University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

NEARLY a mile from the small, straggling village
of Chattanooga stood Aaron Hunt's shop, shaded
by a grove of oak and chestnut trees, which grew
upon the knoll, where two roads intersected. Like
the majority of blacksmiths' shops at country cross-roads, it
was a low, narrow shed, filled with dust and rubbish, with old
wheels and new single-trees, broken plows and dilapidated
wagons awaiting repairs, and at the rear of the shop stood
a smaller shed, where an old gray horse quietly ate his corn
and fodder, waiting to carry the master to his home, two
miles distant, as soon as the sun had set beyond the neighboring
mountain. Early in winter, having an unusual
amount of work on hand, Mr. Hunt hurried away from
home one morning, neglecting to take the bucket which
contained his dinner, and Edna was sent to repair the oversight.
Accustomed to ramble about the woods without
companionship, she walked leisurely along the rocky road,
swinging the tin bucket in one hand, and pausing now and
then to watch the shy red-birds that flitted like flame-jets in
and out of the trees as she passed. The unbroken repose
of earth and sky, the cold still atmosphere and peaceful
sunshine, touched her heart with a sense of quiet but pure
happiness, and half unconsciously she began a hymn which
her grandfather often sung over his anvil:

Ere the first verse was ended, the clatter of horse's hoofs
hushed her song, and she glanced up as a harsh voice asked
impatiently:

“Are you stone deaf? I say, is there a blacksmith's
shop near?”

The rider reined in his horse, a spirited, beautiful animal,
and waited for an answer.

“Yes, sir. There is a shop about half a mile ahead, on
the right hand side, where the road forks.”

He just touched his hat with the end of his gloved fingers
and galloped on. When Edna reached the shop she saw
her grandfather examining the horse's shoes, while the
stanger walked up and down the road before the forge.
He was a very tall, strong man, with a gray shawl thrown
over one shoulder, and a black fur hat drawn so far over
his face that only the lower portion was visible; and this,
swarthy and harsh, left a most disagreeable impression on
the child's mind as she passed him and went up to the spot
where Mr. Hunt was at work. Putting the bucket behind
her, she stooped, kissed him on his furrowed forehead, and
said:

“Grandpa, guess what brought me to see you to-day?”

“I forgot my dinner, and you have trudged over here to
bring it. An't I right, Pearl? Stand back, honey, or this
Satan of a horse may kick your brains out. I can hardly
manage him.”

Here the stranger uttered an oath, and called out, “How
much longer do you intend to keep me waiting?”

“No longer, sir, than I can help, as I like the company of
polite people.”

“O grandpa!” whispered Edna deprecatingly, as she
saw the traveller come rapidly forward and throw his shawl
down on the grass. Mr. Hunt pushed back his old battered

woolen hat, and looked steadily at the master of the horse
—saying gravely and resolutely:

“I'll finish the job as soon as I can, and that is as much
as any reasonable man would ask. Now, sir, if that doesn't
suit you, you can take your horse and put out, and swear at
somebody else, for I won't stand it.”

“It is a cursed nuisance to be detained here for such a
trifle as one shoe, and you might hurry yourself.”

“Your horse is very restless and vicious, and I could shoe
two gentle ones while I am trying to quiet him.”

The man muttered something indistinctly, and laying his
hand heavily on the horse's mane, said very sternly a few
words, which were utterly unintelligible to his human
listeners, though they certainly exerted a magical influence
over the fiery creature, who, savage as the pampered pets of
Diomedes, soon stood tranquil and contented, rubbing his
head against his master's shoulder. Repelled by the rude
harshness of this man, Edna walked into the shop, and
watched the silent group outside, until the work was finished
and Mr. Hunt threw down his tools and wiped his
face.

“What do I owe you?” said the impatient rider, springing
to his saddle, and putting his hand into his vest pocket.

“I charge nothing for `such trifles' as that.”

“But I am in the habit of paying for my work.”

“It is not worth talking about. Good day, sir.”

Mr. Hunt turned and walked into his shop.

“There is a dollar, it is the only small change I have.”
He rode up to the door of the shed, threw the small gold
coin toward the blacksmith, and was riding rapidly away,
when Edna darted after him, exclaiming, “Stop, sir! you
have left your shawl!”

