University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
THE TRAVELLERS.

Let the traveller stand with us on the top of this rugged
eminence, and look down upon the scene below. Around
us, the hills gather in groups on every side, a family cluster,
each of which wears the same general likeness to that
on which we stand, yet there is no monotony in their aspect.
The axe has not yet deprived them of a single tree,
and they rise up, covered with the honored growth of a
thousand summers. But they seem not half so venerable.
They wear, in this invigorating season, all the green, fresh
features of youth and spring. The leaves cover the rugged
limbs which sustain them, with so much ease and grace, as
if for the first time they were so green and glossy, and as
if the impression should be made more certain and complete,
the gusty wind of March has scattered abroad and
borne afar, all the yellow garments of the vanished winter.
The wild flowers begin to flaunt their blue and crimson draperies
about us, as if conscious that they are borne upon the
bosom of undecaying beauty; and the spot so marked and
hallowed by each charming variety of bud and blossom,
would seem to have been a selected dwelling for the queenly
Spring herself.

Man, mindful of those tastes and sensibilities which in
great part constitute his claim to superiority over the brute,
has not been indifferent to the beauties of the place. In
the winding hollows of these hills, beginning at our feet,
you see the first signs of as lovely a little hamlet as ever

promised peace to the weary and the discontent. This is
the village of Charlemont.

A dozen snug and smiling cottages seem to have been
dropped in this natural cup, as if by a spell of magic. They
appear, each of them, to fill a fitted place — not equally
distant from, but equally near each other. Though distinguished,
each by an individual feature, there is yet no great
dissimilarity among them. All are small, and none of them
distinguished by architectural pretension. They are now
quite as flourishing as when first built, and their number
has had no increase since the village was first settled.
Speculation has not made it populous and prosperous, by
destroying its repose, stifling its charities, and abridging
the sedate habits and comforts of its people. The houses,
though constructed after the fashion of the country, of heavy
and ill-squared logs, roughly hewn, and hastily thrown together,
perhaps by unpractised hands, are yet made cheerful
by that tidy industry which is always sure to make them
comfortable also. Trim hedges that run beside slender
white palings, surround and separate them from each other.
Sometimes, as you see, festoons of graceful flowers, and
waving blossoms, distinguish one dwelling from the rest,
declaring its possession of some fair tenant, whose hand
and fancy have kept equal progress with habitual industry;
at the same time, some of them appear entirely without the
little garden of flowers and vegetables, which glimmers and
glitters in the rear or front of the greater number.

Such was Charlemont, at the date of our narrative. But
the traveller would vainly look, now, to find the place as
we describe it. The garden is no longer green with fruits
and flowers — the festoons no longer grace the lowly portals
— the white palings are down and blackening in the
gloomy mould — the roofs have fallen, and silence dwells
lonely among the ruins, — the only inhabitant of the place.
It has no longer a human occupant.

Why this fate has fallen upon so sweet an abiding place—
why the villagers should have deserted a spot, so quiet and
so beautiful — it does not fall within our present purpose to
inquire. It was most probably abandoned — not because of
the unfruitfulness of the soil, or the unhealthiness of the
climate — for but few places on the bosom of the earth, may
be found either more fertile, more beautiful, or more healthful
— but in compliance with that feverish restlessness of
mood — that sleepless discontent of temper, which, perhaps,
more than any other quality, is the moral failing in the
character of the Anglo-American. The roving desires of
his ancestor, which brought him across the waters, have
been transmitted without diminution — nay, with large increase
— to the son. The creatures of a new condition of
things, and new necessities, our people will follow out their
destiny. The restless energies which distinguish them,
are, perhaps, the contemplated characteristics which Providence
has assigned them, in order that they may the
more effectually and soon, bring into the use and occupation
of a yet mightier people, the wilderness of that new world
in which their fortunes have been cast. Generation is but
the pioneer of generation, and the children of millions,
more gigantic and powerful than ourselves, shall yet smile
to behold, how feeble was the stroke made by our axe upon
the towering trees of their inheritance.

