University of Virginia Library

11. CHAP. XI.

Burns.

Leaving the young Canadians to enjoy “the sacred
lowe o' weel placed love,” we will return to the quiet
library of the pious Mr. Osborne; the republican simplicity
of which afforded so striking a contrast to the
splendid apartment of Governor Hutchinson.

On the afternoon of the same day that Wilson commenced
his journey to Quebec, Grace was seated at her
father's table, busily engaged in painting glass,—a
fashionable amusement at that period.

The door gently opened, and the good-natured countenance
of Lucretia Fitzherbert presented itself to her
view.

“Why, Grace, how long it is since I have seen you,”
exclaimed her animated friend. “For three long days
we have been expecting you. Captain Somerville at
last grew quite angry,—so, to please him, I came to-day
to see what could have offended your ladyship.”

“Offended! and with you?” said Grace, in a reproachful
tone. “I assure you, I have wished to come;
but I have been so very busy—”

“I wonder what has busied you so suddenly,” interrupted
Lucretia. “Have you been making linen for
brother Henry? or knitting warm night-caps for papa?”

“The first,” rejoined Grace, smiling; “and then all
the leisure moments I have had, I have been practising
on my spinnet, trying to learn those pretty songs that—
you like so well.”

“Umph,” said Lucretia, with the most provoking
significance. “You are taking likenesses, too, I see.
What is this you are copying?”

“It is the head of a young naval officer; Sir—somebody—I
have forgotten whom.”

“How much it looks like Somerville,” said Lucretia.

“Does it?” rejoined Grace, blushing deeply. “Perhaps
it may, a very little.”

“Captain Somerville is enthusiastic about painting,”
said Lucretia. “How I do wish I could sketch as well
as you can.”

Grace, in her turn, smiled significantly.

“I know you laugh because he is always the burden
of my song,” observed Lucretia; “but really if you
lived in the same house with him, you could not but admire,—very
much admire, his sparkling intelligence,
his ready wit, and his open gallantry.”

“And my enthusiastic friend places so much confidence
in her native good sense, that she is not at all
afraid of admiring him too much, I suppose?” inquired
Grace.

“I think nothing about it,” rejoined Lucretia. “I
am very happy; and that is all I am sure of. As for
the good sense you are pleased to talk of,—Minerva's

shield has withstood many a fierce attack; but I believe
one of Cupid's minikin arrows might shiver it.”

“Oh, Lucretia, how little need there is of a window
to your heart.”

“Yours is carefully muffled in a thick screen, dear
Grace; but the flame will shine through.”

The tears started to Miss Osborne's eyes, and forgetting
that her remark would imply a keen reproof to her
thoughtless friend, she said, “What have I done, that
you should accuse me of being deficient in the delicacy
which should ever characterize a lady?”

“Who would think of defending herself from a charge
that has no foundation?” rejoined Lucretia, putting her
arms round her neck, with girlish affection.

“What is the matter, young ladies?” inquired Henry
Osborne, who entered the library at that moment.

“Nothing,—only I have offended Grace, as I often
do the Graces,” answered Lucretia; “and so I hav
been trying to atone for it. What news, Henry?”

“None that will particularly interest such a staunch
little tory as you are.”

“Nay, I will not be called names,” said she, gaily striking
him with her parasol; “unless you can warp your
conscience enough to call me by the old-fashioned name
of angel. In good earnest, what has happened in the
political world?”

“Accidents similar to those which happen every day,”
rejoined Osborne. “Merely a few mischievous tricks
upon the tories. Mr. Paxton's horse, after being lost
some days, was found shut up in the Town House, almost

starved to death; and Doctor Byles, when entering
his house this morning, was assailed by a violent shower
of soot and water.”

“How did he bear such treatment?” asked Lucretia.

“Just as you would suppose. He made a very low
bow, and said, `My friends, you have entirely sooted
me.' ”

“I should like to walk there,” said Lucretia, smiling;
“it is several days since I have seen him.”

Grace soon arranged her neat little gipsey hat, beneath
which her golden ringlets escaped in the most enchanting
luxuriance; and the shawl was just pinned
about her neck with Quaker simplicity, when Somerville
entered. “You are all for a walk I see,” said he,
bowing to the ladies. “I have arrived most fortunately.”

