OR 
 
 VilLaqe liFE IN New ENctflN'pv-'. 
 
 * « *- * 
 
 
 A> 
 
 J' 
 
BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME 
 FROM THE 
 
 SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 
 Hcttrg W. Sage 
 
 1891 
 
 .AJ,^.n^ iJAj^L. 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 924022021 863 
 
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Cornell University Library 
 PS 1084.B2N8 1895 
 
 Norwood: or, Vlllaae life In New England 
 
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NORWOOD: 
 
 VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 HENRY WARD BEECHER. 
 
 Reprinted from "The New York Ledger." 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 FOEDS. JIOA\^\RI), & HITLBERT. 
 
 1S95. 
 
A.^f^^t 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in tlie year ISUT, li> 
 
 ROBEiiT BONNEK, 
 
 in the Clerlt's Offioe of the District Court of the United States for the 
 
 Southern District of New York. 
 
 Copyright, in 1895, by Eunice White Bbecher. 
 
"TWENTY YEARS AFTER." 
 
 On January 3, 1866, in response to inquiries from Mr. 
 Bonner as to the progress he was making with the writing 
 of his novel, Mr. Beecher sent him this note: 
 
 My Deae Mr. Bonner : I know that you have a good right 
 to know something of the story of which you kindly inquire, and 
 will give you some Insight into matters. 
 
 I could have written a sketchy and superficial story with per- 
 haps a few weeks' effort. But the more I reflected the less I 
 liked 'to do so. The very liberal terms which you proposed to me 
 seemed to me to merit, not merely a story, but, if I could, one 
 that would be as good twenty years hence as on the day it ap- 
 peared. To do this it was not enough that I should have leisure, 
 but that I should get my mind out of the run of public questions 
 in which I have been so deeply concerned, and trained to a very 
 different line of thought. 
 
 I propose to make a story which shall turn, not so much on 
 outward action (though I hope to have enough to carry the story 
 hfendsomely) as on certain mental or inward questions. I propose 
 to delineate a high and noble man, trained to New England the- 
 ology, but brought to excessive distress by speculations and new 
 \'iews. Thi^, I feel quite competent to manage. 
 
 The heroine is to be large of soul, a child of nature, and, 
 although a Christian, yet in childlike sympathy with the truths 
 of God in the natural world, instead of books. 
 
 These two, the man of philosophy and theology and the woman 
 of nature and simple truth, are to act upon each other and she is 
 to triumph. 
 
 I propose introducing a full company of various New England 
 characters, to give a veal view of the inside of a New England 
 
town, its brewing thought, its inventiveness, its industry and en- 
 terprise, its education and shrewdness and tact. I purpose to 
 introduce a Southerner of a rather noble type and show him off, 
 faults and virtues, on this background of New England, and I 
 may transfer the story in its close to the seat of war and intro- 
 duce one of its campaigns. But it may so grow on my hands that 
 I shall leave that for a separate effort. I am convinced that 1 
 have been wise in waiting, and that I shall be far more likely to 
 succeed than I should have done if I had plunged at once into the 
 matter, without study and meditation. 
 
 As to time, I do not see that I can promise with any confidence 
 to give you MS. before May next. But by that time I hope to 
 be so well assured of my work as to be willing to have the story 
 begun, and also to have it so far advanced that you can be able 
 to judge of its merit before beginning to print. 
 
 I am not neglecting you because I seem quiet, I assure you, and 
 1 hope to make haste much faster by-and-by for waiting hitherto. 
 
 I am Uke a painter commissioned to execute a large picture, 
 whose room is full of studies and sketches, and his big canvas is 
 sketched out and ready — all done but the painting. 
 
 The story was published in 1867, and Mr. Beecher was 
 right; Norwood .is "as good" to-day "as on the davit 
 appeared." 
 
 The Publisheks. 
 
 New York, March, 1887. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Before the Civil War, I had for several years been ^ 
 regular contributor to the New York Ledger. During that 
 great conflict 1 had almost entirely ceased writing for it. 
 But when the war was closed, I was not unwilling to seek 
 rest or relaxation from the exhausting excitement of public 
 affairs, by turning my mind into entirely new channels of 
 thought and interest. 
 
 In this mood I received Mr. Bonner's proposal to write 
 a story for the Ledger. Had it been a request to carve 
 a statue or build a man-of-war, the task would hardly 
 have seemed less likely of accomplishment. A very mod- 
 erate reader, even, of fictions, I had never studied the 
 mystery of their construction. Plot and counterplot, the 
 due proportion of parts, the whole machinery of a novel, 
 seemed hopelessly outside of my studies. But aiter-con- 
 siderations came to my relief. I reflected that any real 
 human experience— was intrinsically interesting ; that the 
 life of a humble family for a single day, even if not told 
 as skillfully as Wordsworth sung the humble aspects of 
 the natural world, or as minutely faithful as Crabbe de- 
 picted English village-life, could hardly fail to win some 
 interest. The habit of looking upon men as the children 
 of God, and heirs of immortality, can hardly fail to clothe 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 the simplest and most cdmmuii elements of daily life with 
 importance, and even with dignity. Nothing is trivial in 
 the education of the King's Son ! 
 
 By interesting my readers, if I could, in the ordinary 
 experiences of daily life among the common people, not so 
 much by dramatic skill as by a subtle sympathy with 
 N'ature, and by a certain largeness of moral feeling, I 
 hoped to inspire a pleasure which, if it did not rise very 
 high, might, on that account, perhaps, continue the longer. 
 I had rather know that one returned again and again to 
 parts of this most leisurely narrative, than that he devoured 
 it all in a single passionate hour, and then turned away from 
 it sated and forgetful. 
 
 I can only wish that all who use the pen might fall into 
 hands as kind, as considerate, and as forbearing as I have. 
 Xorwoud was mostly written in Peekskill. There is not 
 a single, unpleasant memory connected with it. It was a 
 summei'-i.'hild, brought up among flowers and treeSi 
 
 \^'ln-ii the last sheet of the manuscript of Norwood was 
 ready for the press, I sent the following letter with 
 it: — 
 
 Mv DEAR Mr. Bonner : You have herewith the last line 
 of Norwood. I begau it reluctantly, as one who, treads an unex- 
 plored path. But as 1 went on, I took more kindly to my 
 work, and now that it is ended I shall quite miss my weekly 
 task. 
 
 My ili-ar old father, after his day of labor had closed, used to 
 iftncy that in some way he was so connected with me that he 
 was still at work ; and on one occasion, after a Sabbath-morning 
 service, some one in a congratulatory way said to the venerable 
 and meek old patriarch : — 
 
 " Well, Doctor, how did you like vour son's sermon 1 " 
 
PREKACE. VU 
 
 " It was good; — good as I could do mysell'." And then, with 
 an emphatic pointing of his forefinger, he added, " If it had n't 
 heenjQ£jtm,.S:a^^^jne^fer^vsMad him I " 
 
 If any body likes Norwood, my dear and venerable Mr. Bonner, 
 you can poke him with your finger and say, " If it had n't been 
 for me, you would never have had it." 
 
 No one can imagine how true is the last paragraph of 
 the letter above. To all the other pleasant associations 
 of Norwood, Mr. Bonner has, by his more than fraternal 
 kindness, added the highest and most enduring charm of a 
 generous friendship. 
 
 H. W. Beeohbk. 
 
 Brooklyn, 1867. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Chapter Paok 
 
 I. Introduction . 1 
 
 II. 'BiAH Cathcart . li 
 
 III. Rachel Liscomb ... 9 
 
 IV. Staetino in Life . 14 
 V. The Wentworths 1!) 
 
 VI. Wandering Thdights, 28 
 
 VII. A Merry (.'HAPTEn . . M) 
 
 VIII. A Sober Chapter . . no 
 
 IX. Agate Bissell . . 62 
 
 X. Dr. Wentworth's Mansion . 67 
 
 XL ROSB-CULTURB . 75 
 
 XII. Pete Sawmill 83 
 
 XIII. Rose and Alice 88 
 
 XIV. The Night Fishing 97 
 XV. Lights and Shadows 102 
 
 XVI. Stories for Children 107 
 
 XVII. A New-England Sunday . 120 
 
 XVIII. The Subject continuep . 131 
 
 XIX. Going to College 141 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 XX. Consultations . 147 
 
 XXI. Mental Philosophy. — (To be head or 
 
 SKIPPED.) . . 169 
 
 XXII. Twilight Dawn . . 165 
 
 XXIII. A Confession . 171 
 
 XXIV. The Farewells ... 177 
 XXV. Frank Esel 187 
 
 XXVI. Rose Wentworth's Art School 197 
 
 JCXVII. A Ta.lk about enjoying Money . 209 
 
 XXVIII. A New Life 220 
 
 XXIX. Leaving College , 225 
 
 XXX. De. Buell's Sorrow 241 
 
 XXXI. The Two Sextons . 255 
 
 XXXII. The Fruit op Sorrow 261 
 XXXIIL Tom Heywood 276 
 XXXIV. Heywood returns — Esel departs 289 
 
 XXXV. Contrasts 304 
 
 XXXVI. Varieties . 315 
 
 XXXA^'II. Nutting— its Joys and Disasters 330 
 
 XXXVIII. Convalescence 348 
 
 XXXIX. The Old Man's Journey 358 
 
 XL. Faith bekindled 370 
 
 XLI. Change of Ijatitude 379 
 
 XLII. BOMBAEDJIENT OF FoRT SUMTER. — HbYWOOD'S 
 
 Letter continued 388 
 
 XLIII. The Arousing 399 
 
 XLIV. Echoes from the North . 407 
 
 XLV. First-Fbuits . . 415 
 
CONIENTS. 
 
 XLVI. CONBOLAIION . 42:^ 
 
 XLVII. Aftbe-Fruits 429 
 
 XLVIII. A New Life 442 
 
 XLIX. Thanksgiving 452 
 
 L. On the March 4(jii 
 
 LI. Gettysburg 47n 
 
 LIL The Last Endeavor 489 
 
 LIIL The Mountain Covert 503 
 
 LIV. A Night and a Day in the MouNTAI^s 510 
 
 LV. The Surprise 52() 
 
 LVI. The Quaker Home . . 529 
 
 LVII. The Elm Tkek 540 
 
NORWOOD; 
 
 OK, 
 
 VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 INTBODUCTION. 
 
 StNOB the introduction of railways, thousands of curious travel- 
 lers every summer have thronged New England, have seen ita 
 manufacturing villages, and admired its general thrift. But those 
 who know its scenery only hy the river-valleys, know little of it ; 
 itnd those who have seen its people only in cities, are little ac- 
 quainted with New-England character. 
 
 Men speak of Yankee character, as if there was hut one type 
 which pervaded New England. It is true, that there are some few 
 marks which New-England men have in common. But the differ- 
 ences are greater than the likenesses. Nowhere' else in the nation 
 are men so differentiated. The loose structure of Southern society 
 gave to its citizens an appearance of greater personal freedom ; and 
 in the great Western States various causes have produced far more 
 freedom of manners, and more frankness and spontaneous geniality. 
 Yet it will be found that neither in the South, nor in the West, ia 
 there so large a proportion of the population which is origin.il. 
 contrasted, and individualized in taste, manners and opinions, as in 
 New England. If we should employ a scientific method, and speak 
 of a Western genus, and a Southern genus, and a Middle State 
 genus, then it will be found, that none, nor all, are so rich in speeie», 
 BD the genus New England. 
 
 Tlie scenery of New England is picturesque rather than grand. 
 Scarcely any other excursion could be planned which would so 
 well "ill a summer vacation, as one which, winding leisurely np 
 
2 NORWOOD. 
 
 through the western portions of Connecticut, of Massachusetts, and 
 of Vermont, reached a climax at St. Albans, on the eastern shore 
 of Lake Ohamplain; a place in the midst of greater variety o* 
 scenic beauty than any other that I remember in America. Oh tha 
 east rise the successive masses of the White Mouptains, seemingly 
 close at baud; on the west is Lake Ohamplain, swarming with 
 green islands, and beyond its waters, westward, rise the Adiron 
 daos, not in chains or single peaks, but in vast broods, a promiscu- 
 ous multitude of forest-clothed mountains. On the north is scooped 
 out in mighty lines the valley of the St. Lawrence ; and, in clear 
 lays, the eye may spy the faint glimmer of Montreal. 
 
 Such a ride from New Haven to St. Albans, from Long Island 
 Sound to Lake Ohamplain, can scarcely be matched for the charms 
 of its scenery, the number and beauty of its vUlagea, for the general 
 intelligence and culture of its people, for the universal thrift follow- 
 ing universal industry, and for crisp originalities of character. 
 
 The maritime population of New England is very unlike all the 
 rest. The foreign element has greatly modified society. Com- 
 merce and manufacturing have worn away many of the primitive 
 New England traits ; and the wealth and refinement of the cities 
 have to some extent overlaid the peculiar New England element 
 by a cosmopolitan gilding. The remote neighborhoods and hill- 
 towns yet retain the manners, morals, institutions, customs and 
 religion of the fathers. The interior villages of New England are 
 her brood-combs. 
 
 Our simple story of domestic life will take ns to a point interme- 
 diate between the rugged simplicity of mountain towns and the 
 easier life of the cities. 
 
 A traveller going north from Springfield, in Massachusetts, soon 
 perceives before him an abrupt barrier, running east and west, 
 which, if compared with the country on either side, might be called 
 mountainous. The two westernmost summits are Mount Tom and 
 Mount Holyoke. By a narrow passage between them comes 
 through the Connecticut River. Passing between these hill- 
 mountains, we enter a great valley or basin, some twelve miles 
 wide and thirty long, which one might easily imagine to have been 
 once a lake; the Pelham hills on the east, Sugar-loaf on the north, 
 and the Holyoke range on the south, forming barriers on three 
 Bides, while its waters on the west were stayed by the slopes o< 
 
INTRODUCTION. 3 
 
 those hills which, in the middle of western Massachusetts, are all 
 that remain of the famous Green Mountains. 
 
 Look with my eyes, good reader, upon the town of Norwood, 
 which, refusing to go down upon the fat bottom-lands of the Con- 
 necticut, daintily perches itself upon the irregular slopes west, and 
 looks over upon that transcendent valley from under its beautiful 
 shade trees, and you will say that no fairer village glistens in the 
 sunlight, or nestles under arching elms ! It is a wonder that Nor- 
 wood was ever allowed to venture so near to the low grounds of 
 the Oonneotiout ; for it was early settled, not far from thirty years 
 after the Pilgrims' landing. How the temptation to build upon 
 the top of the highest hill was resisted, we know not. 
 
 Did the New England settler alight upon hill-tops, like a senti- 
 nel, or a hawk upon the topmost bough, to spy danger at its first 
 appearing 1 Or had he some unsoonscious sense of the poetic beauty 
 of the scriptural city set upon a hiU — some Jerusalem, lifted up, 
 and seen from afar, in all its beauty? Or was he willing to face 
 the sturdy winds of New-England hill-tops, rather than to take the 
 risk of malaria in the softer air of her valleys ? Whatever the 
 reason, the chosen spot in early days seems to have been a higli 
 and broad-backed hill, where the summer came last, and departed 
 earliest ; where, while it lingered, it was purest and sweetest ; 
 where winter was most austere, and its winds roared among the 
 trees, and shook the framed houses with such awful grandeur, that 
 children needed nothing more to awaken in their imagination the 
 great Coming Judgment, and the final consuming storms, when the 
 earth should be shaken and should pass away I 
 
 Norwood, a town of five thousand inhabitants, like hundreds 
 of other New England towns, had in a general and indistinct way 
 an upper, middle and lower class. A wholesome jealousy of their 
 rights, and a suspicion among the poor that wealth and strength 
 always breed danger to the weak, made the upper class — who were 
 ranked so by their wealth, by their superior culture, and by the 
 antiquity of their families in town— politically weaker than any 
 other. 
 
 The middle class comprised the great body of tlie people, 
 all dependent upon theu- skill and activity for a living, and aD 
 striving to amass property enough to leave their families at theif 
 death in independent circumstances. 
 
4: NORWOOD. 
 
 The lower claBs of a New England village is chiefly composed 
 of the hangers-on — those who are ignorant and imhecUe, and es- 
 pecially those who, for want of moral health, have sunk, like sedi- 
 ment, to the bottom. Perhaps nowhere in the world can be found 
 more unlovely wickedness — a malignant, bitter, tenacious hatred 
 of good — than in New England. The good are very good, and the 
 bad are very bad. The high moral tone of public sentiment, in 
 many New -England towns, and its penetrating and almost inquis- 
 itorial character, either powerfully determines men to do good, oi' 
 chafes and embitters them. This is especially true when, in certain 
 cases, good men are so thoroughly intent upon public morality that 
 the private individual has scarcely any choice left. Under such a 
 pressure some men act in open wickedness out of spite, and some 
 secretly; and the bottom of society wages clandestine war with 
 the top. 
 
 But, fortunately for Norwood, the public sentiment, though 
 strong and high in moral tone, had been by peculiar influences sc 
 tempered with kindness, that, far less than in surrounding places, 
 was there a class of fierce castawayS at the bottom. 
 
 The main street of Norwood was irregular, steadily seeking 
 higher ground to its extreme western limit. It would have had 
 uo claims to beauty had it not been rich in the peculiar glory of 
 New England — its Elm-trees I No town can faU of beauty, though 
 its walks were gutters, and its houses hovels, if venerable trees 
 make magnificent colonnades along its streets. Of all trees, no 
 other unites, in the same degree, majesty and beauty, grace and 
 grandeur, as the American Elm. Known from north to south 
 through a range of twelve hundred mOes, and from the Atlantic 
 to the head waters of the rivers which flow into the western side 
 of the Mississippi, yet, in New England, the elm is found in its 
 greatest size and beauty, fully justifying Michaux's commendation 
 of it to European cultivators, as " the most magnificent vegetable 
 of the Temperate Zone." Though a lover of moisture and rich- 
 ness, the elm does not flourish so well upon pure vegetable soils aa 
 on intervale lands, stronger in mineral ingredients than river 
 meadows. 
 
 Single spots, finer than any in New England, there may be in 
 other lands; but such a series of villages over such a breadth ol 
 country, amidst so much beauty of scenery, enriched, though 
 
INTRODUCTION 6 
 
 with oharming and inexpensive simplicity, wilh so mu<ii beauty of 
 garden, yard, and dwelling, oannot elsewhere be found upon the 
 gUibe. No man has seen America, who has not become familiar 
 with the villages of New England and the farms of the North- 
 western States. Yet every one will confess that a large part of 
 this scenic beauty of New England is contributed by trees, — and 
 particularly by the. elm. The Elms of New England 1 They are as 
 much a part of her beauty as the columns of the Parthenon were 
 the glory of its architeotxire. 
 
 Their towering trunks, whose massiveness well symbolizes 
 Puritan inflexibility ; their over-arching tops, facile, wind-borne 
 and elastic, hint the endless plasticity and adaptableness of this 
 people ; — and both united, form a type of all true manhood, broad 
 at the root, firm in the trunk, and yielding at the top, yet return- 
 ing again, after every impulse, into position and symmetry. What 
 if they were sheared away from village and farm house ? Who 
 would know the land ? Farm-houses that now stop the tourist 
 and the artist, would stand forth bare and homely ; and villages 
 that coquette with beauty through green leaves, would shine 
 white and ghastly as sepulchres. Let any one imagine Conway oi 
 Lancaster without elmsl Or Hadley, Hatfle.d, Northampton, or 
 Springfield I New Haven without elms woild be like Jupiter 
 without a beard, or a lion shaved of his mane I 
 
 And so, reader, as one loves to approach a mansion through an 
 avenue of elms, we have led y)u througli a shori discourse ol 
 trees, to our homely story. 
 
CHAPTER n. 
 
 ABIA.H CATHCABT 
 
 A )iAH Oathoabt was an honorable specimen o; a New-England 
 farmer. Any one accustomed to judge of men would see at a 
 glance that he did not belong to that class of farmer-drudges, who 
 tease Nature for a living, and make up for lack of skill and 
 knowledge of their business by an insatiable and tormenting 
 industry. He thought out his work, and then worked out hia 
 thoughts. He was a man of great bodily strength; of calmness 
 and patience, joined to an inflexible wiU. His face accurately re- 
 corded his nature. It was large-framed, not mobile, but clear and 
 open in expression ; it exhibited more of goodness and wisdom, 
 than of feeling or imagination. Had he been clothed in the 
 habiliments and seated on the bench of a court, every one would 
 have said, " He looks every inch a judge." 
 
 He received from his parents a healthy body, a sound judg- 
 ment, habits of industry, a common-school education, and besides, 
 nothing ; — save their good name and wholesome example. In all 
 his boyhood, and till he was eighteen years old, he had probably 
 never altogether had five dollars of " spending money " from his 
 father. He used to tell hia own boys, afterward, with some quiet 
 oride, that he had never spent for mere pleasure a single dollar 
 which he had not himself earned by hard work. He believed it to 
 be almost immoral to spend property which had not been season- 
 ed by one's own toil or skill. He used to say that pleasure was 
 wholesome and indispensable when one had earned a right to it, 
 but that amusement got for nothing relaxed a man and demoral- 
 ized him. 
 
 When he was eighteen years old, Oathcart bought his time of 
 his father for two hundred dollars. These were considered very 
 liberal terras in those days. A son's services for three years be- 
 fore his mtyority were no small part of the working capital of • 
 email farm. 
 
 Being master of his time, he considered and made an inventory 
 
ABIAH CATHCABT, 7 
 
 of his goods and properties. First, there was a good stout body 
 six feet high and well developed ; a face and head that an honest 
 man need not be ashamed to carry through the world. Next, ha 
 had a suit of new woollen clothes, and one old suit ; six pairs of 
 woollen stockings, which his mother's own hands had knit from 
 wool which grew, under his own eye, on his father's flock ; a pair 
 of new thick boots for Sundays, an every-day pair, an axe, a brava 
 heart — honest and steadfast ; this was all that he carried out of 
 his father's house. No I He carried likewise his father's blessing 
 — ^nnspoken, but not the less real; and his mother's prayers, 
 silent and gentle, but which conld never miss the road to the 
 throne of all bounty. 
 
 Life was before him. He did not waver an hour as to his plans. 
 He was a farmer's son, he knew how to work, and by work h' 
 meant to thrive. His vision of success was not extravagant — a 
 homestead and a family ; and property to support and educate his 
 children until they should be old enough to take care of tnem- 
 selves. This was the measure of bis dream. 
 
 This ought not to seem difficult. And it would not be, in new 
 regions where land may be had for a nominal price, and where 
 the climate prolongs the summer, while it straitens the winter 
 within narrow bounds. But in old New England, in the neigh- 
 borhood of large towns, where land is expensive, summers short, 
 winters long, and the soil not indulgent, yielding its moderate 
 crops to coercion rather than to coaxing, it is not easy for a man 
 who has only his own hands for a capital to buy a farm, stock it, 
 earn upon it the means of paying for it, and at the same time to 
 support a growing family. 
 
 This did Abiah Oathoart by intelligent industry and sturdy 
 perseverance. Not a thing did he ever get by craft. And who 
 shall blame his honest pride, afterward, when he was wealthy, 
 that he had created his own fortune? Wealth created without spot 
 or blemish is an honest man's peerage ; and to be prond of it is 
 his right. It is not the empty pride of money, but pride of skill, 
 of patience, of labor, of perseverance, and of honor, which 
 wrought and secured the wealth ! 
 
 When he left his father's house he hired out at teaming, twelve 
 dollars a month and found. Oathcart had this sign of a sound 
 Qfitnre — that he loved a horse. His employer gave him some dis- 
 
8 NORWOOD. 
 
 oretion in buying and selling; and soon, by i;-n!hase and ex 
 change, Oathcart had made up the best team in the neighborhood 
 Nothing went over the road that everybody stared at more than 
 his horses. It pleased him to see men pull up, look over thu 
 horses, and exclaim : 
 
 " That's a team for you 1 I say, mister, will you sell thosa 
 horses? " 
 
 He was pleased almost every day. His horses were moderately 
 large but compact, and the very models of strength. Look at them I 
 Tlie fine ear, the clean and finished look of their heads, and, above 
 all, the large, lively eyes that easily change expression, make it 
 certain that they have nerve as well as muscle. If you doubt, yon 
 should see them when a heavy load threatens to stall them; the 
 rousing, tlie excitement, the prodigious swell of muscles, and, when 
 the load is safely brought up or through, the nervous flash of the 
 eye, and the restless champ upon the bit! He loved their com- 
 pany — loved to feed thi-m — loved to take his book (be was ever 
 and always a reader) at noon, after his frugal meal was done, and 
 sit by his team, while the lioi-ses ground their oats, or cracked and 
 craunched their Indian corn. Do you wonder, reader, at such 
 |)leasure? Then you know little of some scenes of life. Ask an 
 old Western wagoner, what have been the happiest hours of his 
 life — and he will tell you — 
 
 "Well, stranger, I've seen some pretty jolly times. But, for 
 solid comfort, I think I've enjoyed the most when I was layin' in 
 my wagon near a creek, and the fire was flickerin' among the 
 ti-ees, and I was jest goin' to sleep — I think I never heard anything 
 (juite so pleasant as my horses, at both ends of the wagon, chankin 
 cornl" 
 
 His employer died. It being autumn, Oathcart engaged to clear 
 oif a piece of mountain wood, and haul it to town, at so much a 
 cord. Doing well at this, the next fall be took a contract for 
 making charcoal, and became almost a hermit in the woods — 
 chopping, piling, and tending the heap ; and, until he had com- 
 pleted the job, living in a shanty of his own construction. 
 
 In summer, he worked upon the farm, getting fair wages; and 
 thus, in five years he found liimself rich — for he had earned i 
 thousand dollars and won a royal woman's Iieart. 
 
CHAPTER m. 
 
 RACHEL LISCOMB. 
 
 Raohel Lisoomb, daughter of Deacon Liscomb — tall, elendei, 
 traight, with black hair and dark eyes, a brunette — looked at him 
 one day as they walked home from meeting, with a look that he 
 never got over. She was one of the few without gifts of sreech, 
 whose bearing and looks are a full equivalent for them. A 
 farmer's daughter, she was well-practised in work. And, a New- 
 England woman, she was of a deep moral nature and reflectively 
 intelligent. One who looked for attractive manners would pass 
 her by unseen. Like a geode, the exterior was homely, the crystals 
 were dark-chambered within. 
 
 Upon her rested the thoughts of Abiah Oathcart. She went but 
 little from home, except on Sunday to church, and to the singing- 
 school. But twice had Oathcart visited her father's house, and yet 
 for a year, when they met, both hid or strove to hide a sensibility 
 of which neither was ashamed, but which each was ashamed to feel 
 without some sign that the other felt it too. Oar finer feelings are 
 like the evening primrose, all the sunlight but shuts them closer. 
 And yet, when evening comes and dews are falling, if you will 
 watch, you shall see the twilight with gentle influence unroll them 
 one by one, with visible motion, each blossom throwing forth, ae 
 it opens, its offering of delicate odor. 
 
 They were walking silently and gravely home one Sunday after- 
 noon, under the tall elms that lined the street for half a mile. 
 Neither bad spoken. There had been some little parish quarrel, 
 and on that afcernoon the text was, "A new commandment I 
 write unto you, that ye love one another." But, after th« 
 sermon was done, the text was the best part of it. Some one 
 said that Parson Marsh's sermons were like the meeting house — 
 the steeple was the only thing that folks could see after they got 
 home. 
 
 They walked slowly, without a word. Once or twice 'Biah 
 BHHayed to speak, but was si ill silent. He plucked a flower froni 
 
10 NORWOOD. 
 
 between the pickets of the fence, and unconscionsly pulled it ta 
 pieces, as, with troubled face, he glanced at Rachel, and then, ai 
 fearing she would catch his eye, he looked at the trees, at the 
 clouds, at the grass, at everything, and saw nothing — nothing but 
 Rachel. The most solemn hour of human experience is not that 
 of death, but of Life — when the heart is bom again, and from a 
 natural heart becomes a heart of Love I What wonder that it is a 
 silent hour and perplexed ? 
 
 Is the soul confused ? Why not, when the divine spirit, rolling 
 clear across the aerial ocean, breaks upon the heart's shore with 
 all the mystery of heaven f Is it strange that uncertain lights dim 
 the eye, if above the head of him that truly loves hover clouds of 
 b.aintly spirits ? Why should not the tongue stammer and refuse 
 its accustomed offices, when all the world — skies, trees, plains, 
 hills, atmosphere, and the oond earth — spring forth in new colors, 
 with strange meanings, and seem to chant for the soul the glory of 
 that mystic Law with which God has bound to himself his infinite 
 realm — the law of Love I Then, for the first time, when one so 
 loves that love is sacrifice, death to self, resurrection, and glory, is 
 man brought into harmony with the whole universe ; and like 
 him who beheld the seventh heaven, hears things unlawful to be 
 littered! 
 
 The great elm trees sighed as the fitful breeze swept their tops. 
 The soft shadows flitted back and forth beneath the walker's feet, 
 fell upon them in light and dark, ran over the ground, quivered, 
 and shook, until sober Cathcart thought that his heart was throw- 
 ing its shifting network of hope and fear along the ground before 
 him I 
 
 How strangely his voice sounded to him as, at length, all his 
 emotions could only say, " Rachel — ^how did you like the sermon ? " 
 
 Quietly she answered — 
 
 " I liked the text." 
 
 " ' A new commandment I write unto you, that ye love one 
 another.' Rachel, will you help me keep it? " 
 
 At first she looked down and lost a little color ; then, raising her 
 face, she turned upon him her large eyes, with a look both clear 
 »nd tender. It was as if some painful restraint had given way, 
 and her eyes blossomed into full beauty. 
 
 Not another word was spoken. They walked home hand in 
 
KACHEL LISCOMB. 11 
 
 oand. He neither smiled nor exulted. He saw neither the trees, 
 nor the long level rays of sunlight that were slanting across the 
 fields. His soul was overshadowed with a cloud as if God were 
 drawing near. He had never felt so solemn. TKa woman's life 
 had heen entrusted to him ! 
 
 Long years — the whole length of life — ^the eternal years beyond, 
 seemed in an indistinct way to rise up in his imagination. All 
 that he could say, as he left her at the door, was : 
 
 " Rachel, this is forever — forever." 
 
 She again said nothing, but turned to him with a clear and open 
 face, in which joy and trust wrought beauty. It seemed to him 
 as if a light fell upon him from her eyes. There was a look that 
 descended and covered him as with an atmosphere ; and all the 
 way home he was as one walking in a luminous cloud. He had 
 uever felt such personal dignity as now. He that wins such love 
 is crowned, and may call himself king. He did not feel the earth 
 under his feet. As he drew near his lodgings, the sun went down. 
 The children began to pour forth, no longer restrained. Abiah 
 turned to his evening chores. No animal that night but had 
 reason to bless him. The children found him unusually good and 
 tender. And Aunt Keziah said to her sister : 
 
 "Abiah's lieen goin' to meetin' very regular for some weeks, 
 and I shouldn't wonder, by the way -he looks, if he had got a hope. 
 I trust he ain't deceivin' himself." 
 
 He had a hope, and he was not deceived ; for in a few months, 
 at the close of the service one Sunday morning, the minister read 
 from the pulpit: "Marriage is intended between Abiah Oathcait 
 and Bachel Liscomb, both of this town, and this is the first pub- 
 lishing of the banns." Which notice was duly repeated for two 
 successive Sunday mornings. Then old Uncle Bascom, the town 
 clerk, issued the marriage certificate. Uncle Bascom had been 
 town clerk, the boys used to think, ever since there was a town ; 
 so long that that town, without Giles Bascom as clerk, wouldn't 
 be recognized. It was one of the marks, like the meeting-house 
 the brick store, and Gallup's tavern, by which peo]>le knew tha 
 this was the town of Dennis. 
 
 One day there appeared in the county paper two lines : " Car- 
 ried : — On — - — , at the Tiovm of the hride't father, Abiah Cathcari 
 and Bachel Liscomb." 
 
12 NORWOOD. 
 
 What a slender body is that for the world of meaning contained 
 m it! 
 
 Froi j the hour of his engagement, Cathcart was a different man. 
 Every faculty was quickened, but most, his moral nature. He 
 marvelled with himself what it should mean. All his life had he 
 honored industry and integrity in thought and example. But all 
 at once these qualities rose before him in a light of beauty which 
 he had never before imagined. Hundreds of sermons had he heard 
 on virtue and piety. But now, without any apparent reason, man- 
 liness seemed the only thing worth living for, and truth and purity 
 seemed to him so noble Aat he strangely hungered for tbem 
 Taught from his childhood to reverence God, he felt suddenly 
 opened in his soul a gate of thanksgiving, and through it came 
 also a multitude of thoughts of worship and praise. The world 
 was recreated before his eyes. Nothing before was ever beautiful, 
 if judged by his present sensibility. Tliese experiences did not 
 clothe themselves in language, nor work out in ideas and images 
 for he was of too practical a nature. But they filled him with 
 tenderness and manliness. 
 
 As the day of his marriage drew near, he felt a thousand reluc- 
 tances and scruples. He feared that Rachel might not be happy 
 with him — that it was not worthy in him to take her from the 
 plain comforts of her father's house to the toil and limitation of 
 his struggling lot — that she might be deceived in him, and not 
 always find reason for such love as she now manifested. He looked 
 upon her with reverence, and far greater than before he was admit- 
 ted to such intimate relations. Her every word was simple, every 
 thouglit was trutli, every feeling pure; and word, thought and 
 feeling moved gently upon him in an atmosphere of love. He wor- 
 shipped God with reverence. He worshipped Rachel with love; 
 he came to her as one comes to an altar or a shrine. He left her 
 as one who has seen a vision of angels. 
 
 Outwardly, and in consonance with the customs of the neigh- 
 borhood, he was gay and jovial at the wedding; but down deep in 
 his soul he was as solemn, before Rachel, as if God spoke and ke 
 listened. 
 
 How wondrous are the early days of wedlock, in young and 
 noble Boulsl How strange are the ways of two pure souls, wholly 
 ficding each other out; between whom for days and months ii 
 
RACHEL LISCOMB. 13 
 
 going on that silent and unconscions intersphering of tboight^ 
 feeling, taste, and will, by which two natures are clasping and 
 twining and growing into each other ! 
 
 Happy are they who know, and well Oathcart knew, how to 
 bring such wisdom with loving, that selfishness, a poisonous weed, 
 shall die out ; and love clothed with reverence shall grow and 
 thrive with power and beauty, all one's life ! For, if there be oe« 
 root in which resides the secret of producing immortal flowery 
 ItiaLoTe. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 8TARTINO IN LIFB. 
 
 AjnuR his marriage, 'Biah Cathcart, (as he was familiariy called 
 by his neighbors,) not without much thought and consultation, 
 <Jctennined to buy him a farm. After many searchings, and much 
 deliberation, he chose a place of sixty acres, two miles from the 
 goodly town of Norwood. There were, besidep, twenty acres of 
 woodland, lying three miles away, mountain lots, as they were call- 
 ed. On the home farm there was an old-fashioned farm-house, ol 
 two stories. 
 
 But instead of one story additions, in the rear, such as are now 
 builr, for kitchen, shed, &c., the rear roof ran from the ridge-pole 
 down nearly to the ground, covering the two stories and the single 
 story with one long slant. 
 
 The former occupant had suffered the property to waste. Paint 
 had lout! since ceased to cover the claoboftrrla on the aides : the roof 
 was patched ana cumbered with moss, ana .,je svater gutrers ai 
 the eaves had collected so much of dust and decayed leaves, as to 
 form little patches of soil, out of which grew a fringe of mingled 
 vegetation. Both flowers and weeds, whose seeds had been lodged 
 there by birds, or uplifted by the winds, grew lovingly together, 
 and cast their slender shadows down upon the cornice, like a pencil 
 tracery of arabesques. 
 
 It was the day that Dr. Wentworth had been called to see 
 Widow Nance, a mile beyond, that Oathoart took in hand the old 
 house. 
 
 " You see. Doctor, that I've got a job here. Old Templeton't 
 liquor bills were so heavy that he couldn't afford paint or putty." 
 
 " Make a clean job of it,' Biah. You'll have to lay these chim- 
 ney-tops over again ; filling and pointing won't do. I suppose joa 
 » ill shift your flower garden, too, from the roof to the ground," 
 
 " Flower garden ? " 
 
 " Yes, poor things," said the Doctor, going to the back eavec 
 «nd standing upon an old wash-bench, where he conld look apon 
 the low roof. 
 
STAETING IN LIFE. 15 
 
 **! wish I had this old mossy roof, or one jast like it. I am 
 willing to ride a mile out of my way, any time, to see the moss in 
 Peak's ravine, and all along the wood on each side of it. How 
 kind of it to creep over decaying things and cover their homeliness 
 with such a cheerful garment 1 Did you ever think that in the ani- 
 mal kingdom there is no heauty in death. A crow, a dog or a 
 wounded deer dies, aud is soon consumed. They seem to have had 
 their time when ali.c. But vegetation, wixn lewer privileges in life, 
 has more comelin'-as atter death. Nob jOV makes shrouds for trees. 
 and so nature tal «s care of them an'', 'iiides them under new life— 
 luaking beauty uo sexton's work, and shroud death with the gar- 
 ments of life. 1 was over yesterday at the ravine, and found an old 
 tree-trunk, half decayed, on and around which was a garden such 
 as no gardener could make. It lay on the edge of the wood ; the 
 stream of the brook had kept its mosses, of which I counted many 
 species, in admirable health and color. Ah, it was like a trunk of 
 emerald 1 Down on the south side, where the leaves had kept 
 them warm all winter, were blood-root blossoms, white as snow, 
 shooting up in squads, like white troopers mustering for some 
 tournament ; and at the upturned roots was a tangle of blackberry 
 vines, as fine in lines as any thing that Raphael ever imitated from 
 the ancients, and a great deal more beautiful. Men's eyes make 
 finer pictures, when they know how to use them, than any body's 
 hands can." 
 
 " And so, Doctor, I am to keep this half-acre of a roof, am I, 
 just out of pity to this moss ? And what'U become of us when it 
 rains, with this green old sieve letting through enough rain to 
 dampen every room in the house ? I see — you want our custom. 
 Doctor 1 We should soon have moss growing over us, as it is over 
 old Terapleton — though, by -the-bye, he never suflferedwhen on earth 
 from too much water, I'm thinking 1 Hiram Beers says he wouldn't 
 touch it wheji he could get it, and now can't get it when he wants 
 it. Hiram is very hard on old Templeton. He says the old man 
 was so hot, that flowers ought to start early where his grave is. ' 
 
 " What a pity that thrift and sentiment can't compromise matters 
 a little better 1 It would make any gardener's reputation if he could 
 plant such a little moss-Eden as this. Well, if you choose to be 
 healthy rather than beautiful, you must have your own way. I'll 
 b« back in a couple of hours. Widow Nance, poor thing, is about 
 
16 NORWOOD. 
 
 Bpenti Save me some of the moss — that great patch yi'nder, witk 
 cherry-stones heaped along its upper edge." 
 
 And with that he carried away his great blue eyes, and whita 
 face, wide at the top, hut fine and clean cut, though large-featured 
 to the very chin. 
 
 "As good sense at the bottom as ever man had," said Cathcart, 
 as the chaise rolled out from under the elm trees, in front of the 
 yard, " and he needs it all too, or his queer notions would run 
 •way with him. Rachel says the Doctor's face and presence are 
 better than most doctors' medicine; and they are reviving. I 
 always feel after he's gone as if there was more in every thing 
 about rae than I had any notion of before, though I can't exactly 
 tell what it is." 
 
 It was about two o'clock when lir. Wentworth returned, and, not 
 seeing Oathoart, he walked under a ragged cherry-tree, and stood 
 watching with a kind of sober smile the workmen, inspired with 
 the subtle eagerness which the work of destroying is apt to infuse. 
 
 The shingles came down in showers. The light ones whirled 
 and glimmered in the sunlight, and shied out hither and thither 
 all over the yard. Those covered with moss came headlong and 
 thumped the ground at his feet. 
 
 " Poor thing, do you know me?" raising a moss-loaded shingle 
 thoughtfully, as if it were alive ; and he laughed out as if he had 
 been answered by some unexpected cry. 
 
 For a rakeful of shingles had sent a flock of hens in sudden 
 scare toward the barn-yard, while the great golden-speckled 
 rooster drew up with magisterial dignity and called out, "Out- 
 tark-cut, cut, cut?" Receiving no answer, with a low-crooning 
 noise in his throat, he cooked his eye, first at the doctor, tlien at 
 the house, as much as to say, " Do you know what's going on 
 here?" And then, letting down his right foot which had been 
 drawn up, in suspense, he pompously moved off to lecture his hens, 
 that were already pi<king and scratching in the straw, upon the 
 mystery of life. 
 
 The doctor drew near the now cast-away gutter, and stooping 
 plucked two or three of the weeds, and putting them under hi« 
 hat band, laid down his hat on the well-stone, while he unrolled 
 the rioketty old windlass and sent down the remnants of a bucke< 
 for water. It was an old-fashioned well, of mysterious depth. B 
 
STARTING IN LIFE. 17 
 
 fon looked down its narrow and dark throat, yon saw nothing. 
 If yon still looked, and dropped a pebble down, a faint light was 
 reflected from the crinkling water far below. For four or five 
 feet at the top, the stones were lined with moss. Up, after long 
 winding, came the bucket, spurting out its contents on every side 
 and filling the well with a musical splashing sound, reserving hardi) 
 enough, at last, to serve for a good drink. " Well, 'Biah, I under 
 stand the old proverb — truth is at the bottom of the well. If 1 
 was to go down after the water, very likely there is foul air 
 enough down there to put me out like a candle ; and if I send a 
 bucket down the greatest part leaks out before I can reach it. 
 Much work and little truth do men get in the wells they dig now- 
 a-days." 
 
 " But come in and see the house." 
 
 " I have seen it too often. Wait tiU yon have lived awhile 
 here and changed every association. I shall see the terrible sight 
 that I witnessed when old Templeton had delirium tremens. He 
 yelled and moaned by turns, saw men and devils after him, and 
 died more horribly than any other creature that I ever saw, and 
 I've seen many. Scour your walls, 'Biah." 
 
 Bad as the house was, the grounds were in even worse condi- 
 tion. The barns were utterly dilapidated; the fences were poor ; 
 the soil had been fleeced, and scarcely anything that was bad in 
 husbandry had been left untried upon this much-enduring farm. 
 
 Bnt this universal deterioration had so depreciated the market 
 value of the place, that Oathcart was enabled to buy it — ^making a 
 payment of a thousand dollars, and borrowing the rest, with his 
 own time to pay it off. If he had been indnstrious and frugal be- 
 fore, he was far more so now. What he lacked in capital he must 
 make up in enterprise. 
 
 For a year or two the struggle was close. His wife was hii 
 equal in industry and frugality. Her patience was never ever 
 rnflBed. At four in summer and at five in winter, the light blazed 
 on the hearth, and there were.sounds in the barn. After the cattlu 
 were foddered, and until daylight, he worked at " closmg " boots 
 and shoes, earning thus a small addition to his means. At dark 
 the same labor was resumed. This rigid, methodical industry was 
 cheerfully pursued without intermission for years, and, at length, 
 oegan to produce it* reinlta. One by one each field bad been 
 
18 NORWOOD. 
 
 deepened ; foi Oatboart said : " No fanner owns any deeper thu 
 
 he caa plow." 
 
 Little by little the near lota were cleared of stone, wbich re- 
 appeared in stone walls, built with a breadtb anil accuracy fit for 
 a castle wall, and which at length were carried around the whole 
 farm. The low-lying lots, filled with muck, were drained and 
 reduced to meadows; and acres, which before had been impassable 
 to cattle, except in the driest summer weather, or, when frozen, 
 became solid, and the most productive of all the farm. The num 
 ber of division fences was greatly reduced, Oathcart believing that 
 far more ground was wasted by fences than any good farmer could 
 ofibrd. The land actually occupied by the fence, the waste each 
 side of it by brambles or weeds, the time consumed in clearing 
 these useless occupants away, if the farmer was neat, Oathcart 
 argued, constituted in ten years a heavy tax on industry. 
 
 In snch a climate, in such a soil, and in such a community, a 
 farm will not pay, unless it be made to move witli the accuracy of 
 a machine, and with an economy which reaches to the most 
 minute elements. 
 
 Availing himself of Dr. Wentworth's library, he had read the 
 beat works on husbandry, and extracted from them enough to 
 gnide his practice to a result far beyond that which was common 
 in the neighborhood. Whoever had, at first, criticized the new- 
 fangled farming, no longer doubted its success, when, at length, 
 the farm was clear of debt, and returning no mean revenue. 
 
 Here years rolled on, and Oathcart grew to prosperity and into 
 universal respect. Sons and daughters were born to him; with 
 only two of whom, however, shall we have to do — the youngest 
 two — Barton and Alice, who will hi dee time take their places in 
 oar hiatory. 
 
CHAFrER V. 
 
 THE WBNTWOBTHH. 
 
 The night on which Rose Wentworth was born tfas famished 
 out with all suitable auguries. It was more nearly morning than 
 night. That was well, to be born as the day was' breaking and 
 morning was fresh on all the earth. The dew lay pure on all 
 the ground, and the birds were singing. 
 
 The time was late in April, and the resurrection of the vege- 
 table world was going on. If one feels the influence of the seasons 
 upon his nataJ hour, it was fit that Dr. Wentworth's first-born 
 should come, not with the wan and waning months of autumn, 
 but in the months of newness, when all things feel the touch of 
 recreative power. The day before had been soft and showery. 
 Southern winds filled the air with moisture and that fragrant smell 
 of soil and the slight balsamic odor of opening buds, which to 
 some sensitive persons is strangely exhilarating, and which stirs 
 the mind, with subtle suggestion, and, after the long imprisonmeut 
 of winter, sets the tremulous imagination into wild delight; 
 
 In the afternoon there had been several peals of thunder, which 
 at that early season awakened surprise in all, but which the Doctor 
 accepted as a part of a happy conjunction of natural phenomena 
 significant of his child's life and fate. 
 
 Mother Taft had been waiting at the house for several days 
 She seemed gently stirred at the sound of thunder. But even 
 thunder could not move her serene nature to more than quiet 
 wonder. Half the children in the village called her Auntie, and 
 grew up with the impression that she was blood kin to them. Her 
 face was young for one of fifty years, white and smooth. Her blue 
 eye never flashed, or glowed, or burned, or pierced, or did any of 
 those violent things to which eyes are addicted. Sad eyes ; pity- 
 ing eyes I For years she had stood a door-keeper for this sad 
 world, and all that came in had begun their life with ones and 
 wails, as if to prophesy their future. Had pity for those born 
 tnti) sorrow and crying at Inst stamped itself in her very featurnn 
 
20 ~ NORWOOD. 
 
 When the thunder broke forth suddenly and rolled away in 
 the distance with softened cadence, Mother Taft moved to the 
 front door. Her walking was of that quiet kind that seems to 
 have no more footsteps in it than has the shadow of I. cloud that 
 is gliding along the ground. Dr. Wentworth was coming through 
 the door-yard, noting on every hand the condition of vegetation. 
 The willows had thrown off their silky catkins, and were in leaf, 
 the lilac buds were swollen large; the elm was covered with 
 ohocolate-colored blossoms ; the pyrua japonica was reddening ite 
 clusters of crimson buds; the green-wooied /orsythia was push- 
 mg yellow flowers; and the soft maple drew bees to its crimsnn 
 tassels. In the border, peonies were breaking ground; snow-drof^s 
 and crocuses were in bloom, as also hepaticas. The grass wan 
 becoming vividly green, and honeysuckles — especially over the 
 trellis at the front door — were pushing new leaves. Yes, nature 
 was fairly at work I The sap flowed again. Life was once more 
 organizing myriads of curious textures and forms with silent forcts 
 infinite and almost omnipotent. 
 
 The Doctor searched not as one who would take, but only find. 
 When the thunder sounded he bared his head as if he heard some 
 message. His eye brightened with satisfaction, and, as Mother 
 Taft opened the door, he said, softly but solemnly : 
 
 " She will hear God's voice. Flowers live. All things art 
 coming forth. Her time is come. But she must have her crown.'' 
 
 Calling Pete, a great, black, clumsy-moving fellow, the Doctor 
 said: 
 
 " Pete, I want some trailing arbutus ; where does it bloBaoin 
 earliest?" 
 
 "What?" said Pete, looking perplexed. 
 
 " Where can you get the earliest Mayflower) " 
 
 "May-Howerg — why, on Howlet's Hill, of course," said Pete, a.' 
 (f surprised that the Doctor did not know so plain a fact as that. 
 
 'Well, Pete, I haven't been here as long as you have, and 
 ilon't know the ins and outs of the fields yet. But bring up tlie 
 horses and drive nie there. Don't let grass grow under your 
 feet." 
 
 Passing through a pine wood, where no flowers were yet grow- 
 ing, and ascending the hill, through an open wood where hemlock 
 and deciduous trees were mixed, tbey came near the top to a 
 
THE WKNTWORTHS. 21 
 
 half oleared space, to the eye brown and barren, except her* 
 and there clumps of evergreen kalmias. Pete's eye was seldoin at 
 fault. 
 
 " There's some, Doctor, by that stump ; and there's some }»■ 
 yond, ever so much." Clearing away tlie leaves he revealed tht 
 ■iweetest flower that opens to the northern sky. It Is content^ 
 though lying upon the very ground. It braves the coldest win- 
 ters. All the summers can not elahonite a perfume so sweet as 
 that which seems to have been born of the very winter. It is 
 like the breath of love. The pnre white and pink blossoms, in 
 sweet clusters, lie hidden under leaves, or grass, and often under 
 untimely snows. Blessings on theel Thou art the fairest, most 
 modest and sweetest-breathed of all our flowers! 
 
 Enough foi- a wreath were soon gafhered, and brought home 
 — the flttest emblem wherewith to greet the little damsel. 
 
 Near twilight of the next morning, while the air was soft and 
 balmy, and roots were swelling, and buds opening, and blossoms 
 coming forth, and birds singing love-songs in all the trees, wasboro 
 Rose Wentwobth. 
 
 Dr. Reuben Wentworth was born in the old town of Norwich, 
 Connecticut, in one of the old pre-revolutionary houses, under the 
 shade of old elms. What with the early colonial history, and the 
 always romantic legends of the Indians, he found the whole region 
 about his birthplace rich in historic incident. 
 
 His family originally came from the eastern part of Massachu- 
 setts, and to this circumstance, probably, it was owing that he 
 studied at Harvard University. A respectable student in the regu- 
 lar course, he had the reputation of being very busy with studies 
 outside of the course. He early manifested a strong taste for Nat- 
 ural Science ; yet was never satisfied with that part which the bookt 
 contain, but, with an instinct as strong as that which leads an 
 mfant to its mother's breast for food, he turned from the dry de- 
 scriptions and classifications to the living things themselves. At 
 first, it was almost wholly an instinct, the sensibility of exquisite 
 tHste. But to this was added, by gradual unfolding, a rational ele 
 ment, and then a moral sympathy, until he found himself nnitei 
 to the organized system of nature with every part of his being. 
 
 This task did not detach him from the love of books, nor ol 
 tooiety, nor of art and literature. He had warm sympathy fo» 
 
22 NOKWOOD. 
 
 •very thing hnman, and for all the proper works of man — but nndei 
 
 and behind it, was a strong and silent syanpatLy and alliance with 
 Nature ; silent : — for, during all his education, Reuben Wentworth 
 had a vague impressiou that his tastes, if fully disclosed, would ren- 
 der him liable to the charge of being a dreamer, and a poetical 
 idealist. 
 
 The uncle, whose purse had carried him through college, wm 
 an old bachelor of fifty years — spry, lean, and chipper — Ebenezer 
 b) name. But people are usually overclothed with names ; and 
 as men in summer or at work, throw off their superfluous raiment 
 till their arms are bare, so most folks dispense with a portion of 
 their names; and Ebenezer Wentworth parsed everywJiere as 
 Uncle Eb. He wrote his name Eb. Wentworth — tying them together 
 with a long 'flourish, as if afraid they would get separated. He 
 iisfd to laugh at people's names. 
 
 " Folks use their children as if they were garret pegs, to hang 
 old clothes on — first a jacket, then a coat, and then another jacket 
 Yon have to take them aU down to find either one. Our children 
 go trudging all their lives with their load of names, as if they were 
 old Jews returning with an assortment of clothes. People use their 
 children as registers to preserve the names of aunts and uncles, 
 parents and grandparents, and so inscribe them with the names oi 
 the dead, as if tombstones were not enough." And so he would 
 run on for an hour, if any one would listen, and even if they did 
 not ; for he was a natural talker— talked nearly all the time when 
 awake — no more if men listened to him, no less if they did not. 
 Unlike the race of natural talkers, his conversation contained a 
 great deal of good sense, and of shrewd observation. It was fall 
 of whims, too, and ludicrous exaggerations, particularly when any 
 one opposed him. There was no excess and no absurdity which 
 he would not zealously defend, if some sober and literal man sought 
 logically to corner him. He disputed axioms, refused to admit first 
 principles, laughed at premises, and ran down conclusions, d»gma- 
 tized and madly asserted, with the merriest and absurdest indiffer- 
 ence to all consistency; for which there is no parallel, unless 
 it be that of a very lively horse, in a very large pasture, with a 
 very gonty man trying to catch him. 
 
 Bat this was niperficial. At bottom Uncle Eb. was a stera 
 moralist »vid loyal to the last degree in his conduct to honor i?n<i 
 truth. 
 
THE WENTWORTHS. 23 
 
 if yon had a pet theory, or an assumptioas argument, or a log- 
 .oal brat prigged np with pretentious aiithurity, Uncle Eb. was the 
 most dangerous of men to entrust it with. He waB a sore trouble 
 to theologians and a nuisance to theorists. Bnt if you were dying, 
 he was just the man to entrust your estate with. Punctual, exact, 
 sharp, disinterestLd, but pragmatical, he neither would cheat nor 
 allow cheating. There was no more vaporing, no more wild car- 
 »cole!4 of the horse aforesaid, in open fields, but, like the horse in 
 harness, he settled down to liis work with edifying sobriety and 
 regularity. 
 
 " "Well, Reuben, you graduate this summer. What next? What 
 are you going to do ? You are pretty well stuffed with trash. It 
 will take several years to forget what you ought not to have learn- 
 ed, and to get rid of the evil effeots of foolish instruction. But 
 that will come pretty much of itself. College learning is very 
 much like snow, and the more a man has of it the less can the 
 soil produce. It's not till practical life melts it that the ground 
 yields anything. Men get over it quicker in some kinds of busi- 
 ness than in others. The college sticks longest on ministers and 
 schoolmasters : next, to lawyers ; not much to doctors ; and none 
 at all to merchants and gentlemen. You can't afford to be a gen- 
 tleman, and so you must choose among other callings." 
 
 "Can't a man. Uncle Eb., be a gentleman in any respectable 
 calling?" 
 
 " Oh, dear, no. My gentleman must take all his time to it, 
 spend his life at it, be jealous of everything else. He is a kind of 
 perfect man, a sort of chronometer, for other men to keep time 
 by. One is enough for a whole town. One is enough — two would 
 oe a superfluity, and a class of them simply a nuisance. A gen- 
 tleman should have feeling — but should hide it. People of nmeh 
 sentiment are like fountains, whose overflow keeps a disagreeable 
 puddle about them. He should have knowledge, bnt not like your 
 educated men of our day whose knowledge sings and crows and 
 cackles with every achievement. His knowledge should be like 
 apples in autumn hanging silently on the bows — rich, ripe and 
 ptill. A gentleman should be business-like by instinct. Affairs in 
 Sis hands come to pass silently and without ado, as Nature com- 
 passes her results — the vastest range and round of spring work 
 making less noise than one st;re or shop. I tell you, Ronheri, a 
 
'M NORWOOD. 
 
 gentleman is a rare specimen. He requires 10 mnoh in tlie mat 
 
 ing that few are made." 
 
 '■ But people consider you a gentleman, Uncle Eb." 
 
 " Tut, tut — ^no ridicule, young man I I am gentlemanly. That'a 
 another thing. I have worked too hiird, — showing that I had not 
 enough power. Power works easily. I Ijave fretted too much. 
 Fretting is a perpetual confession of weakness. It says, ' I want 
 to, and can't.' Fretting is like a little dog pawing aud whining at 
 a door because he can't get in. No, no. A gentleman is like a 
 fine piece of statuary, and m'tst not be used, like a caryatide, to 
 hold up porticos or cornices. He must be so fine that he accom- 
 plishes more while doing notliing than others do with all their 
 bustle. He must be better than other men at the start, or he wiL 
 grow rough in trying to mend matters, and so be like the best of 
 common men, who only succeed in getting ready to live when it ia 
 time for them to die." 
 
 "Is not Squire Perkins a gentleman? " 
 
 " Good and polite I But not rrey gentleman. His grain is not 
 fine. His mother was a sailor's widow, hearty and good- 
 natured, but coarse in substance. All that Judge Perkins can 
 claim is good nature, which is a mere matter of health. Good 
 digestion — you are good-natured; bud digestion — you are morose I 
 One of these days men will call things by their right names 
 Then they won't say : he's of a good disposition ; but, he has a 
 good stomach. Half the graee that's going is nothing but food. 
 Paul said the kingdom was not meat and drink. Very likely not 
 hereafter. But it is here. Good steak and liglit bread i^ benevo- 
 lence. Cofiee is inspiration and humor. Good tea is tenderness 
 and sprightliness— lacts very humbling of our excellences. But 
 they're facts. Perkins is a good fellow. But if he was old, had 
 the rheumatism, and was to have his money stolen, he would be 
 as sour as a crab-a])ple." 
 
 Young Wentworth was amused at his uncle's crotchets, and 
 loved to oppose him just enoui;h to keep the old gentlemen on th« 
 edge of extravagance, without bein;; fairly driven over into absurd 
 ity. 
 
 "No, Reuben, gentlemen are foi'e ordained from all eternity. 
 They can't be hurried up und put together on order, like a box of 
 shoes for the southern niai kel . A gen'lemar: n}Uit see everybodj 
 
THE WKN I WOKTHS. '2t) 
 
 without looking, and know everybody without inquiry, and saj 
 jnst the right thing to everybody without trying to ; and, above 
 all, he mast make everybody in his presence do the best thiugi 
 they know how to do. That's the touchstone. I've seen men 
 come almost up to it. But then they would let people get angry ; 
 they would suffer them to say and do disagreeable things. Tha 
 will never do. The gentleman is a natural king. He has the in 
 tuition of people's nature, and can touch just the spot in them 
 that is sweetest, and get out of them what they would never have 
 wrought out of themselves. One or two gentlemen are enough 
 for a town. They are steeples, which we put on churches, not on 
 dwelling-honsea." 
 
 •' Very well, uncle, I will give up being a gentleman. Such a 
 brilliant exception to good and well-bred men I was not bom to 
 be. Whatneitf" 
 
 " You should never make a clergyman of yourself. Ton are 
 not bad, but then you're not good. A man should be born to the 
 pulpit. A musician is one whose brain naturally secretes musical 
 ideas; a poet thinks in blossoms just as naturally as honeysuckles 
 do ; an inventor's head is made to work out mechanical combina- 
 tions. Men are like trees, each one must put forth the leaf that is 
 cireated in him. Education is only like good culture — it changei 
 the size but not the sort. The men that ought to preach shonld 
 be ordained in birth. The laying on of hands can't make an empty 
 head full, nor a cold heart warm, nor a silent nature vocal. A 
 minister ia a genius in moral ideas, as a poet is in beautiful ideas, 
 and an inventor in physical ideas." 
 
 " But are not all men bom with mora) natures, and may not 
 cultivation develop them f " 
 
 " So, many trees have sweet sap besides the maple, but the 
 maple only is so sweet as to be profitable for sugar. Oorn- 
 -lalks have saccharine matter as well as sugar-cane. But we 
 plant one for grain and the other for sugar, just because it is so 
 easy for one to bear grain, and so hard for it to make sugar ; and 
 so easy for the other to yield sugar, and so impossible to give 
 ?rain. Find out whetlier a man's head is fertile in moral ideas. 
 It is not enough that he should ^now what is right when he sees 
 it. He should see it before it exists. New good, new truth, 
 better justice shonld suggest itself to him on every side. He is an 
 
2(i XURWOOD. 
 
 Inventor of better good than men now possess. Tov/r head, Ben 
 ben, does not run clear; you think a matter is right if only it ia 
 neautiful, with a little touch of wildness in it. Besides, the office 
 of a minister won't agree with your natural carriage. You would 
 run when you were expected to walk. You have n& respect foi 
 rules. You would scare every body once a month with some nat- 
 tralistic notions gathered in your rambling in the fields Theology, 
 like old Isaac, always puts its nose on its children to see if the 
 smell of the fields is upon them. Isaac blessed Jacob because it 
 was ; theology blesses Jacob only when ii is not 1 Natural re- 
 ligion is generally considered as poor stuff. Fmpoi'ted is thought 
 'nore of than home-made — broadcloth proves better than linsey- 
 woolsey. The church thinks that it will not do to make religion 
 too easy ; folks might take it up of themselves. You were not 
 born for a pulpit. Few men are. Pulpits are queer places — can- 
 dlesticks whose candles won't burn — learned men, but can't speak, 
 like deep wells and a pump that won't fetch water." 
 
 " Ah, uncle, you don't like ministers, I am afraid. All that I 
 have ever known were capital fellows — manly and sincere. But, 
 as you say, I don't think I am good enough, and so I promise yon 
 upon my honor, that I won't be a clergyman." 
 
 In early life Uncle Eb. had been deeply wounded in a love 
 affair, and saw his treasure borne oflf by a young minister. He had 
 never married, and he never quite forgave the profession. But it 
 is only just to say, that while he made cynical speeches about min- 
 isters in general, he had conceived the warmest attachment to 
 many clergymen in particular. 
 
 " Perhaps yon think I'd better be a lawyer ? " 
 
 " There's worse things than that. But you would never make 
 your bread at that business. It's a hot and drastic profession. 
 Yon will see men chiefiy on the selfish side. You will be always 
 making a porridge of somebody's dirt. Pretty good fellows, lawyers 
 are ; but I wonder at it." 
 
 " I declare, nncle, I believe yon mean to make a sohoolmaster 
 of me." 
 
 "No, sir; a man should never be a sohoolmaster. That's a 
 woman's business. Be a professor or nothing I Even then it's a 
 poor business. Who ever heard of a college professor that was not 
 poort They dry up in pocket like spiinfr,- after the wood is cnj 
 
THE WENIWOUTHS. Zl 
 
 off from the hills. They are apt to get very dry In other wayh 
 too. A man that teaches canoot afford to know too much. A 
 teacher is like a needle. He should he small and sharp. If large, 
 he cannot run easily through the garments to be made. Th» 
 College President ought to be a great man — a sort of specimen,— 
 something foi- the boys to remember as a pattern of a man." 
 
 " Well, uncle, as I am not a born gentleman, and can't make e 
 good minister, am too good to be a lawyer, and must not be g 
 •choolmaster ; as I am too fat to be a professor, and not grand 
 enough for a president, — I am afraid I shall have to go to sea for a 
 .iving ; for I am not fit to work, and should sell myself out ol 
 bouse and home, if I was a merchant." 
 
 "There is just one thing left, and a business proper f(ir you 
 you should be a doctor 1 You love nature. You love chemistry 
 and botany. Yon are fond of all curious insearch and occult 
 functions. A doctor, it is true, is everybody's servant. But you 
 will be left to think and reason, without any master. And the 
 riding, especially in the country, will suit your desultory nature." 
 
 " And, to sum it all up, uncle, you want me to be a doctor, 
 because your father was one, and his father, and your brother, and 
 for fear a link should be missing, you want me to study medicine 
 Th»t you want it, is enoogh." 
 
CHAPTER VL 
 
 WANDKKING THOUGHTS. 
 
 YoDNG Wentworth, after graduating, took a regular course ol 
 (ledioine in Boston, with an average standing. By his uncle's lib 
 erality he spent a year in Vienna, and one in Paris. Longer he 
 was to have remained. But his uncle's sickness brought him 
 home, only in time to spend a few days with him before the ec- 
 centric but kind man died. His property was left to young Went- 
 worth, and it proved greater than men had suspected. Some for- 
 tunate adventures, and sagacious investments, had put his affairs 
 in such condition that his nephew found himself possessed of an 
 income that removed one motive for exertion, and left him to pur- 
 sue his profession from taste and kindness rather than from urgent 
 necessity. 
 
 Refusing most flattering overtures for a city practice, Dr. Went- 
 worth sought a sphere in Norwood, where he could be in daily 
 and intimate converse with nature. 
 
 "She is my mother," he used to say, "and all her brood are 
 my kin." 
 
 Dr. Wentworth would have succeeded in any liberal profession. 
 But his nature was peculiarly adapted to the profession which he 
 had chosen. Some men chill you; some cheer and inspire with 
 mirth or hnmor; some stir in you vague suspicion, doubts, and 
 distrust of men and life. But Dr. Wentworth's presence brought 
 peace and trust. He radiated from his nature a perpetual June 
 Singularly fortunate in temper and ilisposition, as well as in judg- 
 ment and philosophic sense, he was still more fortunate in the 
 rare gift of bearing unconsciously about with him an atmosphere 
 "vhich inspired health in body and soul upon those susceptible to 
 •nbtle influences. 
 
 This was a notable element in his medical practice. His skill 
 eoiisisted in persuading men to get well. Sickness is very largely 
 the want of will. Everything is brain. There is thought and feel- 
 ing not only, but will : and will includes in it far more than iiental 
 philosophers think. Tt arts nnivprsally, not only upon mind, but 
 
WANDERING THOUGHTS. 29 
 
 just as much upon the body. It is another name for life-force. 
 Men in whcm this life or will-power is great, resist disease, and 
 combat it when attacked. To array a man's mind and will against 
 his sickttess is the supreme art of medicine. Inspire in men courage 
 and purpose, and the mind-power will cast out disease. He was 
 himself the best medicine, and often cured by his presence thos* 
 whom drugs would have scarcely helped. These cures through 
 the spirit of the patient he regarded as far the most skilful and 
 philosophical. 
 
 "Nothing ails hor. It is only her imagination," said the nnrsa 
 to him one day. 
 
 " Only the imagination % That is enough. Better suffer in 
 bone and muscle than m the imagination. If the body is sick, the 
 mind can care it ; but if the mind itself is sick, what shall cure 
 thatf" 
 
 These elements of character, in time, w juld have procured for 
 him constant employment, even had he been poor, and in need of 
 immediate occupation. But as he had a competence, and abundant 
 occupation in his grounds and books, and in pleasant society, to 
 which his tastes strongly inclined him, he found his professional 
 services from the first in great demand ; and furnished another in- 
 stance of the willingness of men to aid those not in need, whUe 
 those who are likely to starve if not at once befriended are put on 
 a long probation. 
 
 For several years there was much pleasing and amiable specu- 
 lation upon the social prospects of this promising physician — and 
 surely the benevolence of his fellow-men is to be commended. 
 Well married, a man is winged — ill-matched, he is shackled. 
 
 The good people of Norwood were enterprising, and very busy. 
 They had little time, aside from their own affairs ; and yet so kind 
 were they, that scores of them spent much time in thinking for 
 Dr. Wentworth, and in cheerfully devising for him an eligible con- 
 nection. It is to be hoped that they were abundantly gratiiied, 
 when he found a wife, without their help. Certainly there was nc 
 offence which alienated their sympathy ; for, when Dr. "Went worth, 
 returning from a fortnight's absence, appeared, on Sunday morn- 
 •ug, in his pew at church, that pew became tl:'e centre of the 
 church, and ontmastered the choir and the pulpiti 
 
 " Who is this woman that is bi^fcer than all of nsf " loolced sc 
 
30 NORWOOD. 
 
 least a boon of girlish faces — and another sccib of graTei mothei 
 faces. Five or six in different parts of the house, in the most grav« 
 and decorous manner, spoke or whispered, each to some neighbor, 
 an edifying comment, as foUows : 
 
 " How old should yon take her to be ? " 
 
 " At least twenty-five." 
 
 " Thirty I not a year less." 
 
 " I don't think she cares much about dress ; do you ? She'i 
 ratlier too plain, if anything." 
 
 " Perhaps she depends on her manner. Do yon notice how gh« 
 rises, and sits down ? " 
 
 " She comes up about to the doctor's shoulders, don't she ? 
 That's so sweet, always. If ever I marry, I should want his 
 name to be Augustus, and he should have blue eyes, and my head 
 should come just up to his shoulders. I think that would be so 
 dear.'' 
 
 " Can yon see her hands 1 Has she many rings ? " 
 
 " Do you know if the doctor got anything by her ? Of course 
 he don't need it. He's got property enough of his own. But 
 then, I think it tends to peace in the family, if both bring a little 
 property. Money is of no use without piety. But, wl.en a man 
 )ias grace in his heart and money in his pocket, then he can have 
 peace both with God and man." 
 
 " I believe she's proud. I've watched her ever since she's come 
 in. And she hasn't looked around once. May be she thinks we 
 aint worth looking at." 
 
 " Well, for my part, I don't think so. People don't come here 
 to gape and stare, not if they're Christians. I b'lieve she's pious. 
 We shall know next sacrament-time. If she comes to prepara- 
 tory lecture and to sacrament, then you may know she's pious." 
 
 The sermon over, and the services ended, the minister, the 
 deacons, and a few of the leading memljers, were introduced to 
 the new comer. They hoped for a better acquaintance. They 
 should be happy to call. They hoped she was pleased with Nor 
 wood. How did she like the church ? Had she recovered from 
 the fatigue of her journey ? Had she ever been in Norwood be- 
 fore ? Deacon Trowbridge solemnly hoped she would be strength- 
 ened to meet her resionsibUities. And only spry and dry Deacon 
 Uarble ventured on a compliment 
 
WANDERIXG THOUGHTS. 31 
 
 " Well, ma'ain, Dr. 'Weiitworth allers was fond of Hoh pts, an* 
 i knew he'd pick a good one when he came to choose." 
 
 If the people whispered a few covert opinions in churcli, it wa» 
 a mere first-frnits of that harvest which waved during the inter- 
 mission. Except the minister, the doctor was, undoubtedly, th« 
 iiiost hnportant man in Norwood. 
 
 " Took us rather by surprise, Judge 1 Some folks thought tht 
 lootor needn't gone out of town for a wife." 
 
 " Perhaps it's of long standing. The doctor has a good deal of 
 romance. But she is of excellent family. I know them very well. 
 Game over in the Mayflower." 
 
 " Did she ? Wliy, she don't look so old ? " 
 
 " Bless you, looks are deceiving," said Jndge Bacon, his whole 
 face looking amused at Mr. Truman's misconception. 
 
 Many there were that had a conscience about conversing on 
 such themes upon Sunday. Mr. Edwards and liis sister w.ilked in 
 a stately and quiet manner, without a word ; and, as he carefully 
 latched the gate, Dr. Wentworth and his wife were passing. Of 
 coarse, he heartily shook hands, but not a word did he speak, nor 
 his sister, after entering their tree-embosomed house. Sabbath 
 reigned in their house and in their hearts. 
 
 The Miss Marshes, two sensible spinsters, found themselves 
 among several neighbors, all in full criticism. Various were the 
 reports and the hungry questions ; but not a word could the plain 
 old maids be got to say, good or ill. 
 
 " What do you think. Miss Anna ? " said a neighbor to the eldest, 
 sister. 
 
 " I don't think anything about it." 
 
 " But you noticed her, didn't you ? " 
 
 " No more th.in I did others. I hope to find her a pleasing per- 
 son, when I shall know her. Did yon not think the sermon Jn- 
 n?nally instructive to-day ? " 
 
 " The sermon ? Oh, yes ; I'd most forgot about that. What 
 was the text ? La, me — I've forgot the text. My husband is sick, 
 and I shall have to tell him about the sermon. What was it, — 
 f/omething about — minding our own business, or something— no 
 aoctrine — nothing but morality. Do tell me wliere the text was." 
 
 Hiram Beers, as usual, had gathered about him a knot of young 
 men around the cLuroh door, and of those staying during the in 
 
NORWOOD. 
 
 temuk. .on, wxd qnite a nmnber of girls Lad been drawn to hsai 
 what liiram would say — for Hiram's speeches belonged to the 
 whole town. 
 
 " I think the doctor is a love of a man ; and oh, I should like t^ 
 know about his courtship." 
 
 Hiram overheard the whisper in which a Miss of fifteen hail 'tM 
 this to her companion, and, assuming a confident air, he says : 
 
 " Why, Matilda, I know all about it. I drove the doctor ov 
 you know, and he told me all about it I " 
 
 "He did J Oh, do tell ns I " 
 
 " That I will — every word. Yon see the doctor meant to marry 
 Miss Naxon, till he saw Miss Ferris ; and he might have decided 
 between them, but then Miss Qreanleaf came to town, and then 
 there was three of 'em ! On lookin' into the matter the doctor 
 found that he liked them just alike, to a grain, and as the law 
 wouldn't let him marry all of 'em he couldn't take one without 
 leaving two ; and that, yon see, would have been two griefs to one 
 joy — not a fair bargain. So he was forced to go to Boston.'' 
 
 " Why, what did he go to Boston for ? " 
 
 " Well, that's a pretty question 1 That's the only place to go 
 to I Why, if a man wants anything he alius goes to Boston. 
 Kverything goes there, just as natural as if that city was the 
 moon, and everything else was water, and had to go, like the tides. 
 Don't you know aU the railroads go to Boston? and sailors say — 
 you ask Tommy Tafts — if you start anywhere clear down in Flori- 
 dy and keep up along the coast, you wiD fetch up in Boston. 
 They have to keep things tied up around there. They fasten their 
 trees down, and have their fences hitched, or they would all of 
 'em whirl into Boston. They have watchers set every night, or 
 so many things would come to admire Boston that the city woulc' 
 be covered down like Herculaneum. Of course the doctor weiii 
 to Boston. Every single one of the first chop folks was marrieil 
 off the week afore he got there, but one; there was just one left. 
 But she was the very best of the lot. The doctor saw her in Old 
 South church. She was a singin', ' Gome ye disconsolate.' The 
 minuie she set her eyes on the doctor " 
 
 By this time the boys were snickering, and the girls giggling 
 and our honest-faced little questioner began to doubt TTiraim't .s?- 
 thentifiity. " Now, Hiram, I don't be i'jvi; a word you say.'' 
 
■WANDERING THOUGHTS. 33 
 
 " Well, if you don't believe ne, you just aik the doctor hiu) 
 self." 
 
 Not a smile was on his face. He looked at his listeners one l-^ 
 one with a quizzical solemnity, for a second, and then, as one wlit 
 remembered pressing duties elsewhe -e, he walked away in exact 
 imitation of the minister's gait. 
 
 Deacon Marble expressed to his wife Polly his good impressions 
 of the doctor's wife, as they rode home in their rattling one-horse 
 wagon. 
 
 " I should be glad to see the old mansion looking life-like again, 
 as it did when Saltonatall was alive — flue old house. Mebbe too 
 many trees round. The doctor sets a store on the trees, though. 
 But the old place will spruce up, I guess, with a new wife." 
 
 " That's a pretty speech, Deacon Marble, as if the doctor harfr't 
 lived three years, and liad Agate Bissell for liousekeeper, atid a 
 smarter and better you won't find if you saroh the whole State. 
 Anybody that takes her place has got to stir round. I'm one that 
 don't b'lieve there'll ever be any better housekeeper in tlnix, old 
 mansion than Agate Bissell. There wasn't a chimney in town 
 that smoked afore hers did in the morning, and there wasn't one 
 house kept cleaner. After she'd scrubbed a floor you might eat 
 your vittals off it, if it was'nt for the name oft. I don't b'lieve 
 my pans are any cleaner, nor the milk any whiter than her rooms. 
 And then it wasn't any Pharisee-work. She ain't one of those 
 folks that makes the outside clean, and leaves the inside. It would 
 do you good to look in her closets and cupboards, and drawers and 
 boxes. It was as good as a picture. I don't b'lieve there was a 
 spider in the house, from cellar to garret. She was allers cleanin 
 and lookin', and huntin' and rubbin'." 
 
 "Yes, Polly, I gness you're right. I've got a woman down to 
 my house purtey much the same sort. I kinder pity the dirt — ^it 
 has a hard time in our house I" 
 
 Even Polly was liable to temptation, and her face looked as it 
 had forty years ago, when compliments had brought a smile to it. 
 But she was so thin — all nerve, bone and skin — that smiles elippea 
 oflF easily, and left the same ansious and earnest face. 
 
 " There's no wastin' where Agate Bissell is. She can make a 
 cent go as far as most folks' shillin.' She's had a hard time of it, 
 too. The doctor's not particular and he wouldn't let her put liii 
 
H4 NORWOOD. 
 
 Study to-rights. Ton know it's s great room, running the whole 
 depth of the house, and full of hooks and stuff, and pictures, ano 
 engravin's, and stacks of all sorts of things, and the table full oi 
 rubbish, and chairs full of portfolios, and he'd never let Agate Bis- 
 nell touch 'em. It was awful. 
 
 " ' Nobody can tell,' she says to me, ' how I long to get in there.' 
 The doctor '11 have much to answer for ! " 
 
 "Yes, yes, Agate Bissell is distressin' neat. The mice have a 
 hard time in her house — starved 'em out, I'm told — saved the oat'a 
 board by it. She is dreadful particnlarl " 
 
 There was something in the deacon's tone whicn *liU not suit 
 hia wife, and she sharply edified him : 
 
 "I wish you was half as particular, Deacon Marble, with youi 
 tongue as Agate Bissell is with her hands. Then yon wouldn't 
 make such foolish speeches as you do. You must needs compli- 
 raent her, right in church, and afore the ministerl " 
 
 " I compliment her? " 
 
 " Oh, don't make strange of it. I heerd what you said about 
 flowers. So did .she. Such kind of talk ain't thrown away. II 
 sticks like burs, and makes f<ilks think you like 'em more'n you 
 do. Talking roses and poses to the gii-ls is not becomin' in a 
 deacon." 
 
 The deacon gave his horse a cut with his whip, and, being 
 spirited, the animal suddenly sprang with a jerk that seemed likely 
 to snap his wife's head off. If the mischievous man meant to pu« 
 an end to the discourse, which was likely from this point to be- 
 come personal, he succeeded. 
 
 How they ever made a deacon out of Jerry Marble I nevpi 
 could imagine ! His was the kindest heart that ever bubbled and 
 ran over. He was elastic, tough, incessantly active and a pro 
 digioiis worker. He seemed never to tire, but after the longest 
 day's toil, he sprang up the moment he bad done with work, :w i 
 he -viere a fine steel spring. A few hours' sleep sufficed bim, am' 
 lie saw the morning stars the year round. His weazened face w;i« 
 leather color, but f irever dimpling and changing to keep some sort 
 of congrnity between itself and his eyes, that winked and blinked, 
 and spilt over with merry good n.iture. He always seemed afflicted 
 when obliged to be sober. He had been known to laugh in meet- 
 ing on several occasions, although he ran his face behind bis band- 
 
WANDERING THOUGHTS. 35 
 
 kerchief and coughed, as if that was the matter, yet nobody be 
 lieved it. Once, in a hot summer day, he saw Deacon Trowbridge, 
 a sober and fat man, of great sobriety, gradually ascending from 
 the bodily state into that spiritual condition called sleep. He was 
 blameless of the act. He had struggled against the temptation 
 with the whole virtue of a deacon. He had eaten two or three 
 heads of fennel in vain, and a piece of orange peel. He had stir- 
 red himself up, and fixed his eyes on the minister with intense 
 firmness, only to have them grow gradually narrower and milder. 
 If he held his head up firmly, it would with a sudden lapse fall 
 away over backward. If he leaned it a little forward, it would 
 drop suddenly into his bosom. At each nod, recovering himself, 
 he would nod again, with his eyes wide open, to impress upon tha 
 boys that he did it on purpose both times. 
 
 In what other painful event of life has a good man so littlu 
 sympathy as when overcome with sleep in meeting time? Against 
 the insidious seduction he arrays every conceivable resistance. He 
 stands up awhile ; he pinches himself, or pricks himself with pins. 
 He looks np helplessly to the pulpit as if some succor might pos- 
 sibly come thence. He crosses his legs uncomfortably, and at- 
 tempts to recite catechism, or the multiplication table. He seizes 
 a languid fan, which treacherously leaves him in a calm. He tries 
 to reason, to notice the phenomena. Oh, that one could carry his 
 pew to bed with him 1 What tossing wakefalness there I what 
 fiery chase after somnolency! In his lawftil bed a man cannot 
 sleep, and in his pew he cannot keep awake 1 Happy man who^ 
 does not sleep in church I Deacon Trowbridge was not that man. 
 Deacon Marble was ! 
 
 Deacon Marble witnessed the conflict we have sketched above, 
 and when good Mr. Trowbridge gave his next lurch, recovered 
 himself with a snort, and then drew out a red handkerchief and 
 blew his nose with a loud imitation, as if to let the boys know that 
 he had not been asleep, poor Deacon Marble was brought to a 
 Bore strait. But, I have reason to think that he would have 
 weathered the stress if it had not been for a sweet-faced little boy 
 in the front of the gallery. The lad had been innocently watching 
 the same scene, and at its climax laughed out loud, with a frank 
 and musical explosion, and then suddenly disappeared backward 
 into his mother's lap. That laugh was just too much, and Deaoos 
 
36 XORWOOD. 
 
 Marble could no more help laughing than could Doacon Trow- 
 bridge help sleeping. Nor could le conceal it. Though he 
 coughed, and pat uphiB handkerchief anj hemmed — it was a laugl 
 — Deacon ! — and every boy in the house knew it, and liked you 
 better for it — so inexperienced were they 1 
 
 Polly, his wife, was all that the deacon was not. No one had 
 ever known her to laugh. Her utmost indulgence amounted only 
 to a pale and vanishing smile, which looked more like a shadow 
 crossing the face than sunlight upon it. Of a nervous, bilious 
 temperament, she was thin, acute, intense and earnest to the last 
 atom of her existence. There was no gradation or perspective in 
 her conscience. The least wrong wac a full-sized sin ; and the 
 smallest sin was worse than we can measure. Great sins were a 
 terror for the future life, not for this. Of many edifying instruc- 
 tions which at different times he received, we will select but one, 
 which occurred some years before Wentworth's marriage, but 
 might, from its tenor, just as well be inserted in connection with 
 that event, or at any other period during a score of years, for that 
 matter. 
 
 "Deacon Marble, I wonder what you think will become of 
 you I Such levity in the house of God is awful. I shouldn't 
 wonder a minute if you was to be struck dead. You know that 
 the man was destroyed for pickin' up chips and sticks on Sunday, 
 and laughing is a good deal worse, especially in the house of Gnd. 
 I always said that I couldn't imagine why they ever made you 
 deacon — a man whose eyes and face are always agoin' as if they 
 were makin' fun of the sacred office.'' 
 
 The image raised by these last words seemed to touch th« 
 deacon's sense of the ludio. ous, and he fell under the temptation 
 again — though riding home, on Sunday, in full sight of his neigh- 
 bors. 
 
 "I declare, Deacon Marble, yon will bring reproach on reli- 
 gion." And looking at him through her spectacles, whose glasses 
 were about four times the size of the eyes that snapped heliind 
 them, she continued — " I think deacon-timber was scarce when 
 they picked you out." 
 
 "Mercy on us, Polly, I didn't make mvself a deacon, and 1 
 didn't make myself, anyhow. I 'spose I perform pretty much as 1 
 waa bnllt. But, 1 never saw any hariB in laughing. If it's a sin. 
 
WAXii]:i;iX(; iiiocohts. 37 
 
 I can't see what the Lord lets so many fanny things hapi.ien for. 
 I don't go and make things funny ! They come to me. The 
 whole world is full of queer things, and it aint my fault if I see 
 them." 
 
 "That's your vain way. It don't seem to me that you can 
 have any conscience about laughing at improper times and things. 
 I once beard you snicker at a funeral. Besides, it leads to deceit. 
 You know you hadn't any nose-bleed when you went out of chnrclj 
 ast summer, holding your handkerchief all over your face. I saw 
 what 'twas. You was looking at that naughty, wicked boy puttin' 
 a piece of grass in that man's ear, and he givin' himself a box on 
 the ear — which he ought to have laid ou the boy's ear." 
 
 Poor Marble went off into another burst, at the remembrance. 
 " Wliy, Polly, he thought it was a tly, and he raised his big hand, 
 so sly and cunuing, to give the fly a wipe, and hit his own ear," 
 — at which point he went off again into a chuckle, producing a 
 churning motion all over his body. 
 
 Now, there was not another deacon in town that did so many 
 good turns to those in trouble; and though his infirmity was known, 
 sick people liked to have the little, spry old Deacon Marble com<j 
 to pray at their bedsides. And when Widow Nance's cow died m 
 calf, it was from Marble's yard, the very next night, that a cow 
 was driven, and put in her yard. All the poor old shacks about 
 town found a friend in Deacon Marble. This, too, was a source 
 of much trouble to his guardian angel at home. 
 
 " I do believe you would rather spend your time with those 
 shiftless reprobates than with the Lord's own saints." 
 
 "There's sartainly a pick among saints, Polly; but those poor 
 creeturs don't mean any harm half the time; and nobody seems 
 to pity them, and everybody's always pickin' at 'em and flndin' fault 
 with 'em. Somebody ought to have a kind side to 'em." 
 
 " They should behave better, then. There's no excuse for wick- 
 edness. '■Fir%t pure, then peaceable,' Deacon. That settles it. 1 
 wisli you was like Deacon Trowbridge. Did you ever see Pete, 
 and Hiram Beers, and Ephe Barnes, hanging round him? Do yon 
 tielieve he'd spend his money in givin' gi ngerbread and flre-crackers 
 to all the tatterdemalion boys, on trainin' days? " 
 
 Deacon Marble admitted facts. The very idf a of such conduct 
 ■eeined to raise a picture before him unauited tc nobriety. 
 
38 XORWOOD. 
 
 ■' What are you laughing at now ? You are as full of levity ai 
 dies are. Would you laugh if you was dying ? I really believe yon 
 would I To think of it I A deacon, at your time of life, chirpin' aa 
 if you was a oricliet — and goin' round, as if you was nothin' bet- 
 ttr'n a bird, singing and hoppin', instead of being a deacon, with 
 an immortal soul in him 1 Sometimes I ».m afoerd you are in the 
 gall of bitterness yet. You ought to examine your evidences, 
 Deacon. Laughing is not one of the signs of grace, Fm sure. It's 
 awful to be deceivea ; and you've a good many reasons to fear that 
 you are deceivin' yourself." 
 
 Don't confound Mrs. Polly Marble with a mere scold. She was 
 a woman of the utmost worth. She was full as severe upon her 
 own doings as upon those of her other self, the deacon. She, too, 
 was an excessive worker. Her vitality, if it were possible, was 
 greater than lier husband's. When she had risen at four o'clock, 
 and, except at meals and prayers, had been on her feet every 
 moment till night, up stairs and down, in the dairy, in the cellar, 
 in the barn, in the wood-house, in chamber and kitchen, performing 
 the multifarious duties of a farmer's wife with the most anxious and 
 conscientious fidelity, she seemed not to have lost a particle ot 
 energy, but was still fresh, vital, and intense. 
 
 Nor was Mrs. Polly Marble a mere drudge. She was inquisitive 
 of everything that went on in the world. She rend the Missionary 
 Herald every month, and the Boston Recorder every week, without 
 the omission of a line. She remembered whatever pa 'sed in church. 
 She rode every week into town for an afternoon female prayer- 
 meeting, and stayed to the night lecture, and yet no one could say 
 that aught was neglected, on these days, at home. 
 
 Her domestic lectures must not, therefore, be confounded wit! 
 those which spring from irritableness, but must rank with the 
 conscientious labors of anxious natures, who feel conscientiously 
 sailed to make the world better, and who use their tongue as the 
 most convenient instrument at hand. 
 
 Well, tills will ULM XT d(j ! \\\' have quite forgotten Dr. Went^ 
 worth and his huppy household. But so reall_\ happy were the\ 
 all in that old mansion (for they never seemed more mellow. 
 ;.M.'.nial, and hospitable, llian siaee this little child eame), that the-\' 
 would not have known it if the whole world had nep;leeted them ! 
 
 Two years had ]iassed liusily and happily away, when the e\eiit 
 
WANDEKIXd THdrOHI'S 3# 
 
 Occurred of w hich we have spoken, in the fifth chapter, and s girl 
 was given to the household. The mother would call it Rose — for 
 that was a favorite sisttr's iiauie. The father called it Rose, for 
 ihat united her to the tiowers he bo uiUih loved. Others called 
 lier Piose, hecause it vfas so sweet a name for a girl ; and tharefoi* 
 fiht' was named Rob« Wentworth I 
 
CHAPTER VH. 
 
 A MBEET OHAPTBi 
 
 A WA0O5 loaded with empty barrels drove up tr- Tomt jy Taft's 
 one morning. 
 
 " Mr. Brett wants to know if you can fix those barrels to-day i 
 The heads want resetting, and all of 'era want hoops. These two, 
 he says, want two iron hoops apiece, besides the hickory." 
 
 "Getaway with your barrels! Do you think I'm going to 
 work to-day ? No, by Josey — 1 don't as long as ' I can read my 
 title clear I ' It would be Just as wicked to work to-day as if it 
 was a Sabby day." 
 
 " Why, what's the matter, Uncle Tommy ? " 
 
 " Matter enough — matter enough ! We've got another baby ! 
 Old woman's lip there now. I'm goin' up to theprospect. Work? 
 Not by a jug-full I Tumble off your barrels! They won't spile 
 afore to-morrow. Where's old Smasher? Oome here, old fellow. 
 Let's go up to the doctor's." 
 
 From such an address one would look to see some man appear 
 as Uncle Tommy's companion. But it was to his wooden leg that 
 he addressed the endearing epithet of old Smasher. 
 
 Tommy Tatt was about forty-Sve years old. A big head he 
 had, round, and bald down to the top of his ears, but at that 
 point, for some reason, the hair refused fo retreat, and sprang up 
 with sucli vigor that it looked like an ahattia ; as if the hair, 
 driven down from thp heights, determined to make a stand and 
 flght for its rights. His eyes were small, gray, sunk deeply be- 
 neath bold eyebrows, whose hair was wonderfully luxuriant, curl- 
 ing over, and standing out, in immense profusion. A big nose, 
 that hung on his face like an old-fashioned door-knocker, and a 
 wide mouth, completed his portrait, which was framed in by 
 bushy whiskers, carried under his chin, leaving the chin and both 
 lips shorn smooth. His voice was rough and deep, ai.d his man- 
 ner, of all sorts that ever were found in man, except always a re- 
 fined manner. He had been a sailor all his long life, and brought 
 
A MERUV (JHAl-TEB. 41 
 
 Inland into this qniet vOlage all the odd and ontlandiBh wayt^ 
 which a sea-faring life, in olden times, was wont to hreed. 
 
 Why is it that chUdren take to these great shaggy natures, , 
 seemingly attracted by those very appeai-ances which would seem ] 
 likely to repel tlem ? Children act by sympathy. A warm heart i 
 attracts them, and when once a child's confidence is gained, those ■ 
 rudenesses of person become agreeatle, as something out of the ' 
 common way. It is that element in manners or person, which the 
 heart inspires, that wins children. 
 
 Who in the village did not like Tommy ? Not a child imdei 
 fifteen, certainly. His poor old shop and house was the fascina- 
 tion of all the young folks of the village and of the country 
 round. The ground floor was a cooper shop and general tinker- 
 ing establishment ; up stairs were two rooms, plain to rudeness, 
 ■4nA as rough in furnishing as if they had been hewed out and 
 fitted by a sailor's axe on a desolate island after a shipwreclc, 
 and of as ill-assorted materials as a shipwreck would be apt to 
 cast up. Yet, there was an indescribable air of comfort and peace 
 in the two rooms. 
 
 When Uncle Tommy was good natnred he seemed always to 
 be comically in sympathy with his wife, in external things. He 
 was always good natured when he was sober. He was sober near- 
 ly nine-tenths of his time. When these infrequent moods were 
 on him he was apt to be profane, but never blasphemous or foul. 
 He alternated, during such excesses, between scolding his wife, 
 and religious exercises of various kinds. 
 
 " It's as good as a play," said Hiram, " to hear Uncle Tommy 
 when he gets the steam up." 
 
 But as soon as he recovered from his aberration, Tommy came 
 down from his height of morality and religion, and became 
 gracious and helpful, with a rough disinterestedness which was 
 quite touching. All the children repaired to him, to have their 
 toys mended, for which he could never be persuaded to take a 
 penny. Boys' knives with broken backs, or blades, or handles, 
 went into hospital with him ; their skates and sleds in winter, 
 and their kites, and traps, and gun-locks in summer, were his 
 peculiar charge, and his invariable answer was, " Oh, we mustn't 
 charge children anything." The cheery old fellow was full of qnipi 
 and pranks, of stories of adventure, drawn from his former sea- 
 
4:2 xuKvvuuu. 
 
 taring life, or Irom the full volume of sailors' yams, which had 
 accumulated in his long years of cruising. While he was willin? 
 CO take coiiipcusatidii froiD grown people, he was sure to reject 
 any attempt on the parents' part to requite him by overpayment 
 for his services to their children. 
 
 He was known, too, to perform services for those poorer than 
 himself, who were also more helpless. An old black woman who 
 lived by " washing," had fallen sick with rheumatism ; Uncle 
 Tommy was heard every evening for a week, sawing away busily 
 at her wood, until he had provided enough for her needs. A gate 
 that had got unhinged, would some morning be found safely tink- 
 ered back to its duty. 
 
 If a poor creature's bucket was going to pieces, in some mys- 
 terious manner it got to itself a new hoop, and the pail was secured 
 again, by a rivet in the ear. The pump-pin was replaced when lost 
 by a new one. These and such like services he delighted to ren- 
 der freely to those who were comparatively helpless. 
 
 The jolly old fellow had a wink and a word for everybody, and 
 his passage through the street was celebrated by a stirring, merry 
 out-burst, and to everybody according to his kind. 
 
 It was impossible to separate between his humor and earnest- 
 ness, between conviction and waggery. 
 
 Good Parson Buell sometimes visited his shop in the regular 
 ronnds of parochial duty, and attempted to talk faithftiUy with him. 
 Tommy owned every thing — made no resistance — yea, went before 
 the minister and beyond him, in self-accusations. 
 
 " Do yon not feel that you are a sinner ? " 
 
 " I know that I am. Parson, a sinner — an awful sinner ; and 
 without excuse. I live below my privileges ; I don't live up to my 
 light and knowledge. To set under such preachin' as I do. Parson 
 Buell, and not to be better'n I am, is a great sin ; and I'm afeerd 
 that I get harder and harder, and that I am puttin' off the day oi 
 repentance, and sinnin' away my opportunities, and wastin' my day 
 of grace. It is a surprisin' thing in me ! I don't wonder that you 
 are alarmed at my case. Parson. It is a very alarmin' case — I know 
 it is. It has been alarmin' for more'n forty years. I ought to re 
 pent, that's sartain I Why shonldntJJ It is well said that it i» 
 time for sinners to be surprised in Zion. i The rest of the varB« 
 too, is very alarmin'. '^'I'V among us shall dwell with devcnrin 
 
A iJERRV CHAl'TKR. 4.*^ 
 
 fire, and who among us shall dwell with everlastin' burnings! ' It 
 is sartinly time that I should repent of my evil thoughts, and my 
 drinkin', and of my swearin', and of my manifold evil ways and 
 deeds, and I hope, Parson, you will pray for me." 
 
 This and such like speeches were not said with the slightest 
 accent of drollery and still less of scofSng. Dr. Bnell himself 
 oould not have uttered them in a manner more entirely proper. 
 lie never seemed in liaste to finish the conversation. He would 
 'lUow the parson to the gate, still descanting on the sinfulness of 
 sin, and admitting every argument, and bringing it home upon him- 
 self with such a zeal that Dr. Buell found nothing to do. As the 
 good man left, an indescribable sense of mirth twinkled in Tommy's 
 eyes, and happy was the child that needed his services after a visit 
 I'rom his pastor. He langhed and bubbled over with fun, and con- 
 trived some new plaything, or rejoiced the urchin with some queer 
 story, and sent him home happy as a king 1 
 
 Tommy Taft was always a sailor. Among other notions was 
 that of eating with his sheath-knife, which was an exaggerated jack- 
 knife, with a hole bored in the handle and tied to his belt, which 
 lie wore instead of suspenders, by a long yarn or string. At table 
 lie \\rould draw out old Bouser, as be named it, and refuse any other 
 knife. 
 
 Could any contrast be greater than his wife! Gentle, patient, 
 happy, with an undertone of sadness, which was a shadow to the 
 high light ; refined in expression, delicate in action. She seemed 
 like a morning glory that had mnnp on the knots and rugged bark 
 of an oak tree. Whatever rough usage she received at his hands, 
 none ever knew of it from her; whatever discrepancy or uncon- 
 geniality there might be between them, there was no sign of it. 
 
 Every day, when her home duties were done. Mother Taft 
 slipped forth for an hour to see some person in trouble. She had 
 a remarkable instinct in finding out trouble. Better than a physi- 
 cian or the nurse, she knew who was sick. Better than the clergy- 
 man, she knew who was in sorrow. Uor is it extravagant to say, 
 chat, better than all these, she knew the art of bringing consolation 
 to those who were in sadness. Whatever the history of her own past 
 life, lier victory had made her a leader for others in the dark land, 
 
 When Widow Barnes' only boy was brought home dead, flung 
 I'om a horse in a drunken race, on a mnster-day, the first person 
 
44 NORAVOOD. 
 
 who came, after his companions had laid him down, wa« Mothei 
 Taft. All that night she was with her— in silence herseL' — doing 
 everything, listening to tlie mother's distracted utterances, keeping 
 away intrusive curiosity ; and with exquisite instinct, encouraging 
 her grief, tliiit it might spend itself, and be the sooner comforted. 
 
 When Maggie Keech Ijad been turned out of her father's house, 
 it was Mother Taft that went after her, and brought her to her 
 own chamber, and nursed her in her sickijess, and when she was 
 •gain strong enough to worli, scoured for ^^er, in a neighboring 
 town, a place. Happily, the babe had dieti 
 
 Go where yon w(jul(l, you would soon nn. t Mother Taft there, 
 if there was trouble. Like Uncle Tommy, she received wages oi 
 jhe prosperous, but of those in moderate circumstances nothing 
 would she take. She served others for the reason that birds sing, 
 because she loved to; for tlie reason that dews fall upon flowers, 
 because such is the nature wliich Heaven gave to her. Born in 
 the air, the dew hides in the day-time, but comes to all things in 
 their night and darkness to deck them in beauty. 
 
 How odd that she should ever have married such a man I But 
 they were so utterly unlike that she could not help it. Her peace- 
 fulness felt the attraction of his great, boisterous way. Her silence 
 marvelled at his elemental talk, which rained, and blew, and a1 
 times burst out into squalls, as if his mouth were the very cave of 
 the winds. Her trustful simplicity admired his shrewdness and 
 penetration of human nature. Her literal soul, that never con 
 ceived a jest, nor understood wit or humor, how could it helf 
 going to a nature whose every sentence was so balanced that it 
 might be taken either way — earnest or ironical ? 
 
 In one of these New England villages, there is nothing so 
 original and racy as a great strong nature that dares to say jngt 
 what it thinks. Common people are restrained by law, by mora 
 teachings, by public sentiment, by interest, by fear. Their real 
 thoughts are smothered, or kept alive in silence. They dare not 
 coin them into words and put them in circulation. They becom* 
 so used to caution and social conformity, that they cease at length 
 to know how much each man is the echo of the other. 
 
 Then comes along a great-footed man, like an elephant, witl 
 nothing tc gain or lose by men's opinions, and determined to eaj 
 (fhat he has o mind to. 
 
A JIKdRV CIIAl'TEB. 45 
 
 He runs agcinst custom, throws down the fences,pliingefc acroM 
 gardens and fields ' If, however, he has a human heart, and at 
 bottom is just and kind, men come to admire his audacity, and to 
 Btijoy his blunt speeches, especially if he have great faults. Men's 
 irinrmities are the strongest bonds of sympathy. No matter how 
 much better a man is than we, he shall be forgiven if he is also in 
 some things a great deal weaker than we. Uncle Tommy was 
 poor — that was one good fault; he was never "overcome," but 
 sometimes he was "exalted" by strong drink — that was another 
 redeeming fault. Being a sinner, men forgave his liberties I 
 
 " No work to-day. Tell old Brett, if he don't like it, to cooper 
 his own barrels ! We've got a baby, up at the doctor's. I'm going 
 to put on Smasher, and go up and see how things are gettin' on." 
 
 Soon he bolted out upon the street, and, on coming up to the 
 corner, Hiram Beers shouted out across the street : 
 
 " Halloo, old Dot-and-Go-One ! where are you bound ? " 
 
 "Better put a snaffle-bit in your mouth, my old jockey, to hold 
 that tongue of yours. They say you opened singin'-school for the 
 crows, Hiram, and they wouldn't come, 'cos it made their voices 
 rough imitating yours — did ye ? " 
 
 Hiram looked up the street, as if listening to something in the 
 road, and then, with a look of feigned surprise, said : 
 
 " Why, I thought I heard a two-hoss wagon rimnin' away. 
 Was that your leg. Tommy, making such a rattle? Why don't you 
 lie it? When you go along the street, I should think a hundred 
 cupboard-doors were caught in a gale of wind I " 
 
 Having thus exchanged amiable salutations, Hiram came over. 
 " How are you, old customer, anyhow ? " 
 
 " Jolly as a crew just paid off. Goin' down to see my lady. 
 Old woman been down there for a month — child born two days 
 •go — goin' down to see it." 
 
 All the children born under the administration of Mother Taft 
 Tommy considered as belonging to his family, and always spoke of 
 them as his own. A stranger would hear him recount his children 
 with amazement at the extent of his parentage. 
 
 A little further on one might have heard, lond enough for 
 deaf man's ears, a new salutation. 
 
 " Good morning. Parson Buell, good morning 1 You're looking 
 well. Study too much, I expect ; but ye stand it well. Good set- 
 
46 XfiKWOOD. 
 
 mons ain't drawn np tasj as buckets of water I Have m work foi 
 'em. Miglity sermon that, Sunday morningi This old sinner felt 
 it. Says I, ' if there wasn't another soul that knew it, there wai 
 two in that audience that knew what a good sermon was, and that 
 was Parson Buell and Tommy Taft I ' Am goin' down to Went- 
 worth's. Wouldn't you like to go ? I'm not ashamed to be seer 
 walkin' with you 1 You see, I can get you in. Wouldn't let com- 
 mon folks in so early. But Ma'am Taft, you know, has adyanta^e;- 
 and will give us a sight." 
 
 Then, his voice changing and lowering, he added: 
 
 " Parson Buell, it's the unaccountablest thing what the Lord 
 sends children into this world for, considerin' what sort of a place 
 'tis, and what a time folks have in gettin' thro' it. Lordl They 
 die off like apple-blossoms, half on 'em, afore tliey're bigger'n mice. 
 And the rest of 'em have a hard time gittin' grown, and when 
 you've got 'em growed, half the folks are paddling round as if tliey 
 didn't exactly know what they come on airth for ; and nobody can 
 tell 'em, for that matter. I never see babies but I think how we 
 used to have birds come aboard ship, way out to sea — landbirds, 
 and so tired, poor little things, and hungry. Yon could go up to 
 'em and take 'em in your hand, and they turned up their bright 
 eyes with such a piteous look at you, as ^f they had come from 
 ever so far, and lost their way, and didn't know where they were. 
 Wall, that's about what I think of babies. What do they come 
 off to this 'ere world for? Why don't they stay where they're 
 weU off? " 
 
 Buell was well used to all Tommy Taft's vagaries, and he had 
 that good sense and tact among men which enabled him to take 
 every one in his own way; so he walked onward with Uncle 
 Tommy to Dr. Wentworth's gate, talking just enough to avoid a 
 conversation. 
 
 Uncle Tommy 's expectations were fully realized. Though visit- 
 i>rs were not yet expected, yet Mother Taft proved a friend at 
 court. Parson Bnell had humored queer Tommy Taft, not expect 
 iiig that he would succeed. When he found himself invited in, he 
 leigu would decline. Tommy would not allow it. "Never'll do 
 in the world. Parson ; shouldn't have come so far, if you didn't 
 mean to go further. Oan't get away now. Must go in if ye'r* 
 oivil." 
 
A MEKRY CHAPTER. 47 
 
 "But, Taft," said the perplexed worthy, "I have anothm 
 
 errand. You must excuse me." 
 
 •• Parson Buell, you know excuses are dangeronB. Ton slionldn't 
 sKirk your duty. Duties never conflict, you said, only 8abby-day 
 morning last. Don't you remember! Hope you don't forget 
 your own sermons. Parson. That's other folks' business." 
 
 And 80, like a slow ship with a tng pulling away at its 
 side, Buell found himself, half langhing and half vexed, ushered 
 in by Tommy under circnmstances slightly inclining to the ludi- 
 crous. 
 
 The babe was brought down by Mother Taft, Agate Bissell fol- 
 lowing. She was now again housekeeper, as she had been prime 
 minister to Mrs. Wentworth ever since her arrival in Norwood. 
 For, in this tall, slender New-England woman, she discerned from 
 the first, an amount of energy, conscientious fidelity, and real 
 affection, which paid a thousand times over for the inconveniences 
 arising from her hard manner, her inflexible precision, and her des- 
 potic regularity. 
 
 Tommy seized the babe from his wife 's arms, and fairly danced 
 •rith delight. He chuckled, and chirruped, and Ho-ho 'd, as if his 
 reason had left him. Rough as he was, no nurse ever held a -babe 
 more tenderly and dextrously. 
 
 But when he suddenly thrust it upon Parson Buell, who was 
 talking with stately Agate Bissell, the good minister held it in his 
 bands as if it was something which he dared not drop and could 
 not hold. 
 
 " "Why, what 's the matter ? " said Tommy, " is it hot that ye 
 are so awkward about it ? " 
 
 Mother Taft came to his relief, and the good minister, leaving 
 messages of kindness, was glad to get away from the oflice of a 
 nurse, and, full as much, from the oflSoious humor of Tommy Taft, 
 who, however, followed him to the very door. 
 
 ''A good baby, Parson, but come to a poor world — a sinful 
 world. If it had known what's good for itself, it had better staid 
 away. P'rhaps it wern't asked about it ! Ye'j likely. But we 
 must make the best on't now." 
 
 Turning back from the door, Uncle Tommy found Agate Bissell 
 ready to express her mind. 
 
 " Taft, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You stick to tha( 
 
48 \OKW00D. 
 
 good man like a burr. You've no more respe* for jour betteri 
 tliiin a bull has for good manners." 
 
 " \V?iat now, Miss Bissell ? " said Tuft, wil au innocent and 
 injured look ; " would you Lave mo run awaj from tl;e miriia- 
 ter?" 
 
 " No — but you bad no need to make a uurse of liiin, and make 
 liim feel ridiculous witb this baby in his arms." 
 
 "He did look ridiculous, didn't lie?" said Tommy, witli a 
 Joyous acquiescence. 
 
 " Of course he don't know how to tend babies. If it had been 
 a book he could have handled it, I warrant ye." 
 
 " What a pity," said Uncle Tommy, with a very sober air, " I hat 
 babies weren't born like books. Then they wouldn't trouble any 
 body — could put 'em up on a shelf, have 'em always dry — take 'enn 
 down when you want to use 'em — never grow any bigger— no 
 trouble to anybody." 
 
 " What do you know about 'em? " said Agate, with great pre- 
 cision. " Children are from the Lord, and they come on his 
 errands and in such manner as pleases him. And it don't please 
 him to send them by men. Naturally, a baby is a woman's care, 
 and men are always awkward about such things. Everytliing in 
 its place." 
 
 " But don't you think, Miss Bissell, that if they come on the 
 Lord's arrants, they forget what they come for, afore they get far 
 ulong? If the Lord's got any arrants, seems to me he ought to 
 send something better 'n these little creeturs, that keep two or 
 three folks busy the best part of their time for two or three years 
 and then die off their hands." 
 
 " It's a pity that a baby didn't die about the time you wore 
 small," said Agate Bissell, straightening up, and turning somewhat 
 ecornfuUy away from Tommy to his wife, who, good soul, Bsit 
 quietly by, as if the conversation was merely a little wind out oi 
 the window, whistling through the sweet brier bushes. 
 
 " There'd have been lots of crying and sobbin' if I had dier" 
 voting," said Uncle Tommy, with a wink at his antagonist. 
 
 Nothing ever provoked Agate Bissell so much as one of Unci 
 
 Tommy's winks. She deigned neither a word nor a look but 
 
 walked out ">i the room, pale and straight as a candle, and aa il 
 ibe thought that with her all tl.d light would go out too. 
 
A m:RRY CHAPTER. 49 
 
 Mother Taft mildly expostnlated. " Father, what do you love 
 tu provoke her for ? She 's m good." 
 
 " I 'd as lief tend flowers with a crowbar as to have one of thtiu 
 old maids about with little babies. I wonder she don't take the 
 little oreetur in her work-bag and walk off to prayer meetin' witlt 
 it ! You need to watch her, mother, or she '11 bile down a cato 
 chism instead of mint or catnip, when the child has wind." 
 
 And with that he insisted on another look at Rose, who laj 
 Bleeping as unconscious of all this whir of talk, as a rosebud in 
 March, hidden deep in the bush, is of the rough winds. The old 
 man rea% looked beautiful as he gazed on the child, and his face 
 seemed to catch something of the purity and brightness of child- 
 hood. 
 
 How strangely such a tender spot appears in an old, rude nature 
 like Tommy's. Rough in speech, audacious in manner, a non-con- 
 formist to all the customs of society, yet, for children, showing a 
 rich and wonderful love, that cast its light over all his faults, and 
 left something of betaty upon them I 
 
 So an old oak tree — ^too old for acorns, too old for leaves, almost 
 dead, rugged and vast, yet bears up on its shaggy branches bnnchea 
 of vivid green mistletoe most beautiful — ^rejoicing as if decay koA 
 death were better to it thu: life. 
 
CHAPTER Vm. 
 
 A BOBBB OBAFTBS. 
 
 Foe months little Rose lay sleeping for the greatest part of 
 :h! time, folded up in the finest wool, waking int j good nature for 
 «n hour and then gently sinking back into the .and of sleep and 
 dreams. The doctor came often to the ;mconscii,'Us little creature, 
 as she lay upon Mother Taft's lap, and gazed upon her in silence 
 and deep thought, as if he expected some revelation from her face. 
 He waited for signs of intelligence as one w aits for a star to arise. 
 
 " She is a rose indeed. Doctor," said Mother Taft — " is she not? " 
 
 " A moss-rose, if you call these blankets the moss, and its face 
 like tlie tiny bud iu which no color yet begins to appear." 
 
 " Ah, well, children don't come up blossom first like hyacinths, 
 and that great red amaryllis. They are like laylocks and honey- 
 suckles, that grow a year or two before they get a place for 
 blossoms to stand on." 
 
 And with that the good dame brought up the blanket about the 
 baby's face like a hood, kissing the little red lips, which, by the 
 way, she did with every operation, as if kisses were pins, to hold 
 fast each plait and fold and tuck. 
 
 As the child began to dawn into consciousness more and more, 
 the father's spirit seemed to hover about her, waiting, like one 
 before a door, for some one to come forth. As the summer 
 warmed, she was often carried by him upon short rides. 
 
 " I am expecting, my dear," said his wife, " that one of these 
 days you will prescribe that child to some patient, instead ol 
 medicine." 
 
 " She is food and medicine to me, at any rate. I have two lives 
 now.'' 
 
 "Ah, and then you do not count me?" 
 
 " Certainly — you and I count one, and Rose makes two." 
 
 A vast elm grew upon the eastern side of his dwelling, not fai 
 from a clear brook, whirh made its way from the hills down 
 through the nip"''""" 'u the Coiinecticnt river. On this rich soil 
 
A SOBER CHAPTER. 51 
 
 and near a copious supply of water, which the tlai so much loves 
 (t had hecome one of those immense domes of which almost everj 
 New-England village has one at least, but in which Norwood was 
 peculiarly rich. The huge trunk robo some fifteen feet before divid- 
 ing, and then sent off a number of separate stems, each one of which 
 might, if alone, constitute a large tree. These, still subdividing, 
 at last spread out into a vast concave, and the pendulous branches, 
 with graceful curves, returning on every side, hke a network i)f 
 cords wound around with green leaves, almost swept the ground. 
 Under this vast cope, whose top was full of sunlight, while cool 
 shadows lay upon the ground, the doctor loved to sit, when days of 
 leisure gave him rest, and especially upon summer Sunday after- 
 noons, with Rose lying upon his lap — or both of them upon the 
 ground, she on a blanket and he upon the grass. 
 
 It was there, on a bright Wednesday in July, when Rose was 
 now more than a year old, that Parson Buell found him in the 
 garden watching the child. Birds overhead were flying from 
 branch to branch, or conferring in a familiar way about household 
 matters, coquetting or whirling forth in love wrangles, while a 
 vireo in the topmost tuft, quite hidden, sat singing by the half- 
 hour its perpetual melody, whistled in phrases and recurring bits 
 like short sentences in a music lesson. 
 
 They fell into discourse about the child ; then about the origin 
 of the soul, the minister afSrming that nothing definite could be 
 found in the Bible respecting it, and that learned divines had been 
 exercised in mind and divided in opinions about it. The doctor 
 «aid that no light had been thrown upon it in the researches of 
 physiologists. For himself, he had a constitutional horror of the 
 notion that the mind was material, came with the body, as a rose 
 with the bush, and died with the body, as a flower with its stem. 
 In the long gradations of creation matter grew to finer and finer 
 organization and subtler uses, but there came a point at which it 
 touched something higher than itself, spiritual existence, not to he 
 known by the senses — which can only act in their own province 
 of matter — but to be discerned by the soul, which could recognize 
 its own existence, and had intuition of the spiritiul elfitnent in 
 sreation. 
 
 " It irt remarkable, Doctor, that you, a physiolo^t, shonld faiolin* 
 to the spiritual faith, while Judge Bacon, of Honnd education, nm) 
 
51' NORWOOD. 
 
 not given to tlie physical sciences, should hold, as 1 Bngj eot lie 
 does, tlie physical theory of mind." 
 
 " Judge Bacor h;is no ideality. Imagination is the very marrow 
 of faith." 
 
 " Bat you have often told me that I had no ideality — whatever 
 that may mean. How is it tliat the deficiency does not work in 
 thy same direction in both cases ? " 
 
 ■' It does. You may differ in regard to facts and convictions, but 
 both of you insist upon reducing all truth to some material equiv 
 alent before you are subject to conviction. A truth which does 
 not admit of a logical statement, seems to you a phantasy. You 
 believe not upon any evidence in your spirit, but upou the semi- 
 material form which language and philosophical statements give 
 to thought. The further you ean bring a truth from its spiritual 
 condition, and the more nearly it is Incarnated, the m<ire satisfac- 
 tory is to you the evidence of its existence. But, with me, I 
 afcept facts which appeal to my senses as the lowest possible 
 truth, and as appealing to the lowest avenue of my mind. Nature 
 is more than a vast congeries of physical facts, related to each 
 other as cause and effect, and signifying nothing else." 
 
 " What is signified, then, in your theory?" 
 
 " I have no theory. I have an irregular and fitful conviction 
 that there are great truths of the affections seeking an inlet upon 
 men, which flow from God, and which reach men, rightly sensi- 
 tive, through the doings and appearances of what we call Nature." 
 
 " Pray give me an inkling, Doctor ; for if you can get more' 
 from nature than I do, perhaps you can teach me how to help 
 myself in the same way." 
 
 " Look at Rose, Dr. Buell, with her hand full of dandelions. 
 Don't yon see that a beam of sunlight has struck through the 
 leaves, and is pouring gold on the child's head? See her wink, 
 and puzzle, the darling 1 " 
 
 " What does that sunlight mean to her t " 
 
 " Nothing, except to her skin; and there it means trouble and 
 annoyance. But to you and to me, it means beauty. It lies 
 speckling all the ground around her. It moves with the leave* 
 as if it had a life of its own. It kindles beanty oot of homelines* 
 itself but by touching it." 
 
 •Wliii'thcii?" 
 
A SOBER CHAPTER. 53 
 
 " There is more meaning in sunlight than a child knows, or can 
 know." 
 
 "More meaning? That is, I suppose, there are effecU which 
 the child does not notice or approoiate." 
 
 "Do you believe that the sunlight can pi-odnoe anj effent not 
 provided for in its original constitution! You believe that God 
 created it. Did he not know and design every element, and every 
 effect?" 
 
 " Surely : surely I believe it." 
 
 " Of course you believe it, in a general and abstract manner. 
 Look through these evergreens I See that clump of hollyliocks, 
 white on yellow, and rose on crimson, so they stand, and theliglit 
 falls on them alone, through that opening among the trees. They 
 are transfigured I The light seems to paliiitate upon them, and 
 on the crimson blossom it fairly trembles I Is that all merf 
 materiality ? Is there no moral around them ? " 
 
 " You don't me.'m that a hollyhock is a moral and accountable 
 being? It is an unreasoning and unconscious thing, acttd upun, 
 out not acting." 
 
 " Hold I Does it not act ? Does it not send sheets of light to 
 my eyes? Does not that raise up a thousand fancies and yearn- 
 ings ? Do I not, in its exquisite effects, almost see through mat- 
 ter, and into the other life ? And is not that clump, with its at- 
 mosphere of light, the instrument producing such effects? And 
 when God created light and flowers, did he not know what power 
 it was possible that they could exert upon human souls, and de- 
 sign that they should do it? They have a moral function, even 
 if they have no moral nature ! " 
 
 " I understand you, doctor. Yuu hold that there are two 
 kinds of moral agents — one conscious and voluntary, and the other 
 unconscious and involuntary. But how many do you suppos'e in 
 this town, besides yourself, ever saw or thought of such things in 
 a hollyhock bush ? It is mere fancy. It is not sober tact." 
 
 " Fancy is itself a fact, just as much as an argument, a leaf or 
 a stofe. God made the soul to be played upon by its fellows, by 
 the whole round of visible nature, by invisible things, and mora 
 than all, by Himself. If shaking leaves stir up the soul, there 
 WB-f a power in then; tc do it, as much as in tlie soul to be agitat- 
 a/1 I insist on a living, divine power in physioiil things. Why 
 
54 NORWOOD. 
 
 should men be so anxioas to degrade nature? Is it OLsafe to b* 
 lieve that God's eye foUows every sparrow, and that his taste tm- 
 rolls every flower, and that his feelings have an alphabetic ex- 
 pression in all natural forms, harmoDies, colors, contrasts and 
 aflSnities?" 
 
 " But if this were so, wonld there be so few even of educated 
 men who derivo any influence from those things ? " 
 
 " I will answer you by asking : If the Bible is God's word, de 
 daring his counsel, as we both believe, would there, ont of ten 
 hnndred million people on the globe, be less probably than a hun- 
 dred million that derive a single influence from it? In both cases, 
 eyes have they, but they see not." 
 
 For a long time. Dr. BueU sat silent and thoughtful. Had it 
 been a logical statement or the true meaning of a line of Scrip- 
 tural texts, he would have been full of lesources of argument. 
 But, deficient in iinagination, and trained to reject it in all inves- 
 tigations as an element of error, he yet could not but perceive 
 that Dr. Weutworth, by its ministration, found in Nature a ground 
 for religious faith which he did not, while at the same lime he 
 reverently accepted and eminently exemplified the teachings of 
 the New Testament. 
 
 He rose and walked for a few moments along the edges uf the 
 shadow, where the gold sunlight and the leaf-shadows played a 
 game of reprisals, back and forth, taking and retaking the ground 
 from each other with noiseless conflict, until he had compassed 
 tlie circuit of the great elm. 
 
 "Doctor, there may be something in yonr views. When you 
 state them they strike me as having substance ; but when I at- 
 tempt of myself to think of them, they melt in my hands. Wlien 
 you say that natural objects liave moral ends, you do not mean 
 thatihey constitute a part of tho commands, motives, and intelli- 
 gent duties included in moral government ? " 
 
 " I surely believe that they supplement these things. Plivsiotil 
 laws are divine commands, and so far they are a part of moral 
 gof^ernment. Whatever affects a man's soul is, for the time being, 
 a moral influence. The advent of Christ may be a more august 
 and immensely more fruitful influence than the breaking fortli of 
 a lily from the ground ; but when our Saviour said, ' Behold, th« 
 lilies r lilies were ordained to act a part in morals," 
 
A SOBER CHAPTEn. 55 
 
 " Do yon think that a flower, in and of itself has any mora, 
 meaning ! " 
 
 "Do you think that words, in and of themselves, have any 
 signification? Words mean whatever they have tlie power to 
 make us think of when we look on them. Flowers mean what 
 Bontiment they have the power to produce in us. The image 
 which a flower casts upon a sensitive plate is simply its own self- 
 form ; but, cast upon a more sensitive human soul, it leaves there 
 :!0t mere form, but feeling, excitement, suggestion. God gave it 
 power to do that, or it would not have done it." 
 
 " Is not this mysticism. Doctor, rather than common sense? 1 
 confess that I perceive in plants a relation to matter, to my senses, 
 and to practical uses ; but when you make them preach or teach, 
 or do duty as moralists, unless you mean it in a metaphorical way, 
 I am puzzled." 
 
 "Yonder is my bed of hyacinths, now out of blossom, and 
 filled up between their rows are my tiger flowers, yellow and red, 
 every day and all summer blossoming, or they would blossom if 
 the moles did not oat up the bulbs at such a fearful rate. These 
 underground radicals 1 yon can hardly rid a garden of them, when 
 iirice they beccjme numerous and neighborly. No matter about 
 that. What I was going to say was, that I consider a mole's 
 opinion of the structures and uses of my hyacinths to be very 
 mncli like — well, excuse me, — like most folks' notions of moral 
 tiutli ! The moles see the bottom and nothing else. Imagine a 
 mole forming a philosophical theory of my bulbs. In mole's lan- 
 guage, whatever that is, he would say: 'A hyacinth is a vegetable 
 creation put underground for the benefit of moles. It is round, of 
 a sweetish t.-iste, quite juicy, and wholesome for moles. It has been 
 held by some moles that a hyacinth has an existence above ground, 
 and speoulatists have gone so far as to say that this root is only a 
 kind of starting ix)mt, while the best part of the plant is above 
 ground. But tliere is no evidence of that, and it is doubtless » 
 vagary of the imagination.' " 
 
 The minister could not help laug'iing at this fable. 
 
 "I admit so much of this," said he, " that t'uths may have only 
 „heir lulbsin this world, and their stems and blossoms higher up: 
 but, even so, how are we to know anything pbout these f agian! 
 iiiosov/ms if tney are m another medium, and above our roach oi 
 investigation \ " 
 
56 NORWOOD. 
 
 " The first step towwd knowing is t j be conscious of not kno i» 
 ing. If truth car. be sufficiently learned through our senses, w< 
 shall take no further pains, and be content with a little, as if it 
 were the whole." 
 
 " But admit. Doctor, that nature is full cf some hidden mean- 
 ings, as yon call them, how will you detect them? How will yon 
 distinguish between a mere fancy and a substantial reality?" 
 
 " Is a thought necessarily any truer than an imagination ? Is ,•) 
 thought anything but the impression produced upon a faculty by a 
 certain kind of truth ? Is not an imagination the impression pro- 
 duced upon another faculty by another kind of truth? Is not 
 sight as much a sensation as hearing ? And is not the report of 
 one faculty to be taken for truth, each in its kind, as much as 
 that of another? 
 
 " It takes five senses to report to us all the qualities of matter. 
 It tLikes twice a^ many mental faculties to determine all the prop- 
 erties and relations of a truth. Knowledge is (like white li'^ht) 
 that condition of mind which is produced at the point where all 
 the faculties on which a truth falls join their reports." 
 
 " And so you would regard tl^e imagination as needful to a scieo- 
 tilic investigation ? " 
 
 " No man without imagination can by any possibility be an 
 acute observer, nor a sonnd reasoner even upon physical facts, still 
 .ess upon truths which involve some mental qualities." 
 
 " Do you think, then, that poets are our best philosophers, theo- 
 logians, legists, and savans f " 
 
 " There is scarcely a great poet who would not have been em- 
 inent as philosopher or theologian. There is not one theologian or 
 philosopher in history who had not in him the elements of a poet. 
 And he is indebted for fame to those very elements of poetry. 
 His special dogmas may have perished from out of men's belief 
 But the great truths of emotion, expressed with poetic feelinu, 
 live on. This is the universal and immortal part. No man can 
 express the great truths of human life without employing all his 
 moral and aesthetic nature. No man ever delivers great trutlis 
 worthily without rising into eloquence and even into poetry." 
 
 " What do you understand to be the difference between pros*, 
 (loquence and poetry ? " 
 
 " Prosj is the work-day dress in which truths do seooltu- dnty 
 
A SOBER CHAPTER. 57 
 
 Poetry is the robe, the royal apparel, in which truth asserts its 
 divine origin. Prose is truth looking on the ground; eloquence 
 is truth looking up to heaven; poetry is truth flying upward to- 
 ward God!" 
 
 " Your version is itself poetic, but not philosophical. You gi ve 
 me a picture, not a discrimination and definition." 
 
 " Well, common prosS is the language of the iutellectual faciil 
 ties, acting without ideality. When you add tt i fire and dguiSf 
 which the imagination inspires, it is eloquence. If now you gi vt 
 it musical qualities, in time, flow, and rhyme, it is poetry. Or, 
 ugain, when human truths are spoken as they exist in their physi- 
 3al relations, that is prose, science, or whatever yon choose to call 
 it. Add now the element of inspiration, raise the same truths 
 into the light of those faculties which are distinctively spiritual 
 and divine, and yon have poetry, and this is the highest form of 
 good sense, or reason in its nobler sphere." 
 
 " Apply this criticism, Doctor, to your notions of flowers and 
 scenery." 
 
 " It scarcely needs it. It is not poetry to say that that part of 
 universal life which belongs to the vegetable kingdom has a moral 
 relation to human beings, proved by the effects which it has shown 
 itself capable of producing on fine natures, and for which, it is 
 Bti-ictly philoiaphical to infer, they were adapted. That so few 
 perceive it, or experience it consciously, is no mure a presumption 
 against its nature and proper uses than the indifference of mankind 
 to the movements of the planets is evidence •'hat our seasons do 
 not arise from stellar revolutions." 
 
 " Doctor, I cannot fairly say that I believe your notions, or 
 even understand them. They give you great comfort. You 
 are far happier than I um. I do not know as that is, however, 
 any presumption in your favor." 
 
 " I am happy — exceedingly happy. One condition of it is, 
 of course, perfect physical health. The body is like a piano, 
 and happiness is like music. It is needful to have the instru- 
 ment in good order. But that is but a beginning. Something 
 must play upon the instrument. And who performs, and from 
 what musical score, will determinethe character of theconoert. 
 Chickering's grandest grand piano, with a fool playing jigs on it, 
 is not so good as an old harpsichord with Beethoven at the keys." 
 
58 ^iORWOOD. 
 
 " Go on — make your application.'' 
 
 "Well, to be plain, I do not think that you are happy, b» 
 cause it does not seem to me that you hold converse with those 
 truths which insure happiness. Your God is historic — mine w 
 living. Your Go^ is in a temple — mine every where. Yon 
 have excogitated and built up, element by element, attribute 
 by attribute, a conception of God, to- which by resolute con- 
 centration you direct your thoughts, without help in symbol, 
 natural object, or any instrument whatever, but wholly by will- 
 force. Now and then there will arise out of this stretching void 
 some dim image or sense of Divinity. But even at that youi 
 conscience, not love, clothes Him. You have little help from 
 your aflfections ; less fi-om ideality ; none from taste and beauty ; 
 and, really, you worship an abstract thought — a mere projection 
 of an idea — not a whole Mind, a Living Being/ You and I 
 worship the same Being, and agree in the main as to the moral 
 elements which glow in His nature ; but we diflfer practically in 
 our way of reaching Him." 
 
 " I find God in Christ the Saviour. I seek Kim in prayer, in 
 meditation, and in His Word." 
 
 " Thus do I also. But not so only. By the light of His 
 Word I seek Him, in a living form, outside of His Word. God 
 is revealed in Christ as a man. Now, whatever in man or child, 
 in their noblest moments, when their fervent affection upon some 
 unselfish inspiration breaks forth into unusual and ethereal forms, 
 seems to -me more than a suggestion of divinity. I see flashing 
 from these experiences the very feeling of God. Thus I can in- 
 terpret Scripture with vivid insight. There is a perpetual com- 
 mentary upon the New Testament running through human life, 
 and you are afraid to read it I 
 
 "But besides the endless inteipretations which the human soal 
 is unfolding, the whole natural world is full of those very truths 
 and meanings of which I was speaking a little while ago. Sonnds 
 and silences, color, forins, the life of insect and animal, and tlie 
 endless play of cause and efifect, I accept first, as scientific facts, 
 n ith certain scientific relations. Or to speak exactly, I accept tiie 
 report which they make to my perceptive reason. But they create 
 in ray breast, besides all that, such heights and depths of sensibilitj 
 that I know that they have a moral rel.ifioii to my morid senti- 
 
A SOBER CHAFTEB. 59 
 
 inents, and that while ecienoe, like the mole, knows the root and 
 bulb, faith alone, acting in a spiritual sphere, recognizes the devel- 
 oped stem and blossoms." 
 
 Although Dr. Wentwoith's manner was nsnally qniet, almost 
 producing an impression of indifference and impassiveness, he h<^, 
 during this conversation, grown very earnest. Every lineament 
 of his large, pale face glowed, and his eyes exchanged their dreamy 
 look for one that almost flashed visible light, as he rose and stood 
 before his minister, straightening up his body to its full height and 
 said: 
 
 "Dr. Buell, do you believe the Scriptures? Do you believe 
 that those very heavens above your head declare the glory of God ; 
 or only that they did, four thousand years ago? 'The earth is the 
 Lord's and the fulness thereof, the world and they that dwell 
 therein I ' — now, to-day, here in this field -yonder, over that mead- 
 ow, just as much as in Palestine. 'Thou crownest the year — 
 Thou visitest the earth — Thou makest the outgoings of the morn- 
 ing and evening to rejoice. The Lord sitteth upon the flood; yea, 
 the Lord sitteth king forevermore ! ' 
 
 "Do you think that I can believe this universal presence ol 
 God — in the sun, in the seasons, in the sea and on the mountains, 
 in tree and herb, in clouds and storm, in summer and harvest, in 
 the city among men and in the wilderness, — and yet suppose that 
 Nature has nothing more for the soul than the catalogue of scien- 
 tific names and a recitation of the order in which phenomena bap- 
 pen? Is there nothing of God in flowers, in forests, in birds, in 
 insects, in my poor garden, in yonder valley, along the monntain- 
 flank, in those thunder-heads looming up white over the horizon 
 yonder? or is all tliis only meaningless matter? When my wife 
 speaks to me, is it only sound — wind ? or is it a movement of air 
 upon my ear, that conveys to my heart deep meanings? And ia 
 Nature mere phenomena? or isit God's phenomena, meant to con- 
 vey something deeper than the body catches — something for the 
 soul? Why, then, should you, a minister of God, hunt through 
 books for God, and stand in pity of me, who use the Bible as 
 would a Botany — which does not contain living plants, but only 
 word-descriptions -of them. KI would see the plant itself, I must 
 go out of the book to nature. And the Bible cannot contain the 
 tmth itself, only the word-forms, t>ie lettered symbolu of truth 
 
60 NOEWOOD. 
 
 God does Dot live in a book. Man does not live in a book. Lore, 
 Taith, Joy, Hope, do not, cannot live in a book. For the living 
 truth we must go outside of tlie Bible, wliioh is but to religion 
 ^hat a Botany is to gardens, meadows, and all tbuir dowers! 1 
 am not ashamed to own tliat 1 feel us if some sort of positive re- 
 lationship existed between me and every living thing. A spice 
 bush, a clump of wild azalens, a bed of trailing arbutus, a patch 
 of eye-brights, a log covered with green moss, — these all seem to 
 be of my family kin. The spiders, too, the crickets, the field-mice, 
 and all the swarms of birds; the worm — that as u chibl I was 
 taught to abhor — are of God's family and mine. Since 1 accepted 
 the New Testament, all the world has become my Bible. My Sa- 
 viour is everywhere — in the book and out of the book. I see Him 
 in Nature, in human life, in my own experience as well as in the 
 recorded fragments of His own history. I live in a Bible. But it 
 is an unbound book I It is wider than that I can reach its ! oimds. 
 It is enough for me that I believe when it is said, 'All thinys v\ere 
 made by Him, and without Him was not anything made that wae 
 made.' " 
 
 Dr. Buell walked slowly homeward, as one who saw nothing 
 but his own thoughts. To all who found fault witli the rigor of 
 his teachings, and the remorseless logic with which he pushed "tlie 
 doctrines" that, to him, were the very soul and marrow of life, it 
 might be replied — the children and the poor loved him I What 
 says snch a fact? This: That he had a deep and tender heart; 
 that while his head was like the granite rocks iliat crop out of the 
 sides of the hill, his heart was like the nooks and Ijollows between, 
 in which soil deep and rich had collected. The figure might be 
 further pressed; for, as berry-bearing vines, growing in llie rich 
 mould, climb up over the rock, and cover its grim face with a v>i) 
 of comeliness, so out of the heart, full often, grow forth aii'eotii ns 
 and sympathies that go far to hide the severe beliel's of the head. 
 In his pulpit. Dr. Buell, a man of earnest conscience, clear logical 
 intellect, narrow in his range of thought, but intense along tliose 
 lines, — was jealous of the Faith. He would not accommodate it. 
 He would not make it soft or beautiful. "The truth should be aa 
 a drawn sword. Men are in danger every hour and moment ! 
 How dare I spend my time in etching pleasing pictures on the 
 blade, when God sends me to swing it over their heads as a flash- 
 I ng threat?" 
 
A SOBEK CHAPTER. 61 
 
 But when he came among the sick and the poor, when conso- 
 lation was the dnty, his soul seemed to seek relief and compensation 
 for the stern fulfilment of his intellectual duties. Children, too, 
 found his sinile sweet, and his ways most companionahle. To be 
 sure, he thought, they were involved in a common ruin; but the 
 evU, though in the germ, had not yet greatly developed itself. He 
 used to say : " There is no moral virtue in children's innocence 
 and simplicity, but they are pleasing to our natural susceptibilities, 
 and may be enjoyed as we relish food, or odors." 
 
 On this homeward walk, liowever, the good man was shut np 
 in himself. Cherub — the blackest of all black boys — threw a cart- 
 wheel two several times, in his most acoomplisiied manner, with- 
 out attracting the slightest attention. A little girl, five years old, 
 stood in the crack of Judge Mason's gate, and held out her little 
 hands full of dog-fennel to him, as if it had been a fiower of far 
 more attractive fragrance, and wondered at him that he passed 
 without a word or gesture. Not till a curly-haired boy bounced 
 out of the door yard of his own home, glad to get into the street, 
 on the plea of seeing papa, did he wake to external things. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 AQATE BISSBLL. 
 
 AeATB B168BLL was the stern chUd of a severe experience. Ue 
 father was poor, and would have been- industrious but for an un 
 fortunate habit of drinking. Her mother was a woman of decision, 
 of pride of character, of high moral feeling, but subject from child- 
 hood to hard work, with only a little education. She grew up a 
 kind of patient warrior against trouble. She had known trouble 
 from childhood. Poverty before and poverty after her marriage, 
 were but minor evils. She had seven children. The third child, 
 but first-born daughter, was Agate. No where except in New 
 England could she have been called Agate. Her mother was an 
 earnest reader of the Bible. In her continual troubles she resorted 
 to it, literally as to a refuge. Isaiah above all writers had fired her 
 imagination. There was something in the hopefulness of the stern 
 prophdt amidst abounding troubles that seemed peculiarly coo- 
 genial to her. In particular she dwelt upon the fifty-fourth chap- 
 ter ; so often had she read it, so often had she stayed her sorrow 
 on its exultant promises, tiat it had come to seem like a voice 
 sounding out specially for her, and had her own name appeared in 
 it she would scarcely have been surprised. 
 
 Here had she read, till they miugled with her waking anu 
 sleeping thoughts, those words of sublime consolation 1 Naturally 
 high-minded and sensitive, every aspiration had been almost crush - 
 ed. Her husband, a good-natured man, could not be redeemed 
 from his cnps, and to her proud spirit it seemed as if she were 
 bound to a dead body. Awful thoughts sometimes rose up in her, 
 a horror of temptation, which sent her flying to her chamber for 
 prayer and scripture, like a dove flying from before a swift-pur.--u- 
 inghawk Then she would read: "For thy Maker is thy hus- 
 band, the Lord of Hosts is his name. ♦ ♦ * For the Lord hath 
 called thee as a woman forsakei and grieved in spirit. * » * For 
 « email moment I have forsaken thee, but with great mercies will 
 I gather thee." 
 
 On some days the clouds came lo.w down, and there was no 
 
AGATE BISSELL. 63 
 
 oorizon of hope. Her little children were Lmgry, her hnsbaild 
 drank, her own strength giving way, and all the fntnre like an 
 on-coming storm. Then she would read, "For the mountains 
 shall depart, and the hills be remoyed, bat my kinJuess shall not 
 depart from thee, neither shall the covenaiit of my peace be re- 
 moved, saith the Lord that hath mercy on th el 0, tliou afiBictedl 
 tossed with tempest and not comforted, behold 1 I will lay thy 
 jtones Tith fair colors, and lay thy foundations with sapphires. 
 And I will make thy windows of Agates, and thy gates of car- 
 buncles, and all thy borders of pleasant stones. And all thy chil- 
 dren shall be taught of the Lord, and great shall be the peace of 
 thy children." 
 
 This touched to the quick. For her husband tliere remained 
 only the sentiment of d\ity. But all her garnered and wounded 
 affections were poured forth upon her children. If by a living 
 death she could save them, and gain a firm foothold for each of 
 them in honorable life, she would willingly have died deaths daily. 
 
 In her poor little dwelling, it may be supposed, wei-e no lux- 
 uries. No picture, no print so big as her baby's hand, hung on 
 tlie wall. She knew no rest, no amusement. Her whole being 
 was a coTicentrated purpose to bring up her children so that their 
 ife should be happier than hers had been. For that, the sun shone 
 — for tliat, summer and winter came — for that, the Sabbath insert- 
 ed a seventh golden link in the iron chain of toil — for that, tlie 
 whole world existed to her, and time itself drew on its train of 
 days and nights! Ou her feet, in work, wrestling against poverty; 
 —on her knees, m prayer, wrestling against temptations and de- 
 spair, she reared her children, hoping in them at last to find an 
 end of sorrow and a beginning of joy. 
 
 When Agate was just born, she looked upon the babe with 
 anguish. She seemed to see all her own miseries stored up for this 
 child. She almost felt a pang of guilt for bringing another woman 
 into life to take a place in that long procession of sufferers, of which 
 women have constituted the largest proportion. She hardly wish- 
 ed to look in her face. Long before the minister spiink'^l this 
 dttle new-comer, her mother had baptized her with tears. 
 
 As soon as she could sit np, (and the poor recover from the 
 oirth of children sooner than the prosperous. A rigorous nurse 
 srt thou, oh Poverty I— a stern physician, and, though skilful. 
 
fi4 NORWOOD. 
 
 bitter cruel 1) weak, sad, alone, except her little children, her daye 
 were darker than any thing but the nights. There was little differ- 
 ence in the twenty-four hours, except that the night was darknesn 
 plagued with dreams, and the day was darkness plagued with 
 gloomy thoughts. The first day that she could read, her oldest 
 boy brought her well-vvorn Bible to her. It opened of itself to 
 her favorite chapter. The leaves there were like a travelled riad 
 Let the book fall open a hundred times, and every time it wonl'i 
 open at the same place. Then she read: "JjuMl make thy win- 
 dows agates." A window is that by which light comes througb 
 upon our inward darkness, or by which we look out of darkness 
 into light. If a window of God is made of agate, then, she 
 thought, an agate must be something more clear and beautiful 
 than glass. What agate was she knew not, but it must needs be 
 something glorious and hopeful. " And all thy children shall be 
 taught of the Lord." That was the very anguish-longing of her 
 heart ! She seemed to have it borne in upon her that cliUdren are 
 the Lord's windows, through which mothers look forth out of pain 
 and darkness into hope and happinessl She seized the happy 
 thought : " I will call her Agate. Perhaps the Lord will make hei 
 like a window to my darkness.'' Thus was the child named. 
 
 We smile at names. We weigh them in the scale of the ear 
 for sweetness or smoothness. We cull some, we reject others. 
 We laugh at men's odd and awkward names, and quite justly too, it 
 may be; since capricious whims, and vagrant fancies, or mere care- 
 lessness, 80 often select them. But sometimes a name is a history . 
 It is like a pictured vase. We see the figures without thinking in 
 what furnace those colors were fastened, and by what fire the 
 glazing was fused. Is there in any history a record of the heart 
 more touching and simple than that of old? " And it came to pass 
 as Rachel's soul was departing, for she died, that she called his 
 name Ben-oni " — Son of my Sorrow. 
 
 Growing np in snch circumstances, it may well be supposed 
 that Agate's life waa one which would bring her to more acquain- 
 tance with work and vigor of duty, than with those lighter graces 
 which commonly belong to prosperous childhood. 
 
 With as much natural conscience as her mother, she had a les* 
 Intense pride. She could not sympathize with that shuddering 
 horrf>r at her father's presence, which her mother, witli all he; 
 
AGATE BISSELL. 65 
 
 «i.rnggles, could never subdue. Agate stood between tLem, loving 
 both, and was indeed a medium — a window — througL which each 
 looked upon tlie other, colored with the hues of the medium. 
 
 When at thirteen years of age, her father died — unrefonned, 
 etupefled — Agate really mourned. Her mother saw the turf placed 
 upon his grave without a tear. Her soul said, God hath avenged 
 me I For years, the mother and children struggled on. Agate, 
 besides daily work, had, as it were, carried away captive a certain 
 amount of education. No one but he wlio has tried it knows what 
 power of learning there is, in a mind every faculty of which is tensely 
 strained with desire and necessity. She read with eyes that pierced. 
 What she read was as if it had been burned in. At seventeen, she 
 taught the summer school in her neighborhood. Her brothers were 
 her care at home as well. At twenty-two, the mother went to her 
 rest. On the last day of her life her mind wandered back to her 
 brief hours of early joy. She half-spake and half-whispered some 
 fondling words, as if she were a girl in the days of courtship and 
 love. Then, after a little, the life-long grief seemed again to over- 
 shadow her. " Agate — Agate — He's come. Put him to bed. Oh 
 God I " She dozed for an hour. When, after a time, Agate looked 
 upon her mother, her eyes were opened wide, as if she beheld new 
 and strange things. In a low and sweet voice she said : " Yes — 1 
 am coming." Before the sun went down, she had departed, and 
 her troubled day was over. 
 
 Agate Bissell was respected by all her neighbors. Her common 
 sense, her energy, her truth — clear as crystal — her strong moral 
 nature, would have made her a remarkable woman anywhere. 
 She was not handsome by regularity of features ; but she had whal 
 was better — the open and strong face of a sensible and kind-hearted 
 woman. There was that in her face which one would not willingly 
 see kindled. Her power of indignation was terrible. Young Tern- 
 pleton found that out. He had paid attention to Agate. Good- 
 looking, capable of working, his father's dissipation and example 
 had not acted upon his self-indulgent nature as a like sad example 
 had upon the sterner soul of Agate. 
 
 Yet a certain sympathy she had felt for him, from a somewhat 
 similar experience of their .Ives. Her heart, bound around with 
 cords of restraint should it once gc free and love, would seek iti 
 mate as eaglee fly. 
 
tjb NORWOOD. 
 
 It might have been. It never was. One evening he w.iitecl 
 upon her to a meeting in Norwood. The way was long, — not too 
 long for them. When they reached the village Agate's step was 
 light. Her face had lost something of its intensity. The liglit of 
 gentle feelings rested npon it. 
 
