University of Virginia Library

1. ELINOR WYLLYS.
CHAPTER I.

Wordsworth.

Cowper.

It is to be feared the reader will find fault with this chapter.
But there is no remedy; he must submit quietly to a break
of three years in the narrative: having to choose between
the unities and the probabilities, we greatly preferred holding
to the last. The fault, indeed, of this hiatus, rests entirely
with the young folk of Longbridge, whose fortunes we have
undertaken to follow; had they remained together, we should,
of course, have been faithful to our duty as a chronicler; but
our task was not so easy. In the present state of the world,
people will move about—especially American people; and
making no claim to ubiquity, we were obliged to wait patiently
until time brought the wanderers back again, to the
neighbourhood where we first made their acquaintance.
Shortly after Jane's marriage, the whole party broke up;
Jane and her husband went to New-Orleans, where Tallman
Taylor was established as partner in a commercial house

connected with his father. Hazlehurst passed several years
in Mexico and South-America: an old friend of his father's,
a distinguished political man, received the appointment of
Envoy to Mexico, and offered Harry the post of Secretary
of Legation. Hazlehurst had long felt a strong desire to see
the southern countries of the continent, and was very glad
of so pleasant an arrangement; he left his friend Ellsworth
to practise law alone, and accompanied Mr. Henley, the
Minister, to Mexico; and from thence removed, after a time,
to Brazil. Charlie had been studying his profession in
France and Italy, during the same period. Even Elinor was
absent from home much more than usual; Miss Wyllys had
been out of health for the last year or two; and, on her account,
they passed their summers in travelling, and a winter
in the West-Indies. At length, however, the party met
again on the old ground; and we shall take up the thread of
our narrative, during the summer in which the circle was
re-united. It is to be hoped that this break in the movement
of our tale will be forgiven, when we declare, that the plot
is about to thicken; perplexities, troubles, and misfortunes
are gathering about our Longbridge friends; a piece of intelligence
which will probably cheer the reader's spirits.
We have it on the authority of a philosopher, that there is
something gratifying to human nature in the calamities of
our friends; an axiom which seems true, at least, of all acquaintances
made on paper.

We hear daily that life is short; and, surely, Time flies
with fearful rapidity if we measure his course by years: three-score-and-ten,
the allotted span of man, are soon numbered.
But events, thoughts, feelings, hopes, cares, are better marks
for the dial of life, than hours and minutes. In this view,
the path of life is a long road, full of meaning and of movement
at every step; and in this sense only in time justly
appreciated; each day loses its insignificance, and every
yearly revolution of the earth becomes a point in eternity.

The occurrences of the three years during which we have

lost sight of the Longbridge circle will speak for themselves,
as our tale is gradually unfolded. It is evident, however, at
the first glance, on returning to the old ground, that the
village itself has undergone some alterations. Though belonging
to a part of the country occasionally accused of being
“unenterprising,” it had not proved insensible to the general
movement felt throughout the republic, in those halcyon days
of brilliant speculation, which commenced with the promise
of good fortune to all, and ended by bringing poverty to many,
and disgrace to others. A rail-road now runs through the
principal street, and the new dépôt, a large, uncouth building,
stands conspicuous at its termination, looking commercial
prosperity, and internal improvement. Several new stores
have been opened, half-a-dozen “tasty mansions”—chiefly
imitations of Mr. Hubbard's—have been built, another large
tavern has been commenced, and two additional steamboats
may be seen lying at the wharf. The value of property in
the village itself, is said to have doubled, at least; new streets
are laid out, and branch rail-roads are talked of; and many
people flatter themselves that Longbridge will figure in the
next census as a flourishing city, with the full honours of a
Corporation, Mayor, and Aldermen. In the population, corresponding
changes are also perceptible; many new faces
are seen in the streets, new names are observed on the signs;
others again are missed from their old haunts, for there is
scarcely a family in the place, which has not sent its representation
westward.

Most of our old acquaintances, however, still remain on
the spot, this pleasant afternoon in June, 183-. There stands
Mr. Joseph Hubbard, talking to Judge Bernard. That is
Dr. Van Horne, driving off in his professional sulkey. There
are Mrs. Tibbs and Mrs. Bibbs, side-by-side, as of old. Mrs.
George Wyllys has moved, it seems; her children are evidently
at home in a door-yard on the opposite side of the
street, adjoining the Hubbard “Park.” On the door of that
bright-coloured, spruce-looking brick house, you will see the

name of W. C. Clapp; and there are a pair of boots resting
on the window-sill of an adjoining office, which probably
belong to the person of the lawyer, himself. Now, we may
observe Mrs. Hilson and Miss Emmeline Hubbard flitting
across the street, “fascinating and aristocratic” as ever.

