Margaret a tale of the real and the ideal, blight and bloom ; including sketches of a place not before described, called Mons Christ |
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 | 2. | PART II.
YOUTH. |
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| 2. |
 | Margaret |  |
2. PART II.
YOUTH.
1. CHAPTER I.
SPRING.—ROSE.—MARGARET KEEPS SCHOOL.—SUNDRY MATTERS.—MR.
ANONYMOUS.
This Part commences with an omission of five or six
years, the particulars of which one familiar with life at the
Pond will be at no loss to supply. Margaret has pursued
the tenor of her way, even or uneven, as the case may be;
assisting her mother, entertaining her father, the companion
of Chilion, and the pupil of the Master. If variety in unity
be the right condition of things, then her life has been quite
philosophical. She has made considerable progress in her
studies, pursued for the most part in a line suggested by the
peculiarities of her instructor.
It is spring; Hash is about beginning his annual labor
of making maple sugar and burning coal; Margaret has
promised him her aid, and then she is to have her own time.
She carries the alder spouts to the Maples, rights the
troughs that have been lying overturned under the trees,
and kindles a fire beneath the large iron kettle that hangs
from a pole supported between two rocks. Wreathing the
trailing arbutus in her hair and making a baldric of the
ground-laurel, with a wooden yoke stretched across her
shoulders she carries two pails full of sap from the trees to
the boiler. With a stick having a bit of pork on the end,
she graduates the walloping sirup when it is likely to
remote and less accessible part of the camp. The neighbors,
boys and girls, come in at the “sugaring off;” the
“wax” is freely distributed to be cooled on lumps of snow
or the axe-head; some toss it about in long, flexile, fantastic
lines, some get their mouths burnt, all are merry. Her
mother “stirs it off,” and a due quantity of the “quick” and
“alive” crystal sweet is the result, a moiety of which is
destined to the Smiths, at No. 4, in consideration for the use
of the lot, and another portion to Deacon Penrose's for other
well-known objects.
The coal-pit, lying farther up the road, on the Via
Salutaris, next demanded attention. She helped clear off
the rubbish, and remove the sod to make a foundation for
the kiln and prevent the fire spreading. She lent a hand
also in stacking the wood, covering the pile with turf, and
constructing a lodge of green boughs, where her brother
would stay during the night; one whole night she herself
watched with him. Then she raked up the chips about the
house, and with a twig broom swept the dirt from the newspringing
grass; she hoed out the gutter where the water
ran from the cistern, and washed and aired her own
little chamber. The cackling of the hens drew her in
search of their eggs in the manger and over the hay-mow
in the barn. So four or five weeks pass away, and her own
play-spell comes, if, indeed, her whole life were not a play-spell.
She would replenish her flower-bed, and goes into the
woods to gather rare plants. She has books of natural
history with which the Master kept her supplied. The
forests at their first leafing and infloresence present an
incipient autumual appearance, in the variety of colors and
marked divisions of the trees, but the whole effect is thinned,
merging into a dim silver look, and might be taken for
high fields of grass in a bright dewy morning. She turned
over logs and stones, and let loose to the light and air tribes
of caterpillars, beetles and lizzards, that had harbored there
all winter. The ants open their own habitations by demolishing
the roof, which they convert into a redoubt; and she
watched them coming up from their dark troglodital abodes
bringing the fine grit in their teeth, and stepped with a
kind caution among these groups of dumb, moneyless,
industrious Associationists. Toads, piebald, chunk-shaped,
shrugged and wallowed up from their torpid beds, and
winked their big eyes at her.
The birds are going on with their grand opera, and she
and the sun, who is just raising his eye glass above the
trees, are the sole unoccupied spectators. Her father perhaps
has some interest in the scene; he sits in the front
door, pipe in mouth, the smoke rolling over his ruddy pate
and muffling his blear eyes, but he contrives to laugh lustily,
and his flabby dimensions shake like a bowl of jelly.
She has caught a harry-long-legs and holds it by one of its
shanks, while she very soberly inspects the book before her,
to find out more about it than it is disposed to tell of itself.
Chilion used to love to go into the woods with her and
point out the different birds, gather rare flowers, and discover
green knolls and charming frescoes where she could
sit. But he is lame now, and cannot walk far, having never
recovered from the injury he received some years before,
searching for her in the windfall. Besides, he never said
much, and what value he put upon things that interested
her, she could never precisely understand. He is engaged
withal thwacking with his axe a long white ash stick, the
successive layers of which being loosened, he tears off to
employment. So she enjoys the world quite alone, and not
the less for that, since she has always done so.
The place flows with birds, and they flow with song;
robins, wrens, song-sparrows, thrushes, cat-birds, cow-buntings,
goldfinches, indigo birds, swallows, martens;
loons and bitterns on the water; and deep in the forest
olive-backs, veeries, oven-birds, to say nothing of a huge
turkey gobbling in the road, a rooster crowing on the fence,
and ducks quacking in the ditches. A varied note breaks
upon her, which if she is able to distinguish, she can do
better perhaps than some of our readers, who will hardly
thank us for giving names to what after all is very perceptible
to the practised ear; twittering, chirping, warbling,
squeaking, screaming, shrieking, cawing, cackling, humming,
cooing, chattering, piping, whistling, mewing, hissing,
trilling, yelping.
Chilion is passionately attached to music in his own way,
is master even of some of its technicalities, and Margaret
in this matter is his pupil; and it requires no great
effort for her to discern a general hallelujah in this
sylvan concert; affetuoso, con dolce and con furia are
agreeably intermingled; nor are there wanting those besides
herself to encore the strain. She is no Priapus to
drive the birds away; but as if she were a bramble-net,
their notes are caught in her ears, even if their feet are
not seized by her fingers as they winnow the air, wheel,
dive and dally about her. They frisk in the trees, pursue
one another across the lots, start fugues in a double sense,
compete with their rivals, clamor for their mates, sing
amatory and convivial ditties, and describe more ridottoes
than the Italians.
Could we suppose sounds to be represented by ribbons
air some hundred feet from the ground, having in her hand
a knot of lutestrings of a hundred hues, blue, pink, white,
gold, silver, and every intermediate and combined shade
and lustre, and let them play out in the sun and wind, their
twisting, streaming, snapping, giddying, glancing, forking,
would be a fair symbol of the voices of the birds in the ear
of Margaret on this warm sunny spring morning.
Howbeit, the profusion of Nature offers other things to
her attention besides the birds; or rather we should say the
good Mother of all gives these beautiful voices wherewith
to purify the sensibilities of her children and animate them
in their several pursuits. Thus enlivened and impelled,
Margaret entered other departments of observation.
Shod with stout shoes, armed with a constitution inured
to all forces and mixtures of the elements, supported by a
resolution that neither snakes, bears, or a man could easily
abash, she penetrated a wet sedgy spot near the margin of
the Pond, where she found clusters of tall osmunds,
straight as an arrow, with white downy stems and black
seed-leaves, curling gracefully at the top in the form of a
Corinthian capital, and shining pearl-like in the sun with
their dew-spangled chaffy crowns; the little polypods with
green, feathery, carrot-shaped fronds, penetrating the solid
dry heaps of their decayed ancestry; and horsetails with
storied ruffs of supple spines: farther along were the
fleecy buds of the mouse-ear, bringing beautiful cloud-life
from the dank leaden earth; young mulleins, velvety, white,
tender, fit to ornament the gardens of Queen Mab; and
buttercup-sprouts with dense green leaves, waxen and
glistening: in the edge of the woods she gathered strawcolored,
pendulous flowers of the chaste bell-wort; liver-leaves,
with cups full of snow-capped threads; mosses, with
acorns, others with crimson flowers; there were also
innumerable germs of golden rod, blue vervain, and other
flowers, which at a later season should fill the hedges and
enliven the roads.
In the woods a solitary white birch, bedizened with long
yellow, black-spotted flowers, pulsating in the wind, and
having a scarlet tanager sitting in its thin sunny boughs,
attracted her eye by its own gentle beauty; in the grass
stood hundreds of snowdrops, like a bevy of girls in white
bonnets trooping through a meadow; quantities of the
slender, pink flowering wintergreen grew among the white
dogweed; and the twin-flower interlaced the partridge
berry. Within the forest was a broad opening, where she
loved to walk, and which at this time disclosed in high
perfection the beautiful verdure of spring. Here were
white oaks with minute white flowers, red oaks with bright
red flowers, red maples with still redder flowers, rock
maples with salmon-colored leaves, as it were birds fluttering
on one foot, or little pirouetting sylphs; a growth of
white birches spread itself before a sombre grove of pines,
like a pea-green veil. The path was strewn with old
claret boxberries, gray mosses, brown leaves, freaked with
fresh green shoots; and what with the flowers of the trees
illumined by the sun on either side, one could imagine her
walking an antique hall with tesseleated floor and particolored
gay hangings. This opening sloped to the shore of the
Pond, where under another clump of white birches she
sat down. The shadows of the trees refreshingly invested
her, the waves struck musically upon the rocks, and in the
clear air, her own thoughts sped like a breath away; the
vivacity of the birds was qualified by the advance of the
day, and while she had been delighted at first with what
she felt. She hummed herself in low song, which as it had
not rhyme, and perhaps not reason, we will not transcribe.
Some new tide of sensation bore her off, and she went up
the Via Salutaris to the brook Cedron. This she threaded
as far as the Tree-Bridge; golden blossoms of the alder
and willow overhung the dark stream; she passed thickets
of wild cherries in full snowy bloom; yellow adder's tongue
diversified green cowslips, pink columbines festooned the
gray rocks, red newts were sunning themselves on the
pebbles of the brook; she saw a veery building its nest in
a branch so low its young could be cradled in the music of
the stream; green, lank frogs sprang from her feet into the
swift eddies, and thrust up their heads on the other side,
like their cousins, the toads, to look at her; clear water
oozed from the slushy banks.
Crossing from the Via Dolorosa, through the Maples,
she came to rocks that abutted the south-east boundary line
of the elevated plain on which lay the basin of the Pond.
Descending this, on the slope below, were evergreens;
hereabouts also she discovered the splendid dogwood, and
the pretty saxifrage.
But a circumstance occurred that quite diverted her from
these things. She heard a sound issuing from the shady
side of a young pine, like that of a woman singing or
murmuring to itself. Stealing to the tree, through the
boughs, she beheld a young lady of nearly her own age
reclined on the dry leaves, whiling herself in rending to
shreds the bright crimson flowers of the red-bud or Judas
tree, and uttering plaintive broken sounds. This unknown
person was delicately fair, with a fine profile, and long
locks of golden hair trailing upon her neck; her hand was
snowy white, and fingers transparently thin. She wore a
side, and a brocaded camlet-hair shawl falling from her
shoulders discovered a bust of exquisite proportions. Her
complexion was white, almost too white for nature or health,
and her whole aspect betokened the subsidence and withdrawal
of proper youthful vigor. Margaret, quite spellbound,
gazed in silence. The young lady laughed as she
scattered the flowers, and there was a marvellous beauty in
her smile, melancholy though it seemed to be; and even to
Margaret's eye, who was not an adept in such matters, it
rayed out like the shimmer of a cardinal bird in a dark
wood. Margaret thought of the Pale Lady of her dreams,
and that she had suddenly dropped from the skies. She
saw the young lady press her thin fingers to her eyes as if
she wept, then she smiled again, and that smile penetrated
Margaret's heart, and she advanced from her ambuscade,
but spider-like, as if she were about to catch some fragile
vision of the fancy. The young lady sprang up at the
noise and ran. Margaret pursued, and with her familiarity
with the woods and fleetness of foot, she gained upon the
other, who turned and said rather abruptly, “Why do you
follow me?”
“Why do you run?” answered Margaret. “I would
not hurt you; let me hear your voice—let me take your
hand,” she continued. Her tone was kind, her manner
innocent, and the young lady seemed so far won as to be
willing to parley.
She rejoined, “I sought this spot to be away from the
faces of all.”
“How strange!” ejaculated Margaret. “Where is your
home? Are you from the village?”
“I have no home, but you are Molly Hart, whom they
have told me about.”
“I am Molly Hart; but say who are you, and what is
your name?”
“Those are questions I cannot answer.”
“You look very unhappy.”
“Were you ever unhappy?” asked the stranger.
“Not much,” replied Margaret, “I have always been
happy, I think.”
“You seem to be fond of flowers,” said the young lady.
“Are not you?”—
“I used to be;—I was going to say,” she added, “I will
help you carry your basket, and look for flowers with
you; only you must not ask me any questions.”
“Then I shall want to,” said Margaret.
“But you must not,” insisted the young lady.
“Very well,” replied Margaret, “you will be another
flower and bird to me, and equally unknown with all the
rest; nor will you give me less pleasure for that you are
unknown, since every thing else is.”
“Then I shall like you very much, if you will consent
to my being unknown; and perhaps in that way we can
contrive to amuse one another.”
They ascended the bluff, and returned through the woods
together.
“Have you found the snapdragon, that recoils when it is
touched?” asked the stranger.
“That does not come out in the spring,” said Margaret.
“But here are berries of the witch-hazel that blossomed
last fall.”
“And under our feet are withered dead leaves,” rejoined
the young lady.
“But they shone in vigorous starry brilliancy, after the
frosts pinched them,” said Margaret.
“Here is the morning glory,” said the young lady, as
they entered the Mowing, “that lasts but one hour.”
This female, as we have said, evinced great waste of
strength; hervoice was reduced in a corresponding degree,
though it was sweet and clear as her face was beautiful;
and there was something in her tone and manner of allusion
that signified a secret unexpressed state of being which
Margaret could not fail to remark, however far she might
be removed from its proper comprehension; and her replies
took the turn of one in whose breast, intuitively, will float
veiled images and be reflected therefrom indistinct recognizances
of latent deep realities in the breast of another.
