University of Virginia Library

JAMES BLAIR;
OR,
LOVE IN THE VALLEY OF THE JUNIATA.

By Grace Greenwood.

1. CHAPTER I.

Scene First.—A
moonlight night,
in a forest, in the
northern part of
Virginia; many
lights gleaming in
the distance. But
what am I about!
I beg your pardon, my sober
minded reader, for any theatrical
commencement. The
truth of the matter is, I just
“dropped in” at the play, the
other night, and my head is
even now full of the vain
things which I there saw and heard. But I should
not seek to give stage effect to the really authentic

tale which I am about to relate to you, and which
I only desire to “Tell as it was told to me.” So, to
begin again, soberly and in order;—it was a glorious
June night, some fifteen years ago, when Henry
Elbridge, the younger son of a rich and aristocratic
Virginian family, rode up a rocky pathway, which
wound through one of the magnificent forests of the
“Old Dominion.” He was superbly mounted, and
followed, at a little distance, by a black groom. Suddenly,
at a turn of the road, he checked his horse,
and an exclamation of wondering delight escaped his
lips. The forest far around him was lit up as for a
festival; and a multitude of snowy tents were pitched
beneath the trees, gleaming through the over-hanging
branches. A crowd of people, of all ages and
conditions, were lifting up the voice of prayer and
praise in that grandest cathedral of nature's God—
the gorgeous wood, with its lofty, rugged pillars, and
its thousand “sounding aisles.”

It was that most unique, that most wildly-beautiful
of scenes, a methodist camp-meeting at night. It was
entirely a new spectacle to our hero; for, though
born in Virginia, he had been educated in New England,
having but just graduated at Harvard. He was
an ardent, enthusiastic, intellectual young man, with
a heart peculiarly impressible in matters of love and
religion. He had been led by curiosity alone to witness
the scene which he now contemplated with so
lively an interest.

At the close of the prayer and hymn he dismounted,
and approached nearer to the preacher's stand—a rude

platform erected on the highest part of the grounds.
Taking rather a retired position, he stood carelessly
leaning against a patriarchal oak, and awaited the
evening's discourse. The preacher, the celebrated
B—, had not yet arrived; but presently a hush of
respectful expectation fell upon the assembly, as a
man of imposing form, and massive features, ascended
the platform. He commenced in a manner calmly
impressive, but soon his impassioned and o'ermastering
eloquence a woke within him, in might and grandeur.
His dark eye flashed with fervid zeal—his
every word seemed freighted with solemn meaning—
the very tones of his voice pierced the heart, sword-like,
through the double armour of pride and unbelief.
His theme was the crucifixion of our Lord; and, as
he proceeded, the groans of the strong man, and the
cries of women, attested the power of the orator and
the subject. Bound by the mighty spell of truth,
genius-revealed, stood young Elbridge, the burning
exhortations of the speaker falling like a storm of fire
on his overwhelmed and shrinking spirit. Every sin,
every error, every unworthy act of his life, seemed
passing in dread review before him—his features became
convulsed, his head bowed, and his breast
heaved tumultuously. He seemed to behold the
mocking trial of our blessed Master—the crown of
thorns, the crimsoned scourge, the spear, the cup of
gall;—all the human suffering, and divine meekness
of that life-giving death; and, while his heart was
rent with anguish unspeakable, a flood of despair, like
a wave from the sea of eternal wrath, swept over his
soul; he raised his clasped hands, cried frantically,
For me He died! for me, for me!” and fell prostrate.
He had swooned.

When he revived, he was lying in a tent, his head
supported by his servant; and beside him stood the
preacher, whose exhortations had so stirred up the
great deeps of his soul. Then followed words of hope,
and peace, and pleading prayer; and, ere the morning
dawned, a new life, mystical and holy, awoke
within the bosom of the young convert; a sweet, confiding,
childlike sense of reconciliation with the father,
thrilled his heart; and the joy of the saint, sudden,
“unutterable, and full of glory,” burst upon him
like a tropical day.