His arm was offered to Grace, and he was not a
little gratified at the slight tremor she betrayed on again
meeting him; nor could she, with all her diffidence,
help being a little vain of her infantile beauty, since it
had so evidently fascinated Somerville.

True, his compliments were less frequent than formerly;
for Henry, with the affectionate earnestness of
an auxious brother, had cautioned him against the flattery
so likely to tarnish the purity and artlessness of her
character. Still, however, his delighted eye acknowledged
her power, and she was not ignorant of its
meaning.

During this walk, it seemed as if he exerted his uncommon
powers of pleasing, to the very utmost. Now
“his broad sail was set in the full, deep stream of argument;”
and, now, every one was watching the eddies
of his wit, as they sparkled, and broke, and whirled
away.

The rein was held with as graceful a hand, whether
he spurred his majestic war-horse to the battle, pranced
by a lady's side over hill and dale, or appeared on the
parade ground in gala dress, performing its complicated
evolutions with careless dexterity.

The whole company were in high spirits when Doctor
Byles met them at his door.

“Was there ever such an evening?” said he, as he
came out to welcome them. “It is as light as a cork.
I am glad you have come, my young friends; for Mrs.
Byles and the girls have gone to see a sick neighbour,
and I was just wishing somebody would come and take
a glass with me.”

“A most unclerical wish,” observed Henry Osborne.

“Not as much so, as you think, young man,” replied
the clergyman, displaying a fine brass telescope, and
motioning them to follow him up stairs.

“This is the glass I offer my friends,” continued he,
fastening one end in the window-shutter, and placing the
other in Somerville's hand.

“I call this chamber my observatory; for, stationed
here with my telescope, I can observe-a-tory all over
Boston.”

“I wish the search was as seldom rewarded as that
of Diogenes with his lanthron,” answered Henry.

“No doubt; but `the prayer of the wicked availeth
not,' ” replied Doctor Byles.

“How extremely beautiful!” interrupted Somerville,
placing the telescope in Mr. Osborne's hand. “The
bay of Naples hardly surpasses this.”

Indeed, beneath the rich gush of autumnal twilight,
the scene was indescribably enchanting.

The broad, blue harbour, like the ocean god, reposing
on his own bright throne; the numerous islands, that
seemed like infant Naiads waiting in his presence; the
neighbouring churches, like youthful devotees, pointing
the finger of faith to heaven; the foliage, rich with the
hues of autumn; the herds, quietly grazing on the adjoining
hills; and all so delightfully mellowed in distance
and sunshine, formed a landscape that Claude would
have delighted to copy.

Each one, in succession, gazed upon it till the strained
vision was wearied. As they laid aside the telescope,
Somerville glanced at Grace, and said, “To look
beyond the smoke and din of the town, to a scene so
lovely and placid as that, is welcome to the heart, as it
is to meet unpretending goodness and unaffected beauty
in the midst of this selfish, artificial world.”

“Here,” said Doctor Byles, “is something that precisely
resembles the mind of a whig; for their reflections
are all upside down;”—and he placed a large concave
mirror before the young ladies.

“If the images are inverted, they are increased in
beauty,” observed Henry Osborne.

“At a distance, I grant ye; but examine closely,
young man, and the defects are glaring enough. My
dear girl, step up, and shake hands with yourself.”

The figure of the little sylph seemed to come forth
from the glass, as she advanced toward its focus.

“Nobody can say there is not a shadow of grace
about that mirror,” said the clergyman.

“But you can say there is not a shadow of beauty
now,” rejoined Lucretia, as she herself moved to the
glass.

“If I did say it,” replied Doctor Byles, “I would
unite with the learned Bishop of Cloyne, and say, it is
no matter—all is mind.”

“How brilliant you are to-night,” exclaimed Lucretia.

“Nay, it is you, ladies, who are bright,” rejoined he.
“When you both came in, lounging on a gentleman's
arm, I could not but think you spark-led.”

“Your ammunition is never exhausted,” said Somerville;
“one may always be sure of a corps de reserve.
There is one of my acquaintance, the famous Samuel
Johnson, to whom I should like to introduce you; but,
with his invincible hatred of puns, it might prove dangerous.”

“Wit is the least of Doctor Byle's qualifications,”
said Henry Osborne.

