The adopted daughter :: :: University of Virginia Library

Much has been written and said, and deservedly too, of the
beauty and gracefulness of New-England towns and villages.
The uniform white painted walls of their houses, their regular
walks and avenues, with their clean fields and nice “home
lots,” all indicative in no small degree, of intellectual training
and moral thrift, are sure to attract the attention of the traveller,
and are worthy of all praise. But this state of things is not confined
alone to the land of the Pilgrims,—the soil of chivalry,
also boasts of the beautiful and picturesque. The villas and
verandahs of the South, interspersed as they are with orange
groves and magnolia forests, though not so prim and precise,
are more gorgeous and grand; and, compared with the North,
show as the unrestricted expanse of the magnificant sun-flower,
to the trim-built and exclusive little buttercup. We remember
a cottage scene of the South; and though years have passed
since the events transpired, which we are about to record, there
are those living, in the green of whose memories they will ever
remain—so strong is the impress of woe upon the tables of the
mind.

In the lovely village of H—, where it was our good
fortune to be some time resident, in the year 184—, and just
at the turn of the Big Road, which stretches down the Bay on
towards the Gulf, stood a beautiful cottage, built after the style

of the Peninsula, in the age of Cervantes. A venerable grove
of magnolias, more gorgeous than Acedemus ever dreamed of,
spread their arms to each other above, and embracing together,
canopied the place. The broad white blossom in summer, and
the perpetual green of winter, of these monarchs of the woods,
not only filled the surrounding atmosphere with the most deli
cious odors, while they closed in the whole area above with
umbrageous and unbroken shade, but furnished the beholder,
at every elevation of the eye, a fadeless remembrance and
emblem, of the imperishable life of hope—that hope, which as
a heavenly cynosure, leads the Christian to the contemplation
of things beyond this suffering vale. In the midst of this gorgeous
clump of evergreens, and in happy contrast, rose the
white walls of the “Spanish Cottage.” It was a lovely scene
to look upon. Without, and in splendid profusion, festoonings
of running rose, eglantine and honeysuckle, sweetly intermingling
together, entwined the pillars and draped the porches;
while within, the richer elegance of intellectual culture and
moral worth, adorned the place. The fields were carpeted with
flowers of every hue, and the air rung merrily, with the songs
of birds. It was such a picture as Chateaubriand describes, as peculiar
to the great valley of the South. This was the residence
of old Mr. Wilton, who had now been dead about two years,
leaving his son William, who was his only child, the sole heir
and possessor of his sufficient fortune. The estate had formerly
belonged to the Spanish agent, Sir William Dunbar, a noble
gentleman, who was an intimate friend of Mr. Wilton, and in
honor of whom William was named. Young Wilton was a
highly educated young man, of many noble virtues—generous,
charitable and brave, and seemed to emulate the distinguished
qualities of heart and mind, of both his father and his patron.
He had been, during the years of his novitiate, a student at one

of the eastern universities, where he had graduated with the
first honors of his class; and where, as the sequel will show
the beginning of circumstances was made, which ultimately
involved much misery and more crime. In the same hour of
his high college honors, and ere he had descended from the
platform of his achievements, a letter bearing the impress of a
black seal, was handed him by the janitor. The superscription
was in a strange hand. Tremblingly, and with fearful foreboding,
he broke the envelope, and read,—his brain reeled
with the shock,—his father was dead! How strange a world is
this, where the quality of joys and sorrows are so assorted to
each other. Little joys are modified with little griefs, but great
transports must be rebuked by great suffering. Into the cup of
ecstacy, just about to be quaffed by the Roman Father, an
envious fate stood ready, to cast the life-drops of a daughter
slain in the moment of triumph, by a victorious brother's
hand.

With a saddened heart, young Wilton, turned his footsteps
towards his home in the South, where now his presence was
imperiously demanded. A warm welcome from the two old
domestics greeted his arrival, but a father's smile of approbation,
that boon which he had so calculated upon, and for which he
had toiled, had been stricken away. All that was now left,
was to pay the tribute of a tear at his father's grave, and look
about himself for his future course. This he speedily adjusted,
and having given a few brief orders, was soon on his way again
for the North—gossip said to select a partner for life's mazy
dance, with whom to share the joys and sorrows of his cottage
home. In this instance the old dame of many tongues told the
truth; for he soon returned again, and bearing with him his
beautiful and accomplished bride, the elegant daughter of the
Honorable Mr. B—. Rumor says the match was a rash one—

on the lady's part—that her parents were bitterly opposed to it,
on the score of prejudice against the South, and that to accomplish
their purpose the young couple were compelled to elope.
Be that as it may, it was now near two years since their settlement
in the cottage, and by common consent they were the
happiest people in all this region, especially among the poorer
classes, they have been idolized; with whom the lady is an
angel of mercy, and the gentleman a benefactor of his race.

