University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

The week that followed the funeral
would have been passed by Miss Redwood
in perfect listlessness, had not Miss
Bruce excited her curiosity, and her
curiosity been stimulated by the difficulty
of its gratification. The following
petulant production of her pen, a
letter achieved to her grandmother after
repeated and painful efforts, may afford
a fair view of her feelings. It certainly is
not a favourable specimen of her talents,
for she had originally a strongly marked
character: but abandoned from her infancy
to the guidance of a doting and

silly grandmother, and early initiated into
fashionable and frivolous society, with uncommon
intellectual capacities and strong
passions, she was permitted to devote
herself to every thing that was trifling,
and, in short, condemned to a perpetual
childhood. But no farther remarks shall
be intruded on the just inferences which
the good sense of our readers will enable
them to deduce from the document itself.

“My dear grandmamma,—I can fancy
your vexation when you receive this
letter; for you, and you alone, can form
an adequate notion of my disappointments
and present misery. As to papa,
you know he never feels, nor thinks as
you and I do.

“No doubt in your imagination I
am figuring in the drawing-rooms of
Boston, displaying those beautiful dresses
you imported for this ill-starred journey;
leading captive my thousands and my
tens of thousands; living in an atmosphere

of lover's sighs, and on the eve of
breaking a hundred hearts by my departure
for the Springs, where we expected
that a second harvest of conquest and
glory awaited me. `Now look on that
picture, and on this.' Here I am at a
vulgar farmer's, on the outskirts of a
town called Eton; and so changed am
I, or rather every thing about me is so
changed, that I can scarcely believe that
not much more than one little month
has elapsed since I was parading Broadway
with Captain Fenwick—(by the
way, Broadway is a sublime place for a
real show off,)—and he said to me, as
admirer after admirer poured into my
train, `you see Miss Redwood, that you
are the centre of the system,—the sun;
and we, your satellites, humbly revolve
around you.' What would he think,
what could he say, if he were to see me
now; not a creature dazzled by my
brightness, though there is not a rival
star in the heavens?—but a truce to
lamentations, I will proceed to facts, and
then, dear grandmamma, you will perceive
how much I deserve and need
your pity. I must begin my relation at
St. John's, where the only pleasant incident
occurred which this letter will
contain. You will remember that I
wrote you from Montreal the particulars
of my first interview with Captain Fitzgerald,
et cetera, et cetera, et cetera:
how many delightful gallantries and
flattering speeches are included in these
et ceteras! Speaking of Fitzgerald, carries
me back to Montreal; and I must
say, en passant, I was shockingly disappointed
in the size and appearance of
the city, which I expected to find as
large as New-York; and still more
with the military band; for you know,
grandmamma, you always told me that
since the revolution we had never had
any military music fit to be heard. But
to return to our journey. The first person
I beheld on arriving at St. John's
was Fitzgerald; he had come there, as
he whispered to me, to see me once
more. Papa was very cold—almost
rude to him; but I took care that my
pleasure should be sufficiently apparent
to compensate him for papa's incivility.
It is so strange of papa, when he knows
that Fitzgerald is the son of an earl, and
brother to a Lord; and if he is a little
gay, as papa says he is, dissipation is
universal among military men, and no
fault of theirs of course. I don't see
what good it does papa not to be religious,
if he will make such a fuss about
trifles. My dear grandmamma, you would
admire Fitzgerald; and you may have
an opportunity, for he assured me, that
if he could get up a cough that would
furnish a pretext to ask leave of absence,
he would pass the next winter at
Charleston. He hinted at the possibility
of meeting me at the Springs. I
am ready to die with vexation when I
think of what I may lose by our detention
in this vile place. It is but little
more than a week, though it seems to
me an age, since we met with the shocking
accident which has caused our
delay. Immediately on getting into
our own carriage, (the sight of which
was the first thing that revived me after
parting with Fitzgerald,) we were overtaken
by a tremendous thunder-storm,
which of course almost deprived me of
my senses; the lightning struck a number
of trees, and the prodigious blaze
that ensued, so terrified the horses, that
they leaped over a precipice forty or
fifty feet high. Fortunately the carriage
was not turned over, owing, I believe,
though I never understood clearly how
it was, to its being caught among the
branches of the trees. I was wild with
fright, and poor Lilly as white as my
handkerchief. As soon as we were extricated
from our perilous situation, we
took refuge in the nearest farm-house,
glad, at the moment, of any shelter from
the storm. We should have proceeded
the same evening to the village, but
papa had his arm horribly broken in
jumping from the carriage, and here
we were obliged to remain; and here
we have a prospect of passing the remainder
of papa's life; for strange to tell,
he has put himself into the hands of a
country doctor; and what is worse, though
he never believed in anything before,
he has taken a freak to place implicit
confidence in this man, whose interest it
is, you know, to detain him here as long
as possible. This papa does not seem
to suspect, clair-voyant, as he prides
himself on being, and aided too by the
light of my hints, which you may be
sure I have not spared. What is most
extraordinary and provoking of all is,
that papa, who was never contented
before in his life, appears as satisfied as
if he had entered elysium; and never
before patient, has suddenly become as
patient as Job.

“There is one solution of the mystery
which I hardly dare to commit to paper,
lest some bird of the air should carry
it to papa.

