University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
CHRISTIANITY.

Another day Mr. Evelyn came to the Pond. Margaret
watched his approach with composure, and returned his
greeting without confusion. “You have been on the Head,”
said she, “and I must take you to other places to-day.
First the Maples.”

“This is a fine mineralogical region,” said he, as they
entered the spot. “I wish I had a hammer.”

“I will get one,” said she.

“Let me go for it.”

“You are not in health, you told me, and you do not look
very strong. I must go, by all means. I will be back in
a trice. You will have quite as much walking as you can
master before the day is through.”

“I fear I shall be more tired wondering than in going.”

“See this,” said he, exposing a hollow stone filled with
rare crystals, which he found and broke during her absence.

“I thank you, I thank you,” she replied. “The Master has
given me an inkling of geology, but I never imagined such
beauty was hidden here.”

“With definite forms and brilliant texture these gems
vegetate in the centre of this rough, rusty stone.”

“Incomparable mystery! New Anagogics! I begin to
be in love with what I understand not.”

“Humanity is like that.”

“What is Humanity?”

“It is only another name for the World that you asked
me about.”

“I am perplexed by the duplicity of words. He is humane
who helps the needy.”

“That is one form of Humanity. I use the term as expressing
all men collectively viewed in their better light.
Much depends upon this light, phase, or aspect, what subjectively
to us is by the Germans called stand-point. Indian's
Head, in one position, resembles a human face, in
another quite as much a fish's tail. Man, like this stone, is
geodic—such stones, you know, are called geodes—”

“Have you the skill to discover them?”

“It is more difficult to break than find them. Yet if I
could crack any man as I do this stone, I should open to
crystals.”

“Any man?”

“All men.”

“Passing wonderful! I would run a thousand miles for
the hammer! I have been straining after the stars, how
much there is in the stones! Most divine Earth, henceforth
I will worship thee! Geodic Androids! What will
the Master say?”

“I see traces of more gems in these large rocks. Let
me rap here, and lo! a beryl; there is agate, yonder is a
growth of garnets.”

“Let me cease to be astonished, and only learn to love.”

“An important lesson, and one not too well learned.”

“Under this tree I will erect a Temple to the God of
Rocks. Was there any such? Certes, I remember none.”

“The God of Rocks is God.”

“You sport enigmas. Let us to Diana's Walk.”

They perambulated the forest touching upon various spots
of interest to Margaret. She had given name and population

to many a solitary place, and for a long while had been
deepening her worship and extending her supremacy, such
as it was, over the region. Tired at last, they sat down
under the trees.

“You will not relish such a walk and so many gods, I
fear,” said she.

“I could pursue the woods forever,” was his reply. “The
trees give me more than my acquaintances.”

“They are my home,” remarked Margaret, “I was born
in them, have been sheltered under them, and educated by
them, and do sometimes believe myself of them. The
Master rightly says I have a fibrous disposition. I used to
think I came of an acorn, and many a one have I opened
to find a baby brother or sister. Am I not an automative
vegetable, a witch-hazle in moccasons? The Master says
I am of the order Bipeds, and species Simulacrens;
distinguished by thirty-two teeth, and having the superior
extremities terminated by a hand which is susceptible of a
greater variety of motions than that of any other animal,
and is remarkably prehensile; that it inhabits all parts of
the earth; is omnivorous; and disputes for territory,
uniting together for the express purpose of destroying its
own kind; that I am of the variety Caucasiana, differing
from the Americana in this, that my feet are a little broader
just above the toes, and from the Simia in the configuration
of the thumb. For my own part, I incline to the Sylvian
analogy, only my clothes are not half so durable as this
bark, nor my hair so becoming as the leaves, and I must
undress myself at night and take to my bed, while the trees
sleep standing and unhooded. Then what a pother we
make about eating, while the tree lives on its own breath,
and easier than a duck, muddles for nourishment with its
roots.”

“You will not overlook the mind, the spirit, the fabled
Psyche; the inner voluntary life, the diversifier of action,
the possibility of achievement, the gubernator of matter,
the annotator of the Universe, the thinking, willing, loving,
aspiration and submission, retrospection and prospection,
smiling and weeping, speech and silence, right and wrong,
art, poetry, music, heroism and self-renunciation, the self-consciousness
of infinite affinities—all, all demonstrate the
separateness and superiority of man.”

“I know what you say is true, and when I hear it said,
I shall feel it to be so. Talk some more.”

“The tree has no sense of happiness, like you and me,
nor does it possess the capability of wretchedness. It exists
for our pleasure. He, the Soul of all, the supreme Intelligence,
the uncreated Creator, the invisible Seer, has
caused it to grow for our use. Even now I feel Him,
called in our tongue God, in the Greek Theos, in the
Hebrew Jehovah, in the Indian Manitou. His life inflames
my life, his spirit inspires my spirit. All that is now about
us is his, and he in it; the beauty of the forest is the
tincture of his beneficence, the breeze is the fanning of his
mercy, the box-berries and mosses are his, the rocks and
roots, the dancing shadows, the green breaks into the blue
sky are his creation, the fair whole of color, perfume and
form, the indescribable sweet sensation that swells in our
breasts, are his gift and his presence in the gift; they are
the figures woven into the tapestry that robes the Universe,
the fragrance that fills the vinaigrette of Creation. Through
all and in all pierces his Spirit, that blows upon us like the
wind.”

“But what becomes of my pretty Pantheon, Apollo
and Bacchus, Diana and Egeria, before this all-deluging
One?”

“That belongs to what is termed Mythology, a mixture
of imagination, religion and philosophy. Apollo, for
instance, as Tooke will tell you, denotes the sun; and of
the arts ascribed to him, prophesying, healing, shooting,
music, we discover a lively prototype in that luminary. In
Hindoo Mythology is Brahma, an uncouth image, coarsely
done in stone, which Christians affect to despise, having
the form of an infant with its toe in its mouth, floating on a
flower over a watery abyss. It signifies that in some of
the renovations which the world is supposed to have undergone,
the wisdom and designs of God will appear as in their
infant state; Brahma, that is God the Creator, floating on
a leaf, shows the instability of things at that period; the
toe sucked in the mouth implies that Infinite wisdom subsists
of itself; and the position of the body, bent into the form
of a ring, is an emblem of the circle of eternity. It is a
mere hint at the highest ideas, and by its very rudeness
effectually anticipates the error of diverting attention from
the substance to the shadow, and if worship be performed
before it, it is none otherwise than what is done in our
Churches, which are styled, preëminently, houses of God,
sanctuaries or sacred places. The Northern nations,
inheriting the germs of spirituality from the East, superadded
Beauty, and elaborated the Symbol in the fairest forms of
Art. Their Statues also were an embodied Allegory, a
sort of Encyclopædia of truth. Now-a-days we have lost
the ancient idea, and so split up our systems of knowledge,
that a statue is no more than a handsomely wrought stone;
and sometimes we vituperate the attention paid to it, as
Idolatry. It furnished to the eye what a written treatise
does to the understanding; or in brief the chisel did the
work of the pen. To the Greeks, a statue was at once a
Church and a Book, it was Beauty and Inspiration, Truth

and Illustration, Philosophy and Religion. The human
form is more expressive than any other, and genius seized
upon that as the most fitting instrument for conveying
ideality, and ennobled man while it symbolized his frame.”

“So Apollo is a creation of God?”

“The original on which that is founded is a creation of
God; or I should say, Apollo, representing certain facts in
the creation of God, or certain attributes of God, his culture
was observed by different nations under different names,
till at last some artist, fusing as it were the popular idea in
his own, wrought the whole in marble, and so gave us the
Belvidere.”

“What are we? What am I?”

“In the words of the biblical Job, whom I fear you know
less about than you do about the Widow Luce's Job,
`There is a spirit in man, and the inspiration of the
Almighty hath given them understanding.' God himself
breathes into us the breath of spiritual life. This divine
affiatus animates the embryon existence. The spirit
assumes a material framework which it must quit at last.
Our souls coming from God return to him. We are everliving
as the Divinity himself. The bosom of the Infinite,
while it nourishes us here, is our ultimate home. God
creates us in his own image, and we like him go on to
create. He weaves, and we are his warp and filling.”

“Who winds the spools?”

“You are more at home in the detail, Miss Hart, than I
am, and I leave you to answer that question yourself.—
But, we the woof, are also weavers. God weaves and we
weave; `He dwells in us and we in him,' St. John says.
`He clothes the grass of the field,' Christ says. `He works
in us,' St. Paul says.”

“Did God work in the artist that made the Apollo?”

“Yes; all beautiful works of man are an inspiration of
the Almighty. We read in the Old Testament that God
put wisdom and understanding into men's hearts to know
how to work all manner of work, for a fabric the Jews
were building. It is the energy of that action wherewith
he endows man.”

“Then I may keep my Apollo, and all my Divinities.”

“I would not deprive you of any thing that shall make
you beautiful and strong, happy and chaste, devout and
simple, that shall give companionship to your solitude,
ministry to your susceptibilities, exercise to your imagination.”

“You are taking the pegs out of the bars, but I will not
run wild—I am impatient to know about Christ; what will
you say of him? I have read some in the New Testament
you gave me. It is the strangest book I ever saw. It
transported me with an unspeakable delight; and then I
was overwhelmed by a painful complexity of sensations.
I came to where he died, and I laid down the book and
wept with a suffocating anguish. Then there were those
sanctiloquent words!”

“That which I gave you is a version made two hundred
years since, when our language was imperfect, scholarship
deficient, biblical knowledge limited, and the popular belief
replete with errors; and moreover done by men of a
particular sect under the dictation of a King. Of course
the translation suffers somewhat; but the general truth of
the Gospels can no more be hindered by this circumstance,
than the effect of day by an accumulation of clouds. But
of the subject itself, Christ, what can I say? It is almost
too great for our comprehension, as it certainly rises
above all petty disputes. How can I describe what I know
not? How can I embrace a nature that so exceeds my

own? How can I tell of a love I never felt, or recount
attainments I never reached? Can I give out what I have
not, and I sometimes fear I am not completely possessed of
Christ. Can I, the Imperfect, appreciate the Perfect one;
can I, the sinful, reveal the sinless soul? I have not Christ's
spirit, his truth, his joy, so integrally and plenarily, that I
can set him forth in due proportion and entireness. His
experience and character, his spiritual strength and moral
greatness are so transcendent, I truly hesitate at the task
you impose upon me. That we may portray the Poet or
the Artist, or any high excellence, we must square with it;
who, alas! is equal to Christ?”

“Yet,” said Margaret, “all that is lies secretly coiled
within our own breasts! All Beauty, I am persuaded, is
within us; whatever comes to me I feel has had a preexistence.
I sometimes indeed doubt whether I give or
receive. A flower takes color from the sun and gives off
color. Air makes the fire burn, and the fire makes the air
blow; and the colder the weather the brisker the fire. A
watermelon seed can say, `In me are ten watermelons,
rind, pulp and seeds, so many yards of vine, so many
pounds of leaves.' In myself seems sometimes to reside an
infant Universe. My soul is certainly pistillate, and the
pollen of all things is borne to me. The spider builds his
house from his own bowels. I have sometimes seen a
wood-spider let off a thread which the winds drew out for
him and raised above the trees, and when it was sufficiently
high and strong, he would climb up it, and sail off in the
clear atmosphere. I think if you only begin, it will all
come to you. As you drain off it will flow in. The sinful
may give out the sinless. I long to hear what you have
to say.”

“What you observe is too true, and I thank you for

making me recollect myself. Even the Almighty creates
us, and then suffers himself to be revealed in us. We,
motes, carry an immensity of susceptible, responsive existence.
But for this we should never love or know
Christ. In his boyhood, we are told, Christ waxed strong
in spirit, was filled with wisdom, and the grace of God was
upon him. His earliest developments must have been of
a peculiarly beautiful and striking kind. When he was
twelve years old, being in company of some learned people,
his questions and replies were of such a nature as to excite
astonishment at the extent of his understanding. We have
no authentic account of him from this until his thirtieth
year; excepting that he resided with his father and pursued
the family avocation, that of a carpenter.”

“What, do you know nothing about him when he was as
old as I am, or as you are, when he was fifteen, or twenty,
or twenty-five? In the dream I remember he said I must
be like him, I must grow up with him. Had he no youth?
Had he no inward sorrowful feelings as I have had?”

“There is one of the books of the New Testament of a
peculiar character, and it contains some intimations respecting
Christ, not found in the others. I will read a passage.
`In the days of his flesh he offered up or poured forth
prayers and supplications, with strong crying and tears, to
him that was able to save him from death, and was heard
in that he feared,' or, as it stands in the original, for his
piety. This, as I believe, points to a period of his life not
recorded in the other histories, and should be assigned to
that which you have mentioned, his youth.”

“I have no doubt of it,” said Margaret. “It describes
exactly what I have been through. Did he suffer all we
do?”

“Yes, his life and sufferings were archetypal of those of

all his followers. `He suffered for us,' says St. Peter,
`leaving us an example that we should follow in his steps.'
`Rejoice,' he says, `inasmuch as ye are partakers of
Christ's sufferings.'”

“How near this brings Christ to me! It seems as if I
had him now in my heart. He too suffered! How much
there is in that word! and in this earnest, soul-deep-way!
I understand his sad tender look. Apollo killed Hyacinth
by accident, and was very sorry. But there was no deep
capable soul in Apollo, was there? I shall not think so
much of him,—I interrupt you, Sir, go on.”

“He suffered all that any being can suffer; he was alone,
unbefriended, unsympathized with, unaided; books gave
him no satisfaction, teachers afforded him no light. The
current, swift and broad, of popular error and prejudice, he
had to stem and turn, single-handed. He grew in knowledge,
we read; the problems of Man, God and the
Universe were given him to resolve. But he was heard
for his piety, for his goodness. He became perfect through
suffering. Supernatural, divine assistance was afforded
him, and he conquered at last.

“At the age of thirty, when he entered what is called his
public ministry, which is the chief subject of history, he
encountered a severe temptation, such as all are liable to,
and was enabled to vanquish it; he was tempted as we are.
He was ever without sin, neither was guile found in his
mouth; he was holy, harmless, undefiled. At times he was
made indignant at the conduct of men, he was grieved at
the hardness of their hearts, he groaned in sympathy with
human distress and wept over the follies of the race; he
was persecuted by the great, and despised by his own
kindred; his nearest friends deserted him, and one of his
chosen disciples betrayed him; the greatness of his views

met only with bigotry, and the generosity of his heart was
repelled by meanness; he carried the heavy wood on
which he was crucified, and when brought as a malefactor
to the place of execution, he was scourged and spit upon;
once prostrated by weight of anguish, even from very heat
of internal agony, he entreated that the bitter cup might be
removed; and add to all, in the extreme stage of dissolving
life, for a moment his spiritual vision seemed to be dimmed,
and he cried out, `O my God! why hast thou forsaken
me?' Such is a brief notice of his sufferings. Let me
turn to other points—”

“O, Mr. Evelyn!” exclaimed Margaret, “how can you
go on so! How cold you are! I cannot hear any more;”
and from the posture she had maintained with her eyes
fixed on the ground, she fell with her face into her hands,
and followed the act with an audible profusion of tears.

“Do forgive me, Miss Hart,” said Mr. Evelyn. “I
have been so long familiar with this most affecting history,
that I know it does not move me as it should.”

“I only know,” said Margaret, looking up with a tender
smile in her tears, “that I feel it all through me, my heart
swells like a gourd, and I ache in a strange way. My
memory and my sensatons seem to be alike agitated.”

“That must be sympathy!” replied Mr. Evelyn.

“What is that sympathy? asked Margaret. “I never
heard, methinks, the word before.”

“It is of Greek origin, and means feeling or suffering
with another. It denotes mutual sensation, fellow feeling;
it implies also compassion, commiseration. It is defined a
conformity in feeling, suffering or passion with another;
also a participation in the condition or state of another;
and also, if you are not tired of superenumeration, the

quality or susceptibility of being effected by the affection
of another, with feelings correspondent in kind.”

“Sympathy, sympathy!” said Margaret, “That is it.
You understand me now!”

“Yes you sympathize with Christ. I can but deplore
my own insensibility.”

“I will remember that word; I like to get a good word;
it is a brooding hen over my ideas, it keeps them warm, and
ready to hatch. While you were speaking, I felt myself
drawn out by some strange affinities to what you said, and
when you came to the extreme sufferings of Christ, my
sensations were something such as I had when you spoke
about him the other day, and when I read that part of the
Book, only so many things being brought together, I felt
more. All the sadness I ever had was revived, and burst
within me anew.”

“I was going to tell you,” continued Mr. Evelyn, “that
in addition to, and despite all, Christ was very happy, and
that in manner and matter beyond what most men can conceive
of, which is another secret in his character. On the
last day of his life, with the horrors of crucifixion impending,
he said to his sorrowing friends, `Peace I leave with
you, my peace I give unto you.' He desired, he says, that
`joy might remain with them.” He prays that `his joy
may be fulfilled in themselves!' This I think will please
you.”

“I believe I understand something of that too,” said
Margaret.

“There are still other points,” pursued Mr. Evelyn,
“I must speak of the object of Christ's coming into the
world, or what is known as the plan of Redemption by
him. Man had fallen, if you know what that means.”

“I know what Pa says when he is so intoxicated he
can't stand. `In Adam's fall, we sinned all.'”

“I do not refer to that. Eve, of whom you will read in
the Old Testament, ate an apple from an interdicted tree,
which is commonly known as the Fall of Man. There is
no authority for such a belief. Men fall, each man for
himself, when they sin, that is, do wrong. At the time
Christ appeared, St. Paul tells us, unrighteousness, wickedness,
covetousness, maliciousness, lasciviousness, envyings,
backbitings, murders, wrath, strife, seditions prevailed;
men were inventors of evil things, disobedient to parents,
without natural affection, without understanding, unholy,
and so forth—”

“I shall laugh now,” said Margaret, “to hear all that
sanctiloquence. I must have hit upon some of those words,
which nearly disgusted me with the book. I have heard
Deacon Hadlock called a very holy man, and Pa laughed,
and the Master blew his nose.”

“Those are words,” replied Mr. Evelyn, “in common
and proper use when the translation was made to which I
referred. Having disappeared from the popular tongue,
and being retained only in ecclesiastical terminology, it is
not surprising that they sound strange to you. Rendered
in modern English, holiness and righteousness mean goodness,
virtue, rectitude, or any high moral and religious
excellence. As respects the other vices mentioned, we
have now-a-days, as you well know, war, intemperance,
slavery, unkindness; and then what go by the name
of bigotry, irreligion, pious frauds, persecution, simony,
burglary, peculation, treason, perjury, kidnapping, piracy,
scandal, ingratitude, intrigue, bribery, meanness, social
inequality, governmental misrule, spirit of caste, oppression
of labor, superciliousness, are abundant. These and

similar things are what the Gospel denominates the works
of the flesh, and renders unto tribulation and anguish, as
evil doing. These are that whereby men break the Divine
Law, and separate themselves from God. But the primary
idea in this matter, the fundamental law of sin, the very
essence of the Fall, consists in this, that men ceased to
love. Love is the fulfilling of the law, it is the first and
great command; it unites man with God and with himself.
In the subsidency and departure of love, the moral system
is revolutionized and human nature disordered. The
instinct of self-preservation is tortured into selfishness, the
desire of excellence flames into ambition, the sense of right
becomes the author of innumerable wrong. The whole
head is sick, the whole heart faint. Nature commences a
burdensome contention with abuse, misdirection, absurdity,
folly. It is ever Nature versus the Unnatural. The
institutions and organizations of men, founded upon the
new basis, partake of the general corruption, and only
foster evils it is their design to prevent. Love casts out
fear; in the absence of love, fear supersedes; hence
aggression and violence, superstition and the doctrine of
devils.”

“I never feared,” said Margaret; “was that because I
loved?”

“Fortitude,” replied Mr. Evelyn, “springs as much
from superiority to our enmities, as from superiority to our
enemies. And this reminds me, that the first voluntary
wrong act any man ever did was done through the absence
of love. But here arises a new element. We were never
created to do or to suffer voluntary wrong, and there is
generated in consequence of such acts the sense of injury.
Hence come all retaliations. A most mournful fact in this
matter is that dissonance and disorder are themselves sympathetic

and reciprocal. Aversion reproduces aversion, and
selfishness is answered by selfishness.”

“I have felt that towards Solomon Smith sometimes,”
said Margaret. “I know he dislikes me, and I have been
moved to dislike him, and I suppose I should if I did not
feel what a ridiculous piece of business it is for one most
anagogical puppet to be mad with another. And since
you would also convince me he is geodic, what can I do,
but abide, like the ants, whose hills though trodden upon
are patiently renewed every morning.”

“When man ceases to love, he is not only enstranged
from God, but the image of God within him is lost, the
heavenly purity of his character is sullied, and the divine
harmonies of his nature discomposed. But what is worst of
all, we are educated to regard every man with suspicion
and enmity. We are taught in our earliest years that men
are by nature totally depraved, and since total depravity
covers every form of sin and vice, we are in effect instructed
to believe every man a villain, a thief, a murderer,
at heart; as mean, selfish, and malicious, in his secret
conscious purpose. This is the cardinal doctrine of what
passes under the name of Christianity. It is annually
enforced by hundreds of thousands of discourses from
Bishops and Clergy in every part of Christendom. This
consummates the Fall! Every youth under the operation
of that sympathetic and reciprocal law, to which I adverted,
enters life in the spirit of hostility. To receive injury he
expects, and accounts it not harmful to do an injury to the
injurious. The evil which he is made to believe all others
saturated with is reflected in his own bosom, and so, in spite
of himself, he becomes depraved. There is something
denominated love in the religious circles; I should call it
Ecclesiastical love, because it is a figment of the Church,

to distinguish it from Christian love, which has its origin
in Christ, or Evangelical love founded on the Gospels.
After making you believe all men totally depraved, our
teachers endeavor to create in the breasts of the elect so
termed, a pity for this depravity, and to inspire them with
a desire to remove it, and this they call love, which is no
love at all, since an important element in love is that it
thinketh no evil, judges not. In what I have now said,
you see not only the Fall of man generally, but also that
second greater catastrophe, the Fall of the Church.”

“Here I must beg of you some more explanations; what
do you mean by the Church?”

“I mean that great body of men, in all countries, of all
denominations and sects, who profess Christianity, in their
associate capacity, with their clergy, or leaders, and creeds,
or articles of establishment.”

“Have the Church members in the Village and those
who groaned so at the Camp Meeting fallen?”

“Yes, all. The effect of a corrupt Christianity, or as I
should say of a fallen religion, is to perpetuate and augment
itself; and now, with very few exceptions, all share in the
common calamity. In the progress of decline, it became a
matter of course, that the Church should change its
standards of faith, or as we say in politics, adopt a new
constitution. The Gospels or Evangelicons, by which are
intended the personal biographies of Jesus, a book of Acts,
and certain documents known as Epistles, are indeed
accredited by all. But there arose certain things which
have practically superseded the Gospels. These are known
as Articles of the Council of Trent, of the Church of
England, of the Episcopal Church, of the Methodist
Church; or as Creeds in our various Churches. And
now a man may believe the Gospels, and aim to conform to

Christ, but he is not reckoned a Christian by the Romanists
unless he assent to their Articles, or by the Protestants
unless he subscribe to their several Creeds. And they have
carried this matter so far, as to condemn a man to everlasting
perdition if he depart from these Gospel substitutes.
You may examine these devices and canvass their qualities,
you will find no more Christianity in any one of them than
apple-juice in that stone. But we must bear in mind that
the world had fallen before the Church fell; and it was to
repair the effects of this first Fall, that Christ appeared on
the Earth; let us return to him. He came to renew love,
and reinstate men in a pure and happy condition.”

“But how could men love if they were as you describe
them?”

“Man never wholly loses his capacity for loving. The
natural susceptibility to goodness and truth can never be
extinguished. Our powers are perverted, not destroyed.
In fact, there have been holy, loving people in the world,
true Christians, in all times, all countries, all Churches,
among all religions and in every nation. Such have sometimes
been kings, and occupied thrones, they have been
outcasts from society, and buried in dungeons. Among
princes and peasants, the affluent and the poor, the learned
and the ignorant, aristocrats and plebeians, have appeared
from time to time sincere and earnest lovers of God and
man. Some sympathy with Christ exists in all minds,
either latent or active.

“Christ came on his high embassage with credentials of
an authoritative and remarkable character. He was the
brightness of the glory of God, and the express image of
his person. Indeed, He and the Father were one. He
received, he tells us, all power from God. He was baptized
of the Holy Spirit. He was proclaimed the beloved and

well-pleasing Son of God. He had gone through the experience
of life, he had studied the human mind in its every
phase, he understood the condition of men and was prepared
for the exigencies of his lot. The thirty years of his life
had not been spent in idleness. The effect of his address
was electrical. Cities poured forth their population to him
and the country was deserted of its inhabitants gone in
pursuit of him. The multitudes that thronged to hear him,
were so great no house could contain them, and he was
obliged to resort to the open air and spoke sometimes from
a hillside, sometimes from a boat moored by the shore.
But, as I have intimated, his course was not without trial
and obstacle. His success it was in part that contributed
to his unhappiness, and precipitated his death. The common
people heard him gladly, a circumstance that aroused
the jealousies of the higher orders, who became his unrelenting
antagonists. With covert insinuation and open
assault they pursued him, and by intrigue at last brought
him to the cross.

“Let me speak of what he did, of the spirit of his action
and the secret of his effect. Fresh and glowing he came
from the bosom of Heaven. His heart yearned for man as
for a brother. His sympathies were ardent, profuse and
forth-putting. His hopes were high and bright. He
spared himself neither privations, self-denials, inconveniences,
disrepute or toil. He gave himself for our ransom,
his whole self, body and mind, his thought, his sagacity, his
activity, his health, his time, his knowledge, his popularity,
his example, in fact all he had or was, even to life itself;
he consented that by his stripes we should be healed, by
his death we should live, and shed his blood to wash away
our sins. He was gentle and tender, the bruised reed he
would not break, or the smoking flax quench. Wherever

arose one feeblest aspiration to God he was prepared to
foment and cherish it. He made an open door of his compassionate
feelings, and invited to himself all who labored
and were heavy laden with sin and evil. He did not join
in the common execrations of men, or approve their
punitive severities; he saw something excellent in the
vilest, he would win by love the most ruffianish, and the
profligate he bade `Go, and sin no more.' When he was
reviled he reviled not again, and when he suffered, he
threatened not. If he received an injury he did not retaliate,
but committed himself, Peter says, `to him that
judgeth righteously,' that is, to God.

“And here we see the high moral perfection of Christ;
he had so disciplined his spirit, he was so preoccupied with
love, and so magnanimously considerate, that enmity and
aversion, which in most breasts give rise to corresponding
qualities, in his excited only kindness and favor. Here
also discovers itself his sublime Heroism, that he stood
unshaken before all moral assaults, and faced undaunted
every moral danger. Yet he was one of the strongest
sensibilities; he wept like a child in pure sympathy with
the distresses of his friends. He `took upon himself our
infirmities,' and if sensitiveness be an infirmity, he possessed
it equally with the rest of us. The insane, those
who were chained, imprisoned and under keepers, and who
in their paroxysms were ungovernable and dangerous, he
approached freely, became very familiar with in love, and
expelled the delusion that possessed them. The miraculous
power with which he was endowed he employed in
ways most instructive and beneficial. He gave sight to the
blind, hearing to the deaf, strength to the weak, and health
to the sick. He did not consult what was expedient, but
pursued what was right, and broke the popular Sabbath, an

exceedingly bold act, and one that nearly cost him his life.
Yet he was not harsh and sweeping in his movement; he
was sparing of those feelings which are deep because they
belong to our childhood, of convictions that are honest
because they are all we possess, and of forms of public life to
which along antiquity imparts an air of reverence; and he
would not see the Temple of the Jews mercenarily profaned.
The spirit of the Goth and Vandal was most remote from
Jesus. God he called his Heavenly Father, and sought to
create a near and filial relation with the Divinity. Man he
called his brother, and in all he would find fathers, mothers,
brothers, sisters. Little children, what is unparalleled
in all religions, he took in his arms and blessed. National,
local, and geographical antipathies he sought to correct,
and strove to unite all men on a common footing of
brotherhood; and the Samaritans, who were regarded by
his own people, the Jews, as the offscouring of all things, he
demonstrated both by precept and example to be deserving
a common friendship and love.”

“That is what Mr. Lovers said about the Freemasons,”
interposed Margaret, “and Isabel and I were so smitten
we determined to join them right off, and went to the
Master, but he said they did not admit women.”

“Freemasonary,” replied Mr. Evelyn, “is a partial good.
It recognizes every man as a brother who is a Mason, but
Christ recognized every one as a brother who was a man.
Women shared equally in his sympathies, and was embraced
by his love. The motto of Masonry, Faith, Hope and
Charity, is a fragment borrowed from the Gospels. Freemasonry
in some of our States excludes the black; Jew
and Gentile, Barbarian and Scythian, male and female,
bond and free, are one in Christ. He was invidiously
styled the Friend of Sinners, because he maintained a

kindly intercourse with those whom the world despised;
he dined with Pharisees, the chief men of the nation, that
he might understand their position, and be better able to
meet their wants. Certain leaders of the people were the
only ones whom he seems ever to have addressed with
severity, and that not from any hostility, but because they
appeared to him wholly dissolute and abandoned; yet his
language, in the original, savors more of a lament than a
proscription. I cannot tell you all he did. In the
expressive words of one of his disciples `he went about
doing good.'”

“I thank you for what you have told me,” said Margaret.
“Christ certainly seems to me the most wonderful being of
whom I have ever heard. I have read about Plato,
Anaxagoras, Socrates, Epaminondas, Diogenes, Seneca,
Cicero, Cato, Numa, Confucius, Budha, Manco Capac, and
others, who interested me a great deal, but nothing seemed
like this.”

“I have not told you half,” replied Mr. Evelyn. “I
have only spoken of what he did. How can I describe the
greatest, most excelling part of him, what he was! It is
a small thing to say that he was affable, honorable, brave,
warm-hearted, truthful, discreet, wise, talented, disinterested,
self-denying, patient, exemplary, temperate, charitable,
industrious, frugal, hospitable, compassionate, and such
like. He was meek and lowly in heart, and that with more
incentives to arrogance and pride than ever fell to the lot
of one individual; he was forbearing when a precept of
his religion demanded an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a
tooth; his affection was universal, while the sentiment and
practice of his people condemned intercourse with other
nations; he was self-relying in a community ruled by
tradition and resting on prescription; he was pacific where

war was sanctioned and encouraged; he was free in a world
of bondage, spiritual in a world of forms, great in a world
of littleness, a God in a world of men. His intrinsic
nobility rose above meanness and subterfuge, and if he ever
withheld all he thought, it was because he would not cast
his pearls before swine. He was frank without bluntness,
courteous without guile, familiar without vulgarity, liberal
without licentiousness. He combined tenderness of feeling
with rigor of principle, harmlessness with wisdom, simplicity
with greatness, faith with works. He fellowshipped man
without countenancing sin, he mingled in all classes of
society without losing his singleness of character. In him
were harmonized the opposite extreme of trust and independence,
forethought and impulse, plain common sense
and the highest spirituality, theory and practice, intuition
and reflection, cheerfulness and piety, toil and refinement,
candor and enthusiasm; he was Lord of lords and King of
kings, and the companion of peasants and confidant of the
obscure. He was eloquent and persuasive, yet his voice
was not heard in the streets; he had no boisterous tones,
or demagogical manner; he discoursed of the highest
truths, yet his language was so simple, the people were
astonished at the gracious words that proceeded out of his
mouth; God-possessed as he was, all-engrossing as was the
object he had in view, and preoccupied as we must suppose
his attention to have been, he was ever alive and fresh to
the beauty and suggestiveness of nature; and the falling rain,
a flying sparrow, the bursting wheat; the luxuriant mustard,
the blooming vine, the evening twilight, the clouds of
heaven, wells of water in the deserts of the East, oxen and
sheep, a hen brooding over her chickens, all things about
him left their impression in his heart and became the
illustrators of his doctrine. Considering the fervid Oriental
imagination, the perspicuous chasteness and emphatic
directness of his style, adapted to all climates and people,
is not a little remarkable. Made in all things like his
brethren, he was still one whom the offer of empire did not
flatter or a houseless night dishearten. His miraculous
power he used unostentatiously and sparingly; and with no
other intent than the good of man and the glory of God.
You have asked if he was not Beautiful; he was superlatively
so. In the translation it reads the Good Shepherd;
but here and elsewhere in the original Gospels a term is
employed by which the Greeks denoted the highest description
of Beauty, and if the public mind were not debased,
we should understand what is meant when it is said he is
the Beautiful Shepherd. Yet it is not mere beauty of color
or features, but something from within that expresses itself
in the face.”

“I remember,” said Margaret, “that look; his eyes
were fair, his hair and countenance; but there was something
behind, deeper, like music in the night, like the
shining of a fish in the water, like a nasturation flowering
under its green leaves.”

“Something like that; it glowed in his look and illuminated
his manner. The hidden source of his Beauty was
Love; and once, as his Love increased, as he became more
and more perfect through his sufferings, when his spirit
had completely passed through the veil of his flesh, this
inward Beauty shone out in a most wonderful way; and in
connection with the splendor of God which answered to it
at the moment, constitutes a striking scene known as the
Transfiguration, which you will read. That same look
melted one wicked man to tears, and felled brutal soldiers
to the earth.”

“Do explain to me one thing; in one of my dreams were

three girls, whom I knew to be Faith, Hope and Charity,
because I had seen pictures of them. They created a
fourth whom I called Beauty, because it could be nothing
else but that. Yet you say Beauty comes from Love.”

“That Charity,” replied Mr. Evelyn, “is none other
than Love. It is an evangelical term, and there again our
translators committed a blunder when they rendered it
Charity, who is none other than an alms-giver. But Love,
as Christ would have it, is something entirely different,
greater than Faith or Hope, the greatest of all things, and
from it comes true Beauty. As David desired to behold
the Beauty of the Lord, so that of Christ was not without
its effect in the rapid spread of his doctrine; he was
altogether lovely. The grace of your Venus, the symmetry
of your Apollo, the colors of flowers, the brilliancy of gems,
pass with me as nothing compared with the Moral Beauty
of Christ. Apollo is a perfect material form; Christ a
perfect moral soul. What Apollo is in the galleries of Art,
Christ is in the galleries of Spirit. The Apollo comprises
all the bodily excellences of men, Christ all their moral
excellences. There is some worth, some virtue in every
human being; in Christ these all united and made a
harmonious whole. The Apollo, as I told you, represented
the higher operations of Nature; Christ represented the
higher operations of God; or as I might say, the Apollo
represented the natural attributes of God, Christ his moral
attributes. By as much as the statue of Apollo differs
from the image of Brahma, by so much does Christ differ
from Plato.”

“I have thought sometimes,” said Margaret, “of Regulus
going back to the Carthaginians,—wasn't that an unexampled
act? of Codrus and Eubule sacrificing themselves for
their country, of Epaminonda's magnanimity, Arrius's

integrity, Evephenus's truthfulness; and O, how I have
wished to get away from Christians, sit down on a stump
in the groves of the Academy and hear Plato preach, or
squat with Diogenes in his tub and listen to his railings!
When the Master laughs about people, and I ask him who
is good, he says, `The Seven Wise Men of Greece.' I
am sure there was some virtue in those days—yet—I know
not what to say.”