“Look at this blue flag,” she said; “our neighbor, a
wise simpler, declares it will cure a host of diseases.”
“The stargrass there,” replied the other, “hides itself
in the rank verdure, and only asks to be.”
“The strawberry is very modest too, but its delicious fruit
is for you and me, and every body. Shall I never see you
again?” inquired Margaret emphatically. “Will you go
away as suddenly as you came? Will you not speak to
me? Have the naturalists given no account of such a
one as you? You say you have no home—do you live
under the trees? Where did you get that shawl and bonnet?
No name? No genus, no species? Come into the
house and let Chilion play to you.”
“You have seen the pond lily,” was the reply, playful
but sad, “that closes its cup at night, and sinks into the
water.”
“It springs up the next morning blooming as ever,” said
Margaret. “Besides, if only one had appeared in my life-time,
I should be tempted to plunge in after it, come what
might. You are very `anagogical,' as my Master says,
things. You remind me of a pale beautiful lady I have
seen in my dreams, only her hair is black.”
“The blood-root,” replied the imperturbable unknown,
“when it is broken loses its red juice.”
“In truth!” exclaimed Margaret. “Yet it is a very
pretty flower. I have a whole one just flowering in my
bed. Do go and see it. You love flowers, and I do too, and
perhaps they will talk you more to me.”
The young lady shook her head, “I cannot go now. I
am at the Widow Wright's; but do not follow me. You
are very happy, you say, and you have no need of me;
you are quite busy too, and I would not call you away.”
“Do give me a name,” urged Margaret, “some point
that I can seize hold upon you by, be it ever so small. I
am sure I shall dream about you.”
“Since you like flowers,” answered the young lady, “you
may call me Rose, but one without color, a white one.”
So they separated, and Margaret went to her house.
From the stock of plants she had gathered, she transferred
to her beds a spring-beauty, a rhodora, and winter-green, to
grow by the side of sweet brier, cardinal flowers, and others.
Chilion brought out a neatly made box in which he wished
her to set a venus-shoe or ladies-slipper.
It was not singular that Margaret should desire again to
see the strange young lady, who was called Rose, nor was
she at loss for opportunities to do so. She pursued her
sedulously, and even prevailed with her to come to her
father's. The spirit of Pluck seemed to rally this sad
being, and Chilion's music penetrated and charmed her
soul, albeit it failed to reveal the secret of her thoughts. It
was of different kind from any that she had heard before;
it operated as a simple melodious incantation, and did not,
and distress them. Chilion played in a wild untutored
way, catching his ideas from his own simple thoughts, and
from what of nature was comprised above and below the
horizon of the Pond, and this pleased her. Margaret,
sensitively alive to whatever pertained to the due understanding
of Rose, sometimes gave her brother a hint at
which he played; but there was developed so plain an
uneasiness within the concealed breast of the stranger, that
both were fain to forbear.
Rose came frequently to Pluck's; she loved to be with
Margaret and Chilion; even the sullen disposition of Hash
she evinced a facility for softening by her playful repartees
and beautiful smiles. She gained the favor of Brown Moll
by assisting Margaret, who rising in domestic as well as
natural science, had become equal to carding and spinning.
The dog too was not insensible to her tatractions, but with
an enlargement of heart not always found in the superior
races, while he fell off no whit in his original attachments,
he recognized her as a new lady-love, obeyed her voice,
followed her steps, wagged his tail at her smiles, and
leaped forwards to meet her as readily as he did Margaret.
Nothing could have been more diverting than to see Brown
Moll weaving, Margaret spinning, Rose carding, and Pluck
reduced to Margaret's childhood estate, occupying her little
stool, quilling; a sight often seen.
Rose and Margaret walked in the woods, sailed on the
Pond, and sometimes read together. Now also the peculiarities
of Rose appeared. She would absent herself from
Pluck's and Margaret whole days; she would stay at the
Widow's, between whom and herself some relationship was
claimed, and work silently with Obed in his herb-beds,
despite the most urgent solicitations of Margaret; she
questionings, no attentions, no generosity were adequate to
dislodge the secret that evidently labored in her breast, or
a part of which she may have been. The Widow, and
Obed, who took his cue from his mother, would answer
nothing for her; save that the latter called her his cousin.
At times she was cheerful, talkative, vivacious, even to
exuberance; in the same moment she would relapse into a
thoughtful and preoccupied state; not unfrequently she
wept. Margaret learned to acquiesce in these diversities,
at whatever expense of baffled solicitude. She was
delighted with the gushes of Rose's sprightliness, she was
overawed by her hidden pain, as by some great mystery of
nature, which nevertheless she sometimes essayed critically
to explore, sometimes humanely to compose; but the subject
only reminded her of her ignorance, though meanwhile it
haunted her with new and indefinable sensations of tenderness
and reflective philanthropy.
In the latter part of May the Master appeared at the
Pond, his thin gray face agreeably illumined by the pleasing
intelligence he bore, this, that he had negotiated the Village
School for Margaret. However Margaret might have
regarded this proposal, there was one consideration that
prevailed with her to accept it,—the pecuniary embarrassment
of the family. Pluck's whole estate was under
mortgage to Mr. Smith of No. 4, the original proprietor,
and retained indeed from year to year with a diminishing
prospect of redemption. That gentleman in fact threatened
an ejectment, and if relief were not soon afforded, dismemberment
and homelessness might at any moment become
their lot.
Pursuant to orders, the next day Margaret paid a visit
to Master Elliman's to receive such instructions as he felt
gave her to understand that there existed an opposition in
the minds of some of the people to her having the School,
but that he had secured the appointment through Parson
Welles, whom he persuaded to his views. He next advised
her as to the books to be used. He said the
children would read daily in the Psalter, recite every
Saturday morning from the Primer, and as to the Spelling
Book, the only remaining channel of elementary instruction,
he intimated there was a question. He informed her that
he learnt from Fenning's Universal, which was afterwards
supplanted by the New England, that many of the people
were clamorous for a change, which had been effected in
most of the towns; that one wanted Perry's Only Sure
Guide, another Dilworth, a third Webster's First Part;
and that he and Deacon Hadlock, who agreed in little else,
had hitherto been united in resisting scholastic innovations,
but the time was come when he supposed a concession must
be made to the wishes of the public.
“Compare,” said he, “the First Part, and the deific
Universal. Look at the pictures even. Young Noah, who
propounds to us his visage in the frontispiece of his book,
has doffed, you see, the wig, and is frizzed, much to the
alarm of your good friend Tony, who declares the introduction
of said book will ruin him. Those super-auricular
capillary appendages, hardened with pomatum, to what shall
we liken them, or with what similitude shall we set them
forth? They are like the eaves of a Chinese temple; or
in the vernacular of your brother Nimrod, they are like a
sheep's tail; yea, verily. But by a paradox, id est, by
digressing and returning, we will keep in the straight track.
The Deacon, the Parson and the Master, a megalosplanchnotical
triad, have recommended Hale's Spelling Book.
of late, he always knew how to say the right thing, as his
book abundantly teaches. Webster, moreover, advertises
us that & is no letter; the goal of every breathless, whipfearing,
abcdarian's valorous strife, the high-sounding Amperzand,
no letter! Mehercule! You apocopate that from
the aphabet, and Deacon Hadlock will apocopate you
from the School; yea, verily. It really signifies and per
se, that for your private edification, Mistress Margaret.
Moreover Perry makes twenty-six vowel sounds, Hale only
sixteen; Webster enumerates nine vowels, Hale five; Hale
preponderates in merit by reduction in number. Too many
words, Margaret, too many words among men. The fewer
vocals the better, as you will certainly know when you
have the children to instruct. In spelling, let the consonant
be suffixed to the last vowel thus, g-i v-e-n, not, g-i-v e-n,
as they do in this degenerate age. It is revolutionary and
monstrous. Hand me my pipe, I shall get angry. And,
memor sis, mea discipula, vox populi, vox dei. You have
asked me who God is; you will probably arrive at that
understanding as soon as you desire. “Here,” he continued,
presenting a heavy ebony ruler, “is what serves to keep
up the flammula vitalis in the simulacra hominum. You
will find it a good Anamnetic in the School, and useful in
cases of the Iliac Passion, the young androids are subject
to. Let not the words of Martial be fulfilled in you,
`Ferule tristis, sceptra pædagogorum ceasant!'
The best Master I wot of is the Swabian who gave his
scholars 911,000 canings, with standing on peas, and
wearing the fool's cap in proportion. With my most pious
endeavors, I could never exceed more than ten castigations
per diem, one at each turn of the glass; and that in thirty
yeras that I have borne the Solomonic function, amounts
is a clepsydra, yclept an hour-glass, for you, and this is the
Fool's Cap, which it is hardly needful to put on in a world
like this, but the Committee will be pleased to see it worn.
Lupus pilum mutat, non mentem.”
“Your friend Fenning,” interrupted Margaret, “I see,
writes thus in his preface: `I must take the freedom to
say, that I am sensible a Rod, a Cane, or Ferula, are of
little signification; for I have experienced in regard to
Learning itself, Infants may be cheated into it, and the
more grown-up youth won by good nature.'”
“I don't wonder,” replied the Master, “that Deacon
Hadlock is confounded at the times, when the scholar
presumes to arraign his tutor! My friend Fenning, peace
to his shades! had a weak side, nor could all the divine
Widow's embrocations cure him; I mean he was tainted
with heresy; he denied the plenary inspiration of the
Bible; not your father's, for of that there can be no doubt;
but that wherein King Solomon appears—and this reminds
you of the Parson's snuff, which is truly after a godly sort,
kept in godly pockets, and is efficacious in the illuminating
of the understanding of the saints—but of these things I do
not discourse. It is somewhere said, `Spare the rod and
spoil the child;' this truth carefully concealed in the holy
mysteries, my Friend Fenning most unbecomingly dared to
question. But you are not through with your anagogics
yet! You never saw a Mumming, or Punch and Judy?
Nay, verily!”
While they were conversing, Deacon Ramsdill halted
into the room, with one of those smiles, which, if it ever
preceded him as a shadow, still was the promise of something
kind and good-natured thereafter. “I heerd what the
gal was about,” said he, “and I thought I would try and
is getting old and rather lonesome-like; and we made up
our minds if Miss Margery would come and stay with us
she should have her board and welcome. Hester Penrose,
that kept the School last summer, got her lodgings free at
the Deacon's, and we thought we could do as much for
another. Don't know how you will like us, but we have
found that swine that run at large in the woods make the
sweetest pork, and we are willing to give you a try. What
on earth are you going to do with that are piece of board?”
“If I understand the Master,” replied Margaret, “he intends
that I shall fence in the scholars with it.”
“There, now,” responded the Deacon. “I tell you
children have nater, and you can't help it, no more than
you can being a cripple when your hamstrings are cut.
When they first come to school they are just like sheep,
you put them into a new pasture and they run all over it
up and down, shy round the fence, try to break out, and
they won't touch a sprig of grass though they are hungry
as bears. You send the youngsters of an arrant, and they
climb all the rocks, throw stones at the horse-sheds, chase
the geese, and stop and talk with all the boys and gals in
the way, and more than as likely as not forget what they
have gone upon. We old folk must keep patience, and
remember we did just so once. It's sheer nater and there's
no stoppin' on't, no more than a rooster's crowing a Sabberday.
Blotches are apt to come out in hot weather, and you
may find the scholars a little tarbulent, particularly about
dog-days; but nater must have its course. Don't keep
them too tight. When the tea-kettle biles too hard, my
woman has to take the cover off. 'Twon't do to press it
down, it's agin nater, you see.—But, Molly, or Mistress
Margaret, as we shall have to call you, for want of a nail the
things, and see that matters don't come to loose ends before
you know it. Pull up the weeds and then throw down
some brush for the cucumbers to fasten to; it's nateral, and
they don't get snarled among themselves. But you understand
how to work a garden; well, it's all nater alike.
Ha, ha!”
This language, the Master, who perhaps on the principle
that extremes meet, or what is more likely, that the simple,
hearty pleasantry of the Deacon was always boon company
to his own laughing humor, ever maintained friendly relations
with the latter gentleman—this language, we say, the
Master suffered to pass without animadversion or rejoinder.
Margaret, thus turned adrift to her own reflections by
the pointed opposition of her friends, thanked them both
for their magnanimous interest in her behalf, took the
books and other pædagogical ensigns, and returned to the
Pond. Early the succeeding Monday she reported herself
at the School-house, took her seat behind the big desk, and
opened with her scholars, who filed in after her, each one
making his bow or her courtesy as they entered the door;
and all with clean bright faces and bare feet. The boys
took their places one side of the room, and the girls the
other. They reckoned about twenty, and were all under
twelve years of age, comprising the buds of the village
population. Among them was little Job Luce, who,
recompensed for deformity of body in vivacity of mind, and
combining withal certain singularities of sentiment, could
not fail to recommend himself to the favorable attention of
his Mistress, however he stood reputed with the world at
large.
She classed her scholars, heard their a's, ab's, acorns,
ferule on the window to call them in—the only application
she made of the instrument in question—turned her glass
every half hour, enjoyed the intermission at noon, and at
night, if like most teachers, was as glad as her scholars to
be dismissed. Her dinner this first day, which she brought
from home, she ate at the School-house; a practice which
she not unfrequently adopted, since Deacon Ramsdill's,
where she had her quarters, was some distance from the
Green,—and in this she was joined by many of her
scholars; and she spent the hour cultivating their acquaintance,
remarking their manifold, novel and diverse evolutions,
moral and physical, and contributing to their pastime,
—she never commanded the intimacy of children before.