“You must know, grandmamma, there
is a young woman here—lady I suppose
I must call her—for to confess the truth,
she has every appearance of being one,
that has inspired papa with the most
surprising admiration from the first
moment that he saw her. I dare not
say he is in love with her: I will
not think it. I should go mad if I
believed it; but he has the most unaccountable
interest in her. Yesterday I
said to him with as much apparent
carelessness as I could assume, `Lilly
tells me that this Miss Bruce is shortly
to be married.'

“`Ah,' said he, starting from one of
his fits of absence, `to whom? where did
Lilly pick up this intelligence?' `From
some of the family; the happy man is
a son of our host's, a young parson.'

`Impossible,' exclaimed papa. `Impossible,
Sir,' I echoed, `why so?' The
dear old gentleman was a little flustered
for a moment, and then said, `Miss
Bruce is so superior to this Lenox family,
so intelligent and cultivated;'—`but,
papa, you are always crying up these
Lenoxes for such knowing people.'
`They deserve our respect, Miss Redwood:
they are excessively well-informed,
and clever: but, Caroline, you
must see the disparity between them
and Miss Bruce; it is quite apparent:
the gracefulness of her demeanor, the
uncommon delicacy of her manners, the
very tones of her voice, mark her as
a being of the highest order.' It is a
gone case, thought I; but hiding my
thoughts in the depths of my heart, I
replied, `she has undoubtedly a more
genteel air than these Lenox girls; but
why should she be on intimate terms
with the family, if she has such superior
pretensions?' `I know not,' he replied,
pettishly; `there is some tie of
benevolence to the Allens, I believe;
but of course it is a subject which we
cannot with any propriety investigate.'
He then told me he was fatigued, and
would like to be left alone; and as I
came out of the room, he requested me
to send Lilly to him. His reluctance
to investigation was suddenly vanquished,
for as I afterwards learned from
Lilly, he questioned, and cross-questioned
her as to the source and amount
of her intelligence.—Heaven grant it
may be true!

“I cannot imagine how papa can feel
any interest in this Lenox family: they
are common working vulgar farmers.
There is one oddity among them,
whom they call an `old girl;' a
hideous monster—a giantess: I suspect a
descendant of the New-England witches;
and, I verily believe, if the truth was
known, she has spell-bound papa. The
wretch is really quite fond of him; for

him she wrings the necks of her fattest
fowls, and I hear her at this moment
bawling to one of the boys, to kill the
black-eared pig,—for him no doubt.
Notwithstanding her devotion to papa,
she does not pay me the least respect,
but lavishes all her favour on Ellen
Bruce. I overheard her this morning
saying to Mrs. Lenox, that Ellen was
as much of a lady as that Caroliny gal,
with all her flaunting ruffles and folderols.
Ellen, she said, had been brought
up to business; but as to that useless
piece, she could neither act nor transact.
She says too, that, rather than have a
fellow-creter tag round after her, as Lilly
does after me, she would turn wild Indian.

“Only think, dear grandmamma, of
my being obliged to hear such rude
things said without notice or resentment,
for papa is very angry if I betray,
in the slightest degree, my contempt and
detestation of these people and their
ways; even if I ridicule them, he quotes

to me a wise old saw of Cæsar's, or
somebody's, that, `He that condemns
rusticity is himself a rustic.' In heaven's
name, of what use is rank or fortune, if
it does not make you independent of
such animals!

“In every respect this place is disagreeable
to me. It fatigues me to
death to see the family labour: labour,
as you often say, grandmamma, was made
for slaves, and slaves for labour; but
here they toil on as if it was a pleasure.
They have an immense farm, as they
call their plantation, and but two servants,
(one a negro) or as they call
them, helps; and well are they thus
named, for they do no more work than
the rest of the family; and what provokes
me more than all, is, that these
servants read and write, and are taught
arithmetic, and the Lord knows what
all, and Lilly and Ralph have this dreadful
example before them. But the
most ridiculous thing is, the fuss these

people make about learning, as they call
all sorts of knowledge; one would think
it was the philosopher's stone, by the
pains they take to get it. After the
girls `have done up their work, and put
every thing to rights,' (this is their jargon)
they walk twice in a week, a
mile and a half to the village to hear a
man lecture on botany. I am sure you
would expire with laughter, to see their
boors of brothers come from their work
in the fields laden with flowers for their
sisters to analyse, or preserve in their
herbariums. There is a village library,
and as much eagerness for the dull histories
and travels it contains, as you and
I ever felt to get a new novel into our
possession. As to novels, there is no
such thing as obtaining one, unless
it be some of Miss Edgeworth's, which
scarcely deserve the name of novels.
If I could but sleep as we used to
in the country, and the country, as
far as I can see was made for nothing
else, I could contrive to get rid of
some more of my time; but the air on
the lake-shore is so bracing, that for my
life I cannot sleep more than nine or
ten hours. These people are excessively
civil to papa; but they seem to think
they have a right to place themselves
on an equality with me, and the more
haughty my manners, the less attention
they pay to me. Papa reads me long
lectures about availing myself of this
opportunity of studying human nature,
and observing the different conditions
of human life. Is it not unreasonable
to expect me to care about such things?
and if I did, I should as soon think of
taking Robinson Crusoe's desert island for
a study as this place. All of human life
that I ever wish to see is limited to the
drawing-room, the ball-room, and the
other haunts of the beau monde. I should
certainly die of ennui, if it were not
that this Ellen Bruce excites my curiosity
to such a degree: who can she
be? I suspect that she is a natural child
of somebody's, for whenever I have
asked any questions about her connexions,
she is evidently troubled, and
the people of the house affect to be quite
ignorant of her parentage, and in reply
to my inquiries, simply say, that she
came from a distant part of the country:
she is here with an old woman by the
name of Allen, to whom she is devoted:
she is an intimate friend of Mrs. Lenox,
and not a relation of either; and to
confess the truth, she is, as papa says, of
an order quite superior to them. She is
an orphan, and without fortune: so much
the Lenoxes have condescended to tell
me; without fortune, and yet her dress
is of the finest materials; not exactly
fashionable, as I said to papa: he replied,
with some truth I must allow,
`but a model for fashion, Caroline.'