It was probably because of this characteristic of our people,
that Charlemont came in time to be deserted. The
inhabitants were one day surprised with tidings of more
attractive regions in yet deeper forests, and grew dissatisfied
with their beautiful and secluded valley. Such is the ready
access to the American mind, in its excitable state, of
novelty and sudden impulse, that there needs but few suggestions
to persuade the forester to draw stakes, and remove
his tents, where the signs seem to be more numerous
of sweeter waters and more prolific fields. For a time,
change has the power which nature does not often exercise;

and under its freshmess, the waters do seem sweeter,
and the stores of the wilderness, the wild-honey and the
locust, do seem more abundant to the lip and eye.

Where our cottagers went, and under what delusion, are
utterly unknown to us; nor is it important to our narrative
that we should inquire. Our knowledge of them is only
desirable, while they were in the flourishing condition in
which they have been seen. It is our trust that the novelty
which seduced them from their homes, did not fail
them in its promises — that they may never have found, in
all their wanderings, a less lovely abiding-place, than that
which they abandoned. But change has its bitter, as well
as its sweet, and the fear is strong that the cottagers of
Charlemont, in the weary hours, when life's winter is approaching,
will still and vainly sigh after the once-despised
enjoyments of their deserted hamlet.

It was toward the close of one of those bright, tearful
days in April, of which we have briefly spoken, when a
couple of travellers on horseback, ascended the last hill
looking down upon Charlemont. One of these travellers
had passed the middle period of life; the other was, perhaps,
just about to enter upon its heavy responsibilities,
and more active duties. The first wore the countenance of
one who had borne many sorrows, and borne them with
that resignation, which, while it proves the wisdom of the
sufferer, is at the same time, calculated to increase his
benevolence. The expression of his eye, was full of kindness
and benignity, while that of his mouth, with equal
force, was indicative of a melancholy, as constant as it was
gentle and unobtrusive. A feeble smile played over his
lips while he spoke, that increased the sadness which it
softened; as the faint glimmer of the evening sunlight, upon
the yellow leaves of autumn, heightens the solemn tones in
the rich coloring of the still decaying forest.

The face of his companion, in many of its features, was
in direct contrast with his own. It was well formed, and,

to the casual glance, seemed no less handsome than intellectual.
There was much in it to win the regard of the
young and superficial. An eye that sparkled with fire, a
mouth that glowed with animation — cheeks warmly colored,
and a contour full of vivacity, seemed to denote properties
of mind and heart equally valuable and attractive. Still,
a keen observer would have found something sinister, in
the upward glancing of the eye, at intervals, from the half-closed
lids; and, at such moments, there was a curling
contempt upon the lips, which seemed to denote a cynical
and sarcastic turn of mind. A restless movement of the
same features seemed equally significant of caprice of character,
and a flexibility of moral; while the chin narrowed
too suddenly and became too sharp at the extremity, to
persuade a thorough physiognomist, that the owner could
be either very noble in his aims, or very generous in his
sentiments. But as these outward tokens can not well be
considered authority in the work of judgment, let events,
which speak for themselves, determine the true character
of our travellers.

They had reached the table land of the heights which
looked down upon Charlemont, at a moment when the
beauty of the scene could scarcely fail to impress itself
upon the most indifferent observer. The elder of the travellers,
who happened to be in advance, was immediately
arrested by it; and, staying the progress of his horse, with
hand lifted above his eye, looked around him with a delight
which expressed itself in an abrupt ejaculation, and brought
his companion to his side. The sun had just reached that
point in his descent, which enabled him to level a shaft of
rosy light from the pinnacle of the opposite hill, into the
valley below, where it rested among the roofs of two of the
cottages, which arose directly in its path. The occupants
of these two cottages had come forth, as it were, in answer
to the summons; and old and young, to the number of ten
or a dozen persons, had met, in the winding pathway between,

which led through the valley, and in front of every
cottage which it contained. The elder of the cottagers sat
upon the huge trunk of a tree, which had been felled beside
the road, for the greater convenience of the traveller; and
with eyes turned in the direction of the hill on which the
sunlight had sunk and appeared to slumber, seemed to enjoy
the vision with no less pleasure than our senior traveller.
Two tall damsels of sixteen, accompanied by a young
man something older, were strolling off in the direction of
the woods; while five or six chubby girls and boys were
making the echoes leap and dance along the hills, in the
clamorous delight which they felt in their innocent but stirring
exercises. The whole scene was warmed with the equal
brightness of the natural and the human sun. Beauty was
in the sky, and its semblance, at least, was on the earth.
God was in the heavens, and in his presence could there be
other than peace and harmony among men!