 They returned home that night, Tom Templeton and Agate Bis- 
 sell. Afterward they never again spoke to each other. What the 
 history was neither ever said — he for shame, and she from scorn. 
 For years his name kindled npon her face a look so stern and deep 
 in moral indignation, that one would not willingly look upon it. 
 That was the end of her dream of youth. When at thirty she 
 assumed the care of Dr. Wentworth's house, not a tongue in all 
 Norwood dared even in sport to say that the doctor had a young 
 housekeeper. One had better play with fire than with her name. 
 And yet, under this strong-featured, pale face, who can tell what 
 stores of love were lying, like gold undug, in fields over which iha 
 plough ruis and vulgar harvests wave, because no one srispeots the 
 gold below or knows how to extract the treasure ! 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 OB. WBNTWOETH'S UAKSIOa 
 
 Wb t&ke shame to ourselves for having never asked ocr frieudi 
 uto the Doctor's house, but left them, inhospitably, to wander 
 bout Norwood as best they might. Not that they are in danger 
 of lacking accommodations; for Norwood is not unaccustomed to 
 company. Hither oume hundreds every summer for the pleasure 
 of its wholesome air and the beauty of its charming scenery. 
 There is no lack of hospitable hotels; nor are the landlords un- 
 skilled in catering. For all that, our readers had a right to expect 
 an invitation to the Dootoi''s house ; and as the whole family are 
 off to-day on a pic-nic, we will steal in and look over the whole 
 place. This intrusion would be exceedingly rude in actual life ; 
 but in books such things are often done, and may be again ; and if 
 any complaint arises, I will take the blame. 
 
 Approach the old fashioned mansion through the front yard. 
 First take notice of tiie roof. The ancient New-England architects 
 seem to have had a vague idea of a Mammrd roof. As the at- 
 tempt was carried out in the case before us, it resulted very nearly 
 in justifying Hiram Beers' saying that the Doctor's roof looked 
 like an old woman's cap, with spectacles mounted on it; for two 
 windows projected from the steep ilouble-leaved roof in a manner 
 that invariably suggested a pair of great eyes! And as there was 
 an open, ornamental raihng carried along the eaves and up the 
 gables of tlie roof, resembling a stiff ruffle, the notion of an old 
 lady's cap and frill once hinted could not be got out of the mind. 
 
 The front yard was deep. A straight path led to the front 
 door. On either side of it was a border of shrubs, with interme- 
 diate spaces filled with flowers. 
 
 A porch of some architectural pretension bestrid the front 
 door, and was tself at once a protection from rain and a trellis for 
 honeysuckles. 
 
 The windows on either side were small, if compared with 
 modem windows, and filled with glass that seemed even mor« 
 diminutive. 
 
CiS NORWOOD. 
 
 No mean little entrj" receives you, as ia too often the oase in 
 modern houseB. The hall of a dwelling gives yon the first im- 
 pressions. Sometimes i>n entering yon fear that by some mistake 
 you have got into a clotlies closet ; at others, yoii enter upon a 
 space so small that it is only by a dexterous interchange of civil- 
 ities between yourself and the door that you can get in or the dooi 
 be shut. In some halls, so called, a man sees a pair of coikscrew 
 stairs coming right down upon him, and fears le^t by some jug- 
 glery he be seized and extracted like a cork into some upper space. 
 Often the doors are so arranged that what with the shutting of 
 the outside door, and tbe opening of inside ones, the timid stranger 
 stands a chance of being impaled on the latcb, or fl;ipiied front 
 and rear; for, vigorous springs attached to the doors work with 
 buoh nimbleness that one needs to be expert, or, having opened the 
 door, before he can dash through it will spring back on him with 
 a " now-I've-got-you " air quite alarming. 
 
 Such houses seldom remit their torments here. There is an 
 exquisite symmetry in all the interior adaptations. You finish 
 your visit and rise to depart, taking the door most likely to let you 
 out, and find yourself walking into a sweet-meat closet I 
 
 A young beau, having acquitted himself well of the last critio.il 
 sentences, and executed a half-backward, and wholly awkward 
 march toward the door, with inefiable satisfution, oi>ens and steps 
 into the china closet I The little girls giggle ; the little boys laugh 
 out; the young laJies are confused, and the lioau still more so. 
 But, what if it had been the cellar door? On one occasion, visit- 
 ing a thrifty friend whose dining-room and sitting-room were one, 
 I came near descending headlong into his cellar, which, for con- 
 venience probably, opened into the diniu^'-room. I once saw 
 three like and equal doors in a sitting .oom. The one wa-- the 
 true door of departure; the next, the cellar; and the third a bed- 
 room. There was only one chance in three for a stranger. 
 
 Do you not think that a house reveals the aroliitect's disposi- 
 tion? I do. "We know much of a writer from his style. The 
 style of a cautious nature will have involved parenthetical sen- 
 tences, full of qualifications and limitations. An open and im- 
 perious disposition is aiown in short fienteuces, direct and ener- 
 getic. A secretive and proud mind is cold and obscure in style. 
 An affectionate and imaginative nature pours out luxuriantly, and 
 blossoms ftll over with ornaments 
 
DR. WENTWOETH'S MANSION. (')!"» 
 
 The same is true with artists who really deserve the mime 
 I'hey paint wba'j they see ar)d feel, and it is this self-part that 
 gives tlie style. Some subtle part of every man's own spirit goes 
 witli liis work, is incarnated in it, and gives to it that undisoover- 
 able 8. inething which marks and discriminates one artist from an 
 other. And so, every artist dips his brush in his own soul, and 
 paints his own nature into his pictures. 
 
 Why should not the architect, then, transfuse into his work 
 something of Ais nature, too ! Every house has an expression. 
 Eveiy room has a disposition. Some houses are preoisionists. 
 They are pinched and crimped, and you almost exj ect to see a 
 starched ruffle and white apron on them. Others are generous 
 and lioKpitable. Every time you look at them they seem to say : 
 " Why don't you come in ? I am waiting for you." Some dwell- 
 ings are stately and dignified, and some arecosy and jolly. Every 
 day I see houses b""! cannot repress their scorn at beggarly houses 
 in their neighbi.n„.)dl The door has an excluding air. The win- 
 dows are supercilious, and the .ery cornice has a curl of well- 
 bred contempt. But it is in the interior of men and houses, tliat 
 the real disposition must be found. The moment you enter some 
 dwellings, your heart cries out spontaneously, "Peace be within 
 thy walls." There is a charm upon the threshold, a joy in every 
 room. Not a minute of the day do the apartments cease to breathe 
 upon your ear. You are welcome 1 But, shiver as I do, when you 
 enter as I do, this selfishness in brick and mortar I The architect 
 was a mean and narrow soul, I knovp 1 His ceilings are offly fif- 
 teen feet high. I wonder he did not go on up with them till they 
 ive}'e as high as he felt hhnself to be above common men. What 
 a good ice house this would make! What repulsion is in these 
 walls ! As you stand upon the threshold, the whole hall stares at 
 you, and says, in white plaster, " Well, what do you want here? " 
 
 All such fears are banished as you enter Dr. Wentworth's old- 
 fashioned mansion. A hall twelve feet wide opens its arms to wel- 
 come you. On its sides hang large maps. Toward the farther 
 end rises a flight of stairs six feet wide. They say to you, plain a 
 words can speak, " Do not weary yourself." The short rise an 
 oroad tread suggest ease. And six or eight steps being taken, the 
 stairs seemed to have changed their mind and concluded to stop 
 there. For, a landing some eight feet wide ran acrow the whoU 
 
70 NORWOOD. 
 
 width of the hal). Aui the space was still further angmented bj 
 a large bow-window, circling out backward, which the Doctor 
 had Imilt and filled with colored glass. Only at the other end of 
 this landing did the stairs consent to start upward again. Perched 
 between the two stories, a grand look-out was thus furnished for 
 tiummer ;— the window on the one side, and the lowor hall and upper 
 hall on the other— giving to the eye ample command of all that 
 was going on. In summer it was a favorite resort; and in winter 
 the blaze of colored light always gave a kind of sunrise cheer to 
 the hall. 
 
 Midway in the lower hall a grand, old-fashioned, ebony-cased 
 clock, standing on the floor, reached up to the ceiling. It was 
 not only a time-keeper i if liours, but of days and months. Its sable 
 vesture, and the great variety of its duties, gave to this venerable 
 instrument an absent-minded air, a sort of reserve and dignity, 
 which well set off the easy ways of all the rest of the dwellinj.'. 
 That clock and Agate Bissell never lost a minute of time, were 
 never tired, and attended wholly and only to their own business. 
 It was difficult to decide wliich of the two was the more exact and 
 regular. In any single day the clock might win ; but take the 
 year together, Agate Bissell undoubtedly wa.s the best time-keep- 
 er. She had the whole care of the clock. Dr. Wentworth used 
 to rally her on her beau. " That clock is an enchanted knight. 
 Agate is waiting for him, some day, to make proposals. Nothinjf 
 less than such matchless graces as in him do reside will ever tempt 
 her!" 
 
 Robe — who must be moved forward in our story six years — 
 took lip her father's imaginations, and wove about the old clock all 
 manner of fanciful notions. She was a double child. Her out- 
 ward nature was sensible, practical, worldly ; her inward nature 
 was deep in feeling, solemn and mystical, but veined and traced 
 throughout with the richest tio'f of imagination. Nime except 
 her father knew this inward life ; nor he, nor she herself, except in 
 a dim and twilight way. 
 
 She was jast the one to make a hero of this old tall, black 
 clock. To her its strokes, in the deep nights, when summer whip- 
 poor-wills had waked her, were voices proclaiming messages to 
 men. To look upon its face and watch the rise and occultiition ol 
 pictured stars, and especially of the i-'ieat [ilnmp-faced moon, thai, 
 
DB. WENTWORTH'S MANSION. 71 
 
 Irke some men, always seemed scared because it couldn't see any- 
 thing — was a perpetual, though unspoken pleasure. 
 
 But we linger. On the left, as you enter, is the Doctor's grand 
 resort. This library ran througli the whole depth of the house. 
 The ceiling was only about nine feet high. The centre was cross- 
 ed by a dressed benm, and the cornice all around the room was 
 lormed by the carved frame-beams of the house itself. On either 
 side of the chimney, which stood midway on the west side, were 
 two deep bay-windows ; and, on the north end, one large window 
 coming down to the floor, and of the size of three ordinary win- 
 dows. The sides of the library wei'e filled with cases, and the 
 whole range of English literature was stored in them. Tlie best 
 authors in the modern languages, too, held their tongues eloquently 
 in tliis WaJhalla. Drawers stuffed with curious pamphlets; lower 
 'lases with folios, atlases, etc. ; portfolios and volumes of costly 
 engravings — all evinced the Doctor's tastes. Not like the orderly 
 study of Parson Bnell was Dr. Wentworth's. No long rows oi 
 books stood stiff and stern on the shelves, like soldiers on parade. 
 Some books were out visiting ; some, in an affectionate mood, 
 were leaning over on nn accommodating neighboi- ; and some, tired 
 of their heavy contents, had lain down flat and gone to sleep, as if 
 to give their readers, should they have any, the proper cue. Some 
 were splendidly bound, and flamed their golden letters from blue, 
 and green, and crimson, or modest russet. Others stood in cloth ; 
 some, in paper. Some shelves were packed and stuffed till they 
 seemed bursting; others stood thinly, like a school half of whosa_ 
 scholars had gone out to play. 
 
 Here was the true peaoe-soc\ jty. Old quarrels were hushed 
 here. Heretic and orthodox stood in silent truce. The men that 
 kept the world in a racket, in their lime, — Luther and they of the 
 Vatican, Milton and Salmasius, Arminius and the whole Synod of 
 Dort, Jesuits and Jansenists, the ancients, mediaeval scholastics, 
 modern refonners — were patient with each other and with the 
 rising fame of modern scientific authors. Books nre the true 
 netempsychosis — they are the symbol anrl presage of immortality. 
 Tiie dead men are scattered, and none shall find them. Behold, 
 they are all here I they do but sleep. At your summons every one 
 shall speak and instruct you in the best experiences of his life ! 
 
 Turning from the hall, as you come in at the front door, to th« 
 
72 KORWOOD. 
 
 right, yon enter the large parlor ; and, next to it, the sitting-ioom 
 and a door from each room opens into the conservatory, where 
 there was summer all the year round. 
 
 The dining-room and kitchen were included in the wing which 
 ran back from the south-east corner of the house, and whicli was 
 of such dimensions that, had it stood alone, it would have seemed 
 a house of itself. 
 
 The old mansion was built in a stately style, at a time when 
 stateliness was well understood. Few modern dweUings are more 
 picturesque, more winning to the eye, than the best of the old 
 colonial mansions. They tell their story at once. They proclaim 
 comfort, room, liospitality, and elegant taste. They are passing 
 away. Perhaps we have nothing to regret. Oouvenience and 
 beauty have their modern architects. Yet, the the pictorial art 
 ought, while it can be done, to secure those memorials of an early 
 day, and transmit them as precious parts of our New-England 
 history. 
 
 But stop. Turn back. We have neglected the heart of home, 
 the mother's room I The old temple had no such holy of holies. 
 The mother's room! Here came she a bride. Here only God's 
 angels and her own husband have heard what words the inmost 
 heart of love can coin. Here were the children born. Here in 
 love were they cherished, in piety consecrated, and here Hope, the 
 mother's prophet and painter, has filled golden hours with a wealth 
 of expectations and fancied joys ! 
 
 If every child might live the life predestined in a mother's 
 heart, all the way from the cradle to the coffin they would walk 
 upon a beam of light, and shine in glory. Alas I some are born 
 like the dandelion — glowing bright, soon changing to a fairy globe, 
 and by the first wind dashed out and gone I 
 
 Paint the man as the mother's thonghta do; then paint him as 
 he really lived 1 Hang the two portraits side by side, and write, 
 What he was to he ! and then. What he was ! Life has no sadder 
 contrasts 
 
 Shall I? It is audacious; and yet, for your sake, reader, 
 would do much. Well, come, I wUl even venture. This is Agate 
 BisseU's room. No one may go in here without leave. She and 
 her room are so much one, that this intrusion she would resent as 
 a personal liberty. I know that politeness forbids, but yo'ir cu 
 
DE. WEXrWOHI'Il'S JIAXSION. 73 
 
 riority and ray love of accurate desoription prevail, a ad, as usual, 
 politeness must give way when it is not convenient, Ko rocking 
 ohair, three commou chairs — one lower than the others, for sew- 
 ing, — a mahogany bureau, \vith an old-fashioned mirror above it, 
 which had been in that very place a hundred years, and had seen 
 — all! what had it not seen? Bnt most honorable of all Mends ia 
 tl',' looking-glass, that will not speak — ^that keeps no secret joup- 
 aal for future treachery — that meets yon with the very fiice that 
 you biing to it— that beholds all yonr weaknesses without chiding, 
 and never hints advice; into whose placid depths sink, as into a 
 aea, in utter forgetfniness, all the secrets which have figured on ita 
 face 1 
 
 What if one had the power to recall from this cold and passion- 
 less glass all that it has ever seen } What if there should be a 
 resurrection of that which has been buried in looking-glasses? 
 Little children's faces, anxious mothers, budding girls beginning to 
 .suspect their own beauty, vain and giggling looks, grave and sad 
 looks of those who hate to grow old, vexed looks of those who 
 have out themselves in shaving, timid and anxious looks of those 
 who have been sick, double images of lovers glancing upon the 
 sweet picture of their embrace, prim and prig pedants touching up 
 tlieir gray whiskers and covering their baldness with the few 
 strawy looks yet left, simple and wondering looks of curly and 
 woolly Phillis, whose honest, homely fac* is just as dear to her as 
 if it were Cleopatra's. 
 
 Many would shrink to have their looking-glasses reveal their 
 secrets. Certain it is that Agate Bissell would not be ashamed to 
 have it tell all that ever she committed to its trust. Faithful, pure- 
 thinking, upright Agate I Positive, precise, sprightly to tartness, 
 \v ho more than thou lived wholly for others? Who ever knew 
 thee fail in the day of trial? When didst thou betray a secret? 
 When didst thou ever shrink from giving honest counsel because 
 it was bitter? Let men look upon thee, Agate, and henceforth 
 honor those words, old maid I When all things are hereafter 
 untied and the contents of various bundles disclosed, it is my 
 opinion that as many coble, self-denying virtues will be found tied 
 ap with precise bow-ktots in some of those vertical rolls called 
 Old Maids, as in any other that shall appear. 
 
 Open the npper drawer ! Here we have few Uoea, one or two 
 
74 xoiiWijoi). 
 
 omamentg seldom worn, and then onl; as a speoial honor to som« 
 much-honored friend. Bo touched, as I am, with a certain tear- 
 breeding feeling, to see how little the poorliave to represent tlieii 
 finer tastes I Some jewels, however, are laid up for them hereafter. 
 
 The next drawer. This is tine linen. Not much of iti But it 
 is as white as snow. Not a stitch is broken. How finely folded 1 
 How orderly I Agate need not be ashamed that it is so little. 
 Slie makes it enough by wise economy, and what she misses, 
 some poor shivering creature is wearing, for she is silently gene- 
 rous. All the fine linen of the saints is ii I that which is made 
 up into ascension robes. Some of it may _\ ct lie found in bureau 
 drawers. 
 
 Did you ever see a room with so little in it, that looked so 
 comfortable ? Find a speck of dirt ! Yet, it is not distressingly 
 neat. It lias not that coffin-and-shroud snugness that you see iu 
 some rooms. It is generous and home-like. A true womtiD lives 
 in it. That furnishes any room, and subdues its very walU. at 
 length, to humane and gentle expression! 
 
CHAPTER XL 
 
 ROBK-OCLTUEB. 
 
 How happy ure proud people I No. Rather how bappy are 
 people of pride I That does not hit it exactly. 
 
 How fortanate are people with a Bovereign self-esteem 1 I ap- 
 peal to every one who ever felt the qnality, whether pride or self- 
 ssteem. Either of them covers or describes that peculiar faculty 
 vrhich inspires in men the sense of their own being, of personal 
 worth, of eminent sel&ess — not necessarily selfishness. 
 
 Why are they fortunate f In such persons there is apt to be a 
 central content. They are always conscionsly right. They al- 
 ways speak aright. Whatever they do is right. Whatever they 
 own is of the best. Whatever submits itself to their protection is 
 right. Righteousness is the very quality of their experience. 
 Why should you reason with them ? It is cruel and useless— cruel 
 to disturb such profound self-satisfaction in a world not too much 
 given to happiness ; and useless, because it is an instinct, not a 
 conviction — an involuntary feeling, and not a dednotion of reason. 
 
 But not all of this tribe of self-esteem are so happy. AH the 
 worse for them. If this potent force allies itself with conscience, 
 the possessor may as well make up his mind to be in bondage aU 
 his life. Then the sense of ownership and self-appropriation acta 
 chiefly in the sphere of Duty. 
 
 Agate Biesell could not be said to have pride of character so 
 much as Pride of Duty. She saw every thing in the light of duty, 
 and she measured duty by the high requisitions of an intense pride. 
 Every one may see that she had business on hand for the rest of 
 her life. Nothing was good that had not in it some relation to 
 duty. There was no good in the beautiftd, unless in some way 
 allied to practical doty. Happiness, springing from duty, was not 
 eJtogether to be condemned ; yet it must be watched, as likely to 
 take the temper out of the cutting edge of duty. 
 
 There was no member of Dr. Wentworth's fiunily that did not 
 feel the pressure of honest Agate's conscience, and respect it, too. 
 [t mtide no difference that her good ■^ense restrained her from 
 
Tfi NORWOOD. 
 
 intMldling with otht'i- people's coiiwirnces. It is impossible for an 
 cm-rgetic nature to move about among men under the power of 
 :iny great central faeulty, and not eleetrify them. IE you carry a 
 toi-cli for yourself, you cannot keep the light out of other people's 
 t'\ es. 
 
 " Rose, have you put away your night-clothes i " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 •' Are you sure you folded them up and laid them in their 
 prove.* place ? " 
 
 A smile came over Rose's fair face, for she recollected that she 
 had laid them on a chair, and not under the pillow. 
 
 " Rode, it is just as easy to do things right as wrong. Go right 
 up and place them as they ouglit to be, and tlien conie down to 
 your lesson." For Rose was already a proficient with the needle, 
 and for an hoar in the morning and one in the afternoon, she was 
 under Agate's special instruction in reading and writing. But, on 
 Saturday the lessons were in the Scriptures and the Catechism. 
 Rose, by nature, was one of the fortunate ones who obeyed those 
 in command, and yet always had her own way. To suppress one 
 tendency was only to open another. She was of a nature so fall 
 and vital, that her happiness seemed little ch^ uked because stopped 
 in this or tliat direction. 
 
 " The dear child," said Agate, one day, to Mrs. Polly Marble, 
 " is so good that I'm afraid she may not live. If she should die I 
 don't think the Doctor would be good for much." 
 
 " I don't think you need take on 'bout it. Agate," said Mrs. 
 PoKy. " Mebbe you'll find enough human natur in her to suit 
 you, atore you get tlirongh. I've seen just such cljildren before. 
 There's Hotchkiss — till his boy was ten years old, lie was so good 
 that Ills folks was afeered he wa'n't long for this world. Ever 
 since, tho', they have felt easier, for if there ever was a critter 
 that had his full share of total depravity, it is tliat Paul Hotch- 
 kiss. If he's ever convarted, tho', he'll be a smart man, especially 
 if he lia^ it thorough." 
 
 "That may be true, Mrs. Marble. In this world it is not Baf« 
 to trust appearances." 
 
 " That's just what I say to my deacon. Yon know. Miss Agate, 
 that thei-e never was a kinder creetnr nor a better man than he is, 
 if it wa'n't for that w" Aftir all I've done for him, 1 
 
EOSE-CULTURE. I I 
 
 dtn't. see that he's got over it a mite. I tell Mm that nobody is 
 Bure, as long as he is livin' in this world of temptation. When a 
 man is safely in liis coflBn, then we may be comfortable — that is, if 
 he had a hope." 
 
 " 1 sometimes think," said Agate, " that I shonld like Rose 
 better if she had a little more — well, a little more nature: — some 
 sparks flimg off now and then makes yon sure there's Are, and 
 tliat it is not all ashes." 
 
 " Well, I really think I shouldn't trouble myself about that. 
 You oan't tell by the way a bean comes up what sort of leaves it'i 
 goin' to have afterwards. Some children are like poke weed. 
 When it first comes up it's just as good to bile as 'sparagus. But 
 in a ftw weeks it's so strong it would drive ye out of the house, if 
 you was to put it in the pot. Now, you know that the child le 
 depraved. Everybody is, even ministers have it, tho' 1 reely don't 
 see but that grace has subdued it in Dr. Buell. Of course Rose ia 
 — and I shouldn't worry a bit if I was you. It'll come out in 
 time." 
 
 " Mrs. Marble, if there's any such thing as spoiling her, the 
 Doctor will do it. He's the strangest man that I ever heard of. 
 Sometimes I think his books and his foreign learning have un- 
 settled his religious belief. Would it not be dreadful if he was 
 unsound ! I know Dr. Buell don't think so. But you ought to 
 hear him make fun of the Catechism I I have trouble enough 
 with the children anyhow. The other Saturday morning, a'tei 
 I'd got through the questions. Dr. Wentworth called Rose. 
 
 " ' Rose, what do the apple-trees principally teac. ? ' 
 
 "Rose understands her father, and her face looked funnj all 
 over ; but she turned to me as if she didn't want to make fuii of 
 the Catechism : 
 
 " ' Answer him. Rose,' said 1, ' answer your father ! ' 
 
 " And, do you believe it, she looked at him with her great, full 
 eyes, and said : 
 
 " ' They make me think how beautiful God is I ' 
 
 "The Doctor didn't ask her any more question*, but wenl off 
 with her in his arms down into the garden." 
 
 " Well, Agate, you needn't be discouraged. You know yon 
 have the promises. Besides, his ivife is a precious woman ani* 
 that's in your favor." 
 
78 xMOiiwooD. 
 
 " It would almost break mj trnst In Gc<l, if Boje shonldnl 
 
 do well. No — nothing will ever do that, I hope ! But then you 
 can't have buoVj a child by you for six or seven years, and not bav€ 
 your heart bound up in her. I can tell you, Mrs. Marble, there's 
 Qiore dangerous idols than those made of wood and stone." 
 
 "A good deal worse 1 'Eyes havu the}, but they see not, 
 saith the prophet. Now, them idols that have pretty eyes, and 
 see out of them too, is a good deal more to be fear'd. I tell mj 
 boys so, of en." 
 
 " If any thing could spoil Rose, it would be the creatures the 
 Doctor has 'round her. It seems to me as if he contrived to pick 
 out the very worst folks, and let Eose lun with them. There ia 
 that natural, Pete I I do believe Rose would go from me tti him 
 any day. The Doctor lets him carry her about the meadows, ant' 
 woods, and down through the swamp, by half-days together." 
 
 " Well, I'd never consent to that. I'd like to see Pete Sawmill 
 about my house! He'd get a piece of my mind about the quick- 
 est ! He don't do her any good I " 
 
 " The Doctor thinks Pete is a true child of Nature. He is not 
 more'n half-witted anyhow. But the fellow is curious abcmt 
 knowin' all sorts of things that are going on in the woods, espe- 
 cially if there is no use in them.'' 
 
 " That's what I tell the Deacon. ' Deacon Marble,' says I, ' if 
 yon would shove out of ye all your knowins that ain't worth 
 knowin', and then fill up with sober matter, you would be a sight 
 better deacon, and a better man.' " 
 
 "That's "much so with folks in general." 
 
 "Yes; folks' heads is pretty much like their garrets, where 
 all the rubbish and broken things they've no use for down stairs 
 are stored away." 
 
 " As if Pete were not enough, Tommy Taft is round with Rose, 
 and HirSim Beers rides her out every chance he can get. There's 
 about twenty people in this town that seems to think that they 
 own Rose I " 
 
 No other person could be allowed to say these things but her- 
 self. Should a neighbor, or one whom she less confided in than 
 Polly Marble, indulge in unfavorable reflections, Agate would soon 
 enable them to understand that they were meddling with affain 
 that did not ooixiern t.liot" 
 
EOSE-CULTUBE. 79 
 
 Xow and then, however, but with reserye, she intimated to 
 Mrs. Wentworth her fears for Rose's " bringing np ; " for if there 
 was one thing in this whole world which Agate had determined 
 should come to pass, and bad staked her life on it, it was that 
 " Rose should grow up good and pious.'' 
 
 " Do see that child 1 She'll be stung to death, as sure as she'i 
 ulive. Rose, Rose, coiue away from those bees — come here this 
 minute I I do believe that child is in league with all the animal 
 creation. Nothing is afraid of her, and she is afraid of nothing. 
 See her stepping up nearer and nearer to those hives ! I should 
 have had as many stings stuck into me by this time as a baked ham 
 has cloves 1 She comes home with her pockets full of trash, and 
 with vines hanging about her neck, and with her hands fall of 
 bugs and worms. I've given up trying to manage her. It's in her 
 and it will come out. If you stop her at one thing she just goes 
 straight off to another. And she's so good-natured and so quiet 
 and sweet, that you never thick it's wilfulness. But she's got her 
 father's will in her, if it is covered np. She knows what she's 
 abont." 
 
 " Only yesterday I was sitting," said her mother, " in the bow 
 window, jnst as twilight was coming on, with my sewing in my 
 lap, it was getting too dark to see well, when Rose came marching 
 in : — ' Ma, I've got something for you.' ' Bring it here, child,' said 
 I. And she emptied her apron into my lap, in a sober and satis- 
 fied way. Of all things in this world; it was a great toad, 
 speckled, fat — ngh I I screamed and flounced it upon the floor. 
 I was startled in good earnest, for if there is any thing disgustful, 
 next to a snake, or a green worm, or a spider, it is a toad." 
 
 "What did she do?" 
 
 " Do t She looked at me with surprise, — ^then demurely picked 
 np the loathsome creature and walked ont with it. T spoke so 
 sharply that I was afraid I had hurt the poor child, and so I went 
 ont, and she was sitting on the offset laughing all over, as if it was 
 the merriest experience of all her life I" 
 
 Quite nnoonscions of these remarks, the object of them, a 
 ehubby child of six years old, was standing by the very edge of 
 the shelf on which scores of hives were ranged. Bees were flying 
 ont with great activity, and coming in, swinging heavily down, 
 with laden thighs. At first a few whirled around Rose as if to 
 
80 NORWOOD. 
 
 warn her ofl. But seeing at a glance who it was, and rej jrting 
 the news to their companions, their excitement and curiosity sab 
 tided, and the child was suffered to go as near as> she pleased and 
 to do as she liked. If one lit on her baud, slie suffered it to creep 
 over it undisturbed. Sometimes an in flying bee would get caught 
 in her hair ; she took no pains to lielp it out; she snffeied tliem 
 to go and coma as they would. Soineiimes she would gather flo'v 
 ers and bring them toward the hives, and watch the wnikers as 
 they eagerly sought the honey. 
 
 "That child is the doctor's own self in petticoats," said Agate 
 Bissell. " I believe that the Doctor could stuff his pockets full of 
 bees," said his wife, "and tliey would be contented. But if 1 go 
 near the bee shed, the angry things fly at me as Rex does at a 
 beggar. They know I am afraid of them. They da-^h at me with 
 such a way, that I never wait to see what they mean to do, ana so 
 they chase me fairly out of that part of the garden." 
 
 "I wonder the doctor will keep them; at any rate so many. 
 The/e must be as many as fifty hives, and more coming on." 
 
 "Oh, it's his music. He would not hear a word against hie 
 bees. On bright days, that are still and warm, he lies down by 
 the window yonder on purpose to hear theni hum and buzz. And, 
 I confess, if I am only safe out of their reach, it is a pleasant 
 sound. Though I do not want them to appropriate him, or make 
 a hive out of his hat. Do you know he looked for it yesterday a 
 half hour, and then found it among the bees? He says Rose car- 
 ried it .thither. I say Rose's father did. But the doctor, jou 
 know, likes pleasant sounds, as a kind of mental stimulus. The 
 pleasure of music, he says, consists in the thoughts and feelings 
 which it excites in us. I don't know what bees can make him 
 think of. But, if any thing troubles him he likes to get where he 
 can hear the bees, and then he seems to grow quiet." 
 
 " That is better than to brace up with some things,'' said Agate. 
 
 " After that dreadful surgical case he came home looking like 
 a dead man. His face was stem and glia.stly . He oould'nt eat on 
 that day before he operated, and trembled like a leaf when he left 
 the house. But they say as soon as he took the knife his hand 
 was firm and his body like steel. Wl;en he reaelied home I could 
 not get Mm food quick enough— he iihnost crieil for it, and was 
 v^harj) and peexish, till he had e.ilen i nnugh, whiih 1 lh<niuht he 
 
ROSE-CULTURE. 81 
 
 never ct>old do, and then he went out by the window, where he 
 conld see the verbenas and the beds of petunia, and the rows of 
 gladiolus, and lay down, and let the bees ohaut to him. I qnite 
 forgave the creatures their spite at me, when I saw how much 
 jomfort he took. After a while he fell asleep, and woke up in 
 lialf an hour as fresh and merry as he always is." 
 
 " I hope Rose will have his knack of being happy. Isn't it 
 queer that she takes so to Pete ? She is so peculiar aboat liking 
 and not liking. I think tbey are a match. He is aa fond of 
 curious notions as she is. But, then, I don't like her going off 
 with him all day, wandering in the woods and poking into the 
 swamps, and following brooks." 
 
 " The doctor will not have you say a word abont poor Pete 
 He thinks him the only Christian on the place." 
 
 " Except when he's in liquor." 
 
 " Yes, he owns that he has one fault. But then he has such 
 outlandish ways, and knows so much about the animal kind, and 
 is so unfit to take care of himself; he's so foolish about every thing 
 that most folks care abont, and so very knowing about things that 
 are of no sort of use to regular and respectable people, that the 
 doctor thinks he's inspired." 
 
 " I do wonder how so good a man as Dr. Wentwoith is, should 
 have so many queer notions. Well, we all have our faults." 
 
 It is doubtful whether Mrs. Wentworth thought so. There 
 was not a woman in the town that hovered about her husband 
 with such a stream of opposition as she did. She rallied him and 
 chid him, and laughed at him ; she put upon him all manner of 
 humorous and grotesque imaginations, invented speeches and 
 imagined situations in which the doctor figured ludicrously. But 
 flif re was within it all such an unmistakable fondness, and such 
 i>layfulnes8, that no one failed to see that she worshipped as well 
 Hs loved. All this persiflage was her way of hiding or showing, as 
 the case might be, the strength of her attachment. For all the 
 years they had lived together, not a line was less distinct, not a 
 color was faded, not a form was withdrawn from the picture which 
 'live first drew. One word in the morning of earnest love filled 
 "he whole day with happiness. With increasinir power came also 
 « growing sensibility. Never when he first spoke of affection was 
 it so hard to listen with open ini-v as now after eight years of 
 
,S2 NORWOOD. 
 
 Intimacy. TVie blash caue more deeply than at first, the eye fell 
 more quickly, the nerve trembled more freely Whatever there 
 wag in her nature susceptible of development, was wholly com- 
 manded by her husband. She honored his strength. She re- 
 joiced in his growing influence. She sympathized with his tasteB 
 so far as their unlike natures would permit. But to have owned 
 thesu feelings would have been as impossible as to have spoken in 
 the tongue of angels. It would seem as if, while her whole life 
 centred upon his love, she would hide the precious secret by 
 flinging over it vines and flowers, by mirth and raillery, as a bird 
 hides its nest under tufts of grass, and behind leaves and vines, a? 
 a fence against prying eyes. 
 
 The garden was the doctor's paradise. Every day, therefore, 
 he heard from his wife some amusing narration of his conduct. 
 Birds and insects were near of kin to him. Of course, birds and 
 insects every day were made to answer for all manner of curious 
 faults. Every day the indictment varied. Now the flowers had 
 beguiled him. Now the bees had infatuated him; now the birds 
 had quite flown away with his wit ; now Rose had bewitched him, 
 or he had gone utterly a gadding with Pete Sawmill. 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth talked both with quickness and emphasis. 
 Her voice was ringing, but very sweet. No fibre springing from 
 combativeness was twined into the chord, and so its sounding was 
 never sharp or harsh. 
 
 A single hour's acquaintance would suffice to discriminate and 
 sharply to separate her from shallow, talkative women, whose 
 tongnes, like a turnpike, lie open to all the travel that comes 
 along. It was full of kindness even when bantering. It was often 
 witty, and always shrewd. It ran on as a vine grows, — a morning 
 glory, or u cypress vine, — twining round and round whatever it 
 may touch, and throwing out buds and blossoms at every joint. 
 
 " There is Rose, mounted and riding. It is the last we shal' 
 «ei- of her till dinner," said Agate Bissell. 
 
 " Longer than that. She goes out to Oathoart's, joxi remeio 
 her, for the day . Of course Pete is ) er onrriage." 
 
CHAPTER Xn. 
 
 PBTB SAWMILL. 
 
 Pbtb Sa.wmill himself deserves a portrait. He was a hnge fei- 
 ow, black as night, standing full six feet five in his stockings. 
 " Goo4 for wadin'," he used to say. " That's how I went fishin' 
 fust. I didn' know what they gave me such legs for, if it wasn't 
 to wade brooks with ! " He derived his name from his strengtli, 
 and the fact that he at one time \?;orked in a neighboring sawmill. 
 The boys were telling a story one day of a bear, that had, in earliei 
 times, while the men were cutting logs in the neighboring woods 
 wandered into the mill, and seeing the men's dinner on the log, 
 mounted upon it, and with his back to the saw, began pulling open 
 the cloth, and devouring the meat. The saw soon advanced upon 
 his tail, that lay flat behind him, and nipped a hair or two, at which, 
 a growl! then a sharper pull, and an angrier growl! The third 
 slash cut to the bone, and brought the enraged animal around, with 
 a furious hug at the remorseless saw, which soon rolled him (jff the 
 log, with sad rents in his garments. This story was once told it- 
 his presence, and Pete declared that he could hold the saw. And 
 it is said that, getting first a good position, and wrapping the teeth 
 well, when the water was let on he held the saw so powerfully 
 that it could not get into motion. However that may be, the story 
 was always told of him when his name expited curiosity. 
 
 Pete was one of those peculiar natures that can never be organ- 
 ized into society, but live, as marmots do, by burrowing in the 
 neighborhood of men, without living among them. 
 
 He had the strength of two ordinary men, but had little regu- 
 lar use for it. Good nature was constitutional — and laughing may 
 06 said to have constituted the greater part of his language. H 
 began his sentences with a flourish of te he's, and tliey mostly de 
 liquesced into guttural chuckles. When, on public days, trainings, 
 and elections and cattle-shows, Pete's discretion in f'.rink had shown 
 itself to be small, he was never known to quarrel. He settled 
 i')wn in some corner, and talked and laughed to himself with verj 
 
S4 NORWOOD. 
 
 much tht same sounds which issue from a black pot of hasty pud- 
 ding, as it boils and splutters. 
 
 But these periods were not frequent, and Pete was in demand 
 for such work as required stre-ngth. For short spells he would put 
 forth extraordinary strength. " I'd rather have Pete to lay stone- 
 walls with than a yoke of oxen," .■^aid farmer Jones, "and as foi 
 thrashing, he's a perfect machine." 
 
 '•I love to see him cliop wood," said a neighbor. "I think 
 Pete prides himself on the why he swings an axe." 
 
 " Well, he's a right to. Just take him on a frosty morning, 
 put a good Collins axe in his hand, and then see him lay off his 
 jacket and mount on a big log ; and then he lets it on the wood, and 
 the chips fly so fast that it's dangerous to stand in front. When 
 he's down to the heart of the log, the side of his cut is as smooth 
 as if it had been planed. There's not a man in this town can do 
 up a cord of wood as quick as he can, and as for splittin', he has a 
 natural eye for a log, and sees just where the crack will run. Some 
 folks, you know, .strike and strike', and turn the log over, and trv 
 it tliis way and tJjat, afore they find out the splittin'-vein. But 
 Pete sees it the tiiinute he )a.vs his eye on a stick. I saw liiiii one 
 day, when Bose Hadley'd been whalin' away at a big oak log til! 
 he was out of breath, tuke tiie axe, and turn the log over, and look 
 at both ends, and then sqnare away and let fly, and the axe went 
 through the log so slick, that it fell apart lil<e two boards, and hi? 
 axe went a rod out of his hands." 
 
 "Pe:e don't know much," said amither, "but what he does 
 know comes to him mighty natural." 
 
 " I don't know about^his bein' ^o ignorant. His head don't run 
 on books; I doubt if he knows his letters. But, if I'm butcherin', 
 I'd rather have him than cild Harvey himself. Then he has a natu- 
 ral turn for horses, specially if nobody else can manage 'em. Pete, 
 somehow, gets in with 'em as if they was i elated." 
 
 " He's pretty good in a garden, too. Every tiling lives that he 
 puts oat. I'd rather have him set a tree fir me than do it myself. 
 Pete hain't growed away from iiatur' so far but what ho knowe 
 what's goin' on in beasts and birds. There aint his equal at fishin' 
 in these parts. The fish just cum, I do believe, and ask him to 
 3atoh 'em," 
 
 " He don't take on airs about it, neither He aint stingy. He'd 
 
i'EJK SAWiULL. 8S 
 
 jast as Boon take you to the best brooks and the beet places as not. 
 But then that's nothin'. Very like yon can't catch a fish. Tlia 
 Ironl knows who's after 'em. They want Pete to catch 'em, not 
 T' im, Dick and Harry.'' 
 
 " You mind that time he caught that trout out of Holoomb's 
 mill-pond, don't you ? — No ? Well, it had been known that there 
 vi as an awlul big fellow livin' in there. And I know a hundred 
 tulks had tried for him. Gentlemen had come up from New Ha- 
 ven, and from Bridgeport, and from down to New York, a-flshiti', 
 and ever so many of 'em had wound up with tryin' theii' luck for 
 that big trout, and they had all sorts of riggin'. One, he tried flies, 
 and another worms ; sometimes they took the mornin', and some- 
 times the evenin'. They knew the hole where he lay. He'd been 
 seen breakin' the water for one thing and another, but alius when 
 nobody was fishin'. He was a curious trout. I believe he knew 
 Sunday just as well as Deacon Marble did. At any rate, the dea- 
 con thought the trout meant to aggravate him. The deacon, you 
 know, is a little waggish. He often tells about that trout. Sez 
 he, ' One Sunday morning, just as I got along by the willows, I 
 heard an awful splash, and not ten feet from shore I saw the trout, 
 as long as my arm, just curving over like a how, and going down 
 with something for breakfast. Gracious 1 says I, and I almost 
 jumped out of the wagon. But my wife Polly, says she, ' What 
 on airth are you thinkin' of, Deacon ? It's Sabbath day, and you're 
 goin' to meetin' ! It's a pretty business for a deacon ! ' That sort 
 ()' cooled me off. But I do say that, for about a minute, I wished 
 I wasn't a deacon. But twouldn't made any difference, for I came 
 lown next day to mill on purpose, and I came down oiioe or twice 
 •iiure, and nothin' was to be seen, tho' 1 tried him with the most 
 tamptin' things. Wal, ne.xt Sunday I came along agin, and, to 
 save my life, I couldn't keep off worldly and wanderin' thoughts. 
 I tried to be sayin' my catechism, but I couldn't keep my eyes off 
 tho pond as we came up to the willows. I'd got along in the cat- 
 echism, as smooth as the road, to the Fourth Commandment, and 
 was sayin' it out loud for Polly, and jist as I was sayin' : ' Wliai 
 w required in the Fourth Oominandmeni ? ' I heard a splash, and 
 there was the tront, and, afore I could think, I said : ' Gracious 
 Polly, I must have that trout.' She almost riz right up, ' I knew 
 yon wan't sayin' your catechism hearty. Is this the way you as 
 
86 NORWOOD. 
 
 uwer the question about keepiir the Lord's Jay ? I'm ashamed, 
 Deacon Marble,' says she. 'You'd better change your road, and 
 CO to meetin' on ilie road over the hill. If I was a deacon, 1 
 wouldn't let a fish's tail whisk the whole catechism out of my 
 head ; ' — and I had to go to meetin' on the hiU road all the rest of 
 the summer. 
 
 "Wal, Pete, lie worked down to the mill for a week or twii — 
 that's as long as he stays anywhere except at Dr. Wentworth's 
 for he lets him come and go about as he pleases. And so, ont 
 day, says he, ' I'm goin' to catch that big trout.' So. after the sun 
 wan gone down, and just as the moon riz and lighted up the tops 
 of the bnshes, but didn't touch the water — Pete, he took a little 
 mouse he'd caught, and hooked his hook through his skin, on the 
 back, so that it didn't hurt him or hinder his bein' lively, and he 
 threw him in about as far as a mouse could have jumped from the 
 branches that hung over. Of course the mouse he put out lively 
 to swim for his life. Quick as a flash of lightnin', the water opened 
 with a rush, and the mouse went under; but he came up again, 
 nnd the trout with him ; and be weighed between three and four 
 [xinnd." 
 
 Agate BisseU could not be expected to put a very high value on 
 one who had only, or chiefly, such qualities as gave Pete his repn- 
 tion. He had no pui-pose in life. He had no trade or calling. He 
 was an idle fellow; and that term expressed the utmost condemna- 
 tion which she could pronounce upon one not positively-guilty of 
 crime or vice. 
 
 " Doctor Wentworth, it seems to me that Rose might find a 
 better companion than that lazy fellow I What can she learn of 
 him that will make her either wiser or better? " 
 
 The doctor smiled, and only looked at Agate. This habit ol 
 hearing what she said without reply seemed to disturb Agate's 
 equanimity. She felt it to be but a way of saying that she was not 
 worth answering, thougli that was far from the truth. His mind 
 wandered otf and followed out what she said, till he quite forgot 
 the answer. 
 
 " Agate I will you hand me that large folio of engravings ? " 
 
 She laid it on the table and opened the volume. 
 
 " Now," said the doctor, " do you think it makes anj difference 
 vlth me who opens this book for me » The contents are there, and 
 
PETK SAWMILI,. 87 
 
 du uot depend for their value on the person who opens and sliowa 
 them. So it is with Pete. He opens the book of nature to Rose — 
 that's all. He has do ideas. He can hardly speak intelligibly. He 
 ha.s no place in society. But he is strangely alive to tlie facts of 
 nature, and he will show Rose more things In natural history than 
 any person in this town." 
 
 '* Of course you can do as yon please ; Rose is your daughter. 
 If she was mine, I don't think I should send her to Pete to learn 
 about this world, or that to come 1 " 
 
 " Courage, Agate I Between Pete and yoo, I ho|;i« to m«k« e 
 good girl of Rose." 
 
CHAPTER XHL 
 
 ROSK A.ND ALICE. 
 
 JT was a mid-June day, the very balmiest day of tl e sweetert 
 ^'jiith of tiie New-Erig_aiid summer. All that foreign poets say 
 of May. in our northern laud must be applied to June. The bois- 
 lerous winds that rage in March, the cold nights that undo all that 
 warm April days have done, the ohillinj; rain blown from the east 
 iipnfi aguish May, are all past. All the scars of winter are healed, 
 and the Cdnflicts of the spring have issued in a perfect victory, for 
 whose celebration the leaves shake nut their ample folds, and the 
 flowers lift up their banners in every field, and through the forests. 
 Iheir enemy is destroyed. Frosts are dead, and flowers are 
 jubilant. 
 
 It would seem that this day of Rose 's visit to Alice Cathcart, 
 was, above all other Jnne days, transcendent in mild glory. Never 
 were the blue heavens deeper and bluer. Xever were clouds softer, 
 or sailing in white islands with more tranquil errand'^. Ttiey did 
 not troop with that stern and brilliant march that they seem to 
 liave in October days, as if they mustered, far a < ay, to some call 
 unheard of men, for battle or for vengeance of storms; but they 
 moved gently, as if tliey carried in their plushy depths sleeping 
 infants, and serenely swaying them, rocked their slumbers into 
 sleep, in a peace high above earthly snnnds and higher even than 
 dreams can fly. 
 
 1-iut wh.'it foi)lisb creatures birds are I They saw nothing of all 
 tlii- beauty, or eKe fliey would not have filled the air with such a- 
 racket. Blue-liird< whispered their brief syllable < f music ; the 
 meadow lark, who wears a black heart upon its yellow breast, as 
 if all the year it had as^irrow incurable, wailed out its wild, sweet 
 dirge. Robins, plump and familiar, called and sung, in sober jollity, 
 from every orchard, from gardens and fields, from skirts of bushe*, 
 and the edges of the forest — our most familiar and sweetest sing- 
 ing summer birds. 
 
 I wrong tl.e sparmw, which begins earlier, sings more consttintly, 
 !»<? holds out longer than the thrush — singing its exquisite strain, 
 
ROSE AND ALICE. 89 
 
 £bii1^ only in that it is too short, til! summer is almost over, till 
 the sen barns the grass, till flocks are silent, till the locusts and 
 the oriokets come. No wonder Rose caught her bieath, as a song- 
 sparrow broke out in its tenderest strain right above her head, 
 while they vrere passing a garden edged with trees, and then 
 clapped her little hands, as if asking for more. Who has not done 
 the same, or felt like doing it ? 
 
 Bat Pete, on whose shoulders Rose sat with about as much tax 
 upon his strength as an epaulette imposes upon a soldier's shoulder, 
 strided on, to get dear of town and the outskirts, and reach tlie 
 brook, where he left the road and sought, if not a nearer, yet a 
 pleasanter way, across lots, to 'Biah Oathoart's. 
 
 Pete was entirely happy. He had Hose on his shoulder, who sat 
 p,erked up there with all a queen's joy, and none of her cares. 
 Without knowing why, she felt the influences of the day ; and feel- 
 'iigs which, later in life, would assume definite form and submit 
 themselves to reason and analysis, now sent up within her vague 
 and gentle influences, which might be likened to the air about lier, 
 flUed with sweet exhalations from the ground, and odors from the 
 woods, and sounds of every kind. 
 
 But Pete, himself only an overgrown child, was, if possible 
 happier yet. Blindly along his nerves crept something of the 
 atmospheric influences, stirring, it is probable, no such nascent 
 poetic influences as thrilled the charming little nosegay of a child 
 on his shoulder, but which, in him, were developed in ways ot 
 which Rose was quite unconscious. The venatorial instinct seems 
 in undeveloped men to be the rude germ of that which, in civil- 
 ized men, grows into scientific wisdom. Persons of fine organi- 
 ziition, but without education, are often far more quick to discern, 
 iiiid far more in sympathy with, the instincts and habits of animals 
 I han wiser men are. There is a political economy of the woods 
 and fields, as well as of cities and towns — an animal economy as 
 well as a civic economy. Men utterly devoid of the knowledge 
 of property, production, wages, rents or values of any kind, have 
 a clear insight of squirrels, foxes, marmots, fish and birds, in all 
 their varieties. 
 
 Pete seemed to know before experience, what every wild 
 creature would do, and had also apparently a fascination over them. 
 To what else oonld be referred the almost utter tameness to hm 
 
90 .\ OK WOOD. 
 
 of oreatnres shy and wild to all others ? The qnail woi d no) 
 rise, hnt ran before him as it is known to do before the horse. A 
 partridge would not fly from its nest, and seemed sure that Pet« 
 would respect its domesticity. Squirrels ran down the trees, 
 jumped and pranced along the ground, barking and jerking their 
 tails, as if saying among themselves, " Oh, it is nobody but Pete," 
 and went on with their frolics in conscious security. There was a 
 league of peace between him and all creatures. This did not ex- 
 clude his rights of snaring and fishing ; {or how could he claim a 
 place in the human family, if he liad no right to destroy life? 
 But it is probable that Pete was regarded by the animal kingdom 
 as a kind of fate, or Providence, and that when he saw fit to take 
 birds or fishes, it was eminently proper that birds and fishes should 
 be resigned to depart without questioning his wisdom or kindness. 
 
 Rex, a Newfoundland dog, that seemed to be another Pete run- 
 ning on all fours, seemed this day to be in ecstatic state. He got. 
 out of town with only a few capers. But his sobriety was all a 
 pretence; scarcely had he reached the open country before he was 
 scouring the pastures, and rousing up the old cows to great excite- 
 ment in defence of tlieir calves, while two or three brood mares 
 with pokes on, their colts footing it fleetly in advance of them, dis- 
 appeared over the hill. 
 
 " Come back, Kex I you nigger you I Come here, you liar you 1 
 Ve said you would behave if I'd let you come." 
 
 Rex, with his red tongue out, came at once to his senses, and 
 trotted behind Pete, as if he had never dreamed of an irregularity. 
 But a little further on, over n bit of round hill, fed a few dozen 
 sheep, and he could no more help going ofl'into them, than a gun can 
 when a spark lights on the ;i<)wder. In one half minute there was 
 not a sheep to be seen. If they had been blown away by the wind, 
 as leaves are, they could hardly have made such expedition tl^ 
 when Rex suddenly appeared among them. 
 
 "Hup I Hup I Rex, you villain I Oorae down! Comedown, you 
 rogue I " 
 
 Almost before the sentence was finished. Rex, with a look of 
 the most undisturbed good nature, came over the wall like a grass- 
 hopper, leaping first and looking afterwards ; and, as the wall stood 
 iipon the crest of a bank, no sooner had he cleared it than he per- 
 formed a summersault, and rolled down in a manner of which anj 
 
KOSE AND ALICE. 91 
 
 Jijjmfled dog should have been ashamed, but at which Rose liiug}i- 
 ed till she almost fell off her roost. 
 
 Rex seemed really penitent, and might lave finished the journey 
 with credit, ifWidow Hubbard had not kept geese. The momeni 
 he ran up the little hill which overlooks the brook, he saw them. 
 31ipping through the bushes and over the fence, in a twinkling the 
 whole flock were in a whirl. Some rushed for the water, some 
 tumbled over, all were screaming and trumpeting, and several hav- 
 ing got wing, flew squawking for a hun-^red rods, and came down 
 from sheer inability to keep up. But long before they alighted, Rex 
 had let all alone, and stretched away up the brook to take a smell 
 and a scratch at a woodchuck'shole which never failed to throw him 
 into a paroxysm of excitement since the day that he ran a marmot 
 into it. 
 
 The great, succulent leaves of the skunk's cabbage were fully 
 expanded. In places where the brook spread out into a kind of 
 marsh, cowslips were blazing in clumps of yellow, and as they 
 came near the open edge of the woods, spring flowers in great 
 variety bloomed in endless profusion. 
 
 By the time that Rose liad reached the same point, Rex, his 
 ardor abated, sat on his haunches, panting, his red tongue hanging 
 out, and the utmost propriety stamped on every feature. How 
 little are dogs to be trusted ! This decorum is not skin deep. You 
 would think him a judge. His thoughts run upon duty, modera- 
 tion, propriety. If you believe it, just let a red squirrel or a chip- 
 munk put its nose out of the wall, and see ! 
 
 Rose would dismount for a few flowers which she espied. Then 
 she must needs be put on the top of the stone wall, next the bar 
 post, where she could look along the brook valley on the other 
 side. Here the little queen took on airs, and sent her Ethiop to 
 get her some moss, or for a sprig from yonder bush, or for some 
 white pebbles out of the brook, for a few rushes out of the bog, for 
 some partridge-berry vines from the edge of the wood. Around 
 her straw gipsy bonnet she had arranged a coronet of leaves and 
 vines and flowers, with a skill that showed how well already she 
 had learned of her father the secret things which flowers tell to all 
 who have their senses exercised to understand the secret lore of 
 (Tatnre. 
 
 From her lap full of rarious treasure. Rose looked along th* 
 
B!' NOKWUOI). 
 
 witi^.'n/ '■•iv OR, ••long the aanow, level meadow which stretoLed 
 far inian<t, alOL^ tne juttiug eages of the forest, 1 j the far off llu« 
 l}ills. Sne forgot where she was. The scene grew shadowy aud 
 fantastic. Ah-eady, before she knew the words by which mea ex- 
 press it, Nature was teaching her something of toe Infinite. The 
 visible was leading her to the invisible, and she saw dimiy, or felt, 
 the power of the world to come! 
 
 Of old, God spoke, in watches of the night, to voung Bamnel 
 sleeping in the Tabernacle. And still God speaks to the yonng in the 
 greater Tabernacle of Nature, calling them with voices or induenoes 
 which, if understood, would reveal strange and deep tnings, well 
 worthy to be kncjwn. 
 
 Pete was sprawled "loon the ground, watching a petty ant-hill 
 iTid its httle fiery swarm, acd was coaxing the ants to orawi on his 
 black hand, when Rose summoned him to resume the journey. 
 
 They came to the pius woods in which winds always seemed 
 to Rose to be moaning and sigtiiae;, where melancholy birds cried : 
 " Oree-ah, cree-ah," with so sau a tone, that Rose could have cried 
 for them. Through this strip ot pine, smelling fragrant of resin, 
 upon the cast off and dead leaves that oever more rustle, but covei 
 the ground with soundless carpet, Pete i^trided, stopping only to 
 point up to a crow's nest. Then they came to a hardwood grove, 
 full of wild azaleas and kalmias. Partridges nested in the pan 
 that ran round the side of the hill, and Pete knew where, but had no 
 time now, for it was already between nine and ten. But he must 
 needs show Rose a hole where flying sijuirrels lived, and .itoj'ped 
 in one little open glade to let her see the red squirrels run, and to 
 listen if they might hear the wood-thrush sing. They might hive 
 heard it; for they had hardly cleared the grove before it filled tim 
 woods with its solitary ecstasy. Rex knew the ground, aiic 
 though there were endless temptations in the swamp yonder, and 
 ijuails on the edge of the wood, and partridges among the thick 
 underbrush under the ledge, and infinite delight all round, yet his 
 tender heart knew that he was drawing near *o Spark, a black 
 and tan terrier, now only separated from him b) the width of a 
 Held. 
 
 As Res came over the wall into the door yard, Spark let forth 
 such 1 stream of barking and yelling that it seemed as if the heat 
 rf his rage had melted the separate notes into a molten solution ol 
 
ROSE AND ALICE. 93 
 
 bark, which terminated as suddenly as it began, when Rex came 
 trotting up, proud as a lion, carrying his long-ridged tail up in the 
 air like a banner. They ran round each other with most familiar 
 smellings, and finally broke away together in a rush down the 
 yard, rolling over and wrestling and racing, until suddenly Spark 
 remembered that he had something hid under the barn — a rat, oi' 
 perhaps a weasel, or who knows, it may have been a — whate^•er 
 that is which a dog is thinking of when he rushes off to poke his 
 nose through each chink, and peep in at every hole, and smell 
 around the whole circumference of the barn and its sheds ! 
 
 The appearance of Rex vaulting over the wall was the signal 
 that Rose was near. Alice was waiting impatiently, and if good 
 Rachel Cathcart, who filled the whole house with her presence, 
 and yet seldom spoke, and then not above a melodious whisper, 
 had she said what she felt, she would have owned the day to be 
 a little brighter for Rose's coming. And so when Rex's black muz- 
 zle oame over the wall, and set oft' Spark, evei-y body ran to the 
 door, and Alice, with her black hair shining in the sun and hanging 
 down her shoulders, shaded her eyes with her hand, and watched 
 on tip-toe. First came a little bit of color, which sunk again, but 
 at a step nearer showed a face in it, and a second after a great, 
 good-natured black visage was rising over the wall, and Pete sailed 
 up to the door, giggling and gurgling, as was his manner of saluta- 
 tion. Pete gave Rose a toss, and she, light as a bird and springy as 
 a squirrel, alit by Alice's side, and each of them disappeared in the 
 other's arms, in a sort of general mixture of kissing and caressing. 
 
 Aunt Rachel — Rose always called her aunt — stood looking at 
 them as if, for a moment, all the world looked bright, and children, 
 st least, had a right to be happy. 
 
 And now, what were the girls to do? Do? — the morning was 
 not long enough for their pressing necessities I First, they ran to 
 - Alice's room, and, with ranch confidential and low talk, inspected 
 some, I know not what, treasure — may be a new cap, — perhaps a 
 doll, — possibly a baby's bed or bureau, — and it may be a whole suit 
 of doll's apparel 1 There was a session up garret, which was genera 
 play-room, and where all sorts of stow-aways and good-for-some- 
 things — crippled chairs, dilapidated bureaus, old fire-fenders, and 
 boxes of various patterns, give endless room for rummaging. If they 
 find any thing, well and good ; if tliey do not, they make it all np, 
 
94 NORWOOD. 
 
 sayiug: "Oh, Ron, what if we should open that drawer, and 
 then yon shonld see a gold hird, and he shoaid jump out and flj 
 lip on that clothes-line, and begin to sing!" etc. 
 
 But Rose, to-day, was to see more substantial things; for it 
 was the cheese-day, and Aunt Rachel's cheeses, like every thing 
 from her hands, admitted of no rivalry. Already the card was 
 formed ; but Rose was called to see it broken up, salted, drained 
 and pressed. With wonder she inspected the cheese-room, where 
 some two score cheeses, of various ages, lay ranged upon the suc- 
 cessive shelves. 
 
 " These are old," said Alice, pointing to the topmost row ; 
 " these are going to market ; and these are not cured yet ; we have 
 to turn and rub them every day." 
 
 Which operation Rose gravely essayed to perform under Aunt 
 Rachel's direction. 
 
 Nothing could long detain the children from the only city of a 
 child's desire — a huge, old-fashioned barnl There is something 
 in its homely simplicity, in its negligence, that puts them at ease. 
 ?fo carpets hold them in caution ; no furniture lords it over the 
 freedom of their motions. No valetudinarians or nervous people 
 are incommoded by their noise. It is a very castle of liberty to 
 them I They are unwatched and untutored. They are their own 
 masters. Mice squeak and quarrel in the bins and barrels. The 
 old cat is roused by the symptoms, and lies alert, crouched, or 
 glides eagerly in and out searching for her prey. Swallows fly in 
 und twitter up and down about their nests plastered under the 
 i-idge-pole. Flocks of hens come to the door, look in first with one 
 eye, and then with the other,— each one c;illing " Out-out-cutarkut !'' 
 or else suppressing in her throat some remark not prudent to utter. 
 
 To-day, both doors, wide and high, stood wide open, leaving 
 the floor clear through to the sunshine and fresh air. One mow 
 was empty, waiting for the new crop of hay soon to be cut. The 
 other side yet held many tons, and furnished a spot for jumping 
 und frolicking. With a wild outcry a hen flies off her nest. On 
 wiiuld think she had been threatened, attacked, and every righ 
 t udely invaded ! Instead of that she has only laid an egg I Manj 
 of her superiors make all the noise without an egg. The children 
 run for it, — they search for others, — and, oh ! joy of excitements, 
 find a new nest, with ten eggs in it I They bear their treasure and 
 
ROSE AND ALICE. 95 
 
 trinmpk of disoovery to the hoase with exultation. They race back 
 again for their eport. Their bonnets are gone, their cheeks ara 
 flushed, — every thing is mirthful, — they laugh at the gate, and 
 laugh at the hens, and laugh at Spark, who is Just now seized with 
 the conviction that there is a rat somewhere, and who is running 
 wildly, all a-tremble with excitement and fairly screaming with 
 fury at the dastardly rat, who has not the rat-hood to come forth 
 and show himself openly, but meanly takes advantage of his hole I 
 
 They peer into the root-cellar, and look timid, — ^it is so very 
 dark, and a foul, damp air and smell of old roots send them away. 
 The grain-room is more attractive. They measure oats, and climb 
 up on the slippery ears of unshelled corn, which slide them down 
 as fast as they scramble up. They get into the buggy, and lay the 
 whip upon imaginary horses, and jounce up and down upon the 
 springy seats, as if the road was very rough or the speed very 
 great. The well, too, calls them. It is an old-fashioned well, dug 
 so many years ago that every body has forgotten when. It is verj 
 deep — they peer over, and look down, and can see nothing ; and 
 that is always very terrible when one is looking into darkness ; 
 and both run away, and then laugh because they run. 
 
 It is noon. Ah, how clear the sky ! How sweet the air 1 How 
 full of clover smell — great red clover, which spreads out just be- 
 low, whole acres, and has drawn hither bees from every direction, 
 and made them greedy with delight ! And now the horn blows. 
 It is dinner time — twelve o'clock. " There is father 1 " cries Alice, 
 and runs for him, and Rose hard after, and both get kissed for 
 their pains, and one is mounted on one shoulder and one on the 
 other — while Barton Oathoart, in tow pantaloons, barefoot, tan- 
 ned, all but his eyes and hair, which are black as night, walks 
 briskly, to let the girls see that ten years old can keep step with 
 full-grown men. And Papa Cathcart must wash his great head 
 and tan-colored neck and short hair all over — ^and Barton Oath- 
 cart must wash his soiled hands and tanned face — and Rose and 
 Alice must wash their red faces and white hands ! 
 
 The dinner was in the great kitchen to-day. Not that there 
 was not a dining-room, which served also for the sitting-room. 
 But now was the busy time, and the old kitchen was so large and 
 pleasant, and it was so much easier for Mrs. Cathcart to do the 
 work, there being only a girl to help ber. Tije doors stood wida 
 
96 NORWOOD. 
 
 open, and the windows stood wide open, and before long months 
 were open too. The potatoes could not contain themselves, but 
 in the goodness of their hearts had split open with benevolence, 
 and lay in the dish like sacks of meal ripped open and spilling. 
 The meat smelled so good ! — even the dugs could not wait. Rex, 
 with tlie most besee(;hiug eagerness, licked his chops, and Spiirk 
 whined and trembled, and half-barked, as much as to .Hny, " I can': 
 stiind it much longer." 
 
 They all ate — tlie two hired men ate, and the man that hiini 
 tlieiM ate, and the boys ate, and the girls, and even the dogs ate. 
 snapping the morsels and scraps from time to time flung to then', 
 and swallowing them so suddenly, that it was as if they had been 
 flung down a well. 
 
 Where was Pete ? Gone back to town to tell the Doctor aim 
 Mrs. Wentworth that Rose would stay all night, and that Pete 
 was to come liack with some fish-spears, and that n party would 
 be formed to g!i out to Broad Brook that night to spear suckers. 
 Pete mounted the colt, — a horse ten years old, but which was still 
 called the colt. The " young horse " was nearly fifteen. Indeed, 
 the team horses were <iuly seven and eight years old, and the 
 "colt" and "young horse" were the veterans. On his bare back 
 Pete sat astraddle, his long legs nearly sweeping the ground, and 
 both horse and rider being of one mind, the journey was not 
 loni.', nor was the return so delayed but that Pete arrived in anipl« 
 lime to secure his dinner. 
 
CHAPTER XrV. 
 
 THB NIGHT FISHINO. 
 
 Long hail Alice been promised that she should see tome riiglii 
 fi«timg. What it should be, filled Rose with mysterioas imagiiiu- 
 tions. Hardy and tough Barton, who that afternoon had vacation 
 in honor of Miss Rose, being three years her senior, felt the im- 
 portance of his superior age, and taught and dictated in the most 
 edifying manner. 
 
 The spears were sharpened, and Pete and Barton made torches, 
 tying a rude tin cup to a short stick and filling it with turpentine 
 and oil. A loose wick was provided, which was capable of giving 
 a broad glare-of light. 
 
 At length the supper was over; the two-horse wagon came 
 round ; the girls were charged with extra shawls for use when re- 
 turning. The light along the West was yet a day light, but was 
 rapidly fadijig. Grreat clouds lay banked up far away In the 
 south-west, and flashes of light shooting through them told of 
 distant thunder-storms. But all the sky hitherward was clear 
 and serene, and within an hour the moon would be up. 
 
 A drive of a mile brought the party to Broad Brook. It was 
 one of those rooky and gravelly streams found in mountain re- 
 gions, which emigrants settled upon the flat alluvial lands of the 
 West long for, when in fevers they lie half asleep and half awake, 
 and dream that they are back again at home, and see the watei 
 clear as crystal rushing over the pebbles, or widening into sheets, 
 and, longing for its coolness, awake, and in their weakness shed 
 tears for very home-sickness ! 
 
 Broad Bniok was of mountain origin. Into it came Glover's 
 Brook from the ravine, famous for its wildness and its trout, ani' 
 Twist's Eiver, and ever so many more mountain-fed little streams 
 so that by the time it had come down to Morse's Bridge it had 
 become a stream of some dignity and power. Had its waters been 
 compressed into narrow bounds, it would have been formidable 
 for any one who should seek to ford it. But it preferred to spreni! 
 itself, and to brawl over a wide liuttom, and to wi.nd along th« 
 
98 NORWOOD. 
 
 edges of the bills, with meadows on one side and rocks on the other, 
 now and then circuiting oif far into the grass-lands, running deep, 
 with many a pool. Above the bridge, for the most part, it hugged 
 the hills, and was broad and shallow, better fitted for wading. 
 
 The party was soon upon its banks. The western light had 
 grown dim. A steep bank on the far side of the river, clothed 
 with trees, and especially held by the solemn black hemlock,' 
 served to shut out the little remaining twilight. Tlie roar of the 
 lirook, its wild and threatening look, at first daunted Rose and 
 Alice, and brought them close to each other, to Barton's great 
 edification. That was because they were girls ! He would show 
 them ! and without more ado he jumped into the water, not quite 
 knee deep, and walked across and back, and let the water bubble 
 up around his legs. The torches were soon lit, and Pete and 
 Barton took each a spear, and, girding a bag about them to hold 
 the fish, began to move up the stream. From the banks, under 
 'Biah Carthcart's care, the girls watched the strange and wild 
 scene. The smoky torches threw a red glare on the water, whose 
 wrinkled face gave back the light in broken flashes. The bank 
 obscurely loomed out from the other side, jutting forward, seem- 
 ingly, as the light hazily revealed its rocks, and drawing back 
 again when a clump of hemlocks or mountain laurels opened dark 
 recesses through the foliage. Moving slowly against the rushing 
 stream, passing the light along its surface, and surveying its 
 bottom, Pete and Barton for a time seemed to find nothing. But 
 as they neared a point where the water, swinging around, deepened 
 a little, Barton plunged down his spear, and, with some commotion 
 and tussle, held it there. His torch had almost fallen. But re- 
 gaining his foothold, he soon lifted a large sucker above the water, 
 the first prize of the evening. Scarcely was his trophy secured 
 tjefore Pete, who had been bending and searching the bottom, was 
 .■<(.'en aiming his spear, and with sudden stroke, retracted as soon 
 lifted a fish large enough to make the ashen spear-handle bend. 
 
 Growing bolder as they advanced, Rose and Alice imagine(? 
 themselves in a fairy story. Pete and Barton, now in gloom and 
 now shining out in the red light of the torches, seemed like 
 gnomes. The trees, as the torches were carried under them, 
 were lit up with an atmosphere such as no unenchanted trees 
 ever knew. The water seemed to be some living tiing and 
 
THE NIGHT FISHING. 9'.) 
 
 loowled or laaghed, winked and blinked, as if it knew scmething 
 wild and dreadful. Now the stream left the hill, and moved be- 
 tween two rows of stiff alders, and the fishers were lost to the 
 sight, only a faint red smoke flickering above the bushes, revealing 
 their progress. Then winding back again, the stream brawled 
 against the rooks, and ran for a long way under the projecting 
 branches of hard- wood trees. 
 
 And now the girls, growing somewhat bolder and more familiar, 
 wanted to go into the brook. Of course they could not. But 
 couldn't somebody let them ride? How could 'Blah Cathoart 
 carry two girls, seven years old, when the river bottom was so 
 uneven? What if his foot should slip, or he should step down into 
 a hole — where would the girls be? 
 
 But couldn't Pete take one, and the father take the other ? 
 Rose could ask for nothing which Pete would not do. He would 
 have laid down in the river, or in a mud-hole, or climbed the 
 steepest rock, or jumped the most dangei'ous chasm, if Rose told 
 him to. And when, as they rounded a clump of bashes, Pete 
 came near the bank. Rose said to him, " Pete, mayn't I get on 
 your shoulder ? " the controversy was ended, and in a twinkling 
 he was at the bank, and Rose was mounted ; and Alice, not a 
 minute after, was on her father's shoulder close behind, and all 
 were in the foaming stream. And now I defy you, O painters, 
 to render me in true form and color that scene — the wrinkle-iaced 
 river, ruddy and changeful — the overhanging boughs, up into 
 whose obscure depths shoots a smoky, tremulous light — and the 
 strange forms of men moving slowly along the water, bearing two 
 maidens as sweet as ever dazzled the eyes of deluded mortals ! 
 Was it strange that Rose seemed to herself translated from the 
 real world into one of dreams? The dizzy gravel at the bottom 
 appeared to lier to be running and racing; the water seemed like 
 80 many serpents red and black, wreathing together and winding 
 in and out of coils that were endless in length and strange in their 
 convolutions. Never had she seen such leaves as those there 
 above her head, weird with light shot up upon them from teneath, 
 end over all, the solemn black of the night sky ! 
 
 They had well nigh reached the upper road when the moon 
 rose, and poured its light full upon the bridge that now appeared 
 not far ahead, and upon a party that sat in an open oarri;ige gazinj; 
 down upon this strange procession. 
 
100 NORWOOD. 
 
 •' Mercy — ^look down into that riv«r ! What is it, Hiram t " 
 
 "Wal, as near as I can see, it's a nigger sprouting and blos- 
 soming into a white folk. If 'Biah Oathcart warn't a sober man, 
 I should say that liindei-most one was he, and his darter on his 
 back. And if tliat one aliead ain't Pete and the Doctor's Eose, I'll 
 never kiss my wife agin. Scissors and pumpkins 1 if that ain't a 
 spree I and here it is after nine o'clock at night I Hullo there ! 
 Where's Aunt Rachel? and where's the rest of the family? Ain't 
 there any more oomin' ? You might jest as well have finished out 
 the frolic and brought along every thing you've got, as to have 
 them children out this time o' night!" 
 
 But Hiram's banter had no effect upon the party. All of them 
 were keyed up too high with the sport. Pete gurgled and giggled; 
 'Biali said nothing, but smiled contentedly ; and Barton alone had 
 voice to shout, till the woods rung. 
 
 ■' You'd better take them children home, unless you want a 
 Digger river on the top of 'em than you've got under 'em ! " said 
 Hiram, as he touched his ponies and started away. 
 
 Sure enough ! The sky was gathering clouds. Low and dis- 
 tant thunder was heard. They must hasten back. Blinded and 
 bewildered by the unnatural hght and the swirling water, 'Biah 
 and Barton would have followed down the bank but for Pete, 
 whose head seemed as unaffected by the scene as a compass is by 
 the commotion of waters. The winding of the river had given 
 them a course of two miles, but scarcely half a mile need be trav- 
 ersed in a straight line, to bring them to the wagon. Following 
 Pete, they soon were safely seated, and the horses, impatient and 
 restive, as if by instinct aware that a storm impended, no sooner 
 liad their heads turned homeward, than they dashed off with full 
 I'jurse. The sparks flew from under their feet. They grew more 
 eager with each turn of the road, and 'Biah soothed and restrained 
 them with both voice and rein. It seemed to the girls that the 
 whole ride was like an arrow's rush. Bushes darkly loomed and 
 disappeared, a faint glimmer of a house was extinguished in a 
 •tecond by their rapid passing. The wind was swaying the trees 
 *nd roUinj; u|i the damp dust of the road, and the thunder shook 
 ;Iie very ground as it fell nearer and nearer. They were nol 
 ii; aid. They secretly gladdened with the growing turmoil. 
 
 Annt Rachel had been uneasy ever since the children left 
 
THE NIGHT FISHING. 101 
 
 Re* had l/een kept in the house lest his freaks should disturb th* 
 fishing. At every sound he lifted his muzzle. Often he went to 
 the door, and smelt and whined. But now the storm was coming 
 on. Aunt Rachel's fears grew painful. Eyery thunder-roll in- 
 creased her alarm. The big drops were beginning to smite the 
 panes of glass, when Rex bounced up with excitement, and gave 
 a roaring bark which could mean nothmg but their arrival. In 
 good time ! for, just as the party tumbled out, and the girls wore 
 borne in, the torrent descended ; and when the light from the 
 open door struck out into the air, sheets of water seemed literally 
 to fulfil Hiram's hyperbole, that rivers of water would fill the 
 heavens. 
 
 "Oh, father," said Rachel Oathcart, "it is wild of you to have 
 these children out on such a night! Come in, my darlings." 
 
 But Rose and Alice were evidently too much excited and happy 
 to need pity. 
 
 " Why, Rachel, do you suppose people catch cold when they 
 are excited like these children ? " 
 
 " But what would Doctor Wenl;worth say ? " 
 
 " Say ? Why he would say that such an experience was better 
 t;han a dozen volumes of books — that it would give life to the 
 imagination, that it would give the children impressions which 
 would enlarge their whole after life — that's what he would say ! 
 and if he had been along himself, he would have enjoyed it better 
 than any of us. Don't you think so, Rose?" 
 
 Rose sagely assented. 
 
 "Why, father, you seem as much excited as the children 1 
 
 "Why not? I hope never to get over being young. I look 
 riack on this night as if I had been walking in a cave fuU of 
 ' rvstals. I ^all never forget it, and I'll warrant the children 
 never will. Sncli things clean off the drudgery and sameness of 
 lite, and reach toward a deeper meaning. \ At any rate, that's what 
 'he doctor Ml say, o-morrow Yon see if he don't." 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 
 
 AjiBK a (lay of so much excitement the two girls would scarce 
 ly be held from sleep by the violence of the storm. Only at one 
 or two troniendoiis peals of thunder did they start from their 
 sliiruber and listen to the sweeping wind, which rattled every win- 
 dow, roared in the chimneys, and shook the whole house. Then 
 suddenly the tumult would cease. Not a drop of rain would fall. 
 Not a leaf seemed to move, nor a puff of wind to blow. Just as 
 suddenly would the rain again pour in torrents, only abruptly to 
 cease, as if a valve had been shut, and the supply instantly out 
 off. 
 
 Nor did the light that fell upon their faces, as Aunt Rachel 
 came for her last care before retiring, disturb an eyelid. The dark- 
 ness and the light are alike to those whom God translates into the 
 mysterious world of sleep. Strange world I in which we dwell ir 
 unconsciousness a quarter part of all our lives. Is four score 
 years then so long, that from it must be subtracted a full fourth 
 part ? 
 
 To one of Rachel's peculiar habits of mind the spectacle of 
 sleep is always solemn and mysterious. Where do. their spirits 
 wander? Voyaging along the dark continent, through what in- 
 tiuenoes do they glide? What guardian spirits convoy them ? Or 
 what spiteful sprites would annoy them ? If they were dead, 
 would they not he just as now they do? Rachel shuddered aa 
 she tucked tlieni up and put back a raven lock of hair that had 
 escaped from Alice's cap. 
 
 Think it not strange that a farmer's wife should deeply ponder 
 questions wliich have tasked the deepest thinkers. Careful think- 
 ing may demand careful culture. But it is nature that gives the 
 power to think, and it is conferred on many who never train their 
 faculties with the help of schools. Now and then, and in New 
 England often, are to be found plain and uncultured persons, 
 whose unconscious thoughts deal habitually with the profoundest 
 ^(uestions which man can ponder. Tlie very intensity of religious 
 
LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. - 103 
 
 'conviction — at once the caase of so much that is good, and th« 
 tiocasion of so much ill repute — tends, at length, to breed among 
 the common people an aptitude for deep moral problems. 
 
 But Rachel never sought such subjects. They came to her, 
 and came largely through her feelings and her imagination. She 
 was scarcely conscious of her own agency in producing the 
 thoughts — half-sad impressions of the infinite — which seemed to 
 overshadow her. She was pcared at the impressions which seemed 
 to fall upon her, — -just as birds, singing in a thicket, if the shadow 
 of a hawk sailing in the air pass by, hush their notes and nestle 
 close. Many have marvelled at the mystery of human life, its 
 irregularities, its inequalities, its incompleteness, its contradictory 
 elements, its inequitableneas. These were not Rachel's peculiar 
 thoughts. Life seemed every day like a voyage along the edge of 
 a great spirit world, out of which, it seemed to her, presently 
 would come some intinite truth, some revelation. These were not 
 thoughts, but vague feelings. 
 
 Nor are such tendencies uncommon among common people 
 There are many fine natures hidden under coarse forms. Powerful 
 impressions are produced on many who cannot resolve them into 
 ideas, and still less fashion them to words. Along the furrow, by 
 the work-bench, in the chamber, or in the kitchen, have been 
 thousands silently plying the unknown with as solemn an earnest- 
 ness as that of those who write books to prove how little man can 
 l;now of the Unknowable. 
 
 Of all that have cast line or net into that sea, whose line has 
 straightened? and whose net has been broken with its draught of 
 ashes? 
 
 But this evening, as if stirred up by the excitement of the 
 night and the storm, Rachel seemed to gaze upon Alice as one who 
 sends a child afar off. What is before her ? Is her life already 
 rolled up within her, as leaves and blossoms are in buds? Do 
 men come into life mere messengers to fulfil decrees? Is this 
 shild like a dyer's thread, whose colors, differently measured and 
 laid in, shall in weaving form a prearranged figure ? And what is 
 the pattern? Who knows? And what will be the weaving? 
 Who can tell ? Can any one hinder it ? or help it ? Must it be ? — 
 te it decreed? — will my darling's life unfold as inevitably as a rose 
 pit into a rose bush ; an apple seed into an apple tree? Mnst 7 
 
104 xoiiwodij. 
 
 let her go, us oae would out loose a skill', ai d let it <lrift out 
 into tlie wide ocean? It may founder or strand upon a desolate 
 island, or monsters may seize it, or rough men, seeing it helplesi 
 on the sea, snatch up its little voyager into some ship of foreign 
 timyiie, on rude and dangerous voyages! Already Rachel felt 
 I iiat Alice was gone out of her arms, and that dull aching which 
 i-.inis from the soul's deep sense of pilgrimage — from the habit of 
 solitary thought, from its pining after truths beyond the boundary 
 lines — was a premonition of sorrow. 
 
 Rachel left the cliildi-en and wt;nt down stairM. The storm 
 was sobbing itself to rest. The thunder grew more distant, and 
 the rain settled down to a steady work of fine and constant drops 
 Into the i^reat kitchen slje went, and closing the doors, ere long 
 she «-.is boned in prayer. No words escaped her. Yet tears were 
 there many, and many sighs. But, as the storm had spent itself out 
 of dour.-, so it would seem as if this pleading face to face with God 
 had scattered her clouds, and if she did not arise radiant, she at 
 least wore a face solemn with the peace of resignation. If one 
 shall ask, was there need of such trouble? Not to him that ask- 
 eth. But to him that is born to sing, singing is a necessity: and 
 to him that is born to sigh, sighing is a necessity. Some smile 
 easily, and some are just as easily sad. Some think. Some feel. 
 Each has his mood. 
 
 A conscience that is idealized, that clothes the minutest shades 
 of life with transcendent importance, and sees refinements in duty 
 far beyond common eyes, cannot help stamping the character with 
 a peculiar experience. 
 
 The broad common sense of Rachel's husband was enough 
 lonehed with the imagination to give richness, and plain and 
 |ifactical refinement. But he was not wont to spend thought 
 either upon his own staler of mind, or upon the subtle questions 
 which dazzle, or darken, natures of ,i mystical tendency. He 
 knew all the doctrines of religion as she did. He read the same 
 hooks, listened to the same sermons ; but the result in each was 
 utterly unlike. There was not simply definiteness, but uniformity 
 of conception in his mind. Once having explored a doubt and 
 mastered it, he never was troubled by it again. Once having 
 traced the proofs of any proposition to an intellectual conviction, 
 he saw that truth standina; fore-ier clear and firm. 
 
IJCiHIS. AND SHADOWS. lllij 
 
 Ritchel lacked that pbilosupliical giip which holds a truth tc 
 its phice, and coiiiijels it to a decent and coiiveutional behavior. 
 Truths ooijicj and went above her head, as summer clouds do — 
 casting down their shifting shadows in endless variety aud never 
 twice alike. A fear which was mastered yesterday was as fresh 
 to-day as the new wind of March, which blows no less to-day 
 because it was spent and hashed yesterday evening. 
 
 If in her childhood truth had risen upon her mind in its wider 
 ispects, and the infiniteness of divine tenderness had fired the 
 imagination and toned the conscience, it is not easy to see what 
 measure of difference there would have been between the result 
 and that which actually had taken place, by an early and continued 
 presentation to her mind of sterner views of divine justice and ol 
 the requisitions of divine purity. 
 
 Winged with imagination and colored with fear and exquisite 
 sensibility of conscience her thoughts ranged those vast fields of 
 truth so familiar to New-England pulpits; notasif afi'righted witli 
 some near and impending terror, but as sad with long-lamiliar 
 truth, whose glory and beauty cast down shadows and twilight 
 upon our mortal state, and stained all human life. 
 
 'I hat this was a feeling rather than a conviction made it the 
 more unmanageable. That it dissolved and fled away often, when 
 sharply pierced with a clear truth, was of little use so long as " the 
 clouds returned again after the rain.'' 
 
 It should not be thought that these inward experiences pro- 
 duced a moping, tear-shedding woman, who carried her shadow 
 over all the household. Rachel had a peculiar charm of personal 
 presence. Her sympathy was so quick, her goodness so deep, her 
 intuitions so fine that she took hold upon all who came near her 
 iind evinced a singular power of producing happiness in them. 
 Nothing of her own moods appeared to ordinary observers except 
 a tine sadness, which passed among her friends not apt to distin- 
 guish closely between shades of feeling, simply as tenderness. It 
 is not uncommon for such natures to guard their inward life with 
 a jealous shame, as if it would, if known, lower them in men'g 
 approbation. And sometimes, too, the rebound from these airy 
 aud endless musin. s into practical kindness brings grateful relief. 
 At any rate, Eiichel was known neither by her children nor her 
 friends as one of an nnhiiiijiy experience, but as one of the few 
 
lUt) NOKWOOD. 
 
 that were far more than they seemed ; whose rfctArvu waB that ol 
 inward occupation and depth, rather than of timidity or of pnde. 
 
 The morning oarae to the happy children, Alice was to return 
 with Rose, and spend the day in town, and Rose was to show and 
 share a wealth of things indoors and out, which seemed to Alice 
 — whose more simple and retired life seldom met with superfluities 
 — a fairy world. 
 
 Is there in life a fairer sight than two maideni, just emerging 
 from childhood, twined together in love, gentle, strong, sincere, 
 and full of fancies ; who see real things as if they were visions, 
 and imaginary things as if they were real; whose days and nights 
 flow musical as a meadow brook, between green banks, and over 
 a bottom rough just enough to give flash and ripple to the sur- 
 face ? All the simplicity of childhood is yet theirs, while dawning 
 duties and social proprieties begin to jut out like the buds in early 
 -■pring. How beautiful the contrast between Alice, sensitive, 
 reserved, and full of innate dignity — whose clieek changed color 
 to hpr feelings, shifting almost as the colors flash from a humming- 
 bird's back as he quivers among flowers, — and Rose, fair skinned, 
 of a brown hair that might be called suppressed auburn, — free, 
 (rank, strong and loving, — who seemed conscious of the life and 
 meaning of every living' tiling except herself. Slie had that per- 
 fect health which produces unconsciousness of self. Alice accepted 
 mirth but never created it. Rose .sparkled with it. Her thoughts 
 moved 11 a brilliant atmosphere. In certain of lier moods events, 
 people, and even soulless objects, sparkled with gayety andhntnor. 
 The two girls might be called, in the language of art, Light and 
 Shade. 
 
CHAPTER XVL 
 
 STOKIKS FOE CHILDREN. 
 
 If h day in a country farm-house is joyous to tovrn-people, noi 
 less exhilarating to country friends is a day in a town-mansion. 
 Alice, in her silent and gentle way, seemed to absorb happiness 
 from the very air. That sensitive timidity, which was lilce an 
 outer-gannent to her really courageous and resolute nature, suf- 
 fered no embarrassment in Dr. Wentwortli's family. Agate Bis- 
 sell's plain speech and direct manner never left an unfavorable im- 
 pression. There was a flow of honesty and undisguised kindues; 
 which children instinctively recognized. Her whole conduct was 
 indulgent, though her language seemed monitorial and even mag- 
 isterial. 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth was one whose soul shone tlj rough her face, 
 and gave it an almost transparent look. She lived under the in- 
 Suence of her best faculties, — therefore her manner and influence 
 seemed to excite the best faculties of those who met her. Very 
 clear-headed was she, very cheerful, and very kind. Your first 
 glance upon her face would lead you to say, Penetratiim is liei 
 ruling trait. Your second glance would convince you that Sym- 
 pathy was more strongly indicated. If she spoke, yon would con- 
 clude that no one feeling ruled, but many, — and all of them good. 
 At first, you would think — This woman sees through all films, and 
 cannot be deceived ; next, you would feel — There is no need of 
 hiding any thing from her — she is to be trusted. 
 
 Ab for Dr. Wentworth — nobody saw through him, and every 
 body trusted him. There was no dormant faculty in him — he was 
 alive all around his soul. There were no Arctic and Antarctic 
 zones. The whole globe of his nature was tropical, and yet tem- 
 perate. 
 
 His moods ran through the whole scale of faculties. He wa 
 various as the separate days. He carried the germs of every thinj 
 wtiicb bore fruit in other men's characters, and so oonld put him- 
 self into sympathy with every kind of man. A great talker a) 
 times, yet even when most frank, he was more silent that> 
 
108 NOIIWOOD. 
 
 talkative, and left tLe iiupressiou of one who had only blown tb« 
 roam olf from unfathomable thoughts. 
 
 What a place was his house for children! An old manmoii, 
 quaint and volunnnous, stored full of curious knick-knacks, more 
 cniio-us books, and most curious engravings ; yet the interior ot 
 tht liouse WHS even less attractive to children than the grounds 
 ftboui it. yueh dainty nooks there were, such pet mazes among 
 the evergreens, sucJj sweeps of flowers and tangles of blossoming 
 vines, such rows of fruit-laden trees, such discoveries to be made, 
 here and there, of new garden plats, uf before unseen beds of 
 flowers, such wildernesses of morning-glories, and tangles of honey- 
 suckles running over rocks, or matted in the grass, that once out, 
 the children never wanted to go in, and once in, they could hardly 
 persuade themselves to go out. -^ 
 
 When the afternoon was turning in the West, and the sunlight 
 began to shoot golden beams under the branches of the trees, and 
 the shadows stretched themselves every moment larger and larger 
 along tlie gi-oimd, as if the time were near for them to fall asleep, 
 Dr. Wentworth came in from hih patients and joined the children. 
 Then there was i-acing and tri>lickii)(i 1 Then you might have seen 
 three children indeed 1 
 
 But, after a time. Rose began to persuade her father to tell 
 some stories. Story-hunger in children is even more ui-gent than 
 bread-hunger. And so, at length, he sutfered himself to be led 
 captive to his favorite tree, where .scores of times he had been 
 wont to weave fables and parables for Rose; — fictions that under 
 every form whatsoever, still tended, in his child's imagination, to 
 bi'ing Nature home to her as God's wonderful revelation, vital with 
 sentiment and divine truth. Sitting upon the ground, with one 
 I'liilil on e.tlier side leaning upon his knees and looking np into 
 ills face, lie began : 
 
 THE ANXIOUS LEAF. 
 
 " Once upon a time a ittle leaf was heard to sigh and cry, ae 
 leaves often do when a gentle wind is about. And the twig said. 
 'What is the matter, little leaf?' And the leaf said, ' The wind 
 just told me that one day it would pull me off and throw me down 
 .o die on the ground 1 ' The twig told it to the branch on which 
 it grew, and the brnnoli tu'd it to the tree. And when the treti 
 
STORIES FOR CHILDREN. 109 
 
 heard it, it mstled all over, and sent back word to the leafi ' Do 
 not be afraid ; hold on tightly, and you shall not go till you want 
 to.' And so the leaf stopped sighing, but went on nestling ana 
 singing. Every time the tree shook itself and stirred up all ita 
 leaves, the branches shook themselves, and the little twig shook 
 Itself, and the little leaf danced up and down merrily, as if noth- 
 ing could ever pull it off. And so it grew all summer long till 
 October. And when the bright days of autumn came, the little 
 4eaf saw all- the leaves around becoming very beautiful. Some 
 were yellow, and some scarlet, and some striped with both colors. 
 Then it asked the tree what it meant ? And the tree said, ' All 
 these leaves are getting ready to fly away, and they have put on 
 these beautiful colors, because of joy.' Then the little leaf began 
 to want to go, and grew very beautiful in thinking of it, and when 
 it was very gay in color, it saw that the branches of the tree had 
 no color in them, and so the leaf said, ' Oh, branches 1 why are 
 yon load color and we golden ? ' ' We must keep on our work 
 clothes, for our life is not done ; but yoor clothes are for holiday 
 because your tasks are over.' Just then, a little puff of wind came, 
 and the leaf let go without thinking of it, and the wind took it 
 up, and turned it over and over, and whirled it like a spark of firo 
 in the air and then it fell gently down under the edge of the fence 
 among hundreds of leaves, and fell into a dream and never waked 
 up to tell what it dreamed about ! " 
 
 How charming it is to narrate fables to children ! How daintily 
 do they carry on the conscious dramatic deception ! They know 
 that if the question were once got in upon them, " Are these 
 things true f " the bubble would burst, and all its fine colors would 
 disappear. Children are unconscious philosophei's. They refuse to 
 poll to pieces their enjoyments to see what they are made of. 
 Rose knew as well as her father that leaves never talked. Yet, 
 Rose never saw a leaf without feeling that there was life and 
 meaning in it. Flowers had stories in them. The natural world 
 stole in upon her with mute messages, and the feelings which woke 
 in her bosom she attributed to nature, and the thoughts which 
 started she deemed a revelation and an interpretatio t of trutht 
 that lay hidden in creation waiting for her. 
 
 What is one story ? A mere provocation of another. 
 
 "Do tell OS anotlier, father. Thut was so short."' 
 
110 NOHWOOD. 
 
 " Ye»i, Doctor — do tell us Bome more," said Alice, and then, 
 coloring a little, she said — " Rose can have them every day, but 1 
 cannot, —only once in a great while.'' 
 
 " Alice, you must make your father tell you stories." 
 
 " He does, sometimes, hut they are always out of books, 
 and almost always Bible stories, and I know them by heart 
 already." 
 
 After Dr. Wentworth had regaled himself enough with th* 
 children's charming arts of coaxing, he began another story : 
 
 THE FAIRY FLOWER. 
 
 " Once there was a little girl whose name was Olara. She had 
 a very kind heart, but she was an only child and had hi en petted 
 80 much that she was like tt> become very selfish. Too late lier 
 mother lamented that she had indulged her so much, and strove to 
 lepair the mischief, and to make "Olara think of other people's hap- 
 jiiness, and not solely of her own. On some days nothing could 
 be more charaiing than Clara's ways. She was gentle and oblig- 
 ing, and sang all day long, and made every one who came near her 
 happy by her agreeable manners. Then every body admired her, 
 and her mother and aunt were sure that she was cured of her pet- 
 tish dispo>itions. But, the very next day, all her charming ways 
 were exchanged. She carried a moody face. She was no longer 
 courteous, and every one who came near her felt the chill of her 
 manner, as if an east wind were blowing with her breath. One 
 3ummer night, after such a miserable day, Clara went to her room. 
 Tlie moon was at its full, and poured through the window in snob 
 Hoods that she needed no other light. Olara sat down by the win- 
 dow very unhappy. She thought over the day, and wondered at 
 herself, and tried to imagine why it was that on some days she 
 was so happy and on others so wretched. As she mused she laid 
 her head liack on the easy chair. No sooner had she shut her 
 eyes, than a strange thing happened. An old man, very feeble, 
 ".inie in, and in his basket, which he seemed hardly able to bear, 
 was a handful of flowers and two great stones. He came to Olara 
 »nd said, ' My dai;ghter, will you help me, for 1 am too old to carry 
 thii load; please make it lighter}' Then Clam looked at him 
 with pouting, and said, 'Go away I' Then be said, 'I am poor 
 and suffering. Will yon not liuhten my load?' Then Olara con- 
 
STORIES KOR CHILDREN. Ill 
 
 descended to take the flowers out of his basket. They wero verj 
 beautiful, and she laid them in her ]ap. 
 
 " The old man said : 
 
 " ' My daughter, you have not lightened my basket — yon have 
 only taken the pleasant things out of it, and lei't the heavy, heavy 
 stones. Oh, please lift one of them out of the basket 1 ' 
 
 " Then Olara was angry, and said : 
 
 " ' No, get you gone — I will not touch those dirty stones.' 
 
 " No sooner had she said this, than the old man began to change 
 before 'her, and became so bright and white, that he looked like a 
 column of crystal. Then he took one of the stones and cast it out 
 of the window and it flew and flew and flew, and fell down on the 
 eastern side of a grove, where the sun shone first every morning — 
 and close by it ran a brook that laughed and loitered and sported 
 all day and all night, and played with every thing tbat would come 
 to it. 
 
 " And then the crystal old man look the flowers out of her lap, 
 and they were wet with moisture, and he shook them over her 
 head, and said : 
 
 •"Change to a flower I Go and stand by the stone, till your 
 shadow shall be marked upon the rock.' 
 
 " In a second, Clara was growing by the side of a wide flat stone, 
 and the moon cast the shadow of a beautiful flower, with long and 
 slender stem, upon the rock. She was very wretched, and the dew 
 came and comforted her, and in the morning she could not help 
 looking at herself in the brook, that came close up to the stone, 
 and she saw how beautiful she was. All day her shadow fell on 
 the rock, and when the sun went away the shadow went away too. 
 All night she threw a pale shadow on the rock, and in the morn- 
 ing, when the moon went away, the shadow went away too. And 
 the rock lay still, all day and all night, and did not care for the 
 Hower, nor feel its shadow. And she longed, and longed, and 
 longed ; but what could a tender flower do with a hard rook ? And 
 the flower asked the brook, ' Can you helii me ? ' And the brook 
 laughed out louder than it was laughing before, and said, ' Ask the 
 birds.' And so she asked a Bobolink, and he came frisking to her, 
 with a wonderful speech, in Latin, Greek and Syriac, with some 
 words from the great language that was before all other languages. 
 And hb alit upon the flower, and teetered up and down, till sh* 
 
112 NOKWOOD. 
 
 thought her back woald break ; but nothing con i she loam hon 
 to make her shadow stay upon the rook. 
 
 "Then she asked u spider; and lie spun a web from lier briiflil 
 blossoms, and fastened it to the ruck, and beut her over, und 
 tied her up, till she feared she should never get loose. Bnt aU hit 
 nice films did her nu good, and her shadow would not stay upon 
 the rock. 
 
 "Then she asked the wind to help her, and the wind blew away 
 he spider's web, and blew so hard that the flower lay its whole 
 length upon the rock, but when the wind left her and she rose up, 
 there was no shadow there. 
 
 " And she said — ' What is beauty worth, if it grows by the side 
 ipf a stone that does not feel it, nor care for it? ' 
 
 "Then she asked the dew to help her. And the dew said, 
 ' How can I help you ? I live contentedly in darkness. I put on 
 my beauty only to please other things. I let the sun come through 
 my drops, though I know it will consume me.' 
 
 "The flower said, ' I wish I were dew. I would do some good. 
 Now my beauty does me no good, and I am wasting it every day 
 upon a rook.' When the flower breathed this benevolent wish, 
 there were flutters and whispers all around, but the flower thought 
 it \va~ only the brook. 
 
 " The next day came that way a beautiful girl. She was gather- 
 ing ferns, and mosses, and flowers. Whenever she saw a tuft of 
 moss she said, 'Please, dear moss, may 1 take you?' And when 
 she saw a beautiful branch with scarlet leaves, she said, ' Dear busli, 
 may I take these leaves ? ' .\nd then she saw a beautiful Colum- 
 bi[ie growing by the edge of a rock, and she said, ' Oh, sweet 
 Oolnmbine, may I pluck you ? ' And the flower said, ' Please, I 
 must not go till my shadow is fastened on the rook.' Then the 
 young lady took from her case a pencil and in a moment traced the 
 shadow of the Columbine upon the rock, and when she had done 
 she reached her hand and took the stem low down and broke it 
 oft'. Then Olara sprang up from her chair by the window, and 
 there stood her mother, saying: 
 
 " ' My dear daughter, yon should not fall asleep by an open 
 vsinilow, not even in summer, my child. How damp you arel 
 ''oiiie, hasten to bed.' 
 
 ■' If was man} day* heloie Clara oould persuade herself tLf.l 
 
STORIES FOR CHILDREN. 113 
 
 she had only dreamed. It was many months before she toli. the 
 dream to her mother. And when she did, her mother said : 
 
 " 'Ah, Olara, wo"ld that all girls might dreiim, if only it mad* 
 them as good iis your dream has made you.' " 
 
 The doctor seemed quite interested in his own story, and sat 
 silent for a moment, that the good impression might settle in the 
 giils' minds. He was awakened to attention by some little flutter, 
 and saw Rose nodding in a gravely humorous way to Alice, as il 
 she meant to say : 
 
 " I hope, Alice, that you will take this lesson to heart, and 
 never be naughty again ! " 
 
 " Ah, rogue Rose 1 " said the doctor. " Is that the way yon 
 pay me for my trouble ? You shall " 
 
 Rose, without waiting for the whole sentence, darted off, and 
 in an instant the doctor was in full chase, while Alice, hesitant, 
 followed in the distance, half laughing, and quite uneasy lest 
 some harm shonld come to Rose. Harm did come. Sire was, 
 after nimble turns and skilful evasions, so amused at her father's^ 
 mishap in rushing upon a sweet-brier, when lie thought to liave 
 seized her, that her strength dissolved in laughter. She was 
 caught, and her hands tied with honeysuckle vines, and hei- neck 
 was bound with flowers, and so she was carried away captive, 
 smothered with sweets, to be punished under the great tree. 
 There her father pronounced the sentepoe, that for irreverence 
 and rebellion, she should be doomed to hear another story, which 
 he caUed 
 
 COMING AND GOING. 
 
 " Onoe came to our fields a pair of birds that had never 
 built a nest nor seen a winter. Oh, how beautiful was every 
 thing! The fields were full of flowers, and the grass was grow- 
 ing tall, and the bees were humming everywhere. Then one of 
 the birds fell to singing, and the other bird said : ' Who told 
 yon to sing? ' and he answered: 'The flowers told me, and the 
 bees told me, and the winds and leaves told me, am' the blue 
 eky told me, and you told me to sing.' Then his mate answered : 
 'When did 1 tell you to sing?' And he said: 'Every time 
 ym brought in tender grass for ths nest, and every time your soft 
 wings flutterfcd off again for hair and feathers to line the nest 
 Then his mate said: 'What are you singing about?' And h» 
 
11-4 NORWOOD. 
 
 snswered : ' I am singing about every thing and n otliing. It is 
 because I am so happy that I sing.' 
 
 "By-and-by five little speckled eggs were in the nest, and his 
 m.ite said : " Is there any thing in uU the world as pretty as mr 
 eggs? " Tlieu they both looked down on some people that were 
 liassing by, and pitied them because tliey were not birds, and had 
 no ne.sts « ith eggs in them. Then the father-bird sung a melan- 
 choly song because he pitied folks that had no nests, but had to 
 live in houses. 
 
 " In a week or two, one day, when the father -bird came home, 
 the mother-bird said : 'Oh, what do you think has happened?' 
 'What?' 'One of my eggs has been peeping and moving! 
 Pretty soon another egg moved under her feathers, and then 
 another, and another, till five little birds were born I 
 
 "Now the father-bird sung longer and louder than ever. The 
 mother-bird, too, wanted to sing, but she had no time, and so she 
 turned her song into work. So hungry were these little birds, 
 that it kept both parents busy feeding tbem. Away each one 
 flew. The moment the little birds lieard their wings fluttering 
 again among the leaves, five yellow mouths flew open so wide 
 that nothing could be seen but five yellow mouths 1 
 
 " ' Can any body be h.appier ? ' said the father-bird to the mother 
 bird. 'We will live in this tree always, for there is no sorrow 
 nere. It is a tree that always bears joy.' 
 
 " The very next day one of the birds dropped out of the nest 
 and a cat ate it up in a minute, and only four remained ; and tht 
 parent-birds were very sad, and there was no song all that day nor 
 the next. Soon the little birds were big enough to fly, and great 
 was their parents' joy to see them leave the nest and sit crumpled 
 ap upon the branches. There was then a great time 1 One would 
 have thought the two old birds were two French dancing-masters, 
 — talking and chattering, and scolding the little birds, to make 
 them go alone. The first bird that tried flew from one branch 
 'n another, and the parents praised him, and the other little birds 
 voudered how he did it I And he was so vain of it that he tried 
 again, and flew and flew, and couldn't stop flying, till lie fell plump 
 dowi by the house-door; and then a little boy caught him aini 
 carried him into the house, — and only three birds were left. Thee 
 the old birds thought that the sun was not bright as it used to be 
 nnd they did nut sing as often. 
 
STORIES FOR CHILDREN. 115 
 
 " In a little time the otiier birds had learned to use their w^ngs, 
 i'lil they rlew awny iind away, and found their own food and nade 
 i.hoirown Ijeds, and their parents never saw them any more! 
 
 " Then the old birds sat silent, and looked at each other a long 
 while. 
 
 " At last, the wife-bird said : 
 
 " ' Why don't you sing 9 ' 
 
 " And he answered : 
 
 " ' I can't sing — I can only think and think I ' 
 
 " ' What are yon thinking of 9 ' 
 
 " ' I am thinking how every thing changes, — ^the leaves are 
 tailing down from off this tree, and soon there will be no roof 
 over our heads ; the flowers are all gone, or going ; last night 
 there was a frost : almost all the birds are flown away, and I am 
 very uneasy. Something calls me, and I feel restless as if I would 
 fly far away." 
 
 " ' Let ns fly away together I ' 
 
 " Then they rose silently, and, lifting themselves far up in 
 the air, tihey looked to the north, — far away they saw the snow 
 ooming. They looked to the south, — there they saw green leaves I 
 All day they flew, and all night they flew and flew, till they found 
 a land where there was no winter — where there was summer 
 all the time ; where flowers always blossom, and birds always 
 sing. 
 
 "But the birds that stayed behind found the days shorter, the 
 nights longer, and the weather colder. Many of them died of 
 cnld ; others crept into crevices and holes, and lay torpid. Then 
 it was plain that it was better to go than to stay I " 
 
 Rose was going on seven years old. Never did girl give less 
 cause of anxiety. Fever did girl excite more anxiety in a mother's 
 heart than did Rose in Agate Bissell's. "Why should it be ? Was 
 not Rose healthy 9 Was she \ot of fine disposition ? Of good 
 parentage, with careful training, with evei-y advantage that wealth 
 could procure, what possible reason had Agate for her seriousnesii 
 and anxieties 9 
 
 There are many people who seem to regard anxiety as a 
 religious duty. They seem to think that no state of mind is suh- 
 ttantial which is not ballasted with cares. 
 
116 NOEWOOD. 
 
 If Agate Bissell expected to pass ner life m Dr. Went worth's 
 family, to be Mrs. Wentworth's confidential companion, and to 
 divide with her the care of the household, and to bestow every 
 faculty of mind, soul and body on the children, — for Rose was not 
 u sohtary flower, but only the first bud tha*; blossomed, — why 
 should she not be anxious, and indict upon herself all that imne- 
 cessary pain that is usually deemed proper by painstaking people? 
 Why sliould she not imagine evils that never will happen, and 
 reflect with self-reproach upon things done that might have been 
 better done? "Why not be discouraged, and imagine that the 
 doctor would certainly spoil the children? or that some nameless 
 and unknown evil would yet spring up and devour them ? What 
 do angels do with unnecessary anxieties? What clouds of 
 needless prayers are daily floated upward which never distil in 
 rain I 
 
 But it is not just to imagine that Agate had no <^ther reason 
 for seriousness of mind than this vague anxiety. She was not only 
 a Christian in disposition, but she firmly hclieveil the Christian 
 teachings of Dr. Bnell. Until Rose was converted there were no 
 right affections in her. She had been taught that natural excel- 
 lences, amiable dispositions, in unregenerate people, have no morai 
 excellence, and do not diminish that perpetual danger which over- 
 hangs every child of Adam until he becomes a Christian. Many 
 bold these views, but few helieve them. Agate was among the 
 few that believed. What to her was the body, its health and 
 happiness, compared with the soul ? What was it to her that 
 Rose was lovely, docile, and obedient, if in her heart, concealed 
 yet, but sure to be disclosed, there was that fatal taint, left on all 
 the first parents' posterity? — that latent enmity which one day 
 would flume out against her Maker ? 
 
 This it was that made Rose a perpetual burden to Agate Bis 
 nell, and that had often wet her pillow with tears and drawn out 
 tirayors without number. 
 
 " Rose, my dear child, what good can it do you to love all the 
 world that God has made, its clouds and seasons, its forests and 
 fields, if you do ni)t love God who made them all? " 
 
 Rose looked Agate full in the face, but sat silently. 
 
 '• You know, my child," said Agate, " that to make much ol 
 the world, and nothing of (lod who made it, is idolatry. Yoni 
 
STORIES FOE CHILDREN. 117 
 
 aonl cannot be saved, Rose, hy the clonds, or by the monntabiB 
 
 If you oould find your Saviour in nature " 
 
 Agate puiised, foi' Rose walked to her side, and placing hei 
 arms around her neck, said ; 
 
 " Agate, I do love the Saviour. I think of him every day, and 
 ask him to love me. Father says that there is nothing made that 
 Jesus did not make." 
 
 A new anxiety now took possession of Agate. Might it not be 
 true that this child had been blessed ? If so, then she was guilty 
 of that offending one of those little ones, against which snch 
 solemn words were pronounced. On the other hand, might not 
 this young creature, so beautiful, so engaging, be snared and 
 deceived ? Was she not, by her father's influence, liable to sub- 
 stitute a diluted sentimentalism for the soher realities of a tme 
 religious experience? 
 
 Agate had often talked with Mrs..Wentworth on this subject; 
 but she was so mnch in sympathy with her husband's opinions, 
 that Agate doubted whether her judgment was clear and un- 
 biassed. 
 
 It is not strange, then, that Agate in a manner sounded Mrs, 
 Polly Marble on this general subject. 
 
 "Mrs. Marble, do you think that people can be converted 
 without knowing the time? " 
 
 " Well, Agate, when the Lord delivered my soul it was just as 
 if I had been sittin' in a dark room and somebody had opened the 
 door right against the sun. Not know the time ? I shall nevei 
 forgit it, I guess ! I know there's some folks think different. 
 Them Episcopal folks say that children git good gradually. But I 
 uay that if a man don't know the times and seasons of his own 
 heart, he likely hasn't had much religion anyhow.'' 
 
 " But do you suppose a work of grace can exist in the sonl, 
 and the person not know that it is grace ? " 
 
 "I tell you what. Agate, if it's the Lord that converts men, I 
 guess they'll know it, and other folks will be apt to know it tool 
 Men are naturally like bags full of weed-seeds. The Lord firs 
 shakes 'em empty, and then fills *em up with precious wheat 
 Now it stands to reason that if the Lord is shakin' a man inside 
 out he'll know it." 
 
 " But, Mrs. Marble, may not the Lord in his Sovereignty deai 
 
118 NOBWUOD. 
 
 gently with young people? Is not that the meaning of the Scrip- 
 ture, ' He shall carry the young in His arms ? ' '' 
 
 '' Agate, I always say that it's best to be on the sure side. 11 
 never does harm to find fault with your evidences, 'cause if they 
 are real you won't hurt 'em, and if they are deceivin' you, yot 
 will be apt to find it out. People now-a-days git religion too 
 easy. I was under conviction nigh about two months. I was 
 awfully striven with afore I give np. Young people now seem to 
 git along too easy, I say. They don't bear any yoke, nor carry 
 much of a cross. I have seen folks have measles light, and 
 scarlet-fever so easy they didn't hardly know it. But I shall 
 never be made to believe that any body took religion so easy that 
 they didn't know they had it." . 
 
 ■' Don't you sometimes doubt the promises,'' said Agate, " when 
 you see how children turn out that's well brought up ? Some 
 folks neglect their children, let them do pretty much as thej 
 please, and yet they grow straight up, are converted, come into 
 tlie church, and do well all their lives; then again, others are 
 taught and governed, and restrained, and watched in every par- 
 ticular, and yet the moment they get free they go out into the 
 world and grow as wicked as if nothing had been done for them. 
 I don't know — it's a mystery to me! " 
 
 "A mystery I " said Aunt Polly Marble, pushing her spectacles 
 a little closer to her eyes, and looking through them with u doubly 
 eai'nest look, " there is no mystery about it. It's all election. 
 That does it!" 
 
 Agate seemed troubled in countenance, and said: 
 
 " I wish I knew more about that doctrine. If one only knew 
 who was elected, we could feel easy. And if a man was im' 
 elected, there would be no need of spending much time on him 
 Working for men that are not among the elect is like sewing witli 
 out any thread in your needle; a good deal of work, and nothinf; 
 to show for it." 
 
 " It's a precious doctrine though, even if you don't understand 
 it. ro7( may not know, but the Lord does, and it doesn't becomt 
 us to be too pryin'. " 
 
 " Yet, I think a mother might be excused for being anxious 
 iiliom her own oliUdren. If any body ever did oifer a child up tc 
 God, I have that child 1 If she was my own flesh and blood, ) 
 jould not do more for Rose 1 " 
 
STORIES FOR CHILDREN. 119 
 
 " Don't you think her father might do a little more to he\^ oati 
 He may be pious — I wouldn't judge. But he seems to me to walk 
 in a pretty broad path, and to find a good many notions not likely 
 to grow in the narrow way." 
 
 "He has his own views, and thinks he's right. He reads tht 
 Bible a good deal, and wants Rose to. But he's got so many things 
 in his head that you can't find in the Bible, that I don't know 
 what'U become of Rose. I'm afraid her soul will be snared with 
 worldly knowledge.'" 
 
 " Why don't you talk with Dr. Buell ? He is safe and a sound 
 man, and likely he could tell you something about bringing np 
 children." 
 
 " Dr. Buell is better at sermons than children," said Agate, 
 with some decision. " That boy of his is a perfect limb. I don't 
 know why it is, but some good folks are unlucky with their 
 children. They take a deal of pains with them, and learn them 
 every thing that's good, and the minute the children get a chance, 
 ihey learn themselves every thing that's bad ! " 
 
 This conversation did not bring to faithful Agate's heart mnch 
 comfort. 
 
 Meanwhile, Rose, the subject of so much anxiety, lived in un- 
 broken joyfulness. Hers was one of those fortunate natures 
 that receive benefit from all, and injury from none. She lived 
 loving and happy among the various persons who surrounded her. 
 She loved the exact and faithful Agate ; she loved the mild and 
 gentle Mother Taft; she loved the boisterous ways of shrewd 
 Tommy Taft ; she lovod and somewhat feared the simple but 
 stately manners of Dr. Buell ; she loved her mother dearly, but 
 her father .ibove alU Yet this seemed to her scarcely like loving 
 another. So perfec-tly v\'ere father and daughter in sympathy, that 
 it hardly needod words to interpret between them Thev seemed 
 like one soiU in two bodii^s. 
 
CHAPTER XVn. 
 
 A Jrarw-ENGLAND SUNDAY. 
 
 Time waits for no man, and least of all for etor/ writersw Out 
 readers must move six years forward at a step, and rest for one 
 Sunday in Norwood, where travelling on Sunday is yet against the 
 law. 
 
 It is worth all the inconveniences arising from the occasional 
 over-action of New-England Sabbath observance, to obtain the full 
 flavor of a New-England Sunday. But for this, one should have 
 been born there ; should have found Sunday already waiting for 
 him, and accepted it with implicit and absolute conviction, as if it 
 were a law of nature, In the same way that night and day, suinmsr 
 and winter, are parts of nature. He should have been brought up 
 by parents who had done the same thing; as they were by parents 
 liven more strict, if that were possible; until, not religious persons 
 peculiarly, but every body, — not churches alone, but society itself, 
 and all its population, those who broke it as much as those who 
 kept it — were stained through with the color of Sunday. Nay, 
 until Nature had adopted it, and laid its commands on all birds and 
 lieasts, on the sun and winds, and upon the whole atmosphere, so 
 that, without much imagination, one might imagine, in a genuine 
 Nf'.v-England Sunday of the Connecticut river valley stamp, that 
 (tod was still on that day resting from all the work which he had 
 ; it-ated und made, and that all his work rested with him I 
 
 Over all the town rested the Lord's peace I The saw was rip- 
 ping away yesterday in the carpenter's shop, and the hammer was 
 noisy enough. To-day there is not a sign of life there. The anvil 
 makes no music to-day. Tommy Taft's buckets and barrels give 
 t'lirth no hollow, thumping sound. The mill is silent — only the 
 brook continues noisy. Listen! In yonder pine woods what a 
 sawing of crow&l Like an echo. In a wood still more remote 
 other crows are answering. But even a crow's throat to-day i 
 musical. Do they think, because they have black coats on, that 
 they are parsons, and have a right to play pulpit with all the pine 
 trees? Nay. The birds will not have any such monopoly, — ^thoy • 
 
A NEW-ENGLAND SUNDAY. 121 
 
 are all singing, tnd singing all together, and ao one cares whethei 
 his song rashes atiross another's or not. Larks and robins, black 
 birds and orioles, sparrows and bluebirds, mocking oat-birda and 
 wrens, were furrowiag the air with such mixtnres as no other day 
 but Sunday, when all artificial and human sounds cease, could ever 
 hear. Every now and then a bobolink seemed impressed with 
 the duty of bringing these jangling birds into more regularity ; 
 and, like a country singing-master, he flew down the ranks, sing- 
 ing all the parts himself in snatches, as if to stimulate and help the 
 laggards. In vain I Sunday is the birds' day, and they will have 
 their own democratic worship. 
 
 There was no sonnd in the village street. Look either way — 
 u(it a vehicle, not a human being. The smoke rose np soberly and 
 ;iuetly, as if it said — It is Sunday 1 The leaves on the great elms 
 liung motionless, glittering in dew, as if they too, like the people 
 who. dwelt under their shadow, were waiting for the bell to ring 
 for meeting. Bees sung and flew as usual, but honey-bees have a 
 Sunday way with them all the week, and could scarcely change for 
 the better on the seventh day. 
 
 But oh, the Sun I It had sent before and cleared every 
 stain out of the sky. The bine heaven was not dim and low, as on 
 secular days, but curved and deep, as if on Sunday it shook off all 
 incumbrance which daring the week had lowered and flattened it, 
 and sprang back to the arch and symmetry of a dome. AH ordi- 
 nary sounds caught the spirit of the day. The shutting of a door 
 sounded twice as far as usual. The rattle of a bucket in a neigh- 
 bor's yard, no longer mixed with heterogeneous noises, seemed a 
 aevv sound. The hens went silently about, and roosters crowed 
 m psalm-tunes. And when the first beU rung, Nature seemed over- 
 joyed to find something that it might do without breaking Sanday, 
 and rolled the sound over and over, and pushed it through the air, 
 ind raced with it over field and hiU, twice as fai as on week days. 
 There were no less than seven steeples in sight from the belfry, 
 and the sexton said : " On still Sundays I've heard the bell, at one 
 rime and another, when the day was fair, and the air moving in 
 ;he right way, from every one of them steeples, and I guess likely 
 they've all heard our'n." 
 
 " Oome, liose 1 " said Agate Bissell, at an even earlier hour than 
 w^.en Rose nsnally awakened — " Oome, Rose, it i» the Sabbath' 
 
122 NORWOOD. 
 
 W6 must not be late Sunday morning of all days in the week. 1' 
 is the Lord's day." 
 
 There was little preparation required for the day. Saturday 
 night, in some parts of New-England, was considered almost a? 
 sacred as Sunday itself. After sundown on Saturday night no play, 
 and no work, except such as is immediately preparatory to the 
 Sabbath, were deemed becoming in good Christians. The clothes 
 had been laid out the night before. Nothing was forgotten. The 
 best frock was ready ; the hose and shoes were waiting. Every 
 article of linen, every ruffle and ribbon, were selected on Saturday 
 night. Every one in the house walked mildly. Every one spoke in 
 a low tone. Yet all were cheerful. The mother had on her kind- 
 est face, and nobody laughed, but every body made it up in smilinp. 
 The nurse smiled, and the children held on to keep down a giggle 
 within the lawful bounds of a smile; and the doctor looked rounder 
 and calmer than ever; and the dog flapped his tail on the floor 
 with a softened sound, as if he had fresh wrapped it in hair for 
 that very day. Aunt Toodie, the cook, (so the children hac' 
 changed Mrs. Sarah Good's name,) was blacker than ever and 
 shinier than ever, and the coflTee better, and the cream riciier, and 
 the broiled chickens juicier and more tender, and the biscuit 
 whiter and the corn-bread more brittle and sweet. 
 
 When the good doctor read the Scriptures at family prayer, the 
 infection of silence had subdued every thing except the clock. Out 
 of the wide hall could be heard in the stillness the old clock, that 
 now lifted up its voice with unwonted emphasis, as if, unnoticed 
 through the bustling week, Sunday was its vantage ground, to pro- 
 claim to mortals the swift flight of time. And if the old pedant 
 performed the task with something of an ostentatious precision, 
 it was because in that house nothing else put on oflicial airs, and 
 the clock felt the responsibility of doing it for the whole mansion. 
 
 And now came mother and catechism ; for Mrs. WentwortL 
 followed the old custom, and declared that no child of hers should 
 grow up without catechism. Secretly, the doctor was quite 
 willing, though openly he played off upon the practice a world ot 
 good-natured discouragement, and declared that there should bean 
 opposition set up — a catechism of Nature, with natural laws foi 
 decrees, and seasons for Providence, and flowers for graces! The 
 ycimger children were taught in simple catechism. But Rose, 
 
A NEW-ENGLAND SUNDAY. 123 
 
 hating reached the mature age of twelve, was now manifesting 
 her power over the Westminster Shorter Catechism, and as it wan 
 simply an achievement of memory and not of the imderstanding. 
 she had the bools at great advantage, and soon subdued everv 
 question.and answer in it. As much as possible, the doctor wa< 
 kept aloof on such occasions. His grave questions were not tc 
 edification, and often they caused Rose to stumble, and brouglii 
 down sorely the exultation with which she rolled forth "they thai 
 are effectually called do in this life partake of justification, adop 
 tion, sanotification and the several benefits which in this life dr 
 either accompany or flow from them." 
 " What do those words mean, Rose ? " 
 " Which words, pa ? " 
 
 " Adoption, sanotification and justification ? " 
 Rose hesitated, and looked at her mother for rescue. 
 "Doctor, why do you trouble the child? Of course, she don't 
 Know yet all the meaning. But tliat will come to her when she 
 grows older." 
 
 " You make a nest of her memory, then, and put words there, 
 like eggs, for future hatching? " 
 
 " Yes, that is it exactly ; birds do not hatch their eggs the 
 minute they lay them. They wait." 
 
 ' Laying eggs at twelve to be hatched at twenty is snojecting 
 them to some risk, is it not ? " 
 
 " It might be so with eggs, but not with catechism. That wiU 
 keep without spoiling a hundred years ! " 
 " Because it is so dry ? " 
 
 "Because it is so good. But do, dear husband, go away, and 
 not put notions in the children's heads. It's hard enough already 
 to get them through their tasks. Here's poor Arthur, who baf 
 been two Sundays on one question, and has not got it yet." 
 
 Arthur, aforesaid, was sharp and bright in any thing addressed 
 to his reason, but he had no verbal memory, and he was therefore 
 wading painfully through the catechism like a man in a deep. 
 muddy road, with this difference, that the man carries too tmicb 
 clay with him, while nothing stuck to poor Arthur. Greal 
 was the lad's pride and exultation on a former occasion w hen his 
 mother advanced him from the smaller Catechism to the dignitj 
 of the Westminster Catechiiin. He could hardly wait for Sundaj 
 
IL'4 NORWdOIi. 
 
 ill begin his conquests. He was never known after the first Sun- 
 day to sliow any farther impatience. He had been four weeks in 
 reiiching the fourth question, and two. weeks already had he lai^ 
 befcire that luminous answer, beating on it, like a ship too deeply 
 laden, and unable to cross the bar. 
 
 " What is God, Arthur ? " said his mother. 
 
 " God i.s — is a — God is- -and God — God is a —. — " 
 Having got safely so far, the mother suggests " spirit," at which 
 he gasps eagerly, " God is a Spirit." 
 
 " Infinite," says the mother. 
 
 " Infinite," says Arthur. 
 
 And then blushing and twisting in his chair, he seemed onabl* 
 to extract any thing more. 
 
 " Eternal," says the mother. 
 
 " Eternal," says the boy. 
 
 " Well, go on ; God is a spirit, infinite, eternal ; — what elaef " 
 
 " God is a spirit, eternal, infinite, — what else? " 
 
 " Nonsense," says the startled mother. 
 
 " Nonsense," goes on the boy, supposing it to be a part of the 
 regular answer. 
 
 " Arthur, stop 1 what work you are making ! " 
 
 To stop was the very exercise in Catechism at which he was 
 most proficient ; and he stopped so fully and firmly that nothing 
 more could be got out of him or into him during the exercise. But 
 ills sorrow soon fled, for the second bell had rung, and it was just 
 time to walk, and "every body was going," the servant reported. 
 The doctor had been called away, and his wife and the children 
 moved down the yard, — Rose with demure propriety, and Arthur 
 iirid liis eight-year-old brother, Charles, with less piety manifest 
 in deportment, but, on the whole, with decent demeanor. The 
 beauty of the day, the genial season of the year, Drought forth 
 every one — old men and their feebler old wives, young and hearty 
 men and their plump and ruddy companions, — young men and 
 girls and children, thick as punctuation points in Hebrew text 
 filled the street. In a low voice, they spoke to each other in sin 
 gif! sentences. 
 
 " A fine day 1 There'll be a good congregation out to-day." 
 
 " Yes ; we may expect a house 'uU. How is Widow Cheney- 
 have you heard ? "' 
 
A NEW-ENGLAND SUNDAY. 125 
 
 "Well, not mnch better; can't hold out many days. It wi]l bi 
 I great loss to the children." 
 
 " Yes ; but we must all die — nobody can skip his turn. Does 
 she still talk about them that's gone? " 
 
 "They say uot. I believe she's sunk into a quiet way ; and it 
 looks as .if she would go oflf easy." 
 
 "Sunday is a good day for dying — it's about the only jonrney 
 that speeds well on this iay ! " 
 
 There was something striking in the outflow of people into the 
 street that, till now, had seemed utterly deserted. There was no 
 fevered hurry ; no negligent or poorly dressed people. Every 
 family came in groups — old folks and young childien ; nnd every 
 member blossomed forth in his best apparel, like a rose-bush in 
 Jnne. Do yon know that man in a silk hat and new black coat ? 
 Probably it is some stranger. No; it is the carpenter, Mr. Baggs, 
 who was racing about yesterday with his sleeves rolled up, and a 
 dnst-and-bnsiness look in his face 1 I knew you would not know 
 him. Adams Gardner, the blacksmith, — does he not look every 
 inch a judge, now that he is clean-washed, shaved, and dressed ? 
 His eyes are as bright as the sparks that fly from his anvil ! 
 
 Are not the folks proud of their children ? See what groups of 
 theml How ruddy and plump are most 1 Some are roguish, and 
 cut clandestine capers at every chance. Others seem like wax 
 figures, 80 perfectly proper are they. Little hands go slyly 
 through the pickets to pluck a tempting flower. Other hands car- 
 ry hymn-books or Bibles. But, carry what they may, dressed as 
 each parent can afford, is there any thing the sun shines upon more 
 beautiful than these troops of Sunday children ? 
 
 The old bell had it all its own way up in tlie steeple. It was 
 the licensed noise of the day. In a long shed behind the church 
 stood a score and half-score of wagons and chaises and carryalls, 
 — ^the horses already beginning the forenoon's work of stamping 
 and whisking the flies. More were coming. Hiram Beers had 
 "hitched up," and brought two loads with his new hack, and 
 now, having secured the team, he stood with a few admirini! 
 young fellows about him, remarking on the people as they came no 
 " There's Trowbridge — he'll git asleep afore the first prayer'e 
 over. I don't b'lieve he's heerd a sermon in ten years I've seen 
 bim sleep standin' up in singin'. 
 
126 NORWOOD. 
 
 " Uere comes Deacon Marble, — smart old feller, ain't he?- 
 wonldn't think it, jest to hiok at liirn ! Face looks like an ear of lael 
 Bummer's sweet corn, all drieil up; but I tell ye he's got the juice 
 in him yit. Aunt Polly's gittiu' old, iimt she? They say she can'l 
 walk half the time — lost the use of her limbs; but it's all gone to 
 her tongue. That's as g(;ud us a razoi-, and a sight better 'n mine, 
 for it never needs sharpenin'. 
 
 " Stand away, boys, there's 'Biah Oathcart. Good horses- -not 
 last, but mighty strong, just like the owner." 
 
 And with that Hiram touched his new Sunday hat to Mrs. 
 Cathcart and Alice ; and as he took the horses by the bits, he 
 dropped his head and gave the Cathcart boys a look of such awful 
 solemnity, all except one eye, that they lost their sobriety. Bartai 
 alone remained sober as a judge. 
 
 "Here comes ' Dot-and-Go One' and his wife. They're my 
 kind o' Christians. She is a saint, at any rate." 
 
 " How is it with you, Tommy Taft? " 
 
 " Fair to middlin', thank'e. Such weather would make a hand- 
 spike blossom, Hiram? " 
 
 •'Don't you think that's a leetle strong. Tommy, for Sunday ? 
 P'raps you mean afore it's cut? " 
 
 " Sartin ; that's what I mean. But you mustn't stop me Hiram. 
 Parson Buell '11 be lookin' for me. He never begins till I git 
 there." 
 
 " You mean you always git there 'fore he begins? " 
 
 Next, Hiram's prying eyes saw Mr. Turfmonld, the sexton and 
 undertaker, who seemed to be in a [lensive meditation upon all the 
 dead that he had ever buried. He looked upon men in a mild and 
 pitting manner, as if he forgave them for being in good health. 
 You conld not help feeling that he gazed upon you with a profes- 
 sional eye, and saw just how you woul4 look in the condition which 
 was to him the most interesting period of a man's earthly state, 
 f if walked with a soft tread, as if he was always at a funeral ; and, 
 when he shook your hand, his left hand 'laJf-followed his right, as 
 if lie were about beginning to lay you out. He was one of the few 
 men absorbed by his business, and who Tmconsciously measured all 
 things from its stand-point. 
 
 " Good-morning, Mr. Turfmonld ! How'b your health! How ^ 
 iusiness with yoti f " 
 
A NEW-ENGLAND SUNDAY. 127 
 
 " Gk>od — ^the Lord be praised 1 I've no reason to complain." 
 
 And he glided silently and smoothly into the church. 
 
 "There comes Judge Bacon, white and ugly," said the critiosi 
 Hiram. " I wonder what he comes to meetin' for. Lord knowi 
 he needs it, sly, slippery old sinner ! Face 's as white as a lily ; 
 his heart's as black as a chimney flue afore it's cleaned. He'll get 
 his flue burned out if he don't repent, that's certain. He don'l 
 believe the Bible. They say he don't believe in God. Wal, 1 
 guess it's pretty even between 'em. Shouldn't wonder if God 
 didn't believe in him neither." 
 
 Hiram's prejudices were perhaps a little too severe. The judge 
 was very selfish, but not otherwise bad. He would not do a posi- 
 tively bad deed if he could help it ; but he neglected to do a great 
 many good ones which other men with warm hearts would have 
 done. But he made up in manner whatever he lacked in feeling 
 Dressed with unexceptionable propriety, his whole bearing was 
 dignified and kind. No man in the village spoke more musically 
 and gently ; no one met you with a greater cordiality. His ex- 
 pressions of kind wishes, and his anxiety to serve you, needed only 
 a single instance of hearty fulfilment to make Judge Bacon seem 
 sincerely and unusually kind. But those who had most to do with 
 him found that he was cold and selfish at heart, inflexible and un- 
 feeling when seeking his rights or interests ; and his selfishness 
 was the more ghastly as it clothed itself in the language and man- 
 ners of gentle goodwill. 
 
 " He talks to you," said Hiram, "just as Black gam lathers 
 you ; a kind of smooth rubbing goes on, and you feel soft and satis- 
 fled with yourself, and sort o' lean to him, when he takes you by 
 the nose and shaves, and shaves, and shaves, and it's so smooth that 
 yon don't feel the razor. But I tell you, when you git away your 
 »kin smarts. You've been shaved. 
 
 " Here come the Bages, and the Weekses, and a whole raft 
 from Hardscrabble," said Hiram, as five or six one-horse wagons 
 drove up. At a glance one could see that these were farmers who 
 lived to work. They were spare in figure, brown in complexion — 
 every thing worn off but bone and muscle — like ships with iron 
 masts and wire rigging. They drove little nubbins of horses, tough 
 and rough, that had never felt a blanket in winter or known i 
 leisure iay in summer. 
 
128 NORWOOD. 
 
 " Them fellers," said Hiram, " is jnst like etones. 1 don't 
 Delieve there's any blood or innards in 'em more'n in a ore ivbar. 
 They work early, and work all day, atd in the night, and keep 
 workin', and never seem to get tired except Sunday, when they've 
 nothin' to do. You know when Fat Porter was buried, they 
 couldn't git him into the hearse, and had to carry him with poles. 
 and Weeks was one of the bearers, and they had a ]>retty heavv 
 time of it, nigh .about three hours, what with liftin' and fi.\iii 
 him at the house, and fetchin' him to the church door, and tbei: 
 carryin' him to the graveyard, and Weeks said he hadn't eujojed 
 a Sunday so much he couldn't tell when. 
 
 " ' Hiram,' sez he, ' I should like Sunday as well as week days 
 if I could work on it ; but I git awful tired doin' nothin'.' 
 
 "They say," said Hiram, "that they never do exactly die up 
 in Hardacrabble. They work up and up, and grow thinner and 
 thinner like a knife-blade, tiU they git so small tliat some day they 
 accidentally git misplaced or dropped, and nobody misses 'eni. 
 So that they die off in a general way, like pins, without any one ot 
 'em making a particular fuss about it. But I guess that ain't so." 
 added Hiram, with a grave air, as if fearing that he miglit mislead 
 the young folks about him. Then, with demure authority, he 
 said : " Boys, go in ; the bell's done tollin', and meetin's goin' to 
 begin. Go in, and don't make a noise, and see you tell me where 
 the text is. I've got to look after these horses, or they'll get 
 mixed up." 
 
 This remark was called forth by a squeal and a rattle and 
 backing of wagons, which showed that mischief was already 
 brewing. 
 
 Having got the people all safely into church, Hiram bestowed 
 his attention on the horses. Tlie whole green was lined with 
 horses. Every hitching-pogt, and the railing along the sidewalk 
 and at the fronts of the stores, were closely occupied. 
 
 Seeing Pete leaning on Dr. Wentworth's gate, Hiram beckoned 
 him over, and employed hiin in his general tour of inspection as a 
 lii-tiop might etiik." his chaplain. Here the reins had been pnllod 
 under a horse's feet, next a horse had got his bridle off; anotljei 
 had backed and filled till the n-agon wheels were cramped; and 
 at each posiUon, Hiram issued ordoi-s to Pete, who good-naturedly, 
 and as a matter indisputable, did as he was ordered. If Hi-aff 
 
A NEW- ENGLAND SUNDAT. 129 
 
 had told Pete to shoulder oue of the horses, he would have made 
 the attempt. 
 
 "Iiook here, Pete, if that ain't a shame, then there ain't no 
 truth in the ten commandments ! A man that'll drive a horse with 
 a sore shoulder like that is a brute. Just feel how hot it is,— 
 Pete, you get a bucket of water, and put a little warm in it to 
 take oflf the chill, and wash that off, and take him out of harness,— 
 I Bwow ! - and I don't know but I ought to say I swear! for ifn 
 Sunday work. Anyhow, if Blakesley don't know any better than 
 that, he ought not to own a horse. There he is in church ii 
 hearin' the Gospel, and feelin' all over as comfortable as a cruller, 
 and he's left his horse out here to tbe flies and the sun, with a 
 8hould3r that's a disgrace to Christianity. But that's the way with 
 us pretty much all 'round. If we are goo3 hare, we are bad there. 
 Folks's good and bad is like a board-teeter, —if one end goes up, 
 t'other is sure to go down. " 
 
 It was curious to see Pete's superiority to Hiram in the matter 
 of dogs. In several wagons lay th3 master's dog, and Hiram was 
 not permitted to approach without dispute ; but there was not a 
 dog, big or little, cross or affectionate, that did not own the myste- 
 rious power that Pete had over auimals. Even dogs in whom a 
 sound conscience was bottomed on an ugly temper, practised a 
 surly submission to Pete's familiarity. 
 
 It was nearly twelve o'clock, when Dr. Wentworth, returning 
 from his round of visits, found Hiram sitting on the fence, his 
 labors over, and waiting for Dr. Buell to finish. 
 
 "Not in church, Hiram? I'm afraid you've not been a 
 good boy." 
 
 "Don't know. Someboiy must take care of the outside as 
 well as inside of church. Dr. Buell rubs down the folks, and I 
 rubs the horses ; he sees that their tacklin' is all right in there, and 
 I do the same out here. Polks and animals are pretty much of a 
 muchness, and they'll bear a sight of takiu' care of." 
 
 "■Whose nag is that one, Hiram, — the roan 1" 
 
 "That's Deacon Marble's." 
 
 "Why, he seems to sweat, standing stUl." 
 
 Hiram's eye twinkled. 
 
 "You needn't say nothin'. Doctor, — but I thought it a pity so 
 many horses shouldn't be doin' any thing ! Of course, they don't 
 
130 NORWOOD. 
 
 know any thing about Sunday, — it aint like workin' a creatttr' that 
 reads the Bible, — so I just slipped over b3 Skiddy's widder — she 
 ain't been outdoors this two montlis, and I knew she ought tc 
 have the air — and I gave her about a mile I She was afraid 'twould 
 be breakin' Sunday. — ' Not a bit,' says I ; ' didn't the Lord go out 
 Sundays, and set folks off with their beds on their backs ; and 
 rlidn't He pull oxen and sheep out of ditches, and do all that sort 
 iif thing V If she'd knew that I took the Deacon's team, she'd 
 been worse afraid. But I knew the Deacon would like it; and il 
 Polly didn't, so much the better. I like to spite those folks that'g 
 too particular! — There, Doctor, there's the last hymn." 
 
 It rose upon the air, softened by distance and the enclosure oi 
 the building, — rose and fell in regular movement. Even Hiram's 
 tongue ceased. The vireo, in the tops of the elm, hushed its shrill 
 snatches. Again the hymn rose, and this time fuller and louder, 
 as if the whole congregation had caught the spirit. Men's and 
 women's voices, and little children's, were in it. Hiram said, 
 without any of his usual pertness: 
 
 " Doctor, there's somethin' in folks singin' when you are 
 outside the church that makes you feel as though you ought to be 
 inside. ' Mebbe a fellow will be left outside, up there, when 
 they're singin' —if he don't look out." 
 
 When the last verse had ended, a pause and silence ensued. 
 Then came a gentle bustle, a sound of pattering feet. Out shot a 
 boy, and then two or three, and close upon them a bunch of men. 
 The doors were wide open and thronged. The whole green was 
 covered with people, and the sidewalks were crowded. 
 
 Tommy Taft met the minister at the door, and put out his great 
 rough hand to shake. 
 
 " Thankee, Doctor — thankee ; very well done. Couldn't do it 
 I letter myself. It'll do good — know Itl Feel better myself; I 
 need just such preachin' — mouldy old sinner — need a soourin 
 about once a week. Dreffnl wickei to hev such do<;trine, and nw 
 be uc better — ain't It, Doctor? " 
 
CHAPTER XVm. 
 
 THE STJRipCT CONTINUED 
 
 Wa are not to suppose, In a New Englan.l t(>wn, that th« 
 ineasure of a sermon's effect is to be judged by the iiupression 
 immediately produced upon the, audience. There are usually in 
 every large church in a New England town several families of 
 great refinement and trained to scholarly thought. But, aside 
 from these, there are scores of plain men who have from their very 
 infancy been trained to read, think, and discuss moral problem? 
 ofteu the most remote from ordinary life. Many of these hnmely 
 and awkward bodies carry in them fine machinery. A sermon, 
 therefore, falls upon such an audience as the waters do upon mill- 
 wheels. However much it may sparkle and rush upon the great 
 external wheel, that is but a small part of the effect produced. 
 The whole interior is set in motion — spindles twirl, looms clank, 
 and the whole building is filled with buzzing activity. 
 
 When the congregation breaks up, they carry out the subject 
 with them. It probes them, excites them, sharpens them ; and in 
 <iores of homes for the day and week, around the table, younj; 
 and old controvert, defend, or variously follow out the Sundaj 
 sermon. In this way the community is seasoned with religious 
 rlionght. Even if sometimes a too exclusively doctrinal discourse 
 iliaws upon itself the charge of being unpractical, it can seldnm be 
 charged with emptiness or mere sentimentalism. There is apt to 
 l>e food in it for men. Let ns listen to some of the comments. 
 
 Judge Bacon walks with Mr. Gallup^and knowing that Mr. 
 (jiillup would repeat whatever he said, and that it would speedily 
 reach the minister's ears, he remarks : 
 
 " An excellent performance. The grounds were well taken, 
 the proofs judiciously arranged, and the application timely. I 
 was a very clever performance. As a specimen of special pleading, 
 I think it would have ranked high in any court." 
 
 " Father,'' said his daughter, " do you believe in the doctrine'^''' 
 
 " Wen, my daughter, in things so mysterious and profound »-. 
 the conditions of Final Perseverance, it may bo presamptuoua U 
 
132 NORWOOD. 
 
 say that we believe — at any rate, further than we anderBtand- -bat 
 one may flt]y say that were such a doctrine conceived aa being 
 true, Dr. Bnell has undoubtedly presented it to-day in its mos' 
 admirable manner." 
 
 Squire Yates, who never put his foot in a church from year's 
 end to year's end, was waiting at Judge Bacon's door for a 
 moment's interview : 
 
 "Well, Judge, been to church, eh? Believe every word? 
 What was it — election, dependence, or sovereignty?" 
 
 "Tut, tut,'' said Judge Bacon, smiling knowingly, "it was on 
 the perseverance of saints. I have concluded to persevere. You 
 should have heard it — it was likewise profitable for sinners. — What 
 did you hear of our matters in New York ? Is the failure bad ' 
 Shall we secure much for our clients ? " 
 
 " Oh, Aunt, I wish our minister didn't preach such long 
 sermons," said a blooming girl of twelve to a sensible but rigid 
 and conscientious aunt. Miss Eccleston, who was not only deter- 
 mined to be good, but fiercely determined ; and just as determined 
 that every body that she had any thing to do with should be good, 
 too. She was angular and something stern outwardly, but true as 
 steel within ; straightforward, truthful, and as unbounded in kind- 
 ness as she was energetic in duty. 
 
 "My dear," said she, emphatically, "you don't go to church to 
 be easy. That isn't what religion is for. It is to stir us up. We 
 are naturally lazy. I don't believe in plush cushions in the pew 
 nor plush sermons in the pulpit. Feathers 1 feathers! is the ruin 
 of many souls. The rod is what folks need." 
 
 " But, Aunt, don't you think a sermon that interests you doef 
 more good than one that don't? " 
 
 "My dear, you ought to be interested. Dr. Buell didn't make 
 the truth — God made it. The minister's business is to give it to 
 the people as he finds it, and it's their business to be interested.'" 
 
 An older niece modestly asked : 
 
 " Well, Aunt, if the minister has only to give us the truth as 
 be finds it, why, then, does he not read the Bible, and stop? " 
 
 "Why, what's got into you, children? I don't think it is an 
 improving spirit for people to criticise what they hear, and find 
 fault with the sermon. There's enougli in every one of 'em, if we 
 were in a right state of mind, to do us good. It is bad manners 
 
THE SUBJECT CONTINUED. 133 
 
 to find fault with your food at table, and a good deal worse al 
 church." 
 
 The Oathcarts went to the Wentworths'. On a plain table 
 stond some crackers and cheese, some plain gingerbread, and a 
 plate of butter, while fragrant tea drew all eyes toward the head 
 of th<, table. 
 
 Oathcart, in a very clear and concise manner, stated to the doc- 
 tor the substance of the sermon. He applauded it as an intellectual 
 ttbrt, but inclined to doubt if it was strictly scriptural. 
 
 " I am inclined to think that the Arminian and Oalvinist, when 
 not under controversial fire, hold the facts substantially alike. The 
 iMue is not necessary, is forced, is abstract, which divides them on 
 this point. I am inclined to think high doctrinal preaching is less 
 often useful than some suppose." 
 
 " There are two sides to that, Oathcart," said Wentworth , 
 " New England metaphysics have been a powerful agent against 
 materialism. It may be that at any given time, a high doctrinal ser- 
 mon is not po edifying as a simple practical one would be. But 
 ,1 community brought up, through a hundred years, to task their 
 thought upon themes remote, difficult, and infinite, will be far 
 nobler than if they had been fed upon easy thought. Something h 
 always to be considered in such discussions, not only as to the 
 effect of f reaching on the immediate conduct, but also as to a 
 slower, though even more important effect, upon that whole moral' 
 constitution and mental habit which is the grand fountain and 
 source of conduct." 
 
 " But do you not see churches worn out and wasted with such 
 dry discussion ? " 
 
 " The fault is not in the idea, but in the execution. Either 
 extreme becomes unfruitful. High philosophic thought may, and 
 should, lead to broad practical applications." 
 
 "I see what you mean. True doctrinal preaoiiing, though ii 
 lies high, should, like clouds, before it gets tlirongh, come down to 
 the ground in rain." 
 
 " Exactly. Look at the history of New England mind in a large 
 way. 1 think we owe every thing to her theologians, and most tc 
 the most doctrinal. They were shut out from the world — in dangei 
 if tiecoming provincial and narrow. The outlet was found — ncl 
 iL cosmopolitan social customs, nor in art or literature — but in the 
 
134 NORWOOD. 
 
 ology. Suoj men as Edwards, Hopkins. Smalley, West, liellamy, 
 Backus, Burton, Emmons, lifted up the New England mind into t 
 r.ange of speculation and convictinn that ennobled and strengthened 
 it as art never could havr done." 
 
 " You are right ; but I don't see what you can do with you i 
 insistency, for I've heard ymi trim Dr. Buell to his face for >. i- 
 •netaphysical sermons." 
 
