Voices from the Kenduskeag

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Co> vi* li a CTfosl,u "Bar* r \\

VOICES

KENDUSKEAG.

( Whether we whisper of lore, hope, or fear,
Bring laughter, ortears, or only a sneer,
Or lull you to sleep, as we bun in your ear,
The gravest and gayest must candidly own
That to please you we seek — whatever our tone."

BANGOR: * * * * '

PUBLISHED BY DAVID BUGBEE.
18 48.

THE NEW YORK

PUBLIC LIBRARY

48224K

A8TOR, LENOX AWD
TILDE?* FCU'-DATlONS.

P 1910 L|

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1847,

BT DAVID BUGBEE,

hi the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.

"CO?L»bB & WlLpT,Pjr<*HK8,

* 12, W«ttr Street, Barton.

f> ;:a.

ADVERTISEMENT.

It may naturally be asked of the volume which now
appears before the public, " Who made it?" and " What
is its object?" To both questions may be given this
brief reply ; — that a number of ladies and gentlemen of

/ Bangor have contributed these articles to be given to the
press by the Managers of the Bangor Female Orphan
Asylum, in the hope of adding to the funds of that insti-
tution. They trust that no one will consider it in any

^ proper sense a " Bangor Book." A name so broad, im-
plies a much more extended collection than the gleanings
which are here hastily thrown together, with no intention
of displaying the literary character either of its authors,

* ADVERTISEMENT.

or of our citizens at large, can claim to be. Tu p. Terence
to the sale of this work, it is, perhaps, hardly ;ic. essary
to add, that in these days of abundant and cheap liter-
ature, more is hoped from the charity of this community
than from the merit of the production.

CONTENTS.

Advertisement, ..... 3

Contents, ..... 5

Poeticaljjntroduction, .... 9

The Speculator. A Sketch, ... 13

The Countess of Croye. A Ballad, . .18

♦The Morning Star, . . . 21

Criticism upon Critics, . • . .23

* This piece, and a few others, all of which are distinguished by an
asterisk, have been previously published, but are included in this collec-
tion, by permission of their authors.

1*

6 CONTENTS.

To the Author of a Version of the C XXXVII.

Psalm, 29

Woman, is it by thee? . . .31

Love and Romance. A Tale, 33

Song of the Angels. From Goethe's Faust, . 57

♦The Star, ..... 59

A Vision of Bangor in the Twentieth Century, 61

The Macedonian, ..... 74

Asa Glover, Esq., .... 78

I have a Shroud, ..... 95

A Song. — The Bright Bird Sings, . . 98
♦The Field of the Incurables. Published in

1826, . . . . . 100

Manners, . . . . 107
On hearing Ladies toasted as "The Poetry of

Life," 113

♦The Dream, . . 115

An Idle Word 117

The Whistling Wind, . . . 118

The Festival at the Cdsa de Campo. A Tale, 120
Lenora. From the German of Burger, . .129

Correspondence, . 138

CONTENTS, 7

The Flight, . . .146

A Dirge, 148

First Impressions. A Sketch, . . .150

Social Intercourse, • . . 162

JL Simple Sketch of Simple Things, . .169

The Violet. From the German, . 189

♦Veneration for the Past An Extract, . . 190

Portrait of C. H. C., . . . 195

Childhood and the Old Elm, . .196

The Human Heart, .... 203

The Secret Offering, . . .205

The Resolve. A Tale, .207

♦Stanzas, ...... 234

A Garden, a Shadow, a Brook, and a Tree, 236

A Sketch, ...... 237

Softly, Woman, . .240

The Archer and the Maid. A Parody, . 241

Sequel to " Vision of Bangor," . . 243

♦The Child's Spring Song, . .266

Tobacco, ..... 268

Teachings of Nature, .... 269

It is not fit for thee to wear, . 271

8 CONTENTS

The Veiled Donor, . . . .273

Penobscot Characters, . . . 274

An Apology, ..... 283

The Beleaguered City, ... 284

" ' Voices from the Kenduskeag ! ' Indeed !
And have our jinny citizens agreed
Our ears to tickle with the notes
That come from piscatory throats ? "

Nay, nay, good friends, we are no fishes
Who come to crave your Christmas wishes ;
Your witticism's all in vain
And you must even guess again.
" And have the water-spirits ' had a meeting/
And voted to approach us 'greeting?'
Ah ! Forty -Six, with antics wrathy,
Gave us enough of Hydropathy! —
Of bridges on their arches quailing,
Then coolly to the ocean sailing, —
Of shingles from their wharves deserting, —
Of pine-trees with the billows flirting, —
Saw-mills careering from our shores,
And icebergs knocking at our doors !

VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

THE SPECULATOR.

A STORY OF THE FOURTH DECADE.

" How necessary and profitable records and observations are, albeit they were not
published in print, for at the time when Lord Littleton wrote, this record was not
printed." — Coke upon Littleton.

A truer remark than that of ray Lord Coke has not
been made since his time, I will venture to say. But
that is neither here nor there to my story, save that it
was not recorded when Lord Littleton wrote, and never
would have been, were it not for observation.

No man upon the Penobscot was more respected by
his acquaintances, than was Stephen Skidd, of Bangor,
housewright He was truly an estimable man. Faith-
ful, punctual, kind-hearted, and friendly, his neighbors
were happy in his acquaintance, and his employers grati-
fied that they knew one man in whom they could place
confidence. But it was destined that there should be a
change in Stephen Skidd. Time makes great changes in
men, but " the times" greater. The times were to make
the change in Stephen. He had accumulated a little
property ; sufficient, with the occasional use of the hand-
saw an* jack-plane, to make him comfortable through
2

14 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

life. The sun of the year '34 had set, and the mem-
orable year '35 dawned upon the same upright Stephen
Skidd, with all its plans, and schemes, and speculations,
and the jack-plane and handsaw still performed their
usual office. His was an honest and a sure way of
getting a livelihood, and he was satisfied with it.
But soon the startling news burst upon his ear that his
next door neighbor had made a thousand dollars in a
speculation. He thought of it. But the jack-plane and
handsaw kept on. Directly another neighbor made fifteen
hundred dollars. He thought more of this, but the jack-
plane and handsaw did not stop. At length the informa-
tion reached him that a third neighbor, whose brains did
not possess the soundest reputation, had made three
thousand dollars ! From that moment the jack-plane and
handsaw kept Sunday every day in the week. Stephen
* Skidd was of earthly mould, and although he had a com-
fortable portion of this world's goods, he was not so devoid
of this world's affections, as to deem an addition to it
undesirable; particularly if it could be obtained as one of
our good old fathers in Israel says, " free cost." Conse-
quently, he may now be considered as laboring under the
speculating mania! By the assistance of one of his
neighbors he made a speculation by which he realized
one hundred dollars. Poor Skidd was now completely
upset. The fever was high upon him. If small sums
could be obtained so easily, why could not large sums as
easily? He was among the speculators from morning
till evening, and from evening nearly till morning. His
lessons were taken at the "Bangor House," and the
" Exchange ; " and at last his mind became so crowded
with " townships," " numbers," and " ranges," that it was
notorious he could not be in a room where the map of
Maine hung, but his finger would inadvertently point
towards it, whatever might be the subject of conversation.

THE SPECULATOR. 15

Weeks passed, and the time arrived when Stephen
Skidd was to make a sensation. It was bruited through
the thronged streets, that he had made a great specula-
tion. — How great? was the inquiry.

" Ten thousand dollars!"

"What! Stephen Skidd?"

Twenty thousand dollars ! " Fifty thousand dollars !"
and some said, " A hundred thousand dollars!"

'Pon my word ! What ! Stephen Skidd ?

Finally, public opinion settled down upon fifty thou-
sand, and Stephen Skidd was the reputed possessor of
fifty thousand dollars — the " real kibbils ! *

Stephen Skidd was now another man. Mr. Skidd,
dear reader. Shall I introduce to your acquaintance
Stephen Skidd, Esquire? That lady in that beautiful
phaeton, propelled by two white horses, is Mrs. Stephen
Skidd. That gentleman in the gig on the Oldtown road
is Mr. Skidd himself. Nobody cracks a whip over a bet-
ter horse's back than Mr. Skidd. He usually drives from
Bangor to Oldtown — twelve miles, in considerably less
than an hour. He must be doing an extensive business.
He is at the Corporation or at Oldtown once a day at
least, when he is not absent at Portland, or Boston, which
is about once in a fortnight ! And what a dash he cuts
in those cities! Who does not recollect him at the
" Cumberland House" — in Middle street — at the " Tre-
mont House" — in State street, — Mr. Skidd! Stephen
Skidd, of Bangor, Esq. ?

The confidence in Mr. Skidd, except among the "know-
ing ones" — was unlimited. His former upright charac-
ter clung to him. He borrowed and paid punctually —
accommodated with his name and was accommodated in
return, and everything went comfortably with him in the
eyes of the world. I will not say that no envious glances
were cast towards him,' or that detraction withheld its

16 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

breath from his reputation, for no name was ever so fair
as to escape the imputations of the slanderer.

The fall of '35 passed away, and still Mr. Skidd was
apparently driven with business. Although his wife
dashed extravagantly in her phaeton with the two white
horses, he was not seen engaged in amusements of any
kind. If he drove a handsome horse, he drove him fast,
and there was too much of an air of business about him
to allow a supposition that he was not constantly engaged
in it.

The winter of 1836 came, but it wore a different aspect
from the preceding business season. It was the winter
of the speculation. Payments became due, banks stopped
their discounts, paper laid over, the unprecedented circu-
lation of 1835 gradually ceased, and the confidence of the
people ceased in the same ratio. Many were the long
visages in the streets of Bangor, but Stephen Skidd, Es-
quire, drove his gig as usual.

Summer arrived, and a client was complaining that he
had lost a large sum by Stephen Skidd — money lent !

" Stephen Skidd ! Wont he pay you ? "

" Pay me, no ! How can a man pay when he 's used
up?"

" Used up ! What, have the hard times closed his
purse too?"

" Closed his purse ! He never had a purse to close.
The fellow is not worth a farthing in the world."

" You surprise me ! What has he done with his fifty
thousand dollars?"

" He never had it, nor a tenth part of it."

" Where did he get his money, then ? He has always
paid up well until now — he must have had money."

" He got it by borrowing. He borrowed of one friend
to pay another; and as he always paid punctually, he
continued to keep up his credit, until his friends found it

THE SPECULATOR- 17

difficult to get enough for themselves. Then being una-
ble to borrow, he of course was unable to pay ; and now
it is ascertained he is worse than nothing."

" But did he get nothing by his great speculation ?"

"That! that was only a twelve months' bond! He
thought, and others thought, he should be able to sell the
land at a great advance. He had an opportunity to sell
at a tolerable advance, but he demanded more. The
story got wind that he had made a fortune, and once
started, its dimensions would not decrease. Skidd was
reported to be worth fifty thousand dollars, but I do not
believe that in all the time he held the bond, he had an
offer of a tenth part of that sum for it."

" Indeed ? But his property before he turned specu-
lator, what has become of that?"

" Oh, the most of it went to pay for his bond, and the
balance would not go further than to pay his travelling
and other extravagant expenses."

" But his business. He was constantly employed last
season, it was supposed, profitably."

" He was constantly employed driving about, doing
nothing. I do not believe he did five hundred dollars'
worth of business the last year."

I gave in that my friend knew more of Stephen
Skidd's affairs than I, but Stephen might make another
more profitable speculation next fever, I said, by way of
consolation. But it did not relieve my friend, for he
insisted that the cholera or old age would take him off
before the next speculating fever made its appearance.
# # # # Mr. Skidd, before he became a speculator,
was a consistent member of Mr. *s church.

Now he is

Is the spirit of speculation consistent with the spirit of
Christianity ?

18

THE COUNTESS OP CROYE.

Bright in her beauty, and high in her pride,

On her palfrey so gay did the ladie Jane ride ;

So gaily, so proudly, she rode on her way,

And a quick glance she gave to her courtly array ;

To the banner which fluttered in purple and gold,

To the mail covered steeds, and their riders so bold,

To the squire who gallantly rode by her rein,

To her page, of his place and his ladie so vain,

And it rested, not latest nor lightest, I ween,

On one who moved on as if wrapped in a dream.

But the cloud from the minstrel passed suddenly by,

And he met the deep glance with a love kindled eye :

Why tumeth the ladie so suddenly now %

Why mqunteth the blood to her cheek and her brow ?

Oh, the pride of her race like a dark fiend hath come,

He hath fought with young love, and? the battle hath won.

Away to the tourney so gaily rode they,
Away to the tourney a gorgeous array —
And proud names rang out on the echoing air,
And the galleries glittered with loveliness rare ;
But the brightest in beauty, the proudest in name,
Was the heiress of Croye — the young ladie Jane.
Oh many a crested head bowed at her side,
Oh many a lance in her honor was tried,
And many a trophy was laid at her feet, —
The hour was her own, and her triumph complete.

Now suitors came wooing — the grave and the gay,
But the lady laughed lightly and answered them nay.

the commas of grots. 19

The moonlight fell softly on tree and on tower ;
The ladie sat musing alone in her bower ;
A strain of low music came,— soft as the hour —
So sweet — o'er the spirits of bliss it had power ;
Their sphere was aroused, and the ladie's heart thrilled,
And gentlest emotions her proud bosom rilled.

" True love is true life,
,Oh, scorn it never !
In thy heart is a strife ;
Sweet peace forever,
I would plant therein, —
Let love •— let love in !

" A cold friend is pride,
And faithless ever;
'T will vanish with youth
And wealth together.
It bringeth but strife ; —
True love is true life.

" True love is a light

When storm clouds gather,

It pointeth the way

To a bright forever ;

Thro' the snows of life

It cheereth ever ;

True love is true life —
• O cease from thy strife ! "

The strain died away on the silvery air,
Its sounds were extinct, but its spirit was there.
Oh minstrel ! thy music may conquer at last,
May save her thou lovest — the 4emon outcast ;
She weeps ! a true woman — tbe Countess of Croye !
She loves thee, she loves thee, oh earnest eyed boy !

But the dark fiend returned with the cares of the day,
The music, the moonlight, were all swept away.

20 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

She paced in her halls, the proud ladie of Croye,
Forsake her, forsake her, oh true-hearted boy !

Long years passed away, and the bleak hand of Time
Thinned the minstrel's fair looks and bespread them with rime ;
But it touched not his heart — still youthful in love,
Still strong in his faith, and still soaring above ;
More joyous, more blessed, as each added year
He was richer in hopes, and in visions more clear ;
" True love is true life," and in love was he blest,
In sorrow and joy, in labor and rest.

Long years passed over the Countess of Croye,
They seized one by one on her sources of joy :
Her beauty they withered, her health they assailed,
Her suitors they chilled, wealth only prevailed ;
Lone, sickly, and withered, bereft of all joy,
She paced in her proud halls, the ladie of Croye.

Oct. 4, 1847.

21

THE MORNING STAR.

A single star, how bright —

From earth-mists free —
In heaven's pure shrine its image barns !
Star of the Morn, my spirit yearns

To be with thee !

Lord of the desert sky !

Night's last, lone heir,
Benign thou smilest from on high,
Radiant as if an angel's eye

Were watching there.

Is it a poet's dream ?

Or can it be
That in yon orb a spirit reigns,
Who knows this earth, and kindly deigns

To smile on me ?

Thy shining peers have fled, —

Quenched each pure spark,
Save where some pale Sun's lingering ghost,
Lone witness of a scattered host,

Peeps through the dark.

But thou, fair pilgrim orb !

Night's youngest born —
Wilt not withdraw thy steady light
Till bursts on yonder snow-crowned height

The yellow morn.
2*

22 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAO.

Lone one, I love to watch

Thy early ray, —
Emblem art thou of hopes that spring
When joy dies, brightly heralding

A brighter day.

So, when from my life's course

Its stars are riven,
Dawn on my soul prophetic light,
That streaks old age's winter night

With hope of Heaven.

23

CRITICISM UPON CRITICS.

To depreciate the present and extol the past, is one of
the habits of old age, as strong and uniform as its garruli-
ty. Men have never been disposed to find fault with
this, even when there was least in the present to justify
censure ; for they deem the habit the work of nature as
much as its gray hairs. And withal, there is something
almost amiable, even though it be somewhat weak, in
the looking back thus complacently to the days of youth,
and seeing everything there pure and fair, the very earth
and sky brighter and more effulgent, friends more con-
stant, and freer from the foibles of a weaker age. It is
not very strange that the man who has travelled along in
life till the friends and companions with whom he set out
have one after another sunk down wearied with the jour-
ney, and who finds himself at length encompassed by
other faces, should feel almost as a stranger in his own
home, should not enter easily into new views and feel-
ings, and should often send his thoughts back to the past,
and sigh for communion once more with those whose
tastes and sympathies, formed under the same influences,
were like his own. We should indeed more admire the
man, who, together with these warm affections and sym-
pathies, possessed also a calm reason presiding over and
repressing their undue action, enabling him to appreciate
whatever of superior excellence even the present might
ofier, while yet his feelings clung to that past to which
they had grown; but such completeness of character we
hardly expect on this eajrth, and we are well pleased

24 VOICES FROM TIIB KENDUSKEAG.

when we find a heart which has passed through all the
storms and chills of the world, and can yet look back
with affection, even though it be a doating and exagger-
ating one, to the scenes and friends of its early exist-
ence.

But there is another class who love to indulge in a
sweeping disparagement of the present and exaltation
of the past, to whom the same amiable excuse does not
apply. We can easily see how certain very pardonable
propensities of our nature, operating together with a
judgment somewhat enfeebled by age, should lead the
old man to think the present a puuy offshoot of the past.
But that the young man, all whose sympathies are with
the present, who has grown up under its influences, and
who is, as it were, its child, that lie should magnify its
faults, and set them in ugly contrast with the fancied
excellences of the past, is certainly both unnatural and
ungrateful. It is, indeed, a marvellous sight, that of a
young man with the first down scarcely upon his cheek,
and who has hardly yet taken a peep at even the little
corner of the age which is about him, — to see such an
one gravely rising on some anniversary occasion, before
an audience of men and women, some of them venera-
ble in years, others in middle life, pursuing great ends
with an ability and spirit which does honor to any period,
and in high swelling words expatiate on the age of apos-
tolic piety — of giant intellect — of profound scholarship,
that was, and the feeble, dwarfish, and superficial age
that is. The simple peasant of Goldsmith used to won-
der how so small a head as the school-master's could
contain so much knowledge ; we have wondered how so
few years could compass and comprehend so many ages;
but the commonness of the phenomenon has worn off
the wonder, and we long since learned to attribute it to
anything but superior wisdom and discernment.

CRITICISM UPON CRITICS. 25

It is curious to see what different usage the age meets
with from different hands. There is a class who can
never laud it enough ; they exhaust the whole vocabu-
lary of high-sounding eulogism, and their admiration has
but begun to express itself. To hear them on some gfo'
rification occasion, we should suppose that there never
was virtue, science, wisdom or religion till the nineteenth
century. According to them, not only have all the sci-
ences sprung up at once by a Minerva birth into full be-
ing, but all the great principles of thought, philosophy,
politics, government, have been developed and exempli-
fied with a suddenness and perfection, which scarce
leaves anything to be done by posterity. In religion,
things are even better. The millennium is evidently just
about dawning ; the heathen are renouncing their errors
of their own accord, and holding out their arms for the
truth ; Satan is- beginning to move his head-quarters from
our now happy land ! But the next day you hear one of
the class before described, and you are ready to wonder
how so mighty a change could take place in so short a
time. Everything is dark ; the race is evidently going
to ruin. The generation before us was a generation of
men, simple-hearted, honest, and noble men ; uncorrupted
by the miserable passions^. of ambition and avarice ; sat-
isfied with simple pleasures ; happy in the enjoyment of
a virtuous and pure home ; respecting the rights of other
men, and bold in maintaining their own. But what a
degenerate age is ours ! An age having no religion but
reason, no philosophy bat sense, no God but gold ! An
age in which the dwarfed minds of men are capable of
only narrow, superficial, and shallow views.

In politics everything is desperate. With the opening
scenes of our country's history there passed away forever
the race of high-minded and sagacious patriots. Corrup-
tion, intrigue, and ambition form the character of the

26 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

modern statesman, the plague has spread through all
ranks, and the country must soon perish. We may as
well consider the experiment settled; uproar from one
end of the land to the other, lynch law, boundless ridts,
the bankruptcy of the whole country, and a host of things
"too numerous to mention," prove that the people can-
not govern themselves; the attempt must sooner or later
end in anarchy, which always settles down into despot-
ism, which again softens away among enlightened na-
tions into a limited monarchy, when and where only we
can find rest.

But above all, in matters of religion is the croaker abun-
dant. He expatiates upon the simple, unpretending,' but
deep and earnest piety, of our forefathers ; their stern
spirits, which allowed no compromise with error or evil ;
their love of truth, which led them to prize the Bible
above all, price ; their simplicity, which made them choose
and find highest pleasure in the most simple forms of
worship ; their creed, which was the very unadulterated
essence of God's truth ; their calm, manly, vigorous, and
sustained devotion, which elevated them far above the
passions of ordinary men.

All this he sets forth in glowing words, and then comes
the contrast : a religion, but little better than a compro-
mise act, whereby the world and the church may meet
and shake hands, and walk together in harmonious agree-
ment; a creed, divested of the strongest doctrines of
God's word, for which is substituted another compromise
between reason and faith ; a mischievous mixture of hu-
man and divine wisdom, resulting in a weak, sentiment-
al, feverish, flickering, remote sort of piety, or else in a
cold, reasoning, and sluggish one. Instead of being
mighty in the power and knowledge of truth, as Chris-
tians once were, they are but babes, unable to receive
and digest the hard things of God's word; little chil-

CRITICISM UPON CRITICS. 27

dren, having no relish for such manly diet, and if by any
means getting it into their stomachs, only thereby made
restless, and perhaps sick. The element of good in man
is reduced to the smallest degree consistent with the
world's continuance. The opposite principle is waxing
strong and overbearing ; a crisis is approaching in which
truth is about to grapple, as in a last straggle with error ;
and to human apprehension how forlorn the hope ! Was
there ever a time when the moral, political, or religious
world was not on the eve of some general and terrible
convulsion ? We have not lived so many years as we
have seen, according to these wise men, distinct crises in
the world's history. Verily, it is time to give the troubled
elements rest.

If this sweeping censure is not deserved, to what shall
it be attributed ? To what but to that vanity which is
the source of nearly everything affected and unnatural ?
To speak of the age, to speak of it in the way of cen-
sure, to detect and point out its faults — is wonderfully
flattering to self-love. The age alone is a mighty sub-
ject, and the vain man who presumes to deal familiarly
with it, very naturally fancies that a share of its great-
ness will be reflected on himself. The charm of all
hard speaking, from criticism upon the age down to
criticism upon small writers, lies in the implied superior-
ity of the critic. To illustrate the assertion, we need
only descend a very little from the strictures of writers
upon each other, to the hard speeches of common men
about their neighbors. What is so universal as slander-
ous and unfounded aspersions upon individual character
and lives ? Now men do not hate each other enough to
account for all this. One great cause for it is, that vani-
ty finds no way of proclaiming one's own superiority so
effective as by setting forth other men's deficiencies. If,
then, the vain man can find gratification in detecting and

28 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAO.

condemning the faults of an individual, how much more
in descanting upon the faults of an age. The act of crit-
icizing the age implies, besides great acumen, an amount
of knowledge which is rarely gained by years of acquaint-
ance with society, of converse with books, and the char-
acters of those leading minds which give impress to the
mass of men. To set one's self free from the prejudices
under which he has grown up, in common with others ;
to isolate himself, as it were, and place himself at a dis-
tance from the times of which he is a part — is no small
thing, but requires peculiar exertions of the intellect.
What wonder, then, that vanity pleases itself by making
the attempt?

TO THE AUTHOR OP A M VERSION OP THE
CXXXVII. PSALM."

Now, pray you, let that lyre alone !

'T is Judah's — and the more you try,

The less you wake the simple tone

Of Hebrew melody.

Why, if the song be o'er,

And music can no more

Delight the captive men,

Then let it e'en be still,

The sweet lyre, if it will,

But touch not you that lyre again.

Doth it yet vibrate on your heart ?

Aye it should vibrate there,

But think not that our tears will start,

An imitative note to hear.

You may sing sweetly, for all that,

But then we think you never sat

In land of strangeness and of woe.

Then alter not the captive's song,

For tho' it hath been writ so long,

It is the dearest now.

Judah likes not her song should be
Repeated in a foreign land ;
Or her father's lyre to see
Trembling in a stranger's hand.
She left it there — there let it be
Hanging on a willow tree,

30 VOICES FROM T1IE KENDUSKEAO.

To breathe a dying strain ;
But if you try to wake
The cords, they only break —
So touch not you that lyre again.

31

" The ladies of N 1 have subscribed to present a ring to Colonel Gashing,

on his departure for the Mexican war." — Dai/y Paper.

Woman, is it by thee !

Oh, Christian woman, free !

Dost thou adorn the hand

Heady for war's vile brand ?
Will thy smile beam for Rapine's deed,
And shall thy prayer the missile speed ?

Could thine eye calmly brook

On that foul scene to look 1

Mother and children torn,

Daughter and sister borne
By murderous shell, to that dread Seat,
Where slayed and slayer both shall meet ?

Oh ye whose lips profess

Christ and his holiness,

Reared in this Pilgrim land,

Will ye unite the hand
Him to adorn, unbound and free,
Who Champion, draws, for Slavery ?

Oh shame ! the deed disown,

It could not be thine own,

Sisters ! Indignant rise,

If ye the lesson prize
Of Love, and Peace, and Mercy taught
By Blood and Cross, — once dearly bought.

32 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

Oh woman ! Thou should'st bless
Him, who in righteousness,
The martyr's course hath trod,
For Conscience and for God.
A holy mission, see that ye
To that, at least, no recreants be.

33

LOVE AND ROMANCE.

" Oh Brignol banks are fresh and lair,
And Greta's woods are green.
I'd rather rove with Edmund there,
Than reign our English Queen."

Thus warbled the young girl, again and again, as she
reached to bend the branches of her natural arbor of
shrubbery and trees into a form as nearly like a crescent
as she could twine it. It was a favorite retreat of the
maiden ; a spot in her father's beautifully located grounds,
where, taking advantage of the branches of maple and
elm, which nearly met, she had two years before, with
her own hands, planted shrubs, and raised a semicircular
turf seat ; and now the growth of the lilacs and moun-
tain ash enabled her to twine a green and well shaded
bower, which was all the dearer to her, that she had
planned and executed it herself. Pleasant was the oc-
cupation of the fair maiden, in this pleasant spot. Na-
ture had spread before her a beautifully varied land-
scape of hill and dale, forest and field ; while far in the
horizon ranged the ever blue and lofty mountains, which
are said to inspire the beholder with loftiness and firm-
ness, corresponding to themselves. The winding gentle
stream, and quiet valley, which stretched along at the
foot of the slope, where Emma's bower was built, might
well instil lessons of gentleness and peace, and if, com-
bined with that, she caught the loftier impulse of sky
and mountain before her eye, the hours spent there with
nature were surely not spent in vain. Yet even lovely

34 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

and beautiful Nature is not always enough for the hu-
man social being, and Emma's life had been passed in a
seclusion that often wakened the longing for companion-
ship and sympathy. In half pensive mood this morning,
and with a lonely feeling, created, perhaps, by the very
beauty of the day and scene, she worked and sung by
turns, till throwing off her bonnet, and reclining against
the fresh green seat, with a feeling, that though beautiful
is solitude, 'tis far more so to say to one, "how charming
is it," she mused aloud,

" Oh Brignol banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta's woods are green ;

How provoking that I can only remember that one verse.
I wonder where lean find the rest of it.

U T& rather rore with Edmund there
Than reign our English Queen."

Well for me, I think I shall be as likely to do the one as
the other. It would be no more wonderful to " reign our
English Queen," than to find an Edmund among the
green specimens of humanity that inhabit these western
wilds. As if by magic or mockery, she had hardly left
speaking, when her eye slowly turning to survey her
work, rested on a form' still and motionless, scarce two
rods from her bower, which might well have imperson-
ated the ideal Edmund, or any other hero of romance, if
a commanding figure, and an expressive countenance,
with grace and elegance of carriage, might do so. He
was gazing in evident wonder at the apparition of so fair
a lady, in so secluded a spot ; and with something of em-
barrassment, occasioned, perhaps, by the consciousness
of having unwittingly heard a song and a soliloquy not
intended for his ear. Thus for a moment they remained,
with eyes fixed upon each other, in mutual surprise,

LOVE AND ROMANCE. 35

while with the lady, conscious blushes mantled cheek
and brow, not lessened perchance by the evident admira-
tion of the gentleman, and the half lurking yet suppress-
ed smile that played around his lips. Yet with more
of regained self-possession, than one would have ex-
pected from a simple country girl, the lady was the first
to break the awkward silence. Assuming a grave dig-
nity of manner, with the hospitality to which she had
been reared by her father, she rose, and stepping towards
the stranger, said, " My father will soon be at home, to
welcome his guest; meanwhile let me invite you to
await his coming, in the house, and I will have him in-
formed of your arrival."

" Your pardon, lady," said the gentleman, in such mu-
sical tones, and with so noble an air, that Emma's heart
at once pronounced him the Edmund of her imagination.
" I may not claim the pleasure of being your father's
guest, nor have I so good a plea to offer in excuse for my
unwarrantable intrusion. An accident in travelling com-
pelled my delay at the Inn below ; and a trick of wan-
dering at will, over field and dale, led me unwittingly to
intrude upon a place, which, beautiful as it is, I shall re-
gret having seen, unless you assure me of pardon for
my presumption."

A bright smile made the rosy lips of the lady still more
beautiful, as she answered — " Believe me, sir, we have
not so poorly profited by the beauties which nature has
spread around us, as to be chary in permitting others to
gaze on them ; but yonder comes Col. Crayton, who, as
the rightful owner of these grounds, shall himself pro-
nounce your absolution."

" Colonel Crayton ? This then, is Crayton Place ! "
said the stranger, musingly. " I beg pardon, lady, but
I must make you my apologist to him, and hasten back
to the village, lest my absence should embarrass my
fellow traveller."

36 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

With one more look of earnest interest upon the fair
girl, he disappeared among the trees, and the maiden's
bower was as silent and as lonely as when, a few mo-
ments before, she had sung that " Brignol banks were
fresh and fair," and " Greta's woods were green."

" Who were you talking with, my daughter, that you
should be in such a brown study, after it?" said Col.
Crayton, laying his hand affectionately upon her unbon-
netted head.

" That is more than I can tell, father, for though the
gentleman seemed rightly anxious to apologize for get-
ting over your fences, without leave, yet neither name
nor card had he the grace to leave, supposing you should
wish to challenge him to deadly combat for the offence."

"No great occasion for apology, in this free and easy
country, methinks, and the man could not have been of
* these parts! I am thinking, to urge one."

11 You are right, in thinking him a stranger here. None
of his stamp have met my eye in these western wilds,
yet if I remember right, such people used to be seen by
my childish eyes, in the city. He only called himself a
traveller, and said he was fond of a good ' look out/ and
so he came up here"

" Oh, a Land Speculator ! or possibly a painter ; " re-
turned Col. Crayton.

One of those, he might be — but one he was not, if my
eyes are good for anything, thought Emma.

" You speak of people in the city, and seem to think
of them with longing affection," said her father ; " though
I will not deny that you have been a good, cheerful, con-
tented girl, to stay with your old father, and make him
happy, when but for you, neither city nor country had
been much to him. And it is not to be wondered at, that
you should wish for some one, beside an old man, and
these uncultivated Hoosiers of the west, to speak to, now

LOVE AND ROMANCE. 37

and then. Your books have been much, very much to
you ; sometimes I have feared that works of Imagination
have exercised too great a power over you, and that is
another good reason why I should conquer my own self-
ishness, and spare you awhile, that the reality of life
should be seen by you, as well as its ideal. But would
to Heaven this change were not necessary, my daughter,
for to one living as you have ever lived, in the seclusion
of a quiet home, with no experience of confidence mis-
placed, affection unreturned, or trust broken, the posses-
sion of a quick imagination makes the great world's de-
lusive scenes a fearful trial. Heaven grant you a less
severe lesson of man's treachery than I have tasted, lest
you too should return to these solitudes with nature, feel-
ing as bitter a loathing for the crowd and herd of men
as I do."

Emma looked inquiringly, and her father continued —
" You have not often heard me speak in this way my
dear, but you are going to New York, (and I am remind-
ed of the wrongs I received there) and chance too may
throw you with some of the authors of my injuries. If it
should, remember, that you are my daughter. No civility
or attention receive from an Atwood; for he it was, my
once trusted friend, and partner, whose miserable swind-
ling, it deserves no better name, stripped me of the hard
earnings of years. Not the mere loss of money makes
me remember this with so much bitterness; but the pa-
tient, sad image of your departed mother, compelled by
this change of fortune to leave the home of her youth,
exchanging all the comforts and attachments of her
former life for the privations and hardships of this new
home in the wilderness, in which health and life grad*
o ally yielded ; — this, as the consequence of that man's
dishonesty, makes me wish to hold him, his ill gotten
3

38 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

wealth, and all that belong to him* as far* as possible
from me and mine."

" But do not the innocent suffer with the guilty, when
you condemn his family for his fault? "

" Well ! as far as I have observed the world, dishon-
esty and knavery are apt to be family traits, and I like
not the child of the bad father, let appearances be what
they may. Perhaps 't is a hard rule, but 't is one which
never yet deceived me. At wood's family are leaders in
fashion, I believe, and you will be very likely to meet
them, but you know my wishes, and that will be enough
to guide you, I doubt not, in your deportment towards
them. The fact of his defrauding was more than sus-
pected at the time, but you know, or I do, that a fine
house, and fine parties, are more than enough to plaster
a wound on the pecuniary probity of a man, in the
world he lives in. Nor is your aunt, from whom I have
received a letter this morning, which led me to seek you,
one to inquire too closely into the character of her ac-
quaintance, provided they keep up a good style, and are
not stupid- Here is her letter, and it seems that she is
willing, perhaps anxious, that her country niece should
see the world under her auspices, this coming winter,
though if she did net remember yeu as a very pretty
child, as she says, I fear her interest would net be so
great. But with' me, that is the great reason why I
dread to have you leave this peaceful bewer, for the
heartless world. Because you are beautiful, and be-
cause beauty is received in society, in such false propor-
tion to its true worth ; because it will make you follow-
ed and courted for itself alone, and leave you perhaps the
victim ©f some contemptible trifler of my own sex, who
will seek to win and wear your regard, as a new triumph
to his own vanity, yet, though even were he a true ad-
mirer, would never follow the impulse of the heart, by

LOVB AND KOMANCE. 39

an offer of the hand, to one who brought no golden gift
with herself; because of the thousand snares with which
beauty is surrounded, I dread to part with you, from my
own fatherly protection. I trust that I have in some
measure prepared you for all this, by having never sought
to conceal from you, that the too often fatal gift of
beauty was yours. That it was given you by your God,
and for holy and exalted purposes ; that all of addition-
al influence and power, thereby acquired by you, should
be sacredly used, in the service of the true and the good ;
and that in, and for, such a gift, you should rejoice, as
simply and as truly, as in the fair tints of the flower, and
the glory of the landscape, which so much delights your
heart I am sure, I think, that you can hear yourself
called beautiful, without pride or vanity ; would that I
could preserve you against all the evils, which follow the
possession of this gift. I must trust to God, and your
own right-mindedness, to bring you back, the good and
happy girl you leave me, and none the worse for this
sojourn in the land of Gotham, or of Sodom, if that is a
better term for it." He gave Emma her aunt's letter, and
left her to meditate on the new prospect.

Heigho, dear Father, there are some bad people in
the world, I dare say, thought Emma, but if he who stood
here just now came from the great city, I must believe
that all there are not false as you deem. Manhood and
gentleness rested on that brow, and if the heart were
traitor within, the face was a strange mask. Now the
Fates forbid, that he heard my foolish song and random
words. If he did, let him not cross my path again, and
yet — Well I, I too, shall go and see for myself this dra-
ma of life — I shall hear the music, and join in the dance,
and the pictures I have dreamed of will soon be dreams
no longer, but bright realities. Now head and heart,
keep calm if thou canst, and see how wisely thou wilt
mix, for the first time, in the great whirl of society.

40 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

CHAPTER II.

" Welcome, my dear niece/' said the still lovely and
brilliant Mrs. Somers, as she affectionately kissed Emma's
cheek, and glanced less admiringly at the dress of the
fair girl, than at her beaming eye, and graceful figure ;
" you have had a long journey, and must be tired. Rest
to-night, and to-morrow we will see what we can do to
reconcile you to changing your home for ours, this winter.
This evening, I am engaged to go to a party, and you
will excuse me, I know."

* Certainly, do not let me detain you, dear aunt, I shall
find more than enough to entertain me here," said Emma,
glancing at the books, pictures, and marble statuary, with
which the tasteful Mrs. Somers had adorned her parlors.

Well now, thought Mrs. S., she does not look a bit fa-
tigued, and fagged out, as I should have done, had I been
in her place, but she is just seventeen, and I, alas, near
forty. If I thought she had a presentable dress, she
should go with me, this very night ; 't will be something
to matronize so beautiful a flower, now my own reign be-
gins to decline. Well, what is fashion's reign after all ?
I am almost tired of it, and shall willingly resign some
Of its trophies to this fair girl. God grant it may not.
spoil her.

Fairies befriend me, thought Emma, as she gazed on
the lace, satin and jewelry, with which her aunt was
decked, when ready for the party — how will my best
black silk look beside all this ? But the next day, she
found her generous aunt the good fairy, that herself su-
perintended all additions and alterations necessary for
the country lassie's proper appearance in the city ; and
still, much to Emma's gratification, permitted the simple,

LOTS AND ROMANCE. 4]

unpretending fashion and material, as much in keeping
with her style of beauty as with her father's limited
fortune.

44 Come, Emma dear, with this pure white muslin, and
a rose bud where the diamond pin is not, and your hair
in that simple twist and fold, which does not hide the
shape of the head, you shall make your first appearance
to-night, at the stylish Mrs. B's." Mrs. So triers sparkled
in satin of the loveliest blue, with a wreath of white
flowers in her hair. Leaning upon her aunt's arm of
slighter elegance of figure, her face beaming with intel-
ligent interest, with just the rose bloom on her cheek
that a little excitement gave, Emma, upon entering the
brilliant room, an unknown stranger, created, as the
phrase goes, a " sensation," at once. Murmurs of " who
is she," looks of admiration, and the many introductions
sought, soon satisfied Mrs. Somers, that all she had an-
ticipated of the effect of her niece's beauty, would be
more than realized. Could her father have looked in
upon her there, surrounded by eyes that flattered, and
voices that uttered deferential homage, yet she herself
so calm, simple and quiet, so totally without effort to
talk, or to engage attention, speaking when she had really
something to say, and remaining silent, when she had
not ; so evidently thinking more of seeing, than of being
seen, he might have felt tolerably sure, that though a
simple girl from the country, his daughter's head would
not at once be turned by the atmosphere of fashion and
flattery.

Two charming girls joined the circle, whose names
Emma did not hear. They interested her by their man-
ners and conversation, and when she had an opportunity,
she enquired of her aunt who they were.

" Helen and Mary At wood ; they are sweet girls, and

42 VOICKB FROM THE KENDUSKKAG.

they have a fine brother, but he is odd, and seldom goes
to parties/'

"Alwood," repeated Emma to herself, "and so the
very persons whose appearance interests me more
than that of any others, are just the ones I must avoid.
Father, your theory that integrity and goodness runs in
the blood, cannot be true, if those girls are the daughters
of a bad man."

Emma was standing by the piano, and her aunt was
in another part of the room. " Have you music, Miss
Crayton?" said the lady of the house.

" Not in my fingers/' said Emma, smiling.

" You sing, then ? "

" Sometimes."

" Wont you sing now, then, and I will play. Here is
'My ain Fireside/ shall we have that? 11 Emma had
never been taught to decline singing, or to wait to be
urged, but the contrary ; and as she knew the song very
well — her father's favorite — and knew too, that she was
perfect mistress of her own sweet voice, she complied
with the request

Bless me, is Emma crazy? thought Mrs. Soraers,
as the hushed room and sweet music made her discover
the faux pas, as she thought it, of her niece. But it was
too late to mend matters, by interfering then ; while the
perfect unconsciousness of Emma that she was doing
anything extraordinary, the rich melody of her voice, and
at the close, a heightened color at the profound attention
of the company, so added to her attractions, that Mrs.
S. became entirely reconciled to the song. Still she felt
astonishment at the young girl's simple self-possession —
a secret which she should have attributed to a freedom
from vanity, and to the forgetfulness of self, in her in-
terest in the scenes around her. Pity the simple secret
was not better known ! Mrs. Somers felt a new triumph

LOVE AND ROMANCE. 43

in the congratulations ponred upon her, in behalf of her
lovely young friend, as the song ceased. Her success is
complete, thought she, and I may trust her own natural
manners, for they evidently take, albeit this atmosphere
is somewhat artificial.

" Well, Emma, how is your little head this morning,
after all the sensation you produced last night ? Quite
turned?"

" I produced ? What do you mean, dear aunt ? were
your admirers less devoted than usual ? I assure you, I
would not willingly interfere, and as to my own head
being turned, I think 'tis straight on my shoulders yet.
Was it that little ruby lipped, cherry cheeked, perfumed
gentleman, you called Fulton, or the fat, good-natured,
laughter-provoking Johnson, with his droll conceits, that
should annihilate me at once ? "

" Why, you little chit, those are two of our most
agreeable and ever reigning beaux."

" Thank Heaven, then, that I shall keep heart-whole,
if your best artillery is of that stamp."

" Oh, Horace Green was not there, but I warn you,
I shall not give him up to you, I cannot spare him my-
self, yet. Beside, he is not a marrying man ; so I warn
you."

" So yon are not going to let my head be turned, by
any but a marrying man, forsooth — as though the whole
charm and interest of society should be bounded by that
poor conclusion — oh, fie, aunt, this from you ? "

" Not exactly, but Horace Green is really interesting,
and though I am his friend, I cannot deny that he is
fickle, and a flirt, as more than one lady has found, I fear.
You have a heart, my dear, for some one, and I should
not like you to have an entanglement with him ; and
though he is rich, amiable, and talented, he will not find
a lady who will induce him to give up his liberty, I sus-
pect. -

44 VOICES FROM THE KSNSUSKEAG.

" He had better keep it, then."

" He is very fastidious, he wishes every imaginable
charm in a lady, along with truth and integrity of char-
acter."

" Yet, if he is a flirt, he is himself without the latter."

" True, yet he seems never to be conscious of that.
But he is always nearest when you are talking about
him. Here is Green, at this moment, coming up the
steps."

11 Had I known you were going to Mrs. B.'s last night,"
said Green to Mrs. Somers, " I should have banished a
desperate fit of the blues, and gone myself."

" A fit of the blues ? a true Byronian melancholy, I
dare say, possessed you, poor man ! And where is the
tragical, pale and wan look, you should wear this morn-
ing, after an evening so sublimely spent? Why, you
dont half carry out the poetical misery — you should ap-
pear with masses of tangled hair, over a high pale brow,
the lip wreathed in scorn, doublet all awry, and a thou-
sand etceteras that you have quite forgotten."

" I wish you could be as successful in prescribing a
cure for the hateful guests, as you are in making them
ridiculous," said Green, laughing and coloring.

" Oh, to make them ridiculous^ is all that is wanted to
effect a perfect cure with most people, I imagine. If
more is necessary, I should say consult your physician at
once."

" Tour sunny cheerfulness is ever without charity, and
I would have declared war with it long ago, out of sheer
vexation, had I not so often needed its spells. But
just do tell us, are you always so cheerful, and if so,
what is your secret ? "

" A good conscience, I hope," said she, archly.
" Ah, well, I see you wont help me. Pray, Miss Cray-
ton," to whom he had been looking all the while he was

LOVB AND BOMANCK 45

talking with her aunt, " could not you give me a talis-
man against the visits of the azure demons. Though
you cannot have known them by experience," said he,
bowing, " you may yet be able to prescribe for those
whom they do afflict"

" If I ventured to prescribe a remedy for the gloom,
which often comes unbidden, to darken our path, I should
say, that we could best lose a sense of our own unhap-
piness, in endeavoring to lessen the positive ills of those
around us/' said Emma, slightly blushing, as the serious-
ness with which she spoke seemed to border upon the
lecturing tone.

" A noble rule, lady, for the unselfish, and I cannot
deny that 'tis one which I should long since have better
followed* And yet, I think the wish to relieve the sor-
rows of humanity were easier formed, than the knowl-
edge obtained of any effectual way in which it can be
done."

