University of Virginia Library

31. CHAPTER XXXI.
WHAT SHALL WE DO WITH TINA?

To this came the following reply: —

This was an era in our lives. Harry and I from this time felt
ourselves to be men, and thereafter adopted the habit of speaking

of ourselves familiarly as “a man of my character,” “a man
of my age,” and “a man in my circumstances.” The comfort
and dignity which this imparted to us were wonderful. We
also discussed Tina in a very paternal way, and gravely considered
what was best for her. We were, of course, properly
shocked at the behavior of the schoolmaster, and greatly applauded
her spirit in defending herself against his presumption.

Then Tina had told Harry and me all about her trouble with
the minister, and I remember at this time how extremely aged
and venerable I felt, and what quantities of good advice I gave
to Tina, which was all based on the supposition of her dangerously
powerful charms and attractions. This is the edifying kind
of counsel with which young gentlemen of my age instruct their
lady friends, and it will be seen at once that advice and admonition
which rest on the theory of superhuman excellence and
attractions in the advised party are far more agreeable than the
rough, common admonitions, generally addressed to boys at this
time of life, which are unseasoned by any such pleasing hallucination.

There is now a general plea in society that women shall be
educated more as men are, and we hear much talk as if the difference
between them and our sex is merely one of difference in
education. But how could it be helped that Tina should be educated
and formed wholly unlike Harry and myself, when every
address made to her from her childhood was of necessity wholly
different from what would be made to a boy in the same circumstances?
and particularly when she carried with her always that
dizzying, blinding charm which turned the head of every boy
and man that undertook to talk reason to her?

In my own mind I had formed my plan of life. I was to go
to college, and therefrom soar to an unmeasured height of literary
distinction, and when I had won trophies and laurels and renown,
I was to come back and lay all at Tina's feet. This was
what Harry and I agreed on, in many a conversation, as the
destined result of our friendship.

Harry and I had sworn friendship by all the solemn oaths and
forms known in ancient or modern history. We changed names

with each other, and in our private notes and letters addressed
each by the name of the other, and felt as if this was some sacred
and wonderful peculiarity. Tina called us both brothers, and
this we agreed was the best means of preserving her artless
mind unalarmed and undisturbed until the future hour of the
great declaration. As for Tina, she absolutely could not keep
anything to herself if she tried. Whatever agitated her mind or
interested it had to be told to us. She did not seem able to rest
satisfied with herself till she had proved to us that she was exactly
right, or made us share her triumphs in her achievements,
or her perplexity in her failures.

At this crisis Miss Mehitable talked very seriously and sensibly
with her little charge. She pointed out to her the danger of
living a trivial and superficial life, — of becoming vain, and living
merely for admiration. She showed her how deficient she had
been in those attainments which require perseverance and steadiness
of mind, and earnestly recommended her now to devote
herself to serious studies.

Nobody was a better subject to preach such a sermon to than
Tina. She would even take up the discourse and enlarge upon
it, and suggest new and fanciful illustrations; she entered into
the project of Miss Mehitable with enthusiasm; she confessed all
her faults, and resolved hereafter to become a pattern of the contrary
virtues. And then she came and related the whole conversation
to us, and entered into the project of devoting herself to
study with such a glow of enthusiasm, that we formed at once
the most brilliant expectations.

The town of Cloudland, whither we were going, was a two
days' journey up into the mountains; and, as travelling facilities
then were, it was viewed as such an undertaking to send us
there, that the whole family conclave talked gravely of it and discussed
it in every point of view, for a fortnight before we started.
Our Uncle Jacob, the good, meek, quiet farmer of whom I have
spoken, had a little business in regard to some property that
had been left by a relative of his wife in that place, and suggested
the possibility of going up with us himself. So weighty a
move was at first thrown out as a mere proposal to be talked of

in the family circle. Grandmother and Aunt Lois and Aunt
Keziah and my mother picked over and discussed this proposition
for days, as a lot of hens will pick over an ear of corn, turning
it from side to side, and looking at it from every possible
point of view. Uncle Fliakim had serious thoughts of offering
his well-worn equipage, but it was universally admitted that his
constant charities had kept it in such a condition of frailty that
the mountain roads would finish it, and thus deprive multitudes
of the female population of Oldtown of an establishment which
was about as much their own as if they had the care and keeping
of it.

I don't know anybody who could have been taken from Oldtown
whose loss would have been more universally felt and deplored
than little Miss Tina's. In the first place, Oldtown had
come into the way of regarding her as a sort of Child of the Regiment,
and then Tina was one of those sociable, acquaintance-making
bodies that have visited everybody, penetrated everybody's
affairs, and given a friendly lift now and then in almost
everybody's troubles.

“Why, lordy massy!” said Sam Lawson, “I don't know
nothin' what we 're any on us goin' to do when Tiny 's gone.
Why, there ain't a dog goes into the meetin'-house but wags his
tail when he sees her a comin'. I expect she knows about every
yellow-bird's nest an' blue jay's an' bobolink's an' meadow-lark's
that there 's ben round here these five years, an' how
they 's goin' to set an' hatch without her 's best known to 'emselves,
I s'pose. Lordy massy! that child can sing so like a
skunk blackbird that you can't tell which is which. Wal, I 'll
say one thing for her; she draws the fire out o' Hepsy, an' she 's
'bout the only livin' critter that can; but some nights when she 's
ben inter our house a playin' checkers or fox an' geese with the
child'en, she 'd railly git Hepsy slicked down so that 't was kind
o' comfortable bein' with her. I 'm sorry she 's goin', for my
part, an' all the child'en 'll be sorry.”