“How beautiful!” exclaimed the elder of our travellers —
“could anything be more so! How pure, how peaceful!
See, Warham, how soft, how spirit-like, that light lies along
the hill-side, and how distinct, yet how delicate, is the train
which glides from it down the valley, even to the white
dwellings at its bottom, from which it seems to shrink and
tremble as if half conscious of intrusion. And yet the
picture below is kindred with it. That, now, is a scene
that I delight in — it is a constant picture in my mind.
There is peace in that valley, if there be peace anywhere
on earth. The old men sit before the door, and contemplate
with mingled feelings of pride and pleasure, the vigorous
growth of their children. They behold in them their
own immortality, even upon earth. The young will preserve
their memories, and transmit their names to other
children yet unborn; and how must such a reflection reconcile
them to their own time of departure, not unfitly
shown in the last smiles of that sunlight, which they are so
soon about to lose. Like him, they look with benevolence

and love upon the world from which they will soon depart.”

“Take my word for it, uncle, they will postpone their
departure to the last possible moment, and, so far from
looking with smiles upon what they are about to leave for
ever, they will leave it with very great reluctance, and in
monstrous bad humor. As for regarding their children
with any such notions as those you dwell upon with such
poetical raptures, they will infinitely prefer transmitting
for themselves their names and qualities to the very end of
the chapter. Ask any one of them the question now, and
he will tell you that an immortality, each, in his own wigwam,
and with his weight of years and infirmity upon him,
would satisfy all his expectations. If they look at the
vigor of their young, it is to recollect that they themselves
once were so, and to repine at the recollection. Take my
word for it, there is not a dad among them, that does not
envy his own son the excellence of his limbs, and the long
time of exercise and enjoyment which they seemingly assure
him.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed the elder of the two travellers.
“Impossible! I should be sorry to think as you do. But
you, Warham, can not understand these things. You are
an habitual unbeliever — the most unfortunate of all mankind.”

“The most fortunate, rather. I have but few burdens
of credulity to carry. The stars be blessed, my articles of
faith are neither very many nor very cumbrous. I should
be sorry if my clients were so few.”

“I should be sorry, Warham, if I had so little feeling as
yourself.”

“And I should be still more sorry, uncle, if I had half
so much. Why, sir, yours is in such excess, that you continually
mistake the joys and sorrows of other people for
your own. You laugh and weep with them alternately;
and, until all's done and over, you never seem to discover

that the business was none of yours; — that you had none
of the pleasure which made you laugh, and might have been
spared all the unnecessary suffering which moved your
tears. 'Pon my soul, sir, you pass a most unprofitable life.”

“You mistake, Warham, I have shared both; and my
profits have been equally great from both sources. My
susceptibility has been an exceeding great gain to me, and
has quickened all my senses. There is a joy of grief, you
know, according to Ossian.”

“Nay, if you quote Ossian, uncle, I give you up. I
don't believe in Ossian, and his raving stuff always sickens
me.”

“I sometimes think, Warham,” said the uncle, good naturedly,
“that Providence has denied you some of the more
human faculties. Nay, I fear that you are partially deficient
in some of the senses. Do you see that sunlight to
which I point — there, on the hill-side, a sort of rosy haze,
which seems to me eminently beautiful?”

“Yes, sir; and, if you will suffer me, I will get out of
its reach as quickly as possible. I have been half blinded
by it ever since you found it so beautiful. Sunlight is, I
think, of very little importance to professional men, unless
as a substitute for candles, and then it should come over the
left shoulder, if you would not have it endanger the sight.
Nay, I will go farther, and confess that it is better than
candlelight, and certainly far less expensive. Shall we go
forward, sir?”

“Warham,” said the uncle, with increasing gravity, “I
should be sorry to believe that a habit of speech so irreverential,
springs from anything but an ambition for saying
smart things, and strange things, which are not always
smart. It would give me great pain to think that you
were devoid of any of those sensibilities which soften the
hearts of other men, and lead them to generous impulses.”

