University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

Rogers.

Miss Patsey had never, in her life, been to a regular ball,
before this house-warming of Uncle Josie's; but not even
the novelty of a ball could keep her in bed an hour later
than usual. Charlie and herself had returned home some
time after midnight, with the Wyllyses; but the next morning
she rose with the chickens, and before the October sun, to
pursue, as usual, her daily labours. It was truly surprising
how much Patsey Hubbard found time to do in a single day,
and that without being one of your fussy, utilitarian busy-bodies,
whose activity is all physical, and who look upon
half an hour passed in quiet thought, or innocent recreation,
as so much time thrown away. Our friend Patsey's career,
from childhood, had been one of humble industry, self-forgetfulness,
and active charity; her time in the gay hours of
youth, as well as in the calmer years of mature experience,
had been devoted to the welfare and happiness of her parents,
her brothers and sisters. From a long habit of considering
the wants and pleasures of others first, she always seemed
to think of herself last, as a matter of course. She had had
many laborious, anxious hours, many cares; but it is far
from being those who have the most trouble in this world,
who complain the loudest; no one had fewer wants, fewer
vanities, fewer idle hours than Miss Patsey, and, consequently,
no one could be more generally cheerful and contented.
There is nothing so conducive to true, healthful cheerfulness,
as the consciousness of time well-spent: there is no better
cure for the dull spirit of French ennui, or the gloom of

English blues, than regular, useful occupation, followed by
harmless recreation.

Any one who had followed Patsey Hubbard through the
varied duties of a single day, would have acknowledged
that there is no spectacle in this world more pleasant, than
that of a human being, discharging with untiring fidelity,
and singleness of heart, duties, however humble. The
simple piety of her first morning prayer, the plain good
sense of her domestic arrangements, and thorough performance
of all her household tasks, her respectful, considerate
kindness to her step-mother, and even a shade of undue
indulgence of Charlie — all spoke her character — all was
consistent.

Happy was Patsey's little flock of scholars. Every
morning, at nine o'clock, they assembled; the Taylor children
usually appeared in Leghorn gipsies, and silk aprons; the
rest of the troop in gingham “sun-bonnets,” and large aprons
of the same material. There were several little boys just
out of petticoats, and half-a-dozen little girls—enough to fill
two benches. The instruction Patsey gave her little people
was of the simplest kind; reading, spelling, writing, and
arithmetic, learning a few simple verses, with sewing and
marking for the girls, made up the amount of it. Most
people, in these days of enlightenment, would have been
very much dissatisfied with her plan, for it actually excluded
all the sciences, and all the accomplishments. Patsey had
two reasons for confining herself to the plainest branches of
education only; in the first place, she did not think herself
capable of teaching anything else; and, secondly, she doubted
whether her scholars were capable of learning anything better
or more useful for themselves. Mr. Taylor thought she had
very low views of infant education; and yet, you could not
have found anywhere a set of children, between three and
ten, who were more thoroughly taught what their instructor
professed to teach. Happy would it be for these little creatures,
if they never acquired any worse knowledge than they

gained under Patsey's care! She had an eye to their
tempers, their morals, and their manners; she trained the
little girls to be modest and gentle—the little boys to be
respectful and obliging; while she endeavoured to make all
alike honest, open, cheerful, and sincere. Were not these
lessons quite as important to most children, between the ages
of three and ten, as chemistry, astronomy, and natural philosophy?

