University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

Bidding adieu to the now deserted and lonely mansion
which to him had been, for the four past fleeting months, the
scene of so many mingling pleasures, toils, and trials, our
hero, with slow and pensive steps, returned to his lodgings.
He had contemplated making several calls that evening, both
for the transaction of business, and the reciprocation of
courtesies received, preparatory to leaving town the next
morning. But the strong and varied emotions which had
been excited in the scene he had just passed through, added
to the state of his health, that, for several days, he had felt
to be giving way, had so much disinclined and unfitted him
to meet company, that he soon concluded to defer his visits
till the following morning, and retire, as he early did, to the
more congenial seclusion of his own room, where he could
indulge the moody reveries of his mind, and the physical
languor of his feelings, unrestrained and unmolested. Here
his thoughts reverted to the past. He recalled the interesting
incidents described at the opening of these pages, forming,
as he was ever sensible, the first marked era of his life.
He recurred to the unconsciously prophetic intimation then
given him of his subsequent career by her whose image,
while she thus indicated the way, imparted an ever-during

impulse to pursue it. And with pleased and curious thought,
he ran over the events that followed: the persevering exertions
which had resulted in bringing him before the public as
a teacher; the engagement in his first school, attended by
the singular circumstances that led to an acquaintance with
the only man who would have brought him to Cartersville,
and the only man, who, when this was effected, would or
could have placed him and the fair prophetess and seeming
maker of his fortunes together in the relation they had lately
sustained to each other. He saw, or thought he saw, in all
this, a train of circumstances which formed the connecting
links of a chain of destiny, which, from the parts disclosed,
the ministering sisters, Hope and Fancy, now tempted him
to trace onward into the dim confines of futurity, gilding the
way for him, as usual, with many a bright illusion, and
opening to his enchanted view many a fairy scene of love
and happiness for him and the fair cynosure of his waking
dream. But Reason and Conscience, here interposing, checked
the lured heart in its rising anticipations, and coldly whispered
of present destitution, — of the distant prospect of
worldly means, on the one hand, and, on the other, of orphan
innocence, inexperience, and perhaps love, that might listen
to a connection involving circumstances which must defeat
its own object, and bring poverty and its attendant miseries
upon one who was worthy of, and who would otherwise meet
with, a happier destiny.

Such were the conflicting emotions that now strangely
agitated the usually tranquil mind of Amsden, as, for hours,
he slowly paced his solitary apartment, sometimes cheering
himself with the visions of Hope, and sometimes, as he
looked upon the stern realities of his present situation, and
those which his judgment told him would be likely to succeed,
sinking into despondency. The latter feeling, however, as
little good cause as he could assign for it, in any thing relating