" Perhaps so," said Emma, feeling encouraged by his
manner of respectful deference, " and yet I have thought
that one of your sex could be at no loss, in so using
wealth, intellect, and all other gifts, that they should be
returned to the Giver with usury."

" Why one of our sex ? Do you think that talents and
influence are possessed with less responsibility by you
thaq by us?"

" They should not be, I grant, yet I leave it to your own
fair judgment, if a woman might not be forgiven for bury-
ing her talents in a napkin, where a man should not."

" She might, so far as public influence is concerned,
but ah, Miss Cray ton, there is a field as extensive, and
an empire more despotic, ever open to woman, and were
every lady true to her convictions, daring to be ever
noble, in word and conduct, what might we not expect
from so exalted an influence ; " and Green bowed, much
3*

4G VOICES FROM THE KENDU8KEAG.

as though all the fine things he said of woman in gen-
eral, he truly meant for one woman in particular.

Mrs. Somers to the contrary notwithstanding, Emma
became in all companies the star of his worship, and ap-
parently he sought her as much for the pleasure of con-
versing with, and drawing out the faculties of her mind,
as to be charmed with the grace and beauty of her per-
son — nor though forewarned, and forearmed, by the
character she attributed to him, could Emma deny, that
in his intelligent and well cultivated mind, mingled with
the profound respect with which he always treated her
opinions, there was far more in him to interest her, than
in any other gentleman she met in the circle of her
aunt's acquaintance. When she knew that he had been
the child of unlimited indulgence and fortune, she could
not but wish, that he might find some friend, who, true
to his faults and his virtues, might aid him in becoming
the elevated character, for which she believed Nature
designed him. Ah, Emma, wouldst thou be that friend ?

" Emma, dear, Helen Atwood told me she and her
brother were going to call on you to day," said her aunt,
the third morning after Mrs. B.'s party; " so plume your-
self upon that, for 't is a marvel when he calls upon a
lady."

" Well, he troubles himself in vain, now, for I cannot
see him, though I admired Miss Atwood very much, the
other evening — 'tis my father's wish, that I should
wholly avoid that family ; you know the reason, I sup-
pose; I promised him I would, and so you must not en-
deavor to dissuade me in ,this, for I cannot oblige you,
much as I should like to."

•• But how odd it will seem. What can I say to them ?
— what excuse shall I get up ? "

" Do not try to get up one, but plainly say Miss Cray-
ton declines seeing them. You will not be blamed for

LOVE AND ROMANCE. 47

that ; and I would rather be, than disobey my father's
wishes, though I am sorry it has come to this. Had I
rightly understood their names the other evening, I could
have been so cold they would have had no wish to call
and see me."

Her aunt saw it would be in vain to urge her to change
her mind, so the subject was silently dropped; and when
the young ladies, with their brother, called, she pleaded
an engagement for Miss Crayton in so conscious and
embarrassed a manner, that they had no difficulty in
understanding that she wished not to see them. The
sisters were surprised, but the color mounted to the brow
of the young man in a way that told to Mrs. Somers a
consciousness of the father's shame, as explanatory of
this refusal. She pitied him, and felt doubly^- embar-
rassed at his suffering ; and, a week after, told Emma
she was thankful she should not meet the Atwoods
again, as the fathers severe illness would probably keep
them out of society for the winter.

Days and weeks flew by, in charmed measure to
Emma, yet still one wish or thought often crossed her
mind. Amid all the bright scenes around her, there was
one form absent, which she had unconsciously associated
in her own mind with the circles through which she
moved. No Edmund of her imagination, like him who
stood before her for a moment in the groves of Crayton
Place, appeared to her in the city. Not even Green,
with all his refinement, seemed to her so commanding
and noble as he. Unconsciously, she compared all the
gentlemen whom she met, with this one Ideal ; nor was
the comparison at all in their favor. Quite as much,
perhaps, by this remembrance, as by her father's moni-
tions, was she preserved, calm arid dignified, amid the
most flattering attentions heaped upon her, Still, her
heart remained in her own possession, notwithstanding

48 V0ICJBS FROM THE KJBNDUSKEAG.

the determined siege of Green, who, piqued by what he
deemed her reserve, seemed sometimes as though he
would understand her, even if it were at the expense of
a direct offer of heart and hand. No Edmund appeared,
as I have said, and Emma began to think that he might
indeed be a poor painter, and so could not enter the
circles of the wealthy and the gay, wherein her aunt
moved. Ah, I'd rather rove with Edmund, there, thought
she, but this time she did not think aloud.

She went with her aunt and Green one evening, to

hear the celebrated Madame sing. All lovers of

music were there that could possibly be jammed into the
capacious building. Green looked and spoke so impres-
sively and earnestly that night, that, in spite of all Emma
believed of his coquetry, she began to fear that more
than a flirtation was designed by him, and that she had
erred in allowing him to be so much in her society. The
thought troubled her. She liked him very well, but by
no means wished just then that he should declare a
serious attachment. She became silent in thinking of
this, and, leaving her aunt to keep up conversation with
Green, in the intervals of music, she turned away to
muse. As her eye wandered carelessly over the crowd
around her, a form arrested her attention, and an eye of
earnest but somewhat melancholy interest was bent upon
her, which she could not mistake. A quick glance of
pleasure, and a blush at the recognition, on her part, pro-
duced so electric a change in his countenance, that Emma
involuntarily dropped her eyes, nor dared to raise them
again for some moments. When she did, he was not to
be seen, and she lost all opportunity of identifying him
by questioning her aunt.

Had he been seeking his way to her, it was in vain,
for the concert immediately after closed, and the crowd
moved on together. As may be supposed, this incident

LOTS AND ROMANCE. 49

did not coutribute to bring back her usual social and easy
manner towards Green ; and he, attributing her silence
and abstraction to a sentiment flattering to himself, began
to think the prize quite within his reach. He even ven-
tured to press her hand to his lips, as he whispered,
" Good-night Let me find you ready for a ride to-
morrow morning." And before Emma could frame an
answer, or know what to reply, he had gone, evidently
taking her silence for consent

" Are we going to ride in the morning with Mr. Green ?"
said Emma to her aunt.

M I am not, certainly ; are you ? "

44 Not if I can help it ; but what shall I do ? He has
just asked me, and, like a fool as lam, I did not reply;
so how shall I get off if he comes ? "

" Why, by going with him, to be sure. Ahem ; a ride,
tete-a-tete, with Horace Green ! ' Think of that, Master
Brooke/ "

'* What can you mean, dear aunt ? " said Emma, look-
ing distressed.

" What do /mean ? What do you mean ; looking as
though all the terrors of Fate were about to burst upon
your devoted head? Is an offer such a terrible thing,
that you should be so wilted by the bare prospect of

one

?»

" Now, Heaven forbid that you are serious. You can-
not really think there is any danger of that ! "

" Danger ? Why, I must laugh. I have not seen you
dashed before ; now you are completely so."

" Do be serious, dear aunt, and tell me how I shall
escape this ride, if you really imagine your friend thinks
seriously of me."

"To be serious, then, I never can be certain what
Horace Green intends towards any lady; but I think he
loves you, and yon know he would be an unexception-

50 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAQ.

able match for any lady. Rejoice, then, my dear, that
the captor is captured at last, and by you."

" But I do not wish the captive ; and this is what
troubles me how to say no, when I have received so
much attention — thinking attention meant nothing se-
rious — from him. Well, it is but repaying the debt
some of my sex owe him."

" All that is well enough ; but you cannot really intend
to say no to him, should he propose. What do yon wish
for in a lover, that he lacks ? "

Emma blushed, and felt that she should hardly like to
portray to her fashionable relative the lover she should
fancy. Her silence convinced her aunt, that, in reality,
she did not object to Horace Green ; and, wishing her
pleasant dreams, assuring her that she should help her
to no excuse for avoiding the dreaded ride of the mor-
row, bade her good-night, and left her, not to repose, but
to disturbed and anxious reflections. When at length
she had laid her head on the pillow, resolved, if possible,
to find rest in sleep, she had scarcely closed her eyes,
ere the light notes of a guitar, beneath her window,
caused her as quickly to open them again, and, sitting
up in her bed, the same musical tones, heard once, and
only once by her, sang the well-remembered words .'

" Oh Brignol banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta's woods are green,
I'd rather rove with Edmund there,
Than reign our English Queen."

" 'Tis him — his voice — he too remembers me," and
springing up, her hand was upon the window, the blind
opened, and a glance at the form beneath, revealed, by
the clear moonlight, the one being so indelibly impressed
on her memory. Returning again as hastily as she had
opened the window, Emma listened, with a thousand

LOVE AND ROMANCE. 51

▼ague but delightful emotions, while the strain was once
more repeated, and then it was all silent again. Ah,
Horace Green, you have but a poor chance now, even
though but a "landscape painter" stands in the way!
Poor Emma was really to be pitied, when he came the
next morning to claim, as he said, the pleasure of the
ride, last night agreed upon. Few situations are more
distressing (that is the true word) to a lady of kind feel-
ing and vivid imagination, than the anticipation of an
offer from a friend whom she cannot consent to accept
as a lover. Suddenly, he who was before agreeable,
becomes hateful in her eyes, when he wishes to come
too near, while, at the same time, a feeling of intense
self-condemnation, for permitting affairs to reach this
crisis, perplexes and confuses all her manners, which,
the more they are confused, are the more sure to mislead.
The raillery of her aunt did not serve to mend matters
'with Emma, and she found herself, dreadfully against
her will, without a loophole for retreat, actually stepping
into the awful vehicle alone with Green ; but like some
other valiant characters we have heard of, when abso-
lutely occupying the dreaded position,, her courage and
self-possession rose with her despair. Seeing herself
fairly out-generalled into the ride, she determined that
she would herself out-general the gentleman, should he
attempt anything so embarrassing as an offer. Very
coolly, then, she at once herself commenced the conver-
sation by starting a political topic. Long and ingeniously
did she contrive to compel her companion's attention to
this ; nor did she exchange it for anything better suited
to his purpose, when she led him to the interminable
field of metaphysical speculations. In vain did he at-
tempt to lead to more sentimental topics and more per-
sonal affairs. There was no getting at them without
positive abruptness, and Green was too graceful for that.

52 VOICES FBOM THB KBMDU8KSAO

No gallantry or tender expression which he could throw
in, seemed noticed or heeded by Emma ; and so com*
pletely did she, by woman's ingenuity, fill every moment
with words and sentences, which left no opportunity for
tendresse, that Green, at length, completely annoyed, his
self-love, and perhaps a better love, wounded to the
quick, could not deny to himself that a mere country-
girl had proved more than a match for him, in the man-
agement of a flirtation, and evidently chose not to be his
match in the bonds of Hymen. In this humor, he soon
brought the ride to a close, and the free Emma ran up
to her own room, feeling as joyfully relieved as, two
hours before, she had been perplexed and cast down.

Either from disappointed affection, or a new change of
tactics, Green came no more to Mrs. Somers's for weeks ;
but as Emma assured her aunt that he had not offered
himself, while she herself seemed so sincerely free from
any undue regard for him, Mrs. Somers knew not how
to complain ; yet she shook her head wisely at Emma,
and really felt annoyed that the gentleman stayed so
perseveringly away.

CHAPTER III.

" Why, aunt, did you not tell me that Mr. Atwood was
dead?" said Emma, entering the parlor, with an open
letter in her hand, a few mornings after the ride with
Green.

" What in the world should I tell you for, after your
demonstration, that dead or alive, he was all the same to
you ? "

" But hear what my father writes : ' After all, you may

LOVE AND &OMANCE. 53

be right, Emma, about the daughters of my old partner,
Atwood, when you say that they look goodness itself, for,
if like their brother, I think they may claim nobleness
enough to spoil my theory. Since his father's death, he
has made such propositions of restitution to me, by let-
ters which breathe the soul of honor, while they struggle
to revere a father's memory, that my heart is really touched
with pity for the young man. ' I have,' says he, • by my
father's too partial will, inherited the largest portion of
his property, which leaves me free to make all the repa-
ration now possible for past loss ; and with my profession,
if God prospers me, my mother and sisters shall never
feel themselves injured by this act of mine.' I don't
know what to do. I don't want the money now, and as
they are used to it, they probably do ; but I think I will
conquer my repugnance to visiting New York, and go
and see the young man ; and as your leave of absence
has nearly expired, 1 will be there soon, to take you
home.' "

" Now there is good and bad news both in that letter,"
said her aunt. " I cannot spare you to go away yet."

" And, may I be forgiven, I do not wish to go," replied
Emma. " How can I leave you, and all that has charmed
me so much here, to go so far, far away ? How lonely I
shall be there now. Oh, if father would only live here,"
and Emma sighed.

In less than a month, her father was with them.
" How is it," said he to Mrs. S., " that you have made
Emma so fond of this great Babel, that she cannot return
with her old father to peaceful groves and quiet home ? "

" Dear, dear father, I can certainly go with you, wher-
ever your home is ; I was only wishing that you liked to
reside in the city, among civilized human beings."

" Civilized fiddlesticks," retorted her father. " Well,
it has not spoiled you, the great city," said he, gazing

54 VOICES 3R0M THE KENDU8KEAG.

fondly upon her. " The rose of health and happiness
still rests on your cheek ; but how comes it, that instead
of obeying my injunction about the family of my old
partner (whose soul rest in peace now), you have been
making love with his son ? "

" His son ! Now Heaven send J>ack your wits, father.
His son I have never seen to this hour."

" Here is a pretty riddle, then. Edmund Atwood has
been himself to see me, and accompanied me hither;
and on the way, requested my sanction to his love for
my daughter, and here my daughter says she has never
seen him. What joke is playing now ? "

The deep blush which suffused Emma's cheek at the
name of Edmund, thus accidentally pronounced, and
thus suggesting a clue to the identification of the un-
known being who had so interested her, made her father
forbear to urge the solution of the mystery then. Awafe
that Cupid has many a net, he prudently waited for Time
to reveal all.

In the evening, when Edmund Atwood and Emma
Crayton were formally introduced to each other, and she
recognized in him the one whom she had remembered
so well and thought of so often, it required more than all
that lady's self-possession to appear precisely as though
she was meeting one hitherto a stranger. This time, the
gentleman, well-knowing whom he should meet, excelled
the lady in presence of mind.

" Can Miss Crayton find it in her heart to believe, that
the brief impressions of a moment, give oftentimes as
true a revelation of character as the acquaintance of
years ? " said Edmund, in an undertone, yet sweet, like
that which had haunted her for months.

" Is such a belief quite safe with changeable human
beings ? " replied the lady.

" As safe, I hold, as that which we term a mature

LOVE AND ROMANCE. 55

judgment First impressions are with me sacred; ex
•perience has so often compelled me to give up what I
bad thought the mature judgment and return to them,
that I hold, more and more, in reverent estimation, those
first, rapid, electric revealings of the soul."

Emma spoke not, and he continued. " Might I hope
that the memory of the brief moment, in which one most
lovely stood before me in perfect simplicity and natural-
ness, remained on her mind, with a thousandth part of
the vividness with which it is stamped on my own, I
would willingly stake my hopes of earthly happiness on
the truth of that single impression."

Emma listened with downcast eye and a heightened
color, but words utterly failed her when she would have
uttered a suitable reply. By this time, Atwood had
drawn her into the library, opening from the front parlor.
Without relinquishing the arm which lay lightly in his,
he took down from the shelf a volume of English poetry,
and turning over the leaves, " Is the ballad a favorite
style of poetry with you, Miss Cray ton ?" said he, archly.

•• Oh forbear, forbear," said Emma, suddenly recover-
ing the use of her tongue, " if you have either pity or
mercy," and, coloring deeply, she removed his hand from
the book.

" Nay, nay, dear lady," and he now looked very se-
rious, and took the hand in his own that would have
prevented his search. " Pity and mercy are gifts which
your own sweet self must show to my presumption, else
the mistake I have made in my judgment of you will
prove the bitterest lesson life has yet brought to me."
He gazed earnestly into eyes that sunk beneath his
own, and waited for a reply, but Emma could as well
have lifted a world as have forced her tongue to pro-
nounce a syllable, so strongly did the tide of emotion
choke her utterance. Tears, which were always with

66 VOICES FROM THE KXNDU8KEAQ.

her the language of deep feeling, would have come to
her relief, but by a desperate effort she restrained them
from falling, and then, still leaving her hand in his, she
lifted for a moment those swimming eyes to Edmund,
with one look, which seemed to say, " You see jour
power, in mercy change this subject, or I shall lose all
power over these tell-tale tears." He understood her,
and, with a radiant glance of satisfied hope, he pressed
her hand to his lips, and began to speak of lighter topics
and other poetry than ballads. How wisely and how
well they talked, we will not now inquire.

" Smashed at last," said her aunt, laughingly, after
company had left; " and by just the right one after all"

" Ah, but wasn't it cruel in Horace Green to jilt me
so ? " said Emma, roguishly. " Let me whisper a secret
in your ear. One of the very best safeguards against
flirtation is sometimes a bit of romance, laid up in one
corner of your heart. You look wondering, but thereby
hangs a tale, which you shall know bye and bye."

" The motlier, I am told, was an excellent woman ! "
said her father to Emma, "so my theory is not quite
spoiled. And as to living in the city or the country, we
must compromise I believe. You shall come to me in
the summer, and I .will go to you in the winter. A
blessing on steamboats and railroads, for once."

57

SONG OP THE ANGELS.

FROM GOETHE 8 FAUST.

RAPHAEL.

The Sun in wonted wise is sounding,

With Brother-spheres his rival song,
And on his destined circuit bounding,

With thunder-step he speeds along.
The sight gives angels strength, though greater

Than angels' utmost thought sublime, —
And all thy wondrous works, Creator !

Still bloom as in Creation's prime.

GABRIEL.

And fleetly, thought surpassing, fleetly,

The earth's green pomp is spinning round,
And Paradise alternates sweetly

With night inscrutable, profound.
Here foams the sea, its broad wave hurling

Against the deep clifPs rocky base ;
And rock and sea away are whirling

In everlasting spheral chase.

And storms, with rival fury heaving,
From, land to sea, from sea to land,

Still, as they rave, a chain are weaving
Of deepest efficacy grand.

53 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

There burning Desolation blazes,
Precursor of the Thunder's way,

But, Lord, thy servants own with praises
The gentle progress of thy day.

ALL TOGETHER.

The sight gives angels strength, though greater
Than angels 7 utmost thought sublime,

And all thy glorious works, Creator !
Are fresh as in Creation's prime.

59

THE STAR.

Among the stars that travel on
Through the broad realms of space,

One distant star, a little one,
Glow'd in its quietness.

Day after day, night after night,

It glimmered, feebly glimmered there,

Unheeded was its lonely light,
Unknown it was — that little star.

There, round its circle hurrying,

If it could think, it doubtless thought

Itself a very glorious thing,
And truly, wherefore should it not ?

Because of other worlds, the light
Had never travelled yet so far ;

It only knew itself was bright, —
Poor little lonely star.

But time will fly, and so will light,
And light and time together flew,

And on that star's bewildered sight
The circling worlds their glory threw.

Surprised, confused, it wheeled about
And viewed the wonders o'er and o'er,

Fancied its own dim light went out
Their overcoming beams before.

60 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAO.

And fain it would have hid away,
Could it have found a corner where ;

Or quench'd in vapors damp its ray ; —
Yet glimmered on that little star.

And soon it felt the influence sweet
Of their purer, brighter glow,

And meekly dared their eye to meet,
And even longed itself to show.

And when time had passed away. —
Time will fly and soon is gone -*-

Some scatterings of a broken ray,
To other worlds came shining on.

Fair orbs, so glorious and gay !
i They for the glimmerer little cared,
And hurrying on their endless way,
The stars just winked, the planets stared.

Worthless indeed the shining seemed,
Which, such a speck could on them shed,

Yet as it more distinctly beam'd,
It had "some light," they said.

And they confessed it had a right
To be, and shine, as well as they ;

It never would eclipse their light,
Nor yet obstruct their way.

So they together travelled on,
Though distant from each other far,

The worlds that with such splendor shone,
And that little twinkling star.

61

A VISION OF BANGOR, IN THE TWENTIETH
CENTURY.

I am not a neiVous man, or one addicted to seeing vis-
ions and dreaming dreams, but once, as I journeyed
through the wilderness of this world, I had a dream,
" which was not all a dream," but partly a vision of the
future, like those vouchsafed to the clairvoyant in his
magnetic state. I do not know that I had been magnet-
ized, and yet, I half suspect that distant passes had been
made at me, or some charmed tooth-pick or pencil-case
had been charged with the subtle essence, and put under
my pillow to work the wondrous devilment I would
charge no one rashly, and yet truth compels me to state
facts, and then, as the newspapers say, a candid public
will judge, whether or no I have been fairly dealt with.
I am one of the unfortunate victims, selected, I know not
on what principle, who were months since pencilled
down on gilt-edged note-paper in a fair Italian hand, as
the masculine contributors to the " Bangor Book," to
"do" the rough and solid work in this superstructure of
the wit and wisdom of Down East. The list was soon
exhibited, by an inexorable woman, and the fatal cross
stood thereon, like the marks on the death roll of the
Roman triumvirate. At first, I laughed outright, and
snapped my fingers in defiance, and indignant resistance.
I write in a book ! ! A Bangor book ! I, of all men !

"The dog star rages."

For a wonder, like the wonder in heaven, the woman
4

62 VOICES FROM THE KENDU8KEAG.

said nothing, but looked calm, confident and secure, and
I began to feel like the entwined fly in the web of the
spider. I was left alone, after a significant nod, and the
single words, — "prepare, the time is short" I mused
awhile, and then rushed into business. In its vortex I
actually drove, at times, from my mind the injunction aod
the warning. But time passed, and I felt a gentle pull,
and " is it ready ?" in a low, soft, musical voice, fell upon
my ear. " What?" said I. " The contribution in prose
or verse," said she. " Ready, my dear woman, — no, and
never will be." " Yes, it will be. The paper is made on
which it will be written ; the pen and ink are waiting.
Beware of the third time of asking." And she turned
away to speak to another of the unfortunate listed men.
I only heard her say the printers will reach your page
next week — and there can be no delay — the boy will
call for copy — "I defy the devil and all his works,"
said the incipient author. I could not resist whispering
in his ear, " So you may, but who can stand against the
determined purpose of a woman ?" (His article appears
in the volume, and stands the voluntary offering of an
unpractised author, to the great curse of humanity.) I
turned again to my fair dictator, determined to break
away from the strange enchantment, for I began actually
to feel a sort of itching in my fingers, and to look with
unwonted interest towards the ink-standish and the writ-
ing-desk. I found myself parting my hair, and smoothing
it down and opening my vest and turning down my collar
a la Byron. I saw myself in the mirror, and there was a
new and most ludicrously grotesque, sentimental, half-
poetic and half-transcendental, and altogether lackadaisi-
cal stare of the eyes, and dropping of the eyebrows.
The case began to look alarming. Everything about me
looked " blue." The " cacoethes scrzbendi" was developing

A VISION Of BANGO&. 63

its symptoms, and whether taken in the natural way or
by inoculation, it threatened a fatal result.

I roused myself for an impressive appeal. I knew that
woman was ever ready to succor and relieve distressed
humanity. " My good friend," said I, " listen to reason."
" Listen to a fiddle-stick ! " ( She did not say a " fool," but
she did look a little contemptuous, and more impatient)
u Why do you resist ? Are you not * listed/ and booked,
and have we not devoted ten pages to you ?" " But how
can I write ? I never wrote a line for a book in my life ;
and the idea of having my words, written by my hands,
actually printed, and hot-pressed, and screwed and bound
in real hard covers, is entirely overwhelming." " Now
does not this pass all endurance ?" said she ; " that you,
and others like you, self-styled • lords of the creation,'
with fierce whiskers, and bioad shoulders, and the as-
sumed air of independence, and with the roughness of
bears, should not have the heart of a hen-partridge —
whilst we women, timid, delicate and retiring, as is our
nature and destiny, are ready to go boldly forth to the
public, and to write our prettiest and our best, and have
it printed, too, solely from our love for the cause of the
fatherless and the destitute." " But think of the Bangor
public, and the cynical and severe critics in their midst,
who, not beiug willing to write, are yet over-willing to
carp, and ridicule and disparage." " Think of the or-
phans," said she! "Think of the reviewers," said I!
" What reviewers" said she, " would ever think our down
east book worthy of notice. " That *s true again," said I.
"Then write your article, not having the fear of the
reviewers before your eyes."

I went home, feeling like one spell-bound. " Seven
women shall take hold of one man," was the text of scrip-
ture for this night's meditation. Must I write ! and if so,

64 T0ICS8 FROM THE KENDU8KEAG.

what shall I write ? I was in a fix, and as a last resort I
went to bed.

I did not search for witch-hazel or magnetized imple-
ments, as I before said, but I soon fell asleep, and my
last thoughts were of steel pens, paper manufactories and
printers' ink. I have an indistinct remembrance of a
half-sleeping and half-waking vision of a ragged and suf-
fering orphan, who held up to me a ream of foolscap, and
asked me, in plaintive tones, to write, and then she
strangely vanished, repeating the line of the children's
play, " He can do little that can't do this." I turned, but
my destiny was before me. Methought I arose, deter-
mined to escape in the open air, from the sight of objects
calculated to remind me of the unperformed task, and
with the lurking thought that perchance I might gather
materials or suggestions to be brain-woven into the fatal
" article." In a moment I was in " the square," but it
was strangely altered. I could not recognize a single
tenement. I gazed upward and saw on one granite front
the letters — " Erected 1 938." There was an appearance
of age about the building. It looked discolored and gray.
As far as the eye could reach were ranges of high and
splendid stores. What does all this mean ? I involuntarily
asked ; and as I spoke, I saw a man the exact image of

T , and felt relieved. He was a tall, lank, long-sided

Yankee, six feet and two inches in height. I addressed
him familiarly. He gave me a keen and independent
look, such as a Yankee only can give, and replied, " You
have the advantage of me." " How so?" " You seem
to know me, but I do not know you." In the sauciness of a
dream I thought, I am not sure that it is for the advantage
of any one to know you. But I was polite and said noth-
ing of the kind. " Why, certainly, your name is T ."

" O yes." " You know me, A ?" " Never heard the

name in these parts." " Why, did we not board together

a vision or BjjraoR. 65

at the old Hatch house, in the times of Thomas?" " Never
heard of such a house." tt Pray," said I, utterly con-
founded, u who was your great grandfather?" " I don't
know," but like an American, always looking ahead, he
added, " I know who my son is, and. there he stands."
w . Who were your relations ? " "I don't know as I ever
had any relations nearer than uncles." " Do you live in
Bangor?" "Yes, I was born and grew up here, mail
and boy, sixty odd years." " Where is Taylor's corner?"
" There," said he, pointing to a splendid block, covered
with signs of Banks, Insurance offices and brokers. " It
has been so named for more than a hundred years — and
is still owned by descendants of the original possessor."
" I am glad of it," said I, " if the successors are as honest
men as he was." " Can you show me the mark of high
water in the great freshet of 1846." " No," said he, " I
have heard of that great rise, and there have been a
great many attempts to find some stone or mark to show
the height, but strange to say, the antiquarians of that
day were so busy in hunting up antediluvian relics, and
taking the measure of the Buskahegian giant, that they
forgot that they, and their days, would ever become an-
tiquity." " But where," said I, "is the Eenduskeag
stream ? " " Under those buildings and bridges," said he J
"if yon will go up above the 'Lovers Leap, 9 yon can see
it— and you can get a glimpse of it near the market"
As we passed along, I saw. Jerome's X press office in
large letters, and then I at onee felt at home. "And
there," said he, " is the man himself — a little stiff in the
joints, for he is onr oldest inhabitant, and nobody know*
how old he is. But he is as good as new, and ready
always expressly for the occasion. He says he. hopes to
live until he discovers something a little quicker than
lightning, and then he shall be ready to be gathered in."

C6 VOICES FROM THE KJQTOU8KEAG.

A familiar nod and ready smile from my old friend, as-
sured me that in him there was " no mistake."

The market, a long and commodious building, extend-
ing up the middle of the stream, reminded me of the
plan I saw in 1836. It was well filled with fat carcasses/
and fatter men. " Oleaginous " was written on every
side — man and beast. " How many people have you in ;
this city?" "About one hundred thousand," said he,
"according to the last census in 1970."

I began to be wearied, and slept into an office to rest.
I took up the paper of the day, Sept. 10, 1978, and called
" the Bangor Daily News." It was one of twelve dailies
and numerous able weeklies, as I was told. I read, as
I could, the news column, but I found many new words,
and many old ones strangely altered. I gathered from
the paragraphs, that the Southern portion of the South
American continent, including Cape Horn, had yielded
to the inevitable destiny of the Saxon race, and had been
conquered and annexed, because they would not give up
without fighting. " Later news from the State of Pern,"
a paragraph headed, " Presidential election," attracted
my attention. It contained a column of States, fifty-six
in number, and at the bottom, " We have partial returns
by telegraph, of the voting yesterday at Oregon city. One
of the candidates residing in that region, gives great in-
terest to the votes of the Pacific States." The editor,
who was evidently a little of an antiquarian, had hunted
lip an old file of newspapers, and had copied as curiosi-
ties some of the notices of the year 1848, of the " Whig,
Democratic and Liberty " parties, and their stirring ap-
peals — and the editor adds, " Can it be believed, that in
1848, men were actually held as chattels, and sold at
auction like oxen. We yesterday saw a shipmaster,
who told us that he had seen and talked with black men
in the south, who were once slaves, and they and their

A VISION OF BANGOR. 67

children had been sold by an auctioneer. Thank heaven,
we have seen the last of that horrid system." I took up
another paper, in phonographic words. The editor com-
plained, that, although the reformers had worked dil-
igently more than a century, yet the mass of men would
persist in rejecting their improvements. As far as I could
judge, the parties in politics were divided mainly on the
question of the union of the States.

In an adjoining building was the telegraph office. I
looked and saw that instead of wires, they had, near the
ground, rails of a small size. I asked why this change,
and was told that they sent passengers on them, driven
by electricity to Boston in four minutes. " But how can
the human system stand such velocity." " O f we * stun '
them," the fellow said, " with the Letheon, and then tie
them in boxes on little wheels, and they go safely, and
come out bright. There are rival lines," he continued,
" and great efforts are being made to bring the passage
within three minutes. We have to put on rather a large
dose of the Letheon when we attempt this, but the pas-
sengers all say they will run the risk of never waking
again, rather than be beat. We have had to bury a few,
but what is that to saving a minute, and beating the ras-
cally opposition line ? The people all say ' go ahead.' "
. By a sudden transition, I remember not how, I found
myself at Mount Hope, the final resting-place of the dead.
The avenue was shaded delightfully. At the base of
the conical hill were two beautiful ponds, surrounded by
the weeping willow — that long cherished emblem of
sadness and mourning. The garden in front was full of
beautiful and fragrant plants. And the grounds sacred
to sepulture were filled with all the varied monuments
which affectionate love could devise, from the uprising
•haft and costly sculpture, to the single rose tree, or the
modest violet. I gazed around on the forest, natural and

G6 VOICES FROM THE KMNDUSKEAG.

transplanted, which covered all the public and private
grounds, and the solid masonry of the stone wall which
enclosed the whole area. I sought for familiar names,
but long in vain. I found old tombstones at last, soma
lying on the ground, and others all bnt illegible. I traced
names once familiar and dear, and many, that, had it not
been the confusion of a dream, I should have known
were now young and full of life and promise. On the
tombstone of one who was daily in my sight, the beauti-
ful, the admired in the midst of the years of yonng ex*

istence, I read — " Sacred to the memory of ,

who died aged 85 years : bowed down with the weight of
years, she was ready to depart" I saw a funeral proces-
sion enter the grounds, and the tears of heartfelt anguish
which fell fast and freely from those parents' eyes a*
they saw the child of their affections consigned to the
silent tomb, testified to me, that as of yore " man was
made to mourn," and that the same hearts yet beat in
human bosoma I saw my own name on a marble head-
stone, but the tall rank grass hid the date from my vision;
but I read such a long list of unremetabered virtues, that
a smile which covered my face was very near being
turned into a hearty laugh at this, to me, tangible evi-
dence of the value of monumental epitaphs.

Anon the scene changed, and I was on the shore of
the Kendtrakeag, looking upward to that firm pile of the
everlasting rocks, rising perpendicularly from the shore.
Man had not changed this, and here I was on my own
ground. I saw two lovers in their quiet, slow, and ab-
sorbed walk — as they talked in low and touching tones
— and watched the eyes which spoke more effective
language than the tongue, and heard them utter vows and;
build airy castles of future happiness, and I felt that,
although art had wrought such mighty revolutions all
around me, there was the same interchange of the soft

A VISION Off BJJTOOE. 69

affection* of the heart as in my own youthful days, the
same undoubting trust and unclouded hopes for the fu-
ture, which no experience of others could ever calm or
conquer.

Again I was in the busy haunts of men. I heard them
tsoaversing at the corners, — " Dollars, — thousands ! —
great bargain ! — worth his hundred thousand/' were the
emphatic words. This sounded as familiar talk to my
ears. The dollar still remained the representative of
value, and. the idol of men.

. And now I seemed to feel and know that I was in the
midJst of the twentieth century, and that I was but a
spectator* looking at posterity. I was not awed, but cu-
rious* . The man I had before seen was at my side.
".My friend ! " said I, " do boards sell readily at 21 — 14
-<-8»'? He opened wide his eyes* but said nothing.
\ What is the price of stumpage ? Does the lumber hold
out of a good quality, or is it shaky and concosy? Is Vea»
sie's boom large enough to hold all that comes down ?
Hoto does, the wood scale hold out ? " I poured these
questions upon him, but he shook his head in despair.
" I don't know what you mean — your terms are all Greek
at Indian to me.' " You can at least tell me how many
million feet of boards are sawed and shipped yearly on
the rivers V 1 u Million feet ! " said he, " I never heard of
inch & quantity ! " "Is not lumber your great staple for
export?" " Lumber!., why, we have not shipped a
cargo for fifty years. We have to search closely to get
hemlock enough to use here, and as to good pine, we
have, to depend on Oregon. 1 ' " And how do you get it ? "
"O*" said he, "by. the Oregon railroad, and the lakes,
and the St. Laurence railroad. You see the depot over
there." " And what is your business here ? " " All kinds
Of trading, and great manufacturing establishments of
.eottoa, woollen and mixed goods, to supply the. markets
4*

70 VOICES IBOM THB KSNDUSKEAG.

of the world. Do you think we could have built op such
a city as this, by chipping up logs with a saw. That
might have helped our great-grandfathers, when they
lived along side of the Indians. But the vast factories
at Treat's Falls, on the costly dam, and these long rows
of warehouses — these extended streets — were never
built by the lumber trade. See, yonder, the Cathedra^
and near to it the spire of the Stone church, and all around
you the evidences of thrift, and industry, and improve-
ment See that splended granite front; within those
walls is the Bangor Public library, open to all, and free
to the poor and the rich alike, containing seventy thou-
sand volumes, founded in 1848 — and ever honored be
the name of Vattemare, who first started the plan — and
thanks to those, our predecessors, who followed his sug-
gestions." " Permit me," said I, " to inquire as to so-
cial arrangements ; do men and women yet live in .fam-
ilies, or did the reformers of my day succeed in introduc-
ing the community system." " O," said he, " that non-
sense died a natural death, and with it the kindred ab-
surdities of women's rights to participate in government
and to direct affairs out doors as well as in — all this was
given up long ago, except, that now and then some old,
cross-grained or disappointed maid, sets up a sort of snarl,
but nobody minds her, our women bake and darn stock-
ings and tend the babies, and mend their husbands'
clothes, teach their children the way they should go, and
walk, with them in it, and read their bibles and as many
books as they can find time to. They tried those schemes
to which you allude, a great while ago — but nature was
too strong for abstract theories, and after a considerable
struggle between the sexes, they both became satisfied
that it was best to compromise, and let the women rule in-
doors, and the men out/ " Not much of a compromise,''
said I, " for the women always did that." " Well," said he,

A VISION OF BANGOR. - 71

" they were satisfied to give up the new schemes, (the
man somehow seemed now to be aware of my actual
condition) for they tried their hands a little at govern-
ment" " Pray, tell me about it." " Why, they fret-
ted and teased until in several of the states the peo-
ple, for the sake of quiet, admitted them to a partici-
pation on equal footing with the men. The first diffi-
culty was in voting at the polls. It was impossible to
keep the women within party lines. They would vote
for the youngest and handsomest and most agreeable
man ; and they would see and hear all the candidates,
and insisted upon good looks and genteel clothes ; and
when their own sex were candidates, it was almost im-
possible to make one woman vote for another. They all
liked the men best. But when the legislature met it was
impossible to get along at all. One lady had her hair to
dress, and could not be in that day. Another was shop-
ping — there were such dear beauties of silks just im-
ported. Another must have leave of absence, for her
baby must be looked after. Another would not attend
because there was no looking-glasses in committee rooms.
And yet another because her milliner had made a horrid
fit. And those that were there would not observe any
rules, but each insisted on talking without stint or limit
And then on committees, the reports were not forthcom-
ing, for the bachelors had been making love to the maidB.

•' The members of both sexes were all good looking, but
the public business needed some rougher outsides and
Bome better heads than those which belonged to the Ado-
nises of the halls.

" They once held a private session on matters which re-
quired the most profound secrecy. The doors were
closed, windows barred; but the next day, before the
morning papers were out, the whole matter was the town
talk. Upon investigation, it was found that each of the

72 VOICES JROM THE KXNDU8KEAO.

female members had told it, but in strict confidence, as
they all declared, to a female friend."

I. found myself strolling in Broadway, and stood be-
neath the shade of aged and venerable and wide spread
ing elms, " still wearing proudly their panoply of green/'
extending as far as the eye could reach on each aide of
the spacious central walk. I saw the qhildrea at their
sports beneath the arching canopy, and beard the same
animated cries and joyous shouts, and earnest vocifera-
tions, which had always been the characteristics of child-
hood. I saw the marbles and the hoops, and the bat and
ball — all familiar and unaltered. A bevy of girls and
boys were engaged in reading books. I looked over their
shoulders and saw " Mother Goose's Melodies," with the
old pictures, " Robinson Crusoe," in his hairy skin suit,
and one sober miss intent on the " Pilgrim's Progress."
It seemed there were some books that would never be
consigned to oblivion.

I passed into a bookstore, but I remember only that I
saw the old Saxon Bible in King James's translation,
Shakspeare, and Milton, and Robert Burns, and Don
Quixote. I asked if they had a copy of the Jtangor
Book? "O yes," said the shopman, and handed me a
thick octavo. It was the Bangor Directory for 1978. "I
mean," said I, "the work published in 1847 ; surely that
must have survived, for it was preserved by Attic salt in
blue covers, and contained the best efforts of the Penob-
' scot mind in prose and verse ; we all looked to posterity
for our reward." " Never heard of it," said the man. A
little dried-up specimen of a man who was poring over a
book in a corner, addressing me, said, " I have seen that
.book, I am quite sure, at least the outside of it, in one of
,the alcoves of the rooms of the Antiquarian Society, la-
belled 'the day of small things/ where are kept the rel-
ics and curiosities of the first settlements on the river,

A VISION. Of BANGOR. 73

and also Indian gouges, axes and hatchets, miniature birch
canoes, and the portrait of the Buskahegian Giant, so
called." " Is there not also one of the striped pig ? "
'* I never saw any," quoth he. " Speaking of the striped
pig," said I, " have you any licensed grog-shops ? " " O
no, we have conquered Sing Alcohol, and are all temper-
ance men now ; and the ladies of the present time look
with wonder and dismay in their countenances, when
they are informed that their sex did once even here by
their example countenance the use of wine as a beverage
in their evening levees ! "

Once more in the street I moved towards my home as
I remembered it As I passed onward, I was attracted
by a beautiful arch at the entrance of a substantial, ele-
gant, and commodious building, bearing this inscription :
" The Bangor Female Orphan Asylum, founded in 1839,
and sustained by the benevolence of its. citizens." I
looked with interest on the groups of healthy, happy, and
well conditioned children, but alas ! I was reminded of
the dreaded " article," and the face* before so pleasant
seemed to •ehange into looks of reproach and regret I
involuntarily exclaimed — " When shall I find a subject,
and finish the task appointed me ? " I looked up and
recognized the same orphan face that appeared at my
bedside, tranquil and satisfied ; and the little urchin with
a triumphant smile replied, — " It is completed. 1 '

.76 V0ICB8 JBOM TBM KBDN9K1AG.

" Aye, count the strokes of the beaming, heart !
Your babes are not yet dead I
Still heaves the breast of your eldest-bom ; —
Bring forth the last hoard of bread!.

" More, mote, Dor the "baby's" pleading lips !
And. if the scant store shall fail,. .
Oh, eke it out with a mother's love, .
Till we furl oar swelling sail! ti

" Then shall the .first-born look up and live,
Nor vain be the baby's, plea ;
And the wan mother shall bless the day.
When the " Macedon" trod the sea.

".Receive us, sons of the Island Queen I
We've gifts from our Pilgrim home !
The treasures we bear, in pur good ship's hold
From the, Yankee heart have come !

1 V: Ohy spurn them not, though our message of peace
And the golden stores we. unkind, /;

, Are blent with tfre blush of honest shame
For the blood, we have |eft behind I

." And help. us to pray that God speed the day
When bread for a starving land . /
May not, as it gees, on its healing way, .
Proceed from a crimson hand ! f ■

'? K(uzza ! Huzza ! for the enemy's ship,
The engine of death and strife,
That left our ports with cannon and grape,
Returning with bread and life ! "

Such from the shore was the answering strain,
As the brave ship touched the. strand ;

And thus in mempry's grateful topes
Glad Erin saluted the band. ,, . ..

THB "MACEDONIAN." T)

" She went, among bosoms rife with life
The arrows of death to shed ;
She comes, in the name of the Prince of Peace,
To put life within our dead !

" The messenger ' dove/ her mission proclaims
A tale for the world to hear j
That the ' deluge ' of war begins to subside,
And the ( olive tree tops ' appear !

" The harbinger dove, — she ushers the day
When the flood shall utterly cease,
And men's gory hands no longer shall dare
To profane the altars of peace.

" Fitly and well does she emblem that hour,
When stilled shall be earthly strife,
With the tide of carnage that erst she bore,
Transformed to the tide of life !

" Then three brave cheers for the enemy's ship,
The engine of death and strife !
We sent her away with cannon and grape ;
We greet her with bread and life ! **

78 VOICES HIOH THE KKNDU8KEAG.

ASA GLOVER, ESaUIRE.

"Yes, it looks splendidly/' said Asa Glover, Esq., as
he complacently turned himself round before his mir-
ror — "'Tis a perfect fit" — lovingly he stroked his arms
and breast — "superb cloth, too," — gently he turned up
the flaps and held them to the light — "lined with the
finest watered silk — yes, it is just the thing."

11 And I paid for it," whispered a hoarse voice, seem-
ingly close behind him. Glover turned sharply round to
see what impudent intruder had dared to come into his
room and join in his toilet colloquy with himself. But
though he looked into the closet, and under the bed,
and out of the open window, no person was to be seen.
" It is strange," he muttered, " how I could make such a
mistake. It must have been that drunken Bob Morgan,
going along the street and bragging as usual that he has
paid for his grog. The rascal wont be able to do it long,
though ;" and Glover chuckled at the thought.

Quite reassured, he closed the window, turned back
to his mirror, and began anew to sing the praises of his
coat. " Yes," murmured he, as his approving glance
rested on his passable figure and tolerable features,
" even the fastidious and aristocratic Miss Norland must
be satisfied with my appearance in this dress. As to the
coat, the city of New York cannot yield a better. It is
altogether a wedding suit worthy of my bride elect"

" True as the gospel, 'Squire, and I paid for it," rejoined
the voice again, with a drunken hiccough. Glover was

ASA GLOVER, SBQ. 79

i

now really startled. "Who is that?" he sternly ex-
claimed.

" It is I, Robert Morgan, Esq."

" You ! Where are you ? And how came you here ? "

" To settle scores."

"I cannot attend to business this evening. Don't
you see I am trying on my wedding suit?"

" Yes, and as I paid for your wedding suit, I now ask
you to pay me."

" And I will pay you, impudent, drunken rascal as you
are," cried Glover, turning savagely round to face his
supposed opponent. Until now he had carried on his
part in this singular dialogue, not without astonishment
indeed, but seemingly unconscious that Morgan was not
actually present. When, however, he satisfied himself
a second time, by peering into every corner, that he was
apparently entirely alone, he was really appalled, and
turning pale with guilty fear, whispered, "what can it
mean?" He placed his lamp once more on the table,
and stood for a while quite still, eagerly gazing into every
part of the room, to detect, if possible, the daring in-
truder.

