University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
THE GARRET-BOUDOIR.

We suppose the heroine of a novel, among
other privileges and immunities, has a prescriptive
right to her own private boudoir, where, as a
French writer has it, “she appears like a lovely
picture in its frame.”

Well, our little Mary is not without this luxury,
and to its sacred precincts we will give you this
morning a ticket of admission. Know, then, that
the garret of this gambrel-roofed cottage had a
projecting window on the seaward side, which
opened into an immensely large old apple-tree,
and was a look-out as leafy and secluded as a
robin's nest.

Garrets are delicious places in any case, for
people of thoughtful, imaginative temperament.
Who has not loved a garret in the twilight days
of childhood, with its endless stores of quaint,
cast-off, suggestive antiquity, — old worm-eaten
chests, — rickety chairs, — boxes and casks full of
odd comminglings, out of which, with tiny, childish

hands, we fished wonderful hoards of fairy
treasure? What peep-holes, and hiding-places, and
undiscoverable retreats we made to ourselves, —
where we sat rejoicing in our security, and bidding
defiance to the vague, distant cry which
summoned us to school, or to some unsavory
every-day task! How deliciously the rain came
pattering on the roof over our head, or the red
twilight streamed in at the window, while we sat
snugly ensconced over the delicious pages of some
romance, which careful aunts had packed away at
the bottom of all things, to be sure we should
never read it! If you have anything, beloved
friends, which you wish your Charley or your
Susie to be sure and read, pack it mysteriously
away at the bottom of a trunk of stimulating
rubbish, in the darkest corner of your garret;—
in that case, if the book be at all readable, one
that by any possible chance can make its way into
a young mind, you may be sure that it will
not only be read, but remembered to the longest
day they have to live.

Mrs. Katy Scudder's garret was not an exception
to the general rule. Those quaint little people
who touch with so airy a grace all the lights
and shadows of great beams, bare rafters, and unplastered
walls, had not failed in their work there.
Was there not there a grand easy-chair of stamped-leather,
minus two of its hinder legs, which had

genealogical associations through the Wilcoxes
with the Vernons and through the Vernons quite
across the water with Old England? and was
there not a dusky picture, in an old tarnished
frame, of a woman of whose tragic end strange
stories were whispered, — one of the sufferers in
the time when witches were unceremoniously helped
out of the world, instead of being, as now-a-days,
helped to make their fortune in it by table-turning?

Yes, there were all these things, and many more
which we will not stay to recount, but bring you to
the boudoir which Mary has constructed for herself
around the dormer-window which looks into the
whispering old apple-tree.

The inclosure was formed by blankets and bed-spreads,
which, by reason of their antiquity, had
been pensioned off to an undisturbed old age in
the garret, — not common blankets or bed-spreads,
either, — bought, as you buy yours, out of a shop,
— spun or woven by machinery, — without individuality
or history. Every one of these curtains
had its story. The one on the right, nearest the
window, and already falling into holes, is a Chinese
linen, and even now displays unfaded, quaint patterns
of sleepy-looking Chinamen, in conical hats
standing on the leaves of most singular herbage,
and with hands forever raised in act to strike bells,
which never are struck and never will be till the

end of time. These, Mrs. Katy Scudder had often
instructed Mary, were brought from the Indies by
her great-great-grandfather, and were her grandmother's
wedding-curtains, — the grandmother who
had blue eyes like hers and was just about her
height.

The next spread was spun and woven by Mrs.
Katy's beloved Aunt Eunice, — a mythical personage,
of whom Mary gathered vague accounts that
she was disappointed in love, and that this very
article was part of a bridal outfit, prepared in vain,
against the return of one from sea, who never came
back, — and she heard of how she sat wearily and
patiently at her work, this poor Aunt Eunice, month
after month, starting every time she heard the gate
shut, every time she heard the tramp of a horse's
hoof, every time she heard the news of a sail in
sight, — her color, meanwhile, fading and fading as
life and hope bled away at an inward wound, —
till at last she found comfort and reunion beyond
the veil.

Next to this was a bed-quilt pieced in tiny blocks,
none of them bigger than a sixpence, containing,
as Mrs. Katy said, pieces of the gowns of all her
grandmothers, aunts, cousins, and female relatives
for years back, — and mated to it was one of the
blankets which had served Mrs. Scudder's uncle in
his bivouac at Valley Forge, when the American
soldiers went on the snows with bleeding feet, and

had scarce anything for daily bread except a morning
message of patriotism and hope from George
Washington.