to the past, or the rational prospects of the future, seemed
more and more to predominate. And, as the evening wore
away, he became conscious of an unusual depression of
spirits, a certain boding solicitude and restlessness of mind,
for which he could not account, but which he could not but
feel to be vaguely suggestive of some jeopardized interest,
or some approaching crisis of his fortunes. After endeavoring
awhile, in vain, to shake off these constantly intruding
fancies, he betook himself to his pillow, and soon fell asleep.
But sleep brought no repose to disturbed sensibilities. The
sweet restorer had lost the power of tranquillizing. It is
Dryden, we believe, who says, in a couplet alike remarkable
for neatness of expression and condensed poetic thought, —
But whether this contains the true philosophy of dreams or
not, it is certain that the idea here conveyed seemed to be
strikingly exemplified in the visions of the sleeper, that now
succeeded. While the same dark current of thoughts and
undefined solicitudes which occupied his last waking moments
continued to run in his mind, those thoughts, as reason ceased
to control and regulate, soon began to shape themselves into
a succession of wild and mysterious fantasies. In all of
these, however, one characteristic prevailed. They all presented
Mary Maverick as the principal figure, and always in
circumstances of difficulty or danger. In the last mimic
scene that was conjured up by the changing fancies of the
troubled dreamer, he at first seemed reclining on the flowery
bank of a sun-lit lake; a light boat came wafting before the
ruffling breeze towards the spot where he lay; as it approached,
he distinguished, seated within, the same angelic form
and face which, in different situations, had been constantly
rising on his vision. She raised her white hand in token of
gratulation. He even thought he could trace the sweet
dimpling smile with which she was wont to receive him,
playing upon her countenance. “In one moment more,” he
thought, “she will be safe and happy, and all her fearful
trials and perils will be over.” But while he yet spoke, the
sun became suddenly hid by doubling racks of dark and
angry clouds, that seemed, with magic quickness, to have
been gathered from every part of the horizon to a point
directly over head. In another moment, the black convolving
mass burst downward, and fell, in hurricane blasts, upon
the lake; converting at once its mirror-like surface into a
wild waste of tumbling, breaking, and raging billows, upon
which the frail little bark of his fair friend — by this time
almost within reach of his hand, now eagerly extended to
grasp it as it came — began to pitch and whirl with a violence
that threatened instant destruction. Now it was borne
off on the eddying surges, and lost to his sight in the clouds
of wind-driven mists and mingling atoms, that were sweeping
over the face of the agitated waters. Now again it appeared
on the refluent billows, and again it was lost. Once more it
was revealed to the eager and strained vision of the distressed
lover; but it appeared now only to complete his
despair. It was foundering amidst the raging waves; and its
lovely freight, with an imploring look, was stretching forth
towards him her arms for aid. With a cry of agony, he
plunged into the angry flood for the rescue, and awoke —
awoke, and thanked Heaven that it was but a dream. But,
although the illusion was dissipated, and the particular excitement
it had caused soon allayed, the same feelings with which
he fell asleep, the same boding, undefined solicitude which had
attended, and probably given character to all his dreams, still
continued to haunt and disturb him. The feeling grew even
more painfully oppressive, and, after trying awhile in vain to
sleep, he arose, lighted a lamp, and dressed himself. He consulted
his watch, and found it past midnight. He listened for
some sounds from without; but all, for a while, seemed hushed
in repose. The silence, however, was at length broken by
the noise of heavily-rolling wheels and the splashing of horses'
feet, proceeding, as he soon concluded, from the southern
stage, which, owing to the bad travelling, had but just arrived,
and was now passing on its way to the post-office or stage-house,
at the other end of the village. As these sounds receded,
he turned from them with indifference; for they were
not those which he seemed to have expected. But what did
he expect? He knew not; and yet he felt a strange consciousness
that something unusual was about to happen. And
in obedience to an impulse which now seized him, he took
his hat, descended to the door, and gained the street, without
being able to tell why he did so, or where he was going. As
he stood hesitating, a distant voice, in the earnest tones of
one calling for aid, reached his ears; he sprang round a corner,
in the direction of the sound, and the next instant heard
repeated, by a nearer and more startling voice, the appalling
cry of fire! “Carter's house is on fire, and the family perishing
in the flames!” Heeding not the inquiries that now
assailed his ears amidst the creaking of the opening doors,
or hastily-raised window-sashes of almost every house around
him, Amsden bounded forward by the lurid light that now began
to glimmer along the street, with the speed of the wind,
towards the spot indicated by this awful and, to him, agonizing
announcement. The turn of another corner brought the
eagerly-sought building into plain view. It was completely
enveloped in one black, eddying cloud of swiftly-mounting
smoke, through which the flickering flames began fiercely to
gleam, as they burst successively from the windows along the
lower story. The domestics, who slept in this part of the
house, had just escaped. At that instant, a window was
dashed out from the second story; and Mr. Carter, his wife,
and daughters, were heard shouting and screaming for aid.
Arousing the stupefied servants, Amsden, by their aid, and
that of one or two others, who by this time had reached the
spot, procured a ladder, and placed it to the window from
which the cries had been heard; when, one by one, the family
were seen emerging, half-suffocated, from the thick smoke
that enveloped the upper part of the ladder, and hastily descending
to the ground; the last one having barely time to
avoid the broad gush of flames that now burst from the window
below, and cut off all further chance of egress by the
avenue through which they had so narrowly escaped. Standing
at the foot of the ladder, and eagerly examining the disfigured
persons of each of the females, as they came down,
Amsden uttered an exclamation of despair, on finding, as the
last one reached the ground, that she whom he most anxiously
sought was not there!

“Where is Mary? O! where is Mary?” burst from his
agonized lips, as he cast a wild and frenzied look on those
around him.

“Yes, where?” responded Carter, throwing a startled and
agitated look upon his wife and daughters, as he now for the
first time discovered that the object of inquiry was not among
them.

“She ran back to add another article to her scant dress,
just as the ladder was raised for our escape,” now recollected
one of the females.

“Her retreat then was cut off by the flames,” said the former;
“mount at some other place and find her, or in another
moment she is lost!”

Waiting only to catch the import of these replies to his
question, the maddened youth flew to the ladder, planted it
against another window, sprang up the rounds, and with a
billet of wood before caught up for the purpose, cleared both
sash and glass at a blow, and leaped in, to rescue his perilled

