University of Virginia Library

1. THE EGLANTINE,
A simple Love Story,
FOUNDED ON A ROMANTIC INCIDENT, WHICH OCCURRED IN
THE FAR WEST, ABOUT TEN YEARS AGO.

“What a remarkably pretty girl Mrs. Barton
has for a nursery maid,” said Mrs. Vernon to her
daughter.

“Yes, mamma; and it seems quite useless for a
servant to be so handsome. What good will it do
her?” She glanced at the mirror, as she spoke, and
seemed less satisfied than usual with her own pretty
face. She was thinking to herself, “If I had as

much beauty as she has, I shouldn't despair of winning
a duke.”

A similar idea flashed across Mrs. Vernon's
mind, as she noticed the involuntary appeal to the
mirror. Therefore, she sighed as she answered,
“Instead of doing her good, it will doubtless prove
a misfortune. Some dissipated lord will take a
fancy to her; but he will soon become weary of
her, and will marry her to the first good-natured
clown, who can be hired to take her.”

“Very likely,” replied Miss Julia; “and after
living with a nobleman, she can never be happy
with a person of her own condition.” The prospect
of such a future in reserve for the rustic beauty
seemed by no means painful to the aristocratic
young lady. Indeed, one might conjecture, from
her manner, that she regarded it as no more than a
suitable punishment for presuming to be handsomer
than her superiors in rank.

A flush passed over the countenance of her brother
Edward, who sat reading at the opposite window;
but the ladies, busy with their embroidery
and netting, did not observe it. The lower extremity
of their grounds was separated from Mrs.
Barton's merely by a hedge of hawthorns. A few
weeks previous, as he was walking there, his attention
had been attracted by joyful exclamations
from their neighbour's children, over a lupine that
began to show its valves above the ground. He
turned involuntarily, and when he saw the young

girl who accompanied them, he felt a little glow of
pleasant surprise curl around his heart, as if some
entirely new and very beautiful wild flower had
unexpectedly appeared before him. That part of
the garden became his favourite place of resort; and
if a day passed without his obtaining a glimpse of
the lovely stranger, he was conscious of an undefined
feeling of disappointment. One day, when
the children were playing near by, their India-rubber
ball bounced over into Mrs. Vernon's grounds.
When he saw them searching for it among the
hawthorns, he reached across the hedge and presented
it to their attendant. He raised his hat and
bowed, as he did so; and she blushed as she took
it from his hand. After this accidental introduction,
he never passed her without a similar salutation;
and she always coloured at a mark of courtesy so
unusual from a gentleman to a person in her humble
condition. The degree of interest she had excited
in his mind rendered it somewhat painful to hear
his mother's careless prophecy of her future destiny.

A few days afterward, he was walking with his
sister, when Mrs. Barton's maid passed with the
children. Miss Julia graciously accosted the little
ones, but ignored the presence of their attendant.
Seeing her brother make his usual sign of deferential
politeness, she exclaimed, “What a strange person
you are, Edward! One would suppose you were
passing a duchess. I dare say you would do just
the same if cousin Alfred were with us.”

“Certainly I should,” he replied. “I am accustomed
to regulate my actions by my own convictions,
not by those of another person. You know I believe
in such a thing as natural nobility.”

“And if a servant happens to have a pretty face,
you consider her a born duchess, I suppose,” said
Julia.

“Such kind of beauty as that we have just passed,
where the pliant limbs move with unconscious dignity,
and harmonized features are illuminated by a
moral grace, that emanates from the soul, does seem
to me to have received from Nature herself an unmistakeable
patent of nobility.”

“So you know this person?” inquired his sister.

He replied, “I have merely spoken to her on the
occasion of returning a ball, that one of the children
tossed over into our grounds. But casually as I
have seen her, her countenance and manners impress
me with the respect that you feel for high birth.”

“It's a pity you were not born in the back-woods
of America,” retorted his sister, pettishly.

“I sometimes think so myself,” he quietly replied.
“But let us gather some of these wild flowers, Julia,
instead of disputing about conventional distinctions,
concerning which you and I can never agree.”

His sister coldly accepted the flowers he offered.
Her temper was clouded by the incident of the
morning. It vexed her that Edward had never
said, or implied, so much concerning her style of
beauty; and she could not forgive the tendencies of

mind which spoiled him for the part she wished him
to perform in the world, as a means of increasing
his own importance, and thereby advancing her
interests. She had the misfortune to belong to an
English family extensively connected with the rich
and aristocratic, without being themselves largely
endowed with wealth. Cousin Alfred, the son of
her father's older brother, was heir to a title; and
consequently she measured every thing by his standard.
The income of the family was more than sufficient
for comfort and gentility; but the unfortunate
tendency to assume the habits of others as their
standard rendered what might have been a source
of enjoyment a cause of discontent.