The Deacon's became in fact no more than her nominal
abode, since there were others in the village who regarded
her with kindness.
Isabel Weeks, whom she had occasionally encountered,
and who even visited her at the Pond, was her stanch
friend. Of Isabel we might say many things, and on
Margaret's account, some amplification perhaps were demanded;
but agreeably to the well used maxim, that
times of peace furnish few topics for the historian, we
follow all precedents, and forbear. Isabel was emphatically
a time of peace, she had no contentions, intrigues,
or revolutions. She was so quiet and unobtrusive, she
would be set down for an ordinary character. She was
just as commonplace and unnoticed as the sun is. She
had no veiled secret like Rose, to tantalize expectation and
stimulate curiosity; she was transparent as the air, and
like that element, was full of refreshment and health, sweet
odors and pleasant sounds. She had always been indulgent
childhood; and perhaps, if we ascribe to her a portion of
that self-love of which so few are deprived, she found she
lost nothing in continuing this friendship, which indeed had
cost her something with her neighbors. She sometimes
staid at the Widow Small's, where the Master kept her
late in the evening employed in a manner that gave him
the greatest possible gratification, playing backgammon.
One day of the first week, at the close of the School, following
her scholars from the house, who broke forth in noise,
freedom and joy, the boys betaking themselves to their
several diversions, snapping the whip, skinning the cat,
racing round the Meeting-house, or what not, she found
herself engaged with a group of girls, saying,—
Apple seed, and apple thorn;
Wine, brier, limber-lock,
Five geese in a flock,
Sit and sing by a spring,
O—U—T and in again.”
“It's the Ma'am's, it's the Ma'am's!” shouted the girls,
“she must stand;” and stand she did, blinded her eyes,
counted a hundred, went in search of the hiders, anticipated
their return, and in fine went through a regular game
of “Touch Goal,” with the ardor and precision of her
pupils.
Saturday forenoon she omitted the customary lesson in
the Primer, and on her return home deliberately reported
what she had done to the Master, dropping something at
the same time about not understanding the book. “Understand
the Primer!” retorted her supervisor with considerable
vehemence. “What most people dread, I am fain
you know that you must be out of your head when you
undertook the School. Are not all teachers, preachers,
speakers, out of their head? What do they know or
pretend to know of what they froth and jabber about!
Ugh! Eidepol! Is it not all a puppet-show, and each of
us a wheel-grinder? Are not Patriots cap wearers and
Priests mummers? Wag your mouth and blink your
eyes like most genuine pasteboard when you come out
into the world among folk. Not teach the Creed hey?
That is the finest part of the whole. You would banish
Harlequin from the play, like some other good moral
people! Go to, go to, you little prude! Lie out in the
moon this and to-morrow night, and you will be ready to
begin your work again Monday, like any good saint.”
With these condolences and ministrations, she continued
her way to the Pond, where she proposed to spend the
Sabbath. Rose came to see her, to whom she recounted
the passages of the week, new and reflective, painful and
pleasing. Pluck nearly split with laughter at what she
related of the Master and the Primer, whereby also Rose
was similarly affected, yet not so naturally as the old man,
but like one startled from a dream, or in whom an
imprisoned phantasmal voice breaks out wild and derisory.
“The bell tolls; who is dead?” asked Brown Moll, as
they were sitting in the doorway about sunset, Sabbath
evening, and the measured melancholy note fell upon their
ears, the old and familiar signal that some spirit had just
left the body, “Keep still, while I count.” So by keeping
pace with the number of strokes she learned the age of the
deceased. “Forty-one, who is it?”
“It must be Mrs. Morgridge,” said Margaret. “I
die. Poor little Arthur!”
This sigh for one of her beloved pupils was supported
by no contributions of her friends, and the subject, like those
to whom it owed its rise, died away. The family never
said much about death, whether they feared it and did not
wish their peace disturbed, or were indifferent to it and felt
moved to no words, or were prepared for it and needed no
admonitions, nothing in their manner would leave us the
means of determining.
Monday she resumed her duties; Tuesday afternoon,
she was advised by the Master that it was expected the
school would be suspended on account of the funeral. She
went to the Judge's, who lived on the North Street, a short
distance from the Green, with her friend Isabel. There
was a large collection, including the remotest inhabitants of
the town. After prayer by Parson Welles, the coffin was
taken into the front yard, and laid on the bier under the
trees. Sunlight and shadows, fit emblems of the hour,
flickered over the scene, not more breathless, hushed and
solemn, than were the voice, step and heart of the multitude.
The voluminous velvet pall thrown back exposed a
mahogany coffin, thickly studded with silver buttons, ornamented
with some gilt armorial tracery, and having the
name and age of the deceased on a silver tablet. The citizens
approached one by one to take a last look of the remains,
then sunk away into the silently revolving circle.
The mourners presently came out and indulged a tearful,
momentary, final vision; the lid was closed, and the
covering folded to its place. On the coffin were then laid
six pairs of white kid gloves, one for each of the pall bearers,
and a black silk scarf, designed for the clergyman.
followed by the relatives, when came the citizens at large,
two and two abreast. The bell began its slow, far-echoing,
heavy toll, and continued to sound till the procession
reached the graveyard.
This spot, chosen and consecrated by the original colonists,
and used for its present purpose more than a century,
lying on the South Street, was conspicuous both for its
elevation and its sterility. A sandy soil nourished the yellow
orchard grass that waved ghostlike from the mounds
and filled all the intervals and the paths. No verdure,
neither flower, shrub, or tree, contributed to the agreeableness
of the grounds, nor was the bleak desolation disturbed
by many marks of art. There were two marble shafts, a
table of red sandstone, several very old headstones of similar
material, and more modern ones of slate. But here
lay the fathers, and here too must the children of the town
ere long be gathered, and it was a place of solemn feeling
to all.
As the procession approached the grave, the men took
off their hats; the four bier-men lowered the coffin by
leathern straps, then each in turn threw in a shovelful of
earth; next Philip Davis, the Sexton, taking the shovel
into his own hands, standing at the foot of the grave, said
in form as follows, “I will see the rest done in decency
and order.” Parson Welles, as the last obsequial act, in
the name of the bereaved family, thanked the people for
their kindness and attention to the dead and the living, and
the procession returned to the house of the Judge.
Some lingered behind to revisit the graves of their friends;
Margaret and Isabel also staid. It was, as we have intimated,
a spot without beauty or bloom, like many others in
remembrances and enduring monuments; tears that mausoleums
cannot always command were freely shed on this
dry orchard-grass, and the purest purposes of life were
kindled over these unadorned graves. The drunken Tapleys
from No. 4 moved in a body to a corner of the lot,
where four years before was laid their youngest child, a little
daughter, marked by a simple swell of dry sod scarce a
span long, and there at least they were sober.
Margaret alone had no friends there. Isabel took her to the
grave of one of her early companions, Jesselyne Ramsdill,
only child of the Deacon's, an amiable and beautiful girl who
was cut off by that scourge of our climate, consumption, in
her fifteenth year, wasting away, like a calm river, serene
and clear to the last. As objects of curiosity, were the old
monuments, made as we have said of red sandstone, now
gray with moss, bearing death's heads and cherub cheeks
rudely carved, and quaint epitaphs, and the whole both
sinking into the earth and fading under the effects of time.
Alas! who shall preserve the relics of these old Covenanters!
The next week, being at the Master's, he showed her a
piece of brown parchment inscribed with the following
words, which he desired her to translate:—
“Universis Quorum interest.
“Attestamur Bartholomew Elliman in Actis Societatis
dictæ Masoniæ ex ordine fuisse inscriptum, &c.,” the substance
of which being, that he was a worthy member of the
Masonic Lodge of the Rising States. He condescended
also to explain the seal of his watch, a huge cornelian
cased in gold, dangling from a long gold chain, which had
attracted the attention of her earliest years. He said it
pair of compasses somewhat extended of the first, &c.;” in
fine he told her, that as the Masonic Fraternity were about
to consecrate a Hall in the village, it would be quite impossible
for the School to keep, and perhaps altogether
pleasant for her to witness the ceremony.
On the appointed day, with Isabel, she repaired to the
Green. The procession, of two or three hundred, formed
from the Crown and Bowl. It exhibited what has been
called a “splendid parade” in the “gorgeous attire” of the
men with their freshly powdered hair, white gloves, aprons
and stockings, their standards of crimson and gold, the
pictured gradations of office, and the showy paraphernalia
of the mystic institution. There passed before the wondering
eyes of our novitiate, Captain Eliashib Tuck, Grand
Tyler, with a drawn sword, leading the march; her friend
the Master of the order of Worshipful Deacons, with
staves; Brothers bearing a gold pitcher of corn, and silver
pitchers of wine and oil; four Tylers supporting the Lodge,
garnished with white satin, and which, so the Master gave
her to understand, was the identical Ark of the Covenant,
constructed by Bezaleel and presented to Moses; the Right
Worshipful Grand Master, Esq. Weeks, who bore the
Bible, Square and Compasses on a crimson velvet cushion;
the Chaplain, the Rev. Mr. Lovers, of Brandon, in his
robes.
The Hall, which was the object of this convocation,
covered the second floor of a building recently put up for
town occasions on the east side of the Green. The door
was decorated with emblematical figures, the floor had a
mosaic coloring, heavy curtains of crimson and gold shaded
the windows; on the walls were blazoned sundry hieroglyphics,
there were also the plummet, mallet, trowel and an armillary
sphere, and in the centre stood too marble pillars, understood
to be Jachin and Boaz. The procession entered and
marched three times round the room; at the first turn, the
Grand Master, facing the East, said, “In the name of
Jehovah I dedicate this Hall to Free Masonry;” then he
pronounced it sacred to Virtue and Universal Benevolence.
A prayer and anthem succeeded, when an Oration was
pronounced by the Chaplain.
“Free Masonry,”—we make a brief extract from the
address of the reverend speaker,—“is the most perfect
and sublime institution ever devised for conferring happiness
on the individual, and augmenting the welfare of society.
Its fundamental principles,” he continued, “are Universal
Philanthropy and Brotherly Love; its pillars are Faith,
Hope and Charity; its end Virtue and Happiness; Religion
is its Sister, its Creator is God. Its constitution is
coeval with that of the world; from the Divine Architecture
of the Universe are derived its Symbols, and He who said,
Let there be Light, proclaimed the solemn Dedication of
our Order.—Free Masonry,” said he, “confounds distinctions,
and is insensible to rank; owning a common affiliation
of the race, it distributes its beneficence to all, and honors
the meanest with its fellowship. It treats none with contempt,
and pardons the imperfections of the weak. The
distant Chinese, the rude Arab, and the accomplished European
will embrace an American, and all sit together at the
same table of fraternal confidence and affection. Unconstrained
by local prejudice, unswerved by the rivalries of
party, spurning alike the claims of sect and the limitations
of country, we know no preferance but virtue, no sanctity
of outward life they may appear. Our Association relieves
misery and shuns revenge. The tears of Widowhood it
wipes away, the pangs of Orphanage it soothes, and by its
hands are the stores of Destitution replenished. It curbs
the fury of War, and multiplies the blessings of Peace.
The sign of a brother, even in an enemy's camp, subdues
our animosities and sheathes the sword.—We have been
accused,” such were the closing words of the discourse, “of
conspiring against the liberties of mankind, it is slanderously
reported that we are leagued with the foes of law and
order to demolish the fabric of society. Were Napoleon
a Mason, as he is a Warrior, where he has drenched the
earth in blood he would have strewed it with flowers, for
wasted cities would have arisen Temples to Virtue, for
Ministers of Wrath driving before them the horror-stricken
nations, we should behold Angels of Mercy keeping watch
over their happy homes, our Melodies would drown the
notes of the Clarion, and the race, instead of closing with
the ferocity of ensanguined battle, would this day meet in
the embrace of Universal Brotherhood!”
The speaker took his seat amid great applause; a hymn
was then sung commencing thus,—
Glory of Earth, from Heaven revealed!
Which dost with jewels precious shine,
From all but Masons' eyes concealed!”
since, on a previous day, at a funeral, spirituous liquors
were freely dispensed, we are only just to the times and to
this festal company, in adding that wine and brandy
formed a conspicuous part of their entertainment. Three
scene; strangers retired, and the Brotherhood were left to
their private affairs.
Shortly after, with Deacon Ramsdill and his wife, and a
large number of villagers, Margaret was invited to an
evening party at Esq. Beach's. This gentleman lived on
Grove Street, in a house of the new style, very large and
high, having a curb roof with dormers, and perforated all
over with windows like a pepper box. The parlor was
thought to be elegantly furnished, in its mahogany side-board
garishly bedecked with decanters of brandy and
wine, silver cups and tankard, a knife-case, and having
underneath a case of bottles brass-trimmed; a bright Kidderminster
carpet; light Windsor chairs; a Pembroke
table, now degenerated into a common dining-table; and,
what caught the eye of the Pond girl, more than all, superb
hangings. These represented the South Sea Islands as
conceived by the original discoverers. The sides of the
room opened away in charming tropical scenery, landscapes
and figures; the people, their costume, habits, sports, houses
were brought into panoramic view, as also appeared their
innocence and simplicity, their native and rural enjoyments
and peace, now, alas! to be seen no more by those who shall
again visit them. These occupied Margaret so long she
well nigh trespassed upon the courtesies of the hour, and
Deacon Ramsdill was obliged to recall her to her fellow-guests.