 " Only for »-o;Y/-sern)ons ; thouglit-sermons cannot be too higii. 
 dut a taiiL^k' of rea^oning.s made up mostly of nice distinctions o' 
 A'ords is an imposition on [ihilosophy. Buell does not often get 
 uito this vicious style. But 1 could show you good specimens ot 
 what I call vermicular sermons — a mere snarl of words crawling 
 over and over each other, all through the nest." 
 
 " But what if a minister preaches real thoughts, but leaves them 
 without application ? " 
 
 " Ee is like a man who draws a bucket of water from a deeji, 
 deep well, — like yours, for instance, sixty feet deep, — good water, 
 clear, cold, wholesome ; and, just as he brings the bucket up within 
 a few feet of the curb, he fastens it there, where you can't reach it, 
 and leaves you thirsty. A cup of water that yiu cannot reach i;^ 
 as far off from you two feet below the face of the well as if it were 
 at the bottom again ! " 
 
 Farmers, having looked at their horses, and given them a wisp 
 of hay, or a few oats, were sitting about in groups, talking of various 
 things, but every one of them, first or last, had something to sav 
 of the sermon. Many a quaint originality was dropped unnoticed. 
 Many a homely illustration was suggested full of real poetry with- 
 out its form. Some, of better information, .ind habits of readinir, 
 led off into criticisms on the one side, or defences on the other, 
 which showed that, however dry to some, the doctor had reached 
 the minds of others, and set them in earnest activity. 
 
 Hiram had gone his rounds and now joined the group ; and 
 having learned the subject of the sermon, he expressed himself 
 promptly : 
 
 " Them pesky Methodists is gittin' in this town, and preachin' 
 op fallin' from grace, and ridiculin' election. Now them Calvin 
 doctrines belongs to this town. They've always growed here 
 Ton might as well cut down these old elm trees, and put up 8om< 
 of your new-fangled spindlin' trees that look like brcoms bottns 
 upward, a» to set out these Methodist notions here." 
 
THE SUBJECT CONTINUED. 135 
 
 " Well, Hiram, don't you believe a man can fall from grace? ' 
 
 " He's no business to ; he ought to keep right along — that's my 
 notion." 
 
 " But that ain't to the pint. OamH a Christian man fall froiE 
 grace ? " 
 
 " It's my notion that if a man is once convarted, he'll stay con; 
 varted. If he's got grace, he'll keep it." 
 
 " You mean it will keep him." 
 
 " If a man falls, and it don't hurt him much, it shows that there 
 wan't no grace about it; 'twas something else he fell from, that 
 vran't very high up neither. A fellow's apt to be smashed up, M 
 he falls from grace, I tell ye ! It's like fallin' off the south side of 
 Mount Holyoke." 
 
 The more thoughtful men refused to discuss the cases in real 
 life that some instanced. It was a mere question of Scripture. If 
 the Bible said so it was so, and we must submit our reason to God's 
 Word. 
 
 It was allowed that theie were some passages that looked liked 
 falling from grace. But they were speedily captured by ranks of 
 others ; and as there was no one present who oared to be thought 
 .\rminian, the discussion soon waned, and was finally closed by 
 Hiram, who laid it down with emphasis : 
 
 " They haven't no Scripture on their side. They just do it, and 
 then think they've proved it ; but that ain't worth shucks for 
 argument." 
 
 As soon as the afternoon service was over every horse on the 
 green knew that it was time for him to go home. Some grew 
 restless and whinnied for their masters. Nimble hands soon put 
 them into the shafts, or repaired any irregnlarity of harness. 
 Then came such a scramble of vehicles to the church door, fnr thi- 
 older persons ; while young women and children, venturing fiirtho;- 
 out upon the green, were taken up hastily, that the impatient 
 horses might, soon as possible, turn their heads homeward. Clouds 
 of dust began to arise along every outward-going road. In less 
 than ten minutes not a wagon or chaise was seen upon the village 
 green. They were whirling homeward at the very best pace (hat 
 the horses could raise. Stiff old steeds vainly essayed a nimbler 
 isSt, but gave it up in a few rods, and fell back to the steady jog. 
 Ycung horses, tired of long standing, and with a strong yearning 
 
136 X(inwf>oii. 
 
 for evening oats, shot along the level ground, ,-ughed ip the litti* 
 hills, or down upon the other side, iu the most nn Sunday-like 
 haste. The scene was imt .■iltogi-ther unlike the return from a mili- 
 tary funeral, to which men inarch with sad music and slow, but ^om 
 which thoy return nimbly marching to the most brilliant quick-step. 
 
 lu half an hour Norwood was quiet again. The dinner, on 8nn- 
 dny, when for the sake of the outlying population the two service! 
 are brought near together in the middle of the day, was usually 
 deferred till the ordinary supper hour. It was evident that the 
 tone of the day was clianiiud. Children were not so strictly held 
 in. There was no loud talking, nor was laughing allowed, but a 
 general feeling sprung up around the table that the severer tasks 
 of the day were ended. 
 
 Devout and age-sobered people sat in a kind of golden twilight 
 of meditation. The nuinister, in his well-ordered house, tired with 
 a double service, mingled thoughts both glad and sad. His tasks 
 were ended. He w.'.s conscious that he had manfully done his 
 best. But that best doing, as he reflected upon it, seemed so 
 poor, so unworthy of the nobleness of the theme, and so relatively 
 powerless upon the stnhliorn stuff of which his people's dispositions 
 were made, that there remained a vague, unquiet sense of blame 
 upon his conscience. 
 
 It was Dr. Wentworth's habit to walk with his family in 
 the garden, early in the morning and late in the afternoon. If 
 early, Ro.se was usually his company ; in the afternoon the whole 
 family. Agate Bissell always excepted. She had in full measure 
 that peculiar New England feeling that Sunday is to be kept by 
 ■staying in the house, except such times as is spent at church. 
 .\nd, though she never, impliedly even, rebuked the doctors re- 
 port to his garden, it was plain that deep down in her heart she 
 thought it an improper way of spending Sunday; and in that 
 view she had the secret sympathy of almost all the noteworthy 
 V illagers. Had any one, upon that day, made Agate a visit, unless 
 li >r some plain end of necessity or mercy, she would have deemed 
 il a personal affront. 
 
 Sunday was the Lord's day. Agate acted as if any use of it foi 
 ner own pleasure wouli be literal and downrigl t stealing. 
 
 " We have six days for our own work. We ought not to b* 
 ij:rudge the Lord one whole dav." 
 
THE SUBJKCl GONTINUKU. 137 
 
 Two circumstances distresed honest Agate's conscience. Tli« 
 tine was that the incursion of summer visitors from the city was 
 tending manifestly to relax the Sabbath, especially after the 
 church services. The other was that Dr. Wentwortli would, oc 
 oasionally, allow Judge Bacon to call in and discuss with him 
 topics suggested by the sermons. She once expressed herself ir 
 this wise: 
 
 " Either Sunday is worth keeping or it is not. If you do keep 
 it, it oaght to be strictly done. But lately Sunday is ravelling out 
 at the end. We take it on like a summer dress, which in the 
 morning is clean and sweet, but at night it is soiled at the bottom 
 and much rumpled all over." 
 
 Dr. Wentworth sat with Rose on one side and her mother oo 
 the other, in the honeysuckle corner, where the west could be seen, 
 great trees lying athwart the horizon, and chequering the golden 
 light with their dark masses. Judge Bacon had turned the con- 
 versation upon this very topic. 
 
 " i think our Sundays in New England are Puritan and Jew- 
 ish, more than Christian. Tliey are days of restriction rather thati 
 of joyousness. They are fast days, not feast days." 
 
 " Do you say that as a mere matter of historical criticism, or 
 do you think that they could be improved practically ? " 
 
 " Both. It is susceptible of proof that the early Christian 
 Sunday was a day of triumph and of much social joy. It would he 
 well if we could follow primitive example." 
 
 " Judge, I am hardly of your opinion. I should be unwilling 
 to see our New England Sunday changed, except, perhaps, by « 
 larger social liberty in each family. Much might be done to make 
 it attractive to children, and relieve older persons from enmii. 
 But, after all, we must judge things by their fruits. If you bring 
 me good apples, it is in vain to abuse the tree as craggy, rude, or 
 homely. The fruit redeems the tree." 
 
 " A very comely figure, Doctor, but not very good reasoning. 
 New England has had something at work upon her beside hei 
 t^undays. What you call the ' fruit ' grew, a good deal of it at 
 any rate, on other trees than Sunday trees." 
 
 " You are only partly right. New England character and history 
 are the result of a wide-spread system of influences of which the 
 Sabbath day was the type — and not only so, but the grand motiir* 
 
138 NORWOOD. 
 
 power. Almost every cause which has worked beaignlj among 
 us has received its inspiratiun and impalse largely Irom this One 
 
 S>litary Day of the week. 
 
 " It is true that aU the vegetable growths that we see abont us 
 here depend upon a great variety of causes ; but there is one canse 
 that is the condition of power in every other, and that is the Sun I 
 And so, many as have been the influences working at New Eng- 
 land character, Sunday has been a generic and multiplex force, 
 inspiring and directing all others. It is, indeed, the Sun's day. 
 
 " It is a little singular that, borrowing the name from the 
 heathen calendar, it should have tallied so well with the Scripture 
 name, the Lord's day — that Lord who was the Morning Star in 
 early day, and at length the Sun of Righteousness ! 
 
 "The Jews oallud it the Sabbath — a day of rest. Modern 
 Christians call it the ,S!i;t's day, or the day of light, warmth and 
 growth. If this seems fanciful so far as the names of the day are 
 concerned, it is strUiingly characteristic of the real spirit of the two 
 days, in the ancient and modern dispensation. I doubt if the old 
 Jews ever kept a Sabbath religiously, as we understand that term. 
 Indeed, I suspect there was not yet a religious strength in that 
 national character that could hold up religious feeling without the 
 help of social and even physical adjuvants. Their religious days 
 were either fasts or like our Thanksgi\'ing days. But the higher 
 .and richer moral nature which has been developed by Christianity 
 enables communities to sustain one day in seven upon a high spir- 
 itual plane, with the need of but very little social help, and withont 
 the feasting element at all." 
 
 " That may be very well for a few saints like you and me, Doc- 
 tor, but it is too high for the majority of men. Common people 
 lind the strict Suudays a great annoyance, and clandestinely set 
 111 em aside.'' 
 
 " I doubt it. There are a. few in every society that live by 
 I heir sensuous nature. Sunday must be a dead day to them. 4 
 li.rk room. Ko wonder they break through. But it is not so witl 
 •be sturdy unsophisticated laboring class in New England. K i 
 I'jime to a vote, you would lind thut the farmers of New England 
 would be the defenders of the day, even if screwed up to the old 
 strictness. Their instinct is right. It is an observance that bag 
 always worked its best ett'ects npun the cmnmon people, and ^f I 
 
THE SUBJECT CONTINUED. 139 
 
 were to change the name, I should call Sunday Thb Poob Man'ii 
 Day. 
 
 " Men do not yet perceive that the base of the brain is fall (il 
 despotism, and the coronal brain is radiant with liberty. I meai 
 that the laws and relations! wliioli grow out of men's relations ii 
 physical things are the sternest and hardest, and at every step ii 
 the ascent toward reason and spirituality, the relations grow mori 
 kindly and free. 
 
 " Now it is natural for men to prefer an animal life. By-and 
 oy they will learn that such a life necessitates force, absolutism. 
 It is natural for unreflecting men to complain when custom 'or 
 institutions hold them up to some higher degree. But that higher 
 degree has in it an element of emancipation from the necessary 
 despotisms of physical life. If it were possible to bring the whole 
 community up to a plane of spirituality, it would be found that 
 ' there and there only could be the highest measure of liberty. And 
 this is my answer to those who grumble at the restriction of Sun 
 day liberty. It is only the liberty of the senses that suffers. A 
 higher and nobler civil liberty, moral liberty, social liberty, wdl 
 work out of it. Sunday is the common people's Magna Oharta." 
 
 " Well done, Doctor 1 I give up. Hereafter you shall see me 
 radiant on Sunday. I must not get my haj In, if storms do threaten 
 to spoil it, but I shall give my conscience a hitch up, and take it 
 out in that. I must not ride out. But, then, I shall regard every 
 virtuous self-denial as a moral investment with good dividends 
 coming in by-and-by. I can't let the children frolic in the front 
 door yard ; but, then, while they sit waiting for the sun to go 
 down, and your (Sara-day to be over, I shall console myself that 
 they are one notch nearer an angelic condition every week. But, 
 good-night, good-night, Mrs. Wentworth. I hope you may not 
 become so spiritual as quite to disdain the body. I really think, 
 for this world, tlie body has some respectable uses yet. Good- night, 
 Bose. The angels take care of yon, if there is one of them good 
 enough." 
 
 And so the judge left. 
 
 They sat silently looking at the snn, now but just above the 
 orizon. A few scarfs of cknd, brilliant with flame-color, and 
 every moment changing forms seemed like winged spirits, half re- 
 vealed, that hovered round the rutiring orb. 
 
140 xmnvooD. 
 
 Mrs. WeLtwortli at leigrh broke the sileLce. 
 
 " I always thought, Doctor, that you believed Sunday over 
 strictly kept, and that you were in favor of relaxatioQ." 
 
 " I am. .lust as fast as you can make it a day of real religion! 
 enjoyment, it will relax itself. True and deep spiritual feeling is 
 the freest of all experiences. And it reconciles in itself the most 
 perfect consciousness of liberty with the most thorough observance 
 of outward rules and proprieties. Liberty is not an outward con- 
 dition. It is an inward attribute or, rather, a name for the quality 
 iif life produced by the highest moral attributes. When communi- 
 ties come to that condition, we shall see fewer laws and higher 
 morality. 
 
 "The one great poem of New England is her Sunday 1 Th rough 
 tbat she has escaped materialism. That has been a crystal dome 
 liver head, through which Imagin;ition has been kept alive. New 
 England's imagination is to be found — not in art, or literature — but ' 
 in her inventions, her social organism, and, above all, in her relig- 
 ions life. The Sabbath has been the nurse of that. When she 
 ceases to have a Sunday, she wUl be as this lnnd.scape is — now 
 growing dark, all its lines blurred, its distanceE and ^Tadations &it 
 merging into sheeted darkness and night. 
 
 " Oome, let qb go in I " 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 GOING TO college: 
 
 Baeton Oathoaet was brought up on a farm, bj a larmer, wlti 
 no other thought than that he would, like his father, live by steady 
 and hard work. Early he luanifested ambition, biU it developed 
 in the line of his duties. Thoroughly above hi) years, industry 
 and fidelity marked him from childhood. His tenacity of purpose 
 was remarkahle, and had it not been controlled by judgment, in 
 'ater years it would have become obstinacy. 
 
 He was ambitious of doing men's work, and, at ten years of 
 age, in labor that required tact and quickness rather than strength, 
 he was fully as serviceable as a man. He was eager to prove him- 
 self tough, refused in the coldest winter to wear an overcoat, re- 
 joiced to brave storms, and regarded the reputation of being a 
 good farmer as praise enough. 
 
 His winters were given to schooling, and his father's example 
 at home bred in him a love of reading. When he was about four- 
 teen, there began to rise in his mind dim questionings whether he 
 should after all folio w husbandry. The books which he had read 
 furnished so many heroes that he found his allegiance to hard work 
 somewhat shaken. Sometimes he dreamed that he would be a 
 merchant, and that after a successful life, he would return and 
 build in his native village. 
 
 Then he pondered within himself whether he might not by 
 study become a lawyer. His mind had been inflamed with ad- 
 miration by some trials that had gone on in Norwood, and he 
 caught the contagion of the common people, who look upon g 
 smart lawyer as one of the most enviahle of men. 
 
 But all these dreams were as nothing to the influence of ? 
 single question which Eose put to him one Sunday evening at he 
 father's: 
 
 " Barton, don't you mean to go to college ? " 
 
 " No ; I never really thought nf it. What makes you ask me ? " 
 
 " I should like to go myself. I shuuld like tn kw^A' every thing. 
 
142 NORWOOD. 
 
 Bat womeu don't go to college. If I were a man I should cer- 
 tainly go." 
 
 " What would you do then, Rose ? " 
 
 " I don't know. I could tell better afterwards. Don't you think 
 that you would like to be a minister, Barton ? " 
 
 There are some impressions that come upon us with the forc« 
 of prophecies. Barton had never before once thought of a college, 
 except as a vapue picture, a place of wonderful men who knew all 
 manner of wonderfnl things. Like a true New England boy, he 
 looked with admiration upon any young man that "had been to 
 college." Intelligence and morality are the household ideals of 
 New England. The Amlierst College buildibgs he had seen as they 
 glimmered far across the Connecticut river valley, and bad often 
 vaguely striven in imagination to picture the contents of those 
 buildings, very much as old crusaders may be imagined to have 
 wondered at Jerusalem afar off. 
 
 These few words of Rose had struck a chord which never ceased 
 vibrating. He thought of it all the way home. Every day he found 
 the subject intruding upon him. Finally, it had so possessed hia 
 feelings that his farm work no longer seemed his chief ambition, 
 and he found himself following his tasks with less spring and 
 pleasure than hitherto ; and dangerous signs, even of weariness 
 and impatience, appeared. 
 
 At length he determined to break his thoughts to his mother — 
 confident that, though she might repress his new desires, she would 
 yet sympathize with his ambition to rise in the world. Great then 
 was his surprise, when, one evening, he made a full disclosure of hia 
 thoughts, to find that Rachel was neither astonished nor averse. 
 
 It was an evening when his father was away in town, and the 
 house was still. Barton said to his mother : 
 
 " Mother, do you think I ought to go to college ? " 
 
 She paused, and looked fixedly and kindly upon her son ; she 
 then went on with her worK in silence for many minutes — so many 
 minutes that Barton thought it an hour, though it was not a quaj ter 
 lit it. He sat with the book whioli lie had been reading on hia 
 knee, and his forefinger in it for a mark, looking into the fire. 
 
 What otlier picture-book has such color, such infinite novelty 
 of design, such suggestiveness as the farmer's picture-book on the 
 •ndirons? There were fiames shooting up like spires of church** 
 
GOING TO COLLEGE. 143 
 
 111 the oolors of sunset. On the front log was a mimic h anting- 
 scene. Along the surface ran a faint line of blue gas, issuing at 
 little intervals from cracks ; and this seemed like rabbits or foxes. 
 Then from the end of the log a flame like a hound; it leaped oveu 
 and caught the gas, and raced across the whole front and disap- 
 peared, as if around a corner. Barton's uneasy thoughts were weD 
 nigh as fitful and fiery as the flames before him. He glanced at his 
 mother. She was excited too. Her eye was bright, a color was 
 on her cheek, her hand was more nervously quick. 
 
 Rachel came, at length, and sat down by him. 
 
 " Barton, your words seem to me like an opening door. On one 
 side is the home, and purity and security ; on the other the great 
 and wide world, full of all manner of life and danger. You have 
 always seemed to me as one that would remain here. But already 
 your thoughts have gone ; and by and by you will follow. I am 
 willing. Yet the day you leave us will be a day of pangs more 
 than when you were born." 
 
 " Mother, I will not go if you wish me to stay. I can give 
 it up." 
 
 "When God stirs in us deep thoughts for things that are right, 
 they are prophecies, and we must heed them. Should I keep you 
 back and hide you from God's decrees, could I prevail ? If we 
 follow duty willingly, we are treated kindly; but if we resist. 
 Duty hunts us down and drags us to answer to our conscience." 
 
 Then both were silent. Barton was looking at the coals under 
 the fore-log. There was one spot that seemed making signs to 
 him. The dnU yellow red of the coal suddenly glowed with white 
 light as if a stream of air had fanned it, then sunk back to its ruddy 
 hue; it glanced out white and radiant again, and lost the glow once 
 more, as if it kept sympathy with Barton's thoughts, that rose and 
 sunk by turns. 
 
 " Oh, my son, I know not why God has shaded life to my eyes 
 His will be done! Life seems so deep, so awful in meaning, and 
 infinite — ^infinite in its results. It is like an ocean, with great 
 Btorms travelling over it always, and many enemies. Yet every 
 one must venture. If I were sure that yon had made your peace 
 with God " 
 
 She paused. 
 
 The fore-stick broke in two, and showers of sparks rushed np 
 
144 NORWOOD. 
 
 the fireplace, and great meaty coals rolled dowi'i upcQ the henrth, 
 while the whole fire seemed to ease itself, and settled down intc 
 new positions, as if a restraint had been removed. 
 
 It was a relief to both of them, and Barton i)ai a new fore- 
 stick in place, laid back the brands, and with the tongs raked the 
 great bed of coals right and left under the logs, as if to clear out 
 its throat and give the fire breathing-room. 
 
 " But, my son, have you thought whether you will be able tu 
 succeed ? " 
 
 ' Mother, I have not spoken a word to father about it." 
 
 " I did not mean that. Should your father consent? You are 
 not yet fifteen. You have learned only the common branches of 
 an English education. It is two miles to the Academy. You will 
 have to study at least two years before you can enter college. If 
 your father should give yon your time and help you besides, he 
 would expect you to help yourself. Yon know his mind. If he 
 had ever so much money, he would not give it to you. He thinkf 
 tliat the earning is a moral preservation. It will require patience 
 and courage to get an education." 
 
 " I have patience and courage," said Barton, quietly. " Liid 
 you ever know me give up any thing that I had undertaken ? Did 
 not father say that he didn't believe any body else would ever have 
 got down that wood, on the mountain-lot, in the deep snow, that 
 I did ? But he never knew half that I went through. Didn't 1 
 finish that piece of wall that father said nobody could do in two 
 days ? But you didn't know, nor he either, that I went out after 
 you were abed, and worked all night, by the moon. It was four 
 o'clock in the morning when I quit. There's something in me 
 that won't let go when I take hold in earnest. I can't help it I " 
 
 " But an education is only a beginning, what do you mean to 
 dc afterwards? " 
 
 "I don't know. If a man is well educated, I gusss he can do 
 pretty much as he pleases. May be I'll be a lawyer or a minister." 
 
 " Or a doctor. Barton ? " 
 
 He was silent. The fire had lost much of its zeal, and lay lik 
 a rich commnnity, with great banks of hot coals; while, here am 
 there, a brand that had fallen the wrong way, like a disappointed 
 taan in society, lay smoking, — white on the outS'de with ashes, 
 and black with charccjal within. 
 
GOING TO COLLEGE. 145 
 
 The conversation was interrupted by tlie s( unds in the yard. 
 Barton started up for the lantern, and sprang out to relieve hi« 
 father of the horse, which, he always put np of himself, unless re- 
 lieved by some such proffered service of his children. 
 
 It was some days before the subject was resumed in the family ; 
 and then 'Biah Oathcart introduced it. 
 
 " Barton, your mother says you want to go to college. 1 linv 
 no objection, if yon think you are smart enough. You caiin<p 
 enter college without examination. My farm is as lionorsible in its 
 way as a college. I sha'n't let any one brought up hei-e leave ii 
 without standing an examination. If you choose to learn survey- 
 ing and will give me a plot of my farm and a map of this district, 
 I'll give you your time. It won't do for a farmer's boy to go to 
 college, and not to know more about land than if he came from a 
 oity." 
 
 His father said nothing to him of books, and nothing of a 
 teacher. Barton was too proud to ask any help — at any rate at 
 home. He knew his father's notions, and he knew that he wot 
 expected to find out his own way, and to master the art and mys 
 tery of surveying by his own wit and ingenuity. 
 
 He said to himself: 
 
 " Where shall I begin ? Well — I must find that out myself. 
 How shall I find it out ? What book will tell me ? I suppose I've 
 got that to find out too. If there is no book, then I must get 
 somebody to tell me, and I will too, or I'll know the reason why." 
 
 Barton's first step was to explore his father's library. Among 
 the several hundred volumes he remembered vaguely to have seen 
 a book with land surveying in it. But whether the art of survey- 
 ing was large and difficult, or simple and easy, he could not tell. 
 Accordingly he examined every book in his father's book-case.i. 
 Here were Scott's and Henry's Commentaries on the Scriptures. 
 Here were a few law bonks. There were histories, ancient and 
 modern, sacred and profane. A very good selection of English 
 classics, and a few translations of the ancients. There was a good 
 row of voyages, travels and biographies. The largest number of 
 books was in the department of Natural History and in the ar 
 and science of farming, un which his father's reading had been 
 extensive. There was also Rees' Cyclopsedia, and a few of Scott'i 
 !>nd Cooper's novels; but no book on surijeyiiig. 
 
1 46 NORWOOD. 
 
 " Was there not one? Had it been removed purfOBely? ^m 
 it loaned ? I don't care — there are books somewhere, and I'll find 
 out where." 
 
 Old 'IViah knew what was going on, but never spoke a word. 
 " We aie apt to put too many blades in our knives, now-a-days," 
 said he. " I had rather give the boy a handle, and let him put in 
 his own blade. There is nothing like working out a thing yonr- 
 L'lf. Load is as good as steel when the knife is in your pocket. 
 I'm it to hard work and see which keepe its edge — that tells the 
 difference between good temper and none at all." 
 
 When they were working in the field, if his boys asked him a 
 'luestion that came within their own powers of investigation, he 
 would say — " A man should be ashamed to ask questions of others 
 that he can answer himself What was your head given for bnt to 
 use?" In this way his children were early inclined to observe 
 and study for themselves. 
 
 But once, when Barton had been to Springfield, and returned 
 by a different route, having to visit several outlying neighbors on 
 business, he lost his way, and was detained a night. His father 
 would not take the excuse. 
 
 " If a man has got a tongue in his head there is no need of 
 missing his way in a populous country. Ask questions! " 
 
 A spirit of independence could scarcely fail to grow up nnder 
 such influences, and when, through inexperience, it tended to ex- 
 tremes, old Cathcart would say ; "He is independent who troubles 
 people thf least, and helps them the most. Never let any body 
 carry you or your burdens if yon can help it. But always be 
 ready to carry other people's, if they need it.'' 
 
 After a vain search. Barton seemed baffled. At last, a happy 
 thought struck him. 
 
 " I'll ask Tommy Taft ; he's an old sailor and has stu lied navi- 
 gation ; maybe surveying and navigation are enough alUce for him 
 to help me." 
 
CHAPTBE XX. 
 
 CONSULTATIONS. 
 
 Tbe next night, not long after dark, a knock was heard A 
 livrnmy Taft'e shop-door. Tommy was sitting in Ms rough old 
 cliair, that seemed to have heen once a part of a pork-barrel. The 
 front had been sawed away half-way down, leaving the rest of the 
 staves for a back ; and a seat was laid across the open part ; and 
 the wliole was covered with some cheap stuff, so that it answered 
 the purpose of luxury far better than do most-of the chairs which 
 Beem designed to make visitors so uncomfortable that their call* 
 jhall be short. 
 
 "Who's there?— come in 1 " roared out Tommy, laying down 
 his pipe. 
 
 ■ But several reasons precluded obedience to the vociferous com- 
 mand which he repeated. In the first place, the door below was 
 fastened ; and, in the next place, had Barton made good his en- 
 trance, his way among barrels and benches, shavings and timber, 
 was not like to be smooth or easy. 
 
 Mother Taft lit a candle, saying, with a woman's and a nurse's 
 apprehension : 
 
 "lam afraid Ma'am WhiiipleV child is worse. They were to 
 send if they needed me.'' 
 
 The stairs came down into the corner of the shop. LooBening 
 the rude wooden bolt, she opened the door. 
 
 " Why, Barton Oathcart, of all things in the world 1 What is 
 the matter? Is your mother sick? Is anything the matter at 
 nome ? " 
 
 " Nothing, Mother Taft," said he, hastening to relieve her 
 honest anxiety. " I only came down to see Tommy abont 80m« 
 business.'' 
 
 By this time Tommy's wooden leg was busy up stairs, pound- 
 ing and slapping, at each step, as he made toward the head of the 
 itairs. Each step shook every board in the floor, as if a flail oi 
 rather trip-hammer, were at work on a wager. 
 
 As Barton came ir sight. Tommy seemed enraptured. 
 
148 NORWOOD. 
 
 " Wliy, boy, — why, lad, come up here I Let me get tLy handi 
 on you — tliat's all I Come up here, my chap, if you dare, — jus! 
 come up here I " 
 
 And no sooner was the act done than Tommy seized him in 
 his arms, as if he had been a pet dog; and shook him, and laugh- 
 ed at him, and toddled him off towards the fire, rubbing his 
 shoulders, as if he were rolling out a piece of pie-crust. 
 
 " Why, where did you come from 2 What's the matter ? Wliat 
 do you want, my hearty ? Any mischief up, eh ? Any thing broke ; 
 Any thing smashed? What is it, I say ; what's the matter ? " .\nd 
 without waiting for an answer, he plumped Barton into his own 
 barrel seat, with an emphasis which threatened to carry them both 
 over upon the floor, and quite overthrew Uncle Tommy's familiar, 
 in the shape of a huge, yellow, crop-ear cat, that sat dozing by the 
 fire. " Olap on some more stuff, woman. Let's have more fire. 
 Nights are nights, now, d'ye knowl Skates broke, eh? — No? — 
 Gun out of order ? Trapsgone? — No? — Well, what is it ? Didn't 
 come from Parson Buell, did ye ? Had my dose last week. Good 
 man. Looks after the old sinner. He needs it. Have to keep 
 tryin' tlie pumps. Some day, afore you know it, he'll founder 
 No hope._ Bad business. Wicked old sinner. But what have 
 you come for, I tell you ? " 
 
 " Why," said Barton, laughing, " if you'll keep still long 
 enough for me to speak, Tommy, I'll tell you." 
 
 " Sartin, sartin. I don't want to talk — go on. Somethin's the 
 matter, I know Oome down to-night. No, no — not for nothin'. 
 I know. Oome, jest tell us what it is ; and don't keep an old fel- 
 low with his anchor neither up or down. But, boys will be boys," 
 said Tommy, giving Barton an afiFectionate slap on his knee. 
 
 "Well," said Barton, striking in resolutely, as one who means 
 to make liis way in a crowd, " I want to find out something, and 
 r don't know who to go to, Tommy; and I thought perhaps yor 
 would know." 
 
 " Of course 1 know. What's an old sailor good for but to know 
 uli the odds and ends, and crinkum-erankums for young folks } 
 The only jolly folks in this world are young folks that ain't good 
 for nothin' yet, and old folks that's past doin' much. All the rest 
 of the world aro livin' in a pucker and a fume all the time. I telJ 
 y.iu, Barton, I'm the only sensible man in this town. Did ye ever 
 
CONSULTATIONS. 149 
 
 iee such a atewi j' and brewin' as goes on for notbin' among thest 
 folks, tbat are rubbin' and grindin' round to make money, anc 
 then usin' it to make more money, and tbat to make more, ana 
 ■haven't time to stop and enjoy it a little! " 
 
 Theie is no telling to what lengths of discourse Tommy would 
 have gone, for he seemed in peculiarly good spirits to-night, at 
 Uarton's visit. Barton was one of Tommy's prime favorites. 
 
 But. the old fellow was a good deal puzzled when the errnn 
 came out. 
 
 " Tommy, I want to learn something about surveying. I'm 
 going to college." 
 
 " Thunder and lightnin' 1 Goin' to college ? Make a map to 
 find your way from here to Amherst, eh?" 
 
 "Father is so 'fraid that his children will depend on somebody 
 for something, that he never acts as other folks do. He wants me 
 to show that I am in earnest, and he in a sort puts me on a atent; 
 and so I've got to learn something about surveying, to let him see 
 that I've got spunk enough to study ; and I won't ask father any 
 thing about it," said Barton, laughing, "not if I have to invent 
 surveying all over again. Now I thought that as you knew about 
 navigation, you could perhaps tell me enough about surveying to 
 give me a start. But don't tell father." 
 
 "Well, if that ain't the beat all! I never 'spected to be a 
 schoolmaster, and have folks cum to me for larnin'. Why, 
 Barton, I don't know nothin' about it. Navigation, boy, I guess 
 is a sort of a surveyin' bottom side up. I mean that it is studyin' 
 out the stars and flndin' out where you are. But, Lord bless you, 
 that won't help you on dry land, and if 'twould, I couldn't help 
 you. Why don't you just go over to Edwards? They say he's 
 big on mathematics." 
 
 " That's a good idea," said Barton. " I wonder I never thought 
 of that. Now I come to think of it, I know that he has surveyed 
 a good deal. He was out a while when they were running the 
 lines for the railroad." 
 
 Tommy had been pulling away at a bag in a closet, and now 
 brought out some hickory nuts, and was proceeding to fiU a tin 
 pan with them, when Barton cut short liis hospitable intent. Go 
 he must. His errand must be speedily performed. The night wat 
 vearing, and it would not do to be late. 
 
150 NORWOOD. 
 
 " But why on airth don't you ask your father, Barton I I gaett 
 he could tell you as well as any body." 
 
 "You know my father, Tommy. He's queer about some things 
 He's always stirring us up to find out tljings. He seems set not to 
 tell us iiny tiling that we can dig out ourselves." 
 
 " That's the old man all over. But good for you — good for 
 you — make you smart — wake you up— keep you sharp." 
 
 " He wouldn't tell me the name of a flower, but made me hunt 
 it down in a Botany. He wouldn't tell me why the moss grew on 
 one side of a tree more thau on the other, but set me to find out. 
 If I were to ask him about surveying he would say,— What have 
 you done yourself to find out? As soon as he sees that I am in 
 earnest, and have tried to lielp myself, he'll help me." 
 
 " And is he as strict with Alice? " a-sked Mother Taft, who had 
 listened silently to the conversation. 
 
 " Yes — but rather softer. But she has to hunt the dictionary 
 for her words, and he won't let her read a sentence that contains 
 H place or river, or custom, that he don't question her ; and if she 
 don't know, he expects her to find out, and to find out, too, how 
 to find out." 
 
 ' And how does Alice like it? " 
 
 ■' Oh, she's smart, to father's heart's content. She has got so 
 keen that you can't catch her very easy. You see that's a habit 
 that grows on one. And after a while it is just as easy, and a 
 little easier, to find out your own things as to be depending on 
 other people to find them out for you. But I must be off. Much 
 obliged for your nuts. I'll put some in my pocket. What hip 
 ones! — splendid I You always know where the best trees jire, 
 Tommy." 
 
 " No, that's Pete's work. Pete knows every nut, and every 
 squirrel, and every berry that grows in these parts. You see t\\\ 
 leg does very well to walk with; a little noisy, perhaps, especinll.^ 
 when you are late to meetin' and walk up the aisle in prayer time: 
 but it's no use on a chestnut tree. A wooden leg is a good thing 
 iliough. Barton ; never have to cut my toe-nails on that leg," said 
 Tommy, with a chuckle. " Not much paid out for shoes neither. 
 Go to a blacksmith for my shoes- — ho I ho ! ho 1 Never have rheu- 
 matism in that leg neither. Don't catch cold when I git it wet 
 Toes never cold on that leg — he ! he 1 he I No corns. Nobody stept 
 
CONSULTATIONS. 151 
 
 on iny toee Don't cost, much for blackin'. It's a real Bonvenience 
 Sometimes I think legs were a mistake ; ain't worth as much as il 
 costs to keep 'em up." 
 
 "I suppose, then, yon regret having one well leg. Tommy?" 
 
 "Of course I do. Often think of havin' it taken off. Very 
 odd, you see, to have one flesh leg and one wooden leg. Feller 
 'on't like to be odd, ye know," said Tommy, winking at Barton, as 
 ' to save him from taking the speech literally. " So queer, you 
 Qow, to wake up in the night and turn over just one leg ! Then 
 my old smasher makes such a noise that every body looks at that 
 one, and I do believe my real leg gits jealous of the attention that's 
 paid to the wooden one. The fact is, that wooden feller hasn't got 
 much manners. Never could keep him still, and it's the worst leg 
 to have treadin' on your toes that ever yon saw." 
 
 As Tommy Taft thus ran on, his eye seemed to linger fondly 
 upon Barton, and his rough voice grew less turbulent. AU at 
 once, turning to him, in a manner entirely changed, and full of 
 rude tenderness, he said, in a simple way : 
 
 " And so. Barton, you really are going to college. Well, 1 
 didn't think it. You're going to college, and I shan't see you 
 much more, my boy." 
 
 His manner was so new, and there was such a sort of helpless- 
 ness in his way, that Barton was affected by it, and said : 
 
 " Why, Tommy, I shan't go this two years, and I shall be home 
 every vacation, you know. It is only a few miles to Amherst, 
 any how." 
 
 " It's all right. If a boy's got any thing particular in him, it'll 
 certainly git out, somehow, and it ain't much use to try to stop it. 
 If yon do, it'll only twist it and twirl it, like a seed with a board 
 on it, that will come up and creep out sideways, and gits up in 
 epite of hindrance, only with h ornel crooked stem. I might *a 
 made a smart man oncb, but they meddled with me, and I was 
 fierce — well, no matter. Old Tommy missed it. But you won't. 
 You'll be all right. Barton, boy ! On the hull, I'm glad of it. 
 Folks that stay to hum are like coasters — sloops and schooners 
 like, that rim along shore and do a peddlin' business in shoal water. 
 Folks that go to college are square rigged. They can make long 
 voyages, carry big freights, go round the world if they're mind 
 io." 
 
162 NORWOOD. 
 
 Tommy siomed likely tn spend the night in talking, and Bartoo 
 abruptly bid Mother Taft good-night, and climbed down stairs, 
 while Tommy from the top was 9till ad ling some further remarks. 
 
 Mr. Edwards received Barton with a calm and dignified wel- 
 Bome, and expressed no surprise. He acted as one must who for 
 forty years had been >ised to having boys come to him for every 
 thing. He had been a schoolmaster all his life. Under his care 
 the academy had earned a high position. The young men who 
 fitted for college there were uniformly remarked for their thorough 
 scholarship and industrious habits. 
 
 Mr. Edwards was tall, thin, with a large gray eye, which waa 
 mild ami gentle in ropo-e, but kindled like an eagle's under excite- 
 ment ; bis face w.is white; his hair remained thick only around 
 the f des of his head, while upon the top it was very thin, and 
 every where gray. His habitual sobriety was underlaid with a 
 genuine relish of humor, which seldom brought out a lau^, 
 sometimes a smile, but usually only a lighting up of his whole 
 face, and a look of good nature even kinder than usual. His long 
 teaching had earned him a small property, which enabled him 
 now to live in the inexpensive way which best pleased him. He 
 had been once married, but early lost his wife, and never again 
 thought of marrying. His whole life was her monument. And 
 liis ]i)ve. never spoken, but never, after years and years, less tender, 
 and fresh, and romantic, than in the daysof his youth, burned like 
 a lam|) in some obscure chapel, fed by pious hands, unseen by day 
 to the [jassers by, but in darkness and secrecy forever shining 
 be'oi'e the shrine. 
 
 A widoxved sister was the only companion of his house. Her 
 hands performed the whole labor of the household. Like her 
 brother, she was intelligent; but, like him, she was not fond of 
 tallying. He conversed freely when solicited, but never ofi^red 
 conversation. And, when lie did speak, there was something 
 slightly formal. — it was not pedantic, but measured, as if he were 
 translating the .sentences from another language into his mother 
 tongue. Brotiier and sister were deeply attached to each other 
 l>nt would no more think of expressing it than two roses, on the 
 sanne stem, would make bive in any way except by glowingln th« 
 eame light, carrying the same dew, and shaking to the same wind. 
 
 Every night, when the tea things were removed, the oartaic 
 
CONSULTATIONS. 153 
 
 dropped, the fire trimmed (and he was especiauy fond of & fii e of 
 hickory wood, the almost only luxury that he would have, regard- 
 less of expense), ht took his hooi and she her work, and he would 
 read aloud. Sometimes, when exciting events were ahroad, it 
 would he a newspaper ; at other times the magazine. But, what- 
 ever he read, she heard ; and thus they kept along together, in 
 the same house, with the same pleasures, and in the silent enjoy 
 ment of the same ideas. Sometimes he would pause in reading, 
 and for a moment comment, or criticise, or unfold his knowledge 
 — whifih was ample — upon some obscure point. But, usually, 
 little was said, even in long pauses, hoth reflecting in silence. 
 
 There is something very wonderful in the fruitfnlness of 
 silence 1 Congenial natures may learn almost to forego speech, 
 and yet maintain intimate sympathy and knowledge of each other. 
 There grow up, insensihly, an instinct and an intuition in the eye, 
 in the ear, and in every sense, which finely divide up and dis- 
 Srihute the usual functions of a noisy tongue. 
 
 In the morning she knocked at his door and said, " Dwight, 
 breakfast waits." They sat silent during the meal. After morn- 
 ing prayers he made his record of the weather, of which he was a 
 well-instructed scribe, performed some light task in his study^ — 
 for he still kept up a student's habit — and read his classic authorn, 
 pen in hand, making in his journal such criticisms as occurred ; or 
 pursued mathematical studies, of which he had always been even 
 more fond than of the languages. The dinner came every day at 
 the good old hour of twelve, and passed silently. The afternoon 
 was given to his garden and yard in summer, and to various quiet 
 exercises, walks, and errands, in winter. The evening was for 
 home and reading. There was no Sunday there. Every day was 
 Snnday. 
 
 Except a slight difference on washing and ironing days, yon 
 might call every day of the week a Sabbath, so alike were they — 
 •ill silent, meditative, and tranquil. Twice as much was going on 
 np in the great elm trees which overshadowed the dwelling as 
 within the house. Twice as much noise and racket did birds and 
 crickets make in the garden, in summer, as over was heard within 
 the mansion. Their lives were as nearly spiritual as can be con- 
 ceived. It is true that both of them had bodies, hut they were 
 •ubordinated to the mind's uses so utterly that they esemed to drj 
 
154 NORWOOD. 
 
 up aod turn white, as if tliey despaired of their rig. its as fleshlj 
 bodies and were getting ready to take on i. spiritual ftate, in sheei 
 despair. 
 
 "Come in, Barton! sit down. What brings you to town 9< 
 late? No ill news, I trust?" 
 
 " Nothing, but some business with yon, is the matter. I wanted 
 to talk with you — about surveying — and about going to college." 
 
 "Why, Bai'ton, are you going to leave the farm? I thought 
 you were to be the great farmer of this neighborhood ? What will 
 your father bay ? " 
 
 "He is willing — ^at any rate, he has given consent." 
 
 " What put it into your head I The last time I talked with yon. 
 yon were bent upon husbandry. It was to be a stock-farm, — 
 grass, grain, cattle, — the finest grass, the plumpest grain, — the 
 choicest stock, — mountain pasturea, — great barns I All these are 
 fled? Slime new ambition? " 
 
 Barton did not acknowledge to himself the germ and spring of 
 all these plans. He, perhaps, would have honestly denied their 
 origin. So subtle are the influences that begin afar off to act upon 
 us, that the condition and direction of our feelings are changed 
 before we notice that we are acted upon. Only the last stages of 
 mental processes, and especially emotive changes, become obvi- 
 ous. Many men see the growth of trees only when leaves are un- 
 folded; but some notice the swelling of the bud. Yet more sen- 
 sitive observers, before a bud swells, know by the purpling of the 
 twigs and branches that a change has begun. But long before tht 
 ruddy color came, there was a stir within, and the march from 
 winter to summer had begun. Barton knew that his plans of life 
 were changed; but he did not go back to the real beginning to 
 notice the silent impression made by Rose; nor did he even admit 
 himself that Rose had any important influence upon his life oi 
 thoughts. That she was his sister Alice's very twin sister, as ii 
 were, he knew, and he called her hu sister too. 
 
 Sister I sister! — that is a sweet word, but exceedingly mis 
 chievDus, too, in the realm of love ! It is a word for clevont en 
 thusiiism, for unselfish love, for unblushing friend-.hip, for faithful 
 aess and honest intimacy, for friendship without passion, for love 
 urithout sultry ardors. Brother and sister! That is the moat 
 dinple and beautiful confluence of the sexes t 
 
CONSULTATIONS. 155 
 
 But that word giiter is the covered way of lovel It is th* 
 mask which bashfulness wears before it gains boldness enough tc 
 say love. It is a gentle hypocrisy, under which souls consent tc 
 remain an 1 dream, in hope by-and-by of a raptnrous waking 1 It 
 is the half-way house between friendship and ardent affection. 
 It is a neutral ground, on which men and women agree to coinmii 
 no offensive action, and where both parties make haste to break 
 the agreement. Under the names brother and sister how fast in 
 timacies grow 1 What bold words are spoken ! What deep glanie 
 are exchanged! Love is war. The friendship of a brother and 
 sister, unrelated, is a truce, in which both parties are secretly pre- 
 paring for the onset and victory. 
 
 First comes acquaintance — that is May ; then friendship — that 
 is June; then brother and sisterhood — that is July; and then love, 
 which is August; but July and August are so much alike that no 
 one can tell when one stops and the other begins! 
 
 Barton unfolded to Mr. Edwards, briefly, his ambition to snr- 
 prise his father, and received from him suitable information, the 
 loan of necessary books, the invitation to come once or twice a 
 week for recitation, and the promise that as soon as the season 
 opened, Mr. Edwards would go out with him and give him prac- 
 tical lessons in the field. 
 
 The next Sunday found Barton, during the intermission of ser- 
 vice, at Dr. Wentworth's. Nothing of his week's work did he 
 speak. He had a natural delicacy of pride, and seldom spoke of 
 himself — never of his inward feelings, save to his mother. 
 
 Rose did not question him. She walked with him into the 
 green-house and stood among the plants, speaking of commoTi 
 things. 
 
 She instinctively knew that something had happened to Barton. 
 His way was di^'erent. His carriage was different. She merely 
 noticed it, and did not inquire or even reflect upon it. Yet Bar 
 ton knew that she knew something ailed him, for she uncon- 
 sciously looked at him with that gaze of her father's, as if she saw 
 something opening up before her in his own heart. It wn<! he 
 rare sensitiveness to truth, which was peculiarly displaved tow ard 
 Nature, but was as real, though less manifested, toward society, 
 that gave to Rose an almost unerring insight of peoples' dispc- 
 litiona. 
 
1 o6 XORWOOD. 
 
 3y her onjj;iiial coDstitution Rose was exqnkitely snBceptible 
 f>f inipressicns, and hor father's train ng had educated this ten- 
 dency, sn thiit slie saw infinitely more, in looking upon the same ■ 
 things, than others did ; heard and discriminated far more of the 
 inemorahle s(ninds which fill the day, than did her companions. 
 This world is not the same world to any two persons in it. But 
 between the hinest linnian oiganization and the highest, the dif 
 fereuce is so wide, thnt the world which each sees would not be 
 recognized by the other. The thermometer and barometer are 
 the perpetual witness of men's coarse and sensitive natures. They 
 say to us every hour, "See what world-atfecting changes are go 
 ing on, which you aro not fine enough to notice, but which wi 
 (eel and indicate." 
 
 But the sphere of eftiBcts not perceived, in human life, is even 
 greater than in the natural world. Every feeling which rises in 
 the soul has its own signal in the body. If our eyes were fine 
 enough, if our minds were sensitive enough, we should see the 
 face and carriage of men going through endless variations, as the 
 soul moves through all its affluent moods. Now we see only the 
 extreme manifestations. Fear, rage, hate, love, mirth, are discern- 
 ible at their full tides. Finer natures perceive their remote con- 
 ditions, their subtle influences; butit is a feeling, a mere blind con- 
 sciousness of change, or difference, rather than a defined perception. 
 
 Rose had to a singular degree this fine and ineffable sympathy 
 with matter and with mind. She had it without being conscious 
 of it. She wa3 not aware that she lived far deeper into life than 
 others did. Of all things that lived about her, herself was almost 
 the only one which she did not take cognizance of. 
 
 She judged that Barton had something to say to her, and so 
 >\ie had naturally gone to the green-house. He said nothing to 
 her, e.xcept of the plants, of the decline of the sQ^son, and so she 
 felt that it was something not to ho told. To know that one has a 
 secret is to know half the secret itself. 
 
 When the afternoon service was done, Mr. Edwards walked on 
 with Rose and her father and mother, on the way to his own honM 
 beyond. 
 
 " And so 'Biah Oathcart is going to send his son to college." 
 
 '■Ah,'' said the Doctor, "tliat is something new. When did 
 TOO hear it? " 
 
GOJ^&ULTATIONS. 167 
 
 " Barton came to see 3ie last vreek. He is to come to th« 
 auademy the next term, and thinks that in two years he can enter 
 . Amherst.'' 
 
 " Well, well, these boys run away with their father's plaas, as 
 kittens do with a knitter's hall of yarn — roll it all over the room 
 and «narl it terribly 1 " 
 
 And so Rose now perceived what was the thing which shii had 
 elt— Barton was to go to college. She was glad. He would be 
 scholar, for he always did conscientiously and well whatever he 
 did. And he would be distinguished. Would he be a lawyer? 
 Would he ever rise to public honors ? Would he preach ? Would 
 he choose the fields of science? The dim and misty future lay 
 before her as a horizon on which shapeless clouds took and lost 
 form at the same moment. Of one feeling she was sure — she was 
 glad for Barton. Her soul prophesied for him a noble life, and 
 slie was happy. 
 
 From the hour of his decision. Barton was consciously changed. 
 A new life had opened. All things stood out in new relations. 
 He was even more industrious and thorough in his daily work on 
 the farm. 
 
 " I should not wonder, Rachel," said his father, " if Barton 
 was sorry for his choice ; now that he comes to think of leaving it 
 he likes the farm better than he knew. He clings to his work as 
 if he was sorry that he must leave it.'' 
 
 Rachel's sympathy interpreted Barton more accurately. Slie 
 knew how a highly conscientious nature would fear the not doing 
 well that which it was no longer doing for the love of it ; and 
 that the fear of slighting work, which one was consciously falling 
 from, would redouble caution and endeavor. 
 
 "I don't think Barton is tired of work or that he would be 
 sorry to stay ; but I think he is glad to go. And since he is going 
 to leave, he naturally is anxious lest he should slight any thing. 
 Folks always take the raofrt pains about the things that they are in 
 danger of neglecting." 
 
 " That may be so of honest people, but not of the shiftless and 
 lazy." 
 
 But there was something more which neither recognized. 
 Barton was proud as well as faithful. TLere was a reason in him- 
 self which he felt, but never analyzed or understood, why he did 
 
158 NORWOOD. 
 
 faithftlly what he did at all. There is a peculiar effect in self- 
 esteem to impart a sense of one's own personality to whatever one 
 touches, owns, or does. Bartou's planning was for the time a part 
 of bis own >elf. His work was himself. Self-respect included not 
 his mind and person alone, but whatever bis person coricerntd 
 itself about. And to slight his work was to slight himself. 
 
 And we should likewise; add, wljar su many know, that hr who 
 has once learned to work with thoughtful interest and t;ouuin6 
 ambition on a farm will never lose the enthusiasm, l.very \cai 
 men high In professional |ii;ici.'.s — artist-, judges, clergymen, SL-iiaturs, 
 teachers — go back in vacation to the old liomestead, afid feci the 
 old inspiration of Work, They swing the tiail, they follow the 
 plough, they swing tiie scythe, or axe, with enthusiasm, and often 
 with secret wishes that tlrey hud never forsaken them ; at any 
 rate, with a half purpose of retiring fi'om crowded ways and 
 feverish pursuits to the calm and wholesome joys of hu-haudry. 
 
 All hail, Work! Man lost Paradise by the temptations that 
 beset indolence. He will regain it again by those wholesome 
 qualiiies which are the fruit of intelligent work. The curse, 
 "thou shalt earn thy bread hi the sweat of thy brow,'' was not a 
 curse on work, but on drudgery. It is time that the curse on the 
 ground should he worked out. There has been sweat enough to 
 wash it clean. There have tears enough fallen down to make the 
 earth sweet Work shall beautify it. Work shall drive ont 
 Drudgery and bring in Leisure, and then men shall eat their bread 
 under coo' shadows with unsweated brows. 
 
CHAPTER XXI, 
 
 UBNTAI/ PH1:jOSOPHT. — (to BB B£AD OB SKIPFED.) 
 
 LoNa before the Amazon reaches the ocean, it has grown so 
 wide that from the channel no shore can be seen on either side. 
 It is still a river, but with all the signs and symptoms of becoming 
 an ocean. There is h peiiod, beginning not far from fourteen, in 
 young lives when childhood is widened suddenly, and carries its 
 banks so far out that manhood seems begun, though as yet it is far 
 off. The stream is ocean deep. Upon this estuary of youth the 
 currents are shifting — the eddies are many. Here are united the 
 strength of the sea and the hindrances of the land. 
 
 The important organic changes which in our zone take place 
 at the second full seven of years, produce important results even in 
 the coldest temperaments and in the slenderest natures. But, in 
 persons of vigor of body and strength of feeling, there is fre- 
 quently an uprising like a city in insurrection. The young nature, 
 swelling to the new influences with a sense of immeasurable 
 strength — sometimes turbulent with passions, but always throbbing 
 with excited feelings, led on and fed by tantalizing fancies, — seems 
 transformed from its previous self, and becomes a new nature. 
 
 The mere access of impetuous feeling is not by any means the 
 most striking change that occurs. There is frequently the appear- 
 ance of new forces in the mind, the displacement of old ones, and 
 an entire change of proportion and balance in the moral and intel- 
 lectual faculties. A mild and docile boy springs up before his 
 astonished parents defiant and unteaohable. A conscientious and 
 painstaking nature is seized with wilful impulses, and seems by 
 an insane attraction drawn to bewildering courses. 
 
 On the other hand, lads of a soft and yielding natnre some- 
 times stiffen and show an unexpected strength. Children who had 
 early and chiefly acted from motives of approbation begin to feel 
 the sterner and more wholesome law of pride. Faults fall off at 
 once, against which nurse, mother, and teacher had labored assido- 
 onsly and in vain. 
 
 New moral forces are developed into activity. Aspiratioof 
 
160 NORWOOD. 
 
 Mgin to quicken the soul. AmbitionB grow nobler. A Boorn ot 
 all authority which does not conform to reason or to generous 
 views of duty is frequently seen, and just as frequently misandei-- 
 Blooc The exultation of hope and the deepest sadness of do- 
 spoLdency alternate in the same bosom. There is also in some 
 natures, in strange union, an intense sensibility to pleasure, with a 
 wayward rejection of it as unsatisfying and unworthy. 
 
 The human soul, in this its real waking, is like the dawning of 
 spring in the forest. All things good and bad are quickened aliliie. 
 The dove comes, and the hawk also; the singing thrush, and the 
 cawing crow ; harmless insects, and stinging ones ; innocent worms, 
 ■wd noxious reptiles I The spice-bush and the nettle ; the fragrant 
 blossoms, and ill-scented, poisonous weeds, all move together and 
 break forth into life. But as every day the returning sun, moving 
 higher, brings on the summer, the things comely and useful gain 
 ascendency, and the forest and the field nourish treasures for the 
 joy of man and beast. Here and there is a noisome morass which 
 summer only makes pestilential. At remote intervals rare spots 
 may be overgrown with poisonous plants or waste weeds ; but 
 these things are exceptional ; and summer brings, in vast excess 
 over incidental evil, the richest stores of inestimable benefit. 
 
 All natures come to their manhood through some experience ol 
 fermentation ! With some it is a ferment of passions ; with some, 
 of the affections ; and with richly endowed natures- it is the fei-- 
 ment of thought and of the moral nature. 
 
 Wholesome labor is for this, as for a thousand other criticf, 
 ex|.Brieuces of life, an antidote or a remedy. But what shnll savt 
 one from that passage of the thoughts, that struggle of the morn! 
 nature, which lies between so many noble youth and tlieir full 
 manhood? Nothing! It maybe adjourned, but sooner or liter 
 it comes. It maybe masked, tempered, but afull and vital nature 
 is weaned from boyhood with as many tears and sorrows as first 
 he was weaned from his mother's breast. 
 
 Barton Cathcart escaped the constitutional disturbance of the 
 paH^i'ins partly by his inherent nature, partly by the iufiuences ol 
 home and its education, and perhaps full as much by the whole- 
 w)i]ie moral influence of physicJ labor. But there slumbered 
 elements in hi< soul which would yet awake, though the time w«» 
 not come. 
 
MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 161 
 
 From his father Barton inherited strong commou sense, sobriet} 
 )f judgment, and a rarer gift, an instinctive sense of what is t/rui 
 which may coexist with an argumentative faculty and with logi- 
 3al power, but which is separable from both of them, and is gnpb 
 rior to both. From his mother came imagination, and that subtle 
 sympathy with invisible things which produces interiorness and 
 depth of character. 
 
 Except with his mother he had till now spoken of his inward 
 life and feeling to no one ; and even with her the intercourse was 
 one of sympathy more than of conversation. A common under- 
 standing seemed to spring up between them without words. 
 
 For a year he pursued his studies with a stubborn persistence. 
 The elements of language, and the grown forms of learning, fur- 
 nished wearisome and prosaic tasks. But gradually he began to 
 learn the pleasure of intellectual victories. His pride, which at 
 times had almost fiercely repelled discouragement, began to ex- 
 perience satisfaction in the consciousness of power. 
 
 Although Barton had maintained that intimacy with Dr. Went- 
 worth's family in which he had been reared, it was not until his 
 second year at the academy that his companionship with Rose 
 Wentworth began to include an interchange of thoughts, and 
 reasonings, and even discussions. 
 
 Accnstomed to her fatlier's society, and familiar from her 
 childhood with his discussions of questions in a spirit far deeper 
 than usually prevails, it is not surprising that Rose, some years 
 younger, was fully Barton's equal, and, perhaps, in many ranges 
 of life his superior. Certainly, in taste, in the discrimination of 
 the subtler forms of nature, and in the depth and variety of the 
 eiyoyments which spontaneously sprung np in her soul, she wa» 
 Barton's superior. 
 
 What impression Rose Wentworth produced upon otherf shall 
 be left for them to say, at their own time, and in their own man- 
 ner. But it is for us tc show the groundwork of her nature, from 
 which all these impressions arose. 
 
 Perfect physical health produced an even flow of spirits, and an 
 exhilaration of manner, such as leads lambs to skip, and kittens to 
 frolic ; and this, in Rose, prevented any of that little-girl saint- 
 ship of manner which many are fond of depicting. She was bnoy- 
 ant, jovdu-, trre-inovirii'. •■iiid mitIc-s- Every side cf lier iiiind w .& 
 
162 NORWOOD. 
 
 developed. Deep and rich in mornl feeling, strong and line in the 
 affections, quick and fruitful in intellect, she had, under horue in- 
 fluence, heen educated to an outward and inward life of singular 
 fulness and beauty. 
 
 In estimating the causes of character, men ascribe much to 
 circumstances, much to training, and much to the fulness and force 
 of one's original endowments. But there are other elements more- 
 subtle, but of profound value, in the structure of that most won- 
 derful of all architectures — the character; buUt up of invisible 
 materials, without sound or force, permanent in its nature, yet in 
 form flexible, and prolific in change. Chief among these are to b« 
 reckoned nympathy between faculties, and unity of action. 
 
 Some people's heads are mere lodging houses of faculties; each 
 lodger minds his own business, and meddles as little as possible 
 with others. After a whole life, it cannot be perceived that the 
 social affections have derived the least influence from the moral 
 sentiments by whose side they have lived scores of years. Aad 
 the reverse, also, is witnessed, when the affections have neither 
 softened nor wurmod the moral sentiments, nor seemed to have had 
 any intercourse with tliem. Many men's passions act without curb 
 or influence frfmi the reason, and are limited and restrained only 
 by their own selfish interests. 
 
 This non-intercourse may be the result of education, or of the 
 want of it. But there is an original aptitude in this matter. Oon- 
 gruity and inter-sympathy tend, in some natures, to entire har- 
 mony and unity in the i kind's life ; while, in others, there is a 
 stratification, as it were, of faculty. Nothing acts out of its own 
 plane. Certain elements of mind act in their own class, but never 
 out of it, and the faculties, like disintegrated musicians in a mu- 
 tinous orchestra, play by single ones, or by twos and threes, but 
 never in solid unity and harmony. 
 
 It is thus that some natures squander life-force in intermittent 
 eflbrts. Their endowments are ample, yet they aic frittered away 
 uselessly. But where the hajipy temperament unites in an origina' 
 and spontaneous harmony all the parts of one's nature, the aug 
 mentation of force is but a small part of the good fortune. Ther 
 18 a breadth, a variety, a iepth, a fertility of experience, which 
 yields to single lives more of joy than is possessed by scoies of 
 ordinary men. 
 
MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 163 
 
 Education is popularly supposed to be the infolding of mental 
 IbrceB. Far more important, in education, is the iaspiration of 
 facile intercourse between all parts of the mind, the opening up of 
 free trade and active commerce between all its faculties. 
 
 Rose was gifted, to the last degree, in her constitutional en- 
 dowments. Every part of her nature was in sympathetic relation 
 to every other part. There were no repulsions or discrepancies 
 etween her mental powers. They were in eiqui ite sympathy ; 
 liey were in singular symmetry ; they were in perfect harmony. 
 
 Barton had a strong and large nature, but not reconciled within 
 itself. There were great conflicts yet to be endured ; the more 
 painful because unintelligible. They might have wrecked his 
 peace, had it not been for help coming from outside of himself. 
 But that help did not come till late, and then was followed soon 
 by other experiences, by the exaltation, heat and fusion of a great 
 struggle. 
 
 The transition from girlhood to womanhood 's marked by the 
 development of sentiment rather than by conflicts of passion. That 
 balance and harmony of nature, with which Rose was endowed, 
 had its fortunate parallel in her external condition. Every cir- 
 cumstance about her conspired to give to her mind a natural de- 
 velopment. A mother's love, strong and rich, was seasoned with 
 a genial religious element, which gave to it the color of something 
 more than an earthly afiection. Agate Bissell furnished the sterner 
 elements, the sense of conscience in daily duties, and she clothed 
 the qualities of regularity, method, and exactitude with a semi- 
 moral nature. Her father's nature tended to enlarge the sphere 
 of her understanding, and of her spiritual nature. She was borne 
 upon his nature, as a soft, white cloud is borne up and wafted by 
 the whole atmosphere. The cloud fades out and reappears, is ab- 
 sorbed and comes again, is white, or crimson, or golden, according 
 to the pulses of color which beat in the air. Yet Rose, though by 
 charming sympathy thus easily melted into her father's moods, 
 never lost her own individuality, but ha I a spring and force of 
 selfness which held her to the centre of her own proper and dis- 
 tinct nature. 
 
 Hei" father's influence had given a full development to that all 
 sided sympathy, both with society and with nature, which never ex- 
 ist* without forming a rich and Jeep life. The result in Rose was 
 
164 NORWOOD. 
 
 chat she derived enjoyment from every side withsut effort, and 
 almost without coQsoiousness. She sat happily while the shrewish 
 wi'ens sang, aud listened to Agate, to Mother Taft, to Mrs. Pojy 
 Mariilf. ^lle sat under the trees in the edges of the forest, where 
 the shy wood-thrush sang, and with her father talked of questions 
 as unlike familiar life as is that bird's song unlike the sound of fa- 
 miliar field notes. She looked up to Dr. Buell with affectionate 
 iwe. His moral philosophy seemed no more discrepant with her 
 father's, because it was different, than one species of flower oi 
 ;ree seemed at variance with others, from which they only differed. 
 But love is the acting force of a woman's life, and love is the or- 
 ganizing centre. In some this element is mild, easily susceptible, 
 and as strong at the very first as ever afterward. In others it lief 
 deep, inaccessible, capable of transcendent power ; but, unreached 
 by ordinary influences, it gois sometimes all through life undevol 
 oped, reserved for a better life. 
 
 Rose was regarded as of an affectionate nature ; but, in reality, 
 the wealth of her nature lay far below the influence of daily life, 
 and unreached. Great as therefore were the expectations which 
 her nature excited in those fitted to appreciate her gifts, there wa? 
 a power beneath, should it ever develop, that would sirprise even 
 ■D ardent expectation. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 TWILIGHT DAWN. 
 
 Thb time had come for Barton Oathoart to enter college. He 
 aad finished his preparatory studies in a mani.er peculiarly like 
 himself. His application, without any external flurry or pretence, 
 had been intense. To a real intellectual appetite he added a pride 
 which intensified his endeavors. A diflioulty in his studies seemed 
 to him almost like a personal insult. It roused inwardly a fire 
 that could be laid only by victory over it. He put his life againsl 
 every obstacle. His form had attained its full proportions. He 
 was tall, athletic, nimble as a deer, strong and enduring. Though 
 intense application t<mk something of color from his cheek, the 
 necessity of much out-door exercise had maintained his essential 
 vigor. No one in his class ranked him in any study. No one in 
 the village approached him on the ball ground, or in races. His 
 sedate kindness, his honorable spirit, joined to his scholastic ability, 
 made him the pride of the young men, and the whole town hoped, 
 when young Oathcart entered Amherst College, that he might 
 " take the Valedictory.'' 
 
 It was mid-summer. He had been to Amherst for examination 
 and matriculation, and was now at home, awaiting the opening term. 
 The atmosphere on the day of whose evening we shall speak had 
 been very pure, the sky of a deep and even solemn blue. A pecu- 
 liar quality of air gave to all objects the utmost clarity. These 
 days are formed by distant storms. Somewhere there had been 
 thunder and mighty rains, but so far away that no other sign of it 
 was perceived but this rare and opaline day. There was in tlie 
 atmosphere'8 sadness and tenderness that seemed born of storms 
 overcome. At least so Rachel felt, and so Barton thoiiglit, as the 
 sun went down below a horizon without aline or band's width o* 
 cloud — and the moon shone from the opposite quarter. 
 
 The day's work was done. That charm of tender melancholj 
 which comes so often with twilight had stolen over mother and 
 son, as they sat in tho door, enjoying this silent communion the 
 more because so neai the last of sucli scenes. Rachel remembered 
 
106 NORWOOD. 
 
 how he looked when as a babe he first lay iu her arms, as if it 
 were but yesterday. There he sat, a young man 1 She remem- 
 bered the eras of his boyhood; single scenes of joy and trouble 
 stood out as if undimmed by days and distance. Her heart swelled 
 with pride and love as she looked upon her son's face, that nevei 
 looked nobler to her tljan in this flusli of rosy twilight upon the 
 growing moonlight. One wiiole period of life was closed, sealed, 
 and put away. At her very feet opened another path, along which 
 his manhood was to develop. Her heart prophesied success. He 
 would return to her one day, so wise, and strong, and good, that 
 she should look up to him, and lean her declining strength upon 
 his. 
 
 Alice sat in the parlor, where no lamp was burning, playing 
 melancholy Scotch airs, and singing ballads in a low and soft 
 voice. Out in the wheat-field came a whippoorwill, and sat 
 upon a flat rook there, which was yet warm with the day's heat. 
 So near was it that the shrill wail was painful. Barton drove it 
 away. His mother half shuddered. She was not superstitious, 
 but yet. to drive away a singing bird was almost like driving aw.ij 
 joy from her own door. It was but a flitting thought. The bird 
 tlew, and in a field more remote tuned again its softer, sadder 
 note. 
 
 " In a few days. Barton, you will go. The place will miss yon. 
 Vfoo nave been a good son, and faithful at work. The blessing 
 pronounced upon obedient children will surely rest upon you." 
 
 " Mother. 1 shall not be far away. It will not seem hke a 
 journey or a voyage." 
 
 " Ah, my son, in separations, though great distances may be 
 more, short ones are never less painful. Absence is the main 
 tiling. Every child that goes away leaves one channel less for 
 the heart to How through, and throws our thoughts back into 
 ourselves." 
 
 "I have a strange feeling, mother. I am glad and sorry both. 
 But now that I am to go, I am impatient to be gone and to be at 
 my work." 
 
 " It is best. Your father's blessing and your mother's heart 
 go with you.'' 
 
 They sat neai the doer, holding each other's hands. The ovo- 
 aing scene, the song of the whippoorwill, thj approaching sep' 
 
TWILIGHT DAWN. 167 
 
 iration, a vague shudder, as there arose for a flitting moment an 
 impression of the great out-rolling future of life, an undefined, aod 
 painful thought of Eose, and now his mother's words, wrought in 
 Barton such an intensity of feeling, that, when Rachel laid her 
 hand upon his ra-ven-black hair, he could no longer contain him- 
 self, but leaning his head upon his mother's lap, he wept as if the 
 floods were broken loose. Her tears fell with his. Some worda 
 more were spoken of mutual love and need, but they are not for 
 us to record. Not to every angel, even, is it given to know the 
 full meaning and sacredness of a mother's and a son's innermost 
 communion, in a love utterly without passion, without color of 
 selfishness, deep as life, and stronger than death. 
 
 The next day came Dr. Wentworth, Eose and her mother, to 
 spend the afternoon and evening. Whatever Barton felt, no one 
 could see by his eye or his manner that Rose's presence was more 
 to him than that of a sister-friend. 
 
 If Barton was susceptible to the contagion of love, this was a 
 dangerous day 1 Rose was in great spirits. Her love for Alice 
 had never shown itself before in ways so beautiful. She was in 
 sympathy with every one, and with each upon his own plane. 
 Her words were not forced ; they changed as gently as do pictures 
 in a looking-glass, when in quick succession one and another 
 passes before it. 
 
 She was more than cordial with Barton. She frankly preferred 
 him, and without a guise or pretence followed him with her eye and 
 foot, just as she would have done her own brother, if he were leav- 
 ing home in the full expectation of literary honors. Barton, too, 
 felt only pleasure in Rose's company. Oould he have said that 
 Eose was to him only like a sister? Yes, he could I B,\e said it 
 sincerely. But is every sincere saying of course true? Do we 
 know all that we think we do? Are there not, below what we do 
 know, great depths of truth not yet made jilain to us? In things 
 of the heart our knowledge is as a little child lying in a skis' upon 
 the ocean, seeing only the sides of the petty boat but nothing of 
 he great underlying sea that heaves it 1 
 
 Rose believed herself to be only Barton's friend and sister — Eose 
 was right when she thought so. Barton thought himself only 
 Rose's friend and brother. "Why, then, were there moments o< 
 •hiirp pain ? — flashes of love-pride, that seemed for a second tc 
 
168 X0KWU(;D. 
 
 lay bare the necre.t places of his soul, as a lung flash of ligiitiiiug 
 at night, sharply reveals the whole landscape in unnatural light i 
 
 Rose and Barton stood alone, talking, under the great elms thai 
 shaded Cathcart's yard. 
 
 " I am sorry that you leave us. Barton. Norwood will hardly 
 be natural without you. But you will come home often, and I 
 shall make father drive us over to Amherst; for you know that we 
 drre all proud of you. Barton." 
 
 Such tribute was peculiarly grateful to pride, and much pride 
 i ad Barton ; and yet, he waited as if Rose had not yet said what 
 1 e wanted. 
 
 In a low tone, as if meditating, and speaking unconsciously, he 
 -aid : 
 
 " You feel pride, and Alice feels love, for me." 
 
 " Alice does not love you any better than I do," said Rose, lay- 
 ing her hand upon Barton's arm in the most frank and familiar 
 manner. " We both of us love you, and every body is proud of 
 you. I wish 1 felt as sure of my own brothers as I do of yon. 
 YouwiU be good and noble, and I think that is being great." 
 
 Her words did not confer pleasure ; something was wanting. 
 
 Jnst then came that same whippoorwill and lit upon the flat 
 stone in the wheat-field, and began his love song, so loud and so 
 aear, that besides the clear whistle which alone is heard at a dis- 
 tance, all the undertone of throat music — the sucking of the 
 breath, and a reedy tenor tone — were distinctly audible. Rose 
 stood like one at first surprised, but whose thoughts were being 
 carried away, afar and afar off! Barton's whole soul thrilled. 
 Was it a hird, or a bird-enclo.'sed spirit that came to him last 
 night with his mother, and that came again to-night with Rose? 
 Was there some omen in this coupIiEg with its wild, melancholy 
 song his mother and Rose, as of the two most intimately con- 
 cerned in his destiny? Tie song was becoming painful. The 
 stridor of its notes wrought too keenly on his nerves. And when 
 the night-singer ceased, flew away, and began again at a distance 
 he felt a grateful sense of relief 
 
 "Rose, that bird has a stt-ange efiFeot upon me. It came las 
 night and sang. It seemed unearthly. What does it seem to 
 you ? " 
 
 " It affects me painfully too. It seems to stir the ima^atiop 
 
TWILIGHT DAWN. 169 
 
 toward tl.e spirit world. It makes familiar things seem strange 
 Somehow I feel bewildered, as if I was neither in the body nor ont 
 Barton, do you ever feel both happy and unha])py at the same 
 time ? Do you ever feel as if you were alone in the world ? as il 
 your thoughts took you into regions where no one could go with 
 you, and revealed to you things which you could not utter? I 
 often feel so. That bird has started me off to-night. I wish that 
 I were a penetrating spirit, free from the body, and could go every- 
 where, and find out all things, and move freely as the air does, and 
 as widely as the light 1 I feel as if something were always hovering 
 near that I never catch. When I look on flowers it seems to me I 
 gee every thing but just that secret something which makes them 
 what they are! And when I hear some kinds of music, I listen 
 again, certain that under all the sound other sounds more exquisite 
 are surely coming ; but they do not come. When I sit in the pine 
 xoods, voices almost make themselves plain, and I am just going 
 to hear some mystic message ; but — it never comes. I believe it 
 is because I am a woman. If I were a man, and could lay hold 
 on the world, and have a business of my own, I am sure I should 
 feel differently, I could find out things ; couldn't 1, Barton ? I am 
 very happy, but I always seem to be waiting for something." 
 
 Poor child 1 There is an army of waiters in this world. The 
 tears were rnnning down her cheeks, and yet Rose was laughing 
 and looking up to Barton with the most artless simplicity, as if 
 he, like her own father, had the power of solving her problems or 
 changing her moods. 
 
 Barton thought he had never before looked upon any thing so 
 lieautiful! He never had. 
 
 Tlie moonlight fell through the openings of the elm upon her 
 face. The slightest breath of wind moving the pliant boughs 
 shifted the light, which now left her head, then streamed back 
 upon it; now again left it in twilight, and then suddenly glowed 
 upon it with dazzling beauty. 
 
 Barton seemed inspired with a new spirit. He could never say 
 again that he felt only a brother's love. His hour had come, and 
 every thouKht and feeling of his nature rose up to tell him that, o. 
 nil liuman kind. Rose Wentworth was best beloved I He could 
 never call her sisrer again. The intensity of his feeling showed 
 everytliing in a white light. In the exaltation of this sudden 
 
170 X<;R\VlK)D. 
 
 cransport ho learned that the mind may carry on many prooesse* 
 at once. He did not for i mnment deceive liimself in -supposing 
 liiat Rose had for him any such emotions as now filled his heart 
 Not for a moment did he purpose to secure her deeper interest in 
 him by the pleadings of his own feelings. Rose stood before him 
 as something holy, to be won, not by surprise or importunity, but 
 by the fi'ee movements of her own nature, or not at all. 
 
 " Can I ever be that which shall draw her to me of her own 
 choice ? Till then, for my own sake, and for her sake, I will not 
 
 " Barton," said Rose, with the most bewitching simplicity, 
 " what are you thinking of ? I know that I should love to hear 
 what you are thinking. Do tell me? " 
 
 "Oh, Rose! " 
 
 His voice was strained and unnatural. It was like a cry of 
 pain. Rose trembled and drew near a step, and looked upon him 
 almost as if she feared to see some revelation. But in an instant 
 Barton, with an inward effort, said in a more natural tone: 
 
 " Rose, great things have been shown me to-night. Whether 
 I tell you or not, I leave with God, as I leave myself, and my 
 mother, and Alice, and you, Rose, with God I Gome, it is dan 
 gerous for us to remain here, the air grows damp — let us go in! " 
 
 Dimly and painfully Rose began to perceive the change in Bar- 
 ton and its meaning. The thought that arose in her mind was 
 quick, clear, brief, and then it sank doun, down, down below all 
 other thoughts, below all common feelings ; — down below her 
 jommuninga with her father, — below her very yearnings; — down 
 where tlie soul's germs are formed, — as far down us the bottom of 
 the sea, where pearls lie undisturbed by storms, is from the top,— 
 there fell her stcret thought, and there it rested. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A CONFESSION. 
 
 It wasplai.i to young Oathoart from that hour t'lat Lis life .ltd 
 found the point on which it would turn. Had lie never before 
 Buspected the secret? In all his years of familiar intercourse had 
 he never plainly raised the question of the precise nature of his 
 feelings towards Rose? Had there never been moods or happy 
 moments of meeting or of parting at which the secret bore wit- 
 ness of the true state of things ? 
 
 Many men are timid of others, and shy of revealing then 
 secret thoughts to another. But there is a form of sensibility 
 springing from a manly pride, which works shyness of one's own 
 self. Men refuse to think on the results of thinking. They dim- 
 ly perceive what is coming and veil it. Natures capable of suf- 
 fering from subtle influences guide their thoughts with as much 
 care and skill to shield them and spare them, as they do their 
 bodies in walking through a rocky pass, or a forest filled with 
 thorns and briers. 
 
 But in young Oathcart's case there was another fact, that hii> 
 feelings had really not grown to a ripeness for disclosure. "Wherti 
 love is a mere passion, or where it is largely an imaginative sen- 
 timent, it is susceptible of sudden development. But when love 
 is a leaven that silently works through the whole economy of 
 mind and soul, and gradually pervades every part of the nature, 
 it cannot be sudden. It cannot even be known, in its incipiency, 
 noi discriminated from common good wiU, from confidence found- 
 ed upon respect, from genial sympathy, from mere likeness and 
 unison of feeling. Love is seldom seen in its full and perfect 
 form. For that, it requires a greatness of nature thai does not 
 come often ; and two natures, both large and various, yet unlike, 
 though not discordant, are still rarer. In ordinary life the af- 
 fection of love is a mere melody, the music of a single afifection. 
 But in its higher form love is many melodies wrought into a 
 Harmony It is a point at which every powar and faculty of 
 
172 xoijwdOD. 
 
 one's nature comes to a Unity, and the whole being becomes 
 "symmetrical and harmonious. An experience so simple in its 
 liniil form, but so complex in all the elements which lead to it, 
 Ls not the growth of an hour. If in some natures it springs np 
 in jouth, it must yet, like summer flowers, have gone through a 
 development from the seed or root to the blossom of the fruit. 
 
 Barton Oathcart had not reached the fniit, nor even the bios 
 •um. He had found out what was the name of that fragrant vine 
 livhich was twining around his being. But of its unfolding, and 
 of all the clustered experiences that yet lay undisclosed within it, 
 tie knew nothing. 
 
 When Eose was going, with her family, to return home, Bar- 
 ton seemeil culm Hnd self-possessed outwardly, but within his feel 
 mgs flowed like fast-rushing waters in moonlight, flashing the soft 
 light from their unquiet surfaces with such abruptness that the 
 moon would liardly know its own light, so wild and disordered 
 did it seem ! If, in the going to and fro, he was alone with Rose, 
 he avoided her as if her presence brought pain ; but, when they 
 came again among the families, Barton clung to her side and 
 sported ami frolicked as if they were brother and sister indeed, 
 (t was a double instinct. He would not renew with Rose that 
 perilous conversatidn, and he would not disclose by any change of 
 mtiiiner to others that there was in his heart any other feeling 
 (owrird Rose than that which had always existed between the 
 members of their warmly-attached families. 
 
 Anil so had begun, in pain and struggle, that experience whose 
 reni and final nntnre it is to bring peace. And, in some natures, 
 Love is born of Peace, nourished in tranquillity, and from the 
 first brings forth joy and peace. It knows no struggle, but only 
 j;r;i(lnal development. But in other natures. Love has a oontrol- 
 lins work to perform before it may rule in peace. Like a stream 
 iiorn in the mountains, it hides itself among rocks, it is driven 
 over them in foam and fury, it is shut np in dark pools, and steal- 
 away through ravines and cliffs, still gathering power JUt finding no 
 quiet until, faraway from i'ssources, it has fulfilled its course; and 
 then at lenu^th, its pure wafers, flowing through flower -breeding 
 meadows, rest in deep lakes, where all its afiitations are forgotten 
 in deep tn.nqiiillity. Not one star that shone upon it all the waj 
 down the mountaiE could it reflect again exc ept in torn and scat 
 
A CONFESSION. 173 
 
 tered beame of light. Now every star of heaven Ib at home in it« 
 boBom. 
 
 When Rose was gone, Barton felt a joy of relief. He was 
 .salm. This is the nature of intense excitement which bringfe the 
 mind to unity. Barton went to his chamber as if nothing had 
 happened. He calmly wondered in his own mind whether he had 
 been greatly stirred-up during the evening ; he looked out of th« 
 window upon the yard and the near fields which lay white with 
 moonlight, and he marvelled at his own calmness. What had be 
 oome of his heart? Where were his feelings? 
 
 One cricket, the first that he had heard this summer, was 
 chirping with a shrill cherh — a stridulous monotone, which, in 
 certain moods, compares well with our feelings ; while, in others, 
 it grates sharply against the nerve. Was there ever storm in 
 such a hemisphere as this ? Were ever these tranquil heavens 
 black with rolling clouds? Were these trees that loom up be- 
 tween light and dark, as if they were spirits, ever twisted and 
 strained by groaning winds ? Was his own soul that lay within 
 him as if asleep for very peace, sharply torn, whirled with revolu- 
 tion, agitated by fear of disclosure, but an hour ago? 
 
 He sat leaning his head upon his palm by the window. A 
 bird in the near tree sang in its sleep, and awaked by its own 
 sweet half-strain, suddenly stopped, and left the air still. Then, 
 afar off he heard a dog barking. That started off another, and a 
 peal of answering dogs rolled through the neighborhood. One 
 by one they dropped off, and let the stillness alone. Two men 
 walked past, talking in low tones. It was stiller than ever when 
 they had gone. A sigh of air moved among the trees. It was aa 
 if the night had taken a long breath. The leaves quivered, shook 
 off some drops of dew, and fell asleep again. 
 
 There is no such lonesomeness as that which the young feel be- 
 fore they have applied their powers in life, and vindicated their 
 place in society. It is dreariness. That feeling began to steal over 
 Barton. For a moment a sentiment of pity for himself began to 
 rise, but was suppressed by a sharp reaction of pride. The slight 
 conflict aroused him, and he rose to retire to his bed. Behold ! 
 his mother stojd by his side 1 So silently had she entered, and so 
 absorbed had been his thoughts, that he had not heard her foot- 
 •tep. How long she had watoln^d him lie kn«w not. There wa« 
 
174 NORWOOD. 
 
 at first a q»j. ioelmg of discovery. It seemea as if his owi 
 
 thoughts and fancies had beeu walking forth in visible form, anc 
 that his mother must have seen them. 
 
 But Rachel was a prophet. She did not need outward actions 
 or the souud of words, at least to interpret her children's thoughts. 
 She had inward sight. To Barton's sudden interjection, or inter 
 rogatory : 
 
 " Mother ! " — she made no other answer than to draw him down 
 to his seat. The moon gave light enough to make looks and forma 
 more emphatic than if the light had been clearer. Rachel asked 
 no question, nor made explanation, hut spoke as if announcing a re- 
 sult of long conversation in her thoughts. 
 
 " Barton 1 you are in danger of losing your mother." 
 
 He started, and looked keenly at her as if to see if signs of 
 sickness were on her cheek. 
 
 "I am not going to leave you. But yon are leaving me." 
 
 "But, mother, how can I go to college and not leave you? 1 
 thought you were glad " 
 
 "It is not separation that I fear, but separation of life. A 
 change has come to you. You live in things which you do not 
 speak about. Your life is entering into new paths, where you 
 will need help, and will find none. There is no friend like a 
 mother. Barton, come back to me, and don't leave mel " There 
 was something solemn and inexpressibly tender in his mother's 
 tone and ms^nner. It seemed as if all motherhood lay at the door 
 of his heart, begging to come inl 
 
 There is in every royal nature a holy of holies; a shrine within 
 the shrine ; a place of silence ; the very place of germs, where 
 thought, emotion, and being itself, begin. Into that comes not the 
 most intimate. If any one has seen it, if any foot has trod it, we 
 have banished ourselves and cannot return. There we meet God. 
 There we meet ourselves. There we hide from love itself. But 
 there a inother may come I .\iid the soul is yet its own, though 
 mother and God have looked upon its secrets! 
 
 Barton would have spoken, but his mother stopped him bj 
 laying her hand upon his head ; and looking full upon his face with 
 an ineffable tenderness, she said: 
 
 " Barton, tell me nothing! Only say that whenever there shall 
 oe a great fear, or — or other feeling, when you need to 
 
A CONFESSION. 175 
 
 irhethei it be of good or evil, of victory or trouble, chat you will 
 rarely come to the place where you were born ; where your head 
 lay in infancy, where you have lived and loved freely until now 1 
 I do not need to know your thoughts, nor your purposes. But you 
 may need to tell them. You need your mother. Promise me, that 
 whenever your heart must disburden itself you wUl come back to 
 me" 
 
 Inexpressibly affected by a manner not usual to his mcther, s 
 certain loftiness of authority, and an exquisite tenderness, barton, 
 like a brook pent up and at length breaking tlirough, poured out 
 his whole heart to his mother, so freely, so fully, so easily that it 
 seemed more as if he were thinking it to himself than disclosing it 
 to another. 
 
 "And as I stood by her, mother, a light seemed to shine out 
 from her, and something not of myself seemed to come upon me 
 with an assurance that I might speak " 
 
 "I know — I understand it all." 
 
 — " And yet, before I could speak, a pain pierced me, a dark- 
 aess rose inside of me — a horror of fear that I was seeking to saori- 
 flce Eost to my own selfish life — that I had not been called by her 
 — that she stood in one place and I in another, and that we could 
 never change." 
 
 " All these things are plain to me. Barton. God has given you, 
 in part, your mother's nature. I have an insight of melancholy ; 
 hut yon have your father's judgment, and will control it. But now 
 things were like to have been born out of due time. You had al- 
 most followed the inspiration of your own heart, and not the open- 
 ings of Providence. Your business is not this. Neither is her time 
 come. You must bury and hide this love, as seeds are hidden till 
 their spring time comes. Oh, my son, it is a sacred thing to love I 
 Be not ashamed. It is for your life. But let it be as a light burn- 
 ing in a secret place. When God ordains he will bring it forth. 
 Shall he command the dayspring from on high for this poor, sinful 
 world, and not ordain your hours and seasons ? Beware of seeking 
 more than you earn. With what will you buy her heart? Rosa 
 is many in one. Of all that I ever knew of womankind she is 
 alone. She comes slowly to womanhood because she brings with 
 her so much. How have you gained a right to her? Will you 
 not, like the patriarch, serve your term of years? Will you not 
 
176 NORWOOD. 
 
 Oy study and true piety, bring to her by and Dy a nature that shall 
 command, not supplicate? " 
 
 The candle had burned low. It flamed np aiid threw an nu- 
 wonted light upon the chamber. It sunk again and went out 
 Neither its presence nor its absence was noticed. 
 
 But after midnight a deep sleep was burying Barton's early 
 troubles deeper than the bottom of the sea. 
 
 Hie mothei saw the morning star arise. She had coue forth 
 t>afof« is. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THK FABEWBLLS 
 
 Thk eanier stages of cerebral excitement quicken the ester ne 
 ten»e». Objects become more clear, sounds more significant, and 
 according to the nature of our own feelings, the exterior world i« 
 sad or gay. But a higher degree of excitement works toward rea- 
 son and sentiment, and the mind is absorbed in its own creations. 
 Katnre grows dim, and passing events seem like the silent passage 
 of dreams. 
 
 For all the next day Barton saw sunlight as if it were moon- 
 light. He was busy in a hundred little things in town and at 
 home, preparatory to his departure. It seemed to him as if he 
 were putting a gulf between himself and his home. It is not 
 alone distance, but the change of relations and of occupations 
 that works a sense of wide separation. It was not a score of miles 
 to Amherst, but it seemed tp Barton like putting the Atlantic 
 Ocean between himself and the farm on which he had been reared. 
 The air seemed fuU of sad farewells. The well whose windlass 
 was so familiar to his hand, the tools with which he had labored, 
 the cattle and their stalls, the old threshing-floor from which his 
 flail had sent mellow sounds through all the neighborhood, par- 
 ticular trees in the orchard, gates and lanes through which he had 
 gone so many hundred times, all of them on the eve of his going 
 away seemed to be parts of his life, and dimly brought back his 
 own history. 
 
 The great elm tree by the gate, where he and Rose had stood, 
 was, and forever after would be, like a consecrated temple. Its choir 
 was all day long singing in its tops, and at half hours Barton found 
 iiimself under it dreaming and wondering, looking like one who had 
 tost something, or found something, he could not exactly tell which. 
 
 The old farmer neighbors, who respected 'Biah Oathcart, pass- 
 ing on their trrands to and from town, stopped to make inquiries 
 ar to express their interest in the young man. 
 
 O)'' Cyrus Mills was driving pnst, on his w»y to town, and 
 
178 NORWOOD. 
 
 seeing Barton In the front door, pulled op. His horse wao alw hji 
 in favor of stopping. 
 
 " Mornin' 1 So you're goin' to college ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 " In a day or two." 
 
 "Take stage?" 
 
 "Wo, sir — father's -wagon." 
 
 The old man was about sixty years old, with small bones and 
 no tiesh on them, and for looks, like a weather-stained rye-straw 
 crooked into a sickle or half a hoop. 
 
 "My boy said so. Cost a sight o' money, won't it? S'pose 
 you mean to preach, don't you ? Most of 'em do, over to Am- 
 herst. My boy's talkio' 'bout eddication too. Shouldn't wonder 
 if Nicholas fetched it one of these days." 
 
 "Nicholas is a smart fellow," said Barton. "He onght to 
 make a good scholar." 
 
 "Middlln'. But not so good, I expect, as his brother would a 
 bin — him that's gone. I've never felt exactly right, that I wouldn't 
 let him go to college. He wanted to go awfully, and worried about 
 it a good deal. Mebbe if I'd let him go he wouldn't a strained 
 himself and got into a decline." A juicier man would evidently 
 have shed a tear, but old Cyrus Mills had not a drop of moisture 
 in his body to spare, and so instead he winked nervously half a 
 dozen times and then shut his eyes tight. 
 
 With that he commenced a series of jerks at his horse's month, 
 like one ringing a door-beU. Evidently the bell was far down it 
 the animal, for it was only after six or seven pulls, increasing in 
 length and emphasis, that his horse awoke to the consciousness 
 that he was cnlled for, and began to arable along the dusty road. 
 
 Barton sat, after dinner, a half hour by the tree, a clump of 
 lilaca hiding him from passers-by. A wagon with two men, going 
 toward town, came to a walk in front of the house, and Barter, 
 had the benefit of the men's opinion. 
 
 " Old 'Biah Oathoart's got a snug place — owe any thing? " 
 
 "Not's I knows. 'Taint like him. Likely got money on! 
 tinterest: 'U need it afore his boy gets through college." 
 
 " Oh, Barton ? Yes ; I've heerd. Is he one of 'em? " 
 
 " Oan't tell what a boy is when he's tied to his mother s aproc- 
 
THE FAR?: WELLS. 179 
 
 strings. Bjirton 's good fellow enough, but a proud ouss. It take* 
 •-.heBe proper fellows to raise tlje devil wheu they get their liberty 
 Me'll cut a figure umoug the galsl " 
 
 "They suy he's mighty sweet on " 
 
 The nag struck into a trot, and the last of the sentence was lost 
 Barton's cheek was scarlet. He felt like springing o'ver tLe fence, 
 and dealing summary chastisement to such impertinence. That 
 kind of trifling with his name he was not used to, and would not 
 tolerate. Sit down, my young friend I If you undertake to call 
 men's thoughts and tongues to account for idle and gossipping 
 talk, you will be like a swallow that undertakes to clear the even- 
 ing air of all the summer insects that fly in it. 
 
 Toward evening, on his way home from town, Elishe Townsend 
 — familiarly called " Uncle 'Lishe " — stopped for a moment. He 
 drove a big-bellied mare, whose colt gave her a world of trouble 
 — wouldn't keep right in her sight — would lag behi^id — wouldn't 
 answer when she whinnied — would follow horses that it didn't be- 
 long to — wouldn't keep the right road, but raced into by-ways and 
 lanes — would canter oflf like mad at every little whiffet of a dog 
 that chose to run out after it. The poor mare seemed anxious and 
 nervous, till the naughty boy of a colt cuddled under her very 
 neck ; saying, by her manner, as plainly as words could have done . 
 
 " Oh, dear, I never shall make any thing out of such a colt as 
 this! It is a dreadful world for colts. Nobody can tell how a 
 mare feels 1 " 
 
 Uncle 'Lishe himself was simple, sensible^ good and merry. 
 But, as every thing has its contrasts, so he carried on the seat by 
 his side a little terrier dog, that didn't laugh, was not merry noi 
 fat, but whose muzzle bristled with a pepper-and-salt-colored 
 beard, sticking straight out every way. Shining down among the 
 nairs, were two eyes that looked like two hazel flames. He carried 
 this speck of a dog evidently to punctuate his sentences : for he 
 was the most restless little imp that ever jumped down into the 
 wagon-bottom only for the sake of jumping up Hgain upon the 
 seat. He wou'.d start up and put his paws on the back of the seat 
 to see if any body was behind. Perhaps they were before ! — h 
 whirled round to see. If Uncle 'Lishe jerked the reins, he would 
 bark. If the old man saluted any one, every hair on his face 
 seemed to open up to let out the exceedingly sharp bark that h» 
 
180 NOKWOOD. 
 
 felt it his duty to issue. And when his master stopped to talk foi 
 a moment, he always laid one hand on " Dove " — that wat hit 
 Dame 1 — as if ho were a pistol, and liable to do damage unless hb 
 kept hold of the look. 
 
 "And so you're goin' to College, Barton?" at which Uncle 
 'Lishe shook his sides with laughing. "Don't, Dove! — there's h 
 good dog. Well, I allers thought so ; told your mother them black 
 eyes wouldn't allers hunt squirrels and wood-chucks." At wliich 
 quaint conceit he shook again, not boisterously, but as a large jai 
 of jelly shakes, when turned out. Dove gave a dive intd the 
 wagon, ran between his master's legs, and, looking out fiercely, he 
 sought to balance his master's levity by the fierceness of his haii 
 and eyes and ears, all of which in their several ways were work- 
 ing with emphasis. 
 
 "Wal, folks 'U miss you. Barton. Old farm '11 miss you. 
 guess. Do you s'pose there's room for one o' my boys over there'* 
 He's taken to larnin'. His mother thinks we ought to have a 
 minister." Which idea sent trembles of silent laughter all over 
 hira, while he looked full at Barton, as if to see whether he really 
 did take in the whole thing that he was saying. 
 
 " You mean Robert, I suppose,'' said Barton, relaxing a little 
 to the mood of the owner of the mare and the dog. 
 
 " Yes, you've guessed it. P'rhaps somebody told you ? No 
 great secret though. Been to school for a year steady. Payin' 
 bills all time, and he airnin' nothin'. Be still, Dove, — 'tain't noth- 
 in', — do be still 1 Eaise a boy — expense all the way — larn him 
 how to work — begin to git somethin' out of him — hush. Dove ! 
 — then he ups and tells you he wants to go to college. There 'tis ! 
 Mother coaxes — what ails you, Dove? — bills agin — all winter — all 
 summer — boy's off — that's the last of him ! " Which tragical 
 issue of raising children seemed to Elisha Townsend a pei iect 
 comedy. 
 
 "Wal, somebody must go to college, yon know. May as well 
 be our folks as any body else's. Who knows?" And the jelly 
 vibrated again with tremulous mirth. "Mebbe he'll preach, if he 
 gits convarted. Then his mother and I, mebbe, '11 ride over tc 
 his parish — see him in the pulpit — folks a lookin' up at him — 
 and he goin' it just like Buell. Won't it pay? Gneea 'twill i 
 Anyhow '11 let him try it 
 
THE FAREWELLS. 181 
 
 Tlie nearest approach to a line drawn between the comm*n 
 people and an aristocratic class in New England is that which 
 edncation furnishes. And there is almost a superstitious reverence 
 tor a ^'■college education." If a man has been to college, he has a 
 title. He may be of slender abilities, he may not succeed in his 
 business, but at least he has one claim to respect — he has been to 
 college. It is lilse a title in a decayed family. It saves the pride 
 and ministers pleasure to the vanity, long after it has in every ither 
 respect become utterly useless. 
 
 We suspect that an examination would show that a majority of 
 the graduates of New England colleges were farmers' and me- 
 chanics' sons. Sometimes it is the youngest son. But, not unfre- 
 quently, it is the first-born ; and, in such cases, the reflex influence 
 upon the family itself is striliing. A family that has a son in col- 
 lege stands higher in the neighborhood from that hour. Every 
 child in the family feels the influence. The girls must have more 
 schooling ; the other boys catch the ambition. We recall an in- 
 stance, where out of seven sons but one escaped the college course, 
 and he after preparing for college was stopped by sickness. 
 
 Barton, aside from his own striliing character, found himsell 
 looked upon witli respect, on all sides, as a young man of promise 
 — the heir of college honors. Every body looked at him in church. 
 Dr. BueU shook hands witli him after service, and asked when he 
 would leave, and hoped to hear the best things of him. His fa- 
 ther's old friends manifested their interest in him, in their several 
 ways. The boys who had played ball with him on the green, or 
 wlio had hunted and fished with him, were a little proud that 
 their Barton was going to college I 
 
 Tommy Taft, who was every year more crumpled up with rheu- 
 matism — except the wooden leg, in which he declared he never 
 reinembered to have had a single twinge of the rheumatics — was 
 particularly triumphant over Barton, and evidently regarded the 
 boy's success as in some manner due to his influence. 
 
 " I knew, boy — I alius know'd how 'twould be. You'll be a 
 spanker yet. If they've got any scholars over there that can run 
 faster than you I should like to see 'era, that's aU ! Lord, what a 
 ball player 1 Excuse the sweann'. Barton. You ain't a church 
 member, yon know. I never swear afore members, unless I'm 
 mad, or — or lo to. I don't believe there's a man over there th«* 
 
182 NORWOOD. 
 
 oan throw and ketch like you ; and as for battin', I never 6e« t 
 ball rise so like a bird and saQ off through the air as youm do. 
 Of course you'll take the honors. You pitch quoits to a p'int, and 
 fon can wrestle, side-holt, back-hug, arm's-length, any way, I 
 don't care which ; and as for a Ipng pull at a race, I guess your 
 breath wouldn't give out sooner than a blacksmith's belluses. Of 
 course you'll be at the head of 'em all — the hull of 'em. I don't 
 b'lieve there's a chap there that can climb as you can, or straddle 
 a horse as well, or hold out as heavy a sledge hammei at arm'f 
 length, or throw it half as far, for that matter, as you ctn I " 
 
 Barton could not but smile at Tommy's notions of a student's 
 qualifio.'itions. But if old Taft was ignorant of books and college, 
 he was slirewd enough about human nature. He had the art of 
 touching the very marrow of |ieople's thoughts. He wiiuld roll np 
 conversation, apparently as a blind, and rattle away, half in humor 
 and half in sheer impudence, with the minister, or the lawyer, or 
 the schoolmaster, with any church member of some pretension, but 
 before he had done he would c(mtrive to get in a word that went 
 to the quick and lanced some secret tendency, or exposed some 
 weakness which good manners usually salves over, but which 
 Tommy Taft delighted to expose. Toward those whom he adopted 
 into his confidence Tommy was not less acute, but he was careful 
 of wounding. 
 
 " And so, Barton, I'm to be left alone," he began again — "1 
 and the Wentworths," he said, with a sharp glance at Barton, 
 quickly withdrawn. "Well, we'll take care of one another. I'll 
 look after the doctor, and let you know," said Tommy, lifting his 
 great beetling eyebrows with a comical expression. "The fact is 
 — four years, you say ? Well, four years is a good while. Great 
 many changes. Folks grow a good deal, eh? See new faces. Sd 
 you may as well hurry along. What you goin' to do then ? Not 
 preach, are ye ? Should hate to see you stiffen up so. Barton. 
 Good thing — very good tiling, when a man's made for it, solid and 
 sober. But it's hard makin' a man-o'-war out of a clipper ship. 
 But I'm no wise consarned. It'll all steer along right. Of course, 
 it may be necessary. I've noticed that a smart young minister is 
 apt to have his pick and choice for marryin'. I'd advise you to go 
 to Congress, Barton, or be Governor, or somethin'. But then, if 
 it's necessary foi all your purposes to pi-each, I hain't no objection." 
 
THE FAREWELLS. 183 
 
 And with the last sentence he gave Barton another sharp look 
 that, in spite of himself, brought a little color into his cheek. 
 
 Dr. Wentworth, to whom Barton was much endeared, went 
 aside from his usual habit, and gave him some advice. 
 
 " Barton, I am sure of your courses. I shall lose faith in hu- 
 man nature if jou do not hold an honorable career. You are more 
 likely to break down in health. You are too fierce in pursuit, des- 
 perate in tenacity ; and you have about knowledge the same ava- 
 riciousness which one sees in men in matters of money — an insatia- 
 ble greed of more, to which money is only like fuel to fire. Re- 
 member, that much of knowledge is growth, not accumulation. 
 The life that one is living in is the book that men more need to 
 know than any other. Never outrun health. A broken-down 
 scholar is like a razor without a handle. The finest edge un the 
 best steel is beholden to the services of homely horn for ability to 
 be useful. Keep an account with your brain. Sleep, food, air, 
 and exercise, are your best friends. Don't cheat them, or cut their 
 company. Don't fall into the vulgar idea that the mind is a ware- 
 house and education a process of stuflSng it full of goods. Don't 
 think your mind to be a piok-axe, either, with which a student 
 delves like an Irishman digging for ore. If you must have a figure, 
 call it a sensitive plate, on which nature forms pictures. The more 
 fine the surface and sensitive the quality, the truer and better will 
 be the knowledge. Do not study for ideas alone, but train for 
 condition. Get and keep a healthy brain. Keep it fine. Train it 
 Co sharp and accurate impressions. Give it lunge and vigor. Make 
 it like a mirror, before nature, or a daguerrean plate 1 Barton, 
 don't mope. Be a boy as long as you live. Laugh a good deal. 
 Frolic every day. Keep up high spirits. A low tone of mind is 
 unhealthy. There's food and medicine in nerve. Quantity and 
 quality of nerve mark the distinctions between animals and between 
 men, from the bottom of creation to the top. Now Barton, if you 
 come home with your cheeks sunken, and your eyes staring out 
 of a hollow pit, I will disown you. Good-bye, my dear fellow. 
 God bless you," said the doctor, at the same time taking Barton' 
 hand in both of his, and giving him a cordial adieu, which Barton 
 felt with grateful warmth at his heart for weeks after. 
 
 Bose was never more friendly, never more open and sister-like, 
 than when Barton came to say farewell. It was a matter of mnob 
 
184 iNORWOOD. 
 
 anxiety with iiim. He was not altogetiier sure whetiier tie had 
 Icept his secret from Eose at her visit to h s father's house. He 
 thought — he hoped that he had. Rose was so honest and frank 
 that if she had read his heart she surely woidd in some way have 
 manifested it. If she should be sensitive and uneasy, then he 
 sliould infer that she had learned the secret of his heart. If she 
 should be restrained and formal, that would indicate an eflEbrt to 
 hide her knowledge. If she were excessively gay, and whirled 
 along in conversation with unusual profusion, he should augnr ill 
 of that sign. 
 
 But Rose gave him no occasion for anxiety. She saw him at 
 the front gate, and ran ont to meet him, as she had always done, 
 throwing back from her face the clustering golden brown carls, 
 and looking into his face at once with frankness and sympathy. 
 N^or did she leave him to begin the conversation. 
 
 " Oome, Sir Collegian, you have saved your reputation. I've 
 been thinking about you all day. The first thing when I waked 
 this morning I said to myself, ' I wonder if that ridiculous Barton 
 will think that our visit the other night was good-bye enough S 
 If he does not come and spend a whole evening here he shall not 
 be forgiven.' " 
 
 " And pray, my blooming Rose, what was the penalty that my 
 I'.ollege sense has so happily enabled me to escape ?" 
 
 " Oh, Sir Book I I had conjured every influence in nature. I 
 had commanded the birds not to sing to you, the fish not to mind 
 your hook, and all the fiowers to flout yon. When you would 
 pull a honeysuckle then a bee should have stung you, and when 
 you wanted a rose then a thorn should have pierced you. But all 
 these dire things are happily avoided. Why didn't you bring 
 Alice with you? She is your very blossom. Barton I Aaron's 
 rod witliout a blossom was but a stick. But with its blossom it 
 H as a rod of power and beauty both." 
 
 " Really, my complimentary friend, you must be content to- 
 night with only me, for Alice is doing the last things before the 
 eventful to-morrow, when her knight and champion departs, and 
 she shall sit solitary, an Alice without a Barton 1 I am snre a 
 blossom without a stem is as badly off as a stick without a bios- 
 iom I You would think that I was a prince if you saw how daintily 
 1 am treated at home I Onlv father keeps to his old way. He 
 
THE FAREWELLS. 185 
 
 goes on Jast as regular as ever; treats me as if I were twelve 
 years old; gives me sonnd sentences and good judgments; holds 
 me np sharply to every thing I say, and asks my reasons. A goofi 
 orofessor was lost when our farm got a good farmer, I'm thinking." 
 
 Rose was already an accomplished mnsician, and it had always 
 been Barton's delight to listen to her rendering of music, especially 
 Beethoven's. There are in this incomparable master, the Sliake- 
 speare of music, those elements which are sure to win aU who 
 have a genuine love of nature. As there is hardly a scene in 
 human life for which yon shall not find some fit passage in Shake- 
 speare, so there is scarcely a scene or sound in nature for which 
 you may not select a strain in Beethoven which suggests or inter- 
 prets it. 
 
 Bose played Barton's favorite pieces, and ended with the 
 sweetest and noblest of them all — a portion of Beethoven's fifth 
 symphony, of which, without exaggeration, it may be said, were 
 all other music destroyed, the germs of all might be found in 
 tihat, and the kingdom of sound be re-created. 
 
 Then they recalled the many scenes of their childhood ; they 
 discoursed in merry mood of the future. Rose was within a year 
 to be gone from home, for one or two years at school. Then, if 
 the Doctor could arrange his business, he proposed tn travel with 
 Rose and her mother in Europe, though this might prove a mere 
 day-dream; and by the time that Barton should have completed 
 his college course, Rose would return, a woman full of accomplish- 
 ments, and wise with a world or foreign sights. 
 
 When Barton had said good-bye and turned his steps home- 
 ward, he was sure of two things, the one, that Rose was unconscious 
 of his heart's secret; and the other, that Rose was- the star of 
 his life. And, alas I he bitterly felt that she was lifted up so 
 far above him, — was so noble and rich in nature, — so sure to 
 command those far more worthy of her love than he could ever 
 expect to be, that one might almost as well follow a star in hopes 
 of clasping it, as follow Rose through the coming years in expecta- 
 tion of winning her 1 
 
 " What then ? " said Barton to himself. " It is Rose or nu 
 one ! Should God please, I shall have a completed life. Should 
 He otherwise ordain, I shall not be the first man who limped 
 through life striving to do his duty. I will be true to my dutj 
 
186 NORWOOD. 
 
 whatever comes. I will be a man, and accomplish eometbing, - 
 80 help me God 1 " 
 
 After Barton bad left, Eose repaired to her room. She sat in 
 her window looking upon the checkered gronnd, where the leaves 
 and the moonlight played at lights and shadows with the daintiest 
 dalliance. Rose was not a sentimental girl, in the ordinary mean- 
 ing of that phrase. She was not accustomed to weave fancy 
 scenes around her own self and fojm a centre to imaginary pic- 
 tures. Her life was so full and active, her whole nature was so 
 rounded and healthy that she found satisfaction in the active use 
 of her faculties day by day. 
 
 While ideality gave to every one of her faculties the quality of 
 aspiration, this tendency was never followed by discontent. Her 
 ideal life was not an escape from an unoomfortaMe reality. Her 
 real life was full and joyous, and ideality was employed only to 
 deepen and refine it. 
 
 Young, ardent, enthusiastic, sensitive, and sympathetic, it may 
 seem impossible that she sliould distinctly know that Barton had 
 passed beyond the period of simijle friendship without experiencing 
 a profound impression from it. 
 
 Yet so it was. She felt for Barton an undisguised affection. 
 She never remembered the time when she did not. She believed 
 that he was firmly attached to her. 
 
 It would be difficult to analyze the impression made by the 
 revelation of the night of the Elm Tree. A gentle wonder pos- 
 sessed her, a solemn curiosity to know what his feeling was. She 
 had not been wont to dream of love, nor to think of it, in it! 
 romantic unfoldings. Every day she revelled in the joys and 
 duties of that day. Her heart slumbered — 'slumbered without 
 dreams. Nothing had yet overshadowed her spirit and spoken 
 from above, in tones which rouse the sleeping soul like a resur- 
 rection trumpet. Her time had not come. And so, though slit 
 loved Barton, it was not with that commanding love whicli fust 
 all the feelings, harmonizes all the faculties, and brings the whol 
 soul under the dominion of one supreme emotion. 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 FRANK ESEL. 
 
 LiEB the sea, which never seems fuller by any amonnt of rain, 
 noi emptier by any continnanoe of drought, so a city seems always 
 'Hill, even in summer, and only full in winter. The peoplo whom 
 you know may be gone ; and the city may seem socially empty 
 and void, but never numerically. The crowd is always there, 
 surging along the streets, coming and going with endless industries. 
 And, yet, if one follows the great line of summer travel he will 
 think that the great cities must have emptied their contents into 
 cars, steamboats, sea-side hotels, mountain-houses, inland mammoth 
 caravansaries at fashionable springs, and even into the very wil- 
 derness. 
 
 In general this migrating column is guided by one of two 
 instincts. The one part is seeking a crowd, and the other part is 
 seeking to get rid of a crowd. The first seem to have the majority. 
 But it is only in appearance. At a few places, and in great 
 numbers, they attract attention, while the far greater number, 
 dispersed over wide territories, hidden in farm-houses, or secluded 
 country towns, or re-visiting homes, are not easily estimated. 
 
 Commend me to their example who seek out places where daily 
 papers are unknown ; where the mail comes but twice a week ; 
 where it is so still every day that people have to make a noise on 
 Sunday to distinguish it from week-days ; where, if a wagon drives 
 through the town, people come to the door and wonder what has 
 happened. 
 
 Commend me to the wisdom of those notable and excellent 
 people who cool the fever of city life under the great elms that 
 spread their patriarchal arms about solitary farm-houses; who 
 exchange the street for mountain streams, make bargains with the 
 brooks, and cast their cheats for trout rather than for men ! 
 
 Yea, let me abide with the artist in fine seen ry, or stroll with 
 some learned pnifessor, who shall put uncouth name^ on familial 
 flowers, and let me know what bug it was tliat bit me, and wha< 
 bird song to me. Bat, above all, let me have tbe best of all com 
 
1.88 NOinvooD. 
 
 pany for a thoughtful man — good health within and solitude 
 withuut. Yet solitude is apt to become exceedingly solitary and 
 lonesome, therefore it should not be long continued. Let rare and 
 ripe friends dwell within reach ; for it is solitude that gives zest 
 to society, and goodly company it is that prepares you for the joye 
 of solitude. Alone-ness is to social life what rests are in music. 
 S'^unds follou'ing silence are always sweetest. 
 
 The other day I got me to a solitary corner, where pine-trees, 
 maples and spruces had leagued against the sun, and quite expelled 
 liira. There, upon a root swelling out above the ground, I sat me 
 down, and, leaning against the trunk, I determined to spy out 
 what things are done in such places. So still was I that insects 
 thought me a tree, and made a highway of my limbs. A robin, 
 whose near nest showed young heads, for a time nervously hopped 
 from branch to branch near me, shrilly questioning my errand. 
 But my placid silence soon smoothed down the feathers on 
 its black head and won its confidence. Then all birds chattered 
 in those short notes which are employed for domestic purposes, 
 and are no more to be confounded with their songs than are men's 
 iiiithems to be deemed their common conversation. Birds both 
 talk and sing. Nearly an hour I waited, and then came what I 
 waited for — a wood-thrush — and perched his speckled breast right 
 over against me in a near tree. He did not look in one place 
 more than another, and so I knew that he believed himself alone. 
 
 At once he began dressing his feathers. He ran his bill down 
 through his ash-speckled breast, he probed the wings, and combed 
 nut the long coverts. He ruffled np his whole plumage and shook 
 it robustly. Then, his solitary toilet completed, he flew into a tree 
 nearer the road, where he could look out, but not be seen, and 
 I.egan his song. It was neither warble nor continuous song, but 
 a dainty phrasing, in single syllables, of such sweet and loving 
 thoughts as solitude doth breed in pure and tender natures. And 
 all this have I rehearsed, that I might say that none in life sing eo 
 sweetly as they who, like the wood -thrush, sit on the twilight 
 edge of solitude and sing to the men who pas." by in the sunlight 
 outside. 
 
 It was this union of seclusion and publicity that made Norwood 
 u place of favorite resort, through the summer, of artists, of 
 Languid scholars and of person.^ of quiet tastes. There was oom- 
 
FBANK ESEL. 189 
 
 ?any for all that shunned solitude, and solitude for nil tbui were 
 weary of company. Each house was secluded from its neighbor. 
 Yards and gardens full of trees and shrubbery, the streets lined 
 with venerable trees, gave the town at a little distance the appear- 
 ance of having been built in an orchard or a forest-park. A few 
 steps and you could be alone — a few steps too would bring you 
 among crowds. Where else could one watch tlie gentle conflict 
 between sounds and silence with such dreamy joy? — or make 
 idleness seem so nearly like meditation? — or more nimbly chase 
 the dreams of night with even brighter day-dreams, wondering 
 every day what has become of the day before, and each week 
 where the week has gone, and in autumn what has become of the 
 summer, that trod so noiselessly that none knew how swift were 
 its footsteps 1 The town filled by July, and was not empty again 
 till late October. 
 
 There are but two perfect months in our year — June and 
 October. People from the city usually arrange to miss both. 
 June is the month of gorgeous greens; October, the month of all 
 colors. June has the fuU beauty of youth; October has the 
 splendor of ripeness. Both of them are out-of-door months. If 
 the year has any thing to tell you, listen now I If these months 
 teach the heart nothing, one may well shut up the book of the 
 year. 
 
 Three years had Barton Oathcart been gone, and had ceased to 
 be missed. Neither the sea nor society will keep open its gaps. 
 Waters and men fill every opening. His vacations, year by year, 
 returned him to his friends the same, to the town more and more 
 another man. The brain gives expression to the body. Barton's 
 face had become more thoughtful. His features were more 
 definite. Rose had been gone for the most part during the three 
 years. 
 
 Norwood had never been more cheering than during this third 
 year of Barton's absence. It was overflowing with visitors. They 
 were nested in farm-houses, in boarding-houses, in hotels. Some 
 oame for a few days — lounged, fished, and departed. Some came 
 for the season. Children were as plenty as flowers. I'icnics were 
 in vogue. Rides and excursions occupied much time. The sober 
 Yankee people looked with a doubting eye upon the v/aste of so 
 mnoh preoions time. But, as the money spent went into their 
 
190 NORWOOD. 
 
 hands, they every year grew more inclined to accept the swam 
 of idlers as a Providential gift. 
 
 This year oarae Frank Esel, a young artist. One of his Boston 
 cronies described him thus : " Frank is a pint of brown-stout, 
 with a rich, creamy foam on it ; if you will blow off the foam, 
 you will find some drink." This figure must not prejudice Frank 
 Esel's temperance reputation. He was not a hon vivant, and his 
 only intoxication was that of his own excessive good spirits. Of « 
 florid complexion, befitting a sanguine temperament, with brown 
 hair which curled all over hia head, blue eyes which were a per 
 petual invitation to laugh, Frank was the best company possible. 
 Nothing disturbed him. His good spirits foamed and sparkled 
 over checks and obstacles that annoyed other men, as a merry 
 brook turns every impediment into an occasion of bubble and 
 music. His resource of health and hilarity seemed inexhaustible. 
 He was, without a particle of coquetry, a dazzling ladies' man; 
 and, what is more remarkable, Frank, a universal favorite, receive J 
 with marked partiality and encouraged by generous favor, was not 
 spoiled nor corrupted into puppy conceit. He retained hishonest- 
 heartedness and all his disinterestedness and frolic with as little 
 harm from admiration as if he had been a bed of flowers, and did 
 not understand the admiration lavished on him. He played pass 
 ably well upon the piano, and could sing a serenading song to the 
 guitar that, if the night was bewitching and the listeners romantic, 
 was accounted very well done. 
 
 If one looks out upon New-York harbor, after an eastern storm, 
 he will see it covered with craft, that brood upon its surface in 
 flocks like wild fowl ; nor can the eye, at a distance, tell why they 
 hold their places, swinging but a little way with the changing 
 tide, facing the wind obstinately and refusing to be blown away. 
 Every one is rooted. The anchor is its root. 
 
 If men are found in life much tempted and yet firm in prin- 
 ciple, there is an anchor somewhere. It may be a sweetheart, 
 or a sister, or a mother, or a wife, or a father, or some old 
 stanch teacher. Men anchor each other. Frank's anchor wai 
 his mother. She was his ideal of all excellence, the sea into 
 which his heart emptied. On the way toward her, his heart, like 
 a copious river, might cherish islands, or branch and shoot out 
 toto bayotis; these were but delays of that stream which 8e< 
 
FKANK ESEL. 191 
 
 jteadil} forward to his mother. She was not only his most inti 
 mate companion, hut he seemed to gather up in his heart all thosi 
 affections which are usually distributed under the several heads 
 of son, lover, husband. His father had been dead for several 
 years. He was her only child. The first word on entering home 
 was Frank's call, " Mother I " and, like a bird to its mate's call, 
 a gentle rustling, as of a hird flying through leaves, answered. 
 His face was a glow of fond admiration. He praised her, and 
 laughed over her, and flattered her, and danced about her, with 
 an exhilaration of joy that seemed never able to tire itself. His 
 mother was slender, pale, and beautiful. Frank was strong and 
 elastic. He would catch his mother in his arms, and rush with 
 her nimbly, as if she were but a blossoming spray, into the garden, 
 to show her some new beauty. CfDce^ii'fri&aS, coming bn invita-- 
 tion to tea, and to spend the evening, was surprised at seeing 
 Frank dash through the door with his mother in his arms, chiding 
 him all the way with fond protest and proud acquiescence, and 
 set her down at his feet, blushing and a little dishevelled, with the 
 introduction, " Horatio, this is my mother." She, with native 
 grace, extended her hand to her surprised and amused guest, say- 
 ing : " Excuse my spoilt child, and pardon me — I must have been 
 very delinquent to have brought up such a turbulent fellow ; " 
 lOoking upon him all the while with eyes beaming with lovfti It 
 was fortunate that her property abundantly sufficed for the wants 
 of both. He had a world of capacities ; a talent for music, a 
 talent for poetry, a talent for painting, a talent for landscape- 
 gardening, and for architecture. But like a flower-bed too thick- 
 ly planted, his talents seemed to smother each other. None of 
 them could get ahead. One talent he lacked, that of making 
 money. But this was compensated by a rare facility of spending 
 it. To be sure he had no bad habits. His tastes were not expen- 
 sive. He never threw away money. It only disappeared! It 
 oozed out like wi/ie through a wormy stave, drop by drop. It 
 melted in his palm like a snow crystal, which dissolves while you 
 ook at it. It rose and departed as the drops of dew in the morn- 
 ug do from grass and leaf. It evaporated as delicate perfumes do, 
 nnd left no trace behind. 
 
 " What has hecome of my money ? I am sure my pockets havt 
 been picked I I have not put my hands in my pocket to-day, 
 mother. Somebody must have done it for me I " 
 
192 NORWOOD. 
 
 "Really, Frank," would answer his motiier, mths most genla^ 
 and humorous manner, " I think you blame yourself needlessly. 
 I must have forgotten to give you any this morning. I am gettiny 
 old. I see it by the failure of my memory in such matters." 
 
 " Mother, how wicked you are I Yon know that I had twenty- 
 fiv dollars only yesterday, and that I have had no expenses, and 
 th)>.t there is not a penny left, and that I am a bankrupt and a 
 spendthrift, and that it is never safe to give me money." 
 
 Sure there never was such gentle quarrelling before ! It waa 
 an encounter like two butterflies, that go gracefully whirling 
 round each other in the air. On the whole, Frank's mother seem- 
 ed so proud of her gay and beautiful boy, that one would be in- 
 clined to think that, on the whole, she was glad that he could not 
 keep his funds. Wlien before did the son have all the consoienee 
 and heap on himself a wealth of blame and chiding? and the 
 parent defend him and palliate the faults, and justify every in- 
 firmity ? 
 
 How many young heirs will pray for such a mother, as soon 
 as they have read this ! But then they mnst be such sons ! 
 
 It was not money alone that Frank found it difnicult to trace. 
 He could as little tell what had become of his time and various 
 labors. Returning home from his studies he would exclaim ; 
 
 " Really, it does not seem as if I had accomplished a thing this 
 whole week 1 " 
 
 And it is but just to him to say that he was usually right in 
 his judgment. 
 
 And yet every body liked Frank. Every body respected him. 
 He was true and sound at heart. He had excellent judgment and 
 fine taste. But that subtle art of continuity and combination 
 was lacking. Bring a case to him, and Iiie counsel would be excel- 
 lent; but conduct a series of oases from day to day, especiali.i. 
 his own, he could not. He studied life much as butterflies sturl^ 
 botany — a little here, a little there, daintily, beautifully, super- 
 ficially. But his pure, fresh, enthusiastic love for his mother was 
 the one exception. That never varied nor changed. That wa 
 the one constant force of his life, and held him grandly in th 
 )rbit of virtuous manhood. 
 
 Willi, artists must go into the country in summer, and Frank 
 ivas an artist. He painted, and therefore must sketch. Ilii 
 
FRANK ESEL. 193 
 
 mother oould not be persuaded, to leave hoi e. She was a tiowei 
 that would not bear transplanting, and must be left to grow where 
 it sprouted. But him she resolutely sent away. His letters should 
 cheer her in his absence. 
 
 " I shall comfort myself in thinking, Frank, how much you are 
 seeiag and learning. It will not do for a young feUow to be tied 
 up at home. You must push out into the world some time, and 
 you may as well begin now." 
 
 And so it was that he came to Norwood. Some extracts from 
 his letters will give his view of the place and its society. 
 
 " One disadvantage of this place I find to be, that it is too 
 generally beautiful. It serves the purpose of pleasure rather than 
 of study. It seems absurd to come all the way to the Oonnectiont 
 river to study a clump of grass or to draw an elm tree. The 
 scenery of the valley is charming to the eye, but diffuse and im- 
 possible of representation by the pencil. However, I am not con- 
 fining myself to landscape. I am studying figures. I have several 
 rtudies of cattle which good judges admire. I have also a capital 
 barn-yard scene — hens, ducks, &c. I have found some most com- 
 ical people, and have taken lively sketches of them, which I know 
 yon wUl like. 
 
 " Last week I did my drawing with a pole. I drew fish — out 
 of the brJjok. This I learned from some New York ai-tista. I 
 begin to understand metropolitan art. A brandy-flask, a fishing- 
 rod and a fast nag are the proper furniture I Study? I begin to 
 have new light upon the joys of summer studies ! I divide the 
 artists that do study into two classes — ^those on whom nature works, 
 and those that work on nature. Of the former no doubt there are 
 many, but I have not yet met them. Of the latter we have some 
 precious specimens. There is one big fellow here whom I found 
 sitting before a most charming view, busily at work painting a 
 board fence, with a pig- weed growing by it, and talking about con- 
 science, and painting only 'what he sees.' He has been working 
 a week, and several knot-holes are yet to be painted in his fence. 
 I looked over his sketches last night. He has one toad, a clump 
 of plantain leaves, a pile of wood, and a heap of stones. I asked 
 him why he selected such subjects. He said ' that there oould be 
 no true success without 1 nmility. An artist must paint what he 
 gees. Nothing in nature i^ to he. lespised. He should besjin a( 
 
194 NORWOOD. 
 
 the bottom and work his way up. It is man's arrogance and 
 egotism that lead him to disdain these lower forms of existenca 
 A conscientious artist, if humble, would not select only the garish 
 things of nature, but stoop to her lowliest creatures.' 
 
 "1 replied — 'Art is not, like science, to investigate and re- 
 gister all natural objects and phenomena. It attempts to work 
 out its end solely by the use of the beautiful, and the artist is to 
 select only such things as are beautiful.' But he would not listen. 
 And so I recommended him to try an ant-hill, next, and if he suc- 
 ceeded to advance to a potato field. I wish I had his patience 
 and self-denial, however. He is very poor, but refuses to paint 
 any thing that wUl sell, for fear he wUl sacrifice his art. By and 
 by hunger will drive him to some other work." 
 
 V « * ^ * * 
 
 " My dearest mother, I am a hero I All the town says so. It 
 is fearful how I am admired and praised I My head is turned with 
 compliments and my heart is gone entirely 1 Let me tell you : Day 
 before yesterday I was sauntering along the street, when I heard 
 an outcry. Looking down the road I saw a horse dashing wildly 
 toward me, and a younf; woman, who had entirely lost control of 
 him, sitting in the buggy. She looked like marble for paleness 
 «nd for perfect stillness. Every one seemed horror-struck. The 
 horse was coming toward me at a fearful rate. To head him oflf 
 was impossible. To catch him a desperate undertaking. I did 
 not stop to think. My head was like a globe of light. My whole 
 body was a brain. I made toward the horse in such a way that I 
 could grasp at bis bridle from the side as he passed. To do this 
 firmly and without mistake was as necessary for my safety as for 
 the lady's. I bardly can teU how I succeeded in doing it. I only 
 know that every step I took I was more and more determined 
 to succeed — I had no sense of danger. I grasped the reins close 
 by the bit, and was at first swung from my feet. But my weight 
 checked a little his speed, and with a desperate effort I flung my 
 left arm about his neck, and with my right arm I bfinded his eyea, 
 hanging with my whole weight upon his head. The l]orse seemed 
 staggered and bewildered. Some one dashed past rae and cried, 
 'Hold on to him a minute I " I could not see what he did, but 
 •earned afterward that a man named Hiram Beers had snatched 
 the woman out of the wanon. The horse began to plunge. ) 
 
FRANK ESEL. 195 
 
 heard voices crying out, ' Let him go — let him go 1 ' My strength 
 began to fail me. But just as I felt like giving way, a black 
 fellow came to my rescue, and soon seemed to subdue the horse 
 in a wonderful manner. 
 
 " But a great crowd had gathered about the young woman. 
 Just as I came near she came through the opening people toward 
 me, as beautiful a creature as ever I looked upon — fine full 
 features, golden chestnut hair (you see the artist will stick out;. 
 She came straight to me, and said with infinite sweetness imd 
 wonderful solemnity — 'I thank you, sir, for my life — and mj 
 father — ' and in uttering that name her heart seemed to give way 
 and she wept like a child. 
 
 " Everybody cried. ' Eose, step right in here, and rest yon a 
 minute,' cried one. 'Rose, let me help yon home,' said another. 
 Everybody knew her but me. Just then came the parish minister, 
 a fine, elderly man, who almost took her up in his arms, and leun 
 ing on him, with some little help from me, she reached home. SJie 
 would not let me go. I was struck with her self-command. Any 
 other girl that I ever saw would have fainted. She seemed 
 solemn, as one just come out of great danger : but neither flurried 
 nor discomposed. Her father is the chief physician in this region, 
 and universally beloved and looked up to. He has a grand head. 
 I should like to paint it, as I saw it, when he came in. There was 
 a hundred years of love, and gladness, and fear, united in that one 
 look. Every line on his face flashed magnificently. Her mother 
 — a fine woman, too — folded the child in her arms, without a 
 word, and both seemed as if rapt in prayer. The doctor took me 
 with both his hands. ' Hiram has told me of your noble conr.ige. 
 1 am your debtor for my whole life. Excuse us all now, but I 
 shall see you to-night, and we must know more of you.' I need 
 not say that I was much touched, and scarcely less when Dr. Bnell, 
 as I learned his name to be, in the most tender and earnest man- 
 ner, laid his hands upon my head, and said, with tears in his eyes, 
 ' The blessings of this whole town, young man, are yours I and 
 may the blessing of the Lord forever abide upon you.' If any 
 body thinks that Yankee people have no hearts, I wish he could 
 have gone back with me to the hotel. At every door-yard stood 
 the people — ^the women with tears in their eyes— and all of tbetn 
 vtepped out to thank me, and shake hands. A white faced man, 
 
196 NORWOOD. 
 
 (cholarly-looking, ratter precise and genteel — Jndge Bacon thej 
 called him — stepped out to me, with a good deal of excitement. 
 'It was very well done of you, young man ; a remarkable thing; 
 very remarkable. It will be a credit to your whole life.' 
 
 " When I got back to the hotel, Hiram Beers was lecturing 
 about me, and, as soon as he saw me, he stepped up : 
 
 '"I want to shake hands with yon, young man. I've seen a 
 good deal about bosses in my day, but that was about the darndest 
 thing yet. A hair more or less, and you'd got all you wanted 
 yourself I giv you up when I saw you puttin' at his head. Says 
 I to myself, there's a curly head gone. But, when you struck 
 him sideways and then quirled your arm over his neck, I saw that 
 you knew what you's about. I never saw any thing outer. You've 
 done enough for one day, I guess, and you had better go in and 
 git your supper. But when you want a horse to ride, young man, 
 jest call on Hiram Beers.' 
 
 "My darling mother, I wish that you were here. 1 am neve? 
 happy but I wish for you. And now, I am sure, ycu would b« 
 very hapjiy. I shall write jou every day." 
 
CHAPTEU XX VL 
 
 ROSE wbntwoeth's akt scbool. 
 
 "NoEwooD, Octobtr 10, 1867, 
 ••A DI800VBKY, my darling motherl — a discovery! We ar« 
 related I I don't mean that you and I are. You already have a 
 Buspioion of that. But Miss Rose and her mother are our rela- 
 tions 1 But let me tell it in the order of history. 
 
 " The next morning after the runaway in which Miss Rose and 
 I figured, I made my call to inquire for her health ; and when I 
 left I became very anxious about my own — that is, the health of 
 my heart I The Wentworths live in a grand old mansion, sur- 
 rounded with grander old trees. I'm going to send you some 
 studies of them. The front yard is ample, and from the gate to 
 the house it is some sixty paces. As I was walking up, looking 
 on one side and the other at the fine flower-border, and up into 
 the tops of the high hanging elms, and half thinking on the proper 
 things to say. Miss Rose herself appeared at the door, and ad- 
 vanced to meet me, with a cordiality as warm as if she had known 
 me as long as you have, and with a fervor of manner which I 
 know not how to describe. I forgot to say that Dr. Wentworth 
 called upon me last night, and spent an hour with me, and learned 
 all about my family connections, so that Miss Rose was spai-ed the 
 awkwardness of inquiring who I was. You used to tell me, 
 mother mine, that boys could not understand how mothers felt. 
 iSTow, O mother dear! allow me to assure you that mothers can- 
 not imagine how boys feel. For instance, how I felt when a 
 noble woman of perfect self-possession, with a countenance beam- 
 ing with sympathy, looked me full in the face with an unwavering 
 look of real gratitude! You know I thought myself rather an 
 accomplished ladies' man ; but, upon my word, it seemed to me 
 for about five minutes that I was the girl and she the man. She 
 was perfectly self-possessed and I was confused. Her manner 
 was not that of a school-ma'am, either, nor of a strong-minded 
 woman. It was exquisitely gentle. It was what we call Im-ge, in 
 a picture. I don't know — she seemed to me like a candle, in 
 
198 NORWOOD. 
 
 which her body was only a wick, and her spirit, surround'jig it, 
 was like tljs flame ; — or like a flower, which is a centre, surrounded 
 by an atmosphere of fragrance. Do yon begin to see, mother ? If 
 not her, do you see me? — that I am intoxicated, — an idol-wor- 
 shipper? — altogether given up and gone in love? Don't b« 
 alartiied or jealous. I am, as usual, in a trance tjf admiration, 
 and when the enthusiasm abates a little, I will let you know what 
 my real state is. 
 
 "It seems that Miss Wentworth is a bold and skilful driver of 
 horses — that she had gone on an errand of charity to a near manu- 
 facturing neighborhood, and was returning with this young and 
 high-spirited horse. Just as she entered the village a peddler's cart, 
 full of tin ware and all manner of trumpery, had wandered oflT 
 and taken its bareboned horse along with it. The animal was feed- 
 ing, without regard to the convenience of the wagon, and working 
 its way more and more up a very steep bank. Just as Rose came 
 past, the upper wheel mounting a stone, the cart came over bodily, 
 and down toward her came the shining stream of cups, pans, 
 strainers, cullenders, graters, and the whole catalogue of Yankee 
 notions. Her horse was thoroughly scared. Neither her voice 
 nor the reins could manage him. And, as is usual with horses, 
 his fright grew with the very speed at which he fled from danger. 
 She laughed heartily, as she told it — ' Never was such an onset 
 made upon flesh and blood before 1 If my horse had not done it 
 for both of us, I do believe that I should have run away myself 
 from such a clatter and the sight of such a motley mess of kitcheu 
 utensils ! ' 
 
 "Mrs. Wentworth, you should know, came from Boston, and 
 as we were talking of Cambridge and of you, and your maiden 
 name, she said that she had cousins of the name of Landor, and so 
 we fell to the pursuit of relationship ; and at length it turned out 
 that she was your third cousin. I arose and made Miss Rose a low 
 bow, and begged her to accept as a relation her fourth conaln — 
 Frank Esel ! 
 
 " It seems, too, on further talk, that we have many common 
 acquaintances in and around Boston. She spent three years there, 
 partly at Prof. Agassiz' school and partly in the study of music and 
 art. I am charmingly at home, already, in Norwood. I have 
 really a kind of home, for Dr. and Mrs. Wentworth invited me, witk 
 
ROSE WENTWORTH'S ART SCHOOL. 199 
 
 th« manner of command, to make myself at home with tiiem. And 
 aever was the virtue of obedience more comely in my eyes. 
 Blessings forever on the tin-peddler, on runaway horses, and on the 
 heroines that preside over such occasions I " 
 
 " October 20/». 
 
 " I am going to school 1 I have found a real academy of art I 
 Dr. Wentworth knows every thing. He is like the coast of Maine 
 where I sketched last summer — it makes no difference where yon 
 come down to the shore, it is deep water at once. Yotr know 
 that I am not very conceited, just as little as will do, and yet be an 
 artist. But it is not in human nature not to put on some slight 
 appearance of knowledge ; and, wishing to inspire respect in Miss 
 Rose for my abilities, I thought I could surely venture in my owa 
 ilepartnient I 
 
 " I don't know how she did it, but in an hour I felt as though 1 
 were a born fool. Miss Rose has the kindest heart and the most 
 truthful tongue that I ever met 1 She is tender of every body's 
 feelings ; yet no one can be long with her and not see every thing 
 in clearer light, in higher relations, with a more minute accuracy ; 
 and this advancement in one's own perceptions works in him the 
 sense of his own inferiority. When I am alone, Nature seems to 
 nie a vast congeries of wonderful things. But when I am with 
 Miss Rose, Nature rises before me in new aspects — it has a unity, 
 a meaning, a fruitfulness of sentiment that I never dreamed of. 
 Does she sharpen my wits ? Or is it that she suggests new ideas? 
 I don't know ; probably both. She knows every plant that grows 
 in this region in the same easy and natural way that she knows all 
 her neighbors. She can tell me the floral calendar of every month. 
 She knows the structure of plants, — vegetable physiology, of 
 course ; but, in her way of conceiving things, plants have a domes- 
 tic life, — and I find myself, insensibly, under her influence, regard- 
 ing these groups of plants as having a sort of semi-human life. 
 Miss Rose speaks of the dispositions of various plants and of their 
 private habits very much in the same way that one would of one's 
 neighbors. I believe that she is as familiar with birds, insectai 
 and animals as she is with the vegetable kingdom. 
 
 " She made a remark, yesterday, that struck me. 
 
 " ' What it was worth while for Gid to create, and what He 
 
20(1 NORWOOD. 
 
 thinks of importance enough to continue from generation to gen- 
 sration, onglit to seem to intelligent persons of sufficient impor- 
 tance for them to study.' 
 
 " At another time she said : 
 
 " ' I hear people call this natural world " God's Book of 
 Nature," — which means, I suppose, the Bible of Nature; and yet 
 they leave the greatest part of it unread. What would be thought 
 of a Christian who should leave four-fifths of the other book of 
 (iod unread, unlooked at? ' 
 
 " I have ridden on horseback twice with Miss Rose and a party 
 of several otliers; have been at two picnics, one fishing excursion, 
 niid at one sailing party — if that can be so called where we rowed 
 all the way and never lifted a sail. She was the life of the party. 
 NTo one cati be dull where she is. She has much humor and an 
 exuberance of spirits, without the slightest turbulence or frivolity. 
 Her lightest words and merriest have depth in them. They are 
 like the wrinkles of wind and flashes of light that run along the 
 fiurface of deep water ; and yet she seems to enjoy in others the 
 utmost gayety and even that frivolity which high spirits are apt to 
 produce. By the way, Miss Rose rode the very horse whose run- 
 ning away brought me to so much happiness. Good courage, 
 thatl" 
 
 " October 2lat. 
 
 "Tour letter of the 19th is now in my hand. Is it not a real 
 mother's letter? Is it not my mother's letter, such as nobody else 
 in the world could write ! But, sober mother, I have misled you 
 II my whirling enthusiasm for Miss Wentworth. "When will 
 1 ou learn that your boy is ar. enthusiast — foams first and settles 
 iilterwards? The first week after I met the goddess I was like a 
 great stream rushing through a narrow passage, and so, as you 
 may imagine, I was thoroughly tumbled. But I am spread out in 
 the meadows now, and am running very tranquil. 
 
 " Why, loving inquisitor 1 Rose Wentworth is no more for 
 me than is the Queen of England! I should as soon try to 
 buy the Koh-i-noor, to wear in my oosom. I have not taken 
 leave of my senses. I admire her more than any human 
 being that evei threw light on my path ; but love is anothei 
 thing. 
 
ROSE WENTWORTH'S ART SCHOOL. 201 
 
 "By the way, I had a comical time, a few nights ago. An odd 
 jreatare, Tommy Taft by name, was standing at the doctor's yard 
 gate as I came out. He has a striliing face, and very singular 
 manner ; both jolly and rude, and yet not altogether unpleasing. 
 
 " ' Good evening, sir. Is Miss Rose at home ? ' 
 
 " ' She is,' I replied. 
 
 " ' Do yon know whether she's going to Boston soon 1 ' 
 
 " ' I do not. I am not apprised of Miss Eose's future inteu 
 tions.' 
 
 " 'P'raps the young cap'n's a relative of the family ? ' 
 
 "I was a little vexed with his manner, even more than with hv 
 direct questions, which fact ho saw before I could speak. 
 
 " 'Massy on ns, how quick young folks take fire now-a-days' 
 Hope an old fellow that's known the family ever since there was 
 a baby in it, can ask a civil question about it. P'raps you don't 
 want questions asked ? Well, shouldn't wonder I ' 
 
 " ' Who are you,' said I, peevishly, ' that you stop me here ' 
 
 My sentence \v:h cut short by the arrival of Dr. Wentworth, who 
 familiarly addressed this queer jumble of wood and flesh. ' Why, 
 Tommy, you're better of your rheumatism? Glad to see you get- 
 ting about — but you must take care of this night air. Oome in. 
 Rose has something for Mother Taft. She was going over pres 
 ently with it.' 
 
 '' ' That's jest the reason I shan't go in, doctor 1 And if you 
 think it'll fetch her over, you may tell her that Mother Taft is 
 poorly, and that she can't bring nothin' into that house that'll do 
 her half so much good as her own face. Have ye heerd any thing 
 from Barton Cathoart lately, doctor? How's he gittin' along 
 They tell me he beats the hull class, and is the fust man there. 
 Only one year more, and then he'll be home ; and, to tell the truth, 
 I^octor, I'd give more to see him in Norwood once more than all 
 ihe scrumptious city folks in the land 1 " 
 
 "The doctor laughed, bid Tommy. go home, and passed in, 
 'Who is this Cathoart, I wonder?' I said to myself. The next 
 afternoon Miss Rose was sitting in the morning-glory nook, as it 
 is called, or rather she was sitting before it, and working upon a 
 pictnre of it. She has in her portfolio the sketches of all the favor- 
 ite points about hoiine, — Honey-suckle Bower ; The Green-bouse is 
 Winter ; The Elm Tree ; Evergreen Twilight, and a dozen others 
 
202 XORWOOD. 
 
 For though the doctor's grounds and garden seem, in a g6uer<». 
 view, much like any other gentleman's highly ke[.t grounds, yet I 
 have learned from Miss Rose that each part has something dis 
 tinctive in it. The doctor fancies that there are certain analogies 
 between plants and thoughts or sentiments, and his whole ground 
 is arranged upon some basis of mental philosophy, which Miss 
 Rose promises that her father shall unfold to me. 
 
 "I am sure I never saw such a collection of Ipomeas and Oon- 
 volvoluses before, and though this evening they were shut up, all 
 except the Boiia nox, which opens at evening and closes in the 
 morning, she found enough to do with her pencil upon the leaves 
 and vines. ' In the morning the blossoms, and at evening the fo- 
 liage,' said she. 'Of all flowers, this is, perhaps, the most remark- 
 able in sentiment — of all that grow in our climate, at any rate.' 
 
 " 'What sentiment do you suppose a flower to have, Miss Rose!' 
 
 " ' The sentiment which it naturally inspires in him that looks 
 on it. What do you think of when you look upon a trellis of 
 morning-glories in full hlossom ? ' 
 
 " ' AVhy I should think they were glorious ! ' 
 
 " 'Is that all? and you an artist?' 
 
 ■' ' Why should an artist see any more than any body else that 
 has good eyes? ' 
 
 " ' Then why is he an artist at all 1 No man has any call to an 
 artist life unless God has enabled him to see in nature what it is 
 not given to common eyes to see.' 
 
 " 'But a man cannot see what is not to be seen.' 
 
 " 'That's a blind man's reason for not heing a guide to others.' 
 
 " ' But what do you see. Miss Rose, that I do not? ' 
 
 "'Perhaps nothing. I am not an artist. You are. Many 
 think they are artists because they have facility in copying what 
 they see. But this is as if a man should copy a Spanish poem in 
 Vieautiful handwriting, without understanding a word of the lan- 
 ■,'nHge, and then call himself a poet ! ' 
 
 " I felt the color come in my face. A man does not like to be 
 held up between the finger and thumb, as if he were a butterfly, 
 not even if the operator is a beautiful girl, and her face full of quiet 
 roguery, and hei manner ever so gentle. 
 
 "I certainly did not intend rudeness in my reply, thangh I 
 nomraitted it. It seemed for the ranment as if Miss Rose had 
 
KOSE WENTWOKTH'S ART SCHOOL. 203 
 
 pointed her remarks to me personally nnd disparagingly, thongh a 
 moment's reflection might have satisfied me that, having never 
 seen any thing of mine beyond the merest sketch, she could not 
 have intended a criticism. But, for tlie instant, I drew back from 
 the subject, and just then my last night's scene with Tommy Tafl 
 occurring to me, I inquired somewhat abruptly — 'Miss Rose, who 
 is Barton Oathcart ? ' 
 
 " The moment I had said it I felt that it looked like a hidden 
 question designed to surprise her confidence. If it had been, it 
 would have failed of its aim. She certainly looked surprised, but 
 neither angry nor annoyed. I hastened to relate the scene of the 
 night before with Tommy Taft, which amused her not a little. I 
 added : 
 
 " ' He watched me, very much as a dog hangs round a suspi- 
 cious character, determined to know what he has come for.' 
 
 " Miss Rose was even more amused at Tommy Taft's supposed 
 vigilance. She went on painting ; a touch here, a laugh, another 
 touch, another laugh. Then I thought a certain sadness fell upon 
 her face. It was but a transient shadow. She turned to me, 
 frankly, and said : 
 
 " ' I could wish that yon knew Barton Oathcart, and if yon 
 will return next summer, yon shall, for he will have graduated 
 then, and will be at home, I presume. You could not but like 
 him. He has been my familiar friend from childhood — a brother, 
 almost as much as my own brothers — till he left for college. He 
 has grown much since then, in every way, though I have seen him 
 but a little. He is one of those deep nntures that it is worth your 
 while to have for a friend, — a deep well, that never dries.' 
 