Their life was a constant struggle to keep up appearances
beyond their means. All natural thoughts
and feelings were kept in perpetual harness; drilled
to walk blindfolded the prescribed round of conventional
forms, like a horse in a bark-mill; with
this exception, that their routine spoiled the free
paces of the horse, without grinding any bark.
Edward's liberal soul had early rebelled against this
system. He had experienced a vague consciousness
of walking in fetters ever since he was reproved for
bringing home a favourite school-mate to pass the
vacation with him, when he was twelve years old.
He could not then be made to understand why a
manly, intelligent, large-hearted boy, who was a
tradesman's son, was less noble than young Lord
Smallsoul, cousin Alfred's school-friend; and within

the last few weeks, circumstances had excited his
thoughts to unusual activity concerning natural and
artificial distinctions. As he walked in the garden,
book in hand, he never failed to see the beautiful
nursery-maid, if she were anywhere within sight;
and she always perceived him. In her eyes, he was
like a bright, far-off star; while he was refreshed
by a vision of her, as he was by the beauty of an
opening flower. Distinction of rank was such a
fixed fact in the society around them, that the star
and the flower dreamed of union as much as they
did. But Cupid, who is the earliest republican on
record, willed that things should not remain in that
state. A bunch of fragrant violets were offered
with a smile and received with a blush; and in
the blush and the smile an arrow lay concealed.
Then volumes of poems were loaned with passages
marked; and every word of those passages were
stereotyped on the heart of the reader. For a long
time, he was ignorant of her name; but hearing the
children call her Sibella, he inquired her other name,
and they told him it was Flower. He thought it an
exceedingly poetic and appropriate name; as most
young men of twenty would have thought, under
similar circumstances. He noticed the sequestered
lanes where she best loved to rove, when sent out
with the children for exercise; and those lanes
became his own favourite places of resort. Wild
flowers furnished a graceful and harmless topic of
conversation; yet Love made even those simple
things his messengers. Patrician Edward offered
the rustic Sibella an Eglantine, saying, “This has a
peculiar charm for me, above all flowers. It is so
fragrant and delicately tinted; so gracefully untrained,
and so modest in its pretensions. It always
seems to me like a beautiful young maiden, without
artificial culture, but naturally refined and poetic.
The first time I saw you, I thought of a flowering
Eglantine; and I have never since looked at the
shrub, without being reminded of you.” She listened,
half abashed and half delighted. She never
saw the flower again without thinking of him.

The next day after this little adventure, she received
a copy of Moore's Melodies, with her name
elegantly written therein. The songs, all sparkling
with fancy and warm with love, were well suited to
her sixteen years, and to that critical period in her
heart's experience. She saw in them a reflection of
her own young soul dreamily floating in a fairy-boat
over moon-lighted waters. The mystery attending
the gift increased its charm. The postman left it at
the door, and no one knew whence it came. Within
the same envelope was a pressed blossom of the
Eglantine, placed in a sheet of Parisian letter-paper,
gracefully ornamented with a coloured arabesque of
Eglantines and German Forget-me-nots. On it the
following verses were inscribed:—

A note at the bottom of the verses explained that
the French word si belle meant so beautiful. The
poetry was that of a young man of twenty; but a
simple maiden of sixteen, who was herself the subject
of the lines, saw more beauty in them, than a
critic could find in the best inspirations of Shakespeare
or Milton. And then to think that a gentleman,
who understood French, should write verses
to her! It was wonderful! She would as soon
have dreamed of wearing the crown of England.
The next time she met Edward Vernon, her cheeks
were flushed more deeply than “ocean's rosy shell.”
But she never alluded to the book or the verses;
for she said to herself, “Perhaps he did'nt send
them; and them I should feel so ashamed of supposing
he did!” The secret was half betrayed on
his part; whether intentionally or unintentionally,
she did not know. He began by calling her Miss
Flower; then he called her Sibella; but ever after
the reception of the verses, he said Sibelle.

They were so reserved toward each other, and
Mrs. Barton's children were apparently so much the
objects of his attention, during their rambles, that
their dreamy romance might have gone on uninterrupted
for months longer, had not a human foot

stepped within their fairy circle. Lord Smallsoul,
as he rode abroad one day, was attracted by “the
flower si belle.” As his grosser nature and more
selfish habits were uncurbed by the respectful diffidence,
which restrained Edward's love, he became
bold and importunate in his attentions; as if he
took it for granted that any rural beauty could be
purchased with a nobleman's gold. The poor girl
could not stir out of doors, without being liable to
his unwelcome intrusion; the more unwelcome because
the presence of the false lover expelled the
true one. Edward kept carefully aloof, watching
the proceedings of the profligate nobleman with
jealous indignation. He painfully felt that he had
no right to assume guardianship over the young
girl, and that any attempt to do so would bring him
into collision with her persecutor; likely to end
in publicity by no means favourable to her reputation.
The rural belle was inexperienced in the
world's ways, but she had been trained by a prudent
mother, and warned against the very dangers
that now beset her path. Therefore, with many
blushes, she begged Mrs. Barton to excuse her from
walking out with the children; confessing that
Lord Smallsoul sought every opportunity of urging
her to go and live with him in Italy, though she
never would accept one of the many rich presents
he was always offering her. Mrs. Barton warmly
commended her, and promised protection. After
some conversation, she said, “The children tell me
that Mr. Vernon has often joined you in your
walks. Did he ever say he was in love with you?”
Sibella promptly replied, “Never. He is always
very respectful.” “And he has never made you any
presents, has he?” inquired the lady. The maiden
lowered her eyes and blushed deeply. She had
been trained to a strict observance of the truth;
but she did not know certainly who sent Moore's
Melodies; and heart and conscience both pleaded
with her not to say any thing that might involve
her friend in blame. After a moment's hesitation,
she answered, evasively, “He has sometimes offered
me flowers, madam, when he was gathering them
for the children; and I thought it no harm to take
them.” The book of poems, and the wonderful
verses framed in flowery arabesques, remained a secret
between herself and him who sent them. But
Mrs. Barton noticed the sudden blush, and the involuntary
hesitation; and she resolved to elicit some
information from the children, in a manner not
likely to excite their curiosity.

