 | LOVE versus LAW. The Mayflower, or, Sketches of scenes and
characters among the descendants of the Pilgrims |  |
LOVE versus LAW.
How many kinds of beauty there are! How
many even in the human form! There is the
bloom and motion of childhood, the freshness
and ripe perfection of youth, the dignity of manhood,
the softness of woman—all different, yet
each in its kind perfect.
But there is none so peculiar, none that bears
more the image of the heavenly, than the beauty
of Christian old age. It is like the loveliness
of those calm autumn days, when the heats of
summer are past, when the harvest is gathered
into the garner, and the sun shines over the
placid fields and fading woods, which stand
waiting for their last change. It is a beauty
more strictly moral, more belonging to the
soul, than that of any other period of life. Poetic
fiction always paints the old man as a
Christian; nor is there any period where the
virtues of Christianity seem to find a more harmonious
development. The aged man, who
withstood the urgency of temptation—who has
concentrated the religious impulses of youth
into habits of obedience and love—who, having
served his generation by the will of God, now
leans in helplessness on Him whom once he
served, is, perhaps, one of the most faultless
representations of the beauty of holiness that
this world affords.
Thoughts something like these arose in my
mind as I slowly turned my footsteps from the
graveyard of my native village, where I had
been wandering after years of absence. It was
a lovely spot—a soft slope of ground close by
a little stream, that ran sparkling through the
cedars and junipers beyond it, while on the
other side arose a green hill, with the white
village laid like a necklace of pearls upon its
bosom.
There is no feature of the landscape more
picturesque and peculiar than that of the graveyard—that
“city of the silent,” as it is beautifully
expressed by the Orientals—standing amid
the bloom and rejoicing of Nature, its white
stones glittering in the sun, a memorial of decay,
a link between the living and the dead.
As I moved slowly from mound to mound,
and read the inscriptions, which purported that
anxious housewife, and many a prattling, half-blossomed
child, had done with care or mirth,
I was struck with a plain slab, bearing the inscription,
“To the memory of Deacon Enos Dudley,
who died in his hundredth year.” My eye
was caught by this inscription, for in other
years I had well known the person it recorded.
At this instant, his mild and venerable form
arose before me as erst it used to rise from the
deacon's seat, a straight, close slip just below
the pulpit. I recollect his quiet and lowly
coming into meeting, precisely ten minutes before
the time, every Sunday—his tall form a
little stooping—his best suit of butternut-coloured
Sunday clothes, with long flaps and wide
cuffs, on one of which two pins were always to
be seen stuck in with the most reverent precision.
When seated, the top of the pew came
just to his chin, so that his silvery, placid head
rose above it like the moon above the horizon.
His head was one that might have been sketched
for a St. John—bald at the top, and around
the temples adorned with a soft flow of bright
fine hair,
“That down his shoulders reverently spread,
As hoary frost with spangles doth attire
The naked branches of an oak half dead.”
patient face seemed to say, “And now, Lord,
what wait I for?” Yet still, year after year,
was he to be seen in the same place, with the
same dutiful punctuality.
The services he offered to his God were all
given with the exactness of an ancient Israelite.
No words could have persuaded him of the propriety
of meditating when the choir was singing,
or of sitting down, even through infirmity,
before the close of the longest prayer that ever
was offered. A mighty contrast was he to his
fellow-officer, Deacon Abrams, a tight, little,
tripping, well-to-do man, who used to sit beside
him with his hair brushed straight up like
a little blaze, his coat buttoned up trig and
close, his psalm-book in hand, and his quick
gray eyes turned first on one side of the broad
aisle, and then on the other, and then up into
the gallery, like a man who came to church on
business, and felt responsible for everything
that was going on in the house.
A great hinderance was the business talent of
this good little man to the enjoyments of us
youngsters, who, perched along in a row on a
low seat in front of the pulpit, attempted occasionally
to diversify the long hour of sermon
by sundry small exercises of our own, such as
in a sly way, the apples and gingerbread
we had brought for a Sunday dinner, or
pulling the ears of some discreet meeting-going
dog, who now and then would soberly pit-a-pat
through the broad aisle. But wo be to
us during our contraband sports if we saw
Deacon Abrams's sleek head dodging up from
behind the top of the deacon's seat. Instantly
all the apples, gingerbread, and handkerchiefs
vanished, and we all set with our hands folded,
looking as demure as if we understood every
word of the sermon, and more too.
There was a great contrast between these
two deacons in their services and prayers,
when, as was often the case, the absence of
the pastor devolved on them the burden of conducting
the duties of the sanctuary. That God
was great and good, and that we all were sinners,
were truths that seemed to have melted
into the heart of Deacon Enos, so that his very
soul and spirit were bowed down with them
With Deacon Abrams it was an undisputed fact.
which he had settled long ago, and concerning
which he felt that there could be no reasonable
doubt, and his bustling way of dealing with the
matter seemed to say that he knew that and a
great many things besides.
Deacon Enos was known far and near as a
very proverb for peacefulness of demeanour
and unbounded charitableness in covering and
excusing the faults of others. As long as there
was any doubt in a case of alleged evil-doing,
Deacon Enos guessed “the man did not mean
any harm, after all;” and when transgression
became too barefaced for this excuse, he always
guessed “it wa'n't best to say much about
it; nobody could tell what they might be left
to.”
Some incidents in his life will show more
clearly these traits. A certain shrewd landholder,
by the name of Jones, who was not well
reported of in the matter of honesty, sold to
Deacon Enos a valuable lot of land, and received
the money for it; but, under various
pretences, deferred giving the deed. Soon after,
he died; and, to the deacon's amazement,
the deed was nowhere to be found, while this
very lot of land was left by will to one of his
daughters.
The deacon said “it was very extraor'nary:
he always knew that Seth Jones was considerably
sharp about money, but he did not think
he would do such a right up-and-down wicked
thing.” So the old man repaired to Squire
Abel to state the case and see if there was any
“but, Squire Abel, you know Mr. Jones was—
was—what he was, even if he is dead and gone!”
This was the nearest approach the old gentleman
could make to specifying a heavy charge
against the dead. On being told that the case
admitted of no redress, Deacon Enos comforted
himself with half soliloquizing, “Well, at
any rate, the land has gone to those two girls,
poor lone critters—I hope it will do them some
good. There is Silence—we won't say much
about her; but Sukey is a nice, pretty girl.”
And so the old man departed, leaving it as his
opinion that, since the matter could not be
mended, it was just as well not to say anything
about it.
Now the two girls here mentioned (to wit,
Silence and Sukey) were the eldest and the
youngest of a numerous family, the offspring
of three wives of Seth Jones, of whom these
two were the sole survivers. The elder, Silence,
was a tall, strong, black-eyed, hard-fea-tured
girl, verging upon forty, with a good,
loud, resolute voice, and what the Irishman
would call “a dacent notion of using it.” Why
she was called Silence was a standing problem
to the neighbourhood, for she had more faculty
and inclination for making a noise than any
was one of those persons who have no disposition
to yield any of their own rights. She
marched up to all controverted matters, faced
down all opposition, held her way lustily and
with good courage, making men, women, and
children turn out for her, as they would for
a mailstage. So evident was her innate determination
to be free and independent, that,
though she was the daughter of a rich man, and
well portioned, only one swain was ever heard
of who ventured to solicit her hand in marriage,
and he was sent off with the assurance that, if
he ever showed his face about the house again,
she would set the dogs on him.
But Susan Jones was as different from her
sister as the little graceful convolvulus from the
great rough stick that supports it. At the time
of which we speak she was just eighteen, a
modest, slender, blushing girl, as timid and
shrinking as her sister was bold and hardy.
Indeed, the education of poor Susan had cost
Miss Silence much painstaking and trouble, and,
after all, she said “the girl would make a fool
of herself; she never could teach her to be up
and down with people, as she was.”
When the report came to Miss Silence's ears
that Deacon Enos considered himself as aggrieved
upon the subject with great strength of courage
and of lungs. “Deacon Enos might be in
better business than in trying to cheat orphans
out of their rights—she hoped he would go to
law about it, and see what good he would get
by it—a pretty church member and deacon, to
be sure! getting up such a story about her poor
father, dead and gone!”
