University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

Mr. Elton was formerly a flourishing trader, or, in rustic
phrase, a merchant, in the village of —. In the early
part of his life he had been successful in business; and
having a due portion of that mean pride which is gratified by
pecuniary superiority, he was careful to appear quite as rich
as he was. When he was at the top of fortune's wheel, some
of his prying neighbors shrewdly suspected, that the show of
his wealth was quite out of proportion to the reality; and
their side-glances and prophetic whispers betrayed their contempt
of the offensive airs of the purse-proud man.

The people in the village of — were simple in their
habits, and economical in their modes of life; and Mr.
Elton's occasional indulgence in a showy piece of furniture,
or an expensive article of dress for himself or for his wife,

attracted notice, and, we fear, sometimes provoked envy, even
from those who were wiser and much better than he was. So
inconsistent are men—and women too—that they often envy
a display of which they really despise, and loudly condemn
the motive.

Mrs. Elton neither deserved nor shared the dislike her
husband received in full measure. On the contrary, she had
the good-will of her neighbors. She never seemed elated by
prosperity; and though she occasionally appeared in an expensive
Leghorn hat, a merino shawl, or a fine lace, the
gentleness and humility of her manners, and the uniform
benevolence of her conduct, averted the censure that would
otherwise have fallen on her. She had married Mr. Elton
when very young, without much consideration, and after a
short acquaintance. She had to learn, in the bitter way of
experience, that there was no sympathy between them; their
hands were indissolubly joined, but their hearts were not related;
he was “of the earth, earthy”—she “of the heavens,
heavenly.” She had that passiveness which, we believe, is
exclusively a feminine virtue (if virtue it may be called),
and she acquiesced silently and patiently in her unhappy
fate, though there was a certain abstractedness in her manner,
a secret feeling of indifference and separation from the
world, of which she, perhaps, never investigated, certainly
never exposed the cause.

Mr. Elton's success in business had been rather owing to
accidental circumstances, than to his skill or prudence; but
his vanity appropriated to himself all the merit of it. He
adventured rashly in one speculation after another, and failing
in them all, his losses were more rapid than his acquisitions
had been. Few persons have virtue enough to retrench
their expenses, as their income diminishes; and no virtue, of

difficult growth, could be expected from a character where no
good seed had ever taken root.

The morale, like the physique, needs use and exercise to
give it strength. Mrs. Elton's had never been thus invigorated.
She could not oppose a strong current. She had not
energy to avert an evil, though she would have borne patiently
any that could have been laid on her. She knew her
husband's affairs were embarrassed; she saw him constantly
incurring debts, which she knew they had no means of paying;
she perceived he was gradually sinking into a vice,
which, while it lulls the sense of misery, annihilates the capacity
of escaping from it—and yet she silently, and without
an effort, acquiesced in his faults. They lived on, as they
had lived, keeping an expensive table, and three or four servants,
and dressing as usual.

This conduct in Mrs. Elton, was the result of habitual
passiveness; in Mr. Elton, it was prompted by a vain hope
of concealing from his neighbors a truth, that, in spite of his
bustling, ostentatious ways, they had known for many months.
This is a common delusion. We all know that from the
habits of our people in a country town, it is utterly impossible
for the most watchful and skilful manœuverer, to keep his
pecuniary affairs secret from the keen and quick observation
of his neighbors. The expedients practised for concealment
are much like that of a little child, who shuts his own eyes,
and fancies he has closed those of the spectators; or in their
effect upon existing circumstances, may be compared to the
action of a frightened woman, who turns her back in a carriage
when the horses are leaping over a precipice.

It may seem strange, perhaps incredible, that Mrs. Elton,
possessing the virtues we have attributed to her, and being a
religious woman, should be accessory to such deception, and

(for we will call “things by their right names”) dishonesty.
But the wonder will cease if we look around upon the circle
of our acquaintance, and observe how few there are among
those whom we believe to be Christians, who govern their
daily conduct by Christian principles, and regulate their
temporal duties by the strict Christian rule. Truly, narrow
is the way of perfect integrity, and few there are that walk
therein.

