They grew alarmed; they overheard reports from the
race, intimations of brawls and constables. Pushing their inquiries,
they learned that two strangers had fallen in a drunken
dispute, done some mischief, and been carried to prison. They

waited awhile, till there could be no doubt the delinquents
were Nimrod and Obed. Ascertaining the direction and distance
of the city, they took their bundles and started forward.
Night was coming on, but of that they were not afraid. They
had a three miles' walk before them, but the habits of Margaret
and spirit of Rose were equal to it. They came to the
bridge. The long tiers of lights stretched across their vision,
like a protecting or an embattled array of stars, according as
their moods should work. The dim outline of the State
House they mistook for a mountain. They came suddenly
upon a fence that arrested their progress. This was the draw-bridge,
which some one in the same predicament with themselves
said would presently be lowered. For this result they
must abide in patience. They passed over; a voice hailed
them, “Toll, Ma'ams, toll.” They avowed their ignorance,
and asked how much it was. “Tuppence, tuppence a head.”
While Rose was satisfying this voice, which like death seizes
upon all, Margaret asked, “Where are we now?” “At
Pest House Pint,” replied the man; not very pleasant intelligence
to our travellers. Some other inquiries were made, and
Margaret asked, “Where does the Widow Wizzle live?” “I
don't know, but you can find out up the way,” rejoined the man.
They pursued their course along Cambridge Street, through
what was little better than a morass, and furnished with an
occasional lamp, that shone like fire-flies in a swamp. “Can
you tell us where the Widow Wizzle lives?” said they, applying
to an old man whom they next encountered. “Go by
Lynde's Paster, down Queen's, turn Marlbro, then follow your
nose till you come to it,” he answered, and disappeared down
a cellar. They might reasonably be expected to be bewildered.
They had anticipated finding the house of the lady in question
without difficulty. It was late, and not many persons abroad,
and these passed them with such speed they found no opportunity
to interpose their inquiries. Their hearts almost sunk.
At last they stopped by a lamp-post, planted themselves against
it, as if to make a regular attack upon the next one that appeared.
Nor did they wait long before a young man came by.
“Can you tell us, Sir, where the Widow Wizzle lives?” said
they, the light dropping full in their faces, and revealing
countenances flushed with earnestness. “I am going partly
in that direction,” replied the man, “and if you will follow
me I think I can set you on the right track.” They went on
with him some distance, by one or two turns, and through two
or three lanes, when, stopping at a dark corner, their guide,
saying that business drew him in another quarter, pointed out
the course they should pursue. They were overtaken by
another man, who, overhearing the point of inquiry, said he
was going by the house and would conduct them directly to
the spot. This one they followed till they were opposite a
large house, retired somewhat from the street, having the entrance
to the yard by an iron gate. “This,” said the man,
“is Mrs. Wiswall's,” and opening the gate to the ladies, departed.
They crossed the deep front yard, mounted a flight
of stone steps, knocked at the door, and were received by an
elderly, kind-looking woman, who put all their troubles at rest
by announcing herself the woman in question. She took
them into a pleasantly lighted parlor, where they found opportunity
to warm themselves by a coal fire. The letter which
Margaret brought was produced. “Yes,” said the lady, “from
my good brother Simeon. When did you leave Livingston?
He says Freelove complains of pain in her back, a trouble
incident to advancing years. Miss Margaret, lost your brother,
I am sorry for you. Miss Rose, hope you are well. Make
yourselves at home while you stay here; and I hope you will
afford us a good long visit. Havn't seen any of Simeon's
folks this great while.”

A cup of tea was soon ready for our travellers, they were in
rooms furnished with some degree of elegance, they found the
lady pleasant and talkative, and in many respects reminding
Margaret of the worthy Deacon. Two young ladies came in,
one of whom their hostess introduced as her daughter Bertha,
and the other, whom she called Avice, she said was a boarder.
They were shown to a pleasant chamber, where they had a
good night's sleep. The next morning, after interesting Mrs.
Wiswall in the fate of Nimrod and Obed, and gaining assurances
that their friends should be looked after, having ruminated
awhile on the succession of events that had fallen so
thickly and portentously upon them, they were at liberty to
observe what was about them. The parlor offered to their
eye an aspect of splendor and elaborate embellishment, as it
might to some of our readers that of antiquity and an obsolete
taste. The wainscotted walls bore the fading vestiges of that
passion for royalty and blood possessed by some of our ancestors,
and the tarnished gilt of the lion's head was in good
keeping with his broken tail. There were fluted pilasters
sustaining, on burnished capitals, a heavy frieze, in which deer
were seen sporting among flowers. The ceiling was divided
by whisks of flowers, with a margin of honey-suckles. From