“But, Silence,” said Susan, “Deacon Enos
is a good man: I do not think he means to
injure any one; there must be some mistake
about it.”
“Susan, you are a little fool, as I have always
told you,” replied Silence; “you would
be cheated out of your eye-teeth if you had not
me to take care of you.”
But subsequent events brought the affairs of
these two damsels in closer connexion with
those of Deacon Enos, as we shall proceed to
show.
It happened that the next-door neighbour of
Deacon Enos was a certain old farmer, whose
crabbedness of demeanour had procured for
him the name of Uncle Jaw. This agreeable
surname accorded very well with the general
characteristics both of the person and manner
of its possessor. He was tall and hard-favour-ed,
resembling a northeast rain-storm—a drizzling,
settled sulkiness, that seemed to defy all prospect
of clearing off, and to take comfort in its
own disagreeableness. His voice seemed to
have taken lessons of his face, in such admirable
keeping was its sawing, deliberate growl
with the pleasing physiognomy before indicated.
By nature he was endowed with one of those
active, acute, hair-splitting minds, which can
raise forty questions for dispute on any point
of the compass; and had he been an educated
man, he might have proved as clever a metaphysician
as ever threw dust in the eyes of succeeding
generations. But, being deprived of
these advantages, he nevertheless exerted himself
to quite as useful a purpose in puzzling and
mystifying whomsoever came in his way. But
his activity particularly exercised itself in the
line of the law, as it was his meat, and drink, and
daily meditation, either to find something to go
to law about, or to go to law about something he
had found. There was always some question
about an old rail fence that used to run “a leetle
more to the left hand,” or that was built up
“a leetle more to the right hand,” and so cut off
a strip of his “medder land,” or else there was
some outrage of Peter Somebody's turkeys,
geese were to be shut up in the town pound,
or something equally important kept him busy
from year's end to year's end. Now, as a matter
of private amusement, this might have answered
very well; but then Uncle Jaw was not
satisfied to fight his own battles, but must needs
go from house to house, narrating the whole
length and breadth of the case, with all the
says he's and says I's, and the I tell'd him's and
he tell'd me's, which do either accompany or
flow therefrom. Moreover, he had such a
marvellous facility of finding out matters to
quarrel about, and of letting every one else
know where they, too, could muster a quarrel,
that he generally succeeded in keeping the
whole neighbourhood by the ears.
And as good Deacon Enos assumed the office
of peacemaker for the village, Uncle Jaw's
efficiency rendered it no sinecure. The deacon
always followed the steps of Uncle Jaw,
smoothing, hushing up, and putting matters
aright with an assiduity that was truly wonderful.
Uncle Jaw himself had a great respect for
the good man, and, in common with all the
neighbourhood, sought unto him for counsel,
though, like other seekers of advice, he appropriated
own eyes.
Still he took a kind of pleasure in dropping
in of an evening to Deacon Enos's fire, to recount
the various matters which he had taken
or was to take in hand; at one time to narrate
“how he had been over the mill-dam, telling
old Granny Clark that she could get the law
of Seth Scran about that pasture lot,” or else
“how he had told Ziah Bacon's widow that she
had a right to shut up Bill Scranton's pig every
time she caught him in front of her house.”
But the grand “matter of matters,” and the
one that took up the most of Uncle Jaw's spare
time, lay in a dispute between him and Squire
Jones, the father of Susan and Silence; for it
so happened that his lands and those of Uncle
Jaw were contiguous. Now the matter of dispute
was on this wise: on Squire Jones's land
there was a mill, which mill Uncle Jaw averred
was “always a flooding his medder land.” As
Uncle Jaw's “medder land” was by nature half
bog and bulrushes, and therefore liable to be
found in a wet condition, there was always a
happy obscurity where the water came from,
and whether there was at any time more there
than belonged to his share. So, when all other
subject matters of dispute failed, Uncle Jaw
his “medder land,” and one of these cases was in
pendency when, by the death of the squire, the estate
was left to Susan and Silence, his daughters.
When, therefore, the report reached him that Deacon
Enos had been cheated out of his dues, Uncle
Jaw prepared forthwith to go and compare notes.
Therefore, one evening, as Deacon Enos was sitting
quietly by the fire, musing and reading with
his big Bible open before him he heard the premonitory
symptoms of a visitation from Uncle Jaw
on his door scraper, and soon the man made his
appearance. After seating himself directly in
front of the fire, with his elbows on his knees, and
his hands spread out over the coals, he looked up
in Deacon Enos's mild face with his little inquisitive
gray eyes, and remarked, by way of opening
the subject, “Well, Deacon, old Squire Jones is
gone at last. I wonder how much good all his
land will do him now?”
“Yes,” replied Deacon Enos, “it just shows
how all these things are not worth striving after.
We brought nothing into the world, and it is certain
we can carry nothing out.”
“Why, yes,” replied Uncle Jaw, “that's all very
right, Deacon, but it was strange how that old
Squire Jones did hang on to things. Now that
mill of his, that was always soaking off water into
Jones just how it was, pretty nigh twenty times,
and yet he would keep it just so; and now he's
dead and gone, there is that old gal Silence is full
as bad, and makes more noise; and she and Suke
have got the land; but, you see, I mean to work
it yet!”
Here Uncle Jaw paused to see whether he had
produced any sympathetic excitement in Deacon
Enos; but the old man sat without the least emotion,
quietly contemplating the top of the long kitchen
shovel. Uncle Jaw fidgeted in his chair, and
changed his mode of attack for one more direct.
`I heard 'em tell, Deacon Enos, that the Squire
served you something of an unhandy sort of trick
about that 'ere lot of land.”
Still Deacon Enos made no reply; but Uncle
Jaw's perseverance was not so to be put off, and
he recommenced. “Squire Abel, you see, he tell'd
me how the matter was, and he said he did not see
as it could be mended; but I took and tell'd him,
`Squire Abel,' says I, `I'd bet pretty nigh 'most anything,
if Deacon Enos would tell the matter to me,
that I could find a hole for him to creep out at;
for,' says I, `I've seen daylight through more twistical
cases than that afore now.”'
Still Deacon Enos remained mute; and Uncle
Jaw, after waiting a while, recommenced with,
particulars!”
“I have made up my mind not to say anything
more about that business,” said Deacon Enos, in a
tone which, though mild, was so exceedingly definite,
that Uncle Jaw felt that the case was hopeless
in that quarter; he therefore betook himself
to the statement of his own grievances.
“Why, you see, Deacon,” he began, at the
same time taking the tongs, and picking up all the
little brands, and disposing them in the middle of the
fire, “you see, two days after the funeral (for I
didn't railly like to go any sooner), I stepped up to
hash over the matter with old Silence; for as to
Sukey, she ha'n't no more to do with such things
than our white kitten. Now, you see, Squire Jones,
just afore he died, he took away an old rail fence
of his'n that lay between his land and mine, and
began to build a new stone wall, and when I come
to measure, I found he had took and put a'most
the whole width of the stone wall on to my land,
when there ought not to have been more than half
of it come there. Now, you see, I could not say a
word to Squire Jones, because, jest before I found it
out, he took and died; and so I thought I'd speak to
old Silence, and see if she meant to do anything about
it, 'cause I knew pretty well she wouldn't; and I
tell you, if she didn't put it on me! we had a regular
would 'a screamed herself to death! I don't know
but she would, but just then poor Sukey came in, and
looked so frightened and scarey—Sukey is a pretty
gal, and looks so trembling and delicate, that it's
kinder a shame to plague her, and so I took and
come away for that time.”
Here Uncle Jaw perceived a brightening in the
face of the good deacon, and felt exceedingly comforted
that at last he was about to interest him in
his story.
But all this while the deacon had been in a profound
meditation concerning the ways and means
of putting a stop to a quarrel that had been his torment
from time immemorial, and just at this moment
a plan had struck his mind which our story
will proceed to unfold.
The mode of settling differences which had occurred
to the good man was one which has been
considered a specific in reconciling contending sovereigns
and states from early antiquity, and the
deacon hoped it might have a pacifying influence
even in so unpromising a case as that of Miss Silence
and Uncle Jaw.