“If you intend a comparison,” replied Mr. Evelyn, “it
were easy to prove, being put up to it, that Christ differs
from those to whom you have referred, toto cœlo, by the
greatest possible distance. True, they possessed many
virtues, but what you would glean from a whole antiquity
seems to me aggregated in Christ. There may be some
analogy between Christ and them, but no similitude. How
this matter stands you will see when I have said all I shall
say about him. Besides, as to Regulus for instance, there
seems to be no basis of comparison, they do not stand upon
any common footing. Among fallen men there exist certain
notions of rectitude, which go by the name of honor. It is
a familiar saying, there is honor among thieves. The
Romans and Carthaginians were fallen men, they made
war upon each other, they were mutual pillagers, incendiaries,
liars, assassins. Yet they retained this sentiment
of honor. Regulus indeed, true to his word, went back,
even when he knew it would cost him his life, a noble act;
yet he was put to death by those whom he had just before
been trying to kill, and possibly by the friends of those
whom his own sword had pierced. Then, in retaliation,
the Carthaginians in Rome were by the public authority
barbarously tortured.”

“I see, I see,” rejoined Margaret. “I did not think of
comparison. Only those noble deeds detached from every

thing else have lain in my mind, as things very beautiful.
And while you were speaking they rose up vividly.”

“Christ's was no dependent, distorted, or relative excellence,”
continued Mr. Evelyn; “he was not conspicuous
because he stood a head taller than his countrymen. He
was excellent from the sole of his foot upwards. He was
absolutely and rudimentally great, and would have appeared
so equally alone or with a million. He was un-fallen; he
did not stand upon a platform of depravity, and exhibit
how much excellence was compatible therewith. He stood
upon a platform of pure goodness, and shows how beautiful
it is. Regulus aided in carrying on the wicked purposes
of the world, Christ contemplated regenerating the
whole world. Epaminondas was made great by the vices
of his countrymen, Christ from his own inherit life. Plato
maintained that fire is a pyramid tied to the earth by numbers;
Christ is guilty of no philosophical absurdity, and
what is not a little noticeable is this, that while he pursued
the track of high, transcendent truth, he does not exhibit
the slightest tinge of those metaphysical speculations that
prevailed in his time. Plato travelled into Egypt in pursuit
of knowledge, Christ into the region of himself. Plato
borrows from the Brahmins. What absence of that
anagogical, all-prevalent, all-winsome Brahminism in
Christ! Socrates, the wise, beneficent and pious, lifted a
bloody arm against his fellow men. Thales thanked God
he was born a man, not a woman; a Greek, not a barbarian.
Solon ordered robbery to be punished with death.
Anaxagoras, when he was old and poor, wrapped himself in
his cloak, and resolved to die of hunger. These were all
stars in the night time, worthy of admiration, and pleasant
to go to sleep under. Christ seems to me a Morning
Sun.”

“Keep to Christ, I can afford to forget all others, a while
at least.”

“It is after all by approximations we know Christ, not
by any comprehension. We must rest content to paddle
about in the inlets of this great ocean. Consider his intellectual
character—`he knew what was in man,' his biographer
declares. He had not books or teachers; he worked at
his father's bench; he had never, as I believe, travelled
farther than from Nazareth to Jerusalem, and his doctrine
savors as little of Jewish hagiography as it does of the
lore of the Rabbins; and well was it asked, `How knoweth
this man letters, having never learned?' He studied his
own mysterious nature, his own manifold necessities, his
own disposition; and by thus first knowing himself, he
knew all men. Through himself he read the race. That
love, which is the secret sap of the soul, by which our
being enlarges itself, the faculties grow apace like the arms
of an oak, the knots of thought are loosened, and a clear
shining intellectual vision is attained, he possessed in unbounded
measure. He did God's will, and therefore knew
of the doctrine. He grew in wisdom, and love added to
his insight and fortified his reason. He was pure in heart,
and thus saw God. Christ is perfectly adapted to man, as
a well-adjusted piece of carpentry to its several parts, as
light to the eye, as air to the lungs, as musical notes to a
musical ear. He, the prototypal Diapason of the race,
studying himself, and man in himself, so strikes a chord
that vibrates to every heart.

“Christ was a genius, one without compeer or parallel, a
spiritual genius; not of the Homeric, Phydian, or Praxitelean
order, but of his own most singular, most exalted kind.
A sculptor, from the several beauties found in a collection
of human bodies, gives you a beautiful material statute;

Christ gives you a beautiful spirit. A sculptor from his
own Ideal produces a beautiful Form; Christ from his
Ideal produces beautiful men. A sculptor sometimes succeeds
in throwing passion, action, a soul into marble;
Christ threw a soul into man. Art explains nature to man;
Christ explained God to man, and man to himself. His
power was strictly creative, as it was rare and benign. A
spiritual landscape painted he, that no Claude could equal.
Indeed, such an impression had his disciples of his productive
energy, that by him they say `the worlds were
made.' A new Heaven and a new Earth were things on
which he wrought. Christ was, if we are willing to apply
to him modern terms, both Art and an Artist. He was in
himself the fairest, self-wrought, divine creation. Then
patiently, studiously, lovingly, he went on to form new creations.
In Love lies all Artistic Energy; from the highest
love proceeds the highest work. Praxiteles, in the composition
of his Venus, is said to have been inspired by the
presence of a beautiful female. Christ needed no other
inspiration than what his own beautiful heart could furnish.
But I must delay on this till I have said some other things.

“Having all too meagrely spoken of him in himself, I
will speak of him in his relation to God. The Soul of the
Universe entered into his soul, and was cherished there.
The Spirit of God, as a dove, descended and rested upon
him. In him dwelt the fulness of the Godhead bodily.
He is called the only begotten Son of God. With a nature
harmonious in all things with God, God himself sympathized,
and he dwelt in God, and God in him. The
Word became flesh. He was the Bread of God, he was a
Vine of the Father's planting; he was Immanuel, God
with us. But of what chiefly interests us, his relation to
man, I will tell you. In this respect we learn much of

Christ from his immediate successors, called Apostles, in
whom is seen the Ideal of Christ as it were projected, and
who manifest in effect what he held in purpose. `As he
was, so are we in this world,' they declare. This expresses
the gist of the matter. Whatever he himself was he
designed man to become. God sent him into the world,
through Him to restore His own fallen image. He was
made perfect, that through his perfection we might become
perfect. He would restore us by the infusion of himself,
by reuniting man with his spirit, his holiness, his love.
His wish and prayer were that we together with him might
become one with God. He announced himself the Way,
the Truth, the Life. He did not teach, he was the Resurrection
and the Life, and those who were dead in trespasses
and sins heard his voice, came forth from their graves and
lived. `Take up your Cross and follow me,' were his
words; `eat me,' `live on me.' As he laid down his life for
us, so are we directed to lay down our lives for the brethren.
`I travail,' says one, `till Christ be formed in you.' `Christ
in us' is the Mystery of Revelation. `We die daily;' `we
live, yet not we, but Christ lives in us.' As he forgave, so
are we to forgive. The same mind that was in him is to be
in us. As he suffered without the gate, so are we to go
forth, bearing his reproach. We are crucified together
with him. As he died to sin, so do we. As he was a
sacrifice, so are we to offer our bodies living sacrifices. He
suffered, leaving us an example. If we imitate his Passion,
we shall reign with him. The glory which God gave him,
he says, he gives his disciples. Greater works than he did
he declares they shall do. So perfect was this contemplated
identity that he says, He who receives you receives
me; and it was even declared, that he who sinned against a
brother sinned against Christ. This inner, received Christ,
Paul declared, worked in him mightily. Through him,
thus received, we escape the pollutions of the world. His
blood, his doctrine, his spirit, his death, his whole self, washes
away our sins. As he is holy, so we become holy. We are
partakers of the divine nature. He is to us a Moral
Revelation of God; as there is a Natural Revelation in
the material creation. He embodies, and sets forth the
Moral attributes of God.

“So he came into the world, as it were, suffused with the
effulgence of God, raying out with love, benignity, paternal
affection. He addressed himself to human sympathies, I
mean to that power of which we were speaking, of reciprocating
the feelings and passions of another; to that susceptibility
of truth and goodness which exists in all minds.
This was the medium whereby he would communicate
himself to man. He relied upon the Spirit of God to
second and bless his labors. He would uncurb the wellspring
of love that is found in every soul, and let its waters
flow out over the earth.

“He begins with saying, `Repent,' or in the original
Change your minds, Reflect upon yourselves. In the only
discourse of any length which remains to us, he pronounces
the Beatitudes, which I hope you will soon read. His
object is the salvation of man; he is called the Savior,
because he shall save his people from their sins. In the
revival, development, and extension of love, he would bring
men to holiness; in becoming holy, sin is expelled and
forgiven; in the expulsion of sin, Hell both as an experience
and a destiny ceases, and Heaven is secured. On the
deep, eternal foundations of Nature he would erect the
superstructure of Grace. He came mature in preparation,
flushing with hope, dexterous for attempt. He looked with
loving eyes to behold loving eyes in return, he speaking

kindness to be greeted with kindness, his warm heart would
be met by warm hearts, his lofty purposes would kindle
lofty purposes, his holy life shall stimulate a holy life, his
gentle rebuke react in penitence, and his pity invigorate
despair. As by a conjuror's touch he would awaken the
dead soul of the world. His Divine Spirit propagating
itself, the image of God would reappear in the face of man.
He, the Heavenly Sculptor, works on rocky souls, and with
his chisel fashions a form of immortal beauty. Thousands
upon thousands heard his voice and lived. The stately
Pharisee, the unknown rustic, and the despised foreigner
became his converts. To his resurrection from sin and
sense, fashion and fortune, multitudes strove to attain;
many vied in his crucifixion; by the new and living way
through the veil, that is, the flesh, the carnal and self-in-dulgent
denied themselves to enter. A living sympathetic
response to Christ arose in John and Peter, Martha and
Mary, and hosts.

“A splendid Ideal had he, which he called the Kingdom
of Heaven; the reproduction of himself among men he
spoke of as his coming again; the reappearance of Virtue
and Peace, Truth and Righteousness, he described as the
clouds of Heaven and Angels of God. Such was his Ideal
of Truth, that while he says he himself judged no one, he
expected that would judge the world, condemn sin, and
extirpate it forever; and those who possessed this truth he
speaks of as standing upon thrones. The ordinary magistracy
of man would be supplanted, and all iniquity flee
away before the brightness of his Advent. Such is the
scheme of Redemption, so called; a scheme or plan,
originating with God, executed by Christ, fostered by the
Holy Spirit, energetic through human sympathies and
affections; a method, as we are graphically told, `of redeeming
unto Christ a peculiar people, zealous of good

works,' of instituting a `Church without spot or blemish.'

“Let me now explain some of your troublesome `anagogics.'
The Atonement is the union of man with God
through Christ by the reproduction of Christ in us; the
Trinity is this trifold union, God, Christ and Man: Faith,
a Saving or Evangelical Faith, or Believing in Christ, is
taking Christ to yourself in this living and warm way,
receiving his spirit into your spirit, imbosoming his feelings
in your feelings, impressing his character on your
character, whereby his whole self becomes grafted upon
and fused into yourself. Sanctification or Holiness is the
subsidence and departure of sin in proportion as you thus
receive Christ. Justification is God's approval of you;
Adoption is becoming a member of the great Divine family.
This is Christianity!

“The regeneration of the world went on well for a while;
the spirit and power of Christ reached many nations;
Christism survived a few years after his death, when, alas!
the dog returned to his vomit, and the swine that was washed
to her wallowing in the mire. The Church began its
fall in the second century; Christians became degraded
into the ways of the world, the forms of Judaism were
revived, a false philosophy was introduced, and sacerdotal
and imperial ambition finished the work. With Constantine
in the fourth century, the union of the Cross and the
Sword was complete, and in the name of Christ, Christian
nations have gullied the earth with the blood they have
spilt, and curdled the skies in horror of their mutual
massacres.”

“I must ask you one thing,” said Margaret. “How
came the first man to fall?”

“That question belongs to a subject of the most subtle
nature, the prime origin of Evil, which I must take some
other time to discuss.”

“I know you are tired, but let me ask you how these
wicked things could be done in the name of Christ?”

“That name has been perpetuated, although so great was
its abuse that in the seventh century a new sect arose who
are now called Mohammedans. The solitary divine virtue
immanent in Christ has ever found a response in the heart
of humanity; and such was the original majestic effect of
his name, that it has served as a convenient basis for delusion,
error and sin, craft, avarice and pride, to raise their
fabrics upon. Besides, the Gospels, handed down from age
to age, have been held in nominal reverence.”

“You mentioned the name of Mary.”

“Yes, there were two Marys, one of whom was so
affected by Christ, that she washed his feet with her tears
and wiped them with the hairs of her head.

“You have said the last word; I have no more questions.
Sweet sister Mary! my name, too` is Mary. O, Tony,
Tony! Your profession is done in a way you little wotted
of. Toupee, tyetop, pomatum, powder—my hair goes for
a towel to wipe Christ's feet with. My hankerchief cannot
hold my tears, they go to do Mary's service too! I
have not understood, Sir, all you have said, but it is enough,
enough; I am filled to distention, I can bear no more.
Apollo, Diana, Orpheus, are you scared? Have you hid
under the bushes? Dear little gods and goddesses all,
don't be frightened,—Christ won't hurt us. They have
been beautiful and true to me, he will love them for that,
won't he, Mr. Evelyn? Christ shall preside over us, I will
worship him. It is late; I thank you, I bless you, Mr.
Evelyn, I must go, I would be alone. But the names must
be changed. Bacchus Hill shall be Christ's Hill, Orpheus's
Pond, his Pond. He shall be supreme; Head, Pond, and
all, shall henceforth be called Mons Christi.

4. CHAPTER IV.
SUNDRY MATTERS.

Another day found Mr. Evelyn at the Pond, and with
Margaret on the eminence now called Mons Christi.

“The name which this hill has commonly borne,” said
Mr. Evelyn, “together with the broad forest about, bring
strongly, I may say, mournfully to recollection, the original
population, the Indians, I mean.”

“What do you know about them?” asked Margaret.

“If we may rely on accounts written when they and the
whites first met as friends, befroe a mutual hostility exasperated
the judgment of the historian, and disordered the
conduct of the natives, we shall form a pleasing picture of
their character and condition. `These people,' the New
England Indians, say the first discoverers, `are exceeding
courteous, gentle of disposition, and well-conditioned; for
shape of body and lovely favor they excel all the people of
America; of stature much higher than we. They are
quick-eyed and steadfast in their looks, fearless of others'
harms, as intending none themselves; some of the meaner
sort given to filching. Their women are fat and well-favored,
and the men are very dutiful towards them. The
wholesomeness and temperature of the climate doth argue
them to be of a perfect constitution of body, active, strong,
healthful and very witty, as sundry toys of theirs, very
cunningly wrought, may easily witness.' A friendly
intercourse was had with them in those days, `and,' say the
whites, `in great love we parted.' They are universally

represented as kind-hearted, hospitable, grateful, truthful,
simple, chaste. Property was never more secure than
with them, bolts and bars they had none on their doors,
and one vice that gangrenes Christian nations was unknown
amongst them, they never offered indignity to woman; they
were also, in respect of drinks, a very temperate people.
They possessed more virtues and fewer vices than Christians.

But terrible wrongs were inflicted on them;—their young
men were pirated into slavery, their population was thinned
by the introduction of new, immedicable diseases, intemperance
shed its baneful influence, inflaming their passions
and corrupting their morals, the mercenariness of border
intercourse alternately cajoled and defrauded them, their
several sovereignties were forced into destructive collision,
and their entire strength became the game of a foreign and
unknown intrigue; moreover the disposition of the settlers
began to develop itself, the encroachment of a foreign and
malign jurisdiction alarmed them, and they awoke to a
sense of the value of what they had in their simplicity
surrendered; hence conflict, in which they were driven to
every resort, for the defence of their rights, the recovery of
empire, and the preservation of existence itself;—and now
they assume a new attitude, as all men do in similar
circumstances. They exhibit a melancholy instance of the
reflex, reciprocal action of evil, agreeably to a law that we
before talked about. And yet, if we would give to their
revenge the name of reprisals, call their subtlety and
cunning military manœuvres, their hatred patriotic pride,
if we would render their ferocity gallant behavior, record
their cruelties as vigorous measures for disarming an
enemy, and if, instead of distinguishing them as savages, we
should write them simply Americans, they would not
appear very unlike other people of the globe.”

“It is not so bad a thing for me to be called an Indian
after all,” said Margaret. “Yesterday I felt that I was a
Christian, I don't know but I had better remain an Indian.”

“I told you there was a difference between Ecclesiastical
Christians and Evangelical Christians.”

“I would call myself a Christoid, a Christman, or any
thing. I wanted to tell you how glad I was I persuaded
Nimrod, my brother, not to enlist, when they were about
awhile since after soldiers to go against the Indians on the
Ohio.”

“Poor Indians! We have driven them from their
reserves in the West, and they may at last be compelled to
take refuge in the forests of the Mississippi, or even to cross
its waters for defence.”

“I know one Indian,” said Margaret, “an old man, who
comes here every year, and has come ever since I can
remember. He lives in the blue yonder, on the sides of
Umkidden. He looks very old, as if he had seen a hundred
years. Yet he is tall and straight, has fine muscular
proportions, and passes the house with a taught, Junonian
step. He comes and sits up here. He makes his annual
visit in Autumn, when the frosts have fallen and the leaves
change and drop. He is silent almost as Jupiter himself,
and I cannot get much out of him. His expression is
majestically sad, a sort of Promethean look. He sometimes
brings a little girl with him, whom I have more than
once induced to play with me. She says he is her grandfather.
Here he sits in a sort of brown study, and muses
over the water and wood. His hair is tied in a knot behind,
and surmounted with a coronet of white heron's
feathers; he wears a robe of tambored deer-skin. I have
seen him stop and listen to Chilion's music, and once the
girl gave me a pair of beaded moccasons, in return, I suppose,
for my bread and cider.”

“He is probably a relic of the departed race, and comes
to look upon the home of his ancestors. He may have
lived hereabouts. A distinguished tribe of Indians formerly
occupied the borders of the River. They always
selected the most fertile and picturesque spots for their
residences. And truly this was a goodly heritage. The
Connecticut, the Merrimac, the Kennebec, the Penobscot
were their noble rivers. The early voyagers whom I have
quoted to you seem, in these aboriginal regions, to have
found the lost Eden. `This main,' say they, `is the goodliest
continent that we ever saw. The land is replenished with
fair fields, and in them fragrant flowers, also meadows,
and hedged in with stately groves, being furnished with
brooks of sweet water, and large rivers.' They raised
corn in their meadows, beans and melons in their gardens.
They had plums, cherries and grapes. The Indian
children gathered strawberries in the Spring and wortleberries
in the Fall. Their maidens found violets, lilies-of-the-valley,
and numerous flowers in the fields and forests
just as you do. God they called by various names,
Squanto, Kishton, Manito, Areouski.”

“What a pity they should not be here still; and I—I
would willingly be not,” observed Margaret, dropping her
head upon her hand.

“They were not always at peace among themselves.
The Maquas, an imperious race, did much harm to the
others, and threatened universal supremacy. But they are
gone. For reasons which we cannot well understand, the
red gives place to the white man. With their wigwams
and canoes, their gods and their pawwas, their government
and titles, their language and manners, they have vanished
forever. No trace of them remains, except in the
names of a few localities. The way is cleared for a new

population, a new religion, new society, new life. We wait
to see what will be done. New England is swept and
garnished; it is an unencumbered region.”

“Do I live in New England.”

“Yes, you are a New Englander.”

“Mehercule! I thought I lived any where between the
sky and this most anagogical rotundity, and have been entertaining
my later years with soap-bubbling a few divinities
—I will be serious, Mr. Evelyn, I do know the realities of
things. But how the gods chase one another over the
world, Manitou, Jupiter, Jehovah! Are not New Englanders
like Old Englanders, and Old Englanders like the
Hindoos?”

“Men are all formed of one blood; yet there are specific
differences. But God is one, and if New Englanders
were pure in heart, as Christ says, they would see Him, and
that more truly perhaps than any other people. Yet many
of them ascribe acts to their God which would disgrace a
heathen deity. This results from the debased state of the
public mind; or rather I should say, from the debased doctrines
of a fallen church which have been transmitted to us.
Still in many respects we have an advantage over all
other nations, which it is worth your while to think of.”

“Thoughts are coming upon me plenty as blackberries,
and the more the better.”

“A good part of the Old World on its passage to the
New was lost overboard. Our ancestors were very considerably
cleansed by the dashing waters of the Atlantic.
We have no monarchical supremacy, no hereditary prerogatives,
no patent nobility, no Kings, and but few Bishops,
by especial Divine interposition. The gift of God is
with the virtuous and truthful. `All men are equal,' is
our favorite motto; and it is one of far-piercing, greatly

humanizing, radically reforming force, though now but little
understood. Many things that affect character and condition
in the Old World, adulterate truth, perpetuate error,
degrade society and life, sully the soul, and retard improvement,
we have not. I intend to take a trip thither soon,
and shall see what they are of and for.”

“Are you going away?”

“My health and taste both require a sea voyage, which
I shall make as soon as Bonaparte and Mr. Pitt settle their
differences a little.—There are no fairies in our meadows,
and no elves to spirit away our children. Our wells are
drugged by no saint, and of St. Winifred we have never
heard. Our rivers harbor no nereids, they run on the Sabbath,
and are all sacred alike, Mill Brook as the Ganges;
and there is no reason why the Pond of Mons Christi
should not become as celebrated as the Lake of Zurich. In
the clefts of our rocks abide the souls of no heroes, no
spirits of the departed inhabit our hills, nor are our mountains
the seats of any gods; Olympus, Sinai, Othus, Pico-Adam,
Umkidden, Washington, Monadnock, Holyoke,
Ktaadin, it is all one. The Valley of the Housatonic is
beautiful as the Vale of Tempe, or of Cashmere, and as
oracular. We have no resorts for pilgrims, no shrines for
the devout, no summits looking into Paradise. We have no
traditions, legends, fables, and scarcely a history. Our
galleries are no cenotaphic burial grounds of ages past; we
have no Haddon Hall or Raby Castle Kitchen; no chapels
or abbeys, no broken arches or castled crags. You find
these woods as inspiring as those of Etruria or Mamre.
Robin-Good-Fellow is unknown, and the Devil haunts our
theology, not our houses, and I see in the last edition of the
Primer his tail is entirely abridged. No hideous ghosts
appear at cock-crowing. Witches have quite vanished,

and omens from sneezing and itching must soon follow. At
least in all these things there is a sensible change in the
public mind. If the girls put wedding-cake under their
pillows to dream upon, it is rather sport than magic.
Astrology, Alchemy, Physiognomy and Necromancy are
fast dying out, and Animal Magnetism has not ventured to
cross the sea. January and May are not, as in the Old
World, unlucky months, and Friday is rapidly losing its
evil eye. At marriages the bride is not obliged to throw
her shoe at the company; at births, we have no Ragged
Shirt or Groaning Cheese; if a child die unbaptized, it is
not thought to wander in woods and solitudes; at deaths
our common people do not cover up the looking-glasses.
Ecclesiastical Holidays have a precarious hold on New
Englanders; curses are not denounced upon sinners, Ash
Wednesday; we have no Whitsuntide given to bearbaiting,
drunkenness and profligacy; Trinity Sunday our bachelors
do not kiss our maidens three times in honor of that
mystery; bread baked on Christmas eve turns mouldy as
soon as any other; we are not obliged to use tansy to purge
our stomachs of fish eaten in Lent. In our churchyards
bodies are buried on the North as well as the South side.
There is no virtue in the points of compass that our clergy
repeat the Creed looking towards the East, and none in
wood that we bow to the Altar.

“All these things our fathers left behind in England, or
they were brushed away by contact with the thick, spiny
forests of America. Our atmosphere is transparent, unoccupied,
empty from the bottom of our wells to the zenith,
and throughout the entire horizontal plane. It has no
superstitious inhabitancy, no darkening prevalence, no
vague magistracy, no Manichean bisection. As you say,
Manitou is gone, and with due courtesy to your Pantheon,

the One God supervenes; there is no intermediation but
Christ; and for man, the bars are let down. Our globe
stands on no elephant, but swings clear in open, boundless
space; it is trammelled by no Northern Snake, and circumvented
by no Oriental Sea of Milk. We have no Hindoo
caste, and Negro Slavery is virtually extinct in New
England. Education is universally encouraged, and Freedom
of Opinion tolerated.”

“So you think New Englanders are the best people on
the Earth?”

“I think they might become such; or rather I think they
might lead the august procession of the race to Human
Perfectibility; that here might be revealed the Coming of
the Day of the Lord wherein the old Heavens of sin and
error should be dissolved, and a New Heaven and New
Earth be established wherein dwelleth righteousness. I
see nothing to prevent our people reassuming the old
Hyperionic type, rising head and shoulders to the clouds,
crowding out Jupiter and Mars, being filled, as the Apostle
says, with all the fulness of God, reaching the stature of
perfect men in Christ Jesus, and reimpressing upon the
world the lost image of its Maker.

“New England! my birthplace, my chosen pilgrimage,
I love it. I love its earth and its sky, and the souls of its
people. They, the Unconquerable, could alone subdue its
ruggedness, and they are alone worthy to enjoy its
amenities. I love the old folks and the children; I love
the enterprise of its youth and honorable toil of its manhood.
I love its snows and its grass, its hickory fires and
its corn-bread. The seeds of infinite good, of eternal truth,
are already sown in many minds; these might germinate
in another generation, and in the third bear fruit. High
Calculation, which is only the symbol of a higher Moral

Sense, is even now at work; and they are ripping up the
earth for a Canal from Worcester to Providence; and what
shall next be done, who knows? Only, if love lay at the
heart of all things, thought and action, what might not be!
But how stint we ourselves! Politics, society, life, the
Church, love, aim, what are they all?”

“Why don't you lead off yourself in this matter! You
shall be a Hero, the days of Chivalry shall be renewed.”

“I! I have neither health nor spirit. I only perceive, I
only deplore.”

“Really, we must go to the Widow's without delay, and
get some of the Nommernisstortumbug; that will cure you.
Speaking of the Widow, I think of Rose, poor Rose. I
asked her to come with me and see you to-day; she
hesitated, and declined. I told her you would speak better
to her than any body else. She shook her head mournfully,
and said, `Only you, Margaret, only you!' What can we
do for her?”

“I do not know, I am sure, I have turned over the
account you gave me of her. I am persuaded she has some
chord that could be reached, some secret self to be
disclosed.”

“Can you send me for no hammer that will break her to
pieces?”

“Christ might reach her, if nothing else.”

“O no. She has a perfect horror of that name. She
hates it worse than I did; I only laughed at it, she seems
to loathe it inwardly. Said I, `Rose, Christ loves you, he
suffered for you, can't you have faith in him?'—`In the
name of mercy!' she cried `if you won't kill me, Margaret,
don't speak of that,' and so shut my mouth, and I could say
no more.”

“I think I see how it is; I believe I understand the
difficulty, so far at least as that demonstration is concerned.”

“I can very well understand how a person might not
like the name of Christ, how it might offend one; but that
it should give a shuddering pain quite poses me.”

“Be good and kind to Rose, and she may yet listen to
to you.”

“I have borne her deep in my heart, I have felt most
strange motions towards her, I am ready to melt and flow
into her, and much sorrowful feeling she gives me, and I
am willing to have for her.”

“Persevere, and I am confident she will yield. I might
say many things of what I think about her, but perhaps it
were of no use. I am willing to leave her with you, though
if it were in my power I should be glad to see her. When
shall I find you at leisure again?”

“To-morrow I must spin, next day help Chilion on his
baskets. There is Sunday when we do not work, come
then.”

“I go to Church.”

“Sakes alive! so you do. I quite forgot you belonged
to the fallen race!”

“I told you all had some excellences; and if you would
come and hear Parson Welles you might think so too. He
is serious-minded, his prayers are earnest, his sermons have
good sense, and the place itself is grateful to one's feelings.
Perhaps in no one more than in him would you see
the struggle that goes on between Nature and the Unnatural.
Nor is it easy to overcome the effect of education so but
that old erroneous influences seem to minister to one's
spiritual peace, and I find going to Meeting very pleasant.”

“It is not indeed,” replied Margaret laughing, “and I
find much pleasure in staying at home.”

“Monday, I may see you?”

“After washing. Besides, you have left me enough for
a three days' rumination, at least.”

5. CHAPTER V.
MR. EVELYN UNEXPECTEDLY DETAINED.—MARGARET GOES
AFTER HIM, IS ABSENT FROM HOME SOME WEEKS.—HE
RETURNS WITH HER TO THE POND, IN THE FALL.—WHEN
ALSO ROSE MAKES HERSELF COMPANIONABLE.

Monday came, but not Mr. Evelyn, nor did the whole
week bring him. His absence can be accounted for. He
exhibited symptoms of a disease that was the terror and
scourge of the age, the Small Pox. He was from a town
on the sea-board where the infection raged. The people of
Livingston became alarmed, town meetings were held, a
Pock House was established, Mr. Evelyn conveyed thither,
and a general beating up for patients was had throughout
the region. All who had been exposed were ordered to the
Hospital, and candidates for the disease universally were
taken thither. Margaret and Obed were sent for; Rose
escaped to the woods.

The house selected for the terrible ordeal was that known
as Col. Welch's, the Tory absentee, now used as a Poor
House, a large building, occupying a commanding site on
the west side of the village, north of Deacon Hadlock's
Pasture, and detached from the highway by a deep front
yard, that had been once ornamented with gravel walks
and flower-beds, but of late years was abandoned to swine.
In the rear was a grove and a hill covered with the ruins
of a summer-house. Above the ridge of the Hospital on a
long pole waved a blood-red flag, an admonition to all of
the fearful malady that was at work therein. Guards
patroled about the premises to prevent unlicensed ingress
or departure.

Margaret was shut in a room with several other young
ladies then and there awaiting the process of inoculation by
Dr. Spoor. Among the number she found Isabel Weeks,
who introduced her to Susan Morgridge. It being supposed
that Margaret and Susan might have received the
disease in the natural way, they two were for a few days
consigned to a room by themselves. Margaret's first inquiries
related to Mr. Evelyn, who was reported quite sick.
Susan supplied her with other particulars respecting her
cousin, for whom she expressed the highest esteem, and it
might have been a little flattering to Margaret to know how
kindly the young man had spoken of her in the Judge's
family.

Susan, sobered by the recent death of her mother, serious
by nature, and of a retiring disposition, was yet most
excellent company for Margaret. She possessed amiability
and good sense, sweetness and strength, cultivated manners
and great delicacy of sentiment, nor was she one to condemn
all that she could not approve. For the first time in
her life Margaret had a bedfellow, if we except the dog.

No symptoms of the natural disease appearing, and the
virus with which they were charged begining to develop
itself, the enviable privilege of solitude these two persons
enjoyed was disturbed, and they were reduced to the
common lot, that of occupying a chamber where were four
beds, patients and nurses to match, and a stagnant atmosphere;—ventilation
being prohibited for fear of taking cold.

It boots not to describe that Middle Passage of the Pock
House, or follow from day to day the progress of a dreadful
disorder;—the primary dulness and lassitude, succeeded
by fever and ague, the hot, blinding eruption, sharp,
darting pains, the swollen face, the sore throat, tiresome
sleep, haunted dreams, convulsions, delirium, blindness; a

noisome air, slow haggard midnights, inflamed, nettlesome
noontides; jalap and the lancet; saffron and marigold
infusions, rum and brandy applied to “throw the eruption
from the heart;” the body half roasted with blisters to
keep the disease from “striking in.” Thanks to Lady
Mary Wortley Montague and the Turks for our lives indeed,
and thanks to Dr. Jenner and the cows for our
comfort! The aspect of the town was suddenly transformed,
the streets were deserted, citizens wore lengthened
and distressful countenances, spy-like and suspicious was
all intercourse. It is a wonder so many of the number returned
again to their homes; in fact only two died, one a
boy from the North Part of the town; the other a friend of
Margaret's, and sister of Isabel's, Helen Weeks. Unshriven,
unblest, she died; at midnight, without prayer or
funeral or passing bell, was she buried; by the hands of
the sexton, Deacon Ramsdill, and her own father and
mother, were the shunned remains laid in the grave, which
closed over one as pure in heart and guileless in life as this
world often produces.

She, whose especial province was the health of the people,
the Widow Wright, could not fail to bestir herself on an
occasion like the present. In Rose's sequestration she
aided, Obed's being taken to the Hospital she opposed, and
however hostile to the practice of the Faculty, she still felt
it incumbent upon her to do something. Accordingly,
laden with sundry medicaments, she presented herself one
morning at the gate of the infected grounds. Here presided
Captain Eliashib Tuck, with a staff instead of a firelock—a
long black pole barbed with iron, and formerly used
by tythingmen for the admonition of unruly children on the
Sabbath—which he carried with the precision of a soldier
on guard, but raised in a manner somewhat threatening

when he observed the sedulous lady trying to open the gate.

“Marcy on us, Cappen!” exclaimed the Widow, “ye
wouldn't spile a woman's gear and forsan break her head,
for deuin a dight of good, would ye, bein it was Sabber
day?”

“There are the General Orders,” replied the Captain
with sturdy brevity.

On a post the Leech read as follows:—

“1. No person is allowed to enter or leave the grounds
without permission. 2. If a person cause the spread of the
disease, he or she shall be fined fifty pounds. 3. If any
person be inoculated in any other place than the Hospital,
he shall pay forty pounds. 4. No Paper Money to be
carried into the building under penalty of ten pounds.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” snickered out the woman. “More
afeerd of paper money than they are of the Doctor's knife.
I cal'late Cappen, if they'd a kept paper money out of the
War, there wouldn't have been quite so many broke doun.”

“I was in the War,” rejoined the Captain, “and I was
afraid neither of paper money nor British swords. I
consider myself honored by my losses. I am no grumbler.
Where is your countersign, Ma'am? You can pass
with a ticket, not without.”

“Ra'aly, you look as if you Cappen Granded it over all
creation, and the Hospital besides. The doctor has got'um
all in his clutches, and he das'nt let one come out and have
fair play. Won't ye let a woman see her boy?”

“The countersign, Ma'am.”

“They'll kill him with jollup and rhubarb. They'll
make a shadder of him, and wont leave enough to bury
him by.”

“I know,” rejoined the Captain, “neither men nor
women, mothers nor children, judges nor ministers. Have

you never heard, when I stood sentry before General Washington's
tent, then only a raw recruit, and the Old Hero
himself rode up in his carriage, I challenged him. `Who
goes there?' said I, `General Washington,' said he, looking
from the window. `I don't know General Washington,'
said I. `What is the countersign?' and he had to give it
before he could pass one inch.”

“You had better a stuck teu the camp, old feller, and
gone out agin the Injins, and not be here a meddlin' with
the sientifikals and a killin' poor folk's children.”

The Captain, who stood too much on his dignity to take
an affront, replied that she might go to Mr. Adolphus
Hadlock's, where perhaps her services would be timely.
“They are building a smoke house there,” said he, “and
maybe Aunt Dolphy will let you pass without the word.
The whole family is in panics.”

On this cue the Widow sidled up the road; a little this
side of Mr. Hadlock's house she met that gentleman himself,
flurrying along the street, armed with a pikestaff, and
having his ears, nostrils, and even the garters of his silk
stockings, stuffed with varieties of antiseptic herbs, looking,
as the children would say, like a crazy man.