a rosette in the centre depended an Argand lamp. On either
side of the chimney stood marble columns, once the trunk of
busts, now surmounted by vases of living flowers. Above the
manteltree, was a painting of Dog and Dead Game, which
seemed to occupy a place once devoted to a larger piece.
Faded French curtains festooned the windows. There were
Dutch chairs in the room, with tall backs and black leather
cushions; the lounge where they sat had a covering done in
red and blue tent-stich; there was a dark oval mahogany
table, with raised and chased rim, loaded with books. In a
back parlor, entered by a broad arch, they saw a tesselated
floor, and through the windows appeared an extensive garden,
with rows of shrubbery and flowers, a decaying barn, an old
Turkish Summer-house, vines trained on high walls. In the
front yard were green cedars and firs interspersed with mountain
ashes laden with their familiar red berries. “Where are the
Three Doves?” said Margaret. “That is gone long ago,”
replied Mrs. Wiswall. “New houses occupy its place. Boston
is becoming a great city, nothing old remains long. We
have now more than twenty thousand inhabitants. Bertha,
Avice, show Margaret and Rose your books. They both call
me mother, and you shall too, that is, if you are the good girls
Simeon says you are.” “There are the Adventures of Neoptolemus,
The Fatal Connexion and Lord Ainsworth,” said
Bertha. “You have read The Girl of Spirit?” “No,”
replied Margaret. “The Fair Maid of the Inn?” “No.”
“I think she would like the Marriage of Belfegar,” said
Avice, “and The Curious Impertinent.” “The Loves of
Osmund and Duraxa are perfectly bewitching,” rejoined
Bertha. There were books enough at all events to serve them
either in the way of selection or perusal for a long time.

For several days Mrs. Wiswall said she could gather no
intelligence of their friends, and they resigned themselves as
well as they could to their lot. They spent most of the time
alone together, and in good part in their own chamber, a
pleasant front room, which their hostess kindly provided with
a fire. They read, they talked, they saw much that was new in
the streets. Two or three gentlemen boarding there appeared
at the dinner-table, but they chose their own society before any
they saw about them, and in this preference they suffered no
molestation. From their windows they saw ladies in black
beaver, purple tiffany, pink satin, melon-shaped and cupelo-crowned
hats; short cloaks of all materials and colors, with
hoods squabbing behind, known as cardinals; muffs and tippets

of every species of fur; pink satin, yellow brocade shoes,
supported on clogs and pattens; gentlemen in coats of all
colors, and Suwarrow boots, some in scarlet over-coats; and
altogether Boston seemed to them a gay, happy place.

“You must do something to amuse your sisters,” said Mrs.
Wiswall to her daughters. “Avice, Bertha, you can show
them what there is in the city, the Museum, the Circus, or
something of the kind.”

They were taken to the Museum at the head of the Mall,
near the Alms-house, over a Cabinet-shop, in the centre of
Park Street Church. They saw Young Ladies in Wax, the
Guillotine and Assassination of Marat, alligators, &c., and
were regaled with the Musical Clocks. Their next excursion
was to the Circus in West Boston; the singular docility of
the horses, the extraordinary feats of the men, the grotesque
wit and manners of the clown, afforded them occasion for
wonder and a smile. Margaret wrote to Deacon Ramsdill she
was more happy than she could have foreseen, and applauded
the benevolent conduct of his sister.

“I guess you must take the girls to the Theatre to-night,”
said Mrs. Wiswall. “I don't know of what party you are.
We have a Federal House and an Anti-Federal.” “We are
of no party at all,” said Rose. “It is all one to us.” “It is
just so with me,” said the lady. “How does Brother Simeon
stand now?” “He thinks there is some good on both sides,”
replied Margaret. “He does not approve the excesses of
either.” “That's Sim, all over,” responded Mrs. Wiswall.
“But at the Federal they have—what is it, girls?” “Pizarro,”
replied Bertha. “At the Haymarket they have The Castle of
Almunecar.” “Yes,” added the lady, “the dungeons, and
strange noises and sights.” “I would rather see Pizarro,”
said Margaret. “I prefer the Black Castle,” said Rose.
“That is it,” said Mr. Wiswall. “Both be suited, one go to
one, the other to the other.” “We cannot be separated, Mrs.
Wiswall,” replied Margaret. “I want to go where Rose
does.”

To the Haymarket they went, near the South end of the
Mall, and were shown to a box not very remote from the
stage. The piece that had been the subject of discussion,
sombre in its scenes, terrific in its imagery, the storm at sea,
the wreck, grim towers, dark chambers, apparitions, hollow
voices, Rose declared suited her exactly. “It is myself,” she
said to Margaret. “But I suppose you see a smooth haven,
and the light of true life coming of it all.” “It has all been

in me,” replied Margaret, “only if it is not of me, I shall be
glad.” But surprise combined with other reflections when
they beheld their hostess's daughter, Bertha, moving amid the
fearful scenes of the play. And in the pantomime that composed
the after-piece, they again saw her as Joana and Avice
as Columbine, along with Harlequin and Punch, and they
thought they detected the features of one of the gentlemen
boarders figuring under the cap of Scaramouch. But the
delight mingled with a variety of sensations this piece afforded
Margaret, was such that she forgot everything else while she
saw represented the parts, characters, buffooneries, dresses and
forms, that constituted a lively part of her father's drunken
vagaries, and had disclosed to her eye the origin of a certain
description of allusion and sentiment that predominated in
Master Elliman, and which she never before understood.