In former days, Deacon Enos had kept the district
school for several successive winters, and
among his scholars was the gentle Susan Jones,
then a plump, rosy little girl, with blue eyes, curly
There was also little Joseph Adams, the only son
of Uncle Jaw, a fine, healthy, robust boy, who used
to spell the longest words, make the best snowballs
and poplar whistles, and read the loudest and fastest
in the Columbian Orator of any boy at school.
Little Joe inherited all his father's sharpness,
with a double share of good-humour, so that, though
he was forever effervescing in the way of one funny
trick or another, he was a universal favourite,
not only with the deacon, but with the whole
school.
Master Joseph always took little Susan Jones
under his especial protection, drew her to school on
his sled, helped her out with all the long sums in
her arithmetic, saw to it that nobody pillaged her
dinner-basked or knocked down her bonnet, and
resolutely whipped or snowballed any other boy
who attempted the same gallantries. Years passed
on, and Uncle Jaw had sent his son to college.
He sent him because, as he said, he had “a right
to send him; just as good a right as Squire Abel
or Deacon Abrams to send their boys, and so he
would send him.” It was the remembrance of his
old favourite Joseph, and his little pet Susan, that
came across the mind of Deacon Enos, and which
seemed to open a gleam of light in regard to the
future. So, when Uncle Jaw had finished his prelection,
out with,
“Railly, they say that your son is going to
have the valedictory in college.”
Though somewhat startled at the abrupt transition,
Uncle Jaw found the suggestion too flattering
to his pride to be dropped; so, with a countenance
grimly expressive of his satisfaction, he replied,
“Why yes—yes—I don't see no reason why a
poor man's son ha'n't as much right as any one to
be at the top, if he can get there.”
“Just so,” replied Deacon Enos.
“He was always the boy for larning, and for
nothing else,” continued Uncle Jaw; “put him to
farming, couldn't make nothing of him. If I set
him to hoeing corn or hilling potatoes, I'd always
find him stopping to chase hoptoads, or off after
chip-squirrels. But set him down to a book, and
there he was! That boy larnt reading the quickest
of any boy that ever I saw: it wasn't a month after
he began his a b, abs, before he could read in
the `Fox and the Brambles,' and in a month more
he could clatter off his chapter in the Testament
as fast as any of them; and you see, in college, it's
jest so—he has ris right up to be first.”
“And he is coming home week after next,” said
the Deacon, meditatively.
The next morning, as Deacon Enos was eating
his breakfast, he quietly remarked to his wife, “Sally,
I believe it was week after next you were
meaning to have your quilting?”
“Why, I never told you so: what alive makes
you think that, Deacon Dudley?”
“I thought that was your calculation,” said the
good man, quietly.
“Why no—to be sure, I can have it, and maybe
it's the best of any time, if we can get Black Dinah
to come and help about the cakes and pies. I
guess we will, finally.”
“I think it's likely you had better,” replied the
Deacon, “and we will have all the young folks
here.”
And now let us pass over all the intermediate
pounding, and grinding, and chopping, which for
the next week foretold approaching festivity in the
kitchen of the Deacon. Let us forbear to provoke
the appetite of a hungry reader by setting in order
before him the minced pies, the cranberry tarts,
the pumpkin pies, the dough-nuts, the cookies, and
other sweet cakes of every description, that sprung
into being at the magic touch of Black Dinah, the
village priestess on all these solemnities. Suffice
it to say that the day had arrived, and the auspicious
quilt was spread.
The invitation had not failed to include the Misses
had pressed gallantry into the matter so far as to
be the bearer of the message himself; for which
he was duly rewarded by a broadside from Miss
Silence, giving him what she termed a piece of her
mind in the matter of the rights of widows and
orphans; to all which the good old man listened
with great benignity from the beginning to the
end, and replied with,
“Well, well, Miss Silence, I expect you will
think better of this before long; there had best
not be any hard words about it.” So saying, he
took up his hat and walked off, while Miss Silence,
who felt extremely relieved by having blown off
steam, declared that “It was of no more use to
hector old Deacon Enos than to fire a gun at a
bag of cotton-wool. For all that, though, she
shouldn't go to the quilting; nor, more, should
Susan.”
“But, sister, why not?” said the little maiden;
“I think I shall go.” And Susan said this in a
tone so mildly positive that Silence was amazed.
“What upon 'arth ails you, Susan?” said she,
opening her eyes with astonishment; “haven't you
any more spirit than to go to Deacon Enos's when
he is doing all he can to ruin us?”
“I like Deacon Enos,” replied Susan; “he was
always kind to me when I was a little girl, and
now.”
When a young lady states that she is not going
to believe a thing, good judges of human nature
generally give up the case; but Miss Silence, to
whom the language of opposition and argument
was entirely new, could scarcely give her ears
credit for veracity in the case; she therefore repeated
over exactly what she said before, only in
a much louder tone of voice, and with much more
vehement forms of asseveration: a mode of reasoning
which, if not strictly logical, has at least
the sanction of very respectable authorities among
the enlightened and learned.
“Silence,” replied Susan, when the storm had
spent itself, “if it did not look like being angry
with Deacon Enos, I would stay away to oblige
you; but it would seem to every one to be taking
sides in a quarrel, and I never did, and never will,
have any part or lot in such things.”
“Then you'll just be trod and trampled on all
your days, Susan,” replied Silence; “but, however,
if you choose to make a fool of yourself, I don't;”
and so saying, she flounced out of the room in
great wrath. It so happened, however, that Miss
Silence was one of those who have so little economy
in disposing of a fit of anger, that it was all
used up before the time of execution arrived. It
her mind freely both to Deacon Enos and to Susan,
she began to feel very much more comfortable
and good-natured; and consequent upon that
came divers reflections upon the many gossiping
opportunities and comforts of a quilting; and then
the intrusive little reflection, “What if she should
go—after all, what harm would be done?” and then
the inquiry, “Whether it was not her duty to go
and look after Susan, poor child, who had no mother
to watch over her?” In short, before the time
of preparation arrived, Miss Silence had fully
worked herself up to the magnanimous determination
of going to the quilting. Accordingly, the
next day, while Susan was standing before her
mirror, braiding up her pretty hair, she was startled
by the apparition of Miss Silence coming into
the room as stiff as a changeable silk and a high
horn comb could make her; and “grimly determined
was her look.”
“Well, Susan,” said she, “if you will go to the
quilting this afternoon, I think it is my duty to go
and see to you.”
What would people do if this convenient shelter
of duty did not afford them a retreat in cases when
they are disposed to change their minds? Susan
suppressed the arch smile that, in spite of herself,
laughed out at the corners of her eyes, and told
care. So off they went together.
Silence in the mean time held forth largely on
the importance of standing up for one's rights, and
not letting one's self be trampled on.
The afternoon passed on, the elderly ladies quilted
and talked scandal, and the younger ones discussed
the merits of the various beaux who were
expected to give vivacity to the evening entertainment.
Among these, the newly-arrived Joseph
Adams, just from college, with all his literary honours
thick about him, became a prominent subject
of conversation.
It was duly canvassed whether the young gentleman
might be called handsome, and the affirmative
was carried by a large majority, although
there were some variations and exceptions; one
of the party declaring his whiskers to be in too
high a state of cultivation, another maintaining
that they were in the exact line of beauty, while a
third vigorously disputed the point whether he
wore whiskers at all. It was allowed by all, however,
that he had been a great beau in the town
where he had passed his college days. It was
also inquired into whether he were matrimonially
engaged; and the negative being understood, they
diverted themselves with predicting to one another
the capture of such a prize; each prophecy being
“Do be still!” “Hush your nonsense!” and the
like.
At length the long-wished-for hour arrived, and
one by one the lords of the creation began to make
their appearance, and one of the last was this
much-admired youth.
“That is Joe Adams!” “That is he!” was the
busy whisper, as a tall, well-looking young man
came into the room, with the easy air of one who
had seen several things before, and was not to be
abashed by the combined blaze of all the village
beauties.