2. CHAPTER II.

I will not dwell on the storm of opposition which
was raised in the proud family of the Elbridges,
when, a few weeks subsequent to the event narrated
in the foregoing chapter, Henry announced his intention
of preparing for the ministry, after having been
admitted to the church. The young enthusiast mildly,
but firmly, resisted both entreaty and ridicule—his
patrician mother's and sister's reproaches, and the
sneers of his father and brothers, at “ranting, canting,
beggarly, methodist parsons.” With a strength and

determination which amazed those who would deter
him, he resolutely trod the rugged and undeviating
path of duty. Diligently and prayerfully he fitted
himself for his sacred office; and at the age of twenty-three
was stationed as a regular preacher, in a romantic
part of the valley of the Juniata. He had heard
much of the natural beauty of that portion of the
country, and was all ardour and hopefulness in contemplation
of his pleasant duties, as the shepherd
who should watch and lead the flock of the faithful,
scattered through those wild regions. But alas! he
soon found that he had dropped down among a set of
semi-barbarians, in manners, prejudices, habits, and
religion. Sensitive and refined, reared in luxury,
and of a delicate physical organization, what course
did the young clergyman pursue, when made aware
of the erroneous ideas he had formed of the location
to which he had been appointed? Why, he made
up his mind to labour as a missionary, ceaselessly, and
ardently, until a better state of things was established,
in his congregation at least. This he found to consist
almost altogether of the ranting methodists, whose
fits of religious feeling were accompanied by shoutings
and violent convulsions. In their meetings it
was not deemed out of order for singing, praying,
and exhorting, to go on simultaneously; and he or
she was the better saint, whose voice rose loudest or
shrillest. Gently and gradually, by the influences
of love and reason, did Elbridge bring about his
much-needed reform; and before a year had passed, a
decent quietness reigned over his religious meetings.

There was one female preacher, however, whose
frequent and singular exhortations continued a source
of considerable annoyance to Elbridge. In her “holdings
forth,” she invariably began by a powerful appeal
to the world's people, expressing a fervent desire
to behold “a harpoon from the quiver of gospel truth
piercing their stubborn hearts,” and closed with an
admonition to the brethren and sisters “never to turn
aside to pluck the flowers that grow in nater's garden,”
but to “persevere until they should land on the
other side of everlasting deliverance,” &c., &c.

Poor Elbridge found it vain for him to attempt
putting a spell upon a woman's tongue when “set on
fire of” zeal.

There was also one of the brethren, who offered a
stout breast to the flood of innovation. This was a
good old father in Israel, who had for many years
been a class-leader, and was, therefore, a privileged
person. He rejoiced in a bon-vivant-ish rotundity of
figure, and a round, funny face, irresistibly laughter
exciting in one of his calling. His seat was directly
in front of the desk, whence his responses were most
frequent and inopportune. At every “Amen” which
he uttered with a loud, sonorous voice, he brought
his heavy walking-stick to the floor, in a most striking
and emphatic manner. Having been interrupted
and confused until his patience was exhausted,
our hero of the white neck-cloth sought his hearer,
and, with kind persuasion, and by reasoning against
his mal-apropos responses, wrung from him a promise
of future forbearance. It happened that Elbridge's

next discourse was a remarkably fine one, and it was
with evident difficulty, from the first, that the “stout
gentleman” controlled his amenity. Warmer and
warmer waxed the preacher, more and more eloquent,
until it was too much for methodist nature to bear,
and the old man brought down his stick, louder than
ever, and shouted boldly, “Amen, hit or miss!”

I need hardly say that Elbridge did not attempt to
“deal” with his “unruly member.”

3. CHAPTER III.

When Elbridge had been a few months in the valley
of the Juniata, he was called to administer spiritual
consolation to a woman dying of consumption.
A small lad, with a slight Irish brogue, and eyes
swollen with weeping, poorly but cleanly dressed, conducted
him two or three miles up the valley, to a house
built of logs, but as neat as a cottage ornee, and nested
in the most luxuriant shrubbery. Elbridge could
scarcely believe this to be the home of James Blair, the
wretched inebriate, whom he had often remarked
staggering from bar-room doors, or lying by the way-side
in a state of brutal intoxication.