" Pshaw ! it was all fancy. I must have been dream*
iftgt ■ A man is apt to dream, perhaps, when he is going
to be married, ha ! ha ! and he laughed, very softly at
first, but hearing no echo, he grew bolder, and laughed
aloud; it was so droll, the idea of Bob Morgan's pay-
ing for his wedding suit. So he slowly took it off, and
began to fold it up very nicely, just as it came from the
hands of the tailor. He soon became so absorbed that
lie forgot the previous occurrence, and once more ex«*
daimed aloud, " It 's a beauty ! "

"And I paid for it," again said the voice.
. Glover now grew desperate. " You paid for it, ha ! ha !
— and what did you pay for it, Bob ? "

8Q TOICBS FROM THI KBNBUBKKAG.

i

"A heavy price, 'Squire. First I paid my time,
which was once money to me, and which I consumed in
your shop, drinking morning bitters, and eleven o'clock
and afternoon drams ; next I paid my good name; my
once unstained character ; I paid the happiness of my
wife and children, and then their substance) in the shape
of as good a farm as ever was seen, which you compell-
ed me to mortgage for rum, and when I resolved tor re*
deem it, and myself too, by taking the pledge against
drinking, it was you who laughed me out of it, and placed
the burning temptation in my hand, the smell of which
you knew I could not resist All this I paid, 'Squire, and
more too, for your wedding suit. Was it not a pretty
price?"

" And was it my fault that you chose to drink up your
property and make a beast of yourself? You cannot say
that I set you such an example."

A groan was the only answer from his mysterious in-
terlocutor, but from a distant corner of the rooin proceed-,
ed a deep voice, which slowly uttered, " It must needs
be that offences come, but woe unto him through whom?
they come." Glover stood perfectly aghast at this new
address. His hair raised itself on end, and the paleness
of mortal terror overspread his features. Be scarcely
dared look in the direotion of the voice, hut without
looking, he bec&me conscious of the presence of various-
figures, whether mortal or spectre, he was too confused
even to conjecture. Whatever, they were, their number
rapidly, inoreased ; they crowded around him, apparently
consuming the very air with their burning breaths, and
though -he tossed Jnis arms wildly about him;: and cried
to them to keep off, yet strU they pressed on and on.
One tall and stately apparition, of grave cotmteriance and
fnajestic port, stepped in front of him. " Asa Glover,

ASA GLOVER, B8Q. 61

thou miserable contemner of my authority ! Hast thou
not justly incurred my penalties? Hast thou not contin-
ued to deal out " liquid damnation " to thy fellow-beings,
contrary to my repeated enactments ? "

" Aba! no! no ! There I defy you. I have never vio-
lated faw; I am safe on that score."

" Never violated law ? What ! have you not been sel-
ling ' death and destruction/ in the shape of intoxicat-
ing liquors these three years, without a license ? "

"Ha! ha! you cannot entrap me there, for I have al-
ways taken care to keep the law on my side. I am no
rumselfer 1 assure you ; catch me at that if you can."

" Beware, Asa Glover," exclaimed another being, who
now came forward with even a more dignified manner
thau the first speaker, and with looks bent heavenward,
" beware of lies and cunning inventions. You may es-
cape my brother of the statute book with your wretched
evasions, but you cannot escape me. I know very well
that you pretend io give away the poison, while you charge
an enormous profit on some trifle of tobacco or cloth.
Such tricks may save your pockets from a fine, but will
never answer the demands of Divine law. Too long
hast thou been a vampyre, to suck the heart's blood of
thy unguarded fellows. Thou hast been repeatedly
warned and exhorted to repent, without avail, and now
I deliver thee over to "

" To me," shrieked a hideous looking being, coming
forward with arms extended, as if to clutch his victim.
He bore some faint resemblance to the human form, but
with features of such distorted ugliness, that no ray of
gentleness softened their gloom. Remorse was written
on every lineament. His garment was covered with pic-
tures drawn in lines of fire ; moving panoramas, repre-
senting scenes in which Glover too well knew himself to
have been chief actor. There, on that dark background

82 toice8 raoM the ksxdusksag.

was his life's history, but in what different colors had self-
interest painted its events ! The first scene which met
his gaze presented two quiet farm-houses; which he
easily recognized, and in one of which he passed his
early years. From this house he saw a boy slyly pro-
ceed to the barn of the neighbor to rob the hen's nest*
conveying the eggs to his own poultry yard, and then
carrying them to his mother, who paid himself and his
brother a premium on all they collected. He saw this
boy afterward stealthily contrive to abstract the same
eggs from his mother's store-room and sell them to the
village trader. Well he remembered that by this and
kindred means he always possessed a larger share of
pocket money than his less subtle brother, who often
wondered at but never divined his secret. Thus early
did the seed which his over thrifty parents sowed in a
too congenial soil take root and bear fruit — in iniquity.
He saw portrayed his career as a young man, low, wily,
and intriguing, the deceiver of innocence, the betrayer
of trust, but everywhere and in all cases lining his own
purse with ill-gotten gold. Ho saw himself behind his
own counter, luring on with oily phrase and tempting cor-
dials a neighbor to ruin, and again seated in his count-
ing-room with the same individual in a state of inebri-
ate folly, and in this state induced to sign documents,
which eventually gave himself unlimited control over the
property of his victim. He beheld the inside of a prison
cell. On its hard couch sat a young, but wretched and
despairing being. The convict turned his head, and
Glover recognized the orphan son of one who had died
in misery and destitution, such as only the drunkard can
know. He could not deny that his own oppressions had
driven this boy into desperate courses, which had finally
landed him in the state prison. On the other side there
were a multitude of men with red and bloated faces, who

ASA GLOVER, ESQ. 88

leered on Kim with their bloodshot eyes, and women,
whose gaunt and emaciated forms he could not fail to
recognize, holding by the hand their shrivelled and starv-
ing offspring. Wives pointed with one hand to their de-
graded husbands, and mothers to their besotted sons,
while they extended the other to him, and with eyes
raised to heaven they seemed to call God to witness that
he was the cause of all this misery. His brained reeled,
and striking his forehead with his clenched fist, he sank
powerless into a chair, closing his eyes to shut out, if
possible, the horrible vision. The effort was useless, the
whole spectacle was still present in all its dread reality.
Some irresistible fascination compelled him to gaze on
these terrible mementoes of the past, while the tablets of
memory easily supplied the key to their enigmas. The
dread being spake, — " Hast thou seen enough of this
garment, Asa Glover? Look at it faithfully, for thou
thyself must wear it"

"Oh spare me! spare me this once," entreated the
miserable man, extending his arms imploringly, " I am
just about to be married. Wouldst thou have me present
myself to my bride clad in such a suit ? She would die
of horror ! "

" It is one which thou thyself hast woven. It has taken
thee thirty years to complete it, and it Jits thee well ; bet-
ter far than yon tissue of broadcloth. Is it not meet
she should see thee as thou art ? "

" Oh ! but she at least is innocent. Let me not be her
destruction. Send me thy gentler brother, Repentance
— to him I will take heed."

" He has often warned thee, but thou hast as often
mocked him, and declared that ' none but the weak r#-
pent:"

" I own h — but now I see my folly. I will take heed

84 voices raoM XHK kxndusksao

to his counsels,, and restore doable to the wrongjed ones,
if thou wilt leave me this once."

" See that thou dost, and remember that if I corne
again, I shall not be bought off with promises merely.
Be warned in season, and know that when once I clothe
thee with this robe, it adheres to thee forever/ So say-
ing, the figure began to retreat, its features grew less and
less distinct, until the vision at length passed away, and
left the wretched man so overcome by these various* ag-
itations, that he sank on the floor in a dpep swoon.

CHAPTER II.

Three years had passed away, and Asa Glover, Esq.,
had gone on adding dollar to dollar, farm to farm, railroad
share to bank stock, until he had become one of the
wealthiest men in the town of Pemberfon. Had he
kept his promise? Had he restored double to the in-
jured ones? If he had, it was done strictly in secret
. It was not permitted his left hand to perceive what his
right hand had performed. Many hard things were whis-
pered about him in private, but he was a man of too
much consequence not to be treated with seeming re-
spect in public He even " enjoyed the confidence of
his fellow-citizens," evinced by their placing him in vari-
ous offices of trust and responsibility. Having, at the
time now spoken of, been elected one of the overseers of
the poor, he was accompanied by his coadjutor, Mr. Price,
on his first visit of inspection to the Alms-house, where
they intended to introduce some administrative reforms.

Just as they were entering the grounds, they met a

ASA 6L0YER, ESQ. 85

coffin borne on the shoulders of four inmates of the dwel-
ling, and followed by a haggard looking woman, with two
small, thin, and prematurely old children. And who is
ibis that goes hence to the silent grave thua splendidly
attended ?

" Battle his bones over the stones,
'Tis a pauper , whom nobody owns."

The officials alighted at the door, and upon enquiry
which of the alms-house residents had paid the last debt
of nature, were answered, " Oh ! it is only Morgan. He
came here about a month ago in a decline, and died two
days since."

" What Morgan ? " asked Glover, with a start.

" Bob Morgan, once called Robert Morgan, Esq."

" And that wretched looking woman was his wife ? "

" Yes, and a poor broken down creature she is, with no
health and spirits left 11

" And the children ? "

" The eldest two have been put out to service, the
youngest you saw." ~

Glover shuddered. Oh God! had it come to this?
Well he remembered when first he came to Pemberton,
how fortunate he considered himself when invited by
the young, handsome, and sprightly Mrs. Morgan to take
tea at her house ; and how sedulously he improved this
slight opening to ingratiate himself into the favor of her-
self and husband, until he became the chosen compan-
ion of the latter. And this was the result He could
not but know his own work. He could not deny that he
had strode into his present high position over the pros-
trate fortunes, the blighted hopes, the bitter experiences,
of this woman and these children.

Such remembrances left him little appetite for discuss-
ing questions of poor-house reform, and though he me-
5

86 VOICES FROM THE RENDU 8KEAG.

chanically followed Mr. Price over the premises, yet he
did not understand a single plan which that gentleman
and the alms-house keeper proposed. Even there seemed
to run on before him the same dread being whose former

visit had so filled him with terror.

" What is the matter, Mr. Glover?" asked Mr. Price, in
astonishment. " Your eyes are rolling fearfully, and you
look pale enough to faint. Are you sick ? "

Recalled to himself by these words, Glover tried to
control his feelings and to shut out the terrible vision.
In vain. It went with him everywhere, wearing the
same awful garment with its frightful pictures, accom-
panied by even new horrors. The lines had grown deep-
er, broader, and more fiery, while hissing serpents seemed
ready to gnaw the vitals of its wearer. They went into
a room occupied by several old women, one of whom
was evidently in that slate, half imbecile, half insane,
into which misery or disease sometimes throws decaying
humanity. She sat chattering and gesticulating, some-
times addressing those who were present, but oflener
the absent or the dead. As they entered the room, she
sprang up, and raising her bony finger, exclaimed, "There
he is, there he is, I know him."

Already deeply moved by the preceding incidents,
Glover naturally applied this address to himself. " You
know me ! What do you mean, woman ? I never saw
you before."

This reply seemed to exasperate her; she came to-
wards him, and vehemently cried out, all the while shak-
ing her bony finger — " Yes, you are the very man. Jt
was you that destroyed my boy. It was you that taught
him to drink rum when he was clerk in your store ; and
there they say he gambled and stole; and you put him in
prison ; but he got out ; yes, got out, in spite of your locks
and bars ; — but now — Oh God ! where is he now ? "

ASA GLOVER, ESQ 67

•• Come, come, mother Rawson, enough of this, you are
troublesome," interposed the keeper, taking her gently
but firmly by v the arm, and leading her to a seat. She
was not easily subdued, however, but continued to cry
out — "My son must bear the shame- and disgrace, and
be hnnted from place to place, but you who held out the
temptation, who made him forsake the mother that bore
him, you live in peace, rich and honored. But remem-
ber, though ' the wicked man shall prolong his days in
his wickedness, yet shall God bring every secret work
into judgment," — and for you, and such as yon, who
have fattened yourselves and grown full upon the blood
and tears of the widow and the orphan, for you shall a
day come." And thus she continued to pour out her
anathemas upon Glover as long as he remained within
bearing.

The keeper sought to explain. " Mother Rawson is a
half crazy creature, who, after losing her husband, placed
all her hopes upon her only son, the last of five children,
and depended upon his exertions for the support of her
olcfage. The boy was clerk in a store, in this place,
many years since, where he became intemperate. This
led to other vices, and vices to crimes, until he became a
prison-breaker, and a fugitive from justice in Canada, if
he has not already come to the gallows there for felony,
as is reported. The conduct of the son crazed the mis-
erable mother, and she attacks all strangers as the au-
thors of her son s ruin, in the manner you heard. Any
reply only excites her the more." Though this narrative
was intended as an apology to Glover for the woman's
rudeness, it in fact only drove the arrow deeper into his
bosom. Memory was busy, and the words of this woman
had recalled her to his mind only too vividly, whilst a
voice chuckled at his elbow, "Oh yes, the mother of
James Rawson, you remember him, your first clerk, when

88 TOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

you sold rum by the glass, and poured it out with your
own hand, to all the jolly topers and jovial good fellows
about town. And many a pretty trick of trade you
taught him beside. You made him pound up the light
colored lumps of brpwn sugar, to exhibit as the specimen
of the article you kept for sale. You showed him how
to slip his yardstick, when measuring cloth; to offer silk,
hooks and eyes, etc., gratis, and afterwards abstract these
articles from the package ; and numberless other nice Ut-
ile contrivances of a similar kind he learned to practise
from your teaching. Oh, the foolish boy ! to ruin himself
when he might have made a fortune as you have dona
Idiot ! not to see the difference between respectable cheat-
ing and disgraceful thriving !! You remember all about
it. If not, look here," — and one of those flaming pictures
glared before his rolling eyes, showing the inside of a va-
riety store, including dry goods and groceries, where a
young lad was serving a circle of tippling customers with
the intoxicating beverage, and afterwards emptying the
glass himself, encouraged to do so by the laughs and
jeers of the Bacchanalian crew. Glover raised his arm
hastily, and making a dash at the hateful object, rushed
to another part of the building, to the great astonishment
of his companions, and followed by a~rnocking laugh,
which seemed close to his ear, and from which he in vain
strove to escape.

The unhappy man was rejoiced when their visit of
inspection came to a close; and as Mr. Price jumped
into the buggy, he hastily gathered up the reins, and
was upon the point of springing to his seat, when he
saw with dismay that it was occupied by his tormentor.

" Come down," he cried, angrily; "that place is mine."

" Ha ! ha ! ha ! This place is yours ? Of course it is
— and mine too."

" What do you . mean, Mr. Glover ? " asked Mr. Price,

ASA OLOVBR, HQ. 89

looking perfectly astonished, and growing very red in the
face.

•• I did not speak to you, Mr. Price, but to that wretch
beside you."

4i There is no one beside me, Mr. Glover. What can
you mean ? "

" Ha ! ha ! ha ! Jump in, Mr. Glover, there is room.
You and I can sit close, you know."

Overcome by sickening terror, and, at the same time,
dreading to suffer Mr. Price to perceive the disorder of
his mind, he sprang desperately into the carriage, and
sank heavily on the seat He almost hoped that his
weight would demolish his terrible guest; but not so; for
there he still sat, between himself and Mr. Price, unfet-
tered, and displaying before the despairing eyes of the
conscience-stricken man, the pictures on that hateful
mantle, which seemed about to close around him. No
words could describe the agony of his mind, but it was
painted on every feature of his face, and betrayed in the
reckless haste with which he urged his horse back to the
town. Mr. Price, who was timid, was very much alarmed
at this careless driving.

"Take care, Mr. Glover! You will surely upset, if you
ride so fast around that corner. You drive as if you
thought the devil was after you."

" The devil! What do you mean by that, sir?" fiercely
demanded Glover. " The devil is no acquaintance of
mine, sir."

" Ha ! ha ! ha ! " laughed the fiend, louder than ever.

Not an acquaintance merely, thought Mr. Price; no, I
fear he is somewhat nearer to you than that He made
no attempt, however, to renew the conversation, but
he failed not to note Glover's wild rolling eye, and occa-
sional deep mutterings. Once he came near being thrown
from his seat, by the vehemence with which his com-

90 TOICES FROM THE KENDU8KEAG.

panion jerked against his arm, in the seeming effort to
throw something off, while he heard a hoarse whisper,
" Oh, spare me yet again." Eight glad was he to reach
his own gate ; and, as the vehicle whirled from the door,
he said to himself, " No, Asa Glover, Esquire, not for all
your wealth twice told, would I possess your conscience."
Glover did not so easily rid himself of his mysterious
visitant as he had done formerly. Promises alone pro-
duced no effect. Before he could again obtain a respite,
he was obliged to disgorge some portion of his ill-gotten
wealth — sufficient to place Mrs. Morgan and her chil-
dren in a situation of humble independence ; and this
and some donations to charitable societies, was the price
at which he once more bought off — Remorse.

CHAPTER III.

Years again rolled away, and Asa Glover, Esquire,
was a still richer man than when we last saw him. All
his worldly affairs prospered. He had a head for busi-
ness, and his investments of capital being generally
judicious, were almost always successful. Of course he
called himself a very moral man. No one professed to
hold the law in greater reverence than himself. He did
not exactly pretend to be a Christian, as he understood
that term — that is, he was not yet a member of any
church, but he considered himself in a fair way to earn
that distinction. Had it been customary to confer honor-
ary degrees of church membership, he would have almost
expected to be voted in by a large majority; at all events,
he was a zealous advocate for the religious institutions of

ASA GLOVER, ESQ. 91

the land ; he owned a handsome pew, and paid readily
and liberally for the support of the minister. The con-
tribution box seldom passed him without being enriched
by his offering ; and as he was one of a few who gave a
bell to the parish, he felt that it sounded forth the praises
of his generosity at least three times every day. He
was no longer a rum-dealer in person — not he — but he
built stores to let, with back entrances on cross streets,
which men whispered had a strange odor of alcohol about
them, and cellars beneath them, which were more than
suspected to be dram-shops of the worst description.
However, he washed his own hands of the traffic, and
professed to regret that he had ever been engaged in it.
This told much in his favor, with the undiscriminating
public ; and though a few knew him as he was, yet by
far the greater portion of the community, especially the
younger members, concluded, that " he was by no means
so black as he had been painted."

Late one summer afternoon, a crowd of people col-
lected suddenly around the door of Glover's dwelling ;
and, borne in the arms of one of the men, was the
mangled and bleeding body of his eldest son, a bright
boy of about eight years of age. A party of gay young
men, returning from one of the haunts of low dissipation
in the neighborhood, and driving furiously through the
streets, had knocked the child down; the carriage passed
directly over his body, while his head was bruised by
contact with the horse's hoof. And there was hurrying
to and fro of servants, and exclamations of horror-stricken
friends, and bitter upbraidings of the wretches who had
done this deed; and the mother's sharp cry of agony; but
the father was not there. He had ridden a few miles
out of town that day, on some pressing business. He
did not often ride away alone. For some reason, Mr.
Glover was not fond of the companionship of his own

92 VOICES FROM THE KENDtJSKEAG.

thoughts. In the excitement of business, or surrounded
by his own family, he generally contrived to drive away
painful reflections, but alone, — especially when riding
alone, — he was very apt to become the victim of gloomy
fancies. Alone ! He could hardly be said ever to be
alone, for his active imagination made him familiar with
strange companions. He often thought he saw on the
seat beside him some jolly companion of former days,
whom he had first known as a man of free habits merely,
but wbom he had lived to see go down — down — into
the drunkard's dishonored grave ; nay, rather whom his
own hand had helped to lay there. At other times,
crowds of blue, pinched-up faces would seem to beset
his path, and, gazing into his face, with all the imperti-
nence of starving destitution, would cry out, "bread,
bread — restore the bread of the orphan.' 1 Such com-
panions were not agreeable. Glover felt they were not ;
and therefore it was that he hated to be much alone.
This afternoon, he had been particularly annoyed by
such thronging fancies, and he felt truly rejoiced when
his horse's head was turned Into the street which led to
his own house.

But why those people about his door? What means
this constant passing in and out ? That physician's gig ?
That general air of confusion ? and those drops of fresh
blood on the sidewalk? At once he partially divined
the truth. Some one of his children was injured, and,
of course, it must be his bright and beautiful, his ven-
turesome boy. Several persons approached to speak to
him, but staying not to hear them, he rushed into the
house. Guided by the blood, which everywhere met his
eye, — on the door-step, the stairs, and in all the pas-
sages, — he soon found the chamber to which they had
borne his darling child.

There lay the crushed flower, on a bed in the centre

ASA GLOVER, ESQ, 93

of the room, surrounded by people, among whom were
two physicians, endeavoring to restore animation to the
nncposcipus boy. Beside him, with one hand tightly
clasped in hers, lay the .almost equally senseless mother,
— horror and grief haying for the time, kindly benumbed
her faculties.

. It was evening. Quiet once more reigned through
the house* Friends and curious spectators had retired;
the mother had been taken to another room, to receive
She care her state demanded. Mr. Glover and the nurse
alone remained by the bed of the child, to whom con-
sciousness had been partially restored.
. One of the physicians again came in, and as he leant
over the bed, and attentively examined the state of his
little patient, the father gazed with intense anxiety into
his friendly countenance, but with agony, he saw there
no ray of hope.

" Oh, doctor, must he die ? " A pressure of the hand
was the only response.

, " Tell me, truly ; can you not save him ? Is it not
possible he may live ? "

" The issues of life and death are not in my hand, but
I grieve to say there is scarcely a chance of his living.
Convulsions are coming on, and the injury is so ex ten-
sive, that he cannot, I fear, long survive."

Again Mr. Glover and the nurse were left with the suf-
ferer. The boy spoke, and the father eagerly bent his
ear to listen, but caught only words of wildest delirium.

" Oh speak to me once more my boy," he cried, in ago-
ny. The child whispered, " See the pretty horses," and
immediately went into convulsions. Mr. Glover had
never till this moment given up all hope, but now he
utterly despaired. His senses grew giddy; the room
seemed to swim around, and to fill with dancing fiends
and fantastic shapes of horror. He closed his eyes, and
5*

94 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

with a deep groan sank back in his chair. Just then he
felt a bnrning breath blow upon his cheek, and a well re-
membered but hateful voice exclaimed, u Asa Glover, I
promised thee another meeting, friend, and now I come
to greet thee on this joyful occasion."

" Joyful occasion !!! A vaunt wretch ! "

" Yes — is not thy child fortunate to die before he has
learned his father's principles, or practised his father's
sins ? »

" Oh mercy ! mercy ! spare my innocent child ! Let
him not die this horrible death."

" And when didst thou spare the children of others ?
Many of their little ones hast thou caused to nil a name-
less grave, or to live a wretched and vicious life, only to
die a felon's death. Why should thy child be spared,
Asa Glover, why should he ? Look thy last upon him,
for he goes to another home than thine and mine."

With horror Glover opened his eyes and gazed upon
his child, now in strong convulsions. Suddenly a change
passed over the face of the boy — he stretched out his
little limbs, and all was over. At the same moment
Glover felt himself clasped in the arms of his inveterate
foe, and the folds of that detested mantle wrapped close-
ly about him, while a stream of fire seemed to scorch
through his brain. The horrors of the moment were too
much for human reason, and the distracted man filled the
room of death with his frenzied cries. Ere the body of
his beautiful child was borne to its resting-place, Asa
Glover was lodged in an asylum, a raving maniac.

Bangor, June, 1837.

95

An old woman sat on the grave-yard fence, braiding with the bones which were
once fingers, her scanty gray locks, and sang, —yes, true it is she sang, and the
traveller put his fingers in his ears, and rushed by her, often turning back the white
of his eyes, to see if she pursued him. But he need not hare been alarmed, she
only sang.

I hate a shroud, and I'll wrap yon in it,

You need not start from its icy fold,

'Tis a fair shroud, not a blemish in it —

And what care you for damp or cold ?

I '11 wrap you all about,

But have your forehead out —

And just your eyes,

For men will wish to know,

As through the room they go,

What therein lies.

But do not think, in your garments white,
That they will stand by you weeping,
For none will ever believe it right,
To disturb your silent sleeping —
But they shall come with fear,
And place you on the bier.
That I have made —
And I will hold the torch
In the long dismal porch,
At the time of shade.

And you shall not speak to those who bear you,
And the winds will blow and they cannot hear you,
But you slumber not, as the vulgar do,
For I have told them where to go —

96 VOICES FROM THE KENDU8KEAG.

They will lay you down, as becomes your state —

In the cellar beyond the garden gate.

You must not open your bonnie eyes,

For they will not serve you there ;

You shall have no light but that which flies

With the dust in the crack of the upper stair.

And fear not you

Lest the dungeon dew,

Should gather around your head,

For none will know how damp you grow ;

'Tis seldom men visit the dead.

There 's the spider too, you must let him live there,

And his palace will near you stand ;

His finest web you must let him weave there,

From your hairless head to your bony hand ;

And since you cannot know

The way he will go,

Why should you care ?

I doubt not you will rest,

And never be distrest,

At his wandering there.

And the cricket will chirp there, within the ceiling,

But the sound will be lost on your dull ear,

And though he were future sorrow revealing,

Yet what has a sleeper like you to fear?

And there '11 be nameless things,

Flitting with heavy wings,

In that house of gloom ;

But all that they will do,

Is just to wait with you,

Till the day of doom.

And you will not fear, when that morning is breaking,
To come forth and exhibit your mouldered form,
And you will not think, from your robe, of shaking
The dust, or the cobweb, or slimy worm ;

A GRAVE- YARD SONG. 97

Oh no, you will forget,

That e'er your locks were jet,

Or bonnie was your eye.

Go — go your ways — I tell you true

That soon I mean to call for you,

Soon you must die.

1828.

*s

A SONG.

The bright bird sings at the morning hour,

She sings, and thus sings she ;
" Away, away to my needful work,

Away, right merrily.
The dews work on from night till mom,

The sun from mom till night —
They We dressed for me my balmy tree,

And I sing that all is right."

The farmer sings, as he fieldward goes,

He sings, and thus sings he ;
" Away, away to my needful work,

Away, right merrily ;
For the farmer's toil all want must foil,

He feeds his brothers all,
Nor fail he must in his mighty trust,

Or the world would surely fall."

The artist sings, in his shadowy light,

He sings, and thus sings he ;
" Great Goddess of the Beautiful,

I pine, I sigh for thee ;
Like the flashing light of a stormy night,

Thou art seen, and then away,
One gleam of thine hath power divine,

To lift the soul from clay."

The sufferer sings on his couch of pain,

He sings, and thus sings he ;
" Let me not repine at this task of mine,

'T was sent in love to me ;

A 80*0. 99

For joys outflow from pain and woe,

And ' a berry blue and gold/
They bring a rest more deep and blest,

Than words have ever told."

The dead man sings, on his bier outlain

He sings, and thus sings he ;
" The outward life is a fleeting thing,

And false, as you may see ;
O, brother man ! seize while you can

The golden fruits of love,
And the bright red wine of truth divine

Will lift you death above."

June 12th.

48BU*

100

THE FIELD OP THE INCURABLES.

" I had a dream, whioh was not all a dream.'*— 23tyro».

I know of no sight more ridiculous, and at the same
time more provoking, than the appearance of a hale,
hearty, healthy hypochondriac. There are some men
who seem born to be miserable, and to waste their lives
in fruitless complainings and unfounded apprehensions;
whose highest felicity is, to inhale the odors of an apoth-
ecary's shop, or to swallow, with greedy zeal, the most
villanous compounds of unrighteous medicines. Some
men seem to receive from nature this disposition to watch
over the operations of their bowels, and to mark, with the
utmost care, all the disgusting and humiliating process
going on in the inner man. Others are by nature of a
happy temperament, easy, placid, and contented ; never
sending their thoughts into the region of conjecture, or
fixing on their vigorous bodies all the tremendous diseases
to be found in the " theory and practice of physic." But
I have known such men suddenly transformed from this
know-nothing, fear-nothing character, into the most learn-
ed and most miserable expounders of symptoms, pains,
diseases, and dangers, to which flesh is heir. And it is
my belief that there is no one cause which operates so
frequently to produce this wretched effect, as a smatter-
ing knowledge gleaned from a partial perusal of medi-
cal works, or the half understood language of profession-
al men. Some one disease becomes the favorite of the
imagination, and no matter what the constitution or hab-

THE FIELD OF THE INCURABLES. 101

its or liability to such disorder, everything in nature is
made to bend to the sudden fancy. I was revolving
thoughts like these a few nights since, after I had re-
tired to my bed ; and musing on this self-induced misery,
my waking thoughts were soon changed to visions of
sleep.

Metbought I was in an extensive plain, which as far
as the eye could reach presented a level, smooth, and
fertile aspect At first sight, there was an appearance of
calm serenity diffused over the landscape, and nature
seemed rejoicing under the invigorating influence of a
summer sun. But as I advanced further, the appear-
ance gave way to one of a more gloomy character.
The sun still shone in its splendor, and the earth still
retained its peaceful hue. But there was an indefi-
nite and indescribable melancholy which pervaded the
landscape as a whole, and gave it a sombre hue. As
I stood musing what this might mean, I saw a man
standing near the boundary of the field, with a most
laughter-loving and quizzical expression of countenance,
watching the different individuals who were moving
around us. To him I applied for information, and in
answer to my inquiry he said : " This, Sir, is the field of
the incurables. 99 " Those unhappy beings," said I, " who are
doomed to drag out a hopeless existence, under all the
anguish of remediless disease. But why, Sir, that laugh-
ing face, so unsuitable to this melancholy scene ? " " My
friend," answered he, " I call them incurables, not be-
cause their diseases are past remedy, but because they
have no disorders of which to be cured." " Sick men
without disorders," exclaimed L " Look above you," said
he, " and see the presiding genii of this region." I raised
my eyes in the direction he pointed, and saw floating in
the air a thousand cerulean beings, who seemed indeed
to be " airy nothings," almost without substance or even

102 VOICES PROM THE KENDU8KBAO.

form. " And what, ray friend, do you call these wretched
looking sprites ? " " Azure demons" said he. u Common-
ly called blue devils in our land of plain language.*' •• The
very same/' answered he, " and they hold the whole of
this region under subjection, distilling their pestilent in-
fluence from the region of air, producing the most laugh-
able effects upon the bravest and healthiest men." " I
think/' said I, "I will walk around and see if I can distin-
guish any old friends in the herd." " Beware," said my
informant, " how you trust yourself within the influence
of these devils." " Oh, my dear Sir, I fear not a whole
legion of them. I have conquered them often, and rout-
ed whole legions at one pitched battle. They dare not
attempt to distil their vapors upon me." So I manfully
marched forward, even to the centre of the field of the
healthy incurables.

The first man I saw was of a dull, heavy visage,
square head and shoulders, thick and clumsy, who looked
as if he had taken the world easy, and had not been
disturbed by trifles, as if he had tempered his nerves
to the happy callousness of an oyster, and the motions
of his soul to the dull stagnation of a mud-puddle.

There was, however, an unnatural and evidently an
unusual expression of hypochondriacal feeling in his
face, and when I put the question, — "Pray, my friend,
from what complaint do you suffer? " he turned upon me
such a look of calm suffering and patient resignation,
that I felt my pity mingled with respect. " Alas ! my
nerves are shattered to pieces." " Really, my dear Sir, I
should rather think you suffered from lethargy" " O, no ;
did you ever read ' Warren on the Nervous System?'"
Not I. " Read it then, instantly. It was there I first
learnt that all my complaints were of the nerves. I had
scarcely commenced the perusal ere I suspected the
truth. I determined instantly to subject myself to the

THE FIELD OF THE INCURABLES. 103

test of experiment. I seized a file, which I applied with
all my power to a handsaw — the effect was dreadful.
I felt a most indescribable sensation about my teeth, —
very much worse than that produced by eating sour ap-
ples. O, Sir, my nerves are ruined, and I am undone."

I was prevented from holding any further discourse
with this unlucky specimen of the genus irritabUe, by
the appearance of another of the inhabitants of this re-
gion of the blues. I instantly recognized him as an old
acquaintance, the leader of a band of musicians, famous
for his strength and length of wind. He could wind a
horn for hours together, and raise a laugh to break the
stillness for miles around. He was a legitimate de-
scendant of Stentor; a host in himself in mobs and
town-meetings. He approached me slowly and cau-
tiously, — although his athletic form and sinewy mem-
bers seemed to scorn the snail-like pace of their mas-
ter. He had on a thick " dreadnought " coat, buttoned
up to his chin. Two large silk handkerchiefs were
wrapped around his face with almost suffocating close-
ness. " Ah, Tom," said I, " I see you are indeed grievously
afflicted — this toothache and the ague are indeed mat-
ters of fact, not to be joked out of existence. "My
lungs are affected," said he, in a voice which, to say
the least, was quite audible, even through the quintuple
folds of silk. " They were always affecting" said I, " to
all your friends." " My complaints are of a pulmonary
nature, and I am fast dwindling away in a consumption.
Look into ' Buchan's Domestic Medicine/ and you will
be persuaded I cannot long survive." " Nonsense, your
lungs are now strong enough to stun a man." " I tell
you, Sir," said he, tearing away the handkerchief from
his mouth to give free vent to his wrath and his voice,
" my health is gone, my body is debilitated," (here he
gesticulated most furiously,) " my voice is lost," (risiug

104 VOTOB JR0M TH1 KBNDUBKXAO.

in loudness,) " my lungs are dreadfully affected." • N And
so are my ears/' said I, as I retreated to escape from
the deafening explosion of the pulmonary patient

I saw a man at some distance, whom I at first thought
was the renowned Ichabod Crane, of pedagogical memo-
ry, — at any rate, he might belong to the family of Cranes,
judging from the length of his neck. He had a thin,
meagre, hatchet face, — pale as a parsnip. His body
looked like a musket with a coat thrown over it The
radical moisture had evaporated, and his whole body
presented the appearance of bones, covered by a thin
membrane — in a word, as if he had lived by gleaning
through the whole seven years of Pharaoh's famine. I
observed that he frequently applied his hand to his neck
(which was without any covering), and to his temples,
and the top of his head. Surely, thought I, this is the
victim of consumption. He passed me without observ-
ing that I watched him. I heard him muttering some-
thing about the tendency of the blood towards the heart,
and inundation of the brain. " My friend," said I, " you
do but little credit to your keepers ; I fear you see but
little beef and brandy for your rations. "Beef and
brandy," exclaimed he, in astonishment, "why, Sir, I
should die of an apoplexy in a week — I have escaped
for the last ten years by the most abstemious living —
the tendency of the blood is towards the head." " Yes,
and I should think yours had all oozed out at the top."

But who comes here, " bloody with spurring, fiery red
with speed," mounted on a hard-trotting horse, and driv-
ing as if his only object was to agitate his intestines.
Unless my eyes deceive me, it is fat faced Dick, — the
counterpart of Sir Toby Philpot. " I knew him well — a
fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy," with red
bldwsy cheeks, which would not disgrace a London al-
derman, a roguish leer of the eye, and a real " laugh

THE FIELD OF THE INCURABLES 105

and be fat" expression of the whole countenance. I
had never seen him on horseback before, and his awk-
ward and ungainly position, and his ardent endeavors to
hold an, showed conclusively that it was new business.
My curiosity was excited to know what had induced
Dick to quit terra firma, to which he had always ad-
hered with the utmost pertinacity, and to trust his pre-
cious neck to the uncertain chances of equestrian speed.
But he came as on the wind, and would have dashed
by without heeding me, if I had not hailed him, in a
cheerful vtrice. He checked his raw-boned gelding, and
looked down upon me from his high estate. But O!
how altered was the expression of that face. The fat
cheeks still remained in all their glory, and exercise had
added a deeper crimson to his usually red face. But in-
stead of the gay, happy, and lively meaning in the eye,
which could always set the table in a roar, there was
an expression of fear, and anxiety, and despondency,
which set as awkward on his phiz as his body did on his
horse. " In the name of the seven wonders, what sent
you here, Dick ? " " Wilson on the Liver Complaint,"
answered he. " I have a touch of the liver," laying his
hand with a mournful significance on his right side."
*'- What symptoms ? " " It is not a week since I had a
distinct pain in my side. The next day I felt a fulness
and oppression after dinner. I luckily had read, a few
days before, a few pages in Wilson. I knew my com-
plaint, and my only remedy — ' a horse, a horse, my king-
dom for a horse/ But I fear all will not do. The liv-
er once diseased, the whole process of digestion is ob-
structed, nausea, vomiting, pain in the side, costiveness,
paleness in the countenance, all follow. No longer since
than yesterday I discovered paleness in my countenance,
just under the hair — do you see it now ? " " You look,
Dick, about as pale as a pickled beet, and as much like

106 VOICES FROM THE KENDU8KEAG.

an invalid as " Here he interrupted me by bidding

me good morning, saying: " I feel the bile collecting, I
must ride for my life."

His departure gave me leisure to observe a little wasp
of a thing, that was ambulating towards me. The youth
was adorned in the extreme of fashion, " neat, trimly
dressed," as unsoiled as if just taken from his band-box,
and was delicately small, as if just compressed by steam
power. His whole appearance proclaimed a dandy of
the first water, and his nimble-parable, indefinite walk,
soon placed him before me in all the glory of an animal,
half monkey and half man. " And pray, my young gen-
■ tleman, what disorder belongs to your sweet self? " " Sir,"
answered he, with a most exquisite lisp, " what disorder
do you think becomes a gentleman of fortune and lei-
sure ? " " Really, I know not, unless it be a certain dis-
ease which shall be nameless." " Sir, it is dyspepsia. —
dyspepsia is all tlie go, it is quite the rage in the fash-
ionable world." " And what is dyspepsia, I pray your
honor?" "Dyspepsia? why it is the most genteel, gen-
tlemanly, delicate, sentimental disease now in vogue. It
is very vulgar, 'pon honor, not to have the dyspepsia"
I could contain my gravity no longer^ but found myself
awake, laughing most heartily at the vision of the field
of the incurables.

107

MANNERS.

Manners ! They are everything — they are nothing.
All in them which we can describe or imitate, define,
copy, or avoid, signifies very little, compared with that
which remains indescribable, but still felt. The eye,
the lip, the motion and gesture of every part of the body, '
may be trained never so carefully in the most polished
school of art, and yet there shall remain an electric, at-
mospheric medium, which shall make everything unto-
ward and objectionable to our feelings. Yet this felt-
electricity of society, is sometimes characterized as man-
ner, and in this sense, manners are everything.

I care not if a man stumble against a chair on enter-
ing a room, hangs his head on one side, or even sits on
his seat apparently at the peril of life and limb, provided
his soul is of that social, kindly nature, which enables
me to breathe freely, allows me to be just natural, and
so operates upon me, that the best part of my nature is
called into exercise. He who places me thus at home
with myself, has most excellent manners; — they are
everything — they are the whole man ; all the rest is the
mere binding of the book ; it may be in morocco, it may
be in coarse paper, but the internal meaning of the pages
is not affected by it. This same grateful feeling is in-,
spired by individuals of greatly differing character. I
have found it in the awkward student, and even in the
affected woman, where that affectation proceeded more
from diffidence than vanity. The reserved and the talk-

10S VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

ative — the simple and natural — the cultivated and ac-
quired manners, have each possessed this charm; and
wherever it has been found, my heart has pronounced
the manners good, and the presence of those who owned
them has been profitable to the soul, while, on the con-
trary, every social impulse has been checked, frozen,
and distorted, by mingling with those with whose exter-
nal deportment I could find no fault, and whose every
. word, loofe^ and tone, obeyed the uttermost law of civility.
I have seen those whose perfect self-possession, too haste
or emergency, no impulse of feeling, or shade of human
weakness, could betray into a breach of politeness, an
infringement of dignity, or gleam of unconsciousness, yet
so far were they from inspiring in me the secure self-
possession they themselves preserved, that my wits
oozed out at my fingers' ends ; more awkwardness than I
thought myself capable of, suddenly manifested itself in
every attempt at speech or movement, and my natural
self departed, leaving a strange, contradictory, affected
piece of blundering in its stead. When I have escaped
from the presence of such mortals, I have gasped, as
though I had just got rid of the nightmare, and the hor-
rible impression of having appeared like a fool, before
the most properly behaved people, has left an uneasiness,
which hours could not remove. I have asked myself if
these persons did not possess the evil eye ; for perhaps
not one word has been spoken, one motion made, of
which I felt that I had a right to complain, but the effect
of their presence to me had been a spell — a conjuration
of all untoward influences. Are not such the very worst
of manners; polished, refined, and dignified, though they
may be ? What can so truly frustrate every advantage
of social intercourse, as the diffusing of so luckless au
influence over poor, ordinary mortals ?

Two conclusions, of some use perhaps, may be drawn,

MAmusBs. 109

if these descriptions of manners are correct The first
is, that 't is the *ml which makes them good or bad. Let
that be kind, gentle, loving, and true, and the manners
cannot fail to please. The hating, lying spirit will come
out . It has a door you can never shut Lock and bolt
will not avail ; the only way is to make the soul pure
and good, and then let it come and go as it will ; you
wiM never blush for it

The! second conclusion follows, that our standard of
good manners should be rather in what we ./et^than
what we see. If the effect of another's society has been
to gratify and improve, quicken the intellect, or make
more kindly the pulses of the heart, we need not hesitate
to call his manners good, whatever the outward form
they wore ; nor could all grace and dignity concentrated,
prove those good which make us feel constrained, con-
~ scious, uneasy, and, above all, unnatural

Truly, manner is much. It is that which gives force to
the preacher, — to the lecturer, — to all public speakers.
We watch the eye and feature, and from these, apart from
his theme, we inwardly like or dislike, the speaker. The
words sink into our hearts, in proportion as they come from
his, and we believe the preached word as the preacher
himself seems to have faith in it

In social life, it is this manner which makes the agreea-
ble person. It is very marvellous that such persons are
so rare. There are many entertaining, many witty, many
sensible, many intelligent, many cultivated and refined,
but among them all, very few that are agreeable. To be
this, one must be more than bright, witty, intelligent or
polished. One may be all these, and yet not that, and
one may be agreeable, and yet not eminent in any one
of these qualities. The agreeable person is one with
whom we are acquainted from the first No intermina-
ble layers of dignity, etiquette or reserve, have to be re-
6

1 10 VOICES' FROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

moved from bis soul by long acquaintanceship, before we
can say we know it — we have it — it is our own* An
intellectual quickness to take an idea, and a social quick-
ness to sympathize with it, places him at once side by
side with our mind and heart Such an one is a Mind
Philanthropist, — a Home Missionary, whose mission is
for every day and for common life. On his approach, the
very hour and place grow brighter ; and a charm is dif-
fused around which " creates a sphere," as Swedenhorg
would say, that all feel who come into it Who would
not be agreeable, thus to be a blessing always sought
and welcomed ? Aye, we all of us have enough of the
love of approbation to desire this enviable distinction, if
it did not cost too much, and if we knew how so to be.

That we should prefer another's convenience to our
own, underlies all etiquette and ceremony ; but etiquette
has learned to lie, that selfishness may be indulged, so
that it cannot now be taken as the representative of dis-
interestedness, but still, it points the way where the
pleasant and the agreeable are found, and so becomes
useful.

Mere laziness, or sluggishness of mould, often injures
the manners. Some effort is necessary in order to adapt
ourselves to the different natures with whom we come in
contact, and the slothful do not feel ambition. enough to
make it, even when there is nothing within which a would
prevent success, if attempted, and so a veil remains, cov-
ering up the soul which would be acceptable, if allowed
to quicken and come out A stronger sense of the value
and use of being agreeable, would be a benefit to such
indifferent mortals.

Let not one think he cannot be agreeable, because he
has not the abundant gift of words. It is the spirit —
the spirit within, and not the flowing speech, which de-
termines our social qualities. I have seen those, who,

MANHE3S. Ill

by a cordial, receptive maimer of listening, and only an
occasional word, had the enviable power of so aetiBg
uf)on the heihgs with whom they associated, as to bring
otrt full strains of that spiritual harmony, which inter-
course 6f mind with mind alone can create.