In truth, our friend Joseph had made the most
of his residence in N—, paying his court no less
to the Graces than the Muses. His fine person,
his frank, manly air, his ready conversation, and
his faculty of universal adaptation, had made his
society much coveted among the beau monde of
N—, and though the place was small, he had
become familiar with much good society.
We hardly know whether we may venture to
tell our fair readers the whole truth in regard to
our hero. We will merely hint, in the gentlest
manner in the world, that Mr. Joseph Adams, being
undeniably first in the classics and first in the
drawing-room, having been gravely commended in
his class by his venerable president, and gayly flattered
This and That, was rather inclining to the opinion
that he was an uncommonly fine fellow, and even
had the assurance to think that, under present circumstances,
he could please without making any
great effort; a thing which, however true it were
in point of fact, is obviously improper to be thought
of by a young man. Be that as it may, he moved
about from one to another, shaking hands with all
the old ladies, and listening with the greatest affability
to the various comments on his growth and
personal appearance, his points of resemblance to
his father, mother, grandfather, and grandmother,
which are always detected by the superior acumen
of elderly females.
Among the younger ones, he at once, and with
full frankness, recognised old schoolmates, and
partners in various whortleberry, chestnut, and
strawberry excursions, and thus called out an
abundant flow of conversation. Nevertheless, his
eye wandered occasionally around the room, as if
in search of something not there. What could it
be? It kindled, however, with an expression of
sudden brightness as he perceived the tall and
spare figure of Miss Silence; whether owing to
the personal fascinations of that lady, or to other
causes, we leave the reader to determine.
Miss Silence had predetermined never to speak a
was taken by surprise at the frank, extended hand,
and friendly “how d'ye do?” It was not in woman
to resist so cordial an address from a handsome
young man, and Miss Silence gave her hand and
replied with a graciousness that amazed herself.
At this moment, also, certain soft blue eyes peeped
forth from a corner, just “to see if he looked as he
used to do.” Yes, there he was! the same dark,
mirthful eyes that used to peer on her from behind
the corners of the spelling-book at the district
school; and Susan Jones gave a half sigh to those
times, and then wondered why she happened to
think of such nonsense.
“How is your sister, little Miss Susan?” said
Joseph.
“Why, she is here—have you not seen her?'
said Silence; “there she is, in that corner.”
Joseph looked, but could scarcely recognise her.
There stood a tall, slender, blooming girl, that
might have been selected as a specimen of that
union of perfect health with delicate fairness so
characteristic of the young New-England beauty.
She was engaged in telling some merry story to
a knot of young girls, and the rich colour that,
like a bright spirit, constantly went and came in
her cheeks; the dimples, quick and varying as
those of a little brook; the clear, mild eye; the
smile, and the transparent frankness and simplicity
of expression which beamed like sunshine about
her, all formed a combination of charms that took
our hero quite by surprise; and when Silence, who
had a remarkable degree of directness in all her
dealings, called out, “Here, Susan, is Joe Adams,
inquiring after you!” our practised young gentleman
felt himself colour to the roots of his hair,
and for a moment he could scarce recollect that
first rudiment of manners, “to make his bow like
a good boy.” Susan coloured also; but, perceiving
the confusion of our hero, her countenance assumed
an expression of mischievous drollery, which,
helped on by the titter of her companions, added
not a little to his confusion.
“Deuse take it!” thought he, “what's the matter
with me?” and, calling up his courage, he dashed
into the formidable circle of fair ones, and began
chattering with one and another, calling by
name with or without introduction, remembering
things that never happened with a freedom that was
perfectly fascinating.
“Really, how handsome he has grown!” thought
Susan; and she coloured deeply when once or
twice the dark eyes of our hero made the same observation
with regard to herself, in that quick, intelligible
dialect which eyes alone can speak. And
punctually at nine o'clock, our hero requested of
Miss Silence the honour of attending her home, an
evidence of discriminating taste which materially
raised him in the estimation of that lady. It was
true, to be sure, that Susan walked on the other
side of him, her little white hand just within his
arm; and there was something in that light touch
that puzzled him unaccountably, as might be inferred
from the frequency with which Miss Silence
was obliged to bring up the ends of conversation
with, “What did you say?” “What were you
going to say?” and other persevering forms of inquiry,
with which a regular-trained matter-of-fact
talker will hunt down a poor fellow-mortal who is
in danger of sinking into a comfortable revery.
When they parted at the gate, however, Silence
gave our hero a hearty invitation to “come and see
them any time,” which he mentally regarded as
more to the point than anything else that had been
said.
As Joseph soberly retraced his way homeward,
his thoughts, by some unaccountable association,
began to revert to such topics as the loneliness of
man by himself, the need of kindred spirits, the solaces
of sympathy, and other like matters.
That night Joseph dreamed of trotting along
with his dinner-basket to the old brown schoolhouse,
Jones, whom he saw with her little pasteboard sun-bonnet
a few yards in front of him; then he was
tetering with her on a long board, her bright little
face glancing up and down, while every curl around
it seemed to be living with delight; and then he
was snowballing Tom Williams for knocking down
Susan's doll's house, or he sat by her on a bench,
helping her out with a long sum in arithmetic; but,
with the mischievous fatality of dreams, the more
he ciphered and expounded, the longer and more
hopeless grew the sum; and he awoke in the morning
pshawing at his ill luck, after having done a
sum over half a dozen times, while Susan seemed
to be looking on with the same air of arch drollery
that he saw on her face the evening before.
“Joseph,” said Uncle Jaw, the next morning at
breakfast, “I s'pose Squire Jones's daughters were
not at the quilting?”
“Yes, sir, they were,” said our hero; “they
were both there.”
“Why, you don't say so?”
“They certainly were,” persisted the son.
“Well, I thought the old gal had too much spunk
for that: you see there is a quarrel between the
deacon and those gals.”
“Indeed!” said Joseph. “I thought the deacon
never quarrelled with anybody.”
“But, you see, old Silence there, she will quarrel
with him: railly, that creatur' is a tough one;”
and Uncle Jaw leaned back in his chair, and contemplated
the quarrelsome propensities of Miss Silence
with the satisfaction of a kindred spirit.
“But I'll fix her yet,” he continued; “I see how
to work it.”
“Indeed, father, I did not know that you had
anything to do with their affairs.”
“Ha'n't I? I should like to know if I ha'n't!”
replied Uncle Jaw, triumphantly. “Now see here,
Joseph: you see I mean you shall be a lawyer:
I'm pretty considerable of a lawyer myself—that
is, for one not college larn't, and I'll tell you how
it is”—and thereupon Uncle Jaw launched forth
into the case of the medder land and the mill, and
concluded with, “Now, Joseph, this 'ere is a kinder
whetstone for you to hone up your wits on.”
In pursuance, therefore, of this plan of sharpening
his wits in the manner aforesaid, our hero, after
breakfast, went, like a dutiful son, directly towards
Squire Jones's, doubtless for the purpose of
taking ocular survey of the meadow land, mill, and
stone wall; but, by some unaccountable mistake,
lost his way, and found himself standing before the
door of Squire Jones's house.
The old 'squire had been among the aristocracy
of the village, and his house had been the ultimate
garniture. Their big front room, instead of being
strewn with lumps of sand, duly streaked over
twice a week, was resplendent with a carpet of red,
yellow, and black stripes, while a towering pair of
long-legged brass andirons, scoured to a silvery
white, gave an air of magnificence to the chimney,
which was materially increased by the tall brass-headed
shovel and tongs, which, like a decorous,
starched married couple, stood bolt upright in their
places on either side. The sanctity of the place
was still farther maintained by keeping the window-shutters
always closed, admitting only so much
light as could come in by a round hole at the top
of the shutter, and it was only on occasions of extraordinary
magnificence that the room was thrown
open to profane eyes.
Our hero was surprised, therefore, to find both
the doors and windows of this apartment open, and
symptoms evident of its being in daily occupation.