“Nay, be not harsh, uncle. You should know me better.
I trust my sensibilities, and senses too, may be sufficient

for all proper purposes, when the proper time comes for
their employment; but I can't flame up at every sunbeam,
and grow enthusiastic in the contemplation of Bill Johnson's
cottage, and Richard Higgins's hedgerow. A turnip-patch
never yet could waken my enthusiasm, and I do
believe, sir — I confess it with some shame and a slight
misgiving, lest my admissions should give you pain — that
my fancy has never been half so greatly enkindled by Carthula,
of the bending spear, or Morven of the winds, as by
the sedate and homely aspect of an ordinary dish of eggs
and bacon, hot from the flaming frying-pan of some worthy
housewife.”

The uncle simply looked upon the speaker, but without
answering. He was probably quite too much accustomed
to his modes of thought and speech to be so much surprised
as annoyed by what he said. Perhaps, too, his own benevolence
of spirit interfered to save the nephew from that
harsher rebuke which his judgment might yet have very
well disposed him to bestow.

Following the course of the latter in silence, he descended
into the valley, and soon made his way among the
sweet little cottages at its foot. An interchange of courtesies
between the travellers and the villagers whose presence
had given occasion to some portion of the previous
dialogue, in which the manner of the younger traveller was
civil, and that of the elder kind; and the two continued on
their journey, though not without being compelled to refuse
sundry invitations, given with true patriarchal hospitality,
to remain among the quiet abodes through which they
passed.

As cottage after cottage unfolded itself to their eyes,
along the winding avenue, the proprietors appeared at door
and window, and, with the simple freedoms of rural life,
welcomed the strangers with a smile, a nod, and sometimes,
when sufficiently nigh, a friendly word of salutation, but

without having the effect of arresting their onward progress.
Yet many a backward glance was sent by the elder of the
travellers, whose eyes, beaming with satisfaction, sufficiently
declared the delight which he received from the
contemplation of so many of the mingled graces of physical
and moral nature. His loitering steps drew from his young
companion an occasional remark, which, to ears less benevolent
and unsuspecting than than those of the senior, might
have been deemed a sarcasm; and more than once the lips
of the nephew had curled with contemptuous smiles, as he
watched the yearning glances of his uncle on each side of
the avenue, as they wended slowly through it.

At the end of the village, and at the foot of the opposite
hills, they encountered a group of young people of both
sexes, whose bursts of merriment were suddenly restrained
as they emerged unexpectedly into sight. The girls had
been sitting upon the grassy mead, with the young men before
them; but they started to their feet at the sound of
strange steps, and the look of strange faces. Charlemont,
it must be remembered, was not in the thoroughfare of
common travel. If visited at all by strangers, it was most
usually by those only who came with a single purpose.
Nothing, therefore could have been more calculated to surprise
a community so insulated, than that they should
attract, but not arrest the traveller. The natural surprise
which the young people felt, when unexpectedly encountered
in their rustic sports, was naturally increased by this
unusual circumstance, and they looked after the departing
forms of the wayfarers with a wonder and curiosity that
kept them for some time silent. The elder of the two,
meanwhile — one of whose habits of mind was always to
give instantaneous utterance to the feeling which was uppermost
— dilated, without heeding the sneers of his nephew,
upon the apparent happiness which they witnessed.

“Here, you see, Warham, is a pleasure which the great
city never knows: — the free intercourse of the sexes in all

those natural exercises which give health to the body, grace
to the movement, and vivacity to the manners.”

“The health will do well enough,” replied the skeptic,
“but save me from the grace of Hob and Hinney; and as
for their manners — did I hear you correctly, uncle, when
you spoke of their manners?”

“Surely, you did. I have always regarded the natural
manners which belong to the life of the forester, as being
infinitely more noble, as well as more graceful, than those
of the citizen. Where did you ever see a tradesman
whose bearing was not mean compared with that of the
hunter?”

“Ay, but these are no hunters, and scarcely foresters. I
see not a single Nimrod among the lads; and as for the
lasses, even your eyes, indulgent as they usually are, will
scarcely venture to insist that I shall behold one nymph
among them worthy to tie the shoe-latchets of Diana. The
manners of the hunter are those of an elastic savage; but
these lads shear sheep, raise hogs for the slaughter-pen,
and seldom perform a nobler feat than felling a bullock.
They have none of the elasticity which, coupled with
strength, makes the grace of the man; and they walk as
if perpetually in the faith that their corn-rows and potatoe-hills
were between their legs.”