The cordial heart — the liberal mind — how much they
can do, even in circumstances outwardly limited and ty-
rannical. I think of one now, who, more than any other
being I ever knew, exemplified this. When I first knew
her, she was in a country village, with a brood of young,
active, roguish children, and an invalid husband. Labor
and domestic cares pressed upon her, with unwonted
rigor. Though educated in ease and affluence, she was
then in the possession of little more than absolute pov-
erty. The plainest dress — the plainest house and fur-
niture, of necessity contented her. Without influential
relatives, without beauty of form or face, she was, in ex-
ternals, destitute of all those possessions which usually
attach to the first classes in society, and yet no woman
in the village had so wide and so strong a social influ-
ence as herself. She was admitted and welcomed by
all circles, the young and the old, the grave and the gay,
the poor and the rich, the sick and the well, and her social
duties and pleasures were only limited by the time she
could devote to them. Years after I met her in the city,
and I* found that the arbitrary distinctions of city life
were set aside to welcome her, even though a coarse
dress and an uncarpeted floor received stylish ladies,
when they called on her. And why was all this ? Not
her merit and worth alone, for merit and worth often stay
at home unsought by society ; but " he tbat would have
friends, must show himself friendly" and this lady's man-
ner was ever an illustration of that text. Children loved
her always, for who like her understood and loved them ?
The young and the gay sprang to meet her, for whose

||2 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

mirth was more catching than hers ? whose enjoyment of
the flashes of wit more keen ? whose perception of the
ludicrous more quick? The thoughtful and the sad
found profoundest sympathy and encouragement in con-
versing with her, for she too had suffered many ills, and
could comprehend those which she had not herself ex-
perienced. Gentle and unobtrusive in manner, her coun-
tenance always spoke, and the stranger at once felt at
home with her. Friend and stranger, childhood and
age, women and men, all greeted her with pleasure, all
fell the presence of the agreeable woman. She lives still,
and when her mission here is ended, a large place on
earth will be the poorer for her departure.

113

ON HEARING LADIES TOASTED AS THE
"POETRY OP LIFE."

The " Poetry of life," good gentlemen, you style us ; —
You 're honorable men, and doubtless right ;

But ah ! what mournful incongruities
Do sometimes grate upon our sight !

tf *bl\ honorable men," and so of course we 're " Poetry,"

But Poetry, alas ! in wooden shoes !
Our "feet " do strangely halt and stumble,

And stub — good sirs, does " Poetry" have toes?

We blush, indeed, to walk, instead of soaring,

But ah ! it is because we must ;
And then what makes it still more shameful,

Is that we sometimes " raise a dust."

No wonder, for with care's dust and rubbish
Our feet are cobwebbed, goodness knows !

Oh, dust and dirt are shocking sublunary,
And make us seem a deal like prose !

'T is mournful, but we must confess we 've fallen,
*And scarce can poesy's high title claim ; —

To see, as \ did this day, one of the " Epics "
Trying out fat, is such a burning shame !

'T was only yesterday I found a blue-eyed " Sonnet "

Frying huge doughnuts with a sputter !
And an hour after, caught a blushing " Ballad "

Spreading corn-bread and butter !

1 14 VOICES FROM THE KSNDUSKEAO.

But henceforth we '11 do our best, though fallen,

To make good our lawful claim ;
The " Poetry of earth " we yet will prove ourselves,

Instead of blushing at the name !

" Life is real, life is earnest," says some ninny j

He'd keep us in a. charming flutter!
But we, being proved life's u Poetry,"

No longer* mean to mind life's clutter !

So give us sway, and we will give you " Poetry," -—

Epic, Sonnet, Ode, and Ballad ; —
Only when we 're on our loftiest pinions,

Po n't ask for Lobster Salad !

115

THE DREAM.

TROM THE GERMAN OP L. UHLAND.

I DREAMED DOt long agO

I stood on a rocky steep — -
On a cliff by the ocean's strand ; -
And I looked far over the land,

And down on the glorious deep.

Beneath me, in gallant trim,

A stately bark lay moored,
The surge its dark side laving, —
Gaily its flag was waving,

And a pilot stood on board.

And behold there. came from the mountains

A merry, merry band ;
Bedecked with garlands bright,
They seemed like spirits of light

As they tripped along the strand.

" Say, pilot, wilt thou take us ? "
— " What nymphs be ye so gay ? "

— " Earth's Joys and Pleasures are we,

From earth we fain would flee,
! bear us from earth away ! "

116 VOICES FROM THB KENDU8KBAG.

Then the pilot, he bade them enter ;

And they entered one by one.
" Bnt tell me, are here all ?
Are none left in bower or hall ? "

And they answered, " There are none."

Away ! then ; — the bark unmoored
Leap'd gaily from anchor's thrall ;
And away she sped with a glorious motion,
And I saw them vanish over the ocean, —
Earth's Joys and Pleasures all.

117

AN IDLE WORD.

It pass'd away, it pass'd away,
Thou canst not hear the sound to-day ;
; Twas water lost upon the ground,
Or wind that vanisheth in sound ;
Oh ! who shall gather it, or tell
How idly from the lip it fell. , .

'Tis written with an iron pen;
And thou shalt hear it yet again !
A solemn thing it then shall seem
To trifle with a holy theme.
Oh ! let our lightest accent be,
Fit echo for Eternity.

6*

1 18

THE WHISTLING WIND.

Summer's wind, so wildly sighing,
Mournfullest of numbers plying,
Ever loneliest lessons teaching,
Murmuring low, or fitful screeching,
Wherefore Summer wind so sadly ?
Wherefore Summer wind so madly %
Earth and sky are bright and glowing,
Fairest hues of beauty showing ;
Thou thyself art not in keeping,
Thy complaining harp-strings sweeping ;
Thou hast stolen all that '§ charming
Out of nature with thy psalming,
And all through me while I 'm sitting,
All the bluest " blues " are flitting.

I do half believe, a demon,
Vexed that Summer's glories teem on,
Far above us keeps a-mocking,
Whistling, railing, taunting, rocking,
All our spirits so infusing,
That our wits we half are losing.
Oh be quiet with thy raving !
Fiend of air ! all Nature braving !
Or if thou must e'en be roaring,
Plaints and murmurs still outporing,
Come in dreary Winter season,
Then thy song had better reason ;

THE WHITTLING WIND. 119

Snow and hail, and rain in keeping,
We could bear thy wild o'er-leaping ;
But, we pray thee, spoil not for us,
Summer's glories beaming o'er us.

Bangor, June, 1845.

120

THE FESTIVAL AT THE CA8A DE CAMPO.

It was the birth-night of S^nhor Henrique, the eldest

son of Baron P , and heir-apparent to his title and

enormous wealth. He had that day attained his ma-
jority, and as the elated and happy father presented him
to the assembled guests, they felt that he had cause to
be proud of such a son. His figure was tail, consider-
ably above the average height of his countrymen, and,
though somewhat too slight, was symmetrical and grace-
ful. His face was pronounced, by the young senhoras,
to be "bonito;" his manners were extremely prepos-
sessing, nor were his personal advantages rendered less
attractive by the rich military costume in which he was
arrayed. At the age of nineteen years, weary of an
inactive and monotonous life, and thirsting for renown,
he at length obtained the consent of his father to enter
upon the arduous and dangerous profession to which he
aspired. He repaired to the capital of the empire, and,
presenting himself at the royal palace, signified to the
king his desire to enter the army, and join the forces
recently sent by his majesty to defend the southwestern
frontier of Brazil against the encroachments of a power-
ful and hostile people, with whom the Brazilians were at
war. Pleased with the daring and ambitious spirit of
the youth, the king granted him a commission, and in
every subsequent engagement with the enemy, the
young officer was distinguished for his skill and in-

THfl FESTIVAL AT THE 0A8A DE OAMPO. 121

trepidity, and won the admiration and esteem of able
and experienced officers, by his praiseworthy deportment
and military prowess. His fame had reached the ears of
his distant friends, and, at the termination of the war, he
was received by kinsmen and acquaintance with the
most enthusiastic welcome.

. The residence of Baron P was in one of the

northern provinces of that vast empire. He was the
possessor of untold wealth in lands, houses, herds, and
slaves ; mid, better than all these, he was rich in domes*
tic affections, and a benevolent and unselfish spirit.

Though a Portuguese by birth, he loved the country of
his adoption ; and his vast possessions and moral worth
rendered him one of the most respected and influential
citizens in that section of the country. Surrounded by
all that renders life pleasant and desirable, he dreamed
riot of the darfc and fearful shadows which were already
gathering around him.

Thft Cfca de Campo was situated at the distance of a
league from the provincial capital ; the highly cultivated
grounds surrounding it, were laid out with remarkable
taste, arid embellished with rare and beautiful shrubs and
trees, of native and foreign growth. The Orange, the
Lemon, and the Linden, mingled their glossy foliage and
fragrant blossoms with the stately Palm and the grace-
ful Cocoa; and the strangely beautiful "Jasmine de
Cayenne," presenting the singular spectacle of a tree cov-
ered with bright flowers ere it has put forth a leaf of
green, contrasted finely with the dark verdure and wide
spreading branches of the Mango ; the walks were bor-
dered with Ananas and Geraniums; birds of gay plu-
mage haunted these delightful groves; and gushing
fountains sent forth a pleasing and perpetual music, " as
of soft showers on water." On three sides of the exten-
sive mansion were broad verandas, paved and roofed with

122 VOICES FROM THE KENDU8KEAO.

tiles, and surrounded by a low wall of great thickness, in
which, at the distance of a few feet from each other, were
cavities of considerable depth, filled with rich mould, and
each containing some shrub, remarkable either for fra-
grance or beauty. Tulips, Oleanders, white Jasmines, An-
gelicas, and numerous varieties of the Rose, delighted the
eye of the beholder, and all this floral magnificence light-
ed up by hundreds of colored lamp? on the night of the
Festival, appeared like a scene of enchantment Nor was
the interior of the building less remarkable for its costly
adorning and regal splendor ; the walls of the reception
room were hung with silken damask — the floor was cov-
ered with a carpet of gorgeous dyes from Persian looms ;
the couches were covered with Genoa velvet, and the
pillows were of the softest down ; glittering chandeliers,
and candelabras of massive silver, shed their brilliance
upon proud Senhors and handsome Senhoras, gaily at-
tired, sparkling with gold and precious gems. The ban-
quet was sumptuous ; the rarest viands, and the richest
wines, attested the munificent hospitality of the enter-
tainer. When the guests were assembled at the festive
board, a band of concealed musicians poured forth a strain
of soft, sweet music, that thrilled the heart of every lis-
tener — suddenly it changed to a wild and spirit-stirring
martial air, whose tones had often inspired the young
hero of the evening on the battle-field, and gradually sub-
sided again to the plaintive and subdued melody. To
these, several popular national airs succeeded, sung by
female voices, accompanied by the guitar and mandolin.
When the repast was concluded, the host led the way to
a spacious s&la; in the confusion of the crowd, Henrique
heard his name pronounced in a low, but distinct tone,
and turning hastily to discover the speaker, saw at his
side the lovely Inez Vtera, whom he had known and
loved since the days of his boyhood ; he saw that she

FESTIVAL AT TUB CASA DB CAMPO. 123

had that instant arrived, for the dark mantilla she had
worn in the cadeirinha that conveyed her from the city,
yet enveloped her person ; she evidently sought to es-
cape observation, and without waiting to reply to his cor-
dial salutation, hurriedly whispered, " Meet me in the
.Oratory, an hour hence — I have something of the ut-
most importance to communicate/' and drawing her veil
closely over her face, instantly disappeared from his sight.
Bewildered with the unexpected summons, and startled
by her strange and confused manner, he was on the point
of repairing at once to the rendezvous, but remembering
that he would be expected to lead in the first dance of
the evening, and his absence would excite great wonder,
if not alarm, he mentally decided that it would be more
prudent to wait till the time specified ; ere the hour had
elapsed, under the pretext of fatigue, and a slight indis-
position, he withdrew from the gay throng, and directing
his steps to the Oratory, found the Senhora already
awaiting him.

" Amigo minha," exclaimed the maiden, " I ought, per-
haps, to apologize for thus interrupting the pleasures of
this happy evening, but I know not what to do — my
father leaves the city early to-morrow morning, to spend

some weeks in the province of M , and insists

that I shall accompany him, and not daring to entrust my
important secret to a messenger, I have sought a person-
al interview. Our country is on the eve of a great polit-
ical change, which I fear will terminate in a civil war.
You are aware that the native Brazilians, in our northern
provinces, have long been disaffected towards the king ;
a conspiracy has been formed against his person and gov-
ernment, and, unless he can be prevailed upon to return
immediately to Portugal, he will be deprived of power,
if not of life. I am acquainted with the names of many
individuals who are concerned in this infamous plot,

124 VOICES FROM THE KENDU8KEAG.

for (with shame I avow it,) they have often assembled
at the house of my father, to arrange and mature their
schemes. Believing, probably, that I was too young and
giddy to notice what was said upon a subject so uninter-
esting as politics, my father suffered me to enter the sAla,
whenever I chose to do so ; many words of fearfhl im-
port met my ear, yet I betrayed no visible emotion, but
carefully treasured them up that I might, if possible,
avert the threatened danger. To-night, as the Senhor
Vincent Znra was on his way hither, he called, and find-
ing my father from home, made but a brief stay; after
his departure, I picked up this sealed paper, and judging
from its size and form, as well as its lack of a superscrip-
tion, that it probably related to the matter of which I
have been speaking, I concealed it in the folds of my
dress, and retired to my own room. He shortly after re*
turned to search for it, apparently greatly concerned at
the loss, offering a considerable reward to old Diogo, if
he would find and deliver it, either to my father or him-
self. You are, I know, a favorite with the monarch, and
I have sought you, to beg you to devise a method to in-
form him of his danger, and save him from his peril, with-
out involving my only surviving parent in disgrace and
ruin."

" Stay, Inez, I have something to say to you in my own
behalf; have you forgotten the happy days when you
confessed that I was dearer to you than all the world be-
side ? Do I find you changed ? "

" Henrique, speak not to me now of love ; my sen-
timents towards you are unalterable — but, with the
knowledge that my father was in league with traitors,
that the life of our sovereign is in danger, and the
country threatened with a revolution, there is no room
in my heart for softer emotions. I have, with the most
perfect trust, confided to your keeping the awful secret

FESTIVAL AT THE CASA DE CAMPO. 125

which burdened my soul, and I believe that time will
prove that my reliance on your aid was not vain !
Senhor, adios ! "

When Henrique had somewhat recovered from the
surprise which her alarming intelligence and abrupt de-
parture occasioned, he drew near a small lamp suspend-
ed from the ceiling of the chapel, and breaking the seal
of the paper she had given him, found it to contain a lisf
of the names of the principal conspirators, which had
doubtless been drawn up to be sent by the Senhor Bay*
mondo Vtera to their confederates in the Province of
M ■ To his great joy, it contained not the name

of a single Portuguese.

A few moments of reflection enabled him to decide
upon the course he ought to pursue, and with a serene
countenance/but a heavy heart, he returned to the bril-
liant assemblage in the s&la.

In music, dancing and merriment, the hours sped swift*
ly, and the night was far advanced, ere the company sep-
arated; numerous were the flatteries, congratulations, and
kindly wishes whispered in the ears of the happy father,
and the envied son ; but at length, like the proverbs of
the wise man, they were " ended," and the last of the
mirthful assemblage departed from the Cdsa de Campo.
The weary inmates retired to their respective apart-
ments. Henrique repaired to that occupied by his eldest
sister, Beatriz, and informed her of his intended journey.
She besought him with tears to tell her the cause of his
strange ■ determination, but this, he assured her, he was
not at liberty to divulge ; he could only infohn her that it
was a matter of the utmost importance, and would ad-
mit of no delay, but that he hoped to be able to return
within eight or ten weeks. Many kind and tender mes-
sages to his parents and the younger members of the
family were entrusted to her, to be delivered on the mor-

126 VOICES FROM THE KENDU8KEAG.

row, and their conversation was interrupted all too soon,
by the entrance of his faithful servant Felippe, who gave
notice that his horse was in readiness, and daylight at
hand. He folded his beloved sister in his arms in a long
and fond embrace, vaulted into his saddle, and home and
friends were soon left far behind.

They proceeded as far as was practicable, on horse-
back. Henrique then hired an Indian to take them in a

canoe to M , found a vessel in readiness to sail for

the desired haven, and after a passage of three weeks,
landed in safety at Rio Janeiro.

The mission of the brave young officer was successfully
accomplished. The king and his family were induced
to embark secretly in a ship bound to Lisbon, and his
treacherous subjects were thus foiled in their murderous
designs. Filled with the deepest anxiety for the fate
of the loyalists in the North, Henrique hastened home-
ward, for he judged that the plans of the Provincials

must be nearly ripe for execution. At M he heard

rumors which served to heighten his solicitude, and urge
him forward with the utmost speed. After an absence
of eight weeks he reached once more the Casa de Campo,
and found it desolate and forsaken ; an old and faithful
slave, named Miguel, was the only human being that re-
mained on the premises, and from him he learned the
particulars of what had transpired.
. A few days subsequent to his departure, the Brazil-
ians, fearful that the missing paper had fallen into the
hands of the loyalists, and thus their design might in
the end be frustrated, determined at once to destroy or
make prisoners of all the Portuguese residents. In order
to execute this diabolical intention, many slaves were
induced, by threats and bribery, to betray their masters.
One evening, as Miguel was returning at a late hour from
the city, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps,

FE STIYAL AT THE CASA DE CAMPO. 127

and voices engaged in earnest conversation ; he conceal-
ed himself by the road-side till they should have passed
by; but to his great dismay they halted near his hiding-
place, and in one of the number he recognized a fellow-
servant, who agreed on the following night to deliver into
their hands the keys of the Baron's house, and to receive,
as the reward of his perfidy, his freedom and a small
sum of money. As soon as they were fairly out of sight,
Miguel hastened, as fast as his aged limbs would permit,
%o inform his master of his danger. The negro was
seized and closely confined ; the trusty Miguel was then
despatched with orders from the Baron to the captain of
one of his vessels lying in the harbor, to drop down the
river as quietly as possible, under cover of the darkness,
and anchor in a small cove, about three miles distant,
and from there to send his boat ashore with Miguel, and
wait for further instructions. By this arrangement all
the plate, jewelry, and other valuables at the Casa de
Campo were safely bestowed on board, without exciting
suspicion, and the Baron himself, at the earnest entreaty
of his wife and children, embarked for his native land,
to secure this treasure for their future use, and prepare
a home for their future abode whenever it should be
practicable for his family to rejoin him. The Baroness
then hastened to the city, and placed herself and her
children under the protection of the British Consul,
where Henrique rejoined them. With mingled emotions
of pride and thankfulness the mother listened to the
narrative of her beloved son, and for a time their unhap-
py situation was forgotten in their joy at having secured
the safety of two beings so venerated and dear.

Many scenes of wanton cruelty and bloodshed were
enacted during the period of anarchy and misrule which
the people were pleased to term the "revolution." The
hand of the son was raised against the life of his father,

128 VOICES FROM THE KENDU8KKAG.

and all the ties of kindred, and even the common claims
of humanity, were totally disregarded; it was truly a rev-
olution, but its tendency was from bad to worse. Polit-
ical factions multiplied to an alarming degree, and each
clamorously insisted that their respective leaders should
be promoted to the highest office in the misnamed re-
public. At last, the people, weary of tumult and dissen-
sion, with one voice demanded a ruler and a government ;
they professed themselves satisfied with their revolution-
ary experiment, and recalling the eldest son of their late
king from the banishment into which they had driven
him, he was crowned and enthroned with joyful acclama-
tions, and assumed the title of " P&lro the First" The
embryo republic was gladly consigned to oblivion, and
a limited monarchy established in its stead.

The Senhor Vtera was assassinated in the city of

M , and shortly after, Inez returned to her solitary

home. When peace was once more restored, Henrique
collected the wreck of his father's vast fortune, pur-
chased a suitable residence for his family, and the fair
orphan became his bride.

For a long time no tidings were received of the Baron,
and their inquiries concerning him were fruitless. At last
they became convinced that the vessel was lost at sea,
and all on board had perished. Many years afterwards,

a sailor in the hospital at M , in his dying moments,

confessed that he was one of the piratical crew that
plundered the missing vessel, destroyed the lives of all
on board, and afterwards burned their prize.

Not one of the survivors could ever be induced to
live again at the Cdsa de Campo, haunted as it was with
the memories of happier days. It became a neglected
and unsightly ruin, the habitation of owls and bats ; and
at the present time not a vestige remains of the splendor
which has forever passed away.

129

LENORA.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF BURGER.

Lenora, just at blush of mom

Arose from dreams opprest;
" Art dead, my love, or faithless grown ?

Oh, how long lingerest?"
He had with royal Frederic's force
Been borne along in battle's course,
And had no tidings sent
Of health in banishment.

At last the Empress and the King,

Tired of dissension's tone,
Their ruthless spirits softening,

A final peace made known.
And now each host, with merry twang,
With kettle drum, and clash and clang,
Adorned with branches green,
Approaching home is seen.

And old and young from every way.

Each road and bridge along,
Come forth to meet the jubilee

Of the returning throng.—
" Thank God ! " the child and consort cried,
And " Welcome ! " many a joyous bride ;
But for our hapless maid,
No kiss or greeting staid.

130 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

She searched the gallant ranks throughout,
And asked for every name;

But none from William tidings brought,
Of all that homeward came.

And when the shining hosts had passed,

Herself upon the earth she cast,

And tore her raven hair,

With gestures of despair.

The mother ran with haste to see j —

" God, pity the distressed !
Thou darling ehild, what aitest thee ? " -

And clasped her to her breast.
" Oh, mother, mother, gone is gone I
Now may the world and all be gone!
With God no mercies be !
Oh, woe to wretched me ! "

" Help, Father, help ! Look kindly down !

Thy Paternoster, child !
What God does, that must well be done !

Pity, oh God, thy child ! »
" Oh, mother, vain the thought must be !
For God has not well done to me !
What did roy prayer avail ?
Now all things else must fail.**

" Help, Father, help ! — Whoe'er Him knows,
Knows that he helps the child !

The sacrament will bring repose,
And make thy sorrow mild ! "

" Oh, mother, mother, to my woes,

No sacrament will bring repose !

No sacrament will make

The shrouded dead awake ! "

LENORA. 131

1 Hear, child ! What if the faithless youth

In Hungary's far off land,
Has pledged again his perjured troth

In a new marriage band 1
Oh, let, vain child, his heart go free!
No gain to him 'twill ever be !
When soul and body part,
His crime will scorch his heart."

" Oh, mother, mother, gone is gone !
And lost is quite forlorn !
Death, death's the gain I count upon !

Oh, had I ne'er been born !
Go out, go out, my earthly light !
Oh, die away in void and night !
With Go£ no mercies be !
Oh, woe to wretched me ! "

" Help, Father, help ! Judge not in wrath

This erring child of thine !
She knows not what she madly saith ;

Charge not to her the sin !
Oh, dwell, my child, on sorrow less,
And think on God and blessedness !
Then shall thy lifted mind
The living Bridegroom find ! "

" Oh, mother, what is blessedness ?

Oh, mother, what is Hell }
With him, with him, is blessedness,

And without William, Hell !
Go out, go out, my earthly light !
Oh, die away, in void and night !
Without my love, no bliss,
In earth or heaven is ! "

132 VOICES FROM. IBS KENDU8KEAG.

Thus raged despair with demon power
In whirling brain and rein !,

And still she dared each passing hour,
The will of God arraign.

She wrong her hands, she beat her breast,

Until the sun had sank to rest,

And in the vaulted sky

The golden stars went by.

And without, hearken ! tramp I tramp ! tramp !

As hoof of steed were there ;
And clatter! clatter! with the tramp,

A horseman treads the stair.
And hark! and hark! a stealthy ring
Goes lowly, slowly, kling, kling, kling !
Then through the portals barred,
These accents clear are heard.

" Who's there ? who's there 1 The gates undo !
Dost wake, my love, or sleep?
How fares thy William with thee now ?
And dost thou laugh or weep 1 "
" Ah ! William, thou ! At night so late ?
I've wept for thee, and I have waked ;
Forlorn has been my plight;
Whence earnest thon to-night ? "

" I saddled but since yester eve,
And from Bohemia come ;
I 've made it late, and with thy leave,
Will take thee with me home ! ? '
" Ah, William, first come quickly in !
For through the hawthorn howls the wind !
Come in, within mine arm,
Dearest, thyself to warm ! "

" Then let the Wind its dirges sipg,
And howl through hawthorn sere !

The steed does paw ! The spar, does ring !
I dare- not linger here !

Come robe thyself, and mount with me,

Upon ray courser fleet and free !

To bridal bed, our way,

A hundred miles ere day ! n ■ '

" A hundred miles ere day dost go,
With me to bridal bed?
And hark ! the clock is' sounding now !
Eleven hours have sped." —
" See there ! see there 1 The moon shines bright !
We and the dead ride, fast to-night !
To-night, I wager thee,
Our nuptial couch we see 1 "

" Where is thy nuptial chamber, where ?

And where thy bride's repose ? n —
" Still, cool and small, far, far from here, —

Eight boards my home compose I "
" Hast room for me} " — " For thee and me !
Come, robe thyself, and mount with me !
The bridal guests do wait,
And open stands the gate.' 7

Then robed the maid, and bounded light

Upon the steed behind ;
And round her dear and gallant knight

Her lily hands she twined.
And whizzing, whirring, splash I splash ! splash !
In whistling gallop, on they dash !
And sparks in merry rout,
And pebbles wheel about!

7

134 TOICES FEOM fHB KXNDUSKXAG.

To right and left their gianoe before,
How flies each heath and hedge !
How flies each waring green and shore !
How thunders every bridge 1
" Dost fear, my love 1 The moon shines bright !
Hurrah ! the dead ride fast to-night I
Dost fear, my lore, the dead ? n ~
" Ah no ! but leave the dead ! "

What sounds of wail are borne along t

Why flits the raven past ?
Hark t tolling bell ! hark ! burial song ! —

" Now take we dust to dust ! w —
And funeral train draws slowly near,
Bearing a coffin and a bier.
Like the frog's evening moan,
Is the hoarse requiem's tone.

" At midnight's hour inter the dead,

With wail, and clang, and song !

Now bear I home the bride I wed ;

Come, join the nuptial throng r
Come, sexton, here ! come with the choir,
And sing the bridal song before t
Come, priest, the blessing speak,
Ere our repose we seek ! "

Hushed song and clang ; — fast fades the bier ; -

And to his call resigned,
Whiz, whiz, and whirr, the hosts appear,

His horse's hoofs behind 1
And ever faster, splash t splash ! splash !
In whistling gallop, on they dash I
And sparks in merry rout,
And pebbles wheel about t

LtNOft&. - 1Z6

How flies t> the right, how flies V the left,

Each: mountain, hedge, and tree !
How to the left, and right and left,
Each town and Tillage flee !
" Dost fear, ray love ! The moon shines bright !
Hurrah t the dead ride fast to-night !
Dost fear, my love, the dead 1"
" Ah ! leave to rest the dead l»

See there 1 see there I on gallows height,

Revolving round the wheel,
Half seen beneath the moonbeam's light,

An airy rabble reel !
" Holloa ! ye phantom crew, come down !
Ye rabble, come and follow on 1
And dance onr bride-dance gay
When we in slumber lay ! '*■

And la ! the rabble, brush ! brash ! brush !

Come clattering on behind,
As whistles in the hazle-bush,

Through withered leaves, the wind !
Ana* faster, faster, splash ! splash 1 splash !
In whistling gallop on they dash 1
And sparks in merry root,
And pebbles wheel about 1

How flies whatever the moonbeams eye,

In distance fading far !
How flies the vaulted heaven on high,
And every golden star !
" Dost fear, my love ? The moon shines bright !
Hurrah \ the dead ride fast to-night !
Dost fear, my love, the dead ? n
" Oh, leave to rest the dead ! "

136. VOICES FROM ID ttNDUSKBAG.

" Bub I barb I methinks the leook orows clear ;

Soon wiU the sands be ran.;-—
Barb I barb 1 I snarl the morning ait ; —

Forward I the goal is won!
Oat race is done, dur journey o'er,
The bridal bed yawns wide before !
Hurrah! the dead ride fast !
We've reached the spot at last I":

Headlong upon an iron-bound gate
With furious speed they went ;

One gentle touch upon the grate,
And lock and bar are rent I

The portal, elattering, open flew,

While they o'er graves their coarse pursue,

And tombstones glitter white,

In the mood's lonely light

But look ! bat look { a moment's space,

And lo ! a marvel great !
The rider's doublet, piece by pieee,

Falls mouldering at his feet !
A hairless skull his head became! ;
A naked skeleton his frame I
Wielding a scythe in hand,
Counting an hour-glass' sand ! •

The steed reared high, he snorted loud,

And spouted sparks of fire ;
And lo ! beneath the maid he bowed,

And melted into air !
Howls, dismal howls, fill air around,
And deeper groans eonvulse the ground !
Lenora's heart and breath
Struggle 'twixt life and death !

LENORA. 137

Now underneath the moonbeam dim,

In circles gliding slow,
Pale ghosts join hands in dances grim,

And howl these words of woe ; —
" Be patient ! and tho' heart may rend,
With God in heaven dare not contend !
Of body dispossessed,
God grant thy spirit rest ! n

136

CORRESPONDENCE.

A gentleman who was addressed by one of the com-
pilers, requesting a contribution for the , replied as

follows :

#####*♦

" You ask for something in the shape of an essay, a
tale, or a poem.

" Had you asked me to swim the Penobscot river cross-
wise, lengthwise, or otherwise, at any given angle, with
or against the current, I should have answered, • sink or
swim, live or die, survive or perish/ I will make the es-
say. Had you even imposed on me the harder task of
assigning a good reason for the Mexican war, I might
have made, as others have, a hopeless, essay to find out
and set forth some rational, some national, or some phi-
lanthropic motive therefor. Not that I deem myself
equal to such Herculean feats, or indeed believe that the
last is morally possible. But they might at least be at-
tempted, whereas in the case at hand,

. 'The attempt, and not the deed
Confounds me.'

" So much for an essay. As to a story, I never wrote
one in my life. O, that I had never told one ! A young
lady being asked whether she could speak French, re-
plied with logical precision : • I do not know, sir, for I
never tried/ My late sad experience deprives me of
even that poor reply. I was lately travelling with a lit-

CORRESPONDENCE. 139

tie boy who has such a mania for stories, that he haunt-
ed me in steamboats, cars, and hotels, with ceaseless pe-
titions for 'original stories founded on fact. 1 Placing
himself in a listening attitude, he would say, ' I am all
ready ! Come, once there was a boy — now do begin ! '
Such importunity was of course irresistible, and I was
thus betrayed into several attempts to beguile the* time
by extemporaneous fiction. But, upon my word, some
incongruity in the plot, some inconsistency of character,
anachronism, or other absurdity, was always sure to af-
ford the boy vastly more entertainment, at the expense,
too, of my reputation as an author, than the choicest
and most brilliant passages I could invent. Finding it
impossible to come up to a standard of excellence so
diminutive, I resolved that to the like request hereaf-
ter, by any child more than seven years old, I would make
but one reply —

* Story! God 'bless you,
I have none to tell ! *

" But why should I refuse to write apoem?

* Descend from Heaven, Urania, by that name
If rightly thou art caU'dV

And since, O heavenly muse, for all my disinterested
love thou hast never, from my youth upwards, vouch-
safed a single feather from a wing of thine to waft my
soul to thy serene abode, or even to fan its murky as-
pirations into poetic flame, grant me at least the gravity
of Minerva's bird, while I make solemn protestation of
thy unkindness. Lest thou be left to deny the charge,

' I call the phantoms of a thousand hours,
Each from its voiceless grave/

— to bear witness how long and how hopelessly I have

140 VOICES PROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

wooed thee. Never again shall thy oft rejected lover
dare ' to call thee from thy sacred hill. 1 No ! not even
to aid this heavenly cause, which should he dear to thee
and all thy sisters. To thee, ungrateful muse, I offer no
' apology for the coldness and hardness of a heart which
thy own cruelty alone has congealed. But to thy sisters
here" below, I submit the humble plea of despair, trust-
ing that they will commend the alienation of that love
which has never been encouraged by a smile of thine,
and applaud my final resolve to abandon the hopeless
pursuit of thy favor."
:■.#•. .# # # #

These excuses, though certainly very acceptable, were
in one sense not accepted. The gentleman was written
to again, in behalf: of the managers, and informed that
unless he sent them something else, they were deter-
mined to publish his letter. This drew forth the follow-
ing rejoinder. After acknowledging the receipt of the
letter, and alluding to the' alarming sentence aforesaid,
he goes on thus : —

"An alarming sentence did I say? I should rather
call it terrific. Had it been a sentence of death, I would
not have opened my mouth to complain, or pointed my
pen to reply. I should have welcomed the opportunity

'In some good cause, not in my own,
To perish, wept for, honored, known. 1

But instead of a consummation so glorious, & sentence
of perpetual ignominy stares me in the face. Is it pos-
sible that I read it rightly, and that a private letter of
mine is condemned to pnblic disgrace, 4 unless I send
them something else/ for a sacrifice. * Is this the opin-
ion of the whole court, and do you mean to print it?'
That is the question ; the same that was once put to the
Chief-Justice of the Supreme Court by a member of

CORRESPONDENCE. 141

the bar, in his utter dismay at hearing an unlooked-for
decision against bis client Well may it be repeated
with variations on the present occasion. Dare yon print
it ? Though bent on punishing me, have yon no more
regard for your own literary reputation than to print it*?
Jf you are feckless of that and of the credit of the city
too, have you no more pity for the little orphans than to
print it? Nothing but the testimony under your own
hand and seal, would make me believe that tender hearts
could harbor such revenge. But there stands the fatal
sentence, so plain that he who runs may read, and so
startling that he tf ho reads must run. In hopes to de-
tect some other meaning, I have gazed at it till ' my eyes
are dim with childish tears/ O, that they could wash
away the words. But what would that avail ? ' Not all
the water in the rough rude sea/ No, nothing but a
Bangor ice-freshet could obliterate the memory of them.

"It was quite unnecessary for you to add that 'this
affair is no joke.' I believe you, or, if it be a joke, it
has but ode precedent in authentic history. To that
precedent I will for your sake briefly advert, with some
hope, that by contemplating a true picture of the war
you are waging, your hearts may yet be softened, and
your cruel sentence be unconditionally revoked. I al-
lude to the celebrated siege which called forth from the
expiring representative of the afflicted inhabitants of
Frogpondom that heart-rending protest against their tor-
mentors, which has justly acquired a world-wide fame,
by no means limited to his own race. I sincerely hope
I am np croaker, but in the present emergency I should
adopt the immortal language of that remonstrance, were it
adequate to express my own more desperate fate. ' It may
be sport to you/ ladies, but it is worse than death to me.

" A variety of moral and political reflections are sug-
gested by that historical passage, upon which, were I in

7* A

142 VOICES FROM THE KENDU8KEAG.

a calmer mood, I should delight to expatiate. Even now
I cannot forbear to remark, that their memorable remon-
strance may justly occupy in the archives of that peo-
ple a niche as conspicuous as that which in English his-
tory is assigned to Magna Charta, and in our own, to
the Declaration of Independence. It would be difficult
to decide which of these three great efforts has accom-
plished the most for the cause of liberty. Precisely the
same thing that was effected in England by a dignified
and temperate assertion of popular rights, and in Amer-
ica by the enumeration of public wrongs, and a soul-
stirring defiance of tyranny, was brought about in Frog-
pondom by a simple and touching appeal to the hearts
of all boykind. In a literary point of view, it is equal-
ly difficult to decide between the merits of these inval-
uable documents. The language of the English charter
is the most logical, correct and perspicuous ; that of the
American ' declaration the most bold, flowing and ener-
getic ; while the appeal of the great Frogpondian so far
surpasses either in conciesness, simplicity, and pathos, that
I am more than half inclined to pronounce it the best.
The most signal proof of its superior merit is the impres-
sion it has made upon the language of the race. They
all have a plaintive semitone, so peculiar, that if you
meet one of them in the darkest night, you are sure to
detect his nationality by the clear, resounding, nasal
twang of the first word he utters. Some authors attrib-
ute this peculiarity to the effect of strangulation during
the siege. Allow me to remark, that such paltry critics,
in attempting to show the delicacy of their ears, only ex-
pose the enormous length of them. They do not dis-
tinguish the guttural sound, which, of course, was c&used
by water, from the plaintive, nasal tone, which is whol-
ly due to the moral effect of that pathetic expostulation.
"I cannot suppose that speculations like these will

OOWMBPONDENCI. 143

interest yon. But having seized upon the subject! as a
drowning man will catch at a straw, I cling to it with
desperation, as my only refuge from the contemplation
of the dire alternative to which you have doomed me.
Moreover, I agree with Emerson, that

' The politics are base,

The letters do not cheer,
And 't is far in the depth of history,
The voice that tpeaketh clear:

I will therefore indulge myself at your expense, if you
read on, in a consideration of the remarkable changes
which the appeal aforesaid has effected in the condition
and prospects of that interesting race. The commence-
ment of the siege lies buried in the shadowy depths of
a remote and obscure antiquity, unfathomed by the sound-
ing-line of history, unheard from even in the echoes of
tradition, which have all fainted and died on their wea-
ry way, and as yet unexplored by geology itself, with
its huge antennae stretching far beyond the Flood. I
therefore leave that point to the researches of the Ban-
gor Antiquarian Society, suggesting to that learned body,
as a possible clue to the mystery, that as

c We see mankind the same in every age, 1

we may not unreasonably infer the same of boys. On
this hypothesis, the true date will be found a long time
previous to the siege of Troy, even when Adam was a
little boy. It is well known, that up to the period of
their emancipation from the siege, the condition of the
Frogpondians was one of universal submersion, and that
consequently their prospects were extremely limited.
Indeed, as to their having any extensive views or agree-
able prospects, they might just as well have been buried
alive. Their liberty, also, was equally circumscribed.

144 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

To take the air and to take a pelting, were with then
synonymous expressions. Even their constitutional right
of grumbling was lost The voice of complaint was
drowned. The most vigorous choir of croakers could
only raise a few extra bubbles, which burst unheard into
empty air. Their sufferings were intolerable. Some
swelled and burst with smothered grief or rage. Some
took to hard drinking, and so ended their miserable days.
Whoever dared show his head above water, instantly be-
came the sure mark and victim of the besiegers. The
whole race must have become extinct,, had it not been
for the anonymous hero, patriot, and martyr, Whose dy-
ing Words, ' It may be sport to you, boys, but it is death
to us/ sent horror and remorse through the hearts of
their natural enemies, the Urchins. The siege was forth-
with abandoned, and as often as it has been renewed,
the edho of those words has paralyzed the urchin's ami,
and 'let the oppressed go free.' It is true, that during
the tender period of their minority, they are still con-
fined to the ancient, fish-like life of their remote ances-
tors. But when they graduate from the school of tad-
poles, they receive the degree of L. L. M», which is, by
amplification, Legum et libertatis magister, and by inter-
pretation, master of legs and liberty to use them, or, ac-
cording to some critics, master of liberty, with legs to
abuse it. And now, with a jump of joy they leave be-
hind them their minority, together with their puerile in-
teguments, and leap about on land, or dive, or swim, or
sit at leisure under their own bulrushes, with none to
molest or make them afraid. Sometimes, in full caucus
they ' startle the dull night ' by the vociferous exercise
of their constitutional right of croakings. Sometimes
they delight

1 ' To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,

To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,

CORRESPONDENCE. 145

Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been.

" You may detect them in these day dreams by the sol-
itary, melodious twang, — like the vibration of a single
fiddle string, or, according to the minstrel's age, like that
of a base-viol string,, — which, ever and anon, betrays the
spot

' Where heavenly pensive contemplation dwells,
And ever musing melancholy reigns.'

In short, their liberty might be said to be perfect, were it
not for one abatement, whiqh is- alt they now have to
croak about They want wings. But let them study
the theory pf.' Vestiges of Creation,' which traces the
rise and progress of our race from mud to manhood, and
draw from it a lesson of faith iu their own manifest des-
tiny. Looking down from tho elevation they have al-
ready attained, upon their former low pursuits, let them
cease croaking, 1 cultivate their musical notes, and perse-
vere in their convulsive efforts to fly, rtntil they learn to
soar and sing in the highest circles of larks and nightin-
gales."

146

THE PLIGHT.

" I will ride with thee, bold rover,
TW my lover thou may'st not be ;
I will ride with thee of the fiery steed,
Afar over land and sea.

" Or the convent walls, — e'er to-morrow's sun
Shall sink from yon mountain tall,
Will shroud me from the sunshine fair,
To pine in an endless thrall.

" But the convent walls less gloomily
Frown in the sunlight fair,
Than my father in his stately pride,
His grave and solemn air.

" I will ride with thee for freedom's sake
Afar over land and sea ;
But gaze not thus ! for I say, sir knight,
That my love thou may'st not be."

" So ho ! so ho ! my gallant steed
A throne for a queen thou art —
For Beauty's queen ! now ladie fair
We '11 speed like the feathered dart."

Away ! away ! thro' the ringing air
Not swifter the tempest's flight,

Away from the cloister's threatened shade
Away from the father's might.

THE FLIGHT. 147

But alas for the maiden ! too late she found

There are deadlier ills than those
Which a father's iron will may forge.

Or the convent walls enclose.

" Nay, recreant knight ! I spurn thy suit,
And I scorn thy boasted power !
Fearless, I fled thro 9 the midnight drear,
And fearless, I meet this hour."

Her hand defiance proudly waved, —

Her eyes with triumph shone, —
A blade gleamed bright in the torch's light ; —

With the dead was the knight alone.

J48

DIRGE.

Mike me a bed, mother,
Little and narrow,

For I must go, mother,
Go ere to-morrow.

Here you have made, mother,

Often my bed,
Softly the pillows have

Smoothed for my head.

No more again, mother,

Can I lie here,
Hard must my rest be

On the low bier.

How, by your side, mother,
You 've smiled to see,

In the bright morning,
My face turn to thee.

You must not weep, mother,
When you look there,

Silently seeing no
Child needs your care.

Oh, it is sweet, mother,

Here by your side,
Can it be pleasant with

Death to abide?

DIRGE. 149

Ah ! thou wilt weep, mother,

Nor canst refrain,
To smooth the dear place, where

I lie not again.

Then you will think, mother,

Of that cold bed,
The grave, far away, where

Your darling is laid.

Take then away, mother,

The cot by your side ;
Your fond lore could never

Its stillness abide.

But let us pray, mother,

That we may be given,
Where nothing shall part us,

A soft bed in heaven.

150

FIRST IMPRESSIONS.

" And so, Mrs. Benson, it seems you have some new
neighbors. Pray, what sort of people are they ? "

" I really cannot say, Mrs. Hart They have not been
here quite two weeks, and that is hardly long enough to
form an opinion of their characters."

" Well, I don't know how it is," said Mrs. Estes, u but
/always form an opinion of people, the first time I see
them ; and I must say, that I seldom see occasion to
change it."

" And have you seen these Ryleys ? "

" I have. They were all at church last Sunday, and I
called on Mrs. Ryley the next day, when I saw the family
again."

" And how did they strike you ? "

" Oh, I should think they were people of some proper-
ty, and who had moved in good society. The parlors
had a very genteel air — rather grander than any of us
can afford — but all very well for people of wealth, if
they are so. Mr. Ryley looks like what the men style
* a good substantial citizen/ but like what I should call,
a ' good easy sort of a man/ who would let his wife do
as she pleased, provided she only gave good dinners, and
a prime cup of coffee in 4he morning. And say what
we will, the way to most men's hearts is through their
palates. Mrs. Ryley is intelligent, well bred, and good
looking. She has a very decided manner, as much as to
say, ' this is my house, and I am mistress of all that is in

FIRST DIPEBSSIONS. 151

*t' You may depend, she rules the roast, as the saying
is, and rules with a stiff rod, or I am greatly mistaken."

"From what could you draw such conclusions/' said
good Mrs. Benson, in some surprise, " upon so slight an ac-
quaintance ? "

" Oh, I saw it all perfectly plain. The children were
present, and if ever step-mother was written on any
woman's face, it is on hers."

"Step-mother! Has Mr. Ryley been married twice ? "

" Of course he has. He is evidently as much as fif-
teen years older than .his wife. And then, too, the dif-
ference in the ages of the children ; the two eldest are
seventeen and fifteen, with light hair and eyes, and look
no more like Mrs. Ryley than they do like me, while her
children are five and two years old — with dark hair and
eyes precisely like their mother's, whose, I must say, are
a little sharp. I pitied those two oldest children — they
have a hard time of it, I know. That poor Louisa is a
meek little inoffensive thing, who scarcely dares to look
up under her eyebrows, or to speak above her breath,
without glancing anxiously at Mother to see if she ap-
proves. I do think, Mr. Ryley ought to stand up for his
own flesh and blood better. I declare, if I was a man,
and married a wife who would not be kind to my chil-
dren, I would soon show her that my house had two sides
to it, and that she might take the outside as soon as she
pleased. I like to see a man know his own rights."