“One circumstance has excited my
curiosity particularly: she rises every
morning at the dawn of day, and sallies

out, and does not return till the old
woman is ready to rise, which is our
breakfast hour, (papa's and mine;) and
then papa, from great consideration for
the trouble of the Lenoxes, begs Miss
Bruce will do us the favour to sit at our
table. On these occasions she departs
from her customary pensive style, her
complexion usually of the pale order, is
quite brilliant, and her manner and conversation
animated. Papa, very innocently,
imputes all this to the benefit
of morning exercise, and I as innocently
on one occasion proposed to be her
companion, an honour she politely declined
without assigning any reason,
though she has repeatedly offered to
show me the pleasant walks in the neighbourhood.

“She expresses the greatest impatience
to have Mrs. Allen well enough to
return to her own residence; but this I
think is mere affectation; and in this
guessing, calculating, concluding country,

I have come to the conclusion, that
if heaven does not speed the old woman's
recovery, or the Lenox match, or
some other insuperable obstacle, she and
papa will get up a sentimental affair of
it. A sentimental affair! papa fifty,
and Miss Bruce nineteen or twenty:
stranger things have happened—you remember
my two old fools of lovers who
were well nigh fifty; they, it is true,
were neither sick nor dull like papa;
but then Miss Bruce has neither fortune
nor beauty; at least I am sure you would
not call her beautiful who can she be,
grandmamma? Papa says she has received
a first-rate education; but that is according
to his queer old-fashioned notions.
She plays upon no instrument, and is
not fond of dancing; of course you
know she cannot dance well. As to
French she does not speak it all, though
papa says she is quite familiar with
French and Italian authors, and she and
papa talk over Racine and Ariosto and
the Lord knows what all, at our interesting
déjeuners, which I am resolved
to break up as soon as I have ascertained
the object of the long morning walks
that precede them. Write to me, dear
grandmamma, and direct to this place,
and do not fail to let me know whether
papa has the control of my fortune, so
that if I should marry contrary to his
wishes, he could deprive me of it: and
pray ask Le Moine, whether the blue
trimming was intended for the white or
the brown dress; Lilly has forgotten,
and I am quite at a loss about it. By
the way, if poor Sarah should die as you
expect before I return, don't mention it
in your letters, for I want a good excuse
for not putting on black—which
would be horrible; as Maria Crayton
says, there is not a mantua-maker in
New-England that can make a dress fit
for a Christian to wear, and besides you
know one can have no variety in black.
I cannot imagine where Miss Bruce has
her dresses made; they are plain enough,
but they sit exquisitely. Farewell, dear
grandmamma, I shall give you the earliest
notice of any discoveries I may make.

“Postscript.—Thank heaven! papa
has just given me leave to write to Mrs.
Westall to come to Eton with Charles,
so that I have a prospect of seeing two
civilized beings, who will probably
think me quite equal to this prodigy,
Ellen Bruce: and I do not despair of
finding a tolerable beau, pro tem. in
Charles Westall; though I think he
will scarcely drive Fitzgerald out of
my head and heart.”

As curiosity is in its nature infectious,
our readers may possibly have caught
Miss Redwood's desire to know something
more of Ellen Bruce's history than
has yet been disclosed to them, and to
gratify this inclination, they may be

willing to attend to a sketch of some
other persons, with whose history hers
is necessarily interwoven.

Justyn Allen, the father of Emily
and Edward, was born in Connecticut,
whence while a minor he emigrated
with his father's family to the state of
New-York. There he and all the rest
of the family, with the exception of his
mother, were, for a short time, under
the dominion of Ann Lee, the founder
of the shaker society: by the charitable
deemed an enthusiast—by those of severer
judgment, an impostor. At her first
appearance in this country, she made
many converts from among the respectable
class of farmers. Her dominion,
however, over the Allen family, was of
short duration, and after a few weeks of
wild fanaticism, the father and children
returned to the half-distracted mother,
to lament or deride their delusion. Susan
Allen, the youngest child, alone remained