“Did you note the young woman in the crimson body,
Warham? Was she not majestically made?”

“It struck me she would weigh against any two of the
company.”

“She is rather heavy, I grant you, but her carriage,
Warham!”

“Would carry weight — nothing more.”

“There was one little girl, just rising into womanhood;
— you must admit that she had a very lovely face, and her
form—”

“My dear uncle, what is it that you will not desire me
to believe? You are sadly given to proselytism, and take

infinite pains to compel me to see with eyes that never do
their owner so much wrong, as when they reject the aid of
spectacles. How much would Charlemont and its inhabitants
differ to your sight, were you only to take your green
spectacles from the shagreen case in which they do no
duty. But if you are resolved, in order to seem youthful, to
let your age go unprovided with the means of seeing as
youth would see, at least suffer me to enjoy the natural privileges
of twenty-five. When, like you, my hairs whiten,
and my eyes grow feeble, ten to one, I shall think with you
that every third woodman is an Apollo, and every other
peasant-girl is a Venus, whom—”

The words of the speaker ceased — cut short by the sudden
appearance of a form and face, the beauty and dignity
of which silenced the skeptic, and made him doubtful, for
the moment, whether he had not in reality reached that
period of confused and confounding vision, which, as he
alleged to be the case with his uncle, loses all power of
discrimination. A maiden stood before him — tall, erect,
majestic — beautiful after no ordinary standard of beauty.
She was a brunette, with large dark eyes, which, though
bright, seemed dark with excess of bright — and had a
depth of expression which thrilled instantly through the
bosom of the spectator. A single glance did she bestow
upon the travellers, while she acknowledged, by a slight
courtesy, the respectful bow which they made her. They
drew up their horses as with mutual instinct, but she passed
them quickly, courtesying a second time as she did so, and,
in another moment a turn of the roar concealed her from
the eyes of the travellers.

“What say you to that, Warham?” demanded the senior
exultingly.

“A Diana, in truth; but, uncle, we find her not among
the rest. She is none of your cottagers. She is of another
world and element. She is no Charlemonter.”

And, as he spoke, the younger traveller looked back with

straining eyes to catch another glance of the vanished object,
but in vain.

“You deserve never to see a lovely woman again, Warham,
for your skepticism.”

“But I will have a second look at her, uncle, though the
skies fall,” answered the young man, as, wheeling his
horse round, he deliberately galloped back to the bend
in the avenue, by which she had been hidden from his
view.

He had scarcely reached the desired point, when he suddenly
recoiled to find the object of his pursuit standing motionless
just beyond, with eyes averted to the backward path —
her glance consequently encountering his own, the very moment
when he discovered her. A deep crimson, visible even
where he stood, suffused her cheeks when she beheld him;
and without acknowledging the second bow which the traveller
made, she somewhat haughtily averted her head with
a suddenness which shook her long and raven tresses entirely
free of the net-work which confined them.

“A proud gipsy!” muttered the youth as he rode back
to his uncle — “just such a spirit as I should like to tame.”
He took especial care, however, that this sentiment did not
reach the ears of his senior.

“Well?” said the latter, inquiringly, at his approach.

“I am right after all, uncle:— the wench is no better
than the rest. A heavy bulk that seemed dignified only
because she is too fat for levity. She walks like a blind
plough-horse in a broken pasture, up and down, over and
over; with a gait as rigid and deliberate as if she trod
among the hot cinders, and had corns on all her toes. She
took us so by surprise that if we had not thought her beautiful
we must have thought her ugly, and the chances are
equal, that, on a second meeting, we shall both think her
so. I shall, I'm certain, and you must, provided you give
your eyes the benefit, and your nose the burden of your
green specs.”

“Impossible! I can scarce believe it, Warham,” replied
the senior. “I thought her very beautiful.”

“I shall never rely on your judgment again;— nay, uncle,
I am almost inclined to suspect your taste.”

