University of Virginia Library

WALTER WILSON.

Rowe.

Travellers, who have made the tour of
Europe, always dwell with peculiar delight on
the sunny skies of Italy; and a host of domestic
writers, never, perhaps, in the whole course
of their existence, beyond that seeming boundary
where their eyes first beheld the horizon
apparently closing around them, join their
voices in the chorus of the sunny skies of
Italy!

Let them lard their poems and stories with
threadbare descriptions of the `rosy twilight,'

and `silvery moonbeams,' and `gorgeous sunrise'—I
confess, these copied delineations have
little interest for me.—America, `my own,
my native land'—O! the rudest mountain,
and wildest wood of thy varied landscape,
is far dearer to my heart, and more inspiring
to my imagination, than the sublime antiquities
and unrivalled natural charms of that
clime, where `all, save the spirit of man, is
divine.' It is the free expression of that spirit,
which, when irradiated by liberty, and instructed
by knowledge, is all but divine, that
gives to Americans their peculiar characteristics.
To exhibit some of those traits, originated
by our free institutions, in their manifold
and minute effects on the minds, manners, and
habits of the citizens of our republic, is the
design of these Sketches. How well the design
is fulfilled, the decision of the public taste,
must decide.

Walter Wilson was the only child of a man
who had once been an eminent merchant in
Boston, but losses and misfortunes suddenly
reduced him to bankruptcy, and he died,
broken-hearted, before Walter had attained his
seventh year. Mrs. Wilson, with her little boy,
then retired to the house of her father, a good
industrious farmer, residing in the county of
Franklin; where she might have dwelt in quietness,
had not the elevation from which she
had fallen, and which, in truth, she had not
borne very meekly, continually mortified her
pride. Her impatient repinings were not
heard with much sympathy by her own family,

and she was driven as much by necessity as
inclination, to pour forth her sorrows to her
young son. However, it must be confessed,
she dwelt quite as pathetically on the loss of
her fine house and fine furniture, fine horses
and fine carriages, as on the loss of that husband
to whom she was indebted for all her
finery. She was a weak woman—too highly
elated in prosperity, too easily depressed by
adversity—not considering that both are situations
of trial; that there is but one path which
leads to eternal life, and so we gain it, the
consideration is trivial, whether it be beneath
the garish sunbeams of the one, or groping
our tearful way through the dark shadows of
the other. But lessons of true humility, or
useful exertion, were never taught by the precepts,
or examples, of Mrs. Wilson; and
Walter, till her death, which occurred when he
was about fifteen, had done little, save repine
at the cruelty of fortune, or form wild schemes
of future success and grandeur, which neither
his temperament, nor habits, seemed in the
least calculated to realize. He was proud,
passionate, and visionary, and though not idle,
a very reluctant boy, whenever manual labor
was included in his tasks. These were the
dark shades of his character. Now for the sunny
side; and that I like to portray far the best.
His feelings were just like his countenance,
—open, ingenuous, noble; his heart quick as
the flash of his dark eye, in the cause of the
oppressed; and tender as the smile that played
on his lip, while gazing on the faces of those
he loved. And he possessed that surest pledge
of virtue in the dependant, a grateful mind;
joined with a sense of honor so scrupulous,
that he would have died rather than betrayed
a trust reposed in him, or violated a promise
voluntarily given. It was on the right direction
of these qualities, that his grandfather, a
cautious, shrewd old citizen, who had fought
in the battles of the revolution, and assisted
in the formation of more than one constitution
designed for the government of freemen, built
his hopes of the future success of the destitute
orphan. But how to manage him judiciously
was the question. He had never been subjected
to much restraint, and his spirit would
spurn at the contumely and wrongs the poor
are often exposed to receive from the rich.
He was naturally romantic, and had not been
inured to steady exertion, and would probably
be discouraged if a life of labor was proposed
as the only means by which greatness might
be achieved. His grandfather had a friend,
an old-fashioned farmer like himself, and moreover
rich and without sons, who offered to take
the boy. It was an excellent place, if plenty
of food, and plenty of work, good instruction,
and pious examples, are considered of primary
importance in the education of the young.
The grandfather thought them so.—Walter was
not so easily satisfied; but, finally, gratitude to
his relative, who had so long supported him,
made him yield to his wishes, and consent to
dwell with Mr. Ezekiel Clark, for the space
of three years. If in that time his objections
to the occupation of agriculture should not be
removed, his grandfather promised to aid him
to prepare himself for something more consonant
to his wishes. It is impossible, in this
limited sketch, to analyze the motives which induced
the old gentleman thus to dispose of
Walter, whom he loved as tenderly as he ever
did one of his own sons. No doubt the reader,
if a young lady, thinks his destination very
vulgar—wonders why he was not sent to college,
or at least, placed behind some counter;
and, all interest in the hero at an end, prepares
to turn to some more amusing article. If she
does, she will lose the description of as fair a
girl as herself, besides one or two love scenes.