constant to her new faith, which
she had been the last to adopt, and
which had been endeared to her by
difficult sacrifices. Justyn Allen as he
was preparing, according to the uniform
custom of our unportioned young farmers,
to seek his fortunes in the west, received
the intelligence of the death of a bachelor
uncle who had resided within forty miles
of Boston, in a beautiful village, which
we shall take the liberty to call Lansdown.
This uncle had bequeathed to
Allen a valuable farm and all the appurtenances
thereunto belonging. He
hastened to take possession of it; and
to complete his happiness he married a
well-educated and exemplary young
woman from his native state. Five
years after their marriage, Mrs. Allen
returned from a short visit to Connecticut,
bringing with her an infant girl,
the child, as she said, of a young friend
of hers who had died within the first
year of her marriage, and had bequeathed
the child to her. There was no
improbability in the story; and as no
one in Lansdown knew Mrs. Allen's
early connections, the busy questioning
spirit of village curiosity was not excited
to inquiry or suspicion. Mrs. Allen
was a woman who walked straight forward
in the direct line of duty—simple
in her manners, and ingenuous in her
conduct; there was nothing about her
to invite curiosity. It was observed
that she loved the child tenderly; but
that was natural; for besides that she
was a most lovely little creature, she
came to Mrs. Allen before she had children
of her own to occupy her maternal
affections. From the time the child,
who had received the name of Ellen,
could comprehend anything, Mrs. Allen
had been in the habit of talking to her
of her mother. But in spite of her
efforts it was always in a sad tone; and
once the child interrupted her to ask,
“was not my mother good?” “Yes,
my love, perfectly good.” “Well, then,
is she not glad to be in such a place as
heaven?” “Yes, I believe so.” “You
need not look so sorry then, when you
are talking about her.”

Mrs. Allen felt the propriety of the
child's rebuke; but besides that it is
always grievous to see a bud so early torn
from its parent stock, there were bitter
recollections associated with the memory
of Ellen's mother, and especially with her
death, that clouded Mrs. Allen's brow
whenever she spoke of her. She did
however, in compliance with the last
injunction of the unfortunate mother,
faithfully endeavour to inspire the child
with a love for her—to make hope take
the place of memory; and by constantly
cherishing the expectation of a reunion to
her mother, she preserved in its strength
the filial bond. It is only when our human
affections are consecrated by a belief
in their perpetuity, that they can have
their perfect influence on the character.

Ellen experienced the holy ministration
of which they are capable from her
earliest years. Before she reasoned, she
felt a relation to heaven; her affections
were set on things above. This shielded
her innocence, and gave a tenderness
and elevation to her character, as if the
terrestrial had already put on the celestial.
The natural gaiety of childhood,
though sometimes intermitted, was not
impaired. Her eyes, it is true, were
tearful while she sate on her little bench
at Mrs. Allen's feet, and listened to
the stories of her mother; but the next
moment she was playing with her kitten,
or bounding away in pursuit of a
butterfly—so natural is it for the opening
flower to shrink from a chilling influence,
and expand to the sun beams.

Ellen had been told by Mrs. Allen
that she had no father; and whenever
the child's interest was excited about him,
(which was not often, as Mrs. Allen
studiously avoided all mention of him,)

the answers to her inquiries were discreetly
framed to lull her curiosity,
without communicating the least information.
The impression she received
was that he had died at nearly the same
time with her mother.

Her childhood glided on to her fifth
year, bright as a cloudless morning,
when an event occurred that produced a
great sensation in Lansdown, and materially
affected the character and destiny
of our heroine.

There was an estate adjoining Allen's,
which from time immemorial, (a period
that in our young country may mean
half a century) had belonged to the
Harrisons, a family residing in Boston.
It had the usual fate of the property of
absentees—the house was out of repair,
the fences in a ruinous condition, and
the land from year to year depreciating
from unfaithful husbandry.

Allen had gone on in the usual way,
buying more cattle to graze his land,

and more land to feed his cattle, till
smitten with a desire to enlarge his territory,
(the ruling passion of our farmers,
each one of whom is said to covet all
the land adjoining his own,) he cast his
longing eyes on the Harrison farm, and
easily persuaded himself there were good
reasons in the nature of things why it
should be united to his own. Both
farms lay at the distance of half a mile
from the village. Allen's was on an
eminence, and divided from the Harrison
estate by a small stream, whose
annual overflowing enriched the lowlands
of his neighbour without reaching to
the elevation of his; with every rain
the cream of his soil trickled down
to his neighbour's, and the droughts that
seared his fields left his neighbour's
smiling in their verdant prosperity.
Still the hand of the diligent, busy on
Allen's farm, amply compensated for
this natural disparity; and when he
realized the profits of his labour and
thriftiness, his hankering after the facilities
of the adjoining property increased
to such a degree, that he sent to the
proprietor a proposition for the purchase
of it, by one of his townsmen, a
member of the state legislature. Mr.
Robert Harrison, the representative of
his family, received the proposition with
indignation, and failed not to express
his surprise that any one should presume
to think he would part with a family
estate. The honourable member, who
was one of the numerous Cincinatusses
of our country, called from the plough
to patriotic duties, felt his new-made
honours touched by this reflection on
one of his constituents, and he replied, as
to `family estate, that was an old joke,
that one family was as good as another
now-a-days, and that for his part,
he must say it was his humble opinion
that no family could be any honour to
an estate, and no estate to a family,
when it was left in such a condition as
the Harrison farm at Lansdown.' The
member's humble opinion stung the family
pride of Mr. Robert Harrison;
and from that moment he meditated a
removal to the neglected farm, which,
in the pride of his heart, he loved to call
the family estate. Many circumstances
strengthened his resolution. At the
breaking out of the revolutionary war,
Robert Harrison had just attained his
majority, and entered into the possession
of a large fortune, with the expectation
of succeeding to the honours of the provincial
government, which his father
had always enjoyed. Robert Harrison
was allied to some noble families in the
mother country, an important circumstance
in the estimation of the untitled
gentry of the colony. Possessing fortune,
the favours of the government,
and the distinctions of rank, and priding
himself on the unstained loyalty of his
ancestors, young Harrison naturally
sided with the tory party. He had
every thing to lose, and nothing to gain
for himself from a change of government;
and as to the rights of the people,
which were the subject of contest,
he held them in too great contempt to
acknowledge they had any rights. Harrison,
however blind he might be to the
principle of natural justice, was soon
obliged to feel that “might makes
right,” and he, with many other staunch
friends of the government, in danger of
being swept away by the tide of republicanism,
sought a shelter in the mother
country. There he soon after married
a young lady, a Bostonian by birth,
who had been sent home, according to
the fashion of the most wealthy gentry
in the colony, for her education. Similarity
of opinion and of fortunes had
united Robert Harrison to her father's
family, and governed more by the accidents
of their condition, than by any
congeniality of character, she married
him. Mrs. Harrison, from the age of
thirteen to nineteen, immured in a
boarding-school, came forth from it as
ignorant of the motley mass called the
world, as if she had been bred in a convent.
Happily, her education had been
conducted by a superior woman, who,
proud of her pupil's extraordinary powers,
had added to the common routine of
boarding-school accomplishments judicious
intellectual cultivation: so that even
at this period, when a well-informed
woman is neither a monster nor a prodigy,
Mrs. Harrison would have been
distinguished for her mental attainments.
The exact habits of her school
had given a preciseness to her manners,
that veiled the warmth of her feelings,
but never was there a more generous
and tender spirit than she possessed.