Such were the memories woven into the tapestry
of our little boudoir. Within, fronting the
window, stands the large spinning-wheel, one end
adorned with a snowy pile of fleecy rolls, — and
beside it, a reel and a basket of skeins of yarn, —
and open, with its face down on the beam of the
wheel, lay always a book, with which the intervals
of work were beguiled.

The dusky picture of which we have spoken
hung against the rough wall in one place, and in
another appeared an old engraved head of one of
the Madonnas of Leonardo da Vinci, a picture
which to Mary had a mysterious interest, from the
fact of its having been cast on shore after a furious
storm, and found like a waif lying in the seaweed;
and Mrs. Marvyn, who had deciphered the
signature, had not ceased exploring till she found
for her, in an Encyclopædia, a life of that wonderful
man, whose greatness enlarges our ideas of
what is possible to humanity, — and Mary pondering
thereon, felt the seaworn picture as a constant
vague inspiration.

Here our heroine spun for hours and hours, —
with intervals, when, crouched on a low seat in
the window, she pored over her book, and then,
returning again to her work, thought of what

she had read to the lulling burr of the sounding
wheel.

By chance a robin had built its nest so that
from her retreat she could see the five little blue
eggs, whenever the patient brooding mother left
them for a moment uncovered. And sometimes,
as she sat in dreamy reverie, resting her small,
round arms on the window-sill, she fancied that
the little feathered watcher gave her familiar nods
and winks of a confidential nature, — cocking the
small head first to one side and then to the other,
to get a better view of her gentle human neighbor.

I dare say it seems to you, reader, that we have
travelled in our story, over a long space of time,
because we have talked so much and introduced
so many personages and reflections; but, in fact,
it is only Wednesday week since James sailed, and
the eggs which were brooded when he went are
still unhatched in the nest, and the apple-tree has
changed only in having now a majority of white
blossoms over the pink buds.

This one week has been a critical one to our
Mary; — in it, she has made the great discovery,
that she loves; and she has made her first step
into the gay world; and now she comes back to
her retirement to think the whole over by herself.
It seems a dream to her, that she who sits there
now reeling yarn in her stuff petticoat and white
short-gown is the same who took the arm of

Colonel Burr amid the blaze of wax-lights and the
sweep of silks and rustle of plumes. She wonders
dreamily as she remembers the dark, lovely
face of the foreign Madame, so brilliant under its
powdered hair and flashing gems, — the sweet, foreign
accents of the voice, — the tiny, jewelled fan,
with its glancing pictures and sparkling tassels,
whence exhaled vague and floating perfumes; then
she hears again that manly voice, softened to tones
so seductive, and sees those fine eyes with the
tears in them, and wonders within herself that he
could have kissed her hand with such veneration,
as if she had been a throned queen.

But here the sound of busy, pattering footsteps
is heard on the old, creaking staircase, and soon
the bows of Miss Prissy's bonnet part the folds
of the boudoir drapery, and her merry, May-day
face looks in.

“Well, really, Mary, how do you do, to be sure?
You wonder to see me, don't you? but I thought
I must just run in, a minute, on my way up to
Miss Marvyn's. I promised her at least a half-a-day,
though I didn't see how I was to spare it, —
for I tell Miss Wilcox I just run and run till it
does seem as if my feet would drop off; but I
thought I must just step in to say, that I, for
my part, do admire the Doctor more than ever, and
I was telling your mother we mus'n't mind too
much what people say. I 'most made Miss Wilcox

angry, standing up for him; but I put it right
to her, and says I, `Miss Wilcox, you know folks
must speak what's on their mind, — in particular
ministers must; and you know, Miss Wilcox,' I
says, `that the Doctor is a good man, and lives up
to his teaching, if anybody in this world does, and
gives away every dollar he can lay hands on to
those poor negroes, and works over 'em and teaches
'em as if they were his brothers'; and says I,
`Miss Wilcox, you know I don't spare myself, night
nor day, trying to please you and do your work
to give satisfaction; but when it comes to my
conscience,' says I, `Miss Wilcox, you know I always
must speak out, and if it was the last word
I had to say on my dying bed, I'd say that I think
the Doctor is right.' Why! what things he told
about the slave-ships, and packing those poor creatures
so that they couldn't move nor breathe! —
why, I declare, every time I turned over and
stretched in bed, I thought of it; — and says I,
`Miss Wilcox, I do believe that the judgments of
God will come down on us, if something a'n't
done, and I shall always stand by the Doctor,'
says I; — and, if you'll believe me, just then I turned
round and saw the General; and the General, he
just haw-hawed right out, and says he, `Good for
you, Miss Prissy! that's real grit,' says he, `and I
like you better for it.' — Laws,” added Miss Prissy,
reflectively, “I sha'n't lose by it, for Miss Wilcox
knows she never can get anybody to do the work
for her that I will.”