Lord Smallsoul, who from infancy had been an
object of excessive indulgence, was not to be easily
baffled in his selfish plans. Night and day, he, or
his confidential servant, was prowling about Mrs.
Barton's grounds. His assiduities became a positive
nuisance, and excited much gossip in the neighbourhood.
Miss Julia Vernon took occasion to say
to Mrs. Barton, “It is really surprising his lordship
should make himself so ridiculous, instead of bestowing

his attentions upon beautiful ladies whose
rank in life is nearer to his own. He knows, however,
that ladies would scorn to accept such homage
as he bestows upon your servant; and I suppose
he is not yet ready to enter into matrimonial
bonds.”

Mrs. Barton thought to herself that the dissolute
nobleman would receive a very prompt and gracious
answer, if he invited Miss Julia to enter into
such bonds. She, however, suppressed the smile
that was rising to her lips, and said, “I don't wonder
at his being fascinated by Sibella; for she is
gifted with extraordinary beauty. I am truly thankful,
on her own account, and for the sake of her
worthy parents, that she is discreet as she is lovely.
I confess, I should myself rejoice in such a daughter.”

There was a slightly contemptuous motion in the
muscles of Miss Vernon's mouth, as she replied,
“You appear to think her a paragon. The girl is
pretty enough; too pretty for her own good, since
she was born to be a servant. But I cannot imagine
what attractions she can have for a gentleman,
who is accustomed to the distinguished air of ladies
of rank.”

“Some people prefer the Eglantine to the Garden
Rose,” replied Mrs. Barton. “Your brother is accustomed
to ladies of rank; but I imagine he
appreciates Sibella's beauty more highly than you
do.”

“What reason have you for thinking so?” quickly
inquired Miss Julia.

Half mischievously, and altogether imprudently,
Mrs. Barton replied, “The children heard him tell
her that she was like an Eglantine, which, of all
flowers was his favourite; and they say he always
wore an Eglantine in his vest, as long as there was
one to be found.”

Up rose Miss Vernon, hastily, and with a haughty
toss of the head, said emphatically, “I thank
you very much for having told me this. Good
morning, madam.”

The amiable neighbour, foreseeing a storm, immediately
repented of what she had said; but it was
impossible to recall it. She looked out of the window,
and saw that Miss Vernon was excited to such
a degree as to make her forget the patrician languor,
which usually characterized her movements. Obeying
an impulse, for once in her life, she walked
rapidly across the garden to the paternal mansion.
As if a case of life and death were impending, she
startled her mother with this abrupt annunciation:
“Do go directly to cousin Alfred, and tell him he
must devise some means to remove Edward from
this neighbourhood, forthwith. You know, he has
been promising, for some time past, to secure a
suitable situation for him; and unless you see to
having it done immediately, you may prepare yourself
to have your son disgrace the whole family by
marrying a servant.” She then repeated what she

had just heard, and added: “You know, mother,
that Edward never could be induced to pay so much
regard to the distinctions of rank, as he ought to
do. It would be just like him to go off to Gretna
Green with a servant girl, if he happened to take
it into his foolish head that she was a paragon of
beauty and virtue.”

Great was the consternation in all branches of
the Vernon family; and their alarm was not a little
increased when Edward frankly declared that it
would be easy to procure a suitable education for
Sibella, and then she would be a desirable companion
for any gentleman in the land. How his father
glowered at him, how his mother wept, and
what glances his sister hurled from her haughty
eyes, need not be told. He retreated to his own
apartment, and for several days remained there most
of the time, revolving plans for the future; some
of them of the most romantic kind. He longed for
a secret interview with Sibella, to avow his love,
promise eternal constancy, and obtain from her a
similar pledge in return. But his nice sense of
honour restrained him from taking any step that
might cast a shadow upon her. He made several
attempts to see her openly, but he was closely
watched, and she never appeared; for Mrs. Barton
informed her that the family had taken offence at
the attentions he paid her.

The anxious conferences in Edward's family
ended with an announcement from his father that

he must prepare to start for Italy the next week, as
traveling companion for a young nobleman, about
to make the tour of Europe.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Vernon and her daughter vented
some of their mortification and vexation upon
Mrs. Barton; blaming her for keeping such a handsome
servant, to make trouble in gentlemen's families.
That lady, becoming more and more uneasy
at the state of things, deemed it prudent to
write a warning letter to Sibella's parents; and the
good mother came to her child immediately. She
found her darling in the depths of girlish misery;
alleviated, however, by the happy consciousness
that she had nothing to conceal. Weeping on the
maternal bosom, she told all her simple story; not
even reserving the secret of the book and the verses.
But when her mother said they ought to be returned
to Mr. Vernon, she remonstrated warmly.
“Oh no, mother, don't ask me to do that! If you
do, I shall be sorry I told you. I don't know that
he sent them. He never said so. The Eglantine
made me think that he did; but I am afraid I
should seem to him like a bold, vain girl, if he
knew that I thought so.” Her mother, being assured
that no presents had been offered, and love
never spoken of, yielded to her argument. She
was allowed to retain the precious volume, and the
wonderful verses, which were hidden away as carefully
as a miser's treasures.