There were dancing, card-playing, much spirit-drinking,
and more warm political talking, very warm indeed,
so fervid and life-imbued, in fact, as to engross all
things within itself; and Margaret became a devout
listener to what for the instant appeared topics the most
lofty, and interests the most momentous; nor could she be
and engaged her in a game of backgammon.
The School, in the estimation of its teacher, was going
on finely. Her scholars were ductile and inquisitive, many
phased and many-minded, and their proficiency in the
Spelling Book was only equalled by their attachment to
herself. A single instance of discipline sprang from a rude
attack made by one of the larger boys, Consider Gisborne,
on one whose helplessness appealed strongly to Margaret's
sensibilities, Job Luce. She ordered the offender to sit
an hour on the girl's side of the house. In enjoyment and
fidelity three weeks were nearly spent.
Yet the coolness with which the people at large originally
admitted her services was fast ripening into positive
dissent. Some boldly proclaimed her unfitness for the
station, others clamored for the restitution of the old
Mistress, Hester Penrose. Deacon Ramsdill was the first
to break to her the no less surprising than depressing intelligence,
and Master Elliman confirmed the suspicion that
she would be obliged to quit the School. Parson Welles
was considerate enough to suggest the propriety of an
investigation of the case; which, however, she would have
done well to avoid by a voluntary relinquishment of her
post; but she was over-persuaded by her friend Isabel,
one of those who always hope for the best, and consented
to abide an issue.
The study of the Parson was the appointed scene of
trial, and that room which in her girlhood Margaret had surveyed
with strong delighted curiosity, was now shaded to her
mind beyond the stains of tobacco-smoke and time on the
walls. There lay the great mysterious books that she had
importuned the Master to give her access to, but from which
on one pretence or another he had still kept her, and now
Above all was the reverend presence itself, the grave person
of the Minister, a conflicting union to her eye, of extremest
sacredness and extremest profanity, a sort of corporeal
embodiment of all unreality with which the lessons of
Master Elliman were calculated to fill her mind; and when
she saw that strange being soberly lay aside its pipe and
as soberly put on its glasses—that single act affected her
with a twinge of fright, which was not lessened at all by
contact with Isabel, who sat next her shaking with awe and
alarm. In addition, rumor of what was afloat having
drawn a number of people to the place, their faces frowning,
sneering and laughing, increased the complexity of her
sensations.
The nominal charges were reduced to two heads; first,
omitting to use the Primer; and second, harsh and unreasonable
treatment of Consider Gisborne. To this was
appended a supplement that had its full weight, that she
did not attend Meeting on the Sabbath, and that she played
with her scholars; and the whole was ridden by the
insinuation that she had shown partiality to the crumple-back,
Job. On these several and various matters she
could make no defence, and she attempted no reply. Her
friends, who under other circumstances would gladly have
remonstrated in her behalf, felt constrained to abandon the
case, and could do no more than secretly condole with her
disappointment.
“Touching the unfortunate youth,” said the Parson, “he
suffereth from that sin which we do all inherit from the
Fall. The compassion which you have exhibited toward
him would be counted a token of gracious affections in the
regenerate mind. But continuing unregenerate, the danger
is great that you will reckon it meritorious, and thus by
your condemnation, for truly the Bible saith, The sacrifice
of the wicked is an abomination to the Lord. But,” he
continued, addressing her with a direct interrogation, “will
the Mistress wholly deny to impart the godly instruction
contained in that little manual?”
“I cannot use it,” replied Margaret, with a tolerably
firm accent, yet faltering in every muscle.
“Therein are to be found,” resumed the Parson, “the
great truths of evangelical faith and practice.”
“I know nothing what it means,” she added, “and I
could never consent to teach it.”
“Truly,” exclaimed he, “their eyes are blinded that
they cannot see. What saith Master Elliman on the
matter?”
“Yea, verily,” replied the Master, “as the Lord hardened
the spirit of Sihon, King of Heshbon, and made his
heart obstinate, that he might deliver him into the hand of
Israel, so is it exemplified in what we now behold.”
“She's a drop stitch,” said one woman, who had been
busy during the proceedings footing a stocking. “She has
cast her band if she is a spinner's daughter,” was the
simultaneous comment of another woman. “She ought to
have put in a straining brace before she ran her roof so
high,” observed Mr. Gisborne the Joiner. “She had better
learn of her daddy how to mend her own ways aginst
she comes down to patch up our'n next time,” said Mr.
Cutts, the Shoemaker. “How hardly have we escaped
from the hands of the Philistines!” ejaculated Deacon
Hadlock. “We have a small account against you at the
Store, some pins and ferret I believe,” said Deacon Penrose,
“hope you will call and settle before you leave.”
“You have lost your title, and we must call you Molly
you stuck to your pint, and mabby it's as well. I see 'twas
nater, and you couldn't give it up. The Lord knows
what'll come of it, but if you follow nater, he'll take care of
you. There is more in things than we old folk have
thought of, and if you young heads can find it out, for one I
shall be glad. You have eat your crib and broke your
halter, but there is a good deal of feed out of the stable.
Fences last the longest when the logs are peeled; you are
pretty well stripped, but I guess you won't give out any
quicker. The children have nater, and you and they would
get along smart enough together; the old people are chock
full of their notions and politicals, and I don't know as you
could do better than to let them alone. I was afraid at the
start how the matter would turn. About Consider, he is
not a nateral bad boy, only it went agin the grain to be put
among the gals; and he took on dreadfully, and his people
thought he had been most killed. But it was because you
did it, Molly, yes because you did it; if any body else had
done so, he would not have said a word; but he liked the
new Ma'am, I've heard him say so, and when you punished
him it broke him right down; that's nater agin, clear
nater. Hester might have thrashed the skin off his body
and he wouldn't have cried boo. Then you know, some
people's geese are always swans, so we thought when our
little Jessie was alive; yes, yes. God knows how hard it
is to help setting a good deal by one's children. But,
Molly, you musn't judge the people too harsh; they are
just like gooseberries, with a tough skin and sharp pricks,
and yet there is something sweet inside. Remember too
he who can wait hath what he desire.”
Tony, the negro barber and fiddler, who had been hovering
about the Parsonage during the trial with considerable
walked up the street, at length ventured to address Margaret
and ask her if she would not go to his shop and have
her hair dressed. She politely declined.
“Your brother Chilion has done great favors to this
gentleman in the musical profession,” continued the negro,
“and if the Mistress would let him try the tongs on her, it
would make great commendations. It an't Tory now, and
there isn't nobody else in the world that I would see suffer
if I could help it, and the Mistress was a most handsomest
dancer, and Chilion tuned my fiddle.” Margaret was too
much occupied with other reflections.
“You had better go,” said Deacon Ramsdill; “it is as
good to a man to do a favor as to get one. Tony has a
feeling nater, and he mabby would serve you when nobody
else would, and will take it hard if you deny him.—
Isabel will go with you, and he would like to show you his
shop.”
Margaret yielded. The Barber, whose function was no
unimportant one to the villagers, had his apartments set off
in a manner for which such quarters have been famed
from time immemorial. The window shutters that concealed
his treasures during the night published them by
day, standing along the front of his shop as advertising
boards, whereon appeared a list of articles to be purchased
and services done. Within was a conspicuous assortment
of the exquisites of the day,—“King Henry's Water,”
“Pink and Rose Hair Powder,” “Face Powder instead of
Paint,” “Hemmett's Essence of Pearl for Teeth,” “Paris
made Pomatum,” “Infallible Antidote for Consumption,”
“Elixir Magnum Vitæ;” etc., etc.
Margaret taking her seat in the tonsorial chair, delivered
herself into the hands of the professor. “What a head!”
Miss Belle, in the great world if she was only a little
dusted! I have had Madam Hadlock four hours together
under my hands, when she was fixing for a ball, where I
also had the pleasure to attend her four hours more. After
she joined the Church I lost that honor. The Sacrament,
Miss Belle, makes bad work with the profession. I am as
the Master says A. B. Android Barberosum, S. T. D.
Societatis Tonsorum Dux, a great man you see, and
Parsons, Judges and Masters, as Master Elliman says, bow
down to me.—”
“Is that your method!” said Margaret, really shrinking
beneath the resolute application of the artist's hands. “You
make my head ache.”
“Indeed,” replied the negro, “'tis a most fashionable
pain, Runy Shooks will sit it out by the hour. You won't
need a cushion, but a little powder, Patent Lily gives such
an etiquette—”
“Nothing more, I thank you.”
“I can't use the tongs, you are all in curls now. What
shall we do, Miss Belle? A roller, toupee—that's Paris.”
“What!” said Isabel, “I thought you didn't belong to
the French Party, Tony.”
“Oh, no, I'm all Jacobin, all Federal, all Lumination,
only I an't no dum Tory. The Lady's father was a Tory,
wasn't he? Well, they won't hurt me now. They were
good heads, all of them; I use to get five pounds a year
out of Col. Welch's. Let me comb it up over the top, and
bring these back locks in front?” “No, no,” said Margaret.
“You shall be welcome to one of my silver spangled
ribbons to tie it with.” “Let it be as it is.” “Ha! ha!
who ever heard of a lady's hair being as it is? That isn't
the fashion at all. A lady wouldn't live out half her days.
War. Since that time, taste, as I have heard York gentlemen
say, has slided. I have heard ladies say they couldn't
go to meetin' a Sunday, or improve on the sermon, because
they were not in fashion. We are a means of grace, as
Master Elliman says. So I must bring this curl here, and
this one here, and let them be as they was. Well, this
gentleman declares upon his honor, Mistress looks as
beauteous as the great Queen Anne on the wall. She will
not disprove a little Hungary Water?” “No.” “Thank
the Lady Margaret, thank her. No pins, no spangles, no
tye-top, no beads,—Miss Belle so too,—well, upon my
soul!”
“Simplicity becomes us best, you know, Tony,” said
Isabel. “Ma always said those were most adorned who
were adorned the least. So you will not feel bad, I know
you won't.”
“This gentleman D. D. Devil of a Doctor,—for you
must know we use to perform surgery, phlebotomy, and
blood-letting, till the other professors came in, and they have
well nigh propelled us,—this gentleman, A. B., S. T. D.,
D. D. see the toilette every day going down, and expect
the great Napoleon will eat the Barbers all up; but he
declares Mistress Margaret the most grandiloquent head
in all the country—hope no offence, Miss Belle.”
“None at all,” replied Isabel; “you know we always
said Margery was beautiful, and she is good too, and good
folks will bear to have any thing said to them, and not take
it as flattery, but only truth, Ma says.”
The Barber held up a looking-glass, and Margaret saw
her hair not essentially affected by the professional endeavor,
still as before parted on the top, and hanging in thick
frizettes, which the operator had done his best to smooth,
young ladies left, “one of my fiddle-strings is broke and
the board out of order, and he is the only gentleman this
side of the Bay can fix it, as things ought to be done. Do
the Mistress take a box of the Patent Tooth Wash.”
Margaret finished out the week with Isabel, and Saturday
afternoon left for Mr. Wharfield's, where she was invited
to make a visit, and two of whose children had been under
her tuition. The Quaker lived on the Brandon road half
way between the Village and No. 4. Turning from the
South Street, she crossed Mill Brook and rapidly commenced
the ascent into a more elevated region. Beneath,
on the right, hidden among trees and shrubbery, flowed the
Brook; farther to the north-west rose the beautiful greenwooded
summit of the Pond, with her favorite Indian's
Head towering above all; on the left, by alternate gentle
acclivities and precipitous bluffs, sloped the long hills away
to the skies. A high flat brought her to the house of her
friends, who were farmers, and as we say well-to-do in the
world.
Where she intended to stop a single night, her abode was
protracted nearly a week. The habits of the family were
simple, their manners quiet, and tastes peculiar. Their
enjoyment seemed to consist in listening to her, they strove
to make her happy by receiving what she had to say, they
watched her with the interest approaching to awe of those
who beheld in one what they described as the “inner
workings of the spirit,” and from whom they looked for
some surprising evolutions. Their children were thrown
continually in her way that they might catch the inspiration
with which she seemed to be endowed. Troubled at last
as her friends imagined with a desire to go home, they
would no longer detain her, and gratefully dismissed her.
the treatment of the Quakers was certainly fitted to reassure
her; and with whatever melancholy she may have first
thought of returning home as it were disgraced from the
Village, this was qualified or displaced by the second
thought that it was her home, that there were her best
friends and purest pleasures—and she trod on with a firm
step and considerable buoyancy of feeling.
She traversed No. 4, known in her vocabulary as
Avernus, and not inappropriately named. In addition to
every aspect of blight and waste that could conveniently
be combined in a human dwelling-place, the geese, those
very agreeable articles in their proper use, but the greatest
enemies of road-side beauty, like the locusts of Egypt, had
discriminated and polled the green grasses and more
delicate flowers, and left only may-weed, smart-grass and
Indian-tobacco, perennial monuments of desolation; an
offence for which they had long since been banished the
Pond. Hogs lay under the cherry-trees by stone-walls,
crabbedly grunting like bull-frogs, muddling the earth and
wallowing in the mire. Leaning well-sweeps creaked in
the scant gardens. She encountered a file of children, with
hair thoroughly whitened, and face as thoroughly blackened
by the sun, kicking before them the dry dust of the
road in clouds. Sheep with fettered legs wandered from
side to side restless and forlorn. An overturned wood-sled,
lying outside of a barn-yard fence, and protecting within
its bars a collection of white flowering catnip, was a solitary
point of beauty. A bevy of yellow butterflies flying before
her and lighting on the road, then flying and lighting again
as she advanced, at last whisking off and forming themselves
into a saucy waltz over a black pool of water, where they
dragon-flies, afforded her some diversion.