“Well, let them be beautiful or ugly, still I should think
the same of the beauty of this village.”

“While the sun shines it may be tolerable; but, uncle,
in wet bad weather — it must become a mere pond, it lies
so completly in the hollow of the hills.”

“There is reason in that, Warham.”

“And yet, even as a pond, it would have its advantages
— it would be famous for duck-raising.”

“Pshaw! you are worse than a Mahometan.”

“Something of a just comparison, uncle, though scarcely
aimed,” said the other; “like Mahomet, you know, I doubt
the possession of souls by women.”

“Yet if these of Charlemont have not souls, they have
no small share of happiness on earth. I never heard more
happy laughter from human lips than from theirs. They
must be happy.”

“I doubt that also,” was the reply. “See you not,
uncle, that to nine or ten women there are but three lads?
Where the disproportion is so great among the sexes, and
where it is so unfavorable to the weaker, women never can
be happy. Their whole lives will be lives of turmoil,
jealousy, and pulling of caps. Nay, eyes shall not be secure
under such circumstances; and Nan's fingers shall
be in Doll's hair, and Doll's claws in Nanny's cheeks,
whenever it shall so happen, that Tom Jenkins shall incline
to Nan, or John Dobbins to Doll. Such a disparity between
the sexes is one of the most fruitful causes of domestic
war.”

“Warham, where do you think to go when you die?”

“Where there shall be no great inequality in the population.
Believe me, uncle, though I am sometimes disposed
to think with Mahomet, and deny the possession of

souls to the sex, I also incline to believe, with other more
charitable teachers — however difficult it may be to reconcile
the two philosophies — that there will be no lack of
them in either world.”

“Hush, hush, Warham,” was the mild rebuke of the
senior; “you go too far — you are irreverent. As for this
maiden, I still think her very beautiful — of a high and
noble kind of beauty. My eyes may be bad; — indeed I
am willing to admit they are none of the best; but I feel
certain that they cannot so far deceive me, when we consider
how nigh we were to her.”

“The matter deserves inquiry, uncle, if it were only to
satisfy your faith; — suppose we ride back, both of us, and
see for ourselves — closely, and with the aid of the green
spectacles? Not that I care to see farther — not that I have
any doubts — but I wish you to be convinced in this case,
if only to make you sensible of the frequent injustice to
which your indulgence of judgment, subjects the critical
fastidiousness of mine. What say you; shall we wheel
about?”

“Why, you are mad, surely. It is now sunset, and we
have a good eight miles before we get to Holme's Station.”

“But we can sleep in Charlemont to-night. A night in
this earthly Eden—”

“And run the risk of losing our company? Oh, no,
most worthy nephew. They will start at dawn to-morrow.”

“We can soon come up with 'em.”

“Perhaps not, and the risk is considerable. Travelling
to the Mississippi is no such small matter at any time, and,
in these times it is only with a multitude, that there is
safety. The murder of old Whiteford, is a sufficient warning
not to go alone with more gold than lead in one's pocket.
We are two, it is true, but better ten than two. You are
a brave fellow enough, Warham, I doubt not; but a shot
will dispose of you, and after that I should be an easy victim.

I could wink and hold out my iron as well as the
best of you, but I prefer to escape the necessity. Let us
mend our pace. We are burning daylight.”

The nephew, with an air of some impatience, which, however,
escaped the eyes of the senior, sent his horse forward
by a sharp application of his spur, though looking back the
while, with a glance of reluctance, which strongly disagreed
with the sentiments which he expressed. Indeed, with both
the travellers, the impression made by the little village of
Charlemont was such that the subject seemed nowise displeasing
to either, and furnished the chief staple of conversation
between them, as they rode the remaining eight miles
of their journey. The old man's heart had been subdued
and won by the sweet air of peace which seemed to overspread
and hallow the soft landscape, and the smiling cottages
which made it human. The laughing maidens with
their bright eyes and cheering accents, gave vivacity to its
milder charms. We have heard from the lips of the younger
traveller, that these attractions had failed to captivate his
fancy. We may believe of this as we please. It is very
probable that he had, in considerable part, spoken nothing
but the truth. He was too much of a mocker; — one of
those worldlings who derive their pleasures from circumstances
of higher conventional attraction. He had no feeling
for natural romance. His penchant, was decidedly for
the artificial existence of city life; and the sneers which he
had been heard to express at the humble joys of rustic life,
its tastes, and characteristics, were, in truth, only such as
he really felt. But, even in his case, there was an evident
disposition to know something more of Charlemont. He
was really willing to return. He renewed the same subject
of conversation, when it happened to flag, with obvious
eagerness; and, though his language was still studiedly
disparaging, a more deeply penetrating judgment than that
of his uncle, would have seen that the little village, slightly
as he professed to esteem it, was yet an object of thought

