University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.
THANK A BLIND HORSE FOR GOOD LUCK.

Life looks beautiful from both extremities. Prospect and
retrospect shine alike in a light so divine as to suggest that the
first catches some radiance from the gates, not yet closed, by
which the soul has entered, and that the last is illuminated from
the opening realm into which it is soon to pass.

Now that they are all gone, I wrap myself in dreams of them,
and live over the old days with them. Even the feeblest memory,
that cannot hold for a moment the events of to-day, keeps
a firm grasp upon the things of youth, and rejoices in its treasures.
It is a curious process—this of feeling one's way back
to childhood, and clothing one's self again with the little frame
—the buoyant, healthy, restless bundle of muscles and nerves—
and the old relations of careless infancy. The growing port
of later years and the ampler vestments are laid aside; and one
stands in his slender young manhood. Then backward still
the fancy goes, making the frame smaller, and casting aside
each year the changing garments that marked the eras of early
growth, until, at last, one holds himself upon his own knee—
a ruddy-faced, wondering, questioning, uneasy youngster, in his
first trousers and roundabout, and dandles and kisses the dear
little fellow that he was!

They were all here then—father, mother, brothers and sisters;
and the family life was at its fullest. Now they are all

gone, and I am alone. All the present relations of my life are
those which have originated since. I have wife and children,
and troops of friends, yet still I am alone. No one of all the
number can go back with me into these reminiscences of my
earliest life, or give me sympathy in them.

My father was a plain, ingenious, industrious craftsman, and
a modest and thoroughly earnest Christian. I have always
supposed that the neighbors held him in contempt or pity for
his lack of shrewdness in business, although they knew that he
was in all respects their superior in education and culture.
He was an omnivorous reader, and was so intelligent in matters
of history and poetry that the village doctor, a man of literary
tastes, found in him almost his only sympathetic companion.
The misfortunes of our family brought them only too frequently
together; and my first real thinking was excited by their conversations,
to which I was always an eager listener.

My father was an affectionate man. His life seemed bound
up in that of my mother, yet he never gave a direct expression
to his affection. I knew he could not live without her, yet I
never saw him kiss her, or give her one caress. Indeed, I do
not remember that he ever kissed me, or my sisters. We all
grew up hungry, missing something, and he, poor man, was
hungriest of all; but his Puritan training held him through life
in slavery to notions of propriety which forbade all impulses to
expression. He would have been ashamed to kiss his wife in
the presence of his children!

I suppose it is this peculiarity of my father which makes me
remember so vividly and so gratefully a little incident of my
boyhood. It was an early summer evening; and the yellow
moon was at its full. I stood out in the middle of the lawn
before the house alone, looking up to the golden-orbed wonder,
which—so high were the hills piled around our little
valley—seemed very near to me. I felt rather than saw my
father approaching me. There was no one looking, and he
half knelt and put his arm around me. There was something
in the clasp of that strong, warm arm that I have never forgotten.

It thrilled me through with the consciousness that I was
most tenderly beloved. Then he told me what the moon was,
and by the simplest illustrations tried to bring to my mind a
comprehension of its magnitude and its relations to the earth.
I only remember that I could not grasp the thought at all, and
that it all ended in his taking me in his arms and carrying me
to my bed.

The seclusion in which we lived among the far New Hampshire
hills was like that in which a family of squirrels lives in
the forest; and as, at ten years of age, I had never been ten
miles from home, the stories that came to my ears of the great
world that lay beyond my vision were like stories of fairy-land.
Fifty years ago the echoes of the Revolution and the War of
1812 had not died away, and soldiers who had served in both
wars were plenty. My imagination had been many times excited
by the stories that had been told at my father's fireside; and
those awful people, “the British,” were to me the embodiment
of cruelty and terror. One evening, I remember, my father
came in, and remarked that he had just heard the report of a
cannon. The phrase was new, and sounded very large and
significant to me, and I attributed it at once to the approach
of “the British.” My father laughed, but I watched the converging
roads for the appearance of the red-coats for many
days. The incident is of no value except to show how closely
between those green hills my life had been bound, and how
entirely my world was one of imagination. I was obliged to
build the world that held alike my facts and my fancies.

When I was about ten years old, I became conscious that
something was passing between my father and my mother of an
unusual character. They held long conferences from which
their children were excluded. Then a rich man of the neighborhood
rode into the yard, and tied his horse, and walked
about the farm. From a long tour he returned and entered
the stable, where he was joined by my father. Both came into
the house together, and went all over it, even down to the cellar,
where they held a long conversation. Then they were closeted

for an hour in the room which held my father's writing-desk.
At last, my mother was called into the room. The children,
myself among them, were huddled together in a corner of the
large kitchen, filled with wonder at the strange proceedings;
and when all came out, the stranger smiling and my father and
mother looking very serious, my curiosity was at a painful height;
and no sooner had the intruder vanished from the room—
pocketing a long paper as he went—than I demanded an
explanation.

My sisters were older than I, and to them the explanation was
addressed. My father simply said at first: “I have sold the
place.” Tears sprang into all our eyes, as if a great calamity
had befallen us. Were we to be wanderers? Were we to
have no home? Where were we to go?

Then my father, who was as simple as a child, undertook the
justification of himself to his children. He did not know why
he had consented to live in such a place for a year. He
told the story of the fallacious promises and hopes that had
induced him to buy the farm at first; of his long social deprivations;
of his hard and often unsuccessful efforts to make the
year's income meet the year's constantly increasing expenses;
and then he dwelt particularly on the fact that his duty to his
children compelled him to seek a home where they could secure
a better education, and have a chance, at least, to make their
way in the world. I saw then, just as clearly as I see to-day,
that the motives of removal all lay in the last consideration.
He saw possibilities in his children which demanded other circumstances
and surroundings. He knew that in his secluded
home among the mountains they could not have a fair chance
at life, and he would not be responsible for holding them to
associations that had been simply starvation and torment to
him.

