University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
THE HERO CHOSEN.

From the letters in the foregoing chapter, the domestic
management of Mrs. Brainard may be easily understood.
Educated from her infancy to consult her own feelings
only, neither the interest, the happiness, nor the wishes
of her husband, could induce her to yield to the necessity
of the case, and endeavor to conquer her antipathy
to the blacks. It was not principle but prejudice that
actuated her conduct. She cared little for their fate if
removed from her sight. She feared and detested them,
and they reciprocated her dislike. They had rather be
whipped than hated.

It was in vain her husband attempted to reason with
her—told her that his father, on his death bed, in consigning
to his care the servants, had solemnly charged
him to treat them kindly, and never to sell or alienate
those who conducted well. He told her, moreover, that
no one could hold the system of slavery in greater abhorrence
than himself; but the peculiar circumstances
under which the slaveholders were placed, rendered a
relinquishment of their right over their slaves, for the
present, impracticable. But that he, with every noble
minded gentleman, inhabiting the south, anticipated the
day, when the necessity for slavery would cease to exist,

and when their country, in being freed from its curse,
would wipe off the only blot that stained her character.

His arguments were given to the winds. The usual
answer of Mrs. Brainard was, that there were no slaves
in New England, and there was no need of having any
in South Carolina.

Then the discovery that her husband was a Roman
Catholic, was a still more serious affair. His belief, like
that of the generality of men, was more the effect of
habit and education, than of reflection or serious examination.
His parents, who lived as Christians ought
to live, and died as Christians must wish to die, were
Catholics; and the remembrance of their virtues and
piety, hallowed, in the heart of their son, the religion
they professed. Yet he was not bigoted to its particular
tenets, and his kindliness of disposition always inclined
him to think favorably of the motives of human conduct,
and of the religions that differed from his own.

Mrs. Brainard's piety, however, was of quite a contrary
spirit. Elected to salvation, she had nothing to do
but accept, and then there was no possibility of her
failing to gain the crown, however she might loiter by
the way, or deviate from the prescribed course. And
she could not believe any one would be saved who had
not an experience to relate, and who had not been convicted
and converted in the regular way. She had faith,
but forgot to add to her faith patience, or charity, which
is the greatest of all. Having naturally a timid mind,
and being inclined to superstition, she imagined her husband's
infidelity, for so she termed his liberal principles,
was to punish her for her unfaithfulness to Reuben
Porter.

But the history of matrimonial infelicity is an unpleasant
subject, especially when, as in the present case,
it seems to be owing more to what may be termed fate
and necessity, than folly or vice.

The truth was, the habits, opinions, and tastes, of the
husband and wife were totally dissimilar, and neither

was willing to make concessions, or relinquish their
favorite theories.

He thought, as husbands are apt to think, that it was
his prerogative to rule, and his wife's happiness must
consist in studying and contributing to his.

She rarely reasoned much on any subject. Her wishes
had, beneath the paternal roof, been laws to all who approached
her; and the transition from a goddess receiving
adoration to an obedient wife, was a falling off
to which, as she had never anticipated, she did not submit
with a very good grace.

Those whom Providence seems to favor by bestowing
the means of luxury without the necessity of labor, are
often the least enviable of our species. If they have
much leisure, they will soon find it a heavy commodity
on their hands, and be willing to exchange it even for
the most trivial amusements and unprofitable pursuits.
None, save a judiciously disciplined mind, is fitted to
properly enjoy and dignify leisure.

It was certainly very unfortunate for Mrs. Brainard,
that no necessity existed for the exertion of her industry.
She was naturally industrious; and had they been poor,
the efforts to procure a livelihood would have prevented
that melancholy vacuity of mind she experienced while
sauntering from apartment to apartment in her splendid
mansion, where nothing required her care, and nothing
interested her feelings.

She soon found it was possible to be very rich and
very wretched; while Mr. Brainard became convinced,
that the personal beauty of a wife added little to her
husband's felicity.

The consequences may be easily divined. Instead of
passing his happiest hours beneath his own roof, Mr.
Brainard sought his pleasures in the circles of dissipation.
The race ground, billiard table and theatre, were his favorite
places of diversion; yet his good sense and natural
prudence prevented his falling a victim to vice, although
he was fast becoming a votary of folly.