Let us leave the village, however, for the more immediate
neighbourhood of Wyllys-Roof; in which, it is hoped,
the reader will feel more particularly interested. There
stands the little cottage of the Hubbards, looking just as it
did three years since; it is possible that one or two of the
bull's-eye panes of glass may have been broken, and changed,
and the grey shingles are a little more-moss-grown; but its
general aspect is precisely what it was when we were last
there. The snow-ball and the sweet-briar are in their old
places, each side of the humble porch; the white blossoms
have fallen from the scraggy branches of the snow-ball, this
first week in June; the fresh pink buds are opening on the
fragrant young shoots of the sweet-briar. There is our friend,
Miss Patsey, wearing a sun-bonnet, at work in the garden; and
if you look through the open door of the house, you will
see beyond the passage into the neat little kitchen, where we
catch a glimpse of Mrs. Hubbard's white cap over the back
of her rocking-chair. It is possible that you may also see
the merry, shining, black face of a little handmaiden, whom
Miss Patsey has lately taken into the family; and, as the
tea-kettle is boiling, and the day's work chiefly over, the
little thing is often seen at this hour, playing about the corners
of the house, with the old cat. Ah, there is the little
minx!—her sharp ears have heard the sound of wheels,
and she is already at the open gate, to see what passes. A
wagon stops; whom have we here? Little Judy is frightened
half out of her wits: a young man she does not know,
with his face covered with beard, after a fashion she had
never yet seen, springs from the wagon. Miss Patsey turns
to look.

“Charlie!”—she exclaims; and in another moment the

youth has received the joyful, tearful, agitated embrace of
his mother and sister. The darling of their hearts is at home
again; three years since, he left them, a boy, to meet dangers
exaggerated tenfold by their anxious hearts; he returns, a
man, who has faced temptations undreamed of by their
simple minds. The wanderer is once more beneath their
humble roof; their partial eyes rest again on that young face,
changed, yet still the same.

Charlie finds the three last years have passed lightly over
his mother and his sister; theirs are the same kindly faces,
the same well-known voices, the best loved, the most trusted
from childhood. After the first eager moments of greeting
are over, and the first hurried questions have been answered,
he looks about him. Has not the dear old cottage shrunk
to a very nut-shell? He opens the door of the school-room;
there are its two benches, and its humble official desk, as of
old; he looks into the little parlour, and smiles to think of
the respect he felt in his childish days for Miss Patsey's
drawing-room: many a gilded gallery, many a brilliant
saloon has he since entered as a sight-seer, with a more careless
step. He goes out on the porch; is it possible that is
the garden?—why it is no larger than a table-cloth! — he
should have thought the beds he had so often weeded could
not be so small: and the door-yard, one can shake hands
across it! And there is Wyllys-Roof, half hid by trees—
he used to admire it as a most venerable pile; in reality it is
only a plain, respectable country-house: as the home of the
Wyllyses, however, it must always be an honoured spot to
him. Colonnade Manor too—he laughs! There are some
buildings that seem, at first sight, to excite to irresistible
merriment; they belong to what may be called the “ridiculous
order” of architecture, and consist generally of caricatures
on noble Greek models; Mr. Taylor's elegant mansion had,
undeniably, a claim to a conspicuous place among the number.
Charlie looks with a painter's eye at the country; the scenery
is of the simplest kind, yet beautiful, as inanimate nature,

sinless nature, must ever be under all her varieties: he casts
a glance upward at the sky, bright and blue as that of Italy;
how often has he studied the heavens from that very spot!
The trees are rich in their summer verdure, the meadows
are fragrant with clover, and through Mr. Wyllys's woods
there is a glimpse of the broad river, gilded by the evening
sun. It is a pleasing scene, a happy moment; it is the first
landscape he ever painted, and it is home.

Then Charlie returns to his mother; he sits by her side,
she takes his hand in her withered fingers, she rests her
feeble sight on his bright face; while Miss Patsey is preparing
all the dainties in the house for supper.

“Well, little one, what is your name?” said Charlie, as
the black child passed him with a load of good things.

“Judy, sir,” said the little girl, with a curtsey, and a half-frightened
look at Charlie's face, for the young artist had
chosen to return with moustaches; whether he thought it
professional or becoming, we cannot say.

“We shall be good friends I hope, Judy; if you mind
my sister better than you ever did anybody else in your life,
perhaps I shall find some sugar-plums for you,” said Charlie,
pleased to see a black face again.

Mrs. Hubbard remarked that, upon the whole, Judy was
a pretty good girl; and the child grinned, until two deep
dimples were to be seen in her shining dark cheeks, and
the dozen little non-descript braids which projected from her
head in different directions, seemed to stand on end with
delight.