The furniture still retained its massive, clumsy
stiffness, but there were various tokens that lighter
fingers had been at work there since the notable
days of good Dame Jones. There was a vase
of flowers on the table, two or three books of poetry,
and a little fairy work-basket, from which peeped
forth the edges of some worked ruffling; there
was a small writing-desk, and last, not least, in a
colour of the rainbow, containing inscriptions, in
sundry strong masculine hands, “To Susan,” indicating
that other people had had their eyes open as
well as Mr. Joseph Adams. “So,” said he to himself,
“this quiet little beauty has had admirers after
all;” and consequent upon this came another question
(which was none of his concern, to be sure),
whether the little lady were or were not engaged;
and from these speculations he was aroused by a
light footstep, and anon the neat form of Susan made
its appearance.
“Good-morning, Miss Jones,” said he, bowing.
Now there is something very comical in the
feeling when little boys and girls, who have always
known each other as plain Susan or Joseph, first
meet as “Mr.” or “Miss” So-and-So. Each one
feels half disposed, half afraid, to return to the old
familiar form, and awkwardly fettered by the recollection
that they are no longer children. Both parties
had felt this the evening before, when they met
in company, but, now that they were alone together,
the feeling became still stronger; and when
Susan had requested Mr. Adams to take a chair,
and Mr. Adams had inquired after Miss Susan's
health, there ensued a pause, which, the longer it
continued, seemed the more difficult to break, and
during which Susan's pretty face slowly assumed
laughing as propriety would admit; and Mr. Adams,
having looked out at the window, and up at
the mantelpiece, and down at the carpet, at last
looked at Susan; their eyes met: the effect was
electrical; they both smiled, and then laughed outright,
after which the whole difficulty of conversation
vanished.
“Susan,” said Joseph, “do you remember the
old schoolhouse?”
“I thought that was what you were thinking of,”
said Susan; “but, really, you have grown and altered
so that I could hardly believe my eyes last
night.”
“Nor I mine,” said Joseph, with a glance that
gave a very complimentary turn to the expression.
Our readers may imagine that after this the conversation
proceeded to grow increasingly confidential
and interesting; that, from the account of early
life, each proceeded to let the other know something
of intervening history, in the course of which
each discovered a number of new and admirable
traits in the other, such things being matters of
very common occurrence. In the course of the conversation,
Joseph discovered that it was necessary
that Susan should have two or three books then in
his possession, and, as promptitude is a great matter
in such cases, he promised to bring them “tomorrow.”
For some time our young friends pursued then
acquaintance, without a distinct consciousness of
anything except that it was a very pleasant thing
to be together. During the long, still afternoons,
they rambled among the fading woods, now illuminated
with the radiance of the dying year, and sentimentalized
and quoted poetry; and almost every
evening Joseph found some errand to bring him to
the house; a book for Miss Susan, or a bevy of
roots and herbs for Miss Silence, or some remarkably
fine yarn for her to knit; attentions which retained
our hero in the good graces of the latter
lady, and gained him the credit of being “a young
man that knew how to behave himself.” As Susan
was a leading member in the village choir, our hero
was directly attacked with a violent passion for sacred
music, which brought him punctually to the
singing-school, where the young people came together
to sing anthems and fuguing tunes, and to
eat apples and chestnuts.
It cannot be supposed that all these things passed
unnoticed by those wakeful eyes that are ever
upon the motions of such “bright particular stars,”
and, as is usual in such cases, many things were
known to a certainty which were not yet known to
the parties themselves. The young belles and
beaux whispered and tittered, and passed the original
jokes and witticisms common in such cases,
hand when they went out with their knitting to
make afternoon visits, considering how much money
Uncle Jaw had, how much his son would have,
and how much Susan would have, and what all together
would come to, and whether Joseph would
be a “smart man,” and Susan a good housekeeper,
with all the “ifs, ands, and buts” of married
life.
But the most fearful wonders and prognostics
crowded around the point “what Uncle Jaw would
have to say to the matter.” His lawsuit with the
sisters being well understood, as there was every
reason it should be, it was surmised what two such
vigorous belligerents as himself and Miss Silence
would say to the prospect of a matrimonial conjunction.
It was also reported that Deacon Enos
Dudley had a claim to the land which constituted
the finest part of Susan's portion, the loss of which
would render the consent of Uncle Jaw still more
doubtful. But all this while Miss Silence knew
nothing of the matter, for her habit of considering
and treating Susan as a child seemed to gain
strength with time. Susan was always to be seen
to, and watched, and instructed, and taught; and
Miss Silence could not conceive that one who could
not even make pickles without her to oversee, could
think of such a matter as setting up housekeeping
change in her sister; remarked that
lately Susan seemed to be getting sort o' crazy-headed;
that she seemed not to have any “faculty”
for anything; that she had made gingerbread
twice, and forgot the ginger one time, and put in
mustard the other; that she took the saltcellar out
in the tablecloth, and let the cat into the pantry
half a dozen times; and that, when scolded for
these sins of omission or commission, she had a fit
of crying, and did a little worse than before. Silence
was of opinion that Susan was getting to be
“weakly and narvy,” and actually concocted an unmerciful
pitcher of wormwood and boneset, which
she said was to keep off the “shaking weakness”
that was coming over her. In vain poor Susan
protested that she was well enough—Miss Silence
knew better; and one evening she entertained Mr.
Joseph Adams with a long statement of the case in
all its bearings, and ended with demanding his opinion,
as a candid listener, whether the wormwood and
boneset sentence should not be executed.
Poor Susan had that very afternoon parted from
a knot of young friends who had teased her most
unmercifully on the score of attentions received,
till she began to think the very leaves and stones
were so many eyes to pry into her secret feelings,
and then to have the whole case set in order before
“Certainly he would think she was acting like a
fool; perhaps he did not mean anything more than
friendship, after all, and she would not, for the
world, have him suppose that she cared a copper
more for him than for any other friend, or that she
was in love, of all things.” So she sat very busy
with her knitting-work, scarcely knowing what she
was about, till Silence called out,
“Why, Susan, what a piece of work you are
making of that stocking heel! What in the world
are you doing to it?”
Susan dropped her knitting, and, making some
pettish answer, escaped out of the room.
“Now did you ever!” said Silence, laying down
the seam she had been cross-stitching; “what is
the matter with her, Mr. Adams?”
“Miss Susan is certainly indisposed,” replied
our hero, gravely; “I must get her to take your
advice, Miss Silence.”
Our hero followed Susan to the front door, where
she stood looking out at the moon, and begged to
know what distressed her.
Of course it was “nothing,” the young lady's
usual complaint when in low spirits; and to show
that she was perfectly easy, she began an unsparing
attack on a white rosebush near by.
“Susan!” said Joseph, laying his hand on hers,
back her curls, and looked up to him with such an
innocent, confiding face—
Ah, my good reader, you may go on with this
part of the story for yourself. We are principled
against unveiling the “sacred mysteries,” the
“thoughts that breathe and words that burn,” in
such little moonlight interviews as these. You
may fancy all that followed; and we can only assure
all who are doubtful, that, under judicious
management, cases of this kind may be disposed
of without wormwood or boneset. Our hero and
heroine were called to sublunary realities by the
voice of Miss Silence, who came into the passage
to see what upon earth they were doing. That
lady was satisfied by the representations of so
friendly and learned a young man as Joseph, that
nothing immediately alarming was to be apprehended
in the case of Susan, and she retired.
From that evening Susan stepped about with a
heart many pounds lighter than before.
“I'll tell you what, Joseph,” said Uncle Jaw,
“I'll tell you what, now, I hear 'em tell that you've
took and courted that 'ere Susan Jones. Now I
jest want to know if it's true?”
There was an explicitness about this mode of
inquiry that took our hero quite by surprise, so
that he could only reply,
“Why, sir, supposing I had, would there be any
objection to it in your mind?”
“Don't talk to me,” said Uncle Jaw; “I jest
want to know if it's true?”
Our hero put his hands in his pockets, walked
to the window, and whistled.
“'Cause if you have,” said Uncle Jaw, “you
may jest uncourt as fast as you can; for Squire
Jones's daughter won't get a single cent of my
money, I can tell you that.”
“Why, father, Susan Jones is not to blame for
anything that her father did, and I'm sure she is a
pretty girl enough.”
“I don't care if she is pretty; what's that to me?