friend, or perish with her. While this was transpiring, a
well-dressed gentleman, whom no one appeared to recognize,
came rushing, with distracted looks, through the crowd. He
had evidently been apprised, on the way, of the peril and
probable situation of the lady left in the burning building;
for, calling aloud for assistance, he seized a spare ladder, and,
with such help as was at hand, bore it round to an opposite
side of the house, reared it, ascended, beat in a window, and
quickly disappeared in the smoke that came pouring through
the breach he had thus effected. For many minutes, nothing
was seen or heard of the two individuals who had thus
bravely hazarded their lives in the search. And as the fire,
which had commenced on the lower floor, was plainly seen
to be rapidly making its way upward, the spectators, now
equally alarmed for the fate of all within, awaited, with
breathless anxiety, for their reäppearance. Suddenly, the
crash of a breaking window, in a different room from those
which either of the two bold adventurers had entered, was
heard; and they were seen, in the flying fragments and out-pouring
smoke, throwing themselves headlong through the
opening, to the ground. They had rushed through the half-fired
chambers in the fruitless search for the supposed perishing
girl, till, their retreat being cut off, they met, nearly
suffocated by the vapor, and took the only course left them
to save their lives. The stranger, though not materially injured
by the fall, was yet so much stunned, that he was taken
up and borne off nearly senseless, out of the crowd. Amsden
almost instantly gained his feet, and rushed, convulsed
and gasping for breath, out of the stifling smoke and heat
that encircled the spot, into the fresh air. The eyes of all
followed him, and many gathered round to hear if he brought
hope or information on the subject of the general solicitude.
He did not, could not, utter words; but his woe-speaking
countenance, as he looked upon the burning pile, and turned
hopelessly away from the overpowering sight, told the sad tale
that his tongue would have uttered. And the next moment
brought confirmation, to the minds of all, of the dreadful supposition.
A general burst of flames through every window
below the roof of the building, disclosed the whole interior
in a mass of flames, glowing with the bright heat of a furnace.
“She is lost! she is lost!” now rose, in the low, deep
murmurs of grief, from the shuddering throng, who stood
appalled at the thought of a fate so awful, for one so good, so
loved, and so lovely. With the subsidence of this burst of
anguished sensibilities, a funereal silence for some moments
pervaded the whole assembled multitude. The tumultuous
shouts and varied commotion that had marked the scene,
seemed hushed into awe; and nought was heard but the
ceaseless crackling of consuming timbers, and the dull, far-sounding
roar of the mounting flames. The gloomy silence,
however, was soon broken by a cry of mingled joy and horror
which now arose from a new and unexpected spectacle.
She, whom all had given up as lost, was discovered, emerging
from the scuttle, on to the nearly flat roof of the building,
and advancing, with hasty, agitated steps, to the low terrace
that ran round it at the caves. Here, in the occasional openings
of the eddying smoke that was swiftly whirling over
and around her, she was seen, looking hopelessly down from
the dizzy height, upon the anxious throng of friends below,
who saw no way to rescue her from the fiery tomb, in which
the already trembling fabric gave token she must soon be
engulfed. In a moment she appeared to single out her distressed
lover from the crowd; and she stretched forth her
arms towards him, with the same imploring look with which
he had seen her in his dream. Aroused by the mute appeal
from the stupor with which his overmastering emotions had
chained him to the spot where he stood, at the thrilling sight
that had been so unexpectedly revealed, Amsden sprang forward
to the very verge of the flames, and, calling aloud for
assistance, looked distractedly round for some means by
which she might yet be snatched from the fearful doom that
hung over her. But how was any effectual assistance to be
rendered? The body of the building, which was isolated
from all others, was now but a bright mass of fire; while the
whole compass of its exterior, on every side, from the base
nearly to the eaves, was wrapped by the flashing gusts of the
same fearful element. There was no ladder to be had long
enough to reach the roof, or near it, if placed at an inclination
in which it would be out of reach of the flames. Other
expedients were, indeed, hastily suggested; but each in its
turn, was quickly rejected, as wholly fruitless. And the
seemingly fated girl was again about to be given up as beyond
the reach of all human assistance, when an encouraging
shout, as of approaching aid, was raised by those standing in
the outer circles of the crowd. Eager to grasp at every appearance
of hope, Amsden turned his eyes to the quarter
from which the sounds proceeded, and beheld a small party
rapidly approaching, with a long spliced ladder on their
shoulders. As they drew near, the former unexpectedly recognized,
in the burly frame and energetic manner of the
foremost, his old friend Bunker, who, it appeared, having
been aroused by the alarm from an inn nearly two miles
distant, reached by him on a journey, a few hours before, had
arrived just as the present emergency arose, and, with a
quick glance at the means of relief, ran back to a neighboring
barn, where he procured, and hastily lashed together, the implements
with which he and others were now rushing forward
to the rescue.

“Be ready there with pike-poles and pitch-forks to raise
it,” he exclaimed to the receding throng, as with long, rapid
strides he came sweeping with his end of the load to the
spot. “She may be saved! Now up with this ladder; and

ho! there, you firemen! bring round your engine to bear
on this side of the building to deaden the flames! What!
can you neither think nor act? I tell you she must be
saved!”

With that sort of half-mechanical obedience which superior
energy and promptitude will always command, in a crisis
of difficulty and danger, the before uncertain and paralyzed
crowd, now aroused by the startling and authoritative tones
of the speaker, began to move with alacrity to do his bidding.
While the fire-engine, soon adjusted for the purpose, was
pouring its torrents upon the space of flames immediately
required to be held in check, the tall ladder was hurled into
the air, and carefully lowered, till its upper end was brought
on to the roof, almost at the feet of the perilled maiden.

“Now, young lady,” shouted Bunker, in a voice that rose
distinct above the noise of the multitude and the roaring of
the flames, “if you have a head and hand steady enough,
come down; for you have not a moment to lose!”