Mr. Vernon, the father, had a private conversation

with Mrs. Flower, the morning after her arrival.
He assumed so proud a tone, that he roused a corresponding
degree of pride in the worthy woman,
who curtly assured him that her daughter would
find no difficulty in forming a good connection, and
would never be permitted to enter any family that
objected to her. The gentleman thanked her, with
cold politeness, and she parted from him with a
very short courtesy. That evening a note came for
Miss Sibella Flower. Mrs. Barton placed it in the
mother's hand, who opened it and read:

Mrs. Flower promptly decided to see the young
gentleman herself. He was accordingly sent for,
and came full of love and hope. But Sibella, who
was kept in ignorance of the note, was requested
not to intrude upon their conference; therefore, he
saw the mother only. In answer to all his vehement
protestations and earnest entreaties, she answered,
“Sibella is a mere child; and it is my duty to guard
her inexperience. Next to seeing her deceived by
false professions, I have always dreaded her marrying
into a proud family, who would look down
upon her.”

“I will go to America, and make a position for
myself, independent of my family, before I ask her
to share my destiny,” replied the enthusiastic lover.

“I thank you, Mr. Vernon. You have behaved
nobly toward my child; and my heart blesses you
for it. But I had a sister, who married above her
rank, and I cannot forget the consequences. They
were very young when they were married, and
never were two young creatures so much in love.
She was as good as she was handsome; but his family
treated her as if she was'nt worthy to black
their shoes; and they had such an influence upon
him, that he at last repented of the step he had

taken. She felt it, and it made her very miserable.
You are young, sir; too young to be certain that
your mind won't change.”

“I know perfectly well that my mind can never
change,” he replied eagerly. “This is not such a
boyish whim as you seem to suppose. It is a deep,
abiding feeling. It is impossible that I can ever
change.”

The mother quietly replied, “My sister's husband
said the same; and yet he did change.”

Edward Vernon internally cursed that sister's
heartless husband; but he contented himself with
saying, “Such love as his must have been very different
from the feelings that inspire me.”

His intreaties were unavailing to procure an interview
with Sibella. The prudent mother concealed
the fact that he had awakened an interest in
her daughter's heart. To all his arguments she
would only shake her head and reply, “You are too
young to know your own mind, Mr. Vernon.”

Too young! How cold and contemptuous that
sounded! He was not in a state of mind to appreciate
the foresight and kindness, which strove to
shield him from his own rashness. She seemed to
him as proud and hard-hearted as his father; and
perhaps pride did help her prudence a little. Yet
when he was gone away, the good woman sat down
and cried; she sympathized so heartily with the
trouble of those young hearts. Sibella sobbed herself
to sleep that night, though unconscious that

Edward intended to leave England. He watched
the window of her chamber till the light of her
lamp went out in darkness. “That star will shine
for me no more!” he said. He returned slowly to
his own room, looked out upon the hawthorn-hedge
for a long time, then laid himself down to weep, and
dream of green lanes, fragrant with the Eglantine.

The next morning, Mrs. Flower requested her
daughter to prepare for their return home, since
there was no other way of relieving Mrs. Barton
from the perpetual intrusion of the shameless nobleman,
and his troublesome servant. Gentle as
Sibella was, she experienced a feeling of hatred toward
Lord Smallsoul, who, like an odious beast, had
rushed into her paradise, trampling its flowers.
She did not dispute her mother's decision, for she
felt that it was judicious; but she also stood at the
window a long time, looking out upon the hawthorn-hedge,
associated with so many pleasant memories.
Her eyes were moist when she turned and
said, “Mother, before we go away, I should like to
bid good-bye to some of the old places, where I
have walked with—with—the children. You can
go with me, if you are afraid of my meeting Mr.
Vernon.”

Sadly and sympathizingly, her mother answered,
“You cannot meet Mr. Vernon, my child; for he
has gone to Italy.”

“Gone!” she exclaimed; and the sudden paleness
and the thrilling tone cut her mother's heart.

She soothed her tenderly, and, after a while, Sibella
raised her head, with an effort to assume maidenly
pride, and said, “He never told me he loved me.
I sometimes thought he did. But it was very foolish
of me. If he cared for me, he would have said
good-bye. I will think no more about it.”

The mother was strongly tempted to tell how
ardently and how honourably he loved. But she
thought to herself, “It would only serve to keep
alive hopes destined to end in disappointment.”
So she put strong constraint on her feminine sympathies,
and remained silent. They went forth into
the green lanes bright with sunshine, but gloomy to
eyes that saw them through a veil of tears. When
Sibella came to the bush from which Edward had
broken the first Eglantine he offered her, she gazed
at it mournfully, and throwing herself on the bosom
of her best earthly friend, sobbed out, “Oh mother,
mother! I have been so happy here!”