“Now don't,” said the Leech, with an air of mock deprecation.
“You are teu frightful!”

“Do you come from the infected precincts?” cried the
other. “Aristophanes, Ethelbert! Ho, here, Holdup,
knave! Urania Bathsheba, my little daughter, run back,
run for your life!”

“I han't been nigh the smittlish consarn,” said the
Leech. “Cock on a hoop! Don't be so adradd. I
would't tech it sooner a cow'd eat elder blows. I've come
teu help ye. What have you got in yer nose?”

“Rue and wormwood—don't come near—our lives depend

on it. Do, Sophronisba, my dear wife, do supply
Holdup, he has fallen to the ground. Never mind if he is
our servant, the safety of the whole of our darling family
is at stake.”

“I've got the stuff in my pocket,” interposed the Widow,
“the gennewine sientifikals, what 'll keep off the pest, and
cure it when it comes. I am as sound as a new born baby.
Let us see what you are deuing here.”

“These are direful days, Mistress Wright,” responded
Mr. Hadlock. “Our son Socrates, and Purintha Cappadocia,
our daughter dear, are already under treatment at
the Hospital; and as the law allows and our duty enjoins,
we are aiming to prevent the spread of the miasm. We
have erected a Fumitory for the more complete cleansing of
all that pass this way. Cecilia Rebecca, my dear, do go
back and continue your prayers—”

“I can't find it, Papa.”

“That on The Visitation of the Sick.”

“Where, Papa, where is it.”

“Take the first you come to, one is good as as another in
such an extremity; run child. Don't approach too near
the good lady, Aristophanes, lest your garments should
brush. Keep the rags burning, my dear Ethelbert.”

“Don't be so despit skeered, Mr. Hadlock,” said the
Widow. “Bein' I was steeped in their pus and pizens, I
tell ye, I can keep ye clear and wholesome as ye was
born.”

At the edge of the woods, a rude structure had been
hastily thrown up, of staddles interlaced with boughs, and
within were quantities of water, soap, salt and vinegar.—
Over a heap of charcoal and cobs crouched a woman in a
tattered and begrimed long-short, with the collar open,
exposing a dingy neck and broad shoulders, and blowing

lustily at the fire, which she was striving to kindle with her
breath.

“How d'y'e?—Sibyl, for sartain,” said the Leech, looking
in. “Wall, if you an't here, 'pon my soul!”

“How's the Widder? I am glad you've come,” reponded
Sibyl Radney.

“Get the pile ignited,” exclaimed Mr. Hadlock; “we
can't lose any time.”

“Then you must have some fire,” replied Sibyl. I
can't make a puss out of a sow's ear, nor light cobs with my
windpipe, death or no death.”

“Where is the tinderbox. I thought you had struck a
light. Haste, Holdup, knave, get some fresh coals.—
Havn't you been for the brimstone, yet, Ethelbert, my
son?”

“You told me to keep the rags burning, Papa.”

“Never mind what I told you; run to Deacon Penrose's,
but don't for dear Heaven's sake go by the road,
speed down across the woods.”

“A tough case, I can tell you, Miss Wright,” said Sibyl,
rising to her feet. “But we mean to stop the plague. We
are going to catch every scrag that comes this way from
the Pest, and soak, smoke, salt and rub them, till there
isn't a hangnail of the pock left. They wont get off so easy
as the Colonel did. The law gives it and we'll do it. Here
comes Miss Dunlap, and Miss Pottle and Comfort.”

“We are all in a toss, in our neighborhood,” said Mistress
Pottle. “I got Comfort to come down with me and
see how things were doing. Sylvina is there, if she ain't
dead.”

“We heard there was seventeen dead up to yesterday,”
said Mistress Dunlap, “and four to be buried to-night; we

havn't heard a word from our Myra since they took her
down.”

“It's cruel skeersom about there, I knows,” said the
Widow. “I jest come up, and I had a tight rub teu git
by. I cal'late my son Obed is lying stone dead there,
now.”

“Lord have mercy!” exclaimed Mistress Pottle.
“Comfort, you go to feeling trees across the way.”

“They are killin' with the lancet, and starvin' to death
with milksops,” said the Widow. “Here's white cohush,
it 'll bring out the whelk in less than no time; brooklime
will break any fever. There's lavender and horsemint,
and calamus to burn when you go inteu the room. But
they won't let me go nigh.”

“Halloo!” shouted Comfort Pottle, who was busy cutting
trees. “There's Sok., coming up the road!”

“Ah, Socrates, my dear son!” cried the father, darting
forwards with his pikestaff. “How—why—what has happened.—My
dear Triandaphelda Ada, don't be alarmed.—
Don't come near, my son.—What shall we do! Are
you well?—Holdup, knave, where is your crowbar?—
Don't cry, Sophronisba, my—he is upon us—my dear
son—we shall all be killed!”

“I wasn't going to stay any longer,” replied the boy,
who, with no other vestment than his shirt, was now rapidly
approaching the party. “It didn't take. I stole off
through the barn and got into the woods. I havn't had
any thing but sour whey and barley-water, this week. If I
could get the smell of mother's buttery, the Doctor shouldn't
know me for one month.”

“Bide back,” said Comfort, striking forwards with his
axe.

“Don't squint your eye towards me,” said Holdup,
clenching his crowbar.

“He 'll get well combed before he gets through this,”
said Sibyl Radney, shaking a thorn-bush in her brawny
arms.

“Let us all retreat a little,” said Mr. Hadlock, “and
form, with our several instruments, a line both of offence
and defence, along which, Socrates, do you proceed into
the Fumitory. What an hour! What a struggle in one's
nature! How the parental feelings in our bosoms, dear
wife, are tortured! But the conflict will soon be over.—
When you are in, my dear son, take off your shirt, and lay
it in the tub of water; and so dispose yourself over the
burning heap that the smoke will reach your whole body.”

The boy, obedient to the paternal wishes, entered the
lodge, where he was presently followed by his parents and
the women. Meanwhile, being missed from the Hospital,
two or three servants were despatched for him. Hastening
up the road, and dispersing whatever force was opposed to
them, they broke in without ceremony, upon the process
the runaway at the moment was undergoing. Four women,
one at each extremity, held the unfortunate youth face
downwards over fumes of coal, sulphur, lavender and calmus,
while the Widow rubbed his back with vinegar. Mr.
Hadlock stood a suitable distance from the tub, stirring the
shirt with a long pole. As the pursuers entered, this gentleman,
uttering a faint scream, bolted through the sides of
the hatch. At the cost of a sharp, but short altercation
with the women, the fugitive was delivered up, and returned
to the Hospital;—whither, as some of these good
mothers are going, let us also betake ourselves.

These ladies from the smoke-house encountered other
elderly women, who with slow step and solemn, air came up

the West Street; among them were Mistresses Whiston,
Joy, Hoag, Ravel, and Brent, whose names have already
been mentioned.

“Can't any of us be admitted?” inquired Mistress
Whiston of Captain Tuck.

“Not if the Great Queen Catherine herself should apply
on her knees before me,” replied the trusty warden.

“Do you know how our little Joan is doing?” said the
lady.

“None I believe are considered dangerous since the
death of Helen Weeks,” rejoined the Captain.

“Poor Miss Weeks!” ejaculated Mistress Whiston.

“Mournful times!” added Mistress Joy.

“It is most as bad as the Throat Distemper that was
round when I was a gal,” said one of the ladies; “there
were more dead than alive.”

“So it was in the Rising of the Lights,” said another.

“What is that to the Camp Fever we had in the War!”
echoed the Captain. “There were two shousand sick at
one time, and never a quarter recovered; and we had to
march, sick or well, alive or dead.”

“That tells how our Luke came to his end,” said Mistress
Dunlap.

“And how glorious it was to die for one's country!”
added the Captain.

“That was nothing to the Great Earthquake when I
was a gal, and lived at the Bay,” said Mistress Joy. “The
spindle and vane on Funnel Hall was blown down,
chimbleys were cracked, brick and tile chocked up the
streets. It sounded as if God Almighty's chariot was
trundling over the pavements in Old Marlboro'.”

“That was the same year one of the niggers in Kidderminster

cut his master's throat, as I have heard Ma'am
tell,” said Sibyl Radney.

“No, it was four year arter,” explained an elderly lady;
“it was the same year our Prudence was born, and that
was just four year arter the Earthquake. I can remember
an old Indian slave we had at our house, one of the Nipmucks,
and what a time we had of it. Daddy kept him
chained nights, but he broke away, and killed one of the
men that was sent arter him; and he was hung the next
week. I remember Dad's saying, `There goes twenty
pounds.' But he wouldn't work, and wan't worth his
hide.”

“The Indians and Negroes never did us much good,”
said Mistress Whiston; “and I am glad there are going to
be no more slaves.”

“I cal'late as much,” said the Widow, “if you had seen
the niggers burnt alive down teu York, nigh fifty of um, for
bringing in the Papists. My Granther was on the spot
and saw it all, and said it did his heart good teu see the fat
fry out of the sa'cy dogs.”

“I remember,” said the Widow Brent, who was a little
deaf, “milking a cow a whole winter for a half a yard of
ribbin.”

“I remember,” said Mistress Ravel, “the Great Hog,
up in Dunwich, that hefted night twenty score.”

“Morrow to ye, good wives. Are you not running
some risk?” said a voice behind them, that of Deacon Hadlock,
whose approach the ladies, diverted by memories of
other days and transported to scenes of legendary horror,
had not perceived.

“I don't know but we are a matter exposed,” said
Mistress Whiston.

“I had as lief go right inteu it arm's length,” said the
Leech.

“The danger is that you might carry it away in your
clothes,” answered the Deacon. “I have no business here,
but I saw ye all, and I thought I would just ride up and
give ye a friendly warning.”

While these ladies disperse it is safe for the rest of us to
remain; and by methods which the vigilance of Captain
Tuck cannot counteract we will enter the forbidden spot.

Favored by a constitution which often in life stood her
in hand, Margaret has been able to carry forward her
disease more rapidly than many others, and is so far recovered
as to have passed from the sick chamber through
the “Cleansing Apartment,” and is now almost sole occupant
of the “Clean Room.” Glad enough is she to exchange
mint-tea and jalap for water-gruel and milk-porridge.

She goes out into the open air. The aspect of things has
changed during her confinement. The verdure of nature
shows in gold and crimson colors. The frosts have fallen
and the flowers are drooping, Summer wilts into Autumn.
The fresh air of the heavens and the free tread of the earth
were an exhilaration. But when she saw a morning glory
with its black, blistered leaves, and heard the feeble notes
of the birds wailing a farewell to our northern latitudes, and
the mournful underflowing murmurs of the crickets that so
betoken a fading season; and especially when she thought
of Helen Weeks, whose death occurred in the same
chamber with herself, but at a time when she could be
hardly conscious of what transpired, she was seized with a
deep melancholy, so that in her present debilitated state
she well nigh fainted, and staggering with weakness and a
burdensome sense of evil she went back to the house.

Sorrow for the death of a friend she never before experienced,
nor was she in a condition most apt for meeting
it. She sank in a chair by the window, turned away her
face, and in thought wandered confusedly, painfully, darkly,
over the trees, the landscape, the sky, God and the
Universe.

Susan Morgridge and Isabel Weeks were yet in the sick
room, the latter at a point of dangerous reduction, so much
so that her convalescence was for some months delayed.
Of Mr. Evelyn she heard he had passed the hands of the
cleansers, but she saw nothing of him. To the clean ones,
with whom she was now associated, she might have addressed
herself, but they were strangers to her, and the
freedom and spirits most of them seemed to enjoy rendered
the weight in her feelings more intolerable, and she was
constrained to keep by herself, and spent a good part of
two days in solitary reverie by the window.

On the third day she had the good fortune to see Mr.
Evelyn walking in the garden, cloaked and muffled, and
tears in fresh large drops rose to her eyes. Presently he
sent by one of the attendants a summons to herself which
she could not but obey. Clearing her eyes, throwing on
shawl and bonnet, she went out. Her face, ordinarily
animated with the colors of health and hope, was stricken
and sorrowful, and bore evident traces of sickness and disappointment;
nor was the appearance of Mr. Evelyn
altogether dissimilar. He took her hand cordially, and
spoke to her soothingly. “Helen,” said he, “has indeed
gone from us, as all must go at last. But in Christ we
never die. By the Atonement are we immortal. Where
he is, there shall we be. Possessed of him, death has no
terror for us or power over us. The trees fade to renew
themselves.”

“I have felt,” said she, “that I should never wish to see
another summer, and all beautiful human faces seemed
hidden from me forever. But I hope these feelings will
not last.”

“Beauty and pureness,” said he, “are everlasting; they
are of God, and can never die. They may for a moment
be obscured, but they shall reappear in brighter lustre.
Angels have charge over them that they dash not their foot
against a stone. Let us turn to the pleasant face of God in
what is about us.”

“I wish we were at the Pond; how beautiful it is there
in the Fall! You see the woods that go up there metamorphosed
into great marigolds filled in here and there
with a cardinal flower.”

“They remind one of a flame of fire, still-burning, but
not consumed, like the bush of which the Bible speaks.
They bring to my recollection an army of staff-officers with
crimson coats on roan steeds. Would that all blood were
as innocent as that which yonder straggling trooper of a
red-maple is dyed with! They call up the solemn convocations
of our old-fashioned Judges in their scarlet robes.”

“You confound me by such things. I should not like to
look upon trees from that `stand point;' it savors only of
trainings, rum-drinking and jails. I would rather see in
them the sunsetting and my dream-clouds.”

“I love the beautiful wherever I see it, and perhaps
sometimes see it where I should not. But we are not in
strength for disquisitions of this sort. Let us enjoy without
reason. How long do they keep you here, Miss
Hart?”

“I am sure I don't know. I wish I could go home to-day,
but the Committee are very exact, and they may hold
on to me a month.”

“Dr. Spoor thinks he can give me a clearance day
after to-morrow, and I will intercede with him to let you
off. I am anxious to return home, having already been
delayed beyond my time, as I must sail so soon.”

“I did not know as you had any home. If I had thought
any thing about it, I should have imagined you dropped
right out of the sky.”

“I have a home indeed, with a holy mother.”

“I will not laugh, because I cannot laugh.—You are so
soon away! I am tired, had we not better return to our
rooms?”

The extensive grounds of Col. Welch were the allotted
limits of the convalescing patients. The next day Margaret
and Mr. Evelyn went out together; they met others
like themselves revelling in their tethered liberties and
enjoying the sumptuousness of the hour and the place.
Conventional distinctions and proprieties disappeared in
this general invalid exuberance, and no surmises were
raised or words uttered while the feeble Indian strolled
arm in arm with the feeble relative of the Judge. An early
frost had smitten the vegetation, but the sun was warm and
the air bland. They felt the glow of returning health and
invigorated frames, and were grateful for deliverances often
delayed and sometimes never afforded. Red squirrels
chased one another over crisp leaves on the ground and
along the limpid branches of the trees, yelping and chattering
like kingfishers. Fox-colored sparrows, nuthatches,
and the great golden-winged woodpecker vied in their
notes, and seemed resolved on merriment while the season
lasted. They reached the knoll on which the old Summer
house stood; by broken steps they ascended, and on a
broken seat they sat down.

“Have you strength enough to sing to me?” asked Mr.
Evelyn.

“I will sing you `Mary in Heaven,'” said Margaret.

The next morning two horses were brought to the gate,
one assigned to Margaret, while Mr. Evelyn mounted the
other.

“Are you going up with me?” said Margaret.

“I brought you down,” replied Mr. Evelyn, “and it is
but fair I should see you back.”

They went through the South Street, entered the Brandon
road, and ascended the long steep hill Margaret had formerly
climbed on her way to Mr. Wharfield's. The Indian
Summer had just begun, a soft haze pervaded the atmosphere
and settled like a thin gray cloud on the horizon;
there was a delicious, sweet, sleep-like feeling filling the
universe, both inspiring and tranquillizing. On one side
the sky seemed to lean on red trees and green grass; Mill
Brook dashed and tinkled below as through a bed of roses.
Margaret's horse proved mettlesome, and she reached the
summit-level before Mr. Evelyn.

“I should have a magnificent scene,” said she, turning
and waiting for him, “even if I had to see it all alone.
You yourself are a live man and horse in a field of embroidery
such as Mrs. Beach can't equal, and she is said to be
the most skilful needle-worker in town.”

“Look at your own Mons Christi,” said he. “All the
looms of the Gobelins could not garnish it so! There is a
solitary maple like a flamingo on its nest of green cedars and
laurels.”

“How hot those yellow witch-hazels look under the tall
trees, if I were cold I would go in there; and yonder the
dark forest is burning with glowworms and tapers, if I
were gloomy I would go in there. I wish, Mr. Evelyn,

you were going to stay a little longer in Livingston. See
that hemlock so covered with gray moss, and there is a
bunch of fire-red trees peeping out from green hemlocks
behind it. It stands out alone, you see; its kindred have
deserted it, and the mosses are taking pity on its old age.
Will you find any thing as beautiful on the sea-coast, or
beyond the sea; the Master says there is nothing like it in
Europe.”

“I do not go to the Old World for its scenery, I only
wish to see Man there. There is nothing like New
England, and nothing in New England like its interior
districts. The sea-coast is more level and uniform; here
you have the advantage of mountain, bluff, interval, to set
off the view. This autumnal tapestry is hung upon
windows and arches and flung over battlements. With us
it is only spread on the floor. But why do you notice that
old tree? You are too young to be attracted by age and
decay.”

“I don't know—I seem sometimes to have lived half a
century, and again as if I was just born. How many years
I have lived the last month! When I was very young I
used to think this frost-change was owing to yellow bugs,
bumble-bees and butterflies lighting on the trees; and then
it was orioles and goldfinches; and afterwards it seemed to
me twilight clouds snowing upon the earth—and now—
now.—There is a dash for you, Mr. Evelyn, which the
Master says implies a suspension of the sense. Sister
Ruth is coming to meet us, let us start our fillies.”

“How is sister Margaret?” said Mrs. Wharfield, advancing
into the street.

“This is Mr. Charles Evelyn,” said Margaret.

“Glad to see thee, friend Charles. Will ye not tarry
a while? How is the malady?”

“We must hasten home,” replied Margaret. They
are getting better at the Hospital. Helen Weeks is
dead.”

“So we learned. She has found the true light now
whereto the world is dark. Farewell, if you cannot rest.
Anthony would rejoice to see thee. He has been much
moved towards thee, Margaret.”

They presently met a drove of cows driven by an old
man and a boy.

“That is Kester Shield, Uncle Ket, the cowherd,” said
Margaret. “See he is afraid of us, he is running into the
woods to escape contagion—his cows also are much moved
by our horses, as the Quaker said.”

“Phin! Boy,” shouted the old man hiding himself
among the brush. “Keep clear of the wind of the horses—
there—there, head off the Parson.”

“Uncle Ket, Uncle Ket, don't be scared,” cried Margaret.
“We havn't any of the disease. We have been smoked
clean.”

The old man continued to retreat, hallooing to his boy.
“Keep out of the wind. We shall lose Miss Luce—the
Parson 'll have them all crazed.”

“We must stop this movement,” said Mr. Evelyn. “I
will help the boy, while you ride along by the edge of the
woods and see if you can compose the old man.”

“The Parson,” said the cowherd, whom Margaret
reached and quieted, “is the worst pair of horns I ever
druv, and I have had the business now rising of sixty year,
and take it by and large fifty head a season, and she is the
beatomest.”

“Have you, indeed,” said Mr. Evelyn, “followed the
business so long?”

“I was chose arter Old Increase Tapley died. I was

prenticed to Old Increase, but he got to be so old I had it
pretty much all to myself.”

“How old was he?” inquired Mr. Evelyn.

“He was hard on to seventy-five when he died, though
he didn't do much a spell before.”

“What is your age, Sir.”

“I was seventy-two, eighteenth day March last; though
I like to have lost one year by them heathenish Papists.
Zuds! you'll begin to think I am getting old too; I never
should have thought of it. I havn't seen an old man this
thirty year, they used to be thick as spatter when I was a
boy; only there is Old Miss Radney, Sibyl's mother, she's
rising of ninety. But, as I was saying, I was chose the
very next Town Meeting arter Increase died, I took oath
under the Old King—Phin, boy, the Parson's hunching
Miss Luce—and I have been run ever since; fair or foul,
hot and cold, mud and dust, I stick it through.”

“The cows must give you trouble in your advancing
years,” said Mr. Evelyn.

“O, it an't a circumstance to what it used to be, when
the Injins skulked round and stole the kine, and run off
with the horses—in them days we took all sorts—the troops
in the War pressed some of the best of them, and they tried
to make Uncle Ket make it good; and in Burgwine's time
when the Hissians and Highlanders came through, with
their check backs, long pipes and busky caps, they distarbed
them so it took a whole day to bring them to; and latterly
when the wagons began to come, the whole pack would up
and off, capering and snorting, into the woods. I'm glad
you keep to the saddle, and don't interfere with people's
business. They are fencing in the commons now, and
putting their cows to pastur. I had a calculated to leave a
handsome run of business to my grandson, Phin. My

wife is dead, and children, and he and the cows is all there
is left. The cows you see are dwindled down to less than
a quarter. Great changes—Uncle Ket's trade is most
done. You are a young man, and I could larn you a good
many things. Molly I've known ever since she was dropt;
she has brought in the strays, and many is the poundage
she has saved Uncle Ket. She is brisk-eyed, full-breasted
and straight-limbed, as a Devon heifer; she wants coaxing
and patting a little—she don't run with the old cows enough
to larn their ways.—Glad you got through with the pock
so well—it takes a second time, some say—it's worse than
horn-ail, hoven or core—There, Molly, let Bughorn go by,
we will manage them.”

“You see,” said Margaret as they rode on, “there are
things besides trees to remind us of age and regrets. But
I had rather talk of the trees. They become individually
developed by the frosts; you can distinguish them better
now than in summer.”

“I have known the beauties of the forest only in the
aggregate,” said Mr. Evelyn. “It is a fair whole of form,
color and effect that interests me. What is that orange-crowned
tree glowing so in the sun, over among the
pines?”

“A rock-maple.”

“These straw-colored trees and that dark purple clump?”

“These are oaks, and that is a grove of wild cherries.
I know them in the Spring, I seem to half lose them in the
Summer; in the Fall they announce themselves again.
The red-maple is deep crimson, that tawny-colored grove
is beeches, there is the purple woodbine trailing over the
rocks. What a pretty picture is that flock of sheep and
lambs feeding among the blood-red blueberries!”

“Here is a solitary maple, so soft, transparent, silken, as

if the Spirit of Color dwelt in its leaves. These are scenes
which Rosa or Poussin could never have commanded.”

“There is some advantage in knowing the detail.”

“Yes, one could not be a Painter or Poet without it.”

“More than that, ourselves are there in those trees.
Distress, like the frosts, brings out all our feelings, light
and dark, cheerful and sombre. The trees have a sympathy
with me. I am but a mottled piece of wild wood. These
last weeks have unfolded all my colors. You say you
sketch sometimes; you cannot carry me away in your
portfolio, I shall only allow you a leaf. I must grow green
again. See those dark trees above, the yellow hobble-bush
and brakes below, and on the ground the green arbutus,
mosses and wintergreen. The lowest down the greenest.
Let me lie low, where no frost can touch me. Shall you
ever think of these things when you are away, Mr.
Evelyn?”

“Yes, and I will think of you the wintergreen, unscathed
by frost, unaffected by changing seasons.”

“Geodic Christian Androidal Wintergreen Indian Molly
Pluck, mater bovum divumque! what a string of names
you put on me! What shall I call you?”

“Let us look a little farther on, and perhaps we shall find
something. Here we open into a tropical grove of lemons
and oranges, the golden fruit glows on the trees and
crackles under the hoofs of our horses; beyond I see a
warm sunny vale of tulips and carnations; truly this
cannot be surpassed.”

“What say you to the pool of water under that arbor of
trees? I can count you crimson gooseberry, flaming maples,
claret sumach, yellow birch and what not.”

“Those are garnets, topazes and sapphires set in a dark
rock of polished steel. Indeed, look about you, Miss Hart;

would it not seem as if the trees extracted all the colors of
the earth, cobalt, umber, lapis-lazuli, iodine, litharge, chrome,
and compounding them in the sap, drenched and dyed every
leaf; or as if great Nature herself, making a canvas of the
forests, had painted them as you say with rainbows and
twilight?”

“Do you, Sir, remember what I say?”

“Most certainly I do.”

“So does Job, and Isabel, and I shall have one in
Europe, and two in Livingston to remember me. I never
before felt there was a pleasure in being remembered, at
least such a thing never was a thought to me. And all
New England, that you admire so much, you will bear in
your heart into Old England; I wonder what they will
think of you!—Here we come to the Delectable Way.”

They rode in silence up the rough ascent. “Will you
wear this, Miss Hart?” said Mr. Evelyn, breaking the
monotomy, and offering a ring with a small diamond stud.

“If my Bona Dea will permit.”

“Who is your Bona Dea?”

“I think it must be Christ, it used to be something else.
I will give you some of these leaves you think so pretty.
and there are berries in the woods, the scarlet devil's ear
and blue dracira.”

“You must not think of it, you are too weak to dismount.
A beautiful wish I shall cherish as much as beautiful fruit.”

“Here in my stirrup,” said Margaret, “I can reach the
leaves. They will keep their color a long time; there you
have pink, beet, carrot and what not. Don't lose them.”

Reaching the house, Bull and Dick came out to meet
Margaret, her father handed her from the saddle, Chilion
undid the budget that was strapped to the crupper, and her
mother offered Mr. Evelyn a cup of water. Cæsar, the

negro servant of Judge Morgridge, to whom the house
belonged, had come up across to take the spare beast.

“God love you, Margaret,” said Mr. Evelyn.

“Christ love you, Mr. Evelyn,” said Margaret.

Mr. Evelyn, with Cæsar, rode off through the trees.

“Dat be one nice gal,” said the Negro speaking to
relieve the quiet of the way, “ef she no hab brack, but only
Ingin blood. She steel-trap.”

“What do you mean, Cæsar?”

“She catch Massa heart.”

“What makes you think so? Was your heart ever
caught?”

“Yes, once, Phillis Welch grabbed him in her two
hands.”

“Has she got it now?”

“She took him off wid de Curnel ober de sea in de War
time.”

“Don't you love her still?”

“Cæsar hab two lubs, Massa Pason say, when him jine
de Church, de wicked nater lub, and de good God lub, and
him kill de wicked nater lub. Cæsar fraid Massa no tink
ob de Pond wench when him gone.”

“Don't you ever think of Phillis?”

“No; him hab no tink ob Phillis now. De wicked lub
tink get in Cæsar's heart sometimes, and de old lub tears in
his eyes. Massa see Phillis ober de seas, gib Cæsar's lub
to Phillis, but only for the lub ob God's sake. Tell Phillis,
Cæsar old, soon sink in the de grabe, meet her in glory;
him hab no wife, no children for Phillis's sake.”

“Can't I think of that young lady the same as you do of
Phillis?”

“Fear Massa not convarted, hab wicked tink, den no tink,
lub oder faces.”

Margaret, debilitated by illness and tired by the long
ride, went immediately to her mother's bed. In a short
time Rose appeared and ministered unto her. The broth
of a fresh chicken was prepared; peaches Chilion had
saved from her own tree she ate. The next morning she
went into the woods and gathered some of the brilliant
leaves, corresponding to those she had given Mr. Evelyn,
and put them carefully away. She ascended Mons Christi,
looked in the direction she supposed Mr. Evelyn had gone,
and pressed the ring to her lips and her handkerchief to
her eyes.

“Why do you weep, Margaret?” was an unanticipated
voice.

“Rose!”

“I followed you up,” said Rose. “You were abstracted.”

“Why do I weep, Rose? I know not why.”

“If you do so, it shall be in my arms. I am stronger
than you to-day, Margaret. Lay your head here and go to
sleep.”

“Nay, Rose, I am very dry, I want some water; let us
go down to the cistern. I shall feel better if I can drink.”

“Not all the waters of the Pond can quench your thirst,
Margaret, methinks.”

“Let us go, and we will try the plums Judge Morgridge
sent up this morning, nice damsons. We will also make
our oblations to Egeria, who has been a long time deserted.”

“Did Judge Morgridge, or Mr. Evelyn, send you these
plums?” asked Rose when they had gained their retreat.

“Cæsar said it was the Judge,” replied Margaret,
coloring.

“I thank you! I thank you! I love you, Margaret,” said
Rose, and by a very unexpected movement buried her face
with apparent strong feeling in Margaret's lap.

“Well done, Rose,” said Margaret, “you are lux inaccessa,
unapproachable, inexplicable. What is the meaning
of this? You are crushing my bonnet, you are staining
yourself with the plums.—I have exhausted myself in vain
upon you, and have failed to discover you at all, and now
you flood me with yourself!”

“Margaret!” said Rose, regaining her position, “you
are angry with me! I have offended you!”

“Hold, Rose!” said Margaret, laying her hand upon her
arm. “No one knows what I have felt and suffered for
you. I am not angry with you. In my heart I love you,
and never more than now. Why did you thank me?”

“For that blush when I asked you about the plums,”
said Rose.

“In good sooth,” replied Margaret, “your face is red as
a beet with the plums, now; and I doubt if you would
thank me for thanking you for it. Here is my handkerchief,
wipe it off and we shall be even.”

“Don't laugh at me, Margaret, if you do I can never
speak to you again. I have stains in my soul, Margaret,
that cannot be so easily effaced.”

“Tell me, Rose,” said Margaret, “what is this you
speak of?”

“When I saw the color in your face,” replied Rose, “it
seemed to me as if you possessed feelings which I never
supposed you to have, or you appeared in a light different
from ever before.”

“Surely,” said Margaret, “you need not have waited for
that to know I have in my keeping a pretty considerable
variety of emotions, as many as there are speckled hens in
our roost.”

“I know,” rejoined Rose, “that you have been most
kind to me, a perfect angel, and the only one I ever expect to

see, but you were always happy you said, and you seemed
so healthy and strong; and a certain description of feeling
I concluded you were never troubled with. And even
while Mr. Evelyn was here you seemed on the whole quiet
and undisturbed. But I did see you weep on the hill, and
I did see a tremulous flash in your face when I spoke about
the plums—”

“And you do suppose I have some feelings of human
nature?”

“Yes, of a kind that would fit me; I had despaired to
find any, wholly such, in the world. You must needs have
suffered some in your innermost soul in order to feel with
me;—what I supposed had never happened to you.”

“It is sympathy you want,” said Margaret.

“Yes, sympathy,” replied Rose, “that is it.”

“That word,” said Margaret, “Mr. Evelyn taught me.
But I hardly need wait for an instructor to tell me its
meaning.”

“I knew you pitied me,” said Rose, “but I feared you
did not sympathize with me.”

“Well, now,” said Margaret, “perhaps after all I do
not. How do I know what to sympathize with?”

“If you will promise to sympathize without knowing precisely
what with, I will tell you. Margaret!” continued
Rose solemnly, “do not I exhibit symptoms of a decline?
Can I live long? I do not wish to. But before I die you
shall know all I have to say.”

“I will see that you do not die, Rose, if you will only
tell what you are.”

“A broken-hearted girl, Margaret, that is the whole.
Can you sympathize with that?”

“I knew, dear Rose, something pierced and wounded you
inwardly, and by intimations of which I can give no account

I have felt it all. It has been repeated in my own breast,
though I never spoke of it. Come where you need to be,
into my arms, Rose, and speak or be silent, as you like.
That word broken-hearted is a strange word; I never
heard it methinks before. I have heard of puppet-hearts,
and wicked hearts, and hard hearts, but never till now,
Rose, of a broken heart.”

“A broken heart is all I boast of, and a poor thing it is,
and sad its story to me, perhaps to you foolish.”

“I have seen nothing foolish in you, Rose, only some
things that I could not understand, and some that made me
very sad. Do tell me all.”

“I am simply one,” said Rose, “who has pined for human
sympathy, a disease of which I am about to die, coupled with
a few other things. But let me tell you, you once asked my
name. I used to be called Rose Elphiston. I had a father,
a mother, and a dear sister. My native town is Windenboro',
about thirty miles hence. My father was a
clergyman, venerable and esteemed. We were a very
happy family, none could be more so, until I ruined their
happiness. O, Margaret, you have no sins to cause you
to shed tears, as I have—but hear. I had companions,
pretty and lively young girls, with whom I ought to have
been content, but was not. No voice spake what my heart
felt, no eyes saw what mine did, so I must needs be silent,
and look where others did not, and then I took to making
company of brooks and flowers and my own thoughts, and
such things. I thought I would give the universe if I
could find somebody's else heart beating into my own, or
somebody's else eyes looking through mine. I longed for
a twin existence; to drive and find myself in another. My
father and mother loved me, and my sister was always kind
to me, but she had not the same feelings that I had. One

day there was a donation party at our house. The ladies
of the town brought their wheels and spun quantities of
flax, which they gave to my mother; and the young men
made an ox-sled that they presented to Pa. A merry time
it was, and I enjoyed it with the rest. Among the young
men was a stranger in town, a gentleman from New York,
who was called Raxman. He contributed largely towards
the sled. He spoke to me in a manner different from the
rest; he was a great admirer of nature, and seemed in many
things to anticipate my own feelings. My thought, and I
do not know but I must say my affections, turned towards
him with the quickness of the needle to the pole. All at
once I fancied that in him my ideal was complete. But I
am only telling you a love-story, Margaret.”

“It is all new and strange to me, Rose; do tell me every
thing.”

“But Raxman was base and unprincipled. I was horror-struck,
stupefied at his conduct, I know not what, I must
have fainted; I only remember being borne into the house
of one of our town's folk; and then walking home. A
crowd of people met me in the way with taunts and hisses.
I seemed to lose my self-control, I became confused and
maddened. I did not answer my own parents coherently.
I was summoned before a magistrate, and condemned to
stand in the pillory with a rope on my neck, and have a
significant red letter sewed to my back. My father most
earnestly interceded for me, and only the latter part of the
sentence was executed. Raxman fled. I was reduced to
a state bordering on distraction, I would make no confession,
I repelled and scoffed at the whole world. I tore
the detested badge from my shoulders. I was caught in the
streets by my own playmates, carried to women who had
once loved me as a daughter, and by their own hands was

it replaced. My father interposing in my behalf, lost credit
with the parish, old difficulties were renewed, and by this
head of opposition he was swept from his influence, his
salary and his pulpit. He died soon of that disease with
which his daughter will ere long follow him, a broken heart.
My mother, always of a delicate constitution, enfeebled by
the excitement of the times, was not long behind my father;
she too died. My sister became insane. I alone watched
by her in her fearful ravings; I prayed that I might become
insane too. She at length took the mood that I was her
enemy, and I was obliged to leave her; she was carried to
the poorhouse. On me no door was opened, to me no
friendly face was turned. An example, they said, must be
made of the Parson's daughter, `her will must be humbled;'
`if she escapes, contamination will spread in all our
families.' I could not yield. All the energies of my
being rebelled. In addition, let me tell you, my father
was a believer in the doctrine of Election and Reprobation.
What he preached I found myself compelled to
carry out in practice; I believed myself thoroughly reprobated.
In my earliest years I was very thoughtful, it was
said that I often experienced the strivings of the Holy
Spirit, I was under conviction three months, and at last
obtaining a hope, was admitted to the Church—you do not
understand these things, Margaret, your education has been
so different—”

“Only tell them, Rose, and I shall understand them.”