It was about seven o'clock in the evening of
the last day of November, 1803, that the family
of Mr. Ezekiel Clark was summoned to the
sitting room to attend family duties. This was
two hours earlier than the usual season for the
evening devotions, but all knew the reason of
the call, and assembled without delay. There,
in an oldfashioned armed chair, before a fire that
seemed calculated for the meridian of Lapland,
sat Mr. Ezekiel Clark; at his right hand stood
a three legged table, on which lay the “big
ha' Bible,” well worn, and beside it, a small,
neat edition of the holy scriptures, apparently
new. Mr. Clark was advanced in years, sixty
or upwards, a tall, spare, yet vigorous looking
man, and in his youth, probably handsome;
but now his face was marked with the deep
lines of care and sorrow, while his thick, over-hanging
eyebrows, gave an austere cast to his

countenance, which was much increased by
his habitual gravity. With her chair nestled
close to his side, and her hand reclining on his
knee, sat his daughter, his only one, and a
fairer girl could not be found in all the country.

I dislike full length descriptions of beauty.
Who does not know that a handsome woman
must have a fair complexion, bright eyes, ruby
lips, and all the et cœtera of loveliness, requisite
to take captive the affections of lordly man?
These choice gifts had been showered upon
the fair Fanny—(that was her name; had she
ever attended a boarding school, it would
probably have been novelized into Frances;
but the advantages of a fashionable education
she never had enjoyed, and so I shall call her
as her father always called her—Fanny;)—
with a prodigality that marked her for a favorite
of nature; yet I cannot be positive of the
color of her hair, whether it was black, brown,
or chestnut.

The qualities of her mind and temper demand
more particular scrutiny. She was the
youngest of eight children that a beloved wife
had borne to Mr. Clark. The others all died
young; and as these human blossoms, one by
one, were withered, the heart of the mother
sunk beneath her grief. She died of a lingering
consumption, and the little Fanny, then
but five years old, only remained to console
her father. It might naturally be supposed
she would be much indulged—but it was not
so. Mr. Clark was a genuine descendant of
the pilgrims, pious even to enthusiasm, and

pursuing what he deemed the path of duty,
with a resolution that savored of sternness.
Strict in family duties, and family government,
even to rigidness, he would have thought it an
infringement of the decalogue, to have indulged
with his child in that playful hilarity which
good people now deem so innocent and laudable.
But Fanny loved her father with a reverence
so deep, so grateful, that all his commands
were pleasant. She even watched to
anticipate his wishes, and although, had she
followed the impulses of her own happy and
buoyant heart, she would have sung and danced
from morning till night; yet whenever she
caught her father's voice, hers sunk to soft
murmurs; and when she heard his step, her
own was demure as a quaker's. Yet it was
not that he did not love her sweet tones; they
thrilled every fibre of his heart, and often
charmed him `even to tears'—but he did not
dare indulge his tender and delighted feelings,
he so feared he should idolize her; he so trembled
lest he should lose her. He was like the
miser who can only count his gold in secret,
lest some one beholding his treasure, should
rob him of the precious deposit. He always
prayed for her, but he never caressed her;
even when she drew her chair so close to his,
and looked up in his face with such confiding
fondness, he did not smile upon her. But she
knew he loved her, and to retain and merit his
affection, was her study and pride. O, she
was a sweet girl! as gay as a swallow, and
yet gentle as a dove—persevering, and yet
flexible; just the disposition for a woman, a
wife; a spirit that can accommodate itself to
the wishes and humors of those on whom it is
dependent for happiness, and yet retain sufficient
firmness to act with decision when circumstances
shall require its exertion.

I have dwelt so long on the character of
Fanny, (how could it be avoided?) that I must
be brief in the notice of the personage seated
next her. And yet to delineate half her peculiarities,
would fill half a volume, and her sayings
and doings would form a folio. She was
no other than Miss Judith Clark, better known
in the family and neighbourhood by the name
of aunt Judy, the sister of Mr. Ezekiel Clark;
and ever since the decease of his wife, had
been his housekeeper. She was a working,
talking, bustling body, and one who never
omitted an opportunity of giving good advice
to any person, let them be ever so mean or
miserable, who would listen to her harangues.
If she did not always give assistance to those
who needed it, it was because she did not see
it to be her duty. She was the reverse of her
brother in many things, and perhaps the difference
cannot be better explained than by saying,
that while she was boasting of her knowledge
of the law, he was silently obeying its injunctions.
Yet she was an excellent housekeeper,
and proud of her housekeeping; in short, one
of your notables; a character not so common
now as twenty years since. She was seated
very erect, in a low chair, her knitting work on
her lap, but covered with her pocket handkerchief,