 " ' Is he good looking ? ' 
 
 " ' Every Ijody is handsome whom you love and respect. But 
 Barton does not need any such gloss. His figure is fine and his 
 conntenance noble.' 
 
 "'Does he talk well?' 
 
 " ' Father says that the best talkers are those who know how 
 to be silent. Barton listens more than he speaks, but when h 
 does speak, one is never tired of hearing him.' 
 
 " ' Your description is relishful. Pray tell him that I am com- 
 ing again next summer and on purpose to make his acquai:itance.' 
 
 "'He is a true husbandman. His friendship does not reap 
 
204 NORWOOD. 
 
 alone. It sows as well. You are always the richer for his com- 
 pany.' 
 
 "'I lather dread these "Improving" people — these good 
 folks that go round building every body up. I have an aunt Shil- 
 lingby, one of the kindest hearts alive, but wherever she goes she 
 is bent upon " doing good," and she moralizes and talis, and ad- 
 vises and questions, and incessantly races with her tongue, till J 
 feel as if I had been travelling on a dusty road. I want a brush 
 and towel to get down to my own flesh again.' 
 
 " 'Expect no lectures from Barton Oathcart. But he has a 
 vital nature, peculiarly stimulating, yet in no wise demonstrative 
 or noisy. The sun is no mechanic because it builds up all tlie 
 world's growths. The winds are not engineers because they urge 
 ships and mills. A man may stimulate your whole nature without 
 officious or garrulous habits.' 
 
 " After a moment's pause Miss Rose turned to me and said : 
 
 " ' Cousin Frank'— she had never called me so before — ' you must 
 excuse my enthusiasm about Barton. We grew up like brother 
 and sister, although very differently situated in life. He came by 
 his noble nature both from his father and his mother. Barton is 
 a world too sensitive for his own good, capable of being a hero, 
 and quite as capable of becoming a fanatic' 
 
 "' A fanatic. Miss Rose ? And is a nature that has the fanati- 
 cal element in it capable of heroism ? ' 
 
 " ' He has the heroic element, because he is strong, patient, 
 capable of suffering without complaint, and because on occasion he 
 would give every thing in the world, his life itself, for that which 
 he loved or for whatever be considered just and right. As to 
 fanaticism, father says that it is the fermentation of strong natures, 
 who, not having outlet for their feelings, grow inwardly, until 
 they mistake their own feelings and thoughts for outward realities. 
 I can easily imajrine circumstances in which Barton would see the 
 whole world in the color of his own heart.' 
 
 " I do not know why I should dislike what Miss Rose said of 
 Cathcart — I do not. Yet, for some reason, I did not take a fancy 
 to him. Perhaps I shall when I see him. 
 
 " I returned to the subject of Art : 
 
 " ' Miss Rose, you were speaking a little wh\h ago of thai 
 which gftTe a man the right to call himself an irtist.' 
 
BOSE WENTWOKTH'S ABT SCHOOL. 205 
 
 " ' I suppose being an artist gives the right to t.he name. My 
 father, yoa must understand, is my instinctor in 'all my philoso- 
 phy. My opinions are a pale reflection of iiis. He divides men of 
 your calling into two classes — decorators and artists ; and artista 
 again into those that please and those that teaoh. The former paint 
 for the senses and not for the soul. They are copyists of nature 
 in her more material aspects. They have no soul behind their eyes. 
 They see only mattei , not mind, in nature. An artist ought to see 
 grace, beauty, tenderness, and subtle fancies in nature which 
 common eyes fail to see ; and when he reproduces an object it 
 should seem more attractive to common eyes than the original is, 
 because the artist has expressed in color something more than 
 others would have seen. Father says that it is the amount of 
 one's self in a picture that determines whether it is made by an 
 artist or an artisan.' 
 
 " 'Bravo, bravo ! Yon shall give lectures, to convince ninety- 
 nine in every hundred artists that they have no vocation 1 With 
 such views as these before my mind, I shall never try mj pencil 
 again. What I Frank Esel going about to express in his picture 
 what Nature did not express I Never shall a young gentleman so 
 humble as I am be so presumptuous! I shall burn my brushes! ' 
 
 " ' It may be all well for you to burn your brushes, but not for 
 such reasons. I do not say that Nature does not express all and 
 more than Art will ever represent ; but one part of her truth 
 Nature expresses to the senses, and another and far higher, 
 through the senses, she expresses to the soul. It is this second and 
 higher kind of beauty and truth that an artist should bring forth 
 and throw visibly upon his work. But your raillery is fairly de- 
 served. You must excuse my lecture. Now, if it had been my 
 father, Mr. Artist, you would have gathered more ideas.' 
 
 " ' And less pleasure.' 
 
 " ' Though he would not have let ''on off in so short a time.' 
 
 " ' Its brevity is the only fault of your discourse.' 
 
 " 'But there come the girls! No, you must not go. We three 
 young ladies have no beau to-night but you, and yon must not deny 
 your services. Miss Laura Bacon and Alice Oathcart come with 
 their parents to an informal tea ; and, as every well-arranged table 
 .8 twice set — for the eyes as well as for the palate, --we shall draw 
 apoE your skill for help, Sir Artist! ' 
 
206 NORWOOD. 
 
 "I could not but admire the grace of her oarriuge. You know 
 how much I criticise the careless and slovenly way in which young 
 ladies are permitted to bear themselves. If one had to choose be- 
 tween a flue and graceful carriage of one's person, and beauty ol 
 face, I think ladies would consult their interest by choosing the 
 former. Miss Rose is a splendid walker. Her body moves as if 
 it were floated in the air rather than propelled from the ground. 
 Yet you feel that there is an elastic tread and a flrm hold upon the 
 ground. I have never seen her move nervously or, indeed, in any 
 haste. She expresses deliberation, but suggests nimbleness. 
 
 " We went to the house. The tea-table was already spread. 1 
 was sent to collect leaves, with special instructions, — both green 
 leaves and colored ones, oak-leaves, cliestnut-leaves, hickory, and 
 llqnidamber — the most star-like of all leaves. Of colored leaves — 
 maple, yellow and scarlet, the crimson of the Nyssa, and that glow- 
 ing and brilliant thing — the sumach-leaf. 
 
 " While I was gone, came Judge Bacon and his sliglitly stately 
 wife ; 'Biah Cathcart and his dark-eyed wife ; Dr. Buell and his 
 feeble wife ; old Mr. Edwards and his sister. Every one seemed 
 at home; all went where they pleased, did as they pleased. But artist 
 I was learning of Miss Rose how to adorn a table with materials 
 so common as to be within every one's reach, and which, in tlie 
 end, were so effective that I am sure I never saw table more charm- 
 ing in my life. 
 
 " Green leaves were flrst pinned together by their own stems 
 into a plat, and then made into circular mats — the points of the 
 leaves well-advanced; and upon each one of these green mats 
 rested a pure white china plate. Thus oak-leaves, hickory-leaves, 
 maple and liquidamber alternating, seemed sprouting from beneath 
 every dish. A bowl had been arranged with selected grasses, and 
 the butterdish set in it in such a manner that the golden butter 
 was fringed with the grasses from which it came. For the honey, 
 which was snow-white and taken from the doctor's own hivet. 
 Miss Rose had i.erself collected white clover-blossoms, and ar- 
 ranged them upon a green base of red-clover leaves, so that the 
 dainty comb seemed to rise up out of the very flowers which had 
 yielded it. 
 
 " The large silver waiter which contained the tea-things rested 
 upon a broad ruffle of colored leaves — yellow and scarlet maple^ 
 
ROSE we>;tworth's art school. 207 
 
 leaTeB, golden-colored hickory-leaves, deep purplish leaves of the 
 Bweet-gum; and they were so arranged that the highest point of 
 color was at each end, and a gradation of color tending all the 
 way back to green, terminated, in the front, in a real summer 
 green tuft of leaves. I was never more struck with the elfects 
 which can be produced by a skilful use of mere foliage, without 
 flowers, and I never before felt how coarse are the heaps and stacks 
 of flowers which are piled upon decorated tables in comparison 
 with this delicate and almost flowerless use of leaves. It was in- 
 expensive beauty, requiring but a few moments to prepare it, and 
 tending to connect social enjoyment with natural objects in a man- 
 ner that is characteristic of this whole household. 
 
 " While I was busy with the young ladies, — Miss Kose I have 
 described, — Miss Alice Oathcart, a dark-liaired beauty, something 
 shy and silent, — Miss Mary Bacon, a blonde, tall, slender, glitter- 
 ing, but sharp, positive and selfish, — the latter quality, however, 
 carried like a sword, in a scabbard of politeness; — while, I say, I 
 was tearing myself away from the gentlemen and devoting myself 
 disinterestedly to these three youug ladies, the gentlemen were sit- 
 ting under the great elm conversing. That is a wonuerful tree. It 
 is the doctor's temple. Probably no tree in the State has heard 
 as much discourse as this one. It was a glorious sunset. The air 
 was calm. The whole atmosphere was suffused with a vaporous 
 golden light. It was a translucent flood, and its waves rolled up- 
 ward to the very zenith. A strange glow fell upon all the village. 
 Trees and houses seemed glorified, and were transfigured. At its 
 height, so marked had this become, that people were calling to 
 each other to come out and see the sunset. We all went forth. 
 Miss Rose shaded her eyes, and looked with a solemn rapture full 
 at the sun, now tempered in the peculiar atmosphere to a mildness 
 tolerable to the eye. Miss Alice sat as if she were fallen into a 
 trance. Miss Bacon treated nature in an obliging way, as if she 
 felt it proper to recognize the very polite and agreeable manner in 
 which the sun was taking leave. 
 
 "I am strangely affected by Miss Kose, as by no other person 
 in the world I I am drawn to Ler irresistibly. She is good, she 
 is true, she is simple, she is beautiful, and yet this fascination ia 
 not love 1 She sobers me. I do not feel the exhilaration in her 
 presence that I do with others. Life seems deeper; nature mor«" 
 
208 NORWOOD. 
 
 solemn. She has power to stir my soul, evea if sho does not la 
 tiuence my heart! 
 
 " As twilight came on, the gentlemen were summoned to tea. 
 This old mansion seems made for hospitality. The very air in it 
 seems to whisper to every one, Be happy. Except my own darling 
 mother, never was so motherly a woman as Mrs. Wentworth. She 
 is always genial, often gay and sometimes brilliant. But in every 
 mood a serene kindness beams from her face. Mother, the ex- 
 pression of kindness in a rich nature is even more beautiful than 
 any expression of intellect 1 I have put in my note-book : ' Beauty 
 is of the disposition. Love is the type of perfect beauty.' 
 
 "Every one did what pleased him. No one was pursued with 
 teasing politeness. I wish I could repeat the half of what was said 
 during the evening ; but it could not be done. But I have jotted 
 down in my note-book many things that an artist should remem- 
 ber and investigate. 
 
 " The autumn is growing more gorgeous. Every day is perfect, 
 and yet the next seems better 1 And every day has a secret joy, 
 Do me more dear than all the colors, of the trees express, that my 
 pleasant vacation will so soon end in a yet more pleasant coming 
 home 1 But I can never measure the unexpected benefit of this 
 visit. I am sobered. A new thought of life is born in me. Should 
 I persevere in the pursuit of art, it will be with a better insight of 
 its meanings ; and if I abandon it, it will be from despair of reach- 
 ing what I can perceive to be a true artist's aim. My heart beats 
 quicker to think how soon I shall see you. And yet, — well, good- 
 bye, and scarcely expect to hear from me till you take it from mj 
 very lips I " 
 
CHAPTER XXVn. 
 
 A TAXK ABOUT ENJOYING MONEY 
 
 Whilb Frank Esel and the young ladies weie plca64i.tly in't 
 paring for tea, there were sitting ov lying on tlie ground, uudei 
 the great elm, Parson Buell, Judge Bacon, Mr. Edwards, and an 
 eccentric merchant and manufacturer, Mr. Brett by name, whose 
 whole life was pragmatically benevolent, and whose conscienc« 
 was always flying at him and teasing him for not being more 
 benevolent. 
 
 Judge Bacon opened upon Mr. Brett. 
 
 " Brett, have you noticed Dr. Wentworth's conservatory ? 1 
 wonder you do not add one to your house. I am sure you spend 
 loo much money on benevolence. You owe a little now and then 
 I () selfishness. Why, my dear fellow, you live as if you thought it 
 lo be your first duty not to enjoy the wealth which a kindProvi- 
 ilence has sent you." 
 
 Mr. Brett was a nervous man, and talked all over when he be- 
 came interested. 
 
 " Why, Judge, I should think it was Mrs. Brett talking if I did 
 not see your face. She troubles me day by day. But, really, 1 
 am not conscience-free in the matter. I — I — do not dare spend on 
 myself while there is so much to be done with money, — so many 
 poor; so many ignorant; so many tenements to be built and 
 tamilies to be regarded, and factory children to be educated; and, 
 besides, so much to be done for the world abroad." 
 
 " Mark the perfect man ! Hear him talk ! Why, sir, if yoB 
 send missionaries to South Africa, it is only fair that you should 
 receive the Oape-bulbs in return; if you send Bibles to South 
 America, why not receive orchids in exchange? We have mora 
 Bibles than we can use, and they have more plants. A fair and 
 legitimate commerfce. Thus, we export missionaries and import 
 roses, and both parties exchange superfluities for objects of val- 
 ue." 
 
 "Come, come J idge Bacon," said Parson Buell, with a grave 
 smile, for Brett was looking wofully puzzled at the judge's way of 
 
1^10 NORWOOD. 
 
 putting duty, " I wish v\ e had more men th'it were unjust tf 
 selfishness, as you say brother Brett is." 
 
 " But, then, Reverend Sir," said Bacon, in a comical, mocking 
 tone, " do you not think that he ought to have a ccoscience in 
 the matter of making benevolence appear pinching and frugal to 
 unloveliuess? One reason why I don't become rich is the fear that 
 I shall live as austerely as brother Brett does. One might just 
 lis well be poor, as to be rich and spend all his money in giving it 
 away. Do you really think, Brett, that you would cheat a single 
 heathen out of a fair chance, if you were to put up a green-house, 
 hire a gardener, and live in a little more luxurious way ? " 
 
 " You have touched the very point," said Brett — " luxury. 
 I'm sure that it is my duty to provide my family with the neces- 
 t-aries of life ; but luxuries I am not so clear about. I never feel 
 happy when I am persuaded to obtain them. I have my scruploa 
 whether a Christian may, in the present state of the world, in- 
 dulge in luxuries.'' 
 
 " Is that so ? " replied the teasing judge, afl'ecting a manner of 
 great concern. "Is that so, my dear Ascetic ? You must giye 
 liie leave to say that I think you, sir, already on the side of self- 
 indulgence. Oalf-skin boots, upon my word 1 A beaver hat ! 
 when a felt one would equally well shield your head, at but a 
 quarter the expense ! And that glaring violation of economy, a 
 broadcloth coat, instead of linsey-woolsey! Why, sir, I think 
 there must be a year's schooling on your person for some poor 
 vagabond, and yet you are talking about your conscience! " 
 
 " For all that," said Mr. Brett, who smiled rather faintly, as if 
 l)e was not altogether sure but that it might be his duty to re- 
 trench his personal expenses, — " for all that, I am in doubt of 
 going any further. Have I a right to put so much money into a 
 (,'reen-house, and to be at the annual expense required for a 
 gardener, when down at the factories there is so much to be done 
 iimong the workmeu, for schools, and clothing, and libraries? " 
 
 " That's a fair question," said Buell, '' and I should like to 
 hear your opinioD, gentlemen. I confess that I am puzzled more 
 by the practical application of it than by tlie principle itself. I 
 I have no doubt of a Christian man's liberty to- use his wealth for 
 his own household, but bow far, by what rule, to limit it, I do 
 not clearly see." 
 
A TALK ABOUT ENJOYING MONEY. 211 
 
 Jadge Bacon, who had the art of being tlegant in negligence 
 was lying upon his side on the ground, witli liis head resting on 
 his left hand, while with the other he was playing nature, as hi 
 styled it, to a worm. Laying down a stick in its way, the worm 
 mounted it. 
 
 "Now," said he, "here is my man, this stick is natural law 
 if I turn it so, he creeps north ; if so, east ; if so, south ; so that 
 while he thinks that he is creeping in the line of the stick, he is 
 veering to the four points of the compass." 
 
 " No matter ahout your worm, learned judge, solve the min- 
 ister's practical problem," said Oathcart. 
 
 "Oh, gentlemen, that I might be troubled, as Brett is, by 
 wealth that I don't know how to use I Brett, exchange with mel 
 Give me your factories, stores, and sinful bonds and deposits, and 
 do you take my library and penurious clients, and it will refresh 
 you much to solve new questions of finance, with which I am 
 already familiar." 
 
 The ex-schoolmaster brought back the question, saying that 
 he thought no matter more important than to furnish some clue 
 by which a Christian man might determine where Rights ended 
 and Duty began, in the use of wealth. 
 
 "Not a lawful distinction," said the judge; " all his rights are 
 duties, and all his duties are rights." 
 
 " Well, what are both put together ? How much may a man 
 use for his own household, and self; now largely may he layout 
 his estate, and convert it to mere beauty instead of use ? How 
 largely may he store his dwelling with art-treasures, and spread a 
 sumptuous table ; and yet, say, ' None of us liveth unto him- 
 self?'" 
 
 Dr. Wentworth, who had listened as if he heard not, now be- 
 gan to stir, as if he were about to emerge from his abstractions. 
 
 "My dear Doctor," said the judge, "don't start off with your 
 speech yet. Yon see, gentlemen, he has been firing up for some time, 
 and there will be no more chance for us if he once begins I What 
 the world of letters lost, Wentworth, when you chose medicine ! 
 We have lost a Burke and got only Dr. Wentworth. Let me 
 deal wiih Brett, whose conscience is like a spider on the window, 
 always spinning webs to keep out the light. I think a man has 
 »t least the natural rights of the animal kingdom. If an eagit 
 
212 NORWOOD. 
 
 has a right to all the feathers that can fairly giow on his body, 
 and a sheep to all the wool that can grow on his skin, and a bnt- 
 tcrtiy to all the colors on his wings, and a bird to all tiie music he 
 i.un make, a man has a riglit to what property he honestly accu 
 mulates." 
 
 " Tut, tut," said Mr. Edwards, " you don't lialf know your les- 
 son. Eagles shed their feathers, and keep young by moulting. 
 Sheejj are sheared for their own comfort and every body's conven- 
 ience; and birds sing for all the town, as well as for themselves; 
 while the butterfly, that piece of pninted uselessuess, comes late 
 and goes early, as if Nature had no use for things that did not 
 coutribute to others' good. So, Judge, you must go to the foot 
 of your class." 
 
 " I am dum'ij, Mr. Schoolmaster. Now let the doctor speak. I 
 im sure it is not safe for him or us to restrain him longer." 
 
 Notwithstanding Judge Bacon's banter, the doctor seemed in no 
 liiirry to express his mind, being apparently absorbed with a 
 favoritf little dog, whose vivacity and vitality seemed inexhausti- 
 ble. 
 
 " Whj should the doctor leaNt liis companion for our poor so 
 ciety ? " said Bacon. 
 
 " That petty shag of a dog which he amiably teases is not to b* 
 left unblessed and solitary ! Benevolence will still find ways ol 
 conferring happiness 1 That dog runs like an eight-day clock- 
 does he ever need winding-up. Doctor ? " 
 
 " I think, gentlemen, the matter in hand is far less difficult," 
 said '\\'entworth, " than it is made to seem." 
 
 "The subject that is in yovr hand, doctor?" said the teasing 
 judge. 
 
 " No mistake can be greater than for one to speak of his fanii 
 ly." said Dr. vVentworth, " as of something separate from the com- 
 munity in which he lives. A family bears to the community the 
 relation which limbs and organs do to the human body. What 
 if a man should have serious scruples whether he should bestow 
 food upon the stomach insiead of the whole body ! The family is 
 the digesting orgnn of the body politic. The very way to feed the 
 community is to feed the family. This is the point of contact for 
 each man with the society in which he lives. Through the fami- 
 ly, chiefly, we are to act uj'on society. Money contributed thera 
 
A TALK ABOUT EN.TO-^'ING MONEY. 213 
 
 is oontril nted to the whole. To be sure, this is not to ezclud« 
 other benefactions ; but, when yon have built churches, schoolii 
 and libraries, established public charities, all of which are verj 
 noble and necessary, it remains true that the best gift which ont 
 can offer to the state is the living gift of virtuous, intelligent 
 and enterprising children. 
 
 " Nothing is more remote from selfishness than generous ex 
 penditure in building up a home, and enriching it with all that 
 shall make it beautiful without and lovely within. A man who 
 builds a noble house does it for the whole neighborhood, not for 
 himself alone. He who surrounds his children with books, re- 
 fines their thoughts by early familiarity with art, is training them 
 for the State. In no other way could he spend so much money so 
 usefuUy for the State. He that actually rears good citizens pre- 
 sents to the State better properties, far nobler, than ample funds 
 or costly buildings. 
 
 " A man may, of course, be selfish in family expenditure, but 
 all such outlay corrupts the family. No expense can be had which 
 really benefits the family, that, through them, does not even more 
 benefit the whole community. 
 
 " Why, gentlemen, I settled that question with this elm-tree 
 long ago. I had heard it sighing for some days, and in the night 
 it lay awake creaking and groaning ; and so one day, as I sat 
 under it, it stooped one of its long branches near my ear and made 
 me its confidant and confessor. It seems the tree had fallen into a 
 moral diflSculty. ' Here am I, with my huge bulk, occupying space 
 that might serve for scores of trees ; and, when the sun shines, I 
 cake its whole glory on my head, and nothing below can get a fair 
 fhare, and my roots are drinking out of the ground an enormous 
 supply of food and moisture, and I am under condemnation for 
 this great selfishness of my life.' I comforted the arborescent pen- 
 itent the best way I could. ' livery thing, my great heart,' said I 
 ' that makes yon. large and healthy, makes this village happy. 
 Hundreds sit down in your shadow ; this house, of which you are 
 a dendral guardian-angel, is blessed in your prosperity; weary la- 
 borers stop and rest under you ; all the village is prond of your 
 beanty ; sick people look at you out of their windows and are com- 
 forted. Besides, how many myriads of insects and how many 
 thousands of birds are kept by you, aud, in turn, disport themftfJ.vei 
 
214 NOKWOOlJ. 
 
 till- onr happiness ! It is true that it takes a great deal txj keep yon 
 but you pay it all back a huadred-fold In use and beauty.'" 
 
 " Well done, poet," said Bacon, clapping his hands, in whiob 
 all joined. 
 
 " Jotham could not have mended your parable," said the min- 
 idter. 
 
 Edwards archly remarked that the tree was even more person 
 ally useful than one could imagine who had not been a school- 
 master, and needed switches for lazy boys. 
 
 " Astonishing what one gets by good company," said Judge 
 Bacon. "I have lived all my life without looking at trees in the 
 light of discipline ! And what deception ! I have seen Edwards 
 often walking and looking up in a devout way. I attributed it to 
 pious thoughts ; but no, he was reflecting on switches. A school- 
 master naturally, then, divides trees into flagellant and non-flagel- 
 lant trees. Are elm switches the best, Edwards ? " 
 
 " Slightly too pliant," replied he, with grave humor. " A per- 
 fect switch should be stifi' in your hand, slender, long, and at the 
 end both elastic and tough. I have never obtained the best results 
 from apple-trees. They are brittle ; and it is disappointing to rea- 
 sonable expectations to have a whip break in your hand. The 
 fault of most trees is that they fail to produce long, slender, and 
 tough branches." 
 
 "Pray, what do you consider the schoolmaster's best friend 
 among trees ? The hickory 1 " 
 
 " By no means. Only artificial rods are formed from its sea- 
 soned timbers. The quince is, above all, the proper shade tree for 
 school-houses. The fruit is acerb, but the wood fuii of sweetness 
 to those who need it. Indeed, it might be called the boy's austero 
 friend." 
 
 " I thought the birch was the tree of trees for schoolmasters 
 All literature celebrates its virtues. Indeed, its naMe has been ap- 
 propriated to the idea of discipline." 
 
 " In country school-houses the birch may be accessible, but not 
 in town. Even were it at hand, it must yield to the quince la 
 those searching, subtle virtues which are so wholesome to youths 
 in distress." 
 
 " Pray, Dr. Wentworth," said Buell, " go on with jour re 
 marks. Your discourse needs an application." 
 
A TALK ABOUT ENJOYING MONEY. 215 
 
 " Whatever expenditure refines the family and lifts it into a 
 ■arger sphere of living, is really spent upon the whole communitj 
 as w(fll. If no man lives better than the poorest man, there will he 
 no leader in material things. A community needs examples to ex 
 cite its ambition. A noble dwelling is, in part, the property of aU 
 who dwell near it. Fine gi'onnds not only confer pleasure directly 
 on all who visit or pass by, but they excite every man of any spirit 
 to improve his own grounds. A family of children upon whom 
 wealth has been employed judiciously, if they are at all worthy, 
 represent in the community a higher type of life than can be found 
 in poverty. Fine dress may be looked upon either as a matter of 
 display or of worthy example. In the latter aspect, it is a duty as 
 well as a pleasure. You teach us, Dr. Buell, that every thing which 
 makes the church noble and beautiful is an honor to God. The 
 same principle applies to the domestic household. Every element 
 that adds to the pleasure and refinement of the family puts honor 
 and dignity upon the family state. Whoever makes home seem to 
 the young dearer and more happy, is a public benefactor. Not all 
 dissipated young men, of course, are children brought up in meagre 
 economy. But it is very certain that children whose homes are not 
 interesting to them by afiection, or by attractive objects, are more 
 easily tempted into places and company fraught with danger." 
 
 " These are weighty views," said Parson Biiell ; " and though I 
 have never hitherto regarded the subject in this light, nor indeed 
 attempted to practise upon it, I confess that I am struck with your 
 views, and am inclined to believe them correct." 
 
 "Dear, dear mel " said Bacon, " must I begin, at my time of 
 life, to adorn and — what is it ? — dignify — yes, that was the phrase 
 — 'honor and dignity.' Well, I shall at once make out a bill of 
 honeysuckles, roses, roots and bulbs, and other such elements of 
 virtue ; for it would ill become me, a judge, to practise the im- 
 morality of a frigid house — a barren yard and a flowerless gar- 
 den ? " 
 
 " Alas 1 alas ! " said Edwards, with affected sorrow. 
 
 " Why, what is the matter ? " said Bacon. 
 'I only sighed for those with whom you next do business! 
 Generosity usually avenges itself on somebody 1 " 
 
 " Has it occurred to you, my dear Doctor," said Buell, "that New 
 Eni;lfln I families have been brought up upon a stem pattern, and 
 
216 NORWOOD. 
 
 upon a pi incip-e different from that which you advocate? boya 
 and girls in former times have had very little time or oppoitiimtv 
 for the cultivation of taste." 
 
 "Since the founding of the Colonies," replied Dr. Wentworth 
 " there have been throughout New England what we called leading 
 and influential families, that possessed wealth, that built fine man- 
 sions like ^his of mine, and lived in some considerable style. Thai 
 some of these wealthy families have set bad examples, is true ; but, 
 as a whole, the class have gone before the times, powerly affected 
 the ideas of the whole community, given them larger notions of 
 family life, and, if it oonid only be traced, I think you would find 
 that the young man who launched out into the world and became 
 wealthy had received, perhaps unconsciously, powerful influence 
 from their examp'e. 
 
 " But, Dr. Buell, it is not necessary that one should be rich. 
 All that 1 say is, that he who, according to his means, spends his 
 money in beautifying and refining his house, is working for the 
 whole community as much, and sometimes even more, than for his 
 own family, and need not charge himself with selfishness.'' 
 
 " It is certainly not selfish," said Dr. Buell, "to spend money 
 on one's self, if thereby a higher influence i< secured for society. 
 It is upon that principle that one is justified in liberal expenditure 
 for education, and even for travel, as an eminent means of liberal 
 education." 
 
 " Well, well," said Bacon, " I am getting very tired. Is not tea 
 nearly ready? These views are fearful. They will revolutionize 
 New Engand. What a spending of money ! "What ravages under 
 the name of taste ! Well, I wash my hands of such doctrines ! On 
 you, Dr. Buell. and you, Wentworth, and you, gentlemen, if you do 
 not protest, must rest the guilt I Positively shocking I New Eng- 
 land farmers spending money for beauty I Whew I '' 
 
 "I beg your pardon. Judge," said Dr. Wentworth, smiling 
 quietly, " New England has practised on these very views, to a de- 
 gree probably not equalled in any other part of the globe. I do 
 not believe that so large a proportion of men's revenue was eve 
 spent upon the Family as in New England. Tlie idea of the family 
 of comfort at home, of respectable appearance, of education for all 
 the children, of neatness and some sort of beauty, has nowhere else 
 ever been so high amouif the whole body of the common people^ 
 
A TALK ABOUT ENJOYING MONEY. L'17 
 
 rhis is one reason why the Yankee is stigmatized as stingy. Hit 
 Idea of respectability is expensive. Only sterling industry and stern 
 iconomy will enable him to carry along so mnch as enters in New 
 England into the Bociety idea of the family t There may be nc 
 difference in the external appearance of economy and parsimony, 
 but their interiors are as different as honor and meanness. The 
 New England people are, beyond all question, tlie most ^enerou? 
 and the most liberal, according to their means, in the world 
 More money can be raised there for any great purpose of public 
 weal than anywhere else. Nor is New England ever tired of 
 giving. Schools in thousands over the "West and South, academies 
 in every State where her sons have emigrated, churches, colleges, 
 and all institutions of religion, from end to end of this continent, 
 are the witnesses of what men are pleased to call the narrow spirit 
 of New England." 
 
 " Oh, Wentworth," said Judge Bacon, with a polite yawn, " 1 
 had no idea of starting you off at such a rate when I cleared my 
 skirts of your heresy. Bather than have you go on at this rate, 1 
 will recant-j-yes, I accept your views. Let me see: spending 
 money on one's self is virtue ; on one's family, public benefaction I 
 Indeed, I am already, I perceive, an excellent man. What services 
 I have rendered to society in bringing up that girl of mine I It is 
 a delightful surprise to find that my seliishness has all been virtue! 
 Dr. Buell, do you never exchange? " 
 
 " Certainly, often ; why do you ask? " 
 
 "I thought, perhaps, you might sometimes like to ask Went- 
 worth here to preach. He has, I think, a manner that would 
 eminently become the pulpit." 
 
 " But, to return to the starting-point, will you tell me of what 
 practical use is a conservatory ? " said Brett. 
 
 " A very means of grace," replied Judge Bacon. " It will cost 
 you smartly to build it; yet more to stock it and to keep it up 
 It will never be large enough, for yon will be always wantiug 
 more things than it can hold ; it wiU be always too large, for you 
 cannot get what things you already have half taken care of. Yoa 
 will flight with red spiders one week and with aphides the next 
 and with the white scale all the time. Your water-pipes will get 
 out of order once a month ; your gardener will be out of ordei 
 every day. He won't let you touch your own things — ^will alwayi 
 
218 NOKWOOD. 
 
 know more than you do, and have a good excuse fcr not having 
 flowers ; and, above all, on the coldest night of the year he will 
 get drunk, let the fire down, and freeze up your whole preoioue 
 stock of tender things. My dear Brett, if you stand in need cf 
 patience — if yon would cultivate long suffering — if you would 
 grow in grace far faster than your flowers will in health — by all 
 means get a greenhouse. To-day you shall be tormented with 
 fumigations of tobacco; to-morrow you shall be half suffocated 
 with fumes of sulphur, and every now and then, by way of variety. 
 you will be drenched by whale-oil soap-suds 1 " 
 
 All laughed at the comical distress predicted. 
 
 " But," said Brett, "I suppose there are faithful men and 
 gardeners, and that it is with a greenhouse as with a store or 
 factory — if a man selects poor agents, he must expect shiftless 
 work. If worse comes to worst, I can perhaps coax Jacquin to 
 move his shop up here, and work in my greenhouse." 
 
 " Who is Jacquin, Brett? One of your factory-village men?" 
 
 " Yes, a shoemaker with a taste for every thing. Every day 
 he has a new invention. He has exhausted the subject of warming 
 and ventilating, and he works them out for his own mere pleasure. 
 Being very fond of flou-ers, he has built himself a little green- 
 house, thirty feet long, and taken off ten feet for his shop ; and h( 
 has contrived a tea-kettle of a stove, that, while it heats water foi 
 circulation through his pet greenhouse, furnishes him heat for the 
 shop. He has got together a very tolerable collection of plants, 
 and any gardener might be proud to have his stock in as high 
 health as his." 
 
 "But, gentlemen," said Wentworth, "it would be wrong tu 
 let our scoffing judge corrupt your ideas of the comforts of a green 
 house. Let me tell my experience : In the first place, I did nul 
 try to make it too large. I rejected all mere curiosities, far-fetoliefl 
 and difficult of treatment, and contented myself with comnion 
 things that, for reasonable care, would return a generous supply 
 of flovicrs. I like common flowers best — new flowers are like 
 strangers, that put you upon your good manners every moment ; 
 common flowers are like old friends, between whom and you there 
 are a hundred associations and memories of pleasure. 
 
 " Then, as to the enjoyment. On a weary winter day, with a 
 ftorm going on out of doors, and simw iilinding the air, and winds 
 
A TALK ABOUT ENJOYING MONEY. 219 
 
 bowling through the trees, open the door into yonr conservatory 
 Mid behold, summer is all around you! Besides, what jMcture ol 
 landscape was ever so charming, as to sit across the room and look 
 through the door upon such green and hlossoming vegetation! 
 One hour pays for a year's care. Then, too, a sprig of flowers on 
 the table in February, or March, is a blessing. 
 
 " However, I think every man that ever loved flowers knows 
 that the chief delight consists in giving them away. !Much as I 
 (jnjoy my garden, I confess I am more delighted with other people's 
 pleasure in it than with my own. And so that it is well given, a 
 flower given away is far more enjoyed than a flower kept. In my 
 profession, I have had much occasion to notice this matter. In 
 long and wearisome sicknesses, no medicine is more beneficial than 
 some innocent exhilaration to the patient's mind. It is the nerve- 
 power that cures after all. Whatever rouses up the brain pleas- 
 antly is apt to do the patient good. And I carry about as many 
 flowers, in some places, as I do pills." 
 
 " Without doubt," said Bacon, "with equal safety to the patient." 
 
 "At any rate, a gentleman will find an argument of benevo- 
 lence for making a greenhouse, which will fully neutralize any 
 fear of selfishness." 
 
 " There goes the tea bell," said the judge, affecting a joyful 
 alacrity, "and here comes the fairest of all messengers. Misa 
 Rose, good evening! Yon were always an argel of mercy! Do 
 take your fatljer oflT; and, as we are all faint with listening, I am 
 sure you will never again greet a pilgrim band so glad of a littla 
 refreshment! " 
 
CHAPTER XXVm 
 
 A NEW LIFE. 
 
 Frajs'u Ebei- returned from his summer wande.ingB, reverie^ 
 iiid conversations with a divided heart. Never hai he loved his 
 mother more or hungered more for home. Yet there was a 
 shadow on his brightness. He evidently had much to think o£ 
 He was more industrious. Never before had he applied himself 
 with so serious a purpose to his art. His young friends noticed 
 the- change. 
 
 " Frank, what's come over you ? " said his gay, long-haired, 
 much-smoking friend, Lewis Keswick. " You have taken to 
 drudging ever since you came back. You don't seem like your- 
 self." 
 
 " But I think I am only just coming to myself." 
 
 " How's that ? Not going to be religious, eh ? None of that 
 sort of thing ? " 
 
 " Not exactly. In fact, I hardly know what ails me. But it 
 seems as though I had been trifling all my life, and using my art 
 to do it with. Hitherto I have been painting playthings in a 
 life frolic. Now I only know that I am dissatisfied without 
 knowing how to amend." 
 
 " Thunder I What's got into you ? I should think you had 
 run afoul of a minister, or stumbled into a church-door I " 
 
 " I might do worse ! " 
 
 " Why you're going to preach, I'll bet 1 Come, out with it I 
 I'll join your church — I'll turn deacon when you become parson ' 
 You and I together ought to run the machine I " 
 
 " No such good news. Lew. My reformation does not reach out- 
 side of my art. But, to tell the truth, I don't see what the 
 
 you and I are painters for ? " 
 
 " For ? What does any body paint for ? Because it's an 
 agreeable way of getting a living. It's genteel ; light work i» 
 winter, pleasant strolls in summer, reasonable pay, good company 
 —why, it's the joUiest kind of a life ! " 
 
 " That's about it ; and I turn away from it. It seems to mi 
 
A NEW LIFE. 221 
 
 thiit one cannot live an earnest life in such a way. At an; ratt;, 
 I've got to find out how to do something more, or quit." 
 
 Frank's mother perceived the difference in her son's moods. 
 The change to seriousness was great. He began to read Ruskin'e 
 works with avidity. 
 
 The scales were falling from Frank's eyes. Little by little the 
 great aims of life were rising before him, and asserted their full 
 power upon him. Then, his art fell down into its true place, and 
 became a mere instrument ; no longer was it an end. 
 
 He began to experience an earnest desire to be an actor, 
 through his art, in the movements of society. 
 
 '' Shall all the struggles of man go on and I have no part in 
 them ? Shall men emerge painfully, before my eyes, from rude- 
 ness, and 1, ordained a priest oC beauty, reach forth no hand to 
 help ? " 
 
 Frank Esel looked back upon his joyous dalliance with art 
 in former days with repugnance. His old portfolios he brought 
 out to burn. Many of his sketches he did destroy. But, while 
 in the act, it occurred to him that an occasional sight of the 
 things which he once, thought very clever might be a good 
 discipline, and measure his progress. All those which in the 
 days of his blindness he had thought very fine, he laid back into 
 portfolios, and burned the rest. 
 
 His mother did not think it prudent to question her son. 
 EVom his summer's letters she knew that he had been greatly 
 delighted with Rose Wentworth. Whatever solicitude or curios- 
 ity she may have felt to know the real state of his heart, she did 
 not deem it proper to be inquisitive. 
 
 If indeed Frank could have formed a connection with Dr. 
 Wentworth's family, she would have esteemed her son, and her- 
 self, most fortunate. That something had greatly influenced him 
 was too plain to be overlooked even by the dimmest eye. But 
 what it was she could not divine. On the one hand, there was 
 a sobriety tinged with sadness — the rising within him of new 
 forces, — a persistence and industry in which, hitherto, he had 
 been signally deficient, but which now became a, marked feature 
 of his life. She hardly knew her own son. His tenderness for 
 her was if any thing greater than before. Now and then his old 
 boisterousness of glee would break nut again and he would frolic 
 
222 NORWOOD. 
 
 with her in a whirl of gayety ahnost delirious. But such seasoni 
 grew rare. He seemed more and more like one full of some 
 inward and controlling purpose, toward which he was turning 
 all the forces of his life. 
 
 On the other hand, he spoke of Rose with the utmost frank- 
 ness. Scarcely a day passed that some word of hers was not 
 repeated. This did not seem compatible with the shyness of 
 beginning love. 
 
 One day his mother ventured to say : 
 
 " Frank, it seems to me that Rose Wentworth is your model, 
 and the very ai-biter of your opinions. She must be a remark- 
 able young woman.'' 
 
 With no disturbance of manner Frank replied ingenuously : 
 
 " I do not think that I owe so much to what Miss Rose said 
 as to what she was herself." 
 
 " You mean that she drew you to her by the charms of her 
 person more than by her conversation ? " 
 
 " No, not that. I was thinking of the influence which I have 
 derived from that family, in my own art. What Dr. Wentworth 
 and his family said was certainly more instructive to me than 
 any thing I had ever heard until then. It was he that urged me 
 to study Ruskin. We were sitting on the door-step one evening, 
 and Miss Rose was questioning her father about some statement 
 of Ruskin's that seemed extravagant. He replied : 
 
 " ' It is extravagant, my dear. Ruskin is full of wildness, 
 and tangles himself up with himself like a vine twisting on itself. 
 You read Ruskin just as you explore a region, finding mauy 
 treasures and much that you avoid. He has his brier thickets, 
 his contorted trees, his muddy morasses. But, taken as a whole, 
 the landscape is rich and grand. Ruskin is like a forest, on 
 whose edges and in whose depths are many noxious plants — but 
 these bear no proportion to the magnitude of the woods, the 
 grandeur of the trees, and the sublimity, in winter and summer, 
 of the music which the vrind draws from their boughs and tops.' 
 
 " Then, turning to me, he said : 
 
 ■' ' Have you studied Ruskin ? ' 
 
 " I replied — ' I have read portions — extracts — from his works. 
 
 " After a pause, he said in a very gentle way, in an undertone, 
 but earnestly — 'My youne fri end, Ruskin is not to be read in 
 
A NEW UFE. 223 
 
 extracts — nor simply read either. You onght to take him as an 
 infection. He should throw you into a fever. The whole system 
 should be pervaded by it. He is like those diseases which 
 renovate the system. Do not try to check it. Let it run its full 
 period. Afterward you will recover well ; you will throw oflf 
 much. You will retain, perhaps, little. But your whole con- 
 stitution will be changed. You will observe differently, think 
 differently, reason differently, all the rest of your life.' 
 
 " ' But, father,' said Rose, ' is it not a pity that one so good 
 should not be better.' 
 
 " ' Certainly it is. What then ? We are glad to gather thirty 
 bushels of wheat from an acre of ground, but there were two 
 tons of straw and chaff required to grow the wheat. Would 
 you have a man all grain ? Yet, worshipping is natural ; and 
 our first drift, when one affects us well, is to begin shaping hiro 
 in our thoughts to an ideal perfectness. Then comes the shock 
 of disclosure. Every body is imperfect; and strong natures, 
 strong enough to overturn old errors, and flght great battles, are 
 likely to be too strong to walk safely in harness and drag our 
 phaetons and chaises 1 ' " 
 
 Frank had been led along by his reminiscences, till he forgof. 
 the point he had started for. After a moment's sUence he started 
 up. 
 
 " Oh, mother, I forgot to say the only thing I meant to — Thi.t 
 which I most felt in the Wentworths was the intimate relation- 
 ship and personal sympathy which existed between them and 
 nature. Her father has brought Miss Rose up to feel that all of 
 nature is, Uterally, but a way which God has of making known to 
 us bis feelings, tastes and thoughts. It was so from her infancy, 
 that t>uua<ls, colors, forms, phenomena, did not stand for mere 
 science, but suggested a living presence. It was unconscious. 
 Others went to nature. She dwelt in it always. I had nevei 
 iiefoto met with such deep insight, such a pure love, such reverent 
 ivtmiration, such fulness and richness of knowledge, in a young 
 person, too, most accomplished and attractive.'' 
 
 " I should have thought, Frank, that such charms would hav* 
 been irresistible." 
 
 His only reply was : 
 
 •' Too unequal — too unequal." 
 
224 NORWOOD. 
 
 The winter rolled away speedily. Frank Esel wh» never go 
 little pleased with the result of his work. He had never labored 
 so hard. But men beginning new courses are like ploughed mead- 
 ows. The roughness and waste are indispensable precursors of 
 the new sward. Frank never had advanced so far, and yet never 
 seemed to himself to have moved so little. But as this was his 
 appointed life-work, he came out of repeated discouragements 
 with renewed courage, and kept bravely on. 
 
 Already Spring had supplanted Winter, and now Summer 
 was fulfilling the tender prophecies of Spring. It was full time 
 for him to leave the city. But this year his mother would go 
 with bim ; and early in July, Frank, in over measure of joy, 
 "bund himself again in Norwood, and tmong friends that he had 
 earned to regard as his benefactors. 
 
CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 liBAVINO O )LLBaB. 
 
 Babton's four years were ended. The senior vacation Uao 
 come and passed. He had won tie first honors of his class, and 
 there was not a member of the class — not even the two who had 
 most nearly been his rivals — ^that did not heartily accord to him 
 the first rank. He was not simply first as a student, but as a 
 good fellow. None led him in athletic exercises. In a certain 
 degree he was accessible, familiar, and most gay and social ; yet 
 it was with a reserve that showed that he did not carry all his 
 nature on his sleeve. 
 
 He was one of the men whom close study had not invalided. 
 He was, if possible, more vigorous and elastic than when he 
 entered college. When he returned to take the honors of his 
 class at Commencement, it was agreed by every young lady of 
 taste that a finer form and nobler face had never been seen in 
 those streets. 
 
 His townsmen were rightly proud of Barton's distinction. 
 His father was universally respected. Barton himself was 
 popular. Hi a intimate friends were among the most influential 
 citizens. AU Norwood looked forward this year to the Com- 
 mencement-day, and it seemed as if the town itself was about to 
 go over to Amherst on the occasion. 
 
 Tommy Taft, too, was to go 1 This was Dr. Wentworth's 
 arrangement. Nor had he ever done a kinder thing. To go to 
 Amherst and see his boy, Barton, receive the first honors, was a 
 glimpse of paradise 1 What these honors were to be he had not 
 the slightest idea. He was in much uncertainty as to the nature 
 of a college. Was it a sort of factory ? The distant buildings, 
 which he had often looked at through his spy-glass, — a relic of 
 his seafaring life — might easTy be mistaken for mills. Did they 
 drill boys there, as on shipboard ? or what on earth did they do ? 
 When Barton explained their studies and recitations. Tommy 
 looked wise and nodded his head knowingly, but it is doubtful 
 iC he had any very luminous ideas on the subject. 
 
226 NORWOOD. 
 
 The Commencement-day proper was on Wednesday, but there 
 were services on Tuesday which Dr. Wentworth wished to hear, 
 and duties which, as a Trubtee, he had to perform, which required 
 him to go over on Tuesday. Tommy Taft was to come over on 
 Wednesday in an early conveyance arranged for this occasion. 
 
 The morning came. Rose and her mother were ready. The 
 doctor would let his own horses rest, and Hiram Beers was to 
 come with a stylish team and open carriage. 
 
 He came promptly upon appointment. The boys cheered him 
 as he left the stable. His deep chestnut- colored Morgan horses- 
 matched to a hair, — and, what is more rare, matched in gait and 
 spirit, — came out of the yard on tip-toe. They did not rear, nor 
 run sideways, nor kick. 
 
 " That would do under saddle," said Hiram ; " but when the 
 harness is put on, sech things is immoralities in horses. Why 
 them nags is well brought up. They are jest like good boys 
 goin' to meetin' on Sabbath-day ; they don't play, though they 
 may giggle a little." 
 
 Down the street went Hiram, looking neither to the right or 
 left, though every soul, right and left, was looking at him. Do 
 you suppose he didn't feel it ? 
 
 " Wal," said Tommy to him, as Hiram was loosening one 
 strap, drawing another a hole tighter, dressing a lock of hair 
 under the head-piece to tassel below the eyes, and tucking up his 
 pets generally — " wal, Hiram, you've done it this time." 
 
 " Of course I have, Tommy. Why not 3 " 
 
 " You've got a pretty pair of gals there, — a pretty pair as 
 ever I laid eyes on. A fellow might be proud of beiu' captain in 
 such a oonsarn." 
 
 " Wal, suppose I am proud. Tommy. What may a fellow be 
 proud of, if he mayn't be proud when he's got sech a team aa 
 that afore him, and sech folks behind him as I'm goin' to drive 1 
 I tell you Wentworth's a whole team, and his wife's a woman, I 
 tell ye ! and Rose," said Hiram, slapping his leg in a kind of 
 ecstasy — " Rose is — weU, she's enough to make a feller cross 
 "cause he ain't young and handsome and rich, and she in love 
 with him I I tell you. Tommy, I'm out for a day of it. And it'a 
 my opinion that Solomon, in all his glory, never went over to 
 Commencement rigged out like this." 
 
LEAVING COLLEGE. 227 
 
 The conversation was cut short by the an-ival of th 3 Cathcarts 
 Dr. Buell and Judge Bacon were to go over, and Mr. Brett, Mr, 
 and Mrs. Templeton, and several families besides. This year all 
 Norwood felt complimented that one of its boys was to carry off 
 the honors. 
 
 ,Hiram took the lead. Not a smile was on his face. His 
 small eyes flashed out from under his projecting eyebrows with 
 uncommon brightness, and his good spirits showed themselves 
 in endless speeches to his horses ; in salutations to every body 
 'ihat he met, whether he knew them or not ; in a neat touch of 
 his whip on a dog that ran out to salute the company ; in twirl- 
 ing the lash round the neck of a goose that stood pensively look- 
 ing at the road full of people, and draggiag her several yards, 
 Baying: 
 
 " Come along ; don't squawk ; lots of your sort been to col- 
 lege afore you." 
 
 They soon came to the bridge across the Connecticut. Hiram 
 must have a word with the woman who took toll. She was some 
 sixty years old, of sandy complexion, with a thin and hard face ; 
 her large spectacles, mounted on the top of her head, looked, as 
 Hiram said, " like the dormer windows in the roof of the doctor's 
 house." 
 
 " Miss Palfry, have you seen a man come across here this 
 
 mornin' — a rather big man — a little cast in one eye — looks as 
 
 though he was winkin' at you all the time — red hair, wears it 
 
 long — and has a red handkerchief round his neck ? Rides on a 
 
 • gray horse — well, something of the size of Cathcart's yonder ! " 
 
 " A man with red hair and handkerchief? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "•On a gray horse ? " 
 
 " Yes — with a long tail." 
 
 " Let me see— Polly 1 — ^here, Polly 1 — have you seen a man 
 this mornin' comin' across, with red hair?" Hiram struck in — 
 " With red hair, and white-tail horse ? " 
 
 " About what time ? " 
 
 " How do I know ? That's what I want to find out. He had 
 a porkmanty behind him, and a green umbrella." 
 
 " Wal, I guess he han't come along yet. Shall I tell him anj 
 thing if he comes J " 
 
228 NORWOOD. 
 
 " Yes ; tell him that I think he had better stop, when he git* 
 where he wants to go to.'' 
 
 And with that he gave a sharp cluck or sort of throat-whistle, 
 which every horse understands, and in a moment disappeared 
 in the covered bridge. The woman looked after hinj with the 
 slightest possible look of humorous vexation. 
 
 " Go 'long, you old fool I I don't believe he's expectin' any 
 body. Well, I shall learn one of these days not to believe a 
 word Hiram says. Might a known he was quizzin' — shouldn't 
 wonder if he died laughin', and cracked jokes at his own 
 funeral 1 " 
 
 " Hiram," said Dr. Wentworth, " who is this man you inquired 
 for ? " 
 
 " Well, sir, when I find out, I'U let you know. A long bridge 
 to walk over. Doctor ? " 
 
 " Do people always mind the law, and keep upon a walk V " 
 
 " That depends. When the boys are on a spree, and have 
 had a little suthin', I alius raises a trot about here : they thinks 
 the bridge too long. But when a feller's along •sjith his gal, he 
 alius thinks the bridge too short ; and he's particular about keep- 
 in' the law. Only last week I was about here, and I heerd a 
 sort of smack behind me, and the horses thought I was chirrupin' 
 for 'em to go on, and started oft". But I cooled 'em down and 
 began to whistle like, so that you couldn't hear any little sound. 
 The fact is. Doctor, young folks will be young folks, and I never 
 was one of them as wanted to larf at 'em. Let 'em have their 
 time. I think it rather beautiful-like to see young folks take to 
 each other. The Lord knows they'll have trouble enough afore 
 they get through livin' with each other, and it would be a shame 
 to spile the beginnin', when it's all sweet and pretty like. 
 
 ■' No," said Hiram, virtuously straightening up ; " when Zeke 
 Lash driv over one day, and interrupted some little cooin' and 
 billin' that he had no business with, and I heard him teUin' of it 
 in the stable — ' You're a darned fool,' sez I, ' and if it had been 
 any of my folks, I'd made you taste the horsewhip, every inch of 
 it, from the tip of the lash to the butt end. I'd as soon throw 
 stones at the birds whirlin' and kissin' in the air. Wlien they 
 are old, and we're used to 'em, I don't object to throw a stone oi 
 two at a robin. But any feller that would do it when (;hey fljiit 
 some, he's a mean cuss I " 
 
LEAVING COLLEGE. 229 
 
 But other business soon diverted Hiram's attention. AJtei 
 leaving the bridge, and while he was driving at an easy trot, 
 there came up behiud him a span of horses, driven by Zeke Lash, 
 who held out in Norwood that no man could iqual him in the 
 management of horses. Watching his chance, he dashed by 
 Hiram. Without turning his head, just as he slid past him, 
 Zeke looked at Hiram out of the corner of his eye, with a glance 
 which pierced him, as if it had been a sting. 
 
 Hiram changed his tobacco from the left to the right side o. 
 his mouth and chewed it with uncommon energy. But in no 
 other way did he show that he felt himself ill used. 
 
 " Who is that, Hiram, that drives such a, fine team ? " said 
 Dr. Wentworth. 
 
 "It's Zeke Lash. He and Overman have set up a new 
 stable." 
 
 " What sort of a fellow is he ? I've seen him about the streets 
 a good deal lately." 
 
 " Wal, he's cute. There's nobody else that can touch him 
 with a ten-foot pole in pickin' out horses. As for tendin' and 
 drivin', he's a perfect revelation — a new dispensation, miracles 
 and all. At any rate, that's his own opinion about it." 
 
 " And do you think so too, Hiram ? " 
 
 " I have my own opinion. He's cunnin' enough, that's sar- 
 tain. You never know what he'll do. He's like my old Tiger. 
 He'll be good-natured for weeks, and spme day, when you ain't 
 thinkin' on't, he'll give you a lift with his heel and land you 
 t'other side of the bam. But it's not my way to talk about him. 
 Mebbe he'll keep ahead of me. all the way to Amherst. He's got 
 a light wagon, and only two in it, and I'm drivin' five. Never 
 mind 1 " 
 
 As they drew near to the village the road inclined upward. 
 Hiram had kept well up behind, and forced Zeke to trot up hill 
 steadily. Just as they came to the street, where a wider track 
 gave him opportunity, Hiram gave a low hiss, which acted on 
 his horses like fire on powder. Hitherto their trot had been gay, 
 nimble and graceful, with short and springy steps. At Hiram's 
 signal they instantly let out a long reaching pace, crouching 
 down nearer the ground ; and swinging with a freer action, they 
 canght Zeke's team, that now had gone into a thundering pace, 
 
-!3() NORWOOD. 
 
 held it for a moment, just to make sure that it was doing all 11 
 could, and that all was fair, and then viith a speudid rush t) ej 
 swept away from them and rolled back the clouds of dust in 
 their faces. 
 
 The whole thing was so sudden that Dr. Wentworth had no 
 time to protest against coming into town at such a rate. Rose 
 excited with the race, was even more delighted with the humor 
 of the whole thing — with Hiram's characteristic shrewdness and at 
 her father's ludicrous position. The boys cheered, and not a few 
 judges of horses nodded as they went past, as much as to say : 
 
 " That'll do, Hiram ! " "I guess that will do," said Hiram to 
 his nags. " We'll save up the rest till next time. Whoa ! come 
 down, beauties, — come, come, childen — don't be agitated," said 
 Hii'am, in his blandest tones; " remember where you are, boys I 
 Whoa I that's enough ! nicely done, ponies 1 " 
 
 " I tell you," said Hiram, turning slightly toward the doctor, 
 " these horses are jest as near human as is good for 'em. A good 
 horse has sense jest as much as a man has ; and he's proud too, 
 and he loves to be praised, and he knows when you treat him 
 with respect. A good horse has the best pints of a man without 
 his failin's." 
 
 " What do you think becomes of horses, Hiram, when they 
 die ? " said Rose. 
 
 " Wal, Miss Rose, it's my opinion that there's use for horses 
 hereafter, and that you'll find there's a horse-heaven. There's 
 Scripture for that, too." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Rose, a little surprised at these confident asser- 
 tions. " What Scripture do you mean ? " 
 
 " Why in the book of Revelations ! Don't it give an account 
 of a white horse, and a red horse, and black horses, and gray 
 horses ? I've allers s'posed that when it said Death rode on a 
 pale horse, it must have been gray, 'cause it had mentioned white 
 once already. In the ninth chapter, too, it says there was an 
 army of two hundred thousand horsemen. Kow I should like 
 to know where they got so many horses in heaven, if none of 'era 
 that die ofi" here go there ? It's my opinion that a good horse 'a 
 a darned sight likelier to go to heaven than a bad man 1 " 
 
 With this Hiram rounded up with a driver's flourish before 
 the house at which the doctor and his party had taken roomB. 
 
LEAVING COLLEGE. 231 
 
 Already the town was astir with extitement. Commence- 
 ment-week is 'he one week of the year that evjry family, from the 
 highest to the lowest, feels alike. Commencement-day is the 
 rival of Thanksgiving-day. New England has always been 
 economical of holidays. Christmas she threw away with indig- 
 nant emphasis, as stained and spattered with Papal superstition. 
 The only two festivals were Thanksgiving-day and Fast-day— 
 the last to put in the seed with, and the former to celebrate the 
 year's harvest. New England never made provision for amuse- 
 mepts. 
 
 Amusements have for ages, in Europe, been the bribes which 
 governments threw to the people for their political rights. 
 Fiddles were cheaper than ballot-boxes. Kings, formerly, would 
 pay liberally to amuse, but nothing to instruct. The old 
 Puritan, regarding games and amusements as poisonous flowers, 
 •whose odor bewitched the senses and stupefied manhood, 
 abhorred them. It was not a hatred of pleasure, but of the 
 seductive purposes to which it had been cunningly put. 
 
 It was the practical philosophy of New England that a free 
 and intelligent people, thrifty in business, managing their own 
 matters, and zealously occupied in building up the common- 
 wealth, had excitement enough and variety of interest enough in 
 their normal afiairs, and that earnest men did not need, like 
 children, to be fed on frolic and amusement. This view was 
 carried to an extreme. But it was a reaction from a use of 
 amusements which was degrading to manhood and inconsistent 
 with the freedom of the commonwealth. 
 
 On the next morning Rose was called early, for her fathei 
 wished to see the sunrise from the college chapel-tower. Many 
 men graduate from Amherst without knowing that they leave 
 behind them unseen one of the fairest sights that wiU ever bless 
 their eyes — a sunrise from the chapel-tower. 
 
 It was yet a half hour before the sun would come over the 
 Pelham hills ; but the east was all aglow. Scuds and scarfs of 
 cloud seemed shot up from below the horizon as if from a crater 
 of colors. Long beams of light rayed out, fan-form, as if there 
 had been a fibrous structure to the light. 
 
 They had scarcely turned to look upon this flaming East 
 oefore they were joined by Barton Cathcart. who had in some 
 
'i'^2 NORWOOD. 
 
 unaccountable manner learned of Rose's intention to see the son 
 rise upon the valley of the Connecticut. 
 
 They had hardly exchanged greetings when the sun .?hot its 
 light along the notched ridges of the hiUs on the south, of 
 \vhich Mt. Holyoke and Mt. Tom are the westward summits. 
 
 At the same instant it glowed along the west, and upon 
 Sugar-loaf at the north. In a moment more the valley, in its 
 l«ii_th and breadth, was full of light. A slender film of white 
 hovered along the line of the Connecticut river. Beyond it, 
 sUining out and glittering, the white-housed villages gleamed from 
 among the trees on the far hill-sides. 
 
 " This is 'i scene less admirable but more lovely," said Dr. 
 Wentworth, '• than many which men travel far to see." 
 
 " Father, you have seen the sun rise on the Rigi and upon 
 other Swiss mountains ? " 
 
 " Yes, It is a sight of unequalled grandeur ; but from high 
 mountains the landscape is generalized by its distance from the 
 eye. It excites the imagination more than the feelings. It in- 
 spij'e.s a kind of separateness and lonesomeness, which seem to be 
 coustituent elements of the sentiment of grandeur. 
 
 '• But if uue would feel nearness and affection — perhaps lower 
 l)ui, more pleasurable emotions — he must be near the objects seen. 
 A bill for prospect should be so placed as to get a wide view 
 without great elevation." 
 
 " Barton," said Rose, " is this a favorite resort of the students 1 " 
 
 " I suspect not," said Barton, smiling as if the idea were even 
 comical. " I have been here many scores of times, both at morn- 
 ing and at evening, and I remember to have met but once or 
 twice any of the boys here. Indeed, I have been attracted to it 
 by its solitude." 
 
 " You must have seen this valley in many fine varieties of 
 atoxosphere," said the doctor, " if you have frequented this place. 
 ti'ew persons that I meet seem to have been struck with the 
 variety which nature produces by vaporous vestments. We 
 notice the atmosphere in its extreme conditions, but not in all the 
 thie intermediate gradations. The world puts on a thousand 
 garments, and seldom two alike. Men and women are so busy 
 with their own apparel that they have no time to behold tlie 
 wonderful vestures which God lets dowh upon the earth." 
 
LEAVING COLLEGE. 233 
 
 Barton's appearance was striking. Roso's presence, hii> owii 
 approaching farewell to the scenes of so much enjoyment, stirred 
 him to the utmost feeling. But, according to his nature, ha 
 repressed all signs of it, and grew calm as he grew intense. Yet 
 the light came through. His face had a high and commanding 
 look, and every word he spoke came as a tone comes from a 
 cliord well strung. Yet there was no stolen glance at Rose. 
 There was neither hiding nor revealing. There was on both 
 parts simplicity and ingenuousness. 
 
 " Some mv/rnings there must have been which stand out in 
 your memory with peculiar force ? " said Rose. 
 
 " Scarcely two have been alike. But some few stand out 
 with extraordinary distinctness. One morning I came up here 
 when the whole valley lay tranquilly in a fog. Only the tops of 
 Holyoke and Tom appeared, and they were like islands in a wide 
 sea. It was very impressive. It seemed as if a flood had sub- 
 merged the earth and drowned all the living people, and I was 
 left a solitary spectator, looking out over this wide, desolate and 
 silent sea. But as soon as the sun rose, its action was magical. 
 There seem to be in vapor very difi'erent degrees of sensibility to 
 the sunlight. It is often sluggish, and is little affected by hours 
 of sunshine. But that morning, no sooner did the rays pierce it 
 than it began to writhe and twist and roll up in all forms of 
 convolution, as if suffering pain. In a moment openings ap- 
 peared, through which I saw the earth beneath, and the first 
 distinct picture happened to be Norwood itself, which I looked 
 down upon as through an open window in the heavens whose 
 sides shut out all else. The whole scene lasted scarcely half an 
 hour." 
 
 " What was the other one ? " 
 
 " It was an evening scene. I was on the east side of the 
 college, when I noticed a singular glow in the air. The grove, 
 the students, every thing seemed roseate. I knew that something 
 was going on worth seeing, and made for this place as speedily 
 as possible. The scene that burst on me was wonderful. The 
 heavens seemed to be drenched with rose-color. All the west 
 glowed with it. It ascended to the zenith. It seemed to poui 
 over and down to the very horizon in the east. A slight haze, or 
 rather scales of thin vapor filled the hemisphere, and these wert 
 
234 
 
 NORWOOD. 
 
 saturated with rose-color. Gradually it changed to flame-color, 
 
 and then the landscape was more wonderful still. Fearful, it was. 
 It seemed to be like a universal conflagration. I thought of the 
 language of prophecy, When the moon shall be turned to blood ; 
 and of that Great Day when the elements shall melt with fervent 
 heat. The whole world stood in an unnatural trance, and the 
 most familiar things looked wild and almost fearful. But the 
 vision was of short duration. Suddenly, and while I was look- 
 ing, the color was caught up again out of the air. Things re- 
 sumed their common look, and the glory had left no effects 
 behind." 
 
 " No effects ? " said Rose. " Did it not leave its effects upon 
 your mind ? Did it not leave a new color in the imagination f 
 new conceptions of Divine power ? " 
 
 " In truth it did. It awaked all my mother in me 1 " 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 " My mother has the sense of inflniteness and mysteriousness 
 more than any that I have ever known. Something of her spirit 
 I have inherited." 
 
 " I know what you mean," said Rose, quickly. 
 
 " Tliis is the true moral effect," said Dr. Wentworth, " of the 
 more impressive natural phenomena. Men grow intensely egotis- 
 tical. They are saturated in human life, aa if God had made 
 nothing but men, and men only in their everyday uses and 
 employments. Whatever gives a shock to this trite egotism, and 
 awakens, even for a moment, in men, a sense of God's presence 
 in all nature, cannot but inspire a more wholesome spirit than 
 that which usually frets and weaves out the over-busy day. 
 
 " Such days as Barton mentions stimulate one with surprise, 
 and serve, as is said, in medical practice, as alteratives; but I 
 ciDubt whether a recurrence of them would give so much pleasure 
 as is derived from days of ordinary sunshine. Nothing is so full 
 of joy to me as the simple sunshine of days following rains o 
 snows, when the atmosphere is washed clean, when the blue 
 deep and sober, when all objects rise before the eye clearly 
 defined, and with what seems to me, always, earnestness. There 
 is an exhilaration in simple sunlight. A flower is beautiful ; 
 forests and mountains are noble ; clotds measure the whole scale, 
 from simple beauty to superlative ^jnindenr. But after all, sun 
 
LEAVING COLLEGE. 235 
 
 light, as an object of pleasure, of admiration, and even of affec- 
 tion, in the sense in which tlie term is applied to insentient 
 things, is far beyond them all. There are no storms or convul- 
 sions in it. Its wa-\'es iill up the universe, but never rage nor 
 utter sound. There you have unwasting power, in utter silence. 
 Sounds are very impressive, but silence is far more so ; and U 
 me no silence is like that of universal sunlight. Out of its still 
 ness come all those energies which awaken life upon the globe 
 It is father of the forest and the field. It creates the currents of 
 the ocean and the storms of the air, and yet the sunlight itself is 
 forever tranquil. It is to me the most impressive feature of the 
 world. It is that symbol which most nearly represents the uni- 
 versality of God, the energy and fruitfulness of Divine power, 
 and its modesty, as well. 
 
 " For, I often reflect how it seems to hide itself, by revealing 
 all the objects of creation. It lives and rejoices in what it 
 creates. But sunlight itself is far more beautiful, infinitely more 
 wonderful than are the innumerable broods of life that spring 
 from it. When I am in perfect physical health, there is no 
 delight which I am more grateful for than a simple stmshine, in a 
 clear atmosphere. I never so much wonder as then at that 
 unaccountable propensity of men to forge religious symbols. 
 
 " I admit the need which men have of some concrete repre- 
 sentation of invisible truths. For that express purpose tht 
 whole globe has been fashioned. But men are absolutely afraid 
 of Materialism in religion 1 They dread to use the instruments 
 which God ordained. With the saddest egotism, they set up 
 artificial signs that at best but poorly suggest the pure, the true, 
 the good, the infinite. Stars and suns give way to candles; 
 cotton and wool from the loom set aside the garments of light 
 with which God glorifies the world ; and while ten million 
 Bowers around the world ofier perfume, men bum handfuls of 
 frankincense in cramped temples. When the perfect day comes, 
 all men will worship, and in Nature they wiU find all the symbols 
 needed to set forth the glory of the incommunicable God." 
 
 " But, father," said Rose, " did not God himself appoint 
 ritual and symbols for his people ? " 
 
 " For a stone-race, too gross to understand the imagery of 
 nature, he gave, as it were, a translation designed to bring then: 
 
236 NORWOOD. 
 
 back to the primal and grander temple service. When this had 
 answered its purpose, he abolished it, and in the Advent he swept 
 altar and vestment away, and, opening the realm of Nature, he 
 revealed the hidden truth that it was the realm of Grace." 
 
 " But, my dear father, is not nature corrupt ? " 
 
 " What nature ! Human life is corrupt enough ; but is this 
 habitable globe, its generous tones, its munificent seasons, its 
 pictorial scenery, its marvellous processes, its gorgeous imagery, 
 its days and nights, summers and winters, its oceans and air, and 
 sun and sunlight, are these corrupt ? Since when have the 
 heavens ceased to declare the glory of God ? " 
 
 Barton and Rose had met during his college course several 
 times. Yet, their intercourse had been so different from former 
 days, when they met every week, that it was in effect separation. 
 
 Those who are ripe and fixed in their opinions may be separa- 
 ted long without losing sympathy or acquaintance. But in 
 youth, when the mind is just opening, when opinions are 
 changing, and while the whole character is subject every year to 
 the impress of new forces, a long separation is, virtually, the loss 
 of acquaintance, particularly with persons of a deep nature. 
 Conscious of great changes iu themselves, and supposing like ones 
 to have taken place in others, there is an exquisite curiosity to 
 know each other again, and to prove whether both have grown 
 in sympathy toward a common centre, or whether development 
 has been dissimilar and repellent. There is in every sensitive soul 
 a fine jealousy that refuses, after long separation, to be taken 
 again at the old estimate. Barton did not commit the mistake, 
 either in manner or feeling, of saying : 
 
 " We shall be intimate now just as we were four years ago 1 " 
 His manner said, " Four years ago, as boys and girls, we were 
 triends. You have passed on to a higher level." 
 
 Rose had more than attained to the utmost boimds which his 
 imagination had ever placed for improvement. Barton, more 
 than ever, felt in her presence a kind of hopelessness. His lov? 
 for Rose had with manhood gained strength and breadth. The 
 Interviews during his sen:'or vacation had shown no change in 
 her but the regular and beautiful evolution of a nature that had 
 inherited without struggle the harmony which in others comes by 
 violent conflicts, or »"* «* .>u if she hsd seemed good and 
 
LEAVING COLLEGE. 237 
 
 noble before, she seemed to his riper judgment yet lovelier, anrl 
 further removed from need of him. 
 
 But the consciousness of a feeling far deeper than he sup 
 posed Hose suspected, the constraint which he laid upon it, the 
 attempt which he made to leave Rose free from the slightest 
 pressure of his wishes and feelings, wrought a kind of formal 
 manner — at times, almost coldness. He was not acting from a 
 selfish pride, unduly sohcitous for his own standing, but from a, 
 high and conscientious determination not to embarrass the 
 woman whom he most honored and loved. 
 
 When Tommy Taft reached Amherst on Commencement-day, 
 his first desire was to ascend the hill and inspect the coUege 
 buildings. In the confusion of the day, he might easily have been 
 left to find out his own way without benefit of explanations. 
 Indeed, he had gone alone up to the college buildings. He had 
 looked curiously in at the dormitories, had gone to the chapel, 
 and looked wonderingly at the recitation rooms, and with some 
 sui-prise at the " crockery shop," as he called the room of philo- 
 sophical instruments. But, luckily, he met Hiram Beers, whose 
 frequent visits to Amherst had made him familiar with every 
 portion of its grounds and buildings. Under such good pilot- 
 age, Tommy Taft proceeded to the Library, whose magnitude 
 impressed him profoundly. Drawing near to Hiram, he said, 
 with a knowing wink : 
 
 " That is what they come for, eh ? " 
 
 " What do you mean, old fellow ? " said Hiram. 
 
 " They come to college to read all them books ? I don't 
 •ronder it takes 'em four years. Do you s'pose Barton has got 
 all this inside of him ? " 
 
 " Very likely," said Hiram ; " but it's mighty poor feed, I 
 should tnink ; for the fellers that read most git the leanest." 
 
 " Do you know which end they begin at ? " said Tommy, with 
 a curious awe. 
 
 " Wal," said Hiram, " Tve been here before, but I never saw 
 many folks a readin' here. I guess the fellers play ball pretty 
 much all summer, and read winters." 
 
 They proceeded to the Natural History Cabinets. Tommy 
 was exceedingly delighted with the sheJs. They seemed to tak« 
 him back to familiar objects. 
 
238 NORWOOD. 
 
 " Now that's somethin' wuth seein'. But 1 never dreamed 
 there was as many bugs in all creation as they have stuck up 
 here. It's surprisin' 1 Wonder how they got 'em ? " 
 
 Hiram showed him into the geological rooms, where were 
 the famous bird-track slabs of Connecticut River, so dear to 
 Professor Hitchcock. 
 
 " There, Tommy. What do you think of that for bird- 
 tracks ? " 
 
 Tommy looked at them closely, with his head cocked first on 
 one side and then on the other. 
 
 " Them's pretty big birds, Hiram. But you won't make me 
 believe there was ever birds as heavy as that ! " 
 
 " Heavy as what ? " 
 
 " Why, heavy enough to make tracks in solid stones," said 
 Tommy, with a little indignation at being supposed capable of 
 such imposition. " I can stand a deal of stuffin', as I tell Dr. 
 Buell, when he preaches on the doctrines. Sez I, — Doctor I can 
 stand it as long as you can. If you ain't satisfied, jest go on and 
 fetch out some more. But I be darned, Hiram, if you can stuflF 
 me with these 'ere stories." 
 
 " Well," said Hiram, " I wa'n't there when they did it, but 
 they say it's so. You'd better ask Barton." 
 
 Tommy had not half satisfied his curiosity when he was 
 warned that, if he would hear the speaking, he must make haste 
 to the church where the Commencement exercises were to be 
 held. This village church was the antithesis of the Temple of 
 Minerva upon the Acropolis. That exhibited the utmost degree 
 to which symmetiy and beauty could be. carried. Taking the 
 other direction, this village church, which was a Grecian temple 
 with a cupola on its back, demonstrated how far it was possible 
 for man to jfo in the direction of monstrous ugliness. What can 
 be done in that case no one will ever imagine who has not seen 
 this remarkable effort at architecture. It left nothing more to 
 possibility in that kind. 
 
 Hither flocked rustic beauties. Hither streamed hundreds of 
 honest-faced farmers, whose sons were in college, or had been. 
 The procession was advancing and the band of music was fiUmg 
 all the air with exhilarating sounds. All was excitement and 
 bustle. 
 
LEAVING COLLEGE. 239 
 
 Bj great boldness and some strength, Tommy forced himself 
 near the front of the gallery, where he could see and hear all. 
 A sly use of his wooden leg was of great service. Did any one 
 refuse to move. Tommy, accidentally putting his wooden leg 
 upon his toe, never failed* to produce a sudden retraction of that 
 member. Of course, as he deftly slipped himself forward into 
 the crevice thus opened, he was quite unconscious of any mis- 
 chief. Any one could see that, who looked upon his hard, un- 
 moving face. 
 
 Through all the weary variety Tommy kept watch. Othen 
 changed pieces, went out and returned, but not Tommy Taft. 
 He came there to see Barton graduate, and that he meant to see, 
 without regard to time or fatigue. The heat wa" great, but 
 Tommy had found greater in the tropics. He wiped his face 
 with his great red cotton handkerchief, with such vigorous rubs 
 that one feared lest his features should disappear under such a 
 currying process. He joined heartily in all the applause which 
 was given one by one to the speakers. But when, at length, 
 Barton appeared, the old man seemed in raptures. " Now you'll 
 hear him. That's the boy ! Now, hark 1 " 
 
 At the passages which elicited commendation, Tommy's foot 
 joined in with an emphasis that left nothing to be desired in tht 
 way of noise. 
 
 Par different were Rachel Cathcart's feelings. Not far from 
 her son she sat, and when he rose, it seemed to her more as a 
 vision than a reality. Was this indeed her own son ? the very 
 babe that she had brought forth? the child which she had 
 tended ? the boy that she reared ? the little farmer that rose in 
 her memory as he used to appear when at work ? She was like 
 one in a dream ! His voice sounded strange in her ears. This 
 great crowd of people, all looking up with admiration and sym- 
 pathy, and her own son, the centre and cause of all 1 She 
 scarcely heard what he said. When loud plaudits startled her, 
 she looked as one roused from reverie. At length the valedic- 
 tory was delivered. It was indeed a farewell. Barton had felt 
 in his very soul, and probably more than any of his class-mates, 
 the fuU sentiment of parting, and it gave a tenderness and 
 solemnity to both his words and maimer which touched all the 
 audience to tears. 
 
240 NORWOOD. 
 
 When the services were closed, many there were who con 
 gratulated Barton. But, with a fine delicacy, there were more 
 who offered respectful congratulations to 'Biah Cathcart and 
 Rachel. Both seemed willing to avoid their son in such a crowd. 
 They extricated themselves from the throng, and repaired to theii 
 lodgings, that none might look upon the joy of a family whosi 
 love and pride had that day been so siguaUy blessed. 
 
tJHAPTER XXX 
 
 DOCTOE BUELL'S SOEEOW. 
 
 Tks trusteesof Norwood Academy consulted the nniveisal wW. 
 when they appointed Barton Cathcart to take charge of the insti- 
 tntion. He did not long hesitate. Local prejudice in Barton's 
 case was disarmed, and none more ardently urged him to accept 
 than those who had known him from his boyhood. On the other 
 hand, there were weighty reasons for assuming this position. It 
 gave liira an immediate pecuniary support. It spared him a pre- 
 cipitate choice of his profession. It brought him home for a term 
 (if years to his family, and especially to his mother. When the 
 transition from boyhood takes place, men are apt to assert their 
 individuality with some jealousy of parental interference, and 
 break away in search of their own liberty. After manhood is 
 reached, and something of the world is learned, men go back to 
 their homes with a love which is no longer a mere childish feeling, 
 but an educated affection, competent to weigh and measure. This 
 second love of a child to its parents is so much richer, deeper, and 
 more enduring than any other, that it is worth any price of inter- 
 mediate suffering. 
 
 But another reason more influential than aU was, perhaps, the 
 least demonstrative in his thoughts. He would be near to Eosa 
 Wentworth. 
 
 In this case, as in so many others in the life of every honorable 
 nature, his feelings proved wiser than any mere reasonings would 
 have done. Rose was not one likely to "fall in love." She 
 might grow to love. But it would be a gradual unfolding. 
 
 As she was benevolent, affable with all, buoyant in spirits, one 
 not deeply acquainted with her nature would be apt to imagine 
 himself rapidly advancing in her graces, and would flatter himself 
 that he had secured a sympathy which might be carried forward 
 by his own will to every range of love. But, in a full and large 
 nature, friendliness is but the outer court, love is the holy of 
 holies. Into that enters only the ordained of God. 
 
-!42 XORWOOD. 
 
 If Barton had been far wiser than he was in i-eading the 
 Bocrets of the heart, he could nut have done better than by 
 leaving his hopes to Time, and to the results of a renewed 
 intercourse, no longer a» children, ln^t Bf man and woman, devel- 
 oped by study, and ripened by some degree of experience in adult 
 life. 
 
 Barton entered upon his duties with a calm earnestness wliiob 
 roarlied his nature. His spirit was soon felt in the whole school. 
 Before the winter closed the Academy was filled to its utmost ca- 
 pacity. Selecting his own assistants, he brought to his aid those 
 who would work in full sympathy with him. 
 
 He did not confine his efforts to the scliool alone. The village 
 Lyceum opened for him a sphere of activity which he was not slow 
 to outer. 
 
 He was foremost among the young men in all exhilarating and 
 manly sports. He joined a military company, and becoming 
 deeply interested in military science, soon rose to the command. 
 In these and various other ways, Barton preserved vigorous health, 
 and that sympathy with active daily life which prevented him 
 from sinking into the recluse habits of a mere student, and from 
 every trace or trait of pedagogic formality. 
 
 In school he was the master, and out of school the genial 
 leader of the boys, and in both spheres raised them apparently 
 without an effort. 
 
 It was during this winter and spring of 1858 that two events 
 occurred that produced the greatest effects upon his after life. 
 Before we enter upon the first and most momentous it is necessary 
 to precede it by some notice of events which were in many respects 
 intimately concerned with it. 
 
 Our readers have already formed some opinion of Dr. Buell. 
 I !ut thus far it has been casual and exterior. We must ask them 
 now to go with us to the parson's house, and to see him in his 
 fiimily life, with all its peculiarities. 
 
 The minister's house was as white as paint could make it, and its 
 \ indow-blinds were of no flimsy Paris-green color, but of a good 
 3ld-fa~hioned green — so green that you would almost think it black. 
 Xdt a blind is of en on the front — all is closed, orderly, clean, 
 A front door-yard there is ; in one corner, an elm tree, whose 
 wide-curving branches were the only graceful thing about the 
 
DOCTOR BUKI-L'S SORROW. 243 
 
 (laoe, and, in the far cornei-, a cluini of lilacs, se^eii or eight 
 stems springing from a centre, and grown almost to the dimensions 
 (if trees. 
 
 At the back of the house was a vegetable garden ; and, at the 
 liir end, a stable large enough for a cow and horse, and for the 
 shelter of an old-fashioned chaise. An outlying lot of land suf- 
 Gced to furnish the hay required for the horse and cow, and a 
 small strip was devoted to potatoes. The horse was the parson's 
 favorite. He literally had no faults. He was never known to kick, 
 or to bite any thing but food. Hay constituting his principal food, 
 a larger quantity vras required than would have been if oats or 
 corn had furnished more concentrated nourishment in smaller bulk. 
 Nature, ever kind to her creatures, gradually enlarged the barrel 
 of the horse until his belly was puffed out far beyond any require- 
 ments of beauty. A large, mild, and sleepy eye revealed but half 
 the quietness of his disposition. His legs might be handled by 
 boys. You might sit down safely between his hind legs. There 
 was no liberty which you could not take, except that of fast 
 driving. You might pour a bushel of potatoes suddenly upon his 
 haunches without producing excitement — not, however, because 
 he was lifeless, but from mere self-possession ; for a peck of oats 
 (aluxury seldom ventured !) at the other extremity quickly showed 
 there was life in hU'... 
 
 He was safe. ' Slow and sure," was his maxim. When the 
 good parson was once seated in the chaise, the events were as fol- 
 lows: when the self-possessed animal, with his head and neck de- 
 clining a little below the line of his back, felt the reins in the 
 doctor's hands, he opened his eyes; and having been standing on 
 liis three legs, the fourth crooked up and resting on the edge of the" 
 hoof, he brought them all squarely under him, as if saying, 'I am all 
 here, sir!" Next the doctor pulled both reins, and they were 
 pulled. Then he lapped them both upon the back, with a gentle 
 slap, and pulled one of them with some decision. The time had 
 come. The horse started, I'alked into the road, and then, after 
 several admonitions, fell into an easy jog, which satisfied the par- 
 son's ambition. But no persuasion could carry that trot up the 
 slightest rise in the ground. It was this habit of stopping early 
 In ascending and starting again late in descending hills, that se- 
 snred to this matchless horse long life and immunity from atrpins 
 
244 NORWOOD. 
 
 Dr. Bnell innocently told Hiram Beers that he never used * 
 bottle of liniment in his life. 
 
 Hiram waited till the parson was out of hearing, and then 
 discoursed : 
 
 " Wal, I'd bet on that 1 Bottle of liuiinenf! I should as soon 
 think of liniment on a hoe-handle or a gun-stock ! That horse 
 thinks it's always Sunday, and that he's goin' to a funeral all the 
 while. I'd give any body five dollars to git three miles an hour 
 ont of that critter 1 If there was two of 'em they wouldn't go a 
 mile an hour, and four such horses — good gracious ! it would tak^e 
 a yoke of oxen to start 'em anyhow 1 " 
 
 If you enter the front door of the minister's house the walls 
 will shine upon you with the unblemished whiteness of " hard- 
 finish.'' Not a spot of dirt, not an engraving, not a picture, was 
 allowed to mar the fair expanse. The ceiling was white and glis- 
 tening, the side walls were white ; enter the parlor, a large room, 
 consecrated to company, and if the walls had been cut through 
 banks of snow they could not have been whiter or colder. The 
 sitting-room was white and clean. Tlie chambers were all white 
 and all clean, and every chamber was like every other one, and 
 they all together lay like half-a-dozen eggs in a nest. 
 
 One or two extraordinary water-color pictures, executed by 
 his wife, as the last consummate efforts of her expiring school-days, 
 had been framed in black, and now hung in the sitting-room. It 
 always pleased Dr. Buell to have visitors notice them, and hi< 
 invariable comment was, "My wife's paintings! — when she was 
 younger and less occupied. I am told that they are remarkable." 
 They certainly were. 
 
 A portrait also, much smoked and tanned, hung over the 
 fireplace. It was grim and sharp-eyed. Very badly paintoil. ii 
 gave one great pleasure in thinking, "Nobody ever looked liki' 
 that 1 " 
 
 The farnitnre of the house was very plain, in no wise tending 
 to self-indulgence. The single symptom of luxurious ease was the 
 rocking-chair. 
 
 But if once you sat d wn in it the illusory notion of luxury 
 vanished. It was wooden throusfliout. Only if some one was sick 
 in the house was there a cushion in it. Its joints by long use had 
 formed a complaining habit, and you might in any part of th« 
 
DOCTOR BUELLS SOKBOW. 245 
 
 house know whother the rooking-chair was in active use. We aro 
 obligod to say that it was a treacherous chair. The rockers hac! 
 been curved to such lines, that if you ventured beyond a very gen- 
 tle motion the chair would give a backward lurch, as if going over, 
 and tliei'e are few things more unsatisfactory to a sober-minded 
 person, careful of appearances, than to be carried over backwards 
 in the midst of a quiet conversation. It is true that the chair 
 never did go over. The shape of the rocker was such, that when 
 the victim had spread his arms and flirted his legs into the air, in 
 an involuntary effort at equilibrium, the chair stopped and set 
 itself firmly, as if it had been blocked, returning again to its nor- 
 mal state only upon a violent effort of its occupant. The neighbors 
 were aware of this propensity and avoided the chair. Strangers 
 usually had an experience with it. The good doctor, or his wife, 
 for the hundredth time, re-assuring them, " Don't be alarmed. It 
 won't go over. I never knew any body to fall ? " 
 
 The doctor's study was the room of the house. Two sides 
 thereof were occupied by shelves laden with hooks. The supply 
 of theology was large. The critical apparatus for studying both 
 the classical languages and the Hebrew tongue was ample. His- 
 tories, sacred and profane, abounded. Select English literature 
 was represented. The doctor's excellent sense was shown in the 
 exclusion from his library of all novels, against which, if we were 
 not writing a history which admits of no delay, we should pause 
 to speak. The Pilgrim's Progress, Milton's Paradise Lost, Scott's 
 Lady of the Lake, and kindred poems, Don Quixote, and two oi 
 three of the Waverley series, were found there. But these were 
 not, in his judgment, properly to be called novels. They were 
 lieneflcial stories. By novels he meant "fictions of an injurious 
 tendency." Accordingly, while he admitted that stories might be 
 sparingly read, novels were always to be avoided. 
 
 The order of the doctor's study was extreme. Regularity had 
 well nigh become formality. Could all his books have been of 
 one size, or could each shelf have presented an even line of well 
 matched books, it would have pleased him \\ell. 
 
 But in spite of him his books would be picturesque. Some 
 were in paper, and some in leather ; some were of octavo size, and 
 some duodecimo; some few had gilt backs, and others sombre 
 olack; paper barks in red, in green, in bHe, in gray, and r'lssei 
 
246 NORWOOD. 
 
 •till added to the miiture. Some fat and thick books stood 11 t 
 good-natured way, as If saying : " We've got all we want inside I " 
 while, next to them, some thin volume would look as if pinched in 
 its stomach and forever hungry for contents. There were aristo- 
 cratic volumes — tall, most respectable, and self-important; and 
 next to these, perhaps, a dumpy little volume, squat, like an asth- 
 matic shoemaker. 
 
 Even Dr. Buell, when the afternoon sun poured a yellow light 
 into his favorite study and lit up all the various faces of his books, 
 was conscious in a dim way that there was something more pleas- 
 aut in their looks than their mere order could account for. But 
 ideality had been well nigh left out in the composition of his mind, 
 and tlie logical faculty, strong by nature, had struck out its roots 
 by use into aU the ground, with such resolute and exhausting 
 growth that the imagination, like a fruit-tree caught in a forest, 
 could never grow larger than a bush, and bore neither fruit nor 
 blossom. 
 
 He was thoroughly good. Conscience penetrated every faculty 
 of his mind, and gave rest to none of them. As not unusually 
 happens, he felt most condemned for those very qualities in which 
 lie excelled. Neither weather, nor weariness, nor occupation, nor 
 sickness in any common measure could liold him back from those 
 ministratiuns which he had assumed. Unselfish to a degree unusual 
 even with the benevolent, he reproached himself every day witli 
 self-indulgence. Never sparing himself or his time when the poor 
 or the sick needed his ministerial offices, he carried in his heart a 
 feeling that he was guilty of much waste of time and of negligenf* 
 in the best use of tliat time which he employed. 
 
 With the material world he had no other relations than siicli 
 as served the practical and material wants of men. There w.r, 
 little beauty to him in the seasons, though much of usefuliie.-^. 
 C" ors had little charm for him. Forms seldom attracted his notice. 
 In short, the artist eye and the poet's sympathy for nature seemed 
 utterly foreign to his mind. 
 
 Mrs. Buell was one of those ^vonlen who, alone, are feeble and 
 colorless, but who, when joined to others, draw to themselves 
 the strenglli and character of their surroundings. Like a vine, 
 she bad all the strength of the tree around which she twined and 
 upon which she grew. Her father's house had been always the 
 
DOCTOR BUELL'S SORROW. 247 
 
 home of ministers visiting the town. She was educated to regard 
 ministers of the Gospel as the complete ideals of manhood. When 
 the prospect arose before her of being a minister's wife, she could 
 hardly convince herself that the Lord had reserved for her so great a 
 mercy. To her natural and ardent love of Dr. Buell as a man, she 
 added the uttermost reverence for his otBce, and her household 
 duties seemed to her a perpetual religious service, as much so as if 
 •hti had lived in a temple, he a priest and she priestess. With a 
 »weet, confiding nature she accepted her husband's mind, and 
 only used her own when his was not at hand. She never dispu- 
 ted his word or doubted his wisdom. And when, inadvertently, 
 she expressed views not in agreement wibh his, the moment he 
 disagreed with her she yielded and changed her opinion, as if a 
 God had spoken to her. This was not a grudging submission, nor 
 the fruit of duty, and still less was it in a subservient spirit. Like 
 pure water, she took the color of the sky and clouds that lay above 
 her. 
 
 Of a sweet disposition, always inclined to do right almost with- 
 out an effort, never doing enough, active beyond her strength, and 
 neat to a degree that no description can measure, she made the 
 Parson's home almost happier than he thought it ought to be. 
 
 "My dear Eliza, I sometimes am afraid that we have too many 
 good things in this life. Our chastisements are so few and so light 
 that I query whether God loves us, ' for whom he loveth he 
 chasteneth.' " 
 
 A slight blush of pleasure would come upon her delicate cheek. 
 Sometimes she would say : 
 
 " If our boy had lived, we -should have been too happy.'' 
 
 That boy died at twelve years of age. The neighbors thought 
 that he was not a saint. Therein they differed from his mother. 
 Besides him they had no children. That grief borne, all the rest 
 of their life seemed tranquil and prosperous. 
 
 Unconsciously and gradually her husband became her god. 
 All that he did was right. All that he said was true. He never 
 made mistakes. Not to like her husband was to be bad, of course. 
 To differ with him showed weakness of character. She repeated 
 his sayings with an infantine simplicity. She wondered that otlier 
 people did not talk more about him. Dr. Wentworth was a great 
 ■nan, because he was warmly attached to her husband. Sh« 
 
-4iS NOKWOUD. 
 
 would not hear a wor^ against Tommy Taft, and she took ererj 
 trord of his ppeeehes to her husband as literal and sober verity. 
 
 " There must be a seed of grace in him," she would say, "or 
 Lie would not be sd fond of good men.'' 
 
 We may be sure that this did not escape Tommy's eye. H« 
 would call at the Parson's house when he was pretty sure not to 
 be at home. 
 
 "The Doctor's not at Lome, yon say? That's my Inckl But 
 whai a blessin' to this tcjwn to have such a minister in'tl Sez I 
 to Hiram, t'other day, sez ], ' Hiram, you ought to be a better 
 man than yon be, seein' you have sech extraordinary preachin' 
 and example.' But Hiram, you know, marm, though nowise 
 vicious, is not given to speritual things. More's the pityl But 
 what a privilege it must be to you, marm, to be his wife! Re- 
 markable that sech a blessiu' should be given to just one woman I 
 Your husband don't never swear, marm, does he ? " 
 
 The start of unaffected amazement with which Mrs. Buell 
 echoed the word " swear ! " seemed infinitely gratifying to Tommy, 
 who raised and lowered his shaggy eyebrows several times, say- 
 ing with each movement : 
 
 "Of course not — of course not. I knew he didn't. If any 
 body had told me that Dr. Buell swore, I wouldn't a b'lieved ii 
 on oath. Impossible ! impossible I Jest think of it — the Doctor 
 swearin'. Oh, it's beautiful to see a man that don't swear and 
 don't want to. But really, marm — when you see how wicked 
 folks is— what ugly thintjs they will do — don't you think its kind 
 o' natural to swear ? N^ot profane swearin', of course, but pious 
 .i(wearin'.'" 
 
 " My dear," said Mrs. Buell to her husband, " d<m't you think 
 Tommy Taft is near to the kingdom? He seems to me to have 
 i;iuch that's good hi him. I can't but hope there's a work going 
 on slowly in him.' 
 
 "Yes — very slowly." 
 
 For several winters Mrs. Buell had suffered from colds. Each 
 year her system .seemed leiiis able to resist attacks and more and 
 more weakened by them. She was herself not aware of danger. 
 But her husband, instructed by Dr. Wentworth, was seriously 
 nceasy. As winter drew near, her strength seemed failing. Sha 
 •truggled bravely and hopefully. But each month reduced th« 
 
DOCIOR BL ELL'S SOKUOW. 249 
 
 nnmb«r of hours in which she coold attend to honsehold dudes. 
 Her face grew thin, but even more beautiful every week. Hel 
 eye was never brighter. Her cheek, like an October apple, 
 showed by its brightness that the harvest time was drawing near. 
 
 Not a word was spoken by either of them of that Great Fear, 
 which was dimly disclosing itself to hei, and which had long been 
 defined and clearly visible to him. 
 
 During the autumn, Dr. Buell had taken his wife, on variout 
 pretexts, to ride with him far oftener than was usual. As cold 
 weather approached, he prepared his house for winter witli more 
 care than ever before. New arrangements for heating were intro- 
 duced. The windows were calked and the doors listed to prevent 
 drafts of air. Little by little the whole economy of the household 
 revolved around this shadowy fear, of which no one spoke. Every 
 one acted as if a danger impended, but no one uttered a word of 
 it. Even to Dr. Wentworth Parson Buell spoke with muffled 
 indirections, as though to put his fears into words would give 
 them some advantage. 
 
 This could not last. Little by little the invalid yielded one 
 and another task, saying : 
 
 "I don't know what ails me, but I grow so weak.'' 
 
 In vain were tempting dishes prepared ; and jellies, cordials, 
 wines, with which parishioners filled the house, gave no strength. 
 The white upon her countenance grew whiter, and the scarlet 
 more intense. With a gentle reluctance, she gave up one after 
 another of her household duties, but strove to fulfil httle personal 
 Bervices to her husband. She looked over his linen every week, 
 and languidly repaired any little break. She laid out for him his 
 Sunday apparel, and saw that his clean white handkerchiefs were 
 iluly laid upon his coat. One by one, even these small but precious 
 duties of love were taken from her, and she seemed to herself, as 
 by some invisible power, to be drifting further and further away 
 from him. 
 
 It was one brilliant Sabbath morning in January that she had 
 prepared for her husband his white cravat, which for many years 
 she had fondly placed upon his neck, and tied in a perfect bow, 
 smoothing the ends, anl by dainty touches here and there giving 
 the look of neatness and simplicity for which Dr. Buell wai 
 noted. 
 
250 NOEWOOD. 
 
 On this morning the bell tolled long for the minister. The 
 deacons looked unea&ily toward the door. Such a thing as tardi- 
 ness was never known in Dr. Buell. What could keep him? 
 
 Deacon Trowbridge, big with an innocent sense of the impor- 
 tance of the matter, looked at the pulpit, then at Deacon Marble, 
 then into the broad aisle, and then closed his eyes for a moment 
 and cleared his throat. He repeated this service once or twice ir; 
 an edifying manner, and then slowly rose and went over to Deacon 
 Marble to consult. 
 
 First one whispered and the other nodded, then the other 
 whispered and the first one nodded; then both of them looked 
 perplexed. Meanwhile the boys tittered ; for while the deacons 
 were absorbed in each other. Dr. Buell had passed down the aisle 
 and entered the pulpit, and his voice, opening the service, put a 
 hasty end to the two deacons' perplexity. 
 
 What had detained him? 
 
 When he came that morning for his cravat, his wife with 
 trembling hands essayed her accustomed offices. She laid back 
 the collar of his vest, raised his shirt collar, and sought to clasp 
 his neck with the cravat, but her littje strength was gone. Pant- 
 ing, and smiling sadly, she sought to cover the failure by plaiting 
 the cravat a little ditferently, and again rose to place it round her 
 husbnnd's neck. 
 
 Her hand trembled and failed. Now, for the first time, the 
 grief brought forth the confession : 
 
 "Oh, my husband, I shall never do it again. I am dying, ,ind 
 I must leave you." 
 
 Clasped in his bosom, she gave way to a paroxysm of weeping. 
 There was silence. Tears poured down his face. With inefl^ible 
 tenderness he bore her to the bed, and kneeling down by her side, 
 he poured out his thanksgiving for all her love and service to hitn, 
 in broken sentences, wet with tears, as if it were an offering of 
 flowers wet with dew, and in solemn simplicity he gave her back 
 to God, from whose hand he had taken her. The clonds rolled 
 away. From that moment both of them spoke of her death with 
 tender frankness. 
 
 When he arose in the pulpit that morning his voice did not falter 
 There was neither weakness nor excitement ; but there was an ii 
 resistible fervor. Once or twise he came so near to the expressioD 
 
DOCTOR BUELL'S SORKOW. 251 
 
 9f feeling that all the house grew still, and the ticking of the round 
 clock on the singing-gallery could be plainly heard all over tht 
 church. It was but a moment's weakness, and his strong heart 
 overcame the tendency, and his work went on to the end unfaltur- 
 ingly. Few exer forgot the strange solemnity of that morning. 
 
 Meanwhile a new energy seemed to fill the minister's soul. Ab 
 he had been jealous always lest any thing should withdraw hiui 
 from his work, by any self-indulgence, so novi he was afraid of the 
 self-indulgence of sorrow. He left nothing unperformed that he 
 had been wont to do. He visited the schools with even more 
 fidelity than hitherto, he held liis neighborhood meetings, he was 
 present at all the committees and various circles, which fill up a 
 parish life. But the moment his tasks were done he flew back to 
 his wife's chamber. 
 
 From her childhood his wife had been a member of the church, 
 but, now that she was so soon to go forth from all temples made 
 with hands, her husband's deepest anxiety was as to her full prepa- 
 ration for the great change. Not one word had he ever uttered 
 to his congregation of the awful issues of the future, that he did 
 not now feel in her behalf who so long had walked with him to 
 the house of God. Day by day, he held up before her the search- 
 ing tests by which, since the days of Jonathan Edwards, the more 
 earnest New England Christians have tried themselves. 
 
 It would have been a great relief to his soul, if, instead of a 
 gentle, -languid submission to the will of God, she had been favored 
 with more earnest experiences. Her views of her own sinfulness 
 were correct, but without great strength. Her faith was mild, but 
 not strong. She was willing to go, but did not rejoice. She could 
 not say, for a long time, th;\t she was willing to leave her husband. 
 Still more trying was it that she had to confess, that she loved hei 
 husband more than any thing else. Her soul had as yet no wings, 
 but would cling and brood in its nest. 
 
 Her husband was jealous for the honor of his Master, and sin- 
 cerely'mourned that his beloved clung to him with such utter and 
 undivided love. 
 
 Agate Bissell, who had lived in the house e>«ir since Mrs. Buel 
 oeased to leave lier room, though profoundly sympathizing with 
 ;he minister in his religions views, yet had a sympathy with i 
 «roman's nature, which enabled her to help both of them. 
 
252 NORWooii. 
 
 "Why do you worry Jie poor child, doctor? She oan'l giv« 
 you up while the Lord keeps yon both together ! Seems to iJLe it 
 will be time enough to let go of you when the Lord takes off her 
 hand. As long as we are living God will give us living grace, and 
 he won't give us dying grace till it's time to die. What's the use 
 uf trying to feel like dying wlien you ain't dying — nor anywhere 
 I'car it? It seems to me that folks that are afraid of not following 
 he Lord, might sometimes be afraid of going before him when not 
 called." 
 
 Dr. BueU made no reply. He looked upon Agate with a 
 thoughtful, wondering look, as if grateful for unexpected help. At 
 length he said, as if hoping help in other points: 
 
 "I have prayed that the Lord would make to her a fuller dis- 
 closure of his glory, and that he would give her such an assurance 
 .>f her acceptance, as would leave us a comforting evidence after- 
 wards." 
 
 " You want your wife to be submissive to God's wUl. Are you 
 submissive? Are you willing that God shall show his sovereignty 
 by giving just such a dying experience to this poor child as he 
 pleases? She's been all her life clasping round you, tight as a 
 vine, and she's grown so. Now you want her to unclasp and let 
 go, just when she's so weak and trembling that she needs more 
 tlian ever she did the support of leaning on and loving you. You 
 are in danger of oppressing one of God's little ones, by putting the 
 burdens of the strong upon her. And as for her evidences, I don't 
 know why a whole life of consistent piety should be thrown away, 
 when you are groping iov feelings in a poor, feeble, dying creature, 
 that is too weak to mana<re her thoughts or feelings." 
 
 Dr. BueU was used to Agate Bissell's straight-forward sense, 
 and now he was more than willing to take the implied rebuke con- 
 tained in her words. Indeed, his solicitude, his fear of not being 
 faithful, his anxiety that nothing should be left undone in this last 
 great experience of life — departure from it — had somewhat dis- 
 turbed that nice judgment 'vhich he manifested in lainisteriug to 
 .)thers in their last sicknesses. 
 
 It was past the middle of February, and so near to March that 
 already its searching winds were abroad, when the crisis of Mrs. 
 Buell's disease was reached. On a Sunday morning, brilliant but 
 blnstering, Dr. Buell proceeded as usual to the church. His wif« 
 
DOCTOR BUELL'S SORROW. 253 
 
 bad not for a long time seemed so well. She lay propped up witl 
 pillows. Her wan and wasted face was refreshed this morning 
 with a return of almost childlike beauty. Flowers brought by 
 Rose Wentwiirth stood near. At her husband's appearance, » 
 ^ery sweet smile went over her face, and, as he stooped to kiss 
 her, she whispend : " The Lord is very good. He sends rao 
 great peace to-day. Good-bye ! Come back again soon, dear 
 husband I " 
 
 It was the Angel of Peace, who~e wings were already bearing 
 her up above all storms or sorrows I 
 
 Dr. Biiell was gone scarce half an hour before the suflferer 
 groaned with pain. For a few moments she seemed in anguish. 
 Suddenly she placed her hands on her bosom as if something had 
 given way. The experience of pain faded out of her face — a sweet 
 smile came. I'^lie seemed as if she was gazing at some surprising 
 sight. Agate spake to her — spake again. It was vain ! Other 
 sounds were now about her, and her voice was heard in other 
 realms I 
 
 Rose was sent to call Dr. Buell. He was in the closing passa- 
 ges of his sermon when he saw the door of the church open and 
 Rose enter. She cast upon him a beseeching look, and then, as 
 if hesitating, she turned and whispered to one who sat near. They 
 both went out into the vestibule. 
 
 Though agitated, his sense of duty in God's house inspired Dr. 
 Buell to finish the morning services in every particular. It wa" 
 not meet that his private feelings should disturb the services of the 
 «aiictuary I 
 
 No sooner had he come forth than Rose mot him. Without 
 waiting for her message, he said : 
 
 "Let us hasten! Is she worse? " 
 
 "Fo;— better 1" 
 
 "Is it so? Godlelpme!" 
 
 Bewildered and hardly conscious of surrounding things, he en 
 terod the room where his wife lay. He gazed long upon her. 
 Then, in a wandering way, he stretched out his arms and called 
 her, '• Eliza ! Eliza 1 " He sat down upon the side of her bed. He 
 placed his hands upon hei face. He took her poor little hand in 
 his. There was the wedding-ring, and no other had she evei 
 wornl All the past seemed to come back upon him. 
 
254 NORWOOD. 
 
 "Dead? Impossible! — Eliza I speak I just one woidl Speak! 
 Oh, my wife ! " 
 
 Then with all the fond names which he had over used he plea£ 
 with her. 
 
 Agate and Rose withdrew — let ns draw back 1 This first sor 
 row is for the soul's self only, and for God ' 
 
CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 THE TWO SEXTONS. 
 
 "GJooD morning, Mr. Turftnould," said Tommy Taft. "lint 
 ■Pfcether. Very busy you were yesterday ! — a solemn day." 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Taft, a fine funeral — as fine a funeral as ever 1 
 see. Such lessons must have an effect on the careless and 
 worldly." 
 
 "Tot: must be a judge of sech matters, by this time. Turf- 
 mould I " 
 
 " I've been in my business nigh about thirty years. I've done 
 most of the respectable bnryin' hereabouts, and though I say it 
 that shouldn't say it, I've as good judgment about a funeral as the 
 next man J " 
 
 " I thought the hull country had turned out. I never saw so 
 many folks in that church. There must have been fifty car- 
 riages." 
 
 " Fifty ? nearer a hundred ! Then there was six ministers 
 from out of town, besides all that lives here. Gener'ly a funeral 
 in the week time is like a shadow in one spot. But yesterday it 
 was a cloudy day all over town. Indeed, it was just like Sun- 
 day." 
 
 " Only a good deal more so." 
 
 " Yes — a good deal more so. It was certainly edifyin'." 
 
 " Ah 1 " said Tommy Taft, with a look of great simplicity, 
 " the ministers were all very well, but folks couldn't keep their 
 eyes off from you and that beautiful cofiBn." 
 
 "A better coffin was never brought into town. Poor thing 1 
 I knew her taste. She was awful neat. The last thing afore they 
 put the linin' in I went myself and stood the coffin on end, and 
 brushed it out, every crack and corner, just as she would have 
 done herself, poor sufferin' creature, if she had been there. But 
 she was a kind thing — very good to folks in distress, and I felt 
 like suitin' her if I could. I just said to myself, 'Turfmould, this 
 is tb? last time you can pay her back any thing for all she did (at 
 yunt child, poor thinj?I ' 
 
256 NOEWOOD, 
 
 " I tell yen Mr. Taft, I never quite liied the way that funeral 
 was served on my child t Tompkins hasn t got the feelin's thai 
 our profession requires. Do you s'pose I would take advantage 
 of him, if he'd had a body in his house, and one of his own bodies, 
 too, a child, or a wife, or somethin' like that ? That's no time to 
 run a fellow, when he's doin' his own m^urnin'. Nobody lovee 
 hjB child any better'n I did mine. And there wasn't a puttier girJ 
 ill this town, that was allowed on all hands. Yes, sir. They used 
 to call her the lily of the grave-yard — they did. Tb.at was a 
 delicate allusion to my bizness, you know. I hadn't expected that 
 she'd drop off. When I got back from Squire Cheney's funeral, 
 and was pnttin' up my boss, Pete he came out, and looked at me a 
 kind of wet and wild-like, and so I run past him, and went in. 
 Oh, dear me 1 I don't like to tell about it. My wife she didn't say 
 ;iny thing, and I didn't say any thing, and Rhoda didn't say any- 
 thing. She lay on the bed, and her hair hung down on the pillow, 
 and her face was white — and her mother never cried, and couldn't ; 
 she didn't look at me, nor at the poor child, neither, and didn'i 
 stir ; and I never saw two folks look so much alike as they two 
 did ; and both of 'era, you know, was called Rhoda ! I never was 
 in such a peck of troubles. I thought I'd go for the minister, and 
 then I thought of Dr. Wentworth, and just then, who should open 
 the door but the Doctor's Rose ? She'd been comin' every day, and 
 fetchin' things, and she loved Rhoda dearly. The child just wor- 
 rthipped Rose. Well, she came in and had some flowers, and she 
 walked straight up to the bed, and said, 'Rhoda, Rhoda,' and then 
 she sort o' came to the meanin' of things ; and she looked with 
 lier great blue eyes at the poor dead thing, with such a lovin' way, 
 that I ra'ly thought the child's face was gittin' brighter ; and once 
 T tlionght she was comin' to ; her face trembled like ; but it was 
 just my eyesight, — you know when tears .'ire movin' round you 
 can't see very correct." 
 
 At this he wiped his eyes with the ba^k of his hand; and 
 drawing a large red handkerchief from his pocket, In- gave a 
 sonorous blowing, sounding, as Tommy Taft said, like the rams' 
 hoi'us around Jericho. 
 
 "Well, I was sittin' on the foot, of the bed, tryin' to git ovei 
 It, when the door opened agin, and Rhoda's mother came in — thai 
 i« my wife's mother, yon know —and walked right up to the 
 
THE TWO SEXTONS. 257 
 
 mother, . And afore she had time to say a word, lihoda she rii 
 riglit up, niid gave such a scream as never wat heard afore, I dc 
 believe. It cum from the very heart. Oh, Lord, hov? it hurt mo ! 
 ■ Ehody, llhody,' sez I, ' don't for pity sakes! ' But I didn't need 
 to say so, for that's the last time slie ever opened her mouth. 1 
 don't wonder. There was a year's feelin' in thnt one scream, and 
 it killed her. She sort o' fell in her mother's arms, and Rose and 
 she got her on the bed, and she lay sleepin' like through the night, 
 and in the mornin' when the sun rose she was gone, and nobody 
 knew when she breathed her last. And then I had two bodies in 
 the house at a time. Providence don't often provide such ma- 
 terials for a funeral. Well, I found it putty hard. Rose, she sent 
 for Alice Oathcart, and they wouldn't let any body touch her but 
 themselves; and Rose, she put flowers 'round her, and said she 
 was the sweetest flower of 'em all; and Rose kept smilin' and 
 oryin' softly all the time, — and was as gentle, and lovin', and care- 
 ful of me as if I'd been her father ; and she cum to me when I sat 
 in the door, next day, feelin' as if I was dead inside and couldn't 
 feel, only my head it went on thinkin', — she cum and read the 
 Bible to me. At first I couldn't hear much, only her voice was 
 sweet and oomfortin'; but as she went on, I seemed to cum to 
 myself just as she was readin', ^AndJesus mid, Svffer little children 
 to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of 
 Beaven. And he tooh them up in his arms, and put his hands upori 
 thsm and blessed them.'' It seemed as if I heard somebody say this 
 in the air ; and I felt as if I knew what had become of Rhody, and 
 her mother, too — ^for she warn't raore'n a chUd herself — and I 
 bust into tears, and didn't feel as bad agin through the hull of it. 
 Well, at first I thought I should send down to Springfield 
 for a funeral. Tompkins hadn't done the right thing by me, 
 and though we never had any words, we'd had more'n enough 
 feelin's. He had a smooth wiiy of edgin' into ray custom. 
 When young Brace was buried, every body said, I ought to have 
 had it. 
 
 " And then he hadn't no family of his own, and there wasn't 
 no chance for me some time, in like circumstances, you know. 
 Well, this is the way I got out of it : I'd been sittin' still after 
 Rose left ofi^ readin', and I heard somebody talkin' in the room 
 where Rtody was — both of "em — and I went 'o the doo'-, and 
 
258 NORWOOD. 
 
 there was Rose and Alice kneelin' down by the pillow, aud Rose 
 was prayin'. Such a sweet prayer I never did hear. lu beat the 
 minister all to nothin', and it was full of thanks, and as happy as 
 a Spring bird is when he sets in the apple trees yonder and sings, 
 and when she stopped 1 went back and sot down, and all my 
 feelin's was changed and I said : ' Git thee behind me, Satan. 
 Tompkins shall have this funeral ;' and so he did. I'll say this for 
 bim, that I believe he tried to do about right. But nature is 
 strong, you know, and I did think he took on a leetle more than he 
 need to. Mebby, if it had been me, I should have done so too. It 
 makes a difference, you know, whose house a funeral's in. And 
 when we was all in the carriages, and the two coffins was in the 
 hearse, — he wanted two hearses, but that would not be in good 
 taste. I didn't like so much show, and besides, I knew the tuotljer 
 ought to keep her child close to her ; — and when the procession 
 was ready, he came walkin' up to see, for the last time, if all was 
 right, it wa'n't in human nature to keep in his satisfaction witli 
 the occasion! And when he mounted and sat down with the 
 driver on the leadin' carriage, I do believe there wasn't so proud a 
 man in this town. 
 
 '' Well, he was very kind though, and we've never had any 
 words since then ; and, considerin' the temptations of the business, 
 we are pretty good friends ; and so I thought it fair, when the 
 minister's wife was goin' to be buried, to show him some attention, 
 BO I asked him to officiate with me. Every body knew tliat it was 
 my funeral, and it looked right to let folks see that there wasn't 
 no jealuusN . I think such a great loss ought to proQ'ice a solemn- 
 izing etfect on every body, particularly the young. I always try 
 to make my funerals means of grace to somebody. Every body's 
 got to die. Nobody dies but once, though, and any good you're 
 goin' to git out of 'em you must git then. So I thou'jht I ought to 
 to ask Dr. Buell if he had any thing specially improvin' to suggest. 
 But he turned as pale as ashes when he saw me, and shuddered 
 all over as if he had a chill cotnin' on, and Agate Bissell, she said, 
 in a hurry like, as she pushed me out, that he wa'n't in a state of 
 mind to see me. 
 
 " But 1 went over to Tompkins, and he and I consitlted 
 ftbont it. 
 
 " ' Tompkins,' says I, ' this is a pecnliar occasion.' 
 
THE TWO SEXTONS. 259 
 
 "'Yes, says he, 'it is. It's enough t») make Jie's repnta 
 tion.' 
 
 " 'Now I want,' says I, 'to have just such a fuiieial as wouU 
 suit her, so that if she could como back, she'd say, " I !;hank you, 
 Mr. TurfmouM; you have done exactly to my mind." You know 
 that if there was a woman in this town who hated dirt, she's that 
 woman, and I think we're bound to respect her taste when she's 
 (ine just as much as if she's livin'.' 
 
 " ' Well, that's easy enough,' said Tompkins. ' We can slick 
 np every thing with extra care, and have a double inspection of all 
 the materials ' 
 
 "'Well, that of course; hut I was thinkin' about the grave. 
 Ttou know you oau't dig a grave and have no dirt. Deceive our- 
 selves as we will, you know we've all got to come to it, — dust we 
 are and to dust we return ; but then, you know, we can break the 
 matter gently like, keep a large tarpaulin lyin' over the dirt, and 
 then I mean to cover the outside box with turf^ which keeps the 
 gravel and stuff from rattlin' in when the cofBn is down.' 
 
 " ' That's a good idea,' sez he, ' and I think all your arrange- 
 ments are good. They are new, and ought to be fashionable.' 
 
 " ' I don't care for fashion,' says I. ' I think it will be comfort- 
 m' to the minister and respectful to her memory. I've seen things 
 managed quite the contrary. You know when Bidwell's wife 
 died, they put him in the coach with his sister-in-law, and they 
 tiad always quarrelled, and they didn't mend matters that journey. 
 Old Bidwell told me of it. Says he, ' If I ever have another funeral 
 you shall have it, Turftnould. Jones is no sort of a manager. He 
 just spoilt my wife's whole funeral. I never took a bit of comfort 
 in it from beginning to end.' 
 
 " ' But Dr. Buell had no reason to say that,' says Tompkins. 
 ' I am sure we did every thing that we could. I think Kyle beat 
 himself with those flowers. I never saw such splendid funeral 
 flowers. I didn't know what flowers was made for till I saw 
 wreaths, and crosses, and dishes. Flowers is certainly very useful, 
 and, if well managed, considerable profit may come from them.' " 
 
 For some reason Tommy Taft seemed to enjoy this exhibition 
 of professional feeling with the utmost inward satisfaction. He 
 let the sexton go on uninterrnpted, except a word here anl there 
 to get him forward again. 
 
1^60 NORWOOD. 
 
 " "Well, Mr. Turfmould," said Tommy, at length, " it's a serioui 
 loss to the town, but that's nothio' to whut 'tis to Dr. Buell. 1 
 really pity hia,. There's no mistake the minister feels it. He acti 
 as though be'd lost somethin', and didn't exactly know where *^t, 
 look for it." 
 
CHAPTER XXXn. 
 
 THH. FRUIT OP SORROW. 
 
 Nothing strikes all value out of the oi'dinary affaiis of life sc 
 soon as sorrow. It works alike in all, but the deepest natures are 
 the most affebted by it. A single blow descends, and the world is 
 changed, and rises before the eye as another creation. Yesterday the 
 soul surveyed its garden, to-morrow it will see only a wilderness. 
 
 Sorrows work upon the soul as late rains do upon vegetation. 
 All night a cold rain falls, and in the morning the leaves are gone. 
 The coverts are no longer shady, trees hold up bare branches, and 
 the air with every puff of wind is filled with leaves, languidly 
 descending to the ground. After the first shock and excitement 
 of grief, which sometimes carries the soul high up toward serene 
 experiences, comes the reaction. The nerve of pleasure is paralyzed. 
 All objects report themselves to the senses in sombre colors. 
 Values are changed or destroyed. Life is empty and effort useless. 
 In thoughtful natures next arise anxious questionings. The break- 
 ing up of the heart seems, for a time, to overturn the conclusions 
 of the reason itself. Men doubt their most settled beliefs, and bold 
 skepticisms invade the secret calm of Faith. While the nobler 
 sentiments are silent and torpid, there spring up in their place 
 sudden repulsions and capricious disgusts. 
 
 The valley and shadow of Death is not dreadful to those who 
 pass through It, but to those who follow after but may riotpasa 
 through 1 
 
 Dr. Buell, whose simplicity was childlike, felt himself strangely 
 tempted. Such terrible thoughts never before assaulted him. For 
 a refuge he sought his study, that there in pious meditations and 
 devotions he might combat the adversary. 
 
 But, after a little, he fled out of it as from a furnace. Such 
 liorrible doubts assailed him — such wicked feelings coursed through 
 his heart, that he almost believed himself given over of God. Hia 
 very struggles increased his difficulty. They heightened the ex- 
 citement, and carried him further from rest and nearer to a morbid 
 •ondition. His discourses on the first Sunday after the burial of 
 
262 NOKWOOLi. 
 
 his wife were even more impressive than usual, and his Hook 
 admired the faith which lifted him above such sorrow. On th» 
 second Sundiiy a marked change was visible. His sermon, like hi* 
 own soul, was irregular and unbalanced. Toe quick eye of Dr. 
 Wentworth discerned the minister's condition. Now it was thai 
 friendship could make itself felt. He affected to have much neeil 
 of the minister. He carried him to-day in one direction to counsel 
 a dying person, to-morrow he consulted him respecting some 
 orphan children. It was necessary, too, it seemed,' that he should 
 go with Dr. Wentworth to a school district lying remote from the 
 village. During these rides, which were every day varied, he 
 gently drew from the minister an account of his experiences, and 
 prescribed so skilfully for both his moral and his physical need 
 that months of suffering, and perhaps the usefulness of his life, 
 were saved. 
 
 " Nothing exhausts vitality faster than the exertion of the will," 
 said Dr. Wentworth. " Already the tone of your nerves is lost. 
 You are still further reducing yourself by attempting to restrain 
 and combat irregular and morbid action by simple will-power. 
 The disease and the remedy are both of them exhausting you. 
 Let yourself alone. Avoid solitude. Turn to the help of others. 
 Take on business which will occupy without tasking your mind. 
 Nothing is half so medicinal for our troubles as benevolent 
 sympathy and occupation in the troubles of others. This is the 
 true moral recreation." 
 
 "But is it right, doctor, that one should seek relief from trouble 
 sent of God, except by going to the hand that has afflicted? " 
 
 " He seeks God who accept.-' His laws," said the doctor. " Th« 
 best preparation for personal communion is a devout fulfilment of 
 the duties owed to God through natural laws. He who asks God's 
 help should at least show respect to his laws, and not make prayer 
 merely a petition for the suspension of the penalties of the violatei" 
 laws of mind." 
 
 Dr. Wentworth's efforts availed so far as to rescue the ministei 
 from the danger of breaking down in health. Little by little hi 
 spirits rose. Yet life seetned changed and emptied. He turned al 
 his powers into his ministerial work. A new fervor filled his 
 preaching. His appeals became more tender and solemn. It waa 
 noticed that gradually the audience was filling up. Men listened 
 
THE FRUIT OF SORROW. 263 
 
 iTitL more earnestness. Week after week the commtinity were 
 moving together in one direction, nnder the inflnence of the pro- 
 roundest sentiments which can inspire the human soul. 
 
 Judge Bacon was sitting in Dr. Wentworth's library, one Sunday 
 evening, and seemed unnsnally talkative. Yet, there was an em- 
 phasis and point not ordinarily observed in his half-negligent and 
 polished manner. 
 
 " The parson has a grand hatt/ue on hand." 
 
 "Ah? I don't understand." 
 
 '' Why he has for several weeks past been sweeping around the 
 people with his grand doctrines ; and now the circle is formed, and 
 he is driving in toward the centre. Oh, you'll see see rare slay- 
 ing before long." 
 
 Dr. Wentworth made no answer, but sat aa one who is medi- 
 tating. 
 
 "You can see," said Judge Bacon, " every Sunday he advances 
 a step. I've seen this thing before. I know how it will end. By 
 and by there will come a break down ; then, like frightened sheep, 
 a crowd will make a rush toward the church-doors, pell-mell. 
 After a while, a count wiD be made, and the results published. 
 The upshot of it will be that, while before, one hundred selfish, 
 bustling, disagreeable people lived outside of the church, after- 
 wards they will live inside of the church — that's all." 
 
 Still Dr. Wentworth made no reply. At length Judge Bacon 
 said abruptly: 
 
 "Doctor, do you believe in Eevivals? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " Yon surprise me ! I had supposed that you were too firm and 
 mt.elligent a believer in Natural Law." 
 
 "It is on that ground that I believe in Eevivals. In every de- 
 partment of life men are moved in masses, and, as it were, •.vith 
 social contagions. Few men in any thing act alone. They kindle 
 themselves in the simplest employments by social contact. Social 
 enthusiasms have characterized the progress of the race in every 
 department of society." 
 
 " Because societies have been rude," said Judge Bacon, " anc 
 men have been animal in nature, and it is no wonder that theil 
 inimal feelings should be excited." 
 
 " On the contrary," replied the doctor " animals are not snb 
 
i'(i4 \oK\\"oou. 
 
 jeot to social enthueiasms, or onlv in the mojl riulinientary manner 
 Mod are eusoeptible of such excitement in proportion as thej re- 
 cede from animal coLditions. Id art, in amusements, in social im- 
 provement, in patriotism, men tend to act in masses, to be kindled 
 by each other to enthusiasm, and snch conditions develop, not ob- 
 ?triiif, the active powers. This social exiitement is favorable to 
 taste, aifection, judgment, and reasoD. I do not know why moral 
 Amotions should be exempt from this same law.'' 
 
 "But you can plainly see that these things are got up. I can 
 give you a prescription for a revival." 
 
 " Why not ? " replied Dr. Wentworth. " Is not education ' got 
 up?' Is not art culture ' got up ? ' Is not your own profession, 
 and mine, 'got up?' Why should men be afraid to speak of 
 moral states as the result of deliberate and intentional effort? 
 Why should not men apply the term education to moral faculties 
 as well as to others? and study for moral results as they do for 
 social or aesthetic? Are not the moral sentiments subject to laws 
 ns much ns any other parts of the mind ? " 
 
 " Yes — but church people imagine that revivals descend upon 
 I hem from above; that they are mysterious and divine; that the 
 les« human agency is concerned in them the purer they will be." 
 
 ■' It is only another instance," said the doctor, "in which a 
 fact is recognized before the theory of its causati(m is understood. 
 I d(i not the less believe that a divine influence is experienced be- 
 cause it pursues the channels of established law. Men account for 
 [ihenomena by natural laws, as far as their knowledge goes, and 
 then they ascribe whatever is left over, beyond their knowledge ot 
 r.'iusation, to superior beings. The higher ranges of human ex- 
 |ierience are tlie most complex and subtle, and seem mysterious, 
 ;.(<'iiuse the lines of causation are finer and more spiritual. But 
 tlie profoundest mysteries of human experience will one day be 
 lound to furnish the most admirable illustrations of the universal- 
 ity and constancy of natural laws." 
 
 "I don't see. Doctor, but you are as bad as the rest of them. 
 ( fhall have to be a philosopher without company. It will never 
 do for ns to submit to this influence. An enthu.siasm, in my mind, 
 would mix up things worse than a wind in my study would dishevel 
 my papers. I shall stand aloof and see others act." 
 
 The doctor continued : 
 
THE FRUIT OF SOKKOW. 265 
 
 " All nations, pretending to moral life, have been subject to 
 these outbursts of feeling. It is all very well to declare thUt a grad- 
 ual and constant progress in goodness would be better. Such is 
 not the law of development. Nations advance by paroxysms. The 
 race has gone up not by steady improvement, but by leaps, with 
 long rests between. At a later period, when society has readied a 
 liiglier plane than at present, progress may become even, uniform, 
 and constant. At present that seems impossible. And we are to 
 regard these moral freshets as admirable, relatively to the wants 
 of the wliole community." 
 
 Here the discussion ended, for that time. 
 
 We liave little idea of the power of truths till we see their ac- 
 tion, without obstruction, upon a whole community that is arousad 
 to a sensitive and sympathetic condition. Truths ordinarily run 
 through societies as gold does in rocks — a thin vein shut in by wide 
 measures of stones. When enough men hold a truth in common to 
 give to that truth a social influence, its range and power become 
 greatly increased ; but no. one knows the very royalty of a truth 
 until the whole community are aroused, made sensitive and sym- 
 pathetic, and give to it the force of glowing enthusiasm. Not 
 only is the power of a truth thus disclosed, but a community is knit 
 together and enriched by being made subject to some one worthy 
 impulse all together, by consciously holding some great idea with 
 a common enthusiasm. And if the truth is a profound moral 
 trutli, and the enthusiasm a moral enthusiasm, no man can measure 
 the cleansing, inspiring, and strengthening influence arising from 
 such a unity and intensity of experience as it produces. 
 
 The indirect effects of those moral experiences called revivals, 
 in vivifying tlie moral sense, elevating the sentiments, and giving 
 10 daily life a larger moral element — ^in bringing over secular 
 things tlie shadow of the Infinite, are so important that they should 
 be accounted great benefits, quite independently of the special 
 personal reformations which they work. 
 
 This religious movement, which was itself remotely connected 
 with Dr. Buell's bereavement, was one of the occurrences which 
 we alluded to in the last chapter as having an important influenoa 
 apcm Barton's life. It brought to a head a long train of mora] 
 symptoms. 
 
 With his mental organization, and with the domestic inflaeaoe* 
 
266 NORWOOD. 
 
 w^hich had from his childhood been acting uj)on him, BartOB 
 OathctBrt could hardly fail to be of a religious turn. But in New 
 England, pre-eminenlly. tlie religious dispositions and affeotiong 
 dre required to be conjoined with the great philosophical state- 
 ments of religious truths. It is not enough that one is good, he 
 must be sound. There is a practical toleration toward those 
 ^■^ liose lack of education or feebleness of mind gives no power of 
 reasoning upon such themes as are involved in the great doctrines 
 of revealed religion. But in proportion as men are educated ia 
 the demand intensified that right affections shall proceed from 
 right beliefs. 
 
 Young Outhcart, during the last two years of his college course, 
 had found his religious life passing from a state of acquiescent ac- 
 ceptance into one of eager questioning. His Reason was asserting 
 its sovereignty. Should he believe because his parents and 
 teachers did? Should he suffer himself, among so many sects, 
 holding widely different beliefs, to be located without any delib- 
 erate investigation or honest judgment of his own? Was a man 
 to be superscribed by his parents, like a letter, and sent to this or 
 that church ? 
 
 To this rebound of reason from youthful faith was added the 
 influence of scientific studies, to which his taste had strongly 
 inclined him. But the result was far other than he had anticipated. 
 He [jrc posed to himself to open, investigate and settle, one by one, 
 the great truths of religion. He but half succeeded. He opened 
 but could not close. He had power to bring into doubt every one 
 of his childhood beliefs, but he had neither the experience nor the 
 grasp required to conduct them back to certainty. 
 
 He began to feel that convictions did not follow logic. The 
 feelings must be consulted, and the imagination as well as the 
 reason, in re-establiShing faith. 
 
 At one time lie would drift far a^^ay from all positive belief. 
 All tlie more familiar truths seemed paralyzed. As men look bark 
 upon nations in the olden time, and know that amid their fondest 
 convictions they were in profound emr — that their gods were 
 myths, their histories half fables, and their theology a mere fiction, 
 80 now and then it o;ime home to him with ghastly distinctness, 
 that a time would come when men would look back upon lim and 
 liis generation in the same manner. 
 
THK FRUIT 0|- SORROW. 267 
 
 From ti.ese dreary solitudes, Barton would rebound, aft k a time 
 into an entiiusiastic re-acceptance of all his childhood faith. Hf 
 was enraged at liimself and at liis intellect for robbing him of peace, 
 
 It was like him to carry on these conflicts within himself 
 silently, and without help from others. Thus for two or three 
 years his soul rose and fell like the tide''. He was swept far onl 
 into the solitudes of the sea, where sometimes silent mists, and 
 "ometimes mighty storms befell him. Then, with inexpressible 
 relief, the current changed, and he swept shoreward, and flowed in 
 again to familiar bays and rivers,'and rejoiced in the old places. 
 
 This could not continue always. The painfnlness of this dreary 
 uncertainty at length had become so great that he relinquished all 
 thought of religioiis themes, in so far as he could, and assisted him- 
 self in his efforts by excessive application to study. During the 
 first year after he graduated, he had contrived to smother his diffi- 
 culties, and to maintain a peace which he hoped would become 
 permanent. 
 
 In this state of mind when a deep religious niovement began in 
 Norwood, he found that his troubles were only covered up, not 
 extinguished. 
 
 His mother's solicitude tnat he should rise into an open and 
 earnest religious life was extreme. She ventured but a few words, 
 but they were like arrows. Dr. Wentworth and his family lefl 
 Barton to follow his own bent without seeliing to force it. Dr 
 Buell, kindly but firmly, pressed him with considerations of duty. 
 Barton shrank from disclosing his real state. If he had reached 
 any settled convictions he would have had courage to avow and 
 defend them ; but to say that the religion of his childhood had let 
 go and dropped away from him, and that he held ir donbt all that 
 those most dear to him held in a blessed certainty, was to make 
 himself the victim of feelings worse than pity. He Jived in a com 
 munity where to be an unbeliever was to be a criminal. 
 
 A new misery befell him. The consciousness of a secret life 
 utterly at discord with his seeming life, and with that of those 
 dearest to him, began to raise in him the fear that he was practising 
 insincerity; — that he was living a false and double life. He ab- 
 horred duplicity. He loved truth and frankness. And yet, in 
 matters of the most vital moment, he was living a !)*'> utterly dif- 
 ferent from that which all that knew him supposed. Lt times bu 
 
268 NORWOOD. 
 
 distress grew so great that he was on the pout of disclosing hit 
 feelings. But to whom? Not to his mother. 1 hat would pierce 
 her without relieving him. Not to Rose. He shuddered at the 
 thought. It would be like letting night down upon his already 
 faint hopes. Should it be to Dr. Buell ? But the doctor, he thought, 
 had never doubted as he had, and could, therefore, have no sym- 
 pathy with one upon whom an argument and a text produced little 
 salutary effect. The question was soon answered for hira. 
 
 " I have called," said Parson Buell to Dr. Wentworth, "to speak 
 with you concerning our cornraon friend, Barton Oathcart. I have 
 talked with him several times on the great subject on which sc 
 many are interested. But I obtained no response. It was plain 
 to me that his thoughts were disturbed, and from certain signs J 
 am led to fear that his views are unsettled. I am distressed to 
 think that this season may pass and leave no blessing for him. We 
 cannot endure to see a nature so noble made a cast-away. Perhaps 
 it will be in your power to aid, at least to ascertain his true state. 
 The spring is passing. Summer will soon be here. He is a child 
 of faith and of many prayers. I am aware of his partiality for you, 
 and of the great influence which your mind has over him. It may 
 be that he will repose in you a confidence which he seems indis- 
 posed to place in me.'' 
 
 The doctor promised to give to Barton an early opportunity 
 of conversation, should he wish it. But it came even before he 
 sought it. Rose on the next morning told her father that Barton 
 had been questioning her on many potnts of religious belief, and 
 had expressed a wish to converse with her father. 
 
 That very evening Dr. Wentworth and Barton were long 
 together. The result only of their conversation did the doctor deem 
 it best to report to Dr. Buell. 
 
 " I think Barton has stumbled at the letter, but has not fallen 
 from the spirit of the Record. Unskilful handling of his own 
 case has made him morbid. He desires the truth as an ULweaned 
 child yearns for its mother's breast. It ought not to be difficult 
 for such a one to find firm faith. His is a clear instance of that 
 doubt which has widely sprung up ii the track ot physical science. 
 It arises from the introduction of a totally new method of investi- 
 gation. It must be met on its own ground. If the disitinguishing 
 >loctrin6s of grace have their types and root in nature, as I be- 
 
THE FRUIT OF SORROW. 269 
 
 liere they have, then evidence from that source wLl reacli the 
 trouble. The alphabetic forms of moral truth fa.nd at large in 
 the world will serve to teach one at lengtli how to read thosa 
 clearer manifestations of the divine nature, and of moral govern- 
 ment, which are perfectly disclosed only in the life and teaching? 
 of our Saviour." 
 
 But we prefer to let Barton Oathcart speak for himself. From 
 a private journal we extract a few passages. 
 
 BARTON CATHCART'S JOURNAL. 
 
 '•'■June 10. — To-day has been full of excitement. I have seen 
 Rose. Why do I seek to unsettle her peace? Should I love her, 
 if her soul wandered as mine does ? Am I not drawn to her by 
 her deep peace, by that very faith that does not falter ? And yet 
 I am provoked that she is tranquil and I am not. Why should she 
 have all the gifts of God and I none ? Every thing with her tends 
 to fulness of peace, and to gayety and joy. But I am heavily 
 laden. Thought only mires me deeper. I cannot get my consent 
 to relinquish it. It follows me — haunts me. I cannot accept the 
 religion of my fathers. I cannot get rid of it. I am vibrating be- 
 tween faith and skepticism. I envy little children. I would give 
 all the world if I could go back to be like them — to have their 
 unfaltering trust in truth. I am giddy and whirled and very 
 unhappy. 
 
 "Dr. Wentworth told me yesterday that my trouble was that 
 I was living in my own personality ; that I was too low down to 
 see the truth ; that I should never reason my way through ; that 
 moral truth could not be perceived by pure reason ; that it must 
 liave an emotive inspiration, and come first as an experience, and 
 afterward, if at all, as an analysis and deduction ; that I must grow 
 tired and despair of engineering my way by mere reason ; that 
 when I came into a state of moral exaltation, I should see truth 
 and its harmony ; even then that it would not be expressible ; that 
 a moral view that satisfied a full nature could not be reduced to 
 terms of language. I have had several conversations with him. 
 He, if anyone, can help me. But how to come to that exaltation ? 
 Am I to believe what I don' believe, in the hope that it will kindle 
 my moral feelings to luminousuesij ? Am I to stultify my reason 
 first, in order to educate it ? 
 
270 NORWOOD. 
 
 " Yet, the dcotor knows the conrses of scientific thonglit , he 
 certainly has kept pace with the knowledge of skeptical soLools, 
 and _\et he is h Christian believer. He seems to carry nature and 
 Christianity in harmoDy. He is certainly at rest. That I do 
 know. I have too snre an instinct not to know who are doubting. 
 My sore heart is so sensitive that I feel, almost before I hear one 
 speak, what he will say. I am repelled from those who are a< 
 rest in unbelief. Judge Bacon chills me. I rebound from Went- 
 worth, because he believes, and from Bacon because be does not 
 His cold touch shocks me. I feel when he talks about religion aa 
 I should if my mother were dead, and I saw a surgeon using her 
 body for anatomical demonstrations. All my life is woven into 
 Christian faith ; to rid myself of it is to tear every thread that 
 connects me with the past, with ohUdhood, with home, with taste, 
 with love, with knowledge itself. What is a thread worth dniwii 
 out of the fabric ? That is a man separated from the influences 
 and beliefs that formed him, and that are woven into society. 
 Dr. Buell warned me against becoming fascinated with speciout" 
 unbelief, said that the pride of my heart would deceive me and 
 flatter me to my ruin. Great God I what is there attractive in not 
 believing'? It is living torture. I am like a m<in who, walking 
 unconsciously, has slipped into a dry well, whoso sides defy climb- 
 ing. I am alone, men walk a hundred feet above me — perhaps 
 near me — no one hears, no one extricates. I look up and see the 
 sky, only to measure how deep my grave is and how hopeless of 
 ascent I I am alone there— I am without food or water or com- 
 panionship, at the bottom of a well, looking up in despair of ever 
 again feeling benign influences 1 Fascinations of skepticism I 
 They are to me the fascinations of the torture-room, they are as 
 attractive as nightmares in a fever 1 1 
 
 •' To all the rest, is this secret horror, that I am separated by my 
 niiserable state from Rose. She could never love me, could she 
 see what a soul I bear. I would not deceive her if I could 
 Oould a man of honor, if he was diseased, be so foslish as to hide it 
 from a woman whom he honored — knowing thut he would secure 
 her hatred when she discovered it? But how much more is a sou] 
 and mind in disorder than a body ? I flare not love Rose and lose 
 her. I do love her, and despair of ever coming nearer to her. 
 She would not love me, 1 know, if she suew me. I would not b« 
 
THE FRXni OF SORROW. 271 
 
 nnited to her if she, in her divine kindness, would I What, marr; 
 Ik mere anrse I a soul nurse I Marry for my own sake, and not for 
 hers Bring her no peace? no joy? no larger life tlian she had 
 before ? I wish that I could worship God as easUy as I can Rose. 
 
 '■'■Junk 15. — My school, at any rate, is helped by my inward 
 disquiet. I seek relief in labor and thought. I fly from those sad 
 and dreary moods, introverted and self-conscious. They ruin me 
 ind would poison every one should I infect them. I watch my 
 <*oholara to see if they know that I am swinging like an unlighted 
 star in a great circuit of darkness, eternal motion, without light oi 
 rest. I shrink from them as if I were false to my place, and had 
 no business with children. Oh I those dear faces, turned, up to me 
 with such clear trust, I look upon them with unutterable feelings. 
 God ! suflTer not contagion to go from me 1 I redouble my energy. 
 I seek to fire them with ardor and honor. I seek to so burden my- 
 self with duties toward them that I shall have.no room for suffer- 
 ingmxaeE^- — 
 
 "They certainly answer to my exertion. All the nobler 
 aatures are inspired by me with almost romantic zeal. I see by 
 :heir eyes admiration and fondness ; but it falls upon me as the 
 irdor of worshippers once fell on marble gods. I am cold to it. 
 I have that sense of unmanly suffering, of soul disquiet, of utter 
 .Tiin. 
 
 ^/M7je^20.-^A strange experience befell me yesterday. My 
 ay's work was done. My walk was completed. The sun had 
 gone down. I had fallen into one of those balanced states of mind 
 in which is calm, and all the evening scenes tended to soften even 
 to tenderness. A robin flew into the trees over against ray room, 
 and began that peculiar song' which indicates the absence of itn 
 inate. It is the sweetest and most passionate of all their singing. 
 And since I have learned that it is a call of loneliness for company, 
 of lovej^riovje^it seems to me very exquisite, though very sad. I sal 
 TETthe window till the light had faded, the song growing more and 
 more restless and almost expostulatory. Soon the bird flew and 1 
 heard it again further off; and, after a little, it seemed to have flown 
 yet further, and its now waning notes died oat in distance. My soul 
 was strangely affected. I almost ceased to be conscious of my 
 body. Stealing up from the east, the moon threw a light on the 
 valley, upon the tops and edges o1 the village tiees. There laj 
 
272 NORWOOD. 
 
 Holj'oke and its silent feUows brooding in sombre silencx. I wai 
 inexpressibly sad. I seemed alone, helpless, unhappy. I involun 
 tarily called out, ' My Ood, why hast thou forsaken me ? ' What 
 followed I can account for only as a phantasy. Or wasit real? 
 /« there still an inspiration? I did not think. It was seeirU) 
 rather 1 The whole heaven seemed full of ineffable gentleness, it 
 seemed as if I wau caught up into it, and felt borne in upon iiic 
 a sense of God's care fot me — his love, his wisdom in guiding me. 
 A wonderful conviction seemed to flow in on me that I should 
 surely be brought out of my darkness, and that all this trouble of 
 soul was like the trouble which a seed feels when yet undei 
 ground — dying that it may sprout and live. Then, all unbidden, 
 thtre sprung up in me such a desire to praise God a3 I had never 
 felt before or imagined. For the first time in my life I had a con- 
 ception of infinite love. I had heard the words before. Now I 
 had a sense of the thing itself All my soul seemed urgent to ut- 
 ter itself and 1 could not speak a word! The psalms rushed be- 
 fore me in which trees, mountains, sun, moon, stars, all nature, 
 were called upon to join in praising God. But how strangely dif- 
 ferent in effect! Before, I had read them as one hears Handel's 
 Messiah, in fragments, on a piano. Now it was as I imagine the 
 Messiah to have been when thousands of singers and instruments 
 trave it forth in all its grandeur at Westminster Abbey. Every 
 thing within me became heroic. I could have yielded my life with 
 meffable joy to please God. All complaining seemed to me like 
 dust which one kicks with the feet. 1 wa? absorbed and almos' 
 identified with this Universal Presence. And now, as 1 remembei 
 it, the strangest part of the experience, though at the time it die 
 not strike me as such, was the nourishing pity with which I look- 
 ed upon myself. I seemed to comfort niyself, as if my higher self 
 was consoling a lower self. I felt a true and ineffable pity and 
 sorrow for myself, for my doubts and yearnings, for my longing am- 
 bitions and unsatisfied strivings ; and it seemed to be borne in 
 ipon me, in a way such as no worus could have done it, that all riiy 
 faculties, tendencies, aspirations, had their natuial and perfect ful- 
 filment in God, and not in attaining any thing in myself. I re- 
 member a sort of figure that seemed to develop in my mind, show- 
 ing nil', that flowers never blossomed inwardly, into themselves, but 
 ontwardlv. into the light, and that all the beauty the^• hail. i;itber 
 
THE FRUIT OF SORROW. 273 
 
 of foiifl or jolo'', was what they borrowed from ihe light which thej 
 received and reflected, and so a soul, it seemed to me, was nevei 
 happy or beautiful except when it was unfolding into God. 
 
 " How long my trance lasted I cannot say. I threw mystlf 
 upon the bed without undressing. A tide of tranquil delight gen- 
 tly flowed through my soul. I asked myself whether, were it God's 
 will, I could yield up all my prospects in life. The mere thoiiglil 
 of pleasing God seemed rapturous. I repeated ' Thy will be done,' 
 and the effect was wonderful. I had a vision — shall I call it — of 
 the divine beauty, and of a realm which was'glorifled by its shining 
 light, and all my desires, personal and secular, shrunk and faded. 
 In that exceeding light and beauty I seemed to myself unutterably 
 insignificant. The course of my thoughts, the nature of my feel- 
 ings, the ambitions and pursuits of my life, seemed under a 
 shadow — stained, and poor, and degrading. I never imagined be- 
 fore what it meant to be a man, nor how far I had been from it. 
 In those blissful moments I tested my feelings for Rose.; If any 
 thing in my life had before seemed to me pure and noble, it was my 
 hidden love for that noble creature. But I was amazed to perceive 
 how, in the light of His countenance, the Very fragrance and blos- 
 som of my heart seemed rank and coarse. Sly whole life wither- 
 ed, and my virtues dropped like blackened leaves. And yet this 
 unbeauty, this moral poverty, brought joy. Eight over again-t 
 me rose to a stately height the conception of a Being whose very 
 nature it was, spontaneously and with deep yearning, to love and 
 embrace such un worth. I remember thinking — ^for I then thought, 
 as one sees, vast ranges of truth and ideas flying at once before me, 
 almost without succession in time — that love of God came to ma 
 as I had seen the sun pour and flame, in the Spring, upon a brown 
 and frozen knoll, and pierce it, and thaw it, and warm it, and 
 nourish in it the hidden roots, and day by oay bring them out in 
 beauty. So it seemed that God's nature fell upon .mine. How* 
 long this lasted I cannot tell. When I awoke in the morning I 
 seemed like one who had missed his latitude. I weijt asleep Ie 
 summer and awaked in winter. I ran to the window and saw all 
 things as I had been wont to see them. Birds were singing— men 
 and boys walking — wagons rolling — the smc ke rising pale against 
 the sky, hardly crooked by a breath of wind. The vision had been 
 caught up. In its place was the great vcoxkiug world. I nevw 
 
274 NORWOOD. 
 
 was so sad to be awake. I longed for something lost. Yet I aa 
 wonderfully quieted. I do know that there is a realm of truth. 1 
 cannot well be imide to believe that there was nothing divine in 
 this exaltation and spirituMl insight. It is an expressible relief to 
 feel a certainty that nature has a Master. Now I will seek Weut- 
 worth af^ain, and see what he means when he says that the Bible 
 interprets nature, and that nature nourishes the truths of the Bi- 
 ble, and that they are parts of one development, and in harmony. 
 