I've got you through college, Joseph, and a hard
time I've had of it, a delvin and slaving, and here
you come, and the very first thing you do, you
must take and court that 'ere Squire Jones's daughter,
who was always putting himself up above me;
besides, I mean to have the law on that estate yet,
and Deacon Dudley, he will have the law too, and
it will cut off the best piece of land the girl has;
and when you get married, I mean you shall have
something. It's jest a trick of them gals at me;
but I guess I'll come up with 'em yet. I'm just a
goin' down to have a `regular hash' with old Silence,
to let her know she can't come round me that
way.”
“Silence,” said Susan, drawing her head into the
window and looking apprehensive, “there is Mr.
Adams coming here.”
“What, Joe Adams? Well, and what if he is?”
“No, no, sister, but it is his father—it is Uncle
Jaw.”
“Well, s'pose 'tis, child—what scares you?
s'pose I'm afraid of him? If he wants more than
I gave him last time, I'll put it on.” So saying,
Miss Silence took her knitting-work and marched
down into the sitting-room, and sat herself bolt upright
in an attitude of defiance, while poor Susan,
feeling her heart beat unaccountably fast, glided
out of the room.
“Well, good-morning, Miss Silence,” said Uncle
Jaw, after having scraped his feet on the scraper,
and scrubbed them on the mat nearly ten minutes
in silent deliberation.
“Morning, sir,” said Silence, abbreviating the
“good.”
Uncle Jaw helped himself to a chair directly in
front of the enemy, dropped his hat on the floor, and
surveyed Miss Silence with a dogged air of satisfaction,
like one who is sitting down to a regular,
comfortable quarrel, and means to make the most
of it.
Miss Silence tossed her head disdainfully, but
scorned to commence hostilities.
“So, Miss Silence,” said Uncle Jaw, deliberately,
“you don't think you'll do anything about that
'ere matter.”
“What matter?” said Silence, with an intonation
resembling that of a roasted chestnut when it bursts
from the fire.
“I railly thought, Miss Silence, in that 'ere talk
I had with you about Squire Jones's cheatin' about
that 'ere—”
“Mr. Adams,” said Silence, “I tell you, to begin
with, I'm not a going to be sauced in this 'ere way
by you. You ha'n't got common decency, nor
common sense, nor common anything else, to talk
so to me about my father: I won't bear it, I tell
you.”
“Why, Miss Jones,” said Uncle Jaw, “how you
talk! Well, to be sure, Squire Jones is dead and
gone, and it's as well not to call it cheatin', as I was
tellin' Deacon Enos when he was talking about that
'ere lot—that 'ere lot, you know, that he sold the
deacon, and never let him have the deed on't.”
“That's a lie,” said Silence, starting on her feet;
“that's an up and down black lie! I tell you that
now, before you say another word.”
“Miss Silence, railly, you seem to be getting
touchy,” said Uncle Jaw; “well, to be sure, if the
deacon can let that pass, other folks can, and maybe
the deacon will, because Squire Jones was a
about bringing out anything against professors; but
railly, now, Miss Silence, I didn't think you and
Susan were going to work it so cunning in this here
way.”
“I don't know what you mean, and, what's more,
I don't care,” said Silence, resuming her work, and
calling back the bolt, upright dignity with which
she began.
There was a pause of some moments, during
which the features of Silence worked with suppressed
rage, which was contemplated by Uncle Jaw
with undisguised satisfaction.
“You see, I s'pose, I shouldn't a minded your
Susan's setting out to court up my Joe, if it hadn't
a been for those things.”
“Courting your son! Mr. Adams, I should like
to know what you mean by that. I'm sure nobody
wants your son, though he's a civil, likely fellow
enough; yet with such an old dragon for a father,
I'll warrant he won't get anybody to court him, nor
be courted by him neither.”
“Railly, Miss Silence, you a'n't hardly civil,
now.”
“Civil! I should like to know who could be civil?
You know, now, as well as I do, that you are saying
all this out of clear, sheer ugliness; and that's
what you keep a doing all round the neighbourhood.”
“Miss Silence,” said Uncle Jaw, “I don't want
no hard words with you. It's pretty much known
round the neighbourhood that your Susan thinks
she'll get my Joe, and I s'pose you was thinking
that perhaps it would be the best way of settling
up matters; but you see, now, I took and tell'd my
son I railly didn't see as I could afford it; I took
and tell'd him that young folks must have something
considerable to start with; and that, if Susan
lost that 'ere piece of ground, as is likely she will,
it would be cutting off quite too much of a piece;
so, you see, I don't want you to take no encouragement
about that.”
“Well, I think this is pretty well!” exclaimed
Silence, provoked beyond measure or endurance;
“you old torment! think I don't know what you're
at? I and Susan courting your son? I wonder
if you a'n't ashamed of yourself, now! I should
like to know what I or she have done, now, to get
that notion into your head?”
“I didn't s'pose you 'spected to get him yourself,”
said Uncle Jaw, “for I guess by this time
you've pretty much gin up trying, ha'n't ye? But
Susan does, I'm pretty sure.”
“Here, Susan! Susan! you—come down!” called
Miss Silence, in great wrath, throwing open the
chamber door. “Mr. Adams wants to speak with
you.” Susan, fluttering and agitated, slowly descended
looked hesitatingly, first at Uncle Jaw and then at
her sister, who, without ceremony, proposed the
subject-matter of the interview as follows:
“Now, Susan, here's this man pretends to say
that you've been a courting and snaring to get his
son, and I just want you to tell him that you ha'n't
never had no thought of him, and that you won't
have, neither.”
This considerate way of announcing the subject
had the effect of bringing the burning colour into
Susan's face, as she stood like a convicted culprit,
with her eyes bent on the floor.
Uncle Jaw, savage as he was, was always moved
by female loveliness, as wild beasts are said to be
mysteriously swayed by music, and looked on the
beautiful, downcast face with more softening than
Miss Silence, who, provoked that Susan did not immediately
respond to the question, seized her by the
arm and eagerly reiterated,
“Susan! why don't you speak, child?”
Gathering desperate courage, Susan shook off
the hand of Silence, and straightened herself up
with as much dignity as some little flower lifts up
its head when it has been bent down by rain-drops.
“Silence,” she said, “I never would have come
down if I had thought it was to hear such things as
this. Mr. Adams, all I have to say to you is, that
you wish to know any more, he can tell you better
than I.”
“Well, I vow! she is a pretty girl,” said Uncle
Jaw, as Susan shut the door.
This exclamation was involuntary; then recollecting
himself, he picked up his hat, and saying,
“Well, I guess I may as well get along hum,” he
began to depart; but, turning round before he shut
the door, he said, “Miss Silence, if you should conclude
to do anything about that 'ere fence, just send
word over and let me know.”
Silence, without deigning any reply, marched up
into Susan's little chamber, where our heroine was
treating resolution to a good fit of crying.
“Susan, I did not think you had been such a
fool,” said the lady. “I do want to know, now, if
you've railly been thinking of getting married, and
to that Joe Adams of all folks!”
Poor Susan! such an interlude in all her pretty
romantic little dreams about kindred feelings and a
hundred other delightful ideas, that flutter like singing-birds
through the fairy-land of first love. Such
an interlude! to be called on by gruff human voices
to give up all the cherished secrets that she had
trembled to whisper even to herself. She felt as
if love itself had been defiled by the coarse, rough
hands that had been meddling with it; so to her
only to cry and sob still more bitterly than before.
Miss Silence, if she had a great stout heart, had
no less a kind one, and seeing Susan take the
matter so bitterly to heart, she began gradually to
subside.
“Susan, you poor little fool, you,” said she, at the
same time giving her a hearty slap, as expressive
of earnest sympathy, “I really do feel for you; that
good-for-nothing fellow has been a cheatin' you, I
do believe.”
“Oh, don't talk any more about it, for mercy's
sake,” said Susan; “I am sick of the whole of it.”
“That's you, Susan! Glad to hear you say so!
I'll stand up for you, Susan; if I catch Joe Adams
coming here again with his palavering face, I'll let
him know!”
“No! no! Don't, for mercy's sake, say anything
to Mr. Adams—don't!”
“Well, child, don't claw hold of a body so!