The day following Uncle Josie's house-warming, Miss
Patsey released her little flock an hour earlier than usual;
they were allowed to pass the time playing in an adjoining
meadow, until sent for by their parents. There was to be a
tea-party at the “old gray house” that evening—a very unusual
event; ten invitations had been sent out. The fact is,
Miss Patsey had received a basket of noble peaches, the day
before, from one of her neighbours; and Uncle Josie had
already, early in the morning, sent over a wagon-load of
good things to replenish his niece's larder—the remains of
the last night's supper; among other delicacies there was a
bit of boned turkey, for Mrs. Hubbard's especial benefit.
Patsey scarcely knew what to do with so many luxuries.
She sent a basket of fruits and jellies to a couple of sick
neighbours, by Charlie; still, there was more than her
mother, Charlie, and herself, could possibly do justice to in a
week. She determined to give a little tea-party; it was
eighteen months since she had had one, and that had been only
for the Wyllyses. Dr. and Mrs. Van Horne, the Taylors, the
Wyllyses, and the Clapps were accordingly invited; and
Patsey proceeded to burn some coffee, and make short-cake.
The little parlour was more carefully swept and dusted than
ever, five additional chairs were brought in, and a fire was
made, on account of Mrs. Hubbard. Then, about four
o'clock, the ladies made their toilette; Mrs. Hubbard was
dressed in a smart new calico, with a cap, made by Elinor,
and was then seated in the best rocking-chair. As for Patsey,
herself, she could not think of wearing the elegant new dress,

Uncle Josie's present—that was much too fine; she preferred
what had now become her second-best—a black silk, which
looked somewhat rusty and well-worn. To tell the truth,
this gown had seen good service; it had been not only turned,
but re-turned—having twice gone through the operation of
ripping and sponging; and doubtful as the fact may appear
to the reader, yet we have Miss Patsey's word for it, that a
good silk will bear twice turning, but then it must be a silk
of a first-rate quality, like her own. It had been, indeed,
the standing opinion of the family for the last five years, that
this particular dress was still “as good as new.” As for the
changes in fashion that this black silk had outlived, who
shall tell them? It was purchased in the days of short
waists and belts, “gig-ohs,” and “pal-reens,” as they were
called by the country damsel, whose scissors first shaped
the glossy “gro de nap.” Waists, long, longer, longest,
succeeded; sleeves, full, fuller, fullest, followed; belts were
discarded, boddices began to appear; still Miss Patsey's silk
kept up with the changes, or rather, did not entirely lose
sight of them. If you had seen her at a little tea-party at
Wyllys-Roof, wearing this silk, “nearly as good as new,”
with a neat and pretty collar of Elinor's work, you would
have been obliged to confess that her dress answered a rule
given by a celebrated philosopher—you would not have remarked
it. Had you chanced to meet her of a Sunday, in
Mr. Wyllys's carriage — the Wyllyses always stopped on
their way to St. John's Church, at Longbridge, to offer a
couple of seats to the Hubbards, who were set down at the
door of their father's old Meeting-house—had you seen her
of a Sunday, with a neat straw hat, and the black silk gown,
you would have been obliged to acknowledge that her dress
had the double merit, by no means common, of according
with her circumstances, and the sacred duties she was going
to fulfil; the devotion of her neighbours would not be disturbed
by admiration of her toilette.

At five o'clock, Miss Patsey's company began to assemble;

the Wyllyses were the first to appear; then came Mrs.
Taylor, Mrs. Van Horne, and Mrs. Clapp; Adeline excused
herself, she thought it a bore, Charlie was not worth flirting
with. The doctor, Mr. Taylor, and Mr. Clapp, were expected
after tea. And a pleasant, good-natured evening it
proved to be. Miss Patsey's coffee was excellent; the little
black girl, engaged for the occasion, performed her duties to
admiration. Mrs. Taylor thought that she had scarcely
passed such a quiet, pleasant afternoon, since the halcyon
days before her husband was a rich man; she was much
interested in discussing with Miss Patsey, and Miss Wyllys,
and Mrs. Van Horne, various recipes for making bread, hoecake,
and other good things, As for Elinor, she told Charlie
she had left her work at home, on purpose that she might
have time enough to look over all his sketches—everything
he had to show, old and new. The drawings, and several
oil-paintings were accordingly produced, and looked over by
the young people, and Mr. Wyllys, who had taken a chair
by the table, and joined them. Elinor knew nothing of
drawing, but her general taste was good; she asked many
questions about the details of the art, and was amused and
interested by Charlie's remarks.

“Show us everything, Charlie,” said Mr. Wyllys. “I
befriended your genius, you know, in the days of the slate
and compound interest; and, of course, I shall think it due
to my own discernment to admire all your works.”