“Even then I was not at ease; the first flush of youthful
enthusiasm soon spent itself, and pious people no longer
satisfied me; the singing of hymns and going to Preparatory
Lectures became irksome. I sought in books and
the woods what I did not find in religion. My father's
sermons, my mother's private admonitions had no effect

upon me. I found myself growing hard as a rock to all
serious impressions. Being negligent in my Christian
duties, I became the subject of Church accusation and
reprimand. I felt badly to be disgraced, I have wept
bitter tears when I thought of my mother's tears, but
religious considerations had not a tittle of weight with me.
In this situation I was when I encountered Raxman, on the
one hand yearning for an indefinite good, and most
sensitive to all impressions of beauty; on the other,
reduced by a consciousness of religious dereliction, and
wholly indifferent to the state of my soul. The sequel of
that acquaintance I have told you. Disgraced, discarded,
bereaved, with Job I would have cursed God and died. I
went to an uncle's of mine, in a distant town, a kind-hearted
man, who sought, as he said, to bring me to repentance,
and restore my Christian peace, by an application
of the truths of the Gospel. This only rendered my situation
more intolerable. I knew of a cousin of my mother,
the Widow Wright, who had once been at our house; I
knew her temperament and habits, I knew how secluded
she lived, and thinking that I could at least die with her, if
not live, and that I could render myself so useful my
support would not be a burden, hither I came. I learned
of my sister's death before I left my uncle's. Here you
behold me, as I told you, a broken-hearted girl, a wreck, a
mutilation, a shadow!”

“Rose, poor Rose, dear Rose,” outspoke Margaret,
“come to my heart, lie down in my spirit, return to your
sorrow's home in my soul. A prophetic, unconscious
sensation is fulfilled in you! An unknown aching correspondency
of feeling is satisfied! You shall be renewed in
my arms, you shall live in my love.”

“O Margaret!” replied Rose, “I am vile, I am sinful.

Your pureness appalls me. Yet if I might but die, and be
buried here, it were all I should ask. The prayers of my
innocence I can utter no more, the dreams of my childhood
are fled, the happiness of youth is gone, the inner strength
of virtue I no more feel, on the face of Beauty I wish no
more to look, the bloom of nature is transformed to darkness
and dread, the voices of birds fill me only with
remorse. Man and woman I loathe, God is not. Yes, I
have become an atheist, I believe nothing, and at times I
fear nothing.”

“Your sorrowful pathway, Rose, I am sure I have
followed, I have overtaken you to be only your own sad
sister. Why did you not speak of these things before?”

“Only, Margaret, because I wronged you. I felt that I
never could speak of myself to any one. Who could
sympathize with me? Who could bear the burden of my
heart? But when I knew that you too had suffered, when
I saw your own heart innerly moved, I could no more
restrain myself. I am sometimes light-hearted, or I should
say light-headed, blithe and free, and sometimes dejected
beyond recovery or reason—all this you have seen and
wondered at.”

“I have seen it—yes—but Father Democritus, I think,
will explain it. `The spirits,' he says, `are subtile vapors
expressed from the blood,' and these, coursing backwards
and forwards between the brain and the heart, produce all
sorts of feelings. Besides, Rose, this melancholy of yours
is not of the dark kind, but very white, and I think it may
be cured. `Exercise' is recommended, `good air, music,
gardening, swimming, hunting, dancing, laughing,' all these
we have. `Spoon meat and pure water,' he says, are excellent;
balm and aniseed tea will drive away dumps
and cheer the spirits, and these your aunt, the Widow, will

furnish. You never read the Anatomy of Melancholy; it
is a most wonderful book, and will cure you immediately.”

“You are good, Margaret, if you do banter me. If I
were any body else but what I am, I should more than
half believe what you say to be true. That I can laugh,
you know. That I love Chilion's music, you also know. I
would dance if I had an opportunity. I used to think it a
sin, but all qualms of that sort are gone forever.”

“Eat the plums, Rose.”

“I will, for Mr. Evelyn's sake.”

“For my sake, for their own sake. You would not see
Mr. Evelyn!”

“No; I could see nobody but you. I was too, too much
ennuyée, too wicked.”

“Eat the plums, and perhaps I have a story to tell you
of —”

“Mr. Evelyn?”

“No; but of somebody. I shall not tell you who, Mr.
Anonymous.”

“Really, Margaret, I am anxious to hear. What have
you to say? Where did you see him?”

“Here, at the Pond. My story is not so long as yours,
and I will begin with what I know. Scarlet coat, white
breeches, Napoleon hat, sparkling black eyes, large black
whiskers meeting under his chin, like a muskrat.”

“Raxman!”

“Raxman! What do you mean?”

“It was he. A soft, pleasant voice?”

“Yes.”

“Raxman. The very same.”

“I do remember his echoing your name in a strange
way, when I told him such a one was in the neighborhood.”

“I did not think of it at the time, but I can recollect a
sort of suspicion I had that he was here. Obed told me
of his rencontre on the Head. But what with the boy's
fear and his ardor, his perceptions were not very clear,
and all he remembered was the black whiskers. I
have suspected, too, that my aunt knew of him, but she is
a very queer woman, and I do not pretend to sound her.
Were you not afraid?”

“No more than I am of the cows, who are ever disposed
to yield the path when I am ready to demand it; this I have
been trying to teach Isabel, who always runs from them.—
Obed's tempestuousness may have hastened that man's departure,
but it did not secure my safety. Indeed, he interrupted
me sorely, and I lost patience. It was Court week,
you know, and I supposed it was some lawyer, or other
stranger in town; he came two or three times, his manners,
as Mrs. Beach would say, were excellent. Yet I was
perfectly alone even while he was present. He was no
company to my thought, and when at last he broke in upon
my solitude, by kneeling before me and saying something
about adoration, he so far recalled me to myself and attracted
my attention, that I cried out at the intrusion.”

“And so you wonder,” said Rose, “that my name and
his should ever be brought together, that I could have been
drawn towards him. You will blame me more than you
pity me.”

“Why should I blame you?”

“For loving Raxman.”

“Ought I not to honor you for that? What else, as a
Christian, could you do, if he were the pitiful wretch you
describe?”

“Death and forever, Margaret! Don't you know I am

no Christian; that I abhor and eschew the name; you
know I mean something different from such an affection.”

“What do you mean?”

“An absorbing concentration on some one object, an intense
movement to a single point, a gravitation of your
whole being around a solitary centre.”

“Is that what you mean by love?”

“Yes. You think of nothing else, dream of nothing else,
care for nothing else, as you do for that one object.”

“And all this you felt for Raxman?”

“No, no, no! I wanted to feel it for some one. I wanted
some Infinite to come and take up my soul, and he, a devil,
disguised as an angel of light, appeared and deluded me. I
cannot tell all I felt for him; it was something; it was too
much, but it was not that. His dress or look did not captivate
me. He did indicate a sort of sympathy for my tastes,
and my solitariness, a meteoric, impassioned counterfeit of
the thing. He made no impression on you, and me he
affected deeply!”

“How shall I blame you for that? What you have said,
Rose, is new, anagogic, mysterious—”

“Wholly so? Nay, tell me, Margaret.”

“How urgent you are, Rose!”

“Is there no oneness, no individuality, to all you feel, or
ever have felt?”

“I love Chilion, and Isabel, and Job, and Rose.”

6. CHAPTER VI.
THE HUSKING BEE.

It was now later in the Fall. The leaves of the trees,
merging from their bright dappled colors into a dull, uniform
brown, had dropped to the earth, and were swept by
the winds in dusty crackling torrents, and borne to unknown
resting-places on the bosom of every tinkling rill. The
crops were harvested; potatoes garnered in the cellar,
apples carried to the cider-mill, corn stacked for husking.
A part of Margaret's work for the season was gleaning
from the bounties of forest and field; and aided by Rose,
she got quantities of walnuts, chestnuts, and vegetable
down.

The family had formerly relied on beasts of the chase to
meet their extraneous expenses, but Chilion was no longer
able to hunt for them, even if the supply itself were not
diminished. What a poorly-cultivated farm afforded could
no more than keep these people in food and clothing. Pluck
had done little towards the redemption of his estate. Nor
could it fail of observation that Solomon Smith had rendered
himself quite conspicuous of late, in urging the claim
of his father on Mr. Hart. It was evident he regarded
Margaret, and through her, the whole house, with a pointed
interest, a mixed feeling of aversion and esteem. Ever
since the unfortunate issue of the gold-hunt, he seemed to
look upon her as his evil genius, yet one of a nature not
to be slighted, and whose favor it was worth no small effort
to gain.

At the time in which this chapter opens, the affairs of
the family were not a little involved. There were sundry
items at Deacon Penrose's; a large item of rum, interest
money, expenses accruing at the hospital, etc., and a beggarly
account of offsets. Nimrod might have afforded
some relief, but his habits were reckless as his temper was
volatile; he tended bar, groomed, raced, peddled, smuggled,
blacksmithed, and what not, but saved little money. The
drafts on Mr. Girardeau were regularly made and conscientiously
devoted to Margaret. What she earned during
her few weeks school-keeping, Pluck refused utterly to
employ on his own necessities, but insisted she should lay
it out for clothes. Mistress Hart, originally a good weaver,
fell off in her care and her business together, and drank more,
and was more irritable than ever; while her husband, from
the same cause, grew every day more merry. Through
the intercession of Deacon Ramsdill and Master Elliman,
Esq. Beach consented to receive Margaret as private tutor
to his children; a duty upon which she was expecting to
enter immediately after the Husking Bee, the great annual
family festival. Before attending to that, let us go
back in our narrative for a moment.

The early infantile relations of Margaret cannot have
been forgotten. What became of Mr. Girardeau? Had
he no knowledge of Margaret these many years? It may
not be out of place to state the following. The year previous
to that of the present chapter, there came to the Pond
an old man wearing a wig, and dressed in other respects
like a clergyman. When he entered the house, Brown
Moll, who seemed to have an intuitive dread of the cloth,
disappeared, and the stranger was left alone with Margaret.
He asked for a cup of water, gave her a close perusal with
his eye, inquired the road to Parson Welles's, mounted his

horse and disappeared. This was Mr. Girardeau. His
object in this transient visit is not disclosed.

At the Bee, which fell on a pleasant evening, in the early
part of October, were collected sundry people from the
several districts bordering on Mons. Christi; there were
also present the Master, Abel Wilcox, Sibyl Radney, and
Rose, who if she had become an inmate, as Margaret
promised, of her heart, was almost equally so of her house
and bed. Nimrod was also at home, and for his honor in
part this occasion was supposed to make. The corn was
piled in the centre of the capacious kitchen, around the
heap squatted the huskers. The room was abundantly as
well as spectrally lighted from the immense fireplace
briskly glowing with pitch knots and clumps of bark.
Chilion sat near the fire, quietly busy, platting a basket,
which he now and then laid down for his fiddle, as better
suited to the hour. The workmen varied their labors with
such pleasantry as was natural to the occasion; great ardor
was evinced in pursuit of the red ear, for which piece of
fortune the discoverer had the privilege of a kiss from any
lady he should nominate. The much coveted color at last
made its appearance in the hands of Solomon Smith; but
Ambrose Gubtail said that Solomon brought it in his pocket,
while Smith himself was equally certain he found it in the
heap. Relying upon this assurance he announced that
he should select Margaret for the customary favor, while
she delayed responding to his call till it should be ascertained
how he came by the ear in question; and thus for
the present the matter dropped. The pile was finished,
and the hard glossy ears were stowed under the eaves of the
garret. Next came a brief relay of food and drink. This
was followed by a dance, in form and spirit befitting the
character of the company and that of their musician. Even

Rose dismissed her gloom and exchanged smiles with
Margaret, when Master Elliman, in full-blown wig and
flaunting cuffs, sought her for a partner, and, bowed her to
the floor with the precise courtliness and bland mannerism
of the Old School. Next succeeded a scene that promised
greater entertainment than any thing before.

A long table of rough boards stretched across the room,
laden with the fruits of the season, pewter platters of cakes,
bottles of wine and spirits, and prominently, the silver
family tankard of cider. These were in part the contribubution
of the Master, Nimrod, and the neighbors, who in
this matter were either returning or anticipating obligations
in kind. Preëminent above all in the centre of the table
was a grotesque piece, a pyramidal pile of pumpkins, each
emptied of its core, perforated with sundry holes, and
containing a piece of lighted candle; and the whole
representing a very comical sort of lantern, or a monstrous
beast bestarred with glaring eyes. Pluck sat at the head
of the table, having Rose at his side, Master Elliman
occupied the foot; the others were disposed on blocks of
wood, the shaving horse and the kit. Margaret lighted
the pumpkin-chandelier, and took her seat by the fire
opposite Chilion.

“Brethren and Sisters,” began Pluck, who was excited
by liquor, “it behoveth us to proceed with solemnity.

“In yonder pumpkin shrine burn the fires of our Divinity,
fed by mutton tallow. Rising all, in meek obeisance due,
pressing the bottom of our soles, worship we his Majesty.
Thy health we drink, thy name we praise, Great King
of Puppetdom! defender by the grace of God of England,
France and America; with the most serene, serene, most
puissant, puissant, high, illustrious, noble, honorable, wise
and prudent Burgomasters, Counsellors, Governors, Committees

and all demigods of thy powerful and mighty realm.
Now, brethren, sincethe gods help them that help themselves,
as Poor Richard says, let us verify the promise, by
laying hold. In the words of my bibblecal son, Maharshalalhashbaz,
`I feel that in my flesh dwelleth no good
thing.' Rose, dear, have an apple, a pearmain, here is no
curse; it shall wed your name to your face; pity it is, as
the old Indian said, Eve had not left the apples to make
cider with. S'death! how pale you grow. Take some
genuine Bacrag. That's charming. What a nice example
you set to our Molly.

“I dont hold to getting drunk,” said Abel Wilcox. “I
believe in drinking just enough.”

“Thou art an homulculus, Abel,” responded Master
Elliman, waving to and fro betwixt inebriation and an
attempt to be merry. “Thou wilt not reel in honest drunkenness
but dost posture-make before heaven and earth after
a most damnable sort.”

drawled Pluck. “The toasts, friends. Twelve, in honor
of the Twelve Apostles.

“First; Ourselves, and all that pertains to us.

“Second; The Constituted Authorities of every man's
body and mind.

“Third; Freedom of speech, thought, touch, sight, smell,
taste, earth and air.

“Fourth; Jemima Wilkinson, Consul Napoleon, Dr.
Byles and St. Tammany.

“Fifth; Success to our arms.

“Sixth; The Memory of the brave Johnny Stout.

“Seventh; The Patriots of the Pond, No. 4, Breakneck
and Snakehill.

“Eighth; Perpetual itching without the benefit of scratching
to all our enemies.

“Ninth; All true and upright Masons, who saw the
East when the light rose, and, by name, the Right Worshipful,
Past Grand Deacon, Bartholomew Elliman,
pedagogue; with a tear for all brother Cowans.

“Tenth; All pumpkin-headed, mutton-tallow-lighted
Gods and Goddesses, Priests and Lawyers.

“Eleventh; The liquor of Jove.

“Twelfth; The Officers and Soldiers in the Present
War.”

Abel Wilcox. “Now that the Regulars are disposed of,
I begin with the volunteers.

“Death to the Excise Laws.”

Joseph Whiston. “The memory of Eli Parsons and
Daniel Shays, with a tear for Bly and Rose.”

Brown Moll. “General Washington, Jonathan Trumbull
and John Hancock.”

Pluck. “King George III.”

Mr. Tapley. “Samuel Adams.”

Tony, the Barber. “The honorable Profession of all
gentlemen.”

The Widow Wright. “Death teu quacks and success
teu the gennewines.

The Master. “Mistress Margaret, C. B. Custos Bibbleorum.”

Many Voices. “Margaret, Margaret!”

Pluck. “Let this be drank standing.”

The Master. “Nay, good friends, be not too hasty.
Feminam et vinum, Margaret, C. B. and the Bey of
Muscat.”

“Do drink with us,” called Rose to Margaret, who
quietly tended the fire. “There is marvellous relief in it.
Let us accept what the hour gives and forget ourselves. I
have heard of drowning sorrows in liquor,—why retain
them when they can be despatched so easily?”

added the Master.

“Come, Molly, pretty dear;” set in her father, “no blackstrap
to night; no switchel, or ginger-pop. Brown Bastard,
Aqua Cœlestis, Geneva, Muscadine—have your choice;
come crush a glass with your dear Papa; and all this nice
company. You have skinked quite long enough.”

“I hold under my thumb and finger the veritable Lachrymæ
Christi,” resumed the Master, “just what you are in
search after, Mistress Margaret.”

“Tears of Christ!” answered Margaret. “Can it be
that name is given to any? Who could have thought of the
idea? I could drink a barrel of those tears.”

“The unsophisticated, megalopsychal, anagogical Lachrymæ
Christi!” rejoined her teacher.

“The songs, gentlemen and ladies, the songs,” vociferated
the head of the house.

“Let us edify ourselves with one stanza of the New
England Hymn in memory of our distinguished friend and
the prince of Paronomasiacks, Dr. Byles,” said the Master;
whereupon they all sang

Pluck himself then sang:—

Immediately his loving wife answered in agreeable
antiphony:—

“You've got the fogs broke; let us have a few select
pieces,” cried Pluck. “Sweet Sibyl begin. What shall it
be—give us `Lovewell's Fight.'”

The delicate maiden, thus invited, with tone and cadence
that cannot be described while it yet captivated her
audience, sang a lay which an earlier patriotism had
inspired, and such as was still cherished by the people:—

“Grace, thou apostolic child, give us the pathetic,” was

the next call of the president of the assembly. “Chilion,
you must change your key; try some Malaga, my son.”

Grace Joy indulged them with a ballad that brought
more tears into the eyes of the friends of Margaret than it
ever will again; a portion of which is preserved:—

“Beulah Ann will favor us with the sentimental,” said
Pluck. “New cider, my son, soft and sweet.”

This young lady responded in such lines as these:—

“We want a dash of the heroic,” continued the chairman.
“Molly, the Indian's Death Song; you like the Indians,
show them off to the best advantage. Silence all.”

Margaret repeated what Chilion had taught her, and
what she had more than once sung in the loneliness and
grandeur of the hills about them:—

“Beautiful! glorious!” so the old man applauded his
child; but having copiously shared in festivities that he
helped apace, advancing from liveliness to extravagance,
he rapidly fell into his wonted dedirium. “How the
pumpkin gods grin!” he shouted. “Another brimmer!
Scrape away, Chilion. Egad! what a breeze we are getting
into! Hoora for the Old Bastile! I goes ahead, keep
up who can:—

“Ho! neighbors, a hurdy-gurgy. See the puppets caper.
There's two priests, in sailor's rig, black-balling one another.
Whew! That's Religion you see next, in Harlequin's
dress; with Faith and Repentance playing Punch
and Judy. Six Pumpkin gods after a nincompoop sinner!
Grind away, my boy —”

“Pa is going off, Nimrod,” said Margaret, “what shall
we do?”

“Never mind,” replied her brother, “he'll come to. He
flakes and scatters like hot iron; get some water, that will
cool him.”

“Haven't you learned your manners yet, Miss Molly?”
continued the old man, in his wild, wandering way. “Speak
not at the table; if thy superiors be discoursing, meddle
not with the matter. Smell not of thy meat, turn it not the
other side upward to view it upon thy plate. Talk not in
meeting, but fix thine eye on the minister. Pull off thy hat
to persons of desert, quality, or office. Hem! you'll never
do for Miss Beach, in the world, till you learn your rules.
Don't interrupt the sport. Knuckle to, my good fellow.
Ha! ha! King George and old Johnny Trumbull playing
football with the head of the people. Look sharp, Rose.
Land! what's this? Old Nick himself, in a coach and two,
with the Parson's wig and bands; the Archbishop of Canterbury
on the box; St. Peter and Whitfield outriding.
Give them the long oats, Old Sacristy! Jack Pudding
baptizing four Indians in the River Jordan; souse them under,
they'll be damned if you leave a hair dry—”

“Don't let him go on so,” said Margaret; “shall I
sprinkle it in his face?”

“Hand me the gourd,” answered Nimrod; “I'll make
him sober as a walrus.”

“Don't refuse a penny, my boy,—glory!” continued
the frantic wretch. “Didn't coachee throw the silk handsomely,
Rose? Don't have such a show every day. By
the living jingo! it grows cold and dark. Don't I shiver?
Has it rained over night? You are all here, ladies and
gentlemen, hope none of you are wet. Molly, pile on the
chips. Hand down the pipes; who will smoke? Give
your dear mamma the tobacco. Here is for a game of
cards, Old Sedge; the most worshipful Deacon, my bibblecal
son, Nimrod, and the divine Widow, come. Grace,
you stand flasher. Cut, my son. It's the divinity's deal—
we shall have fair play. Clubs trumps, knock down and

drag out. You are flush, Nimrod, in your face, if you an't
in hand.”

“You'll have teu put mugwort in yer stampers, Old
Crisp, before ye ketch me this time, I cal'late; I'm high,
low,” vapored the Widow.

“I'm Jack and game,” said Nimrod.

“You are two and. Round again,” was the answer of
the father.

“That is not conformable to syntactic rules. Conjunctiones
copulativæ conjungunt verba similia,” the Master
attempted to deliver himself.

“Molly, dear,” said Pluck, very softly, “stir the embers,
we want some light on this subject. What are you doing
with Sol Smith in the corner? Is he giving you lessons
in the bibblecal art?

“Studium grammaticum omnibus est necessarium,” murmured
the Master.

“Come, Molly, unravel the skein of the Master's,” insisted
Pluck.

“You shan't go, Peggy, till you answer me.” So Solomon
Smith might have been overheard speaking to Margaret,
whom he had penned in the chimney corner, where
he seemed to be urging some point, with drunken and
dogged pertinacity. “Let the buffleheads work out their
own game.”

“I would not endure it a moment, if she were my sister.”
This, Rose, who had been watching the conduct of Solomon,
and flushed with more than common excitement, addressed,
under her breath, to Chilion; who replied, “Sol is a bad
fellow. He has no music in his soul, and such, I have heard,
are fit for any villany. He has not forgotten the wild-goose
chase after gold, and he wreaks his disappointment
on Margaret.”

“Quantinupio tentrapiorum quaggleorum, rattle bang,
with a slap dash?” So Pluck rallied his friends. “It is
your play, Sir Deacon.”

The night wore on; they drank, sang, and gamed.
Animation was heated, freedom rose to boisterousness,
sport turned into orgies. Solomon Smith, boozy and gross,
dangled the red corn in Margaret's face, but she would not
yield to his roguery what she would have been loath to
confer on his better moods, the disputed kiss. Chilion
asked Rose to bring him a file wherewith to fix the screws
of his fiddle. Rose herself had drank; she sought to
dissipate the gloom of her mind in the gayeties of the hour,
or at least to induce upon the troubled surges of her being
the foam-like glow of rustic hilarity. She shuddered at
the contact of Margaret with the taverner from No. 4, and
strove to fill Chilion's mind with apprehensions that blindly
agitated her own. The file was violently hurled across the
room. At the same moment, Pluck was violently thumping
the table. Uproar and confusion filled the place. But
why multiply words when the catastrophe is even now
passed? Solomon Smith then and there fell, killed,
murdered, under the agency of passions that from innocent
pastime had mounted to criminal excess. Darkness and
shadows preceded and followed the terrible event. The
table with its multifarious contents was upset, and the
wretched victim lay bleeding under the file. Alarm,
bewilderment, paralysis of purpose and endeavor succeeded.
Let morning dawn on the scene before we
attempt to analyze it.

7. CHAPTER VII.
THE ARREST.—THE PEOPLE OF LIVINGSTON DELIBERATE ON
THE STATE OF AFFAIRS.

But that morning rose in clouds and darkness on the
Pond, its neighborhood, and the town of Livingston.
Rumor of what had befallen was quickly disseminated.
Early in the forenoon an inquest was holden on the body of
young Smith, and it was declared that he came to his death
from violence inflicted by one or more members of the family
of Pluck. The uncertainty of the affair, aggravated by the
disordered condition of the witnesses, rendered it expedient
to arrest the entire household. Shortly on the Brandon
Road, which but a few days before Margaret and Mr.
Evelyn had traversed with so much serene hopefulness and
in the midst of such inspiring beauty, appeared the
Constable, Captain Tuck, armed with a warrant and
supported by a retinue of people, bearing sundry instruments
of offence, and hastening along with mingled imprecations
and laments. There turned up the Delectable Way
a multitude large as once bore Margaret in triumphal
procession over the same ground, who now were in pursuit
of her and her friends with tempers exacerbated by the
rehearsal of atrocious deeds, imaginations inflamed by
horrific suggestions, and a purpose which nothing less than
her own life or that of her best friends could qualify or
extinguish. From the Via Dolorosa poured in numbers
more with swords, axes and pitchforks. The house was
surrounded, and the pressure upon it, if cautious and

fearful, was yet overwhelming. Sibyl Radney, who stood
barring the door with her back, obliged to yield to the
weight of the crowd, was the only moving person to be
seen. Pluck and his wife, stupefied by an intoxication that
had probably been enhanced after the fatal event was
understood, Sibyl had dragged to their bed. The same
faithful creature had endeavored to correct the wantonness
and disorder of the night, and ere the people arrived she
had removed the fragments of the debauch that covered
the floor. Over the decayed and blackened embers of the
fire sat Margaret and Chilion in rigid silence and haggard
immobility; his face dropped into the palms of his hands,
she with her arms closed about her brother's neck, on which
her head was sunk. Hash was discovered, overpowered
by his fears and his potations, under the bed in the garret.
The Widow, foremost in execration of the family and
loudest in clamor for vengeance, declared Nimrod and
Rose had fled on horseback during the night. The Master
was found in a thicket near the water, whither in his own
frenzy and the turbulence of the hour he had betaken himself,
plunged to his knees in mire, and shaking with cold and
alarm.

Margaret and Chilion, without remonstrance or delay,
prepared to obey the summons of the officer, and went
forward a-foot. The other three were carried in a cart to
the Village, where they were all consigned to the Jail,
there to lie until the returning senses of the inebriated
should justify an examination. The Master was taken to
his bed, where, with fever superadded to his surfeit, he had
a prospect of remaining for some time.

Knots of curious and agitated people might have been
seen in all parts of the Green. The more considerable
inhabitants collected at the store of Deacon Penrose. Let

us look in upon them. We may get an insight to the spirit
and manners of the time, and also a comprehension of influences
that surrounded the criminal case about to come off,
and had a bearing on the destiny of Margaret.

“Mysterious is the providence of God,” outspoke Parson
Welles, the first to break the dubious and oppressive
silence. “Some are appointed to damnation by a just
indeed and irreprehensible, but incomprehensible judgment
of God; some he brings to repentance unto life. Let us
not rebel against his most righteous sovereignty. In what
has now eventuated, my brethren and friends, we behold the
Scripture verified, that the carnal mind is emnity against
God. And let all of us, whose desert is the same, not be
high-minded, but fear; let us humble ourselves before the
mighty hand of God, who in this administereth a needed
rebuke for our manifold sins.”

“Can any one tell us how this melancholy affair was
brought about?” inquired Judge Morgridge after a pause.

Deacon Penrose. “As I learn from Mr. Wilcox, who
was providentially present and is able to make a distinct
report, it was an unprovoked and malicious attack of some
members of that depraved family on the unfortunate young
man.”

Esquire Beach. “I think I can inform your Honor
more explicitly, that it is probably a result of anterior and
long-cherished animosities on the part of the persons
apprehended, against the family of Mr. Smith, arising from
indentures in the hands of said Smith of grants and
covenants, on the part of said persons, yet unfulfilled and
for a considerable period delayed.”

Deacon Hadlock. “Why do we mince the matter? I
can tell you all it is owing to defect of justice; that we
havn't heavier penalties, tighter execution, more wholesome

laws. If these persons had only been kept under, or been
enough broke by the chastismeents they have already had,
they would never have gone these lengths. Truly we can
say, we let the wicked go unpunished. For their Sabbath-breaking,
their disobedience to rulers, their unbelief, their
blasphemies, their hardness of heart, their stiff-neckedness
and perverse ways, has this come upon them. And for
our sinful remissness has this judgment lit upon the town.”

Parson Welles. “It behoveth us in truth that we consider
of our wicked declensions and great provocations
before God, whereby he hath reached forth to us this bitter
cup of shame and sorrow. And, brethren, is it not meet
that we appoint a Fast, touching this matter, as has been
the practice of our fathers in like calamitous visitations?”

Little Girl. “Daddy wants a quart of cider-brandy.

Deacon Pemrose. “Mr. Wilcox, wait on this child, and
then fetch in some glasses and a measure of our best New
England.”

Captain Tuck. “We had a heavy frost last night, the
air is raw and piercing this morning, and this is trying
business. I well remember during the War standing sentry
by the General's markee half the night, in the depth of
winter, on the solid snow, barefoot, with never a drop to
cheer or warm one with.”

Deacon Ramsdill. “It takes two to make a quarrel, and
I count there must have been something hard said or done
on t'other side.”

Esq. Beach. “Our worthy Deacon would do nothing
that should prejudice the case or compromit the parties
concerned, nor interpose obstacles to the due process of
justice and impartial effect of the laws. His generous
feelings we know always tempt him to act in behalf of those

who may be called to suffer; but he should remember that
law, Law is the essence of the Deity, the genius of the
Bible, the guardian Angel of humanity; and that Law
ever must be and ever shall be sustained.”

Deacon Ramsdill. “I don't know much about law, but
I know something about nater. A cow won't kick when
she is milked unless she has either core in her dugs or
chopped tits, and is handled roughly; and she always
knows who is a milking of her. Cap'n Tuck speaks
about the last War. I recollect when we was in the
Provinces down to Arcady, where the Black Flies come
out thick as birds arter a thunder storm, they won't let you
feel the sting till arter you see the blood. I guess there
has been a great Black Fly about here; andnow the blood
has come we begin to feel the sting.”

Parson Welles. “We have convened on a serious intendment,
and Brother Ramsdill would be in the way of Scripture
to avoid foolish jesting which is not convenient, and
whereby the brethren may be offended.”

Judge Morgridge. “Is it understood how many persons
are supposed to be involved in this deed? Is it thought
the younger female member of the family is to be accounted
either principal or accessory? I know not that in the
present stage of the affair I ought to make this inquiry;
nor, considering my own position, whether it becomes me
to raise any question at all. I do it, not on my own account,
but for the sake of others. Pardon me, fellow-citizens, if I
sometimes remember that I am a man.”

Deacon Hadlock. “I know of no vessel of wrath more
fitted for destruction than that gal. She is so hardened in
iniquity that any abominable conduct is to be looked for in
her. We have compassionated her ignorance, but it is of

no avail; we have done all that could be done for her, but
she braces herself agin God, despises divine truth, breaks
the holy Sabbath.”

Deacon Ramsdill. “Sows over-littered eat their own
pigs. Perhaps you have done too much for her, Brother
Hadlock. Mabby she hasn't forgot the bed you spread
for her when she was down here to meetin' a few year ago,
and when she had the School this summer past.”

Deacon Penrose. “Will the Parson taste a little of our
New England? We call it a prime article, and think this
the very best we ever manufactured.”

Abel Wilcox. “It has as handsome a bead as I ever
saw; and we think it possesses a flavor very much like
West India.”

Parson Welles. “Truly, in the words of Scripture, we
may say, Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish,
and wine to those that be of heavy hearts. We need something
to make our faces shine these dark times.”

Deacon Penrose. “Gentlemen, help yourselves.”

Deacon Ramsdill. “Down to Arcady, when a rattlesnake
bit one, his comrade sucked out the pizen; if he
didn't, the fellow died. I think we had better try and see
if we can't get some of the pizen out of these poor folk,
instead of taking it into our own bodies. I know it's a
cold morning, but sap runs best arter a sharp frost, and
my blood, old as it is, is enough moved without any
urging.”

Deacon Hadlock. Dark times, indeed, Brother Penrose;
we have contempt in the Church, as well as abuse in the
State. Things are getting worse and worse every day.
We are all at loose ends. Judgment follows judgment.
The Christian religion itself is just tottering to fall. The
Univarsalists I heard, yesterday, had appeared a little to

the west of us, at Dunwich Equivalents; their preacher,
John Murray, is drawing away people by hundreds. The
Socinians have broke into the fold at the Bay. But for
the elects' sake, who should be saved!”

Judge Morgridge. “It is an old story, Deacon, that the
times are deteriorating; I have heard it ever since I was a
boy. The world has stood some pretty hard shocks, and it
seems to be able to survive a good many more. So the
Worthy Fuller records, more than a century ago, `I have
known the City of London forty years,' says he; `their
shops did ever sing the same tune that trading was dead;
and when they wanted nothing but thankfulness, this was
their complaint.' Let us be patient, Deacon, and the
coming tide will lift us from the rocks. The hand that has
smitten will heal our wasted and torn condition.”

Deacon Ramsdill. “Time is the stuff that life is made
of, as Poor Richard says. I think if we would spin and
weave it better, we should not have so much raggedness to
complain of; and things wouldn't be falling to pieces so.”

Captain Tuck. “Raggedness and ruin! what do gentlemen
mean? Have we not had a glorious War! Are we not
independent! Isn't this a great country? Was there
ever an era like the present? and will there ever be
another such a one? Isn't America the envy of all worlds,
and isn't it honor enough to have fought her battles even if
we had lost our all? Does she not shine like the meridian
sun in his splendor? Our children will sigh and pine for
the golden period in which we now live.”

Esq. Bowker, a junior practitioner, and recent settler in
Livingston. “I think, if I may take the liberty to express
my thought, that I partially agree with our friend Captain
Tuck. We discern indisputable signs of improvement.
There is an amelioration in the order of events; there is a

softening of the crude and undigested matter with which
the breast of the ages has been so long gorged; Influence
has a vigorous but better regulated pulse, gladness and love
are on its countenance; History is emerging from its corruptions
and appears in a regenerated form; there is a
breaking up of corrupt Organization, and a tendency towards
the Unity of Love; the iron and mailed hand of
Public Opinion greets you less violently; Prerogative is
disposed to relinquish some of its self-will and austerity;
Literature is beginning to replenish itself from the infinity
of Virtue; Religion is becoming more humanized; and we
can scarcely hope to enter upon the new century that is
now opening to us, without leaving at the threshold much
trumpery and feculence, and bearing with us abundant
elements of a renovated condition.”

Deacon Hadlock. “Alas the day, that I should come
to this! Alas the day, that my old eyes should see what
they now see! I stand like a man cutting the gravestones
for his own wife and children. I sarved under the old
king, I fought agin the Spanish and French and the
Indians; I buckled to among the first for our liberties, I
gave a hand through all the tug of the War, I helped build
up our Constitution and Laws, and now we are worse off
than ever. Woe is me! A sorer pest than any before has
overtaken us.”

Mr. Adolphus Hadlock. “What, Uncle, what, the
Small-pox has not broke out anew? Aristophanes, my
son—”

Deacon Hadlock. “No, Adolphus, worse than that;
worse than Throat Distemper, or Putrid Fever, or any
thing else. Jacobins. the Jacobins are in amongst us; all
the bloodhounds of the French kennel are let loose upon
us, Freethinkers, Illuminatists, Free Masons, Papists.”