His wife, who had fewer resources for killing time, was

soon the prey of ennui and discontent. Had they been
blest with children, their story would doubtless have been
a different one. A common offspring hallows the union
of a wedded pair far more than the benediction of the
priest. They then sympathize in the same hopes, fears
and affections, and each day draws closer and closer the
bonds of interest and self-love; for they love themselves
in their race, till their union becomes inseparable by any
thing save death.

This bond, however, did not operate in the case of Mr.
and Mrs. Brainard, for children they had none; and the
disappointment of their wishes sensibly diminished their
tenderness for each other. There were not, to be sure,
any gross insults or outrages against propriety, offered
by either; but there was a constant clashing of sentiments,
a perpetual disagreement in tastes and opinions, a
kind of querulousness on the part of the wife, and contempt
on that of the husband, which rendered their domestic
society irksome and unpleasant to all who joined
it; to themselves it must have been most disagreeable
and repulsive.

In this manner they passed nearly twenty years, Mrs.
Brainard often entreating her husband to take her to
New England; but as she scrupulously insisted on the
fulfilment of a promise he had given her mother, to go
the whole journey by land, he had a good excuse for declining
her request. And perhaps she never would have
had an opportunity of revisiting her native state, had
not a severe fit of sickness come opportunely to her aid.
Her physician pronounced traveling indispensable to the
perfect recovery of her health; and her emaciated countenance
awakening, in the heart of her husband, pity
and remorse, rekindled in some measure his first tenderness
for her.

He could not forbear reflecting that by promises of
enduring love and unwearied care, he had prevailed on
her to leave the home of her childhood, and the dear
friends who deiighted to cherish and indulge her. Nay,
more; for him she had forsaken a lover, who would

doubtless have made her a far more fitting husband than
he had done. It was not probable her life would continue
long, and Brainard, with the generosity natural to
his disposition, when his better feelings predominated,
determined to gratify her wishes.

Accordingly they started for New Hampshire, and,
traveling by easy stages, arrived without accident at the
end of their monotonous journey. But twenty years had
wrought strange changes. Both parents of Mrs. Brainard
were in their graves; her brothers had all, James excepted,
emigrated to other states, and of her early companions
and friends, but very few remained in her native
village.

“I came to the place of my birth, and said, `the friends
of my youth, where are they?'—and echo answered,
`where are they?”'

Mrs. Brainard had never read the sentiment, but her
heart felt its force; and, feeble and melancholy, she entreated
her husband to take her to the town where she
understood her brother James, now dignified by the title
of James Romilly, Esq., resided.

She had left him a lad of sixteen, lively, ardent, and
unfearing; she found him an enterprising, intelligent,
and respectable man, happily employed on a farm, which
he had purchased with his own earnings, and now cultivated
with his own hands. A neat, commodious house,
a pleasant, happy looking wife, and half a dozen lovely
children, were the pledges of his felicity.

“We have but a small house to receive you in,” said
Mr. Romilly to his splendidly dressed visitors, “but
your welcome is as sincere as though we could usher you
into a palace.”

“I doubt it not,” returned Mr. Brainard, “and you
have all that is really necessary to happiness—health, a
competency, and those dear ones,” glancing his eyes on
the group of little laughing faces which were stretching
forward, eager to catch a peep at the strangers.

The children were immediately called forward; their
names repeated, and the good qualities and promising

abilities of each enumerated and dilated upon somewhat
at length by their delighted mother, who, though a very
sensible woman, had yet the mother's weakness of being
dotingly fond of her children.

Mrs. Brainard beheld her brother's happiness with feelings
very much like envy; certainly with deep repinings
at her own less favored lot. She had wealth to gratify
every whim, but finding its enjoyment did not satisfy
her heart, she considered it worthless, and often thought
she would willingly part with it all, could she only have
one sweet child to call her by the endearing name of
“mother,” and embrace her as affectionately as the children
did her sister-in-law. She could not bear the thought
of returning to her desolate home and living in the cheerless
domestic solitude which had so long preyed on her
spirits.

“I shall never have a child of my own,” said she to
herself one day, as she sat tracing in the infantile features
of her brother's children the resemblance of her deceased
parents; “but I will beg one of these—my brother cannot
refuse me—and then I will have something to live
for.”

No sooner had this idea taken possession of her mind,
than she hastened to impart it to her husband, hoping he
would aid her in the accomplishment of a plan which
now seemed indispensable to her happiness, and almost
necessary to her existence.