Evidently understanding the words that had been thus addressed
her, the agitated girl instantly advanced, and stepping
over the verge of the dizzy pinnacle, placed her foot
upon one of the first rounds of the ladder — when, at the
sensation which appeared to come over her, as she glanced
down from the fearful height to the earth, partially disclosed
to her recoiling senses in the disrupturing clouds of smoke
and flame that were seething and raging beneath her, she
suddenly stopped, put her hand to her head, and, with a
shudder, sunk back unnerved and prostrate upon the roof.

“May the Lord have mercy on her!” cried Bunker, in
tones of distress. “She has not the nerve to do it, poor
thing! And this ladder may give way under the weight of
two. But I cannot stand and see her die so. No, it must
be tried,” he added, turning to those around him, and preparing

to mount himself. “So, under there with your longest
poles to sustain and steady the ladder, as well as you can
when we come down; for I will save her or go with her.”

He was anticipated, however, in his intended ascent.
Amsden, who had stood by, watching every movement with
an intenseness of anxiety that had deprived him of the power
of utterance, now rushed past his brave old friend, and, with
a look of mute desperation, rapidly mounted the ladder, and
soon disappeared in the smoke, on his perilous destination.
The eyes of all were now turned upwards, with intense
and eager gaze, to the vapor-screened roof, as they stood
awaiting, in silent and trembling suspense, the result of the
last effort which they felt could be made to snatch the luckless
girl from her doom. But more than a minute elapsed
before their senses were greeted by either sight or sound
from the objects of their common anxiety; when “They
come! they come!” burst from a distant part of the crowd.
And the next instant the heroic young man was seen by all,
sliding slowly and cautiously from round to round, down the
ladder, with one arm firmly grasping his lovely burden, as
she lay shudderingly clinging to his bosom, and the other
employed in aiding his difficult and dangerous progress.
The first fifteen feet of their descent was luckily accomplished
without disaster or alarm. And this brought them so far
out of the upward current of smoke and heat, that they now
could breathe with comparative freedom. But the most perilous
part of their passage still remained. And this became
so frightfully manifest by the bending and cracking of the
frail implement, as they approached the middle, that it was
apparent the over-strained sides were about to give way,
and precipitate them to the earth beneath or hurl them back
among the blazing ruins of the tottering fabric from which
they had so far escaped.

“Hold! hold there, above, or you are lost!” shouted
Bunker, from beneath the ladder, as he and others were
endeavoring to support it with their poles.

A moment of awful suspense followed. But while all
others seemed to be deprived of the power of thought and
action, by the awful spectacle of two human beings suspended,
as if by a hair, over certain destruction, the coolness and
presence of mind of the man who had already effected so
much were again conspicuous. Casting an uneasy and hurried
glance around for some means of averting the fearfully
pressing evil, his eye fell upon an old carriage, standing in a
distant part of the yard. This, by the loud and rapid orders
which he then instantly gave, as he still stood, straining
every nerve, at his post, was hastily rolled forward, and run
so far within the line of the fire beneath the ladder, that it
at once became nearly enveloped in the flames. Then calling
on the firemen to turn their engine full upon himself, he
mounted the top of the carriage with his pike-pole; and,
while a drenching column of water was pouring directly
upon his person, he soon gained a hold upon the ladder
above, at so high a point as to secure it from any further
danger of giving way, so long as he could remain in the hazardous
and nearly insupportable position in which he had
thus placed himself.

“Now be on the move there, above!” he exclaimed, in
tones which plainly told what his effort was costing him.
“The house is on the point of falling in; and, for your own
sakes as well as mine, I warn you to be lively!”

Before these ominous words were out of the mouth of the
speaker, Amsden, who had remained, in the mean time, stationary
on his weak and failing support, without stirring a
muscle, was rapidly gliding downward, with his still uninjured
charge. In a moment the point of danger was passed.
In another, Bunker was seen leaping from his stand to avoid

the falling ladder, which, with the crashing roof above, now
came down in a blazing mass together. But the irrepressible
shout of joyful exultation that the next instant burst from the
assembled multitude proclaimed to the ringing welkin around,
that both the delivered and the deliverer were standing upon
the earth in safety.

At that moment, a gentleman, hastily making his way
through the crowd, rushed up to the rescued party, exclaiming,
“My daughter! my daughter!” and, clasping the bewildered
girl in his arms, and murmuring an ejaculation of
thanks to Heaven for her deliverance, he led her away from
the spot.

Amsden cast a surprised and inquiring look at the person
who had thus unexpectedly appeared with the claims implied
by the exclamations just uttered, when he recognized, in his
general appearance, the stranger with whom he had so
nearly perished in the burning house. But the condition in
which he now found himself precluded all further thought or
inquiry on the subject. A strange, giddy, and sickening sensation
came over him; and, staggering, and grasping for
something to support him, he was caught by Bunker, who
immediately conveyed him, sick and helpless, to his lodgings.
The unwonted exertions, and the fearful excitement of the
night, had been too much for his already debilitated system;
and his failing strength and overtasked nerves had given
way together. He rapidly grew worse, and, before morning,
was delirious with a raging fever.