When he entered, the dying woman was sitting upright
in bed, supported by a young girl, whom he had
before seen at his meetings, and noticed for the Ma

donna-like sweetness and purity of her countenance.
This was Elizabeth Blair, the eldest daughter of the
house. Her sister, an exceedingly beautiful girl of
sixteen or seventeen, stood at her side, weeping passionately.
The husband and father, for once in his
right mind, was kneeling at the bed-side, his face
buried in his hands, and his whole frame quivering
with convulsive sobs. Opposite stood Dr. N—, a
young physician, late from Harrisburgh, already partially
known to Elbridge.

To his joy, the clergyman found that his ministrations
were only needed by the husband and children;
the wife and mother awaited with fearless and saintlike
serenity the swift coming of the angel of death.
In the brief conversation which he was enabled to
have with her, he saw that she was remarkably intelligent
for one of her station, and possessed of the clearest
and truest understanding of spiritual things.

At the close of a simple and fervent prayer, the sufferer
beckoned her younger children to draw nearer,
kissed them tenderly, and faintly murmured, “Elizabeth,
your mother—now.” Then, for the first time,
James Blair looked up, and, in a voice husky with remorseful
anguish, exclaimed, “Forgive me, Mary,
before you go!”

Alas! the power of speech had left the poor, wronged
wife, but she stretched out her thin hand, and laid it
tenderly on the head of her repentant husband, and
then let it glide down upon his neck. He understood
the action, and drew closer to her; she bent forward,
pressed her cold lips to his, and so died.

On his return to his boarding-house, Elbridge, ascertained,
to his surprise, that the family with whom
he was domesticated were nearly related to the Blairs.
Philip Denny, his host, the only brother of the late
Mrs. Blair, was one of the wealthiest men in the valley;
but, though violently religious, had the reputation of
great penuriousness. He had but one child, a daughter,
and, as she is to be no unimportant character in
this “simple story,” it is time she was known to
my reader. So, my dear sir, or madame, allow me
to present to you Miss Katherine Denny, the
beauty and belle for many miles up and down the
valley of the Juniata. She was a superb creature—
a perfect Irish Juno—with the queenliest of forms,
the haughtiest of gaits, and the blackest eyes conceivable,
out of which flashed a fire, beautiful but
dangerous, like lightning from a midnight cloud.
Katherine had been for some while the leader and life
of gay society in that region, and had won for herself
the name of being an arch-coquette. But soon after
the advent of that rara avis, a minister, young, rich,
and handsome, she became, to the great dismay of
her worldly admirers, suddenly serious. She cut the
vain bows from her bonnet, and the equally vain beaux
at her side; she joined the “class” spiritual in the
conference room, and forsook the class Terpsichorean,
in the ball-room of “The Golden Horn.” She walked
demurely to meeting, and sung hymns, and talked
theology with the young minister, until his susceptible
heart was affected to the degree that he found himself
preaching with her commendations in view, and

yet blushing and stammering painfully when he
marked her great black eyes fixed upon him in sermon-time.

She was thus “in the full tide of successful experiment,”
when, with the strange want of tact which the
most artful women often display when their hearts are
touched, she grew impatient of the slow-and-sure policy,
and, resolving to conclude her conquest by a
coup-de-main, she suddenly made her debut as an exhorter!

She proved herself possessed of rare talent, of absolute
genius as a speaker. She talked like an inspired
prophetess, and electrified her audience with her wonderful
bursts of eloquence. Her warnings and denunciations
were at times fearfully grand, and produced
the most striking effect upon her impressible hearers.
But, as for Elbridge, she had mistaken her man.
Though, as an orthodox methodist, he advocated women's
religious rights, and believed in the spiritual
equality of the sexes, his natural delicate sensitiveness,
and his early prejudices, were certainly opposed
to the unmaidenly course which Katherine Denny
was pursuing. He was pained, disappointed, ill at
ease every way, but did not presume to advise against
that which he believed the result of an imperious
sense of duty on the part of the beautiful religious enthusiast.
One Monday, while taking his morning
walk, musing on these things, and striving to reconcile
old tastes with newly formed-principles, he overheard
part of a conversation between two of his church-members,
who were at work in a field by the road-side.