The first shock over, I turned to the future with the most
charming anticipations. My life was to be led out beyond the
hills into an unknown world! I learned the road by which we
were to go; and beyond the woods in which it terminated to

my vision my imagination pushed through splendid towns,
across sweeping rivers, over vast plains and meadows, on and
on to the wide sea. There were castles, there were ships,
there were chariots and horses, there was a noble mansion
swept and garnished, waiting to receive us all, and, more than
all, there was a life of great deeds which should make my father
proud of his boy, and in which I remember that “the British”
were to be very severely handled.

The actual removal hardly justified the picture. There were
two overloaded three-horse teams, and a high, old-fashioned
wagon, drawn by a single horse, in which were bestowed the family,
the family satchels, and the machinery of an eight-day clock
—a pet of my father, who had had it all in pieces for repairs every
year since I was born. I did not burden the wagon with my presence,
but found a seat, when I was not running by the wayside,
with the driver of one of the teams. He had attracted
me to his company by various sly nods and winks, and by a
funny way of talking to his horses. He was an old teamster,
and knew not only every inch of the road that led to the distant
market-town to which we were going, but every landlord,
groom, and bar-keeper on the way. A man of such vast geographical
knowledge, and such extensive and interesting
acquaintance with men, became to me a most important personage.
When he had amused himself long enough with stories
told to excite my imagination, he turned to me sharply and
said:

“Boy, do you ever tell lies?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered, without hesitation.

“You do? Then why didn't you lie when I asked you the
question?”

“Because I never lie except to please people,” I replied.

“Oh! you are one of the story-tellers, are you?” he said,
in a tone of severity.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, then, you ought to be flogged. If I had a story-telling
boy I would flog it out of him. Truth, boy—always

stand by the truth! It was only this time last year that I was
carrying a load of goods down the mountain for a family the
same as yours, and there was a little boy who went with me
the same as you are going now. I was sure I smelt tobacco.
Said I, `I smell tobacco.' He grew red in the face, and I
charged him with having some in his pocket. He declared he
had none, and I said, `We shall see what will come to liars.'
I pitied him, for I knew something terrible would happen. A
strap broke, and the horses started on a run, and off went the
boy. I stopped them as soon as I could, ran back and picked
him up insensible, with as handsome a plug of tobacco in his
pocket as you ever saw; and the rascal had stolen it from his
grandmother! Always speak the truth, my boy, always speak
the truth!”

“And did you steal the tobacco from him?” I asked.

“No, lad, I took it and used it, because I knew it would
hurt him, and I couldn't bear the thought of exposing him to
his grandmother.”

“Do you think lying is worse than stealing?” I asked.

“That is something we can't settle. Tobacco is very preserving
and cleansing to the teeth, and I am obliged to use it.
Do you see that little building we are coming to? That is
Snow's store: and now, if you are a boy that has any heart—
any real heart—and if you have saved up a few pennies, you
will go in there and get a stick of candy for yourself and a plug
of tobacco for me. That would be the square thing for a boy
to do who stands by the truth, and wants to do a good turn to
a man that helps him along;” and he looked me in the eye so
steadily and persuasively that resistance was impossible, and
my poor little purse went back into my pocket painfully empty
of that which had seemed like wealth.

We rode along quietly after this until my companion asked
me if I knew how tall I was. Of course I did not know anything
about it, and wished to learn the reason of the question.
He had a little boy of his own at home—a very smart little
fellow—who could exactly reach the check-rein of his leading

horse. He had been wondering if I could do the same. He
should think we were about the same height, and as it would be
a tiptoe stretch, the performance would be a matter of spring
and skill. At that moment it happened that we came to a
watering-trough, which gave me the opportunity to satisfy his
curiosity; and he sat smiling appreciatively upon my frantic and
at last successful efforts to release the leader's head, and lift it
again to its check.

We came to a steep acclivity, and, under the stimulating
influence of the teamster's flattery, I carried a stone as large
as my head from the bottom to the top, to stay the wheels when
the horses paused for breath.

I recall the lazy rascal's practice upon my boyish credulity
and vanity more for my interest in my own childishness than
for any interest I still have in him; though I cannot think that
the jolly old joker was long ago dust, without a sigh. He was
a great man to me then, and he stirred me with appeals to my
ambition as few have stirred me since. And “standing by the
truth,” as he so feelingly adjured me to stand, I may confess
that his appeals were not the basest to which my life has responded.

The forenoon was long, hot and wearisome, but at its close
we emerged upon a beautiful valley, and saw before us a characteristic
New England village, with its white houses, large
and little, and its two homely wooden spires. I was walking
as I came in sight of the village, and I stopped, touched with
the poetry of the peaceful scene. Just then the noon-bell
pealed forth from one of the little churches—the first church-bell
I had ever heard. I did not know what it was, and was
obliged to inquire. I have stood under the belfry of Bruges
since, and heard, amid the dull jargon of the decaying city, the
chimes from its silver-sounding bells with far less of emotion
than I experienced that day, as I drank my first draught of
the wonderful music. O sweet first time of everything good in
life!

Thank heaven that, with an eternity of duration before us,

there is also infinity of resources, with ever-varying supply
and ministry, and ever-recurring first times!