“Of course, you are not afraid of my criticisms,” said
Elinor; “I don't know enough to be severe.”

“People who know little, my child, generally make very
severe critics,” said Mr. Wyllys.

“When they know little, grandpapa; but mine is honest,
humble ignorance. I know nothing at all on the subject.”

“Do you remember, Miss Elinor, that Hogarth said anybody
possessing common sense was a better judge of a picture
than a connoisseur?”

“Did Hogarth say so?—I shall begin to feel qualified to

find fault. That is a very pretty group of children, grandpapa.”

“Very pretty;—some of Miss Patsey's little people. And
here is another, quite natural and graceful, Charlie.”

“I never see my sister's little scholars but I am tempted
to sketch them. Children are such a charming study; but
I am never satisfied with what I do; a picture of children
that is not thoroughly childlike is detestable. Those are
mere scratches.”

“What are these faint outlines of figures, with dashes of
colouring here and there?” asked Elinor.

“Oh, those are mere fancies, made entirely for amusement.
They are rude sketches of my own ideas of celebrated pictures
that I have never seen, of course; only as exercises for
idle moments—one way of practising attitudes of figures, and
composition. I keep them more as a lesson of humility than
anything else, for me to remember my own poor conceits
when I see the originals, if that happy day ever come.”

“I thought you gave yourself up entirely to landscapes,
Charlie—do you think seriously of pursuing both branches?”
asked Mr. Wyllys.

“No, sir; I give the preference to landscapes; I find, at
least, that field quite wide enough. It seems scarcely possible
to unite both, they are so different in character and
detail, and require such a different course of study.”

“That is the great point with you, my boy; you must not
waste too much time upon the ideal portion of the art; you
must remember that the most beautiful ideas in the world
will be lost, if the execution is not in some measure worthy
of them.”

“I am so well aware of that, sir, that I have done nothing
but study the practical part of my trade for the last three
months, and I feel that it has been of service to me.”

“There is water in all your sketches, I believe,” said
Elinor. “You must be very partial to it.”

“I am, indeed—it is a most delightful study—I should be

afraid to tell you all the pleasure I have in painting water—
you would laugh at me, if I once set off upon my hobby.”

“Not at all; you have made me an honest admirer of
every variety of lakes and rivers, since I have seen your
pictures.”

“When did you first take to water, Charlie?” asked Mr.
Wyllys.

“Oh, long ago, sir, when I was a little bit of a shaver.
Have you never when a child, Miss Elinor, received great
pleasure, perhaps a lasting impression, from some natural
object that you still remember distinctly?”

“Yes, I know what you mean — I recollect perfectly
several things of the kind. I believe children have more
observation, and feeling for what is beautiful, than is generally
supposed.”

“It is very probable that most children have similar sensations.
I am glad that you do not laugh at me; there are
few persons to whom I confess my violent partiality for water;
most people would think it ridiculous.”

“You are right, Charlie; one can talk to the world in
action only; it never believes the truth in any shape, until
forced to acknowledge it. You are pursuing the right course,
however; you have spoken quite clearly in your view from
Nahant — your friends have every reason to urge you to
persevere. But does not Mr. — tell you to pay more
attention to your foliage and buildings? you rather neglect
them for the water.”

“Yes, sir; I am well aware of my defects in that respect,
and next summer I hope to devote a great deal of time to
foliage.”

The conversation was here interrupted by the arrival of
Dr. Van Horne and Mr. Taylor, followed shortly after by
Mr. Clapp.

“You are late, William,” said pretty little Mrs. Clapp to
her husband. “Did you leave the children all safe? Did
the baby cry for me?”

“Perfectly safe—all sound asleep,” replied Mr. Clapp,
passing his fingers through his curls. But his wife, who
knew every expression of the face she thought so handsome,
fancied William looked pale and uneasy; some business
had gone wrong, perhaps.

“Quite a select circle,” observed Mr. Taylor, sitting down
by Miss Wyllys, leaning his chair back, and rolling his
thumbs, one over the other.