Mr. Brainard had secretly formed the same wish. He
had no near relative who needed his property, and flattered
himself, if he could obtain a son of Mr. Romilly,
and educate him as his own, he should then transmit his
immense wealth to one who, grateful for the gift, would,
by his assiduity and filial respect, endeavor to merit the
favor.

Seldom had the husband and wife been so well agreed
on any subject as in the design of obtaining one of the
little rosy cheeked urchins, who now bounded by them,
all frolic and happiness; as unconscious and uncaring of
the proud fortune which awaited one of their number, as

[ILLUSTRATION]

MR. BRAINARD SELECTING AN HEIR

[Description: 561EAF. Illustration Page. Image of a group of four adults and three children. Two women are standing in the backgroud, one holding a baby. Two men are seated in the foreground, each with a child in front of them, one girl and one boy. The girl hides shyly behind the mans coat, and the boy plays with a hoop.]

were the children of Jesse, when the prophet came to select
from among them a king to reign over Israel. But the
motives of choice in the two cases were widely different.
The prophet did not regard the outward appearance, nor
the age; Mr. Brainard and his wife were almost entirely
influenced by these considerations.

Sidney was the eldest, and would soon be a companion
for them; he had a fair countenance, and would do honor
to their selection.

These were the first requisitions; then Mrs. Brainard
recollected his mother had told her how sweet-tempered
and docile he was, and what an excellent scholar.

“And,” said she, “any one may know he is amiable,
by only looking on his face; and for genius, there never
was a Romilly deficient in that.”

Mr. Brainard smiled. He might, perhaps, have named
one exception, but his good nature, or good breeding,
prevented, and he only remarked, he wished they might
obtain the child.

Mrs. Brainard undertook to procure her brother's consent,
while her husband was to try his rhetoric on Mrs.
Romilly, from whose maternal tenderness they apprehended
the most serious opposition to their plan.

It would be too tedious to detail all that was said and
thought on this occasion. I will not believe it would be
uninteresting; for can the deep emotions of parental love,
contending with the powerful temptations of ambition
and interest, be an uninteresting exhibition to those who
would analyze the human mind, by tracing the operations
of its most potent passions?

The parents hesitated long, and not till a few days before
the time fixed by Mr. Brainard for the conclusion
of his visit, did they give a decisive answer to his proposal
of taking Sidney to South Carolina, adopting him
for his own son, educating him in the best manner, and
making him sole heir to his vast possessions.

“What answer shall we give?” said Mr. Romilly to
his wife, as they were discussing the matter after the
family had retired for the night. “I wish to subdue my

own feelings, and act wholly for the best interests of our
child.”

Mrs. Romilly sighed. She thought the boy's interest
would certainly be promoted by going, and that such was
the conclusion at which his father was intending to arrive.

“If I thought it was the will of heaven,” said she, in
a low tone, “I would submit. I have often thought
something singular would happen to that child. Don't
you remember what strange dreams I have had about
him?—that, in particular, which I thought portended his
death?”

“No, I do not recollect it,” replied her husband.

“Well, perhaps I never told it you,” returned she;
“but I dreamed I was looking out of our east window,
and I saw a man riding up the lane, full speed, on a coal
black horse. The man was a stranger to me then, but
since I have seen brother Brainard, I think he did resemble
him. Well, he came up to the door, took Sidney
by the hand, and placed him on the horse, and galloped
off as fast as he could, and they were soon out of sight.
I told the dream to Mrs. Watson, and she said a black
horse always betokened prosperity, and she should think
Sidney would have good fortune.”

“I hope it may prove so,” answered her husband, who
had listened to his wife's dream and Mrs. Watson's interpretation
thereof without a single smile or “pshaw!”
—(would all husbands be as well bred?)—“but I own I
have not much faith in presages; still, I have always,
myself, cherished the idea, that Sidney was born to be
distinguished; and I have been forming every plan I
could devise to give him a liberal education, yet, I fear,
I shall not be able. We have a number of children
already, and shall probably have more; and the income
of my farm will only give us a comfortable support.
May not this offer of our friends be an interposition of
Providence to fulfill my anxious wishes? And now,
shall we murmur, and refuse the blessing, because it is
not bestowed in just the way we desire? And I know

Sidney has been our idol. May not his removal from
us, for a time, be in mercy, lest by rejoicing in the gift,
and forgetting the giver, we merit a more severe trial?”

There was a long pause. Both felt Sidney must go;
yet neither had courage to express their feelings.

“How can I bear the separation?” said Mrs. Romilly,
at length.