“And so Mr. Wyllys and the ladies are not at home. I
wish I had known of their being in New-York; I might at
least have seen them for a moment, yesterday.”

“I wonder Mrs. Hilson did not mention their being in
town.”

“Julianna never knows what she is talking about. But I
am glad to hear good accounts of them all.”

“Yes; Miss Wyllys has come home from the West-Indies,
much better.”

“Is it really true that Miss Elinor is going to be married
shortly?”

“Well, I can't say whether the story is true or not. She
seems to have many admirers now she has become an heiress.”

“But I don't understand how she comes to be such a
fortune.”

“I don't understand it myself; Mr. Clapp can tell you all
about it. You know most people are a great deal richer
now than they were a few years ago. I heard some one
say the other day, that my old pupil's property in Longbridge,
is worth three times as much now, as it was a short
time since.”

“Is it possible Longbridge has improved so much?”

“And then your old play-fellow has had two legacies from
relations of her mother's; everybody in the neighbourhood
is talking of her good-luck, and saying what a fortune she
will turn out. I only hope she will be happy, and not be
thrown away upon some one unworthy of her, like her poor
cousin; for it seems young Mr. Taylor is very dissipated.”

Charlie probably sympathized with this remark, though
he made no reply.

“Mr. and Mrs. Tallman Taylor are in New-York now, I
hear, just come from New-Orleans. The family from Wyllys-Roof
have gone over to see them,” added Miss Patsey.

“Yes, so I understand. They will be here before long, I
suppose.”

“Not immediately; for they are all going to Saratoga together.
Dr. Van Horne thought Miss Wyllys had better
pass two or three weeks at the Springs.”

“That is fortunate for me—I shall see them the sooner;
for I must be at Lake George before the first of July. I
have an order for three views of the Lake, which I have
promised to send to England early in the fall.”

Here Charlie entered into some details of his affairs, very

interesting to his mother and sister; and they seemed to be
in a very satisfactory condition, according to his own modest
views. After a while the conversation again returned to
their Longbridge friends.

“Did you know that Mr. Hazlehurst is coming home too,
this summer?” asked Miss Patsey.

“Yes; he wrote me word he hoped we should meet
before long. How did that affair with Mrs. Creighton turn
out?”

“We did hear they were engaged; but it could not have
been true, for the lady has been in Philadelphia, and he in
Brazil, for some time, you know. I used to ask about such
matters once in a while, on purpose to write you word. But
I had no great opportunity of hearing much about Mr.
Hazlehurst; for after that unhappy business at Wyllys-Roof,
there was, of course, a great coolness; for some time I never
heard his name mentioned there, and Mr. Wyllys seldom
speaks of him now.”

“Are they not reconciled, then?”

“Not entirely, I am afraid; but you know they have not
met for three years.”

“I shall hardly know myself at Wyllys-Roof, without
seeing Mr. Hazlehurst and Miss Graham there.”

“You will find a great change in that respect. Mrs.
Taylor has not been here since her marriage; Miss Van
Alstyne seems to have taken her place; she is a very pleasant
young lady. When the family is at home now, there
seems often to be some strange gentleman with them.”

“Fortune-hunters, I suppose,” said Charlie, with some
indignation. “Well, the course of true love never has, and
never will run quite as it ought, I suppose. And how do
all the Longbridge people come on?—How is Uncle Josie?”

“Very well, indeed; just as good as ever to us. You
must go to see him to-morrow.”

“Certainly;—and what is Uncle Dozie about?”

“At work in the vegetable-garden, as usual. He sent

me a fine basket of salad, and radishes, and onions, this
morning.”

“Clapp has got into a new house I see.”

“Yes; he is in very good business, I believe; you saw
Catherine, you say?”

“Yes, for a minute only. I ran in to kiss Kate and the
children, while they were harnessing a horse for me at the
tavern. Kate looks very well herself. The children didn't
remember much of Uncle Charlie; but they are pretty,
healthy little things, nevertheless.”

The grandmother assented to the commendation of her
daughter's family; she thought them remarkably fine children.
“Catherine was a very fortunate woman,” she said;
“Mr. Clapp was a very superior man, so very clever that he
must do well; and the children were all healthy—they had
gone through the measles wonderfully, that spring.”

“Charlie had not quite as elevated an opinion of his brother-in-law
as the females of the family; he allowed his mother's
remark to pass unnoticed, however.

“And so Mr. Taylor has given up Colonnade Manor,” he
continued.

“Yes; he has just sold it to Mr. de Vaux, a friend of Mr.
Wyllys,” replied Miss Patsey.

“Why did he sell it, pray?”