“I have not had a pleasanter evening in a great while,”
said Mrs. Taylor. “It puts me in mind, husband, of old-fashioned
tea-parties, when we lived altogether in the country.
We used to go at two o'clock, and stay until sunset. I think
such sociable parties are much pleasanter than late, crowded
balls.”

“Ha! ha!—that may be your opinion, Mrs. Taylor; a
quiet party does very well where one is intimate, no doubt;
but I conclude that younger ladies, Adeline, and her friends
Miss Graham and Miss Wyllys, would give a different
verdict.”

“Miss Taylor seems quite partial to large parties,” said
Elinor, quietly, for the remark was addressed to her.

“Yes, Adeline and her `chum' both like plenty of balls
and beaux, I reckon.”

“What has become of your patient, doctor?” inquired
Miss Patsey. “The poor man at the tavern—do you think
he will get well?”

“I have no doubt the fellow will outlive half-a-dozen such
fits. I left him last night under guard of two men, to keep
him from hanging himself; and this morning, when I went
to look after him, he was off. He was so much better, that
he had been persuaded by some messmate to ship for a
cruize—only a three years' whaling voyage. Regular Jacktar
fashion—a frolic one day, a fit the next, and off for the
end of the world the third.”

“He has left Longbridge, has he?” said Mr. Wyllys. “I
was just going to inquire after him, for they have a story

going about, that he used very threatening language in
speaking of myself and Hazlehurst. Did you happen to hear
him, doctor?”

“He did use some wild, incoherent expressions, sir, to
that effect, when I was with him; but the threats of a raving
man are not of much consequence.”

“Certainly not. But I have no idea who the man can be;
I don't know a single common seaman by sight or name—at
least, the only one I ever knew is long since dead. It is
singular that this fellow should have known my name even;
they say he was a stranger at Longbridge.”

“Entirely so, I believe.”

“What was his name?”

“William Thompson, they told me.”

`If he is a sailor, he probably has a dozen aliases,” interposed
Mr. Clapp, who had been listening very attentively.

“By-the-bye, Clapp, they say he included you in his kind
wishes.”

“Yes, sir, so I understand.”

“William, you never mentioned it to me!” said his wife.

“No, my dear; I did not attach any importance to the
story,” replied the lawyer, pulling out his handkerchief with
one hand, and running the other through his hair—looking
a little nervous and uneasy, notwithstanding,

“He did not exactly threaten you, Mr. Clapp, while I was
with him, said the doctor; “he seemed rather to depend upon
you as an ally.”

“Still more singular,” said Mr. Clapp, with a glance at
Mr. Wyllys.

“That was very strange!” exclaimed his wife—“what
could the man mean?”

“It is by no means easy to explain the meaning of a
drunken man, my dear. It is just possible he may have
heard my name as a man of business. I have had several
sailors for clients, and one quite recently, staying at the same
tavern.”

“I dare say, if explained, it would prove to be Much ado
about Nothing,” said Mr. Wyllys. “Since the fellow was
drunk at the time, and went off as soon as he grew sober, the
danger does not seem very imminent.”

“Precisely my opinion, sir,” said Mr. Clapp.

“Grandpapa, do you remember the sailor who was found
near our house, one night, about two years ago? It was my
birth-day, and we had a little party—have you forgotten?”

“True, my child; I have never thought of the fellow
since; but now you speak of him, I remember the fact.”

“Do you not think it is probably the same person?—you
know Harry had him locked up: perhaps he owes you both
a grudge for the treatment he received at Wyllys-Roof, upon
that occasion.”

“That accounts for the whole affair, Miss Elinor—you
have cleared up the mystery entirely,” said Mr. Clapp, looking
much relieved. He not only appeared grateful to Elinor
for the explanation given, but seemed to extend the obligation
to all the family; for he was particularly attentive to
Mr. Wyllys, and Miss Agnes, during the whole evening—
and the next morning, early, drove out to Wyllys-Roof, expressly
to carry some brook-trout, for Mr. Wyllys's breakfast.
The lawyer informed several persons, who alluded to
the story, of this simple explanation, which seemed to satisfy
all who heard it. The whole affair was soon forgotten, for
a time, at least.