A pink in a pewter mug standing on the window-sill of
one of the low ragged houses, Mr. Tapley's, she would fain
turn aside to see; a little girl, Dorothy Tapley by name,
appeared, awkwardly enough with her fingers in her mouth,
and said it was hers. Margaret laying hands upon it,
asked if she might have it. The girl immediately lifted her
fingers from her mouth to her eyes and began to cry.
Margaret inquired what was the matter. Dorothy gave
her to understand that when her little sister Malvina was
sick, and Miss Amy, with the Parson, came to see the
invalid, she wanted a pink that Miss Amy had pinned on
her breast, and that having got possession of it she would
not part with it, but kept it by her, and died holding the
wilted stem in her hand; whereupon she, Dorothy, went
to the Parsonage and begged of Miss Amy a root of the same
flower, and that in the mug was it; that she had taken
much care of it, and would on no account let it go.
This conversation through the window reaching the
ears of Mistress Tapley, who was at work in the back
shed cutting up cheese-curd, brought her into the room.
The mother—not a very tidy looking woman, having a
knife in one hand and a snuff box in the other—confirmed
all the child had said. Margaret told them she was glad
they valued the flower so, said she would not think of
taking it, and asked for a draught of water. This produced
a fresh demonstration on the part of these people, the
mother averring with undisguised emotion that they had
used their last drinking utensil for the pink, that they drank
rum from the bottle, that the gourd was broke, but she
should be welcome to drink as the rest did from the bucket.
she han't forgot how much we done for her when she was
lost in the woods.”
They went through the house into the back shed. That
back shed! cheese-room, dye-room, sink-room, airy, piazza,
hen-roost, cupboard, wardrobe, scullery, with its soap-barrel,
pot of soap-grease, range of shelves filled with
rusty nails, bits of iron hoops, broken trays, hammer,
wedges, chizel; tar-pot, swill-pail, bench, churn, basket of
apples, kittens, chickens, pup, row of earthern milkpans
drying about it—take it for all in all we shall never look
upon its like again!
At one end was the well, its long sweep piercing the
skies, its bucket swinging to and fro in the wind. Dorothy
leaped up and caught the bucket and hauled it to
Margaret, who grasping the pole was about to draw it
down hand over hand. She paused to look at what was
below her. The mouth of the well was shaded and narrowed
by green mosses and slender ferns; which also
covered the stones quite to the bottom, and bore on every
leaf and point a drop of water from the waste of the bucket.
Below the calm surface of the water appeared a reversed
shaft having it sides begemmed with the moss-borne drops,
which with a singular effect of darkened brilliancy shone
like diamonds in a cave. Through a small green subterranean
orifice she could look into nethermost, luminous,
boundless space; a mysterious ethereal abyss, an unknown
realm of purity and peace below the earth, the faintly-revealed
inferior heavens; and she beheld, too, her own fair
but shadowy face, in the midst of all, looking up to her.
Anon a falling drop of water would ruffle the scene, and
then it eddied away into clearness and repose. Such was
her hands still grasping the pole.
“What are you doing?” said Dorothy. “I am thinking
of your pink,” replied Margaret. “I thought I could
see Malvina in the well sometimes,” added the girl, “but
there is nothing there only some fishes Biah put in last
summer.” “At any rate there is good water there, and we
will see if we can get some,” said Margaret. The bucket
was drawn up, dripping to the curb, where Dorothy
steadied it, while Margaret drank. Margaret sat on the
long bench to rest herself, and told Dorothy Chilion would
make a box for her pink. Dorothy gave her the better
half of an imperfect geniton apple, the best she had, and
Mistress Tapley with unwashed hands hurried into the
garden, that is to say a small unenclosed spot, where they
raised a few vines, and got a watermelon, and with the
same versatile and economical member, broke it in pieces,
which she divided between Margaret and her daughter.
Going on her way, she passed pastures and extensive
forest-skirted uplands crimsoned over with the flowering
sorrel; and large fields, planted as it would seem to mulleins
like nursery trees, with silvery leaves, rising into tall goldtipped
pinnacles; she saw bull-thistles, like a phalanx of
old Roman soldiers of whom she had read, suddenly fallen
into disorderly mutual combat, piercing one another with
sharp malignant spines. The air of the place tainted as it
might appear from the vapors of the Still, whose fires
waited not for midsummer heats, was yet sensibly relieved
by the sweet-scented vernal grass mingling with the odors
of new-mown hay from the meadows or lots on the margin
of the Brook; she saw, also, women with blue and
brown skirts, naked arms, and straw hats, raking and turning
hay among alders and willows, that yet flourished in
substitute for grass, that went by, regaling her with a rich
spicy fragrance, she was saluted by the slang and ugly
mirth of the drivers. Men and boys were seen going to the
Tavern for their eleven o'clock, and in the sun before
the house lay Mr. Tapley, boosily sleeping, with his bare
head pillowed on a scythe-snath.
She was not sorry to turn into the Delectable Way, a
name by which she had enlivened the road from Avernus
to the Pond; and perhaps on the whole it never seemed to
her more pleasant. She had often traversed it with the
rum-bottle, baskets of chestnuts and bags of yarn, she had
been carried over it by her brothers, once she was borne up
it in the proud arms of an exulting populace. It was steep,
narrow, rough, winding. It had contributed to the elasticity
of her muscles and vigor of her heart. Now it
glowed with wild-flowers, which the lavish fertility of nature
pours into every open space. It was a warm day, and the
sunbeams were strongly reflected from the gray pebbles
and glassy grit of the road, but a breeze from the valley
and another in her soul, gave her endurance and self-possession.
She was going home, and this, however such a home
might seem to many of her readers, was, we have reason to
believe, in her mind an endeared consideration; she had
been disappointed in the School, sadly, greviously; her
heart was wrung in a manner that only a schoolmistress
can know; it cannot be told. She nevertheless consoled
herself with calling to mind how much her scholars loved
her, how kind some of the villagers had been to her, and
she might have decided the matter at once by reflecting
how utterly impossible it was, all things taken together, to
have maintained a generous footing with the people at
ministries of nature that can be enjoyed at every period of
life and are capable of reaching the most desponding, and
which operate to mitigate the sense of sorrow, and impart
lustre to our most temperate enjoyments. There was
besides an unnamed, undeveloped feeling in her own
breast, welling and provoking, partly inquisitiveness, partly
wonder, partly logic, partly thoughtfulness, partly she knew
not what, that heightened the interest of all things. This
feeling, we have cause to believe, was allied in character to
what it approximated in moral place, that which had been
sported between her and the Master as “Anagogicalness,”
whereby seems to have been intended any or all kinds of
profundity of uncertainty; seems, we say, for the compiler
of this Memoir professes to know no more of the matter
than any of its readers.
On a side of the road was the cow-path winding among
sweet-fern and whortleberry bushes, where she a little girl
used to walk, and even hide under their shade. The great
red daddocks lay in the green pastures where they had
lain year after year, crumbling away, and sending forth
innumerable new and pleasant forms. On a large rock
grew a thistle, the flower of which a yellow-breeched bee
and a tortoise-shelled butterfly quietly tasted of together.
Farther off, in the edge of a dark green forest, twinkled the
small sunflower, like a star. She walked on with a bank
of beautiful flowers on either side, golden-rods, blue-vervain,
flea-bane, and others, which she saw come up in the Spring,
watched from month to month, and would yet behold giving
food to the little birds in midwinter, and which had
become a part of her yearly life. A thin stream of water
emerging from a copse of fox-colored cotton thistle and
high blackberries, ran across the road. The sky was blue
from which some would augur a rain, and over her left
shoulder paled the midday moon. Her path in some
places was carpeted with the tassels of the late flowering
chestnut. A pig in a yoke starting from the bushes
scampered before her as for dear life, its ears shaking like
poplar leaves, and dashed out of sight into the bushes
again. The birds having finished their spring melodies
gave themselves up to the quiet enjoyment of the season
they so delightfully introduced, and were no otherwise
observable than in an occasional rustle among the trees.
She made a nosegay for Chilion of yellow loose-strife,
purple spearmint, pale blue monkey flower, small white buds
of cow-wheat; and a smaller one for Rose, a stem of
mountain laurel leaves, red cedar with blueberries, and a
bunch of the white hard-hack, a cream-like flower, innerly
blushing.
While thus employed, there appeared in the road before
her a gentleman, who seemed to have just issued from the
trees, and whom she fancied she had seen retreating within
doors at the Tavern, as she came by, and who, if it were so,
must have hastened across through the woods while she
loitered on the way. The face of this gentleman was
strikingly marked by a suit of enormous black whiskers that
flowed together and united under his chin. His age might
have been four-and-twenty; his eye was black and piercing,
but softened by an affectionate expression; his look was
animated, and a courteous smile played upon his lip. His
dress was more elegant than that of the young men of
Livingston, a scarlet coat delicately embroidered with buff
facings, a richly tambored waistcoat, lace ruffles, white silk
breeches and stockings, and a round brimmed hat. He addressed
her with deference and urbanity, and asked if he
“I am rambling about the country,” said he, “and pursue
whatever is novel and interesting, and hope my presence,
Madam, will not disoblige you? This is a bleak place,
and I should think you would sometimes lack for variety.”
“It is a very beautiful spot to me,” she replied, “and—”
“Indeed,” said he, “I did not mean that it was not
beautiful, only there are so few people here,—yet perhaps
you are one who has the felicity of being contented
anywhere. A boquet! What a rare profusion of flowers.
The atmosphere is redolent of sweetness. Most charming
day this.” So they talked of the weather, the season, the
place, till they reached the summit of the road. Before
they came in sight of the house, the gentleman suddenly
stopping, said, “Might I venture to hope, Madam, if in my
rural strolls I should chance again to encounter you, it
would not be disagreeable?” “What is your name, sir?”
said she. “I am—Anonymous, Mr. Anonymous;—does
not that savor of the romantic, of which I see you are
passionately fond?” “All wind-fall comers here seem to
be without names,” said she; “but there is really so little
in a name, that I do not care much about it.” “Are there
other strangers besides myself here?” he asked. “Yes,”
she replied, “we have one who would be anonymous at
first, but she allows herself to be called Rose now, though
she is so frail she can hardly support any name.” “Rose,
Rose,” rejoined he with a repetition, “that is a very pretty
name indeed.” Politely bidding her good morning, he
went down the hill.
Margaret hastened home to recount her misfortunes,
intelligence of which must have preceded her, and enjoy the
commiseration of her friends. Bull with Dick on his back
ran out to meet her,—the only member of the family who
of unmingled delight gave her a momentary deep pain in
the way of contrast, and yet in the end tended to reassure
her and bring her back to her former state. After dinner
she went to the Widow Wright's to see Rose, whom unfortunately
she found plunged in the deepest melancholy,
and the more distressing for that it could render no reason
for itself. Margaret strove by every effort to compose her
friend, but in vain. She remained a while, but found her
own tenderness fully reciprocated, that Rose was pained
because she was pained, that she increased what she
endeavored to dispel, and thus without the possibility of
gaining intelligence or affording relief, she could do more
than embrace the sad one and go home.
Shortly afterwards, as she was occupied one morning
with a book in the shade of the woods near the Delectable
Way, she was aroused by the arrival of Mr. Anonymous.
“Have you read Cynthia?” said he, after concluding the
compliments of the hour. “I saw it at the village the other
day,” she replied. “It is a charming novel,” said he. “I
do not know as I am capable of understanding it,” she
rejoined. “I mean it is a delightful thing to toss off a dull
hour with. Are you never afflicted with any such?” “Not
often.” “Are no dangers to be apprehended in a place
like this?” “I never have any fears.” “I see you know
how to diversify your time. As you would walk, Madam,
let me assist you. Allow me to remove that bit of brush
from your path.” “I thank you, Sir, I never mind the
trees.” “I am tempted to help you over that rock.”
“These rocks are no more formidable than our kitchen
doorsill.” “How rich these woods are in flowers!”
“Indeed they are.” “The most beautiful are not the
justice the Poet writes,—
`Full many a flower is born to blush unseen!'”
“That is well said. I find new ones every Spring, and
there are many yet hidden in the dark abyss of the earth.”
So talked they a while, when the young gentleman again
took an abrubt but civil departure, acting it would appear
on the principle that short visits make long friends.
Margaret was obedient to her parents and faithful to
the house, so that she was allowed many indulgences, the
chief of which consisted in leisure for her own pursuits.
She rose early, did her work with spirit, and her enjoyment
suffered but little from the exactions of her mother or the
domineering of Hash. A peculiarity of fog-scenery as
observed from the Head, a phenomenon in its perfect
development occurring only two or three times a year, took
her to that point. The fogs arising from the River lay
wholly below her, dispersed like a flocculent ocean over the
interval between the Pond and the Mountain beyond. As
if an entire firmanent of purest white clouds had fallen into
the valley, these masses of mist were piled in chaotic
beauty, and into them the sun poured its intensest beams.
Like a silver flood they rolled before the winds, they overran
the high grounds of the Pond, and swept the base of the
hill on which she stood. They were an organic lustre
sublimated wool, spiritualized alabaster; they glowed like
snow-flames. It was to summer what snow is to winter, a
robe of whiteness thrown over the face of the earth. It
was not often she could look down upon the fogs with the
pure dry air about her. She had been in them, sailing on
the Pond or traversing the woods, when they seemed to fall
she was over them, and could command their extent and
grandeur.