O! who can follow the here confused and tangled thread
of the sufferer's intellectual existence? Ay, who can give
an adequate description of the aimless operations of a mind
unsettled by disease — the dark and ceaseless turmoil of
ever-changing, yet ever-recurring images — the vague, fleeting,
mysterious, half-formed shapes, that are constantly rising
on the troubled vision, passing through a thousand rapid and

startling mutations, and sinking away to make room for others,
seemingly different, yet felt to be the same — the haunting,
hurrying, impelling consciousness of objects to be sought,
but never obtained, and the deep and distressing sense of
perplexity and helpless wretchedness that continues through
the whole oppressively to brood over the distracted mind?
Who, we repeat, can describe operations like these? No
one. No pen, though guided by one who speaks from experience,
can draw a picture bearing even the stamp of resemblance;
and yet every one who thus speaks, feels that, while
in that state, he was conscious of the passing of incidents
enough to compose the varying scenes of a whole life.

For more than a fortnight, in despite of the daily, and often
hourly attendance of the assiduous and skilful Lincoln, and
the unwearied ministering of the kindest of friends, lay
Locke Amsden; his prostrate body the helpless and almost
hopeless prey of disease, and his sympathizing mind the
sport of those troublous and distressing fantasies of the fevered
brain, which we can name as such, but never describe.
The taper of life, however, though often seeming but to flicker
in its socket, continued to burn on; and, at length, nature
began slowly to rally, and the invading enemy to retire from
the long-disputed field of contest.

It was the beginning of the third week from the night
which proved so eventful to the leading personages of our
story, that Amsden, after several hours of calm and refreshing
slumbers, awoke in full possession of his reason.

“What a long, long, troubled dream!” at length he faintly
uttered.

A slight rustling in the room now attracted his attention;
and, turning his head, he caught a glimpse of a female figure,
quietly gliding out through the door. In a moment
more the door was reöpened, when a matronly-looking woman

entered, and, approaching the bedside of the evidently
surprised invalid, gently asked, —

“Locke, do you know me? Ay, you do now, do n't you,
my son?”

“My mother — but how came you here?”

“I came nearly ten days ago, to nurse you, Locke. You
have been very sick, though for the last two days you have
grown much better; and you would have known me before,
probably, had we thought it best to arouse you so thoroughly
from your sleep as we might have done.”

“Then my mind has been wandering the whole time, I
suppose — perhaps it is all a dream. When you came in, I
was trying to recall, and to distinguish what might be reality
from what was not.”

“It may be you are mingling reality and your disordered
fancies together. People will do so, on coming to their reason,
it is said. But what do you allude to, in particular?”

“The burning of Carter's house, — our escape, — and then
a great many other confused scenes, which I thought at first
I could recall.”

“The house you name was indeed burnt; and the same
kind Providence that has preserved you through this distressing
sickness, permitted you, and all that were endangered, to
escape from the dreadful element. It must have been an
awful scene. It made me shudder to hear Captain Bunker
describe it.”

“Captain Bunker? Did he remain with me till you arrived.”

“Why, he came after me, my son, brought me here, and
continued with us several days afterwards, watching over you
with all the seeming anxiety of a parent. And, on taking
his leave, and looking on you, as he believed, for the last
time, it was a moving sight to see that strong man weep.”

The patient now, at the suggestion of his careful nurse,
refrained from further conversation, took some nourishment,
and soon fell again into gentle slumber, from which, at the
end of an hour or two, he awoke, much refreshed, and evidently
less feeble than before.

“Mother,” he said, after lying awhile in thoughtful silence,
“mother, who was that lady that left the room just before
you entered, the first time I awoke to know you?”

“Why, it was Miss Maverick,” replied the other, hesitatingly,
as she cast a surprised and rather searching look at
the countenance of her son. “She has been here almost
every day since I came; and so, indeed, has her father, who
expresses —”

“Her father?” interrupted Locke; “O — why, I now
recollect. Then that was in truth her father, whom all supposed
dead? He arrived the evening before the fire, I
presume?”

“No: he arrived in the belated stage, I understood, about
the time the alarm was given, and, hurrying to the spot,
rushed into the building, where he heard, as he drew near,
his daughter was left to perish. The rest you remember, I
suppose.”

“I do now; but where has the Colonel been, these many
years, that nothing should have been heard from him?”

“In Brazil, South America, I think Mary told me,
where the country was in such commotion that his letters
miscarried. He was at first made a prisoner, and carried
into the country, when, effecting his escape, he was drawn
into the wars, became an officer, and acquired wealth from
his pay, and the services he rendered some rich Spanish
families, in saving their lives and estates. He came away,
he says, as soon as he could turn his property, and get out of
the country with his money, which he has brought home
with him, to a large amount, it is generally thought. And it

certainly seems like it; for he immediately bought back, of
the agent of his old creditors, the beautiful house and farm
he formerly owned, and has already moved into it. He has
also very generously bought another comfortable house for
the Carter family.”

“Indeed! but why should he do that, mother? Mr. Carter,
notwithstanding the loss of his house and furniture, must
have been abundantly able to purchase another, himself.”