“Do you think,” said Mary, “that there are a
great many made angry?”

“Why, bless your heart, child, haven't you heard?
— Why, there never was such a talk in all Newport.
Why, you know Mr. Simeon Brown is gone
clear off to Dr. Stiles; and Miss Brown, I was
making up her plum-colored satin o' Monday, and
you ought to 'a' heard her talk. But, I tell you,
I fought her. She used to talk to me,” said Miss
Prissy, sinking her voice to a mysterious whisper,
“'cause I never could come to it to say that I
was willin' to be lost, if it was for the glory of
God; and she always told me folks could just
bring their minds right up to anything they knew
they must; and I just got the tables turned on
her, for they talked and abused the Doctor till
they fairly wore me out, and says I, `Well, Miss
Brown, I'll give in, that you and Mr. Brown do
act up to your principles; you certainly act as if
you were willing to be damned'; — and so do all
those folks who will live on the blood and groans
of the poor Africans, as the Doctor said; and I
should think, by the way Newport people are making
their money, that they were all pretty willing
to go that way, — though, whether it's for the glory
of God, or not, I'm doubting. — But you see,
Mary,” said Miss Prissy, sinking her voice again

to a solemn whisper, “I never was clear on that
point; it always did seem to me a dreadful high
place to come to, and it didn't seem to be given
to me; but I thought, perhaps, if it was necessary,
it would be given, you know, — for the Lord
always has been so good to me that I've faith to
believe that, and so I just say, `The Lord is my
shepherd, I shall not want'”; — and Miss Prissy
hastily whisked a little drop out of her blue eye
with her handkerchief.

At this moment, Mrs. Scudder came into the
boudoir with a face expressive of some anxiety.

“I suppose Miss Prissy has told you,” she said,
“the news about the Browns. That'll make a
great falling off in the Doctor's salary; and I feel
for him, because I know it will come hard to him
not to be able to help and do, especially for these
poor negroes, just when he will. But then we
must put everything on the most economical scale
we can, and just try, all of us, to make it up to
him. I was speaking to Cousin Zebedee about it,
when he was down here, on Monday, and he is
all clear; — he has made out free papers for Candace
and Cato and Dinah, and they couldn't, one
of 'em, be hired to leave him; and he says, from
what he's seen already, he has no doubt but
they'll do enough more to pay for their wages.”

“Well,” said Miss Prissy, “I haven't got anybody
to care for but myself. I was telling sister

Elizabeth, one time, (she's married and got four
children,) that I could take a storm a good deal
easier than she could, 'cause I hadn't near so
many sails to pull down; and now, you just look
to me for the Doctor's shirts, 'cause, after this, they
shall all come in ready to put on, if I have to sit
up till morning. And I hope, Miss Scudder, you
can trust me to make them; for if I do say it myself,
I a'n't afraid to do fine stitching 'longside of
anybody, — and hemstitching ruffles, too; and I
haven't shown you yet that French stitch I learned
of the nuns; — but you just set your heart at
rest about the Doctor's shirts. I always thought,”
continued Miss Prissy, laughing, “that I should
have made a famous hand about getting up that
tabernacle in the wilderness, with the blue and the
purple and fine-twined linen; it's one of my favorite
passages, that is; — different things, you know,
are useful to different people.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Scudder, “I see that it's our
call to be a remnant small and despised, but I
hope we sha'n't shrink from it. I thought, when
I saw all those fashionable people go out Sunday,
tossing their heads and looking so scornful, that I
hoped grace would be given me to be faithful.”

“And what does the Doctor say?” said Miss
Prissy.

“He hasn't said a word; his mind seems to be
very much lifted above all these things.”