which would wholly have concealed it,
had not one unmannerly needle thrust itself
through a small hole she had that very evening
to her great consternation burnt, while smoking.
Her visage was thin and sharp, and her
features, and the lines of her countenance, denoted
no predominant passion, save extreme
carefulness; yet her spectacles were now raised
upon her forehead, and her hands reverently
folded upon her lap, as if she had cast aside
all worldly thoughts, while preparing to attend
the reading of the Holy Word. Let us not
doubt the sincerity of her worship—she certainly
made a sacrifice of inclination to duty;
the posture she had assumed, was to her active
habits a penance; for never, during waking
hours, were her hands seen folded, except at
the morning and evening devotions. But even
then, she was not wholly freed from anxiety.
Her attention was often diverted from her religious
meditations, by the pranks of a roguish
looking urchin, who sat in the corner, on her
left. A little curl-headed Jonathan, who had
been bequeathed, by his dying mother, to the
care of aunt Judy, and whom she loved, three
excepted, the best of any human being. But
he loved play, even better than he did aunt
Judy; and was now, from his low stool, slyly
pulling and teasing two venerable cats, that
lay sleeping on a rug, placed purposely for
them, near the fire.

One other figure completed the group around
the hearth. Nearly opposite aunt Judy, and
beyond the table, on the right hand of Mr.

Clark, sat a young man, apparently sunk in
profound thought. The air of his countenance
was lofty, almost to haughtiness—and yet
there was something in the expression of his
very handsome features that attracted, almost
fascinated, every beholder. It was the expression
of generous feeling, that promised
sympathy; of open sincerity, that invited confidence;
and few, who regard the face as an index
of the mind, would have hesitated to trust
him as a friend, and fewer still would have
wished to have provoked him to become an
enemy. That youth was Walter Wilson. It
was the day of his emancipation—he was twenty-one;
and the family were thus early assembled,
that they might all unite once more in
worshipping the Most High, before Walter departed
to a school, in a distant town, which he
had engaged to instruct during the winter.

Mr. Clark read a chapter composedly, but
in a much lower tone than usual—perhaps that
was the reason why neither Walter nor Fanny
heard one word of the matter. Aunt Judy
could not attend strictly to the reading, as she
was obliged to keep one eye constantly fixed
on the rogue in the corner, while sundry shakes
of her head denoted her displeasure at his conduct.
Then followed the prayer, in which
Mr. Clark deviated so far from his usual form,
as to petition, earnestly, that the path of duty
might be made plain to the one about to go
out from them—that he might be kept from
temptation, and preserved from evil; and that
they might all meet again, if not in this vale of

tears, yet in the heaven of joy above. Aunt
Judy, as a response, uttered a sigh so deep,
it nearly resembled a groan—Walter stood
with his lips firmly compressed, and every
nerve wrought up to endure, if possible, without
betraying his feelings; he did not relax
for aunt Judy's groan. But when he heard a
soft, low sigh, that he knew was breathed by
Fanny, his knees trembled so violently, he was
compelled to lean against the mantel-piece for
support. When Mr. Clark had ended his
prayer, he took from the table the small Bible,
and advancing one step towards Walter, said,
—`It is now my duty, Walter, to say you are
free. You have been a faithful and a good
boy; not that I can say you have always done
your duty; but we all have our short-comings,
and you have behaved much better than I expected
when I took you. I hope and pray you
will continue to do well; and as a guide to your
path, I give you the word of God. Study it,
Walter, and you will, I trust, become wise unto
salvation. And if, in this world, you meet
with any trials in which I can assist you, call
upon me as your friend, your father.'

His voice sunk as he pronounced the last
word, but not one word was so distinctly heard
by Walter; and as he returned the fervent
pressure of the old man's hand, the tears swelled
in his eyes. Aunt Judy sobbed audibly,
and would doubtless have cried outright, had
she not felt it her duty, while her brother was
speaking, to reprimand little Jonathan, which
she did in a whisper, by telling him that `if he

did not let them 'ere cats alone, and behave
himself, she would, as soon as ever Walter
was gone, whip him till she took his skin off.'
For the credit of her humanity, however, I will
record, that she had not the least intention
of executing her threat.