Robert Harrison had a fine appearance
and engaging manners; he was the
object of her parent's partiality, and the
first suitor for her favour: and viewing
him through the prismatic medium of

romantic expectation and youthful fancy,
it was not strange that she loved, or
believed she loved him. Perhaps she
was not herself conscious of the capacity
of her affections, till the energies of maternal
love were awakened by the birth
of a child. This child, a girl, lived but
five years, and when she died, her mother
resigned her as she would have
done her own soul if it had been demanded,
with unquestioning faith in the
wisdom of the dispensation. But she
never recovered her former spirits,
though her mind, too active to remain
the passive prey of grief, still pressed
forward in the pursuit of some new attainment.
She seemed to love knowledge
for its own sake; her husband
took no part nor interest in her pursuits,
and as to the gratification of vanity in
display, for that she had neither opportunity
nor inclination.

The family remained in England till
the peace in 1783, when they returned

to this country, with their English affections
and prejudices strengthened by
habit, and endeared by the privations
they had suffered on account of their
loyalty. Mr. Harrison claimed his patrimonial
estate, and found, to his bitter
disappointment, that those persons who
had been designated by name in the act
of confiscation were excepted in the repeal
of that act, and it was not his least
mortification in finding himself one of
this unfortunate number, that his property
had gone to the support of a cause
which he detested. The estate at Lansdown,—his
household furniture and
plate, and some personal property, he
saved from the wreck of his fortune.
This was a small portion of his rich inheritance,
but skilfully managed by the
domestic talents of Mrs. Harrison, it
was sufficient for the limited expenses
of a small establishment. The meanness
of his fallen fortunes did not at all
degrade his rank in his native town, for
if some portions of our country must
sustain the reproach of paying undue
deference to the vulgar aristocracy of
wealth, that part of it has always been
exempt from this common fault of a
commercial country. Neither did his
English feelings render him less acceptable
in the society of Boston; the first
to prove a rebel child, she never lost in
her resistance of authority, her love for
the parent land.

But Mr. Harrison had not magnanimity
of mind to enjoy the advantages
that remained to him. He was perpetually
harassed by seeing those who
had been distinguished in their country's
service, or diligent in the avenues of
business which had been recently opened,
arriving at wealth and honours which
he looked upon as the exclusive right—
the birthright of the higher orders. The
higher orders had sunk to the uniform
level of republicanism, to what Mr. Harrison
was fond of calling, a church-yard

equality; there even he was hardly
willing the high and the low, the rich
and the poor, should meet together.
Not all the courtesies and kindness of a
cultivated and virtuous society could
compensate Mr. Harrison for the mortification
of seeing the mansion-house of
his family in the possession of one of the
mushroom gentry—an appellation he
freely bestowed on every name not
noted under the provincial government,
and entitled to no more credit or honour
in his eyes, than a parchment deed without
the crown stamp.

The years rolled heavily on; Mrs.
Harrison's parents had been gathered to
their fathers, and independent in her
pursuits, and active in her habits, her
life passed without discontent or ennui.
When her husband proposed their removal
to Landsdown, she acquiesced willingly,
in the hope that he would become
interested in the little concerns of his
farm, and forget the trifling vexations

that in Boston disturbed his peace.
Confirmed in his wishes by his wife,
who exercised a discreet, and therefore
an insensible influence over him, Mr.
Harrison vested his property in an annuity
in the British funds, and removed to
Lansdown. This new arrangement of
his pecuniary affairs afforded him a
larger income than he had enjoyed for
a long time, and enabled him to restore
the place at Lansdown to its
primitive order and dignity, The house
was newly painted, the fences rebuilt,
and the garden re-stocked with fruit trees
and plants.

Mrs. Harrison gently remonstrated
against the removal of the antique and
ponderous furniture, and even hazarded
the profane suggestion that it would be
wise to dispose of it at auction, and to
procure that which would be more
adapted to their present fortune, and in
better keeping with the simplicity of
country life, and which would neither

expose them to the sneers nor envy of
their neighbours.