“Young man, I am not a woman. My constitution
does not need the gilded pills of flattery,” replied the
Doctor.

The suddenness with which he changed from playfulness
almost frivolous, to dignity bordering on sternness,
produced a momentary embarrassment in the whole
company.

Lucretia, who knew him well, was the first to break
silence. “It is the way the Doctor sometimes chooses
to cut his best friends,” said she.

Doctor Byles looked very angry; and Somerville
perceiving it, answered, “The friends of Doctor Byles
are never cut, though often wit-led.”

“It is contagious,” exclaimed Henry Osborne, rising.
“Let us depart by all means.”

“I should never suspect that Mr. Osborne had a predisposition
to the disease,” replied the clergyman, with
his usual dry, sarcastic manner. “But come into my
study, Lucretia. I have Goldsmith's celebrated Chinese
Letters; and you say, you have never seen them.”

The first object that met their view on the library
table, was a frightful mask, with a lighted candle within
it, surmounted by the Doctor's wig.

It had been placed there by some mischievous boys.
“You see the spirit of rebellion penetrates to our very
closets,” observed the minister. “However, the wig
does but cover what it always has, `a burning and a
shining light.' ”

After examining the books and some beautiful philosophical
apparatus, the young people departed, highly
delighted with their visit.

“The evening is so pleasant,” observed Henry,
“that I see no reason why we should not extend our
walk to Roxbury.”

“I trust we shall return better pleased than my uncle
did from his nocturnal excursion,” said Somerville.
“No one cares how much old Townsend is tormented;
but it is really carrying the joke too far, when such men
as Governor Hutchinson and Doctor Byles are harassed
in this way.”

“When one side carry a joke too far, it must be
expected that the other will return it by such means as
lie in their power,” rejoined Osborne.

“You must not begin to talk politics,” said Lucretia;
“for Captain Somerville never speaks all he thinks, before
you. One would hardly believe he could be the same
man that I sometimes hear talk with uncle Hutchinson.”

Somerville looked, as if he did not thank her for thus
lowering him in the estimation of Miss Osborne; and
Henry replied, “I think he begins to be a proselyte to
the righteous cause. I have a mind to have him stop
to see John, on purpose to give him a good commentary
on American feeling. He lives the next door to Mr.
Townsend.”

The man of whom he spoke, had once been a servant
at his father's; but had, to use his own expression,
“laid by a trifle for a wet day,” and was now a thriving
New England farmer.

Every thing within their doors indicated industry and
prosperity. The wife, a buxom, sweet-tempered looking
matron, was supplying four or five white-headed
children with bountiful slices of brown bread; and if she
did not perform the simple office with as much grace as
Werter's Charlotte, it was certainly very delightful to

watch her look of maternal love, as she said, “Hearty
souls! it does one good to see you eat. But hush, boys,
hush; here are strangers coming.”

The mother drew her cap down over her ears,
and smoothed her checked apron,—then, after giving
them a most cordial greeting, she showed the way into
a neatly white-washed room, the floor of which was
profusely sanded, and marked with a variety of fantastic
figures, according to the fashion of the times.

The children in the mean time stationed one to peep
at the door, who would now and then run to report proceedings
to his laughing companions.

“They have over much of a good thing,” said the
father. “The rogues love liberty. Away with you,
boys!—and, waving his hand, he cleared the door in a
moment. An instance of the good old-fashioned obedience,
seldom practised in these degenerate days.

“I must tell you,” continued the farmer, “that you
are heartily welcome, Miss Grace, and Mr. Henry, and
Miss Fitzherbert, and the stranger gentleman.”

“I forgot to mention that he was Captain Somerville,
Governor Hutchinson's nephew,” observed Henry.

“Perhaps you are from England, then?”

“I am,” replied Somerville.

“And may be you will tarry some time in the
Colonies?”

“That is entirely uncertain, sir.”

“Well, it is none of my business, surely. It is a
good country that you came from, and a good country
that you have come to. Both the Englands are good;

but I am sometimes afeard they will try to patch the old
with the new, till they make the rents worse.”

“England has no need of patches, my good sir,” rejoined
Somerville.

“I doubt that somewhat. They say the young king
has some German notions, which he would be much
better without. Then there is a heavy debt will go
near to break the collar-bone, if it is carried much longer;
and them who have the care of it, are, in my
humble opinion, no more fit to set the broken bones of
a nation, than my cows are to climb a ladder.”