A man now entered the room to say he waited
for Walter. `We must bid you good-by,
Walter,' said aunt Judy, offering him one hand,
while with the other she wiped her eyes—`but
where is Fanny? Fanny!' she continued in
a loud tone—`where can the girl be gone to,
I wonder? Fanny!'

`Bid Fanny farewell for me,' said Walter,
in a low voice, and then again pressing the
hand of Mr. Clark, he rushed from the house.

`You may put my trunk in the sleigh, and
drive on,' said Walter, to the man who was to
accompany him—`I shall walk.'

`Walk! what, all the way to your grandfather's?'
inquired the man—`why it is a
good five miles, and a plaguy rough road.'

`No matter,' replied Walter, in an accent so
impatient, it sounded angry—`I say I shall
walk.'

`And walk you will, I guess, for all of my
stopping for you,' muttered the fellow, as he
drove off at full speed.

Walter slowly followed the jingling vehicle,
till he had reached an abrupt angle in the road,
which, entered upon, soon shut out the view
of Mr. Clark's dwelling. Here the youth paused,
turned, and stood long, with folded arms,
gazing on the home he had left. The cold of

winter had already commenced; the ground
was covered with snow, that sparkled beneath
the bright moonlight; it was shining as the
world appeared to Walter, and cold as his
hopes on entering it. The tall elms, that so
gracefully, during summer, threw their green
foliage over the long, low, oldfashioned building,
now towered, revealed in all their gigantic
proportions, their long bare arms, stretched
abroad, as if to defend the dwelling they had
so lately ornamented. All around was hushed;
and while Walter stood there so still and
lonely, the only living thing unsheltered, he
felt pressing on his heart that sense of utter
desolateness, which persons of sensibility, who
for the first time find themselves alone in the
world, are doomed to suffer. There are few
sensations more painful.

How his hopes, and plans, and wishes, had
altered, since he first went to reside with Mr.
Clark! Fanny was then just twelve. He
promised to stay three years; they looked like
an eternity to him, he was so anxious to mingle
among men, and hew himself a path to fame,
and do—he knew not what—but `wonders, no
doubt.' The three years expired. Fanny
was fifteen. She loved Walter, with all the
innocency and truth of sisterly affection. Every
leisure hour they planned some amusement
together. During the long winter evenings,
when she had knit her thirty times round, they
read the same books together. Fanny, with
tears in her eyes, begged him to stay; could
he go? O, no! not then—in a few months perhaps.

Thus two years passed—they passed
quickly to Walter. One year only remained
of his minority; and during that, he never
once expressed a wish to go. And Jacob
could not labor more faithfully, while serving
for his beloved Rachel, than Walter wrought
on the farm of Mr. Clark. Yet the intercourse
between Walter and Fanny, had assumed a
character so distant and reserved, that a stranger
might have thought them wholly indifferent
to each other. This reserve was the effect of
her delicacy, and his sense of honor and fidelity
to his master. It was then Walter felt the
full bitterness of his poverty and dependence.

He loved Fanny, deeply, fervently; and yet
he never breathed a syllable, which a brother
might not have spoken to a sister. Still he
feared he had not been sufficiently guarded,
else why had not Mr. Clark expressed a wish
to have him reside longer with him, when he
so much needed help? `He suspects I love
Fanny,' murmured the youth to himself. A
convulsive movement for a moment agitated
his features. Then clenching his hand firmly,
he exclaimed—`And I will yet be worthy of
her love!' And plunging down the steep road,
he pursued his way with a speed that seemed
calculated to overtake his companion.

In truth, Walter was not the only person
who wondered why he was suffered to depart.
Aunt Judy owned her astonishment; but as
economy was as much her hobby as it ever was
Adam Smith's, the only difference being that
his was political, hers, personal—she resolved

all her doubts by reflecting, that probably, her
brother knew of some person he could hire,
who would work cheaper than Walter.

The next morning saw a very sober looking
group assembled around the breakfast table of
Mr. Ezekiel Clark. `I took a bad cold yesterday,
and could not sleep much last night,'
said Mr. Clark.

`I had terrible bad dreams, and my sleep did
not do me one bit of good,' said aunt Judy.

Fanny said not a word; but, judging by her
swollen eye and pale cheek, she had rested no
better than the others. A fortnight passed,
and no news from Walter—another fortnight,
and a letter came to Mr. Clark.

`Pray, how does Walter like his school?
how many scholars does he have? when is he
coming home?' eagerly demanded aunt Judy;
huddling question upon question, with true
feminine volubility.

`He says nothing at all about his school,'
replied her brother, gravely, and glancing his
eye on his daughter.