“Neighbours!” replied the irritated
husband, “I wish you to understand once
for all, Mrs. Harrison, that I mean to
have no neighbours. The people of
Lansdown remember the habits of the
family too well to presume to associate
with us. As to the furniture, I have
made up my mind about that, and you
know my mind, once made up, is not
given to change; therefore, Mrs. Harrison,
you will be so good as to order
every article of our furniture, large and
small, to be packed up with the greatest
possible care.” Mrs. Harrison reserved
all her opposition to her husband
for matters that she deemed important;
the furniture was packed and
arranged at Lansdown with her best
skill: and there Mr. Harrison surveyed,
with infinite complacency, the turkey
carpets, damask curtains and sofa, the
cumbrous mahogany chairs, and family

plate studiously arranged in an old
fashioned buffet with glass doors, and
the loyal garnishing of the walls decorated
with approved likenesses of their
majesties and their hopeful offspring,
and with proof prints of the royal parks
and palaces. Mrs. Harrison, though
she could not but smile at this parade
of the relics of their departed wealth
and grandeur, took a benevolent pleasure
in ministering to the gratification of
her husband; and when she left him in
the parlour still gazing on the memorials
of patrimonial splendour, and retired to
arrange in a small apartment adjoining
her bed-room (in which were her books
and drawing materials) some choice or
favourite plants: `we must both,'
she thought, `have our playthings. If
you had lived, my sweet Mary,' she
said, turning her eye on a beautiful picture
of her child that hung at the foot
of her bed, `we might have had some
occupation that would have saved us
from thus prolonging our childhood.'
Her attention was attracted by the
sound of a light footstep, and a beautiful
little girl entered her apartment with a
basket of fine early peaches, which she
timidly offered to Mrs. Harrison, with
Mrs. Allen's respects. Mrs. Harrison's
mind was at this moment filled with
the image of her child, and she saw, or
fancied she saw, a striking resemblance
between the portrait and the little
stranger. She looked from one to the
other; the eyes were of the same deep
blue, there was the same peculiar, and,
as she thought, heavenly grace of the
mouth; the hair too, a light and bright
brown, fell in the same natural curls
over her neck and shoulders. “Oh,
my own, dear Mary,” she exclaimed,
as she placed the child on her lap, and
gazed on her, “I can almost fancy you
are again in my arms; and yet,” she
added, as the tears gushed from her
eyes, “she has not quite that look my
Mary had.” Ellen Bruce, (for it was
she) after looking in silent amazement
for a few moments at Mrs. Harrison
said, “I wish I was your Mary, and
then you would not be so sorry.”

“Sweet child,” exclaimed Mrs. Harrison,
wiping away her tears, and
smiling on her, “and who are you—
who is your mother?”

“Oh, I don't live with my mother,
she lives in heaven, Mrs. Allen says.”

“Who then do you live with, my
love?”

“I live with our little Emily's mother.”

“And who is she?”

“Why, Mrs. Allen; did not you
know that she had little twin babies?”

“No, my dear child; but if you will
show me the way to Mrs. Allen's, I will
go with you and see her:” so saying,
she threw on her hat and shawl, and
was descending the stairs with the little
girl, when she met her husband in quest
of her. “My dear,” said he snapping

his fingers, and speaking in an unusually
animated tone, “here is an English
paper—and glorious news. The English
have gained a complete victory:
thank God! that cowardly rascal Bonaparte
is beaten at last.”

“I am glad of it,” replied Mrs. Harrison,
turning from him to pursue her
first intention.

“Glad of it! Pshaw, is that all—what
is the matter—where are you going?
here are all the particulars; the number
engaged, the names of the officers, a
list of the killed, wounded, and prisoners:
every thing most satisfactory; none
of your lying French bulletins, but
English—fair John Bull style; every
word true—true as the gospel.”

“I am very glad of it,” repeated
Mrs. Harrison, “I will read it the moment
I return from leading this little
girl home; she has brought us some
delicious peaches from one of our neighbours.”

“Send one of the servants with her;
I am impatient to hear you read these
accounts; there are many private letters
from the officers that were in the action,
and besides,” he added, lowering his
voice, “the people about us are quite
too much inclined to familiarity already.
I do not wish you to encourage them.
Here Betsy,” he vociferated to the servant
girl, “lead this child home.” Mrs.
Harrison led Ellen to the door, and
kissing, and begging her to come again
to see her, she transferred her to the
care of the servant, and returned to
soothe her husband with all the interest
she could command in the details of the
victory.

Ellen Bruce had received such various
and confused impressions during her
short visit to the mansion-house, that
she was unable to give a clear report
of it to Mrs. Allen: and as the child
brought no word of acknowledgment
for the peaches, Mrs. Allen naturally

concluded that her first neighbourly
overtures were unkindly taken: her
husband completed her mortification by
asking her, “how she could make such
a mistake as to suppose that the duke (a
title already bestowed on Mr. Harrison
by his republican neighbours) could eat
fruit that did not grow on the `family
estate?”'

Mrs. Allen, with all her good sense,
was not quite free from the jealous pride
that pervades her class in New-England:
she resolved not to waste her courtesies
upon those who disdained them; and
when Ellen, calling to mind Mrs. Harrison's
invitation to her, begged leave
to carry her some more peaches, Mrs.
Allen said, “no! if the peaches were
worth sending, they were worth thanking
for.” Ellen rather felt than understood
the reply, and she answered, “but
I am sure the lady spoke very kind to
me.”