Judge Morgridge. “Don't you remember, Deacon,
when the news of Braddock's Defeat, in the year '55, was
brought here, what an alarm we had? Every man,
woman and child, ran out of their houses to learn the news;
all was despair. `The country is betrayed by Government.'
`They have sold us to the French.' `They'll
make Catholics of us all,' were cries that filled the streets;
and your father, a gray-headed old man, and our good
minister, then a young man, spoke to the people from the
Meeting-house steps, and told them not to be afraid, but to
put their trust in God. We recovered from our reverses,
and have passed safely through a good many difficulties
since. The French indeed have done us much good, and
in the War we courted their alliance and were glad of their
aid.”

Deacon Hadlock. “I know what you say, Judge—I
never liked the French, I was always agin that contract.
But we never had such trying times as these; so many
intarnal, as well as extarnal foes to our peace and prosperity.
Things never looked nigh so dark.”

Mr. Whiston, a Breakneck. “I agree with the Deacon
exactly; he has put the case right on its own legs.
For one, I am near about done for. I havn't hardly a hair
left to my hide or a pewter fip in my pocket. Taxes, taxes
are eating us all up; taxes upon your whole estate; taxes
on all you eat and drink; taxes paid by taxes, taxes
breeding taxes; and when all is gone, then tax the body
and lug it off to jail.”

Deacon Ramsdill. “Misery makes us unacquainted with
strange bedfellows, Judge.”

Judge Morgridge. “You see, Deacon Hadlock, into what
company you fall; Mr. Whiston is one whom I believe you

committed for being concerned in the late disturbances in
these States.”

Deacon Hadlock. “Just as I say, Judge, we are too
lenient, we didn't put on the screws half hard enough.
The Insargents ought to have been hung, or banished from
the country, or else condemned to imprisonment for life.
The State was not cleansed of the plague that was upon it,
and the sore waxes fouler every hour.”

Mr. Whiston. “'Tis true I harbored the men; 'tis true
I fell in with the movement; and I wish to Heaven we
could have a rebellion—I will say it here if I have to swing
to-morrow for it. I wish Shays could have carried the
matter through all the States. I helped throw off one
government, but I little calculated how I was going to be
sucked in by another. Courts, lawyers, sheriff fees, constable
fees, justice fees, imposts, stamp duties, continental bills,
paper tender, forced sales, have swept off every thing. The
grubs of the law have gnawed into us, and we are all
powder-post. How many actions did you try in one term,
Judge? Was it less than a thousand?”

Judge Morgridge. “Let that go, Mr. Whiston; it is
past, and we will endeavor to forget it.”

Mr. Whiston. “I shan't let it go, it an't past, and it
can't be forgotten. Can I forget the cries of Bly and Rose,
up there in Lenox? Not so easy. We fought for liberty
in the War, and if a man hasn't liberty to own his own,
to use his own, to be his own, what are our liberties good
for? Government is Lord God Almighty, and skin-flint
besides. Where is my title to my estate? Government
has got it. Where is my income? Government has got
it. Where is the disposal of my person? Government
has got it. Where is the control of my actions? Government
has got it. Where are my boys? Gone to fight the

Government battles agin the Indians. Where are my
gals? Spinning out Government taxes. What is the
Government for? To protect me, you say; yes, as the
wolf did the lamb, by stripping me of all I have. We help
make the Government? No. Didn't we petition to have
the Constitution altered, some of the courts abolished, and
the under officers set aside? Were our petitions granted?
They were not admitted; Government spurned us and our
petitions together. Such bungling and frippery never were
seen. I wouldn't give a fiddlestick's end for all the
Constitutions in creation. They take the best of every thing,
and leave us only the orts and hog-wash. Times are
mopish and nurly I don't mean to be scrumptious about
it, Judge, but I do want to be a man, if I am a Breakneck,
and havn't so much eddecation as the rest.”

Judge Morgridge. “It is getting warm here; we shall
be called to the examination soon, and we need all calmness
of mind.”

Mr. Whiston. “I am ready to stay and argufy the matter
out with any body. I have no notion of hushing it up
so.”

Dr. Spoor. “More parties than one have been implicated.
I think our worthy Deacon named the Free
Masons, a fraternity to which I deem it an honor to
belong.”

Deacon Hadlock. “Yes, I did mention them; they
are rising in France, Germany and England; they are
leagued with the Jacobins on both sides of the water, and
threaten the destruction of all this 'varsal world.”

Dr. Spoor. “They acknowledge the three cardinal
doctrines, Faith, Hope and Charity.”

Deacon Hadlock. “I know it, they are as bad as the
Socinians; under cover of religion they would destroy

religion itself. Hasn't Tom Jefferson threatened he would
burn up all the Bibles in the land, if he comes in President?
Isn't he the jawbone of Jacobinism in this country?
Havn't town meetings been called agin Jay's Treaty?
Hasn't John Jay himself been burnt in effigy? Yes, in
Boston he was carted through the streets, with a watermelon
shell on his head, carried past Governor Adams's house,
where they made him salute the old man, and then took
and burnt on the Common. Houses were broken open,
persons assaulted. What is all this but playing into that
whale's hands, Bonaparte, who means to swallow us all
up?”

Captain Hoag. “These things are jest so. We heard
in our part of the town last week, that he had taken the
city of London, and was burning over all England; that
he had made the Pope God of the whole airth, and that
they were both coming to America, were going to put us
all into the Inquisition, and then set fire to't.”

Deacon Ramsdill. “You eat nothing if you watch the
cook; I think we had better be thankful for what we have,
and God will give us what we want.”

Mr. Pottle, from Snakehill. “I believe the Deacon made
a fling at the Universalists?”

Dcacon Hadlock. “They are the seed of the old
Sarpent; they are leagued with the Devil himself; they
take advantage of the natural heart to entrap us with their
soul-destroying doctrines; they make a fling at the righteous
justice of God.”

Mr. Pottle. “For one I must say, my eyes have been
opened; I an't a going to be hoodwinked any longer. I
do not believe God is a wrathful being, I do not believe he
will keep us in a red-hot Hell to all Eternity for what we
do in this short life.”

Deacon Hadlock. “O! O! We are undone. I am
the man that has seen affliction.”

Mr. Pottle. “I believe the Atonement is broad enough
to cover the whole race.”

Parson Welles. “God be praised, his decrees shall
stand against all the lying deceit of man!”

Esq. Weeks. “We do, indeed, seem to be quite in a
toss. I have said nothing hitherto, because I have had so
many other things to think about. There are sometimes
domestic and personal calamities which seem for the
moment to outweigh all public concerns; and how many in
our midst are even now, we must believe, in deepest
affliction. But I cannot well let what has been here expressed
pass without at least offering a word of encouragement
and hope. I agree with Mr. Whiston, that our
Government is not all we could desire. I did not vote, as
you well know, for the Constitutions either of the State or
the Nation. But having been adopted by a majority of the
people, I am willing to give them my cordial support. I
have confidence in the people; and believe that they will right
what is wrong, and better what is bad. I concur in the
old maxim, that that government is best which governs
least, and I think the evils we deplore will be remedied in
time.”

Esq. Bowker. “There is a principle of health in
Time itself, agreeably to which we may hope that the
diseased body politic will ultimately recover, the tumid
aspect of society subside, noxious sentiment be thrown off,
and the clouded atmosphere of our public life clear away.”

Esq. Beach. “There are some gentlemen who have
the urbanity of the original Tempter himself; who pursue
by indirection what they dare not openly propose,
and under the guise of flattery harbor the deadliest intent.

Heavens! has it come to this! shall drivelling be substituted
for sound reason, phrenzy for dispassionate conduct! O
Humanity, where is thy blush? O Virtue, where hast
thou fled? Was is not the firmness of President Washington
in resisting the overtures of the French, that saved
us from that gulf? Was it not the explosion of Randolph's
connection with Fauchet that prevented the worst of
calamities? Are not French emissaries scattered through
the land, corrupting our citizens, and disturbing our
politics? Have we not seen the Tricolored Cockade, that
emblem of massacre and blood, voting at our polls? Has
not France twice dismissed our envoys with ignominy?
No Festival is so celebrated in this country as the Birth of
the Dauphin; yes, we revere the birth of a Monarch more
than the virtues of Washington! You cannot, gentlemen,
have forgotten the refined patriotism of one our Judges,
who recently invested the city of Providence with a regiment
of soldiers, and endeavored to arrest the celebration
of the Anniversary of our Independence, and prevent the
ratification of the then ninth pillar of the Federal Constitution,
New Hampshire. The Gazettes of that clique are
distributed with a diligence worthy a better cause. Our
own mails, yes, to my shame and sorrow I repeat it, the mails
of this good old Federal town of Livingston are loaded
with their prints; Chronicles, Auroras and Arguses, are
circulated in our midst, through which the great monster
of evil belches forth his falsehoods, seditions, blasphemies
and calumnies upon our population. This Anglophobism
is the most malignant and incurable of maladies.”

Esq. Weeks. “Yes, enough of it worse than Gallophobism.
We have no dastardly refugees voting at our polls
—no. Reams of Russell's Gazettes, Courants, Centinels,
Spys, are not every week brought to our village—no. They

are full of truth, religion, candor, sweetness—yes. We
have no readers of Porcupine's Gazette, a writer who is an
avowed British subject—no. The Editor of the Aurora
was not recently whipped in the streets—no. How many
Black Cockades could I count in this room? But, soberly,
Sam Adams's threadbare coat must give place to John Hancock's
lace and ruffles. Our ladies must have negroes to bear
their trains through the streets as their mothers did. Capt.
Hoag here would have us kneel to his Spread Eagle and
Blue Ribbon, and we must barter our old-fashioned pewter
for Cincinnati plates, and cups and saucers. We must import
mustard, muffs, tippets and Flanders lace. We must baptize
all things into the mild spirit of Federalism; we have
a Federal Congress, Federal Gazettes, Federal Hotels,
Federal Theatres, Federal Circuses, Federal Streets, Federal
Warehouses, Federal Flour, Federal Babies; we have
long had a Federal Gospel—no offence to our good minister—and
must look for a Federal Heaven.”

Esq. Beach. “I shall make no reply to matters like
these I know we are somewhat diverted from the objects
that brought us here. But one thing I would have impressed
on all minds; there are three political sects in the
United States. The first in number as well as in sense,
without umbrage to Brother Weeks, are the Federalists,
who believe mankind are in need of the restraints of good
government. The second are the Jacobins, who see in
every book of acts and resolves, gibbets, pillories and jails.
But there is a third sect, who are less despised and yet
are more contemptible, the Illuminatists. These will have
it that government is unnecessary. They want common
sense to such a degree, that they do not know their want of
it. They are underworkers to the Jacobinical purpose of
power, plunder and vengeance.”

Abel Wilcox. “'Lexis Robinson is here again with his
notes, sir.”

Deacon Penrose. “I dare say. He is punctual to a
day. He holds some of the consolidated notes and Quartermaster
General's certificates, and comes every year to dispose
of them. I offered hlm eight and sixpence on the
pound; then as they depreciated, four shillings, and at last,
when they were good for nothing, in pure compassion, I
told him I would give one and six; but he wouldn't be
easy without the full face. He might have taken advantage
of the funding.”

Mr. Whiston. “That is what we tried to bring about, a
means to pay the old soldiers; but we could not do it.
Poor 'Lex, his face half gone, his wits nigher done for, his
old sores still running—well if the country for which he
fought can give him sward enough to cover his bones!”

Deacon Ramsdill. “He that lives upon hope will die
fasting, as poor Richard says; if this belongs to 'Lexis I
guess it will apply to some other folks. What is the hour,
Judge?”

Judge Morgridge, “I think we had better give attention
to the prisoners. The warrant was issued from your office,
Squire Beach, I believe; shall we not adjourn there?”

Parson Welles. “God send the right.”

8. CHAPTER VIII.
THE TRIAL.

The magistral investigation resulted in the discharge of
all the family but Chilion, who was committed to answer
before the Supreme Court—a stated session of which was
at hand. The testimony of the witnesses was varied and
confused, as their observation had been uncertain and indistinct.
What with the trepidation of the moment, and the
clouded condition in which the catastrophe found the party,
it took no small sagacity and patience in Esq. Beach, who
seemed disposed to conduct the case with entire candor, to
distinguish, resolve, and average the singular materials that
were submitted to his attention. Chilion himself would
make neither confession nor denial.

These points, however, were ascertained: that Solomon
Smith came to his death by a wound in the jugular vein;
that the wound was caused by some violent blow, as, say, of
a file; that Chilion was seen to throw the file, and the deceased
was heard to cry out the moment the instrument
might have been supposed to strike him. Furthermore,
it was sworn that Chilion and the deceased had had differences,
and that Chilion had threatened vengeance for the
mischief Solomon was doing to the family at the Pond.

The deceased was buried the next day, and at his funeral
was exhibited every circumstance of solemn array and
mournful impressiveness. The body was carried to the
Church, where Parson Welles preached an appropriate

sermon, and followed to the grave by a long train of people
swayed by alternate and mingled grief and indignation.

On the succeeding day, Mr. Smith, the father of Solomon,
came to the Pond claiming the forfeiture of the conditions
on which Pluck held the estate, and ordered the immediate
removal of the family. Pluck went off with his kit on his
back to seek employment wherever it should offer. Hash
and his mother were invited to Sibyl Radney's. Of Nimrod
and Rose nothing had been heard. Bull followed Hash.
Margaret barely had time to turn her two birds and Dick,
the squirrel, out of doors, and gather a bundle of clothes
and Chilion's violin, ere Mr. Smith nailed up the house.
She besought her mother and Hash to take the birds and
squirrel, but the hurry, preoccupation and irritation of the
moment were too great to pamper wishes of that sort.
Up the Via Salutaris she saw her father and mother,
her brother and Sibyl filing along, drearily, with heavy
packs on their shoulders. Her own course had been
resolved upon; she was going to Esq. Beach's to seek
occupation, be near Chilion, and fulfil her engagement
as Governess. She paused a moment, looking up and down
the road, and back to Mons Christi, then striking across the
Mowing, buried herself in the thickets of the Via Dolorosa.
Reaching the Village, she turned into Grove Street, and
went directly to the Squire's. Mrs. Beach received her at
the door, and asked her into the parlor. She was barely
seated, when the door opened, and in poured a parcel of
children.

“Julia, William,” said Mrs. Beach, “why do you behave
so? How often have I told you not to come into the
house with a noise? and those other boys havn't scraped
their feet.”

“I have got a tame squirrel here, Ma,” said William
Beach.

“What are you doing with that dirty thing?” exclaimed
Mrs. Beach.

“It's the Ma'am's,” said Julia Beach; “Arthur said it
was.”

“We found it trying to get in at the door,” explained
Arthur Morgridge.

“She isn't your Ma'am, now,” denied Mrs. Beach.

“Isn't she going to live here, and teach us?” asked
Julia.

“Not as we know of,” replied the mother. “You take
away the squirrel, and run to your plays.”

Dick, meanwhile, wrested himself from the hands of the
boys and leaped into the lap of his mistress.

“Take the creature away,” reiterated Mrs. Beach.

Margaret interceded in behalf of her pet. “I shan't touch
it, if the Ma'am wants to keep it,” said Consider Gisborne.
“Come, let us see if we can't get the kite up.”

The children retreated with as much impetuosity as they
entered.

“Did you expect to bring that animal with you?” asked
Mrs. Beach.

“I know not how he came,” replied Margaret; “I left
him at home;” and she might have added, that delaying
on her steps two or three hours in the woods, the squirrel,
shut out of doors, and growing tired of silence and solitude,
concluded to follow her,—a trick he had more than once in
his life attempted.

“What have you in that green sack?” inquired the
lady.

“It is my brother Chilion's fiddle,” replied Margaret;

“I thought it would be of some comfort to him in the jail,
so I brought it down.”

“Your brother, indeed!” rejoined Mrs. Beach. “I
must inform you that the Squire and myself have concluded
to dispense with your services. We thought it would be
extremely bad to have one of your family a member of
ours. Since the dreadful things that have happened at
your house, it would be unsafe to our property; and perhaps
to our lives, and certainly detrimental to the morals of the
children, to have any thing to do with you. And it would
be wrong not to break a promise made with those who have
proved themselves unworthy to keep it.”

“What shall I do?” asked Margaret, passionately.

“It is no use to practise dissimulation, Miss Hart. A
sorry crew of you! I quite wonder that you should have
had the presumption to come at all. We were going to
send word that we did not want you. But your anxiety
for your brother, it seems, has brought you down even
sooner than was anticipated. If worse comes to worst, you
can go to the poorhouse; you may be able to find employment
with that class of people to whom you properly belong.
I am not unreasonable—for the time has arrived we
must no longer tamper with low-bred and mischief-making
characters.”

The appearance of the lady discouraged parley and silenced
protestation, and Margaret withdrew. She stood on
the doorsteps, with her bundle and squirrel in her arms,
disordered in purpose, palsied in feeling, and almost blind
in vision, from this unforeseen turn of affairs. The children,
who were trying to fly a kite on the grounds in front
of the house, came around her.

“Are you not going to stay?” asked Julia Beach.

“No,” replied Margaret.

“Won't the Ma'am help us get up the kite?” said Consider
Gisborne.

“Yes,” replied Margaret.

“The string is all in a snarl,” said Arthur Morgridge.
Margaret, most mechanically, most mournfully, fell to getting
out the knot, and then dropping her luggage, ran with
the string, and when the kite was fairly afloat, she handed
it back to the boys.

“She's crying,” said Julia Beach. “She is crying!”
was whispered from one to another. The kite was at once
abandoned, and the children huddled about their disconsolate
Mistress.

“What makes you cry?” said Julia.

“I cannot tell,” said Margaret; “I have no home, no
friends, no place to go to.”

“Never mind the kite,” said Consider. “I'll carry this,”
he added, seizing the sack containing the violin; “I don't
care if she did put me on the girl's side, she is the best
Schoolma'am I ever went to.”

“I will carry this,” said Arthur, taking the clothes bundle
from her hand.

“I want to have the squirrel,” said Julia.

“Let me take hold with you, Arthur,” said Mabel
Weeks.

“Where are you going?” asked Margaret.

“I don't know,” said Consider; “we wanted to help the
Schoolma'am.”

“I am going to take the violin to my brother, who is in
the jail; he loves to play on it. Perhaps you wouldn't
like to go there.”

“Deacon Ramsdill was at our house, and said he didn't
believe he meant to kill Solomon Smith,” said Consider.

“I remember what you said when you kept the school
that we musn't hate any body,” said Arthur.

“Ma said people wasn't always wicked that was put in
jail,” said Mabel.

Preceded by the children with their several loads, Margaret
went towards the Green. Approaching the precincts
of the jail she found her way impeded by large numbers of
people, who were loitering about the spot, of all ages and
sexes. She was greeted with sundry exclamations of dislike,
and the aspect of things was not the most inviting.
Even threatening words were bestowed upon her, and some
went so far as to jostle her steps. She stopped while the
children gathered closer to her, and they all proceeded in
a solid body together.

“I can see the devil in her eye,” said one. “The
whole family ought to be hung,” said another. “Poor
Mr. Smith's heart is most broke,” said Mistress Joy.
“I always knew Chil would come to a bad end,” said
Mistress Hatch; “there were spots on his back when
he was born, and his mother cut his finger nails before
he was a month old.” “There was a looking-glass
broke at our house, the week before,” said Mistress Tuck.
“I had a curious itching in my left eye,” said Mistress
Tapley, “and our Dorothy dropped three drops of blood
from her nose.” “There was a great noise of drums and
rattling of arms in the air, just before the Spanish war
broke out,” said old Mr. Ravel. “The Saco River run
blood when the last war begun,” said Captain Hoag; “I
was down in the Province and saw it.” “He beat his head
all to smash with a froe,” said one boy. “They are the
most dangerous wretches that ever walked God's earth,”
said Mr. Cutts.

Coming to the porch of the jail-house, Margaret took the

baggage into her own hands, dismissed her guard, and
sought of Mr. Shooks admission to Chilion's cell. The
reply of that gentleman was brief and explicit. “Troop!
gump,” said he, “don't hang sogering about here, you
saucebox. Haven't you smelt of these premises enough?
It will be your turn next. Pack and be off.” She turned
from the door. A hundred people stood before her; she
encountered the gaze of a hundred pairs of eyes, dark and
frowning; Mr. Shooks, by the application of his hand to
her shoulder, helped her from the steps to the ground,
where she seemed almost to lose the power of motion.
“What do you ax for that are beast?” inquired one.
“That's Chil's fiddle she's got there in that bag,” said Zenas
Joy. “That'll help pay for what the dum Injins owe
daddy,” said Seth Penrose. “Come, you may as well give
it up.”

“You shan't touch it,” outspoke Judah Weeks. “I'll
stand here, and if any body wants to put his tricks on her,
he'll have to play rough and tumble with me a while first.
She ain't to blame for what her brother did.” While he
was speaking, Sibyl Radney, stout as an Amazon, brawny
as Vulcan, elbowed herself into the midst, and seizing the
bundle under one arm and Margaret under the other, bore
her off through the crowd. Sundry boys still saw fit to
follow, who again closed about Sibyl when she stopped
with her load. “There is Deacon Ramsdill,” shouted one.
“We'll have some fun out of him if we can't out of the Injin,”
cried another.

“Well, my lads,” said the Deacon, limping in among
them with his insenescible smile, “what have we here?
You must truss up a cow's tail if you don't want to be
switched when you're milking; if there is any mischief here
we must attend to it. Come, Molly, you must go with me.

Out of the way, children; a cat may look upon a king; I
guess you will let a squirrel look at you.—There, Molly,”
continued the Deacon, leading her across the Green into
the East Street, “we have got through the worst of it, and
we praise a bridge that carries us safe, even if it is a poor
one.”

“I thank you, Sir, I thank you,” said Margaret; “but,
O, let me die, let the boys kill me.”

“Dogs that bark arter a wagon,” replied the Deacon,
“keep out of the way of the whip; I guess the boys wouldn't
hurt you much. The people are a good deal up, and when
the grain is weedy we must reap high, we must do the best
we can. I have seen Judge Morgridge, and he thinks you
will be safest at my house; Squire Beach says he can't
employ you, and I think you had better go home with me.
The Judge says his Susan wants to see you, and it wouldn't
be best for you to go to his house now, because he is Judge.
Freelove will be glad to see you. When you was at our
house before, you was gone so much you didn't hardly give
her a taste.”

“There is nothing left to me,” said Margaret; “I am
blank despair.”

“The finer the curd the better the cheese,” replied the
Deacon. “They are cutting you up considerably smart,
but it may be as well in the end. What you are going
through is nothing to what I saw down to Arcady, when
we went to bring off the French under Col. Winslow. We
dragged them out of their houses, tore children from their
mothers, wives from their husbands, and piled them helter-skelter
in the boats. Then we set fire to every thing that
would kindle; burnt up houses, barns, crops, meetinghouses.
They stuck to their old homes like good fellows.
One boy we saw running off with his mother on his back,

into the woods, and we had to bring him down with a bullet
before he would stop. We took off nigh eighteen thousand
of them. When we weighed anchor, their homes were
in ashes, their woods all a-fire, and the black smoke hung
over the whole so funeral-like—they set up such a dismal
yell as if the whole airth was going to a butchery—yours
an't a feather to it, Molly.”

“How could you do such things!” exclaimed Margaret.

“O, they was Papists and French. It was political, I
believe; I don't know much about it. Here is our house,
and the fifty acres of land I got for that job. It has lain
powerful hard on my conscience; I have struggled agin it.
—I don't know as I should ever have got the better of it,
if the Lord hadn't a come and forgiven me.”

“Freelove,” he said, as he entered his house, “I have
found the gal. She will pine away like a sick sheep if we
don't nuss and cosset her up a little.”

The Deacon's, to which Margaret was not altogether a
stranger, was a small, one-story, brown house, having a
garden on one side, a grass lot on the other, and a cornfield
in the rear. Over the front door trailed a luxuriant woodbine,
now dyed by the frosts into a dark claret. What with
the grant of land, a small pension continued until the Revolution,
the Deacon, maugre his lameness, had secured a
comfortable livelihood for himself and wife, which was the
extent of his family. The usual garnish of pewter appeared
in one corner of the room into which Margaret was led; in
the other stood a circular snap-table; between the two hung
a black-framed looking-glass supported on brass knobs,
blazoned with miniature portraits; underneath the glass
was a japanned comb-case, and a cushion bristling with pins
and needles. On one wall ticked a clock without a case, its
weights dangling to the floor. Against the opposite wall

was a turn-up bed; over the fireplace were pipes suspended
by their throats, and iron candlesticks hanging by their
ears. There was a settle in the room, an oval-back arm-chair
which the Deacon occupied, while his wife, in mob-cap and
iron-rimmed bridge spectacles, sat knitting in a low flag-bottomed
chair by the chimney corner. The Deacon brought
from the parlor, or rather spare bedroom, a stuffed easy-chair
that he gave to Margaret. For dinner, Mistress
Ramsdill prepared tea for their sorrowful visitor, which she
poured from a small, bluish, gold-flowered, swan-shaped
china pot, into cups of similar material, and the Deacon
roasted her apples with his own hands, both insisting that
she should eat something, to which she seemed in no way
inclined.

“Why do you treat me so much more kindly than other
people?” said Margaret, resuming her seat by the fire.

“I don't know,” replied the Deacon, “except it's nater.
By the grace of God I yielded to nater. I fought agin it
till I was past forty; when what Christ says in what they
call his Sarmon on the Mount, and a colt, brought me to.
I will tell you about the colt. Mr. Stillwater, at the Crown
and Bowl, had one, and he wouldn't budge an inch; and
they banged him, and barnacled him, and starved him, and
the more they did, the more he wouldn't stir, only bob, and
fling, and snort. He was an ear-brisk and high-necked
critter, out of Old Delancy. It kinder seemed to me that
something could be done, and they let me take the colt. I
kept him here in the mow lot, made considerable of him,
groomed him, stroked him, and at last I got him so he
would round and caracol, and follow me like a spoon-fed
lamb; he was as handy as the Judge's bayard; just like
your squirrel there, he is docile as a kitten. I had this nater,
when I was arter the Hurons under General Webb

and it shook my firelock so when I was pulling the trigger
upon a sleeping redskin, I let him go. And when we were
in the ships coming away from Arcady, it made me give up
my bed to a sick French gal, about as old as you, Molly,
and nigh as well-favored; yes, it made me take her up in
my arms, rough, soldier-like as I was, and lay her down in
my hammock, and she thanked me so with her eyes; she
couldn't speak English—”

“What became of her?”

“She had a lover, I believe, in the other vessel, and
when we got to the Bay, it wasn't political to have them
put in one place; he was sent away, and they put her in a
poorhouse, where she fell off in a decline. One of them
old French priests that I helped tear away from the blazing
altar of his church, used to come round hereabouts peddling
wooden spoons, and I declare, it made the tears jump
in these eyes to see him, and nater got the upper hands;
so I gave him lodgings a whole month. I fought agin nater,
I tell you, and a tough spell I had of it. I read in the
good book what Christ said about the blessed ones, and it
wan't me, and Freelove said it wan't her. It went through
us like a bagonet. I was struck under the conviction here
alone one night, when our little Jessie lay in the crib there
by the fire. I looked into her sweet white face as she was
asleep, and knew Christ would have blessed her, and that
she belonged to the kingdom, and it all came over me how
I had slided off from what I was when I was a boy, and that
I had been abusing nater all my life. When Freelove came
in I told her, and she said she felt just so too. I tried to
pray, but nater stood right up before me, and prayed louder
than I did, and I couldn't be heard. The arrows of the
Almighty stuck fast in me. We lay one night on the floor,
fighting, sweating, groaning. We were not quite ready to

give in. We tried to brace up on the notions and politicals,
but nater kept knocking them down. Then the colt came,
then I saw it in old brindle, our cow, and then I saw it in
the sheep, then I remembered the French gal and the Indian;
and at last we gave in, and it was all as plain as a pipe-stem.
When I went out in the morning, I saw it in the
hens and chickens, the calves, the bees, in the rocks, and in
all Creation. There is nater in every body, only if it was
not for their notions and politicals. The Papists, the Negroes,
and the Indians have it. Like father like child.—I
believe we all have the same nater. I have heard Freelove's
grandfather tell—his father told him, he was cousin of
Captain Church, and sarved in the expedition—how, when
they went out after the Pequods, and had killed the men, and
burned the women and boys and gals in their wigwams,
they found one woman who had covered her baby with the
mats and skins, and then spread herself over to keep off the
blazing barks and boughs; and when they raked open the
brands, there was the roasted body of the woman, and under
her the little innocent all alive, and it stretched up its
baby hands—but the soldiers clubbed their firelocks—”

“O, these are dreadful stories; I cannot bear them
now.”

“There is nater agin, Freelove, just as we always told
one another. What is bred in the bone will never be out
of the flesh; it is only kicking agin the pricks, wrastle
with it as hard as you will”

“I can never think of myself again,” said Margaret;
“but my poor brother and Mr. Smith's family—”

“I stuttered up to No. 4 yesterday arter the funeral, but
they are so grown over with rum there, you can hardly tell
what is nater, and what is not. I read out of the Bible to
Mr. Smith's folk, and tried to pray with them, but they

couldn't bear it. That agin is part rum and part nater.
You know, Freelove, how we felt when our Jessie died, we
didn't want to see any one; all their words couldn't put
life into her sweet dead body. I would have gone up to see
you at the Pond, but I can't get round as I used to before
I was hamstrung on the Plains of Abr'am under General
Wolfe. It's dreadful business, this killing people, it's agin
nater; I followed it up a purpose, and have killed a good
many in my day. Christ have marcy! If I had my
desarts, I should have been hung long ago. Rum, too, is
dreadful business, Molly; and I guess it had a good deal
to do with that matter up to your house.”

The Deacon was a great talker, and in modern
parlance might have proved a bore, if his wife had not
jogged him and said, “The gal has not had any sleep for
three nights, and I guess she had better try and see if she
cant get some.” The bed was lowered, and Margaret laid
upon it, where she was quiet, if she did not sleep, most of
the afternoon. In the evening, Susan Morgridge came to
see her. Susan's manner was calm, but her heart was
warm and her sentiments generous. She told Margaret
that nothing had been heard from Mr. Evelyn since his
departure for Europe, and that Isabel Weeks was still at
the Hospital slowly recovering from a long fever that had
succeeded the Small-pox. But the absorbing topic was
Chilion and the death of young Smith. Susan told Margaret
there were some who would do all that could be done
in the case, but that her father apprehended her brother
could not be saved from the extremest penalty of the law.
Margaret replied that the whole affair was to her own mind
enveloped in mystery, that Chilion would reveal nothing to
her, and that she had hardly equanimity enough to give
the subject any cool reflection. Finally, for this seemed

to be a part of her errand, Miss Morgridge proposed that
Margaret should see Esq. Bowker, who she said was a
valued friend of hers, and that he would be happy to do
her any service in his power in the approaching crisis,
and that gratuitously.

The moment the nine o'clock bell spent its last note,
Deacon Ramsdill spread open a large book on his lap, put
glasses on his nose, while his wife deliberately pulled off
her glasses, drew out her needle from the sheath and laid
her knitting carefully aside. “I have got the Bible here,”
said the Deacon, “and we want to pray—that is, if you
can stand it. When you was here in the summer, you
staid out so much we couldn't bring it about. I saw you
once laughing at what was in the Book, and I took it away,
because I knew you wasn't prepared for it, and hadn't got
hold of the right end. Freelove and I have talked this
matter over; and we know how it is with you; we know
how you feel about these things up to the Pond. A hen
frightened from her nest is hard to get back, and you was
handled pretty roughly down here to meeting once. We
musn't give a babe strong meat, the Book says, and nater
says so too; and folks that tend babies musn't have pins
about them. Then agin you can't wean babies in a day;
it takes some time to get them from milk to meat. Praying,
arter all, isn't a hard thing; its nater. I used to pray
when I was a boy, but I left it off in the Wars, and didn't
begin agin till nater got the upper hands once more. I
have seen the Indians pray up among the Hurons, and
they couldn't speak a word of English. It is speaking out
what is inside here, it is sort o' feeling up. It comes easier
as you go along, just as it is with the cows, the more they
are milked the more they give. I hope, Molly, you won't
feel bad about it. 'Tis time to reap when the grain is

shrunk and yellow, and I think you ar'nt much out of the
way of that; and it seems time to pray.”

“I shall not feel bad,” replied Margaret; “you are so
good to me, and I love Christ now, and should be glad to
hear any thing he says.”

The Deacon read from the Gospels, then with his wife
knelt in prayer. Margaret, also, by some sympathetic
or other impulse also bowed herself down,—and for the
first time in her life united in a prayer to the Supreme
Being; and we cannot doubt the effect was salutary on her
feelings. She slept that night in the other front room,
where was the spare bed, with red and blue chintz curtains
over square testers, and a floor neatly bespread with rag
mats. The next morning she expressed great anxiety
about her brother, said she wished either to see him, or
have his violin conveyed to him.

“Things are a good deal stived up,” answered the
Deacon. “People's minds are sour, and I don't know,
Molly, what we can do. It's nater you see, one doesn't
like to have a son killed. Then the politicals are all out of
kelter, one doesn't hardly know his own mind, and all are
afraid of what is in another's. I suppose they won't allow
you to go into the jail, they think you and your brother
would brew mischief together, and perhaps he would break
out. The building is old and slimsy. I am going to the
barber's to be dressed, and I will take the fiddle along with
me, and see how things look. But don't you stir out of the
house; I am scrupulous about what might happen. It is
no use reasoning with the people, any more than with a
horse that is running away.”

The Deacon took the instrument under his surcoat, and
went to the barber's, where the bi-weekly operation of
shaving and powdering was performed. When he was

alone with Tony, he propounded the wish of Margaret; to
which the negro replied that he would do what he could.
The same evening, Tony, with his own and the instrument
of Chilion, presented himself to Mr. Shooks. “You know,”
said he, “that at the last ball, I couldn't play because my
strings were broke, and the Indian is the very best man
this side of York to fix them. And then this gentleman is
learning a new jig, and he wants the Indian to try it with
him.”

“You can't go in,” said Mr. Shooks. “We have got
the rascal chained, and mean to keep him down. There is
no trusting any body now-a-days. All the vagabonds in
the country will rise, and have the government into their
hands the next we know!”

“If Mister Shooks would permit this gentleman to bestow
so much honor on him as to go into the prison, and
take the Indian's fiddle, he would shave Mr. Shooks and
powder him with the most patent new violet, crape and roll
Miss Runy in the most fashionable etiquette, and give her
an Anodyne Necklace, all for nothing, all for the honor of
the thing.”

“You may go in once,” replied Mr. Shooks, “but don't
come again; and Tony,” whispered the vigilant warden,
“see if you can't find out if the villain means to break
jail. I would not lose having him hung for a thousand
pounds.”

Tony being admitted, remained a short time with Chilion,
left the violin, and was summoned away.

The next day Esquire Bowker called on Margaret,
informed her of the usages of Courts, and while he tendered
his professional services in behalf of her brother as Counsellor,
he urged the necessity of a more complete acquaintance

with the case than he then possessed; but Margaret
replied that on all points she was as ignorant as himself.