He turned in the saddle, and even under the screen of her
calico bonnet she felt the fiery gleam of his eyes, as he
stooped to take the shawl from her hand. Once more his
fingers touched his hat, he bowed and said hastiy,

“I thank you, child.” Then spurring his horse, he was
out of sight in a moment.

“He is a rude, blasphemous, wicked man,” said Mr. Hunt
as Edna reëntered the shop, and picked up the coin, which
lay glistening amid the cinders around the anvil.”

“Why do you think him wicked?”

“No good man swears as he did, before you came; and
didn't you notice the vicious, wicked expression of his eyes?”

“No, sir, I did not see much of his face, he never looked
at me but once. I should not like to meet him again; I am
afraid of him.”

“Never fear, Pearl, he is a stranger here, and there's
little chance of your ever setting your eyes on his ugly
savage face again. Keep the money, dear; I won't have it
after all the airs he put on. If, instead of shoeing his wild
brute, I had knocked the fellow down for his insolence in
cursing me, it would have served him right. Politeness is
a cheap thing; and a poor man, if he behaves himself, and
does his work well, is as much entitled to it as the President.”

“I will give the dollar to grandma, to buy a new coffee-pot;
for she said to-day the old one was burnt out, and she
could not use it any longer. But what is that yonder on
the grass? That man left something after all.”

She picked up from the spot where he had thrown his
shawl a handsome morocco-bound pocket copy of Dante;
and opening it to discover the name of the owner, she saw
written on the fly-leaf in a bold but elegant and beautiful
hand, “S. E. M., Boboli Gardens, Florence. Lasciate ogni
speranza voi ch' entrate.”

“What does this mean, Grandpa?” She held up the
book and pointed out the words of the dread inscription.

“Indeed, Pearl, how should I know? It is Greek, or Latin,
or Dutch, like the other outlandish gibberish he talked to
that devilish horse. He must have spent his life among the
heathens, to judge from his talk; for he has neither manners

nor religion. Honey, better put the book there in the
furnace; it is not fit for your eyes.”

“He may come back for it, if he misses it, pretty soon.”

“Not he. One might almost believe that he was running
from the law. He would not turn back for it if it was
bound in gold instead of leather. It is no account, I'll
warrant, or he would not have been reading it, the ill-mannered
heathen!”

Weeks passed, and as the owner was not heard of again,
Edna felt that she might justly claim as her own this most
marvellous of books, which, though beyond her comprehension,
furnished a source of endless wonder and delight.
The copy was Cary's translation, with illustrations designed
by Flaxman; and many of the grand gloomy passages were
underlined by pencil and annotated in the unknown tongue,
which so completely baffled her curiosity. Night and day
she pored over this new treasure; sometimes dreaming of
the hideous faces that scowled at her from the solemn,
mournful pages; and anon, when startled from sleep by these
awful visions, she would soothe herself to rest by murmuring
the metrical version of the Lord's Prayer contained in
the “Purgatory.” Most emphatically did Mrs. Hunt disapprove
of the studious and contemplative habits of the
ambitious child, who she averred was indulging dreams
and aspirations far above her station in life, and well calculated
to dissatisfy her with her humble, unpretending home
and uninviting future. Education, she contended, was useless
to poor people, who could not feed and clothe themselves
with “book learning;” and experience had taught
her that those who lounged about with books in their hands
generally came to want, and invariably to harm. It was in
vain that she endeavored to convince her husband of the
impropriety of permitting the girl to spend so much time
over her books; he finally put the matter at rest by declaring
that, in his opinion, Edna was a remarkable child; and
if well educated, might even rise to the position of teacher

for the neighborhood, which would confer most honorable
distinction upon the family. Laying his brawny hand fondly
on her head, he said tenderly: “Let her alone, wife! let
her alone! You will make us proud of you, won't you,
little Pearl, when you are smart enough to teach a school?
I shall be too old to work by that time, and you will take
care of me, won't you, my little mocking-bird?”

“O Grandy! that I will. But do you really think I
ever shall have sense enough to be a teacher? You know
I ought to learn every thing, and I have so few books.”

“To be sure you will. Remember there is always a way
where there's a will. When I pay off the debt I owe Peter
Wood, I will see what we can do about some new books.
Put on your shawl now, Pearl, and hunt up old Brindle,
it is milking time, and she is not in sight.”