Mrs. Benson, who was one of the kindest and most
truly courteous women in the world, could scarcely re-
frain from returning Mrs. Hart's meaning glance, at hear-
ing this declaration op the part of Mrs. Estes, whose hus-
band, poor man, was well known to be one of those hen-
pecked mortals, who hardly dare breathe, except by per-
mission of their wives. She, however, did refrain, and
only answered —

152 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

/

" I understand Mr. and Mrs. Byley have aiwaytf boflte
good characters in the place they came from; and were
both respected and beloved, where they were best known.
I trust, therefore, that your suspicions, Mrs. Bates, will
prove incorrect."

Mrs. Estes replied, with a slight toss of the bead, u I \
hope so too — but we shall see. I know I am apt to
judge hastily, but I have great faith in first impressions,
and I find I am generally in the right about such things.*

A few months served to make the Ryleys very well
known at Westford. They were considered worthy, staid,
substantial people, who belonged to the church, and wife
always gave their influence in favor of good manners,
good morals, and religion. They lived liberally, were
public-spirited, and generous to the poor. Still, the ru-
mor gained strength, that Mrs. Ryley was not kind to
her two step-children. It was asserted that she kept
Louisa at home from school, and refused to suffer lierio
join any parties of young persons of her acquaintance,
that she might assist in taking care of the younger tjhil-
dren. Henry resented this, and it was said that violent
altercations on this subject often accrued between him-
self and his mother. Many were the exaggerated stories
Which were circulated from house to house — and many
were the lamentations over this deplorable Mate of things
by the good people of Westford. Everywhere, Louisa
and Henry were met with looks, and frequently .with ex-
pressions, of sympathizing compassion, which they could
not understand, and which were . sometimes excessively
annoying.

One afternoon, the ladies of a sewing»ctrdle met at
Mrs. Bertson's, to work for the children of the poo* wto
belonged to the parish. The day was! rainy, and so dmall
a number collected, that the conversation remained gen-
eral, and soon turned from considering the wants of des-

ONB. ]63.

hildren, to sympathizing with " the more affecting
»," as one lady pathetically expressed it, "of those
] not want indeed a covering for the body, but
spirits languished for the fostering arm of a moth-
e " — the young Ryleys. Various anecdotes illus-
■of the subject, all greatly exaggerated, and most
1 without any foundation, were related by one and
c, and the exclamations — "Too bad!" "shame-
* abominable ! " etc., passed around among those
ak the most active share in the conversation. One
iclared that she herself had seen enough to con-
ler, that all they had heard was but too true ; for,
e, " as I was one afternoon entering Mrs. Ryley's
I heard Henry say in loud tones to his mother,
ouisa is but a poor spirited thing ; any girl would

was always kept in the nursery. I wish she had
er who was a mother/ and then he bolted out of
or, throwing it to with a slam that Bhook the room,
me, I found Mrs. Ryley a little discomposed, but
s too well bred not to endeavor to conceal it, as
ls possible." This looked a little more like proof
lything which had yet been related, and it made
rful impression upon the assembly,
n the excitement had a little subsided, the pa-
Lady aforesaid laid down her work, and gently
g her hands upon her lap, and casting up her eyes,
d with great gravity and emphasis, ? Well, ladies,
know what you may think abont this matter; but

that it is a very serious thing — an awful thing
ine woman to abuse, in this manner, the children
her — the precious treasures which her husband,
r God, you may say, has committed to her charge.
s of you can imagine how many anxious thoughts
had about it — how heavily it lies on my heart ; I
ept over it, and prayed over it, till I am convinced

154 VOICES FROM THE KEKDUBKEAG.

that we have a solemn duty to perform in the case, and
my conscience will not let me rest till it is done."

" Indeed ! ah ! how ! what is it ? " were exclamations
uttered by several of the circle, while all dropped tkeir
work and gazed upon the speaker in wondering surprise,
curious to hear what would follow this startling announce*
ment.

" Yes, ladies, I wish to ask you one question* Do you
consider Mrs. Ryley a sister in Christ, or not ? " Most of
them immediately replied in the affirmative, and added,
that, with the exception of her treatment of her husband's
children, they knew nothing to object to in her walk and
conversation since she had been among them.

" Then is it not clearly our duty as fellow-christiahs,
to admonish her in this matter, and endeavor to awaken
her slumbering conscience by ' speaking the troth' to her
' in love.' I have no doubt, myself, what doty demands,
and my husband, the deacon, perfectly agrees with me.
He says we ought to give ourselves no peace, until two
or three of us have been to her, and talked with her faith-
fully, as directed in the Gospel of St. Mathew. Indeed,
he says he is not sure, that it ought not to be brought be-
fore the church. At any rate, we ought to talk with her
not merely oh account of these poor suffering children,
but for the sake of her own soul ; perhaps we shall have
the happiness to convince her of this sin, and so we shall
gain our sister. I know that to do this will be a great
cross ; but I for one, am willing to take it up and bear it,
according to the best of my ability."

It was amusing to observe the mixture of awe and
admiration with which this oration was received by some
of the ladies, who had always been accustomed to re*
gard the speaker as an oracle ; while others drew in their
breaths, and looked quite aghast at the idea of taking
upon themselves such a responsibility. Among the lat*

FIBST DfPBESSIONS. 155

ter was Mrs. Benson, who had in vain endeavored to
stem the tide, of prejudice against Mrs. Ryley, and who
being now directly called upon for her opinion, said she
should not object so much to the course proposed, if they
had any proof that the accusation referred to was just, —
bat this she did not think was the case ; that though
she had lived very near the Ryleys, and had been much
with them since they had been in town, she had never
seen a single instance of ill treatment of the children,
or beard of one well-authenticated case.

" That is just like Mrs. Benson, 7 ' said Mrs. Estes,
sharply, " she never will believe anything. I should like
to know what more proof can be required ? "

Mrs. Benson felt a little hurt at this attack, and she
replied with some dignity, " Of course, ladies, you will
follow your own judgment rather than mine, but I great*
ly fear we shall make ourselves ridiculous by any inter-
ference with Mrs. Ryley's family affairs. Besides, if I
rightly read the instructions of St. Mathew, one alone
should expostulate with an offending member of the
church, and only in case this appeal be unheeded, should
the presence of two or three witnesses be required."

This could not be denied, but no one felt willing to
bear the brunt of such a battle alone ; so the former plan
was adopted, and the ladies who were to compose the
committee of visitation were designated by the rest.
Of course the " oratorical lady," Mrs. Bascom, was placed
in the front rank, supported on either hand by Mrs. Estes
and Mrs. Hart.

The next day they called on Mrs. Ryley, not without
some trepidation, but braced up by the thought, especial-
ly " our orator," that they were discharging a difficult and
most solemn duty. But somehow they found it even
more difficult than they had anticipated. The lady was
so quiet, gentle, and dignified ; her " Louisa, my love,"

156 VOICES FROM THE KEHDUSKEAG.

as the latter left the room, seemed so> genuine, that it
was not easy to suppose a harsh, unkind n&turet could
he at the bottom when the surface was so fair;, At length,
Mrs. Bascom finding her delicate innuendoes, either all
skilfully parried, or really misunderstood, was obliged
to state in plain terms the cause of offence which Mrs.
Ry ley had given to her Christian brethren and sisters.
Her face assumed the expression it generally wore when
she prepared herself for an unusual burst of eloquence
— the gentle wave of her hands kept time with the toties
of her voice, which became softly poihetic, as ehe com-
menced a labored speech on the beauty of the f&milf
relation, when it was sustained with forbearing ejec-
tion ; — the duty of receiving deserved rebuke in' a meek
and humble spirit, and the difficulty of administering it
She was going on in glowing terms, to describe how so*e
a trial it was to her companions and herself to be obliged
to address the language of reproof to one whom- in most
respects they had so much reason to esteem +-« but Mrs.
Ryley, who was in no humor to listen to an oration, cut
this short, by saying in a decided manner,

44 1 '11 thank you, Mrs. Bascom, to waive all apologies,
and tell me at once of what I am accused.''

Mrs. Bascom did not like to lie interrupted id her
speeches; it annoyed her; put her off her track; she
could not resume gracefully the thread of her discourse ;
especially she knew not what to do with such directness
of manner as Mrs. Ryley's*—but the question being re-
peated, she found herself obliged to come to the point

"In truth, dear sister, it is universally reported arid
commonly believed, that there is not that state of har»
mony between yourself and your husband's children,
which the sacred ness of that tie that binds you together,
should ensure.*'

*• My husband's children ! Why not my children V

'< rasr umussiONs J47

<K>hf*e<wcire only speaking of your two step-children,
* Boor/ and {Louisa."

•; frMy +$ep>*kUdfen — ha f . But no matter — what of
them t" 'and a smile broke through the hitherto puzzled,
and it must be confessed, somewhat indignant expres-
iteB) of Mra Ryley's face.

• - *.It ia said that they do not receive from you that per*
feet: justice -and kindness to which they are entitled, as
4te children of one you are bound to love and cherish,
and on account of their tender age and motherless condi-
tion, which ought to appeal to every better feeling of your
heart"

H Really/ my friends! I am obliged to my neighbors
for their charity, which certainly in this case ' belie veih
all things ! * but you are aware that a charge of this na-
ture needs to be sustained by some proof; and pray let
me ask, what evidence have you that I am not just and
kind to my — to Henry and Louisa? n

This very natural demand the ladies were scarcely
prepared to meet. They had not considered the wide
difference between believing a story and being able to
substantiate it. Each looked at the other, expecting her
to speak, but neither did so, — their faces grew blanker
and blanker, — at last Mrs. Esles urged "common re-
port."

" But, 9 said Mrs. Ryley, " common report is a common
liar, — I shall not plead guilty on such evidence."

The ladies looked extremely confused, even Mrs. Bas-
com was non-plussed — all at once she remembered the
language which Henry had been overheard to use. This
she triumphantly repeated. But Mrs. Ryley, who had
evidently of late found it difficult to retain a grave cqiujt
tenaoee, scarcely heard this story to the end, ere she fell
into a hearty fit of laughter, which was again and again
renewed*

16& VOICES IROM TH» UDIBUSKSAO.

Mrs. Bascom looked very much shocked at tin* inrev-
erent reception of her solemn appeal. Mrs. Estes' coun-
tenance flashed with anger, while Mrs. Hart could only
gaze from one to the other, with an expression of aim-
pie wonder and astonishment

" I beg your pardon, ladies, for my seeming rudeness,*
said Mrs. Ryley, still laughing, " but really, your impres-
sions of my conduct are founded in a mistake so ludi-
crous, that I cannot avoid being extremely amused. So
it seems I am accused of being unkind to my step*
children J And pray, who told you they were step-ohil-
dren?"

* Who told us ! You do n't say — why ~ why -** you
are a step-mother, are you not ? "

« No, surely *

"Is it possible! Are these children adopted, the* ?"

« Oh no."

" Are you not Mr. Ryley's second wife ? "

" Not that I am aware of. I always thought I was his
only wife. If he was ever married before, he has kept
it a profound secret from me."

There was now but one conclusion to be drawn, and
Mrs. Bascom fairly gasped as she stammered out,

" Then Henry and Louisa are your children ?"

" Certainly. I never heard that fact questioned tilt
this moment." But her mirth now became uncontrolla-
ble, in which her visitors would certainly have joined,
but for their intense mortification. As it was, they could
only stare at each other with faces which said as plainly
as features could speak, " What geese we are."

" How could we be so mistaken ? " at length murmur-
ed Mrs. Hart.

" How could all Westford be so mistaken ?" chimed ia
Mrs. Bascom.

Mrs. Estes said nothing. She had some glimmering

FIRST IMPUESB10N8. i£9

consciousness of having herself something to do with
setting this ball in motion, but she was not the less in-
dignant that fact should presume to contradict her " first
impression."

" I think I can resolve the riddle/' remarked Mrs. Ry-
le?» still smiling, though pitying the confusion and em-
barrassment of her guests. " I was married very young,
and my husband is several years my senior. For a long
time after the birth of Louisa I was in feeble health,
and none of the children born during that period lived
more than a few hours, until Mary and Willie, who hap*
pened to bear a strong resemblance to me, both in looks
and constitution — while the older ones have the fair
hair and eyes of their father. Willie, you are aware, is
a sickly infant, and I dare not leave him to the care of
such servants as I am obliged to employ. My health
suffered so much from care and confinement, that Louisa
begged hard to be allowed to aid me this summer, in-
stead of attending school, and I reluctantly consented.
She is very devoted to her little brother, and he very
fond of her ; and she often refuses my urgent request
that she would join in the social pleasures suitable to
her age, pleading that she cannot leave Willie. This
accounts for Master Henry's speech, who, though a pret-
ty good boy, is sometimes wilful, and insists very strong-
ly upon having his sister go out with him. His wish,
that * she had a mother who was a mother,' meant, that
he should like to see me exert a mother's authority, and
compel her to go. These circumstances, I presume, ful-
ly account for the mistake into which yon have fallen.
As to what remains of the charge of nnkindhess, it may
probably be set down to the exaggeration arising from
the prejudice against step- mothers."

Had Mrs. Ryley wished for revenge, she would havte
felt that she had already had sufficient in her enjoyment

16Q VOICES FROM THB KJENDUSKKAG.

of thQ ridiculous position and unconbealed chagrin of
her accusers, and she now strove to smooth matters over.
" Allow me, my friends, to congratulate you and myself
that the painful impression of my unchristian conduct is
so happily removed." But nothing could relieve, the
awkward constraint of the party, and they took their de-
parture as quickly as possible.

As soon as they were in the street, Mrs. Estes ex-
claimed, " How mean in Mrs. Benson not to tell us Mrs.
Byley was own mother to those children ! I do n't be-
lieve bnt she knew it the whole time."

" It makes no difference now, whether she did or no ;
but I believe we are indebted to your infallible * first
impressions/ for this awkward blunder/'

" Indebted to yourself, rather. Who would ever have
thought of making this visitation if you had not pro-
posed it, and persuaded us by setting it out as ' a case
of conscience.' "

" Do n't let us accuse each other," said Mrs. Hart, " I
am sure we have all been foolish; and I hope it will
teaqh us not to be so ready to credit idle tales."
" Good advice ! " said conscience to each of the ladies.
A few months afterwards, as Mrs. Hart and Miss Band
were making a morning call upon Mrs. Estes, Louisa
Byley came in to see her daughter Mary about some
music they were practising together. As she was going
away, Mrs. Estes said, " My dear Louisa, do stay and
spend the day with Mary — I shall be delighted to have
you."

" Indeed, I could not to-day, I thank you. Willie is
sick again, and I should not like to leave mother to take
care of him alone all day."

" Oh, I suspect your mother would be quite willing.
I will send John to let her know, if you will stay."
" Do, Louisa, do," said Mary, again and again,

FIKST IMPRESSIONS. 161

u I know mother would be willing, bat I should not
like to do it, she is so feeble. I will come as soon as
Willie is better — good bye."

" What a dear good girl that is," said Mrs. Estes, u to
be so devoted to her little brother, and so considerate of
her mother. I fear there are not many girls of her age
that would be so thoughtful.*'

"Yes" remarked Miss Hand, with a bland smile,
" Louisa Byley is a sweet girl."

" And her mother is a most excellent woman — 't is a
pity she is so much out of health."

" I am truly glad to hear you say so — I supposed you
thought so differently."

u Me think differently! Why should you suppose so?"

"Merely," replied Miss Rand, with the same sweet
smile, " because I heard you say something of the kind
some time since, and you know that you ' seldom change
your opinions/ I suppose, however, you m'ay sometimes
find yourself mistaken in ' first impressions. 9 Good morn-

" There is at least one opinion that I have never chang-
ed," replied Mrs. Estes — first taking care that her vis-
itor was beyond hearing — "and that is, that you are a
cross, crabbed, disagreeable old maid ! That is my first
and last impression ! "

164 YOICES TROM THX KENDUSKEAG.

May creep away, and vigils keep,
When honest men are all asleep.
For all up stairs and all below, :
Is fitted for the jam, you know.

* * * * .

The clock strikes eight. Ah ! luckless pair
Who chance to be the earliest there !
In fashion's world no longer they
Shall stand the first, whoever may.

Howe'er, thky*re in — fine words are passed,
But conversation flags at last ;
Who sit, or stand, in solemn state,
Waiting on company to wait,
Feel something of an anxious mood,
Nor can be social if they would;

Now the poor guests can ait their leisure,
Look round upon this scene. of pleasure ;
They fain would " drive away doll care,"
And setm at least delighted there.
In vain J for still they only sigh,
And hope for pleasure by and by,
And now with greetings soft and fair,
% Our hosts receive another pair.

They come — they come — short greetings now,
A word, a smile, a hurried bow —
Oh easy manners ! none shall fear,
To act the part he chooseth here.
Oh ! happy moment, every mind
Shall here its fellow-spirit find !
Lift up thine eye, poor clown, attend !
Here stands one fit to be thy friend.
Thou lady bright, refined, and fair,
Behold thy counterpart is here.

social nramoouas*. 156

Thou; who doet wisdom's page explore —

Here's a deep freight of learned lore.

Thou, disappointed, who hast come

To chase away, thy spirit's gloom —

Here ? s one who brings a heavy heart ;

Commune, ye well before ye part

It may not be — t is mixture all,

Each stands where'er his lot doth fall,

Each his own character aside has thrown,

And in a crowd, is still alone.

Some nonsense talk, some stand and hear

Their neighbors' fooleries, with inward sneer —

Some glance around with curious eye,

Each face, and form, and dress to spy —

Now laugh at finery made anew,

So that " for evening it will do " —

And now, at those in clothing gay,

Who turn the beggar's prayer away.

" The combat thickens," in by scores,
The multiplied assembly pours.
Our hostess sighs, " they all will come !
Have none the grace to stay at home ?
It is a jam ! a squeeze ! ! a rout M !
Indeed, I wish we 'd ne'er set out"

A serious aspect things assume —

'T is no mistake, this want of room ;
" Miss, will you please to let me pass ? "
" I would, but cannot move, alas ! " —
" Excuse me, that I rudely speak,

Remove your elbow from my cheek."
" There is no place to put it ma'am ;

I hope it will not do you harm." —
" I cannot stand it long, can you ? "
" Come here, here 's room enough for two."

But here's the hostess of the night
" You have a splendid party, quite." —
8*

166 VOICES FROM TH1 KENDUSKEAG.

" Why yes, indeed, we could not do
Aught less, when we invited you"

" There '11 be a reason, when I ; ra caught
Again in such a crowd," he thought.

" Think you," a damsel said, distressed,
" That I could reach the other side ? "
" I know not, but I 11 do my best
To help you there," a friend replied.
He took her hand, they pressed along,
He pushes with one arm the throng,
" Be not discouraged ! hold on fast," —
The crowd have parted them at last,
And there they stand, with arms spread wide,
Nor onward move, nor backward, nor aside.
So stood of old poor Lady Lot,
Full firmly fastened to one spot ;
So fishes sometimes caught at play,
The crevice of a rock inside,
Get fastened in, and there do they,
Wait ages to be petrified.

There is a motion — " What now friend ? "
" You '11 please on supper to attend."
Our congregation now repairs,
A noun of multitude, up stairs.

Behold fantastically laid
The evening tables are displayed !
Oh what a multitude of sweets
Now breaks on the delighted eye !
' While each gallant invites, entreats

His lady something rare to try.
" I think," said one, " don't you," aside,
" Here >s much less taste displayed than pride ;
I would not try, if I were they,
To emulate the rich and gay."

" Do see Miss Lady-like behind the door !
She eats as ne'er she eat before —
Now pray attend her, cousin John,
With custards, cakes, and urge her on.
She 's a fit subject, I am sure,
For mirth — a female epicure."

Soma poor wights stand, their bosoms stirred
With all the pangs of hope deferred,
Wedged into a neglected nook,
Doomed only on the feast to look.
In vain they conversation try — :
Still you can see it in their eye,
" Alas ! indeed our lips are dry."

— The tide has turned, and all must go,
Whether they will or not, below.

Soon secret thoughts begin to come
Of those who have remained at home ;
Of parents who so anxious wait, '
Grieved that their daughters stay so late;
Of infants, who so sleepless moan,
That they are left so long alone. '

— " I cannot longer stay." — " Nor I.
Think you we can get out 1 " " We '11 try."
The fount is broke — the waters flow —
The door is opened — and all go.

A rainy night ! The mud ! Oh dear !
" Good friends, sweet friends," we leave you here.
# # # #

Now round about the ruins lay
Of the assembly passed away —
Our host and hostess, sad, retire,
Sweet refuge ! to the kitchen fire ;
Tho' some confusion yet is there,
There is no company to sneer.

\6S yojom vbom na kemduskeag.

11 Well, they are gone ! — 't is over, dear,
Now no more parties for a year ! "
" Indeed/' she said, " I'm glad His o'er ;
It was a melancholy bore."

And this is social intercourse ! the ray
That heaven has given to cheer onr way !
This the attraction which doth bind
As into one all human kind !
This the communion of the heart !
The meeting where we dread to port !
This the bright stream, whose singing clear
Is sweetest music to the ear !

Oh ! say not so. These scenes where art
Usurps the empire of the heart ;
Where pride and envy, though restrained,
Lurk under gentleness, well feigned,
The social genius shuns. If this were all
That social intercourse we call,
Whose countenance would brighter shine,
Cheered by the human face divine ?
Who turned in error's path to stray,
Would hear a voice enchanting, say,
14 Come hither friend — this is the wiay."

1834.

169

A SIMPLE SKETCH OF SIMPLE THINGS.

" Wake up ! wake up ! little wife. I whistled home
from the field, foolish enough to believe I should be quite
a recognizable object in the home kitchen, after a day's
absence. It is well that I am a peaceable man r or the
bread would taste sour, and the butter rancid, as I eat
and watch you devouring in another way the cradle and
its contents. The baby may have one eye ; I '11 yield that,
though time was, when both were mine. Let its round
face stay painted there forever; but, Molly mine,. give
me the other."

The injured master of the premises did not often make
so long a speech. Whether he paused, surprised at the
pathos of his appeal, or for the critical survey of two
very fine Daguerreotypes, just then visible in the eyes of
Mis. Molly Hines, may be left to the learned investiga-
tion of commentators. Ah, Caleb, you may well be quiet
and peaceable. No wonder that your brown face twin-
kles all over with merriment as it spies a double image
in such a looking-glass. The heavy coffers of ydur neigh-
bor over the way could buy none of so high reflective
powers. True, it was a fair, young bride that he led to
the marriage altar, that bright June morning. True, also,
that as an innocent, uncorrupted child, holy affection
shone often from eyes of clear violet, that knew no
" masking nor diguise." It should not have been true,
that, as the priest pronounced the words, "what God hath
joined together," in that uninspired voice (he felt, alas,

172 VOICES W90U TH» KSSOHJSKJU0. •

depths, prattled past the house, contented with their misr
siori, though not possessing tones so musical, tp a parent's
ear as the lisping ones of the beloved. ThaVbfa .flowed
on in harmony with its waves, and three years, garland-
ed by bright and gladdening reminiscences, numbered
themselves with the past

" Hatty shall be just such another rosy -cheeked 4ump-
ling as yourself, Molly, Only teach her the wise, things
in your own little head, and God bless the happy man
that shall have a second Molly Hines to taeptmnshiae
and plenty in his house all sorts of weather/' ,
. u No 9 Caleb," said Mary, slowly and musingly, * Haii-
riet must bring wisdom to us both. Sometimes, a? nop,
when I look upon her, I feel that she will .teach all wbp
will hear, high and wonderful things."

Caleb's twinkling eyes grew thoughtful for a moment,
as he observed the subject of their words surrounded at
the door step by doves and chickens, apparently attra#-
ed by crumbs escaping from her fingers; butt, again hjs
cheeks dimpled with merriment as he answered tt-

" She will be a darling, any way, Bqt all mothers are
so wise; only don't begin to think, her top good to Jive,
because that is an Void woman's whim/ You, who wore
a most wonderful baby, are now a most wonderful wife,
having lived and grown up aespite the uncommon baby-
hood."

The. next morning, the sunlight rested as though it
loved to abide upon the white floor, and Harriet stood by
^er father's knee. A remark struck him as somewhat
odd to ootne from the lips of so young a child, and he
playfully asked,.

" What makes you so sensible, little Harriet ?"

'.' Love," was the reply, clear and low, as if an angel
had spoken through her lips* Caleb raised his head with.,
a strange feeling that he stood in another and more reaL

A SDfFUi SKRCH Of SIMPLE TTOT88. 173

wofcrii. His glance was rivetted to the still depths of hit
daughter's eyes.. Repose sat upon the infantile, brow ;
the repose of deep and beautiful joy over the whole face.
Again he repeated his first thoughtlessly-asked question;
and again the response was, " Love." Her eyea had been
raised to his, beaming with glorious humility, but as his
gaze grew more intense, a faint flush visited her cheeks ;
the golden lashes drooped — a laugh, glad and happy, hot
withal, so soft and subdued that it hardly stirred the per-
fect tranquillity, and she moved away.

There Caleb, the hitherto boisterous man, remained
motionless, his spiritual sense pervaded by delicious
beauty. He thought not — "feeling was deeper than
thought" The sunbeams playing upon a mark in the
floor, brought consciousness that the hour for labor, had
arrived, and lighter than usual he stepped from the
threshold. He neither sang, nor whistled, as his plough
turned the soil, and the oxen, missing the accustomed
animating exclamations, moved dreamily along.

"Love— love — is that what makes every one sen-
sible? O r Harriet's look ! that beautiful look makes me see
it clearer now, than if it were read on t of a sermon in a
high pulpit What else does make Molly wise, if it is not
love ? She never went much to school, but she stands so
womanly before those that have, and speaks her own
thoughts so simple and plain, that learned people think
themselves richer for listening. Sick neighbors send for
her,, instead of old women. What is it but compassion
for suffering that makes her hand upon their foreheads
ease their pain, and lets her know just What roots will
make them strong and well ? She never studied into it,
like the doctors, and they make queer mistakes. Plants
certainly whisper so that she can bear what sickness God
made them to cure, because she is so bright and loving.
If she goes; among the flock to take a sick lamb home

174 TOMBS VBOM THB KXNDUSOA0.

to nurse, no sheep stamps its foot And but yesterday,
Tabby, who can growl, bristle her fur, and be as stealthy
as any other cat in the presence of others, came from
under the wood-pile, where no one could reach her, and
laid a live robin at Mary's feet — she only speaking
gently and soothingly to her not to hurt the bird.

Then, never one night, since the wedding one, except
during a week of sickness, has she failed to open the
door for me when I come home from work, always look-
ing so fresh and young in her smooth gown, blue, too, re-
minding me of the truth in her own blue eyes. The
minister and other pious people talk about duty. She
works with heart and hand from morn till night, without
thinking of duty. It is all from love. Were there noth-
ing but the bare walls, a house could not be desolate, if
Mary stood inside. And, too, our babe, our Harriet, who
finds a nestling-place in every one's heart, and even in
her bright glee makes me still — does she not tell me it
is love that makes her sensible ? "

We will not follow longer with Caleb the arcana of
wisdom involved in the inspired word breathed from the
lips of his child. It covers the whole ground, for is it not
the " Alpha and Omega " of Christian doctrine ? The
pages of theologians, perhaps, look dark and heavy, and
benumb our spirits ; this simple word-utterance is breath-
ed from the home of angels, and they bloom into heaven-
ly life.

Perhaps Harriet wonders why the Lobelia Cardinalia,
Jewel-flower, and wild rose-buds and blossoms, that lean
over the bank, nodding prettily to their images in the
dancing brook, and the blue and white doves that fly from
holes in the barn down to the wet gravel on the bank,
and daintily wash their feet in the frolicksome wavelets,
are not very excellent teachers. It was no mystery to
her, that a dove should have alighted upon the bowed

A 8HCPL1 SKSfOH 01 SDfPLB THINGS. 175

head of Him, who eighteen hundred years ago stood by
the baptismal river. She could not speak the rustling
language of those vibrating wings, as they, too, walked
up from their baptism ; but the cooing from their swelling
throats had angel teachings. She may have wondered
if school-mistresses had voices as pleasant as these, her
early friends, but her hands were laid trustingly in
those of the neighbors* children, who called to lead her
to the village school. They loved her childish prat-
tle, and tenderly lifted her over mud-puddles, anon paus-
ing to fasten butter-cups and daises in her hair and
bosom, because they looked brighter and prettier upon
her. It is true, that " Pa," *' Ma," " lamb," and " bird,**
were pleasant names to spell, but the book had no con-
stant fascinations like the open one from which she had
been wont to read, and it was easy to sleep upon the
long bench. Then rude boys stepped softly, forbearing
to push their way to the desks, lest she should awaken.

" Folded eyes see brighter colors than the open ever do."

Even the teacher paused from her monotonous ques-
tioning in Spelling-book and Grammar, to wonder at
the light upon the sleeper's face. Had she, in adult
years, striven like the great Schiller, •• to keep near the
visions of" her " childhood," or could she have entered
into the young child's dream-land, and have seen the
calm rivers that flowed before the inner eyes, with their
banks of living green, and the light over all, so glorious
and bright, that never dazzled like the sun of the world,
she would have known no sense of wonder.

At the ringing of the recess bell, girls in scant frocks
and checked aprons gathered around the youngest schol-
ar, and strove gently — for in her presence they forgot
shrill tones and coarse behavior — to lead her to the grove.
Happy were those fifteen minutes of sporting time, with

176 V0*01» FBOM THB.K^NDUfi^KBAG.

their important launchings of birch-bark canoes and moss
rafts. Some disappointment there was, that holes dog
round the trees and softly lined with moss, never enticed
any winged occupants to keep house in ready built nests;
but such things seldom amounted to absolute grief!
Pleasant was all this, but happier than school hour of
study or play, was the one when Harriet again pccupied
the low chair at her mother's side.

At night, when that mother ,laid her child's head upon
the pillow, and left her with moon, and stars peeping in
to tell of loving angels' eyes that watched the house-
hold's darling, yearning visions of something more beau-
tiful in her own youthful slumbers than she had since
known, came back to her heart; but they were very
shadowy, and feeling truly that it was better to go on in
her woman's path, than back to the innocence of child-
hood, she sought her husband's cheerful converse and
pleasant evening tasks.

Then, little Hatty, after looking calmly at the moon-
beams upon the walls, would draw the sheet over her
head, and see colors brighter than those about her dove's
necks in the sunlight, or any that streaked the cups of
wild flowers. She looked upon beaming faces as upon
familiar, friends, though more radiantly apparelled. The
golden light still shone, and forms of life were yet vis-
ible, as she lost herself in slumber. Nightly had she thus
turned from the outward world, hardly knowing it —
certainly wondering none, never troubled by philosopher's
or sceptic's query as to what she saw being " subjective
or objective," enjoying all as unquestioning as the air she
inhaled, or the love in her heart At times she consider-
ed for a moment, whether the pleasant images in her
memory were seen by day or night If it was obscure,
the thought passed as easily as it came.

She observed the bee, covered with golden dust from

a enfiffl BttWrfctit et smsfeii twines, ltt

the flower-cups, whither she knew it had not gone torotf*
stop in its flight* to draw from its abundance, and impart
the sweet honey in its own mouth to its hungry compan-
ion just flying from its labor of constructing the waxen
cell. Considered, also, was the bird flying more swiftly,
because it bore food to beloved ones in a woven cradle'.
If she strewed crumbs for the hens that at night covered
their broods with motherly wings, she saw the soft chick-
ens hastening at the familiar cluck, while a hungry pa*
rent walked around in matronly dignity, pecking up a
crumb but to drop it into the opened month of some
chicken more> tottling than its companions. All ever sang
to her spiritual ear, that a "life happy and gtad ,; could
not be. separated from loving and giving.

No little maiden was ever handier, rubbing dairy-pans
bright from the cleansing water, dust from chairs and
cherry-wood table, pulling vegetables from the kitchen
garden, and washing them for the noon-day meal.

When the spring came round again, " the humming
bird/ 1 as the father delighted to call her, often startled
him in the field with her joyous laughter. She too must
aid in dropping shining beans and corn into the earth,
prattling the while in her simple way.

u Father, will the yellow kernels always stay in the
dark mould? What use will that be, if they never peep
out any more?"

' Caleb spoke of the sunbeams that would warm them
day by day; of the pure rain-drops that would bathe
them in their snug home, 'till the expanding growth of
the true life within the outer covering, needing more
room, would burst its enclosure, and work upward to a
higher freedom.

u Must everything die, father, before it can live ? "

Caleb thought, as he covered the golden grain and
looked at the earnest eyes of his daughter, " Except a

|78 VOICES FROM THB KjmnJSKBM}. '

com of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth
alone ; bat if it die, it bringeth forth ranch fruit" But-
terflies were flitting over the moist earth. The thoughts
of his daughter, always " winged and free," came fresh
to his heart, with a foreboding voice, that other sunlight
would aid her expansion than that which Warmed hi*
fields.

One day a great grief visited a neighbor's house. An
infant must be borne to the grave, and heavy was the
mother's heart, while to her vision the world was clothed
in mourning. Her wail of agony at the grave, as she
begged to see the child's face once more, drew tears to
many eyes which never beheld the sundering of dear
ties in their own midst Men, lowering the narrow
house, drew it up again, at her imploring cry.

" My own precious babe ! my heart's darling ! I can-
not let you go ! " she sobbed, clasping her arms convul-
sively around the small coffin, till gently forced to yield
it to other hands.

" Does Mrs. More think it is her little Georgy they
buried," said Harriet, as Mrs. Hines related the touching
event

" Perhaps if she did not wear such a black gown and
bonnet, and other people's faces were not so sad, she
would feel happier."

" We will go this afternoon and place flowers upon
the grave ; they will speak to her more truly than black
garments," said the mother.

After a few hours they visited a moist nook, where
sweet violets had bloomed, and carefully removed many
roots to a little basket High rocks were climbed, that
scarcely nourished a blade of grass, but there the deep
blue hare-bell waved in beauty to the breeze. Further
on in the wood the perfumed air warned them that the
Linnea's rose-tinted bells were near, and its vines in-

a amra sketch or sdsfim thugs. 179

creased their store. In the church-yard, a three-year-
old sister of the glorified babe was digging with her
hands into the newly heaped-up earth, that she might
" take dear brother Georgy home to Mamma." Placid
looks and words quickly soothed the little one, who then
watched with interest the flowers fresh blooming as it
were from the grave, and prattled pleasantly of her angel*
brother, who was not lying at all stiff in the ground, but
growing fast in the sunshine of Heaven.

That evening, yearning for the babe that had nestled
in her bosom, drew the bereaved mother to the church*
yard. There, in the light of moon and stars, the delicate
blossoms, which had themselves sprung from the dark
mould, spoke of resurrection and life. She bowed over
them, and inhaled their sweet breath. No wail passed
her lips, but calmly and trustingly she uttered aloud
their written evangel. " Why seek ye the living among
the dead? He is not here, he is risen." The bitter-
ness of death had passed away.

" What are you gazing into the east room for, Mary.
Is it because the bed-spread is so snowy ? "

" Only thinking it would be nice could old Mrs. Petty
lie there."

" What ! " said Caleb, in consternation, " the quiet
guest-room, in which every one that sleeps once wishes
to stay another night. Put a woman there so cross, that
her own relations wish her dead ! "

" O, Caleb, they have returned bitterness for bitter-
ness. No food can carry a relish when accompanied
with harsh looks, and, if they speak at all, with harsher
words. She lies panting and burning in the unwhole-
some air, with no one to bathe her face and limbs. It
would be dreadful to die with hatred in one's heart."

M But Mary, what can you do, with house and children
to mind, and no one but Harriet to assist ? *

ISO VOICES Hon CHI KENDUULBLG. /

"I shall be tired sometimes, but it will be the easiest
thing in. the world to forget all about that when you come
home from the field. Perhaps she .will not always.be
cross. She spoke this morning of Harriet's coming yes-
terday with the moss basket, yon saw her making, lined
with green leaves, and filled with fresh berries;! daisies,
rose-buds, and leaves peeping out among the fruit She
said, the bunch of flowers tied with ribbon-grass, that
Harriet laid upon her pillow, when she was asleep^brought
sweet dreams of cool winds fanning her cheeks, and iier
mother, who died in her early girlhood, bending over her
with love. She was more peaceful foe the dream. Sure*
ly, Caleb, if such very little things as Harriet did cad
make her mild for a few minutes, there is good encour-
agement to try. Such blessed privileges must not be
thrown away, because we are poor in money, and can do
but little."

Caleb whistled more blithely than ever as he arranged
a bed in a convenient cart, on which to remove the old
woman, who, many pathetically asserted, " was too ugly
ever to die/ 1 to his snug, healthy home. Mrs. Hines gen-
tly mentioned to the family her convenient little bed-
room, that would just suit the old lady. No one occu-
pied it ; she was fresh and strong, and would be glad of
the care, if they were willing. Perhaps they felt in se*
cret that other people were bound to relieve them of the
burden of their diseased relative. At any rate, readily as-
senting that the change would do her good, they, more at-
tentive than usual, assisted in the removal.

Those who have never known the utter desolation of
one who felt herself but an object of aversion to the
world, cannot look^ into Mrs. Petty's heart She almost
feared it was another delicious dream, and from a dream
like that she dreaded to waken. But as day after day
passed, and the wonderful sense of contrast in degree

A 8IMPUB SKETCH QV SIMPLE THINGS. 181

passed likewise, old irritation was not always magneti-
cally laid to rest by words and deeds of kindness. The
" peace of Jesus " was no abiding guest in a breast so
long the lurking-place of dark thoughts. Backing pains
produced hasty ebullitions of anger, and other lines than
those of years again furrowed her brow. But a gossip-
ing neighbor, who marvelled at the patience of Mary
Hines, brought the quick flush of, pain to her cheeks.
" A poor thing would it be for me, with whom the Fa-
ther in heaven and all earthly friends have dealt patiently
to this very hour, if I, with my happy home and perfect
health, cannot bear with this one woman, so lonely and
suffering."

" Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods
drown it," and a love so enduring will heal in time the
most diseased moral nature. When the subdued tones
of Caleb in the next room, inquiring what he could do
for her relief, reached Mrs. Petty's ear, and she saw her
unreasonable words receive only the silent rebuke of
increased assiduity and forbearance, every emotion of un-
selfishness quickened into animated life. The placid ex-
pression, at last no fitful wanderer to her face, was grate-
fully hailed. Pure air, fresh clothing, and simple, nour-
ishing food, had due effect upon a frame that had failed
to perform its functions unsupported by these natural al-
lies. Repulsive coarseness of manner gave way to a
mild refinement, more in harmony with her outward en-
vironment Others could not realize that she, the un-
gainly and unloved, possessed a human heart ; invisible
had it remained, though concealed by neither bolt nor
bar. The quickening spirit had pined therein during
long years, for no one without used the magical watch-
word that could alone unlock its frowning citadel. Seeds
buried in catacombs from light and air, when laid in the
kindly bosom of the earth, burst from their cerements
9

182 TOICES FKOM THE KKNOTSKKAO.

into a freer world ; and innocent remains of childhood,
unrecognized for half a century by mortal eyes, showed
by corresponding buds and blossoms their still vital pow-
er. It was easy to speak to the qnick sympathy of Mary
Hines, who led the weak pilgrim so gently " in the path
of life ;" and by snatches she looked into a record traced
by conflicting years, that found no parallel in the joyous
spontaneity of her own existence. How mournful, but
that the hour of redemption was near, to know that even
in infantile years, the freshness of opening life was un-
known. Eyes looking coldly upon one endowed with no
natural beauty, induced an awkward restraint of manner,
that only repelled still further from love the lonely little
girl, who learned prematurely to repress every impulse of
affection, too proud to encounter the expected derision of
looks or words. A heart aching for tenderness found only
the unnatural aliment of feeding perpetually on itself.
A spirit, often crushed and hiding its wounds, will be-
come the blackened thing it is deemed to be. A weary
world for a hopeless pilgrim, growing each year more cold
and selfish. It was a weary world to Mrs. Petty ; her
heart had " stifled its mighty hunger," till it well nigh
ceased to hunger. The thousand amenities of society
lavished freely upon the possessor of blessings who gives
as freely as he receives, are withheld too often from
the needy and perishing. Those threescore years could
hardly compute as many hours of enjoyment, to answer
the desponding query of the bard — but thou, dear Mary
Hines, hast the charity that u beareth all things, believeth
all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things ;" and so
in the winter of our sister's years, we joyfully hail her
spiritual spring-time.

" The sweet-smelling room, nice meals brought into
it, and gentle nursing, were enough to make the sickest
mind and the sickest body well, but it took something

A SIMPLE SKETCH OF SIMPLE THINGS. 183

more to cure me," said Mrs. . Petty one day, as she sat
braiding husk mats, a smile in her eye lighting up a
warm tear upon her withered cheek. Mary looked up
gratefully and gladly from her own work, and the speak-
er continued — "When Harriet came in daily with her
bright posies, and, while arranging them just where J
could look at them best, told about all the beautiful
things they reminded her of while gathering them, such
a feeling of freshness and youth would come over me as
cannot be told. They carried me out to the open fields
and woods, that soothed fifty years ago my childish grief,
and took bad feelings from my mind. There was some
use in trying to grow better, if an innocent girl like Hat-
ty did not shrink from the room that held me, but brought
every thing angel-like as herself to minister to my hard-
ened heart. It softened me to see that she expected
one so wicked to love what she did. I considered upon
that bed, fed often as I needed them with her pleasant
thoughts — you a# fed me by doing every thing which
was disagreeable so cheerfully, and never talking about
it. O, my friend, it is worth the price. I am glad to
have suffered sixty years to be so happy now."

Reader, are you weary ? I am not, though the vision
of a few heavenly days may be dimmed when clothed in
earthly language. Fifteen years ago, the cradle of the
first-born child stood in this same cottage. That wel-
comed infant is now budding into womanhood. The
walls are darkened, but she brought no shadow at her
entrance; — she will leave none in going forth. The
walk has often seemed long to Harriet from the school-
house home, though but a quarter of a mile. Some-
times the opened page upon her desk grew strangely
dark, and sketches of lambs and birds, though a favorite
pastime, were again and again left uncompleted. One
day upon her return she paused, gazing dreamily upon

184 TOI0E8 FROM THE KENDUSKBAG.

the brook murmuring at her feet its ever new song: One
hand supported her side, but she regarded for a moment
the loved faces of the nodding flowers, and passed in at
the open door. The low chair was already at her mother's
side. Perhaps had it not stood there, she could not have
moved it to the wished-for place, but she occupied its
familiar seat, and leaned her head upon the maternal arm.

u You are not well, dear Harriet ? " said Mary, with a
pang in her heart, as she smoothed the hair from her
child's forehead, and saw tears trembling beneath the
closed lashes.

" I am very weary, mother, sing to me and I shall
sleep."

Mary contended with her emotion and sang, but the
breath of the sleeper fluttered, and her cheeks, so pale
as she entered, glowed with the burning blood. Caleb
entered, and her voice ceased as she met his question-
ing glance.

: That time the door was opened ; were it not, he him-
self must have lifted the latch. He raised the uncon-
scious sleeper, and laid her upon her own bed. As he
bent over the beautiful head, she stood life-like before
him, as in the fields years before she dropped the yellow
corn. He had told her of the removal of a little girl to
another world, and she, lifting her meek eyes to his face,
said, in her touching way, " I must go, too, pretty soon."
He heard her voice as then, and felt its foreseeing truth.
The fulfilment of the child-prophecy was at hand. Her
smile was full of love as she awoke ; she stretched her
hand kindly to Mrs. Petty, who wiped her eyes at the
foot of the bed; said again, " sing to me mother, and I
shall sleep," and passed into another uneasy slumber.
Kind schoolmates walked sadly from the door to inform
grieved companions that Harriet Hines was sick, and
could not go that day to school. During " intermission "

A SUCPLB SKETCH OP 8IHPLB THINGS 185

they threaded the woods to find the flowers she loved
best, but which for several days, they now remembered,
she had ceased to gather for herself. She recognized
the blossoms, and said, upon hearing the names of the
donors, " They are very kind ; give my love to all. Take
some to Mrs. Petty's room, and tell her the children
brought them and love her."

Poor Mrs. Petty sobbed and spilled the water in which
her trembling hand was placing the blossoms, for now
she perceived delirium in the affectionate words.

" Father and mother are sad. I cannot go with you if
they are unhappy/' whispered she again with quivering lip.