“Which I trust they never will do,” said Lucretia,
laughing. “Mr. Townsend would doubtless be sadly
grieved to have a blade of his grass devoured by them.”

“A queer man, that Mr. Townsend, beside being a
tory,” answered John Dudley; “but he that is with
him is far worse.”

“Who is it?” asked Grace.

“He calls himself Harry Wilson; but such men have
a name for every port. I feel scared to look at that
house, when I think of the sin there is between its four
walls. Odds luck, it was a sight to see, and a sound to
hear, the night the whigs sent the tories there on such a
Tom fool's errand. There were wheels rattling—and
knocking at the doors,—and laughing, and swearing,—
and there were lights glimmering round in corners that
never saw a light before. The old man was sick three
days, to think of the money it cost him. Wilson tells
folks that he holds a whip over his back, and that he
knows how to get the silver out of his grip.”

“Has this man a family?” inquired Lucretia. “How
comes he to be so much with Mr. Townsend?”

“There is but little known about him in these parts,”
replied Mrs. Dudley; “but a body needs only look in
his eye to see that he is bad enough. Howsomever,
there is One above us, who knows all things, and will
manage them as seemeth good to him.”

“Mr. Wilson came here t' other day, and told us that
his daughter was coming from Quebec; and he wanted
us to let her have one of our tidy chambers, as he called
them;—and when we were at a stand, as it were, on
account of his character, you know, he said that if she
was his daughter, she was a lady, and had had gentle
usage. He said she was going to stay here only a few
weeks; and he seemed so affected like, that I was fain
to let her come. So I have whitened the counterpane,
and put the patch curtains up at the window, and sanded
the floor of the best chamber.”

“Poor young creature!” said Grace.

“She is young,” rejoined the matron. “The matter
of seventeen, or thereabouts. May be you will come
and see her, young ladies? Her heart will no doubt be
sad in a strange land. Whist, Hancock! will ye not
whist?”

“What do you call your sick little babe?” asked
Lucretia.

“It was George, for the king, you know, Miss; but
the stamp act a'nt likely to be taken off, so my good
man would change it to John Hancock.”

Miss Fitzherbert smiled, and looked significantly at
Somerville, as she said, “You see the spirit of the
land.”

“That is a fine man, that John Hancock,” said the
farmer. “He is a true friend to liberty; and though
he is college larnt, and though he had more money than
I could reckon, left him a year ago, he is as ready to
stop and say, `How do you do, John Dudley,' as my
own wife would be. Poor, dear little Hancock,” continued
he, taking the child from his mother, and rocking
him gently in his arms, “I hope you'll be as good a
man. You must make haste,—yes you must, Hancock,—you
must make haste, and grow strong enough
to be a soldier.” With a more sober look, he added,
“May be they'll be wanted in this oppressed land, before
you are able to buckle on a canteen.”

“Hancock, dear Hancock,” whispered Grace, as she
offered him an orange, and kissed the bright red spot on
his sickly cheek.

“Oh, yes, Grace can kiss him, now she knows his
rebel name,” said the laughing Lucretia.

“Almost thou persuadest me to be a rebel,” observed
the gallant Englishman.

Henry looked serious and uneasy. He did not like
Scripture quoted with so much irreverence; and he
feared the effects of a kind of gallantry to which his
sister had been so entirely unused.

“I believe I must bid you good night, John,” said he,
rising.

“Surely not, sir, till you have tasted a drop of cider
that I made on my own farm. The king has none better,
though I say it that should not say it.”

Upon this hint, his wife took a plate and a large silver
can, and left the apartment.

In a few moments, the children in the kitchen were
heard crying, “Give me some, mamma, give me some;”
and, having supplied their wants, the good-natured
mother re-appeared, with her rosy-cheeked pears and
foaming cider.

“It may seem strange for the like of me to have a silver
mug,” said the farmer; “but it has more value in it
than the metal tells for. Governor Dudley brought it
over himself; and there has not been many a better
man to drink after.”

His ancestor, his can, and his cider having received
abundance of praise, he urged the young people to take
as much fruit as they would, and bade them good night.