My father and the rest of the family had preceded us, and
we found them waiting at the village tavern for our arrival.
Dinner was ready, and I was quite ready for it, though I was
not so much absorbed that I cannot recall to-day the fat old
woman with flying cap-strings who waited at the table. Indeed,
were I an artist, I could reproduce the pictures on the walls
of the low, long dining-room where we ate, so strongly did they
impress themselves upon my memory. We made but a short
stay, and then in our slow way pressed on. My friend of the
team had evidently found something more exhilarating at the
tavern than tobacco, and was confidential and affectionate, not
only toward me but toward all he met upon the road, of whom
he told me long and marvelous histories. But he grew dull
and even ill-tempered at last, and I had a quiet cry behind a
projecting bedstead, for very weariness and homesickness.

I was too weary when at dusk we arrived at the end of our
day's progress to note, or care, for anything. My super was
quickly eaten, and I was at once in the oblivion of sleep. The
next day's journey was unlike the first, in that it was crowded
with life. The villages grew larger, so as quite to excite my
astonishment. I saw, indeed, the horses and the chariots.
There were signs of wealth that I had never seen before,—
beautifully kept lawns, fine, stately mansions, and gayly-dressed
ladies, who humiliated me by regarding me with a sort
of stately curiosity; and I realized as I had never done before
that there were grades of life far above that to which I had
been accustomed, and that my father was comparatively a poor,
plain man.

Toward the close of the second afternoon we came in sight
of Bradford, which, somewhere within its limits, contained our
future home. There were a dozen stately spires, there were
tall chimneys waving their plumes of pearly smoke, there were
long rows of windows red in the rays of the declining sun,
there was a river winding away into the distance between its

borders of elm and willow, and there were white-winged craft
that glided hither and thither in the far silence.

“What do you think of that, boy?” inquired my friend the
teamster.

“Isn't it pretty!” I responded. “Isn't it a grand place to
live in?”

“That depends upon whether one lives or starves,” he said.
“If I were going to starve, I would rather do it where there
isn't anything to eat.”

“But we are not going to starve,” I said. “Father never
will let us starve.”

“Not if he can help it, boy; but your father is a lamb—a
great, innocent lamb.”

“What do you mean by calling my father a lamb? He is as
good a man as there is in Bradford, any way,” I responded,
somewhat indignantly.

The man gave a new roll to the enormous quid in his mouth,
a solace that had been purchased by my scanty pennies, and
said, with a contemptuous smile, “Oh! he's too good. Some
time when you think of it, suppose you look and see if he has
ever cut his eye-teeth.”

“You are making fun of my father, and I don't like it. How
should you like to have a man make fun of you to your little
boy?”

At this he gave a great laugh, and I knew at once that he
had no little boy, and that he had been playing off a fiction
upon me throughout the whole journey. It was my first encounter
with a false and selfish world. To find in my hero of
the three horses and the large acquaintance only a vulgar rascal
who could practice upon the credulity of a little boy was
one of the keenest disappointments I had ever experienced.

“If I could hurt you, I would strike you,” I said in a rage.

“Well, boy,” he replied almost affectionately, and quite admiringly,
“you will make your way, if you have that sort of
thing in you. I wouldn't have believed it. Upon my word, I
wouldn't have believed it. I take it all back. Your father is a

first-rate man for heaven, if he isn't for Bradford; and he's
sure to go there when he moves next, and I should like to be
the one to move him, but I'm afraid they wouldn't let me in to
unload the goods.”

There was an awful humor in this strange speech which I fully
comprehended, but my reverence for even the name of heaven
was so profound that I did not dare to laugh. I simply said:
“I don't like to hear you talk so, and I wish you wouldn't.”

“Well, then, I won't, my lad. They say the lame and the
lazy are always provided for, and I don't know why the lambs
are not just as deserving. You'll all get through, I suppose;
and a hundred years hence there will be no difference.”

“Who provides for the lame and the lazy?” I inquired.

“Well, now you have me tight,” said the fellow with a sigh.
“Somebody up there, I s'pose;” and he pointed his whip upward
with a little toss.

“Don't you know?” I inquired, with ingenuous and undisguised
wonder.

“Not a bit of it. I never saw him. I've been lazy all my
life, and I was lame once for a year, falling from this very
wagon, and a mighty rough time I had of it, too; and so far
as I am concerned it has been a business of looking out for
number one. Nobody ever let down a silver spoon full of
honey to me; and what is more, I don't expect it. If you
have that sort of thing in your head, the best way is to keep it.
You'll be happier, I reckon, in the long run if you do; but I
didn't get it in early, and it is too late now.”

“Then your father was a goat, wasn't he?” I said, with a
quick impulse.

“Yes,” he replied with a loud laugh. “Yes indeed; he was
a goat with the biggest and wickedest pair of horns you ever
saw. Boy, remember what I tell you. Goodness in this world
is a thing of fathers and mothers. I haven't any children, and
I shouldn't have any right to them if I had. People who bring
children into the world that they are not fit to take care of, and
who teach them nothing but drinking and fighting and swearing,

ought to be shot. If I had had your start, I should be all right
to-day.”

So I had another lesson,—two lessons, indeed,—one in the
practical infidelity of the world, and one in social and family
influence. They haunted me for many days, and brought to me
a deeper and a more intelligent respect for my father and his
goodness and wisdom than I had ever entertained.

“I wish I were well down that hill,” said my teamster at last,
after we had jolted along for half a mile without a word. As
he said this he looked uneasily around upon his load, which,
with the long transportation, had become loose. He stopped
his horses, and gave another turn to the pole with which he
had strained the rope that, passing lengthwise and crosswise the
load, held it together. Then he started on again. I watched
him closely, for I saw real apprehension on his face. His
horses were tired, and one of them was blind. The latter fact
gave me no apprehension, as the driver had taken much pains
to impress upon me the fact that the best horses were always
blind. He only regretted that he could not secure them for
his whole team, principally on account of the fact that not having
any idea how far they had traveled, they never knew when
to be tired. The reason seemed sound, and I had accepted it
in good faith.