They spoke to Mrs. Wiswall of seeing her daughter on the
stage. “I suppose you think it very bad,” she replied. “O
no,” said Rose, “I only wished I was there, that I could have
been in the darkness with her.” “My good brother the
Deacon would probably be opposed to it.” “I never heard
him speak of it,” replied Margaret, “nor did any one ever
say anything to me on the subject.” “Bertha,” continued
the lady, “took a passion for the stage, and I humored her in
it. There is little that she can do, poor child; and she seems
pleased with this. Some of our gentlemen are interested
there, and they help her what they can. Avice plays with
them sometimes.” “How I wish I could join them,” said
Rose. “Should you like to?” asked the lady. “Yes, better
than anything else.” “Bertha, here, Miss Elphiston says she
should like to have a part in your playing. I am sure I would
not oppose the young lady's feelings.” “We want some one
for Lady-in-waiting to Lady Teazle, in the School for Scandal;
it is to be brought on next week;” replied Bertha. “I
don't care what it is,” said Rose; “though I should prefer
the Black Castle.” “That is to be repeated in a fortnight,
and perhaps they will give you a place in it;” rejoined
Bertha.

Sunday came, Margaret and Rose were listening to the
chime of bells, and watching the passers-by. “I am a good
deal troubled with the gout,” said Mrs. Wiswall,” and don't
get out to Meeting very often. The girls were so late at the
rehearsal they are not up yet. I suppose you keep up the
good old way in the country, and are always at Church; and
would miss it if you did not go?”

“I never went to Meeting but once in my life,” said Margaret.

“Indeed!” rejoined the lady. “Can it be possible? Does
Simeon allow of such a thing?”

“I believe he is satisfied it would not do me much good.”

“Yes, I know,” answered Mrs. Wiswall. “It is not all
one could wish. I have no doubt my brother feels the evil as
much as I do. Perhaps Rose would like to go.”

“No,” said Rose, “I have been to Church, and I think for
the last time.”

“Is there not,” asked Margaret, “a Church in the city
called King's Chapel? I think I have heard of it. Mr.
Evelyn, Rose, said something to me about it. That is the
name, I believe. I have been feeling this morning as if I
should like to go there once.”

“One must be a little cautious where one goes to Church,
now-a-days,” said Mrs. Wiswall. “Would not brother Simeon
prefer that you go—say to the Old South?”

“I am persuaded he would wish me to go wherever I desired,”
replied Margaret.

“Yes, indeed,” said the lady. “It is in Tremont Street,
corner of School.”

“If you would be willing to let the servant show me there,
I should like to go,” said Margaret.

“Certainly,” answered Mrs. Wiswall; “anything you wish
while you stay here.”

Margaret was soon ready, and conducted to the Church in
question. She was awed as she entered by what presented
itself to her eye as the magnificence of the place; its massive
columns, its lofty vault, its symbols, its monuments, its silence,
its richness, were so different from anything she had seen;
she seemed to have dropped into one of the palaces of her
dreams. The mysterious peals of the organ united to subdue
her completely. The people were set, when she arrived; she
walked up the centre aisle, an elderly gentleman opened his
pew to her. Hardly was she seated when she knelt instinctively,
and wept profoundly; and not without difficulty was
she able to efface the traces, or prevent the renewal of her
emotion. The prayer excited sentiments she had never before
felt, and raised the decaying energies of her aspirations.
The music tranquilized her like oil, and penetrated her with
a solemn strange transport. The Minister, the Rev. Dr.
Freeman, then in the prime of life, had that day among a
multitude of hearers whom extraneous interests are wont to

distract, or long familiarity harden, one that devoured his
words, and was melted by his address; while with manner
becoming his subject, he discoursed from the words of the
Prophet, “Comfort ye, comfort ye my people.” If he had
known how much good in that single instance he was able to
effect, it might have recompensed him for any amount of
laborious endeavor, and sufficed for successive seasons of
fruitlessness. Margaret lingered on the closing steps of the
service, and by the singularity of her demeanor even drew the
attention of the occupants of the pew. These consisted of
the elderly gentleman, a lady who might be his wife, two
young ladies, and a young gentleman, their daughters and
son. The face of the last recalled to Margaret the street-lamp,
and floated in with her first impressions of relief the
night she entered the city. “You are welcome to a seat with
us,” said the elderly gentleman. “I thank you,” replied
Margaret, and mingled with the retiring congregation. The
afternoon she spent with Rose in their own room.