 "y«/y 1. — The town is filling with strangers; also come back 
 acquaintances. Young Frank Esel has come, and is of course 
 much at W.'s. Exceeding good company. His genial gayoty re- 
 fleshes me. We have much in common. I don't think that Rose 
 can flirt. Yet she is a woman, and is pleased with attention, and 
 seems fond of Esel. They are much together. They work to- 
 gether, drawing and painting in the open air, and holding large 
 discourse. 
 
 " There comes, too, this summer, one Heywood, from Virginia. 
 I am told that he is highly accomplished, and I perceive that he is 
 elegant. I met him once or twice, and am drawn to hira, as he 
 seems to be towards me. He has been bred to the Law, and is 
 now studying, nominally, with Judge Bacon. He wonders that I 
 do not study law. I am every day more inclined to do it. Hey- 
 \vood does not intend practising Law. He tells me that his tastes 
 lead him in the direction of Political Economy, to which in reality 
 he devotes most of the time which is supposed to be spent in the 
 Law. 
 
 " August 1. — Something has happened I am sure. Frank Esel 
 seems much disturbed. Rose is even more kind to him than be- 
 fore. But I think it is sisterly. He still visits much at the doc- 
 tor's. But he is less buoyant. A dash of sadness. I find him 
 looking fixedly at me, as if studying my innermost thought. Pool 
 B?iul 1 I shall not be in his way. He leaves for home soon. 
 
 " I learn that Heywood is to be heir of the Chandler property, 
 and that he is to reside here. He has property in the South, and 
 It' he inherits the Chandler estate he will be one of the wealthiest 
 men in these parts. Ohardler is said to bo worth half a million. 
 Chandler's wife and Heywood's mother are sisters, so that there in 
 relafonship between them. He lives w'th them now. I covet Kis 
 
THE FRUIT OF SORROW. 275 
 
 xiyal ease in society. He is charming even to men, and I do not 
 wonder that ladies welcome his attentions. He has a high bear- 
 ing without haughtiness, and he is truly considerate of every one, 
 and kind to overflowing. If all Soatheii;tA8 are such as he, I an 
 henceforth in love with them. Snch as I liave met. however, have 
 ^wen different." 
 
CHAPTER XXXm. 
 
 TOM HEYWOOr. 
 
 Ths most noisy and ostericatious influences of summer are noi 
 thooe which chiefly shape its destiny. It is the sum of small and 
 even inconspicuous things, acting in gentle continuity, that give 
 tone and character to the year. Frosts, that in summer become 
 dews ; dews, that in winter are transformed to frosts ; tiny mosses 
 and sillsen grasses ; the up-sucking of moisture by hidden and silent 
 roots ; the fall of outworn leaves, and their conversion to mould ■ 
 the silent power of remote orbs, that sheet the earth with light, 
 pierce it with heat, that move the tides, and awing the globe itself 
 around its circuit — these undemonstrative and modest influences — 
 silent, precious, invisible attractions — are the groat workers of 
 Nature. 
 
 Nor is the analogy wanting in the soul of man. The influential 
 agents which determine destiny are often so soft and subtle that 
 the very touch is not felt, nor the presence discovered, of things 
 which change or fix the mind's moods, and, with constant recur- 
 rence, fashion the character. 
 
 The unexpressed thoughts of Barton Oathcart, the rising and 
 falling doubts, that shifted and changed like the sky-fleece of a 
 summer day, were wearing channels in his soul, and threatening to 
 undermine his life. 
 
 Nor could he tell what, at length, arrested the morbid tendency, 
 or what, gradually and gently acting, began to give hope and health 
 to his moral nature. Certain it was that, from the period recorded 
 in his journal, the disintegrating tendency of his mind was checked, 
 and a constructive tendency was established. The fascinations of 
 self-torment seemed to have spent themselves. It is true that the 
 progress toward health was imperceptible at any single point. But 
 the morbid symptoms had been checked, and a curative tendency 
 had been established. 
 
 Even more than ever before, he became a frequent visitor at 
 Dr Wentworth's. Much he talked with the doctor, and much with 
 Rose; but never respecting himself It was his wont to converge 
 
TOM HEYWOOD. 277 
 
 of gome principle or piocess, or of some imagined case, aJthongli 
 the subject matter « as in reality his own experience. 
 
 This thin veil did not deceive his friends, but served to save his 
 delicacy, and secured a frankness and liberty which would have 
 been otherwise impossible to one so sensitive. 
 
 Rose, peculiarly sagacdous in penetrating character, discerned, 
 u a certain general way, and appreciated Barton's state of mind 
 Hor was she insensible to the attractions arising from the very 
 tronblea of so noble a nature. 
 
 The sutitering of a great nature, if borne silently a,nd uncomplain- 
 ingly, is irresistibly affecting. In Barton there was the greatest 
 energy and the greatest helplessness, the strength of a vigorous 
 manhood and infantine w al-cness. To common eyes his lot seemed 
 eminently fortunate. He was the envied man of the village. 
 Every one predicted the most auspicious future. But Ro.se knew 
 that all the outward portion was hollowed out and made empty 
 by the disquiet of his mind. 
 
 When Cathoiirt met Rose in the presence of otners, he joined 
 in the common conversation or in the amusements with a gayety 
 that rendered his presence charming. Bnt no sooner were they 
 thrown together alone than at once he began speaking of deeper 
 themes, and in a tone of earnest, and, at times, almost anguishlul 
 enthusiasm. She could not but perceive that to her be brought the 
 treasure of his inmost, deepest nature. Kor could Rose hide from 
 herself the fascination of such an intercourse. It was a mute ap- 
 peal for help. This unconscious and artless flattery was exquisite. 
 A woman's pity often opens the door to love. 
 
 But equally strong is the need of looking up, of worshipping. 
 If a woman must lean, she needs strength to lean upon ; if she must 
 look up, then there must be some one higher than she ; if she re 
 veres, there must be to her imagination something of divinity to 
 call for a worship. All women marry gods, but sadly consent 
 afterwards to live with men. The quenching of their resplendent 
 imaginations, the discovery and full conviction that the husband 
 cannot, by his strength and goodness, dominate the heart and be 
 sovereign in love, a!; length produce a great crisis. Some easily 
 yield np the delusion, call it romance, and consent to live a life 
 of feeble and fitful love, which has in it no worship, and much 
 wntempt. Others there are, of divinei; mould, who cannot 1ob« 
 
278 NORWOOD. 
 
 feith in Love, thouglj they sadly admit that they have missed It 
 They know that there is a life which ihey never live; that there 
 might arise out of their hearts a love so great, so pure, so command- 
 ing and satisfying, that all other experiences of fortune would, in 
 comparison, be of little moment. Royalty and Fortune have iic 
 light to fill the vault of life when Love is eclipsed or has gone down. 
 But if Love be regent every otiier light may go out and it will fill 
 the life with a light that shall make poverty itself luminous, and 
 sickness and toil bright and joyous. 
 
 Many and many a heart there is that has missed its aim, con- 
 fessed its defeat. Some then distribute their affections in many 
 channels, as if to gain by diffusion what they have lost in concen- 
 trated form. Some bury their Love and keep watch as over a 
 sepulchre., with sorrow, and yet with hope. Hope on! There is 
 a resurrection for every true heart that, suffering for love, is faith- 
 ful to the end I 
 
 Rose was one of the few who knew beforehand, and as by an 
 inspiration, that she must love upward, and that the.raan to whoa. 
 her heart should go forth must be found on no downward path, nor 
 on any level, but along an upward road. It was the want of that 
 over-shadovfing power in Barton, the want of that commanding 
 energy, which held her affections in warm friendship, but failed to 
 ripen them into love. And so long as Barton was not the master 
 of himself — so long as he carried a divided life, and uncertain and 
 vacillating hopes, he could not rise to that calmness of strength 
 and loftiness of soul which draw men to a great nature, as birds 
 are drawn to build and sing in the boughs of a great tree. 
 
 But, whatever might have been the result had Barton pressed 
 his suit witli Rose, he was unconsciously led in a wiser way. 
 
 Some of his feelings we have seen in the record of his journal. 
 Bnt he was not destined to maintain his honorable reserve withoul 
 some painful struggles. The appearance in Norwood of Mr. Thomas 
 J. Heywood was an event intimately connected with his wliole 
 after life. 
 
 Heywood's mother had an only sister living here, and that fact, 
 joined to the reputation of the place for health and beautiful sce- 
 nery, led him to choose Norwood in preference to any of the hun- 
 dred points of attraction in New England for a summer's resort 
 No considerable intimaoy bad existed between these two sigten, 
 
TOM HEY WOOD. 279 
 
 dis mother had married early and always had Ihed in the South. 
 Visits had, to be sure, been occasionally interchanged ; but thai 
 was aJl. They loved each other because they had the same mother, 
 and because they lived hundreds of miles apart. Had they lived 
 together, utterly different tastes and associations would have pro- 
 duced discord. As it was, each imagined the other to be what 
 she wished her to be. 
 
 Heywood, or as he always called himself and was called in bin 
 home, Tom Heywood, was about Barton's age, of peculiarly win- 
 ning manners, uniting a certain lofty air to a genial familiarity. 
 
 To be reared in wealth may or may not be a blessing. But to 
 inherit a sound constitution, a mind of good quality and inclining 
 to moral and intellectual pursuits, a disposition elastic and cheery, 
 surely this is to be born to fortune. If to this be added the society 
 of cultivated people, and companions who both love and admire 
 one, it may well be expected that a young man's head would be 
 slightly turned. Tom Heywood's head, however, stood quite well 
 upon his shoulders, and he showed very little spoiling. It is prob- 
 able that he perceived the good impression which he made wherever 
 he went. The flattering cordiality with which his advances had 
 always been received had not tended wholly toward humility. In 
 honest truth, there was a gentle impression in his mind that h« 
 was very attractive, and that when he should find a wnman of 
 qualities admirable enough, he had only to pass through the dec- 
 orous processes of approach and acquaintance, and to pi-opose 
 himself to her with due ardor, to be duly and heartily acceited. 
 This slishtest bit of conceit was almost unknown to himself. It was 
 the unconscious effect upon a sensible and honorable nature of 
 having been a supreme favorite from childhood. But it did noi 
 stain through and affect his manners. It remained latent, re- 
 strained from expression by good sense and good breeding. On his 
 first visit to Norwood he spent but a summer, visiting very little 
 except in his aunt's family. So well was he pleased, that the next 
 season he returned early, and v/ith the purpose of study as well as 
 amusement. And although for a time he preferred rooms at the 
 Mansion House, toward autumn he accepted the continuous solici- 
 tations of his aunt and her husband, and became a member of 
 tbeir family, and took the place of a son, their only child, whf 
 had died a few years before, just is he was entering upon irao 
 
-!80 NORWOOD. 
 
 hood. It was saifl. by those who thought they knew, that it wat 
 Josiah Chandler's intention to make Heywood his heir. He .vevei 
 this may have been, there can be no reasonable doubt that Mrs. 
 Chandler proposed in her heart to secure that for him wnich it 
 had been the hope of her life to secure for her son — a connection 
 with the Wentworths. And during the summer of 1859, and the 
 winter following, Tom Heywood was ver.i generally spoken of as 
 Rose's suitor. But the same thing had been said of Frank Esel 
 of Barton Oathoart, and of several others, and all the stories f bont 
 Tom Heywood might have been just as baseless. 
 
 Until we learn something about it from the parties themselves, 
 it may be as well to imagine that we know nothing about it. 
 
 We prefer to let Pleywood give his own impressions of Nor- 
 wood and Its people. 
 
 HEYWOOD TO HIS BROTHER. 
 
 "Mt Dkae Hal : — In spite of your predictions, I am settled 
 m Norwood 1 It is not a huge jumble of bricks, as you predicted, 
 nor a noisy manufacturing town swarming with operatives. On 
 the contrary, I find .an extremely attractive village, of a few 
 thousand inhabitant';, nestled down close upon the Connecticut 
 river, and in sight of goodly hills. To be sure, these mountains, 
 as they are here called, would cut a sorry figure by the side of the 
 mountains in old Virginia, but they are quite promising in their 
 way. I quite admire the good taste and snugness of these Yankee 
 houses. Especially do I approve of setting back the houses and 
 separ.ating them fiom the street by deep ornamental yards. Tliere 
 is an air of elegance and seclusion given to the buildings wliich, if, 
 like our village houses, they were placed on the very line of the 
 street without shrubbery or grounds, they would utterly fail of 
 having. 
 
 " Behold me, then, prying and spying, sharp as a lynx, but 
 just as a judge — a political economist of whom Henry 0. Oaroy 
 need not be ashamed 1 Expect from me no vain discourses of 
 sport ; nothing of horses or hounds ; nothing of hunting or fishing ; 
 nothing of frivolous pleasures, which I am expected suitably to 
 look down upon. I am in Puritan New England 1 Already I 
 feel my face sensibly longer. My features are changing into » 
 
TOM HEYWOOD. 281 
 
 ■harper and more inflexible cast I I no longer spend mj monej 
 needlessly — ^no ; I am infected with economy — I ask the price of 
 every thing, turn it over with an inspecting eye, as if weighing 
 the great question of the relation of price to cost of production. 
 I pay with slowness, and count the change with solemnity. 
 ' "When you are among the Romans,' etc. The nasal twang I am 
 practising. If you should come hither, do not look for a chestnut- 
 haired, blue-eyed young fellow, with a cherry cravat flaming at 
 his throat, a cigar in his mouth, laughing loud enough to be 
 heard all over the village; look for a precise young gentleman, 
 . stepping with only less formality than is required at a funeral, and 
 looking as earnest and as anxious as such eyes and features can — 
 then recognize your friend ! How long I shall enjoy my meta- 
 morphosis I cannot predict ; but it is certain that I am amused at 
 my own propriety thus far. 
 
 " I will keep you advised, every few weeks, of my affairs, and 
 shall expect in return a full disclosure of all at home, which I 
 nardly dare think about for fear an unmanly home-sickness may 
 befall me. But, good-bye I Be virtuous), and you shall be happy I 
 
 [ " Tom Hbtwood. 
 
 " P. S. — ^I have just come in from a stroll, since writing the 
 above, and my vanity is a little piqued. I overheard one of the 
 young clerks saying to another, 'I know that fellow is Southern, 
 by the free and easy way he uses money 1 ' So all my efforts are 
 no deception I What would they think if they saw me at 
 home? 
 
 "Another thing, — and horrible to relate, — I have just learned 
 that there is a race-ground at Springfield, hardly twenty milea 
 from here I Is this New England ? Have I not held my peace, 
 as if even to speak of fleld-sports would banish me from all respect f 
 I am informed that while racing is discouraged, trotting is so much 
 in vogue, that, in agricultural fairs, it constitutes the chief attrac- 
 tion! 
 
 " IIow does that compare with our notions of Puritan strict- 
 ness ? Who knows but I may find out that this gelid land and 
 rigorous people may have, under their, rib?, as much heart as 
 Virginians have, with only a difierent way of showing it ? 
 
 " I must draw rein, or my postscript will be longer than mj 
 
282 xuiiWOOD. 
 
 letter. A woman's postscript, you know, is said to contain Uik 
 gist of the letter, or, as you would say, the letter is the pistol, and 
 the postscript the bullet. Again, fai'e thee well 1 t. a." 
 
 HETWOOD T(3 HIS BROTHKR. 
 
 " Thanks, dear Hal, for your long and substantial letter. Toe, 
 are the best of aU correspondents. 
 
 '■ Your letters are pictures. Strange, that a sheet of jiaper, 
 with mere lines and blotches, should bring beforu the mind more 
 clearly than painting could do objects which they only ?uggest by 
 the law of association, but don't represent in the slightest degree 
 in form or color I After reading your letter, do I not see the dear 
 old home in living form? father — tall, digniiied, fiery, and yet 
 running over with kindness — every day blazing out at something, 
 and yet cheery, placable, and generous to a fault ? 
 
 "Do I not see Sue and Mary romping? and young Hillyer, 
 with that good-natured, boastful tongue, running like Miller Gibbs's 
 wheel, — foam without, and yet grinding good grain within ? I 
 really felt a qualm of home-sickness as I read your charming ac- 
 count of matters — coming in early from the garden with liowers 
 for the breakfast table. But home-sickness is unweanedness. Its 
 existence and severity show how much need there was of remov- 
 ing from home, and of learning to live by one's self. 
 
 " I am sure I have enough to do, and matters of a kind con- 
 genial to ray tastes. I am studying this Yankee people with the 
 utmost zest. Of course, many of tliem are like our own folks. 
 Cultivated people are always more or less alike the world over. 
 On that very account one studies the middle and lower classes for 
 distinctive characi^eis, as there, if anywhere, is apt to be found 
 originality and eccentricity. I had an impression that the rigot 
 of Puritan morals, and a coercive public sentiment, held every 
 thing here down to set patterns, and that I should find a dreary 
 sameness of a kind not very interesting. But the under people 
 here are rich in peculiarities. They open up well already. 
 
 " In the South there is more liberty of action, and in the NortI 
 of thought. Law is not so strong among us. A population 
 thinly scattered through wide territory are obliged to take their 
 ilTairs into theii own hands, and are less likely to wait for redress 
 >r opportunity for the slow proceHS oV law. Men here live in 
 
TOM HEYWOOD. 28o 
 
 ittrition, yet universally respect the law. Among the lowei 
 classes Law is put instead of Religion. Yesterday a man had been 
 aL'grieved by a neighbor. I heard him say, in a great passion 
 ' I'll have the law of him if there's any justice in the land.' Had 
 it been in Virginia, the man would have thrashed the offender on 
 the spot, and settled his grievance without judge or jury. 
 
 "I hardly know how to convey my impressions of Yankee 
 ctivity. rt is something fearful to me. Leisure and lazinest 
 seem to be regarded as equivalents. There is a constant pushing 
 industry. I see this strikingly In the conveniences about theii 
 dwellings. Almost every house might be, studied by our people 
 to learn how many comforts and economies may be concentrated 
 in a dwelling without expense, except of wit and skill. 
 
 " I should never have known but for this New England ex- 
 perience what wealth there Is in economy. And what economy 
 is possible when people put as much thought and earnestness into 
 every detaO of life as they do here I It is a perfect study and 
 amusement to me. Brought up to hear the Yankee stigmatized 
 as stingy and mean, I cannot divest myself of a certain contempt 
 for their mitmte frugality, and their everlasting calculations, and 
 the repression of impulse in favor of principle, or foresight, or 
 prudence of some sort or other. 
 
 " I cannot better illustrate the traits of some of this people than 
 In giving an account of a fellow called Hiram Beers, who seems to 
 have an eye on th's whole community, and whose tongue walks 
 to and fro and cuts like a razor. He is a wag, and yet as far from 
 being a f lol as he is from being a gentleman. 
 
 " Did I tell you that I had bought a horse ? — a Morgan horse— 
 with his hoofs filled with steel springs, and his eyes with lambent 
 fire? 
 
 " But I must not take the credit of buying, but of only oon- 
 Benting to his purchase. Hiram Beers is my good angel. By tlie 
 way, if you were to call him Beers, nobody would know whom 
 you meant, on a week day. Riram is his name. And though 
 there may be a hundred Hirams hereabouts, only he is Hiram I 
 
 "You might search all the Old Dominion for such a npecimen 
 jod not find it. He is the growth of this community, as much aa 
 »ir plants are of the tropics. He is a mixture of deacon, doctor, 
 jookey, jester and philosopher — if ycu can imagine what that com 
 
284 NonwoOD. 
 
 pound wonld be. He is of that nervous temperamer t that aleepi 
 little, eats little, works incessantly, thinks and talks for his own 
 mere relief. And yet, contradictory as it may sound, he produces 
 the impression on you of a shrewd, eautious and considerate man 
 He is always saying some humorous thing, and giving half laughs 
 as if he had thought of something else and could not afford the 
 rest of a laugh. He knows every body that ever lived in Nor- 
 wood. Every summer, when the town is thronged, Hiram knows 
 who has come, where he stays, ■B'hen he goes. It is the same, 
 apparently, for the whole neighborhood. And as for horses, hi^ 
 knowled^ie is intuitive, and almost a homely omniscience. 
 
 " Behold me then, sitting in the office of the Mansion House 
 r,he very disci i)le of this cute and curious Yankee teacher I 
 
 " ' Beers, I want a good horse ' 
 
 " ' My name is Hiram ; — I keep Beers for Sunday. When 1 
 get my meetin' clo's on, I expect folks to call me Beers, or Hiram 
 Beers ; but week days I go and come on Hiram. What was yor 
 sayin' ? ' 
 
 " ' Can you tell me where to ^ook for a good horse ? 
 
 " ' Wal, Bledsoe's got abeout the best steppin' creetur that 1 
 know of. Can do it in about two-thirty, and do it every time ■ 
 sound as a knot ; hain't a scratch on her ; silk feels coarse aftei 
 ye take yer hand off her hide; and the lovin'ist eye ye ever saw 
 in a man's head, or a woman's either.' 
 
 " ' What does he ask for her ? ' 
 
 " ' Wal, I don't know,' said Hiram, glancing at one or two per- 
 sons present, and then looking steadily out of the window for a 
 minute. 'I guess you'll have to wait till he's sold off every thing 
 else pretty much down to her. After he's sold his wife and chil- 
 dren, I expect you may get a bargain out of him for the mare.' 
 
 " ' But I asked you for a horse that I could huy? 
 
 " ' Mebbe you did. But all I heerd you say was, — Can you tell 
 me where I can look for a good horse? Now you cau look at 
 Bledsoe's horse for a year rnnnin', and he won't charge you 
 oothin'.' 
 
 " I colored a little, but Hiram did not move a feature, or looi> 
 away from an empty fireplace into which every now and then h« 
 nqairted a volley of tobacco spittle. 
 
 "Presuming that I had nogleoted a prop*ir fee, and that then 
 
TOM HEYWOOD. 285 
 
 was the rub, after a few minutes I quietly slipped a dollar bill into 
 his hand. Slowly unrolliiig it, be examined the engraving, read 
 the signatures, held it up to the light, and then gravely handed it 
 bnck to me. 
 
 " ' Yes, Mr. Heywood, that's a good bill — ginooine — no coun- 
 terfeit about it.' 
 
 "'Keep it, Hiram — keep it.' 
 
 " ' What should I keep it for ? You don't owe me any thing I ' 
 
 " ' Well, Hiram, I ought to pay you for any information I can 
 get.' 
 
 '' ' Oh, you think the information about Bledsoe's mare is 
 worth a dollar, do ye ? Wal, I don't. Put up your money to pay 
 your debts with. When I've airnt it, it'll be time to pay me. If 
 yon want me to lay myself out for you on a good horse, say so, 
 and then I'll tell ye what I'll do it for. I don't want no charity 
 yet' 
 
 " ' Very well. I wish a good horse, as good a horse as can be 
 had, without going to an extravagant price, and I am willing to 
 pay your expenses and trouble if you wiU serve me.' 
 
 " ' I'll show you five good creturs, and if any of 'em suit you, 
 you may pay me ten dollars ; and if I fetch you five more, yon 
 may pay me fifteen, and then if you ain't suited, I can't please you.' 
 
 " A few days afterwards, I was called down to try a horse. It 
 was a picture I Black as a coal, and not a spot on him. Docile 
 and obedient, but with immense spirit. I had not driven a hall 
 mUe before I was satisfied. 
 
 " ' Hiram, this'U do. I'll take him. What's the price » ' 
 
 " 'Well, now, you was born down South, war'nt you! If yon 
 had been born along the Connecticut you'd asked the price first, 
 and held off a good bit, afore you let a fellow know whether yon 
 was pleased or not. Howsumever, it's all right. I thought I'd 
 try you, and so 1 brought the best one first. If you'd neglected 
 this, you'd sartainly have got a poor one.' 
 
 " ■ Well, I like him so much,' said I, the next day, ' that I am 
 willing to pay you twice as much as I promised,' ofiering him tw 
 ten dollar bills. Hiram took one of them, folded it carefully, pn 
 it in his wallet, and then looking in an amusing way at the head 
 of some president of a bank, engraved on the other bill, he began 
 So soliloquize. ' Yes, old fellow— -president of a bank — no doubt 
 
286 ■NOEWOOD. 
 
 rich as medder laud. Made it all yourself, too. I a'poseyon bought 
 at just what folks said. I s'pose you paid twice as much as yon 
 promised! That's the way hereabouts in New England. That's 
 the way to get rich,' and with that he laughed down in his belly, 
 though only a sniff or two came out of his face. Handing me back 
 my money, with very much the benignant air with which a relax- 
 ing father gives back a forfeited jackknife to a repentant boy, h« 
 lectured me in a most edifying manner. 
 
 " ' I've seen a good many men from your parts. They come up 
 here every summer, and are very flush of money. They think 
 they can buy every body. They fall in with a low sort of people 
 and foreigners, mere liangers-on, and such creturs will take as long 
 as you will give. Lord, sir, they are like a barrel with two bung- 
 holes, one atop and the other under. Yon may pour in all day 
 and they won't fill up. But they are not onr people. The fact is, 
 we northern men work hard, and have to. We know the value 
 of time, and stuff, and work, and if we weren't close as bark we 
 should all be in the poorhouse. But there is a sight of difference 
 between being tight and being mean. If a man aims his money 
 he has a right to it, and to the last cent jest as much as to the 
 first. And if a man hasn't airn'd it, he's a mean cuss if he takes it 
 anyhow, unless he's extremely old, very lame, and hain't got no 
 children, nor relations, and is afeerd of goin' to the poorhouse. 
 That's the very difference between an Irishman and a Yankee ; a 
 Yankee wnnts his own money, an Irishman wants yours.'' 
 
 " I was too much amused to find fault with Hiram's airs, espe- 
 cially as he gave me to understand that he highly esteemed my 
 judgment in stable matters, and, in the under society of the town, 
 you may be sure Hiram's opinion established my reputation; foi 
 he is the oracle." 
 
 HETVTOOD TO HIS BEOTHKB. 
 
 "Mt Dbar Hal: — You rally me upon the character of my 
 acquaintances, and compliment me upon the improvement vhich 
 will appear when I return from this elysium of gardens, Tvorkinen, 
 hostlers, &c. It would be a pity that you should fail of your own 
 enjoyment, since I certainly have mine. Working people, in a 
 community where work is the badge of servitude, cannot repre- 
 
TOM HEYWOOD. 287 
 
 ient the value and personal excellence of workiig men in a differ 
 ent state of society where nothing is more honorable than labor , 
 where all, more or less, perform it; where men are taught from 
 childhood that manliness and honor require one to be personally 
 as much as possible independent of others' help, and to perform 
 with one's person a large part of the oiiices which, with us, ser- 
 vants are expected to render. So much, at least, I have already 
 found out. As a student of political economy, I begin to perceive 
 facts and truths about this northern population, which I could 
 uever have learned but by living among them. The common peo- 
 ple of such communities give tone and character to society, more 
 than do the educated people. For they are intelligent, inquisitive, 
 endlessly curious of knowledge, and accustomed to dispute and 
 argue every question that arises. They are readers of books and 
 Jevourers of newspapers. It would be impossible to find in all 
 New England, in the remotest and rudest portions, such neighbor- 
 boods of hopeless ignorance as we have at home, on every hand. 
 
 " But you inquire what other acquaintances I have formed ? 
 Many, and most agreeable ones. What intimacies have ensued ! 
 Well, but one companionship as yet. I am becoming warmly in- 
 terested in a young man here, who has been teaching here since 
 he left college, and who designed stadying for the pulpit. But 
 some trouble of mind, I know not what, seems to shut that avenue, 
 and he is now, in his leisure, studying law with Judge Bacon, and 
 so we are much thrown together. 
 
 " I suspect that there is more than the love of science that 
 takes Barton Oathcart to Dr. Wentworth's house. There is a Miaa 
 Rose Weutworth, you should understand, whom, not her features, 
 but her expression makes handsome. When her face kindles, as 
 it easily does, it is surprisingly attractive. Quite learned, I am 
 told, and especially a lover of the. fields and forest, as all maidens 
 at the sentiinental period of their lives are or ought to be. This 
 inclination was inherited from her father. Dr. Reuben Wentworth, 
 and the tendency became fixed by his careful education of bis 
 daughter. This I am told by friends of the doctor, who look upon 
 him not only as a man of remarlial)le skill in Iiis profession, but aa 
 an original nature in as utter contrast with the surrounding people 
 as an opal is with the rock in which it is imbedded. Judge Bacon, 
 an astute New-Euglanil man, liimself a notable oharadtor, calls Dr. 
 
288 NORWOOD. 
 
 Wentworth an idealistic naturalist with a practical shell on. B^ 
 4e way, Barton's own sister and his only one, Miss Alice Oathcart, 
 was at Dr. Wentworth's yesterday. Like her brother, she is 
 brunette. Both of them have high blood — I know it by the clear- 
 ness of the features, the fine lines of the lips. The whole face and 
 form represent the higher human element — moral sentiments and 
 intelligence, more than thi animal nature; and this is what I cali 
 high breeding. 
 
 " The two young ladies, Miss Rose and Miss Alice, are of one 
 age to a night and a day, and call themselves the twins with twc 
 mothers. 
 
 " My acquaintances are limited and casual. With Judge Bacon, 
 more than with any one, I have had familiar intercourse. Ho is 
 one who might have been born in Virginia. "What higher compli- 
 ment could I pay ? 
 
 " But I find many Southern families here, and were I so minded 
 I might pass my time from morning to night in agreeable company. 
 But I have other ends in view than mere amusement. Do not 
 smile when I say that I am reading diligently . Why should 1 
 bore you with that ? 1 know that you would rather hear of 
 sports, horses, peofie — and so I have written I " 
 
CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 HETWOOD EBTtTRNS ESEL DBPAET8. 
 
 While Hey wood was spending the winter at his father's house 
 afld enjoying all the recreations which ahounded in the hospitable 
 old Virginian mansion, he found himself unwittingly thrown into 
 an attitude of defence of his Northern friends. Although he was 
 thoroughly Southern in his prepossessions and prejudices, yet he 
 was highly endowed with the sentiment of justice, and it was not 
 consistent with his honoi-able nature to hear his late acquaintances 
 undervalued and stigmatized, when ho knew the imputations to be 
 unjust. The same thing had happened reversely while he was at 
 Norwood. Thus, in the North he defended the South and opposed 
 Northern prejudices, and in the South he defended much which he 
 had witnessed in Northern society, and opposed the violent tone 
 which prevailed among his companions. He was not one of those 
 whose pride it is, returning from foreign travel, to boast that they 
 have seen nothing worthy of imitation in aU their journeys — a con- 
 fession that they have learned nothing, and well nigh an evidence 
 that they are capable of learning nothing. Of a studious and 
 reflective turn of mind, he had eagerly observed and reasoned 
 upon the interior facts of Northern society, and particularly its 
 industry and its universal education. He had not succeeded in 
 breaking away from those fatal notions of political economy 
 instilled into his own generation, nor did he yet see clearly the 
 philosophic explanation of that diversified industry and universal 
 prosperity which he beheld. But he was on the way. 
 
 The prejudices of his friends, which once were his also, served 
 to show him how far he was changed. 
 
 " Come, Tom," said his favorite sister, " be a good boy and 
 own how mueh better you like the South than you do that meai 
 New England." 
 
 "Most certainly, fair Kate, I prefer the South, but ^rithcnl 
 prejudice' to New England. You ought to think well of a lari 
 vvliicli yvive \iiii iieli a mother as onrs." 
 
290 NORWOOD. 
 
 " Ah 1 mother came away from the North when the was bcl 
 seventeen ; and then she was of good family, and never worked 
 for a living." 
 
 " It is true that she did not ; but her mother did. Her father 
 was a farmer's boy, and made his fortune by integrity and industry. 
 livery one respected him for his solid worth." 
 
 " No matter, Tom ; mother is a Virgiuian and not a Yankee. 
 All her habits and thoughts have been formed here, and every 
 body says that she is a true specimen of a Southern lady." 
 
 " I am not a whit behind you in love for mother and adraira- 
 'ion for our own native State ; but if yon mean to imply that only 
 "n the South can be found gentlemen and ladies of the highest 
 breeding, I cannot go with you. Nay, I know from my own obser- 
 vations that ihij very New England, which you so little know, or 
 yon would not so detest it, is full of families that no man can but 
 i-espect and admire. I speak from my own knowledge. No one 
 could see Farmer Cathcart, who works daily for his living, and 
 ■<ot respect his sturdy independence and admire his great intelli- 
 gence. His daughter Alice, — ah ! Kate, if she were here you 
 would need to look out for your laurels. But even she would not 
 command your admiration so much as Rose Wentworth would." 
 
 "Well done, Tom 1 " cried his beautiful sister, who was as 
 tierce as a dove, and as restless as a humming bird, and full as 
 dangerous, and whose duty it seemed to be, ou all proper occasions, 
 to manifest a State patriotism. " Well done, Tom ; 1 wonder 
 thut you ever came back single 1 Pray, why did you not bring 
 >iii<i of those high-born Yankee dames with you, to outshine us 
 al' ? " 
 
 " Strapger thmgs than that have happened. If yonr father 
 
 weni t« New England for a wife, why shouldn't his son ? And 
 
 his notib'e success adds encouragement. Indeed, I think that I 
 
 oly want ? little onposition on your part, or on the part of some 
 
 I my frien'ls, to propose for Miss Wentworth and marry her." 
 
 "Of course .'•01' would. And I don't mean to give you the 
 jtive — though it would rescue one more Yankee girl, and bj 
 cringing her into good (wjo'ety it might be the making oi' her." 
 
 " Come, come, mj' A^,ar siater, this is all very well for jesting. 
 Snt I tell yon in good ear'ieot, that it is not just or wise for th« 
 people of our one country 'n siv^nc) their tirna m oa^paning nr^j 
 
HEYWOOD RETURNS — E.SEL DEPARTS. 291 
 
 udioes aud promoting alienation. Tlie times are lot enough 
 uready. I confess that I dread the future, unless there can be 
 infused more moderation and mutual respect on both sides." 
 
 "Who cares? " said young Hillyer. " Let times grow bad — 1 
 know who'll suffer, and who will not. The Yankees are a mean 
 spirited, peddling set. We have managed them for fifty years, 
 and we shall do it still. I could thrash ten of them without wink- 
 ing. I hope I may see the day that we shall try it on 1 " 
 
 " Well, Hillyer," replied Heywood, with a grave countenance, 
 "it will be a terrible day for our country if the North and South 
 ahonld go to arms. I Itave no doubt of our valor, but I have just 
 as little of theirs. They are not a people who like fighting. Tliey 
 will be slow to enter upon it. ]3ut, if ever it is thrust upon them, 
 they will take up war like a trade aud learn it thoroughly. New 
 England has had the prejudices of this whole nation against her 
 for a hundred years, and yet she, more than any part of the Union, 
 has gone right on prospering in every element that makes Stateb 
 strong. And I do not believe that she is likely to be cheeked now. 
 But this talk is all folly. At any rate, God grant that we may 
 never put to proof our respective opinions." 
 
 With such views, it will not surprise our readers to learn tliat 
 Heywood returned to Norwood for the second season with far 
 more eagerness than when he had first sought it. His lively sister 
 sent him back loaded with injunctions against apostasy from the 
 true Southern spirit. " I will never, never forgive those fkiikees 
 if they get my brother away from me.' 
 
 Every man, we are often told, has a mission in this life. Josiah 
 Chandler happily found out his mission, which many "people never 
 do; or if they do, then one cannot but marvel that they should be 
 sent so far on so poor an errand. Josiah Chandler's mission was 
 to make and keep money. He was of slender stacare. A round 
 head, with a face not noticeable, unless, upon close examination, 
 you discovered a shrewd look about his eyes. He was in no sense 
 a genius. He simply possessed consummate g<jod Judgment in 
 business. He had no passions. He was always calm. He was 
 never carried away by immoderate expectations ; never speculated. 
 He was one of the few men whose success did uot or steady or so 
 excite that he could not take sure aim. For twenty years he in 
 creased his gairs surely and gradually. Foi ' ou jeara more w^tl 
 
292 NORWOOD. 
 
 came faster. Every thli.(^ he touched seemed to prosper. Hai 
 his son lived, he would hn fe gone on accumulating probably to th« 
 end of life. But that death seemed to give a sliock to his whole 
 nature. Why should he go on toiling without an end or aim in 
 life except to amass property, of which already he had far more 
 than he could employ? Mr. Chandler had no ambition to be 
 thought rich. Indeed he was far richer tlian any one knew. He 
 began to wind up his affairs, to consammate such enterprises as 
 were on hand, and to institute no others. He built him a large 
 and comely mansion, and for a year this gave him occupation. 
 Not a nail was driven without his inspection. Every board and 
 beam, every particle of paint, strip of lead, pane of glass, came 
 imder his scrutiny. Conveniences of every kind were multiplied. 
 He never talked to any one, not even to his wife, of what was 
 going on. Diligent, shrewd, watchful, unostentatious, thorough, 
 and, above all, silent, was he. If any thing went wrong no one 
 knew it. If things succeeded beyond his expertation, no one 
 knew that. He kept his own counsel. One would have thought 
 that it was in his eyes a mortal sin to speak of his own affairs : not 
 a man in town would have been personally so little missed. 
 
 After he moved into his mansion, e\ ery thing fell into orderly 
 an'angements, seemingly without, special effort from any one. He 
 was mildly pious. He never knowingly did wrong. He pre- 
 sumed himself to be sinful, as he had been assured that he was ; 
 and it was a cardinal pr.ictice with him not to contradict. He ob- 
 served the Sabbath day with calm acquiescence. He had united 
 with the Church not from any passionate experience, but because 
 for some unexplained reason he thought it the right thing to do. 
 But his whole life moved on as shadows creep over the ground 
 from the west to the east, attracting no attention and making no 
 noise. 
 
 One day Dr. Wentworth called upon some business, and found 
 him in his library. He was astonished at the beauty of the room 
 and at the number of books. Then first it was found out that 
 Josiah Chandler had a curious taste for books, with a speciality of 
 love for old books. No one had ever heard him speak of books. 
 No ont had seen boxes unlo.iding at his door. He was the la-st 
 man in town who would have been suspected of such a mania 
 Yet on examination Dr. Wen';worth found a large cf)llecti<rti ot 
 
HEYWOOD liETURNS—liiJEL DEPARTS. 293- 
 
 tare tracts, scarce books — illuMi-iitiiig American history. He had 
 gathered them up in a quiet way. They were bound in Boston 
 and returned to Norwood, and took their places in his library, 
 without sign or hint to any one. How much he had read of their 
 no one knew. It was certain that he knew something of every 
 volume, especially its bibliographical history. That same instinct 
 of facts which had given him such success in business was mani- 
 fest in this dry and silent amusement of his leisure. 
 
 How grateful ought we to bo to that distributive Providence 
 which draws men and women to each other, uot by agreements 
 and likenesses, but also by differences. Otherwise, people coming 
 together by elective atfinities would whirl away down the path "of 
 life, — tall people with tall, short people with short, sober with 
 sober, the merry with the merry, the good with the good, and the 
 bad with the bad. And the end would be that the world's popu- 
 lation would soon become fixed in certain lines, and run into the 
 extremest exaggerations. But, now, a tall man snatches up a dar- 
 ling little short creature for his wife. He has had tallness enough, 
 and wants variety. All the town is aghast when it learns that 
 some Amanda Sexton, the finest woman of the place, beautiful as 
 a rose, has surrendered herself to some Luther Walpole, whose 
 face is so homely as to make one almost doubt the benevolence of 
 Providence. And so a devout woman is joined to a merry, thought- 
 less wretch ; and in like manner a grave and reverend man is led 
 about by some rosy, sprightly creature, who foams and sparkle.^ 
 on his surface, as the beautiful water-crests do upon deep and sol 
 emn waves. 
 
 In only one thing was his wife like uoto Josiah Chandler. 
 Neither of them had any illusions. He saw things in their most 
 absolute literalness ; she saw people, and their action, without 
 charitable or malign mists, but in a merciless truthfulness. And 
 though a wise woman, yet she spoke out with a literal truthfulness 
 which frequently astonished men, accustomed to the indirections, 
 the di.sguises, and the deception!* of society. She was a large, 
 portly woman, of a serene, but fine and energetic countenance. 
 She was in every way superior to her husband except in the singu- 
 lar talent for making and administering wealth. She could con- 
 verse ; he could not. She had tastes refined by literature and 
 ijnod society; he was one of those men that you wonfd for{;et tc 
 
294 NORWOOD. 
 
 Qotice, And, whether he was cultivated, really yon forgot to in 
 qnire. 
 
 She studied with profound sympathy the writings cf Jonathan 
 Edwards and Madam Guion ; he read Scott's Commentaries and 
 Barnes's Notes on the Gospels. Every morning, at family prayers, 
 he read five or six verses of Scriptnre from Scott's Bible, and then 
 came rivers of interpretations, and notes, and improvements whiclj 
 overflowed and submerged the Scripture texts, and left them lying 
 like pond-lilies in a broad lake — a few silver cups exquisitely 
 floating on a wilderness of waters I Yet, patient as he was, he 
 seldom could read at a sitting the whole of those prelections by 
 which Scott converted the Bible into an exceeding great army of 
 nnpreached sermons. After he had read to the limit of time, he 
 would break ofl^ with a quiet " and so forth, and so forth, with 
 much more to the same purpose." 
 
 Does any one believe that she loved him ? Is it possible that 
 one in every range of faculty so much larger and richer, could fail 
 to perceive the unmatched condition in which she lived? Did she 
 marry for wealth ? Slie seemed to care little for it, except as a 
 means of kindness. Did she in youth have more imagination than 
 now, and suiier herself to see him through iridescent mists of love 
 awakened by fancy ? And having awakened to the literal reality, 
 did pride lead her ever after to cover the mistake by an appear- 
 ance of affection ? If she was playing a part, it was superbly done. 
 No man, however sharply he might discriminate, could detect the 
 slightest signs of affected regard. On the contrary, there were aU 
 the tokens of a real, enduring affection. 
 
 Agate Bissell had been skeptical, but even she yielded : 
 
 " It's no use. You may as well give it up. That woman does 
 .ove that man, what there is of him, and it's the Lord's wonder 1 " 
 
 Heywood had been brought up in an atmosphere of hospitality. 
 There was a certain largeness in the home-life of his father's honse. 
 There was always more or less of company. Every one was free 
 to come and go according to his own good pleasure. There were 
 horses in the stable for such as would ride ; guns and rods for 
 »uch as loved the field and the stream. Seldom was there a day 
 when the family was at liome when the young people could not 
 find enough companions for (ill siinmier sports and amnsementa. 
 Eiyovment was n( t casual aTid speiin!. It was the ruling element 
 
HEYWOOD RETURNS — ESEL DEPARTS. 295 
 
 It mnst be confessed that the change to Korwood habits wta 
 great, and that in his aunt's mansion the contrast was still more 
 ■'iolent. All was sedate ; all was peaceful, regular, silent. 
 
 But after a while he began to lose that latent repugnance which 
 at first barred familiarity. As soon as he had made up his mind 
 not to compare his aunt's household with his mother's, but to con- 
 sider it as a new species to be studied by itself, he began to find 
 points of curiosity and of attraction. He recognized, also, a dis- 
 tinct influence which his aunt exerted upon him, and he could not 
 help admiring both the shrewdness and solidity of her judgments 
 upon men and things in society. 
 
 It was novel to Heywood to find a woman of strong sense, of 
 clear discernment, who always spoke the truth, and who loved to 
 have the truth spoken to her. This last trait was remarkable. 
 She refused to be praised in the slightest degree beyond what she 
 esteemed fair. But a merited compliment she accepted with mani- 
 fest pleasure. Kot remarkable for insight and analysis of the 
 subtle elements of character, she saw those broad effects which are 
 developed in action with accuracy, and judged them impartially. 
 Bey wood soon found in his aunt a friend whom he could trust im- 
 plicitly, and whose judgment was invaluable ; and every month ol 
 his stay made absence from his home easier to bear. 
 
 The appearance in Norwood society for a second season of this 
 brilliant young Southerner could not fail to create an interest in 
 all concerned, and that was not a small number. There was no 
 house at which he would not have been welcome. The young 
 people deemed his presence at any gathering a sure presage of a 
 brilliant time. All admitted that Norwood had never seen, and 
 would not soon again see, three such glorion? fellows as Frank 
 Esel, Tom Heywood and Barton Oathoart. 
 
 Frank Esel had maintained his intimacy at Dr. Wentworth's. ■ 
 His admiration had not abated. In spite of all his philosophy, he 
 had found himself more and more carried forward toward that in- 
 toxication of feeling where one ceases to be the master of himself 
 find the judgment loses control, and every object is seen in the 
 color of passionate love. This growing feeling could not fail to be 
 observed by Rose. It troubled her So much was there in Frank 
 Esel to admire, so sound was his moral nature, his hedrt was so 
 piod, and his tastes so refined, that Rose Wentworth placed a sin 
 
29(j .\oi;\vuuLi. 
 
 cere value upou his friendship. Few women can Jccliue a pi'ui 
 fered lore witiout wounding both pride and vanity. Not manj 
 men are noble enough to accept friendship when their love haa 
 oeen refuaed. Pride and vanity, too deeply wounded by defeat, 
 often change to anger, and men seek to undervalue what they have 
 failed to secure. 
 
 Returning home with Miss Weiitworth from an afternoon's 
 gathering in the village, Frank Esel thought thut she had never 
 seemed so beautiful as on this day. It chanced that the doctor 
 and Mrs. Wentworth had gone out to make soiui; evening call. 
 The young folks were in the other part of the house, and Rose 
 sat in her father's library. There rose in Frank's heart an im- 
 pulse, as often before, but which now seemed to rise and impel him 
 in spite of every resistance which he could make. All the prudent 
 resolves he had formed were gone, and seemed like faint memories, 
 pale and afar off. He began to speak, and started at his own 
 voice. His color came and vanished. And so inucii was he agi- 
 tated that Rose perceived it, nor was the meaning unknown to her. 
 
 How much one may think in the duration of a flash 1 Under 
 low excitements the mind finds its' way from thought to thought 
 gradually. But when the brain is fired, whole fields of thought 
 spring up before the mind like pictures, and all progression of view 
 seems to give place to instantaneousness of sight. 
 
 In one and the same instant Rose saw and determined all these 
 things, viz. : that a crisis had come in Frank Esel's feelings, that 
 the tide was too strong to be stayed or turned aside, that should 
 he be suffered to pour out all his heart, he would, in the necessary 
 disappointment which must befall him, not only greatly suffer in 
 pride, but lose by rebound a position of friendship fall of pleasure 
 to both of them, that it wa.-^ far better that she should herself take 
 the initiative, and, meeting his rising feeling, forestall it. Her pur- 
 pose was taken instantly; and when Frank, suddenly rising, same 
 toward her, with glowing cheek and an eye almost wild, she rose 
 lo meet him, and, extending her hand to his, she said, with a voire 
 In which command and kindness were blended : 
 
 " My dear cousin Frank, come and sit down by me on the sofa, 
 until I say what I u.n sure you will forgive me for saying I Oui 
 acquaintance has bwjuajoyto me. I have learned mncli from 
 you, aad much more i Liope to learn. I value your friendship, and 
 
HEYWOOD RETUENS— ESEL DEPARTS. 297 
 
 «k lor it. Frank, I am grateful and proud of your good and kinc 
 thoughts of me. It would be a grief all my life if any darkness 
 should come between us. No, my dear cousin, do not speat — I 
 know what you would say. I know that you would be sorry if 
 you said it, and I should be too; for, Frank, better friends than 
 we are there could not be, but more than friendship is impossible.'' 
 
 Then Eose's voice trembled, and her face was suffused with 
 blushes as, with great sensibility, she turned full upon Esel, and 
 added : 
 
 " Forgive me, Frank, for my boldness, and accept it as the token 
 of my friendship, that I say, before you have even spoken of love 
 to me, that you must not speak of it 1 Do not think ill of me, Frank, 
 that I decline what has not been offered I would have had it 
 otherwise. And now I would save you from uttering a word which, 
 in a few hours, you would be grieved that you had said. For, it 
 must not be. Nothing is more certain, Frank, absolutely certain, 
 than that you must rest contented with friendship. I must nol 
 detain you — I hear voices — father is returning. Come hither to- 
 morrow night, and be your own noble self, and my friend. Pardon 
 the pain — I am sure that you will believe it kindness." 
 
 " One word, if I may — one word. Miss Wentworth " 
 
 " Miss Wentworth I Then you are offended ? " 
 
 "No, cousin — cousin Eose! I am only bewildered! May J 
 ask ? — no, I will not ask the question 1 — Good night 1 " 
 
 As he passed out of the door he met Dr. Wentworth and his 
 wife ; but Frank seemed indeed, as he had said, like one bewildered. 
 He was going on without salutation, till the doctor spoke: 
 
 " Good-evening, Mr. Esel. Whither away so fast ? — ^the evening 
 is not yet spent I " 
 
 " How do you do, sir ; — I mean good night, sir; — I quite forgot." 
 
 "Why, what is aU this?" said Dr. Wentworth to his wife. 
 • What has happened to Esel ? He talks as if he had been drinking." 
 
 His wife with woman's wit suspected the state of the case, and 
 only replied ; 
 
 " Oh, it's some little dispute, I dare say. But if nothing is said 
 to us, we had better nol inquire." 
 
 Leaving the door-yard, Esel turned from mere habit in tii« 
 direction of his rooms. But so absorbed was he in thought tb«" 
 he walke<l slowly past his boarding-house, — far along the atr^* 
 
298 NORWOOD. 
 
 under the dwkness of the great elms, — sometimes pausing, — onoe 
 or twice crossing the street without knowing it. The alternation 
 between feeling and thouglit in a mind painfully stirred as Esel'a 
 was cannot be set down in any words. Yet, leaving out the hun- 
 dred flushes of shame, the sharp pangs of regret, the reaction ol 
 generous feelings — we may give a faint notion of his state. 
 
 " And so it is ended : — (a deep sigh.) Then it was not to 
 entice me that she spoke. There was no need of it. Rose could not 
 do it either. I've brought it on myself — (a blush stole over his 
 face, growing hotter and hotter.) All my resolutions and my better 
 judgment tlirown aside, — and the sweetness of infatuated feeling 
 was followed ! — (then speaking aloud) — and so plainly did I show 
 it that she saw it, and knew what I was going to say, and antici- 
 pated me, — foiled! — outwitted! — fooled! (His voice sounding in 
 the silence seemed to annoy hinn, and he became silent.) Friend- 
 ship? — it's easy to convert friendsliip into love. I've found that 
 out ; but, not so easy to put love back into friendship. I see, now — 
 that brilliant Southerner. I wish I had asked what was on my 
 tongue's end — Is there any other one whom you love? No, I had 
 no business to do it. To-morrow I wUl go home. Fool, to have 
 ever gone away. No, I am not a fool. I should have been less 
 than a man if I had not loved her. I am not ashamed of it. I am 
 not worthy of her. God saw it. But I would have given my 
 whole life to becoming worthy of her. I never can see her again — 
 never — never. I could not look upon her and be silent. Now that 
 she knows my secret, how can I look into her eyes without a 
 burning tell-tale face ; and that will be a renewing of the suit. 
 Oh, I did not know how far I had gone. This has sucked up my 
 very life." 
 
 By this time Esel liad strayed out of the village, and was more 
 than half a mile beyond on the road towards Cathcart's. He sat 
 rlown upon a large white rock as if lie were looking at a landscape, 
 though the darkness and silence were remarkable. 
 
 The heaven was full of concealed clouds. Now and then a dis- 
 tant flash of lightning revealed them, and long ranges of "thunder 
 heads" shone brilliantly out, but in a second sank back mto dark- 
 ness. Low rolls of heavy thunder soiindrd the coming on of a 
 Btarm. A fitful wiml swept through the near woods with a sound 
 like rushing waters. In i moment it was lione : not a leaf moved, 
 
HEYWOOD RETURNS— ESEL DEPARTS. 299 
 
 aot a sound was uttered. An unweaned calf bleated from the pas- 
 ture; a short bark from a distant dog, instantly broken oflf, gave 
 to the silence a profonnder influence. Again and again the cloud 
 ridges and mountains shone out and receded into darkness. Esel 
 sat as if watching this grandest phenomenon of summer, the ad- 
 vance through the heavens of a great storm. But he saw nothing, 
 or was, at least unconscious of seeing any thing. The flashes grew 
 more frequent, the thunder advanced and rolled with deepei 
 cadence; large drops of rain, slung from the clouds, smote the 
 earth — a few only, and they suddenly ceased. A whirl of wind 
 1 oiled up the the dust along the road, bent the trees in its course, 
 and swayed the bushes almost to the ground, and then fled away 
 and left a dead calm behind. Soon a flue sound filled the air; it 
 was the rain descending in good earnest, and sounding upon a mil- 
 lion leaves. It came with a rush upon Esel, and awoke him to some 
 consciousness. 
 
 He looked up in surprise as if awakened from sleep. He did 
 not know where he was. Fortunately he took the right direction, 
 and now running, and then walking, to catch his breath, he regained 
 the village, drenched to the skin. The storm accompanied him all 
 the way. It thundered behind him above him, all around him. 
 Torrents poured down, and the roads ran like rivers. 
 
 The storm had, at least, restored him to some self-possession, 
 but not to prudence. Casting oS a part of his clothes, and throwing 
 i cloak loosely about him, Frank Esel sat dowu by the open window. 
 
 The storm had wasted its substance, or rather appeared to have 
 driven forward like an advancing army, whose artillery was still 
 mounding in the far front, while cloud-stragglers swarmed in the 
 rear. 
 
 There was something in this war of the elements that suited 
 Esel's disturbed feelings ; yet his mind fell off from the scene before 
 him and wandered back to his childhood. Tears came at the 
 'bought of his mother. He strove to bring together the discon- 
 nected scenes of his childhood that rose up before him, and to fee' 
 Ihat he was that very one ; for his very identity seemed slippin 
 from him, and he could hardly make himself feel that he was tha 
 person whom he remembered in so many gay and happy experiences. 
 Ft was past midnight. A chill crept over hira, and he gathered his 
 eloak closer about him. But he was no warmer. He shirt the 
 
300 NUKWOOD. 
 
 window and retired to his bed ; but the sleep he sought ded fron 
 him. 
 
 At length, toward morning, he fell into an uneasy slumbei-, and 
 dreamed all manner of dreams. All the day following he was lan- 
 guid and depressed. He knew not what ailed him. He started on 
 looking in the glass to see the haggardness of his own face. To- 
 ward evening, remembering Rose Wentworth's wish, he determined 
 to go to her ; but a strange apathy seemed to hang upon him. He 
 remembered the different feelings of yesterday as he trod the same 
 path, but remembered them without emotion. As he entered Dr. 
 Wentworth's yard, Rose saw him from the window, and greeted 
 him at the door. 
 
 " Frank, this is good and noble. I knew that I did not misjudge 
 you But what ails you, Frank? How ghastly you are! " 
 
 For a moment a pang of anguish pierced Rose's heart. She 
 could hardly imagine that a disappointment could, in a few hours, 
 work such a change ! Esel made haste to say : 
 
 "It is nothing. I was imprudent last night. I was caught 
 in the storm and thoroughly wet. I must have taken a severe 
 chill, for I have not felt well since. But it will pass with a good 
 
 Dr. Wentworth, overhearing a word, came from his library. 
 
 " What, Esel, did you say you were not well 3 " He approached 
 and examined him. "Esel, you should return to your room; 1 
 will send you some remedies. It may he but a cold ; it may come 
 to something more." 
 
 The next day the doctor found him in a high fever, and his 
 mind confused and wandering. His mother was sent for. For 
 many weeks he lay helpless. At length the fever left him. It was 
 several weeks yet before he could be moved ; and when he couW 
 bear the journey, he returned to his home. The love that he had 
 cherished for Rose was no longer a thing of this world. It had 
 risen into the place of devout thoughts. It was like a remembered 
 vision of another world, not lawful to be uttered. 
 
 One chamber of his soul was set apart, consecrated, and thert 
 his thoughts, as to a shrine, came reverently. 
 
 As his health returned, Frank Esel betook himself to his pnv 
 ftission witli even a deeper feeling than ever. He had become * 
 paan. For he had become a disciple of Suffering, the only schoo! 
 
HEYWOOD RETURNS — ESEL DEPARTS. 301 
 
 ><iaBtor who can bring men to their true manhood. He had passed 
 through his youth-time with abounding joy. Then came the real 
 awakening of his intellect, where new fliglits seemed like inspira- 
 tions, and cast a shadow upon all that went before. At last came 
 Suffering I Not that play of care or vexation, which only creases 
 the soul's surface as a puff of wind wrinkles the waters, but sorrow 
 which moves the foundations, and so deepens one's nature. No 
 one has suffered enough until he is patient of suffering. " Madt 
 ferfect through sufferiiig ! " Men stamped with this brand hav« 
 God's mark on them. 
 
 But one should not imagine Esel as a discouraged or a brokei 
 man. He was never so strong as now. He had in early years in- 
 sensibly been drawn under the' influence of that vicious school of 
 3elf-contemplatists whose victims revolve around themselves all 
 their lives, watching the development of their own genius and by 
 self-culture attaining to self-consciousness. Esel's natural gener- 
 osity had restrained him from that besotted conceit which blights 
 so many. But he had not learned to derive his pleasure from the 
 end sought, so much as from the conscious exercise of those facul- 
 ties by which he sought it. His sickness and previous experiences 
 left upon his mind a deep impression, that in so far as he himself 
 was concerned, life was ended. Now, whatever power he pos- 
 sessed was to be spent for others. All his ambitions now assumed 
 tlie form of kindnesses. Gradually he found his former enterprise 
 developing itself under new motives. With less exhilaration than 
 formerly, he found far more peace. He seriously questioned 
 whether he should not enter upon the service of the church, and 
 while in that mood he wrote to Dr. "Wentworth, a part of whose 
 reply we will print : 
 
 "' * * * "If you had been hving out of the line of action 
 of your strongest faculties, if deep religious feeling had developed 
 powers which had been restrained or overlaid by selfish plans, 
 there might be good reason for a change of profession. But you 
 were born to be an artist. All your faculties and feelings har- 
 monize in the pursuits of art. Why should you change ? You speak 
 of self-denial as necessary. Do not search for it. Whenever a 
 owor course, a less worthy feeling, contest better ones, deny 
 them. Do not seek pain for its own sake. Suffering is like many 
 «hemioal agents, wholesome when combined by nature in organic 
 
302 NORWOOD. 
 
 forms of ti-uit or grain, but separated and employed alone, super- 
 ttimulating and injurious. 
 
 " What would you gain ? You can seek the moral benefit of 
 society by your art, as really as by sermons, and probably with 
 far greater success. Have you considered in how many ways your 
 peculiar genius can be applied to the refinement and happiness of 
 your fellow-men ? Let me state simple cases which I have often 
 imagined. A sweet landscape, painted by one who saw a soul in 
 nature, and not merely forms, hanging in a sick-room for long 
 months, cheers the declining invalid and becomes a minister of 
 consolation. When the spirit is liberated, thereafter, to the whole 
 household, that picture has a saored association. It becomes a family 
 talisman. When it passes on into another generation, it renews 
 Its labor of love, — proving that the spirit of beauty may become 
 a spirit of mercy. I can easily imagine a simple landscape wrought 
 out in the spirit of love by a skilful hand, which shall diffuse more 
 happiness than most men do in a whole life-time. 
 
 " But your profession is, Ohristianly considered, the education 
 of the community by the ministration of Beauty. Painting is only 
 one way of doing this. Why should there not be drawing- classes 
 among the poor as well as sewing-classes^reading-classes, singing- 
 classes, etc. ! Men collect funds to put books gratuituously in the 
 dwellings of the poor, — why should not some Christian artist 
 spend a portion of his time in ministering beauty to households ot 
 the worthy poorf 
 
 " Even if one had no skill in painting, the ministry of beauty 
 does not depend upon manual skill. One might gather flowers day 
 by day, from the fields to oheer the poor and crippled ; to stand in 
 schools ; or, with faint symbolic power, to bring into gaunt churches 
 Bome wealth and grace of natural beauty. What if one were to 
 \ isit the poor-house in each town, and minister, — not alone to the 
 social feelings, to the physical wants, — but to the taste and sym- 
 pathy of its inmates, with gifts of beauty ? 
 
 " 1 have often marvelled that, in a time of such taste and liber- 
 ality, so little should be done with «r«es. New England might be 
 made a magnificent park, with but a slight expense, if only one 
 dedicated himself to doing good through the love of beauty. Every 
 ^reat road, every bye-road, connecting towns and villages, or noigh- 
 lorboods, if concert weri' -n ' r^-i1, might not only be judiciooal} 
 
HEYWOOD RETURNS— ESEL DEPARTS. 303 
 
 planted, but, by a little study and care in tLe selection, all the fine 
 trees might in time be employed, one road being lined with oaks, 
 another with elms, another with pines or spruces, another with 
 maples, another with purple beeches, and so on, until every county 
 would become an arboretum. Such is the spirit of emulation that, 
 if a single town should perfect this work, other towns would catch 
 the inspiration, and the work would go on with energy until an 
 unclothed road would become a reproach. All this is a part of the 
 work of true benevolence. If you would teach within the church, 
 you must seek ordination at the hands of man. But whose heart 
 soever God has touched with a spirit of benevolence is ordained 
 10 go forth into society and preach the gospel to every creature, 
 each man speakina in the language of his own business [ " * * * 
 Esel had never been so busy as now, and was never so cheerful. 
 Yet he carried in his heart a feeling that never died. There was 
 no hope in it, but a gentle patience. It burned on in solitude, like 
 s sacred lamp, which heinnit hands trim and feed in some reolnse'i 
 •all or <«ye far away from the fever of the woild. 
 
CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 CONTEASTS. 
 
 If people are attracted by their opposites, is aome hold, the.'< 
 was every reason to suspect that a strong syn pathy would draw 
 Keywood and Oathcart together for they represented in a striking 
 manner contrasting elements. Pleywood's face was fine, even 
 beautiful. Blue eyes, chestnut hair, inclining to curl, fine com- 
 plexion, and fresh color, — need it be said that his was a sanguine 
 temperament ? Oathcart's, striking in appearance rather by expres- 
 sion than by positive beauty of features, dark and piercing eyes, 
 features framed both for strength and refinement, black hair; — 
 his temperament, too, could not be mistaken. Heywood's face 
 was genial, and when excited radiant. His whole soul shone 
 through it. Excitement shot fire through every feature of Oath- 
 cart's face; but every one felt that more lay behind than was ex- 
 pressed There was a sense of repressed feeling and reserved 
 enthusiasm. Heywuod would flame soonest, Oathcart would burr 
 the longest. 
 
 They were contrasted in mental qualities. Barton Oathcart's 
 uiind was reflective, Tom Heywood's perceptive. Both were rea- 
 soners; but tteywocid loved physical facts, auL easoued upon 
 them. Oathcart reasoned more deeply upon relations of facts, and 
 upon more subtle philosophies. As was natural, Heywood loved 
 to reason upon the actions of men, the events of society. Oathcart 
 inclined to the study of the causes of events, the nature of the 
 mind, and the structure of society. 
 
 It was natural for Heywood to utter, and to long to utter, what- 
 ever he had wrought out in thinking, and he left the impressioc 
 that in his frankness he had expressed all that he had thought. 
 
 On the other hand, Barton Oathcart, without seeming reserved 
 left the impression that he offered you but a slieaf from a field, and 
 that the reserved treasure far surpassed that revealed. 
 
 They were more nearly alike in disposition, but as contrasted 
 as possible in the forms which disposition took on. Heywood'i 
 oonscience developed in the form if Honor. Oathcart's moral 
 
contrasts: 306 
 
 sense had been trained as a deep, reflective, religiojs feeling, 
 rather than as a social element. 
 
 Hey wood did right, as in the sight of men ; Oathcart as in the 
 siglit of God. Both were kind, with great disinterestedness ; but 
 in the Southerner it was demonstrative and generous. Less demon- 
 strative in the Northerner, perhaps less prompt, and far lese attrac- 
 tive, it endured . longer and aoliieved more. In the one it was a 
 Mossom, in the other a fruit. 
 
 Hey wood had been reared in affluence, and had never learned 
 o work, nor to have sympathy with those who did. Barton Oath- 
 rart had been inured from childhood to toil, and was drawn by 
 vital sympathy to all who labored. The Virginian was born to 
 lommand. He had looked down upon men from the necessity of 
 his social position, there being but two classes in the society in 
 which he was bred — that class in which men must work, and that 
 in which they must not. The New Englander had been reared in 
 a true democracy, in which classes represented the relative forces 
 of the actors, into which and out of which men passed at their 
 pleasure, and in which there were few leaders and no aristocracy, 
 except that which was conferred by the consent of all. 
 
 In religion they were equally contrasted. Reared an Episco- 
 palian, Heywood regarded religious truths a-; Something settled be- 
 yond all questioning— worked out and fixed as definitely as are the 
 elements of mathematics. He had neve • searched the grounds of 
 truth. The church he believed to have been shaped and patterned 
 by God as much as the natural world was. He would as soon have 
 thought of discussing the authenticity of heat, or the propriety of 
 frost, as of the services of the church. Ordination was a natural 
 law — the ministry a part of the constitution of the world. 
 
 Barton Oathcart had been reared even more earnestly to believe 
 in revealed religion. But, from bis childhood, an appeal had been 
 made to his reason. Nothing marks so strikingly the faith of New 
 England in the truth of her religious systems as the boldness with 
 which she has always challenged for them the utmost scrutiny of 
 Reason. Oathcart, from an early period, felt himself drawn into deeji 
 thought. He could not rest with traditional knowledge and heredi- 
 tary faith. Ho pursued inquiries into the nature of the human mind, 
 — whose nature will in the end determine all formulas, as its philoso- 
 phy has in every age fashioned all theo' igies. He analyzed the doo 
 
306 NORWOOD. 
 
 trines of i ! e church, and disputed many ol them. Led on bjr t^ 
 hidoinitable desire of knov^■ing tlie very truth, he explored the Bible 
 for himself with indefatigable zeal. Finding ihe extreme reaction- 
 ary Protestant doctrine, that the Bible was the sole fountain ol 
 religious truth, could not be true, he began to question the grounds 
 of inspiration ; then the reality of the truths revealed; what truth 
 was only relative to a process, a condition, and an age, and what 
 was fibsolute — alike true to every people in every age, and in all 
 conditions of their development and progress. 
 
 Such a career of thought would have been as impossible to the 
 brilliant Virginian as the act of flying. He believed that the church 
 categories of truth were so absolutely true, that it was audacious 
 uven to question them. Investigation he deemed to consist in 
 assuming these, and simply seeing how far one might go consist- 
 ently with them. 
 
 Not only did Heywood rest unquestioningly upon the neligion 
 and church of his fathers, but he could not understand philosophical 
 inquisitiveness in religious matters in any other light than as an 
 immorality. It was a sign not of intellectual life, but of moral 
 death. He shrunk with something akin to disgust from that 
 free spirit of inquiry and discussion which he found in New 
 England. 
 
 Alike in contrast were these young men in their views of life, 
 barton Oathoart's freedom in searching the foundations of religious 
 truth did not seem half so strange to Heywood, as to Cathcart 
 seemed Heywood's utter levity regarding human life and society. 
 From his childhood Barton had looked with the deepest solem- 
 nity upon a man's duty to his fellows. Society did not seem to him, 
 as it nearly did to Heywood, a contrivance for his pleasure and 
 aggrandizement. On the contrary, he was oppressed with a sense 
 uf duty to society, which tasked him, and, after his utmost industry, 
 stiU chastised him for negligence. 
 
 Barton could not imagine how Heywood could look witu such 
 i( tVivolous eye upon human society, and yet be so consoi'jjitious- 
 rtlmost superstitious — about religious forms of thought anrt worship 
 It seemed to Barton as if Heywood worshipped institutions and 
 cared little for men, — much for the temple, nothing for the 
 worshippers. 
 
 In spite of all these differences, tl ese young men became warm 
 
CONTRASTS. 307 
 
 friends. Frieridsliip is cot the result of reasoning, but of sympathy , 
 and sympathy is a thing too mysterious for solution. Why dc 
 some like the smell of sandal wo'.d and others sicken at it? Why 
 is bitter agreeable to some and offensive to others? 
 
 Lovers sit in the early ecstasy, saying. Tell me why you love 
 rae? And then, when every reason is given that fancy can suggest, 
 does not every one knov/ that there is something deeper than all 
 that is told ? — that there is in the hidden nature of faculty an 
 attraction of one for another, which, when the conditions are once 
 secured, acts as do the great attractions of the globe, drawing all 
 things together centreward. So it is that people love, not only 
 without the leave of reason, but against all its protests. There is 
 a wisdom of feeling, as well as of thought. Calculation is as often 
 wrong as inspiration. The intuitions of our moral sentiments 
 seldom mislead us. The passions need the rein and curb, but 
 moral sentiments need the spur. 
 
 Such differences could not but stir up frequent discussions 
 between these friends. Discussions carried on from day to day 
 began to work their natural effect upon Heywood. Questions 
 began to arise in his mind. Doubts began to hover unbidden over 
 themes before unsullied by the faintest uncertainty. He shrank 
 hack from the experience. 
 
 " Barton, what's the use of all this disturbance ? A fellow had 
 better stick to the religion to which he was educated. I do not 
 think that it is the gentlemanly thing for a man to desert his side. 
 The Church is a good bridge enough for me. If it is not right, it 
 is not likely that I could mend it." 
 
 " But what," said Barton, " if the bridge should stop before 
 you reach the farther bank ? " 
 
 " It will be time enough then," replied Heywood, " to consider 
 what I shall do. But the case is this : here is a ri^er so wide that 
 neither you nor I can see the further bank. It is a turbulent and 
 dangerous water. I sec a bridge which has a good and solid abut- 
 ment on this side. As far as the eye can reach the bridgeway is 
 secure and ampla I propose to try it. You, on the contrary, 
 have a notion that you will row yourself over the stream, and with 
 a skiff and an oar you intend to play ferryman ! " 
 
 "Tour illustration is ingenious at least,'' said Barton. "Now 
 give me my turn. We are upon an island in the ocean, desirini 
 
■''08 NORWOOD. 
 
 to return to our homes. Many vessels appear a.id oflfer to take ai 
 off. All claim to be safe and efficient. Shall a man nse his reasor 
 and judgment in determining whether any of them, and, if any, 
 which is safe and trustworthy ? " 
 
 " There is no end to figures," said Hoywood, " you can provt 
 any thing and disprove any thing by ingenious illustrations. I'v* 
 seen many a jury led to the very deuce by a lawyer skilful ii' 
 metaphors and similes, although the facts and the law were againsi 
 his case. But the fact is, Barton, I am no Yankee. I am not 
 troubled with that intolerable curiosity which puts your peopl<! 
 upon prying into every thing in creation. If the good Lord wants 
 to keep any thing secret, I can't imagine what he created Yankees- 
 for! They are the mo-t restlessly inquisitive creatures — always 
 fretting themselves to find out something that was hidden away 
 on purpose. If Nature has a secret, a Yankee, I'll be bound, ■"'ill 
 pick the lock where it is kept, or be eaves-droyiping^ till he sets 
 hold of it. The fact is, there is too much brain here in New Eng- 
 land. Every body is racing and chasing after causes. I believe 
 your people think they have the responsibility of the universe on 
 their shoulders. When the Bible said, ' Oanst thou find out the 
 Almighty to perfection ? ' there were no Yankees about. Since 
 then, five hundred ministers in this very Xew England think 6he.\ 
 have done it ! They have found God out — all that He has dona 
 why He did it, what He has not done, and why He could rot do 
 it ! Did you hear that young sprout preach, last Sunday aftei-noon, 
 fresh from New Haven ? He was amazingly precocious He 
 went on glibly unfolding moral government. 'God must do this,' 
 and, 'God, from the nature of things, crtnnot io that.' There was 
 not a thing about the Infinite and Eternal which he did not fancy 
 himself entirely familiar with ! Pah I I hate so much disturbance 
 A gentleman wfints a decorous faith, a good, plain, sensibl» 
 worship; and then, with a good conscience, he turns to the en.lfv 
 ment of life, leaving to the Deity and — excuse me ! — to the Yankees 
 the management of unfathomable mysteries." 
 
 Barton could not help laughing at Heywood's banter, extrav- 
 agant as it seemed. 
 
 " Well, Hey wood," said he, " I admit that there is something 
 of the Greek in the Yankee nature. Dr. Wentworth says that the 
 New England mind is a threefold cross — it has the mora! nature 
 
CONTRASTS. 309 
 
 of the Jew, the intellectual spirit of the Greek, luid the practical 
 teadencies of the Roman." 
 
 " Indeed ! Did he say whence they derived the element ot 
 modesty ? Only three nations spoiled to make this marvellous 
 New England ? That cannot account for the riches which abound ! 
 Let me see — ingenuity from Egypt, humility from China, bravery 
 — well, that must be indigenous, it is of a peculiar kind." 
 
 " That will do, Heywood 1 that will do. You have given 
 easons enough already, why Virginia should send her daughters 
 to New England for education and her sons for wives 1 The State 
 that yields the best schools and finest women ranks highest." 
 
 It might be supposed that on a subject so alj-engrossing as 
 politics had become in the^spring and summeit.of 1860, t^o young 
 men like Oathcart and Heywood would find themselves often in 
 collision. But Heywood had not adopted the extreme views that 
 had prevailed in the South on the subject of slavery. He regarded 
 the institution as a misfortune. But he apologized for it, as a 
 thing entailed upon the South, and for which no present remedy 
 could be found. Though Heywood deemed it prudent to abstain 
 from an active part in politics, yet it was plain he did not care to 
 have it concealed that his sympathy was with his Southern kin- 
 dred. By a sort of understanding, at length, Tom Hejwood and 
 Oathcart avoided all discussions on current topics. But when did 
 two clouds oppositely charged ever come together without draw- 
 ing each other's lightning? Then comes the thunder-crash ; after- 
 ward it clears up, and for days the air will be purer. But such 
 clashes between friends are safer in almost any other matter than 
 politics. In sjiite of every effort, they found themselves less 
 intimate, less affectionate and confiding. Other causes also tended 
 and tempted to more alienation. 
 
 Heywood's aunt had secretly determined to spare no pains to 
 bring about a connection between Rose Wentworth and young 
 Heywood. In the first place, she deemed the connection one 
 eminently fit to be made. They seemed suited to each other. 
 Was he not a fine fellow, handsome, of gentlemanly manners, of 
 good disposition, of good family and connections? Was not Ros» 
 of noble presence, most comely, a woman of genius, yet of rare 
 domestic qualities, of great culture, trained to observation, and 
 withal free from pedantry ? What more could be wuiting J 
 
310 NORWOOD. 
 
 toothing except the consent of the parties. Match-making is a» 
 art BO fascinating that it is no wonder that people become ad(liote<l 
 to it. Love in young people is of itself one of the most charming 
 spectacles in human life. To see the spark struck, the fire Idndled, 
 its first faint flame spreading, and finally the full glow and warmth 
 established, and then to be able to say complacently, "I did it," is 
 not all this inducement and reward enough to tempt amiable souls 
 to this species of benevolence ? 
 
 Aunt Chandler was no match-maker. This she often said. 
 But she had no objection occasionally to give good advice. She 
 was of that hi mest and plain-speaking way that inspired confidence. 
 She was shrewd and prudent. She was really unselfish. She had 
 no daughters of her own. With a great motherly heart, she had 
 no children. With great skill in management, she had nobody to 
 manage. It was quite natural when young people came to her for 
 advice, she should give it. Having given advice, it was natural 
 ",hat she should be interested in seeing what became of it. But 
 »he was not a match-maker 1 That she disapproved of. It was a 
 responsibility that no one should take. " No one could tell after 
 all how a match might turn out ; and if badly, one could never 
 forgive one's self for having brought it about." 
 
 There was a great difference, she pleased herself with thinking, 
 between match-making and a mere influencing one to make one's 
 own match. Suggestion, reasonable influence and suitable advice 
 did not amount to match-making. 
 
 She beheld these two young persons, Heywood and Rose 
 Wentworth, and saw what from inexperience they might have 
 filled to perceive, that they were "just made for each other." 
 
 She made various occasions of meeting at her h'ouse, and in her 
 grounds — "no party, a mere g.thering of neighbors in the most 
 familiar way ; " teas and d-ior-yard picnics — all in a manner so 
 natural and accidental, tli.it she could not forbear to admire the 
 furtunate happening's of things. When people of sagacity set on 
 foot plans with foresiglit, if they are of a devout turn of mind, they 
 often see the hand of Providence wonderfully stretched out in 
 their behalf. When Mrs. Chandler had sent some rare old books 
 of prints over to Dr. Wentworth, had heaped up Mrs. Wentwortli's 
 table with fruit, apologizing that their grounds produced so much 
 Tiore than they could use that it wns a kindness if the neigliborj 
 
CONTRASTS. 311 
 
 would help her to use it, It was oatnral that the doctor's iamil; 
 should all come over, without formality, to spend an evening, and 
 just as natural that Mrs. Chandler and her husband should return 
 the visit. And when, after the elderly people were seated in a 
 manner evidently studied for their pleasure, and Rose and Hay- 
 wood had the two only places left, and were obliged accidentally to 
 bear each other company, and seemed content to do so, Mrs. 
 Chandler, looking down upon them with benevolent eyes, could 
 not refrain a pious and grateful ejaculation : " How providentia. 
 this is I If I had had the ordeiing of it myself, the Lord could 
 not have pleased me better 1 " The more she thought about it 
 the more Providence seemed to smile. The more Providence 
 favored it the more Mrs. Chandler smiled. It was so easy for her 
 to act with sagacity that she did not see herself in many events 
 which fell out, and fell out of her hand. 
 
 Weeks and months passed. The young people were happy ; 
 the old people were happy. It seemed strange, however, that 
 Heywood had never spoken a word to his aunt of his intentions. 
 In imagination, she had seen the happy pair coming to thank her, 
 she had helped to arrange the bridal party, she had seen the cere- 
 mony, she had been to church on the first Sunday after their re- 
 turn from the bridal trip, and she had dnank in great draughts of 
 satisfaction at the admiration with which all the congregation 
 looked on the beautiful couple ; she had walked home behind them 
 and observed with rare relish those tender ways of first-blossoming 
 love, which discover newly-married people as surely as a bed oi 
 mignonnette — simple as it looks — is detected by its odor. But, 
 pleasing as are the pictures of imagination, a practical mind needs 
 something less spiritual and more substantial. Why did not Hey- 
 wood make some progress? Did not Rose please him? Or was 
 there some impediment ? It was plain that no visible progress was 
 made. Therefore, though averse to match-making, it was prop- 
 er that Mrs. Chandler should take observations and find out the 
 latitude and longitude of affairs. 
 
 Could it be that Heywood was already engaged in Virginia! 
 The thought was startling. His anntdid not wait long for a prov- 
 idential opening; hut, on Heywood's return from an excursion, 
 fell into conversation with him. 
 
 "Have yon had a pleasant time, Heywood? of course you have, 
 
■>i- MlKWOOlJ. 
 
 [ can see by your face. When I was young, they Jid not have a» 
 many ridos and picnics as they do now ; though I fancy the yonng 
 womeu then were more sedate, less frivolous and pleasure-seeking 
 than now." 
 
 "Bless me, aunt, I do not know what you would call propriety 
 if the Norwood girls are not proper 1 I wish you might see some 
 of our highflyers in the South ! " 
 
 "I suppose you naturally would prefer the society of Sontheni 
 young ladies ? " 
 
 " I don't know about that ; of course I like my own folks.'' 
 
 " Well, suppose you were going to settle down in life, ai c 
 wanted to choose a wife — for I take it for granted that you are not 
 engaged — are you ? " 
 
 " No, aunt, I am too young for that, or, at any rate, not yet 
 quite ready to settle down. Besides, no man marries till his time 
 «omes. I am waiting till I see some one that is irresistible." 
 
 " Do you expect some one to charge upon you and whirl you 
 away captive ? " 
 
 "No, not exactly that; but one likes shy game and fish not 
 easily landed. I see persons good enough, doubtless — perhaps too 
 good for me ; yet, after all, one does not like to know before he 
 takes a step just how it will all end." 
 
 "Upon my word, Heywood, this is superlatively modest I I 
 did not think that you were one of those conceited dandies that 
 thought every woman who looked at him was in love with him. 
 But I can tell you in good earnest, sir, that those who are most 
 worthy when won are not the easiest to win." 
 
 "Aunt, I mean no offence to the sex, and none to you espe- 
 cially. You aski'd me a plain question, and I gave you a plain 
 answer." 
 
 " Of the young ladies, sir malapert, whom you have laid under 
 obligation this afternoon with your charming presence, how many 
 of tbem do _\ ou believe tbat you could have for the asking?" 
 
 "Everyone of tbem. This sounds conceited to you, aunt, bnt 
 I look at it in this way: I know that I am a presentable yonn 
 gentleman, with reasonably good prospects. 1 cannot deny the 
 sight of my eyes that my presence is agreeable to the young ladies. 
 I take it for granted thdC they all expect to enter the matrimonial 
 •(tate whenever a suitable offer is made; and it does not seem con 
 
CONTRASTS. 313 
 
 ceited av all to imagine that a lady wlio receives jour addressei 
 with marked favor would accept your offer, should you press a 
 »uit." 
 
 " You were never more mistaken in your life. I will instance 
 but a single one— Rose Wentworth. I wish with all my heart that 
 you might win her; Imt it will not be done just by the asking, let 
 me tell you." ' 
 
 " Why, there was not one of the party so cordial and frank. I 
 went home with her, and she seemed a good deal softened and 
 sentimental. She talked of trees and iiowers, and of the spirit and 
 of an inner life. I think I understand such things. If I had just 
 said the word, I fully believe that I should now be asking your 
 approbation to our union." 
 
 " This passes all belief 1 I lose faith in you, at least in your 
 good judgment. You have no more conception of Rose Went- 
 worth than you have of those who live in the stars. If you had 
 presumed upon her cordial ways aud mentioned love, I should like 
 to have stood by and seen her large eyes flash upon you." 
 
 " Why, aunt, do you think she is such a paragon ? " 
 
 " I do — ^I do. She is beyond all words the noblest young woman 
 that I have ever known. But what she is no one can know, nor 
 she herself, until something rouses her. She is capable of rising 
 into grandeur if circumstances favored. If by the wisest and 
 most skilful wooing you could win Rose, you would be the happiest 
 of living men; and twenty years henae you would find your hap- 
 piness but just begun I " 
 
 " Why, aunt, you rather pique my curiosity. If you really 
 think that she is so hard to win, I am almost disposed to try it." 
 
 " Young man," said Mrs. Chandler, almost sternly, " you may 
 as well let it alone as to try in that spirit." 
 
 And the subject was dropped. 
 
 Some influences are like spurs, and striking into the sides they 
 produce instant motion. Others are seeds, and when sown seem 
 utterly lost ; yet in silence and darkness they are germinating and 
 growing. Mrs. Chandler said no more, but she thought a good 
 deal more. 
 
 " I don't believe things will rest as they are. I think Hey wood 
 has received some notions that will work in him. Bat what if 
 Rose should not take a fancy to him ? Of course she likes him ; 
 
314 NORWOOD. 
 
 but that does not mean any thing in partionlar. She ie a wor.d toe 
 kind and generous, and likes every body, and Hoywood has been 
 fooled by it. He thinks that kindness is love. That's jnst ] ke a 
 man I But then he has all bis life been run after and praised, pooi 
 fellow. He is to be pitied, not blamed." 
 
CHAPTER XXXVL 
 
 VAEIBTIES. 
 
 ifoTimjo enbances the value of an object more than to know 
 that others value it and are competing for it. Mrs. Chandler fur- 
 oished both stimulants to Heywood. I cannot say how she ob- 
 tained the information, but she had been led to believe that Barton 
 Catiicart had directed his attentions toward Miss Wentworth. 
 Some such stories had risen smd died out in the village. The signu 
 all failed. Mrs. Chandler, perhaps, had not even heard of them 
 One day, however, she returned home after a visit to Dr. Went- 
 vvorth's, and in consequence of information — what, I never knew 
 — she said to her husband, by the merest accident, in Hey wood's 
 presence 
 
 " "Would it not be strange, my dear, if Barton Oathoart shonld 
 marry Rose Wentworth ? " 
 
 Her husband looked at her with simplicity, and said : 
 
 " I suppose so." 
 
 "Do you think it would be a good match? " 
 
 " I don't see any objection, provided the parties are willing." 
 
 " But really, my dear, I can't hardly imagine that Rose should 
 prefer such a man, unless it was her only chance. But then yon 
 can never tell. Getting in love is like picking garden flowers in 
 the night. You may get a violet, or yon may pick a nettle. It 
 seems to me that Rose might do better than to take Cathcart." 
 
 Tom Heywood thought it worth his while to take a more close 
 survey of the ground. He had been under the impression for 
 some time that he had gone as far as it was safe to go unless he 
 were willing to go further ; that Rose was very susceptible and 
 simple ; and that, as a man of honor, it was his duty, having a far 
 better knowledge of life and especially of affairs of the heart, to 
 iee to it that she was not harmed. 
 
 He was so far influenced by his aunt's remarks from time to 
 time that he was determined at any rate to pTobe the matter, and 
 to see just how things really were. His visits became more fre- 
 quent, and his attentions were assidnouc He exerted himself in 
 
■)16 NUKUOOiJ, 
 
 conversatidQ, he went through tie usual musical routine ou eucii 
 oooasions, and after a considerable period he found himself in just 
 the same place as at the beginning. It was a oew experience, and 
 liiqiied his pride. He began to perceive some zest in this pursuit. 
 On the whole, he was glad that Miss Wentworth had not dropped 
 into liis h;in(ls as easily as he at first feared. He was satisfied that 
 Miss Rose w.is genuine; that there was no artfulness; tliat she 
 ^^•as playing no part. 
 
 He absented himself fir a time, but at his next visit his absence 
 txoited no remark. He discussed the ladies of Norwood, and ex- 
 pressed admiration for one or two in particular. He found Miss 
 Rose the most generous of critics and the most discriminating of 
 tViends. Thus far Miss Wentworth had been to him an inferior, in 
 the sense that a beautiful child is to an elder brother. He began 
 to admit now that she was his equal, and to experience a respeOv 
 which he had never felt before for a pretty woman. He now read 
 favorite authors aloud, and indulged in criticisms. He discussed 
 various questions in literature, in art, in science. If Heywood 
 chose to talk of gay trifles, so did she. Just as naturally and nn- 
 atfectedly did she follow and accompany him if music or painting 
 were the theme. If he introdui^ed a discussion. Rose entered with 
 zest, but never with heat, into philosophical reasonings, and in 
 matters of n.itural science proved herself far better informed than 
 was Hey wood. He could not deny that a more intimate acquaint- 
 ance raised his opinion of Miss Wentworth. Indeed he began to 
 admit to himself that she was a woman worthy of pursuit! But 
 he made no progress. He was as near and just as far from her 
 after weeks and months had passed, as at the beginning. He could 
 not understand it. He watched to discover the exquisite art, the 
 subtle fence, by wliich he was warded oflT. Nothing could be dis- 
 covered but simple, artless, straightforward conduct. 
 
 It would not be just to leave the impression that Heywood'a 
 [)ride alone, or chiefly, had wrought in him a determination to 
 press his suit to an issue. At every step he found warmer senti 
 uifcnts kindling. Admiration bad passed on a stage, and began to 
 take on the colors of love. Love, once entertained, throve ; and 
 with a genuine affection there came a great change over hira, and 
 tor the better. A deep and true love is full of humility and 
 gratitude. Heywc id dropped that ill-fitting conceit which veileJ 
 
VARIETIES. 317 
 
 his real goodness, and liis overweening confidence in himself gav« 
 way to diffidence. Once or twice, arming himself with a deter- 
 mination to bi'ing his fate to iin issue, he found himself, he knew 
 not how, carried away from his purpose, anl as far from success aa 
 ever. 
 
 At last he detei-mined that, with whatever abruptness it was 
 necessary, he h ould make known to Rose his sentiments, and, at 
 least, know whether or not he was to be blessed. 
 
 There was to be the weekly galhering at Dr. Wentworth's on 
 the morrow. The house and grounds lay open to all family friends. 
 No formality prevailed. Every one was left to come and go with 
 perfect freedom. One might be sure of seeing Judge Bacon there, 
 and Mr. Edwards, and almost always Parson Buell, and Mr. Brett, 
 and Mrs. Chandler, and occasionally Mr. Chandler, and once in a 
 while 'Biah Cathcart and bis wife. Alice came every week, and 
 Barton was there at least to take tea. Besides these regulars, 
 there was a militia of visitors, or the friends of friends, so that on 
 pleasant days, sometimes two or three score of people roamud 
 about the grounds, in knots and circles ; the young people securing 
 their own company, and the elder people discoursing apart, or 
 joining the young folks, as it chanced to please them. It is in such 
 circumstances that love finds its fairest opportunities. A thousand 
 chances turn up for a look, a word with an emphasis, or for a 
 passing sentence, and if both parties he in sympathy, it is surpris- 
 ing to see by how many aco Jents they are favored. They are seni ' 
 on some errand, one to help the other ; or they are left alone, 
 every person about them having the most natural reasons in the 
 world for going off. The very sun seems to wink at them through 
 the blinking leaves. The shadows that gather about them serva 
 as a protecting screen. Every thing favors fortunate love ! No 
 one knew the advantages of such circumstances better than Hey- 
 wood. No one had less art to discern opportunity than Cathcart. 
 
 On the appointed morrow, therefore, Heywood, with a charm- 
 ing grace, jiassed from group to group, and not a person in the 
 grounds was there who did not feel that Heywood had paid them 
 most agreeable personal attention. Certainly Alice Cathcart 
 thought so with reason. Heywood took his place by her side, 
 and either he found her in her happiest mood, or had the art to 
 3raw forth her hidden p <wer : for Alice fairly hiossomed. Row 
 
318 NORWOOD. 
 
 who knew what treasure lay hidden deep within, was dehghtei 
 to have others perceive it. Barton had never seen his sister sc 
 radiant, and exhibit such force of conversation. She met Hey- 
 wood's compliments and threw them back as a mirror throws 
 back the sunlight that falls upon it; and when, in an encounter 
 of wit that followed, Alice fairly vanquished him, Hej'wood, pluck- 
 ing a wreath of the honeysuckle vine, and twining in it a spray or 
 two of crimson fuchsias, with fine manner offered to crown her, 
 saying, with a humorous modesty: "The Muses are to be crowned, 
 not contended with." 
 
 All clapped and cried bravo ! bravo 1 and no one seemed so 
 radiantly happy as Rose, except Alice herself. She seemed 
 strangely brilliant ; and when the beautiful, glossy green leaves, 
 and the glowing colors of the fuchsia were laid upon her raven 
 hair, Heywood called all to witness how much she resembled 
 Raphael's picture of "Pome." 
 
 Dr. Wentworth and his friends repaired to the old drooping 
 elm. Soon they fell into conversation. 1 know not how the sub- 
 ject of cathedrals curae up, but Dr. Wentworth called to Rose : 
 
 " My child, hring rne two or three volumes of Britton's Cathe- 
 drals of England. Perhaps some of these nimble gentlemen will 
 help you." 
 
 Heywood was standing by Alice, though listening to every 
 thing that concerned Rose. He would have sprung to fulfil the 
 intimation, but at that moment Alice was addressing a question to 
 him. Barton Catboart quietly moved toward the house, and 
 repairing to the library, brought out the volumes. One of them 
 was opened to the ground plnn of York Minster, and laid upon 
 the grass. 
 
 "Sit down by me, disciple," said Judge Bacon to Cathcart, 
 " and hear Dr. Wentworth make a plea in behalf of idolatry." 
 
 " The unassisted reason of man must derive its notion of 
 Divinities either from the material world, or from man himself. 
 I susjiect that much of what we have been taught to regard as a 
 stupid idolatry was regarded, in its time, by intelligent worship- 
 pers, only as a kind of symbolism. Trees were supposed to contain 
 deities. Fire was the element through which gods manifested 
 themselves. If I had lived before the days of Revelation. I should 
 have worshipped the Sun, or Trees." 
 
VARIETIES. 319 
 
 "On tunh a day as this, Doctor," aaid Bacon, "I think yoi 
 froold be glad to ran under your tree-god to get rid of your sun- 
 god. But I suppose you would divide the year between them, 
 and say prayers to the sun in winter, aiid to the trees in sum- 
 mer." 
 
 " Tou were speal^ing of cathedrals and the origin of Gothic 
 architecture," said Edwards. 
 
 " Yes, I was reprobating the idea that Gothic architecture was 
 in any sense an imitation of trees. There is some analogy, how- 
 evei', between the impression made upon the mind by a forest and 
 by a cathedral. There is the same sense of solitary grandeur, the 
 same peculiar feeling of solemn mystery arising from vast height, 
 a similar play of light and shade, and a spirit of devotion which 
 I think is spontaneous and inevitable in both." 
 
 " Father, were you as much affected by the first cathedral thai 
 you saw as you expected to be ? " asked Rose, who had placed a 
 stool near her father, and left Alice on the outer part of the circle 
 attended by Heywood. 
 
 " I really had expected but little. It was neither taste noi 
 devotion that first drew me to York Minster. It was cnriosity. 
 But I was overwhelmed with wonder. The mystery and awe 
 produced by height and vastness in the interior I can compare to 
 nothing but the feeling which one has who, either by day, or in a 
 starlit night, lies alone in the fields on his back, looking long 
 right up into the heavens, which seem slowly to open, deeper and 
 more deep, until, with strange presentiment, one almost feels that 
 he is drawing near to the Eternal City I By some subtle sym- 
 pathy, one's spirit swells and is conscious of wonderful elevation. 
 It is a consciousness of superiority, dignity, grandeur. The same 
 thing befell me on the first time that I stood at Kiagara. I found 
 myself stepping proudly, like a conqueror, and moving with the 
 dignity of a prince. But in a cathedral-experience this is tem- 
 pered by certain other influences, which insp re tenderness and 
 sadness. Now if upon this state of mind there arises a solemn 
 chant, borne upon the waves of organ music, especially if one is in 
 a foreign land, touched a little with homesickness, and hears 
 those sacred psalms which are laden with the most solemn and 
 tender associations of his life, coming back to him in such a be- 
 wildering place, fringed with murmuring echoes, is it strange that 
 
320 NORWOOD. 
 
 the opirit seems to drop the body, and to hover, h. its full glorioui 
 liberty, on the bounds of the Infinite and the Eternal ? " 
 
 Judge Bacon watched the Doctor, as he proceeded, with e 
 smile, whether of sympathy or of incredulity one could not well 
 divine. Neither did his words make his real thoughts any clearer. 
 He was so used to a bantering irony that he often employed ii 
 when, at heart, he was in full sympathy with the person against 
 whom" it was directed. 
 
 " I confess. Doctor," said he with mock sadness, "that I have 
 never felt this sense of leaving the body and rising into a beatific 
 condition, except in one set of circumstances.'' 
 
 "What were they?" asked Wentworth, with some slight 
 surprise. 
 
 " When I have been in the act of falling asleep in church, 
 under the refreshing influence of a long and sound discourse? " 
 
 " You are not a frequent sleeper. Judge, according to my ob- 
 servations," said Parson Buell. " Indeed I have regarded you a^ 
 one of the wakeful and watching." 
 
 "Ah, that is the minister's fault. Instead of the absurd 
 method now pursued of doctrinal examination, if I were set to 
 select clergymen, I should pick and determine by their somnifer- 
 ousness. I would settle the man that yielded slee(i, and turn 
 away every candidate that kept me awake. A minister should be 
 h true Pulpit Poppy 1 But go on. Doctor, as your remarks were 
 not half an hour long, I know that you bad but just entered on 
 the topic of cathedrals." 
 
 " The cathedral is really a symbol of Christianity, complex, 
 multitudinous, sublime ! It was not enough for men to make tht 
 cross the symbol of their faith, to wear it on the person, to affix it 
 to churches, to shape utensils to its form, to fashion the very doors 
 and windows so that they should frame to the eye the figure of 
 the cross; but some bold man determined tluit the cross should be 
 i'eared in proportions so vast that a Christian assembly could wor- 
 ship, not before it, but within it. Li>ok upon this ground plan. 
 It is a noble cross. A cathedral stript of its acci.'ssories is but a 
 su''''rae cross, subsidizing to itself tlje resnurces of society. The 
 gorgejus windows, the elaborate ornament^, the exquisite carvings 
 of men, lieasts and foliage, .siltntly represent the homage which 
 art, man, and nature, ]j:i_\ to the cross. SymVolism can go no 
 
VARIETIES. 321 
 
 further. Every city of England has lying in tranquil grandeur 
 within it an architectural cross. Not that one which glows upon 
 the spire like the morning and the evening star ; nor those which 
 stand at the altar, or are wrought in colors upon the windows, 
 but in the foundations themselves ! All the rough and hidden 
 stones have for hundreds of years lain in the silent and in risible 
 fashions of the cross, upon whose pattern rises — glowing mort 
 and more with beauty and art — every wall, and the mighty whole 
 The cross is thus the root of architecture ! " 
 
 " For once, I must say, bravo 1 Your notions have some 
 plansibleness, though little originality," said Judge Bacon ; " and 1 
 can well imagine how a thousand men shut up in a stone cross, on 
 oak benches, and obliged to listen, as we are, to prolix discourse, 
 might think it a kind of crucifixion." 
 
 "Oh, Judge, if I could once see yon fairly taken off your feet 
 with enthusiasm, as 1 was at Winchester, I would willingly suffer 
 all your jibes for the rest of my life." 
 
 " How was that, father ? Do tell us," said Kose, who had 
 changed her place to give Alice a nearer seat, placing herself in 
 3uch a way that Eeywood was no longer facing her. 
 
 " The day had been warm, like this, though a month earlier, it 
 being in July. The afternoon was well advanced, and the sun 
 was sunk so low that it poured its light through the exhalations 
 rising from the ground — very much as the sun is now doing," said 
 the doctor, turning toward the wiBt. " See how these evergreens 
 seem fairly banked up against a very cloud of light I Well. I had 
 little idea of the interior of Winchester Cathedi-al, and the exterior 
 was not as impressive as several others. But as I entered the 
 west door, the nave clear up to the ceiling seemed to blaze with 
 light. The construction stone is pale yellow, almost white, and 
 'he red light of this afternoon gave it a peculiar charm. Unlike 
 other cathedrals, there were no dark spaces, no mysterious recesses, 
 nothing dim or solemn. All was radiant and glorious. It was 
 not Mystery and Awe, but Kevelation and Joy, that were symbol- 
 ized 1 To complete the enchantment, the organ was filling the 
 vast space with rich harmonies." 
 
 Judge Bacon, who had been looking toward the haze of golden 
 light, turned round with an impressive gesture. 
 
 "My dear Doctor, if one could only go to meeting in a talljw 
 
322 NORWOOD. 
 
 dral, what joy would it be ! Especially for childron, wnat a god' 
 send under a duU sermon. Now what can children do in chnrchi 
 The sermon they can't understaud. They are not allowed tc 
 sleep ; they are too tired to sit up, and are not allowed to lie 
 down. Cry they can't, and laugh they must not. I used slyly to 
 make rabbits with my handkerchief. But a cathedral affords 
 boundless amusement for the eyes. While a prosaic passage was 
 droning in my ears, I could busy myself in tracing the colors in the 
 windows, making out the ridiculous old saints, or recalling the 
 amusing legends. If the discourse ran on doctrine — the veritable 
 act of giving a stone to those who want bread — I could study the 
 curious carvings — stone foliage, stune dragons, stone beasts, in all 
 theii- varieties 1 Look here. Doctor, — 1 believe that cathedrals 
 would convert me I What a pity that we have none ! One of the 
 benefits which I anticipate from tne spread of Romanism in 
 Ameri&i is the introduction of the Roman Civil Law and of cathe- 
 drals to put to shame the plainness of meeting-houses, and also to 
 ally religion with taste ! " 
 
 " You might as well sigh for barons' castles, princes, palaces, 
 Roman forums, Greek temples, Egyptian pyramids. Men forgel 
 that all institutions, customs, schools of painting, special forms of 
 architecture, are the outworking of the inward spirit of an Age. 
 When that spirit changes, or dies out, it is in vain to attempt to 
 reproduce its mere forms again, except as dead memorials. Cathe- 
 drals had their epoch. They represent a geologic period, as it 
 were, in the moral world. We might as well attempt to bring 
 back ancient manuscripts with their splendid illuminations, instead 
 of printed books ; or to re-introduce the armor and armies of the 
 Middle Ages, instead of rifles and artillery. It is this very blunder 
 that they commit who attempt to reproduce the art-spirit of a period 
 long gone l)y, by copying its dead forms. If it was good for any 
 thing in its own time, that is the very reason why it will be out 
 of place in onr time." 
 
 " For gracious' sake. Doctor, pause 1 What have we done to 
 deserve such a discou^^e? Bethink you 1 It is not Sunday I A 
 gentleman in Bdston sent bis Irish servant to his wine cellar to 
 draw from a cask of choice Madeira a specimen glass. The servant 
 forgot to turn the faucet, iftid all night the stream trickled — lan— 
 trickled, until not a drop was left." 
 
CONTRASTS. 323 
 
 " Well, Judge, what then ? " 
 
 "Sure enough, I begin to aee that the case will niil apply tt 
 you ; for the cask did at length run dry, and stop. You run drj 
 enough, but never stop. But, at the risk of starting you off again, 
 t cannot help saying that, after sucli a sentimental description an 
 you gave of the effects of a cathedral on you, to follow on with thfl 
 statement that cathedrals have no longer any function — aie dead- 
 mere mighty museums, is peculiarly refreshing to a logical tijind ! " 
 
 " Both things are true, nevertheless. I was speaking of old 
 cathedrals, in whose presence a thousand years rise up in dim 
 procession, whose very strangeness stirs the imagination, in which 
 lie buried kings and prelates whose doings filled their own agp 
 and gave color to history, — to walk in them is like a vision of the 
 Kesurrection ! Generations long gone, with passions like ours, but 
 with ideas foreign and strange, rise before you. "While the trance 
 is upon you, if the organ sounds and the choir chant, you seem to 
 stand with- the osoeediug great multitude of past ages, and the 
 imagination, that flies free through all time and space, gathers 
 about you the good and great of ten centuries, and you are one of 
 an invisible multitude which no man can nuraber^of every age, and 
 all tongues, lifting up a common praise to God I Your own heart, 
 for the moment, seems to express a devotion as wide as creation, 
 and to be the instrument by which generations are praising God' 
 You can reproduce a stone cathedral in our day, but can you 
 clothe it with five hundred or a thousand years? A clean, new 
 cathedral, in America, is a solecisnj. It is not in harmony with 
 our wants, our ideas, or our sympathies. It is a huge and bungling 
 imitation, and counterfeit. It is a forgery upon Time. Even old 
 cathedrals have lost their power upon those familiar with them 
 Use deadens romance. They are for pilgrims, — far-comere, — noi 
 for the resident inhabitants. For a few, of romantic tendency, 
 they may retair their influence ever fresh, but for the mass of men 
 they no longer have any message. The common people have gone 
 on and left these magnificent monuments of the sincerity of a 
 strong but rude age to poets and antiquarians ! " 
 
 " Religion seems to have had a hard time in tliis world. It i 
 »o busy with its institutions, its governments, its doctrines and 
 arders that it has little time to bestow on men.'''' 
 
 'That is more true than you meant. But it is not true of 
 
324 NORWOOD. 
 
 religion more than of justice, of beauty, of evei^ organUed prin- 
 fiple." 
 
 "You are right for once, Doctor," said Judge Bacon. "Th-: 
 law is an analogous case in point. We go back with great interest 
 and profit to tlje Ronma law and to the common law of England, 
 But, if the common law of England as it was three hundred years 
 ago, or if Justinian's oode were to be introduced bodily into modern 
 courts, they would be in incessant conflict with society in all its 
 Interests." 
 
 Dr. Wentw orth resumed : 
 
 " Cathedrals and liturgies, after losing their original force and 
 function, derive a secondary value as a connecting medium between 
 remote periods and ages. Their associations are like mistletoe on 
 aged trees, which have a value which the trees do not. The at 
 tempt to create a modern liturgy is evidence of how little men 
 understand the law of growth. Liturgies of power are those 
 which have in them the voice of ages. It is the breath of the 
 whole oliurch that breathes through them. To forsake these, and 
 to make modern liturgies is as if a man should cut down from 
 about his mansion the oaks and elms that had grown majestic 
 through hundreds of years, and then attempt to imitate their shade 
 and grandeur by setting out starveling Lombardy poplars." 
 
 " But," said Judge Bacon, "you ouglit to admit that a Puritan 
 cathedral would be proper. Its structure might be now, but its 
 spirit, which according to you is the essential thing, would be old 
 enough. It would be far older than Justinian. It would be as 
 old as Moses. The Puritans were men of the Old Testament more 
 than of the New. Their writings breathe its spirit, employ its 
 language; and their laws sought to imitate the old Hebrew code, 
 and in some instances the Levitical laws are ludicrously woven 
 into the old colony legislation." 
 
 " It will always be so," responded Dr. Wentworth, accepting 
 the new direction thus suggested for the conversation, "with men 
 in a minority, suffering persecution for a good cause. They will 
 take to the Old Testament as patriots do to the mountains when 
 oppressors harry the land. The reason is obvious. The old 
 prophets were grand figures, standing almost alone against a back- 
 ground of cruelty and corruption, both in faith and morals. Theii 
 experience breathes in the psalms, aud in the major and minoi 
 
CONTRASTS, 325 
 
 prophets. No mistake is greater than to supposti that the Books 
 of Prophecy are filled with prophesying, or that the special pre 
 dictions constitute the chief value of these undying Scriptures. 
 They are the heart journals of great men, almost alone, waging 
 war with every form of civil and social iniquity. They reveal all 
 the shades of fear, doubt, despondency, incident to moral conflict. 
 They reveal Suffering and Consolation as no drama ever did. The 
 great truths of Natural Justice ; the absolute faith that the world 
 was organized for righteousness, and that iniquity is sure to be a 
 losing game ; that the Invisible Power, who sits silent behind the 
 clouds while every thing seems to overwhelm the good and pro 
 mote the bad, is nevertheless awake, aroused and terribly in earn ■ 
 est for truth and justice ; and that he seems remiss only becau-^-e 
 Jehovah works in larger circles than those in which men work, 
 and brings events to their account and judgment a little later and 
 lower down than men desire and expect. These are those ele- 
 ments of the prophetic books that will always make them the 
 refuge of the oppressed. But the Puritan, if he went to the Old 
 Testament for oonsolatioh and strength, certainly did not find 
 there the peculiar intellectual elements which marked him. The 
 intellectual contrast between the Hebrew and the Puritan is as 
 great as that between Jerusalem and Athens. The Hebrew was 
 neither an analyst nor a reasoner ; the Puritan was both. Emo- 
 tion is tlie staple of Hebrew thought. His very reasonings were 
 swells of moral feeling. In Judea it was feeling that fed thought; 
 in New England it is thought that produces feeling." 
 
 " Yon mean that ought to do it," said the Judge. " I wish in 
 my soul it did! It was a poor exchange that the Puritan made 
 when he bargained off imagination for logic, emotion for meta- 
 physics, moral consciousness for proof. A genuine Yankee Puri- 
 tan thinks that he can prove any thing. He would address an 
 argument to each letter of the alphabet, proving that A is A, that 
 B is B. He would delight to hear somebody doubt the multipli- 
 cation table, that he might prove it. I am tired of logic, and ar- 
 gument, and doctrine, and discussion. The fact is, Doctor, that 
 since Heywood has been in town, I have taken to the Episcopal 
 Church, where every thing is cut and dried, and the service is so 
 Ion"' that the sermon has to be short. I have serious thoughts 
 uf joining." 
 
326 NORWOOD. 
 
 ''I am glad, Judge, to learn that yon dare serious thonghl 
 about ELy thing religious. The New England theologians have 
 not been poetiu, Edwards, perhaps, excepted ; and he soon re- 
 pressed a genius which, under other culture, would have placed 
 him among the immortal few. Curiously enough, they have un- 
 dervalued the imagination, and sought to replace it with solid 
 reasonings. I must admit that, at some period, thej have had an 
 almost Pharisaic pride of logic and pure metaphysics. But in spite 
 of their exclusion of the literary forms of the imagination, they have 
 'lealt with great moral truths in such a manner that the imagina- 
 tion of their people has been powerfully developed. The im- 
 pression that New England men are practical and shrewd, but not 
 imaginative or sesthetic, has arisen from tba f:ic.t, that peculiar in- 
 Huences prevented the development of imagination in the direction 
 of poetry, and music, or of the fine arts. Puritan influences shut 
 up in a measure these channels. Imagination followed the lines 
 of speculation. Instead of forming itself into sound and physical 
 forms, it inspired systems of thought. The poems of Dante are 
 dot more complete pictures than are the sermons of Edwards, if 
 you drop from both the instrument of language, and compare 
 simply the picture which is left in the mind. The vast realm 
 af thought traversed by New England theology, involving the 
 philosophy of the human mind, the nature of moral government, 
 and so, by corollary, of human governments — the profound inquiries 
 into cause and effect, — the invisible sphere of the will, — the rela- 
 tions of character to future condition, — the Future itself, its eternal 
 sovereign, its antithetic kingdom, like night over against the day, — 
 and the pressure of thought toward infinite and insoluble problems 
 might have been expected to give a very unpractical result. In 
 fact, however, it led to immense fertility and to a practical 
 wisdom. 
 
 "In a greater extent, probably, than ever before was the whole 
 population, for two hundred years, educated to receive a copious, 
 minute and immense system of truth, without any symbols, with- 
 out old superstitions, without any thing for the eye or ear, sustained 
 purely by the exercise of rea.son, and indirections where the reason 
 depended largely upon the imagioation. In other lands, the popn- 
 lar faith rested upon an order of men lifted into splendid authority 
 The New England clergyman was a plain citizen, utterly disdaip 
 
CONTRASTS. 827 
 
 lag all trappings. Elsewhere, cathedrals, fe&tive days, and gorge- 
 ous ceremonies sustained men's belief. It is hardly possible tn 
 make barrenness more bare of all applinnoes for the senses than 
 was New England. Yet there arose in the popular mind a vast 
 afid stately system of truth, covering two worlds." 
 
 " Talfe breath, Doctor, let us see ! Elm trees, cathedrals, pre- 
 Baphaelitism, the Old and New Testament, the Puritan, New- 
 England clergymen, and New England theology I I put it to yon, 
 as a humane and honest physician, whether therjB are not too 
 many medicines for one bolus? You are a perfect old Druid, and 
 sit under your tree as if the chief end of man was to talk and hear 
 talking I By the way, your elm tree ought to be an oak — that is 
 the tree of piety and wisdom." 
 
 " By no means. The oak is the English tree. But the elm ia 
 the American tree." 
 
 "I suspect you are led astray this time, Doctor," said Judge 
 Bacon, " because you own so wonderful a tree. Every body 
 praises his own. The pine tree is the symbol of New England. 
 It is the tree of liberty, flourishing as liberty always has, among 
 the hills and mountains — tough and hardy, deriving nourishment 
 from the poorest soils and enduring the severest winters, without 
 losing its foliage, lighting winter storms with its banner all un- 
 folded 1 The only tree fit to represent our liberty-loving people 
 13 the one that is as green in winter as in summer. There I what 
 do you say to that as a specimen of discourse in your own vein ? " 
 
 " It is thoroughly well said," replied Wentworth, " and if we 
 were at liberty now to select the tree of Liberty, undoubtedly that 
 would be it. But it has been done for us. The elm is historic. 
 It is identified not only with American ideas and men, but with 
 the great struggles of liberty. The Pittsfield elm, now a mere 
 wreck, was a rallying point in our Revolution, as it had been be- 
 fore among the aborigines. What shall we say of the elms in 
 Springfield, in Hadley, in Hatfield, which have played a part in 
 colonial history? And what of that famous Boston Common Elm, 
 whioli is to Massachusetts what the Charter Oak was to Connect- 
 icut?" 
 
 " Stop — stop. Now you are on my ground. The elm on the 
 Boston Common was not the Charter Oak of Massachusetts. It 
 was another ehn tree which you have probably forgotten. I mean 
 
•■!-S NOKWODD. 
 
 the old eiiD that stood on the corner of Esiex aud Medway streeti 
 in Boston, now Essex and "Wnshington streets. Planted in 1G46, 
 if was more than a hundred years old when the pre-revolutionary 
 excitements were taking place in Boston. I don't believe there 
 was ever a city in the world wliero the men in authority had such 
 bard work in putting a yoke on its people, as Boston. It was 
 always a famous talking place. I can imagine a governor's opinion 
 of such men as Sam Adams and old John Adams and their set. 
 Let me see — didn't you come from Boston, Doctor? Well, no 
 matter. One bright morning, when the sun rose, a marvel ap- 
 peared. In the night the dew, or Pack, had shaped in golden let- 
 ters and nailed with a spike upon the elm, ' Tree of Liberty !' The 
 offence was remembered, and in 1V75 the British soldiers cut down 
 the dangerous tree.'' 
 
 " Thank you. Judge. If any tree should be adopted as the na- 
 tional symbol, it is the American elm — the historic ' Tree of 
 Liberty: " 
 
 " I forgot to say,'' said the Judge, with a knowing look, " what 
 every true Yankee will be delighted to learn, that the tree cut up 
 into fourteen cords of wood ! Only imagine what a fortune that 
 would be, if all this were to-day in the hands of some honest 
 farmer. He would fill the land with souvenirs, and make his for- 
 tune to boot. For we should have the miracle of the oil and meal 
 over again. The wood would never give out. It would grow oe 
 his hands faster than ever it did on its own roots." 
 
 "We are agreed, then, the elm is the Tree of Liberty. It U 
 the National Tree 1 " 
 
 The sun went down. Pete Sawmill wa^ busy passing from the 
 kitchen to the table, spread in an adjoining space among evergreen 
 irees. The company broke up and repaired thither for tea. Seats 
 were arranged in nooks and coverts, among the shrubbery, and 
 friends formed into groups here and there, in the most uncon- 
 ■itrained liberty. Rose flitted hither and thither with hospitable 
 attentions, seeming to take no part for herself except the pleasure 
 of serving. So Heywood found to his chagrin. An evil fate 
 hampered him all the evening. Nothing fell out fortunately ; and 
 he returned home under a cloud. Alice remained for the night. 
 
 "Why, Alice," said Rose, when they had repaired to their 
 rooms, " what a woman of sociptv von have become I You used 
 
CONTRASTS. 829 
 
 to admire my freedom in company. It is no w my turn to envy 
 yon. I never saw you, so brilliant." 
 
 Alice smiled. Yet the expression of her face was not altogether 
 of pleasure. As clouds coming and going, in a bright moonlight 
 evening, seem to shade or brighten the lawn, so in alternation 
 pleasing thoughts and sad ones oast their reflections apon AIioe'» 
 face. 
 
CHAPTEB, XXXVIL 
 
 NUTTING ITS JOTS AND DISASTKBS, 
 
 When Autumn days come. Nature, like a retired merohani 
 changes its manner — from thrift and bustling industry to languii 
 leisure and to ostentatious luxury. The sun rises later and sets 
 earlier than when it had all the summer ciops on hand and was 
 playing universal husbandman. There is no nest-building now, and 
 no bird-singiiig, — which is a purely domestic arrangement, designed 
 on the birds' part to keep peace in the family while the children 
 are being raised, and laid aside as soon as the young birds are off 
 their hands. Mornings come fleeced in mists, which hang over 
 streams and low, moist places. The sun plays with them, but they 
 perish in his arms. A few belated flowers yet keep watch, but 
 chiefly the asters, which fringe the fields, star the edges of forests, 
 and, like a late-comer at a feast, seem bent upon making up lost 
 time. At night, crickets and katy-dids scrape their shrill viols, 
 and fill the air with stridulous music. Over all the shrinking fields, 
 the trees lift up their gorgeous foliage, and, like those who wait for 
 the marriage-bell and the bridegroom, they shine out in glorious 
 apparel. 
 
 The hills, forest-clad, are become the Lord's younger sons, and, 
 like Joseph, they are dressed in a coat of many colors. October 
 days, short between horizons, reach higher into the vault than any 
 days of the year ; and through them the season seems to look with 
 softened sadness, as one who, in the calm of age, meditates on all 
 the mistakes of his pust life and solemnly thinks upon the advanc- 
 ing future. Ailing the fence rows, where seeds and late berries 
 may be found, birds lioji silently, us if ashamed to be seeu. Soon 
 '.hoy will change their solitary w.iys and collect in flocks. To-day, 
 tht- fields will swarm with tl;em ; to-morrow, there will not be one 
 lefl, and they will be picking their fo.d many degrees of latitude 
 south. 
 
 In the gay sadness of autiuni), Uarton Carhcart, now released 
 from his school, waiidcrrd aliunt vvitli his gim. Sometimes h« 
 *irought home frcim t!:i_' liilK his |im^ i'ulj of s^niirrels, una ■^nine- 
 
NUTTING — ITS JOYS AND DISASTERS. 331 
 
 times from the bosky coverts he secured many brace of partridges. 
 At other times, he wandered all day without once firing his gnn. 
 
 Barton loved field sports, yet not so keenly that he chased 
 throngh the woods and coverts without observation. He stopped 
 to trace the lines of lichen on stones, or the exquisite mosses in 
 damp and shaded imoks. Many squirrels ran and hid while he 
 stood under the yellow-leaved nut trees admiring the russet hicko 
 ries, the brilliant majiles, scarlet, pink and "yellow. He remem- 
 bered wliat Dr. Wentworth had said of cathedrals, and stretched 
 on a dry knoll, he sometimes lay for a long time looking up into 
 the arched trees, tracing imaginary groinings, or listening to tiie 
 low sounds of the winds that chanted through tlie trees, and cast 
 down to the ground multitudes of yellow leaves, on which they had 
 just been pliiying. So silent and so immovable did he lie, and so 
 long, that the squirrels forgot to be shy, descended to the ground 
 and played their nimble pranks before liira, or sprung from branch 
 to branch overhead, barking and chattering in full security. Ah, 
 these great October days! — October woods! — October musings! 
 
 It was his purpose, in November, to repair to Cambridge to 
 attend a course of lectures upon law. 
 
 Meanwhile, he was at home again, — living over, as in a gentle 
 . trance, the scenes of his boyhood, visiting the haunts which his 
 early experience had made dear to him. He recalled the frolics 
 which Rose and Alice bad so often had around the old farm- 
 house. 
 
 But when he thought of his sister now, and of Miss Wentworth, 
 these memories seemed like some fairy tale, read in a book, rather 
 than an actual history in which he himself had heen a living 
 actor. 
 
 But young Oathoart's mood was not wholly a sentimental sym- 
 pathy with the changing year, the shortening days, the flight of 
 birds and the decay of flowers. He had not been unobservant of 
 his friend's demeanor. He fancied that he perceived in Rose Went- 
 worth a growing pleasure in Heywood's attentions. He resisted 
 the impression stoutly. He cast it out with a resolute effort. It 
 returned again. Whpn the mind is ill at ease and restless, a for- 
 biddon thought, in spite of all its eft'orls, will play about it as at 
 ajght a moth whirls about a lamp ; and, like this foolish moth 
 miller, the more it is hurt by the flame through which it dashes 
 
332 NORWOOD. 
 
 the more irresistible seems the attraction, until singed, mairoea 
 and sore, the poor insect lies crumpled up beneath tlie light wliioh 
 Inred it to its destruction. 
 
 It is not to be imagined that Oathcart had for the several yeare 
 past lived in an unbroken dream of hope, while at the same time 
 he had taken no direct steps to secure liis position in Miss Went 
 worth's regard. 
 
 Until he was established in life, or liad a near prospect of it, hn 
 did not deem it honorable, certainly not wise, to disclose to Misa 
 Wentworth the secret hope of his life. A more impulsive and less 
 reticent nature could Scarcely have met the object of his supreme 
 affection from week to week without disclosing his feelings. Some 
 moment of unguarded enthusiasm would be likely to draw forth 
 the confession. Some eager and supplicating glance would be 
 likely to betray what the tongue faltered to tell. Even in a na- 
 ture as self-restrained and silent as Barton Oathcart's, this long 
 probation must have ended itself in some unexpected disclosure, 
 had he not marked out for himself a clear line and followed it with 
 scrupulous fidelity. He had already learned an invaluable secret, 
 that one-half of the troubles of life may be prevented, and of the 
 troubles that arise one-half may be alleviated, by occupation. He 
 had given to his school an unstinted measure of his time and 
 thought ; and, whatever time could be wrung from sleep and 
 amusement, compatible with health, he bestowed upon the study 
 of law. But this school was ended. His legal preparation was 
 already far beyond what has been found sufficient to set up many 
 a successful lawyer. But it was not enough for him barely to suc- 
 ceed. After another year spent at Cambridge he hoped to have 
 laid a foundation on which he could build for life. When, there- 
 fore, during this summer, he bad noticed Heywood's increasing in- 
 terest in Dr. Wentworth's family, he could not forbear uneasiness. 
 The matter was not heliied by Tommy Taft's affectionate solici- 
 tude. 
 
 "Look here. Barton, what is your opinion of that eonthern fel- 
 ler that's come to ive at Chandler's?" 
 
 "My opinion, Tommy, is very favorable. He is a perfect gen^ 
 tleman and an honorable man. I think very highly of him." 
 
 " Well, I s'posed so by the way you and I e went rotmd to 
 ijether. They say he's goin' to get Chandler's money. I've no 
 
NUTTING — ITS JOYS AND DISASTERS. 333 
 
 abjection. Mrs. Chandler's a mighty nice woman ; but he, — Lord, 
 Barton, he's nothin' but a needle pullin' a. gold thread after it ; the 
 needle ain't a mite fatter for all it does. But I guess that southern 
 feller wants a leetle more'n money." 
 
 "I should hope so, Tommy. Money is useful in its way ; bnti 
 takes more than that to make a man." 
 
 " Sartain 1 But some folks thinks they have the right to tho 
 best of every thing, jest because they've got money. Now, for mj 
 part, I don't b'lieve that southern feller goes down to Dr. Went- 
 worth to git pills. If he's sick as often as he goes there, then it's 
 a sort of ailin' that doctor-stuff ain't likely to cure 1 " 
 
 Barton knew that Tommy Taft's judgments of affairs were sel- 
 dom mistaken, and these hints fell in with his own fears. Yet he 
 had no wish to make Tommy a confidant of his hopes and fears. 
 The color came slightly to his cheek, and he was silent. 
 
 "It's my opinion that Miss Rose knows who she likes," added 
 Tomtny, sententiously, at the same time nodding his head curner- 
 wise several times at the ground, as if the grass had disputed him. 
 
 " I presume she does," said Barton. " Most rational people do." 
 
 " Tliere was that Boston feller that was here two or three sum- 
 mers, I could have told him from the fust that he couldn't catch 
 that bird. Why, you see, I watched 'em pretty close at fust, but 
 after a little wliile I let 'em swing. I seed that she looked down 
 on him; and I'm thinkin' Miss Rose won't choose below her." 
 
 Barton did rot care to prolong the conversation with Tommy 
 Taft ; but, exceot by an abrupt departure, he could not easily stop 
 him. The moment that any one showed an anxiety to avoid anj- 
 topic. Tommy seized upon it with the avidity of a terrier, and 
 raced it and chased it to the uttermost. Tommy resumed : 
 
 " I kinder think it's another thing with this southern feller ; " 
 for Tommy would never call him by his proper name. " I've ^eeu 
 'em a good deal more'n they think, and I've noticed that she sort 
 o' holds back and don't look at him so straight and honest-like 
 as she does to other folks. And she gives him a chance, too ; and 
 he's there almost every day on one arrant or another. To be sure 
 it's a great place to go to, and every body is to hum there; but 
 then," said Tommy, with a knowing wink, "there's a difference. 
 yon know. If she ain't about thi: best pleased with him of any 
 feller that's come along, thei all sij^ns fail, v.iat'< all." 
 
334 NORWOOD. 
 
 And Tommy renewed his bows at the ground in the mo«l 
 solemn and emphatic manner. 
 
 Every word was a confirmation of Barton Oathoart's fears. 
 They irritated him like the spines of i.ettles. 
 
 " Well, Tommy, I presume it's her own business. If uhe's suited 
 I suppose we ought to be." 
 
 Tommy drew himself up to his full height, aod turning his 
 face directly on Barton, without any sting in his tone or banter ih 
 his manner, said : 
 
 " Barton, my boy, I've kiiow'd yon ever since you was so high. 
 I took 10 yiiu naterally. I've jest been prouder of you than I ever 
 was of any thing on ship or shore ; and if I could see you married 
 to Rose, I wouldn't care a wink if I didn't live an hour afterward. 
 'Tain't no use, boy, for you and me to be coverin' up things. I 
 know ye better'n yon do yourself. Let me tell ye, you keep too 
 shet up. There's a heap of things in you that you'd do better to 
 git out. What sort of a room is't where the fire hain't any chim- 
 ney? Now it's my opinion that you are smoked up inside with 
 thoughts and feelins, jes' 'cause you've no vent to let the stuff out. 
 And though Tommy is a one-legged old sinner, the man's not alive 
 that dare say he ever fori,'Ot lji.s friend." 
 
 Barton needed no assurance of the old man's fidelity. Although 
 he knew that his unbounded audacity would lead him to thrust in 
 his remarks upon any man's business for the mere pleasure which he 
 seemed to take in the exercise of his shrewdness, yet, in his own 
 case, Barton knew the real and almost romantic affection which 
 old Tommy bore to him. Tie was also affected by the fact that 
 the old man, hanging on the ijkirts of society, poor, and now grow- 
 ing every year mure and more feeble, had evidently been watching 
 for his interest, during years of absence, with paternal fidelity. 
 Besi les all this, a proud and sensitive nature finds it far easier, 
 often, ti) speak confidingly to one in a station below him than to 
 an eqnol or a supt-rior. 
 
 Whatever may have been the influences moving him. Barton 
 felt that it wouM be a i_reat relief to lean on anotlier's judgment. 
 
 " Well, Uncle Tommj, what would you do if you' were in mj 
 place?" 
 
 " Now that's sensible like. Barton, my boy. I'd go right t< 
 that fellow, and nsk him plump what he's after. If 1 ■ 's just foolin 
 
NUTTING— ITS JOYS AND DISASTERS. 336 
 
 roand for the fun on't, he ought to understand tliat there's othei 
 folks li^ es in this world as well as him And if he is in 'arnest, why, 
 then, the woman has got to choose hetween je, that's all." 
 
 " I'll do it, by heavens I " said Barton, with intense earnestness, 
 " I've lost too much time already." 
 
 " That's it, — ^you're right now." Then, with a half relapse 
 into his ordinary teasing manner, Tommy added : " It's surprisin' 
 how we take advice that travels the same way we do 1 It's like 
 hittin' a ball the same way it's rollin' a'ready." 
 
 The best advice in the world may be ruined in the execution. 
 And the execution of a delicate task depends chiefly on the fine 
 condition of a man's faculties. On some days the mind comes up 
 out of sleep, like the sun in a clear October morning. There is 
 neither cloud nor haze. The thoughts and feelings move in unison, 
 and the tongue, touched from within, like a magnet, draws to itself 
 fitting words and sentences. It no longer moves like a tugging 
 plough, heavily and slowly, but touches lightly and glances from 
 topic to topic as sunlight from dew drop to dew drop. 
 
 Then come the cloudy days. Ill-assorted thoughts procure foi- 
 themselves a disagreeable utterance. We spoil whatever we touch. 
 We do nothing lightly, deftly, wisely. The astronomer must defer 
 his observations when clouds are in the sky. In some of the 
 more delicate operations of mechanics, the workman will not 
 touch a tool on days when, as he says, " his hand is dead." What 
 lawyer has not lost cases because he came before the court and 
 jury with his head wearied and' his whole body jaded by long- 
 continued and exhausting excitements? What doctor has not lost 
 patients by being called, after sleepless nights, with a stupid brain, 
 to a case requiring insight, precision, and instant action ? What min- 
 ister has not spoiled a good subject by a poor sermon, because the 
 Sabbath had come round and he must preach, in spite of catarrh and 
 influenza ? What fisherman has not lost his trout by an unskilful 
 >plash, when he meant delicately to skim the surface with the 
 likeness of a flitting, fluttering fly? 
 
 Enough. Barton slept little after this interview with Tommy 
 Tiift. When he awaked, he woke with only half of himself and 
 Aat the poorest part. But the impulse of the night before re- 
 mained. 
 
 Barton jft Tommy Taft resolved to see Hevwood and to have 
 
336 NORWOOD. 
 
 BD unUerstandiDg with him. He went to Mr. Chandler's hcuBu 
 But already in Ijis walk thither his purpose was somewhat shaken. 
 For, as he reiJeoted how he would break the matter to liis friend 
 he began to see so many diifioulties that his purpose wavered. 
 " Shall I ask him what his intentions are toward Miss Wentworth ? 
 What if he should reply by asking me on whose authority I in- 
 quire? She has a father and mother; have they deputed me 
 to watch over their daughter's welfare ? Or he may say, ' Are 
 you an accepted suitor of Miss Rose? If not, on what grounds 
 do you interfere?' What business have I at any rate to meddle 
 with Hey wood's affair in this matter? There is nothing in my 
 relations to Rose which makes it improper for any other gentle- 
 man to solicit her affection. What would Rose think if she knew 
 that I had interrogated Hey wood about his affection for her? She 
 would have a just reason for being angry with me. It would be 
 an impertinence. I could never look her in the face afterward if 
 she knew it. " 
 
 So reasoning, he would have gone past, without calling, but 
 Heywood saw him, and called out : 
 
 "Barton, come in 1 Where do yon keep yourself lately! 
 Are you hidden in the woods, or have you gone home to live like 
 a hermit? What are you doing nowadaysl Since your school 
 was given up I hardly see you any more. By the way, what a 
 splendid fellow the doctor is! But he ought to be a professor in 
 soDiC college, where talking is the proper business. At his house 
 I think there is a little too much of it." 
 
 " I've noticed, though, that he never talks without listeners." 
 
 " That's the mischief of it. We young folks want a good time. 
 But as soon as they hear him speaking, off goes Rose, and off goes 
 every body, and we have to go too. How did you enjoy the other 
 evening?" 
 
 " Not much — I was not in good trim. Are you going to the 
 grand nutting party next week ? " 
 
 " Of course I am. Miss Rose has laid injunctions upon all her 
 friends. Let all the squirrels take notice I Not a nut do we mean 
 to leave behind us, and any winter stores which they may desiro 
 should be put up immediately . " 
 
 Barton, who had started rather fiercely on his errand, retnnred 
 with a sense of having escaped a great blunder. 
 
NUTTING — ITS JOYS AND DISASTERS. 337 
 
 " This oomes," said he to himself^ " of acting without reflection. 
 My own way is the best, after all. I never talk over my feelings 
 with any one, and act upon his suggestion, without regretting 1 
 afterward. I will keep my own counsels, and act upou my owi. 
 proper judgment, and especially, I do not think I shall go to Tomm^ 
 
 Taft again. Fool that I was to let him see after all, he knew 
 
 it before. A strange old man! — full of experience and of wisdon. 
 of which he makes playthings — never uses them soberly for him 
 self. I cannot hide any thing from him. But I can keep hiio 
 silent. — Shall I speak with my mother? Why should I? Whai 
 advice can she give m'' . She knows my mind already. It will 
 only be another cloud on her shaded path. I always have carried 
 my own troubles in silence, and why not now ? If God leavens 
 human thoughts and purposes with an element of his own wisdom, 
 all will come right." 
 
 Continuous and intense excitement of feeling works a morbid 
 physical condition of the brain. It becomes at once fertile and 
 poor. It pours out an endless abundance of thought and emotion, 
 but witljout variety or control. The .same feeling rises and breaks, 
 only to bubble up again, pass through the same course, to be fol- 
 lowed a hundred times by the same process. Over and over again 
 a thought traverses a small circle, coming back to its starring 
 place, and moving a narrow round, until the mind seems like a 
 clock, whose weights pull at the wheels, and move the hands round 
 and round the dial, day and night, with perpetual iteration. 
 
 It was in vain that Barton Oathcart sought to control his mind, 
 so long as he remained at home, with the leisure of vacation and 
 in the presence of those objects which wrought such disturbance 
 to his thoughts. 
 
 His father had long wished Barton to visit several of the re- 
 mote western States, where he had invested some money in land, 
 to examine the various tracts, ascertain their quality, position and 
 prospects, arrange for the proper settlement of taxes, and, in one 
 or two instances, redeem some small parcels which had, through 
 the neglect of agents, been sold for taxes. 
 
 Ail day long after seeing Heywood he had turned his affairs 
 over and over in his mind, till he was weary of them, of himself, 
 and of life. But all night he repeated the process, whether 
 Irearaing or waking. As the nex* day dawned, Barton awok* 
 
338 NORWOOD. 
 
 from a short sleep by hearing some one say, " Go West." At anj 
 rate, he thought he hoard the sentence, though or springing ^p 
 no one was present. But the impression was strong that he had 
 heard a real voice. The project stood out before him with attrac- 
 tive features. It would break up his nervous irritation, give him 
 an opportunity of seeing something of his native land, and satisfy 
 tliat love of novelty and adventure which every young man of 
 mettle is apt to have. 
 
 Before he had fairly dressed himself, Barton had 8ett)«d the 
 matter. When his father came in to breakfast, Barton Baid with 
 some suddenness: 
 
 " Father, I am going out west, and if you wiH make out my 
 instructions, I will attend to your business." 
 
 Before sundown every thing was prepared, and early on ths 
 next day Barton was on his way to the far west. 
 
 Meanwhile, the arrangements had been made for a grand nut- 
 ting expedition on the week succeeding Barton's departure. The 
 suddenness of his start took every one by surprise. Why did he 
 go before the picnic ? Why did he not at least say good-bye. 
 What had happened, or was about to happen, that he should dis- 
 appear BO mysteriously ? 
 
 But, like all other minor matters in li'fl, it was a day's wonder, 
 and then sank and was forgotten, especiallv when the Sabbath was 
 passed and Tuesday was set for the excursion. The region selected 
 for the expedition lay a mile or two beyond 'Biali Cathcart's, 
 where long strips of chestnut woods covered a line of low hills, 
 or skirted down their sides. Near the centre of this range of 
 hills, but half a. mile back, was n, ravine, one of the most roman- 
 tic and picturesque places in the region, and not the less attractive 
 to many because its pools of clear, cool water were filled with 
 trout. Not far from the opening of this ravine the dinner was to 
 be eaten; and all <lie baskets and packages pertaining thereto 
 were put under charge of Hiram Beers, who also had a general 
 oversight of all the "criUers," as Deacon JMarble styled the 
 horses. This annual nutting day was in no respect ecclesiastical. 
 It was not marked down in the calendar. No sin was imputed 
 for the neglect of it. Yet, with occasional exceptions, it had for 
 many years been a kind of parish reunion. The minister, the 
 deacons, the trustees, the staid and dignified old members were 
 
NUTTING — ITS JOYS AND DISASTERS. 339 
 
 expected to turn out tc renew their youth and gaUamrieu; 
 and even more than on Thanksgiving Day certain antics and frivoli- 
 ties were permitted among church members, which on any other 
 occasion, would have savored of a levity that Aunt Polly Marble 
 would have witnessed with severe disapprobation. 
 
 Early on that morning there began to wend along the roaa 
 families of young and old, parties of young men and maidens, a 
 few on horseback, many in wagons which were built for harvest, 
 but, by a little " slicking up," served to carry parties to fishing 
 excursions, to huskings, and to nutting parties. Farmer Cathcart 
 was already waiting — his handsome team hitched at the post, his 
 wife Kachel putting in the last little delicacies for the dinner. 
 One after another of his old friends passed by, cheerily saluting 
 him — some with a hearty good-morning, some with an exhortation 
 to make haste, and one or two with specimens of homely wit, the 
 more relishful because well seasoned and often used. 
 
 Hiram Beers, of course, shone glorious with a span of Black- 
 Hawk Morgan horses, for which " a New York gentleman said 
 that if he had them in the city he could get a thousand dollars I " 
 Of course this thousand-dollar team was worthily employed in 
 bringing Dr. Wentworth's family, — a portion of them at any rate, 
 — the doctor and his wife, Kose and Agate Bissell, while the 
 residue followed in another vehicle drawn by the doctor's own 
 horses, under the direction of Pete Sawmill, who on such occa- 
 sions felt his own superiority over all the rest of mankind. 
 
 Dr. Buell rode in his favorite chaise, carrying with him a 
 neighboring minister who had preached for Lim on Sunday, and 
 with whom he had sat up half of Sunday night discussing certain 
 recondite points of theology on which said brother had shown a 
 dangerous laxity of opinion. 
 
 Behind him came Deacon Trowbridge, to whom a good con- 
 science and a good digestion, well exercised, had given such ad- 
 mirable proportions that all men wondered how he and his wife, 
 who was not a whit less blessed than her husband, could sit Id 
 one seat, or how one ordinary horse could draw them 1 
 
 Hiram kept up a running fire as they severally arrived. 
 
 " Good mornin', Doctor Bue :1 1 drive in here — that's a good 
 liitchin' spot. Don't stop now I'll take the dartin' out of the 
 thills, and see that he's fastened all right. You'd better go on and 
 
340 NORWOOD. 
 
 keep the deacons in order. There's no tellin', when a horse or • 
 deacon gits loose in a big pasture, what he'll do. I've known old 
 horses break their necks tryin' to race and jump as the young 
 colts do." 
 
 Next came up Deacon Trowbridge. 
 
 "B!ess me, Deacon! — Good morning, marmi — if I'm not glad 
 to see you I We've been waitin' for some slim fellow like you to 
 climb the trees and shake off the chestnuts. The boys all look to 
 you, Deacon, for an example! " 
 
 The good-natured and fat deacon smiled, and even essayed a 
 faint joke : 
 
 " Yes, Hiram, you'll see the nuts fly, if I only get up into then, 
 tree-tops ! " 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I'll bet on you and the squirrels 1 " said Hiram, 
 who could spare but a word or two on each party, and already 
 had turned to a new comer, leaving Deacon Trowbridge standing 
 with an answer in his mouth, in a waiting posture, as if he could 
 not afford to lose a good thing. 
 
 And we think so too, and wOl present it for him. The deacon 
 was waiting to say : 
 
 " If I get on a squirrel, Hiram, he'll not be worth much ! " 
 
 There is an unending charm that goes with the supple gayeties 
 of the young. But another interest, scarcely less, though of a differ- 
 ent kind, attends the occasional outbreak of youthful frolics amonj? 
 the old. Here were the yellow woods full of happy people; 
 and, among them, many old men and women of stern morals anil 
 severe manner of life, — most of them stiffened with hard labor, 
 and not more than once or twice in a year seeking pleasure or 
 recreation fir their own sakes. Many, many years it is since thej 
 sprang into the trees as do those nimble youngsters who are raak 
 ing the chestnuts rattle from fhe topraust boughs. But they re- 
 member their youthful feats, and boast them, and banter each 
 other. Hiram seemed determined to have some of the old gentle- 
 men up in tlie trees : 
 
 " I tell ye. Deacon Trowbridge, I think you're as smart yet as 
 Deacon Murble is, though he takes on sech a nimble sort of step- 
 pm' 'round. It's my opinion that, at a fair climb, you'd heal 
 him." 
 
 " Oh, Hiram, I'm too heavy — thongh I'm pretty spry yet 
 
NUTTING — ITS JOYS AND DISASTERS. 341 
 
 Toil seo, brother Marble hasn't got 33 much to carry np with 
 him I " 
 
 " No, nor so much strength to d} it with." 
 
 " I'll tell ye what," said Deacon Marble, quite in the spirit of a 
 boy, " I'll stump you, Trowbridge, to try it. I'll give you that big 
 tree with low braaohes, and I'll take that slim one — and beat yon." 
 
 They soon pulled off their coats and assailed their respective 
 trees. Good Deacon Trowbridge, when his phlegmatic nature was 
 thoroughly aroused, was a man of great strength. He took a hug 
 at the tree such as a bear might have given ; and, at first, it 
 seemed as if he were going to succeed. But each hoist grew 
 slower, and, though cheered by Hiram, it was doubtful if he could 
 reach the limb just above bis head. If each jerk upward had car- 
 ried his body up as fast as it did the leg of his pantaloons, he 
 would soon have mounted the coveted branch. At length he got 
 hold of it, but no more could he do. It was too high for him to 
 let go and jump, and as to getting any higher, it was out of the 
 question. The poor man seemed in a woful plight ; but Hiram, 
 equal to every emergency, had procured a rail, and, planting it 
 under his foot, eased him down safely to the ground. Meanwhile, 
 Deacon Marble, slim and nervous, had gone up his way like a 
 squirrel. Already he was seeking out the topmost boughs, and 
 rattling down the chestnuts in a perfect shower. 
 
 The shouts of merriment soon drew many to this rather un- 
 usual scene, and, among others, the deacons' wives. Mrs. Trow- 
 bridge gave way to unrestrained laughter. She was a natural 
 laugher. She laughed with her month, her eyes, her whole face, 
 with her voice and all her body. It was no silvery trickle, but a 
 generous tide, that set in strongly, filled every indentation along 
 the shore, and plashed up in spray all the more, if any obstacle 
 sought to stay it. 
 
 " Well, Trowbridge," — and then, like a child with the hooping- 
 cough, she gave way to a paroxysm of laughter, — " I should aa 
 goon" — and again she was swept away from her remai-k, like one 
 carried out from shore by a refluent wave, — "I should as soon ex- 
 pect" — the words were drowned n laugh^" to see " * * "to 
 
 see ■* * "a but " at which she fairly seemed to dissolve, 
 
 and could no longer hold herself ip, " a butter-tub climb i 
 
 ti'eel" . - 
 
342 NORWOOD. 
 
 Far other were the emotions which filled the soul of PoL} 
 Marhle when she beheld the scene. A fiie blazed behind he' 
 spectacles. Though she was infirm in limb, the weakness had in 
 no respect reached her head, every member of which was active. 
 At first she seemed unable to utter her amazement. At length slic 
 gained relief: 
 
 " Deacon Marble, yon'd better come down I An old man like 
 yon a oourtin' death in the top of them trees ought to be ashamed 
 of himself! It ain't decent." 
 
 Then turning to those around her, she expressed herself thus : 
 
 " "Wal, Hiram, I dew hope you're satisfied at last. You're 
 always huntin' after mischief, and now you've got it. To think 
 oft 1 One deacon a puffin' and red on the ground, and the other 
 up in the tree-top I No, it's no laughin' matter ! It's a sin and a 
 shame, and I'm surprised that any body should laugh at such 
 levity and folly," giving poor Mrs. Trowbridge a look of reproof 
 that ought to have sobered her, hut which in fact served to renew 
 her agony of laugliing, for she palpitated, and held on to her sides, 
 and gasped : " Oh, I shall die — with— laughing — dew stop ! " 
 
 Turning to her husband, Mrs. Marble began expostulating with 
 him. 
 
 "Deacon Marble, if you have any respect for me, or for your- 
 self — and I don't think you have a speck — you'll come down ! 
 Every body's laughin' at you. You're a sight to behold. It's a 
 wicked thing, and agin' natur', for an old man like you to think 
 he's a boy, and caper about in the trees. If the Lord had meant 
 yon to be a squirrel he'd a made you so I " 
 
 " Don't, Polly, don't. I'm comin' down. Just look here, 1 
 wan't to tell you something 1 " 
 
 Incautious Polly I Will you never learn the deceitfulness of 
 that husband of yours? She ventures under the tree to hear what 
 he has to say, just as he gives a rousing shake to the branch o:i 
 which he was lying. Down came the chestnuts, and down cam a 
 the chestnut-burrs! They rattled on her bonnet, they pattered on 
 her shoulders, and one burr — a frivolous burr, given to levity, — 
 struck her new spectacles and knocked them quite out of £ym- 
 metry. 
 