There are too many who forget that our religion is not
like that of the ancients, something set apart from the ordinary
concerns of life; the consecrated, not the “daily bread;”
a service for the temple and the grove, having its separate
class of duties and pleasures; but is “the leaven that leaveneth
the whole lump,” a spirit to be infused into the common
affairs of life. We fear Mrs. Elton was not quite guiltless of
this fault. She believed all the Bible teaches. She had
long been a member of the church in the town where she
lived. She daily read the Scriptures, and daily offered sincere
prayers. Certainly the waters of the fountain from
whence she drank, had a salutary influence, though they
failed to heal all her diseases. She was kind, gentle, and uncomplaining;
and sustained, with admirable patience, the
growing infirmities and irritating faults of her husband. To
her child, she performed her duties wisely, and with an anxious
zeal; the result, in part, of uncommon maternal tenderness,
and in part, of a painful consciousness of the faults of
her own character, and perhaps, of a secret feeling she had
left much undone that she ought to do.

Mr. Elton, after his pecuniary embarrassments were beyond
the hope of extrication, maintained by stratagem the
appearance of prosperity for some months, when a violent fever
ended his struggle with the tide of fortune that had set

against him, and consigned him to that place where there is
“no more work nor device.” His wife was left quite destitute
with her child, then an interesting little girl, a little more
than twelve years old. A more energetic mind than Mrs.
Elton's might have been discouraged by the troubles which
were now set before her in all their extent, and with tenfold
aggravation; and she, irresolute, spiritless, and despondent,
sunk under them. She had, from nature, a slender constitution;
her health declined, and after lingering for some months,
she died with resignation, but not without a heart-rending
pang at the thought of leaving her child, poor, helpless, and
friendless.

Little Jane had nursed her mother with fidelity and tenderness,
and performed services for her, to which her years
seemed hardly adequate, with an efficiency and exactness
that surprised all who were prepared to find her a delicately
bred and indulged child. She seemed to have inherited nothing
from her father but his active mind: from her mother
she had derived a pure and gentle spirit; but this would
have been quite insufficient to produce the result of such a
character as hers, without the aid of her mother's vigilant,
and, for the most part, judicious training. In the formation
of her child's character, she had been essentially aided by a
faithful domestic, who had lived with her for many years and
nursed Jane in her infancy.

We know it is common to rail at our domestics. Their
independence is certainly often inconvenient to their employers;
but, as it is the result of the prosperous condition of all
classes in our happy country, it is not right nor wise to complain
of it. We believe there are many instances of intelligent
and affectionate service, that are rarely equalled, where
ignorance and servility mark the lower classes. Mary Hull

was endowed with a mind of uncommon strength, and an
affectionate heart. These were her jewels. She had been
brought up by a pious mother, and early and zealously embraced
the faith of the Methodists. She had the virtues of
her station in an eminent degree: practical good sense, industrious,
efficient habits, and handy ways. She never presumed
formally to offer her advice to Mrs. Elton; her instincts
seemed to define the line of propriety to her; but she had a
way of suggesting hints, of which Mrs. Elton learnt the value
by experience. This good woman had been called to a distant
place, to attend her dying mother, just before the death
of Mrs. Elton; and thus Jane was deprived of an able assistant,
and most tender friend, and left to pass through the
dismal scene of death, without any other than occasional
assistance from her compassionate neighbors.

On the day of Mrs. Elton's interment, a concourse of
people assembled to listen to the funeral sermon, and to follow
to the grave one who had been the object of the envy of
some, and of the respect and love of many. Three sisters of
Mr. Elton were assembled with their families.—Mrs. Elton
had come from a distant part of the country, and had no relatives
in —.