When we reached the brow of the hill that descended into
the town, I saw that he had some reason for his apprehension,
and I should have alighted and taken to my feet if I had not
been as tired as the horses. But I had faith in the driver, and
faith in the poor brutes he drove, and so remained on my seat.
Midway the hill, the blind horse stepped upon a rolling stone;
and all I remember of the scene which immediately followed
was a confused and violent struggle. The horse fell prone
upon the road, and while he was trying in vain to rise, I was
conscious that my companion had leaped off. Then something
struck me from behind, and I felt myself propelled wildly and
resistlessly through the air, down among the struggling horses,
after which I knew no more.

When consciousness came back to me it was night, and I
was in a strange house. A person who wakes out of healthy
sleep recognizes at once his surroundings, and by a process in
which volition has no part reunites the thread of his life with
that which was dropped when sleep fell upon him. The unconsciousness
which follows concussion is of a different sort,
and obliterates for a time the memory of a whole life.

I woke upon a little cot on the floor. Though it was summer,
a small fire had been kindled on the hearth, my father was
chafing my hands, my brothers and sisters were looking on at
a distance with apprehension and distress upon their faces, and
the room was piled with furniture in great confusion. The
whole journey was gone from my memory; and feeling that I
could not lift my head or speak, I could only gasp and shut my
eyes and wonder. I knew my father's face, and knew the
family faces around me, but I had no idea where we were, or
what had happened. Something warm and stinging came to
my lips, and I swallowed it with a gulp and a strangle. Then
I became conscious of a voice that was strange to me. It was
deep and musical and strong, yet there was a restraint and a
conscious modulation in its tone, as if it were trying to do that
to which it was not well used. Its possessor was evidently
talking to my mother, who, I knew, was weeping.

“Ah! madam! Ah! madam! This will never do—never
do!” I heard him say. “You are tired. Bless me! You
have come eighty miles. It would have killed Mrs. Bradford.
All you want is rest. I am not a chicken, and such a ride in
such a wagon as yours would have finished me up, I'm sure.”

“Ah, my poor boy, Mr. Bradford!” my mother moaned.

“The boy will be all right by to-morrow morning,” he replied.
“He is opening his eyes now. You can't kill such a
little piece of stuff as that. He hasn't a broken bone in his
body. Let him have the brandy there, and keep his feet warm.
Those little chaps are never good for anything until they have
had the daylight knocked out of them half-a-dozen times. I
wonder what has became of that rascal, Dennis!”

At this he rose and walked to the window, and peered out
into the darkness. I saw that he was a tall, plainly dressed
man, with a heavy cane in his hand. One thing was certain:
he was a type of man I had never seen before. Perfectly self-possessed,
entirely at home, superintending all the affairs of the
house, commanding, advising, reassuring, inspiring, he was
evidently there to do good. In my speechless helplessness, my
own heart went out to him in perfect trust. I had the fullest
faith in what he said about myself and my recovery, though at
the moment I had no idea what I was to recover from, or,
rather, what had been the cause of my prostration.

“There the vagabond comes at last!” said the stranger.
He threw open the door, and Dennis, a smiling, good-natured
looking Irishman, walked in with a hamper of most appetizing
drinks and viands. An empty table was ready to receive them,
and hot coffee, milk, bread, and various cold meats were placed
one after another upon it.

“Set some chairs, Dennis, and be quick about it,” said Mr.
Bradford.

The chairs were set, and then Mr. Bradford stooped and
offered my mother his arm, in as grand a manner as if he were
proffering a courtesy to the Queen of England. She rose and
took it, and he led her to the table. My father was very much
touched, and I saw him look at the stranger with quivering lips.
This was a gentleman—a kind of man he had read about in
books, but not the kind of man he had ever been brought much
in contact with. This tender and stately attention to my mother
was an honor which was very grateful to him. It was a touch
of ideal life, too,—above the vulgar, graceless habits of those
among whom his life had been cast. Puritan though he was,
and plain and undemonstrative in his ways, he saw the beauty
of this new manner with a thrill that brought a crimson tint to
his hollow cheeks. Both he and my mother tried to express their
thanks, but Mr. Bradford declared that he was the lucky man
in the whole matter. It was so fortunate that he had happened
to be near when the accident occurred; and though the service

he had rendered was a very small one, it had been a genuine
pleasure to him to render it. Then, seeing that no one touched
the food, he turned with a quick instinct to Dennis, and said:
“By the way, Dennis, let me see you at the door a moment.”

Dennis followed him out, and then my father bowed his head,
and thanked the Good Giver for the provision made for his
family, for the safety of his boy, and for the prosperous journey,
and ended by asking a blessing upon the meal.

When, after a considerable interval, Mr. Bradford and his
servant reappeared, it was only on the part of the former to say
that Dennis would remain to assist in putting the beds into such
shape that the family could have a comfortable night's rest, and
to promise to look in late in the morning. He shook hands in
a hearty way with my father and mother, said “good-night” to
the children, and then came and looked at me. He smiled a
kind, good-humored smile, and shaking his long finger at me,
said: “Keep quiet, my little man: you'll be all right in the
morning.” Then he went away, and after the closing of the
door I heard his brisk, strong tread away into the darkness.