 The nimble deacon was soon on the ground, and would faic 
 have left the impression on his spouse that it was merely the ao( 
 
NUTTIXG — ITS JOYS AND DISASTERS. M'A 
 
 ttl getting off the limb to come down that bronght upon her the 
 cbestnuts. Hiram was in ecstfisy. 
 
 " Isn't the deacon cute ? Oh, what a politician he'd a made, 
 if he'd only kept out of the church and away from religion I " 
 
 Other parties along the hills, widely separated, were busy vvith 
 pranks and mirth. The young people climbed, the old and the 
 very young picked up the brown nuts. The scene was charming. 
 Dr. Wentworth and his family were as busy as any. It was Pete's 
 office to shake the trees. The whole force of his peculiar genius 
 now had full play. His skill in climbing was something worth 
 looking at. His ventnresomeness was equ.il to his skill and 
 strength. It was no great feat to him, when trees interlocked, to 
 swing from one to another, — to drop from a higher branch to a 
 lower, never missing his hold. He cleared a tree of nuts in an in- 
 credibly short time, and the doctor's brown bags, replenished from 
 Pete's labors, began to stand out with fatness. 
 
 Heywood had made himself agreeable to the various parties. 
 His aunt had joined the Wentworths, and Rose seemed not dis- 
 pleased with the attentions which he paid her. In truth, there 
 was something in Heywood's manner peculiarly winning. He 
 was strong, frank, manly ; but in every thing an innate refinement 
 manifested itself, and that unconscious self-possession and quiet- 
 ness which come from long familiarity with good society. Rose 
 had seldom, if ever, met with one whose manners approached so 
 near to a fine art, while his spirit was as artless, apparently, as a 
 child's. That the charm had produced no effect I cannot honest- 
 ly affirm. That it was more than an impression upon her imagi- 
 nation I do not believe. This certainly is much, and in perhaps a 
 majority of oases it is final and effectual. But while Rose was 
 pleased with Heywood, and found his presence more and more 
 agreeable, she began to look more closely at her own feelings, 
 at her relations and his to other people. 
 
 During the whole summer Rose had perceived a declension of 
 attention in Barton Cathcart towards her, and nearly in the pro- 
 portion in which Heywood had grown more attentive. It seemed 
 as if one was quietly withdrawing and giving place to the other. 
 
 There are many things which we do not valne if only we can 
 have them, but which we painfully miss if they are withheld 
 Every one has noticed how little effect praise produces on him. 
 
344 NOKWOUD. 
 
 and yet how distiiKtlj he feels the lack of it wheu it is not given 
 While Barton seemed at home •i\ith her, and the long acquain- 
 tanceship and childhood associations clustered about their familiar 
 intercourse, Rose did not fairly estimate the value at which she 
 lield Barton. But when he seemed to fall off, when in his stead 
 anothei', of a wholly different and contrasted nature, came in his 
 place, Kose was conscious, not of positive pain, or even regret, but 
 of uneasiness and of a questioning within herself. 
 
 He\wood she believed to be true and right-minded. She 
 thought thathisnature was transparent. He was one who could 
 lever appear in any so'iely without drawing to him all eyes, and 
 .oiild never be known without drawing to him as well the confi- 
 ilence of all. And yet there was no sense of reserved power with 
 him. His whole nature lay apparent. There were no depths out 
 of which might rise unexpected disclosures. He was fine-natured, 
 handsome, accomplished, brilliant in society, and true-hearted. 
 These qualities could not fail to touch any one's fancy. But in all 
 their intercourse he had never introduced any subject deeper than 
 is sounded by common experience. While both of these friends 
 were near her, each yielding the fruit of his own nature, the con- 
 trast was not so much displayed. Rose had felt a vague uneasi- 
 ness through the summer, that Barton, though seeming the same 
 n wanner as ever, had less and less frequented her father's house 
 During his vacation he had but once visited them; and now, sud- 
 denly, without any leave-taking, he had gone away, to be absent 
 for months. Rose wa^ surprised and piqued by this seeming want 
 of care for her, who had been his friend from childhood. It did 
 not seem as it there could ever be a pause in their friendship any 
 more than between herself and her father or mother. She could 
 scarcely mark the degrees through which, in some measure, she 
 and Barton had let go of each other; but it was clear to her that 
 they were receding. With distance came perspective. More than 
 ever now she valued that depth of nature in Barton, out of which 
 endless mysteries came. She could never divine from the themes 
 of to day what would be the range of thought on which his mind 
 woukl travel when next they met. There was a strong aspiration 
 !n him, an indefinable yearning, which wrought in him on the one 
 side self-distrust and humility, and on the other exceeding bolduesa 
 <nd changefu"' activity. Her father was fruitful of thought, but 
 
NUTTING — ITS JOYS AND DISASTERS. 345 
 
 restfn]. Barton was restless — a voyager along new seas and 
 strange continents. Now that he was parted from her — so abrupt- 
 ly that it seemed as if he was broken off— she became conscious of 
 the force and depth of his character. If there was an uncertain 
 unrestfulness in it, it was perhaps but the fermentation which, 
 when completed, would sink the lees to the bottom and leave the 
 generous wine clear and strong. 
 
 It ought not to be thought that these analyses were made by 
 Rose. They are but the philosophical deduction and solution of 
 certain impressions and convictions in her mind. And it was 
 .necessary to draw them out with some distinctness, in ordei to 
 account for her present course. For, by one of those fortunate 
 accidents which seem to attend picnics in the woods, Heywood 
 and Rose had wandered off from the family. Either chestnuts lay 
 thicker toward a httle brook, which gurgled and twined through 
 a dell, and was proud of the yellow leaves which it whirled in 
 mimic rafts down its pretty cascades, or collected in some eddying 
 pdol, or else they were attracted by the mossy beauty of a beech- 
 tree, whose roots liad been partially undermined, but whose 
 undiminished green yet braved the frosts. There sat Rose, and 
 Heywood in his very soul believed that so lovely a creature 
 there was not in all the world besides. Could he bear her in 
 triumph home to his friends he could ask no other surety of 
 happiness for life, and no other pledge of his victory over Virginia 
 prejudice I 
 
 Why did Rose suffer these illusions which in her secret soul 
 she knew could not be realized ? Tell me, ye who have suffered 
 the enchantment of the midsummer night's dreams and fancies ! 
 Tell me, ye who remember how the charmed imagination hushes 
 every caution, sees all events in heightened colors, and bears one 
 as in a delicious dream, over paths and through experiences which, 
 though distinct, seem unreal, magical, enchanting 1 
 
 Have yon never seen a child's bubble blown till its glowing 
 sides are pictured in exquisite tints, and then thrown off into the air, 
 rising or settling down, with motion so gentle that it seems more 
 like a thought than a thing ? Untouched, it holds on, a brilliant 
 globe, on whose sides earthly objects, purified and refined, are 
 reflected, as if they were heavenly pictures — revelations of f cenea 
 inapproachable. But, once seek to possess it, lay but your lightest 
 
346 NORWOOD. 
 
 finger opon it, and the aroh and orb collapse, and the brilliani 
 picture disappears ! 
 
 The horn sounded for the dinner. Calls were heard for one 
 and another, and for Rose. Soon she was seen slowly coming up 
 the dell. Her eyes showed that she had been weeping. Heywood 
 was with her, as one who is absent. Something between sadness 
 and sternness was in his face. I know not what had passed; nor 
 how Rose excused herself for permitting what she had always 
 before forestalled and prevented. Perhaps she did not excuse 
 herself. Perhaps her sense uf regret at Barton's neglect and 
 unceremonious leaving had carried her farther than she knew, and 
 she awoke with a strong rebound into her full former self. I only 
 know that she seemed more pained and regretful than she bad ever 
 been seen before. But even greater pangs were just before her. 
 
 The stream nea^ whose border Rose had been sitting came 
 down, not far above them, from a ravine of singular beauty. At 
 the point where the water fairly escaped from its entanglement, 
 the rocks came so near together as to form a kind of door, not 
 more than twenty feet wide, but its sides were steep, aitd rose to 
 a considerable height, and then sloping off backward, were covered 
 with shrubs and finally with trees. Once within that door a 
 charming space opened, between one and two hundred feet in 
 diameter, and shut in by walls to a great height. At the farther 
 side, as yon entered, the stream, descending in a fall about thirty 
 feet in height, fell into a deep pool. It then stole away close by 
 the rocks, leaving a level space on the other side large enough for 
 a party of several hundred. Before it made its plunfre, the waters 
 far up migl)t be seen ru.shing down an incline on the shelving rocks 
 at an angle of forty-flve degrees. On either side of this chamber 
 the rocks were stratified, and shrubs and plants grew in their 
 seams. The more adventurous among the young men, by dextrous 
 use of their toes in these rifts, and by grasping firmly the roolj or 
 stems with their hands, climbed up the steep face of the rooks. 
 and ascending above the cascade, followed up the ravine to new 
 falls and romantic passages. Already a dozen, against the pro 
 testation of the ladies, had scattered themselves along the precipi- 
 tous cliffs. Hey wood, who sat buried in thought, seemed suddenly 
 to awake, and began climbing the dangerous way. No one could 
 b« more adroit ; yet even ae could not afford to go along that 
 
NUTTING— ITS JOYS AND DISASTEKS. 347 
 
 lierilons wuy with wanderinf,' thoughts. Suddenly there arose » 
 wild ontcry. Those below looked up to see the splash of watei 
 along the inclined way above the fall, and quicker than thought, 
 sliot out over the fall, Heywood was seen descending toward the 
 pool benenth ! Within it lav many roria Kroken off by frosts and 
 hidden by the water, and no more dangerous place for a plunge 
 eould well be found. 
 
 Into the boiling pool he dropped and disappeared. In a 
 moment — it seemed to Rose an age — a dark form emerged along 
 the edge of the pool. Instantly, on the alarm, there was a rush 
 from every direction. But Pete, who was half way up the cliff, 
 seemed fairly to glide down tlie side of the rock, so nimbly did he 
 descend; and first of all he was by Hey wood's side, and lifted him 
 fi-om the water, and laid him upon the mossy meadow just beyond. 
 
 Dr. Wentworth was sent for, and soon arrived. Heywood lay 
 like one dead. The wet hair fell back from his white temples. 
 Rose chafed his hands, and gazed upon him with an expression of 
 indescribable anguish. With a faint cry, as Pete laid Heywood 
 upon the moss, Alice Cathcart fell into her father's arms fainting. 
 But already Heywood began to revive. He had been stunned by 
 the fall. Arrangements were speedily made to (jonvey him to 
 'Biah Cathcart's, the nearest point at which he coild receive 
 needed attention, and where Dr. Wentworth could make a mor« 
 aritical examination of his htrts. 
 
CHAPTER XXXVm. 
 
 CONVAIESCBNCE. 
 
 IIbtttood revived a little. But he was nnab.e to stand, and il 
 ft'as necessary to carry him out of the gorge. It vi^as not difficult 
 to convey him to the opening. But here he was stopped. The 
 only mode of entrance or exit was by a nnrrow ledge, some six 
 feet above the brook, and this p:ith was so difficuit that each one 
 was obliged to sustain himself by holding fast to the limbs of a 
 spruce tree which, growing out of a rift in the rocks above, 
 reached down its branches and afforded a safe hold. At the very 
 turning point of the rock it was necessary to slip around a jutting 
 corner in order to get securely upon the path on the other side. 
 This feat, to one of moderately firm head, was not difEcnlt or 
 perilous. It was often accomplished, and bad been, as we have 
 seen, to-day, by ladies, and was a bit of bravery which enhanced 
 the i)]easure of an excursion to the glen. But a path which conld 
 be easily traced by a single person would be far more difficult 
 when a party should attempt it bearing a helpless man in their 
 arms. Various devices were suggested, but all seemed impractica- 
 ble, and the counsellors were at a loss what steps to take. It 
 was suggested that they should send down to Cathcart's for ropes, 
 and fastening them to trees above, swing Heywood around the 
 point ; or draw hirn up the face of the rocks to the slope above, 
 imd convey him thence down an old charcoal -burners' road. 
 
 An exclamation of fear and wonder called all eyes to Pete's 
 doings. He seemed to have taken in all the difficulties at a glance, 
 and to have seen the easiest solution of them, provided one had 
 strength enough, a good eye and sure foot. Without saying a word 
 or asking permission, Pete took up Heywood, as if he were no 
 heavier than Rose used to be when he strode all over the country 
 with her, and laid him diagonally across his breast, so that his 
 own long left arm passed under Haywood's right arm, over bis 
 loins, with a firm clasp, such as only great strength and length of 
 limbs could have effected. But Heywood groaned with pain, and 
 
CONVALESCENCE. 349 
 
 fete relinqnislied this hold. After a moment's pause, Pete lifted 
 Hey wood again, and laying him back to back, so that his own 
 head would come at Heywood's neck, he held him fast with his 
 right arm upon his shoulder, leaving liis left hand free for other 
 purposes. Then, with short steps, he descended into the brook, 
 which made its way out of the gorge through rocks lying in every 
 position, sinking now into deep pools, then sliding over wide and 
 slippery stones with a shallow sheet, and playing every other feat 
 which an untamed mountain stream is wont to do. With a practised 
 eye Pete selected each point for his feet; with a sure foot he 
 planted himself firmly on each selected spot — now wading, now 
 with the help of a branch turning sharp angles, never baflBed or 
 for a moment perplexed, until, before those who took the regular 
 path could get round below to the point where the stream issued 
 from its rough rocky bed, Pete had come out triumphantly, and 
 was walking rapidly through the woods to' Biah Cathcart's wagon, 
 in which Hey wood was speedily conveyed to Cathcart's house. 
 
 It was with clouded face and more sufifering than she had ever 
 experienced that Kose followed with her father in the steps of the 
 injured man. Alice, in full sympathy with Rose, seemed even 
 more aiTected, but in a different way. They appeared to liave 
 changed natures — Rose was sunk in thought; Alice was demon- 
 strative in her feeling. But neither of them spoke. 
 
 As soon as they arrived, Heywood was conveyed to the blue 
 room opening out of the sitting-room. Upon an examination, it 
 was found that two ribs had been fractured and he had received 
 a blow upon the liead, — whether severe or not, could not be de- 
 termined except by after-symptoms. It was judged wi^e not to 
 attempt to remove him to Mr. Chandler's, and, for several weeks, 
 he was tlie guest of the Oathcarts. 
 
 The centre of authority in a household is permanent, but the 
 centre of interest fluctuates almost from day to day: now, it is a 
 little child around which all rovolve ; a long-absent friend, or a 
 child returned from school, for a day or two, holds all other inter- 
 ests subordinate. But nothing transforms the house so instantly, 
 and reaches out with such force to change the whole economy, as 
 a sick-room. It is the heart of the house, and the pulse of the 
 mansion beats according to its expansion or contraction. The pa- 
 tient, it may be, can neither speak nor see, yet any member of the 
 
350 NORWOOD. 
 
 family, rising np or sitting down, going out or coming in, is ooa 
 Bcious that he is affected by the relations of his action to the com- 
 fort of the sufferer. And so sickness Is a silent legislator, and lays 
 itB law upon the domestic commonwealth. 
 
 If Heywood had sought out a place in which to be sick, he 
 could not have selected more skilfully. The social atmosphere of 
 the place was cheering and soothing. The order and quietuesa of 
 the household, that inexplicable something which makes some 
 houses frigid and repulsive, and others genial and attractive, — a 
 something made up in part by the dispositions and ways of the iu- 
 mates, and in part too by ihe proportions and style of the rooms 
 and passages, the colors and details of form — aU contributed im- 
 portant elements. 
 
 The blue room was wainscotted for about four feet from the 
 floor. The residue of the sides was papered with pale pearly blue. 
 The ceiling had a faint tint of the same color. 
 
 In this room stood an old-fashioned secretary of solid mahog- 
 any ; on another side the book shelves ; and all the chairs were 
 old-fashioned, heavy and of mahogany. The windows, to->, were 
 old-fashioned, with small six-by-eight panes of glass, with 'nsido 
 folding shutters. From the bed one could look out into the sitting 
 room, through the open door, and through a window on its far 
 side, the yard and its shrubbery could be seen, the western horizon, 
 and the setting sun, which, when the curtains were removed, shot 
 its last rays clear through the sitting-room across the floor of the 
 blue room, where, from the opposite horizon, through its own 
 windows, every morning the sunlight fell. 
 
 For a day or two Heywood seemed stupefied ; then a slight 
 fever arose ; he was restless and wandering in mind. He seemed 
 oblivious of the recent scenes, and made no allusion to persons or 
 things in the North. Starting from a moment's sleep, he wouk! 
 call his motljer; and when Rachel Oathcart, who was seldom be- 
 yond earshot, came to his side, a perplexed smile would come ovei 
 his face, as if he was conscious that he had made some mistake, 
 but was unable to discern what the mistake was. 
 
 During tliis time his aunt, Mrs. Chandler, remained continuall.^i 
 with him, dividing the care with Rachel Oathcart. 
 
 One morning, while Mrs. Chandler went home for an hour oi 
 two, Alice sat in Hey wood's room. The window stood open 
 
CONVALESCENCE. 351 
 
 The antamnal sod and antnmnal air gave a peculiar charm to the 
 day. 
 
 Nature seemed as one who has been at a banquet. The hills 
 glowed with brilliant colors. The near trees were like jovial 
 maskers in a holiday. Many of the trees on which Alice's eye 
 rested had been planted by her brother Barton, who, instructed by 
 Dr. Wentworth's better knowledge, had selected them with refer- 
 ence to spring and autumn tints, as well as to their forms and 
 relative harmonies. A clump of Norway spruces was fringed on 
 one side with scarlet sumachs, a fine mountain ash relieved its 
 clusters of berries against the dark green, and on one of the ever- 
 greens an ampelopsis had climbed, and peeped out in crimson here 
 and there, up to the top, where it had completely covered the tips. 
 There was something freakish in the gay and familiar way in which 
 this brilliant vine took liberties with a sober tree, reminding one 
 of the caprices which a pet child sometimes takes with a solemn 
 old grandfather — climbing his shoulders, disarranging his hair, 
 pulling at his sacred spectacles I Alice, like many another not 
 given to talking, made up in musings and reveries. She was this 
 morning full of nameless feelings,, changing from light to dark 
 almost as fast as the colors changed when her eye moved over the 
 external prospect. Yet Hey wood's very breath was audible to her 
 ear, nor could he draw a long breath, nor move a hand without 
 her notice. Thus the woman heart pulsed between affectionate 
 duty and fanciful beauty. Now, she listened to murmurs of the 
 bees, then to the pretentious buzzing of the flies, that seemed in- 
 spired to-day with more than usual aflfection. They insisted on 
 familiarity. They refused to take offence at the utmost rudeness. 
 Then she watched the spiders' webs which had been spread and 
 hung in every direction, saying in herself — " How many hopes are 
 like the spider's web, woven in the night, bright in the morning 
 dew, perishing before the first footfall ! " A cat, a pure Maltese, 
 sat on the path making her toilet. She licked her paws, and then 
 with them sponged her face, rubbing down her ears with the 
 greatest care ; and then she began licking her breast, bending bet 
 pliant neck as if intent upon reaching under her very chin. Alice 
 smiled. She had seen other people who thought that their nature 
 was changed because they had licked their breasts smooth. She 
 tnmed to the bed I It was only f> long breath — a sigh in his sleep I 
 
352 NOEWOOD. 
 
 ■ 
 
 A woodpecker, with little sharp claws that conld hold its snug 
 little body in any position, head up, head down, head sideways — 
 ran nimbly round the tree, keenly inspecting each crevice, and 
 probing here and there with its bill. The tree was miserably 
 healthy, and this critic flew away with a harsh, grating note of 
 disgust. 
 
 Surely he moved 1 No. His eyes are closed. He sleepf. 
 Will he ever wake to consciousness and reason ? 
 
 A crooning of hens and flutter of chickens drew her attention, 
 A. hawk was flying past, far above in the sky. What ? — danger 
 olose up to the heaven ? Is the deep pure air infested, as well as 
 swamps, and coverts, and dens ? If one creeps, there are creeping 
 enemies. If one flies, there are winged pursuers I 
 
 Some one called her : 
 
 " Alice ! " 
 
 She started and went to Heywood. It was his first Inoid 
 morning. 
 
 " Where am I ? What has happened ? " 
 
 Alice in her joy could hardly answer his questions. Her face 
 wasradiant; but with strong, restraint upon her feelings, she 
 quieted herself, as if afraid that talking might harm him. She 
 told him simply that he had met with an accident; that he had 
 been for more than a week here in her father's house; that Dr. 
 Wentworth came every day to see liim, and would soon be here, 
 and then, if he thought best, she would talk with him more. 
 
 The name of Dr. Wentworth seemed to catch his ear, and, as a 
 cine, helped him to regain some faint hope of memory in the past. 
 
 " Wentworth ? Ah — I remember. Were we not in the woods? 
 Let us see. Did not something happen to Miss Eose ? Was she 
 hurt?" 
 
 Then an e-xpression of sadness fell upon Heywood's face, and 
 he half turned away from Alice, saying: 
 
 "No, no, no; — I remember." 
 
 The expression of joy and exhilaration which had lit up Alice's 
 face passed awav. She turned to the dour to summon her mother. 
 Dr. Wentworth was already with his hand upon the latch. 
 
 " Ah, Alice, hrw is onr patient ? Worse? Yoar face carriei 
 bad tidings." 
 
 " No, Doctor, good tidings. He is in his mind again," 
 
CONVALESCEXCE. 353 
 
 " Well tben, my Jear, you could afford a gladder looK for a 
 friend's improvement. But I must see for myself." 
 
 Heywood improved every day after this, though at first slowly. 
 Uis constitution had never been shaken by indulgent habits, and 
 now he reaped the benefit of a virtuous and temperate life. The 
 blow upon his head gave most concern to Dr. Wentworth, and a 
 depression of spirits wMUi hung upon Lin seemed to the Doctor a 
 not favorable siga Still, as his symptoms steadily ameliorated, 
 and his strength began to return, he was allowed to hear reading 
 a little at a time. His aunt most frequently took the place of 
 reader. But for some reason her manner of reading rendered Hey- 
 wood nervous. On the other hand, Alice's voice and manner had 
 a soothing and refreshing influence. Little by little this task fell 
 almost exclusively to her. Her good nature and her kindness never 
 wearied. Whatever she was doing, or however weary, the least 
 hint by vford or look was sufficient. Every day she culled from 
 papers and from magazines such passages as she thought likely to 
 please him, and was never better pleased herself than when Hey- 
 wood's interest in her reading led him to remarks tind conversation. 
 After he had begun to sit up a portion of the day, the details of the 
 accident by which he had been injured were told to him. But he 
 recalled nothing distinctly. He remembered the nutting, and he 
 had a faint impression of the glen into which the party had entered. 
 But tliere was an indistinct impression on his mind that somehow 
 Rose had been connected with his fall and injury. This subject 
 seemed painful to Alice. 
 
 " Alice, were you there when I fell t " 
 
 " Yes. I saw it all. It was fearful beyond any experience nf 
 my life." 
 
 '■ I was climbing? " 
 
 •' Yes — ^you had risen higher than the falls." 
 
 " And was Rose climbing? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " How came she to fall, then f " 
 
 "She did not." 
 
 "How did I fall, then?" 
 
 " You slipped." 
 . "And she held fast?" 
 
 " She liad notliing to do w;th yoo.' 
 
354 NORWOOD. 
 
 " I am sure she had," said he, lookiDg donbtingly at .^hce. 
 
 But as the subject seemed unwelcome to the gentle Alice, aftei 
 once or twice renewing his questions, he dropped the subject. As 
 strength returned, so Heywood sought to relieve his kind friends 
 of the tasks of nursing, or at least to lighten them. His thoughts 
 naturally reverted to hia Virgiuia home; and as he found Alice 
 interested in his reminiscences, he was quite willing to solace liini- 
 self by describing the scenes of his childhood, his father's planta- 
 tion, mansion, and household. A listener more sympathetic than 
 Alice, one could not desire. She delighted to sit upon her low 
 sewing-chair near the wiudow. Thus the light was thrown 
 upon Heywood's face, while her own was in shadow. Many 
 of the happiest hours of her life were passed thus, and Alice began 
 to dread the day when her gentle services should be no more 
 needed. 
 
 October was ended. Its golden scroll was rolled up and put 
 away. November had come, and its nightly frosts, its cold rains, 
 its vigorous winds, had stripped the trees, and the forests were bare. 
 Orchards yet maintained a show of damnged leaves. The white 
 oak and the beach refused to part with all their foliage, and tufts 
 of russet leaves clung to the ends of the branches, not in bravery 
 and beauty, but as mourning weeds worn by trees disconsolate for 
 the loss of summer. It was with surprise, when Heywood first 
 went to hie window, that he saw the change. A month had trans- 
 formed the fields and hills. He had left them glowing with gor- 
 geous colors. Now they were sad and sombre. Nor did he fail to 
 draw an analogy between his own hopes then and his prospects 
 
 DOW. 
 
 But great as had been the physical changes during his sickness 
 and recovery, yet more wonderful changes had taken place in society 
 than in nature. The great political contest had closed in the elec- 
 tion to the Presidency of the United States of Abraham Lincoln 
 (a name then but little known, but since spoken in every corner ol 
 (Jhri-tendom and added to the roll of those upon whom Time has 
 no power). Of all the strifes and struggles Heywood knew nothing 
 ^nd, as 'Biah Catlicart, little by little, detailed the narrative o. 
 events, and recounted the early steps that were then taking place 
 m that great and terrible tragedy of civil conflist, Heywood, free 
 from those influences which were swaying so many of his friends 
 
CONVALESCENCE. 355 
 
 bi Virginia, entered warmly into Oathcart's feelings for the integ- 
 rity of the nation. 
 
 Heywood could not conceal from himself with what regrets he 
 /eft this- hospitable farm-house of 'Biah Oathcart's to return to his 
 aunt's. He had already staid a fortnight after Dr. Wentwortb 
 gave him permission to remove. Tliere was a charm iu its quiet 
 which suited both his feelings and his physical condition. The 
 family, too, grew upon h s respect and affection. He found in 
 'Biah Oathcart, though simple and unpretentious, a degree of 
 knowledge which would have been remarkable in a professional 
 man, and which he would never have thought of looking for in a 
 plain farm.er. His wife, Rachel Oathcart, seemed like a second 
 mother. With scarcely an element of character like his own 
 mother, she yet produced upon Heywood the same etfeots that he 
 remembered at home. Alice, too, on nearer acquaintance, and 
 after her timidity was broken through, disclosed a wealth of char- 
 acter which he had not suspected. 
 
 It was not, however, till he had returned to Norwood that he 
 became alive to the excitement which prevailed in the natioii. 
 The letters from his home gave evidence of the intensity of South- 
 ern feeling. 
 
 A few extracts from his letters, written or received, will serve 
 to show the influences acting upon him. 
 
 * * * "Father says that separation will come, and he does 
 not care how soon. If South Oarolina goes out, and a convention 
 is already called to frame an ordinance of secession, — he says that 
 evfiry Southern State will follow — will ha/oe to follow. He is quite 
 enthusiastic about the Great Republic of the South ; and he is 
 doing all that he can to spread his sentiments among the gentle- 
 men who visit us. He derides the idea of war 1 ' 1 can carry in 
 this cup,' said he this morning at the breakfast table, ' all the blood 
 that will be shed.' If the South are united, the North will never 
 choose to resist. And if they do, he argues, there will never be 
 more than a single fight. The Northern people, he says, handle 
 tools too well to meddle with the sword. You know that he has 
 great contempt for Northern laborers. Thej" are a sordid set, fit 
 for drudgery, but not for fighting. 
 
 " He is vexed that you do not write. It is two months sine* 
 «f e have heard a word from you. From some hints in your last 
 
356 NORWOOD. 
 
 letter, he suspects that you aie entangled with some fair Yankee 
 damsel ; and sister says she knows who it is. Father frets and 
 fumes. ' Every man that loves the South should be at his post. 
 Tom has no business, when Virginia is getting ready to lead the 
 new Kepublio, to be dallying in the North. He ought to show his 
 colors and stand up for his principles.' And so, you see, Tom, 
 just what is going on here, and will know how to lay your course 
 accordingly. 
 
 " Mother is well. We are all gay and lively, in spite of the 
 times. Zanoni has recovered from his injury, and bears the sad- 
 die again. We are laying out for great sport this winter. Shall 
 we have yoQ to help j " * * * * 
 
 HETWOOD TO HIS BItOTHER HAL. 
 
 * * * " I do not wonder that my silence attracts attention. 
 For, thoi^gh I am not a very diligent correspondent at any time, 
 yet I seldom allow ten weeks to pass without a letter. But yon 
 may now know, — I did not care that you should before, — that I 
 have been confined to my room for some six weeks, on account of 
 injuries received by a faU. I was climbing rooks, and fell more 
 than thirty feet, breaking two ribs and receiving a severe blow 
 upon my head. I have had much to sober me : much to give to 
 life a more serious tone. If now the country shall rush into war, 
 as I tear, it wUl be the climax of my trouble, and I shall almost 
 wish that the blow on my head had been some degrees harder. I 
 cannot sympathize with my father. I am in a better situation to 
 know these Northern people than he or any of our Southern friends 
 can be. You may depend upon it that separation will not be peace- 
 fully allowed. There is an under spirit among this people that 
 politiciaub don't take into acounl. The Southern opinion of their 
 courage is founded upon a difference in the education, principles 
 and spirit of the North and South, which makes it well nigh 
 impossible for you to appreciate the reason of their seeming reluc- 
 tance to fight. But should they once be aroused by circumstances 
 which appealed to patriotism and duty, you may depend upon it 
 that tliey wUl show not only corage, but an indomitable persever- 
 ance which will wear out oppusiticm. And should the question 
 111' Union or Disunion — two nations or one United States — I am 
 free to say that my heart goes with the old flag, and though I hope 
 
CONVALESCENCE. 357 
 
 to be siiared tbe dreadfiJ necessity of lifting my hand against mj 
 own State, yet I sliould deem that, terrible aw it would be, an evil 
 less to be dreaded than to lift my hand against that flag of our 
 fathers which gathers to its folds the dearest memories and the 
 most honored associations of American history." 
 
 During the whole winter Heywood sought to shield himself 
 from the turbulence of public feeling, which increased with every 
 month. His health, though rapidly improving, was yet delicate, 
 and rendered liim specially liable to excitements. He fondly hoped 
 that by some fortunate arrangement the great parties to the con- 
 flict might harmonize their differences, and secure that day of 
 peace which for thirty years public men had hoped for and sought 
 in vain. 
 
 It did not occur to him that the differences were radical, that 
 should they be really brought into conflict one must destroy the 
 other, and that they were being brought into conflict, by a course of 
 eveuts which moved with such breadth and power as to give all the 
 signs that it was impelled by a Divine decree. As men, when a stream 
 begins to rise over its banks, eagerly seek to stop the breach, to 
 dam against and to control the ravages of the rising flood, which 
 disdains all interference and sends them back in dismay to wait 
 and watch what the waters will do, so the wise men and tlie man- 
 agers found themselves dealing with uncontrollable events, that 
 were working out their own career, and would not suffer men to 
 restrain them. 
 
 About the middle of February, fearing the boisterous weather 
 of March in Massachusetts,. and hoping by change of scene and 
 assf elation to put the finisbing stroke upon his recovery Heywood 
 bid farewell to his friends in Norwood and left for New York, of 
 hio way to Charleston in South Carclina. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 THB OLD man's JOUBNKT. 
 
 SiNOH winter shut in, in good earnest, and snows were deejA, 
 and the winds were searching, Tommy Taft found himself every 
 month less able to get about. His last visit had been at Dr. Went- 
 (coith's, liopiog to hear something about Barton Oathcart, whose 
 continued absence the old man found it hard to bear. He asked 
 no questions. The sturdy old fellow would scarcely be beliolden 
 to any one even for information. His own hands could no longer 
 provide him the means of support. Charity he resented. Had it 
 not been for the kindness of Dr. Wentworth and the Cathcarts, 
 he would have suffered. But through his wife, unknown to him, 
 they contrived to supply his necessities under the color of hie 
 wife's earnings. 
 
 His last visit, we said, was at Dr. Wentworth's. It was a fine 
 winter diiy, in January. It was one of those days in which nature 
 Is both brilliant and relentless. The sparkle of the air, the scope 
 of the sunlight, the transparency of the atmosphere, seem like 
 kindness in nature. But out of that very nourishing air sweep 
 sharp winds, whose temper is unmollified by the sun, and which 
 turn all the radiance of the day to mockery. Did you never think 
 of this? Then you have looked out of a parlor-window into this 
 air ; or, bundled up in furs, you have shot through the snow in a 
 brilliant slei>rli, protected from cold; or you have such vigor of 
 health, that your warm Hood, with merry rebound, beats off the 
 assaulting frosts. But were you ever called out into such a day 
 poorly clad, poorly fed, and with slender health? The great 
 northerly winter rolls down her fleece upon her insentient family 
 of sleeping children, and tucks up the flower-roots, and broods 
 upon all the buried, waiting, hybernating creatures; and then, 
 careless of the rest, she sings harsh songs in the woods, and roars 
 all night through the air, as if men in hovels, in sick-rooms, in 
 poor-houses — the sick, the feeble, the old — were none of her con- 
 cern. And then, after one of those wild-winter revels, when the 
 •now has blinded the air, and whirled and sifted throngh every 
 
THE OLD MAN'S JOUENEY. 359 
 
 orevioe, and heaped itself against fence and hedge, ind settled 
 down iu sheltered places in mountain-drifts, how the morning 
 will come in with open face and charming expression, as if there 
 dad heen no quarrel all night, nor a saucy wind, nor a pitiless 
 storm, but aU was good and beautiful, and not nature, but th« 
 laiue and feeble were at fault, if anybody was chilly, or cold, or 
 suffering 1 
 
 It was on just such a morning that Tommy Taft granted and 
 otopped, now and then, for breath, as he made his way to Br. 
 Wentworth's. He did not think all these fine things. And yet, 
 that was about the meaning of his grunts, if he had had the fancy 
 to unroll and interpret them to the best advantage. Agate BisseU 
 saw him coming up the path. She went to the front door, in real 
 Idndness, opened it to the old man, saying : 
 
 " Really, Mr. Taft, I pity any body who has to be onton so cold 
 a morning." 
 
 " Thankee, marm, for nothing. Keep your pity for those that 
 need it — I don't." 
 
 " There's no use in being touchy. Yon are sick, Taft, and yon 
 know it. I think it would be better to let the doctor know, and 
 see if he can't help you." 
 
 " He help me ? That's good. What can he give me for eyes 
 worn out. Eh? What's good for the innards pretty mnch used 
 np. Eh ? Do you think. Agate, he would give me any thing for 
 my wooden leg? Eh? It's getting monstrous heavy nowa- 
 days." 
 
 There was something ghastly to pious Agate in such talking by 
 a man seemingly not far from the grave ; and though her genuine 
 pity led her to forbear such a reply as she would once have given, 
 yet she could not help saying : 
 
 " Taft, if you don't get help it's over with you. Honestly now, 
 my friend, you seem to me to be not far from the grave." 
 
 " Jest as true as ye live, Agnte. I've ben on the road to it 
 seventy years, and I know I must be gittin' near it by this time 
 The grave is a tavern where a good many put up, Agate, and I 
 never heerd that any body complained of his fare." 
 
 This was said in a peculiar tone that might be banter, or rod 
 earnest, and Agate could not tell which. She looked earnest^ at 
 Tommy and said : 
 
360 xoRWoou. 
 
 " Taft, have you made your prepai'atit ns ? Havt you dona 
 any thing to get ready ? " 
 
 " I've been gittin' ready as long as I can remember ; and as to 
 preparati<ins, you know tliat Turt'mould and I are neighbors, and 
 he's agreed to do the right thing by me. Don't be afraid, Agate, 
 I sliall be a landholder before long. Turfmould makes good titles. 
 1 guess mine '11 hold." 
 
 " Taft, I don't know what to make of you." 
 
 " You don't need to make any thing. I am made up, already, 
 and have been as long as I can remember, though if I was to be 
 made up agin, Agate, f don't know any body that would do it bet- 
 ter than you, eh ? " said Tonjmy, giving Agate one of those winks 
 that acted upon her like a spark of fire upon powder. 
 
 She rose with the dignity of anger, and was spared the trouble 
 of opening the door by Rose, who came in just as Agate wai 
 ready and anxious to pass out. 
 
 Rose went to the old man with an atiectionate cordiality that 
 seemed more like a child's love for a grandparent than the greet- 
 ing of a neighbor or bc;iefactor. 
 
 Tommy tried to rise, but Rose laid her hand on his shoulder 
 familiarly and pressed him back into his chair. 
 
 "No, no; there is no use. Uncle, in ceremony. You are not 
 strong. How pale your face is! F.itlier tells me that the winter 
 goes hard with you. I know jou wiU be glad to know that we 
 have heard from Barton Oathc.irt. lie wrote to father on some 
 business. He is very happy, and talks of living in the West." 
 
 " Living in the West? " said Tommy, with unaffected surprise, 
 IB if his feelings had been hurt; " living iu the West? and I sha'n't 
 see him agin ? Die, and not see the boy agin ? I can't have it 
 indeed. Miss Rose, I can't. You must write and tell him so 
 There ain't but one Barton Cathcsrt in this world, and, if othei 
 folks don't know his value, 1 do. I'd rather die to-morrow, if J 
 could see him to-night, than live a year and not see him. I toll 
 vou, Miss Rose," said Tommy, with a .solemnity which she had 
 never seen him manifest before, " I can't die till I see Bartoli. 
 
 want to ask him something. I want to know " and with tha 
 
 lie hesitated, and looked at Rose almost imploringly. " I want to 
 know something about it, If Barton says it's right, it's right, and 
 I'll believe it." 
 
THE OLD MAN'S JOUKNEY. ffSl 
 
 Rose could make nothing out of those sentenoiss. But looking 
 at Tommy as if it was all plain, she said : 
 
 " Barton writes that he will be home in Fobruiiry, and I've no 
 donbt he wUl make it all right.'' 
 
 " Comin' in February ! Let's see, that's three or four weeks. 
 Mebbe that 'd be too late." 
 
 " Can I help you, Uncle Tommy ? Am I not as good ae 
 Barton ! " 
 
 Tommy had risen, and, looking at Rose with great kindness, 
 said : 
 
 "Bless you, dear child, you're good enough to be Barton's 
 own self; and — well I must hobble home. I'm afeered of an 
 attack." 
 
 Tommy had become subject to paroxysms of severe pain in the 
 stomach. During their continuance he was peculiarly unwilling 
 to have any one present, even his wife. He would shut himself 
 up in his loft and growl and groan by himself. These attacks were 
 becoming more frequent, and the whole system was becoming 
 weakened by this affection. To his daughter's inquiry, Dr. Went- 
 worth replied : 
 
 " The disease is obscure. I suppose it to be a cancerous affec- 
 tion of the stomach. That it will prove fatal I do not doubt; but 
 whether he will drop off suddenly, or be gradually worn out with 
 suffering, I cannot tell." 
 
 The old man bravely resisted all sympathy. He would allow 
 no one to pity him. He had nothing to say about his own suffer- 
 ings, and was angry at any allusion to them. Mother Taft, her- 
 self feeble, hovered aror.nd the old man with a kind of helpless 
 pity, which she dared not speak, and could not hide. The most 
 unlovely side of his character Tommy Taft showed to his wife. 
 This habit was contagious, for several others in the village were 
 Itnown to have the same disagreeable trait. Fortunately it was 
 confined to the one sex 1 
 
 As the old man rose to depart, Rose felt a presentiment that 
 she should never see him again. She was just about leaving 
 ■•iome to make a visit to her relatives in Boston, which should have 
 been made during the holidays, but was prevented by her mother's 
 transient illness. As he moved slowly toward the door, she re- 
 sailed the days of her oliildhood, Low many times he had frolicked 
 
362 NORWOOD. 
 
 with her, how many little games he had taught her, what tLtmj 
 itories he had invented to amuse her, visiting his rude quarters, 
 and her heart was deeply touched with tlie old man's sufferings, 
 which, every time she saw him, seemed to be gaining ground. 
 When Tommy turned at the front door, as Rose reached out hei 
 hand to say good-bye, a tear rolled down her cheek and fell upon 
 the old man's hand. 
 
 " Good-bye, dear Uncle Tommy; I shall never meet yon again, 
 until we meet in Heaven.'' 
 
 At first the old man seemed annoyed at her feeling, and said 
 wmewhat harshly : 
 
 " What yon cryin' for ? I ain't dead yet ? That's funeral 
 business." But, changing his tone. Tommy Taft for a moment 
 «eemed to identify Barton with Rose. Looking tenderly at her 
 out from under his great, shaggy eyebrows, he said : " It's jest as 
 like as nut that what you say is true ; and if I don't see him again, 
 on tell him that I wanted him. I won't trust none of them folks 
 to show me. It's a pretty dark way for a lame old man to be 
 titumblin' In alone ; and 1 shouldn't like to take the wrong turn, 
 you know. This kind o' journey's one a fellow can't go back on. 
 [f he gits wrong, why wrong it'll have to be; and if Barton was 
 only here to show me the way — eh ? " 
 
 Rose was deeply affected. She had never in all her life heard 
 Taft speak of religion except in broad humoi', and never at aU in 
 its relations to his own future condition. It was not the languid 
 sentiment of one weakened by long sickness, nor the inspiration 
 of fear. The old man would have been as sturdy and defiant as 
 ever had one word been spoken amiss ! 
 
 Rose knew, in .spite of all his faults, the real depth of the old 
 man's heart. She knew the rugged strength of his mind, and the 
 unusual sagacity of his perceptions. Why was he lying useless at 
 the bottom of society ? His power should have ranked him among 
 the first. To see such a one peering into the dark future and 
 confessing his inability to see how to tread its way, would hava 
 touched the .sympathy of one far less sensitive than Rose. 
 
 Looking tenderly at the old man. Rose repeated the words: 
 
 " ' Though I walk throngli the valley of the shadow of death, 
 I will fear no evil ; for thou art with me : thy rod and thy stafiC 
 they comfort me.' " 
 
THE OLD MAN'S JOURNEY. 363 
 
 "That's it," said the old man, "you've hit it exactly. If 
 Barton was along I had as lief trudge as not." 
 
 "Barton could not help you. There is One who has said '1 
 am the Way, and the Life,' — He can help you." 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder. But I know Barton, and he's gota head- 
 piece. He's thought of all these matters, and ain't tied up to old 
 world notions; and if he says, ' Tommy, it's all real,' that's enougli 
 You must understand, Miss Rose, that I don't care much about 
 myself; hut, do ye see, I'd like to keep along with Barton, and if 
 I knew the track he's going to take, you may be sure you'd find 
 me there." 
 
 If it had been Pr. Buell, he would not have suffered Tommy 
 Taft to rest on any such human affection as a security in death. 
 But Rose, without reflecting on the theological aspects of the case, 
 was glad to see in the old man any thoughtfulness about dying, 
 and she hoped that through his affection for Barton he might be 
 led to a higher trust and a surer hope. 
 
 It was indeed the last time she ever saw Taft. Before her 
 return from Boston both Tommy Taft and Barton Cathcart had 
 left Norwood, the one on that road where travellers journey only 
 one way, and Oathcart had gone, to the great war which brokn 
 forth in the spring, like the conflagration of a continent. 
 
 For a week after this interview Tommy Taft was detained In 
 the house by the severity of the weather. When the skies relented 
 he was too weak to get about alone. Every week his anxiety 
 increased to see Barton. Pain could not subdue his stubborn will. 
 But no will could sustain the daily weakening body. It was the 
 last week in February before the old man fairly took to his bed 
 and gave up all hope of seeing Oathcart before he died. His spirits 
 were depressed and his temper not the best. Dr. Buell, faithful to 
 his fractious parishioner, still visited him f?-om time to time, hoping 
 that in some favorable hour he might cast light into his darkened 
 mind. One day a knock sounded at his door. 
 
 " Oome in, — or stay out as suits ye best,' said Tommy. 
 
 Dr. Buell entered. 
 
 " Oome in. Doctor. You're always at work on the old sinner 
 Really, I had a pain this morning that liked to let me through." 
 
 " I hope, Taft, that you find yourself willicg to depart, if it l-a 
 God's will." 
 
364 NORWOOD. 
 
 "Well, well, a8 to that, Doctor, I guess when a aock has mn 
 Jown it stops, not hecause it has a mind to, but because it can't 
 help it I" 
 
 " Tot, one may have Christian resignation to events which h« 
 cannot control. It is a very solemn thing to die, Tiift, and the fu- 
 ■ tare is dark to those who h.ive no hope in the Saviour." 
 
 " When a ship's driven in by gales, and has to make a harbor, 
 it's mighty convenient to have a light-house ; but if there ain't any, 
 why a feller must get in the best way he can." 
 
 " But there is a light. Christ is the light of the world. There 
 is no need of darkness to one who trusts Him." 
 
 " That's so ; that's good doctrine — sound views, no doiibt. 
 You was always very clear. I often said that if a man didn't un- 
 derstand you he needn't go to meetin' any where, for there wan't 
 any better preachin' in the State.'' 
 
 In short, it was plain that Taft did not mean to talk about his 
 feelings with the minister. Dr. Buell was deeply moved witu 
 pity. The old man's pale face, his weakness, the nature of his dis- 
 ease, indicated that he had not long to live. He hesitated a mo- 
 ment in doubt whether it would be worth while to suggest praying 
 with the sick man, who sat propped up in bed. 
 
 " Taft, if it would be pleasant — if you desire it, that ia — I shall 
 be glad to pray with you." 
 
 " No objection in the world 1 If I was one of the elect I'd do 
 it myself." 
 
 " Is there any thing that yon would like me specially to so- 
 licit?" 
 
 " If it's proper, and just the same to you, ask the Lord to send 
 Barton Cathcart home, and let me see the boy once more afore 
 I die." 
 
 Tommy Taft had a Isirge head and face. Usually there was a 
 rugged and somewhat sharp expression to his features. But sick- 
 ness had turned his face pale, his bushy side locks were very gray, 
 and his eyes peered out from under his brow with more than 
 common brightness. He did not shut them while Doctor Buell 
 prayed. He looked over the form of the kneeling minister « ith 
 an expression in which mirth was blended with pain. It seemed 
 to say : 
 
 " Poor fellow ! It don't take much to make you happjf " 
 
THE OLD MAN'S JOUENEY. 365 
 
 It was very plain that Tommy did not accept any one as pneai 
 but Barton Cathcart, and that the only thread by which his ragged 
 nature could he led was the single golden strand of affection. 
 
 He grew daily weaker, and more and more crabbed. It was a 
 hard task for Mother Taft. He poured out words like paving 
 stones upon her. He would agree to nothing, and seemed likely 
 to go out of the world like a shaggy bear seeking his nortliorn 
 covert for hybernation. On the first day of March it was, that 
 Tommy Taft had been unquietly sleeping in the forenoon, to maie 
 np for a disturbed night. The little noisy clock, — that regarded 
 itself as the essence of a Yankee, and ticked with immense alacrity, 
 and struck in the most bustling and emphatic manner, — this in- 
 dustrious and moral clock began striking, whir-r-r, one ; whir-r-r, 
 tmo ; wliir-r-r, three; (Tommy jerked his head a little as if some- 
 thing vexed him in his sleep;) whir-r-r, /oMr ; whir-r-r, fltie , 
 whir-r-r, «ia! ;(" Keep .still, will ye? let me alone, old woman I 
 
 d your medicine;") whir-r-r, seiien; whir-r-r, «jg'/j< ; ("God 
 
 in Heaven ! as sure as I live," said Tommy, rubbing his eyes as if 
 to make sure that they saw aright ;) whir-r-r, nine ; whir-r-r, ten ! 
 Then, holding out his arms with the simplicity of a child, his face 
 fairly glowing with joy, and looking now really noble, he cried : 
 
 "Barton, — my boy. Barton, — I knew yon wouldn't let the old 
 man die, and not help him! I knew it I I knew it! " 
 
 After the first surprise of joy subsided. Tommy pushed Barton 
 from the edge of his bed : 
 
 "Stand up, boy; turn round! There he is! Now I'm all right. 
 Got my pilot aboard. Sealed orders — ready to sail the minit the 
 hawser's let go." 
 
 After a few words about his return from the West, his health, 
 and prospects, the old man returned to the subject that seemed to 
 lie nearest his heart. 
 
 " They've all had a hand at me. Barton. There's twenty firms 
 in this town that is willin' to give a feller sailin' orders, when they 
 see he's out'ard bouad. But I am an old salt — I know my own- 
 ers ! " said Tommy, with an affectionate wink at Barton. 
 
 " Oh, my boy, you're back agin ; it's all right now. Don't yon 
 let me go wrong. I want yon to tell me jhst where you're goin', 
 and I'll bear right np for that port ! Yon know. Barton, I never 
 jheated you when you was a boy. I trok care of ye, and nevei 
 
36b NORWOOD. 
 
 told you a lie in my life, and never got yon in a scraps. Yon 
 
 won't cheat an old man now, will ye ? " 
 
 It was all that Barton could do to maintain his self-possession. 
 Tears and smiles kept company on Lis face. 
 
 " My dear old Tommy, we won't ptirt company. We're both 
 bound to the same land. God will, I fervently hope, for Christ's 
 sake, forgive all our sins, and make us meet for everlasting 
 life I " 
 
 " Amen ! " roared out the old man. " Go on. Yon really be- 
 lieve in it? Come here. Barton, sit down on the edge of the bed, 
 look me in the face, and no flummery,— do you really believe that 
 there's another world ? " 
 
 " I do. Tommy, I believe it in my very soul! " 
 
 " That's enough ! I believe it too, jest as sartain as if a shipmate 
 had told me about an island I'd never seen, but he had." 
 
 " Now, Barton, give me the bearin's oft. D'ye believe thai 
 there's a Lord that helps a poor feller to it? " 
 
 " I do. Christ loves me, and you, and all of us. He is glorions 
 in love ; and for no other reason in the world than because He 
 loves to do kind things, He saves all who trust Him." 
 
 " He don't stand on particulars, then ? He won't rip up all e 
 feller's old faults, will He? — or how's that? Don't you ease up 
 on me, Barton, just to please me, but tell me the hardest on't. I 
 believe every word you say." 
 
 Barton's own soul had travelled on the very road on which 
 Tommy was now walking, and remembering his own experience, 
 and some of those wonderful crystals which he had dug out of the 
 ridges of the Old Testament, and uhich he had set in his memory 
 with even more feeling than before, made up in part by the re- 
 newal of his own former experiences, he repeated to Tommy these 
 words, saying to him: 
 
 " Tommy, if I was describing a man to you, you would take 
 him to be just what I say, wouldn't yon? " 
 
 " Sartain ! " 
 
 "Well, this is God's nature. You are going toward him, and 
 ought to know how to behave." 
 
 " That's as true as the compass. Did'nt I tell ye, old woman, 
 H'hen Barton came it would be plain sailin' ? " 
 
 '"And the Lor.l paHsed by before him, and proclaimed, Th-? 
 
THE OLD MAN'S JOURNEY. 367 
 
 LoKD, The Lord God, merciful and gracious, long-suffering, and 
 abundant in goodness and truth. 
 
 "'Keeping mercy for thousands, forgiving iniquity and 
 transgression and sin, and that will by no means clear the 
 guilty; visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children, 
 and upon the children's children, unto the third and to the 
 fourth generation.' 
 
 " Then again, Tommy, hear this : 
 
 " Who is a God like unto thee, that pardoneth iniquity, and 
 passeth by the transgression of the last of his heritage ? he retain- 
 ed not his anger fur ever, because he delighteth in mercy. 
 
 " ' He will turn again, he wUl have compassion upon us ; he 
 will subdue our iniquities; and thou wilt cast aU our sins into the 
 deptlis of the sea.' " 
 
 " Now that's to the p'int, Barton. The Lord will tumble a 
 feller's sins overboard like rubbish, or bUge-water and the like, 
 when a ship is in the middle of the ocean ? Well, it would puzzle 
 a teller to find 'eui agin after that. Is that all ? I'm to report to 
 Him?" 
 
 " Yes, Tommy; you are to report to God just as I should re- 
 port to you if you were a ship owner, and I were the captain, and 
 had made mistakes and losses on the voyage. Suppose you loved 
 me just as you do now, and I were to come back to you and make 
 i» clean breast of it, what would you do to me ? " 
 
 "Do? You know what I'd do? I'd say — Barton, hold your 
 yawp ; not another word atween ns. I care more for you than for 
 every d dollar of the cargo." 
 
 Barton did not stop for Tommy's ai^ectives. 
 
 " That's just what God says to us : ' All his transgressions that 
 he hath committed they shall not be mentioned unto him.' ' Have 
 I any pleasure at all that the wicked should die, saith the Lord 
 God?'" 
 
 " Well, now, this is honorable ! It makes a feller feel mean, 
 though, Barton, when he's treated so, and then thinks what sort of 
 a feller he's been." 
 
 Barton then read from the fifteenth chapter of Luke to the old 
 man the parable of the prodigal son. 
 
 " Barton, would ye jest as lief do me a little favor as not ! " 
 
 "Whatisit,Taftf" 
 
368 NORWOOD. 
 
 " 'Woiild ye ciind sayiii' a little prayer — for me —it maies nt 
 difference, of course ; but jest a line of introduction in a foreign 
 port sometimes helps a feller amazingly." 
 
 Barton knelt by the bedside and prayed. Without reflecting at 
 the moment on Uncle Tommy's particular wants, Barton was fol- 
 lowing in prayer the line of his own feelings; when, suddenly, ha 
 felt Tommy's finger genily poking his head. 
 
 "I say, Barton, ain't you steerin' a p'int or two off the course! 
 [ don't seem to follow you." 
 
 A few earnest, simple petitions followed, which Taft seemed to 
 relish. 
 
 " Lord forgive Tommy Taft's sins I (" Now you've hit it," 
 "aid the old man, softly.) Prepare him for Thy kingdom. 
 (" Yes, and Barton, too ! ") May he feel Thy love, and trust his 
 soul in Thy sacred keeping. ("Ah, ha! that's it — you're in the 
 rieht spot now.") Give him peace while he lives. (" No matter 
 about that — the dootor'll give me opium for that ! go on.") And, 
 at his death, save his soul in Thy kingdom, for Christ's sake. 
 Amen." 
 
 "Amen. But did'nt you coil it away rather too quick?" 
 
 The fact was, that Barton whs not used to the olBce of public 
 prayer, and still less to the running commentaries of Tommy Taft, 
 which, though helpful to the old man, were of no assistance to 
 Barton. 
 
 " Now, Barton, my boy, you've done a good thing. I've been 
 waitin' for you all winter, and you did'nt come a minit too soon. 
 I'm tired now; but I want you to come buck to-morrow. I've 
 got somethin' to tell you. I never let you know nothin' about my 
 life, and I've a mind to tell you. Oh, it was a cruel shame for 
 my uncle to treat me sol I might have made a man if I'd had 
 half a chance. No matter. But I want to say one thinj,': Barton, 
 when I'm gone, you won't let the old woman sutler? Sbe's hud a 
 pretty hard time of it with me. She's like a sparrow that builds 
 its nest in a thorn bush. I knew you would. One thing more, 
 Barton," said the old man, his voice sinking almost to a whisper, 
 as if speaking a secret from the bottom of his soul, '■ Barton, y(ju 
 know I never had much money. I never laid up any — couldn't. 
 Now you won't let me come on to the town fi.ir a funeral — wiT 
 yel [ should hate to be bnriid in a pine coffin, ut town expense 
 
THE OLD MAN'S JOURNEY. 369 
 
 and have folks laugh that did'nt dare open their head to me when 
 I was 'round town ! And then, Barton, you'll pat old Smasher it 
 with me! .Of course, it ain't any matter, hut I'd rather take my 
 leg along, if it's all the same to other folks! " 
 
 Barton could not forhear smiling, as the old man, growing 
 visibly feebler every hour, went on revealing traits which hi« 
 sturdy pride had covered when he was in health. 
 
 " And, Barton, I wifh you'd let the cliildren come when Fn, 
 buried. They'll come if you'll just let 'em know. Always trust 
 the children 1 And — (pain here checked his utterance for a 
 moment) — and, let's see, what was I saying? Oh, the children. 
 I don't want nothin' said. But if you'd jest as lief let the children 
 sing one of their hymns, I should relish it." 
 
 The color came suddenly to his cheek, and left as suddenly. 
 He pressed his hand over his stomach, and leaned his head further 
 over on his pillow, as if to wait till the pang passed. It seemed 
 long. Barton rose and leaned over him. The old man opened hia 
 eyes, and with a look of ineffable longing, whispered : 
 
 "Kiss me." 
 
 A faint smile dwelt about liis mouth ; his faced relaxed and 
 seemed to express happiness in its rugged features. But the old 
 man was not there. Without sound of \»:iig3, or footfall, he had 
 deputed on his iai>% ioumey 
 
CHAPTEK XL. 
 
 FAITH EEKIKDLED. 
 
 On tlieir way home from the burial, Judge Baoon, ParsoB 
 Bnell, Dr. Wentwortli, and Barton Oathoart walked together, talk- 
 mg of the old man and the funeral. The whole town seemed to 
 have turned out. It was even proposed to use the church, not so 
 much in respect for the dead as for the living. Few families were 
 there where Mother Taft had not ministered, and there was un- 
 usual sympathy for her now. But she and Barton, who assumed 
 the arrangements, thought it wiser that Tommy Taft should go to 
 his grave from the homely quarters where he had lived. A prayei 
 was made, a hymn sung, and, if Tommy heard it, his spirit could 
 not but have been content with the number and sweetness of the 
 children's voices. There were enough people, now that he wa« 
 gone, to say kind things of him, and to apologize for his eccen- 
 tricities. 
 
 "I have always been of opinion," said Judge Bacon, "that 
 Taft would have been a man of great power in society if he had 
 been subject to early training and fortunate circumstances. The 
 rough material was in him, and education might have shaped it to 
 the proportions of an uncommon manhood." 
 
 "You were with him, Barton, when he died — did he seem to 
 have any proper conception of the solemn event ? " inquired Dr. 
 Bnell. 
 
 Barton's account of his interview was striking. There was a 
 moment's silence. Judge Bacon remarked, breaking it : 
 
 " I suspect that it is all right with Tommy. No doubt, the 
 i'ood Lord was merciful." 
 
 " God's mercies and man's saving evidences are not to be con- 
 f'l/unded," saiil Parson Buell. "All that man can do is to inquire 
 whether, in the judgment of charity, one's life or dying experience, 
 1,'ives evidence of gracious affections. Tommy Taft's character 
 was marked with many strong excellences, but he would be bold 
 wrho should say that his was a Hhristian life.'' 
 
FAITH REKINDLED. 371 
 
 ' But do yon not think there is some avidence that, at lust, ht 
 waj led to put faith in the Saviour ? '' said Barton. 
 
 " My own pastoral visits developed nothing particularly euconr 
 aging," replied Dr. Buell. " Your narrative is certainly more hope- 
 ful. Yet, I should speak of a sudden dying experience with great 
 caution. It would be mischievous for men to suppose that a whole 
 life, perverse and worldly, can be rubbed out like a slate, by k 
 momentary glow of feeling, in the last hour. I should think. Bar- 
 ton, that his experience was more a manifestation of affection 
 for you than for his God." 
 
 " Since there is no positive evidence," said Dr. Wentworth, 
 " of his condition, let us charitably hope that the spark which 
 glowed at the last was not quenched in death. He humbled him- 
 self to Barton for very love. He followed him to Christ. True 
 love is mediatorial. If to any state of mind God would reveal 
 tiimself, it would be to love and submission. It was not regular. 
 What repentance is ever logical? Will a shepherd refuse a re- 
 turned sheep because it followed home a bell-wether, instead of 
 the shepherd's own call ? " 
 
 " I perceive, gentlemec, with all due submission to your superioi 
 gifts," said Judge Bacon, blandly smiling and waving his hand with 
 a gesture that seemed to put away the whole discussion, " that 
 your wis(joir. increases as your knowledge fails. Poor Taft ie 
 gone. That is all you know about it. But no 1 You mount up 
 above all facts, logic, or vision, and one weaves for him a gar- 
 ment of salvation while the other pulls out the stitches I Ah, 
 what tailors of clond-clothes you would make! If Taft had been 
 a deacon, or a minister, of course we should have to let him go 
 in. As he was a rough old sailor, with a hard tongue " 
 
 Barton interposed with some slight asperity : 
 
 "Do you think that a smooth tongue and a hard heart would 
 have served him beiter than a rough tongue and a warm heart?" 
 
 " A thousand pardons, my young friend," said the judge, ac- 
 cepting with perfect good nature the implied comparison, — " I 
 yield, I yield. I shall putTommy into the calendar, and hereafter 
 swear by St. Taft. He excelled in the grace of swearing I " 
 
 " I fear that he was profane," said Parson Buell, " though not 
 in my presence." 
 
 "No? I am surfrised!" rpturned the judge. "However, 
 
372 NORWOOD. 
 
 swearing is for tts most pait a mere rhetorical enforcement — a 
 system of interjections, in bad taste because of exaggeration. 
 There is much pious swearing. A church-member slips on the 
 ice, and exclaims, ' goodness, now I ' Tommy Taft would have 
 
 paid, ' d UP Both meant the same thing. A bold n.nn 
 
 means swear, and says it. A timid man means swear, but says 
 'gracious! ' All interjections are swearing, a kind of latent o:\th.-., 
 are they not, parson ? " 
 
 " Swear not at all ; let your communication be yea, yea ; nay, 
 nay," said Buell. "No doubt many common by-words are only 
 a sort of cowardly profanity. But the guilt of profane swearing 
 is not lessened by calling it an interjection, or by raising the oul- 
 pableness of by-words." 
 
 " Well, well. Doctor or Minister, whichever of you conquers, 
 I perceive that both of you in your hearts have put Tommy iji 
 heaven, and that he is as well off as if he had died at a stake < 
 martyr for religion." 
 
 "By no means," replied Buell. "There are infinite degrees 
 of excellence and of happiness in heaven. One may enter as ii 
 king, crowned ; another enters ' so as by fire.' One emigrant 
 may come on to the coast by shipwreck, saving nothing but his 
 life; and another, after a prosperous vovatre, lands, with his goods, 
 among friends that had come over before him. Both are safe ; 
 but one is a pauper, and the other well advanced in society. Let 
 us reverently hope that Taft, at the last, beheld and accepted the 
 Saviour. But that by no means places him at the side of those 
 whose earthly life was a long career of virtue and self-denial." 
 
 " Bereavement," said Dr. Wentworth, " is a great heretic. I 
 I have found few persons who do not contrive to believe that their 
 friends are saved. It is other people's friends that we remit to 
 justice. Our oivn are, by some mediation of affection and grief, 
 rescued. Indeed the Infinite and the Eternal are words without 
 meaning till grief interprets them. Tears are like chemical 
 re-agents, whose touch brings out colors. When, bearing our be- 
 loved in our arms, we come face to face with eternity, all cur rea- 
 sonings retreat into our hearts. Men do not deny their beliefs, 
 But they will not let them speak. Like light in a sick room, '■hey 
 must be turned down and softened, and sometimes, before tlic 
 morning comes, they go out." 
 
FAITH REKINDLED. 373 
 
 " Truth," repli&l Buell, " is not less true because our sympathies 
 flC'W out against it. The sun shines on in spite of weak eyes. 
 Has a man a right to put a bandage on his eyes and call it sunset ? " 
 
 They had reached Dr. Wentwortb's mansion; and all turned in 
 tliither. It was a bright, but coldly blusterijig day. Thn 
 hickory fire cheerily blazed on the hearth. The conservato'y 
 door stood wide open, and the eye discerned an artificial sum- 
 mer there, whose greermess and beauty was now, after the 
 long winter, inexpressibly attractive. The azalias were coming 
 into bloom. Exquisite ferns of various tropical kinds grew with 
 luxuriance. There was a summery feeling in the room. Its lig^t, 
 its warmth, and the sight of plants and flowers all helped Ihe 
 illusion. A canary bird hanging in the conservatory sang merrily, 
 and one or two flies buzzed against the window, or flew dreamily 
 through the air. After a long winter, a fly in the house brirgs 
 with it a sense of summer. If old and torpid, we take it in hand, 
 blow warm breath upon it, put sugar before it. Imagine a man 
 doing all that to a fly in August 1 
 
 Judge Bacon could not tarry, and waited only till the flowers 
 which the doctor was cutting for the ladies were arranged, and 
 then departed. But not till he had enjoined all further discussion. 
 
 " "When Buell and I meet you, Wentworth, you always seem 
 moved with talk. Why, if all that you have discoursed to me, to 
 say nothing of Buell, were written in a book, of what dimensions 
 would it already be 1 I know very well what you are both think- 
 ing o£ Buell wants to say now that your doctrine of Nature is 
 injurious to Scripture. Then you. Doctor, are full of a reply, viz. : 
 that the globe, but particularly the human mind, by its best speci- 
 mens, is a previous, or co-ordinate, or auxiliary revelation. Then 
 Buell will snap you up with the question, ' Do you bring the Bible 
 down to tlie level of Nature ? ' and you will answer, ' No, I attempt 
 to raise nature up to the level of the Bible.' Then he will say, 
 ' What do you mean by Nature ? ' and you will reply, ' Whatever 
 God has created, but chiefly the human mind.' Then Buell wiD 
 look very sober — he a' ways does — but he will look soberer yet, 
 and trust that you are not going off into mere natural religion. 
 Then you will say that yon prefer natural to unnatural religion. 
 He will then look hurt, atd you will grow dignified. Then after 
 % while Doctor Buell will very mildly ask whether you think tli« 
 
374 NORWOOD. 
 
 deductions of science are upon an equality with the doctrinos ol 
 Christ? and you will say they are infinitely below them — nd 
 because tbey are science, but from the nature of the truths them- 
 selves, one relating to matter, and the other to the souL Where- 
 apon he will introduce a question in mental philosophy, and you 
 will snatch it away from him, and then he will get it away from 
 you, until, before you know it, the clock will strike twelve — mid- 
 night I and then every thing will be left just as it was before, to 
 Ce gone over again at some future meeting. 
 
 " Ah, there is nothing so improving as philosophical discussion 1 
 But my health suffers from such luxuries, and I must deny myself 
 and bid you good evening." And with a courtly manner the 
 judge bowed himself out. 
 
 " A most agreeable and discriminating scoffer,'' said Dr. Buell, 
 as the door closed. 
 
 " Oh no, not scoffer, which implies something bitter or malig- 
 nant. I think he has a conscience, and that, in spite of his badin- 
 age, he is not without serious thoughts and purposes." 
 
 The tea was announced. Barton sat in the place which Rose 
 usually occupied. Dr. Buell sat next to Agate Bissell, and the 
 children, great and little, filled up the interstices between the 
 doctor and his wife. Barton gave some account of his western 
 experiences — some further facts relating to Tommy Taft. He ap- 
 peared unusually vivacious. Dr. Wentworth remarked afterward 
 to his wife that he had never known young Cathcart to be so 
 buoyant and modestly self-confident. He seemed like one who 
 had seen trouble, but had found peace. 
 
 Leaving Dr. Buell with the ladies — to whom, and to Agate in 
 particular, he was laying open some plans for usefulness — Barton 
 and Dr. Wentworth repaired to the study. 
 
 Barton began: 
 
 " I do not feel, as Dr. Buell does, that your views of God's use 
 of Nature as a revelation tend to unsettle faith. In my own case, 
 it has led me back to my childhood faith again. I was brought 
 np, in effect though not in theory, to look upon Nature as some- 
 thing dangerous, having no relation to religious feelings, and 
 indeed, as a storehouse of infidel dangers. I had never heard a 
 minister employ nature as an auxiliary of the Bible, as if there 
 bad been not one, but a converging series of revelations, all wit- 
 
FAITH RICKINDLED. 375 
 
 iiessing to the same trnths, but in differing degrees of clearuesa, 
 the full light and disclosure coming in Obrist Jesus t " 
 
 The doctor answered : 
 
 " And jet the Old Testament is a storehouse of religious feel- 
 ing excited by the objects in Nature. The Psalms of David play 
 upon all the aspects of nature familiar to Palestine, and summon 
 every living thing to bear witness to God. But many ministers 
 seem to think that Nature has a secret grudge against tlie Kible, 
 and they are determined that they will defend the Bible against 
 its insidious aggressions. 
 
 " In making the world, many seem to think, God saved up the 
 best truths, refusing to let Nature shadow them, reserving them 
 for a written book. But Paul thought otherwise, declaring that 
 God framed the world for the purpose of revealing himself 
 and his government to man. ' For the invisible things (truths) 
 of Him are clearly seen from (in) the creation of the world — being 
 understood by the things that are made, even to his eternal 
 power and Godhead.' " 
 
 "I am almost certain, Doctor, that but for your help I should 
 have made shipwreck of my faith. I had come to a state in 
 which nothing was true to me merely because the Bible said 
 80 ; but when, under your help, I found the great truths of the 
 Bible indicated and corroborated in Nature, I was wonderfully 
 strengthened. Indeed, I consider that the turning point in my 
 history." 
 
 " There are a variety of influences which make religions diflB- 
 cnlties almost a disease," said Dr. "Wentworth. " A person can- 
 not ravel out the threads of religious belief which from his child- 
 hood have woven the figures of taste, fancy, afi^ection, and reasor 
 itself, without doing a violence to his nature which few have thj 
 strength to survive. 
 
 " The process is itself destructive, but it is made worse by the 
 idium attached to scepticism — especially in New England, where 
 it is deemed the mother of all immorality. This public sentiment 
 is either to be dared or evaded. If defied, it soon drives a man 
 desperate by its inflictions. If to avoid this, one is prudently silent, 
 his mind grows hot and morbid by speculations which he supposet 
 to be purely intellectual, whereas tliey are a mixture of i;itens« 
 feelings, of fancies, and of unregulated reasonings — a medley, as 
 
376 NORWOOD. 
 
 far from philosophy as possible, but peculiariy well .calculated tc 
 produce morbid conditions both of body and soul." 
 
 Barton replied : 
 
 " I need no testimony on that point. I now wonder, as I look 
 iack, that my reason was spared. But it was in some respects 
 this very intensity of suffering that worked a cure. I became sat- 
 isfied that the reasonings of those men whose steps I was following, 
 if carried forward legitimately and fearlessly, would not stop with 
 discrediting a revelation, but would go on to discredit the exist- 
 ence of a God. The question came home^are you prepared to 
 follow out your reasonings, and to give up faith in the existence of 
 any God? Since no man can prove that God does not exist, I 
 found that I should vibrate like a pendulum between Theism and 
 Atheism, and that I should have my convictions just as little set- 
 tled as before, only I should be unsettlefl in a different place; I 
 should be acting in that remote region just as uncertainly and in- 
 sincerely as before I had sacrificed my Christian faith." 
 
 " Certain natures must ferment," said Dr. Wentworth. "They 
 do not become clear or deep till after a process of that kind. But 
 I have noticed a great many men who went no further than to drop 
 their faith in Christianity, which, as it is now held, represents not 
 only the mere words of Christ, but all the experiences which have 
 since sprung from these word^, in good men, and so is the substance 
 and epitome of all the moral good which the world has learned. 
 They were not honest enough to go on with their principles to the 
 logical result, and became torpid or frivolous skeptics, without 
 moral depth or moral honesty." 
 
 — " It was at the point of this rebound in me, from the dark- 
 uess and horror of atheism, that I was helped, to a degree of which 
 you were never conscious, by an almost accidental train of conver- 
 sation illustrating the difference between the essential truths of 
 revelation and the vehicles of these truths. I had been sticking at 
 a great many of the so-called diflBculties of the scriptures. I pricked 
 np my ears at your illustrations. You said, ' If a messenger were 
 to come to a poor man, saying, " I bear in my hand the will of a 
 relative of your mother's. He has left you an estate, and here are 
 the documents which will put you in possession," — a sensible man 
 would at once, upon a tolerably fair showing, take the documents 
 and test them. He would see if they had been recorded ; if there 
 
FAITH REKINDLED. 377 
 
 was snch property ; ifi upon preseuting his blaims, it was mada . 
 over to him. But what if, instead of regarding possession as the 
 best argument in favor of the genuineness of the will, he should 
 indicate his philosophy and shrewdness by picking flaws with the 
 grammar, quarrelling with the messenger, instituting a special plea 
 on the doctrine of probabilities in the case ? ' Out of that view 
 came great relief to me. I said, ' Here is the will and Testament 
 of my Father. Xet me take possession of the contents rather than 
 criticise them.' I considered the New Testament ideal of human 
 life — its pattern of character, its delineation of the ends of a true 
 life, its code of moral sentiments — and said to myself. ' Is there any 
 thing nobler than this? Has nature any thing better to teach me? ' 
 I considered the conception formed in Scripture of God, his univer- 
 sal Fatherhood, his Remedial Nature as manifested in Christ, the 
 whole, as it now seems to me, a marvellous and transcendent 
 picture of excellence; and I contrasted this positive, effuigent 
 sympathetic Being, with that uncertain, protean, pulseless, soulless 
 Solitude which Pantheism and Atheism call God. The contrast 
 was salutary. It really brought my pride and my moral sense 
 over on to the ground of my childhood belief ! It seemed to ine 
 that such fruit could be found growing nowhere else, and that to 
 refuse it was as if a man should refuse oranges because the tree 
 was crooked, or the bark diseased, or the thorns too long and too 
 sharp. 
 
 " In connection with this, came to my relief this view : ' I am 
 undertaking to construct a theory of the universe as the condition 
 precedent to my own life. But I have a personal duty. I have to 
 develop a character, to perform my part in society, to be a man 
 among men. Am I at liberty to defer this until I have put Time, 
 History and the Globe to analysis and synthesis? If right living is 
 immediate, urgent, the duty of to-day, then I must take the best 
 ideals that exist, and work them out.' But that view brought me 
 right back to the New Testament, and I could not help sayini^ to 
 myself, ' What book is this which an earnest man, desiring to live 
 high and noble life, finds at every turn supplying him with the 
 very elements which he needs ? Is it not the Book of Life ? ' 
 
 " There came, finally, one experience further. When I was 
 most Imbued with the truth as I found it in Ohrist, most tender 
 in my feelings, I seemed tn.liavi. on various occasions, borne in 
 
378 NORWOOD. 
 
 npot me a tide of influences which I could account for on no theory 
 of ordinary causation, and which I have come to believe was di- 
 vine. The spirit was promised. To me it has been fulfilled. 
 
 " I have not got beyond difficulties. I cannot answer certain 
 technical questions arising in my mind respecting Revelation, I 
 am more than dubious of much of the philosophy in which religious 
 truth is clothed in the pulpit. But this I know — I Iiave found the 
 road to Manhood ; I know my duty to society ; I have a sure faith 
 in immortality ; I behold the glory of a God worthy to be praised. 
 I accept as my guide, friend and Saviour, his Son, the Redeemer oi 
 the world. And I believe that he gives forth to me the Holy 
 Spirit. I never could have said as mnch as this to any one but to 
 you. For you, sir, have had more influence in restraining my 
 aberration, and in establishing points of cure in me, than all 
 others." 
 
 A pause followed this conversation. Tears rolled down the 
 doctor's face. The clock on the mantel chimed the hour. The 
 fire snapped and showered its sparks up the chimney. There needed 
 no words. Silence is sometimes the most perfect commnnion. 
 
OHAPTER XLL 
 
 CHANGK OF LA.T1TUDB. 
 
 It was oil an overcast day early in March that Hoy wood entered 
 Charleston harbor. It was not that low and smothering cloudi- 
 nest which shuts In and diminishes a prospect, but one of those 
 gray, liiwering skies which cause every thing to loom up and to 
 seem larger and grander than they appear in the white flat light 
 of the sun. Heywood was on deck, and as the channel carried 
 them nearly parallel with Morris Island, the captain pointed out 
 the lines of batteries that were night and day in process of con- 
 struction. For Major Anderson, on the 26th of December, 1860, 
 acting upon his own military judgment, had abandoned Fort Moul- 
 trie, upon Sullivan's Island, on the north side of the harbor, and 
 had conveyed his whole force to Samter, a fort rising on every side 
 right out of the water, and not accessible to assault, as was Fort 
 Moultrie from its land side. This judicious movement took the 
 authorities by surprise. Had Beauregard been then in command 
 in Charleston, it is hardly possible that the opportunity would have 
 been left open for Major Anderson to secure a position far better 
 suited to the number of his men than Moultrie, in better repair, 
 and removed fiom all danger of surprise. 
 
 The surprise at this movement was the greater because it 
 had been believed that Major Anderson, a Southerner by birth, 
 would ultimately come over to the Southern cause; or, at any rate, 
 perform his duty in such a manner as not to molest the plans of 
 the Confederacy. 
 
 To reduce Fort Sumter would require the erection of Liany 
 batteries. No other spot in the harbor of Charleston could -ave 
 been selected where a fort that commanded the entrance coula be 
 Itself so dominated from every side by batteries on the shore. 
 
 As the steamer neared this furt, all eyes were turned towarO 
 this centre of attraction, and opinions were exchanged among of- 
 ficers and passengers as to the probable fate of its garrison. St, 
 little was then known of war, and especially of improved artillery, 
 that the most extravagant opinions were expressbd both on the 
 
380 NOKWoou. 
 
 one side and on the other. Hey wood felt the tears risug to hit 
 eyes as he looked upon the stars and stripes waving over the fort 
 His soul revolted against the folly and crime of those who should 
 dare to touch that sacred emblem of the country's glory 1 As he 
 etood gazing, he unconsciously said aloud, " God keep thee, flag 
 of niy fathers 1 " 
 
 "You, a Virginian," said the captain, "and praying for that 
 Xorthern tlag? I am a Southern man, and if I lived in Charleston 
 ! would have that rag down as soon as powder and shot could fetch 
 it down ! You'll see that palmetto flag yonder waving over these 
 bricks before many weeks ! " 
 
 Heywood turned to look at the flag toward which the captain 
 pointed as he spoke. It was too distant to be clearly discerned. 
 But, through the captain's glass he saw over Castle Pinckney, and 
 now over Moultrie, the State flag of South Carolina. His heart 
 sickened. He turned and walked away. The gray sky — the dark 
 and scowling water — signs of a coming storm — all seemed to him 
 in keeping- with the events approaching. To himself he said: 
 "Have I lived to see the day when the government and its flag 
 will be assailed with war? Do I dream? Or is this a hideous 
 reality? Well may the heaven hide its brightness, and the storm 
 wail. A mightier storm will soon hurst ? " 
 
 Heywood soon landed and repaired to his hotel; nor did he 
 regret that the day and night were stormy, as he desired to get 
 settled in his quarters before going out or presenting his letters. 
 On rising the next morning his senses were soothed and delighted 
 with the fragrance of the air and the genial temperature of the 
 atmosphere. It almost shakes one's sense of personal identity to 
 be changed by a short voyage of a few days from snows and frosts 
 into the rridst of growing gardens and blossoming fields. Early 
 March here answered to late May in New England. The roses 
 and honeysuckles were in blossom. Even his Virginian home had 
 no such luxuriant growths as he witnessed here. The Lamarque 
 rose, the Chromatella, the various Noisettes and Tea roses which 
 he had been wont to see grown under glass, or, if out of doora 
 subject every winter to frosts which pruned them to the ground, 
 hero grew from year to year in open gardens, becoming large and 
 luxuriant, and hanging in clusters of magnificent buds and blos- 
 soms in wonderful profusion. 
 
chan(;e of latitude. 381 
 
 Ho strolled through the streets t(i gain some general iJeaof the 
 3ity. The finest dwellings, however, seemed half hidden by high 
 brick walls around the yards. Over the to])8 hung many a vine, 
 or clump of climbing rose. Now and then some open gate, or 
 9ome more generous and open fence, enabled him to look through 
 and see beds of early bulbs in full blossom, the long glossy leaves 
 of laurel, the deep green and polished leaves of the Pettisporum, 
 ar/d the Oape .Jessamine. 
 
 The air was delicious. It was perfumed and balmy. Heywood 
 strolled on from street to street in the early morning with unaf- 
 fected delight. Suddenly he was challenged by a sentinel, and 
 warned off from hounds which he was just crossing. It was a 
 camp of Georgia troops just come from Savannah. His heart 
 sickened. With hastening steps he returned to his hotel. The 
 front was already swarming with citizens, and among them many 
 military men. He began fully to realize that Charleston was a 
 foreign city 1 He was in his own land and yet not under his own 
 government ! He was, however, not regarded as a stranger. Not 
 only was his father known, but his zeal in the cause of the State 
 was known also; and young Heywood, on presenting his letters, 
 found himself welcomed to the best society of the city. It was 
 taken for granted that a young Virginian of such lineage as his, 
 would cast in his lot with instant enthusiasm with the exultant 
 and glorious movement for Southern independence. But he can 
 best tell his own experience in a sort of journal letter which he 
 kept for Judge Bacon, who leaned to the Southern views fer more 
 than did any of Heywood's other friends, and who, therefore, was 
 relied upon for advice with more confidence than they would be 
 whose identification with tlie North would of necessity give one 
 color to all their counsel. 
 
 * • * " You can imagine the state of feeling here by noth- 
 ing which you read or hear in the North. It was the opinion of 
 many in Massachusetts that much that was done and said here 
 was merely for political effect. I confess to have had the same 
 notion ; but I have it no longer. These people are in terribl 
 earnest. I do not seem to myself to be in the same country or 
 nation as when at the North. If every man I met talked to me 
 in a foreign language, he would hardly be more an alien. No- 
 wnere in the city or harbfir, except at Fort Sumter, is the flag of 
 
382 NORWOOD. 
 
 the Uuited States flying; everywhere it is the Palmetto flag I Th« 
 people are intensely exhilarated — there is no resisting such a 
 current. I am no more a secessionist than I was in Norwood; 
 and yet, as every one takes it for granted that I am heart and soul 
 with him, I reproach myself with my insincerity or moral coward- 
 ice. Every night, when I reflect on the whirl and excitement of 
 the day, I am ashamed that I do not show my colors. But one 
 must be brave indeed who would deliberately leap into the fire. 
 It would be scarcely less than this tci avow sincere attachment to 
 the Union. I have seen one act of ierocity and heard of others, 
 which for the sake of the South I will not repeat. But I ara de- 
 termined, at all hazards, to state to some of the leading gentlemen 
 my true convictions. ***** 
 
 " Since I have made known to my father's friends my Union- 
 ism, if it were possible, I am treated with more cordiality than 
 ever. I am not only invited to social gatherings and made much 
 of, but my friends take me witli them to tlieir political consulta- 
 tions. I am thus put in possession of the secret counsels of the 
 leading Southern men. I am in despair of the Union, in so far as 
 South Carolina is concerned. And the letters and messages from 
 other States seem to give assurance of cordial cooperation. My 
 future looks dark to me. * * * * 
 
 " I wish you could have been with me last night ! I have had 
 the inside view. I am less sanguine of future union than ever. 
 After much importunity, Major Anderson has consented to send 
 an officer to Washington, with a committee of citizens, to induce 
 the Government to withdraw its troops from the fort. Lieut. 
 Hall istlie oflEicer. But he says distinctly to the committee that 
 he shall advise his Government to maintain their possession of the 
 fort. In hope of changing his view, and of convincing him tha^ 
 there is no chance whatever of Union, and that secession is a fact 
 accomplished and ended, the managers here last night arranged a 
 meeting for conference, and as my case needed treatment also, 1 
 was brought in. 
 
 "Mr. said, frankly, at the opening of the conference, 
 
 that he sh( old speak without disguise. It was something in thii 
 wise: 
 
 " 'The people of the North and South are essentially different. 
 There is no hope of their assin/ilation. Their climate, industries, 
 
CHANGE OF LATITUDE. 383 
 
 political opinions, social customs, cause, and will maintain these 
 differences. It is useless to try and conduct a Government to- 
 gether. Perpetual disagreement and jangling must follow. He 
 said that the thoughtful political men of South Carolina had long 
 been satisfied of the soundness of these views. That they were 
 fully determined at all hazards to separate from the North. It was 
 cot a sudden freak, but a matured purpose. Was it not better 
 then, instead of patching, or dosing a desperate case, to yield to 
 the inevitable ? That no compromise was possible, simply be- 
 cause there were no special grievances which the South need 
 complain of. That, to speak frankly, their grievances had been 
 urged merely as the method of holding their people, but that the 
 thinking men did not regard them as of any value. But the real 
 motive lay in the prospect of a future which could not be realized 
 without separation. To make new arrangements, to devise peace 
 measures, concessions, compromises, was to prescribe for the 
 wrong disease. The South really had no grievances whatever. 
 But it had ambitions, and was determined to realize them 
 Under these circumstances, and in view of these disclosures, was 
 it not wise for Lieut. Hall to join with the committee in saying to 
 the Government at Washington that the stay of troops in the har- 
 bor could serve no useful purpose ? ' 
 
 " I do not know what Lieut. Hall will do, but my eyes ate 
 open. Can it be that these things are true beyond the bounds of 
 South Carolina? I am sure that in my own State it is not so. 
 Virginia is trne to the Union. But what if the flames that are 
 nere kindled should spread ? What if my own State should go 
 with the seven already seceded ? Can I fight against my own 
 State ? Can I join my kindred and fight against the Government? 
 Can I remain neutral, and let this great issue be settled by others, 
 striking neither for the Union nor for my State ? 
 
 " Ma/rch 25. — I have been making a tour of the batteries with 
 Gen. Beauregard. If I had ever thought that Sumter could long 
 resist the bombardment which threatens her, I should be disabused 
 of such opinions after seeing what I have to-day 1 Every point of 
 and from which a battery can be made to bear on Sumter has 
 been seized. Great numbers of men are perfecting the works. 
 Huge cannon are lying under cover ap.d waiting the completion of 
 ♦ie works. In many batteries cannon are already mounted. In 
 
384 NORWOOD. 
 
 Fort Monltrie, the artillery destroyed by the garrison when tliej 
 took possession of Fort Sumter, has been replaced. Every thing 
 is approaching completion. March is wearing away ; April is 
 just at hand. Every effort has been made to induce Mr. Lincoln 
 to withdraw the garrison, and thus avoid a collision. But I am 
 told that he is obstinate, not to say deceitful. Again and again. 
 be has either promised, or left upon those who have visited him 
 the impression that a promise was given ; yet the flag waves there 
 — a defiance to the Confederate flags which fly from the beleaguer- 
 ing forts and batteries. 
 
 " As I stood upon the parapet of Fort Johnson this afternoon, 
 the wind freshened and rolled out the flag from over Fort Sumter 
 with that peculiar motion which gives one a feeling that there is 
 life in the flag, and that it stretches out its arms from some voli- 
 tion of its own. It lifted itself from its drooping position, half 
 disclosed its form, and then languidly relapsed again. Again, and 
 with more impetus, it raised itself, rolling out heavily in a series 
 of convolutions, as if it felt an inward struggle or spasm. It 
 drooped again. Then, though I felt no quickening wind where I 
 stood, it was plain that a current moved high in the air, in which, 
 with a certain calm force, it was lifted up and stretched out at full, 
 with all its stripes displayed, and so it held itself without recoil or 
 droop. 
 
 " I inwardly said, ' So it shall be. After some struggles the 
 banner shall stand at last, spread abroad in full glory I ' 
 
 " Beauregard, too, had watched the same scene. I know not 
 what his thoughts were. He seemed pensive. There is a singu- 
 lar combination in his expression. His face is duU, his eyes fiery, 
 so that his whole countenance is like ashes, with fire raked up be- 
 neath it. 
 
 " With some emphasis ho said : 
 
 " ' It shaf. not fly there long.' 
 
 " I asked him whether it did not pain him to do violence to 
 the flag under which he had been reared ? He paused, as one does 
 who analyzes his feelings before speaking : 
 
 " 'In our fathers' day that was tlie flag of the Union. But i 
 has been made sectional by Northern fanaticism. It no longer sug- 
 gests protection and friendship, but injustice and aggression. We 
 look iijion it as it is, not as it n\is. Aud yet, sir, if M^o« 
 
CHANGE OF LATITUDE. 386 
 
 dnderson wonld evacuate the fort, and relieve this harbor of the 
 threat impUed in his presence here, I should be saved a painfni 
 necessity.' 
 
 " ' Then you do not sympathize with those who wish .ohnmble 
 the North?' 
 
 " ' I sympathize with those who believe that a new empire is 
 arising ! I care nothing for the North. Let them have their way. 
 We mean to fulfil our destiny. All nature has conspired to malie 
 this southern realm a grand empire. The climate is perfect. It is 
 a garden on the pattern of a continent 1 We have an industry 
 which will enrich the world — but ourselves first and most. Ours 
 is not a rude and clumsy slavery like that of antiquity. It com- 
 bines in it the patriarchal simplicity of the Hebrew and the fine 
 organization of the Roman. The negro not held in slavery spreads 
 out like a torpid swamp and poisons the land with laziness. We 
 have forced him into channels — converted him, as it were, into a 
 river, with a regular current, turning a thousand mills. Our 
 people, relieved from drudgery, have leisure for refinement and 
 public administration. Here is to be a new era — an epoch in civ- 
 ilization. In a hundred years the great schools of science and oi 
 painting, the colleges and universities of America will be here ! 
 When I see that flag standing in the way of all this glorious prog- 
 ress, and forbidding it, I wonld fire upon it if it were thrice as 
 glorious as it has been, but has ceased to be 1 ' 
 
 " I think he was sincere. He is an enthusiast. He has the aii 
 of a man who has great self-confidence and is not unwilling to ex- 
 press it. On that account he is fit to represent the South Caro- 
 linians. They are certainly eager, opinionative, and prodigioiisly 
 confident. I inquired: 
 
 " ' Will it be a difficult task to breach the fort, and likely to bf 
 attended with much loss of life ? ' 
 
 " He replied : 
 
 " ' We and they are well protected from artillery fire. Ander 
 Bon is a good officer and will not expose his men. If blood is spQt, 
 it will be in storming after the fort is broached.' 
 
 " ' WiU raw troops be serviceable in so desperate an enterpriBe 
 as assailing a breach ? ' 
 
 "'Sir, the Southerner is a natural soldier t His courage ii 
 «noh, by nature, that it is hardly a credit to him to be brave, aiij 
 
386 nor\V(jod. 
 
 more than for a horse to be strong, or a hound twift. Tl e North 
 em man is dull, slow, peaceful. If ever, it will be years before ha 
 'earns to fight. The Southern soldier is quick, fiery, intense, over- 
 STiielming. We shall sweep every thing before us 1 ' 
 
 " ' Is there no way of avoiding actual conflict ? Might not the 
 fort be starved out? I am told tliat the garrison are not permitted 
 to draw provisions any longer from Charleston.' 
 
 " So far as I am concerned, I would defer operiitions, provided 
 Anderson would state the day when want of provisions would 
 compel him to surrender ; at any rate, if it were a near day.' 
 
 " ' I am sure he would. He is an honorable and Christian gen- 
 tleman. I would cheerfully undertake the mission. I am a Soutli- 
 ern man, but I am opposed utterly to forcing this issue by arms.' 
 
 " ' This is beyond my province. You must get authority from 
 Montgomery, or from Gov. Pickens.' 
 
 " Filled with this errand, I desired to hasten back to Charleston. 
 The sun was already low down in the west, and flamed across the 
 harbor with wonderful beauty. The channel guard-boats were 
 under way to their night-watch on the bar, that no vessels might 
 steal in for the relief of the fort. To the seaward, the harbor 
 opened out grandly. The atmosphere, the setting sun, the meet- 
 ing of the harbor with the ocean, gave a largeness to the scene 
 which filled my heart with admiration. As I was looking, the 
 sun sank. Then Sumter fired a gun, and the flag slowly and 
 gracefully descended. In rapid succession, the flag over our head, 
 that of Fort Moultrie, of Castle Pinokney, and of every fort and 
 battery around the harbor, came silently down, and twilight 
 seemed like a peacemaker I All the tokens of defiance and war 
 were wrapped in quick-coming darkness. The little steamer on 
 which we returned sped toward the city, whose outlines were lost 
 in the dusk, but painted again in the lights which shot out along 
 either shore and from beyond the White Point Garden. The few 
 craft that lay oflF at anchor showed each a solitary light. We saw 
 them, shot past them, and left them behind, in the same moment. 
 My heart was happy in the strange hope that I might at least con- 
 tribute m a small degree to avert a collision. 
 
 " Without delay I soaght out Gov. Pickens and suggested th« 
 plan. He met me cordially, but hesitated on hearing my errar.d 
 He epoke of consulting the Government at Montgomery. 
 
CHANGE OF LATITUDE. 387 
 
 " 'But, sir, if South Carolina is sovereign enough to withdraw 
 from the Dnion, and to repel the soldiers of the TJnion from he' 
 shores, she is sovereign enough to negotiate a peacel'ul evacuation 
 of Fort Sumter.' 
 
 " ' Oh, there's authority enough. I would take it anyhow 
 but it may not be expedient.' 
 
 " ' Expedient I I do not understand you.' 
 
 " 'Well, to be plain, it may be necessary to come to blows for 
 political considerations. If all the Southern States would promptly 
 move into line, we could get along without bloi'dshed. But then 
 we have but six or seven, out of fifteen, tbat have acted. This 
 sluggishness will rnin us. We can't afford to wait. If the tide 
 slacks and turns it will carry all our hopes out to sea with it, 
 never to return ; but once let the Government at Washington fire 
 one gun upon ship or man, and that flash will set on fire the 
 whole South I Some of us are in favor of bringing on (he issue 
 by striking ; others, by waiting till we are struck. By noon to- 
 morrow I shall know. Come then and I will see you. Meantime, 
 our friends are in the parlors to-night. T!ie sons of Virginia ai e 
 always welcome in Charleston ! ' 
 
 " I plead fatigue, and hastened back to my lodgings, and have 
 saved myself from many unpleasant musings by writing this account 
 to you. 
 
 " The clouds are very dark. While I was in Norwood I 
 thought them wind-clouds, of threatening look and harmless con- 
 tents. Now they are lurid with fire, and portend terrible disaster, 
 if some happy expedient does not succeed in conveying the elec- 
 tricity silently to the ground I 
 
 "The whole city is feverish and inflammable. It seems to me 
 that a spark would explode the community. Moderation is un- 
 known. It is dangerous not to burn and glow with hatred of the 
 Union. To resist secession would be fatal. I keep aloof from all 
 but a select few, and their prominent position, their very leader- 
 ship in this disruptive movement, gives me standing and character, 
 which I maintain by holding my peace, and so get the additioiial 
 credit of being deep and cantioos t " 
 
ClIAPTER XLIl 
 
 BOMBAEDMKNT OP POET StJMTER. — Hiryn OOd's LBITBB 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 " April 10. — I am informed to-day, by Grovernor Pickens, that 
 he has word from the Government at Washington, that provisions 
 are to be sent to Fort Sumter at all hazards, and that he has com- 
 municated the same to his Government at Montgomery. There ia 
 great excitement. I urged the plan already mentioned Anderson 
 cannot hold out many days. Starvation will give the fort into 
 their hands full as soon as artillery can. Unless bloodshed is 
 needed for some political purpose, I cannot imagine a reason foi 
 bombarding. Meanwhile the city swarms with troops arriving 
 with e^'ery train, while those hitherto camping here have been dis- 
 tributed to tne forts and batteries. Business is almost dead. It 
 seems like a military holiday. The current for secession and a 
 Southern RepuDlic rushes like a mighty stream. Nothing can stay 
 it, and nothing resist. It amounts, if not to a phrensy, yet to an 
 irresistible enthusiasm. Every one is exhilarated. The most ex- 
 travagant pictures are drawn of the future of this new empire. 
 Last uight I heard several of the leading men and managers of 
 aftairs discussing the prospect. ' Bombard the fort — commit the 
 State irrevocably by shedding blood. The Government at Wash- 
 ington cannot do less than to threaten coercion. The first step 
 in that direction will bring every cotton-growing State to our 
 side. If the conflict begins, even the border States must come to 
 this side. Against such a front no war will ever be made.' Turn- 
 ing to me, one of the gentlemen said : ' You shrink at the shedding 
 of blood. Is it not better, by the loss of a few lives, and the con- 
 solidation thereby of fifteen States, to prevent war, than by tempor- 
 izing to go at length into a cnnflict which, though not doubtful in 
 issue, will sacrifice hundreds, and it may be thousands of lives? 
 Even humanity would dictate decisive measures.' 
 
 "I replied: 'I think, gentlemen, that you mistake the whole 
 feeling of the North. If the flag is fired upon there will be war. 
 If there is war, you must prepare yourselves for a long and terrible 
 
BOMBARDMENT OF FORT SUMTER. 389 
 
 one. The South will not yield easily. The North will be even 
 more tenacious.' 
 
 " Some of the gentlemen were curious to know more of ray 
 opinion of the North, which I gave. But the majority laughed to 
 ■<oorn the idea of Northern courage. What is most singular is. that 
 the men who most doubt Northern fighting qualities were them- 
 selves from the North, or were born of Northern parents I One or 
 two fiery spirits declared, that with a thousand picked men, they 
 could march from Charleston to New York ; that there wei-e more 
 in number in the North who would greet them than would fight, 
 and tljat in less than a year peace would be established. The 
 meeting broke up, and as we walked together, I again and with 
 warmth urged upon Governor Pickens to use his influence to pre- 
 vent actual hostilities. I know not wljy, with my sentiments 
 plainly disclosed, I am treated with so much confidence by gentle- 
 men who are in the most seoiet councils of secession. But so it is. 
 He replied to my importunity : 
 
 "'Hey wood, 1 honor your fidelity to your convictions, and I 
 do not wonder at your opinions respecting the North. Yet, you 
 are Southern, and you wiU be obliged to join as. Events will 
 prove stronger than men's wiUs.' 
 
 " ' But not, I trust, than men's principles.' 
 
 " 'AH honest men agree in principles. It is the application ot 
 principles that creates a difference of opinion upon public affairs. 
 For instance : You believe in justice, and so do I. But what ia 
 just? That is the question between the North and South. We 
 believe in humanity. But which is the surest way of being hu- 
 mane? Sometimes forbearance will constitute humanity. Some- 
 times aggression is more humane than peace. To fire upon Sum- 
 ter wU] prevent a civil war. You think not. It is not a difference 
 of principles, but of judgment. You believe that the happiness of 
 the population will be consulted by unity of national life. We be- 
 lieve that tv/o nations are better than one. We agree as to the 
 principle, viz., the duty of seeking the happiness of the people 
 We differ as to means only. I say that you are one of us. I mean 
 that your sympathies go with tlie land of your birth. Events are 
 happening that will draw the lines, and all men will have to choose 
 sides. The time is close at hand. It will be impossible for you, 
 A-hen you see that the ru| ture cannot be prevented, to take sides 
 
390 NORWOOD. 
 
 against your father and kindred, against your State, against aL 
 your companions, and against the South, and all its glorious fu- 
 ture 1 Your honor and your affection will compel the right 
 course. And it is this certainty which induces me to confide in 
 you.' 
 
 " He then laid open to me the whole inside view, and I confess 
 that my heart sank within me, as he closed, and I felt a gloomy 
 certainty that the nation was rent in twain.' 
 
 " ' There are,' said he, ' among the active and influential men 
 in the South three classes. First, are the old politicians, who dt 
 not want secession, and threaten it only to secure for tlie South 
 certain further concessions which shall pi'olong its political ascend- 
 ency. They are dull and selfish men. They foresee nothing and 
 plan nothing, except the possession of political power. 
 
 " ' Next is the great middle class, containing the active young 
 men, and most of the families of wealth throughout the South 
 They threaten secession, and even welcome it, but with a distinct 
 understanding among themselves that it is the sliortest road to a 
 reconstructed Union. They all hold to the antiquated superstition 
 of a single Nation. When once the South is organized, and its 
 government recognized, then, they reason, will begin a process of 
 disintegration of the Northern Union, and of the absorption of its 
 particles by the Southern Union. One by one the Northwestern 
 States will dissolve their connection with their government, and 
 come under our new Constitution. Pennsylvania will not be long 
 in following. New York will not consent to see her commerce 
 pass to Baltimore and Charleston. New England, which has been 
 the firebrand of the continent, may smoulder and go to ashes 
 among her own rocks. We will have none of her. Her young 
 men will emigrate, marry and conform to the customs of the South. 
 In fifty years she will be as little heard of as Nova Scotia or New- 
 foundland.' 
 
 " 'Thethirdclassis the only one that has a clear and distinct plan 
 and principle. All theothers are driftingandcatchingataccidents, 
 and hoping for lucky events. But we have a definite end in view. 
 We mean to establish a Southern Confederacy, confined if possible 
 to latitudes in which Slavery can profitably exist. We shall resist 
 the entrance of Free States. We don't want them. Free and 
 Slave States cannot li\o together. What is the use of a divorce, it 
 
BOMBARDMENT OF FORT SUMTER. 391 
 
 one turns right about and marries the shrew over again? No. We 
 are for immediate separation ; for the establishment of a nation 
 whose climate, industries, institutions, and people are homogeneous. 
 We want no war. If let alone we will be peaceful. When it is 
 settled that the South is permanently and forever a separate and 
 independent nation, there may spring up kind relations between it 
 and the North.' 
 
 " I inquired : 
 
 " ' How can you speak with such confidence of success when 
 you admit that you are a small minority, and that the two other 
 classes constitute the wealth and the influential men of the South ? ' 
 
 " ' Because, in a revolution, the men who stand still are powerless 
 Those men who purpose energetic action suit the temper of such 
 times. In peace, conservatives — and, in revolution, radicals — will 
 always lead. Hardly one man in Montgomery wanted Sf cession. 
 South Carolina forced them to it. This glorious State is guided by 
 a few men who know what they are aiming at, and who use there- 
 fore every opportunity with advantage. All the rest are mere 
 waiters upon time.' 
 
 " ' Do you mean that President Davis did not wish Secession ? ' 
 
 " ' He belonged to the second class of whom I spoke. He was 
 opposed to secession. He could have been bribed easily to main- 
 tain the Union.' 
 
 "'Bribed?' 
 
 " ' Yes, with the offer of the Presidency of it. An ambitious, 
 obstinate man, subtle rather than strong. A wise manager of com- 
 mon affair."!, but not large enough for comprehensive and complex 
 matters. He will do very well, however, to pilot us out of the 
 Union. He is proud and persistent, and will not easily be bam- 
 boozled.' 
 
 " ' How do yon regard Stephens ? ' 
 
 " ' A sagacious man, without any belly.' 
 
 " ' What do yon mean by that ? ' 
 
 " ' He is all brains. But he lacks force for action. He is a good 
 lecturer, but a poor leader. He has gone off with us just as a priest 
 might be imagined to have gone off with the ten tribes, hoping all 
 the time to get back to Jerusalem. He goes with us in hopes, by 
 and by, to have influence to get us back into the Union. That ie 
 like R cock-sparrow flying with a storm, hoping to manage it' 
 
•'<'l2 XOHWOOD. 
 
 " ' Stepliens certainly ranks high among tho people.' 
 " 'He ought to. He is honest, and a sagncioua critic of histor- 
 ical events. He is wise about things that have already hajipened 
 But he hiis no constructive wisdom. He has neither the imagina- 
 tion, the courage, nor the — well — the fanaticism necessary for 
 founding new States.' 
 
 " By this time we had reached St. Philip's church, and my 
 companion entered a modest burial-ground lying across the way 
 from it. I hesitated at entering. 'Only a few steps,' sai<l le. We 
 came to a grave, upon which stood, in altar-form, a large white 
 slab of marble. By the faint light of the moon, I saw cut upon 
 the middle of it — nothing above and nothing beneath it, — alone, 
 simple and large, — the name 
 
 OALHOUN. 
 
 " For a moment or two there was silence. At length my com- 
 panion spoke: 
 
 " ' Had HB lived, we should have had a leader, He was our 
 Prophet. He brought us to the verge of the Promised Land, but 
 was not himself suffeied to go over. He died, ami no one is found 
 worthy to bear his mantle ! Being dead, he ,\ et speaketh. From 
 this spot goes forth the influence which will found a new nation. 
 Men will come hither, in later days, upon pilgrimages, as they have 
 hitherto to Mount Vernon 1 ' 
 
 '"I have always deemed his ingenuity acute, but impracticable. 
 
 " 'Impracticable? Is the Bible an impracticable book because 
 people are not wise enough to practise its truths? All men of seed- 
 rhoughtsare esteemed impracticable in their owu generation. Men 
 want something which they can use now — not something which 
 will feed them by and by. They plant summer crops, not orchards. 
 The popular thinkers are millers and bakers, who grind wheat and 
 bake bread for immediate use.' 
 
 '"Do you regard the present movement in the South aa the 
 result of Calhoun's teaching ? ' 
 
 " 'There is not a man under fifty in South Carolina who has 
 not been fashioned by Calhoun's influence. Every Southern college 
 has taught his writings. His views of the sovereignty of the sep- 
 arate States in the Union are the lever by which we shall pry th« 
 CTnion apart. A great man 1 and wiser thar his times 1 ' 
 
BOMBARDMENT OF FOET SUMTER. 393 
 
 " ' It has always seemed to me that he was the apostle of tlie 
 Retrograde, not of the Advance, and your plans seem to me to be 
 based on the philosophy of disintegration. You may hold togethei 
 for a time by external pressure ; but there is no cohesion in Cal- 
 houn's State ; it is all centrifugal and explosive in its analyses and 
 ultimate tendencies.' 
 
 " The clock in the church opposite stmck twelve. I plead my 
 iiealth as a reason for returning. On the way back, the Governor 
 lold me that, on the morrow, Sumter would be formally sum- 
 moned to surrender ; that if any thing further were done toward 
 mediation, he would notify me." 
 
 " A2]ril 1 1. — At two o'clock this afternoon. Gen. Beauregard 
 lormally demanded the evacuation of Fort Sumter. ' All proper 
 tacilities will be afforded,' so the summons ran, 'for the removal 
 of yourself and command, together with company arms and 
 property, and all private property, to any port in the United 
 States which you may elect. The flag which you have upheld so 
 long and with so much fortitude, under the most trying circum- 
 stances, may be saluted by you on taking it down.' Major Ander- 
 son replied : ' My sense of honor and my obligations to my 
 Government prevent my compliance.' He stated incidentally that 
 starvation would soon compel evacuation. I caught at this sen- 
 tence. It seemed a ray of light and hope. I urged the General to 
 communicate it to his Government. In due time came from Secre- 
 tary Walker, at Montgomery, the permission, ' We do not desire 
 needlessly to bombard Fort Sumter. If Major Anderson will state 
 the time at which, as indicated by him, he will evacuate, and agiee 
 that in the meantime he will not use his guns against us, unles-; 
 ours should be used against Fort Sumter, you are thus to avoid the 
 effusion of Mood. K this or its equivalent be refused, reduce the 
 fort as your judgment decides to be most practicable.' 
 
 " I was overjoyed at the response. At the Governor's request 
 I was joined to the gentlemen of Beauregard's staff who were that 
 night to visit the fort. One thing I could not understand. Bean- 
 regard expected to open fire before morning! Why should that 
 be ? Was there some trick in this message ? 
 
 " So confident was I that peace would be preserved, that I 
 inwardly triumphed over the crowds in the stref ts of Charleston, 
 who, aware of the iraniinerit linmliardment, filled the public ways, 
 
394 NORWOOD. 
 
 as on a holiday, gaily dressed, exuberant in spirits, as if the dtj 
 were one vast wedding-feast. They were crowding the East and 
 South Buttery streets, and the Whitepoint garden, hoping to be 
 spectators of a nation's funeral 1 The sun was gone down. The 
 reflected light quivered on the waters, as if they were stained with 
 blood. I know not why my confident joy was tempered with 
 forebodings.. I inwardly said, as I left the chattering crowd, 
 'Reap all the darkness which the night brings; you shall see no 
 fl.imes to-nigiitl ' Yet my heart was heavy. I was experiencing 
 probably the reaction of long excitement. It was past midnight 
 before we set off in the boat, and it was after one o'clock when 
 we reached the fort. 
 
 " Oq approaching the postern we were challenged, but after a 
 few minutes' delay, permitted to land and enter the fort. The 
 gentlemen of our party were Major Lace, Ool. Ohism, Roger A. 
 Pryor, Senator Ohesnut, and myself. 
 
 The written message was delivered to Major Anderson : 
 " ' If yon will state the time at which you wUl evacuate Fort 
 Sumter, and agree that in the meantime you will not use your 
 guns against us, unless ours shall be employed against Fort Sumter, 
 we will abstain from opening fire upon you.' 
 
 "Major Anderson was surrounded by his officers — all of them 
 young men. He seemed about fifty — his hair touched with giay ; 
 his stature about five feet eight ; his forehead square ; his face 
 intelligent, mild, but full of firmness. 
 
 " The interior of the fort, about an acre large, was in much 
 3onfusion. Unmounted cannon lay upon the ground ; material for 
 various purposes was heaped up. It was now the morning of the 
 12tli — Friday. Major Anderson said that on Monday, the 15th, 
 three days hence, he should be obliged to evacuate the fort. He 
 accordingly committed to writing, and delivered to us the proml'^e 
 fliat, unless meinwhile he should receive controlling instructions 
 from his government, he would, on Monday noon, at twelve 
 o'clock, leave the fort. 
 
 " The gentlemen of my party retired to a cornet for consulta- 
 tion. I was overjoyed tit the happy termination of this dangerous 
 matter. I congratul:ite(\ Major Anderson and his officers, and we 
 all hoped that the storm was past, and that better coansels M"inW 
 i>ritig brighter days to the country. 
 
BOMBARDJIENT OF FORT SUMTER. 395 
 
 " After about fifteen minutes, the gentlemen who had been con- 
 sulting returned, and handed to Major Anderson a paper containing 
 the following message : 
 
 " ' By authority of Brig.-Gen. Beauregard, commanding the 
 Provisional J'orces of the Confederate States, we have the honor 
 to notify you that lie will open the fire of his batteries on Fort 
 Sumter one hour from this time.' 
 
 "I was petrified. I scarcely believed my senses. My first 
 impulse was that of utter indignation at the men who, it was now 
 plain, never meant or desired to avert a conflict. Doubtless they 
 had hoped that the time for evacuation would be put so far off that 
 there would be a decent pretext for refusing to wait. 
 
 " They were caught in their own trap. Only three days were 
 demanded. Every pne knew that at the best the fort could not 
 be reduced in less than that time, and possibly not for a week. 
 But blood was wanted. It was necessary to arouse the South. 
 
 "I could not repress the exclamation, 'This is shameful I I 
 protest against it ! ' I was on the point of asking leave to remain 
 in the fort, and to take part with its garrison in defending its flag I 
 But what could I do, untrained, and ignorant of war, except to 
 consume provisions already wasted to the minimum? With a 
 heavy heart, bitter and resentful, I turned away and left the 
 postern. My indignation kept me silent. We soon landed. It 
 was already near morning. The east was changing, and a faint 
 twilight came stealing over the harbor, every moment growing 
 brighter. You have noticed that at no moment of the day has 
 liglit such a virgin effect as between twilight and suniise. Every- 
 thing has a freshness, an unworn and pure look, as if it had just 
 been created. I stood alone, for I would not go with the gentle- 
 men of his staff to report to Beauregard. A light film of mist lay 
 along the rim of the harbor; but within that silver setting the 
 water hiy diirk and palpitating. Out of its bosom rose Sumter — 
 Bheer up from the water, which lapped its very base on every side. 
 How serene and secure the fort looked 1 How beautifully the 
 morning brightened around it, though as yet the sun was far down 
 below the sea I 
 
 " I was startled by the roar of a mortar a little behind me, Out 
 r>f its white smoke rose, with graceful curve, a bomb that hurtled 
 through the air and burst right above the fort I ' Cnrsed be th« 
 
396 NORWOOD. 
 
 hand that fired that shotl May violence overtake fl.e wretch, 
 and a disgracefol death ! ' I did not know that it was my owi 
 State thiit broke the peace I Edmund Ruffln it was, an old man 
 with white hair that hung down in profusion over his shoulders, 
 and was now flying wild, hi^^ eyes bright with an excitement either 
 of fanaticism or insanity. 
 
 " This single sliot given, there was a dead pause for a moment 
 or two. A flock of wild ducks, startled from their feeding ground, 
 tlew sklitting along the face of the water, and were lost behind tlifi 
 fort. The peace was gone I This tranquil harbor was changed to 
 a volcano 1 Jetting forth from around its sides came tongues of 
 fire, wrapped in smoke, and the air was streaked with missiles 
 converging from every side and meeting at Sumter 1 Now that 
 the circle was once on fire it flamed incessantly. Gun followed 
 gun — battery answered battery — and the eartii fairly trembled 
 with the explosions. I was fascinated. I could not withdraw. I 
 waited to see the fort deliver its fire. It stood silent. Did the 
 giant sleep ? 
 
 " As the sun flamed above the horizon and shot its light across 
 the waters, up rose the flag from the fort, gracefully climbing to 
 its topmost height, and rolled out its folds, as if it were sent up to 
 look out over the troubled scene and command peace I Still no 
 gun from the fort replied Two hours of bombarding, and not a 
 shot in return ! But at seven in the morning, a roar from the 
 lower tier of guns gave notice that the fort had roused itself and 
 joined in the aifray. Its shot began to fall around me. I retreated 
 within the battery, and then, sick and heart-heavy, I determined 
 to make my way back to the city. My heart was \\ ith the seven- 
 ty men battling for the flag against five thousand. 
 
 "The Confederate flag and the palmetto were Hying together 
 over the forts. My soul spurned them ! I felt that I was among 
 enemies. The roar went on. As I drew near tlie city, I began to 
 hear the church bells ringing wild witli joy 1 Crowds everywhere 
 lined the wharves, filled the streets, covered the roofs of the hith- 
 erward houses. The people had been out all night! Many, dis 
 cournfied at the delay, had begun returning to their homes. Bm 
 the first sound of a gun brought tbcm back with alacnty. One 
 would think that the humbling of the national fl«g was the most 
 joyous occasion in the world I Worn out with excitoitent and 
 
BOMBABDMENT OF FORT SUMTER. 397 
 
 want of sleep, diBgnsted and indignant, 1 spurned all company, and 
 would hide myself from the sight of the people and the sounds of 
 the heavy guns, which in succession, or in salvos, filled the aii 
 with their dull, distant thunder. I sought my room, and toward 
 noon fell into a feverish sleep. The noise of the artillery still 
 sounded in my dreams, and, mixed in the phantasms of sleep, 
 helped to disorder my imagination. I dreamed that I was at Nor- 
 wood, and conversing with Miss Rose, when Doctor Wentworth 
 ntered, and his voice broiie like a sound of thunder upon me, and 
 the dream, changing, led me now with Oathoart, and now with 
 Wentworth, among sand-batteries and forts. These dissolving 
 views changed, and it was Miss Rose, or Alice that was in dis- 
 tress — the house seemed crumbling and falling, part by part, with 
 terrible crash, and [ — utterly unuble to siir ! I started up from 
 such disturbed visions. All the afternoon the same continuous 
 firing filled every pait of the city with its sound. Volumes of 
 black smoke roUed up from the fort. It was cm fire ! Its guns 
 fired but infrequently. Every time the smoke rolled away I look- 
 ed anxiously through the glass to ^ee if the flag still waved. The 
 sun went dnwu upon it I All night, but at intervals of fifteen 
 minutes, the bombardment went on. People who had expected 
 to reduce the fort in a few hours seemed discouraged at this pro- 
 •racted defence. 
 
 " The morning came, and with its first full light the forts that 
 lay in a circle round the fort, opened in order, Johnson on the 
 south, Cummings' Point on the east, Moultrie on the north, and 
 the floating battery on the west, together with the smaller inter- 
 mediate batteiies. As far as I could discern, tlie walls of Sumter 
 had suffered little. No breach appeared. The barbette guns were 
 knocked .iway. But though they were the heaviest, they had 
 never been used. The besiegers aimed to sweep them with such a 
 fire that the men could not work them. Again the smoke rolled 
 np from the fort, and flames oould now be seen. Moultrie poured 
 a continuous etream of red-hot shot upon the devoted fort. At 
 last came noon. The flring ceased. Boats were putting off to the 
 fort. By one o'clock it was noised abroad that the garrison had 
 surrendered 1 It was true. On Sunday noon, they were to salute 
 the flag and evacuate the fort. 
 
 "If the week days were jnliilunt, how shall I describe the Sab- 
 
398 NORWOOD. 
 
 bath ? The churches were thronged with excited citizens. In 
 many of these all restraint was thrown oflf, and the thanksgiving 
 and rejoicing for the victory swept every thing like summer winds. 
 [ went to my own church, the Episcopal. The decorum of the 
 service, which is a bulwark against irreverent excitements, served, 
 on this occasion, a good purpose. Yet, strange as it may seem, in 
 the lessons for the day occurred a passage that souuded in my ears 
 like a prophecy, and full of warning and doom. It was this: 
 ' Prepare war, wake up the mighty men ; let them come up. Beat 
 your ploughshares into swords, and your pruning hooks into 
 spears ; let the weak say, I am strong. Multitudes, multitudes iu 
 the valley of decision; for the day of the Lord is near in the val- 
 ley of decision.' 
 
 "As I came from church, a south wind blew, and I heard the 
 sound of cannon. I walked rapidly to the point, and only iu time 
 to see through my glass the flag descending from over Sumter I 
 The drama is ended — or rather opened! Who can tell what 
 shall be the end of this ? It may be that all the roar and battle of 
 the two days past is as nothing to that which at some future day 
 .shall precede the raising again of this flag over this fallen fortress. 
 The future is in the liand of God I 
 
 " To-morrow J shall bid farewell to these unhappy scenes. I 
 go to Richmond, and thence home. Shall I ever see Norwood 
 again ? I know not why my spirits sink so low. I am full of 
 forebodings. Probably weakness and fatigue are reasons enough. 
 But over the future hangs a dark cloud which I would that 1 
 might pierce and know what it hides! Should I never see old 
 friends again, I would not willingly be forgotten of them — for 1 
 oan never forget. And so, farewell. Tom Hktwood," 
 
CHAPTER XLin. 
 
 THE AROUSING. 
 
 The March winds had blown themselves out. Rainy April had 
 set in. Over all New England, the signs of the new season were 
 thickening. Maple-sap was flowing freely, and the woods and 
 maple orchards were filled with sounds of industry. 
 
 The dull gray of the uppermost twigs in chestnut woods was 
 turning to a ruddy brown. The peach-blossom buds were swelling 
 fast. The willows already shook their tassels in the wind. The 
 air, the earth, the round heaven and every creature beneath it 
 seemed to rejoice in the breaking of winter. Cattle rubbed them- 
 selves against fences to free the old coat and give place to the 
 new. The herds owned the fervid impulses of love. The dairy 
 woman cries, " See how yellow the butter is to-day ! " " Yes," 
 says the herdsman, " the cows have been down in the moist 
 pasture, and found early grass. 
 
 The oxen are yoked and the plough is set agoing. Blackbirds 
 follow the furrow and pick for fat grubs. The red-winged starling 
 from the swamp sounds its medley — a cross between a cackle and 
 a whistle. No more ice ! no more snow ! Cold winds yet con- 
 tend for the mastery, and new-dropped lambs shiver, and frisking 
 calves cuddle in sheltered spots from its rough breath. 
 
 But, ah ! the time is propitious ! The sun is ascending from 
 the south, and bringing witli him all treasures. Look I do you 
 not see those low-lying clouds in the south glorious and ruddy? 
 They are harvests which the sun is driving forward — red apples, 
 purple grapes, yellow corn, and wheat. Full of gifts is thy bosom, 
 O South ! Listen to the sounds which eve"ry wind wafts from 
 the trees; it is the bluebird in the orchard, just come from its 
 southern home. Robins have come thence. The south sends 
 sweet songs of birds, and smell of flowers, and the silver haze of 
 showers, every drop of which is like a planted seed. O gorgeous 
 South! whose days are summer round the whole year, to thee 
 fty our birds in autumn ; and thence again, tuned and refledged, 
 
400 NORWOOD. 
 
 they come to n8 in spring I From thee come new hfe and joj 
 Peace be on thee, mother of all good 1 and far from thy fields be 
 1 1 arm and sorrow — thou that art full of blessings I 
 
 On the morning of April 12th, there came from the south 
 other gifts. Not sunlight, or the flight of birds, or the flowers of 
 spring; but a lurid cloud, sounding and dreadful, proclaiming to 
 the nation that war had come 1 
 
 When the telegraph shot the news of the bombardment of Fori 
 Bumter through every State, men held their breath. They could 
 scarcely understand. Like those suddenly overtaken by an itu- 
 measurable grief, they stood silent, listening, waiting for some- 
 thing to say, — " It is a dream ! it is not truel " As the day wore 
 OH, a sharp curiosity tensely held every mind. How fares the 
 conflict? Will the fort sustain itself and silence the beleaguering 
 guns? For an impression had crept through the public mind that 
 the fort was invincible. We were all children then, and knew 
 nothing of that school in which since the nation has had millions 
 of scholars! 
 
 On Saturday, came contradictory tidings. Rumor was busy. 
 The reality of war was eating slowly into men's consciousness. 
 None had believed it. Such unnatural violence can be possible 
 only to the insane I Was ever nation happier? Was ever pros- 
 perity so continuous, and its fruits in material wealth so won- 
 derful? 
 
 If war begins, the South is too shrewd to begin it. She has 
 ruled the land for fifty years, and if as wise as the Englisli aristoc- 
 racy, she will bend for the moment to the political gale which 
 may not be resisted, but making peace with circumstances, she 
 will seize again the helm and guide the ship I 
 
 No one believed war possible. So long had peace brooded 
 that it seemed a destiny. We were used to fiery conflicts of 
 politics, and threats, and predictions of disaster and ruin. In the 
 eyes of a vanquished party the country is always ruined. Intense 
 excitements were characteristic of our national life. Bui free 
 speech had always proved a safety-valve to men's passions. Men 
 waxed hot, raged and denounced ; then, as after a thunder storm 
 •svery one went on his way in a clearer sky and purer air ! 
 
 Though it had yenr by year been threatened; though the 
 i,iireat« grew sterner as the election of Mr. Lincoln approached ; 
 
THE ARODSING. 401 
 
 though the act of secession was accomplished, and seven Statei 
 threw off their allegiance to the Government ; thongh South Car- 
 olina day and uight was girding Fort Sumter with batteries, and 
 gangs of slaves, by the thousand, were heaping up the sands of the 
 sliore into vast fortifications, and the lighthouses had been dark- 
 ened, the buoys of Southern harbors removed, judges had re- 
 signed, forts had been seized, and sworn public officer after officer 
 had proved treacherous, yet the innate hopefulness of the people 
 and the security bred by long peace, prevailed. Men would not 
 believe that there could be war I 
 
 On Sunday morning, the 14th of April, it was known that 
 Sumter had surrendered. The scales fell from men's eyes! 
 
 Theee was warI 
 
 .The flag of the Kation had been pierced by men who had been 
 taught their fatal skill under its protection 1 The nation's pride, 
 its love, its honor suffered with that flag, and with it trailed in 
 humiliation 1 
 
 Without concert, or council, the whole people rose suddenly 
 with one indignation to vindicate the Nation's honor. It came as 
 night comes, or the morning — broad as a hemisphere. It rose as 
 the tides raise the whole ocean, along the whole continent, drawn 
 upward by the whole heavens ! 
 
 The frivolous became solemn ; the wild grew stern ; the young 
 felt an instant manhood. 
 
 It was the strangest Sunday that ever dawned on Norwood 
 since the colonial days when, by reason of hostile Indians, the 
 fathers repaired to church with their mnsketsl All the region 
 round about came forth. Never had such an audience gathered 
 in that house. Every face had in it a new life. Dr. Buell was 
 not wont to introduce into his Sabbath services topics allied to 
 politics, nor did he mean to change his habit to-day. 
 
 His sermon, weighty, and on themes which usually are ac- 
 counted more solemn than all others, yet sounded light and empty 
 in men's ears. Nor had he ever preached with so much difficulty. 
 He lost the connection, hurried passages which should have been 
 deliberate, and afterwards owned that he was never so glad to get 
 tni-ough a sermon. 
 
 It was in the prayer following that the stream burst forth. A 
 mighty tide rose within him, and he poured out his soul for tl'« 
 
402 NORWOOD 
 
 country. He prayed for tlie Governmeni, for the mea in Fort 
 Sumter, who liad been like tlie three children in the fiery furnace, 
 for the flag, and for all in authority, that they might have wisdom 
 and couioge to vindicate it 1 
 
 The house was still — so still tJiat the ear ached between every 
 pause. Tlie word Amen set loose an army of handkercliiefs, and 
 people \\ iped more eyes thnn were ever wet at once in that house. 
 Just as Dr. Buell rose to givo out the closing hymn, he saw the 
 choir rising as if to give an anthem. The mijiister sat down ; but 
 he quickly rose up again, and every man in the house, as the 
 choir sang tlie Star Spangled Banner. Such a scene had never 
 been known in sober Norwood I And when the last strain died, 
 it was with difficulty that the minister could repress an open 
 cheer. 
 
 " Why didn't you let 'em ? " said Deacon Marble. " It's enough 
 to make the stones cry out. I never felt so sorry before that I 
 hadn't'a house full of boys." 
 
 Aunt Polly for once found nothing to rebuke in the Deacon. 
 "This is the Lord's work. Sunday isn't a bit too good to teach 
 men tliat they ought'er save the country! My grandfather dug 
 the sile out from under this church to git saltpetre, to make 
 powder on, to fight for our liberties! And I guess the old man's 
 bones that's lyin' yonder shook when they heard them cannon 
 jar ! Now's the time for folks to show themselves." 
 
 The whole population seemed to be in the street! Men 
 formed groups and discussed the one only topic. Party lines 
 were fast rubbing out. There was an afternoon service, but it 
 was like a dream. As yet men's feelings had found no channels, 
 and no relief in action. A few discordant notes there were. 
 Tough old Hunt, farmer up in " Hardscrabble," as a poor neigh- 
 borhood was called, in spite of angry eyes and frowning brows 
 would have his say : — " I alius told you that the Abolitionists 
 would bring blood on us. Now I hope thf yVe satisfied. They'v 
 been teasin' and worryin' tie South for twenty years, and now 
 the South has turned and gored 'em. Sarved 'em right! " 
 
 " I tell ye, old leather-skin," said Hiram Beers, " you'd better 
 shut np ! The boys ain't in a temper to hear such talk. Yon'U 
 ^it hurt afore you git through a hundred speeches like that! " 
 
 Old Hunt was a small wiry man, ebont sixty years of age, witl 
 
THE AROUSING. 403 
 
 black hair, and a turbid hazel eye, that looked oiuel when he 
 was wrathful. Hiram's wor<l8 set him aflame. 
 
 "Where's the man tliat's goin' to stop my tongue ? This is a 
 liee country, I guess I I shall say what I've a mind to " 
 
 Just then, Hiram, who saw that trouble was brewing, changed 
 tlie attack from the old man to his horse, who was as fiery and 
 obstinate as his master, and already had exhausted his patience 
 and fodder, in a long Sunday under the horse-shed. While the 
 old man was standing in his wagon, bristling all over, like a black 
 and tan terrier, and fierce for opposition, Hiram gave his horse a 
 keen cut under his belly, where a horse least likes to be hit. The 
 first thing Hunt knew he was sprawling in his wagon, and the 
 horse was heading for home with a speed unbecoming a Sabbath- 
 day. The old man, nimble and plucky, gathered himself up, 
 utterly at a loss which he was most angry with, the public or the 
 horse, — now giving the animal a rousing pull, and then shaking 
 his left fist back at the crowd, he disappeared from the Green, in 
 a medley of utterances, which, addressed sometimes to his horse 
 and sometimes to Hiram, and sometimes to the imaginary Aboli- 
 tionists, formed a grotesque oration. 
 
 "Oh, you won't stop, will ye? — (a jerk) — You d — d Aboli- 
 tionists — (turning back his head) — Come down, ye beast 1 — (to 
 his horse) — free country 1 every body do as he chooses I Can't 
 stop me, tell ye — why don't you stop — hold up ! No I I won't 
 hold my jaw, for none of ye I I'll break your jaw if you don't 
 
 stop, ye de beast — Abolitionists — tell ye — 1" and with thai 
 
 he was gone. 
 
 " I'm as much of a democrat as he is," said Hiram, " and I've 
 alius gone with my party. But, I tell ye boys, this is no party 
 matter. This is a black business, and there ain't but one way to 
 settle it. We've tried the votes, and they won't stand that. Now 
 we'll try the bullets, and the side that can stand that longest ia 
 goin' to rule this country, that's all." 
 
 Old Mr. Turfmould ventured to say, without meaning any 
 harm — merely as a moral reflection — " Ah, Mr. Beers, it's awful 
 killin' folks, and hnddlin' 'em into holes without funerals and 
 decent fixins of any kind." 
 
 " Shet Dp, you blasted old owl ! " said Hiram. " This thing'i 
 goin' to be fought out, that's sartain, and we won't have nobody 
 
404 NORWOOD. 
 
 dangin' back at home. A man that won't fight when his flug'i 
 fired on, ain't worth a dead nit.'' 
 
 Old Deacon Trowbridge was talking with Judge Bacon, to 
 whom he usually deferred with profound respect for his legal 
 
 learning. 
 
 "I hope,'' said Judge Bacon, with calm and gentle tones, " tlat 
 the Government will forbear and not be in haste to strike again. 
 We ought not to think of coercion. Our Southern brethren will 
 come to their reason, if we are patient, and wait for their passions 
 to subside." 
 
 " I tell ye, Judge, we ain't goin' to wait. We've waited long 
 enough, and this is what we've got for it I Secede 1 rob the Gov- 
 ernment ! shoot our flag ! and kill our soldiers, shut up in the 
 fort, like chickens in a coop, and then not fight? You might as 
 well have a Day of Judgment, and nobody hurt. If we aint goin 
 to fight now, we'd better swap clothes with the women and let 
 them try awhile. I tell ye we will fight 1 " 
 
 Deacon Trowbridge was like a green hickory fire on a winter's 
 morning. It requires the utmost skill and blowing to get it to 
 burn, but when once it is started, it blazes and crackles with im- 
 mense heat, and speedily drives all those who were cuddling and 
 shivering about it, far back into the room. 
 
 On he went, indignant at the Judge, and talking to every one 
 he met. " It's come I Ye can't help it. I don't want to help it I 
 It's the Lord's will and I'm desperate willin'. If my boys — sonic 
 on 'em — don't go, I'U disown 'em. Don't want no cowards on my 
 farm 1 " 
 
 Home with Dr. Wentworth walked Dr. Buell. He had lately 
 grown even more intimate th.iii during the years before. He wa^i 
 a lone man, subject to those depressions which follow severe study. 
 Such moods in him were relieved by the gentle stimulus of family 
 life. He was so simple and sincere in manners that every one ii' 
 the house felt it a pleasure to serve him. He thus gathered tl.e 
 fruits of a wise household without either the care or responsibility 
 of maintaining its organization. 
 
 Agate Bissell, who was housekeeper, teacher, nurse, and com- 
 panion, doing the work of five ordinary persons, with yet much 
 time and energy to spare, met the doctor and minister at the door. 
 She looked eagerly, bu^ silently, upon them, with hungry eyes, at 
 
THE AROT'SING. 405 
 
 if she besought some word of .sympathy. The oonversation went 
 on. Instead of giving it in broken fragments, we condense the 
 remarks of Dr. Wentwoith, as if it were one speech. 
 
 " It must come ! the argument is ended 1 My judgment has 
 long told me that a conflict of arms must grow out of such radical 
 conflict of principles. But my feelings of hopefulness constantly 
 set aside my political logic, and like others, I did not expect blood-> 
 shed. For thirty years, it is now apparent that the two great 
 halves of this nation were deepening into radically antagonistic 
 convictions — not about politics, in its common sense, but upon the 
 whole question of humanity which underlies and finally controls 
 states, churches, philosophy, and religion itself. The only hope 
 was in localizing these influences and keeping them apart. That 
 could have been done had there not been a central government, 
 which both parts strove to appropriate and control. "We now see 
 that the Federal Government had little power to control and much 
 to divide the nation. That will always be the weak place in our 
 nation. The prodigious power which is generated in wide-lying 
 States, absolutely independent and sovereign, except in a few arbi- 
 trary and artificial arrangements, cannot be controlled by the 
 Federal Government, except by such an increase of its power as 
 would prove fatal to local liberty. 
 
 " "Whenever a considerable number of contiguous States shall 
 be united by common interests and passions, in resisting the party 
 that controls the Federal Government, we shall be in danger of 
 rebellion. 
 
 " It is slavery to-day. The next time it may be a commercial 
 influence. But whatever it is, it must be some unifying influence 
 which, like slavery, has educated the community to diverse, 
 strange, and unnational customs, morals, political principles, and 
 civic feelings, that can secretly organize such a body of States 
 together as to frame a formidable rebellion. Because men now 
 are seeking to pluck the unripe fruit of separation and new nation- 
 ality, it does not follow that in coming times the ripe fruit may 
 not drop of itself, without opposition, and be gathered up cheer 
 fully and willingly. States will hardly be allowed to draw off 
 because they differ. That will make them enemies. But if they 
 are agreed, and divide in some future day simply because the vasJ 
 bulk of such an Empire of States is too great to be conyenientl; 
 
406 N'ORWOOU. 
 
 gronped in one Federal Govern aient, there might be less reuistanco. 
 Now the tendency is setting toward unity. That may expend 
 itself. The next tide may be to variety. But who can tell ! 
 National life allows no prophet to unveil it. 
 
 '■Probably if you and I were in the South, we should joii) 
 with it. This conflict is but opening. Tt looks now as if all thu 
 Sonthern States must be swept into the movement. The State 
 feeling is stronger than the National. A crushing defeat might 
 destroy the movement; but a Southern victory will sweep the 
 whole South like a flame. In that case all the best men will join 
 it. "We should not expect too much from human nature. Our 
 friend Heywood is honorable, and will resist disunion; but when 
 he sees it accomplished, he will go with his_ State, and probably 
 Join the Southern army." 
 
 Alice Cathcart was one of those whose stillness, both in speech 
 And motion, was so great that her very presence seemed swallowed 
 lip in the personality of others. She sat by the doctor's wife, as 
 if she were only the shadow which Mrs. Wentworth cast. The 
 conversation had reached the doctor's remark about the young 
 Virginian, when suddenly, and with passionate vehemence, she 
 exclaimed: 
 
 "Never! He will never betray his country ! It is a shame to 
 slander one who cannot answer for himself 1 " 
 
 Had a piece of artillery gone ofF in the room it would hardly 
 nave startled the company more than such a speech from the 
 gentle, silent Alice ! The doctor smiled and would have replied, 
 but Alice disappeared. Mrs. Wentworth found her in a flood of 
 tears, and folded the dear child to her bosom, without words, 
 comforting her by the sympathy of a loving embrace. 
 
 The sun had gone down. Every household in Norwood and 
 wide about was a scone of excitement. That night prayer was a 
 reality 1 Never before had the children heard from their fathers' 
 lips such supplications for the country. Never before had the 
 children's hearts been open to join so fervently in prayer them- 
 selves. Men seemed to be conscious that they were helpless in 
 the presence of an immeasLrable danger I By Faith they laid theii 
 hearts upon the bosom of God, till they felt the beatings of thai 
 great Heart whose courses give life and law to the Univerw I 
 
CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 ECHOES FEOM THE NOETH. 
 
 " Wheebab, The laws of the United States have been for somt 
 time past, and now are, opposed, and the execution thereof ob- 
 gtructed in the States of South Onrolina, Georgia, Alabama, Flor- 
 ida, Mississippi, Louisiana and Texas, by omnbinations too power- 
 ful to be suppressed by the ordinary course of judicial proceedings, 
 or by the powers vested in the Marshals by law ; now, therefore, 
 I, AsEAHiM Lincoln, President of the United States, in virtue of 
 the power in me vested by the Constitution and the laws, have 
 thought fit to call forth, and do hereby call forth, the militia of the 
 several States of the Union, to the aggregate number of 75,000, in 
 order to suppress said combinations, and to cause the laws to bn 
 duly executed." 
 
 This was the answer of the people, speaking by their Govern- 
 ment, to the acts of secession, and to the assault upon the nation's 
 flag and fortress at Fort Sumter. Dry words they seem, formal 
 and stately. But there was fire in them to kindle a flame such 
 that all the world paused, as if a continent were on fire I 
 
 Our noblest sentiments, when assailed, never deliberate. A 
 wise man foreseasons his honor, love, purity, patriotism, with 
 reason. When touched with harm they burst forth into action aa 
 instantaneously as powder touched with flre into flame ! When 
 the flag was abased, the nation shuddered. No one liad suspect- 
 ed how deep in the heart of the people was the sentiment of 
 patriotism. For two generations men had been buying and sell- 
 ing, making and distributing, until the dust and shavings of the 
 manufactory seemed to have covered down all heroic sentiments. 
 Long peace and exceeding prosperity had shaped popular politics 
 fnto a greedy game of policy, and great principles, no longer de- 
 bated or tolerated, sat in the capitol, like decrepit old men croon- 
 tag of the golden days of old. 
 
 The lowering of the nation's flag before the guns of Soatb 
 
-tOS NORWOOD. 
 
 Carolina pierced the pride and honor of the North to the qaick 
 The outburst was universal and unpremeditated. The moining 
 and evening of a single day saw peace utterly laid aside, and twenty 
 millions of people filled with the spirit of war. Men "would not 
 tolerate argument, and trampled uptjn mercenary considerations. 
 Before, men had seemed swallowed up in material interests, and 
 dead to heroic sentiments. The trumpet sounded the resurrec- 
 tion, and in an instant they came forth into a life of heroic senti- 
 ment, and, placing honor, duty and patriotism high above all sor- 
 did interests, they offered up to their country their ease, their 
 wealth, and life itself! Passions there were, but they were aux- 
 iliaries of the moral sentiments, lending to them force and fire. 
 For a people's war— a free, intelligent, religious people — is not 
 bred either of a greedy avarice, nor of royal pride and ambition. 
 It was a war for the Commonwealth, nay, more refined yet, a war, 
 unparalleled in magnitude and cost, waged for the Principles on 
 which alone commonwealths can stand 1 It was kindled not by 
 i.he young, but by the old and sage as well. It was fed not by the 
 ignorant and violent, but by women, scholars. Christians. The re- 
 cruiting ground was not in low and dark corners, among the 
 ignorant and roving, nor chiefly among laboring men, but pre- 
 eminently in academies and colleges, in Sabbath schools and 
 cljurohes. No one held himself aloof. There was a generous 
 competition who should go, and men strove for a place in mili- 
 tary companies as at other times for honor and wealth. The 
 whole community were moved to the core by tbo power of tlie 
 nnseen. It was an enthusiasm for an abstract sentiment, fdr an 
 invisible quality of patriotism — for law, for libetty, for govern- 
 ment. This was a sublime spectacle, of the spirit of government 
 rising up in the very sources of all government! 
 
 The same scenes were at the same time occurring in the South- 
 ern States. Even more fiery was the outbreak, because the peo- 
 ple were of moi-e demonstrative natures. Pity it is that admira- 
 tion for the uprising of millions of men to found a new State 
 should be stripped of its sublimity by the debasing conceptions of 
 the new civilization which blinded its leaders ! Yet our moral 
 disapprooation of the secret and potential causes whiph were at 
 work need not withhold from the common people the credit of 
 th<> most earnest sincerity witnessed by offering up all that mai 
 
ECHOES KROM THf: NORTH. 409 
 
 holds dear for the cause which they had heen misled to helieve 
 was the cause of liberty and of honor I 
 
 And thus it came to pass that thirty millions of men, divided 
 into two bands, went seeking each otlier through the darkness and 
 mystery of war. Neither party considered or cared to ponder what 
 was before it. Like two warriors standing on the opposite banks 
 of a swollen stream, they went down in the darkness of the night 
 to find and grapple with each other in the turbulent and danger 
 ous ford I 
 
 Toward both parties came travelling great sorrows and dis- 
 asters. But looking full at the future, neither of them saw aught 
 of that which it contained. 
 
 Already was descending, as in the apocalyptic vision, the 
 mountain of fire which was cast into the sea of blood, and no man 
 heard its rush, or knew its dread disasters, until all over the land 
 fire and blood were cast up like a storm spray driven in from the 
 ocean 1 
 
 Are men less sensitive than metal? Shall .barometers foretell 
 whirlwinds, give alarm of tornadoes half a continent distant, and 
 yet shall a whole hemisphere of storma move in upon society, and 
 no man feel the chill of the shadow which they cast forward? 
 Right before the nation were clouds dripping blood, and full of 
 wasting fire. None saw. Right before them were heaped-up 
 corpses, armies of the dead, suffering, fear, famine and pestilence, 
 but men heeded them not I 
 
 Neither, any more, did they see the new heavens and the new 
 earth that followed the convulsions of the old, a nobler liberty, a 
 purer justice, a better friendship, a more lasting brotherhood I 
 
 Fort Su iter was evacuated April 14; the President's procla- 
 mation cam© Monday, the 15th; and before sundown of that night, 
 Barton Cathcart's company were on the green, ready to leave on 
 the oars that night. This promptitude was the more remarkable 
 because at least one half of its numbers lived out of the village, 
 and several of tliem some miles distant. Arthur Wentwortli, now 
 twenty years old, fortunately was at home from college, and 
 promptly joined his company. 
 
 There is no one sceiie which so stirs a country town as the de- 
 parture from it of the first companies for war. Mothers, sisters, 
 «nd lovers look upon the men with yearning admiration ; and thi 
 
410 NOKWOOD. 
 
 imagination heightens the sense of mysterions danger into wbioL 
 they are going. But on this day parents were scarcely less eagei 
 to send, than were their sons to go. The city of Washington — the 
 capital was threatened 1 
 
 'Biah Oathcart came to town, with his wife Eachel. He was 
 calm and stern. She was singularly exalted. Her soul said : 
 
 " What air. I that the Lord should permit me to send my son 
 to the defence of his Government ? Great are his mercies, O my 
 soul." 
 
 Miss Wentworth was absent frum home. She had gone from 
 Boston down to Maine, before the tidings of war broke over the 
 country. Immediatelj she started for home. But, so promptly 
 had Barton moved that he had been in Boston several days before 
 Rose reached Norwood. Yet, in the whirl of preparation, he had 
 found time to write a few liiu's to her : 
 
 " April 16, 1881. 
 
 " To-day I leave for the field upon a sudden summons. My 
 whole soul consents. I was never more cheerful. But a single 
 shadow lies upon me. At last, let me speak plainly. Rose. 1 
 am sad at leaving you, whom I love more than father and 
 mother, or all beside. This will surprise you, but it is no snddeu 
 experience. It has been the secret of my life. From my boyhood I 
 have cherished it; whether with more of pain than of cheer I can- 
 not tell. The hungei' of the heart in a proud nature, sensitive and 
 silent, is hard to bear. And yet I would not have been without 
 this love. It has made so much of my life that if it were taken 
 unt scarce any thing would remain worth keeping. It nas inspired 
 rind cheered, it has chidden and restrained. In the fire of this love, 
 whose flame I might not show, every feeling of my life has been 
 tempered. 
 
 " Only within the year have I been in circumstances to justify 
 me in an honorable solicitation. But a shadow fell upon rae. 
 Another came before me. Pardon me. I would not speak of it, 
 but I may never return, and for our childhood friendship's sake yoD 
 will indulge me in the sad pleasure at last of speaking out my 
 heart. 
 
 "If only I knew that your interest was with another, all 
 struggle would cease. Your happiness would shed some faint joj 
 on my disappointment. I know not \\ hether, even if you wert 
 
ECHOES FKOM THE NORTH. 411 
 
 free, yoQ coiild love me. Have I said too much? It is as nothing 
 to the unsaid. The silence of my heart through years Dovf yearns 
 lor an expression. Only let me hear one word from yon ; if not 
 in Boston, then at Washington. I pray you do not send me to 
 the war without a word to say that you are not offended — to say 
 more would be a joy too great to hope 1 But let me not go in the 
 chill of utter silence. Baeton." 
 
 This letter he hastily did U]>, and being obliged to emploj 
 other hands, for a hundred errands, he entrusted this to faithful 
 Pete, with instructions to convey it promptly to Dr. Wentworth's, 
 and place it in the hands of Dr. Wentworth or of his wife. 
 