and interest in his eyes. Of the sources of this new interest
time must inform us.

“Well, well, Warham,” at length exclaimed the uncle,
in a tone that seemed meant to close the discussion of a
topic which his nephew now appeared mischievously bent
to thrust upon him, “you will return to Kentucky in the
fall. Take Charlemont in your route. Stop a week there.
It will do you no harm. Possibly you may procure some
clients — may, indeed, include it in your tour of practice —
at all events, you will not be unprofitably employed if you
come to see the village and the people with my eyes, which,
I doubt not, you will in time.”

“In time, perhaps, I may. It is well that you do not
insist upon any hurried convictions. Were I at your years,
uncle mine,” continued the other irreverently, “I should
no doubt see with your eyes, and possibly feel with your
desires. Then, no doubt, I shall acquire a taste for warmingpans
and nightcaps — shall look for landscapes rather
than lands — shall see nothing but innocence among the
young, and resignation and religion among the old; and
fancy, in every aged pair of bumpkins that I see, a Darby
and Joan, with perpetual peace at their fireside, though
they may both happen to lie there drunk on apple-brandy.
Between caudle-cups and `John Anderson, my Jo-John,' it
is my hope to pass the evening of my days with a tolerable
grace, and leave behind me some comely representatives,
who shall take up the burden of the ditty where I leave off
On this head be sure you shall have no cause to complain
of me. I shall be no Malthusian, as you certainly have
shown yourself. It is the strangest thing to me, uncle,
that, with all your spoken rapture for the sex, you should
never have thought of securing for yourself at least one
among the crowd which you so indiscriminately admire.
Surely, a gentleman of your personal attractions — attractions
which seem resolute to cling to you to the last — could
not have found much difficulty in procuring the damsel he

desired! And when, too, your enthusiasm for the sex is
known, one would think it only necessary that you should
fling your handkerchief, to have it greedily grappled by the
fairest of the herd. How is it, uncle — how have you
escaped from them — from yourself?”

“Pshaw, Warham, you are a fool!” exclaimed the senior,
riding forward with increasing speed. The words were
spoken good naturedly, but the youth had touched a spot,
scarcely yet thoroughly scarred over, in the old man's bosom:
and memories, not less painful because they had been
hidden so long, were instantly wakened into fresh and cruel
activity.

It will not diminish the offence of the nephew in the mind
of the reader, when he is told that the youth was not ignorant
of the particular tenderness of his relative in this respect.
The gentle nature of the latter, alone, rescued him
from the well-merited reproach of suffering his habitual levity
of mood to prevail in reference to one whom even he
himself was disposed to honor. But few words passed between
the two, ere they reached the place of appointment.
The careless reference of the youth had made the thoughts
of the senior active at the expense of his observation. His
eyes were now turned inward; and the landscape, and the
evening sun, which streamed over and hallowed it with a
tender beauty to the last, was as completely hidden from his
vision, as if a veil had been drawn above his sight. The
retrospect, indeed, is ever the old man's landscape; and
perhaps, even had he not been so unkindly driven back to
its survey, our aged traveller would have been reminded of
the past in the momently-deepening shadows which the evening
gathered around his path. Twilight is the cherished
season for sad memories, even as the midnight is supposed
to be that of guilty ghosts; and nothing, surely, can be
more fitting than that the shadows of former hopes should
revisit us in those hours when the face of nature itself
seems darkening into gloom.

It was night before the wayfarers reached the appointed
baiting place. There they found their company — a sort
of little caravan, such as is frequent in the history of western
emigration — already assembled, and the supper awaiting
them. Let us leave them to its enjoyment, and return
once more to the village of Charlemont.