“My poor, dear child,” she replied, “You don't
know how sorry I am for you. But these feelings
will pass away with time. You are very young;
and life is all before you.”

The maiden looked up with inexpressible sadness
in her eyes, and answered, “Yes, mother, I am
young; but life is all behind me.”

There is a wide chasm in the story, as there was
in Sibella's life. That brief dream of the past
would not unite itself with the actual present.

She could form no bridge between them. It remained
by itself; like an island warm with sunshine,
and fragrant with Eglantines, in the midst of
cold grey waves. Because she herself was changed,
all things around her seemed changed. The young
men, especially, appeared like a different race of
beings, since she had learned to compare them with
that poetic youth, who gazed so reverently at the
evening star, and loved the wild-flowers as if they
were living things. He had kindled her imagination,
as well as her heart. She perceived a soul in
Nature, of which she had been unconscious till he
revealed it. Ah, how lonely she was now! In all
the wide world there was not one mortal who could
understand what that simple country girl had found,
or what she had lost. She herself did not comprehend
it. She only had an uneasy sense of always
seeking for something she could never find. She
lived among her former associates like one who has
returned from an excursion into fairy-land, finding
the air of earth chilly, and its colours dim. But
employments are Amaranths in the garden of life.
They live through all storms, and survive all changes
of the seasons. Her duties were numerous and conscientiously
performed; and through this pathway
of necessity, apparently so rugged, she soon arrived
at a state of cheerful serenity.

In a few months, her parents were induced to
join a band of emigrants coming to America; and
the novelty of change proved beneficial to her.

That sunny island in her experience was not forgotten,
but it smiled upon her farther in the distance,
There was a joyful palpitation at her heart, when
she found Eglantines growing wild in America,
under the name of Sweet-Briar Roses. She opened
the verses which had seemed to her “si belle!”
The flower was faded, and its sweetness gone; but
memory was redolent of its fragrance. She was
never told that Edward Vernon had written two
letters to her, after he left England; and she had
almost persuaded herself that his looks and tones
were not so significant as they had seemed. She
had no materials to form a definite hope; but it
became the leading object of her life so to improve
herself, that he would have no cause to be ashamed
of her, if he ever should happen to come to America.
In the accomplishment of this project, she
was continually stimulated by the example of American
girls, who obtained the means of education by
their own manual industry, and ended by becoming
teachers of the highest class. Her parents were
delighted with her diligence and perseverance, and
did what they could to aid her; never suspecting
that the impelling power came chiefly from a latent
feeling, which they hoped was extinct. So she
worked onwards and upwards, with hands and mind,
and soon found pleasure in the development itself.

Meanwhile, the beautiful English Flower attracted
admirers of various grades. Her parents hoped she
would give the preference to a merchant of good

character, who was in very prosperous circumstances.
She was aware that such a marriage would be a
great advantage to them; and she loved them so
much, that she wished her beauty could be the
means of bringing them prosperity. She tried to
love the worthy merchant; but her efforts were unavailing.
She was always thinking to herself, “He
never writes poetry to me, and he never tells me
about the stars. Edward used to gather wild-flowers
for me, and bind them so gracefully with wreaths
of Ivy. But this gentleman buys hot-house flowers,
tied into pyramids on wires. The poor things look
so uncomfortable! just as I shall feel, if I consent
to be sold and tied up. Ah, if he were only more
like Mr. Vernon! I should like to oblige my good
father and mother.” The soliloquy ended with
humming to herself:

When the time came for a definite answer to the
merchant, she told her parents she had rather keep
school than marry. They looked at each other and
sighed; but they asked no questions concerning the
memory of her heart.

The prospect of owning a farm, combined with
an eligible offer for Sibella as a teacher, soon afterward
attracted them to the far West. The grandeur
and freedom of Nature in that new region, the
mighty forests, the limitless prairies, the luxuriant

vegetation, produced a sudden expansion in that
youthful soul, trained amid the cultivated gardens
and carefully clipped hedges of England. Imagination
experienced a new birth in poetry, as the
heart experiences religion. All that she had previously
known of beauty seemed tame and cold
compared with the wild charm of that improvised
scenery. But more than ever she was oppressed
with a sense of mental loneliness. Nature was inspiring,
but it had no sympathy with the human
soul, which longed for more responsive companionship,
more intimate communion. The maiden needed
a friend, into whose soul the calm sunset of the
prairies would infuse the same holy light that penetrated
her own. In such moods, the looks and
tones of Edward Vernon came back with vivid distinctness.
At times, she longed inexpressibly to
know whether he ever had such lively reminiscences
of the poor country girl, whom his influence had
led into the regions she never dreamed of before.
Nature looked at her with the same tranquil smile,
and gave no answer. Fortunately, the active duties
of life left but few hours for such reveries; otherwise,
the abrupt termination of her long dream
might have proved as hazardous, as the sudden
wakening of a somnambulist. A newly-arrived
English emigrant visited her father's farm. He
came from Mrs. Barton's neighbourhood, and in the
course of conversation chanced to mention that Mr.
Vernon's son and daughter were both married.
Until that moment, Sibella had not realized the
strength of the hope she cherished. She veiled her
disappointment from the observation of others; and
her mother had the good sense to forbear saying,
“I told you so.” No conversation passed between
them on the subject; but when Sibella retired to
her sleeping apartment, she gazed out on the moon-lighted
solitude of the prairie for a long time, and
thought the expression of the scene never seemed
so sad. She said to herself, “My mother told me
truly. That beautiful experience was indeed a
dream of early youth; and only a dream.”