“La, yes,” said Miss Prissy, “that's one comfort;
he'll never know where his shirts come from;
and besides that, Miss Scudder,” she said, sinking
her voice to a whisper, “as you know, I haven't
any children to provide for, — though I was telling
Elizabeth t'other day, when I was making up
frocks for her children, that I believed old maids,
first and last, did more providing for children than
married women; but still I do contrive to slip
away a pound-note, now and then, in my little old
silver tea-pot that was given to me when they settled
old Mrs. Simpson's property, (I nursed her all
through her last sickness, and laid her out with
my own hands,) and, as I was saying, if ever the
Doctor should want money, you just let me know.”

“Thank you, Miss Prissy,” said Mrs. Scudder;
“we all know where your heart is.”

“And now,” added Miss Prissy, “what do you
suppose they say? Why, they say Colonel Burr
is struck dead in love with our Mary; and you
know his wife's dead, and he's a widower; and
they do say that he'll get to be the next President.
Sakes alive! Well, Mary must be careful,
if she don't want to be carried off; for they do say
that there can't any woman resist him, that sees
enough of him. Why, there's that poor French
woman, Madame — what do you call her, that's
staying with the Vernons? — they say she's over
head and ears in love with him.”

“But she's a married woman,” said Mary; “it
can't be possible.”

Mrs. Scudder looked reprovingly at Miss Prissy,
and for a few moments there was great shaking
of heads and a whispered conference between the
two ladies, ending in Miss Prissy's going off, saying,
as she went down stairs, —

“Well, if women will do so, I, for my part,
can't blame the men.”

In a few moments Miss Prissy rushed back as
much discomposed as a clucking hen who has
seen a hawk.

“Well, Miss Scudder, what do you think?
Here's Colonel Burr come to call on the ladies!”

Mrs. Scudder's first movement, in common with
all middle-aged gentlewomen, was to put her hand
to her head and reflect that she had not on her
best cap; and Mary looked down at her dimpled
hands, which were blue from the contact with
mixed yarn she had just been spinning.

“Now, I'll tell you what,” said Miss Prissy, —
“wasn't it lucky you had me here? for I first saw
him coming in at the gate, and I whipped in
quick as a wink and opened the best-room window-shutters,
and then I was back at the door,
and he bowed to me as if I'd been a queen, and
says he, `Miss Prissy, how fresh you're looking
this morning!' You see, I was in working at the
Vernons', but I never thought as he'd noticed me.

And then he inquired in the handsomest way for
the ladies and the Doctor, and so I took him into
the parlor and settled him down, and then I ran
into the study, and you may depend upon it I
flew round lively for a few minutes. I got the
Doctor's study-gown off, and got his best coat on,
and put on his wig for him, and started him up
kinder lively, — you know it takes me to get him
down into this world, — and so there he's in talking
with him; and so you can just slip down and
dress yourselves, — easy as not.

Meanwhile Colonel Burr was entertaining the
simple-minded Doctor with all the grace of a
young neophyte come to sit at the feet of superior
truth. There are some people who receive
from Nature as a gift a sort of graceful facility
of sympathy, by which they incline to take on,
for the time being, the sentiments and opinions of
those with whom they converse, as the chameleon
was fabled to change its hue with every surrounding.
Such are often supposed to be wilfully acting
a part, as exerting themselves to flatter and
deceive, when in fact they are only framed so sensitive
to the sphere of mental emanation which
surrounds others that it would require an exertion
not in some measure to harmonize with it. In approaching
others in conversation, they are like a
musician who joins a performer on an instrument,
it is impossible for them to strike a discord;

their very nature urges them to bring into play
faculties according in vibration with those which
another is exerting. It was as natural as possible
for Burr to commence talking with the Doctor on
scenes and incidents in the family of President
Edwards, and his old tutor, Dr. Bellamy, — and
thence to glide on to the points of difference and
agreement in theology, with a suavity and deference
which acted on the good man like a June
sun on a budding elm-tree. The Doctor was soon
wide awake, talking with fervent animation on
the topic of disinterested benevolence, — Burr the
mean while studying him with the quiet interest
of an observer of natural history, who sees a new
species developing before him. At all the best
possible points he interposed suggestive questions,
and set up objections in the quietest manner for
the Doctor to knock down, smiling ever the while
as a man may who truly and genuinely does not
care a sou for truth on any subject not practically
connected with his own schemes in life. He therefore
gently guided the Doctor to sail down the
stream of his own thoughts till his bark glided
out into the smooth waters of the Millennium, on
which, with great simplicity, he gave his views at
length.