“Why, did n't you know — but of course you could not —
that Carter had failed?”

“You surprise me, mother.”

“Yes, he has totally failed. And it is now said he has
been a bankrupt for some time, though most people supposed
there was scarcely an end to his wealth. His losses by the
fire in some way brought his true situation to light. His
creditors — and it was found that, besides his immense city
debts, he owed almost every body here — his creditors struck
on him a few days after, stripping him of every thing that the
fire had left; and he is now a poor man, owing thousands, it
is said, which he can never pay, and still having the same
unprofitable and helpless family on his hands, whose extravagant
habits have been the chief means of his ruin. Every
body pities him, but nobody his wife and daughters.”

“What a striking concurrence of events has been here!”
observed Locke, thoughtfully; “and what a strange reversal
of fortunes has a few days brought about between the dependent,
and I fear misused, Mary Maverick, and the vain
and haughty Carters! Well, Mary, I suppose, is considered
a wealthy heiress now,” he added, with a sigh.

“She may be, and justly, too, I presume,” rejoined the
mother, seeming instinctively to comprehend what was passing
in her son's mind; “she may be thought so, and really be
so; but let me tell you, that, although the Carters are humbled,
she is not exalted. O Locke!” she continued, with

earnestness and rising emotion, “I cannot express how much
I think of that good, good girl! But I am wrong to lead
you to such agitating subjects,” she added, suddenly checking
herself, as she glanced at the other, and saw him grasping
for a handkerchief to conceal his starting tears. “We will
converse no more now; and in a few days you will be out, I
hope, to see and judge about all these things for yourself.”

Amsden possessed a sound and vigorous constitution; and
so rapid was his recovery, that, in one week from the time at
which the delirium left him, he was able to leave the house.
During the whole period of his convalescence, he had seen
nothing of Colonel Maverick or his daughter; the former
having recently become too much indisposed to appear abroad,
and the latter making that circumstance an excuse for the sudden
discontinuance of those calls which were so frequently
repeated so long as her friend was considered in danger.
These facts Amsden learned from Dr. Lincoln, who, gracefully
sinking the physician into the companionable friend,
still continued his daily visits. And the former was the
more concerned at the information thus obtained, as the doctor
began to express some apprehensions, that the colonel's
indisposition, though appearing like an ordinary cold merely,
was the effect of a permanent injury to his lungs, which he
might have received from the smoke and heat encountered
at the fire, and which, though but slightly developing itself
at first, might yet assume a serious aspect. But although
Colonel Maverick for the reasons just named, and his daughter
for those she had assigned, or others which we will not
be very particular in scrutinizing, had not called on the recovering
invalid, yet they took means to apprise him that
he was not forgotten. A freshly-installed domestic of the
new family establishment now regularly made his appearance
every morning to inquire after Mr. Amsden's health. And,
before the latter was permitted to leave his room, he received

a note from the colonel himself, insisting on a visit as soon as
his health would possibly allow. There was a roguish postscript
to the note, in another hand, which made it none the
less welcome to the receiver.

The season of the violet and the opening leaf had come;
and the spring-tide of returning health, as if responsive to
the action of reviving nature, now everywhere bursting into
young life around, began to mount, and course with quickened
impulse in the veins of him who was so lately the pale and
helpless victim of disease, bringing with it that peculiar
buoyancy of spirits, that sort of spontaneous joyousness of
animal sensation, which is experienced only by those recovering
from long and wasting sickness.

And throwing aside the loathed habiliments of the sick
chamber, and spurning the further restrictions of prescribed
diet, and confinement within, he now came forth from his
prison-house, rejoicing in the conscious glow of physical
regeneration, and seemingly sucking in happiness at every
grateful inhalation of the open air. Finding himself daily
revived and strengthened, instead of harmed, by the exercise
of his new-found privilege of wandering abroad, he set out,
on the first pleasant afternoon that occurred after his release,
for the charmed residence of the two beings who not only
for years before had occupied the conspicuous place in his
mind, but who now seemed the centering points to which his
every thought and inclination irresistibly tended.

On arriving at the gate, he could not but pause a moment,
to admire the neat and effective arrangement of the surrounding
grounds, the ornamental trees, and every thing
connected with this beautiful establishment, all of which
seemed to have remained in the form originally laid out by
the tasteful owner. He then glanced within the enclosure,
in the thickly budding shrubbery of which the not large, but
elegantly constructed mansion was nearly embowered; when

he caught a glimpse of a female figure, which a second
glance told him was Mary, unobservantly bending, with busy
and fostering hand, over her geraniums and violets,

With a beating heart and tremulous hand, he opened the
gate and entered. The next instant she came bounding to his
side with the graceful lightness of the young fawn; and, with
an extended hand, and a countenance all cloquent with
blending smiles and blushes, exclaimed,

“O Mr. Amsden, Mr. Amsden! how happy am I to see
you looking so well — and how gratified to see you here —
here, where I can welcome you to a house of my own, — or
rather, and what is better, to the house of a father, — who
will be no less pleased to see you than myself. Come, come,
let me lead you to his room.”