Higher and higher they rose, till only the top of the Butternut
and the peak of the forest were visible. She fancied
that the visions of her dreams were composed of fogs, and
thought she saw fair Ideal Beauty as it were precipitated
in them chemically, and becoming animated, like the Beautiful
Lady. A new Venus, of whom she had read, was indeed
sprung from this foam; and she looked when she
should swim for the Butternut, as for a green island, and
she would run down and embrace her; at the same moment,
a great black crow flew up from these bridal waves,
a true make-shift for Vulcan.
But a more substantial apparition engaged her attention.
At the edge of the platform on which she stood arose an
enormous pair of whiskers, speedily followed by the well
dressed young gentleman to whom they belonged, Mr.
Anonymous, who, for some reason unexplained, perhaps
because it savored more of the romantic of which he was
an admirer, had chosen a very unusual and almost inaccessible
route to the summit of the Head. Apologizing for
his intrusion, he hoped he had not disturbed the tenor of
the young lady's reveries. “I cannot be disturbed by one
who enjoys the scene,” replied Margaret. “The fog is
uncivil,” added Mr. Anonymous, “it has quite drenched
me. If it would clear away I think there would be afforded
a very charming prospect. I wonder I had not sought it
out before. Yet the view which the place itself affords,
Madam, is unimpaired, and would richly repay clambering
up a much rougher way.” “I fear you must have fatigued
yourself,” said she, “you missed the path.” “It matters
little how I came, since I am well here, and in the presence
in contemplations like these,” answered Margaret.
“Perhaps, Sir, you can aid me in resolving the exceeding
mystery of all these things.” “I should be most felicitated to
join you in any thing.” “That beauty and our beauty, how
are they related?” “I see your beauty, and I scarcely
think of that.” “But there is a connection, I feel it. The
beauty that is in me either gives or is given. Or there is
some cause that creates both, and unites them like musical
chords.” “Your beauty, most enchanting lady, since you
lead me to speak of it, consists in symmetry and color, those
eyebrows, your forehead, your lips, that dark curling hair;
it brings me near to you. Nay, pardon my presumption.”
“Do look at that pile swimming through the mass, like a
polar bear!” “Nay, loveliest! I can look only at thee.”
“Then I will go away; there is enough besides to look at.”
“Beauteous being! do not leave me. Do not shun the
person of one who adores you.” “Adores me! Ha! ha!”
“I kneel at your feet, sweet Madam, allow me to take your
hand.” “More mystery still! What is there in my hand?”
“May I be so presumptuous as to believe that with your
hand you would also bestow your heart?” “I havn't any
heart.” “Have I vainly cherished the hope that my person
had made some impression on you?” “What, your
clothes?” “O, you will not trifle with me. Your manner
has been such as to inspire the hope that my feelings
toward you were reciprocated.” “I would not trifle with
you. I thought you better dressed than the young men
hereabouts. But do see how the Mountain shines in its
dewy robe!” “Be not so severe; do not retreat from me;
render some condescension to my poor plaints.” “I know
not what you desire.” “Yourself, Madam, is the supremest
object of my wishes. Allow me to press your fingers to
the Pond.” “O, fairest of creatures, be not so cruel.
Blame me not if I reveal I love you, never before unfortunate
if you prove pitiless, never before happy if you prove
kind.” “See, the mists are fast rising, we shall be thoroughly
wet if we stay much longer.” “Dissipate, Madam,
the distressing apprehensions your words create. My purposes
are legitimate, I offer you marriage, I offer you a fortune.
Our banns shall be published in the neighboring
Church the next Sabbath.” “I must own, Sir, you do
sadly disturb me now. Your presence is becoming an intrusion.”
“You will slip from the rock, you will fall into
those hideous waters.” “Beautiful waters, and I could almost
wish to drop through the beamy air into them.” “I
will not approach you nearer; I will abide at a distance,
till you say the dear, dear word that shall make me happy.”
“Do not be afraid of me. I would make the birds
and toads and every thing about me happy.” “I protest my
designs are honorable as my sentiments are invincible.
Consider what I shall bestow upon you.”
Now what should appear but our old friend Obed, tearing
his stalwart knobby frame through the bushes, and
being somewhat short of sight, a defect that was aggravated
by the prevalent haze, wholly mistaking the nature of the
scene. Seeing Margaret, as he thought, driven to the
verge of the precipice by the violence of the man whose
fervid exclamations he had confounded with demonstrations
of a more fatal character, he made a tempestuous lunge at
the fellow and trussed him in his long arms. In the struggle
that ensued, both fell and rolled down the hill, performing
a kind of horizontal waltz, through briers, over rocks,
quite to the bottom. Margaret running after, screamed to
Obed to quit his hold, but in vain; they finished the descent
was not a little bruised and his dress soiled; nor did
Obed escape without some little damage. Pluck and his
wife ran out at the alarm, Margaret proffered the unfortunate
gentleman every assistance in her power; but as if
disposed to withdraw from observation, he made a very
rapid retreat, forgetting even his customary civilities in the
hurry of departure, and was seen no more at the Pond.
2. CHAPTER II.
MARGARET.—MR. EVELYN.—CHRIST.
We would come nearer to Margaret; we have kept too
much aloof. What she denied to Mr. Anonymous, she
will grant to her readers, who, as a parent, have watched
about her from her babyhood,—a more intimate approximation.
And if Isabel spoke correctly when she said
Margaret could bear the truth, she can certainly bear to be
looked at, a distinction not mortifying to most young ladies.
She denied that she had a heart; has she any? If she has
none, unlike most young ladies, in another respect also she
differs from many of her sex and age—she can make good
butter, which she did this very morning, churning it in the
cool dawn, working it out, salting it, and depositing it in a
cellar which, if it possessed no other merit, boasted this at
least, that it was cold and free of flies. It has been intimated,
and may come up again for affirmation, that Margaret
was brought up on bread and cider and bean porridge.
This, however, must not be taken too literally. The facts
in the case are these, sometimes the family kept a cow, and
sometimes they did not. But to our purpose.
This morning, after churning and breakfast, she went
out to a favorite spot, a little below the house, on the
Delectable Way, lying in the shade of the eastern forest.
If Bull followed, it was rather from habit than necessity,
since she was wont to go where she listed, unattended,
relying chiefly upon a pair of pretty strong arms, and whatever
it. It is here, precisely in this morning retreat, that we
propose to take a look at her. The place she has chosen,
characterized chiefly by forest associations and aspect,
opens to the south, where are visible the Avernian hills,
and to the zenith, where is the everlasting sky. No sound,
save the solitary crowing of a cock in some distant farmyard
or the barking of a fox in the slumbering woods. Near her
indeed is a drowsy kind of music box, in a bed of yellow
brakes, inhabited by innumerable crickets and grasshoppers,
that keep up a perpetual lulling murmur. She holds in
her hand a book, or rather her arm lying on the ground the
book lies there too, closed on her fore-finger. The book,
we shall see, is an old one, so very old, its leathern back
has changed into a polished mahogany hue; it is in Latin,
and the title anglicized reads, “The Marrow of Theology,
by William Ames,” a Dutchman. Down the hill a little
ways, in a pasture of solemn rocks and gaudy elecampane,
are very contentedly feeding two red cows. Whether she
saw these or not she looked at them, and now her eye lifts
upwards. What we looking upwards see is a group of
clouds, massive and dense, with white tops, dark cavernous
sides, and broad bases deepening into a bluish leaden
color, having their summits disposed about a common
centre, and forming a circular avenue, at the end of which
lie boundless fields of fairest ultramarine. We can hardly
tell what she does see. Let us look at her eyes and see
what she seems to see.
We shall discover if we keep a good memory that those
organs have changed since her childhood. Then, her eyes
perceived with briskness and disposed of their objects with
ease. The external world made a rapid transit through
them, enlivened and graced her spirit, and returned; and
into moral emotions, and the nerves of the face are sympathetic
throughout, a beautiful flower for example, borne in
on the optic nerve, would come out an irradiation of joy
generously covering the countenance. Now, a world has
been created in her eyes; outward objects no longer pass
immediately through, but are caught and detained, as it
would seem, for inquisition. Some are seen to sink with a
sullen plunge into the dark waters of her soul; some she
seizes upon and throws out among the waste things of the
earth; others again get in by stealth, creep round upon her
nerves, come out and sit on her eye-winkers and lips and
play their old pranks of beauty and joy; anon some fair
large object, that she suffers to pass, floods her spirit and
drowns out every thing else; a full proportion of these
objects, it would appear, are assigned to the region of the
Anagogical. We cannot say she is “sicklied o'er with the
pale cast of thought,” yet her expression is subdued if it be
not positively sober, with a mixed aspect of fervid aspiration
and annoying uncertainty. The clouds have shifted
their places and forms, the cows quietly feed on, and she
betakes herself to reading. The click of a horse-foot on the
stones of the Delectable Way arouses her, the cows look
up, and so does she.
Strangers in Livingston frequently visited Indian's Head
for the sake of its fine scenery; they went to and fro
taking little notice of the inhabitants, and with extreme
consideration avoided laying upon them the slightest burden
of civility or attention; and Margaret, accustomed to these
transient manners, would have suffered the present to pass
as an ordinary instance, save that, with a stranger man on
horseback, she saw little Job Luce—little he was, though
older than when she first knew him—on the pommel of
over against her in the road, Job caused the man to stop.
“That's it,” said Job, “that's the Pond.” “I don't see any
water,” replied the man, “nothing but a rock and a
woman.” “That's Margery,” reiterated the boy, “and
that is where she sits, and I find her there most always.”
“Is she the Pond?” asked the other. “She had always
rather be in the woods than in the house,” continued Job,
“she pricks flowers into her bonnet instead of ribbons, and
likes to hear the birds sing Sundays better than Zenas Joy,
the new chorister.”
Meanwhile Job, lowered from the horse, stood holding by
the snaffle, and insisting that the gentleman should likewise
dismount. His manifest anxiety brought Margaret also to
the spot. “That is Margery, do stop and see her—here,
Margery, is a billet from Isabel.”
“I overtook this little fellow on the way,” said the
stranger “and as he seemed but a sorry traveller, I thought
my horse could better do that office for him.”
“If you will stop, I guess she will go with you up the
Head, you have been so good to me,” said Job, with renewed
earnestness.
“I should be very glad to see you, Sir, if Job wishes me
to,” said Margaret. The young man left his horse among
the trees, and walked with Job and Margaret to the spot
occupied by the latter.
“Since you have been so fairly introduced,” said he, addressing
Margaret, “I ought to make myself known; Charles
Evelyn—Judge Morgridge is my uncle—perhaps you are
acquainted with his daughter Susan?”
“I am not,” replied Margaret, “but I have heard my
friend Isabel Weeks speak of her. This is Job Luce, one
among the very few friends of whom I can boast in the
village.”
“He seems very much attached to you,” rejoined Mr.
Evelyn, “so feeble, to walk so far to see you. He said
there was some one at the Pond who knew almost every
thing and loved him very much.”
“I do love Job, poor boy, he has but few to love him,
and his love for me produces a cyanosis, as Mr. Elliman,
my old Master, says, whereby we do not see things clearly,
and so he thinks very highly of me, as I know I do of
him.”
“She knows Whippoorwill,” said Job, “and that is more
than the Parson does, if she don't go to Meeting.”
“I know nothing,” replied Margaret.
“Have you no home, no father or mother?” asked Mr.
Evelyn. “Do you live in these woods?”
“There is our house behind the trees yonder,” said Margaret;
“there are my father and mother; there is my
brother Chilion; I have books, a squirrel, and a boat; the
trees, the water, the birds all are mine, only I do not understand
all.”
“The Master,” interposed Job, “said she understood
Latin as well as Hancock Welles who has gone to
College.”
“Yes indeed,” rejoined Margaret, smiling, “I can say as
he did once, when pursuing me in the woods he was overtaken
by a bear, `Veni, vidi, victa sum.' I am lost in my
gains; every acquisition I make conquers me.”
“The vici,” replied Mr. Evelyn, “is a rare attainment.
It is easier to know than to be masters of our knowledge;—
I see from your book you are exploring an abstruse subject
through what some would regard an abstruse medium.
Theology is not always rendered plainer for being put in
plain English. Do you find it cleared up in Latin?”
“My teacher,” answered Margaret, “says Latin is the
for a fool as it would seem, he commends me to my studies
in it. I asked him some questions, and he gave me this
book, but not so much in the way of a reply, I ween, as a
repulse. I can construe the sentences, distinguish the
supine in u; but, the ideas—gramercy! I had as lief
encounter a troop of bull-beggars, or undertake to explain
the secrets of the nostrummonger that lives above us. I
am caught by my own fish, as brother Nimrod says, and
dragged into an element where I pant and flounder as any
strange creature would in ours.”
“Mammy says,” explained Job, “it is because Margery
is proud, has a natural heart, and won't bend her will
down, and so she lost the School. But she isn't proud to
me; she used to lead me home all the way from School.
Hester Penrose, the other Ma'am, never would touch me
or speak to me out of school; and when we were in, she
only spoke hard to me, and whipped me, because I caught
the grasshoppers that flew in and stopped to hear Whippoorwill—I
could hear it in the windows. She wouldn't
give me a ticket either, for all I got my lessons well.—
Arthur Morgridge said I got them better than he, and he
had a ticket.”
“Your mother, Job,” said Margaret, “and Deacon
Ramsdill don't agree; he applauds me for having a nateral
heart, as he calls it, and says he hopes my will never'll be
broke; he says a broken will is no better than a broken
back. But, of what we were speaking, Mr. Evelyn; are
you familiar with these ideas, these things, these what-nots?
Or are you, like all the rest, only a dainty, white handkerchief
sort of a traveller among the hills?”
“I have dabbled a little in a good many matters,” replied
the young gentleman, “and if there be any points that
troubles are not dissimilar, only it sometimes results that
difficulties of this sort once fairly stated are dispelled; the
attempt to give them form annihilates them—they pass
away in the breath that pronounces them.”