Well, at any rate, I'll just let Joe Adams know that
we ha'n't nothing more to say to him.”
“But I don't wish to say that—that is—I don't
know—indeed, sister Silence, don't say anything
about it.”
“Why not? You a'n't such a natural, now, as to
want to marry him after all, hey?”
“I don't know what I want nor what I don't
promise not to say anything at all to Mr. Adams—
don't.”
“Well, then, I won't,” said Silence; “but, Susan,
if you railly was in love all this while, why
ha'n't you been and told me? Don't you know that
I'm as much as a mother to you, and you ought to
have told me in the beginning?”
“I don't know, Silence! I couldn't—I don't want
to talk about it.”
“Well, Susan, you a'n't a bit like me,” said Silence;
a remark evincing great discrimination,
certainly, and with which the conversation terminated.
That very evening our friend Joseph walked
down towards the dwelling of the sisters, not without
some anxiety for the result, for he knew by his
father's satisfied appearance that war had been declared.
He walked into the family room, and found
nobody there but Miss Silence, who was sitting,
grim as an Egyptian sphinx, stitching very vigorously
on a meal-bag, in which interesting employment
she thought proper to be so much engaged as
not to remark the entrance of our hero. To Joseph's
accustomed “Good-evening, Miss Silence,”
she replied merely by looking up with a cold nod,
and went on with her sewing. It appeared that she
not to say anything to Mr. Adams.
Our hero, as we have before stated, was familiar
with the crooks and turns of the female mind, and
mentally resolved to put a bold face on the matter,
and give Miss Silence no encouragement in her attempt
to make him feel himself unwelcome. It was
rather a frosty autumnal evening, and the fire on
the hearth was decaying. Mr. Joseph bustled about
most energetically, throwing down the tongs, and
shovel, and bellows, while he pulled the fire to pieces,
raked out ashes and brands, and then, in a
twinkling, was at the woodpile, from whence he selected
a massive backlog and forestick, with accompaniments,
which were soon roaring and crackling
in the chimney.
“There, now, that does look something like comfort,”
said our hero; and drawing forward the big
rocking-chair, he seated himself in it, and rubbed
his hands with an air of great complacency. Miss
Silence looked not up, but stitched so much the faster,
so that one might distinctly hear the crack of
the needle and the whistle of the thread all over the
apartment.
“Have you a headache to-night, Miss Silence?”
“No!” was the gruff answer.
“Are you in a hurry about those bags?” said he,
side.
No reply. “Hang it all!” said our hero to himself,
“I'll make her speak.”
Miss Silence's needle-book and brown thread lay
on a chair beside her. Our friend helped himself
to a needle and thread, and taking one of the bags,
planted himself bolt upright opposite to Miss Silence,
and pinning his work to his knee, commenced
stitching at a rate fully equal to her own.
Miss Silence looked up and fidgeted, but went on
with her work faster than before; but the faster
she worked, the faster and steadier worked our
hero, all in “marvellous silence.” There began
to be an odd twitching about the muscles of Miss
Silence's face; our hero took no notice, having
pursed his features into an expression of unexampled
gravity, which only grew more intense as he
perceived, by certain uneasy movements, that the
adversary was beginning to waver.
As they were sitting, stitching away, their needles
whizzing at each other like a couple of locomotives
engaged in conversation, Susan opened the
door.
The poor child had been crying for the greater
part of her spare time during the day, and was in
no very merry humour; but the moment that her
astonished eyes comprehended the scene, she burst
while Silence laid down her needle, and looked half
amused and half angry. Our hero, however, continued
his business with inflexible perseverance, unpinning
his work and moving the seam along, and
going on with increased velocity.
Poor Miss Silence was at length vanquished, and
joined in the loud laugh which seemed to convulse
her sister. Whereupon our hero unpinned his
work, and folding it up, looked up at her with all
the assurance of impudence triumphant, and remarked
to Susan,
“Your sister had such a pile of these pillow-cases
to make, that she was quite discouraged, and
engaged me to do half a dozen of them: when I
first came in she was so busy she could not even
speak to me.”
“Well, if you a'n't the beater for impudence!”
said Miss Silence.
“The beater for industry—so I thought,” rejoined
our hero.
Susan, who had been in a highly tragical state
of mind all day, and who was meditating on nothing
less sublime than an eternal separation from her
lover, which she had imagined, with all the affecting
attendants and consequents, was entirely revolutionized
by the unexpected turn thus given to her
ideas, while our hero pursued the opportunity he
to the utmost, till Miss Silence, declaring
that if she had been washing all day she should
not have been more tired than she was with laughing,
took up her candle, and good-naturedly left our
young people to settle matters between themselves.
There was a grave pause of some length when she
had departed, which was broken by our hero, who,
seating himself by Susan, inquired very seriously
if his father had made proposals of marriage to
Miss Silence that morning.
“No, you provoking creature!” said Susan, at
the same time laughing at the absurdity of the idea.
“Well, now, don't draw on your long face again,
Susan,” said Joseph; “you have been trying to
lengthen it down all the evening, if I would have
let you. Seriously, now, I know that something
painful passed between my father and you this
morning, but I shall not inquire what it was. I
only tell you, frankly, that he has expressed his
disapprobation of our engagement, forbidden me to
go on with it, and—”
“And, consequently, I release you from all engagements
and obligations to me, even before you
ask it,” said Susan.
“You are extremely accommodating,” replied
Joseph; “but I cannot promise to be as obliging in
giving up certain promises made to me, unless, indeed
changed.”
“Oh, no—no, indeed,” said Susan, earnestly;
“you know it is not that; but if your father objects
to me—”
“If my father objects to you, he is welcome not
to marry you,” said Joseph.
“Now, Joseph, do be serious,” said Susan.
“Well, then, seriously, Susan, I know my obligation
to my father, and in all that relates to his
comfort I will ever be dutiful and submissive, for I
have no college-boy pride on the subject of submission;
but in a matter so individually my own
as the choice of a wife—in a matter that will most
likely affect my happiness years and years after he
has ceased to be, I hold that I have a right to consult
my own inclinations, and, by your leave, my
dear little lady, I shall take that liberty.”
“But, then, if your father is made angry, you
know what sort of a man he is; and how could I
stand in the way of all your prospects?”
“Why, my dear Susan, do you think I count
myself dependant upon my father, like the heir of
an English estate, who has nothing to do but sit
still and wait for money to come to him? No! I
have energy and education to start with, and if I
cannot take care of myself, and you too, then cast
me off and welcome;” and, as Joseph spoke, his
youth never feels so fully as in America.
He paused a moment, and resumed: “Nevertheless,
Susan, I respect my father; whatever others may
say of him, I shall never forget that I owe to his
hard earnings the education that enables me to do
or be anything, and I shall not wantonly or rudely
cross him. I do not despair of gaining his consent;
my father has a great partiality for pretty
girls, and if his love of contradiction is not kept
awake by open argument, I will trust to time and
you to bring him round; but, whatever comes, rest
assured, my dearest one, I have chosen for life, and
cannot change.”
The conversation, after this, took a turn which
may readily be imagined by all who have been in
the same situation, and will, therefore, need no
farther illustration.
“Well, Deacon, railly I don't know what to
think now: there's my Joe, he's took and been a
courting that 'ere Susan,” said Uncle Jaw.
This was the introduction to one of Uncle Jaw's
periodical visits to Deacon Enos, who was sitting,
with his usual air of mild abstraction, looking into
the coals of a bright November fire, while his busy
helpmate was industriously rattling her knitting-needles
by his side.
A close observer might have suspected that this
great deal of good advice, in private, to Master
Joseph of late; but he only relaxed his features
into a quiet smile, and ejaculated, “I want to
know!”
“Yes; and railly, Deacon, that 'ere gal is a rail
pretty un. I was a tellin' my folks that our new
minister's wife was a fool to her.”
“And so your son is going to marry her?” said
the good lady; “I knew that long ago.”