Jane's relations wore the decent gravity that became the
occasion; but they were of a hard race, and neither the
wreck their brother had made, nor the deep grief of the solitary
little creature, awakened their pity. They even seemed
to shun manifesting towards her the kindness of common
sympathy, lest it should be construed into an intention of
taking charge of the orphan.

Jane lost in the depths of her sufferings, seemed insensible
to all external things. Her countenance was of a deathlike
paleness, and her features immovable. In the course of

the sermon, agreeably to the usage established in such cases,
the clergyman made a personal address to her, as the nearest
relative and chief mourner. She was utterly unable to rise,
as she should have done in compliance with custom; and
one of her aunts shocked at the omission of what she considered
an essential decorum, took her by the arm, and almost lifted
her from her seat. She stood like a statue, her senses
seeming to take no cognizance of anything. Not a tear escaped,
nor a sigh burst from her breaking heart. The sorrow
of childhood is usually noisy, and this mute and motionless
grief, in a creature so young, and one that had been so happy,
touched every heart.

When the services were over, the clergyman supported the
trembling frame of the poor child to the place of interment.
The coffin was slowly let down into the house appointed for
all. Every one who has followed a dear friend to the grave,
remembers with shuddering the hollow sound of the first clods
that are thrown on the coffin. As they fell heavily, poor
Jane shrieked, “oh, mother!” and springing forward, bent
over the grave, which, to her, seemed to contain all the world.
The sexton, used as he was to pursue his trade amidst the
wailings of mourners, saw something peculiar in the misery
of the lone child. He dropped the spade, and hastily brushing
away the tears that blinded him with the sleeve of his
coat, “Why does not some one,” he said, “take away the
child? it beats all!—her heart's broke!” There was a general
bustle in the crowd, and two young ladies, more considerate,
or perhaps more tender-hearted, than the rest, kindly
passed their arms around her, and led her to her home

The clergyman of—was one of those who are more
zealous for sound doctrine, than benevolent practice: he had
chosen on that occasion for his text, “The wages of sin is

death,” and had preached a long sermon in the vain endeavour
of elucidating the doctrine of original sin. Clergymen who
lose such opportunities of instructing their people in the operations
of Providence, and the claims of humanity, ought not
to wonder if they grow languid, and selfish, and careless of
their most obvious duties. Had this gentleman improved
this occasion of illustrating the duty of sympathy, by dwelling
on the tenderness of our blessed Lord, when he wept with
the bereaved sisters at the grave of Lazarus: had he distilled
the essence of those texts, and diffused their gracious influence
into his sermon—“Bear ye one another's burthens;”
“Weep with those who weep;” “Inasmuch as ye have done
it unto one of these, ye have done it unto me:” had this
preaching usually been in conformity to the teaching of our
Saviour, could the scene have followed, which, as a part of
Jane Elton's story must be told.

We fear there are many who think there is merit in believing
certain doctrines; who, mistaking the true import of
that text, “by grace are ye saved,” quiet themselves with having,
once in their lives, passed through what they deemed
conviction and conversion, and from thence believe their salvation
is secure.

The house, furniture, and other property of Mr. Elton had
lain under an attachment for some time previous to Mrs. Elton's
death; but the sale had been delayed in consideration
of her approaching dissolution. It was now appointed for the
next week; and it therefore became necessary that some arrangement
should be made for the destitute orphan.

The day after the funeral, Jane was sitting in her mother's
room, which, in her eyes, was consecrated by her sickness and
death; the three aunts met at Mr. Elton's house; she heard
the ladies approaching through the adjoining apartment, and

hastily taking up her Bible, which she had been trying to
read, she drew her little bench behind the curtain of her mother's
bed. There is an instinct in childhood, that discerns
affection wherever it exists, and shrinks from the coldness of
calculating selfishness. In all their adversity, neither Jane,
nor her mother, had ever been cheered by a glimmering of
kindness from these relatives. Mrs. Elton had founded no
expectations on them for her child; but with her usual irresolution,
she had shrunk from preparing Jane's mind for the
shocks that awaited her.