There had been a meeting of exciting interest
the night previous, and one of the men said to his
companion—

“Did you know that Tom Henderson had got
religion?”

“You don't say so! How?”

“Why, he happened in at the meeting last evening,
just for deviltry; but when Katherine Denny come
to free her mind, he grew dreadfully religious, and lay
in the power all night long.”

Now Tom Henderson was known through all
that region as the wildest, profanest jockey and frolicker;
and though good-natured and good-looking
withal the plague and pest of the honest and
peacefully-inclined. Here was, indeed, cause for rejoicing,
and Elbridge felt rebuked for his little faith,
and worldly fastidiousness. “Dear Katherine,” he soliloquized,
“why should I question your right to exercise
all your gifts in doing good! If your words have
carried conviction to the heart of this one sinner, great
is your reward for the sacrifice of your womanly delicacy.
But poor Henderson may be standing in want
of spiritual consolation: I will go to him.”

On reaching the abode of the Hendersons, the clerical
visiter was directed by a staring, red-haired girl,
to a back yard, where he found the young convert
seeking “consolation” in a cock-fight.

4. CHAPTER IV.

Before progressing with my story, I must tell my
reader something more of the Blairs. So, reculer pour
mieux sauter, James Blair, an Irishman of education,
and some property, married the girl of his heart, and
came immediately to this country. Having an eye
for the picturesque, he purchased a farm on that loveliest
of American rivers, the Juniata. But James
Blair, bred to a mercantile life, had no “faculty” for
farming; then he met with sickness, losses, and discouragements,
and—oh, 'tis the old, old story, became
a drunkard, and all was over with him. But Mary,
poor Mary Blair, was a jewel of a wife, for a saint or
a sinner—only she would have lasted longer if her
“Jamie” had had more of the former, and less of the
latter in his composition. But, as she wasted away
in her patient broken-heartedness, there was one to
take her place. Elizabeth Blair was one of those
rare characters of whom “the world is not worthy.”
A spectacle for angels was her life of unobtrusive, unwearying,
unmurmuring goodness. From the age
of eighteen, when her mother's health failed utterly,
to her twenty-first year, the period when she was in
troduced to my reader, she had, by her own labours,
clothed and fed her father and his family. In household
duties, and the care of the invalid mother, she
was assisted by her sister somewhat; but she alone

was the hope, the dependence, the “light in a dark
place,” the sustaining pillar, the animating soul of
that sad, neglected family. She was school-teacher,
mantua-maker, milliner, tailoress,- all things for the
good and comfort of those she loved. Dear Elizabeth!
when I remember your meek piety, your energy,
patience, sweetness, and courage, I were humbled at
the very thought of you, did I not know that there is
no reproach in your goodness.

But in her mother's last illness the noble girl had
over-tasked herself; and, after hard struggling against
disease, she became alarmingly ill, with a nervous
fever. Again, weeping more bitterly than ever, went
little Jamie for the minister, whom he met returning
from the parochial visit narrated at the close of the
last chapter. Elibridge turned pale at the intelligence
which the boy sobbed forth, and accompanied
him immediately home. He found Elizabeth manifesting
the same serene resignation which had hallowed
the deathbed of her mother. Before he left,
however, Dr. N— arrived, and pronounced her
better, and the angel of hope revisited that desolate
home. Slowly, very slowly, came back strength and
health to that overwrought spirit and frame; and
pleasant and profitable were the young clergyman's
frequent visits to the interesting invalid. He was
sometimes accompanied by Katherine, who professed
to love her cousin fervently; and he did not fear for
his heart, because he constantly encountered there
the young physician, to whom it was rumoured Elizabeth
Blair was betrothed.