It was just in the midst of this that Mary and
her mother entered. Burr interrupted the conversation
to pay them the compliments of the morning,

— to inquire for their health, and hope they
suffered no inconvenience from their night-ride
from the party; then, seeing the Doctor still
looking eager to go on, the contrived with gentle
dexterity to tie again the broken thread of conversation.

“Our excellent friend,” he said, “was explaining
to me his views of a future Millennium. I
assure you, ladies, that we sometimes find ourselves
in company which enables us to believe in
the perfectibility of the human species. We see
family retreats, so unaffected, so charming in their
simplicity, where industry and piety so go hand
in hand! One has only to suppose all families
such, to imagine a Millennium.”

There was no disclaiming this compliment, because
so delicately worded, that, while perfectly
clear to the internal sense, it was, in a manner,
veiled and unspoken.

Meanwhile the Doctor, who sat ready to begin
where he left off, turned to his complaisant
listener and resumed an exposition of the Apocalypse.

“To my mind, it is certain,” he said, “as it is
now three hundred years since the fifth vial was
poured out, there is good reason to suppose that
the sixth vial began to be poured out at the beginning
of the last century, and has been running
for a hundred years or more, so that it is

run nearly out; the seventh and last vial will begin
to run early in the next century.”

“You anticipate, then, no rest for the world for
some time to come?” said Burr.

“Certainly not,” said the Doctor, definitively;
“there will be no rest from overturnings till He
whose right it is shall come.

“The passage,” he added, “concerning the drying
up of the river Euphrates, under the sixth
vial, has a distinct reference, I think, to the account
in ancient writers of the taking of Babylon,
and prefigures, in like manner, that the resources
of that modern Babylon, the Popish power, shall
continue to be drained off, as they have now been
drying up for a century or more, till, at last, there
will come a sudden and final downfall of that
power. And after that will come the first triumphs
of truth and righteousness, — the marriage-supper
of the Lamb.”

“These investigations must undoubtedly possess
a deep interest for you, Sir,” said Burr; “the
hope of a future as well as the tradition of a
past age of gold seems to have been one of the
most cherished conceptions of the human breast.”

“In those times,” continued the Doctor, “the
whole earth will be of one language.”

“Which language, Sir, do you suppose will be
considered worthy of such preëminence?” inquired
his listener.

“That will probably be decided by an amicable
conference of all nations,” said the Doctor; “and
the one universally considered most raluable will
be adopted; and the literature of all other nations
being translated into it, they will gradually drop
all other tongues. Brother Stiles thinks it will
be the Hebrew. I am not clear on that point.
The Hebrew seems to me too inflexible, and
not sufficiently copious. I do not think,” he added,
after some consideration, “that it will be
the Hebrew tongue.”

“I am most happy to hear it, Sir,” said Burr,
gravely; “I never felt much attracted to that language.
But, ladies,” he added, starting up with
animation, “I must improve this fine weather to
ask you to show me the view of the sea from
this little hill beyond your house, it is evidently
so fine; — I trust I am not intruding too far on
your morning?”

“By no means, Sir,” said Mrs. Scudder, rising;
“we will go with you in a moment.”

And soon Colonel Burr, with one on either arm,
was to be seen on the top of the hill beyond the
house, — the very one from which Mary, the week
before, had seen the retreating sail we all wot of.
Hence, though her companion contrived, with the
adroitness of a practised man of gallantry, to direct
his words and looks as constantly to her as if
they had been in a tête-a-tête, and although nothing

could be more graceful, more delicately flattering,
more engaging, still the little heart kept equal poise;
for where a true love has once bolted the door, a
false one serenades in vain under the window.

Some fine, instinctive perceptions of the real
character of the man beside her seemed to have
dawned on Mary's mind in the conversation of the
morning; — she had felt the covert and subtle
irony that lurked beneath his polished smile, felt
the utter want of faith or sympathy in what she
and her revered friend deemed holiest, and therefore
there was a calm dignity in her manner of
receiving his attentions which rather piqued and
stimulated his curiosity. He had been wont to
boast that he could subdue any woman, if he
could only see enough of her; in the first interview
in the garden, he had made her color come
and go and brought tears to her eyes in a manner
that interested his fancy, and he could not resist
the impulse to experiment again. It was a
new sensation to him, to find himself quietly studied
and calmly measured by those thoughtful blue
eyes; he felt, with his fine, instinctive tact, that
the soul within was infolded in some crystalline
sphere of protection, transparent, but adamantine,
so that he could not touch it. What was that
secret poise, that calm, immutable centre on which
she rested, that made her, in her rustic simplicity,
so unapproachable and so strong?