The young gentlemen, in terms of unqualified approbation
talked of the frank hospitality and downright
good sense of their host; and as the farmer closed his
gate after them, he could not refrain from saying,
“They are all gentle-folks, every soul of them; and
that is a name that means a good deal to them that understand
it right.”

“That's true, my good man,” said his wife. “That
Captain Somerville has a frank way with him; and
don't show a speck of pride,—though he is Hutchinson's
nephew.”

On their way home, Somerville walked with Miss
Osborne; and Lucretia, of course, accepted the proffered
arm of Mr. Osborne.

Oh, how dangerous may one brief evening prove to
the sliding hearts of the youthful and the guileless; and
how tasteless is every thing in life, compared with the
sparkling cup that young love offers before we know his
name.

Grace returned home with an elasticity of spirit unusual
to her placid nature; and when, after the family devotions
were concluded, she stooped to kiss her venerable father,
before she retired to rest, he could not but speak
of the beaming happiness her angelic countenance expressed.

“Dear Grace,” said Henry, passing his arm round
her neck, “I have something to say to you; and I will
say it in the presence of our good father.”

His sister looked up inquiringly.

“You must have suspected how much interest Doctor
Willard takes in you?” said he.

“I know he is a friend to us all,” replied she, with
extreme embarrassment.

“Yes, dear sister, he is a friend to us all; and for
your sake, he loves us all. With a brother's frankness,
he has commissioned me to tell you so.”

“And what does my daughter say to this?” asked
her father, in a tone of anxious tenderness.

“I feel very, very grateful to Doctor Willard;
but—”

“But what?” interrupted her brother. What can a
woman desire in a lover, that is not united in his character?
There is virtue, genius, a good family, genteel
manners, personal beauty, and a generous heart, that
has long been most sincerely devoted to you.”

“He is more than I expect—more than I deserve,”
rejoined Grace.

“And what shall I tell him?” whispered Henry.

“Tell him to seek some one who deserves his affection,
and can return it.”

“Are you aware,” said her father, in a tone of severe
disappointment, “can you be aware what a treasure
you are throwing from you?”

“I am—I am,” exclaimed Grace, bursting into tears;
“but I cannot love him.”

“Will you tell me why?” asked her brother, in an
insinuating voice.

“I have no reason to give,” she replied.

“Has no one else won your pure heart?”

“Oh no, indeed; no other one ever sought it.”

“I know it would never unsought be won, if you were
aware of it,” rejoined Henry. “But you are very
young, and I fear you will allow `a passing pleasing
tongue,' and the fascination of a polished manner, to
outweigh goodness of heart and dignity of character.”

“Talents and education are of great value,” interrupted
her father; “but we must not forget that the
tree of knowledge yields not the same fruit as the free
of life. Fixed religious principles and an amiable disposition

are of more consequence to domestic happiness
than all that wealth, or beauty, or genius can offer. It
was these qualities in your dear mother, that for thirty
years made me the happiest of men. It was these inestimable
qualities that made you what you are, my
children.” As he spoke, the tear that fell upon his
hand, betrayed how dear was the wife that had for
years lain in the silent grave.

With kindness which seemed like cruelty, Henry said,
“Some people admire beauty wherever they find it.
Doctor Willard would love you, if you should lose that
fading flower. Other friends may have lofty and generous
feelings,—they may be greatly gifted by nature;
but their worth has not been tried like his. Something
novel in character, or more rare in loveliness, may erase
a transient impression. A meteor may be dazzling, but
we cannot calculate its orbit.”

“I understand you,” said she; “but indeed you
wrong me. If I do not love Doctor Willard, I ought
not to marry him, if I would. But indeed, indeed, I
have no such reason as you suppose.”

“My dear child,” said Mr. Osborne, tenderly taking
her hand, “you have never in your whole life told me
an untruth. Do not let me go to my pillow with the
fear that you have deceived your earthly father, and
sinned against your heavenly one.”

Tears fell fast on the heaving bosom of the timid and
ingenuous Grace. She burst from the embrace of her
excellent parent, saying, “Some other time, dear father,
some other time, we will talk of this.”

Pitying her extreme distress, neither of them attempted
to prevent her departure. Both retired to rest exceedingly
anxious concerning a delusion, which, from the
character of its object, they could not imagine would
terminate happily for the fair being that indulged it.