The three sisters were led in by a young woman who had
offered to stay with Jane till some arrangement was made for
her. In reply to their asking where she was, the girl pointed
to the bed. “There,” she said, “taking on despertly.—A
body would think,” added she, “that she had lost her uncles
and aunts, as well as her father and mother. And she might
as well,” (she continued, in a tone low enough not to be heard,)
“for any good they will do her.”

The eldest sister began the conference by saying, “That
she trusted it was not expected she should take Jane upon
her hands—that she was not so well off as either of her
sisters—that to be sure she had no children; but then Mr.
Daggett and herself calculated to do a great deal for the Foreign
Missionary Society; that no longer ago than that morning,
Mr. D. and she had agreed to pay the expense of one of
the young Cherokees at the school at—; that there was
a great work going on in the world, and as long as they had
the heart given them to help it, they could not feel it their
duty to withdraw any aid for a mere worldly purpose!”

Mrs. Convers (the second sister) said that she had not any
religion, and she did not mean to pretend to any; that she
had ways enough to spend her money without sending it to

Owyhee, or the Foreign School; that she and her husband
had worked hard, and saved all for their children; and now
they meant they should make as good a figure as anybody's
children in the country. It took a great deal of money, she
said, to pay the dancing-master, and the drawing-master, and
the music-master; it was quite impossible for her sisters to
think how much it took to dress a family of girls genteely.
It was not now, as it used to be when we were girls; now-a-days,
girls must have merino shawls, and their winter hats,
and summer hats, and prunella shoes, and silk stockings;—it
was quite impossible to be decent without them. Besides, she
added, as she did not live in the same place with Jane, it
was not natural she should feel for her. It was her decided
opinion, that Jane had better be put out at once, at some
place where she could do light work till she was a little used
to it; and she would advise, too, to her changing her name;
the child was so young she could not care about a name, and
she should be much mortified to have it known, in the
town of—that her daughters had a cousin that was a
hired girl.

There was something in this harsh counsel which touched
Mrs. Wilson's (the younger sister's) pride, though it failed to
awaken a sentiment of humanity. She said she desired to be
thankful that she had been kept from any such sinful courses
as sending her children to a dancing-school; nobody could
say she had not done her duty by them; the minister's family
was not kept more strict than hers.

“No,” said Mrs. Convers, “and by all accounts is not
more disorderly.”

“Well, that is not our fault, Mrs. Convers, if we plant
and water, we cannot give the increase.”

Mrs. Wilson should have remembered that God does give

the increase to those that rightly plant, and faithfully water.
But Mrs. Wilson's tongue was familiar with many texts that
had never entered her understanding, or influanced her heart.

Mrs. Wilson continued—“Sister Convers, I feel it to be
my duty to warn you—you, the daughter and grand-daughter
of worthy divines who abhorred all such sinful practices, that
you should own that you send your children to dancing
school, astonishes and grieves my spirit. Do you know that
Mr. C—, in reporting the awakening in his parish, mentions
that not one of the girls that attended dancing school
were among the converts, whereas two, who had engaged to
attend it, but had received a remarkable warning in a dream,
were among the first and brightest?”

“I would as soon,” she continued, “follow one of my
children to the grave, as to see her in that broad road to destruction,
which leads through a ball-room.”

“It is easy enough,” replied Mrs. Convers, (adjusting her
smart mourning cap at the glass,) “to run down sins we have
no fancy for.”

Mrs. Wilson's ready answer was prevented by the entrance
of Jane's humble friend, who asked, if the ladies had
determined what was to be done with the little girl.

Mrs. Wilson in her vehemence had quite forgotten the
object of their meeting, but now brought back to it, and
instigated by a feeling of superiority to Mrs. Convers, and a
little nettled by the excuses of Mrs. Daggett, which she
thought were meant as a boast of superior piety, she said,
that as she had no dancing-masters to pay, and had not “that
morning agreed” to adopt a Cherokee—she could afford to
take Jane for a little while. The child, she said, must not
think of depending upon her for life; for though she was a
widow, and could do what she was a mind to her with her

own, she could not justify herself in taking the children's
meat—and she would have added—“to throw it to the dogs,”
—but she was interrupted by a person, who, unregarded by
the ladies, had taken her seat among them.