“Well—no—not so fast; ye see there's two to
that bargain yet. You see, Joe, he never said a
word to me, but took and courted the gal out of
his own head; and when I come to know, says I,
`Joe,' says I, `that 'ere gal wont's do for me;' and
I took and tell'd him, then, about that 'ere old fence,
and all about that old mill, and them medders of
mine; and I tell'd him, too, about that 'ere lot of
Susan's; and I should like to know, now, Deacon,
how that lot business is a going to turn out.”
“Judge Smith and Squire Moseley say that my
claim to it will stand,” said the deacon.
“They do?” said Uncle Jaw, with much satisfaction;
“s'pose, then, you'll sue, won't you?”
“I don't know,” replied the deacon, meditatively.
Uncle Jaw was thoroughly amazed; that any one
should have doubts about entering suit for a fine
quite beyond his powers of solving.
“You say your son has courted the girl,” said
the deacon, after a long pause; “that strip of land
is the best part of Susan's share; I paid down five
hundred dollars on the nail for it; I've got papers
here that Judge Smith and Squire Moseley say
will stand good in any court of law.”
Uncle Jaw pricked up his ears and was all attention,
eying with eager looks the packet, but,
to his disappointment, the deacon deliberately laid
it into his desk, shut and locked it, and resumed
his seat.
“Now, railly,” said Uncle Jaw, “I should like
to know the particulars.”
“Well, well,” said the deacon, “the lawyers
will be at my house to-morrow evening, and if you
have any concern about it, you may as well come
along.”
Uncle Jaw wondered all the way home at what
he could have done to get himself into the confidence
of the old deacon, who, he rejoiced to think,
was a going to “take” and go to law like other
folks.
The next day there was an appearance of some
bustle and preparation about the deacon's house;
the best room was opened and aired; an ovenful
of cake was baked, and our friend Joseph, with a
in and out of the house, from various closetings
with the deacon. The deacon's lady bustled about
the house with an air of wonderful mystery, and
even gave her directions about eggs and raisins in
a whisper, lest they should possibly let out some
eventful secret.
The afternoon of that day Joseph appeared at
the house of the sisters, stating that there was to
be company at the deacon's that evening, and he
was sent to invite them.
“Why, what's got into the deacon's folks lately,”
said Silence, “to have company so often? Joe
Adams, this 'ere is some `cut up' of yours. Come,
what are you up to now?”
“Come, come, dress yourselves and get ready,”
said Joseph; and, stepping up to Susan, as she was
following Silence out of the room, he whispered
something into her ear, at which she stopped short
and coloured violently.
“Why, Joseph, what do you mean?”
“It is so,” said he.
“No, no, Joseph; no, I can't, indeed I can't.”
“But you can, Susan.”
“Oh, Joseph, don't.”
“Oh, Susan, do.”
“Why, how strange, Joseph!”
“Come, come, my dear, you keep me waiting.
we will talk about them to-morrow;” and our hero
looked so saucy and so resolute that there was no
disputing farther; so, after a little more lingering
and blushing on Susan's part, and a few kisses and
persuasions on the part of the suiter, Miss Susan
seemed to be brought to a state of resignation.
At a table in the middle of Uncle Enos's north
front room were seated the two lawyers, whose
legal opinion was that evening to be fully made up.
The younger of these, Squire Moseley, was a rosy,
portly, laughing little bachelor, who boasted that he
had offered himself, in rotation, to every pretty girl
within twenty miles round, and, among others, to
Susan Jones, notwithstanding which he still remained
a bachelor, with a fair prospect of being an old
one; but none of these things disturbed the boundless
flow of good-nature and complacency with
which he seemed at all times full to overflowing.
On the present occasion he seemed to be particularly
in his element, as if he had some law business
in hand remarkably suited to his turn of mind; for,
on finishing the inspection of the papers, he started
up, slapped his graver brother on the back, made
two or three flourishes round the room, and then
seizing the old deacon's hand, shook it violently,
exclaiming,
“All's right, Deacon, all's right! Go it! go it!
hurrah!”
When Uncle Jaw entered, the deacon, without
preface, handed him a chair and the papers, saying,
“These papers are what you wanted to see. I
just wish you would read them over.”
Uncle Jaw read them deliberately over. “Didn't
I tell ye so, Deacon? The case is as clear as a bell:
now ye will go to law, won't you?”
“Look here, Mr. Adams; now you have seen
these papers, and heard what's to be said, I'll
make you an offer. Let your son marry Susan
Jones, and I'll burn these papers and say no
more about it, and there won't be a girl in the
parish with a finer portion.”
Uncle Jaw opened his eyes with amazement,
and looked at the old man, his mouth gradually
expanding wider and wider, as if he hoped, in time,
to swallow the idea.
“Well, now, I swan!” at length he ejaculated.
“I mean just as I say,” said the deacon.
“Why, that's the same as giving the gal five
hundred dollars out of your own pocket, and she
a'n't no relation neither.”
“I know it,” said the deacon; “but I have said
I will do it.”
“What upon 'arth for?” said Uncle Jaw.
“To make peace,” said the deacon, “and to let
you know that when I say it is better to give up
one's rights than to quarrel, I mean so. I am an
treasures are laid up in heaven; if I
can make the children happy, why, I will. When
I thought I had lost the land, I made up my mind
to lose it, and so I can now.”
Uncle Jaw looked fixedly on the old deacon and
said,
“Well, Deacon, I believe you. I vow, if you
ha'n't got something ahead in t'other world, I'd
like to know who has, that's all; so, if Joe has no
objections, and I rather guess he won't have—”
“The short of the matter is,” said the squire,
“we'll have a wedding; so come on;” and with
that he threw open the parlour door, where stood
Susan and Joseph in a recess by the window, while
Silence and the Rev. Mr. Bissel were drawn up by
the fire, and the deacon's lady was sweeping up
the hearth, as she had been doing ever since the
party arrived.
Instantly Joseph took the hand of Susan, and led
her to the middle of the room; the merry squire
seized the hand of Miss Silence and placed her as
bridesmaid, and before any one could open their
mouths, the ceremony was in actual progress, and
the minister, having been previously instructed,
made the two one with extraordinary celerity.
“What! what! what!” said uncle Jaw. “Joseph!
Deacon!”
“Fair bargain, sir,” said the squire. “Hand
over your papers, Deacon.”
The deacon handed them, and the squire, having
read them aloud, proceeded, with much ceremony,
to throw them into the fire; after which, in a
mock solemn oration, he gave a statement of the
whole affair, and concluded with a grave exhortation
to the new couple on the duties of wedlock,
which unbent the risibles even of the minister himself.
Uncle Jaw looked at his pretty daughter-in-law,
who stood half smiling, half blushing, receiving the
congratulations of the party, and then at Miss Silence,
who appeared full as much taken by surprise
as himself.
“Well, well, Miss Silence, these 'ere young folks
have come round us slick enough,” said he. “I
don't see but we must shake hands upon it.” And
the warlike powers shook hands accordingly, which
was a signal for general merriment.
As the company were dispersing, Miss Silence
laid hold of the good deacon, and by main strength
dragged him aside: “Deacon,” said she, “I take
back all that 'ere I said about you, every word
on't.”
“Don't say any more about it, Miss Silence,”
said the good man; “it's gone by, and let it go.”
“Joseph!” said his father, the next morning, as
“I calculate I shall feel kinder proud of this 'ere
gal! and I'll tell you what, I'll jest give you that
nice little delicate Stanton place that I took on
Stanton's mortgage: it's a nice little place, with
green blinds, and flowers, and all them things, just
right for Susan.”
And, accordingly, many happy years flew over
the heads of the young couple in the Stanton place,
long after the hoary hairs of their kind benefactor,
the deacon, were laid with reverence in the dust.
Uncle Jaw was so far wrought upon by the magnanimity
of the good old man as to be very materially
changed for the better. Instead of quarrelling
in real earnest all around the neighbourhood,
he confined himself merely to battling the opposite
side of every question with his son, which, as the
latter was somewhat of a logician, afforded a pretty
good field for the exercise of his powers; and
he was heard to declare at the funeral of the old
deacon, that, “after all, a man got as much, and
maybe more, to go along as the deacon did, than to
be all the time fisting and jawing; though I tell
you what it is,” said he, afterward, “'taint every
one that has the deacon's faculty, any how.”
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