“A fine prospect, indeed!” responded Margaret. “I
shall be able to discharge the Universe at a whiff! But
soberly, here is the source of all my perplexity, a quid and
a quis. The book, as you see, discusses without satisfying
the case. It is `Quid sit Deus,' or “Quis sit Deus,' what
is God, or, who is God. He, that is the Master, says I did
not put the question right at first, and nulla vestigia
retrorsum, I have been going wrong ever since. We have
quis'd and quid'd it together, till my brain whirls and my
mind aches. Who is God? I will ask. `Do you intend,'
he replies, `entity or form? If the first then you should
say, What is God; Who is not What, my child. Language
has its rules as well as that whereto it applies.
Informal language on formal subjects is altogether contrary
to logic.' Good Heavens! say I, I don't know which I
mean. `Then do not talk until you know what you are
talking about; let us finish this game of backgammon.'
To complete my distress he has given me this book! There
is one pretty thing in it, the little boy with a girlish face in
the frontispiece. He is holding up a big book before the
door of some temple. Would the book would remove, then
we could enter the mysterious place. Alack-a-day!
`Where there's a secret there must be something wrong,'
good Deacon Ramsdill says, and I believe it.”
“Look here,” said Mr. Evelyn, “Father Ames touches
fairly on these topics. `Quid sit Deus, nemo potest
perfecte definire,' what God is we cannot perfectly define;
but `Quis sit explicant,' who he is his attributes sufficiently
make known.”
“Read another page,” said Margaret, `1 Tim. vi. 16,
Lucem habitans inaccessam,' &c. What is referred to there
seems very mystified indeed. The only Tim that I am
acquainted with is our neighbor's horse.”
“Don't speak so—you astonish me. That is language
addressed by the apostle Paul to a young man whose
name was Timothy. `God dwelleth in the light which no
man can approach unto.'”
“I did not intend any harm, I had no idea there was
any feeling in the matter. The Master and the Parson
are always bringing in some name, Aristotle, Moses, Scotus,
Paul, or somebody, whom they make responsible for what
they say, and commit themselves to nothing, laughing and
smoking in the mean time. They are both as `amfractuous'
as he says I am, and as `anagogical' as our little friend
Job.”
“I don't know what that is,” observed the boy, `but I
do know Whippoorwill, and that I shall die of it. But
Margery don't believe the Parson, and she won't read the
Bible.”
“My troth!” exclaimed the young man. “There are
more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in
my philosophy, and more in Livingston than I had
imagined. Did you never read the Bible?”
“No,” replied Margaret. “The Master has endeavored
that I should never see one, and the first book he put into
my hand when I asked him about God was Tooke's Pantheon.
There was a great book marked Holy Bible on the
outside at Deacon Ramsdill's; there were some singular
pictures in it, and some singular reading, but not of a nature
to tempt me to look far into it. Only I remember
laughing outright when I came to something just like what
Pa calls his Bible, and the good Deacon took the book
string on the chimney, and consists of names beginning
with Adam and ending with Duke Magdiel, and he always
uses it, he says, when he christens his children. It is suspended,
also, you must know, directly over his rum bottle;
and he says he reads his Bible when he drinks his rum.
That is our Bible.”
“Mammy gave you a Testament once,” said Job.
“The Master took it away,” replied Margaret. “He
said I was not old enough to understand it, or something of
that sort.”
“She doesn't go to Meeting either,” added Job.
“Do you not indeed?” asked the young man.
“It is not quite true that I never go,” said Margaret.
“I have been to a Camp Meeting and at Parson Welles's
Meeting.”
“Only once,” said Job.
“I could hardly wish to go a second time. Every thing
was turned topsy-turvy; flowers became an abomination;
for walking the streets one was liable to be knocked down;
people had on gay dresses and sepulchral faces; no one
smiled; the very air of the Green grew thick and suffocating;
sin lurked in every spot, and I couldn't do any thing
but it was an abomination. I was glad to get out of it, and
escape to the Pond once more, and breathe in brightness
and love from our own skies. No, we never go here; Pa
was put in the stocks for hunting his cow one Sabbath,
and he swears we shall not go. I frighten you, Sir, and
you will have me put in Jail right off.”
“If I am frightened,” said the young man, “I can hear
all you have to say, and would much prefer you should not
interrupt yourself.”
“I was young then, and these are old impressions which
might not feel just so now. At the Camp Meeting—have
you ever been to one? Well, I need not recount that.
The Preacher I could never forgive, only he was so kind
to me when I was lost in the woods. That was the pink
of what the Master calls puppetry, a hornet's nest of harlequins,
saints bacchanatizing. When I told the Master
of some of my accidents on these holy occasions, for in one
instance I liked to have been sent to jail, and in another,
to have been crushed to death, `Ne sutor ultra crepidam,'
said he, `you are a shoemaker's daughter; mind your own
business, and stay at home next time;' so I did. Nimrod
once took me to an ordination at Dunwich, where the
Leech, who contrives to be every where, accompanied us.
It was more like training-day than any thing else. The
town was full of people and soaking in rum. At the Church
I was wedged in an impassable drift, but managed somehow
to crawl out like a stream of water through their legs
and feet. The Widow found means to introduce herself
and me with her to the dining-hall. Such things were
enacted there as would not disgrace the bar-room at No. 4.
Pa, when he is drunk, has far better manners than those
sanctiloquent wigs exhibited. It was altogether the richest
specimen of `deific temulency' you ever beheld. The
side-boards were emptied half a dozen times, tobacco smoke
choked the air, and to finish the play one gray old Punch
with inimitable gravity said grace at the close. The exercises
of the day were rounded off by a ball in the evening,
and that was the best of the whole, save that the ministers
were not there to give the occasion the zest of their jokes
and laughter—I supposed at the time they were in a state
of aquacœlestification, and could not dance. But O! O!
O! Job, dear Job, I love you, Job! Why do I, a poorer
wretch, speak of these poor things?”
This exclamation was followed by tears that fell drenchingly
and hot on the face of the boy whom she clasped in
her arms. Job turned up his mild blue eye to her and said,
“Margaret, Whippoorwill sings, and Job don't cry; I
swing over the brook when the boys tease me, and the
bubbles take away the pain; I hear a pewee in the woods,
Margaret, that sings when the Whippoorwill is gone. I
love you too, Margaret, and Job's love is good, the little
Mabel says. If there were no innocent hearts, there
would be no white roses, Isabel says.”
Fa, la, la, la, lal, de,”—
both sung,—
Fa, la, la, la, lal, de;
The other flew after, and then there was none,
Fa, la, la, la, lal, de;
And so the poor stone was left all alone,
Fa, la, la, la, lal, de.”
“Now, Job,” she said, “we will go and get comfrey root
for Chilion's drink, and burdock leaves for drafts to draw
out all pains. We shall detain the gentleman.”
“The detention is rather on my part,” said Mr. Evelyn.
“Yet I am truly unwilling to have you go.”
“I shall only offend you if I stay,” said she.
“I have learned,” he replied, “never to be offended with
any human being.”
“Then you are the strangest of all human beings,
though I agree with you, and find myself small place for
offence. Androides furentes create a sensation of the
ridiculous more than any thing else.”
“You seem,” continued he, “to be sincere, however mistaken;
and I am not a little interested in what you say.”
“Are you sincere?” she asked. Are you not simulacrizing?
Yet I wrong you, Sir, I wrong myself. It confesses
itself within me, that you are in earnest.”
“That is Whippoorwill,” said Job.
“It is the voice of nature,” said the young man.
“I am not,” added Margaret, “so brook-like as I used
to be, when neither rock nor night, inundation or ultimate
disemboguement disturbed my little joyous babble. The
beauties and sweetnesses, the freedom and health that
surround me do not so perfectly satisfy me. I have not
much of the `acquiescentia cordis' of which Father Ames
speaks. My squirrel, Dick, has been rolling about in his
cage these many years, and is contented with it as ever.
I, forsooth, must explore the cupboard whence my food
comes, dig into the well-head whence my water flows,
anatomatize the hand that caresses me. There seems to be
something above the people in the village, something over
their heads, what they talk to, and seem to be visited by
occasionally, particularly Sundays, making them solemn
and stiff like a cold wind. Is it God! What is God?
Who is God? Heigh ho hum—let me not ask the question.
Is it Jupiter or Ammon? Is it a star? Or is it something
in the state of the weather? Going to Meeting
Sundays the Master calls a septenary ague, universal in
these countries. Yet the matter is deep and penetrating as
it is anagogical.”
Why do you not speak with the people,” said Mr. Evelyn,
“and discover the nature of their emotions and
thoughts?”
“My sooth! I had rather lie here on the grass and read
the Medulla, dig roots, card and spin, clean dye-tubs, pick
geese, or even go for rum—any thing, any thing. Vox
populi vox Dei, he says, but it must have a very strange
bad; nor that stupendous word, honorificability, he used to
make me spell, half so unintelligible. It all runs of sins
and sinners, the fall and recovery, justification and election,
trinity and depravity, hell and damnation—they have an
idiosyncrasy of phrases, just as the Free Masons have, and
Tony, the Barber, and Joyce Dooly the Fortune-teller
have; then there are experiences and exercises, ah's and
oh's, sighs and laments, as if we were about to be burned
up—and indeed they say we are, at least our family; and
Pa laughs so about it all, and the Master while he seems
to join in with it, only turns it to ridicule. Isabel says she
is growing tired of it, though she is not apt to complain of
any thing, and has already been admonished against keeping
company with the wicked Indian, as they call me. She
says that those they call sinners are some of the best people
in the world, that theological distinctions do not conform to
any thing that exists in nature. The Master says that piety
is the art of concealing one's original character, and that
churchmen are those who have attained the greatest
proficiency in that art. But let me hear what you would
say. I have `polylogized' quite long enough. Are you a
student for the `sacred ministry,' a class of young men in
whose behalf the Dutchman says he has prepared his
Marrow!”
“I am not. But the subjects to which you refer possess
a value that engages all professions and all minds. I have
a Bible in my pocket, or a part of one.”
“What! Are you bibbleous too?”
“Bibliopalous, you mean.”
“No, bibbleous. When one comes to our house with a
flask of Old Holland, or a bottle of rum, we say he is
bibbleous, and has a Bible in his pocket. Pardon me. I
me, and I give way here within, till every, the most transient,
feeling escapes.”
“I know what it is to become the sport of impulses, and
will not condemn you for that.”
“Speak, Sir, and I will listen quietly. I can trim
myself to patience when it is necessary.”
“You have heard of the Savior of the world, Jesus
Christ?”
“Till I am sick of the name. It sounds mawkish in my
ears.”
“You do shock me now,” said Mr. Evelyn with some
feeling. “You cause me grief and astonishment.”
“I pray your mercy, Sir! What have I done? Your
look frightens me.”
“That you should speak so of Him who to my soul is
most precious.”
“I am sorry to have distressed you.”
“You have distressed one who is dearer to me than my
own life.”
“Speak that name again.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“What, my own Beautiful One? Christ—yes—that is
his name. I had almost forgotten it. I have thought only
of him. The name is associated with whatever is distasteful
in the world. It is Christ, Jesus Christ. Is he not
beautiful?”
“He is described as fairer than the sons of men.”
“And you, Sir, know him and love him, and your innermost
sense is alive to him? You are the first one who
ever showed a deep natural sensibility to that One. I have
distressed you and him through you, and myself in him!
Therein lies my closet garnered being.” Saying this
Margaret turned her face away.
“It is Whippoorwill,” said Job to Mr. Evelyn. “Don't
speak now.”
That gentleman waiting a while in silence, was obliged,
by direct enforcement, to renew the conversation.
“Tell me,” said he, “what is the meaning of this? Here
is a greater mystery to me than all this strange world can
offer to you. By what secret affinities are you bound to
him who is my life? How have you come to know him
in this heart-felt manner? Like Nathaniel has he seen
you under the fig-tree?”
“No,” said Margaret, turning herself, and speaking with
composure, “it was under those trees yonder in what we
call Diana's Walk.”
“What, that you literally saw him?”
“It was a dream. He, the Beautiful One, called Christ,
filled one of the dreams of my childhood. He spoke to
me, he took my hand, he kissed me, he blessed me.”
“Tell me about it.”
“It was some years ago. Its remembrance fades, then
brightens again. Sometimes it bubbles up within me like
a spring, sometimes it spreads away into a deep calm
surface like the Pond. It haunts me like a summer cloud.
In my sensibilities it lies and stirs me up to weeping.
Forgive me a thousand times that I should have been so
wanton. When you spoke of him in such a way, I was
suddenly flooded with emotion such as I cannot describe.
Isabel and Job know of it, but they do not precisely answer
to my feelings. Indeed at the moment you come up I was
endeavoring to form out of the clouds some likeness to
what I had seen, the One himself, the Cross, the Dove; I
gazed into the heights of the blue sky for some apparition.
I beguile the uncertainties of my thought by the creations
of my fancy. But that comes not, and the clouds veil
know. I do love, how little I know!”
“But do, if it pleases you, give me the particulars of
your dream.”
Margaret repeated what is already in the possession of
the reader, and recounted parts of other dreams. “But,”
said she, as the conversation went on, “I thought this was
for myself alone. It has been kept in my own life. Is he,
Christ, great, is he general? You, Sir, seem to know and
to feel him, though you say you have had no dreams. He
has been a strange beautiful flower in my garden, and so he
exists in yours. What do these things mean?”
“Your question raises,” said he, “a long train of reflection.
Let us be seated, and we will go over the matter with
that care which it deserves.”