That night, impatient of delay, anxious to approach
nearer her brother, at a late hour when the streets were
empty, she sallied out, and crossed the Green to the Jail.
Presently she heard the familiar voice of Chilion's music,
proceeding from a low and remote corner of the building.
Climbing a fence, and reaching a spot as near the cell of
her brother as the defences of the place would permit, she
again listened; then in the intervals she made sounds
which she thought might be heard by her brother; but no
token was returned; only she continued to hear low, sad,
anguished notes that pierced her heart with lively distress.
Dick, it appeared, had again followed her; perhaps in the
midst of strangers he could abide her absence with less
composure than ever; and soon she had him in her arms.
He too heard the sound from the prison, the familiar tones
of his Master; it required little urging on the part of Margaret
to send him clambering over the palisade—up the
logs of the building he went and into the cell of Chilion;
presently Margaret heard a changed note, one of recognition
and gladness; soon also the creature came leaping
back to her shoulder. Glad would she have been to leave
him with her brother, but it would be unsafe for him to be
found there; glad was she thus to communicate with the
imprisoned one at all.

A new thought struck her; hastening back to the
Deacon's, on a slip of paper she wrote to her brother, then
returning to the jail, and fastening her billet to the body
of Dick, she renewed her former experiment with success;
she also sent in a pencil and paper for her brother. The
next night pursuing this device, she had the satisfaction not
only of transmitting solace to Chilion, but of receiving messages

from him. This novel species of Independent Mail she
employed the few nights that remained before the trial.
On one point she could draw nothing from her brother—that
of his relation to the homicide. She kept within doors
most of the day, and only ventured abroad under cover of
midnight; she saw little or nothing of her own family; and
heard nothing of Rose and Nimrod.

The day of the dreaded Trial came at last. A true bill
had been found against Chilion, and he stood arraigned
on the charge of murder. Margaret heard the Court-bell
ring, and her own heart vibrated with a more painful
emphasis. Leaving her at the Deacon's, we will go to the
Court-house. The tribunal was organized with Judge
Morgridge at the head of the bench. Chilion was brought
in, his face, never boasting great color or breadth, still paler
and thinner from his confinement, and darkly shaded by a
full head of long black hair. The right of challenge he
showed no inclination to employ, and the panel was formed
without delay.

To the Indictment, charging, that “not having the fear
of God before his eyes, but being moved and seduced by
the instigation of the Devil, feloniously, wilfully, and of his
malice aforethought, he did assault, strike and stab Solomon
Smith, thereby inflicting a mortal wound,” etc., the prisoner
arose and pleaded Not Guilty; then sat down and threw his
head forward on the front of the Box; a position from which
neither the attentions of his Counsel nor any interest of the
Trial could arouse him. The building was thronged with
curious and anxious spectators from Livingston and the
towns about. The examination of witnesses went on.
The substance of the testimony was similar to that given
before the Justice. It bore increasing proofs of a general
belief in the guilt of the prisoner; first impressions had

been corrected by subsequent reflection, doubts moulded
into conviction, and whatever was obscure rendered distinct
and intelligible.

The Counsel for the defence had but little to reply.
Sibyl Radney believed the wound was inflicted by a piece
of broken glass that fell with the table. This could not be.
Esq. Bowker had applied the cross examination; it seemed
to elicit nothing. There was a question as to the intent of
the accused, but the more this matter was pursued the
darker it grew. There were plenty to testify to the utter
malignity of the mind of the prisoner. Was the file thrown
with purpose to kill, or only to injure? That made no difference;
the Court ruling that death in either case was the
same in the eye of the law. In addition to causes operating
in the immediate neighborhood, the newspapers of the
country came in filled with details of a “Shocking and
Brutal Murder in Livingston,” and in one instance, it was
pertinently hinted that “the present afforded another opportunity
for the exercise of Executive Clemency.” Obviously
there was a clear conviction of the guilt of the prisoner in
the public mind, and the testimony before the Court went
far towards establishing the soundness of that feeling.
Night closed the scenes and nearly finished the results of
the trial.

After dark, Margaret, whose sensations during the day
can as well be imagined as described, sought a breathing
place in the open air; she walked towards the Green; but
the shadows of men moving quickly to and fro, and echo of
excited voices, drove her back. As she retreated, she was
stopped by the sound of her own name; Pluck called after
her, evidently moved by other than his ordinary stimulus.

“It is all over with Chilion,” said he, “unless we can get
Judge Morgridge to help us; he can set the Jury right in

his charge, or do something; you must go right up and see
him.”

Margaret, by a cross path, sped her way to the Judge's;
she met Susan at the door, to whom she stated her errand.
Susan sought her father in the library. “No,” replied the
Judge, “let me not see the girl. There are points in the
case I do not understand, but the evidence against the
prisoner is overwhelming.” “O, father,” replied Susan,
“what if she were me, or her brother our Arthur!” “Speak
not, my child, our duties are imperious, our private feelings
are borne away by a higher subserviency. The public
mind is much excited; God knows where it will end, or how
many shall be its victims.” “But, if my dear, dead mother
were her mother, or you were his father!” “Let the girl
not come near me, let me not hear her voice, let not her
agony reach me, leave me to compose myself for the awful
task before me. Go out, go out, my child.”

Stung by this repulse, terrified at the prospect before her,
Margaret passed a sleepless night, and before daybreak she
left the house, and directed her course towards Sibyl
Radney's. She had not gone far when she met people
thronging to the closing scenes of the trial. This diverted
her into the woods, and so delayed her that when she reached
Sibyl's all were gone from there, excepting Bull, who ran
fondly towards her and was caressed with tears. She went
down to the Widow Wright's, whose house was likewise
deserted; and she continued on the Via Salutaris to her own
home. Here were only silence and desolation; one of her
birds she found frozen to death on the door-stone.

Restless, anxious, she returned towards the Village by
the Via Dolorosa. She hung on the skirts of the Green
with an indeterminate feeling of inquisitiveness, awe, and
terror; seating herself on a rock in the Pasture, a chilling

desperation of heart seized her, and with an agitating sense
of the extinguishment of hope her eye became riveted on
the Court-house. Presently she saw persons running towards
that building, which was now an object of public as
well as individual interest. She knew the hour of final
decision had arrived. With a rapid step she descended
the West Street, turned the corner of the Crown and Bowl,
and soon became involved in a crowd of men who were
urging their way into the Court-room.

“The Judge is pulling on the Black Cap,” was reported
from within. “Tight squeezing,” said one, “but your
brother will soon be thankful for as much room to breathe
in I guess.” “Won't you let me pass?” said Margaret.
“We can't get in ourselves,” was the reply. “The Injin's
dog has bit me, I'm killed, I'm murdered,” was an alarm
raised in the rear. “Drub him, knock him in the head,”
was the response; and while the stress relaxed by numbers
breaking away in pursuit of Bull, who had followed his
Mistress, Margaret pressed herself into the porch; wimble-like,
she pierced the stacks of men and women that filled
the hall. “What, are you here, Margery?” exclaimed
Judah Weeks, with an undertone of surprise. “Do help
me if you can,” was the reply. She sprang upon the back
of the prisoner's Box, seized with her hand the balustrade,
and resting her feet on the casement, was supported in her
position by Judah, who folded himself about her. Her
bonnet was torn off, her dress and hair disordered, her face
and eye burned with a preternatural fire. This movement,
done in less time than it can be told, had not the effect to
divert the dense and packed assemblage, who were bending
forward, form, eye and ear, to catch the words of the
sentence, then dropping from the lips of the Judge.
Chilion, who was standing directly before her, with his

head bent down, remained unmoved by what transpired behind
him.

The Judge himself seemed the first to be disturbed by
this vision of affection, anguish and despair that arose like
a suddenly evoked Phantom before his eye. He halted, he
trembled, he proceeded with a stammering vioce—“You
have violated the laws of the land, you have broken the commands
of the Most High God; you have assailed the
person and taken the life of a fellow-being. With malice
aforethought, and wicked passions rife in your breast—”
“No! no!” outshrieked Margaret. “He never intended
to kill him, he never did a wicked thing, he was always
good to us, my dear brother.”—She leaned forwards,
grasped her brother's head and turned his face up to full
view. “Look at him, there is no malice in him; his eye
is gentle as a lamb's; speak, Chilion, and let them hear
your voice, how sweet it is.—Stop! Judge Morgridge,
stop!”—“Order in Court!” cried the Sheriff. “Down
with that girl!” “It's nater, it's sheer nater; just so when
I was down to Arcady,” exclaimed Deacon Ramsdill,
leaping from his seat with a burst of feeling that carried
away all sense of propriety. The Judge faltered; there
was confusion among the people; but the jam was so great
it was impossible for any one to stir, and those in the
vicinity of Margaret who attempted to put into effect the
commands of the Sheriff were resisted by the stubborn and
almost reckless firmness of Judah. But Margaret throwing
herself forward with her arms about the neck of her brother,
became still, as frozen, unearthly despair can be still.

The popular feeling, only for a moment arrested, again
flowed towards the Judge, who, in the midst of a silence,
stark and deep as the grave, went on to finish his address,
and pronounce the final doom of the prisoner. He came

to the closing words—“be carried to the place of execution,
and there be hung by the neck till you are dead, dead,
dead,” when with a sudden convulsive wail, Margaret raised
herself aloft, extended her arms, and with a startling intonation
cried out, “O God, if there be a God! Jesus
Christ! Mother sanctissima! am I on Earth or in Hell!
My poor, murdered brother! Fades the cloud-girt, star
flowering Universe to my eye! I hear the screaming of
Hope, in wild merganser flight to the regions of endless
cold! Love, on Bacchantal drum, beats the march of the
Ages down to eternal perdition! Alecto, Tisiphone,
Furies! Judges bear your flaming Torches; the Beautiful
One brandishes an axe; Serpents hiss on the Green
Cross-tree; the Banners of Redemption float over the woe-resounding,
smoke-ingulphed realms of Tartarus!—” she
relapsed into incoherent ravings, and fell back in the arms
of Judah, who bore her senseless body out through the
gaping and awe-stricken crowd.

9. CHAPTER IX.
MARGARET AND CHILION.

Margaret was carried to Deacon Ramsdill's, where, after
hovering a few days between extreme excitability and
positive sickness, she at length emerged into tolerable composure
and strength. There was no precedent that forbade
a man under sentence of death the sight of his friends,
and what Margaret had so much at heart she at length attained—permission
to visit her brother. Her dress and
person were strictly searched by Miss Arunah Shooks,
maiden daughter of the jailor. She found her brother
handcuffed, and locked to the floor by a chain about his
ankles; a treatment some might think unnecessarily rigid,
but one to which her own conduct had contributed; since
a scrap of paper, discovered on the prisoner, led to these
additional precautions. The cell was small, dark, cold and
noisome. Her brother rose as she entered. She heard
the clanking of iron; standing for a moment like one stupefied,
she rushed forward and folded the wretched one in her
arms. They sat down together upon the edge of the bed.
“My brother! O my brother! poor Chilion!” and similar
outbursts, was all she could say. She had many tears to
shed, and many sighs to dispose of, before she could speak
with connection or calmness.

“It is all over with me,” said Chilion at length.

“I know it, I know it,” said she.

“I have been making up my mind to the worst. If I
could only put my arms around you, Margaret, I would
ask no more.”

“Dear, dear Chilion! lean against me. I can hold you.”

“When you was little I carried you in my arms; and
how I have loved to lead you through the woods! If it
were not for you, Margaret, I should not care so much to
die. Let me feel your face.”

“Tony gave me some Nuremburg salve to rub on your
sores; but they took it away because they thought it was
poison. Would it were, and that you could kill yourself at
once. Your foot is dreadfully swollen.”

“That is the foot I lamed when I was in the woods after
you, Margery; I suffered more that night, when I thought
you was dead, than I have here.”

“Poor, dear Chilion! I will sit on the floor and hold
your feet. The chain has worn through your stocking. Let
me put my hand under.”

“That feels easier; but don't sit there, my pains will
soon be ended. If you smooth my hair a little I should be
glad. I have not been able to lift my hand to it, and it is
all touzled.”

“You look deadly pale—or is it the light of the room?
and how thin you are!”

“I have not been able to stir about any. I walked the
length of my chain till it hurt me so much.”

“I will hold up the chain, and see if you cannot walk.”

“No, no, Margery, I am content to sit here by the side
of you. It is but a little while we have together, and I
feel as if I had many things to say to you.”

“To say to me, my dear brother! How little have we
spoken to one another! Why do you tremble so?”

“O Margaret, Margaret! I have loved you, so loved
you, as no words can tell. All my heart has been bound up
in you.”

“Speak, Chilion, tell me all you feel; you have always
been so silent.”

“I know I have, but only because I could not talk, or
did not know what to say. Since I have been in prison,
things have labored in my mind, and I have been afraid I
should die without seeing you. When I have been silent
I have thought of you the most, and loved you the most.
When you came, a little baby, I loved you; I used to feed
you, play with you, sleep with you; I rocked you to sleep
on my shoulder; I loved your sweet baby breath; I set you
on the grass and watched you while I spooled on the door-stone
for Ma; I took you out in my boat on the Pond, and
got Bull for you to play with. When you grew older I led
you into the woods; I made you a canoe and taught you
how to paddle it; I made a sled for you to coast with in
the winter; I let you run about in the summer. You
loved to do these things, and I knew it would make you
strong, healthy and bold. I remember just how you looked
when you were small, and stood under a currant bush and
picked off the currants. Ma used to watch you when
you went through the Mowing, the grass as high as
your head, and your hat swimming along in it, and you
reached up to get the buttercups, and I have seen her cry. I
grew proud of you, you had better parts than I; and when
the Master came to our house, he took a good deal of
notice of you, and said you learned so well, better than a
great many did. As you grew up, I followed you in my
mind and with my eye, every day, every hour.”

“Why have you not told me of this before, Chilion? I
always knew you loved me, but you never expressed your
feelings to me.”

“It was never my nature to talk much; I did not seem
to have the use of words as others did; and I never knew

what to say. Perhaps I took a kind of pride in seeing you
go on; you went farther than I did, you had more thoughts
than I, and I was willing to be silent. You seemed to have
a mysterious soul, anagogical, the Master calls it, and all I
could do was to play to you. I played myself, my feelings,
my thoughts to you.”

“So you did, Chilion, and I knew you felt a good deal.”

“Almost my only comfort in this world has been you and
my fiddle. Our family were once in better circumstances,
we have not always lived at the Pond; but that was before
you were born. Pa did something wrong and lost his ear,
and he never has been himself since. We have followed
drinking, and that has ruined us. Ma has lost her courage,
Pa doesn't care what he does, and Hash is not what he was
when he was a boy.—And we were all in drink that
dreadful night.”

“Can you not now, Chilion, tell me something about
what happened then?”

“Solomon behaved bad to you?”

“He only asked to kiss me.”

“Was that all?”

“He said if I wouldn't let him, he would turn us out of
house and home; but I knew he was drunk, and did not
mind him.”

“Did he do nothing more? Rose said his manner was
insulting.”

“Perhaps it was; but you know I tasted some, and it
went into my head so, I hardly knew what was done. But
do tell me if you did murder him?”

“If I tell you all I know, will you truly promise never to
speak of it till after I am gone?”

“I will promise any thing; but your manner frightens me.
What is coming?”

“Rose, Margery, you know, loves you as much as I do.
She is happy only with you; and she feels for you as for
her own sister. That night she told me what Solomon
was doing, and she was very much excited about it. We
had both taken too much, and hardly knew what we were
about. I was at work on my violin with the file, and she
told me if I did not throw it she would—”

“Then you did not do it, you will not die!”

“Hear me, Margaret, I had murder in my heart; I
should have been glad at the moment to have seen Solomon
shot dead. I know it was a wrong feeling, but I had
it. I have not had right feelings towards him for a long
while. Rose told me how he followed you—”

“I was never afraid of him; if he was drunk I knew I
could get out of his way, and if he was sober he would not
dare to touch me.”

“That may be, but Rose is very sensitive about what
might happen; she seems to look upon most men as a
kind of devils.”

“Alas! yes.”

“I knew Solomon had a spite against you because he
could not find the gold; and Rose told me of his saying
you should marry him or he would turn us out of doors.
He has been rough with me, he cut down some nice ash
trees I had marked for basket-stuff, and once he bored a
hole in my boat and let her fill. I have had dark feelings
towards him, dark as night; and then the light would come
and I felt easier. I have wished him dead, and then I
would go to fiddling and get the better of such thoughts.
But that night he seemed uglier than ever, and all things
looked gloomy, and I did'nt care what happened. I thought
if we were all dead it would be an end of our troubles. I
threw the file, and I knew no more about it.”

“Then you did really mean to kill him?”

“The law holds people answerable when they are sober
for what they do when they are intoxicated. Besides, the
Judge laid down that if death followed an act done with
intention to injure, it was murder as much as if there was
an intention to kill.”

“There was so much noise and hurly burly in the room,
I was hardly conscious of any thing. Pa I know began to
grow frantic, and seizing me by the arm he ran with me to
the barn. When I came back, they carried Solomon away,
and most of them were gone. What did Rose do?”

“They cried out that I had done it. One and another
said they could swear they saw me do it. I seemed to
come to my senses; I saw how it was. I might have tried
to get away, but I was lame and could not run. Rose said
it was her act, and she would abide the consequences; and
told me to take Nimrod's horse and fly. When I refused,
she said she would stay with me. She fell on her knees
and pleaded to stay, she did not wish to live, and perhaps
my life would be saved. At last, Nimrod mounted
his horse, and Sibyl dragging Rose from the house threw
her into his arms, and they rode off.”

“Unhappy Rose!”

“She grew very dear to me, Margaret; I could almost
say, if it were possible for me to say such a thing, I loved
her. One day she told me something of what she had
been through. She loved to hear me play, and I knew
the music made her happier and better. I would die a
hundred deaths before a hair of her head should come to
harm. I have now told you all, Margaret; I could say
nothing before. Esq. Bowker questioned me, and I dared
not speak, since Rose and I were so dreadfully connected in
the thing.”

“Have I not loved you, Chilion? Have I not been kind
to you? Yet not so much as I ought to have been. I
remember once you asked me to dig you some angle
worms, but I went off into the woods and did not do it.
Can you forgive me for that? And now you are going to
die, it seems as if I had not been half so good to Pa and
Ma, and Hash and Bull, as I ought to have been. O, I
can understand now what those people mean who say they
feel so wicked! I thank you for telling me so much; do,
Chilion, tell me more about yourself.”

“What I think more of than any thing is you, my dear
sister. I seem to have had strange hopes about you. I
remembered the dreams you had when you was a girl, you
have seemed to me sometimes destined to good things.
There is something about you I could tell, but if you live
you will know all, and if you do not,—well, let it go. I
have brought you up to music, Margaret, I have taught
you the notes, and as much of the art as I know. The
Master always insisted you should have books, though I
did not care much about them. There is a great deal in
Music. I have played myself to you when I could not
speak it.”

“Alas! And where shall I hear any more Music or
another Chilion!”

“Let that go now.—Those who can be reached by
nothing else are reached by Music; at the balls and dances
I have seen this.”

“I thought things went strange sometimes, and I could
not account for it.”

“I could raise a storm, and then still it. It was given
me to perceive this power when I was quite a boy. You
remember the brawl at No. 4, one Thanksgiving, we cured
by a song. I cannot explain it, I only saw it was done.”

“It must be what Deacon Ramsdill calls `nater.'”

“There is nature in it. I have seen the Old Indian stop
against our door a long time when I have been playing.”

“Rose was completely subdued, and at times wholly
transformed by your Music.”

“Yes, and how we could manage Dick; and when they
brought you up out of the woods, I had them all a dancing,
even what the Mater calls the saints danced, and the Ministers
looked on and smiled.”

“Is not Music what the Deacon calls praying? He
says it is `feeling up.'”

“Yes, it is that. I have done all my praying with my
fiddle I had a tune almost ready for the Lord's Prayer,
which I was taught a good many years ago. When you
talk with people their prejudices close their ears against
you; when you play it seems to open their hearts at once.
Music goes where words cannot. And Music makes people
so happy, and when they are happy, they love one another.
Music takes away the bad passions, and people are not
envious or quarrelsome while you play. All this I have
seen, and it would always be so, if it were not for the
drinking. If I could have got ready and played, as I was
going to do, I think Solomon would not have been rude to
you, as you say somebody tamed wild beasts and savages
by Music—”

“Orpheus, you mean, who subdued Pluto and rescued
Eurydice with his lyre?”

“There is something else, it has seemed to me that
Music might be a good thing for the world. I have sometimes
thought if I were not lame, and we were not so poor,
I would travel off and make Music. You, too, Margaret,
can play, you can sing songs, your voice and ear are good.
You know how we are at home, you know what people

think of us; it has seemed to me that we might make our
way up among folks by Music. I have had many, many
thoughts about you and Music, and the world, more than I
can speak of. You yourself have a certain unknown connection
with Music, which I cannot tell. Then I do not mean
mere fiddle-strings, because when you told me about your
Dream of Jesus, he seemed to me like a Harp, it had the
same effect on me that Music does; then in one of your
Dreams you said you heard invisible Music. It is not all
in catgut and rosin. There has been a certain something
in my mind, which I have not words to explain. It has
been coming upon me for several years. I think it is one
thing that has closed my mouth so. My heart and thought
have gone out to it very often. And now I am cut off in
the midst of my hopes—”

“O sad condition! O most inexplicable existence! I am
sunk lower than our bottomless Pond, in doubt and fear.
I can now feel as Rose does what a dreadful thing life is.
The Fates have left us the solitary comfort of a tear!”

“Let us, my dear sister, bear up under it as well as we
can. You will live if I do not; Apollo's Lyre, as you call
it, I bequeath to you.”

“Pitiful Fiddle! Here it lies broken-hearted like its
Master. When I heard you playing the other night, it
sounded to me as if Rose's heart had been set in motion
like a wild harp. It will never, never play another tune.”

“I hear the bolts shoving, they are coming for you.
Parson Welles and Deacon Hadlock were here yesterday,
but I could not say much to them. I wish you would ask
Deacon Ramsdill to come and the Camp-preacher. He
prayed so for you, when you was lost in the woods, I can
never forget him. I want also to have Dick stay with me,
if they will let him. If you see Ma, I wish you would ask

her to bring me a clean linen shirt, and my best clothes
those I wore to balls, I had rather come to my last in
them.”

“O, Chilion! O, my brother!”

“Be quiet, Margaret, as you can. Let us hope, if our
sins are forgiven, we shall meet in a better world.”

Margaret was obliged to leave her brother. She represented
his wishes to Deacon Ramsdill. “The Parson and
Brother Hadlock tell a hard story of Chilion, I know,”
replied the Deacon. “But we should not judge too harsh.
Down to Arcady they said the French were savages, that
their crosses bewitched the people; but they were a dreadful
harmless set of folk. And we must take care too,
Molly, what we think. The Parson has a good deal of
nater in him, only it is all grown over with notions and
politicals. You give your cows tarnips and you taste it in
the milk; now he has been feeding on tarnips all his days,
and I count your brother don't like the smack of him. Besides,
Chil is what we were saying the other day, a baby
in these matters, and he ought to have the very sweetest
and best of milk, and if you put in a little molasses it
wouldn't hurt him. Brother Hadlock has nater too,
nobody in the world would sooner do you a kindness.
But he runs of an idea that things are about done for, that
there is no use trying any more. But, if we would fetch
the butter we must keep the dasher a-going. Yellow-bugs
have been the pest of our gardens for two or three year;
now I have noticed they don't trouble new burnt ground.
If we should get burnt over a little, perhaps we could raise
better squashes and cowcumbers than we do now. The
Preacher is more nateral, but he is as wild as a calf that
runs in the woods. When you wind a ball of yarn you
make little holes with your thumb and finger, and as you

wind along you cover them up, and when you are done,
the ball has a great many of these holes. So folk get all
wound up with their notions and politicals and haremscarems,
but they are still chock full of these little holes of
nater. Speaking of holes, I have seen mice make their
nests in rocks, and then the bees came and used these nests
for hives, so that, arter all, we got nice honey out of hard
rocks and mischievous mice. I will try to get the squirrel
to your brother. Down to Arcady, the little gals cried as
if their hearts would break because we wouldn't let them
bring away their moppets and baby-houses; I can't forget
that.”

During the interval between the Trial and End, a period
of ten days, Margaret was allowed to visit her brother two
or three times. Soon as possible after the sentence, under
the auspices of Deacon Ramsdill, a petition was privately
circulated, for the pardon of the prisoner; it was sent to
the Governor with about half a dozen signatures, at the
head of which stood the name of Judge Morgridge. This
movement was vain.

The day preceding the last was consecrated to final interviews.
The sheriff having taken up his quarters at the
jail-house, and a guard being kept about the premises at
night, it was deemed safe to knock the chains from the
prisoner, and allow him a more commodious and better
lighted apartment. He had on the dress he ordered, a
pearl-colored coat, buff swansdown vest, white worsted
breeches and stockings, all somewhat worn and faded.
Margaret brought a new linen stock the widow Luce made
for him. Tony the Barber came in to perform his last
office on the condemned.

“Don't know but it cuts,” said the negro. “I am getting
old, and my hand is unsteady.”

“You stand a chance to wash off the blood,” replied
Chilion.

“Cold, gusty day,” said Tony, “can't keep the water
out of these eyes. Never shaved a man going to be hung
the next day, since the War, and them was wicked tories.
Neck as fair as Mistress Margery's. Sheriff Kingsland
wanted to get this gentleman to play the drum to-morrow.
Can't degrade the profession at that rate—God bless Chilion,
good-by, my brother; forgot my rose-powder. There
— threw the towel out of the window. I am growing old
and forgetful.”

Margaret and Chilion were left to themselves.

“Let me kiss your neck,” said she. “I would put my
arms about it, an amulet to keep off the terrible things.
Hold your face to mine, let me feel it, and keep the feeling
as long as I live; look into my eyes, that I may have your
eyes also. I want some of your hair, too. How shall I
get it unless I bite it off? I had a pair of scissors in my
pocket, but they were taken from me.”

“Tony has forgot his razor, too. It lies there on the
bed. You can use that.”

“What a tempting edge!” said Margaret.

“Don't hold it up to me so,” replied Chilion, “I shall
be tempted by it.”

“I had a thousand times rather you would take your
own life than that the sheriff should do it. How easy for
you to slit a vein! I would catch the blood with my own
lips—you should expire in my arms.”

“It is considered wrong to kill one's self,” replied Chilion.
“They hold it right to kill me because I killed another.”

“Right and wrong! wrong and right! I am all confusion,
Chilion. There is no truth or nature in any thing.
I am losing all clearness, all sense of consistency.”

“God have mercy on you, Margaret, and on me, too!
Throw the razor out of the window! Let us not keep it,
or talk about that.”

“I will, Chilion. I would not trouble you.”

“I wish for your sake, my dear sister, I could live longer.
You are all I care for. You have made our home happy.
But I do not know as I would stay in this town. I would
go elsewhere, and perhaps you will find some one to love
you. I would like to go up and see the Pond once before
I die.”

“Can I leave it, Chilion, its woods, my little canoe, my
flowers, the dear gods, Mons Christi, that we had given to
the Beautiful One? Whither in this wide wicked world
shall I go? Mr. Evelyn is gone, Isabel is sick, and perhaps
she too will die; the master is sick, and Rose—she,
after all, is worse off than I. Why do I complain? And
Damaris Smith I know loved her brother, and he too is
dead! What is this feeling in my breast? How selfish I
seem to myself. You alone are good. Ah me! miserable
sinner that I am!”

“Be composed, Margaret. There are things not quite
so bad in my case as in some others. Deacon Ramsdill
says he will have me buried in the graveyard. Don't
cry, Margaret, don't cry; if you do I shall cry, and here
is little Dick looking up into your face as if he meant to
cry too. I want you to go to Mr. Smith's and ask their
forgiveness for me, and the little willow-basket I made to
hold your sewing work do you give to Damaris. My boat
you may sell to pay Deacon Penrose for some screws and
a chisel, and some red lead I got to paint your canoe with,
and some silk Ma had to mend this waistcoat. I have eight
or ten baskets ready made which he will take. My fiddle
I wanted you to have, but I think you had better sell it to

pay some of Pa's debts; Tony, I guess, will give six or
seven dollars for it. You will find, Margaret, in the bottom
of my chest, up garret, five dollars and a quarter; it
is what I got several years ago for wolf-skins; I have
been saving it to buy you a guitar; but you must take it to
help pay for my coffin; and I want you to go up to the
Ledge to Mr. Palmer's, and get a plain slab of marble to
put on my grave. He has always remembered you kindly,
and I think he will let you have it for a low price. This
is a good deal to ask of you, Margaret, but when I am
dead and gone, I don't want people to lay up little things
against me. Speak, Margaret, don't you feel so bad. Get
up from the floor. I can't raise you, but I can hold you
in my arms. There, there, Margaret.”

“I will do any thing, all you wish; but when it is ended,
I only ask to be laid under the same sod with you.”

“You may live for good. God only knows. You may
see Mr. Evelyn again; if you do I wish you would give
him a lock of my hair, and tell him as my dying words, that
I truly forgave all men and wished to be forgiven of all.
The lady's slipper that I made a box for, I want you to let
Susan Morgridge have for Esq. Bowker's sake; he is
going to marry her, and this is all I can do for his kindness
to me. On the slab I want Mr. Palmer to put `Chilion,'
simply. I should like to have it said, `Here lies one who
tried to love his fellow-men'—but that cannot be.—I hear
Pa a-hemming. Let us be as still as we can.”

There entered the cell the prisoner's father and mother,
and his brothers, Hash and Nimrod. Margaret receded to
the foot of the bed, where she sat with her face folded in
her hands. The bloated frame of Pluck surged and
trembled; on his bald crimson pate stood large drops of
sweat; in most sober and earnest grief he embraced

Chilion; with a quivering lip, and a faltering accent, he
said, “Farewell, my son, farewell forever;” and turning
away, wept like a child. “My Chilly!” exclaimed the
mother, falling upon her son's neck, “My youngest boy—
would God I could die for thee. My young hands welcomed
you in your fair babyhood, now these old arms send
you away to the gallows. You were beautiful for a
mother's eye to look upon. You have been a comfort to
your mother, weak and sinful as she is. I have sometimes
hoped for better days, but all is over now.” She sunk to
the floor and sobbed hysterically. Hash was completely
choked with emotion; he could not speak at all. “I have
not always been patient and kind towards you,” said
Chilion; “can you forgive me, my dear brother?” “Stuff
it out, like a red Indian,” said Nimrod. “The Hell-hacks
would crack to see you flinch. Your lips are white as a
fox's—you are sick, Chilion, you can't stand, let me lay
you on the bed—they'll have to hold you up to hang you,
like stuck sheep. If you should die betwixt this and to-morrow
twelve o'clock, how many mourners you would get,
more than you have now—I feel as if the rope was round
my throat—hem—I'm choking!—Ecod! I was going to be
married to Rhody next Thanksgiving—Chilion will not be
there—I have been wicked—I am going to try to do
better.”—Margaret broke into louder weeping, and the
room was pervaded with an uncontrollable and shattered
wail. In the midst of all appeared Rose, like a pale and
sudden ghost; she ran forward to Chilion and clung
frantically to him: “He shall not die, I did it, I did it, let
me suffer for him,” she said in a wild passionate tone.
Nimrod was obliged to interfere; she resolutely persisted;
by force he unfastened her grasp and carried her struggling
out of the apartment.

Deacon Ramsdill and the Preacher came in; all knelt,
while the latter, in heartfelt earnestness and tender
solemnity, commended the soul of the prisoner to God and
the forgiveness of his grace. Smiles and good humor fled
the face of the Deacon, whose deep and variegated furrows
were flowed with tears. The few friends and acquaintances
of Chilion came to bid him farewell, and Margaret was
again left alone with her brother. These final moments of
the two, so tenderly attached, so mournfully separated, we
will not intrude upon.

10. CHAPTER X.
THE EXECUTION.

The morning of the Execution, like that of the Resurrection,
brought out “both small and great, a multitude which
no man could number.” They came “from the East and
the West, the North and the South.” They came from
distances of eight, twenty, and even forty miles. Hawkers
of ballads, a “Lion from Barbary,” Obed peddling his
nostrums, gaming tables, offered attractions to the crowd.

At an early hour Margaret left the Deacon's, where
whatever might have been her inclinations she could hardly
have found accommodation, since the house was filled with
strangers from the fourth to the fourteenth shade of relationship,
including half a score of infants. Taking what
on the whole seemed to be the most feasible route whereby
to escape the annoyance of the multitude and horrors of
the day, she hid herself in the deep bed and under the
decayed foliage of Mill Brook. Slowly sauntering up the
stream, she found herself on the open road, and close by
the premises of Anthony Wharfield. “Am I too late for
the hanging?” said a man, stopping to take breath. “I
hav'nt missed of one these thirty year, and I would'nt any
more than Sunday.” “Thee had better go and see,” was
the laconic reply of Ruth, who seeing Margaret, hastened
to meet her. “Aristophanes, my son! Holdup, knave,
you graze the limbs of my dear daughter,” was the hurried
language of Mr. Adolphus Hadlock. “I have been to

cousin Sukeyanna's to bring down the children. Are we
in time? Socrates, your sister is slipping from the pillion.
I would not have you fail of this opportunity on any
account. Triandaphelda Ada, you will be belated. Your
mother, dear, is waiting for us; she says seeing a man
hanged is the most interesting sight she ever beheld.” “I
can't endure this,” said Margaret. “Well, then, come
into the house,” said the woman. “Anthony will succor
thee; he is sorely troubled for thee.”

Leaving Margaret at the Quaker's, let us follow up the
current of general attraction. The bell tolled, and the
condemned one was duly escorted to the meeting-house.
Parson Welles preached a discourse, a printed copy of
which, with its broad black margin and vignette representing
the gallows, now lies before us. The following passage
occurs, which illustrates the style of the parson's ordinary
pulpit exercises, and also indicates his sentiments on the
present occasion:—

“Let the improvement be lastly to the wretched man
who is now before us. God says, `Whoso sheddeth man's
blood, by man shall his blood be shed.' The just laws
of man and the holy law of Jehovah call aloud for the
destruction of your mortal life. Alas, miserable youth,
you know by sad, by woful experience, the living truth of
our text, that the wages of sin is death. As we have
shown under our third proposition, by man's disobedience
many were made sinners; and under our fourth, mankind
are already under sentence of condemnation. But there is
a door of hope. As God demanded a perfect obedience of
the first Adam, the second fulfilled it. Jesus Christ made
a propitiation. He endured on the cross the vengeance
of a broken law; he was punished by an insulted Divinity.
We can do nothing of ourselves. But take the Lord Jesus

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 624EAF. Page 149. In-line illustration: large dark rectangle with obscure shadings and white flecks]

by faith; trust to his merits, repent, O repent. Lay hold
of the hope set before you. This is the last day of mercy
to your poor soul. But if you refuse these offers of grace,
your departed soul must take up its lodgings in sorrow,
woe and misery. You must be cast into the lake that
burneth with fire and brimstone, where deformed devils
dwell, and the damned ghosts of Adam's race.”

The religious ceremonies being concluded, the procession
was formed for the place of the end of Chilion—a
sandy plain in the North part of the town. Bristling
bayonets, funeral music, a dismal retinue of twenty thousand
people, are some of the items of the showy route.