“Ay, yes my dear, that is an easy

matter, every body speaks kind to you;
it is not necessary to force you upon
any one's notice: when Mrs. Harrison
sends for you it will be time enough for
you to go to her.” Ellen had no purpose
of disobedience, but surprised at
the unwonted strictness of Mrs. Allen,
she determined to lay aside all the
peaches that were given to her for the
lady whose kind manner to her had
made a deep impression.

In the meantime, Mrs. Harrison possessed
herself of all that was known, in
the village, of Ellen Bruce's brief history;
and the whole amount of it was
that she was the orphan child of a friend
of Mrs. Allen's, and had been adopted
in her infancy, by that excellent woman,
and treated with maternal kindness.
`Oh, had providence destined her to my
protection, what a solace, what a delight
she would have been to me,' thought
Mrs. Harrison: `and even now, could
I persuade my husband to indulge me in

going to the Allens, I might obtain this
little creature to lighten some of my
heavy hours.' She determined to watch
for some propitious moment before she
ventured to explain her wishes: a happy
accident might throw the child again in
her way, and such an accident she
thought had occurred, when, a few days
after the first interview, as she was
walking with her husband past Mrs.
Allen's, she saw the child come bounding
towards her with her apron full of
peaches.

“Oh, how glad I am,” said she, on
coming up to Mrs. Harrison, her eyes
sparkling, and her cheeks glowing;
“here, take them all, they are mine,
and I saved them all for you.” “For
me,” replied Mrs. Harrison, kissing her,
“and for this gentleman.”

“For the Duke! oh no,” replied
little Ellen, with fatal simplicity; “Mr.
Allen says the duke will not eat our
peaches.”

“What,” exclaimed Mr. Harrison,
“does the little impudent baggage mean
by calling me the duke?”

“Every body calls him that name,”
said Ellen, lowering her voice, and
drawing closer to Mrs. Harrison.

“Never mind, my love,” whispered
Mrs. Harrisson, while she kissed her,
“run home, and do come very soon to
see me.” Then turning to her husband
she said, “I declare our neighbours are
half right; you have quite a look of nobility,
my dear husband; you might pass
in more knowing eyes than theirs for a
peer of the realm: to say nothing of a
certain dignity that belongs to the born
gentleman, your gold-headed cane, your
powdered head, and antique buckles
give you an air that must be quite provoking
to our republican neighbours.”
“Ah indeed, I believe it, Mrs. Harrison,
but our neighbours, as you call them,
mean no compliment; this is a mere
mockery on their lips.” “Oh yes,” replied

Mrs. Harrison, “I suppose so: that
is to say, it is a jocular title they have
given you, to console themselves for
your superiority.”

“Very likely, very likely,” replied
the husband, and then added, “I think
Mrs. Harrison, my dear, that you must
be convinced by this time, that the less
you have to do with these people, the
better.” Mrs. Harrison made no reply;
she usually conformed to the spirit of
the promise contained in the Dutch marriage
service, maintaining silence in the
presence of her husband; it was the
least difficult expression of acquiescence,
and long habit had given her a facility
in this extraordinary virtue.

The weeks passed on, autumn succeeded
to summer, and Mrs. Harrison seemed
farther than ever from procuring an
intercourse with little Ellen. During
the warm weather, she had occasionally
seen her bounding over the field with
the elastic step of joyous childhood,

but now her careful guardian kept
her cautiously within doors.

It was a cold night, the last of November,
Mrs. Harrison's household was all
in bed except herself, and she, insensible
to the blasts that howled about
her dwelling, was poring over an interesting
book, when she was reminded
of the lateness of the hour by the candle
sinking into the socket. At this moment,
a bright light flashed through the window,
and shone on the opposite wall;
she hastened to the window to ascertain
the cause, and screamed, “Oh heavens!
Allen's house is on fire.” Her shriek
aroused her husband, who exclaimed
“Lord bless me, is it possible! call the
servants my dear, and send them to
help the poor folks.”

Mrs. Harrison, without awaiting this
direction, had hastened to awaken the servants;
and then rushed out of the house
herself, and proceeded with all possible
speed to the Allens, full of the horrible

apprehension that the family would be
consumed by the flames. The bright
light clearly defined every object; the
naked branches of the trees, every twig,
every withered leaf she saw plainly, but
heard no human voice, nor saw a moving
form. Avoiding the public road, which
was circuitous, she proceeded in a
straight line across the fields, surmounted
the fences almost unconsciously,
and passed through the shallow stream
that divided the farms. She was within
a few yards of the house, the fowls
roused from their roost were crowing,
the pigeons startled from their nestling
place were fluttering over the flames:
still none of the family appeared. She
screamed with all the power of her
voice, while she hastened onward,
despairing of the lives of the unfortunate
family. The back part of the house,
which she had approached was enveloped
in flames; she passed around to the front,
and at that moment the door opened,
and Allen and his wife with her twin
infants in her arms, rushed asit appeared
from the midst of the fire. Mrs. Harrison
caught her arm as she was passing
her, “where,” she exclaimed, “is your
child?”

“My child!” she replied, amazed
with terror, “Oh God! Ellen—she is
there;” and hugging her children closer
to her breast, she pointed to the flames.
Mrs. Harrison looked around for assistance,
there was no one near: Allen,
stupified with fright, had gone with a
single pail to a well at some distance
from the house; other members of the
family, who had escaped by different
windows, were so bewildered with terror
as to be incapable of rendering the slightest
aid. Mrs. Harrison's resolution was
instantly taken; “tell me where she
sleeps,” she cried, “it may be possible to
reach her through a window.”