I have often wondered whether such men as Mr. Bradford
realize how strong an impression they make upon the minds of
children. He undoubtedly realized that he had to deal with a
family of children, beginning with my father and mother—as
truly children as any of us; but it is impossible that he could
know what an uplift he gave to the life to which he had ministered.
The sentiment which he inspired in me was as truly
that of worship as any of which I was capable. The grand
man, with his stalwart frame, his apparent control of unlimited
means, his self-possession, his commanding manner, his kindness
and courtesy, lifted him in my imagination almost to the dignity
of a God. I wondered if I could ever become such a man
as he! I learned in after years that even he had his weaknesses,
but I never ceased to entertain for him the most profound respect.
Indeed, I had good and special reason for this, beyond what at
present appears.

After he departed I watched Dennis. If Mr. Bradford was

my first gentleman, Dennis was my first Irishman. Oh, sweet
first time! let me exclaim again. I have never seen an Irishman
since who so excited my admiration and interest.

“Me leddy,” said Dennis, imitating as well as he could the
grand manner of his master, “if ye'll tek an Irish b'y's advice,
ye'll contint yoursilf with a shake-down for the night, and set
up the frames in the marnin'. I'm thinkin' the Squire will lit
me give ye a lift thin, an it's slape ye're wantin' now.”

He saw the broad grin coming upon the faces of the children
as he proceeded, and joined in their unrestrained giggle when
he finished.

“Ah! there's nothing like a fine Irish lad for makin' little
gurr'ls happy. It's better nor whisky any day.”

My poor father and mother were much distressed, fearing
that the proprieties had been trampled on by the laughing
children, and apologized to Dennis for their rudeness.

“Och! niver mind 'em. An Irish b'y is a funny bird any
way, and they're not used to his chirrup yet.”

In the meantime he had lighted half a dozen candles for as
many rooms, and was making quick work with the bedding.
At length, with the help of my mother, he had arranged beds
enough to accommodate the family for the night, and with many
professions of good-will, and with much detail of experience
concerning moving in his own country, he was about to bid us
all “good-night,” when he paused at the door and said:
“Thank a blind horse for good luck!”

“What do you mean, Dennis?” inquired my father.

“Is it what I mane? ye ask me. Wasn't it a blind horse
that fell on the hill, and threw the lad aff jist where the Squire
was standin,' and didn't he get him in his arms the furr'st one,
and wasn't that the beginnin' of it all? Thank a blind horse
for good luck, I till ye. The Squire can no more drap you
now than he can drap his blissid ould hearr't, though it's likely
I'll have to do the most of it mesilf.”

My mother assured Dennis that she was sorry to give him
the slightest trouble.

“Never mind me, me leddy. Let an Irish b'y alone for
bein' tinder of himsilf. Do I look as if I had too much worr'k
and my bafe comin' to me in thin slices?” And he spread
out his brawny hands for inspection.

The children giggled, and he went out with a “good-night.”
Then he reopened the door, and putting only his head in, said,
“Remimber what I till ye. A blind horse for good luck;”
and, nodding his head a dozen times, he shut the door again
and disappeared for the night.

When I woke the next morning, it all came back to me—
the long ride, the fearful experience upon the hill, and the
observations of the previous evening. We were indebted to
the thoughtful courtesy of Mr. Bradford for our breakfast, and,
after Dennis had been busy during half the morning in assisting to
put the house in order, I saw my gentleman again. The only
inconvenience from which I suffered was a sense of being
bruised all over; and when he came in I greeted him with such
a smile of hearty delight that he took my cheeks in his hands
and kissed me. How many thousand times I had longed for
such an expression of affection from my father, and longed in
vain! It healed me and made me happy. Then I had an
opportunity to study him more closely. He was fresh from
his toilet, and wore the cleanest linen. His neck was enveloped
and his chin propped by the old-fashioned “stock” of
those days, his waistcoat was white, and his dark gray coat and
trousers had evidently passed under Dennis's brush in the
early morning. A heavy gold chain with a massive seal depended
from his watch-pocket, and he carried in his hand what
seemed to be his constant companion, his heavy cane. At
this distance of time I find it difficult to describe his face, because
it impressed me as a whole, and not by its separate features.
His eyes were dark, pleasant, and piercing—so much
I remember; but the rest of his face I cannot describe. I
trusted it wholly; but, as I recall the man, I hear more than I
see. Impressive as was his presence, his wonderful voice was
his finest interpreter to me. I lingered upon his tones and

cadences as I have often listened to the voice of a distant water-fall,
lifted and lowered by the wind. I can hear it to-day as
plainly as I heard it then.

During the visit of that morning he learned the situation of
the family, and comprehended with genuine pain the helplessness
of my father. That he was interested in my father I could
see very plainly. His talk was not in the manner of workingmen,
and the conversation was discursive enough to display his
intelligence. The gentleman was evidently puzzled. Here
was a plain man who had seen no society, who had lived for
years among the woods and hills; yet the man of culture could
start no subject without meeting an intelligent response.

Mr. Bradford ascertained that my father had but little money,
that he had come to Bradford with absolutely no provision but
a house to move into, that he had no definite plan of business,
and that his desire for a better future for his children was the
motive that had induced him to migrate from his mountain
home.

After he had made a full confession of his circumstances,
with the confiding simplicity of a boy, Mr. Bradford looked at him
with a sort of mute wonder, and then rose and walked the room.

“I confess I don't understand it, Mr. Bonnicastle,” said he,
stopping before him, and bringing down his cane. “You want
your children to be educated better than you are, but you are
a thousand times better than your circumstances. Men are
happiest when they are in harmony with their circumstances.
I venture to say that the men you left behind you were contented
enough. What is the use of throwing children out of
all pleasant relations with their condition? I don't blame you
for wanting to have your children educated, but I am sure that
educating working people is a mistake. Work is their life;
and they worked a great deal better and were a great deal happier
when they knew less. Now isn't it so, Mr. Bonnicastle?
isn't it so?”