Margaret, unable to contain herself within doors, anxious
if possible to find her own family, plunged again into the
woods. She went by an obscure and devious way towards
the Pond. Night was approaching; but an untimely glare
of light while it quickened her senses appalled her heart.
Over Mons Christi rolled up dark, cold clouds, but in the
North-east the heavens were distinctly illuminated. She
saw smoke rising and occasioned tongues of flame. Astounded
and forlorn, as she came near her old home, a giant
form stood before her. It was the Indian and his granddaughter.
Seizing her arm, this fearful patriarch of the
forest silently and unresistingly led her forwards. He
took her by an old and familiar path up the Head. What

had been a streak of light in the horizon, they now beheld
a boiling angry river of flame. The woods on the North
of the Village, an extensive range of old forest, were on
fire. The Indian, without speaking, slowly raised his arm,
and pointed steadily at the scene of the conflagration.

Each moment the effect increased, and the fire driven by
a brisk wind seemed to be making rapid progress towards
the Green. Sheets of sluggish smoke were pierced and
dispersed by the nimble flames which leaped to the tops of
the tallest trees, assaulted the clouds, and threw themselves
upon the solid ranks of the forest as in exterminating
battle. Beyond the fire, and up in the extreme heavens,
was a pitchy overshadowing blackness; the faces of the
three shone in a blood-red glare; behind them gathered
clouds and darkness; below, the water, the house, the
Mowing, the road, were immersed in impenetrable shade.
Margaret gazed with a mixed expression of anguish,
surprise and uncertainty. The Indian stood majestically
erect, his mantle folded over his breast, his countenance
glowing with other than the fire of the woods, his pursed
and wrinkled features dilating and filling with some great
internal emotion. The girl looked quietly aud smilingly
on. The wind shook the tall white feather in the old man's
head, threw Margaret's bonnet back from her face, and
quivered in the long black locks of the girl.

“Daughter!” said the Indian to Margaret, almost the
first words she ever heard him utter, as the flames seized
and crunched the gnarled top of an old dead tree, “behold
Pakanawket, grandson of Pometacom, great-grandson of
Massassoit, the last of the Wampanoags! Ninety winters
have passed over him, he has stood the thunder gust and
the storm-shock—see, the fire consumes him!

“Daughter, hear! The great Pometacom, called in your

tongue King Philip, who rose to be the liberator of his
country, was hacked in pieces by your people, his head
exposed twenty summers in one of your towns to the
insults of men and the laughter of women. His wife,
Wootonekanuske, and his son, my father, were sold for
slaves. My grandmother pounded corn for the whites, she
bore on her breast the brand of her master; but she
whispered in Pakanawket's ear the purpose of his grandsire,
she charmed him with the spell of the Great Spirit.
My father, escaping from slavery, and my mother, perished
with the Neridgewoks. Swift as a deer, still as the flight
of an owl, I have gone from the Kennebec to the Mississippi;
I have visited our people on the Great Lakes; I
have fought against French, English and Americans.
Pakanawket gave a belt to no tribes of the whites, he sat
at no council-fire but those of his own countrymen. His
wife was murdered by the French, his children scalped by
the English. His old arm grew weak, the strength of his
people had perished. The Snow-heron came and built his
lonely nest in the green Cedars of Umkiddin; there he has
dwelt with the little Wootonekanuske, in your tongue
Dove's Eye. I have put my ear to the ground, I hear the
tramping of horses and noise of battle; he whose eye never
sleeps is on the trail of the red man; Wyandot, Seneca,
Delaware, Shaware, all have fallen. The white man
throws his arm about the Great Lake, he gathers into his
bosom the Father of Waters. The red man drags his
canoe across the graves of his Fathers; the feet of his
children are sore with travelling in the long wilderness.

“Daughter, listen! I saw your song-brother struggling in
death; pleasant has been his viol to me, pleasant the sound
of his voice. My heart wept for him, memories gushed
forth. Where are the brothers, fathers, sons, friends of

Pakanawket? Massassoit, the generous, the noble, died
as the caged Eagle dies. Jyanough, the fair and gentle,
wasted in swamps where your violence had driven him.
iantunnimoh was cast as a bear to appease the wolf you
had enraged. Mononottot Nanunteenoo, Paugus, Chocorus,
Logan, Hendrick, Pontiac, Thayendanaga, where are they?
Burnt, beheaded, hung, tortured, enslaved, exiled!

“Daughter, listen! I was taught to read by a French
Panisee; I have read your books, I know what you say.
The Bashaba, whom you call King, that lived in the East,
that great Pirate of the Seas, gave away to his men our
country. He made grants of our land, our fisheries, our
woods, our beasts, our gardens and our villages. You
have called us savages, dogs, heathens, devils, monsters;
we welcomed the strange men to our shores; cold and
hungry, we nourished them by our firesides. When their
children were lost in the woods we found them, when their
poor people wanted corn we gave it them. They stole our
young men away and sold them for slaves in unknown
lands. They built forts upon our grounds, they offered
bounties for our scalps. When our children were burning,
they gave thanksgiving to their God. They slept in our
wigwams and defiled our maidens. They asked us to their
Council Fires, they blinded us with rum. When we
resisted, they declared war upon us. There is no brother
among the Indians; they have turned our hearts against
each other.

“Daughter, look! The fire goeson, the flames are consuming
their church. The Spirit of Wrath scowls above
their village. I saw your elder brother asleep in the
woods his pipe had kindled the leaves; these hands heaped
together the faggots, this mouth blew up the flames. Ha!
Manitou fights with Jehovah, Areouski strikes down their

Holy Ghost! See, the steeple burns. Men shall mourn
to-night, children shall be houseless. But where are the
Pequods, the Narragansetts, the Nipmucks, the Massachusetts?
Prate they of Quaboag, and Wyoming? Where
are the Pakonoket, Mystic, Genessee? Between sea and
sea, there is not a field or a brook we can call our own.
Pakanawket utters his voice, no Indian answers. He
looks over the homes of his fathers, he sees only the faces
of his enemies. Wootonekanuske has no brother, no
country, no home. The eyes of a dove are red with
weeping, she looks towards the stars. Manitou calls, we
go to the Spirit-land. In my belt is a weight of gold, the
bribe that sought for Arnolds among the Indians. Let it
do what it was designed for, finish the last of his race. In
yonder woods Pometacom had sometime his home; on
these waters he sailed with his little son. I have come
hither to die. Daughter of the Beautiful, take this Heron's
Wreath, wear it for Wootonekanuske's sake; she never
forgets a kindness. Take this land, this hill, these woods,
these waters—they are yours. Sometimes in your love,
your happiness, your power, remember the poor Indian!”

The chief, taking his granddaughter in his arms, deliberately
advanced to the edge of the rock, balanced himself
over the abyss, and leaped off into the dark waters, where,
borne down by the weight of his girdle, he sank beyond
recovery. We are told of one being broken on a wheel,
who after the first blow laughed in the face of the executioner,
his nervous sensibility becoming so far extinguished
that subsequent inflictions created no suffering. Our moral
nature has its analogies in the physical; and Margaret,
already stricken by the events of the day, heard the fearful
resolution of the Indian, and witnessed his tragic finale
without discomposure; she looked coolly for a moment at

the fire, saw the tall spire of the church totter and fall, and
guarding carefully the feathered ornament the Indian gave
her, descended the hill. Entering the Via Salutaris, she
met Sibyl Radney. “Is that you, Molly?” said Sibyl.
We have hunted every where for you. Your folks are at
our house; Rose is there too. Rufus Palmer has come
down, and you are all going to the Ledge. There is a
stump, now spring. The fire took in the woods down
back of our house; it went through aunt Dolphy's piece,
and so down to the Horse Sheds; then the meeting-house
caught, and the brands blew from that to the Crown and
Bowl—the Lord knows where it will stop. They are all
drunk as beasts and wild as Bedlamites.”

They traversed the semi-luminous shadows of the wood
till they came to the junction of the Via Salutaris with
the west road from the village. At this point the scene
of devastation was frightfully distinct. The stream of
brightness and ruin extended more than a mile. They
beheld the old church, its huge oaken timbers resisting to
the last extremity, yet presenting a Laocoon-like spectacle
of serpent flames coiled about it and stinging it to death.
The tavern was fast sinking beneath the devouring element,
and the roofs of the buildings beyond were rapidly kindling.
Whatever might be the interest of the scene, it
did not detain them long, and they made the best of their
way to the house of Sibyl. Here Margaret found all her
family, her mother the image of frozen despair, Pluck
trying to laugh, Nimrod trying to whistle, Hash stupidly
intoxicated; she and Rose buried themselves in each other's
embrace. Presently Rufus Palmer came up from the
village. “There were a thousand people there,” said he,
“but three quarters were drunk, and the rest were so
scared they did'nt know what they were about. The

prisoners in the jail yelled like devils in burning hell.
The jail-house was on fire, and we could not get in that
way, and we stove in the fence, ripped out the bars, and
let the poor dogs out through the windows. A drunken
crew got hold of the stocks and threw them into the fire;
then they tore up the whipping-post, pulled down the pillory,
and they followed, and I left them blazing away
among the jail timbers. It hasn't rained for six weeks,
and the buildings were dry as tinder, and burnt like a heap
of shavings. Heaven save me from such another sight!
Rose ran away from our house yesterday. Father sent
me down, and said I must bring her back, and mother
sent word for Margaret and Nimrod to come right up.”

“It is beginning to rain,” said Sibyl, “and you can't
go to-night.”

The storm, which had been threatening through the day
and evening, broke at last; it rained violently, and if this
interrupted the plans of the party, it also served to check
the farther progress of the fire. Regarding the origin of
the last, it appeared, as the Indian intimated, that Hash,
in the course of the afternoon, saturated with liquor, went
with his pipe into the woods. Relapsing into stupor, his
pipe fell from his mouth, and the fire was set. The Indian
crossing the forest from the scene of execution, supplied
materials for its continuance and spread. A long autumnal
drought, a blasted vegetation, a thick coat of new-fallen
leaves, heaps of dry brush and a strong breeze bore forward
the result to the final catastrophe. However the
action either of the Indian or of Hash shall be estimated,
the former was beyond the reach of inquisition; and the
latter, Sibyl had the strength to rescue from personal danger,
and the tact to preserve from detection by consigning the
secret of the affair to her own breast, and that of those
whom she deemed trustworthy to receive it.

They fared the night at Sibyl's as they best could, and
the next day Rufus and Rose, Nimrod and Margaret, rode
to the Ledge, a distance, as we have had occasion to observe,
of six or seven miles. At Mr. Palmer's Margaret
and her friends were received with a liberal hospitality and
unaffected good will. The family remembered the service
she had done for them in former years, and Mistress
Palmer made a deliberate work of endeavoring to divert
her mind by sitting down, with her box of snuff open in
her left hand, and explaining with her right how they had
been able to bring the water directly into the house, and
how Mr. Palmer had made a new marble sink, and Rufus
had carved a marble stem, with a sheep's head, from the
mouth of which a living stream perpetually flowed. Roderick,
her oldest son, had married Bethiah Weeks, joined
the “Dunwich Genessee Company,” and gone to the
West, where also Alexander was about to follow. Rufus,
his mother declared, was a good boy, and said she believed
he had great parts; in proof of which assertion, as well as
for the entertainment of Margaret, he was ordered to show
the toys he had made, consisting of sundry vases, images,
imitations of flowers and trees, done in marble. At the
same time Margaret could not avoid associating and contrasting
that first prosperous adventure of her childhood
with her present mournful condition.

In addition to any claims on their kindness which the
family of Mr. Palmer might have felt disposed to reimburse,
there existed other grounds for the friendliness of
the parties. Nimrod and Rhody, between whom an attachment
and quasi troth-plight had for a long time subsisted,
were expecting to marry; indeed, their nuptials had
been assigned to the present season. In the absence of
his other sons, Mr. Palmer proposed to Nimrod if he

would forswear his errant habits and set himself to steady
labor, he should have a share in his farm, and a home in
his house. He himself was a good deal occupied at the
quarry, and Rufus, he said, was always dropping the
plough and running after the mallet. But in the recent
calamity which had befallen his family, Nimrod said he
had given up all thoughts of marriage for the present, and
avowed a determination to wait at least until Spring; in
addition, for reasons which did not transpire, he declared
that it had become unexpectedly necessary for him to go to
the Bay before that event, and take Margaret with him.

When Rose had Margaret alone, she recited her history
from the night of the Husking Bee. She said she and
Nimrod wandered in the woods one or two days, that they
at last went to Mr. Palmer's, where she was taken sick,
and recovered on the eve of Chilion's death, and that only
so far as enabled her to adopt some desperate resolution
for his delivery; that she stole away from the house and
made all haste to town. Borne out from the prison by
Nimrod, she was carried to Sibyl's, where they kept her
till the crisis was over.

Margaret divulged Chilion's last wishes, and was solicitous
for their accomplishment. In the prosecution of this
object, events fell out in a manner she could not have
anticipated. Rufus volunteered to furnish the gravestone;
Mr. Palmer said he would become surety to Mr. Smith for
the liabilities of Pluck until Nimrod returned from his jaunt,
so that the family might again be gathered in their home.
Nimrod was despatched on the other errands. The lady's slipper
he carried to Miss Morgridge; Chilion's boat was bought
by Sibyl Radney, who seemed desirous to have it preserved
for the use of the family. What with the baskets and the
money in the chest, all debts were paid without disposing of

the violin, which was retained as a keepsake. The duty at
Mr. Smith's Margaret found it more difficult to perform;
and what they told her of the state of that family at length
decided her to postpone the task until time should moderate
their grief, or give her sufficientstrength of spirit
to encounter it.

Preparations for their intended journey were now all that
remained to be done, and these the advancing season, not
less than certain concealed motives of Nimrod, admonished
them to accelerate. Rose could not be detached from
Margaret, and she too must go, at whatever rate. But for
this also a means was provided, the nature of which we
will disclose. The Widow Wright, as perhaps is well
known, had long cherished fond expectations of her son
Obed; and not less of her business, and, we might
reasonably add, of Margaret. Whether she aspired to
riches or fame, let those answer who can best judge; but
of this we are certain, she desired to experiment with her
commodities in a larger theatre than Livingston and its
neighborhood afforded; and when she learned the plans
of Margaret and the wishes of Rose, she eagerly sought the
privilege of joining with them Obed and his horse Tim,—
an arrangement that could not but prove satisfactory on all
sides, since it provided a method of conveyance for Rose
without additional cost. Whether any other design crept
into the lady's mind than to make Obed acquainted with the
world, and the world acquainted with her art, one would not
hesitate to guess, when it is related that she gave her son
explicit and repeated instructions to watch with all diligence
and scrupulousness the movements of Margaret.

To the new object Margaret and Rose addressed themselves
with diligence, and we may imagine without reluctance.
They had no wish to remain on the hands of the

Palmers, however generous or well affectioned might be
the disposition of that family. They were glad to escape the
deep, and as it would seem ineffaceable gloom that now not
only shrouded the Pond but penetrated the whole town. In
a fresh atmosphere they could find a breathing-place for
their stifled hearts, and among novel scenes they might be
diverted from those associations that were sapping the
foundations of existence itself.

Note.—We have been chided for carrying the story of Chilion to
so sad a termination. “Shocking!” is the epithet applied to such
management and such results. There is an illusion here. Nine
tenths of executions are equally shocking. The mistake is this, our
readers look at Chilion from the Margaret side, and his home side,
and his own heart's side; as if every man that is hung had not a
Margaret side, a home side, and his own heart side! Chilion was
looked at by those concerned in effecting what befell him from the
world side, the law side, the Deacon Hadlock side, and the side of
public sentiment in general. It was utterly impossible for him to
escape extremest issues. This is the way men are always hung.
There would be no hangings if suspected individuals were to be regarded
in the light in which some tender-hearted persons have allowed
themselves to regard Chilion. Would we create a prejudice against
the law of capital punishment? As faithful chroniclers of character
and events, we do not hold ourselves responsible for every possible
inference that may be drawn from our narrative. We have not been
unjust to the times in which Chilion lived, but, as to the matter in
hand, have rather underdrawn than overdrawn the prevailing manners
and feeling.

11. CHAPTER XI.
MARGARET GOES TO THE BAY.

When all things were ready, one cool but pleasant
morning in the early part of November they took their
final start from the Widow Wright's,—Obed and Rose on
Tim, a thick-set animal of small stature, who in addition to
his load bore a pair of large panniers, stocked with the
Leech's simples and compounds; Nimrod with Margaret,
on a horse of his own, and one in the estimation of his
master, who piqued himself on being a judge of such
things, of admirable proportions and other desirable
qualities. Margaret passed her old home, now deserted
and dead, with some sensation. She descended the Delectable
Way and the Brandon Road with quite a complexity
of emotions, and came to the Burial Ground, where
they stopped to shed a silent tear on Chilion's grave.
Halting at the Widow Small's to inquire after the Master,
that gentleman himself appeared at the door in a loose
gown and skull cap, and wearing a look of seated sickness
and sorrow. He seemed quite overcome at seeing Margaret.
“Vale, vale, eternumque vale, O mihi me discipula
carior!” was all he could say, and covering his eyes
with his red bandanna handkerchief, withdrew.

The Green presented a melancholy aspect, the entire
West side was in ruins; the church lay smouldering in its
own ashes; what had been a beautiful grove, sweeping
down the acclivities on the North, was now a waste of half-devoured
trees, charred stumps, roots unearthed, lean and

hollow, a soil of sackcloth gray, as if a black winter had
suddenly set in. They entered the East Street, and made
their last call at Deacon Ramsdill's. The old man gave
Margaret a letter, superscribed “Mrs. Pamela Wiswall.”
“It's for sister Pamela,” said he; “I thought it might do
you some good. She is a good-hearted critter as ever
lived, if she is my sister. I don't know where she is now;
I havn't been to the Bay since the War, and things have
altered some since then, I suppose. She used to keep
lodgings next door to Deacon Smiley's auction room, a
little over against the Three Doves, and would be glad to
have you put up there. There are people enough there
that know her, — ask for the Widow Wizzle, and any body
will tell you where she lives. I can't blame you for wanting
to get away. When our Jessie died we thought we
should have to pull up stakes. Freelove could'nt bear to
make the bed up where she died, and I had to do it. I
guess she didn't go into the room full a month. I had to
put off Jessie's sheep; she had a cosset that used to follow
her. Freelove couldn't bear the sight of it. We are all
down, on the Green. People don't know what to do. But
old sward wants turning under once in a while, and if land
lies fallow a year or so it don't hurt. The Lord knows
what is best for us. We had preaching in the Town Hall
last Lord's Day, and I guess there wasn't a dry eye there.
Good-by, Molly, God bless you all.”

They continued on the East Street, crossed the river, and
entered the region beyond. The sun which has shone
upon all ages and countries alike, and dispenses its equal
ministrations of life, hope and joy to every suffering heart
on this many-peopled globe, shone brightly upon them; the
atmosphere was clear, fresh and invigorating; the scream
of the redhammer, the brown herbage, the denuded forest,

harmonized with their feelings. Margaret had never been
beyond the river before. Looking back she beheld what
had formerly been esteemed a beautiful prospect, the village,
its environs, the rising grounds beyond, and, crowning
all, the Indian's Head; but it suggested at the present
moment other feelings than those of gratification and
delight, and she was not sorry to find herself rapidly
receding from Livingston.

Touching the objects of this sudden excursion Margaret
and Rose were alike ignorant and indifferent; and they
went on only anxious to be a-going. Margaret had been
able to procure suitable clothing; she wore a black beaver
hat and dress of cambleteen. In her hair was fastened
the Indian's gift, an aigrette of white heron's feathers.
Rose had on her blue silk bonnet and a queens-stuff habit
of the same color. In Nimrod appeared the transition
from the old style to the new. He wore a round-rimmed
hat, straight-bodied coat with large pewter buttons, and a
pair of overalls buttoning from the hip to the ankle. He
was more dressed than usual, and the caprison of his
horse corresponded with the elegance of that animal; circumstances
denoting rather the weakness of Nimrod than
any pecuniary ability. Obed bore up the olden time, and
showed his respect for the memory of his father and the
purse of his mother, in his tattered cocked hat, broad
flapped drab coat, leather breeches and silver buckles. His
red hair was powdered and queued, and on his nose were
his brass-bowed bridge spectacles.

The habits of Tim, who resented all approach of strangers,
might have interrupted the sociability of the company,
or even proved hazardous to life or limb, unless Nimrod
had suggested to Obed a method of prevention, which the
latter executed by cutting squares from the sides of his hat,

and fastening them for blinders to the head-stall; a step
the frugal youth had been slow to undertake, save that his
mother promised him a new hat on conditions of fidelity and
success in this expedition. This movement served another
end, that Nimrod had not overlooked; it startled the gloom
of Margaret and Rose, whose smiles having long been
worried by the contrast of the parties, their horses and
accoutrements, were at length provoked to open laughter,
in which neither the finesse of Nimrod nor the habitual
dignity of Obed allowed those gentlemen to join. Margaret
sometime in the course of her life had said she could
manage Tim as well as his master. To test this, Nimrod
proposed that she should touch the animal. She called
his name familiarly, as she must have often done before,
and he suffered her to lay hands upon him and stroke his
sides, with the docility of a cat. But whenever Nimrod
approached, the ears of the beast fell, his heels rose, and
the bold man was glad to retreat.

Sometimes the girls walked long distances. Again Nimrod,
who knew the whole region by heart, led them by paths
that afforded the best views of the country and the towns.
So in various ways, with a generous if not the most discreet
attention, he contrived to relieve the monotony of the ride
and move their spirits, which he said were binding, and the
renovation of which he declared was one purpose of the
journey. It was not difficult to observe that in all this Nimrod
consulted what was due to his own state of feeling also,
and the girls were sometimes obliged to recall him from
reveries into which the scenes of the last month might have
plunged one even more light-minded than himself.

As regards the region they traversed, in some of its aspects,
if any one is curious to compare former times with
the present, he might be guided in his inquiries by a passage

from the letters of Wilson, the ornithologist, who was over
the same ground a short time afterwards. “Every where,”
says he, “I found school-houses ruinous and deserted; the
taverns dirty, and filled with loungers brawling about politics
and lawsuits; the people idle and lazy.”

They arrived at Hartford that evening, where Nimrod
declared he had business of express nature, and Obed was
desirous of finding a market. They left the next morning,
Obed in fine humor since he had been able to turn some
of his goods for a new hat. On the afternoon of the fourth
day, having accomplished a journey which can now be
made in almost as many hours, they arrived in the suburbs
of Boston, at a place then, and we believe now, known as
Old Cambridge. Here, if they had not intended to stop,
their course must have been arrested by a great swell of
people, whom some high excitement had drawn together.

“Ho, Nim,” cried a burly fellow in a tarpawling and
blue jacket, evidently recognizing an old acquaintance.
“Heave to, discharge your deck load, and make sail in company.
We are going to have a pull-all-together up here.”

“How fares ye, Hart?” said another. “You liked to
be late at the feast. Always expect you when any thing is
going on. Didn't see you at Plimbury Roads. Turn the
ladies in, warm your nose with Porter's flip-dog, and come.
Great stakes. Old Hyflyer himself, out of Antelope;
grandam, Earl of Godolphin's Arabian.”

“Well,” said Nimrod, “if you have got any thing here
equal to Tartar, nephew to the late Hyder Ali, and first
cousin to Tippoo Saib, I should like to be notified, that's
all.”

“My old fellow,” said one, addressing Obed, “don't you
want to see the fun? Four horses, one greased pole to

climb, two sheared pigs to catch, and a silver punch bowl
the prize. It will do your old heart good to see it.”

Nimrod, subject to a vacillation of spirit and passion for
novelty that had both checkered and vitiated his life, might
without surprise to the girls have been tempted by these
several baits, and gone off with the crowd, even if he had
anticipated nothing of the sort and had not had these very
objects in mind when he left home. However this might
be, he kept his own counsels, told the girls he should soon
be back, threw his purse to Margaret, intimating there
were pickpockets among the people, had them shown to
the parlor of the inn, and rode off. Obed also, whose
ardor was inspired by the prospect of trade, soon followed.

Margaret and Rose, left to themselves, occupied the hour
looking from the windows on the world about them. They
went into the street, walked through the college grounds,
and gazed at the buildings and the students. The day was
nearly spent, people returned from the races, the tavern rang
with their noise aud revels. But Nimrod and Obed did not
appear. The girls grew alarmed; they heard reports
from the race, including intimations of brawls and constables.
Pushing their inquiries, they learned that two strangers
had fallen in a drunken dispute, done some mischief,
and been carried to prison. They waited a while till there
could be no doubt the delinquents were Nimrod and Obed.

It seemed best, on the whole, to seek out the sister of
Deacon Ramsdill and throw themselves on a so well commended
kindness and direction in this perplexed aspect of
things; so they started at once for the city. A three miles'
walk lay before them, but the habits of Margaret and
spirit of Rose were equal to it. Night overtook them ere
they reached the bridge. The few forlorn lamps that
hovered over that structure looked like an array of

protecting or defying stars, according as their moods
should work. The dim outline of the State House they
mistook for a mountain. As they hurried on a voice
hailed them, “Toll, Ma'ams, toll.” They avowed their
ignorance, and asked how much. “Tuppence, tuppence
a head.” While Rose was satisfying this voice, which like
death seizes upon all, Margaret asked, “Where are we
now?” “At Pest House Pint,” replied the man; rather
shuddering intelligence. Margaret asked, “Where does
the Widow Wizzle live?” “I don't know, but you can
find out up the way,” rejoined the man. They pursued
their course along Cambridge Street, through what was
little better than a morass, and scantily furnished with
lamps that shone like fireflies, in a swamp. “Can you tell
us where the Widow Wizzle lives?” said they, applying to
an old man whom they next encountered. “Go by
Lynde's Paster, down Queen's, turn Marlbro, then follow
your nose till you come to it,” he answered, and disappeared
down a cellar.

They might reasonably be expected to be bewildered.
They had anticipated finding the house of the lady in
question without difficulty. Their hearts almost sunk. At
last they stopped by a lamp-post, planting themselves
against it, as if to make a desperate sortie on the next
passer-by, which chanced to be a young man. “Can you
tell us, sir, where the Widow Wizzle lives?” said they,
the light dropping full in their faces, and revealing countenances
flushed with earnestness. “I am going partly in
that direction,” replied the man, “and if you will follow
me, I think I can set you on the right track.” They went
on some distance, by one or two turns, and through two or
three lanes, when stopping at a dark corner their guide,
saying that business drew him in another quarter, pointed

out the course they should pursue. They were overtaken
by another man, who, perceiving what they wanted, observed
that his own route lay that way, and he would lead
them to the dwelling in question. Thankfully they pressed
forwards till they came to a large house, with a deep front
yard and an ornamented fence, and pleasantly lighted.
“This,” said their escort, “is Mrs. Wiswall's;” and,
opening the gate, he departed. By a paved walk, adorned
with shrubbery and two or three terraces ascended by stone
steps, they reached the door, where they met an elderly,
motherly-looking woman, who, as soon as the girls announced
themselves and delivered the letter, greeted them
very cordially.

When they were seated in the parlor and Mrs. Wiswall
had read the letter, she said, “It is melancholy indeed.
The newspapers gave us some account of what had
happened in Livingston, but I had no idea it was so bad.
Brother Simeon seems greatly distressed. And you were
in it all, and part of it! How dismal is your situation!
I will do what I can to make you comfortable and happy.
You must feel at home with me.”

A bright fire and good cup of tea, with a soft bed and
sound sleep, carried our weary ones through the night into
the next morning, renovated in body and calmed in feeling.

To their first solicitude as to what had become of Nimrod
and Obed, their kind hostess replied, telling them not to be
troubled, and that she would despatch a servant to make
instant and all needful inquiry.

They were introduced to two young ladies, Bertha,
daughter of Mrs. Wiswall, and Avice, a boarder, who
appeared amiable and intelligent.

They had leisure to look about them, nor were there
wanting objects to engage attention. The parlor offered to

their eye an aspect of splendor and elaborate embellishment,
as it might to some of our readers that of antiquity and an
obsolete taste. Wainscotted walls bore fading vestiges of
that passion for royalty and blood possessed by some of our
ancestors, and the tarnished gilt of a lion's head was in
good keeping with his broken tail. Fluted pilasters
sustained on burnished capitals a heavy frieze, in which
deer sported among flowers. The ceiling was divided by
whisks of flowers, with a margin of honeysuckles. On
either side of the chimney stood marble columns once the
trunk of busts, now surmounted by vases of living herbage.
Faded French curtains festooned the windows. There
were Dutch chairs in the room, with tall backs and black
leather cushions, embroidered in red and blue tent-stitch,
and a dark oval mahogany table, with raised and chased
rim, loaded with books. In a back parlor, entered by
a broad arch, they saw a tessellated floor, and through
the windows appeared an extensive garden, with a decaying
barn, an old Turkish summer-house, and vines trained
on high walls.

“Where are the Three Doves?” inquired Margaret.
“That is gone long ago,” replied Mrs. Wiswall. “New
houses occupy its place. Boston is becoming a great city;
nothing old remains long. We have more than twenty
thousand inhabitants. Bertha, Avice, show Margaret and
Rose your books. They both call me mother, and you
shall too; that is, if you are the good girls Simeon says
you are.” “There are the Adventures of Neoptolemus,
The Fatal Connexion, and Lord Ainsworth,” said Bertha.
“You have read The Girl of Spirit?” “No,” replied
Margaret. “The Fair Maid of the Inn?” “No.” “I
think she would like the Marriage of Belfegar,” observed
Avice, “and the Curious Impertinent.” “The Loves of

Osmund and Duraxa are perfectly bewitching,” rejoined
Bertha. There were books enough, at all events, to serve
them either in the way of selection or perusal for a long
while.

For several days Mrs. Wiswall said she could gather no
intelligence of their friends, and our pilgrims resigned
themselves as well as they could to their lot. They spent
most of the time alone together, and for the most part in
their own chamber. Two or three gentlemen boarding
there appeared at the dinner table, but they liked their
own society better than any other, and this preference was
not molested. They watched the street and beheld ladies in
black beaver and purple tiffany dresses, and melon-shaped
cupola-crowned hats, short cloaks with hoods squabbing behind,
known as cardinals; pink satin, and yellow brocade
shoes, supported on clogs and pattens; gentlemen in Suwarrow
boots and scarlet overcoats; — and altogether Boston
seemed to them a gay place, and they thought every body in
it was happy.

“You must try and amuse your sisters,” said Mrs.
Wiswall to her daughters. “Avice, Bertha, you can show
them what there is in the city, the Museum, the Circus, or
something of the kind.”

They were taken to the Museum at the head of the
Mall, near the Almshouse, over a cabinet shop, inthe centre
of what is Park Street Church. They saw young ladies in
wax, the guillotine, the assassination of Marat, alligators, &c.,
and were regaled with the musical clocks. Their next
excursion was to the Circus in West Boston; the singular
docility of the horses, the extraordinary feats of the men,
the grotesque wit and manners of the clown, afforded them
occasion for wonder and a smile. Margaret wrote to Deacon
Ramsdill she was more happy than she could have

foreseen, and applauded the benevolent conduct of his
sister.

“I guess you must go to the Theatre to-night,” said Mrs.
Wiswall. “I don't know of what party you are. We
have a Federal house and an anti-Federal.” “We are of
no party at all,” said Rose. “It is all one to us.” “It is
just so with me,” said the lady. “How does brother Simeon
stand now?” “He thinks there is some good on both
sides,” replied Margaret. “He does not approve the excesses
of either.” “That's Sim all over,” responded Mrs.
Wiswall. “But at the Federal they have—what is it,
girls?” “Pizarro,” replied Bertha. “The Haymarket
brings out The Castle of Almunecar.” “Yes,” added the
lady, “the dungeons, and strange noises and sights.” “I
would rather see Pizarro,” said Margaret. “I prefer the
Black Castle,” said Rose. “That is it,” said Mrs. Wiswall.
“Both be suited, one go to one, the other to the
other.” “We cannot be separated, Mrs. Wiswall,” replied
Margaret. “I want to go where Rose does.”

To the Haymarket they went, near the south end of the
Mall, and were shown to a box not very remote from the
stage. The piece that had been the subject of discussion,
sombre in its scenes, terrific in its imagery, the storm at
sea, the wreck, grim towers, dark chambers, apparitions,
hollow voices, Rose declared suited her exactly. “It is
myself,” she said to Margaret. “But I suppose you see a
smooth haven, and the light of true life coming of it all.”
“It has all been in me,” replied Margaret, “only if it is
not of me, I shall be glad.” But surprise combined with
other reflections when they beheld their hostess's daughter,
Bertha, moving amid the terrors of the play. And in the
pantomine that composed the afterpiece, they again saw
her as Joan, and Avice as Columbine, along with Harlequin

and Punch, and they thought they detected the features
of one of the gentleman boarders under the cap of
Scaramouch. But the delight mingled with a variety of
sensations this piece afforded Margaret was such she forgot
every thing else while she saw represented the parts, characters,
buffooneries, dresses and forms, that constituted a
lively part of her father's drunken vagaries, and had disclosed
to her eye the origin of a certain description of allusion
and sentiment that predominated in Master Elliman,
and which she never before understood.

They spoke to Mrs. Wiswall of seeing her daughter on
the stage. “I suppose you think it very bad,” she replied.
“O, no,” said Rose, “I only wished I was there, and that I
could plunge into the darkness with her.” “My good
brother the Deacon would probably be opposed to it.” “I
never heard him speak of it,” replied Margaret, “nor
did any one ever say any thing to me on the subject.”
“Bertha,” continued the lady, “took a passion for the
stage, and I humored her in it. There is little that she
can do, poor child; and she seems pleased with this.
Some of our gentlemen are interested there, and they help
her what they can. Avice plays with them sometimes.”
“How I wish I could join them,” said Rose. “Should
you like to?” asked the lady. “Yes, better than any
thing else.” “Bertha, here, Miss Elphiston says she
should like to have a part in the play. I am sure I would
not oppose the young lady's feelings.” “We want some
one for Lady-in-waiting to Lady Teazle, in the School for
Scandal; it is to be brought on next week,” replied
Bertha. “I don't care what it is,” said Rose; “though
I should prefer the Black Castle.” “That is to be repeated
in a fortnight, and perhaps they will give you a chance in
it,” rejoined Bertha.

Sunday came; Margaret and Rose were listening to the
chime of bells, and watching the passers-by. “I am a deal
troubled with the gout,” said Mrs. Wiswall, “and don't get
out to meeting very often. The girls were so late at
the rehearsal, they are not up yet. I suppose you keep
up the good old way in the country, and are always at
Church, and would miss it if you did not go?”

“I never went to meeting but once in my life,” said
Margaret.

“Indeed!” rejoined their hostess. “Can it be possible?
Does Simeon allow of such a thing?”

“I believe he is satisfied it would not do me much good.”

“It is not all one could wish. I have no doubt my
brother feels the evil as much as I do. Perhaps Rose
would like to go.”

“I have been to Church, and I think for the last time,”
was the answer of the unhappy girl.

“Is there not,” asked Margaret, “a Church in the city
called King's Chapel? I think I have heard of it. Mr.
Evelyn, Rose, said something to me about it. That is the
name, I believe. I have been feeling this morning as if I
should like to go there once.”

“One must be a little cautious where one goes to Church,
now-a-days,” said Mrs. Wiswall; “it is rather delicate
business. One's character is apt to suffer. I should be
sorry to have you make a misstep. Would not brother
Simeon prefer that you go—say to the Old South?”

“I am persuaded he would wish me to go wherever I
desired,” replied Margaret.

“Yes, indeed,” hummed the lady. “It is in Tremont
Street, corner of School.”