At last, the invalid had so far recovered as to appear
at meeting. Pale, very pale, she was; but lovelien
than ever thought those who loved her.

Elbridge saw that it now would be but proper for
him to make his visits less frequent, and he did so.
Then was he haunted by a strange feeling of unrest—
he forgot his engagements—he talked to himself—he
grew careless of his dress—he lost his appetite;—in
short, he was in love; but not with Katherine Denny;
oh no, not with Katherine Denny.

When our hero became aware of his dangerous
malady, he began treating it with promptness and
severity. He first prescribed for himself total absence
from a certain abode of beauty and worth—love's own
log temple, built in the wilderness.

A dead failure! for did he not see that face, delicately
flushed with returning health, looking up to
him with sweet seriousness, every blessed Sunday?

Matters were in this interesting state when, while
returning one Sabbath evening from a neighbouring
town, where he had been preaching, a storm compelled
him to seek a night's shelter in a farmhouse
by the way. Soon after, who should ride up but
Dr. N—. He came in, dripping with the rain, and
laughing in his own peculiar and joyous manner.

“The doctor,” now one of my most valuable and
reliable of friends, was one you might see once and
remember always. His frank, handsome, heart-beaming
countenance daguerreotyped itself inevitably
upon the memory. He was the “prince of good felt
lows,” in the very best sense of the term. With his

freedom of mind, warm, unchecked affections, and
hopeful, cheerful philosophy, he lived up to the full
measure of life. Once or twice during the evening,
as his fine face glowed with the inspiration of some
thought, flashingly beautiful, or exquisitely grotesque,
Elbridge was slightly conscious of a certain unministerial
feeling, known to the world as jealousy; but
he coughed it down, as out of order, being the sug
gestion of a “gentleman in black,” not “in good and
regular standing.”

When the hour for retiring came, as there was but
one “spare bed,” Elbridge was obliged to “turn in”
with his unconscious rival. Some time in the night
the doctor awoke. The storm had passed, and the
moon was shining purely pale through the uncurtained
window. Above him bent Elbridge, with his
large, luminous eyes, fixed with a peculiar and
searching expression upon his face, and his hand
pressed closely against his heart.

“What the deuce—!” cried the startled doctor.

“Hush,” said the clergyman, in a solemn tone, “I
want you to tell me the truth.”

“Well, do you think you have got to take a fellow
by the heart before you can get that!”

“Pardon me,” said Elbridge, but without removing
his hand, “I have to ask you a question on which
my life's happiness depends. Will you answer me
truly?”

“I will, if it is in my power.”

“Do you love Elizabeth Blair?”

“Yes.”

“That is sufficient,” said Elbridge, falling back
upon his pillow.

“Sufficient, is it?” said N—, and he turned
himself wall-ward. But, presently, his good feelings
getting the etter of his waggery, he continued: “I
do love Lizzie Blair—that's a stubborn fact—love her
as a sister; but if it will be any comfort to you, my
dear sir, to know it, long before I ever saw her, I
bargained myself off to just the finest girl in the
Union. So, if you can win Elizabeth's love, and
deserve it, I bid you God-speed!”

In the morning, Elbridge unfortunately found himself
oppressed with a heavy cold, in consequence of
his exposure to the preceding evening's storm. He
was really ill, grew rapidly worse, and the next day
was prostrate with inflamed lungs. He recovered, of
course,—I would not have the heart to choose a Paul
Dombey for a hero—but only after weeks of severe
suffering; and then, Dr. N—, who had been his
physician and constant nurse, gravely assured him
that he must abandon preaching altogether, for years
to come. Oh, it was a bitter moment to the young
clergyman! He groaned deeply, and bowed his face
on his almost transparent hand; and, when he at last
looked up, his dark eye-lashes were glistening with
tears. Had all his intense longings, his hungering
and thirsting after opportunities of greater usefulness
in that most holy of professions, come to this!

While yet suffering from this unexpected trial, a
letter was brought in, which he read aloud to the doctor.
It was from his parents, and urged, in affectionate

terms, his immediate return home. Their eldest
sons were travelling, their daughter was married, and
they were left quite alone.