“Well, the young ladies liked better to live about at hotels
and boarding-houses in the summer, I believe; they thought
it was too dull at Longbridge. Mr. Taylor didn't care much
for the place: you know there are some people, who, as
soon as they have built a house, and got everything in nice
order, want to sell; it seems as if they did not care to be
comfortable; but I suppose it is only because they are so
fond of change.”

We may as well observe, by way of parenthesis, that this
fancy of getting rid of a place as soon as it is in fine order,
would probably never occur to any man but an American,

and an American of the particular variety to which Mr. Taylor
belonged.

“I don't wonder at his wanting to get rid of the house;
but the situation and the neighbourhood might have satisfied
him, I think,” said Charlie, as he accepted Miss Patsey's
invitation to eat the nice supper she had prepared for him.

As he took his seat at the table, Mrs. Hubbard observed,
that he probably had not seen such short-cake as Patsey made,
in Rome—to which Charlie assented warmly. He had wished
one evening, in Florence, he said, for some of his sister's
short-cake, and a good cup of tea of her making; and the
same night he dreamed that the Venus de Medicis had made
him some. He was ashamed of himself for having had
such a dream; but it could not be helped, such was the fact.

Mrs. Hubbard thought no woman, Venus or not, ought to
be ashamed of making good short-cake; if they were bad,
that would be a different matter.

“Well, Charlie, now you have seen all those paintings
and figures you used to talk so much about, what do you
think of them? — are they really so handsome as you
expected?” asked his sister.

“They are wonderful!” exclaimed Charlie, with animation;
putting down a short-cake he had just buttered.
“Wonderful!—There is no other word to describe them.”

Mrs. Hubbard observed, that she had some notion of a
painting, from the minister's portrait in the parlour—Charlie
took up his short cake—she thought a person might have
satisfaction in a painting; such a picture as that portrait;
but as for those stone figures he used to wish to see, she
could not understand what was the beauty of such idol-like
things.

“They are not at all like idols, mother; they are the most
noble conceptions of the human form.”

How could they look human? He himself had told her
they were made out of marble; just such marble, she supposed,
as was used for tomb-stones.

“I only wish you could see some of the statues in Italy;
the Laocoon, Niobe, and others I have seen. I think you
would feel then what I felt—what I never can describe in
words.”

Mrs. Hubbard said the names sounded very heathen-like
to her ears; she had never seen a statue, of any description
whatever; she didn't think she could have any satisfaction
in looking at one. If they had any colour to them, and were
dressed up in uniforms, and handsome clothes, like the wax-figures
of General Washington, Napoleon Bonaparte, and
Lord Nelson, she had once seen, they would be worth looking
at, perhaps.

Miss Patsey wished to know, if among the statues he had
seen, there were any supposed to be likenesses of the great
men that we read about in history?

“There are many statues and busts in Italy, that are undeniably
portraits of some of the greatest men of antiquity,”
he replied.

“Do you suppose they are really like those old Romans?
I don't mean such likenesses as the portrait of our dear
father; but still pretty good for those old times?”

“Far better than anything of the kind you ever saw,”
replied Charlie, drinking off a cup of tea.

Miss Patsey thought those might be worth seeing. A
conversation followed upon the delight Charlie had felt in
beholding celebrated places, the scenes of great events in
past ages; a delight that an American can never know in
his own country, and which, on that very account, he enjoys
with a far keener zest than a European. Miss Patsey seemed
to enter a little into this pleasure; but, upon the whole, it
was quite evident that all the imagination of the family had
fallen to Charlie's share. The young man thought little of
this, however: when Judy had carried away the remains of
the supper, he returned to his mother's side, and the evening
passed away in that pleasant family chat, so interesting to
those who feel alike. Sympathy of the heart is a tie ten-fold

stronger than sympathy of the head; people may think alike,
and hate each other; while those who feel together, are
often led to adopt the same opinions.

When Charlie had read the usual evening chapter in the
Bible, and had received his mother's kiss and blessing, he
laid himself down with a thankful heart, in the little garret-room,
as in his childish years. The young artist's dreams
that night, were a mingled crowd of fancies; the memories
of his boyhood reviving in their old haunts, accompanied by
more recent images brought from beyond the Ocean, and
linked with half-formed plans and ideas for the future.
Among these visions of the night, were two more distinct
than the rest; one was a determination to commence, the
very next morning, a copy of his honoured father's portrait,
in which the artist's object was unusual; for it was his chief
aim to make it as little like the original before him, as possible.
Shall we reveal the fact that another image, wearing
a gentler aspect than the stern, rigid features of the minister's
portrait, seemed to flit before the young painter's fancy,
coming unbidden, and mingling more especially with recollections
of the past? As a ray of moonlight stole into the
low dormer-window, the young man turned on his humble
bed, a sigh burst from his lips, followed by the words, “No,
no!”

We shall keep the secret.