“If you would be willing to let the servant show the
way, I should like to go,” said Margaret.

“Certainly,” answered Mrs. Wiswall; “any thing you
wish while you stay here.”

Margaret conducted to the Church in question, was awed
as she entered by what presented itself to her eye as the
magnificence of the place; its massive columns, its lofty
vault, its symbols, monuments, silence, and richness, were
so different from any thing she had seen; she seemed to
have dropped into one of the palaces of her dreams. The
mysterious peals of the organ united to subdue her completely.
The people were set, when she arrived; she
walked up the centre aisle, where an elderly gentleman
opened his pew to her. Hardly was she seated when she
knelt instinctively, and wept profoundly; and not without
difficulty was she able to efface the traces or prevent the
renewal of her emotion. The prayer excited sentiments she
had never before felt, and raised the decaying energies of
her aspirations. The music tranquillized her like oil, and
penetrated her with a solemn, strange transport. The
minister, the Rev. Dr. Freeman, then in the prime of life,
had that day among a multitude of hearers whom extraneous
objects are wont to distract or long familiarity harden, one
that devoured his words and was melted by his address;
while, with manner becoming his subject, he discoursed
from the words of the prophet, “Comfort ye, comfort ye
my people.” If he had known how much good in that
single instance he was able to effect, it might have recompensed
him for any amount of laborious solicitude, and
sufficed for successive seasons of fruitless endeavor.
Margaret lingered on the closing steps of the service, and
by the singularity of her demeanor even drew the attention
of the occupants of the pew. These consisted of the elderly
gentleman, a lady who might be his wife, two young ladies,
and a young man, their daughters and son. The face of

the last recalled to Margaret the street lamp, and floated in
with her first impressions of relief the night she entered the
city. “You are welcome to a seat with us,” said the head
of the party. “I thank you,” replied Margaret, and
mingled with the retiring congregation.

The next week she aided Rose in preparation for the
stage, and on the night of the representation she was allowed
to accompany her behind the scenes, where she
helped dress the Lady-in-waiting, and fortified her friend
for the delicate and novel adventure to which she was committed.
The piece was received with applause, and these
raw artists, out of the small part they enacted, contrived to
eke considerable amount of self-gratulation. The play
was repeated, and Rose bore herself so well she had the
promise of being advanced to Bertha's rôle, who was going
off in Lady Teazle.

The succeeding Sabbath, Margaret repaired again to
King's Chapel, thus exhibiting the somewhat anomalous
sight of a virtual stage-player and devout church-goer; but
she was witless of any contradiction. Admitted to the secrets
of the theatre, as we gather from her conversations
with Rose, her first impressions gradually dulled. Not to
speak of other things, she remarked that her ideas became
sadly disarranged by observing the superficiality of that on
which so much consequence depended. Pasteboard, paint,
hollowness, heartlessness, she said, were inadequate for such
an effect. “I looked into the pit; there were tears, and
smiles, and fervid passion, while one of the actresses was
fretting because her shoes pinched; Bertha, in the farce,
was down-sick with a cold, and one gentleman died in the
tragedy and was brought off drunk. The theatre seems to
me almost as bad as the church; it is all puppetry alike.”

“I know it, Margaret,” replied Rose, “but what shall

we do? I suppose you will call me a puppet, too. If not
acting one's self constitutes a person such, then I am a puppet.
And that is just what I want, to get away from myself.
Yet when the Black Castle comes on I will show
you real acting.”

“Dear Rose, how sorry we are for ourselves, are we
not? But how can I consent to such methods of arousing
people's attention, and moving their affections?”

At whatever judgment Margaret might have been destined
to arrive on these subjects, she was not long in finding
new topics of speculation. Returning one night at a
late hour from the play, with Rose and their company, she
stopped to look at the effect of a bright moon on the high
tide waters that filled the bay west of the Common, a conjunction
it had not fallen to her lot before to witness, and
one that insensibly detained her while the others walked
along. “Let fly your sheets, there! the bite is after you!”
was a loud, blunt cry that startled her. “Run! run!”
Before she could collect herself, or comprehend the cause
of this sudden alarm, a hand was upon her; but no sooner
did she feel it, than it left her; and turning, she beheld a man
struggling in the grasp of another man. “Climb the rattlings,
mount the horse, there,” cried the last man, “while
I make the cull easy; you are in danger, Margaret; that's
Obed's horse; up with you.” She beheld the veritable
Tim standing close by her; she called his name, and sprang
upon his back; and directly after her mounted the man
whose voice she had heard. No sooner were they seated,
than the other man rushed forward, and laying violent
hands upon the horse attempted to stop him; the spiteful
beast flung out, and galloped away. When Margaret
recovered from the flurry of events, she recognized in the
man with whom she was riding the sailor that accosted

Nimrod the day they reached Cambridge. He said his
name was Ben Bolter; and in a dialect mongrel and
strange, he gave Margaret to understand, as well as he
could, that he was an old friend of her brother's; that
Nimrod and Obed after a short confinement were released
from prison; and the first having searched the city in vain
for her, had gone back to Livingston to see Deacon Ramsdill
about her, while the other remained both to find his
friends and sell his wares; that he himself was also on the
lookout for her; that enjoying a furlough, he had engaged
the use of Tim, who he declared was the worst craft he
ever sailed in; and finally, being at the theatre that night,
he thought he discovered her behind the curtains; and
following the matter up, he came upon her just as one,
whom he characterized as an old enemy of his, and whom
Nimrod did not like, seemed to take advantage of her
being alone to do her an injury.

Hastening forward to Mrs. Wiswall's, Margaret found
Rose standing alone at the gate. “How you have frightened
me!” exclaimed the latter; “I thought you were
with Bertha. They were telling me of a new play—I
went back after you; you must have taken another street;
I thought you were lost.”

“Have you been anchored here?” said the sailor;
“what place is this?”

“Mrs. Wiswall's,” answered Margaret.

“I guess Nimrod cast the name overboard, before he
got here,” replied the sailor. “But I don't like her build.
What flag does she sail under? What's her crew?”

“O, Margaret!” outspoke Rose, “I have suspected
something wrong. I don't like Mrs. Wiswall's face. Some
old remembered villany sleeps in it. She is not the Deacon's
sister!”

“It has seemed to me as if all was not right,” observed
Margaret.

“I wouldn't stay here,” said the sailor.

“What shall we do?” cried Rose; “whither now shall
we flee? I will never step my foot into this house again.”

“I know where a certain family lives, not far from the
Common,” said Margaret; “I am willing to go and throw
myself upon them for to-night.”

“Ben Bolter,” said Rose, “take us to sea with you.
Carry us out of the world.”

They went, however, as Margaret proposed, and reached
a house lying like Mrs. Wiswall's back from the street. It
was a late hour, and no lights were visible, but the resolution
of Rose and the confidence of Margaret led them
straightway through the yard and up the steps. The sailor
did the knocking in a manner easy enough to himself, but
such as might have wrought violence on the peace of others,
They were not kept long waiting, when the door was
opened by one whose face was now familiar to Margaret,
and which Rose might perchance remember having seen,
the young man whose father gave Margaret a seat in
church, and to whose house she now fled for refuge. They
stated their errand and their distress, in which was contained
their apology.

“Come in,” said the young man, “I will speak to my
sister; the knocking I think has saved me the trouble of
arousing her.”

They were taken into the parlor, and the young man soon
returned with his sister, whom he introduced as Anna Jones;
his name was Edward. Preliminaries were speedily settled,
and our wanderers shown to their bed. They met in the
morning with a kind reception from Mr. and Mrs. Jones, and
another daughter, Winifred. These five composed the

family, between whom and Margaret an interest had already
been reciprocated from their casual rencontre at
church, and which did not fail to extend to Rose. The ring
on Margaret's finger seemed also to announce an old
acquaintance, and served to recall the name of Mr. Evelyn,
who the Joneses said was an intimate friend of theirs,
and they expressed pleasure in seeing one of whom he had
spoken in terms of commendation.

Mr. Jones had been a prosperous India merchant, and
had perhaps reaped emolument from a field of adventure
which it is to be hoped will never again in our own or any
land be needful, laudable, or lawful — privateering. His
mansion contained many things to interest his new guests.
Among the paintings was a Christ bearing the Cross, by
Raphael, that divided Margaret's attention with a Magdalen
at Devotion; a Lady taking the Veil and Murillo's
Prodigal Son engaged Rose. They were introduced to
rooms furnished with superb mirrors, marble busts, etc.; a
Library rich in architecture, more in books; they revelled
in a Conservatory of rare flowers. What especially delighted
them was a piano played with skill and effect by Anna,
while with a strong but latent peculiarity of feeling, Margaret
listened to a guitar, the instrument of Winifred.
Edward Jones they learned was a student of Theology, in
which science he supplied them with his views. They
were also introduced to a mother of Mr. Jones, a very old
woman, who entertained them with tales of ancient time;
so two or three days wore away. One morning, Rose
cried out that Obed was coming! “There he is with his
saddle bags and new hat mounting the steps.” Margaret
sprang for the door. “Hold,” said Rose, “let us get
under the curtains, and see what he is after.” They concealed
themselves, and Obed entered.

“Don't want teu buy some of my things, I cal'late, deu
ye?”

“Be seated, sir,” said Anna, “and let me see what you
have.”

“Han't seen nothin' of Molly, have ye?”

“Molly, Molly! I have not heard of such a person.”

“I'm feered she's kilt, or pizened, run over, lost, or
drounded.”

“Is she your daughter, sir?”

“No; she's Molly, Pluck's Molly; one of the Injins,
what lives under the Head, next the Pond, and neighbor of
Marms. Nim and I brung her to the Bay, and Rose; I run
arter a shoat at the races, and caught him; I couldn't hold
him, he was so greasy, and they wouldn't let me have the
cup; they wouldn't let Nim have his beat, and we knocked
them down, and they knocked us down, and put us into
jail; and when we went back the gals was gone. This is
an orful place. One woman threw a broom at me, cause I
telled her I had something that would cure her humors.
They've kilt Molly, and drounded her under the bridge!”

“I am sorry for you. You should not have left her.”

“Marm telled me teu look arter her; she was always
good teu me, and helped me dig roots, and kept Bull off.”

“Then you want her to work for you. Can't you find
somebody else for that?”

“I dun know; she's a right smart consarn, Marm says.
When she was at home, I could always find her, if she
warn't gone into the woods. If I knowed where she was
I could find her now.”

“What would you give if I would help you find her?”

“I dun know; I've axed all the folk, and they never
seen her; and there she lives close by our house, and the
Master knows her, and she can read eeny-most as well as

Parson Welles, and she is the only one in the world can go
up teu Tim, only me and Marm. If you would find her,
I'd let you have some flag, that is good to chaw. Don't
want to buy some of Marm's Nommernisstortumbug? I've
sold more than nine hundred boxes sen we found it out.
It'll cure yer croup, chopped hands, coughs, scalt head,
measles, small-pox, jaunders, toothache, dropsy, backache.”

“What a wonder!”

“That an't half;—hypo, wind-gall in yer horses, loss of
cud in the cows, keep the wind out of yer babies;—here is
the paper what the Master wrote about it. `Sudorific, detergent,
febrifugous, vermifugous, aromatic, antiseptic, refrigerent,
antispasmodic, cathartic, emetic,'—that is what
he says, and he knows every thing.”

“`Garrulousness,' he has down.”

“Yes; it cures that; that is the larnin'—sore tongue—
swab out yer mouth with quince core jell, I've got it in my
bags, and take a spoonful of the Nommernis when you go
teu bed.”

“`Acrasial Philogamy?' Brother Edward, what is
that?”

“That,” replied Edward, “is an incurable malady to
which young persons are subject.”

“The Master said 'twas takin', and Marm said it was an
orful complaint, she knew. Take pennyrial, pound up
sweet cicely root, and bile with henbane and half an ounce
of the Nommernis till it's done, and it 'll break the fever.”

“What is this, `Cacoethes Feminarum'?”

“That's humors. Elder blows 'll due it for 'um.”

“`Diæta et oratio est optima medicina'—diet and prayer
he says are the best medicines—what does that mean?”

“Them is the sientifikals; one of the ministers took teu
boxes of the Nommernis when he read that, he liked it so

well.—What is that noise? Ye han't got any thing shet up
here?”

“Nothing that will hurt you.”

“I don't like yer housen; they are full of bull-beggars
and catamounts. Marm 'll scold at me like nutcakes, if I
can't find Molly. She's kilt, they've drounded her under
the bridge!”

“What are you going to do with her?”

“Don't know; Marm han't said. They are all broke up
down there sen the murder. Marm said if Molly come teu
our house she might have the best bed. But she don't want
Pluck nor Hash; they are an orful set. I can't stay; I can
hear 'um snickerin' at me as they did up teu tother house,
and Marm wouldn't like it.”

Rose and Margaret burst from their retreat with a loud
laugh, and gave Obed a hearty greeting; which he, bemazed
and ecstacized, returned as handsomely as he knew how.
Obed confirmed the account given by the sailor, and said
Nimrod promised to return as soon as he could see Deacon
Ramsdill, and that he was looking for him every day. To
the great joy of all, the next morning Obed, with Ben Bolter,
appeared, conducting Nimrod and Deacon Ramsdill to
the house.

“This beats old Suwarrow,” said Nimrod. “You have
kept as shy as young partridges.”

“A pretty tough spell you have had of it, gals,” said the
Deacon. “But you know, Molly, you always find the chestnuts
arter a biting frost and hard wind. Some good may
come of it,—the Lord knows. I havn't no particular
business here, but Freelove thought I had better come
down, and see what was to pay. We are in a peck of
troubles at home, about the Meetin'-house and the Parson
and every thing. Some want a new Minister; they won't

help about putting up the house. We have had several
Town Meetings, but there is a good deal of disorder and
some hard feeling. I count it's best for every one to paddle
his canoe his own way, and when he hasn't a way, why, let
his neighbor enjoy his, that's all. There an't no two spears
of grass alike, and you can't make all people think alike,
only I count they might live in peace together in the same
field. But Brother Hadlock wouldn't listen to me, and
when you can't do nobody any good, then you had better
let them alone. It's no use talking agin the grain. When
hens are shedding their feathers they don't lay eggs; and
one can't look for much among our folk now—so I thought
I had as good's come away. But the hotter the fire the
whiter the oven; if our fire will be of any service, the Lord
knows. I have been arter sheep through brush and ditches,
before now, gals, and I commonly found them in better feed
than their own close. Ha, ha!”

“They have found a good berth,” said Ben Bolter,
looking about the room. “But I should like to fall upon
them Algerines.”

“There has been some singular mistake or mischief at
work,” said Mr. Jones. “There must have been an error
in the name, or something of that sort, I think.”

“The old fox, weasel, or what not, I am determined to
dig it out,” said Nimrod.

“I have been to Pamela's,” said the Deacon, “and she
says she hasn't seen any thing of you; and she wants you to
go right round there.”

“We will all go together,” said Mr. Jones.

Accordingly they went to “the Widow Wizzle's,” the
sister of the Deacon, whom they found a different person in
some respects from their old acquaintance, her namesake.
Nimrod and Ben Bolter exhibited strong desire to see the

late hostess of the young ladies, and Nimrod said they must
go with him; their repugnance being overborne by the
Joneses, who offered to support them in the step of revisiting
a house for which they had conceived a deep dislike.

Arriving at Mrs. Wiswall's, they found that lady in a
state of extreme agitation, and in the same room they saw
also a very aged man sitting leaning on his staff, from which
he hardly raised his face. Whatever might have been their
method of address, or the purport of this visit, they were
met by the apparation of a human being, in large black
whiskers, deathly pale, leaning on the arm of Bertha, and
emerging from the back parlor. “Raxman!” involuntarily
shuddered Rose, and fire that had long consumed her heart
flashed into her face, and retired; and she hung convulsed
on the arm of the younger Jones.

“Nope him on the costard,” said Ben Bolter.

“Keep still,” said Nimrod, “and let us see what the
fellow has to say.”

He, to whom all eyes were now turned, as if he had come
in on some such errand, thus spoke:—

“I am,” said he, “a sick and dying man. Your violence,
Ben Bolter, comes too late; the blow from the horse has
done the work. Miss Elphiston, Miss — — — Margaret,
can you forgive me. I have wished to see you to ask this
last earthly favor. It was I who led you to this house; it
was through my instigation you were detained here; it was
my wishes that regulated all behavior towards you; nor
would my mother, whom you see before you, or my sister,
have consented to such a transaction as this must appear
in your eyes, except through me. If my motives were
selfish, they were not so disgraceful to you, Miss Hart, as to
me. I cannot unfold it all now; that shall be done at
other hands. I am weak, I am dying. I have only

strength to be the recipient of mercy. Miss Elphiston, to
you I make no apology, I ask no charity, my conduct
admits of no qualification. I only crave your forgiveness;
a sheer wretch, I entreat it; at your feet I implore you to
forgive me. Your beauty, ladies, ensnared me, an uncontrolled
ambition has led me on, your virtues and your
sufferings have brought me to repentance, and not, I trust,
the fear of death alone.”

There was breathless silence, then a discordant tremor
pervaded the room; — the old man shook audibly on his
cane, the group in the centre worked with varied frenzy.
Margaret was the first to break this singular perplexity.
“I forgive you,” said she, “I forgive all your wrong to
me, whatever may have been its intention.”

“Never, never,” said Rose, “can I forgive you.”

“It is late shutting the door when the mare is stolen,”
said Deacon Ramsdill; “but when she comes back of her
own accord, you had better let her in. Besides, Rose, the
good book says, `Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.'”

“I have forsworn that,” answered Rose.

“Don't speak so, Rose,” interceded Edward Jones. He
seems to be sincerely penitent. It would be a relief to his
last moments to have your forgiveness.”

“I cannot, I cannot!” she rejoined.

“O that Miss Elphiston would forgive my brother,”
prayed Bertha, weeping.

“You see, Mr. Jones,” said Mrs. Wiswall, addressing
the senior of the name, “the wretched mother of two
wretched children. But where is pity for her to be sought
or received? In that son and daughter you behold the
tokens of all my sins and all my sufferings. Have you,
Sir, been ignorant of my course? My vanity was allured
and my confidence betrayed by a British officer. One, in

whose house we now are, instructed me in the arts, and unbridled
me for a career of deception. When he left the
country and could make no further reparation for his inju
ries, he gave me the title to his estate. I followed the
American camp; I was cajoled by your own officers. I
became a runner between the two armies, when the British
held New York. And when it is his turn to speak, that
sits there,” she pointed to the old man, “he will tell you
more. I returned after the War to this house, and here I
am; my unhappy children pleading in vain for that mercy
which another's infamy might justly implore, and which
their guilty, miserable mother, the cause of all their calamities,
can never bestow. Who, Miss Elphiston, ever asked
my pardon? Who ever knelt for my forgiveness? What
dying man has flung to me the poor boon of his remorse?
By whose penitence has my own conscious load of sin been
lightened? My relentings, were they ever so great, had
been lavished on the winds; my commiserations had been
squandered on scoffs and jeers; my love, which even the
guilty sometimes feel, and it is a relief to the abandoned to
exercise, has been answered by the frowns of the honored
and the repulse of the prosperous. Here I am, freshly
awakened to a sense of my enormities, and denied the privilege
of seeing one gleam of peace fall upon the heads of
my poor children. My own guilt seems to augment, and
they are plunged into still deeper distress. Miss Margaret,
my conduct towards you must appear equivocal, suspicious,
and fraught with duplicity. But the crime belongs rather
to the means than the intent, and I have been too long familiar
with the ways of the world to haggle at the manner
when the end is desirable. I had reason to believe that my
son's purposes were honorable, however his action must forever
degrade him in your eyes. In what a world do we
live! By what steadfastly increasing evil are our steps
pursued! Our life is but the ministration of woe and ruin
by man to man! He who rules all things for the best, permits
some to fall where others rise. Your beauty, which
princes might covet, shall bear you aloft, like the Star of
Evening, diffusing lustre about you, and cheering your own
existence. Mine sinks beyond recovery, the darkness of
disgrace adding new deformity to the waste of years; and
the lost innocence of my childhood returns to shed vengence
on my enfeebled age!”

“Ho!” hemmed Ben Bolter; “I must overhaul my coppers,
and get my head on another tack.”

“I do forgive you,” said Rose, “and may Heaven forgive
me too.”

While these scenes were transpiring among the principal
parties in the room, one might have detected Nimrod in
earnest whisper with the old man, aside: “Not now, Sir,
not now; this is enough for once; wait till we get away,
we will go to Mr. Jones's.”

The party returned to the house whence they started.
Meanwhile Mr Jones, taking Margaret by herself, said he
would open on a subject of some interest to her. He doubted
not, he added, that her good sense would receive what
he was commissioned to declare without confusion, and the
fortitude she had displayed in adverse circumstances would
not forsake her under more agreeable events. What was
coming, she might well ask, that required such a preface.
“Have you a grandfather?” he asked; she replied she knew
of none; that she supposed the parents of both her father
and mother were dead. “I have the pleasure, then,” continued
Mr. Jones, “to inform you that your grandfather is
living, and the old man we saw at Mrs. Wiswall's is he.”
He then proceeded to put her in possession of what the

reader already knows, that she was the adopted child of
Pluck and Brown Moll, that her own father and mother
died in her infancy, that she had been disowned by her
grandfather, who, nevertheless, had contributed supplies to
her comfort, and whom, in a word, she must prepare
to receive the following day.

The next morning Nimrod and Ben Bolter, accompanied
by the old man, Mr. Girardeau, came to Mr. Jones's. The
way having been prepared, little remained but for Margaret
to embrace her grandfather. The old man laid his
hand on her head, and with a voice broken by age and
husky with emotion, said, “Jane, Jane, my own Jane, my
Jane's own!” Summoning Rose, he held the girls face to
face, and said, “This is your cousin, Margaret, the grandchild
of my wife's sister; and Nimrod,” continued he, “is
not your adopted brother only, his mother is the daughter
of my only sister. Others have asked your forgiveness,
but who needs it more than I? I turned you off in helpless
infancy; I have greatly sinned against you and others
too, more than I can tell. But Nimrod and Ben Bolter
will inform you of what I cannot. Let me be forgiven, and
you shall know my wrong-doings afterwards.”

“Sit down, Sir,” said Nimrod, “and I will tell all I know
about the matter,” and he proceeded to relate his first connection
with Margaret, and his taking her to the Pond.

“'Tis all true,” added the sailor. “Nim and I were
messmates. I was there when he brought you off; I
helped stow you away; I dandled you when he was
asleep; I lowered you down when he left the sloop; you
was a good-looking cock-boat, but make a spread eagle of
me, if you havn't grown into as handsome a merchantman
as ever carried a bone in her mouth. But, blow me, if

Obed's horse hadn't a bunged the cull's puddings, I don't
know where you would have brought up.”

“God's hand is in it!” said Deacon Ramsdill, who came
in during these disclosures. “We read, that when the lost
one came home, they danced and made merry. And you
recollect, Molly, when they brought you up out of the
woods, the Preacher prayed before the dance begun. I
feel as if I should like to pray before we get on to the
rejoicings.” Whereupon they all joined with the Deacon,
who, in simple heartfelt manner, made thanksgiving to
Almighty God.

Leaving these persons to recapitulate details, exchange
congratulations, and make such demonstration of joy as was
natural to the hour, we must go with our readers to places
and times somewhat remote, and bring up a brief account
illustrative of events that have now been recorded.

12. CHAPTER XII.
THE HISTORY OF MR. GIRARDEAU.

During the period of our Colonial existence, the
American Planters were in the practice of importing, not
black slaves from the coast of Guinea alone, but also white
servants from various parts of Europe. Among the proprietors
of the Simsbury Copper Mines in the State of
Connecticut were several Frenchmen, the wealthy, enterprising,
exiled Huguenots. It became an object with these
gentlemen to combine in their establishment those who
could speak their own tongue. About the year 1740, there
arrived in Norfolk, Virginia, a cargo of servants, and of the
number were some from Jersy, an island belonging to the
English Crown, but inhabited in good part by a French
population. A purchase was made, including a portion of
this last description of persons. In the lot were Jean
Waugh, and Marie his sister. Jean was a young man of
some ambition. He was ready to exchange poverty and
oppression in the Old World, for temporary vassalage in
the New, with the prospect of ultimate enfranchisement and
possessions. He threw himself, with his sister, into the
hands of an American shipmaster, consented to be advertised
with coals and salt in the public prints, to be knocked
off at public vendue, and for the consideration of twelve
pounds paid the importer became the subject of indentures
binding him to the Simsbury Company for six years, the
term affixed by law to those of his age. Jean was master
of the French and English languages; he could read and

write, he was spirited and active. He wheeled ore with
blacks, labored with the pickaxe, and drilled rocks. By
the regulations of the peculiar institution to which he was
subservient, he could not marry; none could trade or truck
with him; he could not leave the premises, nor was he
eligible to office. In the result he became tired of his condition,
one indeed not congenial with the spirit of the
present age, and the vestiges of which can only be traced
in an obscure antiquity. Adopting an obvious method of
deliverance, he ran away, a criminal offence, for which he was
publicly whipped. Returning a blow upon the executioner,
he became liable to two years' additional service. Again
contriving to escape, he joined a gang of counterfeiters, and
the Bills of Credit issued by the Provinces, in periods of
alarm, became encumbered and perplexed. He fled the
region, and a few years afterwards reappeared in New
York, associated with brokers, smugglers, and that class of
men who contrive to reap advantage from public distress or
private credulity. Here he took the name of Girardeau,
and, as such, has already been introduced to our readers.

It so happened that a little boy, who dwelt in the neighborhood
of the Mines, and often played about the grounds,
was a witness of Jean's punishment, and from a habit
peculiar to his nature, took sides with the delinquent; and
ultimately gave him essential support in his attempts to
escape. This was Didymus Hart, familiarly known in this
Memoir as Pluck. Marie, the sister of Mr. Girardeau,
seduced by an Overseer at the Mines, died in giving birth
to twin daughters, one of whom Didymus subsequently
married, and the other became the Mrs. Wiswall mentioned
in the foregoing chapter.

To digress a moment on the history of Pluck—after Mr.
Girardeau was in circumstances to recompense his benefactor,

as well as show his attachment to the child of his
sister, he made liberal grants to Mr. Hart, and even helped
establish him in some mercantile pursuit. But Pluck,
abandoning himself to his cups, dissipated at once his good
name and his estate; and for some misdemeanor, losing one
of his ears, he became still more reckless and improvident,
and finally succeeded in completely estranging the affection
of Mr. Girardeau, as he had already forfeited the respect of
his fellow-citizens. He removed to Livingston, where he
supported his family awhile by tending bar for Mr. Smith,
at No. 4, and at last took up his residence at the Pond.

Mr. Girardeau married a sister of the grandmother of
Rose. The acquisition of wealth became the engrossing
passion of this man, an object that he clutched with a
miserly and inextinguishable activity, and with a singleness
of aim and sagacity of calculation that rendered elusion
impossible. For this he sacrificed all generous impulses,
inflicted unhappiness on his family, sent his wife to a
premature grave, and would have wrecked the virtues, as he
finally contributed to the death, of his child. When imposts
were high he contrived to smuggle his commodities; when
premium was exorbitant, he had money to lend. If trade
was interrupted in one quarter, he opened channels for it
in another. As fortune is said to aid the bold, when the
ports were closed, what should happen but his own well-laden
ships were already in the offing. During the first
alarms of the War, when multitudes deserted the city, he
became chapman of their estates; confiscated property he
bid in for a trifle. He trafficked in public securities, and
realized much where many lost their all. Mr. Girardeau
was master of the German, either by an original acquisition,
or from intercourse with that portion of our immigrant
population; thus supplied with three important dialects, he

held a position superior to most of his contemporaries.
This language he also taught his daughter, who, it will be
recollected, was able to discourse with Brückmann, the
young Waldecker, in his own tongue. During the War,
for purposes humane or military, large quantities of gold
and silver were transported backwards and forwards between
the adjacent country and the city. Much of this
passed through the hands of Mr. Girardeau, who did not
fail to take due brokerage. He was a Patriot, or Tory, with
equal facility; and if he accommodated his coat to the hue
of the parties with whom he dealt, its facing retained but
one color, that of their common gold. In these negotiations
he also employed the services of his other twin niece,
Mrs. Wiswall, and her little boy, called Raxman, whom at
the close of the War, it has been related, Nimrod found on
the premises of Mr. Girardeau. The acquaintance of this
woman on both sides of the line, the protection afforded by
her sex, the harmlessness of the lad, were circumstances of
which he did not fail to avail himself. Introduced to the
secrets of the contending powers, he made adventures with
a safe foresight. The agent of factions and intrigues, he
never violated his trust except when driven to what is
termed the first law of nature, to which he had timely
recourse. The public good he satisfied himself he carried,
where others have borne important sections of the country,
in his breeches pocket. At the close of the War he
purchased city lands, which in the progress of time doubled
and quadrupled on his hands. In the game of public life,
leaving to others offices and honors, place and power, he
managed to sweep the banks into his own drawers. When
war threatened with France, he obtained foreign exchange
at a discount, and after the disturbance sold it at an advance.
He speculated in continental bills; he profited by
the wars of Europe. Such was Mr. Girardeau. At the
expiration of the century, the Jersey servant had arisen to a
fortune, estimated, at the time, as high as two millions of
dollars.

But old age had already overtaken him, and death was
not far off. Palsy, without a figure, loosened his hold of
his gains, and he could not be indifferent to the destination
of an estate amassed with so much painstaking. From
the depths of the ocean come up bubbles that sparkle on its
surface. In Mr. Girardeau appeared some symptoms of
an imperishable humanity. His daughter he had persecuted
even unto death. He began to refreshen his memory
with some thoughts of the grandchild. He discovered the
place of her abode, and, in an assumed costume, appeared at
the Pond. Having certified himself of her existence and
identity, he departed. Why did he not make himself known?
Nimrod, whose parentage was disguised, when he first
became the servant of Mr. Girardeau, exceedingly provoked
and irritated him. Pluck, having once pitied, he
could never forgive. To Brown Moll, his niece, he attributed
a share of her husband's misfortunes. But we cannot
explain what we do not understand, the labyrinths of
the human mind, nor can we relate all the operations of
that of Mr. Girardeau. It suffices to know that he did
relent, at least so far as his grandchild was concerned, and
embraced Margaret in his munificent intentions. Raxman
had continued in his grand-uncle's employ in the capacity
of a clerk, an office he fulfilled with the fidelity of a child
and the industry of a slave. But this young gentleman's
conduct with Rose, having reached the ears of Mr. Girardeau,
gave him great provocation. At length, however,
the apparent reformation of Raxman induced him to offer
him a liberal endowment if he would marry Margaret.

To effect this object Raxman made a journey to the
Pond, where his success has been related. Here, also, this
young man found an unexpected obstacle to his wishes
in the presence of Rose. It needs also to be told that he
applied to the Widow Wright, and sought, by means which
he found most acceptable with that lady, to gain her to his
purpose; which had now become twofold, that of securing
Margaret and withdrawing Rose. But the Widow, who
had her dreams about Margaret, when she found she was
likely to lose her to herself, immediately changed her tactics,
and endeavored to detain Margaret, and insisted that
he should marry Rose. Raxman left the Pond and
returned to New York, where he found Nimrod, to whose
assistance in this complicity of affair she appealed. But
Nimrod had no friendship for Raxman, and a very strong
one for Margaret.

Now at this time Mr. Girardeau himself began to exhibit
signs of penitence; he avowed a most benevolent interest in
his grandchild; and assured Nimrod that every thing should
be done for the good and felicity of Margaret, if he would
render aid to Raxman. Accordingly he was hired to take
her away from the Pond, a measure which he undertook in
the manner described. He was to meet Raxman at Hartford;
great was the disappointment of the young man to
find Rose of the company. He suggested the continuation
of the journey to Boston. He hastened on before and
acquainted his mother with his designs. He was in Cambridge
when the party arrived there; he had intelligence
conveyed to the girls of the imprisonment of Nimrod and
Obed; he hovered on their steps as they entered the city;
he knew of the letter to the sister of the Deacon; he came
up with them as they parted with Edward Jones; and
muffled in a cloak, disguising his voice, he conducted them

to his mother's; who, in truth, was sometimes called Wiswall.
He remained about the house, but was not seen in
it. The attachment of Margaret and Rose was a difficulty
not easily surmounted; various methods were taken to
divide them, but all failed. At length the accidental withdrawal
occured as they returned from the Theatre. Raxman
sought to improve the moment; but a new balk to his
projects offered itself in the person of Ben Bolter. The
result is known. Tim, whom the sailor sported on all
occasions, dealt the young man a mortal blow. It might
appear that Ben Bolter himself had some secret antipathy
to Raxman; but of this we have no further knowledge
that his owm words imply. Mr. Girardeau, learning what
had befallen his relative, immediately came to Boston.

Such is the narrative to which the preceding chapter has
given rise; and now, whatever relates to these accidental
personages having been told, and the thread of the story
evolved, let us return to the principal subject of this Tale.

A new sphere of interest was open to Margaret, and one
in which, notwithstanding her need of quiet and repose, she
set herself to making immediate exploration; we refer to
the circumstances of her own birth, and the history of her
father and mother, Gottfried Brückmann and Jane Girardeau.
Sedulous and minute were her inquiries on these
points; and she found her grandfather, as well as Nimrod,
disposed to communicate whatever they knew. Edward
Jones, then in correspondence with Mr. Evelyn, wrote his
friend, who was expecting to visit Germany, to make
inquiries concerning Brückmann and Margaret Bruneau,
in Pyrmont and Rubillaud. Mr. Girardeau had religiously
preserved the relics of his daughter and her husband, and
said he had in his possession the flute, books, and sundry
papers which they left. The bulk of his estate he made

over to Margaret, reserving annuities for his niece and her
daughter, Mrs. Wiswall and Bertha, in amount sufficient
to rescue them from their present mode of life; Rose also
received a gratuity equal to a moderate fortune. They
were summoned ere long to fulfil the last duties of humanity
upon Raxman.

It was decided that Margaret and Rose should spend the
winter in Boston. Deacon Ramsdill, Nimrod and Obed, returned
to Livingston; the latter handsomely laden with
gifts, and the profits of his enterprise; Nimrod furnished
with the means of redeeming the estate at the Pond, and
also of executing his proposed marriage. The father of
Margaret being a German, and having left books and
manuscripts in that tongue, in which also her mother was
skilled, she must also attempt its acquisition; an exercise
in which she was assisted by Edward Jones. She devoted
some time every day to music, that of the piano and
guitar. There were not wanting benevolent persons in the
city, who, apprised of her good fortune, endeavored that she
should turn it to the best account. New bonnets, new
ribbons, the latest style of dresses, were topics on which
she was duly enlightened. To balls, theatres, routs, card-parties
she was duly invited; but this proved an attention
it was not in her power to answer.

A concession on the part of Rose afforded Margaret unmingled
pleasure; she agreed to go with her to Church;
and having gone half a day they went a whole day; and
from going occasionally they went constantly. Spring
came at last; and Margaret and Rose, with Edward Jones
in company, started on horseback for Livingston. The
sadness with which they approached the town did not
abate as they entered the still desolate Green. They

returned the greetings of their old friends, and hastened to
the Pond. The whole family came out to welcome them,
Bull, and all. Chilion was not there! Here the compiler
takes leave of Margaret, submitting, to such as would
pursue the sequel of her life, the Part which follows.