The next week she aided Rose in the part assigned her for
the stage. During the same time, at an Assembly in Concert
Hall, to which the Theatrical Corps were invited, Margaret
and Rose became parties. Here they found what seemed to
them a brilliant and imposing collection, of lights, hangings,
persons, dresses, figures, music. They declined action, and
were content with the spectacle—ladies sweeping by in silver-gauze
tunics, showily pinked, crape and silk velvet dresses
glittering with gold spangles, depending skirts twinkling and
rattling with silver and gold, short sleeves sporting voluminous
ruffles, waists riding the shoulders; hair frounced and puffed
and garnished with flowers; gentlemen in fancy colored coats,
with powdered hair, white stockings, with long garters streaming
like a ship's pennon, shed a shower of perfume, as they
passed.

On the night of the representation, Margaret was permitted
to accompany Rose behind the boards, where she
helped dress the Lady-in-waiting, and fortified her friend
for the delicate and novel adventure to which she was committed.
The piece was received with applause, and Margaret
and Rose, out of the small part they enacted, contrived
to eke considerable amount of self-gratulation. The
play was repeated, and Rose bore herself so well she had the
promise of being advanced to Maria, which Bertha took, who
was going off in Lady Teazle. The succeeding Sabbath,
Margaret repaired again to King's Chapel, thus exhibiting

the somewhat anomalous sight of a virtual stage-player, and a
devout church-goer; but she was witless of any contradiction.
Admitted to the secrets of the Theatre, as we gather
from her conversations with Rose, her first impressions gradually
dulled. Not to speak of other things, she remarked,
that her ideas became sadly disarranged by observing the superficiality
of that on which so much consequence depended.
Pasteboard, paint, hollowness, heartlessness, she said, were inadequate
for such an effect. “I looked into the pit,” said she,
“there were tears, and smiles, and fervid passion, while here
Avice was fretting because her shoes pinched, Bertha in the
farce was down-sick with a cold, and one gentleman died in
the tragedy, and was brought off drunk. The Theatre seems
to me almost as bad as the Church; it is all Puppetry alike.”

“I know it, Margaret,” replied Rose, “but what shall we
do? I suppose you will call me a Puppet too; if not acting
one's self constitutes a person such, then I am a Puppet. And
that is just what I want, to get away from myself. Yet when
the Black Castle comes on I will show you real acting.”

“Dear Rose, how sorry we are for ourselves, are we not?
But how can I consent to such methods of arousing people's
attention, and moving their affections?”

At whatever judgment she might have been destined to arrive
on these subjects, she was not long in finding new topics
of speculation. Returning that night at a late hour from the
Theatre, with Rose and their company, she stopped a moment
to look at the effect of a bright moon on the high tide waters
that filled the bay west of the Common, a conjunction it had
not fallen to her lot before to witness, and one that insensibly
detained her while the rest were a long distance ahead. “Let
fly your sheets, there! the bite is after you!” was a loud blunt
cry that startled her ears. “What! what!” she exclaimed.
“Run, run,” shouted the voice. She stood under the shadow
of a tree, and before she could collect herself, or comprehend
the cause of this sudden alarm, a hand was upon her; but no
sooner did she feel it, than it left her; and turning she beheld
a man struggling in the grasp of another man. “Climb the
rattlings, mount the horse there,” cried the last man, “while I
make the cull easy, you are in danger, Margaret, that's Obed's
horse, up with you.” She beheld the veritable Tim, standing
close by, she called his name, she sprang upon his back; and
directly after her mounted the man whose voice she had heard.
No sooner were they seated, than the other man rushed forward,
seized the stirrup, the crupper, or whatever he could lay

hands upon; the horse flung out, and galloped away. When
Margaret recovered herself in this sudden flurry, she recognized
in the man with whom she was riding, the sailor who
accosted Nimrod the day they reached Cambridge. He said
his name was Ben Bolter; and in a dialect mongrel and strange,
he gave Margaret to understand, as well as he could, that he
was an old friend of her brother's; that Nimrod and Obed
after a short confinement were released from prison; that
Nimrod having searched the city in vain for her, went back to
Livingston to see Deacon Ramsdill about her; while Obed remained,
both to find his friends, and sell his wares; that he
himself was also on the lookout for her; that enjoying a furlough,
he had engaged the use of Tim, who he declared was
the worst craft he ever sailed in; and finally, being at the Theatre
that night, he thought he discovered her behind the curtains;
and following the matter up, he came upon her just as
one, whom he characterized as an old enemy of his, and whom
Nimrod did not like, seemed to take advantage of her being
alone to do her an injury.

Hastening forward to Mrs. Wiswall's, Margaret found Rose
standing alone at the gate. “How you have frightened me!”
exclaimed the latter, “I thought you were with Bertha. They
were telling me of a new play—I went back after you, you
must have taken another street, I thought you were lost.”