“Really, this reconciliation at this time, seems
providential,” remarked the doctor, “and you will
surely return to Virginia as soon as you have sufficient
strength.”

“Yes, but I must see Elizabeth before I go—I
cannot endure this terrible suspense—my life seems
balancing on a thread.”

“Well, go to her,” rejoined the doctor, “she is a
frank, straight-forward girl, and will tell you the truth
without your taking the trouble to lay your hand on
her heart.”

“But, my dear N—, should I succeed in winning
her love, I sometimes fear I shall be doing her an
unkindness in taking her from the social sphere in
which she has always moved; that she will be but ill
at ease in the society of my family and friends.”

“I tell you, Elbridge,” exclaimed N—, “you
either don't half deserve our Elizabeth, or you don't
half know her. As your wife, believe me, you will
have reason to be proud of her in any circle of
American society. With the highest natural grace,
elegance, and dignity, she has any amount of tact
and adaptedness, and is fitted for any sphere, however
exalted, to which the man she loves may raise
her. So don't fear introducing her to your aristocratic
connections, she will make her own way
bravely. But here we are, coolly discussing these

matters, when heaven only knows whether the girl
will have you at all, at all.”

And it seemed a doubtful matter for some time
after. As soon as Elbridge was strong enough, he
rode up to the Blairs', and day after day repeated his
visit. But there was Mary Blair, a laughing, teazing,
gipsy of a creature, always at her sister's side,
and Elbridge was suddenly the most bashful of men.
Finally, calling up all his courage, he begged her to
join him in a walk. “Certainly, if you desire it,”
she calmly said, and tying on her neat sun-bonnet,
was soon strolling by his side. For some moments
the poor fellow could not utter a syllable, but at last
let his warm, honest heart speak for itself in these
simplest of words:—

“Elizabeth, I love you, ardently, devotedly;—do
you return my affection?”

“Mr. Elbridge,” she rejoined in a voice slightly
tremulous, “though I have admired and revered, I
have never yet presumed to love you; but if the
grateful affection of a poor, uncultivated girl like me
can add to your happiness, I do not think it will be
long withheld.”

And thus they parted.

At their next meeting, Elizabeth, suffering her
lover to retain her coy, little hand in his, said with an
enchanting smile, and in the sweetest of tones, “I
have been thinking over our last evening's conversation,
and looking closely into my heart, and I find
that I have been loving you all along.”

5. CHAPTER V.

When Elbridge sought James Blair, to ask of him
his greatest treasure, an affecting scene occurred.
The father wept tears of mingled joy and sorrow.
He grieved to resign his noble daughter, but was
proud of the honourable connection she was to form.
“To one thing I will pledge myself,” he said, grasping
the hand of Elbridge, “your wife henceforth
shall never be ashamed of her father and his home.
I have not been intoxicated since Mary left me, and
from this day, not one drop of my bane shall pass my
lips.” And he kept his word.

On account of the necessity of Elbridge's immediate
return to Virginia, an early period was fixed for
the wedding.

One morning, a day or two previous to that decided
upon as the day of days, Elbridge was riding
slowly home from a visit to his lady-love, his thoughts
winged with golden fancies, and his heart steeped in
sweet recollections. In passing through a wild and
rocky glen, he was startled by the sudden appearance
of Katherine Denny. She was deathly pale, and her
eye was blacker and more fearfully brilliant than
ever. Elbridge dismounted, hung the bridle on his
arm, and walking up by her side, pleasantly passed
the usual compliments. To these Katherine made no
reply, but turning abruptly, and fixing a gaze of intense
meaning on his face, said, calmly—

“And so you are to marry Elizabeth Blair?”

“I am,” he replied, smiling.

“It is a happy and a fortunate circumstance to
her,” she rejoined.

“But most of all to me,” added the lover. A pause
of some moments. Then Katherine continued, in a
deep, impressive tone—

“Mr. Elbridge, I love my cousin, Elizabeth, as an
own sister, but, stronger than my love for her, than
my family pride, is my sense of the duty I owe to
my pastor, to my church, to religion itself, and I must
warn you before it is too late.”