“We must endure separation from those we love,”
replied her husband, pressing her hand in his. “Even
we must part! and in that solemn day our sweetest consolation
will be, that we have, to the best of our abilities,
discharged faithfully the duties incumbent on us, even
though their performance was painful.”

Mrs. Romilly wept; but she urged no more objections,
and the departure of Sidney was considered certain, and
preparations were accordingly made.

Had Mr. and Mrs. Romilly known exactly the situation
and principles of those to whose care they were consigning
their darling child, they would never have consented
to his departure. But happy themselves, blessed and
blessing each other, they hardly thought family disagreements
possible; and shame and pride had operated on
the minds of their visitors, and prevented them from
revealing their domestic troubles.

How could Mrs. Brainard, while displaying her rich
satins and laces, and costly jewels, to her admiring sister-in-law,
acknowledge they were worn to conceal the throbbings
of a discontented and despairing heart, and that
with all her riches and splendor she was a prey to grief?
No, she could not humble herself so far. Had her
mother been living, she would have poured into her
pitying ear the tale of her distresses; but now she endeavored
to appear as cheerful as possible, and her altered
countenance was ascribed altogether to the ravages of
time and disease.

She had made a profession of religion when very
young, before she was married, and from her conversation
her brother ascertained she still held fast her hope.
It was true he did not see in her that spirit of humility

so lovely in a Christian; but he considered her situation
and habits of living were very different from his, and
charity bade him make many allowances. He knew
also, that Mr. Brainard was far from being an orthodox
believer, but the affability of his manners, and the generosity
and kindness of his temper, seemed pledges of
his tender care to the child he was adopting; and Mr.
Romilly, who always saw the good in every character,
and excused, if possible, the evil, hoped he would yet
be won by the pious conversation of his wife, to embrace
religion.

The day of separation at length came, and passed, as
every day will, whether brightened by joy or saddened
by grief; and the evening found Mr. Romilly and his
wife seated in their accustomed places before the fire. A
small table stood between them, on which lay her work
and an open Bible, in which he was preparing to read a
chapter, as a part of his evening devotions. It was a
custom he never omitted, always taking the chapters in
succession, till he had read the whole Bible, and then
again turning to the beginning.

The chapter which came in rotation that evening, was
the forty-sixth of Genesis, and when reading the particulars
of the meeting of Jacob with his son Joseph, Mr.
Romilly came to that affecting exclamation of the aged
father,—

“Now let me die, since I have seen thy face, and thou
art alive, my son!” his voice quivered, and he paused.
A moment of affecting silence ensued, which was broken
by the hysterical sobs of his wife.

“Mary—my dear Mary,” said he, taking her trembling
hand, “we must be calm. God can restore our child,
and I have faith to believe He will, in His own good
time, grant us to see that dear boy's face again. Let us
rely on His goodness, and seek His protecting grace for
ourselves and children.”

So saying he arose, and leaning over his chair, (a position
in which the descendants of the puritans usually
addressed the throne of grace,) he breathed forth the

feelings of his soul in a most fervent petition to the
Being whom he loved and trusted. He prayed for fortitude,
faith, and resignation, for himself, and her who
was dearer than himself; and he prayed for his absent
child, that he might be kept from temptation, and preserved
from every snare; and oh! how earnestly he entreated
that, although they might be denied the happiness
of seeing him again on earth, they might all meet
in that glorious world where there are no changes to
dread, no separations to grieve!

From that time the parents were resigned to the destination
of Sidney: true, his name often trembled on
the lips of his mother, but it was only to wish they
might hear he had reached the end of his journey in
safety.

And in due time her desire was gratified. A letter
arrived, filled with Sidney's praises, and the thanks of
his uncle and aunt for such a good boy. This letter was
a treasure, especially to Mrs. Romilly. She read it at
least fifty times in the course of the week, and every
person who called, being supposed interested in the intelligence
it conveyed, had to listen to its contents. And
her kind heart was not mistaken in her friends and
neighbors. Nearly all rejoiced with her; yet truth must
be told, however it may shame poor human nature.
There were, even in that secluded and friendly place, a
few good ladies who made visiting the business of their
afternoons, and talking that of their lives. These teadrinking
veterans did not, in their hearts, love Mrs.
Romilly; she was too strict a “keeper at home” to obtain
their favor; yet they usually contrived to spend an
afternoon with her every two or three weeks, just to
scold her for not returning their visits.