“Have you been anchored here?” said the sailor. “What
place is this?”

“Mrs. Wiswall's,” answered Margaret.

“I guess Nimrod cast the name overboard, before he got
here, or something,” replied the sailor. “But I don't like her
build. What flag does she sail under? What's her crew?”

“Oh, Margaret!” outspoke Rose, “I have suspected something
wrong. I don't like Mrs. Wiswall's face. Some old remembered
villany sleeps in it. She is not the Deacon's sister.”

“It has seemed to me sometimes, as if all was not right,”
said Margaret.

“I wouldn't stay here,” said the sailor.

“What shall we do?” cried Rose; “whither now shall we
flee. I will never step my foot into this house again.”

“I know where a certain family lives, not far from the Common,”
said Margaret; “I am willing to go and throw myself
upon them for to-night.”

“Ben Bolter,” said Rose, “take us to sea with you. Carry
us out of the world.”

They went, however, as Margaret proposed; they came to a

house lying, like Mrs. Wiswall's, off from the road; it was a
late hour, there were no lights to be seen; but the resolution
of Rose and the confidence of Margaret led them straightway
through the yard, and up the steps. The sailor did the knocking
in a manner easy enough to himself, but such as might have
wrought violence on the peace of others. They had not long
to wait, when the door was opened by one whose face was now
familiar to Margaret, and which Rose might perchance remember
having seen, the young man whose father gave Margaret
a seat in Church, and to whose house she now fled for
refuge. They stated their errand and their distress, in which
was contained their apology.

“Come in,” said the young man. “I will speak to my sister;
the knocking I think has saved me the trouble of calling
her from her bed. I was already up.”

They were taken into the parlor, and the young man soon
returned with his sister whom he introduced as Anna Jones;
she made him known as her brother Frank. Preliminaries
were speedily settled, and our wanderers shown to their bed.
They met in the morning with a kind reception from Mr. and
Mrs. Jones, and another daughter, Winifred. These five composed
the family, between whom and Margaret an interest had
already been reciprocated from their casual rencontre at
Church, and which did not fail to extend to Rose. The ring
on Margaret's finger seemed also to find old acquaintances,
and served to recall the name of Mr. Evelyn, who the Joneses
said, was an intimate friend of theirs, and they expressed pleasure
in seeing one of whom he had spoken in terms of commendation.
Our wanderers here entered upon quiet but shadowy
days, the family using every method to domesticate them;
Nimrod was gone, and Obed was a peddler about the town;
they must in patience possess their souls. Mr. Jones had been
a prosperous India merchant; his house contained many things
to interest them; Paintings — Christ bearing the Cross by
Raphael divided Margaret's attention with a Magdalen at Devotion
by the same hand; a Lady taking the Veil, and Murillo's
Prodigal Son engaged Rose; there were Tenier's Rent-Day
Feast, Landscapes by Claude, Abraham receiving the
Angels by Il Mudo, and others; they were introduced to
rooms furnished with superb mirrors, satin-wood tables, French
chairs, tamboured lounges, marble busts, etc.; the Library
rich in its architecture, more in its books; they ate from gold
and silver plate; they slept under sumptuous satin curtains;
their tooth-brush case was inlaid with gold and silver; they

reveled in a Conservatory of rare and beautiful flowers. What
especially delighted them was a piano played with skill and
effect by Anna, while with a strong but latent peculiarity of
feeling, Margaret listened to a guitar, the instrument of Winifred.
Frank Jones they learned was a student of Theology,
in which science he supplied them with his views. They were
also introduced to a mother of Mr. Jones, a very old woman,
who entertained them with tales of ancient time. So two or
three days wore pleasantly away. One morning, Rose cried
out that Obed was coming! “There he is with his saddle
bags and new hat mounting the steps.” Margaret sprang for
the door. “Hold,” said Rose, “let us get under the curtains,
and see what he is after, if he knows we are here.” They concealed
themselves and Obed entered.

“Don't want teu buy some of my things, I kalkelate, deu ye?”

“Be seated, Sir,” said Anna, “and let me see what you
have.”

“Han't seen nothin' of Molly, have ye?”

“Molly, Molly! I have not heard of such a person.”

“I'm feered she's kilt, or pizened, run over, lost, or
drounded.”

“Who is she, your daughter, Sir?”

“No, she's Molly, Pluck's Molly, one of the Injins, what
lives under the Head, next the Pond, and neighbor of Marm's.
Nim and I brung her teu the Bay, and Rose; I run arter a
shoat at the races, and caught him; I couldn't hold him, he
was so greasy, and they wouldn't let me have the cup; they
wouldn't let Nim have his beat, and we knocked um down,
and they knocked us down, and put us into Jail; and when we
went back, the gals was gone. This is an orful place. One
woman said she would call the pleese, and have me took right
up, cause I went inteu her house, and threw a broom at me,
cause I wanted teu sell her something. They've kilt Molly,
and drounded her under the bridge.”