“Good heavens!” cried Elbridge, “what do you
mean?”

“Tell me,” she replied, “did not Dr. N— advise
you to this marriage?”

“Yes.”

“Strongly?”

“Very strongly.”

“Then, are you blind? are you mad?” she exclaimed.
“Can you not see the trap laid for you?
He would not marry the poor girl, the drunkard's
daughter, and puts her off upon you in his calculating
villany. Bewaro!”

She then turned and ran swiftly up the hill-side at
her left. Once she paused on a rock, many feet above
him, and while the wind bore back the dark hair from
her white cheek and brow, she stood like a very
sibyl,[1] and, stretching her hand towards him, cried,

solemnly, “you are warned—remember!” and disappeared
amid the thick brushwood.

Elbridge stood transfixed with amazement and
horror, while the blood ran cold through every vein.
A faintness came over him, and he leaned for support
against his horse. But presently he lifted his head
and smiled a proud, happy smile. “I will believe in
my Elizabeth,” he murmured, “as I believe in that
heaven whose own goodness and purity are written
in every line of her sweet face.” And he went his
way with a heart strong in faith, and richer than ever
in love.

“Dear Elizabeth,” said Elbridge, at their next
meeting, “if you have not yet invited the guests to
our wedding, there is one of your relatives I must ask
you to exclude—Katherine Denny.”

“What! dear Kate, my only cousin! Why is this,
Henry?”

“I will tell you some time,—at present grant my
request, and trust me for my reasons.”

“If it is your wish, I promise,” she said, turning
aside to hide her emotion.

I will not bore my reader with a description of the
wedding, They were married, and started directly
for Virginia.

Mary Blair, who seemed to possess a goodly portion
of her sister's spirit, cheerfully took charge of
her father's family.

Great was the grief of Elbridge's attached parishioners
at the loss of their faithful pastor, and he is yet
remembered by them with reverence and affection.

The morning after his marriage, Elbridge acquainted
his wife with his memorable interview with
her cousin in the glen.

“It is well you did not tell me this at the time,”
she said.

“Why, my love?”

“I never should have married you, had you done
so.”

As for Katherine Denny, she soon after lost, unaccountably,
her religious zeal, “backslid” to her bellehood,
and finally “astonished the natives” by a run-away
match with Tom Henderson.

I think I cannot better close my story, than by
quoting part of a letter from my friend Dr. N—, to
whom I had applied for information of the after-fate of
some of my characters.

“The Elbridges had been married some four or
five years,” he writes, “when I visited them with
my wife, at their home in Virginia. We found them
living happily and harmoniously with the parents,
brother, and widowed sister of Elbridge, in the very
midst of his “aristocratic connexions.” Without
being essentially changed, Elizabeth Elbridge had
become truly a magnificent woman. Her beauty was
heightened to greater delicacy by habits of elegance
and rendered striking by rich and tasteful attire. Her
sweet face was softly shadowed by a constant care
for poor Henry's health, which I found was not yet
firmly established. She had then one child, a boy,
and her brother “Jamie,” grown a tall, fine looking

lad, was with her. She was an admirable hostess, and
I met many agreeable and distinguished people at
her dinner-parties. There was Senator —, and
Judge —, and a batch of lesser honourables.

“She informed me (for I had been some time absent
from my old location) that her sister Mary had
married an intelligent young farmer, and was living
with her father in a neat white cottage on the old
place.

“Elbridge informed me that his rustic bride had
won the love and respect of his relatives at once;—
that she had applied herself diligently to study, and
had already made up for the deficiencies in her early
education.

“`And I have found,' continued Elbridge, `that all
things are possible to woman, when she loves with
fervour and devotion.”'

Moore, in one of his poetical romances, places his
princely hero amid roses and enchantments, in the
vale of Cashmere,—but for a simple methodist parson,
I think I have had my share of romance and
poetry,—Love in the Valley of the Juniata.