Burr remembered once finding in his grand-father's
study, among a mass of old letters, one
in which that great man, in early youth, described
his future wife, then known to him only by distant
report. With his keen natural sense of everything
fine and poetic, he had been struck with this
passage, as so beautifully expressing an ideal
womanhood, that he had in his earlier days copied
it in his private recueil.

“They say,” it ran, “that there is a young lady
who is beloved of that Great Being who made
and rules the world, and that there are certain
seasons in which this Great Being, in some way
or other invisible, comes to her and fills her mind
with such exceeding sweet delight, that she hardly
cares for anything except to meditate on him; that
she expects, after a while, to be received up where
he is, to be raised up out of the world and caught
up into heaven, being assured that he loves her too
well to let her remain at a distance from him
always. Therefore, if you present all the world
before her, with the richest of its treasures, she
disregards it. She has a strange sweetness in her
mind, and singular purity in her affections; and
you could not persuade her to do anything wrong
or sinful, if you should give her all the world.
She is of a wonderful sweetness, calmness, and
universal benevolence of mind, especially after this
great God has manifested himself to her mind.

She will sometimes go from place to place singing
sweetly, and seems to be always full of joy and
pleasure; and no one knows for what. She loves
to be alone, walking in fields and groves, and
seems to have some invisible one always conversing
with her.”

A shadowy recollection of this description crossed
his mind more than once, as he looked into those
calm and candid eyes. Was there, then, a truth
in that inner union of chosen souls with God, of
which his mother and her mother before her had
borne meek witness, — their souls shining out as
sacred lamps through the alabaster walls of a
temple?

But then, again, had he not logically met and
demonstrated, to his own satisfaction, the nullity
of the religious dogmas on which New England
faith was based? There could be no such inner
life, he said to himself, — he had demonstrated it
as an absurdity. What was it, then, — this charm,
so subtile and so strong, by which this fair child,
his inferior in age, cultivation, and knowledge of
the world, held him in a certain awe, and made
him feel her spirit so unapproachable? His curiosity
was piqued. He felt stimulated to employ
all his powers of pleasing. He was determined,
that, sooner or later, she should feel his power.

With Mrs. Scudder his success was immediate;
she was completely won over by the deferential

manner with which he constantly referred himself
to her matronly judgments; and, on returning to
the house, she warmly pressed him to stay to
dinner.

Burr accepted the invitation with a frank and
almost boyish abandon, declaring that he had not
seen anything, for years, that so reminded him of
old times. He praised everything at table, — the
smoking brown-bread, the baked beans steaming
from the oven, where they had been quietly simmering
during the morning walk, and the Indian
pudding, with its gelatinous softness, matured by
long and patient brooding in the motherly old
oven. He declared that there was no style of
living to be compared with the simple, dignified
order of a true New England home, where servants
were excluded, and everything came direct
from the polished and cultured hand of a lady.
It realized the dreams of Arcadian romance. A
man, he declared, must be unworthy the name,
who did not rise to lofty sentiments and heroic
deeds, when even his animal wants were provided
for by the ministrations of the most delicate and
exalted portion of the creation.

After dinner he would be taken into all the
family interests. Gentle and pliable as oil, he
seemed to penetrate every joint of the ménage by
a subtile and seductive sympathy. He was interested
in the spinning, in the weaving, — and in

fact, nobody knows how it was done, but, before
the afternoon shadows had turned, he was sitting
in the cracked arm-chair of Mary's garret-boudoir,
gravely giving judgment on several specimens of
her spinning, which Mrs. Scudder had presented
to his notice.

With that ease with which he could at will
glide into the character of the superior and elder
brother, he had, without seeming to ask questions,
drawn from Mary an account of her reading, her
studies, her acquaintances.

“You read French, I presume?” he said to her,
with easy negligence.