"We will not fetter her spirit by our grief," said Ca-
leb, as he wound his arm around the waist of his wife ;
and if any taint of selfishness shadowed the purity of
their love, it was dispelled by her words. Before long
the delirium passed away. She looked gratefully in the
calm faces of her parents, spoke cheerful words, and
asked for many companions to be admitted to her room.
The nicely-kept treasures of books and ornamental arti-
cles, given her from time to time, were brought by re-
quest to the bed. These she distributed with endear-
ing language, and looks of inward peace. The beloved
village pastor, who came to mingle his sympathy, stood
not in his teacher's office, but as a learner at the death-
bed. His voice lifted to the Father in heaven was at
first broken with sobs, but as he rose with the ascend-
ing spirit of the dying girl, it grew strong and full. The
day. before her departure she exclaimed, with radiant
eyes, •• O, mother ! the bright flowers ! "

" Where ? dear Harriet, I see none save those by your
bedside."

u O, not the pale ones, mother, here. Those will never
wither if we keep Heaven in our hearts. I have seen
none so blue and golden since I was a little one, and
you, dear mother, laid me nightly upon the pillow."

186 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKXAG.

i

The clear, gushing notes of a robin that swayed by the
motion of a branch towards an open window, again quick-
ened her spiritual sense.

" Sing with the robin, dear mother, and let it sing to
you when I go away. I hear such sweet warbliogs
: sometimes, and cannot tell to which world they belong.
Father, you will miss me in the field, but believe that
• they who sow in tears shall reap in joy/ and the Com-
forter will come unto you all, by and by."

At last all stood raised above tears and grief around
the bed. They marked the spirit stamping each mo-
ment a more heavenly peace upon its outward shrine,
and breathed more inwardly, lest the holy calm should
be disturbed. Had her eternal birth-day already com-
menced ? she lay so motionless. The watchers feel as
it were the " cool fanning of wings," and raise their eyes
. from the placid face below. Lo ! a white dove, the tam-
est of the brood, perchance, has missed its gentle mis-
tress; perchance it has an errand to the silent group.
It shook fragrant fruit blossoms through the opened win-
dow, made a circuit around the beautiful head of the
sleeper, and having uttered its note of celestial Ian
guage, flew higher into the blue sky. A waving lock
of hair rose lightly upon her breast. It was the breeze
alone, though it looked like the heaving of another breath.
When the teacher announced from his desk in a tone
of manly sympathy the departure of their companion, a
hush pervaded the apartment, deep, as though Harriet
suddenly stood glorified in their midst. The sun, which
had just come round by the western windows, as they
sat so motionless, poured in upon them a flood of golden
light. It was a baptism of celestial truth upon their
young hearts. The spirit garments of many will be more
bright and heavenly for the influences of that holy hour.
The first coffin borne from Caleb and Mary's door was

A SIMPLE SKETCH OF SIMPLE THINGS. 187

followed by no anguished mourners. They passed under
an apple-tree planted by Caleb the day of their daugh-
ter's natural birth, and a shower of the delicate blossoms
covered it like a bridal robe. A little girl, with bare feet
and loving face, gazed earnestly after the group of friends,
and said to her companion, " Harriet Hines always spoke
kindly to me."

Two days in the year are kept as holy festivals in
the hearts of Caleb and Mary. They are the birth-days
of Harriet. At the return of the first Uieir spirits rise
in grateful worship for the gift of that blessed babe. At
the second, they rise yet more freely and joyously to
greet her in her eternal home.

Is it very weary to linger so long, and still hear of
nought but withered old women and funerals ?

My friend, perhaps since the opening of the new year
we have met in the mirth of worldly revelry. But also
our hearts have bled in sympathy, not for the child of a
few years, removed in its bright bloom, but for the strick-
en hearts of the parents, from whose embrace was thus
taken this cherished boon of Heaven. Beautiful would it
have been for the mourner in that hour of bitter bereave-
ment, to lie down with the beloved remains, and lose suc-
ceeding days and nights of mental anguish. But it is
more beautiful for that mourner to live and suffer — for
even now it is found that a few hours " can outweigh in
rich experience the knowledge of years." The wife of
a few months, the mother of not as many days, was but
yesterday in our midst, so loving and beloved, so beauti-
ful and young, that not kindred alone, but all who were
blessed by her angelic sweetness and innocence, clung to
her life with yearning love. The bridal robes that clothed
her at the marriage festival and those that shrouded her
form in its death loveliness, were pure and fair, but the
spirit amid the allurements of wealth clothed itself "with

188 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAG

light as with a garment," and we rejoice in our desolation
that " Heaven has one such angel more/' We are not
utterly desolate. That most beautiful image is shrined
in our hearts. We will bear it on through our earthly
life, and let it purify us also for a life which shall be
eternal. " For, behold, I create new heavens and a new
earth ; and the former shall not be remembered, nor come
into mind. But be ye glad and rejoice forever in that
which I create."

Bangor, Mat 25th'

189

THE VIOLET.

FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.

Upon a flowery mead, alone,
Itself retiring and unknown,

A dainty violet grew.
A shepherdess of graceful mien
And sprightly mind, was passing seen
Lightly — lightly

Skipped she singing along.

Could I one moment be the flower
Most beautiful in Nature's bower,

The lowly violet thought,
Then, plucked, the gentle little maid,
Might place me on her breast to fade,
In only — only

A quarter of an hour.

But when the maiden came at last,
Ah ! careless was the step that passed,

And crushed the violet down.
She sank and died, yet did rejoice ;
" I die," she said, with latest voice,
" Beneath, beneath
Your feet, gentle maid."

9*

190

VENERATION FOR THE PAST.

From an Oration on Conserratism and Reform, delivered before the Phi Bete Kappa

Society, Cambridge.

Veneration for the Past must not be confounded with
that slavish attachment to ancient uses, into which, it
must be confessed, the conservative spirit too easily de-
generatesw Here, as elsewhere, a good principle is dis-
honored by excess, and here, as elsewhere, it is common
to visit the excess on the principle itself. The true ven-
eration for the Past consists in a vivid sense of what we
owe to the Past, — a devout acknowledgment of the
good amassed by the ages which preceded us, and the
influence which they have on our own well-being and
doing. This acknowledgment is particularly incumbent
on the scholar, for he, above all men, is most indebted to
the Past. Him all the ages have conspired to mould and
to train. His education comprises the flower of all time.
How many minds have gone to educate that one ! What
wealth of genius and of toil has been spent in rearing
the harvest which he reaps ! The legacies of nations
compose his library. The whole of civilization is con-
densed in his text-books. For him Athenian Art and
Roman virtue. For him the victors at Corinth and Olym-
pia won their crowns. For him ancient Tragedy com-
posed her fables. For him Herodotus observed, and
Plato mused, and Caesar commented, and Cicero plead.
His culture, — which who of us does not feel to be our
better part — the life of our life ? — the whole astound-
ing difference between the ripe scholar, and the naked

VENERATION EOE THE PAST. 191

savage, — what is it but the concentration, in one indi-
vidual, of unnumbered minds ?

And not the scholar only, but the individual in every
walk of life, is the product of all that has transpired be-
fore his day. His ancestry comprise the whole family
of man. All ages and men unite in every influence
which goes to form his character and to shape his des-
tiny. He is born into certain relations, traditions, opin-
ions, institutions, all of which, if we trace their growth
through all preceding generations, will be found to in-
volve the larger portion of the world's history in their
formation and descent. To select one instance out of
this complex mass, let us look at language, which affects
so powerfully the character and life of civilized man.
The individual is born to the use of a certain language,
we will say the English. That language is compounded
of how many races and climes ! It comes to us through
how many channels of Roman, Saxon, Norman history !
All the nations whose dialects have emptied into this vo-
cabulary, have imparted to it some peculiar trait Had
there never been a Hengist or a Caesar, there never could
have been an English tongue. We cannot open our
mouths without commemorating, in the very sounds we
utter, events and name,s of distant renown. The house-
hold words, which first strike our ear, are echoes of an-
other age and a pagan world.

But this is not all. What more particularly concerns
us in this connection, is the fact that language is thought,
fixed and crystallized in signs and son nds, conditioned by
all the peculiarities, historical and organic, of the nation
which uses it. The mind of a people imprints itself in
its speech, as the light in a picture of Daguerre. The
English language is the English mind. We who use
the language partake of this mind. Our individual
genius, be it never so individual, is informed by it, and

192 VOICES VROM till KKNDUSKEAO

can never wholly divest itself of its influence. It may be
doubted if the most abstract and original thinker, in his
attempts to construct an absolute system of philosophy,
can so abstract himself in his speculations, can reason so
absolutely, but that the genius of his language shall ap-
pear as a constituent element in his system. For the
words he employs are not algebraic signs which every
new speculator may employ at pleasure, to express ever
new relations. They are constant quantities ; they have
a fixed value imparted to them by other minds, which; he
who employs them must accept, and which will go far to
modify the results of his speculations. Hence the diffi-
culty of expressing the poetry or the metaphysics of one
nation in the language of another. The most success-
ful efforts in this kind, are but a compromise between the
native and the foreign mind.

Again, the individual is born into some particular
church or form of faith, which, whether he accepts it or
not in after life, must needs exert a very important in-
fluence in the formation of his mind. He is born, for ex :
ample, into Christianity — into a Protestant Christian
Church. Here too, we notice the same confluence of re-
lations extending through all regions and times. Be-
sides the doctrine and the life of Jesus, how many sys-
tems and traditions, creeds and facts, have gone to make
or modify that church. Jewish theology, Pagan philoso-
phy, Romish councils, Gibbelline factions and Protestant
reforms. The&e influences again are connected with
others and still others, and so on, through a boundless
complexity of cause and effect, reaching back to the
Flood.

Such is the individual ; so compounded and condition-
ed he comes into life. He is the product of all the Past.
However he may renounce the connection, he is always
the child of his time. He can never entirely shake off

VENERATION VGA THE PAS*. 193

that -relation. AH the efforts made to outstrip timet to
anticipate the natural growth of man by a violent disrup-
tion of old ties and a total separation from the Past, have
hitherto proved useless, or useful, if at all, in the way x>£
tfentioa, rather than of fruit. The experiment has often
been fried* Men of ardent temper and lively imagina-
tion, inpatient of existing evils, from which no period is
exempt, have renounced society, broke loose ftoro mil
tlfeir moorings in the actual, and sought in the boundless
ttea of dissent the promised land of Reform. They found
what they carried ; they carried what they were ; they
were what we all are — the offspring of their time.

The aeronaut, who spurns the . earth in bis puffed bal-
loon, is still indebted to it for his impetus and his wings :
and still, with his utmost efforts, he cannot escape the
sure attraction of the parent sphere. His floating island
is a part of her main. He revolves with her orbit, he is
gped fey het winds. We who stand below and watch his
motions, know that he is one of us. He may dally with
the clouds awhile, but his home is not there. Earth he
is, and to earth he must return.

The most air-blown reformer cannot overcome the
moral gravitation which connects him with his time.
He owes to existing institutions the whole philosophy of
his dissent, and draws, from Church and State, the very
ideas by which be would fight against them, or rise above
them. The individual may withdraw from society, he
may spurn at all the uses of civilized life, dash the gold-
en cup of tradition from his lips, and flee to the wilder-
ness " where the wild asses quench their thirst" He
may find others who will accompany him in his flight ;
but Jet him not fancy that the course of reform will fol-
low him there, — that any permanent organization can be
based on dissent, — that society will relinquish the hard
conquests of so many years and return again to original

196

CHILDHOOD AND* THE OLD ELM.

TriERE is something very interesting in the whole fam-
ily of trees. In all there is beauty, and to a great ex-
tent, individuality of character, from the hardiest, most
time-defying, to the tenderest sapling. Among the most
admired of our own region, is the elm, the noble, grace-
ful, heaven -aspiring elm; exhibiting' the unwonted union
of exquisite proportion, with strength add with age.
Strength, sustaining during a long succession of years,
exposure that would wither man in an hour, and age,
which might smile derisively at his frailty. Not inappro-
priately may the sentiment of veneration arise, as we
gaze upon the form that has borne the storms of a hun-
dred years, d silent spectator of continual change, un-
moved alike by the petty contentions, turbulent grief, or
tumultuous joy of the multitudes who rose up beneath
its branches, busied themselves for a little, and then
passed away, leaving the vetenih to welcome another
generation.

In the home of my childhood stands an ancient elm,
which is identified with almost every recollection of my
early days. None seemingly marked its origin, and there-
fore I know not how long since, or by whose hands, the
little germ from whence it grew was deposited in the
earth, or what motive led to its sepulture. Perhaps some
saddened invalid derived a mournful pleasure from plac-
ing it there, cheered by the thought, that though his eye
should not behold its greatness, yet would others rejoice

CHILDHOOD AND THB OLD ELM 197

in its beauty, rest in its shade, and perchance bless the
hand that had planted it. A dawn of hope stole, it may
be, over his troubled spirit, as he thought of himself
faintly imaged in that small seed-bud, hid now from the
pleasant light of the sun, but only as a step to future
glory.

Some youthful student, peradventure, set the slender
twig, carefully watching it all his school-boy days, and
bidding it a fond adieu when forced to seek his fortune
in far distant climes. But by what means soever placed
there, we know that it nourished well, attaining at length
immensity of stature, and profusion of delicate, wide-
spreading foliage. .

That dear old tree ! Varied and stirring associations
cluster, as I have said, around its giant trunk. The first
walk in the new village, when the verdant patriarch was
espied, and honored with the full meed of infantile awe ;
the holiday afternoons spent merrily at its base; the
bounding step, the joyous laugh of those lightsome days,
how they all come back with the freshness of yesterday,
till the same blithe heart beats again within us, and in-
voluntarily we start for another frolic at the favorite spot.
But the youthful sharers of those sports, where are they ?
Ah, that query dispels the illusion ; the golden thread
is dropped ; and the sedate matron is herself again. But
a truce with time, — we would linger awhile midst these
sunny memories, and hold converse with kindred spirits
of bygone scenes.

Foremost in the gay circle stands little Nancy Grey,
a bright, sprightly child of twelve summers, the pet of
the group ; who never gave or received a harsh word. A
sad day was it for us, when sickness laid its wasting hand
upon her fragile form, and in anxious suspense we wait-
ed the result. Weeks passed, and how were we shocked
when told that Nancy, though recovering, was entirely

198 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

blind ! She would never more look with us upon the
blue sky, the fresh fields, and beautiful flowers. la very
bitterness of spirit we wept for our young playmate.

Then there was Helen Lee, the victim of a single
fault, affectionate, generous, but passionate ; how often
did that unrestrained temper break in like a black cloud
upon our glad sunshine ; and in after life, dark and heavy
has it lowered over her own head ; blighting, in its whirl-
wind course, the sweet buds of hope, and tarnishing the
choicest jewels of the heart.

Jamie Wilson, the young artist, who used to make us
sit for our portraits, and take chalk sketches of surround-
ing scenery, — I well remember him.

And Edwin, the Reverend, a fine lad, some years our
senior, whose lofty brow and intellectual eye established
his rightful claim to the title, even before one had seen
him mounted upon a bench, holding -forth as our minis-
ter. His first juvenile discourse comes up to my mind
at this moment. It was a fine Saturday afternoon, and
our boisterous merriment being with some difficulty
checked, all joined in singing " Gently, Lord/* and Ed-
win, stepping upon the unique rostrum, gave us a youth-
ful comment upon the text, " But to do good forget not."
He left us not long after to prepare for a collegiate course.
The flame of love then kindling, made perfect by the re-
nunciation of home, friends, and every endearing tie, now
glows on the benighted plains of Africa,

Years sped; and we stood around the old tree, no
longer as children, but as dignified maidens and conse-
quential young men. Sunset stroll and moonlight walk
superseding childish gambols.

Cupid's dart sometimes lodged in the vicinage of the
veteran elm ; and once we had a wedding there ; a right
joyous one, too, as was ever consummated within the
glittering halls .of wealth.

CHILDHOOD AND THE OLD ELM. 199

Alice Loring came to our village when she was seven
years old, an orphan, still clad in habiliments of re-
cent woe. An uncle, having no children to gladden his
hearth-stone, took her as his own, and for six years she
was onr constant companion. At that time her aunt,
who had been as a mother to the lonely one, was re-
moved by death, and Alice, though young, was installed
as housekeeper; for the failing fortunes of the family ren-
dered compensatory assistance unattainable. The small
rooms of her uncle were neatly kept, his meals punctu-
ally prepared, and every domestic service performed with
alacrity and skill far exceeding her years. But by and
by we noticed that Alice grew pale and very sad. She
did not ask us, as usual, to come and see her; and some-
times when we met, the big tear, spite of her efforts,
•would start, revealing some great sorrow within. In an-
swer to repeated inquiries she only said, " I am very
lonely now aunt is gone ;" but the truth ere long became
apparent. Her uncle was an inebriate, and his home the
abode of impurity and loathsome excess. Calamity, un-
aided, un pitied, had wrecked a mind once strictly upright.
Year after year rolled on, and faithfully did that young
girl discharge her duty still; while her unhappy relative
sunk continually deeper in degradation, unmoved by the
silent eloquence of a pure life, with its unwearying kind-
ness, or the gentle words of persuasive entreaty, forced
at times upon his ear. In delirious desperation he not
nnfrequently dealt out harsh abuse; but he was her un-
cle* He had sheltered her, a helpless orphan, and she
would not leave him now alone.

Jonas Sawyer, or old Joe, as was his more customary
appellative, never was visible in our sober community on
the Sabbath ; and a blessing indeed to his oppressed
niece was that weekly absence. One day in seven she
could lay aside laborious toil, and from its hallowed in flu-

200 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAG

ences derive comfort for the present, and strength for
the future.

Alice was always beautiful, and her sweet face lost
none of its attractiveness in consequence of the subdued,
pensive expression resting upon the finely-moulded fea-
tures. She was a general favorite among us, and when
on Sabbath morning she made her appearance, neatly at-
tired, and taking her seat with the choir, mingled with
theirs her silvery voice, every heart yearned towards her,
and none failed to honor the self-sacrificing spirit of the
noble-hearted girl.

Among the worshippers at our church one Sunday, was
a young lawyer of some eminence, from the neighboring
city. I am not writing a love story — but truth compels
me to say, he saw and admired our dearly loved Alice.
On the evening of that day he met her with a friend,
lingering beside the old tree, and discovered that beneath
the beauteous exterior dwelt a spirit as refined and love-
ly as itself. A few Sabbaths more and he was with us
again ; and before many months had passed, with an in-
dependence seeking only true worth, his hand, heart and
fortune were at the disposal of the portionless girL A
loving spirit was Alice Loring's, and a warm current of
grateful affection flowed back upon the generous wooer.
But with her, duty was the highest consideration, the im-
partial criterion to which every fond wish was submitted ;
and in the present instance, it pointed still, in her esti-
mation, to the forlorn being whom none would receive or
care for but herself. She ought not to leave him, she
would not, in his utter desolation. In few and faltering
words her final decision was given.

We will not say that Arthur prayed for the death of
the old man ; but intemperance, combined with disease,
had well-nigh done its work, and die he did, before the
close of that self-same year. It is fearful to think of the

CHILDHOOD AND THJfe OLD ELM. 201

transition of such a soul to that world where change
comes never more, — but for Alice, who could help re*-
joicing?

In dtie time the lover came to claim his bride ; he had
taken her with no worldly endowment ; no home to her
so dear as the rude seat beneath the spreading tree ; and
there, at the favorite spot, did they choose to be united ;
with the broad overarching canopy, glittering with ten
thousand diamond lights, above them ; and the full sum*
mer moon bathing in softened radiance every surround-
ing object. All the village was present at that rural nup-
tial festival ; and as our good Pastor gave to another the
gentle creature we had so long known and loved, tears
for our own loss would mingle with abounding joyfulness
in her promised felicity.

So much for wedding reminiscences. But it was not
joyous scenes alone that transpired in days of yore. The
elm stood directly in the passage to our simple cemetery,
with its neat white paling, and nicely -gravelled walks.
Many a sorrowing train has paused at its base in un-
controllable grief, as the loved haunt of the departed
awoke stirring associations of happier days. That still,
sure destroyer, Consumption, ever marking for his own
the fairest blossoms, held among us a fixed residence ; and
one after another of our cherished ones bowed to his re-
sistless touch. The fading away of my own dearest
friend, how vividly it rises before me ! Bound to life by
every conceivable tie ; the idolized daughter, sister, and
affianced bride, no wonder it was hard to leave all, and
go down alone to the silent tomb ! Hope lingered long
around the confines of earthly bliss ; and the eye of faith
turned, while yet her sky was bright, to the better land,
became dim in the hour of conflict, through the bright-
ness of sublunary visionings. The bitter cup, however,
passed at length, and in the sweetness of unquestioning

202 voicjs fbou TBM.MxtammuuA.

submission shc( quietly murmured. "Thy wiU be done**'
Supported by the strong arm of the compassionate Sa-
viour, she entered in perfect peace the dark valley, and
a smile of celestial radiance resting upon the beautiful
features, betokened the full fruition of hope, in that eman-
cipated spirit

Full often were our youthful circle thus reminded that
life is but a vapor ; its surest prop only a broken reed.
Earthly streams of pleasure were seen to fail ; suddenly,
entirely; but the fountain of living waters was ever open;
and many repairing thither, drank, and were athirst no
more.

Yes, old tree ! around thee are entwined tenderest rec-
ollections of many hearts ; joyous and sad, they meet,
entrusted to thy faithful care. Not often do I see thee,
as in the olden time; for mountain, river, and weary
mile intervene ; but thine image is with me still ; receiv-
ing as ever the tribute of reverential affection.

Fair tree ! long may it be thy lot to stand, unharmed by
the rage of conflicting elements, or the rude hand of hu-
man foe ; and when those who now greet thy vernal bud-
dings, rejoice in thy summer loveliness, and sympathize
in thy wintry loneliness, have forever passed away, may
the children of another generation play around thine
aged trunk, and look up with awe at thy lofty, spreading
drapery. We know thy day must at length close ; may
its record tell of many, who, touched with thy beauty,
turned them with lowly adoration to the Author of all
loveliness. Thus shall thine errand be one of love, and
not in vain shalt thou have lived, a solitary, speechless elm.

Bangor, 1847.

203

THE HUMAN HEART.

Thi human heart — Oh ! cherish it,

'T is the holiest thing on earth ;
Not all Potosi's glittering ore

Can match its priceless worth.
Forego the stately palaces,

The cherished pomp and show,
And find in the beat of a grateful heart

What these may not bestow.

Low, gentle words, and loving looks,

And acts, which freely spring
In the living fount of noble thoughts —

Oh ! these rich treasures bring ;
And pour them, — as the wine and oil

The ancient Syrian poured,
And bind the bruised and bleeding heart

By torturing passions gored.

The strength which God hath given to thee

As freely thou must give —
The fullest use of all thy powers

Is truest way to live.
Though breathing still — thou art but dead,

While wrapt in idle dreams —
Then shrink not from the labor stern

Which good to conscience seems.

The good 8 which God hath given to thee,
• Are means to heaven or hell,
As they flow forth in bounteous streams,
Or pride and avarice swell.

204 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

Oh ! turn them from thyself away, —
If dammed, they stagnant grow,

And breed the blue miasma foul,
The seeds of death to sow.

Give all unto the aching heart

Its pressing needs demand ;
The loving word — the aiding strength,

The fireside, board, or land ;
Nor let one cold or selfish thought

Retard the gushing spring,
And sweetness indescribable

Shall angels to thee bring.

205

THE SECRET OFFERING.

the evening of the 7th of October, 1847, a lady, doniy veiled, called at the
> of the secretary of the Bangor Female Orphan Asylum, and left an envelope
and to the secretary, which contained merely these words. " A donation to
iangor Female Orphan Atyhun, $900." The aothor of this generoue deed if
own.

Full eighteen centuries ago,

Robed in a form of clay,
There came, to loll the pulse of woe,

A Being pore as day.

Though veiled from ken of grosser mind,

The wise and spiritual
Beneath his aspect saw, defined,

The true Emmanuel

Nor courtly train, nor proud array,

Ushered the sinless one ;
But stricken spirits felt the sway

Of heaven's lowly Son.

Awhile, our sorrowing vale he trod

With love too vast to tell ;
Then, reascending unto God,

His stainless mantle fell.

It wrapped the early martyr-band,

Who every lure withstood,
And like their Head, with life in hand,

Went forth in doing good.
10

206 VOICES FROM THE KKNDU8KSAG.

And e'er since then, its sacred fold
Has draped the spirit's form

Of those, who gave, or strength or gold,
The freezing pulse to warm.

It covered Howard like a robe,

Until his being glowed
With flame, encircling-half the globe ;

Such love to man he owed.

And still, though avarice rules the sight

Of ostentatious pride,
Evading law, overstepping right,

By desolating stride ;

Though vain ambition's carnal eye,

TJnblushingly will lift
Its gaze, the honor to descry

Of Pharisaic gift ;

Godlike in purposes, are those
This holy mantle shrouds ;

Who like the angel of repose,
Show heaven between the clouds.

O'er ble'eding hearts, all crushed and sore,
With noiseless step and fleet,

They come, the balm of peace to pour,
And light the doubting feet.

With such, although no earthly scroll
Shall trace the unknown name,

God will the Orphan's Friend enrol
In all-enduring fame.

A recompense awaiteth, where
_ The orphan's wail is hushed,

When earth rejuvenate, shall share
The wak'ningof the just.

207

THE RESOLVE.

" And yet it is the wasted heart,
It is the wasted mind,
Which seeks not in the inner world,
Its happiness to find."— L. £. L.

Marianne Mendon was seated in her parlor, fronting
the street, into which the bright morning rays of a Jane
sun straggled for admission, through blinds and curtains,
not closed to quite the mark which fashion dictates as the
test of gentility. She was engaged in transferring to the'
canvass before her an image of the flowers she loved so
well, when her brother Edward entered to give her a let-
ter he had just taken from the office.

" Where are yonr wits straying this morning, brother
mine ? This letter is for you, not me."

" Ah, true. I mistook, this is the right one."

Marianne broke the seal, and while she was reading,
Edward amused himself with putting into a snarl her
balls of floss, overturning her frame and pacing the floor,
but apparently unable to throw from his mind the bur-
den, not of sweet, but " bitter fancies," he finally seated
himself by the open window, and began pulling the leaves
of a Golden Haired Acacia, which sat " smiling " on the
piazza, within reach of his hand.

" Oh, do not, brother, pray do not," said Marianne, fold-
ing up her letter, " quite demolish my beautiful flowers.
It will take me an hour to repair the mischief you have
already done at my workstand."

208 VOICES FBOM TH1 KENDUSKXAQ.

Edward ceased his depredations on his sister's pe»l
plant, and seated himself by her side.

" Marianne ! I did not particularly admire the set of
young ladies you collected here last evening. Nor, in-
deed, can I commend your taste, in the choice of many
of your present intimates."

" Ah ! and may I ask which of them falls under your
especial censure ? Is it Catherine Tracy ? " she answer-
ed, looking archly up at her brother.

" Yes," said he, slowly, and with a firm contraction of
the lips. Marianne opened upon him her full, black eyes,
in astonishment.

" What, are you really j ealous ? "

"Jealous! no! there must be a real or fancied senti-
ment of love, to found jealousy upon, ah4 I am not im
love with Catherine Tracy, nor do I imagine myself to
be. It must be something more than a frivolous coquette,
that will ever awaken love hi my heart"

" This from you, Edward ! " exclaimed Marianne, With
emotion, " who have been so long looked upon as the ar-
dent admirer of Catherine, and the almost suitor for her
hand."

"Yet, that suit I have never urged, and shall not,
though I confess that she is capable of being all that
any man might desire, in the object of his choice; Bait
I am greatly disappointed in her. Two years since,
when she left school and came out in society, I thought
she bid fair to outshine most, if not all, the young ladieb
of my acquaintance. Her talents were certainly of a
high order, her manners more than pleasing — they were
fascinating — and her disposition as amiable afr hex per-
son was lovely. What is she now? The contrast is
most melancholy. Trifling in her pursuits —fickle and
insincere in conduct — empty and frivolous in mind,—
her highest ambition is to be admired by the most worth-

Tin moLTB. 209

less part of her acquaintance. No, Marianne, whatever
romantic dreams I may have once indulged in, relative to
her, have proved dreams only. You need not smile so
meaningly. I can never link my fate to one who would
much prefer winning the heartless adulation of a tribe
of idle fops, to securing the genuine attachment of one
true heart."

" Nay, brother, you are angry with Catherine, because
last evening, when you attempted to instruct her in your
philosophical speculations, her eyes and thoughts seemed
wandering over the room, in search, you would say, of
objects to play her artillery upon ; and that, as I noticed,'
she cut you off in the midst of one of your most eloquent
passages, when Messrs. Carleton and Morse made their
appearance."

M True, and though for the moment, it might be morti-
fying to my vanity, yet I thank her for the deed. Her
own hands have broken the lost links of my chain.
Often have I endeavored to show her, with all the plain*
ness which my position allowed, how unworthy of her-
self was her present career ; but she received my well-
meant efforts either with derision or resentment I shall
cease all such vain attempts — she has chosen her path
where I cannot follow her. I can have no contest with
mere shadows of humanity like Carleton and Morse. . If
she prefers such compounds of broadcloth, starch, and
perfumery, I shall not dispute with them the honor of
such preference."

" You must not be too severe upon Catherine. She is
yet quite young, and though now very fond of admiration 3 ,
I '11 allow, yet in time she will learn to estimate it at its
trite worth."

" Do not look for such a result. The girl who at eigh-
teen, is so practised in all the tricks of coquetry, will not
grow more simple-minded, or true-hearted as years in-

210 VOICES FROM THE KXHDUSKEAG.

crease ; she will rather double her arts, as She finds b*w
native charms on the wane."

" Catherine is not a coquette at heart," said Marianne,
earnestly, " only a little giddy in the head, just now."

" What else," exclaimed Edward, " can be her evident
intention, in keeping me chained to her car, a serious
suitor, to be taken up when her life of pleasure grows
stale ; while she lavishes all her smiles upon these ' mere
ephemera of to-day — these insects of nonentity to-mor-
row ? ' What is this but heartless coquetry ? "

u Why, she really prefers you, and would never think
of one of these danglers as a future husband."

" I have not a doubt that she means to retain me," re-
plied Edward, with a slight sneer, — u witness her ex-
ceedingly cordial manner of receiving me, when no new-
er or gayer favorite is present to attract her regard ; and
her very frequent visits here." Marianne looked vexed.

" Indeed, brother Edward, your charity is only equalled
by your modesty. And so you really have the vanity to
think that her visits here are solely on your account ? "

"Indeed, Marianne," retorted Edward, mimicing her
manner, "your blindness is superior, both to my charity
and modesty. And eo you really have the fond credulity
to suppose that her visits here are solely on your account? "

And having indulged in this mutual sally, they both
laughed. At this moment, they caught the sound of a
light step and the rustle of a dress in the entry.

" Hush," whispered Marianne, " 't is herself."

They listened breathlessly, expecting every moment
to see her enter ; instead, however, they heard rapid foot-
falls down the flight of stone steps which led to the piazza.

" Is it possible she can have been in the entry ?" ex*
claimed Marianne, looking aghast

" Is it possible ? " echoed Edward, as both rushed to
the door. Their worst fears were confirmed. They saw

TBB SB80LTB. 211

Catherine retreating from the house in such .eager taste,
Qs proved she had heard hut too much.

* Oh, Edward ! What have we done ? " cried Mari-
anne, confusion and distress pictured upon her face.

Edward looked pale and deeply agitated, as he mut-
tered — " She must have heard it all ! Can she ever
forgive? Suddenly a new thought seemed to call a
sparkle to his eye, and a flush to his face. " It cannot be
helped now, and perhaps accident has accomplished what
I have so long wished, but never yet found means to do.
The truths she has just heard, harsh though they be,
may have touched a conscience which parried all direct
appeals ?

" But she will think me so ungenerous, so cruel, to join
in your censure."

" If she heard all you said, she heard you defend her,"
replied Edward.

" She will dislike and despise us both," continued Ma-
rianne, unheeding her brother's attempts to comfort her;
and really grieved at having even in appearance been
unfaithful to her friend, tears started from her eyes.
" She shall forgive me — I can, I must, I will convince
her, that I love her still," and she rushed to her chamber,
to hide the chagrin she could not controL

But what of her, the unhappy object of all this con-
demnation ! How came she there ?

Accustomed to visit Marianne in the most familiar
manner, she often entered unobserved, and notifying her
approach only by a slight tap, immediately presented
herself. Proceeding this morning as usual, she was just
raising her hand to knock on the open door, when the
sound of her own name arrested her movement. Yes,
it was no illusion ; « — that voice was Edward Mendon'a,
and he was uttering anything but flattering truth of her.
To retreat was her first impulse, but a spell seemed to

212 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAQ.

enchain her footsteps, and confused and mortified, she re-
mained rooted to the spot Alternately agitated by grief,
shame and resentment, she yet drank in each word they
uttered; and it was not till that laugh of derision fell
upon her ear, that she roused herself, and fled precipi-
tately homeward; Her step was firm and her face calm,
though pale. Unobserved by any of her family, she
reached her own room and locked herself in. Once se-
cure from interruption, she gave way to the tumult of feel-
ing which oppressed her heart almost to bursting. Pas-
sions hitherto but little known to her, by turns swayed her
mind with a power that spurned control It would be diffi-
cult to say which ruled the hour, mortified pride, resent-
ment, grief, or the disappointment of a softer feeling.
Long, long she permitted them to reign over her without
seeking to interpose a check.

When the dinner hour arrived and Catherine did not
make her appearance, her elder sister Elizabeth quietly
observed that Kate had probably stopped to dine at Mr.
Mendon's.

" She goes there too much," said Mr. Tracy, with a
slight frown.

" She and Marianne love each other so Well," inter-
posed Mrs. Tracy, — who ever sought to shield the cen-
sured.

" But Marianne has a brother, 1 ' rejoined Mr. Tracy,
" and this is a gossiping world. Catherine must be more
cautious."

Elizabeth secretly resolved to give her sister notice
of her father's wishes, but for the present suffered the
subject to be dropped. The day wore away, but still
Kate did not appear. Elizabeth, having occasion to go to
her sister's room, was surprised to find the door fastened.

What can this mean, thought she. Has Kate returned
. without my seeing her ? She spoke — " Kate, are yon

m rooLvi. 213

•them?" Receiving no answer she again called — "If
yaa are there, dear Kate, do unlock the door." A few

-minutes passed, the door slowly opened, and she saw

^before her the pale and haggard face of her sister.

'/."What is the matter? Pray tell me what has hap-

.pcoed? When did yon return ? "

t: Catherine essayed to speak, but emotion checked her
aUeranoe. Elizabeth threw both arms around her—
44 Dearest sister, pray tell me what grieves you? " For a
few moments Catherine silently wept Her sister was
equally moved, but she did not cease urging Kate to tell
feet why she suffered.

" Come sit here, and I will tell you all. 19 They seated
themselves together, and Catherine poured into her sis-
ter's sympathizing ear the story of her affliction. Eliza-
beth could scarcely hear her patiently to the end. Indig-
nantly she exclaimed,
; « What, Edward Mendon "say this of yon ! The false !

ungrateful ! "

-" Oh do not say so. Do not blame him, I beseech you,
for I feel that it is but too true."

" True ! what ! true that you have been a heartless co-
quette?"

■ - M No, not that ! He might have spared me that. And
Marianne, too ! I did not deserve she should laugh at
me," — and her tears fell afresh. " But it is true, dear
sister, that I have been a giddy, useless, and frivolous
being. I have been examining my life for the last two
years, and wjiat a retrospect ! I have absolutely nothing
to record either useful to others or honorable to mytielf."
VM N6t so, Kate. I acknowledge that you have been
rather gay and thoughtless ; that your spirits are natural-
ly wild ; but you are young."

«Oh do not, dear Elteabeth," said Catherine, in a tone
gently reproachful, u seek to- comfort me now, at the ek
10*

214 voices noM m dwduskeao.

pense of my future good. Let me take this lesson to
my heart, hard though it he. I cannot cheat myself
longer. My past life presents nothing to satisfy my con-
science. In mental improvement, all the bright promise
which my girlish precocity gave, blighted in the bud. At
home, where you are so exemplary in the performance of
domestic duty, a little embroidery, a little light reading, a
little drawing and music, are nearly all that I can boast
of doing; and abroad, what a career of thoughtless folly
have 1 eagerly run."

The amiable and excellent, but far less forcible char-
acter of Elizabeth was borne down by Catherine's vehe-
mence. She was silent.

"And now, my dear lizzie/' continued her sister, "I
have formed a resolve, and let me beg of you not to op-
pose, bnt help me to keep it It will, I know, require
some sacrifice on your part, but I think you will be wil-
ling to do as much, and more even, to promote my happi-
ness and welfare."

" Let me hear your resolution. If it be possible, I will
do as you wish."

" It is this. Two years of my existence have I thrown
away ; misapplied my powers and degraded all my facul-
ties. The next two years I am determined to spend in
self-improvement I will endeavor, as far as possible, to
redeem my wasted time. I shall devote myself to hard
study, that I may acquire that mental discipline so. neces-
sary to future advancement ; and to learning under moth-
er's and your tuition those domestic employments, which
it is my duty to understand and to share with you."

" If this is all, dear Kate, we shall rejoice in yonr res-
olution ; and you may be assured, no one of us will give
you anything but encouragement in such a course."

" This is not all, Elizabeth. Knowing well what temp-
tations I shall meet in society, and how ill I am prepared

THE ABSOLVE. 215

to resist them, I am resolved to give it up wholly for two
years. I hope, if I should live to the end of that period,
that I shall be better fitted to answer its just claims. I
wish you to communicate this to father and mother, and
endeavor to gain their consent, for of course without their
approbation and cooperation, I cannot adhere to my de-
sign."

" I doubt about your giving up society for so long a
time. But perhaps you are right. At any rate I will
consult our parents, and if they do not object, I will give
you all the aid in my power.' 1

" Do so, dearest Lizzie, and I shall love you better
than ever," rejoined Catherine, affectionately kissing her
cheek. The affair was communicated to Mr. and Mrs.
Tracy, together with Catherine's resolve. Surprised and
grieved at the cause, but pleased with the result, the pa-
rents, although sympathizing with their suffering child,
were ready to give every assistance to her newly-found
virtue. They had long looked upon her career with pain,
but fond and indulgent in the extreme, they had offered
no decided opposition to her wishes. They pleaded youth
and buoyant spirits as a palliation for her thoughtless-
ness ; and the flattery she received, as an excuse for her
vanity. Considering it almost certain that she would one
day marry Edward Mendon, though they were well aware
that no engagement subsisted between them, tbey looked
forward to that event as the turning point in Catherine's
life ; and trusted that her native good sense would then
make her all a husband could desire. Now that they
learned how groundless were such expectations, they
could not but feel disappointed, for he had always stood
deservedly high in their estimation.

216 VOICES TBOM TOT KBTOUSKEAQ.

CHAPTER II.

Elizabeth Tracy was teased, on all sides, for an ex-
planation of the unwonted seclusion of her, who bad
hitherto been considered one of the highest ornaments
of the gay circles of the city. Though she frankly com-
municated the nature of her sister's determination, yet,
as of course, she was silent as to the impelling cause,
conjecture was still busy, and as usual, far from hitting
the truth. Many were the jests perpetrated at her ex-
pense by the would-be wits of her acquaintance. The
ban of exclusion, it was suggested, would not be rigidly
enforced against cUL The " Fair Nun," as she was gen-
erally nicknamed, would doubtless occasionally be found
talking through the grate, at least, to some of her former
admirers. And it was confidently prophesied, that a few
weeks at farthest would see her emerging from her re-
treat, gayer than ever. Many observed that Edward
Mendon not only did not seek to constitute himself an
exception to her rule of prohibition, but that he never ex-
pressed surprise, or was heard to inquire into a matter so
mysterious to others. Was it indifference that kept him
silent? Ye who have cherished some fond youthful
dream, till it became part of your existence, the more
deeply imbedded in your heart the more rudely it was
assaulted from without, answer the question.

In spite of the innuendoes and prophesies of her former
friends, Catherine persevered in refusing to see all vis-
itors, however agreeable they might be. One individual
alone was excepted from the application of the rule ; this
was her pastor, the Rev. Mr. Harris. When he heard
the story of her vow, he claimed the right, as her appoint-
ed spiritual friend and counsellor, not to be excluded from

TH1 U90LVS. 217

her society. However reluctant at first Catherine might
feel to take even one step beyond the boundary she had
assigned to herself, she felt that his earnest solicitation,
backed as it was by the request of her father, could not
with propriety be refused. Well for her that it was not,
for though when she felt her courage flag and her interest
in her studies abate, she had only to call to mind the
words of Edward Mendon, — "Trifling in her pursuits,
empty and frivolous in mind/' to send her back to her
books and work with fresh vigor, yet the sudden change
'from' a life of excessive gaiety to one of deep seclusion
might have engendered sickly fancies, and made her the
victim of morbid feelings, had not some social stimulus
been substituted for that she had so entirely abandoned.
Mr. Harris was at once friend, instructor, and confidential
adviser. He guided her studies so wisely, that a genuine
love of knowledge was soon revived in her mind, and
thus she reaped the best reward of mental application, —
a constant pleasure in the acquisition of new thoughts.
It was one of the peculiar merits of Mr. Harris, so always
to appear so filled with the spirit of his office, that those
he addressed were compelled to forget the accomplish-
ments of the man, in the zeal of the servant of God.
He was naturally accessible to all, and his heart so over-
flowed with the common feelings of humanity, that he
never met any one with whom he could not find some
points of sympathy. From his first introduction to Cath-
erine, he had felt great interest in her, not merely because
she was fitted to inspire such interest, but because he
looked upon her as one over whom he was more spec-
ially bound to watch, as she was in danger of so wide-
ly straying from the true path. Such was his com-
mand over all the topics of conversation likely to attract
her lively fancy, that he had never been without some
hold, even over her volatile mind, and he felt that the

218 VOICES FROM THB KBNDUSKBAG.

present opportunity must not be neglected of endeavor-
ing to win to a true life one whose powers however
wasted, could never be inefficient for evil, and might be
most effective for good. A devoted Christian, he had
embraced his profession from the purest dictates of his
religion, a deep reverence and love of the human soul,
and an earnest desire to lead that degraded soul back to
its maker. " Do not/ 1 wrote he in one of his frequent
letters of advice to Catherine, " do not, my friend and
pupil, fall into the mistake of supposing that intellectual
culture alone is that improvement of the talents which
is enjoined upon you. No ; every social, moral, and re-
ligious faculty are talents which God has committed to
your trust, and commanded you to occupy till he calls
you from this world. It is not the storing up of mere
information which is to be the highest and best result of
your present studies, but it is the powers you are acquir-
ing, the habits you are forming, the tastes you are per-
fecting, that will prove the incalculable benefit. See to
it, then, that those powers be directed to the pursuit of
good ; those habits, such as may make the path of virtue
easy ; and those tastes, such as will lead you to the source
of all virtue." " You know," he remarked on another
occasion, " that I am in general far from being an advo-
cate for seclusion from the world, yet when we have
run too fast and too far in one direction, it is necessary to
turn a short corner, to regain once more the medium path.
I entirely approve your temporary withdrawal from the
companionship of your equals, but you must not suffer
the social principle to become dim for want of use ; and
there is a kind of social intercourse which would be to
you free from all temptations — that with the poor, the
young, the ignorant. Go then to the homes of poverty.
There are secret springs of feeling common to all human
hearts, and you will perhaps be surprised to find how

THS BJKOLTO. 219

much there may be even in those lowly abodes to call
forth your best affections."

Bat the nature of the influence which Mr. Harris ex-
ercised over the mind and heart of Catherine, was best
seen in its results. Before her two years had nearly ex-
pired, she cherished in her heart the faith and hope of a
Christian, while she strikingly exhibited in a life of active
usefulness, the renovating power of divine truth.

CHAPTER III.

"Did you ever see that handwriting before, brother
Edward?" gaily exclaimed Marianne Mendon, as she
held up before his eyes a billet she had just received. A
bright flush rose on his cheek and mounted even to his
temples, as he gazed on the paper and sought to take
it from her hand. His sister playfully withheld it " Do
you think I shall let such an un gallant arraigner of my
friend see this precious document ? No. I always thought
you deserved punishment, and now it is in my power to
administer it. You must do a seven years' penance, at
least 11 And if I do, thought Edward, it will " seem but
as a few days," if I can be blessed with Rachel at last.