The joyous girl immediately ushered her friend and late
deliverer into the house and apartment where her father
was setting. As they entered, Colonel Maverick, who was
reclining on a sofa with a newspaper in his hand, instantly
rose, and greeted Amsden with a warmth and cordiality
which abundantly made good the assurance that his daughter
had just uttered. The colonel, though thin and sallow, from
the effects of his long residence in a tropical climate, and
though troubled with a bad cough, to remove which, he was
now confining himself within, under a course of medical
treatment, appeared so much better than his visiter expected,
that the latter soon forgot the apprehensions which Dr. Lincoln
had excited, relative to the situation of the former, and
gave himself up to the delights of a conversation which now
ensued among the happy group, and to which the pleasant
remembrances of the past, the grateful and gratified feelings
of the present, and the congenial tastes of the parties, all
combined to impart a reciprocal interest. To Amsden, indeed,

that afternoon was one of those halcyon spots of moral
sunshine to the heart, which, in this world of care and cloud,
occur but once or twice in the course of our lives, when the
soul, unconscious of a single ungratified wish, neither turns
to the past nor reaches forward to the future, but is fully
content with the happiness of the present. And when, with
a feeling of surprise, he perceived the unwelcome shadows
of evening stealing over the landscape, and warning him
that the time at which he had proposed to return had arrived,
he wondered how the winged hours could have flown so
quickly.

Now, reluctantly rising with the intention of bidding his
kind entertainers adieu, he proceeded to announce to them,
with an effort at calmness which he was far from feeling, his
previously formed determination of leaving town the next
morning, on his long-delayed return to his college studies,
upon the last term of which his class had, many weeks before,
entered. Colonel Maverick, though silent at first,
seemed evidently disappointed; and the countenance of his
daughter instantly fell at the unexpected announcement.

“Is such indeed your purpose, Mr. Amsden?” asked the
colonel, seriously.

“It is, sir,” answered the other.

“But why this haste in leaving us?” resumed the former.
“Your health, which needs more firmness, will be gaining in
the delay; and a few days can certainly make no essential
difference with either your studies or your interests at
college.”

“If those few,” replied Amsden, “were not to be added to
the many already lost, it might vary the case. As it is,
however pleasant to me would be a further stay in town, I
think I can tarry no longer.”

“I confess I can hardly reconcile myself to this,” observed
the colonel thoughtfully. “I had counted on a week's intercourse

with you, at least. I have much to say to you on
subjects connected with recent events, which, though it may
appear strange, I feel hardly prepared to say now. But you
will hear from me again. And, if you must go,” he continued,
advancing and offering his hand in a kind, feeling
manner, “I will bid you, with many good wishes for your
welfare, a good-bye for the present, but for the present only.
I must insist on your visiting us again, as soon as your term
of study is closed, and before you make any arrangement for
the future.”

Reciprocating the kind wishes of his almost revered friend,
and bidding him, as he supposed, an adieu, at least for
months, Amsden left the room for another parting, in which
he felt far less prepared to act his part; for Mary, who had
not uttered a word during the foregoing dialogue, now attended
him, in silent agitation, to the door.

“Miss Maverick!” he said, with an effort, as he paused
at the threshold, and took her trembling, but frankly-offered
hand.

She raised her eyes inquiringly to his, but read there that
which caused her to drop them again instantly to the floor.

“Miss Maverick!” he repeated, after a hesitating pause,
“your circumstances in life, since our last parting, have become
much changed.”

“They have, Mr. Amsden,” she replied, “and I feel very
grateful for the unexpected blessing — but,” she continued,
with a half-blushful, half-challenging smile, “it do n't follow
that I should be changed also.”

Another pause of delicate embarrassment succeeded.

“Mary!” once more began Amsden; but as he glanced
in thought at his own situation in life, and her altered condition,
he could not go on.

“I know what you would say,” said she, looking up in
sweet confusion; “but come, say it before my father, my

confidant, my adviser. You have as little to fear from him
as from me — come, come!” And she drew him, hesitating
and irresolute, back towards the room they had just left; and
the next moment they stood before Colonel Maverick, who,
though evidently surprised, yet welcomed their return with
an affectionate smile.

“I have returned, sir,” said Amsden, diffidently, but with
manly firmness, “I have returned, at the suggestion of your
daughter, to say before you what I was about to say to her.”

“I am much gratified at your course, my daughter,” interposed
the colonel; “but proceed,” he continued, turning
encouragingly to the embarrassed lover; “proceed, Mr.
Amsden.”

“To say, sir,” resumed the former, “that, however strong
have been the feelings and hopes I have secretly cherished
towards her, I will not presume, in the new and high position
which she” —

“Stop, stop! Mr. Amsden,” interrupted the father; “you
do injustice both to us and yourself. We both feel, independent
of the high estimation in which we hold you, we both
deeply feel how much we have recently become indebted to
you for those exertions which cost you so dear. And if this,”
he continued, advancing, and with much emotion placing the
readily-yielded hand of his daughter into that of her almost
overpowered lover, “if this is to you the most desirable
boon, then be it your reward. The gift, for me, is indeed a
great one; but who, by noble exertions, can ever better earn
it, and who, by intrinsic worth, more richly deserves it?
And now, Heaven bless you, my children!”