“Grandpa, are you sure you feel better this evening?”
She plunged her fingers in his thick white hair, and rubbed
her round rosy cheek softly against his.

“Oh! yes, I am better. Hurry back, Pearl, I want you
to read to me.”

It was a bright day in January, and the old man sat in a
large rocking-chair on the porch, smoking his pipe, and sunning
himself in the last rays of the sinking sun. He had
complained all day of not feeling well, and failed to go to
his work as usual; and now as his grandchild tied her pink
calico bonnet under her chin, and wrapped herself in her
faded plaid shawl, he watched her with a tender loving
light in his keen gray eyes. She kissed him, buttoned his
shirt-collar, which had become unfastened, drew his homespun
coat closer to his throat, and springing down the steps
bounded away in search of the cow, who often strayed so
far off that she was dispatched to drive her home. In the
grand, peaceful, solemn woods, through which the wintry
wind now sighed in a soothing monotone, the child's spirit
reached an exaltation which, had she lived two thousand
years earlier, and roamed amid the vales and fastnesses of

classic Arcadia, would have vented itself in dithyrambics
to the great “Lord of the Hyle,” the Greek “All,” the
horned and hoofed god, Pan. In every age, and among all
people—from the Parsee devotees and the Gosains of India
to the Pantheism of Bruno, Spinoza, and New-England's
“Illuminati”—nature has been apotheosized; and the heart
of the blacksmith's untutored darling stirred with the same
emotions of awe and adoration which thrilled the worshipers
of Hertha, when the vailed chariot stood in Helgeland,
and which made the groves and grottoes of Phrygia sacred
to Dindymene. Edna loved trees and flowers, stars and
clouds, with a warm clinging affection, as she loved those
of her own race; and that solace and amusement which
most children find in the society of children and the sports
of childhood this girl derived from the solitude and serenity
of nature. To her woods and fields were indeed
vocal, and every flitting bird and gurgling brook, every
passing cloud and whispering breeze, brought messages of
God's eternal love and wisdom, and drew her tender yearning
heart more closely to Jehovah, the Lord God Omnipotent.
To-day, in the boundless reverence and religious
enthusiasm of her character, she directed her steps to a
large spreading oak, now leafless, where in summer she
often came to read and pray; and here falling on her knees
she thanked God for the blessings showered upon her.
Entirely free from discontent and querulousness, she was
thoroughly happy in her poor humble home, and over all,
like a consecration, shone the devoted love for her grandfather,
which more than compensated for any want of which
she might otherwise have been conscious. Accustomed
always to ask special favor for him, his name now passed
her lips in earnest supplication, and she fervently thanked
the Father that his threatened illness had been arrested
without serious consequences. The sun had gone down
when she rose and hurried on in search of the cow. The
shadows of a winter evening gathered in the forest and
climbed like trooping spirits up the rocky mountain side;
and as she plunged deeper and deeper into the woods, the
child began a wild cattle call which she was wont to use
on such occasions. The echoes rang out a weird Brocken
chorus, and at last, when she was growing impatient of the
fruitless search, she paused to listen, and heard the welcome
sound of the familiar lowing, by which the old cow recognized
her summons. Following the sound, Edna soon saw
the missing favorite coming slowly toward her, and ere
many moments both were running homeward. As she
approached the house, driving Brindle before her, and
merrily singing her rude Ranz des vaches, the moon rose
full and round, and threw a flood of light over the porch
where the blacksmith still sat. Edna took off her bonnet
and waved it at him, but he did not seem to notice the
signal, and driving the cow into the yard, she called out as
she latched the gate:

“Grandy, dear, why don't you go in to the fire? Are you
waiting for me, out here in the cold? I think Brindle certainly
must have been cropping grass around the old walls
of Jericho, as that is the farthest off of any place I know.
If she is half as tired and hungry as I am, she ought to be
glad to get home.” He did not answer, and running up
the steps she thought he had fallen asleep. The old woolen
hat shaded his face, but when she crept on tiptoe to the
chair, stooped, put her arms around him, and kissed his
wrinkled cheek, she started back in terror. The eyes stared
at the moon, the stiff fingers clutched the pipe from which
the ashes had not been shaken, and the face was cold and
rigid. Aaron Hunt had indeed fallen asleep, to wake no
more amid the storms and woes and tears of time.