Quite unwittingly Mr. Bradford had touched my father's
sensitive point, and as there was something in the gentleman's

manner that inspired the conversational faculties of all with
whom he came in contact, my father's tongue was loosed, and
it did not stop until the gentleman had no more to say.

“Well, if we differ, we'll agree to differ,” said he, at last;
“but now you want work, and I will speak to some of my
friends about you. Bonnicastle—Peter Bonnicastle, I think?”

My father nodded, and said—“a name I inherit from I do
not know how many great-grandfathers.”

“Your ancestor was not Peter Bonnicastle of Roxbury?”

“That is what they tell me.”

“Peter Bonnicastle of Roxbury!”

“Ay, Peter Bonnicastle of Roxbury.”

“By Jove, man! Do you know you've got the bluest blood
in your veins of any man in Bradford?”

I shall never forget the pleased and proud expression that
came into the faces of my father and mother as these words
were uttered. What blue blood was, and in what its excellence
consisted, I did not know; but it was something to be
proud of—that was evident.

“Peter Bonnicastle of Roxbury! Ah yes! Ah yes! I understand
it. It's all plain enough now. You are a gentleman
without knowing it—a gentleman trying in a blind way to get
back to a gentleman's conditions. Well, perhaps you will; I
shall not wonder if you do.”

It was my first observation of the reverence for blood that I
have since found to be nearly universal. The show of contempt
for it which many vulgar people make is always an affectation,
unless they are very vulgar indeed. My father, who,
more than any man I ever knew, respected universal humanity,
and ignored class distinctions, was as much delighted and
elevated with the recognition of his claims to good family
blood as if he had fallen heir to the old family wealth.

“And what is this lad's name?” inquired Mr. Bradford,
pointing over his shoulder toward me.

“My name is Arthur Bonnicastle,” I replied, taking the
words out of my father's mouth.

“And Arthur Bonnicastle has a pair of ears and a tongue,”
responded Mr. Bradford, turning to me with an amused expression
upon his face.

I took the response as a reproof, and blushed painfully.

“Tut, tut, there is no harm done, my lad,” said he, rising
and coming to a chair near me, and regarding me very kindly.
“You know you had neither last night,” he added, feeling my
hand and forehead to learn if there were any feverish reaction.

I was half sitting, half lying on a lounge near the window,
and he changed his seat from the chair to the lounge so that
he sat over me, looking down into my face. “Now,” said he,
regarding me very tenderly, and speaking gently, in a tone
that was wholly his own, “we will have a little talk all by ourselves.
What have you been thinking about? Your mouth
has been screwed up into ever-so-many interrogation points
ever since your father and I began to talk.”

I laughed at the odd fancy, and told him I should like to
ask him a few questions.

“Of course you would. Boys are always full of questions.
Ask as many as you please.”

“I should like to ask you if you own this town,” I began.

“Why?”

“Because,” I answered, “you have the same name the town
has.”

“No, my lad, I own very little of it; but my great-grandfather
owned all the land it stands on, and the town was
named for him, or rather he named it for himself.”

“Was his blood blue?” I inquired.

He smiled and whistled in a comical way, and said he was
afraid that it wasn't quite so blue as it might have been.

“Is yours?”

“Well, that's a tough question,” he responded. “I fancy
the family blood has been growing blue for several generations,
and perhaps there's a little indigo in me.”

“Do you eat anything in particular?” I inquired.

“No, nothing in particular; it isn't made in that way.”

“How is it made?” I inquired.

“That's a tough question, too,” he replied.

“Oh! if you can't answer it,” I said, “don't trouble yourself;
but do you think Jesus Christ had blue blood?”

“Why yes—yes indeed. Wasn't he the son of David—
when he got back to him—and wasn't David a King?”

“Oh! that's what you mean by blue blood;—and that's
another thing,” I said.

“What do you mean by another thing, my boy?” inquired
Mr. Bradford.

“I was thinking,” I said, “that my father was a carpenter,
and so was his; and so his blood was blue and mine too. And
there are lots of other things that might have been true.”

“Tell me all about them,” said my interlocutor. “What
have you been thinking about?”

“Oh!” I said, “I've been thinking that if my father had lived
when his father lived, and if they had lived in the same country,
perhaps they would have worked in the same shop and on the
same houses; and then perhaps Jesus Christ and I should have
played together with the blocks and shavings. And then,
when he grew up and became so wonderful, I should have grown
up and perhaps been one of the apostles, and written part of
the Bible, and preached and healed the sick, and been a martyr,
and gone to heaven, and—and—I don't know how many other
things.”

“Well, I rather think you would, by Jove,” he said, rising
to his feet, impulsively.

“One thing more, please,” I said, stretching my hands up to
him. He sat down again, and put his face close to mine. “I
want to tell you that I love you.”

His eyes filled with tears; and he whispered: “Thank you,
my dear boy: love me always. Thank you.”

Then he kissed me again and turned to my father. “I think
you are entirely right in coming to Bradford,” I heard him say.
“I don't think I should like to see this little chap going back
to the woods again, even if I could have my own way about it.”

For some minutes he walked the room backward and forward,
sometimes pausing and looking out of the window. My father
saw that he was absorbed, and said nothing. At length he
stopped suddenly before my father and said: “This is the
strangest affair I ever knew. Here you come out of the woods
with this large family, without the slightest idea what you are
going to do—with no provision for the future whatever. How
did you suppose you were going to get along?”

How well I remember the quiet, confident smile with which
my father received his strong, blunt words, and the trembling
tone in which he replied to them!