She was under the necessity of returning to Chicago
the next day, to attend to her school. In
another department of the school, was a teacher from
New England, a farmer's son, who had worked with
his hands in the summer, and studied diligently in
the winter, till he had become a scholar of more
than common attainments. He taught school during
the week, and occasionally preached on Sunday,
not because he was too indolent to perform manual
labour, or because he considered it ungenteel. He
was attracted toward books by a genuine thirst for
knowledge; and he devoted himself to moral and
intellectual teaching, for the simple reason that God
had formed him for it. He loved the occupation,
and was therefore eminently successful in it. This
young man had for some time been in love with
Sibella Flower, without obtaining any signs of encouragement
from her. But there is much truth in

the old adage about the facility of catching a heart
at the rebound. He never wrote poetry, or spoke
eloquently about the beauties of scenery; for his
busy intellect employed itself chiefly with history,
science, and ethics. But though he was unlike
Edward Vernon, he was gentle, good, and wise;
and, after her morning-dream had vanished utterly,
Sibella became aware that his society furnished
pleasant companionship for heart and mind. Their
intimacy gradually increased, and they finally married.
Being desirous to purchase land and build a
house, they continued to earn money by teaching.
The desired home, with its various belongings,
seemed likely to be soon completed, without great
expense; for William Wood had all the capabilities
of a genuine Yankee. He could hew logs and plane
them, make rustic tables, benches, and arbours, and
mend his own shoes and saddles, during the intervals
of preparing lectures on chemistry and astronomy.
In this imperfect existence, there is perhaps
no combination of circumstances more favourable to
happiness, than the taste to plan a beautiful home,
practical skill to embody the graceful ideas, and the
necessity of doing it with one's own hands. Those
who have homes prepared for them by hired architects,
gardeners, and upholsterers, cannot begin to
imagine the pleasure of making a nest for one's self.
William was always planning bridges, arbours, and
fences, and Sibella never saw a beautiful wild shrub,
or vine, without marking it to be removed to the
vicinity of their cabin. She told him all about her
early love-dream, and said she should always cherish
a grateful remembrance of it, because it had proved
such a powerful agent to wake up the dormant
energies of her soul. “I am a Wood-Flower now,
dear William,” said she, playfully; “and, after all,
that is no great change for an Eglantine.” He
smiled, and said he wished he was as poetic as she
was. He was poetic in his deeds. His young wife
often found a bunch of fragrant wild-flowers on her
pillow, when she woke, or in her plate, when they
seated themselves at the breakfast-table. He made
an arbour for her to rest in, when they rode out on
horseback to visit their future homestead. It was
shaded with wild vines, and an Eglantine bush was
placed near the entrance, filling the whole arbour
with the sweet breath of its foliage. The first time
Sibella saw it, she looked at him archly, and said,
“So you are not jealous of that foolish dream, dear
William? Well, it is customary to plant flowers
on graves; and this shall be sacred to the memory
of a dream. Ah, what a bright little cluster of
Pansies you have planted here!” “That is what
you call them in Old England,” said he; “but in
New England we name them Ladies' Delights,
though some call them Forget-me-nots. Your romantic
Edward preferred the Eglantine; but this is
an especial favourite with your practical William.
I like it because it will grow in all soils, bloom at all
seasons, and hold up its head bravely in all weathers.
If I were like you, I should say it was the efflorescence
of Yankee character.” She clapped her
hands, and exclaimed, “Bravo! William. You
are growing poetic. I will name your little favourite
the Yankee's Flower; and that will be myself,
you see; for I am the Yankee's Flower.” She
looked into his honest eyes affectionately, and
added, “There is one Yankee character who is a
Lady's Delight.”

Gambolling thus, like children, and happy in
childish pleasures, their united lives flowed smoothly
on, like some full, bright, unobstructed stream.
The birth of a daughter was like the opening of a
pure lily on the stream. Their happiness was now
complete. Their grateful souls asked for nothing
but a continuance of present blessings. But, alas,
sudden as the rising of a thunder cloud, a deep
shadow fell on their sunny prospect. William was
called away a few days on business. He left home
full of life and love, and was brought back a shattered
corpse. He had been killed by an accident,
in the rail-road cars. Never had Sibella known
any sorrow approaching the intensity of this sorrow.
It saddened her to bid farewell to that first
love-picture, which never emerged out of the mistiness
of dream-land; but this sober certainty of
wedded happiness was such a living true reality,
that all her heart-strings bled, when it was wrenched
from her so suddenly. Her suffering soul would
have been utterly prostrated by the dreadful blow,

had it not been for the blessed ministration of her
babe, and the necessity of continuing to labour for
its future support and education. The body of
William was buried in a pretty little grove on her
father's farm; and every year the mound was completely
covered with a fresh bed of Ladies' Delights,
which his little girl learned to call “Farder's
Fower.”