Mary colored deeply, and then, as one who recollects
one's self, answered, gravely, —

“No, Mr. Burr, I know no language but my
own.”

“But you should learn French, my child,” said
Burr, with that gentle dictatorship which he could
at times so gracefully assume.

“I should be delighted to learn,” said Mary,
“but have no opportunity.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Scudder, — “Mary has always
had a taste for study, and would be glad to improve
in any way.”

“Pardon me, Madam, if I take the liberty of
making a suggestion. There is a most excellent
man, the Abbé Léfon, now in Newport, driven
here by the political disturbances in France; he is

anxious to obtain a few scholars, and I am interested
that he should succeed, for he is a most
worthy man.”

“Is he a Roman Catholic?”

“He is, Madam; but there could be no manner
of danger with a person so admirably instructed
as your daughter. If you please to see him,
Madam, I will call with him some time.”

“Mrs. Marvyn will, perhaps, join me,” said Mary.
“She has been studying French by herself
for some time, in order to read a treatise on astronomy,
which she found in that language. I
will go over to-morrow and see her about it.”

Before Colonel Burr departed, the Doctor requested
him to step a moment with him into his
study. Burr, who had had frequent occasions during
his life to experience the sort of paternal freedom
which the clergy of his country took with
him in right of his clerical descent, began to summon
together his faculties of address for the avoidance
of a kind of conversation which he was not
disposed to meet. He was agreeably disappointed,
however, when, taking a paper from the table, and
presenting it to him, the Doctor said, —

“I feel myself, my dear Sir, under a burden of
obligation for benefits received from your family,
so that I never see a member of it without casting
about in my own mind how I may in some
measure express my good-will towards him. You

are aware that the papers of your distinguished
grandfather have fallen into my hands, and from
them I have taken the liberty to make a copy of
those maxims by which he guided a life which
was a blessing to his country and to the world.
May I ask the favor that you will read them with
attention? and if you find anything contrary to
right reason or sober sense, I shall be happy to
hear of it on a future occasion.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” said Burr, bowing. “I
shall always be sensible of the kindness of the
motive which has led you to take this trouble on
my account. Believe me, Sir, I am truly obliged
to you for it.”

And thus the interview terminated.

That night, the Doctor, before retiring, offered
fervent prayers for the grandson of his revered
master and friend, praying that his father's and
mother's God might bless him and make him a
living stone in the Eternal Temple.

Meanwhile, the object of these prayers was sitting
by a table in dressing-gown and slippers,
thinking over the events of the day. The paper
which Doctor Hopkins had handed him contained
the celebrated “Resolutions” by which his ancestor
led a life nobler than any mere dogmas can
possibly be. By its side lay a perfumed note
from Madame de Frontignac, — one of those
womanly notes, so beautiful, so sacred in them

selves, but so mournful to a right-minded person
who sees whither they are tending. Burr opened
and perused it, — laid it by, — opened the document
that the Doctor had given, and thoughtfully
read the first of the “Resolutions”: —

“Resolved, That I will do whatsoever I think
to be most to God's glory, and my own good
profit and pleasure in the whole of my duration,
without any consideration of time, whether now
or never so many myriad ages hence.

“Resolved, To do whatever I think to be my
duty and most for the good and advantage of
mankind in general.

“Resolved, To do this, whatsoever difficulties I
meet with, and how many and how great soever.”

Burr read the whole paper through attentively
once or twice, and paused thoughtfully over many
parts of it. He sat for some time after, lost in
reflection; the paper dropped from his hand, and
then followed one of those long, deep seasons of
fixed reverie, when the soul thinks by pictures
and goes over endless distances in moments. In
him, originally, every moral faculty and sensibility
was as keenly strung as in any member of that
remarkable family from which he was descended,
and which has, whether in good or ill, borne
no common stamp. Two possible lives flashed
before his mind at that moment, rapidly as when
a train sweeps by with flashing lamps in the

night. The life of worldly expediency, the life of
eternal rectitude, — the life of seventy years, and
that life eternal in which the event of death is no
disturbance. Suddenly he roused himself, picked
up the paper, filed and dated it carefully, and laid
it by; and in that moment was renewed again
that governing purpose which sealed him, with
all his beautiful capabilities, as the slave of the
fleeting and the temporary, which sent him at
last, a shipwrecked man, to a nameless, dishonored
grave.

He took his pen and gave to a friend his own
views of the events of the day.