And then, with all the mother in her voice and countenance,
she read to them the letter she had received
concerning Sidney, one remarked, that “his uncle might
give him a great fortune, and make a gentleman of him,
but, for her part, no earthly consideration should ever
tempt her to let one of her children go such a distance.”

Another said, “the climate was very unhealthy, and
she should not be surprised if the boy didn't live a
year.”

While a third observed, that “if she had let one of
her children go to such a far away place, and he did die,
she should never forgive herself;” adding, “there is no
one will take care of a sick child like an own mother.”

Mrs. Romilly's heart sunk within her at these suggestions.
She feared she had done wrong in giving her
consent to Sidney's departure, and could scarcely speak
without weeping the whole afternoon.

“Ah!” said her husband, when, to his eager inquiries
of what disturbed her, she had related the conversation
of the gossips, “Ah! Mary, you are too good and benevolent
yourself to suspect envy or ill-will in others; but
do you really think those women are kinder mothers,
and love their children better than you do yours? No,
it is all fudge; and when they read you another lecture
on maternal tenderness, tell them to evince theirs by
staying at home and taking care of their families.”

Another and another letter succeeded, filled with good
tidings concerning Sidney; and for a whole year, scarce
a fortnight passed without bringing intelligence of his
health, growth, and progress in literature and in the
hearts of his friends. Then the letters began to be more
rare, and finally became much like “angels' visits,”
owing, no doubt, to the multiplicity of engagements in
which Mr. Brainard was involved.

So, at least, thought Mr. Romilly, and his wife was
more easy under the neglect than might have been
expected. But besides the effect which time naturally
has in diminishing our concern, and diverting our
thoughts from the absent, there was another reason
which reconciled Mrs. Romilly to at least a partial suspension
of the correspondence from South Carolina.

Mr. Brainard never paid the postage on his letters.
Rich people rarely do: a shilling is of so little consequence
to them, they think it as trifling to others. But
the postage on his letters to New Hampshire being then

twenty-five cents per letter, amounted, in the course of a
year, to a pretty round sum for a Yankee farmer to pay,
who was not much in the habit of corresponding, and
Mrs. Romilly felt willing it should be lessened. Accordingly,
when her messenger returned from the post office
with tidings of “no letter to-day,” although she felt disappointed,
it was a consolation to reflect they had “no
postage to pay.”

“Should anything serious befall our child,” said she
to her husband, “they will inform us; and my mother
always used to say, `no news is good news.”'

And thus, in peace, sufficiency and content, lived this
good and happy pair.

And these, for nearly thirteen years following the departure
of their son, they enjoyed in as perfect a degree
as the nature of humanity will permit. In that space of
time, they had added four fine children to their household,
which, with their former ones, made altogether a
pretty round number.

Yet Sidney was not forgotten. Often did his father,
in a particular manner, allude, in his evening devotions,
to the dear absent one; and never did a Thanksgiving
pass without his saying, as he looked on his plentifully-supplied
table, surrounded by smiling, happy faces,
“Oh! if Sidney were only here, my joy would be complete.”
Then the sigh or tear from his wife reminding
him he must check his own feelings to support her's, he
would add, “But it is best as it is; we have as many
children as we can provide for, and Sidney is well off.”

During the last four years, they had received but two
letters, both from Sidney: the first reporting the decease
of his aunt, Mrs. Brainard; the other giving an account
of a tour he had made through Virginia, and describing
in particular Mount Vernon and the tomb of Washington.
Both letters were warmly admired as well as welcomed;

yet Silas and James, the two brothers next in age to
Sidney, contended the handwriting was not equal to
theirs, and thought it strange that a scholar, who had
nothing to do but study, should write no better than
Yankee lads, whose education had been solely acquired
by attending a district or common school a few months
in each year. Their mother, however, warmly supported
the cause of her first born, asserting his superiority,
especially in flourishes, of which, it must be admitted,
he had been very profuse.

Mr. Romilly was called upon to settle, by his opinion,
the point in controversy. After examining the specimens
quite as attentively as do literary committees the
addresses submitted for the New Year's prize, he finally
decided in favor of the two younger claimants, adding,
by way of appeasing his wife:

“Sidney does, indeed, write well, but so many flourishes
are unnecessary. It is utility, and not show, we
should encourage. A good handwriting requires no
ornament, and a vile one no ornament can conceal.”

From this decision and these remarks, we may safely
infer that Mr. Romilly was, in practice as well as theory,
a real republican.