A few more words, and the task of the narrator is ended.
With a heart made light and joyous by the prospects which
had so unexpectedly and so brightly broken on the path
before him, Amsden returned to college. The few weeks
now remaining to bring him to the close of his collegiate

career rolled rapidly away; when, with the highest honors
of the institution, and the distinguished esteem of his fellows,
he left this spot of hallowed associations, and flew
back, as if on the fleet wings of love, to the scene where his
affections had learned to cluster; and where the wedded
felicity, that now speedily succeeded to the happy and deserving
pair, who became its mutually blest recipients, was only
clouded by the event which had hastened their union, — that
of the still gradually failing health of the accomplished and
high-minded Colonel Maverick, whom his sorrowing children
were, in a few months, called on to bear to the silent tomb;
a bereavement for which they felt themselves but poorly
compensated by the ample fortune he left them, not only to
ensure the means of their own comfort and happiness, as far
as such means have effect, but to enable them to become, as
they soon did, the dispensers of comfort and happiness to
others individually, and of general usefulness to the society
at large, of which, ere long, they were the acknowledged
ornaments.

Pass with us, now, gentle reader, over a short period of
time, and we will bring to your view a brief picture of results,
which involve at once both the conclusion and moral
of our tale, or, at least, so much of the latter as you may not
have gathered by the way-side, as, not unpleasantly, we
humbly hope, we have journeyed on together. A dozen
years have not elapsed since the events whose attempted delineation
have occupied us through the latter portion of our
unworthy performance; and yet Cartersville, the scene of
their occurrence, is almost entirely a different place, in all
that should give character to a village community. The old
school-house, before described as constructed after the miserable
fashion of the times, and situated on a busy street,

amidst a clump of noisy shops, has been pulled down; and, to
supply its place, a neat little edifice, of interior construction,
as regards space, seats, means of heating, and ventilation,
calculated alike for the convenience, comfort, and health of
the pupil and teacher, is seen standing on a retired slope,
surrounded by shade-trees, fancifully grouped over a spacious
enclosure. This commodious and attractive establishment
was built and given to the district by the wealthy and liberal
Mr. Locke Amsden, now a member of Congress for that part
of the country. That gentleman and his amiable lady having,
in conjunction with their friend Dr. Lincoln, early been
the means of introducing adequate teachers at an adequate
compensation, have made it their rule to visit the school as
often, at least, as once every month, through the whole of its
continuance. Captain Bunker — who, as we must pause to
inform the reader, has been induced to give up his farm in
the “Horn-of-the-Moon” to his two eldest boys, and, with his
surplus capital, purchase, and settle down on a small farm,
adjoining that of his friend Amsden; through whose influence,
with the aiding effect of a scurrilous attack upon him,
that, on his being announced as a candidate, appeared in
“The Blazing Star,” which, with this effort to extend its
political supervision over the affairs of Cartersville, soon
expired, he has been advanced to a seat in the State Legislature,
where he has become the champion of the farming
interests — Captain Bunker, we say, has also lent efficient
aid to the common school, having become a convert to the
principle of high wages for teachers, since, as he says, he is
now satisfied that nobody who is a sufficiently “good thinker”
to be a good teacher, can be got at the old rate of wages.
Incited to emulation by the example of the now most wealthy
and influential family in town, the people of most of the neighboring
districts in the village and country around it have built
new school-houses, and supplied them with good teachers;
while school visiting has become as fashionable as it was formerly
the reverse; and whenever a select party is got up, the
master is now not the last to be invited. An entire revolution,
indeed, seems to have taken place in the public mind on
these subjects. Ornamental education is now here never
thought of, till the solid and useful sciences are first secured.
The demand for piano fortes, water-color paint-boxes, drawing-paper,
&c., is at a low ebb, while that of the standard
works of science and literature is daily increasing. Professors
of Elegant Literature now find poor picking in Cartersville;
and the race of fashionable fine ladies, who were once
their patrons, are lamentably in the back-ground. Fops,
formerly the leaders of society, are as scarce as owls in the
sunlight, the two last that remained of the tribe having gone
off some years before with the two younger Misses Carter;
who, finding themselves no longer appreciated, concluded to
emigrate, with the best offers they could obtain, to some more
congenial residence. Nor are the more general results flowing
from these circumstances less observable. The village,
instead of a trifling, has become a reading and a thinking
community; doing every thing for the encouragement of
popular education at home, and now yearly sending off, to
the academies and colleges abroad, some half-dozen scholars,
where one, and oftener none, were sent before. The proportion
of vice and crime has already very sensibly decreased;
while that of industry, general competence, and rational happiness,
has still more sensibly increased. In short, the whole
tone of society has changed; and that change, kind reader,
great and beneficial as it is, has been effected by the nobly
begun, and, subsequently, the no less nobly sustained efforts
of The Common Schoolmaster.