Edna fell on her knees and grasped the icy hands. “Grandpa,
wake up! O Grandpa! speak to me, your little pearl!
Wake up, dear Grandy! I have come back! My Grandpa!
Oh!—”

A wild, despairing cry rent the still evening air, and

shrieked dismally back from the distant hills and the gray
ghostly mountain—and the child fell on her face at the dead
man's feet.

Throughout that dreary night of agony, Edna lay on the
bed where her grandfather's body had been placed, holding
one of the stiffened hands folded in both hers, and pressed
against her lips. She neither wept nor moaned, the shock
was too terrible to admit of noisy grief; but completely
stunned, she lay mute and desolate.

For the first time in her life she could not pray; she
wanted to turn away from the thought of God and heaven,
for it seemed that she had nothing left to pray for.
That silver-haired, wrinkled old man was the only
father she had ever known; he had cradled her in his
sinewy arms, and slept clasping her to his heart; had
taught her to walk, and surrounded her with his warm,
pitying love, making a home of peace and blessedness
for her young life. Giving him, in return, the whole wealth
of her affection, he had become the centre of all her hopes,
joys, and aspirations; now what remained? Bitter rebellious
feelings hardened her heart when she remembered
that even while she was kneeling, thanking God for his preservation
from illness, he had already passed away; nay,
his sanctified spirit probably poised its wings close to the
Eternal Throne, and listened to the prayer which she sent
up to God for his welfare and happiness and protection
while on earth. The souls of our dead need not the aid of
Sandalphon to interpret the whispers that rise tremulously
from the world of sin and wrestling, that float up among
the stars, through the gates of pearl, down the golden
streets of the New Jerusalem. So we all trust, and prate
of our faith, and deceive ourselves with the fond hope that
we are resigned to the Heavenly Will; and we go on with
a show of Christian reliance, while the morning sun smiles
in gladness and plenty, and the hymn of happy days and
the dear voices of our loved ones make music in our ears;

and lo! God puts us in the crucible. The light of life—
the hope of all future years is blotted out; clouds of despair
and the grim night of an unbroken and unlifting desolation
fall like a pall on heart and brain; we dare not look heavenward,
dreading another blow; our anchor drags, we drift
out into a hideous Dead Sea, where our idol has gone down
forever—and boasted faith and trust and patience are
swept like straws from our grasp in the tempest of woe;
while our human love cries wolfishly for its lost darling,
and the language of fierce rebellion is, “I care not what is
left or taken! What is there in earth or heaven to hope
or to pray for now?” Ah! we build grand and gloomy
mausoleums for our precious dead hopes, but, like Artemisia,
we refuse to sepulchre—we devour the bitter ashes of the
lost, and grimly and audaciously challenge Jehovah to take
the worthless, mutilated life that his wisdom reserves for
other aims and future toils! Job's wife is immortal and
ubiquitous, haunting the sorrow-shrouded chamber of every
stricken human soul, and fiendishly prompting the bleeding,
crushed spirit to “curse God and die.” Edna had never
contemplated the possibility of her grandfather's death—it
was a horror she had never forced herself to front; and now
that he was cut down in an instant, without even the
mournful consolation of parting words and farewell kisses,
she asked herself again and again: “What have I done,
that God should punish me so? I thought I was grateful,
I thought I was doing my duty; but oh! what dreadful
sin have I committed, to deserve this awful affliction?”
During the long ghostly watches of that winter night, she
recalled her past life, gilded by the old man's love, and
could remember no happiness with which he was not intimately
connected, and no sorrow that his hand had not
soothed and lightened. The future was now a blank, crossed
by no projected paths, lit with no ray of hope; and at
daylight, when the cold pale morning showed the stony
face of the corpse at her side, her unnatural composure
broke up in a storm of passionate woe, and she sprang to
her feet, almost frantic with the sense of her loss:

“All alone! nobody to love me! nothing to look forward
to! O Grandpa! did you hear me praying for you yesterday?
Dear Grandy—my own dear Grandy! I did pray for
you while you were dying—here alone! O my God! what
have I done, that you should take him away from me?
Was not I on my knees when he died? Oh! what will
become of me now? Nobody to care for Edna now! O
Grandpa! Grandpa! beg Jesus to ask God to take me too!”
And throwing up her clasped hands, she sank back insensible
on the shrouded form of the dead.