"Ah, poor fellow," continued Marianne, provokingly
unfolding the note, and displaying to his eager eyes the
well-known characters, " what would you not give to be
allowed to read the words on this wee bit of paper ? "

" Do not trifle with me, Marianne, it is unkind. If it
contains anything that would give me pleasure, pray let
me read it." She could not resist his pleading look and

voices nan w« xxhdusksaq

agitated voice. He took the note, and with deep emo-
tion read as follows :

"lean, my dearest Marianne, no longer refime your
earnest request to see yon. I blame myself for doing it
so long ; and the only atonement I can offer, is frankly to
confess the motives which influenced me. AC first 1 earn
I did feel resentment against yon, though I had do light
to do so, for you said not one false word of me ; but in
my heart I wished you to say, what indeed you could
not justly maintain. Above all, that last deriding laugh
wounded me to the quick. I ought to have remembered,
that in similar circumstances I should have been far more
unsparing ; for rank as were my own faults of character,
they did not prevent me from readily perceiving those of
others. Soon resentment gave way to grief, and a pen-
sive regret that I had forfeited your esteem and love. I
could not bear to see you while I felt I was so unworthy
your friendship. Added to this, was the feat 1 that the
sight of you, the sound of your voice, would call my mind
too vividly back to those scenes from which I had so
hastily fled, and which still dwelt so freshly in my memo-
ry. I dared not so soon expose myself to a danger from
which I had so narrowly escaped. But it was not until
I learned, through the instructions of one; to whom I owe
a lasting debt of gratitude, to look upon my heart through
a new medium, that I became aware how much of pride
and wounded vanity was mixed up with pay sorrow for
broken friendship. Now that I know more of myself, I
am better *able to appreciate the patience with wkfeh
you have borne my neglect, and the tenderness' with
which you have sought to soothe my feelings. I have
even become grateful to you as one of the instruments to
call back my steps from the diary brink on which 1 Mood.
You perceive then that I cannot, as yotf reqoebt, say, 1 1
forgive/ for you have done nothing to deserve forgive-

THE RESOLVE. 221

I alone have been in fault Come to me, then,
dearest Marianne, I shall receive you with open arms*
You will not, of course, expect me to visit you at present,
but here, in my own home, it will glad my heart once
more to fold to my bosom my early and long tried friend*
Ever thine. Catherine Tracy."

Edward sighed as he returned the note to his sister.
" What ! do you regret that the breach is healed which
gave me so much pain ? "

u No, Marianne, you mistake the nature of my feelings.
I sincerely rejoice in this reunion, and still more in the
change of character which this note indicates."

" Then yon are sighing because yon are not yet in-
cluded in the amnesty ? "

u I presume," replied her brother, " that I must consider
her declining to visit you at present, as having some ref-
erence to me, whom she is not willing to meet. No mat-
ter," added he, pettishly, " I shall soon be gone, and then
you can enjoy her presence here as formerly."

"Nay, Edward, now you are most unreasonable. Af-
ter your sneer about her frequent visits here, you surely
eould not expect she would come when you are at home.
Besides, she does not call on any one, and why should
she favor me more than others?' 1
: 4 2 said not that she should, but only that when I am
6ut of the way, she can call on the sister without fear of
meeting the obnoxious brother." And Edward, who
could not have told why the letter made him feel un-
comfortable, unless it was the allusion it contained to Mr.
Harris, abruptly left the room.

" Poor fellow," said Marianne, looking after him half
laughingly, half pityingly, " no man in love was ever yet
a reasonable being, and why should I expect my brother
Edward to be ? That he still loves Catherine is undeni-
able." The next morning she found he had quite recov-

222 TOICES FSOX THX KKNDU8KKAG.

ered his equanimity, for as he was about to jump iota
the stage that was to bear him on his way to New Or-
leans, where he was to pass the winter, he whispered ia
her ear as he imprinted his parting kiss, " Make the way
as smooth for me as you can, dear sister. Good bye." .

Months rolled on. Spring returned, and Catherine*
her two years having expired, was still found engaged
in those pursuits which had yielded her so rich a harvest,
much to the disappointment of all those who had proph-
esied her speedy return to a life of fashionable gaiety as
soon as her vow was accomplished. Gradually she so
far emerged from her seclusion, as to see company at her
own house, but as yet took little part in more general so-
ciety.

Edward Mendon had accomplished the object for which
he had left home, and had returned to his vocation in his
native city. He had never met Catherine since that
memorable morning, so full of interest to them both*

" Come Marianne/' said he, a few evenings after his
return, " get your bonnet and let us walk." She noticed
that he drew her towards the abode of her friend ; he
even stopped a moment opposite the door. " Dare you
go in ? " said she, in a tone of badinage. " May I dare
so much ? " replied he, in the same manner. " I really
don't know, for she never mentions your name to me* but
I fancy the old proverb respecting ' faint hearts ' is not
yet musty." i

" No, nor never will be, so I will venture. If she re-
fuses to see me, it will at least end my long suspense."

It was a bright June evening. Catherine was sealed
at a window of her own room. She had just dropped a
book from which she had been reading an impressive de-
scription of that life of man which is by faith, and not
by sight. Her face was turned towards tho western
horizon, as, pensively leaning one cheek upou her hand,

THB RHSOLVS. 223

while the abundant blossoms of a beautiful China Hose
shed over the other a deeper than its natural tinge, she
became absorbed in the thrilling contemplations which
the. beauty of the hour was so well calculated to induce.
The sun had just sent up his parting rosy smile — the
sweetest but the last, investing every terrestrial object
with its own hue : not a breeze was stirring — but every
branch and leaf was wrapped in that mysterious repose,
which sometimes suddenly comes over the face of na-
ture, as if the Creator, by an instant exertion of omnipo-
tence, had commanded every object into the sublime hush
of worship. There is something peculiarly attractive to
many persons, in the doctrine of spiritual and natural
correspondences, and Catherine's poetical mind was
largely imbued with such ideas. In sympathy with na-
ture, she freely welcomed to her soul the influence of
that unseen power which had said to the breeze "be
still/' and which spake to her own heart in a " still small
voice." Hushed was every passion to rest, and uncon-
scious of human feeling, unconscious almost of life itself,
she rernained a long time in the enjoyment of that de-
votion which was becoming daily, more and more, the
love and habit of her soul. The light faded slowly away,
and gradually her mind came back to earth and its scenes.
She thought of the last two years, of the changes they
had witnessed in her feelings, her character, her future
hopes. She thought of all she owed to her friend Mr*
Harris. What purifying principles, what glorious antici-
pations he had been the means of making her own* Ed-
ward Mendon ! too, was it strange that in this review she
should revert to him, the first cause of all this change ?
She asked herself on what terms they were likely to
meet. And what change his return would make in her
intercourse with Marianne.

At this moment a servant announced that Mr. and Miss

224 VOICES TBOM TH1 KXHDUSKSAO.

Mendon wished to dee her in the parlor. She 'started
with a movement so abrupt, as almost to throw down her
favorite plant, and even in the waning light, her cheek
showed a tinge deeper than its blossoms had given it i.
" Is it possible ? " she exclaimed, when once more alone.
All the pride of woman rnshed into her heart, and dilated
her eye and form. It was bnt for a moment ; the princw
pies she had imbibed, the occupation in which she had so
lately been engaged, her own more youthful reminiscent
ces, all conspired to subdue her disturbed features into an
aspect of quiet dignity. In this mood she descended,
Marianne she greeted with her usual cordiality; and. ex*
tended her hand to Edward, but as she did so, her man*
ner wore a sort of frigid reserve, that to him seemed to
say, "from the Christian,. you have forgiveness, hut from
the woman, you hive nothing to hope." This appearance
so chilled his heart and deprived him of his self-pea-
session, that he could not appear in his usual character
of an accomplished gentleman, — agreeable in manner*
rich in thought, and pure and elevated in sentiment*
Catherine observed the spell she cast over him, send she
may be pardoned thus much of human weakness, if the
conviction that she still could sway him at her Will, gave
her no trifling gratification. In their after interviews-
Edward often left her with the flattering belief, that her
reserve had worn off, and that she had really overlooked
his. offence, but he did so, only to find himself throwa
back upon his former ground, when he next encountered
her. Many reasons might be given for -this betides, re-
maining resentment She feared perhaps '. that he might
again accuse her in his heart of courting, his attention*
Was it not strange such an idea should have entered
her brain? Are men ever thus vain and ungenerous?
Edward observed, that while conversing with him* her
features generally preserved a calm, and, as he fhn-

TH1 MBOLVB. 225

fauciod, ft cold expression; yet, whenever' her friend,
M& Harris, appeared, her face would light rip into ra-
diaat smiles, and her eye wear a softened meaning,
which ha himself would have given worlds to have called
there* " She thinks,** muttered he one evening, as, una-
ble lddger to endure the contrast between her reception
of himself and Mr. Harris, he abruptly departed, leaving
them together, "she thinks she owes everything she
now » to him, and her gratitude is equal to the obliga-
tion. She does owe him much, I allow, but did not I
pave the way fbr him ? How long would it have been
before he could have gained access to her then volatile
mind, had not I inflicted a necessary wound, while he
stepped in to heal the injury. Like many a faithful
friend, my services are disliked and unappreciated, be-
cause it was my misfortune to use a harsh instrument,
while it was his office to soothe and direct, and therefore
he is loved and honored. Better, perhaps, I had never
stirred conscience from its sleep, but no ! I shall at least
have the satisfaction of knowing that I have aided, how-
ever accidentally, in rescuing a noble nature from de-
basement. But she loves him."

Wa» Mr. Harris beloved ? Edward Mendon was not
the only one who thought so. The nature of their friend-
ship had long been food for the gossips, and malicious wit-
lings said, M Miss Catherine Tracy is preparing herself for
the ministry." Fortunately, her hitherto secluded life
prevented her ear from being pained by such insinuations.

A pic-nic party was proposed one bright day in July,
to visit a large pond or lake, distant about five miles from
the city. Edward dared not ask Catherine to ride with
him alone, but he procured a carriage and invited the
Traoys, Mr. Harris, and his sister, to take seats in it. Yet
they had scarcely left the city behind them ere he was
sorry he had done so — for the perfect self-possession

226 VOICES FBOM THB KBNDUSKEAU.

and ease of Mr. Harris, contrasted with hit own reserve,
gave the former entire command of the conversation.
.He was at all times strikingly agreeable, and Edward
thought that he had never known him more so than on this
very morning, while he himself grew every moment more
moody and abstracted. In truth, thought he, a man
may as well afford to be " free and easy," when he is as-
sured of success — while I, poor dog! have not only
thrown away my own chance of winning the game, but
have played into the hands of my rival.

His discomfort was either unnoticed, or unheeded, for
his companions were unusually animated, and kept np a
constant interchange of those light shots which are al-
ways current coin with those who see much of each
other, and are blessed with niirthfulness of character..
The spot to which they drove was one of great resort for
fishing and shooting, as well as every other rural amuse-
ment. A cottage had been, the preceding season, ele-
gantly fitted up for the reception of visiters, and on their
arrival they found "all appliances and means to boot"
of enjoyment, prepared for their use. Sportsmen's ap-
paratus, horses for equestrian excursions, sail boats and
row-boats, music and athletic games, all offered their
various claims to satisfy the tastes of the candidates for
pleasure.

After the company had pursued these different amuse-
ments in groups for some time, small parties began to
draw off from the rest, to follow the bent of individual in-
clination. Catherine, who entered into the enjoyment of
the hour with all her former vivacity, sprang into a small
sail-boat, and gaily called her companions to join her.
Edward and Mr. Harris did so, but Elizabeth and Mari-
anne were afraid to trust themselves to one of these frail
barks, and preferred joining some friends who had taken
a row-boat

THE RESOLVE. 227

. The sun was slightly shaded by light fleecy clouds, a
gentle breeze just rippled the surface of the lake, and
the sail among its deep-wooded islands, and flowery
coves, was to two of the party, at least, a scene of un-
mixed enjoyment. "Beautiful! beautiful!" exclaimed
Catherine, a glow of enthusiasm lighting up her face, as
her eye rested with intense admiration, alternately on
woodland, sky, and water. " Surely, the * Minstrel ' was
right, and there can be no hope of forgiveness for him who
would • renounce ' all this • bounteous store of charms.' "

•* True," said Mr. Harris. " Yet I scarcely know which
is most to be pitied, the anchorite, who flies from his fel-
low man and from duty, to Nature's solitudes, or the
wretched slave of gain, who chooses his horizon should
be bounded by brick walls, rather than by high mountains,
and prefers forever the pent-up effluvia of the business
-mart, to the free breath of heaven."

" If I must choose the life of either," replied Cather-
ine, " give me the anchorite's — for he, at least, has the
excuse, that men often deceive, repulse, and disgust
loving and noble souls, — while nature never offends.
She is kinder in her ministrations, and more constant to
those who love her not, than are most professed friends
to each other."

Edward's eye rested for a moment on Catherine, with
a glance of enquiry. Had she any special meaning in
that last remark ? His cheek glowed, but he spake not.
■ u I have often thought the passage to which you have
alluded one of the finest descriptive stanzas in the Eng-
lish language," remarked Mr. Harris.

" I do not remember it," said Edward, rather abruptly.
" Can you repeat it — I should like to hear the ' finest
descriptive stanza in the English language ! ' "

Apparently without noticing the implied sarcasm, Mr.
Harris repeated with fine tone and emphasis —

228 VOICES FROM TUB KKNDUSKEAG.

" Oh, how canst thou renounce the boundless store
Of charms which Nature to her votary yields !
The warbling woodland ; the resounding shore - r
The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields ;
All that the genial ray of morning yields ;
And all that echoes to the song of even ; .
All that the mountains sheltering bosom shields ;. . , .
And all the dread magnificence of Heaven ;
Oh, how canst thou renounce and hope to be forgiven ! "

Edward listened to the close, with a slight <ou*l on. \m
lip, and then remarked, sincerely, but not in the bland-
est tone, — " It is certainly musical . in expression, but I
must think some of Byron's have greater fire and force."

"Greater force, perhaps — but in artistic beauty* I
think this passage of the ' Minstrel ' superior to any sim-
.ilar one in Byron, It is not merely musical in expres-
sion, but complete. There is nothing superfluous, and
nothing wanting — while a succession of .beautiful im-
ages are introduced, themselves suggestive of nearly
everything grand or pleasing in the whole circle of nat-
ural objects. 1 '

Edward was about to reply, that the polished harmony
«df the passage was one reason why it had never made
so much impression upon him as many other descriptions
had done, which, though perhaps less finished, were more
striking and original, he thought, — but he caught the ex-
pression of Catherine's face, and it was one of such evi-
dent assent to the opinion of her friend, that he felt too
much annoyed to continue the conversation. • He pre-
tended that the management of the boat required his
strict attention — and he so managed it, that he brought
it quickly to land Mr. Harris suffered both his compan-
ions to step on shore — and then said, " I am going 1 to
yonder cove, off at your right, where I observed the other
day a great quantity of pond lilies. If you will walk round
there, I will greet you with flowers that rival the rose, in

THB KBSOLVE. 229

all but the memories they leave behind." He pushed
off ; and Edward found himself for the. first time since
the rupture, alone with. Catherine. Yet could he not
avail himself of the opportunity to 6nd bis suspense —
for Catherine seemed in a moment to drop all her animal*
ed gaiety, and to return to her former frigid reserve and
dignity. The transition was too sudden not to look forced,
yet she adhered to it so pertinaciously, that her compan-
ion, -in. spite of ingenuity and perseverance, found it im-
possible to break through the ice with any allusion to his
personal relations with her.

They kept Mr. Harris continually in sight, as he shot
along in his light pinnace, before the breeze, now con-
siderably increased. He reached the cove, however,
without difficulty, and easily secured a large quantity of
the favorite flowers — some of which he playfully at-
tempted to throw at the feet of Catherine, but the wind
wafted them far from, their place of destination. The
bank here being much too muddy to effect a landing, he
was compelled to round a sharp point called the " Giant's
Boot," from its peculiar shape. " Take care of the Giant's
heel, Mr. Harris. It is rough shod with rocks, and if you
should strike, it will dash the boat," called out Edward, as
he and his companion followed the shore around to the
same spot The caution was not ill-timed, for the sky had
grown more overcast, and, in a few moments, one of those
sudden squalls, so common to inland seas, took the boat as
it n eared the point, and drove it rapidly towards the rocks.

" Take in the sail, Mr. Harris," shouted Edward, as he
hurried Catherine along, that he might render assistance.
Before Mr. Harris could reef the sail, another and more
violent gust overset the boat, and he found himself strug-
gling in the water. Catherine was scarcely aware of the
accident, ere Edward had rushed to the shore and dashed
in after him, for it seemed that for some reason he could
11

230 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

not rescue himself. The boat was not far from land, and
in a few moments Edward dragged him on shore, and
laid him on the bank, bat he was insensible.

u Oh, he is gone," cried Catherine, clasping her hands,
as she bent over him in agony.

" No ! no ! Miss Tracy, he is not, he has only fainted,"
rejoined Edward, all thoughts of self generously lost in
sympathy for others. He looked around for assistance,
and saw that two gentlemen of their party had witnessed
the accident from a neighboring bank, and were now hur-
rying towards them. Meanwhile, he and Catherine en-
deavored to use all the means in their power, to restore
animation, and before any one else arrived, had partially
succeeded. Once Mr. Harris slowly opened his eyes,
then closed them again. " Mary ! my poor Mary ! what
will become of her ? She will follow soon. We shall
not be long separated," were some of the expressions he
' muttered slowly, and at intervals.

" What does he say, Miss Tracy ? " asked her compan-
ion.

" He thinks himself still in the water, and is speaking
of his betrothed, Mary Listen," replied Catherine, still
bending over him, and rubbing his brow and hands.

u His betrothed I Mary Liston ! I thought — and you
do not — But here come our friends."

The two gentlemen referred to, with several others,
now came up, and after many questions as to the cause,
of the disaster, and many contradictory directions as to
the proper treatment of Mr. Harris — he was borne to
the house, when he soon revived — though it was found
he had received a wound on the head, from one of the
rocks around the " Giant's Boot," or from the boat, which
was probably the cause of his remaining so long insensi-
ble. Why did not Edward, who had so gallantly exerted
himself for his rescue, lend a helping hand to bear him

THK RESOLVE 231

to the house ? And why did he linger so long on that
walk?

" Stay, Catherine, one moment," said he, detaining her
on the bank. " You spoke of Liston as the betrothed of
Mr. Harris. I thought that you were ' his chosen one.' "

" Me/' she exclaimed, looking up with a simple stare
of astonishment, which was succeeded by a deep blush,
as she encountered his fixed gaze.

" Yes, I did think so, but I see I was mistaken. You
do not love him."

" Not love him ! yes ! love him as my friend, my more
than brother — to whom I owe more than I can express,"
she replied enthusiastically. " But I have from the first
known that he was betrothed to Miss Liston, whom he
would long since have brought here as his wife, but for
the state of her health."

" You have taken a load from my heart You do not
love your friend with such a love as I madly dreamed.
You are yet free. And now shall I dare confess to you
the extent of my own presumption — that I love you?"

" Stop, Mr. Mendon," interrupted Catherine. " I can-
not listen to this language from you — you, whose opin-
ion of my character I have long; known."

" I thank you, Catherine, for referring to a subject on
which I have wished, but dared not, speak to you. Shall
I confess that, as soon as I perceived you had overheard
the harsh and exaggerated strictures on your conduct,
which I expressed to my sister on that eventful morning,
I joyfully accepted the position in which it placed me ;
dare I confess that I was willing to risk your favor, for the
sake of rousing your attention, fully relying on the in-
nate nobleness of your nature, to produce all the fruits I
have since witnessed ? Tell me not now, I trusted with
an overweening faith that the time would come, when
you would learn to forgive one, whose deep offence was

232 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKBAG.

born of his deep affection. Oh, tell me not, that the
dream of my youth, the hope of my manhood, is baseless."

Catherine stood a few moments irresolute. The many
conflicting feelings which recorded themselves on her
speaking face, gave way at last to a beaming smile, as
she said — " The time has been, Mr. Mendon, when I
could not have heard these declarations with patience. I
trust I now know how ' faithful are the wounds of a friend.'
I long since accepted the lesson, I now forgive the teach-
er," and she frankly extended her hand.

Mr. Harris, who lay propped up with pillows on a sofa
in one of the parlors of the cottage, thought the time
long ere his friends made their appearance. He was
impatient to see and thank his preserver. When at last
the door opened, and Edward entered with Catherine, he
gave them a searching, inquiring glance, which broke into
a smile of significance as he extended a hand to each.

a Mr. Mendon, I am happy to learn that it is to your
exertions I owe my life, for you are one of the few men
to whom I would willingly owe so great an obligation/'

" Indeed, you owe me nothing, nothing whatever, I
would gladly do as much for any human being — much
more for one whose life % is so valuable, 1 ' returned Edward,
cordially grasping the extended hand.

" But how is this, Mr. Mendon ? You still have on
your wet garments! Catherine, was this a woman's
thoughtfulness, not to remind your friend of the duty of
taking better care of his own health ? "

Catherine blushed deeply, as she felt conscious that iu
the excitement of her feelings, the circumstance had en-
tirely escaped her recollection.

Edward consented to leave the room in search of dry
garments, and when he returned and found Catherine
bathing the aching head of Mr. Harris, he smiled to think
with what different feelings he should, a few hours before,

THE RB80LVE 233

have regarded the circumstance. They were joined by
Elizabeth, Marianne, and others of the party, and Mr.
Harris seeing Catherine occupied in answering their ques-
tions about the events of the morning, once more beck-
oned Edward to his side.

" I need not ask," said he, in a suppressed tone, " if all
is right ? There is no mistaking the look of joyful antic-
ipation of assured happiness, which lights up your face.
I long since guessed your secret — though I am unac-
quainted with its history. No one knows better than I,
how much you are to be envied — though Jam not the
man to envy you, whatever you may have foolishly
thought. All that has passed away. Henceforth let us
be friends." Their hands met, and in that warm pres-
sure was cemented a lasting friendship.

234

STANZAS.

When the night is softly stealing

O'er the calm and stilly earth,
Rousing many a buried feeling,

Giving many a new one birth, —

When the spells, which Fancy braided

At some former twilight hour,
Dim through day, but still unfaded,

Wake with fresh nocturnal power, —

When the forms thou lov'st are vanish'd,
And the hearts that love thee, rest, —

Think of one whom day had banish'd
— Not forever, from thy breast ; —

Think, while Hope displays before thee

Sunny gleams of joys to be,
That my spirit hovers o'er thee,

Happiest still, when nearest thee.

When the full-moon's dreamy lustre
Glimmers on the white snow shed,

Like the unborn smiles that cluster
Round the pale lips of the dead, —

When the earth is girt so brightly
With the stellar zone of night,

That the day were vain — if nightly
Heaven would give us smiles as bright, -

STANZAS. 235

When the pine-grove's song, at distance,

Draws, with soft Eolian strains,
Hopes from fears of past existence,

Future joys from former pains : —

By those charms so dear to lovers,
Think — and sweet the thought will be —

That my spirit o'er thee hovers,
Happiest still when nearest thee.

When — as Earth renews her bridal

With the emerald-girdled spring, —
Birds of song, through winter idle,

Wake to joyous welcoming, —

When that welcoming is over,

And, as Summer closes too,
Grove and plain again recover,

Autumn's amaranthine hue, —

When overcome with music's sweetness,

When caressed with love and praise,
When thy hours have rapture's fleetness,

When thy moments seem like days, —

•

! still think of one who found thee

All he wished thy sex to be,
One to whom affection bound thee,

And whom passion bound to thee,

236

A garden, a shadow, a brook, and a tree,
Divided the house of my friend from me.
My heart was on fire, — through the garden I flew —
Leapt over the brook — the" shadow crept through, —
And stood in a moment beneath the lov'd tree ; —
And the friend of my heart was standing with me.

We said not a word, for there fell from above,
Such a brilliant appearance of glory and lote ;
We thought it a sin, if that hour should depart,
And not leave its image impressed on the heart ;
So we opened our hearts to the influence there,
And we silently breathed in the language of prayer.

And softer and softer our spirits were growing,
Like the river which; peacefully by us was. flowing.
Oh ! have you a friend, that is dear to your heart,
Go forth ere t|ie glories of Aaitumn depart -r
And whi}e. ypu are drinking the bliss of the scene,
Remember the land that forever is green.

237

A SKETCH.

M God tenpen the vfcnd to the ibon kab.'

Shorn indeed ! and to the quick, thought I, as I heard
the piteous cries of a child, writhing under blows dealt
with more than southern rigor. Shorn indeed, thou frail
and lonely one ! Are there none to pity as thou liest
there, fast bound lest thou should'st escape the grasp of
the amazon, who bends over thee with such angry looks ?

The mother, whose weary head thou so often hast es-
sayed to support with those tiny hands, now quivering
with pain as the cord lacerates the tender flesh, the
" mother " is not here to pity or relieve. She has " fal-
len asleep." But the grass has not grown upon her grave
since this woman, whose heart me thinks is colder than
the frozen earth above that mother's form, promised that
she would take thee to her home, and give thee her name
and wealth. Love she promised not; love she had not
to bestow; she knew it only by the name.

Ye who are mothers, when the time draws near for life
with you to close, should it be yours to consign children
to stranger-hands, remember, that better for them is love
with poverty, than riches without affection's gentle words
and deeds. Let not costly mansions and gay apparel de-
ceive you, and prove the ruin of your heart's cherished
ones.

But this woman is a Christian, a member of a visible
church ; and but yesterday partook of the emblems of the
body and blood of one, who, were he now to appea:
11*

238 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

would say to her excited passions as once to the troubled
sea, " Peace, be still ; " or rebuke, as anciently he did the
disciples, saying, " Ye know not what manner of spirit ye
are of." " Suffer the little one to come unto me, for of
such is the kingdom of heaven."

Yes, there is one to pity the prphan — Jesus, "the
lambs of whose flock are his fenderest care." The great
Father-spirit, too, who heareth the young ravens when
they cry, and without whom not a sparrow falleth to the
ground.

. Eut what offence, crime, think you, had this child com-
mitted, that she should receive stripes without mercy?
&he had played truant on her return from : school, and
that, when she had been bidden to "come 1 ' immediately
home ! " This was her offence, " specially aggravated;"
so was she told, "by being committed against those who
had taken her in, who gave her food, clothes, and books."
We will not excuse her fault, save by suggesting that if
her home had been more attractive, it would, perhaps,
have drawn thither her wandering steps. But what, wo-
man of the " iron rule," would be thy fate, should the

Giver of thy daily bread and of all thy blessings deal
with thee as thou hast dealt with the helpless one at thy
feet ? Well is it for thee that God is " slow fo anger,
and ready to forgive." Would that we might all reflect
upon our sins against the Holy One when we are tempt-
ed to apply the lash, with tongue or hand, to an offend-
ing child or brother !

Fearful must death prove to such as have by folly or
crime estranged kindred and friends, leaving thus the
couch of pain unsoothed by the voice of love, and their
dying words to fall unheeded by affection's sympathizing
ear. Years hava flown, and now alone, in infirm old age,
must the poor victim of ungoverned passion, whom we
saw contending with the helpless orphan, herself strug-

A BKMKE. 239

gle with the conqueror death. Unkindness has banished
from her home those who would have ministered to the
wants of her declining years. An evil temper has cast
a shadow over all the brightness of her life. Simply to
annoy, to disappoint another, she adopted the orphan
child. Temper was her.onjy guide, iq its correction, and
sadly did the bereaved one mourn for love and kind words.

As an oasis amid the burning sands of the desert, as
sunlight on the darkened wave, as .life to the dying, was
the first flash of light whichr revealed that Father's love,
" who keepeth constant; watch in heaven/' to the lonely
heart of the orphan. Thenceforth the world was no more
a wilderness, with thorns to impede each step of the
darksome way, for flowers, sprung up ia be* path ; flowers
which imparted lessons of faith and hope, and strength-
ened continually her trust in God. Her early sorrows
chastened her spirit, her early sufferings made her strong ;
her views of providence inspired her with noble aims
and desires; and thanks to the Father of the fatherless,
her life bloomed again with the happiness of early youth.

Friends of the orphan! ye would bestow food and
raiment upon those bereft of parental care ; forget not
how much the heart of the child seeks for some object
on which to pour out its own rich treasure of affection,
claiming your love in return. Let, then, kindness be in
your speech and deed to those whose " angels do always
behold the face of God," and live in his smile. Above
all, fail not to direct their young minds unto the love of
the Father on high. So shall ye open to them a fountain
of bliss, whose waters shall refresh and strengthen for all
life's conflicts and trials.

Bangor, Oct. 13th, 1847.

840

80PTLY. WOMAN.

Softly, woman ; thou fbrgettest
Thai thy words *h<mld tendei be;

Softly, woman ; how, thou lettest
A yery trifle anger thee ! .

i Reason, .woman ■;. He who formed thee
Empress of the world he made,
Ry the law of kindness hound thee ;— •
Is that law by thee obeyed?

Notice, woman ;* — : what is sweeter
Than to smile and be content 1

Try it, and each feeling bitter
Will unto the winds be sent

Where 's the spirit, meek and holy
Of the slighted Nazarene %

Go — and let that spirit lowly,
Woman, in thyself be seen.

2*4

THE ARCHER AND THE MAID.

1 PUODY. .

" WiiA yen try my bow and aftow?" said the archer to tfco

■i ■
a With p»ttfefc1>ow and arrow, I'm sure yon never played. 7

It has a silken cord, and the shaft, if you will try,

The lightest little arrow will speedily let fly."
" Oh ria, rio/? said the little maid, " to me yoa sue ia vain, .

For they, who with your arrows play, may never play again. 1 '

• ■ ♦

" Oh lady, in a charmed cap I pledge my love to you,
The draught is sweet and pleasant, the ray of rainbow hue,
It will bring yon, lovely lady, the visions that are mine*—
Then drink from out my glittering cup, and taste my charmed
wine."
" Oh no, kind sir," the lady said, " for I 've often heard them
say,
That from your dreams we only wake to Sorrow's heavy day."

" Then take these early flowers, they 're beautiful and bright,
I culled them in my garden, by the silvery moonlight;
More beautiful are they, who my fairy flowers wear —
Place them, lady, in your bosom, and twine them in your
hair."
" Nay, keep your lovely flowers, sir, for often I 've been told,
That the poison and the thorns, in their glittering leaves yon
fold."

242 VOICES FROM Tfc» KENDU8KEAG.

" Oh, lady, here are silken cords, a fairy web I weave,
And a spell within its folds, and a charm for all who grieve,
Then take the brilliant threads, and let the warp and woof,
Throw around a magic spell, that shall be to sorrow proof."

" Nay keep the warp and woof away, for oft 't is said to me,
That they who weave your tangled web, will never more be
free."

So the lady answered " no," but she did not go away —
While still the boy would warble his soft and wily lay,
Singing ever of his silken cords, his bright and shining bow.
"■' Oh, why did not the maiden from the cunning archer gal /.'
Why did she listen to his song, and at his tokens look^
Till'she tasted of hfe sparkling wine, his poisosPd Bowen'iskk *

With his glittering dart she played, till it rankled fafcerbrtfcfet,
And the roses on her cheek, grew pale, as his www closer prast
The sparkling cup she tasted made dim her lovely eye,
And from those soft and brilliant dreams she wakened with a

sigh. •
Too late the maiden found, as life's current ebbed away,
That they who would the wile escape, with Cupid must not

play.

243

SEftUBL TO THE "VISION OF BANGOR IN THE
TWENTIETH CENTURY/*

" Your young men shall see riaions, and your old men shall dream dreams."

"OfaE day happening by chance to peep into a gentle- •
man's escritoire, I discovered a " Vision of Bangor in the*
twentieth century." To my shame be it spoken, I did 1
not resist the temptation thns spread before me, but al-
lowed my cariosity the gratification of reading it from be*
ginning to end. The same night having sapped on oys-
ters, X too, had a dream, and what was very singular, it
appeared to join on most remarkably to the one which
had amused me so much in the morning. I seemed
even to have entered into the person of the qnondam
dreamer, and to be actually the same individual. I shall
plead therefore the extravagance of a dream, as my apol-
ogy for merging my identity in his, as I relate the scenes
which passed before me.

I stood by a building of very singular and imposing
architecture, constructed of hewn stone, and adorned with
magnificent paintings from the top to the bottom, which on
nearer examination, I fonndto be emblematic and exqui-
sitely beautiful representations of the triumph of the spir-
it of peace over that of strife and conquest, among the
nations of the earth. I turned to ask the name of this
building of the individual who had hitherto acted as my
guide, but to my surprise he had disappeared, and in his
place stood a hale, hearty old gentleman, with a right
honest countenance, and an eye wherein a spice of rogue-

244 WHOM FROM THE UTOU8JUU0.

ry was bewitchingly blended with a deep, manly earnest-
ness. He seemed to be aware of my situation as a
stranger, and as one who had long been absent from these
sublunary scenes, and answered me with the utmost good
nature.

" That," said he, " is a building wherein are kept the
Weapons of war, (so far as they could be obtained,) wfcich
have been used in all ages of the world.

" They are preserved both as curiosities, and as affect-
ing memorials of the atrocities which the indulgence of
evil passions, and the imagined necessity of maintaining
what was falsely called ' national honor/ once led the,
human race to commit"

. I had scarcely expressed my congratulations upon the,
great moral advance of society which the existence .of!
such an edifice for such a purpose argued, when I es-
pied in a neighboring street, in the midst of magnificent
piles of stone and marble, a ruined structure, which,
looked as if it might have been a church, but was so fair
len into decay and covered with the "moss of ages,"
that one could hardly distinguish its original form.

" And what ruin have we here ?" I asked. " That was
once, I believe, an Episcopal church, although thd Episco-
palians hardly acknowledge it now. Their present strafe
tures are all so splendid, they are unwilling to believe that
there was ever an Episcopal church built of wood in this
great city. There is an old organ in this building, which
report says sometimes sends forth strange sounds at the
• witching hour of night. 1 The rumor may perhaps be
founded upon a tradition, representing it as a most won*
derful organ in its day, — being determined to 'go/ with
or without hands, unless it was constantly watched ! What
strange power the eyes of the 'three watchers/ who,
the legend says, sat by it day and night, were endowed
with, that they could 'hold* the heavenly harmonies, I

SEQUEL TO THE VISION Of BAHCKML 245

know not; but that they had some such power, the fact
that whenever they were careless enough to fall asleep,
the ' troublesome thing would go/ strongly intimates."

u What is the present state of religious sects here?"
I asked. " Have they, as some prophesied in my day,
been merged in one universal church ? "

* No, they have not, but they have done what I think
is quite as well, ' agreed to disagree.' Each still main*
tains some distinctive doctrines, but with so much Chris-
tian harmony, that a stranger might think them one
united body, divided for convenience into distinct con-
gregations. There has been a great change in the spe-
cific items of faith held by some sects since your time,
and others have disappeared entirely. But the greatest
change has been in the spirit which pervades the relig-
ious community. Where once all was rancor, misrep-
resentation, and hostility, now all is forbearance and
love. The great secret of this change has been, and is,
that sects ■ have ceased to set themselves in antagonism
with each other. They go on quietly in their own course,
teach, preach, and live the truths which they think the
gospel inculcates, and let each other alone. The hate-
ful Voice of religious controversy is now scarcely heard
in our land. Sects do not, even by implication, or by
the application of exclusive titles to themselves, con-
demn each other. Calvinists no longer- proclaim their
' evangelical 9 distinctions, nor do Unitarians plume them*
selves on their 'liberal' tendencies. The word ' Ortho-
dox ' is obsolete as applied to a sect, and a Unitarian
would stare in astonishment if you should call him a
* liberal Christian.' Baptists have opened their arms
wide to welcome the Christian world to the communion
of their Lord, and, what is the greatest triumph of all,
Episcopalians have done talking about ' the church, 9 and
Swedenborgians have conceded that somebody besides

246 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKBAG.

Swedenborg can have a new idea! Thank God, the
times of religious cant are over !

"So soon as sects ceased to place themselves in a
controversial attitude, so soon they began to see that seal-
ly there was * some light ' in their neighbors.

" Trinitarians found it possible to believe that Unita-
rians * might be saved upon a pinch/ and Unitarians that
Trinitarians were * not such fools after all/ (as, in spite
of their ' liberality* even the most intelligent of their
body were apt to think a hundred years ago). The next
step in reform, after they had come to see clearly the
good and truth existing in their neighbors, was, in all
Christian humility to adopt it, which they have done, and
are daily doing. Thus renouncing their own errors, and
receiving others' truths, they are becoming constantly
more similar, although whether some great points will
ever be harmonized so as to merge the various sects in
one church, remains a matter of doubt"

I mused awhile on the delightful state of things I had
heard described, and then my thoughts turned to an in-
stitution which had always ranked in my estimation next
to the church.

" Can you tell me, sir, how many lodges of Odd Fel-
lows there are here?" He put his hand to his head
with a bewildered expression — " Odd Fellows," said he,
" Odd Fellows — I am sure I have heard the name, and
yet I cannot imagine where. Ah ! I have it ! I have
read of them in a volume in the Antiquarian library. I
had forgotten the name only, for the history of the de-
cline of the institution I remember well. I think they
disappeared about the year 1668. The circumstances
were not a little peculiar.

" A parcel of wags, bent on finding sport for them-
selves, having bored a convenient number of holes in the
ceiling of the Odd Fellows' assembly room, resolved to

SEQUEL TO THE VISION OF BANGOR 247

look in upon them, and what is more, to break in upon .
them, should they not be discovered before the ' fulness
of time ' in the execution of their project had arrived.
Accordingly, being disguised in grotesque costumes, and
armed with the various utensils suited to their purpose,
they repaired to their observatory. The scene that was
exposed to their view was quite worth describing.

" The chief officer, (his round and sleek proportions
would forbid that he ever should be accused of being
the 'elongature of a point/) who had patiently gone
through all the grades of office, until he had reached the
highest, was standing upon a rostrum, slowly bowing,
until his head touched the ground, waving his arms ma-
jestically to and fro, and swaying his body from side to
side, with a graceful undulatory motion, while he slowly
pronounced a Greek oration. This exercise was intend-
ed to promote ease and dignity of manner! Another
' brother' was lying on his back, with his mouth extend-
ed to its utmost dimensions, while a third was pouring
water down his throat ! If he could bear a certain quan-
tity of the fluid, he was to be advanced a degree in the
honors of the lodge ! A fourth was swinging upon a rope
suspended from the ceiling, and at every backward swing
receiving from a staging above him, the contents of an
immense tub of iced water upon his shoulders ! This
was a punishment for betraying some of the secrets to
his wife ! It was such an ' unheard of thing for a man
to reveal a secret, 9 as the chief officer remarked, ' that
the punishment was rendered more severe than it would
otherwise have been.' They did not wish to be cruel,
however, and had appointed an officer to read a poem in
praise of Odd- Fellowship to him, as an alleviation of his
sufferings ! A group of six or seven young men, (as yet
uninitiated), were standing huddled together in a corner,
making wry faces at each other. The fortunate one who

248 VOIOKS FROM THE KENDUSKBAQ.

could make the worst face, was to be exempted from the
ceremony of ' riding the goat ' in the coming initiation !
A portion of the • brethren/ ( Odd Fellows indisputably),
were squatting on the ground in a circle, with bare feet,
while one stood in the centre with a red-hot iron, which
he cautiously approached towards the pedal extremities
of one and another of the company. It seemed that
whoever bore this test of courage without shrinking or
winking, was allowed to leave the circle, and thencefor-
ward to be a candidate for the highest office ; while those
poor devils whose flesh winced at hot iron, were con-
demned to be branded with it in the centre of the left
foot, and to endure other tests, until they attained the
requisite degree of firmness. Another group were lying
prostrate, with their faces downward, drinking sweetened
water from thimbles ! (which were filled by an attendant
as fast as they were emptied). This was an exercise
calculated to increase the holy virtue of patience ! And
as they were condemned to drink a gallon each of the
liquid before relaxing their exertions, it was certainly
most admirably adapted for its purpose ! One member,
who was often a speaker in the meetings of the Lodge,
was seated in a sort of prisoner's box, while another was
pulling his hair with great violence , causing a series of
short, piercing shrieks to proceed from his mouth ! To
this he was condemned in order to obtain command of
voice, the operation upon the hair having a tendency to
increase the volume of the tones !

" A curious circumstance now caught the attention of
our observers, which was, that the walls of the room
were lined with men, lying one upon another, neatly
packed, from the floor to the ceiling ! These were rn the
process of being • cured ' of a disposition to worry and
torment each other in matters of business, which had
been reported to the Lodge, and as, by the least motion

SSQUSL TO THE VISION OF BANGOR. 249

of hand, foot or muscle, they would inevitably incom-
mode their neighbors, and unquestionably be incommoded
in return, they were fast learning to ' forbear one another
in love.' This last scene threatened to be quite too much
lor the fast-failing gravity of the conspirators. . Deciding
therefore that they had * seen enough/ they shouldered
their tools, and repaired to the doors, which, assailing
with all their strength, and with accompaniments of
howls, groans, hollow noises, and ghostly vociferations,
they soon removed from their hinges, and rushed into the
midst of the frightened assembly; when, suddenly com-
iog to order, one of their number, accoutred as a ghost,
exclaimed in sepulchral tones, * There is nothing covered
that shall not be revealed ; and hid, that shall not be
known.'

" Such a tumbling and sprawling from the walls as fol-
lowed this announcement, such a scattering of gathered
up limbs, such a scrambling for the door, is not easily im-
agined. Suffice it to say, that in a much shorter space
of time than the enunciation of the fearful sentence had
occupied, the hall was deserted by all but the intruders.

" After this, there was not such a thing heard of through-
out the country, as an • Odd Fellow.' If any who had
been supposed to be members of the institution were in-
terrogated about the order, they were entirely innocent
of any knowledge of it whatever, ' having never been an
Odd Fellow,' — oh no !

" After a while, however, some of the old members
began to recollect the good deeds that had proceeded
from the institution, (and, notwithstanding the laugh
raised against it, no one could deny that they were num-
berless as well as noble,) and formed themselves into a
benevolent society, under a new name, which still exists,
and exemplifies as beautifully as did the ' Odd Fellows '
of old, the quality of that mercy which * droppeth as the

250 VOICES FROM Till KXNDUSKJAG.

gentle dew from heaven/ without the drawbacks of se-
crecy and ceremony."

Just as my companion paused in his discourse, I ob-
served a lady approaching us, on whom my eyes were
immediately riveted. Grace and dignity were blended
in her mien with a noble simplicity ; and the expression *
of command enthroned upon her brow, was chastened
by the winning sweetness which distinguished .the lower
part of her expressive face.

" Do yon know her ? " I eagerly asked. " Oh yes, very
well ; and if she enters the gallery of paintings, whither
I think she is bending her steps, we will go in, and you
shall know her also."

Our hopes were realized, and in the space of a few
moments, we all found ourselves together in tbe gallery.
After an introduction, some cursory discussion of the
pictures, and going through some of the commonplaces
with which I was familiar in my day, I began, as my con-
temporaries were much in the habit of doing, to express
the admiration I really felt for her, but in a style respect-
ful and delicate. She appeared surprised and embar-
rassed, but spoke not Presuming she did not under-
stand me, I endeavored to make my language more un-
equivocal, and thinking it might seem in better taste than
the more personal adulation I had commenced with, I
included her whole sox in my expressions of admiration.

She turned her large earnest eyes full upon me, and
remained lost in astonishment Determined that I tcould
make an impression upon her by my gallantry, I returned
to the attack with increased vigor, and begged that she
" would not be offended or imagine that I was flattering
her, for upon my honor 1 was truly sincere in every word
I had uttered. That woman had been all I had described
her, to me, during my pilgrimage on earth, and that even
if I had had no experience in the matter until now, I

SEQUEL TO THE YISION OF BANGOR. 251

should be equally sure of the truth of what I had said, for
who could look upon the incomparable being before me,
and doubt that woman was to man the ' morning star ' that
shone through his youthful dreams, the ' day-star ' that
gilded his manly prime, the • evening-star ' that shed a
halo over his declining years, and — and — "

" You might add the • dog-star/ " quietly remarked the
lady, with an expression about the mouth which plainly
revealed the struggle that was going on in her mind, be-
tween politeness and mirth. The struggle was but for an
instant The beautiful lips parted, and out came a peal
of uncontrollable laughter. Again it was checked, — the
"eloquent blood spoke" in her cheek, and pleading
" shopping," while she gracefully apologized for her rude-
ness, she left us. (So the women " shop " yet, thought I.)