“Mr. Bradford,” said he, “none of us takes care of himself.
I am not a wise man in worldly things, and I am obliged to
trust somebody; and I know of no one so wise as He who
knows all things, or so kind as He who loves all men. I
do the best I can, and I leave the rest to Him. He has never
failed me in the great straits of my life, and He never will. I
have already thanked Him for sending you to me yesterday;
and I believe that by His direction you are to be, as you have
already been, a great blessing to me. I shall seek for work,
and with such strength as I have I shall do it, and do it well. I
shall have troubles and trials, but I know that none will come
that I cannot transform, and that I am not expected to transform,
into a blessing. If I am not rich in money when the
end comes, I shall be rich in something better than money.”

Mr. Bradford took my father's hand, and shaking it warmly,
responded: “You are already rich in that which is better than
money. A faith like yours is wealth inestimable. You are a
thousand times richer than I am to-day. I beg your pardon,
Mr. Bonnicastle, but this is really quite new to me. I have
heard cant and snuffle, and I know the difference. If the Lord
doesn't take care of such a man as you are, he doesn't stand
by his friends, that's all.”

My father's reverence was offended by this familiar way of
speaking a name which was ineffably sacred to him, and he
made no reply. I could see, too, that he felt that the humility

with which he had spoken was not fully appreciated by Mr.
Bradford.

Suddenly breaking the thread of the conversation, Mr. Bradford
said: “By the way, who is your landlord? I ought to
know who owns this little house, but I don't.”

“The landlord is not a landlord at all, I believe. The owner
is a landlady, though I have never seen her—a Mrs. Sanderson
—Ruth Sanderson.”

“Oh! I know her well, and ought to have known that this is
her property,” said Mr. Bradford. “I have nothing against the
lady, though she is a little odd in her ways; but I am sorry
you have a woman to deal with, for, so far as I have observed,
a business woman is a screw by rule, and a woman without a
business faculty and with business to do is a screw without
rule.”

In the midst of the laugh that followed Mr. Bradford's
axiomatic statement he turned to the window, and exclaimed:
“Well, I declare! here she comes.”

I looked quickly and saw a curious turn-out approaching the
house. It was an old-fashioned chaise, set low between two
high wheels, drawn by a heavy-limbed and heavy-gaited black
horse, and driven by a white-haired, thin-faced old man. Beside
the driver sat a little old woman; and the first impression
given me by the pair was that the vehicle was much too large
for them, for it seemed to toss them up and catch them, and to
knock them together by its constant motion. The black horse,
who had a steady independent trot, that regarded neither stones
nor ruts, made directly for our door, stopped when he found
the place he wanted, and then gave a preliminary twitch at the
reins and reached down his head for a nibble at the grass.
The man sat still, looking straight before him, and left the little
old woman to alight without assistance; and she did alight in
a way which showed that she had little need of it. She was
dressed entirely in black, with the exception of the white
widow's cap drawn tightly around a little face set far back
in a deep bonnet. She had a quick, wiry, nervous way in

walking; and coming up the path that led through a little garden
lying between the house and the street, she cast furtive
glances left and right, as if gathering the condition of her property.
Then followed a sharp rap at the door.

The absorbed and embarrassed condition of my father and
mother was evident in the fact that neither started to open the
door; but Dennis, coming quickly in from an adjoining room
where he was busy, opened it, and Mr. Bradford went forward
to meet her in the narrow hall. He shook her hand in his
own cordial and stately way, and said jocularly: “Well,
Madame, you see we have taken possession of your snug little
house.”

Her lips, which were compressed and thin as if she were
suffering pain, parted in a faint smile, and her dark, searching
eyes looked up to him in a kind of questioning wonder. There
was nothing in her face that attracted me. I remember only
that I felt moved to pity her, she seemed so small, and
lonely, and careworn. Her hands were the tiniest I had ever
seen, and were merely little bundles of bones in the shape of
hands.

“Let me present your tenants to you, Mrs. Sanderson, and
commend them to your good opinion,” said Mr. Bradford.

She stood quietly and bowed to my father and mother, who
had risen to greet her. I was young, but quick in my instincts,
and I saw at once that she regarded a tenant as an inferior,
with whom it would not do to be on terms of social familiarity.

“Do you find the house comfortable?” she inquired, speaking
in a quick way and addressing my father.

“Apparently so,” he answered; and then he added: “we
are hardly settled yet, but I think we shall get along very well
in it.”

“With your leave I will go over it, and see for myself,” she
said quietly.

“Oh, certainly!” responded my father. “My wife will go
with you.”

“If she will; but I want you, too.”

They went off together, and I heard them for some minutes
talking around in the different parts of the house.

“Any more questions?” inquired Mr. Bradford with a
smile, looking over to where I sat on the lounge.

“Yes, sir,” I replied. “I have been wondering whether
that lady has a crack in the top of her head.”

“Well, I shouldn't wonder if she had a very, very small
one,” he replied; “and now what started that fancy?”

“Because,” I continued, “if she is what you call a screw, I
was wondering how they turned her.”

“Well, my boy, it is so very small indeed,” said Mr. Bradford,
putting on a quizzical look, “that I'm afraid they can't
turn her at all.”

When the lady came back she seemed to be ready to go
away at once; but Mr. Bradford detained her with the story of
the previous night's experiences, including the accident that
had happened to me. She listened sharply, and then came
over to where I was sitting, and asked me if I were badly hurt.
I assured her I was not. Then she took one of my plump
hands in her own little grasp, and looked at me in a strange,
intense way without saying a word.

Mr. Bradford interrupted her, with an eye to business, by
saying: “Mr. Bonnicastle, your new tenant here, is a carpenter;
and I venture to say that he is a good one. We must do
what we can to introduce him to business.”