 Pete had been on hand all day, executing Barton's orders with 
 remarkable alacrity. It is doubtful whether he knew what all the 
 excitement was about. He had gone post-haste to Riddell's to serve 
 a notice on a member of the company. He had ridden two miles in 
 another direction, as only Pete could ride on a like errand. He had 
 been out to Bid well' s, and to Carrington's, and to Eaton's, and cross- 
 ing through the woods, and past the red school-house, he had coma 
 down by Mai-ah's, and Morris', warning one man at each place. 
 
 " What is it, Pete ? " said grandma Oarrington. 
 
 " You're wanted," said he with a half guzzling laugh. " Cap- 
 tain Cathcart wants Tom right off, with all his regimentals. 
 They're going to-night." 
 
 •' Tom is out plonghin'. Here, Koxy 1 Roxy I Where's thai 
 child ? When yon don't want her, she's right under your feet, 
 and when you do want her you couldn't catch her with a fine 
 tooth comb. I'll go myself. My father was out in Seventy-six, 
 and my boys have got his blood, I guess." 
 
 The old woman was past seventy — white-haired, wrinkled, 
 sharp and nimble. Away she went over fence and field, saying to 
 Pete: 
 
 " You go 'long ; the boy '11 be there afore you are " 
 
 At Eaton's they were all at home, and in the enthusiasm of the 
 moment Pete was offered a little rum. Now Pete had never 
 joined any temperance society, and could not therefore break a 
 pledge. Looking for a second at the glass, as one recognizes a 
 long-absent friend, his lips parted, and the ruir disappeared as a 
 drop of water sinks into parched ground. 
 
-412 NORWOOD. 
 
 Thence Pete betook himself, now inwardly comforted, aronnd 
 the Owl Swamp, over on to the turnpike to Belden's, but Belden'i 
 son Will had gone into town, partly on an errand, and partly foi 
 news, so that he would get his warning in Norwood. The old 
 man was one of the hard cases in New England — foul-mouthed, 
 ugly, and regularly soaked with liquor. Yet his head was so solid 
 that he seldom lost his keen judgment in a bargain, or his manage 
 nient of property. His wife was an earnest Christian woman, 
 with the face of a sufferer. Her home was a purgatory. But five 
 children were reared there in virtue and honor, every one abhor- 
 ring strong drink. The eldest was sergeant in Barton's company. 
 Old Belden liked nothing better than to "season a man," as he 
 called it. 
 
 Poor Pete had lingering about him a bewitching memory ol 
 his last glass, and the siglit of the decanter put him into a radiant 
 mood. A large frlass was poured off, the old man applauding and 
 swearing horribly. But Pete's instinct of obedience was proof 
 against further persuasion. He knew that Barton had ordered 
 him to report to him again in the quickest possible time, and so, in 
 spite of the sparkling of the liqnor which old Belden held up before 
 his face, an 1 shook it till it foamed, he departed. It was full time. 
 
 On his way back he thought of ever so many funny things, and 
 saw ever so many queer sights. At any rate, at every other step 
 he sizzled out a laugh. 
 
 At any other time Barton would have perceived Pete's con- 
 dition ; but now amid the excitement which pervaded the town, 
 he scarcely noticed liis exhilaration. 
 
 He gave liiin the letter to Miss Rose, with particular direction 
 not to lose it, and to hand it that night to Dr. Wentworth. One 
 or two other papers, also, Pete was charged to deliver, all of which 
 were duly placed in Pete's hat ; where, also, were stowed his red 
 cotton handkerchief, two or three snarls of different sized strings, 
 a pnper offish hook", and a bit of newspaper over all. Every mo- 
 ment was precious if Pete was to fulfil Ids errands. 
 
 His senses wei'e fast retiring into obscurity ; yet he had re- 
 tained the impulse to go to Dr. Wentworth's after he had lost all 
 idea of the reason for going. The Doctor was called after tea into 
 the kitchen to see Pete, who at once, giggling and shuffling, mad* 
 ft faint attempt to give liirn from his hat a paper 
 
ECHOES FROM THE NORTH. 413 
 
 The dooior read : 
 
 " At the last moment, I hare got me a fevr things, as you suggested, al 
 Wadsworth's. Please settle the bill. Baston." 
 
 "What's all this? This must be for Barton's father. I'll give 
 It to him tu-morrow. Mrs. Good, you had better let Pete lie down 
 m the iml-room." 
 
 What became of Barton's letter to Rose was never certainly 
 known. Pete was up before daylight the next morning, trying to 
 get some water ; and then he kindled the kitchen fire, using the 
 scraps of paper in his hat to set it off with. But, certain it is that 
 Eose never received it, and wondered and grieved that Bartoa 
 should again have left town abruptly without a word of farewell. 
 
 For, the second day after his departure, Rose came home. Her 
 brother was gone, and she had passed within a few squai'es of him 
 in Boston, not dreaming that he was in the city. 
 
 " Mother, did Barton call to say good-bye 1 " 
 
 " He was too busy. We all went out to see him off, and shook 
 hands with him at the oars. I never saw him so radiant He stood 
 evidently the first man among men in that hour. And his military 
 dress was wonderfully becoming. Really I quite fell in love with 
 him." 
 
 Rose was silent for a time, and then, with enforced natural- 
 ness, asked: 
 
 " Did yon say that Barton left any word for me ? " 
 
 "Nothing that I heard of. There was only half a day to sum 
 mon his company, and get them away. Our Arthur was in great 
 spirits. He looked like a rose among those tan-faced country- 
 boys. You know that his complexion is beautiful, and his chestnut 
 hair curled out from under his military cap most becomingly I " 
 
 Rose sat silent, buried in thought. Early she plead the fatigue 
 of journeying and retired. It was but masked somnolency. Sleep 
 sometimes courts yon till you yield, and then coquettishly flies. 
 So it was with Rose. 
 
 There are many kinds of wakefulness. If trouble be real, if 
 danger be apparent, wakefulness may have a useful end. One 
 may while away the whole night in processes of investigation. All 
 distractions are gone. Neither light nor noise lay any tax upon 
 the senses. They rest. All the vital force is concentrated in tht 
 
414 NORWOOD. 
 
 thinking part, and, in the darkness, especially foUowing earlj 
 sleep, and just preceding the morning, the mind easily penetrates 
 things obscure, and disentangles things perplexed, and unrolls 
 things most involved. 
 
 Tliere may be a sleeplessness of pleasurable excitement. And 
 sometimes this is an exquisite pleasure. One has something to 
 learn of luxury who has never lain awake with joy. One then 
 seems to float peacefully in an atmosphere of bliss. Pure, continu- 
 ous delight flows frum every nerve, and from every faculty. 
 
 But there is an excitement of half-born feelings, of evanescent 
 fancies, where thoughts but begin, and vanish, wliere feelings start 
 without developing into definite forms, where the whole mind is 
 played over by the checkered light and shade of things illusory 
 and imaginative ; when, as it were out of the air, the spectres of 
 coming emotions cast pale shadows upon the sensitive brain, which 
 vanish when you would inspect them, and return the moment you 
 cease to analyze them. How welcome is the cool morning after 
 such a night of spirit watching! How good and pleasant is it to 
 come again to things that n.ay be touched, to the dew, to the things 
 it lies upon, to the song of birds, and to the companionship of 
 friends I Such as this last excitement filled Rose's night, and glad 
 was she to see the morning. 
 
CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 FIESI^FBDITS. 
 
 The most striking trait in camp life to Barton was the facility 
 §hown by his men in adnpting themselves to entirely new circum- 
 stances. It was a complete revolution in their method of life. 
 Many of his men were accustomed to all the refinements of wealth, 
 and all of them had been reared in abundance. There were fifteen 
 graduates of colleges, and five under-graduates. Tliere were, be- 
 sides, several students of medicine and law, and five men who 
 were in commercial business. The others were intelligent 
 mechanics, machinists, factory men, young men from the farm, 
 and from that large and peculiar class, in New England, who may 
 be called bargain-makers — men who, without a regular business, 
 are energetic and enterprising in a thousand money-making ways, 
 n(jw dealing in cattle, or buying up in autumn whatever line ol 
 produce promises to advance in market ; in short, the movable 
 merchants, the cavalry of trade. With one accord they feU into 
 the proprieties of their new life, and in a few days, like a well- 
 made machine, every thing began to move smoothly. By the last 
 of the week the regiment to which they belonged was despatched 
 to Washington. Young Arthur Wentworth had been elected 
 second lieutenant. He was one of the rare cases in which a 
 robust virility exists in connection with an almost feminine beauty 
 and delicacy of organization. His curling hair was of a rich chest- 
 nut color, his complexion almost of dazzling whiteness, with a 
 cheek suffused with carmine, blue eyes, features that did not wait 
 for after-life to give them expression, but which from youth were 
 shapely and exquisite. So much beauty is indeed a misfortune in 
 a man who has not a manly force to lift it clear above effeminacy. 
 That force Arthur Wentworth had. None was quicker of foot in 
 all robust games. He had practised athletic exercises and excelled 
 all his fellows. He could run faster, jump farther, climb with 
 mrire agility than the best. He was a leader on the base-balJ 
 ground — loud and merry in his outcry, intense and impetuous at 
 
416 NORWOOD. 
 
 ov,t-ball. He lacked something of strength at wrestling, but mad« 
 it up in deft agility. He was the pride of his class, and so pure 
 and noble in his loving nature, that neither envy nor jealousy, as 
 yet, had been shown by any. All the signs pointed him out as a 
 poet. All the signs, too, pointed him out as an artist. But not 
 less did he promise to become an orator. Fate made him a sol- 
 dier. To Barton he was dear for doubled reasons — for his own 
 sake and for another's. In the company and regiment he became 
 a universal favorite from his modest fidelity and thoroughness in 
 duty, and for the rare social gifts which he displayed in the social 
 life of the camp. 
 
 To his sister Rose, some months later, he wrote : 
 
 " Washinoton^ July 14, 1861. 
 "Ah, Rose, you should be a soldier 1 or, if that is forbiddon, 
 come as a fairy vivandUre, or even as a fairy, and hover about us, 
 and be to us as the light that flashes upon our cold steel — a flame 
 of beauty around the instruments of death. Oamp-life, the march, 
 the drill, is a perpetual dream. I wake into a suri^rise of pleasure 
 each morning. My enjoyment reminds me of Parson Buell's favo- 
 rite expression in prayer, ' Thy mercies are new every morning 
 and fresh every moment! ' Our Captain Cathcart is a wonder! 
 There was a Barton Cathcart, you will recollect! Do not imagine 
 that your Barton Cathcart and our Captain Cathcart are thesauie 
 No more to be compared are they than the seed is to the blossom 1 
 Our Cathcart is your Barton developed ! He drills the regiment, 
 and, as Harris has gone home, it is feared, to die, Cathcart is to 
 be major. His commission is looked for daily. All the officers 
 come to him on military questions. His reading, really, has been 
 extraordinary. He is always letting out something that no one 
 dreamed was in him. He works at his men all day, and at his 
 books all night. I go to sleep, and he is stuilyin<<. I wake, and 
 he 16 st'ill at his books and maps. 1 infer, tlieretbre, that he never 
 sleeps, aniZ that is the opinion of tlie camp. Yet he is never fagged 
 out, but afl^aole, obliging, and the very life of good-fellowship. 
 His care for me is beyond words. Tliourrh he is rigorous toward 
 me more tlian toward any other officer, yet I feel tliat tlieic is a 
 tenderness in his strictness wliich is very touching. By the way. 
 Barton's advancement will be hu^k for .several of us. I go up a 
 
FIRST-FRUITS. 417 
 
 step, and am to be first-lieutenant. That's very well for a begin- 
 ning. But I'll couie home a general I Prepare the ceremoniei 
 for my return 1 I read Major Oathcart your last letter. It was 
 80 full of liome-news that I knew it would please him. When 
 I finished, he said, 'Is that all?' and his voice was so altered 
 that I looked up and saw that he was unwell. He left for the 
 air, and that night did not study at all, but was out most of the 
 night. 
 
 " ' I tell you, Major,' said I, ' by virtue of my authority as a 
 doctor's son, that yon shall not tax yourself as you do. You are 
 making yourself sick.' 
 
 " ' In a few days we shall move, and then we shall all have 
 out-door exercise enough, and too much, or I am mistaken.' 
 
 " ' What do you mean ? You don't doubt that we shall whip 
 the rebels oif-hand. If you do, you are about the only man in 
 camp that thinks so.' 
 
 " ' It will be all luck if we do. Our men are green. The army 
 is no army. They ought to be reduced, for two months more, by 
 the most rigorous discipline. We may win — or lose. The chances 
 are even. Enthusiasm is good to raise men upon, but discipline is 
 the only thing to fight on.' 
 
 " ' But it is the same with the rebels — they are as green af 
 we are.' 
 
 " ' Yes, that is true ; and therefore I say that there is no calcu- 
 lation possible. Every thing is contingent. They may fight oi 
 run away — who knows? We may stand up well, or a panic may 
 seize our raw troops.' 
 
 " ' Why don't you say so to McDowell ? ' 
 
 " 'There is no need. He already has esfaausted his infiutnee 
 to prevent precipitation. But there is such a clamor for :ir: 
 advance that we shall have to go. Politicians, and editors, anil 
 red-faced patriots have it aU their own way, and old military men 
 are the only men without controlling influence in this camp." 
 
 "But I have a presentiment of victory; and I told Barton so. 
 fle laughed, and looked proudly at me, and said : 
 
 "'Men with chestnut hair, blue eyes, and sangnine tempera- 
 ment are apt to have hopeful presentiments.' 
 
 " The signs of a movement increase. I shaD write again at 
 «r)oii as it is over. Aethttp.." 
 
418 NORWOOD. 
 
 On the 21st of July was fought the battle of Bull Run, — a ii-ost 
 victorious defeat. It ended all over-confidence in the North. It 
 inspired the South with such vain-glorious confidence that it 
 failed, for a year or more, to put forth that power which it had, 
 and then it was too late. It ended all lingering ideas of peace. It 
 ended all further notions of a union party in the South; for, aftei 
 that battle, those in the South who had held aloof, hoping a peace- 
 ful settlement, were swept- by the current, and obliged to accept 
 the new (government as existing de facto, whatever opinions thej 
 yet cherished of it de jure. It cast the most profound gloom upon 
 the loyal States — a night of shame and sorrow. But out of that 
 night there arose a morning of Purpose such as had not dawned 
 before 1 There was to be a long and thorough war, and prepara- 
 tion must be bro:id and thorough 1 The whole after fruit of this 
 defeat upon the North was bitter to the palate, but wholesome to 
 the people and salutary to the Government. 
 
 The battle had begun auspiciously in the morning. McDowell's 
 right wing, crossing Bull Run at Sudley Spring, unperceived and 
 unresisted, had swept down upon the Confederate left, and after 
 various conflicts had driven them step by step back across Young's 
 Branch, across the Warrenton turnpike, and were assailing the 
 centre upon the heights where Beauregard had concentrated his 
 reserves and was making a last stand. But then, between three 
 and four o'clock, one standing at a little distance might have seen 
 the beginnings of one of the most terrible spectacles in war — an 
 army in a panic ! For, at this time came in upon the Union right 
 and rear Johnston's forces, just arrived from the Shenandoah Val- 
 ley. Wearied by long conflict, spent with heat, famished and 
 parched, the raw Northern troops gave way, as the leaves of a 
 forest scatter when October winds, on wet days, drive through the 
 forests. At every moment the confusion increased. Men already 
 broken up in organization streamed turaultuously back toward 
 Bull Run. The contagion spread. Fright grew wild. Men rushed 
 over each other, across all obstacles, stumbling, leaping, with wild- 
 est terror; muskets were thrown away — knapsacks had long ago 
 been cast aside — and thousands were madly crowding toward the 
 stone bridge. Others sought the ford, and still others, waiting 
 neither for bridge or ford, splashed into the stream to swim across 
 In vain did a few fragments, cc'iering, essay to stop the wildflight 
 
FIRST-FKUITS. 419 
 
 They availed nothing, and were tiiemselves entangled and svvepl 
 away. A handful of regulars evinced tlie power of discipline, and, 
 without attempting the hopeless task of lidding back the rout, 
 Bought only to check pursnit until the fugitives could cross th« 
 stream. Onee across Bull Run, there was hope of some safety 
 No ; confusion grew to a more desperate uproar as the tangled 
 masses receded from the battle field. A few cannon sliot thrown 
 across from the Confederate batteries had fallen among the wagons, 
 and the whole corps of teamsters caught the mad infection. They 
 turned and rushed away, many abandoning all at once. Some cut 
 their traces and rode off upon the team horses. Many got their 
 wagons about; but, tangled in the crowd of fugitives, the uproar 
 growing louder and the flight becoming more desperate, wagon 
 locked with wagon, the road became jammed ; other wagons com- 
 ing on, upset the wagons on the road-side, but only to clear a way 
 for a repetition of like scenes. Crowds of citizens. Members of 
 Congress, women and children had come out as to a festive scene, 
 and were caught in the crowd, and went roaring on in the des 
 perate struggle of fright. 
 
 The regiment to which Barton belonged had done good ser- 
 vice, and had suffered severely. Many of his own company had 
 fallen. But his men were conspicuous for steadiness. By two 
 o'clock the colonel and lieutenant-colonel had been wounded, and 
 the command devolved upon Major Cathoart. When the rout 
 began, he was able to hold his men, and with incredible efforts, 
 to form a sort of rearguard. But his already diminished regiment 
 melted fast. His own Norwood company were firm. But they 
 were only a handful, and the first determined onset of the pursu- 
 ing enemy scattered them. Then it was that Barton, untired, 
 aroused and glowing, sought no longer how to stay his men, but 
 only how to promote their escape. In all the battle, he had 
 ^carcely lost sight of Arthur Wentworth, and now he was convoy 
 ing him as best he might toward the bridge. Suddenly from his 
 right there swept around a detachment of Confederates that poured 
 'heir fire upon the spot where Barton stood, and witli loud yells 
 rushing in rpon them separated Burton from his men, and swept 
 him away a prisoner. 
 
 A shot struck Arthur in the neck. Ho plunged forwai'd 
 Sergeant Belden, and two others of his townsmen, caught hiri 
 
420 NORWOOD. 
 
 tnd drew him aside, and by singular address, after exceeding exer- 
 tions, conveyed bim across the stream. At Centerville Arthni 
 was placed in an ambulance, and lay as if asleep. Through that 
 sweet moonlight his few men travelled all night — the heavens so 
 pure and calm, the earth so noisy and ramping — and reached 
 Washington in the gray of the morning. Arthur called for no 
 water. He seemed unconscious of pain. He was unconscious, and 
 never suffered more ! And so, as a bird flies up out of a storm- 
 sbaljen forest and seeks more peaceful places, his spirit liad lifted 
 itself higher than battle and above its stroke or sound I 
 
 Will Belden it was that said, " Arthur, do you suflTer much ? " 
 and liearing no answer, he laid bis hand upon him as to awake 
 one asleep. 
 
 He touched his face ard drew bacl< in awe and silence I 
 
 No blood had issued from his wound, near the base of the 
 brain, and his face was not ghastly, but seemed, in the early twi- 
 light, as the face of one who sleeps and dreams pleasantly, so sweet 
 was the expression that had spread over it. 
 
 That day the telegraph sped the tidings to Norwood. The 
 message-boy banded the despatch to Agate, saying, as he delivered 
 it — " Arthur is dead." 
 
 Agate stood motionless, without voice, white as alabaster. 
 Hearing the voices, Mrs. Wentworth had come into the hall, and 
 in an eager way said : 
 
 " What is it. Agate ? Speak I " 
 
 " Arthur — is — dead I " said Agate, slowly — solemnly — sternly 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth sat down upon a bench and looked at Agate 
 imploringly, as if she had suffered wrong at her bands, and could 
 not understand why. 
 
 " Dead ?— dead. Agate ? Who's dead ? " 
 
 '■ Arthur Wentworth is dead 1 " 
 
 "Arthur — Wentworth — dead? How is he dead? Tell me, 
 Agate, — what do you mean ? Why did he die? Dead? dead! 
 did you say ? " 
 
 Agate caught her falling, fainting form, and summoning help, 
 bore her to her room. Then Agate, unshaken as if her heart had 
 no pang, with a head as clear as if no tidings had rolled darkness 
 over the family, made every arrangement for the household. Sh« 
 ordered for the children what their daily needs required ; she had 
 
FIBST-FBUIT8. 42 1 
 
 made every arrangement for Dr. Wentworth to go to Wasliingtor 
 long before be came in to tea ; she ministered to the darkened 
 room ; and all quietly, never mistaking, or confusedly giving an 
 order twice, but in the gtillnesa of severe Aalf-poBSftssion. 
 
OflAFiER XLVL 
 
 CONSOLATION. 
 
 rr irss iho aiomiag of Sunday, July 28, 1861. Even for that 
 CQirttn the niormng was singularly glorious. The wind set from 
 the north-w(>8t when it breathed at all, and brought the fresh 
 isavor of thunder-storms which had played solemn music through 
 the night. 
 
 The air was cool. Its moisture gave to the light a peculiar and 
 palpitating tenderness. Old Holyoke looked over upon Norwood 
 with unwonted beauty, and the jagged peaks that rose eastward, 
 bathed in that flame which never consumes, seemed this morning 
 almost human in their sympathy. So thought Dr. Wentworth, 
 who before sunrise walked with God in his garden. Look far 
 around I On every side the earth glows with marvellous beauty 
 ITie Lord is in his Holy Temple, he said, in low tones, to himself. 
 He could not well add, Let all the Earth heep silence ; for, out of 
 every tree and bush, from the orchard, from the tops of the elms, 
 from the meadows and fields there went up such an ecstasy of bird 
 songs that it was hardly possible to distinguish the separate songs, 
 each bird, as it were, eagerly casting his notes into a medley chorus 
 of sweet sounds, tangled together and jarring against each other in 
 a pleasing dissonance. 
 
 Dr. Wentworth was intensely calm. It was the calmness of 
 every faculty, keenly alive but in equipoise. The effort of self- 
 restraint had imparted a slight trace of sternness, but it was a 
 mere enamel upon tenderness. He walked quietly from one part 
 to another, sometimes looking upon flowers, and then, while he 
 was yet looking, he would fall into a reverie. He stooped and 
 plucked a handfu. of leaves and blossoms, saying, in a hdf-whisper 
 and in broken sentences, as if reciting in part, and thinking the 
 rest, " He cometh forth as a flower and is ctit down : he fleeth also 
 B shadow and continueth not;" and then, pausing, he added 
 aloud, with inexpressible sadness, "The eye of him that hath seen 
 him shall see him no more. As the cUmd is consumed and ran 
 
CONSOLATION. 423 
 
 isheth away, so he that goeth down to the grave shall come np no 
 more, neither shall his place know him any more." 
 
 He laid down the flowers of which his hand was oyer full, and 
 forgetting them in a moment, he began plucking others, murmur- 
 ing, as if to the shrubs, " He hath set darkness in my path, He 
 hath stripped me of my glory and taken the crown from my head, 
 and my hope hath he removed like a tree." 
 
 He laid down a fresh clump of gathered flowers, and in a gen 
 tie, aimless way, straightened out some of the spray and tangled 
 vine work, as if he were putting little children to bed, meanwhile, 
 hardly above his breath, reciting: 
 
 " O, the hope of Israel, the Saviour thereof in time of trouble, 
 why shouldst thou be as a stranger in the land ? "Why shouldst 
 thou be as a man astonished, as a mighty man that cannot save! 
 Yet thou, O Lord, art In the midst of us, and we are called by thy 
 name. Leave us not I " 
 
 His thoughts had reached their saddest when he broke forth 
 into that most utterly hopeless of all utterances of old : " Are not 
 my days few ? cease then, and let me alone, that I may take com- 
 fort a little before 1 go whence I shall not return, to the land of 
 (laj'kness and the shadow of death ; a land of darkness, as dark- 
 ness itself, and of the shadow of death, without any order, and 
 where the light is as darkness ! " From the gloom of these words 
 his soul after a little seemed to rebound, and clear itself, and his 
 thoughts forsook the inexpressible sadness of the olden day, of 
 which the Old Testament is so full and wailing, and, without uttering 
 them, he repeated in his mind that passage in Hebrews that is like 
 a sunrise: " But ye are come unto Mount Zion and unto the citj 
 of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and to an innumerable 
 company of angels," — and the rest. 
 
 He walked on, seemingly forgetful of his flowers, and look- 
 ing forth and upward upon the wide arch above, full of morn- 
 ing sunlight, he leaned against the summer-house door, long 
 looking up: 
 
 " Therefore they are before the throne of God and serve him 
 day and night in his temple,and He thatsitteth on the throne shall 
 dwell among them. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any 
 more, neither shall the sun light upon them, nor any heat. For 
 the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and 
 
424 NORWOOD. 
 
 lead them unto jving fountains of wafers; and God shall wip« 
 away all tears from their eyes." 
 
 As he stood half chanting in a low voice these- words, Rose 
 approached him, but stood silent. After a little, she quietly moved 
 past her father and caiue into the summer-house from the other 
 side. The sight of Rose seemed to open in her father's soul a 
 flood of tender memories. He trembled, and all at once giving 
 over restraint, "he lifted up his voice and wept." There is some- 
 thing terrible in the uncontrolled weeping of a strong man ! Rose 
 was appalled. She had never seen her father weep — she had 
 never seen him lose his self-possession. 
 
 When he first learned the fatal tidings of Arthur's death, he 
 only said : " I gave him to the Lord, and He has taken him." 
 
 All the way to "Washington, and during the night and day of 
 his ride homeward, convoying the beautiful sleeper, he had, though 
 silent and deeply thoughtful, shed no tears. But this tension could 
 not last. He was again at home. The Sabbath had come. The 
 boy was lying in the house, his sword wreathed in greeu oak 
 leaves upon his coffin. The singular charm of the morning, the 
 train of thought in which his mind had run, all had led him to 
 that point where it needed but some touch to bring tears. So ;i 
 shrub, gathering dew through the night, carries all its leaves 
 edged with drops, losing none, until some gentle wind shakes it. 
 and then all at once rains down a shower from every branch. 
 
 It was while her father was gone to Washington that Rose 
 liad tasted the dregs of the cup of grief. But, after a night of 
 suffering and conflict, she came forth strengthened, and from that 
 moment she walked as one who sees the Invisible, in the presence 
 uf whom all the earth is as a shadow, and its noises as silence, 
 and its sorrows, like the sighs of childhood, soon hushed in sleep 
 and forgetfulness ! She had formed her purposes, and from that 
 hour without a moment's wavering she devoted her whole soul to 
 her new calling. 
 
 She waited calmly by her father, tears freely falling down .ner 
 clieeks, but only in sympathy. The tumult and paroxysm of his 
 grief soon passed, and her father, relieved by this long-needed out- 
 burst, came after a little to a peace not to be distuibed. Fathei 
 and daughter communed together of the dead. He spoke of hii 
 hopes, his ambition, hi.s joy uml atfcMon for his oldest-born eon 
 
CONSOLATION. 425 
 
 " If he ooold have been spared to render something more of 
 service to the cause, I could have more willingly yielded him. 
 lint to be cut off so early, his powers not put to proof, with so 
 little fruit ripened, and in the hour of defeat " 
 
 " Father," said Rose, " there is other work to be done in this 
 great hour of God's coming besides that which is done in the field. 
 It has been shown me that thousands are to mourn ; the first-born 
 ii many families are to be slaia. Only sons are to be taken away. 
 Every household in this land is to be pierced. God is beginning 
 at his own house and among those he loves. It is fit that you 
 who have stood foremost in this community should lead, and in 
 this great day of suffering set the example of sacrifice and conse- 
 cration. What is there worth living for, and even more worth 
 dying for, if it be. not our own country?" 
 
 "My daughter, you f^eak eagerly, enthusiastically. Yon are 
 excited by what you have passed through." 
 
 " I was -excited ; but, father, I am calm now, and I shall be to 
 the end " 
 
 Then hesitating, as if nncertain whether to go on, she said, ai 
 length : 
 
 " Father, while yon were gone after Arthur, and mother was 
 overwhelmed in such distress, and my own heart seemed giving 
 way, I thought that I could not bear up and sustain myself. For 
 two days, the darkness was dreadful. At length, I could struggle 
 no more. Fhad slept none for two nights. Mother was sleeping 
 by means of opiates. I went to my room. My thoughts turned to 
 the Saviour. His sufferings for men seemed to rise to my mind. 
 I implored His help. I read the scenes in Bethany, where Lazarus 
 was sick ; whUe the Saviour, though knowing it, delayed to come ; 
 and the sisters' anguish at their brother's death 1 When I came to 
 their reproach, ' Lord, if Thou hadst been here, my brother had not 
 died 1 ' I felt as if I were myself speaking. Then there came to me 
 a sense of the tenderness of Jesus toward them, of His deep sorrow 
 and sympathy with them, such as I had not before ever perceived. 
 In this mood I was struck with His declaration, that all this suffer- 
 ing was permitted for the sake of spiritual good, which they did 
 not understand, nor He explain. In some way, that very not ex- 
 plaining seemed to convey to my mind a sense of the wonderful 
 nature of spiritual life, which lay so far above human ezperieno« 
 
426 NORWOOD. 
 
 or language, that the Saviour made no effort whatever to expound 
 it. My heart yielded. I rested on Christ as a little child." 
 
 Eiise paused for a moment and then resumed: 
 
 " Father, what I am going to say you will understand bettei 
 than I. I do not pretend that it was real. But it produced an 
 impression upon my soul which has not changed. Nor do I desire 
 to shake it off." 
 
 " What was it, Eose? Tell me all. 
 
 "I lay down upon the bed, and was asleep. How long I had 
 been asleep I cannot tell. I heard Arthur calling to me, 'Rose! 
 Eose 1 ' I opened my eyes — Arthur was there, though I saw 
 nothing of him but, as it were, the print of his face in the air. As I 
 looked, the room disappeared, and I seemed to be in the air. Be- 
 fore me I saw unfolded in the sky lurid clouds connected and rising 
 in a procession, one above another, and each cloud was made up 
 of battling men, and of a mixed multitude of wounded and dying, 
 and each successive cloud advancing, grew larger than the other. 
 I saw flashes of lightning run through them, but heard no sound, 
 though I listened." 
 
 Rose paused again, and looked at her father. Had she seen the 
 slightest smile of incredulity, she would have said no more; but 
 Dr. Wentworth was deeply intent. 
 
 "My daughter, go on. If there is more, let me hear the 
 whole." 
 
 "I saw myself, and you, and others. We moved up and down, 
 relieving the wounded and suffering. Thus far I had not noticed 
 any thing but these lurid clouds, which formed, as it were, steps 
 one above the other. But presently I was moved to look beyond, 
 and I saw what was to the cloud what the second rainbow is to 
 the i^rimary. It was an answering picture, or, as it seemed to my 
 thought, a spiritual translation of the meaning of the cloud scene. 
 I cannot describe it. There was rest, and friendliness, and peace, 
 and gladness, and purity, and joy, — how shall I say? — there wer 
 no figures to my senses, and yet ray spirit discerned these repre 
 mentations as clearly as my sen.ses did the other. As I looked 
 Arthur came again, and all around us there seemed to be an inef- 
 fable peace, and his love seemed to fill the air all about us with 
 rosy light, as if it had been a radiancy of some hurniLg lamp. I 
 was inexpressibly happy, and Artliur was about to tell me gome 
 
CONSOLATION. 427 
 
 thing, saying, in a significant way, 'Rose I Rose I ' when AgaU 
 
 stood by my bedside, and the morning was advanced, and my visiot 
 was all gone. Now, I know what you will say, father, and I do 
 not doubt that I dreamed ; but what I think remarkable is, that 
 ray whole feeling is changed. I have not had a ripple of trouble 
 since. There is to be great trouble in the land — battles and multi- 
 tudes of slain and wounded. I am to devote myself to this 
 ervice, and care for the sick and wounded. I am no longer agi- 
 tated. 1 know what that peace is which passes all under- 
 standing." 
 
 They were here summoned to breakfast, and all the family 
 seemed to have felt that morning that the Sabbath sun had arisen 
 upon them with healing in its wings. 
 
 " Shall I wind the clock to-day? teked Agate Bissell of the 
 doctor. 
 
 " No, Agate, not to-day. Both ceast I to keep time together. 
 Let them stand silent for another day." 
 
 It seems that for the first and only time in her life, on that 
 Sabbath day on which the battle of Bull Run was fought, the great 
 black clock in the hall had been forgotten, and had run down. 
 Agate, whose last duty on Saturday night before going to bed was 
 to wind up the clook, had for some unaccountable reason neglected 
 it. The clock, however, had a little time stored up in it for such 
 occasions, and kept on through the night. It was still at its duty 
 in the morning of Sunday, for Agate remembered looking at it and 
 hurrying up the children for Sunday-school. It was some time 
 after noon that its courage began to fail. The ticks had lost their 
 plump sound and grew faint. The right hand swing could hardly 
 be heard, though the left hand was yet decisive. Then it missed the 
 right hand tick altogether, and then the left; and then in silent 
 vibration the pendulum, with diminishing arc, swung on for a mo- 
 ment, and halted. On returning from afternoon service it was dis- 
 covered. But the doctor said : 
 
 " Do not wind it. To-morrow we will have it examined." 
 
 Afterward Agate superstitiously believed that it stopped with 
 toe speeding of that ball which struck Arthur. And Doctor Went- 
 worth would not, on this funeral day, allow it to be set agoing. 
 
 " Let it be for to-day. They ceased to keep time together 
 Let both be silent together. 
 
-1:28 NORWOOD. 
 
 With this day ended aJ struggle. It was the day of life from the 
 3ead. It was the Lord's day, — pledge of resurreotion and immor- 
 tality. Bent down and obscured by the physical shock and aspects 
 of death, father and mother had at first spoken of their child as 
 dead, as early lost But now came brighter and brighter every 
 hour the certainty of his living. Their thoughts went upward, 
 along that very path by which the ascending Saviour moved ; and 
 their faith sought the child among the ever living and the forever 
 joyful, where sorrow and sighing has passed away I 
 
 And when the day was ended, and the thousands who had 
 thronged Norwood to follow this young martyr to the grave had 
 dispersed, and the sun was gone down, and twilight softened the 
 landscape, no one unaccustomed to Ohi-istian faith could have be- 
 lieved that the happy household which gathered that night, calm, 
 tender, cheerful, had that day parted from the form of one so loved 
 as was this early victim of war. 
 
 " Then the same day at evening, being thejvrsi day of the week, 
 when the doori were shut, * * came Jesus and stood in the midst and 
 taith unto them. Peace be unto you." 
 
CHAPTER XLVn. 
 
 AFTBE-PBUITS. 
 
 IIad an entire stranger entered Dr. Wentwo.-th s family h« 
 would scarcely have suspected that a great sorrow had befallen it. 
 He might remark a tenderness manifested by one toward another, 
 anusual even in the circle of affectionate people. The voice of 
 singing was there, but the music flowed deep, carrying few bub- 
 bles upon its surface. Even mirth re-asserted its wholesome sway, 
 but it was manifested more by the dewy freshness given to con- 
 versation than by a positive efflorescence of its own. In this 
 case, happily, sorrow worked upon the moral sentiments and de 
 veloped a serene and high joy I . There was no drug in it deaden 
 ing to the sensibility. All of life had become richer by what it 
 had lost. The heavens seemed nearer. The lightest duties and 
 most trivial ofiBces of daily life seemed colored with celestial hues. 
 When Death is interpreted it means Life. Its ministry is to 
 enrich life, not to rob it. It takes away the flesh, but pours back 
 along the way upon which the departing spirit went a flood of 
 light and influence which heightens the colors and doubles the 
 value of all that remains behind. The worth of common things 
 depends upon the sentiments which we have twined around them. 
 Sorrows are gardeners ; they plant flowers along waste places, and 
 teach vines to cover barren heaps. The common duties of life, 
 unblessed, are but as fences of stone, or timber ; but blessed with 
 sorrow, each ttake carries its twining morning-glory, and mosses 
 picture the stones, and glowing ampelopsis tufts the walls with its 
 autumnal red. 
 
 Rose and her mother werfe conferring in whispers. 
 
 " Ask him," said Mrs. Wentworth. 
 
 " Father, what is your feeling about — about— our going into 
 mourning ? " 
 
 A grave smile barely tinged the doctor's face as he replied, 
 scarcely lifting his face from the book which he read : 
 
 "It is proper, my daughter, that we should mourn when w« 
 are aflBicted." 
 
430 NORWOOD. 
 
 " Father I — yon know I did not mean that. Shall wo put oi 
 the customary mourning clothes?" 
 
 " If it Is indispensable to your comfort. Do not do it to pleaa* 
 ne — unless you follow the Scriptural example." 
 
 " What example is there, father? " said Rose. 
 
 " Read iu the twentieth chapter of John," replied tho doctor, 
 " and about the middle of the chapter; — let me see — there it is — 
 the eleventh and twelfth." 
 
 Rose read aloud — " But Mary stood without at the sepulchre 
 weeping: and as she wept she stooped down and looked into the 
 sepulchre " 
 
 "Yes," interrupted her father, "that is too often our way in 
 grief — we ' stoop down ' and we ' look into the sepulchre.' Except 
 by a miracle, they that look into the grave for their dead will find 
 darkness, and gloom, and decay. But I interruiitedyou — the part 
 that I meant is yet to come." 
 
 Rose resumed — " And saw two angels in white sitting, the one 
 at the head, and the other at the feet, where the body of Jesus 
 had lain " 
 
 "Old Franoia, before Raphael's day," said Dr. Wentworth, 
 " in a noble Pieti, which is now in the National Gallery in Lon- 
 don, represents an angel at the head of Christ, with the expres- 
 sion of hope, as one who was looking forward into the future, 
 while the other angel at the feet wears the sorrowful look of one 
 who r«?nemfters the past. The idea is very be.iiitiful. Since I first 
 saw it I have always interpreted this passage in John's gospel iu 
 the same way. Two angels, Hope and Memory, but both in shin- 
 ing white, sat in Christ's pepulchre. The angel of s<irrow wore 
 white as much as his fellow. Demonic sorrow should wear black; 
 but Christian faith shows us angels yet hovering at the grave's 
 month. Our Arthur is not sleeping there. He is awake, and ir 
 Heaven. Why should I wear black for him ? His life was 
 Christian and beautiful. He died as a pure offering to Duty ana 
 Patriotism — why should 1 wear black ? I thank God for giving 
 me that child. His life was a prolonged mercy to me. I thank 
 God that he has so taken him from me that he is more present 
 tlian ever, present in every thing, and everywhere, pure, sainted^ 
 most beautiful. — Why should I put on black ? " 
 
 "T think," said Mrs. Wentworth, "that one is shielded )ty 
 
AFTER-FRUITS. 431 
 
 mourning costnmp from careless inquiries, and from unfeeling in- 
 trusion of people." 
 
 "No doubt," said her husband, "in a few instances this may 
 be true. But the advantage at best is slight. Well-meaning 
 blunderers are not to be cured so easily." 
 
 " But I think, my dear," replied Mrs. Wentworth, " that it is 
 :!ongenial to one's feelings, in a great sorrow, to avoid bright 
 colors, and to be clothed in darker ones." 
 
 " That is a matter of education. In so far as high colors have 
 come to signify gayety and pleasure, there may be a good reason 
 for dismissing them. If one would mark one's grief, why not by 
 the color chosen by the Bible to express spiritual things? White 
 signifies purity, triumph, spiritual gladness, and this ought not to 
 be uncongenial to the moods of Christian grief." 
 
 " And yet, in the public mind," said his daughter, " there is a 
 seeming want of respect to the memory of the departed, if we 
 make no difference in our ways." 
 
 " It is not the custom of our people to symbolize their feelings 
 by a change of dress, with this solitary exception. If a man be- 
 comes bankrupt, or has his house burned down, or loses heavily in 
 commercial operations, or has a son in disgrace, or a child misled 
 by evil company, or any other experience of grief, he does not 
 ohange his garb. The one solitary and exceptional case is be- 
 reavement I But there is in domestic sorrow a delicacy, or ought 
 to be, which should shrink from an ostentatiousness such as 
 mourning apparel cannot fail to have. No one has a right so to 
 express his sorrows as to intrude them upon every eye wherever 
 he goes. Custom has long justified it; otherwise, it would be 
 .esteemed an Indelicacy for one to be a walking advertisement of 
 one's own private griefs. But, even if one were permitted to 
 announce this one side of domestic experience by ohange of garb, 
 the question still remains, whether expression should be given to 
 the weakness of natural feeling, or the triumph of Christian faith ? 
 Whether we should symbolize the darkness of the grave as un- 
 enlightened nature shows it, or the grave made luminous by the 
 triumph of our Saviour and the glories of immortality beyond it ? 
 We may be sure there is something wrong, in a Christian com- 
 munity where death is surrounded with associations of terror, 
 where the young are reared to a horror of the sepulchre, wher« 
 
432 NORWOOD. 
 
 present grief rines up like a dark cload and shuts oxit the heaveo, 
 where — in sernion, services, conversation, and dress — every thing 
 conspires to shroud death and the grave with darkness. Has sor- 
 row a right tp be selfish ? May it hear false witness against im- 
 mortality ? Has a Christian under bereavement a right to declare 
 by bis conduct, ' There is no light in the grave, none beyond it, 
 and no comfort for the bereaved but only black, black, blaok sor- 
 row 1 ' I never met one muflBed in black from head to foot, withiml 
 a certain horror. The smell of crape is to me like the smell of a 
 charnel-house I 
 
 "Did it ever occur to mourners to ask, what, if those for whom 
 I grieve were to speak to me out of their blissful rest in heaven, 
 would be their choice — that I should be shrouded like one in 
 despair, or robed as one who mourns, but with Christiim hope ? " 
 
 Nothing further was replied, and the subject dropped. 
 
 A great change had taken place in Rose. At length she had 
 an object in life, which was of sufficient magnitude and interest 
 to develop and occupy all her powers. Hitherto her life had been 
 bright, tranquil, and happy. Yet, at times, there had crept upon 
 her a deep sense of dissatisfaction with herself. What was she 
 accomplishing? To wait in elegant idleness for some domestic 
 settlement, violated both her moral sense and her delicacy. And 
 yet, what was she doing commensurate with the powers which had 
 been entrusted to her and the culture which they had received? 
 
 She had revolved in her mind many projects without settling 
 upon any. At one time she was seriously bent upon leaving home 
 and seeking a place in the South or West as a teacher, and desisted 
 from the purpose only on seeing how much pain it would give her 
 parents. She also revolved plans of teaching at or near home, 
 but found that she could do it only by dispossessing others who 
 depended upon teaching for their bread. Sometimes she thought 
 of art as a field of usefulness, but was convinced that in no other 
 department of life was usefulness so dependent upon the very 
 highest talents as in the ministry of the beautiful. 
 
 But the war, which was now disclosed, opened a field fo 
 every power which she possessed. Her brother's early fall seerjie> 
 to be a call to her to enlist in the same cause, and make his place 
 good. And though, at first, she did not see the particular way in 
 which she could enter this field of humanity, yet she never for a 
 
AFTER-FRUITS. 433 
 
 Diomeiit doubted that &he was called of God, and that He woald. 
 in His own time and manuer, open her path before her. 
 
 With her mother she did not speak of her intentions To her 
 father she disclosed her wishes, and when his natural shrinking 
 Irora the thought of the toil and exposure were overcome, he began 
 to aid Rose in her preparation. He placed in her hands works or 
 parts of works that would give her such general knowledge of 
 physiology and of therapeutics as would furnish a proper basis for 
 right nursing. In conversations, he gave her also much informa- 
 tion upon gunshot wounds, surgery, and particularly on military 
 surgery. He enlarged upon hospital treatment — air, cleanliness, 
 and the medicinal effect of cheerfulness and moral sentiments. 
 Rose's industry was most unremitting. Her power of acquisition, 
 always remarkable, was stimulated to the highest degree. She 
 soon conceived a love of the study for its intrinsic interest, and 
 brought to the study of medicine ao enthusiasm, an apprehensive- 
 ness, a tact and delicacy which few medical students possess. 
 
 Not content with books, she insisted upon riding with her 
 father, at least enough to wear off that shrinking from suffering so 
 natural to a sensitive nature. 
 
 " Remember, Rose," her father would say, "that you are to be 
 a nurse, not a surgeon. For the active practice of medicine, or 
 the performance of surgery, you know enough to be only a good 
 charlatan! But with modesty and your good sense, you know 
 enough to aid you materially in nursing." 
 
 During the summer, Norwood, in common with every town 
 and village in the Xorth, was filled with zeal, both in raising the 
 quota reqniied of Massachusetts by the call for a half-million of 
 men, iind in providing for the soldiers' comfort in the camp and 
 for necessaries for sickness and wounds. Old linen catne to a good 
 market ! Bandages of all widths, and in endless quantities, were 
 provided. Lint was scraped in every house. Sick dresses, 
 drawers, shirts and stockings, held high jubilee, and found them- 
 selves in great horn ir. Sewing circles in every church! sewmg 
 circles in almost every other house 1 sewing circles on every day 
 of tbe week, except Sundny ; and even then, there was unre- 
 buked talk about sewing circles I 
 
 About the middle of thif summer was organized the most mag- 
 nificent voluntarj charity ever recorded. Experience had found 
 
434 NORWOOD. 
 
 in every nation, that the Medical Department of the army 
 however thoroughly organized and faithfully served, had, bj 
 virtue of its connection with the machinery of the army, a cer- 
 tain formality and precision which was inconsistent with elasticity 
 and suppleness. It was a wheel in a complicated machine, and 
 its revolutions must be determined by its relations to its fellow 
 wheels. 
 
 The Sahitart Commission undertook not to supersede, but to 
 supplement and assist, the Medical Department of the army. Its 
 career is as notable as any single feature of the war. In no other 
 nation has the compassion of the people for their soldiers resulted 
 in so wonderful an organization, which, by voluntary contributions 
 from citizens, disbursed during four years, of money and material, 
 between twenty and thirty millions of dollars. 
 
 It was October before Rose let her mother know of her inten- 
 tions. She had prepared herself to meet any objection, and ad- 
 duce any persuasion necessary to overcome maternal reluctance, 
 inspired by love. To her surprise, the announcement of her pur- 
 pose was received with prompt favor, and a vehement opposition 
 was raised in an unexpected quarter. 
 
 " Rose," said her mother, " I am glad you are going. Yon are 
 the very one to go. I wish I could go too." 
 
 " Well," said Agate Bissell, with a look of unfeigned amaze- 
 ment, " I have heard a good deal about the singularities of the 
 Wentworths, but this beats them all. I wonder what will come 
 next I" 
 
 " Why, Agate! What is there so remarkable or eccentric in a 
 woman's going to hospitals to nurse wounded soldiers ? " 
 
 "Of course women ought to go," said Agate. "But I don't 
 think it the place for young and pretty girls 1 I guess you've little 
 idea of what soldiers are, or what camp life is ! " 
 
 " but somebody must go," said Rose, smiling at Agate's ear- 
 nestness. 
 
 " To be sure there must. But homely folks aren't all dead yet, 
 I'or old folks, nor middle-aged folks.- When all these are used up 
 :t will be time to try the young and handsome ones I " 
 
 "Really, Agate," said Rose, very much amused. "I never 
 knew you so complimentary before. think I shall have to go, 
 even if I near a veil tn sav e the young soldiers' hearts while [ drew 
 
AFiTEE-FRUITS. 4Sa 
 
 their wonnds. It would be sad indeed to make worse woe ods thai 
 one cures 1 " 
 
 "Do you mean to say, Miss Eose, that yon are going ?--or only 
 that you are thinking about it?" 
 
 " As sure as my life is spared, Agate, I shall go, and that before 
 many days." 
 
 " Then, as sure as my life is spared, you won't go alone I " 
 
 " What, Agate," said Mrs. Wentworth, " you don't mean to go 
 yourself?" 
 
 " I do mean to go myself! If Eose will venture on so rash a 
 business, it's high time for somebody to go along and take care of 
 her." 
 
 Without more ado, Agate turned and went to her room, selected 
 the few things which she needed, finished all her packing within 
 an hour, except a few articles yet to be made, and came down to 
 see to the tea, as if she had merely been getting ready to go to the 
 prayer-meeting. She said nothing further on the subject of the 
 conversation, except to Eose: 
 
 " I am all ready. You can start when you please." 
 
 It was Wednesday on which this scene occurred. Xbe next 
 Monday was fixed as the day for departure. Agate, though ready, 
 night or day, to leave, was yet glad of the respite, chiefly because 
 on the next afternoon she would have one more opportunity of 
 attending the female prayer-meeting. 
 
 Let us look in on the meeting. 
 
 In a small room, about three in the afternoon, were gathered 
 ome women, every one of them mothers, except Agate Bissell. 
 
 Polly Marble was there, with her great spectacles mounted up 
 on her withered face, as if the sun had used them as lenses and 
 dried every particle of moisture out of the features behind them. 
 One or two others were melancholy and silent women, plain farm- 
 ers' or mechanics' wives, who had evidently struggled much with 
 sorrow. Miss Pifkins was there — a sharp saint, who ferreted out 
 people's sins with a zeal and assiduity which rendered her grace 
 most savory. In action she was really kind. Her hand was boun- 
 tiful. In sickness she knew nr limit to service. No one in trouble 
 had ever a better friend. It was her tongue tliat played the pari 
 of Law, while her heart acted the Gospel. Her prayers were often 
 but salutary lectures. When any wickedness had disturbed tht 
 
436 NORWOOD. 
 
 town she was apt to have great liberty in prayer at the next meet 
 ing. "There is no use in mincing matters. Sin is exceedingly sin- 
 ful, and we may as well out with it, as to smother it all up with 
 excuses and mercy and all that sort of thing." 
 
 Good Mrs. Taft was there, as sweet as twilight in June. So 
 was Mrs. Goodhue, who never failed to go to sleep. She was round, 
 rosy, good-natured. Tliere was a smile spread out under her very 
 skin, which nothing could rub out. Trouble had tried it, but failed. 
 Stern religious views had tried it, but her round, rosy face smikd 
 on. Age now was trying it; but though it could dry up the liair, 
 change its color, convex the eye-ball and disturb its functions, it 
 did not get on with the face. Tliat shone and smiled at fifty very 
 much as it did at twenty-flve. 
 
 Mrs. Goodhue came unfailingly to prayer-meeting— I oould 
 never tell why; for, as soon as tlie preliminary talking was over 
 and business began, she dropped .asleep. She waked easily — waked 
 to kneel down, and waked to rise up again. She was always asked 
 til pray, and always said, in a sweet voice, "No, I thank you." 
 So much for externals. There is another side. 
 
 A mnther is praying. Before her is opened the other world 
 and the listening Saviour. She is praying for children, meaning 
 her own. Her heart is deep. Her love is the whole treasure of 
 her life. She believes her children in danger of eternal ruin. She 
 is imploring succor. Listen, as her voice, low and tremulous, rises 
 with the intensity of feeling, and grows musical. Listen ! as her 
 emotions swell, how sentences dissolve in passionate feeling, tears 
 fall, and sobs are ottered, and low sighs on every side attest the- 
 sympatliy. Respect such a scene! Respect is a poor and barren 
 word for such fervor of faith and fidelity of love. 
 
 And now Agate pniys. Slie has imparted to her friends lier 
 impending journey and errand. Her heart is full. There is not a 
 word for ln-r-ielf. She prays for the country, for the church anr' 
 for the cause of God. She prays for the afflicted family in which 
 she lives ; for the one who is going to minister to the sick and dying : 
 and all her petition is tliat Rose may be wise in directing dying 
 sinners to the Lamb of God that taketh away the sins of the woidd. 
 As she proceeds, all formality of tone is gone. At last Agate ia 
 free, when she can, without let or hindrance, pour forth that silent 
 soul in full uttprance before God. Her words rise in power ami 
 
AFTER-FRUITS. 437 
 
 'Jignity. She fallt Lto the language of the Old Testamer t. She 
 seems greater thai woman — some prophetess returned to oir days 
 — with wealth of affection and chastened familiarity 1 She pours 
 out her innermost feelings before her Redeemer; and so real is it, 
 that, standing, as I do, and listening, I half expect to see the clouds 
 part and the celestial vision appear. Ah ! when women's hearts 
 are unfolded in the presence of their God, he must be base-minded 
 indeed who remembers their pinched faces, their angular forms, 
 their ungraceful ways, while their kindled souls are giving utter- 
 ance to the very passionateness of love and worship! Few places 
 on earth are so near to heaven as where Christian wives and 
 mothers pray for their families. 
 
 When Agate returned home there was nothing unusunl in her 
 /ook or manner. It was no unusual feeling she had experienced. 
 The hidden life was mightier and nobler in Agate than the re- 
 vealed one. Her faith was not only a tabernacle of joy in times of 
 sorrow, but a pavilion where she was hidden till the storm was 
 overpast. 
 
 There were two surprises in reserve for Kose before she left. 
 Alice Cathcart came on Saturday night, as she often did, to pass 
 the Sabbath day in town, and on this nigbt she was radiant with 
 joy. Barton had been exchanged, and was now in Washington 
 with his regiment. He expected, however, to be at home the next 
 week to take the colonelcy of one of the new regiments. Frank 
 Esel was to be his lieutenant-colonel ! 
 
 " Then you have had letters? " said Eose. 
 
 " Yes. Do you know that, until he reached Washington, he 
 knew notliing of Arthur's death ? His letter is very full of Arthur. 
 He loved him, he says, more than if he were a brother. How 
 strange it seems, when you have had a great sorrow, and months 
 have passed, until you begin to grow used to it, to see it break upon 
 some one, as thi-! news did on Barton, as if it had just happened, 
 and all the freshness and particularity of your sorrow comes back 
 to you in an echo from another heart! " 
 
 While they thus sat in the open door, talking of the loved and 
 absent, and both of them thinking, down deeply in the silence of 
 the heart, of other things which their lips would not reveal, a 
 robin flew into one of the trees in the meadow, and began singing 
 'hat plaintive call foi its mate which one hears so often in sum 
 
438 NORWOOD. 
 
 mer. It is the robin's sweetest and most spirited song, and few 
 strains there are that surpass it in tenderness, clearness and bril 
 liancy. Rose had always associated this evening robin-song with 
 the idea of a love-caU to one absent. To-night it seemed mora 
 yearning and passionate than usual. She followed the bird with 
 her eye. At first he sat patiently and sang. Then, as if surorised 
 til at no response followed, it gave new force to its oah. Now, 
 growing restless, it changed place, singing in turn from several 
 trees, and jerking itself nervously, as if really alarmed at last lest 
 it were forsaken. Tt seemed to Rose to say, • The niglit is coming 
 on. VTiere is my love ? Oh I is he harmed? Am I forsaken?" 
 H grew dark rapidly ; tlie song ceased; the bird flew silently away 
 as if tliere was notliing left to sing for. There was silence in the 
 air and among the trees. Rose too became silent and thoughtful. 
 At length she said, abruptly : 
 
 " Colonel Catlicart! Who would have dreamed in the old happy 
 days, when we were all children, and he was so shy and yet so bold, 
 Miat we should grow to this? — he in the army, and I in the army 
 hospitals I I aid ni)t see him, Alice, before he left. You will meet 
 him next weok, but 1 shall be in Washington. This is playing at 
 ".ross-purposes." 
 
 Alice had something else to tell ; but, as if there was a pleasure 
 in keepiug it back, she waited till the evening was spent, and they 
 were preparing for sleep, when she said, looking at Rose earnestly, 
 and yet mirthfully, with her great black eyes : 
 
 " Roie, won't you tell any body if I will tell you something? " 
 
 " Of course not, if it is a secret." 
 
 " Well, I too am going with you and Agate. Father has con- 
 sented; mothft'- always wanted me to go. But I am to wait till 
 next Spring. Then, if the war is not over, father says I may gu 
 out in the service of the Sanitary Commis.sion and join y ou. And 
 Hiram Beers says he's too old to go a soldiering, but that if Agate 
 fan find out that he cin do any thing to help in the hospitals, he'll 
 wind up this Winter an'] come out iu the Spring with me.'' 
 
 Joined as their lives h^d ever been, it was a joy to Rose that 
 they were to be inseparable still: and though some month? wera 
 to elapse before Alice wouH come to her, vet by that tim<- Ro9« 
 would have become used tc the w irt, irA <ic>«iK imjJo«»t)\ Tti» vaj 
 tor Alice. 
 
AFTER-FEUITS. 439 
 
 TThe seed sown by Florence Nightingale brought forth a plentifu! 
 harveBi ic America. Wherever hospitals were established were 
 found women of energy and devotiim who gave their time to min- 
 istratioQS of mercy. They came from every position in society 
 yet to the honor of true culture be it suid, that women fron- circles 
 of wealth and refinement led in this merciful crusade. 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth, with maternal anxiety, would have over- 
 oaded our pilgrims with preparatives. Agate Bissell, however 
 refused all help. 
 
 " Why, Mrs. Wentworth, we are not going where fine clothes 
 will do us any gond. Few things and strong, are aU we want. 
 When they are used up we'll send for more." 
 
 " She is right," said Dr. Wentworth. " A life among field hos- 
 pitals is as near a total revolution of ordinary experience as can be 
 conceived. It will be a spectacle of Ohrisiian refinement going 
 down to the very border of savage life on an errand of love. Now, 
 Rose, you are walking in His very footsteps, ' who, though rich, 
 for our sakes became poor, that we through his poverty might be- 
 come rich.' Great joy is before you If you go in that spirit. But 
 it is a joy unknown to common life, — the very joy of self-sacrific- 
 ing Benevolence. — But what is Agate building up with her needle, 
 Rose?" 
 
 " Well, father, it may be called a Paradise of Pockets ; other 
 wise, nursing aprons." 
 
 "You may laugh now," said Agate, very composedly, "but 
 when we go into the field, and follow the march, with men every 
 other step faint or wounded, you will find these aprons better than 
 lugging a carpet-bag.'' 
 
 There were pockets on the sides and pockets on the front, pock 
 ets low down and pockets high up, pockets for thread and needles, 
 pockets for buttons, tape, and small things, pockets for small rolls 
 of bandages and lint — pockets for knives, scissors, and comb and 
 D *ushes, a pocket for vials and one for a good brandy flask. 
 
 The cloak may be described as a congeries of small bags so ar- 
 ranged that the wearer, if strong enough to stand up under the 
 load, could carry in it a reasonable supply of comforts and restor- 
 atives for a small household. 
 
 Although the doctor made merry over Agate's contrivances 
 he admired her sagacity in foreseeing the nature of her work. 
 
440 NORWOOD. 
 
 " It ii^ not every one who has eerved in a campaign that Is (U 
 well instructed as Agate seems to be before she has seen a single 
 wounded man." 
 
 " Any body that ever did any nursing,'' said Agate, "can imag- 
 ine pretty much what they've got to do. In the hospitals I expect 
 we shall have every thing provided. But in the flelda I guess we 
 shall have to provide for ourselves — at any rate a good part of the 
 time. It's better to have these things and not want them, than to 
 want them when you get there and not have them." 
 
 Dr. Buell, on the last Sunday before the little party started, 
 bore them in memory, and the fervor and tenderness with which 
 he prayed for all who went forth to succor the needy, manifestly 
 showed that his thoughts were with Agate and Rose. Indeed, 
 though not his custom, he spent the Sabbath evening with the 
 AVentworths. Although they were to leave on Monday, there was 
 nothing to tempt Agate to the least work on Sunday. She was 
 twice at church, and with her Sunday-school class as well prepared 
 :is if there had been no unusual outfit going on, for by ten o'clock 
 m Saturday night the last stitch had been fastened, the last string 
 tied, everything was packed and laid ready for early depai'ture on 
 Monday. 
 
 " Why, Agate," said Mrs. "Wentworth, " you will work on Sun- 
 days, will you not, when you are in the field ? " 
 
 " Of course I shall. Works of necessity and of mercy are proper 
 on Sunday. M'hen folks Hveat home and have the whole week to 
 themselves there need not be many such works left for Sunday — 
 not if they have any conscience about it. But I think nowadays folks 
 make Sunday a kind of ruubish-day. They save np all the littlo 
 odds and erds, through the week, that won't pay, and then on Sun- 
 day call 'em rorks of necessity and mercy. I call 'em works of 
 laziness. Any body that wanU to keep Sunday to the Lord, will 
 keep an eye to it all the week. My opinion is, that the reason why 
 folks don't like Sunday is, that they don't know whiit it is to have 
 ft day full of real peace, up to the brim, from morning to night, 
 and sweet as milk." 
 
 " She'll do," said Dr. Wentworth to his wife, in an undertone, 
 and in an amused way. " Before Agate gets back she will have 
 learned something about the world; but I'm mistaken if other peo- 
 ple don't learn something about a real plain New England woman) 
 
AFTER-FRUITS. 441 
 
 It's a pity that some n an had not the good sense to vrin so mnch 
 sense and goodness." 
 
 " Perhaps," said Mrs. Wentworth, with a slight cast of her eye 
 at the other side of tjm room, " some other people are of yom 
 mind." 
 
 " What? " said the doctor, "you don't mean " 
 
 " / don't mean — ^but I think Dr. Buell does." 
 
 Why will people pry into other people's business ? There sat 
 Dr. Bueir properly enough, neither saying soft things to Agate nor 
 exchanging glances. All that he had ever done was to consult 
 Agate, within the last six months, respecting the religious interests 
 of the parish ; and any minister might have done that with profit. 
 Her judgment was worth anywise man's consideration. Dr. Buell 
 was grateful for it, and expressed his sense of thanks by the cordi- 
 ality with which he shook Agate's hand; and if it lingered in his, 
 it was because the good man was growing absent-minded. 
 
 When Mrs. Wentworth had slyly hinted to Agate that Dr. Buell 
 would lack for counsel when she was gone. Agate's manner showed 
 that there was no foundation whatever for Mrs. Wentworth 's sly 
 humor. Her cheek flushed slightly, and her eye, with resentful 
 good nature, flashed a little, but did not turn away ; she looked the 
 doctor's wife full in the face, while she said : 
 
 " I know what you mean. It's no such thing. The doctor has 
 never said a word to me that any body might not hear, and he's 
 no ideas about it anyhow." 
 
 " About what, Agate ? " said Mrs. Wentworth, in the most inno- 
 3ent manner, " ideas about what ? " 
 
 Agate walked out of the room with some emphasis in her move- 
 ment ; yet her principles enabled her to keep good-natured. 
 
 On Monday they left for Washington, to enter upon their i ew 
 and strango lutins. 
 
CHAITER Xl-Vm. 
 
 A NEW UFB. 
 
 It was indeed a new life to Eose more thao to Agate ; foi 
 Rose's life had dealt less with business and more with sentiiLent, 
 while Agate's had been trained to practical aflfaii-s. There was 
 a hospital in Washington which had suffered from the incompe- 
 tence both of nurses and surgeons. After a few weeks the medical 
 director of the Department was glad to place Agate Bissell there 
 na superintendent and matron, while Rose became her assistant. 
 
 Agate's entrance upon her duties was the signal of alarm 
 among a multitude of unworthy attendants. It can be likened to 
 nothing better than the entrance of a conscientious cat into a 
 house where rats and mice have had unmolested liberty. There 
 was racifig and scampering, hiding and peeping out of holes, alarm 
 and cunning ; but, one by one, each culprit was surprised and de- 
 spatched, to the great comfort and stillness of the household. 
 
 Hospital stores were no longer squandered nor consumed by 
 nurses and attendants. Wines and brandies now found their way 
 oftener to the wounded than to those who waited on them. The 
 special diet suddenly improved in quality, in regularity, and in a 
 certain feminine neatness and refinement. 
 
 " I say, Jim, there's a new hand at the bellows in this shop— 
 we never bad things afore like thisl " 
 
 " That's 80 ; the old 'un is a cap'n. I tell ye she drills 'em, sh* 
 does. When she fust came and I heerd her dressin' down some 
 of the nusses, 1 thought we'd got a tartar. Lord bless her, though, 
 when she comes to the sick 'uns — you'd think she's ten mothers 
 rolled into one! " 
 
 " This is the first time," weakly sighed a mere skeleton of a 
 man, on the next couch, " that any thing has tasted good since I 
 got here." 
 
 Agate's zeal of neatness had the eagerness of the hnnting 
 instinct. She brought every thing to order. She established a 
 method for all things, and compelled its observance "t dismissed 
 
 » 
 
A NEW LIFK. 44H 
 
 the refractory. She stood very little upon ceremony. She ex 
 pressed her opinion upon persons just as unhesitatingly as upon 
 tilings. Every day her heart yearned more and more iDr "her 
 boys," as she called the patients. In a month's time a perfect 
 revolution had taken place. The hospital, which was the verj 
 fviirst, had risen to become a model. She did not confine her 
 labors to her siibordiaates. She had lived too long with Dr. 
 Wentworth not to know what conscientious medical practice was. 
 She rebuked the assistant surgeons when they neglected their 
 proper duties, and became such a thorn in their sides that they 
 determined to oust her. She helped on that purpose. One morn- 
 ing she found out that, though it was eleven o'clock, no special 
 diet list had been made out for one of the wards, the assistant sur- 
 geon in charge having been on a " spree " the night before. He 
 was sleeping off his drunkenness. When at length he came, 
 Agate confronted him with an eye that did not seem pleasant for 
 him to look upon. With a few cold but terrible sentences, she 
 Drought the blood to his cheeks. 
 
 " Well, well," said the surgeon, with ill concealed annoyance, 
 " what's the matter now ? " 
 
 " Matter enough, as you shall soon find out. All these sick 
 men left without attention or food, that you might indulge a brutal 
 appetite I And then do yon dare, sir, attempt to face me down 
 with your impudence ? You'd better pull off those shoulder-straps 
 and resign." 
 
 "This a great fuss over a little matter," said the surgeon, who 
 vas more alarmed than he was willing to show. "I know my 
 own business, and I shan't tolerate your meddling." 
 
 "I know my business, too," replied Agate, fiercely, "and you 
 shall find it out. I'll pull off that shoulder-strap before you're a 
 week older." 
 
 When he was gone, some of the attendants were greatly alarmed, 
 (l-eading his influence with his superiors. 
 
 " Oh, ma'am, he'll have it jest his own way. He'll get up a 
 report, and them's above him will think it all right, and first Ihing 
 we know, you'll be sent off to some other work. I've seen how 
 Jiings go here." 
 
 " Don't you be troubled," said Agate, quietly, »nd went oa 
 R-ith her work. 
 
444 NORwooii. 
 
 Snre enoogb, within a week came a new matron n ith an ordei 
 
 superseding Agate Bissell. As tlie woman seemed to be both 
 seusible and kindly, Agate said : 
 
 " I wish you would withhold this matter till afternoon." 
 " Certainly, madam, if it will make a diflferenoe with you." 
 " It may make a good deal — with some other folks." 
 Agate immediately gave things in charge to Bose, put on bet 
 f.onnet and shawl, and started for the White House. Slie had 
 never been used to riding in hacks ; and, although the distance was 
 great and the walking very bad, she bravely sped her way to the 
 President's mansion. 
 
 The waiting-man at the door looked at her very much as a 
 dog looks at a stranger, to see whether it is worth his while to 
 bark or not. The inspection, however, seemed fevorable. He 
 pointed to the stairs and said : 
 " Go up." 
 
 Not knowing whither. Agate obeyed and went np. Landing in 
 a wide hall, a folding door stood open, in which she saw some 
 fifteen or twenty people waiting. A door-keeper stood at the 
 first door on the right as she entered, receiving cards, which he 
 carried into the President's reception-room, and then, from time 
 to time, as parties came out, he called to one and another to enter. 
 Agate approached him and said : 
 "Is the President in?" 
 
 "Yes, ma'am. Let me have your card, if you please." 
 " Tell him that Agate Bissell wants to see him." 
 " Let me write your name. Perhaps you'll do it yourself on 
 this card 1 " 
 
 Within half an hour she was admitted. The room was large, 
 and furnished scarcely better than a country lawyer's office. A 
 large open fire-place was on the right side of the room as she 
 entered. On the left hand wall hung many maps. One also there 
 was over the mantelpiece, apparently just drawn in ink, and giving 
 the country between the Potomac and Richmond. A large, long 
 table covered with green baize stood in the middle of the room, 
 and beyond it, near to the windows on the side opposite the door, 
 was a similar table at which sat a long, lean, grandfatherish man. 
 He was running his left hand through stiflF and long black haii-, 
 low beginning to be struck through with gray. His feature* 
 
A NEW LIFE. 445 
 
 were large, aa& seemed, like chance travellers at an inn, to have 
 put up together for a night, rather than to have been a family of 
 relations. 
 
 " "Well, ma'm, " said he, in a broad country accent, his voice 
 somevvliat drawling and shrill, " this is Agate Bissell, I s'pose. 
 What can I do for you ? " 
 
 "You can do notliing for me," said Agate Bissell, firmly, but 
 with great respect; for she had a profound New England reverence 
 or a chief magistrate of the nation, queer as she thought the spec- 
 imen now before her — " you can do nothing for me, but you can 
 do a gootl deal for tlie soldiers." 
 
 "Wei), what is it?" 
 
 Agate briefly narrated her experience, to which the President 
 listened gravely, and she ended by saying : 
 
 " I wish, Mr. President, that you would ask the chief medical 
 director here, to loolc into this matter with his own eyes, and not 
 tu take his opinion from drunken underlings, who, while soldiers 
 shot down in battle are lingering and dying before him, is lying 
 oeastly drunk, and tijen would turn out of charge those who re- 
 buke him. Oh I Mr. President, how can any body doubt the doc- 
 trine of total depravity when they see the wretches robbing 
 wounded soldiers, eating tlie delicacies sent to them, and drinking 
 iheir cordials, and letting their wounds stink and rot, from care 
 lessness? It's enough to touch a stone's heart." 
 
 Mr. Lincoln's heart was no stone. 
 
 " Madam, I will give you a note to the doctor, and do yon go 
 and talk to him jest as you have to me." 
 
 He sat down and took an unglazed visiting card, and wrote 
 with a pencil : 
 
 " Dr. . Please hear this woman's statement, and make 
 
 inquiry in person, and if it is true, put her back, and pray for 
 twonty more such women. A. LwooLif." 
 
 " There— do you go yourself; If any thing turns up, and it 
 don't go right, you come to me again. Let me see. Agate Bis- 
 gell — Agate Bissell — yes, I'll remember your name and some time 
 I'll come down and see how you're getting along." 
 
 Armed with this. Agate soon found the medical director It 
 required but little time to satisfv him. She was reinstated, the 
 
446 NORWOOD. 
 
 assistant surgeon was dismissed the service, anil great feai fell tpoD 
 all who had to do with Agate I 
 
 That evening Rose said— " What kind of a man did yoi'flnd 
 the President to he ? " 
 
 " A vei-y good man,'" said Agate — " but I didn't see much Pres- 
 ident about him. But I s'pose he had not got his oiflclal clothes 
 on, and so he did not rumple up his feathers much." 
 
 Wliile Agate played the General, Rose, in her own way, was 
 q^iite as efficient. She had, what many noble fellows in this labor 
 of love had not, ample command of money. She sought to cheer 
 the sick and wounded, by relieving the barren wards of their cold 
 and forlorn appearance. She procured cheerful engravings, suited* 
 to the tastes of the men, and hung them where tliey could easily 
 see them. She went daily to the green-houses for flowers, and dis- 
 tributed them through the wards. " It does not require masses of 
 flowers," she would say. " A single bud with a leaf, by a cot, is 
 is often far more prized than a large bouquet would be." In this 
 way, the convalescents had each some token, and many of the men 
 begged leave to send home these offerings to their mothers or 
 sisters. 
 
 Rose showed great skill in conversation with the men, and im- 
 parted to them much religious truth. He mnst have been a hard- 
 ened man indeed who could not listen to her sweet voice, reading 
 in low tones by his bedside the psalms of David, or tlie Evan- 
 gelists. 
 
 " Why, Tom," said a wounded man to an Irish soldier, who lay 
 uext him, " I thought you was a Catholic ? How dare yoa let a 
 heretic read the Bible to you ? " 
 
 " She's no hiritic, I tell ye. D' ye think they make hiritics of 
 saoh as thim ? Ye couldn't keep her out of hiven, more'n you can 
 keep tl)e birds out of the gardens. If you druv 'em away iver so 
 many times, they'll fly back agin, sure ! " 
 
 The experience gained in Washington was such that when, in 
 the spring and summer of 1862, McOlellan made his ill-fated cam- 
 paign of the Peninsula, Agate, Rose, atid Alice, who had joined 
 them, followed the army, and served in the brigade and regimental 
 hospitals. During battles, they hovered upon the edge of the con- 
 flict, [)reparing food for the wounded, aiding in binding np their 
 wounds, furnishing them with stimulants, and comforting the dying. 
 
A NEW LIFE. 447 
 
 Now it was that Rose found her whole sonl drawn forth. Everj 
 power was taxed. She rose to the necessities of the hour in a 
 manner which made her the admiration of all. Perhaps she conld 
 not surpass Agate in the methodical administration of business, in 
 the routine of wards in hospital, although she equalled her, and 
 grew every day in strength and endurance. But she surpassed 
 Agate in medical seme. She Ijad evidently inherited her father's 
 medical tact and insight ; and, though she avoided taking the sur- 
 geons' work out of tlieir hands, her quickness and aptitude were of 
 continual service even to medical men. 
 
 But far more than these things was Rose noticed for her courage 
 and her power of inspiring men with hope, and cheer, and courage. 
 Her resources of thought, her wealth of feeling, her great power of 
 expression, her imagination and hnmor seemed endless. Indeed 
 Alice wrote truly when she said to her parents that Rose had 
 broken forth into a new life. All those resources which lay un- 
 taxed in he^ fonner quiet life, were now developed into an even 
 and steady enthusiasm. Her pity and tenderness made her pres- 
 ence to the sick and wounded like a light shining upon them from 
 their own home. In different places, she earned for herself among 
 the soldiers pet names. They played upon her name and styled 
 her the "Ever-blooming Rose." And when she brought coffee, 
 or fragrant tea, made as no one else knew how to suit it to their 
 taste, thoj' naturally called her the " Tea-Rose." In other campE 
 she was known as the "Norwood Beauty," — and she was beauti- 
 ful 1 The constant play of courage, pity, benevolence, and the en- 
 thusiasm of patriotism had given to her face a radiant outlook 
 pecnliwly charming. 
 
 She accompanied the troops and returned with them from the 
 Peninsula. She returned to Washington to care for the multitudes 
 of wounded that came in from Pope's disastrous campaign. She 
 went with the wagons of the Commission to Antietam, and hov- 
 ered along that field wherever were wounded and suffering. It 
 was here that she was inspired by danger and desperate necessity 
 to take the surgeon's knife. 
 
 In a small house, so near to the battle that shot were flying 
 around it in every direction, were collected multitudes of the 
 wounded. The surgeon was in the act of amputating a shattered 
 Ittr. Rose stood neitr, his only assistant. The saw had half-sev- 
 
448 NORWOOD. 
 
 ered the bone, when a cannon-shot struck him dead. The patieat 
 was left bleeding. Seized with an inspiration, Rose, without ac 
 instant's hesitation, put her hand to the saw, completed the sever- 
 ing, tied the arteries, joined the flaps, and bound up the wound. 
 The man recovered. She had often been called the " Surgeon's 
 Daughter;" but now the men changed it, and called her the 
 " Daughter-surgeon." 
 
 Alice was never separated from Rose. They worked together, 
 rode and travelled together, slept together. Scarcely less than 
 Rose was Alice admired and beloved by the common soldiers. She 
 often sang to them in the hospitals, wrote their letters home, re- 
 ceived dying messages and faithfully transmitted them to friends 
 at home. 
 
 The heroism of the war received its highest illustration in that 
 band of noble women who followed the flag through darkness and 
 blood, toiling as no soldiers on the march toiled, enduring hard- 
 ships which none surpassed, facing all the dangers of the battle- 
 field, and many others in hospitals even more perilous than bullet 
 or shell, and in many instances offering their lives as a sacrifice to 
 humanity and religitin 1 The evangelists of a true gospel were 
 they, sowing the good seeds of peace in the furrows of war I 
 
 Alice Oathoart was not less patriotic in her feelings than Rose. 
 But for some reason, she added to these generous impulses a 
 peculiar pity and tenderness toward the sick and wounded rebel 
 prisoneri.. This disposition drew forth from Hiram Beers many 
 criticisms and discussions. 
 
 " 1 think you might use your time better'n to be curin' up the 
 fellows that fought us, so's to fight agin." 
 
 "Why, Hiram," said Alice, imploringly, "they are not our 
 enemies now that they are sick and helpless. The poor and sick 
 the world over should be like their own children to the well and 
 the merciful." 
 
 " You may have 'em, if you want. But yon won't catch me 
 adoptin' sech a scaly set o' children. I'll tell yo, you're fattenin' 
 'em up agin to shoot down our boys. It's like geese and chickent 
 goin' round to cure up all the sick fixes." 
 
 " Would you let them suffer, llirum ? would you see them die 
 without a crumb from our stores?" said Alice, in a plaintive way. 
 
 " Wal, mebbe I'd i,'ive 'em tiie cnirabs, but I wouldn't give 'em 
 
A NEW LIFE. 449 
 
 a slice round the wbuie loaf. The fact is, you give 'em cakes aud 
 gingerbread, and that's running kindness into the ground, I'm 
 tliinkin'," said Hiram. 
 
 Agate Bissell came to the rescue. 
 
 " Hiram Beers, you old hypocrite, what do you want to tease 
 that child for? You know you don't believe a word you're say- 
 ing. I should like to know who 'twas that ran about last weeli 
 for clothes and stockings for the shivering prisoners ; and who 
 'twas that looked after tliose two boys in ward ten, when we were 
 in the hospital? You know you're just plaguing Alice. Alice, 
 don't mind a word he says. His tongue is of no more account 
 than the shaking of the leaves on the trees." 
 
 It fell out that after the battle of Antietam there fell to Alice's 
 care, among others, a young rebel officer, evidently a person of 
 refinement and piisition. He entered into no conversation. His 
 wounds were severe, and probably fatal. For several days he 
 maintained a proud and almost defiant reserve. His face wore 
 the expression of suffering, though he carefully avoided all tokens 
 of pain. 
 
 He seemed reluctant to get well at the hands of Northerners. 
 Alice hovered about him as if there was some fascination which 
 wrought upon her. Nor was her labor of love unregarded. Little 
 by little the young officer showed a pleasure in her presence, and 
 a docUity which he manifested to no one else. That pride and 
 repugnance which sickness and suffering could not break, began 
 sensibly to yield to kindness. 
 
 As he grew weaker, his large eyes, set in an emaciated face- 
 frame, followed Alice as she came or left, as a child's eyes fuUow 
 a mother. As he declined, Alice, as often as she could snatoh 
 time, read to him the Word of G-od, or sang hymns in a low, svveei 
 voice. 
 
 "I know not what it is," said she to Rose, "but I seem to 
 have met this gentleman before. Of course I do not suppose that 
 I have ; but there is something in his voice at times that startles 
 me. I can hardlj help saying, 'Where ham we met before?' 
 Last evening, when I sung to him, a tear ran down his cheek and 
 be said, ' That's my brother's favorite hymn.' He turned his £m!< 
 t(> me and said : 
 
 " ' Will yon be kind enough to tell me your name? ' 
 
450 NORWOOD. 
 
 " I repeated that it was Alice OatJicart, of Norwood, in Mas8» 
 ehusetts." 
 
 " He seemed agitated, and looked intently at me, and repeated 
 it several times — ' Ah 1 Alice — Cathcart.' Then, pausing as if his 
 mind ran back over acme memdry, he said, musingly, — 'Alice 
 Cathcart 1 That is very singular, that both of us should have 
 fallen under your care.' 
 
 " ' Both of us ? ' I asked, inquiringly. ' Have I ever met yon 
 before?' 
 
 " I was jnst then called away. But to-morrow, if he seems 
 disposed to conversation, I mean to find out more about him.'' 
 
 Very early in the morning, before the sun was up — before it 
 was fairly light — Alice was summoned to her patient. Mid-Sep- 
 tember fogs clouded the air and drenched the grass and leaves 
 with wet. She felt a chUl shivering as she hastened to meet the 
 call. He was fast sinking. It was evident that death was upon 
 him. He revived a little. Looking upon her, he said : 
 
 " Alice, don't leave me. I have much to say." 
 
 Then, his voice sinking to an inaudible whisper, his lips moved 
 for a minute or more. A little stimulant was given him, and for 
 a second he revived, as a fire on which a handful of shavings is 
 thrown. 
 
 "Tell my mother, Alice" — and his voice died away, though 
 rtill his lips moved. 
 
 Once or twice Alice could distinguish names, but all the rest 
 was undistinguishable. He lay for a few moments in perfect 
 stillness. Suddenly the light came to his eyes, and he looked 
 around eagerly as if following a vision. It was but a flash. The 
 flame went out and all was still. 
 
 Alice, although familiar with every form of suffering, was so 
 much affected by the death of the young rebel olficer that Agate 
 Bissell insisted upon her retiring. 
 
 Agate herself gave orders for his burial. His few effects were 
 gathered up. His watch and a pocket-book were the only valna 
 bles. On examining them, there were found several letters from 
 his home — one from his brother, a colonel in the rebel army— and 
 bis own name, 
 
 Henet C. Hetwood, 
 
 Lnyehhurg, Va. 
 
A NEW LIFE. 451 
 
 Agate cai.ed Rose to her. 
 
 "This young man is your friend Tom Heywood's brother — the 
 Mother Hal he used to mention so often." 
 
 Rose was soaroely less affected than Alice hiid been. For a 
 moment she was overcome; but, quicljly recovering herself, she 
 enjoined upon Agate the most profound secrecy. 
 
 "For reasons which I cannot tell, you must not mention this 
 Dame to Alice. It will do no good, and will do much harm." 
 
 Airate's sharp sagacity needed no further help. She had her 
 own thoughts, but was satisfied to leave Rose to manage the matter 
 as it pleased her. 
 
 At the evening twilight young Heywood was quietly buried, 
 and the place marked securely. As soon as the opportunity could 
 be found his few effects were sent to his friends and with them a 
 note to his mother. 
 
 "Mt Deab Madam : — After your son was wounded and captured 
 on the second day of the battle of Antietam, he came to the hospi- 
 tal of which I have charge. Every attention was paid to him. A 
 faithful friend ministered to his religious wants with the fidelity 
 and tenderness of a sister. His last thoughts rested upon his 
 home. He called by name his various relatives, and would have 
 seat messages, had not his death been more sudden than he antioi 
 pated. I pray you to allow me, as a friend of Mr. Thomas Hey 
 (rood, to express my deep syinpathj with you. 
 
 " ROSB 'WENTWOBTtL" 
 
CHAPTEK XLIX. 
 
 THAlfKSGlVING. 
 
 Whik November came in 1862, camo also in Norwood th« 
 renowned Thanksgiving Day, the holiday of old New England 
 from its founding. The Pilgrims found it written, " They that 
 BOW in tears shall reap in joy. He that goeth forth and weepeth, 
 bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, 
 bringing his sheaves with him." This beautiful poetry was trans- 
 lated into the policy of the Pilgrims by establishing a Fast-day, in 
 March or April, and a Day of Thanksgiving in November. Thus 
 the whole people were to pass through the two gates of the year, 
 Tears and Smiles, and observe them as Holy Days, all other pro- 
 fane and misleading festivities — Christmas, New Year's, and 
 Saints' days without number, being laid aside. Both days, the 
 Day of Fasting and the Day of Thanksgiving, were to be esteemed 
 religious days, and so kept. On the forenoon of each the people 
 were to assemble in their churches for religious services and a 
 sermon. On these days good ministers were allowed a wider 
 pasture than was befitting the Sabbath Day, and were expected 
 to discourse upcm public affairs. So that tlie pulpit had two 
 safety valves, and the minister could give vent to his opinions 
 upon matters and things in general twice a year without danger 
 of being unsettled, on the one side, or, on the other, of exploding 
 from pent-up fire. 
 
 If any where, a Fast Day ought to flourish in New England. 
 Not that its people were acerb and superstitious, but they derived 
 their tendencies from fathers who had suflered persecutions, and 
 to whom "strong crying and tears" were familiar; and as the 
 religious convictions of its people are deep, and their views oi 
 duty stern, one day in three himdred and sixty-five for public 
 fasting could not seem unreasonable. 
 
 In the beginning, it was a day of fasting. The steps of decline 
 arc melancholy and instrnctive. " Nothing should be eaten be- 
 tween the rising and the setting of the sun," wouM seem a plain 
 rule. But many people refused such rigor, and ate tbtir breakfasl 
 
THANKSGIVING. 453 
 
 with the foresight that it must last till supper, leaving out dinner 
 by way of fasting. 
 
 But soon, while breakfast ana supper were left as abutments 
 on each side, the span was so long that a pier of crackers and 
 cheese was built up in the middle, to carry the fasting safely over. 
 Now all engineers know that a crib sunken in a stream, or a pier, 
 is apt to become a point around which a deposit is soon formed, 
 and even islands have thus grown up from a stake driven down or 
 a mere lodgment of brush. And so it was with Fast-day. Crack- 
 ers and cheese became premises of an argument. If crackers may 
 be eaten without violation of fast, why not- gingerbread ? As the 
 court before which these questions were brought often held its 
 sessions in the stomach, the case was decided in favor of ginger- 
 bread. 
 
 Thus, with lamentable blindness, doughnuts were added; and 
 to doughnuts (with astonishing infatuation) dried smoked-beef; 
 though, with a latent sense of the danger, it was shaved exceed- 
 ingly thin ; to dried beef was added cold chicken — small, but 
 young and tender; and to this, cold corn-beef. A plain apple- 
 pie also got foot-hold. But, at this point, devotion made a stand 
 against luxury, and conquered. The worldliness of eating hot 
 disbes was happily eschewed. Cold victuals often require, and so 
 minister to, the gracious feelings, if partaken of with patience and 
 an uncomplaining spirit. 
 
 In the early day, fasting was the very spirit of abstinence ; 
 then, the spirit of moderation in eating ; and finally, the spirit of 
 abundance, making a judicious selection. At first, all intelligent 
 creatures fasted. Then servants began to be excuseil ; then deli- 
 cate women; and then robustious children, that ran roaring 
 round the house on fast days as if it were an exceeding Sunday; 
 and finally,, Fasting was itself the only thing that fasted on Fast- 
 day. 
 
 Meantime, while the starved Fast-day, like a consumptive 
 moon, grew pale, and thin, and wasted away, every year dying, 
 and yet clinging tenaciously to life, the well-i'ed Thanksgiving 
 Aay, like a new moon, grew bright and round, and lay upon the 
 year's horizon like a joyful punipkia upon the ridges of a Yankee 
 corn field; the pumpkin! sign am! symbol in the calendar of New 
 England of jovial festivity, \iiil, now. Thanksgiving may be sees 
 
454 NOKWOOD. 
 
 »ny year, in the mellow days of November, round and jolly, vritb 
 
 all the air of a fat old English Christmas; while in April, araidsl 
 blustering winds and pinching frosts, its defrauded and bankrupt 
 brother, very poor and thin, shambles along, wishing it were 
 dead, among millions of hard-hearted people who wish so too. 
 And so belf-gratulation flourishes in New England, while Humilia- 
 tion loses popularity every year. 
 
 Rose Wentwortli and Alice Oathcart returned home, after the 
 great labors of summer and autumn, to recruit and to spend the 
 Thanksgiving. Agate Bissell peremptorily refused. 
 
 " Why should I go home? I have enough to do, and I love to 
 do it. Nobody can take as good care of my boys as I can. And 
 as for rest, I was never so little tired in my life." 
 
 In fact, Agate was living in an undreamed of glory. With 
 such tender duties, so important ; with such scope, and so many 
 instruments ; the love of activity which had all her life, like a 
 subterranean river, flowed darkly and hidden within, now came to 
 the surface and sparkled in the light without hindrance or bound. 
 
 " There can't be any thanksgiving to me like taking care of 
 four hundred men that have been wounded for their country. 
 But then, you girls ought to go. You have fathers and mothers 
 that have a right to you. I have none," said Agate somewhat 
 sadly. 
 
 " Well, Agate,'' said Rose, a little slyly, " you may have others 
 who would like to see you, quite as near as if they were fathers? " 
 
 Whereat Agate's eye twinkled just a little, and she bent over 
 to put up the bandages again which had tumbled out of a box. 
 
 Rose and Alice meant to slip away withnut notice; but in some 
 way it was known, and they had to pass the ordeal of gratitude. 
 Next to ingratitude the most painful thing to bear is gratitude. A 
 sensitive nature is glad to know that one is grateful and that one 
 longs to show it. But to stand in the focus of an enthusiastic 
 thanksgiving is awkward enough. 
 
 Few can express thanks gracefully, and fewer yet are thos* 
 who can gracefully receive them. Both Rose and Alice found thi» 
 out when rough men thanked them for their very lives, and othen 
 professed that they had been more than mothers to them, and 
 some craved them to accept a button or some token of their prow- 
 ess captured in battle. Amidst cheers, and some t«ars, too, on 
 
THANKSGIVING. 455 
 
 hard fihfteks, the girls got away ; and though their faces wer< 
 homeward and their hearts eager, there was a heavy feeling thai 
 they had tnrned their haclss apon that which had tai^en hold even 
 deeper than Home I 
 
 After the natural overflow of gladness at being once more at 
 borne had somewhat subsided, Bose was conscious of a dull dis- 
 quiet, a sense of the emptiness of former pleasure. Common 
 duties and the ordinary flow of village life were tame and flavor- 
 less. It seemed to her that people were. living for trifles, and 
 wasting the noblest powers upon matters scarcely worth a thought. 
 Indeed she chid herself for wanting oataral affection, inasmuch as 
 her own home failed to furnish that deep content which she for- 
 merly knew. So long had she been engaged in the profoundest 
 tragedies of heroic life, that the simple duties of peaceful domestic 
 circles palled upon her taste. She grew restless, and longed to 
 return to the exposures, the fatigues, and the sufferings even, of 
 the hospital, the march and the battlefield. There was, too, a 
 strange uneasiness of conscience. Her judgment told her that she 
 had a right to rest and to recreation. Yet she started when per- 
 sons came in, as if they would reproach her for indolence. 
 
 But the winter soon wore away, and in March both Alice and 
 Rose returned to their labors again, and prepared to enter the 
 campaign of Ohancellorsville with that glorious army wh(ise only 
 fault was that it was too large for its commander, a noble sol- 
 dier, within a circle not too large. 
 
 Before March had done blustering, but not before the birds 
 had come, our two brave women, glad to depart, though it was 
 from homes as well loved as any for which mortal heart ever 
 yearned, turned their dear faces southward. 
 
 Agate Bissell greeted them with a most motherly welcome. 
 She seemed as fresh and unworn as if the winter had been a long 
 vacation. 
 
 " Why, Agate,'' said Bose, " I never saw yon look so well I 
 A little pale,— just a little. But I suppose that is because yon 
 have been all winter under a roof. Field work will revive your 
 color." 
 
 Rose handed her a package of letters, and among them one from 
 Dr. Buell, saying archly, as she saw the color come to Agate's 
 sheek : 
 
456 NORWOOD. 
 
 "On second thought, I do not know but you have ai> mnofc 
 color in yonr cheek as ever." 
 
 " Rose, you think that you know a good deal. B\it I tell }0U, 
 if you do, then you know more than 1 do 1 You may read tha 
 letter and welcome." said Agate, extending tlie open letter to her. 
 It ran : 
 
 " Norwood, March 14, 1863. 
 
 " MiBS Agate Bissell — Dea/r Madam : At Miss Rose's sug- 
 gestion, I write you a line, lest under the accumulation of labors, 
 aud in hours of weariness, you may be in danger of believing 
 yourself forgotten. Truly, every pious and patriotic heart here at 
 home thanks you for your excellent and most praiseworthy labors 
 in behalf of our sick and wounded soldiers. Doubt not that many 
 prayers ascend for you daily, mine among tlie number. The Lord 
 is preparing you, it may be, for future important labors, in a 
 school where so much of patience and of wisdom are required, and 
 whatever may be the divine counsels wliich respect the future, 
 may He overrule all to his own honor and glory. 
 
 " The meetings are well attended. A gracious spirit ia found 
 in the female prayer-meeting. Polly Marble is dead, and the 
 deacon is very much afflicted. She was very faithful to him, and 
 her last breath was spent in exhorting him, in an edifying manner. 
 It's a great loss, indeed, to him, and to all of us, but a gain to her. 
 
 " Tliere has been an interest in the church this winter, and 
 several persons give pleasing evidence of a saving change. May 
 they run well 1 All your friends will rejoice when your duties 
 shall allow you to return home, and none more than your friend 
 and affectionate pastor, Jedediah Bokll." 
 
 The campaign of Chancellorsville opened in May, 1863. Gen- 
 eral Barton Oathcart — for he had been advanced in rank, — learn- 
 ing of his sister's presence, sought her out immediately after the 
 withdrawal of his brigade to the north side of the Rapidan, Rose 
 Wentworth was engaged in the hospital transport service, and 
 spent most of her time, for weeks, upon the steamboats that con 
 veyed the wotmded from the depots along the Potomac to Wash 
 ington. Barton failed to see her. But Agate Bissell and hii 
 sister Alice, as soon as the army settled again in its former camps 
 tie found. The moveraerts of the army to the west and iiortL 
 
THANKSGIVINa 457 
 
 Boon separated them again, nor did the; approach each othei 
 afterwards till the great battle of G-BTTTSBtiEO, toward which w? 
 will now wend oor way. 
 
 Early in June, 1863, Lee began, with great skill of secrecy, to 
 transfer the bulk of his army from before Hooker's line to the 
 Shenandoah valley, preparatory to a sudden invasion of Maryland 
 and Pennsylvania, by which masterly movement he had good 
 reason to hiipe that the war would be removed from Virginia, 
 vhich had already suffered incredible ills, as the chief battle- 
 ground, to Pennsylvania, where an army might be easily sustained ; 
 and, if Hooker's army were defeated, Baltimore and Philadelphia 
 would become prizes. Washington, cut off from the north, must 
 then fall ; and not far off from snch an event must come peace, 
 with the recognition of Southern independence. 
 
 Nor can one now, after the event, standing in General Lee's 
 place, and reasoning upon the facts as they then appeared, and as 
 we now know them to have actually been, charge him with nn- 
 Bobriety of expectation. There were good and sound military 
 reasons for expecting success, and success would in all likelihood 
 have been decisive of the results of the war. 
 
 After the battle of Chancel lorsville, in May, the army under 
 Lee had, in numbers, equipment, but above all in the confidence 
 of its own irrosistibleness, reached the highest point of its history. 
 It certainly had cause for self-confidence. 
 
 It had resisted the whole power of the Union for two years, 
 with but one grand defeat, while it wrote upon its banners the 
 great victories of the Seven Days of the Peninsula, of Fredericks- 
 burg, of Second Bull's Run, and of Ohancellorsville. 
 
 One general only had that army had, or desired, after it was 
 fairly organized. Both the North and the South bore witness to 
 his ability — the South by an enthusiastic admiration and confi- 
 dence ; the North by four times changing the general of the Army 
 of the Potomac opposed to him. 
 
 On the third year of the war, with an army invincible thus far, 
 and a commander whose name had gone out into all the world, it 
 is not strange that they should be resolved to transfer the field 
 of battle from Virginia, which was but one great mountain-clad 
 fort, long enough besieged and seared with fire, and let the corth- 
 ern fields take their turn of blasting, blood and flame! 
 
-1:58 NORWOOD. 
 
 With their faces aglow with the victory of Ohanoellorsvill*, 
 Lee's array skilfully glided past Hooker, entered the valley of the 
 Bhenandoah, drove out or consumed the loyal forces, and, in the 
 last days of June, burst into the Cumberland valley, in Pennsyl- 
 vania. Their cavalry, like the biting scud of a storm, spread 
 instantly, and scoured all tlie defenceless region to the hanks of 
 the Susquehanna. With promptness and admirable decision, Lee 
 stretched out Ewell's coriis and dividing it, as with his right hand, 
 seized York, thus threatening Baltimore and Washington ; with 
 his left bund he seized Carlisle, aiming at Harrishurg and Phila- 
 delphia ; while his main body lay at Chamhersburg, near the head 
 of the valley of the Cumberland. 
 
 Then it was that he learned that Hooker, moving in pursuit, 
 had crossed the Potomac, concentrated at Frederick, with his face 
 as though determined to strike across the foot of the Cumberland 
 valley and cutoff bis line of communication with Virginia. To com- 
 pel Hooker to let this enterprist- alone, Lee drew hack his advanced 
 corps from York to Carlisle, with orders to concentrate with the 
 centre, which poured through a pass in the South Mountain, upon 
 Gettysburg, a small village in the eastern skirts of the mountain 
 range ; and so, Lee said, in effect, If you touch my line of com- 
 munication I will seize Washington. 
 
 But, before this movement was known, or even half-way de- 
 veloped. Hooker retired from command, and the fifth commander 
 in order came to the head of the Army of the Potomac. Ignorant 
 of Lee's purposes, and knowing in general only that he was ad- 
 vancing to the centre of Pennsylvania, Meade, abandoning 
 Hooker's plan, spread his army along the eastern side of the South 
 Mountain, parallel to Lee's line, determined to follow him to the 
 Susquehanna and bring him to battle. 
 
 But two marches had Meade made, bringing his army up 
 nearly abreast of Gettysburg, somewhat to the east and south- 
 oast of it, when he had reason to believe that Lee was concentra 
 ting on the east of Soutli Mountain. Meade's left wing, three 
 corps, under Reynolds, advanced upon Gettysburg to discover the 
 enemy, as well as to bide the operations of the centre and right 
 wing. While Buford was pricking and probing the country with 
 his cavalry, on the 29th of June, he rode into Gettysburg, and 
 was there stumbled upon iIm' next day, June 80, by the advanced 
 
THANKSGIVING. 459 
 
 guard of the Southern army. Thus the two armies approached 
 each other, big with terrific battle, as nncoriBcious of the imminent 
 ehock as are two summer clouds, charged with storms, and mov- 
 ing upon opposite winds silently toward each other. 
 
 Three days of battle there were; — one on the outlying hills 
 beyond the town, and two along the slopes and rocky crests south 
 and east of Gettysburg; — three days, on which the Southeiu 
 army rolled in and broke upon the rocky ridges of the North, as 
 spring tides moving with the power of the ocean behind them beat 
 high and fierce upon a rocky coast, and retreat again to the dark 
 caves of the sea 1 
 
 This was a battle between the men of the tro ics and the men 
 of the temperate zones. It was to be decided whether the gods 
 of the valleys or the gods of the hills were the mightier. The fat 
 Southern soils, tilled by enforced labor, made war on the rocks of 
 the North, where men by hard labor had learned patience and 
 skill. Two battles there were waged in one. Principles were 
 contending in the air, while men were fighting on the ground. 
 And when on the night of the fourth of July, the army of the 
 South, sullenly and in the dark, drew back from the farms of 
 Pennsylvania and retreated southward, it was not alone the defeat 
 of the army, but far more of the political economy, the genius of 
 government, and the evil spirit of a perverted religion, that had 
 inspired the conflict and given moral significance to the Rebellion. 
 
 But we have overrun our story, or, rather, gone before to pro- 
 pare a way for the maiden's feet to tread. 
 
CHAPTER L. 
 
 ON THE M ABCB . 
 
 A OEEAT excitement filled Washington whon it was known that 
 Lee had entered Pennsylvania. The darkness which had Lang 
 painfully ovei- his inovements was cleared away. The sweep of 
 Jenkins' cavalry, the rapid movement of Ewell upon the Susque- 
 hanna, the openiny of the rebel general's plans with such decis- 
 ion as indicated his sense of power and confidence of victory, were 
 enough to account for excitement. But an Invasion was something 
 new. Theintru>ionof Lee theyear before into Maryland scarcely 
 punctured the rind of the Free States. But now it was reaching al 
 the core. Such an uproar wa- never known among the farmers of 
 Pennsylvania. The old Dutch settlers at last experienced a thrill I 
 Three years had tboy probubly been in doubt whether hostilities 
 had broken out or not. They were conservative men. They 
 would not be carj-ied away with rumors. Newspapers they rarely 
 saw, and then only to doubt them. But tlie cavalry raids, the 
 sweeping up of their stock, the sudden departure of horses from 
 the plough and wagon, and the farewell cackles of expiring hens, 
 were things to be believed. In fine, eighty thousand men, with 
 Lee at, their head, had power to drive a new idea into the heads of 
 the Pennsylvania Dutch around Gettysburg. But once in, that 
 idea of war wrought mightily. They raised a clamor that filled 
 the State. Like Munchausen's horn, which, when hung near the 
 Are, played all the tunes which had been frozen up in it through 
 the winter, so all those hopes and fears, doubts and enthusiams, 
 which play out of common people's lives, but freeze up in the 
 Dutch mind of Southern Pennsylvania, were now thawed out by 
 the fire of war into clamorous racket, which went eclioingthrougli 
 the cities of the country as if the Last Day had indeed come ! 
 
 All manner of wild rumors filled Baltimore and Washington. 
 As soon as Hooker's army had crossed the Potomac, it was knowc 
 to the Sanitary Commission that a great battle must soon be fought 
 Energetic measures were taken to prepare succor for the wounded. 
 
ON THE MARCH. 461 
 
 Wagons were loaded with clothing, food, cordials, blankets, tents, 
 and with all those numherless delicacies often so much better to 
 the sick and wounded than medicine. Nurses and ladies were 
 summoned. It behoved the Sanitary Commission to be on the 
 ground as soon as a blow was struck. This was its golden oppor- 
 tunity. Its mission was not to supersede the Medical Department 
 of the army, but, being more lithe and nimble, to anticipate the 
 regular unfolding of organized succor ; to meet exigencies not 
 otherwise provided for ; to fill up gaps and intervals, and to per- 
 form^ by the presence of women, as noble as ever ministered in 
 temple or sanctuary, those oflSces of consolation and Christian 
 instruction to the dying, or desperately wounded, which trans- 
 cended the functions of the Medical Department. 
 
 Signs multiplied of urgent danger and impetuous haste. 
 The great hour of Destiny was advancing. The Departments of 
 Government, the city of Washington and the whole region round 
 about were like a boiling caldron. Asif more fuel was needed, 
 Stuart and his large body of cavalry sought to regain Lee's army, 
 and, crossing the Potomac at Seneca Creek, swept up through 
 Maryland, flirting their wings in the face of Washington and Balti- 
 more as they passed, and stirring up all the region as if they had 
 been flying dragons. 
 
 No wonder, when, on the 28lh of June, the sentinels and citi- 
 zens saw mounted men looking right into the city of Washington, 
 and then scuds of cavalry whirling around Baltimore, that troops 
 were on foot, citizens armed and hastily rushed to the lines of 
 defence, and that a thousand rumors, mixing truth and the flctiona 
 of fear, fllled the air. 
 
 Hiram Beers started forth with a line of eight wagons, to over- 
 take the army. Others were speedily to follow, while the rail- 
 roads were to be employed, so soon as the hattle-field was deter- 
 minedjfor the bulk of transportation. He took the Rookville road, 
 aiming at Frederick, where, in a conveyance of their own. Agate 
 Bissell was to meet him, with Eose and Alice. At Eockville he 
 was warned to turn back -the enemy filled the country. A train 
 had just been seized and burnt. 
 
 " That's lucky for me," said Hiram. " You don't see a cannon 
 ball go through the same hole twice. 1 guess the enemy hasn't 
 made up his mind to stop, yet a while, and if he's gobbled nj 
 
462 KOEWOOD. 
 
 trains ahead of me, it stands to reason tiet hell oe gone afore 1 
 
 git there." 
 
 " There's no tellin', stranger," said the old man who wa« 
 informing him, " how many there is of 'em. I hearn tell that tb« 
 country's full on 'em. Jake Armistead has been out, you know^ 
 in the rebel army, though he's lioiiie now, and Cnion too, till hia 
 wounds get well, and he sez, there must be nigh about (en thon- 
 sund, and that they cover the hull country thick as pigeons in 
 acorn tiiiie. I reckon, stranger, that they'd like to take a look at 
 your wagons." 
 
 Hiram pushed his hat up a trifle, on his forehead, and drawing 
 a knife out of his pocket, as if utterly at ease, said, as he began 
 slowly and smoothly to curl the shavings ofi' the edge of a white 
 pine stick : 
 
 " Thank'ee, sir. I guess they've got sometliing else to look 
 after by this time. Why, sir, there's twenty thousand troopers 
 gone up after 'em from Washington, and Hooker, he's got a hund- 
 red thousand men at Frederick, and there's a hundred thousand 
 more in Washington and Baltimore, and more comin' from the 
 North every hour." 
 
 " More comin' ? " 
 
 " More ? Why, you hain't begun to see yet. Fact is, the North 
 is just wakin' up. We hain't done nothin' yet but cut out the 
 work. There's nobody gone hardly. You wouldn't think there 
 was a man missin'. But, now we see what's to do we are goin' to 
 Bend down a million men, right oft'." 
 
 There had collected, by this time, quite a crowd around Hiram's 
 teams, and he was improving the time while his horses ate oats to 
 make a salutary impression on the Maryland mind. 
 
 An ex -rebel soldier seemed somewhat better informed: 
 
 " Lee has got York, and Carlisle, and, in a day or two, hf'll 
 have Harrisburg, and then look out for fun! " 
 
 Hiram looked at him fixedly, as one who is in doubt whether 
 he will impart a secret: 
 
 " Well, I guess it wont do no hurt to tell out now. But our 
 folks jest left Carlisle on purpose to tempt 'em — like toasted 
 cheese in a trap ; if Lte's nibblin', you may depend on't, he'll find 
 that he's caught." 
 
 *' Ah old Yank, you can't come that over me. Lee'e used t« 
 
ON THE MAKCH. 463 
 
 oibblin' Yankee cheese. He ate some at Frederickstnrg, and he'e 
 jest beoD nibblin' a pretty large cheese at Ohancellorsville, and, bj 
 the time you'll get there, I guess you'll find the old rat has gnawed 
 his way out." 
 
 Nothing daunted by the laugh, Hiram, with a look of andis- 
 tnrbed confidence, just a little touched with pity for their igno- 
 rance, walked away toward his wagons. 
 
 "Do you really think," said one of his drivers, in an anzioue 
 tone, " that it's safe to go on? " 
 
 " Safe ? what are you 'feard of? Lee is jest like a walnut in a 
 nut-cracker. They'll smash him, sure." 
 
 " I shouldn't care about bein' caught. A prisoner on fcot, 
 trottin' along with cavalry, don't feel as comfortable as if he w«a 
 to hum I " 
 
 ''Is that so? " said Hiram, very soberly. 
 
 "Wal, it is. I tell ye — mebbe you hain't tried it? I've trav- 
 elled ye see, and don't want to do it any more. The fust time — 
 Mosby's men, they tuck me. Wal, one on 'em took a fancy to my 
 cap, and swopped. I got something to boot though," said the 
 driver, beginning to scratch his head, " every time I think of that 
 old felt hat that he guv' me, somehow I feel like soratchiii'. An- 
 other man, he wanted my shoes, and I lent 'em to him. They 
 never cum back. Then one of the officers took a likin' to my 
 coat ; and, at last, a darned rascal made me get out of my britches. 
 In less than five minutes I didn't know myself, and kept lookin' 
 'round to see where I was. But I found out afore they'd done 
 with me.'' 
 
 '' Wal," said Hiram, " drive on ; I don't expect any body to 
 catch me." 
 
 " Nobody expects to be caught. You see, a feller is goin' along, 
 drivin' his horses and chawin' his tobacker, thinkin' about the 
 home folks, touchin' up fust one horse and then another, when — 
 right ahead — fizz I hang I whang! bang! and then, behiud in the 
 line, you hear i- again — whang! bang! — and a hundred borse- 
 meii whirl in on yon, out out your wagons, and, afore the soldiers 
 (jan get up, twenty wagons are drivin' off like mad, and rebel 
 soldiers a-prickin' the mules with bayonets, and afore you fairly 
 know which eend yoo stand on, they're all in the mountains and 
 you're dividin' your clothes with the ragamuffins." 
 
464 NORWOOD. 
 
 Hiram langhed at the descriptive misery, bnt ordered forward 
 the teams. 
 
 " I've no idea of lettin' them Southern fellers have the handhn 
 of these goods. Pretty business for our folks to set np nights tti 
 knit stockins, and then have the rebels put 'em on to fight our 
 boys with ! They didn't have an apple-parin' at our town to 
 make apple-sarse for Lee's army, I guess 1 Golly 1 what woult 
 Harm Marble say if she should hear that the rehs had got her 
 dried apples and punkins? No, no; they shan't poke their nasty 
 fingers into my sweetmeats. I didn't fetch these nice liquors for 
 their accommodation. Liquor is a good thing in its place. But, 
 as a general thing, I'm of opinion that the very worst place you 
 can pnt good liquors into is a feller's stomach ! If a feller's been 
 tapped with a bullet, that may make a difference. But I don't 
 believe the Lord ever made that hole in a man's face to pour liquor 
 through." 
 
 "Wal,"said one of his men, "then there's been an amazln 
 oversight somewhere. There's been a sight of liquor got through 
 the wrong place, then 1 " 
 
 Hiram got safely to Frederick, and met there the agents and 
 ladies of the Commission. But Meade had been gone a day. The 
 order then was to follow up the army and to keep within easy 
 reach of it. 
 
 The next morning the whole party were on the road. Hiram 
 expressed himself on the subject of armies: 
 
 " If there ever was any thing that beat all creation in bein' ex- 
 pensive, it's an army. It runs off property as fast as a river does 
 water. It's waste, waste, waste I Enough is trod under foot every 
 day to feed a town, and when they're marchin', they're wuss than 
 buffaloes in a corn-field. But the hind end of an army is about 
 the most disagreeable place that I know on. The stragglers, and 
 traders, and rascals, strain through, and leave a welt of dirt for 
 miles and miles behind. I couldn't sleep a wink last night. 
 Frederick was chuck-full of roarin', drinkin' fellers, fightin' and 
 yellin'. I think the hind-end of an army is more dangenms than 
 its fore-end. It's like Gran'ther Morse's old musket, that would 
 tea' you to pieces if you were before it, and kick you to pieces 
 if you stooi' behind it. The only place Trhere it was safe was 
 bangin' np over the fire-flace to biun" An army is a eery dan- 
 
ON THE MAECH. 465 
 
 gerous thing, anyhow, and awM extravagant. I s'pose we musl 
 fight it through now, though. Don't see no other way. Bnt, 
 if ever this war's over, I'm goin' to jine an Everlastin' Peace 
 Society." 
 
 As the party journeyed on, at every mile evidences multiplied 
 that the army was not far away. Stragglers abounded. Tlie 
 main ai'my seemed to have done no damage. One would not, ex- 
 cept for the beaten roads, and some little invasion of fields, the 
 breaking here and there of a cherry branch, whose luscious fruit 
 tempted its own fate, have dreamed that eighty thousand men had 
 passed ; but, after the army came the herd of stragglers. They 
 robbed houses, stole horses from the stables, and in, drunken 
 knots caroused or threatened those who were weak. 
 
 Rose looked out upon the wondrous brightness of those June 
 days — no, it was the first of July — marvelling in her thoughts how 
 the enginery of death could be moving through all this peace and 
 beauty to its dreaded work. The sky was deep. Drifting throug.h 
 it in profound leisure — drifting so slowly and gently that they 
 hardly seemed to move, were soft and small clouds. So long had 
 Rose now been trained in scenes of pain and terror that her heart 
 knew its own courage ; and thougli there was in the very air, and 
 through all its brightness, a certain sadness, as if already she felt , 
 the horrors of that distant battle, whose sounds, though it was 
 already begun, were not heard, Rose's thoughts floated peacefully 
 as those flecks of brilliant cloud, dazzling white, mixed with 
 shades and shadows. 
 
 " Rootless and stemless, ye grow, O clouds I The winds that 
 roar upon forests shake no sounds out of your silent forms. 
 Without seed or sowing, ye grow. Ye wither without frost, OT 
 the axe, and p.ass away in an hour. Ye grow alike in winter as in 
 summer, and shake down from your boughs drops or flakes in 
 lioth seasons. Yet no man may plant you, nor till you, nor play 
 husbandry in the realm where ye dwell." 
 
 " I s'pose you're thinkin', Miss Rose," said Hiram, " that it's 
 time to have so nethiog to eat. Well, I shouldn 't wonder if 
 "twafl." 
 
 "Yes, Hiram, I was thinlcing of harvests, but Dot exactly such 
 as could be eaten." . * 
 
 "Well, I'U see what can be done. The fact is, the soldiers art 
 
466 NORWOOD. 
 
 yonder, fillin' all the road, and I don't b'lieve we can git aloni 
 much further, f ou wait a bit, and I'll go and see. ' 
 
 In a momunt Rose was dreaming again, with her face turned 
 toward the clouds. 
 
 "Out of sncli stillness of white come storms 1 Ye are tha 
 mothers of thunder! Hidden there 1=! the lightning! Now ye 
 lire palnees of silence, but to-morrow all the sounds of storm shall 
 resonnd among you ! And so out of men's loving hearts comes 
 hatred, and out of men's consciences comes war, and all that 
 makes peace beautiful ohange-i in battle to mighty wrath, to awful 
 cruelty, to remorseless slaughter. Even now — who knows? — 
 R'hile I look upon this serene heaven. Barton, perhaps, is in the 
 heat of fight ; it may be he lies wounded, or dying, because no 
 one binds up his wounds " 
 
 "What on earth's the matter, Miss Rose — are ye cryin'?" 
 said Hiram, and without waiting for an.answer he went on — " It's 
 no time for cryin' now — the battle is goin' on. We've heerd from 
 Gettysburg — some say it's all on our side, and some say t'other 
 w.iy, and nobody knows any thing about it. But the headquar- 
 ters is movin', and the whole army is goin' ahead. If you mean 
 to get there to-night we must be stirrin', I can tell yo." 
 
 Rose consulted with the agents of the Commission in charge 
 of the company, and it was considered useless to attempt to force 
 their way along the roads by which the army was moving, already 
 choked up with artillery, supply trains, and the troops. In their 
 perplexity Hiram started out to explore. He soon returned. 
 With him came also a military man of distinguished bearing. A 
 staff officer rode by his side, and a colored man stood at a little 
 distance grinning and looking at Rose in the most extraordinary 
 manner. 
 
 An outcry from Alice was Barton Oathcart's introduction. 
 She sprung out of the carriage and threw herself into his arms 
 with impassioned fondness. He looked down upon his sister with 
 a look of the proudest love. For a moment the blood left Rose's 
 clieek, but then came again with a rebound. 
 
 " Oh! Barton," said Alice, " to see you here, in this strange 
 place, is like a breath from home. But there is Rose coming' to 
 vou." 
 
 Rose's first impulse was not to intrude upon him. Hei ner" 
 
ON THE MARCH. 4&7 
 
 anil better thought was, " It is Barton, tLy childhood friei.d," and 
 in a moment every niher thought was gone, and with a gladness 
 "'jarcely less demonstrative than Alice's, Rose reached both hei 
 hands to Barton. But he was more embarrassed. Rose's warmth 
 of manner seemed to touch him. He had prepared for a mor« 
 formal meeting. 
 
 " This is very kind, Miss Wentworth;" 
 
 " No, no. Barton — I am not Miss Wentworth — to yon — ^I am 
 Rose ; the same names which we used in childhood, if yon 
 please." 
 
 A throng of memories crowded his mind. His heart was like 
 a vortex in whicii strong feelings whirled. He would have spoken, 
 but seemed like one who hesitates which of many things to say 
 first. He fixed upon Rose a look so full of inquiry, and yet so 
 imploring and hungry, a look full of eagerness and helplessness, 
 that Rose to her dying day never forgot it. Words are of the 
 flesh, opaque. Looks are of the spirit, luminous. 
 
 The pause was embarrassing. Rose first plucked up her voice 
 and said : 
 
 " Barton, we are going with you. Can we get along in time 
 on this route, or shall we be delayed 1 The roads are choked up 
 with the army." 
 
 " You ha^ better keep with my Division. We are pushing on 
 with all our might. The day has gone wrong, and we must all be 
 up to-night." 
 
 There was time but for a few words, hurried and almost inco- 
 herent. In a moment Barton was gone. It was a dream I They 
 awake to see him disappear among the throngs beyond I 
 
 It was late before they reached the vicinity of Gettysburg. All 
 the way Barton's look dwelt with Rose. The most emphatic 
 revelations of the soul are made through glances of the eye. By 
 the looks only can the soul signify complex experiences — ^hope, 
 fear, yearning, love, sad and sorrowful — and all in an instant. 
 These revelations of the soul's inmost life will not be incarnated in 
 the rude materials of commoL language. Biit a look is almost 
 as immaterial as a thought. A glance is a fit incarnation of 
 B thing so tender as love. Not what they say do we remember of 
 absent friends ; but, how they looked while saying it. We live 
 «pon the meaning of the expressions of ''he face more than rf the 
 
■168 NORWOOD. 
 
 tongue. The silences which speech carries along with it are oftei; 
 more emphatic than the words. 
 
 By a side road, Hiram had got his party out from the tangle of 
 the Taneytown road, and was making his way over to the Baltimore 
 turnpike. Although the moot) was of some slight help, yet, by 
 eight o'clock, the jaded horses and scarcely less jaded company 
 were glad to find a farm-house where they might sleep. By the 
 faint moonlight Hiram descried a palace of a barn near at hand. 
 
 " Ahal " said Hiram, "there is a Dutch barn. Now we shall 
 stumble over the hovel pretty soon." 
 
 " Why, what do you mean ? " said Agate. 
 
 " I mean," replied Hiram, " that them Pennsylvania Dutch 
 think more of their horses than they do of themselves. A feller 
 travellin' round here awhile almost wishes he was a horse. The 
 houses are mean ; the barns are magnificent." 
 
 Hiram, for once, had to take back his words, for they ap- 
 proached a large and comely farrn-house, which would have done 
 no discredit to the elm homes of New England. Every thing about 
 it was still. Though it was not yet nine o'clock, not a light was 
 burning. 
 
 " I guess," said Hiram, " that they're gone out to see the 
 sights. 'Tain't every day that a Dutchman sees an army. I guess 
 they think the day of judgment is come. They will if there's much 
 figbtin' to-morrow." 
 
 He was again mistaken. The family were abed and soundly 
 asleep. A rap at the door brought the owner out of bed, and his 
 honest face to the door. 
 
 " Can we git leave to stay here to-night? " said Hiram. 
 
 "'Why, of course you can. Come right in! Women? — 
 why, women? — out this time o' night! That's too bad. Mary I 
 Mary, I say I " 
 
 By this time his <iooA wife Mary came forth, the smiles 
 endeavoring to chase the sleepiness oflT from her face, as she was 
 tying a string here, or buttoning there, or hooking up her dresp 
 behind. 
 
 " Seeme to me your abed early, uncle, aren't ye?" said 
 Hiram. 
 
 " "W^al — pretty. But we go to bed early , we get np early 
 too." 
 
ON THE MARCH. 469 
 
 " Liked to have got np this time 'fore yon got to hed," said 
 Hiram, winking. 
 
 " Yes, yes, yes," said the honest old fanner, with an anmean- 
 ing In ugh. 
 
 " Don't you know the army's all round you ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but they don't touch nnthin'. They're welcome uo't U 
 they do." 
 
 " How far is it to town ? " 
 
 " Wal — 'bout three miles ; three and a half — say four miles. 
 Depends a little on which way you go." 
 
 After Hiram had seen to the horses, he followed the sounds, 
 and soon came upon the wagon trains parked for the night. Th« 
 rumbling of artillery still was heard in the roads near by. Ee- 
 serve artillery and ammunition trains had turned into fields on 
 either side of the road. Soldiers were stiU crowding onwarc.. 
 They moved silently, as men who were tired with long and rapid 
 marching. 
 
 He came across a part of the cavalry that had that morning 
 been engaged, and picked up some scraps of the fight as they had 
 seen it. He inquired for the hospitals, toward which, in the morn- 
 ing, he was to go. An oflBcer, with his head bandaged, gave him 
 the information. 
 
 Buford's Cavalry and Wadsworth's Division of Reynolds' corps 
 had held in check the heads of Hill and Longstreet's corps, com- 
 ing from Chambersburgh, and gained some advantage. But about 
 noon Swell's corps coming in on the Union right, brought great 
 disaster and even rout upon them. The whole left wing had 
 barely saved itself, but now was holding the high ground .south 
 and east of Gettysburg. This was the first day's fight. Hiram 
 returned to the house, and after a generous supper the party wers 
 glad to retire. The day had been fatiguing enough. The morrovc 
 iroald try them yet more. 
 
CHAPTER LI. 
 
 GBTTTSBUEG. 
 
 Ijoua before sunrise on the Wednesday morning of the tecoud 
 of July, our party were astir. Early as they were, tlie good house- 
 wife was before them, and a bountiful breakfast awaited them. 
 After the farmer's wife had learned from Agate the business which 
 took such beautiful ladies, as Rose and Alice seemed to her eyes, 
 to the battle-field, she could not do enough for them ; and as they 
 parted from her, the good old farmer said to them : 
 
 " We live some ways from Gettysburg ; but if any of your 
 friends are wounded, or you want to send any body else here, it's 
 a quiet place, and we've got enough, and we'll take the best care 
 we can of them. So, remember, if you can't do any better, won't 
 you ? " 
 
 Thanking them heartily for their kindness, which was in mark- 
 ed contrast with the brutal demeanor of the Dutch farmers around 
 Gettysburg on those awful days, they were leaving, when, having 
 talked a moment with his wife, he came back and said : 
 
 " I reckon I'd better go 'long with you a spell. I know some 
 crooks and turns that may better your road. By what my men 
 say, the main roads have been full all night, and soldiers are still 
 crowdin' up to the front. I expect there will be powerful flghtin' 
 to-day, and I'll go up. Maybe I can help the wounded folks, if 
 I don't fight myself That ain't my trade." 
 
 Sure enough, the roads were blocked ; but their honest farmer 
 Iriend, by lanes, and through cart roads in the wood, and by 
 crossing sown fields, brought them, at last, to the rear of that lona 
 line of rocky hills, whose crest and westward slope was already 
 crowded with soldiers. 
 
 Not a syllable of disrespect did they receive from soldiers or 
 camp followers. In many instances cheers were raised for them, 
 »nd " God bless you " was showered upon them by regiments and 
 brigades who had seen them on other battle-fields. Indeed, there 
 were few regiments in the army of the Potomac where Agate Bis- 
 sell's name was not known and honored. At certain pc ants, where 
 
GETTYSBURG. 471 
 
 bodiet of soldiers were at rest, the men flocked around tLem, eaid 
 shook hands with them as old friends. 
 
 " What'c all that? " said a soldier of the — Pennsj-lvania to one 
 of his comrades, who saw the stir and heard some cheering around 
 the'r cairiage. 
 
 •'What is it? Why, it's the old one with her two doves. 
 There ain't many boys in tliis regiment that don't know Mnthrr 
 Bissell and the Rose of Norwood I " 
 
 With that a bright, lithe young fellow sprung toward the party 
 with all the eagerness of a child. But, as he came up and was 
 DOt recognized, he almost sulksd like a ponting boy : 
 
 " Why, don't you know me. Aunty Bissell? I'm your 
 Willie?" 
 
 Agate turned upon him a quick look. 
 
 •'Take off your cap I Why, Willie Woolsy I I never should 
 liave known you 1 " 
 
 And then, patting his head and smiling proudly on him, she 
 said: 
 
 " Why, Willie, how you have improved 1 how fat and rosy 
 you are I I never should imagine that you were that poor, pale 
 boy that I snatched from the very hands of death, I do believe ! " 
 
 And so, one by one, scores of men came in for a word, whom 
 these women had succored on the battle- field, or nursed in the 
 hospitals, or transported on steamers on the Potomac to Washing- 
 ton, or fed and clothed at various times and difierent places. This 
 did not seem like the greetings of a field of carnage ; it was more 
 like a home-greeting. 
 
 The forenoon wore rapidly away. The hospital camps were 
 selected. The Sanitai'y Commission had been able to secure no 
 transportation on the railroad ; and fortunate it was that — thanks 
 to Hiram Beers' enterprise — so many wagons had been got through 
 and so large a store of articles was on hand. 
 
 All through the forenoon, the distant sound of skirmish-firing 
 was faintly heard. It rose and rippled on the air, and died awaj 
 Again, from another quarter, it pattered for a half hour, and 
 graduaUy died out like an expiring drum-beat. Koon came ; and 
 no battle. All was suspense. No one that they could reach could 
 give the information. Would Lee retreat ? or was not Meade will- 
 ing to give battle ? 
 
4(-: NORWOOD. 
 
 The afternoon wure on. The wounded of tn^ day belore wen 
 
 in Gettysburg or beyond, or, if brought behind the ITorthern lines, 
 it was three miles to the north of the position chosen by the Oom- 
 mission for the first station. 
 
 It was after two o'clock. They were resting. Suddenly the 
 great hulking body of Pete Sawmill rose up before them; and 
 Pete, gurgling and laughing, seemed overjoyed to see his old 
 friends. 
 
 "Well done! as sure as soot," said Agate, "here's our Pete I 
 I'm as glad to see your homely black face, Pete, as if you was sp 
 white as snow ! " 
 
 Pete reached out his great hand, to each of them, giving to each 
 of them in turn one down motion that seemed likely to take their 
 arms ont of the socket, and giggling and laugliing, in a way more 
 silly than usual. He sidled up to Rose, with the most foolish look 
 of affection, and began to move his hands in the air, as if he was 
 taking up a child, or patting and playing with some invisible dog 
 
 " Why, you poor old soul," said Agate, " we are all as glad to 
 see you, Pete, as if you belonged to us." 
 
 " He, he, he I I guess I do. I don't b'long to nobody else, ex- 
 cept the gin'ral." 
 
 " Where is Barton ? " said Alice and Rose almost in the sam 
 breath. 
 
 "Tou see them woody hnmmCcks yonder?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Well, the gineral he's along beyond them, furder up, up to 
 ward that way, and a leetle over." 
 
 This very luminous description was given with a serions, 
 solemn air, for Pete's heart in every battle was much moved at 
 the danger into wliioh Barton (jathcart would throw himself. 
 
 " He's allers runnin' to find it and fetch it. He might jest as 
 well wait. Te see, danger will come itself when they're fightin 
 such allflred battles." 
 
 "Pete," said Rose, " do you think wo could see Barton's posi- 
 tion if we were to go on to that hill ? " 
 
 "Sartain ; I'll tako you." Pete seemed as if he were literally 
 about to take Rose as in the old days, when she rode apoc hia 
 shoulder. 
 
 Eose laughed and dashed past him nimbly, on her way to th* 
 
GETTYSBURG. 473 
 
 edge of Little Bonnd Top. As she ascended the ridge the scene 
 began to opeu npon her. 
 
 On reaching the summit, the view was obstracted by the fringe 
 of woods through which the road passed. Bnt by climbing a 
 little to the south of the road, Rose obtained a clear view of the 
 ridge on whose slopes lay the Northern army, extending from 
 where she stood two miles north toward Gettysburg, which, 
 fiom this point, was tacked up so close to the northern bead 
 of the ridge that only the western skirts of the village could be 
 /•een, fringing out into the valley. A mile and more across from 
 where she stood looking west, was a range of low and rounded 
 hills, forest-clad in spots, or dotted with orchards. On the south- 
 ern half of the line they were so carved out by the wear of wa- 
 ters for ages, that they seemed like huge beads half buried in the 
 ground; but further north, and over against Gettysburg, the 
 terrace was less scarped and ran with an easier slope. Above and 
 lieyond these hills, to the westward, rose others, and wide strips 
 of forest, and ten miles away the blue mass of the South Moun 
 t Mins banked up against the horizon. 
 
 Between the two low-lying ridges on which the armies lay 
 was a mile-wide valley, its southern half much filled up with roll- 
 ing hills, and cut into with dells and tangles of wood and rock. 
 The upper half, or that nearest Gettysburg, was scooped out and 
 sraoother. Alongthe line of swells between these two sorts of valley 
 had been placed the left wing of Meade's army, forming an angle oi 
 about 45 degrees with the ridge on which the lest of the army lay. 
 
 To crush this leg thrust out from the body, as it were, and to 
 seize the lower part of the ridge which the left should have occu- 
 |)ied, was Lee's whole aim in the second day's battle. For four 
 hours the fight here raged with excessive violence. The best 
 I roops of both armies were in the struggle. Neither before or 
 -ince has there been more thorough fighting, of all arms, with 
 heroic tenacity and an indomitable will that did not know how to 
 let go. And when darkness ended the conflict, the Northern troopD, 
 though on the whole worsted, had been only pushed back to tbeii 
 true position along the ridge, with the natural fortresses of Great 
 Round Top and Little Round Top inexpugnably guarding the left 
 of their line. But this is in anticipation. 
 
 Pete had followed Rose with more than unal gimvi^. He 
 
474 
 
 NORWOOD. 
 
 seemed like an uneasy hound that smells something in the dit- 
 tance that disquiets him. It is true that Pete had no conception 
 of the construction of an army, nor is it probable that he could 
 have been made to understand strategy, or tactics, in any proper 
 and scientific way of stating them. But Pete was an innate hun- 
 ter. He had all the intuitions and inspirations, which belong to 
 the venatorial art. In their ground forms these are not far from 
 the science of warfare. 
 
 What are two armies but two huge animals that are hunting 
 each other? — each, concealing its own movements and spying out 
 the other's — creeping, watching, feigning, waiting for some un- 
 guarded moment, or indefensible posture, to spring with concen 
 trated strength and loud roar upon the other 1 In a vague and 
 rude way Pete felt some such battle instinct. He watched the hills 
 opposite. 
 
 "There they arel " 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 " Why the Eebs — don't you see 'em ? " 
 
 " Where do /ou mean ? " said Kose, shading her eyes with her 
 hand. 
 
 " Right over in the edge of them woods — don't you see the 
 light flash? That's the sun sliinin' on their guns. There 'tis ag'in I 
 I hem woods is jest full. Don't you see, clear away there, on the left 
 — them lines like ? that's them too. I don't like it." 
 
 " Well, Pete, are not our soldiers there too?" 
 
 " Don't you see? there's our boys right across yonder. Them 
 
 d rebels!" said Pete, waxing irreverently warm, "will be 
 
 creepin' round behind 'em. I don't like it! I don't like it! " 
 
 And then Pete, uneasily, like a hound, again changed his posi- 
 tion, and, pointing his muzzle out toward the scene of impending 
 conflict, looked intently upon the fields. 
 
 " Pete, what ought they to do ? " said Rose Innocently, to hei 
 humble companion, and with as much faith in his judgment as if 
 he were some black Napoleon. 
 
 " I dnn know. I expect they better come back here." 
 
 The scuds of white cloud that held their indolent courss 
 through the air early in the morning were Ufjw all gont, away, and 
 had left the heavens unscarred and unfurrowed. The sun now, 
 half way down from the meridian, shot buck floods of light along 
 
GETTYSBURG. 475 
 
 the patb it had just travelled, but could not change Its bine. Fa? 
 up, the vault was paled a little, but blue it was — clear, tender blue 
 Buc, nearer the ground and along the horizon, the ruddy sunlight 
 flooded .ill things with a peculiar golden hue. The air seemed rich, 
 theearth dreamy, and the landsonpe that lay before Rose's eye seemed 
 to her imagination as if in a tranquil meditation. The distant jets 
 of white smoke, the faint reports of sharpshooters' rifles, or occa- 
 sional ripples of skirmishers' firing seemed only like the plashing 
 of a tranquil sea upon the shore — sound just enough to make still- 
 ness palpable. Every thing conspired to fill Rose with imagina- 
 tions contrasting with the impending scenes. A wood-thrush not 
 far from her, in a solitary clump of trees, was singing in a plain- 
 tive way to an answering thrush beyond. An oriole flew into a 
 near tree, and sang shrill as a clarionet. Flowers were thick 
 among the stones. A bush of sassaffas'stobd just at her hand, and 
 she was almost unconsciously breaking ofi' the tender and fragrant 
 tips to refresh her mouth. 
 
 Rose had risen into that state of imagination in which outward 
 things begin to take on the colors of one's own thoughts, and to 
 stand dressed in human feelings. The whole heavens above her 
 head said to her, "There is no war in me I" the whole valley 
 answered, ''It is peace with met" the woods about her — the 
 fragrant smell of pine and spicy bushes, — the birds singing, and 
 squirrels running nimbly across her path or jerking their tails on 
 the safe edges of rooks, — all were so many tokens of peace I 
 
 Suddenly, right over against her, came a peal of thunder 1 Up 
 rosea curling wreath of smoke. Quickly through it flashed fierce 
 forks of flime; loud and earth-shaking roars came like the rolls 
 of surf upon the shore, in quick succession. The battle had be- 
 gun! It opened with no spattering shots, bringing out gradually 
 growing volleys. It struck a deep note of thunder at first, and 
 then kept to that awful pitch through four murderous hours I 
 
 Rose was fixed and fascinated. She ccrald not withdraw her 
 eyes from that which she dreaded to see. Lines of men came forth 
 from the woods. They were met with sheeted flame, and with- 
 ered and shrunk back. They were but the first line. Right on, 
 behind them, came Longstreet's masses, that were not to be 
 iaunted — flre-proved, annealed in scores of battles ! Little could 
 Rose see but the general aspect. The loyal lines bore up stoutly 
 
476 NORWOOD. 
 
 and well. They were pushed and bent ; bat, like a tmst> 6ow, 
 siirnng back again. The conflict became many-sided. Far on- 
 ward, to the left of the Union lines, emerged the Confederate troops. 
 Xew batteries seemed to spring up every where; and battle, like 
 Inrks of flame in a burning town, kindling wherever a spark fell, 
 Hashed forth, from point to point, on every swell of land — in the 
 groves — through wheat fields — but, more than all, right over against 
 iier, where the heaven was ablaze with artillery, and irresistible 
 masses of Confederate soldiers broke down Sickles' centre and drove 
 back his men from Sheify's peach-orchard. For an hour, which 
 seemed an age, she gazed. Troops were hastening from Hancock 
 and from Slocum, drawn from the centre and right, to brace up 
 the broken lines. The fight was creeping up from below to the 
 very hill where she stood. 
 
 A division of Northern troops was passing the very road on 
 which she had come. Suddenly a brigade was swung off from it, 
 and began to ascend Little Eound Top. She hasted down. It 
 was a new sight that she had beheld. 
 
 She was used to every form of wounds in men brought off from 
 the field. She had even been along the edge of fights, but it was 
 when the combats raged in muffling woods and thickets. She had 
 never stood where the whole field lay open, where the two armies 
 stretched out their masses in visible opposition and the whole work 
 of destruction could be seen. She turned away, and hastened by 
 the roiid which, running from the very ground of conflict, hugged 
 Uttle Round Top where she had been standing ; and moved toward 
 the hospital ground of the corps. Within a half hour, men began 
 to come over the ridge wounded, but yet able to get out of the ba' 
 tie. Their numbers increased. 
 
 "Who shall describe the roar of battle? If one will know the 
 mechanism and anatomy of battle, let him read our American Na- 
 pier.* If he would see a gorgeous picture of the out-playing of 
 this anatomy, tlie army chnrge, the tough and tugging fight, the 
 swirl and hurricane, let him read the brilliant picture writing of 
 the military DoriS of America.t But who shall describe the shadow 
 of the battle ? Who shall picture the battle of tlie hospital ? Who 
 shall make into history what passes before the nnrses aiid surgeons 1 
 
 • ■William Swlnton. r G. A. T./wnsend. 
 
GETTYSBUKG. 477 
 
 rhe place chosen for the hospital proved to be in the line of 
 Bre, and shot and shell soon came down into the very teiite, and 
 men who had escaped the battle and cleared its skirts were reached 
 and slain under the surgeon's hands. Another place was chosen. 
 But scarcely had the surgeon's tables been set before whistling balli 
 di'ove them thence. A third place, nearly astride of Rock Greek, 
 was finally established. The wounded men were now pouring in 
 in f< arful numbers. Long lines of men lying on the ground cov- 
 ered the space. No tents were spread. The field hospital was 
 literally but a field. A thousand men in less than an hour and a 
 half! and more streaming in from every direction. 
 
 One of the chief needs of wounded men is drink and sustenance. 
 Along the roads by which they came in, the Commission had sta- 
 tioned women and men to supply to the fainting and overspent, as 
 they passed, both nourishment and stimulants. Rose suggested to 
 Agate that the point whioli she had that afternoon visited would 
 be well situated for a station. Fires were built, hot tea and oofiee 
 were kept in full supply, milk punch, wines, and other stimulants 
 were at band. Many who had climbed thus far, but were exhausted, 
 were here revived by welcome nourishment and shuffled over the 
 hill to the hospital fields. 
 
 No sooner had Rose found some active work to do than all her 
 fancies fled, and she settled back into a stern, practical woman, 
 who could look upon wounds, wash and cleanse them, bind them 
 up, cheer the desperately wounded and suffering. She had that 
 happiest of constitutions, one which generated an endless supply of 
 nervous force. With danger she grew calm, and her spirits rose 
 with every perilous exigency. And after days and nights of almost 
 continual service, Rose's body, fed by some inward supply, seemed 
 as fresh and nimble as at the beginning. 
 
 "How can yon endure so much and hold out so long!" was 
 often asked. 
 
 But she could never reply, except to say : 
 
 " God gives me strength according to my need." 
 
 While Rose was engrossed in supplying the suffering, niram 
 appeared from over the hiU with the ambulance corps, aiding the 
 wounded, but chiefly engaged in scolding Alice. Rose had. for an 
 hour or two, missed her, and supposed that she hail gone back over 
 the hill toward the corps hospital. Instend of that, Alice had 
 
478 NORWOOD. 
 
 quietly ven nred forward. Pete carried her effects, and acted aj 
 her body-guard; and, lured by some fascination, Alice had ven- 
 tured down almost upon the edge of battle — outrunning, at last, 
 the boldest of the ambulance corps, encouraging the stretclier-bearer* 
 to come on ; for, so terrible had been the fire here that the meu 
 whose duty it was to succor and bear away the wounded, shrank 
 from the spot. All the stores which Pete could carry were sooc 
 consumeJ, Alice was urging the attendants to more venturesome- 
 ness, when the cloud of battle, which had bent and moved outward, 
 suddenly came raining back. A large body of Virginia troops were 
 pressing back our lines. Just then, speeding to the succor of our 
 men, came a division of the Second Corps. It was at the moment 
 of onset that Alice liked to have been swept into the battle, whose 
 bloody spray dasher" up to her very feet. Just then some one 
 snatched her by the aim and violently dragged her back. 
 
 " What on airth ails ye ? Do you want to be killed ? What 
 sort of a place do you call this for a handsome woman ? Come 
 out o' this! C^ne, come, I say 1 If this ain't craziness! Never 
 mind, I swow you're a brave girl! By jimminy, I never thought 
 ye had so much in you I " 
 
 Just then the spiteful whirl of bullets over their heads renewed 
 Hiram's alarm. 
 
 ''For God's sake, duck! — duck your head! — get in behind 
 herel What a fool you be. No need on't. What business had 
 yon out there? " 
 
 " What business had the soldiers there, Hiram ? " said Alice, 
 with an intense solemnity. 
 
 "It's their business to fight; that's their place." 
 
 "It's my business to relievo the wounded men who have been 
 fighting for you and for me." 
 
 " Well, you might wait till the men fetched 'em out." 
 
 "Hiram, the ambulance men shrunk; their very officers hid 
 1 saw them run away. If they had had a brother there, and— 
 and — a brother there — they would have been bolder." 
 
 As soon as the danger lulled, Hiram could not refuse his ad- 
 miration ; but the moment shot began to whiz and swirl about 
 lier, he fell to scolding Alice again : 
 
 "You are a brnve girl, anyhow. 7ou ought to have been 
 a goldier. I'li) proud of your pluck. Gosh 1 look out — ther« 
 
GETTYSBURG. 479 
 
 corae ffhoUs and shot — a pretty place for a woman 1 Ten want 
 a gardeen over yon. I wonder you'd be such a fool. There^ 
 then, now we're kind o' behind this swell they won't hit us. 1 
 vow, Alice, but you've arnt an epUet to-day." 
 
 When Alice saw Rose, she ran to her with a piercing cry; 
 
 " Oh, oh, oh, Rose ! I have seen him. I have seen 1 " 
 
 "Who? Barton?" 
 
 "Yes; but not him. I've seen Hey wood. He was rushint 
 in at the head of his men just as Barton came np. Oh, it i , 
 dreadful that he is fighting on the rebel side I But, oh, ho>/ 
 noble he looked I In that awful whirlpool of war he looked iia 
 beautiful as when he sat in our blue-room I " 
 
 " But did you see Barton ? " said Rose, .almost in a terror. 
 "Was he there?" 
 
 "Yes — he was rushing right against them. There was an 
 awful crash. Oh, God I I hope Heywood is safe." 
 
 Rose, trembling, could scarcely sustain herself; but in a 
 moment her courage came again. 
 
 "Alice, think only of Barton. He is your brother! May 
 God preserve those who are defending the right, and send iipeedy 
 overthrow to those who would destroy their Government ! " 
 
 Alice only shuddered, but made no reply. 
 
 The sun went down, but still the battle raged in fhe twi- 
 light. The left of the Union army, much twisted and bruised, 
 had been shoved back and sadly rent, but, on tbj whole, had 
 secured a better ground than it had lost; and at eight o'clock 
 the sounds of battle died away on this part of the field ; though 
 far away, to the Union right, for a half hour h.nger the con- 
 flict sounded on. But by nine o'clock there wa.-. silence. Yes, 
 with more than four thousand men a silence wiiioh should not 
 be broken till the last trump ! 
 
 In the two days, the Union army had lost, in killed, wounded, 
 and missing, nearly twenty thousand men. An equal loss, doubt- 
 less, the enemy bad sustained. And the third great day was yet 
 to come. 
 
 That night, within a circle of five miles diameter there were 
 from both armies together between twenty and thirty thousand 
 wounded men ! All farm-houses and barns were filled. Every 
 sheltered field was covered with sufferers Hospital touched 
 
•180 NORWOOD. 
 
 hospital. If one had come from the Dorth behind Boand Top, thi 
 first field hospital would have seemed to contain the wonnded of 
 the whole battle; but at every mile, round toward Gettysburg, 
 he would meet another, and another, until he would wonder what 
 could be left of the fighting army which had shaken off from its 
 boughs such another army of withered men! And if the circiiil 
 were continued, Gettysburg was full; and, moving over upuii 
 the western ridges, where the Confederate ainiy lay, the sami- 
 mighty trail of blood held on its way. And thus some thirty 
 thousand men, welded together by blood, twined around the great 
 central armies like a gory belt! 
 
 The day's fighting was ended. The great toil of mercy was but 
 begun. All night long, men were brought in. Parties scoured 
 the fields huntin;^ for the wounded. Many had crept out of the 
 storm of battle and hidden under fences, or among rocks, or in 
 thickets, and, tlieir strength failing, they could neither come forth, 
 nor make known their presence. Hundreds died whom prompt 
 succor might have saved. When the moon rose and threw its 
 faint liglit through the moving scuds of cloud, there might have 
 oeen seen many a stalwart fellow fast fainting unto death. Sume 
 clasped in their hands the photograph of wife and children, some 
 of lover ; and they were found dead in the morning, the last smile 
 yet lingering on their manly features. 
 
 The hospitals enlarged their bounds through all the adjacent 
 fields. The barns in the neighborhood had been taxed for straw ; 
 but he was fortunate who had under him any thing but the fresh 
 grass half covered with a blanket. 
 
 Hundreds of wounded rebels had been captured, and lay amon^' 
 our men, subject to the same kindness. In the hospital there was 
 peace. Wounds were counted as amicable settlements. 
 
 The South, impulsive and unrestrained in the expression ut 
 feeling, the North, grave and self-contained, more apt to repress 
 than to show feeling — both carried into battle and into the hos- 
 pital their peculiarities. The Southern brigades, impetuous and 
 fiery, charged yelling and noisy. The Northern men, sometime 
 hurrahing, yet oftener sternly silent, put their feelings int<. 
 blows. 
 
 The Rebel wounded groaned and cried out. The surgeon's 
 knife let loose their tongues. The Northern wounded lay qniet. 
 
GETTYSBURG. 481 
 
 iuppiessed the groans, fighting their pains at etubbornlr and 
 silently as they had fought the rebels. 
 