This was a middle aged woman, whose mind had been
unsettled in her youth by misfortunes. Having no mischievous
propensities, she was allowed to indulge her vagrant inclinations,
in wandering from house to house, and town to
town; her stimulated imagination furnishing continual amusement
to the curious by her sagacious observations, and unfailing
mirth to the young and vulgar, by the fanciful medley in
which she arrayed her person. There were some who noticed
in her a quickness of feeling that indicated original sensibility,
which, perhaps, had been the cause of her sufferings. The
dogs of a surly master would sometimes bark at her, because
her dress resembled the obnoxious livery of the beggar—a
class they had been taught to chase with pharisaical antipathy.
But except when her timid nature was alarmed by the onset
of dogs, which she always called the devil's servants, crazy
Bet found a welcome wherever she went.

It is common for persons in her unfortunate circumstances
to seek every scene of excitement. The sober, sedate manners
of the New England people, and the even tenor of their
lives, afford but few of these, and these few are, for the most
part, of a serious if not a gloomy character. Wherever there
was an awakening, or a camp meeting, crazy Bet was sure to
be found. She was often seen by moonlight, wandering in
the church-yard, plucking the nettles from the graves, and
wreathing the monuments with ground-pine. She would
watch for whole nights by the side of a grave in her native
village, where twenty years before were deposited the remains
of her lover, who was drowned on the day before they were

to have been married. She would range the woods, and
climb to the very mountain's-top, to get sweet flowers, to
scatter over the mound of earth that marked his grave. She
would plant rose bushes and lilies there, and when they
bloomed, pluck them up, because she said their purity and
brightness mocked the decay below.

She has been seen, when the sun came over the eastern
mountain's brow, and shot its first ray on the grave, to clap
her hands, and heard to shout, “I see an angel in the sun,
and he saith, `Blessed and holy is he that hath part in the
first resurrection: on such, the second death hath no power;
but they shall be priests of God and of Christ, and shall reign
with him a thousand years.”'

Poor Bet was sure to follow in every funeral procession,
and sometimes she would thrust herself amidst the mourners,
and say, “the dead could not rest in their graves, if they
were not followed there by one true mourner.” She has been
seen to spring forward when the men were carelessly placing
the coffin in the grave, with the head to the east, and exclaim,
“are ye heathens, that ye serve the dead thus? Know
ye not, the `Lord cometh in the east.”' She always lingered
behind after the crowd had dispersed, and busily moved and
removed the sods; and many a time has she fallen asleep,
with her head resting on the new-made grave, for, she said,
there was no sleep so quiet as `where the wicked did not
trouble.'

The quick eye of crazy Bet detected, through their thin
guise, the pride and hypocrisy and selfishness of the sisters.
She interrupted Mrs. Wilson as she was concluding her most
inappropriate quotation, `Throw it to the dogs;' said she, `It
is more like taking the prey from the wolf.' She then rose,
singing in an under voice,

She approached the bed, and withdrawing the curtain, exposed
the little sufferer to view. She had laid the open Bible
on the pillow, where she had often rested beside her mother,
and laying her cheek on it, had fallen asleep. It was open at
the 5th chapter of John, which she had so often read to her
mother, that she had turned instinctively to it. The page
was blistered with her tears.

Careless of the future, which to her seemed to admit no
light, her exhausted nature had found relief in sleep, at the
very moment her aunts were so unfeelingly deciding her fate.
Her pale cheek, still wet with her tears, and the deep sadness
of a face of uncommon sweetness, would have warmed with
compassion any breast that had not been steeled by selfishness.