“I am sorry for you. You should not have left her.”

“Marm telled me teu look arter her; she was always good
teu me, and helped me dig roots, and kept Bull off.”

“Then you want her to work for you. Can't you find
somebody else for that?”

“I dun know; she's a right smart consarn, Marm says.
When she was at home, I could always find her, if she warn't
gone inteu the woods. If I know'd where she was, I could
find her now.”

“What would you give if I would help you find her?”

“I dun know, I've axed all the folk, and they never seen
her; and there she lives close by our house, and the Master
knows her, and she can read eeny most as well as Parson
Welles, and she is the only man in the world can go up teu
Tim, only me and Marm. If you would find her, I'd stay and
sleep with ye, and let you have some flag that is good teu chaw,
and some salve what'll cure the itch. Don't you want teu buy
some of the sientifikals, some of Marm's Nommernisstortumbug?
I've sold more than nine hundred boxes, since we
found it out. It'll cure yer croup, chopped hands, ager,
coughs, burns, sores, cuts, scalt-head, measle, small-pox, worms,
piles, sore-throat, tetters, felons, jaunders, toothache, dropsy,
headache, backache, tongue-tye.”

“What a wonder!”

“That an't half; Marm told me all; rumatis, hypo, gluts,
blue-skin, plague in the vitals, lock-jaw, St. Vitus dance,
palsy, wind-gall in yer horses, loss of cud in the cows, drive
rot out of yer sheep, keep the wind out of yer babies, kill
bed-bugs;—here is the paper what the Master wrote about it.
`Sudorific, anamnetic, detergent, scorbutic, tonic, febrifugous,
vermifugous, stimulant, sedative, aromatic, antiseptic, narcotic,
refrigerant, antispasmodic, demulcent, expectorant, stypitic,
cathartic, emetic,'—that is what he says, and he knows every
thing.”

“ `Garrulousness,' he has down.”

“Yes it cures that; that is the larnin'—sore-tongue—swab
out your mouth with quince core jell, I've got some in my bags,
and take a spoonful of the Nommernis when you go teu
bed.”

“ `Acrasial Philogamy?' Brother Frank, what is that?”

“That,” replied Frank, “is an incurable malady to which
young persons are subject.”

“Yes, the Master said 'twas takin', and Marm said it was
an orful complaint, she knew. Take pennyrial, pound up sweet
cicely root, and bile with henbane and half an ounce of the
Nommernis till it's done, and it'll break the fever.”

“What is this, `Cacoethes Feminarum'?”

“That's humors. Elder-blows'll drive um out.”

“ `Diæta et oratio est optima medicina—diet and prayer
he says are the best medicines—what does that mean?”

“Them is the sientifikals; one of the ministers took teu
boxes of the Nommernis when he read that, he liked it so
well.—What is that noise? Ye han't got anything shet up
here?”

“Nothing that will hurt you.”

“I don't like yer housen; they are full of bull-beggars and
catamounts. Marm'll scold at me like nutcakes, if I can't
find Molly. She's kilt, they've drounded her under the bridge.”

“What are you going to do with her?”

“Don't know, Marm han't said. They are all broke up
down there since the murder. Marm said if Molly come teu
our house she might have the best bed. But she don't want
Pluck nor Hash; they are an orful set. I can't stay, I can
hear um snickerin' at me as they did up teu tother house, and
Marm wouldn't like it.”

Rose and Margaret burst from their retreat with a loud
laugh, and gave Obed a hearty greeting; which he, bemazed
and extacized, returned as handsomely as he knew how. Obed
confirmed the account given by the sailor, and said Nimrod
promised to return as soon as he could see Deacon Ramsdill,
and that he was looking for him every day. To the great joy
of all, the next morning Obed with Ben Bolter appeared, conducting
Nimrod and Deacon Ramsdill to the house.

“This beats old Suwarrow,” said Nimrod. “You have kept
as shy as young partridges.”

“A pretty tough spell you have had of it, gals,” said the
Deacon. “But you know, Molly, you always find the chesnuts
arter a biting frost and hard wind. Some good may come
of it,—the Lord knows. A little butting agin the bag cures
the core.—I havn't no particular business here, but Freelove
thought I had better come down, and see what was to pay.—
We are all broke up at home, about the Meetin'-house and the
Parson and everything. Some want a new Minister, they won't
help about putting up the house. We have had several Town
Meetings, but there is a good deal of disorder, and some hard
feeling. I count, it's best for every one to paddle his canoe his
own way, and when he hasn't a canoe, then let him go a-foot.
There an't no two spears of grass alike, and you can't make all
people think alike, only I count they might live in peace together
in the same field. But Brother Hadlock wouldn't listen
to me, and when you can't do nobody any good, then you had
better let them alone. It's no use talking agin the grain. When
hens are shedding their feathers they don't lay eggs; and one
can't look for much among our folk now—so I thought I had as
goods come away.—But the hotter the fire the whiter the oven;
if our fire will be of any service the Lord knows.—I have been
arter sheep through brush and ditches, before now, gals, and I

commonly found them in better feed than their own close,
ha, ha!”