" Now in the name of wonder, tell me what is the
meaning of all this," I ejaculated, turning to my friend.
To my great vexation, I found him laughing as heartily
as she had done. As soon as he had recovered himself
a little, he replied, " I was in as much of a maze as the
lady, to hear your style of conversation, until I remem-
bered having read in worm-eaten volumes of something
similar. But talking to ladies after that fashion was ob-
solete many years ago." +

"What? Obsolete, do you say?" "Yes, truly so.
Woman is no longer considered as a mere object for ca-
resses and pretty words. Men might as well attempt to
cut away the Andes with a penknife, as to carve them-
selves a plage in her esteem by flattery. She is not now
petted and pacified with adulation, while her true dignity
is forgotten, nor does she obtain 'sugar-plums' when
she only asks for justice. Your age fondled woman.
Ours honors her. you gave her compliments. We give
her rights.

" Your contemporaries, if I have read rightly, looked

252 VOICES FROM THB KENDUBKBAO.

upon woman as a mere adjunct to man. As merely the
' companion to cheer his pathway/ the ' angel to soothe his
sorrows/ the ' wife to adorn his fireside/ etc etc. With
you, all things in woman had a reference to man* We
think not so, but regard her as complete in herself. (Not
indeed independent of man, nor man of her, but both, in •
a high and noble sense, created for each other*) Not
needing man to eke her out into an individual, but in her-
self the • image of God/ Not « God's last, best gift to man, 1
but with man, not next to him, or before him, ' God's last,
best gift' to creation. Man is not thought of as the solid
masonry of life, and woman as the gingerbread-work, but
both together, as the solemn and beautiful architectural
pile of humanity ; which, without either, or with either
subordinate to the other, would lose half its majesty and
harmony.

" Admired, woman may be, and is, in these latter times,
but not for the fair hair, or the azure eye, nor yet for the
graceful manner, or elegant accomplishment alone, but
for the soul that burns within her, and now only has free-
dom to show itself. Nor, much as we elevate and rev-
erence her, do we aim to abolish the difference in the in-
tellect and constitution of man and woman. On the con-
trary, we acknowledge and cherish it, only waiving the
worn-out question of the intellectual rank of the sexes.

" The old-fashioned notions about woman that prevail-
ed in your day, are now scarcely remembered as having
existed, except by the antiquarian and the scholar. Some
ancient books, with whose lore they alone are conversant, «
still preserve the recollection of them. 'T is well that
my memory has been recently refreshed by one of these
very books, as well as by a ' History of the manners, cus-
toms and opinions of the past/ or I should be lost in as-
tonishment at the light in which you contemplate the
sex. There is one book, however, whose almost inspired

8SQUXL TO THE VISION OF BANGOR. 253

pages are open not alone to the scholar, — I refer to Mil-
ton's ' Paradise Lost/ in which there is an allusion to some
such ideas as your contemporaries had. It is in this re-
markable address from Eve to Adam: 'God thy law,
thou, mine. 9 There has been an immense amount of con-
troversy upon this passage, but I believe commentators at
length agree in considering it a false reading. Although
of course aware of the condition of woman, at the time
in which Milton lived, they believe him to have been in-
capable of putting a sentiment into the mouth of his
ideal of womanly perfection, which makes God a God
to her, only through her husband. They are the more con-
firmed in this, as in another immortal poem, ' Comus,' he
makes his heroine a model of all that is free and noble,
and as a still more ancient and world famed poet, Shaks-
peare, represents woman in quite a different way."

" What is the standard of intellectual cultivation among
women now."

" Culture of the broadest kind is considered necessary
to both men and women, to fit them for their entrance
into the cares and toils of life."

" But how do women find time for this ? They could
not do so in my day."

" You know the old adage, ' where there's a will, there's
a way.' Since woman has awoke to the importance of
self-culture, the means are found quite practicable. And
besides, there are the increased facilities for domestic
labor, to be considered in this matter. The household ar-
rangements of this age are somewhat different from those
of yours, I imagine. At this moment, you may see an
exemplification of it, in the gay groups of people which
you notice yonder, just filling the streets, as they go to
their eating houses."

" Eating houses ! Ah, it seems to me that looks a lit-
tle like Fourierism, but the tall individual whom I met in
12

254 VOICES FROM THE KXNDUSKEAO.

the morning, told me that the community system ' died
out ' long ago, and that people lived in families, and
women cooked and scrubbed, baked and patched, as of
old."

" And so people do live in families, and always will, I
reckon ; Ah ! your tall friend ! I know him like a book !
A cross-grained, conservative old creature, who cannot
endure the modern improvements which leave woman
freedom to pursue her individual tastes. He spoke of
things as he wished them to be, rather than as they are.
Never believe a word he tells you on this subject. Poor
fellow ! he was once of goodly proportions, fully rounded
out, sleek and fair ; one of the most popular men in so-
ciety. In early life he possessed a wife, a most exem-
plary woman, who devoted herself unusually to the pro-
motion of his comfort ; but having had the misfortune to
lose her, he could find no other so docile and obedient,
and he has really become the melancholy, attenuated
being you saw, by venting his indignant ire against the
progress of the sex in these days. ' Woman's rights/ as
he sneeringly terms them, are the constant theme of bis
discourse, and the rich old fellow having been refused by
at least a dozen ladies, revenges himself by slurs upon the
whole woman part of creation."

" Rich ! is he ? and will not his long purse procure him
a wife ? "

" Riches procure him a wife here ! You forget, my
dear sir, that women are not bought and sold now, as in
your day."

" Oh, they were not exactly that, in my day, but then,
as now, I suppose, they found it necessary to be clothed
and fed, and to move in genteel society, and what would
you have them do, if they had no money of their own,
the father bankrupt, perhaps, and a homeless old age be-
fore them ? What better could they do, than marry a

SEQUEL TO THE VISION OF BANOOB. 255

rich husband, and so provide for themselves, and desti*
tute sisters perhaps ? For my part, I always pitied, more
than blamed, when I saw them doing so."

u ' Pitied ! ' ' blamed ! ' Let me tell yon, my good friend,
that things have indeed changed with woman. As to
* clothing and food/ she provides them, (when necessity
or inclination prompts) by her own hands or head, and
what is more, can follow the impulses of her heart,
in maintaining a feeble brother or sister, or an aged pa-
1 rent. She is therefore not obliged to enter the marriage
state, as a harbor against poverty. And as for ' genteel
society,' riches neither admit nor exclude from that, but
man and woman both mingle in the circle for which tal-
ent or cultivation fit them, and take their places as easily
as flowers turn to the light, or fold their leaves in the
shade And for this progress, we are mainly indebted
to the genius of Charles Fourier, who, by his profound
insight into the evils of society, induced such changes as
gave due compensation to all industry, whether in man,
woman or child. Cooperation substituted for competition,
has in a great measure removed indigence from society,
and division of labor in domestic art has increased the
facilities of housekeeping as much as electricity has that
of conveying news. Yet the labor of woman was light-
ened more reluctantly than other improvements, and the
natural patience of that sex, and the selfishness of ours,
might have made the eternal track of household labor
go on as of old, but for the impossibility of getting female
domestics for an occupation which brought so much so-
cial degradation and wear and tear of body and clothes !
The factory, the shop, and the field even, came to be pre-
ferred before it, and men found, that they must either
starve, or contrive some better way of being fed.

" True, there are no ' Associations ' properly, and many
things that the genius of Fourier dreamed of, have never

256 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

been realized. The reformer's plans seldom are fulfilled,
as he foresees them, but much that that great man taught
has been heeded, and men now bless his labor, and re-
spect his name.

" Taking the hint from him, the poor first combined to
purchase their supplies at shops established expressly for
them, that their small parcels might come to them at
wholesale prices. Rich men built comfortable, cheap
dwellings, with the privilege for each tenant of a certain
right in a common bakery, school, etc. Other changes
followed. Philanthropists guided legislation in the poor
man's behalf, till he gradually lost sight of his poverty,
while the hoarder became unable to heap up wealth from
the sweat of his less prosperous brother.

" True, we do not live in the ' phalanx,' but you have
noticed the various houses for eating which accommodate
the city. Covered passages in some of the streets, the
arcade style of building generally adopted in others, and
carriages for the more isolated and wealthy residences,
make this a perfectly convenient custom, even in our
climate, and 't is so generally adopted by our people, that
only now and then a fid get ty man, or a peremptory woman,
attempts anything like the system of housekeeping in
your day. Nothing but extraordinary wages enables a
man now to have a little tea, a little cake, a little meat,
a little potato, cooked under his own roof, served all by
itself, on a little table for him especially. But the re-
cluse and monk will be found in all ages.

u You would hardly recognize the process of cooking in
one of our large establishments. Quiet, order, prudence,
certainty of success, govern the process of turning out a
ton of bread, or roasting an ox ! — as much as the weav-
ing a yard of cloth in one of our factories. No fuming,
no fretting over the cooking stove, as of old ! No 'roast-
ed lady' at the head of the dinner table ! Steam, ma-

SEQUEL TO THE VISION OF BANOOB. 257

chinery, division of labor, economy of material, make the
whole as agreeable as any other toil, while the expense
to pocket is as much less to man, as the wear of patience,
time, bone and muscle, to woman.

" Look at that laundry establishment on the other side
of the old Penobscot! See the busy boys and girls bear-
ing to and fro the baskets of snowy linen, in exchange
for the rolled and soiled bundle of clothes. There is a
little fellow, now, just tumbling his load into this end of
the building; — by the time he fairly walks rouud to the
other side, it will be ready to place on his shoulders, clean,
starched, and pressed with mirror-like polish ! Ah, you
did not begin to live in your benighted nineteenth century !
Just think of the absurdity of one hundred housekeepers,
every Saturday morning, striving to enlighten one hun-
dred-girls in the process of making pies for one hundred
little ovens! (Some of these ovens remain to this day,
to the great glee of antiquarians.) What fatigue ! What
vexation ! Why, ten of our cooks, in the turning of a
few cranks, and an hour or so of placing materials, pro-
duce pies enough to supply the whole of this city ; —
rather more than all your ladies together could do, 1 fancy.
Window cleansing, carpet shaking, moving, sweeping,
and dusting, too, are processes you would never know
now, though, by the way, there is much less of this to do
than there used to be, owing to a capital system of lay-
ing the dust by artificial showers which has long been
used. Indeed, this was hinted at in your day I think, by
a very acute observer of nature, laughed at then, as a
dreamer. ' Professor Espy ' was his name."

" I asked a while ago, how women could find time for
the culture you were speaking of, but I am constrained
to change my question now, and ask, what, for mercy's
sake, is there left for them to do ? " said I, indignantly,
thinking of the unceasing turmoil of " washing-day," bak-

258 VOICES FROM THE KflNDTOKEAG.

ing and ironing day, which my poor wife had always
been obliged to submit to. " How lazy your women must
be!"

" Lazy ! why they take part in all these very processes.
Labor no longer makes them fear to lose caste, and they
join in hand or head work as they please, and from hav-
ing greater variety of employments, those which were
deemed more exclusively theirs, such as sewing or teach-
ing, not being crowded, command as high remunera-
tion as any. No, woman is not made lazy by this so-
cial progress. She finds abundance of work and freedom
to do it. In every station, pecuniary independence is her
own. Her duties as mother and daughter are now more
faithfully fulfilled than ever, as freedom is more favora-
ble to the growth of the affections than coercion, while in
the marriage relation the change is too great to describe.
No longer induced to enter it as a refuge from the ennui
of unoccupied faculties, free also from the injurious pub-
lic opinion which makes it necessary to respectability to
wed, woman as well as man may go to her grave single
if she pleases, without being pitied for having failed of
the great end of her existence. Marriage is therefore
seldom entered, except from mutual choice and strong
affection. True, mistakes are made now, as in your day,
by the young with vivid imaginations, but the prevailing
habit of useful occupation makes such mistakes far rarer
now than then. The family and the home are indeed
sacred, and the bond only broken by death. Children are
reared under holy influences, and the generations grow
and increase in the love and wisdom of God and man/'

" But your women do not take part in the affairs of
state, do they ? At least, so the ' cross-grained, conserv-
ative old creature/ as you called him, who answered my
question this morning, told me."

w Oh no, they have no wish to do so."

8BQUSL TO THE VISION OF BANGOR. 259

u Bat that individual told me they had made the at-
tempt ;" and here I recapitulated the description he had
given me of women in the halls of legislation.

" Oh, that was all a joke ! And a capital one it was
too."

« A joke ! How can that be ? "

" Why, men were strangely sore and sensitive upon
that subject, always imagining that women .wanted to
role. If a word of fault was found with woman's condi-
tion, they would immediately take fire, and reply, 'Oh,
you want a share in government do you ? Better stay at
home and darn your stockings/ If a sigh was breathed
over woman's want of freedom, intellectual and social,
•Ah! you'd like to go to the polls would you? Better
learn to make a good pudding ! ' To which women an-
swered in effect, that * they had n't any particular objec-
tion to ' darning their hose,' and that they liked of all
things to eat 'good puddings,' as in the then condition
of 'help' they could n't reasonably expect to eat unless
they made them, and as they were really quite indiffer-
ent to taking a share in government, they thought they
should accept the advice offered them, and go on, for a
while at least, ' darning their stockings and making good
puddings.'

" But men were not so easily satisfied. Still, when the
lovers of progress expressed a wish for a broader female
culture, they shrugged their shoulders and ejaculated,
* Oh ! a share in government ! ' and if some unlucky dog
chanced to stumble on the word ' woman,' — ' Humph !
Good pudding.* Still went on the deep, silent current
of reform, and still men pricked up their ears and looked
fearfully about them, scared lest woman was beginning
to 'rule.' Still woman cried 'onward,' and still man
groaned, • darn stockings ! ' They bore this patiently for
some time. At last some mischievous ones declared

260 VOICE8 FROM THE KENDUSKEAQ.

1 they would bear it no longer. It was too good a subject
for fun to be longer treated seriously. It was quite too
bad that men had for so many years cried " wolf in
vain. Now the wolf should really come ! ' And so, in-
deed, he did; these female wags actually enacted the
very scenes you have described to me, in their zeal to
1 quiz' their male tormentors. How well they succeeded
in quizzing them, you can judge from the story you heard.

" But women were at one time obliged to take part in
government, which was 'no joke.'"

" Ah ! how happened it ? "

" Men became completely eaten up with the love of
money. This frightful disease had begun to show itself
in your day, but it afterward made much more rapid and
terrible advances. It became a raging pestilence, de-
stroying everything within its reach. It prevailed over
our whole country, but more fatally than anywhere else,
in this our good city. All other things became subordi-
nate to this burning fever. Social intercourse was aban-
doned. Amusement was ridiculed as absurd. The
church was deserted. The Sabbath habitually desecrat-
ed. And even the master-passion, love, was forgotten.
The effect of this money-leprosy (for I think of no more
appropriate name) upon the body, was truly terrific ; with-
ering the skin, and changing it to a lurid copper color,
with large livid spots upon it, seeming like the ghosts of
dollars, (which, like the Lady Macbeth's spots of blood,
1 would not rub out*) ; giving the eyes the appearance of
burning cents, sunk deep in the head ; impregnating the
breath with a foetid metallic odor, and, as some declared,
even imparting to the blood a dull coppery tinge ; caus-
ing the hands to grope and fumble in vacancy, as if in
search of bank bills, while the tongue muttered continu-
ally, ' dollars/ ' interest,' ' stock/ ' dividends/ and other
words of pecuniary import.

SEQUEL TO THE VISION OF BANGOR. 261

" Of course, with this fearful disease upon them men
neglected their duties in the Legislature, in Congress, in
courts of law, etc., except those which related directly to
their pecuniary interests.

" If their attention was called to any other matters than
those which touched their pockets, they would look as
bewildered as an owl in the day time, — blushing, stam-
mering, and finally ejaculating, • Well — I — do n't know,
but — I '11 — I '11 — go home and ask my wife ! ' And so
' go home and ask their wives ' they did, and their wives,
poor things! having never turned their attention to these
matters, and not feeling that they knew much about them,
actually had to go to work and make themselves ac-
quainted with all sorts of statistics, political economy,
and even law, to help their money-crazed husbands out
of their difficulties ; so that for a long time women had
as much, and even more, to do with the affairs of state
than men.

"At last, things got to such a pass that the female
part of the community concluded it would not do. That
something must be done to stop the progress of the dis-
ease which was desolating their homes, and turning so-
ciety topsy-turvy. And something was done. I will not
stop to relate all the details of their mode of operations,
but will be satisfied with saying, that a system was im-
mediately commenced, which, after sundry discourage-
ments and years of laborious effort, was at length crown-
ed with success. (This much I will say, however, that
with the exception of establishing hospitals for the treat-
ment of the infected, their methods of restoration were
altogether of the domestic kind.) Once more order and
beauty were restored to society, and men became men
again."

The scene changed. I was in the midst of a large and
brilliant assembly. Thousands of lights gleamed from
12*

262 VOICES FROM THE KBNMJSKlAa.

the ceiling upon the festive throng. Music was heard
in the alcoves. The merry laugh sounded from group to
group, as the sparkling witticism flashed along the circle;
and li many-twinkling feet" were heard in the distance,
44 wreathing the fantastic dance."

My faithful friend was at my elbow. u Where are
we!" I asked in some surprise. u At a levee at Mrs.
—'a. You must open your eyes wide and see all there
is to be seen, for you will not have a better opportunity
of learning the social peculiarities of our age." I took his
hint, and wandered from circle to circle, to discover, if
possible, the bent of the social tastes which I was to see
exhibited. My first impression had been, that the assem-
bly I found myself in the midst of was very similar to
the festive gatherings of my own age ; but I was soon
convinced of my error. Externally, it is true, it was so.
There were the same graceful exteriors, the same courtly
manners, the same beaming faces. There was man in
his pride and woman in her beauty. But under all these
there was a soul* The courtly manners, the graceful
exteriors, and the beaming faces, veiled a spirit, Man
was there in his manly sincerity, as well as pride, and
woman in her majesty, as well as beauty. The assem-
bly went not there to pass an idle hour in mere frivolity,
or to obey the demands of ceremony or fashion. They
went for the pure interchange of social joys. Friend
greeted friend, and heart met heart. Man went not to
flatter and cajole, and then boast of his victory over poor
ensnared woman. Woman went not to be admired and
caressed for a thoughtless hour, and then flung lightly
away as a plaything to the winds. But both to meet

* God forbid I should intimate that those who frequented social as-
semblies in my day had no souls. Only that they usually left them at
home when they a went into company."

SEQUEL TO THE VISION OF BANOOB. 26$

each other as friends and companions, as spirits bound to
the same haven, and created for the same objects.

I have spoken of the sparkling witticism, — and truly
it was abundant. Fresh and clear it gushed from the
well of thought, and gladdened all within its reach. But
it was not, as in my day, all the evidence of mind allow-
ed to appear in the festive circle. Freedom was there as
well as wit, and the guests were not forbidden by the
voice of imperious fashion to be serious or gay, as their
humor moved them.

I found myself a listener to many circles where sub-
jects which my contemporaries would have thought quite
shocking in the social assembly, from their seriousness
or profoundness, were chaining a delighted group in clos-
er and closer interest. Woman, too, joined in them, and
no fear of the world's smile cramped the vigorous intel-
lect, and no visions of " blue stockings " repressed the
soul that would be free.

To other circles, where the grave and gay, the profound
and brilliant, were elegantly blended, I lent a willing ear.
and joined with a whole heart, and lungs most glad to
do their office, in the " laugh " which varied and vivified
the entertainment. (They did laugh, those girls, as if
they were afraid of no mortal. — And God bless them !
why should they be ?)

I observed that some of the assembly were quietly
reading, as if they had been in their own parlors, others,
in secluded corners or curtained alcoves, were reciting or
reading aloud to a neighbor, others were engaged in play-
ing chess and kindred games, and others still were seen
tdte-d-t§te for a great length of time with one individual
I was much surprised at this, and asked an explanation
of my companion, remarking that " anything of the kind
would not have been allowed in my day, and that indeed
I could not consider it quite polite, as one would think

264 TOIGES FROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

the guests might find time at home for such purposes."
" Oh, that," said he, " is a matter of opinion. We think
it the truest politeness to allow our guests to find amuse-
ment for themselves, provided their way of doing so does
not annoy others. Freedom is with us the highest en-
joyment."

At this moment my eye was caught by a strange look-
ing object in a corner, examining a picture through a quiz-
zing glass, with most grotesque contortions. His hair
was brushed perfectly upright on the crown of his head,
and trimmed very precisely in points, while from the
crown to the neck it fell in elaborate ringlets, powdered
and perfumed with all the art of the friseur. His whis-
kers were abundant, and finished in points like his hair.
(Points were " all the rage," as I afterwards learned )
An immense moustache li cultivated " into ringlets at the
ends, adorned his upper lip, and a delicate goatee his un-
der.

The rest of his toilet was in keeping. Loads of gold
and silver lace decorated his green velvet coat, and the
richest of thread lace his crimped shirt-bosom ! Im-
mense gold and pearl pendants hung from his ears, and
his watch, set in pearl, dangled in full relief against his
black velvet pantaloons. On his diminutive hands were
squeezed gloves of the most dazzling whiteness, over
which sparkled numerous rings of various value and
beauty. Apertures in the fingers of these admitted to
the light nails a full half inch in length, gracefully curled
upward, and ending in the usual finishing of points ! His
pantaloons were short enough to display an exquisitely
turned ancle ; and shoes of white satin, embroidered with
flosses of the richest hues, and ornamented with gold
and pearl buckles, completed the toilet of this singular
being.

My companion had been observing my minute scru-

SEQUEL TO THE VISION OF BANGOR. 265

tiny of the grotesque object before me, and at length
asked me " what I thought of him." " I cannot decide.
Is he a man ? and if not, to what title can he lay claim ? "

" I suppose he mxxst pass for a man/' he said, laughing.
" He is one of the exquisites of the day."

44 What ! In the high state of social progress where I
find you is it possible you have ' exquisites ? ' Has wo-
man made so great an advance as you have represented,
and does man still remain so far behind her as to allow
such a thing as a dandy to exist ? "

44 It is even so, although to do ourselves justice I must
say that such creatures are very rare, and hardly tolerated
in society. He was not invited here to-night I under-
stand, but got in by some trick of his remarkable assur-
ance."

I looked ngain at the " exquisite," attracted by a strange
sound, which seemed to come from his vicinity. He was
laughing, as near as I could judge by the singular con-
tortions of his phiz and the nervous agitation of his body,
although the sound I never should have recognized as
that of mirth, it being part squeal, part cackle, and part
a suppression of both. It is said laughing is infectious.
However this may be usually, his most assuredly was,
and accordingly my friend and I began to shake in unison,
then to laugh audibly, and finally to roar. Our unearthly
noises seemed strangely to agitate our " surroundings."
The walls began to totter. The flame of the lamps
waved hither and thither. The furniture rocked. The
floor rose and fell like the sea in a storm. A hapless
FalstafF, overturned and set rolling by the " swell," came
tumbling over my unlucky " corns," and bawling, I awoke.

266

THE CHILD'S SPRING SONG.

I cannot, mother, stay at home,

It is so sweet a day ;
Yon darling Robin bids me come ;

Mother, I must away !

My body only will sit still,
And count the weary hours,

For, out by brother's little mill,
My soul is picking flowers !

Mother, you tell me I must mind,

And so my body will ;
But then my soul you cannot bind ;

'Tis out by brother's mill !

Then I am sure you '11 let me go
Where that 's already gone ;

Oil, mother, do not tell me no !
My soul is all alone !

For though I 've heard you often say
That spirits round us fly,

Who have no bodies made of clay,
Yet, Ma, I know not why,

I should not like such soul to be ;
I should but sob and moan,
" Oh, body, pray come back to me !
My soul is all alone ! "

XEE CHILD* SPILING SONG. 267

My soul, dear mother, will not stay !

It hears the robins sing ;
It cannot stay at home to-day ;

It will not mind in Spring !

My body 's tired of sitting still ;

Then let it seek the bowers,
Where, out by brother's little mill,

My soul is picking flowers !

268

TOBACCO.

Tobacco ! sweet tobacco !
How I am wed to thee !
Oh, I would go through frost and snow,
Mire, dust or heat, to see
A Principe on fire for me ;
So charming glow 'mid grief and woe,
Good Spanish rolls of thee.
Rich is the cloud, and blue the shroud,
Unfurled by my tobacco :
Thou hast thy charms, and nought alarms,
Like leaving off that hem and cough,
Engendered by tobacco.
Dear luscious weed ! I will not heed
" The Doctor's" tale of thee;
Envy they do the noble few,
Who 've linked to smoke with me.

269

TEACHINGS OF NATURE.

A brook now merrily singing, danced and whirled
down steep and rugged places, and now gently murmur-
ing, it glided over small pebbles, till, descending the moun-
tain's side, it at last mingled its clear sparkling waters
with the ocean. To man it was a lonely place, for there
human step was seldom heard, but the brook seemed ever
to rejoice. A wanderer passed that way, one who had
earnestly toiled for fame ; he had met disappointment,
and discouraged, he left the haunts of men. When he
saw the brook so merry, he thought its lot was like his
own, and in the bitterness of his heart he spoke : " Thou
givest water to supply the mighty ocean, and it is almost
adored for its sublimity, but thou and thy kind, without
which small indeed would be the ocean's power, are
heeded not. I too have devoted my powers to the world,
years have I labored, but in the great mass my efforts
are unnoticed, my name never sounds above the rabble.
I have no heart for joy." Thus he deplored his state, but
the brook danced on in its glee. The breeze stirred the
shrubbery and a branch near bent and touched a wild
celandine ; the pods flew open and the seeds were scat-
tered round ; some fell into the water and were earned
down the stream to be landed upon and beautify other
and perhaps barren shores. " More good," said the wan-
derer, " but who thanks the brook?" A harebell gently
bowed its sleuder stem, and the breeze seemed to bear
with it a low soft voice. The wanderer listened, the

270 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

voice became distinct, " Is the good of the brook entirely
unacknowledged ? Do not our hues brighten as it moist-
ens our roots, and as we bend our heads that it may see
our brilliancy, its song grows merrier as it hastens on to
refresh others. The seeds of our gay fellows are borne
away to other shores, and thou complainest, for no one
thanks the brook. Is it praise that makes the value of
the deed? Does good done in secret make it less good?
Grieve not, rather rejoice at thy lot. Thy powers are
noble, exert them not for fame but solely for good. The
world may never know thy name, but silently and sorely
will thy influence spread around, raising and purifying the
minds of men." The voice ceased, — a soft sound ap-
peared to arise from the flowers, and the leaves of the
tall trees near seemed to rustle with gladder tone. The
wanderer returned to his fellow-men with a new spirit.
The brook taught him a lesson he ever remembered. By
his means exiles from virtue were reclaimed and directed
to the path of duty ; they who seemed doomed to misery
and want, were raised from their low position, and en-
couraged to persevere in attaining a state more worthy
of their being. When the names of men were sounded
as it were from the housetop, if a desire for fame entered
for a moment his bosom, he thought of the brook of the
mountain, and was humbled.

Thus does Nature ever teach those who listen to her
lessons of love and duty to others.

271

It is not fit for thee to wear,
Mother, those 'graceless locks of hair.
No — let thine own, of sombre gray,
Upon thy time-worn forehead lay ;
'T is far more suitable for thee,
Thou woman of simplicity !

For thou in singleness of heart
Hast gone thy pilgrimage, while art,
And fashion, and the world's applause,
Have governed by their tyrant laws.
And thou hast bowed not to them — no,
For a soul on thee did God bestow ;
And thou hadst not the heart to slight
The teachings of that inward light.

It hath created smiles, ere now,
To see how all unconscious thou
Didst take thine independent way,
Unmindful what the world might say.

Yet thou at length hast feebly tried,
Mother, thy faded locks to hide ;
Because thy friends in sooth did say,
Thou wert too youthful to be gray. —

It would not do — upon thy face
Sickness and time had left their trace,
And spite of all thy art, (indeed
It was too little to succeed,)
Beneath thy cap would ever stray
Some lock which, truth to tell, was gray.

272 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

Lay them aside — there, mother, thou
Art free from fashion's thraldom now,
Again with pleasure I can trace
An unboaght beauty in thy face,
Behold thy fair and ample brow,
Albeit somewhat wrinkled now.

There, go thou forth, and never fear
With thy companions to appear.
And if they ask thee, mother, why
Thus adorned ? Do thou reply,
" I 'm growing old — my hair is gray,
But I look onward to the day,
When I shall wear a diadem,
And ' fadeless wreath ' — I wait for them.'*

273

TO THE VEILED DONOR OP THE EVENING OP
OCTOBER SEVENTH.

[Referred to on page 906.]

Gently, stranger ; ring not loudly ;

Startle not the dwellers here ;
Drop thy veil a little lower,

Lest thy features should appear ;
Draw thy hooded covering closer ;

Lean thy head upon thy breast ;
Shun the lamp that would reveal thee ; —

Trust thine instinct for the rest.

Well done, brave one ! thou hast safely

Met the ordeal thou did'st dread ;
Now thy secret shall be hidden,

As 't were buried with the dead
Thank thy stars for thy invention,

Triply guarded, muffled one !
Now thy left hand never knoweth

What thy right hath nobly done !

Listen, woman ! Angels whisper !

Can'st thou hear the words they say 1
" Bless thee, mortal ! — done in darkness,

Write we it in endless day."
Simple woman ! Think'st thy secret

Safe, as with the dead, shalt prove?
Know, that though on earth it slumber,

Like the stars 't will shine above !

374

PENOBSCOT CHARACTERS.

No place is without its characters, and no place has
had more queer fish in proportion to the number of its
denizens than the valley of the Penobscot. It is our
purpose to chronicle some reminiscences of a few of
them, that they may not be entirely forgotten.

We will first turn our attention to the aborigines.
These people, who formerly composed the powerful tribe
of Zanatines, have dwindled down to a mere handful of
miserable vagabonds, destitute of courage, energy, and
every other quality that made their ancestors respected
or feared. Fifty years' contact with the white man has
made fearful devastation among them, and at the end of
another half century, we fear that the visiter will look in
vain over the site of their present village at Oldtown for
a vestige of the last wigwam of their tribe*

Gen. John Blake, a revolutionary soldier — and a char-
acter himself, by the way — was, for a long period, on in-
timate terms with the Indians, and in his old age used to
relate many anecdotes of them. They had great confi-
dence in him, and often consulted him in relation to their
affairs. A prominent character in the General's anec-
dotes, was John Neptune, Lieut.- Governor of the tribe
for more than a quarter of a century, and familiarly
known as Gov. Neptune — who had been as fine a speci-
men of the Indian as was ever seen in New England.
Large and well proportioned, with a fine benignant coun-
tenance, and dignified bearing, he invariably arrested the
attention of the stranger. He enjoyed fun, though he

PENOBSCOT CHARACTERS. 275

possessed the usual taciturnity of his race. He is now
an old man, and broken down somewhat by intemper-
ance and misfortune ; still, he retains something of his
early appearance and character.

It has been the custom of the tribe from time imme-
morial to be represented at the Legislature by a delega-
tion consisting of one or more of their chief men. When
Maine was connected with Massachusetts, they were
regularly represented at the ' General Court ' in Boston ;
and if they could learn that Blake was to be in Boston at
the-same time, the delegation made it a point to put them-
selves under his direction.

At one time the delegation consisted of six chiefs.
Among them was Neptune, then a young man, and when
in full dress a magnificent fellow. When they arrived in
Boston, they attracted much attention, so much, that the
proprietor of the Museum conceived the idea of making
an honest penny out of the curiosity they had awakened.
He applied to Blake, and through him made an arrange-
ment to have them visit the Museum on an evening ap-
pointed. The public were duly advertised of the fact,
and the rooms of the Museum were thronged long before
the hour of the arrival of the chiefs. On their passage
into the hall, Blake, who was conducting them, overheard
a young lady express a desire to examine the dress of
Neptune, which consisted of a splendid scarlet frock, con-
fined about the. waist by a girdle of wampum, Indian leg-
gins or stockings, and moccasins, the borders of all which
were beautifully wrought with beads. The General told
her she should be gratified, at the same time warning her,
that after she had examined the dress, she should with-
draw herself immediately, as the chief was an exceed-
ingly wild fellow, and he could not be accountable for
what he might do. Then seizing Neptune, and giving
him the wink, he told the lady she could examine the

276 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

garment. She looked with great caution, and when
Blake saw she was about concluding her examination,
he released the chief, who instantly seized the lady by
the waist, and cried, as if in triumph,

" Now you my squaw ! "

The lady shrieked, and Neptune released her and pass-
ed on.

On another occasion, during their visit at this lime, a
high civil functionary invited the chiefs to dine with sev-
eral of his friends at his house. These friends were gen-
tlemen and their wives, who were curious to witness the
practices of the aborigines at their repasts. And it is
probable their curiosity was fully satisfied.* These chil-
dren of the forest eschewed knives and forks, and all as-
sistance, but thrust their fingers into whatever dish their
fancy dictated, and helped themselves without regard to
time, ceremony, or the distance of the food coveted. To
repeated inquiries of their host if they would take cider,
they gave a negative grunt. At last on« of them, proba-
bly disgusted with the sound cider, looked up and cried
fiercely,

" Davis, why you no hav'um lum ? " [rum.]

We will next consider the white- skins.

A character once well known in Penobscot, was Capt.
James Budge. He was at one time the owner of the
land on the east side of the Kenduskeag stream, in
Bangor, called " City Point," and lived in a small yellow
house in the rear of where Gen. Veazie's house now
stands. He became reduced by intemperance, in fortune
and character, and spent his last days in wandering about
the streets a harmless madman, dealing out rhymes for a
glass of grog, which few of the traders in those days
could see any virtue in. withholding, and pilfering what-
ever he conceived would be of service to him.

PENOBSCOT CHARACTERS. 277

But madman though he was, there was " method in his
madness," as the following specimen of his rhyming will
show. It was made impromptu in a store which stood on
Broad Street, near Puddle Dock, a muddy creek, that
made up where Emerson's block now stands. The store
was occupied by a merchant, who was a federalist, Mr.
Prouty, whose democracy no man can doubt, and the
fashionable tailor of those times, John Reynolds, Esq.,
who was a distinguished speaker in town meetings. The
poetry was induced by the usual fee, a glass of grog, and
is as follows :

u Down by the shore
# There is a store,

Occupied by a Fed. ;
Prouty, the lame,
Lives in the same,

And Reynolds overhead."

A trader who cured fish, and frequently found quanti-
ties of them missing, undertook to hire Budge not to steal
them, and told him if he would not he would give him
an armful of the best fish he could find. He selected a
number of fine fish and left, the trader congratulating
himself that he was rid of so profitless a customer so
cheaply. Budge had not been gone long, however, be-
fore he returned with the fish, and. throwing them down
before the astonished trader, said gruffly,

" Here, take your fish, I don't want 'em."

" Why, what is the matter, Budge ? "

" Oh," replied he significantly, rolling up his only sound
eye, " I can do better ! "

Of Mr. P. it is said, that when it was proposed to set
off his house and lot in Hampden to Bangor, near the
line of which they were, some years since, he remonstrat-
ed because of the unhealthiness of the latter place !
13

278 VOICES FROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

A character of considerable humor, was Capt. Jacob
Hart, of East BreweV He was an officer in the war of
the Revolution, and while in the army acquired habits of
military precision and military vivacity, that adhered to
him through life. He had also the habit of interlarding
his observations with the expressions " pretty likely —
hum," " of course — yes." At one time he had indulged
too freely, and coming out of the Hatch Tavern, he at-
tempted to descend the long flight of steps that used to
lead to the road, but making a misstep, he rolled to the
bottom. Picking himself up as speedily as possible, he
turned to the right about face, and said with military
promptness, " as you are, Jake Hart, pretty likely." Then
looking towards the witnesses of his mishap, he made
the following proposition : " If any man in the town of
Bangor can tumble down stairs equal to old Jake Hart —
he has an undoubted right to try it — hum — pretty likely, of
course, yes"

He once sold a citizen some hay. The gentleman in-
quired if it was fine hay. The Captain replied, " hum,
pretty likely — fine hay, of course, yes." Without ex-
amining it, the gentleman paid him and directed him to
put it into his barn. On using it he found it was very
coarse hay, and when the Captain again made his ap-
pearance, he took him to task for cheating him. The
Captain raised his eyes in amazement, and inquired
wherein he had cheated him.

" In the hay ; you told me it was fine hay, when it was
coarse."

" Hum -^ pretty likely — I told you *t was fine hay, of
coarse, yes — o^c-o-a-r-s-e."

Of course, the gentleman said no more.

Another character was Jonathan B s, years ago a

great liqnorary character, but now a strictly temperate

PENOBSCOT CHARACTERS. 279

man. He was poor, as a matter of course ; and with
poverty and intemperance spurring*him on, he did a great
many things that were not exactly in accordance with the
golden rule.

It was the practice before the Temperance reforma-
tion, for tipplers to patronize the traders by drawing their
own liquor from the casks in the back shop whenever ap-
petite prompted, without so much as asking the consent

of the owner, or even paying for the dram. B s was

notorious for giving this kind of custom, and was suspect-
ed of extending it a little further, when not watched. At
one time, after swallowing his glass, he saw some tempt-
ing balls of -butter within his reach, and recollecting that
that article was convenient in a family, and believing
himself unseen, he slipped one of them into his hat, and
securing it upon his head, prepared to leave the store.
On his way out he was stopped by the salutation of one
of the owners of the store :

" Cold evening, Mr. B s."

" Yes — hem — yes."

" Take a seat by the stove, Mr. B s, and warm

yourself."

B s hesitated, but was persuaded with some urging,

to comply.

The clerk stirred up the fire, until the heat became op-
pressive. B s drew back. The perspiration began

to run down his cheeks. He drew a long breath, and
said he believed he must go. The merchant remonstrat-
ed. He would take cold if he went out now ; he had
better set down until he was cool. Sighing deeply, the
martyr again took his seat, and while his tormentor was
amusing him with conversation, the clerk was piling the
wood irito the stove. The small streams of perspiration

had now increased to rivers, and B s arose with a

determination to go.

280 VOICES PROM THE KENDUSKEAG.

" Why, how you do sweat, Mr. B s," said the mer-
chant, suddenly removing the gentleman's chapeau.

Here was a denouement, u sliek as grease ! " "A sight

to be seen ! " B s's head in a state of adipoceration !

As the gentleman was removing his hat, B s raised

his hand to prevent it, but the hat had been removed too
suddenly, and his hand was buried in the half-melted
butter on his head. Then bringing his dripping fingers
before his eyes, he exclaimed, as if in astonishment,

" Well, I should like to know how that came on my
head ! "

Abraham .Hanson, a colored tonsor, was a character
who figured in Bangor some twenty years ago, and afford-
ed infinite amusement to the wags of the town.

At the time contributions were taken up for the Greeks,
the generous enthusiasm which pervaded the communi-
ty reached the bosom "of the warm-hearted Abraham, and
he advertised that upon a day appointed, he would ply
his razor and scissors exclusively for their benefit.

The day arrived, and his shop was thronged with cus-
tomers. At first, however, the Greeks stood a poor
chance of reaping much benefit from Abraham's philan-
thropy. Until he was better advised, his reply to each
customer who offered him pay was,

" What for I take pay ? Bress you soul ! No, Sar, /
shave clis day for de beffit of de ounfortinate Greeks! 19

The last character of which we shall now make men-
tion was Major Simon Harriman, a man of considerable
notoriety in his day. He was a blacksmith by trade, but
in his old age devoted himself to the manufacture of
" liniment, spring-steel pitch-forks, and cow-bells," that,
according to the advertisements, "could be heard from
one to five miles."

PENOBSCOT CHARACTERS. 281

At one time he set himself up as a candidate for Rep-
resentative to Congress, and while peddling his liniment
took occasion to do a little electioneering. At first he
was going to cure Congress by the application of his
liniment, if elected, and secured a large number of votes.
He succeeded, however, only in defeating the election.
He next endeavored to conciliate all parties, pitch-fork,
cow-bell, and ruffle-shirt, and on the eve of election his
friends published the following appeal to the electors in
the Bangor Register, James Burton, printer.

A NSW BONG TO AN OLD TUNS.
1
Election day is fast approaching,

Cheerily O, O, Cheerily O,
Some on our rights will he encroaching,
Drearily O, O, drearily O.

2

Who from rain now shall save us ?

Harriman O, O, Harriman O,
He 11 guard the rights our fathers gave as,

Cheerily O, O, cheerily O.

3

In politics he 's all perfection,

Cheerily man O, O, cheerily man O,
Witness John Quincy's late election,

Harriman O, O, Harriman O.

4
As a mechanic he is able,

Harriman O, O, Harriman O,
To furnish pitch-forks for oar stable,

Cheerily man O, O, cheerily man 0.

5

His fame through all the country sonndeth,

Cheerily O, O, cheerily O,
From one to five miles it reboandeth,

Merrily O, O, Merrily O.
13*

282 VOICES FROM THE KENDU8KEAG.

6
Prove he 's the man of your appointment,

Cheerily 0, O, cheerily 0,
And he 11 drop the trade of making ointment,

Merrily O, O, merrily O.

Whether the appeal was effective to procure votes we
are not informed, but certain it is the Major was not re-
turned. It is not improbable that his promise to give up
the trade of making ointment dissatisfied the liniment
party, who, seeing there was no hope of curing Congress
by the application of liniment, threw their vote for the
successful candidate.

283

AN APOLOGY.

Poesy, I have not sought
Thy sweet favors, never bought;
And thy treasures often are
Those the wise seek not to share.

Yet thy voice has come to me.
Sometimes as the lulling sea,
Breathing o'er the troubled heart,
Strains that soothe while they impart

Poesy, to hopes that rise,
Language natural supplies ',
And for tears that course the cheek,
Opens she the lips, to speak.

As the bird must sing his lay,
Opening with the mom of May, ■
So my heart at times must seek
Music for its thoughts to speak.

Then forgive, sweet JWef, my lays ;
Every heart its 1 song may raise,
Be it angel's strain oh high,
Or a baby's lullaby.

284

THE BELEAGUERED CITY.

Boring the bombardment of Vera Cms by the Americans, the harmonious notes
of the Mexican bugle often were heard proceeding at once from several sections of
the forested city, mingled with screams of terror and distress. Buildings were seen
on fire from the effect of the American shells, and the Mexican soldiery flying from
point to point for the purpose of extinguishing the flames. One night, a heavy cloud
hanging oyer the city, assumed a deep red tinge from the glare of the conflagration,
and the sparkling trace of the shells, as they passed under the illuminated veil, might
easily be fancied, by a superstitious mind, the path of the destroying angel, flying to
his mission under a canopy of blood.

There was music in the distance, —

On the dim and lonely lea,
From a city's crowded marts it came,

That gush of melody.

With the voice of gathered thousands

Mingled the trumpet's strain,
While thickly fell on dome and spire

The rocket's fiery rain.

There were feet whose step was measured

By the toll of the 'larum bell,
While hoarse the thunder-gun replied

To the roar of the bursting shell.

A hundred homes were gleaming

With fierce sulphureous fire,
And the swift flame crackled harsh through halls

That had rung with laugh and lyre.

THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 285

There was music in the distance, —

But a wild and lonely tone —
And fearfully ; t was blent the while

With fierce huzza and moan.

For the Northern foe had circled

The City of the Cross,
And from its walls was seen afar

His starry flag to toss.

And the bright and dancing waters,

Which bathed Ulloa's shore,
Invested by his hostile barques,

With sails were shadowed o'er.

Another morn was shining,

Yet still, from sun to sun,
Echoed the trumpet's taunting peal,

Answered the thunder-gun.

And the clouds all day which lowered

Upon the gazer's view,
Hung redly in the midnight sky

Like robes of slaughter hue.

Uprose the crowd at matins,

Scared by the swaying bell,
And the trembling priesthood fled the shrine,

As the toppling turrets fell.

Clustered the weak and timid,

'Mid ranks of bristling steel ;
The matron from her loom upsprung,

And the maid forsook her reel ;

While closer to her bosom

The mother pressed her child,
Still pacing to and fro, amidst

That storm of terror wild.

286 VOICES FROM THE KENDU8KEAG.

Ho I the beleaguered city !
The tempest, what may stay !

— The cross was borne from street to street,
And the knee was bowed to pray.

Ho ! the affrighted people !
(Again 'tis daylight's hour)

— And they counsel, in dim groups apart,
To yield Ulloa's tower.

For the charm at length is broken
Which hath led its victors forth ;

The proud Castilian quails before
The avenger of the North.

And the massive gates are opened
By fierce, but willing hands,

While inward move the mingled host
Of Freedom's conquering bands.

From old Ulloa's tower

Their eagle banners toss,
And free and far gleam stripe and star

O'er the " City of the Cross."

There was music in the distance,

From the city of the sea,
'T was not the note of trump or drum,

But the " Anthem of the free." *

November, 1847.

* Alas ! that the " Anthem of the free " should be mingled with
the groans of those whom they had made captive !

*•»- »-.

*