“But come,” said our friend, “as we are so near the cottage,
let us extend our walk little, and pay them a morning
call. It will be pleasant to make the acquaintance of this interesting
family. This is the place.”

“Good morning, Mr. Wilton; a pleasant morning, sir;”
said we.

“Good morning,—good morning, sirs,” was his reply.
“Yes, sirs, a delightful Southern morning. Come, sirs, sans
ceremonie, walk in and rest you a bit; I am glad to see you
hoth, and feel no little honored by this early visit. Your
drowsy, after-dinner visiations, may do for loungers, who, overcome
with spiritual ennui, study more sedulously how to kill
time, than ever Archimedes did to solve his great problem; but
for me, there is more music in the notes of the lark than in the
song of the cricket.”

“You are right, sir,” said we; “and your taste, in this regard,
well accord with our own. But there's another to be
consulted in this matter, I think; perhaps the madam might
not fancy to see company at this early hour.”

“O, yes,' said he, smiling, “my wife is myself in that
respect; and indeed, in almost every other. Our love-path, it
is true, was not as smooth, perhaps, as it might have been, but
when it widened into wedlock, it was equal to the famous
`shell-road' When we married, we two `were no longer

twain but one flesh.' She would consider the hour a little out
of season perhaps, if she was, at her father's, in the far `down-east'
country, but with us here, in the sunny South, we shake
off many of those arbitrary notions of upper-crust-dom, (which,
by the way, are sometimes a little `done brown,' by our
baking,) and in place thereof we have untrammeled intercourse
and enjoyment with our friends at all hours. Isn't it so,
wife? I beg pardon, Alice, this is our friend, Mr. P— from
Kentucky, with Mr. — from the village; this is Mrs. Wilton,
gentlemen.”

We bowed, and he went on.

“I often thought,” said he, “while resident in the North,
in the family of Dr. Birch and Professor Hickory, that compared
with the sans-souci and wreathy ease of our Southern
homes, the image of their manners was like a figure of snow,
with icicle trimmings.”

“Come, come,” said we, “you must not be too severe
upon the manners and customs of the cold land, because you
are so snug and warm here in the South; recollect, you gathered
the loveliest flower you ever saw, in that sterile clime.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the lady, slightly coloring.

“I acknowledge the compliment,” said he, bowing, and
casting a glace of unmingled affection upon his gentle wife;
“but you see, even that blossom, so perfect and so good, had
to be transplanted to a southern soil before it could mature into
fruitfulness; don't you see,” said he, laughing, “the richness
and beauty of our southern production;” and he pointed to a
lovely babe of near a year old, who was quietly sleeping upon
its mother's lap.

“You must not mind Mr. Wilton,” said she, recovering
a little from the confusion which the last remark had occasioned,
“he don't mean half he says about the coldness of the

North, for he knows full well that some of his happiest hours
were spent there.”

“That's true, Alice,” said he; “and I will never forget
them: no—never.”

“O, I don't mind him,” said I, “nor will my friend here.
We rejoice to see you so delightfully situated and so happy.
May no blighting spirit ever cross your threshold to mar your
felicity.”

“God grant it,” said Wilton; while a respondent tear glistened
in the eye of the wife, and told the deep interest she felt
in the subject.

“But come,” said Wilton, “before you go you must take
a glass of wine, or brandy if you prefer it, and pledge our young
and promising household. I suppose the Temperance folk
have not got hold of you yet?” They tried a little after
me once—it was some time since, when I was at Cincinnati—
but they soon discovered it was no go to follow that trail. That
man Gough, though, did come mighty near hooking me, at one
time, and Genl. Garey at another, but I shook them off. By
the way, these Temperance associations seem to me, to be, not
only unnecessary and unreasonable, but they strike at the most
manly prerogative of human constituency—liberty. I cannot
think with complacency, even upon the invitation, to sign
away my freedom, much less upon the act itself. As if a man
needed a conservator to keep his moral machinery checked and
balanced, lest it should run wild. The very thought is humiliating,
and unworthy the dignity of intelligent manhood. But
come, what shall it be—wine, water, brandy? What you will;
take your choice; but for my part, I like something a little
stronger.”

Water was the beverage of our pledge, of course, but he
drank brandy. We said farewell, and turned away from that

beautiful cottage and happy family; but for days and weeks,
that “something a little stronger,” haunted our mind, and
seemed to predict, that it would one day prove the “strong
man armed,” that would destroy their peace for ever. Poor
Wilton!