Time passed and brought healing on its wings.
Sibella never expected to know happiness again,
but she had attained to cheerful resignation. Her
little girl of three years lived at the farm, under the
good grandmother's care. She continued to teach
in the city, spending all her vacations, and most of
her Sundays, at the old homestead. In her memory
lay a sunny island covered with Pansies, and
often watered with tears. That other island of
Eglantines had floated far away, and had scarcely a
moonlighted existence. But one Sunday evening,
as she returned from school, she found the little
one watching for her, as usual. The indulgent
grandmother had just given her an Eglantine blossom,
for which she had been teazing. In her eagerness
to bestow something on her mother, the child
thrust it into her face, exclaiming “Mamma's Fower!”
That simple phrase awoke sleeping memories.
Not for years had the blooming lanes of old England
been so distinctly pictured in the mirror of her
soul. That night, she dreamed Edward Vernon

met her in the prairie and gave her a torch-flower
he had gathered. The child's exclamation had
produced the train of thought of which the dream
was born; and the dream induced her to look at
the verses which had long remained unopened.
Ten years had passed since they were written.
The paper was worn at the edges, and the Eglantine
blossom was yellow and wrinkled. Still
the sight of it recalled the very look and tone
with which it was offered. The halo of glory with
which her youthful imagination had invested the
rhymes was dimmer now; and yet they seemed to
her “si belle!”

The afternoon of that day, she sat with her
mother, busily employed trimming a bonnet for
their little darling, who was equally busy under
the window, sticking an apron-full of wild-flowers
into the ground, to make an impromptu garden.
A voice called out, “Sir, will you have the goodness
to give me a little help? My carriage has
broken down.” Sibella started suddenly, and the
bonnet fell from her hand. “What is the matter
with you?” said her mother. “It is merely some
traveler in trouble. That bad place in the road
yonder must be mended.” Sibella resumed her
work, saying, “I am strangely nervous to-day.”
But in the secret chambers of her own mind, there
was a voice whispering, “My dream! My dream!
Can it be, as some people say, that there is a magnetic
influence on the soul when certain individuals

approach each other?” Presently, her father
entered, leading a small boy, “Take care of this
little fellow,” said he, “his father's carriage has
broken down, out by the hill.” The young widow
rose, and greeted the little stranger with such
motherly tenderness, that he looked up in her face
confidingly, with a half-formed smile. But she
gazed into his eyes so earnestly, that he turned
away partly afraid. The little girl offered him her
flowers, and they sat down on the floor to play
together. It was not long, before the farmer entered
with the traveler; a refined looking gentleman,
apparently about thirty years old. The old
lady rose to greet him; but Sibella stooped to
gather up the ribbons, which had fallen from her
trembling hands. Browned as he was by wind and
sun, she recognized him instantly. In fact she
had already recognized his eyes and smile in the
face of his son. She wondered whether he would
know her. Was she like an Eglantine now?
Having resumed a sufficient degree of self-command,
while picking up the ribbons, she rose, and
advanced toward him, with a blush and a smile.
He started—uttered an exclamation of surprise—
then seized her hand and kissed it.

“Bless my soul! It's Mr. Vernon! And I
didn't know him!” exclaimed Mrs. Flower. “Well
this is strange, I do declare!”

When their mutual surprise had subsided, many
questions about old England were asked and answered.

But it was not until after supper that
their guest spoke of his own plans. Pointing to
his son, he said, “I am a lonely man, with only
that one tie to bind me to the world. My father
and mother are dead; and as it was for their sakes
only that I consented to endure the fetters of over-civilized
life, I formed the resolution of coming
into these Western wilds, to live with nature in her
freedom and simplicity. I was not altogether selfish
in this movement, for I felt confident it was the
best way to form a manly character for my son.
No cousin Alfred will stand in his sunshine here.
Come, Edward,” said he, “introduce your little
friend to me.” The boy sprang forward joyfully,
and climbed his father's knee. “The little friend
must sit on the other knee,” said he. “Go and
bring her. You are not gallant to the little lady.”
But the little lady was shy. She hid herself behind
a chair, and would not be easily persuaded.
At last, however, her mother coaxed her to be led
up to the stranger gentleman, to see him open his
gold watch. He placed her on his knee and asked
her name; and, emboldened by his caresses, she
looked up in his face, and answered, “Teena.”
He glanced inquiringly toward her mother, who,
blushing slightly, answered, “I named her Eglantina;
but, in her lisping way, she calls herself Teena;
and we have all adopted her fashion, except
grandfather, who varies it a little by calling her
Teeny.” A pleased expression went over Mr. Vernon's
face, as he replied, “You did well to name
her for yourself; for she resembles you, as the bud
of the Eglantine resembles the blossom.” As he
spoke thus, the ten intervening years rolled away
like a curtain, and they both found themselves
walking again in the blooming lanes of old England.