As for Polly, she worked night and day on Tina's outfit, and
scolded and hectored herself for certain tears that now and then
dropped on the white aprons that she was ironing. On the night

before Tina was to depart, Polly came into her room and insisted
upon endowing her with her string of gold beads, the only
relic of earthly vanity in which that severe female had ever been
known to indulge. Tina was quite melted, and fell upon her
neck.

“Why, Polly! No, no; you dear old creature, you, you 've
been a thousand times too good for me, and I 've nearly plagued
the life out of you, and you sha' n't give me your poor, dear, old
gold beads, but keep them yourself, for you 're as good as gold any
day, and so it 's a great deal better that you should wear them.”

“O Tina, child, you don't know my heart,” said Polly, shaking
her head solemnly; “if you could see the depths of depravity
that there are there!”

“I don't believe a word of it, Polly.”

“Ah! but, you see, the Lord seeth not as man sees, Tina.”

“I know he don't,” said Tina; “he 's a thousand times kinder,
and makes a thousand more excuses for us than we ever do for
ourselves or each other. You know the Bible says, `He knoweth
our frame, he remembereth that we are dust.'”

“O Tina, Tina, you always was a wonderful child to talk,”
said Polly, shaking her head doubtfully; “but then you know
the heart is so deceitful, and then you see there 's the danger that
we should mistake natural emotions for grace.”

“O, I dare say there are all sorts of dangers,” said Tina; “of
course there are. I know I 'm nothing but just a poor little
silly bird; but He knows it too, and he 's taken care of ever
so many such little silly people as I am, so that I 'm not afraid.
He won't let me deceive myself. You know, when that bird got
shut in the house the other day, how much time you and I and
Miss Mehitable all spent in trying to keep it from breaking its
foolish head against the glass, and flying into the fire, and all that,
and how glad we were when we got it safe out into the air. I 'm
sure we are not half as good as God is, and, if we take so much
care about a poor little bird that we did n't make and had nothing
to do with, he must care a good deal more about us when
we are his children. And God is all the Father I have or ever
knew.”

This certainly looked to Polly like very specious reasoning,
but, after all, the faithful creature groaned in spirit. Might not
this all be mere natural religion and not the supernatural grace?
So she said trembling: “O Tina, did you always feel so towards
God? wa' n't there a time when your heart rose in opposition to
him?”

“O, certainly,” said Tina, “when Miss Asphyxia used to talk
to me about it, I thought I never wanted to hear of him, and I
never said my prayers; but as soon as I came to Aunty, she was
so loving and kind that I began to see what God must be like, —
because I know he is kinder than she can be, or you, or anybody
can be. That 's so, is n't it? You know the Bible says his loving-kindness
is infinite.”

The thing in this speech which gave Polly such peculiar satisfaction
was the admission that there had been a definite point of
time in which the feelings of her little friend had undergone a
distinct change. Henceforth she was better satisfied, — never
reflecting how much she was trusting to a mere state of mind
in the child, instead of resting her faith on the Almighty Friend
who so evidently had held her in charge during the whole of
her short history.

As for me, the eve of my departure was to me one of triumph.
When I had seen all my father's Latin books fairly stowed away
in my trunk, with the very simple wardrobe which belonged to
Harry and me, and the trunk had been shut and locked and
corded, and we were to start at sunrise the next morning, I felt
as if my father's unfulfilled life-desire was at last going to be
accomplished in me.

It was a bright, clear, starlight night in June, and we were
warned to go to bed early, that we might be ready in season the
next morning. As usual, Harry fell fast asleep, and I was too
nervous and excited to close my eyes. I began to think of the
old phantasmagoria of my childish days, which now so seldom
appeared to me. I felt stealing over me that peculiar thrill and
vibration of the great central nerves which used to indicate the
approach of those phenomena, and, looking up, I saw distinctly
my father, exactly as I used to see him, standing between the

door and the bed. It seemed to me that he entered by passing
through the door, but there he was, every line and lineament
of his face, every curl of his hair, exactly as I remembered it.
His eyes were fixed on mine with a tender human radiance.
There was something soft and compassionate about the look
he gave me, and I felt it vibrating on my nerves with that
peculiar electric thrill of which I have spoken. I learned by
such interviews as these how spirits can communicate with one
another without human language.

The appearance of my father was vivid and real even to the
clothing that he used to wear, which was earthly and homelike,
precisely as I remembered it. Yet I felt no disposition to
address him, and no need of words. Gradually the image faded;
it grew thinner and fainter, and I saw the door through it as if
it had been a veil, and then it passed away entirely.

What are these apparitions? I know that this will be read
by many who have seen them quite as plainly as I have, who,
like me, have hushed back the memory of them into the most
secret and silent chamber of their hearts.

I know, with regard to myself, that the sight of my father was
accompanied by such a vivid conviction of the reality of his
presence, such an assurance radiated from his serene eyes that
he had at last found the secret of eternal peace, such an intense
conviction of continued watchful affection and of sympathy in the
course that I was now beginning, that I could not have doubted
if I would. And when we remember that, from the beginning of
the world, some such possible communication between departed
love and the beloved on earth has been among the most cherished
legends of humanity, why must we always meet such
phenomena with a resolute determination to account for them
by every or any supposition but that which the human heart
most craves? Is not the great mystery of life and death made
more cruel and inexorable by this rigid incredulity? One would
fancy, to hear some moderns talk, that there was no possibility
that the departed, even when most tender and most earnest,
could, if they would, recall themselves to their earthly friends.

For my part, it was through some such experiences as these

that I learned that there are truths of the spiritual life which are
intuitive, and above logic, which a man must believe because he
cannot help it, — just as he believes the facts of his daily experience
in the world of matter, though most ingenious and unanswerable
treatises have been written to show that there is no
proof of its existence.