“They have found a good birth,” said Ben Bolter, looking
about the room. “But I should like to fall upon them Algerines.”

“There has been some singular mistake or mischief at
work,” said Mr. Jones. “There must have been an error in
the name, or something of that sort, I think.”

“The old fox, weazle, or what not, I am determined to dig
it out,” said Nimrod.

“I have been to Pamela's,” said the Deacon, “and she says
she hasn't seen anything of you; and she wants you to go right
round there.”

“We will all go together,” said Mr. Jones.

Accordingly they went to “the Widow Wizzle's,” the sister
of the Deacon, whom they found a different person in some
respects from their old acquaintance her namesake. Nimrod
and Ben Bolter exhibited strong desire to visit the late hostess
of the young ladies, and Nimrod said they must go with him;
their repugnance to such a measure was overborne by the
Joneses, who supported Nimrod, and offered to be of the company.
In force, now numbering seven persons, they proceeded
to the house of their late residence, were ushered into the
parlor, where they found Mrs. Wiswall evidently much agitated,
and a very aged man sitting leaning on his staff from which he
hardly raised his face. Whatever might have been their method
of address, or the purport of this visit, they were met by the apparition
of a human being, in large black whiskers, deathly pale,
leaning on the arm of Bertha, and emerging from the back parlor.
“Raxman!” involuntarily shuddered Rose, and fires that
had long consumed her heart flashed into her face, and retired;
and she hung convulsed on the arm of the younger Jones.

“Nope him on the costard,” said Ben Bolter.

“Keep still,” said Nimrod, “and let us see what the fellow
has to say.”

He, to whom all eyes were now turned, as if he had come
in on some such errand, thus spoke,

“I am,” said he, “a sick and dying man. Your violence,
Ben Bolter, comes too late; the blow from the horse has done
the work. Miss Elphiston, Miss — — — Margaret, can you
forgive me. I have wished to see you to ask this last earthly
favor. It was I who led you to this house, it was through my
instigation you were detained here, it was my wishes that regulated
all behavior towards you; nor would my mother, whom
you see before you, or my sister, have consented to such a

transaction as this must appear in your eyes except through
me. If my motives were selfish, they were not so disgraceful
to you, Miss Hart, as to me. I cannot unfold it all now; that
shall be done at other hands. I am weak, I am dying. I have
only strength to ask, ladies, will you forgive me. Miss Elphis
ton, to you I make no apology, I ask no charity, my conduct
admits of no qualification. I only crave your forgiveness; a
sheer wretch, I entreat it; at your feet I implore you to forgive
me. Your beauty, ladies, ensnared me, an uncontrolled ambition
has led me on, your virtues and your sufferings have
brought me to repentance, and not, I trust, the fear of death
alone.”

There was breathless silence, then a discordant tremor pervaded
the room;—the old man shook audibly on his cane, the
group in the centre worked with a varied phrenzy. Margaret
was the first to break this singular perplexity. “I forgive
you,” said she, “I forgive all your wrong to me, whatever
may have been its intention.”

“Never, never,” said Rose, “can I forgive you.”

“It is late shutting the door when the mare is stolen,” said
Deacon Ramsdill; “but when she comes back of her own
accord, you had better let her in. Besides, Rose, the Good
Book says, `Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.' ”

“I have foresworn the Bible,” answered Rose. “He and
it have alike damned me.”

“Don't speak so, Rose,” said Frank. “He seems to be
sincerely penitent. It would be a relief to his last moments
to have your forgiveness.”

“I cannot, I cannot!” she rejoined.

“O that Miss Elphinston would forgive my brother,” said
Bertha, weeping.

“You see, Mr. Jones,” said Mrs. Wiswall, addressing the
senior of the name, “the wretched mother of two wretched
children. But where is pity for her to be sought or received!
In that son and daughter you behold the tokens of all my sins,
and all my sufferings. Have you, Sir, been ignorant of my
course? My vanity was allured and my confidence betrayed
by a British Officer. One, in whose house we now are,
instructed me in the arts, and unbridled me for a career of
deception. When he left the country, and could make no
farther reparation for his injuries, he gave me the title to his
estate. I followed the American camp; I was cajoled by
your own officers. I became a runner between the two armies,
when the British held New York. And when it is his turn to