 Yet it was not all sad in the field hospitals. The slightlj 
 wounded l<ept up excellent spirits. After their hurts were dress- 
 ed, and they were washed and refreshed with food and cordials, 
 they became cheerful and chatty. One might have heard in thf 
 early night hundreds of narratives which they were recounting ti; 
 each other, some sad and some grotesque, and some even gay. 
 
 Poor Agate for once quite lost her self-possession, and burst 
 into tears like a child, when, towards sundown, an ambulance 
 brought in that fair Willie, who that morning had so joyously 
 greeted her. A ball cutting across his face, had put out both his 
 eyes. But he was going on in a path where one needs no eye- 
 sight I 
 
 " Aunty Bissell — ii this you T " he said, in a gentle, plaintive 
 voice. 
 
 " Yes, Willie, it is. God bless yon, poor child ; " and, as 
 Agate stooped to kiss his pale face, her tears dropped upon his 
 cheeks. He could shed no more tears. 
 
 " Oh, don't leave rae I Stay with me, won't you f Do take 
 hold of my hand. Say something to me. I shall die I J3h, 
 mother, mother, mother I Aunty, don't leave me. Do say some- 
 
 Agate bowed down by his side, and while the cannon were 
 yet sounding in the distance, and the air filled with departing 
 soids, she sent up a fervent prayer for the lad. 
 
 But others needed care. She hurried from one to miotlier, 
 returning often to speak to Willie, finding him each time weaker, 
 and always whispering either a petition or his mother's name. 
 At the very last, as it grew dark, his mind flickered and seeme ' 
 working at some childhood remembrance. 
 
 " Now I lay me down," said he, in a whisper — " now I lay me — 
 what? mother? now I — now I ." 
 
 Then for a little while he only whispered ; and when Agate 
 next came to him, all his battles were ended in an eternal vie-. 
 tory. 
 
 Rose was struck with one man's experience^ A bluff and brawny 
 man he looked. 
 
 "Wal," said he to some who bad been asking him about tin 
 
482 NORWOOD. 
 
 conflict, "I remember while we was in Sliarfy's pe&ch-orchard, 
 and the firin' was just beginnin', that a sparrow was singin' in a 
 peach-tree. R-r-rip went the rifles. That shet him up. But he 
 began agin. Wh — angl went the cannon, and for about five 
 minutes they fired and be fired, they fired and he fired back again. 
 But I b'lieve at last they got the upperlumd of that sparrow I 
 Queer, wasn't it? I don't remember nothin' else — only it seems 
 as if I had been squirmin' about in a whirlwind of red-hot rain 
 for about a couple of hours." 
 
 Hiram reappeared after an hour's absence, about ten o'clock 
 at night. He had been hunting for Pete, he said. 
 
 " For Pete ? " said Alice. " Why didn't you hunt for Barton ? " 
 
 " Thafs the way to hunt for Barton I If any body'd lino w where 
 Barton was, Pete would." 
 
 "Well, did you find Pete? " said Alice. 
 
 "Yes, I did." 
 
 "Hiram, why don't yon tell me if yon saw Barton? " 
 
 " Cos you didn't ask me," said Hiram. " Of course I saw him. 
 Do you s'pose I should have been grinnin' about here if Barton 
 was missin' ? " 
 
 " Has he escaped — and not been hurt? " 
 
 "Sound as a nut — pretty well tired though. I gness he's blue 
 too. Sent his love to you, Alice, and good-bye to all the rest, if 
 he never sees yon again ; would come over, but has jest got word 
 that he may have to move over to the right wing there by daylight 
 to-morrow morning, to drive out a parcel of rebs that's crept in 
 unawares like." 
 
 "Thauk God, he is safe," said Rose. 
 
 Alice seemed lost in thought. 
 
 Meanwhile, though greatly tired out, Hiram said he would take 
 a little turn around among the men — which meant to keep on his 
 feet till past midnight, in various helpful oiHces. It was about 
 midnight when he lay down near a fire, around which sat or lay 
 a score or two of wounded men. He heard them talking of theif 
 day's work. A sergeant in the 146th New York was talking: 
 
 "I had 'nnflf on't too. 'Twas my regiment that was in the bri- 
 gade that charged in to support Sickles. And we did support him 
 too. And we hadn't more'n tim( to turn round after that charge 
 before they told us to go at Little Round Toj and we did go at it, 
 
GETTYSBURG. 483 
 
 and we took that too. Charged bayonets twice within fifteei 
 minutes. And what was the queerest thing, out of tlint regiment 
 of 800 men we didn't lose but tliirty-thrte in them two charges. 
 But most o'thern was oflBcers. In that charge u[) Little Round Top 
 there happened to be one platoon of rebel sharpshooters in the 
 place, and jest in them two or three minits they picked off our 
 colonel, our leftenant-colonel, three cap'ns — the cap'n o' my coni- 
 p'ny 'n both leftenants, 'n I do' no how many moi-e. I found my 
 self in command o' that company pretty sudden. 
 
 " 'We?l, after the hottest o' that figlitin' was over, I lay down 
 behind a rock and went to sleep ; told my second-sargeant to wake 
 me up if there was any thing. Well, pretty soon somebody came 
 'n waked me up, 'n said Gen. Warren wanted to see me. 
 
 " You see, where we was was jest before brigade-he.idqnarters ; 
 and, right on top of the position, there was a great big high rock 
 that had a view all over the whole field. 'Way down in front o' 
 that, there was a kind of a valley like, all full o' rough ground. 
 There was one place in it they called the Devil's Den. 'Twan't 
 nothin' but rooks — a reg'lar nest on 'em — big boulders standin' up 
 endways, ledges, and all sorts o' things. Now a lot o' rebel sharp- 
 shooters they'd got into them rocks, and they was awaitin'. There 
 couldn't a hat 'a ben showed on top o' that rock on Little Round 
 Top 'thout it had a ball slap through it, and them generals they 
 wanted to git up on there 'n reconnoitre. 
 
 "So I went up in the tent. Warren heknowdme; I'd bin 
 under him before, in the old Fifth New York. And there was 
 Gen. Kilpatrick, and Gen. Pleasonton, and Gen. This, and That, 
 and so on. So Warren he says to me, 'Leftenant, can't you take 
 some skirmishers, and go down in there, and clean out them sharp- 
 shooters ? ' Well, that was a command, you know, jest as much at 
 if he'd said I must go and do it. So I said, 'Yes; I want sixty 
 men, and I don't want nobody but volunteers neither.' So he said 
 I might go and git 'em. So I went down to my regiment, 'n 1 
 picked out forty old Fifth New York men — the 146th was a new 
 regiment, 'n they'd put these old veterans in to give 'em a mow- 
 rail. Then I went to another regiment, 'n got twenty-five more; 
 that was sixty-five, all told. So T got 'em all ready, and I arranged 
 with Warren that when I'd got down in the valley and got thing* 
 (ill straight, I'd wave a. handkerchief, 'n then they could git up or 
 
484 NOBWOOD. 
 
 the rock. Then I told mj men, 'Now,' says I, 'Tre muat breali 
 down this slope jest like dust till we git into them rocks down 
 there, and then we must scatter and take cover, pretty much every 
 man for himself. But,, one thing — don't you none on you Are till 
 you see me do it. I'm agoin' to git a good place, and blaze away 
 jest as f;ist as I can, so's to make 'em think there's a whole party 
 o' men jest behind that one rock where I am. Then you wait for 
 'em to reply. There ain't but about twenty on 'em, all down in 
 that nest o' rocks there in the Devil's Den. When they fire at me, 
 you watch and fire at the place, and there'll be eight or ten on ye 
 firin' at every one on 'em, and somebody '11 hit him.' So we got 
 all ready, and away we went, tearin' down the hill like mad. They 
 giv' us a volley or two when they saw us a-ooraiu', and picked oflF 
 about a dozen killed and wounded; so when we got down among 
 them ledges and boulders, about two hundred yards away from 
 *^here the sharpshooters was, I had 'bout fifty-five men. So I 
 went to work a-blazin' away, and the boys they got down behind 
 the stones, and, amongst us, we kep' up a heU of a fire ; for every 
 .me o' my men had a hundred rounds of ammunition. And every 
 once in a while we'd see one o' them sharpshooters jump up and 
 fling up his hands. 
 
 "Then they began to slacken their fire, and my boys had been 
 kinder drawin' up towards me; so says I, 'Now, boys, we'll make 
 a little charge over in there, 'n see if we can"t find some o' them 
 fellers.' So we charged over in there, and we thought we'd got 
 pretty near where they was, and we couldn't see nothin' on 'em. 
 You see, 'twas all full o' nothin' but rocks, and they was hid. So 
 I was satisfied that we'd pretty much silenced their fire anyhow, 
 and so I out with my handkerchief and waved it, and the officers 
 they hopt up on the rook. So the rebels, when they saw that, 
 they got mad, and they went to firin' agin, and we began too. So 
 there was a feller a layin' alongside o' me, Sargeant Weaver his 
 name was, and he see a place where one o' the rebels was a firin' 
 out of. So I looked, and there the feller had built up a little place 
 between two rooks with loose stone, and he'd put a big rock across 
 on top, and there he was, a firin' through a porthole at us. So 
 Weaver he wanted to fire at him, and says I, go ahead. So Weavei 
 tired, but he didn't hit him. Well, I had my gun all ready, and 1 
 watched close, and when this here feller drew back to load up 
 
GETTYSBURG. 485 
 
 again, (here the speaker imitated the mo\ ementB of one ramming 
 3own a bullet,) I could jest see the beck of his head one side of 
 Aat are rock. So I let him have it, and the bullet struck him righl 
 in the middle of his neck, right here, (touching the base of the 
 skull behind.) I should think he jumped up in the air about four 
 feet. Well, when we seen that, we all gave a hurraw, and we 
 chai'ged right over in there, and we gobbled up every one o' them 
 fellers, all except two. 
 
 "Well, as soon as the rest on 'em saw what we was up to, a 
 regiment on 'em came down to try and git them sharpshooters 
 back agin. So then our regiment had to come down in bodily to 
 support us. Then a rebel brigade came in, and then our brigade 
 came down too, and we drove 'em back after a little while, and 
 advanced our line the whole of that are two hundred yards, and 
 kept it too. 
 
 " When I went up to see Warren, he said all sorts o' things to 
 me, and promised to give me a medal and a commission, and all 
 that. But I don' 'speot to git 'em. Folks forgit easy.'' 
 
 By four o'clock on Friday morning, July 3, the sounds of battle 
 were heard far away on the right wing, on the eastern slopes of 
 Gulp's Hill. But before this, before the birds sang, while the very 
 twilight hesitated in uncertainty, Alice was up and out. Nor was 
 it long before the ambulances were moving to explore the remot- 
 est parts of the battle-field. Alice sought to retrace again the path 
 of her yesterday's excursion. But scarcely could she recognize a 
 feature, in the cold gray of morning, of that scene which she had 
 seen late the afternoon in the lurid light of the sun lying low, and 
 in the smoke and wild confusion of battle. 
 
 She was alone. She carried, besides a flask and roll of banda- 
 ges, nothing. Following the road, over the northern edge of Little 
 Round Top, down into the dell below, then inclining to the left, 
 she began to recognize the place where she had seen Barton in the 
 very thick of battle. With trembling eagerness she looked on 
 every hand. The wounded had mostly been removed. Heaps of 
 dead showed where the weight of battle had fallen. Suddenly 
 and like an arrow shot from a bow, she sprang from the path to 
 the edge of a low forest or thicket, where an officer, half reclining^ 
 half sitting, either was asleep, or was dead. It was Tom Hey 
 wood. 
 
486 NOKWOOD. 
 
 Alice paused at a few steps ; then, yeiitniing nearer — pole, Teij 
 pale — sptike as if she would waken him from sleep. 
 
 " Mr. Heywood I Mr. Heywood 1 " 
 
 Timidly, yet eagerly, slie came clo^e to hira, laid ber hand apoo 
 Uisai-m; it fell heavily as she pressed it. She touched his hand 
 aud the ti'uth flashed upon her, — he was dead 1 As one bewildered, 
 and even yet uncertain but that he slept, she gazed upon his calm 
 and noble face. 
 
 "Speak to me 1 Do wake! It is Alice — Alice OathcartI Oh 
 Heywood, I would speak to you if it were I lying sol He is net 
 deadl It cannot be death 1 " 
 
 Then looking long and wildly, as a child looks shndderingly 
 into some dark room at night, she lowered her voice and said, in a 
 hoarse whisper : 
 
 " He is dead ! O God, take -rm I " 
 
 Already the light seemed vanishing, and Alice fell fainting upon 
 Heywood's hreast. At last she had found upon his bosom a brief 
 rest of love 1 
 
 A man lying in the edge of the thicket called out to Hiram, 
 who soon after was coming that way : 
 
 " I say I I say, stranger I " 
 
 " Well, wliat's up? Where are ye? Oh, there yon are. Are 
 you hurt hadly ? " 
 
 " No matter 'bout me jest yet. I kin wait. But I reckon some- 
 body oughter take care of that gal yonder. She's got a fit o' faintin'. 
 That man there is Col. Heyuood. He commanded our boy.s. He 
 was sbotyisterday about the time I was. He lived an hour or two, 
 but never spoke." 
 
 Hiram needed no quickening as soon as he saw Alice. Lifting 
 her tenderly in his arms, he carried her back to the edge of a small 
 stream that crossed the road but a little back, and then he bathed 
 her face freely. 
 
 "Poor child, I guess you've got about the worst wound yit. 
 Alice 1 Alice I Poor thing, her heart's broke. 1 alius suspected 
 how 'twas. There — there — that's right; open your eyes. Gra- 
 cious 1 don't groan so — don't, child 1 It'll all he right, poor little 
 thing 1 " 
 
 As she revived, Alice looked at Hiram in a soared and bewil- 
 dered way. Little by little her memory came with consciousness. 
 
GETTYSBURG. 487 
 
 ' Hiram, let me go back." 
 
 " Why, Alice, don't," said Hiram, in a coaxing way, at the 
 same time drawing her gently by the hand. 
 
 " Hiram, I must go to him. He is not dead I If we cnly go 
 quick he will come to. Do go, Hiram — do go ! " 
 
 It was not in human nature to resist. A short walk brought 
 them again to Heywood. The moment they reached his feet, with 
 ■adden revulsion of feeling, Alice stopped short. 
 
 " Hiram, he is dead ! He will never speak again I Oh, how 
 noble I Is he not beautiful ? " 
 
 " Why, Alice, I didn't know as he was in love with you I " 
 
 Had he pierced her with a sword she could not have shown a 
 face of anguish such as she instantly exhibited. Then, in alow and 
 half-whispered tone she said — a slight color coming to her pale 
 cheek : 
 
 " No— 'he did not love me. But I loved him. And now he 
 never will know it. Oh! Hiram, he was good and noble I " 
 
 After a moment's pause she said artlessly : 
 
 " You don't think it was wrong, do you, Hiram ? I am not 
 sorry. I am not ashamed of it. He was very noble 1 " 
 
 " Lord bless you, child, it was all right, poor thing — it was jest 
 as right as it could be." 
 
 Hiram pulled out a cotton handkerchief, which he carried in 
 his hat, and after hemming and coughing a little, and dabbing it 
 first to one eye and then to the other, he began, he did not exactly 
 know why, to wipe his hat ; an operation less needful, as it was a 
 straw hat. 
 
 Alice sat down by Heywood, apparently unconscious that any 
 one was present. Hei" thoughts were like an unloosed boat, with 
 no one at the rudder, which turns round and round in the tide, and 
 drifts just as the wind or under currents impel it — a boat upon a 
 troubled water and under a dark sky. 
 
 " Oh, cruel, cruel ! to pick the fairest and noblest 1 Tlie wicked 
 and ugly have escaped, and he is gone, so goodl so good I — Eyes 
 that shall never see again — lips that shall never speak — hands 
 that are death cold I S(j true — so beautiful — so good 1 He wa* 
 good 1 Hush ! he stirred ! Hiram ? " 
 
 Hiram had tact enough not to oppose Alice, and hnnuiriag hej 
 Idea that Heywood was only in a swoon, ho said : 
 
488 NORWOOD. 
 
 " I guess, Miss Oathcart, we better take him over, and let th« 
 doctors see if any thing can be done for him. Mebbe he'll come to.'" 
 
 " Oh, yes 1 Hiram, dear Hiram, do take him to the camp." 
 
 " Well, if you'll go back, I'll see to it. You can't be no help 
 here, and you maybe, over there." 
 
 Directing some of the ambulance men to remove the body, he 
 led Alice away to Rose. 
 
 In a sunny field, close up umler ihe edge of a grove, and abont 
 halfway between Little Round Top and the bridge across the Rock 
 Creek, of the Baltimore turnpike, a grave was prepared. A chap 
 lain from the sixth corps, of his own church, read the solemn bur- 
 ial service. Three women, half a dozen men, stood around. The 
 roar of distant cannon was the only response. 
 
 The sun fell warm in the very grave. Rose had plucked from 
 the near trees some burnished oak-leaves ; and hastily plaiting 
 them to ii wreath, laid them on Heywood's breast. Thus fell one 
 who hated the war, but was swept into it by the turbulent tide of 
 revolution which he had not strength to resist. 
 
 Agate Bissell proposed to Rose that they should send Alice to 
 the farm-house of old father Lobdell, where they had spent Wednes- 
 day night. But all thoughts of planning for her comfort were laid 
 aside when they saw Alice's conduct. 
 
 After she returned to the hospital, she arranged her apparel 
 witl more than common care, stepped forth calmly, but iirmly tc 
 her merciful duties. Her face was serene but without smiles. Her 
 care and pify, always strikinii, had in them now an austere tender- 
 t.ess that sti-uck the rudest men with awe and admiration, as if an 
 inspired priestess were among them. Nor, to the end, did Alic« 
 dver mention Heywood's name, nor for ore waking hour, d^d 3h« 
 ever forget it t 
 
CHAPTER LH 
 
 TBB LAST BNDEAVOB. 
 
 On the third day of July, and the third of the complex baitic 
 of Gettysburg, Lee, having in vain assaulted the left of the Union 
 line on the day betbre, determined to break through the centre, 
 and at the same time to enlarge the hold which he had secured 
 upon the extreme Union right, on the eastern slope of Gulp's HUl. 
 But by four in the morning Meade attacked the intrusive forces 
 which had thus, while yesterday's battle raged on the extreme 
 left, as it were stolen in on the right, and by eleven o'clock they 
 were driven out, thus anticipating and defeating Lee's intention 
 of turning the Union right. 
 
 A wonderful silence now came over the vast battlefield and 
 brooded for the space of two hours. Birds sang again, though 
 the ground beneath them was covered with unburied men. The 
 rustling of leaves could be heard once more by the men who lay 
 resting under the trees. But the very silence, that usually brings 
 all thoughts of peace, now sharpened men's fears. It was like 
 that dreadful calm which precedes the burst of storms. Just such 
 It was. At one o'clock it was broken by an uproar as wonderful 
 as had been the silence. Two hundred and thirty-five cannon 
 joined in a clangor of death, such as had never been heard upon 
 this continent. Lee had concentrated a hundred and forty-five 
 guns over against the centre of Cemetery Ridge, and Meade replied 
 with eighty guns — all that could be well placed in his narrower 
 space. The other battle before seemed noiseless compared with 
 this immense cannonading. The slopes of Oak Bidge and the 
 swells upon the further side. of the valley seemed on fire. Each 
 little hill-top became a volcano. From the right, from the left, 
 from the centre, battery upon battery, and parks of batteries 
 flamed and thundered. The emoke rolled np white and bluish- 
 gray, as storm-clouds lift and roll up the sides of mountains. 
 From every direction came the flying missiles — cross-ploughing 
 Cemetery Hill with hideous furrows, in which to plant dead men. 
 Shot flew clear over the r'n^gc — caissons sbatered behind the hill 
 
490 NORWOOD. 
 
 were reached aod blown np. Horses standing harnessed tc 
 reserved artillery, in places before secure, were smitten down. 
 Strange was the discordant music of the missile sounds, for which 
 there were no pauses, that filled the air. Some went hissing, some 
 flew with muffled growl, some sliook out a gushing sound like the 
 rush of waters ; some carried with them an intense and malignant 
 howl ; some spit and sputtered in a spiteful manner ; others 
 whirred, or whistled, or spun threads of tenor or treble sounds. 
 But whattvpr the variety in this awful aerial music, all meant 
 death. If a thousand meteors had burst, and each one flung down 
 shattered masses of meteoric stone, it would have scarcely seemed 
 more lilie a deluge of iron rain than now it did. Orderlies and 
 hids found the roads and fields on the far side of the hill, safe be- 
 fore, now raining with bullets. Meade"s head-quarters were 
 riddled and his staff driven to another position. In a half-hour 
 all the fields were cleared and the men were under cover. For- 
 tunately, the enemy's artillery was elevated too much. The Union 
 soldiers escaped with comparatively little harm, while the reverse 
 of the hill was excoriated with shot and shell. In the burial- 
 ground on the head of Cemetery Ridge, projecting toward the 
 village of Gettysburg, fell the iron hail, rending the graves and 
 splintering the monuments. Flowers growing on graves were 
 rudely picked by hurtling iron. Soldiers who had fallen at Fair 
 Oaks, and had been brought here for burial, far away from all 
 thought of battle, in this quiet Pennsylvania vale, were still pur- 
 sued by war, which rudely tore up their graves; and they heard 
 again the thunder of battle swelling above these resting places, 
 where, it would seem they should have found quiet. 
 
 When it had thundered and rained iron for more than two 
 liouT's, there came moving across the valley fifteen thousand men 
 10 take possession of that ridge 1 As they moved from afar the 
 Union artillery smote them ; but they did not heed it. As they 
 • Irew near, still rent by shot and shell, — earnest, eager, brave, — 
 there burst upon their I'ight flank a fire of musketry and artillery 
 that quite crumpled up and swung back their men upon theii 
 centre. Next, their left wing was utterly riddled and routed by 
 the sliarpnebs of the musketry ; and what part was not captured 
 fled and escaped. But the massive centre, with men as brave aa 
 ever feced death, stern, headlong, pushed right up to Hancock'i 
 
THE LAST ENDEAVOK. 491 
 
 tinea, ontt soroBB them, but could come no further I Like a ship 
 whose impetus carried it far up upon a shoal, from which it can- 
 not recede when it would, several brigades had shot, by the ter- 
 rible momentum, so far up, that when from the slopes of the cem- 
 ■etery, and from the artillery on Meade's left wing, they wer« 
 entiladed, while Hancock, with fresh brigades drawn from his left, 
 met them in front with a iire that pierced like a flame, they 
 yielded themselves up. They had gotten the hill for which they 
 came, but not as victors. The rest shrunk, driven backward, 
 sharply raked with artillery and scorched with sheets of musketry, 
 got them out of the battle, and fled across the valley to their lines, 
 whence they should come no more out hitherward. Many that 
 longed to go with them lay with pitiful wounds. A thousand 
 that an hour before were fierce in ambitious expectation, now and 
 never more cared what befell them, nor what happened under 
 che sun. When the sun went down on that 3d of July, the Union 
 army, a mighty sufierer in more than twenty thousand slain and 
 wounded men, yet had never such cause of rejoicing for the com- 
 ing anniversary day as now, when all those thousands of men joy- 
 fully had died or suffered wounds to preserve that nation's life 
 whose birthday is celebrated on the Fourth of July! 
 
 The morning of Saturday, the 4th of July, rose fair over Get- 
 tysburg. Ewell's corps of Lee's army withdrew from the town 
 and Howard's troops immediately took possession. 
 
 There was great joy throughout the Union army. OflBcers 
 congratulated each other ; the men were raised to the proudest 
 exultation. The army of the Potomac, the victim of misfortunes, 
 but always a model of indomitable patience, had at- length met 
 their great antagonist in a long and severe fight, and thoroughly 
 defeated him. While all were exhilarated with the immediate 
 victory, the thoughtful men of the army experienced a deeper 
 gladness In their prescience of the scope of this victory in its rela- 
 tion to public affairs. The climax was reached. Henceforward the 
 Confederate cause was subject to deuline, weakness and extinction 
 
 The work of burying the dead engaged large details of soldiers 
 The wounded were sought out more assiduously. Lee having with 
 drawn his right wing from before Round Top and concentrated 
 his whole force on the hills over against Gettysburg, there could 
 be no danger in going over on the field of battle. Belief parties 
 
492 NORWOOD. 
 
 were bnsy. AmoDg the rocks of Roand Top and Devil's Dea 
 wounded men were found in fissures, slid down into gaping 
 chasms, and in the black seams, pits and caves which abounded in 
 that savage tangle of giant rocks. But it is probable that many 
 wonndcd died unsuccored in those dark spaces, and that the bonea 
 of many yet lie buried but unsepulchred, with the huge rocka 
 around them as stones of hiding rather than of memorial. 
 
 The farm-houses were filled with wounded ; barns were filled ; 
 the fields were as full as, in a few days, they would have been of 
 sheaves of the wheat which had been so strangely threshed by the 
 feet of wounded men. The town lyas full ; all the sheltered spots 
 and nooks were fuU. A large number of the enemy's wounded, 
 particularly of the last day's battle, remained upon the field ; the 
 total was swelled to an extraordinary aggregate. This little hamlet 
 of a few hundred people had become a great city of wounded men. 
 
 The tidings of the battle spreading through the land had begun 
 already to bring hither those who had sons in the fight. As fast 
 as trains could be dispatched, those of the wounded who could be 
 transported were sent away to various cities, for better care. The 
 horror of the scene was much alleviated by the cheei-fulness of the 
 wounded. As soon as their wounds had been dressed, and they 
 were placed in comfortable circumstances, those not desperately 
 hurt grew quite talkative and even merry. The women of Gettys- 
 burg, and the wives of the farmers living in the region, devoted 
 themselves to the care of the suflTerers with heroic devotion. But 
 the stolid farmers and men of the district round about the town, 
 manifested neither patriotism nor humanity, practising every ex- 
 tortion, and wringing out money for a drop of water given to the 
 wounded men who had fallen in the defence of their homes and 
 lives I 
 
 There are no contrasts more striking than those between 
 human feeling and the moods of the atmosphere. On this fourth 
 day of July a joyous sun arose over the most sr^rrowfol scene that 
 it could well look upon. Three days had converted a peaceful 
 valley into a Golgotha. Ko form of injury which the human body 
 can receive was wanting. The inuenuity of nature in the pr?dt:o- 
 tionof life is not greater than the ingenuity of death in the destruc- 
 tion of life. Leaves and flowers are not more varied in form than 
 were wounds. From the crown of the head to the sole of the 
 
THE LAST ENBEAVOB. 493 
 
 feet, there was not a point in the human body which had not been 
 pierced. The wildest caprice had revelled in singularities of 
 effects. Men received a mere scratch of a glancing ball, and the 
 shock overthrew their nervous system. Anotlier, with wounds on 
 every limb, the lungs pierced, bones broken, the head torn, tramp- 
 led on hymen, run over by artillery, stabbed, shot, hacked, bruised, 
 giveo up by surgeons, still clung to life and climbed back again to 
 health 1 The fields bore ghastly harvests of suffering men. The 
 sun came up and shined upon them as if they were but heads of 
 yellow wheat. Their tremblings and shrinkings were to nature 
 only as the quivering of leaves in the frolicsome wind ; their 
 groans and sighs passed for no more than the singing of birds or 
 the low moaning of the pines. 
 
 The morning seemed an emblem of victory to the unwounded 
 and exultant soldiers. They said : "The sun triumphs 1 Nature 
 exults 1 The heavens and the earth rejoice with us! " — But how 
 was it to the wounded man — too weak to turn away his face from 
 the sun wliich shone full upon it with blistering heat ? How was 
 it with hundreds of parents and friends, wandering up and down 
 through all the vast field in search of some child, brother, lover? 
 What mockery of grief was it, as the mother sat down by the 
 corpse of her only son, that the heavens cared not, that it spread 
 its brilliant arch without sympathy for aught below it, and that 
 the heartless sun marched on over anguish, desolation and despair, 
 as if this had been, not a battle, but a banquet. 
 
 Could a pitiful God look down through the air on such a scene 
 and not fill it with his sympathy, and change it to a soberer line ? 
 Alas 1 this great field of war was but a point, a mere punctuation 
 mark of blood, in the history of that world which groans and 
 travails in pain nntil now I As the midwife, in the throes and 
 groans of the mother, heeds not the pain, but waits for the child 
 that shall bring joy out of woe, so we must needs think the Merci- 
 ful heeds not the forms of suffering, but looks beyond, at the 
 blessings wrought by them. When at last account shall be taken 
 of all the blood that has been shed and of all the tears that have 
 fallen, then the most wonderful name of God will be, Thb Long 
 
 SuFTERUfO 1 
 
 And God has taught the Sun to see beyond and through the 
 beginnings of things *;o their ends. 
 
494 NORWOOD. 
 
 For the Sun forever sees life and not death. It beholds in th« 
 revolution of the sod, not the roots that die, but the harvests which 
 sl)all spring from their death. Death is but the prophet of life. 
 The evil is but for a moment. The benefit runs through the whole 
 season. What if twenty thousand wounded men lie groaning 
 here ? It is tlie price of a nation's life I The instruments of their 
 great conflict were carnal, but its fruits spiritual. 
 - War ploughed the fields of Gettysburg, and planted its furrows 
 with men. But, thoujjh the seed was blood, the harvest shall be 
 peace, concord, liberty, and universal intelligence. For every 
 groan here, a hundred elsewhere ceased. For every death now, a 
 thousand li^es shall be happier. Individuals suflfered ; the nation 
 revived ! 
 
 Shine on, O Snn 1 that beholdest evermore the future I Thon 
 wilt not, glorious Eye of Hope, — ever looking at the ends, — be 
 veiled or raourn because the ways are rough through which God 
 sends universal blessings 1 
 
 . I cannot say that such thoughts as these passed through the 
 mind of Rose Wentworth on this glorious morning after victory. 
 But had some one thought aloud such thoughts, she would have 
 been in full and instant sympathy with them. There was a latent 
 sense of the great mercy to the nation of this victory which lifted 
 her above the mere sight of the eyes, and instead of being depressed 
 with the vast sacrifice spread around her, she had an instinct of 
 its meaning, and a calm and peaceful gladness. She had need to 
 have it. 
 
 " I wonder where Pete is ? " said Agate Bissell, as it drew 
 toward noon. "I have not seen him this morning. He ought to 
 be here and tell us abont Barton." 
 
 " There comes Hiram," said Rose ; " he will do as well. What 
 a bravo fellow Hiram is! He has shown more courage, and per- 
 formed more work, too, in succoring the wounded, than if he had 
 carried a musket. All the brave men are not in the ranks." 
 
 Something disquieted Hiram Beers this morning. He had little 
 to say and seemed fidgety. He picked ip things only to lay them 
 down, and worked without any purpose. At last, he gai'e way : 
 
 " 'Tain't nj use. Rose; you may's well know it fust as last, 
 I've got a letter for yon from Barton, and I expect it's the last 
 ine you'll ever git from him." 
 
THE LAST ENDEAVOR. 495 
 
 Rose stopped, and, raising herself to her fbD height, lookea 
 Hxedly and even commandingly upon Hiram. 
 
 " Hiram, has Barton fallen ? " 
 
 " I don't know ; I'm afraia so. I can't find nothin' of him. 
 Pete's gone ; nobody's seen him to-day. Barton's officers say they 
 faw him fall in a charge yesterday, and that he didn't come back 
 with his men, and that he must be dead. But we've hunted every 
 where for his body and can't find it. I was up there tlie night be- 
 fore the last battle. He said something would happen to him in 
 that iight. He felt it. He told me to wait till he wrote this let- 
 ter. If he got out safe, I was to bring it back to him ; but if h* 
 was killed, I was to give it to yon.'' 
 
 Rose took the letter, and read : 
 
 " I have a presentiment. Rose, that something will befall me 
 to-tnorrow. If yon receive these lines I shall have fallen, and my 
 words will be forgiven as of one dead. Rose, I have vainly tried 
 to conquer that love which has so taken possession of my life as 
 to overcome all other feelings. As early as I can remember, I 
 loved you. It has grown with my manhood. It is a part of my 
 being ! Not to love you would be not to be myself When I told 
 you all this, on leaving home, I had hoped for some sympathy ; I 
 plead for only a word. My letter was not answered or noticed. 
 Perhaps your silence was best. It was hard to bear. If I could 
 have ceased loving, I could have conquered the pain of that re- 
 fusal which you gave by silence. It will not be a trouble to you 
 any longer to know that a heart has loved you beyond every other 
 thing. My latest, strongest feeling, Rose, is love for you 1 My 
 last wishes and prayers invoke blessings on you ! I go toward dark- 
 ness ; but there is a light beyond. In Heaven, O Rose, in Heaven 
 shall meet you, and say, I love you, without fear of repulse. 
 
 Barton Cathoaet." 
 
 Rose stood silent and motionless. Amazement, sorrow and 
 joy filled her heart. She whispered to herself: 
 
 "He loved me! He loved me always! — best! — to the last! 
 He told me of it! When? what letter? There has been some 
 dreadful mistake ! . This is his writing— this is Barton's writing!— 
 and here it is written down : ' My latest, strongest feeling, Rose, it 
 love fo^ ymi ! ' And Tie will never know that T loved him more) 
 
496 NORWOOD. 
 
 Sohle eonl, if thou art in heaven, God will tell thee how thoa art 
 loved ! — And he wrote to me ! wrote to tell me all this when first 
 leaving Norwood ? Where is that treacherous letter that did not 
 fulfil its message? " 
 
 Rose called to Alice. There was something in her manner sc 
 high and commanding, that Alice scarcely believed that this was 
 Rose. She had never seen her in a mood of such exaltation. 
 
 " Alice, my sister, Barton has left ns I " Alice could not looK 
 paler than she already was, bnt a ghastly, ashen hue came over tht 
 white of her fair face. "Read this, Alice. — Can yon not? Lei 
 me read it to you." 
 
 With a firm, low voice, Rose read every word without falter- 
 ing. Barton's words of love seemed to inspire her soul. Thei-e 
 was a triumph ia the gentlest of her tones that showed that sor- 
 row had in it an overmastering joy. 
 
 Alice looked upon Rose with wonder. 
 
 In a low and solemn way, with a wondering, inquiring look 
 she said : 
 
 " I cannot understand you ! It all seems dreadful to me I 
 God is full of anger toward us both." 
 
 " AJice, God loves us both 1 Oli I I know not what joy that 
 would have been of loving, had Barton lived and loved me, since 
 even in death his love is so full of joy and thrilling. I am more 
 glad than sorrowful. He loved me I loved me always I loved me 
 to the end 1 My heart sings ; only my eyes weep 1 Come, Alice, 
 let not people see us." 
 
 They walked along the edges of the woods. Again the little 
 birds were singing, — the melancholy pee-wee, the pine-warbler, 
 the vireo. They came to Heywood's grave. The sun shone 
 brightly upon it. Already some one had transplanted, from the 
 edges of the wood, clumps of flowers. 
 
 Poor Alice, tears running down her cheeks, turned to Rose : 
 
 "Oh, Rose, tell me how to feel as you do! My heait was 
 sunk down so low that there is no more light for me I I have 
 envied the dead around me. I want to go. God does not love 
 me enough to let me die 1 " 
 
 " Alas, Alice, grief poisons you I me it cheers. I am glad that 
 1 fuller. Can death havu di\ided you from your lover, but given 
 uuiie to me? Barton's death has made him mine. Oh, noble soul) 
 
THE LAST ENDEAVOR. 497 
 
 oh, heavenly hero! oh, spirit walking free it. glory I^-death, that 
 separates others, unites us ' I am thine I I am henceforth wedded 
 till tlioa come for me I Oh, Alice, why should I be sad ? My 
 heart is with him. My thoughts walk with him. My life is lifted 
 np higher than sorrows ever fly I " 
 
 " Oh, Rose! you mal<e me feel worse than ever. You seem 
 gone away from me. I cannot follow you. When he fell, the 
 whole world fell too, to me. I cannot see any thing that is bright. 
 I do not love anybody now — nor you,' nor father, nor motlier, 
 nor myself. Oh! my heart is very angry. God is cruel, Eosel— 
 I will speak it. God is cruel to me — very cruel. I don't want to 
 live ; and, if I were to die. Tie would not love me there I " 
 
 Rose was drawn down from her own high thoughts by Alice's 
 childlike outburst of sorrow. 
 
 " My sister, I am, sorry. I am more sorry for yon than for my- 
 self. You do not know what you say, that yon love nothing. 
 Your heart is like a bird driven into the woods by a thunder 
 storm. By and by it will sing again. But I know that God loves 
 you, or he would not so afflict you. All this black will be white 
 by and by. Be brave, and resist the selfishness of sorrow.'' 
 
 " Rose, I am not selfish. I shall give my whole life away for 
 others. I was not selfish. I did not ask fei*eat happiness for my- 
 self. I only wanted him to love me enough to let me love him. I 
 would not have troubled him. I could have kept trouble from him, 
 and helped him a little, and loved when I could stand a little way 
 off and look at him. He would never love me as Barton loved 
 you, Rose. Oh, you will never know all of that I But if after a 
 great while he should say, 'Alice, I am always happier when you 
 are by me,' oh. Rose, the angels in the resurrection will say nothing 
 80 sweet as that would be I But he will never say it now I " 
 
 Rose caught at Barton's name. 
 
 " Did Barton confide his feelings to you, Alice ? " 
 
 " Yes, he'did. No, he did not. I mean, I knew them without 
 his saying any thing. And I am sure he knew mine. And w« 
 both knew that the other knew all ; and so, when he would say • 
 few words and stop, I knew all the rest." 
 
 " It is strange — very strange — that Barton did not speak." 
 
 "It is stranger that you should have needed to have him. If 
 he had been near me, as Barton was near yon, and felt as Barton 
 
498 NORWOOD. 
 
 did, I should hare known it, jnst as I know the incming « coin* 
 w^hen it floods my window with light." 
 
 Rose mnsed a moment : 
 
 "My time had not come. I was like one who hears sounds in 
 his sleep and Inrnf them all inio the fabric of his dream. Surely 
 I knew ! and yet I knew not. It was like seed sown before the 
 gionnd is warm. But the summer floods me now. Every seed is 
 a blossom 1 " 
 
 They sat for a while, silent and thoughtful ; then Alice pointed 
 to a clump of columbines that had blossomed by the edge of a rock. 
 
 "Rose, yon ai-e like those flowers, and trouble seems to move 
 yon as the wind does them, only to show the sparkle of the sun- 
 liglt with every motion. I am like the shadow which they east 
 upon the rock, that perishes by night, and is but a shadow all 
 day." 
 
 Rose still fell off into musing — often talking to herself in a low 
 tone, or half whisper, as one who chants a forming poem to weigh 
 its words. 
 
 " O my soul, thou art crowned to-day I O death, that hasl 
 taken his presence from me, thou hast given me his heart ! In 
 one moment I am bereaved and wedded, — I am cast down and ex- 
 alted I Barton, thou didst all thy life love me — without response I 
 I, too, all my life will love thee, alone and unrequited 1 " 
 
 Rose took Alice to her bosom and kissed her, with a strange 
 and solemn tenderness which brought tears from her eyes. But 
 Rose neither wept nor was sad. 
 
 " Alice, did you know that Barton had written me ? " 
 
 "I did." 
 
 " Why did you never mention it ? Was it sisterly ? I knew 
 not of it. No letter has ever come to me from Barton. I was sad 
 and dark that he went away forgetting or caring little for his child 
 hood friend.' 
 
 "I was not permitted. Rose. Barton solemnly, enjoined si 
 lence ; upon my honor I was not to mention his secret." 
 
 " Oh, Alice! this is a day of great joy, and sorrow cannot reach 
 to it, nor pluck it down." 
 
 " I can only see grief upon grief. He is gone, and Barton i« 
 gone. I would that I, too, were gone." 
 
 "Poor Alice — dear Alite — if only Hey wood would speak tc 
 
THE LAST ENDEAVOR. 499 
 
 yon ont of the air, or coming in the vision of the night, saying, '] 
 do wholly love thee, Alice,' would you not triamph over grief?" 
 
 Alice shuddered with intensity of feeling. 
 
 " Yes 1 — ^if I might know that he loved me, and would always 
 love me, I would go through a thousand years of sorrow and he 
 glad all the way ! But, oh! Rose, Rose, he did not love me. It 
 was you — not nie." 
 
 And Alice wept like a little child. Rose comforted her as a 
 mother comforts her child, and, withdrawing- her from thoughts 
 of herself. Rose, half to Alice and half to herself, went on : 
 
 " At last I am free. No more checking! No more self-deceiv- 
 ing! No more suffering and misnaming of one's deepest life! No 
 more shame for the heart's hest fruit! I am beloved and I lovel 
 I almost wish it were known. I would that men could see it on 
 my brow, and read it in my eyes. I would that all that knew 
 him, when they behold me, might say, ' See how his love covers 
 her as with a queen's garment ! ' I would have such gladness in 
 my eyes that men should say, ' His love is like a crowning flame 
 about her head ! ' " 
 
 "O Rose I I do not understand you. I cannot rise as yon do 
 My heart is heavy, my soul is dark, my life is gone out. I dare not 
 murmur, but I cannot submit. I was not called, and yet I loved. 
 Great is my punishment." 
 
 "Mourn not, Alice I It is noble to love with an unsullied 
 love 1 Not those who love are poor, but those who do not. He 
 was poorer that knew not how to love you, than you, whom God 
 made wise to love greatly and divinely. As for me, this is the 
 day of my espousals. I will sing of sorrow now all the days of my 
 life. Since God has taken him into heaven, he will send over all 
 things that the heavens cover, something of his nobleness and 
 honor. The sun shall be brighter to me for his sake ; the earth, 
 and all that grows upon it, shall have new meaning now ; and 
 every sound that the ear loves to hear shall be to me a part of hi? 
 voice, saying, ' Rose, I love thee 1 ' " 
 
 The clouds had been silently gathering in the sky. First a 
 haze, then films that grew thicker, and a gray tint in the sunlight 
 that changed rapidly toward dark, untU soon the whole heaves 
 was sheeted, and rain began to fall ; at first gently, but with in 
 creasing quantity, until it por.rerl abundantly. 
 
500 NORWOOD. 
 
 Great battles are said tt' bring on rain storma A great rain 
 certainly set in on Saturday after the battle. Rock OreeK, that had 
 been so shallow that it was easily crossed by the men upon the 
 stones, without wetting their feet, began now to show signs of 
 uneasiness. The water grew discolored. It began to gather vol- 
 ume. One familiar stone after another silently disappeared. It 
 grew more restless, and began to send down flecks of foam. It 
 filled up the edges, clear up to the banks. It still rose as evening 
 came on. That modest, little stream had became surly and des- 
 potic. With headlong will it swept all before it, and its usual 
 gentleness was lost in its turbulent rush and roar. But the hos- 
 pital lay upon both banks of this stream. As the darkness came 
 on, it was plain that the men must be removed. No time was to 
 be lost. Already the stream had reached the wounded. Those 
 who could help themselves climbed the steep slope a little further 
 inland, to which the surgeons began to remove the men. All was 
 haste. Whatever help could be got was impressed. Men with 
 stretchers were busy carrying the badly wounded. With all their 
 effort, two or three, overtaken by the merciless water, were swept 
 away and drowned. When morning came, a raging torrent divided 
 the surgeons, some upon the further bank being unable for hours to 
 cross to the hospital field. The bridge on the Baltimore pike was 
 overflowed, its planks lifted and floated away. The whole night was 
 one of toil and anxiety. 
 
 With the morning came joy to Rose. On the second day of the 
 battle, word had been telegraphed to the Northern cities for surgi- 
 cal aid. The enormous accumulation of wounded men, Union 
 and rebels, overtaxed the exertions of the medical corps. At this 
 summons speedily came many scores of men eminent in their pro- 
 fession, for a short service in the field, and among them Dr. Wcnt- 
 worth. Although he arrived on Saturday, it was not until Siiiirlay 
 afternoon that Rose met her father— -and then she had to searcli 
 for him. For, not waiting even to brush the dust from his clothes, 
 nor for food, Dr. Wentworlh, within half an hour after reaching 
 Gettysburg, was established nnd at work. Nor for two days and 
 two nights did he rest for an hour Such were the necessities of 
 the occasion, that with the most heroic enei'gy and perseverance 
 of the regular surgeons of the .army, working night and day, and 
 with all the help which they received from volunteers from tht 
 
THE LAST ENDEAVOR. 601 
 
 profession abroad, it was three or four days before the first round 
 wa8 completed. In some of the field hospitals the wounded were 
 treated as they came, without regard to the side to wMob they 
 belonged. In other hospitals the Union soldiers were treated first, 
 and in one case three or four hundred rebel wounded waited in a 
 barn some three days before our surgeons could reach their cases. 
 But then the reaction had set in, their nervous systems were pros- 
 trated, and they could not endure the operations necessary. 
 A,lmost every man died. A strange fatality attended some hos- 
 pitals. In some places almost every wound led to loclqaw, and 
 every attack proved fatal. Some hospitals were more deadly than 
 the battle-field. Of seven hundred men, in one case, who bid fair 
 at first to recover, scarcely a' hundred survived. The poison gene- 
 rated by sickness and wounds when vast numbers of men are clus- 
 tered closely in disadvantageous circumstances is of frightful ma- 
 lignancy. Men fall away like leaves in an October day when east 
 winds strike the trees I 
 
 Among the memorials and monuments, the eulogies and honors 
 so deservedly bestowed upon the soldiers and ofiicers of the army 
 some place should be found, not second, for the medical gentlemen, 
 who, as a body, illustrated the highest virtues of patriotism and 
 humanity in theil extraordinary zeal and labor. Often much ex- 
 posed to fire, conversant with fatigue as great as could be endured, 
 brought face to face with all that is horrible and depressing in war, 
 working against insuperable obstacles, maintaining a desperate fight 
 against death, without those almost supernatural excitements 
 which carry men through battles, the surgeons of the army deserve 
 to be ranked with the foremost soldiers. Not a whit less is due to 
 that noble army of nurses who, without fee or reward, devoted 
 themselves unweariedly, from the beginning of the war to the 
 end, to the sick and wounded soldiers, and to the social and moral 
 improvement of those that were well. It is computed that first 
 and last two thousand women, during the war, left homes of re- 
 finement and comfort, accepted every hardship of the field and th 
 march, of the camp and of the hospital, with a heroism not sur 
 passed by the soldiers. Women carried with them the inspiration 
 of love and duty, and brought to the camp the remembrances of 
 home, to the hospital the softer graces of humanity, and every- 
 
502 NORWOOD. 
 
 where a spirit of self-sacrifice and fidelity, that shone like a rain 
 bow upon a scowling cload of war. 
 
 It seems fit, therefore, that among the testimonies of a nation's 
 gratitude some recognition should be given to this rear-guard of 
 humanity! At least it would be a wise and comely act for tlit 
 Government of this Nation, in the Capital, to rear a monument 
 uid inscribe it 
 
 THE HEROIC 8UKGE0NS AND THE NOBLE WOMEN 
 
 LAID DOWN THEIR LIVES FOE THE NATION. 
 
CHAPTEK Lin. 
 
 THE MOTTNTAIN COVBET. 
 
 Thb tidings which Hiram Beers brought to Barton's frieodg wiil 
 require us to go back a day or two, and to trace the events con- 
 nected with Barton Oathcart's fate. 
 
 Ko one who saw the calmness and cheerfulness with which 
 Barton awaited the famous charge of Pickett upon the left centre 
 of the Union lines, on Friday afternoon, would uieaui that he was 
 sad or foreboding. It was not the darkness of despondency or 
 pain. Oomiug events seemed to him to cast their shadows over 
 him. But there was in this very premonition a cordial. The 
 settled certainty gave calmness, and his Christian hope gave him 
 cheerfulness. 
 
 The night before he had, as we have already learned, entrusted 
 Hiram with a message, and he also had made every arrangement 
 with Pete, to secure to his friends the few effects which might 
 become precious in their sight. Pete, though not a fighting 
 character, was made bravo in exigencies by his fidelity. He took 
 good care of his own person, unless General Oathoart was in 
 danger; then he almost lost sense of his own peril in his anxiety 
 for his master. 
 
 When the grand charge of Pickett's corps had almost expended 
 its force, there was concentrated upon its overtasked ranks such a 
 fire, on either flank and in the front, as no mortal men might 
 endure. Hundreds dropped their muskets and fell flat upon the 
 ground to escape the sweep of fire. A thousand men were captured. 
 The enemy retired sullenly, fighting from point to point, broken 
 up into small bodies. The utter destruction of this, the flower of 
 Lee's army, might have been accomplished had Meade possessed 
 reserves of fresh troops. As it was, several brilliant charges were 
 made, and in all several thousand prisoners captured. It was in 
 such a charge that Barton Oathcart was first severely wounded in 
 the thigh, and then, separated from his men, he found himself 
 surrounded with Confederate soldiers, and borne away in the 
 whirl of the retreating in!i^--es .\t first, lie sought to hreaV 
 
5U4: NORWOOD. 
 
 tlirougb and regain his own side, but a bayonet thrast throngb th« 
 light arm still further disabled him, and he was swept away across 
 the valley, and in half an hour, was within Lee's linos. He was 
 speedily sent to the rear. He lay all night in the open fields, 
 suffering much from his wounds, and uiusing with some surprise 
 upon bis case. Was this, then, all that the presentiment meant! 
 Was it only wounds and captivity, and not death ? 
 
 But, though at first he felt this relief, every hour of the night, 
 wbile be pictured to himself the fate of prisoners in Southern 
 prisons, increased the feeling that be had escaped death for a worse 
 fate. 
 
 When the morning dawned on Saturday, July 4 bis spirits had 
 fallen low. The excitement of battle was over. Just before the 
 dawn came that utter sinking of the spirits which those in trouble 
 so well know. It would seem as if between dark and dawn tbere 
 was a space, measured by an hour of time, through which the globe 
 moved, infested with malign spirits, that jibe and tempt the weary 
 heart and ride it to the uttermost. 
 
 He could not sleep. He could not keep awake. He vibrated 
 wretchedly between making and sleeping. His head was enough 
 unsettled to make his sleep seem spectral and his waking ghastly. 
 It was out of one of his painful moments of delii'ious sleep that he 
 woke thinking he heard his name called. There by his side stood 
 Pete. Barton thought at first that it was only another vision of 
 dreams. He looked at him without speaking. But he was not 
 long left in doubt. Pete was overjoyed to be again at his side. 
 
 ■' Why, Pete — is it really you ? " said Barton, putting his hands 
 upon his brawny arm, tu make sure. 
 
 " Yes, sir, it's me — 'taint nobody else. I guess I owns them 
 feet,'' said Pete, extending a foot which would answer for a small 
 boat; the shoe, »t any rate, sufrgesting some such idea. 
 
 " How in the world did you get here? did you drop down ? I 
 thought it was a dream. I've had a good many this morning — 
 but this is the best dream yet." 
 
 " Wal, as soon as you didn't come back, I thought somethin 
 had to be done, and I kind o' went down to look arter ye, an 
 they cotched me, and then they axed me who I was, and I told 
 'em my name was Pete. And they said who did I belong to, and 
 I told 'em I was a free niji:;'Cr, and took care of Gineral Cathcarl, 
 
THE MOUNTAIN COVKKT. 505 
 
 and they larfed considerable, and so they bronght me to Jest th« 
 right place, for the very fnst thing I seed this momin' was you." 
 
 All day Lee was sending back his trains, his wounded and 
 prisoners. Oathcart was despatched about noon. It soon began 
 raining. Pete was never a moment away from Barton's side. As 
 the ambulance in which he was convoyed approached the pass 
 thiough the South Mountain, Pete grew oheerfuL It was evident 
 that he purposed something unusual. He said in a low tone to 
 barton, at a time when the guards were a little in advance — 
 " Gineral, I s'pose you'd jest as lieve git away from these fellers, 
 if you could ? " 
 
 "There's no chance, Pete. Don't you see the guards on every 
 sidef" 
 
 " But I want you to be ready, and if I see a chance, yon mnst 
 be spry as yon kin with that leg." 
 
 A heavy rain was now descending. The road was much choked 
 ap, and the trains moved with difficulty. It grew rapidly dark. 
 Either side of the pass was rugged and wild. Pete carried himself 
 in a dull and plodding way, as if he had not a thought in his head. 
 Yet he was watching sharply the soldiers, the character of the 
 ground, where it rose steeply, where ravines on the right or left 
 showed openings. About eight o'clock some interruption at the 
 fi-ont caused a halt and a little confusion. One or two shots were 
 heard in the distance. Some one said that the pass, ahead, was in 
 possession of the Union tmops. The guards near the ambulance 
 stepped forward for a moment to speak with their commander. 
 Pete looked cautiously about, without turning his head. There 
 were no soldiers within several rods. 
 
 To the right, as nearly as he could discover, the rocks did not 
 rise precipitously ; bnt there seemed some kind of opening. In 
 fact, a small stream descended and crossed the road not far below 
 them, and it was some damage to the rude bridge that had checked 
 the column. 
 
 Seizing the favorable moment, Pete came to the rear of the 
 ambulance, silently, and reached in his long arm. He gave Barton 
 one or two emphatio twitches, as much as to say : 
 
 " Now is your time," 
 
 As fast as his wounded leg would allow, Barton worked hit 
 body toward the back of the vehicle. No wouer bad his leg( 
 
(jU6 NORWOOD. 
 
 hnug down from n man Pete, turning his back to liis msstLr, lool 
 Barton on his shoulders and darted instantly into the thicket. His 
 movement was not a moment too soon. The driver, seeitg his 
 prisoner gone, oried out. The soldiers, catching a glimpse of Pete, 
 fired upon liim, and severiil of them dashed after him. But at 
 each step the tliicket became so difficult that pursuit was soon 
 given up, and the prisoners escaped. But a shot had reached its 
 mark. Entering Barton's side just above his loins, the bullet had 
 traver.-ed the inner walls of the abdomen, ar'l rame out at tlie front. 
 Every step now grew more difficult. Tlie mountain laurel in 
 spots formed such barriers that it could not well be penetrated. 
 The sound of the stream drew Pete toward it, and he groped bis 
 way, sometimes in it, sometimes along its rough and rocky edge ; 
 at other times, turned away from the stream by some insuperable 
 obstacle, he plunged again into the thicket. Barton grew faint. 
 and would fain have stopped ; but Pete determined to reach some 
 retreat that was at once safe and of better accomodations. The 
 chances seemed poor. The heavy spruce boughs swept in their 
 faces, shaking off showers of drops, which could scarcely add to 
 their discomfort, f )r they were drenched to the skin already. 
 None but Pete could have proceeded a step in snch gloom of night, 
 dark by reason of clouds, and still darker by the overshading trees 
 of this mountain forest. But, though Pete often stumbled, was 
 frequently stopped, and with incredible labor, got along but a little 
 way, yet his great strength enabled him to hold out as few but he 
 could have done, and by some instinct he contrived to keep his 
 direction. For an hour he had toiled on. At length the side of 
 the brook seemed smoother. But it ended suddenly against al- 
 most precipitous rocks. The way semed effectually shut up, 
 unless he could find a path by the channel of the brook itself 
 Oarefnlly laying his burden down, Pete descended to the stream 
 and followed it up. He found that it now issued from a sort of 
 gateway, by a series of cascades which vrere quite shallow, and 
 that the ascent was an inclination which made it scarcely more 
 difficult than a pair of stairs. Returning to Barton, he bore him 
 carefully up the steep channel ; and, at its top, finding the brook 
 more level, he judged that he had reached nearly to the summit of 
 the hills, and that he might find a more accessible path on its banks. 
 There seemed no forest on either hand. Moving away '"-om th» 
 
THE MOUNTAIN COVEET. 507 
 
 stream, and groping along a kind of gravelly bed in search of 
 higher ground that should not be affected by the overflow of th« 
 stream that might be expected, should the rain continue all night, 
 Pete, at length, reached some shelving rocks, which fdrnished not 
 only an elevation above the stream but a partial shelter also 
 Here he gladly laid Barton down. Finding that hemlock boughs 
 were hanging over him, Pete broke off an armful of them to fur- 
 nish his master with something softer than a rock. 
 
 The hours passed slowly and gloomily. Barton could not sleep 
 from the pain of bis wounds. Pete was sleepless from anxiety 
 about his charge. The rain at times slackened. Once Pete could 
 discern the clouds above growing thinner and letting through a 
 faint light from the moon. Midnight passed, although they could 
 not determine the time. The rains redoubled their violence. 
 Little rills, formed above them, trickled down from the rocks. 
 The stream began to sound angrily. Pete's ear, alive to evei-y 
 sound, noticed with alarm the change from the shrill sound of 
 shallow water rushing over rocks to a deeper tone, as if the stream 
 were growing to a torrent. The roar became more portentous. 
 Pete peered anxiously from his lurking place into the darkness. 
 Nothing could he see. Another hour passed, another hour of 
 pain to Barton, but of alarm to Pete. The faithfiil soul would not 
 impart his alarm to his master. He said to himself, " Gosh-a- 
 beely I don't I wish it was light I I don't like this place — I don't 
 now. May be we've got trapped I " His thoughts reverted to the 
 ravine at Norwood, where Heywood had received his fall. Should 
 this be such another, a mere chamber in the rocks, it might sud- 
 denly be filled by the rising torrent and become a rockbound 
 reservoir. He listened! Could it be that he was hearing the 
 water just beneath him? It seemed so. Yet the roar of the 
 stream had risen to such a pitch of sound as well nigh to drow n 
 all other sounds. He reached down his foot, and drew it up again 
 quickly. The stream wm rushing along swiftly by the very rocks 
 on which they lay I He waited a half hour, and sounded again. 
 The distance was lessening 1 The water was rising I He moved 
 cautiously — first in one direction, and then in another — to find on 
 every side that they were shut in I A horror began to fill Pete'i 
 Bonl. He had brought Barton hither to be drowned I Once 
 darmed, he had no resoui oe in reflortinn to restrair and moderat* 
 
508 NORWOOD. 
 
 it. The poor fellow, wept. Speak lie would not, for fear of alarm- 
 ing Barton, though he might have shouted without danger of 
 being heard in the thunder of the cataract ! 
 
 lie reached his hand over to see if the water was rising, and to 
 his horror it was even then lapping the very edge of the rock. 
 The foam flitted past him, like specks of faint light. It struck him 
 that he had seen no foam before I It must be growing toward 
 morning! Oh, if it were but light! To be drowned in darkness, 
 to be caught like rats in a trap, and made way with, when, per- 
 haps, if one could only see, there might be a way of escape hardly 
 a step oflf I Poor Pete gained a slight hope from the sight of the 
 waters. But the morning rose slowly and the waters rose fast. 
 It must be soon or never. 
 
 The light dawned at length. Pete began to see the walls of 
 rock on either side. About two hundred yards up, the stream 
 came pelting down with a tremendous plunge, and with that mass- 
 ive movement that indicates great depth of water. Across, from 
 side to side, the chamber of rocks was filled by the stream, which 
 was still hastening wildly, madly, toward the ledge over which 
 Pete had ascended. 
 
 The rocks on which they were perched had fallen out of the 
 walls on tliat side, being sprung from their original place by the 
 frosts. The place was visible from which they had been moved. 
 It was like a huge step in the side of the cliff, about six feet above 
 their heads. Gould that be reached, immediate danger, at least, 
 would be over. From the crevices of the rock grew some shrubs; 
 but an old hemlock, that seemed as if it had once had the rheu- 
 matism, which left all its joints swollen and twisted, projected 
 from tlie sides of the rocks, almost at right angles. To catch the 
 lioiiglis and swing himself into the tree, to spring from it upori 
 tla- rocks where the block upon which Barton lay had once 
 been, was but the work of a moment. But how to get Barton 
 ihere? He could help himself but very little. 
 
 The need was pressing. The water was running clear over the 
 giirface of the ruck. Pete descended, helped Bai-ton to his feet, 
 placed him in a selected spot, then springing again into the hem- 
 lock, and reaching down, he took Bai-ton under the armpits and 
 drew him up upon the trunk. The tiee quivered. Should ita rooti 
 give wa.v it was all over with iliem I Peto did not wait for inspeo- 
 
THi: MOUNTAIN COVERT. 509 
 
 t.uii. It was this or nothing. The hardest feat, yet to do Moving 
 back along the trunk, he came to the point least distant from tha 
 rock. Seizing Barton with his left arm, he made one bound into 
 which he put every particle of his strength, reached the edge of 
 the rock, wavered, reeled, and fell, but ftVt forward, and was safe 
 at last I 
 
CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 A NIGHT AND A DAT IN THE MOUXTAINS. 
 
 Thk first step had been taken. But it might be called a step 
 away from danger, rather than a step toward safety. Thry ireic 
 safe at least from the peril of waters. On looking back, one now 
 by the morning light could see into what a dangerous position 
 they had wandered. It was a narrow ravine, cloven through 
 solid rock, apparently by some convulsive agency rather than by 
 the slow wearing of waters. When the stream was low it occu- 
 pied but a small space. But heavy rains brought down from the 
 mountain sides snch sheets of water as had the power suddenly 
 to swell the rill to a torrent, and as the exit was quite narrow, 'he 
 waters, if rains were violent or continued, set back and filled up 
 the whole space. 
 
 The place on which Pete now stood with his almost helpless 
 burden, was situated at the mouth of what in a thousand years 
 might become a lateral ravine, sloping toward the gulf from 
 which they had just escaped. There was a depression in the 
 rocks, a kind of rude channel that fortunately did not pursue a 
 straight, steep course, but zigzagged in such a manner that a very 
 strong and agile man might climb to the summit. Had Pete onlj- 
 himself to rescue he would have gone up almost as quickly as a 
 crow could. But his own safety without the rescue of Barton, 
 would have been a great disaster to his simple, faithful soul. 
 
 Laying his burden carefully down, Pete began to explore the 
 way. He soon ascended to the summit. But there were points 
 where even Pete Sawmill, with the strength of three men, could 
 not have conveyed himself and Barton too. In so far as mere 
 lifting was concerned, Pete could have carried Barton up as easUy as 
 a bear could carry her cub in her mouth. But to lift and spring 
 at the same time, with the dead weight of a sick man upon him, 
 transcended even Pete's powei-. Oould Barton have helped him- 
 self enough to cling around Pete, it would have bettered matters. 
 
A NIGHT AND A DAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. .111 
 
 But the severe strain of battle for two days and two nights, his 
 wonnds, and the exposure to cold and rain among the rocks that 
 night, had now rendered Barton quite helpless, and Pete was 
 even afraid that he might die on his hands. 
 
 After surveying the several sides and selecting the most teasi- 
 ble, Pete returned to Barton and slowly and with extreme diflS- 
 culty conveyed him, little by little, to a point more than half-way 
 to the summit. Here he was confronted by an obstacle that 
 seemed likely to stop him. On every side but one the rooks were 
 Insuperable. But on the right a perpendicular-faced rock was 
 laced with roots, and overliung with the branches of soma 
 stunted trees in a way that, if Pete could but have the use of both 
 arras and feet, he could easily ascend. But how to hold on to 
 Barton and climb with but one hand I 
 
 At length, Pete's ingenuity vanquished that difiBculty. Barton 
 seemed like a dying man. He moaned when any violent exertion 
 stirred up his pains. He was quite helpless. Pete first tried by 
 passing his sash about him to lash Barton to his own breast. That 
 would not do. He then attempted to loop the sash under Barton's 
 arms, and to pass the other part over his own neck. Both endeavors 
 failed for the same reason. Barton hung down so low that he was 
 quite unmanageable. At length, an idea struck Pete. Whether 
 it was an instinct derived from his pre-existent state, wherein 
 Pete must have been a stalwart bear, or whether he remembered 
 that animals carry their young in their mouths, or whether, still 
 more probably, he remembered the pennies which he had earned 
 (and drank up) in Norwood, for lifting men ofi' from the ground 
 with his teeth, he determined to bring a new force into play that 
 should still leave him the full use of his hands and feet. Winding 
 the sash tightly round and round Barton, close under his arms, he 
 seized it with his mouth, and, straightening himself up, he found 
 that Oathcart's feet fairly cleared the ground. He now, with his 
 arms and legs free, could without difficulty climb the rock. While 
 Pete was thus occupied, two pair of eyes were peering out from 
 above upon him, with an expression that boded no good. 
 
 " What dat, Sam ? Look a dar — what dat, I say ? " 
 
 " Oh, Lord, I tink he be bar ! " 
 
 "Dat bar's got a big cnb, den — dat's what I say! Mighty 
 itrong monf I " 
 
512 NORWOOD. 
 
 " Oh, Icrd, lord I I tink it be debbU-ooioht a siimer— gwm« 
 to eat him np — oh, lord-a-marcy I " 
 
 "Shut up niggfrl I know what ee bel it's a reb. Don't you 
 Beehisclo's? He's reb ossifer ! Git me some rocks, nigger I If 
 he tote dat feller under here, I smash 'im head 1 " 
 
 Pete had come to the very place designated, and our story 
 would have had an abrupt termination, had not t) e more intelli- 
 gent of the two negroes above observed something in the uniform, 
 as Pete laid down his burden, that looked less like a rebel than h« 
 at first supposed. Whereupon, a parley ensued- 
 
 " I say, dar, you better stop ! " 
 
 Pete, much surprised, looked in every direction, at this sum- 
 mons ; but could see no one. 
 
 " Who's that ? " he said ; and instantly imagining help at 
 baud, he added : " Where are you ? Jist come and give us a lift, 
 will ye ? I'm afeered the gineral will die.'' 
 
 Two woolly heads protruded from the bushes, on the summit 
 above him, the one looking cautiously and the other timidly down 
 upon him. 
 
 " Who be dat ? W'at you got dar ? Rebel ? " 
 
 " No, it is Gineral Oathcart of the Union army. Ve got away 
 from the rebs last night. He's badly wounded. Oan't ye give a 
 fellow a lift now ? " 
 
 " You wait now, I tell ye I Sam, you go for Massa Jacob, 
 quick." 
 
 It was not more than ten minutes, though to Pete it seemed 
 hours, before Jacob appeared, in the form of a comely young man 
 of about twenty-two years of age. His hair was long ; his hat 
 something wide of brim, thnugh rather rough ; but his speech al 
 once bespoke him of the excellent and honorable family of Friends, 
 or, as the world will have it, Quakers. 
 
 He needed no explanations. Union or rebel, a wounded man 
 must not die unlielped. Despatching one of his men for some 
 halters, he soon had made a line long enough and strong enough 
 to lift Barton up. Pete was at the summit quite as soon. A walk 
 ^f about five minutes conveyed them to a rude hut, built originally 
 Dj cn<irooal burners, but now patched a little and made tenantnble. 
 Pr'e speedily told hin story, and lenineil, on tiie dther hand, that 
 I)'"' ll:l(l s'lipihlrd \;iiO!' :\ liidiiifi ti\,irx i|' I'ntM',' !lri'! I riM'F Witt.ii' 
 
A NIGHT AND A DAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 513 
 
 a Btono's throw there were a huudred and more cows and nxeri. 
 and some three score fine horses, the half of the neat stock and 
 two-thirds of the horses belonging to Paul Hetherington, the 
 father of the comely youth who had rescued them. Several con- 
 trabands, who during the war had escaped from Virginia, and 
 who had found employment on Hetherington's farm, were more 
 than willing to retreat into the mountains with the cattle, for 
 reasons of their own safety, while the rebel army remained in the 
 valley. 
 
 Jacob Hetherington, fortunately, had some little medical knowl- 
 edge. He had been much among the wounded at the battle of 
 Antietam. He had already conveyed to Gettysburg, on twc 
 several days, a load of various comforts for the wounded. But, 
 sorely to his regret, he could not devote himself to the work of 
 liumjmity, being needed at home to superintend this new depart- 
 ment in the mountains. 
 
 Barton's wounds were at once cleansed and bound afresh. 
 Spirits he had none; but hot coffee was soon prepared. The 
 young Friend put his own coat on Barton, wrapping himself in a 
 blanket. 
 
 It was full time for Barton Oathcart to receive some succor. 
 Wounded twice upon Friday afternoon, his weary progress on 
 Saturday, the additional wound on making his escape, the cold 
 rains, the rude kindness of Pete, by which he was dragged through 
 bushes and over rocks, without nourishment, and without stimu- 
 lants, all this had brought him down to sucli weakness that he 
 seemed likely to sink away of mere exhaustion. His pulse was 
 very feeble, his skin cold, and his whole system very low. Jacob 
 Hetherington was alarmed. The wound upon his abdomen was 
 likely to be mortal. If the ball had sunk deep within, he would 
 die within a few honrs^ and aU his appearance indicated the ap- 
 proach of this catastrophe. Even if no interior part had been sun- 
 dered, much was to be feared from inflammation, and he was in 
 no state to bear a peritoneal fever. 
 
 Jacob Hetherington was a rigid temperance man, as also was 
 his father, and the young man presented such a wholesome cheek, 
 a skin so pure, an eye so unstained with morbid blood, that he was 
 a walking commendation of abstemiousness. A^lbeit not given to 
 violence, y&t, if any one h;id donlitpd wb )ther a 'totiil .-ibstpiner ' 
 
514 xoriwooD. 
 
 pould 1)6 strong, ho had only to repah- to eome green and grassy 
 "pot for a wrestling bout, and every doubt would disappear! 
 Jacob was well satisfied with his own principles and practice ; and 
 yet, when he saw Barton's condition "-e sorely regretted that soma 
 body of an opposite view was not in his camp. He had strictlj 
 forbidden the use of intoxicating drinks among his father's hired 
 men, and now, when he would have given a river full of cold water 
 for a pint of whiskey, not a drop was to be had. Jacob questioned 
 Pete on the subject. 
 
 " Wal, I brought a flask along, but when I got in the rebel 
 camp the fellers went through me mighty quick, and one on 'em 
 pulled out my flask, and sez he, ' Ah, nigger, this pocket pistol is 
 very dangerous — might go oflF.' I never seed it agin." 
 
 "I am afraid that your master will suffer for want of stimu- 
 lants. He may die for want of a gill of brandy." 
 
 Pete was a good deal troubled. 
 
 " Brandy ? Why don't you give 'im whiskey ? Our folks give 
 'om whiskey when the brandy gives out." 
 
 " But I have no whiskey. There is none in camp. None of my 
 men ever touch it." 
 
 " 8'pose you jest ask 'em. Mebbe some on 'em got it acciden- 
 tal like." 
 
 Jacob had no hope in the matter. His orders had been per- 
 emptory. He knew that his men would obey. Besides, he did 
 not believe that they could use wliisl;ey and he not pereeive it. 
 Yet he called his men. 
 
 "Have any of you got a little wliiskey? " 
 
 They all looked horror-struck ! — "STcj, none of them ! 
 
 " This gentleman will die on our hands, I fear, unless I can pro- 
 cure some immediate relief Sam, I think you had better go down 
 to the settlement — you might even take one of the colts — and get 
 a flask of whiskey. I will give you a dollar for it." 
 
 Great as was Sam's aversion to whiskey, he had a j-et more 
 terrible dread of rebel soldiers. Any thing rather than venture 
 down where he might be caught. Indeed, the urgency of the 
 case awoke in Sam's memory something which he had entirely 
 forgotten. 
 
 "Why, sab, Ijis 'member dat Dutchman, las' night, had a bot- 
 tle [ see liim drink suthin', and den le hide 'em in de rock. H« 
 
A NIGHT AND A DAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 515 
 
 wanted me to drink — 'conrse I wouldn't, 'case I knew 'twaa 
 whiskey. ^ 
 
 Pete was impatient. 
 
 " What's the use, you nigger, in lyin' so ? If you've got a bot- 
 tle, you go git it — pretty quick, I say ! " 
 
 Pete's words were far more efficacious than Jacob's. For Pete 
 had had a pull at that bottle already, and knew its quality. Hia 
 only doubt respected the amount of contents left. All three of 
 the colored men had tasted it, and none of them hurried them- 
 
 Sam soon appeared bearing a junk bottle in which a cob aorved 
 as a cork. He seemed to be an entire stranger to it. He took out 
 the stopper, and looked in to see if there was any thing there. He 
 held it up to the sky for the same purpose. He smelt of it. 
 
 " I guess am whiskey — spects so ! mighty bad stuff," said Sam, 
 with the most virtuous look of disgust at this dangerous sub- 
 stance. " Masea nebber let a nigga have um — put de debbil in de 
 niggii." 
 
 The grave smile that lay upon Jacob's face indicated that he 
 had his own opinion of this new miracle of whiskey from the rocks, 
 and of the story about the Dutchman hiding it there, but he 
 eagerly took it, turned out its contents — alas ! but slender — into a 
 tin cap of coffee. 
 
 " Better than none, but far fi'om sufficient. I would give thee 
 another dollar for a bottle full." 
 
 His master's wishes were a law to Sam — with such sanction 
 appended; he renewed his search, and faith and diligence were 
 rewarded. That Dutchman had hid another bottle in the same 
 place 1 but, cunningly as he had secreted them, Sam found them, 
 — showing that he had the natural gifts for a detective under the 
 excise law. 
 
 As soon as Barton had been attended to, Pete left him in charge 
 of Jacob Hetherington, while he himself went with the plantation 
 negroes to view the cattle. Pete's great size, his lofty manners 
 toward his humble attendants, the awfnlness of that knowledge 
 which they thought he possessed, served to make him an object 
 of hardly less than reverence. 
 
 Descending rapidly from the point where the cabin was. they 
 came to a kind of basin, sheltered on all sides by ridges. It mighl 
 
51.6 NORWOOD. 
 
 once have been a lake. From springs breaking out here, ran that 
 stream which had nearly swallowed up Pete during the night. 
 And the reason of ite sndden rise was soon apparent. All the rain 
 falling ou these slopes was oonveyed as bj a tunnel to the one out- 
 let, and an hour's hard rain was enough to set the brook a roaring ; 
 while a half day's rain sent down through the narrow defile such 
 torrents of water as stirred it to a rage and a violence awfiil to 
 behold I 
 
 In this mountain basin were collected about a hundred head of 
 cattle, Paul Hetherington's and his neighbors. Rude divisions 
 were attempted to keep them somewhat separate, lest being stran- 
 gers they should punish each other. For, cattle partake of human 
 feelings in this respect, that they quarrel with all that do not be- 
 long to their barnyard. In spite of short commons thej looked 
 remarkably well. A rebel quartermaster would have blessed his 
 luck could he have plumped down on this mountain nest ! 
 
 But it was the horses that gave to Pete his chief delight. They 
 were hitched singly or in pairs along every little level spot, on 
 terraces, and in snug coves. Two teams of huge gray Oonestoga 
 horses ; a span of sorrels, with light manes and tails, with a brown 
 stripe along from withers to rump ; a pair of blood-bay mares, 
 daintily built, and yet strong and serviceable ; a score of brawny, 
 hard-featured work horses, eight fine brood mares, a pen with five 
 or six fine colts, two full-blood Messenger mares, and a full-blood 
 stallion, between chestnut and sorrel, with white feet, and with a 
 disposition not the most amiable. He seemed angry at his rnde 
 quarters. He was savage as a Roman exile. As Pete came toward 
 him, Old Duke lashed out at him in a style that Pete regarded as 
 an invitation to a funeral, and which would have led to one if 
 Pete had not been on his guard. 
 
 But that horse was never foaled that Pete feared. He passed 
 toward his head, and though the vicious beauty laid back his ears 
 till they seemed to sink into his head, and showed an ugly muzzle, 
 Pete fixed his eye full on him, spoke in low, decided tones, moved 
 (juietly but firmly right up to him, and in a minute the stallion ate 
 out of his hand, and whinnied when Pete left him. If his com- 
 panions had reverenced Pete before, they worshipped him now. 
 This fascination which he seemed to exercise over the animal king- 
 lorn addressed itself to Sam's understanding far more effectively 
 
A NIGHT AND A DAY l}i I'liE MOUNTAINS. 517 
 
 tlian if Pete had spoken ten modern languages and built St. Peter's 
 iharch. 
 
 The mountain air was peculiarly exhilarating to Pete. Th« 
 longer he stayed with these contrabands the more amiable lie be- 
 came, and when he returned to the cabin after an hour's absence 
 he was extremely gracious ; he laughed, and chuckled, and sput- 
 tered by turns, in a manner which, in any other person, would 
 have indicated an over dose of whiskey. It could not be, how- 
 ever, that Tom had secreted any more mountain dew; for 
 Jacob said that his men were all of them temperate, except, of 
 course, that unlucky Dutchman, who had gcme down to prepare 
 fodder and grain to be brought up in the night, and on whose 
 slioulders Sam put all the blame of concealing whiskey I At any 
 rate, Pete fell asleep, as well he might, after the toils of the two 
 days and nights which he had borne in so stalwart a manner. 
 
 Jacob Hetherington had grave anxieties. He appreciated Bar- 
 ton's critical condition. It was not possible in this place to render 
 him such service as he instantly needed. He determined, there- 
 fore, to get him down to his father's house as soon as possible. 
 As a first step, he set to work to learn whether the rebel army had 
 left the neighborhood and cleared the pass. It was but a mile 
 across from his cattle camp to the pass through which Lee's army 
 were retreating. The stream whose course Pete had followed did 
 not run at right angles with the pass, but, after being followed a 
 half mile back, it came from the right and ran nearly parallel with 
 the road, so that, though Pete had travelled several miles, the 
 point which he reached was not more than a mile from the road. 
 On a careful reoonnoissanoe, Jacob concluded that it would not 
 be safe to venture down much before sundown. As Ewell did not 
 leave the lines before Gettysburg till about noon of that day, his 
 corps still stretched along the roads and were now entering the 
 defile. 
 
 A little before sundown, Pete was roused from sleep into a 
 state of waking bewilderment. He seemed to have forgot every 
 thing and every body, and was in a maze of wonder at his strange 
 lurroundings. 
 
 The sight of Barton restored his consciousness, and he gradually 
 came to his recollections. A rude litter had been constructed 
 Halter ropes and odd sti'ii|is win.- woven back and forth as a sub 
 
518 NORWOOD. 
 
 -stitute fi)r a canvas bottom. A "ough blanket was laic upon it, 
 
 and Barton laid thereon. The two black servants carried him tLe 
 first part of the descent, and then, they returning to iheir charge, 
 Jacob and Pete took their places. When tliey reached the cleared 
 fields it was dusk. Avoiding the roads, Jacob, who knew the 
 whole region familiarly, moved across lots, by ways both Learer 
 and more obscQre. It was fidl dark when tliey entered the avenue 
 leading up to the wide-faced stone house where Paul Hethering- 
 ton lived. As they entered the dwelling, the change seemed to 
 Pete like a translation from purgatory to heaven. Paul Hether- 
 ington stepped forward, — a tall man, strongly built, with a large 
 face, long between the mouth and eyebrows, (as every grand face 
 must be,) a high and wide brow, but wider than high, hair — now 
 changing color — worn long, an eye that was blue when he was 
 calm, but gray when it kindled; and, altogether, such a fine, large 
 man as would, in any company, excite admiration and respect. 
 
 His face testified by its texture to right living; by its whole 
 frame and shape to largeness of nature; by its eye and brow to 
 sagacity and thoughtfulness ; by its mouth to a suppressed humor- 
 ousness. Here was stuif for a statesman. He might have been 
 an archbishop. Had he been a general, his very presence would 
 have been worth half an army. He might have made any thing. 
 He was only a Quaker. Yet one could not help saying : 
 
 "What a pity that such a man should have no sphere worthy 
 of his nature I " 
 
 The proper reply would have been : 
 
 "What a hapjiy land that can afford to have such men for pri- 
 vate citizens ! " 
 
 Martha Hetherington, his wife, abont fifty-flve years of age, 
 was the very and proper wife for Paul Hetherington. She was of 
 rather full habit; yet her face was pale, but not cadaverous. 
 Every feature was shaped finely, and yet the whole face conveyed 
 the impression of largeness rather than fineness. 
 
 She was not handsome, though every feature was good. There 
 was a sort of independence in the members of her face. Each 
 feature, as it were, kept house for itself. But that harmony and 
 sympathy which was originally denied to the physical form of 
 lier countenance had gradually been supplied by the expressior 
 which, year by year, crept o\er it. One would be apt to eav 
 
A NIGHT AND A DAY IX THE JIOUNTAINS. 519 
 
 ' That is the liiindsnmcst liomelv f ce that I ever saw." Three 
 children blessed their household. Jaoob was the youngest, and 
 the only son. The eldest ilaughter was like lier mother, and had 
 married and settled in life; the other, resembling her father, waa 
 living at home. Two other daughters there had been, bnt they 
 were no longer living. 
 
 While we are telling you all these things, you may be sure 
 'hey were not standing still, listening to their own praises. The 
 best room was always prepared. Into a bed, whose linen shone 
 ilike snow, Barton was laid by the strong arms of Paul the father 
 and Jacob the son. 
 
 The room opened out of the family room, and so was the very 
 room for sickness, which loves to be cheered by hearing the soft 
 aonnds of family life "vithout being in their very midst. 
 
CHAPTER LV 
 
 THK SUBPKISE. 
 
 It is notgivjn to all birds alike to soar high or to continue lonij 
 ipon the wing. The wing must be shapely, the muscle must be 
 ample, the nerve strong, if a bird is to hang long in the air without 
 weariness. Small birds, with short atid blunt wings, are always 
 near the ground. Quails and partridges, giouse and woodcook love 
 the earth, and run upon the ground with more delight than they 
 fly in the air. Therefore their enemies easily find them and theii 
 nests — the rat, the weasel, the polecat, and the swine, and other 
 hunters many. Small birds, seed-eating, — finches, sparrows, 
 thrushes, — build low and fiy low. Their courses are neither wide 
 nor daring. They hop along the twigs in hedges, or hover, gig- 
 gling and simple-hearted, in low-branched trees. In fence-rows, 
 cats lurk for them. In the woods, small hawks, blue-jays, and 
 shrikes devour tbem. Even darkness does not cover them from 
 tlie goggle-eyed owl, whose soft wings are as n'^iieless as death. 
 Then come bolder birds, that seldom descend below the tops of for- 
 ests, that live high up above mousing enemies and are more familiar 
 with the sun than with the sliade. And higher than all are the 
 long-winged birds, that hang over the ocean, that beat about in 
 storms, — gulls ; petrels. Or, still higher, falcons, condoi-s, eagles, — 
 that brood upon the sunlight and lie upon the mere air as if it were 
 water under their breasts and they were fowl swinging on the sea. 
 In these glorious solitudes they live secure. Noises never rise so 
 high ; storms and thunder sound below them. The sun comes 
 earlier to them, and lingers later. Their days are longer. There 
 are no fences there parcelling out the great domain. No trees or 
 forests shadow the empyrean ; no mountains divide it, nor rivers 
 water it. Only the Sun himself inhabits there — solitary, though 
 the father of multitudes, — dropping down showers of light, which 
 he does not see, and giving life to infinite broods that never knew, 
 nor are known of their father, who through ages is gi\ ini>- and for- 
 getting, begetting and forsaking, creating and devourino-. And 
 yet, no wing was ever framed that could soar fore\'er. The gull 
 at last alights. The falcon builds a nest, and seeks it. The eaole 
 
THE SURPRISE. 521 
 
 nag ft home among the rooks. Only man's thonghts rise highei 
 than the eagle's wing, higher than the sun, and walk in the celes 
 tial city, where is no night, nor wearintiss, nor sorrow. Bnt even 
 Faith itself may not always abide in these high delights. The 
 heart mast come back to its nest. 
 
 Through all of Sunday, Rose Wentworth soared np above aV 
 rouble. The sun went down without bringing darkness to her 
 But, on the sixth, while the camps were waking up, and Meade'. 
 dilatory army began to creep out in pursuit. Rose chanced, some 
 what after mid-day, to meet Ool. Frank Esel, who was hurrying foi 
 ward to overtake his regiment. 
 
 "Miss Wentworth — a thousand blessings on you 1 I knew th).« 
 you hovered somewhere about here. General Oathcart told me ol 
 your presence. By the way, you have heard that he was wounded 
 and taken?" 
 
 " I heard that he had fallen — that he was dead I " 
 
 " Dead, Miss Wentworth ? dead ? Upon my word, you're mis- 
 taken I it must be a false report. I was not far from him in the 
 fight. I saw him go in, and ho and a dozen more men were gob- 
 bled up. But he was alive, and wounded, and a prisoner — I know ; 
 for several of tlie men escaped during the night, who saw him 
 within Lee's lines, and, though little able to walk, yet he was not 
 apparently wounded dangerously." 
 
 If Rose had been caught up by a whirlwind, or swept down in 
 the current of the over- full Rock creek, she could not have been 
 more whirled about and helpless than she was at this astounding 
 news. 
 
 " Not dead ! — not dead ! —alive ? — a prisoner ? — alive 1 Oh, do 
 not say such things 1 It cannot be I Alive? — alive? O my soul, 
 be still ! Do not believe it I " 
 
 " Cousin Rose," said Esel, moved by the intensity of her man- 
 ner, " I do truly assure you that Barton is alive, unless something 
 has befallen him since he reached the enemy's lines. He was alive 
 and not dangerously wounded on Saturday, that I certainly know; 
 and there is no reason to think that harm has befallen him since. 
 I truly wish yon joy, and am heartily glad to surprise you with 
 such good news. God bless you, uiy deai cousin," and with thai 
 he put spnrs to his horse and disapi'iiuud. 
 
;]22 xniMvoon. 
 
 Eo8< stood like ont dreuraiug. Then bic otaited, as if to go tt 
 lier patients. Suddenly she stopped and tiirneil t'i go after Agate. 
 Tlien, with anotlier sudden cliange, she started lo find her father. 
 All her settledness of lieait v\ a^ gon.\ She had fallen down out 
 of the clouds to her ne>t qnite near to the gnnaid, and began to 
 experience those gusts and whirls of feeling which sweep the lower 
 levels of human life. While she was thus going first to the riglit 
 and then to the left, Iliram Beers met her. 
 
 " Well, Miss Rose, what's up ? You look flustered like. I liope 
 you ain't takin' on 'hout Barton, 'cause that won't do no good. 
 We must all die. You know what the catechism says — ' Xerxes 
 did die, and so must you and 1.' It's a fact, and can't he helped. 
 But I dew feel bad, after all. I tell you Rose, there ain't many left 
 that's equal to Barton." 
 
 " Hiram, Barton is not dead ! Ool. Esel says that he was seen 
 m Lee's camp, wounded and a prisoner." 
 
 " Well, now, that's wuth hearin'," said Hiram, greatly excited, 
 but holding in every sign of it, as if it was a sin to show his feelings. 
 " But it's a pity to feel bad for nothin', 1 swow ; if I hain't cried 
 every time I've thought on't, and now it's just so many teaia 
 throwed away 1 Well, well, I vum, but it's jolly 1 that is, supposin' 
 it's true." 
 
 " Hiram, you must go with me to Agate Bissell. Bartou must 
 not be left thus. Something must be done immediately for his 
 release." 
 
 The glad tidings spread joy in the little band. Agate spoke 
 not a word. She stood firmly, listened to every syllable, her face 
 shining brighter with each confirmation, and then stepping aside, 
 with her face toward the woods, she stood for a while in pray- 
 er of thank.sgiving. At length, lifting her apron for a hand- 
 kerchief and wiping her eyes, she came back to Rose, with an in- 
 tensity of feeling that seldom escaped her, and put her arms about 
 her and kissed her forehead — " Rose, it is tli€ Lord that slayeth, 
 and the Lot 1 maketh alive. Blessed be the name of the Lord I " 
 
 Alice was certainly glad, hut joy had but poor chance in her 
 iieart. Like plants that grow under shade trees, it came up pale 
 and feeble, and could not blossom into laughter. 
 
 " Agate,'' said Rose, " what shall be done ? Will you look aftel 
 my men ? I can do nothing furtlmr nntil I have released Barton ! '" 
 
THE SURPRISE. 52S 
 
 • Ohild, what can yon do ? You must wait." 
 
 " What will waiting do ? Is he not even now moving down 
 towards those hideous Southern prisons 1 It were hotter to have 
 died outright, under the bright sun, thaji to mould, and decay, and 
 die piecemeal, in those dens of cruelty. No, I will this instant 
 find General Meade." 
 
 " Headquarters is moved," said one of the men; "the ginera! 
 has gone." 
 
 •' But I can overtake him." 
 
 " Rose," said Agate, "you are wild. What could General 
 Meade do, if you did see him ? Can he stop his army to go after 
 one man ? I guess he's got something else to think of." 
 
 " But I could get a pass to the enemy's lines — I could see Gen 
 tral Lee! " 
 
 "Why, Rose," said Agate, rebukingly, "this is downright 
 jraziness." And then in a pitying tone — " I don't blame you, 
 though ; and if any thing could be done, I'd encourage it." 
 
 " Standing here, and seeing aU the difBcnlties but none of the 
 favorable ohaujes, will not help Barton. It is no common case, 
 and will admit of no common action. I will go to him. There is 
 not storm enough in the sky, nor water enough in the river," said 
 Rose, looking on the turbulent stream below her, " to hinder me. 
 Every thing will help me ; every thing will give way to that cour- 
 age which fills my soul. God is in me. I know that this purpose 
 s not of man I He who kept Barton in the battle will keep me." 
 
 Agate was more convinced by Rose's appeal to God and her 
 declaration of her trust in him than by any thing presented to her 
 reason. The evidences of piety were more to her than the evi- 
 dences of her own judgment. 
 
 " Rose, if God has called yon to this work I don't donbt that 
 lie will open the way. But yon ought to examine your heart and 
 know whether you are following your own affections I And, 
 chough we trust to Providence, it should always be in the use of 
 means. Now, let us sit down and see what can be done." 
 
 "I can go to General Meade's headquarters, and procure a 
 letter which will give me access to General Lee.'' 
 
 "Tut, tut — that won't do — never in the world. Barton is in 
 Virginia before this time, and Lee can't help him if he wants to 
 ever so much." 
 
524 NORWOOD. 
 
 "Then I will go to Virginia. 1 will find his priacn." 
 
 " Suppose you did — you could not storm the prison. Thej 
 vrouldn't let you in nor Barton out. It's pretty much as they say 
 In Richmond about such things, I guess." 
 
 " Then I'll go to Richmond. I will see every man in authori- 
 ty. Agate, you need not discourage me. There is that within my 
 heart that will make my way. I will rescue Barton, or I will 
 die in the endeavor 1 I can do any thing but stay here! " 
 
 It was now about the middle of the afternoon. The conference 
 was broken up by an unexpected event. Just as Agate was about 
 to reply to Rose, in came Pete Sawmill, making two or three 
 jumps which a deer might envy, and then, in a transport of rude de- 
 light, he tumbled over and over, and rolled on the ground, as an 
 extremely merry and jolly dog will do who finds his feelings far too 
 great to be expressed by the mei'e wagi^ing of his tongue at one 
 end or his tail at the other. 
 
 When at last he had reduced his superabundant excitement to 
 a more governable state, Pete informed the party that Barton had 
 escaped ; that he had got him safely into good quarters ; that he 
 had come over in a wagon after a surgeon ; that he had luckily 
 stumbled on Dr. Wentworth, who was promptly going back with 
 him ; and that the doctor thought a nurse had better go out too. 
 
 Rose said to Agate : 
 
 " Do you not see that I was led ? The Lord's hand has been 
 in all this strange work." 
 
 "His name be praised 1" said Agate, whisperingly. 
 
 Paul Hetherington had brought Pete over, taking care at the 
 same time to fill his wagon with such comforts for the wounded 
 as he could provide. Jacob Hetherington remained at home to 
 superintend the descent of the cattle and horses from the moun- 
 tain fastnesses. Panl excused the indifferent quality of his team 
 by explaining that his best horses were hidden away. They 
 rode briskly away from Gettyshnrgh, and across the very ground 
 which was yesterday held by Lea's rear guard. As they pro- 
 ceeded, Pete pointed them to a field with scattering shade trees 
 in it. 
 
 " There 'twas. There's where I found the gineral, under that 
 tree, fast asleep." 
 
 Along the road were marks of the haat« with which Ewell had 
 
THE SURPRISE. 525 
 
 retreated. Broken wagons, dead animals, muskets, kniigsacks 
 wore strewn along the ways. 
 
 The sixth corps of Meade's army had closely followed, and 
 were yet lying near FaMeld, somewhat impeding the journey to 
 Hetherington's house. When once fairly on the road, Dr. Went- 
 worth, who had not before seen Rose for more than a few mo- 
 ments, said : 
 
 " I thought it likely that Agate Bissell would come ; but I 
 am glad that she sent you, Rose. I have hardly seen you for a 
 moment." 
 
 " I needed no sending, father. No one would have been per- 
 mitted to go to Barton but me. It is my errand." 
 
 And with that she drew from her bosom Barton's letter, and 
 gave it to her father to read. 
 
 Dr. Wentworth read it through — read it a second time. In 
 spite of himself the tears came to his eyes. He put his arm geotly 
 and fondly round his daughter, and said, in a whisper : 
 
 "I suppose you go to answer this, Rose?" 
 
 " Father, if he only lives — if God will but spare ne " 
 
 And with that she laid her head upon her father's breast and 
 burst into tears, and wept violently, and almost convulsively. It 
 was well. After such high and long-continued strain nature de- 
 manded relief Rose had come down out of the high and briglit 
 clouds, and walked upon the ground again, a woman, full of hopes 
 and fears, of weakness and tears. 
 
 Paul Hetherington sat with Pete on the front seat. I do not 
 believe he looked around once. If one had watched, it might 
 possibly, have been seen that his large and grave face was slightly 
 inclined, so that the merest glance of Rose's agitation, and her 
 father's protecting caress, might have entered his eye; but he 
 turned his face square towards his horses, and sat immovable till 
 they drove up the avenue of venerable old cherry trees which 
 lined the way from the road to tlie house, trees that now hung fuD 
 of ripe cherries aid red robins. The fruit was over abundant. 
 Tlie sun, lying low, was shining aslant through the trees, and 
 filling them with a kind of golden vapor. They seemed to be 
 tabernacles for birds. Catbirds miawed and jerked their tails 
 nervously, robins breathed a low pfmpf, or were wholly silent; 
 cedar birds, jays, brown thrushes, and numberless other fruit 
 
526 NORWOOD. 
 
 loiiing birds, Buttered and flew as the wagon went on, coming 
 back again the instant it had passed, as waters open and shut to 
 the passage of a ship. 
 
 " I think, sir," said Dr. Wentwoith, " that the boys don't stont 
 the birds in these grounds." 
 
 " Nay , the only stones which I allon to be thrown are cherry- 
 stones. Thou art aware, doubtless, that music hath little place 
 among Friends; but it is brought to us, even as the prophet's food 
 was, upon wings." 
 
 Tlie dwelling-house, of dark gray stone, now stood out plainly. 
 It did not stretch up ambitiously, but lay broad upon the ground, 
 having the expression, not only of roominess, but of hospitality. 
 Every door had a coaxing look, and each window said, Come in. 
 One might search in vain for a stick, a chip, a shaving, or a straw, 
 all around the house. Absolute order and neatness was written 
 upon the face of things. Every gate stood up straight. Every 
 stone in every wall was true to a line. Nothing seemed to have 
 ever fallen down ; nothing was ever dropped. The very winds 
 did not dare to send the leaves upon the grass. The garden on the 
 right held out its bright blossoms, and marshalled its rows of cu- 
 linary vegetables, witliout a weed or a withered stalk. 
 
 To Rose, who had so long been used to the rudest scenes, and 
 to the very paradise of disorder, the excessive neatness on every 
 hand produced sumetliiug of the impression of fine art. But little 
 time they had for outward observations. 
 
 Martha Hetherington stood in the open porch, the door wide 
 open behind her. 
 
 "Thee is welcome home, Paul. Tlie young man needs thy 
 friends. I fear, Doctor, thee has come on a poor errand. Alight 1 
 Is this liis sister?" said Martha, turning to Rose. 
 
 " It is my diiughter,'' said Dr. Wentworth. 
 
 Paul, however, explained it with his eye. One look sufficed- 
 and Martha tendei-ly helped Rose from the wagon, and gave be 
 in charge to her comely daughter. 
 
 " Rose? " said Martha. 
 
 Two voices answered, one saying ; 
 
 '■ What, mother? " and the other, " What, ma'am?" 
 
 ilartha Hetherington smiled. '■ h thy name Rose? " 
 
 " Ild.'^e ^Ventl^•orth ! " 
 
THE SUEPEISE. 527 
 
 " And this is Eose Hetherington. Sorely je shonld like oaoh 
 r>ther?" 
 
 Dr. WentwortVa went at once to Barton's bedside. He found 
 him in a low and sinking condition. Before making more close 
 examination, he gave him more ample atiraulants, together, also, 
 with opium, which had not been administered; and the stimulants 
 jnly in a gradual manner. 
 
 "For fear," Martha said, "of producing fever.'' 
 
 " That is the only way to attack fever — such fever as he is 
 liable to," said the doctor. 
 
 Strong beef-tea was prepared for him, and every means of re- 
 storing his ebbing strength was used. 
 
 " Had this wound upon the abdomen been deep, he would have 
 died before tliis, — let's see : Saturday night, Sunday night, Monday 
 night, — forty-eight hours. Had the intestines been sundered, he 
 would have died within twenty-four liours. Should there be an 
 inflammation of the peritoneum, I should fear, in his exhausted 
 condition, that he could not stand up under it. Should there be 
 only a local inflammation and the suppuration of the wound itself, 
 there will be hope." 
 
 It was uncertain whether Barton was conscious of the presence 
 )f his friends or not. He lay with half-closed eyes, either dream- 
 ing or carrying on a fevered process of thought. Fo groans 
 escaped him, but sometimes sighs. Eose stood by him, outwardly 
 calm. But who shall unroU that which filled her heart, as she 
 gazed upon Barton's bloodless face, and his brow whiter than 
 snow, from which fell back his black hair? His face was thin. 
 :His features were sharp. The whole face looked old. As Eose 
 gazed upon him, she momently expected him to speak. She 
 wondered how they could be so near, and yet so utterly separated. 
 She would have given worlde for one look, for one word of recog- 
 nition. After all this history of his love for her, should he now 
 at length die, knowing nothing of that deep treasure of her heart ! — 
 die by her very side, and know it not I — die while her words were in 
 his ears, and his hand in hers, and yet not know their meaning ! 
 
 How terrible is the thunder — liow more terrible is the crash 
 of battle 1 Yet neither of them is so awful as the measured 
 cadence of one who tells us tliat our beloved are walking away 
 trom us, along the road of the dying I 
 
.")-!8 NORWOOD. 
 
 Dark is the night; l>ut what night so dai'k as that of love 
 hopelessly watching ? How deep is the unexplorable sea ! Bnl 
 far deeper is that night which Hope «)unds with line of fear — 
 wunds, but can find no iKittom I 
 
CHAPTER LVL 
 
 THE QUAKSB HOME. 
 
 CoMTASED with tlie labors of the past two days, the ai xioUet 
 and excitement of Barton's case, brought home so closely to liim 
 by the knowledge of Eose's feelings, seemed to Dr. Went worth like 
 rest. But in a perfectly healthy constitution food may become a 
 partial substitute for sleep, and enable one to go for many days in 
 continuous activity. It was not poetical, under all the circum- 
 stances, for Dr. Wentworth to go out to Martha Hetherington's 
 table that eyening with a supreme appetite. It was, however, a 
 fact. Nor was the proverbial good housewifery of the Friends put 
 to shame by the ample supper, by the glowing neatness, the ex- 
 luiaite simplicity of every arrangement. After somewhat satisfy- 
 ing the more urgent craving of appetite, Dr. Wentworth could not 
 help saying : 
 
 " I am trying to see what it is that renders your table so 
 beautiful, without ornament. I have always esteemed the family 
 table to be a kind of altar, a place sacred and so to be made as 
 complete in its finishings as may be. The act of eating is itself one 
 of the lowest. But society has thrown around it such thorough 
 associations of affection and social enjoyment that we scarcely 
 perceive the going on of the very thing for which the table was 
 spread. That a refined and delicate person has been talking, or 
 sympathetically changing countenance while others talk, we re- 
 member, but not that she has been eating. But, if you will excuse 
 the remark, something in your table strikes me most agreeably. 
 There are, I perceive, degrees in neatness.'' 
 
 His host replied : 
 
 " Onr customs disallow ostentatiousness, but enjoin order and 
 neatness. That is the one channel through which the imagination 
 has play. Music is not in vogue with us. Our amusements are 
 grave and frngal. We do not choose to expose our vonng people 
 to dangerous vanities by the use of colors, C,^ tm> largely enter 
 
 Into the rascinat'ons of the world's people, tt is not strange that 
 atatness shonld ueci.uia much in uur hands, since we are i-ciiget' 
 
530 NORWOOD. 
 
 to express by it all that the world's people do ly forms and colon 
 and sounds." 
 
 " Ah, I see ; — like the blind man, whose ears make up by acnte- 
 uess something of the lost sense. One might expect far more to 
 be made of neatness when the whole imagination is concentrated 
 upon it, than if the taste were distributed through many channels.' 
 "High colors and brilliant garments," said Hetherington, "d( 
 not harmonize with spiritual states. Colors bring the mind down 
 toward matter. As our thoughts reach iuto the realm of holiness, 
 they instinctively dispossess all objects of color. We never imagin« 
 angels in blue, or red, or yellow, but always in white." 
 
 " But God made flowers," said Wentworth ; " he colored the 
 woods, be fashioned clouds, and spanned the rainbow, and made 
 gorgeous sunsets." 
 
 " True ; all these are of the earth — earthly. They are not to be 
 disesteemed, since the Creator's hand hath fashioned them. But 
 they are not the symbols of holiness, or of spiritual elevation. 
 Useful things are not alike good for all things. Colors are for the 
 world and its objects, but pure white for the saints.'' 
 
 " Since you and your children are in the world, and not in 
 the spirit-land, colors, methinks, might be suffered," replied the 
 doctor. 
 
 " Nay. They who aim at the estate of the just and the blessed 
 are much helped by keeping before them evermore the emblems 
 of purity. There is need in this world of every help. Simplicity, 
 silence, and a soul open to the invisible light, are ohiefest means 
 of grace. Some seek religion through gorgeous ceremonies, by 
 which the senses are made drunk, and the conscience stumbles iuto 
 idolatry; some by ordinances that usurp the place of God and 
 truth, and become a snare ; some by forms of worship, and noisy 
 services of music and ritual. All these rouse up the sensuous 
 nature. The spirit is veiled by them. They hinder and exclude 
 the pure light of divine truth, even as upon windows the fantastic 
 forms and colnr> which men's hands have painted there throw 
 back upon their makers their own fancies, but keep out the light 
 of God's sun." 
 
 "I conceive your view to be la.gely true,'' said Dr. Wentworth, 
 "and important. But it is partial, in that such abstraction ia 
 possible only to highlv-orgnnizfd minds. In your way, nuiy you 
 
THE QUAKEi; HOME. 531 
 
 not fall into the same error that the greatest thinkers in my own 
 church have? That conception of hoKness which was easy to 
 donatban Edwards, because he was a poet and an ethical genius, 
 was impossible to men of slender intellect, of no iraa^nation. and 
 of a penurious moral sense. In this unconscious way great natures 
 oppress the weak. It is putting children to the stride of the giant. 
 It is like teaching conic sections and the calculus in primary 
 Bohools. Men are taught to feel guilt for not possessing religion? 
 experiences which they are no moi e capable of than Mrs. Hemans 
 was of Milton's poetry, or Tapper of Homer's epics." 
 
 Eetherington paused, aa if considering the matter, and after a 
 little resumed : 
 
 " There is much to be considered in thy words. Nevertheless, 
 the things which men cannot perform teach them far more than 
 the things which they can easily do. The whole world pulls at 
 the body, and will have it an animal. Therefore the heavens must 
 draw upon the spirit. What if Jacob could not climb the ladder 
 whose top was in heaven ! It taught him a lesson. It connected 
 the very stones under bis bead with the clouds above him, and 
 taught him that there was a way, unseen by mortal eyes, from the 
 lowest thing to the highest." 
 
 At last Dr. Wentworth had found his man I Of a nature as 
 large as bis own, reared from a standpoint haif round the circle 
 from his, and bo antipodal ; sympathetic and hospitable to others' 
 thoughts, loving rather to think with and compare thoughts than 
 to dispute ; capable of seeing things from other people's grounds, 
 and of suspecting what was the absolute truth whose partial reve- 
 lations organized sects in the world ; sincere, earnest, deep, patient, 
 not anxious to parade bis thoughts; sensitive to any confldeiice 
 which might subject to controversy and defilement the silen: 
 sanctuary of the soul where God revealed, if not the truth, yet 
 mighty premonitions of it; carrying an undisclosed life of medita- 
 tion concerning the whole mystery of human life, and the nope of 
 the life to come ; heartily in sympathy with his own sect, yet n(jt 
 believing it to be more than a sect ; a repressed, loving nature, 
 but loving goodness and nobleness rather than the conunon things 
 in himian nature ; and, above all, believing in God, and therefore 
 not accepting the golden dust-specks of the sects as the whol« 
 mine, but grandly waiting, and willing, with large content, to wait 
 
632 NORWOOD. 
 
 the day when death should spring up into Being, Power, Purrty 
 Knowledge. 
 
 Both of these men were loyal to their sect, but larger. Like 
 vines planted in a garden, they covered the walls, overtopped 
 them, and climbed into the neighboring trees, bearing as much 
 fruit in the great common highway as in the garden. Such men 
 Mie sometimes called unbelievers, because they believe so much 
 mure than others. 
 
 Great souls know each other. Years are the servitors of slower 
 natures, and nurse them into mutual confidence. There are cer- 
 tain touches that fine natures know instantly, conclusive of all the 
 rest, the free-masonry of the sons of God 1 
 
 What was sleep compared with such communion ? It was long 
 past midnight before they separated, who never separated in all 
 their after lives I And in those hours, alone, in confidence, unob- 
 structed by a fear, they spoke of the deep things of life, and moved 
 together nver realms and royalties of meditation where each had 
 so often passed, a solitary traveller ! 
 
 Rose Weiitworth would fain have watched by Barton's side all 
 night, but her father forbade, and enjoined sleep. 
 
 " 1 am not weary, father : I cannot sleep if I lie down." 
 
 " That is the very reason why you should not watch any longer. 
 The long tension of care, and your deep anxiety concerning Bar- 
 ton, have wrought a super-excitement, which, if it goes on, will 
 be dangerous. You rnvst sleep, and here are the means of pro- 
 curing it," at the same time preparing for her an opiate. "Your 
 hands are cold, your head hot ; you should put your feet into hot 
 water for ten minutes, and then take this." 
 
 In the morning Barton was no worse ; and " That is a gain,'' 
 said the doctor. " If when I return to-night there is no sign of 
 peritoneal excitement, and his strength is kept up, I shall have 
 liope. But he i\ill graze so near, that if he would only look over 
 he might see death." 
 
 The sun was rising when Pete appeared with a stylish mare, to 
 take the doctor back to Gettysburg. Rose still slept. It was ten 
 o'clock before she appeareci, and even then, for a while, the lethar- 
 gic cloud hung over her. 
 
 If Paul Hetheringtoii had found a friend in Dr. Wentworth, so 
 his wife had fo nd a favoriie in his dauf^liter. Martha seldom mis- 
 
THE QUAKEK HOME. 533 
 
 took ID judging people whom she met. If any thing, she was 
 slightly inclined to judge less favoi-ahly than her husband ; but, 
 then, on that account she was oftener right. People helped her, 
 and made her abated judgments true. "When, therefore, she took 
 Rose at once to her heart, it was a compliment which Rose did 
 not as well understand as did Martha's own family. 
 
 Little could be done for Barton. He was either unconscious 
 or wandering in mind. Martha drew Rose from him as much as 
 possible. She must show her the spring-house. 
 
 " What is that ? " said Rose, pointing to a queer stack of bricks 
 under a tile shed close by the house. 
 
 " That is our oven," said Martha. 
 
 " What — out of doors ? We build ours into the kitchen chira- 
 Qey." 
 
 " It is the way of our fathers. The other perhaps is more con- 
 venient.'' 
 
 They walked a few rods upon a path of flat stones, carefully 
 laid down, and kept free from weeds and grass. Indeed they were 
 more like the pavement of a hall than an out-of-doors walk. It 
 led to a low stone house, on the edge of a slight dell. The gables 
 of the roof came over so far as to form a cover to the door. A 
 small room full of the smell of butter and milk first met them. If 
 the house had seemed clean to Rose, what should she think of this 
 work-room in the spring-house? Its maple- wood bowls, the 
 white-wood dishes, the beech-wood ladles and scoops, the pine 
 tables and benches, the blue ash floor, seemed to live in an intense 
 rivalry with each other which should be cleanest. The tubs 
 dreaded lest the pails should get an extra scour ; the wooden 
 spoons bellied up with all the conscious pride of the spoon family, 
 tlftinkingGod that they were red and not white, being made of the 
 heart-wood of the beech. The oak bench looked steadily over every 
 day in hopes of spying a speck on the white pine table, and tlie 
 table was tickled whenever it could spill something on the floor that 
 would spoil its ridiculous conceit of its own exceeding whiteness. 
 
 "What is that? " said Martha Hetherington, with more anima- 
 tion than belonged to that enforced tranquillity which she usually 
 bore—" What is that ? Verily it is a fly ! That silly girl, Polly, 
 [las left the ("oor ajar, or some of these nettings are moved in th( 
 windows.'' 
 
534 NOEWOOD. 
 
 The fly bnzzed and bolted out of the opened door as snddenlj 
 as a heretic from before a bench of bishops, or a thief from the 
 face of a magistrate. 
 
 "He linew that he had no business here, the guilty thing 
 That fly lies in wait, I sometimeB think, and when 1 come he al- 
 ways disappears ; but when Polly comes, he presumes on her heed- 
 essness. Twice before, this summer, Polly left the door open, and 
 I found that fly here." 
 
 Rose was deliglited with this excessive neatness, the very bril- 
 liance of cleanness. 
 
 " How can you contrive to be so remarkably neat ? I never 
 saw any thing like it in my life." 
 
 " Ah, child, I wish thee might have seen my mother's spring- 
 liou-ie ! That was clean. But she was naturally neat. It is but 
 an acquired virtue with me 1 " 
 
 A door opened out of this room into the spring-chamber. The 
 cool air and the creamy smell came up out of it, to Rose's great 
 delight. Descending a few stone steps, Rose saw, laid in solid 
 cement, stone canals or troughs running around the whole base ; 
 and, at about three feet above them, another series of like con- 
 struction, supported upon iron brackets let into the side walls. 
 Into these spring-water, gushing up from the rook within the 
 chamber itself (which had been built over a strong and unfailing 
 spring), flowed with a gentle motion through all the troughs, 
 and made its exit on the fartljer side. Into this living water the 
 pans of milk were set. A part of the puns were glass, and a part 
 silver. At any rate, if they were not silver, they were tin polished 
 to such brightness as Rose never saw before. The names of Ivrenty- 
 five cows hung above their respective contributions. Here were 
 "Crumple," "Brindle," "Queen," "Violet," " Daisy," "Sukey," 
 " Blackface," " Fawn," " Cherry," and all the other honored names 
 of the barn-yard. 
 
 Next, they went to the barn. Such a sight Rose had never 
 seen. It seemed to her eyes more like a vast mansion. It was 
 built of stone, three stories, besides the cellars. Built upon a side- 
 hill, the topmost story was on the level of the upper ground ; 
 while side-hill roads, at diflferent elevations, led into each lower 
 story. The mow^: for hay, now well nigh empty, made Ros« 
 lizzy to look down intu. They ^^ ore vast enough to hold hay for 
 
THE QUAKER HOME. 535 
 
 the "cattle on a thonsand hills." The grain-room, the root 
 cellars, the straw-sheds, the mill-room — where, by water-power, 
 roots and hay were cut and grains ground; the harness, and 
 wagon, and tool rooms — seemed like parts of a city rather tlian of 
 a barn, to her eye, accustmned only to the snug and small barns of 
 New England. Every where, glass windows, with external 
 shutters, were provided. The wood-work was painted as in a 
 dwelling-house. Besides the barn proper, there were lean-tos, 
 sheds, sheep-barns, straw-barns, cattle-sheds, a horse-bam, and 
 colt-pens, — until Rose was fairly bewildered! Water flowed 
 everywhere, spilt over nowhere. In one corner, the water 
 spurted from no one could tell where, into a stone tank ; and, 
 overflowing, disappeared — no one could see how. There was 
 water for each cattle-yard, for the sheep-yard, for the colt-yard. 
 No half-rotten barrels, nor leaking wooden troughs were seen up 
 to their knees in puddles of their own making. Every thing was 
 stone. The water came in an orderly manner, sparkled and 
 dimpled in a quiet and orderly way, gravely moved off again, and 
 decorously disappeared. It was good Quaker water, and neither 
 sung, nor danced, nor wore profane bubbles. 
 
 Nothing could have been more soothing and restful to Rose. 
 Nor was the excitement suffered to slacken. All day long, were 
 coming down from the mountains the returning horses, cows, and 
 oxen. They were overjoyed to be released. They showed as 
 much excitement in returning to their homes as if they were 
 children just coming home in vacation. They ran around the 
 yards, they drank at the stone tanks, or horned each other away ; 
 they smelt of the walls and gates, and moved about with a 
 curious excitement, which surely must have answered in them — 
 .n a low and rudimentary way — to the affections and domestic 
 .ocal attachments of human creatures. 
 
 Even more exhilarated were the horses. It was deemed best 
 to bring both cattle and horses into yards and barns, for a few 
 days, before giving them their old pasture grounds. To be sure, 
 the rebel army was gone, but the loyal army were not wholly 
 unversed in the distributive duties of the quartermaster's depart- 
 ment. The day passed slowly away. Rose anxiously waited h si 
 father's return. 
 
 He came at about dark, but could give little comfort. 
 
536 NOKWOOD. 
 
 " It is well, thus far. But we are in the dark resi ectin^, thii 
 last wound. It is not safe to probe it. We cannot kuow tlie ex- 
 tent of the injury iiiteruully. It may be trifling. It may be 
 serious to the last degree. We can only wait the development of 
 the case. If, in a week's time, no other dangerous symptoms 
 ooour, Barton is safe. Meanwhile, it is necessary that his system 
 should be held firmly under the influence of opium, and hh 
 strength be kept up with nourishment and stimulants." 
 
 These were days of weai'iness and of ti'ial far more severe to 
 Rose than all the watching and service of the hospital. All sweet 
 excitements nourish the body, and increase the strength upon 
 which they draw. But acerb excitements, in which half-hopelesa 
 fear plays at battledore and shuttlecock with courage, soon fever 
 the soul with anxious suspense; and su>pense, iibi->ve all other 
 elements, is the very poison of the miml. Rose would gladly 
 have stayed by Barton's side every moment. But Martha Hether- 
 ington wouM not suffer it. The watch uas divided between the 
 three. Littlo there was to be done. 
 
 Barton remiiined quite unconscious of what was going on. 
 Whether it was the disturbance of the brain by the inflammation 
 of his wounds, or whether it was the opium, or, more probably, 
 both conjoined, — he gave no sign of recognition. Sometimes he 
 would lie with wide open eye and mutter half-audible sentences, 
 which seemed to be fragmenlury orders to his men. But it was 
 like a trance or sleep-walking. He took notice of no questiuns — 
 he seemed looking into some distant place, and to be separated 
 wholly from the [lersons and events around him. 
 
 The two Roses — Rose Wentworth and Rose Iletheringtou — 
 jame together as naturally as two drops of dew. They had the 
 true conditions of friemlshiji. Tliey were unlike, and yet both 
 were true-hearted and deeply imbued with moral sentiment. 
 Love whose roots do not reach down to the religious feeling can 
 not be rich or enduring, it is a summer herb — not a shrub ot 
 tree able to seek its many summers through many winters. They 
 wandered together, talked much, rommuned much, and began, 
 before they separated, to love much. The Quaker woman had 
 looked at life from a side so new to Rose that she attributed the 
 freshness and novelty to some oiiginality of disposition in her 
 friend. On the other hand, the Yankee woman amazed her n or* 
 
THE QUAKER HOME. 537 
 
 siiLjile friend by her knowledge of literature, of art, and of the 
 great outside world. 
 
 With true delicacy, all questions were forborne in regard U, 
 Ri.se's relations to Barton. Every one in the household, of 
 course, kne w that there was love between them. Rut the mother, 
 the diuiglitor, the father left Eose to her own liberty of silence or 
 speech, just as it should please her. Eose loved to go at evening, 
 when the cows were brought from pasture, and the men or women 
 milked them. One must have been little conversant with country 
 life, or very deficient in sentiment, who does not know the enjoy- 
 ments which may found in barns and their surroundings, — among 
 them is the smell of grain or liay, the pleasure of watching the 
 faces and manners of spirited horses, the peculiar restlessness and 
 almost motherliness belonging to the large-eyed, good-natured, 
 cud-chewing cow. Then there were wrens chattering in the most 
 vixenish way, and swallows gliding in and out, like snatches of 
 black sunbeams — if there were such things, — and doves that went 
 flapping up from the ground to the roof, and then, from some in- 
 visible impulse, discharged themselves into the air, and flew head- 
 long toward some distant field; then, changing their minds, 
 wheeled about — some bolting right up in the air, some dividing to 
 the right or to the left ; and then, all of them streaming headlong 
 back to the roof again, circling round and round, as if it vvere 
 hot — a dozen dropping down, and the rest swinging once more 
 round the barn, where at last all alight, save one, which flies off 
 to another building ; the rest won't go to him — and so, after a 
 little, he comes to them, and then they run after each other — 
 crooning and strutting, for all the world, as if they were humap 
 beings, in gay society, instead of being the simple, innocent dove» 
 that they are. One could find simple delight in watching such 
 scenes for hours. Eose found them tranquillizing, too, from the 
 contrast with the cruel scenes to which slie had so long been used. 
 She compared the doves to cavalry, and laughed at the ludicrous 
 dissemblance. 
 
 But, with all that was winning in nature, and all that was de- 
 lightful to Eose in this great Quaker farm, so utterly unlike any 
 that she had ever seen, the time hung heavily upon her hands, 
 snd anxiety wore upon her heart. 
 
 M length, upon Smday, Dr. Wentworth, after considerate 
 
53S NORWOOD. 
 
 Barton's « .lole w/ndition, pronounced him decidedly convalescent 
 
 The opliites were no longer needed. It was a day of intense ex- 
 citement to Rose. When will the stupor pass awaj ? Will his 
 mind come out of this eolijjse ? Oh ! what will he tliiuk wlien he 
 finst recognizes me? Tlie houjs pas'od on. Rose would not leave 
 the room. It was noon, and Barton was very quiet. The middle 
 of the afternoon came. A mortal fear stole over her. His mind 
 m.ay be permanently affected ! His sufferings and hardships may 
 have overstrained his brain ! Hours jjassed on. Rose stood hy 
 the window. The sun was descending behind the mountain. It 
 poured down a flood of liglit over all the fields near and far 
 Long shadows mimicked tlie shapes of all things and turned them 
 into burlesque. Through the half-opened shutters the light 
 streamed into the room. I( fell across tlie bed, and flashed upon 
 the |>ale face of the sick man, who stirred, opened his eyes, that no 
 longer stared, but seemed full of meaning. Rose came instantly 
 to his side. She sat silently gazing. Barton turned his eyes upon 
 her in a wondering, troubled way. Rose kneeled by his side, 
 every feeling retreating to her heart, as if to stop its beating. 
 Barton closed his eyes, as if to shut out a phantom. 
 
 " Barton, do you know me? Do you know your Rose? " 
 
 He unclosed his eyes, and in a weak and feeble manner put his 
 liimds to his eyes, as if to brush away films that were misleading 
 his sight. 
 
 He put his hand timidly out, to touch her, as if to make sure 
 whether it was an illusion or a reality. His hand was clasped in 
 both nf hers. She leaned toward him. He felt her kiss upon 
 his brow. Slowly and wiih difficulty he S|ioke : 
 
 ■' Is — this — Rose? — my Rose?— I mean " 
 
 "Yes, Barton, — your own Rose; you will live. Barton — oh, 
 Barton, live I live I " She spoke with an intensity full of anguish, 
 for a moment letting go restraint. 
 
 He lay silent. His eyes were closed. In his weakness he 
 could not keep the tears back that would break from under hie 
 eyelids. After a moment's pause, Barton raised his eyes to Rose 
 w itli a look of utter imploring, as if he would say, — "Do not let 
 me be deceived, nor send me back again to hopelessness.'" 
 
 ilc.T eyes were full of gladness and love, if une could have seer 
 th'im behind Rose's tears. 
 
THE yUAKEIi IIOJIE. 539 
 
 " Grod has beea very gracious to ns both, Barton. He has 
 brought u8 together, and nothing shall ever divide us again." 
 
 Seeing how greatly he was agitated, though with joy, Eose, 
 though her soul longed for utterance and would have poured a tide 
 of golden sentences into his willing ear, refrained, from fear of 
 injury, saying: 
 
 " Barton! my own, and forever my own! you are too weak — we 
 must neither of ns speak more now." 
 
 He strove to lift his head — ^he would have put his arm aboui 
 her. His languid eyes were yet full of wonder and joy. With an 
 ineffable smile Rose restrained him. 
 
 " No, Barton, you must mind me a little while ; " and then, in 
 a tone yet lower and 'sweeter, " If you love me. Barton — if still 
 you love me — " She had no need to'finish the sentence, and did 
 not, for some puff of wind threw hack the shutter, and the whole 
 tide of sunlight streamed across the bed and fell upon Barton and 
 upon Eose, with so sudden an illumination that Rose, in her high- 
 wrought joy, looking full into the sun, said — " It is the blessing 
 of God 1 We are accepted of Him, Barton I and nothing shall pni 
 as asunder ! " 
 
 but why need we linger with these lovers through the long 
 weeks of Barton's recovery, made short by the joys of love? 
 
 Oh, those mountain hours 1 those days of July 1 From morning 
 to evening, moments sped as bubbles on a mountain stream, that 
 eome, reflect all the light of heaven, burst with ecstasy, and are 
 followed by other bubbles, gaily dancing to the music of the 
 stream. little medicine do they need whose souls are radiant 
 with joy I Love was more than medicine and better fhan foodi 
 
CHAPTER LVn 
 
 THE ELM TREE. 
 
 Two years went by. The war had ended. J.ee had laid down 
 his arms, and Johnston had capitulated. One by one, the scat- 
 tered fragments of the Confederate army had surrendered, or dis- 
 perded. Barton Cathcart had returned home and laid aside his 
 stars and sword. He had, after the wounds healed and hia 
 strength returned, joined his corps again. He had fought through 
 the murderous tangle of the Wilderness, hammered at the en- 
 trenchments of Spottsylvania, flanked the dangerous works upon 
 the North Anna, plunged into the butcliery of Cold Harbor, and 
 lay tlirough the sickly autumn and tlie long winter in the ti'enches 
 before Petersburg. He had had part in the last grand battles, 
 when they stormed Lee's lines, earned every step by desperate 
 endeavor, and after all found Lee still firm, defiant, desperate. 
 None so well knew the incomparable skill and bravery of that 
 now wanin:^ army uf Northern Virginia as they who for four 
 years had fought it, and now, in the hour of its supreme disaster, 
 were grinding it to powder rather than forcing its surrender ; and 
 when, at length, cut off from his lines of retreat by that lion of 
 the battle-field, whose rampin;; cavalry lay crouched across his 
 only path, his artillery gone, his trains taken or destroyed, his 
 aniiuunition expended, his chief otheers slain, or wounded, or 
 captured, his men reduced to .i handful, overwearied by nights 
 without sleep, and days taxed to the uttermost, Lee yieliled his 
 ai-my. General Cathcart, and CAery other liravc man, in their ad- 
 miration felt that the heroism of that ami)- was the only woi-thy 
 measure uf the perseverance and bravery of the army of the 
 Potomac. In every generous bosom rose the thought — " These 
 are not of another nation, but our citizens." Their mistakes, 
 their evil cause, belonged to the systein under which the)' were 
 reared, but their military skill and heroic bravery belong to the 
 nation, that will never c-ease t(j mourn tliiit such valor had not 
 been cxpenikMl in a better cause, and that the iron pen must 
 write.' : " The utmost valor luisdireeted and wasted." 
 
THE ELM TREE. 541 
 
 But aL this had passed away, and another year besides. It 
 was in October that all Norwood rejoiced in the marriage of Rose 
 aad Barton. That wedding shall not be lightly dismissed. After 
 so long and patiently following their history, it would be a slight, 
 indeed, if every one of our readers should not be invited to their 
 wedding 1 The town made this its own wedding. Every motherly 
 he^rt in Norwood felt that she had a part in marrying "Rose to 
 Barton. 
 
 The morning of the 15th of October rose over old Holyoke, 
 not with the fierce fire of July shot straight upon its stony top 
 and woody sides, flushing hot, but with a soft sun, tempered and 
 genial. It had finished the chase of summer. It had triumphed. 
 All the fields of corn yet ungathered, whose loose rows were 
 punctuated with yellow pumpkins; all the reaped fields, all the 
 withered stalks oven, bore witness to the sun's victory. October 
 is the month that crowns the sun. Then, he moves through the 
 gorgeous apparel which nature wears, no longer a warrior fierce 
 in battle, but a victor, content with his victories, and every where 
 shedding abroad the tokens of his royal complacency. The days 
 were soft and hazy. Even at noon the lenient sun would not 
 suffer his heat to go forth. Not even frosts excited his displeasure, 
 slyly creeping after his footsteps at night. He reposed all the 
 day upon the gorgeous hills, spread with sumptuous apparel. 
 Jlrees made love to each other. The chestnut glowed benignantly 
 at the yellow bronzed hickory. The old oaks stood yet in deep 
 green, unchanged. Something made the yellow maples laugh, 
 and something made the scarlet maples blush. The brilliant am- 
 pelopsis had climbed into the cedars, and was peeping out to see 
 what it was that nature was whispering and the trees were blush- 
 ing at. The dew this morning magnified itself, and showed and 
 shook the jewels with which the sun pledged its love. A lew 
 birds only showed themselves. They were travelling to a Southern 
 land. They had in mind another summer far away. They tried 
 a single note, but would not sing their ringing love-songs in the 
 broken notes of autumn voices. 
 
 Yet not the hills or mountains purpled with color, nor tne 
 warm-leaved trees, nor the the winking dew, nor summer-seeking 
 birds, nor the soft and silvery haze that hung npon the morning 
 like a bride's veil, ncr the late-coming asters, that would whisoci 
 
542 NORWOOD. 
 
 of Bvunmer to the very snow, nor the great elni that stood droop 
 iiig its branches, but lifting Iiigli its top in a mighty meditation 
 of grace and beanty — not these, nor whatever else glorifies this 
 bridal wreath of nature, seemed half so sweet to Rose and Bartoji 
 as did the looks which they gave and took, the low-toned words 
 linked together by silence more fiiU than words. 
 
 On the night before this morning so glorious, Rose had said : 
 
 " Oome early to-morrow. Barton — come very early. I shall 
 walk once more in my favorite paths in the garden before break- 
 fast." 
 
 Rose slightly blushed as she added, smiling : 
 
 " When the golden gate has once shut upon us, Barton, Rose 
 Wentworth will never be seen on earth again ; so you must be 
 with me in my last minutes." 
 
 Barton was silent. After a moment. Rose doubled up her 
 little soft hand, and slowly knocking Barton's brow three times, 
 said, demurely : 
 
 " Open sesame — let me in." 
 
 " My ownl " said Barton, " I was wishing a wish that I am 
 not ashamed to have, but am almost ashamed to tell." 
 
 " Ah, Barton, the time has come when silence is treason. The 
 thoughts which you hide are the most precious. The shells which 
 the sea rolls out on shore are not its best. The pearls have to be 
 dived for. Better pause while you can I After to-morrow your 
 life is mine. I will be a naiad to every rill in your soul ; and if 
 your heart were deep as the ocean, I will bu a sea-nymph, and 
 gather white corals from the very depths, and bring out hidden 
 treasures from its oaves I Begin, then I Tell me I " 
 
 "O Rose, mine! — the lips are the key of the mouth, and 1 
 pledge yon now, for my whole life, that yours shall unlock my 
 soul of every secret thought whenever you shall press mine and 
 demand it in love's name." 
 
 It was evening twilight. They sat alone in the porch. A few 
 late blossoms of the Chinese honeysuckle shed down a trace of 
 perfume through the air. There were no locusts singing, no katy- 
 dids, nor gurgling crickets, and yet some soft sounds I certunly 
 heard? Not birds, surely 1 I think it must have been the plash 
 of one honeysuckle blown against another. Yet there is no wind 
 tomovetlnml I i 3ar it again I Listen 1 It is like the falliii(; 
 
THE ELM TREE. 543 
 
 d1 a drop of dew into the silver lake from some birchen leaf 1 No, 
 that is rude. It is as if two dreams floating in the night had 
 clashed ; or like the joining of two prayers of Icve on their way 
 upward; or — nay, it was a kissl — pure, sacred, holyl It is the 
 soul's symbol, when words fail it. It is the heart's sigh, or inter- 
 jection, when it haa a feeling for which there is no expression 1 
 
 A soft cloud had hid the moon. It began to move away. Th? 
 light shone out again. 
 
 " Barton, I do believe yon mean not to teU me after all. What 
 is that shame-faced secret I " 
 
 " You will smile, I know. But 1 feel it. I want every one 
 that has been witl) me in danger and trouble to be present in my 
 great joy to-morrow. Colonel Stanton, who tefriended me when 
 I was a prisoner after Bull Run, has come. By the way, the war 
 has well nigh ruined his property, and I have been of help to him 
 in saving a part. The Hetheringtons are all in your house. Rose, 
 my horse, that carries a man's heart in him, that never flinched 
 under fire, that was wounded as well as I, that carried me along 
 the hardest journeys unflagging, and saved me several times from 
 captivity, — I want him near me when I am irarried. I know that 
 it would to many sound foolish. But no one but a soldier can know 
 a soldier's feeling for a faithful horse I " 
 
 " No one but a soldier and a soldier's wife," replied Rose. " You 
 ought to be ashamed of being ashamed of such a feeling. He shall 
 stand in golden shoes, and eat the plumpest oats out of a china 
 vase, if it will please you. Barton ! " 
 
 "It is only a feeling, but it is as strong as superstition. Of 
 course it is not for his sake, but my own. I shall feel better if he 
 stand in front of the yard where I can see him." 
 
 It was time to separate. 
 
 "Come early, Barton. I shall take my favorite walk in the 
 morning for tlie last time, and I would not be alone." 
 
 The day broke over the hills, bent evidently on being present 
 at the wedding. It came in golden tresses, and in silver vapors, 
 and infinite jewelry of dew, and it lit up all the world with joy as 
 it came ; but Rose and Barton forgot, as they stood in the arbor, 
 that there was any body happy but themselves. Could it be pos- 
 sible that there was any joy left? 
 
 Dr. Wentworth was as calm, outwardly, as if only the usual 
 
544 NORWOOD. 
 
 bnsinees was going on. His face shone. His voice was lower ano 
 richer thaii usual. His eye carried in it a perpetual benediction. 
 
 The great mansion was vocal in every room. Guests wert 
 present from the east and west and south. The town swarmed 
 with friends come to the wedding. 'Biah Oathcart renewed his 
 youth, and Rachel's face shone with unexpressed thanksgiving. 
 Hiram Beers was glorious. Why not? As he had gone to Dr. 
 Wentworth's to live, in a neat cottage built expressly for him, and 
 to have full charge of the doctor's stables, barn, and place, why 
 should he not consider this occasion as a family matter? 
 
 Pete SawmiU was triumphant. Great was the honor and glory 
 that came back with him to Norwood ! The story of his simple 
 affection and fidelity was known to all, and all agreed with Deacon 
 Trowbridge, " that Pete ain't much in the intellects, but he's got a 
 heart as big as an ox." And nobody was surprised to learn that 
 Pete was to live with Barton Oathcart for life ; nor that he ap- 
 peared on this morning with a bran new suit of broadcloth, and 
 that he had a red cord sewed the whole length of the side seams 
 of his pantaloons, and that he wore military buttons on his coat 
 and vest. Pete hankered after these vanities, and it was not be- 
 lieved that, if he was pleased, any body else would be hurt. 
 
 Rose had labored long and often with Pete about his besetting 
 sin, with slight amendment of it. His army life had not developed 
 his temperance principles. He was always penitent on such oc- 
 casions; always promised to do so no more ; and he never did — 
 ontU the next temptation. But one day Pete fairly got it into his 
 head, or heart rather, that his conduct was a grief to Rose— a real 
 sorrow. Instead of expostulating and reasoning with him, as here- 
 tofore. Rose on the last occasion had burst into tears. 
 
 " Oh, Pete I you behave as if you cared for none of your friends. 
 I am ashamed and grieved to the heart. You have been so long 
 with us, and served the country so nobly, and saved Barton's life, 
 and kept a great grief from us all, and now you have come back 
 to disgrace us. I can't bear it, Pete; I can't bear it; " and Rose's 
 tears fell fast. 
 
 Poor Pete was never before conscious of being an object of 
 suoli special regard that any human being would cry for him. He 
 was very awkwardly distressed for himself. He shuffled his feet 
 and fumbled with liis 1 ands, and felt deeply in his pockets for some- 
 
THE ELM TREE. 545 
 
 Ihing that was not there — a good resolution, probably — aud blu>)- 
 bered and sputtered in the most distressing manner, till the whole 
 contrast was too inexpressibly ludicrous for Rose, who covered her 
 face with her handkerchief, and bit her lips to keep from audibk 
 laughter. But to Pete this covering of Rose's face was the last 
 affliction. He thought that he had done some great damage to 
 her, and he exploded in an extraordinary mixture of crying, con 
 fession and howling, with promises, which astounded Rose. The 
 poor fellow shook all over, and wrangled his hands and arms about 
 in the air in the most aimless and awkward manner possible, and 
 finally bolted for the door and disappeared. He brought up at 
 Parson Buell's, and stumbled headlong into his study, just as the 
 doctor was writing out lasj^fthly, in the coming sermon. 
 
 " I dew wish you'd giv' me somethin'. Dew 1 if yon please I 
 I want to take somethin'." 
 
 The doctor thought that he mast have taken something too 
 mnch already. But, after some questioning, Pete broke out in a 
 medley of grief again— quite like that in Rose's presence, but not 
 so excessive. 
 
 " I ain't goin' to have no more mm ; it's making Tier cry ; and I 
 ain't goin' to drink any more rum ; and I want you to give me 
 somethin'." 
 
 It was evident that Pete was inqniring after the temperance 
 pledge, and the doctor at length became satisfied of the fact. Ac- 
 cordingly, he drew up a pledge, on the largest sheet of paper that 
 he had in his study ; and thinking that it might be more striking 
 to Pete's simple eyes, he ruled a band of red ink about the whole, 
 upon which Pete looked much as the Israelites did upon the Red 
 sea, when they first reached it. But it answered the purpose. 
 Pete made his mark, and was faithful to his new promise. A few 
 tears did more for him than much exhortation. 
 
 Thronghout the great wedding-day, Pete carried himself mns! 
 becomingly, dividing his attention during the ceremony between 
 Barton and Barton's war-horse. He was much disappointed when 
 Barton, after the ceremony, did not mount and repeat some of the 
 brilliant feats o^ horsemanship whicli he had seen him perform. 
 But supposing that, lor some good reason. Barton had changed hi* 
 mind, he led the scarred horse back to his oats. 
 
 At noon, when all the company were assembled, and everj 
 
546 NORWOOD. 
 
 body was merry, chatting and chattering, all at once the church- 
 bell broke out into the most musical of invitations. To be sure, 
 its duty was to ring at twelve, every day. But any one could tell 
 hat there was more than that in it to-day. Its paternal soul had 
 wedding thought in it. It was no measured, doctrinal ring, fit for 
 Sunday. It was no fearful, funeral ring, thick and heavy. It was 
 a real, out-springing, merry ring, as of a bell that would like to 
 kick up its heels and dance on the green with the best of them. 
 
 Before the bell had done ringing, a movement was seen about 
 Dr. Wentworth's mansion. From the front door issued first Dr. 
 Buell and a brother clergyman, then came Dr. and Mrs. Wentworth, 
 and then came Eose and Barton ; (while the boys that were peep- 
 ing into the gate nodded to each other and said, " By George, jest 
 look at that ! ain't they bnnkum ? ") and then came Agate Bissell, 
 and all the other members of the family ; and after them fiooks and 
 crowds of friends. They moved down to the great elm tree, which 
 hung down its paternal arms about them and filled all its top with 
 blessings ! There, at length, stood Eose and her husband, under 
 the very flickering shadows and checkered golden light that had 
 amused her when a babe. While Parson Buell prayed, all the birds 
 in the tree-top made responses and said amen ! Then there was a 
 moment's pause. There stood the noble pair. By Barton's side, 
 stood WiU Belden, on one leg and a crutch. On Eose's side stood 
 Eose Hetherington, "too pretty for any thing," said several young 
 gentlemen near by. Then, in the simple forms of the good old 
 times, the ceremony proceeded ; and Parson Buell, at its close, laid 
 his hands upon their heads, bowed to his touch, and blessed them. 
 A^nd they were blessed 1 
 
 No salutation of mere ceremony followed. Barton turned to 
 Rose with an embrace that seemed like to have merged her into 
 himself. Eose put her arms with full love about her husband. Foi 
 a second they stood folded, some words they whispored, and there 
 were few dry eyes that looked on them. Even Judge Bacon wiped 
 his eyes, and declared that " It was remarkably good, positivelyl 
 afiecting, and so unexpected, too." 
 
 There was but one event that befell the party which filled them 
 with astonishment, and that was the sudden and unexpected de- 
 cease of Agate Bissell. None out of Dr. Wentworth's family even 
 Snew that she was ailing, that under a fair appearance a hidden 
 
THE ELM TREE. 547 
 
 ^e was iu her heart, that would surely take awaj her lame from 
 among those who had so long known it and loved it. 
 
 She had manifested, while Rose's wedding service proceeded, t 
 tremulousnesB, as of one oonsciouBly weak, hut who had deteimined 
 not to give way till Rose was married. But Agat« could hold out 
 no longer. Scarcely had Rose received the salutations of her own 
 kindred before her father called her aside and hei hnsband also, 
 nd quite a stir and excitement arose among the crow d as D]'. Buell, 
 with some dignity and firmness, as if repressing a nervous tremble, 
 approached Agate Bissell, and taking her by the hand, walked to 
 the very place where Rose and Barton had been standing, and 
 stood before the excited crowd, who wondered that even at a wed- 
 ding Parson BueU should venture on such a bold jest 1 Then came 
 forth Parson Edwards Dwight Bigelow, with whom Buell had many 
 a time held glorious wassail of theology, discussing till after mid- 
 night, whether sin was born in the nature of a child or began only 
 when developed by action ; what was the nature of generous and 
 right actions anterior to a saving change ; whether conversion 
 stood in the act of choice on the sinner's part, or. was an irresisti- 
 ble and eflBoacions influence exerted upon him ab extra. Over 
 these and kindred savory delights they had dissipated many a 
 night. 
 
 There stood Parson Buell and Agate Bissell, and made answer 
 to the solemn interrogatories, and she gave away her name, and 
 with a blush as tender and beautiful as if she were jnst seventeen, 
 she accepted her bridal kiss from Dr. Buell. 
 
 Deacon Marble was all a-tremble. The tears ran down his 
 cheeks. " I wonder what Polly would have given to have seen 
 this day. I guess she thinks that she died too soon. Howsom- 
 ever, she couldn't help it. Well, well, well — Agate, you've took 
 ns in this time. This is the best one yitl I dew say, when I saw 
 Parson Buell a-kissin' yon, I sort of shivered all over. But yoa 
 stood it heantifnl. But no merit, you know, no merit, cos I s'pose 
 vou're used to it, eh ? " 
 
 Agate, who really looked queenly, replied : 
 
 "Why, Deacon Marble, my husband never kissed ne before in 
 hiB life." 
 
 " Yon don't, now I I can't hardly b'lieve that. Dr. Baell is a 
 nice and strict man. But conrtin', you know, and engaged, whj 
 
548 NORWOOD. 
 
 kissin' is accordin' to natur, and grace too. I kissed Polly a hun- 
 dred times afore I married her, and you say that Buell never 
 kissed Agate Bissell before ? " 
 
 "Yes; I believe he kissed Agate Bissell ; but he never ki&.sed 
 Agate Buell before ! " 
 
 This quite overthrew the good deacon — he laughed immod- 
 erately, and repeated the story to every one on the ground, as an 
 instance of remarkable wit. 
 
 "Fact is, I meant to have Agate mself; — wasn't spry enough 
 — lived too far out of town. Ministers get the fust pick among 
 the gals, any how. Polly would have liked it amazin'." 
 
 " Which ? " said Hiram, giving him a nudge with his elbow. 
 
 " Which what ? " 
 
 " Which of you two would Polly been glad for Agate to marry ? ' 
 
 " Good — good," said the deacon all in a twinkle ; " if' t had been 
 me was marryin' Agate, and Polly had been here, wouldn't she 
 have had enough to say? Why, she would have said ' my hus- 
 band ; ' — why, stop — if Polly 'd been here, she 'd been my wife, 
 and I couldn't a married Agate, could I? Well, that's a good one ! " 
 said the deacon quite exhilarated with his mistake — which he 
 endeavored to explain to several, but someliow failed to make it as 
 fresh as when it happened of itself. 
 
 Col. Esel seemed to have charge of Rose Hetherington, and not 
 to be displeased with the fair Quakeress. Gallant Will Belden, 
 who had borne Arthur out of Bull Run, hobbled about as if he 
 were one of the family. There were stories about, that he meant 
 to be a member of It one of these days. In a moment's pause, 
 Mrs. Wentworth turned to her husband. 
 
 " Ah, Reuben, if Arthur could only have been spared to see 
 thli I I should have been too happy." 
 
 Tears ran down her cheeks. Dr. Wentworth stood silent a 
 moment, and then, with a deep sigh, replied : 
 
 " Arthur is here — sees all, knows all, and is happier than all. 
 Nature in us yearns for his bodily presence, his noble sunny face, 
 his ineffable smile, the bold, tender eye ; but grace teaches us to 
 tliink of him," said Wentworth, wiping his eyes, " without sorrow 
 or tears, my dear; that is," — beginning to be conscious of th« 
 tears runnmg down his cheeks, — " without ary except the tears of 
 affection — and fond memory " 
 
THE EL.M TREE. 549 
 
 The rest of his expo'^ition he made to his pocket-handkerohief. 
 
 Motliei' Taft was grown very feeble. But she "as like a win- 
 ter apple that grows sweeter the longer it is kept. She seeined 
 like an overjoyed child. 
 
 " If Taft had a-lived to see this ! Rose married to Barton — and 
 then Agate Bissell married a minister, too — that's a'most like goin' 
 to heaven ! To think that I carried Rose 'round in my arms the 
 minute she was born — and a sweet child she wasl I didn't dream 
 I should he here and see her standin' up with Barton I May be I 
 shall 'tend her babies jest as I did her. But I don't believe I shall 
 cvei' live to see them married off. I am getting old; but some- 
 body will see it. I hope they will be kind to them. Kindness 
 goes a good ways, you know. You can coax a dog with meat, 
 you know, when you can't drive him with the bone." 
 
 And so the kind old soul went on talking, without caring 
 whether any body heard or not — her own voice seeming to be a 
 comfort to her. 
 
 Every one was joyful ; yet it was a joy strangely mixed. 
 There were some absent who might have been there, and some 
 dead who would never return 1 But it was a grief that fitted well 
 with joy, and deepened it. Jearg smiled, and smiles wept.^?^ 
 
 As the evening came on and Mrs. Wentworth walked toward 
 the mansion with Rachel Cathcart, she said : 
 
 " Only Alice's presence was wanting to make the day perfectly 
 happy." 
 
 "Alice," said her mother, " is very heart-sore. Life goes wearily 
 with her. But she has determined to give her life to the instruc- 
 tion of the poor black children. She has gone to Lynchburg, 
 where Ids pai'ents lived, you know, and I hope she is happier now." 
 
 But the people are dispersing. The sun is just setting. Some 
 linger, and seem reluctant to leave. If you too, reader, linger 
 and feel reluctant to leave Norwood, 1 shall be rejoiced alld repsid 
 for the long way over which I have led yon. 
 
 THE KJH>. 
 
JAN i- 1909 
 NOV 2 ' 1912 
 
 ■,•.-- -V- • "wV-AA, 
 
 %;\'V^'^' 
 
 
i