“Oh! there is no window, she is in
the dark room next mine; and this—this
is mine,” she added, pointing to a front
apartment which the flames had not yet

reached. Mrs. Harrison darted forward
and entered the house; the flames
were above her, before her, around her.
The passage was so darkened with
smoke that she could not perceive the
door she sought, but inspired with preternatural
courage, menaced with death
on every side, already scorching with
the heat, and nearly suffocated with the
smoke, she pressed forward till she
reached a passage-way that crossed the
entrance at right angles. The flames
now burst through the wall at the extremity
opposite the door she had entered,
and the air rushing in, rolled away
a volume of smoke, and discovered
Ellen standing at her door, with her
hand still on the latch, a dog was crouching
at her feet, yelping, pulling her
night dress with his teeth, and urging
her forward with the most expressive
supplications; still the little creature
shrunk from the terrors before her, unconscious
of the fatal risk of delay.
Mrs. Harrison snatched her in her arms,
rushed through the door, and in an instant
was at Mrs. Allen's side. Both
instinctively sunk on their knees—no
sound escaped from them, but the rapture
of gratitude was in their hearts, and
its incense rose to Him who had rescued
them from impending death.

The fire had been communicated from
a back building, which was joined to the
front (recently erected by Allen,) by a
narrow covered passage. Fortunately,
the wind, though blowing violently,
was in a direction to retard the progress
of the flames: to extinguish them was
impossible, for the house was of wood,
and the only fire engine in the town was
at too great a distance to render any
assistance. But had the family been
self-collected after they were awakened
by Mrs. Harrison's screams, they might
have saved all the house contained of
value. No one, however, seemed capable
of a well-directed effort, till Roger,
Mrs. Harrison's English servant, arriving
on the field of action, called to Allen to

follow him, and forcing his way through
the window of Mrs. Allen's apartment,
he succeeded in clearing it of the furniture,
and placing it at a safe distance
from the destructive element. The family,
and the few persons who had come
to their aid, gathered around the relics;
little Ellen stood with one hand in Mrs.
Harrison's, one arm lovingly encircled
the neck of the faithful animal that first
broke her slumbers; the whole group
remained impotent and silent spectators,
till the house sunk a ruin under the still
crackling flames.

Mrs. Harrison first broke silence;
“I am sure my good friends,” said she,
“you are thinking more of what is left
than what is taken.”

“Indeed you have guessed right,
ma'am,” replied Allen, venting his agitated
spirits in loud sobs. “The Lord
that has spared my wife and little ones
and Ellen, is welcome to all the rest. If
I could but have saved my Bible that my
mother gave me, and my wife's silver

tankard, I would just care no more than
if it was a bonfire.” The mention of
the excepted articles seemed to recall to
Mrs. Allen's mind something of importance.
She exclaimed, “poor Ellen,”
and looked anxiously around her, till
her eye falling on a trunk, she hastily
opened it and took from it a small box;
then turning to her husband, “God be
praised,” she said, “every thing of value
is saved.” The first strong emotions
of gratitude having been directed to the
supreme Preserver, they now begun
with one voice to pour out their thanks
to Mrs. Harrison whose generous agency
they felt deeply. She begged them to
defer all such expressions, and urging
the necessity of a shelter for their little
ones, she insisted on their going home
with her. The good farmer and his
wife forgot their scruples in their gratitude
and necessities; and in a short time
they were comfortably housed at the
Harrison mansion. After Mrs. Harrison
had made every provision for the refreshment
and repose of her guests, and
after she had stowed away little Ellen
in a room adjoining her own, and extended
her hospitalities even to the dog,
her faithful coadjutor in the preservation
of the child, she retired to her own
room, nerved by gratitude and joy, to
the task of reconciling her husband to
the liberties she had taken with the family
mansion. So strikingly did she
delineate the dangers and escape of the
family, the risk she herself had run, the
rescue of the child, and finally, the exertions
of Roger, his truly English coolness
and intrepidity, that Mr. Harrison
himself anticipated the conclusion of the
story, by exclaiming, “Lord bless me,
my dear! I hope you brought the unfortunate
people home with you?” “Certainly,
my dear,” she replied. “You
did right—perfectly right. There is no
other establishment in Lansdown equal
to giving them all a shelter. But Martha,
my dear,” he continued, “you ran
a great risk—quite an unwarrantable
risk, considering the relative importance
of your life to that of the child's.”

“Oh! thank you, for thinking my
life so important. I only acted like a
dutiful wife, and emulated your example.
You have forgotten at what hazard
you saved Charles Lindsay's life.”

“Forgotten! no, my dear; but then
you know a man has always more self-possession
than a woman, more mind for
emergencies, and besides, Charles was
the heir of an honourable family—some
compensation for the risk. However,
all is well that ends well. You have
shown a spirit worthy of a noble name,
Martha my dear; and I shall take particular
pleasure in writing an account of
the whole affair to Sir Harry by the next
ship that sails for London.”

Mrs. Harrison, having thus succeeded
beyond her utmost hopes in making a
favourable impression on the mind of
her husband, retired to rest; her bosom
filled with those sweet emotions that are
the peculiar property and rich reward

of the virtuous. If Mrs. Harrison felt
any anxiety the succeeding day about
the intercourse of the host and his guests,
it was removed when she saw that the
sense of protection and condescending
kindness on the one part, and of gratitude
on the other, produced a happy
state of feeling between the respective
parties.