“No, indeed,” replied Margaret, “I would not trouble
you to that extent now. Job promised that I would go on
the Head with you, it is time to start—I must be at home,
and help about the dinner.”
“Where is the cake for Egeria?” said Job.
“I guess she will have to be content with the grasshopper
music, or she may lie down in the shade as the cows
do,” answered Margaret. “I did not tell you, Sir,” she
added, “that this spot is consecrated to the nymph whom
the old Roman was wont to visit, and when we go away we
sometimes leave a cake or piece of bread both as an oblation
and for her dinner, and will you believe it, Sir, when
I return, it is all gone.”
They proceeded towards the eminence called the Head.
Seeing Chilion moving leisurely in the direction of the
water, Job importuned to go and sail with him, and Margaret
with Mr. Evelyn went up the hill.
“How very beautiful this is!” said the young gentleman,
“there, here, and every where.”
“Look down into this water,” said Margaret, standing
on the rock that overhung the Pond, “if your brain is
steady enough. This the Master calls Exclamation Point.
I have wished to drop into that splendid cloud-flowing
nadir, and if I am missing one of these days you will know
where to find me. You are sober—well, look off into the
mountains yonder. That is Umkiddin. You will not
blame a passion I cherish for climbing that sunny height,
and laying hand and heart in the downy blue.”
“No, I could not. But see that point of rock around
which the water bends, with a great tree overshadowing
the distance. So I admire a river, not so much in its expanse
and full tide as in the turns and angles, where it
loses itself within green shores and sinks away under the
shade of cliff and forest.”
“`Loses itself'!” replied Margaret, repeating the word
with some emphasis. “There you have it again. Lost, gone,
vanishing, unreachable, inappropriable, anagogical!—I used
to sit here in my merry childhood and think all was mine,
the earth and the sky. I ate my bread and cider, and fed
the ants and flies. Through me innumerable things went
forth; the loons whooped me in the water, in my breath
the midges sported, the sun went down at my bidding, and
my jocund heart kindled the twilight. It now flies away
like a bird, and I cannot get near enough to put any salt
on its tail. Then I owned so much my losses were of no
account, and though I could not reach the bottom of the
Pond, I saw the heavens in it, and myself sailing above
them. In the darkest night, with our red tartarean links,
Chilion and I have rowed across the Pond, and sniggled
for eels, and so we conquered the secrets of those depths.
I have cried too in my day, I have an unkind brother and
a profligate father, and what with the wretchedness of those
tortured, and these swollen veins have been bled with weeping;
but I seem also to have lost the power of tears.
Those, like the days of good Queen Bess, are gone, and
how shall they be recovered?”
“Have you no faith?” asked Mr. Evelyn.
“`Faith'! That sanctiloquent word! That is what the
Widow Luce dins me with.”
“Faith, trust, confidence, repose, seeing the invisible,
relying upon the spiritual, having an inner impersonal inhabitancy.
In that alone I am happy and sustained.
Would you were thus happy.”
“I wish I were.—But faint heart never won fair lady.
I do not quite give over—I am happy, none more. So in
the same moment that I am worried I am at rest. How is
this? What many-colored streams flow through us, blood-red,
and woolly-white! Are we divided off like sheep? has
each feeling its fold? Through our skies sail two sets of
clouds, one to the North, one to the South? Even now
while I speak all I feel, there is more in me than I can
ever speak. What harmony circumscribes the whole? In
what are pain and pleasure one? I will not ask you;
I am happy; greater simpleton that I am if I were not.
Much I have lost, much remains, more comes. My dreams
have a place within me; and all the books I have read.
My home is every year more beautiful, the trees more
suggestive, the birds more musical, the bees more knowing.
Roots grow in new ways every summer, and snow falls in
new forms every winter. There is more in churning than
most people think of. Time is regenerative, and new
births occur every hour. The gritty Earth, alumen and
silex, spring up in what is beautiful as thought. I have
also many and improving visitations, and much select
Walk in the woods, and close upon the edge of the water
you see some graceful white birches; those are the Nine
Muses. Brother Chilion is our Apollo. In the house we
have St. Crispin for the shoemaker. Brother Hash, the
Master calls Priapus; the Leech we call Dea Salus, and
the road to her house has received from the Master the
name of Via Salutaris. Religion he says is an anagogical
parenthesis, because it must be spoken in a lower tone of
voice. No. 4 I called Avernus, and the road to it Descensus
Averni, but coming up, he would have it that it was
the Delectable Way. The Head is called Mons Bacchi,
but our cistern I call Temperance. The Hours dance
round me in snowflakes, Naiads and Dryads inhabit our
woods and water; in one of my haunts I can show you the
Three Graces. That island with a large elm in the centre
is Feronia's, where I often go. The Head I told you the
Master called Bacchus's Hill, and sometimes our whole
region goes by that name, and the Pond he says he has no
doubt is the reappearance of the river Helicon into which
some fabled Orpheus was changed, and whose waters were
a long time hidden under ground: so we sometimes call
our place the Lake of Orpheus. To which divinity we
are on the whole consecrated, I hardly know; but for my
part, I prefer the musical, to the tippling god. Then the
fair lady of my dreams sometimes comes to me with her
pale beautiful face. I have also one at the Widow's, but
whether she be a phantom or a reality I know not, a girl
like myself, also pale, sad and beautiful, whose smile is an
enchantment, even if I know not her hidden self. Am I
not happy?”
“It may be so,” answered he, “but in a manner different
from the `world.'”
“Another word that I do not understand! What mean
you by the `world'?”
“People about you, men and women in general.”
“If you mean the villagers, the No. 4's, Breaknecks and
Snakehills, I know I differ some from them. They drink
rum, and I do not; they are unkind one with another,
which for the life of me I never could be. Their Anagogics
indeed I wholly fail to comprehend, their Meetings,
Catechizing, Freemasonry, Trainings, Politics, Courts, Jails,
and all that.”
“Your religion is so different from theirs.”
“Bless me, I have no religion; and Bull defend me
from theirs! Albeit, as Deacon Ramsdill says, we must
eat a peck of dirt before we die, and perhaps I must make
mine out in their religion!—I have offended you; it is just
as I told you I should do, if you talked with me.”
“I repeat, that you cannot offend me, only you must
allow what vou say to make me somewhat thoughtful. You
said you wanted to clamber up the blue mountain yonder,
and are ready even to leave your pretty Pantheon for
that acquisition. That is religion, even if you had not
thought it.”
“No, never would I leave my `pretty Pantheon,' as you
call it. But I should like to thrust my fingers between
those two blues, that of the hill and of the sky. There
Christ has come to me; in celestial skyey softness has that
vision appeared. No one like the Beautiful One has ever
visited my dreams, my thoughts, my aspirations; and I
have nothing about me I dare call Christ. There is sometimes
a cloud that stretches from Umkiddin to the moon
when it rises, like a turkey's tail-feather—whence comes it?
to what serene eternal bird does it belong? is it part of the
wing of Christ under whose shadow I may lie? is it the
I cannot leave my Pantheon, and I long for what I have
not; and that is religion, you say. Your definition differs
somewhat from my tutor's, and by it, I am quite religious!
ha, ha! Prithee, tell me, Sir, who are you? Are not you
`the world'?”
“A sorry part of it, I fear; yet removed enough from it
neither to drink rum nor disturb the peace of others. I do
keep the Sabbath and go to Church; I do not say the
Creed, or belong to any train-band. Most people, I confess,
are degraded by their piety; I do believe there is a worship
that purifies and ennobles.”
“You confound and delight me both. I know not what
to say. The horn is blowing for dinner, and I am glad
something befalls to put an end to the perplexity, Won't
you stay and have your dinner with us? I will introduce
you to my home and spinning-wheel.”
“I am engaged at the Village.—May I have the pleasure
of seeing you again, Miss Hart?”
“Miss Hart!”
“That is your name, I believe.”
“Yes—only I was never called so before, and it sounds
strange. If I do not give you more pain than pleasure,
you are welcome to see me when I am to be seen. I have
a good deal to do. Can you break flax?”
“I fear I should bungle at it.”
“Then I fear Ma would not like you. If you could help
me get thistle-down, or rake hay, I should be glad to see
you. I would not pain a toad, I hope I shall not you.—
Where is the Bible you spoke of, if it does not make me
laugh to ask you?”
“You shall have it if you will promise me not to laugh
when you read it.”
“I never made a promise in my life; only I will try.”
“It is not the whole Bible; it is the New Testament, so
called. I hope it will please you.”
“I don't know. `A clouted shoe hath oft-times craft in
it,' Deacon Ramsdill says, and there may be some good in
the Bible.”
“We have had fine luck,” said Job, meeting them from
the boat, as they descended the hill. “Six white perch,
eel-pouts, and shiners a plenty.”
“Carry them all to your mother,” replied Margaret, “and
mind you give Whippoorwill a taste. There is my Apollo,
not so fair, perchance, as his namesake, but he is as good.
He is lame, you see, withal, and in that resembles his prototype;
and this stone of my heart becomes melodious
when he plays. Mr. Evelyn, Chilion.”
“How do you do, Sir?”
“Quite well, at your services, Sir,” replied Chilion.
“What springal is that has kept you from helping me?”
said Brown Moll, coming to the window with a tray full of
hot potatoes, as Mr. Evelyn and Job turned down the road.
“A fox after the goslin, hey?” said Hash, who, with his
father, arrived at the same moment. “I saw you on the
Head.”
“I guess he has lain out over night,” said Pluck. “He
looks soft and glossy as your Mammy's flax of a frosty
morning. Now don't take pet, Molly dear.”
“She swells like a soaked pea,” added the old woman
“What's the matter, hussy? I should think he had been
rubbing your face with elm leaves.”
“Never mind, Molly,” interposed her father. “Better
play at small game than stand out. You are the spider
of the woods. Spin a strong web; you are sure to catch
something.”
“She looks as if she had been spun, colored and hung
out to dry,” said her mother.
“By time!” exclaimed Hash, “I smell potatoes. Give
us some dinner.”
“Speaking of spinning,” said Pluck, when the others
were gone in, “you know how to use the wheelpin—keep
the thread taught and easy in your fingers, mind the spindle,
then buzz away like Duke Jehu;—only if he is a dum
spot of a lawyer or a priest, weave him into a breeches-piece,
and I'll wear him, I be blown if I don't; and when he is
past mending, I'll hang him up for a scarecrow, blast
him!”
After dinner, Margaret took her boat and went to the
Island called Feronia's, remarkable for its great elm. She
threw herself on a bed of mosses under the shade of the
tree. “Patience, Silence, Feronia, Venus, O Mother
God! help thy child!” she said, or ejaculated with herself.
“I, Icarus, with waxen wings, am melted by the light into
which I fly! I, Euridice, am in hell! my Orpheus bore
me out a little ways, left me, and I am caught back again!
How cold I grow! Let me lie in the sun. Dear clouds,
sweet clouds! let me shine and be dissolved with you!
O Christ!—Relent, thou iron soul of the skies, and speak
to me!—My little boat, where is the glad bird-child you
used to carry? Still the same, the oar, the seat; the water
the same, rocks, woods; waves sing their eternal lullaby,
boxberries keep their unchanging red, shadows embrace
me as if my heart were free.—How I twattled, skurried!
`Miss Hart!' Miss Pan, Miss Bacchus, rather. Now I
grow hot again. Who, what am I? Quis, Quid! God
and I alike anagogical. Who or what is he? Let me get
it right this time. Who is Mr. Evelyn? His What is
what? What is his Who? The What! Lucem inaccessam,
light inapproachable. Rose, too, the same.—How
how benign and forbearing in all things! And yet sanctiloquent,
and yet so different from others? What is `the
world'? Is he it? Is he like me? Why am I not it?
I will see how this matter looks in the water, let me quench
my hot limbs.”
Drifting along in her boat, she bent over the water,—
“Molly, dear,” said she, “is that you? Your face is red
and feverish. Go to the Widow's and get some balm tea.
—Can't you keep cool down there? The sun shines there
as well as here. Your hair wants combing, your dress is
disordered, Neptune's sea-dog's would be ashamed of you.”
She left her boat and clothes on the shore, and immersed
herself in the grateful water. She returned to the island;
she said, “I will lie down under the tree; sleep is better
than knowledge, a bed kinder than God, the shadows more
beautiful than Truth! Or, Mr. Evelyn, is rest given us
wherein we find ourselves and all things? Pardon me,
Sir.” She slept a long time, and awoke refreshed and
regulated, resolute but subdued; with an even hand and
quiet temperature she rowed homewards, and went about
such duties as domestic necessity or customary requisition
imposed.
In the evening she went to see Rose, and while she made
no mention of Mr. Anonymous, she found she had much to
say of Mr. Evelyn. Rose embraced her with a silent, night-like
tranquility, and kissed her lips fervently, which was
nearly all the response she made. The sad girl shone out
if at all, like the moon through dark clouds, that are only
the darker for the brightness behind them. “death,” said
she, diverging into a train of thought seemingly suggested
by what Margaret related, “Death will soon end all. In
the grave we shall lie. and the beauty and strength of exstence
shall perish with us. I only ask, Margaret, that I
alike the fairest visions and the most dismal forebodings;
decay shall feed sweetly upon your ruddiness and vigor,
your nobleness and benignity. A princely offering are we
to annihilation. I murmur not, I dread not; with the
serenity of angelic love I submit to the all-o'ersweeping
fate. In your arms to lie, with you to die, I smile as I
sink into the eternal rest. Yet live on, Margaret, while
you may; fill your golden cup, it will never be too late to
drink it, even if death seizes you in the act.”
| Margaret | |