Weeks passed, and Mr. Vernon still remained a
guest at Flower Farm, as it was called. He entered
into negotiations for a tract of land in the neighbourhood,
and found pleasant occupation in hunting,
fishing, and planning his house and grounds. Sibella
and the children often accompanied him in his
excursions. The wide-spread prairie, covered with
a thick carpet of grass and brilliant flowers, and
dotted with isolated groves, like islands, charmed
him with its novelty of beauty. “I am perpetually
astonished by the profusion and gorgeousness
of nature in this region,” said he. He gathered
one of the plants at his fect, and presenting it to
Sibella, asked whether that glowing blossom was
not appropriately named the Torch Flower. “What
do you think of dreams?” she replied; then seeing
that he was surprised by the abruptness of the
question, she told him she had dreamed, the night
before his arrival, that she met him on the prairie,
and received a torch-flower from his hand. He
smiled, and said, “Its flame-colour might answer for
Hymen's torch.” He looked at her smilingly as

he spoke; for he was bolder now than when he
wrote the verses. Seeing the crimson tide mount
into her cheeks, he touched the flower in her hand,
and said, “It blushes more deeply than my old
favourite the Eglantine.” To relieve her embarrassment,
Sibella began to inquire about Mrs. Barton
and her neighbours; adding, “Among all these
questions, I have not yet asked if your sister is
living.”

“She is what the world calls living,” he replied.
“She has married a wealthy old merchant, who
dresses her in velvet and diamonds; and his lady
rewards him by treating him with more indifference
than she does her footman. Her acquaintance envy
her elegant furniture and costly jewels; and when
they exclaim, `How fortunate you are! You are
surrounded by every thing the heart can desire!'
she replies, with a languid motion of her fan, `Yes,
every thing—except love.' Julia never forgave
me for marrying the daughter of a poor curate;
but she was like you, Sibella, and that was what
first interested me. If she had lived, I probably
should never have seen America; but after her
death, I was lonely and restless. I wanted change.
I knew that you had been in this country several
years; but I cannot say you were distinctly connected
with my plans. You never answered my
letters, and I supposed you had long since forgotten
me. But I never saw an Eglantine without
thinking of you; and while I was crossing the Atlantic,

I sometimes found myself conjecturing whether
I should ever happen to meet you, and whether
I should find you married.” Long explanations
and confessions followed. The authorship of the
mysterious verses was acknowledged, and their
preservation avowed. The conversation was exceedingly
interesting to themselves, but would look
somewhat foolish on paper. It has been well said,
that “the words of lovers are like the rich wines
of the south; delicious in their native soil, but rendered
vapid by transportation.”

Mr. Vernon chose the site for his new dwelling
with characteristic taste. It stood on an eminence,
commanding a most lovely and extensive prospect.
A flower-enamelled lawn, rich as embroidered velvet,
and ornamented with graceful trees, descended
from the front of the house to a bend in the river.
It was all fresh from the hand of Nature. Nothing
had been planted, and nothing removed, except a
few trees to make room for a carriage-path. He
had been advised to build an English villa; but he
disliked the appearance of assuming a style of more
grandeur than his neighbours; and Sibella thought
a log-house, with its rough edges of bark, would
harmonize better with the scenery. It was spacious
and conveniently planned, and stood in the midst
of a natural grove. Festoons of vines were trained
all round it, clustering roses climbed up even to the

roof, and the air was fragrant with Eglantines. The
arbor, that William had made, was carefully removed
thither, and placed in the garden, surrounded
by a profusion of Ladies' Delights, in memory of
the lost friend.

It was a fixed principle with Mr. Vernon that no
man had a right to live in the world without doing
his share of its work. He imported seeds and
scions, which he planted and grafted himself, always
distributing a liberal portion among his neighbours.
“My fruit and vegetables will soon command
a ready sale in the city market,” said he; “but the
proceeds shall go toward a school-fund, and the establishment
of a Lyceum. I do not desire that our
children should inherit great wealth. Life sufficiently
abounds with dangers and temptations,
physical and mental, without adding that glittering
snare for their manhood and womanhood. The
wisest and kindest thing we can do for them is to
educate equally themselves and the people among
whom they are to live.”

“There spoke the same generous soul that chose
the poor country-girl for a wife!” she exclaimed,
“What can I ever do to prove the gratitude I feel?”

Playfully he put his hand over her mouth, to
stop that self-depreciation. They remained silent
for a while, seated on the grassy slope, looking out
upon the winding river and the noble trees.
“How much this scene resembles the parks and
lawns of old England,” said the happy bride. “If

it were not for the deep stillness, and the absence
of human habitations, I could almost imagine myself
in my native land.”

“I like it better than English parks and lawns,
for two reasons,” he replied. “I prefer it, because
it is formed by Nature, and not by Art; and Nature
gives even to her quietest pictures peculiar
touches of wild inimitable grace. Still more does
the scene please me, because these broad acres are
not entailed upon noblemen, who cannot ride over
their estates in a week, while their poor tenantry
toil through life without being allowed to obtain
possession of a rood of land.”

Sibella looked at him with affectionate admiration,
while she replied, “Truly, `the child is father
of the man.' There spoke the same soul that invited
a tradesman's manly son to spend the vacation
with him, in preference to Lord Smallsoul.”

“I will never reprove my boy, if he brings
home the manly son of a wood-sawyer to spend
his school vacations with us,” rejoined he. “But
hark! Hear our children laughing and shouting!
What sound is more musical than the happy
voices of children? See the dear little rogues
racing over the carpet of wild-flowers! How they
seem to love each other! God be praised, they
are free to enact the parts of Paul and Virginia in
this lovely solitude. May no rich relatives tempt
them into fashionable life, and make shipwreck of
their happiness.”