“Shame, shame, upon you!” said the maniac; “has pride
turned your hearts to stone, that ye cannot shelter this poor
little ewe-lamb in your fold? Ah! ye may spread your
branches, like the green bay tree, but the tempest will come,
and those who look for you shall not find you; but this little
frost-bitten bud shall bloom in the paradise of God for ever
and ever.”

Untying a piece of crape which she had wound around her
throat, (for she was never without some badge of mourning.)
she stooped and gently wiped the tears from Jane's cheek,
saying, in a low tone, “Bottles full of odours, which are the
tears of saints; then rising, she carefully closed the curtains,
and busied herself for some minutes in pinning them together.
She then softly, and on tiptoe, returned to her seat; and taking

some ivy from her broken straw-bonnet, began twisting
it with the crape. “This,” said she, “is a weed for Elder
Carrol's hat; he lost his wife yesterday, and I have been to
the very top of Taghconnick to get him a weed, that shall
last fresh as long as his grief. See,” added she, and she held
it up, laughing, “it has begun to wilt already; it is a true
token.”

She then rose from her seat, and with a quick step, between
running and walking, left the room; but returning as
suddenly, she said slowly and emphatically, “Offend not this
little one; for her angel does stand before my Father. It
were better that a mill-stone were hanged about your neck.”
Then, courtseying to the ground, she left them.

Bet's solemn and slow manner of pronouncing this warning,
was so different from her usually hurried utterance, that
it struck a momentary chill to the hearts of the sisters. Mrs.
Daggett was the first to break the silence.

“What does she mean?” said she. “Has Jane experienced
religion?”

“Experienced religion! — no,” replied Mrs. Wilson.
“How should she? She has not been to a meeting since her
mother was first taken sick; and no longer ago than the day
after her mother's death, when I talked to her of her corrupt
state by nature, and the opposition of her heart, (for I felt it
to be my duty, at this peculiar season, to open to her the
great truths of religion, and I was faithful to her soul, and
did not scruple to declare the whole counsel,) she looked at
me as if she was in a dumb stupor. I told her the judgments
of an offended God were made manifest towards her in a remarkable
manner; and then I put it to her conscience,
whether if she was sure her mother had gone where the worm
dieth not, and the fire is not quenched, she should be reconciled

to the character of God, and be willing herself to promote
his glory, by suffering the like condemnation? She did
not reply one word, or give the least symptom of a gracious
understanding. But when Mrs. Harvey entered, just as I
was concluding, and passed her arm around Jane, and said to
her, `My child, God does not willingly grieve or afflict you,
the child sobbed out, `Oh no! Mrs. Harvey, so my mother
told me, and I am sure of it.”

“No, no,” she added, after a moment's hesitation; “this
does not look as if Jane had a hope. But, sister Daggett, I
wonder you should mind any thing crazy Bet says. She is
possessed with as many devils as were sent out of Mary Magdalen.”

“I don't mind her, Mrs. Wilson; but I know some very
good people who say, that many a thing she has foretold has
come to pass; and especially in seasons of affliction, they say,
she is very busy with the devil.”

“I don't know how that may be,” replied Mrs. Wilson;
“but as I mean to do my duty by this child, I don't feel
myself touched by Bet's crazy ranting.”

Mrs. Daggett, nettled by her sister's hint, rose, and said,
that, as she was going in the afternoon to attend a meeting
in a distant part of the town, (“for,” said she, “no one can
say that distance or weather ever keeps me from my duties,”)
she had no more time to waste.

Mrs. Convers' husband drove to the door in a smart gig,
and she took leave of her sisters, observing, she was glad the
child was going to be so well provided for. As she drove
away, crazy Bet, who was standing by the gate, apparently
intently reading the destiny of a young girl, in the palm of
her hand, fixed her eyes for a moment on Mrs. Convers, and

whispered to the girl, “All the good seed that fell on that
ground was choked by thorns long ago.”

Mrs. Wilson told Jane's attendant, Sally, to inform her,
she might come to her house the next day, and stay there for
the present.