speak that sits there,” she said pointing to the old man, “he
will tell you more. I returned after the War to this house,
and here I am; my unhappy children pleading in vain for that
mercy which another's infamy might justly implore, and which
their guilty, miserable mother, the cause of all their calamities,
can never bestow. Who, Miss Elphiston, ever asked my pardon?
Who ever knelt for my forgiveness? What dying man
has flung me the poor boon of his remorse? By whose penitence
has my own conscious load of sin been lightened? My
relentings, were they ever so great, had been lavished on the
winds; my commiserations had been squandered on scoffs
and jeers; my love, which even the guilty sometimes feel, and
it is a relief to the abandoned to exercise, has been answered
by the frowns of the honored and the repulse of the prosperous.
Here I am, freshly awakened to a sense of my enormities, and
denied the privilege of seeing one gleam of peace fall upon the
heads of my poor children. My own guilt seems to augment,
and they are plunged into still deeper distress. Miss Margaret,
my conduct towards you must appear equivocal, suspicious,
and fraught with duplicity. But the crime belongs
rather to the means than the intent, and I have been too long
familiar with the ways of the world, to haggle at the manner
when the end is desirable. I had reason to believe that my
son's purposes were honorable, however his action must forever
degrade him in your eyes. In what a world do we live!
By what steadfastly increasing evil are our steps pursued!
Our life is but the ministration of woe and ruin by man to
man! He who rules all things for the best, permits some to
fall where others rise. Your beauty, which princes might
covet, shall bear you aloft, like the star of Evening, diffusing
glory all about you, and cheering your own existence. Mine
sinks beyond recovery, the darkness of disgrace adding new
deformity to the waste of years; and the lost innocence of
my childhood returns to shed vengeance on my enfeebled
age!”

“Ho!” hemmed Ben Bolter; “I must overhaul my coppers,
and get my head on another tack.”

“I do forgive you,” said Rose, “and may Heaven forgive
me too.”

While these scenes were transpiring among the principal
parties in the room, one might have detected Nimrod in earnest
whisper with the old man aside; “Not now, sir, not now;
this is enough for once; wait till we get away, we will go to
Mr. Jones's.”

The company returned to the house whence they started.
Meanwhile, Mr. Jones taking Margaret by herself, said he
would open on a subject of some interest to her. He doubted
not, he added, that her good sense would receive what he was
commissioned to declare without confusion, and the fortitude
she had displayed in adverse circumstances would not forsake
her under more agreeable events. What was coming, she
might well ask, that required such a preface. Have you a
grandfather, he asked; she replied she knew of none, that she
supposed the parents of both her father and mother were dead.
“I have the pleasure, then,” continued Mr. Jones, “to inform
you that your grandfather is living, and the old man we saw
at Mrs. Wiswall's is he.” He then proceeded to put her in
possession of what the reader already knows, that she was the
adopted child of Pluck and Brown Moll, that her own father
and mother died in her infancy, that she had been disowned
by her grandfather, who, nevertheless, had contributed supplies
to her comfort, and in a word that she must prepare to receive
him the following day.

The next morning, Nimrod and Ben Bolter, accompanied
by the old man, Mr. Girardeau, came to Mr. Jones's. The way
having been prepared, little remained but for Margaret to embrace
her grandfather. The old man laid his hand on her
head, looked in her face, and with a voice broken by age, and
husky with emotion, said, “Jane, Jane, my own Jane, my
Jane's own?” Summoning Rose, he held them face to face,
and said, “This is your cousin, Margaret, the grandchild of
my wife's sister; and Nimrod,” continued he, “is not your
adopted brother only, his mother is the daughter of my only
sister. Others have asked your forgiveness, but who needs it
more than I? I turned you off in helpless infancy, I have
greatly sinned against you and others too, more than I can tell.
But Nimrod and Ben Bolter will inform you of what I cannot.
Let me be forgiven, and you shall know my wrong doings
afterwards.”

“Sit down, Sir,” said Nimrod, “and I will tell all I know
about the matter,” and he proceeded to relate his first connection
with Margaret, and his taking her to the Pond.

“Yes,” added Ben Bolter, “it is all true. Nim and I were
messmates. I was there when he brought you off; I helped
stow you away; I dandled you when he was asleep; I lowered
you down when he left the sloop; you was a good looking
cock-boat, but make a spread eagle of me, if you havn't grown
into as handsome a merchantman as ever carried a bone in her

mouth. But, blow me, if Obed's horse, hadn't bunged the
cull's puddings, I don't know where you would have brought
up.”

“God's hand is in it!” said Deacon Ramsdill, who came
in during these disclosures. “You know we read that when
the lost one came home they danced and made merry. And
you recollect, Molly, when they brought you up out of the
woods, the Preacher prayed before the dance begun. I feel as
if I should like to pray before we get on to the rejoicings.”
Whereupon they all joined with the Deacon, who, in simple,
heart-felt manner, made thanksgiving to Almighty God.

Leaving these persons to recapitulate details, exchange congratulations,
and make such demonstration of joy as was
natural to the hour, we must go with our readers to places and
times somewhat remote, and bring up a brief account illustrative
of events that have now been recorded.