She turned with a quick motion on her heel, and bent her
eyes on my father. “Bonnicastle?” said she, with almost a
fierce interrogation.

“Oh! I supposed you knew his name, Mrs. Sanderson,”
said Mr. Bradford; and then he added, “but I presume your
agent did not tell you.”

She made no sign to show that she had heard a word that
Mr. Bradford had said.

“Peter Bonnicastle,” said my father, breaking the silence
with the only words he could find.

“Peter Bonnicastle!” she repeated almost mechanically,
and continued standing as if dazed.

She stood with her back toward me, and I could only guess
at her expression, or the strangely curious interest of the scene,
by its reflection in Mr. Bradford's face. He sat uneasily in his
chair, and pressed the head of his cane against his chin, as if
he were using a mechanical appliance to keep his mouth shut.
He knew the woman before him, and was determined to be
wise. Subsequently I learned the reason of it all—of his
silence at the time, of his reticence for months and even years
afterward, and of what sometimes seemed to me and to my
father like coolness and neglect.

The silence was oppressive, and my father, remembering
the importance which Mr. Bradford had attached to the fact,
and moved by a newly awakened pride, said: “I am one of
many Peters, they tell me, the first of whom settled in Roxbury.

“Roxbury?” and she took one or two steps toward him.
“You are sure?”

“Perfectly sure,” responded my father.

She made no explanation, but started for the door, dropping
a little bow as she turned away. Mr. Bradford was on his feet
in a moment, and, opening the door for her, accompanied her
into the street. I watched them from the window. They
paused just far enough from the driver of the chaise to be beyond
his hearing, and conversed for several minutes. I could
not doubt that Mr. Bradford was giving her his impression of
us. Then he helped her into the chaise, and the little gray-haired
driver, gathering up his reins, and giving a great pull at
the head of the black horse, which seemed fastened to a
particularly strong tuft of grass, turned up the street and drove
off, tossing and jolting in the way he came.

There was a strong, serious, excited expression on Mr.
Bradford's face as he came in. “My friend,” said he, taking
my father's hand, “this is a curious affair. I cannot explain
it to you, and the probabilities are that I shall have less to do
with and for you than I supposed I might have. Be sure,

however, that I shall always be interested in your prosperity;
and never hesitate to come to me if you are in serious trouble.
And now let me ask you never to mention my name to Mrs.
Sanderson, with praise; never tell her if I render you a
service. I know the lady, and I think it quite likely that you
will hear from her in a few days. In the mean time you will
be busy in making your family comfortable in your new home.”
Then he spoke a cheerful word to my mother, and bade us all
a good-morning, only looking kindly at me instead of bestowing
upon me the coveted and expected kiss.

When he was gone, my father and mother looked at each
other with a significant glance, and I waited to hear what they
would say. If I have said little about my mother, it is because
she had very little to say for herself. She was a weary, worn
woman, who had parted with her vitality in the bearing and
rearing of her children and in hard and constant care and work.
Life had gone wrong with her. She had a profound respect for
practical gifts, and her husband did not possess them. She
had long since ceased to hope for anything good in life, and her
face had taken on a sad, dejected expression, which it never
lost under any circumstances. To my father's abounding hopefulness
she always opposed her obstinate hopelessness. This
was partly a matter of temperament, as well as a result of
disappointment. I learned early that she had very little faith
in me, or rather in any natural gifts of mine that in the future
might retrieve the fortunes of the family. I had too many of
the characteristics of my father.

I see the two now as they sat thinking and talking over the
events and acquaintances of the evening and the morning as
plainly as I saw them then—my father with his blue eyes all
alight, and his cheeks touched with the flush of excitement, and
my mother with her distrustful face, depreciating and questioning
everything. She liked Mr. Bradford. Mr. Bradford was a
gentleman; but what had gentlemen to do with them? It was
all very well to talk about family, but what was family good for
without money? Mr. Bradford had his own affairs to attend to,

and we should see precious little more of him! As for Mrs.
Sanderson, she did not like her at all. Poor people would get
very little consideration from an old woman whose hand was
too good to be given to a stranger who happened to be her
tenant.

I have wondered often how my father maintained his courage
and faith with such a drag upon them as my mother's morbid
sadness imposed, but in truth they were proof against every depressing
influence. Out of every suggestion of possible good
fortune he built castles that filled his imagination with almost a
childish delight. He believed that something good was soon
to come out of it all, and he was really bright and warm in the
smile of that Providence which had manifested itself to him in
these new acquaintances. I pinned my faith to my father's
sleeve, and believed as fully and as far as he did. There was
a rare sympathy between us. The great sweet boy that he was
and the little boy that I was, were one in a charming communion.
Oh God! that he should be gone and I here! He has
been in heaven long enough to have won his freedom, and I am
sure we shall kiss when we meet again!

Before the week closed, the gray-haired old servant of Mrs.
Sanderson knocked at the door, and brought a little note. It
was from his mistress, and read thus, for I copy from the faded
document itself:—

The note was read aloud, and it conveyed to my mind instantaneously
a fact which I did not mention, but which filled
me with strange excitement and pleasure. I remembered that
my name was not once mentioned while Mrs. Sanderson was in
the house. She had learned it therefore from Mr. Bradford,

while talking at the door. Mr. Bradford liked me, I knew, and
he had spoken well of me to her. What would come of it all?
So, with the same visionary hopefulness that characterized my
father, I plunged into a sea of dreams on which I floated over
depths paved with treasure, and under skies bright with promise,
until Monday morning dawned. When the early breakfast was
finished, and my father with unusual fervor of feeling had commended
his family and himself to the keeping and the blessing
of heaven, we started forth, he and I, hand in hand, with as
cheerful anticipations as if we were going to a feast.