`You needn't look to Fanny,' said aunt Judy,
pettishly, provoked that her questions were all
vain,—`as if she wanted to hear anything
about Walter. She hasn't mentioned his name
since he went away, and I don't believe she
cares whether he is dead or alive.'

Fanny was employed making a coat of crimson
flannel, which aunt Judy had taken particular
pains to color for little Jonathan. During
the time her father was reading the letter,
she had busily continued her work; but aunt

Judy afterwards declared, she never, `in all
the days of her life, see such a looking buttonhole
as one that Fanny made on that crimson
suit.' Her face was pale as marble when her
father first looked upon her; at aunt Judy's
remark, it was colored to her forehead—even
her neck and hands were as crimson as Jonathan's
coat.

A smile of tenderness, mingled with a shade
of sorrow, passed over the usually fixed, and
almost stern features of Mr. Clark. He collected
his writing materials, and sat down to
answer Walter's letter; but what he wrote,
aunt Judy, with all her fidgeting, could not
discover.

The months passed on; but if we credit
aunt Judy, they passed heavily. She always
declared it was the most melancholy winter she
ever experienced. `And Fanny,' she said,
`was so downspirited and moping, she raly
feared the girl was going into a consumption.'

At such remarks, Fanny would try to smile;
but if her father heard them, the look of pity
and endearment he always threw upon her,
would bring tears to her eyes.

It was towards the last of March, and on
the evening of a stormy, blustering day, such
as frequently occur at the vernal equinox, that
Mr. Clark sat down to read his usual portion
of scripture. He had laid his hand on the sacred
volume, and given the preparatory hem,
when the outer door unclosed, and a light step
was heard traversing the long, narrow entry.
The sitting room door was flung open.

`Walter!'—exclaimed Mr. Clark, in the
deep bass tones of his guttural voice, seizing
one of the youth's hands.

`Walter!'—screamed aunt Judy, a full octave
above the highest treble notes she ever
before used—as she caught the other.

`Walter!' murmured Fanny, in a voice
sweeter to his ear than the breathing of an
æolian harp, as disengaging himself from the
grasp of her father and aunt, he pressed both
her hands in his, and while she sunk into the
chair from which she had partly risen, just
touched his lips to her forehead.

The action was unnoticed by aunt Judy,
who had stooped to pick up her spectacles,
which had fallen in her hurry to welcome Walter;
and which she would not have had broken,
for a kiss from the handsomest young man in
the universe. If Mr. Clark saw the slight
caress, the smile that beamed on his features,
while he pointed Walter to a seat in his usual
place, did not argue displeasure.

`What is the matter with Fanny now?' said
aunt Judy. `I shouldn't think Walter's coming
home was any occasion for tears.'

`We will proceed in the duties of the evening,'
said her brother, solemnly, as he just
glanced on his daughter.

`You may have Fanny,' said Mr. Clark to
Walter the next day—`but, as I told you in
my letter, you must not marry till next November.
Manage for yourself one year. Go,
hire yourself out, and be steady and industrious;
you will gain much useful knowledge;

and next fall come home here, and you shall
be as my own son. Fanny, too, has need of
learning many things, before she will be fitted
to manage a family.'

`Yes, indeed,' responded aunt Judy. `Fanny
never has cared whether she knew how to
bake, or brew, or any such necessary matters,
if she could only skip and sing. But I hope
now she will be more steady, and mind how I
season my pies; the wedding cake I shan't
let her try to make, for it would be a bad sign,
besides a very great waste, if the wedding cake
should be spoiled.'

`These wild, idle boys sometimes succeed
well,' said a neighbour to the grandfather of
Walter Wilson. `There is your grandson,
he has married the richest and prettiest girl
in the county. Who would have guessed it?'

`It has happened just as I intended,' replied
the sagacious old man, significantly shaking
his head, `when I persuaded the child to live
with Mr. Clark. Walter was one of your romantic,
hasty, wayward boys; but he had a
good heart notwithstanding. One of those
tempers, so difficult to manage, and so well
worth the attempt of managing. I placed him
in the right way, and he is now so trained and
bound, that habit and inclination will keep him
right. His own ardor and ambition will soon
carry him forward, and it is the blessing of our
happy institutions, that merit and talents, in
whatever station, if rightly exerted, will command
respect, and ensure success. I prophesy,'
continued the old man, raising himself up

with a lofty air, `I prophesy, that if Walter
Wilson lives twenty years, he will be a distinguished
man!'

There is now a large, elegant brick mansion
beneath the shade of those old elms, that once
threw their arms over a long, low, irregular
building; the grounds, and everything around,
bespeak the owner a gentleman of industry,
wealth, and taste; and the address of that
gentleman is, the Hon. Walter Wilson.